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buggre-alle-this-for-a-larke · 2 months

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TW: DISCUSSION OF DOMESTIC ABUSE TACTICS

Something that really puts me off wolfstar, at least in canon and anything vaguely canon compliant, is that it takes Sirius being a shit friend in 1981 (something that becomes mutual by November 1981) and sprinkles in abuse.

If Remus and Sirius were in a romantic relationship in 1981, Sirius is using some classic abuse techniques on Remus.

Namely: (image taken from the NHS website)

Isolate: Sirius goes to lengths to isolate Remus from his friends. By guaranteeing Remus isn’t told the secret (poa ch18), Remus will never see James, Lily, or Harry again because that’s how the fidelius charm works. He could have turned up at their door and still wouldn’t be able to see them. He has been very successfully cut out of their lives. According to Remus ,James wouldn’t have believed any of his friends were the spy (DH ch 5), meaning this all came from Sirius as we’re told in PoA (ch18).

Peter was also in hiding as the secret keeper, though to what extent we’re never told (“when I arrived at his hiding place, he was gone” (poa ch18)). If they’re trying to keep Peter safe from the spy and not tell Remus about the switch (which they are, poa ch18), it’s likely Remus has been cut out of his life too. Based on Sirius’ will.

Remus doesn’t have a major support network to fall back on; he refused to go to his father for help (pottermore) and his lycanthropy makes it difficult for him to have pretty much anyone (DH ch11). So if Sirius has been able to get James, Lily, and Peter out of Remus’ life by his conviction that Remus is the spy, he has successfully cut Remus off and isolated him from all of his close friends.

Money: This leads on from the previous point. Remus, at that point, didn’t work. His lycanthropy made it incredibly difficult for him to get and keep employment and so most of his time was dedicated to the Order (pottermore). As he wouldn’t return to living with his father, it was James that funded Remus’ entire life and paid his rent (leaky cauldron interview with JKR 2007).

Needless to say, cutting Remus off from James doesn’t just mean he has one less friend - it means Sirius has cut Remus off from his finances. If James and Remus are no longer in contact, and it stands to reason they’d have to be otherwise Remus would figure out that Sirius isn’t the secret keeper (which is the thing they want to avoid (poa ch18)), then Remus has no form of income. How quickly that would turn dire we don’t know, but probably not very long. Sirius’ actions are controlling Remus’ access to money.

Blame: We don’t know why Sirius thinks Remus is the spy, neither the books nor pottermore goes into any details (it’s not because Remus was with the werewolves, he doesn’t do that until 1996), only that he does. Meaning the isolation and controlling of his finances happens because of something Sirius believes of Remus - if Remus had noticed this (and if Peter hadn’t betrayed them within a week he would have) Remus would have been blamed for Sirius’ actions.

It’s also likely Sirius would deny his tactics if Remus called him out on it, tiptoeing pretty close to the “deny the abuse is happening, or downplay it” line too.

Accuse of affairs: Of course I say kinda this one not because of actual affairs, but because of what Sirius has accused Remus of doing elsewhere. Replace affairs with ‘accusations of murdering their comrades, planning to murder more, and conspiring with a fascist dictator’. Remus hasn’t done any of that, and yet it doesn’t stop Sirius from accusing him.

For comparison, when Remus believes Sirius was the spy; he has been told Sirius was the secret keeper, Dumbledore corroborated that Sirius was the secret keeper, Peter has been ‘killed’, there were eye witness accounts saying that Sirius murdered Peter and then blew up a street, Sirius was caught at the scene laughing and, as far we can discern, goes with law enforcement quietly, and he is imprisoned. There’s nothing to suggest Remus thought Sirius was the spy before he’s provided with the evidence (even if that evidence turned out to be wrong). Sirius did all this to Remus without evidence.

This is one hell of thing to accuse your boyfriend of doing. It’s a hell of a thing to accuse a friend of doing don’t get me wrong, but when this is the person you’re supposed to love and be the closest to? That shit is rough.

Viewing Sirius and Remus’ interactions in this period through a romantic lens takes it from just being shitty to being downright grim. Listen I love a good bit of angst in a ship, so long as the angst is built on a solid foundation of trust and respect, but this goes beyond like casual angst for me. And people’s claim that Sirius being in a relationship with Remus at the time is the thing that makes it okay is just not the one.

#remus lupin #sirius black #antiwolfstar #just in case #marauders #tw: dv #tw:domestic abuse

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faerunsbest · 2 months

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The Subject of Rolan's Father

Who is the first person Rolan every wanted to protect?

and from who?

how did this shape who he became later in life?

available on ao3

trigger warning for domestic abuse

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this was only supposed to be like a page or two but it ballooned up to like 6, so while not terribly long its more than i had anticipated

This woman who let him call her mum, who beamed every time he did so… she was marvelous and sweet. She is kind and it never occurred to Rolan that the child in her belly required a father.

When the man came into the apartment, he slammed his body against the door to hold himself up as he rattled the handle. At the sound, Rolans mum perked from her spot with him on the couch. She closed the book she had been reading with and pressed it to his chest. Quietly she urged him to her bedroom.

“You go in there and you lock the door and you hide real good okay…don't open until I say so okay.”

She pushes him into the room where he nervously turns the heavy deadbolt and crawls under the bed. Another loud thud could be heard from the front door.

“Who's it you got in there woman! WHO'S IN THERE!?”

Rolan hears the sound of the front door being knocked open, the man's words seem to slur and blend. The stumble in his walk notable enough that even though Rolan couldn't see him, he could tell clearly. The man was drunk out of his mind.

“You've been drinking again!”

“W-yea! So what a drink or two never bother nun!”

“Did you find a job yet?! Did you even look!”

Heavy hurried steps and then quiet.

“They don't wanna hire no one anymore! I looked errrvee where. N

SoNO,I didn't find SHIT!”

A strange silence is followed before another loud thump.

“ ABSOLUTELY NOT! GET OUT OF MY HOUSE! I warned you, you cannot be here if you're DRUNK!”

The argument went on and on for a while with Rolan curling up and clamping his hands over his ears. He wasn't sure how long he'd been down there before the front door slammed shut and a small soft knock could be heard at the bedroom door.

“ It's all OK now, can you please open up for me?”

He scurried out from under the bed and hurried to open the door, pulling hard at the heavy lock.

As he pulled it open his heart dropped, mum was leaning against the door frame. Her face wet and her arm wrapped up under her belly.

Rolan's lip wobbled when he looked at her, taking her by her arm and guiding her to lay down on her bed. With a huff he pulled the blankets up over her chest and ran to the living room, he glared at the front door and shoved one of the kitchen chairs under the doorknob.

From the bedroom mum listened to the scraping of furniture across the floor and the soft tinkling of cups, she smiled at the sound of Rolan trying to swipe matches to light. The sound of him mumbling directions to himself carried about the small apartment until she watched the bedroom door open slowly. Rolan carefully entered with his back to the door, he gave a wide warm smile when he turned to see her to show off the small tray of tea and warmed cake.

