#this isn’t getting real tags for obvious reasons

[galaxymagitech]

Me when Anton turns out to be Charles Knight’s son: …

[godmadeaterribleerror]

Falling Into Me

Main Masterlist - Dean Masterlist

Read on A03!

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, Smut (p in v, fingering, oral f receiving), angst, loss of virginity, light fluff, feelings :(, real bad self-image issues

Summary/Warnings: You're a virgin, and it's really not a big deal. Everyone was a virgin once. You're just a virgin longer. Maybe forever, because nobody really seems to be willing to solve that problem for you.

You've never told Sam and Dean, and you don't have any intention to. Ever. But when a hunt goes wrong, Dean finds out. And he might have been keeping something from you as well.

Author's Note: This might be the horniest thing I've ever written. Enjoy <3!

Title from Red Wine Supernova by Chappell Roan

Word Count: 8.9k

You haven’t slept in three days, and it’s starting to be a problem. But you can’t afford to sleep. You can only drink staler and staler coffee, sit at the motel table, and pretend this is a case that, somehow, you’re going to solve. That Dean isn’t grumpier than usual, and Sam doesn’t constantly look like he’s going to kill the next person that dares to have an incorrect idea. It’s why you volunteered for the next round of interviews. You don’t want to be there when one of them snaps and kills the other, and while you wouldn’t love to return to the room and find it covered in blood, at least then you’d have an excuse to call it.

You wouldn’t call it. You’d work the case until it was done, because that’s what you do. And Sam and Dean won’t kill each other, because they’re Sam and Dean. That said, you are expecting a pouting Dean to pacing back and forth outside the room as he waits for you to return, and a grumble about how Sammy said he was being annoying and needed to walk it off. You’re more than prepared to give him a sympathetic smile and ask him if he was being annoying. And he’ll probably protest that he wasn’t, and you’ll raise your brows, and he’ll admit he mighta been drumming really loud while eating the chips.

It’s not an unreasonable expectation. None of you have slept, because this thing is insane. There’s no obvious pattern to the victims, no connections, nothing in line with everything you’ve ever seen. It’s men and woman, a wide age range, no previous coflicts or knowledge of each other in life. There are holes through theirs chests that could be bullet wounds, but obviously aren’t, because Bullets don’t remove the heart from the body. But it’s not werewolves, because werewolves aren’t clean killers like this and every fucking person in this stupid town has passed the silver test. There’s a new kill every night, and a new body every morning, and another reason for you, Sam, and Dean to start screaming every day. Every hour makes you all wired, because it’s closer and closer to another evening where you won’t have caught this asshole and another person will die.

And it’s become really easy to get on each other’s nerves. Sam was mad at Dean because he’d purposefully gotten you all burgers instead of Sam’s rabbit food, you’re mad at Sam because he said you were bad at poker—and you are, but what the fuck—and Dean’s mad at you because-

Dean’s not mad at you. You and Dean don’t really get mad at each other. You understand each other, better than you’ve ever understood anyone else, and it’s the perfect amount of alike that you’ll lend him grace you wouldn’t lend anyone else—including yourself—but you don’t see enough of your own twisting, molding innards to hate him. You mostly see something better. A man that has all the same rotting parts, but has made something out of them while you just waste away in toxins.

And you think Dean sees something similar in you. It’s why you’d been obnoxiously chewing potato chips, right in his ear, and he hadn’t punched you or snatched the bag away from your hands. He’d just rolled his eyes, grabbed one of his own, and started chewing in Sam’s ear.

So you hadn’t really volunteered for interviews so much as been aggressively told by Sam you were doing interviews. And it was only fair Dean met the same fate.

But he hadn’t. And when you opened the door to the room, they both looked happy. 

Dean practically shouts your name when he sees you, wildly gesturing for you to join them at the table. “Sammy found it!” He grins at you almost manically, and it’s a little adorable. “We can finally fucking leave.”

“I might have found it,” Sam corrects, his smile a little more tentative, but still real. “And we can’t leave yet. Not until we actually get the thing-“

“Obviously, dude, but that’ll be soon, instead of in a million years.” Dean looks to you for agreement. “I mean, c’mon. You guys can’t really wanna stay in hicktown Ohio forever?”

You shrug. “I dunno. Good coffee.”

Dean glares at you. “The coffee tastes like ass and you freakin’ know it-“

“Dean.” You give him a flat look. “Do I actually get to know what the monster is?”

Sam sighs. “You’re not gonna like it.”

“I already don’t love it, it’s a monster that’s killed like, ten people-“

“Worse than that.” Dean lets out a dry chuckle. “It’s sorta like a dragon.”

You, very suddenly, don’t feel really well. Everything is hotter than it had been a second ago, and the walls seem to be closing in as your skin begins to prickle and ache. “Like a dragon?” You ask, forcing your voice to remain steady. “Or a dragon?”

“Like a dragon. Tell her, Sammy.”

Sam shoots Dean a glare—not happy being thrown under the bus—and mutters, “It’s a unicorn.”

You stare at him for a long minute, then shake your head. “It’s a what.”

“Unicorn.” Sam mumbles. “They’re, uh, looks like they’re real.”

“But not Pinky Pie and Disney.” Dean adds, turning Sam’s laptop for you to read. “Real fucking assholes.”

“They hunt virgins.” Sam explains. “To bond with. And it’ll kill anyone who falsely lures it.”

“Stab the poor son of a bitch right through the heart, then pull that sucker right out.” Dean adds, spreading his legs and propping his elbows on his knees. “And it looks like it’ll go after chicks and dudes, any age, so that’s why there’s no pattern. You’re able to fuck, you’re fair game.”

“Oh, cool.” You mutter, a lump starting to form in your throat. “I’m always looking for equal opportunity murderers in the monsters I hunt.” 

“Yeah, well, it’s gonna make it a little harder to find the thing.” Sam grabs his laptop back, frowning at the screen. “It’ll take a human form, then look for a virgin. And it won’t be able to tell until it gets the person’s heartbeat up, so it might be a guy or a girl, depending on who it’s hunting tonight.”

“But,” you glance at Dean, who’s grinning as you start to put it together. “It is hunting tonight.”

“Hunts every night.” Dean says, rubbing his hands together. “And we don’t know where, but we can take some guesses. Split up and look at all the bars in town ’till one of us finds something, then gank this douchebag and get the hell out of here.”

“Split up?” You whisper, something wired and flailing coiling around your guts. “That’s, um, shouldn’t we stick together? If it’ll go after anyone?”

“Not everyone.” Same shrugs. “Low, uh, body counts. I guess. Low enough that it can’t tell immediately.”

“So we just need a bunch of whores?"

Dean snorts. “Well tonight,” he spreads his arms, shooting you a wink that really isn’t helpful right now. “We’re the whores, Sweetheart. We’re safe, and we’re going to kick some unicorn ass.”

It’s a cheesy, stupid thing to say, and usually you’d laugh and crack a joke back. Something about unicorn ass and whores that you can’t really think of right now, because there’s bile in your throat and something heavy fogging over your brain.

“How do we, uh,” your tongue is numb in your mouth, and every word is dragged out of your throat. “How do we kick a unicorn’s ass.”

“Well, we’re looking for electrical malfunctions, golden eyes when it gets, uh, excited, and a refusal to drink anything but water.” Sam frowns at the screen, looking up at you with a half-shrug. “Anything amoral seems to knock it down, so just, uh, swear? Then shoot it with iron. Iron kills it.”

“And, um,” you swallow, tugging at the fabric of your sleeves. “What’s gonna to the virgin? If the unicorn finds it?”

Sam sighs. “They, uh, they seem to use them.”

Dean frowns, leaning around to try and read the screen. “Use them-“ 

“Their purity. Use their purity.” Sam raises his brows, and you can see the exact moment it clicks in Dean’s head. 

“That’s...” Dean trails off, running a hand over his face. “Shit.” 

Sam mutters an agreement, and your mouth feels like sandpaper, your heart beating like it’s trying to escape your chest.

“And after?” You whisper, a little unsure you want to actually ask the question, or know the answer. “After they’re used?” 

“Well, they’re not ‘pure’ anymore.” Sam puts an air quote around pure, and you feel a little sick. “So, uh, stab.”

“Oh.” You nod slowly. You might need to lie down. “Stab.”

Dean looks over you with a drawn brow, his voice low and cautious as he says your name. “Are feelin’ okay-“

“I’m fine.” You remember how to smile, and hope it looks real. Not like your teeth are starting to feel out of place in your mouth, and you can’t seem to find enough spit to choke on. “Let’s get the unicorn ass.”

Dean doesn’t look convinced. Hell, Sam doesn’t look convinced. But they both let it go for now, and you can breathe just a little easier knowing you’re not barreling towards a fight.

But only a little easier. 

Because you’re fucked.

Virginity is a funny thing. It’s just a social construct, but it’s a social construct some monsters seem to take as scripture, making it a hazardous thing to still have in your line of work. 

And you hadn’t meant to be a hazard. It just kind of happened. Because it started as something that was a given to have, then turned into something that you just were a little too busy to lose, before becoming an awkward conversation you’re not willing to have. Something that hangs, silent and sharp, over your head and around your throat. Something that’s now a question of why? Why is it never you? You’re not ugly. You’re even pretty enough that, if you tell someone, they won’t believe you and it’ll all feel worse. You’re even pretty enough that you’ve seen people size you up at bars, but none of them ever approach you.

So it might just be you. You might just have something on your face that gives away that you’re more trouble than you’re worth, a little too rough to touch and not have it sting, telling people stay away. 

And Sam and Dean will never know. You’re already a little younger, a little worse of a hunter, a small problem when they’re obviously trying to take someone to their bed but the girl sees you and makes quick and inaccurate assumptions. Sam is better at brushing them off—She’s like my little sister—but Dean gets red and awkward and suddenly loses all his well-practiced charm. He sulks back to the table, and won’t look you in the eyes for an hour or walk with you back to the bar. You’re honestly shocked neither of them have thrown you to the curb by now, an you’re not going to give them another reason to. Another reason for Sam to make a sad, puppy-eyed pity face and Dean to stare at you like he’s not sure you’re real. Like there’s no way someone could’ve possibility survived as a hunter like this. 

And a small, well-contained part of you wishes Dean would look at you the way he looks at other women. Like they still have beautiful, horrible secrets that he’d love to uncover with only his hands and mouth. 

You’ve got secrets. Dean can’t have them—because they’re a liability and you’re not looking to lose him forever—but you really wish he’d just look at you. Once, really look at you, and not see you. See something so much better, that you think he’s always a little close to finding, that nobody else ever seems willing to try and look for.

You’re a little grateful they left you alone in this backwater dive bar. It would hurt to watch Dean flirt right now, when everything feels raw and wired in your body, and every time someone drops next to you at the bar you feel more and more sick. There are quick, polite conversations with random strangers who sound like they’d rather be anywhere than here, with you, and by the time you’ve repeated your cover story for the eighth time your lungs are wrapped iron and your nails feel like a burden on your fingers.

It’ll be over by tonight. All three of you know what you’re looking for, so the unicorn will be dead before sunrise, and you won’t have to do any explanations about why you’ve been quiet and tense since Dean said like a dragon. Nobody will look at you with pity or confusion, nobody will get hurt, and you won’t end up with a hole in your heart as the only people that have ever seen you to be worth something realize just how wrong they were. That you’re really just a small, useless burden that even a literal monster wouldn’t be able to stomach the presence of-

“You here all by yourself?”

Something sparks in your gut at the voice, coming from off to the side, because for a second you really think it’s Dean. It’s deep, moves through your whole body, and knocks loose something in your lower gut that always makes you feel hungry, but it’s not Dean. When you turn, the man next to you looks like someone ran Dean through a printer too many times and he came out faded. A little too short, not quite as broad, all the pretty scars that make Dean Dean seemingly vanished, and a gleam in his eyes that Dean’s never had. It’s a little more feral, without any playfulness or glowing shadows. Too much yellow instead of green, the cocky smirk just a little off, none of it right. None of it Dean.

“I’m, um,” you frown, because this man even smells like Dean. “I’m waiting for a friend. He’s running late.”

Not-Dean clicks his tongue. “Shame, leaving a pretty girl like you all alone. You want some company until your boyfriend shows up?”

You shake your head, turning your glass around in your hand. “Not my boyfriend. And I’m actually…” You trail off, your eyes falling on the man’s own glass. The clear liquid inside. “You drinking vodka?”

“Am I- Oh, sure.” The man chuckles, raising his drink for you to click. “Here’s to not-boyfriends-“

“Can I have some?”

You watch the man carefully as he looks between you and the glass. “Nah, sweetie, you don’t want this, it’s some strong stuff-“

Sweetie. Not sweetheart. Not Dean, not right, not safe. And something is starting to crawl over your skin and shoot up your spine, making you sit a little taller as your heart pounds louder and louder. 

As Not-Dean licks his lips, and scans over you with yellow eyes that might be shining. 

Fuck.

“I, um, I’m gonna go call my friend.” You start to shift off your seat, pulling your phone slowly out of your pocket. “He should’ve been here a few minutes ago, and I’m worried-“

“C’mon, you haven’t even told me your name.” Not-Dean wiggles his brows, and it looks wrong on his face. “Bet I can guess, if you give me a hint-“

“No, it’s fine, my name is, uh…” you look down at your phone, the screen completely black. You’d charged it before you left.

“Your name?” Not-Dean prompts, grabbing your arm. Holding you near him, at the bar. “I’d really love to learn it. I could teach you a few things in exchange-“

“I was never given a name!” Your voice is a frantic shout, Not-Dean’s eyes narrow, and you do the only thing you can think of. Punch Not-Dean square in the face, yank your arm from his grip, and run. Fucking sprint out of the bar and not allow yourself to falter as you hear a roar that’s a little hoarse and off pitched. Like a horse keen. Like a wounded animal.

Like a monster.

Splitting up had been a terrible fucking idea. Now you’re alone, you don’t have even an idea where Sam and Dean are, and you can’t afford to stop and jack a car because you can hear it in the distance. Hooves, clapping against the pavement, getting closer and closer as you begin to run out of breath. You can’t hide, it can hear you, and you can’t go faster because you already feel faint and everything is beginning to collapse in your body. Muscles tightening and skin crawling and eyes pushing out of your skull, every breath too shallow and every step too short. 

You fall to your knees behind a truck, wrapping a hand around your own throat and trying to force your heartbeat back down. Slow, even breathes that come out in choked gasps, nails digging into your skin as the hooves slow, and you hear a low sputtering sound from somewhere behind you. 

And it’s too quiet. You can’t hear anything but your blood in your ears, and all you can see in the night is the flickering yellow light of a streetlamp in the distance. You squeeze your eyes shut and swallow every breath, hoping you can force yourself out before the unicorn finds you. You don’t want to be used. You don’t want to be alone. You just want Dean, where’s Dean, why the fuck did you let him leave you alone, why didn’t you tell him the truth, why can’t you think of anything else but Dean, where’s Dean-

There’s something hot on your neck, and a large presence at your side. Something like spit is being splattered on your neck, and you can’t contain the vomit when a too-rough hand trails up your arm-

“Get the fuck back, you son of a bitch!”

A loud bang cuts through the air—making you jump out of your skin as a heavy body slumps onto yours—and it sounds like church bells and music. It sounds like Dean. That’s his voice shouting your name, his arms wrapping around your body and carrying you away from the unicorn, his breath fanning over your face as he sits you on the curb and starts to turn your face in his hands.

“Fuck, never should’ve left you, but I didn’t-“ Dean cuts himself off with a huff, and you think he’s talking to himself more than you. “Did the asshole touch you anywhere I can’t see?”

You shake your head, keeping your eye glued shut as you curl your hands in Dean’s shirt. Maybe Dean’s shirt. Not-Dean had been wearing plaid too, and you don’t have the nerve or will to open your eyes and seen if it’s your Dean, or the cheap unicorn knockoff.

“Shit, sweetheart, I need you to talk to me. Sam’s on his way, but we gotta get you out of here-“

“Didn’t touch me.” You whisper, fighting every urge into your body to curl forwards and start sobbing weak and pointless apologies. “I’m okay.”

“You’re okay? You think, fuck-“ Dean’s arm—bigger, warmer, maybe actual Dean—loops around your waist, his voice a little closer to your ear. “Need you to hold onto me, got it? We’re goin’ back to the car, and you gotta, fuck, can you open your damn eyes?”

They fly open, almost on command, and it’s Dean. The smell of whiskey is stronger, more authentic, and his face is sharp in all the right places, and it’s really Dean. 

And he looks pissed. His touch on your body is careful, and his eyes are attentive and sparked with worry, but his jaw is clenched, and his every word is suddenly pushed through his teeth.

“You’re gonna hold onto me.” He orders, holding your wide-eyed gaze with a glower. “I’ll take a better look at you when we get back to the room-“

“Dean, I’m fine-“

“And,” Dean barrels on, as if he didn’t even hear you. “We’re going to have a chat. You’re, I can’t-” he shakes his head scooping you fully into his arms. “Just hold on.”

He sounds pissed. Dean’s rigid and silent the whole ride back to the hotel, his grip white-knuckled and tight on the wheel, and you feel even worse than before. This is it. He had to save you, and he’s going to learn why he had to save you, and he might not kick you out but he won’t look at you the same again. No more ease or awe or comfort or understanding, because Dean’s rotten in places where the mold can be burned away with every good part of him, but you’re just rotten. Just a hideous thing that roars in your chest, just angry and cowardlyand revolting and wrong. You’re just wrong. 

