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yellowbunnydreams · 5 months

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Mechanised Devotion (Part 12) FINALE ~Steve Raglan/William Afton x Female Reader~

~Thank you so much for all your support on this project of mine guys! I really am blown away by how many of you have been enjoying the story and I can only hope that my first attempt of 'X Reader' has been written well! Also this one gets spicy Sorry this one is so chunky!~

Word count so far (all parts:) 25,162

Tag List!: @ruh--roh-raggy @likoplays @perfectlycraftychaos @kawikami @dilfity

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11

CW: Minors DNI, (18+ ONLY), Female Reader, afab reader, legal age gap (Reader- 20's, William - 40's), mention of crimes and violence, blood, mentions of child death (it's FNAF, what did you expect?), past trauma; abusive relationships. Stalking. Religious imagery? Dub-con if you squint, knife play? Biting. Torture? BDSM? Oral (female recieving), multiple orgasms, creampie

William Afton stared at the mugshot that had been placed on the table in front of him. His younger, less bearded self who didn't need the glasses as much and had less lines to betray his stress. A cock-sure grin on his face even back then, it was undeniably him.

"Where did you get this?" He asked, swallowing dryly as he managed to tear his silver eyes away from the flash from the past. Seeking out yours as he held out his arms, palms up as he took a slow and deliberate step towards you, feeling his own stomach turning as you took an equal step back from him. It hurt something inside of him as he watched you purposefully avoiding his eyes, keeping your distance. "Sweetie-"

"Don't call me that." You snapped, choking on your words as you hugged your arms around yourself. Feeling yourself shake as you realised you had been clinging onto some scrap of hope that he would deny it, or joke about how it was some stupid prank he'd pulled when he was younger to try and appear tough to his friends. But there was nothing of the sort falling from his lips.

He sighed your name, taking another step towards you and side-eyeing Vanessa whilst he moved. Scowling his disapproval at her as he knew she must have been something to do with it all. He felt cornered, trapped by his own actions. Afton did not like to be prey.

"I asked, where did you get this? That's all I want to know." Trying to keep his voice as the warm one you knew, but you could hear some of the bass and gravel breaking through as the mask slipped further from the image you knew.

"I'm not going to tell you that Ste-..William." You fumbled over his name again, but spat his name with venom he never would have expected. Like it soured your tongue just to say it. He'd dreamed of hearing you say his name, his real name, but after that kiss that you had initiated, he only thought it would be spoken with tenderness or cried for when he introduced you to his pleasures and pains.

It really riled him up that none of this had gone to plan.

"Please, please just tell me. I just want to know where you got it from, and I can clear all of this up. It's a misunderstanding! A silly little thing gotten out of hand, but we can't have stupid things like going around and ruining my, our, reputation can we?" He cooed, taking another step towards you and feeling that stabbing pain in his chest as you continued to move one back.

"Our reputation?" OUR REPUTATION?!" You found yourself shaking in fear and rage as he tried to pin it on the both of you, weasel his way between the cracks of your question and turn it back onto you. You realised now that it had always been that way with him, how much had you even known about the man before you before you kissed him? You knew what he said his favourite pie was, you thought you knew he was kind and considerate. You thought you knew he was real. "Fuck you, my reputation was with a man who never existed." Feeling your eyes prickling with hot tears, turning your back on him after a few steps, noticing Vanessa giving a sympathetic smile as she gestured towards the door with her head.

Following behind the blonde, you heard the heavier footsteps behind you, calling your name softly, then firmly. Growling it when the sweetness didn't work on you anymore. Hearing him say your name was almost too much, almost made you want to stop and tell him you were sorry. But you kept putting one foot in front of another. Vanessa already outside the front door and waiting for you, her hand extended slightly as if to guide you back out into the forgiving night air.

Behind you, William collapsed to his knees, hitting the wooden flooring with a heavy 'thud'. Feeling his eyes become hot and stinging in a way he didn't enjoy. He hadn't cried many times in his life, and he wasn't sure why he wanted to now, not entirely. Having you ignoring him was frustrating, but it also hurt. There was something undeniably attractive and charming about you, even when you weren't afraid or in pain. He had found himself drawn into your own web when you kissed him and to have that sensation suddenly ripped from him was almost too much.

But he was an Afton, he was William Afton, and that meant he endured.

He put his hands on the floor, head bowed and his breathing turned ragged and shuddering, eyes closed for a moment before he looked up again, watching as your foot was about to cross the threshold out of his home. Out of his reach.

"Doll please, please I-" He choked on his own words as his deep voice began to crack with emotion. "I wanted to tell you. Please," he called your name again, watching as you paused and turned your head, watching over your shoulder. His hands raising up and pointing to his own chest, feeling the rattling breaths in his chest as he tried to blink back tears. "don't make me beg. I never meant for it to go this far, but you.. oh you my doll were too precious for me to lose." He let his guts spill in his words, voice continuing to crack as he fought to hide his shaking hands as he reached out to you again.

"Don't you see? I knew you would see the monster everybody thinks I am, that I- that you deserved better than me. Some freak who felt for the first time in years when you kissed me." He couldn't see you clearly anymore as his cheeks and beard suddenly ran warm with tears.

It was almost pathetic, watching him on the floor with his arms upstretched towards you like a man in prayer. Begging for some deity to save him from himself. Something broke in your heart as you watched tears spill down his face and listened to his voice cracking, babbling between begging you to understand and painting himself in pity. You could see the way his calloused hands trembled, and in that moment, he looked frail, broken and lost.

"He's lying, come on. If you stay you'll die." Vanessa whispered harshly, tugging at your arm as you watched the giant of a man behind you curl into himself on his knees, hands covering his face and taking deep rasping breaths as he tried to contain himself. Rocking back and forth slightly in place.

"Please, please just tell me why you want to leave?" He begged you, and you felt Vanessa's grip tighten on your arm.

"Come on! You can't seriously believe anything he's saying."

"Why have you left me here like this? Why now?"

"Please, he's having a tantrum, he'll wipe away those tears as soon as you turn your back."

"Didn't you love me, even just a little bit?"

His final plea broke you and you began to cry openly. Tears streaming down your face as you looked back at Vanessa, freedom from the monster on the floor just footsteps away.

"Forgive me." You whispered as you wrenched your hand from her grip, causing her to gasp out as you stepped back and locked the door. Hearing her pounding it from the outside before you turned to look at the mess you had made. Drowning out her voice as you cautiously took steps towards William.

He heard you steps approaching, his glasses fogged up and streaked by his tears, sniffling as his hands moved from his face, holding them open to you once again almost in prayer. To be saved from himself, from the loneliness that such a life of sin had led him into. Carefully, as if he might bite, you took his glasses and placed them to one side. Looking clearly at his face and placing your hands on top of his open ones. Feeling the callouses beneath your smooth, soft hands. You were the saint to his sins, uncorrupted, soft and hurting.

But who in all the centuries of religion had anybody prayed for the devil?

He pulled you in as your hands touched his, unable to resist his strength as your body slammed into his. His strong arms wrapping around your smaller body in a tight embrace as you felt his hot, sticky breath against your head and neck, one hand cradling against the back of your head so that your forehead rested against one broad shoulder. Your hands pressed against his chest, trapped between your bodies as he squeezed you tightly, shaking softly and taking deep, rattling breaths as he tried to compose himself.

"Didn't I tell you once, I wanted you to answer my questions when I asked them?" He whispered into your ear, his lips brushing the gentle curve and letting his breath move across you skin to create Goosebumps. Although you took a moment to recognise the words, you had heard them in a more demanding tone before.

He's been there since the very beginning. And suddenly the fact he had found you wondering the roads didn't seem like luck, but cold calculated planning. You began to struggle against him, trying to separate yourself from the embrace but he only held on tighter, his thick fingers moving through your hair as he made soothing noises.

"Do you really think after everything you've made me feel, after everything I have done for you...Everything I will continue to do for you, doll, that I would let you go?" He asked, feeling the grief of loss turn into a cold, hungry anger in his chest as he had you pressed against him.

"Please I-"

"Please what, my darling?" He cooed, still gravelly and voice more even, cracking less as he turned his head and bit your earlobe gently, making you gasp and jump, eliciting a satisfied hum from the giant man.

"Please William, please just let me go. I-I promise nobody will know about-" Another bite cut off your words as he progressed from your earlobe to along your jaw, causing another gasp to fall from your lips as you tried to push him away, yelping as he bit harder as a punishment for not remaining still in his arms.

"You see, I really want to believe that doll, I really do. But I have too many things I want...no, I NEED, to do to you. I told you that you were too precious to me, and I meant it." He pulled back from his attention on your jaw and smiled ruefully at you, fingers tightening in your hair and forcing your head back for him. Groaning and feeling his cock twitch in his slacks as he studied the bruises already showing on your skin from his teeth. "But you hurt me, you hurt my heart, you hurt my trust, and you hurt me physically."

Controlling you by the back of your head, he used his teeth to unwind the bandages around his right arm, revealing mostly healed, sunken pinkish-white scars in a strange pattern of dots and rings like those you had seen on his back whilst he was shirtless. Confirming what you knew about him being the one in the Spring Bonnie costume, the one who had hurt you. Saved you. Made you melt. Made you freeze.

"So how about this? I get to mark you up and show the world who you belong to really. Steve Raglan would never do such a thing to a pretty cry-baby like yourself, but I, William Afton, am a great believer in symmetry." his voice was husky as he unfolded himself from beneath you, making you cry out as you were dragged up by the back of your head, feeling his heavy footsteps carry you easily across the floor despite your kicking and fighting protests.

He led you up the stairs, still holding onto you before taking you to the end of the hallways which you recognised as his bedroom. You struggled against his vice-like grip, but he was far bigger and stronger than you as he opened the door and flung you on the bed like you were nothing to him. Not quite recognising the yellow tube that bounced as you hit the mattress, but as he quickly straddled your thighs as you tried to sit up, you saw the dark hunger back in his eyes. Grabbing something from behind the headboard as he loomed over you.

Pulling out a length of rope, he worked quickly, pulling on your left arm and sliding the thick heavy tube over your arm. Cold metal filled the inside and you swore that you felt what you would have called knives lining it, his large hands expertly tying your smaller wrists above your head and leaving you no option for escape from him.

Leaning in, he brushed his nose against yours, speaking slowly and softly, but in that hungry tone that made your core heat up even as the hairs on the back of your neck stood up.

"That doll, is part of a springlock costume. You've seen me wear it before, well, inside of that beautiful piece of kit is lots of metal holding back the animatronic parts. You should remember what happens when you set it off." He chuckled, gesturing to his forearm as you got the cold realisation that he had placed the same thing on your arm. "So what I'm going to do, is I'm going to give you matching scars with me darling. Consider it a belated punishment for hurting me." He smirked, his breathing hitched and excited as he looked at you, vulnerable and helpless beneath his larger body.

You sobbed as you tried to pull against your bindings, but William looked down at you and felt himself aching, you looked so pretty beneath him. Manoeuvring off of your thighs, he seemed to drink you in with dark eyes, almost all of the sweetness you had know gone from them. His large hands gripped your thighs, lifting them easily and sliding them along your body, across your hips and pausing as his thumbs slid up your hoodie, feeling your warm skin beneath them and he took a moment to look back up at you before his fingers moved deftly, unbuttoning your jeans and pulling them down in a swift motion. Another tug and they were thrown into the corner of his room, and you felt the shame burning in your chest as the cold air hit your body that you were turned on by him. Your hands clenching into fists as you tried to squeeze your thighs together and hide yourself from him.

William was stronger and faster however, levering them back apart at the knees and taking a shuddering breath as he looked at the black lacey thing you had on beneath. Growling lowly in his chest, his rough hands moved up the inside of your thighs, setting the skin afire despite your sobs and the fear burning through your mind. Feeling small parts of it replaced with arousal as you looked down at the man, watching him lean in closer to your body.

"W-William please, what are you doing?" You sobbed, watching as his eyes snapped away from your core to your face, giving that warm, lopsided smile that made your heart flutter as he crawled up your body, hands either side of your chest and his hips sliding into place between yours, letting his weight fall against your smaller body as he leaned in and licked your cheek following the path of one of your tears. One hands reaching up and wiping the rest from your cheek with his thumb as he seem to contemplate what to say.

"I'm proving to you I'm not as much of a monster as you think I am, sweetie. See, if I was a monster, I would have brought the whole suit and let you experience everything all at once! But instead, I'm only letting you have a tiny bit," tapping the suit piece on your arm and making you wince as you imagined it going off then and there "and I'm going to give you pleasure even. Won't that be nice? Pleasure and pain all mixed together so perfectly?"

His hand snapped to your throat, holding it up and humming, squeezing just under your jaw and making your head spin as he avoided crushing your windpipe and instead just restricted the blood-flow to your brain. Making your head spin and throb as you were forced to stare into his silvery eyes, trying to figure out what he was waiting for when you recalled something from earlier. Swallowing desperately as you tried to speak.

"I-I'm scared William, this i-isn't how I wanted it to be." His eyes softened for a moment as he released his grip on your neck, allowing blood to rush back to your head and see stars once again as he lovingly stroked your neck, trailing down your chest and gripping one breast through your hoodie, rough and harsh, making you cry out as he hummed again.

"Good girl, you remembered I hate having questions not answered. I know you're scared sweet girl, but I don't want that feeling to go away. This isn't how I wanted to take you either, I mean, I had so many plans. There was going to be a whole time-line, stripping away pieces of myself until you fell in love with the real me. But you had to ruin my fun and make me act, didn't you? You pretty little thing."

William pressed himself against your core and watched as you bit your lip, fighting back making noise as you wanted to moan for him. Your shaking body beneath him was exquisite, and he began to kiss down your body, taking time to feel through your hoodie how the valley of your breasts fell along your sternum, the dip and curve of your stomach as you tried not to hyperventilate. The flare of your hips under his hands as his fingers hooked into your panties and pulled them down swiftly. A mix of eager and patient that seemed just right to him given the circumstances you were both under.

Even under the low light, William could see the slick coating your lips and shuddered as he knew you had been being turned on by his sick actions. Grabbing your hips with a growl, he lifted you up, barely supporting your lower back with one massive hand as he swung his body round. Pulling at your restraints as he positioned himself correctly, just how he wanted it to be. Laying on his back with his mouth beneath your dripping pussy, breath hot against your skin and his beard tickling the inside of your thighs. He grinned as he noticed how your back had to remain arched, pulling up his knees so you could lay your back against them should you fall back.

You jumped when his tongue slowly, teasingly lapped against your skin. Biting back a moan as he paid attention to the sensitive folds and unable to hold back a gasp as he pressed his lips to your swollen clit, kissing and sucking the sensitive little bundle of nerves and making your body shake more above him. His hands on your hips and holding you in place as he watched your expressions intently, arms still somewhat extended above your head by the rope. The older man focused on your pleasure, letting his tongue flick across and roll around the bud just to hear your gasps and repressed whines of desire.

Your eyes stung from crying, your shoulders and arms hurt from the position he had pulled you into. But the pleasure running through your core and sending shivers up your spine as you tried not to give him the satisfaction of hearing you made you melt.

Denying yourself to him was an almost fruitless exercise.

He growled into your body as he slipped his tongue from your clit to your hole, pressing it in and moaning as he fully tasted you for the first time. The grip on your hips tightening to an almost bruising force as you failed to stop a moan falling from your lips. The hungry fire in his eyes sparking at the sound and making him almost feverish to hear more, redoubling his efforts as he subtly pulled your hips back and forth, grinding you across his face as he lapped at your walls, wanting to hear you. To feel you give yourself over to him.

You tried to hold yourself together as William Afton worked to unravel you on his tongue, somehow knowing that as soon as you came undone, you would never be able to leave him again.

"William." His name fell from you like a whispered plea, a bitter prayer to an unfair god and you felt the vibration running through your body as he growled beneath you hearing his name in such a way. Removing his tongue from you and causing you to whine needily as the pleasure stopped, your legs forced apart further as he moved and slipped you over his shoulders, laying you back against his legs.

"Say my name again, doll." He demanded, sitting up and licking at his lips, letting the taste of you linger on him unlike your first kiss with him, his hands stroking your thighs as you laid against his legs, feeling your back being forced to arch by his slightly bent knees.

"William." It slipped out without thought, the walls of your resistance crumbling as your fear was replaced with arousal. You knew it was wrong, you should be attempting to escape, fight, anything but-

The thought was cut off as he slid his middle finger inside of you, making you moan as the thick digit stretched you with a rough intrusion. Hearing his shuddering breaths as he admired you under his control, under his spell once again even as you tried to deny it. A grin spreading across his face as he forced a second finger to join the first, relishing in the cry that came from you. Eyes watering as the stretch was painful and oh-so-good at the same time, your walls clamping around his fingers as he seemed to stroke at a part of you that made your body convulse and his fingers become crushed by your insides. William bit his lip as he too held back, trying not to snap and lose control as he watched your expressions, how your brow furrowed and your eyes fluttered for him, your lips parting and quivering as you gave him his own symphony of noises which only served to encourage him more.

You could feel your orgasm rapidly approaching, and your eyes fluttered back into your skull, clenching tighter around his fingers and more frequently, the lewd sound of your wetness finally reaching your ears as your brain finally gave in, desperate for release even if it was at the hands of monster.

"William I-... Oh god please I want to..."Your words cracking and broken, making William smile as he pushed his bottom lip out in a fake pout, looking down at you and the mess you were in his lap. So pretty. So vulnerable. All for him.

"Can't you use your words sweetie? Tell me what you want." He cooed, making you whimper as you tried to pull enough breath into your lungs so you could answer him.

"I need to cum, please William, please make me cum?" It had meant to be statement, but the whining, breaking tone in your voice made it sound like a request. One that the man was all too happy to oblige.

Rapidly changing his position, he laid besides you on his side, making you shake and gasp as suddenly the heel of his large hand had a chance to meet with and grind against your clit and you cried out. Feeling his warm breath against your ear and making you turn your head, the other arm snaking around your back and squeezing onto your shoulder, pulling you closer as he whispered against your lips.

"Give yourself to me."

And you came undone.

