#wounds of Christ anon

[summ3rhead]

Okay but fleabag’s ‘it’ll pass’ with lilith and camila. Camila sitting next to her confessing, lilith taking her hand and going “it’ll pass”

-yk who it is (WOC)

I raise you: Lilith sitting next to Camilla confessing, and Camilla taking Lilith’s hand and telling her ‘it’ll pass’.

Something so juicy about Lilith being vulnerable and open.

[diamonddaze01]

Hey girlyyyy~ I want to tell you that I love you and your work mwah! 💋

Can we have jeonghan hurt + fluff prompt 47. Be it like a mafia one where he has to make a choice between you or his girl best friend (who he loves dearly)

I'll like seriously cry if U do

the choices we live with

pairing: jeonghan x f!reader | wc: 1.0k prompt: "You have to make a choice" au: mafia au | warnings: blood, injury a/n: hello anon! thank you for the kind words! i did take this in a bit of a diff direction because this is the idea i had but i hope you love it nonetheless <333

Jeonghan stumbled into your apartment just after midnight, the door creaking open with its familiar groan. The sound jolted you upright on the couch, where you’d dozed off hours ago, waiting. You knew it was him before you even turned around—the shuffle of his uneven footsteps, the faint metallic scent of blood carried in the cold night air.

“Jeonghan?” Your voice cracked, half dread, half relief.

He leaned against the doorframe, a crooked smirk on his bloodied face, but even that couldn’t mask how pale he looked. His once-pristine suit was torn, dark crimson staining the fabric. His hair clung to his forehead, damp with sweat and streaked with more red.

“Miss me, sweetheart?” His words were light, but his voice was hoarse.

“Jesus Christ,” you whispered, rushing to his side. You grabbed his arm and looped it over your shoulder, guiding his staggering form inside. He didn’t resist, but his weight against you was heavy, his body trembling slightly.

“You’re going to ruin my couch,” you muttered as you eased him down.

“Not the first time,” he rasped, trying to laugh, but it dissolved into a pained grunt.

You shot him a sharp glare, the concern in your eyes warring with anger. “Stay here. Don’t move.”

He saluted weakly, his bloodied fingers smearing against his temple. You hated how calm he looked, as if this was just another night in a long line of disasters.

Your hands shook as you rummaged through the first aid kit in the bathroom, muttering curses under your breath. Bandages, antiseptic, gauze—it was all second nature now, like muscle memory. You had patched him up so many times before. Too many.

Returning to the living room, you knelt in front of him. He tilted his head lazily, watching you with a soft, unreadable gaze.

“You don’t have to—”

“Shut up,” you snapped, dabbing at the deep gash above his eyebrow. “You’re bleeding everywhere.”

He winced but didn’t pull away. “Careful. I’d hate to lose this face.”

“Maybe if you stopped throwing yourself into fights, you wouldn’t have to worry about it.”

The words came out harsher than you intended, but you didn’t apologize. The anger bubbling in your chest felt safer than the fear threatening to swallow you whole.

“This is the twelfth time this year, Jeonghan.”

“Is it?” He quirked a brow, wincing as you pressed a clean cloth to the wound. “I stopped counting at six.”

Your hand froze, the cloth hovering just above his skin. “This isn’t a joke.”

“I know it’s not.” His voice softened, the smirk slipping from his face.

“Then why do you keep doing this?” You leaned back on your heels, throwing the bloodied cloth onto the coffee table. “Why do you keep risking your life like this?”

He sighed, his gaze dropping to the floor. “You know why.”

You did. That was the worst part. Jeonghan wasn’t just some low-level enforcer or a man who stumbled into the wrong crowd. He was Seungcheol’s second in command, the calm and calculating right hand to the man who ruled the underground with an iron fist. Jeonghan had earned his place by being as ruthless as he was loyal, and Seungcheol trusted him to handle the dirtiest, bloodiest parts of the job.

But where did that leave you?

“I didn’t ask for this,” you whispered, your voice trembling. “I didn’t sign up to be the one waiting at home while you play the martyr for Seungcheol.”

“Sweetheart, it’s not—”

“Don’t,” you snapped. “Don’t tell me it’s not like that. I know what you do for him. I know what it costs you.”

His silence was deafening.

“You have to make a choice.” The words came out steadier than you expected, but they landed heavy between you.

“What?”

“I can’t do this anymore.” You stood abruptly, the sudden motion making his head lift. “It’s me or him, Jeonghan. Your loyalty to Seungcheol or your loyalty to me. I won’t keep doing this. I won’t keep watching you destroy yourself.”

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. Blood smeared across his fingertips as he ran a hand through his hair. “It’s not that simple.”

“It is that simple.” You crossed your arms over your chest, desperate to hold yourself together. “You just don’t want to make the choice.”

His jaw clenched, the tension in his body palpable. You wondered, for a brief moment, if he would fight you on this. If he’d lash out or argue or do something, anything, to prove he cared enough to stay.

But instead, he exhaled slowly and leaned back against the couch. His lips curled into a faint, bitter smile.

“Alright, sweetheart. Calm down,” he murmured, reaching out to tug gently at your wrist. His touch was warm, grounding, even as it made your heart ache. “You’ve had a long night. Let’s talk about this in the morning.”

“Jeonghan—”

“Please,” he interrupted, his voice softer now. “Come to bed. Just for tonight.”

Against your better judgment, you let him guide you to the bedroom. He slid into bed beside you, his arm draping over your waist as if nothing had changed. The scent of blood and smoke lingered faintly on him, but you ignored it, too tired to fight anymore.

For the first time in hours, you let yourself close your eyes, lulled to sleep by the steady rhythm of his breathing.

When you woke, the bed was cold.

The space beside you was empty, the sheets neatly pulled back as if he had never been there at all.

Panic settled into your chest as you sat up, your eyes darting around the room. You called his name once, then again, but the apartment was silent.

Then you saw it—a note, folded neatly on the nightstand.

Your name was written on the front in his familiar handwriting, and as you picked it up, the faint scent of his cologne wafted toward you.

Your hands trembled as you unfolded the paper, your heart sinking before you even read the words.

I’m sorry.

Two words. That was all he left you.

No explanations. No promises. Just an apology that felt like a dagger to your chest.

The tears came quickly, hot and unrelenting, as you clutched the note to your chest. You’d given him a choice, and this was his answer.

He had chosen.

And it wasn’t you.

send me an ask for my drabble game!

[deathbyathousandspiders]

So imagine a fic based off the song "boy in the bubble" by Alec Benjamin where reader gets in a fight on the way home from school the one time she doesn't walk with Peter. Preferably have her father be Tony Stark and he'd take place of the mother in the story.

first, i wanted to say that i loved writing this and i love song prompts :) i hope you enjoy this !!

second, i want to apologize to the anon who told me i better not disappear for months because oops–

WARNINGS (18+ MDNI) — hurt reader, mentions of blood, mentions of pain/wounding, swearing.

✨masterlist✨.

3.6k.

Typically, stepping into your downtown apartment on a Friday evening would be more exciting for you. It meant that your week of stuck–up students and nerve–wracking tests could be long forgotten. It meant that you had the weekend to live freely from academic cages. At the beginning of that day, you would’ve thought today would be like any other Friday; with Peter accompanying you and your father for dinner like every week.

But Peter didn’t walk back with you.

Your tired limbs ripped from the floor with every step, hobbling out of the elevator with as much grace as you had room to carry. That room was slim, making space for the array of bruises and blood tainting your clothing. You carried the last bit of dignity you could, and tried to replace the sinister words spat at you from your attacker:

“What a weak, pathetic excuse for a Stark.”

See, till now, you’d been grateful to be excused from the attention and popularity that accompanied your title. You didn’t care for followers or anything that catered to your birthright. Your father was your best friend, and you were lucky to be a Stark just to have his light in your life. However, there were some who weren’t like your classmates or peers — people who hated the Stark name, and wouldn’t rest until the family name died at their hand.

Tonight, you’d met the first of who knows how many. The thought alone sent a serpent–like shiver down your body.

And Peter wasn’t with you.

The fumes of Tony Stark’s cooking filled your senses as you limped further into your family room. You consciously knew you were late for dinner, but the pain throbbing throughout your body put that knowledge on the back burner. The sunset was just beyond the apartment windows, and it made you wonder whether Peter had beaten you to your own house or not. It was 6:48 after all, he was bound to be there.

You’d nearly forgotten that the subtle ping of the elevator doors announced your arrival. You heard your dad set down his spatula. “You kids are late.” He greeted, hollering from the kitchen. “I hope you two didn’t stop for Delmar’s on your way back!” You processed the undertones as your knees gave out, left hand pressing into the top of the sofa back.

White knuckles gripped onto your couch as you tried to gain your balance, wincing through gritted teeth. Your right arm remained hugging your abdomen, palm pressed onto a sore–spot on your torso. Every fiber in your body ached for some sense of relief. To sit down. You were a bit too stubborn for your own liking, trying to hike up the steps and get to your room without being spotted—

“Jesus Christ!” Your father cried from the archway of the dining room. You heard his hurried steps across the hard–wood flooring, almost too nervous to meet his eyes. He made his way over quickly, and the first thing you noticed through your periphery was the ‘kiss the cook’ apron he kept tied around his waistline. “Kid, what the hell happened?” Your dad crouched down beside you, finally locking eyes with you.

