#but this is stuff more people should hear

[inseobts]

Hey Princess pt.1

zoro x fem!reader

part 2

you find freedom, love, and a true family among pirates—only to risk everything, even your life, to protect them from the chains of your past.

words count: 4.2k

tags: slow burn, enemies to lovers, banter, mystery backstory, angst and fluff

masterlist || ao3 || ko-fi

The sea glows soft and orange under the sunset. The Thousand Sunny cuts through the waves like it’s dancing. Luffy leans over the railing, grinning like a kid with candy.

“She’s cool, right?” he says.

Zoro crosses his arms and stares at you with one eyebrow raised “She hasn’t said ten words since she got here.”

“I’m observing.” you answer, voice calm. You stand straight, posture perfect, one hand lightly on the sword at your hip. Not because you plan to use it yet, but because it’s habit. You were trained that way.

“She’s mysterious!” Luffy laughs “That’s perfect for a spy. I always wanted one of those on the crew!”

You look over your shoulder at him “I’m not a spy.”

“But you sneak around like one,” he says “You climb walls and vanish. That’s spy stuff.”

You sigh “That’s just training.”

“Same thing.”

Zoro scoffs “Spy, huh. You look more like a princess pretending to play ninja.”

You stiffen. It’s small, but Sanji notices.

“Don’t talk to her like that, mosshead,” he snaps, stepping between you and Zoro with a hand on his chest like a knight “She’s a lady.”

“She’s hiding something” Zoro mutters.

“And you’re hiding brain cells” Sanji shoots back.

You sigh again and turn toward the door to the girls’ quarters “I’m going to unpack.”

As you leave, Zoro’s voice follows “See you around, Princess.”

You pause, just for a second. But you don’t look back.

Later, after dinner, Nami leans on the table, watching you clean a dagger with a white cloth.

“You’re really good,” she says “Where did you learn that?”

You smile “Somewhere far.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“I know.”

Usopp leans closer “Are you like… an assassin? Or like a ninja? Or—”

“I’m just me,” you say “I help people. When I can.”

Robin smiles softly “That’s vague. I like it.”

You return the smile. Nami doesn’t press. Not tonight.

Outside, Zoro trains on the deck. You watch him from the shadows of the upper floor. He moves like a force of nature. Sharp. Focused. Angry.

He pauses. Looks up “Enjoying the show?”

You step into the light “You make too much noise for a swordsman.”

“You sneak too much for a crew mate.”

You raise an eyebrow “Not everyone needs to swing swords like a caveman.”

Zoro smirks “Still think you’re too fancy for this crew?”

“No,” you say “But maybe you are.”

He laughs once “I’m not the one with perfect hair and manners.”

You smile politely “Maybe you should try both sometime.”

His grin widens “Sure, Princess.”

Your smile fades “Don’t call me that.”

“Why not?” he asks, wiping sweat from his face “It fits.”

You don’t answer. You just turn and leave.

Inside, Sanji greets you with tea “You okay, mademoiselle?”

You nod “Just tired.”

He watches you a little too long “If he bothers you again—”

“I can handle it.”

He nods. But you can tell he still wants to say something.

You go to bed and stare at the ceiling. You hate that nickname. You hate that it still hurts.

But tomorrow is another day. Another show. Another fight.

You’ll stay calm. Classy. Like always. And maybe Zoro will stop... Eventually.

Right?

It’s been three months.

Three months of shared meals, sea storms, and late-night watches under the stars. Three months of hearing Luffy laugh so loud it shakes the whole ship, of Sanji offering you tea every evening, and of Zoro calling you Princess every damn day.

But now, when he says it, you roll your eyes instead of going quiet. And you call him something back.

“Hey, Princess, your fancy dagger’s missing. Lose it in your closet full of gowns?”

You glance up from the map you’re helping Nami mark “Careful, Muscle-for-Brains, I might mistake your head for a training dummy.”

He smirks like it’s a compliment “You’re starting to sound more like a pirate.”

“And you’re still sounding like a caveman” you shoot back.

Usopp snorts from the side “I give it a week before one of you throws the other off the ship.”

Franky whistles “I give it three days.”

Zoro sits down across from you like he’s making a point “Bet you still sleep sitting up like some stiff little soldier.”

“I’ve seen you nap in the crow’s nest with your mouth open like a confused seagull” you fire back.

“Oooooh!” Luffy howls with laughter “She got you, Zoro!”

You smile. Not perfect. Not practiced. Just real.

Time passes and you start laughing more. Playing cards with Robin and Nami. Racing Chopper through the ship. Letting yourself eat two slices of cake, not one. You wear your hair messy sometimes. You yell when Luffy breaks the kitchen door again. You fall asleep in the sun with a book on your chest.

And it feels… good.

Even if the past still taps on your shoulder sometimes, like a shadow you can’t shake.

It’s a quiet night when you and Zoro end up on watch together. The sky’s clear. The stars are sharp.

You lean against the rail. He sits nearby, sword across his lap.

“You always this serious when it’s your turn?” you ask.

He shrugs “I take my job seriously.”

You glance at him “Didn’t expect that.”

“Didn’t expect you to stop walking like a statue” he says.

You laugh under your breath “Statues don’t trip over Luffy’s sandals.”

“You did?”

“I absolutely did.”

You both fall quiet for a minute.

Then he asks, “Why do you hate it?”

You look over “What?”

“The nickname. Princess.” His voice is steady, not mocking.

You stare out at the waves “Because I wasn’t one.”

He doesn’t say anything. But he doesn’t look away either.

You add, softer, “Not even close.”

Another pause.

Zoro finally says, “Well. Now you just sound like a gremlin with good posture.”

You huff “Thanks, Seaweed Samurai.”

“New nickname, huh?”

You smirk “You started it.”

Zoro shakes his head, but he’s smiling. Just a little.

You let the silence stretch after that. But this time, it’s comfortable. Not perfect. Not polished. But real. And maybe real is better.

The Sunny rocks gently on calm waters, shining through golden light. The crew’s loud somewhere probably arguing over snacks or music, but you’re on deck, stretching after training.

You reach up, arms high above your head. Your shirt lifts slightly, damp with sweat.

“You always do that in front of people, or am I just lucky?”

Zoro’s voice comes from behind you.

You don’t turn.

“Don’t flatter yourself, Seaweed” you say coolly.

“Didn’t say I minded the view” he mutters.

You do turn at that, raising an eyebrow “You watching me, Zoro?”

He shrugs, resting against the mast, towel slung over his shoulder “You’re hard to miss. Always moving around like a damn cat in silk.”

You walk past him slowly, purposefully “Careful. If you keep paying attention, you might fall in love.”

He scoffs, but something flickers in his eyes “Yeah? Then what?”

You pause beside him, eyes narrowed “Then we have a problem.”

He leans closer, voice low “I like problems I can fight.”

You smile sweetly “You’d lose this one.”

“You sure about that, Princess?”

The name doesn’t sting like before. Not now. Not when it rolls off his tongue like a dare.

“You know,” you murmur, stepping in close enough to brush shoulders, “you keep calling me that like it means something.”

“It does,” he says. His tone is light, but his eyes aren’t “Means you’re trouble wrapped in expensive taste.”

“And you’re what? A blade with no brain?”

“Damn right” he grins.

Your lips twitch.

The air between you hums. Too hot for the distance. Too close for comfort.

Then someone yells.

“LUNCH!”

Zoro steps back, breaking the tension “You coming?”

You arch a brow “You offering to carry me there, swordsman?”

He smirks “Please. You’d stab me for touching you.”

“…Maybe,” you say, already walking past him “Unless you asked nicely.”

Zoro chuckles under his breath, following you toward the smell of Sanji’s cooking.

Neither of you says it, but it’s there, building, beneath the insults, behind the banter. It's something hot, something sharp, something waiting.

The new island is small but full of noise. Music drifts up from the port, and colorful flags wave in the wind. Luffy’s already halfway down the dock before anyone can stop him.

“Let’s split up!” he shouts “Find meat!”

Nami sighs “He means food and information. Let’s go.”

Everyone starts filing off. You linger on the deck.

“I’ll stay behind...” you say lightly “Someone should guard the ship.”

It’s too casual. Too controlled. And it’s not like you.

Zoro notices first. Sanji notices next. Then Robin. Then everyone. But only those two speak.

Sanji steps toward you, soft and sweet “Ma chérie, I’ll stay. I don’t trust this island either.”

You force a smile “Sanji… they might need you for supplies.”

He hesitates. You never push him away, not like this.

Then Zoro’s voice cuts in, low and lazy “Didn’t you hype up the food here all morning, curly-brow? Go drool over a buffet or something. I was planning to nap anyway.”

Sanji frowns “You? Volunteering?”

Zoro shrugs “Less talking, more walking.”

You glance at Zoro. He’s leaning on the railing, looking like he couldn’t care less. But you see it in his eyes, he does. He’s not tired. He’s not bored.

He just didn’t want to leave you alone.

You nod once “Thanks.”

And then you go inside.

Hours pass. The ship is quiet. You sit in your room for a long time. Not reading. Not training. Just… sitting.

Eventually, your stomach grumbles.

You make your way to the kitchen, silent as ever.

There’s a plate waiting for you. Still warm. Covered gently with a cloth.

You blink at it.

When did Sanji even…?

You smile, small but real. You grab the plate, then pause. Maybe…

You carry it up to the deck.

Zoro’s sitting with his back against the mast, one leg up, one arm resting lazily on his knee. Eyes open. Bored.

“Nap’s over?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.

He doesn’t move “Didn’t feel like it.”

“Liar.”

He smirks “Didn’t want to dream about curly-brow feeding seagulls again.”

You chuckle and sit down beside him, cross-legged.

“I brought food.”

“Thought you said you were guarding the kitchen like a dragon.”

“Even dragons eat.”

You hand him half the plate. He doesn’t say thank you. He just takes it, like it’s normal now. Like you are.

You both eat in silence for a bit. Then you nudge him with your foot.

“Wanna play something?”

He raises an eyebrow “Like what?”

You think. Then smirk “It’s called One Truth, One Lie.”

He looks suspicious “Sounds dumb.”

“Chicken?”

His eye twitches “Fine. Rules?”

“I tell you two things. One is true. One is false. You guess which is which. Then you go.”

Zoro snorts “You made that up just now.”

“Maybe… or maybe not.”

He leans back “Alright. Try me.”

You grin “Okay. First round: I’ve stolen a crown before. And… I’ve kissed a prince.”

Zoro narrows his eyes at you “Stealing sounds like you. Prince kissing? Too much sparkle.”

You give him a look “Wrong. I kissed a prince.”

He coughs “What?”

You grin “I stole his crown after.”

Zoro stares “What kind of missions were you on?!”

“My turn’s done.”

He shakes his head “You’re insane.”

“You’re stalling.”

He rolls his eyes “Fine. I once drank thirty beers in one night. And… I can play the shamisen.”

You blink “You? Play an instrument?”

“Make your guess, Princess.”

You squint at him “The beer one’s true. No way you’re musical.”

Zoro smirks “Wrong.”

You gasp “You don’t drink like a tank?”

“Oh no, that part’s true. I just also play the shamisen.”

You blink “You’re messing with me.”

“Swear on my swords.”

You laugh, head shaking “Okay. Next round.”

You both go back and forth. The questions get bolder. The lies get riskier. The truths get more intimate.

You’re both smiling too much.

Then he says, “Last one. I call you Princess because it annoys you… and because it doesn’t suit you at all.”

You pause “And the other option?”

“I call you Princess because it annoys you… and because it suits you more than you think.”

Your heart trips a beat.

Zoro’s watching you now. Really watching. His voice is low, but not teasing.

You look at him, try to read past the usual smirk “The lie is that it suits me.”

He stares at you a moment longer.

“Wrong again.”

You don’t know what to say to that.

So you look away. And laugh. Softly “That’s cheating.”

“Don’t like losing?”

“I don’t like being seen.”

“I like watching…” he says as if there was something more to that phrase. As if he actually wanted to day “I like watching… you”

“Then if I was you I’d use my good eye to watch something more interesting.”

“There’s none.”

You blink at the surprise of that answer and then reply “There’s way too much actually.”

He doesn’t respond. But the silence is different now. Not heavy. Just… full.

You stay like that, side by side under the stars, the empty plate between you.

Staring softly at each other, and for once, you don’t feel like running from the quiet.

It happens fast.

One moment you’re finishing the last crumbs of food with Zoro under the stars, still warm from laughter and the closeness you’ve been too scared to name.

The next, the ship shudders.

BOOM.