Your back arched as you cried out, hands clenching and unclenching as you squirmed, your wetness coating his fingers and hand. As the dopamine and euphoria washed through your body, you suddenly screamed as pain shot through your left arm, making you spasm harder and your eyes snap open, your hand clenching against it as you looked up, watching the white pillows become red as blood seeped from within the springlock suit. William's fingers pressing a thin rod into a small hole on the sturdy outside structure. You realised as your body convulsed from the searing pain and the orgasm that William prolonged by continuing to finger and palm your clit, that he had waited for your euphoria to inflict the pain on you.

He removed his fingers from you and brought them up to his face, cleaning them off and moaning as he tasted you again, looking down at your pained, confused expression as your body registered more pain than pleasure. Cuddling his face into your neck, he kissed along your ear as he whispered sweetly to you.

"That wasn't so bad was it? And you did so well for me. You make me feel so fucking hard when you call my name like that sweetie."

Moving again, he forced your legs apart again with with knees, reaching back and forcing off your shoes before focusing on you again. His large fingers worked deftly to tie your wrists, admiring the roped pattern they still held in pale bruises afterwards, then working on removing the springlock from your arm. Careful and considerate as he managed to move the pin and get them to reset, freeing your now bleeding arm. With your arms free, he made quick work of pulling your hoodie off and unclasping your bra, throwing both articles of clothing off into a corner to join the rest. His hungry gaze wandering your naked body as you cradled your injured arm against your chest and quietly sobbed.

And now, you were just like him. An angel and the devil bearing the same marks, more bonding than any ring or vow.

He took his time removing his shirt and undershirt, revealing his broad, muscular and scarred chest to you again. Your eyes naturally following the trail of hair down his chest and to his waistband before you even realised what you were doing. The smile on his face was almost cocky as he noticed it too, and his hands quickly worked on undoing his slacks, watching with relish as your eyes went wide at seeing his bulge for the first time.

Standing for a moment, he stripped off fully, his erection pulsing even without touching it, although as he looked at your bleeding, bruised body laid out before him, he couldn't help as he gave himself a few languid strokes. Groaning as his eyes fluttered before he finally crawled back onto the bed.

His knees forced your legs apart again, and he laid his weight against you oh-so carefully, like he was afraid he would crush you despite the fact he had just hurt you. Letting you feel his size lined up against your stomach and where it would reach inside you as he pulled your arms from your chest. Making you shiver and squirm as he licked up your bloody arm and he eyes darkened, moaning as he tasted you in a different way.

"Is there a part of you that doesn't taste good?" He asked, whispering your name as his nose rubbed against yours sweetly before he brushed his lips against yours.

"I-...William it hurts."

"I know sweetie, and you're going to hurt for a bit longer, but I know you're not going to make me hurt you like this again." He reassured, before you felt his lips capture yours again. Biting at your lip and making you gasp as he took to opportunity to slip his tongue into your mouth. Your arms automatically wrapping around his back and scratching your nails across his skin, making him moan and move his hips against you. His cock sliding between your folds and collecting your arousal, making you shiver each time he moved over your over sensitive clit, moaning into the kiss that tasted like iron and your arousal.

The weight of his body was reassuring, and the way he moved so sweetly against you almost made you forget about how your arm stung and felt too warm and wet. That hand moving into his hair and lacing into his greying hair, holding on as one of his hands similarly cradled your head, the other roaming your body as if committing it to memory. Squeezing and groping with a bruising intensity across your breast and hips. His tongue met with yours and letting them battle for dominance even though you knew that there was no way you could win. His kisses became sloppy, desperate as he growled and moaned, his hips rubbing against you faster as you felt the hot drool of precum smear across your stomach before he reached down from your hip.

Your breath was stolen as he slammed himself into you, a silent scream as he bottomed out in one motion and moaned your name. His fingers tightening in your hair as your nails scratched down his back. You could feel his cock pulsing inside your tightness for the brief moment he paused to savour you before he began fucking you with a burning intensity.

The lewd sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room as both of you prickled with sweat under the intensity. William released your hair to sit up, kneeling on the bed and gripping your hips, pulling them up his lap as he slammed into you, knocking the breath from your lungs as he stretched and filled you in a way you had never felt before.

Even though he seemed to fill you everywhere, each stroke of his cock against your walls seemed to stoke another fire in your stomach, watching where you met for a few moment as his cock disappeared inside you. Hitting the spot that made breathing and thinking hard repeatedly as he moved feverishly, an intense look on his face as his brow furrowed, lip curled up into a snarl as he growled and grunted. Focused on how good you felt wrapped around him.

Noticing your lack of attention on him, he snarled and moved forwards, one arm caging you in whilst the other held your throat again, squeezing tight as he forced you to look into his dark eyes. Wide and wild as he felt himself coming closer and closer to his own orgasm, wanting to claim you utterly as his.

You were his. Utterly and entirely, and he would kill you before he let you go.

"William I'm... I'm going to cum again." You whined out, making the large man snarl. No words escaping him as he held your throat tighter and redoubled his efforts, slamming his hips into yours with furious intensity as he watched your face, glancing to where his cock slammed into your pussy and moaning, feeling his body shudder as he released your throat and leaned in, biting your shoulder harshly and making you yelp between the moans and whimpers that drove him into becoming feral.

"Fucking cum for me,... be mine. Never leave me again." He growled into your ear before biting at your skin again, being sure to leave painful hickeys across your skin as he slammed into you. Hearing you crying out his name as your body spasmed and arched under his, William's name falling from you like a pleading chant as you were wracked by your second orgasm. Coating him in your slick as he continued to thrust into you, becoming sloppy as he reached his own peak.

He moaned your name into your shoulder, holding you close with his arms wrapped around you, pressing you into his body as you felt his thrusts slow and become jerky. Feeling him filling you with thick, hot ropes of cum and making you shudder more as even as the ropes finished, he languidly rolled his hips into yours a few more times.

Laying together, both of you breathless as your bliss washed over you. He began to kiss your neck softly, paying attention to where he had bitten and bruised, trailing it over your arm and onto each deep cut that the springlocks had inflicted, making you wince before he brought his now red lips to yours. Kissing you softly, as gently and slowly as you had imagined your first kiss would have gone before your world fell apart and was rebuilt again by the same man.

Carefully, he pulled himself out of you, watching your body shiver as he reached over to the bedside table and pulled out a roll and bandages and gauze. Sitting on the bed and pulling you carefully into his lap so your back laid against his, kissing your head and shoulder before taking your arm and wrapping it carefully. So gently your heart fluttered that he was taking care of you, making sure he was soft after being so rough with you before.

"Never leave me, please sweetie? I wouldn't want to have to teach you another lesson if you tried to leave me again, I don't want to hurt you like this again. I want you to enjoy me, stay with me." William whispered as you turned your head to look at him, letting your lips meet in another soft and slow kiss before you rested your forehead against his.

"I promise William. I won't leave you again." and you meant every word of your mechanised devotion. Automatic, intense and everlasting, as you remained in the arms of William Afton and whispered sweet nothings to each other between kisses and bandages.

#fnaf movie #fnaf x reader #springtrap #springtrap x reader #steve raglan #steve raglan x reader #william afton #william afton smut #william afton x reader #william afton x you

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phyrestartr · 7 months

Text

Your Godly Path Leads Back To Him | Miguel O'hara x Male!Reader

#NSFW, Male Reader, Western/Cowboys, Miguel O'hara is a sheriff, complicated emotions, reunion trope, mentions of abuse, mentions of drinking, mentions of past trauma, angst, hurt/comfort, religious themes, men working through their shit, sad old men being sad, one-shot(?)

Notes: Dude this is so long lol I'm EXHAUSTED after powering through this, but it had to be done!! Had this one in the drafts for a while after listening to Preacher's Daughter by Ethel Cain and SHEESH. I wanted to write about some cowboys okay that's all tysm

--Your Godly Path Leads Back To Him--

"I love ya, pretty boy," you murmured into the soft dip of his cheek, leaving behind the scorch of your lips: an invisible scar, one that'd ruin his perfect smile next time the sun rose.

Miguel's gaze traced lines into you to make you bleed. Across the expanse of bite-tainted shoulders, grazing the vital veins and tendons of your neck, up to the thoughtfully chiseled features God hand-picked for you, His favourite, the man he poured silvered moonlight onto, filling in your crystalline eyes that very moment Miguel finally caught them gazing his way after you dared to maim him.

The thin, scratchy blanket shifted, and let prickly hay nip at Miguel's bare skin when you held the side of his face with a warm, calloused hand. You burned away his nerves, eased away anything that could distract him from you, from that moment.

What was Miguel supposed to say?

"Hey," you whispered. Your fingers grazed against his forehead as you brushed dark locks away from blurred eyes and creased brows. "Come on now, don't make that face. My love such a bad thing?"

Miguel laughed, like the sun braving a rainy day. "Maybe, with a track record like yours." A deflection. A cheap, easy thing Miguel tried to fit behind. But you knew him too damn well.

"Pretty boy and a funny guy, huh?" You hummed and picked yourself off your side, slotting back into the spot you'd carved between Miguel's legs, flush up to his hips–the place you'd been all night. Goosebumps on tawny skin rose to meet your phantom touches. Not even the warmth of the summer night's breeze could help him.

"Glad not even your daddy could beat the life out of you." Your words licked across his neck before your lips seared those in, too.

"Well, I--I, uh…" Clay brown eyes fluttered shut when you touched him. "I really–" He tried again. Miguel's head dug back into the hay, gifting a speckle of splintering hay crackles to the ambience of mooning crickets. The littlest sighs, the gentlest of moans, so spent and eager, slipped from between his tired, wanting lips, bolstering the symphony of the night.

Your lips found his again. Your tongue tasted him, finding the familiar smoke of fine whiskey and the sweet icing of flaked pastries. One of your hands threaded into his hair and held the back of his neck, keeping him close, stopping him from seeing the swirling haze in your own eyes.

"It's alright, honey," you whispered against his cheek before you pushed into him, "you ain't gotta say it back." His hands flew to your back, clawing into your skin and pulling your body flush against his. Miguel's stuttered gasps found a home in the warmth of your shoulder, and you etched quiet moans over the mark you'd already left. Such a greedy, evil man you were.

And that’s why you couldn’t love him.

But you did, and you kept telling him while you held him, even though it made your heart ache, even though it made your heart break. Because it was so horribly, painfully, undeniably true–you loved him. You loved the bastard son of the sheriff. You loved the man who was to be wed to a beautiful woman with wide hips and the gift of giving him the family he always dreamed of for himself.

And you? You were trouble. A dog on the road, scrounging for scraps, looking for any woman or sorry soul to take you in for the night–and then you found yourself neither, and didn't know how to walk away from what you’d found.

But trouble was always gonna find you, whether it be your man’s father or his wife’s, the corrupt deputies and counties paid to find you, the do-gooder bounty hunters looking for their payday. You'd be damned if you let trouble find him: Miguel O'hara, a cocky prick, a ladies man, a man who gave you love and patience when you needed it most.

This was the last night you were gonna love him.

–

Ten hours later, you were gone.

–

Ten years later, you were back.

–

The market was busy. Customers and vendors alike bustled through cramped cobbled streets, but Miguel heard one voice clear as day like lightning striking through the darkest storm.

"You lookin' for your momma, sweetheart?"

Then, he heard his Gabi.

His boots thumped against the ground hard on his dash towards his little one. Folks in the crowd hurried out of his way or got pushed past until Miguel spied his baby girl talking to a fellow crouched down to her level. It was you, wearing that same damn hat, toting that same damn bag over your shoulder, wearing those same damn boots, all in the town where you'd met.

"Papá's gone," Gabi sniffed, clutching onto the fabric of her dress with trembling little hands. "I-I dunno where he went!"

"Hey, hey, you're okay, baby. We'll find him." You pat her head and smoothed some of the flyaways that escaped her braids. "We'll find that old sheriff and–"

"Well, you found him," Miguel cut in, sauntering in on the conversation with his thumbs hooked into the worn leather of his belt. He did his best to gaze at you with a stranger's stare, but he was already losing the game he decided to play.

Especially when your eyes flicked to him, looking less than surprised and more than happy to see him, if that crooked smile was anything to go off of.

Gabriella threw herself at Miguel and buried her little face into his shirt, staining the worn cotton with drops of tears. Miguel pat her head before kneeling down and holding her hands in his.

"You alright, mija?" He cooed, concern softening his voice and taking the fight out of him. Gabi nodded dramatically and Miguel wiped her eyes. "You can't run off like that, kid, you had me scared half to death."

"I-I know, ‘m sorry.” And she really did look it, but Miguel knew her wanderlusting, bored little self would get lost in the crowds again, thinking she’d always make it back to her daddy. It could never happen to me was a jinx thought too many times. Everything could happen to them. Anything. Just like you leaving.

Right. The sheriff’s eyes glanced up to find yours again, but he found an empty space instead. Gone. Again. Maybe he shouldn’t be surprised by that.

–

But when night fell, he had an inkling of where to find you.

Miguel found Lyla’s bar, that place where men drank ill of the divine’s blood, where you would drink yourself, the cannibal you were.

Upon first glance around the room, through the cheers of his title and welcoming smiles, he didn’t find you. But Lyla nodded at the backdoor, and Miguel had his answer.

He grabbed a drink on the way out, maybe to settle his nerves or to drown you with, he wasn’t sure. The song of a guitar called to him the second he cracked that back door open. Like a fisherman drawn to the siren’s voice, he followed it earnestly, the hand holding his bottle tightening while earthen brown eyes searched for you–

And there you were, sat on a log bench, thick cigar hanging from your lips, drink at your side, plucking away at tired strings for a crowd of ghosts around a dark phantom fire. Worshippers, no doubt. Specters of lovers passed, maybe.

Moonlight draped across your shoulders like the thick blankets of snow weighing on the surrounding cedars. They, too, listened to the hymn, bowing how they could to show their fealty to you. But you didn’t mind it, not acting how godly things were said to act, instead welcoming them as real brothers and sisters and others, all equal on the same ground. Miguel didn’t know how you could still not have a care in the world when the world cared so much for you.

Miguel’s boots crunched in the snow, and you turned your gaze to him. Now that he had the time to spare, he took in the lines and wear on your fine face, the age added under mischievous eyes and the new, silvered scars glowing against your complexion. Older, and handsomer. How was it possible? How was that fair?

Then that horrible smile appeared, the one he’d felt sear into his skin all those years ago. He felt it now, burning on his neck, on his lips, and somehow he knew you felt it, too. Under a moonlit night, in the old barn of his daddy’s estate, you’d taught him your gospel from sunset to sunrise, showed him how mercy felt, how a kind god’s hand could heal. Those lips whispered to him things prophets wish they knew, things they’d give everything to hear first before any other man–but no, it was just for Miguel.

You stood and walked to him, guitar in-hand, and Miguel lost all sense of mind.

–

He slammed you up against his front door once the damn thing closed and blocked out the cold, leaving you victim to his gnashing teeth and clawing hands. His knee found its place snug up against your crotch as he devoured your voice with a scorned kiss, filled with the clash of fangs and demanding bites. You moaned into him, too weak to deny him his wants, or to deny yourself.

"Your daughter–" you gasped once his mouth left yours. You muffled a moan into his shoulder as he ground his knee against your crotch harder. "Miguel–"

"She's with Peter for the night," he breathed into your neck inbetween hot, open-mouthed kisses left on your scarred skin. "Figured something'd be happenin' tonight."

"Hmm." You smiled into the leather of his jacket and left a soft kiss there before leaning back to spy his handsome face. "Glad we can pick up where we left off, Sheriff."

"Hardly." His hand found your neck, and you offered your throat, your blood, for communion. For union. "You've got some fucking gall showing up around here again, let me tell you. Gotta say I have questions about where you've been, why you left, why you're back now." The pressure around your throat tightened and you coughed just the slightest bit to prove your mortality. Miguel's eyes, deep and dark like wine, drank you in now that he had you where he wanted you.

"You think you got some answers for me, trouble?" The sheriff asked.

You grinned. Not even that damn cuff around your throat could scare you off, truth be told.

"I just might."

Miguel's lips followed the path of your whisper back to your sinful mouth once again, and he kissed you. You clung to him, a god yearning to taste the sweetness that humanity had cultivated, and let him take the reins–the human would know humanity best, after all.

His knee left the spot between your legs, but his hips closed the gap in its stead and ground hard against you. Sparks ignited from between your bodies, and you moaned. Miguel's soft, breathy sigh melted into your voice as his lips lingered against your very own. It felt too much like the past.

"Shh, Christ–don't you know how to shut up?" Miguel asked with the wickedest grin stretched across those fine features of his, like he wasn't the bastard at the root of your noise.

"Oh, you're really asking for an ass-kicking, shit head," you scoffed, but couldn't help the laugh that sank into his cheek. "Want me to make no noise, huh? Make you think you're doing a shit job getting me off?" Miguel's hand tightened around your length, then. Maybe he liked being a lil degraded.

"Câllate. I know I'm doing a good job." His face twisted into a pouty frown. "Now hurry up and touch me, too." Miguel's face couldn't get more red with the demand.

But you grinned and complied. Tucked away in the barn where all dark deeds were done, you pulled loose his belt and unzipped those old jeans before palming him up and showing him what it meant to worship.

Miguel moaned and leaned into your touch, pushing you deeper into the thick wooden support beam keeping everything standing. Your first hands worked each other to find Eden while the second hands wandered and touched, trying to find where they were supposed to land next on their quest into the great unknown. The bible had been so, so wrong, so now what was their guide?

Each other, the answer would be.

Oil-slicked fingers pistoned into your tight hole with frenzied purpose, stretching you open and wide for all Miguel had waiting on offer. Your fingernails caught into every hitch and grain of the wooden dining table beneath you, somewhere you'd find no purchase but decided you didn't deserve any; this was, after all, divine punishment, was it not?

Though it was unceremonious the way he yanked those fingers out and slammed his cock in, filling you to the brim in one fatal flourish, tearing a choked gasp from your smoke-addled throat. Your forehead dug into the wood as your hips jolted back to find more of him. Miguel's hands, broad and calloused, held fast to your hips and stroked the taught muscle there, the stretched skin over bone, with his thumbs. He smoothed your skin and soothed any aches you felt in the aftermath of man's brutality.

Just when you thought to snap at him to move, he rocked his hips against yours slowly, pulsing into you with shallow, merciful thrusts. But even just that was enough to snatch the air out of your lungs.

