#knives has never done anything wrong

[thekitsandthekats]

no no what you don't understand is that he loves him. he loves him so much he can't stand it. he loves him so much he hates him. he needs to protect him from the evil and abusive humans. he can't imagine letting his brother, his precious brother, be used and abused by pathetic human beings. they're disgusting, terrible and self serving. they use plants for nothing but resource. and to have existed in a world where humans will push plants to the point of Last Run. no, i need you all to understand that knives wanted vash to be safe, to be at his side, to help him save their race of being, to be set free from the use of humans. but. BUT. trauma is a sick and twisted joke, one no one has ever laughed at. he loves him but he can't. he can't seperate his need to protect from his need for revenge, for retribution. in this he has lost vash, he's lost his brother and has embraced only an idea of him. he is a plant and nothing more. he is a gate and nothing else. he is a means to an ends and not an end in himself. knives loves vash so much, it's not vash he loves at all. from the very beginning, all he's wanted is to free his people, all he's wanted was to protect his brother. but remember that knives knows the wickedness of humanity, and unfortunately he only knows the wickedness of humanity. outside of rem, he's only ever seen how cruel humans are. and even in that, when he finds tesla, his idea of rem and her love and care is shattered. so of course in his need to protect vash, he has no understanding of how to actually do that without becoming the cruelty he's always known. he loves him and that's the worst thing he could've ever done.

[pineapplebread]

Morningstar

(Vash  ||  Wolfwood)

Prints are available: here

[itsbeeble]

Take My Soul, Take My Heart

SUMMARY: Seonghwa is a monster, this he knows. He is a monster, but he just can't help the obsession he has with love. You have taken his soul, staked your claim on his heart, and now he wants all of you

GENRE: smut, angst

PAIRING: pirate!Park Seonghwa x afab!reader

WC: 6,571

ATEEZ MASTERLIST

PERM TAGLIST: @winterchimez @juyeonszn @flwoie

FIC TAGLIST: @sanaxo-o

18+ MDNI AGELESS BLOGS WILL BE BLOCKED

WARNINGS: jesus christ yall im wishing you luck with this fic fr, lots of plot, violence (like a lot), many mentions of blood, weapons (knives, swords, guns), threats, swearing, alcohol, seonghwa is lowkey obsessed with love, Seonghwa and reader are both a bit psychotic, they kill a man (actually many men), bad depictions of pirates arrrrghhhhh, manipulation, murder, mentions of brothels, actually there are some scenes in a brothel so yeah, p in v sex, marking, oral (f and m receiving), poorly done dirty talk i fear, unprotected sex (please wrap it irl), this is actually kind of vile, mayhaps future hongjoong x reader but who knows, not edited so pls lmk if i forgot anything or if anything looks dumb as hell

A/N: HEYYYYYYY how y'all doinggggggg. thank you to @deobienthusiast for beta reading this IT TOOK ME SO LONG BUT RAAAHHHHHHH SHE HELPED MEEEEE. I've been wanting to do a pirate fic for so long but i never got around to it BUT HERE WE AREEEE PLEASE ENJOY AND REBLOG IF YOU LIKED IT PLSPLSPLS

Seonghwa learned a long time ago that love was nearly impossible with his life style. 

No matter his charms, no matter his will, no matter how he fucked, no one would stay. Not once they found out who he was, what he’s done. The crimes he’s committed are enough to sway those that he swore he would protect as he worshipped them under the light of the moon, above the swaying waves. Love, however, is nothing to him compared to the power he feels when on the ocean.

It was a choice hat he made a long time ago. A promise, really, that he made to Hongjoong the moment he’d stepped onto the wooden planks of the Blue Bird. He gave up the idea of love when he first drew a blade, when he felt the first drops of blood hit his skin and stain his clothing. The blood of men and women who threatened his crew, who threatened his lovers, who threatened him. He’d grown accustomed to the metallic stench, to the warmth of the red liquid against his skin. He practically bathed in it, relished in the feeling of it. 

Seonghwa doesn’t understand it, this feeling in his chest. This burning to be worshipped and loved. He cannot comprehend the longing, the desire in his stomach and in his heart. The longing that never leaves, lingering at the corner of his mind and at the tip of his tongue. Love is nothing compared to the power he feels with the weight of a blade in his hand, the metal of a gun at his hip. Love is a hindrance, love is nothing compared to the feeling of his weapon cutting through the air, through the flesh and bone of those who wrong him.

Seonghwa is soaked in blood still as he steps off the ship, his boots leaving wet footprints against the dock. Had the color of his clothing not been violently stained in the color, it could have been mistaken for the salty water that pushes and pulls against the rocky cliffs around him. A shoulder brushes against his, a hand pressing back against his chest to stop him in his tracks as Hongjoond looks up at him. That stern look is in his eye, one that the first mate had grown used to over the years.

“You know what we’re here for,” the captain’s voice is raspy. “Do us all a favor and don’t get distracted by any…side quests, if you will.”

Seonghwa’s tongue runs over his teeth, his shoulders rolling back and one of his hands coming to rest on the hilt of his sword. 

“When do I ever get distracted?” Hongjoong’s eyes are weary with travel, flicking from Seonghwa’s head down to his toes.

“Not what I meant, Hwa.”

“He means,” Wooyoung comes from behind the two, squeezing between them and throwing his arms around their shoulders. “Don’t fuck anyone. You know it never ends well for either party.” 

Seonghwa’s lip curls at the younger crew member’s words but he manages to hold his tongue. 

“Leave the man alone, Wooyoung.” San chides, pulling the cook back by the collar. “It’s not his fault he becomes blind when it comes to women.” Both men laugh, and Hongjoong folds his hands behind his back. 

“And this is funny to you two because…?” the captain’s eyebrow arches, his eyes glittering with a warning. 

“Well, I mean,” San stands a bit straighter. “Shouldn’t he know by now that ‘love’ doesn’t work with our lifestyle? Women find us, they fuck, take a bit of gold, and run off or try to kill us before the sun rises. Sometimes both at the same time. Love isn’t something that works with us. We’re blind to it, or it is blind to us.” 

Seonghwa pushes Wooyoung off his shoulder, his lips drawn into a thin line. Suddenly the bloody clothing that clings to his body burn like fire, uncomfortable and scratchy. 

“I have things to do,” he states with an eerie calmness. “I’ll be back by sundown.”

You take notice of the man the moment he steps into the tavern. Maybe it was his delicate features. Maybe it was the way the tavern went quiet with something similar to awe or fear or both. 

Or maybe it was the blood staining his clothing and dripping onto your freshly cleaned fucking floor.

You can barely hold your tongue as he approaches your counter, your jaw ticking and your eyes narrowed. His own, like that of a fox, are darting from person to person as if measuring how long it would take to strike them down. In a bar full of pirates, he is one of few that came alone. 

When his eyes land on you, he straightens his spine. I am powerful, I am a god, fear me. His body language is screaming the words, but you’re screaming right back.

One wrong fucking move and I’ll have your ass on the ground with a bullet between those pretty eyes before you can blink.

His lips twitch up into a smirk, yours deepen into a scowl.

“You got blood on my floor.” 

“I apologize.” 

“You don’t sound genuine.” 

He leans against the counter, eyes searching yours curiously. A glove-covered hand slides a gold coin toward you, your heart jolts. 

“I am sorry.”

“Apology accepted, gorgeous.” Your painted red lips curl into a delighted smile as you snatch up the coin before curious hands wandered a bit too close. “What can I get for you?”

“Mead, any will do.” His eyes seem to be searching you, sizing you up, and his tongue runs over his teeth. You do as he says, all too aware of his eyes watching you and staring you up and down. You weren’t a fool. You knew of your…features and what drew customers in. Men, women, you couldn’t care less so long as it got you what you wanted. Gold. Silver. Fuck, even copper would do sometimes. There was hardly a level you wouldn’t stoop to if it meant paying back your debt. 

You turn back to him, a mug of honey wine in one hand. He still watches you, curious and unashamedd of how how examines you. You let him, knowing deep down that you were doing precisely the same in order to ignore the man under your counter. 

“Anything else, gorgeous?” You lean forward, tongue dancing across your red lips. He watches the motion and smiles coyly. 

“Information.”

You kiss your teeth, arms folding on the counter as you watch him glance around the bar. “On?”

“A man going by the name of Socha.” 

Your body stills, fingers curling into tight fists. You feel eyes burning into your skull, and the gun barrel pressing into your hip grows tighter.

“I know of no one by that name.” 

The man searches your gaze, and you can’t find yourself wanting to look away. You want so desperately to scream out. He’s here, you want to tell him, there is a gun against my hip and a room filled with his crew all around you. Help me!

“Are you sure?” The man leans closer to you, tilting his head and bringing his lips close to your ear. “There’s a reward in it for you if you tell me where he is.”

“I know of no one by that name.” You repeat. “I would greatly appreciate it if you left my bar now, sir.”

He pulls back from you, pursing his lips briefly before returning to the malicious smirk. “If you change your mind, find Seonghwa on the Blue Bird.”

You don’t move a muscle until the door he entered through is shut. The tavern returns to its original volume, and the gun against your hip lowers. Your fists unfurl, and the gold coin hits the ground. 

Socha rises from beneath your counter, lips spread in a vile grin and a stench that makes you want to gag. 

“Maybe you’ll be useful after all, barkeep.” He leans in close to you, raising his gun to brush stray hair out of your face. Your throat tightens and your eyes squeeze shut, every muscle in your body screaming to run. “Loyalty isn’t something we take lightly on the Skylark.”

“I understand,” you choke out, praying to anyone who might listen that the gun leaves your temple. “Thank you for the…opportunity to prove my worth.”

Seonghwa doesn’t appreciate liars.

He also doesn’t appreciate the fact that the captain of the Skylark had decided to take an innocent woman hostage at his favorite bar in his favorite city. 

It was obvious what had been happening. Sure, it was typical for a port city to be filled to the brim with pirates, especially at the local taverns. What wasn’t typical was for the tavern to be filled to the brim with pirates wearing clothing the color of drying blood, a symbol that the Skylark crew had taken in the early days when Socha spilled blood across the ocean for miles and miles, his clothing stained so dark it looked black. 

He wasn’t stupid. He saw the fear sparking in your eyes the moment he said Socha’s name. Now it was time for him to wait for you to come to him. 

“You seem so sure that this barkeep will show her face.” Yeosang sits on the steps leading to the upper deck, twirling a curved blade between his fingers.

“She was terrified. Socha was there. Whether she wants to or not, she’ll be on this ship tonight with information we need.” 

Seonghwa leans against the railing, steadying himself against the waves that crash against the side of the ship. He’d changed out of the bloodstained clothing hours ago, washed the dried liquid off of his skin and let it run into the ocean. The sun is beginning to set, casting a golden light against his face that he soaks in with delight. The warmth of these last rays clings to him, and it’s when the sun has finally set below the horizon that he accepts that you will not be coming to the ship this night. 

“Maybe you need to do a bit more convincing than just giving a woman gold,” Yunho stomps up the stairs from the lower deck, a crate in his hands and a grin on his lips. “Maybe that’ll get you something in a brothel, but that was a woman working in a tavern. She knows better.”

“Shut up, Yunho.” Seonghwa spits out, whirling on his feet and stalking toward the gangway with burning ears and a boiling hot temper. 

He was pissed. He had truly believed that you’d show up. Was Socha still holding you in that tavern? Were you afraid of him? Were you afraid of what might happen if the captain found out? Were you loyal to the Skylark?

Seonghwa huffs, his hand finding the hilt of his sword again as he makes his way into the port city. It’s busier now that the sun is down, the streets crowded and filled with vendors of all sorts. Weaponsmiths, farmers, beggars, thieves. The streets became alive with everyone under the stars. It made it more difficult to maneuver quickly and quietly, but Seonghwa knew that he would only draw attention to himself if he moved any faster than he was. 

A delicate hand grabs his elbow and faster than the brothel worker could blink, there’s a dagger against her throat and her back is against the wall. Her eyes are wide, her lips parted with shock. Seonghwa drops the blade just as fast as he’d drawn it, his eyes lit with annoyance. 

“Care for a step inside?” Her tone, despite her previous shock, was sultry and enough to draw almost any many in. 

“I am not interested in what you have to offer.” Seonghwa begins to pull away, but her grip tightens. Her eyes are desperate now, and Seonghwa allows himself to pause.

“I believe you will be very interested to know that someone has paid good money to speak to you,” she speaks quickly, tugging at his arm to guide him to the door. “Please. Step inside. They will guide you to where you need to be.”

Against all that tells him to turn the other way and run, Seunghwa listens to the woman. She steps to the side, that seductive look plastered back onto her face as she guides him and other patrons into the building. 

The stench of sex is heavy in the air. It’s thick and nearly overwhelming his senses. Or, perhaps, it is the burning incense that overwhelms him. The smoke provides a haze, distracting him from the naked bodies all around him. Scattered across th4e ground, in chairs, on tables, in rooms that are only covered by a loose, sheer cloth overe the doorway. He avoids looking at anyone he can, but then his eyes find you. 

You’re tucked away in the corner farthest from him, your eyes watching his every move. His head tilts, tracing your body with his eyes. Nearly bare like the women around you, covered only by a shear cloth seemingly lined with gold. You tilt your head up, practically beckoning him toward you.

He follows you, putting up no fight against the primal urges inside of him that tell him to pin you against the wall and take you right there. 

His steps, careful and calculated, weave through the bodies on the floor, following you into the darkest corners of the brothel. You don’t let him get close, no matter how he chases you. It’s like a game to you, and you’re winning. Seonghwa lets it happen. 

“I’m sure you understand why I brought you here,” you murmur, your voice hardly louder than the sexual noises around you. A private room in the very back of the building and secured by a wooden door. “I had to speak to you where we could be…private, able to speak freely.” 

Seonghwa, for a long moment, doesn’t say a word. He watches the way your hips sway with every step, watches how you bend forward to light each candle. 

“You said you wanted information,” you speak again, coming to stand directly in front of him. Your breasts brush against his ribcage, your hands reaching for his. “I’m prepared to give you it.”

“In exchange for a quick fuck?” He raises an eyebrow, tilting his head at you. You only smirk.

“I had to bring you somewhere logical. Pirates love brothels almost as much as they love my bar. Besides, if anyone comes stomping in here, at least they’ll get a good show, won’t they?” 

You push Seonghwa towards the large fur-covered mattress with more force than he’d expected. He stumbles back, letting himself fall back until his spine meets fur. You’re quick to crawl over him, sheer fabric coming loose and allowing your breasts to come free. 

“Why are you looking for Socha?” You ask him, hips rolling down against his. Seonghwa stifles a groan, relishing in the feeling of your grinding hips and the way your nails digging into his chest. His hands grip the flesh of your thighs, squeezing tight enough to leave marks. 

“Why was he in your bar?” the pirate counters, eyes drooping in a lust filled haze. You click your tongue leaning down and nipping at the lobe of his ear. 

“I asked a question first.” Your lips trail kisses down his neck, a trail of red lipstick following you, and Seonghwa feels air brush against his chest as you undo the buttons of his shirt. “Answer me, gorgeous.”

“He has something of mine,” he says, annoyingly calm given the circumstances you have him in. “I want it back.”

You roll your hips down with more force, leaning back to admire his sculpted body. You shouldn’t be shocked. He’s a pirate after all. One with a gorgeous face, gorgeous body, and you’d be willing to bet his cock is equally as perfect. Your mouth waters at the thought, your body sliding back so you have easy access to his cock. 

“What does he have?”

Seonghwa sits up, leaning back on his hands as you work at his pants. A lazy smirk is plastered on his face, one that has your stomach churning and pussy dripping with need. 

“Ah ah ah,” he tuts. “My turn to ask a question.”

His hips lift as you start pulling his pants down, exposing his half-hard cock to your eyes in the dim candlelight. 

“Ask away, gorgeous.” Your hands inch forward, reaching for his cock in an act of near desperation. 

“Why was Socha and his crew in your bar?” Seonghwa watches as you wrap a hand around him, a breath of air hissing out of him as you stroke him gently up and down. Your eyes lock with his as you lean down to spit on his cock, and he has to bite his tongue to keep from losing his composure. 

You shrug at his question, letting a bit more spit drip from your mouth as you pump his now fully erect cock. “They wanted drinks, I suppose.”

“Bullshit and you know it.” Seonghwa grunts, letting his head roll back. You smirk, letting your free hand slip down to cup his balls. 

“Tell you what,” you dip your head down and place a kiss to his tip. “Let me please you, and if you aren’t satisfied I’ll tell you everything I know.”

“And if I’m satisfied?” He asks, reaching a hand to tangle his fingers in your hair.

“You take me with you out of this godforsaken city.” 

Seonghwa’s breath, for the first time, stills. He searches your eyes for something, anything to tell him what might be happening. 

“You…you want to come with…with me?” 

He’s confused. Why on Earth would someone like you want to come with him? “You have a life here. People who care about you, guaranteed safety. Why would you—”

“I have nothing here.” You spit out, leaning up to look him in the eyes. “I have misery and shame and misfortune. I do not care that I will not be safe with you.”

“I don’t understand—”

“Then we will make the choice later.” You kiss him gently, leaving him aching for more of you. “Let me satisfy your needs, Seonghwa.” Your hand pushes at his chest, urging him to lay back. 

“I don’t even know your name,” Seonghwa’s head hits a pillow, letting his gaze settle on the ceiling above him. 

“Do you need to?” He can feel your lips trailing down his chest, nipping at his skin and leaving marks he knows will not go away. 

“It would be nice to know who I’m speaking to.” Who I’m fucking.

“I suppose,” your lips touch his hip, right beside a trail of hair, and he can feel the way they curl into a grin. “You can call me Y/N.” 

Seonghwa can’t get a response out before your lips are wrapping around his cock. His fingers curl into the furs beneath him, fighting the urge to buck his hips into your mouth and force you to take as deep as you can. You could probably handle it, but he knows he needs to exercise restraint for himself if anything. 

Your nails dig into his thighs, leaving little red crescents in his golden skin as you take him. He can feel your throat constricting around his cock, trying desperately not to gag as his tip hits the back of your throat. Your tongue runs along the underside of his shaft as you pull yourself off of him, kitten licking the tip before taking him all the way back down again. Your nose presses against his pelvis, and Seonghwa can feel tears hitting his skin. Or, perhaps, it’s spit dripping out of the corners of your mouth as you hollow your cheeks and swallow around him. 

Finally a pitiful groan is pulled from his lips. 

Deep and gravelly as if he’d been holding it in for far longer than his body wanted him to. Your eyes peer up at him, your tongue laving at his balls and your hand pumping up and down while your mouth is occupied. Seonghwa’s hips jolt, little drops of precum leaking from his tip in an endless stream. His back arches as your mouth returns to his aching cock, your pace fast and harsh as you swallow around him and suck as you pull back up, urging him to cum faster. 

His back arches off the bed, his jaw drop and hollow moans pouring from his lips. One of his hands finds your hair, holding you in place as he begins to piston his hips up. Your eyes widen, your hands flailing briefly to find purchase on something, anything to keep you somewhat upright. You’re gagging now, unable to help it as Seonghwa’s cock punches the back of your throat. 

You like it, though. You like how rough he is with you, the way he lets himself lose control and become blinded by his own pleasure. His hands yank at the strands of your hair, and a moan escapes you. The vibrations run down his cock, and suddenly Seonghwa’s hips stutter and thick, white hot liquid is spurting down your throat. You try pulling off of him, the liquid coming out too quickly for you to keep up with, but Seonghwa forces you back down, forces you to take all of it down his throat.

“That’s it,” he coos, breathless and mocking. “Take it all. Take everything I’m giving you.” The snide comments pull a whimper out of you, and you allow yourself to relax just enough to swallow all of his cum. 

When he finally releases you and allows you to pull off, there’s droplets of cum running down your chin. Your cheeks are burning, your chest rising and falling rapidly, and you’re pretty sure your hair is a knotted, uncontrollable mess. 

He’s smirking down at you. I am powerful, I am a god, fear me.

You raise yourself up, slotting your lips against his. You are powerful. I am not afraid of you.

“Are you satisfied, then?” You murmur, letting one hand come up to cup the back of his neck, the other slipping down to soothe the ache in your dripping pussy. Seonghwa kisses his teeth.

“You think my cock down your throat is enough to satisfy me, darling?” Your breath hitches at the vile nature of his words. It isn’t as if you hadn’t heard that before, however he says it so…condescendingly. As if you were a fool to assume that he would be done with you just yet. 

“Are you not…satisfied?” 

“I’ll make you a deal, darling,” The tip of a blade rests under your chin and your stomach churns, however it isn’t with fear. No…this is something else entirely. This is…lust? No…it burns too sweet to be lust. “Take me to Socha, kill him yourself, and fuck me in his bed while my captain kills the rest of his crew, and then I’ll be satisfied. Do we have a deal?”

“Will you let me come with you?” Your eyes gleam, and Seonghwa jerks your head up to kiss you. ‘Kiss’ being a very loose term. With his blade against your throat, he shoves his tongue into your mouth, and you push yours against him just as hard. Teeth clash, biting at each othe harshly in a motion that’ll leave you both bruised and bleeding. 