All the panic and paralyzing adrenaline had left your body, so you push yourself out of the Impala on unsteady feet. Dean mutters something about Sam dealing with all the cleanup as he opens to motel room door, watching you shuffle inside with clenched fists and an unreadable expression. You flop onto the bed with a small whine, your body beginning to drown in exhaustion, your gaze locked on the peeling paint of the ceiling as Dean moves around the room out of your view.

“Why’d you come back?” You ask, your voice hoarse and weak, and Dean lets out a long, low exhale from somewhere off to the side.

“You were actin’ really weird.” He grunts. “Didn’t sound like yourself. Weren’t laughing at my jokes, or making fun of Sam. Looked sick every time one of us said stab.”

“I could’ve just been-“

“Don’t.” He snaps, and you crane your neck to see him at the foot of the bed, arms crossed and looking at you. Dean seems to be really looking at you, all of you, and you suddenly really wish he would stop. You’re complete exposed below him, under his glare, and he’s going to see something he hates. Something you don’t have a name for that you’ve never wanted him to see, never wanted him to find. The thing that makes everyone else look away.

But Dean’s attention is like a drug, and you need him to stop before you lose him, but you also never want him to stop watching you. It’s confusing and raw and makes you feel like a live wire, one word or touch or stare away from snapping and bursting into a million sparks.

And Dean’s still looking at you. 

“I didn’t,” you swallow, his eyes like a magnet on yours. “I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry-“

“Don’t.” He repeats, his voice lower. Harsher. “You’re not injured.”

You shake your head.

“Good. We need to talk.”

“Dean, I-“

“I’m asking the questions.” Dean leers over you slightly, and you nod again. “Why the fuck did that unicorn seem like it was hunting you.”

He knows the answer. His whole face is already painted in anger, and you know he knows. He just wants to hear you say it.

“Because it was hunting me.”

“Unicorns only hunt virgins.” Dean grunts your name, still not looking away. “You’re not-“

“I am.” You mumble, folding your arms over your own body as you drop back down onto the mattress. “Sorry.”

“Why would you say, fuck- Why in goddamn hell wouldn’t you tell me and Sam-“

“Tell you and Sam what?” You scowl at the ceiling. “That I’m untouched? Pure? Boring-“

“That you’d be in danger!” Dean all but roars, and you don’t flinch, but you do cringe. All the mold in your body feels as if it’s spreading like cancer, because Dean would never hurt you with his hands, but he might be about to curb stomp your heart with only his mouth. “I don’t give a shit about the virgin thing, I care that you were so fucking stupid to go off alone, that you didn’t trust me enough-“

“It’s not about trust, Dean,” you sigh, squeezing your eyes shut again. “And it’s not like you tell me everything-“

“I do! I’ve told you about all the shit in my past, and my fear of flying, and Rhonda Hurley, and that weird freaking dream I had with the mice in top hats-“

“That’s not the same!” You’re pushing back up on your palms, raising your voice to match Dean’s. You just need him to stop yelling at you, to rip the band-aid off and finally give up on you so you can rest. “This isn’t your business-“

“It’s my business if it’s gonna get you fucking killed, Sweetheart. And I coulda helped you-“

“Helped me?” You scoff. “I don’t need your help with this, Winchester, I’ve come to terms with it-“

There was a brief moment where Dean had looked like you’d kicked him, but it vanishes in a second as he gapes at you in disbelief. “To terms with virginity?”

“Yeah,” you shrug, holding his suddenly slack expression with your own glare. “Nobody wants me, it’s not a big deal-“ 

Dean snorts. “There’s no damn way you’re that stupid-“ 

“I am not stupid-“ 

“Yeah? Cause you’re a fucking idiot if you think nobody wants you.”

It’s your turn to gape at him. Your heart stumbles slightly in your chest, your fingers curling into bedsheets, and the world begins to spin as you try and understand his words. “What?”

“You,” Dean takes a firm step forward, drawing your name. “Are a fucking idiot if you think that there’s not one damn person on the planet who wants you.” 

“But-“

“Nah. No freakin’ buts.” He’s closer now, his knees bumping yours as he glowers down at you. “I’ve watched too many hair-gelled losers at bars size you up like they wanna take a bite for you to have buts. Hell, I’ve-“ Dean shakes his head, running a hand over his face. “Shit, there’s just, there’s no way-“

Your face twists back into a scowl. “Fuck off, Dean. It doesn’t matter if you believe me-“

“Oh, I believe you, Sweetheart.” Dean’s eyes flash, nostrils flaring as a low groan leaves his chest, rolling through the air and settling between your legs in an aching heat. “And I finally fucking get it. You just, you have no idea. I thought you just didn’t want it, but you’re just- Shit-“

“Dean,” your voice is soft, a little breathless, and can’t help but rub your thighs together as his hands start to flex at his sides. “I don’t know what you’re talking about-“

“I know,” he mutters, scanning over your body with an almost predatory expression. “I’m not, I just gotta,” his gaze flies back to yours, his voice suddenly stern. “Sam tell you how the unicorn choses its form?”

You blink. “Wha-“

“It takes the form that will be most appealing to the target. To help the asshole get attention quickly. That unicorn,” his voice drop, deeper than you’ve ever heard it, and it takes all the will you have to not start fall back into in the sheets. “Looked kinda like me.”

“I, um, I don’t-“

“Do you want me?” Dean grunts your name, and you make the mistake of dropping your gaze down, to his pants. To where an impressive outline is straining against his jeans. 

“I’d, I mean, I’m not-“ You swallow, everything a dizzying haze of Dean. “Yeah, I think, but you’re not-“

“I’m not what?” He growls, kneeling down to your eye level, trailing a slow hand up your thigh. “Not interested?”

 “Yeah?”

“Wrong.” Dean’s hand moves higher, trailing closer and closer to your center before running back down to your knee. “So incredibly wrong, Sweetheart. I’ve wanted you since, fuck, since I first saw ya’. But you didn’t seem to want me, so I backed off, but if you just didn’t-“ He pauses, his brilliant green eyes suddenly tearing into your soul, unraveling you before he’s even touched bare skin. “Do you? Want me?”

“I already said-“

“You said yeah.” He mutters, rubbing his hand is a slow pattern on your knee. “Need you to say the full thing, before I do anything else.”

Dean’s face is suddenly softer, with something that aches and tugs on your own heart shining through his eyes, and you couldn’t lie to him if you tried. You can lie to yourself, but you can’t lie to Dean. It feels cruel, and wrong, and as if you’d be denying yourself something so good and rare it will never be replicated if you walk away now. 

“I want you,” you whisper. “I’ve wanted you. But I’m not, it’s not going to be good for you. I mean, I know how to take care of that,” you point to the bulge in his pants, pressed slightly against your calf as he crouches before you, and Dean frowns. “But I’ve never, um, you know-“

“You’re not takin’ care of anything.” He says, scanning over your open face with drawn brows. “We’re doing this, it’s gonna be about you.”

“Oh.” There’s a little drool falling out of your mouth, Dean reaches up to swipe it away with his thumb, and your voice becomes a squeak. “Okay.”

“If you really wanna,” his mouth curves into a smirk, and you need it on yours now. “Next time, I’ll let you go to town on Little Dean.”

You can’t stop the small giggle escaping your lips, and it turns into a full laugh as Dean’s own grin grows, and nothing really feels that bad anymore. “Little Dean?”

“Compared to the rest of me, yeah.” Dean does a loose gesture at his broad, strong body, his grin growing cocky. Hungry. Starved. “But trust me, gorgeous. Ain’t nothing little about him.”

Your eyes widen, your thighs rubbing together as the need for him becomes almost unbearable, and Dean lets out a deep, low chuckle. 

“You want me, babygirl?”

You nod, and Dean’s eyes narrow as he squeezes his hand on your leg. 

“Need you to say it-“

“Yeah.” You whisper. “Yes, please.”

A grin splits over Dean’s handsome face, and his hand drifts to your stomach, his eyes never leaving yours as he drawls your name. “I’m gonna need to get you ready, so just,” he pushes you slightly, and you fall flat on your back, moving your own hands to hold his against you. “Stay there, look pretty, and let me work.”

You nod, your vision already a little blurred with desire as you stare at the ceiling. Dean draws back, shuffling around at the edge of the bed, and you look up to see his shirt gone. It’s all warm, slightly golden and freckled skin, strong and soft in all the right places. His muscles flex as he takes a long, deep breath, and big, calloused hands lowering to trace over your midriff, his eyes never leaving yours.

“What’d I say about stayin’ there-“

“I, um,” you gasp a little as his hand slips under your shirt, bunching the material and starting to slowly pull it over your chest. “I’ve done other stuff. Just so you know. And I’ve done things to myself-“

“I bet you have,” Dean mutters, wrapping an arm around your waist, holding you carefully against him as he helps you out of your clothing. “Shit, Sweetheart, you’re so damn beautiful. Can’t wait to taste you, touch you, fucking ruin you-“

You let out a high, needy moan, burying your face in his neck and mumbling against his skin. “Please, Dean, just-“

You cut yourself off with a gasp as his free hand slips into your pants, cupping your pussy over the fabric of your underwear and rubbing back and forth so torturously slow you might fly out of your skin.

“So wet for me already,” he grunts, tugging on your hair until you lean back, meeting his gaze. “Ready?”

You’re not sure what you need to be ready for, but as long as it’s Dean doing it, you’re good. You nod, wrapping your arm around his neck in silent affirmation, and Dean pulls back to pop open the button of your jeans with a single hand, offering himself easier access.

Two broad fingers toy with the hem of your panties, Dean’s eyes almost glittering as his attention falls to where he’s touching you. Watching your body shiver when he glides his thumb over your clothed slit, your hips jerk when he presses down on your clit, your legs stretch as wide as they can when he starts to rub small circles against you.

“Dean,” you whine, your free hand moving to cup his jaw, trying to move his gaze back to yours. “Please, shit-“

“That feel good, babygirl?” Dean starts to quicken his movements, adding small, teasing flicks and pinches that make your eyes roll back in your head. “You like me teasin’ you? Playin’ this pretty fuckin’ pussy until you’re soaked- Fuck-“

You start to grind on Dean’s hand, trying to chase relief while showing him that he didn’t need to play with or tease you. He has you, unraveled on his fingers and desperate for more of him, all of him, whatever he can offer you that will feel like this-

“Shit, you’re dripping.” Dean’s movement on your clit still as he drags his thumb down, resting right over your aching, already sensitive cunt, and pressing into you just enough to make you whimper. “I gotta taste you, Sweetheart, c’mon.”

His gaze shoots back to yours, something a little animalistic in his low, hoarse voice that almost makes you cum on the spot. “Need you hold on, pretty girl, we’re gonna get you out’a these.”

You nod, letting Dean lay you back down on the mattress, lifting your hips as he drags your jeans off your body, taking your underwear with them. Leaving to totally, completely naked on the bed. Vulnerable, entirely at his mercy, with not another place you’d wish to be in the world.

Dean crawls slightly over you, one of his hands tracing up your stomach, palming at your breasts, then rolling your nipple between two, rough, expert fingers. You gasp, arching slightly off the bed, and a low, deep groan rolls from Dean’s chest.

“Holy fuck, Sweetheart. You’re,” Dean cuts himself off, dropping his mouth to your other breast and latching plump, slightly chapped lips around your nipple. Your vision starts to line with light that might be angels coming to take you away, because this has to be heaven. This is better than heaven. Heaven wouldn’t allow such sinful things as Dean groaning against your skin, his boner pressing into your thigh, or his hand kneading at your ass. Someone shouldn’t be allowed to feel this good. This feels like everything, and blissfully nothing, and mostly just Dean.

You must have moaned his name, because he crashes up, fisting a hand in your hair as he pulls you into a sloppy kiss. All teeth and spit and burning need. Dean tastes like coffee and whiskey and syrup and fruit when he shoves his tongue down your throat, and he smells like gunpowder and leather as his weight hold you easily down, and his lips are so soft but so demanding as he practically devours you, and you’re high. He’s not even inside you yet and you’ll never have enough. This isn’t more than what you’ve done before, but Dean’s ruined you with just teasing touches and wet, starved kisses, and you’re starting to worry you might ascend when he actually fucks you.

He starts to kiss and suck a line over your jaw, down your neck, and between your breasts. It’s heavy and wanting, but still so carefully coordinated. Every move Dean makes seems to be calculated, because he nips at your collarbone right as he tugs on your hair, and the sound that leaves you is high and undignified and exactly what he wanted. His chuckle rumbles in his chest—now pressed against your stomach—and all you can do is moan as he continues his perfect torture. Licking one nipple as he pinches the other, dragging two fingers through your folds as he kisses down the plane of your stomach, stopping right at the apex of your thighs with glittering eyes and firm hands, slowly guiding your legs open.

“Shit.” He mutters, warm breath right over your pussy, making your hips jerk slightly. “Goddamn, baby, you’re responsive.“ A wide, smug grin overtakes Dean’s face as he pushes one finger into your pussy, and you squeak. “I’ve been waiting for this.” He growls your name, and starts to pump that finger in and out, the pace so slow and almost painfully good. “God, you have fucking idea how long- How bad-“ Dean groans as you squeeze around him, and adds another finger. “You’re making such pretty sounds, babygirl, better than I ever imagined. Shit, you’re sexier than a fucking dream.”

His eyes drift back to yours, and shiver goes up your spine from how Dean’s looking at you. Really looking at you. Watching your writhe in the sheets and plead for him in weak gasps, watching you at your most vulnerable state, and grinning like he loves what he sees. Like he’s never seen anything better.

“Dean,” you gasp as his fingers pick up speed, starting to scissor inside your dripping cunt, bumping against a tender spot inside of you that seems to sing under his touch. “Oh my god, Dean, please-“

“Such pretty sounds,” Dean grins at you, crooking his fingers against that same spot to rub. “Let’s see if we can make some more.”

Without further warning Dean drops back down, latches his lips onto your clit, and sucks it right into his mouth like candy. It’s almost immediate, how he pulls you from warm pleasure to raw, almost feral desperation. You’re right on the edge, grinding on his face as his stubble burns your inner thighs in the best was possible, his tongue flicking over that pulsing bundle of nerves, his fingers reaching a demanding and brutal pace-

“Fuck, I’m-“ You let out a loud moan as Dean growls against you, pulling at his short, soft hair to try and both move him away as you dangle over the drop, and urge him on to let him catch you when you fall. “Close, Dean, I’m close, please-“

He pulls away, and you almost scream from the loss. You even force yourself up to glare at him, but you’ve barely gotten a steady balance when a high, needy breath escapes you at the sight of him. 

Dean’s towering over you, his pants discarded into another corners of the room, stroking his massive, fully-erect cock in one hand as he scans over your sweaty, flushed body. 

“I wanna fuck you dumb, babygirl.” He grunts, and you can’t really hear him your own Dean-addled brain, so you just gape and moan, and he chuckles. “Shit, looks like we’re already halfway there. You got any words for me-“

“Dean, please.” The words start to fall out of your mouth with the slight drool on your chin, almost as if he’d commanded them. “Please, I need you, need you so bad-“

You spread your legs in offering, and Dean groans. “Fuck, Sweetheart, you can’t just-“ He closes his eyes, running a hand over his face, and there’s a moment before he speaks again where you worry you’ve ruined it. That you’d shown too much, or Dean saw too much, but no matter what this is over before you can even get that huge, glorious cock inside of you- 

“I’m sorry-“

Dean frowns, his brow drawn as he looks down at you. “What the hell are you sorry for.”

“I dunno, I’m just not-“ You swallow. “I’m not good at this, I don’t know what to say-“

He grunts your name, prowling over your body under your trapped between his strong body and the bed, unable to escape his intense, searing gaze. Looking at you, examining you, and not flinching or moving away. “You,” he says, tracing one gentle hand over your cheekbones. “Are fuckin’ amazing at this.” 

You can only gape at him, so he keeps going.

“I’m the one that might fuck this up, Sweetheart. You’re so,” he makes a loose gesture to your body, and you really wish he’d use words, but the look of sheer awe in his eyes will be enough for now. “And I get to do this for you, and I’m not trying to blow my load before you even cum once.”

“I almost came.” You offer him a small smile, your fingers tracing over the sharp line of his jaw. “But you stopped me.”

He lets out a dry chuckle. “Yeah, well, I’m plannin’ to make that up to you. If you still-“

“I want it.” You cut him off quickly, rolling your hips up, right against his cock. “Please, Dean, I really want it.”

He squeezes his eyes shut, dropping a little further down. “Are you-“

“I’m sure.” You guide Dean’s lips back to yours in a soft, almost sweet kiss, and say the words you really hope will snap whatever leash he’s put on himself. “I want you.”

It works. Something flashes in Dean’s eyes, and his hand snakes between your bodies, finding your clit and rolling it in slow circles as he growls in your ear.

“Wanna feel you, babygirl. Fuck you raw. I’m clean, but if you want me to grab a rubber you’re gonna need to keep yourself going while I-“

“No!” You almost yelp, wrapping your arms around him in a desperate attempt to keep him above you. “I mean, I’m clean too, obviously, and I take birth control just for like, lady stuff-“

Dean raises his brows at you. “Lady stuff?”

“It kinda helps with period cramps and-“ You cut yourself off with a moan as Dean flicks your clit, tossing your head back you start to squirm, trying to catch him into you. “Fuck, Dean, please just fuck me-“

“You mean like this?” Dean guides the head of his cock inside you, and your mouth falls open in a silent scream. “Fuck ya’ like this, baby?”

