#you wanna resurrect her?

[witless-winion1]

God Games

Aphrodite: your little high and ~mighty~ Odysseus, claims to love his mother but let her die of a broken heart~

(Two minutes later, cut to Athena smacking Ares with her spear)

Athena: HOLD YOUR TONGUE NOW! His son’s my FRIEND!

Athena: and tell your lover that a broken heart can mend!

Ares: wh-

Aphrodite: fuck you mean It can mend?! She’s already dead! Weren’t you listening to me??

[encrucijada]

does watching a video essay on midnight mass (that i have not watched) count as research for haze dogs

[philtatosbuck]

Do you mind telling what his relationship with Vivienne was like? I know Vivienne was half werewolf half witch and how they met but can you tell me what the relationship was like? I never made it past a few chapters

So it was a bit back and forth, because she was engaged (set up) to be married to this other guy, but Klaus was into her and she was into Klaus and not this other dude, but she fucked Klaus anyways and then lowkey ghosted him which pissed Klaus off so he was in one of his Moods. She has this whole other plot going on because she's supposed to unify the witches & wolves but she ends up smacking the guy she's supposed to marry after he hit her and says she never loves him and instead goes off with Klaus. She wants to unite the witches and wolves, but the witches don't like that she triggered her curse and the wolves don't like Klaus fr so they all want her dead and Klaus convinces her to let him and Elijah kill everybody fr except she accidentally dies because of Klaus & Elijah and when she's resurrected, she marries Klaus but she has to sacrifice herself to save New Orleans (she's mostly doing it to save Klaus) and.

Listen. I personally like them. Arranged marriage isn't my favorite trope, and I'm not really usually one for characters who have an explicit purpose to unite factions or anything, but I do like Vivianne as a character, and her not taking shit from either Klaus or the guy she was arranged to marry. The whole plot is reminiscent of the Jackson/Hayley/Elijah shit but it's handled better, imo, and all the characters involved are more believable than the shit that went down with them.

The relationship in itself was very charming, to me? The banter was good and the back and forth didn't reach the fatigue point. Klaus was a persistent dickhead, as he's prone to be. She was stubborn enough to tell him to fuck off (not in those words) a couple times but she did always like him and eventually chose him above her 'commitment' to the wolves and witches. I think if she were a character in the show, I'd have enjoyed seeing that relationship play out on screen. Especially if Aurora had come into it.

[fatelcved]

y'all remember when i said maybe cyrillo dies?? i take it back. he's faking his death and retiring to some village by the sea bc i said so uvu

[slayerdurge]

now the question remains do i want to play through the orin encounter a third time 'cause i kinda wanna see what happens if you lose to orin 😂

[toubledrouble]

HOT TAKE TOURNAMENT!

TOURNAMENT OVERTIME #166

Submission 515

if you must ship Jesus with one of his disciples then at least ship him with John

look I'm a Christian (but like not the bad kind) and I don't personally ship Jesus with anyone cause that feels a bit too much rpf-y for me but I see people (jokingly, I assume, for the most part, but also this is the internet so I know some people are very serious about this) ship Jesus with either Judas or Peter and like....... tell me your knowledge of the Bible is the few Bible stories you remembered from sunday school as a kid without telling me that your knowledge of the Bible is the few Bible stories you remembered from sunday school as a kid. like yeah sure there's all these great stories about these guys that kids learn about! everyone who has some basic knowledge of the whole easter deal knows Judas and if you've learned any stories about Jesus with the disciples then you probably know about Peter. but like........ John is the guy. like go read the book of John if you don't believe me. like this is the guy who is canonically (fun reminder that the term "canon" originates from people discussing the Bible long long ago) "the disciple who Jesus loved." like Sufjan Stevens, king of "is he talking about his boyfriend or Jesus" refers to John & Jesus' relationships in his song "John My Beloved" which is hella gay and like it's all right there!!!!!! like this is so strange for me to be invested in because I'm not like someone who actively ships them but like if I wasn't religious and all I would be all over this and the fact that people keep being like "hehe Jesus and Judas~~~" when there's like no textual evidence for that!!! it's just people seeing the kiss of betrayal and liking some dramatic stuff!!! and the people who bring up Peter instead are the same!!! like you're just applying fanfic tropes to a dynamic and deciding that you like it instead of like looking at what's actually there in canon!!!!!!!! like at least do cool blasphemy or whatever I hate that I care about this. I hate that I wrote all of this. I have no dog in this fight. whoever wins I lose because I don't want to care about this in any way but I do and it's horrible and I just wish people would at least talk about the guy who when having to read his gospel like a year ago for something, I was left with the thought of "huh....... if I didn't know any better I'd say that there was something going on here"

Propaganda is encouraged!

Also, remember to reblog your favourite polls for exposure!

Now this is the discourse I live for.

Also, if your otp is chriscariot (Jesus/Judas) or chrisrock (Jesus/Simon Peter), fight for your ship in the notes!

[bubbleggum444]

—❝S∪GAƦ, Y𝓔S P𝐿EASE!❞

contents jason todd x fem!reader, bride/wifey!reader au, tooth rotting fluff (+ a teeny tiny bit of angst), songfic (bc i'm high-key a sucker for them), 2k+ wc. synopsis jason marrying the love of his life—you :)

[I'm hurting, baby, I'm broken down. I need your lovin', lovin', I need it now.]

The man Jason used to be before he met her and the man standing at the altar now were two entirely different people. Before, he was hardened, broken, convinced he was beyond saving. After the resurrection, he had been nothing more than a shell of himself—no longer the sweet, happy Robin. But then she came into his life, and piece by piece, she put him back together. Every time she was near, she picked up his shattered remains, healing him in ways he never thought possible. She became the guardian angel his 15-year-old self had desperately needed.

Now, standing at the altar, waiting for her, Jason felt something foreign yet familiar—hope.

[When I'm without ya, I'm something weak. You got me beggin', beggin', I'm on my knees.]

The weight of the moment pressed down on him. Everyone’s eyes were on him—it was expected, of course, he was the groom. But Jason had never liked being in the spotlight. His heart pounded against his ribs, and his hands clenched into fists at his sides. He wasn’t nervous about marrying her—that was the one thing he was sure of—but the anticipation, the sheer magnitude of what was about to happen, sent his nerves into overdrive.

Then, the music changed. A hush fell over the room.

And as Jason lifted his head, his breath caught in his throat.

There she was.

Walking toward him, down the long white aisle, looking every bit like the angel she had always been to him. His knees nearly buckled. Was it the nerves? Or was it the sight of her—the woman who would soon be his wife?

Both. It was both. And for her, Jason would go to his knees all over again.

[I don't wanna be needing your love. I just wanna be deep in your love.]

The Jason before her had been defensive, guarded, unwilling to let anyone in. No matter how sweet she was, he had fought against needing her—whether because he felt too broken, too unworthy, or simply too afraid to be vulnerable.

But as she walked toward him now, memories of her flooded his mind.

The first time they met—her tumbling into him, muddy and scraped up from roller-skating straight into his path. Jason had barely had time to register what had happened before he was on his knees, making sure she was okay.

Their first date—her in a sundress that made her glow like the sun itself, laughing as she compared them to mismatched socks. "We're like a perfect pair!" she'd said. He hadn't known if it was the way she made imperfection seem beautiful or the way she so easily called them a couple, but his knees had felt weak even then.

Jason had once told himself he didn't want to need her love. But he had missed the memo—his heart had already been deep in her love from the first moment he saw her. And for the first time since his resurrection, Jason Todd didn’t mind needing someone else.

[And it's killing me when you're away, ooh, baby.]

As she reached him, he took her hands in his, steadying both her and himself. Another memory surfaced.

Jason, exhausted, dragging himself home after another brutal night of crime-fighting. His body ached, his mind was drained, and his soul felt heavier than ever. But when he opened the door to his apartment, warmth wrapped around him like a long-lost embrace.

The fire crackled softly in the dim room, the smell of roasted beef lingering in the air. And then, there she was. Smiling at him, eyes full of love. A moment later, she was in his arms.

"I got off early from nursing school," she had said, as if those simple words weren’t everything.

But they were everything.

Jason had never realized just how much he needed her—how much he hated being away from her—until that moment.

[Cause I don't really care where you are. I just wanna be there where you are.]

Now, in the present, Jason’s cold hands enveloped hers, his world narrowing to just her. The nervousness, the crowd, the weight of all the eyes watching—it all disappeared.

And then, finally, his lips met hers. A kiss filled with love, devotion, and every spoken and unspoken vow in his heart.

It didn’t matter where they were—in his tiny apartment, feeding ducks by the river, ice skating (and failing miserably), or lost in a crowd larger than Gotham itself.

Jason didn’t care.

As long as he was wherever she was, that was enough.

➽──────────────❥

© — ggυɱi '25

likes and reblogs are greatly appreciated

ദ്ദി ≽^⎚˕⎚^≼ .ᐟ

[caotictimmy]

How dose your madoka reader family really feel about her? Like are they just awkward around her because shes the only normal person in the house or…..

AHHH OMG IVE BEEN WANTING TO TALK ABOUT THIS. ALSOOOO THANK YOU FOR SENDING AN ASK IN OMGGGGG YOUR MY FIRST MADOKA MAGICA READER ONE. (Also before I forget madoka magica is based off of madoka of course BUTTTTTT… reader can be any appearance. Including race and weight or what ever how you imagine the reader to be for you! All I really say is my serious is mostly for fem readers. Like cis fems, trans fems, Demi girls, or anyone who doesn’t mind to be fem presenting!)

I’m gonna start off with saying they all do love you! I imagine again since MM!reader wasn’t strong enough to be a hero that their mostly just forgotten about, or avoided to not get the reader hurt. They all love reader but they all have some reasons to not pay attention or to avoid reader.

Bruce: Honestly I think he gets uncomfortable around you. He can’t look at you for to long, you reminds him to much of his past. You looks so close to your mother. The one he left to rot, blissfully unaware she was rotting in misery with a poor child to bear witness.(I might make a post later about MM!reader’s childhood before having to come to the mansion.) And that smile, oh dear that smile. A spitting imagine of his mother’s. The one she use to flash him while brushing his hair. Getting him ready for a gala. Or when she would read to him at night. We all know Bruce isn’t one to cope well. So his coping for you is to avoid you as much as possible. He also feels guilty for leaving reader with their mother. Who definitely wasn’t able to properly take care of you. His guilt eats at him and he feels like it would consume you with it.