“I’ll let you come with me.” 

You weren’t expecting them to trust you. Hell, you half expected to be shot dead the moment you stepped onto the Blue Bird. Hongjoong stairs you down with curiosity and doubt in his gaze, but he says nothing as the crew argues over whether or not to trust you and your word. Or, rather, Seonghwa’s word. 

“You think we can trust her?” Mingi is eyeing you up and down, his lips curled into a sneer. “She’s a barkeep, she’ll say anything for some gold and a quick fuck.” 

You bare your teeth right back at him. “Is that not what a pirate is? Roaming the seas and sticking their cocks into the first hole they see and grabbing as much gold and ale as they can carry?” 

Mingi is far larger than you are, but you are not afraid. You cannot be afraid if you wish to be on this ship for the rest of your days. You cannot be afraid of the men Seonghwa sails with and commands. 

“And what of Seonghwa?” Jongho, the quiet one in the corner, chimes in. “Do we not trust him? Right hand of our captain, are you doubting that he has our best interest in his mind?”

“I think that he slept with the first person he saw and immediately became blind to reality.” Mingi snaps back. “How long before this one leaves you? How long before you decide you’re sick of her and throw her overboard?”

Your heart drops to your stomach and your head whips to look up at Seonghwa who has gone still beside you.

“What is he talking about, Seonghwa?” Your hand pulls from his, but he grabs it right back.

“He is speaking nonsense,” he snaps, eyes glaring at Mingi. “I know exactly what I am doing. I know who I can and cannot trust. She is loyal to us, not to anyone else.”

“And you got all that from having your cock down her—”

“Enough!” Hongjoong’s voice rises over the others. All it takes is that one word for all to go quiet, their gazes on him as he rises from his seat on the table. “Seonghwa is my right hand, if he says that this woman is to be trusted then she will be trusted by us!”

“But—” Mingi tries to argue but a pair of dagger-like eyes hone in on him. 

“Do you want to be on slop duty?” Mingi’s face goes green and the eyes are trained back on you. “And you— are you so certain that you want to join us?”

“I am certain, Captain,” you tell him, dipping your head into a nod. “I have never wanted anything more.”

“Then it’s settled,” Hongjoong declares. “We kill Socha at sunset tomorrow.”

There’s an odd sense of safety that you feel while you approach the Skylark. You can hear the chatter of the crew from the edge of the gangway, but you know that a crew of your own is watching and waiting for your signal. 

Your signal, of course, being Socha’s body being dumping into the harbor. 

“Hey! Look who it is!” 

A hand clamps down onto your shoulder and you grimace at the first mate’s disgusting smile. 

“Little miss barkeep came to pay us a visit!” The crew erupts into cheers, some calling for a drink and some calling for you to give them a show. Bile rises in your throat at the sounds they make. Suddenly the blade up your sleeve feels a lot lighter in your hand. “How can we help you, little miss?”

“I need to speak with Socha.” Your voice holds steady, thankfully. 

“Socha isn’t expecting you today.” The first mate clicks his tongue. “I’ll take a message.”

“This is urgent,” you argue. “I have information on the Blue Bird’s crew.” 

The first mate barks out a laugh, throwing his head back as he bellows. The crew joins him, and your cheeks begin to heat up. 

“You think we give a fuck about that measly little crew?” The first mate cries.

“What are those dumb fucks going to do to a crew of 80 men?” Someone across the deck cries. “We have ten to their one, they can try but they won’t fucking get past the gangway.”

“Now, now gentlemen.” A deeper, gravelly voice to your right grabs everyone’s attention. Socha leans against a railing closest to his cabin, lip curled at you in what looks like disguswt. “The little miss has information for us! We should hear her out.”

“Socha,” you breathe out andhe clicks his tongue. 

“I don’t believe we have rewarded you yet for your…loyalty, have we?” He’s five steps from you, almost close enough to stab him. His hand reaches for you, and you take it. Two steps, only a bit too far from the edge of the ship. 

“Can we…can we speak a bit more privately?” You look at him through your eyelashes, lips pushed out just a bit. “It’s a little loud out here.”

“Of course, little miss.” Socha’s hand on the small of your back makes you want to light someone on fire. It disgusts you, and the bile begins to rise in your stomach again as he guides you to his quarters. He lets you in first, keeping his eyes on your swaying hips the entire time.

As soon as the door shuts behind him, you spin around to face him. 

He’s one step away.

The knife in your sleeves drops into your palm.

You raise your blade to strike him.

A gunshot.

Both of you go silent, your bodies going still. There’s something wet soaking your skirts, you stumble back. Your eyes raise to the man behind Socha.

The captain hits the ground, blood pooling around him. Blood stains your cheeks and your white shirt. 

There’s commotion outside the cabin. 

“I had it handled, Seonghwa.” Your eyes narrow, and your lover barks out a laugh.

“I know, darling. But he would have shot you the moment he saw that blade.” A body hits the door, wood beginning to splinter as Seonghwa takes the two steps he needs to reach you. Blood soaks the bottoms of his boots, but neither of you care. His hands come to cup your cheeks, blood smearing across your skin as he brushes over your cheekbones with his thumbs. 

“You did wonderfully, my love.” He murmurs, and you find yourself beaming. “I think, however, you still have part of your deal to hold up to.”

“His cabin is a bit far,” your lips are brushing his and you lift your head just a bit to try and kiss him but he tuts at you.

“A deal is a deal, my love. I will not be fucking you near a dead body.” His nose curls and he kicks Socha out of the way. 

“Fine. Have it your way, gorgeous.” 

You take his hand in your own, swinging the door of the captain’s quarters open to reveal the end of a blood bath. Hongjoong is watching from the upper deck as the other six members of his crew dump bodies into the harbor. You catch his eye as you move through the masses and down to Socha’s cabin and he gives you a small nod. 

You did well.

I know I did. You keep your head high, a proud smirk on your lips before you disappear with Seonghwa hot on your heels. 

Seonghwa’s lips are hot on your neck, his hands dancing over your body grabbing at everything they can. Airy moans pull from your lips, an addicting sound that has Seonghwa afraid that you may be a siren. He cannot get enough of you, cannot pull away even if he tried. 

In the center of the room, the two of you stand bare and ready for each other. A pile of clothes surrounds you, a bed behind you and a desk covered in papers in front of you. 

“You’re fucking addicting,” Seonghwa growls, grabbing at your hair and yanking your head back to bare your neck for him. “Fuck, I can’t get enough of you.” 

You can’t respond, hands shaking as they grab at Seonghwa just as harshly as he’d grabbed you. Your nails scratch down his chest, his back. Into his hips to try and force him closer to your body, but he keeps himself just out of your reach. 

“Mingi was right,” Seonghwa grunts as he spins you around, pinning you against the desk and throwing everything that was on it to the side to make way for you. He shoves you back, pinning your shoulders against it. “I became blind to reality the moment I saw you in that fucking tavern. Addicted to you the moment you spoke to me.”

His lips reattach to your skin, making their way down your throat, past the valley of your breasts and down to your navel. His hands grip the flesh your thighs, forcing your thighs apart to make way for him. You’re dripping for him, you can feel the liquid pooling at your center, dripping down your thighs and onto the desk below you. 

“Fuck, I will never go a day without looking at this pretty pussy.” 

Seonghwa’s hand rubs against your folds, spreading them and rubbing your slick around for a moment before pulling back.

Smack!

The sting is almost unbearable, your back arching as you wail and Seonghwa’s hand cracks down on your pussy once more. 

“So pretty for me, love when I get rough, hm?” You can barely hear him. Hell, you don’t think he can hear himself in this lust filled haze. “You’ve taken my soul, taken my heart from its confines. You have to pay for that, you know?” 

You whine when his lips touch your cunt for the first time. Soft at first, kitten licks and little kisses against your clit that quickly become harsh sucks and nips that have your back arching and legs thrashing over his shoulders. It’s easy for him to pin your body down, making heat growing in your stomach as he eats you like a man starved. His long tongue dips into you, digging in as far as it can go before Seonghwa drags it up to swirl around your clit, drawing figure-eights with the tip of it and making your body writhe before he repeats the process. 

A knot begins to form in the pit of your stomach, and you cry and beg for Seonghwa to please please please, faster, more more, god please. Fat tears roll down your cheeks as he focuses his attention on your puffy clit, digging his tongue into it and listening to the way you scream his name. Your back arches one final time before you’re coming undone beneath him, your body quivering and your hole clenching repeatedly. Your hands find purchase in his dark hair, yanking at the strands for some semblance of a grasp on reality. 

You don’t get long to recover before Seonghwa is flipping you over and pinning you down again, face down against the desk. You can practically smell your own cum, and you try to push yourself up just a little bit. 

“You’re not trying to get up, are you?” Seonghwa’s lips are right next to your ear. “You know what to say if you want me stop, darling.” His lips nip at your ear and you whine desperately, finally caving and letting your arms drop. “Good girl.”

His hands rub against the backs of your legs, massaging them gently before spreading them open once more. 

“You ready for me?” His hand traces along your dripping folds, waiting patiently for your response. 

“Please, Seonghwa,” you whine. “Please fuck me!” 

So he does. 

The stretch burns as he pushes in, but he’s quick to soothe you, kissing your shoulders and down your spine so, so gently compared to what you know he’s going to do to you. Your walls clamp down on him like a vice, trying desperately to push him out but pull him in at the same time. 

“So tight,” he groans, biting into your back as he finally sheathes himself inside of you completely, engulfed by the warmth of your walls and somewhat reluctant to pull out again. “Fuck, you feel so good around me, darling.”

“Hwa,” you moan out, hands clawing at the desk as you try to push back against him, trying to get him deeper inside of you. “Please, please move!” 

His hips begin moving before you can finish your statement. He sets a fast, brutal pace, each thrust punching the air out of you and leaving you wailing his name. You scramble to find purchase on the edges of the desk, holding tightly so as to not slide off. Seonghwa grabs at your shoulder with one hand, the other gripping your hip as he slams his hips against yours. His cock reaches places you never believe one could, brushing against a spot inside of you that has your vision going white with pleasure, your hiccuped moans becoming nearly silent screams. The knot inside of you draws tight again, and Seonghwa is practically throwing you over the edge as your body seizes up once more.

“Fuck,” he grunts out. “Cumming again already?”

“I— I can—can’t help it!” You hiccup. “Feel—feels so—so good!”

“Yeah, I bet it does,” Seonghwa grunts, letting his head fall back and his jaw fall open as your fluttering walls force him closer to the edge than he wants to be. “Fuck, don’t wanna cum yet but this pussy feels too good.”

His body folds over yours, one of his hands slipping down to find your clit. Cries of overstimulation pull from your lips, your body shaking as he continues to rail you into the desk. Seonghwa’s hips begin to stutter, and the moment he feels your walls flutter around his for the final time, he’s cumming. He breathing is ragged, quiet whines pulled from his lips as your pussy clenches around his cock. 

You can barely move as he pulls out of you, your body covering in sweat and cum. Seonghwa runs a hand over his face, catching his breath and brushing his hair back. 

“You alright?” He crouches near your face, tracing a finger along your cheekbone while you recover. “Here, let me help you.” 

Seonghwa is quick to lift you up, shushing you when you whine, and carries you over to a surprisingly luscious bed. He sits against the wall, your body curling into his as you both recover. The steady rocking of the waves against the ship seems to calm you, your breathing evening out until you’re fast asleep in his lap. 

He’s almost asleep himself until the door of the captain’s cabin swings open and Hongjoong barges in. 

The captain’s eyes fall to you briefly, and Seonghwa swears he can see his tongue running over his lip before Hongjoong’s eyes are back on the right hand. 

“We gotta get going, soldiers from the upper city are on their way down to find out why there’s bodies in the water.”

Your body stirs, eyes fluttering open quietly and Seonghwa grins. 

His heart and soul belongs to you now. You, the first and only one to not run from the monster he’d become. 

“And so it begins.” 

© itsbeeble. do not steal, claim, or repost.

[prentissluvr]

my boy only breaks his favorite toys — sam winchester

pairing : sam winchester x gn!reader ➖⟢ genre : angst ➖⟢ cw : canon typical violence, injuries, knives, non-sexual partial nudity, guilty sam, rejection, talk of death/dying, sort of a case fic at first, mentions of stitches, lots of feelings, poorly edited & my first(?) attempt at a full angst fic lol (no happy ending!), set in season 5, so some spoilers! ➖⟢ wc : 10.6K ➖⟢ listen to : my boy only breaks his favorite toys by taylor swift. requested ! summary : you get injured and sam realizes he's more scared of getting you hurt than he is of anything else, even losing you and your love.

to be in love is the strangest experience. to be in love for a long time, for years on end with little to no reciprocation is even stranger.

somehow, you can watch him fall in love with someone else, kiss somebody new, romance another girl, and be blindsided by a fourth. jess you could never be mad at. she seemed too sweet and good for sam, for you to dislike. madison never did anything wrong either, but you did hate how much she unintentionally hurt him. sarah, too, was sweet and brave and helpful and she made him smile. that, of course, didn’t stop you from wanting to be that person instead, but you didn’t feel like you could complain.

ruby, you still feel rightfully angry with sometimes. for sam’s sake, you wanted her help to be real and true, but it felt clear to you from the beginning that not everything was right. now you’re dealing with the apocalypse and sam’s guilt that you alternate between wanting him to let go of and wanting him to feel it just a little bit longer.

besides, jess and madison are dead, so it’s unkind to be too jealous of them, and you’re sure that sam hasn’t spoken to sarah in years. and ruby’s dead too, so she doesn’t pose a threat any longer.

it’s all been so strange, because you’ve seen sam go through it all, kiss them all, love them all in some way or another, and you’re pretty sure all it’s done is make you love him more. at this point, you’re sure that you’ll never love anyone the way that you love sam. unceasingly, ardently, passionately, and for now, quietly.

but after the knowledge of the looming apocalypse has come the strangest part of it all. having loved sam since he was seventeen and secretly doing everything in his power to get away from this all, you know him and each of his mircroexpressions and tones of voice all too well. and these days, sam looks at you in ways that you’ve never noticed before. these days, sam looks at you like he’s trying to figure out if he’s in love with you.

it’s not as if you’d given up hope completely, because no one who’s as in love as you are ever will, but you’ve learned how to live with unrequited love. the pain can be stabbing and all-consuming sometimes, but it’s survivable so long as he doesn’t stop smiling at you or letting you rest in his lap or being the only one to call you a special nickname. even if you’re not the love of his life like he is yours, you’ll always mean something to him as his closest friend.

so now, it catches you off guard when sam looks at you as if he’s considering the possibility that you’re the one who hung the stars up in the sky or talks to you with this gentle joy that’s just somehow different from before. those moments are rare, but incredible to have when you consider the looming apocalypse that sam is blaming himself for. he’s battling the fact that he’s supposed to be the vessel to the devil himself, but he still finds the time to hold your pinky finger for a fleeting moment and not say a word about it. and now, sam does that thing where you say something and it makes him smile, and instead of casually holding your gaze like he used you, his gaze will falter and he’ll tilt his chin down and lick his lips as if he’s suddenly shy around you.

last night, dean was out and you and sam were researching for the case you’re working on. you ended up sitting side by side on your shared bed, trying to get comfy as the hours dragged on and the moon moved higher through the sky. completely unprompted, sam had lifted his arm up and around your shoulders, using his gentle hand to cup the side of your head and bring it to rest on his wide shoulder.

your heart soared and you did your best to keep researching, but the lull of his breathing and the clacking of the keyboard as he typed one handed sang you to sleep right then and there, tucked all cozy into his side.

you waking up in his arms certainly set the tone for today. this case is ugly and there was another victim last night, but sam has this sweet, touchy air about him. as you walk to the crime scene his hand lingers unprofessionally close to the small of your back, and from the tightness to his lips, you’re guessing that he’s holding back from saying something he knows will make you laugh.

you resist the urge to give him a secret smile, soft and loving because you’re selfish enough to try and get him to see that you want him like this. you want him to see that you already love him back, and all he has to do is let himself fall. but you don’t want to overwhelm him, so you go about assessing the crime scene and interviewing the witness like he’s your fbi partner and not the person you love most in this world.

the witness’s statement along with the security camera footage that dean saw at the police station confirms that you’re up against a shapeshifter. much like the first one the three of you hunted together in ‘05 it seems to be disguising itself as a loved one before killing its victims.

“this thing can shapeshift to look like literally anybody, but it can’t come up with something original?” dean jokes.

sam shrugs in his usual sam way. “well, it is an effective method,” sam reasons, despite knowing that dean’s just making fun. sam’s not even looking at dean; his eyes alternate from checking his computer screen where he scouts out city plumbing maps to find the best places in the sewer to look for the shifter, to letting his eyes roam over your features. you wonder if you’ll have to get used to sam staring at you as much as you do him. though, you can’t say that that’s a bad thing by any stretch. maybe he’ll finally notice the way that you look at him and maybe he’ll finally realize that it might be you who he’s been loving this whole time.

sam stands from his spot across from you, grabbing a map of the city from the bedside table. instead of returning to his original spot, he slots himself right next to you to lay the map out on the table. he runs a hand along the length of it, crossing your chest and brushing your nose with the fabric of his flannel before moving his hand back to rest right beside yours on the table top. he leans over the map and you tilt youu head to look up at him as he points out the most likely spots that the shifter could be hiding out at. you only pay half attention as he speaks, more able to take in the sight of his lips moving than the actual words that they’re forming. you’re not uncareful, you just know that sam will make sure you and dean remember the most important things when you get in the car.

—

“are you sure splitting up is a good idea?” sam stresses from the passenger seat of the impala.

“we know how to test for the shifter and we all can take care of ourselves,” dean says, repeating just about the same thing that he said before.

you lean forward in your seat. “we’ll be fine, sam. i agree, it’s not ideal, but there’s a lot of ground to cover and we can’t let the shifter get to anyone else,” you reason.

“i know,” he huffs, still unconvinced due to the possible dangers. but, there’s always danger, and if you’re siding with dean, he knows he doesn’t stand much of a chance of winning the argument anyway.

—

the sewers are dark, damp, and smell like shit. they grow even darker as the sun begins to set above ground and you’re grateful for the bright flashlight that you have on hand. you’ve been tramping through the dark and sewer waste for over an hour and heard nothing helpful from the boys.

you keep your silver knife at the ready, in case you run into anything or anyone. you all agreed that if you see each other, the very first order of business is to test yourself with your own knife to be sure. when you hear footsteps, you immediately press yourself against the wall, doing your best to stay hidden until you can see what’s heading your way. the second you see a person’s frame, you immediately recognize it as sam. he told you that you’d probably run into each other at some point, so you relax a touch. even so, you keep your knife in front of you as you step into the pathway.

“sam?” you call out, stopping a good length away from him.

“hey. yeah, it’s me,” he says, holding out his hand and knife to show you as he slices a thin line across his forearm. you sigh in relief, then quickly repeat the action to confirm to him that you’re you as well.

“you heard from dean?” you ask, closing the space between the two of you. sam meets you halfway, shaking his head.

“nothing,” he sighs, turning back where he came from.

“damn. an hour in the sewers and we’ve got jack,” you frown. “exactly how i like to spend my friday nights.”

“course it is, it’s the perfect date spot,” he jokes back, leading you left, down a new path you assume he skipped on his way over to you.

“mmm, does that mean we’re on a date, winchester?” you flirt. he takes the quip with composure as you step back into a main hallway, wide enough to walk side by side. he waits for you to be next to him before he continues. he didn’t even laugh a little awkwardly at your comment like he normally might. he must be in a flirty mood.

“if that’s what you want,” he flirts back, flashing you his gorgeous grin. the passage is still sort of tight, so his knuckles continually brush against the back of your hand, and the fabric of his jacket rustles against yours.

“being a flirt today, are we?” you tease, maybe pushing the limits a little.

“just for you,” he fires back, and that just about stuns you into silence. he’s in an awfully good mood for someone stuck hunting a killer in the sewers under an unfamiliar city. you nudge him playfully with your elbow, not even sure how to respond with words. so with that, you fall into a comfortable, familiar silence, the only sounds being the echo of your sloshing footsteps through the sewer.

out of boredom, sam teases you with his pinky finger, sticking it out and poking your hand with it. you push back gently, playing along. he escalates the game by poking your side. you giggle a little, swatting at his big hand. 

“stop that!” you whisper-shout. “what if the shapeshifter comes along and we’re too distracted because you’re tickling me?” his proximity, his flirting, and his goddamn smile are already distracting enough. 

“i wasn’t tickling you, just poking,” he teases, but doesn’t do it again since you’re right enough.

“yeah, you said that last week after you did that. it tickles, which means you’re tickling me,” you retort before letting the silence fall over you again.

you head down a narrow path, forcing sam to walk behind you. even then, you can feel his closeness. a minute later, you step out into a wider area where a grate lets in a stream of moonlight. sam comes out after you, stopping by your side. the moonlight casts a glow on his face and, like you always do, you can’t help but think about how pretty he looks, even after a long hour and counting of traipsing around in a sewer. continually, even in the more open space, he stays right by your side, close enough for your elbows to brush.