A week later and another visit occurred, the door knob jangling violently, Rolan panicked and shouted

“GO AWAY!”

The drunkard paused asking the door who was that, what happened? Was he in the wrong place? His heavy steps carried down the hall to more violent jangling. On some other door. Mum blinked at him while he went over to grab a chair and drag it to tuck under the doorknob.

“Mum”

“Yes baby?”

“Who is that?”

She smiled at Rolan who looked so nervous, standing there in front of the fireplace she reached down to her belly. Rolan made a face.

“He is my new babies papa.”

“Ok he gave you a baby, he can go away now.”

Rolan felt his face flush with warmth when she suddenly started laughing, laughing so hard she had to grip the table as she doubled over. She wiped her face and went over to hold Rolan, her shoulders still shaking a bit.

“What if I want more babies?”

Rolan raised an eyebrow at her, putting his hands on his hips.

“NO! You finish that one first!”

Again she couldn’t seem to stop laughing as he grumbled at her.

A week, two weeks and now a month. With that man sporadically visiting in various shades of drunk, the chair gave way as he tumbled in screaming to know who mum was talking to. Rolan stayed under the bed, nails digging deep into the wood floor as the vehement yelling went on. He felt an unfamiliar rage overwhelm him, making his ears burn hot at the sound of a slap, yelp and a thump.

Before he knew it Rolan had ripped the bedroom door open and lunged over the top of the sofa. He landed on the mans back trying not to look at mum, curled in a ball around her stomach. She wheezed on the floor, a wide pink welt forming across her face.

The man stepped about wildly reaching back to try and rip Rolan off his back. Rolan however gripped the man by his hair with one hand and pulled the other back to repeatedly punch him in the back of his head, over and over and over. Small knobby spiked knees pressed in the middle of the drunks back, keeping Rolan in place while he fought with every scrap in him. The man so much bigger than him screamed, yelled and cursed before slamming his back against the wall.

Rolan yelled out before curling his knees to his chest and kicking out as hard as he could. The man bowled forward, face slamming into the arm of the couch, too drunk to coordinate his arms in front of his face. Rolan hit the ground with a heavy thud, feeling all the air in his lungs knocked out of him as he landed on his side. From the doorway someone stepped in, someone tall, broad and angry. Dark brown horns curling over his head.

“HEY! WHATS GOING ON HERE!?!”

He looked down and caught sight of the man, he flared his nostrils before stepping in to grab the man up off the floor by the back of his shirt. The drunk man flailed violently as he was dragged out of the apartment, his short horns getting caught in the near splintered door frame.

Rolan couldn’t help but whimper feeling his eyes beginning to burn as he teared up, he didn’t hear mum get up or crawl over. She put herself around him, letting him sob against her until he could finally breathe again.

Soon enough Rolan had nudged her back into bed, forcing her to lay down and rest. He reached out to lay his palm on her stomach as she did, the stillness making him anxious. Just as panic began to rear up, he felt a strong kick, a little bap against his palm. He grinned bright and wide at the small movement.

None too long later, that strange man came back. A neighbor? He brought with him a few bits of wood and tools, Rolan watched from the kitchen as he knocked on the broken door looking around.

“Ah, there you are- how’s your mum?”

“She’s sleeping.”

The man smiled at him stepping over the splintered wood. He motioned for Rolan to come over, handing him a cup full of nails.

“C’mon lets get this fixed- you got to learn how to do these things you know- It looks like you're the man of the house now.”

Near a month later that strange neighbor had moved, but not before showing Rolan a few small repair tricks and leaving behind a few well used tools for him. Rolan waved out the window as they rode off, he and his family riding away in a small wagon.

In the middle of the night it happened, Rolan popped up in bed at the sound of it. Small angry wailing coming from the washroom. He jumped out of bed and ran across the small place to barge into the bathroom, gasping out loud when he saw mum in the tub with an exhausted smile. On her chest lay a little wrinkly red baby, tiny tail twitching as it screamed at the top of its tiny lungs.

“Momma…”

He leaned over the edge of the tub reaching out to gently touch the babies head, her tiny arms and of course hold that itty bitty little fist.

“You’re a big brother now, do you want to hold your sister?”

He gasped as the angriest little girl in the whole world was gently pressed against his chest, reflexively his arms curled under her, cradling her gently. He couldn’t help it as tears spilled down his face.They both grinned as she seemed to huff and puff and then quiet in his arms.

“What’s her name momma, what’s my sister’s name?”

“ I like Lia, don’t you?”

Time seemed to fly by for them, Rolan running around town having taken up any small job he could grab, usually just toting messages across town. He ran as fast as he could to bring home every copper he could get his hands on, mum couldn’t work right now and things still needed to be paid. Thankfully mum was smart and she paid for the rent on the small apartment as far ahead as she could manage.

He loved coming home and sneaking into bed to curl up around Lia, reading to her, singing nonsense songs and cradling her in his arms til she fell back asleep. The feeling of being so useful seemed to keep his chin up even when he was exhausted. He worked until Mum could go back and then did his best to stay useful, staying home with Lia taking care of her and doing as many errands as he could so mum wouldn’t have to. It was near a year later when he mused to himself that he couldn’t possibly wish for more. Until one day he came home and found the door open, his heart dropped to his gut at the sound of Lia screaming.

When he stepped in he found that man back again, he entered quietly. Rage bubbling up immediately at the image of mum with another welt on her face pressed against the wall. The man held her under her arm, gripping so tight her eyes watered. He looked around the room, eyes locked on one of his books, he took a deep loud breath and steadied himself. The man looked over his shoulder, grip loosening just long enough for her to whip around and dive behind her bedroom door. Rolan could hear the heavy deadbolt fall in place, he watched the man slam his fist against the door rattling the frame.

“I said I was sorry you know-”

“LEAVE!”

Her voice cracked as she screamed through the door. He glowered, snarling as he seemed to struggle to keep his hand from curling to a fist.

“You said I could come back, if I wasn’t drunk. Look at me- I'm dry as a bone!”

They could hear the sheets rustle, hushing noises while Lia kept on screaming. He pressed his greasy forehead to the door.

“You said you still loved me, I gave you what you wanted, didn't I? DIDN’T I !?”

Lias screams renewed, and now he didn’t care, he banged his fat fist against the door repeatedly.

“I gave you what you wanted and now-”he took in a deep breath “YOU’RE GONNA GIVE ME A SON THIS TIME YOU TRAMP!”

Rolan clenched his teeth before grabbing a cup off the counter and pitching it at the man’s head. It landed with a heavy THWAP against the rolls on the back of his head. Annoyed, he turned around to stare at Rolan, his feet set a shoulders width apart, arm still extended from the throw.

“Fat man you need to leave.”

Without warning the man charges for Rolan,he ducks down diving between the mans legs and rolls to land on his feet. The man whips around to see Rolan’ glare set deep hands up, claws wide as he bellows

“DETONO!”