Smoke. A cannonball explodes against the sea just yards away from the Sunny.

You both stand instantly.

Zoro unsheathes Wado Ichimonji without a word. You pull two blades from your thigh holsters.

“Marines,” Zoro growls, already scanning the distance “Too close.”

You nod “Too fast. We need to leave the island.”

He turns to you “Go get the others.”

“What?”

“You heard me,” he says, eyes sharp “Go. We can’t take them all without the crew.”

You take a step forward “I’m not leaving you alone—”

“I’m not alone,” he snaps “This is a delay squad. I’ll handle them. But if you don’t bring the others back, we’re all screwed.”

Your hands tighten around your blades. You hate this. But he’s right.

You nod once, heart pounding “Don’t get yourself killed.”

“Not planning on it, Princess.”

You hesitate at the nickname. His voice is tight, focused, not teasing this time.

Then you run.

You’re halfway to the port when it happens.

A young marine stumbles out from behind a cart, gun raised, shaking slightly. He’s too fresh. Probably new. Definitely not ready.

He sees your face and freezes.

“…Princess Y/N?”

You stop.

Time stops.

Your blood turns to ice.

Zoro’s voice calls from behind “Oi! What did he just call you?”

Before the boy can speak again, Zoro’s blade is already on him. He hits the marine hard and fast—non-lethal, clean, efficient.

The boy crumples.

Zoro’s breathing hard now. He looks at you “Go.”

You don’t move.

“Go!” he barks.

You run.

You find Sanji first.

He’s flirting with a waitress, of course. But one look at your face and he’s dead serious.

“Trouble?” he asks, already cracking his knuckles.

“Marines. Zoro’s holding them off. We have to go. Now.”

“On it.”

He grabs your hand, not romantically, just tightly, and you sprint together. You find Luffy, Chopper and Brook next, then Nami and Robin shopping for books and jewelry.

Jinbe’s the last. He’s speaking with a merchant about fish when Sanji nearly drags him mid-sentence.

Back to the ship. Fast. No time.

The battle’s already started when you return. Smoke. Screams. Blades. Zoro is fighting six marines at once, shirt ripped at the side, blood at his temple.

But he’s still standing. Of course he is.

Sanji launches into the fray, kicking through two men with one move. Jinbe bellows like thunder and slams into a marine squad. Nami brings down lightning. Brook sings a haunting note that freezes the air. Robin grows arms and breaks weapons. Chopper hulks out and punches straight through their front line. And Luffy is Luffy of course.

You fight too, elegant and brutal. Quick and precise.

You don’t look like a princess now.

You look like a weapon.

Eventually, the last marine ship flees.

The Sunny sets sail fast, with Franky shouting commands and everyone catching their breath.

You finally sit. Arms shaking. Blood drying. Exhausted.

But you feel his eyes.

Zoro stands a few feet away, arms crossed, a new bruise on his cheek.

His gaze is not angry. Not smug.

Just… focused. Tight.

He’s thinking.

You look down at your hands.

He starts walking toward you.

You panic.

“I’m going to bed” you blurt, already turning.

“Wait—”

You don’t.

You walk away before he can say what you know he wants to.

Because that word the marine said "Princess Y/N" wasn’t a joke.

It was your name.

And Zoro just found out that he’s been teasing you with the same title you’ve spent your whole life trying to escape.

You’ve mastered the art of avoiding him.

For days, you change your training hours, your nap spots, even your routes to the kitchen. Zoro is a hunter by instinct but you’re trained to vanish. And for now, you’re winning.

The rest of the crew, though? They’re not blind.

Brook whispers to Robin, “The lovely lady keeps dodging the swordsman. Ah… the rhythm of tension, yohohoho.”

Chopper tilts his head “Are they mad at each other? Should I make tea?”

Even Luffy notices “Hey, why don’t you and Zoro fight anymore? I liked the yelling!”

Nami gives you a sharp look every time you enter a room and Zoro leaves it or the other way around.

Still, no one says anything outright.

Until the morning she does.

“Mail’s here!” Nami calls, flipping through the newspaper and a thick envelope dropped off by News Coo “Looks like updated bounties—oh.”

She goes still.

You pause at the edge of the deck, where you’re pretending to study the sea charts.

“What is it?” Robin asks, sipping tea beside her.

Nami turns the paper around. Slowly.

Your face stares back.

Not the one they know now, no. The one from before. The mask you buried.

Perfect hair. Polished clothes. A cool, too-composed stare.

Above it: “WANTED – PRINCESS Y/N OF VIRELIA – 300,000,000 BERRIES”

Below it: “ONLY ALIVE.”

The world stops.

Luffy blinks “Wait. Princess? That’s not—like—Zoro’s joke, right? OMG they heard Zoro adìnd thought he was being for real??”

Sanji’s already walking toward you, newspaper clenched “Y/N. What is this?”

You don’t answer.

Your feet feel heavy. Like someone chained your ankles.

Franky whistles low “Only alive? That’s a weird order.”

Jinbe looks serious “That bounty… is political.”

Robin’s eyes are on you now, soft but sharp “You ran from something powerful.”

And then Zoro walks in, towel around his neck, sword at his hip.

He stops mid-step. Sees everyone circled. Sees you. And the poster in Nami’s hands.

He says nothing. But his jaw tightens.

He looks right at you. Like he already knew… but needed to see it.

You meet his eyes for the first time in days and you want to disappear.

So you run.

The moment you meet Zoro’s eyes and see the weight behind his silence, your feet move on instinct.

You don’t even realize you’re breathing hard until the door slams shut behind you.

Your room is dark, lit only by the sea-colored light slipping through the porthole. You lock the door, press your back against it, and slide down slowly to the floor.

You hear voices outside.

Sanji: “What the hell is that bounty about—”

Nami: “Did she really—”

Brook: “A real princess? How poetic!”

Chopper: “Should we check on her?”

Then Luffy’s voice cuts through everything. Loud. Sharp. Final.

“Leave her alone.”

Silence.

You close your eyes. That was Luffy’s captain voice. The one no one questions.

Time passes. You don’t move. You don’t cry either, you stopped doing that a long time ago.

Then… a soft knock.

You freeze.

Then, gently “Y/N, it’s me.”

Sanji.

You unlock the door slowly and open it a crack.

He’s holding a covered tray, the smell of your favorite dish escaping into the room.

“I figured you wouldn’t come out to eat,” he says softly “Can I… come in?”

You nod.

He steps inside like he’s entering a shrine. He doesn’t push. He sets the tray down on your small table and gives you space.

You sit opposite him, quiet.

“You knew” you say.

“I knew something,” he replies “Not this.”

He lifts the lid of the tray. Steam curls up, warm and fragrant.

You don’t eat right away.

Sanji watches you for a second, then leans back “You know… my poster once said Only Alive, too.”

You look up.

He smiles, but it’s not a happy one “Back then, I thought it was funny. Felt like a joke. But the truth? Someone out there wanted me under their control. Wanted me alive so they could put me back in a box I crawled out of.”

You stare at him.

He gives a small shrug “I’m not saying I know what yours means. But that look in your eyes? I’ve worn it.”

He pauses “I also know what it feels like to run away and finally be free, only for the past to reach out and grab your ankle again.”

Your throat tightens.

Sanji doesn’t push. Doesn’t ask. He just watches you like you’re something delicate but not weak. Like he understands what silence can mean.

You nod, just once. Barely. But it says everything.

He stands slowly “I’ll leave you to rest. There’s no pressure, Y/N. Not from me. Not from the crew.”

He heads to the door, then stops. Opens it.

You hear it too late. The sound of boots.

Zoro is standing right outside.

He doesn’t look surprised.

Of course he was listening.

Sanji steps out, lowers his voice “Don’t hurt her.”

Zoro’s eye narrows “What the hell do you think I’m gonna do?”

“I don’t know,” Sanji says, calm but firm “But I saw your face when you saw that poster with that name. And I know yours isn’t just about teasing anymore.”

Zoro doesn’t answer. He just watches Sanji walk away, slow and deliberate.

He turns his head toward your door.

Still closed.

Still locked.

And on the other side, your hand is still resting against it. Holding it shut.

You can feel him there. But you don’t open it. Not yet.

You sit at the edge of your bed, tray balanced on your lap.

Sanji’s food is still warm. Perfect, even hours after it was made.

You take a bite.

It’s just rice and meat, just seasoning and sauce, just something meant to bring comfort... but your throat closes anyway.

You chew slowly, blinking. Another bite. Another wave of heat but not from the food, but from something buried so deep inside you that you forgot it could still rise.

And then the tears come. Quiet. Stubborn. They roll down your cheeks with no sobs, no drama.

Just… exhaustion, guilt and shame.

You’re not the person on that poster anymore. But the world doesn’t care. It still sees the crown they forced on your head.

Outside your door, Zoro hears the sound of your breath hitching. He hears the scrape of the tray, the stifled sniff, the silence that wraps around.

He doesn’t say anything.

He just stays seated, back to the wall across from your room. Elbows on his knees. Fists tight. Jaw locked.

He doesn’t knock. Doesn’t ask to come in.

But he stays.

Minutes pass. You eat. You cry. And finally…

You open the door.

It’s quiet. Careful. Like you might change your mind.

He’s the first thing you see right there in front of you, still sitting like a sentinel. His eyes snap up when the light hits his face.

You stop in the doorway. Neither of you speaks.

Then, slowly, you reach down.

You take his hand.

Zoro doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t joke. Doesn’t move. Until you tug lightly.

You don’t have the strength to pull him up but he rises anyway. Not because you can force him, but because he lets you. Because he wants to.

His hand is warm. Rough. Bigger than yours. You keep holding it as you guide him down the hall.

He doesn’t ask where.

He just follows.

The kitchen is full.

Luffy is chewing meat with his usual noise. Nami is nursing a drink, eyes sharp. Robin has a book open. Brook is playing soft notes. Chopper’s legs swing from a chair. Franky and Usopp are arguing about cola refills.

But when you enter, silence falls like a curtain.

Every head turns toward you, and toward your hand still laced with Zoro’s.

Zoro stiffens slightly, but he doesn’t pull away. He doesn’t even look confused, just still. Focused. Watching you.

You feel every stare in the room. But for once, you don’t shrink under it.

You just walk over to the table and sit down.

Zoro sits beside you. His calloused hand holds yours beneath the table, unmoving, steady.

You’re not sure why you started holding it. You’re even less sure why you haven’t let go.

The others don’t ask questions. But they’re waiting. Gently. Silently. Like they’re giving you the space you need to begin.

Your eyes stay on the table.

On your joined hands.

“I’m a real princess.”

[lets-try-some-writing]

A more humorous concept.

Cybertronians, despite being non-organic in origin, do in fact have to shed their bulky outer armor every now and then. Old plates get brittle or otherwise damaged over time, and while rather energon consuming to regrow, sometimes it just has to happen, especially if rust or other nasty stuff has gotten into it. The missing plates regrow in relatively short order and the shedding only occurs after sufficient damage it taken or once every few vorns or so. Sometimes, the plates can even be removed by a medic with a quick visit if they are loose enough. The only problem with this? Everyone experiences something a little different.

Poor Ratchet suffers from what amounts to alien chickenpox. In order to get all his old armor off, he claws at it like there's no tomorrow. He will die before being caught trying to drag himself along the ground or rubbing himself up against various textured surfaces to get old armor off, but it has happened. It still happens when he's pretty sure he's alone. Optimus was there to watch Ratchet roll around on the Archive carpet many times.

Arcee is lucky in that all her old armor tends to drop within a few hours, but without it, she can't regulate her internal temperature very well. To compensate, she practically turns into a space heater as her systems kick into overdrive. The kids can't touch her without getting burned and the team are left yelping whenever she touches them when they aren't prepared for it.

Bulkhead is forced to endure losing his plates agonizingly slowly. He'll lose a plate, a new one will grow in. He's in a near never ending state of shedding. And so, much to Miko's horror, he'll just lose pieces sometimes. He's not all that concerned since the shedding, while continuous, is so slow. But the humans? It still startles them to hear an ominous THUNK out of nowhere and see a chunk of metal on the ground.

Ultra Magnus, much to his chagrin, turns into a beacon every time he sheds. His already vibrant colors come in even brighter as new armor grows into place. And so for a few weeks, he looks like an exotic fruit of neon blue, bright red, and blinding silver. Sunglasses are required.

Wheeljack likes to say he never sheds, but when he does, he recharges like the DEAD. Growing in new armor is very biologically taxing, and rather than suffering from other side effects, Wheeljack just takes a really long nap. He'll recharge for days at a time, getting up only to raid the fridge and then pass back out again until his armor is back where it should be. The humans have no clue he sheds armor because of this. But Bulkhead knows. He's been the one paying for Wheeljack's shed time groceries since before the war.