“think we should call dean?” he suggests, “regroup, maybe call it a night?”

you tilt your head to the side in acknowledgment. “tempting,” you respond, “i’m getting hungry. let’s at least call him, then go from there.” you step further into the space in fron of you, trying to escape the chilly draft coming from the narrow pathway you came in from. but the floor in here is slicker than you realize, and you slip embarrassingly hard, completely losing your footing and letting out a short gasp as you fall.

sam’s instincts are impeccable as always, and a strong arm wraps around your waist before you can fall too far. once you’re steady, sam doesn’t move to pull you all the way up and onto your own feet. he just keeps you dependant on his hold to stay off the slippery floor and brings his other hand to meet the one wrapped around your side. he looks down at you, half of his face illuminated by moonlight, the other half fallen into shadow. you stare right back up at him, flustered but too happy for any sort of such purposeful physical contact with him to care about that.

it feels like a movie with you in his arms like this, willingly stuck there by the both of you. then he leans down closer to you and your eyes widen. in the partial darkness, he looks at you like he’s no longer just wondering if he loves you, more like he knows it for sure. he looks at you with such unabashed love, so overwhelming in a way that you hadn’t expected from him for a long while, if ever. you think that for sure he’s going to kiss you, and you know even better that you’d let him without a second thought.

this certainly isn’t how you imagined it’d be at all. not this soon and not in the middle of a sewer system, surrounded by awful smells and an unpleasant humidity. you suppose that the moonlight filtering down is nice enough, and that you’d never expected anything grandiose or overly romantic with him anyway.

then you hear footsteps, and a split second later, your name being called in sam’s voice. only it wasn’t the sam holding you who said it, it was someone behind you. it only takes a millisecond for everything to click. this sam, the one holding you close, cut himself with a knife you recognized. that’s why you didn’t bat an eye, but you failed to remember that that particular knife of sam’s isn’t made of silver, just a weaker and ineffective metal alloy.

before you can process it, that exact knife is being plunged into your gut. you let out a strangled cry of pain.

sam, the real sam, shouts your name again and you think you hear his running footsteps until he stops dead in his tracks when the shifter yanks the knife from your stomach and puts it to your throat. you cry out again, choking a little on your own breath as you stretch your neck, trying to see your sam. 

but the shifter presses the knife down, drawing a line of blood on your neck and growls, “look at me. you’re going to watch your precious little sammy as he slices your throat.”

you can imagine sam putting his hands in the air, mouth open and ready to talk the shifter out of it when you hear two loud gunshots, and you’re dropped to the floor, too shaken up to break your own fall. your head hits the ground hard, and the next thing you can register is sam again. you get his voice and his hands, one sliding under your neck to cup the back of your head and the other pressing hard against your wound. he winces when you grunt in pain at that, but keeps his hand in place.

“hey, hey. stay with me. look at me, c’mon.” his words are followed by your name, said in a sweet and desperate sort of way. you’re still dazed, but your head begins to clear up a bit. above you, sam’s face is pinched in worry, so much more worry than you’d expect him to express because of something as easily fixed as a measly stab wound.

it’s not completely inconsequential and it’s bleeding a whole lot more than you’d like, but you’ve dealt with this sort of thing and worse before. sam will stitch you up and you’ll be as good as new in a few days. even better, cas might come around soon and he’ll fix it right up for you.

“‘m fine, sam,” you grumble as dean drops down by your other side.

“shifter’s dead. we should go,” he says, more to sam than you since he’s clearly the most worried out of you all. dean places his hands on your arm, ready to help you up, but sam just pulls you into his arms and up against his chest. he stands and you wince from the pain of the movement, but relax a little seconds later. you expected to limp out of this nasty place, one arm slung around each of the boys as they do the heavy lifting but keep you on your feet. it seems sam won’t risk even that; he needs you closer, more protected, and in less pain.

dean leads the way to an exit, climbing up the ladder first and opening the heavy grate. only when you urge him to does sam let you down. he knows that he can’t carry you up, but he sure would have liked to. instead, he has to settle for lifting you as best as he can, his strong hands never straying from you until they’re on your ankles and dean’s got you, pulling you up the rest of the way and letting you lean on him until sam reappears.

the fresh air is amazing to breathe in and to feel on your skin, but what you’d most like is to be laying in bed after a long, hot shower. and to not be in quite as much pain. you sigh into dean’s jacket, and just a second later he’s shifting you back into sam’s waiting arms. he doesn’t sweep you up this time, but he keeps you steady while dean jogs off to get the impala and bring it to you. with strong hands, sam eases you to the curb on the side of the road and wraps his arms around you, keeping a wide palm pressed against your wound to staunch the bleeding.

as you wait, sam is silent, and not in the soft and comfortable way he often is around you. you’re sure that he’s got a million things to say, not all of them 100% fair to you and all of them completely worried.

and there’s just so much to say that he can’t choose, and he thinks that, for your sake, he should hold back. sam knows he can get a little too angry sometimes, and you’re bleeding badly with your face smushed unattractively against his shoulder and he knows that this isn’t the time. he shouldn’t yet interrogate you about what happened or tell you aloud that he’s overly worried about you because suddenly he’s feeling things for you that he didn’t realize he was feeling before.

you let him brood in silence, and though this is just about the closest physically that you’ve been with him today, he feels sort of distant and unreachable. it pains you.

when dean arrives, sam loads you into the car, piling into the back seat after you to give you a shoulder to lean on. you can feel dean’s eyes on you as he glances back through the rearview mirror, and you’re sure that he too wants to ask what happened, how the shifter managed to trick you despite the rules you’d set.

“dean, we should head to the hospital,” sam says, his voice cutting into the tense silence of the car. you shake your head weakly.

“no, sam. i’m fine, seriously.”

“no,” he counters, “you’re bleeding a lot. we’re going to the hospital to get you some real stitches.

“your stitches work just fine,” you argue, your words half lost in the fabric of his coat.

“and what if you need more than just stitches? we can’t risk that,” he presses, and you know he’s not going to give up.

“sammy’s right,” dean piles on, and you sigh, then wince in pain. you don’t even grumble out an annoyed, “fine,” and instead just like the silence take over again as a begrudging relentment.

When all the doctors do is give you a few stitches and an iv and let you out just an hour later, you resist the urge to say “i told you so.” but really, you’re glad for the professional help, knowing that, though you still feel like shit, you’re far better off than you would’ve been if you’d gone straight back to the motel. the car ride is quiet, but you know that you’re due for a bit of an interrogation when you get back.

tonight, dean starts it, because sam is practically brooding in the corner.

“so, you gonna let us in on what the hell you were thinking back there?” he asks, sounding ready to just about throw his hands up in the air. “did you really not follow the single rule we set? it almost got you killed.”

“i know, and i did,” you sigh, “but it tricked me. it had one of sam’s knives and it cut itself and i wasn’t paying enough attention to realize it wasn’t one of sam’s silver knives. it was a damn good actor too,” you explain. dean clenches his jaw, probably looking for some other point to make. these winchesters never know when to stop arguing. “we’ve all been tricked by shifters before. it happens, i messed up, you saved my ass. that’s all.”

you guess dean’s not in as much of a fighting mood as you thought, because he just shrugs. “you’re damn right about the ass saving part.”

you crack a wry smile, “guess it’s my turn to save your ass then.”

“only thing i need saving from now is that sewer stench. so i will call first dibs on the shower.” he leaves no room for argument on that front as he disappears into the bathroom. only then do you glance at sam, wondering if he’ll say something. his expression has got so many emotions swirling around that it’s almost unreadable. but you’re you, and you know him and love him in a way that nobody else does, so you can decipher it all pretty well. there’s anger, like always, probably targeted at the shifter and a bit misplaced in you for getting yourself hurt. then there’s guilt, because, in classic sam fashion, he likely thinks that it’s his fault.

you’d put the pieces together a bit ago in the hospital. the red marks above sam’s eyebrow and around his wrists and the shifter having sam’s knife and appearance tells you that the shifter got the jump on sam. it probably hit him over the head, tied him up, and stole his knife after stealing his appearance and accessing his memories. and though you can know that it’s clearly not sam’s fault the shifter got to you, he’ll still think so.

he’s thinking that because the shifter got the drop on him, you got hurt. he’s thinking about how trusting you were because it looked like him, about the position he found you in, and though he couldn’t see it, he knows the look you were giving his lookalike. he’s sure that it was that syrup-sweet, honey-dripping-from-your-eyes look that he’s been all too aware of and all too fond of these days. and because of that, it must be his fault.

on top of that, he feels like he was the one to do it. you got hurt by something with his face. you were almost killed and the last thing you would have seen would have been a cold, dark smirk on his face as he killed you. that thought pained him more than anything he could express.

you, of course, don’t yet understand the full depth of his guilt, but it bothers you anyways. you wish that sam could stop blaming himself for everything bad that’s ever happened when all he’s ever done is try to be good. while in the midst of wondering if you should speak first, interrupt his self-destructive thoughts and tell him it’s not his fault, he beats you to it.

“you should’ve been more careful.” his voice is unexpectedly hard and cold, devoid of his usual guilt and gentleness. tonight, he’s more focused on his anger. and of course, you know it’s because of that guilt that he lashes out, but it hurts nonetheless. even so, you want to soften him and get him to open up, so you apply the opposite tactic as him.

when you speak, you let your voice be full of emotion, of sincerity and gentleness and understanding. “i know, sam. i’ll pay more attention next time, i promise. but i’m okay.”

this catches him off guard a bit. normally, when he targets misplaced anger at you, you fire back and tell him how stupid it is that he’s trying to blame you. he already knows it’s stupid, and your soft eyes make him even more guilty. it’s not as if he’s being just as silly this time, but your approach works, a little.

sam does soften a bit; you can see the slight change in the way that he holds his shoulders, but it’s not enough to get him to admit that he’s just worried and blaming himself. all you get is pursed lips and a tight brow. he just can’t get over the image of himself plunging a knife into you, can’t get over your cry of pain or the feel of your hot and sticky blood seeping through the cracks of his fingers.

sam’s realizing that, for all the countless times you’ve come close to death, this is the first time since he’s started to think that he’s most likely in love with you. and that, more than anything else in the world, not the literal devil or the apocalypse or whatever, is the scariest thing that sam’s had to realize and endure in a long time.

now, sam can’t run from being lucifer’s vessel. even if he never gives in, he has to confront it and fix it somehow. he certainly can’t run from the apocalypse, or the world will end. he can’t have that, not when the world is you. it’s his responsibility. sam can’t run from those things, but he sure as hell can run from the way he feels about you. and he’d do that because he can’t afford to be in love with you. you can’t afford for him to be in love with you or for you to be in love with him because it seems like that’s already gotten you stabbed by a hand that looks just like his own. and all that’s happened between the two of you is playful flirting, sidelong glances, and shared smiles, so he can’t imagine what might happen if things go an inch further than they already have.

he got jess killed, he hurt you bad with ruby, and though sarah’s still alive as far as he knows, he attributes that to the fact that she’s far, far away from him. not to mention the people he loved like family who are dead because of him too. that’s another horrifying thought because even if sam didn’t love you the way that he does, he’d surely still love you some other way.

so, sam’s going to run, sam’s not going to let you any closer, sam is going to keep you at an arm’s length. he’ll stop looking at you like he wants you, he’ll stop hovering so near, he’ll quit his goal of making you smile or laugh at least three times a day, and he’ll do everything he can to make sure you don’t love him too much. he can’t let you tell him you love him, he can’t let you confess because he’ll be too far gone if he hears that come out of your mouth. he’s gonna run because he’s decided with horror and glory all at once that yes, he does love you, and that’s the worst thing he could do to you other than slit your throat with his own two shaking hands.

from where you sit, just feet apart, you can see sam grow more and more distant by the second. you can’t figure out what’s going through his head, but you’re sure you wouldn’t like it if you heard him say it aloud. you open your mouth to say something to him, get him to say something back, but you can’t find the words. anything you come up with gets stuck in the back of your throat before you can even make a sound.

sam looks at you, just for a fleeting moment that’s too fast and slippery for you to grab hold of it. his eyes hold regret, like he’s done something that he can’t take back, and he doesn’t like what he’ll have to do next in order to keep the consequences at bay.

then his eyes are gone from yours, along with that strange look, and you’re suddenly at a loss of how to reach out to him. it hurts because you know that what it will really take is time and patience, maybe more than he deserves.

you barely notice the time passing, but you watch sam take dean’s place in the bathroom and you can feel dean’s eyes on your back. you’re sure he can feel the shift in the air. when sam returns from the shower, you realize just how badly you want to get clean. you walk to the bathroom and feel a little lucky when you find a small plastic tub to fill with soapy water. you can’t take a real shower for the sake of keeping your stitches dry, but you’ll be damned if you can’t get that sewer stench off of yourself. when you bend to place the tub at the bottom of the bathtub, you grunt audibly in pain due to the movement. you sort of expect sam to come running to help like he always does, already surprised that he didn’t offer from the start when you told the boys you were going to wash up.

apparently, dean had expected the same; while he’s more than happy to be the one to help you, sam almost always beats him to that sort of thing before he can even try. you glance through the open door and see dean looking from you to sam, back to you before he stands from his bed in a rush.

“hey, hey, whatcha doin’ all that by yourself for? can’t have you busting any stitches, we paid for those,” he jokes, already in the bathroom with you by the time he’s finishes talking.

“pfft, yeah with stolen credit cards,” you retort, without actually resisting his aid. he takes your place by the faucet, nudging the bucket under it and turning on the hot water. you’re lucky that the shower doubles as a small bath, meaning you can easily sit in it alongside the bucket and just wipe yourself down without getting the floor wet.

you sit on the closed toilet seat as dean fills up the bucket, adds some soap, and mixes it around a little.

“want me to help you in?” he offers.

“mm, are you trying to see me naked?” you poke fun.

“and if i said yes?” he jokes back.

“then you’d never see the light of day again,” you threaten, already moving to slide off your jeans, with a bit of a struggle. dean’s strong hand immediately finds your elbow, holding you steady. you’re not worried about either brother seeing you in just your underwear. with the life you live, stuck in motels, or getting hurt in less than ideal spots, they’ve seen you that way plenty. and while dean can’t hold back from a lewd comment or two, he completely respects you and views you like another sibling. he helps you with your shirt too, as lifting your arms up proves even more painful than you’d thought.

dean kindly sets a folded towel down on the bottom of the shower bed for you to sit more comfortably, then helps you ease in. then he’s grabbing two clean wash rags, dunking one in the water and handing the other to you.

“try and keep those stitches as dry as you can,” he instructs, and you oblige by placing the dry rag over your covered wound. “we’ll change the bandages when you’re done.”

“mhmm,” you nod, “thank you, dean.”

“‘course, kid. you want me to get your back? or i can send sammy in to help instead,” he offers, saying that last part loud enough for sam to hear. you glance out the open bathroom door only to catch sight of sam’s back as he heads for the outside door. he moves out of your line of sight, but you can hear the door being open and shut behind him. you sigh in disappointment and a bit of hurt. dean curses lightly under his breath and you suddenly feel awkward and ashamed for no practical reason. but dean knows that sam isn’t being as good to you as he should, so he’s being extra nice instead.

“if you– if you could do it that would be nice. thanks,” you frown, then try to fix it with a strained smile. when dean is done, he hands the damp cloth to you, and you thank him again quietly.

“just holler if you need anything else,” he reminds you before walking out, leaving the door open by just a sliver.

you carefully wipe down the rest of your body, relishing in the heat of the water and the feeling of being just a little cleaner. you’re slow about it, letting yourself savor the alone time and telling yourself that you won’t worry about the events of the day until tomorrow. during the time that you clean yourself, you hear the outside door open and close twice more, and you assume sam’s come back and left again. by the time you’re done with the soapy water, it’s gone lukewarm, but you’re successfully feeling much more relaxed.

“dean!” you call out, hoping he’ll come and change the water for you so that you can get rid of any extra soap suds still lingering on your skin. there’s no reply for a long moment. “dean?” you call again. “can you help me again?”

without a word in response, you hear footsteps, then the creak of the bathroom door. instead of dean, you find sam poking his head into the room.

he clears his throat awkwardly. “dean left to get some more food. i can, uh– i can help.”

“oh, okay,” you smile at him a little, then feel sort of pathetic because of the hope that rises in your chest. you force your voice into nuetrality. “thanks, sam. i, uh, i just need to dump this out and get some new water. it’s just sort of heavy.”

“right, yeah. of course.” sam enters the room fully, filling up the small space with his tall, broad frame. when he gets close, you extend a hand, silently asking him to help you stand first, despite the fact that you could do it yourself with the help of the wall. but sam can’t very well deny you, so he obliges by grabbing your hand and placing the other around your bicep to hoist you up. his strong hands and arms pull you up easily, and help you back onto the tile floor. you feel the tickle of a rivulet of water run down your right leg, then a few more on your left. sam dutifully pulls the towel you were sitting on out and hands it to you before he dumps out the soapy water and turns on the faucet, checking the temperature before letting it splash into the bucket

you stand there in silence, watching him work, watching him keep his eyes averted from your almost naked form, watching him struggle with being so close to you.

“there,” he says simply when he’s done, grabbing the towel from you and placing it back on the bottom of the tub. once he’s eased you back down to sitting in the shower, he straightens and takes a step backwards towards the door. but he can’t just leave, not like that. “is there anything else you need?”

you think you’re allowed to be a little selfish sometimes, so you say yes. “uh, yeah. could you, uhm, could you just wipe down my back? i can’t tell if there’s still soap on it.” sam almost tells you that there isn’t and just walks away, but he caves to you and the look in your eyes.

he looks like he’s not sure if he wants to stiffen and close himself off and do it in silence, or soften and open himself up to being gentle with you. it seems he’s unable to treat you too coldly, no matter what sort of fear or silent commitments to staying clear of you he’s made.

“‘f course,” he agrees after a moment, getting down on his knees, pressed right up against the wall of the bathtub as he takes the wet rag from you and dips into the newly hot water. he keeps his eyes trained on the skin of your back, and you keep yours to the plain white surface of the tile wall in front of you. his hand is as gentle, warm, and encompassing as you know it to be. of course, he’s trying not to touch you directly, keeping most of his hand covered by up the cloth. but the motel rag isn’t a generous size, and his hands are, so the base of his palm or the pads of his fingertips keep brushing against your cool skin. he’s hot in comparison to you, as per usual.

the task doesn’t have to take long at all, but sam must be having trouble parting from you now that he’s back and so, so close. so, he takes the rag across the whole expanse of your back more than once, applying a gentle pressure that soothes and relaxes your still tense muscles. only once he’s heard a sigh of satisfaction leave your lips does he bring his hand away from you.

there’s a few more moments of quiet, only punctuated by the sounds of lightly sloshing water as he dips the rag back into the water, then squeezes it out so that it’s not too soaked for your next use. he hands it to you and asks, “anything else?” without getting up or even glancing at the door like he wants to escape. he lets himself look at your face for a moment, before tearing his gaze away once more.

you shake your head lightly. “that’s all. thanks.”

“mhmm,” he nods, “tell me if you need me.” that’s not how he meant to say things, but it’s how it came out anyways. and oh how you wish to tell him, i need you. he wants to hear you say it too, until he remembers himself and the fact that he’d cave if he did. and he can’t cave, not ever, not even if you told him that you need him. these days he feels like he needs you.

“okay.” you wait for him to leave before you put your attention back on yourself. when he closes the door behind himself, you heave out a deep sigh, then yawn, suddenly hit with a wave of bone-deep exhaustion. you make quick work of wiping off the rest of your body and brace yourself on the wall to stand. you’re not sure you can bear being stuck with sam in such close proximity again tonight, so you dress yourself with just a bit of trouble and leave the tub of water alone for one of the boys to take care of tomorrow.

when you leave the bathroom, dean’s still gone and sam’s laying on his bed. you almost tear up at the sight of him, tucked tightly into one half of the space and his back so purposefully facing your side of the bed. upset with this small cruelty, you climb into dean’s bed instead and fall asleep on your back before you can even change your bandages.