Dick: This is gonna be recurring but he was one who just would forget you. He didn’t mean it, really! He was just too busy… He had his team he was leading, he had friendships and relationships he had to focus on. You weren’t a child who would cause trouble, or do anything extraordinary. You thankfully(not on your end) were an easy child to take care of or watch over, but that also made you easily forgettable. So when Dick would be watching over the family, whether that be movie night or just simply hanging out. You could walk around with kyubey in your hands in your magical girl outfit and dick wouldn’t notice. It’s sad, you’re sad but It’s ok you never complains. Well.. not to anyone except your favorite stuffed animals.

Jason: Jason is tricky… Jason is jealous of you, especially after his resurrection. He wanted a normal life. He wanted to be able to have time to spend with friends, or being able to spend time on normal things a child should be able to. He wants to be in your shoes so bad. He knows he’ll never get to have what you have and he’s mad about it. He avoids you like the plague. He feels his anger bubble up when he’s with you. You’re just so blissfully unaware of how truly horrible Gotham is. Jason feels bad for being mad or jealous of you. He can see how lonely and isolated you are, but he can’t bring himself to do anything about it.

Tim: Doesn’t try and be mean to you. You just always catch him at a bad time. Whether that be when he’s on a particularly bad case and extremely sleep deprived, or after dealing with a headache inducing villain. You always just seems to pop up when he’s at his wits end. He can’t help himself from snapping. No he doesn’t wanna hang out, or play. He doesn’t wanna be around you! Leave! His heart always aches seeing that devastated look in your eyes. The light that would shimmer from them, dimming at his harsh words. You would let out an apology in a meek tone, before scurrying as far away from him as you could. He feels bad and promises to apologize to you later but he never does.

Duke: Duke is probably the best sibling. He really enjoys being around you. He thinks you’re just the sweetest. (MM!reader wears a lot of pink. So he calls you pinky pie). Sadly for both you and Duke he’s also incredibly busy. He has way too much on his plate. He tries to fit time in there for you, he does! Duke just has way too many important things he has to focus on before he can focus on you. You understand. You’ve never been anyone’s top priority or in general being important. So you’ll wait as long as it takes for Duke to have enough time.

Damien: I know people like to say that Damien would hurt neglected reader, but I just don’t see that. Damien doesn’t see a reason to bother with you or even interact with you at all. He knows he doesn’t have to compete to have Bruce’s attention when your just so… non important. You don’t cause trouble. You don’t usually draw attention to yourself at all. You Arn’t a hero or in training. You’re just there. So he’ll interact with you when he has to, or on an extremely rare occasion just to see what you’re up to, before just as quickly as asking he ends the conversation.

Stephenie: Steph is almost a carbon copy of how dick acts around you. In her eyes your is so sneaky. (No you Arn’t, Stephanie just almost never notices you).She jumps a bit every time you gently tap her shoulder asking if she wanted to do something together. She’ll laugh and joke about you needing to start being louder when you come up to her. (You are, she just doesn’t notice.) She’ll brush you off with a sweet(sickeningly so) smile saying that maybe another time! You know that time won’t ever time, but you can hope.

Cassandra: Cassandra doesn’t interact with you, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t notice you. She’ll observe you from afar. It doesn’t matter what you’re doing. You could be eating or drawing in a notebook. She studies your every movement. You just have this way about you. You always have this sense of happiness and peace around you, even if she can sometimes feel that sense dampened by sadness. Sooner or later she’ll notice your back to your happy self again. Cass wishes she could talk to you but she has no idea how she would start a conversation. So she’s content for now just watching.

Authors note: AHHHH IM SO HAPPY I GOT AN ASK!!! I really wanna thank you to the person who sent this! Anyways pls send more requests, and you guys can always ask to be on my tag list! (Pls specify if you want it to be to all MM!reader things or just the chapters.) but anyways thank you for reading!

[theyluvlyss]

𝐈 𝐰𝐚𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐝 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐩𝐨𝐨𝐥 & 𝐖𝐨𝐥𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐥𝐞𝐭 𝐦𝐞 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐬𝐚𝐲...

my head is all but consumed with thoughts only of wade wilson, logan howlett, and remy lebeau. they're all I can process in my head (besides shazam, but that's a given considering no one loves shazam the way I do, so🤷🏽‍♀️) and I y e a r n desperately for an influx in "wade x y/n x logan" fics and the "remy x y/n" fics... dare I even ask, humbly ofc, hear me out... for a splash of "wade x y/n x remy". genuinely, I'd kill for some of that ngl.

and I bet you're wondering, "lyssa, why not do it yourself🤔?"

short answer: I am swamped with requests, and even if I wasn't, I'm not ready yet lmao I fear I do not possess the skills to capture them in my writing perfectly😔 ... yet😈.

in the meantime, tho *😈evil little laughter😈* may I plz suggest the following prompts and pairings to and for anybody willing to work with them or wanting ideas (begging any writers that see this to please write these and tag me plz plz plz plz plz 😭🙏🏽😃plzplzplzplzplzplzplzpl-)...

───────── 《 .°•♡•°. 》 ──────────

⚠️trigger and content warning btw lol -

mentions of fighting/violence/bloodshed, death, gore, (like c'mon,,, bffr, look at who you're reading about😐��), anxiety/panic attacks, harsh words/themes/elements/physical injuries, abuse and/or negelct, separation anxiety, mental disorders, brief mention of sickness/illness, drugs (just 🍃 and painkillers), age gap (nothing illegal, chill out🤨✋🏽), use of a derogatory term (not used in a negative sense tho lol), and some semi-common smut themes that I won't list here, but be wary if that stuff makes you uncomfortable :)♡. also, these are all under the pretense that the reader is a cis girl, she/her/hers pronouns (so ig you could think of this as one, big, mass request to all writers willing from me lol🤭🥴🫶🏽).

𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐬𝐭/𝐡𝐮𝐫𝐭/𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐭 :

- reader having a panic/anxiety attack and ofc being comforted (causes my vary; maybe right after a fight/battle, or because of over-worrying or too much pressure, maybe after a fight with another loved one, etcetc). definitely wanna see this with all three of them, but separately, tho. like, one fic or list of "preferences/headcannons" for logan, one for wade, and then one for remy.

- near death or death (followed by resurrection swift after). it could be reader almost dies or dies (then gets resurrected, get creative with it/how, fr, yk?) or the reverse; the POI (person of interest) dies, although given two of the three's abilities, y'all might have to get creative if you want it to translate for logan and/or wade so this one would be mainly for a remy x reader.

- I personally love a good "POI says sumn mean/outta pocket, hurts reader's feels, stuff happens idk, but they eventually kiss and make up" trope. I'd eat that up, especially cuz OHHH,,,, wade taking a joke or playful argument or something too far? logan being a little too mean/angsty to you for comfort?? remy saying something that gets lost in translation, so it comes out harsher than intended??? 😫😫😫‼️‼️ AND IF YOU WANNA GET MESSY WIT IT, RUNNING TO ONE OF THE OTHER THREE FOR COMFORT🙈🙈⁉️⁉️⁉️.

- a classic; reader getting injured (mildly or worse, doesn't matter), needing to be taken care of, but is stubborn about it?? always a good one.

- getting a little crazy and silly here, but I like a good "abusive and/or negelctful ex/current partner" trope. like hell yeah, one of you big, strong men get over here and save me, whisk me away and show me what I really deserve😻‼️. NOT romanticizing/glorifying it obvs, like no, I mean that wade, logan, and/or remy would not be the red flags in this scenario, they're the one(s) doing the saving FROM the red flag ex/current partner lol.

- getting a little crazier and sillier with this one, but one where reader gets snatched up🙂? oouuuu, miss girl got kidnapped?! once again, somebody come save me, and if "somebody" is not wade, logan, and/or remy, then don't bother, I don't want it. matter of fact, just gon' on ahead and leave me, I'll figure it out myself🙂✌🏽. I think I'd want these separate, actually, bc I wanna take in the individuality of their reactions, like,,, logan going feral?? pretty predictable tbh lmao but still hot. remy?? idek ngl, y'all gon' have to figure him out. BUT WADE BEING SERIOUS AND NOT AS TALKATIVE FOR ONCE UNTIL HE KNOWS YOU'RE SAFE???? OOOHOOHOOOOOOO, GIMMIE🖐🏽👹🖐🏽✊🏽👹✊🏽!!!

- ig this could be put in the panic/anxiety attack category, but I also feel like this might be it's own separate thing, so idk, but... separation anxiety on reader's part. whatever the circumstances may be to breed it, reader is just (not in a unhealthy way) attached to the POI(s), so them leaving for whatever reason is pretty hard on her (and the POI(s), too, because hello, they don't wanna make their reader upset, but things gotta get done fr yk😫🥲),,, lots of reassurance, comforting, and maybe distractions ensue??

- reader with an alter ego/inner beast, whether that be a result of her powers or a mental disorder (think like,,, split personality or maybe DID or something like that, but I do wanna say, if you're gonna go the mental route, make sure you do your research so that you're representing it - not only accurately - but you're not dehumanizing or dumbing it down as well) or just anything that would cause the reader to, as I said, have a different side of themself,,, werewolf type deal, yk? "normal" for the most part, but then has her moments where she be on demon time and then when she's back to herself, she's just like "???" while everyone else is like "!!!". I suppose this could then be followed up/solved with a "the sun's getting real low" typa thing/moment from the POI(s), but that's neither here nor there, do what feels right fr♡.

- reader (just barely) escapes cassandra nova??? that could be cool (a.k.a. very, very angsty bc surely the encounter has messed the reader alllll the way up both mentally and physically, especially knowing what typa timing cass be on lmao😃). love a good hurt/comfort, I can't get enough, actually. this one (given the movie context) may or may not work with wolvie and/or pool (again, up to the writer to get creative), but gambit?? he's been in the void his whole life, he knows cass, sooo it'd make more sense for him to have a higher understanding of the situation in full, but do what y'all want, I'm just the idea woman🤷🏽‍♀️.

𝐟𝐥𝐮𝐟𝐟 :

- morning cuddles and softeness and ughghfhfhdjd♡!!♡!♡!!♡!♡!!♡!! and then the opposite, night/bedtime cuddles and softness and uugjfjdkwkfke♡!!♡!♡!!♡!♡!!♡!!