Rolan digs his heels into the wood floor as he feels a wave of force erupt from him, throwing the man so far he slams backward into the neighbors door, leaving a massive crack in it. The man gasps and groans, looking around wildly as he realizes what happened. Now Rolan stands in the front doorway, tail swishing and snapping behind him as he leers down his nose at the man. The man stares up horrified at him, a little wizard… this wasn’t worth it.

Rolan watches the man scramble to his feet, watches him freeze as Rolan lifts an open palm to him.

“Don’t come back.”

The man scrambles to his feet and runs fast as his short legs will carry him. As he does, the cracked door is slowly pulled open. An older woman squints down the hall where the man disappears, then over to Rolan. She wrinkles her hooked nose at him.

“Bout time time someone took care o’that mess.”

They stared at each other for only a moment before both shutting their front doors. Rolan went inside and knocked on the bedroom door gently, worrying about the quiet before the deadbolt turned over and he was yanked into the room. He felt himself being pulled into a tight one armed hug. He looked up at her bruised tear stricken face, over to Lia sleeping against her chest.

-ONE YEAR LATER-

The three of them stood in the middle of the market, having stopped to look over a fishmongers stall. Rolan feels the hair on the back of his neck stand up, he turns around to look into the crowd. His hand tightens around Lias as he scans the crowd locking on when he finds a familiar face glaring out. They lock eyes but Rolan smirks as he lifts a hand, cracking up when the man seems to trip over himself to get away. Mum blinks at him looking around confused, her arm curled over the baby strapped to her chest.

“What are you doing?”

Rolan grinned at her while she poked a particular fish, waving for the monger to get it wrapped up. Rolan reached to the wallet against his belt holding it out for mum to take.

“Thank you sweetie, could you hold your brother a moment for me?”

She lifts Cal from the sling and hands his wriggly self over to Rolan who holds him in one curled arm while Lia plays with the sleeve of his other arm. Mum counts out a few coins before passing them over and taking the fish. She smiles at the image Rolan makes holding the two, that big smile on him while he rubs his forehead against Cals, Lia giggling beside him.

“Rolan, you can give him back now.”

She tucks the fish into a bag that hangs off her shoulder, reaching out to take Cal back. Rolan turns away from her grinning playfully.

“No way!”

“You can't take care of them forever you know.”

“Watch me!”

She leans down and presses a kiss to his forehead before they mosey off to the next stall.

#bg3 #baldurs gate 3 #rolan #bg3 rolan #young rolan #fic #tiefling #cal #lia #tw:domestic abuse

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queerticulate · 2 years

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This whole domestic abuse shit is gonna be so tricky to get out of. Like they will need to somehow recover Lestat from this, because he is the main character of the universe and they said they want to adapt all the material. For a protagonist the audience somehow does need to be invested in what happens to them next, in what they’re gonna do... and that is jeopardized with him having perpetuated heavy partner violence. Same as it would have been jeopardized if they had chosen to keep Louis as an 18th century slave owner.

They'll make it worse if they are going to try to justify it - an abuser who tries to talk themselves out of it is worse. They also can't just pull that Louis and/or Claudia made it up - after all the #MeToo backlash in recent years that would be in extremely poor taste. The only thing I can think of that could sort of work if Lestat's perspective would reveal that was actually an equal fight with heavy punches being thrown both ways, with Louis ultimately losing (and in his own mind erasing his share in it). It would still be much too much of a graphic violence over psychological horror add-on for my taste, and just generally be in poor taste imo, but it could work if carefully managed.

I don't know. I am really nervous that they screwed the pooch with a massively bad call here and imploded the whole project before we ever get to finally seeing the other books adapted. Still hoping they have some sort of trick up their sleeve and reveal to us that actually they are brilliant and had a really creative and clever thing planned all along to go with this in the next episodes. Let's hope and pray

#amc iwtv #interview with the vampire #tw:domestic abuse #tw:partner violence #tw:slavery

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ksu-smoothy · 25 days

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Привет.

В своем творчестве я всегда хотела выражать и показывать свои мысли, свои чувства, свое настроение. Мне хотелось "говорить" творчеством.

У меня был период в моей рисовальной деятельности, лет эдак шесть назад, когда я рисовала много социальных работ. В том числе и про домашнее насилие. Сейчас же работ подобного рода у меня практически нет. Значит ли это, что такие темы меня больше не волнуют? Нет. Значит ли это, что я недовольна своим творчеством? Тоже нет.

Но чувство, ко��да ты затрагиваешь в своем творчестве волнующие тебя проблемы, говоришь о них через свои рисунки - непередаваемо.

Эти плакаты рисовались для проекта моей подруги в университет. Мне выслали краткие описания того, что нужно изобразить, я постаралась сохранить основную идею и внести свои правки (куда ж я без своих пяти копеек).

Сначала было трудно, в голове пустота. Не было понимания, как все получше изобразить. Но потом понеслась!

Если вы или ваши близкие столкнулись с проблемами домашнего насилия и/или сексуализированного насилия, эти организации помогут:

“Насилию.нет” юридическая, психологическая, текстовая помощь* https://nasiliu.net/yuridicheskaya-pomoshh/

Центр"Сёстры" помощь пережившим сексуализированное насилие https://sisters-help.ru/

“ТыНеОдна” — сеть взаимопомощи женщин https://tineodna.ru/

*признаны иноагентами в РФ.

БЕРЕГИТЕ СЕБЯ!

#my art #art #плакат #illustration #drawing #digital drawing #digital art #domestic violence #домашнее насилие #tw: abuse #tw:domestic violence #против домашнего насилия #tw: blood

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aestheticcommons · 2 years

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Things I'm reading

Clearly I read a lot of manga/graphic novels/comic books, but really it's just faster, lighter reading. It's easy to pick up and put down., and usually you can find them for free online. This one was in a sale's bin at the store. It was over 75% off so I got it along with some of the other DC comics for an YA audience.

Under the Moon: A Catwoman Tale by

Lauren Myracle, Isaac Goodhart

After reading this one, the Raven one, and the Beast Boy one, I think this one is the best one. I will say that it's not really a Catwoman story in the traditional sense. There's not like jewelry heists or trying to live the fabulous life that you might see in the video games or the street smart one you might see in the Gotham TV show. It's more the inner workings of a girl who runs away from home, learns to take care of herself, and learns to trust people again.

It feels like a good book to have in any school library really for girls who are living in that zone of difficulty where involving child protective services might make everything worse.

Trigger Warnings under the cut

Trigger Warnings Animal abuse Cutting Domestic Violence Suicidal Ideation Abuse Homelessness

#things I'm reading #under the moon #catwoman #DC #issac goodheart #lauren myracle #tw: animal abuse #tw: suicidal idation #tw:cutting #tw:domestic violence #tw:homelessness #comic books #graphic novels

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boliv-jenta · 9 months

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I did a thing.

Based on the video for Fire Meet Gasoline by Sia.

TW:domestic abuse.

