#oh and i love talking about religious trauma

[nicolovespancakes]

Sometimes I think we don't talk enough about some of the guilt Jeremiah may hold over religion, and then I remember;

A lot of people don't know that Saint Ignatius of Loyola, or "St. Ignatius" as so called, is a Spanish catholic priest.

And why is that important? Let's take a moment to remember what the school Jeremiah went to after he left the circus is called,

That's the boarding school Jeremiah canonically attended after running from the circus. For multiple years.

So it is to be inferred that it's a Catholic Boarding School.

And when we first learn anything about Jeremiah, or Xander at the time, it's been, I think 6 years? Since he graduated from said school.

So he's had time to, process.

And Cameron Monaghan himself states he feels a sort of passion towards other men (like Bruce), that is definitely called more than platonic on a basic premise.

The catholic church itself opposes same-sex marriage and sodomy and is active in political campaigns against it.

It just makes me think of all the mental turmoil he must've had to go through. Catholic guilt, religious guilt in of itself, is horrible.

And religions like catholicism love to stamp out any form of individuality at the best of times. With how Jeremiah dresses? He probably had a rough upcoming.

And don't get me started on Post-Spray Jer and all the thoughts of catholicism at that point. Or the church he built for himself in season 5, where he oddly made his recruits dress more like Missionaries or Alter Boys.

If you add twinleska into it it's a whole other ball game too.

Or his family at all, really.

God, I think about it a lot.

[brynn-lear]

I never got too deep into enstars but there are days where I miss Mama 😔

[bullagit]

i think a not-insignificant amount of the heartbreak crowley’s feeling in the end is  because he’s finally truly understanding that what’s happening with aziraphale (as he perceives it) isn’t something that he can save him from.

[tenok]

While it's a great analysis, especially the part about Aziraphale being desperate for respect, recognition and validation from people he consider his authorities — which is somehow get painted as his moral failure in fandom and not an inherent human quality, — I want to disagree (or more like... look from other perspective?) on couple things.

First: I always took "bad guys" as face value and I don't get what's fandom problem with it. Yes, the wording might be better, but it's a shorthand for all party lines from both sides packed into two words and it works for this rushed conversation. The point with "bad guys" and "good guys" is that it's arbitrary sides, and Aziraphale and Crowley points it again and again, aren't they? It's not a morality question at this point: they just sides, sure, but they have *goals*. Heavens is the "good guys" that works toward ultimate good (in theory! We and Aziraphale know that it's not the case). So, if you correct this system toward the goal it supposed to achieve, it should start make "good". Now, hell is the "bad guys". Correcting it toward it goal, making it effective leads to making more "badness" (look at Crowley: he's bad at being that kind of demon that kills and tortures, but his innovations actually *effective* at making more people miserable and making bad decisions — it's brushed in series but was more pointed in book). So, yes, "of course you said no, you're the bad guys" there = "your goals as to 'not make people miserable' contradicts hells main goal, while making things good are technically heavens goal and we can work on it there, as you always wished" (yes, heavens actually don't give a shit about humanity, but Aziraphale plans to correct this! How far he will get with it is another goal) (arguably, Crowley also doesn't want to make humans lives better, he's perfectly fine with how they are — it's Aziraphale that loves to meddle, but it looks like he thinks that they align there, making leap from "don't want to kill innocent kids" to "actually wants to go out of my way to change things to the better"). Now, I *do* think that if Crowley told him that he plans to go into hell and become the new prince to make things *less bad*, make it *harder* to hell to gather souls, make it *easier* for people who get into hell because things are unfair and they stole some bread to eat, Aziraphale probably *would've* decided that it's very noble of him (and than he would put him in box and secure this box in a safe, because hell no you're not going lol he's overcompensating when it's the matters of Crowley safety), but it's probably not something he ever considered — which is part of him thinking in black and white, sure, but also like. He has no reason to think about how Crowley can reconstruct hell (again, I want to stress it: Crowley don't think about changing things, and all Aziraphale knows about hell Is from him and heavens propaganda, it's not his fault if he's left with impression that you can't make hell's better!) daydreamed for years about what he would've do as Supreme Archangel, so I think we can go easy on him there.

But what I absolutely don't see is him *wanting* angel Crowley back in any way aside from protection it'll give them and justice it'll bring to Crowley (in Aziraphale's mind), him wanting to change him in any way. Look. He was always accepting of Crowley from their first meeting as a demon, and he never shows any concerns towards him that's not based on fears that based on real possibilities (are you tempting me? Can someone there overhear that we were called friends? Are you lying? Etc). From immediately accepting his new looks and names, to always stating "you're a demon and I hang out with you", not "you're a demon and I hang out with you despite of this". More than that, he's ready to accept version of Crowley that much worse than he are, actually (notice how when he asks "are this your doing?" in Bastille or with nazis, he's not outraged, he's not disgusted, he's mildly irrated at worst! He's not pushing him away based on this! If Crowley will ask him to lend him a shovel he'll probably came ready to help to hide a body, he's that ride or die. Now, I think it's as important to the acceptance as "I know you, you'll never do X". Aziraphale ahowes again and again that there's no unforgivable with him, he will be ready to forgive and forget). And look at how he talks about Crowley to other angels — he can't imagine himself saying something about how bad he is even to beings that haven't heard any honest word from him for millennia, it's just not something he has in his mind. He uses an argument "you were an angel once" twice in this series, both time when people's lives were on stakes, and I can discuss it separately since it's already too long but it was it, just an argument he used with several others to try and persuade Crowley (and Aziraphale, being not really great with social skills, usually uses arguments that will work on him, so). I won't even touch the walls and car and color of Crowley eyes. It's not Starmaker eyes, we all already gushed about it, whatever. (And he wasn't made *uncomfortable* by Starmaker, aren't he? He immediately get *afraid* for him, which is integral part of this relationship. So I don't think he ever dreamed that making Crowley an angel again would make him any different, make him "proper" angel that would be easier to love. Notice how his offer is not going with "and you should promise to be on your best behavior", it's actually partnered with "now I'll be the one in power, so I will protect you from mistreatment").

Honestly I love fics where Aziraphale struggles with shame, but I can't see it as "I ashamed to be attracted to demon so I want to change him into angel" even way back, and definitely not at "six thousand years later" point (and I think it's important to remember that flashbacks are exactly this: flashbacks. Like, you can't hold against Aziraphale beliefs he already changed). I would've compare it to his love of food (sorry Crowley but you definitely a snack). See, Aziraphale ashamed of not being proper angel, but he's not showed to be ashamed of his love of food or to think that food is really a disgusting thing that sullied him. It's complicated feeling, but to love a demon and being ashamed of not being proper angel is not necessary means you ashamed of your attraction, or you ashamed of him being specifically demon, it's more like "I'm ashamed that I'm not ashamed" (forgive me for parallels, but: I'm a person with low empathy, I'm not ashamed of it, I for sure don't want to change it, I'm actually really glad that word tragedies are not affecting me in the same way it can affect my more empathetic friends, but sometimes I get ashamed *because* I like how I am and I don't want to change it, since I know that from many people's perspective it means I'm bad and also lazy. I think Aziraphale really showed it in his "I'm soft" and I think it corresponds well with how he feels about Crowley. Call it more the shame of wanting good things for himself, not the shame of wanting something bad; it goes nicely with Crowley tempting him into doing nice things for himself, aren't it? Ok, now I'm not sure I make sense whatsoever).

Now, sure, maybe he felt some joy about making things easier in his mind if Crowley would become an angel — sure, there'll be much less shades of gray than in relationships with demon. It's possible! But in the whole I'll argue that it's just a headcanon, and that in canon we have no indication of Aziraphale being ashamed of Crowley/attraction to Crowley or at least it being his motivation, partially or wholly, to make Crowley an angel (I can see him being ashamed *now*, because he made an offer and was rejected and now Crowley thinks that he's stupid for accepting and Metatron thinks he's stupid for offering and everyone around him thinks he's *not capable* — and look, aren't it funny how fandom latched on Crowley being the one in need of praise and reassurance, while it's Aziraphale the one that always gets belittled in canon and can't stand up for himself? Fascinating)

Anyway, I agree on some bits and I think that Aziraphale's beautiful brain is full on contradictions and denial, which is what that makes him interesting and unpredictable and what made Crowley fall in love with him in the first place. And I'll be a minority there, but I don't want him to change this, like, just give him information and let him build his best decisions on it I'm sure whatever happens would be FUN. But the part about shame is just not something I see in canon, and while maybe for the second there Crowley thought AHA SO YOU WANT ME TO CHANGE, I can't believe that he, having all proofs on his hands from the six thousand years of knowing Aziraphale and being his friend, can really think "ohhhh he never loved me like thiiis he would prefer an aaangel". Like. No? Like, I do think that they will (or actually that any competent adults on their place would've) resolve it with easy "hey, when you said X, it sounded like Y and I was really sad for a moment" (and let's not forget Crowley picking on Aziraphale being incapable and stupid, which is something he needs to apologize too and probably keep it in mind for their next fight, since it's something he tends to do when he's frustrated and angry/scared, as we saw in season 1). I think the things they need to discuss for more healthy relationship is much more boring, like what things we can do as unit, what we can do separately, how to communicate it clearly and how to not get defensive/attacking when we enter a disagreement. I also think that it's not really great for TV plot, so on screen we will get tearful confessions and a kiss, but whatever, I have my fanfiction for it.