You grind on him, scratching at his back as you plead. “Shit, that’s, Dean that’s good, more-“

“More, baby? You need more already?” His grin is shit-eating, and you’d hit him if the dark look of lust in his eyes, the baritone of his voice being several octaves lower than you’ve ever heard it, and the throbbing ache of him starting to split you open wasn’t rending your limbs only putty in his arms.

“Dean, please-“

You might stop breathing as Dean guides himself fully into you, settling his face in your neck as he bottoms out. There’s a long moment where it’s only Dean’s warmth over and inside you as he gives you time to adjust, groaning against your skin as you squeeze around him.

“Shit, Sweetheart, you’re so tight.” He kisses right behind your ear. “Feel, fuck, feel so good around my cock, so fuckin’ good-“ He emphasizes his words with one, short thrust that pushes him right against that one spot and makes you whine. “You ready, baby? Ready for me to pound this tight little pussy until you cum all over my cock-“

You almost yank him back down into a desperate, borderline feral kiss, because if he kept talking you might have cum from just the sound of his low, rough voice growling in your ear and rumbling in your chest.

Dean takes a long, ragged breath when he pulls away, and you roll your hips only once. Just enough for him to groans and fall back over you, kissing and sucking on your skin like he thinks you’ll vanish if he doesn’t mark you with his touch. 

Then he starts to move, and you were right. This is heaven. Dean’s moving so slow, pulling almost all the way out before driving back inside, until you’re fully impaled on him—his cock pressed fully against that one spot, making your whole body feel warm and alight, and your head feel a little dizzy—then repeating the movement again. And again. Over and over, so fucking slow, still leaving softer, slightly uneven kisses along your collarbone and grunts against your skin but-

“Dean,” you gasp his name, your nails digging into the muscles of his broad back as he continues to move on you. “Fuck, Dean, go faster, please-“

He rises up to meet your eyes, an unreadable expression on his face that’s made entirely hunger and want, but edged with something a little stronger you don’t understand. “You sure-“

“Yes.” You’re practically whining, scratching at Dean’s skin as you squirm under him, desperate him to really, properly fuck you. “Please, Dean, feels so good, need more, need you-“

He shakes his head slightly. “Don’t wanna hurt you-“

“Not gonna-” you let out a breathy moan as Dean pushes back into you, the movement a little harsher than before, and so fucking good. “You won’t hurt me, please, Dean, fuck-“

“I’m-“

“You said,” you force your eyes to stay on Dean’s, even as he sits deep into you, cock throbbing against that soft spot and making you see stars. “You said you wanted to fuck me, Dean.” You raise your chin, grinding up into his torso until his throat bobs. “Fuck me.”

A low, primal noise leaves Dean’s mouth, and he fully snaps. You might have screamed his name when he began to move again—ramming into you at an unforgiving pace, creaking the bed and bruising your hips as he grabbed at your skin, molding you perfectly into his touch and body—but he swallows the noise with a deep kiss that makes your eyes go unfocused, your whole body slack and only for Dean to play with as he drags you higher. Slamming against that spot, balls slapping onto your ass, one free hand squeezing at your tits before dragging down your side and finding your clit-

“So fucking good, babygirl.” Dean groans into your mouth, and you think you might be floating or falling or flying, but it doesn’t matter because Dean grunting in your east and slamming into your dripping cunt, and that’s the whole world. “Look so good, all ruined and whiny, such a good fucking girl, taking this cock so well, made to be fucked so fucking pretty-“ He pinches your clit, and you whimper his name. “Wanna cum, baby? Wanna fucking soak this cock-“

“Yes,” you gasp, scratching at his back, muscles rippling as he drills into you. Something in you hopes it leaves a mark. That Dean feels you on his back a little forever, just like you know you’re going to feel him in your pussy and on your neck for the rest of your life. “Feels so good, Dean, feels so fucking good, wanna cum so bad-“

“Beg-“

Dean barely grunts your name before you bite on his upper lip, almost screaming into his mouth. “Please, Dean, please, need to cum, wanna cum so bad-“

“Shit, baby, you’re-“ Dean groans, his pace becoming uneven and thrusts slightly staggered, cock twitching deep inside you as he ruts into your aching, clenching pussy-

Dean flicks your clit once, sending your hips almost flying off the bed, and starts to rub you at a frantic, savage pace. 

“Cum with me.” He growls your name, lips ghosting over yours and you stare at him under, cockdrunk, lidded eyes. “C’mon, baby, cum-“

Your scream is hoarse as your orgasm slams into you like a freight train—pure, drug-like bliss washing over your whole body, a soft haze of Dean settling behind your eyes and over your skin—and Dean roars as he slams open, warmth coating inside you and dripping between your thighs, down your ass, and onto the bed.

Dean rolls over, taking you with him, and remains carefully sheathed inside you as your cunt grows sensitive and your breathing slows back down. It helps that he keeps your ear pressed to his bare chest, where you can hear his heart beating. Calm and steady and strong, just as certain and constant as the man it’s inside. 

As the man had been.

You’re not sure what he’s going to be now.

“That, ah,” Dean breaks the silence, his voice low and almost soft. “That do it?”

You smile against him. “If you mean take my virginity, then yeah, I think you did it-“

“No, I mean was it,” He groans, his arm shifting slightly around as his voice drops. “Was it good. For you.”

“Oh.” You nod slowly, trying not to hum like a needy fucking when Dean starts to run his fingers through your hair. “Yeah. Really good.” You stifle a moan as he twitches inside you. “It was awesome. Good, uh, good job?”

“Thanks, Sweetheart.” You can hear to smug grin in his voice, his free hand starting to rub soothingly on your back. “You were pretty fucking awesome yourself.”

There it is. You were pretty awesome. And he’s still inside you. And you need to know if you were awesome enough for something, anything to stick.

“You said, um,” you swallow, staring at his tattoo because you can’t bear to look at his face right now. “You said I could give you a blowjob next time. Did-“ 

“Did I mean it?” 

You nod nervously, and Dean’s whole chest rumbles with his low laugh, rolling right through your body. He grunts your name, and—when you still don’t look at him—hooks a finger under your chin to guide your gaze to his. 

“Look.” He sighs, and this is it. He did you a favor, and that’s it. He won’t stay, nobody stays, why would Dean Winchester be the one to stay- 

“I get it,” you mumble, and wish you would find the will to make your body roll away from his. “You don’t need to explain-“ 

Dean’s grip on you remains firm, and his voice is a deep, amused drawl. It feels a little cruel in your gut, because you’d have really liked more. More would have been the best. You didn’t even need all of Dean, you’d just have really like more. 

“You get it.” He raises his brows, and you nod again. “Sweetheart, you might want to actually hear the explainin’ part before you say anything.”

“I, um-“

“See, I’m a firm believer that all ladies should ride more than one dick in life. Too much of a good thing, ya know?” He winks at you, thrusting slightly up into you, and you flush. “But, if you’re taking applicants for long-term dicks, I’d have to be dumb not to apply. I’m never gonna complain if I get you all to myself.”

You stare at him, your voice barely a whisper. “So, um, you mean-“

“If you’ll have me,” he mutters. “I’ll take you up on that blowjob offer soon. And any other offers you’ve got.”

“Offers,” you swallow. “For long-term dicks?”

He shrugs—tracing a finger over your arm and refusing to meet your eyes—and it might be your turn to make the move. 

“Dean.” You whisper, crawling up his chest just enough for his eyes to easily find yours. “I’d really like you being my long-term dick.”

He frowns. “Sounds stupid when you say it like that-“

You drop down to press a soft, tentative kiss against his lips, and he tenses for only a second before overtaking you. Deepening the kiss with his tongue pushing on your lower lip, groaning when you open for him without a moment’s hesitation, pinning you onto his chest with big, strong arms as you fall fully into him.

Dean pulls back for only a second, searching over your open expression—all affection and need for him, swollen lips and shallow breaths—until he finds what he’s looking for, and his face splits into a wide grin. 

“If you’re lettin’ me,” he says, tucking a little bit of hair behind your ears. “I think I’ll stay your long-term dick for while, Sweetheart.”

“I’m letting you.” You whisper, a small smile pulling on your own lips. “But we need to come up with a better name than long-term dick.”

“Boyfriend?”

You stare at him for a second, unsure if this is real, because Dean just said that word like it was obvious. Not something he’s adamantly refused to be for anyone, ever, for the entire time you’ve known him. He said it like he was waiting to say it. And, looking at him—unfamiliar hope haunting the very deepest part of those perfect eyes, his grin so genuine but filled with nerves—you think he might have been. And all the money and glory and pleasure in the world couldn’t make you tell him no.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “Boyfriend’s good.” 

Dean’s grin becomes almost boyish, and this last kiss is sweet. It’s a kiss in the rain, or under bleachers, or on a rooftop with nothing but time and peace around you.

And you and Dean have never had either of those things. 

But you’d really like to and find them. And if it’s with Dean, you really think you could.

End Note: Look at Dean. Being Emotional. I'm so proud of him (I made him do that)

If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

Taglist

@artemys-ackles @ambiguous-avery @nightxcreature

[kyra45]

How to spot a scam blog

A very simple guide to figuring out if the blog messaging you is a scam:

Was you sent an ask within some time of sharing a specific type of post such as a trending topic or subject? - Usually scam accounts target particular posts and will spam asks to everyone who shared it. The ask may relate to certain events going on or more. These asks are always sent to many users all at once so it’s suggested to tumblr search part of the ask and see if its been sent by other accounts labeled as a scam or accounts with similar style.

Is the account relatively new? - More often than not, the accounts sending the asks are about a week old or even newer. They haven’t been made too long ago and often send asks within hours of being made. If you have timestamps turned on, you’ll be able to see the date something was posted. A fresher account is usually not going to be one who’s finding you unless they are searching tags and saw your blog.

How many posts are on the account? - Scam accounts rarely have many posts on their blogs beyond the initial pinned post. All their posts, being very few are very little, are most often just posts from a trending topic they looked up or a popular tag they decided to look through. They will share only a few and then make no further posts. This is to pad out their blog to make it look used but it’s easy to see how new the blog is if you scroll to the end.

Are the shared posts fitting a theme? - Scam accounts try to share posts based on the scam they’re trying to run. This means they’ll share posts related to the topic of their choosing and then stop once they’ve shared a few. Most of these posts come from the OP themselves and not from someone the blog is following though in rare cases they’ll find a person to reblog from so they don’t look suspicious.

Are the reblog dates accurate? - If you use timestamps, find a post the blog shared and check ‘Other notes’ and see if the reblog date matches the date that is listed on the blog itself. Often, scammers will backdate posts to make them look much older then they really are in an attempt to deceive people into thinking they’ve used tumblr for months or years.

Is the url auto-generated? - Not always seen from a scam account, but scammers often just use auto-generated usernames because it’s quick and easy to do. But real accounts may have these too. It’s just a thing to keep in mind.

Is the url familiar or similar to one you’ve seen before? - Scammers often try to copy their older accounts by using usernames based around previous scam attempts. It becomes obvious after about a while and usually makes it easy to figure out the scammer is back again. This isn’t always from scam accounts as regular accounts may do this for reasons.

How often do you get asks? - If you barely get asks and suddenly keep getting mutual aid asks it’s very likely you’re just a scammers latest target and they’ll keep spamming asks. This means you’ll consistently get the same style of asks from a brand new account that shouldn’t know you unless they found you in tags. You will keep getting these asks on a daily basis. You will eventually always get these asks.

Did they request you to message them directly? - On rare occasions a scam account will want you to send them a direct message and then they’ll just ask you for thousands of dollars on the spot.

Does your bio say no mutual aid asks? - Scammers don’t read/don’t care they will ignore that and send you asks anyway that won’t stop them.

Short version: More often than not the blog asking you for money is a scam if you don’t usually get asks for money from brand new accounts.

[dystopyx-blog]

Oops! Another yandere floyd post 🤷‍♀️

Everyone knows about Floyd’s infamous mood swings. He's in the mood or he isn't. If he's in the mood to do something, he will, if he isn't, he won't. There’s no real rhyme or reason to em, and they can be extremely inconvenient.

But it’s not until Azul’s complaining about it to you that you realize… you don’t really experience any issues with it. He still has em, of course, but with you it’s different. Out of every time the two of you have hung out, not a single time has he left you out of sudden boredom. It’s not that he’s just so interested in every single activity you two do together, or that he didn’t experience any mood swings during them, because he has absolutely had instances of them while doing something with you. But even when he becomes didinterested in whatever you’re doing, he could never be disinterested in you. So whatever you wanna do, he’s happy to tag along. And no matter how bored he gets with the activity, he remains a good sport for you throughout the whole thing.

With some exceptions.

Y’see, Floyd doesn’t really like sharing his Shrimpy Time (trademark pending) with others. Not even his brother.

You ask Floyd if he wants to join you on a hike and he’s like ‘??? Why???’ He gets Jade’s thing with hiking: it’s an experience they can’t get back home, like basketball and other leg-related activities. But you??? Are from land??? Why would you care about hiking?????? But Floyd isn’t really in the mood to interrogate you, so he’s like, “uh, nah, not really.”

Then Jade shows his smarmy face.

“So just us, then?”

Uh, nuh uh. Ain’t NO WAY he’s gonna let you wander off to the middle of nowhere alone with Jade. And like that, he’s up, and he’s joining. Even if you hadn’t invited him, as soon as he realized you were going out with Jade he would have insisted on tagging along. And since he’s Floyd, you wouldn’t have been able to refuse him, cuz he’d just follow you anyway.

So that’s how you ended up on a hike with Jade and Floyd.

Floyd is boredly trailing behind you and Jade, who has all sorts of interesting facts for you. Floyd couldn’t give less of a fuck. But he’s a good sport, for the most part. Or, at least a decent sport.

The three of you stop at an old tree with mushrooms growing from it so Jade can tell you all about them.

During the actual walking part of the hike, even if Floyd wasn’t interested in whatever Jade had to say, he at least got some satisfaction watching you walk ahead of him. It was obvious that even when Jade purposely lessened his pace, you struggled to keep up with him. And that, at least, offered something. But now you’re just standing there, watching Jade drone on and on about who fucking cares and he swears he’s never been so bored in his life. His mind wanders, his gaze drifts, until he sees some pine cones and decides he wants to try juggling. You can’t really do that in the coral sea, gravity is funky underwater.

He calls your name excitedly, and you turn to see him holding a bunch of pine cones in his arms. Then he just kinda—throws them all into the air. Floyd looks at the pine ones, disappointed. “Juggling’s harder than I thought.” He says. You laugh and join him where he stands, now surrounded by pine cones.

From then on, Floyd is able to keep your attention on him instead of his brother. And to his surprise, he finds himself having fun! He even offers to join the two of you again—though Jade turns that idea down real quick by saying that to go anymore hikes, you have to join the Mountain Lovers Club.

And this is the pattern for basically any activity you try. You tried out Gargoyles Study Club, wanting to support your friend Hornton. But Floyd tagged along. Just like on the hike, he mostly just trailed along in the back. You’d tried to get him involved in conversation a few times, but he’d loudly announce his disinterest in gargoyles, so you stopped. When the three of you stopped in front of an actual gargoyles, you expected Floyd to, y’know, just stick to the back. You were certainly not expecting him to start climbing it. You managed to get him down before he nearly broke the structure’s horns off. You swear to god Malleus was about to strike him down with lightning.

The only times Floyd would be a good sport is if he happened to be in the mood, or if it was just the two of you. At the end of it all, Floyd asks you what club you’re interested in. You tell him you don’t know. “Aw, that’s okay.” He says with a big grin. “You don’t need a club, anyway. You got me!”

[pepstarvanmoon]

Someone please get El out of there

Is it not obvious what this is? Do you really not know what you should be doing? SAY THE DAMN WORDS.

Why do you think she’s doubting you? Can you really not tell?

Mike, sweetheart, your relationship balancing skills are a terror to your friends, family, and romantic partners.

This is why people found Midleven cuter in S1/2, because the day you made it official marked the beginning of El’s doubts in your feelings for her.

You cannot seem to grasp that El is your friend AND your girlfriend, and somehow treating El like a girlfriend equates to treating her like shit.

You cannot make this up. El needs WORDS because Mike’s ACTIONS actively make her feel unloved. She does not feel it, so she wants some kind of verbal/written affirmation because of how emotionally distant Mike feels.

(someone talented please edit Elmike to Hamilton’s Burn or send an existing edit my way, thank you ♡)

His actions do not align to her expectations of love, not that it’s a good idea to let TV define romance for you, but you’re allowed to want/expect certain things in a relationship, and El isn’t getting that.

And let’s not act like Mike isn’t good at making people feel loved/cared for. Will is in love with him for a reason. El loves him for a reason.

(It was difficult to pick scenes for this because I’ve read arguments for how these aren’t really romantic at all, but from 12/13-year old, “fresh out the lab” Eleven, it’s as romantic as romance gets imo)

El has been trying to convince herself that their relationship is better than it is, because once she admits to herself that it’s not working, what does she do?

Her day-to-day life isn’t that great. Sure, she has her new family in the Byers, but her dad recently passed away and she’s being bullied at school. She has no friends outside of Will, and while I’m sure their relationship is great (wasn’t explored that much tbh), he can’t keep her from feeling isolated, and his own trauma with bullying keeps him from standing up for her.