Cleansing Fire

It's not the bruises that hurt the most. Or the jagged cuts. Or the burst split of your skin. It's the wounds inside. The self-inflicted one's from the shame. For somehow believing you deserve this. For somehow thinking this is the price paid for love. You hid those wounds better than the cuts and scars, and no one has ever seen those. No one looks close enough at you. Until him.

Those burnt coffee eyes tell you as much. He truly sees you when he looks at you. It was striking the first time you saw him. The perfectly carved profile of his face. That strong chin and soft full lips. A face that was a luxury to behold in contrast to the dirty, cheap overalls he wore.

He was hiding just as well as you. A diamond in the rough. A smart, eloquent, beautiful soul sent down a bad path long ago. The way you gravitated towards each other each other was like something from the heavens. The pull of it stronger than any of the heavenly bodies. Except it wasn't a steady orbit. It was a consuming, decaying one. It pulled you crashing together. Lips, bodies, hearts. It crushed you together into one destructive force.

A forced that crashed through your ideas of love and split the ground below your feet open. From the crack a new, stronger ideal grew. It gave your feet purchase to stand strong and steadfast on the earth.

No. That wasn't love. Love doesn't have to hurt like that. Like you hurt me.

The new love took root. It grew towards the sun but remained in the shadows. The two of you twisted and intertwined together. Sharing, thriving, supporting. Until it reached for the sun too much and blossomed for all to see.

For him to see.

Its petals fell with each hit. The vines tore with each split of skin. It wilted and wavered under the storm of his temper. A storm that once electrified you. That made you feel alive in its wake with the petrichor in the air. Before it turned on you. To batter you with its ferocity. To slowly wear you down with each furious blow. The storm came to eclipse your sun to stop you reaching for it.

The eye of the storm gave you a reprieve. Little did you know it wasn't just the eye. It was the end of the storm. The vines around you had grown stronger. They'd risen up to protect you. To allow you to flourish in the sun.

The wildfire spread, destructive but necessary. It cleared the old and rotten. It made the air thick with it. You breathed it in, used it. With the earth clear, you were free to not only survive but to bloom. To provide protection of your own. To enrich the world that had passed you by.

#pedro pascal character fanfiction #fire meet gasoline #angsty drabble #tw: allusions to abuse #tw: domestic abuse

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brokenballjointdoll · 2 months

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Rough day...

Lunch with my friend was a salad but it was huge and didn't list its nutrition.

TW:domestic abuse ahead

Then my husband proceeds to get into a huge fight with me and gaslight me into it being my fault. He decided that during this he would say that "idk why you complain about having to buy food. I can not eat you know. I've skipped lunch for 3 days now".

Then he berates my body and says that I'm fat and lazy and not trying to do anything at all. But yet when he told me to order take out and ordered one item he has the nerve to say " you better not order just one thing. Your fat ass eats enough to feed a small continent so don't lie to me and order one thing and complain about it later"....

Im just gonna pray that the migraine I'm getting makes me sleep into oblivion

#relapse #fat #tw ana diary #tw disordered eating #tw ed diet #3d tumblr #4norexi4 #starv1ng #gross #abuse #emotional abuse

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sillygecsstuff · 1 year

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TW:Domestic Violence

(Note:the following is a fiction HC I have for Dylan Brady of 100 Gecs as I’m aware that he has a irl girlfriend who deeply loves him,as this isn’t to give a bad light on either side as this is from a fictional partner he had in his early twenties who was named Jessica and not his current gf who I wouldn’t think of herself traveling down the road that would hurt Dylan in the slightest bit)

Dylan once had an abusive gf in his early twenties who was named Jessica

She would constantly get jealous of his whereabouts as well as sometimes inflicting physical hits on his face or anywhere she sees as an opening

Dylan takes it all as he believed he deserves what his gf is giving to himself,he is also reminded of how he should be very grateful for being given food despite himself being starved by his gf most of the weeks as she doesn’t believe in himself telling the truth about who or where he’s been/hanging out with whenever he’s out of the house

Dylan is usually subjected to his room as he couldn’t concentrate himself on doing his work as a music producer for the fear his gf had put him in,as he’s usually in the corner of his room that’s all decorated with LED lights for a big gray blanket is draped over his frail very very skinny body as he’s usually watching Netflix on his laptop while huddling with his knees up towards his chest,as he wonders if he’s going to eat which doesn’t bother him sometimes but other times it’s a problem he has to live in silence with

At a photo shoot he had a different appearance which wasn’t spoken about with the photographer as Dylan had unkept bleached blonde hair,injuries plus bruises all over his body plus face,sallow skin,and an overall very frail skinny look as it was also the appearance of himself hitting rock bottom from his gf

Escaped to Laura’s house where he stayed at for a very long time as he kept towards himself,he was scared of telling his best friend in the entire world what he has been through after all his time with his gf who was arrested after the neighbors called the cops on the house

Is constantly in a fever passing out or fainting mood due to himself being starved for so long,as he usually silently cry’s due to feeling that way for such a long time but thankfully Laura is there to comfort him through it all never leaving his side

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arrowflier · 3 years

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do you write AUs?

because i wish you'd write a fic with magic 👀 either with both or only one of them having magic ❤️

Oh, dear sweet anon. You'd never guess it from what I've been posting, but AUs are my bread and butter, and fantasy my genre of choice. I just don't do as much of it because I care more about getting it right, and it's so much harder to convey in short glimpses.

So thank you for this, and here goes nothing! Might not be the type of magic you were thinking, but it’s where my brain ended up.

Milkovich Magic

When he's just a little boy, Mickey Milkovich is the chattiest kid on the street. He stands out front of their rundown house and waves at people passing by, tells them stories, wishes for them good things. His father hates it, but his mother thinks it's lovely. She sits next to Mickey in a broken lawn chair, taking turns smiling at her son and at the strangers and neighbors passing by, waving Terry away when he comes too close to interfering.

But she never says a word herself, unless it's to Mickey.

Until one day, when Mickey sees a family walking down the street, and waves frantically at two boys around his age, one with fuzzy brown curls, one with bright red locks. The bright boy turns toward him and smiles, and Mickey feels something shift inside himself.

"Momma," he calls back toward the house. "Did you see?"

"See what, Mikhailo?" she responds, voice oddly cautious in a way that Mickey has long since become accustomed to.

"That boy," he tells her, feeling light and happy. "He's going to be my friend."

The air shifts as the words leave his mouth, seeming to swirl around him. He shivers as it strokes against his skin, leaving a line of goosebumps in its wake, and takes a shaky breath, thinking of the boy's shy smile.

"Mikhailo, no!" his mother cries, stumbling from her seat to fall on her knees at his feet, clutching his arms with claw-like fingers. He snaps out of his thoughts and stares down at her, terrified, as the feeling leaves him.

His terror grows when his father slams open the front door and yells, "What did the boy do now?"

His mother's eyes are wide and scared on his face, but her voice is calm and firm when she answers.

"Mikhailo has done nothing," she states simply, and his skin begins to tingle again. "You noticed nothing," she adds, and Mickey watches as his father shakes his head and wanders back inside without so much as a backwards glance. Then the air is still again.