—

last night you caught sam reaching for your hand. he was motioning with the hand further from you, distracted as he complained about something dean said earlier. you glanced down for no particular reason and a movement caught your eye. his unoccupied hand had drifted closer to you, reaching out seemingly on instinct, as if walking next to you should mean holding hands with you. quickly, you looked away, and you never felt his hand even brush past yours. but you heard the rustle of his jacket as he moved, the pause in his words, and the shift in tone when he finally continued to speak. you don’t think he knows that you noticed.

and the day before that, he gave you this dazzling smile and didn’t even think twice about it. sometimes he’ll smile at you wide, and the pretty look on his face will be ripped away as if he’s had some horrible realization that smiling at you is somehow a sin. but this last time, the smile faded naturally, untouched by the overbearing hesitancy he seems to have kept clutched in his hands for the past few weeks since that night with the shapeshifter.

there’s this constant push and pull coming from him that you can’t quite wrap your head or heart around. many days, he’s distant and that’s it. all you get is talk of cases or how to stop the goddamn apolcalypse. other days he’s able to be decently normal; he’ll joke and chat a little and you’ll get a glimpse of your sam. and some days he just can’t stay away, like there’s this tug pulling him to you that’s too strong to resist. it calls his hand towards yours, his eyes all over your face, and his body to stand right by you. those days he can’t cover up any sort of longing gaze and he’s stuck staring right at you and missing you more than he ever imagined he’d have to.

you suppose you prefer the in between days, because they’re the closest to the sam that you’ve had by your side for so long. they’re closest to the sam that’s your best friend, the sam who didn’t know he loved you yet. those are the days you can most easily pretend that something isn’t wildly off about you and him, because dealing with unrequited love has sort of become your norm. and while the days he can’t hide that he feels more for you are a desirable confirmation that there’s some part of him that can’t resist you, they’re also a painful reminder that it’s not quite enough to keep him from distancing himself.

and lord, it just hurts so much when one of those sweet days turns sour. you’ll feel at ease, hopeful and glad for the day's luck, when suddenly the good day has turned too good or one of you has laughed too sweet and loud because of the other. at that, sam will instantly pull away as if it’s dangerous to be happy together. you can see his eyes change from content because of you to tortured because of you and all you want to do is take him by the shoulders and shake him hard. then mostly likely kiss him hard too, if you can get him to come to his senses.

of course, there’s that never ending love. you really don’t think you could stop loving him if you tried with all of your might. but there’s certainly anger. each day that passes by, you become angrier and angrier with him, so frustrated with him and his stupid decisions. with too much time to think about him and his odd behavior, you feel nearly sure that he’s just plain old afraid. of losing you or hurting you or some other classic, stupid reason and frankly, it’s completely unromantic. it’s making you feel like you’re losing your mind.

so when sam takes today, a half-normal day where you don’t feel the weight of his hesitance bearing down on you, and he snatches that away with a simple, closed-off expression, you feel far too fed up to just let it go.

dean’s off at some bar and though his support in your argument might help—because you’re almost positive that dean is on your side and is getting nearly as frustrated as you—you need to confront sam alone first.

you let silence reign in the motel room until sam’s done showering and about to settle into doing a bit of extra research before heading to bed.

“sam,” you start, already cursing to yourself when he looks at you without any of his usual eagerness to hear you talk. you’re sure he can already tell that you’re displeased from the way you said his name. “we have to talk.” 

his jaw clenches and he glances down at the closed laptop in front of him. he contemplates how to answer for a moment. “i should really check for any signs of lucifer. we haven’t gotten anything new in weeks, we’re bound to catch wind of something soon.”

your anger flares, but you tamp it down in favor of keeping this conversation as civil as possible. an angry you plus an angry sam never ends well, and you’re determined to make yourself heard before either of you walk away in frustration.

“no, sam. don’t ignore me. i know that you checked during lunch today, so it can wait until tomorrow,” you counter.

“this is important, you know that.” his voice is so flat and emotionless and stubborn and so unlike him that it hurts.

“it is,” you agree, “but you already checked today, so i’m asking you not to make excuses and listen to me, sam. it’s not that hard.” you bite your tongue, almost wishing you hadn’t made that last biting comment because you know it’ll just antagonize him. but you also know that your anger is warranted.

you can see sam realizing he can’t get out of this conversation in the way that he purses his lips in frustration.

“i– y’know, i’ve really tried to give you time.” you don’t wait for him to really look at you to start. “we all need time sometimes, but it’s not fixing anything. you’re not… you’re not trying to fix anything, it feels like.”

he won’t even look at you when he talks. “what do you want me to fix?”

“the way you’re treating me!” you say, indignant and raising your voice a little, unable to hold back. “you– i don’t know, you’re acting so strange! like– like one second you’re normal. normal sam, my best friend sam. and then you act like you don’t want me around. like you’d rather be stuck in the car and motel rooms with anyone else in the world but me.” only once you start talking do you realize just how much you have to say. it’s not just stop acting this way, or let’s talk about it, it’s so much more. so much that you need him to hear and to understand.

your voice quiets again. “you know, once, you told me that i was a god-send. that, that you can put up with all this shit because we get to do it together. it’s always been you and me! of course, it’s always been you and dean, but sam! we’re best friends,” you say it more like a plea than a statement. “you used to say that. then it got to the point where it felt like we didn’t even have to say anything at all. we just were. it used to feel like you’d do anything for me, just like i’d do for you. i never even questioned that, not once until ruby came along. even then, i knew it wasn’t you. not an excuse, but i knew, once she was gone, you’d figure it out again. just like always. we always figure it out. so why, why for the love of god are you not even trying?” your own words hit you like a wall of bricks. when things happen, when things go wrong, or you don’t understand something, you’ve always figured it out together. what you’re supposed to do is voice your concerns to the other and usually without saying the words, ask for help. this time, sam won’t share the burden with you, won’t attempt to figure it out with you even when it so clearly involves you.

sam opens his mouth to speak, and at least he’s looking at you now, but you won’t let him say a word yet. he’ll shut you down, and you can’t have that.

“why do i suddenly feel so stuck? i feel like there’s nothing i can do, like you’re slipping away, right through my fingertips! and that’s just the strangest feeling when, for the longest time, i was convinced that you’d be the one constant in my life. i really, really thought that way, sam. and i get that i’m biased and blinded by my own feelings, i just never imagined that you’d do anything like this, pull away so suddenly and quickly and adamantly like it’s your life’s mission to put a bulletproof wall in between us. so, i guess at the very least, i’d like a bit of an explanation as to why you don’t want anything to do with me anymore.”

your question hangs in the air, heavier and more smothering than a water-soaked wool blanket. you suppose you could keep talking; you’re not anywhere near out of things to say, but you need him to respond. he’s the one letting the silence take over, not you. he takes a deep breath, like he’s known he’d have to explain eventually, but would never be the one to willingly bring it up.

he answers plainly, almost honest. “it’s safer this way. it’s dangerous for you to be close to me.” you want to scream because you were right. you would’ve loved to have been wrong, for him to have magically had some good reason for all this. but in the end, it has come down to the evils of the world pressing down on a good man and that good man caving to believe what the evils tell him he is. you want to scream because sam is wrong. being close to him feels like saving grace. 

he’s not cursed, he’s not the cause of all the pain and death that rains down on the people he loves. and what about him? what about all the pain and death that rains upon him? where does he get reprieve, an apology for being singled out and tossed through all of these horrors by unexplainable forces? why can’t he blame god? why can’t he see that it’s not his fault?

“that’s not true,” you beg, “and it’s not an excuse to treat me like shit.” he looks away, a physical manifestation of the fact that he doesn’t want to admit that you’re right about at least that.

“i’m not trying to… to hurt you.” sam face just falls. he looks devastated. he wasn’t trying to hurt you, in fact, he was trying to do just the opposite, but it happened anyway. “see?” he pleads, desperate for you to understand, “no matter what i do, being around me is hurting you. i can’t keep putting people through that.”

“so what? you’re gonna pretend to hate dean too?” you counter.

sam looks hurt. “i wasn’t pretending to hate you. i’d never even pretend to feel that way about you, i–” he stops himself before he can say the words and clears his throat, not trying to be subtle when he changes the subject. “dean’s different. he’s involved in all this shit too. he doesn’t have a choice but to be around me, but you? you could be safe somewhere else.”

“and you think i want that? you think i’d make the choice to leave you, just to be a little safer?” you want to keep going, but he interrupts you.

“no, that’s exactly it. you’d never leave us, and i know that. but if– if we stay at a distance, you might be safer.” he’s doing everything he can not to make it sound like he wants you to go. he just can’t explain that the issue is that he loves you, that he thinks the solution is to stop loving each other.

“that’s bullshit,” you shake your head. “sam, i know that you think you’re cursed or some shit like that, but it’s not true. none of this is your fault.”

“how? how is it not my fault? the people i love die because of me, and no other reason. how is that not my fault?” he argues, desperately believing himself.

“because you’re not the one who killed them! you didn’t make that choice. those things happened to you too, sam. how much grief and loss have you had to go through because of things you couldn’t control? it was never your fault, sam.”

“and yet, if they weren’t around me, they never would have died. it doesn’t matter what choices i made, it was the simple act of being close to me that’s gotten so many people killed. and i can’t lose you, too. i just can’t and it’s just too possible that it’ll be because of me. i can’t live with that. i can’t let you get hurt.” this is the most raw his voice has been in weeks, months maybe even. you can see just how completely, irrationally terrified he is that he’ll get you killed and you’re starting to think that he’s too far gone for you to reel back to reality, to hope and perseverance and closeness. but you can’t seem to give up, still full of things to say.

“that’s not how this works!” you refute. “this is my life, it’s your life, our life. and whether or not i’m around you or close to you, i’ll still get hurt! it’s not like i’m just going to quit hunting so you don’t have to worry. so sam, you could hurt me on purpose; pull away, refuse me when you have to know damn well how i feel about you. it’s not like i’ve ever really been that subtle, you were just never looking for it until now. or– or you could do your best and if i get hurt, it's an accident, right?” you practically beg for him to agree, for him to see that treating you this way is so much worse than anything else that could happen to you because of him.

he curses under his breath. you’re getting so close to saying the sort of words that will make his resolve snap, one way or another. he says nothing and you’re still waiting for him to understand you. so, you hit him with something even more solid and irrevocable than your logic: your love.

“you can’t seriously think that i’m going to just let things go on like this, can you? is this really your plan? to pretend we don’t care about each other? to throw over a decade of friendship out the window because you think somehow it’ll keep me safe?” you make sure that he’s looking you straight in the eyes as you continue, voice thick with emotion, “sam, there’s nothing, nothing that could keep me from loving you. i’ve loved you since you were seventeen, at least. i was watching you study, realizing that you really were gonna go to college. damn, i was so happy for you and i was ready to do anything to help you get there. then i started thinking about how much i was gonna miss you. wondering if maybe i could get away too. if we could get away together. the next week my dad dragged me away on another hunt and i didn’t see you for a year. we saw each other nearly right before you left and i considered asking if i could run away with you. but i didn’t want you to have to drag any remnants of the life with you, and i was exactly that. i wouldn’t have been able to make it anyway.

“and you know, the saying that absence makes the heart go fonder, it’s not psychologically true. the more time you spend with someone, the more you get to love them. but i really felt like it was sort of true because i missed you so bad that it made me love you all the more. i tried to talk dean out of asking you to come back to look for your dad, but when i saw you again i gave up on that. i didn’t care that you had had jess or that you liked madison or sarah, and sure, ruby hurt a little more than them, but no matter what, i just liked being close to you. when i saw you again, i swore i couldn’t look away. and i was content loving you through looks and longing and letting you be. 

“but sam,” your voice cracks as you say his name and you try to swallow your tears, “this is just cruel. there’s not even anyone else, but you feel so much farther than you’ve ever been. you’d really refuse me after you dare to give me hope that you might actually love me back? i spend far too much time looking at you to miss the way you look at me. and i love listening to your voice so much that i could never miss the way your voice has changed when you talk to me as of late. you gave me hope for just a few weeks, and now you’re asking me to– to what?” you shake your head, not even sure what he’s trying to change or fix and how.

“you want me to let you go? and what, that’s it? do you want me to stick around but pretend i don’t love you? or– or do you want me to just stop loving you and you think that’ll somehow fix things? because that sure as hell isn’t possible,” you look at him so carefully, so deeply as you search for an answer in his eyes. “or do you just want me to go?”

you didn’t mean that question, but sam truly considers it. at first you desperately wish that you could take it back. you don’t want to go, you don’t think you can be apart from him like that.

but he goes and does the worst thing that he could and he tells you, “yes. you should go.” he can’t even look you in the eye when he says it and you know that you with certainty that you can’t stay. you can’t do that to yourself, to your pride, to your peace of mind. because with those four words he’s told you that he loves you, but not enough to try.

or too much, perhaps. he loves you too much to try, because it’s him who will really be worse off if something he does gets you killed. sure, you’d be dead, but sam… sam would be alive and stuck with far too much guilt and loneliness and loss and greif to deal with. but if you go, then sam can’t be responsible for you. he can’t curse you with his love that way, so sam may want you closer to him than he’s ever wanted anybody, but he wants even more for you to go.

you want to say something awful back. i hate you crosses your mind, but it’s so far from the truth that you couldn’t even say it out loud. if you did, it would still mean i love you.

you’re horrible, sam, is the next thing that falls into your mouth, but you clamp your jaw shut before those words can fall out. you don’t swallow though, you let the words sit on your tongue and you taste them and consider them. because in a way, they’re true. sam’s being horrible to you. but you’re naive, and, oh right, hopelessly in love with him, which means you want to spare him. it means that you don’t want to convince him further that he can never be good enough for you, because he is. he is when he isn’t being like this, and if he can figure it out, maybe he’ll beg on bended knee for you to come back, say he’ll do anything to make it up to you, tell you he still loves you so much and he can’t be apart from you if you’ll let him come close again.

but you’re so fucking angry at him. you’re almost blinded with love, but not quite because you already know that those hopes of yours are ridiculous moments after you think of them. he’s burned any possibility of you and him to the ground. you know this and you know that he knows it too. you hope it haunts him forever and you don’t care if that’s cruel.

“go ahead, sam,” you laugh humorlessly, bitterly. the sound makes him look up from the guilty hole he’s burning into the table top with his eyes. “add me to your list of ghosts before i’m even dead, and know, without a doubt, that this time it really was you who did it. you lit the match, sam. you pulled the trigger.” he looks at you, dumbfounded as if he finally understands what you’ve been trying to say this whole time but knows that he’s gone too far. once a trigger’s been pulled, it can’t be undone and he knows that. that knowledge is a sort of pain that rings in his ears and swirls violently in his stomach.

you grab your coat from the hanger on the wall beside you.

“wait,” he chokes out, tears shining in his eyes. you shoot him a harsh look and he shuts his mouth. he doesn’t get to say that word.

“i’ll call if i figure out how to stop the fucking apocalypse. otherwise, tell dean not to call, ‘cause i’m not coming back.” you grab your bag from the floor by the bed and walk past him to take all the cash from his wallet. you feel his eyes follow you until you reach the door.

hand on the door knob, you turn back to him and you stare him square in the eye to be sure he can see your tears, to show him he made you cry. you won’t tell him he’s horrible, so you’ll settle for a simple, “you’re wrong, sam. you’re wrong about this.”

then you walk out the door, cursing yourself for hating the sound of him crying more than anything in the world.

[dipperscavern]

icl I want Jon snow to wrap his arms around me and tell me everything’s gonna be okay 😔✌️

jon snow is… he just has this calming aura about him, it’s so hard to explain. like, everything is just okay when you’re with him. and his touch reassures that thought.

let’s say this is after his resurrection. you can hardly believe he’s alive — you watched him die. and sometimes, it feels like you’re right back at that day, your legs in the snow as you kneel next to your dead lover. some days it feels like he’s still dead, and sometimes, your nightmares don’t remember he’s alive either.

sometimes you fall asleep, and you dream of him surrounded. surrounded by men that swore oaths, men that claimed to be brothers, men that fought beside jon. men that were under his command. you dream of the different knives that enter his body, and it all goes painstakingly slow. it never ends fast enough, and all you can do is watch. for a dream, it’s pretty accurate. you watch the blood trickle out of him and look at the knife that stopped his heart — and you remember the patches of red snow in those exact places.

you always wake startled. opening your eyes, and immediately sitting up with a hand on your chest. your eyes scan the room for the men you saw in your dream, and they also scan for the man in the snow. for jon.

he’s always been a light sleeper, but since joining the watch and enduring his wildling escapade, he’s able to wake on a moments notice. as soon as you sit up, his eyes peel open. he turns to find you looking around the room, as you’ve done before, and he sits up as well. your eyes fly to him, and you visibly relax seeing him. seeing him alive.

“What’s happened?” he asks, reaching a hand out to your cheek. his touch relaxes you more, but there’s still worry etched in your features.

“Nothing… I just-“ you shake your head, swallowing. “we’re alright, get some sleep.”

you feign anything being wrong. but jon knows you better, and your mannerisms betray you. your words speak of security, but the way your eyes focus on a distant wall, and your fingers begin to trace your chest tell a different story.

jon moves his thumb to the other side of your chin, and uses his hand to tilt your head towards him. eventually, reluctantly, your gaze follows. you make eye contact, and you begin to crumble under his gaze. his pupils have grown since he’s woken, they move. they’re alive, and so is he. his lashes flutter as he blinks. he’s okay. the tap of jon’s fingers against your cheek snap you back to reality.

“Tell me.”

“Jon…”

his gaze is unwavering, and you sigh. he’s the one who lived through this, why should you be so affected? you hate bringing it up, not wanting him to relive the day it happened. he-

“Bad dreams?”

you hate when he doesn’t let you think. you nod, feeling silly. but truthfully, you can’t hold it in forever. your fingers begin to trace your chest again as you drop your gaze.

“I always see you in the snow. You stained it red.”

jon takes a moment, looking at you. to have someone care for you so, he thinks.

his hand leaves your cheek, and wraps around your own. he brings it to his bare chest, and you feel his heartbeat beneath his skin. his warm skin. it’s warm because his blood is flowing, not cold and clammy, like the day of red snow. he gauges your reaction, eyes never leaving you. your gaze is fixed on his chest, on where your hands meet over his heart. the heart that’s moving, pumping blood to the rest of his body. your pupils dilate, and jon has to resist the overwhelming urge to kiss you — because god, how lovely are you?

you move both of your hands to his neck, right under his jaw. his pulse point, and it thrums under your fingers. it’s moving, it’s alive, and so is he. he looks at you, and how focused you are on him. it makes him nervous, and his pulse changes, beginning to hammer under your touch. the hint of a smile graces your features, breaking eye contact with his neck to look at him directly. he’s already looking at you. he always is.

he’s alive. he’s alive now, and you have him. he’s here with you, not out in the cold, blood dripping onto the frost covered ground. your eyes begin to water, and you drop your head. you hate crying in front of other people. he hates when you cry. your hand breaks from him to wipe away your tears, and his own goes to cradle your cheek as he did earlier. he leans in, pressing small chaste kisses to anywhere he can reach. anywhere he can soothe. your temple, your cheek, kissing your tears away before wrapping his arms around you.

his touch is comforting. it’s everything and more. he’s touching you, he’s warm, and he’s safe. jon’s safe, and he’s right here.

“It’s alright. I’m alright… ‘m right here.”

you lean your head against his chest, and bring your hand to rest on his neck. your fingers rest on his thrumming pulse point once more. you spend some time like that, wrapped in each other, savoring each others presence. he eventually moves you both to lay down, and you rest your head on his chest. you trace his skin, the heat of it making your fingers tingle. it’s not long before you can’t keep your eyes open any longer, and the sound of his heartbeat lulls you to sleep.

[notjoelmiller]

the protector

MDNI

joel miller x tess's sister!reader (not blood related) summary: Joel promised Tess he would take care of you. It's fine until he finds himself infatuated with you and Ellie accuses him of replacing Tess. wordcount: 5.0k warnings: smut (unprotected p-in-v), unspecified age gap, canon character death, spoilers up to episode 3, background character death, violence, joel is not a good person in this

Tess asks him one night as he stitches her up. Negotiations went wrong, and Joel tends to her carefully. He always does. It was his way of setting things right.

Joel had to carry her back to their apartment. Her skin lost its rosy hue in the process, and she shivered in his arms the whole way back. Joel thought he lost her. He almost did.

With the apartment illuminated by the streams of moonlight peeking through the window, he puts her back together. Needle and threat prod and pull at her skin. The makeshift infirmary that their apartment has become reeks of iron and alcohol.

He killed earlier, with his bare hands. He’s only done that a few times before. He liked using guns or knives, but he beat that man who hurt Tess. Crushed his eye socket just to watch him bleed. It was irresponsible and reckless. His hands tremble with the lingering adrenaline mixed with newfound anxiety. Tess is alive, he tries telling himself. It doesn’t quell the shakes.

He has only two stitches left when Tess speaks for the first and only time that night. Her words come out slowly, either from the blood loss or careful consideration. 

“If anything happens to me, take care of my sister, okay?” She asks.

Joel pauses, needle hanging just above her skin. His fingers are caked in Tess’s blood, maybe some of a stranger. He’s sure it’s gonna be there in the morning, no matter how much he scrubs his skin raw. 

“Okay,” he says.

“Promise?”

“I swear.”

They don’t mention it. Years pass before she asks him to make another promise– to take care of an infected girl. He swears to her again, and when he does he remembers: the farm in western Massachusetts circled on a map, the mysterious kid sister Tess always talks about, the promise he made with blood caked under his nails.

As smoke from the capitol building pollutes the blue sky, Joel wonders if Tess remembers it. Perhaps, while grappling with her last lucid moments before the infection takes over, it brought her peace– the thought of her sister’s safety.