The cold air hitting your eyes made you realize just how quick the tears were welling. You swallowed the lump in your throat, whether it was sobs or embarrassment or dried blood from thrown punches. “I was jumped.” Your bottom lip trembled a bit before you mustered the words out.

Your dad scanned over your body, eying just how tattered your clothes were, and how much blood painted your outfit. His eyes glistened with a parental look— a look shimmering with something mixed of worry and sadness and anguish and apology. “And Peter wasn’t with you?”

That confirmed that your best friend, in fact, had not beaten you to your apartment.

And for some reason, it made things all the more worse. Your jaw clenched a bit, both of concern and frustration. Disappointment nagged at the corners of your lips as you shook your head. “No, he said he’d meet me here later.” Your imagination got the best of you, replaying your evening but if Peter actually had been with you. The thought alone made you shutter. “But it was probably for the best.”

“Did he say what he was doing?” The look in his eyes said something that he wasn’t communicating. They said something unspoken that made you feel like there were things that you weren’t being told.

You ignored it, feeling a surge of pain in your abdomen. A quiet hiss fought its way up your throat. “He didn’t. But it’s fine.” No, it wasn’t. “Peter can’t throw a punch to save his life.”

A laugh actually left your father’s lips. “You’d be surprised.” He muttered, his tone speaking the same tongue that his eyes were. There was definitely something that you didn’t know, but your intuition couldn’t place its finger on what.

It wasn’t your fault that you were oblivious to your best friend’s vigilante status. You were kept in the dark about what web–slinging activities Peter Parker kept behind closed doors. Tony and Peter kept it secret that you were best friends with Spider–Man. They hadn’t let the news slip yet, and Tony wasn’t about to. They both agreed it was in your best interest to keep you safe.

Apparently, their efforts weren’t enough.

Your eyebrow rose, trying to cut through the bullshit. “Are you kidding, Dad?” You asked, maintaining eye contact as your father rose from his crouched position beside you. “It’s Peter Parker we’re talking about here. He wouldn’t even kill a fly.”

Tony’s hands creased his hips, shoulders shrugging gently with his response. “I don’t know, hon. He told me May had him take Karate years back.” He didn’t leave time for a response as his eyes trailed back down to the developing bruises along your arms. Seeing the crusting crimson on his daughter’s body was a sight that made him lose his appetite. “I’ll go grab my medical kit. You’re lucky that Pepper taught me a thing or two before she got promoted.”

The room fell quiet as Tony put pause on dinner and soon rushed back over with a first–aid kit. You didn’t want to stain any furniture, so you managed to sit on a wooden coffee table until you were given further instruction.

It didn’t take long before your mind wandered off to worry about Peter, and what could be keeping him so long. He did tell you before you’d parted ways that he’d join you guys for dinner? Right? You swore that he told you he’d be there by 6:30, and even you were late. Thinking back to the details made you recall some harsh memories. Your wounds throbbed at the recollection of how they came to be, and the blood that was shed, and the words that were spat…

“What a weak, pathetic excuse for a Stark—”

“We should call Bruce.” Your dad’s voice of concern and reason brought you back to the moment. All you could do was stare. You hadn’t noticed that he’d started to examine your wounds, or just how defeated and pained for you he was.

The look made your stomach twist at the insults your own self–critic threw back at you.

Before you knew it, you were standing up, choking back a wince, fighting against yourself. “No! No– it’s just a few scratches. It’s fine.” Was it? Even though the pain was searing, and you wobbled as you stepped to the bathroom. Clearly your father was overreacting. He had to be. You weren’t weak.

Tony followed your footsteps, treading close behind in case you were to trip. “Hon, I’m serious! You look like you went through a paper shredder!”

You looked at him with a grimace, disbelief shone in your eyes. Almost as if he were calling you pathetic. “Don’t make it so intense! I’m sure it’s—” You halted. Everything froze. The air sucked right back into your lungs at the sight of your bloodied figure in the mirror. Flicking on the light, you couldn’t breathe.

The color palette that covered your body could’ve painted an entire canvas worth; the shirt you wore was hanging onto your shoulders with two threads and a miracle, not to mention the slashes at the thighs of your jeans. You’d nearly forgotten that your attacker had such a thick knife until you saw it— saw yourself. A shiver snaked down the length of your spine, leaving a splintering chill behind it.

It wasn’t until Tony turned off the bathroom light that you’d realized you were staring at yourself. He carefully grabbed your hand, leading you back into the living room. “We don’t have to call Bruce, but can I at least clean you up a bit?”

You didn’t have the words to respond to him. A nod was all you could muster before he sat you back down at the coffee table. “Should I– uh.. Should I shower first?”

Tony shook his head beside you. “Until I figure out if you need stitching, no.” He went to investigate the damage, but hesitated, trying to navigate an approach. “Sweetheart? You decent enough to take your shirt off? I could grab you a blanket if that would help–”

But before your dad finished his thought, you went to try and peel off your shirt. It was a lot more difficult than you thought. Painful, too. You were cold and hot and sweaty and sticky and pins and needles dug their way into your limbs each time they moved. You were grateful your dad didn’t even pause before assisting you. He grabbed his medical scissors, snipping off the sleeves of your top.

You and your dad were really comfortable with one another, so this didn’t bother you. You were more blinded by the burns and the harshness to each ache and blemish coating your limbs and torso. Daggers upon daggers of pins and needles sunk into your flesh, yet it hurt you the most to know that you had to present yourself so battered and bruised to your dad. It made you feel so…useless. So…pathetic.

A minute of silence passed, filled with nothing but pity and the sear in your eyes, holding back tears. You wanted to be strong. You needed to be strong. Showing weakness would mean that your attacker was right. Your throat burned, swallowing hard and pushing back your damaged narrative. The feeling of how feeble you felt.

The subtle ping from the elevator made your blood run cold. Your head snapped up to look at who entered the apartment, eyes wide and teary when they met the pair of Peter Parker. And the second he jogged out of the elevator, he stopped dead in his tracks. He gasped quietly, staring back at you with the same gaping eyes.

You didn’t see the way Tony glared at Peter from beside you, but you felt the way he’d stopped inspecting you. Peter walked closer, taking cautious steps as he minimized the distance. “What happened?” His voice was gentle, perhaps because he noticed the tears coating your cheeks.

Wiping your eyes, you realized your hands were trembling. Your whole body shook from the endured trauma, and you shivered like you were in the midst of a blizzard. Had you been shaking that whole time? You didn’t have time to overthink it. You felt like you were being whisked away into a whirlwind of panic.

Tony stood up, his expression crossed with some unspoken irritation. “I need to finish dinner.” His words were short. “Kid, could you help patch her up? She mainly just needs disinfectant.” There was no room for response from Peter before your father started walking. You didn’t see him leave, but you felt the gentle kiss he placed on your head before he left one final comment with Peter:

“And you and I are going to have a talk later.”

You weren’t sure what was going on with the two. Quite frankly, you weren’t sure what was going on in general. Shaking like this, being emotional like this, it was far from anything you were used to.

It felt like you were being violated, forced open, naked— and that wasn’t just because you were without a shirt. You felt exposed, and you couldn’t hide anymore. There was nowhere you could go and nothing you could do to shield from the fact that you were vulnerable right now.

Peter sat in front of you, kneeling so that you could see him. So that he could see you. “Hey..” His voice got soft, gentler, and somehow it broke you. You caught your bottom lip between your teeth to try and stop the way it shuttered. Metal lingered on your tongue and your throat felt hollow and thick with the cries you held back. But Peter was your best friend, and he knew you.

He knew how stubborn you were with your own emotions, and how guarded you kept yourself from showing that part to other people. He knew that you couldn’t hide forever, either. And maybe he’d figured that out when his right hand went to cradle your face, and the tears finally washed away the walls you’d been keeping up.

Somehow seeing him safe was your undoing. The downfall of the avalanche you’d been hobbling in attempt to support, but you couldn’t seal the dam anymore. The relief of knowing that Peter was unharmed, the ease to all your worries, it made you forget why you’d been trying to stop your tears in the first place.

Your body broke out into violent shivers the second you let it, and your shoulders shook with every sob. Peter didn’t say anything. He merely took you into his arms and held you to him, careful not to press against any wound. It terrified you to think about what would’ve happened had Peter walked home with you, unbeknownst to you that he probably would’ve protected you from any of this happening in the first place.

It took you a minute or two to cry it out before Peter set you back on the coffee table. It seemed effortless to pick you up, and that made you realize just how strong he was. Your dad was right, Peter did surprise you.

Peter knew exactly how to mend these kinds of wounds, too. Where did he learn? It might always be a mystery. Still, it came in handy now. He draped his zip–up jacket over your shoulders, before dabbing a cloth of rubbing alcohol against every cut on your torso. He was so focused. Tensed jaw and creased eyebrow, not wavering for a second until you gained the courage to ask him a question. You took a shaky breath.

“Peter?” You murmured, immediately grabbing his attention. Peter glanced at you, the cold glisten in his focused stare began to thaw when he did. He took a breath, perhaps needing to be broken from the train of thought he’d started to entertain. With his attention, you took another breath, nervous.