- height difference teasings and shenanigans. we can always stick to the classics, ofc, short reader, tall wade, logan, and/or remy. maybe its an advantage in fights - fast, lethal, and small + big, shielding, and strong - but sucks in more domestic/calm cases like reaching for shit on the top shelf or wanting to kiss somebody. but I'd also love some tall gworl reader type shit, miss strong, lean, runway model energy, stepping on any heads and wooing any men that are in her path🥴😻. bending down with a smile so she can hear him, mindlessly playing with his hair, occasionally makes a quip here and there on the difference without thinking lol and he haaaaateeees all of it (but he looooveeeessss all of it🤭).

- reader being THAT GIRL, literally being in a 1v26 or sumn crazy like that and she's just kicking ass and shit the whole time, and then there's the POI(s),,, gawking and in love like "damn that's MY GIRL fr\😻/!!".

- *imagine a vine boom after every bolded word, okay, go* teen/minor/young PLATONIC NONSEXUAL NONROMANTIC (literally I can not stress this enough) NOT DATING AT ALL EVER reader and one/two/all of them. I think it'd just be silly seeing them (wade, logan, and or remy) working/paired with/having a bond with this little gremlin yet sweetheart of a reader who's somehow able to tolerate/put up with/ignore/maybe even indulge in their craziness lmfao. maybe just as or is even more crazy than they are, chaotic and desensitized type shit. you could even get ansgty with it, have this teen reader need saving or something like that, yk?

- sparring match and reader BEATS POI(s) in said spar cuz she's cool, awesome, and mega baller like that. lots of tension and goofiness, especially from the reader, cuz she knows damn well she's the shit. or, a different route!!... total dumb luck that she beat him/both/all of them, and is very obviously playing it off/acting like she won on purpose lmfao, cockiness ensuing.

- can't go wrong with a sick-fic lol. who doesn't wanna be taken care of?

- reader needs/wears glasses🤷🏽‍♀️. it can be the discovery of actually needing them, reader always squinting tryna read/see shit, or nearly getting herself in and out of danger bc again, she blind lmao. or it's just the case of reader never wears them out and about, but in calmer moments (where she doesn't run the risk of breaking them) she'll put them on, so she decides to bust 'em out one day and it's just the POI(s) being like ":O...😻😻!!".

- *olivia rodrigo voice* JEALOUSY, JEALOUSY, YEAA-aAAH😫😫‼️ ... reader who just,,, she don't play that shit, man, lmfao it's called you can prove yourself either friend or foe,,, stay tf away from my man or get your ass beat. pick one. and it's the POI(s) just absolutely flattered and amused with this energy from reader lmfao, reassurance ensuing quick after ofc. or, if you wanna get silly with it (and by silly, I mean violent♡), reader with a girl who can't take a hint😀 *eye twitch* so she finally makes shit clear one way or another (one way; does sumn with the POI(s) that makes the girl uncomfortable so she fucks off. another; reader pretty much beats that girl up and it's the POI(s) laughing but also trying to pry reader off of her cuz "stop it, I'm yours, I promise, you don't have to kill her, she didn't know any better😭!"). or just completely switch it up, vice versa, role-reversal POI(s) get jelly and it's reader having to deal with whatever may happen after/due to the fact lol.

𝐬𝐦𝐮𝐭 :

- shameless flirt reader!!!! she's not obnoxious or out of character/proper timing with it, but definitely a reader with helllllaaaaa rizz. is mainly on some "is somebody gonna match my freak?" type shi. wade would find it very silly and he'd match the freak ofc. logan,,, maybe he'd start off annoyed by it, then get used to it, only realizing you've actually grown on him once you start to pull back a little/stop completely? REMY WOULD LOVE AND BE AMUSED BY IT, so all I'm gonna say here is this: rabbits🐇🥰. iykyk♡.

- a smoke sesh leading to some good, old fashioned high/sleepy sex🥰. that's it, that's the prompt♡.

- lord, free me from my sins🙏🏽, plz don't judge me y'all😔 ,,, age gap😃? NOTHING CRAZY, CHILL, but yk, like,,, just a little young thing in her 20s or sumn being scooped up by one (or two🤭) of these older, more mature, aged like fine wine, and experienced men,,, that's all🥰.

- that moment when reader is a whore and is actually literally prancing around without a care in the world, fucking three different guys (wade, logan, and remy obvs) because "they're hot lol" - not necessarily behind their backs - but no one's saying anything or telling her no, nor does anyone seem to have any issues with it/are opposed, sooo😗🤷🏽‍♀️.

- do y'all think,,, because wolverine is yk...wolf-like-ish-whatever.... do y'all think that he,,,, that maybe he goes thru... a rut🙂?? lmfaoGDHAKXKPQPRR okay that's enough, that's enough🥴✋🏽-.

- you know how some smut has certain labels/themes/tags that are gonna be, yk,,, in said smut?? well, cuz I'm out of any specific ideas for smut, I'm just gonna leave some here, m'kaaaay, and whatever y'all wanna dooooo is up to youuuu, just as long as I get to seeee😗☺️🫶🏽~...

⚠️ also don't say I didn't warn y'all, I mean, there's literally a whole ass trigger warning at the top, so do not start fckn trippin' because you disagree with me or saw sumn you don't fw, cuz tbh, I don't care and you can honestly block me if it's that serious♡.

dom-sub, daddy/praise/breeding/spanking kink, knife/gun/blood play (and/or just mutant/power ability play in general hehehe), food/wax play, cnc (I don't suggest full blown non-con seeing as none of them seem the type to do such, no matter the circumstances, plus it's just not my thing personally but hey, I'm not currently writing for pool, wolvie, or gambit rn, so that's up to whoever is🤷🏽‍♀️), hunter-prey (y'all might see this and immediately think wolvie, which is understandable fr, but I beg y'all to get creative and let remy and/or wade hunt reader down, it can be done and done right, I promise, plz, I need it, 😫PLEASE!!-), friends with benefits,,, OHHH ENEMIES with benefits🫢🫢!!, overstim, jealousy/possessive/yandere, unprotected/creampie/oral ... that's all that comes to mind lmao wow what a crazy note to end this on, anyways-

───────── 《 .°•♡•°. 》 ──────────

yeah, so, do with all of this what you will (and plz spread this around, I genuinely do wanna see these get written and myself tagged like I am PINING for these fic ideas to be turned into reality😭🙏🏽), I just had to get my thoughts out before I forgot (at least in the fanfic department), because if someone were to ask me my thoughts on the movie itself !!!!! OMG I could run my mouth forever, but I don't wanna do that (lazy) so lmao for now, that's all lol byeeee~ /ᐠ-˕-マ!!

[theriverbeyond]

how exactly is John lying (/about what) and is that the worst part of him and how explicit is it in the books? i often dont understand general/fandom characterizations of fictional characters and HtN is definitely not the book I paid the most attention in, so I just wanna see if I missed something wholly obvious

So John is a Lying Liar Who Lies, and I think the most damming evidence for the sheer enormity of it all is this bit in HtN, page 482:

Many of the things John says are like, him reflecting or discussing things only he has memory of, with no one left to dispute his version of events, and it's clear that he has long ago lost the "objective truth" of his own history--some of this is likely the side effect of being alive for ten thousand years, but a lot of it is probably due to the fact that he doesn't want anyone to know what actually happened. HtN p. 158:

John is talking to Harrow here, but to Me, he is also reassuring himself. He KNOWS that people would judge him for his actions, and alters the stories he tells accordingly. Nobody has to know. It happened, and he can't undo it, and they wouldn't understand. He's motivated to lie, he's capable of lying, and he himself has stated that he believes that there is no difference between the truth, and the truth he tells himself. Because he's God.

Anyway. re: "how explicit is it", a lot of the times where we know for sure John is telling an untruth, he isn't directly lying per say, but rather misrepresenting events to such an insidious extent that it is functionally the same as lying. Here is a short and incomplete list:

All the times Harrow begged him to protect her from G1deon the First, and John was like sorry I can't do that, when in fact JOHN was the one who ordered G1deon to attack Harrow

Changing the names of all his friends and not telling them what their previous names or personalities were (and if he didn't tell them that, it's very reasonable he may have kept other things from them as well)

Saying that the House of the First was killed by "rising sea levels" and a "massive nuclear fission chain reaction" when the Earth actually died because John initiated a nuclear standoff, and then set off a nuke. like yeah what he said was technically the truth, but it also served to paint an extremely different picture when compared to what we learn in NtN

In NtN, in the dream, John tells Harrow about the time he killed all those cops, and he mentions that when it happened he was like "I swear to God, I didn't know what I was doing" "I freaked out, it was an accident", "I made a mistake". and then like half a page later he tells Harrow "Come on love. Guys like me don't have accidents"

Saying he ate peanuts "discreetly", and "the once"

"is this the worst part of him" I think that is up to you, I really like the layers this adds to the story. So much of NtN is literally just John telling Harrow/the reader a story, and we know he misrepresents events and tells untruths and is motivated to protect his own image and no longer sees a difference between the truth and the truth he tells himself. So it's like... we are getting all this info about what happened pre-appocalypse/resurrection, but how much of it is REAL? How much of it is reliable? How much of it would match the story if anyone else was alive to tell their side? It is so interesting to me. It's like a hefty peanut butter filled kong, to me.

[sushistyless]

Kisses in kiwi flavour.

just some early morning love between Y/N and H.

1.2k (blurb). My masterlist!

——————

“Mhm,” Harry grumbles sleepily as he wraps his tatted arms around Y/N’s waist, encasing her with his strong chest. His arrival in their tiny kitchen (but cozy— they’d add) catches her by surprise, a breathy laugh leaving her lips. She melts into his touch, liking the pattern his fingers make as they skate on the bare skin that’s revealed from the way he rucks her (well, previously his) shirt.

“What’s m’precious doing up so early?” He bends down some, the raspy notes of his voice resonating against her neck, and the feel of his lips curving against the canvas of her skin as he speaks slowly.

Y/N breathes in deeply, a smile blooming on her face from his words alone. She flips a pancake, noticing how the golden brown colour on it has spread evenly, and plops it over onto the ceramic plate kept on the side. She nestles further into him as she does so, and Harry’s hold on her tightens, his face now buried in the crook of her neck as he inhales her scent— rosemary and… cinnamon? — revelling in the knowledge that he now has her full attention.

“She’s making pancakes for you. She’s amazing actually.”

Harry grins hazily at her response, kissing her neck and skating his palms gently along her soft waist before giving her love handles a little squeeze. “Don’t doubt that. My dodo is amazing.”

Y/N bites her lip in efforts to stifle her own fluttering laugh, cushioning her head back on his bicep, and leaning back into him. She twists her head to look up at him, fondly gazing over his features while he continues to talk in the drawly velvety voice of his, “But as wonderful as tha’ is, she left me without m’cuddles this morning.” He pouts, giving her puppy dog eyes that are way too easy to fall for, Y/N thinks. “And I need m’girl to give me my daily dose of cuddles t’function.”

