#which is true but not in the way he thinks

[whistlewritesforfun]

I had been (sorta) (kinda) (maybeeeeee) running a cult out of my ranch for years now. It was going pretty well I’d say! It was small but that made it inconspicuous. It was generating plenty of money for me and nobody cared enough about the run down ranch a few miles outside of town that the stranger individuals would visit frequently.

We had just finished up the usual “sacrifice” of a rat, a stringy thing I decided to put out of its misery after seeing it in a pathetic little tank in the store, when a blinding light emerged from its carcass. It was this odd grayish green color. Reminiscent of a rather painful turd or some especially stinky vomit.

Of course every religion needs a figurehead. I’d found some random God in an old history textbook from my mythology class. I’d just so happened to choose one that had a rodent schtick.

You could imagine my surprise when the little rat I’d just speared through exploded with that ugly green light, then warped and twisted. Convulsing about as it changed shape into what could best be described as a star made out of flesh, bone, and rat fur. It was hands down, the GROSSEST thing I’d ever seen.

And THEN the thing had the audacity to start speaking. Every utterance from its tongue caused another convulsion in the warped rat, a faint glow of that green emitting from the eyes. Which were much too far apart by this point. It really was horrible to look it, there were little bones sticking out and puncturing the flesh everywhere. Eugh. I should’ve picked a less gross god, maybe then I would’ve be in this horrendous predicament.

The warped rat body spoke to the congregation for about 30 minutes. For 25 of that I wasn’t paying attention because I didn’t want to barf all over my supposed deity. (There were little droplets of that disgusting rat blood on my ceremonial carpet. That particularly irked me.) For the last 5, I do not think I shall soon forget it.

“This my dear congregation!” (The rat… thingy… hovered a little bit closer to me.) “is a true servant! A true leader! And a true follower. He has blessed you with the gift of my existence. He has shepherded you along the way and through adversity to create my return! This man! He is now my high priest, henceforth until his death!”

“I’m what?” I couldn’t stop the blunt words from falling out of my mouth.

“You’re my high priest!”

“… riiiiiiiiiiiiight.”

“Do you… have doubts?” The rat-jumble asked, its scratchy voice reminded me of someone who was talking right after waking up, but very deep and highly unsettling.

“Am I really quite… priestly enough?” I asked, cringing slightly. It was evident I had made a very very grave mistake by this point.

“You’ve been preaching g for months. You brought me back from my slumber. I was sure I’d never be worshipped again. You are most certainly my high priest.” He… it… the rat thingy assured. I just nodded. I had entirely screwed myself. I was gonna be stuck with this cult the rest of my life…

“To go with your title high-priest, I will bestow on you a gift of my choosing.” Oh goody. Please don’t be dead rats. Please don’t be dead rats.

The rat sphere drifted nearer, the dripping of blood still grating on my nerves. Keeping the abject terror off my face was difficult beyond imagination. The orb then rotated so wherever the tail went in the warped carcass could tap me gently. As it did, I felt the most exhilarating burst of what I can only describe as rat magic.

“You shall be able to heal even the most sick and miserable. With your words, your touch, your compassion. The spread of sound and healthfulness shant be stopped but by your own limitation.”

I wasn’t sure what was appropriate at that moment so I kneeled. A particularly bad idea, as it now bug me in the rat-blood splash zone. I mean SERIOUSLY! This is the grossest vessel that he could’ve possibly picked! My carpet is entirely ruined!

With that final statement however, the pen fell to the ground with the most hideous mush noise, a few crackles, and what can best be written as a “Skrrrrrrsht.”

Now what on earth was I to do with this information… or ability. I certainly couldn’t heal my mind from what I’d just witnessed transpire. Believe me, I was trying. The divine are disgusting. So I wordlessly lead my congregation out of the doors of my makeshift chapel, and to the Waffle House half a mile away.

As is usual for Saturdays, we all ate at the Waffle House in our congregation robes. Today though. The viscous syrup warming my throat brought to mind the mental imagery of the rat blood. I shoved it aside and decided maybe to forgo the waffles… just for today.

You started a scam religion for a quick buck. You begin to panic when your fake god was actually a real forgotten one awakened from new worshippers, declared you it's high priest, and granted you the power of healing.

[rabbitcrimes]

When people are like Wei Wuxian was NOT suicidal it’s like. Ok sure. He just believed that his debt to the Jiangs should be paid with everything up to and including his life. And also that the moral and obvious thing to do in any situation is to put himself between anyone and harm's way. This is because he thinks he’s unkillable but he makes himself unkillable for the same reason he’ll die for a good enough reason: because it’s a way to have worth!

And then famously once everything goes to shit he does beg Lan Wangji to let him die as part of the moment where he is either destroyed by his own evil magic or lets his own evil magic tear him apart, a distinction I don't personally think matters very much at that point. Less explicitly textually, his mentally ill ass behavior after he gives up his core says to me that he wishes that he'd died honorably for Jiang Cheng when he had the chance and doesn't know what to do with himself since he hasn't.

Again I’m aware that he’s operating under a pretty specific set of culturally informed norms as a cultivator and member of a sect but like. TO ME. Everything about how Wei Wuxian conducts himself indicates that he has a box in his mind at all times that says 'in case of emergency break glass' and what’s inside the box is his own death. All the sound of mind actions of a man who has a normal and not suicidal relationship to death.

[blitzwhore]

Stolas just standing there and letting blitz hug him in the end is all good, right? He is just sad because of octavia and accepting that blitz is there with him right?? It's not that he regrets chosing him, right??? (I just need affirmation)

You know what? I've found myself needing reassurance about this too. So let's take a moment to look at the facts together, shall we?

(This reply turned out way longer than I expected it to 😅 sorry!)

Fact #1 - Stolas is still coming to terms with the consequences of his actions. He spends the whole episode finding out just how much his life has changed. Learning how to navigate groceries, and laundry, and meals, and having a job, and worrying about money.

Mid-episode, he has a breakdown where he truly questions if everything he gave up was worth it just for a fantasy. At this point in the episode, he still hasn't realised how much he means to Blitz. As far as he's concerned, he did all of this for someone who doesn't reciprocate his feelings. But by the end of the episode, though, his feelings have settled enough to understand and express what he has known to be true all along: that saving Blitz was the right thing to do.

What Stolas regrets isn't saving Blitz's life, or even loving Blitz in the first place.

What he regrets are the choices he made that led them to this. He feels guilty for selfishly (or, rather, naively) playing out his fantasies. He's the one who established the deal, who let Blitz illegally use the book for many months, who wasn't always sensible about how he expressed his love for Blitz publicly and despite being married, and who allowed himself to ignore the reality of his situation so he could live in his own, personal romcom—all of which ultimately led to the events of Mastermind and the loss of Via.

And all the guilt and regret he's grappling with (however justified it might be) is exacerbated by fact #2, which is:

Fact #2 - Stolas is off his medication. He's been off it for a month now. Symptoms of depression (especially untreated depression) include mood swings, irritability, self-hatred and low self-esteem, passive/active suicidal ideation, pessimism and hopelessness about the future, catastrophising, black-and-white thinking, and anhedonia (inability to feel pleasure and to find joy in things—and people—who used to bring you it). All symptoms Stolas exhibits throughout this episode.

So, even if he shows a lack of emotion toward Blitz at times, or irritation to seemingly minor things like low doors or "secretating" or Karen's behaviour, even if he acts regretful and angry and desolate... a lot of these emotions and behaviours are a result of his depression, and not of actually hating the life he chose.

Fact #3 - Stolas loves Blitz. He always has, and always will. I could point at a thousand different moments in the show when Stolas' love for Blitz has transpired, but I'm going to leave it at his line from Mastermind: "I would rather be dead than live life without you by my side."

Even after everything they've gone through, even now that he's taken Blitz off his pedestal and can acknowledge that Blitz can be a fucking idiot... Stolas simply does not want to live a life without Blitz. It has always been Blitz. It will always be Blitz.

Stolas loves Blitz.

Fact #4 - Stolas kissed Blitz. Before he truly hits rock bottom as a result of Octavia cutting him out, Stolas is so ecstatic that Blitz cares, that Blitz was willing to go to such lengths to save his life, that he can't hold back the need to kiss Blitz mid-air. Suddenly, none of his earlier frustration matters. Nothing matters expect for how elated he is that Blitz loves him back. So he smiles and he pulls Blitz into a kiss because he can't bear not to kiss Blitz for a moment longer.

Look at this man. Look at how happy he is. Because it's always been Blitz, and maybe it was a fantasy for a long time, but it doesn't have to be anymore. Maybe this can be real now. He's so happy he (and I) could cry.

Fact #5 - Stolas didn't deny loving Blitz. When Via said "You don't love me, you love him," the script very purposefully did not have Stolas go "no, no, Via, that's not true—" or say anything else that might make Blitz doubt, even for a moment, that Stolas loves him. Because that much is true. He does love Blitz. He just also loves Via. Which brings me to:

Fact #6 - Blitz knows Stolas loves him. At no point throughout the episode does Blitz doubt, even for a second, that Stolas loves him. And we know this because Blitz's walls remain down at all times. If Blitz doubted he was loved, if he had even the slightest of reservations, those walls would come crawling back up whether he wanted them to or not. It's what he's been trained and conditioned to do—it's how he's kept his heart safe ever since the accident.

But now, he knows his heart is safe with Stolas. He believes it enough to not depend on his walls to feel at ease. He believes it enough to let himself take care of Stolas and be soft with Stolas without the slightest trace of hesitation.

Look at Blitz's face. This is the face of a man who knows that even if Stolas isn't okay right now, things will get better. And when they do, they'll both still be in love with each other. This is the face of a man who can't wait for something beautiful to flourish between them, but who is in no rush to get there. He knows the road ahead is hard and painful, but he has faith in Stolas. In both of them.

Fact #6 - Stolas was happy to share a private, romantic dance with Blitz. Despite everything going through his mind, he found comfort and happiness in dancing with Blitz; in getting to have this little moment with him.

He found relief in the fact that Blitz stayed with him this time, even after Stolas told him, once again, that he didn't have to stay.

His reaction to Blitz initiating a dance between them is genuine surprise, immediately followed by an enamoured little smile at the mere notion that he gets to have this, now.

And, as they dance, he keeps smiling and leaning into Blitz, going as far as to manage a deep, heartfelt laugh at Blitz's words. This, for an unmedicated, depressed person going through one of the worst days of his life, is huge in itself. It shows that, even in the worst of times, he finds undeniable comfort and happiness in Blitz.

And, after their dance, Stolas looks at Blitz with a sobriety and soft sort of realisation that shows he's finally coming to terms with the fact that this is real. After everything he's lost, after all the fantasies he hoped for for so long and believed he'd never have, he finally gets to have this.

Despite the pain he's going through, Stolas looks at Blitz and sees the man he loves.

Notice how Blitz's eyes trail down to Stolas' mouth. And Stolas realises. And doesn't move away. Waiting, expectantly, for Blitz's next move, fully expecting it to be a kiss.

But then Blitz hugs him instead, and Stolas doesn't hug back.

And it's not because he doesn't want to be hugged by Blitz. It's not because his feelings for Blitz have changed, or dimmed, or disappeared. It's not because he regrets loving Blitz, or saving him. It's not because he doesn't want to have a close, healthy, loving romantic relationship with Blitz.

It's because of facts #1 (he's grappling with so much guilt and coming to terms with the consequences of his actions) and #2 (he's experiencing symptoms of unmedicated depression). And, above all, it's because of fact #7, which is...

Fact #7 - Stolas doesn't know how to be loved. Stolas has never had support. He has never had a shoulder to cry on, or someone to hold him when he needed it. When he's feeling vulnerable and broken, he defaults to hugging himself as a way to self-soothe, because that's the only comfort he's ever known.

And because he's never known comfort from others—because it was never allowed or safe for him to need or ask for comfort from others—all Stolas knows to do with his vulnerability is hide it. So much so that, the two times we see him begin to break down in front of Blitz, he either portals Blitz away or masks his tears and pain immediately. Even as he drunkenly rambles about wanting to be held, he still makes sure not to appear like he actually needs a hug.