Your fingers gripped the edge of the coffee table with white knuckles. If you’d been any stronger, maybe you’d broken the table, or even your fingers. “Do you.. think I’m–” You had to suck in another chunk of air just to muster out that taunting, despicable word. “Weak?” Even in your efforts to say it straight, your voice broke in an instant.

Without a beat, his eyes met yours again and he stopped everything he was doing. “Weak?” He repeated back. “No.” The word was so instantly rejected, you’d almost felt stupid bringing it up in the first place. “You’re so far from weak, Y/N. You’re one of the strongest people I know.”

Your hands went to hide your face, too ashamed of how quickly you broke before him. From the solitude behind your fingers, you couldn’t see the way Peter also broke at the words. He wasn’t sobbing as you were, but he couldn’t help the sulking of his shoulders. Peter truly blamed himself for this. Setting down the rag, gently wrapping his fingers around your wrists. “Anyone who thinks you’re weak is blind to who you are. That, or they’re fucking stupid.” He spoke softly, pulling your hands from your face.

“You’re the most courageous person. The amount of bullshit you put up with, and the reporters you call out– Fuck, I can’t even imagine walking away from a fight like you did tonight..” His words of endearment warmed your heart. “You’ve seen the unthinkable, are still going, and you think you’re weak?” He shook his head. “Impossible.”

You and Peter stared for a beat or two before he stood up, carefully helping you to your feet. “I think you’re all set to shower. Do you want me to walk you upstairs?”

Taking a breath, you took Peter’s words to heart. You got this. “I think I’ll be okay.” Ignoring the shakiness in your voice, you took paces to the stairwell. “If I’m not back in thirty, you have permission to make sure I didn’t pass out.”

Peter cracked a small smile at you, “Noted. Text me if you need anything!” He added the offer, to which he saw you nod to, and he caught a glimpse of your timid smile. He knew you’d be okay, but it still didn’t shake the weight of how to blame he was. The sound of Tony clearing his throat from the kitchen only seemed to remind him. And with a second clearing of his throat, Peter realized that Tony was trying to communicate.

Walking into the kitchen, Peter saw Tony leaned back against the counter, arms crossed with a cold stare. “Mister Stark, I–”

“Where the hell were you tonight?”

The tone changed the entire atmosphere. No amount of savory fragrances from the cuisine could take away from the fact that Peter was in trouble.

Peter’s shoulders squared at the intensity carried with Tony’s aggravation. He took a breath, pausing in the doorway. “Sir, there was an armed–”

Tony’s fist met the marble counter in a startle. “Damn it, Pete!” Kid couldn’t get a word in if he tried. “Damn it, you had one job!” His index finger went up to emphasize his point.

“What was I supposed to do??” Peter felt like he was fighting a losing battle. “I had no idea what was going to happen!” In the midst of his hushed defense, his voice broke a bit from the weight of his guilt. “Mister Stark.. I think it’s time we tell her.”

A scoff was what Peter was met with. A rush of air caught on Tony’s disbelief, throat, and dismissal. “We’d tell Y/N what? That you’re Spider–Man? That we’ve been lying for this long?”

It was a tough call, and Peter knew that. Peter also knew that Tony couldn’t keep this shit up any longer than he could. “She deserves to know!” He planned to plead his case. “Whoever attacked her tonight planned this. It wasn’t by chance, she was targeted–”

“You don’t know that—”

“And you don’t either!” Peter wasn’t about to get cut off again. He let out some of the steam he’d began to bottle. “The way she’s acting.. Something’s off about what happened. And I think she deserves to know why I wasn’t there to defend her tonight.”

As much as the two had raised their voices, or grown to anger, they let the reality of the evening sink into the space between them. The thickened air sat within the walls as they both took a breath and collected themselves. Tony’s expression melted, and he finally reached over to turn off the stove.

Dinner was almost ready.

The back of Tony’s hips met the marble countertop behind him, supporting his weight as he crossed his arms, looking at Peter sympathetically. “Look, kid. I don’t blame you for what happened tonight.”

A weight or two instantly lifted from Peter’s guilty–conscious. “I know.” He lied.

Tony’s lips curled ever so slightly at the hasty quip. “As much as I agree with your conspiracy theories on Y/N’s attacker, I don’t know if coming clean about everything will solve this.”

There was a subtle sinking to Peter’s mending optimism. “Then when do you plan to tell her?”

A pause. Tony sighed, releasing a breath he’d been holding since Peter’s spider bite. “I don’t know..” Genuinity. Tony’s paternal protocol kicked in, and he wasn’t sure how to navigate it entirely.

On the one hand, his daughter deserved to know the truth. You deserved to know the truth. His wisdom and knowledge was such a curse when it came to fatherhood, because while being honest was what his role as a father called for, logic came right back to remind him of just how many lies were piled on top of each other. What if there was no coming back from this?

Tony shrugged, appearing more open to the idea of being truthful. “I’ll tell you what.” He started, “You tell me how you’d suggest telling Y/N you’re Spider–Man, and I’ll consider it–”

“Peter’s what?”

Ice. The room turned to ice too quickly, both Tony and Peter snapping their heads to look at you in the doorway. They hadn’t noticed you’d been listening. You’d been standing there for who knows how long, considering that you hadn’t even showered yet.

Both of the men in front of you exchanged glances of sheer panic before Tony cleared his throat to get your attention. He held up the frying pan, looking you dead in the eyes with the most false–confidence you’d ever seen your father carry.

“Dinner’s ready.” His voice cracked.

Yeah, there was absolutely no coming back from this.

[blessedarethebinarybreakers]

Jesus wasn't Palestinian you dumb heretic. Palestine didn't exist yet. The Palestinian people didn't exist yet. Read the fucking bible. Dumbass

(what anon's responding to)

This is going to sound sarcastic but i mean it genuinely: i love getting called a heretic by randos online. helps me know i'm doing some things right!

In honor of Jesus the Palestinian Jew, here's an excerpt from a sermon (which you can read / listen to in full over here) I wrote back in June on how Jesus's direct identification with those the world calls "least" in Matthew 25 empowers (and challenges) us to envision him as literally one with all who are denigrated, disenfranchised, executed by Empire — as Palestinians are today.

...In proclaiming himself not only kin with the world’s outcasts, but literally one with each and every one of them, Jesus empowers us to imagine him in ever newer, ever more expansive ways. He empowered Black theologian James Cone to declare that Christ is Black, and that every time a Black person is lynched, Christ is re-crucified with them. He empowered disability theologian Nancy Eiesland to declare that God is disabled – to envision the throne of God as a wheelchair, and to point out how the wounds with which Christ rose would have impaired his movement. He empowered gay artist Maxwell Lawton to paint Christ with AIDS lesions, and photographer Elisabeth Ohlson Wallin to depict Christ’s resurrection wounds as transgender top surgery scars. Though some have decried all these images of Christ as blasphemous, it was Jesus himself who told us that he is one with those whom the world denies food, safety, medical care, freedom, and love...

btw if anyone has other examples of theologians declaring Christ a member of a marginalized group it's my fave thing so please add on. Another great one is S. Yesu Suresh' declaration that Christ is Dalit (the "untouchable" class in India).

[specialagentlokitty]

Derek Shepherd x reader - let me help

Hiyyaa could you possibly write a fic with Derek Shepherd where reader is in an abusive relationship and he always takes care of her bruises etc. But she always pushes him away and tells him not to do anything abt it. Then she starts closing herself off and one day shows up severly injured, and Derek had no choice but to interfere.. - Anon💜

TW: abusive relationship

Derek had been down this road over and over again, you turning up at the door to his trailer asking if he can help with some bruises and if you could stay the night.

And just like the past year, this was no different, you came a few times a month.

“You fall again?” He asked.

You shrugged a little and let Derek tend to the bruises and small cuts on your face, and he stayed quiet for a minute.

“You can’t keep doing this (Y/N), something has to be done.”

“Derek don’t get involved.”

“So you’re asking me to just sit here and wait for you to come to my door black and blue again?” He asked.

“Derek just leave it okay? Don’t do anything.”

He sighed and sat down on the chair and he looked at you with a frown on his face.

“What’s it going to take for you to leave this relationship?”

“Just drop it.” You snapped.

You tossed everything in the bin and you pulled your jacket back on and he stood in front of the door, arms crossed over his chest.

“You’re not going back are you?”

“Derek get out the way.”

“No.”

“Derek move!” You snapped.

He looked at you and clenched his jaw as he stepped away from the door to let you leave.

“Just let me help you, please.”

You said nothing as you left and he sighed heavily as he watched get in your car and leave once more.

He sighed to himself and went back inside.

Except instead of seeing you at work the next day, you weren’t there.

He did see you the following day, and when he went to talk to you, you chose to ignore him, and you began to distance yourself from him.

You never came to him to fix your injuries, you didn’t message him or call him to let you know that you were okay.

And he was starting to get worried.

He tried to catch you in the elevator, or on the stairs so you would talk to him, but you wouldn’t, you’d simply run away or begin to talk with someone else.

Then one evening, as he was sitting outside he saw your car pulled up and he stood up.

“(Y/N)?” He asked.

He watched as you got out, but you never came around.

“(Y/N)?”

He walked around and he saw you sitting against the car, beaten to a pulp, hands trembling and breathing heavily.

“Jesus Christ..”

He helped you up, and he helped you inside, sitting you on his bed, he began to clean your wounds.