"Come, Mikhailo," his mother says next, "that's enough for today." And he follows her up the broken steps and into their home, mind whirring, trying to make sense of what happened.

“Words have power, little one,” his mother whispers to him later that night, as they sip hot chocolate in the kitchen after Terry goes to bed. The air smells of milk and burned sugar and his mother’s perfume, and her voice wraps around him like a hug, pressing her words into his skin.

“We have to be careful,” she speaks quietly. Her hand is still warm with the heat from her mug when she brushes his hair from his face, lets her palm rest on his cheek. “When the things you say become the truth, you have to choose your words wisely.”

“Like when I say you’re pretty?” Mickey asks with childish innocence, and his mother laughs, a soft tinkling sound like windchimes in the rain.

“Not quite,” she tells him with a gentle smile. “It takes intent, too.”

“Intent,” he repeats dutifully, then asks, “what’s that?”

His mother’s voice drops even further, serious and firm. “It’s the desire to make change, Mikhailo,” she says, “and it’s dangerous. You never know what path that change might take.” She sounds sad, like she does whenever his father comes home, loud and stumbling when he shoves through the door in the middle of the night. Mickey doesn’t like it.

And he doesn’t understand, either. He’s too young. Too new to the world to see how change could be a bad thing. So he agrees, like a good son does, and doesn’t argue when his mother presses a kiss to his head and sends him off to sleep in a haze of lavender and chocolate.

A few months later, when he hears his father yelling from the next room, hears the crash as his mother hits the floor for the third time that week, he dares to speak aloud the words struggling to escape his heart, despite her warnings.

“Mama is safe,” he whispers to himself in the darkness of the room he shares with his baby sister, who’s curled up against his side, face still wet with the tears that sent her into sleep. “No one can hurt her anymore.”

He knows he got it right when he can feel the wish leave him, a heavy weight lifting from his chest as his desires take form. He can feel the air, heavy with intent, as it brushes over his skin, as it moves like a summer breeze through the open window above his head, bypassing the locked bedroom door. He’s suddenly more tired than he thinks he’s ever been when it’s gone, and he falls into the most peaceful sleep he’s had in years, comforted by the knowledge that he had put change into the world.

The next morning, he wakes to his sister sobbing and pushing loose fists into his chest as she tells him that their mother is dead.

After that, he stops talking so much.

---

When Mickey is eight years old, he's the quietest boy in class. He gets a reputation as a troublemaker, refusing to answer questions or make friends, no matter the effort that others put in.

Eventually, they stop trying, and he's glad.

Until a new boy shows up, and almost ruins everything.

His name is Ian Gallagher, and the first thing Mickey notices as he walks into the room for the very first time, a worn backpack hanging from his skinny shoulder, is his hair.

It's bright red.

And Mickey remembers the day he learned what he was, the day he started down the path that killed his mother, the day that he declared to the world that the redheaded boy would be his and the world started to listen.

He wanted nothing to do with him.

So of course, Gallagher sat right behind him, and tapped on his shoulder, and asked him for a pencil. And try as he might, Mickey could not muster the intent to make him leave.

It probably wouldn't have mattered if he did, he thought. The damage had been done years ago.

But he does manage to speak. And he hears his own voice for the first time in ages outside the confines of the bedroom he still shares with Mandy. It's rough with disuse, lending an edge to his words that never used to be there.

"Ask me again, I'll stab you with it," he threatens, then stops, eyes blown wide and fearful by his own statement. But the rush of air never comes, nor that strange tingle, and all he can feel is the tickle of sweat sliding down the back of his neck.

He's so relieved he could cry.

"Are you ok?" the Gallagher boy asks, and Mickey tries to snarl, to make him back away.

"Shut up," he orders. And then he spins back around in his seat to hide his grin.

Because he can talk, after all, without causing terrible things. The trick, he knows now, is just not to mean it.

---

When Mickey is fifteen, he's loud and brash. He throws words around like they're meaningless, because to him, they are.

They have to be.

And it's working out fine, really. As long as he swallows down his feelings, keeps them locked up tight in his chest, it doesn't matter what words leave his lips.

Until, one day after school, he finally loses control.

And of course, it's because of Ian fucking Gallagher.

Because Ian keeps trying to be Mickey's friend, and Mickey knows it isn't real. He knows what he did. So when Ian joins his little league team in 4th grade, Mickey gets himself thrown out. And when Ian tries to partner with him for the 6th grade science fair, Mickey gets himself suspended instead. Every year is a new attempt, and every year, Mickey manages to shut it down.

He's ready to do it again on the first day of their sophomore year, when Ian calls his name outside the old brick school building.

"Hey, Mickey!" he tries, waving gangly arms to catch his attention. "Mickey, over here!"

Mickey studiously ignores him, like always, until he hears the smack of books hitting the ground.

"Whatcha callin' him for, eh?" comes a voice Mickey recognizes as one of his cousins. There's another rough sound, and a curse as Ian himself is pushed to the ground. Mickey's cousin laughs.

"What a pussy," he snickers. When Mickey turns around, his cousin waves him over with a wicked grin. "Ey, Mick, you know this guy?" he asks, not waiting for an answer before he nudges Ian in the side with a dirty boot. "He keeps callin' for ya, think he's got a crush or somethin'."

Ian's face is red, and his jaw is clenched, but he looks away when Mickey catches his eyes. He looks embarrassed, and maybe sad, and before Mickey knows what he's doing, he speaks from the place he always keeps under lock and key.

"You're gonna leave him alone," he rumbles, a breeze picking up behind him. "You're never gonna touch him again." A few leaves flutter at his feet as his intention builds. His cousin doesn't notice, but Ian does, and Mickey finds himself staring into emerald green eyes as he says, "You noticed nothing," just like his mother did all those years ago, and lets the words go.

His cousin blinks at him, suddenly lost, then down at Ian. "The fuck are you doing down there man?" he asks, and almost offers a hand before awkwardly pulling it back. "Eh, whatever," he mutters, and stumbles off to join the line for the bus.

"What was that?" Ian asks breathlessly, and Mickey shrugs, thumbing his nose. Inside, he's horrified by his slip, but all he says is, "nothing."

And scared or not of how it felt, that rush of cool air tingling against his skin as he spoke, he can't deny it felt good.

It feels even better when Ian smiles.

---

When Mickey is seventeen, he has a friend, and he thinks he might have to stop talking again.

Ian is around all the time, now. They sit together at school, and hang out at the Gallagher house on weekends. They go to movies, and baseball games, and tell each other everything.

Well, almost everything.

And deep down, Mickey knows what this is. He told the world that Ian would be his friend, and so he is. It's nothing more than that.

But when Ian starts talking about the guy he's seeing, starts blowing Mickey off to spend time with him instead, it still makes Mickey's heart hurt.

Somewhere along the line, between avoiding Ian and letting his life revolve around him, Mickey had started wanting more.

It's in those moments, sitting on the sofa with their thighs pressed together, the strawberry scent of Ian's shampoo lingering in the air around them as he waxes poetic about the restaurant his boyfriend took him to, when Mickey fights himself the most.