One good, unchanging thing she has is her relationship with Mike. He’s the one who took her in and housed her, he taught her what it meant to be a friend, and… I’m having a bit of trouble here lol. I was going to say:

Never used her for her powers (not true lol)

When she was burnt out, he never expected more from her (not true LOL)

Never treated her differently for her powers (for this one, he found her awesome in an awestruck way rather than a Brenner “I’m gonna exploit this” way, but when he thought she lied about Will/hurt Lucas he was on her ass lmao)

My girl has those ‘first love’ blinders on. I keep having to ask myself what she sees in him besides ‘first person to accept me + we kissed’ like besides the latter, Dustin was right there. A lot of the parts of Mike I enjoy don’t reveal themselves around El outside S1 (barely S2). He’s shown as caring and protective, but he’s like that for all of his friends?? Especially when they’re in danger so idk what’s different. I’d have to peruse the milkvan tag to get a hint, but I’ll probably get a better idea watching Sleeping Beauty.

I’m a firm believer that Mike kept it ambiguous because he didn’t want to admit what the real problem was to Will.

“I couldn’t tell El that I love her.” - simple as that. Must be something about Will that has him holding his tongue because after S3 I doubt he’d have that much trouble telling Lucas.

Are you embarrassed? If you thought it wasn’t that serious you wouldn’t have told Will that it was something you “can’t come back from”. Is love serious to you, Mike? Because you can’t love El in the way she wants, do you think you’re incapable of it? Do you feel wrong? Do you not want Will to know?

Hit a little too close to home, huh.

(and let’s not get into the "team, friends, best friends" scene they had together like what was the point in having them make contact a SECOND time.

They already established a connection between them. Mike could’ve asked to be a team after the "guess it's gonna be up to us again," and Will could’ve taken the painting offscreen (the focus shot of Will grabbing the painting gets me so bad like WHY), but instead they wanted them to blush and giggle over each other AGAIN before they got to the van.

Make it make non-Byler sense I'm begging.)

You’d think that’d be good enough, but Mike still feels conflicted and has to make it Will’s problem (actually, Will kinda made it his problem. The way they shot the triple take makes it seem like Will dragged Mike away for another talk because of how spacey he was being. Who knows.)

Tf do you mean you didn’t know what to say? “Maybe if I said that thing” so you DO know? It’s painfully cut and dry if you take emotions out of it. El wants Mike to say that he loves her, so to fix this, to come back from that fight, Mike has to say he loves her.

Why is it such an internal battle for him? If I were to take it at face value, I’d chalk it up to what he said in the van scene.

So your solution is to push your relationship to a point that has El crying and throwing all the loveless letters you sent to the floor? To tell her that she’s incredible and a superhero and that she should know how you feel about her because, despite the tears streaming down her face and her DIRECTLY asking you if you still love her, she must know how amazing she is too?

NEWSFLASH, Queerler! She’s learning just how much she doesn’t need you right now, so I guess it’s time to face your fears!

This isn’t what I meant, but go off ig (don’t, actually, this is awful for everyone involved).

No way you expect El to buy this. You’ve expressed this fear of "losing El" to Will, I’ll give you that, but nothing you’ve done IN FRONT OF EL has conveyed this. Your letters weren’t helping, and you being there in person only made it worse.

Eagerly awaiting the day Michael Wheeler stops lying.

Well, I guess he doesn’t lie ALL the time.

[aesethewitch]

Ghosts 101

Spirit work has always been the ultimate base of my spiritual and magical practices. Some of my earliest clear memories are of encounters with spirits, and I’ve always had a talent for sensing them. In a horror movie setting, I’d be that person who gets the weird feeling in the hallway right before all the doors slam shut at once, feeling the shift in the air before whatever ghoul’s around makes its mischief.

I mention this right out of the gate so that you, the reader, know that most of what I know about ghosts (and spirits in general) comes from personal experience. Not books, not videos, not other people’s work. There’s a lot of UPG in this little essay. Just keep that in mind as you read.

If there’s something you disagree with or have different experiences with, I’m not surprised! Everything in the realm of spirits, including ghosts, can really only be theorized about. Disagreeing opinions, experiences, and theories are very, very welcome. Drop ‘em in the replies, reblogs, or my inbox. Or, if you want, make a post of your own and tag me in it. I want to see them!

Anyways, with that lengthy UPG disclaimer out of the way, let’s get to the good stuff.

What is a Ghost?

I think it’s important to note, though kind of obvious, that ghosts are a sub-category of spirit. All ghosts are spirits, but not all spirits are ghosts. But what is a ghost, exactly?

As with most things, theories differ. In general, ghosts are thought to be… well, dead people. Some folks think that ghosts are the soul, essence, or spirit of a person who has died. Others believe that ghosts are just a fragment of a person’s spirit. But I’ve also seen theories stating that ghosts aren’t really ghosts, they’re echoes or imprints of human energy that once existed in a place.

Then, there are folks who think ghosts don’t exist at all. I can’t really blame them; empirical, repeatable proof of ghosts is tough to get in order to be satisfying in a scientific way. The only reason I personally believe in ghosts is because I’ve had several encounters that can’t otherwise be explained. Plus, for me, it goes hand-in-hand with other types of spirit work. Ghosts being real just makes sense with the framework I use to engage with the world.

So, obviously, there isn’t one single, concrete answer as to what a ghost is. We can only theorize.

My Theories

My personal theory aligns more or less with one of the more common theories. I think that ghosts are the lingering spirits of living beings who have died. Note I say living beings — some people think that only humans can become ghosts, but I think that any living thing can become one. In the case of plants and trees, ghosts behave somewhat differently than animals; but that’s a whole other conversation to be had. For the sake of this post, I plan on focusing mainly on human ghosts.

The way I understand it, ghosts are the whole, complete essence of a person that lingers in the physical realm for a time after their physical body no longer functions. I believe there are also energetic imprints — energy left over from the living, often (but not always) caused and fueled by strong emotions and lingering ties of memory in a place. These imprints can seem like a haunting, but the key difference is that they aren’t sentient. They may echo when you call, but they won’t give answers that are intelligent or timely according to questions asked or stimulus provided by the living. Sort of like recording a ringing bell; playing the bell’s chime back doesn’t ring the bell again. It just plays the sound it knows.

Now, death does funny things to the mind. Depending on the circumstances of the death, a ghost might have full awareness that they were alive, have died, and are now a ghost. I find this is most common for people who died of old age and long-term diseases: people who knew they were nearing the end, for one reason or another.

Ghosts formed from more sudden deaths, on the other hand, are likelier to not know what happened. They may figure it out given time, or they may never learn the truth. As with most other things dealing with individuals, the exact circumstances vary. No two ghosts are exactly the same. Some people don’t become ghosts at all, I’ve found! They simply move on.

Another important aspect of my theories on ghosts is that I think they fade. Unless they’re continually tied to a space, fed a steady supply of energy, and purposely kept in the physical realm, I believe that they can’t sustain a form here. Without a physical body to keep the spirit, soul, consciousness, or whatever we are, a ghost is gradually pulled into the more ethereal side of things. The astral plane, the other side, the afterlife, et cetera; I’m not sure, personally, where they end up. Maybe it depends on what they were attached to in life, maybe it doesn’t. Who knows!

I think this is where I draw the distinction between ghosts and ancestor spirits. “Ancestor spirits,” in my practice, aren’t individual people from my past. Rather, they’re a sort of collective consciousness made up of all the people who came before me who are connected to me through familial, cultural, and blood ties. I like to believe that ghosts become part of that collective when they fade out of the physical world. All this is to say, ghosts are just people who are dead. They won’t be around forever unless they’re bound and kept “fed.”

On Hauntings

The first half of the things everyone wants to know is: How do we know when a ghost is actually present? It’s a good question, one that’s hotly debated in ghost hunting circles. For the sake of argument, I think we need to define the word haunting first.

To be clear, a haunting isn’t just when a ghost is present. A ghost just passing through or lingering for a little while doesn’t necessarily make a haunting. That would be better described as a presence. A haunting, in my opinion, is a long-term, sustained presence of a ghost or imprint.

And the first step to dealing with a haunting is to determine whether the place you’re in is actually haunted. You don’t have to have super sensitive psychic powers to detect the presence of ghosts. Some folks might have an easier time of it than others, but anyone can learn how to discern when a ghost is hanging around.

It’s important to note that commonly-reported signs of ghost presences and hauntings are also symptoms of other issues like mold, electrical issues, pressure changes, carbon monoxide, stress and anxiety, noisy neighbors, animals outside or in the walls (including bugs), sleep apnea or insomnia, and more. It’s important to consider mundane reasons before leaping to magical, spiritual, or ghostly ones.

With that in mind, let’s say that you’ve ruled out all the mundane possibilities, and you’re still left wondering whether that place is capital-H Haunted. How can you tell?

In my experience, there are a few signs that will stick out:

Disembodied sounds, such as voices, knocking, and walking

A pervasive chill or prickling feeling, particularly on parts of the body that are covered

A feeling of being touched, poked, or prodded

Visual disturbances like mist or shadows

Sudden smells that can’t be explained, such as perfume, tobacco, or food

Batteries in things like phones and cameras draining very quickly

Now, note that even with these signs, a lot of these things can happen with spirits that aren’t ghosts. The only way to know for absolutely sure that you’re dealing with a ghost and not a mischievous, physical-realm-poking non-human spirit is to make contact and ask.

My fellow sensitive individuals may experience other signs during a haunting. Depending on where your abilities lie, you might experience stronger sensations or detect signs of a haunting earlier than others who haven’t trained these senses.

What Causes a Haunting?

It’s hard to say. Some people (particularly ghost hunters with big TV shows who need to make those viewer numbers go up) say that ghosts stick around because they’re pissed off or had some tragedy befall them in life. Trauma ties them to their surroundings, trapping them between life and death as a specter, or something like that.

Honestly, all that tells me is that these guys are trying to sell you something (their show). I’ve met maybe two ghosts that were like that, and they had extremely good reasons for it. That’s not to say there aren’t traumatized ghosts out there; just that they aren’t nearly as common or the only explanation for a haunting.

I’m personally not sure what causes some ghosts to linger over others. I think it does partly have to do with emotion, but it may also have to do with the amount of energy the person had left when they died. For example, the ghost of my great-aunt faded within a couple weeks after she died, because she was old, tired, and ready. On the other hand, the ghost of a guy I went to school with who died in an accident a few years ago is still lingering on the train tracks where it happened. It’s an extremely individual thing.

Another part of lingering ghosts and hauntings, I think, is interaction with the living. Without a physical body, the ghost has no native source of energy. Part of working with ghosts, for me, has been learning how to share energy (mine or from other sources) with ghosts to help them communicate, interact, and continue existing. When the energy runs out, they fade. With a steady supply of energy sources, a ghost could theoretically haunt a place indefinitely.

So, what causes a haunting? I don’t really know for sure! What causes a haunting to linger? A steady source of energy, I think.

Making Contact

So, you want to talk to a ghost. Cool! You’ve got a ton of options at your disposal.

There are the witch-typical methods of spirit communication, most of which would work fairly well for talking to ghosts. I’ve talked a little bit about spirit communication methods before in a more general sense, but I find that ghosts don’t always respond well to divination.

In my experience, simpler tools are better. Unless I knew for a fact that a person understood tarot in life, I would be unlikely to use it to talk to their ghost. Tools you can easily explain that provide clear answers would likely serve you best for most ghosts. My biggest suggestions are pendulums, which are easy for ghosts to understand and manipulate, and ouija boards. Yes, yes, I can hear the gasping and booing already.

Listen. Ouija boards are not evil. Ouija is a game. But talking boards really are good tools for talking to ghosts. Again, they’re easy to understand and manipulate. Plus, you can get really clear answers from a talking board if your ghost is chatty.

There are other tools that have been popularized by ghost hunters that may come in handy, too. Personally, I’ve had success with voice recorders catching EVP (electronic voice phenomena) and, on one notable occasion, a ghost box.

Honestly, I’ve had little use for tools like these outside of ghost hunting scenarios where we’re trying to prove ghosts’ existence in a scientific sense. Voice recorders catching wisps of voice in the background are super cool, and I definitely would suggest having one on hand when doing a ghost adventure. But they’re not great for in the moment communication, since you have to stop a recording to listen back to it and then react who knows how long later.

Where ghost boxes are concerned, I’ve only had the one opportunity to try it out. We were in a location I knew to be haunted thanks to previous visits, and it did seem to work okay. I’d like to try it again sometime to see if it was just a fluke or if it’s an actual, viable thing to use. With any tool commonly used in ghost hunting TV shows (or that’s otherwise Popular By Spectacle), I always approach with serious skepticism. Those shows are all about creating a reaction that can be captured; and when they don’t receive a response, they’re liable to make shit up for the cameras. It’s annoying, especially when a tool might really be useful but it’s shrouded in the very necessary skepticism around these shows.

Now, my personal go-to method to connect to ghosts is to just… talk to them. I don’t usually need to use any tools for it. But I’ve spent many, many, many years honing the skills needed to do this. It’s worth learning how to do if you plan on working with spirits, but it does take effort to get good at, even if you have an innate talent for it. If you can, take some time to develop a sense for spirits. Learn what spiritual presences feel like for you. You may not get immediate results at first, but the skill of sensing energy can apply across the board. And even if you get no “real” response, you can still talk to the ghosts.

When you go to communicate with a ghost, just remember that they’re still a person. They’re not a spectacle, though they are fascinating. Not all ghosts are going to want to talk to you. Not all ghosts are going to like you. Be respectful. Treat that ghost like you’d treat any stranger out in the wild. Don’t be an asshole.

On Mediumship

This is mostly just a brief note, since it’s an adjacent topic that I’ve gotten questions about before.

Not everyone who talks to or works with ghosts is a medium. A medium is a particular career or path that describes someone who acts as a connector between the living and the dead. I tend to think of mediums as the telephone in a conversation — relaying messages back and forth. I used to do medium work all the time. It’s an exhausting path that requires a lot of self-discipline and solid boundaries dealing with both the living and the dead. I don’t do it anymore, though I do still communicate and work with ghosts regularly.

Just keep in mind that you don’t have to take on the title or mantle of “medium” in order to talk to, work with, or research ghosts.

Ghostly Q&A

I received a handful of questions about ghosts in the run up to posting this; thank you everyone who sent in a question! If you’ve got a question and want my perspective on it, feel free to drop it in my inbox or in the replies/reblogs of this post.

From @moonmargaritas: “How do you tell the difference between nervousness at discerning the presence of a ghost (new practitioner who still gets jitters 🤙) and sensing actual hostile intent?”

This is a really great question! This is something I had to work through myself when I got started. And honestly, I still get jitters sometimes many years later! It can be scary, even when you’re used to it.

The biggest piece of advice I have is to learn how your body experiences nervousness or anxiety. Where does that sit in your body? What kind of feelings to you experience?

For me, nervousness is a sort of itchy tingling around my shoulders and tightness around my ribs. It also manifests as the feeling of being watched or observed too closely. It’s easy to misattribute those feelings to a ghost’s presence — tingling and feeling like something’s watching? Those are classic ghost interactions! But I know that’s what anxiety feels like. That’s how I feel when the lights go out too fast or I hear a branch snap in the distance.

Once you know, you can work past those feelings and focus on what’s actually happening with the ghost (or spirit). I think of it like knowing when someone’s mad at me. Are they mad, or am I just anxious? It’s the same idea.

And, as a note, ghosts with hostile intent are few and far between. I personally don’t think that most ghosts, even the nastiest ghosts, can actually hurt you; they don’t have the energy resources for it. The ones that do are obvious, and you won't really have to question their intentions. However, you can always work with the communication methods mentioned above to determine the ghost’s feelings and intents. If you’re worried about negative interactions, a bit of salt and rosemary in a little pouch placed in your pocket goes a long way for protection.

From anonymous: “What’s an unusual way people could use to communicate with spirits? Like an expected divination tool or something we should pay more attention to.”

Hmmmm! Honestly, I think that classic, actual call and response is underrated specifically when it comes to ghosts. Yeah, we’ve all seen the Ghost TV Guys call out for a knock or a word or whatever, but when they get a response, they wig out and don’t do anything with it. It’s annoying!! Because genuinely, saying “tap once for yes, twice for no” and asking questions is a really, really solid way to communicate with a ghost when you have no other tools that will work on hand. I’ve had ghosts lead me to important places and objects within houses doing this. I think more people should give it a try without falling prey to the over-the-top reaction of “DID YOU HEAR THAT?!”

From anonymous: What advice would you give someone dealing with a haunting?

For a run-of-the-mill, regular old haunting? Let it run its course. Most hauntings, when left alone, will fade. However, if you’re inclined to talk to the ghost(s), get them to leave quicker, or get them to be less intrusive in your life, there are a few things you could do.

To talk to them, choose a method of communication and try to reach out like I described above. Get to know them if you can, and set some ground rules. If they won’t (or can’t) communicate with you, and you really want them gone, I would probably recommend a gentle banishing ritual. Something that doesn’t scream “get out” so much as kindly say, “It’s time to move on.”

Or, if you don’t want the ghost gone, just a little quieter at night or out of your bedroom, you could set up wards or activity-dampeners around specific spaces. Choose ingredients and spells that protect against unwanted spirits or just unwanted activity. Keep it activated all day long or just at night while you’re trying to sleep.

Thanks for Reading!

Posts like this are usually put on my Ko-Fi as exclusives first, but since the questions in this one came from Tumblr, I decided to post it in both places at once! (:

With that said, if you did enjoy this post, consider throwing a couple dollars at my tip jar. Tips, commissions, and shop purchases get you 30 days of access to my entire backlog of exclusive posts and upcoming ones. Monthly members get continuous access plus extra benefits! All support helps me keep the lights on, so it's very much appreciated.

If you've got Ghost Questions, shoot 'em my way! My inbox is open.

[glittter-skeleton]

I haven’t seen anyone talk about Alastor’s cannibalism in relation to his relationship with Vox

So with most cannibalistic serial killers the reason they are people wasn’t because they liked the taste. It’s about full control and psycho-sexual desire as consumption.