He was such a dodo too.

“Oh no,” Y/N gasps dramatically, “How will you live now? I’m getting worked up just thinking about it—” She pretends to faint on his arm, animatedly throwing a hand over her heart and closing her eyes.

“Hey,” Harry warns, the muscles in his cheek resisting the usual urge to twitch into a grin, “She should know that I have her in my arms— in m’clutches— right this second.”

Y/N blows a raspberry, not giving much regard to the threat, instead fanning her hands in front of her face, “Yeah, yeah, right. Like tha—" Her sentence is cut short however, when Harry’s hands move to tickle her sides. A bubble of chirpy laughter immediately bubble out of her system, as she curls into herself as a built in mechanism.

“H-Harry!” She squirms in his embrace, laughs pouring out her lungs, grappling to hold onto his wrists which is almost impossible considering his tactful tickle skills. And even when she does manage to get a hold of him, he’s way too strong for her to move especially when she’s already in an annoyingly compromised situation. “

“Yeah?” He beams, deep dimples making little craters in his cheeks, “Don’t worry now. Her laughs have resurrected me.” His fingers continue to squiggle around her sides until his arms wrap around her form completely, fully holding her to him.

He decides to relieve her by planting a big smooch on her cheek, and there’s quiet in the room from her breathing finally slowing down, heavy pants and little laughs leaving her lips as she calms down. Her fingers move to thread around with Harry’s, a pulse in his grip as she does so.

“Boo you, H,” she beams, panting out, “Absolute meanie.” She shakes her head, eyes betraying her quest to stay unaffected as if they remain with a blushy, joyful little twinkle in her crinkled eyes.

Harry only stares back at her, the biggest smile pulling on his lips. He watches the sparkle in her eyes, happiness cradling his heart at the fact that he could be the cause of that.

“I wanna kiss you, now.” Harry whispers and flips her to face him completely, entranced by the sight of his idiot. His lover. His dodo.

His.

“Yeah?” she counters, slowly pushing herself up to sit on the now empty, slightly flour-y counter. Harry catches on and guides her by the hips, assisting her.

“Yeah.”

That’s when she pops a piece of kiwi from the bowl on the counter into her mouth.

A glint in her eyes slowly increases and before he knows it, she’s chewing on it.

“Aish. Too bad. Toooo, too bad.” She lets out a soft giggle as she chews, hand covering her mouth, “Such deprivation this is for you. How can you kiss me, when I’m eating, hm?”

“Oh, no.” He smirks at her, “S’bad manners to talk while eating.” He brushes a strand of hair out of his face, his teasing and banter with her mischievous, but actions tender. He scrunches his nose some, “Guess it’s time for me to break a rule too, then.”

He moves forward and nudges his nose with hers, and Y/N yelps, giggling softly as she pulls back, chewing with her mouth still covered by her hand, a bit of the kiwi juice trickling down her lips. “H! Oh my god, you are—"

“— much less clumsy than you? Yeah, you messy girl. I am.” He grins showing his usual dimples, eyes far too busy twinkling into taking her features as he brings up his thumb and carefully swipes away the little bit of kiwi juice trickling down her chin.

Y/N giggles softly, with a shy glow in her eyes as he does so, finishing her bite. Just as she’s done, in a moment of bold mischief she tries to reach for the bowl again.

“Ah, ah— ahh. Nope.” Harry’s hand immediately reaches for her, pulling it back, a lopsided smile tugging on his lips. “You menace.”

“Oh, I’m the menace?”

“‘Course you are. You’re dodging m’kisses.”

“I’m eating, H! I-" she bubbles out in a laugh, cut off by him.

“Is it ‘cause I ate that last donut you wanted yesterday?” He now pouts, his hold on her tightening as he bends a bit and nudges her nose with his. “And now you’re upset, yeah?”

She pouts a bit herself, laughing breathily, as she noses back at his nose, eyes closed. “See? You’re so mean. You’re not even sorry about it.”

“‘M such a meanie,” Harry says with a little smile, his eyes fluttering shut as he rests his forehead against hers.

Y/N finally leans in and kisses him, eyes closed too, as the soft touch of her hands behind his neck send tingles down his spine. Supple lips locked in a sweet dance with hers, harry deepens the kiss, tilting his jaw and pulling her flush against his chest, strong arms tightening against her soft frame.

He pulls away barely, eyes full of tender affection as he looks at her own irises, filled with a shy, excited tinge.

He whispers soft, eyelashes fluttering close to hers in a butterfly kiss, “Mmh. Y’taste like Kiwi.”

She kisses him back, barely able to contain her own shy little smile, “And you owe me a donut.”

———

ah, thank you so much for reading!! if you enjoyed, please consider reblogging and liking! 🤍

[plasticflowersinahistorycemetery]

anathema

part V

Pairing: Dean x Fem!Reader, Sam x Fem!Reader (a hint of Michael!Dean x Fem!Reader)

Summary: A fall unmade. A throne surrendered. The softest resurrection stitched together in blood, breath, and grace. You bring them both home—one from the heavens, one from the pit—and lay yourself between them like scripture. This is the ache after worship. The redemption after ruin. The girl, the vessel, the brother. Nothing left but love. Nothing left but them.

Warnings: 18+!, language, angst, biblical references, religious metaphors, reference to smut (p in v, dp), heartbreak, pining, moderate fluff, I may have missed some.

Word Count: 6,915

A/N: A resolution, if you will. I was wrestling with whether or not to add another instalment to this series, and all it took was one ask to have me folding like a deckchair. Thank you to whoever it was that submitted the ask, ha! <3 This has been a trip. I am still really proud of this series as a whole. Felt like reclaiming some of my religious trauma, super cathartic. I hope this ties things together a little better for everyone. I know it's not exactly a happy ending... but when is it ever with these men? Dean's gonna retreat inward in his guilt, like he always does. And our dear Sammy is gonna be more emotionally open but he'll still be fighting to reconcile what he did while Lucifer was playing host. Yap over. If you wanna give me feedback, please do. I liiiive for it. All the love.

Without further ado: ANATHEMA

"Both she and I, I hold her by the hips On heaven's stairs, her eyes wanted a kiss No cause for shame, beloved saint

Another night, a different time There's no cause for shame I'm paralysed, a glowing life Our beloved saint Ebony eye Swing your arms in the October air Both you and I

A hole in heaven, you're my dearest dove We watch the flowers bloom in the house of fools These passing shadows in photographs of you Your burning embrace, it's as warm as rain

I can't describe this glowing light There's no other way than the pearly gates I found my holy place"

Ebony Eye - Yves Tumor

You stayed in his lap long after the movements had stopped.

The room had fallen quiet, save for the brittle sound of your breath threading through the silence like incense through a ruined cathedral. Your body trembled, not from cold or fear, but from the aftermath of something too vast to hold. You felt stretched thin, like skin over glass, every nerve raw and flickering with the weight of what had just passed through you.

Michael—still wearing Dean's face, still inside Dean's body—held you like something sacred. His cock remained buried inside you, softening, warm. The pressure of it made you ache, but you didn't move. Neither of you did. His hands rested lightly on your hips, reverent, as though he thought even now, even after all this, he might break you.

"The righteous fall seven times," he murmured again, his lips brushing your temple.

His voice had changed. No longer the cold, perfect command of Heaven's sword, but something quieter. Almost human. Something like surrender.

"But I do not plan on rising."

You didn't respond. Your lips parted, but no sound came. You couldn't speak. Couldn't move. The grief was building again, this strange and impossible ache that made your chest feel tight, like your ribs had been laced together with barbed wire.

"I have warred for my Father's name," he said softly, the words falling like scripture into the hollow between you. "I have drowned cities. Silenced prophets. I have watched stars die for less than the disobedience I showed you."

His fingers traced up your spine, slow and deliberate, not to tease or possess, but as if committing your form to memory.

"And yet," he whispered, "I have never seen anything more holy than you."

Your throat closed. A sound cracked in your chest—half sob, half gasp—but you swallowed it down. You didn't know why you were crying. You didn't even know if it was for him, or for Dean, or for yourself.

"I wasn't made to want," he continued, almost tender now. "But I did. I wanted your voice. Your ruin. The way you broke for me. The way you looked at me and hated me and still... still gave yourself. Not out of love, but faith."

He cupped your jaw, tilting your face toward him. You looked into Dean's eyes—but they weren't Dean's, not yet. Still too bright. Still too far away from Earth.

"He will not remember me," Michael said. "But he will remember this. He will dream of it. Of the way you trembled when he touched you. The way you begged. The way you fell."

His thumb brushed your bottom lip. Gentle. Unbearable.

"I have carved you into his bones. Etched your name into the chambers of his heart. So that even when I sleep, he will feel me there. And through him, I will remain."

You shook your head slowly, tears spilling hot down your cheeks. "Don't," you whispered. "Please don't say goodbye like this."

His smile was small. Wistful. Not mocking.

"You wanted him," he said. "And I... I wanted you."

There was no cruelty left in him. No power. Only something vast and breaking. You felt it beneath your skin, the moment he began to unravel. It wasn't violent. It wasn't sudden. It was soft, like silk unspooling from a frayed edge. Like surrender.

"This is all I know to give," he said. "So I give it."

You reached for him—without thinking. Just a touch, just the edge of your fingers curling into his shoulders, like maybe if you held him close enough, he wouldn't go. You didn't know why you did it. You didn't know what it meant. Only that some part of you was breaking open right alongside him.

"I will watch through him," Michael whispered. "I will remember. I will protect."

He kissed your temple like a benediction.

"Wake up, Dean."

There was a pause.

And then his body shuddered once beneath yours—his spine arching, hands twitching—and then a breath. A sharp, wet, human breath, gasped like it had been denied to him for a thousand years.

Dean's eyes snapped open. Green. Startled. Wild. Alive.

"What the hell," he rasped, blinking rapidly, chest heaving as he grabbed at your waist like it was the only thing tethering him to the world. "Where—what the fuck—where am I?"

You stared at him. At his face. At the way it shifted—his again now, no longer angelic. No longer terrifying. Just Dean. Just yours.

"Dean," you breathed. Your voice cracked like it had never held his name before.

He looked down. He saw the mess between your bodies. The way you were still wrapped around him. The bruises. The tremble in your hands.

His eyes widened. Horror bloomed across his face.

"Oh my God," he whispered. "What did he—what did he do to you?"