So when he finds himself being held by Blitz in a warm, comforting hug, Stolas doesn't know how to respond. Because he's never had this. He's never had an opportunity to learn how to exist in someone's comforting embrace, how to interact with this kind of physical contact. He still has to learn how to feel safe between arms that aren't his own.

Simply put, Stolas still doesn't know how to hold Blitz back.

That doesn't mean Stolas doesn't want or need physical comfort. He needs it desperately—everyone does. But wanting something and knowing how to actually have it are two very different things, and Blitz knows that better than anyone, because he's wanted Stolas for a very long time, but didn't, until very recently, know how to feel safe accepting Stolas' love.

And that's why Blitz is completely understanding of the fact that all Stolas can do, all Stolas has the ability to do, is stand there and let himself be held, and let his emotions go through him. In, and out, with every breath, with every second. And get slowly acquainted with what being comforted by the person he loves feels like.

Thirty-something years of trauma can't be undone in a single hug, or a single conversation, and it's going to take time for Stolas to learn how to be present while in Blitz's arms, and how to return that emotional closeness.

But Blitz has faith in him. Blitz is willing to be patient and soft with him while he gets better. Blitz is ready to meet Stolas where he's at, because he knows, beyond a trace of doubt, that they love one another, and they're going to be okay. Even if Stolas doesn't know it yet—even if we, the audience don't know it yet—Blitz knows.

And that's just going to have to be enough for now.

And because this post got completely away from me, I shall conclude by quoting their song, because it summarises their story better than I ever could:

Truer love is hard to find. ❤️

[pleasespellchimerical]

Yeah so I will never forget that article "What Happened After My 13-Year-Old Son Joined the Alt-Right", because it shook me to my core how easy it is to radicalize a kid. And this is exactly what happened - a young teen was struggling, not feeling seen, and was extremely susceptible to alt-right indoctrination.

“I liked them because they were adults and they thought I was an adult. I was one of them,” he said. “I was participating in a conversation. They took me seriously. No one ever took me seriously—not you, not my teachers, no one. If I expressed an opinion, you thought I was just a dumbass kid trying to find my voice. I already had my voice.” I had no idea he’d felt that way. I couldn’t think of anything to say. “All I wanted was for people to take me seriously,” he repeated matter-of-factly. “They treated me like a rational human being, and they never laughed at me. I saw the way you and Dad looked at each other and tried not to smile when I said something. I could hear you both in your room at night, laughing at me.” I struggled for a moment because I wanted to tell him that wasn’t true. But I couldn’t deny his accusation. Behind closed doors, when my husband and I thought our children were asleep, we had often vented to each other about Sam’s off-the-wall proclamations and the bizarre situation we found ourselves in.

Made a massive impression on me about just how important it is to take kids seriously - not just for their sakes (which of course is important), but for the sake of the entire community.

I think a big reason why "children are an oppressed group" gets (wrongly!) read as a "pedophile talking point" is that everyone treats children so terribly that actual child molesters can speedrun winning a kid's trust by like, actually respecting their needs and perspective, at least at first. Which means that the only way out of this mess is for all of us adults to treat children with respect, so that abusers can't use the rareness of that respect as a weapon.

[starksweasley]

Throwing Books // James Potter

Pairing: James Potter x Reader, Platonic! Remus Lupin x Reader

Summary: In which both you and James have been too stressed and you finally break (angst, fluff)

Word Count: 1734

The library was suffocating. Your textbooks loomed in front of you, the words blurring into an incomprehensible haze. Normally, you’d find solace here—a quiet corner to focus and drown out the chaos of Hogwarts. But tonight, the silence pressed down on you, amplifying your frustration. And then there was James.

The fight from earlier replayed in your mind like a broken record. He’d yelled, you’d yelled louder, and then you’d thrown a book. A bloody book. It hadn’t even been a small one; the thud it made as it hit the floor echoed through the common room, silencing everyone. Sirius’s jaw had dropped, Peter’s eyes had widened, and Remus—sweet, patient Remus—had been the one to step in, grabbing you by the arm and dragging you away before you could hurl something else.

“What the hell was that?” he’d hissed, his golden-brown eyes wide with disbelief as he pulled you into the empty corridor.

“He started it!” you’d snapped, your voice cracking under the weight of unshed tears. Frustration bubbled beneath your skin, making your hands tremble.

“And you finished it by nearly taking his head off with a Charms textbook? Brilliant plan,” Remus had replied, his sarcasm biting but oddly comforting. He placed a steadying hand on your shoulder, his thumb brushing lightly in a soothing motion. “Come on,” he said, his voice softening when he noticed your trembling form. “Let’s cool off.”

You hesitated, looking back towards the common room, your anger still simmering just beneath the surface. “He doesn’t understand, Remus. He doesn’t care about how hard everything feels right now.”

“That’s not true, and you know it,” Remus countered gently, his calm voice a stark contrast to your stormy emotions. “He cares too much. That’s why you’re both at each other’s throats. You’re both stubborn as hell, and it’s exhausting watching you two try to out-angst each other.” His lips quirked into a faint smile, a touch of warmth softening his words.

You huffed, crossing your arms over your chest. “That doesn’t mean he gets to yell at me like that.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Remus agreed, his expression growing serious. “But you didn’t exactly take the high road either. Chucking a brick of a textbook at him? Really?”

“It was within reach,” you muttered, looking away as a blush crept up your cheeks.

Remus chuckled softly, the sound almost affectionate. “You’re impossible, you know that?” He placed a steadying hand on your shoulder, his touch grounding. “Come on. Let’s walk. You need to cool off before you destroy the entire Gryffindor common room.”

He tugged you down the corridor, his calm presence easing some of the tension knotting your chest. As you walked, he glanced at you out of the corner of his eye. “For what it’s worth, I think you’re both just stressed and taking it out on each other. He misses you, you know.”

Your steps faltered slightly, but you caught yourself. “He has a funny way of showing it.”

Remus sighed, his tone patient. “James Potter isn’t exactly the poster child for emotional intelligence. But he’s trying. And so are you. Maybe meet him halfway?”

You allowed yourself to be led away, the adrenaline fading and leaving behind only exhaustion and a faint twinge of guilt.

Now, hours later, you sat in the library, staring blankly at your notes. The fight had drained you, left a hollow ache in your chest that no amount of studying could fill. James hadn’t come after you, and that hurt more than you cared to admit. You were both busy, sure—you with school, him with Quidditch—but you’d always found time for each other. Until now.

“This is ridiculous,” you muttered, slamming your book shut. The noise earned a sharp glare from Madam Pince, but you didn’t care. You couldn’t sit here another second, not when the thought of James out on the pitch, still angry, gnawed at you.

Before you could talk yourself out of it, you grabbed your things and bolted from the library. The air was crisp as you stepped outside, the distant glow of the Quidditch pitch guiding your steps. The sounds of late-night drills reached you before the sight of him did—the thwack of a Bludger, the whistle of wind as brooms cut through the air. And then there he was.

James flew with a kind of reckless grace, his hair a wild mess, his face flushed from exertion. He didn’t see you at first, too focused on chasing the Quaffle. You hesitated, watching him for a moment longer. Even now, angry and hurt, you couldn’t help but think he looked… incredible.

Steeling yourself, you reached into your bag and grabbed the first thing your hand landed on: another book. With a determined throw, you sent it sailing into the air, straight into his line of vision.

“Oi!” he shouted, swerving to avoid it. He caught sight of you as the book tumbled to the ground. “What is it with you and throwing books at me lately?”

You shrugged, your heart pounding as he descended. “They get your attention, don’t they?”

He landed with a thud, his broom clattering to the ground. “You’re mad, you know that?”

“Maybe,” you replied, your voice quieter now. “But so are you.”

James’s face softened, though his eyes still held a spark of irritation. He approached slowly, his broom abandoned behind him, until he was just a step away. “What do you want, love?” he asked, his tone weary. “I’m tired. It’s been a long day.”

“You think it hasn’t been for me?” The words came out sharper than you intended, your frustration bubbling to the surface again. You took a deep breath, willing yourself to stay calm. “I hate fighting with you, James. I hate this. It’s… exhausting.”

His sigh was long and heavy, and he ran a hand through his hair, messing it further. “Yeah, well, maybe you should think about that before you start chucking books.” Despite the edge in his tone, his lips twitched like he was trying to suppress a smile.

“Don’t put this all on me,” you shot back, the anger simmering in your chest. “You yelled first!”

“Because you’ve been avoiding me for weeks!” he snapped, his voice rising as he stepped closer. “Do you know how bloody frustrating it is to feel like you don’t have time for me anymore? Like I’m not important to you?”

“I’m drowning in schoolwork, James! What do you want me to do? Drop everything and watch you play Quidditch?” Your voice wavered, and you hated how vulnerable it made you sound.

“I just want you to talk to me!” he shouted, the words bursting out before he could stop them. His voice cracked on the last word, and he dropped his gaze to the ground, the anger in his posture giving way to something softer, something raw. “I… I miss you.”

The confession hung in the air between you, heavy and unguarded. His hand fidgeted at his side, as if he was unsure whether to reach for you. You stared at him, your chest tightening as his words sank in.

“James…” you began, but your voice faltered. You bit your lip, the frustration and sadness from the past weeks rising like a tide.

“You’re my person,” he continued, quieter now, his voice almost breaking. “And not talking to you, even for a day, it’s awful. I hate it.” His hazel eyes met yours, full of the vulnerability he rarely let anyone see.

Tears prickled at the corners of your eyes, and you blinked them away. “Me too,” you admitted, your voice trembling. “I’m sorry. For avoiding you, for the fight, for everything. You’re important to me, James. You always have been.”

His shoulders sagged with relief, and he took another step closer, until he was right in front of you. “Are we okay?” he prompted softly, his voice gentle but his gaze searching, almost pleading.

You didn’t answer. Instead, you closed the distance between you, your movements quick and almost desperate. Your arms looped tightly around his neck, yanking him down as you pressed your lips to his. It wasn’t a gentle kiss—it was fervent, an outpouring of every emotion that had bubbled under your skin all day. Anger, frustration, longing—they all coalesced in that moment. He froze for a half-second, his breath hitching against your lips, before melting into the kiss. His arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you flush against him, and you could feel the tension in his grip, like he was afraid to let go. The faint taste of salt and the lingering warmth of his exertion made your head spin, and the world around you seemed to dissolve into nothing but him.

When you finally pulled away, his forehead rested against yours, his breath warm on your skin. “You’re insane,” he murmured, though his lips curved into a small smile.

“Takes one to know one,” you replied, a watery laugh escaping you. You felt your chest lighten, but your mind was still racing. Glancing at the book you had thrown earlier, now resting abandoned on the ground, you couldn’t help but chuckle softly.

“What’s so funny?” he asked, tilting his head slightly.

“You’d think with all the books I’ve chucked at you today, I’d be the one to apologize to Madam Pince for ruining library property,” you said, a faint blush creeping up your cheeks.

He laughed, a sound that warmed you from the inside out. “I think she’d sooner ban you for life than let you borrow another one,” he teased, his arms still secure around you. “But you do owe me a new Charms book, by the way.”

“Oh, do I?” you quipped, arching a brow.

“Definitely,” he replied, his grin widening. He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “But maybe I’ll let it slide if you promise not to avoid me again.”

You smiled, your fingers idly playing with the collar of his Quidditch jersey. “Deal,” you murmured, the word carrying more weight than a simple agreement.

As the night settled around you, James finally pulled back, his hand brushing a strand of hair from your face. “You know,” he started, his tone light, “this whole book-throwing thing? Kind of impressive. But if you’re ever mad at me again, maybe try not aiming at my head.”

You laughed, the sound clear and unburdened. “Noted, Potter. Noted.”

[yumeka-sxf]

After two months, the SxF manga is finally back! There's lots of interesting Melinda content here, so let's analyze!

I would say the main thing we learned about Melinda in this chapter reinforces what's been hinted at before - not only does she truly despise Donovan, but she's actually terrified of him. Her expression on this page when she thinks of his souless eyes says it all.