The want of control is obvious all though Alastor’s character over himself and others. From the way he clearly gets joy out of ordering Husk around and literally owning his soul to his own ever-present smile (if we assume he’s not forsed into it as has not yet been confirmed) as a means of controlling his own character at all times. But with cannibalism it’s more than that, it’s control over your victim ever after they died, the power to not only control their souls but their body

And that’s where the psycho-sexual part of it comes in. In resent years movies like “raw” and “bones and all” we see what has always been a part of cannibalism: desire. Because it’s not only the power, it’s also the feeling of consumption, of becoming one with your victim. I’m a way, that’s not too different from sex in it’s most pure and carnal. In real killers most of the cases of cannibalism are sexual, with sex crimes accompanying. We can assume Alastor wasn’t like that, but the element or the carnal desire that plays such a big part in cannibalism still follows his character.

All of that to say that the desire that Alastor can feel in his own twisted way towards other demons is… impossible with Vox. He’s not made of flesh and bone (most probably) and we don’t know if he ever was. There is nothing for Alastor to feel attracted towards, not even his body (in the most literal way). We can also play with the idea that Vox is a sort of Ship of Theseus-type cyborg replacing parts of himself with machine one by one until there is none left as we do not know of any other demons in hell who are anywhere like him. So even if Alastor could feel that sort of way towards Vox, it is no more. And on the other side, if Vox was literally re-born as machine (maybe as ironic punishment for trying to be like one on earth like cutting off his emotions, etc) than that Alastor finds most desirable in a person was never there in Vox to begin with.

This parts a bit of stretch but even without the cannibalism Alastor thrives in watching people who are hopeful, souls who try and fail over and over again. Which maybe, as a machine, Vox originally wasn’t. Maybe at the start of their relationship he was calculating and unemotional which pairs well with Alastor’s own mask of detachment and indifference but also makes him completely uninteresting to Alastor as a subject of desire. But on the other hand Vox isn’t just machine, he’s a TV and his character reflects the media’s reactionary and emotional judgment. I just don’t know how Alastor ever worked with Vox if he’s always had the mindset we see in the show. But if that’s the case Alastor does feed on Vox’s desperation but never fully, never truly desiring him the consuming, power-play way that he feels most strongly (aka the want to eat him). I present you with both readings of Vox’s past emotional state as we do not as of now know what their relationship has been before

TLDR: Vox is the pinnacle of un-fuckable to Alastor, as even though he does not feel sexual desire the cannibalistic part of him can feel the psycho-sexual want to consume a body. Which he can’t with Vox who is machine.

I’d love to hear what other have to say about a machine loving a cannibal so please feel free to share your readings in the tags

[pendingnomdeplume]

i am drowning, and there's no sign of land pairing: hozier x gn!reader rating: T tags: angst, mental illness, hurt/comfort words: 761

author's note: This was pre-written and is part of a backlog of items I still have from the previous blog. xoxo.

title from: No Children by The Mountain Goats divider by: cafekitsune

It’s late when you call, a last resort for which you’ll profusely apologize and ask forgiveness that you’ll never believe or accept. The stains of leftover tears make your skin feel tight as you rub at your swollen eyes and take a deep breath. At least your breathing has evened, no longer wracked with hiccuping sobs that make your ribs hurt. 

“Hey, are you okay?” It’s the first thing to rush from his mouth, worry obvious in his voice. You can imagine him now, frizzy hair thrown up and out of the way while he sits at his computer or hunches over a notebook—the anxiety gripping his chest as he sees your name pop up at an hour that is usually all his own. 

The only response you can summon is a humorless laugh as you shake your head despite him not being able to see it. 

“Do you need me to call someone?” Andrew wouldn’t ask without reason, and you’d provided plenty of reason for this level of concern before. 

“Nothing so dire.” You wince at the way your voice cracks. “It’s just…it’s been a night.” 

“Tell me about it.” 

It’s such a simple phrase, but it makes your heart swell and tears prick the corners of your eyes. One of the few people who’s never made you feel like a burden on them. 

 You sigh. “My brain won’t stop, and it’s so loud today. I don’t know what actually triggered it, but…it’s been pretty touch-and-go the last few days.”

You brace yourself for an impact that likely won’t come. Andrew isn’t like that, won’t blame you for not reaching out sooner as if it’s a moral failing. Likely, he’ll be more frustrated with himself for not seeing signs even when you’ve worked so hard to conceal them. 

“Did you email your psych?” 

The question sends an electric buzz of irritation along your skin that you try to shake off. He knows you hate that question, but he also knows that you drag your feet on your own well-being—part of the menagerie of mental illness that convinces you it doesn’t matter anyway. You pause and take a deep breath to swallow down the snappy comment that desperately wants to break free. 

“I did, but I don’t know when I’ll hear back.” 

You’re both quiet as each of you thinks of the next thing to say, but everything that comes to mind is just as alarming as the call itself.  A barrage of self-doubt, self-pity, and self-deprecation tumbles through your brain, and you squeeze your eyes shut as though it will do anything to quiet the roar. 

“Do you…want to talk about it?” The question is asked thoughtfully and extended carefully. You take a moment to turn it over in your mind, gauging where exactly your own emotional energy is at. 

Finally, you shake your head. “No, I don’t think…I don’t think there’s anything to really talk about. Not right now, anyway. I just…” 

I just don’t feel real. I need an anchor to reality. 

Andrew asks, “Do you want to get on FaceTime, then? I’m working on something if you want to hear.” If you need company.

When the screen fills with his image, he smiles and greets you softly. An acoustic guitar rests in his lap as he flips back through his notebook to find where he’d left off. As he plucks out quiet notes, you shimmy down under the covers and reach over to turn off your bedside lamp. Andrew glances over when he notices the shift in his peripheral vision, and he smiles again when he sees your eyes peeking out from beneath your duvet, already starting to get heavy with sleep. 

You watch him for a while, occasionally catching the way he glances at his phone to see if you’re still there, still awake. Warmth floods your chest as he sings to himself, little sounds and whispers here and there as you catch a few words that make little sense to you within the greater context. 

Sleep takes you just as the sky begins to shift. The birds just outside Andrew’s window signal dawn, and he’d nearly forgotten he was on a call at all with how comfortable and cozy the silence is between you. 

He catches the way your eyes dart beneath closed eyelids, clearly in the depths of a dream. He whispers your name once, then repeats it louder than before, but you barely stir. Finally, he reaches over, letting his hand hover over the End Call button before whispering a barely audible, “Goodnight.” 

[rallamajoop]

On Mia Winters, misogyny, and abuse

As should be pretty obvious by now, I love Mia Winters. I honestly think she’s one of the most compelling characters in this whole damn franchise.

But let me make clear: you don’t have to love her. Mia’s canonically done a lot of shady shit in her time, and her relationship with Ethan has real problems. There are perfectly viable interpretations where the only thing really holding it together is his own denial. Only I never seem to get to read any of those takes, because the most common characterisations Mia gets in fic are an irredeemable monster, or a cardboard cutout who exists only to be written out as quickly as possible. And to write Mia out to that degree doesn’t just do her character a disservice, it does Ethan a disservice, and a big one.

The amount of Mia-bashing I see out there in this fandom turns my stomach. It’s not just the slash fans who’d rather ship Ethan with another dude. I have seen Mia loudly bashed in tags on het or gen fic in which she does not even appear. I have seen male fans reviewing these games on youtube who treat her the exact same way. But it’s never more frustrating than when that hate comes from the same fans who’ll turn around and talk about characters like Chris or even Lady Dimitrescu (she who canonically abuses her and murders her servants, and, y’know, eats people without a shred of remorse) like they’re perfectly forgivable and have done no real wrong. And don’t get me wrong: I love Lady D, but I love her because she’s magnificently evil. Mia? Mia’s a whole lot more complicated.

But to really explain why this hate makes me so uncomfortable, I’m going to have to start with the start of Resident Evil 7, and Mia’s very first scenes in this whole franchise.

Let me quickly summarise the opening of that game. A man whose wife disappeared without explanation suddenly gets a message about her whereabouts. He travels to an isolated location, breaks in, and finds her. She denies ever sending him that message, and seems incredibly distressed that he’s there at all. They fight. It ends with him sinking an axe into her neck and shooting her several times with a handgun. But see, he didn’t do anything wrong! It was all self-defence! She started it! She was acting crazy!

If you didn’t spot it, the whole opening of RE7 reads uncomfortably like a story about a woman escaping an abusive relationship, then being tracked down and murdered by her ex.

Obviously, I am not here to tell you Ethan’s abusive. He’s not, we’ve got no reason to imagine he is. He was legitimately acting in self-defence.

But the fact the first thing Ethan has to do in this game is find the balls to kill his own wife ‒ that a whole new era of Resi games has opened with a sequence so easily read as a sympathetic justification for how a man might perfectly innocently track down his missing spouse and "have" to kill her – that made those opening minutes into by far the most uncomfortable part of this whole franchise for me. Shit like this really happens. I mean it, I will track down the fucking statistics on women who are murdered after trying to leave an abusive partner if I have to.

What happens to ‘Mia’ in the opening to RE8 isn’t much better: it's as textbook a fridging as any I’ve ever seen. Yes, it’s a fridging that gets retconned away later when she turns up alive, but the fact that’s even possible speaks to just how awful and confusing her death is. The game opens with Mia’s violent murder at the hands of this series’ longest running ‘hero’, and the event is framed entirely in terms of how awful it is for her husband. That's as frigid as a fridging gets.

The eventual reveal that the real Mia was just trapped alone in a cell being experimented on by a madwoman for god knows how long doesn’t actually make it better. The horror Mia goes through in both these games is a footnote, barely explored.

I bring these events up not to condemn the RE franchise, not to say that including these sequences was unconscionable, or that violence against women can never be shown in a horror title. A quick glance at my tumblr should demonstrate how much I adore these games. Tropes like fridging become problems only because they’re so ubiquitous they can come to define almost the only roles women get to play, not because any individual example is necessarily grounds for outrage. If anything, there’s just as much to analyse in all the hate thrown at characters like Ethan Winters (or his predecessor, Jonathan Harker) as a archtypical examples of sexism against men – backlash against the very idea of a male character in the disempowered role of horror victim, usually reserved for women.

But with this context in mind, my god is it uncomfortable to see people talk about Mia as irredeemable monster who deserves to suffer more. People who will valorise the likes of Chris Redfield, who didn’t even bother to stop to tell Ethan that’s not Mia, yet talk about Mia like being shot to death in her own living room was only what she deserved. That is just a whole load of yikes.

And given that both games open with Mia being violently killed by a male protagonist (twice in RE7, with the player in control), it sure is convenient how so many people have managed to ‘find’ the evidence that proves she’s the real villain. You don’t have to think too hard about Chris Redfield as a violent maniac or Ethan Winters being forced to kill his own wife if it’s okay to inflict violence on this woman. “Yes, but she shouldn’t have done [X]…” or even “But what if she’s the real abuser” is a narrative that gets thrown at real women in abusive relationships all the time – especially when the man is a friend of whoever’s casting judgement, or even a celebrity. Real world examples of this shit in the wild run the gamut from wild fan-takes on The Shining ‘proving’ that actually the abused wife was the ‘real’ abuser all along, right up to the ongoing hate campaign against Amber Heard. People don’t want to have to think badly of someone they admire, and will take any excuse to shift the blame. The stakes are infinitely lower when we’re talking about fictional characters, but the same pattern plays out.

And look, I do get it. It’s easy to go into these games and come out with a negative opinion of Mia. She’s the one who lures you into danger in RE7, acts all innocent, and then comes at Ethan with a chainsaw – and when you finally find out her big secret at the end, it turns out she was working for the people who created Eveline from the start! You’re really not given a lot of reasons to invest in Ethan and Mia’s relationship before she’s suddenly coming at him with a knife, and the fact she never does get to come clean to him in canon leaves a bad taste in the mouth.

It’s really easy to go into RE8, note all the glaring signs that Ethan’s relationship with Mia isn’t healthy, and draw your own conclusions about a woman we don’t hardly even see again for most of the runtime of the game. Half this goddamn fandom still seems to think Heisenberg is actually a lycan, ffs – most of what people think they know about Mia is more meme than fact, and the rest is pretty surface level. Basic media literacy is not exactly high out there in the tumblrweeds (let alone the rest of the internet).

But as for the idea that Mia’s responsible for all the horrors Ethan went through, people seem to forget that Mia herself went through so much worse. Ethan spent a day in the Bakers’ property, and a day in the village. Mia spent years trapped in the Bakers’ property, and days at least imprisoned in Miranda’s lab, knowing exactly how much danger her family were in, helpless to save them. She’s no innocent herself, but ye gods has she already suffered for her crimes.

So with all that out of the way, well, what’s the actual ‘evidence’ that Mia herself was abusive? No-one's coming into this one without some bias, but let’s at least give it a fair shake.

Right upfront, I want to recognise that in both fiction and reality, women can be abusers, and men can be victims. Abuse in heterosexual relationships is far more likely to occur with the man as the abuser, but the reverse does happen, and the fact culture at large can be so eager to cast the woman as the villain doesn’t make it any easier for the real male victims of abuse to get recognition and help. Society as a whole is still just really shitty about enabling or excusing real abuse.

But the idea that Mia was abusive has very little to back it up. Whatever you make of “her” interactions with Ethan at the start of the game, the fact remains: that’s not Mia, and the fact she’s acting so strangely is meant to be our clue that something much bigger than a little marital strife is going on here. Knowing all this doesn’t really make the scene where she’s violently executed less disturbing, but you can’t miss the hints we don’t yet know the full story.

So the question becomes, is there any evidence that the real Mia was abusive? I’ve dug into this one a bit before in my post about trying to figure out the timeline of exactly when Mia was replaced, but there are no definitive answers as to how long Miranda's been living in their house. To summarise a long post (and a surprisingly lively timeline of events from the days before the game begins): the most likely intent seems to be that Miranda’s been posing as Mia for less than a week, though a lot of the vibes of the scene give me the impression it’s been several weeks at least. Ultimately, that’s going to come down to your own interpretation.

The Mia mentioned in Ethan’s diary who blew up at him at the hospital could be the real Mia, but more likely isn’t: you can’t really use her to argue anything definitive, one way or another. The Mia from the flashback where Ethan gets the call from Rose’s doctor is the real Mia, but if you think getting upset when your husband brushes off your obvious distress over your daughter’s health makes you abusive, then nothing I say here is going to convince you otherwise.

The only ‘real’ evidence that Mia might be a problem is one line you might hear from Ethan while taking Rose to bed, and it is admittedly a red flag: your mother’s scary when she’s angry.

And to anyone whose whole hatred of Mia has been built backwards from this one line – especially anyone who’s grown up in a dysfunctional household themselves – hell, I get it. It is one really yikes thing for Ethan to say about his wife.

But in Mia’s defence, I can only point out that, well, yes, canonically, she is scary when she’s angry.

Oh, did I say angry? I meant fucking possessed.

And if Ethan’s bringing up the spectre of that time, even subconsciously, maybe that should be an even bigger clue that the Mia in this house right now isn’t Mia.

But what really shows this line for what it is is that we’ve seen the real Mia angry. We’ve seen her cold fury at Eveline, daring to go right back to asking ‘can we be a family now?’ within hours forcing Mia to assault her own husband with a chainsaw. We’ve seen her frustration at Ethan’s own denial, and we’ve seen her stalk out of the room when he blows off an important conversation for a call from work. We’ve seen her advance on Chris after he shut her down, demanding, Where is my husband? Where is my daughter?!

We have never seen her angry without real justification. Her anger is neither violent nor disproportionate. It’s consistently purposeful, focused, and contained. There is nothing scary about the real Mia’s anger, unless you’re threatened by the very idea she might have something valid to be angry about.

There is evidence of tension in the Winters’ marriage from before Miranda’s arrival, but it takes a very different form – most evident in the flashback scene where Ethan receives the call from Rose’s doctor. Far from Miranda’s brusque, dismissive copy of her, the real Mia is anxious and depressed, scared of what Rose’s results might reveal. Here, Ethan’s the one brushing her concerns aside (“We talked about this […] Rose is fine!”) He recognises there seems to be something Mia’s not telling him, says they should talk about it, but then immediately brushes the conversation off when he gets a call from work, while Mia storms out of the room.

You can certainly read Mia as a hypocrite here, getting angry at Ethan for not knowing things she’s deliberately kept from him. But it’s Ethan who decides a call from work is more important than a conversation with his wife – someone who is obviously distressed, canonically still on a regime of drugs after the traumatic events of RE7, very likely suffering PTSD along with Ethan, and maybe even some form of postpartum depression. We don’t know anything about Ethan’s work, so there’s no point in speculating about how much he ‘needs’ to take that call. Mia’s no clear villain here – quite the opposite.

Personally, I tend towards taking this scene as evidence that Mia has tried to talk to Ethan about what really happened to him, but hasn’t managed to get him to face the truth. For all that Ethan supposedly wants to talk about the past, it’s a defining plot point that he’s badly in denial himself.

Or they could both be at some fault here: Ethan unwilling to face the truth, while Mia is reluctant to force him to face something she knows will hurt him and bring him distress. Even when Mia says outright that she ‘tried to keep this a secret, but…’ to Chris at the end of the game, the implication is as much that she’s tried to keep it a secret from people like Chris, who might decide Ethan is dangerous. She’s lied to protect him before, and if she’s still lying to him about her past with the Connections, then the fact that knowing the truth will hurt Ethan is obviously among her reasons. Protecting Ethan has always been among Mia’s top priorities ‒ even at her own expense.

