#Please stop platforming harmful people

[miraculouslumination]

Sometimes it feels like so many people just want to ignore panphobia and not bother to learn all of the ways it exists and slips by through dogwhistles

And it also sometimes feels like panphobia is only ever really cared about when general mspecphobia is being brought up

Which is nice, but panphobia itself really deserves more attention

It sucks seeing people promote the works of crypto and blatant panphobes, and not knowing if they're someone willing to be warned about it or not

Because it also sometimes feels like some people think calling out any panphobia = demanding for bi people to not have any history, positivity, awareness, celebration, or anything like that

Which is just.....no. We want our bi siblings to have that. We just don't want it to continuously come at the slanderous cost of other mspec identities and their history

All we want you to do is listen to us and actually learn from us

We are siblings and friends - we need to trust each other more than hurt wacht other

#Jean rambles #Panphobia #Mspecphobia #One blog I like has started to promote a panphobic bi youtuber #And it sucks because I know the op is inclusive #So to see such an exclusive person be promoted as a good reliable source of education on biphobia is just...bittersweet #Like I don't know #I just hate that panphobia never really seems to be talked about or recognized #Especially all on its own #Bringing up panphobia is good and helpful to a lot of people #But most importantly it's good and helpful for goddamn!! Pan people! #I just. I just feel like so many people ignore us and our troubles #Because it's just I dont know?? Easier I guess? #I'm just hurting and upset #Biphobia can't be killed by punching down on pan and other mspec folk #Biphobia is not solely linked to pansexuality #Not by a fucking long shot #Please realize that #And please start listening to us #Please stop platforming harmful people

[iloveyouemanuelmarco]

As a white person(and not even in a white guilt type of sense but I just genuinely feel embarrassed to be acossciated in the same race as certain idiotic individuals atleast), the fact that there have been and still are people who actually unironically want to be a different race and/or ethnicity is just so cringe and offensive like what the hell boy wtf??I know this is gonna sound maybe super specific to complain about, but people on Twitter seem to notice it too so I am gonna attempt in my best efforts to explain ok? Good, so like there are apparently people on TikTok(obvious white people)who don't identify as RCTA(remember when that was a thing?)who I haven't seen directly appropriate black/afrocentric culture visually like others have in the past(Like blackfishing or racebaiting in general), but at the same time still heavily fetishize people of color???It's like those white girls who wanna be east-asian because of the spoon-fed, watered down ver. of the culture which is just anime and k-pop in their eyes. It also goes for other white people who keep saying they want to be black or a brown latina(specifying since being latine isn't a race technically)because they're for once being appreciated somewhat on a mainstream social media platform. Like no, Stacy, you don't actually want to be POC and you'll never be able to because you were born as a white person who is visibly white, you just want to be some sort of counterfeit sexualized-aesthetic fantasy of one because its trending right now!! Sorry if this rant is all over the place and I knkw maybe I haven't been specific enough which I sincerly apologize for but pease tell me I am not the only one who sometimes notices these things Istg.

#Rant #Ranting Post #Rant Post #Ranting #Please Correct Me If I'm Wrong #But Its Just So #???? #It Makes Me Angry #Oh My God #Please Stop #Stop Being A Bitch #These People Are Crazy #Stop Being Creepy #TikTok #Random Thoughts #Hyper Specific #Bad Ideas #Nasty People #The Ick #Internet Stuff #Social Media Platforms #Leave People Alone #YT People #White People Suck #Stop Sexualizing #Harmful Stereotypes #Stop This Madness #I Swear To All That Is Holy #My Blood Is Boiling #Annoying People

[flickerfly]

I sound like a broken record at this point but, let people spend their money how they want. the entitlement to other peoples spending cash when you have a donation post up is not cute. It is petty. You deserve to get donations but you do not tell people what theyre allowed to spend their own goddamn money on. If they want to keep this site open for a checkmark that is none of your business. People spending their own money on things they want is not an indication that they hate the working class or the poor, chances are theyre both so creating a divide over such a trivial thing? Petty. These Two things can co-exist without problem so maybe stay in your own lane?

#i live in poverty myself but yall seriously need to stop getting pissy over peoples own lives and income just because ur struggling #we're all struggling but yall need to consider. people spend money on things like this to keep their platforms Open. #people depend on this website for their livlihood a lot of the time so whats the problem in supporting it staying open? #like please pull the sticks out of your asses and have some nuance on this topic #creating a divide when there doesnt need to be Any does much more harm than good. #it is not the moral dilemma you think it is youre just being entitled and maybe you should stop giving so much of a shit #posts #negative #still angry

[liminalweirdo]

HERE'S WHAT YOU CAN DO:

email, call, or write your reps (this is the most important one) — use this tool to find your reps HERE IS A TEMPLATE that you can pull from.

Here is the text used in the petition that you can pull from to include in your email/letter to your reps:

I’m writing to urge you to reject the Kids Online Safety Act, a misguided bill that would put vulnerable young people at risk. KOSA would fail to address the root issues related to kid’s safety online. Instead, it would endanger some of the most vulnerable people in our society while undermining human rights and children’s privacy. The bill would result in widespread internet censorship by pressuring platforms to use incredibly broad “content filters” and giving state Attorneys General the power to decide what content kids should and shouldn’t have access to online. This power could be abused in a number of ways and be politicized to censor information and resources. KOSA would also likely lead to the greater surveillance of children online by requiring platforms to gather data to verify user identity. There is a way to protect kids and all people online from egregious data abuse and harmful content targeting: passing a strong Federal data privacy law that prevents tech companies from collecting so much sensitive data about all of us in the first place, and gives individuals the ability to sue companies that misuse their data. KOSA, although well-meaning, must not move forward. Please protect privacy and stop the spread of censorship online by opposing KOSA.

Here is an open letter from parents of trans and GNC kids that you can also add your name to/ pull from in writing your own letter

sign this petition

#stop kosa #kosa #kids online safety act #transgender #queer #lgbtq+ #trans #nonbinary

[fiercynn]

oh my fucking god can people stop coopting the term "harm reduction". i know language can change but i refuse to let this term change into the literal opposite meaning just so people can justify their decision to vote for a genocidaire.

harm reduction is literally, meaningfully, about reducing existing risk of harm. a person who uses drugs is at risk of disease or illness because they only have access to dirty needles? provide them with a needle exchange program to make it safer for them. a teen who is sexually active is at risk of becoming pregnant or contracting a sexually transmitted infection? provide them with sex ed and protective devices like condoms or dental dams to allow them to have safe sex.

and yes, there is a part of harm reduction that is aimed at not moralizing about the behavior that you're trying to reduce harm from. but if you're a progressive - as most of the people lecturing us about "harm reduction" purport to be - you should already understand that these behaviors are not ethically bad in and of themselves. it is not inherently unethical to use drugs or be sexually active as a teen, so the fact that harm reduction efforts could "encourage" that behavior is also not unethical! if you think that it is, then you're actually a conservative!

and, importantly, the people who benefit from harm reduction were only at risk of harming themselves in the first place. so helping someone make those activities safer for themselves is not only reducing the risk of harm to that person, but, in doing so, it is not increasing the risk of harm to anyone else either.

voting is giving your active support to a candidate, and thus to that candidate's platform. so please tell me how giving your vote to a president who is actively driving a genocide, perpetuating a pandemic, funding cop cities and a border wall, and driving up deportations - none of which he has pledged to stop if reelected - is reducing existing risk of harm? because harm reduction also isn't "choosing an option that you believe is better than the hypothetical even worse alternative". and voting for biden is, in fact, increasing the existing risk of the harm that he is currently enacting on other people, and encouraging his despicable behavior!

if coopting the term "harm reduction" is the only thing making you feel okay about your decision to vote for biden despite all the people who are dead, disabled, deported, or destitute because of him, then honestly, that seems like a you problem. STOP COOPTING THE TERM.

(and if you feel the urge to respond with something along the lines of "but biden's just doing his best! i'm just telling people to vote for him because i'm scared of trump!" then please at least read this post as well before you say anything to me about it)

#fuck biden #u.s. politics #free palestine #genocide #covid #immigration justice #police abolition #prison abolition #ableism

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

PREY

PAIRING: Hunter!Simon 'Ghost' Riley x F!Werewolf!Reader

SYNOPSIS: There’s blood on your hands again.

WORDCOUNT: 16.8k

WARNINGS: Intense gore, body horror, death, mutilation, weapons, firearms, knives, intended harm, violence, blood, descriptions of wounds, angst, fluff, protective!Simon, religious mentions, period time standards for men/women (1700s), etc.

A/N: The first of my reverse AUs is finally here! Enjoy!

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

The tale of the Werewolf extends back to around 2100 BC. It was written in The Epic of Gilgamesh, scored into a clay tablet by hands long buried—a corpse forever still in the earth so deep, the bones have yet to be found by greedy eyes. Perhaps the oldest surviving story in human history, and there is still a passage that bleeds into stories hundreds of thousands of years later.

In such, Gilgamesh, a man on the search for immortality, rejects a woman for the reason of turning her previous husband into a wolf. 

“You have loved the shepherd of the flock; he made meal-cake for you day after day, he killed kids for your sake. You struck and turned him into a wolf, now his own herd-boys chase him away, his own hounds worry his flanks…”

And then, the tales spread, changed, through history and through spoken words of caution. Like water trickling from a well, down the shape of the wooden bucket delving deeper and deeper into a pit of age—of caution. 

“The Beast of Gévaudan. Man-eater.” Through France

“He has a wolf-head, you know? Tall thing—short brown hair all over him.” Through Scotland

“Beware the man that changes shape under the full moon.” England.

Now, in the late seventeenth century, it all comes to a head. Even the people in 2100 BC knew that someone who changes into a wolf, or some bastard-like imitation of one, was very much real; it is very much an affliction that overtakes sense and reason. A curse. 

Transferable down to the saliva of one entering your bloodstream.

You must never get within the beast’s sights. 

—

There’s blood on your hands again. 

Hunched over, your body quivers, and the bareness of your flesh in the moonlight is of little concern to you—trapped in a fetal position while the chilled wind howls.

Howls.

Howls.

“Get out of my head.” Your fingers grasp at your scalp, pulling; ripping. A sob jaggedly slashes your throat open. “Please,” you rattle in a fast breath, the grass snapping as you writhe. “Get out of my head.”

It had happened once more, and you can’t remember any of it. 

The forest is deathly still. No birds sing their songs—no breeze moves the long grass, patches trampled down around you as if a beast had staggered into the small clearing you’re lying in. Maybe it had. There are shadows that listen to your quiet panic, the low whines and gasping quivers of your throat; from behind the trees that speak in the way that only they could. The deep night creeps into you, and the moonlight bathing your flesh doesn’t push back the terror in your bloodstream. 

Your body burns like you’ve broken every bone twice over, and judging by the blood stuck in between every line and dip of your skin, to anyone walking past, the analogy could be very real. Fingers flexing and bending, you try to force out the venom inside of your head with desperation befitting a dying dog, spine visible out of the skin of your back as you sob all the harder. 

You tried to stop it—you had; you always do. But, just like every month when the full moon mocks you with its silver-hued face, it never works. 

It never works.

Your eyes stare at nothing as you lay here, in this place of grass, blood, and bile, of corruption as deep as a vile sin of flesh. It came over you like a wave, fingers trapping your throat and bearing it to the caress of fangs. There were different names for it here, miles from your village and the terrified eyes that search the tree line; names coming from the hunters and their black deeds. 

Shapeshifter.

Demon spawn.

Werewolf.

“I can’t take it anymore,” you shove the side of your head into the ground, pushing the torn earth away from the cuts of long claws. Tears flood the dirt until it’s wet and muddy, pushing the crimson stains on your skin away in long streaks. “It hurts, God, please, it hurts.”

The sound of your hysterics rises and falls in the stillness—the inactivity of fearful birds and beasts wondering if your fangs would rip from your gums and your claws would tear from your fingertips. Fur along your body the color of which leads to stories of their own spreading far and wide. 

The White Wolf. The Specter of St. Francis’ Village. A hound from Hell. 

More pale than snow, and sharper seen than a knife or blade through the black trees. Even if the memories of your shifts were fuzzy at best, there were flashes of those who’d seen your gargantuan form from the confines of their stone-cut homes. Those wide eyes. Yelling—screaming; sprays of blood as heads were separated from bodies—

“Stop!” You scream, your legs kicking out as your toes scrape the grass. “It’s not me! It’s not!” 

There’s a call of alarm from deep within the woods, the flash of torches and bellow of hunting dogs. They’re running you down, you’d forgotten that in the depths of your breaking mind and body, and by the time your elongated limbs had set themselves back into a more human-like appearance, your spine cracking at every vertebrae, it had slipped your thoughts entirely. It always took you a long time to understand what had happened after…everything. 

But even now, the shouts of the hunt are pointless to the visceral breaking of your consciousness, stuck between leaving bloodlust and knowledge of horror. There’s flesh in your teeth, and you wail before your fingers drag down your face, cupping over your ears. In the back of your skull, the panting of dogged breath echoes; running, blood, blood, blood. It’s a dance of fangs, of pale fur, staining every inch and flooding the back of your mouth. Drinking it down like water.

Flesh—lovely, disgusting, flesh rent and torn to the bone with smacking gums belonging to a square snout. 

Who had you killed this time?

By the time the dogs had tracked your scent to your curled body, it was already too late. 

“Here!” Male voices shift in and out on the backs of crows, hard and cruel. “It’s here!”

“Get the dogs on it!” 

“It’s not me,” you mutter incessantly, not truly understanding what you’re saying as hounds burst through the bushes, all snapping teeth and slobbering tongues your eyes widen in an instant. Panting, your jaw clenches; long whines move your throat. 

“What…?” Blinking quickly, the dogs surround you—having to be at least ten of them on their nimble legs and thin tails. Everything is distant to you; separated. A knife could be driven through your heart, and you wouldn’t even realize it until minutes later, bleeding out on the grass. 

The hounds are afraid of you. 

They dart forward and balk back, your scent driving them up a wall until rabid slobber drips from their maws. Torchlight pulls through the trees—quicker now, running. Fangs nick your shoulder and you yell, shoving up to your backside as the world swirls, shuffling away as the dogs snarl. Their eyes are red-huen. Drunk off fear and order. 

Your head darts and shifts, blood dripping off your chin to travel down the flesh of your stomach and navel—so much crimson that the whites of your eyes are violent under the moon. Hands slipping over the wet grass, your face pulls and slackens in delirious confusion as you try to stand but fail. You cry out in sharp pain, and the dogs go wild in their kill circle, nearly attacking one another in anticipation. 

You glance down and see the black crossbow bolt sticking out of your thigh. 

The scent of wolfsbane in the air only then becomes clear to you, and the realization is slow. Wolfsbane—you’d been told about it by the village priest. It makes beasts of the night dumb and weak; minds unclear. 

In a moment of clarity, the reason behind your incurable hysteria becomes clear.

Lungs heaving and eyes far-off, the hunting party bursts through to where you stay, and you look up in animalistic fear. Figures dip and slip into one another, faces becoming demons as the visages melt into twos and threes. You yell out, sniffling and sobbing, trying to back up until the hounds grapple onto your shoulder and rip a chuck out of your arm. Screaming, your hand moves back, shoving at its snout before hands staple themselves to your wrist. 

“No!” You wail, injured leg dragging as you’re forced back into a heavy chest. Hot breath fans against your neck as multiple grips pull and touch you—shackling you down with rope and chains. Your throat screams itself raw, kicking and struggling futility. “Let go!”

You’re too weak—too drugged off wolfsbane and blood loss. Rotting teeth move across the canvas of a smeared painting, you can’t focus beyond the riot of your heart inside of your ribs.  

Grubby hands snap under your chin, digging into your flesh as you cry, not able to move as the restraints are tightened. A silver muzzle is slapped over your jaw. Dark eyes shimmer as you rage—aggravating the bolt wound until fresh blood forms a puddle on the ground, which the dogs lick their lips at. 

“Look at that,” a low, lust-filled voice eases out, and hands around your body tightening as you squirm, head spinning. Silver and wolfsbane. Your eyes snap to fight the sudden flood of fuzzy heaviness in your body.  “Pretty little Hell-Beast, eh? Almost seems a bit strange to have the Spector be her. Think that hunter shot the right bitch?”

“Course,” another grunt, a hand grabs the top of your head, jerking it up as your head lulls along with the force. You can barely focus on the words being said. “He isn’t a fuckin’ twat. Killed a werewolf in the next village over, too. Heard he skinned the fucker and took its head for his mantlepiece—just like the vampire skull he wears.” A pause. The dogs are still barking—echoing out in the trees. You can’t feel your legs. “Isn’t that right, Hunter?!”

A shout is sent into trees as your panic breeds with the drug, eyelids drooping as your head is snapped and moved by your hair. Your buggy eyes don’t focus on the man until he steps into the torchlight, the crowd parting for him as the metal of your chains drags and clinks together. 

It’s as if the very blackness of night takes human form. 

The man, the Hunter, is tall—very tall. He looms like an aloof animal over most of the others here with his dark boots and his black hood, and yet, under the fabric, there is no whisper of his face. 

Only the upper visage of a pure white skull, and two long, needle-pointed teeth where canines should be. 

“Ghost,” one of the men laughs, groping at your bleeding thigh before you shriek, muffled from behind the muzzle, and weakly kicked out. “Good shot, Mate. Right in the meat of the thing. Gave a good trail for the hounds.” 

Ghost blinks slowly, grunting under his breath as the large crossbow in his hands is shifted. He stays silent as your visible pulse hurries on as if you were a rabbit and not a wolf, watching from under the cover of his hood. The darkness of his clothes is blue in the moon—silver buttons down the length of a loose shirt and pants stuffed into boots. The hood is attached to a jacket, which itself extends down to his knees and sways lightly with every shift. The silent resting of weapons and tools is not lost to anyone. 

Belt of filled vials and large knives; a firearm over his back, and two pistols hidden on either thigh. That crossbow was still in his hands.

Brown eyes openly dig into your soul, dead as a corpse, and your voice whines as your thigh is finally released with a laugh. Your vision blacks and comes back a moment later as you try to breathe from behind the muzzle, gasping. That skull on his face…you don’t like it. It scares you. 

And the Hunter only continues to watch numbly as his wide shoulders stay stationary.

“Get the cage!” Someone roars, and you flinch, shrinking until a dog with short fur comes and nips at your ankles, the man holding you grinning sharply as you sob and shake.

“C’mon—expected more of a fight from you, Spector. Getting bullied by dogs, now? Ain’t that a twist of fate, then. Bet this devil’s whore can’t even walk with all that wolfsbane in ‘er, eh?”

A grumble of chuckles as the rattle of metal is in the distance. You grow more fearful, mind flashing to a burning stake and the trials you’d seen in village after village. No—no they can’t put you in a cage; they can’t put you on trial.

They’re going to make it hurt.

“Say we try it out.” A shadow comes closer and grabs you by the arm, ruthlessly shoving you to the ground. You cry out as your spine meets the earth, arms and legs kept under chains that tangle and screech in their metallic way. The rope that holds the muzzle pulls against your neck until you can’t breathe except in ragged wheezes. 

“Go on,” they taunt, some holding back the rampaging dogs just to watch you flail and shimmy. Your face grows hot as you struggle to sit up—shaking so violently you can’t focus on anything but the quiver. “Put on a show for us, Beasty!” 

Death would be better than this.

Tears hit the ground as the cage is finally brought into view, the men all groaning and annoyed that you hadn’t even attempted a forced shift or a desperate run into the trees. 