Miguel blanketed your body with his own, bending over you and breathing softly against the shell of your ear as his weight pinned you to the table. You had to admit the man was giving you whiplash with every flip of your punishment.

"Go a little harder, baby," you whispered sweetly, nearing on begging as you pushed your hips back against his.

Miguel's rhythm stuttered. His hands tightened around your waist, blunt nails digging into soft sides as the teeth by your ear snicked together with the hiss of a breath, of words unspoken.

"You want harder?" Miguel mumbled. He buried his face into your neck and inhaled deep, filling his lungs with that scent you brought with you when you escaped whatever holy shrine man had imprisoned you in.

"Fine." His chest left your back as he stood up straight. You felt the shift in the room before he slammed into you over and over again like you owed him this.

And you did. You'd left. You'd run away after showing your heart to him. You could've left without a word. You should've. But where else would you find someone to drag you down to Earth the way he did?

His hand slipped under your neck then and tightened fiercely as he used you, and your mind snapped back to the present, to how this communion threatened to rot into sacrifice. You didn't seek the unholy. You didn't want faith like this.

"Stop," you rasped. Your hands clawed at the noose around your neck when words didn't work. Turns out it scared you just a bit more than you thought."Miguel."

"I thought you wanted it hard," his voice growled into your ear, too distant from that charisma and snark you knew and fell for. He was cold. Angry. Not saying what he wanted to say.

"I–" but you coughed and saw the abyss for a second when you thought your neck might give, and instincts stepped in for you.

You managed to shove Miguel off, so hard in fact he crashed back into the counter where dishes sat drying in a rack. They clattered to the dismal tune of your dying heart while you caught your breath and tried to steady your legs underneath yourself as you stared hard at the man who'd never hurt you.

You'd had your fair share of flirty women and shameful men, whether it was a job to make a quick buck, a ploy to rob them in the night, or an attempt at finding something real.

The women were always kindly, confessing of the snakes in the garden out front and the woes they felt in the house in the times their husbands lurked. Always so intimate, always so willing to open their hearts and their bodies to you. You'd give them the same respect in kind, murmuring about a boy you still loved, hinting at the skeletons laid hidden in a hundred different pieces in your closet. Two wanting beings seeking a kind One's touch.

But the men made you less than human. Filled to the brim with callous denial and self-loathing, blaming you for what they'd done and what they'd do. You hated them for what they'd do to you. You hated them for proving man was beyond saving. You hated them because they were just like the one that came before you.

And maybe you hated them for reminding you what your mortal man could do to you, too.

But Miguel looked shell-shocked. A little too human, a little too unlike those others with the way his wide eyes scanned you over as his own chest heaved and his own two hands struggled with what to do. He almost took a step forward, but took it back.

Miguel's voice broke through, real soft and quiet. "(Name), I–"

"Don't," you snapped, hating the way your voice shook. You wondered if you'd ever yelled at your daddy this way.

"You don't get to–no, not you. You don’t get to do that to me. Anyone but you." Because he was your prophet. Someone you could hide with and share the darkest of the dark with in safety, away from the rest of the hated world. What would you be if you lost him, too?

You didn't know what you expected, maybe to be kicked out or yelled at again if history repeated itself, but Miguel braving those steps towards you and holding you close was nothing short of a needed surprise. You were both something of a mess, pants all awry and brows creased with sweat and emotion, but with the mess came comfort. And to you, comfort smelled like licorice, sun, and leather.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. And your heart swelled; men didn't say that to you. No one ever said that to you.

Your arms, tentative and maybe a little afraid, found their way around his waist, and you pulled him in closer. Miguel's shoulders relaxed with every soothing sweep of your palm against his back, and you let his weight fall into you a little bit more. Because as much as he was your happy place, you were his, too.

Miguel laughed bitterly before he said, "I guess I'm more like my father than I wanna admit."

Wife beater.

You pulled back just enough to look him in the eyes. "You know that ain't true." His eyes looked away from you then, and you caught his cheek with your hand to stop the rest of his head from following. "It's been a long time. There's…quite a bit left unsaid."

Miguel huffed something of a laugh as he leaned into your touch. "Huh, that was almost poetic. You been reading up since you were gone?"

"Might've stolen a few pretty books from some fanciful folks here 'n there." You smiled.

"Yeah? Guess it was worth it, if you're talking like that now."

"Wasn't worth leavin' you."

Earthen eyes found you again, looking wide and innocent like those fauns you saw on your travels. You liked that look on him, the look of a pretty boy being awed by a roadbound hooligan. You thought maybe you could get him to blush, too.

Your other hand found the empty side of his face and cupped it, mirroring the other, before you leaned in and closed your eyes. This time, cinders sparked against your lips when they met, proving that man, indeed, created flame without heavenly guidance. That burgeoning blaze bloomed and blossomed when you kissed Miguel O'hara to remind him of the words you spoke that night ten years ago:

I love ya, pretty boy. You ain't gotta say it back.

Because the fire in you had enough heat to keep two warm at night.

"I never should've left you," you murmured against his lips. "I thought–I figured it'd be for the best, but–" your voice died in your throat when Miguel's lips caught your chatty mouth and dove into another hot kiss. You sighed, happy to abandon that solemn train of thought in favour of slipping your arms around his neck and enjoying him like you were 21 all over again.

"I know," Miguel mumbled when he parted and let you breathe. "You wouldn't leave for nothin', selfless bastard." He smiled a little. "But I'm still cross with you."

Your hands moved to curl into his worn shirt as you nodded. "I know."

"And we're gonna sort everything out."

"Good."

"But right now," he started before catching your chin between his fingers and tilting your head up the slightest bit, "I think I'd like another shot at fucking you silly, mi amor."

Your stomach dipped into sticky, gooey desire. Mi amor. The words radiated through every nerve and cell of your design.

You nodded. "Go right ahead."

This time, Miguel swept you up into his arms and carried you up the stairs like a bride on her wedding day while you laughed and dotted him with kisses all over. He all but threw you onto the bed before you both tore each other's clothes away in a fit of love and lust, too eager to see one another at your most vulnerable.

Miguel's broad hands smoothed down your chest and thighs as he settled between them, and the look in his half-lidded eyes had your stomach coiling with impatience. But he took his time, dipping his fingers into the lines and creases of scars and muscle, pressing against each errant beauty mark he found hidden on your warm skin. But, thankfully, his impatience won out, and he rushed to pick up where you’d both left off.

You were glad to hold onto him this time as he filled you again. Your hands grabbed at his shoulders and clawed at his back as he kissed your neck and rolled against you slowly, gradually convincing your tight heat to relax and let him back in. And Miguel was quite the persuasive one, rocking his hips in a delicious tempo of short, shallow half-notes, whispering fluttering words of praise when he charted forgotten ground. A worthy worshiper, truly.

Your hips jolted when his pressed to yours. "Shit," you rasped into his shoulder when he bottomed out, but only after teasing your soft spot for a few agonizing minutes.

Miguel chuckled lightly. He licked a long stripe up your neck before biting into your flesh and earning himself a hearty moan. You bit him back, if only to be a brat; gods could do whatever they wanted.

"You feel good?" He asked, like he didn't already know the answer.

You nodded against him before you allowed him to pull you back to get a look at your brows twisted together, at the love-drunk blush smeared across your face, at the half-lidded heaviness of dilated eyes. He kissed you like that once, twice, and then his forehead pressed against yours when he showed you what he was really meant for.

Long forgotten were the seconds spent downstairs on the dining table. Now is all that remained: the heat rippling through your thighs, the fire in your core, lava in your veins that moved when he did, spreading an impossible bliss through every inch of your being.

"Honey," you gasped between the soft pants and choked moans. Your fingers threaded through his hair and held his neck as Miguel fucked the air out of your lungs and spoiled himself with your rare little noises.

Miguel smirked. "Oh? Already?" He lifted his forehead from yours to kiss and mark your neck the way you so selfishly did in the past. "Don't, ah, tell me you're losing your touch."

"Shut–shut up," you grumbled. "Still got an annoying fucking mouth for such a–oh."

Miguel's hips angled slightly differently in that second, brushing up against a spot that had you seeing stars and your body tightening up and demanding more. A shaky, loud moan slipped past Miguel's defenses, too, and he made damn sure to focus his attention on that spot.

"Fuck, you feel good, viejo," Miguel moaned over the creaking of the bed.

“Hah. You’re welcome,” you cooed, ego stretched and lazing, and then you gasped louder as Miguel cranked it up a notch and slammed against your sweet spot with more fervor than before. You bit his shoulder again in defiance.

Miguel laughed, breathless and shaky as his control slipped and he delved into your body with primal instinct. Your thighs tightened around his waist, eager to feel that grand finale you’d been craving since you laid your eyes on him.

“Miggs?”

“Mh?”

“Kiss me.”

And he obliged, igniting the trail of gunpowder from the tip of your tongue and letting it burn all the way to the dynamite bundled up tight in your stomach. You exploded, burning bright with too many colours as your back arched and your arms seized your lover tightly. Beautiful nonsense left your mouth and filled the air with the mess of bed creaks and Miguel’s voice rose and rose before stopping altogether as he spilled his warmth inside your molten centre.

He kissed you lazily. Little, shaky moans rattled against your teeth as Miguel rocked against you through the aftershocks and pulled every last drop of pleasure from himself. It made you smug; his wife, dead or alive, clearly didn’t fuck him the way you could.

It took some time to come down, but when you both did, he was settled up against you, his back against your chest as you leaned against the headrest and played with his hair. One of your hands was confiscated so the sheriff may look over the silvered scars and healing wounds–a few of the many trophies you’d earned on your travels.

“So?” Miguel murmured.

“Hm?”

“Why’d you leave?”

You took a deep breath and stared up at the ceiling for a moment. Too many thoughts plagued your mind, too many reasons, too many excuses all piling up on each other like bodies in a war. But you had to find that truth and show it to him. It’s what he expected. It’s what you actually owed him.

“Well, your old man wanted me dead.” Miguel tensed against you for a moment, and you were quick to calm him with the scratch of your nails against his scalp. He melted into you, and you smiled. “You know how Delgato loves to talk. Never shuts the fuck up, actually. Was a good thing this time, though, otherwise I’d be killed three times over.”

Miguel huffed a soft laugh. “Guess so. But why you?”

“Because I wanted you. I guess I had you, too, and that wasn’t the plan, right? You had to marry Dana.” You sighed softly and shook your head. “If she weren’t so wicked fine, I’d be more bent out of shape about it.”

You sensed Miguel roll his eyes. “Santa Muerte. Do you ever think with your head instead of your cock?”

“Seems like a waste of time,” you jabbed back with a cheeky grin. You leaned in and kissed his shoulder while he grumbled and mumbled to himself.

“So that’s it? You left because that low-life wanted you dead?”

“Hold on, hold on. Let me keep talkin’.” You adjusted your arms around him before you continued. “My daddy was a crook, a real good one, too. Momma wasn’t much better. Guess you could call her a murderer, but she was a smart one. She brought back the magic that was Aqua Tofana back in the 60s. Poisoned him. Killed him." Your fingers traced around errant freckles splashing across the nape of his neck as you thought back. "Tyler Stone found out about it."

Miguel cursed under his breath. He leaned more of his weight back into your chest. Your arms tightened around him, too.

"Came after that old woman who threw the blame on me, and then they came after me." A bitter smile drained your light. "Traveled all over the place, ran even more. 'N then…somehow ended up falling for the bastard son of the man I was running from." You sighed and nuzzled against Miguel's shoulder. "The cruel irony of it all, hey?"

"You don't have to run anymore," Miguel said, voice oozing with the power of a sheriff. He turned in your hold, and sat facing you with his strong hands holding your shoulder and your cheek. "You're done running."

You huffed a breath through your nose before you hung your head the slightest bit. "Says who?"

"Says me.” Both hands held your face now, bringing your attention back to Miguel’s divinely cut features as he tried to speak some sense into you. “The man you said you loved. The bastard son of the man you were runnin' from." His thumbs rubbed soothing paths along your cheekbones. “You know you’re done runnin’, too. Why else would you come back here?”

And maybe there was some truth to those words. Why did you come back here? Were you tired of the road? Tired of the gun fights, the robbing, the lying? Is that why you trekked your horse down these familiar roads without even realizing it until you saw that old church stretching above the rising sun? Or maybe you were following threads of your fate, wandering to the tune of your South-flying heart when your chest finally got too cold after ten years without light.

Yeah, maybe you were done running.

Your nose brushed his when you leaned into him. “You want me to stay, pretty boy?”

“I’ll make you stay. Sheriff’s promise. Besides,” Miguel murmured. His forehead pressed to yours and his eyes fell closed before the next whisper changed everything: “Te amo.”

Your eyes watered, so you let them fall closed, too. The barest of laughs broke through your quivering breaths. It was relief that flooded you, and those two little words were the ark that raised you up out of your misery and confusion of the world. You felt like you could breathe. Like you meant something for once. Like maybe the hymns and verses might have been based on truth.

“Well,” you started, leaning into the summer touch wiping away your autumn tears, “why didn’t you say so sooner?”

“I should’ve. I really should’ve.” Miguel laughed something warm and loud when you yanked him in for a hug and peppered him with salty kisses all over his face. “H-Hey, hey, you didn’t give me an answer!”

“Forgot the question, Sheriff,” you mumbled as you squeezed him. “Ask again?”

Miguel scoffed fondly before kissing your earlobe and murmuring into your ear. “You feel like kickin’ up your feet and giving up on running, trouble?”

You grinned to yourself and returned the kiss.

“I do.”

#miguel o'hara x reader #miguel x reader #atsv imagine #atsv reader insert #male reader insert #miguel ohara x reader #miguel ohara x male reader #miguel x male reader #male!reader #atsv male!reader insert #atsv x reader #atsv x you #miguel x you #miguel ohara x you #miguel ohara x y/n

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thyandrawrites · 2 years

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I'm gonna voice a bit of an unpopular opinion here but I wish Horikoshi would've put more of a focus on anti-mutant discrimination through the pov of non-villains. (using the word mutant here bc iirc 'heteromorph' is the less sensitive one as far as Viz's translation goes)

I believe someone before me (possibly @/transhawks) has already said this much, but... Hawks could've brought so much nuance to the table. He's a mutant, but he has more privilege than most because he retains a mostly human-like appearance; unlike fanon, his feet and his hands are human looking, and the only "birdier" trait he displays is a heightened sight. All in all, his wings are the only part of his appearance that make him visibly a mutant, and he's exempt from the anti-heteromorphic sentiment because his wings are the very things that make him a hero. His entire brand revolves around them: he uses them to fight, to save, to gather intel. Without them, he's simply not a hero, because they're a fundamental part of him, of how he does his duty. The Commission made them his trademark, exploiting his trauma ("what are those wings for?") as a way to leash him. They trained him to exploit the potential in his quirk to the max, and then made it a focus for the public to latch onto and idolize. He's not just Hawks, he's the Wing Hero: Hawks. When he models, he puts them on display. When he's out in the streets, he lets fans get into his personal space and touch them, feel them up. And his admirers do. In their eyes, those wings become akin to Endeavor's flames or Kamui's branches. They're no longer seen as a mutation that makes him "subhuman", but as the very thing that makes him a hero.

But this is all a speculation on my part because Hawks' original design was different from its finalized version. Before the movie came out and Horikoshi had to scrap it, Hawks' original appearance had a bird head, feathered torso and arms, and bird-like claws for hands. And that makes me wonder: was he always supposed to be a beloved public figure? Was his background with the Commission all it took for him to breeze past the social stigma and become so popular? Or did Horikoshi sacrifice some of its initial plans for Hawks' character when he had to last-minute change his design?

Even without considering the redesign angle, I always thought Horikoshi missed the mark for giving us a bit more worldbuilding nuance when Hawks recruited Tokoyami as an intern.

Like. We know that individuals still get discriminated on because of their appearance and quirks to this day. As this chapter points out, it might be an issue that appears to be smoothed over by some more progressive choices (like Nedzu becoming UA's principal), but Nedzu's backstory itself tells us he was the victim of experimentations by humans. Shouji wears a mask for other people's comfort and Spinner was the victim of social ostracization and became an hikikomori.

The discrimination is still there, but it just evolved into something more rooted and less outright than bullying and religious or social oppression. At least in the city, mutants are now integrated well enough in society, but their needs are still not accommodated or even accounted for. This is why for example Shouji has to rip the sleeves off his uniform instead of getting one custom-made, or why there was that background character TV host who cut one of his horns not to block the viewer's sight of the screen behind him (and was praised as a dedicated professional for it). In other words, mutants are expected to conform to the standards for non-mutants, instead of society actually making any effort to be inclusive and accessible.

And all of this is fine and well as background worldbuilding information. But given how it's now becoming a plot point with its own subplot, I can't help but think we could've used some more set up for it.

One of the stated reasons why Hawks extends that internship offer to Tokoyami, despite not usually taking interns, is because "they're both birds". And of course part of this is just Hawks being Hawks. He's quirky and he makes a habit of throwing off people with his laidback and goofy act. But my point is, what if there was more to it? What if he saw a fellow mutant, a fellow flying-adjacent quirk he could help hone, and thought, "people like us already have it hard as it is. He's a mutant and one with a quirk that can potentially be seen as villainous. The League nearly captured him too, and the media ripped into that other kid to blame him for his own kidnapping. But by taking Tokoyami under my wing, I'm vouching for him. If he associates with me, an already established media sweetheart, it's less likely that anti-mutant sentiment will target him."

I mean, obviously Hawks still would've offered an internship to a class-A kid because he needed insight on the League. But Tokoyami isn't the only kid who can fly. Heck, Bakugou has been doing that with his explosions since day 1, and he was in the League's lair for a few days. Obviously, if intel and quirk compatibility were all Hawks was after, Tokoyami wasn't the sole option. Hawks wasn't looking just for wasted potential, either. Uraraka can float, she's similarly driven by challenges, and has never maxed out on her potential either. It's obvious to me that Hawks feels some kind of kinship for Tokoyami that he doesn't for the other kids. And I'm just saying, it would've been interesting if that was because of their roles as heroes and mutants in a society that is hostile to one but not the other.