Whether her fear comes from direct abuse, knowledge of what unspeakable things he's done in the past, or something else entirely, has yet to be seen. This chapter also emphasizes the fact that she can't freely do what she wants without being fearful of what he would do. Just like at the end of the bus hijacking arc where she made Damian promise not to tell Donovan that she had come to pick him up, we see in this chapter that she can't let him know about her occult hobby either.

But while it's not clear what exactly Donovan does or has done to her to make her like this, what is clear is that her fear of him is what's caused this inescapable hatred of him, which was so strong that it caused her to also develop feelings of hatred for her son because he's something that connects her to Donovan. But like we've seen before when Anya first read her mind, her dislike for Damian is fickle; one minute she wants him to disappear, but deep down she loves him. While the first incident after the hijacking made her seem more ambivalent, this chapter reveals that her "good" side is her true intent - wanting to be a worthy mother to Damian and see him happy.

But her fear of Donovan is so gripping, that just the thought of confronting him makes her paralyzed with fear. She becomes too exhausted to continue and even starts questioning why she bothers with fortune telling at all. Perhaps it's an unconscious coping method that she uses to try and find a way out of the horrible situation she's in.

Hopefully we'll learn even more about Melinda in the next chapter when she has her appointment with "Dr. Forger." But another thing I wanted to point out in this chapter is reiterating how empathetic Yor is to Melinda's condition despite not knowing what's actually bothering her. And in recommending that Melinda see Loid at work, she's actually helping with his mission! (of course only Anya realized this).

And oh my god, the "grim reaper" joke had me cackling 😂 Their expressions in the first panel were hilarious enough, but then Yor had to make sure Anya knows that she doesn't use a scythe! That's just so her.

Guess it wouldn't be a SxF chapter without one quiet, bittersweet scene, courtesy of Loid this time 😭

I also love how the boys are enamored with Yor. Even foul-mouthed Damian can't bring himself to be directly rude to her, so he just runs away 😆

I know a lot can be said about the Tarot card meanings, but this post is long enough already, so I'll leave that part up to others who are better with that type of analysis 😅 I'm just glad the SxF manga is officially back! I'm relieved Endo is better and giving my best wishes that his health continues to stay good 🤞

[urstruly-ghst]

i think he knows !

in which you're hiding two things from your friend, romantic feelings and the bunch of cupcakes you made for him. will he accept it?

wc: 1.7k (edited)

author's note: what if i told u im back?!! have a holly jolly christmas xoxo ghst

ace trappola

Ace was someone you fell for gradually. It was unexpected. You liked him as a friend, then it progressed so naturally. How could you not? He was undeniably a charmer and just… He had this aura, as Cater would say, “totes cutie throughout.” After coming to terms with your feelings for him, the next step was to confess– it didn't need a reciprocation. You just wanted some closure to your feelings. The grand plan was to be outright, give the cupcakes, and get an answer.

You enlisted the help of Deuce and Grim, though they don’t know why you needed help with baking. However, a bribe was never out of the question! The simple bribe was enough to grab their attention and cause havoc in your kitchen. 

Yet, in times like these, you wished you had asked for help from someone else; being covered in powdered sugar and two rascals fighting over the batter spoon was enough to deter you. Deuce and Grim quarreled as they had different objectives with said spoon. Honestly, why didn't you ask Trey for help?

However, even with the trouble, you can't help but smile. They knew of your feelings and didn't tease you… Instead, they immediately insulted your tastes in men. When you dropped the bomb, you liked Ace, and they had to do a complete stop.

“ACE? THAT ACE?!” Both yelled when you first admitted your true feelings for the other part of your friend group. Grim was faster to judge, and his paws slapped your face with disbelief. 

“You can't be serious?! Ace? There are plenty of people here, henchman! What about Jack? He’s literally right there?!” Grim groaned as he couldn't believe his henchman was dumb enough to fall for that redhead. There were plenty of suitable candidates, but they chose Ace, resident troublemaker?!

Deuce shook his head and tried to help you unclaw Grim from you, but he was no less judgemental. While he finds it cute that the two of his friends have fallen for each other, though you weren't aware, he still judges your taste. Ace? The man who has done nothing but tease and even get all of the group in trouble?!

“Grim, come on, you can't force a heart to love and choose who to love. That's why love is messy,” Deuce said as he tried to placate Grim so he would not slap you with his paws. You felt loved in that moment for your feelings to be accepted (exclude Grim; that little monster would come to terms with it). 

You sighed and sat on the floor, exhausted. Who knew baking with love was exhausting? Deuce sat next to you and smiled while patting your head for encouragement, which made you feel slightly energized. He gave you that classic “You got this” smile. It was his trademark, the classic encouraging Deuce Spade. Before you can thank him, the rapid knocking was on the door, followed by that painfully sweet voice.

“Prefect! Hellooo! I heard you invited Deuce?! The hell, you hang out with Juice without me now? Just say you hate me!” It was Ace, his whining reaching to the kitchen. You panicked and immediately hid the cupcakes and tried to look presentable. Deuce and Grim also helped, panicking as Ace couldn’t be patient; his knocking was about to break down your new door!

“In a bit!” You yell out, embarrassed as you see how messy you look. Why is Ace even here? You remember you asked Cater to distract him! Then again, Cater could be busy, too. You cursed the world as it couldn’t time things the way you wanted. 

“Fu-nya! Stop breaking down our door, Ace!” Grim yelled out, annoyed, and shot you a look. He was judging you. Deuce and Grim tidied up and finally opened the door for Ace. He was in his dorm uniform, with a glare and pout. He looked at Deuce and you before dramatically sighing.

“How could you do this? I thought we were OGs here! Is this the duo in a trio moment?!” Ace said as he plopped on the couch with a hand over his chest. You sighed and shook your head, laughing before hiding your face.

“I was bribing them to do my work, Ace. I knew I couldn’t bribe you, so I went with Deuce.” Pandering to his ego, Ace looked at you suspiciously. It made you sweat. Does he know what you plan to do? Ace was glaring before shrugging and showing off his signature smirk.

“Hell yeah! You can’t bribe me; Juice here can be bribed, though!” Ace points at Deuce, cracking his knuckles. He is ready to roundhouse Ace to the next dorm. Ace laughed at his threat before saying, “Hey, don’t look offended!” 

You can’t help but feel flushed as Ace's laughter fills the dorm lounge. How dare he make you feel this way? You want to say it now, but that felt rushed. While your friendship with Ace was an adventure, your feelings were not something you wanted to rush to; it felt right to take it slow. Amidst your thoughts, Ace looked at you, and you panicked. Oh, were you staring too much?

Unknown to everyone, Ace had an idea why you were hanging out with Deuce. (He doesn’t.)

“Anyways, I know why you guys hang out without me. Hurts, though.” Ace shrugs as Deuce, and you look confused. Though, your heart was in your stomach at the moment. You were cursing internally as Ace smirked.

“You and Deuce, you’re dating, huh?! Come on, the cat’s out the bag. Hey! I’m happy for you two!”

Oh, thank the Sevens. He’s an idiot. You thought as you paused, trying not to laugh. Deuce looked confused before shaking his head. Grim deadpanned at you and Ace, feeling the hopelessness seep in. 

“No. We really are just friends. There is no duo in a trio moment here, Ace,” you explain as Deuce shakes his head and Grim just sighs. Both can’t believe how you fell for Ace.

“Whaaa? Okay, darn, my vibes must be off.” Ace said as he groaned. He was so confident, hoping for some drama too. He sighed before shrugging and acting as he usually would. You sighed in relief as he dropped the topic, and Deuce and Grim whispered amongst themselves.

[Next Day; Lunch]

You sat anxiously on the table alone, and the other friends were leaving you alone because today was the day! Though, can’t Ace come to the table any sooner? He’s taking his sweet time on the lunch line. You were fidgeting, and you couldn’t help but glare as the rest of the group were cheering awkwardly on the sidelines.

Except for Sebek, he’s cheering as loud as he can. He was saluting and clapping while giving a thumbs-up, too. Ace returned to the table, confused, as you sat alone. He teased you, 

“Why are we alone? What? This a date?” Ace joked before looking away. Unknown to you, Ace was flushed at his own joke. Sevens knew that he was wishing it was a date. You stammer and try to make the atmosphere light. 

“I mean, could be?”

“Wha–?!” 

[Two Days Earlier…]

Ace was sulking in his room while sighing loudly as the night seemed to drawl. The hangout you 

had earlier went by too fast. Ace was longing to be in your presence. He knew why, and it scared him to admit that. His phone's bright screen annoyed Deuce, who was forced to room with Deuce for a night. Deuce woke up and glared.

“Dude, you’re being loud, and your phone is so bright!”

“Deuce, I need your advice,” Ace said thoughtfully as he looked at the disheveled boy. Deuce faltered and pinched his skin to knock him out of his dream state. Ace's tone was so sincere that Deuce momentarily doubted that he was still talking to his friend. He gaped at Ace and straightened himself before gesturing for Ace to continue whatever melodrama he was experiencing. 

“So, our dear friend. You know, [Name]? Yeah, so… Uh…” Ace stalls as Deuce tries to make sense of what Ace is implying. Deuce looked at him, encouraging him just to finish because there was no judgment here. Ace and Deuce are quite literally bonded for life at this point. 

“I like them. And not the “Oh, they’re cool” type of liking. Sevens… I want to date them, okay?! I need… Why am I even asking this from you? Ugh,” Ace grumbled as he hid in his pillow. He was flushed, the tip of his ears peaking with red, while his hands were shaky. Deuce never saw Ace this way. It was almost laughable/

“Ooh! Someone’s got a crush.” 

“Yeah, yeah, rub it in. Listen, man. There’s no hope for me here. [Name] is way too good for me!”

“Heh, you got that right,” Deuce joked as he looked at Ace, who was staring at the ceiling longingly. He never looked this vulnerable.

“Oi! I’m trying–! You know what, good night!” Ace glared as he flipped Deuce off. He grumbled as he tucked himself back into his blankets and glanced at Deuce, who was laughing.

“Wait, come on! I’m listening!” Deuce laughs as he tries to coax Ace to confess what he is about to say. Ace grumbled and threw a pillow at Deuce, resulting in a pillow fight.

[Present Day, Lunch Time]

“I said… This could be a date!” You find the courage to say it. Ace flushed deep red as he tried to play things cool. You finally brought out the cupcakes with a nervous smile. As you offered the baked goods, the proud look in your eyes made Ace tremble and melt.

���If you only knew how much trouble I went to making these,” You say as you laugh to make things less awkward. Ace was shaky as he accepted it; the usual smirk he did was gone. He looked so shy it made you wonder if you were still with the Ace Trappola.

Ace grabbed the small box and smiled, flaunting his charm, before closing his eyes to steady his heart. He winked at you before smiling.

“So, I’m guessing there will be a duo moment in a trio?” He joked, making you blush when you realized what he meant. Oh, Sevens, is he?? “I think I know what’s gonna happen next,” Ace whispered as he sat beside you.

[just-sg]

If the community doesn't welcome "cis men", then it excludes transmascs who pass or at bare minimum sends a message that the goal they worked so hard to achieve has made them less welcome in spaces that once supported them, actively punishing them for transitioning. It forces transfems to out themselves, which can be especially dangerous. It forces nonbinary amabs who can't or don't want to change their presentation to out themselves and sends a message that nonbinary people owe you androgyny or visual non-conformity. And if you think you can gauge any of these things by looking at someone, you're not doing the community any favors.

If the community doesn't welcome cis men, it excludes gay men. If men are welcome only when in a relationship with another man/person who reads enough like "a man", it excludes bi/pan/etc men and sends a message that what relationship they're in Right Now determines whether or not they're Queer Enough, you know, one of the core tenets of biphobia and erasure.