The only other real hints we get about Mia’s inner life come from the glimpses of her we get in Donna’s domain. But I’m hesitant to read too much into these, given how unclear it is how much is just a manifestation of Ethan’s own anxieties. If anything, the ‘Mia’ in these scenes almost seems to have some far worse secret than simply having not told Ethan something he really ought to have put together on his own, and I’d kind of love to see that explored too – at least as long as that goes somewhere more interesting than round umpteen of ‘and that’s why Mia sucks’.

But my point here isn’t that you have to read any of these scenes the same way I do. I do think it’s important to recognise that nothing written for a game like RE is truly character-driven; scenes exist to serve the plot far more than to reflect consistent character motivations or hold up to fridge logic (which, let’s face it, is the real reason for most of Chris’ horrific behaviour in this game, let alone anyone else’s). The result is rarely super consistent, and leaves ample space for multiple interpretations of anyone’s motivations. Regardless, the idea there’s any hard evidence that Ethan and Mia’s relationship is dysfunctional, or that whatever’s wrong is Mia’s fault alone, is going to be incredibly hard to justify.

Any assertion that Ethan and Mia are somehow on the verge of divorce also needs to be weighed against the masses of evidence of how much they love each other – the number of times Mia has said she loves Ethan, up to and including (yes, I’m bringing this up again) how ready she is to die for him in RE7. Her speech to Chris at the end of RE8 states explicitly that being together with Ethan and Rose is the only thing that matters to her. “Mia, I’m sorry, I love you,” are some of the last words Ethan ever speaks – and I can’t help but read into how the moment he finally pushes Rose into Chris’ arms so they can get away with him weighing them down is right after he learns that Mia is alive, and thus implicitly that Rose won’t be alone if Ethan doesn’t make it. And good god does that scene break my heart every time.

It’s worth recognising that the fact Ethan and Mia love each other doesn’t inherently mean their relationship is healthy, or that you have to love them together as much as I do. Like I said up top, you don’t have to like Mia, and you don’t have to justify not liking her if you don’t. I would genuinely like to see fics where Mia and Ethan’s supposedly-necessary break up feels in character. Where Ethan loves her but just can’t deal with the resentment and the fallout over all the lies she told him, where he's been clinging to his 'happy ending' with Mia after surviving the Bakers so hard he can't face the fact things just aren't working, or where he’s having to face that their relationship only ever really worked because she was away so much. It will break my heart, but fiction is allowed to do that.

But god, it would be nice if people could just take the bashing below an eleven around this place. The number of times I’ve had to sigh and back-button out of reading something, because yet another author has decided to project their own hatred for Mia onto the husband who’s still reeling from watching her being violently murdered in front of him… it gets fucking old, y’know?

I would really like to think that in the year of our lord 2024, fandom would be a bit past this thing where they bash the canonical female love interest in the name of shipping the hero with another dude. People will bend over backwards to try and cast Heisenberg and Chris as guys who really care about consent and worry about Ethan getting hurt, because heaven forbid anyone be caught shipping something slightly problematic. And yet misogyny still somehow gets a pass.

You do not have to love Mia. You don’t even have to like her. But ye gods, the hate she gets is baseless and absurd.

Hasn't this poor woman suffered enough?

(And on that note, I promise I am finally done soapboxing in defence of Mia Winters, thank you for bearing with me for this long.)

[thebandghostofficial]

[MESSAGE FROM THE CLERGY]

An important (and overwinded) announcement regarding this blog below the cut.

Hello everyone! This is Rawkin Ghoul/ Tumblr Ghoul/ Tumblrina/ Soda/ etc etc.

First thing’s first: no, this blog is not an official Ghost social media account.

I started this blog in late 2022 when ghost-official started blowing up (I do not believe this one to be real either, and honestly I won’t believe they have a Tumblr until it is linked on their official website) and thought, “wow, I could make a better Ghost blog than that. One that’s way better organized and actually advertises properly for them, and posts regularly!” So I did.

Originally it was meant as just that, a little joke between some friends, and wasn’t meant to really get farther than that. But then I thought, Ghost does have a lot of fans on Tumblr- a lot of exquisitely talented and devoted fans. Maybe I can kinda “roleplay” it for a while, build almost a bit of a portfolio, and then either offer the blog to management or offer to run it for them officially, for fun, if they were interested.

More time passes and more people followed. I thought “xofficial” as a username was a common enough joke/ gimmick that people would realize it wasn’t for real (and in fact, when I first searched the URL, I found that this username was once in use years ago! Sorry, previous owner), especially after posting that April Fools joke post- this was wrong of me to assume. There are a lot of roleplay/ joke “official” Ghost accounts all over the web but I failed to really properly disclaim that I was one of them.

I of course don’t plan to reach out to Ghost anymore and haven’t for some time, for multiple reasons including Tumblr just not being a good website for advertising. But another one is I got pretty loose on here. Tumblr is so different from Twitter and Insta and all that- you guys (and myself! I go here too) don’t want to have someone sell something to you- but you do love interaction and jokes and solving things together.

I think we can all admit it- when Ghost is dormant, the fans can get bored and even agitated, and can start to have a go at eachother. I’m certainly not guiltless there either. I wouldn’t say I’m notorious or even particularly well known in general but I’ve gotten into drama here and there. I figured the blog would be a fun way not just to distract the community, but really engage with it. The blog passed 5k a month or so ago and I started thinking, we could do something really cool with it. Smaller events like fanart contests and zines. But what if we did more? Organizing pre-ritual meetups. Larger community projects like fan-made music videos. ARG. Maybe even a short video game- there are so many incredibly skilled and hard-working Ghost fans and I wanted to try to bring them together because I think our love for Ghost, for whatever reason we love them, screams so loud and everyone deserves recognition (also a reason I started Fanart Friday as a regular thing).

You guys know I do my best to keep up with your tagging and what you’re saying and everything and I’ve seen the people pointing out the blog isn’t real from the beginning- I didn’t want to address it directly at first because I thought if nothing else people enjoyed the mystery.

But, more lately there’s been more and more people who are agitated, disappointed, and even a little scared to hear that this blog is not official.

I want to offer my very sincere apologies to people who I made feel that way. I should have made it obvious sooner- I know so well that there are a lot of very young Ghost fans especially who wouldn’t necessarily surmise that this isn’t real. I’m really sorry to those of you I disappointed.

I will never ask you for money here, or any personal information, or send asks anonymous or otherwise from here or my main personal blog as “Tumblr Ghoul”. I have had one person ask to message me so I messaged them to allow them to do that. If somebody contacts you claiming to be the person running this blog, they are lying. Please block them. My interactions here I aim to keep as public as possible, hence being increasingly liberal with replies and reblogs as the number of people interacting grew.

My only goal with this blog is to advertise for a band that I love and to entertain/ help the fandom when and where I can. I love and appreciate all the fanart and interest in the character of Tumblr Ghoul but I don’t want anybody to feel obligated to me and I especially don’t want to hurt anybody. I started this blog for fun and that how I want it to remain- fun for everyone.

People pointed out when I didn’t post for some time a few months back and it was because I had lost interest in the blog and was going through a rough time- and then one particularly bad day I got on to check it by chance and just seeing your guy’s tags and comments made me feel so much better. I tell people that I found Ghost when I really needed a friend and they fulfilled that for me, but the past few months you guys have done just the same for me. I am so sorry to have betrayed that and made you feel unsafe and lied to in return.

As of posting I do intend to still run the blog as I have been (with a disclaimer added to the bio regarding the legitimacy of this account)- posting about tours, chapters, merch, etc, as well as Fanart Friday. I 100% understand if anybody doesn’t want to be involved in that, so anybody who has tagged me in something and don’t want it on the blog now, I can open messages and you can let me know. I will probably close them again after a week or so if I get a large flood of unrelated messages.

Please do not message me asking me who I am, who knows about the blog, etc. Gaining popularity was never something I wanted from this so I will stay anonymous, for the time being at the very least. A very small number of people know who is behind the blog and to my knowledge only one of them is even on Tumblr and in the fandom.

Thank you for all the support you’ve shown me, Ghost, and eachother. It can be easy to see the bad parts of a community and roll your eyes electing to keep your distance, but since starting this blog I’ve been reminded what good community is even when it’s frustrating sometimes.

Thank you for reading, I won’t hold it against anybody who wants to separate themselves from this blog at this point, and please don’t let my oversight and general dummyness sour your experience with Ghost or its other fans. Enjoy the rest of this tour and whether it’s with or without me, please keep rawking 🤘 Be good to eachother.

Thank you.

[hellfiresky]

Written in Red: Embedded

Contribution to @clonexocweek | Theme: Introduction

This is Chapter 3 of my longfic, Written in Red, written with this event and theme (Introduction) in mind. However, this chapter works as a standalone! I just released it on AO3 as well, so if you’d like some extra background, feel free to check out the previous chapters!

Please find the full fic here.

Summary: Tavi Drezz is an independent war correspondent embedded on the frontlines of the Clone Wars. Commander Wolffe leads the 104th Battalion, a unit specialising in high-risk extractions, reconnaissance, and special operations. When their paths cross in the dusty war room of the 104th, few hours before a rescue mission on Vanqor, it marks the beginning of an unlikely partnership. This is their story.

Prelude from Chapter 1:

In war, nothing stays still.

If you were born under the Republic, you’d grow up believing it’s the beacon of democracy, the one thing holding the galaxy together. But if you were raised on Confederacy values, you’d see the Republic for what it really is: a bloated corpse propped up by greed, a machine devouring its own soldiers to keep the senators fed. And you’d be right.

The truth was, both sides were corrupt. Not in the big, obvious way. Though there’s plenty of that, but in the quiet moments. The way the deals were handed to the same three corporations. The way the Senate Building was filled with arguments that sounded important but meant nothing. Sure, some senators were in it for the right reasons. There was always one or two, driven by ideals instead of credits. But that’s just it, isn’t it? That’s the thing about war, it gives everyone a reason to want something. Freedom. Victory. Power. Maybe even peace, though that one felt like the longest con of them all.

Pairing: Commander Wolffe x Tavi Drezz (F!OC - War journalist and holographer) Word count: 4861 Tags and Warnings: Swear words, lots of political commentaries mirroring real life issues, graphic depictions of violence, canon typical violence, author is a photojournalist, sets in the same universe as Seeing Red

Taglist: @msmeredithrose @orangez3st

Playing this song as a soundtrack is recommended!

Journalism in wartime was a strange thing. On paper, it was always about truth - bringing clarity to confusion, giving a voice to the voiceless. Hell, she hated that term, voiceless. Everyone had a voice; it was just that some weren’t being heard. Her job wasn’t to give them a voice - that would be presumptuous, intrusive even. Her job was to amplify what they were already saying, leveraging the truths they were desperate for someone to hear. But in practice, it often felt like a compromise. Between access and independence, between reporting the facts and navigating the agendas of the powerful. Tavi knew the game well enough; the Republic needed stories to bolster morale, to frame its war effort as just, heroic. And journalists? They needed the Republic’s permission to get close enough to see anything at all. And if they’re lucky, to publish the article with minimum Senate-approved cosmetics. 

The war room of the 104th Battalion at the Republic Military Base was, unsurprisingly, dusty. Tavi had read through the infopack Chiko sent her the day before: the 104th specialised in search and rescue missions, spec ops, negotiations, peacekeeping, and commando raids. It also mentioned they’d lost a significant number of their men during the Battle of Abregado. She’d been in a few war rooms before - GAR bases in the Mid and Outer Rim - but never one as massive as this. Once, she’d attended a press conference about the Zillo Beast, held in one of the Coruscant Guard’s war rooms. That had felt oddly comfortable, probably because it looked lived in by the Corries. This one was different.

Almost twenty minutes had passed since she arrived, seated beside Chiko, who was busy flipping through her datapad. Every now and then, Chiko would glance at Tavi, as if measuring how much of this felt familiar to her.

“They always do this,” Chiko muttered, breaking the silence.

“Late?” Tavi resisted the urge to roll her eyes.

Chiko chuckled quietly. “Well, no one prioritises the Comms Bureau. But also, Wolfpack doesn’t get a lot of journalists. Most of them are from the Republic Press Corps. You know the type - ready-made pieces for the Republic’s site on the holonet. Independents like you?” She paused, scrolling through another page on her datapad. “Haven’t had one embedded in a while.”

“No kidding,” Tavi mirrored her chuckle. “Been there, done that. Worked in comms briefly for the Core Development Programme.”

Chiko raised an eyebrow, smirking slightly. “Ah, you should’ve started with that the other day. I actually handled their—”

The hissing of the door cut her off.

A clone trooper with a cybernetic eye stepped into the room, followed by two others, neither of whom were wearing helmets. Chiko instinctively set her datapad down, and brushed her hands against her trousers. “Commander Wolffe,” she extended a hand towards the trooper with the cybernetic eye. “Sergeant Sinker, Corporal Comet. Good to see you again.”

“Chiko.” He shook Chiko’s hand firmly before looking at Tavi from head-to-toe. She’d grown used to this behaviour from soldiers - the sizing up, the scepticism. If she had a credit for every time one of them questioned her presence, her wealthy parents might finally be proud of her for doing something “lucrative” with her degrees. But then, if she cared about that, she wouldn’t be sitting here.

“Tavi Drezz. Independent journalist.” She extended her hand, offering him the same professional courtesy Chiko had demonstrated earlier. Wolffe didn’t take it right away, he continued scanning her down. Down to her boots, the holocamera bag resting on the table, the datapad in her hand.

There was nothing welcoming about him, no warmth, no veneer of politeness, no forced 'career smile', nothing. Again, it wasn’t unexpected - she’d seen it before. Soldiers didn’t like questions, and journalists were nothing but questions. She could almost see him calculating the possibility that she was some kind of plant by the Confederacy - or worse, a waste of time.

Finally, he took her hand. “Independent, huh? Means you don’t answer to anyone.”

“Define anyone.”

Wolffe’s grip lingered just long enough for her to internally question his motive, then released. The commander stepped back, arms crossed, still closely observing. Judging. But it wasn’t just suspicion and judgement she felt radiating off him. It was fatigue. The one that settles into your bones when you’ve fought too many battles and buried too many comrades. The kind of exhaustion that didn’t leave room for niceties or patience for people like her.

“I’ve read the comms briefing,” Wolffe said flatly. “You’re embedding with us on Vanqor. We received a distress order last night. Departure is set for two hours.” He turned to Chiko without waiting for acknowledgement. “I assume she’s cleared all health requirements - immunizations, standard field readiness checks? Signed off on the non-liability agreement, the operational security clearance, and the embed conduct protocol? And she’s been briefed on rules of engagement for civilians in a warzone?” Chiko flipped through her datapad to confirm. “All signed, sealed, and logged. I also attached a recommendation memo from Commander Fox and Lieutenant Torch from the Coruscant Guard. She’s fully cleared for deployment.”

Wolffe didn’t wait for further confirmation before focusing back to Tavi. “So they vouched for you. I’ll give you this much: stay close, follow orders, and don’t slow us down. My men don’t need distractions out there.”

Tavi opened her mouth to reply, but he interrupted. “Two hours. Be ready.”

“Two hours?” she choked out. Wolffe raised an eyebrow. “What? You got a problem with that?”

“No. Just… wasn’t expecting to move that fast.” Tavi quickly regained her composure. She signed up for this. She had survived worse places with minimum protection and zero insurance.  “Good.” Wolffe raised both eyebrows, then dropped them just as quickly. “You’ll learn fast that the field doesn’t wait for anyone. Pack light, Drezz. We don’t have room for dead weight.”

He turned to Sinker and Comet. “Get the squad prepped. I want everyone on the landing pad in ninety. Notify the General that we’re ready to depart.”

The two clones saluted and left the room. Without another word, Wolffe followed after them, leaving Tavi standing by the table.

“This is a search and rescue mission, as outlined in your infopack,” Chiko tried to reassure Tavi. She closed her datapad and beckoned for Tavi to follow her. “Thought it’d be better for you to start here, in planning and prep, instead of being thrown into an active battlefield. General Plo Koon and Commander Ahsoka Tano will lead the operation. I’ll introduce you in a bit.”

“The travel to the Outer Rim will take approximately five hours,” Chiko continued as they walked down the corridor. “Plenty of time to review your notes, rest, and, hopefully, eat. You did pack, right?”

“Enough to keep me going.” Tavi mentally ran through her packing list. At least she hadn’t been completely unprepared. She knew she was being sent somewhere, but Chiko’s message hadn’t exactly come with a detailed itinerary.

Her email had been blunt, almost clinical:

Your embed request has been approved. Report to the 104th HQ at the Republic Military Base by 0600 for further briefing. Pack accordingly—field conditions apply.

No mention of immediate deployment. No confirmation of where she’d actually be going. Just a line about “field conditions” that, in retrospect, should’ve been a bigger clue. Good thing she had charged the batteries for her holocamera last night and packed extra data chips. She’d also brought her satellite comlink - standard precaution, one she’d insisted on for herself ever since going professional. The GAR might grant her access, but she never fully trusted anyone else’s comms, not when stories had a habit of disappearing if they weren’t backed up properly.

She fixed the weight of her bag on her shoulder. “I’d have packed differently if you told me I was shipping out in less than a day.”

“Wouldn’t have made a difference. Wolfpack moves fast. You’ll get used to it.” Chiko smirked. 