Ghost’s fingers, you notice from the side of your blurring eye, tighten minutely around the body of his weapon. You do not doubt that he’s wondering if it would be easier to just put a bolt through your eye right now. 

“Get it loaded up,” the Hunter’s voice is accented and gravel-like. As if rotting wood is being peeled back and scraped along gravel, he stares at you for a long moment and then glances at the dogs. “And get those fucking mutts under control.”

“Which one?” Is the low-blow joke, and the ruckus of loud amusement that follows makes you want to die. 

It’s not your fault, how do you tell them that? It’s not your fault.

Your throat bobs in an attempt to speak, but you can’t move your jaw from behind the restraint of your face—held tight to you as the men come back over and grapple for you again. The priest was right, wolfsbane makes werewolves sluggish.

You can do nothing as you’re ruthlessly dropped into a silver cage, borrowed, no doubt, from the Vatican itself, and christened with holy water. But it was a funny thing, really, and the dark humor wasn’t lost to you even like this. There was nothing godly about this contraption.

Locked in, you shove yourself immediately into a corner and hunch over, grasping at your thigh as the bolt still leaks fluid in a long trail over the ground. The pain is so great in your head, that the physical agony is little—a bullet wound to a sliver. 

Your temple slams into the metal, smacking into it as your eyes shove themselves closed. 

Head hurts—hurts. I can’t think. Can’t think. It’s humming, my skull is breaking open.

Bile pools in the back of your throat, but the muzzle keeps it in, leaving you gagging as the cage is lifted with a grunt and carried by long poles; back to St. Francis' Village, no doubt, but you can’t…focus.

“Think you might ‘ave given her too much, then, Hunter,” one calls, slapping Ghost on the shoulder as the crowd follows after the panicking quarry. The large man only gives him a look from the side of his eye and the villager pulls away immediately, awkwardly chuckling before hurrying off after the others.

Brown eyes watch your bare body hunch and spasm, pupils wide as you’re carted off. 

He’d been generous with the wolfsbane, truth be told. He’d expected you to be…Ghost’s dark brows pull in from behind his grim mask…he’d expected you to be different.

Humming under his breath, the Hunter watches the torches disappear into the trees and lets his gaze linger on you. 

There was something…off.

Blinking, he turns, eyes studying the place where they’d found you with sharp attention that misses nothing—not even the birds that come back to settle into the trees again. Large boots shift through the grass, and as he’s re-settling the crossbow in his hands, his eyes find something glinting. 

Watching, Ghost takes another step and brings his body to the item in the grass, hidden, before he kneels. Digging with large digits, the Hunter’s hands loop through the chain of a necklace, dragging it through the torn earth until he can gaze at it fully under the light of the moon.

Blinking in slight surprise, Ghost finds the body of a silver bullet hanging from the confines of a leather strap. Brown eyes shifting to look over his shoulder, the man listens to the cheers and merriment of the hunting party mutely. A simmering understanding brews in his gut. It’s only one that you could know from years of experience doing just as he had—hunting and being hunted in turn with a knowledge of all things dark and unholy.

It could never be easy, could it?

A low grunt later, the man sighs out a deep, “Fucking hell,” and moves to slowly stand, slinking back into the darkness. 

—

They kept you in the cage and set it on display in the middle of town for days.

Shivering now from the cold more than the wolfsbane, you stay collapsed into yourself as people come past to poke and prod at you—even sticking knives into the slits of the cage and digging them into you like an animal until your flesh was marked and brutalized. 

You don’t remember what it’s like to not be bloody.

The bolt wound was festering; infected. You dare not touch it, because the pain only makes you want to vomit, and if you do, you’ll most likely suffocate on your own bile before the trial ever happens. 

Yet, on the fourth night of this, as your eyelids flutter and your body grows weaker, a shadow comes to visit. 

“You weren’t born one.” It isn’t a question, but the sudden voice makes you startle. 

Eyes locking onto Ghosts’, your mind flies with fear—thinking that perhaps there’s more abuse that you’ll be put through. But no…the man has no weapons on him tonight. Only a long knife at his belt. The mask stays. 

You stare, unable to speak as your fingers twitch.

Grunting, Ghost’s head tilts, gaze moving up and down as you curl in tighter around yourself. A cold breeze rips through the square, and your eyes clench closed with breaking will. When you open them again, the Hunter is kneeling by the cage, and holding up something in his hand loosely. 

“You going to behave if I take that muzzle off?” You nearly gasped at the hanging image of your necklace—a silver bullet on a leather strap; that dark and heavy thing usually kept around your neck. A reminder.

After a moment of wide-eyed staring, you nod quickly to his question, a desperate, pleading thing without the need to utter words. Please, you want to scream at him, take it off.

Ghost’s eyes are as dark as a mound of dirt, sharply intelligent and filled with an unflinching reality. He doesn’t care what you are, and he won’t until you speak to him and let him judge your character far before any courtroom can. The man knows what a lie is better than any priest. 

“Good,” he says curtly, accent far more deep as he thinks, re-capturing the bullet in his palm and standing before he shuffles it into his pocket. 

You can’t help the anxiety as Ghost moves forward, loping to the side of the cage with the side of his eyes on you incessantly. It’s obvious how his other hand lays limp on the hilt of his blade that, with only one wrong move, you’d feel the chill of the edge with no time at all. 

But the temptation of getting this muzzle off was too good to ruin, and so, you stay as still as you’re able as crows call in the distance and the deadness of the town leaks into your blood. 

Ghost moves his free hand and orders, blankly, “Closer.” 

You hesitate, body tight before you drag your face closer to the bars, angling it parallel with the metal so the tight bind on the back can be taken up. The fear can be smelt the second your eyes have to break contact with his with the turn of your head—neither of you trusts the other. 

Ghost hums under his breath at the sight of your broken body coming farther into the open light of the moon, the whites of your eyes all the more visible from under the slathering of blood and tears. He hadn’t been absent to witness the abuse you’d been put through, even if the coin from his successful hunt was feeding him at the inn, a small window allowed the tight view of your torment at the hands of the people you’d once lived around. 

But the reality was that you’d killed people—scores of them—and yet the worst part of it was that he wasn’t sure if you even knew that.

It took four nights for him to break his only rule: never get involved after the job’s done.

But the hunch he had was too important to ignore. 

Large fingers latch onto the knot at the base of your skull through the cage itself, Ghost grunting at the sight ahead of him. The rope had been gradually chafing over your flesh, peeling back hair and skin until only the bloody meat was left—Simon had to wonder if the people of this village even wanted you alive for the trial or not at this rate. You’d be dead by tomorrow if that infected bolt at your thigh wasn’t taken care of.

Despite himself, a part of his chest tightens at the sight of the thing sticking out of your leg, dripping a yellowish puss. It had been a good shot, and he had overcoated the bolt in wolfsbane. 

Ghost hadn’t expected you to be so susceptible to it—most werewolves only got slower, but you…you seemed to have a stronger reaction. He files that fact away and tilts his masked face to the side. 

Grasping at his blade, the sound of a knife being slipped out of a sheath makes you startle, jerking your head back and shoving away even as your muffed whine of pain falls out. Ghost momentarily readies himself for an attack, but the way you force your mangled body to the opposite corner has him grumbling out a hard, “Easy.” 

The Hunter raises the blade, watching you with unblinking eyes. Your body shakes; panting. It was like calming a feral dog.

“You want the thing off or not? Have to cut it.” Once more, the man rises and walks over, boots almost silent over the small raised platform the cage had been set on like a trophy, you inside are comparable to the golden coins that greedy eyes touch and run their dirty hands over. 

Your mind is a troubled thing as you watch this Hunter and his crude knife come closer, kneeling again, and motioning with two fingers to shift your head. 

“Out ‘ere,” Ghost says, brown eyes not letting you guess anything about his true motives. “Don’t have time to fuck around. Guards’ll make a round soon and I’d rather not get caught wide-eyed.” 

Your brows pull in, hands clenching and unclenching in your lap as goosebumps travel the length of every limb. You were tired—hungry and thirsty; there were open wounds that burned with infection and ones that were crusted over with dirt and grime. You can’t feel your toes, and the tips of your fingers have long since gone numb. 

The thought of getting this muzzle off was like the promise of heaven being dangled in front of your nose. Your hesitation this time is far longer than the first, moonlight glinting off the visible blade in Ghost’s hand as he stares. That mask holds death. 

The hood is gone from him—only that pale bone left and sewn into dark, dark, fabric. The sharpness of the teeth leaves your throat bobbing in a nervous swallow as your head carefully shifts to rest on the bars. Bending, you present the knot once more and try not to focus on the way Ghost’s attention is fully on your expanding lungs; the pulse that is seen through the meat of your neck. 

But he says nothing before his fingers once more grasp the rope and the tip of the knife slips up. You don’t even feel it before the sudden slackening of the muzzle, and then the thing slips from your face before it slaps the bottom of the cage with a dull thump. 

The first thing you do is vomit. 

Spine pulling in, your body jerks as the bile that had been in the back of your throat rockets out, restrained hands slapping the ground as the acidic concoction leaks from between your torn lips. Face on fire, you choke and retch for what seems like minutes before you can finally breathe in the damp air—the innate shame and disgust rolling through as you cough raggedly. 

It’s only after you’d forgotten the man kneeling outside that he seems to remind you of his presence with a grumble. 

“Breathe. It’s no use if you can’t speak to me.”

A weak, quivering glare comes across your eyes, saliva dripping off your chin as your tongue moves to lick at your lips. But the brown gaze is as immovable as stone. Finding it pointless, your hands come up and delicately touch the base of your skull, only making you flinch when the fresh blood pools down and over your neck, licking at your shoulders. Tiny droplets fall to hit the metal one at a time. 

Ghost’s fingers twitch as he puts the knife away. 

“Who bit you?” You stare at him, hands falling before your wrists rub at the aggravated skin of your jaw. He shifts his head, voice slow but heavy. “Speak.”

“...I’m not a dog,” your voice is scratchy, hoarse. You send a small glance his way, mouth open and nostrils flaring in an attempt to bring in the oxygen you’d been lacking. 

“Really?” A hidden eyebrow is slowly raised. “Hell, coulda fooled me.” 

“Damn you,” you whisper, not meeting his gaze as you shuffle back. The crossbow bolt catches on one of the cage’s bars and you bite on your lip to stop the shrill yell that threatens to exit. Head moving, you lightly slam your skull into the wall in pain. 

Breath hitched, you clench your trembling jaw tight. 

“Speak or don’t,” Ghost grunts, and he makes a move to stand. “Your funeral.” 

A spark of fear stabs you as he begins to shift, and you can’t explain why. Perhaps it was because it was the first conversation you can remember having lately that wasn’t one-sided or on the edge of a blade.

“W-wait,” you stutter, blinking through the blood. The Hunter doesn’t slow, and then he’s on his feet and fixing the gloves over his fingers, flexing his hands before his foot begins to pivot— 

“Please, don’t go,” your voice is thin and pleading, echoing through the street. “I’ll answer your questions, any of them you want,” the sentence cracks through a dry throat, tears welling. “Please, don’t leave me here alone.” 

Ghost had half of his body turned away before it went rigid; the side of his dead eyes flash to you, swirling with specs of moonlit silver. A hunter and a werewolf lock gazes, great beasts respectively brought together in seconds that seep into slow minutes of delicate need.

Knowledge and company. Understanding and a horrible fellowship. 

The Hunter’s eyes twitch in their ever-narrow resting place, glancing away before he mutely moves back to where he was before. 

He wastes no time.

“Who bloody bit you?” 

You stifle a pathetic sigh of great relief, taking company with a man who had shot you not days before. Yet the ability to speak and be heard was a commodity that was dimming each and every day.

“It was already fully turned,” you speak quickly, tongue tripping. “A big wolf—a gray one with eyes like the sky.” 

Ghost glares to the side. Gray? There were no contracts for gray werewolves with blue eyes in the area. Only you—only Specter. The next question is just as stiff. 

“When?”

“Three years ago,” your lips move. “Only three years, I promise.” Brown eyes narrow slowly, fingers tapping the fabric of his pants once before he makes a noise in the back of his throat. Ghost’s jaw clenches, mind working through the hoops that need to be jumped. 

To you, the questions might seem pointless, but to a hunter, they were important—very important. Werewolves who are born afflicted with this moon-drunkenness are different from those turned by a bite. Not only are shifts from turned werewolves more violent, more deadly, but they rarely know their own actions from that of the frenzy under their skin; those that are born as such are rarely out of control, unlike your faction. 

The only question now was if Ghost could condemn you to death when it was obvious your human form was entirely different and you had no semblance of an idea of what was going on. Was it even his problem to care about? Even looking at you now, the man blinked away from cuts and inflicted injuries—the muzzle on the ground. 

The blood and the bolt.

He’d known it had been a foolish play to bring all of those townsfolk with him on this hunt but he needed their knowledge of the terrain; he hadn’t passed through St. Francis’ before. At the time, Ghost hadn’t been averse to assistance as long as he got the job done in his own fashion: capture or kill, the contract had stated. Rarely was he known for capture.

Maybe, deep down, he’d known something was already wrong about this.

“Show me it,” the Hunter grunts, staring you down, a deep anticipation growing in his bones. He had to make sure you weren’t lying.

You lick your lips, face pulling with every twitch and sway of your form. The black at the edges of your vision was coming back, and you blinked quickly, chains dragging before you shifted your back with a quivering breath. The punctures were difficult to see through all of the gore, but Ghost made do as he grabbed at the waterskin at his waist and the rag hanging from his belt. 

Flooding the fabric in the lukewarm water, he hums out a firm, “Don’t move. Cleanin’ it,” before you feel the press of the rag to your back. 

Gasping lightly, you almost jerk away before the sensation becomes a nearly welcomed one—the drag and slight scrape of rough material. Your averted eyes dip lower, staring at nothing as your heart momentarily slows to a normal pace. Ghost cleans the areas where the swell of scar tissue is the most obvious, and, one by one, the violent groves spread out like a slash of paint over canvas. Along the left side of your waist, the blood gives way to a dented ‘v’ shape of healed punctures. Deep, dragging; a point to where your side was almost ripped away before it broke off swiftly. 

Ghost’s dark eyes fight the need to widen, and that hidden blankness stays. 

A great gray wolf with blue eyes…

His mask tilts, head shifting as his gaze moves slowly. Gloved fingers twitch to touch them, moving in an almost examining way that befits a surgeon and not a decapitator. Your breath is held in the back of your throat, but you sag nearly entirely into the bars of the cage, growing more unsteady by the second. 

The scent of infection is so strong it makes your head burn, and you’re overtaken by it as Ghost’s presence suddenly disappears. 

You don’t know if it’s minutes or hours before you understand that you’re alone again, but when your limp neck finally turns to wonder where your silent captor is, you are greeted with nothing but moonlight. Blinking through the sludge behind your eyes, the sinking in your gut was stark and sudden—like a knife dragging itself from gullet to navel. 

But all you offer is a light whine as more blood moves to cover the places where Ghost’s rag had just cleaned. You were scared of him, no doubt. A hunter through and through down to the vampiric skull on his face and the shroud of death at every inch of his form. 

He’d shot you and drugged you with wolfsbane. Found your necklace. 

So why had he talked to you?

Your head is too muddled for this, too delicate. Like the crimson under your nails, it dries and flakes off of your brain as the lack of distraction breeds stored agony. There wasn’t anything left to focus on besides the upcoming trial, your death, and the pain that doesn’t let you sleep except for now, on the brink of not rest but unconsciousness. 

And at the sound of a key being slotted into the silver of your cage’s door, only then does your body slump with the weight of doom. 

You don’t even feel the hand that grasps at your ankle.

—

The sway of the horse makes your teeth clatter with every clop of hooves. 

Your conscience mostly comes and goes, only staying in thin seconds where you feel the press of clean bandages on your afflicted flesh and the tipping of warm broth into your mouth. Grass under your head. 

Blankets being shuffled over your clothed body when you shiver. 

When you’re finally able to speak, when the horse is moving along and hands keep your back stuck to a strong chest, it’s a low, garbled, “Ow.”

Ghost barely blinks down to your head as it slumps to the gait of his horse, glancing before his attention returns to the thin forest trail ahead of him. You’d made noises in your sleep often enough—this was no different except for the fact he felt your shoulders flex.

Slowing the horse with a pull on the reins, the dappled mare settles to a walk. 

“You up, then?” Ghost hums, his hand around your waist tightening as you groan under your breath. “Good. Thought I was dragging a corpse—would have wasted my bandages.” 

Your eyes shudder as they open into the light, having to focus on moving them before the sting of the sun makes them water. But you do, and then the confusion outweighs the numb stinging of tended wounds. 

Head shifting, you look behind you slowly with wide eyes as the horse under both of you snorts.

Brown eyes watch you before a dark brow twitches upward. “What is it?” 

You just blink, mouth slightly open. 

“Where…am I?” 

“Forest.” Ghost states matter-of-factly. 

If you had the energy to glare, you would have. Seeing that nothing will get the man into a proper conversation—he was a brick wall even now—you look down at yourself and land on the scarred forearm that keeps you secure on the saddle. Ghost’s gloves were still on, but the sleeve of his dark shirt had ridden back to his upper forearm, and in the wake of pale skin, you find the black ink of all manner of warfare. 

Werewolf skulls; vampire fangs and fire. The slash of inkish chains with skeletons. 

Your lips thin, your senses slowly becoming your friend again as you stare at the snarling face of a needle-hewn wolf. Eyes tightening as the horse moves to the left, your body follows the reactive action before Ghost’s pressure tightens once more, visibly veins behind the pale flesh. You move on, seeing the thin tunic and pants over your body—feeling under that, the bind of wrappings with the scents of mashed yarrow leaves in the fabric. 

They’d been re-applied recently, too. 

“Stay still unless you want to re-open them,” Ghost utters, eyes scanning the trees for unseen threats. It was midday by now, the sun high above the trees watching the both of you on your trek to seemingly nowhere. “We’re far enough away, but I want more distance before I take the time to close them fully.”  

“The trial,” your arm moves up, fingers grazing the side of your nose before it falls back down. Ghost can feel the air heat with unease. “The…the cage?”

“Trial was two days ago,” he draws, thighs shifting over the saddle. “Give or take.” 

The confession isn’t as shocking now that you have woken up here, but the lack of remembrance on your part of that time startles you. It’s a blank slate—just like the aftermath of your shifts. You don’t like not knowing. 

The next question comes out with a haggard cough, sweat dripping off your nose. “Why?”

“You’re going to tell me ‘bout the werewolf that made you,” the Hunter grunts. “And you can’t speak if you’re lit up like a pig on a spit. Took you the night we met in the square.” 

Through it all, Ghost barely looks at you—always his attention keeps to the trees and the shadows that linger; seeming to listen. He knows more than anyone that they do. 

The horse continues on, your pain surfaces again, and with a shuddering breath, you fall into a fitful sleep once more. The arm around your body tightens, and the warmth it lends is accented when Ghost’s shifting gaze glances at the top of your head. He wears an expression he can’t name yet.

When the throws of fever pull their curtains back for the last time, it shows you the slats of the attic above your head, wood polished and clean as the heat of fire moves over your body. Pulling a large inhalation of air into your lungs, you blink softly as if clearing away cobwebs with a broom—willing sense to return in the few seconds it had flown away. 

The furs are warm. 

In the village, you weren’t anyone of standing. A simple woman—unwed, and, thus, unimportant due to the era the world sees itself in. It wasn’t all bad…namely, it hid your affliction far longer than you could have hoped it did. You had a small piece of family land passed down to you on the edge of the village, and that was where you stayed. Nothing fancy; a hearth, a large, single-room property with a garden and a well. You were known to keep sheep, a fact that had caused perhaps a few hysterical chuckling fits when, every full moon, one or two went missing, but it gave you the ability to accumulate money and, more importantly, an alibi. 