Smokescreen has only shed a handful of times, and all those times he was usually instructed to keep out of the way since he was in danger of being skewered without his armor. So now, whenever he sheds, despite experiencing no negative side effects, he instinctually goes to hide somewhere dark and safe until his armor grows back in. This has led to several incidents of someone screaming like a little girl as a spindly Smokescreen capitalizes on his status to scare people whenever they turn on the lights.

Bumblebee doesn't necessarily suffer whenever he sheds old armor, but he's just uncomfortable to look at. The scout tends to look like a plucked chicken whenever he loses his armor, and due to the weight shift when he losses so much mass, he hunches over oddly. In total, he looks a bit ghoulish and it actually hurts the team to witness, so usually he's given a few days off to get himself in order.

Optimus is in a similar boat to Ultra Magnus and Bumblebee on the rare occasion he sheds old armor. He always gives Ratchet a scare by going entirely grey about a week before the shed actually begins. He loses any and all color in affected areas and then proceeds to lose exactly all his armor within a few hours. Then he's left looking like a gangly half grown youngling due to the length of his arms and legs compared to the rest of his body. Megatron never ceases to mock him whenever it happens, but when Optimus's armor comes back in, his shoulders always come in bigger and sharper than before, a fact Megatron despises.

[annlyticalarchive]

CHAPTER ONE: Stranger in a Damaged Land

”You will be different, sometimes you’ll feel like an outcast, but you’ll never be alone”

Mark Grayson X Kryptonian/Clark Kent! Reader

Prologue | Chapter One (Here) | Chapter 2

w/c: 2.5k

c/w: Talk of injuries, not in an extremely detailed manner, but it is in here

Back when you first moved to the big city, you hated it.

It was nothing like back home, which you knew going into it, but the sheer difference hit harder than you expected. Like stepping off solid ground onto something that shifted under your feet.

Then the super hearing kicked in, and different became overwhelming. You could hear everything.

Car horns, bus brakes, every shoe against pavement, every cough or mutter or breath across half a dozen blocks. Every siren was a scream. Every phone call a whisper in your ear.

And that was just the mundane stuff.

There were things you heard that you wish you hadn’t. Things no one should have to hear. Things you couldn’t unhear no matter how hard you tried.

But it wasn’t just the noise that made the city unbearable. It was the crime, too.

Not just petty theft or shoplifting. You were talking about the kind of crime that leveled city blocks. The kind that made headlines. The kind that left craters in the pavement and smoke in the air.

It wasn’t like you hadn’t helped back in Smallville. You’d lost count of how many times you lent a hand around town. Back home, you helped wherever you could. Mending fences. Pulling tractors out of the mud. Fixing roofs after storms. You’d grown up helping. Your neighbors may not have said anything, but you were pretty sure they all knew what you were.

And they loved you anyway. You were one of them.

But here? Here you weren’t needed. That’s what you told yourself every morning.

They had heroes already. Real ones. The kind who could punch meteors or hold their own against alien invasions.

You didn’t need to stand out. Didn’t need to risk everything.

You could just be a normal person. Having a normal day.

That was, until you inevitably noticed something small. It always was.

An outdoor cat hanging off a third-story windowsill. A kid lost in a crowd or alone at a corner. A delivery guy struggling with a package twice his size.

Or, God forbid, someone in the wrong place at the wrong time, just seconds from being hit by a flying truck during some super-powered brawl.

That’s when you moved.

Quick. As subtle as you could be. A blur, nothing more.

Because those were the things the big-name heroes didn’t see. Not because they didn’t care. But because their job was to stop the fight. Yours? You made sure people didn’t die around the edges. 

When you could do what you could, not doing anything was the same as being the one to hurt others in your eyes.

But today?

Today you didn’t think speeding by was going to cut it.

Not with the way you were currently gripping the back of Lois Lane’s jacket like it was the only thing keeping you tethered to Earth.

“I don’t know, Lois,” you tried, eyeing the smoke rising from several blocks ahead. “We’re already close enough. We can see everything from here.”

“Seeing everything isn’t knowing everything,” Lois replied, her tone breezy, but her eyes sharp with something far more dangerous than curiosity. “Besides! Jimmy needs a better angle, doesn’t he?”

“Oh no, this is really—” Jimmy began, squinting through his viewfinder. His voice cracked a little as he smiled, “—this is a really good angle, actually—”

“Jimmy needs a better angle,” Lois said again, already pushing forward through the crowd, not even turning to see if either of you followed.

You gave Jimmy a look.

He shrugged helplessly. “You know how she gets.”

“Yeah,” you muttered. “Like she’s invincible.”

Another column of smoke curled into the sky, this one darker. Closer. You heard shouting, sirens, and beneath it all, the low whump of a collapsing building.

Lois ducked under a barricade like she was made of mist, nimble and fearless. Jimmy scrambled after her, still clutching his camera.

You didn’t move.

You were listening.

Not to them. Not to the crowd. You were tuning deeper—beyond the obvious. Below the surface noise.

There.

A heartbeat. Two. Muffled. Trapped.

A shriek of metal. A concrete beam about to fall.

No.

You couldn’t just stand here.

“Hey, I—uh—I’ll catch up,” you called vaguely, already backing away.

Jimmy blinked. “What?”

But you were already gone, yelling to Jimmy something about making sure the police could get there, ducking into a side alley, heart pounding—not from fear, but focus.

Lois could chase the truth. Jimmy could chase the shot.

You?

You’d chase the falling beam and make sure no one was under it when it hit the ground.

You reached for the zipper of your bag.

You couldn’t have a normal day.

But you could make sure someone else did.

So, quickly sliding your glasses into your bag and tucking it behind some forgotten wooden pallets, you sped off.

The world blurred.

You cut through the city like a streak of wind, dodging debris, whipping around corners, ducking beneath power lines. The soundscape changed instantly. Everything was sharper, louder, more chaotic.

Trying to hone in on the two heartbeats was hard. It always is.

But this time?

This time was worse, because the hero on the scene helping with the prison breakout was the one whose powers revolved around explosions.

You didn’t know his name. You didn’t need to. The craters in the pavement and the shattered windows told you enough.

His blasts were shaking the street like a drum, echoing off the buildings, masking the faint, thready pulses you were trying to follow.

You winced as another eruption sent a shockwave down the alley, rattling a manhole cover nearby.

Focus. You had to prioritize.

The heartbeats. Find them. Help them.

There, between the jolts of concussive noise, you caught the sound again. Close. Too close to the last blast.

A man’s heart. Slowing, pained.

A second one, smaller. Faster. Unsteady. A child.

You darted toward the source, weaving through broken scaffolding and shattered glass, until you found the two of them, trapped beneath what used to be the second story of an apartment building.

The facade had collapsed forward like a crumbling mouth, the upper floor now a jagged ceiling of concrete and steel just inches from the ground. A large support beam had snapped in half and was caving down slowly, creaking and shifting with each distant blast.

You gentled your slow beside the debris, as to not shoot them with the wave of air that follows you.

“I’ve got you,” you told them, lifting your voice just enough for it to carry.

The man looked up, face pale and slick with dust and sweat. His arm was braced around the girl protectively. She was barely conscious, tear-streaked face, head lolling on his chest, but breathing. That was something. She was curled close to the man, her father, you assumed, whose leg was pinned under a slab of wall.

You dropped to your knees beside them, carefully ducking beneath the sagging beam. The space was tight. Cramped. You kept your breath shallow, trying not to shift the debris too much.

“I’m going to lift this, okay?” you said gently, to both of them. “It’s going to sound scary, but I promise. I’m not letting it fall.”

The man coughed, grimacing. “Just—just take her. Don’t worry about me.”

You shook your head.

“Not a chance.”

You planted your hands against the beam, feeling the weight settle against your palms. It groaned in protest, metal shrieking faintly as the pressure shifted.

Slowly, deliberately, you lifted.

Not all at once. Not with a show of strength. Not here. That much force could bring the rest of the wreckage down. So you eased the weight up just enough to drag him free.

He hissed through his teeth as you braced his shoulders and pulled him toward you, careful not to jar his leg. It was already swelling. Broken for sure. But fixable.

When they both were clear, you gently let the beam down onto the floor so you could have both your hands free. You offered your arms to the girl. The father handed her over to you, she clung to you instantly, small fingers wrapping tightly into your shirt. You lifted her up and set her gently on your hip before turning back to the man. Using your free arm to help him up, supporting him well enough to where he needn’t put any pressure on his leg.

“I’ve got you both,” you told them again.

You moved quickly but carefully, guiding them down the side of the rubble toward a clear patch of sidewalk where first responders were gathering. The moment you spotted a paramedic, you waved them over and let them take the girl first, then helped transfer the man onto a stretcher.

He thanked you but barely heard it. Didn’t really let it process either.

Because as you watched them go, now safe, you finally let yourself exhale.

You weren’t worried about the smoke, or the dust, or the falling debris still clattering from overhead.

You weren’t worried about yourself. But them? You’d been terrified for them.

You turned to leave before someone could ask your name. After all, the last thing you needed was someone pointing a camera in your direction.

You zipped back to the alley, retrieved your bag, raked your hands through your wind-tossed hair until it lay more or less flat, and slid your big round glasses into place. A deep breath, normal-person façade engaged, and you jogged toward the familiar voices of Lois and Jimmy.

Lois was in full bulldog mode, trying to muscle past two weary-looking police officers who were just trying to rope off the area while rapid-firing questions at the heroes across the barrier. Out on the street you spotted the culprit behind all the blasts, Rex Splode, who still looked like a six-foot traffic cone, and a newer face, Shapesmith, The alien who tried a little too hard to act human when it was painfully obvious he wasn’t.

The irony wasn’t lost on you.

You found Jimmy knelt in the perfect crouch, camera angled upward to frame both heroes against the smoky skyline. You ducked behind him, shoulders rounded, voice low.

“Everything okay?” you asked.

Jimmy jumped, then exhaled in relief. “There you are! We lost you when the smoke rolled in. Lois spotted the capes and— well, you know Lois.”

“Trust me. I do.”

Before you could say more, Lois’s sharp voice cut through the hubbub.

“Hey, Smallville! Front and center!”

A few heads turned at the nickname, but she didn’t care. She was waving you forward with the urgency of someone flagging down a rescue chopper.

You stepped up beside her. The two officers looked between you and Lois, clearly weighing whether fighting Lane was worth the paperwork. It wasn’t; one of them sighed and stepped aside.

Lois barreled through. You stayed close, half to back her up, half to keep her from pushing too far past the police line that the scenario would end with the two of you in cuffs. Jimmy trailed, snapping photos.

Rex Splode and Shapesmith turned at the approach. Up close, Rex’s costume was singed, the orange goggles cracked slightly. Shapesmith was grinning ear-to-ear, absolutely delighted to be interviewed, even as medics loaded shackled escapees into transports behind him.

Lois launched straight in. “Rex Splode, Shapesmith—Lois Lane, Daily Planet. What caused the breach? Was it an inside job? How many prisoners are still unaccounted for?”

Rex scratched the back of his head, looking like he’d rather wrestle a bomb than talk to press. “Uh… the fuck am I supposed to know—”

“That’s not a number, I’m asking for a number,” Lois pressed, clearly impatient.

Shapesmith beamed. “Zero!” he declared with grand confidence. “Or possibly several. The counting procedure is ongoing.”

Rex groaned.

Lois pivoted, hooking a thumb toward the wreckage. “Your explosions caused at least two structural collapses in nearby buildings. Can you confirm no civilians were injured?”

Rex’s shoulders tensed. “I don’t give a—”

You spoke before you could stop yourself. “EMS has two minor injuries, both already cleared.” Both Lois and Rex looked at you; you shrugged, notebook half-raised. “They can, in fact, confirm that statement.”

“Perhaps you should take more care about the people you’re supposed to protect.” You hissed a breath through your teeth.

Lois arched a brow—good catch. Rex Splode simply scoffed. Mouth opening, likely with some smart retort.

Lois pivoted again. “Last question: Were the rest Guardians called, or is this level of damage considered acceptable for a two-hero response?”

That one landed. Shapesmith’s smile faltered as he cocked his head, a part of you just assumed he didn’t understand Lois. Rex Splode shut his mouth.

Lois quickly realized that she wasn’t going to get anything but snarl from the heroes as she turns on her heel. Pressing stop on her recorder as she grabs you by your hand and starts to pull you along.