I can go on, since there's a lot in original post to discuss about, but I already spend half-hour on this and I really need get back to work lol. Thanks for interesting points, and as usual, the most important part is that Aziraphale's really, truly good, even when he's being a bastard 😀

if you take "I can make a difference" at face value you simply must also consider "you're the bad guys.” like they are both vital aspects of aziraphale's decision. the problem is not just aziraphale's attempt to lead a corrupt system, it is also his continued belief in the superiority of heaven and angels over hell and demons. that's why crowley was so hurt. it's not just a miscommunication, or a disagreement on the practicalities of changing hearts and minds in heaven--it is a fundamental misunderstanding of morality and of crowley as a person. if crowley had asked aziraphale to come to hell to help fix it and protect the earth, he would not have gone. he says so. it’s not just about safety, or reform. it is about being Good.

and all of this happens because aziraphale is not just motivated by fear and love: he is also motivated by shame. he is insecure in his identity as an angel and a Good Guy, and both his alienation from heaven and his relationship with crowley have always aggravated this insecurity. it’s why shax’s mockery hit him so hard, and why he’s so susceptible to manipulation from the metatron. he desperately wants to be taken seriously and treated with respect and to have power and be an uncomplicated Good Guy, and that is just as much of a motivating factor in his decision as his desire to protect humanity and crowley.

and re: “appoint you to be an angel”: I know people want to insist that aziraphale has never wanted to change anything about crowley, but I’m sorry, I just don’t think that’s true. over and over in season 2 aziraphale demonstrates a desire to sand the rough edges off people and things for the sake of the Greater Good, without consideration for the free will or complex emotions of others. obviously this tendency culminates in the ball, where he exerts control over all of the humans to make everything perfect for maggie and nina, and in doing so, infringes on their autonomy and nina’s (crowley’s narrative mirror!) capacity to feel her own anger and sadness. and he has never liked that crowley is a demon. in his mind, the problem has always been that crowley was put in the wrong category, not that the entire system of dividing people and angels into Good and Bad is ridiculous. that’s the exact lesson he needs to learn.

and yes, his intentions are good, absolutely. I don’t think aziraphale ever acts out of malice, and I do think he genuinely wants the best for the people around him, particularly crowley. after all, if crowley is accepted as an angel again, as aziraphale has always secretly considered him to be, their relationship can (in his mind) finally stop being so fraught with danger and conflict. (the other side of that, of course, is that aziraphale can also stop being so ashamed for loving someone who is supposed to be Bad, and everything in his life will make sense again, the way it hasn’t since he met that star maker who got so upset about god’s plan.)

but that’s not who crowley is, and it never has been. even before he fell, crowley’s recklessness and relentless questions made aziraphale uncomfortable. their relationship has never been safe or easy, and in wanting to make it so, aziraphale is demonstrating a desire to change the parts of crowley that led to his fall, whether he intends to or not.

I’m rambling, but the point is: the insistence on reframing this moment as a purely selfless, calculated, self-sacrificing decision by aziraphale to protect crowley and the world ignores the uglier parts of the things he said in order to make their eventual reconciliation less complicated, and it’s really frustrating to me. crowley is in fact right to be upset by what he said, and it’s not just a misunderstanding that can be fixed with aziraphale saying “I was only trying to protect you!” and another kiss. it’s a culmination of all of the double think aziraphale has been doing in order to preserve his vision of heaven as The Source Of Truth And Light And Good since before the beginning of time, and it’s time for him to finally unpack it.

(and because every post on the final fifteen needs a disclaimer: aziraphale is trying his best and has an incredible amount of love in his heart and wants so badly to do good and ALSO the things he says, does, and believes can be incredibly hurtful and destructive. all of these things can be true.)

[inhonoredglory]

Aziraphale’s Choice, the Job Connection, and Michael Sheen’s Morality

Update: Michael Sheen liked this post on Twitter, so I'm fairly certain there is a lot of validity to it.

I’ve had time to process Aziraphale’s choice at the end of Season 2. And I think only blaming the religious trauma misses something important in Aziraphale’s character. I think what happened was also Aziraphale’s own conscious choice––as a growth from his trauma, in fact. Hear me out.

Since November 2022 I’ve been haunted by something Michael Sheen said at the MCM London Comic Con. At the Q&A, someone asked him about which fantasy creature he enjoyed playing most and Michael (bless him, truly) veered on a tangent about angels and goodness and how, specifically,

We as a society tend to sort of undervalue goodness. It’s sort of seen as sort of somehow weak and a bit nimby and “oh it’s nice.” And I think to be good takes enormous reserves of courage and stamina. I mean, you have to look the dark in the face to be truly good and to be truly of the light…. The idea that goodness is somehow lesser and less interesting and not as kind of muscular and as passionate and as fierce as evil somehow and darkness, I think is nonsense. The idea of being able to portray an angel, a being of love. I love seeing the things people have put online about angels being ferocious creatures, and I love that. I think that’s a really good representation of what goodness can be, what it should be, I suppose.

I was looking forward to BAMF!Aziraphale all season long, and I think that’s what we got in the end. Remember Neil said that the Job minisode was important for Aziraphale’s story. Remember how Aziraphale sat on that rock and reconciled to himself that he MUST go to Hell, because he lied and thwarted the will of God. He believed that––truly, honestly, with the faith of a child, but the bravery of a soldier.

Aziraphale, a being of love with more goodness than all of Heaven combined, believed he needed to walk through the Gates of Hell because it was the Right Thing to do. (Like Job, he didn’t understand his sin but believed he needed to sacrifice his happiness to do the Right Thing.)

That’s why we saw Aziraphale as a soldier this season: the bookshop battle, the halo. But yes, the ending as well.

Because Aziraphale never wanted to go to Heaven, and he never wanted to go there without Crowley.

But it was Crowley who taught him that he could, even SHOULD, act when his moral heart told him something was wrong. While Crowley was willing to run away and let the world burn, it was Aziraphale (in that bandstand at the end of the world) who stood his ground and said No. We can make a difference. We can save everyone.

And Aziraphale knew he could not give up the ace up his sleeve (his position as an angel) to talk to God and make them see the truth in his heart.

I was messed up by Ineffable Bureaucracy (Boxfly) getting their happy ending when our Ineffable Husbands didn’t, but I see now that them running away served to prove something to Aziraphale. (And I am fully convinced that Gabriel and Beelzebub saw the example of the Ineffables at the Not-pocalypse and took inspiration from them for choosing to ditch their respective sides)

But my point is that Aziraphale saw them, and in some ways, they looked like him and Crowley. And he saw how Gabriel, the biggest bully in Heaven, was also like him in a way (a being capable of love) and also just a child when he wasn’t influenced by the poison of Heaven. Muriel, too, wasn’t a bad person. The Metatron also seemed to have grown more flexible with his morality (from Aziraphale's perspective). Like Earth, Heaven was shades of (light?) gray.

Aziraphale is too good an angel not to believe in hope. Or forgiveness (something he’s very good at it).

Aziraphale has been scarred by Heaven all his life. But with the cracks in Heaven’s armor (cracks he and Crowley helped create), Aziraphale is seeing something else. A chance to change them. They did terrible things to him, but he is better than them, and because of Crowley, he feels ready to face them.

(Will it work? Can Heaven change, institutionally? Probably not, but I can't blame Aziraphale for trying.)

At the cafe, the Metatron said something big was coming in the Great Plan. Aziraphale knows how trapped he had felt when he didn’t have God’s ear the first time something huge happened in the Big Plan. He can’t take a chance again to risk the world by not having a foot in the door of Heaven. That’s why we saw individual human deaths (or the threat of death) so much more this season: Elspeth, Wee Morag, Job’s children, the 1940s magician. Aziraphale almost killed a child when he couldn’t get through to God, and he’s not going through that again.

“We could make a difference.” We could save everyone.

Remember what Michael Sheen said about courage and doing good––and having to “look the dark in the face to be truly good.” That’s what happened when Aziraphale was willing to go to Hell for his actions. That’s what happened when he decided he had to go to Heaven, where he had been abused and belittled and made to feel small. He decided to willingly go into the Lion’s Den, to face his abusers and his anxiety, to make them better so that they would not try to destroy the world again.

Him, just one angel. He needed Crowley to be there with him, to help him be brave, to ask the questions that Heaven needed to hear, to tell them God was wrong. Crowley is the inspiration that drives Aziraphale’s change, Crowley is the engine that fuels Aziraphale’s courage.

But then Crowley tells him that going to Heaven is stupid. That they don’t need Heaven. And he’s right. Aziraphale knows he’s right.

Aziraphale doesn’t need Heaven; Heaven needs him. They just don’t know how much they need him, or how much humanity needs him there, too. (If everyone who ran for office was corrupt, how can the system change?)

Terry Pratchett (in the Discworld book, Small Gods) is scathing of God, organized religion, and the corrupt people religion empowers, but he is sympathetic to the individual who has real, pure faith and a good heart. In fact, the everyman protagonist of Small Gods is a better person than the god he serves, and in the end, he ends up changing the church to be better, more open-minded, and more humanist than god could ever do alone.

Aziraphale is willing to go to the darkest places to do the Right Thing, and Heaven is no exception. When Crowley says that Heaven is toxic, that’s exactly why Aziraphale knows he needs to go there. “You’re exactly is different from my exactly.”

____

In the aftermath of Trump's election in the US, Brexit happened in 2018. Michael Sheen felt compelled to figure out what was going on in his country after this shock. But he was living in Los Angeles with Sarah Silverman at the time, and she also wanted to become more politically active in the US.

Sheen: “I felt a responsibility to do something, but it [meant] coming back [to Britain] – which was difficult for us, because we were very important to each other. But we both acknowledge that each of us had to do what we needed to do.” In the end, they split up and Michael moved back to the UK.

Sometimes doing the Right Thing means sacrificing your own happiness. Sometimes it means going to Hell. Sometimes it means going to Heaven. Sometimes it means losing a relationship.