You shook your head through the tears, through the ache, through the strange and sudden relief blooming in your chest. "No," you said. "He gave you back to me."

Dean's grip faltered. He looked like he might come apart. Like he didn't know how to exist in this skin anymore.

"I remember," he choked out. "Pieces. Your voice. You were crying. I—fuck—I felt it. I felt everything."

You pressed your forehead to his, your fingers curling around the sides of his face.

"I have you," you said. "You're here. You're mine."

And then he broke.

He pulled you into him, arms wrapping around your back like a man clinging to the edge of the world. You buried yourself in his chest, still shaking, still full of grief, and something else now, too—peace. Small. Fragile. Real.

"I'm so fucking sorry," he whispered into your hair. "I'm so sorry. I should've—he used you. He used me—"

"I know," you said.

But even as you held Dean, even as you clung to the warmth and solidity of his heartbeat beneath your cheek, you couldn't stop thinking about the last thing Michael said.

How he would stay. How he would watch. How he had carved you into Dean's bones so he could remember what love felt like—even if he never rose again.

You closed your eyes. And somewhere, buried deep inside the man you loved, the archangel slept.

The silence was deafening.

Dean's arms stayed locked around you, tight but trembling. You could feel every fractured breath leave his lungs, hot against your shoulder. He didn't move. Didn't speak. He was still inside you, still anchored to your body like he was afraid that pulling away would erase him.

And maybe he was right. Maybe if he moved, this would all vanish. Maybe you'd wake up alone again. Empty again.

His hand slid up your spine—slow, unsure—then back down. A small, shaking pass, like he was trying to memorise you the way Michael had. But it wasn't ritual now. It wasn't sacred.

It was human. And it hurt more.

"I can't—" His voice cracked, barely a breath. "I can't believe he..."

You didn't answer.

Dean shifted just enough to glance down, to look at where you were still joined, his expression twisting like he might be sick. But even then, he didn't move. His jaw locked. His hand gripped your waist.

"I should pull out," he muttered.

You shook your head immediately. "Don't."

His eyes snapped back to yours, startled.

You swallowed, throat tight and dry. "Not yet."

He searched your face like he was waiting for you to change your mind. Like he didn't trust what he saw there. But when you didn't look away, when your hands clutched tighter at his shoulders, he nodded—just once—and stayed.

You didn't know how long you sat like that. Breathing each other in. Remembering the weight of silence after prayer. After war. After divinity left the room.

Then Dean whispered, "Why are you crying?"

Your chest stuttered. You hadn't even noticed the tears had started again, but they were slipping down your cheeks, warm and constant.

"Because," you rasped. "It's not him anymore."

Dean flinched like you'd hit him. You saw it—the pain flash across his face. But you didn't take it back.

"He gave you back to me," you said, softer this time. "He chose to leave."

Dean's brow furrowed, a deep crease between his eyes. "Why the hell would he do that?"

You exhaled slowly, lowering your forehead to his. Your voice was smaller than you meant for it to be. "Because he loved me."

Dean didn't move. He didn't breathe. You felt the way his entire body went rigid beneath you, and still—you didn't stop.

"He never said the words. But he didn't have to. He... he let himself fall. For me."

The words barely made it past your lips, each one more broken than the last. It sounded like betrayal when you said it out loud. Like a confession you hadn't meant to speak. But it was the truth.

And Dean deserved the truth.

His hands twitched at your waist, then slid up, fingers threading through your hair with aching care. His voice was hoarse. "Do you love him back?"

You hesitated. Just long enough for his heart to skip a beat beneath you.

"I don't know," you whispered. "I think... I think I'm grieving him."

Dean made a sound in the back of his throat. Something torn. But he didn't push you away. He didn't accuse. He just wrapped his arms tighter around your waist, eyes closing like the weight of it all had finally landed.

"I'm sorry," you said. "I didn't ask for any of it. I just—I missed you so much I stopped knowing what was real."

"I know," he murmured. "It's not your fault. None of this is your fault."

You believed him. And it still hurt.

After a while, Dean took a deep breath, grounding himself against you, then glanced toward the bathroom door.

"Let me clean you off."

You stiffened.

"It's okay," he said quickly. "I just... I need to. Please."

You nodded.

When he lifted you from his lap, you winced. Your thighs ached. The soreness between your legs stung as he slid free from your body, and you whimpered at the loss of warmth.

Dean caught it. He cursed under his breath and kissed your forehead, holding you close before carrying you into the bathroom.

The light was too bright. You blinked against it as Dean set you down on the counter, moving with slow, deliberate care. He ran the water, tested the temperature. His back was tense. His hands, shaking.

When he turned to you, his eyes went dark at the sight of your thighs, your hips, the mess between your legs.

"God," he whispered. "I hate that it was me. My body. That he used me to—"

You reached out and took his hand.

"It wasn't you," you said. "It wasn't. But... it still felt like you. And that's what made it worse."

Dean swallowed hard. "Did he hurt you?"

"No," you said. Then, after a beat: "Not in the way you think."

He stepped forward, slipping his arms around your waist again, his forehead pressing to yours.

"I'm gonna carry this for the rest of my life," he said. "Knowing he touched you like that. Knowing I didn't stop it."

"You're here now."

"I wasn't supposed to come back."

You met his eyes. "He wasn't supposed to fall."

That stopped him.

You leaned into him, your hand splayed over his heart. "He gave me you. You gave me something to come back to. I don't know what that means yet. I just know I need to feel like I'm yours again."

He looked at you like you'd cracked the sky open. And then, without a word, he helped you into the shower.

The water was warm. Steam curled around your skin like absolution.

Dean washed you gently, reverently. He didn't speak much—just murmured small comforts under his breath as he dragged warm cloth over your thighs, between your legs, along the curve of your spine. He pressed kisses to your temple, your shoulder, your wrist. And when he was done, he just stood there, holding you against his chest under the water like he could baptise the grief out of both of you.

You felt it then. That ache in your throat. That memory of fire.

"Dean," you whispered. "Sam..."

He tensed.

You looked up at him. "We have to get him back."

He nodded slowly, eyes wet. "I know."

"He gave himself to Lucifer to save you. And now you're here. You're home. So now... now we bring him back too."

Dean cupped your face in both hands and kissed you, soft and aching. Like a man kissing someone alive for the first time after war. It wasn't desire. It was devotion.

"I've got you," he whispered. "And we'll get him. I swear to God, we'll get him."

You pressed your forehead to his and closed your eyes. You had found your holy place. Now it was time to save the rest of it.

Dean carried you back to your bedroom in silence.

He didn't ask if this was where you wanted to go—he just knew. This was where he used to find you curled beneath his flannels. This was where you used to curl into his chest and drink his whiskey and call him home without saying a word. This was where the haunting had started.

And now, maybe, this was where it would end.

The room smelled like you. Like worn cotton and soft skin and ghosted tears. But underneath it, Dean caught something else. Himself. Faded and stretched thin, but there. The memory of his clothes on your body. His glass at your lips. His seat still pulled back just how he used to leave it.

He paused in the doorway, chest rising and falling a little too fast.

You watched him hesitate. You felt it in his grip. He looked at the bed like it might bite him. Like it wasn't his place anymore.

So you reached up, touched his jaw, and whispered, "Come here."

That was all it took.

He crossed the threshold and laid you down with the same care you'd once begged Michael to mimic—like you were breakable, and he was already mourning the pieces. He followed you onto the mattress without letting go, settling beside you, your towels still clinging damp to your skin, your bodies curved into one another like parentheses around a prayer.

For a long while, you didn't speak.

Dean's hand rested on your waist, his thumb moving slowly back and forth. You could feel the tension in his jaw, the storm still gathering behind his eyes. He was here. He was real. But his silence said everything—he was holding himself together with threads.

You turned your face toward his and pressed your lips to his collarbone. "I thought I'd never get you back."

Dean's breath caught.

"I missed you," you said. "So much I started thinking maybe I made you up."

He didn't speak right away. When he did, his voice was so low it barely made it out of his chest.

"I saw you."

You blinked. "What?"

"Through him. Through Michael. When he first came back to the bunker. I—I didn't have control, but I was still there. And I saw you."

You swallowed, throat burning.

"You were walking around in my flannels," he said, eyes distant, voice rough. "Nothing else. Just skin and cotton and grief. And I remember thinking, God, she's still mine. Look at her—she's still mine."

You felt the ache in his words. The guilt. The love.

"You drank from my glass," he went on, more broken now. "Sat in my chair. Took all the pieces of me and tried to build something that felt like home. And he—Michael—he didn't get it. But I did. I felt it."

You buried your face into his shoulder.

"And then..." He exhaled hard. "Then you told him to pretend to be me."

Your heart clenched.

"I heard you," he said. "Your voice. Soft. Begging. Needing. You said you couldn't take it anymore. That you needed him to pretend—to hold you like I would. Fuck you like I would. You said you didn't care if it was fake. You just wanted to feel like I was there."

You started crying again.

Dean turned fully onto his side, cupped your face in both hands, and kissed the salt from your cheeks.

"I wanted to die," he whispered. "Right then, I swear to God—I wanted to claw my way out of my own body and come back to you."

You touched his wrists, grounding him.

"He used my voice," Dean said, shaking his head. "My tone. My commands. Everything I ever gave you—he twisted it. He made you kneel. He made you pray."

You nodded. "He made me say the Lord's Prayer while he was inside me."

Dean flinched like you'd shot him.

"But I need you to know," you said softly, "that I never stopped seeing you. Even when I was begging him. Even when I let him use your face to hurt me... I was begging for you to come back."

Dean kissed you then.

Not possessive. Not desperate. Just slow. Like a man unlearning absence.

His lips brushed yours, again and again, like punctuation marks. Full stops. Pauses. Small gasps of thank God and I'm here and you're mine.

His hand slid beneath your towel, resting warm and wide over your bare hip.

Not pulling. Just touching.

You arched into him gently, letting the contact say what you couldn't. That you were here. That this was real. That you were still his.

He kissed your knuckles. Your jaw. The corner of your mouth.

"I've got you," he whispered. "And I'm never letting anything take me from you again."

You let yourself melt into him. For the first time in what felt like eternity, your bed felt safe again. Like your bed. Like his bed. Like something worth reclaiming.

Dean's fingers brushed through your damp hair, his voice lower now. "We'll get Sam."

You nodded.

"He gave himself up to save me," Dean said. "And now it's our turn."

You met his eyes. "We're bringing him home."

Dean leaned forward and kissed you again, long and sure, and when he pulled back, his voice was stronger.