Don't get me wrong. On his own, Spinner does bring up a lot of interesting things to the table. But he's meant to be an outsider, someone rebelling against the current state of things. So one thing he cannot portray is the pov of someone who is a cog in that machine. Hawks could've done that, and he could've shown us the double standard at play in all its glory.

Hawks is a mutant, but he "passes" as human—or human enough to be integrated fully. So he has privilege. But that privilege is artificial, since he started off at the bottom of the food chain and only rose into wealth and power thanks to government funding and sponsoring. Yet, at the same time, his integration is still conditional; it hinges on his performance, on adapting to society and its needs over his own, on being a hero through and through with no time to spare. On making his mutation a show that can sell, and that can be a tool for the people who invested time and resources into it. The respect he's given now is not inherent, but it ties directly into what he gives back to the society that "allowed" him to raise to number two. And he knows it. He very well knows it, and he protects his forged hero persona because he's aware it's the only thing standing between his current life and a return to homelessness, poverty and abuse.

Idk. I just think expanding on this would've added a lot to the story. It would've made it an issue to fix, rather than something that only affects "villains," because the heroes learn to deal with it and that makes them "plus ultra" as opposed to oppressed in a different way

#Bnha spoilers #Bnha meta #Meta:bnha society #My post #Been a while since I last did one of my rants on hero society but I guess this chapter gave me some food for thought #Hawks #Spinner #Tokoyami fumikage #Shouji mezou

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maggotbxby · 10 months

Text

Coup De Grâce - Deadite Ellie x OC/Reader - Chapter One

"and the devil who had deceived them was thrown into the lake of fire and sulfur where the beast and the false prophet were, and they will be tormented day and night forever and ever" Revelation 20:10

Or...

Greta is a God-fearing, wannabe actress with a particularly strange family history, and an impressive talent of stumbling upon disgusting scenes. When tragedy strikes her home in an old LA high-rise, she quickly realizes her fate may be much more twisted than she was brought up to believe.

Rating: Explicit

Word Count: 6,349

TW: Religious Trauma; Gore; Suicidal Thoughts; Violence; Everything in Evil Dead Rise.

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This building is dead.

It died a month ago when the landlord dropped letters in our mail slots letting us all know we have to be out by next month. He didn't even give us the courtesy of calling, just a print and copied half-assed apology letter to the tenants who pay out their livelihoods every month in rent so he can buy a new Ferrari and not fix the lights.

It’s not that I want to be here, particularly. There is just no other apartment on this side of LA that I would be able to afford. No others would even consider me, if I could. No stable job and a 480 credit score doesn't bode well with most landlords.

A category 5 earthquake was just a death blow, and exactly what I needed to truly understand it was, in fact, God's will for me to return to Tennessee.

The apartment is nearly pitch dark, even with the couple of candles I lit. A blackout coming with the aftershocks while I was packing explains a lot about how my luck has been the past few weeks. It’s as quiet as the dead, aside from the typical moans and groans of the old building. If my neighbors weren't stomping around, I would consider it eerie.

I sit on a rickety stool that came with the place as I sort through my papers. Every tiny shift in my body causes the stool to creak and groan, just like the rest of the wretched building, so I try to be perfectly still.

The candlelight picks up my papers just enough for me to sort through them and chuck them into boxes- or the trash. It's nearly 10:00 and on a normal night I wouldn't keep packing, especially during a post-earthquake blackout, but I want out of this place as quickly as possible, and if I have to suffer for a while to do that, I will.

I pick up a folder on my desk, and even in the dark I recognize it as my portfolio- or my pathetic excuse of one. I open it up to see my year-old headshots and my resume. I’ve never been a bad actress, particularly, I’ve just been bad at landing roles. Sure, maybe I didn't work hard enough to find a manager, but even if I had, my off-screen charisma has always been lacking. I scored one decent role in a film, only for it to be scrapped halfway through production. But I have kept trying, I tried theater, I tried commercials, I even tried volunteering into the musical theater at my local church; I’ve tried lots of things.

Because my father left me on this earth alone, and try is all that I can do.

I need to keep living, for reasons undisclosed to even my own mind.

I tell myself that my father left because God wanted him to come home. He spent years of his life driving out evil spirits, freeing tormented souls from the clutches of the Devil, and maybe God thought his work was done? I like to believe that over the probable truth that his fear overcame him; that what he has been running from his entire life finally caught up to him. There is a devotion to God and, with it, a fear of the Devil that has been passed down for generations throughout my family. My father, and many men before him, suffered because of it.

But if God called my father home, what does that tell me about our home? Does God not care about our family? Why wouldn't he take both of us? No matter what I have done to myself after he died, the agony I have both endured and inflicted upon myself, I am still here. So maybe I do have a purpose on this earth. Or maybe God doesn't want me in His Kingdom at all.

I remain faithful that these thoughts are untrue. I pray to God every day and every night. I spread His word to those I meet, and I follow His guidance in everything I do, so maybe that’s why I'm still here.

Packing my, and the rest of my fathers belongings a second time has my mind cruelly bogged with memories, scents, feelings; just pure sentimentality. I have never been host to it before, being estranged from the rest of my family young never granted me the privilege. I do not have the patience for it. My body aches as I look at my shattered dreams, and I feel something cold and awful prick at the throbbing muscle inside my chest, frigid claws that dig deep into my being and tear away so subtly.

My anger gets the better of me and I throw the folder into the trash, causing it to topple over and spill papers and garbage all over the floor. Tears of exhaustion and frustration well up in my eyes, and I grip the sides of my head in my hands and bite back a scream. I will not let myself cry over this. I created this problem, I have to dig -or well, clean- myself out of it.

I admit, I am an exposed nerve, and have been for the last year, my father's death having ripped off my epineurium.

I hop up from the stool, making it creak wretchedly, scraping the wooden floor, and I grab a broom from the kitchen to clean up the mess.

It’s because it is so quiet that I hear footsteps outside my door.

In most apartments, this wouldn't come as a surprise but considering I live around a corner, at the end of the hall, on the top floor, it’s a bit odd to have foot traffic this late. I tend to be left alone down here, no one vying to get in aside from the rats and dust bunnies.

I keep cleaning, because if someone has come to rob me, they will surely be disappointed, and if they have come to kidnap or kill me, my weak body and dry-rotten broomstick surely aren't going to stop them.

The steps draw closer, and I can hear their breathing; sharp, heavy, fast. The pattering footsteps stop but the breathing doesn't, however it draws farther away.

My curiosity gets the best of me, and I slowly approach the peephole in the door. I take in a deep breath only to relax when I see it’s one of the neighbor kids, peering around my little back corner out into the long-stretched hallway with the other apartments. I can’t see that hallway from my room, however.

The moment of relaxation is cut short as I realize the kid is crying. His eyes are wide and red, and his breath is quick, like a rabbit being hunted by a fox.

Then I hear a scream coming from the hallway.

Then another.

The child is still hiding around the corner and even though I can’t see what he’s hiding from, everything in my nature tells me it is something he needs to get away from, now. I go to open the door and before I can unlock the deadbolt, the kid takes a mad dash down the long hallway.

…

……

...……

Another scream.

A thud.

My eyes well up in tears of panic and fear as I stand frozen, staring out of the peephole. I see nothing, but I hear everything.

Screaming, crying, ripping, squelching, banging, a gunshot.

Laughing.

Across that sequence of events, which lasted all of 3 minutes, I decided to make peace with death. Because it is all that I can do.

Then it goes quiet again. This time the quiet is eerie. No loud neighbors, no footsteps, nothing.

The air at the top of the high rise is thin, always has been, but trying to breathe it in during a panic feels like there is no air left at all. My hands shake, my chest feels as if it is about to explode. I unlock my cell phone and dial 911 only to be met with a repetitive beep. The earthquake took out the cell towers, of course. Self-preservatory panic overstimulates my senses and I drop to my knees at the door in a terrified heap. I cannot stop the sobs that choke out of my throat, and I fear even my body knows that whoever- or whatever is out there is going to come for me soon.

I clasp my hands and bow my head as I sob out the only thing I can “The lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He makes me lie down in green pastures; He leads me beside still waters; He restores my soul. Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death; I fear no evil; for you are with me.”

I whisper prayers until my voice is hoarse. Because that is all that I can do. If anyone saw me at this moment I would be mortified. My neighbors are being attacked just outside my door and I have done nothing . But what can I do? Face a mass murderer by myself. Whoever is out there hasn't been stopped by the entire floor of people. They're a predator, and I am just as much a lamb to be slaughtered as anyone.

What I do need, is to get out of this place.

My mind is frequently unreliable, especially with time, however I have been hyperfocused on sounds tonight and I can confidently say the hallway has been pretty silent for at least 10 minutes now.

This can mean one of two things:

Everyone here except me got the hell out of this building, because they didn’t hide in their apartments like cowards, and the authorities are on their way.

Or everyone here except me has been killed, because they didn’t hide in their apartments, and ran out like idiots, and I am just waiting for my turn to face death as well.

Regardless of the right answer, staying in my apartment is going to get me nowhere. The only available exits are the elevator -which is a terrible option post-earthquake- or the stairs, both of which are at the end of the hall.

I get up from my heap on the floor and scour my apartment to grab the rest of my essentials to get out of here. I toss my phone, keys, wallet, and bible all into my purse, and I slowly and quietly unlock the deadbolt.

The moment I put my hand on the door handle to pull it open I feel my stomach sink and my body tense. The narrow hallway feels like a chute, and I feel as soon as I turn the corner my executioner will be waiting with a captive bolt ready to be driven into my skull.

I take two quiet steps outside my door towards the other hallway and I feel the hairs on the back of my neck stand up, and my heart threatens to crash its way out of my chest, sending a painful wave of thunder to my wrists and my neck. The sheer force of my blood pressure reverberates into my ears. I keep my body to the wall and clutch my bag to satisfy my brain’s need to have leverage and I use every ounce of courage in my body to peer around the corner into the hallway and-

Corpses.

There are corpses.

Horrifying, mutilated corpses of my neighbors. The corpse of the child who, if I was a second faster, could have been brought into my apartment.

Skin sloughed from muscle, muscle from bone and I am sick sick sick sick si-

The putrid, infectious scent of bile, blood, and exposed flesh makes its way to me, and by some miracle I do not vomit but my body doubles over, and my eyes and mouth are pooling while a black haze creeps into the borders of my field of view.

When I glance up, the sensible part of my brain makes my obscured vision focus on the only thing still moving in the hallway.

I, as anyone who knew her would, recognize her from the tattoos on her exposed flesh and the distinct red hair on her head, Ellie Bixler.

But very much not Ellie Bixler.

Her skin is pale and gray with death, and she is caked in blood and bits of everything that are no longer inside my neighbors' bodies. The curve of her arm is made jagged, and My God limbs are not meant to bend that way.

I suddenly believe that every prayer I have ever spoken has come to protect me at this moment, as she somehow does not notice me while she is focused on what I think is the door to her own apartment. I do not let my luck go to waste as I rush back behind the wall, out of sight of anyone in that hallway.

The quiet I got too comfortable with finally comes to an end in what I assume is the sound of her breaking, or trying to break through her door.

I peer around the corner like an idiot in some sick daze of infatuation when I hear the scream of a child.

Ellie is pushed halfway into her apartment, holding onto what I can only imagine is her youngest daughter, Kassie. Someone else inside the room comes to help as the door is slammed onto Ellie’s arm and she recoils back into the hallway.

She then throws herself into the door, furiously banging on it.

“OPEN THE DOOR LIKE YOU OPEN YOUR LEGS YOU STINKING GROUPIE SLUT!”

The voice sounds like a twisted, savage, faux version of my neighbor’s and I feel the overwhelming urge to vomit again as I dart back into hiding, and I take the opportunity of the noise to rush back to my apartment.

The contents of my stomach do end up on my floor after I close and lock the apartment behind myself.

I despise vomiting. Tragically, I was cursed with a weak stomach and an impressive ability to stumble upon revolting sights. A deadly combination only I could be so lucky to have.

I do not think to clean up the vomit on the floor that will soon be covered in my own blood when I am inevitably found.

I quickly realize as my body autopilots into my bedroom, that spilling my guts combined with a severe spike in adrenaline has given me three things; sharp chest pain, energy renewal, and a massive degree of mania.

I now know what I need to do.

I haven't touched these books since I moved out of Tennessee, not that I should have. Every time they have been opened they consume the one who opens them. My father was constantly buried in these writings, wasting his life trying to make something of them. Something that would allow our family to repent from the sins of our ancestors. I have never been so unlucky to read them, until now.

I know exactly where I hid them. I drop to the floor in front of the old, dusty armoire that came with the apartment, that definitely should have been thrown out years before I moved in here.

I flatten myself on the splintery floor and snake an arm under it, finding what I was looking for. I pull out the wooden box and rise to my knees as I pop open the latch. There is a stack of 3 handwritten journals. Journals scrawled by my great-great Grandfather, Marcus Littleton.

My body quivers, and adrenaline and fear flow through my veins as I pull one of the journals out of the box, illuminated by the moonlight.

I take the box and journal to my desk. I re-light the candle upon my desk and I open the treacherous tome up. My heart is frightened; however, my mind is set.

I have heard my father describe demons for the entirety of my life. ‘Twisted, rotting corpses intent on causing chaos, destruction, and pain everywhere they are found.’

I never fully believed his tales. Of course I didn’t, there was never any public recordings of such events. His stories were from the 1920’s, it could have been nothing but hearsay. Hearsay that he lived and died for. Hearsay that, if I do nothing, I will also die for.

He never let me touch these books when he was alive, he kept them hidden for himself. When I inherited them, I never opened the box. Partially because I respected my fathers wishes, partially because I didn't want to become consumed in them as he was. My father and I always were alike.

The handwriting of my great-great grandfather is sloppy, and every word is abbreviated, shortened, or misspelled. These books were scrawled in a panic. I knew this. I was, however, never told the extent. I skim through the most legible parts of the pages, many words and phrases unreadable.

“The words I uttered have unleashed a demonic entity beyond my darkest nightmares”

“The book, it cannot be destroyed.”

“Their bodies twisted, decaying.”

“Rotted from the inside out.”

“It does not stop.”

“The possession will spread.”

“They will tear you apart, and bathe in your guts.”

“Run.”

“It cannot be stopped until innocence is destroyed.”

“I cannot escape this.”

“It's going to get me soon.”

I slam the book shut. My body trembles so wildly I begin to spasm. My heart is beating as fast as a racehorse’s and my breathing refuses to slow. The fear of being discovered from the thing just outside my apartment is the only thing keeping me from screaming.

The chicken scratch writing described a book. I have heard about this book for years. A book that was hidden away for the good of humanity. My father wanted to keep us as far away from Los Angeles for a reason. He never knew where the book was hidden away, but he knew it had to be here.

And of course, it would make total, logical sense, that by some absolute joke from God, out of all the old buildings in this city, I manage to land an apartment in the one the book was being held at.

Or perhaps I really am cursed, and some sick string of fate brought me here to die and end my family's bloodline.

The only way this could be happening is if someone found the book. My father always said, ‘They have no power without the book, so long as the words aren't spoken.’ I’m hoping he is right. If he is, maybe there is something in the book that can be used to save whoever is left in the building. Something my great-great grandfather missed.

There is only one problem.

I have absolutely no idea where the book is.

This building has 14 floors, and hundreds of tenants. It would be nearly impossible for me to find it without a mass murderer trying to kill everything in its sight.

The chaos does seem to be contained to this floor, and by the looks of it, Ellie is the only one causing it. That could potentially narrow it down to someone on this floor having it, unless of course Ellie was just the unlucky one, in the wrong place at the wrong time. It could have been anyone.

Ellie Bixler didn't deserve this. The journal said the souls of those taken were corrupted by the demon, damning them to burn in hell while their body and partial consciousness remains to wreak havoc among men. Ellie Bixler does not deserve hell.

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

Ellie Bixler was one of the first faces I saw when I moved to this treacherous place. Moving alone was a nightmare, especially moving alone into the top floor of a high-rise, into the apartment farthest from the elevator.

I thought the nightmare was ending when I got to the last boxes in the truck. However, when I picked them up, and almost toppled over with the weight of them, I realized my bad luck streak continued. I glanced at the label on the top box and sighed—of course it would be my dishes. I hear the ding of the elevator and feel a sudden whoosh of thankfulness.

“Hold the elevator!” I called, hoping that whoever was inside of it heard me. But seeing as I didn’t run into the doors, they must have. “Thank you," I said breathlessly, in passing, and then slumped against the wall of the elevator, balancing the bottom box on my thighs.

“Do you need some help?”

I peered around my stack of boxes to see the woman who had been kind enough to hold the elevator door for me; she was still standing there, dressed in a Guns N’ Roses t-shirt, dark blue ripped jeans, and leather boots. She wasn't dressed like the women I grew up around in the Bible Belt, that's for sure. And judging by her dyed red hair and tattoos, I would guess she didn't act like them either. She was staring at me hesitantly with blue eyes that looked as exhausted as I felt.

“Oh, no, I’ve got it,” I said quickly, disappearing back behind the boxes once I realized I had been staring a few moments too long at the gorgeous, courteous stranger while looking like I had been hit by a bus. “Thank you, though.”

There was a soft hum of contemplation, and then, a few moments later, a swish of the elevator doors sliding closed. I slumped against the elevator wall, thankful that I wouldn't have to converse with my new neighbor while coated with dirt and sweat.

“I think I have to insist, then.”

I jolted up so quickly that the box on the top wobbled precariously, only for it to be slipped off the stack and into the arms of the tall stranger. I stared at her, eyes wide, as the woman slouched under the weight of the box and flushed, before straightening up and smiling at me.

“Um.” I cringed at myself. What a way to be eloquent. “Thank you, but you really didn’t—”

“I know,” the woman smiled back. “What’s your number?”

I blinked in surprise.

“Excuse me?” There was no way this lady just asked for my number. Who did she think she was?

The woman’s mouth fell open and she was immediately blushing. Her brow furrowed and she chuckled awkwardly, shaking her head. “Your floor… Number. Is what I meant. For the elevator?”

Oh . I looked over at the rows of glowing white buttons; I hadn’t pressed the floor number when I rushed in.

“Oh, yeah! Right!” I replied awkwardly, still not looking at the woman. I shouldn’t have felt bad—after all, this stranger is the one who said it—but I couldn’t help feeling like I was the one who made everything uncomfortable.