You had tears silently falling down your face, and he didn’t dare say anything, he just cleaned your injuries and helped you like he always did.

Then he sat next to you and carefully wrapped an arm around your shoulder, and you began to cry even more.

“Hey I’ve got you..” he whispered.

He held you tightly, and you sobbed into his arms for hours until you finally fell asleep.

Carefully laying you down, the doctor covered you up and he looked at your phone blowing up with texts and calls.

He couldn’t do it anymore, so he grabbed his phone and called the only person he knew would be able to help him.

And they both met outside your apartment.

“You gonna tell me what’s going on?” Mark asked.

“You’re just going to have to trust me, police are already on their way.”

“How long we got?”

Derek shrugged and mark nodded, both of them knocking loudly on the door and they waited for it to open.

When it did, Derek didn’t even speak he pulled his hand back and punched your boyfriend in the face, knocking him to the ground.

“What the hell?!”

“That’s for (Y/N).” Derek growled.

He pointed to mark.

“Watch him.”

Stepped over your boyfriend Derek began gathering everything of yours he could find and fit into bags, clearing all your things out.

He broke your boyfriends phone and he carried on, handing bags over to mark to set outside so he could carry on packing.

Every time your boyfriend tried to get back up, Mark shoved him back to the ground.

Derek wasn’t going to let you be hurting again, not by a long shot and he was going to make sure the person hurting you was put away for a long time

[charliemwrites]

Part…. 4 (?) technically of the childhood friend Simon Thought:

(For 🦖 anon who asked for fluff!)

John Price has been on the receiving end of many a gun. That’s nothing new; that’s a normal Tuesday. He’s even had civilians point guns at him.

This is the first time a teammate’s family member has pointed a gun at him, though. If was going to be anyone’s, it would be Ghost’s.

You even have that same look he gets, cold calculation. Peace with bloodshed. Your are absolutely ready to end John’s life right there.

He explains the situation and you listen calmly, hands steady. When he’s done, you reach into your oversized hoodie and extract your phone. Open it and tap at it without wavering from him once.

It rings, but doesn’t pick up. You frown, eyes narrowing a bit. Then click something else, hold it to your ear.

“Hi, Johnny!” You chirp. “Where’s Si right now?”

A pause as he seems to answer. Your eyes soften a bit.

“And your captain?”

Another pause. You drop the gun with a sheepish look.

“No, no, he’s here. Um… I’ll explain later, bye.”

You hang up, click the safety on.

“It’s nice to meet you, captain price, sorry for almost shooting you.”

—

Simon’s awake when you enter the hospital room, sitting up with a black mask over the bottom half of his face. He clocks you as soon as you enter, eyes getting all big and disbelieving.

“Hi, sunshine,” you coo, hurrying to his side.

He lets you crowd onto the tiny cot by his hip, reaching for you to bonk your foreheads together.

“You’re here?” he whispers.

“Always,” you answer.

He lets you sit back after a moment and you instantly begin fussing at him - smoothing is mussed blond curls and fixing his monitor cords so that he doesn’t accidentally pull at them.

“I can’t believe you got shot,” you sigh, “don’t they give you vests or something?”

“Can’t put a vest on a leg.”

You scrunch up your face. “Maybe they should. Christ, billions of pounds in the military and your stupid leggies are unprotected?”

His eyebrows shoot up. “What’re you callin’ ‘em stupid for?”

“Because one has a hole in it.”

You tug his mask down to see his silly grin. It washes over you all at once that you could have lost him today. Never saw that smile again. But you didn’t, because he has a team now. A good one. One that came and got you when it mattered.

“I almost shot your captain.”

“Bet he was chuffed about that.”

“He lectured me about gun laws.”

He snorts, tugs at a lock of hair. “I’ll have a word with him. Just try not to murder him again. He’s not so bad.”

You hum, smiling that smug smile you know he “hates.”

“Oh? Has mister lone wolf found a pack?” you tease. “Have you been adopted, Si Guy?”

He groans, eyes going skyward asking for mercy from a god he does not believe in.

“Alright, alright - I’ve already been shot, no need to take the piss, luv.”

“There’s every need. I bet all these wankers are too scared of the big bad Ghost.”

He tries to glare. You boop his nose, grinning.

“For a good reason - I’d gut ‘em.”

You roll your eyes. He must forget that you used to be taller than him. “Yeah, yeah, I’m quakin’ in my Gucci boots.”

“Those are not Gucci, you little tart.”

You kick off your non-Gucci shoes and climb in with him, help him scoot to avoid bothering his wounds. He leans his head into your shoulder as you pull out your phone to show him all the silly videos you saved since the last time you saw him.

[cultofdixon]

A little pain with your pleasure

Daryl Dixon • She/Her Pronouns • Adrenaline is a crazy natural drug and you’re driving them crazy with how calm you are • SFW/Small Angst • TW: Stab wounds

Requested by: Anon

“What you got there?”

Glenn’s voice not only startled the poor guy but even cut through Daryl’s thoughts that he forgot for a split second what he had in his hand.

“A Walkman. Found one on a past run”

“Oh, neat. Did you find some cassettes for it? I think there’s like a box of them in the warden’s office but those could also be confessional tapes and I don’t think I wanna know about why a prisoner ended up in prison”

“Me neither. It’s for Y/N. I found some cassettes with it when I found it. Queen, Elton John,…I think there was a Micheal Jackson one. I don’t know.” Daryl scratches the side of his face as he thought about another cassette before shrugging it off. “It was broken when I found it and Sasha helped me fix it for her.”

“Well ain’t that awful sweet of you” Glenn smirks bringing himself to sit across from him on the picnic table. Daryl instantly glaring at the man knowing where he could be going. “I wanna be there when you give it to her. I know she’ll be super excited getting that from you”

“The fuck you mean by that?” Daryl snapped slightly as Glenn shrugged with a smirk. “Speaking of Y/N. Have you seen her?”

“I was actually gonna ask you the same thing. She said if she decided on a 3-Day run that she would help me with the south fence repair when she came back” Glenn sighs running his hand through his hair. “Think she’s out for a week?”

“Mm. Better not. She promised me she’d help with the snares”

“Oh she promised you but didn’t promise me? Obviously she likes a certain someone more than me” He really didn’t catch the hint that Daryl hated the teasing and the glare made him realize he should stop before he’s tossed into a walker. “Okay fine. Mind helping me with the fence and I’ll help you with the snares”

Daryl sighs, nodding picking up the Walkman and going to put it away before helping Glenn with the fence.

After a while, the fence was done, and the two split into the nearby woods to check the snares at a faster pace compared to doing it together. Even if Daryl would’ve spent hours in the woods if it meant being with Y/N.

Daryl made his way toward the snares closer to the front gates, liking to go from the furthest to the closest snares so he could head right in when he’s done. But he was also going to check Glenn’s work on setting up the traps back up. He suddenly halted when he heard footsteps, causing him to ready his crossbow for a walker but relaxed when the bloodied dirty figure came into view.

“Jesus Christ”

“What?” Y/N laughs nervously. “Is there something on my face?”

“Yeah blood and dirt” Daryl scoffs bringing himself close, resting his hand on her cheek brushing off some of the dirt from her cheek. “The fuck happen on your run?”

“Oh that’s a great story so—-“

“Y/N!” Glenn shouted her name while also making it clear of his presence coming up behind Daryl and eventually to his side. “What took you so long getting back?!”

“Well it’s uh a short story—-“

“Glenn I just asked them about the run. Did yea finish the snares on your side?”

“Yeah I did, now Y/N?”

“Yeah…how was the run?”

“Well I got stabbed in the back” Her expression tensed watching the two start their lines of questioning. But every chance she tried to correct she kept getting cut off.

“What do you mean you got stabbed in the back?”

“Let me start with how it hap—“

“Where is this guy? I thought you went on the run alone”

“I did go alone Im trying—-“

“This guy is dead meat if he tries to come after yea. Plenty of fighters here” Daryl stated as Glenn nods in agreement.

“Who would turn on you? Maybe it was—-“

“SHUT UP!” Y/N shouted, resulting in a wince that definitely confused the two. But her face returned to the discomfort it had before running into Daryl. “I got literally stabbed in the damn back” she turned to show the two the knife that was embedded deep in her shoulder.

No more words were said. All Daryl did was smack Glenn forcing him in the direction of the gates to get them opened. Y/N frowns watching him bring himself to her back to feel around the wound before, without warning, rip her flannel open and forced her to take it off.

“You owe me!”

“Just wait til we get inside. Hershel is gonna want to see it and he’s gonna have to cut your shirt anyway”

“Doesn’t mean you had to rip my favorite flannel!” Y/N shouted as Daryl watched her back tense and the knife shift.

“Stop shouting and let’s get yea inside” Daryl scoffs taking her pack from her and directing her back to the prison.

While Hershel stitched her up, Y/N was telling them the story of how it happened. How this stranger that passed the 3 questions decided to just turn on her and try to kill her for her stuff. It wasn’t a pretty scene and given how Y/N felt about killing people, she was only late in her return because she didn’t want to come back feeling the way that she did. That part she didn’t tell them. She just fibbed by saying she lost the car she had. After being patched up, Y/N made her way back to her cell in need of clean clothes and a shirt that isn’t in pieces.