"We save him." You rested your forehead against his, tears still clinging to your lashes. "And this time," you said, "none of us fall alone."

A week passed.

It didn't move like time. It moved like a wound. Every day stretched out wide and soundless, too long, too quiet, like the house itself had forgotten how to hold the weight of breath.

Sam was still gone. At least, the part of him that mattered.

Lucifer didn't rage or seethe like he had before. He didn't boast or posture. He was worse now. Quieter. More comfortable. He moved through the bunker with Sam's walk, Sam's voice, Sam's memories, but none of the hesitation. None of the pain. He looked at you with eyes that remembered how Sam used to love you—and twisted that memory into something clinical, almost tender.

It made your skin crawl.

And Dean—

Dean had barely touched you since the shower. At first, you told yourself it was just time. That he was processing. Healing. That the weight of everything—Michael, Sam, the way he'd come back into the world inside you—was still sinking in.

But time passed. And the distance grew.

He stopped sleeping beside you. Stopped eating meals in the same room. He drifted through the bunker like a ghost of himself, never cruel, never unkind—just... gone.

You'd find him in the garage, shirtless and silent, fake-fixing the same part of the Impala he'd already rebuilt twice. You'd catch him in the kitchen at 3am, standing in the dark, pouring whiskey like it was medicine. You'd pass each other in the hallway and he'd give you that tight, broken half-smile like he wanted to say something but couldn't. Like the words were stuck somewhere behind his teeth, choking him.

And every time you reached for him—every time your fingers brushed his arm, or you said his name—he pulled away.

Like your touch burned.

Tonight, you found him in his room. The door was cracked just enough to let the light bleed through, but not enough to invite anyone in. You stood there for a moment, hand resting on the frame, listening to the clink of glass. The slow pour of liquid. The kind of silence that only exists when someone's trying not to cry.

You pushed the door open.

Dean didn't look up. He sat on the edge of his bed, hunched forward, elbows braced on his knees, his glass of whiskey cradled like something sacred. He was still dressed—jeans, grey t-shirt, boots unlaced. His shoulders were taut, tense, like he'd been carrying the same breath in his lungs for days and didn't know how to let it go.

"I've been calling you," you said softly.

He didn't answer. Just took a sip, eyes on the floor.

You stepped in and closed the door behind you. "I'm not playing this game with you anymore."

Dean's voice, when it came, was quiet. Tired. "What game is that?"

"The one where you disappear. Where you keep hiding from me like I did something wrong."

That got his eyes, just for a second. Sharp, green, glassy.

"You didn't do anything," he said. "That's the problem."

You crossed the room and stopped in front of him. "Then look at me."

Dean didn't move.

"Dean," you said again, more firmly this time. "Look at me."

Slowly, like it hurt, he lifted his eyes to yours. And what you saw there—

It wasn't anger. It wasn't blame. It was grief. Pure, bottomless grief. The kind that eats a man from the inside out. And under it—shame. So much shame it made your heart ache.

"I see it," he said, voice barely audible. "Every time I close my eyes. Every time you speak. I see it."

"See what?"

He exhaled shakily. Looked down at the floor, then back at you. And then, in the softest, most broken voice you'd ever heard from him:

"You. Crying. Begging. Praying while my body used you like some kind of fucking experiment."

The words hit like a whip. You didn't move. Didn't speak.

"I see your lips around my fingers," he continued, his voice unraveling by the word. "You on your knees. The way you whispered my name like it still meant something. Like I was still in there. And I just—"

He swallowed. His throat worked like he was trying not to throw up.

"I couldn't move. I couldn't scream. I couldn't stop it. I was in there, and I watched him take every part of me you loved and twist it into something he could own."

You dropped to your knees in front of him, hands rising to cup his face.

"Dean—"

"I can't hold you without thinking about it," he whispered. "Can't touch you without wondering if it's me you want, or just the part of me he let you keep." His voice cracked. "I feel like he carved his name into you using my fucking hands."

You didn't let go. You held his jaw steady, your thumbs brushing his cheekbones.

"I need you to hear me," you said. "Right now. Right here."

Dean's breath caught.

"I need you. You. Not him. Not the memory of him. Not the angel who used your face to keep me from losing my mind. You."

He closed his eyes like he couldn't bear it.

"You don't get to disappear," you said, quieter now, but no less firm. "I need you. Sam needs you. You don't get to hide in your guilt while the rest of us try to hold this place together."

"I'm trying," he said, brokenly. "I'm trying to figure out how to breathe again, and every time I look at you I feel like I'm back in the dark. Watching. Helpless."

"You're not helpless now."

"I should've fought harder."

"He locked you in your own body."

"I should've been stronger."

"You didn't do this, Dean."

"I felt every fucking second," he said. "I felt you break. And I couldn't do a thing."

You pressed your forehead to his.

"I chose to let him in," you whispered. "I begged him to pretend to be you. I wore your shirts and sat in your chair and drank your whiskey because I missed you so bad I wanted to bleed. I knew what I was doing."

Dean's hands gripped your thighs. His breath shook against your skin.

"He let me be close to you. Even if it was wrong. Even if it wasn't really you, it felt like you. And that was the only thing that kept me from burning this whole fucking world down."

He didn't speak. Didn't move.

You pulled back just enough to look him in the eye.

"You don't get to hate yourself for something I wanted."

His eyes were red now, glassy. But he was listening.

"We need to go after Sam," you said. "We are losing him. He is slipping every single day. Lucifer is comfortable. You know what that means."

Dean nodded slowly.

"So we fight," you said. "We save him. We bring him home."

He looked at you like he was trying to find himself in your face again.

"I'm doing this," you said. "With or without you."

And then you kissed him.

Not sweet. Not delicate. But true.

Your mouth met his like a promise, like a final prayer, like you're still mine and I am still yours and we are not done yet. And when you pulled back, you were both breathless. But Dean's hands hadn't left your skin. His grip was firmer now. Present. Alive.

You stood.

"I'm going to find him."

And before Dean could speak, before he could gather the broken pieces of his voice, you turned and walked out into the hall—leaving the door open behind you. Because he had a choice now.

To follow. Or to fall behind.

The hallway stretched long and silent ahead of you, every step toward Sam's door pounding through the soles of your feet like the earth itself was trying to warn you. The air tasted metallic. War-heavy. Like something ancient holding its breath.

You were halfway there when you felt the shift.

Not a sound. Not a warning. Just the air moving differently—quicker, hungrier—right before a rough hand caught the nape of your neck. You barely had time to gasp before you were spun, fast and breathless, your back crashing into the wall hard enough to knock the wind from your lungs.

Dean's mouth was on yours before you could speak—hot, bruising, desperate. Your gasp left your chest and he swallowed it, groaning like it hurt to breathe without you. His hands fisted in the oversized t-shirt you wore, dragging your hips flush to his like he was trying to fuse the space between you shut.

You whimpered into him as his body pressed harder, grinding against you in a rhythm that wasn't even trying to be subtle. You were aching, soaked and pulsing, and the rough drag of denim against the heat between your thighs made your knees buckle. Dean caught you, pinned you higher against the wall with one hand, the other bracing beside your head.

"Fuck," he groaned, lips sliding messily down your jaw. "Fuck, I'm so sorry, baby. I just needed—I just needed a second. To hate myself. To remember what it felt like before you looked at me like I was something good."

You pulled him back to your mouth with both hands tangled in his hair, kissing him like the week apart had carved a hollow in your chest that only he could fill.

"Don't care," you gasped between kisses. "Don't wanna hear it. Just—don't stop—Dean—please—"

His mouth slammed back into yours like he couldn't get close enough, couldn't get in deep enough, like if he could just breathe you in far enough, it might cleanse something that rotted inside him.

He ground against you again, the thick press of his cock dragging over your soaked core through the t-shirt and his jeans. You moaned into him, hips bucking shamelessly.

"You're everything," you whispered into his mouth. "You hear me? Everything."

Dean's lips moved down your throat, teeth grazing your skin, a breathless fuck pressed to your collarbone before he came back up, kissed you again, harder, sloppier.

You nipped at his lower lip, sucked it between your teeth, and he groaned, hips jerking.

"You've always been it," you said, voice cracking. "Even when it wasn't you—I was looking for you. I only wanted you."

Dean let out a high, broken noise, barely restrained, almost a sob, almost a growl. "I know," he rasped. "God, I know, I just—fuck, I don't deserve you—"

You kissed him so hard he staggered. Pulled at the back of his neck, tongue slipping past his lips to taste the whiskey and desperation on his breath. You were soaked. You were shaking. You were seconds from grabbing his belt and pulling him inside you right here, all be damned, consequences be damned, Lucifer be damned—

But then, you remembered.

Sam.

The plan. The promise.

You tore your mouth away from his, chest heaving, your hand flattening over his heart like it might still the pounding there.

"Dean," you said, voice ragged. "We can't. Not yet."

He leaned his forehead against yours, panting, nodding even as his hips still rolled against you once, slow and sinful.

"I know," he whispered. "I know."

You swallowed, blinked hard, felt your lip trembling. "I love you."

The sound Dean made wasn't human. A sharp, breathless whine, high in his throat, like your words had struck something holy in him. He kissed you again, softer now, slower, and when he pulled back, his hand slid from the wall to cradle your face.

"I'm with you," he said. "I'm not going anywhere."

You nodded, breath still shaky, heart slamming against your ribs.

"We get him back," you said.

Dean's jaw clenched. He leaned in and kissed your forehead. "Let's go save my brother."

The door to Sam's room was open.

That should've been the first warning. He never left it that way. Not before. And certainly not now—not since the day Lucifer took up residence behind his eyes and began wearing your family like a second skin.

But the room yawned open like a mouth tonight, dark and still and waiting.

You stood just outside the threshold, Dean beside you, both of you silent. His breath was still uneven from the hallway, chest lifting and falling beneath his shirt like something in him hadn't fully settled—like something in him had only just begun to stir.

You didn't speak. You didn't need to. You stepped inside.

The air was heavy, warm. Thicker than it should've been, like the walls were holding something they couldn't quite bear.

And there—sitting cross-legged on the bed, barefoot, elbows on his knees—was Sam. Or at least, what was left of him. He tilted his head when he saw you, smiling. Not with Sam's softness, but something else entirely. A smile that curved like a knife and promised to cut.

"Look what the dog dragged in," Lucifer said, voice bright and theatrical, like a line he'd been rehearsing for days. His eyes flicked lazily from you to Dean, then back again, amused. Relaxed. The predator pretending to be the host.