Lois called out, excitement blazing. “Olsen! Kent! We’ve got a new angle!Guardians involvement, cross-jurisdictional response, we gotta get back to the Planet!”

Jimmy packed up his camera in record time. Lois was already marching toward the exit, and you followed with a small smile and a half-sarcastic, “Yes, ma’am.”

The walk back to the Daily Planet was anything but quiet. The three of you debated what to include, what to cut, which photo captured the chaos best, and, of course, whose name would go first on the byline.

Lois won. Naturally.

The rest of the evening passed in a blur inside your tiny, makeshift corner office. Papers scattered, voices rising and falling. Jimmy at his desk editing photos while you and Lois argued over phrasing.

Until Jimmy, bleary-eyed and slumped, finally gathered the combined mess of your article and turned it in with the kind of look that said, I’m tired, I’m done, don’t talk to me until morning.

So, the three of you finally parted ways.

The walk back to the apartment you shared with Pa was short, quiet, and just chilly enough to make your breath cloud the air. You rubbed your hands together for warmth, feeling the comforting weight of your bag over your shoulder.

Just as you reached the door and raised your hand to buzz yourself in, you heard it.

A faint crackle.

Not like static, but like a wire fraying, buzzing with dangerous energy. The sound made you freeze, head tilting instinctively, scanning the shadows.

You looked up and around. A rooftop, maybe? A streetlamp?

And maybe that’s where you went wrong, because you gave him time to appear.

He didn’t step out of the dark. He materialized. Smooth. Unnatural. A blink and there he was.

You have him time to materialize. This man in a crisp suit you could never hope to afford, a large facial scar across have his face, and a frown that looked like he just drank a pitcher of lemonade without any sugar.

“You’ve been hard to track,” he said finally, his tone calm, casual, maybe even friendly if you didn’t know any better.

It made your spine lock up tighter than any threat.

“Now,” he continued, eyes narrowing just slightly, “how about you tell me what you are. Make it easy for both of us.”

[ginnsbaker]

All Of Your Pieces (26 - Death and His Friends)

Chapter Summary: If she hadn’t looked at you the way she did, whispered your name like it was a prayer, melted into you like you were her home—maybe you wouldn’t be here, drunk, half-mad, half-burning alive just to save the scraps of a life that didn’t exist anymore. She should’ve been cruel. Should’ve been indifferent. Should’ve been impossible to love. But Wanda had been none of those things.

Pairing: Wanda Maximoff x Female Reader Chapter word count: 4.9k+ | Chapter Tags: angst, violence, and more angst Warning: graphic violence suicidal thoughts

A/N: More depressing stuff. Two more chapters after this, and we will close Part 2 :) I'm not thrilled about that because I have a lot of catching up to do yikes // More author's notes here.

Series Masterlist | Main Masterlist

Warning: graphic violence suicidal thoughts

The night tasted like your own sweat, and then blood that wasn’t yours. It’s not criminal if it’s criminals you were bringing down—one by one. At least that’s what you kept convincing yourself to believe for the past year.

Somewhere between the grit under your boots and the sound of your blade slicing through flesh, you realized that vengeance never tasted as sweet as you once thought it would. It was bitter. The tang of iron lingered stubbornly on your lips a little too long, and even as you wiped your face with a trembling hand, nothing felt cleaner. The city never slept. Nor did you. 

Rest seemingly died with Wanda.

Clint was the only one who understood, or at least he acted like it. When you slipped into the shadows together, he gave you the same name he had been carrying around: Ronin. A wandering vigilante without a master. You wondered if you should have been called something else, because you weren’t convinced that you both didn’t have masters. Grief was the master—it’s what kept you both going.

But perhaps Ronin was enough. It meant a directionless sword turned on those who deserved it. 

You kept a single suitcase with you, living on the road, never staying in one place long enough to remember which city you woke up in. The suitcase was mostly Wanda’s. Her worn jacket was still there, the threads fraying a bit at the cuffs. You used to breathe in its scent, pressing your face into the fabric just to catch a trace of her perfume. But now, it just smelled of you. And every time you zipped it up, you wondered if you were sealing the last fragments of her inside, keeping them safe, trying not to let them slip away the same way she did.

Sometimes, when the adrenaline faded and your heart pounded so loud you couldn’t hear anything else, you turned that jacket into a makeshift pillowcase, holding it close to your chest as if it could hold you back. It never did. If anything, it only reminded you of her absence, the emptiness next to you that you couldn’t fill no matter how many bad people you put six feet under.

The Snap might have happened more than a year ago, but it felt like it had just happened yesterday. Every morning you woke up to an empty horizon, and every night you sank deeper into your mattress. The need to punish someone—anyone—for taking her away was a drumbeat in your chest that just wouldn’t stop.

You caught sight of yourself in a broken window sometimes: blood-smeared and wild-eyed, unrecognizable. You thought, Wanda wouldn’t want to see me like this. The thought made your chest tighten. It wasn’t enough to make you stop, though. Because stopping meant facing the truth that she was never coming back. Stopping meant letting go of that last fragile hope that she’d appear from around the corner, gentle smile on her lips, her hand reaching out for yours again.

Sometimes you wondered if Clint ever had the same thoughts—if the burn of his grief cut him as deeply. You saw it in his eyes when there was a lull in the fight, that distant look that mirrored your own. But you never asked. Maybe you were afraid he’d say no, and you’d realize you were truly alone in this darkness. Or maybe you were even more afraid he’d say yes, and neither of you would know how to crawl out of it once it was spoken aloud.

“Hey,” Clint’s voice pulled you from the haze.

You blinked and looked up to find him dragging two men across the blood-slick floor. They thrashed weakly in his grip, their faces pale, eyes wide with terror. He shoved them forward, and they collapsed at your feet, trembling.

“You can stop anytime,” Clint reminded you. His knuckles were split and raw, his eyes dark with exhaustion. “Just say the word.”

You shook your head. No words were necessary. The sword was already in your hand again. With two swift strikes, it was over. Their bodies crumpled to the ground, lifeless, and the blood pooled beneath them like ink spreading across paper.

In that moment, you realized just how natural this had become. You barely reached for your pistols anymore. Clint stayed for a moment, watching to make sure you finished the job. When the bodies lay still, he turned away without a word and walked off in the opposite direction. You never discussed the logistics of this arrangement. You didn’t know where he slept whenever you tore through a city, crossing names off your lists. You never told him about the apartments you rented either. Your paths only crossed when there was a target—when you were both doing the work that needed to be done.

When his footsteps finally faded into the distance, your hands began to tremble. The sword slipped from your fingers and hit the floor with a sharp, metallic clang. You buried your face in your hands and choked on a sob no one was there to hear.

Outside, sirens wailed in the distance. The bodies you and Clint left outside were horrifying enough to cause a small panic from unsuspecting civilians who were just trying to get home from a hard day’s work. 

Tomorrow, you’d paint the walls red again. But that night, you let yourself break.

For her.

For the life you lost.

For the pieces of yourself you would never get back.

—

You drifted into a dream that felt more alive than the actual world you currently lived in. The sheets were tangled at your ankles. Her hair fanned across the pillow, soft as a sunrise. You had just made love for the second time that night, your skin still singing with the memory of her touch. It was achingly similar to the last night you shared in Wakanda.

Wanda lay beside you, her head resting on your chest, her fingers drawing lazy circles along your ribs. You stared at the ceiling, counting seconds in the silence, wishing you could make time slow down. The battle loomed just hours away, but here—it was just you and her. The world hadn't ended yet.

“You're not sleeping,” she whispered.

You kissed the top of her head. “Neither are you.”

She hummed softly, her breath warm against your skin. “I'm scared,” she admitted. “About tomorrow.”

“Me too,” you said. There was no point in pretending otherwise.

Wanda shifted, propping herself up on one elbow to look at you. She let the sheet fall away, revealing the soft swells of her breast. 

“What if,” you began before Wanda’s nakedness could distract you any further. “What if one of us didn’t make it?”

“I won’t let that happen,” she said, voice caught somewhere between a plea and a promise. “Not to you. Not to me.” Wanda used to gamble her own life without a second thought after Pietro died, as though nothing mattered. But that changed when she found you. “I want to live,” she confessed. “Really live—you know?”

You swallowed the ache in your throat. “Then promise me,” you said. “After this—after Thanos, after all of it—we vanish somewhere quiet.”

She gave you a ghost of a smile, brushed her lips against yours. “I promise.”

Then the dream warped. Wanda looked down at her hands, watched them crumble, every piece of her turning to dust. You lunged for her, desperation burning in your chest, but she disappeared like a whisper in a storm.

—

You woke with a start. Your throat felt dry, and the taste of stale liquor coated your tongue. A throbbing headache pulsed behind your temples—there were at least three empty bottles of something you barely remembered opening, scattered near your feet. Your vision blurred, tears mixing with the afterimages of Wanda’s face. For a second, you forgot where you were. Then reality flooded in like poison.

Anger sank its claws into your gut, white-hot and suffocating. You hated everything: this dingy flat you had borrowed for the night, your own useless heartbeat, the hollow echo of a promise that never stood a chance. You hated yourself. 

And maybe, in that twisted heartbeat of a moment, you hated Wanda too.

If she hadn’t looked at you the way she did, whispered your name like it was a prayer, melted into you like you were her home—maybe you wouldn’t be here, drunk, half-mad, half-burning alive just to save the scraps of a life that didn’t exist anymore.

She should’ve been cruel. Should’ve been indifferent. Should’ve been impossible to love.

But Wanda had been none of those things.

She was warmth in a world that never gave you much. She was soft hands in your hair after a long day, laughter against your throat, breathless kisses under the covers, sunlight pooling over her bare skin in the mornings when the war felt far away. She was the kind of love that seeped into your bones without permission, the kind that made you forget how to live without it.

And now she was gone. And you hated her for that, too.

Wanda’s jacket lay crumpled on a chair, surrounded by the scattered remnants of her things—the ones you carried with you wherever you went, hauling them from place to place, pretending she was with you.

You swept them all up without pausing to think. You stuffed them into a sack as though hoarding contraband. Your fingers trembled around the lighter. One flick—two—and a tiny flame sprang to life, hungry for something to devour. It tasted the edge of the sack, glowing brighter.

The fire spread. You stood there, breathing in sharp, rattling gasps, tears cutting hot paths down your cheeks. Smoke stung your eyes and finally tore you free from whatever madness had taken hold. Horror crashed into you when you realized you were about to let the last pieces of Wanda burn.

“No… no, no, no!”

You dropped to your knees, slapping at the flames with desperate hands. Your shirt caught fire first, eating its way up your sleeve. Pain lashed at your nerves, but fear of losing what was left of her stung a thousand times worse. You fought the blaze until you choked on the smoke and your vision blurred.

When it was over, the room reeked of burnt cotton and scorched flesh. The edges of Wanda’s jacket were singed, blackened holes marring the pattern she once wore. But it was still there—still real in your arms.

Shaking, you pressed it to your chest, ignoring the burn wounds throbbing along your arm. You sank to the floor and closed your eyes. A gust of wind rattled the window, shifting the smoke in heavy swirls, gathering dust with them.

Eventually, you forced yourself to stand. You swayed like a ghost in your own skin, unsteady on your feet, the jacket pressed against your ribs. You surveyed the wreckage before gathering what’s left of Wanda’s belongings and cradling them into your arms, full of regret. 

Wanda had once told you she wanted to live. She had promised you both would run away somewhere untouched by war or duty, but no promise could stand against the universe that swallowed her whole. You felt betrayed by the memory. You felt lost in its wake.

Trembling, you limped toward the sink, your eyes stinging more from grief than any leftover smoke. You tried to douse the throbbing burn on your arm with cold water, but it did little to soothe the ache. 

Everything in you felt rubbed raw.

—

Several weeks bled into each other, and you barely noticed.

Your burns had healed just enough to leave angry pink scars across your arm, but they still stung when you moved too fast. The rest of your body wasn’t much better off. A cracked rib that you refused to see a doctor for. A split lip that wouldn’t stop bleeding every time you bit down in anger or frustration. You told Clint it was all fine, but he wasn’t an idiot—he saw how you winced when you swung your sword, how you downed painkillers like breath mints.

He never said much about it, though. Maybe he figured you’d talk when you were ready—or maybe he was giving you the same distance he needed for himself. Some nights you caught him looking at you with something like pity, but you shook it off. You weren’t Clint’s charity case, and you certainly weren’t interested in a pep talk.