If the community doesn't welcome cis men, it excludes men all over the ace and aro spectrums. :) And yes actually, the heterosexual aromantic straw-man does deserve to be here just as much as anyone else. IF he's treating his partners like shit, then we judge him for that behavior, but queer people can be douchebags with shit views and we don't get to say they're not still queer. And if the het-aro dude is instead communicating honestly and being respectful-- a thing I promise is fully possible for humans to do-- then guess what, assuming he couldn't possibly be a decent person is just arophobia and maybe a side of puratinism.

Anyone questioning their identity, anyone who isn't actively questioning yet but later will, guys about to experience bi panic, transfem eggs who haven't clocked anything about themselves yet. Their early exposure to queer spaces being a hostile one is not going to help anyone, and can easily actively discourage people. We also need to be welcoming of supportive partners, siblings, parents, friends, etc, especially in cases where a queer person is disabled or otherwise has trouble going places on their own, or for helping ease anxiety in virtual spaces, etc.

Listen.

The nature of Being A Man is not and has never been the problem. And as much as some of you don't want to hear it, and as much as it fucking sucks and is objectively unfair when it does involve men who are participating in and benefiting from oppression, trying to turn the tables is never going to be an effective strategy. It's "not fair" that it's more dangerous for women to walk alone at night either but you hopefully wouldn't advocate against carrying mace on the basis no one "should" need it. Whether something is fair and whether it's true are not the same thing.

You cannot Get Revenge against a whole huge portion of the human population, and when you actively threaten or ostracize people, (a) you're mirroring the very thing you fight against, but (b) it makes people defensive!!! Some allocishet dudes would get defensive anyway at the idea of not being on top of the ladder anymore, but giving them more fuel won't change that. Dudes who'd have that kneejerk reaction but could be reasoned with won't be if no one bothers to try, or oftentimes even if someone bothers but it's immensely overshadowed with hostility. And people who were already allies can actively be pushed out and turned against the cause. (Not to mention perpetuating in-fighting.)

You catch more flies with honey, I'm sorry. And yes, we do need allies. Perpetuating the "us vs them" mentality helps no one, patriarchy does not target men in the same or as many ways as women but it is also harmful to many, and we will always have a better chance of fixing any system when we have people working for the cause inside and out. People using their positions of privilege to help provide extra leverage and voice to those with less privilege is always going to be desirable overall.

Even mainstream media writers throwing in crumbs of badly handled representation isn't without some merit, if only for proving it's not illegal and won't destroy sales to have Anything At All, which couldn't be said mere decades ago; if only for normalizing that queer people exist even the tiniest bit more. But just, normal people going about their normal lives. Just every random man who will frown at their coworker's homophobic joke and give a simple "not cool dude". Those little things adding up are important. When people hate you, it's easy to ignore you standing up for yourself, and harder to ignore people they like also standing up for you.

Cis queer men are not your enemy. Amabs who "read" cis to you and don't want to out themselves are not your enemy. Bi men who happen to be in relationships with women are not your enemy. Straight male partners of queer women are not your enemy! Allo cishet dudes married to allo cishet women with no queer kids or siblings or anything are not your enemy, not if they're behaving like friends.

People operating on ignorance, especially to a point of willful ignorance because they don't 'have' to deal with it, can be enemies-- inaction in the face of oppression is taking the side of oppressors, and all-- but even they're like... minion enemies if that makes sense. (That goes for men, women, questioning folks or folks who are definitively queer but don't feel like Part Of The Community, etc, to be clear.) It's not your personal job to educate every person, but when you can afford to, taking no shit but remaining civil will leave someone else a better chance of getting through to them. Picking a nasty drawn-out fight with that jackass on Twitter won't fix homophobia but may well increase his devotion to the enemy cause.

Prioritizing defense isn't always an option and I'm not saying it is. Sometimes you need whole riots to make a point, but even that involves group effort, and often times lashing out in your personal daily life can do more harm than good. THIS SUCKS. OF COURSE IT SUCKS. But it's a matter of the big picture. It's not about letting people "get away with" anything, it's about expressing disapproval in a calmer and more casual manner while trying to minimize anything they could twist into an excuse to be worse.

And that's with people who ARE actively shitty, the ones more casual and micro-aggressive about it but still ultimately against us. Lashing out pre-emptively on the assumption that people would be shitty does a lot more harm and no longterm good.

People joke about The Gay Agenda but honestly, yeah. The Agenda is ultimately for the queer community as a whole to be accepted, have the same rights and protections as anyone else, to end oppression, etc, right? Sometimes that's gonna mean dealing with being uncomfortable or uncertain or even biting your tongue in the name of forwarding the Agenda. Especially when it's literally about acceptance within our own communities. How can we reasonably expect everyone else to accept us if we're struggling to accept each other?

i don't care how uncomfortable you are around cis men, queer cis men still need places to go, and sometimes, those spaces will be shared with yours. disabled and neurodivergent queer men and queer men of color especially need a place to go. the queer community isn't the "fuck cis men" community. that is the rad fem community. if you think cis men and people who read as cis men are inherently "too scary" or shouldn't be allowed in queer spaces, you joined the wrong community.

[dreamerimpossible]

Slasher Jealousy Scale

Warnings: Unhealthy relationships, in certain cases yandere tendencies, +18 content.

Michael Myers 3/10

Not too jealous. He usually doesn't understand the reason for those feelings. Furthermore, no one would be able to touch what he marked for him, his superhuman strength and imposing figure would be on top of anyone who dared to look in your direction. So, he would never get jealous. There's just no need.

Chucky 8/10

Completely canonical that he's a jealous bastard. Just tell him he's not man enough for you and he'll get on top of you without thinking twice forcing you to back off. The person who set his sights on you doesn't have a good destiny, obviously. In reality, it's not good to play with him, his pride as a man is too strong.

Billy Loomis 9/10

Abandonment issues become too present. He doesn't like you getting close to too many guys. If his partner knows his true nature, he will be overly controlling and possessive, he would not like his partner to get too close to friends who could be a threat to their relationship. He is quite manipulative and will use such tactics to get you to stay away from those he doesn't like.

Stu Macher 6/10

Medium level of jealousy. He doesn't like being replaced by someone else, but he won't show much of a reaction if you talk to friends who like you. Anyway, he is also popular and will interact with all types of people. However, if he sees something very noticeable, he will pull the strings underneath and that person who made him jealous will magically disappear. For the sake of the relationship, don't talk about it.

Patrick Bateman 10/10

All your attention should be directed at him. The more genuine your interest and compliments, the more he will seek your attention, so making him jealous and paying attention to someone else would be the end of it. He needs complete devotion. He won't tolerate distractions and could take care of them. Making him feel insecure indirectly is not the best option you could take. It is better to dedicate everything to him.

Jason Vorhees 10/10

He literally keeps you locked up, that is the most representative indication of the matter. He does not like those people standing over you looking at you with lust. He is the only one you need. Yes, he will take care of you and protect you. You should be calm.

Leatherface 10/10

Too insecure with himself, so he expects you to have impeccable behavior. Although luckily for you, you will not have too many moments in which he will get jealous because your only environment is his family. So you must treat them with respect and with certain limits and distance. If not, he will get frustrated. And we know his way of dealing with that.

Art The Clown 2/10

He is not jealous, everything for him is a violent game. If someone flirts with you, he will laugh and do his thing with the same energy as always. Although he won't tolerate you ridiculing him, if you flirt with someone, you will pay, but not because he gets jealous, but because he is the one who makes the rules, not you.

Jason Dean 10/10

Dependent, possessive and obsessive. He's literally a warning in and of himself. Seriously, don't flirt or let yourself be flirted with. Don't break up with him, don't walk away from him, don't stop paying attention to him. Just don't leave him, he's very jealous and won't let you go for any reason. Oh, he's also manipulative, so he'll definitely get you to walk away from that harmless guy in your class.

Alex DeLarge 2/10

He doesn't formally qualify as a slasher, but I'm including him anyway. I don't really see him as jealous, he's more of a controlling guy. He doesn't like having his first choice role in other people's lives taken away from him, he is the leader and the one who commands, but he won't get jealous of anyone, because he thinks highly of himself and is charming when he wants to be. He probably has you wrapped around his finger, so…why get jealous?

Brahms 15/10

He won't let you leave the house for that reason. He doesn't want you to leave him, any outsider is a threat. You are only his, you must accept that. However, even if you accept it, he will still be jealous, because he can't help it. If you want to go out somewhere, he will wonder if it is because you want to see someone.

[ikkyfics]

White Scarf

James Potter x fem!reader

Summary: “You’re wearing my scarf,” you replied, narrowing your eyes. “Oh, this?” James looked at the accessory as if he had just noticed it. “I thought it was asking to be worn. And, let’s face it, it looks good on me, don’t you think?”

Warnings: none

Masterlist

It was impossible not to notice. The white scarf, which until two days ago had been hanging on the coat rack in your room, now casually rested around James’s neck. He didn’t seem the slightest bit concerned about hiding it. In fact, it almost seemed like he was flaunting the accessory as he walked across the Quidditch field, holding the broom on his shoulder with the same ease he wore that unbearably charming smile.

You watched him from a distance, arms crossed, trying to decide whether to be irritated or just resigned. Irritated because, well, it was your scarf. But resigned… because James Potter with your scarf seemed like something straight out of a dream. His rebellious black hair danced in the cold breeze, his vibrant blue eyes shining even more behind his glasses, and the carefree way he wore the stolen piece made your heart race.

When he finally realized he was being watched, he looked up in your direction, his smile widening as if he knew exactly what you were thinking. And maybe he did. With a deliberate move, James adjusted the scarf around his neck and walked toward you, his steps long and confident.

“Do you like the new look?” he asked, stopping right in front of you. The closeness made the familiar scent of wood and mint—so characteristic of him—invade your senses.

“You’re wearing my scarf,” you replied, narrowing your eyes.

“Oh, this?” He looked at the accessory as if he had just noticed it. “I thought it was asking to be worn. And, let’s face it, it looks good on me, don’t you think?”

You couldn’t help the smile that threatened to appear on your lips, but you tried to keep a serious expression. “That doesn’t explain why you thought you could just take it.”

“Because,” James began, leaning slightly forward until your faces were just a few inches apart, “I like to smell you on it.”

The response caught you completely off guard, and you blinked, confused, as the heat quickly rose to your cheeks. “What?”

“It’s true.” He shrugged, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “It smells like you. And if I can’t have you around all the time, this is the next best thing.”

You tried to come up with a response, but the words simply didn’t come. How could he be so disarming and sweet at the same time?

“Besides,” James continued, a mischievous smile dancing on his lips, “I thought this way you’d have an excuse to get closer to me. You know, to take it back.”

“You’re unbelievable,” you murmured, shaking your head, but the tone of your voice couldn’t hide the amusement.

“I prefer the term ‘charming,’” he replied, leaning even closer until his nose brushed yours. “But you can call me whatever you want, as long as you keep looking at me like that.”

“Like what?” you asked, though you knew exactly what he meant.

“As if I’m the only thing that matters in the world.”

He got you again. He always knew exactly what to say to make your heart do flips. Before you could answer, James tilted his head and pressed his lips to yours in a kiss that was both light and full of affection. His fingers reached up to gently touch your face, holding it as if you were something too precious to lose.

When he finally pulled away, still with his lips just inches from yours, he whispered, “If you want, I can give the scarf back. But honestly, I think it likes me more now.”

You laughed, shaking your head, and this time, it was you who surprised him, pulling him into a quick kiss before whispering against his lips, “Maybe I’ll let you keep it. For now.”

“For now?” James raised an eyebrow, clearly enjoying himself.

“Yeah. But only because you look really good in it.”

He smiled as if he had just won the Quidditch Cup, wrapping you in his arms and spinning you around in the air before setting you back down on the ground.

“That’s enough for me,” he said, still smiling, adjusting the scarf around his neck like it was a trophy. “But just to be sure, I’m going to take the sweater too.”

“Don’t you dare!” you replied, laughing as you gently pushed him.

“Oh, is that a challenge?” James asked, his eyes shining with that mix of mischief and adoration that made you feel like the most special person in the world.