Save who you can save.

Once things calm down, and distance muffles the screeches of the infected, Ellie asks where they’re going.

***

Joel doesn’t see the resemblance. Ellie says she does. It’s in the eyes, she tells him. That determination. Scary shit. Joel can’t deny it, you do have that intense Tess-stare. But the expression is about where the resemblance ends.

In fact, the moment he lays eyes on you, he realizes that when Tess said “sister”, it was an expression– a bond beyond blood. Even if you weren’t related, you were important to her.

“Tess is dead,” he says minutes after you welcome him and Ellie into your home. “Asked me to look after you.”

You excuse yourself after Joel tells you. Ellie elbows him in the ribs when you disappear into the upstairs section of the house. It was a disturbing delivery, evident by your quiet gasps and sobs in the other room, but it was fact. Tess is gone, and Joel has a promise to fulfill. Sugarcoating it won’t change anything.

You fail to emerge from your room before sundown. Ellie tells him that they should clear out and let you grieve, but something keeps him planted in your living room. 

It’s cozy, not just by post-infection standards. You somehow keep the place neat, but it still looks lived in. Polaroids sit in frames on top of the fireplace. Most of them are you and Tess. In some of them, she’s younger, before Joel met her in the quarantine zone. Though, others were more recent. If Joel had to guess, the newest photo was taken in the last two years. He never knew how much Tess came out to see you. How much you really meant to her.

You don’t reemerge until the stars come out. Even then, with puffy, but dry, eyes and a monotonous voice you tell the strangers where they can sleep. Hospitable, despite the waves of grief that radiate from your frame.

As you set up the guest rooms, Joel explains that they’re leaving in the morning. He offers you the choice of staying, but tells you that you have a better chance out there than here alone, with nobody watching over you. He doesn’t know if that’s true, but he knows that Tess would have wanted you under his protection.

Ellie tries comforting you in the only way her emotionally-stunted self can. She cracks jokes, tries her best to break the tension. It doesn’t make you laugh. Hell, you don’t even smile. Ellie’s curls into herself, embarrassed, but only because she misses the way your shoulders droop and eyes soften. Joel does see it.

After the pair are settled into the spare rooms, you disappear again. When they wake the next morning, you’re back to normal. Somewhat. You flutter around the house with a backpack and a duffle, shoving personal items and essentials in. You don’t greet your guests, instead you start by ordering Ellie to bring non-perishables from the kitchen to the truck. She nods dumbly and gets straight to work. Joel frowns at her obedience until your eyes land on him.

You lower your voice, “The photos.” Your voice is hoarse at that volume, no doubt exacerbated by your night of grief. “I can’t take them all. If you want one you can– I mean, you don’t need to. Tess didn’t talk much about you, but she sent you after me, didn’t she?” You chuckle. It’s humorless. “I guess you two trusted each other.” You nod to the mantle. Only a few photos remain. 

He frowns. Had Tess not told you about them? He had assumed that in thirteen years, you would have said something. His hands clench. “Photos ain’t gonna change a thing,” he states.

Your face crumples like he’s just spitten on your sister’s grave. “Maybe.” You turn away. “I’ll help Ellie with the food. Then we can go.”

You work with Ellie to clear out the rest of the food supply. She talks your ear off the entire time you pack. Apparently, she’s thrilled to have you joining her and Joel, though you fear she isn’t actually interested in your company. You think she only talks to you so enthusiastically because you're more responsive than Joel. 

Despite your hesitance, you find yourself anticipating joining the pair. It’s not like you have much of a choice in the matter, though. Tess kept you stocked. She kept you safe. With her gone, and her partner heading west, you were alone. In a few months time, you would be out of bullets and meds, and with the winter approaching, the odds would be against you.

Ellie knocks on the side of Joel’s truck. “Do you know how to drive?” She asks, flipping a knife in her hands with a bit too much ease for your liking. You wonder how long she’s had that thing. Thankfully, it looks relatively unused. “Joel doesn’t wanna teach me… but maybe you could give me lessons. It’ll be really fuckin’ cool– plus I could help you guys out and take some driving shifts.”

You shrug, tucking the last pile of cans in the truck bed. Ellie’s standing on the wheel, looking at you with wide, expectant eyes. “So?” She asks, leaning forward so much, you think she’ll fall into the bed.

Joel comes out before you can make that promise. He stomps down the porch steps, telling you and Ellie to get in the car. There’s no urgency to his orders. For that you’re grateful. Driving off in that car means the end of the last twenty years of your life. No more of the farm, no more New England, no more Tess. 

You wait for anxiety to come, but it doesn’t. Somehow, you’ve made peace with it all. With Ellie and Joel, your new companions.

Ellie seems attached to you. She’s been chatting your ear off for the better part of the hour. It’s nice. She keeps your mind off grief.

You wonder if this is how Tess felt, when she first found you and took you under her wing. Sure, you were less chatty than Ellie, but you find yourself feeling a strange possessiveness over the girl. You’ve never had to be a role model, someone for a young girl to look up to. You think about Tess, all she did to make sure you were well-adjusted in this world. Ellie seems like a good kid. You just hope that you’ll be able to guide her like Tess did you.

Joel seems less excited to have you, more like he’s carrying out a duty. You suppose that is the case, that Tess sent him to you in her absence. You don’t understand why she kept him around for so many years. He doesn’t appear to be the best company. He’s quiet, though when he chooses to speak it’s curt, leaving a bad taste in your mouth. 

He’s not bad on the eyes, though. Maybe that’s why she kept him around.

Ellie nudges your shin with her foot. She stares at you with wide, expectant eyes. “You can sit shotgun,” she says.

You smile, “Thanks, kid.”

***

Joel dreams about Tess. He dreams she’s still with him. Everything’s the same– he's left Boston, Bill and Frank are gone –except you’re absent. Back on the farm, perhaps, doing whatever the hell it was you did there.

Ellie’s still in his dreams, at least most of the time. Sometimes she’s not. Some nights, she’s taller, with a head of curly hair. She’s got the same snark, but less of a tendency to use profanities.

The dreams keep him up. When he eventually falls asleep, it isn’t for long. The dreams come, and Tess says something too close to that day in the capitol or he catches a head of curly hair. Then he’s up, breathing heavily and sweating hard. You notice, of course you do. Tess was like that. She always had an inkling whenever something was eating at Joel. You ask if he wants to talk about it.

Of course I do.

But Joel just shrugs. He wants that companionship, that person to lean on in his struggles, but not in you. You’re not the person he wants to burden.

***

You grieve differently than Joel. You actually take time to talk about Tess, tell stories about her– good and bad. Ellie loves it, grateful to learn more about the woman she could only be with for a short time. The woman who saved her life.

It helps Joel learn about your relationship. He gathers that you came together at the start of the infection. You grew together, learning from each other. You were younger than her, he guesses by at least a decade, and had grown into your own under her guidance.

You and Tess parted ways months before she met Joel. You wanted autonomy, a place to call your own. You wanted the openness of the country and the ability to live off the land, not on FEDRA rations. Tess needed security. She needed to know that she wouldn’t be ripped apart by clickers in her sleep. She wanted a quarantine zone. So, you split up.

But there was– is –no bitterness in that disagreement, Joel finds. When you recall that parting of ways and your desires for different lives, you seem content. It irks him that you have such a strange peace with that, after knowing the fate of your sister, while you stand with him now, alive and well.

There are glimpses of Tess in you. He admits that to Ellie one night after you’ve gone to sleep, hardly a week after you joined the duo. What he doesn’t admit to Ellie is how much of Tess he really sees in you, and that sometimes, he has to stop himself from calling you by her name.

But of course, he slips up. It happens only once. You’re walking behind him, telling some story about a poor sucker who gave you trouble back on the farm. It’s a good story, but coming from your lips? Joel is captivated.

He goes to respond to some gruesome detail of the story, but her name comes out of his mouth. Not yours. Tess. Ellie whips her head around unbelievably fast, eyes so wide he can practically hear her thoughts screaming at him, what the hell Joel?

He’s quick to cover it up. “Tess… she said something like that happened to her once, too.”

Joel’s glad you’re behind him. You can’t see the way his face crumples in shame. Though, he can’t see whether or not you caught it.

When you’re out of earshot, Ellie calls it a Freudian slip. Joel tells her to watch her mouth.

***

You’re softer than Tess from all that time on the farm. Sure, you have your fair share of trouble with raiders and stray infected, and you know your way around a fight. But you’ve never stepped foot in a quarantine zone. You’ve never had to deal with the Fireflies, the grifters, or even FEDRA.

Tess had gone through all of that. She internalized it– let it change her. It roughened her edges enough that even the thought of submitting to Joel made her hackles raise. Not you, though.

You don’t just accept his touch. You practically melt at it. She let him touch her, being intimate physically in ways he could never verbalize, but she never reveled in it. She would never sigh and lean into his hand on her cheek. She couldn’t let her muscles relax in his embrace, but she’d always accept it. After all, she was his.

You’re not, but you take and cherish all that Joel has to give you. You live for it. You could forget about all of your troubles with him. He sees it in the way your hands linger on his when he helps you up after a fight, and he often feels the back of his neck burning with your stares. He likes the attention you give him.

You don’t have to kill much, but Joel’s tendency to protect Ellie from death has rubbed off on you. You kill when needed, and each time, once the body lays still, Joel notices you pause. You take time to observe the life you took, and a profound sadness overtakes you. Not remorse, though. Joel has found that you don’t regret what you had to do. He thinks you got that from Tess.

Unfortunately, that habit of yours teaches him how thoroughly fucked he is.

Joel gets knocked to the ground by a hunter. His head snaps back against the ground. Not hard enough to concuss, but it rattles him to the point that he can’t get the damn guy off of him. In the haze, he doesn’t feel the knife resting on the skin of his neck.

You see it, though, and in moments, you're on the hunter. 

Joel is too dazed to realize what had occurred until you’re leaning over him, cupping his jaw gently as you examine his face. 

His eyes dance between you and the hunter just inches away. He’s a pile of bloodied flesh. You don’t care. There’s blood on you. It’s thick and coats your arms and torso. All you do is ask Joel questions. Are you alright? Do you think you’re concussed? Do you need help getting up? Your eyes are on him– him alone.

He tries keeping up with your questions. Not just because they’re important, but because he wants to please you. You– who put aside your morals just to dote on him. You– the woman he vowed to protect. You– the new object of Joel’s infatuation.

***

The first time he really touches you, you’re speechless.

You’ve felt his touch before. It’s unavoidable– a graze of calloused fingertips over a wound you can’t reach, a helping hand lifting you over a high ledge, fingers lingering just a moment after handing rations. But this time, it’s different. It’s not accidental, nor the result of your forced proximity.

Ellie’s asleep, snoring softly just a few feet away.

You and Joel had an argument. A minor disagreement, really. He refuses to let you take the night watch and let him sleep. So, you sit in silence.

He’s tearing himself apart with his martyrdom. He sacrifices his sleep so he can take watch instead of you. He takes all the heat in fights, leaving you and Ellie unscathed, but him with unsavory injuries. He gives you and Ellie larger shares of food. You swear he’s lost weight since you’ve joined them. You pointed this all out to him earlier in the night. And he didn’t take it well.

You two don’t argue frequently. For that, you’re grateful. Joel’s not the best company, even by today’s standards, but you’ve come to enjoy having him by your side. He’s courteous, helpful, and has an unexpectedly good sense of humor. But when you get into a disagreement, you wonder why you joined him in the first place. He becomes something else, cold and detached. He’s so venomous and vile that you find your chest hurting with frustration.

You’re both still recovering from earlier. It was a tame disagreement by your standards. Both of you managed to get over it just enough to sit next to each other by the fire. For warmth, you both agreed.

Hours after the sun disappears, the moon and stars being the only light in the sky, Joel shifts. You almost ask what’s the matter, then he takes his hand in yours, resting it on his thigh.

You don’t tense. You don’t look at him. You don’t signal in any way that he’s actually touching you. His fingers brush over your knuckles, calluses scratching against taught skin over joints, and strangely, your heart flutters. He falls asleep like that, your hand in his.

A week later, under the blanket of night, Joel fucks you against a tree.

There’s no tenderness in it, but it’s not like you expected anything different. 

He tells you to keep it down. It's an obscene request that he makes as though his hands aren’t up your shirt, grabbing at you like you’re the only person in the world. He makes it seem like the drilling of his hips into you doesn’t make it near-impossible to keep it down.

He makes quick work of you. His fingers deftly rub at your clit until you're swallowing the noises of your orgasm. Joel doesn’t last much longer, pulling out and spilling himself on your thighs. 

You don’t talk about it the next morning. You keep the appearance of “normalcy”, for Ellie’s sake. You just hope she doesn’t notice the smiles you share behind her back.

***

His dreams change. Now most nights, he’s back in Boston in his shitty bed that cost way too many ration cards. That doesn’t matter though, because it’s peaceful. 

Sunlight peeks through the curtain and warms the skin of his face. The streets outside are quiet. He’s warm, satisfied, and safe.

He’s alone in bed, but someone flitters around the apartment out of view. He hears it: footsteps all around the space, the quiet clang of dishes being stacked on top of each other, a feminine humming.

He can’t move in those dreams, forced to keep his eyes on the bright window– the one with the butterfly.

He wants to call her name. Tess, Tess, Tess. The syllable sits on the tip of his tongue, yet he can’t manage to say it. The word refuses to leave his lips. It’s like his body knows something he doesn’t.

It knows that something is wrong.

***

With every brush of Joel’s fingers against yours, Ellie is watching. 

She’s waiting to pounce. Joel knows it. One wrong move and Ellie’s going to say it, accuse him of what he knows she’s thinking.

So, you two like a…

Pass.

Ellie wasn’t stupid. She knew what that meant. Ellie saw it in his eyes when they left Tess at the state house. As he watched it burn with Tess inside. 

Not to feel the way I felt…

She read that letter from Bill.

The girl is a quintessential post-outbreak kid. She’s anxious for a fight, angry, and emotionally repressed. But the girl was also raised in a military school, and it made her observant. So every touch your way, every smile at you, and every thought he makes, Ellie knows.

Joel avoids Ellie for a long time, but she manages to get through. 

You’re somewhere in West Virginia. You’ve been with Joel and Ellie for about a month, just enough time for fall to settle in. 

It isn’t as bad as in Boston where, by the time the leaves turned, the days were too cold to even enjoy the beauty of it. West Virginia, though, sure the nights were chilly, but the days were pleasing.

It reminds him of Austin. Austin never really had a true autumn. The season came with the bloom of red, orange, and yellow leaves, but there was no chill of the impending winter. In Austin, it looked different, but felt just the same– or close enough. He loved it. He misses it.

Joel holds a photo in his hand. The one he took from your mantle the morning you abandoned the farm. It’s you and Tess, beaming at the camera. He keeps it folded in his pocket at all times in case he needs it to bring comfort. Currently he does.

The photo has rubbed away at the seam of the fold. If Joel ever decided to unfold it, to look at you two as one, there would be a white crease in the middle. A divide. He doesn’t, though. Joel never unfolds it and resorts to looking at either of you one at a time.

Now, it’s you staring back at him. A moment ago, it was Tess.

Ellie sits on the opposite side of the fire. You’re sleeping off the last of a fever you managed to catch. 

He wants to reach out to you, pull you in his arms until the fever breaks. The urge gnaws at him, makes something twist and burn deep in his gut. He should think. He needs to think. Not with Ellie watching him, though. He needs her off his back.

Here goes nothing.

He says her name, once, curtly. Her eyes widen slightly, just for a moment, but composes herself. She sits up tall. Joel lets her speak first. It takes her a moment, but she speaks like she’s been considering her words for a long time.

“Tess said you didn’t feel the way she felt.”

“I cared for her. For Tess.” Ellie frowns, eyes squinted as she bores into his very being. “A lot,” Joel adds.

“Does her sister know that?”

Joel says Ellie’s name, quietly. It’s meant to be a warning, but as it passes through his lips he can’t help but think it sounds pathetic. Pathetic, like you fucking Tess’s kid sister. His jaw ticks as something putrid curdles in his stomach.

No. No. He refuses to let a child judge him. What does she know about relationships? What does she know about love?

Love? No, not love. Not love. Physical relationships, that’s what this is about. Not love. No, Joel doesn’t love. Not Tess. And certainly not you, not that you matter in this case, because Tess has nothing to do with you.

He looks back at the photo in his hand. Tess stares back at him.

“You’re replacing her, Joel.”

***

Joel isn’t a man to cherish. He loves nothing– nobody. You’ve seen him kill more times than you can count, and not all of those deaths were deserving. 

He reveals himself in pieces and only on rare occasions. You learn of his past slowly. He was a hunter. He has a brother, one who left him years ago. He may have had a child at one point. He wanted to be a singer when he was a boy.

You’ve known one thing from the start, and it’s that he tends to you like you’re the only thing that matters.

You found a settlement. Just for the night, they let you stay in a house– a real one, with showers, working locks, nice furniture, and all. You almost cry when you rub the homemade soap bar against your skin. You feel like a new person when you step out of the shower, your skin soft and glowing in a way you haven’t experienced in years.

If you had to be honest, the separate bedrooms are your favorite part.

You’re not even out of the shower for a minute before Joel has you beneath him on the bed. 

He fists a hand into your still dripping hair and tugs. His tongue pushes its way into your mouth, and you welcome the taste of him– it’s fresh, like the toothpaste you had traded for once you came to town. You chase his lips as he pulls back. 

“Couldn’t wait for you to come out, baby.” He adds, “Need you.” You believe it. You believe it wholeheartedly and it makes heat wash through your body. Joel has a way of making you feel like that.

His jean-clad hips rut into your plush thigh. The buckle digs into your skin, nearly camouflaging the sensation of his cock. 

The towel you wrapped yourself in has unfolded, leaving you exposed to the cold air of the bedroom. Your nipples stiffen. Joel takes one between his fingers, twisting and pulling as he groans into your mouth. His spare hand works on removing his pants. You explore the expanse of his back.

Deft fingers move from your breasts to your core. Joel’s thumb rubs at your clit, while two fingers trace the seam of your entrance. His fingers are cold, you clench around nothing as they tease you. Joel doesn’t get many opportunities to drag things out, to tease you until tears are running down your face. You love that side of him. It helps you imagine what it would be like to be with him before the infection. But tonight isn’t the time. 

You swat his hand away, murmuring, “Don’t need that,” you swat his hands. “Just want you.”

Joel hesitates. You do need that, and he knows you know that fact. It’s been a few weeks since you last fucked. It was sure to be a stretch. His eyes wash over your face, searching for any uncertainty before he nods and notches himself at your entrance.

It’s not a smooth coupling by any means. You rushed into things too fast. His length rubs unpleasantly against your walls as he pushes in. Though, you pull him closer with your legs. You just needed to feel him.

He holds your hips up as he pistons into you. He moves slowly tonight. There’s no urgency, no threat that Ellie might come around the corner and catch you in the act. You indulge in the rare intimacy.

You dig your face into the crook of his neck. Every inhale you take is purely him. “Driving me crazy, Miller,” you whisper.

“Good,” Joel laughs. He’s never laughed during sex before. You figured he wasn’t the type, that letting loose like that in the act wasn’t his style. Apparently not.

You reach your peak quicker than expected. It washes over you in lazy waves, softening your muscles and melting you into the bed beneath you. It drains you. Or maybe the luxury of the bed beneath you is causing your exhaustion.

Luckily, Joel’s not far behind, pulling out and working himself to his peak. He cums on your stomach, your newly cleaned skin now dirtied with your sweat and his seed. You’re too tired and too blissed out to care though. You can always shower again in the morning.

Joel takes your discarded towel to clean your stomach. He throws it to the ground before settling himself at your side. You roll over, letting him adhere to your back.

Your eyes are drawn to the towel. Next to it are Joel’s discarded jeans. Something sticks out of his pocket. You squint.

It’s Tess– one of the pictures of her you had on your mantle. You were in that photo too, but it was folded in half, and now you had to stare at your deceased sister. The photo was one you had offered to Joel. Photos ain’t gonna change a thing, he had said back then on the farm. It irked you. It irked you for so long that you had been hesitant at the start of your relationship– if that's what you could call this. Back then, you had been afraid of getting attached to him. You were scared he wouldn’t ever call you his.

But he had the photo, and it’s… somewhat disturbing. He had been so cold then when you asked him. You only offered it because you thought he and Tess were closer. After all, she asked him to take care of you, and he listened. Then he turned it down, and you realized– assumed –you misinterpreted them. You accepted it as the truth.

He has it now, though. However many months later he has that photo.

Joel’s arm tightens around your waist, pulling your back closer to his chest. “What are you thinkin’ about?” He sounds tired. 

You thought he was asleep, assuming the relative safety of the settlement and your nightly activities would be enough to knock him out. You’re tired too. Part of you wants to forget it, lean back into Joel’s arms and fall asleep. Then you see her staring back at you, her smile frozen in time. 