This time, the two of you had rolled into a run-down stretch of a town just outside of Bangkok. The main target was some mid-level crime boss with enough hired guns to make it “a real party,” in Clint’s words. He had briefed you on the specifics: smuggling ring, trafficking, a laundry list of atrocities that, a couple of years ago, would make your skin crawl. Now they simply just  made you more numb to the idea of writing them off the Earth more convincing and assuring.

Even so, a part of you itched with restlessness. The memory of nearly burning Wanda’s things was fresh behind your eyes. You remembered hating her for leaving you—and then hating yourself more for thinking it. You wondered if letting go was the only way to stop hurting, but you were too much of a coward to do that cleanly. So you kept marching toward every fight like you were daring someone else to do it for you.

You crouched beside Clint in the dirty alleyway, listening to the distant thrum of a generator. The rotting stench of garbage and stale sweat clung to the walls, and broken glass crunched beneath your boots. You felt yourself slipping into that cold, steady calm you had come to rely on during missions. 

The plan was simple enough. Clint wanted to get inside the warehouse and dig up every record, ledger, or scrap of intel that could unravel this syndicate from the inside out. You were there to keep the hired guns occupied long enough for him to do it. Neither of you said it, but you both knew you’d be dealing with far more than a handful of guards. And maybe you were counting on that.

It wasn’t just about the mission anymore. A twisted part of you craved the chaos, the rush, the possibility that one stray bullet might make all your nightmares vanish for good. You hated that about yourself—that tiny, traitorous thought kept whispering that maybe, on this night, you wouldn’t bother to dodge when your instincts told you to.

You forced your cracked rib to stop complaining, ignored the dull throb of the burns on your arm. Your split lip had opened up again, you could taste the iron tang of blood on your tongue. Clint glanced your way, arrow nocked. He gave a curt nod, and you returned it. 

Moments later, you slipped through the back entrance, steel blade in hand. The first guard never even turned around—by the time he heard your footsteps, your sword was already cutting through muscle and bone. There was no time for him to scream.

Clint veered right, making for the office where he could lock down the ledgers and hacked systems. You pushed ahead, weaving through the maze of crates. Every time your sword cut through the air, you marveled at how weightless it felt. By all rights, your arms should’ve given out—hell, you’d swung this thing over a hundred times tonight—but your body kept moving. Running on autopilot. Running on adrenaline, anger, and a deep, gnawing ache you refused to acknowledge.

Shouts echoed in the distance as more men poured into the corridor. Part of you recognized this was a setup—that they knew you were here. But instead of warning Clint or retreating, you stepped out into the open, letting them see you, letting them surge toward you with guns and knives raised. It was suicide, and you knew it. A hollow part of you almost wished one of them would be good enough to make you bleed out on the cold cement floor.

They weren’t. You cut through them with eerie precision, each blow landing home. Blood splattered across your suit, red mist hanging in the air. Gunfire stuttered behind you, but you didn’t so much as flinch. A bullet sliced past your ribs, carving a fresh line of pain, but you barely registered it. Your focus stayed locked on the next body, the next target—because right now, that was all that mattered.

Eventually, the corridor fell silent except for your ragged breaths. Men lay sprawled across the floor, each one worse off than the last. You stepped gingerly over the bodies as if they were pavement, as you made your way back to Clint.

Out of the corner of your eye, Clint burst from the office, a black duffel slung over his shoulder, stuffed with whatever intel he’d scraped together. He gave you another nod. You didn’t nod back. You just stood there, blood in your mouth, heartbeat in your ears.

And then you turned. A mistake.

A single gunshot shattered the suffocating silence. The impact slammed into you from behind, just beneath your shoulder blade. You had enough time to feel the white-hot shock before your muscles went slack.

Blood bloomed across your suit, warm and sticky. You tried to breathe, but the air refused to come. Your knees gave out, sending you crashing onto the cold concrete. Vaguely, through the haze, you heard Clint’s shout—angry, desperate—followed by the heavy thud of another body hitting the ground.

Your vision swam, black creeping in at the edges. You tried to inhale again, but each breath rattled uselessly in your throat.

In the final moment before you lost consciousness, your thoughts drifted to Wanda. You almost laughed at the idea that you'd ever believed you could hate her. Because the truth was—you'd have given anything to have her there, just once more, before you took your last breath.

For the first time in months, you smiled.

—

You woke to white. 

White walls, white sheets, white lights overhead. For a moment, you wondered if you were dead. If this was the afterlife, maybe some waiting room before the pearly gates. But the thought barely lasted a heartbeat. You remembered what you’d done over the past year—how many lives you’d ended, how many lines you’d crossed, all in the name of vengeance that still left you hollow. No way in hell heaven would open its doors for you.

Then you thought of Wanda. If heaven existed, she’d be its ambassador. But the thought turned bitter almost instantly—because if she was up there, somewhere beyond all this, and you were still down here, waiting for oblivion to take you, what did that say? A wave of sorrow washed over you so fierce it almost had you choking on your own breath. You pressed your eyes shut, wishing you had done every damned thing differently.

Your skull throbbed with a dull ache, and your body refused to move in one solid piece. You felt bandages, tight across your chest, your shoulder, the place on your arm where your burns still festered. A monitor beeped somewhere near your head, an annoying reminder that you weren’t free of your body yet.

The door creaked open. Soft footsteps. You cracked your eyes to see a woman in a white uniform—like everything else in the room—walking in with a clipboard pressed to her side. She said something in Thai, her tone calm and professional. You stared at her, blinking, the words tumbling around your already-battered mind. 

She paused, probably recognizing your blank expression. Then she switched to English, the smooth shift of her voice almost startling. “Hello,” she said gently. “I’m Doctor Kia. How are you feeling?”

You tried to answer, but your tongue felt thick, your mouth dry. Instead, you managed a small croak, which was enough for her to spring into action and offer you a cup with a straw. You sipped slowly, the water cool against your parched throat.

“Your injuries were quite severe,” she went on, scanning your chart. “The bullet punctured your right lung. There was significant internal bleeding. You also have older injuries—burns, possibly cracked rib that didn’t heal properly. We’ve taken care of the worst of it, but you’ll need time, medication, and rest.”

You didn’t say anything. It all felt surreal—like she was a judge listing your crimes rather than a doctor reading your chart. In your half-dazed mind, you wondered if heaven would put you through the same process if you showed up at its gates. Would they read off every name you’d killed, every line you’d crossed, before slamming the doors in your face? Probably.

Doctor Kia’s voice droned on but you’d stopped listening to specifics the moment she mentioned internal bleeding and fractured bones. She might as well have been describing someone else’s broken body. You had no idea why you were still breathing, anyway.

She stepped closer to the bed, her brows pulled tightly together. You felt her gaze on you like a spotlight, bright and uncomfortable. “How did you get these injuries?” she asked, voice quiet, just above a whisper.

You shifted your eyes away, refusing to meet her stare. A cold wave of anger or shame—maybe both—knotted in your stomach. You didn’t feel like conversation, certainly not about the life you’d carved out of your own misery. She’d leave eventually if you kept silent. Once she was gone, you could slip away too.

But Doctor Kia didn’t leave. She hovered there, determined, tapping her pen against the clipboard. Finally, she said something about women trapped in cycles of violence, about the importance of speaking up, of reaching out for help. Her words dripped with earnestness, like she’d seen one too many battered wives pass through her ward with too many excuses. Maybe she thought you were one of them.

The noise in your head rose to a roar, drowning out every word. The guilt, the hate, the sting of Wanda’s memory—it all churned under your skin. You felt your teeth clench, your jaw tighten. You turned your head, shooting her a look that begged her to stop talking.

She didn’t read the warning. Another sentence tumbled out of her mouth, something about how you weren’t alone in this.

“Stop,” you bit out, harsher than you meant.

Doctor Kia paused, her mouth open, eyes full of concern. For a long second, neither of you moved. You pressed your palms into the stiff sheets, ignoring the pain. You saw her sympathy and wanted to throw it back in her face.

But you said nothing more. She seemed to get the message. Her shoulders stiffened, and she exhaled through her nose, carefully shutting whatever speech she had prepared. Wordlessly, she scribbled a note on the clipboard, turned on her heel, and left you alone with the sound of your own labored breathing.

As soon as Doctor Kia’s footsteps faded into the corridor, you tried to move. You propped yourself on one elbow, teeth clamped against the groan that rattled in your chest. The pain was white-hot—sharp enough to steal your breath. She hadn’t been exaggerating about your injuries. A bullet to the lung, a second degree burn, and a cracked rib weren’t exactly sprained ankles. Right now, you felt every bit of it.

Still, your mind fixated on one thing: escape. You forced yourself upright, hissing at the stab of agony under your ribs. Your vision blurred at the edges, black spots dancing. If you pushed any harder, you’d pass out again.

When you looked to your right, you spotted your bag sitting on a plastic chair. Clint must have dumped it there before taking off. After a second, you reached out, slow and shaky, managing to snag the edge of the bag and drag it closer.

Your hand fumbled with the zipper, every movement a fresh ache. Inside, you found your phone tucked beneath a spare shirt and some other essentials you’d barely remembered packing. Relief flooded you when you saw it was still charged. The screen lit up, one new message glowed at the top:

GONE FISHING. STAY PUT. BE BACK SOON. 

Your thumb hovered over the keys, ready to tap out a warning, to say, “Be careful, don’t get yourself killed.” But you stopped. After everything, you couldn’t bring yourself to tell Clint what to do, couldn’t bring yourself to admit you still cared if he lived or died. In the end, you erased every letter you typed and let the phone slip from your grasp onto the bed. The pain was getting worse, demanding you stop moving.

—

You must have dozed off, because the next thing you felt was a sudden prick at your arm. Your eyes shot open on instinct. You jerked away and grabbed the wrist of whoever was leaning over you. The nurse yelped, dropping the syringe. She stumbled back, wide-eyed, clearly not expecting a sedated patient to lash out like that.

Your ribs screamed in protest at the sudden movement, and you hissed in pain. The nurse was already halfway to the door, muttering anxious apologies and something you couldn’t decipher. She fled before you could even get an apology out.

A few minutes later, the door swung open again. Doctor Kia. Her white uniform was rumpled, her hair barely tamed by the clip at the back of her head.

“What happened?” she demanded, glancing from your tense posture to the scattered supplies on the floor.

“I was asleep,” you muttered. “Didn’t know what she was doing.”

“She’s trying to help you, Y/N.” A sigh escaped her, heavy with exasperation. “You’re not exactly making it easy.”

You sank back against the pillows, turning onto your side—the uninjured one—and shutting your eyes as if that might dismiss her. The bed creaked under the slightest movement. “It’s fine,” you said. “Let me sleep.”

Doctor Kia ignored your dismissive tone. She stooped, picking up the fallen syringe and examining it. Then she approached you and started prepping the cotton and alcohol. 

When you opened your eyes again, she was poised by your IV stand. “What are you doing?” you asked.

“Pain relief,” she answered curtly. “You obviously need it. Your hair’s soaked with sweat, your lips are white, and your cheeks are pale.” Her gaze flicked over you, calculating. “Your body is telling you it can’t handle the pain anymore.”

“I don’t need—”

Whatever protest you were going to make died on your tongue as she slid the needle into your arm with cold efficiency. It was rather more painful than you were expecting. You caught a flicker of satisfaction in her eyes—smug, almost. Maybe that was her little way of getting back at you—for being such a nightmare of a patient.

The sedative worked fast. Within moments, your limbs felt heavier, and that razor-sharp edge of agony dulled to a distant throb. Exhaustion swept through your veins like a black tide, and your eyelids drooped into a deeper sleep.

—

Two days later, your body finally recovered enough for you to climb down a six-story building. Or at least, you were counting on it. You couldn’t stay here anymore, caged in that white-walled room. So you waited until midnight to make sure there were barely any staff roaming the halls—then slid out of bed with a grunt and stuffed your belongings into your bag.

The second your feet hit the floor, your healing wounds reminded you they weren’t done complaining. Your ribs screamed, your shoulder twinged, and a dull headache pounded in the back of your skull. But you clenched your teeth and kept moving, ignoring the beads of sweat that broke out on your forehead.

You’d just made it to the hallway when Doctor Kia appeared at the opposite end, spotting you with a startled frown. “What are you doing?” she asked, striding closer.

You exhaled hard. “Leaving.”

Her eyes dipped to your half-buttoned shirt, the fresh bandages peeking out beneath. “You’re in no condition to leave. At least wait until we can—”

You cut her off by thrusting a wad of bills into her hand—easily three times what this hospital stay was worth. She looked down at the money, stunned and worried.