And, as he pretended to chase after you across the field, clearly determined to steal another piece of your clothing, you realized that with James, every moment was so full of love and laughter that you couldn’t imagine a better place to be.

[zepskies]

Against the Wind - Part 2

Pairing: Alpha!Dean Winchester x F. Omega!Reader 

Summary: You wake up in a strange alpha’s cabin in the middle of a snowstorm, all with a busted ankle. He holds shadows in his eyes, even though his hands are gentle. There are iron shutters around his heart, even though he saved you. You might just save him in return.

AN: Thank you guys so much for all the amazing feedback on Part 1! Now, most of your theories and questions will be answered...

Jacklesverse Bingo24 Prompt: True Mates @jacklesversebingo

Song Inspo: “Against the Wind” by Bob Seger

Word Count: 3.8K

Tags/Warnings: Angst, and peril, the other kind of "hunting."

Series Masterlist || Bingo Masterlist

Part 2: Seems Like Yesterday

“I’ll raise you 25,” you say, tossing five chocolate covered pretzels into the middle pile. It’s a risky bet, considering how much you lost in the last hand. Dean regards you with an amused, if critical eye while he holds his cards.

“Ooh, you’re bluffing,” he says. You pop your brows at him, a subtle smile tugging at your lips.

“You want to test that theory? Put your money where your mouth is,” you challenge.

He tilts his head at you with a raise of his own brows.

“Cheeky omega,” he mutters. His attention returns to his cards as he deliberates on his next move.

You attempt to be nonchalant as you glance down at your cards again. It’s a shitty hand, but he doesn’t need to know that. The alpha’s won the last two hands of Texas Hold ‘Em, but you did win the first one. Though you suspect he let you win.

You want to at least even the score before he resumes his work out in the shed. He spends most of his time there during the day, or making sure the firewood is stocked. It seems like he takes any excuse not to spend too much time in your presence.

More than anything, you want to ask him if he feels what you feel—the same tug in the pit of your stomach every time he’s nearby. You just haven’t found a way to broach that with him.

Hey, I know we just met like two minutes ago, but I think we’re supposed to be together. Do you feel it too?

You nearly roll your eyes at yourself. Yeah, that’ll go over well.

So you have to be content with mornings like this and in the evenings, where he lets you put on one of his records, and you two share dinner together, maybe another round of cards. Or you’ll read a book while lounging on the chaise, and he lays out on the couch, listening to his music with his eyes closed. You like watching him like that, with a relaxed, damn near peaceful set to his face.

Too often he holds that harder, stoic expression, or that divot between his brows that makes you want to soothe two of your fingers there; or better yet, lean in and press your lips—

“It’s your move,” Dean reminds you. He’s finally played his hand, but you were too distracted to hear what he said.

“What’d you do?” you ask, surveying the piles of cards.

“Call,” he repeats, popping a few pretzels into his mouth. He washes it down with beer and more barbeque chips. Those are worth $10 in this little fantasy betting. He points a finger towards you with the same hand that holds his beer, teasing, “You got all the lights on in there? Or am I boring you?”

You glance up at him, fighting a smile. “All right, keep your pants on. Let me see…”

As the dealer, he’s already turned over the River: the last card in the hand. It’s a 10 of Clubs, which means your One Pair is actually a Two Pair. It’s still not a great hand, but it’s decent enough to maybe let you get the best of your opponent.

After you go “all in,” Dean’s lips twitch at a smile, and he humors you, going all in as well. You’re on tenterhooks when he finally reveals his hand.

“Ooh, it ain’t a cheesy ‘90s sitcom, but it’s still…a Full House,” he brags as he lays out each card in a smooth line of overlapping cards, the mix of glossy red diamonds and black spades showing the truth. He won again.

You huff in defeat, your shoulders sinking in your seat at the kitchen table. You turn over your measly hand. Sweeping the winnings toward himself (a mound of chocolate covered pretzels, a stack of barbecue chips, and a handful of Oreos), Dean chuckles and tosses you a wink.

“Ah, don’t beat yourself up, sweetheart. I’ve been hustlin’ poker for a long time. Hell, I’ve been playing this game before I even knew my times tables,” he says as he collects the cards.

“That young?” you reply. “Who taught you?”

“My dad,” he says. “Oh, believe me, I used to get my ass kicked many a’ time, but by the time I turned sixteen, I was hustlin’ grown ass men in skeevy bars out of their daily paycheck.”

“You were hanging out in bars at sixteen?” you ask incredulously. There, Dean seems to realize he’s said too much. He becomes more guarded as he puts away the deck and cleans the crumbs off the table.

“My dad was always working. You could say I didn’t really have a curfew,” he says.

“A latchkey kid, huh?” you reply, hiding the way you’re trying so hard to glean any more hints of truth between his words.

“Heh, yeah.” He gets up from the table and tosses the breakfast dishes in the sink, then travels to the front door to don his jacket and boots.

“All right, I’ll be out back,” he says.

Out back, code for out in the shed. You nod, and in a flash, he’s shutting the door behind him.

You’ve learned another small tidbit about him, one that feels more important than it seems on the surface. And yet, it only elicits more questions you doubt he’ll be willing to answer so easily. He’s more than tight-lipped about his past, only giving vague outlines and general pictures.

Even his stories—like being raised up in a family of traveling mechanics, putting Nair in Sam’s shampoo when he was a kid, or the guy’s serious fear of clowns—feel like they’re missing some key details.

You decide to take up your crutches and head for your room. There you unearth the journal from its hiding place under your pillow. This time, you turn to the very beginning. Before all the jargon about mythology (and an odd footnote about a “Turducken Slammer”), there are actual journal entries. The first one dates back to November 6, 1983. The first line already captures your attention.

I buried my wife today. Even as I write that down, I don’t believe it. Last week we were a normal family…eating dinner, going to Dean’s T-ball game, buying toys for baby Sammy. But in an instant, it all changed… When I try to think back, get it all straight in my head…I feel like I’m going crazy. Like someone ripped both my arms off, plucked my eyes out. I’m wandering around, alone and lost and I can’t do anything.

This is Dean’s father, you realize. The more that you read, with no small amount of dismay, you also realize that this man is writing about his wife, Mary.

Dean’s mom…

He writes about their house burning with all their memories inside, along with Mary. Somehow, he saw her pinned bloody to the ceiling.

Along with these pages is a clipping from a news story:

House Fire Kills Mother of Two

Lawrence, Kansas.

You’re spellbound by it all. You keep reading.

November 13, 1983

…Most of our clothes and photos are ruined, even our safe—the safe with Mary’s old diaries, the boys’ savings bonds, what little jewelry we had…all gone. How could my house, my whole life, go up like that, so fast, so hot? How could my wife just burn up and disappear?

The police don’t believe his story, about how she died before the fire, about what he saw. So he tries to convince himself that what he saw wasn’t real. Still, he can’t find rest, and he worries about his sons’ safety.

December 4, 1983

I haven’t let them out of my sight since the fire. Dean still hardly talks. I try to make small talk, or ask him if he wants to throw the baseball around. Anything to make him feel like a normal kid again. He never budges from my side—or from his brother.

Every morning when I wake up, Dean is inside the crib, arms wrapped around baby Sam. Like he’s trying to protect him from whatever is out there in the night.

Sammy cries a lot, wanting his mom. I don’t know how to stop it, and part of me doesn’t want to. It breaks my heart to think that soon he won’t remember her at all.

You don’t realize you’re crying until a droplet lands on the page. You quickly wipe it away before it becomes a stain, and you dry it all the way with your breath before you move on to the next page, sniffling. Your heart hurts, even as your guilt grows. You know now that you’re really, truly invading Dean’s privacy by reading his father’s words. You just can’t stop yourself from turning the next page.

John becomes convinced that someone, or something, started the fire that destroyed his life and took his wife away from him and his sons. He leaves his job and the remnants of that world behind, to venture deeper into the darker one. But in that darkness, he finds truth.

He visits a psychic, Missouri, who leads him back to his house and senses the echoes of an evil presence—something that shakes her to the core, and John too: the creature that killed his wife.

December 20

…She told me that it was the most powerful, awful thing she’s ever come across.

On January 1, 1984, John makes a New Year’s resolution. He determines to find the answers himself.

A shiver runs down your spine. In John’s words, your heart breaks for Dean, but you also see yourself. You try not to think about why.

You keep flipping through the rest of the journal past January. There are translations of a Latin exorcism, and like you read before, strange drawing of evil looking creatures—as well as what they are, scraps of their history, and how to kill them.

Silver bullet to the heart, can’t withstand iron, salt and burn.

You pause on a certain page, more filled with lore than the rest, and a primitive drawing in the center.

WENDIGO

Cree: Evil that devours.

Wood spirit. Eats live flesh. Lives in forests.

Perfect hunter.

Your breath stills in your lungs as a cold sweat forms across your skin. The more you read, the faster your heart beats.

The crunch of dead leaves. Your father shouting at you to run, and keep running.

The coarse shout of a bear morphs into something other. It’s a sharper, whirring sound like wind howling amidst animalistic clicking, and then bones breaking—your father’s scream cut short. You turn around with your rifle in hand, poised to shoot blindly.

Your stomach churns as bile rises into your throat. You feel sick, and wrong, and you suddenly have the urge to throw the journal against the wall.

“Omega?” calls Dean’s sharp voice. “You okay?”

You jolt badly at the sudden noise. You didn’t hear him reenter the house. He likely caught the scent of your distress. He pushes the door of your room open to find you, but he stops short in the doorway. His surprise quickly morphs into a frown when he notices what you’re holding in your lap.

You gasp, freezing where you sit, but there’s no point in trying to cover up what you’ve done. With an angry purse of his lips, he reaches over and takes the journal from your hands.

“What the hell are you doing with this?” he demands.

“I’m…I’m sorry. I just—” You swallow past the lump in your throat. “I was just curious. I wanted to know more about you. I thought it was…a normal journal.”

“So this is how you go about it, huh? Got everything you wanted, Columbo?” he says, his sarcasm cutting into you. He flips through the journal to make sure all the pages are intact before he tucks the journal under his arm. “Seriously, going into somebody’s stuff? Who the hell raised you?”

At that, you begin to bristle.

“My dad,” you snap back. Though remembering the passages you’ve lived with for the past few hours, you soften with a painful twinge of sympathy in your heart. 

“And it looks like yours raised you to be some kind of…well, what are you, a ghostbuster or something?” you ask.

His jaw locks. “Or something.” 

With an exasperated sigh at his hedging, you swing your legs around the edge of the bed and haul yourself up with your crutches so you can at least match his stance (more or less).

“Dean, please, just talk to me,” you implore, gesturing at the journal tucked under his arm. “The things I read—”

“Are none of your goddamn business!” he growls, making the omega inside you cringe. The alpha’s voice is deep and sharp, and even though he isn’t crowding you, his height and broadness are still intimidating.

“The sooner you heal up, the sooner I can ship you back to where you belong,” he says. “Back to your life, so you can stop sticking your nose into mine.” 

Your mouth actually falls open in shock. His vehement words feel almost as powerful as a physical blow, if to your soul. They make your arms tremble while holding yourself upright on your crutches. Hot tears well up in your eyes, though you try to blink them away. After a moment, you’re able to collect yourself enough to speak.

“I’m sorry for going through your stuff,” you say, in a quiet voice.

You hobble awkwardly past him out of the room. You don’t stop until you reach the front door, where your snow boots are. You manage to get them on by yourself so you can go outside and get some fresh air, not to mention some much needed distance from the alpha’s burning presence. You can still feel him trailing behind you. You hear his heavy boots.

“Where the hell are you going?” he grits out.

You hobble faster.

Dean watches you go out the door without a word in irritation, even though it triggers an alarm deep in his gut every time you leave the safety of the cabin. 

The snow depth has lightened somewhat since the storm, but it’s still not easy to navigate on your crutches. You get some distance from the cabin, mindful not to go too far. You know you’re limited, and you didn’t even take a gun with you.

Finding a solid tree to lean on, you rest there and try in vain to stifle your tears. You know you were wrong for snooping, and he had a right to be mad, but did he really have to be such a freakin’ bear? 