And that’s why what happened in the end was so difficult for Aziraphale. Because he loves Crowley desperately. He wants to be together. He wanted that kiss for thousands of years. He knows that taking command of Heaven means they would never again have to bow to the demands of a God they couldn’t understand, or run from a Hell who still came after them. They could change the rules of the game.

And he’s still going to do that. But it hurts him that he has to do that alone.

[devourable]

† church boy

[ sfw | tw : religion (not named but heavily implied), sacrilege, potential religious trauma? as well as general yandere content but it’s v tame ]

male yandere x gender neutral reader! only pronoun used for reader is ‘you’. i havent written like this in a very long time so i apologize if this is bad ;_;

abraham lived a simple life for the majority of his 21 years on this planet. he was born and raised in a religious household, the only son of a wealthy pastor, surrounded by typical bible-thumping folk who taught him that *** was above everything, above him, above the things he loved, and putting anything (or anyone) above his faith would surely result in his damnation. and his whole life, he believed that.

that was… until you entered his life.

it happened at a fundraiser he was volunteering at. it was any other day for the boy, handing out advertisements and chatting with everyone that came and went. an average, mundane event for him where he’d talk about the same things he did every day, smile, wave, everything that was expected of him.

after the last person in his line had left, he looked down to begin organizing his things so he could join the rest of the party. when he was shadowed by someone stepping in front of him again, he expected to see a familiar face — maybe someone that might’ve forgotten something? but when he looked up…

abraham’s breath caught in his throat. he swore the earth had stopped spinning the second your eyes locked.

whether if you were there because you shared the same religion, was dragged there by a friend/family member, or simply because there was free food, he had no clue - but it didn't matter. your looks, the way you moved, the sound of your voice — why was it all so... enchanting?

he couldn’t help the slight stutter in his words as he hastily offered you a pamphlet, quickly introducing himself and inquiring about you. what was your name? were you new to the church? why haven’t you met before?

the soft laugh you emitted as you spoke and the feeling of your skin grazing his felt like fire. and your name... oh, the poor boy didn’t even realize it, but he couldn’t help it — within moments of knowing you, he had grown totally enamored!

abraham found himself hovering by your side for the rest of the event. he was awkward, you’d quickly realize, but it was in that sort of sweet, inexperienced way. he was desperate to know you, to get closer to you, hoping that maybe if he could understand you, he’d figure out how to quell these intense feelings that had built within him — but to you and everyone else, he was simply making sure a new face wasn’t alone during the event. he was just being a good little pastor’s boy! that’s what he told himself too, over and over again.

he was being good by making you laugh. he was being good by giving you his number. and it was good that he grew elated by the idea of getting to see you again after this. he was a good person, so what if he was neglecting his duties to be around you? he did what he was supposed to all the time, surely he could be forgiven just this once.

right?

his obsession with you didn’t take long to blossom after that first meeting. you started to infiltrate every part of his life in one way or another. his prayers became tangled up with thoughts of you. rather than reading the bible, he’d reread the texts between the two of you while he waited for you to respond to them. when he went to church, he found himself scanning the pews in hopes of spotting you among the congregation rather than finding a seat right away. when service began, he couldn’t focus on the preaching taking place because he was too busy thinking of ways to see you again.

despite the utter adoration abraham had grown to feel for you.. at some point, for the first time in his life, he couldn’t help but wonder — was he becoming sinful? was he growing gluttonous for your attention? he couldn’t have been, he had been so devout his entire life! it was fine for him to miss a few services to see you as long as he made up for it later…

he couldn’t tell if you were an angel, as heaven-sent as he felt you to be, or if you were the embodiment of temptation, pulling him away from his faith and beckoning him to sin. were you both? could you be both? with the progression of his obsession with you, his conflicted feelings about his relationship with his faith grew alongside it.

maybe you just weren’t any good for him.

but your name and god seemed to always come up at the same time…

so maybe, it was a sign that he had someone new to worship.

[outlawinthisworld1117]

Perhaps in another life | Fleabag AU

☆ pairing: priest!Yunho x fleabag!(fem)reader

☆ genre: Angst, Smut, there is some light fluff as well because I genuinely cannot resist writing it in everything I do.

☆ summary: It's just a Fleabag au... I don't really know what to say here. Yunho is the Priest and you are Fleabag…

☆ warnings: 18+ MDNI!!! Religious themes, fingering, oral (f), Praise kink?, edging, vaginal sex, protected sex, aftercare (idk if I need to put a warning for that? but I've seen other ppl do it before so...), pet names (Angel, baby, good girl), Priest kink??, reader does call him Father sometimes, requited love that can't be pursued... ouchie.

☆ word count: 3.8k

☆ authors note: I heard that Yunho is (most likely) Catholic and my religious trauma manifests in interesting ways >:). This work is fiction and purely self-indulgent (really as all fanfics should be), it doesn’t reflect any of the members personally. The fourth wall break text is highlighted in red!

You weren’t good at love, never had been, and probably never would be. But it wouldn’t stop you from trying because he was all you could think about. Day and Night. Always on your mind. You met him at a family dinner you were unwillingly dragged to. Jeong Yunho. Pretty name. He was the only one that asked about you the entire night. No one ever cared to ask about you, but he did. How could you not form an attachment? You ran into him again while on your way home from work. You were able to see him better in the sunlight. Beautiful smile, really tall, kind eyes… his hands. Oh, Lord. His hands were gorgeous, and his neck was so— Shit… He was wearing a clerical collar. Fuck. He was Father Yunho. 

He’s a priest. I want to fuck a priest…

That didn’t stop you from seeing him though, nor thinking about him the way you did. How could it? Religious trauma manifested in strange ways. You would visit him at his church. He always welcomed you with a smile, and you would talk for hours. Sometimes about God, you weren’t religious and probably never would be, but sometimes he would ask about you. How you were doing. What your job was. How long you’ve lived here. Where you grew up. Your favorite color. The movies you enjoyed most. Your ex-boyfriends. Your future plans. What you ate for breakfast. He was so curious about everything you had to say. Shit. This was dangerous. You didn’t care though. You would ask about him and the more you learned the more you felt yourself falling for him. Your conversations started to become more intimate. Oh fuck. You were so attracted to him and you could tell he felt the same way about you.

How you ask? Well, it’s simple. Let me recall what happened yesterday, shall I?

“I’d better get going Father, lot’s of stuff to do today—”

He grinned, “Oh fuck you calling me Father like it doesn’t turn you on just to say it”

That’s how… 

And we made out in the confessional box right after.

You felt sick. Nauseous. Your head was pounding.

I really shouldn’t have gone out last night.

Or maybe your headache wasn’t from the ridiculous amount of alcohol you consumed, but instead, of each thought about him that consumed your very being. You didn’t know. What you did know was that if your bus didn’t show up in the next couple of minutes you were probably going to throw up all over the bench you were sitting on. Putting your head in your hands helped distract you from the throbbing against your skull. Though it couldn’t help you with what would happen next. Taking a deep, mind-clearing breath, you lifted your head up from your hands and there he was. Sitting right beside you. Like a damn apparition, waiting to jump scare you.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry!—” He waved his large hands expressively.

“How long have you been—”

“Literally like two seconds,” He clarified quickly.

You exhaled, what felt like your entire soul, out, “W-why? What are you doing here?”

He smiled at you. It always made you feel weak. Such a beautiful smile, but it was quickly replaced with a pursed frown. His eyes became serious as he stared into yours. Then at your lips. Lingering for a moment before going back to your eyes.

“I don’t think you should come by the church anymore. Actually, I don’t just think… this is me pleading with you to not come by anymore.”

You just stared at him, unable to breathe, your chest felt so tight.

“And I mean that with the greatest of compliments,” he gushed before he got up and left. Just like that. He was gone as quickly as he had arrived.

What. the. fuck…

Regardless of his intent, it didn’t matter if you never went to that church again because you would still see him. At your house. Later that night. Knocking on your door like his life depended on it. So when you opened it up for him, he rushed in looking frantic. Pacing back and forth in your living room before sitting down on your couch, imploring you to do the same. So you did. He wasted no time to speak.

“I’ve sacrificed a lot for this life— I…” His words faltered, unsure of what to even say or why he came to your house in the first place.

You seemed to understand why he was there though. Nodding you took his hand, squeezing it gently in hopes that it would provide him some shred of comfort.

He took a relaxed breath, staring at the floor for a long time before he spoke again, “I shouldn’t have done what I did yesterday. I have to make sacrifices, yet I chose to be selfish. You…. You make me want to be selfish more than anything.”

You didn’t even realize he had moved until you felt his breath tickling your face. He was so close to you. Staring into your eyes, searching, begging, praying that he would find an answer he so desperately craved.

“It’s okay to be selfish, Father,” You whispered, “You’re not going to burst into flames. It  just makes you human.”

His palm was on your cheek, caressing it as he moved just a little bit closer to you. His breath seemed strained, building up to being labored. You had no idea the effect you had upon him, “I know. But… I can’t. I can’t allow myself to be selfish with you.”

Oh my god. We’re going to fuck.

“Why not allow yourself to, Father?”

He’s totally going to fuck me right here.

“I cannot be intimate with you—”

Oh, yes, yes he can.

“— oh for FUCKS SAKE. What is that?” He leaned back from you, his hand moved from your face to your thigh as his eyes were once again searching yours.

“What is what?”

His hand is…

“THAT! Right there. Where do you go when you do that?” His eyes were locked in on you, with extreme clarity, like he could effortlessly read the inner workings of your soul.

“I— I was just thinking…” You whispered, overwhelmed by his detailed observation. No one had ever noticed you like he did. No one. It made you feel hot.

“What are you thinking, Angel?” He pleaded sweetly as if he didn’t just shock your entire being.