It would be so easy, he knows. So easy to open his mouth and let the words out. Ian, he could say, you love me. You want me. Leave him, Ian. Be with me instead.

He doesn't. He wouldn't. But he could, and knowing that kills him.

Instead, he starts pulling back. Cancels plans before Ian can. It hurts, but he does it, because Ian deserves to be free from the wish Mickey made when he was a child.

Ian notices, of course he does. He ignores it, mostly, until the night Mickey opens the door to find him standing there, sweaty and scowling.

"Why are you doing this?" he asks Mickey immediately. "Why are you shutting me out?"

Mickey swallows. "Don't know what you're talkin about," he lies, wishing desperately that it were true. He feels a zing of power go through him, but there's no escape for it; his words don't work on himself.

"Bullshit," Ian accuses, stepping over the threshold to bring them chest to chest. "Just tell me, Mick," he urges. "You know you can tell me anything."

"I can't," Mickey offers breathlessly. "I really can't, Ian."

It doesn't deter him; if anything, it makes him angrier. "What's gonna happen if you do, huh?" he challenges, shoving Mickey back until he hits the wall.

And Mickey can't take it anymore.

"I don't know!" he shouts, tearing at his hair. "I don't fucking know, Ian, ok? I've been trying not to say it for so long, I don't know what will happen if I do!"

It takes the wind out of Ian's sails; he visibly deflates. His eyes turn soft, instead of angry, and there's a quiver in his voice when he asks again. "Tell me what, Mickey?" he whispers.

Mickey won't say the words. Instead, he surges toward Ian and presses their mouths together in a rough, clumsy kiss.

It lasts only a moment before Ian pulls away, and Mickey tries not to die inside. Forces himself not to fix it. But a second later, there's a beaming grin on Ian's bruised lips, and he's saying, "is that all it was?" and leaning in again.

---

When Mickey is nineteen, he has a boyfriend, and he says what's in his heart.

They’re alone in the Gallagher house, a rare enough occurrence already, and they’re tangled together in Ian’s tiny single bed. “Ian,” he whispers when they part for breath. “Ian,” he moans as that mouth trails down his neck and behind his ear, pressing kisses in its wake. “Ian,” he cries out as he clenches fingers in bright red hair, holding on for dear life as they rock together.

“Fuck, I love you Mick,” Ian murmurs against his heated skin, and Mickey stops still.

It takes a minute for Ian to catch on, another for him to pull back, eyes questioning and nervous. “Is that okay?” he asks in a hushed voice.

Mickey licks his lips, and tries the words out himself, like a dare. “You love me,” he whispers, eyes locked on Ian’s own.

Nothing happens.

There’s no shift in the air around them, no new goosebumps beyond the ones Ian caused himself. There’s no weight in Mickey’s chest trying to get out.

There’s just Ian.

Ian, with his copper hair shining in the light from the window. Ian, surrounding him in the scent of strawberrie shampoo and sweat and cheap cologne from the corner store that he only wore when they were together. Ian, who was watching hi, waiting, biting his red bottom lip and trying not to move.

Mickey laughs, and pulls him closer, kissing him again, feeling Ian smile with relief against his lips. “You fucking love me,” he repeats, just because he can. The words can’t change something that’s already true. “I fucking love you too,” Mickey says.

And he does.

#daily speedwrite #<-still calling it tgat even though it took forever #because if it wasn't I'd completely redo it before sharing #gallavich #fanfic #mickey milkovich #ian gallagher #fantasy au #fic request #i just got home I'm so tired😭#I hope it's vaguely coherent #tw:domestic abuse

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winter-fox-queen · 3 years

Text

Fire Meets Gasoline: It’s Dangerous to Fall in Love

Fire Meet…Chapter 1

It’s Dangerous to Fall In Love

Warnings: This will be dark. The main character is female, a librarian, but blank canvas — but she is being stalked and has been trying, very hard, to stay out of an abusive relationship. So triggers may be abusive relationships (Ezra is a jewel and won’t hurt her) and stalking. She is doing her best. I think you will like her. No smut this chapter, I curse like some people breathe so let’s just assume there’s cursing. Passing food mention.

This is mostly just set up. Next part, we start to get to the good stuff. I think.

He arrived in town in a beat up truck, like some kind of Wild West fairy tale. He had a guitar that he liked to tell people he won in a poker match — but really, he got it at a garage sale. It was one of the few things he kept in the cab, the rest, rain, snow or shine stayed in the back. None of it was worth much, and he figured, if someone wants to steal his worn out clothes, they can go right ahead.

His name was Ezra, and he had both his arms (despite a very, very vivid dream about his step sister cutting it off the other night) a somewhat useless English Doctorate Degree (he’d been sleeping with the Dean’s wife, he found out and told the Council of Trustees and the President of the University that Ezra was having an inappropriate affaire with his seventeen year old daughter, who, righteously displeased at the whole of the situation went along with the lie— the moral of the story, never fuck around until yhou have tenure), some enemies, some larcenous skills, and the deed to a disreputable looking bowling alley.

Oh, Lord above, was it disreputable looking. The parking lot was more weeds than asphalt. The neon sign — The Bowling Green — flickered weirdly and the bowling pin at the end was half hanging off the otherwise featureless brick wall. “Oh, Uncle, you meant well but I do fear you have done me wrong.”

There was another car in the parking lot, fairly new. He parked next to it, close to the door, neither of them worrying over sticking to the non existent parking lines. He unlocked the peeling green painted door and went down the hall, past the office, past restrooms, to the only part of the place that still looked taken care of — the bowling lanes themselves.

There you were. His uncle had told him about you — a sweet woman, a little lonely, but nice. A librarian at the local middle and high schools. You came in every week day at 3:30 on the dot, checked around the place for problems, then spent a solid hour bowling.

Ezra leaned against the door jamb, taking you in. Something tugged at him, his heart felt like it was waking up, stretching its arms and looking around for something to love, and there. There you were. Beautiful, relaxed in your element, still in your work clothes, your bowling shoes looking well loved but old enough to predate the building.

He turned around and walked back down the hall, opened the green door again, slammed it loudly, then walked back down to the alleys, whistling, jiggling his keys.

You were less relaxed now, as he came into view. Bowling ball held defensively. Back straight, eyes wary.

“Hey!” He calls your name. “I”m Ezra. Uncle Mike told me about you…hopefully he returned the favor, without much elaboration upon my past trespasses.”

Slowly, the stiffness eases out, and you lower the ball, smiling a little. The kind of smile that makes a heart wont to jump right out of its chest, run over, tug on a lady’s pant cuff to see if she’ll pick it up and keep it.

“All he ever said was that you were a good boy…and that you talk an awful lot.”

“I didn’t work myself through college to use one word when seven will do.” He grinned back, and his smile grew when you giggled.