Fucking alphas. I swear.

You thought you were starting to connect with him, but clearly, Dean wants nothing to do with you. He wants you out of his life. 

Does he not feel the same pull you feel to him? Does he really not realize…that he’s meant to be your mate?

You take in a shaky breath through your nose. If he does, apparently he doesn’t care.

Just then, you hear the crunch of snow nearby. Twigs snapping.

Your body stiffens with a terrible memory—of that day in the woods. Your breath comes out in short puffs on the cold air, your eyes wide as you listen closely.

Hearing nothing, you allow yourself to breathe a little easier. You venture a few paces forward and to the right, but you stop shy of how it slopes downward. Some unnamed feeling tells you to look over the edge.

You lean over and cast your gaze down the slope, but all you see is snow and trees down below. With a shaky breath, you lean back and look out to the north again. Plodding along the trail, heading towards you, is a bear.

Oh shit…

You remember Dean mentioning something about a bear passing by his cabin a couple of days before the storm. Looks like he’s back to make his rounds.

His fur is dark; from this distance, you can’t tell if it’s a black bear or a grizzly. It doesn’t make much difference when all you have on your person is a can of bear spray. His gait is massive, unhurried, but he lets out a braying sound when your gaze meets his, as if acknowledging you. He stops there for a moment, assessing. Your body locks up with fear.

The bear groans again, this time sharper. You finally snap out of your reverie and force your body to move slowly backward with your crutches spearing into the snow. The cabin isn’t that far, maybe thirty or forty yards at most. Still, the bear can probably beat you.

Instead of trying to run, you stand your ground and shout at the bear, hoping he’ll back off. Your voice dies in your throat when he rears up on his hind legs, with a loud roar. Trembling, you miss a step and get knocked back into the snow on your ass, your crunches falling out at your sides. You scramble inside your jacket for anything that might help you. 

Bear spray!

You hurry to get the cap off with shaking hands, but before you can even aim, the creature’s heave paws thudding into the ground in front of you—a gunshot rings out and hits the animal in the chest. 

The bear falters, then roars in pain and anger.

Two more shots finally bring it down to an even heavier thud, not far from your feet.

In this moment, these are the things you don’t know about Dean Winchester:

For one, the scent of an omega in distress always calls to an alpha’s protective instincts. But the scent of your abject fear feels like someone tried to rip his lungs out through his stomach.

Second, when he sees you there, your wide, shiny eyes filled with the remnants of panic, yet relief at the sight of him, it takes everything within him not to drop to his knees, grab you by the hair, sink his teeth into your neck and claim you, right there in the snow. Maybe then you’d start listening to him and stop taking your life into your hands.

Instead, his lips purse as he wracks his rifle and slings the strap of it over his shoulder. He stalks toward you and scoops you up, crutches and all. He brings you back to the cabin without a word.

His jaw is once again locked with silence and strain; he doesn’t trust himself to speak until he’s brought you inside and carried you over to the chaise. He sits beside you there and takes an inventory of you with his eyes.

“You okay?” he asks at last.

You manage to meet his gaze and give a little nod.

“Okay. Don’t move,” he says shortly. He gets up and goes to the kitchen, where he grabs a foldable set of knives and a cooler from under the sink.

You watch him in silence, and you realize he’s going back to gut the bear. You didn’t know that he actually hunted out here…well, hunted to eat. He continues to gather items in silence. It gets to a point where you can’t stand it, or his curtness, any longer.

“Thank you,” you say, halting his steps. Dean glances at you over his shoulder, then continues strapping up his supplies. He huffs in response.

“We’re gonna be eatin’ good for a while,” he says without looking at you. 

His attitude both hurts you and aggravates you, so much that you refuse to take it anymore. 

“Look, Dean. I’m sorry, okay? I shouldn’t have butted into your life,” you say. Frustrated tears well up in your eyes. Expelling a sharp sigh, you amend yourself. “I’m sorry for invading your privacy. I’m sorry about what you went through, and I’m…I’m sorry about your mom. I’m sorry for today. I’ll just…stay out of your way, and I’ll leave as soon as I can.”

Dean finally turns your way, but your lips tremble as you turn your face away from him and shut your eyes tightly against the salty burn of tears. Deep inside, his heart withers in his chest. He sighs and drops his supplies on the couch. He walks over with those heavy boots, and he sits on the edge of the chaise beside you. He hesitates for a moment, but eventually, he rests a warm, calloused hand on your arm and earns your tearful gaze. 

“I’m sorry. I, uh…shouldn’t have yelled at you,” he says. 

You sniff, quickly wiping away your embarrassing tears as they come. Your cheeks are hot with it.

“What is it you wanna know? About me,” he asks, surprising you that much more.

 Your mouth parts, but nothing comes out. It takes you some time to think, but the first thing that comes to your mind is…

“Everything in that journal,” you say, licking your dry lips. “Is it real?”

Dean holds your gaze steadily. You know the truth without him having to say it, but he does.

“I was a hunter,” he says. “Those things you read about, I found ‘em. Killed ‘em. It was my job.”

“And now?” you ask, once that large bit of information has time to set into your brain.

His lips tug at a half smile. “Consider me…mostly retired.”

You exhale softly, and you nod. It earns a furrowed look from Dean.

“You don’t seem all that freaked out by this,” he says, with a more scrutinizing gaze on you.

“Should I be?” you say, with an unsteady laugh.

He raises his brows. “In my experience, yeah.”

You chew on the inside of your lip. You don’t know if you should even put into words what you’ve been holding onto for months. Like John, no one believed you. Even your own mother had started to look at you like you needed a shrink.

“Omega?” Dean presses. His green eyes are perceptive as they take in the conflicted look on your face. “There something you wanna tell me?”

You deliberate for a moment longer. Then, you release a sigh and glance down at your hands clenching in your lap.

“A few months ago, I lost my dad,” you begin.

Dean nods. “Yeah, you said—”

“I lost him in these woods,” you say.

That quiets the alpha.

You shake your head, and you find your words as the memories that have been haunting your nights return to you.

“Like I said, we used to go hiking here every year…”

AN: Just so you know, all of the journal entries appear in the official "John's Journal" SPN merch. 😉

Next Time:

Unease prickles down your spine, though you don’t know why.

“Dad?” you whisper-yell, trying not to spook whatever animal might be out there.

A gunshot rings out, along with your dad’s voice in a shout. Your eyes widen in alarm, and you call his name louder, taking off in a run to find him.

You end up rising over a hill you hadn’t crossed before, but you see your dad below; you recognize his bright blue puffer jacket that Mom got him for his birthday. You call his name, and he looks up at you with fear in his eyes.

Not for himself, but for you.

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[khorneschosen]

Just tell me to kill myself like an adult you product of barely contained propaganda. Also telling me about how much you like dead men is kind of pointless I don't see it as an act of defiance, I see it as pathetic.

Pro tip, just reference rather than just rehashing huge undigested chunks of my writing. Have some respect for.... The people I assume who like to read their opinions told back at them but done some how poorer, and just reference what I said.

Im sure if they read, which is a major assumption on my part, that they could if they were as smart as you think they are, understand it.

Security, safety, control over their husbands and family. As I said. It was referenced previously in that thing which you rehashed but did not read.

If you think Im going to make an exception for the goat fuckers, you are mistaken. They hate everyone, men women children, the only true citizen of a theocracy is god and he barely even uses those rights.

I know all of this is lost on you because you are unable to conceive of an existence different from the one youve been told.

Id invite you to a mental exercise on the subject but I doubt exercise at all.

Again, you have to say "women didn't do that" because you recognize it does in fact make sense and as I said, it has as much evidence for it as your system does. Nothing I described was wrong or atleast it can't be disproven.

Put away the accusations woman. Hysteria isn't a weapon here and its not a defense. Its a tactic and only works if I give into its standards. I don't. I see you fully and that is worse.

Don't you think its odd you have to act like this in defense of your ideas? Don't you think the way you are going about this is wrong?

Like read what you've written and ask yourself, would this convince me if I wasn't already convinced? What are you appealing to? What even is the point of this. I think you know it won't convince me. So what's the goal?

I know the goal. I can tell it to you if you like. It's something your philosophy doesn't openly talk about, few of your kinds of philosophies do. Its about how your own mind is wrong.

why do women always have to be the bigger person? why don’t men just stop “joking” abt raping us?

[rafesdollette]

THE PARTY & THE AFTER PARTY- (2) BOY NEXT DOOR SERIES

summary — your first 'legendary' obx party with your new neighbor word count — 2.1k authors note — this is my first time writing smut so ntm thank yew. sorry for getting it out later than promised. I've been busy adulting (unfortunately) . and i stayed up til three am writing this so...you're welcome warnings & genre —not proofread. alcohol, !reader being drunk, slight praise kink (?), jealous rafe, fingering, oral (fem receiving) . fluff + smut pairing — NEIGHBOR!RAFE x LUX!BABYDOLL!READER

You weren't sure if legendary would be the correct word to describe your current surroundings. You were thinking more along the lines of uncomfortable. You'd stupidly agreed to this party, just to be standing on the wall with your second cup of an unknown liquid that truthfully, wasn't exactly pleasurable. Though, you were still drinking it for whatever reason. You were dizzy, suffering from a throbbing headache, and pissed off since Rafe decided not to hold up his promise to show up and keep you company.

It's almost been two hours since you've arrived, and still no sign of Rafe. He promised to meet you here whenever he got done doing whatever 'important task' he had to do, which was only supposed to take twenty minutes. At this point, you've texted him at least seventeen times, all for them to be left delivered. You weren't sure if he had forgotten about you, or if he just got caught up in whatever task he was dealing with. Either way, you were still annoyed, considering he damn near begged you to come here.

As you take another sip of the off-putting liquid in your cup, you hear someone's footsteps walking in your direction, as well as a pair of hands on your waist. Obviously you expect it to be Rafe finally deciding to show up, but you're met with otherwise. You turn around, looking up to see someone you recognize as Topper, due to meeting him earlier in the week. You can't say the interactions between the both of you have necessarily been unappealing, he just wasn't someone you'd be interested in spending your time with due to his whole persona. He was honestly the last person you wanted to see.

“Topper, hey.” You force a smile, shifting uncomfortably. From all of the interactions you've had with him, this is the most touchy he's gotten. Probably caused by the alcohol he's obviously been downing all night.

“Hello, pretty lady.” Topper drawls, clearly struggling to stand upright as his hands remained gripped on your waist.

You found yourself desperately but subtly trying to squirm away from his drunken advances. You couldn't deny that Topper had a certain air about him that was less than appealing, particularly considering the current situation in which he was clearly inebriated. Despite your discomfort, you forced a polite smile, willing yourself to remain calm. “Have you seen Rafe?” You ask, looking around the crowd of people “He said he'd meet me here but it's been...” Trailing off, you look down at your phone, seeing the current time “A little over two hours.”

Topper chuckled, the sound coming out as more of a slurred hiccup. “Rafe?” He slurred, his grip on you loosening. “Last time I saw him, he was yelling at Sarah for somethin'." He shrugged, swaying a bit in his stance. “But that was hours ago. He's probably balls deep in some chick right now, knowing him.”

“I doubt that's true,” you retorted. “He promised he'd be here.”

Topper chuckled again, his hand trailing along your hip. “You trust that man too much for someone who just met him what? A week ago?” He drawled. “You could always spend time with me though.”

Though you were slightly uncomfortable, frankly you had nothing better to do. Thus hanging out with Topper was really the only entertaining thing to do around here. So you spend the next hour and a half taking shots and dancing with Topper until you're almost too drunk to even stand.

You're not sure how, but you manage to get outside to the front lawn, drunkenly stumbling to lay on the grass, looking up at the sky for a moment before your eyes close.

You're unaware of how long you've been lying there or if you passed out or not, but you open your eyes to Rafe standing over you with an amused expression on his face. “Are you drunk right now?”

“Mmh, maybe” You respond as you try to stand up, but the intensity of your dizziness makes you fall back down, huffing as you try again. Rafe watches you try a second, third, fourth, and fifth time, all unsuccessful until he sighs, lifting you in a bridal carry across the lawn and back into the house.