“Fourteen,” I finally replied, sighing, after clearing my throat. The woman grinned, a big beautiful smile, and pressed the button.

“Well hello neighbor! I’m on 14 as well, apartment 85.” I looked back over at her sheepishly. “Expect to climb a lot of stairs. This elevator is out of order more often than it’s working.”

“Of course it is,” I commented dryly. Well, at least it appeared to be working on the day I needed it to be. Hopefully that luck holds true for grocery days, too. I thought. “Stairs aren’t a problem. Besides, it gives me an excuse to drink a third cup of coffee in the mornings.”

The woman laughed. “Sometimes I need at least five. Don’t have kids.” the stranger joked.

“You have kids?” I asked.

“Three.” She started, “Two sweet girls, Bridget and Kassie. And my boy, Danny, who is always the culprit if you hear loud music coming from my place.”

“Wow you've got a handful then.” I replied. “I’ve always wanted kids… but it doesn’t seem in my cards anymore.” I winced, and wanted to kick myself so bad for accidentally sounding super melancholic.

The woman nodded kindly, smart enough not to pry. Or maybe she just didn't want to entertain depressing, deep conversation with someone she met less than 3 minutes ago.

“I’d shake your hand…” the woman said, her voice hesitant as if she could sense the awkward tension in the elevator, “but…” she glanced pointedly at the box, and I couldn’t help but smile.

“I appreciate the concern for my dishes.”

“Dishes,” she said, staring at the box. “Well, that explains things.”

Like the fact that it’s a lot heavier than you thought it would be , I thought, and couldn't hold in my chuckle.

“My name’s Ellie.” The stranger—or Ellie, apparently—looked over at me. “By the way. Since we’re… Going to be neighbors.” This time, Ellie was the one who cringed.

“Well then, neighbor.” I stressed the word around my smile. “I’m Greta.”

“Greta.” Ellie said. My name sounded so pleasant coming from her lips compared to my own. I quickly eliminated that thought from my mind.

“Ellie.” I intoned in the same manner, and Ellie laughed. The elevator dinged and the doors slid open; Ellie inclined her head, as if to say you first , and I nod as I step through the doors.

“I probably should have warned you that I live all the way at the end of the hall.” I shifted the box in my arms and glanced over at Ellie. “Before you decided to be a good samaritan.”

“I’m always a good samaritan,” Ellie responded, her tone of voice slightly defensive.

“Careful. You told me where you live. I might abuse that.” That sounded a lot creepier than I meant it, but Ellie just laughed, which slightly lifted my embarrassment.

I stepped through the doors of my apartment. I didn’t expect Ellie to be impressed—chances are we had the same exact apartment, hers just… properly decorated—so rather than trying to play the role of host, I simply led Ellie straight to where I put the box containing my disassembled Ikea kitchen table.

Ellie did, however, let out a low whistle as she looked around.

“Wow, you’ve been at this all day, haven't you?” She slipped the box on top of the Ikea box while I laid mine on the floor.

“Yes, tragically. I slept on the floor and left the truck full of my non-essential stuff last night. Looking back, I definitely should have gotten robbed.”

“Long drive then?”

“You could say that.. Knoxville.” I sighed.

“You're telling me you drove here… from Tennessee?” She looked at me, eyes wide in shock. “With seemingly no help?”

“Just me and god.” Ellie laughed at that, but then caught herself when she noticed my expression, and the cross on my necklace, and realized I was serious.

“Well, then… I’d be happy to help, if you’d like?”

“That’s really nice of you, Ellie, but I’m afraid you're just too late. Those were my last boxes.”

“I have impeccable timing, huh?”

“Seems like it.” We both laughed, a bit awkwardly.

“What brought you all the way to the City of Angels?” Ellie interjected, cutting the awkward tension once again.

I breathed a heavy sigh, “It’s a long story…”

“Well, you could tell it, if you come have dinner with me.”

I recoiled, “I couldn’t- No. No thank you, I really should start putting all this stuff away.”

Ellie put her hand on my arm, “I insist. My husband, Jay, is making steak tonight and when he cooks, he cooks for a village.” Not that 3 children isn't a village.

I flinched, then relaxed slightly under the hand on my arm, I looked up at Ellie, contemplating, but there was little I would do to argue. I was exhausted, and I shouldn’t decline free food, even from a stranger. “I suppose I can't say no.”

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

That night was the first, and the only time in a long time I felt safe.

I didn’t spend a lot of time with Ellie outside of that night. She was a very busy woman, and I was constantly trying to find work, or locking myself in my apartment stressing about trying to find work. I often passed her in the hallway, or stopped to chat while doing laundry, but that was the extent. For the most part.

We were also very different, spiritually and morally. She wasn’t religious and I was not going to try and convert an entire family of 5. Our lives were just very different, as much as I felt drawn to her. I often, for some reason, constantly had the gnawing ache to go back to her apartment and spend time with her, and just be in her presence more than I should. It’s a feeling I have felt before, when I was young, and something deep rooted in my consciousness told me I shouldn’t give into that ache.

‘For god cannot be tempted by desire, nor does he tempt anyone; but each person is tempted when they are dragged away by their own evil desire and enticed.’

I found out about her divorce when we crossed paths in the hall. It came as a shock, to an extent. Externally they seemed like the perfect couple, but being their neighbor, I had heard a fair number of screaming matches between the two of them. Divorce is something my family has always been against, especially when there are children involved; however, I believe that God would forgive Ellie if her husband abandoned her.

Ellie was a kind person; Ellie does not deserve Hell.

Ellie’s family –by the looks of it– is still alive in her apartment. As long as no one in the apartment has been possessed, it is possible they can be saved.

I just have to, you know, get there, without the demon in the hall ripping me to shreds before I take a step.

I sit at my desk, chewing on my cheek as I think out the most insane, ludicrous plan to save my neighbors, and to free my family from this book that has haunted us for generations.

There is an estimated 10 percent chance of getting out of this alive, but there are little alternative options.

There was a shotgun in the hallway.

If I can get ahold of it, and subdue Ellie long enough for her family to let me in, I can get ahold of the book, and with it, and my great-great grandfather's journals, I could find a way to get us all out alive.

That is, if they will even let me in, and if the book is even with Ellie’s family. This is where my odds drop further.

This plan is flawed. It is dangerous. It is stupid.

But I am all of those things, yet God has kept me alive, so perhaps there is hope to be found somewhere.

As I pack the journals into my bag, and I pull my largest and sharpest knife from the kitchen, I feel the full weight of my mortality sit upon my chest.

I am mad for this.

But what is my life going to be otherwise? What did God keep me alive through so much for? I have to have faith.

I bear the knife in my hand, and wrap a rosary around my arm and wrist. My bible is held in my bag and I stand before the door to my death once again, praying for my father’s forgiveness if I mess this up.

As I carefully unlock the piece of wood separating me and the Devil, I go white-knuckled on my knife, and I feel bile begin to creep up. I am already out of breath due to panic, dissociating out of my mind, and trembling so forcefully that my teeth chatter. I bite my tongue until I taste blood, and I push open the door.

I am not sure how I want to do this, but planning now would only exhaust me further, and I need to think on my feet.

Grab the gun, shoot the demon, get inside.

I take a few, quiet, petrified steps into the hallway and look around the corner when I see-

Kassie?

Ellie’s youngest daughter is standing in the hallway, moving to help a young, dark-haired woman off the ground. From what I have heard, this is Ellie’s sister, Beth, whom I have heard referred to as ‘The Groupie’ from various neighbors.

Their attention turns to me, Beth looks shocked, eyes wide, as she moves to grab the shotgun from what I now sickeningly realize is the corpse of Mr. Fonda.

The smell, Christ. I have sworn off vomiting again, but my body desperately wants to overrun my mind at this moment. I fight bile and slowly approach them. Kassie puts a finger over her lips, assuring I know to stay quiet.

Where are Bridget and Danny? I already know, at least, I should already know. My twisted mind does not choose to process that in the moment, only focusing on the two people merely 20 feet from me.

It is my fear that allows me a keenness to sound -even over my heartbeat in my ears- and I hear the cracking of glass and bone behind me as I begin to pass Ellie’s apartment.

No.

Please, God, don’t let this happen to me now. Not when I’m this close.

I freeze, because I am a prey animal, no matter what anyone says, in this building, right now, I am prey, and as a prey animal, I have developed the intuition of knowing when I am being watched.

Its gaze is fixed on me, and I am all taut muscle and dilated pupils underneath it. I know it is behind me, and I know with every fiber of my being that I am going to die if I do not move.

But my body will not allow my muscles to relax enough to bend my limbs.

I am gripping the knife in my hand for dear life and my eyes are locked with Beth’s, who is, currently, my only hope in surviving this. The groupie raises the shotgun, and points it behind me. It is then that I decide to turn and look at-

There is a hand on my neck.

There is a hand on my neck. There is a hand on my neck. There is a hand on my neck.

It is cold and wet and awful and I set my jaw and every muscle in my throat tenses more than they already were. My teeth threaten to break each other under the force caused by my fear.

I attempt to drive the knife into the flesh behind me, when my arm is caught in the grasp of another hand. The grip is tighter than the sickeningly gentle hold on my neck, and its claws dig deep into the tendons of my wrist, making me scream out in pain, my eyes screwing shut as my hand involuntarily releases the knife.

There is a wet, breathy, crackling chuckle behind me, and the grip on my neck releases, and I open my tear-filled eyes, only to be thrown into the door across from Ellie's apartment.

It is on me swiftly after that. It grabs my wrist again and pins it against the door, like it’s body alone wasn’t doing that enough.

Its stare is predatory and piercing, nothing like Ellie’s once was. It is feral, and it's burning into me. Wide, consuming and unblinking as it stares down at me, I am drowning in it. Pupils like a pinpoint amongst a pale blue, scleras dark and bloodshot.

It leans down for an awful moment, a pit forms in my stomach and I want to vomit as it licks the blood dripping down my forearm from its claws.

I look over its shoulder at Beth, who Kassie is hiding behind and gripping for dear life.

“Please.” It is my voice that pleads, but I have never heard myself so breathless nor shrill.

“Pl…ease.” The demon's voice mocks me, eyes still burning into mine. It's voice hoarse and deep and repulsive, but the thing that makes me want to upchuck more than anything, is that I can still hear Ellie's voice underneath it. Sweet, funny, no-bullshit Ellie Bixler, consumed by the Devil.

Beth is looking at me now, fear in her wide eyes, as she aims the gun down sight for a moment, aiming directly at the demon.

Pull the trigger.

PULL THE GODDAMN TRIGGER.

This is my apex of disaster. This is all that my mind has been made to handle. I have hit the limit of my unluckiness and hit it so damn hard I might as well have heard a comedically timed ‘bang’ and seen stars dancing around my head.

Beth is unmoving, and my breath catches in my throat as I choke out a strangled sob when I see the woman mouth ‘I’m sorry’ before the shotgun it aimed at the door to apartment 82, and it is blasted open.

The demon before me jolts upright, but doesn't take its smothering gaze off of me, even when Beth grabs Kassie and runs through the door.

My fate is sealed as the door slams behind her, and all that is heard is the clanking of the security chain lock, as Beth well and truly escapes.

Then there is a deafening silence…

…A pattering of footsteps…

…Heavy, excited, wheezy, panting.

An excited panting that is coming from the creature before me.

This is where my faith in God has led me. Like my father, and his father, and the father before him. All of my life, and all of their lives, have led to this very moment. My death will be the fated coup de grâce of our cursed bloodline.

I am crucified to my place, paralyzed from the neck down as it looks upon me. I am fated to be consumed by this monster. This is my destiny.

#ellie bixler #ellie x reader #evil dead rise ellie #ellie evil dead #expect this to be gross in future chapters #this is my corruption kink fic and will be VERY graphic #do not expect ellie to be nice #i love deadites sm #and i want her to be as nasty as possible #evil dead rise #evil dead oc #yes greta is related to the priest who made the records #and her family is tormented bc of it

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morbidmanatee · 9 months

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Good Omens 2 spoilers

My immediate emotional reaction to the season 2 finale was "Crowley's right, Aziraphale's wrong." On a logical level, I agree that they both have some growing to do--Aziraphale needs to realize that heaven is toxic, and Crowley needs to realize that fucking off to Alpha Centori isn't the answer to everything. But emotionally I'm still like "I don't like that, Crowley's right, Aziraphale's wrong." And I think that says a lot more about me than it does them.

I see the both of them as being in different stages of religious trauma (specifically, Christian-based). Aziraphale is still in the thick of it. The prospect that everything you've ever believed in is a lie is almost the most terrifying thing you can conceive of. The only thing worse is the possibility that it's all true, but you convince yourself it isn't and Go To Hell. That phrase is so tossed around that I feel it falls to convey the legitimate terror I was brought up with. So you cling to every scrap of faith you can find, anything to keep the doubt at bay. Aziraphale crying after lying about Job's children, convinced he's going to hell? I've fucking been there. What Christian kid hasn't had the "I've committed the Unforgivable Sin" panic?

Crowley meanwhile is in the "fuck all of this, fuck you, fuck you, and especially fuck you" stage. You aren't afraid anymore but you are fucking bitter about what they put you through and you are Done. And I find that so much easier to sympathize with.

I feel like I've always been so unforgiving of my own fear. And so it's harder for me to accept it in Aziraphale. He's not a bad person, he's just fucking scared.

I think I need to forgive myself.

#good omens #good omens 2 #good omens spoilers

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sapphicblight · 1 year

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Idk if you have seen haunting of the hill house but I can't stop thinking of vegaspete in that universe. Like all of the cousins and brothers and like the conflict would be so delicious before finally arriving to love romantic or familial what have you. I just...there is really no horror au or spooky au when it comes to VP.

Like anything mike flanagan would suit them. I can literally see them playing out midnight mass. Vegas in the role of the priest bringing in a entity so that he may get the chance to live a life with Pete!

HI I LOVE HAUNTING OF HILL HOUSE SO MUCH MORE THAN I HAVE WORDS TO EXPRESS 👁️👄👁️

it’s a masterpiece. so much love was put into every single aspect of it, and it fucking SHOWS in the final product. i could write a novel length essay, but i won’t, because i’m trying to be normal about this. somehow.

the possibilities for the theerapanyakuls’ various traumas manifesting as hauntings are endless and delicious, and imo could really work within canon as well. you mentioned midnight mass too for vegaspete and you’re definitely onto something there, because vegas has his weird religious culty vibe going on already with his naked firehazard mirror sessions. a lot of devil/demon metaphors have made the rounds for him (as well as a highly entertaining demon vegas au by @blackwatervial) and i’m a big sucker for anything that fits the ‘religious & horny’ aesthetic.

i imagine vegas doing what his father demands him to do, and with each killing and round of torture and bad bdsm etiquette scene, his sins and inhumane acts begin to turn him into something inhuman. into a demon of his own making. it’s what he believes he was always meant to be, always was inside. a monster. maybe he also pushes himself to become like this to please his father. maybe his father is always calling him too soft, too human, so vegas strips away his humanity and flays his own soul into scraps to lay at his father’s feet — but it’s still not good enough.

he starts getting delusions (or in his mind he finally sees the truth) about the reason for his failure being the main family, where korn is god and the guards are his angels keeping vegas from the glory he deserves because they’re punishing him for his sins.

i’m remembering the bloodstain pattern on pete’s back during the coup, across his shoulderblades as if seeping from wounds left behind by angel wings having been ripped off. so yeah, maybe to vegas, pete is an angel, and in when he captures pete he strips him of his status, cuts into his halo, burns and then rips off his wings, and finally makes him join vegas in sin. he falls for pete, obviously, finds beauty in the extremely fucked up thing he’s remade pete into, worships pete in his own flawed way — and once he loves pete, the beautiful haze of it drops away. all that’s left is a man, broken beyond repair, all by vegas’ hands. angel or not, vegas destroyed the one good thing he had, the one thing that could have saved him.

(on a non vegaspete sidenote, kim’s whole thing is protecting his family. the way kim’s fear could manifest, is that the moment he starts caring about someone, he can no longer see them as they are but rather as a brutally murdered version of themselves. it’s horrifying to look at, scares him to death, and it makes him push them away,even though the reason they look like this to him is because he loves and cares for them. he sees his brothers like that and one day he starts seeing chay like that too. maybe with chay the blood even drips down onto the floor, audible even when every other sound around them should be loud enough to drown it out. and it’s all part of his motivation to go to the extremes he does to both protect the people he loves and push them away; he’s terrified of them actually becoming the corpses he sees them as.)

🧍‍♂️ y’know how i said i wasn’t going to write an essay. i guess my final note is that the minor family compound was made for haunting, it’s practically asking for it, especially with its mazelike structure and all of vegas’ trauma weighing down the very air inside.

thank you so much anon for sending me this ask and making my brain go zoom, i had a lot of fun imagining vegas (and kim) getting haunted. 😊💖

(also, anyone who hasnt seen haunting of hill house go watch even if you don't like horror, trust me)

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omorinintendoswitchedition · 11 months

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DMC Questions Anon here!

Before you read this next question:

I was informed that it would be a good idea for my questions to be answered with a specific tag so if people wish to block it they could. Please tag your answers to any question I send you with "dmc questions anon" and I think that should work.

If you wish to be taken off the list, ask. If somebody wishes to be placed on the list, ask. If your anon asks are off and you wish to participate, just make a post answering the question you see going around.

Remember you do not have to answer every question, so please don't feel pressured to do so.

Please also remember to take as long as you need! Do not rush yourself, this is supposed to be a fun activity and I don't want anyone to feel stressed out by trying to rush to answer questions.

Now onto the actual question:

How would you rank the 5 games in the Devil May Cry series? (By story)

Separately, if you want, how would you rank extended material? (The DMC1 Novel, The DMC3 Mangas, The Anime, The DMC2 Novel, Deadly Fortune, Before the Nightmare, and Visions of V, all of which can be found (along with other stuff) here: https://originaldmc.github.io/DivinityStatue/Downloads.html)

If you wish, how would you rank all of it together in one big list?

Omg hiii anon!!!!

I’m gonna be honest and say I haven’t made my way through all the dmc side content yet, I’ve only managed to read Visions of V so I guess I have to rank that number one. Ive also watched some of the anime, but not enough to really give it a firm rank. I’ve been kinda busy lately so I just haven’t had the time to finish reading all the novels

And onto the games!!!!!!