You wonder if Joel buried her. You wonder if Joel shot her. He didn’t tell you much about her passing, only that she had been infected, and chose to end it before turning. He never said how it ended.

“Were you and Tess together?”

It’s a simple question. So simple, and yet Joel hesitates. You count the seconds it takes him to answer you. One, two, three, four, five, six–

“No.”

Six seconds.

“Okay.”

Tess smiles back at you.

[foone]

The way it works is it's a surgery to make you immune to a bullet.

Note, that's not the same as being immune to bullets. You're only immune to a single shot: if someone shoots you twice, you're dead.

You can take the surgery again, though. The only real limitation is that you gotta wait 2-3 weeks between each time. But if you've got the money and the time, you can be as bulletproof as you want.

It doesn't "refill", by the way. Often when the surgery is explained people think it's like "a bullet a day" or "you can get shot once a year" or whatever. Nope! Once you've been shot it's just like you never had that surgery to begin with. If you want to "refill" that immunity? You have the surgery again.

No, there's no upper limit to how many times you can go, that we know of at least. There's one guy in Florida who has made it "his thing" to get the surgery as often as he can. He's currently up to about 50. Obviously there's some people online who've said they're gonna shoot this guy and lower his "record", just to be countrary.

Anyway I'm sure there'd be people who have even higher numbers (anyone who has "getting shot" as a major occupational risk, ie, politicians, soldiers, cops, and anyone doing any kind of residental survey in rural areas), but they only invented the surgery like three years ago, it's just simple math: you can't do much better than that guy.

The invention of the surgery hasn't done much to decrease gun sales, though. I mean, there's been a slight increase in people buying guns with larger capacity, for what I'd consider obvious reasons.

I did see an article suggesting that in the long run it might end up increasing the sale of guns. See their analysis is that two factors are going to drive up gun ownership:

1. People will be more willing to shoot at trespassers and thieves and such, because it'll be more like a warning shot: if they have some immunity, it won't be murder. So far that hasn't really happened as not that many people have the surgery yet. Although it's spreading fast, only major cities have surgeons trained in it, and often waits for surgery can be months long.

2. Conversely, people are going to be more likely to break in and rob and trespass if they know they can't be shot dead for it, because they got the surgery. There'll be a minor uptick in home invasions and such and this'll cause a big predictable panic among middle class homeowners who are now terrified some hooligan is gonna break into their house to steal their iPads. Thus they go throw money at security systems and cameras and guns.

So who knows at this point. If the cost (in both time and money) comes down, maybe it becomes super common for people to be so effectively invulnerable to guns that there's really no point in owning one?

I do agree with the common consensus that this is going to drive a big increase in crimes committed with knives and such. Why take a risk that your target might be immune?

Which reminds me of another thing to clarify because sometimes people online get this very wrong: it's only for bullets! You are not immune to getting hit by a car or poisoned or set on fire. Don't walk into traffic or anything, jesus.

Oh one last thing: there is a blood test that can tell if you have immunity, but it can't tell how many times you've had the surgery. You gotta figure that out yourself: so ask your doctor, search your emails, something. Every day I'm hearing from healthcare workers saying someone came in to get the blood test and it had to be explained to them that we can't tell how much protection you have: only if it's there or not. And I feel like a fool for having to say this, but REMEMBER to subtract any times you've got shot! (if you have been) Obviously!

EDIT: In light of recent events, people are sharing this post and arguing about it a lot, but let me be clear: grazes and small cuts do not count! The exact dividing line is too complicated to explain here (look up "circulatory shock" on Wikipedia), but basically if you don't end up with a big hole in you, the shot doesn't trigger the immunity.

That's how it works: you could have an ear blown clean off, and you'd still not trigger an immunity. So please stop spreading that idiotic conspiracy theory that a former president didn't have any immunity. You can barely run a high-school without being required to have immunity to hold the position, because what if someone shoots you? Come on! Of course he has immunity.

For all we know he's got some prototype experimental shit they use on president's that got him up to 200 in a couple days. There's endless rumors of the DoD funding billions in black budget items to that sort of thing, because of course. Who wouldn't want a way to make bulletproof soldiers? You don't think the soviets are pouring even more into it?

[rad-batson]

Damian Wayne: Figure Skater

or: Damian Wayne Fluff Because Damian Wayne Deserves Joy and Happiness <3

Damian Wayne prides himself on being good at everything he does. He never half-asses anything.

Damian has tried tons of different skills before. He’s mastered dozens of martial arts, become fluent in over thirty languages, earned several PhDs, and he’s not even a teenager yet. Why? He needs to be the best or it’s not good enough.

But there are only so many skills that give him the same joy as when he started. Studio art is his favorite and has always been a constant for him, but he’s yet to find something else. Something that truly invigorates him.

At 12, Damian watches the Winter Olympics with Dick. It’s his first ever time viewing the Olympics, and he doesn’t really know what he was expecting, but Damian is…kind of underwhelmed.

Everyone talked about how the Olympics are supposed to be this grandiose display of the world’s talents, but most of it’s pretty boring.

Curling is boring. Alpine is slow and monotonous. Bobsledding is repetitive, and sled dog racing seems unethical.

But then figure skating comes on. And Damian is captivated.

Without even realizing, he moved right in front of the television and watched an hour of figure skating uninterrupted. Dick notices and smiles.

“Aren’t they cool?” Dick asks. Damian, with his eyes still glued to the screen, nods. “Wanna go to the local rink with me and try it out? It’s even more fun than it looks.”

That pulls Damian out of his trance, and he closes himself off. “No. I don’t need to.”

He just thought it was cool, okay? And he totally doesn’t want to try it himself. And he totally isn’t worried that he won’t be good at it and fall like an idiot in front of his older brother if he does.

It’s just that…it’s so cool!!

Damian knows agility, okay? He can do flips and tricks with ease, and he knows how to do it with both grace and poise. But these people? They can do it on ice! With blades on their feet!!

OF COURSE DAMIAN WANTS TO DO COOL TRICKS WITH SHARP BLADES STRAPPED TO HIS FEET

Admittedly, he goes through a two-month-long period of pretending he isn’t dying to try it. He almost completely forgets. Then, by complete coincidence, Cass and Duke invite him to an indoor skating rink, and he caves. Maybe it’s not that hard.

Spoiler: Figure Skating is Hard

Within five seconds, he falls flat on his face. How do people do this? Cass and Duke say it’s normal, but he still refuses to leave the wall the whole time out of shame.

Once they’re home, however, Damian realizes how stupid that was. He’s Damian Wayne Al Ghul. He can’t just give up! What would the rest of his family think?! What if they go back one day, and he just falls flat on his face again? There’s no excuse the second time, and he doesn’t want the others to think he can’t do it.

So that night, he sneaks back into the rink after hours and tries again. And again. And again. And again.

On the fifth try, he is able to make it all the way around the rink. He realizes that he’s distributing his weight wrong. (Stupid mistake, of course. He’s essentially balancing on knives.) That makes it a lot easier, but he’s still flapping his arms around like a bird.

He spends two more hours improving his balance, then decides that’s good enough. He did what he came here to do, and he doesn’t need to come back.

Two days later, he comes back. (I mean, who knows? Maybe, he’s gotten better.) He didn’t, obviously. But what harm is there in spending some more time on the ice? Other than the collection of bruises he acquires.

He falls way more than he’d like to admit, but once he teaches himself how to do that safely, it’s actually kind of fun. He circles the rink countless times, figures out to start and stop (though it is admittedly a very ungraceful way of stopping.) He can even kind of control his speed.

So he’s done, right? He did it! He can now ice skate to a degree that isn’t mortifying for a beginner. He doesn’t need to come back.

The Short Program

One week and four visits later, he admits that he is hooked. He wants to see how far he can go with this. But he can’t just improve without proper guidance, so he decides to take Tim’s advice for once and use the internet.

That’s when he really starts improving. Exponentially. He pours over articles and videos and diagrams about gliding, stopping, pivots, crossovers, and finally some simple spins. Just basics, of course.

He also purchases his own pair of skates because the rental ones he’s been “borrowing” suck. And they smell. And he forges a membership card (you know, so there’s no paper trail.)

His original goal is to make it to free skate level, but once he’s there, he can’t stop. It’s just so gratifying to add another skill to his repertoire. If he can do front crossovers, then he can surely master them backward. Closed Mohawks shouldn’t be that bad if the open Mohawks were so easy. Before he knows it, he’s spending hours every week developing his skills.

After a few months, his improvement plateaus because the jumps prove difficult. He doesn’t know how to build up the speed, and his stealth and fighting techniques (which he’s been borrowing from thus far) just make him wipe out. So he works on that for a bit and tries to figure out what he’s doing wrong.

During a JL meeting, The Flash happens to mention a rogue who used to figure skate. Lisa Snart, or the Golden Glider, is a famous figure skater from the 90s, but she was kicked from the Olympic team due to her life of crime. Now, she jumps between both petty crime and vigilantism.

Damian tracks her down and claims to be researching the sport for a school assignment. Yeah, it’s a bit thin of a cover story. If she wanted to see through his lie, she’d only have to break into his school and check his teacher’s assignment book, but once he laments about how every other skater is busy, and he was so surprised to learn that she was no longer skating when she’s clearly so talented, Lisa happily tells him all of the secrets to the sport.

For a few months, he applies her techniques and even asks her to skate for him a few times, recording her from multiple angles. “I value the quality of my education,” he explains. She sees through the lie but doesn’t say anything. (And somehow, he doesn’t particularly care.)

In the coming year, Bruce notices a change in how Robin moves during patrol. If he had to describe it…well, there’s a lot more power behind his movement. He redistributes his momentum with ease, which proves extremely valuable. There’s more height to his jumps and speed in his attacks. On top of it all, he can reorient himself quicker.

Bruce praises Damian once they’re back at the cave and even allows him more freedom during missions. Damian totally doesn’t cry about it in his room.

The Free Skate

Damian refuses to let anyone watch him practice for YEARS to save his pride. I mean, yes, he’s at free skate level 5—thanks, Lisa—but he’s not at level 6 yet! And that won’t take too long, right? Maybe they can know once he’s mastered his quad axel (which is a totally doable goal. He’s not overachieving. He’s Damian Wayne Al Ghul.)

Next, he works on transitions. At first, he copies other skaters’ forms, then he slowly develops his own. It’s sharp in some ways and fluid in others like he’s been on ice his whole life but he’s got places to be.

At about 15 or 16, he invites Jon to come with him one day. He shows him “a few spins” (triple axels) and Jon immediately starts encouraging him to join some kind of showcase or competition.

Damian’s response is “No! I’m not good enough yet. I still can’t land a quad axel. That’s insulting.”

Cue Jon’s family-friendly “bitch please” face. He says, “Okay, but you need to show someone else. I can’t be the only person in the world who knows.” so they get Billy in on it.

He’s obviously good at keeping secrets, considering he hid his age and the fact he was homeless from the JL for five years.

Billy also loses his shit, but he’s more understanding about the “I don’t want to tell anyone else” thing. Thus, Jon and Billy become Damian’s cover for every time he’s caught sneaking out. (He was running out of excuses anyway.)

Bruce hears that Damian is hanging out with Jon and Billy every week, gives him a look, and tells him he’s proud that he’s making friends.

Damian nods along, thanking all the gods in Billy’s head that his secret is safe. If Bruce doesn’t have any reason to snoop, then he won’t. Simple as that. The greatest detective in the world doesn’t need to start snooping.

During the next Winter Olympics, Damian watches every single skating performance from the comfort of his room. (Tim can hear him yelling at his TV through the walls but doesn’t have the energy to question it.)

Jon and Billy are his cheerleaders. They go out for lunch then head to the rink with him and mess around while Damian practices. Sometimes, they spend all day together. Doing homework, gossiping, playing fun little games.

Damian keeps mentioning the quad axel to them until Jon looks it up and says, “Um, hey Dami? Apparently, the quad axel is like…almost physically impossible. You know that, right?“ “If Lisa Snart and Ilia Malinin can do it, so can I.” “Okay, Mr. PhD.” Still, they don’t doubt him for a second.

Damian teaches them some stuff during a public skate in Fawcett City. Jon cheats multiple times by floating a tiny bit to keep his balance. Billy falls a lot.

As much as he likes being with his friends, though, Damian finds himself skating more to clear his head rather than to improve or socialize.

When he has a bad patrol or gets into some trouble he could have avoided, he’ll sneak into the rink alone and skate for hours.

He’ll pour all of his frustration into the music and carve it out into the ice until he’s exhausted and lying down with the cold surface against his back, letting it sink some sense into him.

It’s a good outlet. Kind of like his art, but there are only so many pencils you can snap in anger before your dad cuts your art supply budget. Bruce doesn’t know about this yet.

Six months later, when Damian lands his first quad axel in front of Jon and Billy, they all scream for five consecutive minutes and celebrate with hot chocolate and sorbet.

“What’s got you in such a good mood?” Tim asks when he’s back home. Damian tries to hide his smile but fails spectacularly. “Oh, nothing.” He’s never had a problem with schooling his emotions before, but anything is possible now. Even a quad fucking axel.

Competition Season

During patrol one day, Dick sees Damian spinning on the roof and says, “Hey, where’d you get those sick ballet moves? Did Black Bat teach you that?” Damian immediately stops and says, “Uh yeah.” Thankfully, Dick doesn’t ask Cass to confirm.

At 17, Jason catches him sneaking out at 10 pm and unknowingly opens an entire can of worms.

Damian, too tired to make a good excuse: “I’m seeing Jon.” Jason: “Like a date?” Damian, dying inside: “…Don’t tell Baba.”

At 18, he’s able to reliably land the quad axel and do it with style. It’s almost more gratifying than punching criminals in the face. (Almost.) That’s when Jon and Billy finally bring up the idea of telling others about it.

Damian is still hesitant, but he thinks about it.

I mean, he’s made a lot of progress in six years, hasn’t he? The only other thing he’s spent so long practicing was his assassin training, then his vigilantism, and his art. But this one is special because it’s just his. (And Jon and Billy. Kinda.) And getting to show off to them is fun, especially when he perfects another element, and they got batshit crazy together over it. That would be nice, wouldn’t it? Having a few more people to mess around with in the rink?

He just doesn’t know if it’ll be impressive enough. After all, his entire family is great at stuff. Bruce is the world’s greatest detective���how he hasn’t learned about this yet, Damian doesn’t know. Dick is a beyond incredible acrobat. Jason has one of the highest proficiencies in marksmanship ever. Tim is the best bo staff user on this side of the Atlantic...

...And Damian can do jumps and tricks on the ice. Wow, cool. Good job, Damian.

But then he’s twelve again. And he’s sitting in front of the TV watching Yuzuru Hanyu and Yuna Kim do triple axels, and Dick is inviting him to try it out together. And Cass and Dick are taking him to the rink because they thought it’d be fun. And Lisa is rambling about how she misses skating competitively. And Bruce is telling him he’s proud of the progress Damian’s made both inside and outside of patrol. And Tim is telling him he looks happier than usual.

He is happier.

Yeah. Maybe, they deserve to know.

He agrees to sign up for a free skate competition. But not one in Gotham. And only a small one. He wants to test out the waters first. They find one that’s a month away, and Damian signs up.

When the day comes, Damian is shaking in his skates. He did not account for a “small competition” still having over two hundred people watching. What the fuck was he thinking?

What Jon and Billy don’t tell him is that they snuck Dick into the crowd to watch. Dick has no idea what he’s doing there until he sees Damian skate out to the middle in a red and grey top with black pants and matching skates.

He performs to Beggin’ by Måneskin and starts the performance out with his quad axel.

Everyone loses their shit.

He looks so genuinely excited when he’s skating. He completely ignores the hundreds of people watching, doesn’t count points. He just jams out to the song until he’s breathless, spinning and gliding and jumping and turning to the beat, mostly showing off to Jon and Billy like he always does.

When it’s over, he just hears this massive crowd of people screaming, and then overtop of it, Dick shouts, “THAT’S MY BABY BROTHER!!” and Damian almost falls flat on his face.

Dick uses the Emergency Group Chat to send a video of Damian skating then screams into the phone to Bruce, who immediately drives out to the rink with the rest of the family, and his siblings make Damian do it over once the place is cleared out because they can’t believe they missed it.

Dick: When did you learn to figure skate?! Damian: After we watched the Olympics together. Dick: You’ve been hiding this for SIX YEARS?!?! Damian: …It looked fun.

Of course, Damian is still the son of Bruce Wayne so tabloids eat it up.

“Damian Wayne: Figure Skating Prodigy” “Wayne Prodigy Wins Gold at Regional Figure Skating Competition, Baffling Judges” “Is Damian Wayne fit to represent the US during the next Winter Olympics??”

A swarm of coaches ask Damian if he would like to skate competitively but he declines. He just likes doing it for fun.

Thankfully, the performance was recorded by the competition holders (after a suspicious request from the CEO of Wayne Enterprises last week. Wow, wonder why)

Leave it to Damian to spend his rebellious phase becoming an Olympic-level athlete.

[brendaareiss]

HEADCANONS! (+freaky and dark ones)

-Whenever his favorite song or a song he enjoys starts playing, Cal would absolutely dance and jump around whenever he's alone, drunk or with Andre

-Andre eats like a normal person, Cal eats whenever he's hungry (two or even one time a day)

- Andre enjoys coffee, Cal absolutely hates it

-Whenever Cal's parents can't, Andre drives Cal's siblings to school

- I just know that when Andre starts speaking German, Cal would absolutely melt

- They don't really use pet names, the only thing Andre has ever called Cal besides of his name, is "blondie"

- Cal usually messes around with bugs or worms, but both of him and Andre are totally TERRIFIED of spiders

- Cal is slightly scared of the dark

- Cal definitely rocks himself to sleep

- In the entire lifespan of Cal Gabriel, he has always collected things. When he was a kid, it was pretty rocks, then, it was comics, then, it was CDs, and then, it were pocket knives and lighters

- Cal started playing the guitar at 15, the sitar at 16

DARK STUFF. DO NOT READ IF YOU DON'T LIKE IT.

Tw: Sh, SA

-on their relationship, Andre is the dominant one, Cal is the submissive (by Cal's choice). I mean, Cal looves being dominant, but when it comes to killing and making people suffer. But when it comes to Andre, it's not the same thing. He could do whatever he wants to him, he'll like it and he'll even beg for it.

-Cal has Andre's name (or initials) carved on his thigh, while Andre, has Cal's on his forearm

-Cal cuts his thighs, hips and sometimes his upper arms.

-Cal's used to getting away with anything he wants

- Andre has bpd

- Cal was SA as a child, because of the trauma, he has grown into being hypersexual

- They're both HORRIBLE influences to one another

- Andre smokes tobacco, Cal only smokes weed

- They've never tried heavy drugs before, but Cal has explicitaly stated that he wants to

- Cal being a sadist comes from him being a masochist. He has done so much shit to his own body that he thinks "will this person last or is capable to handle the same amount of pain that I do? Let's find out!"

- Cal is a sadist on the non-sexual side, Andre's a sadist in all sides.

- Andre was not much of a sadist before he met Cal. When they've both met, they kinda potentiated the wrongness and the insanity on both sides

@rebthejuveys

- They're both toxic as fuck.

-They're like, SUPER rough (y'know in what situations 🙏🔞)

[swanimagines]

NEVER YOU | KAZ BREKKER

Summary: Kaz has hated you for no reason for a long time, but you were always ignoring him being mean. But one day, you actually do get hurt by his insult - and that eventually leads to something you didn't know would happen.

The Crow Club was unusually quiet that day. Only a few players were present, one at the bar counter downing his first pint and you knew only by the looks of him that he’d keep downing them until he’s kicked out. Another customer at the table was cheating, and you knew Jesper noticed it too.

You saw Kaz’s shadow coming down the stairs before you even heard the click of his cane. The shadow grew bigger, until Kaz was standing on your right and you smiled at him.

“Morning, boss,” you greeted him, only to be met with a glare before he turned away. You sighed, he had been like that for almost six months, it started a couple of months after you became a Crow - you hadn’t even done anything, at least nothing you could point out why Kaz hated you so much. Maybe he just hated kindness, being so ruthless himself.

You turned your attention back to your breakfast, munching away as you read the newspaper until all the customers were out, and you saw the Crows gathering together at the bar counter. You momentarily met eyes with Inej, and Kaz retorted something, making Inej look at him again. By the looks of it, you figured it’s a Crow thing, meaning you should be there too. So you stood up from the table, and saw them looking at a blueprint that was spread on the counter.

“Is that our next target?” you asked. “Hm, van Putten manor. I can already see–”

Kaz interrupted you before you could even finish your sentence. He didn’t even look at you when he spoke, his voice colder than it usually was. “You won’t be needed during this heist. You’d only be dead weight, slowing everyone down. You would ruin the whole thing.” He gave you a dismissive glance. “Get out of my sight.”

Usually his insults didn’t feel like much of anything, but this time his words really stung you somehow. Maybe it was a bad day for you, or maybe his continuous insults and degrading remarks had taken their toll on you. Or maybe you had hoped too hard that he and you would become friends eventually. 