You didn't answer.

Dean took a slow step beside you, jaw tight, eyes locked on the thing wearing his brother's face.

Lucifer sighed and leaned back against the wall, stretching like a cat in a patch of sun. "And here I thought we'd made peace," he went on. "You got your boy back, I got the vessel of my dreams. But no. You just can't leave well enough alone, can you, little thing?"

He turned his head, studying you. His gaze was sharp, knowing. Disgustingly intimate.

"You've got a thing for archangels, don't you?" He asked, tone lilting. "First Michael, now me. And you say I'm the pervert."

Still, you said nothing.

Lucifer's smile widened. "Oh, don't be shy. It's not like you were modest before. Should I describe it again? That night in your room—the way you begged. Please, you said."

You took a slow, steady step forward. Dean followed.

Lucifer's voice dropped, mocking reverence. "Cried in his lap. Prayed with our cocks inside you. Said Dean's name while Michael marked you like a sacrament. You wanted that. Don't forget that."

The words sliced clean—but you didn't flinch. Not this time. You stepped forward again, closer, slow and deliberate.

"Thought so," Lucifer murmured. "You want to save Sam now? Sorry. Too late. He gave himself to me. Willingly. That's what consent looks like, sweetheart. I own this temple."

Dean's voice came low and quiet behind you. "You don't own shit."

Lucifer blinked. Turned his gaze on him.

"You always were the dull one," he said with a smirk. "Little brother gets the brains, and you... you get to be the walking trauma response. A blunt instrument. Honestly, I'm surprised she picked you."

Dean didn't move. Didn't blink. But something shimmered beneath the surface—heat rising under his skin. A pressure building in the air. Something divine, ancient, and aching to be used.

"You think Sam's not still in there," Dean said, voice quiet but steady. "You think he's not fighting you. But I can feel it."

Lucifer smiled, but it faltered at the edges. Just slightly. Just enough.

"Sammy's not screaming anymore, is he?" Dean asked. "Because he's pulling. Right now. I know it."

Lucifer's jaw twitched.

Another step.

You were close now. At the foot of the bed. Lucifer's posture shifted, almost imperceptibly—like he felt it too. The tension in the air. The slow gathering of light around Dean that hadn't been there a moment ago.

"Still trying to play hero?" Lucifer asked him. "You think you're holy now? Because Michael gave you back? You think grace is some kind of redemption, Dean?"

Dean's breath was tight. "No. I think it's fuel."

Lucifer's expression cracked—barely—but enough.

Dean stepped closer, and the air shimmered again. His shoulder brushed yours, heat blooming beneath his skin like fire-banked ash.

You looked at Sam. Really looked. And what you saw, beneath the smirk and the cruelty, was a flicker. A tremble. Something not quite right in his eyes.

He was still in there.

You moved, slowly, until you were at the edge of the bed. Lucifer didn't stop you. Didn't blink. Just watched.

You sat beside him. Soft. Steady. Your hand rose. And when your palm cupped Sam's cheek, the skin beneath your touch was shaking.

"I need you," you whispered. Your thumb brushed the hollow beneath his eye.

Lucifer exhaled slowly. "He can't hear you."

"I love you."

Lucifer's face pinched.

"Come back," you said. "Please, Sam. Come back to us."

Dean dropped to his knees beside the bed, one hand on the mattress, the other gripping Sam's shoulder like a tether.

"You hear her?" He whispered. "You know who we are. You know."

Sam's eyes closed. His jaw trembled. Not Lucifer's smirk. Not control.

Pain.

"You're not alone," you said again, leaning forward, pressing your forehead to his.

The air pulsed.

Dean's breath hitched. His body arched—just slightly—as something ignited inside of him. A light under his sternum. A holy thing, half-buried and not quite his, but present.

Michael. You saw it in his eyes as they went glassy, then clear. A spark of gold. A flare of grace.

Dean's voice broke. "Sammy," he whispered. "Come home."

And then—

Lucifer screamed. Not rage. Not performance. Terror. His hands lashed out, clutching at the air, at you, at anything. But it was too late. The consent was gone. The lock had broken. Sam had let go.

Light cracked across the room like lightning through stained glass. Lucifer's mouth opened in a howl that didn't sound human. And then he was gone. Just like that. A flash. A gasp. And Sam collapsed into your arms, boneless and trembling.

You didn't know how long the light had been gone. Maybe minutes. Maybe more. But when you looked up, when the silence finally settled around you like dust, Sam was still in your arms. Breathing. Shaking. Alive.

Dean was crouched on the other side of the bed, one hand still pressed to Sam's shoulder, like he hadn't dared let go until the room stopped glowing. His face was pale, slack with disbelief. His mouth opened once—twice—but nothing came out.

Sam exhaled, ragged, like the first breath after drowning. His eyes were wet. His lips were bitten red. He blinked slowly, and when he looked at Dean, something broke.

"You came back."

Dean didn't say anything. He just nodded—once—and crawled onto the bed like a man moving through holy ground. He reached for Sam like he didn't trust his hands to hold anything that wasn't grief, and when his palm found the back of Sam's neck, his head bowed.

"Yeah," Dean whispered, voice thick. "Yeah, I did."

Sam's arms trembled. You felt it. And then suddenly, he was leaning forward, gripping Dean's shoulder, pressing his forehead to his brother's like he was trying to confirm it—trying to feel that he was real.

You didn't speak. You didn't interrupt. You just curled between them, one hand on Sam's arm, the other on Dean's thigh, your cheek resting against Sam's chest, eyes wide and wet and locked on Dean.

And for the first time since you lost them—you had them both.

One breath. One bed. One bruised, breathing, battered miracle.

Dean's hand slipped down to your side, tugging you closer, and you let him pull. Sam's fingers found yours. No one spoke for a while. There was nothing that could be said.

But your mouth moved anyway. You kissed Dean's chest—soft, reverent. His collarbone. His jaw. Then Sam's arm. His shoulder. The corner of his mouth. Small, aching things. Little devotions. They didn't stop you. They didn't even react—just watched you through heavy lashes, like they couldn't believe they got to be touched again.

Eventually, Sam cleared his throat. "The night Dean said yes..."

Your breath caught.

He glanced at Dean, who gave a short nod. Guilt flared behind his eyes, but he didn't speak.

Sam looked at you.

"You weren't there," he said. "You were here. Cas and I—we'd just come back from a lead that went nowhere. Dean hadn't said a word to us in hours."

Your lips grazed the edge of Dean's arm.

"We found him in the woods," Sam said quietly. "He was kneeling. Alone. Like he was already halfway gone."

Dean's jaw twitched.

"I tried to stop him. I said—I said I wasn't ready to lose him. That there had to be another way." Sam's voice cracked. "But he looked at me like he was already dead."

You looked up. Dean's eyes were fixed on the far wall, jaw clenched so tight you thought his teeth might break.

Sam continued. "He told Michael yes. And then he was gone."

You kissed Dean's shoulder, slow and soft, and whispered, "I'm so sorry."

He didn't look at you. Just muttered, "Don't."

"I mean it," you said. "I should've been there."

Dean finally turned. His eyes were glassy. "You needed to be here. I didn't want you to see it."

You pressed a kiss to the edge of his throat. "You didn't get to make that call."

Sam's hand came up, caught your wrist, and for a moment, you weren't sure what he was going to say. But then he brought your hand to his chest, held it there, and said:

"I knew you'd get me back."

You looked at him, breath hitching. His face was solemn, eyes warm. You nodded. "I promised I'd stop at nothing."

He nodded back.

And then you were moving—settling between them, one leg over Dean's thigh, your hand still resting over Sam's heartbeat. Your body folded between theirs like a prayer.

There was no way to make this moment neat. No clean way to fold three broken hearts into one another and pretend the cracks didn't show. But they were here. And so were you. And for now, for tonight—that was enough.

Later, when the shaking had stopped, when Sam's breathing had evened, when the light had bled out of Dean's bones and you were all just skin and blood again—you lay tangled between them in the aftermath.

No one spoke for a while.

There was only the weight of breath. The subtle rhythm of recovery. Your head on Dean's shoulder. Sam's palm resting flat against your thigh. Dean's fingers brushing idly against your hip like he couldn't stop touching just to make sure you were still here.

It wasn't silence. It was sacred stillness.

But eventually, you broke it.

"We need to call Cas."

Dean shifted, his arm curling tighter around you.

"He needs to see that you're both... okay," you added. "That you're back."

Sam nodded, slow, head against the pillow.

You hesitated, then winced—just slightly. "He's probably still freaking out."

Dean noticed. "What?"

"I, uh..." You pressed your lips together. "He... might've seen something. That he wasn't supposed to."

Both brothers stilled.

Dean raised an eyebrow. "Define something."

You squirmed a little deeper into the mattress. "The aftermath of... that night. You know. The... threesome."

Dean groaned, dragging a hand over his face. "Oh, come on."

Sam's voice was flat. "He walked in?"

You nodded. "Yeah. I was still in Michael's lap. His grace was still buried in me. Lucifer was being smug. And Cas—he looked like he wanted to scrub his eyes with bleach."

Dean turned his head, wincing. "Christ."

"He told Michael that you two wouldn't take it lightly," you added softly. "Said I belonged to you."

That silenced the room again. But not painfully. Just weightfully. Like truth laid bare on a table.

You sighed. Then softly, reverently, you whispered, "Cas?"

The air shifted. A breath caught in the fabric of the world. And a moment later, he was there. Standing in the doorway. Looking at all three of you like he wasn't sure if this was real.

His eyes landed on Dean first. "Dean," he said quietly.

Dean blinked. "Hey, sunshine."

You could feel the way Sam huffed beside you, amusement soft and stunned. Castiel's expression didn't change, but something about his shoulders relaxed.

You gestured to the foot of the bed. "Come sit down."

He did. It was awkward, but gentle. Like watching someone return to a dream they thought they'd lost. Castiel looked at Dean, then Sam, then down at you between them.

"I'm glad you're both back," he said. "You were gone a long time."

Sam gave him a look full of apology and reverence. "Thank you. For not giving up on us."

Castiel nodded once. Then he turned to you. "And you?" He asked. "Are you okay?"

You looked at him. Then at Dean. Then at Sam. You leaned up and pressed a soft kiss to Sam's lips—chaste, but intimate. Grateful. Then turned, cupped Dean's jaw, and kissed him too. Warm. Anchoring. Home. And when you looked back at Castiel, your voice trembled, but your smile didn't.

"I'm home again," you said. "Finally."