Angel…

You stayed quiet, feeling exposed in front of him, worried that he could read your thoughts. He started to rub along your thigh, stilling before he spoke with a deep husky tone, “We’re going to have sex, aren’t we?”

You nodded slowly, “Yeah…”

That was all he needed before moving his other hand to cup your face, quickly closing the gap between you as he ardently placed his lips upon yours. He started slow, mapping out your lips with his. He was so observant, noting every touch, taste, and feeling with small, curious movements. Warmth blossomed in your chest, he made you feel so wanted and cared for. He always made you feel this way. And then, as if he was suffocating and you were his oxygen, he began kissing you fervently. Pouring every ounce of selfishness he could into this act like he would never get to do it again. You carded your fingers through his hair, pulling him closer, never wanting to let go of him out of fear he would slip away forever. Begging to be let in, he pressed his tongue lightly, and you gladly obliged, parting your lips like they were the Red Sea. He tasted of red wine and he always smelled so good. Like a room full of unscented candles that were just blown out. Smokey and sensual. It turned the warmth in your chest into a burning desire. You couldn’t help the sounds you were letting out as his hands explored over your body. His dexterous, long fingers traced along you, memorizing how you felt beneath him.

“Do you know what you do to me, Angel?” He moved your position so that you were lying down, his weight pressing on top of you, enveloping your senses completely. You could feel what he meant on your hip. Oh; And his pants were restraining him. A lot. Oh, Jesus… Hallelujah.

“Yunho…” You breathed lightly, aching for more of him. To which he understood, perfectly, like he always did.

You wrapped your legs around his waist when he picked you up from the couch. Easily. His arms never letting go of your ass on the way to your room. He groaned at the friction he was getting from you as he walked. Once he set you down he began loosening his collar. You watched tantalizingly as he began to slowly unbutton his shirt. He was so beautiful, his chest was lean and sculpted, like a marble statue. You whined when his shirt slipped off completely, feeling embarrassed from the noise that escaped your lips. He grinned at you as he moved forward, causing you to lay flat against your bed. His long fingers teased at the hem of your shirt before he pulled it over your head. His breath hitched when he saw your bra. A black, lacy one you bought recently in the hopes he would be seeing it. 

Dreams do come true.

“Stop that. I want you present here with me,” He begged, tipping your chin so you were looking at him again, as his lips attached to your neck in a feverish haste. Nipping and licking along you like you were a sweet treat he was enjoying for the first time after Lent. Small moans escaped his lips, causing heat to shoot to your core. He moved down from your neck to the mounds of your breasts, kissing lightly while his hand explored your inner thigh. Every small movement made the warmth inside you grow. Snaking his fingers up to the button on your pants he undid it quickly, expertly removing your pants and tossing them to the side with the rest of the discarded clothing. Your panties matched the bra, earning a small hiss from him that shot a thrill through you.

“You’re quite good at this Father. Like you’ve done it before?” You teased him. His eyes were dark and needy, admiring you lying beneath him as he towered above you. The dark patch from your core caught his attention, hitching his breath. He looked different from his normal self. Hungry. Possessive. Almost like a demon had taken over. An incubus of a man before you.

“I had a life before the church, Angel,” Was all he avowed before kneeling down to worship you. Sliding his fingers under the waistband, he grabbed the edge of your panties with his teeth, and slowly… pulled… them… off. The act made you arch your back and let out a gasp; It was singlehandedly the most toe-curling thing you had ever witnessed. He trailed kisses along your leg, starting at your ankle and moving up. Feathery kisses on your calf. Light ones at your knee. Nibbling on your thigh, and ending up between them, where you needed him most. Your breath had become ragged, matching his. He shuddered when he looked at your core, pulsating around nothing.

“Oh fuck… look at how wet you are for me,” He whimpered, gathering your arousal on his fingers, and showing it to you. You moaned at the sensation of him touching your folds. He sinfully grinned at your reaction before latching on to you with his mouth, swiping his tongue along you salaciously. It ignited a fire with you. Each lick felt like a pleasure you had never experienced before. You were more turned on than you had ever been in your entire life and it was all because of him. His touch made your skin feel like it was on fire in the best way.

“Please— I,” Moaning out, unable to express how he made you feel. You could feel a familiar coil building within you, his ministrations against you were heavenly, “Yun, that feels so good.”

He slipped in one long finger, curving it up, immediately finding your g-spot. He was so fucking good at this. It shocked you. A celibate man who still had all this expert knowledge years later. God, what couldn’t he do? The spring inside you was close to snapping, and he grinned against you, “You gonna cum, Angel?”

“Y-Yes I’m gonna—” He pulled away from you, leaving you right on the edge of bliss. Release escaped you and you cried out, “No, no…Please, Yunho, please.”

You grabbed him gently, but franticly, by his hair, trying to put him back. He just chuckled, the vibrations of his voice buzzed through you, “What’s the rush baby? You’ve waited a long time for this. I’d like to make it last.”

He crawled up to you so that your faces were parallel once again. Kissing you softly, you could taste yourself on him, which made you shiver. Arching your back, he took the opportunity to take off your bra swiftly. He looked at you with heavy-lidded eyes, breathing you in, and then commanding, “Take them off.”

So you did. Unbuttoning his pants quickly so that he was free of them. You might just convert to Catholicism after this because you don’t know what you did to deserve that. He was perfect and painfully hard; there was precum already leaking from his pretty red tip. Experimentally, you reached out and wrapped your hand around him, and the sound that he let out… was pathetic. He screwed his eyes shut and whimpered into the crook of your neck, “FucK-uh! Angel… not yet. Please.”

He hadn’t been touched in so long that he was afraid he would burst at the slightest stroke from you. It made you feel unbelievably powerful, so, teasingly, you did it again and he grabbed your wrist, “Behave. Don’t make me say that again.”

“Or what, Father?” You purred into his ear.

“Or I’m going to have to make you repent, Angel,” He glared at you lustfully. It shot a thrill through your entire being, “I’d chose your next words carefully…”

You stayed silent, not out of obedience, but because you didn’t know what to come back with. When you first met him you never would’ve expected him to be like this, but you weren’t going to complain. He grinned, thinking that you had learned your lesson, “Good girl.”

You could’ve come right then. Good girl? It’s like he was trying to kill you. You loved hearing him praise you and he caught onto it quickly. He trailed his fingers lightly up and down your inner thighs as he kissed along your jaw, it made you shudder.

“You’re going to keep being good for me now, okay?” He sighed, breath quivering. You nodded numbly, enjoying this unseen side of him.

“Yunho, please…” You begged him to do something, anything.

“Of course Angel, you’ve been so patient,” He kissed your forehead before he rubbed his fingers against your folds, teasing around your opening. You gasped when he pressed two digits in, all the way to the knuckle, he hissed, “Fuck… you’re so tight, baby. I’m going to have to stretch you out first.” 

He began to move them, curling into your sweet spot again, pumping in and out while his thumb found your clit; he could already feel your walls loosening around him. As he worked you down there, his lips attached to one of your nipples. It made you cry out. He licked and tugged at the swollen bud before moving to the other one, repeating his actions. The coil in your abdomen wound up quickly and you knew that he wouldn’t have to go much longer. Grasping at his back you took a second to look at him, his face was flushed, and his lips were red from kisses. He was so beautiful it made your heart hurt. Lazily he rubbed circles along your clit as he continued his movements, “Can you cum for me, Angel?”

His words sent you spiraling into ecstasy, your walls trembling around his fingers as he skillfully guided you through your orgasm. Waves of pure pleasure crashed over you, and for a fleeting moment, you could have sworn you glimpsed heaven itself. You took a moment, trembling and breathing heavily, to gather yourself. It was undeniably one of the best orgasms you had ever experienced. When you finally opened your eyes, he was positioned at your entrance, condom already on. His eyes found yours, like a prayer for your consent, to which you nodded in reply. He rubbed slowly along your folds, gathering slick before he steadily began to enter you. He was stretching you out way more than his fingers did, but it wasn't painful; you gasped as he finally bottomed out, “You take me so well, Angel. Are you alright?”

You nodded your head lazily, “More than alright, Yun.”

He kissed you, so lovingly, so sweetly, it made you blush. Every movement of his lips against yours was infused with a depth of emotion, while his hands lovingly caressed your face, his thumb softly brushing against your cheek. He obviously couldn’t say how he felt, but you knew. You knew unmistakably in that kiss. It brought tears to your eyes and, of course, he knew why they were there. You two just understood each other so well. He was inside you, and yet that was the most sacred, intimate thing he could have done. He delicately kissed away the tears on your face until they vanished, and then, tentatively he began to move.

Starting slow, he gently pulled out a bit at a time, allowing you to fully adjust to the movement. When he sensed that you were ready for more, the pace quickened. You clung to his back, as he withdrew to the tip and then thrust back into you. It was as if he was perfectly made for you, with every thrust meeting that sweet spot inside you over and over again. The heat in your core began to intensify, each whimper and moan from him sending waves of pleasure coursing through you, “FUck-ah! Mmm Angel, fuck you feel s-so good.”

“F-Father…” You tightened around him with each thrust, the room alive with the sounds of squelching and skin meeting skin, intertwined with the breathless whimpers from both of you. It left you feeling delightfully dizzy. He pressed his face into your neck, teasing, and nipping along it, leaving behind little marks that would greet him in the morning light, “God… Yunho, Please, more please.”