“I like that. So. Do you mind if I keep bowling? I mean…like…”. Uncertainty again. “I really do like coming in every day, so if I need to pay now, or if it’s not convenient…”

“I wouldn’t dream of changing a thing. I’m not sure if I am going to open this place up again or not…but it’ll be nice to see the lanes being used.”

“Thank you.” You said, the sheer relief in your tone striking him odd, but he put it aside.

“Want to play a couple frames before you have to go?”

“Yes!” You walk over to the screen and clear the previous game, then typed in his name. “There are some shoes in a plastic box behind the counter…I moved them when I realized that the mice were enjoying chewing on them.”

“I do hate mice. Bold as brass, they are…”. He found the box and rooted through. “I have not played…oh, not since I left to get my master’s degree.”

“What did you get your degree in?”

He dropped a pair on the floor, slipped off his well worn in Toms, and shoved his feel into the stiff bowling shoes. “Poetry. Almost got into trouble because I didn’t want to specialize…I love it all. Byron, Neruda, Stephen Crane…the Bard himself. Why should I deny myself any pleasure?”

“You sound like me,” You say, as you wait for him to choose his ball. “I hoard books like dragons hoard gold.”

Ezra thinks of the well duct taped plastic bins of books in the back of his truck. A sliver of the library he’d had once. “Nothing like being surrounded by books.”

“It’s my retirement plan. I keep buying books and hoping I’ll live long enough to read them…anyway…you first. I have to get home before dark, so we can’t play too long.”

“Drat. And I was hoping to convince you to let me buy you dinner, in thanks for being so kind.” He releases the ball, the feel slowly coming back to him, winces when it goes right for the gutter.

You blush a little. Look tempted. “Some other time, maybe.”

Another gutter, and he gives up the floor to you with a bow. “Well, the way I’m playing, this is going to be a short game.”

“You’re just rusty.” You let the ball go, with just a little curve. Just when he thinks it’s heading for the gutter it curves right and takes out the middle pins.

“Do you like being a school librarian?”

You stop as you reach for your newly returned ball, your side eye and sudden stiffness communicating, loudly, that she was well aware she has not told you where she worked.

“My Uncle told me. He used to speak often of you — the old goat was quite fond of you.”

“And I him,” you take your steps, release your ball, and take out the rest of the pins. “What else did he tell you?”

Little bird, what happened to make you so suspicious? “That you like bowling because it gives you an outlet after a hard day at work. That you like the job and the kids but it’s hard. Lots of stress.”

You nod, as if that makes sense. As if you are willing yourself to think it is OK. The rest of the frames go better. Ezra is more careful, filling the silence with junk about himself, about his Uncle, and you relax, little by little. You even step a little closer, both of you staring up at the board at the winning score.

“Not bad, you could probably go on the circuit, make money.”

You laugh. “Go pro? Not happening. You are a flatterer.”

“Why flatter when the truth is too good to use?”

You sneak a look at your watch, nod, and start to put things away.

“I’ve got it,”. Ezra says. “Maybe I’ll play a few more frames, get better in case you ever grant me the honor of allowing me to play you again.”

Another flash of one of those lovely smiles. “Later, Ezra.”

“Will I see you tomorrow?” He calls to your retreating back.

“Nope. Never on a Saturday or Sunday. But Monday?” You turn and point. “Monday, I’ll give you that rematch. So you have all weekend to get better.”

“Since I am currently utterly abysmal, it will not be hard.”

You laugh and wave and go out the door. The light is the golden-hour gliding of the sun just going down, you’d have time to get home before dark.

He sighed, and wondered why it was that important. The town was fairly safe, as far as he knew.

He switched the machines off, and started grabbing his things out of the truck while it was still light. Time to get his things indoors, and then investigate the horror that was surely to be the upstairs apartment.

***

You made home before nightfall.

Sometimes, you thought, a smart woman might just move out. Move away from the lonely farm house at the end of a lonely lane. A place where no one would hear you scream, if someone attacked you. No neighbors to run to, to beg for help.

You sat there, as the shadows lengthened and the golden sun went down behind the trees, as if it did not want to see what happened next. You listened as the engine went tick, tick, tick, waiting, breath held.

Then you nodded, once, grabbed your stuff and ran up the steps to the porch.

The door was locked, when you tried it. Good. You unlocked it, dropped your stuff in the chair by the door, dead bolted it, then started the circuit.

How did they do it, you wonder. How did you mother, your grandmother, your aunt all live here, in this old pile that creaked and grumbled, with its millions of niches and shadows and closets that were always left open so you could see inside, see that no one was there. The cellar with the bar across the door. The steep stairs with the sharp turn that announced that you were coming to anyone who might care to hear?

You check the bedrooms, the bathroom, then go down the other set of stairs, check that the bar is on the kitchen door, then go and lay the thick beam of wood in the hangers on either side of the front door. Never bar the door until the house was clear. Now you could use the bathroom, take your stuff to the office. Turn on the TV so the white noise would cover the incidental creaks and groans and animal scrapings on this old solitary house. The sounds that meant nothing but would drive you crazy.

You’re contemplating dinner when the phone rings. You were half expecting it, but you still jump out of your skin. It’s the old landline, which you have to keep to have internet — and the ring is loud and harsh.

“Hello?”

“You’re home. Good. I thought you were running a little late today.”

“Principle Micheals.”

“Sweetheart. Is that anyway to address me? It’s after hours…you know what I want you to call me.” His voice is affable, but there’s this little hidden bite. You remember his hand around your throat, pressed right against this wall, and you shake.

“I know what you want.” You try to strip all emotion from your words. “But you know the school board…”

“Funny thing about that. I found out exactly who put forward that motion, that a principal can’t date his subordinate.” The last word is stressed, made insulting. “Your predecessor — Mrs. Whitcomb. Aren’t you shocked that someone you thought was your friend would deny you the happiness of being with your one true love?”

You wanted to argue the one true love bit, but it would not…no. That was never good, or helpful. Instead, you said into the waiting silence, “I am sure she means well.”

You did not tell the truth, that you went to her, begged for her help, and this was the best the two of you could come up with.

“Can you leave?” Mrs Witcomb asked. She already knew the answer…she was the librarian when you were a student. Your friend, book supplier, hero…she knew you could not leave the house.

“…In any case, she won’t be on the board much longer. Maybe we can ge them to revisit that stupid rule, yeah?”

You are paralyzed. What to say? What to say?

“It’s rude not to answer, sweetheart.”

“I think. I think. She’s right, that a man in your position of power should not be dating someone under him. If it went…bad, if things went wrong it could be very miserable.”

“You think things would go bad, honey?” His words, again, were velvet wrapped around a razor blade. If you grabbed them, the razor would slice right through and cut you open.

You hear the crunch of gravel. “Someone’s outside.”

“Oh, that’s just my little brother, Al. Go ahead and wave to him, so he knows you’re alright.”

“I have to hang up, ok? The cord can’t reach.”

“I know that.” A smack of impatience.

You hang up without a word. You know you will probably pay for that later.

You walk up to the window by the front door. A black and white unit is parked next to your car. You wave, then mime that you’re on the phone. The young man…plain, bland, doughy faced…nods once, and backs out.