Who would suspect a werewolf to own sheep?

But this home already had a more detached feel to it—something removed. The air was sterile, somehow. Groaning, your face tightens before you rise to the palms of your hands, muscles quivering to keep the strength your stubbornness gives to them. Half-vertical, you turn and study the area. 

Square, the four walls are stone with mortar and clay to keep the rounded blobs together. You’re on the ground floor, a staircase to the far right while the bed is stuck into the left corner; a nightstand sitting void of all except a single chamber-wick holding an unused candle. A sturdy table with one wooden chair, a stone fireplace set into the same wall the headboard is level with, and a large oak door.

There are runes written on it. 

You can’t make sense of what they mean, but when you see them, your tiny-pupiled eyes slip to the rest, all placed at windows or near some point of entry—unassuming things until you realize why they were red in color.

Your shoulders tighten, and whatever bit of magic moves through your skin lets your nose pull to the scent of human blood. 

You clear your throat and look away, licking your lips with a dry tongue. Moving your toes under the two bear furs that rest at your abdomen, you notice the lack of earth-shattering pain that accompanies it, and, shifting a hesitant hand, you grab the edge and push it back a bit farther. 

Bandages with perfect ties meet you, void of any crimson staining. 

Truth be told, you expected more of a Hunter’s home—skulls; trophies. The town always spoke of burnt bodies strung up on crosses that mark the property of those in this profession, a ward and a sign of grim hope. Vampires mostly, wasting away in the brutal sun. Others as well. Werewolf fur and witch bones shoved in blessed boxes. 

This place is almost normal, you think, thighs shifting over the dip of the bed as your finger runs the white wrappings where the bolt should be. Your mind dares not go to how he got the thing out of you, and at the stretch of sutures, you take your curious grip off of it entirely. 

Looking around once more, your brows furrowed tightly. 

Where was the man? The hunter responsible for your current predicament? Ghost. With his vampire skull mask and his black attire—a hellhound with dark ink and intentions. More importantly…

Why were you still alive?

Your memories come back slowly as you stand, bare feet moving to the floor as the tunic over your upper half falls to your knees at the verticality of your spine. They creak a bit, the bones, at the ability to stand fully upwards and not be impaired by bars of silver. A strength seeps through you slowly. 

In the deafening silence, you clear your throat tinily and lightly itch at the clean flesh at the back of your neck where the muzzle sat; rubbed raw now scabbed and healing with the spread of natural oil balms. Taking in a slow breath, you step forward with a heavy limp and watch the door, glancing at locked trunks and cupboards, eyes blinking. Your muscles ached, but the sting only served as a way to remind you that you were still here—living. Few in your position were granted second chances. 

You’re about to study the runes at the door when you’re called to with the creak of the stairs in your left ear. 

“Wouldn’t recommend it.” Your head snaps over, blinking quickly. 

Ghost carries the leather holders of his twin pistols in one hand, the bodies of the weapons in them hanging as he comes to ground level one step at a time. Brown eyes glance over through the confines of his skeletal face-covering as he walks to the table, placing down the items. 

“Keeps the spirits out—smudge ‘em and the house gets haunted,” he grunts. “Rather not bleed myself again to get the runes copied.” 

You stare in mild shock, sound sparking from the back of your throat. “...Right.” 

Side-eyeing the markings, you shiver and step back from the door, silent as Ghost seems to focus on his task at hand—looking over his weapons.

Large hands running the metal and wood, the pistols in his grip shift as the drying light of the day streams in through the curtains of the windows. He touches them intimately, knowing every grove and dip until he tilts one and rubs away a slash of dirt from the barrel with his bare thumb. 

You quickly turn awkward, looking down at yourself and the bareness of your lower legs. It wasn’t lost to you that the man was the reason you were in this situation in the first place. 

“You shot me,” you grumble—not unlike someone who had a knife to their throat. 

“Affirmative,” Ghost says nonchalantly. You get a slow, blank glance and nothing more. 

“Have you drugged me?” You ask, heart speeding up. There wasn’t anywhere to go—not without an escape plan and with Ghost in front of you.

“Wolfsbane?” The Hunter shifts his thighs, boots moving over the hardwood. “Negative. Not yet.” 

“Yet?” An attitude seeps in, lips thinning. 

Ghost sighs under his breath, slipping the pistols back into their holsters. “Forgetting about how we met, Love?” 

“No,” you huff. “Not really.”

“Perfect.” Eyelids pull down slightly. “Don’t.” Ghost nods his head to the table's chair, crossing his arms over his chest. “Sit.” 

“I told you I’m not a—” A sharp, numb look makes your snappy reply stall itself, and you stand there for more than a minute before you find the pointlessness of this.

You limp forward and sit in the chair.

Looping your arms around your waist, you glare to the side as your skin crawls at the unblinking eyes that stare. Ghost rolls his shoulders, tilting his head. 

“What do you know about the werewolf that bit you beyond appearance?” 

“Nothing,” you chuckle hopelessly, moving a finger in confusion. “I…I don’t know why you’re asking me about it—it’s not like I had a conversation with him.”

The Hunter blinks at your sudden confidence, unable to separate your form now from the one in the cage; blubbering ceaselessly in a grassy clearing. But lesser pains always bring out someone's true colors. As long as you told him what he needed to know.

Ghost explains with a sheen of dull annoyance. “Every turned werewolf holds a connection to the one that bit them. It’s pack mentality.” At your blank look, his brows pull in, the mask shifting. “You telling me you’ve never come back into contact?”

“...No?” Your lips dip. “For three years I’ve been by myself with this.” 

Brown digs into your face, a small sheen of confusion slipping in to tighten them, around his biceps, Ghost’s fingers twitch. 

You lick your lips, speaking up in the impending silence. “I don’t remember anything after I turn. Is that normal?”

“For you?” He mutters, still not taking his eyes off of you. “Yes.” 

“I’m not going to pretend like I know what’s going to happen,” you shrug. “But at the very least I want to try and understand why I’m like this.” You open and close your mouth for a moment. “Before you kill me, anyways.” 

“If I wanted you dead,” Ghost grunts through a half-amused tilt of his head. He doesn’t beat around the bush. “...You would be.” 

“‘Capture or kill,’” you huff. You’d seen the flyers; heard from word of mouth. “Right.” You sigh. “They’ll track you down, you know. They’re not going to just let you take me.”

“They won’t make it through the forest. Bastards would get lost on the trail.” The Hunter moves until he can grasp the waterskin from the counter, dragging it over with his hand. He tosses it to the main table in your direction after he comes back over, and you hesitantly reach forward and pull the top off. Ghost changes the subject back to his studies of your condition closely. Dark eyes slip down your front as your lips part to take up the liquid. “Before your shift, tell me what you see.”

Your throat bobs as you drink the water, thirsty as it soothes your dry mouth. You hum, but the inquiry makes your hair rise. Your arm wipes at your mouth as you lower the waterskin, a small thankfulness in your heart. “It’s less of what I see and more of what I hear and smell—blood; metal. River water. I…” Your chest tightens. “I feel my bones breaking and I hear howling mixing with whispers.”

“Whispers?” Ghost leans, eyes alighting with dim interest. “What’re they saying?”

“I try to block it out,” you whisper, not exactly answering. “Makes it go faster.” 

A long nothingness ensues. 

The impending night grows deeper, and then Ghost finally speaks again after you begin to shift with unease. He nods firmly, tilting his head as if it’s already been decided. 

“Next full moon, you’re going to listen to them.” 

Your horrified face snaps up. It’s a moment of stuttering before you force out a heavy, “What? No!”

He’s already turned, moving back over to the stairs and placing one foot on the steps. 

“Ghost!” You yell, face devoid of blood.

He side-eyes you. “Go back to bed. You’re dead on your feet.” 

And then the same man who shot you in the thigh with little remorse disappears into the attic.  

—

The Hunter was a strange beast.

The days the two of you spent together were mostly silent—left with tight stares and tense shoulders. Clipped sentences. 

Ghost, for what it was worth, gave you space in this small house; as much as you could get. He kept himself up above while you stayed on ground level keeping yourself occupied. You’d gotten spare trousers and socks, a jacket, and the bed was practically yours with how your scent rolled off of it now. Yet, you had never been permitted to go outside. 

You’d seen the land from the windows—careful of the runes, of course, and it wasn’t anything… ghastly. A vegetable garden, a single-stall stable with a dappled mare, and a beaten-down trail out the front. 

No livestock.

No bodies. 

It was only when you had become ever more curious about your lupine curse that you braved the stairs to the attic—one week into the impromptu stay. It’s funny due to the fact that Ghost had never said that you couldn’t go up there sooner.

You stand now in the flat room with a sloping roof and find the man making bullets. It’s a long table, parallel to the walls in the center of the room; dark and covered in all manner of books and tomes. Grimoires tied up and locked. Racks of weapons with markings and blessings tied to sheets of ribbon…it was something you’d never seen before. 

Studying it now, the contents were a dark fascination. 

Ghost fiddles with his silver shell, mixing in gunpowder into the hollowness. He doesn’t speak until you do, but he knows you’re there.

“Tell me more about werewolves,” you speak through the air, and he waits before answering. “The ones who are born with it.”

“Rare,” Ghost comments, and you’re stuck by how willing he is to tell you about this. He puts down his bullet and picks up another. “Harder to find, even harder to kill. Unlike you, they know what goes on when they’re running ‘round. Fuckin’ nightmare to pick up the pieces—bloodbath.” You thin your lips. “Not all of ‘em are murderous, but they’re unpredictable. Can’t help but make packs.”

“Instinct,” you murmur, coming a bit closer. Ghost pauses, looking at you before huffing in the form of a gruff ‘yes.’ Your wondering continues. “But why am I alone then?”

“That’s the question,” the hunter says slowly. “Need to figure out why.” Brown eyes slowly move to you. “‘Fore more people end up dead. Or turned.”

“Can I,” you stop at the table, standing opposite the man. “Can I turn people, too?”

“No,” is all you’re given. Ghost’s eyes glint. “And I’d rather you didn’t bite on me to try.”

Your face heats.

Your attention focuses for a while on how he works—prepares for something unseen. He’d said he’d kept you alive to help him find the one who bit you, but he’d also cleaned your infected injuries, bandaged you, and fed you. Kept you warm. Safe. It was far more than could be said about your village.

However, it was strange how Ghost’s stark muteness was something that you found in the darker hours, a small comfort. When the moon was coming in from the windows, and you hid from its rays as if being stalked down, he once found you sleeping under the bed on the floor because of it.

He never said anything, just offered you a silent hand and helped you back out with a slow blink and a tilt of his head.

There was a distrust, obviously, but there was also an unspoken nearness. No one would make any sense of it—you couldn’t either. It was like a wolf and a raven; something built on hesitence but necessity. You didn’t like Ghost’s mask or his brutalist profession of shooting his wolfsbane-coated bolts, and he didn’t like that once a month you turned into a rampaging werewolf. 

Comparable things, really. 

But even here, in this workshop in his attic, you saw the need for this—for hunters. If you couldn’t stop yourself, there came a time when you had to be stopped. Truth be told, you expected it to be a quick and final end. Maybe that was just a foolish hope. 

A silver bullet would have always been your final song, you believed. Perhaps the very one that had once swung from around your neck; the one you’d never taken off until now. 

But then, perhaps that would have been your own brutalist profession.

“Thank you,” you nod. Ghost pauses, fingers stained with gunpowder. He blinks at the bullet in his hand as you continue. “I know you don’t care about anything beyond your work, but if you hadn’t gotten me out of that cage they would have burned me alive. Skinned me.” Your tongue pokes out of the side of your mouth. “I don’t know, but it wouldn’t have been kind. Job or not…thank you for getting me out of there.” 

“I shot you,” he utters, voice gravel. Ghost seemed confused.

Your lips flick. “I never said I forgave you for that part.”

A smooth chuckle wafts out over the attic and your own softly mirrors. Your head tilts somewhat quizzically. “But, about that…did you mean to put so much wolfsbane on it?”

Ghost shakes his head, grumbling. A small sense of honesty leaks out. “...Expected you to be bigger.”

You blink, and then, a few seconds later, a loud snort echoes like a ringing bell. 

The Hunter's unimpressed look only leads you to find him all the more enjoyable. “Shut it. Fuckin’ hell.”

A hand is waved from your party, dismissing the harsh snap. “Sorry, sorry.” You puff out amused air. “Spector not up to your expectations?”

Ghost nearly rolls his eyes, trying to focus on the task at hand. He didn’t mind your company, at the very least he knew he needed to keep an eye on you for any potentially forced shifts or hostile attitude. What he hadn’t expected was to find you so…different from your muzzled counterpart, your shared physical inhabitant. 

He could almost call you endearing if he wasn’t so numb to the sight and scent of reality. 

“Sightings were far between,” Ghost grunts. “Here-say. I took an educated guess—better to put something like you out of commission than drag my way out of a forest without legs.”

“No apology?” You try, tilting your head.

“None,” is the drawn response. “I don’t have regrets. You’re alive.” 

Your fingers touch the outside of one of his journals, tracing the bumps and grooves of age and wear. You hum, but don’t reply. Most of your pains have been pushed back now, even if you still weren’t up to full strength. Food and rest helped, but the anxiety that perpetuated only lengthened the healing process. 

When you can’t trust even yourself under the drunkenness of the moon, it only makes your fear of the sun worse. Everything made you afraid—most of all your mind; most of all, the future. 

“Why do you want to find the werewolf that turned me?” You have to speak this, have to push. Your curiosity demands it.

Ghost puts the bullet down and grabs a rag from his belt, mask turning to look your way as he brushes off his hands. He pauses, looming with that gargantuan height—natural intimidation in the span of his chest and the trunk that makes up his front. You find yourself in his shadow as he rubs at his fingers with the rag, taking it away and slotting it back into his belt a moment later. 

The man’s heat leaks into your body as he blinks over, glancing your form up and down in a single look; keeping a respectful distance but still making his attentions known. 

He stares. “If it keeps biting people, there won’t be any villages left to take up contracts from.”

“Money?” You frown.

“Principle,” Ghost counters, chest rising and falling steadily. “There needs to be a middle ground. Too many feral werewolves, too few people. Cut off the head.”

“Ominous,” your form turns to his, itching at the back of your head again—the scabbing skin. “If what you said was true, how do you know the thing isn’t already dead? If it hasn’t tried to get to me, what was the point of making me?”

“Because you hadn’t left St. Francis’ by the time I put a bolt in you.” Ghost grumbles, rubbing a hand on his bicep, itching above the fabric of his tunic. He stretches with a grunt—and you see his shirt ride up and the pale skin underneath. You gawk for a moment at the length of scars and brutal muscle.

“Charming,” you dryly utter, stuttering in a brief second of pulling back your senses, but the Hunter continues on, ignoring you.

“That was where you were turned—your territory. You stayed because your leader is still close by waiting.” Legs shift, and all of a sudden, a body is over you, hands are on the base of your skull, pushing your own away as brown eyes dig into the injury you pick at. 

Your breath hitches, tensing for a second as your spine straightens. You watch widely from the corner of your eye as Ghost runs a careful hand over the flesh. He puffs a breath, chest moving in a grunt that is both commonplace and expected, yet the brush of his chest to your shoulder is not. 

You restrain a shiver, nostrils moving to the overwhelming swell of leather and gunpowder. Bone fragments; the tang of whiskey. 

His skin as he runs a thumb over the edge of your wound.

“It’ll start cracking.” Ghost utters, and through his fabric, you feel the brush of speech. “Have to apply more balm. Stop messing with it unless you want stitches soon.” 

It takes a moment more of his surgical study and a small clearing of your throat before you can speak. Your mind changes the subject for you.

“So…if my bite can’t turn anyone,” you breathe, nearly sagging as Ghost’s fingers catch in your hair, shifting it under his attention to get a better look. He listens, you know. He wasn’t good at talking, but he always listened. “Why did they muzzle me?”

For a brief instance, you think you feel the Hunter’s fingers jerk a tiny amount—some reactionary muscle twitch that leads your body to still. 

Ghost can’t say why he did that, though perhaps it was the sudden flash of the injuries that he’d wrapped on the road back to his property that went over his eyelids. Or the cage—your pleading face aching for whatever small sliver of brutish company you can get. 

The silver bullet that he still had in his pocket, attached to that leather cord. He knew the purpose; the intent. Just as he knew the scrape of scabbing under his fingertips. 

“Control,” he grumbles, and it’s all he’ll say. 

Your burning face is somewhat down-turned, letting him do as he must, study what he can. He hadn’t made any moves to endanger you, and besides the upcoming full moon, there was nothing here that screamed imminent danger. Danger as a general, yes, of course. You were a werewolf in a hunter’s home—it would always be…your eyes flutter when his fingertips drag over your scalp…it would always be danger….dangerous.

Ghost doesn’t think you notice it, but your eyes are drooping. 

He watches after the slight shock wears off, a tiny smirk flickering the hidden skin of his lips after he realizes the reason. If you had a tail, he’d assume it would be moving in a soft arch by now. 

The man was mildly amused at that, and before he moved away fully, he had to stop himself from uttering a sarcastic, ‘like that, then?’ 

He had to remind himself not to get attached to whatever…this was. He was using you as bait, as some key to his problem. Not a companion. The distance here had to be firm and heavy-handed. 

“The balm is down in my packs,” he grunts, leaving just as his name implied before you had the chance to gather your bearings and the lack of caressing heat. You startle back to the attic room, eyes wide and face loose before Ghost’s retreating footsteps echo on the stairs. “Don’t bloody use it all, then.”

The front door opens and closes with a pull of weighted wood.

—

“I can’t do this,” you mutter, pacing alone in the middle of the night down in the living room 

The full moon was tomorrow. 

“I can’t do it,” you itch at the back of your head, peeling at the nearly healed flesh harshly. Your nails dig into the soft tissue, drilling like a knife. A bead of blood slips around your fingers, but it doesn't stop you.

It’s late—late enough to know that Ghost should be asleep by now. For days, the paranoia, just like always, builds until you are nearly as mute as your Hunter. No more curiously searching his attic; no more questions about his job or how he got into this business. Brown eyes had been lingering more as the days went by, this strange companionship growing. You knew, in his own way, he was…worried.

So silent, even he had been getting noticeably uneasy. Shifting legs and quick glances. Nights where you hid under the bed from the moon until lunch came around, Ghost speaking as easily as he could to try and coax you out to no avail. You, a feral dog with white-rimmed eyes. 

At supper, only hours before this panicked pacing, you had told something to Ghost that made him double-take. 

“If I can’t stop it…I need you to shoot me. In the head.”

He’d never answered, but his eyes seemed to get ever-sharper as the hours continued on. More tense. Ansty.

But…that was his job, wasn’t it? 

“Can’t do it,” you murmur. Blood slips down your wrist. “It isn’t right—”

“Spector?” Ghost’s voice had become so familiar to you that the only thing that made your heart skyrocket was the sudden call of it. Your gasp is sharp from behind a panted breath, hand flinching away from the crater you were steadily digging in your skull. A long string of blood trails into the air as your fingers jerk away, and it’s only then that you notice the deep pangs of pain.

Your eyes shudder for a second as Ghost’s form makes it to ground level. He comes over slowly, attention staying on the way the moonlight makes the crimson stains glint from the dripping line seeping into the sleeve of your tunic. He blinks, and you both stand.

The man’s skeletal adornment was missing, though the fabric under remained. A loose sleep shirt and pants, stained by the rays of night. 