He was ramming into you at an ungodly pace with an intensity that felt almost divine, the coil inside you teetering on the brink of snapping once more. Attacking your neck with fervent nips and tantalizing licks that sent waves of pleasure humming through you. His movements began to grow frantic, his rhythm wavering as he neared the edge with you. Your second orgasm surged through you unexpectedly, his clumsy thrusts elongating the pleasure to new lengths. With a few erratic movements, he tensed in your embrace, a chorus of moans, whimpers, and whispered curses escaping his lips as he reached his peak. He relaxed in your arms, letting his full weight rest on you as you both came down from your highs, feeling the rhythm of each other’s heavy breaths intertwining in the stillness.

“I can’t believe you did that, Father,” You whispered, in a post-high clarity.

He chuckled against you, resting his chin on your chest, smiling as he looked up at you, “Yeah… me either.”

He tenderly kissed your cheek before pulling out and disposing of the condom. With a gentle smile, he got up and went to your bathroom, returning with a warm, wet rag to clean both you and himself with. After he was done he grinned, “Go use the bathroom, Angel, and then come back here, okay?”

You came back out from the bathroom wearing a comfy T-shirt and a fresh pair of underwear, and he was waiting on your bed, with his boxers back on. He looked absolutely adorable with his tousled hair and those sleepy, drowsy eyes. He pulled you back onto the bed, nestling close to you, awaiting blissful sleep to lull over you both.

His hair softly ticked you awake. He was wrapped around you like he had used you as a body pillow at some point during the night. You hadn’t slept that great in a while. Your stirring had woken him up. He inhaled deeply, holding you tightly for a moment before releasing you. A radiant smile lit up his face, and you could see the gears behind his eyes whirring with life.

“What are you thinking about?” You titled your head to capture his attention.

He just grinned at you, “I just… I don’t know what this feeling is.”

“Is it God or is it me?” You playfully joked.

“I don’t know,” The smile on his face wavering slightly, taking your question seriously into consideration. It made your heart drop a bit.

Your feet ached from a long, exhausting day at work. You were glad to finally be on your way home. Looking up at the bus stop schedule you saw that yours was about twenty minutes away.

Great…

You heard a sharp inhale next to you and a small chuckle, “Might be quicker if you walked, Angel.”

Yunho was sitting next to you at the bus stop, once again.

“Long time no see stranger,” You smirked.

He smiled at you warmly, but there was a look in his eyes that squashed your joking mood. He just dryly laughed and stared into your eyes for a good while. Those loving brown orbs of his were full of sincerity and anguish. You nodded slowly, a suffocating ache in your chest made itself present.

“It’s God… isn’t it?” You choked, the lump in your throat had become overwhelming.

“Yeah…” He sighed, taking hold of one of your hands in his.

You just let out a small laugh and smiled, tears welling into your eyes, making it hard to see him, “You know, the worst thing is that I fucking love you. I- I love you.”

“Angel—”

“No, no. Let’s not. Let’s just leave that out there for a moment okay?” You interrupted, the tears breaking free from your eyes to roll down your red cheeks, “I love you.”

He squeezed your hand, a warmth that provided little comfort to you now, before he whispered, “It’ll pass”

You bit at your lip, trying to prevent yourself from having a breakdown at the bus stop. So you plastered on a fake smile, choked back your tears, and nodded. You stayed like that, with your hand in his, for what felt like a fucking eternity, until he got up.

As he began to walk away he paused, turning to you one last time, confirming what you already knew, “I love you too.”

Fucking hell...

And then he was gone. Your bus was there, magically, and he was gone. Perhaps in another life, he wouldn't be. But this was the one you had.

a/n: This is my first time writing smut and posting it somewhere. So I am very open to feedback and constructive criticism. If you enjoyed please consider reblogging, it lets me know that I should continue writing <3

Masterlist

[fallstaticexit]

The Art of Being Seen - a Nancy Landgraab story

୧‿̩͙ ˖︵ ꕀ⠀ ♱⠀ ꕀ ︵˖ ‿̩͙୨

𝔓𝔞𝔯𝔱 𝔒𝔫𝔢 - 𝔜𝔬𝔲𝔱𝔥

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AN / Transcript under the cut

AN: Nancy's story will consist of 3 parts: Part One- Youth | Part Two - Uni | Part Three - Wife Three pivotal moments in Nancy’s life that shaped the Nancy we know today.

As mentioned in the prologue, this story may contain mature and possibly even uncomfy themes and all posts will have their corresponding trigger warners in the post as well as the tags. Trigger Warnings are: Homophobia / Religious Trauma / Death via Car Accident/ Drugs / Alcohol / Infidelity / Sex & Nudity

Also, I have experienced CAS burnout lately, so I aged down most of the townies to teens lol. I figured this version of Cassandra Goth can be the AU version since I’ve already wrote Bella and Morti Goth into my Briar legacy, which this story is apart of that universe.

Transcript:

Cassie: This is Blair Hall, the senior girls’ dorm, and if you ask me, it’s the best one. We have our own private library. Down there is the rec room; we’re not allowed to have the boys over unless it’s with a chaperone.

Cassie: We’re also the closest to the church, which is great for when we have group sessions before service. You won’t have to rush and scarf down breakfast, plus you can sleep in a little!

Nancy: [sarcastically] Gee, how’d I get so lucky?

Cassie: Sister Agnes always says, It’s not luck—it’s a blessing! Vacancies are hard to come by. My old roomie withdrew; she had a really hard time fitting in with the other girls. They can be... kind of intense.

Dina: Oh, look. Another pretty blonde rich girl. Like those aren’t a dime a dozen here.

Nina: [scoffs] Here we go...

Dina: I am not joking. I better not catch her ass around Don. The last hoochie he was tonguing down was also a skinny, flat-chested, blonde bimbo.

Vanessa: You need to put his weenie in a cage instead of fighting every girl that breathes the same air as him.

Dina: Well, he wouldn’t be tempted if these floozies would stay away from my man!

Vanessa: I guess dyeing your hair blonde isn’t working for you, huh?

Dina: Oh, shut it, VV. You’re just jealous he isn’t into redheads.

Nina: Hmm, I thought he was into redheads though.

Dina: Ugh, as if!

Cassie: You can pretty much decorate your space however you want. Just nothing that’s on the prohibited list. There’s a room check every night before curfew, and-

Nancy: What do you know about that redhead on the balcony?

Cassie: Dina?

Nancy: No, she said her name was Vanessa. I ran into her this morning but she didn’t mention her last name.

Cassie: Oh, yeah! VV. Vanessa Villareal. She’s- eh, one of the mean girls. I try to stay out their way. Probably best you do the same.

Nancy: [softly to herself] Villareal. So, she’s old money, too.

Cassie: Her family built the school. Guess that’s why she feels like she can do whatever she wants- eh, don’t tell anyone I said that!

Cassie: But, erm, you’re welcome to hang out with me and my friends during rec and lunch and stuff. I know how tough it can, being the new girl and all.

Nancy: Yeah? ...thanks- Cassie, was it?

Cassie: You’ll totally like my friends. They’re the coolest people on Earth.

Cassie: Definitely better than some people. You can tell who goes here because of their faith and who was forced here because of their lack of it.

Cassie: Hey guys! This is Nancy, she’s my new roomie.

Bob: No way, they filled Angela’s spot already? Money talks. I’m Bob, or Bobby, and this cool, tall drink of water is Geoffrey. Welcome to Paradise.

Bob: [whispers] Geoffrey! Say something to the pretty girl!

Geoffrey: [voice cracks] W-we’ve um, met already.

Geoffrey: Our dad’s are friends. I just haven’t seen her since we were 10 years old. She looks so... different.

Bob: Oh, I seeee. First love? Your ears are beet red, my man.

Bob: Take a seat, newbie! Are you into D&D, perchance?

Nancy: I have no idea what that is.

Bob: Oh, ho ho! You’re in for a treat, m’lady. I’ll catch you up from the beginning of our campaign.

Vanessa: You look so bored. Want to get out of here, new girl?

Vanessa: Don’t worry, I’ll return you back to your nerds in one piece.

Cassie: [grumbles] Um, hello, we’re sitting right here?

Nancy: Go where, exactly? This place is in the middle of nowhere.

Vanessa: Guess you’ll have to come and find out.

Nancy VO: [I learned then, that I would follow her anywhere]

Dina: There she goes, taking in another stray.

Nancy VO: [All she had to do was take my hand]

[elmaxlys]

i love everyone that took the time to vote on this. smoochies.

[doctorbitchcrxft]

A Very Supernatural Christmas | Supernatural Series Rewrite | Dean Winchester x Fem!Reader

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Fem!Reader

Warnings: discussions of childhood trauma lol, discussions of religious trauma lololol, canon violence, canon gore, talking about Dean's deal sad face

Word Count: 7223

A/N: One of my favorite episodes of all time ever. I am so excited to share this with you guys. Thank you, thank you, thank you for all of the support. I love y’all!

Mobile Supernatural Series Rewrite Masterlist

Supernatural Series Rewrite Masterlist

Supernatural Series Rewrite Playlist

In the middle of nowhere in Michigan, you and Dean posed as FBI agents investigating a holly jolly potential case. 

“Um, my daughter and I were in our beds,” the woman before you shakily explained.

“Mike was downstairs decorating the tree. I heard a thump on the roof, and then, I heard Mike scream. And now I’m talking to the FBI.”

“And you didn't see any of it?” Dean questioned. 

She shook her head tearfully. “No, he was… he was just gone.”

“The doors were locked? There was no forced entry?” you asked. 

“That’s right,” she replied. 

“Does anybody else have a key?” you suggested. 

“My parents.”

“Where do they live?”

“Florida.”

Sam then walked out of the house. “ Thanks for letting me have a look around, Mrs. Walsh. I think we, uh, got just about everything we need. We’re all set.”

“We’ll be in touch,” Dean told her. 

The three of you started down the steps. 

“Agents?” Mrs. Walsh called.

You turned to face her. 