“Hey”

Y/N stopped right before her cell to acknowledge Daryl. “Hey”

“Your back feelin’ any better?”

“Having stitches suck” She laughs it off, no longer wincing from her back. “Maybe next time I’ll bring you on the run”

“I’ll keep yea safe” Daryl murmurs, leaning against the metal doors as Y/N brought herself close leaning with him.

“Next time the knife will be in your back” She jokes receiving a breathy chuckle in response. “You know I’m kidding…I’ll always have your back out there Dar” she whispers as she brought her lips to his cheek keeping her hand planted on his chest. “Thanks for worrying about me”

Before she pulled away too far, Daryl gently grabbed her waist pulling her into him. He admired her features for a moment then planted his lips firmly onto hers. Y/N was taken back but relaxed almost instantly, bringing her arms around his neck keeping him close.

When they parted, Daryl pulled away a little while taking the torn shirt from her hands.

“I’ve got a surprise for yea. But I also have a shirt…we just. Need to go to my cell for both”

Y/N couldn’t contain her smile as she took his free hand. “Lead the way Dixon”

[stolasdearest]

if you do sequels, can you do one for Vox and the male!reader with anger issues?

i love that dynamic so much, and tbh, i think if you left that reader in a room alone with Valentino, they'd be at each other's throats in SECONDS. and when Vox comes in to break it up, they're totally asking him to pick sides.

poor Voxxy, having to deal with us AND Val lmao

VOX x Reader ˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥

I SO DO SEQUELS?? HELLO I LOVE THISSS

not proofread! Hypnosis (not on the reader) arguing, Valentino in itself is a red flag

! Val and Vox are not dating in this universe

Reader is male!

You had been chilling in the top of the Tower, on your phone just browsing on Sinstagram; legs kicked up on the table while your hand fiddled with a tassel on one of the pillows. A vein bulged in your temple as you already heard Valentinos whiny fucking voice, You didn't wanna deal with this today or him, Before getting another thought out the door burst open; Val stomping in and your boyfriend in toe, scowling on his phone

"can you BELIEVE the audacity of that Bitch! She can be so glad I didn't shoot her rancid face in!"

"uh-huh..Yeesh"

"ARE YOU EVEN LISTENING?!"

"Val, I gotta go do something. Baby?"

Your head snapped up upon hearing Voxs petname, Removing your feet from the table you sat up

"yeah?"

"can you watch Val for like, 10 minutes?

"I don't need to be watche—"

"leave him with me"

Vox smiled as he nodded, blowing a kiss to you, an electric heart floating over to you as he left, hands behind his back; the door shut and Valentinos tantrum immediately continued, This time directed at you

"what do you think you're doing?! I'm not some kid— don't even act like you're better than me!"

You rolled your eyes and stood up, knowing continuing to sit would just rile him up, thinking he's above you

"vox asked a favor of me, So I'm doing it."

Valentinos eyes sharpened as he stomped over to you, towering over you. His teeth gritting seeing no fear or intimidation in your eyes

"Youre not big shit! You're just Vox's boy toy!"

"oh yeah? Say that in front of him next time, piss baby!"

This continued for minutes, Each of you getting increasingly more wound up; hands at each other's throats with curse words and insults being swung around almost every sentence, until the door slammed open with a clearly irritated Vox

"I can hear you both from the end of the corridor! What the fuck"

Vox was used to you both fighting but it usually was a one time insult to each other before one of you walked off; now you two were one wrong glance away from jumping each other

"Vox! Let your little bitch to get off his high horse!"

"Vox tell your business partner to stop thinking his shit doesn't stink"

"oh you dumb bitc—"

"enough! Fucking Christ."

Valentinos attitude and mood instantly changed, the Overlord plopping himself down on the couch as he whined about it not being fair

"You must be insane if you think I'm going to back you up, Valentino"

You turned to him and a feeling of pride swelled in your chest, knowing your boyfriend had your back and defended you; you walked over to him and rested your forehead on his shoulder, finally taking a breather; your heart rate slowing down and your blood pressure going down

"thanks Vox"

He chuckled and placed a hand on the back of your neck

"anytime, baby"

Authors note! : I hope this was OKAYYY I did this while someone was talking my ear off so it might be a bit off 😭😭 STILL I hope you liked it thank u Anon!

[melrodrigo]

Tardy, part 6

part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 4 | part 5 | part 6 | part 7 | part 8 | part 9 | part 10 | part 11

Tara Carpenter x Fem!Reader

Summary: You’ve been brutally stabbed, who can you trust?

Warnings: Angst, Violence, Mentions of Violence, Slight Gore, Language, Some fluff

Word Count: 2.5k

A/N: More….more angst. (But dw it’s getting better) This one’s for paige and cutie anon :)) I wanna know what y’all think, who’s ghostface??

Ethan looks beat up. He stands in front of you, eyes wide; mouth slightly open.

Where did he come from?

You don’t have the time to make the decision if he’s Ghostface or not, so you assume the worst. You half contemplate making a run for it, maybe you’ll get far enough away that you lose him.

It would never work, you’re aware of that. You’re extremely wounded, he’d catch up to you in a minute.

There’s no way he could’ve attacked you on the balcony, slipped out the robe, and gotten in front of the pub so quick…right?

His eyes fly down to your shoulder, and now his mouth drops open fully.

“YN! Are you alright? I tried to find you as fast as possible, but Ghostface attacked me-“ He stops, catching his breath. “And I- I got away but jesus lord this hurts.”

He points to his thigh, and that’s when you notice the gash; all red and oozing.

He has an attack mark, okay; you think.

But he could’ve easily done it to fake you out. The other part of you thinks.

It wasn’t an outlandish theory, plenty of Ghostface’s before have.

You eye him up and down.

“How did you find me? What the fuck are you doing here?” You question, accusatory tone in your voice.

He looks taken aback, obviously not expecting you to accuse him of being Ghostface.

But then his gaze turns cold, and you realize you’ve never seen the boy angry before.

“Are you kidding me? I came here to look for you, like I said. Your location was on, we have each other on find my friends; don’t you remember? Are you seriously considering me as Ghostface right now?”

You bite back an insult, really study his face. He doesn’t look like he’s lying, but that doesn’t really reassure you.

It’s a race between your head and your heart, and you curse; shaking your head.

The blood you’re losing is starting to take a toll on your critical thinking skills, and you can feel the haze start to take over.

You figure it wouldn’t hurt to have a suspect with you right now, if he tried anything you wouldn’t hesitate to slit his throat.

“Can we talk about this later?” You grit, “I’m kind of dying over here.”

His eyes soften a bit, and you can see the split decision he makes.

“Come on, let’s go back to the apartment.” He urges, signaling you to his car.

You stare at him sharply.

“The apartment? What the fuck are we going to do there? Let’s go to the hospital.” You say.

He shakes his head once, then twice.

“No. Tara would kill me if I don’t get you back in like 10 minutes. Anika’s a nursing major, she’ll fix you up.” He says, helping you up into his car; staining the seat with the amount of blood pooling from you.

You open your mouth to argue, but find you can’t speak. The haze has gotten really bad, and your vision’s starting to blur.

“YN? Stop, stay awake first. Just a few minutes. Keep your eyes open.” You hear faintly, along with the sound of the car speeding through the street.

My eyes….huh, they won’t open. You try to tell Ethan you can’t hold on any longer, but everything turns black as you do.

-

You don’t wake till hours later, propped up on the couch in the apartment; blinking at the bright lights in front of you.

“Oh christ.” You mumble as you try and sit up, but feel your stomach constrict painfully.

“Don’t move.” You hear from beside you, and your eyes shoot to the person sitting next to you; hand on your arm.

It’s Tara, and it only takes you a second to notice the fire in her eyes from before is gone. Nobody else is there in the room, just her and you.

You feel yourself relax a little, tilting your head back up to the ceiling.

It’s silent for a good minute until Tara shifts in her seat, and you can almost feel the hesitance radiating off her.

“What were you thinking? Going off alone, you could’ve been seriously hurt. Hell, you are seriously hurt!” She hisses, and you roll over; scrunch your eyebrows together at her.

It’s infuriating, that she thinks she has the right to be mad at you. After what happened last night? The audacity.

It’s petty, but you don’t care. You want to piss her off.

“Why do you care? I thought you weren’t my girlfriend anymore.” You say, hotly.

Tara’s taken by surprise at your statement, mouth opening and closing; gaping like a fish.

She finally opens it to speak after a few seconds. There’s still irritation in her voice, but it’s lessened almost insurmountably.

“Well, I still care about my friends-“ She starts but you silence her with a finger pressed to her lips.

It’s hard to stop you from speaking now, you’ve spent the last few days stirring and collecting your thoughts.

“Do you really think you can call me your friend after that? Do you treat your friends like you treated me?” You question, and swipe your finger against her lips.

She shivers a little underneath your touch, and sinks timidly onto the floor.

“YN, look I’m sorry. I believe you now.” She mumbles, fidgeting with her fingers.

“Too little too late Tara.” And you sink back into the couch; looking away from the brunette.

You’re butthurt, you’re aware of it; but you still want to make Tara pay a little.

“What can I do, to make it up to you?“ She asks, gingerly placing her hand on yours again.

You retract quickly. You don’t miss the flash of hurt that passes through her features.

You feel your defenses breaking a bit.