“Let me see,” he sighs under his breath, a tiny rasp telling of the sleep he’d been awoken from.

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” you utter. He doesn’t seem to care, grabbing your wrist and pulling the limb away as his body takes up presence behind you. 

“Was already awake,” Ghost grunts, eyes narrowing in hidden worry. You calm down a bit at that, one less problem to worry yourself about. 

The Hunter, quietly, leaves for a second and grabs his pouch near the door. With a muffled command, he nods to the bed until you’re backing up and hitting the back of your knees off of it, sitting. 

Ghost lights the candle on the nightstand and opens his belongings with stiff glances your way. He noticeably doesn’t ask why you’ve harmed yourself like this.

“I can’t,” you say it like a plea for help. “Ghost, I can’t do it again.” 

Hands fiddle with clean bandages and take out his waterskin. The man douses a rag with the liquid and comes over, shifting onto the bed and lightly turning you so your back is to him—legs half hanging off. 

The hard press of cold water makes your breath hitch, and you bite your lip.

“It hurts,” you push out. Ghost knows you’re not talking about the newly opened wound. 

“Breathe,” he says to you, seeing the way your sides expand with heavy lungs. Brown eyes flutter from the push of his large hand to the warmth of your shaking flesh. “Tell me about your home, yeah? Heard you lived in your own place.”

The question makes you double-take.

He’s asking me that? Here? Now? Hours away from perhaps another catastrophe?

Yet, you can’t help the slippage of your tongue as Ghost’s fingers rub into your scalp. The rag is lessened, and, soon, the material is rubbed gently over the sore itch of weeping skin. You fight a whimper and reply with an addled mind. 

“It…it’s quiet. Calm. I always keep the candles going because I don’t like the dark.” Ghost works quietly and quickly. 

“There,” he grunts, glancing at the flickering light of the candle he lit. He’d have to remember that. “And?”

“I kept sheep.”

He pauses, and, without meaning to, a soft scoff bounces off the confines of his chest. It catches your attention far better than a bullet could. Ghost shifts a needle and thread out of his gathering of items, taking away his limbs only for the short while it takes him to loop the two together. 

“How many?” The masked man asks, amusement gone just as quickly as it had come. 

“Only a handful,” you whisper. Your mouth opens and closes, glancing over your shoulder as the candle-light spills out over the room; casting shadows over Ghost’s face, catching on his long eyelashes. Those browns of his glint like tree trunks covered in dew.

“Please,” your words are muffled. Eyes wide and fearful, there isn’t anything that can console you on this. “You need to kill me.”

There was a dichotomy to you—a violent thing. You didn’t want to die, no, you feared it heavily, more than the moon, but the truth was that you couldn’t keep going through this. The unknowing. The breaking bones, the blinding pain. The understanding that nothing that you do can stop it. 

“It hurts, Ghost,” your breath stutters. “More than taking off a limb, more than slicing yourself open and ripping out your intestines—it burns more than the light of the moon.”

The Hunter listens through all of it. He sits, he stares, and he hides the brimming sense of concern behind his dead eyes.

With a pulling of his eyebrows, Ghost’s free hand moves upwards and grabs your chin. Freezing, you study this phenomenon from over your shoulder, face on fire with eyes wide to the pale skin visible to your view. You hadn’t realized until now, but this was the most you’d seen of the man’s face. 

You could make out the point of his crooked nose—the strength of his jaw under the form-fitting fabric. Cheekbones and the heaviness of his brows. Wisps of hair. He had eyes like a cat, you had to admit; something sly about them despite the numbness that seemed to extend bone-deep. 

But his hands had been kind to you. 

Firmly, Ghost’s fingers run your flesh, and he blinks softly before a low sound echoes in his throat. He pushes carefully on your jaw and shifts your head back forward so he can help you. When he lets go, your heart quivers in your breast

“I’m ‘ere,” he mutters, and you feel the first stitch enter the thin flesh of your head. You take down deep breaths, focusing on the scrape of his fingertips and not the point of the needle. Ghost can understand the fear of it—of pain. It’s instinct. He tilts his head and pushes out, “I can only ask for one full moon from you, yeah? No more. I just need one.” 

“And if I can’t find the werewolf?” Your voice vibrates with emotion, staring down at your hands as Ghost’s chest brushes your spine. The scent of him was addling your brain; the rub and slide of his hands.

The Hunter’s jaw clenches softly. “...Then I let you go.”

It wasn’t what you were expecting, but anything from the time you’d gotten a bolt through the thigh was unknown territory, and, like a dog without a leash, you’d run into it. Your brows furrow, blood oozing down your neck before Ghost’s grip shifts to place the rag back again, swiping away firmly. 

“Go?” He nods, but you can’t see it. “But what about the hunt?”

“I can manage.” The stitching pauses. The air is broken up nearly a full minute later. “You’re not evil.” Before they start up again as if nothing was uttered aloud. 

The confession makes the sting in the back of your eyes start up again—a strong thing of confusion and vulnerability. Ghost continues his task, pulling together your skin one suture at a time until the injury is fully closed; clean. 

“Chin,” he lowly states, and you allow him to tap your jaw, shifting it up so the wrappings can loop above your ear and over your forehead—securing them. 

Even far after the blood has seeped through, the two of you stay.

—

Come morning, you already feel wrong.

Your body stays in bed, shaking—sweating. A large pain flairs in your chest over and over like a pulsing well in the earth, skin twitching with the spread of blood. Ghost sits beside the bed all the while, having dragged over his chair. He leans back into it, one arm over the side, hanging with the thing ever so often moving to rub at the back of his neck. 

You don’t think he’s moved since he brought it over last night; since he got another candle to stick into the holder—push back the dark. To watch, to study, or just to stave off your rising anxiety is another question. 

It’s only after the fourth time you try to rip at the stitches at the base of your skull that he finally grabs your hand and holds it silently. Now, his thumb moves over your knuckles—his gloves back on. 

At noon, he tries to suggest eating.

“Hungry?” Ghost asks. 

“No,” you say instantly, sweat dripping over your temple, your body partially buried under blankets. “No, I’ll just throw it up.” 

Brown eyes glint. “Just one bite?” 

Your mouth is already salivating—thoughts of wet flesh and blood in the forefront until you whine and shove your face into the pillow; panting heavily. 

Whispers dance in the shell of your ears. 

I’m here.

I’m here.

I’m here.

“Go away,” you whisper quickly to them. 

Ghost pauses, hesitating. After a moment, his thighs tense with the action of movement, thinking you’re speaking to him. Something swirls in his chest, but he starts to stand nonetheless.

Your eyes widen.

“No!” Both of your hands latch onto the Hunter’s wrist, fear a needle stuck in your gaze. “No, not you. Stay, please.”

A silver cage covered in blood slides across Ghost’s slightly shocked look, but he only licks at the corner of his mouth and slowly leans back once more. 

“Not going anywhere,” he says, accent dipping. “Tell me what you’re hearing, yeah?”

His hand slips back into yours, and he presses into your pulse softly, counting. The sun continues across the sky.

“I don’t like how it sounds,” you say, shaking your head. “It’s wrong.”

“Focus,” Ghost breathes, looming closer. His grip squeezes once. “It can’t hurt you.” 

You shiver, eyes tightly closed as tears burn the back of your nose. “It’s howling.”

A suddenly gloveless hand spreads up your cheek, resting there and pushing back the sweat that pools. It’s calloused—scarred. You whine, head spinning.

I’m waiting. 

Find me.

Find me.

“I don’t want to,” you utter under your breath, words an amalgamation of slurring gasps. 

“Spector,” Ghost calls, head moving closer. “Eh.”

“I don’t want to hurt anyone,” your hurried panic is similar to a mind overdosing on wolfsbane. “Gotta go away—gotta get out—”

“Spec!” The Hunter’s quick bark makes your eyes pop open, and you lock instantly with brown orbs. 

They’re tight, unblinking just as always. They offer just a few moments of clarity. 

Ghost holds your head still while the rest of you shivers with cold sweats, you can hear the blood inside of his veins; his heart pumping. The scent of his skin was addicting to the point of memorization on the airwaves. You watch, gulping down breaths as your throat bobs. 

Eyes dart you up and down, fingers spreading out to offer what little comfort he can. The man wonders if he’s completely in over his head. 

Ghost pulls his face-covering up to his nose, and your heart skips beats at the sight of ravaged skin and stubble, scars spreading out like your own. Long ones, short ones, burn marks, and hyperpigmentation. He wasn’t pretty, but he was real. 

Oh, he was real. 

His grip on you strengthens until all you can focus on is him. 

Ghost blinks, and you see his lips move. The gravel of his voice was never more clear. “Fucking hell, keep that head on, okay? Nothing’s going to happen as long as I’m here. I’ve got you.” He sighs out a low breath, thumb running your undereye as the small dribbles of tears begin to sneak out. Ghost murmurs. “I’ve bloody got you, alright? Let it happen—we can figure it out.”

He’d grown fond of you over the course of a month. You were curious; not pushingly so. Honest. Good. You’d been dealt a bitter hand, and damn him if his stone heart wasn’t stretched thin at the raw fear on your face. This wasn’t your fault, but he needed to find who turned you and stop them before it got any more out of control than it already was. If more unstable werewolves went running through the woods, there wouldn’t be anyone left in the territory alive.

“When you turn,” Ghost says as clearly as he’s able. “Go. Don’t fight it. I’ll find you.”

“Promise?” You ask, a weak flicker coming to your lips—eyes vulnerable. 

Ghost nods once, and it’s all you need. “I’ll find you,” he repeats. “Doubt me?”

“No,” you ease, clearing your throat. “But…one more thing?”

“Anything,” the Hunter instantly says. 

“Just don’t shoot me in the thigh again.”

When the claws start protruding from your nailbeds hours later, you’re bolting to the door with only one last glance at the Hunter and his half-pulled-up mask. Booted feet hitting the wood as he stands, he lets you go even as his thighs tense in a need to run after you. Patience was his beast to tame, but it seemed to have left him in the form of a woman disappearing into the tree line. 

There is companionship in broken things.

Your body slips into the forest just as the creak of your bones begins to shift and bend. You fall into a heap, hearing the gargling of marrow under your skin like a call to sea. An urge grows to infect you; a feral need to run and hide. Biting back a shrill scream, a hoarse yell escapes instead—flesh rippling as your mouth opens, fangs breaking the supple mushiness of your gums as blood floods like a river. 

Find me. 

Find me.

Find me.

“Ghost,” you whisper, hands snapping to your head. “Ghost, please.” 

Your bullet, you want your silver bullet.

A rabid scream rips from your throat, and back in the house, Ghost’s hands tighten into fists as he glares at the open door. He growls under his breath, eyes tightening in a certain type of anger that brews in his gut. The nights your shuffling woke his light slumber were more common than when you hadn’t, and every utterance was clearly heard to his ears. It had become a curse to him—how you’d met.

A regret was seeping in, a care, and now, as he forces himself to back up and head into the attic, Ghost clenches his jaw tightly. So unaffected by the horror of monsters, he was now at a loss of sense for this growth of feelings. 

He wasn’t dull, he knew that some of the contracts he took marked him as a tool and not a person of stable mind. He’d done things he wasn’t proud of, and he would continue to do them for no other reason than they were the orders he was given.

But you had broken a piece of that off of him, somehow, someway, your face had seared itself into his retinas—speared him at the brutality that your community had treated you with. The muzzle. It was cruel, and while Ghost was precisely that, there was a limit. 

He did his job, and that was that. Anything after wasn’t his problem. 

You became his job, and the one who turned you was an add-on. Maybe if he justified it to himself, he could understand his actions better. 

But he was already sprinting to grab his gear when the first howl shattered the night.

—

A white beast prowls the forest. 

It stands on two legs, but it isn’t human—isn’t natural. It’s taller than a grown man is; snout pulled back in a soundless snarl that puts dogs to shame with rows of teeth so sharp, they look like pale knives. Its feet—large, splayed—soundlessly skate the ground until clawed fingers slam to the earth. 

A nose inhales the scent above the dirt, tongue lulling as a shaggy tail lays limp behind a curved spine. In between the erect ears, under the thick skull of the werewolf, the rolling bumps of a brain spark. A pull.

Find me.

Your eyes are tiny black dots—and they blink once before you rise once more. A great growl moves inside of your chest, the large collection of hair around your neck standing on end.

I’m waiting.

But there’s something that keeps you here—standing in the grass as the moon shines atop your head, your fur nearly glowing even with the stain of bloody injuries. The remains of clothes are about a meter away; only strips of what was. 

Your gaze looks over your shoulder, and your gargantuan frame lumbers backward until you can stoop to them—nose once more sniffing with your arms reaching.

Your fingers twitch, blackened claws digging through the ground as a near purr echoes in your throat. The scythe-like additions card across the strips.

Gunpowder. 

Leather.

Whiskey.

Something you can’t quite name, but feel drawn to despite the tightening noose at your throat. There was something there you can’t focus on…something that you need. 

Your drooling jaws snap, saliva coating the fangs until they drip off one at a time to stain the grass. Body shifting, your head lowers until your wolf-ish visage rubs against the fabric, licking at the sides of your gums as delicate grumbles slip out of your mouth. 

A far-off howl leaves your frame freezing.

Eyes slipping back into the feral-inhumanity of a wild animal, your body jolts up, gaze to the forest trees and the rustling of bushes. The swell of rain on the clouds is in the back of your nose, and the previous attraction to the ripped clothes is lost as simply as it had come. 

You were being summoned. 

Ears twitching, the entirety of your body refuses to move to the sound; tensed and ready to spring on anything that moves if only to let off the spike of anger at the lack of control. The pull grows stronger, and it feels like something is trying to drag you away into the wilds.

This was the sensation you were always trying to fight—the one that led to the aggression; the hunt. You knew that if you followed that howl, whatever was left of your human sense would be gone entirely before you could stop it. 

Yet, this time, there’s a nagging need to find the owner, and you can’t remember why.

Your large head tilts, feet spaced as the curve of your spine grows more aggressive—hunching forward as you snarl at nothing, claws shaking as your fur is more bristly than sleek. 

Like pure white spikes. 

In the back of your head, a thin sliver of a memory slips in. Fingers on the back of your head, caressing calluses and dark, dark, eyes. Clean bandages and gentle touches.

I’ll find you.

If the side of your vision picked up the shadow shifting from far off into the trees, your curled lip never turned that way. If your nose twitched to the heavy weight of a man’s sweat, it never shifted to point as a mutt would to the rustling bush.

Your body bolts after the resounding echo of a wolf’s howl, and it’s no later that Ghost slips after your clawed prints to follow.

—

Crossbow in hand, the hunter’s mask gleams in the darkness, his pale eyes twinkling. Bending down, he glazes at the long pushing tracks of your form—seeing the spray of dirt to the side and the broken branches. Ghost blinks, shoulders tense before he swiftly stands and continues on. The firearms at his thighs lightly rattle, and the bolts in his crossbow are already laced with wolfsbane; silver tips smelt a week ago. 

He passes a river with only a single glance at the tossed rocks from the bed, sloshing through the water as the bottoms of his pants get weighed down. Ghost’s mind is on one thing only: make sure this plan won’t get you killed. 

The bolts aren’t for you—the silver bullets aren’t for you. 

He grunts under his breath, the dark woods casting phantoms over the ground. The Hunter’s legs shift through tall grass, and he carries himself with the ingrained confidence a man of his station requires. If he were anything less than a monster himself, he would have died ages ago. Ghost shoots and lets others come up with the questions, but he could never be called dumb. 

Seeing what fast glimpse he had of your shifted form after the last time, he was struck by how erratic it acted. Snapping head, twitching ears, and roving eyes. If he didn’t know any better, Ghost would have called it rabid. 

Yet, your actions with his borrowed shirt were…body-stilling, to say the least about it. It had made his gut swirl.

“Give me a trail,” Ghost utters to himself, brown eyes still picking up the dash you’d taken. His agile feet splash through a puddle, the beginnings of raindrops hitting his head. 

The man grabs at his hood and pulls it up stiffly, frowning under his mask.

Rain would wash away the tracks.

“C’mon, Love,” he grinds out, body hunched. “Leavin’ me to do the dirty work, eh?” 

It’s too quiet—even a collection of minutes later of hard hiking, the trees barely move. There aren’t any birds; no animals beyond the black bodies of crows in the far-up branches, waiting, watching with obsidian eyes that don’t blink. 

Ghost isn’t off-put, but the length of his strides gets far tinier, carefully stepping over twigs and rocks like a soldier at war. Then again, he was at war. And if he was caught unawares, there wouldn’t be a bullet to pull out of his side, but, instead, a chunk missing. 

His ears were almost ringing from how hard he was focusing. 

Brown eyes shift from one area to another, and then, suddenly as if a deer, he freezes. 

Ghost’s body winds up, fingers twitching from the stark trigger discipline of his crossbow downward instantaneously. No one but him can explain what just happened, but he knows when he has to listen instead of act. Stuck in a clearing not unlike the place he’s first met you, his feet rest shoulder width apart and his eyes stare blankly into the trees ahead.

Your tracks end here.

From behind him, just as the large raindrops slap the side of his bone-ed visage, the small crack of a twig makes his ears twitch.

A low snarl sets his hair on end. 

Looking over his shoulder, Ghost is met with the same color that he’d become so accustomed to in a full month completely blacked out. Void. Lifeless to anything besides rage and bloodlust. 

Your white fur was infected with dirt, blood, and leaves—a mosaic of ferality ingrained into your body; pale fangs snapping. The beast slips through the treeline, slapping a veined hand into the soggy earth. 

Ghost only watches, eyes a mystery. 

His finger shifts over the trigger, and for the first time in his life, he hesitates. 

The man looks into your glinting orbs, the dripping saliva on your lulling tongue as your esophagus pants for breath. One hesitation, he always knew, would mean death. One mess-up. 

You’d asked him to end it, he shouldn’t feel remorse, guilt, perhaps—he was still human, despite his appearance, but remorse was deeper. It left wounds that were harder to lick clean again. 

…So why isn’t he sending a bolt into your forehead?

Ghost remembers the times he’d found you under the bed, your shaking, and the way you hadn’t allowed him to change your bandages the first few weeks you’d stayed with him; didn’t want him to touch you. The nightmares and the small smile you’d gain when he’d spew his dark, sarcastic words as if this was a joke. How you’d always thank him under your breath for the food he’d give you, hunted by his own hand. 

A silver cage. Crimson blood. The sight of your pleading eyes when you’d told him to shoot you.

Maybe the two of you were far more alike than he’d dare to admit. And he currently won’t, not even on his deathbed. Not even now.

Ghost watches, and he waits. 

He can’t do it.

Your body slinks closer, stalking with the sound of anger, nearly rib-shaking in its volume. Ghost’s jaw clenches, and his body shifts to face yours head-on. At the sight of the crossbow, your snarl turns into an air-biting rage, saliva flying through the rain.

“Spector,” he keeps his voice low, even. The sight he’d seen as you smelled his clothes had to mean something. Ghost tilts his head, moving out a hand from the side of his weapon in an appeasement gesture. “I’m not going to shoot you. We have a job to complete…get those fangs away.”

He wonders if ordering you around will even work. You had told him before—you’re not a mutt. Ghost agrees. No mutt was the size of a fucking boulder.

The werewolf’s claws drag—goring the mud as if a pig to tear apart. 

“Spector,” the Hunter tries again. But something’s different about his tone; he drops it, letting it pull on a softer string. “I’m here to end this. We’re here to end this.” He blinks and lowers the crossbow completely. “Breathe. The night can’t last forever.” A breeze whips the trees. “I made you a promise.”