“The police said my husband might have been kidnapped.”

“Could be,” Dean shrugged. 

“Then… why haven’t the kidnappers called? O-Or demanded a ransom? It’s three days till Christmas. What am I supposed to tell our daughter?” she began to cry.

“We’re very sorry,” you said empathetically. You watched the distressed woman turn to go back inside, and the heavy Christmas wreath on the door clunked against the door when she shut it. 

“Find anything?” Dean asked Sam as the three of you walked away from the house. 

Sam sighed. “Stocking, mistletoe… this.” He took something out of his pocket and dropped it into Dean’s hand. 

You inspected it. “A tooth?” you asked upon seeing the bloody bone. 

“Where was this?” Dean looked up at Sam and away from the tooth. 

“In the chimney,” Sam replied. 

“Chimney? No way a man fits up a chimney. It’s too narrow,” Dean grimaced. 

“At least, not in one piece,” you winced. 

“Alright, so, if dad went up the chimney—”

“We need to find out what dragged him up there,” Sam finished. 

***

Christmas had never been a completely happy time for you. Growing up Catholic, there was always a hint of, perhaps, fear that came with the holiday. The idea that Christ was supposed to come again, and his second coming would mean the end of the world was unsettling to you, even as an incredibly pious child. 

Working jobs around the holidays always managed to recreate that unsettled feeling for you. Something so gruesome like the case you were dealing with now around such a happy holiday always made you nostalgic for a childhood you never had: an innocent one. 

Around your motel room, Sam was pinning pictures of demons up while you researched on your laptop. The door opened, and Dean came inside. 

“So, was I right? Is it the serial-killing chimney sweep?” Dean smirked, carrying a brown paper bag.

Sam mirrored Dean’s expression. “Yep. It's, uh, it’s actually Dick Van Dyke.”

Dean looked confused, but you snickered. 

“Who?” Dean asked. 

“Dude,” you said, “Mary Poppins?”

“Who’s that?” 

“Oh, god, you’re hopeless,” you sighed, shaking your head.

“Well, it turns out that Walsh is the second guy in town grabbed out of his house this month,” Dean explained. 

“The other guy get dragged up the chimney, too?” Sam asked. 

“Don’t know. Witnesses said they heard a thump on the roof,” Dean shrugged. “So, what the hell do you think we're dealing with?”

“Actually, I have an idea,” Sam replied. “Uh, it's gonna sound crazy.”

“What could you possibly say that sounds crazy to me?” Dean deadpanned. 

“How ‘bout evil Santa,” you smirked.

Dean considered a moment before nodding. “Yeah, that’s crazy.”

“Yeah… I mean, I’m just saying that there’s some version of the anti-Claus in every culture,” Sam said while he showed Dean drawings of the creature. “You got Belsnickel, Krampus, Black Peter. Whatever you want to call it, there’s all sorts of lore.”

“Saying what?” Dean looked incredulous. 

“Saying, back in the day, Santa’s brother went rogue and now he shows up around Christmas time, but instead of bringing presents, he punishes the wicked.”

“By hauling their ass up chimneys?” Dean snorted. “So, this is your theory, huh? Santa’s shady brother?”

Sam shrugged. “Well, ah, I’m just saying, that’s what the lore says.”

“Santa doesn’t have a brother. There is no Santa.”

“Yeah, I know. You’re the one who told me that in the first place, remember,” Sam sassed at his brother. 

Dean looked down, seeming to feel a little guilty. 

Finally, Sam sighed. “Yeah, you know what, I could be wrong. I gotta be wrong.”

Dean shrugged. “Maybe, maybe not.”

You and Sam were confused. 

“I did a little digging. Turns out both victims visited the same place before they got snatched,” Dean explained. 

“Where?” Sam asked. 

***

The place Dean was referring to was a cutesy little craft fair called “Santa’s Village.” Children played and people bustled around wearing Christmas costumes. 

“It does kind of lend credence to the theory, don’t it?” Dean remarked, looking around himself. 

“Yeah, but anti-Claus? Couldn’t be,” Sam replied. 

“It’s a Christmas miracle. Hey, speaking of, we should have one this year,” Dean suggested casually. 

You remained quiet, feeling almost sorrowful at his statement given he’d discussed bringing this up to Sam with you.  

“Have one what?”

“A Christmas.”

Sam scoffed. “No, thanks.”

“Aw, c’mon, Sam,” you said, swallowing your emotions. 

“Yeah, we’ll get a tree, a little Boston market, just like when we were little,” Dean continued. 

“Dean, those weren’t exactly Hallmark memories for me, you know,” Sam reminded his brother. 

“What are you talking about? We had some great Christmases.”

“Whose childhood are you talking about?”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Oh, come on, Sam.”

“No! Just… no.”

You and Dean were both surprised by Sam’s petulance. “Alright, Grinch,” Dean snarked. He walked ahead, and you remained by his side. 

“What’s Sam talking about?” you asked quietly. 

“Ah, I don’t know,” he shrugged. “I mean, Dad was out all the time, and Sammy and I fought… a lot… as kids, but I didn’t think it’d scar him.” 

You turned back to Sam who still seemed lost in thought. 

“Hey, Scrooge,” you called, which seemed to shake the younger brother out of his own head, “you comin’?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m with you.” He caught back up to you and Dean. 

“What are we looking for, again?” Dean asked him. 

“Um…” Sam trailed off, “lore says that the anti-Claus will walk with a limp and smell like sweets.”

“Great. So we’re looking for a pimp Santa,” Dean said dryly. “Why the sweets?” 

“Think about it, Dee,” you replied. “If you smell like candy, the kids will come closer. Which is wrong on just… so many levels.”

Sam chuckled. 

“How does this thing know who’s been naughty and who’s been nice?” Dean questioned. 

Sam shook his head. “I don’t know.”

Dean turned toward a man dressed as Santa taking pictures with a child whose mother stood close by. “Maybe we do,” he noted.

***

Later that night, you and the Winchesters were just about to confront and kill who you thought was your Krampus. Fortunately for the Santa actor from earlier in the day, you realized the man was just a lonely old creep. 

After an uncomfortable rendition of “Silent Night” that Dean led you and Sam in singing in an attempt to explain why you were in the creepy Santa’s house, you slumped down in the backseat of the Impala.

“Well, back to square one, I guess,” you sighed. “Also, Dean, couldn’t you have picked a song you actually knew the words to?”

“Hey, I did know the words,” he replied, beginning to drive off. 

“Yeah, all two of ‘em,” Sam chimed in. 

You giggled. “Hey, Sam?” you asked. 

“Hm?”

“Why do you hate Christmas so much?”

The younger brother sighed. “(Y/N)...”

Dean took the opportunity to jump into the conversation. “I mean, I admit it. Y’know, we had a few bumpy holidays when we were kids.”

“ ‘Bumpy’?” Sam scoffed. 

“That was then. We’ll do it right this year,” Dean tried. 

“Look, Dean. If you and (Y/N) want to have Christmas, knock yourselves out. Just don’t involve me.” Sam shifted in his seat to face the dark night that had fallen outside of the car. 

Dean grumbled, “Oh, yeah, that’d be great. Me and (Y/N) making cranberry molds.”

You knew Dean wasn’t actually opposed to just enjoying Christmas with you, but he wanted to involve his brother.

***

“Wanna smoke?” you asked Dean. 

Sam was still wide awake in his bed, and you and Dean had some things to talk about without the younger Winchester present. 

He nodded and followed you out of the room. 

Despite the lack of snow on the ground, you were bundled in one of Dean’s hoodies to protect you from the slight chill in the air.

“I think you’re turnin’ me into a fiend,” Dean commented as you lit your joint. 

“Well, I’d rather you smoke a plant than drown yourself in booze,” you replied, a slight tremble in your voice from the cold. 

“I meant to tell you earlier,” Dean began, taking the joint from you and looking at the ground, “you’ve got a real beautiful voice.”

You laughed softly and hopped up on the trunk of the Impala. “You’re only sayin’ that ‘cause you and Sam are terrible.”

“I’m serious,” he said, blowing the smoke at you playfully. 

You scrunched up your nose and shut your eyes to avoid the puff. When you reopened them, you found Dean staring at you with that confusing expression again. After all this time, you still couldn’t place what that look meant. 

“What?” you asked, a smile tugging at your lips. 

He shook his head, still admiring you and smirking. “Nothin’.”

“So, do you want me to talk to Sam? About Christmas?” Dean’s intense stare was making you nervous, and you needed to break it up with the conversation you initially wanted to have with him. 

“Nah,” Dean shrugged. “I’m sure he’ll come around.”

You opened your arms to him and gestured for him to come lean against you. He turned his back to the Impala, and you wrapped your arms around him. You kissed his shoulder before placing your chin on top of it. The two of you just sat like that in silence in the cold, enjoying each other’s company while getting lost in thought. 

“What was your Christmas like? As a kid, I mean?” Dean asked, breaking the silence. 

You picked your chin up off his shoulder and stuck your hands in your pockets. “Oh, gosh,” you sighed. “It was always a little less ‘candy canes and Rudolph’ and a little more ‘fear and condemnation’.”

Dean jumped up on the trunk next to you and turned, clearly a little surprised by your answer. “What do you mean?”

You shrugged. “Christmas always kinda felt like a threat to me. Y’know, ‘Jesus is gonna come again’ and all that.”

“That’s… weirdly dirty,” Dean commented. 

You gently nudged his shoulder with yours. “Perv. Meaning Jesus is gonna come back to life and, like… destroy the planet. My mom always said Christmas was a reminder that this is not our true home.”

“This, as in, earth?” he asked, genuine intrigue in his eyes. 

You nodded. “And we’re all gonna end up being judged. And if you don’t believe or follow the commandments, you’re sentenced to Hell.”