Number 5:Dead last

Devil May Cry 2. Okay yeah this should not be a surprise. DMC2 failed in pretty much every category when it comes to games. The story is just mind numbingly boring. Let’s move on

Number 4:Pretty Eh but doesn’t really hold up well with the later entries

Devil May Cry 1. Someone on Reddit said this the best but when you compare it to later entries DMC1 kinda feels like filler. I am all for a DMC1 remake of it means giving Mundus a much more satisfying ass whooping (and more screen time for Trish!!!! She deadass isn’t there for half the game!!!! I literally forgot she existed in that game halfway through!!!!)

Number 3:Concepts were great but man they missed some potential

Devil May Cry 4. The concepts of a religious cult ruling and island and creating angels from the power of demons rules. And putting us in a position where Dante was the “bad guy” was actually really cool. But half of the game is just backtracking as Dante which puts the story on hold. The scrapped concepts for DMC4 were so cool and so should’ve been included man :((

Number 2:Overcoming your daddy issues

Devil May Cry 3. Dante and Lady both had amazing arcs throughout this game. With Dante accepting his repressed past and demon side and proudly claiming himself as son of Sparda who harbours his soul. It’s enough to make a grown man cry. And Lady’s arc of learning that not all demons are evil, and finally being able to extract revenge on her father. And who can forget that famous “even a devil May cry when he looses someone he loves” line. And I ain’t gonna pretend Vergil wasn’t a banger part of this game’s story cause he was a banger part of this game’s story. A man who seeks power to the point of self-destruction. Who is just as fucked up as Dante but refuses to let himself feel those emotions, and instead filling the blanks with raw strength. And the post credits scene with Mundus…..biting and chewing and killing……ough the post credits scene with Mundus…..

Number 1:That’s intergenerational trauma babyyyy

Devil May Cry 5. As much as I mald and seethe about how dirty Lady and Trish were done in DMC5 I truly do fucking love DMC5. Watching Vergil finally gain the capability to express his emotions and be able to reconcile with his past and his trauma and work for a better future got me wailing and weeping. Watching Nero be able to prove that yes, he is powerful and capable as a devil hunter got me weeping and wailing. Seeing Dante and Vergil finally being able to reconstruct their sibling bond after so many years and keep their sibling rivalry on less violent terms got me weeping and wailing. Everything about V got me wailing and weeping. Nico was such a good addition to this franchise with her personality and how she bounces off the others with her snarky little remarks and was a good source of comedy relief during rough times. The passing of the torch moment was honestly so powerful and I’m actually really looking forward to seeing how Nero can carry on that torch through the series. And the references to the DMC anime in the forms of Patty and Morrison were really neat too.

#sunny answers #dmc questions anon #dmc #devil may cry

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whyispotatoheadalreadytaken · 1 year

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"It's okay. Everyone's survival looks a little bit like death sometimes."

-@andreagibson, Angels Of The Get-Through

The first time I saw Andrea Gibson live, I was a student at Asbury. I drove 3 hours away to find healing within a queer community I desperately needed. I was so excited to get an opportunity to be in that space and feel seen and accepted for who I am. About halfway through, Andrea read us a new poem. The poem began with, "This year is the hardest year of your whole life. So hard you can not see a future most days." And, within an instant, I broke unto an inconsolable mess. So much so that Sonneline tried to reach over and put her arm around me. I shoved it away. I sobbed through the poem's entirety, trying not to bring attention to myself because I was living through the worst year of my life during that time. I was enduring religious trauma after religious trauma with no end in sight. I felt trapped and immobilized in that trauma. Fighting to be seen, heard, understood, or find a scrap of empathy from anyone willing or able to recognize my humanity. That was in April 2015.

I waited five years for that poem to be released in some capacity.

I saw Andrea three times after that. The last time was on February 26th of 2020. About two weeks later, I learned that Asbury had fired two professors rumored to be LGBTQ-affirming. One of those professors helped me survive during my time there. I drove to Nashville from KY, and when I arrived, I noticed pennies on the tables heads up. Lucky pennies. Andrea read Angels Of The Get-Through once more for us. After the show, I checked out the merch and saw a neckless with a dog tag of sorts. I smiled through the tears building in my eyes as I read the words "Angel of the Get-Through" engraved on it. I usually left with a book but couldn't pass the necklace up. I clutched it tight with my lucky penny in hand when I finally found the courage to publicly come out the next day. To come out and finally stand up against this university that had caused me so much pain that seemed to follow me years after graduating. I've worn this necklace every day since.

So, it's no surprise that this poem has been ringing in my ears over the last eight days as Asbury has received national attention and praise for the revival that has broken out on campus. We stopped by the university to see it for ourselves after Marshall and Ashley's Superbowl party. To our surprise, there was no one gatekeeping at the door, so we were allowed inside. The first person we encountered was our dear friend Dani, a current trans student. It was relatively tame then, and our interactions with current and past classmates were mostly positive. Some were unsure of what to say to us. One individual excommunicated my friends Matt and Carly from their friend group for affirming and was at this revival. He briskly walked past us, stopped, did a doubletake, and said, "Hey, guys! I am SO glad you are here tonight!" I couldn't help but cringe.

I had been trying to find respectful words for my feelings but lacked the vocabulary. It wasn't until I read a thread on Twitter about the revival a few days later that I could find words for how I was feeling. I got to vocalize those feelings when some classmates walked into class on Thursday and greeted me, saying,

"Niamh!!! How about that Asbury revival???"

"Well, I would say that, based on what I've seen happening there, there is a distinction between revival and religious euphoria."

But, if anyone would ask me about it, I'm glad it was George. He was just genuinely curious and wanted to know my opinion. I had already had tequila and Baja on the way to class. If I hadn't been buzzed, I might have cried at the thought of someone asking me about Asbury at UK. Our friend Mattie asked to come over and spend the night with us to escape revival. I was honored (which sounds dramatic, but I mean it) that she sought us out to find safety. That's all we've ever wanted to be for queer students at Asbury. A refuge. I had nowhere to go when I was a student. At least, it felt that way at the time. Thousands of people came from all over to see and experience what was happening. My interpretation of that would be so they can use it for political gain/and so they wouldn't be FOMOing. Mattie told us she started to feel unsafe with the number of strangers walking through their buildings and sleeping on the floors. Strange that they won't let the homeless do that any time of the year. She said it was becoming really overwhelming, and her pain of learning about her parent's divorce has been overshadowed by the "revival." She said their divorce is for the best, but she's mad that no one has been around to help her process and offer support because it's not the most important thing happening.

Zoë formulated her feelings in a really tangible way:

"It's complicated. Freshman year me, who was so in love with that place, wants it to be real and for real change to come of it. But it's really painful to watch everyone else living it up and having the best time with my abusive ex."

As someone who leans more agnostic, I can't help but pick the entire thing apart. Historically, all of Asbury's "revivals" have occurred in February. Asbury's class sizes have drastically decreased over the last four years. What better way to bump their admissions if they allow revival to break out? There was talk of revival in the years that I attended, but every time chapel ended, and I stayed behind and skipped class, I was penalized for that. There was no room for revival because the university had nothing to gain from it then.

On November 16th, 2016, I wrote a song called Dear God on the floor of my dorm. It's the most direct and least wordy song I've ever written. I wrote it in about an hour through my tears. I was watching a specific group of privileged people celebrating the election of Donald Trump. They all had a few things in common: straight, white, and male. And I watched a different, much smaller group of people lamenting his election. They all had other things in common: they were not straight, white, or male. I'll never forget my classmate telling me in tears at chapel the day after the election that she would have to tell her children that things would get more challenging for them. Her husband is a DACA recipient. They were already experiencing racism in school for being Mexican.

I had three thoughts come into my mind when writing the song, questions I had wanted answers to from God and never got.

Why don't you love people like me?

What happens to the people in between?

Tell me why there is so much hate if you're not a male, white, and straight?

Why is it hard for people to see that I'm just trying to be who you created me to be?

All of the times I wanted to die and went out of my way to unalive myself in those years, one thing kept me around: if I let them win and have my life, who would be around to keep them from claiming the lives of others?

I can't go yet because there's still so much I need to do.

But, when it is time, will you take me? Will I have done enough for that to be possible, or does none of it even matter just because I'm gay?

"Yeah, Niamh, you did a great job saving the lives of queer kids, but, unfortunately, you, too, are queer, and thus, you are damned for all eternity. Thanks, but get out!"

I just don't get it. I don't understand it.

So, revival has been painful. I want to walk into Hughes Chapel and split the ceiling with my fists.

It will not be true revival until they "repent" for the irreparable damage they've inflicted on their queer students and staff who helped them survive.

So, that, along with everything else in my life, is making it really hard.

Work stuff got much worse before it got better, and we still aren't entirely out of the woods with that yet. I'm stressed to the max and can't catch a break most days. I can't wake up on time because I'm exhausted in all of the ways. It's just been a hard month. Usually, February is pretty chill before the chaos of March. So, I'm really not looking forward to March Madness this year. Not basketball-related march madness, but the mental health march madness. It's the October of winter/springtime.

Anyway. That's a sad update.

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friendlylifecherry · 2 years

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So I've had an idea based on this post by @sheep-eyes about Lucifer's codependency habits. It's pretty much a Persona-style Palace (or maybe a P5S Jail) where it's pretty much like a massive factory where errant thoughts are brought to heel and turned into the needed roles, which is depicted as roboticization/cyborg transformation.

It's a journey through the assembly lines, freeing Lucifer's baser urges to keep them from being turned into these devoted slave bots. You start in a discarded pit of Archangel Lucifer bots (I would not blame you if it makes you want to leave, it already makes Mammon nearly piss himself if he's in the party), half of them torn up for scrap and whatever isn't acting as the ever-dutiful soldiers guarding the entrances, hoping to be taken back in to be repurposed.

Finally, you get out of the scrapyard and onto the factory floor proper, where the "rogue thoughts" are being forcibly moved onto the assembly line and shipped off for processing. The scene just makes you very uncomfortable if you have a past full of abuse, a lot of physical and verbal abuse by the employees/enemies (who are all fully-robotic Shadows) who force the "raw materials," as they call the poor fucks getting dragged in, onto the line and strap them in for the horrible process.

You have to pretty much rush through the factory because the owner (Shadow Lucifer) is incredibly upset that you're rattling around in his heart and ruining his ever so carefully crafted factory. There are cognitive versions of each of the brothers, mostly set up for training scenarios and who seem to be the only organic beings in the whole facility, for common scenarios with each brother. Overly harsh and overly doting Lucifers get painfully shocked until they behave how they're supposed to, with the doting ones seeming to get way more of the punishment. As the orders over the loudspeakers make clear, Lucifer is to be the stern parental figure and keep them in line, even if his family hates him for it.

Then there's the worship room, which is essentially a cult and where all those Archangel Lucifer constructs are taken to be repurposed (they're already trained anyway). This is pretty much a cult thing, worshipping Diavolo as their new God, so merciful and kind and better than the old one. The cognitive Diavolo even comes down on occasion to provide kind words or just be adorable, from actual conversations they've had over centuries. But there's also this sense of "put the fear of God in 'em" where the head Lucifers (dressed like Catholic priests just in case the religious trauma symbolism isn't making it through) make it clear that they all aren't stuck in the gutter thanks to Lucifer's folly because of Diavolo's mercy. They have to do everything to keep him happy and have him not throw them back into the gutter.

Finally, the Treasure is found, and half the party feels very traumatized by this journey through Lucifer's mental state; they finally leave to prepare for the final battle. And well, Shadow Lucifer is incredibly unhappy about them trying to destroy his factory by stealing the Treasure. So here comes the fight!

The first phase is Shadow Lucifer as his demon form, which is pretty standard and rather tough but manageable if you put your Personas right. The second phase (really first phase after half health), now this is when shit gets interesting; the first health bar is down, and turns out, the Shadow is also a robot, with a rather nasty facial gash and partially degloved hand exposing the mess of wires underneath (like Terminator 2 if you need an example). Second phase is much more intense, and wow, can it kick your ass if you aren't careful because the Shadow ain't holding back now that his secret has been exposed. Then here comes the final phase, after you've finally beaten down his second form, and now he's grown desperate. He's so convinced that they all hate him now that he unleashes his final form and transforms.

His final form is a beautifully sculpted body of a fallen angel (like this) chained to the ground, with gashes and gouges in his skin, revealing both blood and metal. But his face, his whole head, is a mirror with a single crack through the glass for a mouth, ringed in intricate angel wing designs, as he feels he has no identity or purpose without a role related to someone in his life, even if he's miserable. And Shadow Lucifer screams in pain and grief, with all the rogue thoughts just spilling out, begging for them to not leave him in this horribly tortured wail; he can't live without them, don't abandon him too, please! This part of the battle is really tragic and just heartbreaking, how Lucifer is just so genuinely terrified and breaking down, trying to offer incentives to just beg the party to not leave him alone and throw him away.

Finally, the Shadow is defeated, the mirror shattering into a million pieces as the angel falls for a second time, turning back into his default form. And right after, his brothers just rush straight over to the Shadow to check on him, with Satan being one of the first there to see if he's ok. Lucifer just whispers in a broken voice "you don't... hate me?" When they all immediately reply no, they don't, they still love him and always will, even if they're pissed at him, he just breaks down in Mammon's arms before disappearing back to Lucifer to change his heart, no Treasure theft necessary

#obey me lucifer #obey me #fan palace #lucifer obey me #omswd #obey me! one master to rule them all #obey me shall we date #obey me! lucifer #obey me! shall we date?#long post #persona 5

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soldmysoultootomeboys · 3 years

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Hi! Can I request headcannons for the human brothers accidently summoning an angel mc instead of a demon and the angel mc insisting on sticking around and helping them?

The other brothers: :) Satan: >:)

This has been in the drafts for too long. I really love the absolute mood switch between Lucifers and Mammons. And just Satans in general ig.

Lucifer

After years of religious trauma at the hands of his father Lucifer finally thought he was free of any connection to the church. Summoning a flaming seraphim at 3 in the morning was not a pleasant way to find out that he was wrong.

As for you, being summoned for the first time in your long long life was an unwelcome surprise. You were a seraphim for heaven's sake. The cream of the crop, highest of the high, and that wasn’t pride speaking only facts. You were crucial to running the celestial realm.

But somehow you’re undeniably tied to his human. You could feel where his soul became intermeshed with your very essence. How wrong it felt to be tied to something so mortal, and delicate, and free.

Any attempts to leave would surely be met with disaster.

So you stay. Lucifer is cold. You can’t blame him. Being there reopens old wounds that he’d rather have remained closed. But just ignoring each other isn’t going to work.

He’s not interested in the celestial realm, and despises any blessing you try and give him, but a fresh cup of coffee during an all-nighter seems to make him brighter than any magic you could do and when you run your hands through his hair he looks at you with more fondness than you can comprehend.

You learn to be more human. He learns to let go of the past.

And one day you find that you don’t want to leave anymore.

For celestial sake that thought should as well be treason! But it’s true.

It’s a spring afternoon and Lucifer plays celestial lullabies on his piano and you want nothing more than for the beautiful night to come so you can sweep him in your arms and remind him how he glows.

You don’t know what is right and what is wrong anymore, but you know that this human is yours and you are his. To rip off your wings would be to find solace in his arms. But you can not give him that. This he knows.

So you promise to protect him, in words he can’t hear but he understands. The spread of your wings shield him from the world and you press blessings to his skin in the shape of the crescents in his back and your lips on his neck. If nothing else you’ll keep him safe. When the world seems too big and the stress of his life gets him down you’ll always be here for him to crawl back to. You can give him that much.

Mammon

That was it

You had to have been assigned the stupidest human in the world

When you were promoted to guardian angel you kinda thought it would be more ‘protecting orphans’ and ‘guiding lost puppies back home’ NOT watching a grown man spend his last paycheck on his eighth Nigerian prince scam

Seriously mammon? Did the prophetic dreams you sent mean nothing? The visions of the future he coincidentally had after hitting his head on a light post, only simple illusions? What more could you try beyond simply marching down their and clocking him on the head yourself?

...unless

Raphael would have your wings if you went to the human world. But that would be a lot less painful that having to watch whatever Mammon was going to do with all the rubber cement he just bought.

The next morning you decide to sneak down. The city was amazing, all colored light and fun machines that whizzed by you on the streets

But you had to stay focused

You were an angel on a mission

You made your way towards central park. Mammon went there every morning to swindle tourists out of their wallets. If you were fast you’d get there before the first patrol office started chasing him.

Spotting the albino you marched straight towards him, readied yourself, and smacked him over the head.

Maybe not very angel-like but it worked.

One introduction later and you're officially a guardian angel

Mammon’s actually pretty nice once you get to know him. Sure he may be a bit too obsessed with lining his pockets but for all his talk he never hesitates to try and help you out.

Consistent affection and care is good for him. He never really knows how to react when you wrap your wings around him but even with his tsundere objections it's obvious he’s pleased.

He’ll take whatever scraps of affection you’ll give him and practically beams at every little gesture you do, no matter how small or insignificant.

You do have to be careful though.

At his request you had attempted to bless him with a bit of luck. An easy enough spell for an angel like you (even if you were 90% sure he planned to go gambling after). Whatever scheming he’s doing immediately stops the moment you cup his face. He seems to freeze when you lean in, placing a gentle kiss on his cheek

You were about to congratulate yourself on a spell well done when you noticed the condition he was in. He was like a living statue, a statue with a very very red face

Before you can ask what was wrong he flails pushing you away and darting off to his room

Any attempts to speak to him the rest of the day were met with incoherent shouting.

It might be best to withhold any magic until you can figure out how humans work

Levi

Once again Levi’s dedication to anime gets him into trouble

It started with his most recent obsession, a new anime that follows a group of angels, produced by the famous company, Dove. The plot, the animation, the soundtrack, all of it was amazing so when they came out with a new limited edition item featuring the very symbol that the main character wore he just had to have it

The moment it came he was setting it up on its own altar, a handmade replica just like in the show only for- Oh no

Before his eyes burst a shining visage of light and then you

You blink in surprise, whether it's from taking a human form for the first time in decades or the strange new room you were in, only you know

The scene may be foreign but the guy quivering on the floor was not

BE NOT AFRAID

Your booming voice echoes around the room

For some reason the guy begins to freak out even more

Didn’t he see your halo? You even told him to not be afraid. Were humans really so strange? :(

Oh well. You hum making your aura as comforting as possible and slowly the guy calms down enough for you to coax him into a seat as you begin to explain.