There’s a second, he thinks, where he can see something shift in your gaze, pupils slightly widening above the deluge that wets down your fur into a sopping mess that hangs off muscle.

“That’s a girl,” Ghost grunts, taking a small step closer. “Never told you,” he utters, eyes locked with yours. He sees your nose twitch minutely. “But if we get this right, Spec, there’ll be no more painful shifts, hear me?”

Your dog-ish mouth is closed, hanging off every word as Ghost comes even closer.

“I kill this bastard,” the hunter breathes, gloved hand still outstretched, nearing closer to the near-silver of your form. “The moon’ll have no claim on you. She’ll let you off the leash, Little Wolf. You get to decide when it happens.” 

He thinks he has you now, back to some state of recognition in the addled brain that tries to see him as prey; as competition. Ghost’s fingers are close enough to almost touch you, but just before he can brush his gloves over your wet fur, your mouth opens in a display of untamed challenge. Your growl is enough to make the man unconsciously reach for his pistol, and in the time it takes him to realize the fault of it, you’ve already rampaged forward with an unhinged jaw.

Ghost’s eyes widen, taking a quick step back. 

Your legs push off, and you shove the hunter out of the way just before the fangs of an immense beast can clamp down on him, your own finding the shoulder of gray, thick fur.

Fighting as wolves do, Ghost only needs a moment to recover and get to his feet, though the sight in front of him can rival any that he’d seen before. His crossbow clatters a few feet away, sending the bolt off into the trees with a metallic ‘twang’.

The two werewolves roll around the pouring clearing, snapping teeth and rending claws drawing blood that’s deep enough to swim in to the green grass. White and gray meld together—blue eyes like a knife to Ghost’s chest when he takes it in from between the sound of tearing fur. 

“Bloody fucking…” the man trails, staggering as his palms slap to the pistols at his side. He blinks, shouting in more of a bark than even a dog could imitate. “Spector!” 

The wolves pull and rip the other to shreds, flesh torn and limbs grasping for purchase. Bodies are slammed to the ground before getting tossed to the side, fangs flashing in the moonlight. Ghost watches crimson stain your fur a pinkish-red.

He can’t get a good shot.

The werewolf that turned you sinks its claws into your sides, dragging them downwards as you yowl, eyes tiny with aggression before your jaws connect with its snout, biting down with more force than a horse’s hooves. The monster screams—a garbed thing of fangs and saliva. 

Just as easily as it called you here to it, as it stalked your Hunter, it bashes your body back into the earth and takes you by the scruff of your neck. Eyes wide in that lupine way, you lock on Ghost’s profile before your body is lifted, and tossed away violently. 

Spine slamming into a tree, you hear the cracking and bending of your bones in your ears just after you hear the sharp shout from the man in the clearing, body dropping to a heap into the grass and mud. Angled head flopping back and forth, black infests the edges of your vision, coughing up blood that seeps from between your gums and slips down the back of your esophagus. Fur and flesh are stuck at the base of your throat. 

Whining, your limbs drag and pull futility, eyes flooded over with crimson and fogged by rain. A great roar worries the air, sending long shivers over your spine as you try to rise to your limbs, a five-fingered hand slamming you back down. 

Just before the fangs can clamp your throat, two great booms burst through the forest. 

The wolf atop you reels back, great bellow escaping its throat when you can finally drag your head to look over. This beast was clawing at its chest, shaking its large head in an arch to try and dispel the shock of having two silver bullets entering its back—the gray head snapped around to Ghost, who held his twin pistols aloft with eyes burning with anger from behind his mask. An avatar of vengeance; a bringer of death. 

The orbs inside of your sockets widened, nose twitching wildly as you bleat a quick warning bark. 

Blue-Eyes rises, body far larger than yours would ever grow to be—on two feet more powerful looking than a bricklayer many years into his craft; tall enough to reach to the sides of black-shingled homes and pull itself up. Ghost takes one look and growls under his breath, knowing there would be no time to reload the weapons in his hands. 

So he drops them and pulls slowly at the cruel blade in his belt until the gleam winks in the low light like a curved smile. Setting it in his hands, the small flicker of a sharp smirk on his lips is lost to you. 

Yet, there isn’t a chance for some brawl between two beasts—there’s only the flash of pale fur and the final crunch of a body hitting the ground. 

You bury your fangs into the wolf’s neck; the one responsible for all of your pain and torment spanning years of isolation. You feel the body seize as it drops, the last remnants of a dying brain trying to fight the inevitable nothingness that ensues, and, you only hold on the harder, the bloodlust seeping back in with every drop of life pooling into your locked jaw.

Your throat releases tiny growls of pleasure, biting a bit to make sure there wasn’t a sliver of a chance that something living was walking away from this scene. 

Ghost pauses, and in the back of his head, he knows he should stop you. Brown eyes see the animalistic sheen of enjoyment at a fresh kill, the way you pull at the flesh until chucks peel away from a gurgling wolf. Even when the thing is long dead and the rain still slaps the earth, you barely let go until you get a hold of the meat and tear with a backward jerk of your snout.

“Love,” the Hunter sheathes his knife, taking a step forward. The blood was pooling under your body. How many of those were treatable? He had to know. “Let me see what’s—”

The eyes that lock on him are not yours. 

Up to your ears, the entirety of your face was awash with the stain of life, dripping off the whiskers at your cheeks; your chin. 

Before he can utter another word, he finds himself on his back with a snapping snout right in front of his face, two dead eyes staring deeply into his own. Ghost sucks down a quick breath, hand snapping to the large wrist shoving down on his chest.

He pants out, gravel accent far more deep than it was before. 

“Easy, Spector. Easy. Eh—focus on me.” Your tongue licks at your fangs, body shaking. Ghost pushes out, “That’s it, then. It’s over, yeah? You did it; let's pack it up and head back home.” He grunts. “Recon even dogs get cold in weather like this—the bed’s waiting. Get a nice fire going.”

Ghost sees your face move closer, and his hand minutely shifts to the vial of wolfsbane on his belt. It wouldn’t kill you, but it could put you out of commission until your body shifted back into its proper form. He could carry you back—that wouldn’t be a problem at all. 

But he was worried about your injuries. Even now the droplets of blood roll off of you faster than the water can. 

Too much.

Brown eyes crease, darting a look down. 

“Fuck,” he growls, seeing the carnage and the open meat. “Sweetheart, we need to get you checked out—you need to listen to me. Can you do that?”

He can see the conflict; the internal fight. 

Your mouth moves with fast pants, claws stuttering over his gear futilely. You blink rapidly, shaking your large head in fast increments with small snarls. 

“C’mon,” Ghost says slowly, fingers looping the vial. “Keep listening. Know my voice is utter shite, but only you can tell me it.” 

Your head drops to his chest just as the wolfsbane is popped open, and, for whatever reason, Ghost pauses. He waits. 

You take a long inhale of his gear—of the leather and the gunpowder, and just before the Hunter can dump the vial over your skin, the long blackish claw on your finger loops the bottom portion of the fabric under his bone attachment. 

The man’s breath hitches as you let it rest along his nose bridge…holding it there as you drag your head upwards as if it were an impossible chore. Your mouth dribbles out gore to his cheeks, but the Hunter stares upwards into your eyes as they soften in a lupine way. 

Inexplicably, you let out a bone-rattling sigh and slump into oblivion. 

—

Come morning, you sleep under the spread of large fur blankets—clean bandages over your bare frame as the man has tended to you for hours. He mutters for you to slip your arms into a spare shirt after he finds your eyes open, not uncomfortable by your nakedness, though he wants you yourself to be at ease. 

His brown eyes are creased, and you can’t remember what you’ve done. 

You comply with small grunts and moans; more sore and cut up than you can recall ever feeling as a large tunic is slipped over your head by scarred hands. 

Gunpowder. 

“What did I—?”

“You finished the job,” he says, sparing you a glance as he shifts back with his eyes averting themselves from your visible legs. The sun seeps in through the windows. “It’s morning.”

You blink slowly, and the man eases you back down into the furs. 

“I’m tired,” your voice yawns out—weak and brittle like the hope you’d had that this plan of his would work. Eyes half-closed, they blink at the hunter with a soft kind of care that you can’t remember showing before. Whatever pain medicine he’d given you, it was working. The underlying itch was still as strong as ever, though. 

“Tired is good,” Ghost nods slowly, standing still until he crosses his arms and sets his feet. He’s in a fresh shirt and pants. There’s blood under his fingernails; traces smeared over his flesh. “Means you accomplished something.”

“Don’t think that’s entirely true,” you breathe. A pause. “...Why is your mask like that?”

It was half pulled up—showing off his lower jaw and the stubble. The scars that you already have memorized. Ghost shrugs, blinking those dead eyes of his. 

“Ah,” he grumbles. “Forgot. Here.”

He reaches up and slips the thing off in one motion. Your loose brain takes a moment to realize the entire face you’re staring into, but the second it does, the image is engraved into your mind forever. You make a noise in the back of your throat. 

“Better, Little Wolf?” 

“W—” Your lips stutter, new sutures pulling tight. “Why would you…?”

“Hungry?” Ghost asks, quickly changing the subject. “Know you like that venison that I caught.”

“No,” you breathe. “No, I’m not…I’m tired, Ghost. My head hurts.”

A hand sweeps over your forehead, staying as you sag into it with a hum and a fluttering of your eyes. 

“Bloodloss,” the Hunter murmurs. “Normal. Go back to sleep; take however long you need. I’ll be here.” 

The bond between the two of you has strengthened to that of a silver rope.

“Stay,” you plead under your breath, already slipping back into nothingness with no promise to wake up again soon. “Hold me, Ghost?”

“Simon,” he grunts to only himself, knowing that the words are lost to you. Perhaps that makes him all the more eager to share it with you when you’re better. “Stay still.”

It wasn’t like you could protest.

The broad man slips in, shifting the furs until you’re covered back up and your forehead is to his chest—keeping himself closest to the door where the runes still sit in their bloody glory. If he listened hard enough, he could even hear them humming him a tune.

No song was better to him than the one of your breath at this very moment. Alive. Moving. There were many times in the night that he thought...hm.

“Better, then?” The dry tease slips out. 

A kiss to the side of his mouth is what he gets in answer, and he doesn't say a peep more until he knows you’re back in the clutches of a dream—a good one, he knows, because he watches your expressions like a loyal guard dog would.

Ghost, Simon, rests his lips on the top of your head, and in a delicate murmur, eases, “You did good, Love.” 

There was much to do, but for now, all he had to do was hold you a little bit tighter and let his stone heart beat a little bit faster.

TAGS:

@sheviro-blog, @ivebeentrashsince2001, @mrshesh, @berryjuicyy, @romantic-homicide, @kmi-02, @neelehksttr, @littlemisstrouble, @copperchromewriting, @coelhho-brannco, @pumpkinwitchcrusade, @fictional-men-have-my-heart, @sleepyqueerenergy, @cumikering, @everything-was-dark, @marmie-noir, @anna-banana27, @iamcautiouslyoptimistic, @irenelunarsworld, @rvjaa, @sarcanti, @aeneanc, @not-so-closeted-lesbian, @mutuallimbenclosure, @emily-who-killed-a-man, @gildedpoenies, @glitterypirateduck, @writeforfandoms, @kohsk3nico, @peteymcskeet, @caramlizedtomatoes, @yoursweetobsession, @quesowakanda, @chthonian-spectre, @so-no-feint, @ray-rook, @extracrunchymilk, @doggydale, @frazie99, @develised, @1-800-no-users-left, @nuncubus, @aldis-nuts, @clear-your-mind-and-dream, @noonanaz, @cosmicpro, @stinkaton, @waves-against-a-cliff, @idocarealot

#cod #cod x reader #cod x you #call of duty #cod mw22 #x female reader #call of duty x you #mw2 #mw2 2022 #ghost call of duty #call of duty modern warfare #call of duty modern warfare 2 #cod mw2 #cod mwii #modern warfare 2 #mwii #mw x reader #cod x female reader #x fem!reader #female reader #cod simon ghost riley #simon ghost x you #simon ghost riley #simon ghost x reader #simon riley x you #simon riley #ghost cod #ghost mw2 #cod mw ghost #cod simon riley

[wangxianficfinder]

Fic Finder

March 23rd

~*~

1. Hi. Looking for this fic wherein wwx tried to prank lqr and the elders by acting like a Lan. It backfired because they thought wwx was possessed by Lan An, especially when jwy visited cloud recesses (almost causes a war between jiang and lan). For it to end, wwx pretended to be Lan An and said goodbye then fake fainted (as if Lan An left wwx’s body)

please help me find it 🙏

Hi! I’m from the recent fic finder #1. Unfortunately that’s not what i’m looking for because I remember it being post canon (meaning wangxian are already married). I also remember the Lans asked lwj if lwj still do lovers stuff with wwx (as they really thought wwx was possessed by lan an)

FOUND? Wei Wuxian is Definitely Not Possessed by CursedBlessing (T, 20k, WangXian, Misunderstandings, General Dumbassery, Humor)

#1 I think was deleted. I know the fic they're asking about and I can't find it either.

Number 1 is the correct fic, it's just Chapter 3. / Yeah, 1 IS the correct fic, op's scene is the entirety of ch. 3

~*~

2. Hey, I'm looking for a wangxianfic, in which wei ying and lan zhan are already married. Wei ying goes on a night hunt with the juniors and gets hurt. I think it was a cut on the stomach with poison. Lan zhan cares for him but wei ying is almost dying. Lan zhan is davasteted and says that he can't wait for wei ying again. It was a completed work and I think just 4 chapters. Please can you find the title? With kind regards @smarti1997

~*~

3. I'm not sure if this is something I think happened in a fic, or it really exists, but on the off-chance someone know what I'm talking about - the Sunshot Campaign ends differently with Wen Qing/Wen Ning in charge of the Qishan Wen, and as part of reparations(? Maybe?) the family vaults are revealed. Wen Qing warns people not to touch anything but JGS is too greedy and grabs something and dissolves in dust? And then WQ opens the real vault, the first was to stop thieves. Thank you in advance! @katonahottinroof

I know which fic #3 is talking about but i cannot find it either, gonna go deep dive on ao3 tho (is it that one where the wens have a secret passage into the throne room that opens only with wen blood isnt it. unless im mixing fics too)

FOUND! ❤️ Gentians in bloom by teawater (M, 251k, WangXian, XiQing, XuanLi, Canon Divergence, Political Marriage, Dysfunctional Family, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Hurt/Comfort, Fix-It, LQR bashing (not really), POV Multiple, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Eventual Happy Ending, BAMF WWX, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, madam yu bashing (again not completely), MXY Deserves Better) the thing with jgs happen in chapter 34

~*~

4. Hi writing in hopes that someone remembers this fanfiction.:

i once read a fic where LWJ and WWX were stuck in the Xuanwu cave and WWX was i think on the verge of dying but then something emerges from the waters and gives LWJ a deal that if he gives up his voices then as an exchange he can save WWX's life which LWJ obviously does so his voice goes away but by the end of the fic Wangxian go back to the cave where LWJ gets his voice back because he once again strikes a deal with that creature giving up his immortality or something that has to do with him being worshipped for gaining his voice back. was a one shot that i remember clearly and was on ao3 platform also thank you so much cause this blog has bought me my favorite Wangxian fics.

FOUND! Outside Another Yellow Moon by Vamillepudding (T, 10k, WangXian, Canon Divergence, YLLZ WWX, Fairy Tale Elements, Hurt/Comfort, LWJ Needs a Hug, Curse Breaking)

~*~

5. help. hey i am certain the fanfics in my memories exist but they keep on eluding me so there are these 2 fics:

A) the premise of this story was time travel where modern WWX travels back in time when other WWX is living with the wens in the burial mounds when LWJ comes to the borders with his modern counterpart and when modern wangxian meet they have a sweet reunion in which they share a kiss after that they are joined by the hip much to the mortification of OG wangxian. WY's parents are dead (car accident) but madam Lan's alive and he calls her mother or mom and modern them is engaged they also have their phones by which they click a photo and after coming to modern world WY sees that as proof that it actually happened. read it on ao3 muti chaptered (completed) with either 4 or 6 chapters 6 being maximum

B) in this one the main Lan fam is captured body swap between WRH and LWJ occurs and after LWJ realizes what has happen he commands that his body's head be severed which is currently housing WRH's soul and LXC and LQR are present to see that happening and grieve over LWJ not knowing WRH was the one who died and LWJ doesn't inform them about the body swap but tells the guards to take LXC and LQR to their rooms he keeps his own body's severed head in his room also. LWJ asks guards to bring him WWX which they do but injured and WWX sees LWJ's severed head and gets angry he also practices to be more like WRH so nobody suspects this is the most clear i remember there were also i think one appearance of WQ and some from WX and WC was on ao3 ongoing atleast when i was reading think over 5 chapter but under 10 the last i had checked (i was so curios to know what happens next but i lost the fic)

thx and sorry if its too confusing

5B)

FOUND? where the sky begins by Shializaro (Not Rated, 17k, WangXian, Bodyswap, Blood and Violence, Body Dysphoria, Dissociation, Rape/Non-con Elements, Crack Treated Seriously)

~*~

6. Hello! This is for ficfinder, I have lost track of two fics, and would very much like assistance finding them again!

A ) an Addams family style modern au. I cannot remember the title, but Lan Wangji enjoyed the taste of Hemlock tea, Wei Wuxian always dressed in gothic clothes, A-Yuan keeps getting possessed, Wen Ning would die temporarily every now and then then, and the reason Lan Wangji went to Yiling in the first place was to find his mother (madam lan is alive in this one).

B ) Young Prince Lan Wangji fled the palace to avoid an arranged marriage, and met an older Wei Wuxian and traveled with him, keeping his identity a secret. Lan Zichen catches up with them after Wangxian have spent the night together (bottom LWJ), and Lan Zhan is taken back to the palace. Wei Wuxian returns to claim his hand, revealing himself as Baoshan Sanren’s heir. Fix ends with them watching their kids play in Lan Zhan’s mother’s garden.

If you can help me find these, I would appreciate it very much!!!! ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ @cullen-blue23

6A)

NOT FOUND🔒The Altogether Ooky WangXian Family by FluffyHippogriff (T, 72k, WIP, WangXian, 3Zun, Modern AU, Addams Family AU, Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, mostly because death can be overcome with the help of a little necromancy, Kid Fic, Comedy)

FOUND! lovely thorns and singing crows by isabilightwood (E, 37k WangXian, Modern AU, Addams Family Vibes, meet cute at a funeral, Madam Lán Lives, Light Horror, Curses, Possession, Fluff and Humor, Developing Relationship, Found Family, Weirdo4weirdo wangxian, Eventual Smut, Blow Jobs, Hand Jobs)

NOT FOUND🔒darkness there and nothing more by wvlfqveen (M, 21k, WangXian, Addams Family Fusion, Magical Realism, Body Horror, Addams Family Levels of Violence, Identity Issues)

6B)

FOUND! Beyond These Walls, the Heart Calls by wayward_wing (E, 13k, WangXian, Fluff and Angst, Happy Ending, Fluff and Smut, Adventure & Romance, Prince LWJ, Rogue Cultivator WWX, Bottom LWJ/Top WWX, Jealous WWX, LWJ Flirts, Sleeping Together, Masturbation, Slight Voyeurism, Anal Sex, Anal Fingering, Oral Sex, eating ass, Older WWX, Younger LWJ, Getting Together, Naive LWJ)

~*~

7. Hi. I've been trying to find this Untamed fanfic which I bookmarked but somehow is not in my bookmarked collection anymore! :(. I think it's post-canon but WWX (of course) is injured and LWJ is helping him recover, told from LWJ perspective totally in-character where he has to remind himself to breathe. Once,wj returned to inn room, found WWX gone from the 2nd bed and he tripped over his own feet and was "resigned to the fall". Once he tucked WWX into his bed and sat at his desk to breathe.