“Jesus,” Dean grimaced. “That’s a little dark to be telling a kid.”

“Tell me about it,” you smirked. “But… if that’s the truth, at least we know I’ll be seeing you again.” You turned to him, smiling a little lopsidedly.

He tried to return your smile, but his heart wasn’t in it. “I’m scared, (Y/N).” 

You nodded. “I know. Do you wanna talk about it?”

He shook his head. 

You took a moment to let his mind recover from his anxieties. “What were your Christmases like growing up? You said they were good, but you never told me why they were good.”

“Uh, let’s see,” Dean began, reflecting on something in his memory. “There was this one time when Dad was supposed to make it back from a hunting trip. He’d promised Sammy he’d be home for Christmas. But, uh, Dad never showed.”

You looked at him sadly. 

Dean’s eyes remained focused on his hands in his lap. “I was maybe twelve. Sammy was eight. And on Christmas Eve, while he was asleep, I went out and found this really nice house.”

“You did not!” you scolded playfully, knowing exactly where he was going with this. 

“I did,” Dean chuckled. “Only, I didn’t know they were chick presents. Sam was pissed when he got a Barbie instead of the green army men he’d been asking for.”

“You did the best you could,” you reminded him.

Dean shrugged. “And, uh, since he never made it back, Sam gave me the present he was planning on giving to Dad.” He thumbed the amulet around his neck and showed it to you. 

“That’s so sweet,” you smiled, a tinge of nostalgic sadness behind your smile. “My little brother and I always gave each other what we could. Normally, it was just stupid little things from the gas stations around or something.” You smiled, remembering your brother fondly. “When he was seven, Steven gave me a little bracelet. He stole it out of a girl’s backpack pocket when she was waiting for her parents to finish booking a room in the motel lobby. He was a great pickpocket; you guys would’ve gotten along great.”

Dean chuckled. 

“But anyway, uh, it was a little friendship bracelet. I was so upset when I grew out of it,” you said. “Biggest regret of my life is burning it with his body.”

Dean nodded somberly. “Why’d you do it?”

You shrugged. “I kept telling myself, ‘He doesn’t live in the stuff. Keeping his stuff doesn’t keep him alive.’ And I’d grown out of it, so I figured, I’d never have any use for it again. But, uh, I was an angry teenager. I was so angry at him for so long after he killed himself. I definitely threw the bracelet in the fire in a moment of anger.”

Dean just stared at you, and once again, you couldn’t read his expression. 

“You keep giving me that look,” you said, staring deeply into his beautiful eyes. 

“What look?” he asked. Dean clearly knew what you were talking about, as his face hadn’t really changed from the look in question; there was simply a slight tease behind his eyes on top of it. 

“That look,” you said, giggling. “It frustrates me so much ‘cause it’s, like, the only facial expression on the planet I can’t read.” “Then, I’m definitely not telling you what it means now,” Dean taunted, still smirking. 

You rolled your eyes and hopped off the car. Dean grabbed your arm and spun you back around to face him, putting you back on the trunk and standing between your legs. He kissed you deeply, hands eagerly trying to pull you closer despite there being no more room between the two of you. 

“Dean,” you said between kisses. “Dean—”

“What?” Dean pulled back just long enough to ask you and then returned to kissing you. 

“We have to go to bed now, c’mon,” you replied. 

“Aw, c’mon, not yet,” Dean groaned, trailing his lips down your neck. 

You sighed shakily at the feeling of his soft lips against the sensitive skin, and your eyes closed in content. “C’mon,” you whined. “I’m freezing.”

“Fine,” he groaned. 

***

The next day, another poor soul had gone missing. According to the son of the man who was abducted, Santa had dragged his father up the chimney. As you left the house, Sam noticed a wreath on the hearth he’d felt noteworthy enough to ask the grieving wife about. 

“Wreaths, huh?” Dean taunted, sauntering away from the woman’s house. “Sure you didn’t want to ask her about her shoes? I saw some nice handbags in the foyer.”

“We’ve seen that wreath before, Dean,” Sam said, ignoring his brother’s flippance.

“Where?” you and Dean asked in unison. 

“The Walshes’. Yesterday.”

Dean eyed Sam curiously. “I know. I was just testing you.”

You rolled your eyes, ducking down into the Impala. 

***

“I’m an idiot,” you groaned, dropping your head back.

Sam sat up from behind his laptop. “What, why?”

Dean turned to you from his spot on your shared bed as well. 

“That smell,” you said. “Guys, we’re not dealing with Krampus.” You laughed at your own stupidity. “I should’ve known it from the wreath on the door at the Walshes’ house!”

“(Y/N), would you cut to the chase?” Dean asked dryly. 

“It’s meadowsweet,” you revealed. 

Dean whistled mockingly. “Wow! Amazing. What the hell is meadowsweet?”

“It’s pretty rare, and it’s probably the most powerful plant in pagan lore,” Sam replied. 

“Pagan lore?”

“Yeah,” you nodded. “Meadowsweet’s for human sacrifice. It’s kinda like chum for the gods. The gods are drawn to it, and they’d stop by and snack on the nearest human.”

“Why would somebody be using that for Christmas wreaths?” Dean wondered. 

“Almost every Christmas tradition is pagan, Dee,” you replied. 

“Okay, Ms. Catholic, I thought it was Jesus’s birthday,” Dean snarked, a smile playing on his lips.

“No, uh, I had to unlearn that when I left the Church. Jesus’s birthday was probably in the fall. Yule was the winter solstice festival the church stole and renamed ‘Christmas.’ ‘Cause, y’know, eurocentrism. Hooray,” you explained. 

Sam added, “The Yule log, the tree, even Santa’s red suit; that’s all remnants of pagan worship.”

“How do you know that? What are you two freaks gonna tell me next? Easter bunny’s Jewish?” Dean remarked. 

Both of you rolled your eyes. 

“So, you really think we’re gonna be dealing with a pagan god?” The older brother quirked a brow. 

“Yeah, probably Hold Nickar, god of the winter solstice,” Sam noted, crossing his arms over his chest. 

Dean huffed, “And all these Martha Stewart wannabes, buying these fancy wreaths…” 

“Yeah, it’s pretty much like putting a neon sign on your front door saying ‘Come kill us’.”

Dean deadpanned, “Great.”

“Wait, Hold Nickar makes sense, though,” you chimed in, something dawning on you. “Guess what he gives you in return?”

“Lap dances, hopefully,” Dean smirked. 

You gave him a look. “Mild weather.”

Dean looked out of the window. “Like no snow in the middle of December in the middle of Michigan.”

“For instance,” shrugged Sam. 

“Do we know how to kill it yet?” Dean asked. 

“Have you met me? That’s all I’ve been looking for the past hour.”

“While you work on that—” Sam turned to his brother, “we got to figure out where they’re selling those wreaths.”

“You think they’re selling them on purpose?” Dean questioned, sitting up on his bed.

“Feeding the victims to this thing?”

Sam sighed. “Let’s find out.”

“You keep workin’ your pagan-god-killin’ angle, (Y/N),” Dean told you, moving over to you. “Sam and I ’ll be back soon.” He gave you a quick kiss on your forehead, and your cheeks heated at the brief contact.

***

“How ‘re you supposed to kill a god, (Y/N)?” Bobby droned through the phone.

“I don’t know, dude, that’s what I’m asking you,” you sighed. “I mean, I’ve been pouring through this shit online for hours. I’m ready to pull my fucking hair out.”

“Lemme make a few calls, kid, and I’ll see what I can do,” Bobby said. 

“Thanks, Bobby. You’re the best.” You sat back in your chair and clicked your phone off. 

Almost as if on cue, Dean burst through the door with Sam trailing behind him.

“Hey, sweetheart,” the older one drawled. “Got somethin’ for me?”

“I wish. Just sent Bobby lookin’,” you replied. “Got anything for me?”

“Actually, yeah,” Dean said. “That store we went to? Turns out, lady named Madge Carrigan gave ‘em to the store for free. How much do you think a meadowsweet wreath would cost?” 

“A couple hundred dollars, at least,” Sam answered while you clacked away at your computer looking for Madge Carrigan’s home address. 

“Sounds pretty suspicious,” you said absentmindedly. 

“Remember that wreath Dad brought home that one year?” Dean laughed while he took his jacket off.

“You mean, the one he stole from, like, a liquor store?” Sam responded, an unimpressed expression crossing his features. 

“Yeah, it was a bunch of empty beer cans. That thing was great. I bet if I looked around hard enough, I could probably find one just like it.” He sat on the bed closest to you and went to lean over and look at your computer. 

Despite the fact that you were still on the phone, Sam asked Dean, “Alright, dude… What’s going on with you?”

You stopped typing, and both you and Dean sat up to face Sam. 

“I mean, since when are you Bing Crosby all of a sudden?” continued the brunet. “Why do you want Christmas so bad?”

“Why are you so against it?” Dean challenged. “I mean, were your childhood memories that traumatic?”

Sam’s voice became heavy with emotion. “No, that has nothing to do with it. I-I mean, I-I just… I don’t get it. You haven’t talked about Christmas in years.”

“Well, yeah.” Dean’s voice had less of an edge. “This is my last year.”

Sam huffed out a quick breath. “I know. That’s why I can’t.”

“What do you mean?” 

“I mean, I can’t just sit around, drinking eggnog, pretending everything’s okay, when I know next Christmas, you’ll be dead.” The near-casualness Sam spoke about Dean’s almost-five-month-out deadline with made your breath catch in your throat. “I just can’t,” Sam finished, voice almost too quiet for you to hear. 

The three of you went silent. To distract yourself from the heaviness in the room, you went back to typing on your laptop to find Madge Carrigan’s address and any information on her that suggested she really was your bad guy. 