Which might not have been the best move.

The moment it sunk in he was bombarding you with questions

Yes you were an angel, no you didn’t know what anime was, yes you had wings, no you didn’t have any secret ultimate moves...whatever those were

He ranted and raved over this and that and you let him. He seemed like he needed someone to talk to. It also let you piece together what had happened.

He seemed to be a natural sorcerer, and a powerful one at that if he could someone an angel with no training or even knowledge that he could do magic

Just a few minutes in his presence made his self loathing obvious. Mix in a bit of anxiety and envy and you essentially have Levi in a nutshell

So you decide to stay

What kind of angel would you be if you just left him here? Michael would understand.

Or he wouldn't, it didn’t really matter because you already made up your mind.

Living with Levi is an experience for both of you.

He introduces you to so many new things. He had little boxes that could control light and screens containing actual people to talk to. It was all quite fanciful

In return you act as his friend, encouraging him to go out with you and attending cons with him, even if you still weren't exactly sure what cosplaying is

Slowly he begins to open up for you

He’s still nervous to go out in public, and a complete introvert at heart.

But that was fine. You could both figure out this new world together, at your own pace

Satan

Definitely was not trying to summon a demon to lay havoc on his enemies

Nope, not him he says all while trying to casually kick away vials of mysterious fluids

...Right

You’ve been down to the human world enough to know a demon summoner when you see one

Or in this case a failed summoner

He has no excuse for why he called you and instead seems more insistent that you leave

As much as you you might like to return to the celestial realm, you cannot in good conscience leave a man that you know is going to try and raise hell on earth the moment your gone

So you stay, and it's a good thing you do

This man has anger issues like no other

You thought Raphael was bad this guy is like a demon himself

However he seems willing to try and make the best of what he considers a bad situation

He asks you a lot of questions on the celestial realm

For a guy who knows so much about the devildom he seems to really be lacking on any knowledge on the other celestial beings

He mostly asks you questions on the celestial war, which is a touchy topic at best and downright upsetting at worst

He’s very interested in your opinions as your point of view is very different from his own, what with being a different species and everything

You learn things too, mostly about humans and cats but you suppose its a fair trade

Because of this you become close friends

You really win him over when he finds out your calming aura naturally attracts the stray kittens Satan's been trying to pet for the last few months

It’s not uncommon to head out to late night coffee shops and discuss the merits of different aspects of your lives

But maybe you’ve gotten a bit to close when he starts asking you to revise his summoning notes

Asmo

Apparently a lifetime of partying has prepared Asmo for some very weird discoveries

When you're sent down to the human world you have one job, find and keep an eye on the potentially dangerous summoner who's been in contact with multiple high level demons in the past few days.

Instead you end up meeting Asmo

You were prepared for a fight, not to be tackled into a hug the moment you revealed yourself

Asmo on the other hand is squealing with excitement

Sweetie, he's been waiting for this moment! This is his first time meeting an angel after all

He immediately begins talking about everything he wants to do

You quickly find out that he hasn’t made any pacts...yet, if only because he “couldn’t bear to damage his skin with such an ugly mark”

...Well you suppose that's a reason to not sell your soul

Even thoughts he's aware of the three realms it doesn’t make him any less enamoured with you

He’s never met an angel, he’s quick to mention. He’d love to get to know you, if you get what he means ;)

Are all humans so upfront?

If you decline he still wants to see your true form, even after you explain that no, if you transform you will not just be a beautiful angel with wings but instead a glowing mass of eyes and feathers and angelic light that will probably end up blinding him

Blinded because of your beauty ;) ;) ;)

That said he’s easily satisfied when you just bring out your wings.

He loves fussing with them and decorates them with jewelry and roses whenever you leave them out

He even starts an angel trend on insta after posting a photo as if they were coming from his back instead

Claims your glowing aura is great for his skin

You’re not sure if that’s a pick up line or if he’s serious but he definitely basks in your presence

Loves when you talk about the celestial realm, somewhere he desperately wants to go

I mean it's the only place that's fit for a beauty like him right? But of course he can’t die yet, his fans would be sooo upset

You agree to bring him up there one day, even if that sounds a little morbid

Of course he asks you to become his guardian angel

That may not be your actual job but you can’t resist his puppy dog eyes

You and him go pretty much everywhere together, bar some more xxx rated sites

He introduces you to parties and bars, and while you don’t indulge it's enjoyable to see humans in their natural element. They’re so fun and free spirited just like Asmo

Maybe that's what attracted you to him in the first place

He loves life for what it is, something so admirably human

But you don’t slack off either. You take your role as Official Guardian Angel seriously. You guard his drinks when he goes to the bathroom, and hum celestial lullabies when he’s sad and escort him down dark alleys when walking home. He has nothing to fear with you around.

You’ve become very fond of this human. Perhaps you’ll stick around a bit longer than you planned

Beel

It’s rare to be assigned to a human so...mundane

But that’s exactly what Beel is. He goes to the gym in the mornings, works a nine to five, and comes back home to his dog

He even has a good relationship with this family, do you know how hard that is to find in this day and age???

The only thing even slightly abnormal about this guy is his appetite

He could put a gluttony demon to shame with the way he eats

But the point is you really can’t figure out why you’ve been assigned to him or how your supposed to guide him

Eat a little less? Stop stealing your brother's lunch?

It’s the first time in a long while you’ve been so stumped

So you do what any sane angel would, go down to the human world to meet him yourself

He’s a likeable guy and it’s easy to get close to him, more so do to your angelic status

Although it’s surprising how well he takes the whole angel revelation

To be honest your pretty sure he forgets most of the time

He tends to follow you around, especially at night when he insists on walking you to wherever you need to be. It’s sweet even though there's little that can really harm you in the human realm

You quickly realize that he’s the type to have nightmares, usually calling out for one of his brothers or his sister

It’s become habit to wake up and head to his room

Just being there seems to calm him down

The first time he wakes up when your doing this he ends up asking you to stay

Isn’t shy about sharing the bed either.

He’s easy going so goes along with whatever idea you have

Especially when he starts finding snacks in his bag, each one blessed for a good day or to stay full or whatever little thing you thought of that day

Belphegor

Humans can’t see angels. Not unless they want to be seen, you remind yourself for what must be the tenth time.

But you’re almost certain that guy is looking right at you.

Step to the left, his head follows

To the right, his eyes narrow looking at you like your some puzzle he just hasn’t figured out yet

…this was fine

You turn around pretending to just not see him in hope that he’ll get distracted by something else

...you glance back. Why was he still looking at you? What is with this creep?

Enough is enough.

You march over there ready to ask what his problem is. Instead he beats you to it.

Eh? You’re an angel right? He asks before you can say anything.

???? Shouldn’t he sound more shocked.

The guy just sleepily blinks. He doesn’t look like a sorcerer or a witch, in fact you can’t feel any magic from him at all.

You go to ask only to realize he’s sound asleep. It’s not like you could just leave him here. And at the same time a human who can just see angels is an oddity of itself.

You decide to hang around for a while. Belphegor doesn't mind. He only says something about it being "too troublesome to drive you off," and "you'd look like you'd just come back anyways"

Belphie sticks to you like glue, if glue was absolutely insufferable and seemed to enjoy annoying you at every possible moment

You would think this would be easy. I mean he sleeps all day and when he’s not sleeping he’s napping. Simple enough right? Wrong

When he was awake he was committed to pushing every single button you have

If it seemed like it might inconvenience or annoy you he was already doing it. Trying to smack your halo, pounce on you, or even jump off the roof just to see you scramble to catch him. He was like some terrible terrible cat

Luckily he was never energetic for long. When he wore himself out he’d retreat to the roof of his crappy one bedroom and wait for you to join him

He liked to look at the stars and he’d point them out to you. Orion, Polaris, Sirius, he would mutter, bringing you back to the days when Michael, who was once so fond of you, would sneak you down to the human world just to show you the stars and darkness the celestial realm could not offer

When he finally got tired you would take over reciting Celestial names and marking the sky with your finger just to show him where they’d be.

Those times were pleasant. Even if they were brief.

“I’m gonna jump.”

“Do it.”

“You’re an angel. Aren’t you supposed to stop me before I do something stupid?”

“You won't.”

“Aight. Bet.” Belphie pitches forward and you just manage to catch him by the leg before he falls off the roof.

Brat.

Always ruining a good moment.

You can’t even be mad. The moment you pull him up he’s already resting his fluffy head in your lap waiting for you to pet him.

He may be the most troublesome human in the entire three realms, but he’s your human

#obey me #obey me hc #angel au #obey me lucifer #obey me mammon #obey me leviathan #obey me levi #obey me satan #obey me asmo #obey me asmodeus #obey me beel #obey me beelzebub #obey me belphegor #obey me belphie #obey me shall we date #obey me au #angels #obey me angels

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codorcraft · 2 years

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The end of Codorverse

It's not an April fool's joke, I'm not participating in it today. But Codorverse is gone now

(This is something I’ve been sitting on for a while subconsciously, but I finally pulled the plug; this wasn’t an impulse decision)

I wasn't originally going to make a big post about it, but it feels to just not mention it in detail, considering it’s like… the only thing I have been making content for since 2014. But there’s a lot of reasons that I’m abandoning it, and it’s for the best- the story and world just doesn’t bring me joy anymore. I think it tells a lot that I was more invested in side characters and an AU that I made for them rather than the main story.

I don’t know where to begin with the issues I have with Codorverse… there’s many. First of all, I made a lot of the characters back in elementary school, for roleplays. Do you know how hard it is to salvage characters from rps and make them into their own story and world when you’re 12 and know nothing about story writing? It’s so hard. It’s much easier to start with the world and plot, rather than building a world around the characters. The rp I based the loose worldbuilding on was… horrible writing all around and terrible because, like, we (me and my roleplay partner) were 9 and 11. Kids write stupid shit. And bad worldbuilding.

I attempted to start drawing it so many times, and I got stuck. The script always threw me off, and a lot of plot points were so convoluted because they were from the original story and it just… didn’t fit. My first script I wrote was 30k words and only 17 chapters. I thought 100 pages was the normal amount of pages for a chapter. I knew NOTHING about making webcomics, and I’m still learning. It was too much of an ambitious project for me to make. I don’t know how many chapters it would have ended up being, but probably somewhere around 50. I would probably be working on it until I died if I were lucky to make it that far.

It was also super dark, and always has been, but slowly I’ve been starting to gravitate myself towards more light hearted stuff. Nothing wrong with edgy, but it felt way too dark for a story about mental health, and I don’t think it would have been done well. Hard to swallow pill for 13 year old cal who wanted the ending to be everyone dying but it is what it is, you dumb bitch.

Speaking of plot points, I realized I had topics in there that were a bit too heavy for a story that’s supposedly focused on mental health, like… plot points that I don’t think should have been included. Maybe someday I’ll get into specifics and spill all the Codorverse lore, but one of the big things was the inclusion of history of genocide and I wracked my brain HARD to try and figure out how to approach it appropriately, but every time I came up with an idea, it fell into the fantasy racism trope and I really didn’t want to do that, I hate that trope. Especially since the oppressed group was demons, I feel like it sends a really bad message and over time I just felt uncomfortable with it, and I’m glad I’m scrapping it.

And also the inclusion of mental health, I don’t know if I was approaching that well, either. I think I perpetuated stereotypes especially for people with personality disorders, which I should know better since I have one. It wasn’t very much a great look for me.

There were other themes I don’t think were approached well, especially topics of things I haven’t experienced myself, like religious trauma. I was raised atheist and I never really experienced that stuff, and as I went on to write that stuff I started realizing that although I could tell that story, I don’t think I’m the right person to tell it, because I don’t think I did it very respectfully.

Basically there are a lot of bad plot points I feel were very problematic and it was hard to salvage them and I had to accept I need to scrap most of the universe and build from bare bones. I mean, there are other reasons like worldbuilding not making any sense, but the problematic elements are the main reason I’m doing it. I don’t think I can achieve having both a light hearted fantasy story and a deep story with a big meaning that goes in depth combined together and make it work well. It just doesn’t work. But another important reason I’m scrapping the story is that I’m not having fun anymore. It’s not fun, it’s stressful. And I don’t want a passion project to be something that stresses me out.

That being said, I’m not done with the characters. I’ve split them among two universes- I don’t have names for them yet, and I don’t know which one I’ll be doing first, but they’re ideas that I’m much happier with. One is a light hearted fantasy and the other is a romantic slice of life that deals with getting over trauma and mental health. See, two of them! I can have two of them. As a treat.

Codorverse has meant the world to me- in school, during any freetime I had, I would write by hand in notebooks lore and sometimes even scripts for chapters if I didn’t have access to my phone. Half of the contents of my sketchbooks are concept art and detailed descriptions of designs and drafts of references. It helped me cope with a lot of mental health and trauma, but it’s time for it to go, I think. I think it did its job, for me. Because I think the moral of the story is something that I needed to hear and understand- it was something for me, not for anyone else. It was my subconscious way of telling myself that everything is going to be okay and I’ll get better, and it’s true- I’m much better off than I was even six months ago, and I’m trying my best. Things will get better for me.

So thanks for joining this journey of mine over the last 8 years of pouring my heart into this silly story, even if it made no sense. It was fun, and I don’t regret it. Maybe someday I’ll release what I had written for the plot, or the 2+ hour compilation of every codorverse video from 2010-2022. I don’t know yet. But thanks. And I hope you look forward to my new content and stories.

#update #rip to a legend

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haesevng · 2 years

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i feel like everything about this intro is messy as hell, but hey, it's more fitting than u realize considering the absolute idiot angel i'm bringing to the dash!! this is my son, SONG HAESEUNG, and he has literally no thoughts, head empty. at least he's pretty?? no but really, there is a deeper side to him, and he is a v sensitive artist type who's quite comfortable with himself and loves love. there's some more info under the cut (alas i have yet to write a proper bio rip me) and i rly look forward to writing with all of you!!

statistics. / wanted plots.

haeseung works as a primary school art teacher in mulmalu city, but his salary is terrible, so he teaches a recreational art class for all ages as a side hustle.

a VERY encouraging soul. as lame as people may think his life is, he is a ball of happiness over following his passion in life. he wants everyone to experience that same happiness.

he wasn’t always living the dream, however. when he was just a small child, his parents were both killed in a home invasion gone wrong, and haeseung was raised by his extremely strict and religious aunt.

it was a difficult transition, going from the happy and carefree childhood he’d once known to being forced to grieve something he didn’t fully understand under the roof of someone who didn’t understand him. even his inclination to the arts came under fire.

in her eyes, little boys weren't meant to paint and be artistic. they weren't supposed to be soft and gentle. they were meant to learn life lessons, grow up, put on a drab gray suit and head into an office every day until it was time to clock out permanently.

they were meant to marry a nice woman and settle down behind a picket fence with 2.5 children and an annoying doorbell.

haeseung was quite literally NEVER about that life. he didn't want to be surrounded by the boring gray of an office building. he wanted every shade of color all around him, all the time. and it wasn’t that he didn’t like girls, but his crushes had never been limited to just them, something he’d wind up never admitting to his family.

few of his classmates would have ever known he was going through such turmoil at home, as he was always bright and sunny; something of a class clown. his refusal to target anyone but himself as the subject of his jokes typically earned him laughter, praise and a surprising amount of respect from his peers.

school was something of an escape for him, as weird it it may sound for someone who was always a bit lacking in the academic success department. it was the ability to be who he was, to paint in his art class with his friends that really carried him through those years.

when he turned 18, he was finally able to spread his wings and explore the island he’d always called home, but never really got to experience. he’d been saving up every scrap of funds he could get from birthdays, part-time jobs, contest winnings and anything else he could think of to build up a small nest egg, all to escape the clutches of his aunt’s house and be free.

he took whatever odd job he could find on the island, supporting himself through college and perfecting his art style with whatever extraneous materials and paint he came across. it was a huge struggle, but it was truly the happiest he’d managed to make himself since the loss of his parents.

after earning his bachelor’s degree in fine arts, he finally landed the more steady gig he has today. he’s recently closed on a small starter home in jutaeg village, though it is bigger than any of the places he’s lived before. he even adopted his first dog, though he is mostly at a loss for what being a dog owner even means. and while he does still struggle with the memories of his childhood, attending a group therapy session to help cope with the trauma in healthy ways has added some much needed stability to his life.

in conclusion, haeseung is a big ball of art, love, affection, jokes, confusion & chaotic bisexual energy who falls for everyone at least a lil bit, and if you peruse his plots page, one person BIG BIT but that’s another storyyyy

pennyways, if you’d like to plot with him at all, pls be sexy and hit that lil heart below the post and i’ll im the heck out of u <3 <3

#mulmaluintro

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silverwings22 · 3 years

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Let Me Go: Prologue

Trying my hand at Tumblr fanfiction! I absolutely ADORE The Mandalorian, and Din Djarin especially. I hope anyone who reads this enjoys, and I'll be updating as I edit the draft I have.

This is canon-compliant (for the most part) and following the show as we eagerly await season 3.

This fic will be mature, so please if you're under 18 click away.

It will also be featured on my AO3 at https://archiveofourown.org/works/31770277/chapters/78641761

Series Warnings: SMUT, reference to character deaths, canon-typical violence, some dom/sub aspects if you squint, Force ghosts, adult language, Order 66, PTSD, reference to child abuse and childhood trauma, and possible misunderstandings on the writers part of how the Force works.

Chapter Warnings: Reference to severe injury, Force ghosts, childhood trauma, adult language, mentions of past sex (no description)

Next chapter: https://silverwings22.tumblr.com/post/653223455177818112/let-me-go-chapter-1

Title is based on the 3 Doors Down song "Let Me Go" and every chapter is titled with a lyric from the song.

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

Prologue: One More Kiss Could Be the Best Thing

Starting over was easy.