FOUND? Always Light My Way by cqlorphan (E, 27k, wangxian, Post-Canon, Getting Together, Friends With Benefits, to lovers, wherein dual cultivation may be counted as a benefit, Jealous WWX, a little bit, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Pining while fucking, angsty sex, Switch WangXian, Bottom LWJ, Service Top LWJ, Topping from the Bottom, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Coming Untouched, Dom/sub Undertones, the angsty sex happens in the beginning but they get past it dw, Oblivious LWJ, archer wwx, Smart WWX, Porn with Feelings, probably at least half of this fic is just that, Panic Attacks, Angst with a Happy Ending, Dual Cultivation)

~*~

8. thank you again for this wonderful blog! loading up on fics for my next offline trip and i have one that is driving me nuts. I remember seeing the reference here awhile back but for some idiot reason didn't bookmark it. What I remember is something like this : its after canon - Wei Ying is back, its after Guanyin's temple - but Lan Zhan has a soulmate to get back to so leaves Wei Ying alone on the road. that scene in Untamed haunted me. does this ring any bells? appreciate any help!! @oldoni

FOUND! Boy Trouble, We've Got Double by saltyfeathers (E, 60k, wangxian, Post-Canon, Case Fic, betrothed to someone else, unfurling of wifexian scrolls: the fic, Pining, Unresolved Sexual Tension, (it gets resolved lol), WWX POV, Protective wwx, WWX centric, explicit stuff only happens between wangxian, (or wwx and his own hand), Masturbation, get wwx a fainting couch agenda, Alcohol, wwx has some brain problems in this one, Consensual Non-Consent, Additional Warnings In Author's Note, straight boy WWX)

~*~

9. Hello! Please help me find this fic. I don’t remember much, but there was an OC lan elder, who is rescued or helped by Wei Wuxian. I am not sure but Wei Ying didn’t know he was a lan or something. Later on they meet again and elder favours or helps him. I am sorry for being vague, but this is what I remember. It would be great if somebody knows what this fic may be !

Hello, this is requester for number 9. I am really grateful for the person who replied but unfortunately I don’t think that it is the fic I am looking for. As far as I remember wasn’t QHJ, rather an OC lan elder. However I really love the suggestion and enjoyed the fic, so thank you for that!

NOT FOUND The Shadows of My Old Palaces, Falling Across The Moats by ChilianXianzi (T, 8k, WangXian, onesided QHJ/WWX, Canon Divergence, Burial Mounds Settlement Days, QHJ lives, Domestic, Angst, POV Outsider, Age Difference, Fix-It of Sorts)

~*~

10. for the FF: it was a fic where wx are full time dom/sub (sub wwx), i dont rmmbr much except that theres a part where jc causes a scene fearing lwj is abusing him (bc fulltime d/s, he chooses what wwx eats, wears, etc) and jyl has to tell him to shut up and that her and jzx are in a d/s relationship too! i read it ages ago T^T its not "something so flawed and free" by verseau btw! thank u guys <33 love u all mwah

FOUND! rainfall by daltoneering (E, 37k, WangXian, Modern AU, Established Relationship, lifestyle kink, 24/7 D/s, Kink Negotiation, kink discussion, Communication, BDSM, dom lwj, Sub wwx, Top LWJ, Bottom wwx, Kink Exploration, collaring, Body Writing, Breathplay, Orgasm Denial, Bondage, Subdrop, Safewording, Panic Attacks, [Podfic of] rainfall by exmanhater)

~*~

11. Hiii! I don't remember much except for the first few chapters, but the fic was really long. I think the plot started off as "What if the Incident in Qiongdi Path never happened?"

The first chapter or so takes place at Jin Lings one month celebration

Wei Wuxian is really damn depressed the whole time (he's really damn depressed the whole fic actually)

Jiang Yanli and Jin Zixuan never die. Yanli wants to spend time with Wei Wuxian and she makes some soup, but he gets spooked at some point and Wen Ning helps him run away back to the Burial Mounds???

At some point later on in the fic, Jin Zixuan and Jiang Yanli go to Cloud Recesses and they bring some food for Wangxian.

~*~

12. hii :D im looking for a modern au fic where lz works as a in pharmaceutics and meets wy who is the tech guy of their apartment. he calls himself mo xuanyu and lives with ayuan and is trying to escape his past with the help of police officer nmj. i think there was an autistic lz tag in that fic too. it was so good but i think i forgot to bookmark it.. thanks for your help! @harapecowee

FOUND! Stop and Stay by Fantazy_Eyeland7 (M, 98k, wangxian, LXC/NMJ, JC/WQ, JYL/JZX, LXC/JGY, SL/XXC, WIP, Blood and Violence, Hurt WWX, Kidnapping, Torture, WWX discovering weighted blankets, Pining LWJ, Modern, FBI Agent NMJ, Protective LWJ, Emotional Manipulation, Toxic JGY, not JGY friendly, LWJ learning how to communicate, WangXian have competence kinks, adopting children, Bad Parent YZY, Protective JYL, Protective JC, Protective NMJ, Past Child Abuse, Precious LSZ, Baby LJY, Warning: XY, Blind Character, slaps top of WWX: This bad boy can fit so much trauma inside, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Everyone is ending up in well-needed therapy, Child Abandonment, Genius WWX, Obsessive XY, Yunmeng Siblings Feels, Eventual Smut, Bad Parent JFM, Junior Quartet Dynamics, (As Babies!), Implied/Referenced Suicide, sort of a slow burn, but not really, because they KNOW, they just can't, Good Uncle LQR, eventually) It doesn't have the austistic!lz tag, but everything else fits.

~*~

13. Hi! 🤗

I'm looking for two fics:

A) A fic where WQ makes a second operation with WWX and JC. The only thing I remember is that WWX is really in a bad condition and they ask JC to give the half of the golden core to WWX. He accepts.

B) I'm not sure if it's one o two fics that I'm mixing, but all I remember is that LWJ when he knows about the lost golden core of WWX, decided to make a second golden core inside him to give it to WWX.

Thanks for the wonderful work! 🥰 @wangxiansgirl

13A)

FOUND! The Fire Lapping Up the Creek by notevenyou (E, 66k, WangXian, Canon Divergence, Hurt/Comfort, Canon-Typical Violence, Injury, Injury Recovery, Blood, Respiratory Illness, Major Illness, Fever, Grief/Mourning, Burial Mounds, Angst with a Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Hunger and food scarcity, Surgery, Fix-It of Sorts)

NOT FOUND! Twelve Moons and a Fortnight by stiltonbasket (M, 290k, WangXian, Humor, Slow Burn, Post-Canon Fix-It, Long-Distance Relationship, Epistolary, Love Letters, Family Feels, a-qing lives, teenage romance, Adoption, Romantic Comedy, Happy Ending, Weddings, Case Fic, Parenthood, Politics) might also be, (around chapter 43)?

NOT FOUND! in this place where we don’t have a prayer by Cerusee, Mikkeneko (T, 42k, WangXian)

13B)

FOUND? 🧡 Discarded by teawater (E, 178k, WIP, WangXian, Lots of Angst, Hurt/Comfort, YLLZ WWX, Golden Core Reveal, Case Fic, Depression, Family Issues, Self-Esteem Issues, Self Confidence Issues, Self-Worth Issues, Angst with a Happy Ending, POV Multiple, BAMF WWX, dubious morals in the Lan sect, Feels, Pining, Grief, Fix-It, BAMF LWJ) If 13B is different from 13A, maybe B is Discarded Lan Zhan creates a "seed core" that Wei Ying can use to grow a new core.

FOUND? these colours fade for you only by doodlebutt (T, 36k, WangXian, Canon Divergence, Fix-It, Fluff and Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Everybody Lives, Golden Core Transfer Fix-It, ...eventually, Hurt/Comfort, Nightmares, bed sharing, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, Sunshot Campaign)

~*~

14. Im trying to find a fic

It was modern setting and maybe has cultivation still? wwx is a tattoo artist and I believe lwj saw some type dark energy out side his shop. So he went in and ending up saying he wanted a tattoo, wwx was who ended up talking to him about it and making him a design. I think it had something to do with bunnies and, then finally when the day came for lwj to get the tattoo. He’s like I’m sorry I never wanted one, wwx gets upset and tells lwj to pay him money in cash for compensation. Lwj does that’s all I can remember I think wwx might have adopted or least helps take care of a -yuan. @zerokogane

FOUND! Demon Ink by Jade_Valentine (E, 189k, WIP, WangXian, Flower Shop & Tattoo Parlor, Tattoo Artist WWX, Magic, Chaotic Bisexual WWX, Demisexual LWJ, background NieLan, Slow Burn, Angst, But substantially less angst than canon, Mutual Masturbation, Domestic Fluff, Welcome to my LWJ & NHS friendship agenda, Shower Sex, Brief mentions of past Lan Bro abuse at the hands of LQR, wangxian family feels, WWX is the Best Dad Ever, WWX's canonical abuse at the hands of Madam Yu, Blow Jobs, Slight Make-Up Kink)

~*~

15. Fic finder request please!!

This is a short omegaverse wangxia? I think it might’ve been part of a series? where it’s Omega WWX and YZY gets him married off to LWJ where she expects him to be treated badly. Instead bc the Lana treat omegas very well, WWX is happy and content. Meanwhile JYL is jealous that WWX actually got mating bites and equal status bc Jin Zixuan didn’t even do that for her. I can’t remember anything else. 😅

FOUND!🔒Alliance AU by Ilona22 (E, 21k, WangXian, JYL/OC, Arranged Marriage, A/B/O Dynamics, PWP, WangXian Get a Happy Ending, Intersex Omegas, Not JC Friendly, Matchmaking, canon Jiang family dynamics, Family time, Night Hunts, Mention of male omega pregnancy, Intrigue at Jinlintai, Mentions of Prostitution, War, Conflict between characters)

~*~

16. Sorry to be asking this(fic finder), I really don’t remember how I got to this fic but now I cannot find it but I feel like it probably was here

It’s a fic about how when wwx comes back to life he meets lxc instead of lwj in Mo manor. he asks for lwj and that confirms to lxc that he is wwx and not Mo xuanyu and asks him to go back with him to cloud recesses where he takes care of lwj who couldn’t heal after the 33 leash punishment.

At first wwx doesn’t want lwj to know that it’s him. He brings him bunnies and helps him re learn how to play the guqin(he cannot play it due to his injuries and because he hasn’t practiced since he was punished) lan Yuan helps wwx to learn how to play it and lwj starts being more active

Lxc is happy and let’s wwx go to a small one week vacation but lwj gets worse that week, he also discovers mxy is wwx I think

Tsm for the help🙇‍♀️

~*~

17. hi! i’m looking for two fics:

A) one where wei ying lives with ghosts and is a teacher and runs into lan zhan for the first time in years during a class field trip

B) all i can remember is that wei ying wrote a software called yiling

17A)

FOUND! won’t take the easy road by twigofwillow (T, 47k, wangxian, JC & WWX & JYL, WWX & WQ, space au, yearning, found family, complicated family feels, ghosts, food, teacher WWX)

17B)

NOT FOUND Tempo Rubato by Spodumene (E, 107k, WangXian, Modern AU, Angst with a Happy Ending, Romance, Persuasion au, Separations, Mutual Pining, Depression, Miscommunication, Emotional Roller Coaster, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Reconciliation, Eventual Smut, Jane Austen Fusion, Underage Kissing) I think no. 17 might be "Tempo Rubato" but the software is "Stygian"

NOT FOUND The Fated Fortuity by devinokaze (T, 26k, wangxian, WIP, Royalty AU, Modern, Social Media, WWX is Wen Ruohan's son, Qishan Wen Kingdom, stangers to lovers, Prince WWX) The software is called Yin Tiger Tally and Su She tries to claim he wrote it lol.

~*~

18. Hello!! All good? I'm looking for a fic in which WWX becomes a god after his death, I think he's the god of death if I remember correctly. I remember a part where Madam Yu and her Husband (the leader of the Jiang sect) decide to reincarnate... I don't remember much, it's been a while since I read it, another thing I remember is that he communicated with Jiang Cheng through dreams. I already searched the Tag Deity Wei Ying | Wei Wuxian but I didn't find it... Thank you for your work!! @sweettiebah

FOUND! 🔒 Of Destruction and Rebirth by demoniqt (M, 88k, wangxian, JYL/JZX, major character death, rape/non-con, underage, graphic depictions of violence, Slow Burn, Canonical Character Death, God WWX, God Verse, BAMF WWX, Grieving LWJ, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Canon Divergence, Gods & Goddesses au, JC & WWX Reconciliation, Rabbits, Fix-It, Attempted Sexual Assault, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Canon-Typical Violence, Blood and Gore, Castration, Lots of it, repeatedly, Punishment, Hell)

~*~

19. heyy could u help me find a fic, I only vaguely remember the details

I read this quite a while ago, wwx is some sort of courtesan, pretty sure he works in a brothel, lwj is either a cultivator (like in canon) or he's a noble/king smth like that! he meets wwz in the brothel place and I think wwx is pretty sly, MAYBE he's wearing dresses and I'm pretty sure they get married in the end? I think someone in the lan clan is against wwx (either lxc or lqr) and I'm also pretty sure it's a pwp, they might have been conspiring too, it's all very vague! any help would be appreciated thanks!!!

FOUND! 醉 | drunk; intoxication by sweetlolixo (E, 15k, WangXian, Canon Divergence, Mythical Creature WWX, everyone falls in love with weiying at first sight..., Besotted LWJ, Romance, Pregnant WWX, Fluff)

~*~

20. Hi I’m looking for a fix where sizhui and jingyi travels back to the past (maybe to the conference) and they make commentary during the entire time they were waiting to get back to their present. I think in this fix, sizhui revealed that some of the people (madam Yu and others) are listed on lan zhan’s lists. Sizhui also mentions that lan zhan has several lists for different things. Also jinyi called Jin guangshan jin guangshit throughout the whole time they’re there. Thanks

FOUND? A Room Full of Dead People by BurningBlueDiamond (T, 10k, WangXian, Time Travel, Fix-It, but not really, Canon Divergence, Conference in Qinghe but canonically they stay in Gusu, strangely fluffy, POV Outsider)

~*~

#wangxian #mdzs #wangxian fic finder #wangxian fic search #the untamed #wangxianficfinder #long post

[maximumkillshot]

Home

Warnings: There are a lot with this one and it hits close to home. Mentions of S/A. The R word is used, sobbing, anxiety and mental episode. mentions of self harm, mentions victim blaming and slut shaming. MDNI. There is fluff spattered around.

Pairing: BangChanxReader

Characters: Bang Chan, Reader, mention of the person who S/A, people Slut Shaming and Victim Blaming. 

A/N:  Okay so this one is heavy. The things you are about to read have happened to me. I had a mental episode a while back. I wrote most of this during said episode. This is what I think Chan would do for his S/O if they went through and go through what I did. This blog has always been a safe space. I use my fictions to entertain as well as a platform to have safe conversations. If you need me as always I will hang around after drop.

I Can't Lose You Masterlist-CLICK HERE

Stray Kids Masterlist-CLICK HERE

ALL WORK IS UNDER ME AND MY BLOG. DO NOT TRY TO REPUBLISH OR STEAL MY WORK, AS THAT IS COPYRIGHTED UNDER ME AND IS CONSIDERED COPYRIGHT INFRINGEMENT WHICH IS A PUNISHABLE OFFENSE. 

ANY WORK THAT YOU SEE ON OTHER SITES THAT ARE MY WORKS PLEASE NOTIFY ME IMMEDIATELY.

“YN?” Your husband called out to you. You couldn't hear him from the pressure of today. It created a seething pool of frustration and anger as you kneeled at the foot of the bed, wanting to pray, but now that you think about it the pain of being on the floor was a sweet torture in and of itself. 

Usually, anger like this wouldn't be a problem for you. You would go down to the basement and punch granite with your poorly taped hands, yes you were only a kid then, not knowing how else to get the anger out only stopping when you'd hear a crunch. Yes, that was the start of negative coping mechanisms, and yes you are trying to either bury that anger or let it consume you fast before Chris gets home. He's dealt with enough, we don't need to add on to it.  

Now you're no longer a child… as a matter of fact, you are now an adult, an adult with a hairpin trigger vaguely yet expertly disguised as comedic sarcasm. Depression that you don't remember not having… maybe when you were 8? You weren't sure. Not to mention a cast made of a myriad of physical and mental health issues…. Disabilities… and the cast of characters just keep growing! You have the medicine and the “coping techniques”, they called it, for success! Even those fail. 

Trying to talk it out just made you more angry, the injustice looking more and more ludicrous by the second. Okay, let's try breathing. Yeah no. That didn't work either, it just gave your brain more oxygen, so your brain went from quantum computer speed to Sonic the fucking Hedgehog. Oh… ok oh oh! Let's try soundboarding. You know, talk to people, not yourself. That ended in yet another game of useless catch phrases like “calm down” and “you shouldn't be thinking of that.” 

TELL ME SOMETHING I DON'T FUCKING KNOW THANK YOU! Oh, and I almost forgot the “Your method of thought isn't changing because you don't want to change '' DO YOU THINK I AM POKED ALL DAY AND SAY TO MYSELF…

‘OH I WANT TO FEEL MORE LIKE SHIT… I KNOW LET ME RUN MY FACE INTO A BRICK WALL OF ANXIETY REPEATEDLY UNTIL I CAN'T CONTROL MYSELF ANYMORE.’

You reverted to hurting the people around you due to your anger and frustration, plus you darkened the mood, you've always been a multitasker. My friends were right. I'm depressing, I was only kept around because of my ex. That was before they kicked me out… because they didn't want to believe he assaulted me. You go back to that night often… 

“I didn’t want to do that, I felt icky” You told him after he came back from cleaning himself up in the bathroom, while you were left to clean the traces of himself from your own mouth. No aftercare, no thought about you. The ghost of a boy who used you, who was an on and off friend of almost 10 years…

“I know.” he answered with no emotion.

“Then… why?” You asked, your head cocked to the side.

“Because I really wanted it.” He puts his hand on your shoulder, “But I’m sorry you feel that way. Shit now I feel bad.”

Then it switched to those friends, on another night… “ I just don’t buy it. That DID NOT HAPPEN, I know him better than you.”

“I mean you did it anyway so you must’ve wanted it.”

You tried to explain that you were assaulted, it’s called coercive consent and it’s the most common form of assault. You were raped. You didn’t want to do it and he knew that but you wanted to make him happy. You tried to explain, to educate. They weren’t having it.This conversation at times whirls in your head. Making you itch to pull a trigger, do something to make the torture stop.

“You always overreact and you’re so annoying why don’t you just go the fuck away!”

“You’re so depressing just fucking go away! We only tolerated you because you are his girlfriend, just go the fuck away!” The intent in her voice. The reality. You trusted her most out of the entire group. She helped you emotionally… Now shaming you, blaming you.

Her boyfriend rendered you speachless when you called it what it was, it was rape via coercive consent:

“Oh I get the kind of person you are, you’re the type of person who gets felt up in the middle of the night by their significant other because they’re trying to get laid and you call it rape.”

You know the right method to take now, right… Yeah you do.