Things are going to get so much worse, if that kid gets elected sheriff. But the Sheriff — another Whitcomb, but this one was the ex-librarian’s cousin — was popular, and you think, you hope, you have another couple of years.

You should go. Leave. Burn the place down and never look back. But there are bills — so many bills — and the fact you own your home is the only source of security you have.

“Eat.” You say to the echoing house, too large and too small at the same time. “You have to eat.”

Thank you to you lovely people for being on my tag list, if you want added or dropped just let me know. <3

@grogusmum @mishasminion360 @hnt-escape @littlemisspascal @pedro4ever @writteninthestars18 @fromthedeskoftheraven @sharkbait77

@quica-quica-quica @eri16 @the-blind-assassin @ayoungpascallover-readings @songsformonkeys @fan-of-encouragement @thegreenkid

#fire meet gasoline #pedro pascal #ezra x reader #ezra au #TW:domestic abuse

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myinconnelly1 · 3 years

Text

Risen pt 4 (Salvage Yard)

Word Count: 629

Masterlist

Warnings: character death (series warning), mentioned domestic abuse

A/N: listen you know who you are. You are the only one reading this.

A/N 2: Obviously this is a dark story and it is part 4. so if you haven’t read the other parts, the link for the masterlist is above, please proceed with caution.

Dean coated all the opens he could get to in salt as the ringing in their ears intensified. Both of them dropped to the ground in pain just in time for the glass everywhere to shatter and explode.

“That was weird right?” Zoe ask Dean as they stood and the ringing had stopped.

“Yeah, that was weird,” Dean said looking around uneasily. “Come on, we’re taking that car out there.”

“You’re gonna steal a car?” Zoe asked dumbfounded.

“We have to get out of here before whatever that was comes back. And we can’t walk fast enough,” Dean said, pointing his finger in the air and spinning it. His logic made sense, Zoe just hadn’t considered grand theft before. She sighed loudly as she realized she was dead, so she had no fear of life in prison.

“Where are we going?” Zoe asked as Dean walked out to hotwire the car.

“South Dakota. You should think about resting,” He offered.

“I’m not tired,” Zoe answered as she leaned against the car door so as not to touch Dean and give her death chill away.

“Alright, but don’t whine later when you are tired and we haven’t figured this thing out,” Dean seemed to be teasing her. She kind of liked it. He was trying to ease the tension of their horrible situation.

“Do you,” Zoe took a deep breath as she started a conversation with the man later. “Do you have any marks from being buried?”

“Uh, no. I’m totally fine. Not a single mark on me,” Dean said. Zoe looked at him as he avoided eye contact with her. She had dealt with enough pathological liars to know when she was being being lied to. But she didn’t want to press the issue and give away something important. “What the last thing you remember?” Dean asked a moment later, looking at her out of the corner of his eye.

“Tripping,” Zoe said quietly. It was the truth unlike what Dean had said and she hoped that would play to her advantage. It wasn’t a long drive, and the soon arrived at a vehicle salvage shop.

“Wanna wait here for a minute?” He asked her awkwardly.

“Sure why are we here?” She asked looking around at the apparent nothingness.

“Belongs to a friend. I figured I could see what was going on ease him back into this weird situation, then bring you in,” Dean said.

“You think he is still here?” Zoe asked forgetting that the two of them had been avoiding the subject of being dead. Neither of them had brought it up the entire time and she wanted to slap her face.

“Uh, yeah. It hasn’t been too long. I’ll just be a minute, okay?” He asked awkwardly not saying the thing they both knew. Zoe nodded her head, and waited for him to walk away.

She pulled the knife back out and examined it. She didn’t remember anything after tripping, but assumed from the marks on her body that she had put up a fight after hitting the table. She started looking around the car and found a woman’s purse. She sighed seeing the foundation and a small amount of other make-up. She dropped the vanity mirror on the visor.

“Still refuse to admit that Carter was an abuse asshole?” Her shadow asked her as soon as she could see her reflection. “How many battered wives did we see back in the day? Don’t ditch this Dean guy yet. I think he could be useful. Maybe even help you figure out what you need to do,” The shadow said the last bit in a sing-song tone that irritated Zoe. But it was right.

There was something important that she was clinging to. Something important.

@waywardbaby @destielhoneybee @snffbeebee @deangirl7695 @spnbaby-67 @maddiepants @ladywinchester1967 @woodworthti666 @miraclesoflove @tumbler-tidbits @emilyshurley @akshi8278 @mannls @wendibird @bobasheebaby @chelsea072498 @donnaintx @justsomedreaming @supernaturalenchanted @kalesrebellion @prettydeaneyes @emoryhemsworth @dontshootmespence @its-a-spn-thing @vicmc624 @idreamofplaid @anaelsbrunette @lovealways-j @kickingitwithkirk @wayward-mikaelson @electraphyng @mariekoukie6661 @katelynw93 @deandreamernp @thoughts-and-funnies

#supernatural #dean winchester #ofc #dead!ofc #risen!ofc #risen #dark #shadow #TW:Domestic Abuse #tw: character death #character death #castiel (kinda)

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depressingfmaheadcanons · 4 years

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Dante preferred to steal the bodies of young women who weren’t married but had significant others in hopes she could manipulate the individual into basically being her slave. If she couldn’t she could let them go without any thing holding her back. Or just have them killed.

#fma 03 #fullmetal alchemist 2003 #dante fma #fma 2003 #dante #TW:abuse #tw:domestic abuse #manipulation #Mod Headcanons

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lilacxrosesx · 4 years

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Skye never cried, she hadn’t shed a tear since her dad initially left, and here she was almost at Michael’s door with tears streaming down her face. She brushed her cheeks, trying to make out like it was nothing but honestly she was a little bit spooked after what had just happened. Nothing seemed to scare Skye and she could easily handle herself but this time, someone had made her feel so small and weak and she hated it. There were bruises forming on her arms and around her collar bone and lower portion of her neck, which she attempted to hide with her hair but she knew he’d see them eventually. “Hey Armani..” She avoided his gaze wondering into his apartment as she put on her best fake smile. @hxppiness--begins

#michael #tw:domestic abuse

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waywardvictorianconfessions · 4 years

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a few years ago i had an abusive friend who would manipulate me by saying i was the cause of all of her bad habits - drug use, self harm, suicidal ideation, et cetera. when i tried opening up about it on EA fansites, other fans would say that my abuser was right and i was a bad friend for not recognizing it. and honestly, with the way some of you talk about EA ("she gave me an eating disorder, she made me suicidal/depressed"), i'm not surprised that that was the general consensus among you.

#wayward victorian confessions #old confessions #trigger warning #tw:abuse #tw:self harm #tw:suicide #tw:domestic abuse #Anonymous #ask

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tngrayson · 4 years

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Memories - Nightmare

A/N: A little drabble that’s been sitting on my computer for a little while. Awesome chapter dividers made by @carryonmyswansong

Word count: 800

Warnings: domestic violence, ptsd