“Just give it time, Tara. I want to be left alone.” You sigh, shooting her a final look that screams ‘please just leave’.

She seems to understand, because she gets up immediately and walks away.

You try and quell the pit of regret in your stomach the minute she leaves. After everything, you still miss her. You curse yourself silently.

There’s hushed voices from around the corner that Tara’s just turned. You strain your ears, and you recognize both people speaking immediately.

“Tara where are her parents? Why aren’t we calling them?” Ethan questions; and you can picture his tight brows and unsure stance.

“Her mom’s all the way back in California, and she’s never told me about her dad.” Tara says, “We shouldn’t worry her, YN wouldn’t want that.”

You clench your eyes shut, rub your head in hopes of relieving some tension. Your parents were always a touchy subject, and never failed to give you a headache.

You tune their conversation out after that, try to fall asleep and lessen the aching pain in your lower stomach.

-

You get a good 3 hours in before you’re waking up again, hand clutching the skin beside your wound.

It’s searing, and you need to relieve it now. You’re so caught up in the pain you don’t see the shifting figure across the room.

There’s a shuffling sound somewhere around the room, and you tilt your head to the side; trying to see the person.

It’s Tara, and she’s getting up quickly; moving almost like she’s been caught. She avoids your gaze as she leaves.

You sigh. Bite back your pride as you ask her.

“Wait- Tara could you grab me the ice pack from the fridge?”

She turns around immediately, face lighting up. You pretend not to see.

She walks to the fridge, grabs the ice pack from the freezer and holds it between her hands. It looks huge in comparison to her fingers.

She’s fidgeting with it, the coldness painting the tips of her fingers a slight purple.

It’s kind of cute.

She walks over, footsteps light; and lingers in front of you.

She’s so hesitant with you now you sort of feel bad. Maybe you shouldn’t have been too harsh.

“Come here, what are you waiting for?” You inquire, patting the spot beside you.

She sits and reaches down to your shirt; but she catches herself before she can pull it up; looking at you with searching eyes.

You nod.

She seems to take that as a good enough answer because she pulls it up just enough to show your wound, and she’s wincing at the sight of it.

“Jesus, does it hurt?” She asks, devastated look in her eyes. You look away before you say anything stupid.

“First of all, my name is YN. Second, a little bit.” You say, voice tight.

Shit, that’s a stupid joke.

She ignores your statement and focuses on the wound.

“Oh god, how do I do this? I should’ve asked Anika to come look after you.” She rambles, head swishing back like she’s about to bolt out the room.

You bring up an arm to stop her, ignoring the sharp pain and making her look at you.

“I want you to do it. Here, I’ll help.” You say, hesitating when you remember you don’t know where to put it either.

Obviously she shouldn’t press it right on the wound, you know that. You settle for the area around the wound; the part that’s already turning green and purple.

You’re still touching her hand when you guide her. She’s breathing a little heavy; cheeks tinted the faintest red.

Her touch is so gentle, it makes you swallow nervously. Everything suddenly feels very intimate.

No, how were you breaking already? You literally just told her you needed time.

The look in her eyes as she presses the ice to you makes you think she’s feeling the same way. Avoiding your eyes, gingerly placing her fingers on your skin.

You close your eyes, but Tara must think you’ve gone to sleep, because a few moments later you hear her mutter under her breath.

“I’m so sorry.”

-

You know what people don’t tell you about being brutally stabbed? It’s boring as hell.

It’s been a couple of days, and you can still barely move anywhere; in fact, you think it might be getting worse.

Anika’s come in to check on you every few hours, taking care of the wound and giving you antibiotics. You’re not really sure if she’s qualified to do that, but you shrug it off.

You start conversations and send sweet smiles to her as often as you can, trying to show her you’re grateful for everything she’s doing.

“Oh hush, of course I’ll help a friend in need.” She said once during a new wrap up of your wound, where you’d tried to express how thankful you were.

The rest of the group seems to be feeling guilty for it too, and they’re trying to help; you can see it.

Mindy visits sometimes and tells jokes, sometimes discusses her theories about who ghostface is with you. She’s surprisingly very funny, and you wonder why you haven’t talked more before.

Chad doesn’t really say much, but he buys you snacks and once a bouquet of flowers; handing them over with a shy smile.

Ethan’s ethan. He visits every day, cracks lame jokes. Shows you the latest updates on the game he’s been obsessed with.

And Tara, sweet Tara. She sticks by your side all day and night, but always leaves enough space for you to feel comfortable. Her usual spot is on the armchair across from you, and you’ve caught her staring at you more times than she cares to admit.

Everything’s changed, including your feelings toward her. Your heart swells whenever she asks if you need anything, or checks up on your temperature hourly. You have to fight the urge to pull her down and kiss her as she’s taking a wet towel and wiping your forehead.

But you don’t utter a word, because the damage has been done, and you don’t want to confuse her more than you already have.

The only member of the group to not check up on you yet is Sam, which is understandable. It’s not like you and Sam have a sweet sister-like bond.

But today, when the front door opens and you call out for Tara; Sam enters the room instead.

She doesn’t say anything as she grabs a chair and comes to sit beside you; or more so in front of you.

You try to sit up, but it’s still excruciatingly painful to; so you settle for rolling on your side and making eye contact with the older woman.

“Um, sorry for not coming to check up on you earlier. I wasn’t sure what to say, and I think the rest of the group has it covered.” She says.

You stay quiet as she finds more things to say.

“Are you and Tara alright? I know things were a little tense after the whole DNA debacle.”

You can’t help but snicker.

“Tense is one way to put it.”

“I’m also sorry for not believing you earlier,” She grits, like saying sorry to you is the hardest thing in the world. “I shouldn’t have judged you so hard, because well; you’re obviously not Ghostface.”

She gestures to the 5-inch stab wound.

You grimace, pursing your lips.

“I’m sorry too,” You start, “For bringing Tara up on the roof that day, it was a dangerous thing to do; and Tara could’ve been seriously hurt. God I don’t know what I’d do if Tara had been stabbed that day.” You add the last bit as an afterthought, not really meaning to say it to Sam.

She looks thoughtful as she speaks again, slowly.

“I know we’ve had our fair share of differences, but I can tell Tara loves you. I mean, she practically begged me not to tell the others about the dna.”

You raise your eyebrows, obviously not expecting Sam to admit something like that.

“I’m not exactly sure what she sees in you, but if you make her happy; then I guess I can tolerate you.” She finishes, and for the first time since meeting her; she looks kind.

You know how hard it is for Sam to open up to someone, you’ve heard all about it from Tara. The fact that she’s bringing her defenses down and admitting she’s wrong makes you beam.

“Plus, you aren’t that bad of a fighter; are you? Ethan’s been bragging that his best friend sucker punched Ghostface after getting stabbed.” And you see the ghost of a smile playing on her lips.

It’s gone as fast as it appears, because now Sam’s leaning in, whispering to you even though you’re the only two people in the room.

“Someone’s setting us up.” She says, “It has to be someone from within our friend group.”

She looks small, hunched over with worry swimming in her eyes. You briefly consider taking her hand in comfort; but think better of it.

“Sam,” You say, voice stern. “Whoever this Ghostface is, we’ll find them. And then we’ll kill them together, for Tara.”

Determination runs through your voice, and it must break Sam out of whatever overthinking she’s doing.

She nods, and you guys share a moment of understanding.

“Together. Let’s kill this son of a bitch.”

[featherandferns]

3 maybe a fluffy smut

3. Technically speaking, this is not my fault.

Additional ask by same anon: Okay wait I sent in 3 but that has a pregnancy blurb would be everything like smutty fluff

dude this is pure filth, I am so sorry. But hey! Hope you enjoy lol (I'm going to hell)

content warning: sexual content (fem receiving, p in v technically protected) - MDNI; mentions of emergency contraception; unplanned pregnancy

plan b - prompt 3

Thank God the chateau is empty save for you and JJ, because neither of you are being particularly quiet.

You’re practically screaming as he eats you out, a vibrator held steady on your clit. The asshole that he is, JJ has the audacity to laugh at you. He keeps chuckling against your shaking thigh, pressing kisses into the skin because he can’t keep his mouth off you for even a second. 

“Feel good, baby?”

He already knows the answer to that. You nod against the pillow, forehead damp with sweat. JJ toys with the settings of your vibrator and another moan racks your body. 

“Jesus Christ, why did we wait to get one of these?”

“Fucking do something, JayJ,” is your slurred response.

JJ laughs again, voice deep and husky, before obliging. His tongue slips in and out of your hole, lapping at your wet, parched like he’s been lost at sea. You aimlessly grasp at the ruined sheets, feeling your third climax fast approaching. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” you gasp as it builds. 

JJ leans back, replacing his mouth with his fingers. The cold metal of his rings presses at your entrance and it only amplifies everything. A strange but satisfying feeling builds deep inside of you, unfamiliar. Practically seeing stars, you come with a broken moan of his name. But as you topple over the edge, you soon realise that your body is reacting completely different to how it usually does. You lose all control, succumbing to the pleasure. Finally, as you come back down, you can make out JJ’s astounded laugh. 

“Holy shit,” he mutters. 

Panting, you shift yourself to take him in. You’d squirted. If it weren’t for the expression on his face and the raging hard on in his boxers, you’d be embarrassed. But you can’t find it in yourself to be with the way JJ is looking at you, like he wants to devour you whole. 