Isolate… process… torture yourself…cry… alone. Contain the monster, so it doesn't hurt anyone else… You're just a monster parading as a human. Don't forget it. This happens when you forget Y/N… stop being reckless. Always so fucking reckless… 

You started clenching your hands one over the other, wanting to rake the top of your hands until they bled, trying to ground yourself. Until subconsciously, you did. You rocked as you did it, trying to soothe yourself.

Sometimes you swear people don't see you drowning right in front of their fucking eyes. You know how to swim, you know how to get out, to scream, punch, fight. You want to swim, you really do. But you can only do so much in a rip current. The lifeguard sees you. But instead of helping they yell “PADDLE! JUST PADDLE YOU'LL BE FINE!” It's a different level of patronization. It just makes you want to let the tides swallow you. Because why fight when the waters are so warm?

“Y/N?!” Chris yelled as he saw your bag tossed haphazardly on the couch, never where you put it. He stopped and listened carefully. He thought back to the last text you sent him. “Shit hit the fan at work …I don't want to feel right now. I'll see you at home.” 

That middle sentence made his heart stop. He knows you… something was up. He tried texting you back, sending words of encouragement, calling, and leaving cute messages when you didn't pick up, and nothing was heard from you. As soon as he could get away from schedules he did. When he looked at the clock you had sent that message three hours beforehand, he never raced home faster. 

He knows what your mind does to you. He sees the battles every day. When he’d compliment you and you would look down, not shy, but contradictory. When he’d pick you up you would freeze and he’d remind you that you aren’t too heavy, that he loves you in every single way that you think is impossible to love you. He’d always encourage you to wear what you want, do what you want. He would caress every single curve, never being able to keep his hands off of you. Whispering into your ear in public as he tilts your head up gently after asking for permission. He’d kiss you so delicately in front of a sea of people. On the red carpet, on stage, it didn’t matter. You were and are his person, and he loved showing you off. He couldn’t win the war in your mind for you, but he damn sure would fight those battles with you.

He would fight away those negative thoughts, he’d wrap his arms around you and sing to you to will those images, the anxiety and fear away. Until those thoughts were rendered useless. He’d wrestle with them for control, as soon as he won your mind back he gave it to you. He reminded you that you are here with him for a reason. He adores you, and nothing would change that. 

It was something he promised you when he saw you breakdown while doing your medicines. You told him that you were ashamed of it all. All the illnesses, that you weren’t perfect and that you’d understand if he didn’t want you. He looked at you and helped with your medicines, learned about each of them, and their dosages. He was so gentle, smiling at you, wiping your tears. He looked at all the medicines and said, anything that keeps you alive is nothing to be ashamed of. You aren’t something to be ashamed of. He knows that sometimes you can’t hear him until he’s right in your ear. Now looked like that case.

You couldn't hear him calling out to you, your mind too loud, too vicious, bloodthirsty. When pain and self-deprecation are your main moods, all others seem like an abnormal concept. Something that is stolen, was it even real in the first place? You know one thing that was real… Chris. You hated being this… the medications, the constant fires in your mind, the barrage of hate aimed at yourself, of unbridled strength turned inward to rip yourself apart for no reason other than things piling up. He didn't deserve that. He deserves peace, the best… just like what he demands of himself, perfection. 

You got through the gauntlet at your job. People undermining your authority, people on a power trip of their own. Sending others to try to intimidate, embarrass you into submission… as if you weren't a bloodthirsty wolf that could snap any second, biting their heads clean off. “An Alpha through and through,” that's what Chris would say, “Even Alphas have to bite their tongue, Love.” 

That made you cry more because at this point you don't even know if your tongue is still existent, or if you swallowed the damn thing after you bit it off. Or worse… you still have it… but you lost your voice. You know that can't be it, we're too fucking stubborn for that.

But the hits didn't stop coming, traffic happened, then going to the doctor who said that the physical therapy you needed would eat into your personal time, your time to write, to cook for Channie and the boys, to spend time with Channie and the boys.. then you forgot the doctors note so you had to walk back in for it. Then you had to go home while you tried to talk about everything… and well now here we are. 

Even now you try to problem solve, try to nitpick at yourself, the person he loves so much. You collapsed more on the floor of your shared bedroom, cross-legged thinking of the ocean, the violent, dangerous, tumultuous ocean… something simultaneously so beautiful and scary. You want to say you are like an ocean, but you don't see beauty in yourself, only a beast. That's all we'll ever be.

Chris freezes in the hallway hearing a sob break loose from you. He hadn't heard a sob like that before, it chilled his core. How does he approach this? He sees the doctor's note thrown next to your purse… He was happy you were approved for physical therapy, you really were in a lot of pain daily from the muscle and tendon weakness, but he looked at the times…

He looked to the hallway, “Oh…Baby Girl.” He had one piece of the puzzle. He knew you loved to cook for him and the boys but this schedule meant you couldn't do that for the foreseeable future. You enjoyed seeing the boys eating, and staying fueled, knowing without that they'd opt for less healthy options. Then he saw the paper right under it. A typed log… a leger of interactions throughout your day… “No…” 

Right there, in black and white, was what you went through today, everything down to the sarcastic smirk your coworker had as you were barraged with pressure to break the rules… and you didn't break. He never would've expected you to. You are the strongest person he knows. Even under these conditions, Chris himself would break. In front of fifty plus people being berated, pushed to do something you knew you couldn’t do. 

Right at the end of it was a line, written in plain ink by hand. “Vacation not given as described by supervisor. No week off.” With tear stains smudging the ink. 

Chris started walking down the hall to the shared bedroom. As he walked closer he heard you mumbling as you sobbed. Things like “stop crying” and “it's nothing.” But one made him freeze right before he opened the door, “Chris is going to worry. You already take too much from him, get it together so he won't worry. It’ll hurt him. Stop hurting the people you love. You’re a monster.”

That made his eyes sting, you were worried about him above all else. He slowly opened the door and you couldn't find it in you to look up. You knew who it was. The aura you know and love, like salve on the holes you ripped into yourself. The small steps were only weighed down by his sneakers as he slowly spoke. 

“Hey…Baby Girl?” The tone was even more soothing. We don't deserve that. “Can you look at me please?” You just shook your head. Too embarrassed at the shambling mess you are. The real you that you hide. 

Before you knew it you saw two big hands undoing the laces on his sneakers, shortly after he toed them off. Slowly he sat in front of you groaning “Oooooookay criss-cross applesauce it is…” making you smirk as you wiped your nose with the inside of the collar of your shirt. Finally, as he settled he said “aaaaaughh” with a big puff of air… 

You just tucked your head into your chest as you hid as much as you could. He waited for a few minutes, until he said, “We can address what happened in a few minutes. But you need to know. You don't take from me.” 

Your tears kept falling as you listened, his tone calming the raging currents in your mind.

He looked at the engagement and wedding band on your left hand. He watched the tears fall, he saw the holes in you. He wanted to lunge at you, take that emotional knife away from you, smother you in affection. Hold you, his heart burned for it. Needle and thread ready to patch you up. To heal you.

 He spoke softly, “You are my everything, Y/N. You aren't a burden, a disappointment, you aren't a chore, the only thing you took from me was my heart, but you had that before I even heard your voice. The second I saw you… I gave it to you. I don't want it back either.” 

You hiccuped breaths as you listened. He scooted a little closer and he put his hands out, palm up into your vision… asking for your hands. That was when you realized you were scratching at them again. 

You unfurled them from one another, hissing where one nail was slightly deeper, the tiny droplet of blood following soon after.

He looked at your hands, humming in the back of his throat, “One second.” He didn’t want to show it, but he was worried. You feel so much and he just wants to be there to hold you, to love you. 

Then popped up and left. He came back with a first aid kit, “Oooooookay heeaarr we goar again... criss-cross.” That made you giggle the tiniest bit. Chris always loved to hear your laugh. Your laugh is infectious and it always never fails to brighten his day. He knew he was making progress.

You couldn't see it but Chris was smirking at your tiny cute form. And hearing that little giggle made him want to channel Changbin and squeal at the cuteness overload. 

“Okay my Koala Bear… hands.” When you both had started dating, he noticed you always hung on to him. You explained that he was warm and you were always frozen, especially in the colder months. You asked if it was okay for you to hold on to him like that. Internally he was trying his best not to giggle like a school boy at the prospect of you holding on to him like this naturally. He looked at you and said, “It’s no problem, you just remind me of a Koala Bear, so cute and tiny. Can I call you that? My Koala Bear?” And you nodded blushing. Since then, you’ve been his Koala Bear. 

You presented your hands to him wincing at the stretch of the new scratches and he said “So tiny… so cute. Okay tiny sting” he cleaned the bigger scratch and put a bandage on it, and checked the rest. Once he deemed it all good to have your hands back. He kissed them then returned them to your lap. “Thank you for letting me clean them.” 

You nodded and hummed. The voices slowed down. They always slowed down around him. He always was your safe place. Like home base in a baseball game. If you made it there, you’re safe. You’re home. That thought made you sad, surprisingly. How are you safe with only one person? You should have security in yourself not in someone else. Your brain was waiting to start assaulting you again. 

“Is it loud in there?” Chris asked. You've told him about all of this before, this is the first time he's seen it this bad though. The voices, memories attack you. You explained to him that sometimes your brain will do this, you try to hold it back but sometimes it just can’t be helped.

“Mhmm”

“People don't help… right?”

“mhmm”

“Can you tell me what's going on in there?”

You told him. Some.. not all. You also told him about that pesky intrusive thought about your ex and your friends. 

His body went rigid as he said, “No… they're the ones that are wrong, not you. Your ex…” He wanted to choose his words carefully. He knew that you blame yourself at times. The memory of you explaining why you were hesitant to go further when you were dating. He assured you there was no pressure. That he loved you for you, the rage boiled in him and it still does because you were never at fault for this. Especially when you trusted that asshole enough to experiment with him. He was going to be your first for everything but after what he did. The trust was gone, rightfully so.

Chris continued, “He took advantage of you, and coerced you into consent, that is not love. That is not okay? That is sexual assault. The way that your friends acted was disgusting, the way he acted was sub-human… You are not depressing, you are one of the most beautiful, talented, funny, caring, loving people I have…” his voice gave out and he cleared his throat, “You are one of the most amazing people I've ever met in my life. I love you so much and I know you feel like you're a burden on me but being with you has been the most amazing thing I've ever experienced.”

He tilted your head up and you let him, he had tears in his eyes as he said, “You have never been nor will you ever be a monster.” Your tears picked up as you looked into his eyes. You could tell, Chris doesn’t lie. He’ll tell you the truth. His tears started falling as you leaned forward, reaching for him, needing contact. When you saw him you needed his warmth, you need him to heal you. You were losing hope, faith, everything as you watched the holes in you. Seeing him holding the needle and thread. By holding you, being with you, just being himself, it heals you. You whimpered, “Need you…” As your tears switched from self-hate to desperation… you needed him and he could tell. 

He untangled his legs and scooped you up, cradling you in his arms as he rocked you petting your hair back, “You are my inspiration, my eternal love, you are the best part of my past, my present, and my future. You are the future mother to my children, the woman I'm going to grow old with, my forever and always. You are my Y/N, and I am never going to let you forget who you are and why I love you, okay?” He started crying, shielding you in his chest, protecting you. Stitching you together as you heard his heartbeat. You cried on him, relieved that you were with him.

You pulled back from him nodding. He tried to kiss your lips but you said “I'm all snotty” and he giggled. Leave it to you to be worried about snotty kisses. You looked so adorable, cheeks and nose red, nose running, tears stopping, the twinkle coming back into your eyes as he looked at you. 

“Are you denying me my snotty kisses?” He giggled as he said “Okay fine. There's no snot on your forehead” he pecked your forehead, “none on your cheeks”, and laid another peck, this pattern continued for any expanse of skin he could get his lips on as you giggled at him and his barrage of affection. When he stopped he wiped your nose with his sleeve and he kissed you gently on the lips. He savored moments like this, being able to heal you, to pick you up. He looked into your eyes as he said, “now I am thinking I’ll draw up a bath for us and I’ll give you a nice massage. After that we order take away, from your favorite place, then we watch something, Hm?” He looked at you for an answer as he kept wiping tears.

You nodded and gently, he placed you back where you were and went to get the bath ready. You'll always have hard days, but those days turn into amazing nights with Chris. Your home.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

LIKE MY WRITING? WANT MORE? Tell me so! Want in on the tags?? Shoot me an ask and consider it done!

#stray kids #stray kids fanfic #stray kids x reader #stray kids imagines #skz fanfic #skz imagines #skz #stray kids x you #stray kids smut #bangchan #bang chan x reader #bangchan x reader #bang chan imagines #skz lee know #lee know smut #lee know #lee minho #changbin #changbin smut #seo changbin #bang chan #seungmin #jeongin #hyunjin #changbin scenarios #stray kids angst #skz angst #Mentions of S/A. #sobbing #anxiety

[aanoia]

Dying

Poly!marauders x reader, James Potter x reader, Remus Lupin x reader, Sirius Black x reader

Summary; the marauders had known their girlfriend smoked to dissipate the pain from her abusive family. They just didn't know how bad it could, and would get

Words; 1,400+

Warnings; serious TW, mentions of abuse, toxic asf family, drug abuse, weed, alcohol, whiskey, underage drinking and smoking, substance abuse, self harm, cuts, abuse (ish?), depression (not mentioned but apparent), seriously bad mental health

If you are easily triggered I advise you do not read this as it covers very serious topics.

I will be making a part 2 with a happy ending, because they exist and you deserve one, no matter how deep you've dug yourself into a hole.

Pt. 2

If you are struggling with mental health issues and need help call or text 988 to get in touch with the Suicide and Crisis Lifeline. If you are struggling with substance abuse and or mental health and need help call 1-800-662-4357 to get on the phone with an employee of SAMHSA (Substance Abuse and Mental Health Services Administration. If you are being abused or neglecting by family members or someone else and need help call 800-799-7233 to get on the phone with some from the National Domestic Violence Hotline.

If you need help please reach out. Whether it be to one of the resources above, a trusted adult or friend, or me. I cannot speak for others around you but I can for me and I am here for every single one of you. You can talk to me no matter how small, large, serious, "dumb" ("" bc no problem is actually dumb), no matter what. I will sit and listen to you for hours. Almost everything mentioned in this story are things I have experienced. Abuse. Self harm. Substance abuse (smoking and drinking). And pushing away the people who want to help. I understand and will listen. You matter, and you are loved. It will get better, I promise. You can take my word for it. I love all of you, no matter who you are, and I beg you to reach out of you need someone to help bare the weight the world has given you. I'm here for you, and I'm proud of you for being here today, no matter how hard to was.

You are not alone.

When James, Sirius, and Remus first found out their girlfriend was a borderline stoner, they seemed fine with it for the most part. James was indifferent, believing she wasn’t consuming a dangerous amount. Sirius was impressed and baffled, he spent weeks trying to figure out how she snuck the drug into Hogwarts, which had a strict policy against the use of substances. Every once in a while Sirius even joined Y/n in a smoking session. Remus, however, seemed to be the only one who was slightly worried, he knew all about unhealthy coping mechanisms and how addictive they are, but he chose to trust his girlfriend and left it alone, something he felt very guilty about later on.

Everything changed after the summer before sixth year. The four had kept in frequent touch, mourning over the fact that they couldn’t find a time to get together. Mid August Y/n had stopped responding to letters sent by her boyfriends, which worried them immensely. And when she arrived at platform 9 ¾, looking sickly pale and high out of her mind, they knew something was wrong. 

Stubborn as usual, Y/n proclaimed she was fine. Having lied and said that this was her first time doing any illegal substances, which includes alcohol and other drugs, in weeks, and she was just enjoying it. Each of the boys had a pit in their stomach, their girlfriends usually cheerful aura completely gone, seeming to have faded over the summer.

Sirius was the first to notice the problem with your smoking. He took into account the changes in your stash when he would join you every once in a while, the amount you had from one session into another completely decimating your lie about only smoking once or twice a week. 

Remus was the one who noticed your drinking problem. He had invited you on a study date with just him, James and Sirius being busy with quidditch practice, and you had showed up late. He didn’t mind, knowing you weren’t the most punctual person, but what he did mind was the strong scent of alcohol you had attempted to cover up with a spell. It hadn’t worked.

Now, poor oblivious James was the one to uncover the self harm scars on his beautiful girlfriend's body. It had been a rare time where you had decided to hang out with the boy, as you had been pulling away from the three at an alarming rate. So, James decided to make the most of it, not knowing the next time this would happen. His way of making the most of it was laying down in bed, bodies pressed up against each other and your chest steadily rose and fell. He had fallen into a light sleep before he was woken up as you adjusted your position, throwing your arm out to the side. He looked at you with a tired smile, grateful for this moment as his gaze traveled up your arm. His smile fell as his heart dropped. When you had stretched your arm out the sleeves of your jumper had ridden up your wrist, revealing the angry red cuts protruding from your skin. James felt tears prick his eyes, not knowing what to do.

Today was a particularly rough day for Y/n. She had received a letter from her parents, informing her that they wish she was never their daughter, and that she would find some creative way to die to rid them of their burden of a disgraceful daughter. It was no exaggeration to say she was out of it. Anyone with any common sense could tell as she stumbled through the Great Hall, smelling greatly of whiskey and weed, and anyone with a good nose (Remus, due to his furry problem, and Sirius, due to his furry gift) could sense the metallic smell of blood coating her skin.

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake.” Remus mumbled, standing up from his spot at the table, James and Sirius looking up quizzically. “I’m over this. We need to talk to her. Now.” He said and the boys nodded, standing up with him and walking to the girl. Sirius gently touched her shoulder, leading her out as she made a face of disgust at his closeness, causing his heart to twang. 

She had been so mean lately, and it was slowly shattering the boys’ heart, however, it was affecting Sirius the most. He missed his girl. The one who always cheered him up and provided him bucket loads of support when he was thrown to the curb and disowned.

They carefully led the girl into the boys’ empty dorm, and the three were thankful Peter decided to eat breakfast this morning instead of sleeping in. Y/n sat on the bed, reaching into her cloak and pulling out a shiny silver flask.

Remus scoffed and grabbed the flask from her hands, “Fucking no, Y/n.”

Anger flashed across the girls face, “The fuck is your problem?” She asked, crossing her arms over her chest.

He waved the flask in front of her face angrily, “This shit is! And the weed! And, baby,” His voice softened. “We know you’ve been cutting. Why won’t you let us in?”

She scoffed and stood up, snatching the flask from the boys hand, “Because it’s my fucking mind and you guys have no right to pretend you deserve to know what’s going on in it.” It was Sirius’ turn to scoff and Y/n looked over with raised eyebrows. “What, got a problem, Black?” She asked again.

“Yeah, I’ve got a fucking problem. You’re being a bitch.” He said angrily.

“Excuse you? I’m being a bitch?” She took a step closer. “Says fucking you, Sirius. The only bitch here is you. With your endless manipulation and fucking lies!”

“Okay, you need to calm down.” Remus said before Sirius could speak.

The only sound that could be heard was Y/n’s loud laughter. It lasted a moment before abruptly stopping as she threw the flask down and neared Remus. 

She placed her hands on his chest, smoothing down a wrinkle, “You guys are the ones freaking out when I’m.” She pushed him back, his eyes widened. “Fucking.” Push. “Fine.” His back hit the wall and James, who had been silent the entire time finally stepped in between the two, anger covering his features.

“Back off. We have done nothing but love you! We don’t deserve this shit, Y/n. You don’t have to tell us everything but a simple fucking explanation is due! Even if you won’t give us that you have no right, no right, to lay your hands on us, and I will not put up with this bullshit.” He said and it was silent. The boys held their breaths, hoping James’ speech got through to the Y/n as her and James had a staring contest.