“Wait, when did you get here?” You ask as you lazily wrap your arms around his neck to stay steady in his grip, not that you need to though, he has a pretty firm grip on you.

“Not long ago.” He answered, carrying you through the crowd of people. “You're a real handful when you're drunk.” he noted as he carried you inside, his hold steady and secure.

“I'm not drunk.” You insist, despite knowing you were lying. You were beyond drunk, which was clearly evident by how you were currently being carried around like a child.

Rafe snickered, amused by your insistent denial. “You can't even stand up straight” he pointed out. “And your eyes are glassy as hell, which only happens when you're shitfaced. So yes, you're very drunk.”

You open your mouth to argue further, but close it as you realize the pointlessness of arguing with Rafe. You knew he wasn't going to let the idea go until you admitted you were drunk.

Rafe carried you into the living room, gently placing you down on the couch. He sat down next to you, watching you with an amused smirk. “I'm guessing you had a good night?” He asked

You roll your eyes, moving your hair out of your face “Well it's not like you were here to know. I had to hangout with Topper instead.”

Rafe's amusement fades into an irritated frown. “Why would you hangout with Topper?” he asked, his tone a little bit sharper than it was originally.

You notice the irritation in his voice and frown as well.“Because you ditched me.” You replied, a hint of frustration in your voice. “You promised you'd come and meet me but no, I had to wait for almost three hours before you finally showed up.”

Rafe sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I didn't ditch you." He mumbled in frustration. "I got caught up dealing with some Sarah drama, and when I was finally done, I came to find you. And what do I find? You hanging all over Topper like some drunk fool.”

Your frown deepens at his words. “I was not all over him.” You stated in an attempt to defend yourself. “He was the one all over me. I didn't even want to hangout with him, but you weren't there, so I had no choice.”

Rafe's frown deepened, he wasn't sure why he was getting so upset over this, considering the fact that he just met you not long ago and nor were you together. “You didn't have to hangout with him.” He retorted. “You could've just, I don't know, maybe stayed here and waited for me. But no, you had to go and get drunk with him instead.”

You cross your arms, feeling more and more irritated by the minute. “Oh, so I was expected to just sit here and wait for you? How was I supposed to know when you were coming back? You could've been gone the whole night for all I knew.”

“And another thing.” You continue, still not letting the argument go. “Where were you even at? What was so important that you couldn't even take a second to text me and let me know you weren't coming?”

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I told you, I was dealing with some Sarah drama. She came to me and said one of the guys had been stealing stuff from her, and wanted me to confront him about it. I wasn't thinking about texting you, I was too focused on figuring things out with her.”

“So you ditched me?”

“No, I didn't ditch you.” Rafe insisted. “I got caught up and just forgot to text you. And it's not like I was gone the whole night. I came looking for you as soon as I was finished”

Rafe watches you for a moment then sighs. “Look, I'm sorry I forgot to text you. But I'm here now, aren't I?”

You can feel your irritation gradually fading, but you still have a slight pout on your face. "Yeah, yeah you're here " you mumbled with a sigh. “But I'm still pissed”

Rafe rolled his eyes, trying not to laugh at your grumpy childish demeanor. “Oh come on, you can't stay mad at me forever” He says as she leans over, taking your heels off of your aching feet.

You huff, avoiding eye contact and crossing your arms. “Yes, I can. I'm very stubborn if you haven't noticed.”

“Well I guess I'll have to find a way for you to make you forgive me”

And that's how you find yourself with your hands on his arms as you sit perched onto his face with your thighs on either side of his head, looking down at him as his tongue flicks between your folds.

"I-I'm not sure if this is really the best..." You try to protest, but the words are lost in the waves of pleasure that wash over you with each flick of his tongue. Your legs trembling so badly now that you can barely hold yourself up, and if it wasn't for his strong grip on your hips, you know you would have collapsed onto him by now. His rough hands slide up your body, his fingers squeezing and massaging their way to your chest. He palms your tits through your shirt, flicking the sensitive nipples with his thumbs in a way that makes you whimper.

“mmmh you taste amazing, fuck.” he groans against your cunt as he circles your clit, sucking the sensitive bud, looking up at you as he does so. You don't even have to look back at him to know he's smirking against you, seeing the way your eyes are dazed and hearing the whimpers and moans he's pulling from you.

Your breath catches in your throat, and suddenly, the room seems way too hot, the air too thick. You lean back, resting your hands behind you, finding just enough leverage to lift your hips and grind on his mouth. He groans, his tongue swirling around your clit with more pressure.

His fingers trail down, trailing over your inner thighs, and before you can even process what he's doing, he shoves one inside your squelching pussy, curling it and hitting that spot inside of you that has you seeing starts and your hole clenching around his finger “A-ah shiiit, Rafe”

“Mmmh, lookin s'pretty up there, angel” he mumbles against you, increasing the speed and pressure of his tongue as he buries another ring-clad finger into you, watching your eyes flutter and your mouth fall open, following with a string a whimpers and desperate cries.

You try and tell him that you can't take much more, your voice cracking and trailing off as he presses his fingers into that sweet spot inside you once more, making your eyes roll back. “R-Rafe...can't-”

“C'mon angel, I know you can. Gonna make you feel good- mmh...taste so sweet. Just let go for me.”

He flicks his tongue in a way that has you moaning his name so loud, you're almost sure the party downstairs can hear you clearly, the sounds so wanton and debauched. Though, you make no attempt to quiet down since you can't bring yourself to care.

He groans against you, his hot breath wavering, sending chills across your skin. You reach down, threading your fingers through his hair, grabbing it roughly, and grinding against him, feeling him moan against you more intensely now, as he speeds up the pace of his fingers.

“Oh god, I'm- I'm-” The sound you let out was almost pornographic as your throw your head back, whimpering his name as your cunt clenched tightly around his fingers, cumming onto his mouth and fingers.

“Mmmh, that's a good girl” Rafe groans against you, lapping you up before sliding his fingers out of you and licking those clean too. “Bet Topper couldn't get this pussy to cum like that, yeah?”

Your eyes flutter closed, whimpering as you let out a breathy “Mmhm” before you suddenly sit up, looking down at him. “Rafe...where did you leave my heels?” in which he simply shrugs and replies “Somewhere downstairs.”

You pout down at him “But those were miu miu”

“Mmh, i'll buy ya some more, sweet girl” He mutters as he places a wet kiss on your core.

© rafesdollette

tags: @ayy1234567 @supercutelovergirl

[secriden]

This line. God, this line! It has been eating me up inside for 2 days now, because let's not forget, this line isn't about love, it's about trust. And that has implications that make me want to scream.

It's a direct reference to this moment earlier in the episode:

At the start of this discussion, Style and Fadel still have a kind of playful air about their conversation:

Style: Oh? Not even me? Fadel: You're at 80% at best. I feel like you're hiding something from me in the 20%.

In this exchange, though, there's a sense that Fadel is issuing a challenge, like there's something specific which Style can do to gain Fadel's full trust. And while Style knows there are things he cannot (yet) reveal to Fadel, I think a part of him is determined to be as honest as he can be, which is why he issues a challenge of his own by asking for more specificity:

Style: What do I have to do to gain your complete trust?

Part of this question is a simultaneously inquisitive and deflective - What (and why) do you think I'm hiding (something) from you? - but there's also a moment after Style finishes speaking where he stills and goes quiet that feels... genuine, weighty. Or, as @airenyah has pointed out in her meta on Style in episode 4, the "grounded[ness]" in Style's demeanour is a signal that Style means what he's saying in the moment. Maybe about his own desire to be worthy of Fadel's trust, maybe about how he genuinely does want this relationship to be real in whatever way that matters to Fadel.

I think Fadel sensed that too, because the moment looses all the lightheartedness it had before. Fadel pauses, and then gets a look on his face that just... breaks my heart. There's a sombreness there, like he knows he's going to have to say something that makes him sad. Fadel looks away, and then down, before he seems to steel himself and says:

Fadel: It'll never happen. No matter how much you love someone, I just don't believe that you can completely lay yourself bare in front of them.

Fadel says this like it's fact. Like what he's expressing is something foundational and true and irrefutable. It's not even about his doubt in Style's honesty, because this statement has no qualifiers or conditions put on it to connect it to Style. Rather this is what Fadel fundamentally believes about relationships and trust: he finds the very concept of being fully known and still accepted an impossibility.

Sure, maybe this is because of the falling out (or betrayal or disappearance) associated with the former lover; but I also think it might be because Fadel is acutely aware not only that he's hiding a rather big and dark secret (not to mince words, but: actual literal premeditated murder), but also about what it implies about Fadel. Because being able to kill another human, coldly and clinically and without remorse, takes a certain type of person. Because, yes, Fadel has lived through an absolutely harrowing and traumatising event (his parents' murder), but it's also undeniable that it changed him. Because there's something about Fadel that twisted dark and which he never quite got back. There's an anger, a hurt that colours every moment of his life; that enables him to look a man in the eyes, smile politely, and pull a trigger.

And at this point in their relationship, Fadel's understanding of Style is that he's... well, kind of innocent. Especially in comparison to Fadel and Bison, and even Kant.

Style, who easily reveals facts about his life which Fadel already knows (winning a car tuning competition), making Fadel doubt his own instincts about Style hiding secrets. Style, who also reveals the things Fadel doesn't know, like the tender and secret pain of a mother lost to cancer (which, now that I think about it, Fadel may also know) and his worries about a father who "lost his bearings for a bit" (which he probably doesn't). Style, who tries to comfort Fadel in his own loss by offering a safe space and a sympathetic ear.

Style, who doesn't just see Fadel for his tragedy, but is asking to be given the chance to accept all of Fadel as a person. Style, who not only wants but has the capacity, to be the only person Fadel needs to rely on. Style who, despite the sea of differences between them, understands Fadel on a level that is so very foundational.

I'm going to slightly segue and mention something that may not resonate with everyone, but really hit me in the gut this episode: because I lost my father when I was 16 after he battled cancer for 2 painful years. And this revelation about Style has totally shifted and coloured everything Style has done in a new light for me. Because not only does this totally explain Style's sometimes almost stubbornly childish demeanour (it's common in adults who've had to 'grow up' too early), but also why Style shows seemingly random flashes of insight and maturity when they are most crucial. Notably, Style has this almost instinctive sense of when he needs to back off a sore point with Fadel that I couldn't quite put my finger on until this episode.

I've seen a few jokes about Style's awkward subject change, but I've actually got a friend who I hold very dear to my heart who was one of the only people to give me a sense of normalcy and comfort when my dad was on his last few days and then at his funeral. And part of that was the instinctive way she would know when I needed to just. Not be a grieving daughter for a few minutes. To get a small respite from the overwhelming hopelessness and sense of impending loss. To get a moment to breathe and gather my strength, because knowing I was never going to see my dad again, or hear his voice, or hold his hand was tearing me apart back then. Sometimes she'd talk to me about college drama, sometimes she'd introduce a new kpop video to me, sometimes she'd just ask me what I wanted to eat and take me to go have a meal with her. And sometimes there really just isn't anything else to say other than "I'm sorry." Nothing you say - nothing you can say - is going to ever, ever make this grief go away, and in most cases, it was better when people (especially those who couldn't really understand) didn't try.

And I think if you look at Fadel very closely, there's a moment of genuine surprise (Fadel wasn't expecting the subject change at all) and then... something that looks like fondness mixed with exhausted relief. Because I don't think Fadel was ready to talk about his parents yet. This was honesty he wasn't ready to give Style, mostly prompted because Style himself had willingly been so vulnerable that a part of Fadel wanted to reciprocate. But further down that path lies not only his darkest memories, but also the connection to the part of his life he is not willing to share with Style yet. So this subject change is a relief, it's a blessing, but it's also Style knowing when he shouldn't push any further with Fadel's fragile heart.