“Keep the change,” you muttered. “Use it for…whatever.”

She clutched the cash, glancing from it to you, her eyebrows knitting in concern. “You shouldn’t be going yet. Your injuries—”

“I’ll manage.”

There was a beat of silence. You both knew you were a walking disaster, barely held together by gauze and painkillers. But the conversation ended there. You had no intention of listening to another lecture.

Slowly, Doctor Kia closed her hand around the money. Her lips pressed into a thin line, but she didn’t try to stop you. Maybe she realized it was pointless. Maybe she sensed that you’d tear your stitches rather than stay another minute.

Without another word, you turned your back on the sterile corridor. Every step jarred your ribs, made your chest ache, but you forced yourself onward. You didn’t look back, and you didn’t let yourself think about how your body was screaming for rest.

This place had never been a refuge—it was just another prison in a world that stopped making sense the day Wanda faded into dust. And so you limped into the daylight, still in one piece, more or less, but not sure how many more pieces you had left to lose.

[fuji09]

Seriously, this is why Deaton seemed sketchy. Not because he's black, but because of all this. If JR Bourne or Ian Bohen played Deaton, hell if Tyler Hoechlin played Deaton, I would still feel the same way.

But because some people got it in their heads that any type of criticism of a character who is a poc is racist, we can't even discuss the shady shit Deaton did. Because he does do shady shit. I mean every character does something shady at least once. No matter if they are white or a poc.

Deaton tearing Derek down like this one one thing I absolutely hate because Derek didn't need to be torn down (he tears himself down more than enough), he needed help. And yeah, Derek hit him because Deaton was lying to him and it made Derek think he was the alpha, and that was wrong. But Deaton continuously lied to Derek the first time they spoke. Derek was trying to get answers, Deaton knew who Derek was, but he kept lying. So Deaton actively lying to Derek the first time they met, when Derek was honest and actually came to him for help, yeah I get why Derek didn't trust Deaton. He didn't give Derek a reason to trust him.

People get all up in arms about Derek not instantly denying to Scott that he's the alpha and who bit him, and swearing Derek was leading him on and lying, but Deaton actively lied to Derek knowing he's a werewolf who can hear when someone lies. How is that any different? If Deaton had been honest with Derek at the start, Derek might not have even thought he was the alpha at all and then Derek wouldn't have hit him (which again, I know is wrong).

If you're on here, then it's pretty likely y'all have seen the post about being an adult needing an adultier adult. That's Derek. His age maybe 21/22 here, but he needs an adultier adult. And the only one who knows of this stuff and his past (who isn't a hunter) is Deaton. He's literally the only one who can help Derek. So when I say I expect Deaton to help Derek, it's not because Deaton is black, (seriously that's insane) it's because Deaton is the only one who can help Derek.

I'm a firm believer in if you're capable of helping someone, you should help them. Deaton was more than capable of helping Derek, and considering he promised Talia he would, it makes it all the more worse that he doesn't when Derek sought him out for help.

I'm sure someone will see this and think I'm racist (again 🙄) but no, Deaton's race has nothing to do with this. It's because he's the adultier adult who is the only one who can help Derek and he doesn't. Then he berates Derek more than once about being a terrible alpha.

Derek made mistakes, he made plenty of mistakes. But his intentions are not inherently selfish, or sinister as some seem to think. Yes, some are selfish, he's a person and all people have selfish moments. But he tries to do the right thing, and in my book, that means a lot.

He doesn't prey on his betas. He was raised to believe the bite is a gift. He seeks out people who could use that gift so that he builds a pack to get stronger to protect the town and himself, but also give the gift to someone who deserves it.

He chooses teens because they take to the bite better, less likely of the bite rejecting and after his trauma with Paige, it's totally understandable he wants to try to reduce that risk.

I hate that people see Derek being sinister here when in reality he's being kind. Derek sees abuse, illness, and loneliness and wants to help. Preying on someone is intentional. His intention wasn't to get people who wouldn't say no because they needed it, his intention was to help those who could use it.

Y'all also gotta understand that Derek has practically no self worth. He literally tells Scott and Stiles they need him for something whenever Derek is at risk of dying and needs help, multiple times! He has to prove to people he asks for help that he's worth helping because they gain something from him.

So of course Derek would find those who stand to gain something from him to offer the bite to. To him, if he's not useful to someone, then he's not worth helping. Why would someone take the bite, when it can add danger to their lives, unless they gain something from it?

This isn't a tactic to get what he wants. This is him offering what the person wants so that it's worth it to them to even consider it.

Derek uses the opportunity of helping Isaac before offering the bite. He uses his charm and good looks before offering the bite to Erica. We don't see him offer the bite the Boyd, but I assume he also uses something to his advantage. It doesn't mean he's preying on them. He's using everything he can to help because to him, he needs all the help he can get. He sees himself at the disadvantage here, not Isaac, Erica, and Boyd.

Again, Derek made lots of mistakes, but the guy keeps trying even when he's given every reason to give up and that says a lot more about his character than doing everything right would.

#i live for alan deaton casusally dropping truth bombs #on everyone #everywhere #at any time

[shewki]

What it's all about ☆*: .｡. — k.bkg

a/n : HI GIYS AHHH ITS BEEN A WHILE & I MISSED WRITINGGGG SO IM FEEDING YALL TODAY. SORRY IF IT'S BUT RUSTY, IT'S BEEN SO LONG SINCE I'VE WRITTEN A WHOLE FIC 😢

cw : u & kats have an unnamed baby girl, pure fluff, he's cringe (affectionately)(he's js being loving), not proofread 💔 & ooc kats.. 🙁

YOUR POV

It was now an hour past her bedtime, I tried to get her to bed at a reasonable hour, I really did. But how could someone reject my sweetheart, asking to stay up and wait for daddy to get home? not me, for sure.

It's been such a long day

With all the noise caused by the bundle of joy, the toys on the floor.. starting to think this is even more exhausting than my actual job.. jokingly, of course. Either way, I wouldn't have complained. My baby was just so excited to have her mommy around since it's my day off work after all.

Right now, its quiet, suspiciously quiet. No giggles, no sounds of waddling around, no continuous calls and coos of "mama" for no reason? huh. I was just gone for a minute to pee.

I followed the sound of rustles, which led me to my shared bedroom with Katsuki. Only to see my baby girl standing on a chair, rummaging through my makeup bag as she faced the vanity mirror in her pink tutu. I didn't utter a word, no, simply watched and held back a giggle at her for smearing the lip balm all over her mouth, followed by my.. ysl.. lipstick.. that I'd just bought.. Oh dear.

"Hey!" I sneak behind her back and put an arm around her while tickling her side.

"Mama!" She squealed while giggling.

"Whatcha doin' huh? being a naughty brat?" I giggled with her and kissed her cheek multiple times to distract her from my makeup, making her cry out a hearty laugh that I didn't even hear the door open.

KATSUKI'S POV

Shit.

Just absolute shit.. is what I would describe how this day went.

Why are people so fucking stupid? The amount of work I had to do today just because people didn't know how to do their fucking jobs were just, well, shit. Had better things to do than waste my time with people like that! Like spending time with my girls. This is just stupid, everything's just droppin' on my shoulder all at once.

"I'm home." I grumble as I take my shoes off, dropping my bag wherever as I take a mental note to clean up after myself later before my wife obliterates me.

No answer.

Fuckin' brat would be running to me by now.. And my woman would've been nagging her ass off about my stuff on the ground.

"Mama!" I hear a squeal. Hah!

I tiredly got up the stairs to see what they were up to. It's late anyway, and the little girl should be sleeping by now.

I followed where the sound came from and It led me to our bedroom. I sigh and take a look, my forehead relaxing all of the sudden.

There they were, my 2 girls, laughing their hearts out as they engulfed themselves in each other's love.

And suddenly, it all made sense.

This is what it's all about.

I live through shitty days, through hell, through hardships, and never give up. Just to end my day with these beautiful moments in life, with the most important people in my heart. Eugh, that's pretty disgusting, but I was never known to be a liar.

I grin and surprise them with a roar-like laugh to mimic a monster, making them scream and laugh in surprise.

"Katsuki!" My beautiful wife groaned but laughed softly regardless. Followed by my little bundle of joy, who calls out to me excitedly.

"Papa!" Her eyes shined like I was the greatest thing she'd seen in her 3 years of living and reached out for me to carry her, which I did.

"Hmph. Why are 'ya up ha? way past your bedtime." I say, pretending to be mad as [Name] kissed my cheek, radiating a warm welcome back home. The little girl shrugged and pointed at her mama, making her gasp in betrayal.

"We're pointing fingers now, ha? Who asked to stay up and wait for papa?" She teased and tickled her lightly once again and both laughed in delight.

Suddenly my battery is charged, by everlasting laughter that carries love across every corner of our home. This is what it's all about. :)

"Hey, where'd u drop your bag?" Oops.

[sapphiccup]

Burning Blue...

Word count: 1.3k

Pairing: Abby x reader

Cw: Slow burn <3 series…. //light panic attacks descriptions, awkward conversation, slightly suggestive, warning there will be nsfw in later chapters, Malnourished abby for the first few chapter, trust issues, anxiety, yep, gay stuff. MDNI AND CIS MEN -> DNI!

Summary: Abby is in quite the pickle, she is trying to get back in the real world again after dealing with so many cross roads with life. Scared to make the the wrong move again, however a certain someone pushes her to get back out there with life again. And once she does take that step.. well. Let’s find that out together, shall we?

Dc!:@/mmadeinheavenn

Song: Burning blue by Mariah the Scientist🧪💎

Prologue…ᖭི༏ᖫྀ

You sat on the same couch with a woman who is particularly on the more buffer side than most. She’s new, different, doesn’t speak a lot in your little village you call home. Home away from out there.

You could say, it’s like freedom from the real world.

Freedom in more ways than one, it felt as though this home of yours was so mundane that even this quiet woman has been accustomed to it. So accustomed that.. she’s forgotten about human touch, and would like to remind the both of you, how good it feels to be human again. Not weapons, not survival, just.. human.

In doing so—- here it all began. One hand on your thigh, and the other around your waist, a kiss so tender pulling away from your now warm swollen lips, panting in unison. The scent of arousal permeated the air,<- (credits to moonie for this highlighted line) like a spark to a flame as if it was strong as gaz de pétrole liquéfié.

But before you got here, there was quite a story that begun a little like this…

She arrived months ago with some kid, named Lev. He’s also quiet, but more like speaks when spoken to,

quiet. Cuts the bullshit and gets to the point. Got along quickly with that one. So, quickly, they figured you and Abby should meet. And after a while of insisting over and over again. You finally, exhaustedly gave in. Dragging your feet behind them, as they walked up the stairs upon a porch, knocking on the door. You suddenly understood that you felt more nervous than before, meeting this unknown silent woman. Who definitely looks like they’ve seen more shit than they should have. You took purchase to the ground instead of the porch, rocking back and forth on your heels to the tips of your shoes. Arms behind your back, as if you were a kid again, nervous to say hi to the new kid in class or you are the new kid. In your 20’s feeling more vulnerable than before, odd that those feelings are crawling over your skin, that you claimed has thickened. It was hot too, the sticky kind of hot, and of course you’d pick the ground under the beaming sun instead of her porch with a sun roof to banish momentarily hot rays. Another knock to the door came. You’d hear some heavy steps come near the door, whipping your head upwards to see. Abby.

“What’s up Lev?” She asks, only peering a bit out of her white door. Her face barely out the door, only able to see her nose.

“It’s time to get out and actually socialize. Like we practice” Lev urged them, with a slight groan to their cords.

“Ah, yes, definitely tell the whole village that as well Lev, thank you. Appreciate you so much..”

“Oh, is this what this sarcasm you spoke of before feels like?”

“Yeah— ugh, you know what.. we’ll work on your sarcasm skills later”

“Cold, okay see you—I’m gonna go work on a few cars today” he said turning on his heel, speeding down the stairs, giving you a cheeky smile before heading towards back into town.

“I- wai-“ She reaches out for them but they are already gone. Poor Abby, after years of finally finding a place she feels she can relax, she finds herself in quite the pickle to actually start speaking to people again. Feeling as though she doesn’t even deserve a friend after.. the Seattle incident. She slips through the door and out there she goes, greeting you with a nod, and an awkward bitten lip.