Y/n smirked, “Look at you. The little bitch finally comes out of his shell, and spews utter bullshit.” She said flatly, moving to grab her flask and her bag which she had previously set on the bed. She walked to the door and paused, “We’re over, by the way. I’m leaving your sorry asses.” And she walked out.

The moment the door shut James' body shook with silent sobs and Remus wrapped his arms around the boy, resting his head in between his shoulder blades. Sirius joined the hug, squeezing tightly as a few stray tears of his own left his eyes. 

The three stood there, hugging each other tightly as they cried in each other's arms. They had no choice now but to watch the girl they loved most slowly kill herself, for a reason unknown to them.

Unbeknownst to them, the girl slid down the backside of the door, hand covering her mouth to silence her sobs. She knew it was getting bad and she knew those boys cared about her and wanted to help and she fucking pushed them away, afraid they would turn out to be like her parents. Cruel and abusive. She regretted leaving the moment the door slammed shut, her mind immediately sobering up as she realized what she had done. She just lost the three most important people in her life, people who loved her, if they still could after her cruel words.  In that moment she realized the most terrifying thing. The thing that haunted her nightmares and fueled her addictions. In all her attempts to cut her parents from her life and forget about them. She had become them.

#aanoia #romance #the marauders #marauders map #james & peter & remus & sirius #james potter x reader #sirius black #sirius black x reader #remus loves sirius #sirius x reader #remus lupin #remus lupin x reader #poly marauders #poly marauders angst #poly!marauders x reader #poly!marauders angst #poly!marauders #angst

[sterakraffulz78]

Stolas...

I already saw that musical... that damn musical that I now consider to be one of the worst videos I have ever seen on the entire YouTube platform.

To summarize all this, it's just Stolas being the victim and the usual sad boy, it's just a video to feel sorry for this dirty and ugly bird.

Throughout the video we are shown how Stolas is a pathetic misunderstood who only wants the attention of his """blitzy""", and how? If all this time this little shit bird has been treated as a toy, threatened by his family and fetishized to a sick point that only cares about his cock and nothing else, this is so horrifying and disgusting...

"I don't care that you're of lower status"...really?...how dare you say that while treating your so-called toy's friends like shit including your own butler, you're just a dirty rat

There is barely one, ONLY ONE, mention of Octavia, and 99% of the video is only based on how she cries to Blitz like a pathetic, sad and failed simp, while your own daughter who has been more present in your life and She has needed you like never before, she suffers from loneliness, depression and since she only wants someone who understands her, this """Character""" is only interested in someone she barely met for just once in her life.

This is the purest definition of what you should not do with a character, how to make a character that at first would be interesting become the most irritating, ridiculous, stupid, and poorly pathetic thing just for the convenience of our dear friend and animal abuser Vivianne Medrano aka "Vivziepop"

I never thought I would say this, but this is not only one of the worst characters in animation (and possibly fiction), but this Show... this show that has such good animation, all that potential is wasted by a wet fujoshi who just wants to see how her two boys just want to fuck, fuck, fuck and FUCK, why is that what she wants while she mistreats, abuses and overexploits such talented people to make her crappy

id I'm fed up, I'm totally fed up, all this just makes me stressed, wishing the worst of evil on this woman... how many people have I harmed just to seek their own satisfaction?...

Please stop watching this series... stop giving money to this sick woman, the only thing you are doing is giving benefits to a stupid woman who is only interested in herself, the fetishization and stereotyping of LGBT people...

#vivziepop critical #helluva boss critical #helluva critical #anti stolitz #helluva boss fandom critical #vivziepop criticism #anti vivziepop #anti stolas #blitzo #helluva boss

[alyszaen]

@staff you need to do better. Instead of just removing single posts, you need to ban the entire account of choijonghosarms. Nothing is stopping them from continuing to doxx others. They are causing harm to people of your platform.

They plagiarized a girls work, threatened to doxx her unless she deleted her account, then doxxed her full name, hometown, workplace, phone number and personal history of abuse and rape. This is not okay. You need to act here.

The fanfiction community is disappointed.

This is not enough. We will not accept this as enough. Please act.

Please reblog this and tag @staff when you do. They need to see this.

[getvalentined]

FF7 Fandom PSA

This is not a callout post, this is a warning about a genuinely dangerous abuser who uses fandom spaces to acquire victims.

Apparently my abusive ex is ingratiating himself into fandom spaces again, so if you're in the FF7 fandom please keep an eye out for someone calling himself Pix or Pixeled.

The details of what he did to me specifically are available in a post from almost exactly two years ago, readable here. Other people have shared their own stories, but I don't have the energy to dig up all of them. Trigger warnings for gaslighting, emotional abuse, violent threats, forced isolation, manipulation, and more that I'm definitely missing.

Known usernames:

Instagram: midgardsomrnights, pixeledartsy, okgoosefus, pixeledpalace

AO3: pixeled, pixeledxxx

tiktok: pixrexpen, gaywrathlet

FFXIV: sarielperedhil (on Brynhildr)

ko-fi: pixrexpalace

Other: pix pendragon, pixeled pendragon, pixrexpendragon

Some of these are current, most of them are not; he's no longer active here or on Twitter that I'm aware of, so I'm not referring to his usernames there, but he uses some combination of parts from these for his usernames everywhere so they followed the same theme.

This is not "fandom drama," this is a sincere warning to anyone in his orbit to be careful and be safe. Please love yourself more than he wants you to.

With that in mind, there are more personal details under the cut, discussing the fallout of going public with his abuse and more of his behavior; no screenshots on these because it's years in the past, not all of the related accounts and spaces still exist, and back when I was first gathering evidence I had to stop before it lapsed into the territory of emotional self-harm.

Same trigger warnings as above, plus racism, (implied) sexual exploitation, sexual manipulation, and discussion of Body Dysmorphic Disorder.

I want to be very clear that I was not the first person to go through this, I was just the first to go public afterward. I have lost relationships with people I thought were friends by doing so, and actually been referred to as abusive in response to my initial thread on Twitter letting people know what he'd done. I've had people who used his treatment of me as an excuse to join in with hurting me go on to co-opt my abuse to make themselves look like victims, claiming that we were best friends until he drove us apart—or worse, to use him as a complete stand-in for their own behavior, implying or outright stating that he forced them to isolate me from friends and fandom activities and treat me like shit, all while these people have me blocked on every possible platform where I could reconnect with them.

Pix was the Bad Guy of early 2022 on FF7 Twitter, and while he deserved the title, not everything everyone said about him was true. Not everything everyone said about me was true, either, but people tend to take anything connected to fandom as "drama," even when it involves literal abuse.

One thing I never told anyone except my closest friends is that Pix drove me to the verge of suicide multiple times. He put up videos insulting me to be "funny" and got friends laughing along, when I asked him to stop teasing me all the time he exploded and said that he was allowed to express himself however he wanted and if I had a problem then I should break up with him so he could finally kill himself guilt-free, he told me that he wasn't going to placate me anymore by saying "I love you," he told me in public spaces to shut up because I didn't know anything. He used racist slurs against Asian people behind my back and told everyone who called him on it that I'd told him it was all right, leading to a continuing belief among some circles that I have some deep internalized racism toward my own fucking ethnicity.

He told me that his mother saw me as a whore and a homewrecker, because I'd seduced him away from his boyfriend of eight years—in spite of the fact that I told him outright I did not want a romantic relationship with him because he was already in one, and I wouldn't be party to cheating. When I went public with what he did, he claimed that I pressured him into a romantic relationship, neglecting to mention that he'd been pushing for one almost since we met and that I'd shot him down because he was already with someone else. He said that I'd forced him to break up with his boyfriend, and seemed to be implying that I'd somehow sexually exploited him because I'm a cisgender lesbian and he identified as an aro/ace trans man at the time we broke up. When we got together, he identified as a bisexual nonbinary person.

To be completely honest, though, his orientation and gender identity doesn't even fucking matter with regards to the implication that I exploited him because we never had any form of sexual contact—unless you want to count RP, which I don't, and if I did I would be calling him a cheater because I was not his only RP partner.

To be completely clear, we were in a long distance relationship, thousands of miles apart, and we had no sexual contact. We never sexted, we never had phone sex, we never even exchanged dirty pictures. Our relationship had no sexual element whatsoever. He eventually told me in no uncertain terms that if/when we got married, he wasn't going to sleep with me because he didn't have a sex drive anymore due to trauma, and that since I loved him so much I'd have to be happy with that.

He would remind me of this when my Body Dysmorphic Disorder began to relapse constantly from the amount of stress he had me under, because my experience with the condition is rooted on my lack of physical femininity and leads me to see myself as completely sexually repulsive. When I was triggered and trying to untie the knot in my chest that made me want to throw up at the thought of my own body, he would remind me that I didn't have to worry about being too ugly for sex with him, because he was never going to fuck me anyway. That it didn't matter if I was disgusting, because he found all bodies disgusting, so really I was lucky to have him. He didn't even care that I was disabled and that my arms and legs are too long, that my joints slip out of place all the time, that the way I have to move sometimes to keep from hurting makes me look "weird and stupid." I was so lucky to have him, because even though he was very aware of all those things, he didn't actually care. He wasn't going to fuck me anyway.

The last Christmas card he sent me literally had the words "You deserve a high-five!" printed on the front, and on the reverse he'd written something along the lines of "okay but you know I'd be sure to miss and slap you in the face, sorry not sorry."

He made my life hell in every possible way, and people said it was drama because we met through fandom—and that I deserved it, honestly, since I was so fucked up and he was such a good person for even caring about me in the first place. I deserved it, people said, since I turned around and stabbed him in the back after he'd done so much for me for the years we were together. It was just fandom drama, they said, and I was just thriving off the social capital it allegedly earned me.

And now he's back and making new friends, but it's fine because this all happened years ago, and everyone with a brain should be able to see that it's just fandom drama. But it's not. It never was. Don't let him convince you otherwise.

#PSA #personal #abuse tw #should I tag this with the fandom? #should I put it on the block? #it's dangerous #for me #but I think it's worth it #to keep others safe #final fantasy 7 #FF7 #final fantasy vii #FFVII #rufus shinra #tsengru #rutseng #the [redacted] files

[thowawayuntilfurthernotice]

What makes the current situation in Palestine that much more messed up is the fact that this is one of the few instances where the entire world banded together to put an end to the slaughter, but were collectively ignored by their governments.

This has never happened before.

Sure, there are plenty of folks who were against the wars in Iraq, Libya and Syria. But this is the first time I've seen people who are much younger than I am take notice.

I do think that social media has done way more harm than good for society, but I am truly grateful for the fact that so many folks decided to use their platform for good.

Which makes the various western governments’ decisions to double down on this genocide that much more heartbreaking.

It's like they looked at all the people who were begging for a ceasefire and said "Nah, we're gonna double down on this shit."

I know things are bleak right now, but please don't stop talking about Palestine.

#Palestine #Free Palestine #Gaza #Gaza Strip #Ceasefire #US Politics

[xxstarlight-lifexx]

Some quotes I have from people speaking out against KOSA, please reblog, tag people, cross-post on other platforms, and share with everyone you can, all quotes are fair use &lt;3

“This law is a scam, created with the express purpose of persecuting LGBTQ+ people and silencing victims of abuse. That is the only possible outcome of these kinds of bills.

Oppose them on principle. Be skeptical whenever they are even brought-up.

This isn’t about safety—it is a takeover of THE major avenue to disseminate information in the modern world. It is more than censorship, it defines the avenues that thought may even take.

It will lead to identity verification companies like Clear or ID.me getting more of people’s private data and guaranteed, exclusive government contracts for surveillance and data collection, in violation of the spirit of the 4th Amendment, if not the letter.

It is also an absolute certainty that conservatives in positions of authority will use this program to persecute LGBTQ+ people, with the force of the State, under the guise of protecting children from pornography and "grooming". It has been an explicit misdirection tactic the right has invented to poison debate on trans rights issues and the (unconnected) growing evidence of sexual impropriety among the powerful, particularly conservatives.

Furthermore, I and most others will not abide by this law, if it is passed, and will take whatever actions necessary to safeguard our personal information via VPN, encryption, onion networking, etc., regardless of their permissibility.”

“This is a violation of basic rights on the Internet. Whatever happened to Freedom of Speech? Or are we just gonna ignore a literal Amendment in favor of “protecting the American children" while many of those children are the ones against this??”

“having full privacy on the internet may have saved my life growing up. don’t take away kid’s privacy, there’s already perfectly reasonable ways for parents to monitor kids.”

“I think that people have a right to privacy online, especially children. This doesn't seem like a bill that would actually protect children from anything, it would just make important resources more difficult to access, increase censorship online, and increase surveillance, all of which I oppose.”

“There are three things you never give out on the internet for your safety. 1) Name, 2) Face, and 3) Home. This bill guarantees that all three will be easily available to those who wish to hurt the children this bill falsely claims to protect. If you actually care about children, stop this bill. Listen to what those of us that actually use the internet are telling you. Children and adults deserve a private, anonymous space to be.”

“i'm a queer teen and i know full well the importance online spaces have in supporting lgbtq+ youth, especially ones who don't have supportive environments in person. censorship doesn't actually erase the information, it just makes it harder to access.”

“I’m writing to urge you to reject the Kids Online Safety Act, a misguided bill that would put vulnerable young people at risk.

KOSA would fail to address the root issues related to kid’s safety online. Instead, it would endanger some of the most vulnerable people in our society while undermining human rights and children’s privacy. The bill would result in widespread internet censorship by pressuring platforms to use incredibly broad “content filters” and giving state Attorneys General the power to decide what content kids should and shouldn’t have access to online. This power could be abused in a number of ways and be politicized to censor information and resources.

KOSA would also likely lead to the greater surveillance of children online by requiring platforms to gather data to verify user identity.

There is a way to protect kids and all people online from egregious data abuse and harmful content targeting: passing a strong Federal data privacy law that prevents tech companies from collecting so much sensitive data about all of us in the first place, and gives individuals the ability to sue companies that misuse their data.

KOSA, although well-meaning, must not move forward. Please protect privacy and stop the spread of censorship online by opposing KOSA.”

“Censorship doesn't keep kids safe. Censorship does not save abused children. Censorship does not save queer children. Censorship will not save any of us. Freedom for us all. Freedom for the internet. This shit cannot stand.”

“This bill is a massive overreach on civil liberties and freedom of speech in particular. It should not be within the government's purview to determine what content is acceptable, no matter which party is in power.”

“As we all know, the major threats to American children today are books, bathrooms, and the Internet.

Not getting shot in their own schools or attacked on their own streets.

Since graduating from the public school system in 2007, I haven't seen anything from elected officials to contradict this.”

“KOSA is a censorship bill in sheep’s clothing. It would erode Americans’ rights to privacy, especially that of vulnerable and marginalized Americans, and gather information about the whereabouts and identities of the children it play-acts at “protecting”.”

“This is a ridiculous law

KOSA is a giant bill that is pretending to be about child safety, but is actually overreaching government censorship. It is a violation of free speech and the 1st amendment.

This bill would require that internet users upload their government ID to access any site, and state attorney generals could sue to remove any site that contains content deemed "harmful" to children. The government will be able to censor ANYTHING - such as abortion info, LGBTQ+ resources, and any content relating to protesting or organizing. They will also be able to ID you if you search for any of these topics. This is the opposite of a free internet!”

“The law is pretty much just a trojan horse for censorship.”

“frankly i dont want to be put on a list the gov has of every queer person who opposes their anti-lgbt laws”

“I care about actually helping people instead of making a bill that is going to kill any ability for anyone to get help. That is going to be used to police anyone who disagrees with the absolute mess everything is right now. The conservative morals don’t allow for anyone not white, cuz, straight, or male; and I won’t have that enforced on the fucking public forum.”

#transgender #trans #non binary #nonbinary #lqbtq #pride #lesbian #gay #asexual #pansexual #bisexual #our queer experience #queer positivity #queer community #queer #say no to kosa #kosa act #kosa bill #stop kosa #kosa #bad internet bills #stop kids online safety act #kids online safety act #internet censorship #human rights #women's rights #trans rights #reproductive rights #abortion rights #society

[mexreny]

reminder that your favs are human, and are CAPABLE of change. they’re just like normal people, because they ARE (for the majority) normal people. sometimes, however, people do not take the necessary action to change poor or harmful behavior, and this is EXTREMELY important to acknowledge, because some content creators do shitty things and don’t change. and it would be wrong to give them a platform of influence when they adamantly refuse to own up to their own actions (but we knew this.) and like I was saying previously, it’s very much possible that a person who’s done a shitty thing/s can stop that behavior, and grow into someone more respectful, honorable. let me remind you of cellbit. he got slammed for being a really, really shitty partner in a past relationship, and then he did something that’s seemingly unfathomable to chronically online users- he went to therapy. and he worked/is working on himself, according to people close to him. I also remember philza got attacked for old stuff (I think Tweets or something like that?) where he said the r-slur from yearsss back, and he made a public apology and discussed it live (edit, to be clearer- I do not mean to compare this in gravity to the forever situation. im saying it as another example I could remember in myct community of a cancellation I witnessed myself online. I hope this is clearer). I could go on, of course, but the point is, YOUR FAVS ARE NOT ANGELS. They fuck up really bad. They make really poor decisions. They do really, really stupid things that are insulting, or in poor taste. And just like their fans, they hold the ability to stop and grow. and yes, the situation w forever is serious, but it’s not finished unraveling and revealing all sides of the story. please keep this in mind before attacking creators and fans for something that may not be in your native language or you might hear of secondhand.

Also, like another post said, that I thought I should edit in because I agree, is that you’re not obliged to forgive or condone an action by a creator. You don’t owe anybody anything, and definitely not to a really weird action taken by someone. I’m saying be relatively civil online.

#qsmp #discourse tw #forever situation

[antis-delete-your-blogs-pls-thx]

So, Liz @lizcourserants and I are collecting receipts on F8 and his harassment mob to warn people about them. Too many people are unaware of how much damage they do. I also encourage others to report any behaviour that breaks TOS (there is a lot) to at least slightly further the attempt to mitigate their harm, beyond just compiling this record of their shitty behaviour. Deplatform toxic individuals. Report bigoted and harassing tweets so marginalised people don't have to see their hateful diatribes. They are actively making pro ship spaces hostile to the very people that made them in the first place. Any examples of harassment, bigotry (especially insinuating queer people are groomers or predators), etc would be appreciated.

If that group can kick me, an acc with 14k+ followers, off twitter based on false reports, they can essentially run wild and terrorise the pro ship community wherever they like. They already grift off our efforts to spread awareness about the damage censorship does and give us a bad name, and frankly I think we should say enough is enough and not let them get any more of a foothold in coopting our spaces. I think we should make a concerted effort to distance ourselves from these types of people (bigots, typically altright leaning) as much as possible and kick them out of any pro ship spaces. They clearly do serious damage, and as a community founded by queer fandomgoers, they're blatantly disrespecting the very people that previously have gone to bat for them. They bite the hand that feeds, so to speak, and they'll continue to do so until we separate ourselves as much as possible.

Imho we can do this by raising awareness about what they've done and reporting their harassment where we can. They get platforms by having their worst behaviour go under the radar, unreported and under-discussed, and we need to stop that. I'm aware the internet isn't a safe space, but pro shipping as a community is supposed to (and always has been previously) be by and for marginalised people who wish to express themselves through art in an accepting, welcoming environment.

I'd appreciate any boosts here. If you want to get this to twitter or anyone else outside of this website who's been a victim of that group of harassers, please feel free to screenshot and share as well.

#pro ship #pro shipping #proship #proshipping