“Oops?” you meekly say. 

JJ flips you over frantically, looming on top of you. His lips crash onto yours, consuming your every sense as he sloppily prods his tongue into your mouth. He grabs at your thighs and shoves your legs up so your knees are practically by your head. And then he’s shoving off his boxers and lining himself up. It’s when his dick prods your entrance that you come back to your senses. 

“Wait, wait, wait! Need a condom!”

JJ groans, annoyed and impatient. He rifles through the bedside drawer, his frown growing deeper and deeper with every passing second. 

“Shit, there ain’t any,” he mutters. 

“Please tell me you’re messing with me,” you beg, hands coming to cup at your face. It’s ironic you saying that when he’s the one that’s been patiently holding out for the last hour.

JJ gets to his feet and turfs through the door thoroughly. Nothing. He goes through his wallet, his short pockets, your bag. Nothing. Cursing up a storm, he shoves his way into the bathroom and turns the place upside down. You hear a loud whoop when he returns, holding the packet up like a trophy. You sigh out a laugh, elated with relief. With that, JJ doesn’t waste another second.

He fucks you hard and fast, holding out longer than you expected considering the edging torture he’d undergone whilst praising your body like a temple. It was an unspoken agreement that this part was more for him than for you. Besides, you’re so wound up that it hardly takes anything for you to come again. 

The post-sex bliss is short lived though. After JJ peppers your body with groggy smooches, he moves away with a promise to grab a flannel to help clean you up. But then he stops mid-sentence. You crack open an eye, smiling doppily as you take in your boyfriend. His expression kills the joy. 

“What? What’s wrong?”

JJ stares at you, wide eyed. “The condom split.”

You jolt up in bed. “What!?”

“It must have been an old one or something!”

You scramble for the packet and look at the date. Expiration date: 2017. Your mouth slowly falls open. Wordlessly, you hand it to him. 

“Shit. We gotta get that plan B pill now,” JJ says. 

You agree. Legs wobbly, he helps you dress and the two of you head out to the nearest pharmacy. Morning after pill equipped, you take it and put the whole nightmare to bed as a lesson learnt. Crisis averted. 

Easy to say your victory was far too early. So, four weeks later, as you and JJ stare down at the positive pregnancy test in his bathroom, he sheepishly smiles at you. 

“Technically speaking, this is not my fault.”

[summ3rhead]

Her hands on Mary’s jaw, fingers wrapped underneath her chin, beckoning her to look up. Shannon’s divine in the light, scar tissue highlighted in the moonlight. Indents displaying her life, commemorating a memory. She can’t count the number of times she had traced those marks, creating a constellation of invisible lines.

A finger twitches, and Mary obeys. Muscles twitch as she drags her lips over the swell of her hip, pressing a kiss to the scar.

“Mary,” Shannon inhales, hips chasing as Mary pulls away.

“I love you,” she whispers, breath warm against soft skin. A hand drags across the back of her neck, intertwining in strands of hair. Tightening around the cusp of her skull as lips press against another scar.

Her fingers find it first, thin and smooth, a familiar mark in the latticework of divinity. Her lips find it next. A thin scar, barely two inches, stretched between two ribs. A result of a spear and recklessness.

“I have loved every part of you, Shan,” Mary breathes, another kiss, “I will always love you,” a third kiss, “nothing will ever change that.”

- Wounds of Christ Anon (yes the other one was sent prematurely)

Yes, I’m imagining Shannon back from the dead, returning to Mary. Mary as St. Thomas, not believing at first, dropping to her knees and tracing the evidence of Shannon’s Martyrdom; her holy wounds. She finds the wounds she had seen torn through Shannon’s body, the wounds that killed her, are now pale scars. She remembers every single lesion and puncture and hole the divinium tore through her lover’s body in terrible detail. She remembers it and sees it reflected exactly in the body before her. She can no longer doubt.

HELLO WOUNDS OF CHRIST ANON, YOU DID NOT DISAPPOINT.

Short (so far hehe) but sweet, thank you thank you thank you anon. This was a delight. (Fifth paragraph especially oh my god I was going wild over that all day).

Something about sainthood and martyrdom and the fucking WOUNDS OF CHRIST, DUDE.

* Ava silva voice* is this… is this our thing now??

[chapel-of-rizztual]

Hi! not the same Puppy Mountain anon but now I am thinking about Mountain in general (not during pup play) having a cute little anal gape that Swiss loves to admire after being finished with him. Maybe he teases him about the lewd noises ;)

Oops my hand slipped…so did Swiss’. 

~nsfw~ Gaping, Anal fisting, all that good shit

Mountain shifts his position then whines, squeezing his eyes closed, when he feels the two knots pressed inside him shift. That’s why he hadn’t moved in so long his arms have gone numb. 

Swiss chuckles behind him, rubbing his hand along the bottom of Mountain’s belly, right where the swell of his two cock protrude out in a bump that has Swiss’ head spinning in an ego inflating way. 

“Thought you said you could handle both at once. Bitten off more than you can chew, big boy?” 

Mountain whines again, biting his lip as Swiss pressed his palm into his belly, pressing the two cocks deeper into him. 

“No-no I can. I just didn’t expect to be knotted together for this long.” He gives a little hiccuped sob. “It’s been so long now.” 

Swiss coos at him, using his other hand to run his fingers through Mountain’s hair. 

“I know baby. Had your little hole stretched out around my knots for so long now. You’re taking them so well though. My good boy aren’t you?” 

Mountain shudders as Swiss gives a shallow thrust, pushing both his cocks and knots deeper into him. 

“How-ah fuck- how much longer before they go down?” 

“Not long now.” Swiss hums and noses along the nape of Mountain’s neck. “Can feel them starting to deflate, finally.” 

True to his word, it only takes a few minutes before Swiss pulls out, his knots popping out one after the other with a wet squelching sound. Mountain moans at the gush of liquid that flows from him, trying to clench as best he can to stop it from leaking everywhere and making a mess. 

“Fuck look at that.” Swiss thumbs over his hole. “I filled you up so good. There’s so much leaking out.” He smears his cum around Mountain’s ass. 

Mountain whines in embarrassment, feeling his face flush red and his whole body heat up. 

“Swiss…” he trails off with a pathetic moan, loosing all train of thought at Swiss pets over his hole. He desperately tries to clench again, wanting nothing more to stop the cum flowing out of him and to stop Swiss teasing him the way he is. 

“Unholy fuck.” Swiss gasp out. “Do that again. Try and clench again.” 

Mountain clenches again and there’s a wet bubbling sound as the air escapes him. Swiss gasps again from behind him. 

“Jesus Christ Mount.” He pushes his his thumb against his hole, circling it around his rim. “You can’t even close-“ He lets out a shaky moan. “Baby, you’re gaping.” 

Mountain lets out a gasp as Swiss pushes his thumb into him. His cock, which never really want soft in the first place, kicks against his belly and fills out even more.  “S-swiss, don’t tease me, sore.” 

That only seems to spur Swiss on even more and Mountain can feel him smile again his shoulder.  “Yeah baby? Feeling sore? I got you so stretched out and open it hurts?” 

Swiss pushes two fingers into making a wet squelching sound and more cum dribbles out around his fingers. Mountain moans, arching his back. 

“You’re so loose- fuck- holy shit, Mount.” Swiss scissors his fingers and watches as Mountain’s hole opens easily even more, more cum spilling from him and pooling under his ass. 

“You’re so fucked out and open. I really ruined you, huh? I really got your tight little hole stretched and and ruined for anyone else.” 

Mountain cries out, his hips and his cock twitching in unison. It hurts, Satan below it hurts, but it’s the kind of pain that’s addictive, that has you begging for more. Like pressing your fingertips into a bruise or digging your nails into an open wound. It makes a Mountain feel weak, powerless against Swiss’ fingers. 

“Fuck.” Swiss teases the tips of four finger’s against Mountain’s rim. “I bet I could get my whole hand in you right now.” 

Mountain groans and buries his head into the pillow, his back arching even more.  “Do it.” 

Swiss pauses, a little take back.  “What?” 

“Do it.” Mountain sobs onto the pillow. “Fuck me with your hand. Please, need it.”

Swiss bites his lips and suppresses a moan, feeling both of cock kick and fill up a little in interest. He rummages around in the bed sheets looking for the lube that got disregarded before. He finds it easily and pours a generous amount over his hand. 

“I don’t even think you’d need the extra lube.” He laughs lightly to himself. “You’re so wet already, I could just slip it right in.” 

He pushes his four fingers in, tucking his thumb in as well. He sinks in up until his knuckles, watching in fascination at Mountain stretches so easily around him. He stops at his knuckles, giving Mountain a second to adjust and an out for ifs too much for him to handle. 

Mountain just whimpers, his hips twitching as he fidgets and grips at the bed sheets below him.  “Swiss, please. More, more please.” 

Swiss doesn’t say anything, just squeezes at Mountain’s shoulder and sinks his fist in deeper. Mountain moans as he feels each hard ridge of Swiss knuckles pop into him until Swiss has his whole fist inside him. 

He feels so full, so incredibly full. It’s like there isn’t even room for his lungs to expand properly for him to breathe. His head spins, his whole body feels hot, too hot, and he knows the a Sheen of sweet covering him. 