When he first met you, it had gone so well. He had wanted you to be part of Dregs, and soon he had made you a Crow. A few months after being a Crow, he had started to hate you, and you never knew what had you done. Every single thing, you existing, you making breakfast, you laughing, you appearing behind his door with intel - everything seemed to make him hate you even more. Others didn’t know anything about it either, everyone was just as puzzled as you were.

You weren’t exactly friends with the other five, never really attempting to get to know them. Instead, you had hit it off with Kaz so well, you had even thought you’d be the one to crack the cold steely walls Dirtyhands held up. You thought you’d grow close with him, even. But no, he was actively pushing you away, hating you for some reason.

You took a step back and without a word, left the Club and made your way to the Slat in pouring rain, biting back tears. 

Kaz was surely happy about that.

—

You had a gnawing feeling. It told you that something was wrong - something with the heist. You had laid in bed, trying to read your book - but you just couldn’t shed the feeling no matter how much you tried.

So, after pacing around your room for a good fifteen minutes, you grabbed your coat, your knives and your gun before heading out, taking the fastest route you knew towards the van Putten manor.

You arrived at the garden, and immediately knew what was wrong. All six of your colleagues were detained, held in place, the chief guard looking them over.

“Dirtyhands himself,” the guard laughed, tilting his head. “I thought you and your little friends here would be an actually challenging bunch, but instead you basically offered yourselves to us.”

You frowned. Kaz almost never failed with his plans and if he did, he always had a way out. Was this part of his plan too? An unusually dangerous plan, not really fitting Kaz’s style.

You ducked under the fence when a flashlight almost hit you, quietly crawling forward so you could look at the scene from behind a bush.

“There’s quite a price for your heads,” the chief guard continued. “Merchants all around the city will be pleased to know their manors are safe, because the infamous Dirtyhands is finally dead.”

You heard a gun click, and that’s when you struck. You threw a knife on one guard, put a bullet into another’s head, kicked the third unconscious. Everything happened so fast, but it still felt like slow motion. A guard approached you from the right and you hit him right on the nose, blood spurted out as you heard a satisfying crack, feeling the nose shatter beneath your wrist. You turned around again, ready to take on another guard, when you suddenly collapsed on the ground and was unable to get up.

The pain wasn’t even there. Your leg just started feeling numb, and you fell on the ground, seeing how your trousers had started turning red. Your vision started to blur. You saw movement around you, heard muffled gunshots and shouts, and then you felt pressure around your calf, and groaned at the numb pain. Then, you were lifted off from the ground, and at that moment you went under.

—

Kaz had been pacing around for days, occasionally stopping by your door, being much more tense, not eating properly, sleeping even worse, his hair looking disheveled more. Inej had never seen Kaz like that. From her understanding, Kaz hated you, wanted you to be gone, out of sight, like you wouldn’t even exist. She had wondered why Kaz kept you within the Crows if he hated you so much, but Kaz had reasoned it with saving money, that letting you go would mean he’d have to give you payoff which would be more than your usual salary was. Which didn’t make sense because he’s losing more money by keeping you, but Inej hadn’t pushed it.

If she hadn't known better, she’d think Kaz cared about you. But she knew it would be unlikely, he was so cruel to you, basically bullying you - and sometimes it felt like he even enjoyed bullying you. Inej never saw even one hint of regret in his eyes when he had insulted you.

But, last time he had insulted you, you had actually gotten hurt. And Inej hadn’t looked at Kaz, she had looked after you disappearing from the door.

Would it be possible that the flicker of regret would have been in Kaz’s eyes then?

They were all worried, checking up on you occasionally, visiting you, sitting by your bed talking to you, apologising they had never even tried to get to know you better, but Kaz was by far the most worried, even if it didn’t seem like it. He never paid you a visit or asked how you are recovering from Nina, but they all saw how he acted during you being unconscious.

After a few days, Nina came downstairs, a soft smile on her face. “She’s awake.”

Kaz almost stood up the second Nina said that, Inej noted. It was silent for a moment before Kaz actually stood up, slowly starting to climb the stairs. Inej switched amused glances with Nina and Jesper, maybe there was something much more than hate to it after all.

—

You heard a knock on your door and sat up slightly, groaning as your leg protested. “Come in.” After your invite, the door slowly opened, revealing your visitor.

It was Kaz.

You frowned, definitely not expecting him. “Boss?”

He stared at you for a moment, before he made his way to the armchair two feet apart from your bed, and you heard his leather gloves creaking as he squeezed his cane. He had his eyes averted from you and was silent for a moment. Your lamp barely provided light, you couldn’t make up any expressions from his face, you pretty much only saw his silhouette.

“We need to talk,” he then mumbled, turning his head towards you but not looking at you.

His voice lacked the coldness it usually held, instead having something else you couldn’t place. You were quiet for a few seconds and then sat up a little more. “Okay, what do you want to talk about?”

He was quiet for a moment, before he took in a deep breath. “I’ve been… unnecessarily harsh to you. I never even gave you a chance to understand. I… apologise for that.”

You blinked. Kaz Brekker apologising? You stared at him silently for a good moment, before you found your voice again. “Could you explain why you hated me now? What did I do?”

“It was never about you,” he replied quickly, and swallowed, seemingly gathering his courage again. “It’s me. Your kindness, how you treated me like a human, how you always looked at me without a hint of fear from the start… it made me uneasy. It reminded me of… something I’ve tried to forget, something I’ve tried to think of as a weakness. So I pushed you away before you got too close and made sure you stayed at arm’s length by pretending I hate you.”

You were silent again for a moment, your brows furrowing. “So, just to clarify, you don’t actually hate me?”

Kaz sighed, finally meeting your eyes. “No, I don’t hate you. I never did.”

It was hard for him to admit, you could tell. He was there, vulnerable, raw even. Maybe for the last time you’d see him like that. He looked like he truly regretted how he treated you - not valuing you enough, thinking his affection for you was a weakness he should get rid of.

“I forgive you,” you then murmured, a soft smile gracing your lips. “It takes guts from you to come to me like this, stepping out from the castle you built around yourself. So, I forgive you.”

Kaz’s eyes widened slightly in surprise, and you let out a small giggle at it. Then, his lips twitched upwards. A smile. Barely there.

It made your heart skip a beat and you felt blood traveling up to your face.

You bit your lip, trying to compose yourself before Kaz noticed anything. “Um…I’m kind of hungry, could you maybe ask someone to bring me something? Nina said I shouldn’t walk with this leg unless I want a cane for life too.”

Kaz let out a puff of air through his nose, closest to laugh you had ever heard him go. Then, he stood up. “I’ll let them know.”

You shifted slightly, moving to rest your back against your headboard. “Kaz?”

He stopped and turned his head towards you. “Hm?”

You smiled. “Thank you.”

He stood still for a moment, and then made his way out, leaving you fiddling with a string of your nightgown, your face hot.

Maybe this would lead to something more.

---

Requests are always open! FANDOM LIST | PROMPT LIST(S) | RULES (READ!!!)

[darkofthemuse]

━━━━ ❛ 𝖍𝖆𝖑𝖑𝖔𝖜𝖊𝖊𝖓 (1978 original script) sentence prompts

* some lines have been edited & combined for easy rp use !

just try to understand what we're dealing with here. don't underestimate it.

ever done anything like this before?

you don't have to make this any harder than it already is.

you can calm down. the evil's gone.

you're not supposed to go up there.

i notified everybody. nobody listened.

the idea is that destiny is a very real, concrete thing that every person has to deal with.

the boogeyman is coming.

it's your own fault and i don't feel sorry for you.

what's wrong? you're not smiling.

i hate a guy with a car and no sense of humor.

it's tragic. you never go out.

he came home…

i saw someone standing in the backyard.

what's the pumpkin for?

i plan on making popcorn and watching doctor dementia.

the only things missing were some halloween masks, rope, a set of knives. what does that sound like to you?

i realized what was living in behind that boy's eyes was purely, simply evil.

tell your men to shut their mouths and open their eyes.

having fun? never mind, i'm sure you are.

you didn't. tell me you didn't.

i saw the boogeyman. i saw him outside.

i'm here tonight and i won't let him get you.

is this one of your cheap tricks?

open the door! i'm locked in the laundry room!

why are you sitting here with the lights off?

nobody believes me.

i believe you.

you're not coming up with much to prove me wrong.

death has arrived in your little town.

you can ignore it, or you can help me stop it.

let's make more popcorn.

why don't we just sit down and watch the rest of the movie.

go get me a beer.

i'll be right back. don't get dressed.

i'll kill you if this is a joke.

please, open the door!

do what i say! now!

you can't kill the boogeyman.

[miniy00ng1]

Bad Hand

Five Hargreeves x Female!reader

wc: 1576

warnings: swearing, angst?, death (kinda), lmk if i missed anything

find my masterlist here

hi everyone! this is my first piece that ive ever published on tumblr! im a little nervous bc i dont think its that great but i thought id give it a go! sorry for any grammar errors and please give me feedback! thank you <3

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

Ever since you met The Umbrella Academy, your life has been anything but normal–even though you are. Like any other pubescent kid, you admired them and their super abilities. Never imagining in any timeline becoming apart of their mess of a family. And now you couldn’t imagine a world without them.

You remember the day you met the super family. They had saved your life during a bank robbery gone wrong. The siblings came to save the citizens in the bank and managed to disarm every robber except for one. One had gotten away and grabbed onto the closest person they could–you. Your mother yelled and cried when you were pulled away from her.

And you were terrified to say the least. As the robber had his arm wrapped tightly around your neck and a gun pressed to your head you thought it was your last few moments on earth. “You freaks better stop fucking moving or I’m blowing her brains out!” The robber yelled. The Umbrellas stopped in their tracks. 

The siblings eyed each other. Communicating without speaking, their plan was set into motion. Allison shouted at the robber to distract him while Diego had thrown two knives in the robbers direction. One knocking the gun out of the robber’s hand and the other landing into his flesh. 

A bright blue flash appeared next to you and then you felt a rush of motion. You closed your eyes to stop the upcoming wave of nausea from the adrenaline of the situation. Not even noticing you were being held in someone’s arms. A comforting hand was rubbing up and down your arm and whispering calmly that you were safe. 

From then on you were always grateful for the Hargreeves siblings. You had stayed in touch with them and had grown close to them even as they grew apart. You were devastated when Five had disappeared, taking it the hardest as you had grown very fond of the boy who had comforted you during your traumatic event. You were even there for the family when Ben had died.

But now, the world was ending in three days, yet again, and no ones figured out how to stop it. You’ve done it before, in Dallas and the original timeline, but now as everyone has split off and accepted their fate you too start to question if it’s time to give up. 

You glance around from the white table you’re sitting at. Today is Luther’s wedding and  it’s beautiful, although rushed–there’s music, delicious food, and a relaxing atmosphere. Almost as if we have all the time in the world. The thought of losing this family for a third time makes your heart ache. You love them all.

There’s one Hargreeves that you feel differently towards in comparison to the familial love that you have for the rest of the family. Five Hargreeves, stuck in his teenage body after returning home from his apocalypse, was swaying by his lonesome on the dance floor drunk as could be. 

A sinking feeling settles in your stomach, clearly he has given up on trying to save the world–and if anybody had a chance of saving humanity, it would be him. Tears well up in your eyes at the thought of losing everyone you love. You get up in a haste needing to be alone as soon as possible. You head outside for a breath of fresh air, yet another thing that you’ll miss in three days. 

You find yourself quite emotional and you’d like to blame your raging hormones. While  returning from Dallas and escaping the apocalypse a second time, your body had an odd reaction seeing as you were not super like The Umbrella Academy and returned back to its teenage form.  It was quite a shock to everyone but the shock wore off fairly quickly when they were confronted by The Sparrow Academy.

The streets were quiet as you sat on the curb, hands enveloping your knees as you try to comfort yourself. It’s just you out there for a couple of minutes before you hear the door of Hotel Obsidian slamming open. 

Stumbling out comes a drunk Five, uttering nonesense and staggering towards you. “Hey! Y/N! You’re missing the party come back inside!” He hollers as he makes his way to the curb. You don’t respond as he stumbles to sit next to you, the stench of alcohol entering your nose. “Great party am I right?” He laughs out loud. You glance up at him to find him staring at you eyes half closed with a drunk haze clouding his eyes.

“Sure is Five. You seem like you’re enjoying yourself.” You respond glumly, returning your gaze the the empty road. “What’s wrong Y/N? Did you not like the steak they served? It was a bit tough if I do say so myself. But who am I to complain? I’ve had worse food in the apocalypse.” Five chuckles to himself, remembering the days he struggled to survive.

Anger starts to bubble inside of you as you stand up and start to pace,“This isn’t some joke Five. I’m about to lose everyone I love and not a single person inside of that damned hotel gives a shit. Including you.” Five’s faces hardens in response, your outburst seems to have sobered him up in no time.

Five joins you in standing, his nostrils flaring in frustration,“You think I haven’t tried my damn hardest to find a way out of this mess Y/N? Do you think I enjoy knowing that my family is going to die in three days? That you’re going to die. Everytime, I find myself in some apocalypse bullshit and everytime I have to fix it. Me! I’m so sick of trying and trying and nothing that I do works. So maybe, just maybe this time I don’t do anything and let everybody else deal with it because nothing I do ever seems to help!” Five turns away running a hand through his hair before shoving his hands in his pocket.

“I would do anything to live a normal life. To experience the many things I missed out on while I was gone. I want to be a moody teen and a messy 20-something year old. I want to go to experience the ups and downs of a relationship with the woman I love…” Five trails off glancing back at you, “But I’ve been dealt a shitty hand in life, haven’t I?” Five makes his way back to the hotel and you let him, too stunned to call out for him.

The following morning after Luther and Sloane’s wedding, you’re emotionally drained. You spent the whole night in your hotel room thinking about what Five said and how you should apologize. You were so selfish to not consider how he’s been to hell and back, multiple times. 

You head to the lounge area in the lobby, still deep in thought going over all the possible outcomes of your apology. Five, Diego, and Luther are seated at the bar in a hushed conversation as you approach. Tapping Five on the shoulder you ask if you can speak with him in private. He glances at you and says, “No. I have no need to speak with you. I have important matters to address.”

Out of all the things that could of happened, this was not something you considered. You were flabbergasted, hurt even. You knew you were selfish last night, but for him to not even give you the time of day to hear you out. “Woah there Five, you’re being a little harsh there to little Y/N.” Diego says, obviously caught off guard by Five’s attitude change towards you. 

“No, I’m not. I have nothing to say to her nor do I want to hear anything she says.” You try and shrink yourself smaller than you already are. You can feel everyone’s eyes on you as you mutter a quick apology and immediately beeline to the elevator. As the doors close you let yourself go. This is not how you wanted to spend your last days.

In the elevator, you begin to get a weird tingling sensation enveloping your body. Unsure if it’s the feelings from the interaction you just had with Five, you rush down the hallway to your hotel room as soon as the elevator doors open. A wave of nausea washes over you and panic sets in. This must be it. Everyone has slowly been disappearing and now it’s your turn.

Your hands shake as you struggle to open the hotel door with your keycard. You get a glimpse of yourself as you pass by a mirror in the room and it’s not good. Tears blur your vision as reality sets in. You’ll never get the chance to apologize to Five, you’ll never get to see any of the Hargreeves again, it’s over.

On the desk in the hotel room lies a notepad and pen. This is how you let them know. Let them know how much you care and how you’ll miss them. How much you love him and how you wish you could’ve lived a life with him that he yearned for. You try to write as much as possible to The Umbrella Academy but you only have so much time before–

POP

You’re gone. The only thing left is a half written note left for the Hargreeves siblings to find.

[zvtara-was-never-canon]

you once said that the ZK do not allow the canonical Zuko to show real, sometimes ugly signs of trauma. can you write more about this? because that's what I always felt when I came across their terrible takes, but I couldn't express it.

Gladly! But first, I need to mention the sign of trauma that Zuko usually lacks - and that, for some reason, the fandom insists defines his character:

Fear

Don't get wrong, I'm not saying Zuko never experienced fear. We all saw that poor boy on his knees, crying, begging his father not to hurt him.

But in "Zuko Alone" we also see 10-year-old Zuko get bitter that only his younger sister was expected to show off her firebending skills, and deciding that he would go against his father and demonstrate his own skills to the Fire Lord - that despite the fact that he knew Azula was better at it than he was. Even when it goes wrong, he is upset, but doesn't look afraid of the consequences.

That same episode shows Azula mocking him for playing with knives despite not even being good at it, and even though the fandom insists she was his worst fear ever since he was a child, Zuko responds with a "Put an apple on your head and we'll see how good I am." That little guy has exactly zero chill.

Let's not forget why he was banished either: Despite being considered too young to be in that war meeting, Zuko demanded to be there, eventually got his way, and despite having been told not to say anything, the second he hears a general suggest using their own men as "fresh meat" to lure the enemy, Zuko speaks out against it. And at the start of the Agni Kai, he looked 100% ready to fight a grown ass man with battle experience - until he saw it was his father/Fire Lord.

Let's not forget his Agni Kai with Zhao, which was his idea and that he actually won - and before that, he openly calls Ozai a fool, to which Zhao points out that banishment clearly not teach Zuko to watch his mouth. Or the time he openly challenged Azula in Ba Sing Se and they only didn't fight then and there because Azula knew she'd have the advantage by using the Dai Li. Hell, at the start of that very season, after she tried to lure him to a trap, Zuko's first reaction is to charge at her, fire-daggers in hand. That boy is the definition of "Fuck around and find out."

He has also done things like choosing to save his uncle from earthbenders instead of chasing Aang, crossing a blockade and going into actual Fire Nation territory even though he legally is no longer allowed to do that, and helped rescue Aang from Zhao as the Blue Spirit. It shows us that Zuko doesn't have an issue with temporarely deviating from his mission because of something HE deems important even though his father doesn't, openly disregarding Ozai's orders, and even basically saying "My father will have the Avatar as a prisoner only if I'm the one to capture him"

And, of course, on the day of the eclipse, Zuko grabs his swords and directly threatens Ozai, telling that bastard to sit the fuck down, shut up, and listen to his list of reasons why he sucks as a parent, ruler and person.

Zuko is brave. Unbelievably so. He is fierce, proud, and impulsive to the point of getting himself in situations that he should have known would not go his way (like fighting a waterbender in the snow, in the full moon) because he is very much a "act first, think later" kind of guy. So the fandom's insistence that he is constantly paralyzed by fear is a gross over-simplification of how his trauma affects him.

We only see him genuinely afraid of Ozai twice. During the Agni Kai itself, and then again when he WANTS to speak out against his father's plan to burn the Earth Kingdom to the ground, but can't bring himself to because he remembers what happened last time he spoke out against that kind of horrible thing during a war meeting, at that very room. It took something THAT triggering to make him cower before a challenge.

However, fear wasn't the only reason why didn't speak out during that moment, and that takes us to the first "ugly" sign of trauma that the fandom as a whole likes to pretend Zuko wasn't repeatedly shown to experience:

"My father is right about me, actually"

Zuko doesn't think Ozai was wrong to disfigure and banish him. How could he? Nobody in that entire room stood up to at least try to support him, not even his uncle - who also once said "Why would your father have banished you if he didn't care about you?" because, surprise surprise, nobody in that family knows how to help someone through trauma because they're all dealing with their own shit. Even his crew, who WAS sympathetic to him after finding out how he got that scar, were still 100% willing to not only support Ozai, but risk their lives for him.

Zuko isn't just trying to heal from abuse, he is trying to heal from victim-blaming, and to go against YEARS of indoctrination that say the Fire Lord can do no wrong. That's part of why it was so difficult for Iroh and others to help him: Zuko didn't believe that he needed or deserved help.

And that is also one of his three major unhealthy coping mechanisms. Claiming that HE needs to prove himself to Ozai, that HE needs to make up for HIS mistakes, not the other way around.

It might seem strange that this could be a way to cope, but look at it this way: If it WAS his fault instead of Ozai's, then that means his dad is not an unfair, abusive piece of shit that is unbelievably cruel and impossible to please. Zuko just needs to accomplish this mission of capturing the Avatar and everything will be fine, they'll be a normal family again, and he won't have to be afraid of someone he thought he could trust.

It was like Iroh said: Things are never going to be the same ever agin, but the Avatar gives Zuko HOPE. And that hope that his abuser will one day have a change of heart and be a loving father to him again is both what allows Zuko not to give into despair - and what keeps him trapped in that awful situation.

Misplaced Anger

Another "unpleasant" sign of trauma that Zuko has is how he clearly has an anger problem. Sure, he's a moody teenager with a short fuse, but we see over and over again that he tends to blow things way out of proportion, and that when faced a fact or opinion he doesn't like, he is quick to lash out at someone with VERY cruel words (see him calling Iroh a lazy, shallow, jealous old man in "Avatar State", or calling him crazy and saying if he wasn't in prison, he'd be sleeping in a gutter in "The Headband").