Three space gunships sat prepped in the hangar, their weathered hulls gleaming under the overhead lights. Not standard LAATs - these had been modified for vacuum operations, their heavy plating and sealed interiors built for search-and-rescue in hostile conditions. The air inside the hangar carried the distinct scent of fuel and exhaust, complete with the chatter of pre-flight checks filling the space. Mechanics moved between the ships, running diagnostics, sealing compartments, loading supply crates.

Near the closest gunship, a towering Kel Dor Jedi stood with his hands clasped behind his back. The polished metal of his rebreather subtly reflected the surrounding floodlights. Beside him, a Togruta in a battle-worn leather cuirass shifted her weight from foot to foot, arms crossed as she spoke with the clone commander in front of them. 

And then there was Wolffe.

Same stance as he had in the war room, arms folded tight across his chest, spine locked. Everything about him felt charged, the kind of barely restrained tension that came from someone forcing themselves into stillness. Deliberate. Controlled. Like a coiled wire, wound tight enough to snap at a moment’s notice.

Tavi slowed her pace, absorbing the way they carried themselves. This wasn’t politics, not the calculated speeches and practiced smiles of the Senate hearings she covered. This was war, raw and unscripted. But not the kind of war she had covered. Of course, she had been in war zones before. Literal war zones, not just conflict areas. Ducked under crumbling buildings whilst blaster fire ripped through city streets, crouched in makeshift shelters with displaced families as they whispered about the Republic and the Separatists in the same exhausted breath. She had sat across from clone troopers after the fighting was over, recording the hollowed-out tone in their voices as they spoke about the men they’d lost, the orders they had followed, the locals who had either helped them or turned against them.

This was different. 

These weren’t the ones caught in the aftermath. These were the people making the calls before the chaos hit. The ones who decided where the troopers would be deployed, which villages would be secured, which risks were worth taking. This was the part of war she had never been privy to. And she was about to see it up close.

Chiko didn’t stop. “They were briefed last night. The Jedi,” she muttered, keeping her voice low as they neared. “Wolffe confirmed your involvement minutes ago.”

The Jedi turned at their approach, and the sheer weight of Plo Koon’s attention landed on her like a quiet force of nature. Even through the mask, something in the way he regarded her carried depth - like he wasn’t just seeing her, but seeing through her. Measuring. Calculating thoroughly. The younger one, Ahsoka Tano, nodded and smiled, studying Tavi with a more open curiosity. 

“General, Commander,” Chiko greeted them with a nod, slipping into the kind of professionalism that had been drilled into her for years. “This is Tavi Drezz, the independent journalist embedded for this mission. Communications Bureau cleared her yesterday. She’s here to document Republic humanitarian and recovery efforts.”

That last part had the polished ring of PR work. Tavi almost shook her head.

Plo Koon held her gaze. “Your work precedes you, Miss Drezz.”

“You’ve read my reports?”

Ahsoka’s arms dropped to her sides. “I think he means he’s heard about you.”

No confirmation, no denial. Tavi stole a quick glance at Chiko, who barely moved. The Jedi had access to everything - if they wanted information, they had it. The idea of being known before even speaking wasn’t new to her, but it wasn’t exactly comfortable either.

“Your role on this mission is strictly non-combative. Your safety, and that of the team, remains the priority.” Plo Koon spoke again. Before Tavi could reply, Wolffe exhaled sharply. “She’s had the full protocol briefing,” he muttered, half to Plo Koon, half to himself. “She’ll follow the team and stay out of the way.”

Ahsoka’s eyes flicked back and forth between them, her expression hardening. “You ever been in a combat zone before?”

The answer came easily. “Yes.”

Poof. There it was. A beat of silence.

“Ever been in one where we don’t know what we’re walking into?”

A smirk tugged at the corner of Tavi’s lips. “I think that describes every war zone I’ve covered.” Ahsoka huffed and crossed her arms again. “Fair enough.”

Plo Koon nodded once. “Then we are in agreement. Commander, ensure she has what she needs.”

“Copy that.” Wolffe saluted sharply before turning on his heel, motioning for Tavi to follow. She hesitated for half a second, looking at Chiko, who only mouthed good luck before pivoting and striding away. No further instructions, no last-minute reassurances - she was officially on her own.

The gunship was nothing like the sleek transport vessels that ferried diplomats and senators across the galaxy. No separate compartments, no assigned seating, just a hollow space lined with handgrips hanging from the ceiling, a few crates stacked against the walls, and the narrow entrance leading to the aircrew and gunners. It smelled like fuel, hot metal, and something acrid that she couldn’t quite place - maybe from the residual charge of weapons locked in racks near the cockpit. Tavi stepped inside, fingers brushing against the familiar weight of her holocamera as she started to pull it free from its bag. She wanted to capture this, the quiet before the storm, but before she could do anything, a firm grip landed on her shoulder. She barely had time to register it before she was pressed down onto one of the crates.

“Sit,” Wolffe ordered, barely sparing her a glance as he moved past.

Tavi’s brows knit together, processing. “I’m not—”

“Doesn’t matter,” he cut her off. “This isn’t a civ transport. You don’t stand unless you’re us, or, you have to.”

She let out a sigh, making sure her bag was secured behind her as a makeshift cushion whilst taking off the lens caps of her holocamera. Fine. She could work with that. But already, the contrast was setting in. This was it. No distance, no neutral ground. No hovering in the relative safety of the aftermath, documenting war from the periphery like she had on Ryloth or Ord Mantell. This was stepping into the story as it unfolded, not knowing which way the ground would shift beneath her. No time to contextualise, no space to analyse, just the raw mechanics of war unfolding in real-time. And instead of recording the aftermath, she was going to be right in the middle of it.

She started checking the settings of her holocamera, fingers moving over the controls in autopilot. She wasn’t going to waste the opportunity, if she was here, she was going to document every moment, every decision, every little hesitation in the faces around her.

Across the gunship, Wolffe secured his helmet - just before it fully settled into place.

Click.

Through the lens, she caught it. The brief, in-between moment where the man and the soldier existed at once. Half his face still exposed, jaw clenched. The other half already swallowed by the T-shaped visor, the impassive mask of command sliding into place. Then he turned. The gaze obscured by the visor locked onto her.

“Hold on to something when we lift off,” he said. “This ride’s not going to be smooth.”

No, it wasn’t. But then again, nothing about war ever was.

Tavi gripped her holocamera tighter, a habit she had developed, as if it would anchor her to the ground or whatever solid element beneath her. Troopers filed in, securing their gear, locking in weapons, taking their places like they had done this a hundred times before - because, of course, they had. She looked up as Plo Koon stepped into the ship, and settled in near the aircrew entrance, holding on to a stray handgrip above him. Ahsoka followed close behind. She stepped into position exactly in front of her - turned to land her gaze on Tavi, and then she smiled.

Not forced. Not out of politeness. Just a quick, genuine thing, barely there before she focused elsewhere. Okay, Tavi decided. She liked the kid.

Outside, the gunship’s ramp began to rise. The metal clanked into place, sealing them in. A low voice from the cockpit confirmed their final checks.

Then, with a sharp lurch, they lifted off.

Five hours in a space gunship was an experience. Not the worst ride she’d been on, but certainly one of the more unique ones. The constant vibration of the engines, the low thrum of hyperspace humming through the hull, it all blended into the background after a while. What she hadn’t expected was the music.

Somewhere between hour two and three, one of the troopers had hooked into the comm system and started playing rock music in Huttese. It wasn’t loud, just enough to fill the space without overpowering conversation, but it set the tone. At first, she thought it was a one-off. Some kind of inside joke, maybe. But no - track after track rolled in, a carefully curated selection that was clearly meant to serve a purpose. Stress relief? Maybe. A way to cut through the monotony of waiting? Likely. An adrenaline booster for what was coming next? Absolutely.

Tavi craned her neck to peek past Ahsoka who was busy talking to one of the troopers, Boost, exactly in front of her, to catch sight of Wolffe across the cabin. She waved her holocamera to catch his attention. Can I? She didn’t speak, just mouthed the words in his direction. Wolffe’s gaze locked into hers, then he shrugged, giving her a quick OK sign.

Permission granted.

Click.

Another moment captured - one of the small, in-between moments that defined war that rarely made it into history holobooks but stayed burned into the minds of those who lived through it. Tavi had to angle the shot from below, forced to stay seated whilst the others stood around her. The framing was different from her usual work - looking up rather than at - but it worked. The way the troopers loomed above, the curve of their helmets catching the dim light of the interior, the slight lean of Ahsoka’s stance as she was engaging Boost in conversation.

Click.

She wasn’t sure how many more of these she’d get before they hit the ground, but she’d take what she could.

Five hours passed before a voice crackled through the overhead comms. “ETA to Vanqor, ten minutes. Prepare for turbulence on descent. We’ll be running low-altitude scans before we drop a beacon - expect rough air.”

Ahsoka, still standing in front of Tavi, turned to face her. “Rough might be an understatement,” she said, adjusting the leather vambraces on her arms. “We’re not landing, not yet. The pilots will sweep around the wreckage of the Endurance first, see if we can pinpoint Anakin and Master Windu’s last known location.” Tavi noticed a subtle change in pitch as the engines adjusted for atmospheric entry. Around her, the troopers started double-checking their gear, securing weapons, tightening straps. Ahsoka exhaled through her nose, rolling her shoulders like she was already bracing for impact.

“Hope you’re not afraid of a little turbulence.”

Turbulence didn’t scare her. She’d been through worse. Hostile environment training, emergency crash simulations, rapid decompression drills - she had the certifications to prove it. She had sat through flights so rough they felt like they were being rattled apart mid-air, had deployed into zones where the ground was still smoldering from orbital bombardment.

But if she was being honest, she wasn’t thinking about herself right now. She eyed the young Jedi standing in front of her. Ahsoka’s stance was solid, confidence rolling off her in that way only Jedi carried themselves. But the thin leather cuirass strapped over her chest wouldn’t be enough to stop a blaster bolt, would it? And Beneath it? A simple bandeau, bare shoulders, exposed arms. The leather cuirass didn’t match her usual outfit, either. The only thing it seemed to coordinate with was the grey markings of the 104th.

That wasn’t an accident. The Wolfpack must’ve insisted she wear it - probably the best compromise they could convince her to accept. Ahsoka Tano was a Jedi, sure, but she was still a kid, and these troopers had fought beside her long enough to know just how much of a risk she took every time she jumped into battle.

“Not worried,” Tavi said finally, shutting off the holocamera to save its battery life. “Just calculating what to do when you find your colleagues and I need to take pictures.”

Ahsoka’s brow lifted, the corner of her mouth moving upwards like she was about to shoot back a response - but before she could, Wolffe’s voice cut in from behind the girl. “Stick to Wildfire.” A sharp jab over his shoulder towards the trooper standing at his left. “I’ll be doing the rescuing,” he continued. “So I can’t be responsible if you plummet yourself out of the ship because you want to take pictures.”

Tavi exhaled through her mouth. “Damn,” she adjusted the lens on her holocamera. “You make it sound like I’m about to throw myself into a Sarlacc pit.” Wolffe didn’t dignify that with a response. He simply glared his visor onto her longer than necessary before turning back towards the rest of the men.

The pressurised LAAT staggered hard as it broke through Vanqor’s upper atmosphere. The change in gravity pressed against Tavi’s ribs, a hollow, stomach-dropping sensation that sent adrenaline sparking through her limbs. 

Outside the open hatch, a dead war machine dominated the horizon. The wreckage of the Endurance sprawled across the jagged terrain below, its massive form a carcass of metal and ruin, semi-buried in the planet’s rocky surface. Smoke still curled from sections of its torn hull, vents and broken conduits spilling eerie glow where power flickered in its dying systems. The ship had once been a monster, a Venator-class Star Destroyer that had torn through Separatists fleets with its cannons. Now, it lay broken and silent.

Ahsoka moved to the edge of the open hatch, gripping one of the handgrips closer to the hatch as the gunship rocked against the turbulence. Tavi followed instinctively, trying to lean past her to get a better view. The wind resistance was brutal, the force of it whipping against her face, but she barely registered it. She had seen images of Venator-class Star Destroyers before - holonet broadcasts, Senate reports, recruitment posters that framed them as symbols of the Republic’s power. But she had never seen one in person. And certainly never like this.

Tavi gripped her holocamera tighter, her pulse picking up. She needed this shot. She adjusted herself, trying to find a good angle without breaking her grip on the support bar. The gunship rocked again, and Wildfire’s hand clamped onto her arm. “Careful,” he muttered, barely audible over the wind. “Wolffe’ll toss you out if you get any closer.”

Tavi barely heard him. The framing was perfect.

The Endurance sprawled beneath them, a monument to destruction, whilst the other two gunmetal LAATs of the 104th combed through its remains. The shot practically framed itself; Republic search-and-rescue forces navigating through the wreckage of a once-feared fleet, searching for their missing Jedi.

She adjusted the settings using one hand on instinct, regulating her breath. 

Another. Click.

The red targeting scanners of the gunships swept across the surface, methodically scanning for life signatures. A voice crackled through the static of the onboard comms. “No sign of the Generals yet. Scanners picking up debris, still sifting through interference from the ship’s reactor.”

War had a way of distorting perspective. From the Senate floors, it was endless debates and statistics - how many fleets were lost, how many credits were needed to sustain the next campaign. From the outer rim, it was evacuations and aftermaths, burning cities, displaced civilians, silenced confessions from people who had lost too much to care who won. But here, inside the war machine itself, it was another beast.

No grand speeches. No declarations of righteousness. Just men in armour combing through wreckage, trying to pull their own from the ruins. She looked up to her left, catching Wolffe’s helmeted gaze as he turned his head towards her.

Click.

An audible gasp from Ahsoka - then, “There! The bridge! I can see them!” She pointed through the open hatch. Excited beeps followed from an astromech unit, blue and white, standing behind her. Tavi blinked. Had the R2 unit always been there? She had been too focused on the troopers, the wreckage, the shots she needed to capture, but now the little droid whistled insistently.

Plo Koon, standing just behind Ahsoka, turned towards her. “Ahsoka, hold the ship steady.” Without hesitation, the young Jedi threw her arms forward together with the Jedi master. Palms up, fingers splayed, and the gunship was immediately steadied by some invisible magnetic pull. Tavi stumbled back a step as the ship adjusted mid-air, the force of the movement knocking her closer to where Wildfire stood, making Wolffe now directly in front of her. She barely had time to react before Boost, Comet, Sinker, and another trooper - Corvis, she thought - moved into position to shoot ascension cables. The cables flew across the gap before they tethered the gunship into place.

Click.

Two troopers moved in unison, lowering their blasters they used to fire the ascension cables. Tavi barely registered which ones. Close to her, Wolffe’s voice snapped her from her awe.

“Comet, let’s go!”

Before she could process it, two troopers leaped out of the gunship. They landed hard on the bridge, kicking up dust and debris as they sprinted forward, dodging the unstable metal beneath them. Instinct had Tavi stepping forward, trying to get closer to the open hatch, camera already raised.

A hand caught her forearm, again. “Don’t get too close!” Wildfire snapped. She barely nodded, still focusing on the chaos unfolding below.

“Hurry, Commander Wolffe.” Plo Koon commanded with urgency. Down on the bridge, Wolffe and Comet worked fast, pulling at debris, pushing aside slabs of metal. Beneath them, the structure groaned - a deep, ominous sound. This wreck wasn’t going to hold much longer.

Then, Tavi caught a distant movement. Mace Windu and Anakin Skywalker - alive, pinned beneath collapsed durasteel plating, obscured by the dust. Her breath caught as the clones braced, pushed, heaved the weight off the Jedi, working as fast as they could. The cables groaned, the bridge sinking by inches.

“We’re leaving in ten!” The pilot’s voice crackled again, filling the cabin. The gunship dropped lower, hovering dangerously close to the bridge’s edge. The gravity pull was brutal, Tavi felt it dragging her stomach downward as she clutched onto the nearest handgrips. Wildfire’s grip didn’t loosen. Her arm was probably bruised by now.

Above them, four figures moved towards the edge - Wolffe, Comet, Skywalker, Windu. They were so close, too close, to the point where one misstep would send them all plummeting into the wreckage below.

Click.

“JUMP!” Sinker yelled at them, and the four figures leaped. Armour and robes silhouetted against the wreckage as they jumped straight into the gunship. Plo Koon immediately yelled out his next command, “Cut the lines.”

Ahsoka’s lightsaber ignited to life. A sizzling green blur sliced through the ascension cables in one motion, the burning edges hissing as the cut pieces snapped back towards the collapsing bridge. Tavi barely had a second to process it before the gunship banked hard.

The floor lurched beneath her, and of course, she forgot to hold on. The sudden movement of the gunship knocked her backwards. An arm caught her waist. Tavi jerked back just in time to see the Endurance's bridge collapse into itself, swallowed by a gut-wrenching groan of metal as it vanished into dust and ruin.

That was close. Too close.

All she could think was Wildfire‘s now comforting grip. No - wait. Not Wildfire. Wildfire and Corvis were tending to Windu and Skywalker near the entrance of the cockpit. The grip tightened, securing her as the gunship lifted higher. “I told you to hold on,” Wolffe groaned, his modulated voice was close enough that she felt the rumble of it against her shoulder. She swallowed as she tried to reach for the handgrips above, but Wolffe hadn’t let go. 

The gunships jettisoned from the wreckage. Tavi barely registered the motion of it, instinctively raising her holocamera. She twisted her body in Wolffe’s grasp just enough to frame the shot --

Click.

Behind them, the Endurance exploded. A detonation of fire and wreckage split the horizon, the collapsing Star Destroyer consumed by its own destruction. Through the viewfinder, Tavi framed her final shot. One of the other two LAAT gunships tilted sideways in the foreground, caught as it veered away from the collapsing wreck. The fiery glow of the explosion behind it illuminating the falling shards of metal scattering across the hellfire sky.