…

“So..” She starts off, with hands in her pockets, trying to regain some kind of comfortability. Or control.. You introduce yourself before this entire thing you’ve prepared takes off like a failed paper airplane. “—Lev said you needed some company, so here I am.” You continued, noticing her eyebrows raised, and a hint of pink embarrassment kisses her appled cheeks. “Yeah… I- you know..—-“

“I’m sorry I’m just..— not used to being insisted that I need to get back out there and socialize. Been a while.. with infected out there and.. all” is what she chooses to say as eels slip down her back, her once rosed hinted face now blanched with paleness. The memories of what she's done, the mistakes that were made, the karma that was dealt, the two sides of the same coin situations, everything that she wish she could take back and do differently… The conversation with Mel especially still lingers and has made a terrible cocoon in her mind. Ready to just pop open one day. But of course she sticks with the story that would be more common to share than her past of many unique decisions.

“Uh-huh…” you began,

“Well, I’ve been here for at least 5 years. Truly—- since the buildings used to be just scraps and what not.. but here we are.. heh, ha— um.. anyways… D-don’t really see you around the dining hall?” You bambled, blubbed, your sentence, wanting to just crawl back into your bed and sleep off whatever silly nerves are trying to camp in your nervous system.

“Yeah?”

This conversation is clearly not going anywhere! Might as well switch it up, you are afterall “You haven’t been able to meet everybody, and we’re all soooo curious about you”

“Is— is that sarcasm?”

“Maybe” you respond with a playful smolder, you manage to get a quirked eyebrow from this mysterious woman, and for that.. that is a win of sorts. Though, you fwip your head away from her, teeth dragging against your chapped bottom lip.

“Huh, didn’t pick you to have that kinda of humor” She states, as she slowly walks down the stairs. You turn back your attention to her as those wooden stairs creak under her. The closer she gets the more you notice how tall she actually is, and if you didn’t know any better. You took a step back, caught off guard from the height. In fact your eyes wander a bit more, not pervertedly of course just.. observing her physique. She wore a black wife pleaser, some dark blue jeans, her hair slightly chopped in a… interesting style.. seems like a struggle with scissors but that is no matter. Maybe she’d like a haircut some day by one of the friendly locals.. however you’re careful to not just bring that up yet. You’d also ponder if she had a muscle regression before getting here, unless you are mistaken from her stretch marks on her arms. Abby rubbed the back of her neck letting out a grunted ‘ahem’. You regain your focus with a twiced blink and ears are hot as ever.

“Maybe you should pick a little harder, miss socially inept” you jested, a little poke of fun wouldnt hurt after being caught for starring… you’ll apologize in your own way later tonight.

“Ha.. haa, okay watch yourself— I didn’t say you we’re that funny”

“Wait till you get to know me some more, maybe you’ll be smiling one day”

“Yeah, good luck with that” Abby muttered to herself, rolling her eyes. Reminding herself that maybe this is what she needed. Something familiar, conversation, regardless of how oddly blunt you are. Some directness would be nice for once. No wondering in her ocean of a mind if she made a fool of herself with you with your kind of attitude.

And just from that one conversation, things moved slow, then a bit quick, then slow again, but as time moved on, the more you both figured, this is okay. At first you figured you both are a little weird, but honestly this is the most at peace she’s been in a while. So fuck it if you’re weird, fuck it if you’re a little blunt. Just fuck it. At least you’re not something that represents her past. And thank fuck for that too.

Of course Abby didn’t just bounce back outta no where though, hell no?. There were her good days, and her bad days. The panic attacks from when the position of night terrors that favored her dad dying to her being afraid of dying herself. The pain and regret fostering in her soul, leaving traces in her finger tips, and the blood that was once there by her friend Manny, still haunts her. To a point where she find herself rubbing that spot on her face, washing her face longer than usual, or just full on diving full face in her bathtub— when taking a simple bath.

She hasn’t even told Lev this situation of hers, don’t wanna burden anyone in her mind that is. However those small conversations you have with each other helps. Only on her good days though.

Her bad days, you could tell if they were about to erupt. The bad blood that she would spill, those tiny curses of something minor slipping out in big crowds when something or someone went wrong, even just a regular hand on the back had her fidgeting more than usual.

And asking her if she’s okay? Out of the question. She just leaves and goes home. Little did you know, she just cry from how not okay she is. The realization of it all tumbling down for her and not knowing how to fix it. She feels as though she must fix it. To be “normal” again, not as feeble as some skittish deer. Is what she would refer herself to when she calms down from her episodes.

Sometimes, something thicker than water can either help you with life, or drown you, pulling you down like a creature of the deep. That’s what it felt like for Abby everyday. Something creeping on her skin as if one day her past will just burst through the door or she herself blabbed a bit too much about what she’s done. Scared of being perceived the way she used to be seen.

Until one day after a month of knowing you something happens…

Prolouge||continue?->

A/n: Hello! I never wrote a Abby x reader before, and I want to make this a slow burn with some real life situations that reader and Abby could go through together. This is just my take on how Abby could be like if she were to go back to civilization again especially after dealing with the rattlers. It had to been added upon trauma? In so in this series it will be Abby and reader trying to tame the tides of her traumas/secrets/and most of all her episodes that come and go. 💋☁️

[self-loving-vampire]

Your problem is that you just keep asserting stuff that makes no sense and then don't actually prove it, then project that onto me.

That's not an argument or a rebuttal, that's just a rhetorical dodge. I haven't made the claim you're responding to. Also, this doesn't get you out of the point. When someone is harmed by collateral damage, they are not the target of bigotry. People who are transmisogyny exempt are not the targets of transmisogyny.

This is exactly what a motte & bailey argument is? You're using the word "transmisogyny exempt" (as in, free from transmisogyny) but when this is challenged you retreat to a secondary definition of "transmisogyny collateral damage", which you continue to treat as synonymous with "exempt" when convenient and you go out of your way to argue that suffering transmisogyny collateral damage doesn't count at all.

If a cishet man puts on a dress and people call him a trans woman to attack him, that's not him being targeted by transmisogyny. A trans woman cannot take off her identity and cannot rely on people to protect her by saying she's not a trans woman.

How do you expect this would go in real life? Be serious. Do you think someone being assaulted by a transmisogynist over a dress is going to just be left alone as long as he identifies the right way? If a transmisogynist attacked me do you think I could get out of it by lying and telling them that I'm actually a trans man or something?

You're not living in reality if you think your thoughts hold such magical power over what other people do to you.

As a counter-example, transvestigators have long claimed that Elon Musk is secretly a trans man. That's a bigot attacking Elon Musk because they think he's a trans man.

It's very simple: Practically no one actually believes Elon Musk is a trans man. Transvestigators are just irrelevant even when you're actually trans. Their opinions have practically no consequence among people who touch grass.

By basing your entire position on the idea of appearance, you're basically saying that it all comes down to how you're perceived.

How you are categorized socially matters more than how you identify in your own head, yes. How is that even controversial to you?

The one single reason I didn't get killed or kicked out of the house was that I concealed my thoughts and intentions so that people were just not aware I was trans at all. Most people just default to assuming everyone is cis.

If that logic is true, then the following must also be true: Any stealth trans person does not experience transphobia. Any trans woman who is seen as a man has male privilege. Any white person who is mistaken for being black is the victim of racism.

1- Being forced to be in the closet is itself a form of transphobia, so no. We're not saying that at all. It's miserable to be surrounded by violent people who would kill you if they truly knew you. Serano also points this out, and also talks why the "trans women have male privilege" argument is nonsense.

2- However, notice that it is still true that how people treat you is dramatically different depending on whether you're closeted or not. A lot of other people in the same situation I was in simply died, and the more visibly trans they are the more danger they are in. The most prominent trans rights activist in my country was assassinated the very same week I had my asylum hearing.

A closeted or stealth trans person clearly experiences transphobia, but I don't think you can argue that it is the same as being known to be trans. Understanding this truth is why I'm still alive, and why my parents know less about me than randos on the internet.

This is also why outing people is considered so dangerous and why those laws where schools must inform parents if their child is trans are a huge deal. If identity was all that mattered then it would not make a difference if the parents were aware or not.

3- If we're bringing up race then I should point out that I have undoubtedly benefited from the fact that despite being from Latin America my skin is white as bond paper because people treat you differently based on your appearance.

This is literally why anonymizing job applications is used as a tool to prevent employment discrimination. Even having an "ethnic" or "feminine" name on a paper can affect how it is perceived.

I think that's also why your entire argument is basically just you reiterating your unproven assertions while making an appeal to authority. ... You need to go back to the basics and learn more about this topic if you want to make a meaningful contribution to this discussion.

This is a whole lot of highly ironic unearned confidence from someone who hasn't read the core books on the subject and who thinks referencing academics is just an "appeal to authority", as opposed to just referencing nothing at all and making stuff up.

How exactly did you prove your assertions? What evidence have you put forward for anything? What sources have you cited?

Because from my point of view you just sound like you think the true way to learn about transmisogyny is not books, studies, or articles but your friends' tumblr posts. It's not a serious position.

are you tme or tma

"i know you're nonbinary but which of these two arbitrarily constructed gender categories do you fit into" genuinely are you having a laugh

[intothemertensverse]

This isn’t my usual phandom post but its an important post that I previously thought should go without saying, but apparently it does indeed need to be said out loud. I’m hearing some very upsetting things and have seen screenshot proof of something that, highly unfortunately, absolutely tracks with past behavior of someone in phandom that has been a known problem to a number of people because they’ve seen it happen in real time over the years. I’m not going to name names publicly or post the screenshots at the moment because several minors are involved. However. Something needs to be said. 

If you are a minor, please please be aware that adults that send you explicit material, whether that be fic or art etc, who overstep boundaries and make you uncomfortable for any reason, who talk about sexual subjects or sex acts to you, who don’t take no for answer, who want you to go to bat for them against other people, who act like you should be able to be totally fine with discussing these subjects with them—that adult is NOT your friend. That is NOT normal adult behavior. There is something seriously wrong with that. Adults should not be asking you to delete chat history and keep secrets about what they said to you.  That is bizarre as fuck and any adult with common sense will know that. 

Sharing E rated stuff and talking about smut to minors is literally a CRIME. Its a serious issue for a reason. Adults who take advantage of minors this way literally have to be put in a register and kept away from minors. It doesn’t matter if you “agreed” or even asked to see it—the law is in place to PROTECT you. Its not your fault, do NOT let anyone tell you it is. Adults are supposed to know better, and they are not the victim if someone calls them on their creepy and predatory behavior. 

This is not a post about teens reading stuff online or looking for material on their own—we’ve all been teens ok lol. This is not about “what if a teen sees something explicit you wrote and properly tagged on ao3 and reads it”. This is about adults who go out of their way to initiate conversations with minors, especially in private but also in public, about explicit sexual material and discuss it with them. This is about adults who purposely promote and link minors material that should not be linked to minors. Adults do not need to be discussing the porn they’ve written with minors, they do not need to be talking to minors about writing that porn. You have adult spaces to do that in, not around kids. 

If you read this post and a name popped into your head—BLOCK THAT PERSON. Again, this is not normal behavior from an adult who absolutely knows better. Adults do not “forget” someone is a minor. Adults know that legally and morally, minors cannot consent. If someone is doing any of the behaviors listed above, even if its just one of them, even if you just feel uncomfortable around them and don’t know why, BLOCK THEM. Remove them from spaces you’re in, if possible. Your safety is more important than someone’s potential hurt feelings. 

If you read this and a name popped into your head and your first thought is to defend them—YOU are part of the problem. Anyone who defends an adult who sent porn to a minor and has a several year history of doing so AND screenshot proof is disgraceful. By all means, announce your feelings on it so that we all know who to block! This is an issue that numerous people can back up because they’ve spoken to the person in question and there are screenshots. Stop. Defending. Predatory behavior. 

Do better. 

[wavesoutbeingtossed]

This is a stream of consciousness type of post and I don’t even know where it’s going but there’s all this Lover talk on the dash and I love Lover with all my heart because a) she’s got hit after hit and b) she got me through a really tough time in the fall of 2019 and for that I’m going to always be grateful.

The idea that it lacks “narrative” is so interesting to me because a) I’m not sure I see it that way but b) I don’t think albums necessarily “need” a narrative, and I don’t know that I hear that that much about any artist other than Taylor, unless the artists specifically talks about a narrative or concept for the album.

I guess I just see Lover as a very specific snapshot in time, and to me *that* is a narrative in itself. If Midnights is about the things that keep you up at night, I think Lover in a lot of ways is about the things you contemplate in quiet moments.

Or maybe more accurately, it’s a glimpse into a person on the precipice of a new beginning, and reflecting on some internal and external pressures that will impact that future.