“I wish you could see how hot this looks.” Swiss pants behind him. “You’re absolutely amazing, baby’s I can’t believe you’re letting me do this.” 

Swiss pulls his hand back out slowly, letting Mountain’s rim stretch back over the thickest part of hand, back over the knuckles. Mountain makes a pained moan when he pushes his hand all the back in, right up until his wrist. 

“Swiss-Swiss, I’m gunna- fuck I feel so full. It’s so- it’s so much, I can’t.” Mountain wails, holding onto the sheets like a lifeline. 

“Gunna cum already, baby? From being stretched out and used by me?” Swiss speeds up, punching in and off Mountain making a slick wet pop with each thrust. 

“I’m- I’m so close. I need- I’m gunna-gunna-oh” Mountain cuts himself off with a  high pitched feminine moan, arching his back into Swiss. 

“That’s it, cum for me baby.” Swiss coos at him. “But don’t think I’m going to stop when you do. I’m not stopping until you’re well and truly ruined.” 

[asexual-fandom-queen]

good Christ shut the fuck up when you don't even know what you're talking about about. go slobber over your fetish ship and keep Tommy's name out your goddamn mouth

My best practice with anon hate is usually to just ignore it, but I do think this is worth sharing because it speaks to the very sad reality of what's happening in the 9-1-1 fandom right now.

I didn't mention Eddie one single time in my post. Nothing about that post was pro-ship in any particular way. Nor was it anti-ship.

I like Tommy. I think he's complex. I think there's meat to his character that canon doesn't have time to explore that I'm glad fanon can take away and expand on.

The thing is, I've been watching fandom lately - multiple fandoms, but especially this one - demanding certain outcomes and storylines. But 9-1-1 is not your story to command.

I am willing to give you the benefit of the doubt and assume you're like 13, because I remember being 13 and having Big Emotions about fictional relationships. But, I would encourage you to take this as an opportunity to examine the behavior you're displaying right now and ask yourself "is this healthy?" and "does this serve me?"

I would ask the same of any Buddie shippers sending this kind of anon hate to Bucktommy shippers. Are you in a good place, mentally, if your response to dealing with feelings that are upsetting you is to send a message like this to another human being? Are you in a good place when you harass actors and writers and showrunners on Twitter? Do you need to take a step back? Are there strategies you can be putting in place to build up your resilience? You're lashing out like a wounded animal, and that almost certainly implies that you are wounded. But not just over a television show. That's just not how this kind of emotional response works. So, ask yourself, what's the deeper hurt under this hurt, and what can I do today to start healing it?

[brotherwtf]

please—just pull the knife out! for clegan

hehehe very nice anon! (rubbing my hands together)

doing this for a one off cowboy au bcs I need my boys riding horses.

---

John had never suspected to get into a fight while they were riding. Much less for someone to pull a knife on them.

He and Gale had taken to riding in the countryside together to escape the prying eyes of their neighbors who tend to give them wayward looks. What two men live and work together, anyway? So they packed their saddle bags and left town for a day or two, finding a campsite to set up for the evening.

It was getting late, and they still hadn't reached the campsite yet. They hadn't remembered to bring a lamp, so they urged their horses into a gallop.

"We should get out of here before night falls, don't want --" Gale shouts, but is struck off of his horse before he can finish his sentence.

Two rogues, both wearing black, now appeared from the rocky ledge they were passing, one holding a pistol and the other reaching for Gales white horse. John shouts, pulling his pistol and raising it towards the rogues.

"Get! Get or I'll shoot!" John shouts, bringing his horse to a stop.

He can't see Gale from where he's fallen on the ground. The rogue holding the gun shoots past his head and John yelps, shooting the man in the leg. An anguished shout comes from behind the mask and John poises his finger to shoot again. The other rogue puts his hands up, leaving Gale's horse behind and grabbing the other around the shoulders.

"Let's just get out of here. Not worth dying over this," The rogue says, muffled, and they crawl back over the ledge.

John jumps off of his horse when they're out of sight and spots Gale on the ground, gasping when he finally sees him.

A knife is lodged in Gale's stomach and Gale groans in pain, throwing his head back against the rock he's propped up against.

"Jesus Christ, Gale," John breathes and crouches down beside him, gripping his shoulder to steady him.

He looks at the wound and swallows thickly. It's lodged almost to the hilt, but John can't tell how long the blade is. Gale's blue shirt is stained red from the blade and he's breathing heavily from the pain.

"Fuck this looks bad," John mutters and takes off his over shirt and presses it against the bleeding wound.

Gale curses and grips John's arm, eyebrows furrowing in pain.

"Please, just take the knife out," Gale whispers and curses again when John accidentally nudges the blade.

John shakes his head and sighs, bringing his hand from Gale's shoulder to cup his jaw.

"I don't want you to bleed out. Fuck, you got any thread? A needle?" John asks.

Gale nods towards his saddle bag.

"Should be a needle in there for fixing my shirt buttons. Fuck, please just hurry, John," Gale whimpers, gripping John's shoulder even tighter.

John scrambles to the saddle bag, rummaging around until he finds the needle and tiny bit of white thread. He goes over to his horse and grabs a matchbox and returns to where Gale is sitting. John breathes out heavily and grabs the hilt of the knife.

"Alright, Gale, just breathe for me okay? This is gonna hurt like a motherfucker," John says.

Gale nods and braces himself against John's thigh, taking a deep breath. John sighs and pulls the knife out as swiftly as he can, grimacing at Gale's wounded groan.

"Sorry, sorry, fuck just hold this there," John says, handing Gale his over shirt he was using earlier and lighting the match.

He sterilizes the needle as much as he can and threads it, shushing Gale's pained moans with a careful squeeze of his shoulder. The blood wasn't gushing as much as when John first pulled out the knife and he carefully pulls away the shirt, poking Gale's skin with the needle and sewing the wound shut. It's not a huge gash, but he would bleed out without something holding the skin together.

"Am I gonna be alright, Doc?" Gale asks breathily, lips ticking up in a smirk.

John rolls his eyes and takes the over shirt again, wrapping it around Gale's abdomen and securing it tightly. He pats Gale's shoulder and kisses his cheek.

"All patched up. Fuck, Gale, I'm so sorry," John says.

Gale shakes his head and brings one of his hands up to John's jaw, running his thumb over John's cheekbones.

"Ain't your fault. You didn't call those rogues on me. Trust, I'll be alright," Gale says, and places a quick kiss on John's lips.

John smiles and sits next to Gale.

"Guess we didn't make it to our campsite," He says, resting his cheek on top of Gale's head.

Gale shakes his head and intertwines his fingers into John's.

"Guess not," Gale starts, "but this is still nice,"

bro this was so difficult to write for some reason. thank you so much for the ask!

[juwaiin]

piastri gaining more positions in races doesn’t mean he’s performing better than norris or more consistently. he’s 13-3 down in quali, you are always going to gain more places if you start further back! norris has consistently outperformed him this season, which is kinda clear from the gaps between them at the end of races - norris has finished more than 20 seconds ahead of him quite a few times this season. piastri’s biggest lead to him was abt 10 seconds and that was when norris didn’t put under the sc at jeddah.

norris is getting team orders because he is the one who has performed well enough and consistently enough to be in the championship fight. oscar hasn’t. simple as that.

the sheet will also show you the positions norris has lost. you gain more positions if you start further back, but you really aren't supposed to lose more positions if you start ahead! norris makes too many errors that cost him positions. simple as that.

and speaking of consistently outperforming,

i personally don't think what norris needs is team orders. what he needs is to perform better- and not just in comparison to oscar. the bulk of his point loss is because of stupid errors and, not to sound like a broken record, but calling for team orders instead of improvement on his end is like slapping a bandaid on an open wound. will it work? maybe. is there a bigger problem that needs to be resolved? absolutely. is it unfair for oscar to be the bandaid at his own expense in this scenario while the gaping wound goes unaddressed? goes without saying!!

go back and read that paragraph three more times because i keep repeating the same notion but i don't know why you have elected to ignore or misinterpret.

everyone hates team orders yadda yadda but most people will shut up when they're justified. in this case, it's unjustified. if you lose positions in 47% of your races, you are not consistent or strong. if you NEED team orders to fight a championship and cannot carry your own weight, you do not deserve it. simple enough i hope.

anyway, please stop sending anon asks about norris jesus fucking christ. it's cowardly and pointless. if you want to share your opinions, you have a blog for that. if you want to have a conversation (and i doubt this is the case :p) dms exist. but i don't think there's a conversation to be had given. vague gesturing. the nature of this exchange

[crimsonlovebartylus]

bartylus would never last long term

who told you that? them? 😦 WYM??? THEY WOULD NEVER LAST LONG TERMMMMM.. oh my god, someone grab my hand.. anon just told me, they wouldn't last long-.. *faints*

they would actually. in canon, in fanon, in real life, in the afterlife, in jesus christ may blessed them.

them in their deathbed:

"we made it, Barty!" Regulus whispers.

Barty slowly glance over. "We did, Regulus."

As they held eachother as the night consumed them forever. After every trial and obstacle in life, and the countless breakups. They died in each other arms.

ALSO?????? obviously they wouldn't last long term, they both died. Gosh anon, thanks for opening the wound.