Clumpy black goop dripped on the gray durasteel sink inside a tiny closet sized ‘fresher, the young woman inside rubbing it onto her head with gloved hands and carefully dabbing it onto her eyebrows in neat lines. Her eyes were a cool gray blue, staring into the mirror to make sure she got every bit of her short hair with the dye she worked through. The pale platinum blonde at the roots vanished, and as she worked it to the tips the faded grayish undertone darked to jet.

Once she was satisfied with her hair she wrapped it in a sheet of thin duraplastoid to keep it from dripping. She was too practiced at this by now to let the tell-tale gray marks on her skin give her away. She wiped down her hairline and ears, then stepped out into her tiny little apartment to carry on with her day. The apartment was cheap, a single room with a fresher and kitchenette attached. She’d gotten lucky, it was above a little storefront she’d managed to buy to keep herself afloat by growing and selling medicinal plants and salves made from them. She was off work for the afternoon, there was no reason to rush or see anyone, and she needed to do laundry and clean up. The grocery list needed finishing too, and she could go to the market once her hair was done.

She had been in Nevarro since just after the fall of the Empire. It was the longest she’d ever stayed in one place since she was a child, she’d actually started to know people and be recognized around town. She wouldn’t exactly call anyone friends, but it was familiar and solid as the volcanic earth beneath her feet. Almost like putting down roots... It felt odd to have those again, even if the people she interacted with didn’t know the truth from the lie. That was the beauty of the aftermath of war, though. Everything was displaced, with lives so easily wrecked there was no one to say she wasn’t exactly who she claimed to be. More importantly, there was always a handy unspoken reason to not want to talk about the past.

Speaking of which….

“How long are you going to stay here? You have obligations.” A man was standing in the corner of her apartment, in a creme colored tabard and a brown robe. He had ginger hair and a neat beard, and was faintly transparent. And not so faintly grouchy, the irritation bleeding through his cultured Coruscanti accent.

“As long as I want. Forever sounds good.” She stretched lazily out on her battered couch, curling expertly to avoid the broken spring that always wanted to dig itself into her left hip. She still had a sizeable bruise there from falling asleep on the couch a few days before, instead of going to her equally battered but less uncomfortable bed after a long day drying jorgan fruits to sweeten her medicinal teas.

“Zenaria…” He huffed. “You should have long since returned to-”

“I will rot before I go back there.'' She cut him off. “And don’t you dare think you can pull him in here to guilt me. Do you know how long it took me to stop panicking last time? I lost three days of work.” She rolled up the edge of the shorts she was wearing around the house, eying the fading circle of purple and yellow on her hip and trying to ignore her spectral guest. Her pale skin marked up so easily with the least little pressure, scars lingered for years in bright pink before they finally faded to silvery white. Her arms were more scarred than her legs from years in heavy duraweave pants and boots, and the constant exposure to some kind of danger or another.

“I’m sorry, it was never my intention to frighten you my darling.” He murmured. “I thought you needed to... Talk.”

“I don’t mind the fact that you’re haunting me, if a little confused as to why you’re bothering to waste your afterlife on my banthashit. But I never want to see him again. Not even dead. Not redeemed or whatever happened.” she said sourly, looking away from him to disguise a panicked expression with petulance. “I don’t owe him my forgiveness. I don’t owe him shit.” Her teeth gritted. “And I can’t pay you what I owe you so I don’t understand why you don’t go somewhere you’re treated nicer.”

“Dear one, aren’t you tired of running from your destiny?” his voice was so kind, actually considered for a moment the enormity of what he was asking her. Sometimes she was tired of running… but she was more tired of failing every time she tried to be anything more than mediocre.

Zena sighed, tugging up her loose shirt a little more. A round, still pinkish scar sat between her navel and sternum, about as big around as her looped index and thumb could circle. “Would you look at that? It’s still here… so nope.”

The ghostly face looked sad, and walked over to her. Well, he made the motion of walking, but he sort of glided like a holo recording until he was in front of her. “I’m so sorry, my dear girl.” She closed her eyes, feeling a cool tingling on her forehead when the spirit pressed a kiss to it. “I’ll be back to check on you soon… there’s so much you’re capable of, when you’re ready. And I’ll be here until you are.” He faded away as she opened her eyes, leaving her deflating on the couch with her hand over the ugly scar on her middle.

She looked down and eyed it again. It was a horrible reminder, but she doubted anyone she decided to let see her body would really notice; her experience with most men told her they rarely looked anywhere but the chest and apex of her thighs. Not that her sex life hadn’t been one long dry spell for the last few years… noone got laid when being haunted by a father figure. The very air turned to parental disapproval and even those who weren’t Force sensitive still noted something was off.

Pity about it, too. She’d always thought she had a nice face. Not exactly vanity, but she could admit it was symmetrical and soft featured, with expressive eyes. She kept her hair short, never longer than her shoulders, so as not to bring too much attention to it, though she couldn’t help but play around with scraps of fabric until she’d made false flowers to decorate a headband, and wore that almost every day. The bright colors stood out on her midnight black hair that she religiously touched up with dye.

She sighed, stretching herself out again and pulling her shirt down again. She found a million reasons to complain when the ghost was there… but she missed him the second he was gone. Or maybe… she missed when he’d been alive. She missed the closeness they’d shared until she’d fucked everything up. She missed making him proud of her, instead of knowing he was spending his precious afterlife waiting for her to get her shit together. And she was refusing to.

She’d spent all her life running away from what she wished she could hold in her hands one more time.

Yes, starting over was easy. It was the constant fight to destroy who you used to be that was hard.

#the mandalorian #din djarin #mando smut #smut fic #ptsd #eventual smut #orginal character #star wars #fluff fic #explict

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starswordartblog · 3 years

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The God of Cavesong

Got around to writing a sequel for one of last year’s OCtober pieces, I’ll link it in a reblog since Tumblr hates links.

Content warning for abuse and religious trauma (albeit the religion is fictional).

Silvana lost track of the days as she remained confined within the sanctuary's chamber. She was given the bare minimum of food and water and nothing else. Her time was spent praying and sometimes just talking to the God. The God answered at times, and that was enough for her.

After who knows how long, someone came to question her.

"You have been here for long, in fervent devotion no doubt. The priest requests you share the wisdom our God has imparted so far.

Silvana's breath hitched. "I'm sorry. I'm heard His voice, He asks for prayers and worship, but that was all. I don't even know what wisdom I should be asking for."

She heard nothing but the man's breath as he came closer, putting a hand under her chin to lift her face up. "My, my," he said, "don't be so hard on yourself. You don't have to ask for anything. To hear His voice so soon, you are far more blessed than we thought. Continue your work, priestess." As he talked, he brought his other hand to her hair, pushing it off her face, long nails scrapping her scalp with far more strength than the gesture required. "Make it clear that there is no part of your favored existence that cannot be offered to Him."

And he left. She wasn't brought food for much more longer than usual after that.

"On the chamber where moonlight drips on forever, miracle rain falls for but a moment."

The words were blown to her ear as soon as she woke up that time. It was the first time the God had spoken to her unprompted. Usually she would be murmuring prayers of gratitude and pleas for help for what felt like hours before the voice came by, always along the only wisps of wind she could feel in the enclosed chamber.

"On the chamber where moonlight drips... I don't understand."

"You don't have to understand. Worship me and remember my words. That will be all."

Then it clicked. "God's wisdom...! Thank you!" and she chanted the words spoken to her a dozen times, carefully and clearly, hoping to remember them and pass them on to the priest's followers next time they came by.

"You'll have time to memorize them," said the voice, "first, eat."

It was far from the first time the God interrupted her like that. In fact, it was their most frequent interaction. Hours of prayers stopped by short, stern reminders. Eat. Rest. Sleep. Stretch your legs, you've been kneeling for too long.

It all sounded so earthly, so unexpected of a higher power. Those were the only moments Silvana didn't feel so terrified, so out of her depth.

"Of course, thank you," she whispered back as usual and extended her hand to where the bowl of food was usually placed. But there was nothing there.

Before she could say anything, she felt something small bump against her back, again and again. Turning around, she felt a handful of round, soft things with a fresh smell. Putting one on her mouth confirmed her suspicions. They were berries, scattered to her side by a soft breeze.

The breeze that only came from her God.

They didn't taste miraculous, weren't even enough to sate her hunger. She actually recognized them. Those berries grew on bushes from higher on the mountains. The more adventurous villagers would bring some home at times, and gladly share with her in trade for her own cooking.

The image of a berry gathering God coming over for lunch put a smile on her face.

The next time someone came by, it was just to deliver food, but she still blurted out the God's words as fast as she could, hoping to appease them. It probably worked, as they returned to the previous feeding schedule.

"I thank my God for this and every meal, for looking out for our humble lives, for every tiny berry and huge tree of our blessed land," became an habitual prayer for her before meals. It was usually after it that the God would reveal more cryptic wisdom to her, warnings of beasts and places to be avoided, and other things she didn't understand. She only passed on the words to others as soon as she could.

It took her by surprise when the words whispered were a question.

"Why didn't you tell them?"

"I..." She was tired of saying she didn't understand things, but how else does one politely ask a God for clarification?

Luckily she didn't have to figure it out. "The berries," the voice provided. "You clearly haven't forgot about that, but you haven't told them. Why?"

"I'm sorry, I didn't realize I should, I'll tell them of your miracle as soon as I can, my God."

"I didn't ask you to. I asked why. I wish to gaze upon your true heart, priestess. Let it speak for a moment."

Silvana's blood ran cold. Was the God dissatisfied? She hadn't ever been dishonest so far, what else did she have to say? She hated this responsibility, the fate of her people on her shoulders.

"I am not a brave person, my God," was the truest thing that could came from her lips with so many possible disasters weighting on her mind, "I tell them what they ask of me. They asked me for wisdom, so I gave them your words. I'm, not smart enough to tell the wisdom of that act, so I haven't told them."

The silence that fell did nothing to soothe her anxiety, but it didn't last long.

"You couldn't see the wisdom in that, yet you keep bringing it up. Why?"

"It's because I could see the blessing in it, my God. I was taught you are of immense power, that you share it with your followers to conquer the land and shape it to your will. As someone who lives a humble life, these designs are hard to understand. But I understand looking out for someone in need, feeding them with what the land provides, keeping them company even when they're weak and useless. Those are small things you've done for me since I came here, and to me they were easier to see as blessings. Because I have no training as a priestess, I could only hope my honest gratitude would make for better prayers."

She felt numb and winded, having talked more than she intended. It was weird, confessing to a God that she had no idea how to worship properly, but her chest felt lighter. It was probably obvious from the start, wasn't it? She had always been an honest person, there was only so much she could take of a role she wasn't made for.

She could the breeze gently blowing around her, but no voice came for a while.

"You are wiser than you believe," it finally said. "You would make a good priestess, if you hadn't been forced to it."

Silvana's head spun like the wind. So the God knew she hadn't had a choice. The cult called her blessed, favored. She thought they had acted due to some divine will she could not fathom.

"Have we angered you, my God?" She did her best to not raise her voice in panic, but couldn't stop it from trembling. "Would you rather someone else be in my place?"

A stronger gust blew. "You can't say things like that. If they think that you don't want to listen, or that I've rejected you, they might harm you. And I won't let your faith be in vain. As long as you're here, I will protect you. So even if you're afraid, please trust and keep a secret when I ask you to."

What kind of God says please to a common peasant? What kind of God sounds powerless against their own followers? The voice continued to sound more like a fellow partner than a God.

Silvana couldn't help but smile, it was better that way. "I understand, thank you. I trust you."

The wind died down and silence fell. After a while just a wisp came by, the sound so low Silvana didn't make out all the words.

"...that will be all." It sounded like the usual parting. But then it picked up again in a regular volume. "And get up and stretch a bit, your human body will be pained if you just sit here all day."

"...of course, thank you."

#writebrl #writers on tumblr #fantasy #magic #ocs #the god of cavesong #despero #silvana the priestess #theodora the air elemental #cavesong cult #2021

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meta-squash · 3 years

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Brick Club 1.4.3 “The Lark”

A slightly shorter (only very slightly) Brick Club post from me! Finally!

“To be vicious does not ensure prosperity...” So far we’ve seen two types of viciousness: rich and poor. Hugo is right that viciousness does not ensure prosperity, because I think the two types come in different ways. The viciousness of people like Tholomyes, or Bamatabois come from a sort of carelessness. These people have the money and status to treat people cruelly and poorly without even thinking about their pain. I don’t think it’s just that they don’t care that their actions hurt people; they straight up don’t think about it. Except in more direct, deliberate circumstances, like Bamatabois putting snow down Fantine’s dress, most of the time they do things for their own pleasure/benefit/whim/whatever and don’t think about its effect on others. They have the money and status to do so. On the other hand, poor viciousness is that of desperation. Those who are poor and vicious are probably aware of the damage of their actions, but they don’t care because they are focused on their own wellbeing and survival. They’re aware of the pain, but it’s less important than their own problems. One is viciousness in the midst of maintaining the status quo; the other is viciousness in the midst of clinging to the edge of survival.

I had a post about the two types of dog imagery and symbolism in the brick that included a little bit of this description of Cosette. Cosette is both literally and figuratively a dog in the Thenardier household. We get more imagery of it later on, but even here she’s fed scraps under the table like a dog. She’s treated more like a dog that can speak than like a person.

Which brings me to the fucking severity of the Thenardier’s abuse. I mean, how did Cosette turn out so lovely and sweet? How did she stay so gentle and sweet? I feel like Hugo kind of uses the biblical Jesus time-jump thing to avoid talking about Cosette working through the trauma of her abuse. At the convent we see Valjean’s idea of her more than we actually see Cosette herself. We don’t get much of her internality from ages 7/8 to about 13/14, which means Hugo can use all that time to explain away any traumas or lingering effects. Anyway, I digress. Even at five years old, they’re terrible to her. They feed her scraps under the table, they force her to wake up before everyone else and do all the chores, even the heavy labor. She’s beaten and verbally abused and throughout all of it she has to watch Mme Thenardier doting on her daughters. It frustrates me a little that Hugo seems to decide that she can’t remember any of it when she gets older. Sure, it makes sense to block out severe abuse, but surely some effects remain? Either way, it’s a wonder she turns out so lovely.

(Side note: I think this is one of the reasons people accuse Cosette of being a “flat” character or whatever. Not letting her having an aspect of hardness or hurt makes it harder to believe. It also lessens her parallel to Valjean; he has inner darkness and trauma from prison that he is actively working against through the entire book, but she doesn’t seem to get a similar darkness to also work through/against. I don’t think she’s a flat character at all, but I think this is part of where that accusation comes from.)

I always have such a difficult time with the perspective of money while reading the Brick. Seven francs sounds like nothing to me, but I don’t really know how much it would be in modern terms. I mean, it makes me think of like gas being like 30 cents back in the day and now it’s often $2.00 or more. Or, like, in the US $.70 in 1950 is the same as about 10x that today. I don’t really know what 7 francs would be equivalent to today, so it’s hard to conceptualize how much or how little money [xyz thing] costs in the brick.

Mme Thenardier is awful in a more insidious way than M Thenardier, and it extends to her own children. At first, she her total love for her own daughters means she detests Cosette and feels as though Cosette is taking from them. Later, though, this hatred transfers first to Gavroche, whom she completely abandons to the streets, then to her two unnamed sons, who she gives away, and then to Eponine, who she seems to almost entirely ignore while she seems to dote on Azelma. The specific example is when M Thenardier makes Azelma break the window; Mme Thenardier comforts and kisses her, but both parents ignore Eponine when she complains of the cold and things like that.

“Children at that age are simply copies of the mother; only the size is reduced.” I can’t help but think about the difference between older Eponine and Mme Thenardier. We don’t get much of Azelma’s characterization, but Eponine is so different from Mme Thenardier when we meet her as a teenager. It’s interesting how unlike either of her parents she is, even before properly meeting Marius.

If the townspeople think Cosette was forgotten by her mother, it stands to reason that Cosette thinks the same thing. Valjean also never really tells her much about Fantine (out of his own weird semi-religious, semi-guilt feelings about her) and I wonder how much that effects her. What would have changed in her if she knew more about her mother?

Fantine just bounces from being manipulated by one man to another. Tholomyes and Thenardier both take advantage of Fantine’s trust and her obliviousness or ignorance. It’s wild how similar both instances of manipulation are; only, in one the payment is emotion and the other is literal money. They both rely heavily on Fantine not picking up on social cues or noticing weird behavior. They also increase their behavior the longer the ruse goes on. For Tholomyes, that means cheating on her with Favourite as well as presumably ignoring her or treating her (and infant Cosette) poorly. For Thenardier, that means lies and constant increasing of payments as well as an increase in abuse towards Cosette as the payments dwindle. Both ruses end in Fantine losing something: her love, her child (twice; she dies with the knowledge that Cosette is not with her in Montreuil-sur-Mer like she had thought), her life.

Okay apparently Hugo snuck this reference to Dumollard in right before publication. Martin Dumollard was a man who lived near Montluel. He would trick women into coming with him from Lyons to Montluel under the guise of being sent by his master to find a domestic servant. He would carry the woman’s luggage on the walk from the train station to the apparent destination, but would take a “short cut” and either would kill the woman in a field and take her belongings, or the woman would sense danger and/or fight back and run away, leaving her luggage behind. When he was caught he and his wife had over 1500 items of other women’s clothing. Over 8 years he had apparently killed at least 3 women and attacked at least 9 others. His trial was at the end of January 1862, and he was executed in early March of the same year. Les Miserables itself was published in 1862 (April? I think? Someone correct me if I’m wrong), so Hugo clearly went back to add that little comment in.

We get a preview of Fantine’s story here, which I really like. I love little in-chapter glimpses of or brief chapter jumps to other characters, just to really get the sense of what things are happening simultaneously.

Like Fantine, we do not hear Cosette speak the first time we see her. “Except that the poor lark never sang.” We are introduced to Cosette in much the same way that we are introduced to Fantine: description first, and later, when Valjean comes to get her, very few lines at first. Her journey is the opposite: she becomes accessible to us as she becomes happier and more safe; Fantine becomes more accessible as she becomes more miserable and unwell.

#les miserables fanart #les miserables meta #brickclub #lm 1.4.3 #les mis #les mis meta #ever since that one video where Joe Spieldenner talked about calling Bamatabois 'BamBam' I always just want to type that instead #finishing a brick club post before 5am? it's a miracle!

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