Wolffe was still holding her steady.

[akookminsupporter]

https://www.tumblr.com/akookminsupporter/774617578661445632?source=share

Your tags on this post speak to me so much! I'm not a shipper but obviously I'm very interested in Jikook's dynamic which is why I'm here. And I'm so sick of coming across videos about Jikook that are embarrassingly slowed down accompanied with unnecessary commentary from the editor of the video. Like sweety, there's no reason to do that. Of all the ships in Bangtan, Jikook is genuinely the least one that ever needed "analyses" on all that nonsense because 99% of the things those two say or convey to each other are clear for anyone who uses their brain to see and really don't need any analyzing.

Just the other day on Instagram, I came across that cute video of JK watching Jimin cry on stage and you can just *see* how it's affecting him, so much so that at the end of Jimin's speech he decides to go to him and comfort him when it's obvious he initially planned to stay where he is. It's like his body reacted on its own.

But here's this delusional ass shipper putting commentary on the video like "nah I don't care my Jiminie needs me" the moment you see JK act on his emotions. Like I really don't know if that's just me but it annoys the shit out of me. And I just can't help but argue all the time with Jikookers about it and of course they call me an anti-Jikooker or Taekooker cosplaying as a Jikooker in response.

Yes, I can share your overall views about something and still call you delusional in how you talk about it. Thinking you're delusional doesn't mean I'm saying you're delusional about believing your ship being real, just in how you behave about those beliefs (don't know if I'm making sense here but I hope you get what I'm trying to say)

That moment is one of the most beautiful (and very underrated by Jikook shippers, might I add) moments between Jimin and Jungkook and it SPEAKS FOR ITSELF. Anybody with eyes and well-functioning brain would look at it and think "oh it really hurts him to see that one cry, oh there he goes to comfort him and tries to cheer him up" WITHOUT someone inserting thought bubbles on their heads in the video, God help me🤦🏾‍♀.

I'm sorry but it's giving Taekooker. The ships that need slow-mo, red arrows, thought bubbles, moments taken out of context and all that exaggerated analysis video jazz are the ones who have absolutely zero to show when the content is real and unedited. Jikook has never been one of those ships. Y'all need to get a grip.

Anyway, I absolutely love the clip you shared. I know the way Jungkook looks at Jimin is considered one of those cliché reasons many Jikookers have used to express why they believe in them. But it's my number one favourite thing about them idc. Jimin is so beautiful, inside and out - one of the most beautiful people to ever bless this world with their existence. But when you look at him through Jungkook's eyes, it's as if he becomes even more so.

I have the exact same problem with Jikookers but on TikTok. My God, that place is a nest of misinformation and delusion. And it’s so annoying because there’s just no need for it. There’s no need to slow down videos to “prove” something that isn’t there. No need to slow down videos to hear voices or things that don’t exist. And absolutely no need to claim that some random person in the background of a video was one of them just because they were wearing black or white and had a hat or a beanie. And it’s definitely not necessary to insist that Jimin was in Qatar with Jungkook.

I'm sorry but it's giving Taekooker. The ships that need slow-mo, red arrows, thought bubbles, moments taken out of context and all that exaggerated analysis video jazz are the ones who have absolutely zero to show when the content is real and unedited. Jikook has never been one of those ships.

I completely agree with you.

If that reason is cliché, then I’m the most cliché fan in the world LOL. Every time I see a clip of Jungkook looking at Jimin like that, I just imagine him thinking: Damn, he’s way too cute. aajajajajajajaj.

[steddieunderdogfics]

our house (in the middle of our street) by fivecenturiesverse

Rating: Teen and Up

14,489 words, 1/1 chapters

Archive Warning: No Warnings

Tags: POV Steve Harrington, Asexual Relationship, Kinda, idk that happened, Bisexual Steve Harrington, Gay Eddie Munson, Lesbian Robin Buckley, Bisexual Vickie (Stranger Things), Implied Sexual Content, Minor Maxine "Max" Mayfield/Lucas Sinclair, Disabled Maxine "Max" Mayfield, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Families of Choice, Platonic Female/Male Relationships, Domestic Fluff, Literal Sleeping Together, Sharing a Bed, steve harrington match maker, mom and dad steve and eddie, Good Babysitter Steve Harrington, Good Babysitter Eddie Munson, Drinking, Recreational Drug Use, Drunken Kissing, Drunken Confessions, Flirting, Not Beta Read, robin and steve codependency, Roommates, Living Together

Summary:

He's in the market for a house, it's not his fault the Creel Murder House is the cheapest place he can find. It's kind of the perfect house, really, Steve's got a big family.

Eddie fumbles in rolling the blunt. They’re sitting in Eddie’s room while he rolls on the tray balanced on his knees. “You’re — you’re giving me a key?” “Yeah. I don’t know if you want to move out of here but uh… option is there if you uhm, need it?” He stays staring at Steve, fingers paused over the tray like the ridiculous caricature of a stoner caught red handed by the cops. “For real? What about rent?” “Yeah man, of course. I know you haven’t been sleeping great here for obvious reasons and like, a new place isn’t going to help that much but…” He shrugs. “Got more rooms than I know what to do with, so fuck rent. I’m getting keys for you and Rob next week and maybe some for the kids, I don’t know if I trust them with keys to my house.”

This is a MOD rec as a part of our Fic Fridays.

Know a fic that deserves extra love? Submit through our asks or the submission box!

[cloudsbrainpopped]

What’s an unpopular opinion you have about clh? 👀

I could go for such low hanging fruit here and talk about Ramon and how much of a pedestal he’s put on within the fandom without actual analysis featuring source material references, and consistently going for the ‘Fanon Shadow The Hedgehog’ effect and how there’s only a handful of scenes that are discussed consistently and many of them are kinda irrelevant in the long run (ie… cow hooker. this is mainly about that. I mean it’s funny but it’s confusing how that’s considered important when there’s more to extrapolate from. And frankly… why not? We all have that one character or something that was handled so poorly and/or should not exist and I’ve seen many an essay about characters just scrolling through the tag and all of them have at least had something to think about.) (Also speaking of him and essays before my best friend raises her brow at this topic she is exempt from this because she’s actively done the research and does in fact get him out of this loop of the same three scenes whenever they ramble about him so. They’re excused.)

But if you want something kind of scathing I feel like Sarah’s breakdown is much more justifiable than people give it credit. Yes it’s ‘long’ (and it should be <3) and introduces so much lore very quickly in a way that was definitely impacted by a short runtime but. I don’t care. It does its job so damn well and it’s obvious as to what it says really, she’s literally a victim of the system herself and isn’t the spawn of Satan , she was just built up by propaganda (something that the fandom doesn’t tend to point fingers at Ramon for but uh. He was the messenger. I know he was forced to or whatever and also a victim of Eden because they literally saved his life when he nothing (and still went on to really despise everything except believing he was doing the right thing for the children when he literally made a dictator. I know he’s not exactly aware of that but! Hi, why do we not talk about that. Scared of admitting that your precious emo guy who could do no wrong is Literally a major contributing factor to things wrong? Or is it a dislike for Sarah for either a reason that could be argued against or is just reflective of some shitty views that you need to unpack? (also. this is becoming such a tangent but Dolph is right there, he has everything Ramon has; shitty coping skills, a gun, ‘sex appeal’, I mean I don’t get it, not into men as we’ve established but I understand it significantly more. Like he has all the makings of that character archetype so… why is it not okay when it’s him yknow? Like I know there’s so much more to both of them than that but they do often get boiled down to those specific traits and I really do wonder why it’s not okay when Dolph does it. It’s probably horrible views you need to unpack again I’ll be real. I could write an essay but I can’t lie I just woke up. Maybe one day?) Anyways back to the point, Sarah’s crash out was very well deserved in my opinion and I know the common takeaway is that she knows what’s happening but. No she does not, the defense was that she was only a child, which whilst being true is not full clarity. Full clarity would probably involve a further breakdown, not moving 5D chess pieces to create what ever she believes is the correct future because it’s everyone else around her who’s corrupt, are her methods fucked up? Yes. Is the intention fucked up… I really, I really doubt that but that goes into headcanon territory and not what we’re shown I’ll put a pin in that.

Also friendly reminder that Sarah literally hasn’t killed anyone on screen aside from Cody, that one member of Dedsec who I don’t particularly know (I have not played Watchdogs yet and it’s… pretty low priority for me at the moment due to college work and everything I’m playing for fun and things I’ve gotten heavily into via CLH sorry :() and Dolph(?) (we still don’t really know and technically he took himself out.), I know she’s the reason for multiple imprisonments, tortures and probable deaths but here’s the thing. (Also if she had more time she would have killed more people but shush I’m making a point) Jade, technically not her fault and she was… clearly dead after being shot by Pagan Min (which is ridiculous if you ask me. Oh right. The guys can survive explosions, the guys need to be rammed with lasers and countless bullets or have their brains severely damaged and yet Jade can’t survive one shot… ngl we’ve said it before but wow we do not like women in this household clearly 💀) and the bomb only went off because Dolph asked (and I have analysed all of the scenes post Jade’s death still related to Sarah and 😭😭😭 that’s also an entire essay topic but oh my god I love how that’s the only death she genuinely shows some kind of emotion over other than Sam because he was present this time 💀 also another essay topic but I need to get through more of SC first so I can create that argument in depth because that could be summed up quick but it’d do everyone involved a disservice and that was not a knock on Sam at all I like him, it’s just that the role reversal and lore comparisons go hard I think.) Uh. Pey’J got shot up by the police (as he should but not for the reason they used.) and Bullfrog nearly being executed had nothing to do with her. So whilst yeah, she could have absolutely killed them herself she didn’t, most likely because at the end of the day they were good assets.

On a more light-hearted note: Bullfrog is not ‘hot’, nor is he cute in the way I commonly see him being utilised. He’s adorable, sure, but not in this soft, almost uwu-ification way (I am never writing that again ew) by way of taking his entire identity as an Assassin away from him. Guys. He kills people. He is at least older than 40 years old (Wastelanders War. Which also begs the question of hybrid growth and age but that’s a question that’ll literally never really be answered in a canon capacity by much) he’s not a child. He is polite and respectful explicitly because that falls in line with the creed itself. (I’m not the lore expert on AC but a part of being an Assassin is in the way they carry themselves outside of a murderous context. He’s just a guy dedicated to his job who just so happens to be the most jovial person around yknow.

I’m aware that fandom flanderisation is going to happen to everyone to varying degrees it’s just very interesting in the way it happens because honestly I don’t think these should be majorly unpopular but then again. Interpretation is one hell of a thing.

[cerosin-bis]

might I ask for a handful of just random cod trivia ..

and/or ! just your thoughts on the games and reboots, if you’re comfy w that?

I feel like you always have some random notes or tags about weird trivia in the game but obviously this isn’t specific At All so feel free to just ignore this if it’s weird sjdndjhd

Hi! no this isn't weird 🥺 I think what gives this impression is "just" that I played most of said games a lot and got interested in the lore that's not necessarily accessible to people who, big quotation marks, are superficially in the fandom. as in people who aren't interested in multiplayer or secondary gamemodes, let alone lore and are more focused on the main cast or one particular mp character (such as könig)

This got VERY long so, my rambles and opinions about the Modern Warfare games and their reboots below.

I played mw2 and mw3's campaigns in 2010-2013. I wasn't playing multiplayer at the time, I started it with BO4 in 2018. But I fell hard into MW's multiplayer with the first reboot, mw19, in early 2020.

Just so that my words have a bit of "the player's weight": I have around 900 hours on mw19, 400 on MWII and I believe 200-300 on MWIII.

Regarding campaigns: Call of duty is Call of duty. It's literally funded by the US army. it's blatant propaganda, and I expect no less when I run a campaign. With that being said, what I expect from a CoD campaign is either being over-the-top and extra (like the original trilogy and in some ways MWIII specifically), or rooted in reality and wanna be serious like mw19. This is minding the blatant history 'rewriting' it's doing (eg. chemical attacks in syria, highway of death mission). My honest opinion on it is that the reboots don't know what they want and it's especially visible in MWII. In my opinion, the original games nailed that "american action movie" feel that the reboots kinda lost by instead veering towards something overlapping with real-life maybe a bit too much while still wanting to include crazy shit. Like, I don't think it's a balance that can work. I do like that we had more character development with MWII and it felt fun to play (in that regard I have no complaints, and I even liked the semi-open missions that a lot of ppl disliked), but it feels a bit less like call of duty. I'll be curious to see what direction they take for the next MW game, but I sure hope IW get their shit together and have a clear direction.

Transitioning to multiplayer with that. This feeling that the MW games are now an amalgamation of things sewn together hastily started with the Warzone fusion and the BOCW implementation. It became especially visible in multiplayer with the addition of crossover bundles, providing less and less "mil-sim" skins, and it was obvious that by MWIII IW would step away and let other developers (treyarch, SHG, which are both turned more towards arcade gameplay) take over the multiplayer development. Which is kinda insane: MW was always Infinity Ward's flasgship initially.

In my opinion the MW multiplayer started feeling different (in my eyes, falling off) for 3 reasons:

Catering to a younger playerbase, notably the "tiktok crowd": younger gamers want games that are incredibly fast-paced (mirroring their use of social media and those yknow "adhd videos") and like extremely flashy skins. Therefore, they'll spend money to get them. I'm not saying this to say "it's bad!" it's just an observation

The absolute success of mobile games and fortnite-like collaborations. This is mostly due to the current way people "consume" social media and games, with everything being quick and instant and fleeting. The sheer impact that these two things have had on video games as a whole is absolutely insane: they started adding microtransactions in games because it started on mobile & they realised that if you let people buy skins with real money w the press of a button, spendings increase tenfold. Same goes with the battle pass model: it's incredibly lucrative.

Crunch, changes of leadership, writers and artists probably being allowed less communication and therefore focus; and, in MWIII's case, the arrival of AI giving us some tasteless slop in cosmetics. That they sell. For real money.

I've said it countless time but I really regret mw19 multiplayer's artistic and narrative direction. It had a story that's completely absent from MWII where characters are just empty shells with a few lines of marvel-like, mary-sue grade bios. Where's the cohesive story? Where are the outwardly morally grey or flawed characters, the sub-squads, the interaction lines, the bundles that made sense with the characters' backstories?...

Long story short, I don't know if the MW series will ever go back to what made it MW. I hope so, but seeing how between 2020 and 2024 the multiplayer entirely lost its soul & the campaigns don't know what they want to show, I'm afraid it might either never come back or take a dozen years so that a reboot of reboots gets out or a new series takes over.

'til capitalism and cashgrab leadership ruins it again and the cycle begins anew.

[yae-energy]

“you like my hair?” pt2: 2 fast 2 furious

synopsis: what i think their favorite hairstyles would be

cast: megumi fushiguro, yuji itadori, nobara kugisaki

cw: nword usage

a/n: LMAOO,,, anyways here’s pt2 cause i had fun making the first part. def had to redo some of these cause tumblr aint save my draft 🖕🏽. there most def will be a pt3

—

megumi - bantu knots

- loves them (and for obvious reasons these shits cute asf)

- lwk doesn’t comprehend how your hair even stays like that without unraveling or smth so whenever you’re doing your hair he just watches you like:

👁️ 👁️

- like damn my nigga back up 😭

- mf will literally be taking notes so he can learn how to do your hair, that way you don’t gotta “abandon him” so someone else can do your hair

- be watching them yt tutorials while he tries to practice on an olddddd doll gojo got tsumiki

- whenever he goes over to your house he tries to be all sneaky and goes through all your products so he can see what you use the most and stock up on it at his house

- gets shy when he asks gojo to take him to your favorite hair store cause that mf can’t keep his mouth closed to save his life

- genuinely thinks you look so mesmerizing, esppp with your edges done

- it’s so classy to him 🤷🏽‍♀️

- i also think he’d really loveeeee finger waves

- bro will start barking and acting a fool

- reminds him of a mermaid

—

yuji - natural locs

- don’t get him started (me too dawg 😔)

- he don’t even know where to start

- loves how soft they look

- loves loves lovessss when you add little accessories like beads and stuff

- helps you retwist your hair

- cause what nigga finna be touchin all his his lady head???? he’s not a fan of that

- his favorite loc style is the half up half down two ponytails (iykyk 🤷🏽‍♀️)

- lovesssss when you 2 strand twist them

- also loves the curly look

- if you threaten to comb them out bro will start HOLLERING

- like ofc you can do wtv with your hair but he just loves your locs

- smells the loc gel

—

nobara - wash n’ go’s

- it’s efficient and she’s all about efficiency

- even if the actual wash day itself takes hours 😭

- thats ok tho!

- she’s absolutely in love with your curls like omgggg

- loves when you do puffs cause she thinks they’re just so simple and cute

- like you can never go wrong with a puff

- also doesn’t mind slick backs but knows all that gel prob isn’t good for your hair and it makes her worried LOL

- ESP LOVES TWIST/BRAID OUTS

- the curl definition just be so immaculate

- after you finish your hair she takes a bunch of pictures to post

- takes you out as a treat cause wash days be so tiring

- cleans up all your stuff when you’re done cause you alr did so much work, she knows them arms are tired 😔

- lwk is surprised you aren’t a damn body builder by now

- asks if she can help detangle your hair

- makes sure to be real gentle incase you’re tender headed

- is always showing you a style she saw somewhere and asks if you can try it out on your hair

—

tags: @megurulvr @honeybleed @jujuyii @chinieh @jogeto @mypimpademia @miirene | tag form