Through the entire show, many people faced Zuko's wrath - Iroh, Aang and friends, his crew, Azula, innocent people of the Earth Kingdom, Mai, Ty Lee, that one rando that talked to Mai, and even Zuko himself.

The one person that usually escapes said wrath is, ironically, Ozai. In "Zuko Alone" he refuses to believe his father would ever be capable of harming him, in "Avatar State" he snaps at Iroh for doubting that Ozai really changed his mind about the whole banishment thing.

He is mad at Aang for being too difficult to capture, and at Zhao for stealing his one chance to come home. He never stops to question if it's fair that his father had him chase someone that was presumed dead, aka an impossible task, as the condition to bring him home. He also never addresses how he feels about the reason WHY said banishment happened until the Day Of Black Sun.

He is mad at Azula for lying to him and trying to take him home as a prisoner. He never gets mad at his father for not only wanting to lock him away forever because ZHAO screwed up at the North Pole, nor how messed up it was that he put Azula in charge of said mission.

For fuck's sake, in the day of the eclipse, we find out that Zuko legit believed his mother was DEAD - and the entire circumstance was shady as hell and put Ozai in a very bad light. Yet Zuko still wanted his love, still wanted to be a "worthy" son.

He HAS to direct his anger at other people, otherwise he'll realize that no, his father, the adult that was meant to care for him, is a complete monster.

Everytime Zuko lashes out at other people before confronting Ozai, he's basically acting like someone who is drowning and, in a panic, is trying to pull the nearest person under so he can try to breathe. It is one of the most accurate and honest representations of trauma and abuse, and it makes me SO mad when people erase it in their fics because "poor, innocent, helpless turtleduck that can do no wrong" makes Zuko look like less of a dick - and also completely strips him of his agency.

And that isn't even the thing that fans ignore the most. That "honor" goes to the simple fact that Zuko, as expected of a child raised to believe the Fire Lord can do no wrong, decided that Azula had the right idea and that the best way to avoid being a victim again was...

Copying His Abuser

Zuko has REPEATEDLY let his "inner Ozai" out through the show.

He is all manipulative by not letting the pirates know he was chasing the Avatar who was worth A LOT more than the scrowl they'd get as a reward for helping him, and by using Katara's necklace as a way to try and get her to say where Aang was.

He repeatedly steals stuff from innocent people (including some who helped him, like Song) because, in his own words "These people should just be giving stuff to us" - aka he's very much an entitled prince.

He betrays his uncle by joining Azula in Ba Sing Se, leading to Iroh being thrown in prison. He also doesn't give a shit when Katara says "I thought you had changed!" and he sends a freaking assassin after the Gaang. Even him refusing to tell Azula that there was a chance Aang could still be alive works both as a "Zuko doesn't trust Azula to not use that against him, and for good reason" and "Zuko did not even stop to think that, since Azula was the one who killed Aang, him coming back also puts HER in danger, because he's too focused on his own problems to notice anybody else's."

More importantly, he rejected a chance of a ceasefire with the Gaang three times (The Blue Spirit, The Chase, Crossroads of Destiny), much like Ozai refused his shot at ending the war in the finale before his battle with Aang, and not only did he challenge Zhao to an Agni Kai and seriously consider burning him, he also threatened one of his crewmen by saying he'd "teach him respect" - which we found out later that episode was what Ozai right before disfiguring poor Zuko.

For fuck's sake, Ozai was literally designed to look like an older Zuko. One without a scar, one that was never banished, one that never had to see first-hand all the death and suffering war brings and reflect on the role he plays in it.

Finally, we have the war meetings in "Nightmares And Daydreams", in which Zuko doesn't speak out against his father's completely inhumane plans to deal with the Earth Kingdom. When talking about it with Mai, he says "I was the perfect prince, the son my father wanted. But I wasn't me."

That is the turning point for Zuko for a reason. It's him finally being forced to acknowledge that, to become Ozai's ideal son, to earn his (conditional) love, to not be his victim he has to be just as bad as he is, just as cruel, just as unfair - and we see in Azula's breakdown how Zuko likely would have ended up if he accepted that path.

But he didn't, and that was not easy because even though it was the morally correct choice, it'd require him to sacrifice everything - his title as a prince, his right to be in the Fire Nation, his relationship with Mai, his (extremelly complicated, sometimes good, often awful) bond with Azula, the "easy" way to get literally anything he wanted at everyone else's expense, and, of course, accept that his father was never going to love him, was never going to change, and was never going to feel sorry for abusing him.

Erasing such a central conflict of his character for the sake of denying he ever did anything wrong is, ironically, removing one of Zuko's most noble character traits: his inability to just live with himself after doing something horrible. There's a reason he is in deep conflict even after getting everything he wanted after the fall of Ba Sing Se - he knows he doesn't deserve it after what he's done.

If you ignore his mistakes and the horrible consequences it had for other people, you also ignore Zuko's growth. This puts him more in the position of a good guy being held hostage by the evil villain, not of a troubled child that redeems himself as he matures.

No flaws, no mistakes, no growth, no arc.

Trauma Doesn't Just Go Away

This one is, by far, the bad trope regarding Zuko's trauma that Zutarians are the most guilt of: assuming that if he just gets enough comforting hugs (mainly from Katara), all of his inner turmoil will suddenly be healed. No more sadness, no more fear, no more of the ugly traits they never acknowledge in the first place. Just a happy, fully recovered Zuko.

But that's just not how these things work. Having the support of a loved one helps victims feel better, but it won't magically make everything okay. Trauma is a really difficult thing to handle. There's good days, bad days, relapses, bad habits that are difficult to move past from. And not only are there cases in which people take YEARS to recover, there are also cases in which they never fully heal, and instead just learn to live with that burden that is still very much present.

I understand the desire to show in fics and headcanons that Zuko will eventually be fully healed and happy, but the way Zutarians make Katara act as not just his girlfriend, but as basically his therapist that needs to find miracle solutions for every single one of his problems, comfort him whenever any minor inconvenience happens until he's gotten enough hugs to be magically okay doesn't just reveal how hypocritical they are, since they insist Kataang is about Katara being Aang's girlfriend/mom/baby-sitter, but also that they legit do not understand a damn thing about trauma and how it works.

Which takes me to:

How Mai Actually Did Right By Zuko

Poor, poor Mai. She gets blamed for "bring out the worst in Zuko", for not being "supportive", for being too cold and unemotional, for not "seeing the real him" - yet she's one of the characters that CONSISTENLY help put Zuko back on his track.

She offers him emotional support and lots of signs of affection over and over again - telling him not worry when they're arriving at the Fire Nation, pointing out she doesn't hate him when she says she's beautiful when she hates the world, explicitly saying she cares about him in The Beach, being incredibly sweet and loving to him during all of Nightmares and Daydreams, and then again in the finale by helping him get dressed up and acting all cute as they get back together.

But she also holds him accountable when he screws up. She doesn't let him use his difficult life as an excuse to be a jerk and calls him out when he's being unreasonable, or when she feels mistreated/like he's making a mistake (see The Beach and Boiling Rock Part 2).

But since the fandom loves to completely erase Zuko's mistakes AND to not let go of a stupid ship war, this completely changes the context, making Mai out to be this awful, bitchy girlfriend, when in reality, she did a great job handling Zuko - sometimes even better than the fan favorite and mentor figure Zuko had through most of his arc.

Uncle Iroh Fucked Up

Before all of you try to kill me, let me make one thing clear here: I love Uncle Iroh. He is one of the most awesome characters in the show, and I fully believe he was trying his best to help Zuko.

But he is still a human being that makes mistakes, and he was raised in the same dysfunctional family Zuko was, meaning he often had NO IDEA how to handle his deeply traumatized teenage nephew/son.

Him spending all of book 1 trying to help Zuko capture Aang so he could go back to living with the guy that disfigured him is already bad enough, but we also have the episode "Avatar State" in which Iroh asks "Why would your father banish you if he didn't care about you?"

Obviously he only did these things because he didn't want Zuko give into despair and depression - but he is still, at best, ignoring the issue, and at worst actively making excuses for Ozai's abuse of his own son. This backfires on him spectacularly, as Zuko sides with Azula over him both in the first and last episode of the season specifically because he believes that appeasing Ozai is the right thing to do, as he was only banished "for his own good."

But THE biggest mistake Iroh made when it came to helping Zuko was his refusal to accept that no, Zuko was never going to be happy by living a quiet, simple life in Ba Sing Se - even after Zuko explicitly said as much to his face.

Obviously, to some extent, Iroh HAS to make Zuko accept that he won't ever be able to come back home after Ozai literally ordered Azula to capture him, but he could have tried to find some kind of middle ground with Zuko, since being a waiter clearly wasn't making him happy.

"Oh, but what about how Zuko started acting after his metamorphosis? He was so happy about working on the tea-shop with his uncle, and that was supposed to reveal his true self!"

Yes, it was supposed to do that. But we saw how Zuko acted after actually dealing with his trauma and redeeming himself. He was obviously in a much healthier place, both mentally and spiritually, but he was still moody, still sarcastic, still as proud as ever, and even Iroh recognized that he was meant to be Fire Lord.

Zuko's arc has a lot to do with identity, with how he sees himself. At that point, the only thing he still had in life was his uncle - so he was acting like him, because there seemed to be no other role model, no other path. Seeing that weird, cheery, relaxed, always-seeing-the-good-side-of-things version of Zuko was honestly unnerving.

And Iroh thought that Zuko basically giving himself the Lake Laogai treatment was okay because he following in his footsteps, doing what helped IROH heal and change - he didn't realize it was never gonna be able to do the same for Zuko.

The very second Azula shows up, even when she's being hostile, Zuko drops the facade, because she's a reminder of both his old life and what he thought his future would be. And when she offers him "redemption" Iroh tried to advice Zuko against joining her by saying "The redemption she offers is not for you" (as in not for someone who is doing better and doesn't need to return to the Fire Nation) and "It's time for you to choose. It's time for you to choose good." How is it a choice if Iroh is explicitly saying which option Zuko cannot pick, essentially making the decision for him?

Iroh didn't just get the way to help Zuko wrong - he didn't realize his nephew didn't believe he needed help. They were not on the same page at all, and that contribuited to Zuko betraying him.

Though, thankfully, it ended up being for the best, as Zuko found his own way to redemption by himself.

Conclusion

This fandom as a whole tends to not understand Zuko at all and just eat up a bunch of fanon while pretending to be so intellectual, which I very much resent it for.

[thirtysixsavefiles]

Made up fic title: The cookie cutter conspiracy

I admit I puzzled over this one for the title meme but then it came to me :D

~~~

Usopp has had it up to here with Sanji and Zoro. Everyone on board thinks that they should just kiss already; at least, Usopp thinks that. Luffy just shrugs and says he’s sure they’ll figure it out. Nami thinks it would make them worse. Usopp is totally right about this, though, has never been wrong in all of the matches he’s put together. (Zero matches, technically, but he’s still never been wrong.) So he devises a brilliant plan to shove the two soon-to-be lovebirds together.

He starts small, with a cookie cutter. It’s shaped like a heart, perfectly symbolic. It feels like a good omen, a sign that he’s doing the right thing. He takes it out of the Merry’s galley and places it in Zoro’s hammock and goes to sleep secure in the knowledge of a job well done.

The next morning Zoro and Sanji bicker over breakfast, apparently no more (but also no less) in love than they were yesterday. All right. Stronger measures are needed.

In the following days he places several items in Zoro’s hammock: a pastry brush; a meat thermometer; a fancy bottle of cooking oil; a jar of some kind of spice Usopp’s never heard of. Nothing. The items disappear out of Zoro’s hammock and he continues to fight with Sanji and if they don’t kiss soon Usopp’s head is going to explode.

He briefly contemplates trying for one of Sanji’s knives, but the one time he had even considered reaching for one Sanji had materialized out of thin air with a smile and asked if Usopp needed help with anything. Usopp had recognized the baring of teeth for what it was and hightailed it out of there. Leaving a knife on Zoro’s pillow probably sends the wrong message anyway.

Usopp has just about given up. Maybe these two idiots do need to sort this out on their own.

Usopp is enjoying a quiet afternoon tea, eyeing the garlic braids on the galley wall and wondering if Zoro would think they were some sort of vampirism comment, when Zoro storms in carrying a pillowcase. Sanji turns from the sink as Zoro upends the pillowcase on the counter, spilling out a pastry brush, a meat thermometer, a heart-shaped cookie cutter, and every other item Usopp has left in his hammock over the last few weeks.

“Stop leaving your shit in my bed,” Zoro says, leaning both hands on the counter in a way that highlights his arms. “Or I’m going to do something about it.”

Sanji glances down at the counter, then up at Zoro’s face. He picks up the cookie cutter.

“I’ve been looking for this for weeks,” he snaps. “What do you mean you’ve had it all this time?”

“It’s annoying,” Zoro continues, dodging the question. “If you want something, just ask for it.”

Sanji’s eyes narrow, and he rounds the counter. “What I want,” he says, stepping into Zoro’s space, “is to know why you didn’t return this immediately. If it’s such an annoyance.” Sanji lifts his hands to make air quotes and Zoro grabs his wrists.

Usopp holds his breath, not daring to move. This is it.

Sanji’s cheeks flare pink and he tries to jerk away, but Zoro holds fast and doesn’t let him, pulling him closer on the rebound. This is escalating fast. Maybe Usopp should try to sneak away, he can do it real quiet-like —

Zoro makes a frustrated sound and leans in and Usopp just barely claps a hand over his mouth in time to contain the whoop when Sanji presses into the kiss. This is success, this is victory, Nami is going to be sorry she ever doubted him. Sanji makes a noise and tears his hands out of Zoro’s grasp, sliding them over Zoro’s shoulder’s and into his hair instead. Zoro backs Sanji into the counter and they’re still kissing and Zoro is sliding a leg between Sanji’s and —

Discretion is definitely the better part of valor here. Usopp takes his tea with him, moving quietly and cat-like; the effort is probably wasted based on the sounds that follow him out into the corridor but it feels like the right thing to do.

Usopp takes a sip of his tea as he heads for the helm and Nami. Another great match made by the great Captain Usopp; all in a day’s work.

[fyeahaudiodrama]

Happy @podcastgirlsweek to all who celebrate! While I haven't had the time to properly work on fics (and probably won't this week because oops, hurt my hands yesterday) I still wanted to take the time to highlight some favorite podcast girlies along with everyone else!

The prompt for Monday is highlighting podcasts with women in the leading roles, so here's a few of mine (and hopefully, some new ones of yours if you don't know them yet):

Back Again, Back Again: Ilyaas, you absolutely fantastic disaster of a fantasy ace, never stop trying.

Breathing Space: While the show is anthology with a rotating cast, some of my favorites from across its run include:

Evie Yuriskin

Amity Archer

Any characters who were introduced one episode and then started referring to each other as "my wife" by the end or by their next appearance

Camlann: Some apocalypse survivors interpret dangerous dreams about dark magic to cope. Some knit sweaters. Both are valid and should kiss.

City of Ghosts: Featuring the grungy, disgruntled, tormented-by-visions LADY detective of your dreams.

Desperado: Take note - give your ladies knives. And god powers. And witchcraft. And a sniper rifle, for good measure.

Do You Copy?: I think [REDACTED] deserves three weeks of paid vacation

Fawx & Stallion: Madge Stallion is THE moment. She's six feet tall. She can't stop making innuendos. She's not your fucking Mrs. Hudson (although, she is - no, I shan't say).

Hi Nay: Mari & Laura are my everything - the loving and self-sacrificing hero and the newfound friend who chooses to stand by her side (fire axe and all).

Inn Between: Oh, my Inn Between girlies, where do I start? Fina and Betty, the OGs and life partners that even death couldn't stall? Rosie and Zara, the new best pals who chose to stay together? Phoebe, just one step at a time learning what she deserves and what she doesn't? All impeccable, A+.

It Makes A Sound: Any show focused on music is going to be a slam dunk for me, but Deirdre's quest to reclaim her memories as well as those that tied her to her mother is so damn real and compelling.

The Kingmaker Histories: No female character in this show has ever done anything wrong. Colette gets a migraine pass. Ariadne can turn people inside out. Daphne is owed this for working in a theme park.

Life With LEO(h): Janiiiiiine, so messy and smart and dedicated and she cares so much, I love yoooooou.

Me and AU: Kate's worries and desires and doubts are some of the realest out of any audio drama so when do I find an Ella too

Palimpsest: My faaaaavorite gothic horror anthology, each one fresh with a different brand of haunted, tormented, secret-keeping (and quite frequently gay) gothic protagonist

The Pasithea Powder: Jane and Sophie. Sophie and Jane. What more could you need? <3

The Silt Verses: Women who start cults/leave cults/seek an end to the endless cycle of meaningless sacrifice as so valid. For all your wet cat(fish) woman needs.

Second Star to the Left: Because I always love a good Ishani performance. Hi Gwen, please tell Boots I love them.

Small Victories: You want sad wet cat women? How about one that literally can't stop self-sabotaging (but at least manages to draw the line at sabotaging others...occasionally). She even gets stabbed!

Starfall: I mean, kind of a given, but anyway, Leona definitely exists because she's the kind of action protagonist woman I always wanted - one that could be unapologetically powerful, but still full of flaws and desires (especially ones that weren't about falling in love and minimizing her own strengths). She's even autistic!

Stories From Ylelmore: Keryth! Keryth, Keryth, Keryth! She reminds me so much of the kinds of characters I would make up when I was younger - I love her and her small magic so dearly.

The Strange Case of Starship Iris: Hi queer space pirates <3

Unseen: Another anthology show, but Harry Winters and Never-Ending Circles remains one of the most perfect premiere episodes I've ever heard in audio drama.

The Way We Haunt Now: Get your podcast ladies here, dead or alive!

We Fix Space Junk: My favorite type of repairman is a woman who could kick my ass.

Wolf 359: I don't think I need say much more here - y'all know and love 'em just as much as I do.

[hjemne]

Okay as kinda a follow-on to why I love how Trimax characterises Knives and Vash as kids, let me talk about why I love Knives' outfits in Trimax so much

So, Knives' outfits are heavily inspired by the jumpsuits/ uniform from the Seeds ships. If they're not directly using the uniforms as a base, Knives usually keeps their silhouettes or other elements (the blocks of two colours, the buckles etc)

Some examples of the original Seeds designs for reference, as modelled by Conrad and Vash

And now some Knives looks

Even that third example still keeps a very similar feel to the Seeds jumpsuit from the buckles and the shapes of the fabric/cuts. It's definitely a bastardisation of the original, but the inspiration is definitely there (plus, you can see the tube things around his waist which a later Vash coat incorporates, and there are big similarities to this and Vash's belt buckle legwear, which I also think is really cool to emphasis how similar Vash and Knives are through their outfits!)

This is the main exception to this that I can find, but still I'd argue there are still some similarities to the Seeds jacket here in the high collar, cropped around the waist, the two colours, the buckles etc and his shoulders are also emphasised here by his clothes & pose which is another Knives staple. It also wouldn't make sense for Knives to be wearing anything too directly similar here as this is during the period where Vash and Knives travel together and try to blend in more with the humans around them.

There's two outfits I want to look at in particular- one is what he wears when confronting Vash in July and the other is the iconic bdsm piano outfit

When Knives and Vash reunite in July, Knives is in an outfit that is incredibly similar to a version of the seeds uniform. Specifically, the uniform worn by the crew when Knives accidentally messes with the ships and the crew comes out of cold sleep to deal with it.

Now, why might this be a look Knives wants to replicate?

I'd argue it's potentially because that was the first time Knives felt true fear at the presence of a greater authority (the crew) and that's what he wants Vash to feel when he ambushes him in July.

Knives' character in trimax is based about wanting to take back power from the humans who killed Tesla, and make sure that doesn't happen again by switching the powerful-powerless positions between humans and plants.

By becoming Conrad in his confrontation with Vash, Knives immediately puts Vash on the back foot, infantalising him, and reminding him of the day they discovered Tesla and the fear and horror they felt. It also allows Knives to reclaim that memory for himself psychologically, and shows Knives is every bit hung up on the past in the Seeds ship as Vash is.

Now, the infamous BDSM fit

He is so full of drama. It's an iconic introduction to his character. The spike at his neck is as much a threat to himself as it is to others. And the eyes.... Oh I'll be coming back to the eyes....

But why am I bringing this outfit up? It shows up in about 3 panels never to be seen again, right? Right?

Wrong!

There's been a lot of talk about how tristamp is a love letter to Trimax, but you know what really is a love letter to the imagery of Trimax? Trimax itself.

Imagery from many, many volumes before, which could be dismissed as just there to look cool, crops back up after a decade of real-world time passing between these being published. Trimax tells such incredible depth of story through the use of clothing and the symbolic language that each character chooses to wear.

I'm not going to say anything about tristamp as such, but I do think that by changing the Seeds uniform and by the choices made in Nai's clothes (or lack thereof), tristamp has therefore lost a huge amount of this visual language and storytelling, and I really really hope this was done intentionally because the tristamp team wanted to create their own which we'll see in S2, rather than just being a change made without considering its impacts.