The episode you thought would kill you, but somehow you survived and made it to this exact moment (IFTYE). The moment you realized you wanted something more— and so did your lover (Cruel Summer). Realizing you’ve made a home of your very own together, against all odds (Lover). Wondering why you’re climbing uphill even when you should already be at the top— and does the treadmill ever end (The Man). Worrying about if your past is going to prevent you from claiming your future (The Archer). Basking in the rush of new love (and lust) (ITHK). Fearing the future before you that’s out of your hands and grabbing onto the good to fight for it (Miss Americana). Being excited for what the future holds for you that’s so close you can taste it (Paper Rings). The moment that could have ended something special and instead led to you cementing your future (Cornelia Street). The fear of losing it all (DBATC). The sweet moments that make up a shared life that has become a shared future (London Boy). Confronting death and anticipatory grief that gives you the final push into adulthood, at war with the lost vestiges of your youth hanging onto childlike naivety (SYGB). Clinging to the one thing that grounds you when everything else seems to crumble around you (False God). Being fed up with others’ assumptions and reactions (YNTCD). Reconnecting after a troubling time and finding comfort in that (Afterglow). Recognizing that what you think is sometimes your biggest enemy (you) is also your biggest asset (you) (Me!). Quietly basking in the comfort of home and the future it represents (INTHAF). Overcoming your obstacles to find your peace (Daylight).

The undercurrent in all the songs is the tension between past and future, and the different ways that affects how you envision that future. There are pressures from other people, other circumstances, other hands life deals you, other places at war with the pressures from yourself and your past, all coalescing into the future before you.

To me, it’s an album about transitions in some ways too. The transition from youth to adulthood. From innocent to hardened. From scapegoat to hero in your own story. From trauma to healing. Which can be a chaotic, confusing and sorrowful time, but equally one of joy and excitement. The album as a whole just feels like it’s very much someone who’s about to move into a new chapter in their life, and they’re unleashing their diary about what brought them here in this specific moment in time they find themselves in, and the things that are ahead in their future. It’s about the people they want to be in it, the people they want to leave behind, and the people they’re scared they’re going to lose. It’s the prologue to “our coming of age has come and gone.” It’s heady stuff.

It’s not to say Lover is “perfect” or whatever. Yeah, there are a couple of songs I personally don’t reach for very much. But I love it as a project because it just FEELS like this very inflective period in Taylor’s life as an artist and a person.

Just my two cents! 🤷‍♀️

[brazenautomaton]

is there a name for the argument tactic where you object to how something is characterized, and then say that it should be described as [an exact description of what you said it wasn't]?

arguments for american unions seem to be 50% that, and 50% "repeating the initial claim as if you didn't hear anyone saying what was wrong with it."

it just came out that an anime convention forbid dealers from moving any of their own stuff, including their own fucking suitcases, and requiring them to use teamsters hired by the convention instead. someone defended this as "they have safety training so they can't make a living if someone is willing to risk spinal injury for $20" as if "they make a living by forcing people to pay for things those people are happy to do themselves" isn't the problem people had in the first place.

when that fails, always fall back on "they / we just want fair pay for workers, only an evil fascist doesn't want fair pay for workers!" literally everyone wants fair pay because that's the definition of the fucking word, what you want is "all union employees should always be paid more than the amount they are currently paid no matter what that amount is" and guess what that is what all of your opponents have identified your position as

American union activists and supporters are utterly deranged. how did Europe get this right and America was the one with the leftist brain-poisoning.

Strikes aren’t selfish: they’re a last resort.

We hear it every time workers go on strike. “They’re being selfish.”“They’re hurting the public.”“They should just be happy to have a job.” But let’s get something straight: nobody wants to go on strike. Striking means no paycheque. It means standing in the cold or the heat holding a sign while cars honk past. It means risking discipline—or worse. People don’t strike because they’re greedy.…

[trans-sveta]

“My issues aren’t ones that can be fixed with words,” I said. “Unless you have any insights to offer about Tagg, a way to make this world suddenly make sense, or a way to make people stop being such assholes, such morons, then I’m not sure I want to hear it.”

“He got to you.”

“No,” I said, shaking my head. “Nothing he said-”

“But he got to you, even if you ignore everything he said.”

“Armsmaster,” I said. “Kaiser. Purity. Miss Militia. Piggot. Dragon… a bunch of others I can’t even be bothered to think of. Why is it so hard to find someone who’s willing to cooperate? To find someone that’s on the same page as me? They keep making these calls I just can’t understand, sometimes unfathomable, stupid calls, and things keep falling apart.”

“They probably look at you and wonder why you can’t fall in line with their perception of the way things should go.”

I shook my head. “It’s not like that.”

Tattletale didn’t interject or argue.

I struggled to find the words. “…What I’m talking about, ideas like keeping the peace, keeping people safe, making sure that everyone’s safe, it’s… they’re not complicated. This is basic stuff. If we can’t get the fundamentals right, then how are we supposed to handle the more complicated stuff, like keeping this city running, or stopping war from breaking out?”

“If we could all handle the fundamental stuff, the larger issues wouldn’t exist.”

I know that, on a certain level, Taylor’s perspective here is meant to be a bit warped and unreliable. But when I read this for the first time as a teen, it really hit home - and even now, reading it in my 30s with *gestures broadly at the state of the world* I find it hard to mount an especially convincing counterargument. I think there’s a kind of fundamental truth in Taylor’s frustration - I mean, why can’t we all just work together?

[vaguely-concerned]

the more I play the more I think lucanis basically knows it's illario who betrayed him right from the beginning (he's had a year in the ossuary to think. not that many people knew where he was going. when you ask him 'did Illario know you'd be on that ship' his only answer is the hardest flattest 'yes' you ever heard). so it's not so much about figuring out who the traitor is (because that's ludicrous. we all know. immediately. they didn't really bother to hide it lmao) as about methodically closing off every single avenue of denial lucanis has clung to that whole time with as much or little gentleness as you might prefer until he has no choice but to admit it. because the moment he has to admit it, he'll have to do something -- feel something -- about it. and that's such a catastrophic event in lucanis' inner landscape (he has had TWO people in this whole entire world up until now and will do anything to hold on to them with a heartbreaking child-like desperation, even at and especially through the detriment of his own self) that he'd rather just. not. what if we quite simply. didn't. what if we just stayed here in the emptiness where we can both pretend you didn't hurt me in a way I should never forgive. I have so much practice in that with caterina already it's always worked out great for everyone so far. (press x to fucking doubt but that's trauma logic for you lol)

after everything illario did, so much of the storm of lucanis' emotions around it is 'what the FUCK did you get yourself tangled up in this time and how do I get you out of this mess safely'. what's worse: the fact that your brother murdered you, or that he put himself in horrible danger doing so and thus exposed you to the risk of losing him forever. lucanis' heart certainly has an opinion here and it's fucking unhinged (affectionate)

the themes of dissociation in lucanis' character in general makes me feel nuts. allllll these contradictory messy things he needs to cut off from each other because they can't coexist or be easily reconciled inside him. but all remain stubbornly true separately anyway and will have their due one day. love and resentment. tenderness and fear and rage. terror and longing. love and freedom don't coexist. the burned out golden child anthem is playing in the background. he was always caterina's favourite and he has to keep striving to deserve that dubious honour with every breath he takes and then, presumably, mercifully, some day he will die and be excused and can rest. and until now he's suppressed all the -- natural, healthy, protective! -- negative feelings that threaten the few attachment relationships he actually has, at the cost of ever actually having his needs for connection and safety met and leaving his core self imprisoned and compromised. and spite goes 'what. no. that's dumb fuck that' (*spite voice* I do not understand that and even if I did I would not respect it) and does not allow him to fall back into that, which I think is what saves his life, ultimately. it took being possessed by a demon for lucanis to even contemplate telling anyone he loves 'no' in any way, but hey. whatever gets you there right lol

lucanis is dealing with the freeze response allll the way down baby. and he was even before the ossuary, that just turbo powered it and brought it to a breaking point way before it could happen naturally. but something was going to break eventually no matter what, and I'm just glad that in the end, through the power of friendship and also pure spite, it doesn't have to be him

[dewwshi]

The people demand more Minlach. ( please more we are desperate and your art of them is so good 🥺🥺🥺)

🫡

my beautiful yuri... sooo critical to me that minthara 1. fell first 2. fell harder. something abt the idea of this self-avowed villain being utterly and inexplicably smitten with the sweetest nicest golden retriever girl in the world

[creaturelurkinginforestnearyou]

A more painfully chronically online take I’ve seen lmao you ok OP?

OP you can call your person your partner, call them whatever you want, straight folk dont dictate terms, call it what you want.

It doesn’t matter what straight women call someone, they’re not more or less of a partner to you just because someone else uses the term? I’m ???? The idea that someone specifically gay invented the term solely for romantic identification of a same sex partner is…an actual misnomer? And I’m gay?

Partner is Middle English, from Old French, from Latin, partītiōnem, singular accusative of partītiō (“portion”), used to denote someone with which you share everything. It was a term initially used to describe an heir apparent to goods and property.

Cowboys are partners. Business contacts can be partners. Siblings and children and friends can be partners. 

Which to be honest, ‘partners’ as a term is what lgbtq folk use to protect ourselves from errant straights and homophobes while still acknowledging deep personal bonds with a loved one, when heterosexual people don’t and wouldn’t recognize two women bonded for life as a true marriage, a love match, or girlfriend or wife. A straight person could hear ‘partner’ and still recognize the significance of the bond. Even when gay people literally weren’t allowed to leave anything to their loved one.

See the fan: [Electric Fan (Feel It Motherfuckers): Only Unclaimed Item from the Stephen Earabino Estate]

Don’t recreate history and twist it in your mind to fit yourself tighter into a little box, you don’t owe it to the straights to diminish yourself, it’s sad enough as it is. The straight folk of the world don’t get to dictate what terms apply between you and the one you love. AND, you don’t have to claim the word Partner as the only legitimate word for a queer relationship when it’s the only safe term left that heterosexual patriarchal society chose to understand. That’s their fault, not yours.

Most importantly, your loved one isn’t JUST a partner.

At the end of the day, a Partnership is not about love, it’s about leaving *everything* to someone. It’s about rights. Wanting that someone to have pieces of you when even your breath and heartbeat has left them. It’s about loving someone so desperately you want to take care of them AFTER you’re gone. Who will take care of them when you’re gone? How will they buy a house and pay their taxes and feed the animals when you’re gone? Especially if the state willfully lets the bond go unrecognized and gives your partner nothing?

(Sorry I’m crying actual tears over the fan again, gimme a min 😭)

Calling your same sex companion your partner is STILL an act of rebellion, no matter how many straight women use the term, just like calling your wife your wife is an act of rebellion against the institution of opposite sex religious marriage. Homophobic Cis Straights don’t want to use your terms too until you don’t use them, straight allies are simply joining us in using the term to confuse homophobic listeners.

No, homophonic cis straights want to simply deny your right to use the word wife or lover to describe your relationship and keep you from calling it like it is. Making every same sex lover or companion a partner is like preemptively moving yourself out of the way of religious institutions who want to co-opt words and use them only to describe straight relationships. You can have a partner, a wife, who is your lover, and you should take all those words and own them so straight patriarchy institutions cannot deny your right to the right to use them, saying “no that’s not your wife that’s your partner, only gays are partners and only straights are wives.” Fuck that. Take all the words and stuff them in your pockets to keep and give your loved one like they’re cut from gold.

And you can date someone and they’re still not a partner to you. You can even marry them, and have them still not be the partner you think of with your absolute last breath. I’m pretty sure there are lots of straight patriarchy relationships where they may be married but they are NOT partners.

BUT you don’t get to decide for them, because they don’t get to decide that for you.

And OP tbh, if you have been calling every boyfriend or girlfriend you’ve ever had a partner, then you’ve never had a partner at all. You haven’t been holding space to recognize the difference.

The term "partner" within the context of hetero relationships is a misnomer. It was a term initially used by gay and lesbian couples and co-opted by liberal women in an attempt to assert a sense of equality with their male significant others that they don't truly have politically, economically, or experientially.

[shepscapades]

Why does Ren have 4 ears? Are they all real or is one set fake?

Hehe I’ve gotten this question a lot actually! They’re all real— I like to think hybridization isn’t always a clean balance of traits, so Ren just unfortunately ended up with two sets of ears— his Dog ears being much more receptive to sound, naturally— and sometimes when the extra intake of sound is too overwhelming, I imagine he wears earplugs in his human ears to help adjust :> it’s a bit weird, but idk! i like to make designs funky and nonconventional! I liked the idea that Ren had hearing struggles due to wonky hybridization and just kept the concept :>