He said nothing. Just nodded. And then the quiet settled once more.

Not grief. Not fear. Not waiting.

Just stillness.

You curled tighter between the boys, your body a seam between everything you'd lost and everything you'd survived. And somewhere in the back of your mind—deep beneath your skin—you felt the echo of a voice that wasn't yours. That wasn't Michael's. That wasn't Lucifer's.

Just something ancient. Something sacred.

And on the seventh day… the storm ceased.

And there was ruin. And there was blood. And there was resurrection.

And the girl who bore the weight of heaven and hell… was no longer kneeling.

@mostlymarvelgirl @losers-clvb @lunaleah @itshellfire @drakulana @sl33pylilbunny @suckitands33 @nevercameraready @0ccvltism @lyarr24 @podiumackles @spxideyver @tinas111 @cevansbaby-dove @paristheonewhoreads @winchestersbgirl <3

[untilthcyrot]

Eileen didn't understand their relationship with him at all. Actually, she was going to take that back because she thought she did understand it. There was a time when you didn't bother spending time with a demon a second more than you had to before sending it right back to Hell and feeling sorry for the poor meat suit, as they called it, that it possessed. The world has changed since then. There was no more black and white but gray.

Now hunters reached out to demons for their help and in this case, it went the other way around from time to time as well. Even if she had heard how Crowley fucked them over when it served him, other times he was an ally. It baffled someone like Eileen, sure, but even understood that desperate times called for desperate measures when the world got a little more out of control than just handling a nest full of vampires.

There was an uncomfortable look that flashed over her, even if just briefly. She didn't like the idea of any demon, even if it was a friend or foe of the Winchesters, trying to get to know her. In her experience, the more you told someone about yourself the more ammunition they had to use against you later. ❝ Creepy, ❞ she muttered under her breath, wondering if he really had seen photos of her or if he was just trying to get under her skin. Then again, he had alluded to her relationship with Sam earlier, making her wonder how he even knew that much. Spies of some sort? Mindreading? Demons always did know more than you liked for them to.

❝ Don't take this personally, but I don't really do icebreakers with demons that spy on me and take pictures. ❞

DRAMATICS, MOSTLY. Crowley makes it his mission not to elaborate on the fact that he nowadays can't pop up anywhere without some guarding hounds. Hey, when God himself goes nuts? Can't plant your trust in any place anymore, right? So a joyless, slim smile is all Eileen reaps for an answer to her suggestion that would, otherwise, be super correct. Smart girl. No wonder the part-time dummy boys got her on board. Now Crowley has made himself somewhat comfy and she'll have to deal with that— expectation washing over his mien as she mentions they talked about him.

Aw, he's on their mind a lot, huh? Of course a verbal hammer follows, sort of, and he clears his throat.

" First of all, it's not an act ", he ensures to speak slow and clear enough that Eileen might read his lips when in doubt. " We are past the bickering stage. Besties that go through thick and thin. Well, for the most part. I mean ", precedes an idle shrug. " Every marriage has its ups and downs. " Let him consider the options for a second, curiously squint over at her while tipping his head to one side. " I daresay this is the opportunity for us to get to know each other. " One hand inches up to gesture toward Eileen, then at himself.

" Face to face. Speaking of, the photographs I spotted with my wee eye don't do you justice. " Unpacking the charm? Should work. " Rumors versus real talk are like photos versus flesh, you know. "

[bovineblogger]

I wanna tell u about the Brazilian oxen, pretty important characters to Brazil folklore :D

it's gonna be something quick and superficial bc I don't know much about them and at this point we enjoy more for the festivals, it seems. but anyway

starting with the famous Garantido and Caprichoso (Guaranteed and Capricious in free translation). they both are rivals and it's a big festival in the north of the country (it happens in Parintins, more specifically). like, it's a three nights party dedicated only for them.

idk why they are rivals but you just essentially choose a party and stay loyal to it tho. like, it's a serious thing fr. the whole city is divided and it seems that if you go dressed to the festivals dressed in one colour but go for the other ox, you can be booed or even kicked out of the arena (yes!! they have an arena!!)

Capricious is the black and blue ox with a star and Guaranteed is the white and red with the heart. it seems capricous is bc he's pretty and guaranteed bc the owner made a promise. I could be wrong.

they also make songs about these oxen

the second one I know more bc I met him and it's story in my school. this ox is also more talked about in the north and northeast. is Bumba-meu-boi or Boi Bumbá (bumba-my-ox/bumbá ox in free translation. I assume bumba has no meaning, it just rhymes with boi).

as you can see, he doesn't have a specific pattern, is just a pretty black ox (tho I just saw some pictures of him in white? I told u idk much lol)

his folklore, in resume, there was a pregnant woman that wanted ox tongue. she asked her husband for it and he went after the prettiest ox and killed him because of it. the owner of the ox did not enjoyed that and the couple got in trouble and to make it up, they resurrected the ox. the owner got so pleased that he threw a party after it.

it also seems that he's related to the above oxen?? idk how, idk why. Brazilian folklore it seems that things just happen here. fuck the origins lol but it does make sense since they're three ox and two of them are black

the north oxen idk much about bc I don't live in the north so if someone has more knowledge on these oxen or just live there, I would be very thankful for any mistake I made that was corrected.

OH MY GD THIS IS THE GREATEST THING IN THE WORLD IVE NEVER HEARD ANY OF THIS!!!! im going to cry this is so beautiful. i have to see for myself some day, brazil has been on my bucket list for so long!!!!!!! what a beautiful culture, what lovely cows, im so glad im alive

[kiynania]

Let me just.

AU where LBD twists and manipulates Macaque's mind after resurrecting him

Here he's completely on LBD's side and helps her willingly(at least that's what he thinks) to create a world without pain

LBD's ability to twist his mind gets stronger as her power grows

When she first resurrects Macaque, she's really only able to heavily influence his emotions since she's locked away. After she's freed and releases her mech, she's actually able to erase and add fake memories in Macaque's mind, along with his emotions. By the time LBD(somewhat) possesses Wukong, she can completely erase who Macaque is and import a whole new person into him, and in a way, 'break Wukong's hold over him'

The process of this is actually really painful for Macaque, so to keep him calm, LBD hums a lullaby that Wukong also hummed to Macaque back then(she knows it as it was the same lullaby she heard Macaque humming back in the Diyu)

Macaque eventually grows more and more confused as to what's really happening to him, but it really doesn't matter as the mayor's there to keep him in line

No one besides LBD and the mayor is aware of this until much later on

If you wanna know more, asks are open :3

[sapphiresaphics]

I wanna talk about how DEEP the lore of League of Legends actually is. Because while some people might be confused by the events of some things that happened in Season 2 of Arcane, the series itself is less so pulling from our own earthly history, but instead that of the history of Runeterra.

Let me tell you about the tale of Azir:

“The youngest and least-favored son of the Shuriman emperor, Azir was never destined for greatness. He was a slender, studious boy who spent more time perusing the texts collected in the Great Library of Nasus than training to fight.”

Azir befriends a slave and the two of them bond over their love of ancient texts and magic. Eventually Azir is so enamored with his slave friend that he names him Xerath and appoints him to be his closest adviser.

After a series of cataclysmic events that resulted in Azir being in a position to become the new emperor, Xerath convinced him that “to stand as ruler over the entire world, Azir would need to be all but invincible, a god amongst men – an Ascended being.”

Azir agrees to undertake a dangerous ascension ritual, unaware that Xerath has actually been studying the dark arts and was seething with jealousy, hatred, and rage for being a slave.

“At the height of the ritual, the former slave unleashed his powers and Azir was blasted from his place on the dais. Without the protection of the runic circle, Azir was consumed by the sun’s fire as Xerath took his place. The light filled Xerath with power, and he roared as his mortal body began to transform.”

“But the magic of the ritual was not intended for Xerath, and such awesomely powerful celestial energies could not be diverted without dire consequence. The power of the Ascension ritual exploded outward, devastating Shurima and laying waste to the city. All that remained of Azir’s city were sunken ruins and echoes of its people’s screams on the night winds.”

“Azir saw none of this. For him, all was nothingness. His last memories were of pain and fire; he knew nothing of what befell him atop the temple, nor what became of his empire. He remained lost in timeless oblivion until, thousands of years after Shurima’s doom, the blood of his last descendant spilled onto the temple ruins and resurrected him. Azir was reborn, but was yet incomplete; his body little more than animate dust given form, held together by the last vestiges of his indomitable will.”

Azir comes across a woman who was stabbed. By using his powers he is able to resurrect her and heal her of her wounds.

“And with that act of selflessness, Azir was lifted up in a column of fire as the magic of Shurima renewed him, remaking him as the Ascended being he was meant to become. The sun’s immortal radiance poured into him, crafting his magnificent, hawk-armored form and granting him the power to command the very sand itself.”

“With the power and prescience of an Ascended being, Azir summoned an army of sand warriors to march alongside their reborn emperor saying; “I will reclaim my lands and take back what was mine!””

———

I had to edit a lot of that down and find respective screenshots that emulate the scenes that were being referenced… but I wanted to do this because I think it helps explain some of the stuff going on in Arcane.

Arcane is VERY MUCH drawing from its own lore and history of Runeterra. When you start digging into the lore you’ll start seeing these direct parallels and references, and some of the oddities start to make sense. I know we like to joke about Viktor being hextech Jesus, but his arc and storyline more closely resembles that of Azir than of Jesus.

League of Legends lore is FILLED with stories like this. Stories that are referenced by Arcane in many subtle ways that won’t be obvious to outsiders. This stuff runs DEEP, and the creators of Arcane know the lore enough to use it to tell their own stories with it as a guideline and reference.

Additionally it’s helpful to know that magic in League of Legends lore is a sentient thing that corrupts and WANTS to be used. This is why Heimerdinger hypothesizes that mages who use the Arcane magic often go astray and that this temptation to use the magic to commit world ending cataclysms “might be a property of the Arcane itself.”

As Rise says:

"Magic wants to be used, It is all around us, emanating from the first fragments of creation. It wants to be wielded. And that is the true challenge on the path we both walk. When you realize what the magic wants, how eager it is... Well, then the difficulty isn't how to begin wielding it. It's knowing when to stop."

Arcane tells the story of Viktor, a weak boy who makes a friend over their shared interest in studying and learning. Who goes through a metamorphosis after a cataclysmic event, saves people with his benevolence and newfound power, is ultimately betrayed and killed by his closest friend, and is resurrected through the use of (Warwick’s) determination and will to live, reborn into a godly figure who can control armies of his followers.