Which brings me back to how well the episode's theme of trust (both deserved and undeserved) was woven in this episode. This is true on multiple levels and characters but I'm not even going to attempt to touch Kant in this post because... Lord, that is beyond me at the moment. Someone else needs to do that, pretty please, so I can reblog it and scream.

It starts, somewhat unexpectedly, with Fadel asking for entrance into the intimate spaces of Style's life.

So, this episode was not about Fadel's fear of his own feelings, desires, or even affection for Style - that appears to be fully addressed in episode 4. I think that's why we see Fadel be so physically affectionate and indulgent of Style in this episode. He's come to terms with his lust for Style's body (hence his comfort in initiating sex), he's accepted Style as his boyfriend and so can enjoy Style's playful teasing (still reluctantly, but Fadel is still an introvert even if he's mostly enjoying Style's rambunctious nature), and give into Style's (and Bison's and Kant's) cajoling with relatively little fuss.

He's even comfortable toying with the edges of revealing his darker and more sinister side by reminding Style implicitly about how violent Fadel has the potential to be. Recall that Fadel knows Style knows some of his capacity for violence; he just doesn't know how very thoroughly Style is aware of the full scale of this truth. It does help that Style evidences no actual fear and, in fact, looks positively euphoric. Like, buddy, pal, dearest one... please control yourself.

And yet something very, very telling is the way the show makes it a point to depict Fadel very deliberately getting drunk during the double date. Even before the date has started, Fadel looks to be about half a beer in and we see him constantly drinking, drinking, drinking during the whole date. From the conversation about trust he has with Style while Kant and Bison are being off key and adorable about it, to after Kant leaves and Bison gets worried. And we've seen Fadel cope with emotional and mental distress with alcohol before, so we know that Fadel is internally fighting some kind of very intense battle even as he is also very clearly enjoying moments with Style on this date (most notably when they're dancing by the bowling lanes and when Style asks him to go home with him).

So here's my take: rather than being about love, this is about Fadel fighting to hold onto his own philosophy on relationships and trust. Because as much as I do believe Fadel believes he's telling the truth when he tells Style that 100% trust is "impossible", I think it's clear that's not what he wants.

What he wants is to finish this last job so that the only thing he can't be honest about with Style will finally stop being a factor in his life. What he wants is to fully and completely reciprocate the openness Style seems to be giving Fadel. What he wants is to switch off his brain and let his heart lead for once, to stop fighting a battle he has no desire to win anymore, only he can't. Trust (not love) is Fadel's final frontier, and one which he can't quite give up in spite of himself.

Which is why I think Fadel intentionally gets himself drunk here. Because he wants to let his guard down around Style. He wants to open himself fully, he wants to "lay himself bare" for Style, he wants Style to know the full truth and accept him anyway - and he gets so close, but can't quite get there - because he doesn't know that Style already has.

When Style says this, Fadel thinks it's empty words, not knowing that Style has long passed the bar Fadel thinks is insurmountable. And just like Style was able to offer safety and reassurance to the vulnerability Fadel was showing in episode 4, Style instinctively gets to the core of Fadel's darkest fears again:

Style: One day, I'll be your 100%.

This isn't (just) a promise that Style will wear Fadel's stubbornness down, or that Style will be worthy of Fadel's 100% (which, already, has me in tears, ngl). Beyond that, this is Style promising Fadel isn't ruined for this; that it isn't too late, that whatever hurts and wounds Fadel has can be made whole again. That the kind of honest and all-encompassing and unconditional trust which Fadel says is impossible can, in fact, be his. That Fadel still has the capacity to trust and be trusted the way he so desperately, painfully longs for.

I know a lot of people have said Style in this episode is writing cheques he has no ability to honour, but I think it's more layered than that. Because in a very significant and profound way, Style is wholly deserving of Fadel's trust. Because in all the ways that Fadel has ever known he should want, Style actually IS worthy of his trust. Style knows the truth Fadel is hiding, knows what this man is capable of, knows the danger of being in his arms, knows the likely nonexistent future Fadel has to offer him -- and wants him anyway. Style is a man who would stare into Fadel’s darkness and reach out first. Strip away the complication of Kant being blackmailed and dragging Style into his mission, and Style is literally perfect for Fadel. He is exactly what Fadel wants (and possibly has wanted for a very long time). He is, in fact, exactly what Fadel needs to ever experience anything beyond the shadow of a life he's had so far.

But oh, the cruel narrative means that Style is also, simultaneously, painfully undeserving of Fadel's trust; and this is something Style is very much aware of. I think that's why he's trying so very hard to be worthy in all the other ways he can be. Style's awareness of what Fadel is hiding enables Style to (counterintuitively) be completely honest about his feelings for and about Fadel even as he cannot reveal his motivations. So he gives Fadel as much honesty as he can: offers the vulnerability of his own pain and hurts; the comfort of his true understanding and acceptance.

And just as Fadel's vulnerability in the abandoned factory was met with Style choosing a form of physical connection that prioritised Fadel's pleasure (it's made very clear that Style is jerking Fadel off and that all his focus in that moment was on Fadel, not his own pleasure), so too is this moment met with Style very intentionally choosing to worship Fadel's body with all the tenderness and genuine emotional weight that Style wanted Fadel to have in their first time in the storeroom.

Because, crucially, this was Style giving Fadel the chance to lay himself at least physically bare. This is the closest either of them can get to full honesty with the secrets they both are keeping. It's why Style tries so very hard to show the care and adoration and genuine feelings he has for Fadel. Why he makes sure that the vulnerability of Fadel getting himself as drunk and as relaxed and as trusting as Fadel can allow himself to be is tied only to gentleness and tenderness and pleasure.

Because Style actually knows that Fadel can't (and shouldn't) trust him in the way Fadel truly wishes to.

And as much as I believe that Style genuinely means this from the bottom of his heart, the horrifying full truth is that it is Style that has the metaphorical knife hovering over Fadel's chest. He is the one with the capacity to actually give Fadel a new scar that would truly matter. He is, in fact, the only one Fadel wants to fully trust -- and this, along with Style's compromised heart, makes it so that the circumstances will doom them both.

[saintsenara]

why do people portray walburga and her relationship with sirius in such an exaggerated way? like torture??? i get that we don't have a lot of information about what went down, but its such an extreme choice

thank you very much for the ask, anon!

unsurprisingly, the answer to this is under the cut, because it comes with a trigger warning for discussions of physical and sexual abuse.

my interpretation of things is that it's a really interesting bleed-through into fandom of two real-world views a lot of people have:

firstly, that it's uniquely horrifying when a woman who is also a mother is cruel to children [or, indeed, when she's anything other than completely self-sacrificing and nurturing].

grimmauld place is a dozen different gothic literature tropes in a trenchcoat, and the text hammers that home with absolutely no subtlety whatsoever. it is walburga in the portrait - haunting sirius, serving as a physical manifestation of the rot of blood purity, making grimmauld place seem as much of a prison as azkaban - rather than orion because the reader wouldn't find it anywhere near as disgusting or frightening to see a man in that role, and the narrative meaning intended by the portrait therefore wouldn't come over as clearly.

[the subtext to walburga's character - that the portrait and the house are liminal spaces between life and death, a hint at the extraordinary grief she carries which will be revealed in deathly hallows - would also be interpreted very differently by the reader if they belonged to orion. walburga's grief - for both sirius and regulus - is inextricable from what the series thinks is "true" about motherhood and womanhood.]

and this - i think - is why, even though sirius does talk about the emotional abuse he experienced coming from both of his parents, the fandom is laser-focused on walburga. she's a bigger presence textually and she's a bigger presence textually entirely because she exists in defiance of deep-rooted societal opinions about how mothers should act.

[which we also see in the fandom's responses to petunia versus vernon and molly versus arthur...]

the second real-world view which bleeds through into the fandom's treatment of sirius' childhood is one which lots of people hold and which therefore has major, major repercussions for people in abusive households and relationships: the idea that abuse which isn't physically extreme [or, in the case of children, but much less often adults, sexual] isn't "as bad" as abuse which is.

and part of this is that the social norms we live by treat extreme physical abuse [and child sexual abuse] as objectively wrong, but treat abuse which doesn't meet this threshold of extremity much more subjectively.

a parent who beats their child so badly that they almost die will inspire outrage from all quarters. a parent who hits their child with a belt once across the backs of the legs as punishment for misbehaviour, but claims this is a form of reasonable physical discipline which doesn't cause their child any lasting harm, will find plenty of people willing to defend them as well as plenty of people willing to condemn.

and - of course - societal prejudices connected to things like gender, race, class, and so on play a big part in these splitting of opinions. a man who rapes his five-year-old child will be - in public, at least - unambiguously regarded as a criminal by everyone in a community. a man who rapes his female partner will find plenty of people willing to argue that it's her duty to provide him with sex and he was merely requiring her to fulfil that duty. a man who rapes his male partner will find plenty of people willing to say that gay men are all hypersexual and the victim loved it.

this subjectivity of response is also one of the reasons why emotional abuse, financial abuse, coercive control, stalking, and other forms of non-physical abuse still aren't taken as seriously as they should be. there's a widespread perception - and not just among police - that they're not dangerous in and of themselves.

from the fandom perspective, then, it seems to me that the writing of abusive situations often focuses on extreme physical violence as a way of authors offering "proof" to their readers that they take the fact that the character was abused seriously.

there is a worry - i think - in many authors' minds that if they wrote walburga never laying a hand on sirius, they would be accused of claiming his childhood was normal, his experience was fine, his parents' treatment of him was justified, or that he shouldn't be thought of as someone who was abused.

but - of course - something it's crucial for us to do in real life is be alert to just how complex and individual abuse is, and how poor our pre-conceived notions about what it is and what it isn't tend to be. i think the same is true in fandom, and it's why i think portrayals of non-physical abuse which take that abuse as bad enough are so important.

[jamesscarstairs]

as a true and obsessive logan girl, i do agree that his lack of passion and his lack of drive does slightly defeat the purpose of his argument. however, i don’t think that he’s forced into this career because he’s lazy. i think his passionless pursuit of anything other than partying and drinking is simply a byproduct of an oppressive and entirely dysfunctional family dynasty.

it’s repeatedly made clear that he’s a damn good writer (unfortunate that his dad is a big newspaper guy!). he’s talented. and we know this talent isn’t an assumption made about him due to his father’s prominence in the world of journalism, it’s doyle who reluctantly confirms logan’s natural affinity for writing. logan, however, isn’t a fool. if anything, he’s rather logical and realistic. so when you put a father, a newspaper mogul known for discovering upcoming journalists with the “it” factor, and his evidently talented son in the same room, the outcome is apparent to anyone. perhaps if mitchum wasn’t so emotionally unavailable, logan would have been able to reject that path that was so clearly set out for him - but mitchum was unavailable. he was unavailable to logan throughout his entire youth and early adulthood. there is such a disconnect between father and son, that there is never room for discussion nor argument. so why would logan, content in his present to delay the inevitable, ever attempt to pursue a passion he knew would not be his fate?

despite his wealth and his status, it’s true that, in logan’s eyes, he does only have one door open; the door that has been created by his father.

One thing, beyond the many things, that I find ridiculous in the fight scene between Logan and Rory in the bar is when Logan says: “I don’t want this life, it’s being pushed on me.” Okay baby, then what life do you want? What career would you like to follow? What passion do you have besides partying, getting arrested, sinking you father’s yacht and drinking so much that your girlfriend has to take you plus your very drunk friends home by herself? Because this is the thing, if Logan had an interest somewhere else, like painting, for example, and he was being pushed by his father to follow a specific career, I’d understand him. He’s being denied his passion, his speech would make sense. This, however, is not what is happening. We see no sort of passion from Logan, besides partying, which Rory rightfully calls him out on. We don’t even see him confused about what he wants, which is also something I could understand. He’s near to graduating on something (I have no freaking clue what his major is and is not like the show focuses on it) and is expected to now get a job, a.k.a, a responsibility. But the thing is, he does not want responsibility, he wants to keep sucking on his dad’s money tits, while not having to work or put some effort into living a comfortable life. Therefore, his heart felt speech in the bar fails spectacularly to bring some empathy out of me.