You could feel Dean staring at you, though, and you knew he needed you at that moment. So you shut your laptop and got into bed with him. He laid against your chest, and you kept your arms around him tightly. Soon, you drifted off to a dreamless sleep. 

***

The next day, you and Dean headed to the Carrigan’s home. Sam stayed behind to research and see if you had missed anything in your search the night before. The house you arrived at was decorated with cutesy Christmas decorations and screamed the 1950s “American dream.”

“This is where Mrs. Wreath lives, huh?” Dean remarked, looking around. “Can’t you just feel the evil pagan vibe?” He rapped his knuckles against the door. 

A blonde, middle-aged woman in a sweater opened it. “Yes?” she answered sweetly. 

“Please tell me you’re the Madge Carrigan who makes the meadowsweet wreaths,” Dean said. 

“Why, yes I am,” she smiled widely. 

“Ha! Bingo.” Dean turned to you with a grin. 

“We just moved into the neighborhood,” you lied, gesturing between yourself and Dean, “and we were mingling with the Sylars the other day. They had one of your beautiful wreaths on their fireplace. He and I were immediately in love with it.”

“You were? Well, isn't that meadowsweet just the finest-smelling thing you ever smelled?” Mrs. Carrigan’s smile had not lessened since she opened the front door; it was creeping you out. 

“It is; it sure is,” you replied. “But the problem is that all your wreaths had sold out before we got the chance to buy one.”

“Oh, fudge!” she pouted. 

“You wouldn’t have another one that we could buy from you, would you?” Dean questioned.

“Oh, no, I’m afraid those were the only ones I had for this season.”

“Aww…” you whined, deflating. 

“Tell me something, why did you decide to make them out of meadowsweet?” your partner asked. 

A man who you assumed was Mr. Carrigan came down the staircase behind the woman as she answered, “Why, the smell, of course! I don’t think I’ve ever smelled anything finer.”

‘She… already said that,’ you thought, but you kept the smile plastered on your face.

“What's going on, honey?” Mr. Carrigan asked his wife. You noticed his outfit of choice was a cardigan and slacks, and he held an old-fashioned pipe. The two reminded you very much of “Leave it to Beaver.”

“Well, just this nice couple asking about my wreaths, dear.”

“Oh, the wreaths are fine,” Mr. Carrigan affirmed. “Fine wreaths. Oh, care for some peanut brittle?” He held out a tin, and Dean took a piece. 

You gave him a harsh glare, preventing him from raising the brittle to his lips. Politely, you bid the couple goodbye and kept Dean from snacking while he started to drive.

As soon as you got out of the line of the Carrigans’ sights, you took the peanut brittle and chucked it out of the window. 

“What was that for? I’m hungry,” Dean whined. 

“Evil pagans, Dean,” you reminded him. “I don’t want you to get magical food poisoning.” You kissed his cheek and sat back in your chair.

He considered for a moment but finally seemed to admit defeat when he hung his head, a small smile and a blush rising to his cheeks. 

***

That night, you and the Winchesters headed back to the Carrigan’s home. “ ‘O Come All Ye Faithful” played from somewhere down the street, and the soft glow of Christmas lights on strings shining through the dark night almost made you feel like a child again; falling asleep in the back of your family’s station wagon while your mother hummed along to the Christmas tunes on the radio. 

An evergreen stake was hidden in your jacket’s inside pocket; Bobby was becoming your favorite person with his seemingly endless amounts of contacts and information. Sam had informed you and his brother that the last place the Carrigans had lived, three people disappeared, too. 

You followed Dean into the living room of the dark home after he picked the lock. He turned around and whispered, “See? Plastic.” He gestured to the couch and other furniture  still covered in sheets of it.

You headed down the hallway where ornaments and snow globes rested on shelves on the wall. You made your way into the kitchen where Sam and Dean were looking at a lock on the basement door. Dean picked it, and you followed him down the stairs. You did your best to avoid making the stairs creak as you did so. 

You shined your flashlight around and realized the basement was less of a storage room and more of Hannibal Lector’s playroom; a bowl of blood and bone sat at the end of a bloodstained wooden table just big enough to fit a human on that had shackles outfitted to each of its corners. You backed up along the wall, only to bump into something that moved. You yelped in surprise and wheeled around to see a leather bag wriggling around, as if a person was inside it. 

Suddenly, you felt a hand on the back of your shirt, lifting you up, and you screamed. 

“(Y/N)!” Dean yelled. 

You wriggled and kicked with all your might, but Mr. Carrigan was too strong. He turned you around and held you to the wall by your throat, and you clawed at his hand to get away from him. However, slowly losing air, you were unsure whether the best strategy was to fight or to conserve your oxygen. 

“Gosh, I wish you kids hadn’t come down here,” Madge smiled sweetly.

***

Slowly, your mind began to awaken. Your limbs and head felt heavy, and the light seeping in through your closed eyes felt painful. You blinked a few times, soon able to fully open your eyes and look around. 

You jerked a little in your seat but soon realized your hands were bound to the chair. You turned your head to the left to see Dean tied up shoulders slumped, and on the right, Sam. You supposed the two boys were tied back to back and your chair was tied sort of in between the two. However, you couldn’t see anything going on behind you. 

“Dean? You okay?” you asked frantically when you heard him groan. 

“Yeah, I think so,” he grumbled. 

“How ‘bout you, Sam?” 

Sam just hummed in response. “So, I guess we’re dealing with Mr. and Mrs. God. Nice to know.”

“Yeah,” Dean murmured, breathing deeply. 

You heard approaching footsteps coming from behind you. 

“Ooh, and here we thought you two lazybones were gonna sleep straight through all the fun stuff,” you heard Madge giggle. 

“Miss all this? Nah, we’re partiers,” Dean snarked. 

You heard Mr. Carrigan take a puff from his pipe. “Isn’t he a kick in the pants, honey? You’re hunters, is what you are.”

“And you’re pagan gods. So, why don't we just call it even, and go our separate ways?” the older brother suggested. 

“What, so you can bring more hunters and kill us?” Madge laughed, voice still sugary sweet. “I don’t think so.”

“Maybe you should have thought about that before you went snacking on humans, now, huh?” Sam shot back.

“Oh now, don’t get all wet,” Mr. Carrigan scolded gently. 

“Oh, why, we used to take over a hundred tributes a year and that’s a fact.” You turned to the left to see Madge put a napkin on Dean’s lap. “Now what do we take?” She did the same to you. “What, two? Three?” And then did the same to Sam.

“Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew here make six.” Mr. Carrigan took another drag from his pipe. Funnily enough, you hadn’t seen him light the thing once yet. 

“Now, that’s not so bad, is it?” Madge crooned. 

“Well, you say it like that,” Dean sassed, “I guess you guys are the Cunninghams.”

“You, mister, better show us a little respect,” Madge instructed, and you could see her leaning down to try and intimidate Dean.

“Or what?” you remarked, trying to crane your neck around to look at the Carrigans. “You gonna eat us?”

“Not so fast,” Mr. Carrigan responded. “There’s rituals to be followed first.”

You turned to Madge, who looked excited. “Oh, we’re just sticklers for ritual.”

“And you know what kicks off the whole shebang?” Mr. Carrigan taunted, walking around in front of you.

“Let me guess.” The glare you delivered was challenging. “Meadowsweet.”

Mr. Carrigan nodded. 

“Oh shucks,” you mockingly pouted, “you’re all out of wreaths. I guess we’ll just have to cancel the sacrifice, huh?”

“Oh, don’t be such a gloomy Gus.” You could hear Madge rustling around as she spoke. Suddenly, a wreath was put around your neck. You attempted to bite Mrs. Carrigan’s fingers to no avail, and she just tapped your nose in response. “There. Oh, don’t they just look darling?

Mr. Carrigan smacked his lips. “Good enough to eat. Alrighty-roo. Step number two.” You heard the sound of a knife being released from its sheath. 

Sam started mumbling, “No, no—” to which you and Dean cried his name. 

“D-Don’t!” Sam wailed. 

“Leave him alone, you son of a bitch!” Dean shouted. 

You struggled even harder against your binds.

“Hear how they talk to us?” Mr. Carrigan tsked. “To gods? Listen, pal, back in the day, we were worshiped by millions.”

Mr. Carrigan walked around to you holding the bowl, and you started to panic just a little. 

“Times have changed!” Dean growled. 

“Tell me about it. All of a sudden, this Jesus character is the hot new thing in town. All of a sudden, our– our altars are being burned down, and we’re being hunted down like common monsters.” Mr. Carrigan walked back behind what you assumed was the kitchen counter.

“But did we say a peep? Oh ho ho, no, no, no, we did not. Two millennia,” Madge continued for her husband. “We kept a low profile; we got jobs, a mortgage. Wh- What was that word, dear?”

“We assimilated.”

“Yeah, we assimilated. Why, we play bridge on Tuesday and Fridays.” The woman walked over to you holding the bowl with Sam’s blood in it. “We’re just like everybody else.”

“You’re not blending in as smooth as you think, lady,” Dean snarked. Madge ignored your partner’s comment. “This might pinch a bit, dear.” With that, she sliced into your arm deeply. 

“F-Fuck!” you screamed. 

“(Y/N)!” Dean yelled. “Get your hands off her!”

“Oh, my goodness me! Somebody owes a nickel to the swear jar. Oh, do you know what I say when I feel like swearing?” Madge waved the knife around in your face as you panted in pain. “ ‘Fudge’.”

“I’ll try to remember that,” you sassed. 

“Oh, god, you son of a bitch!” Dean howled, and you assumed Madge had cut him up, too. 

“Get away from him!” you yelled, creating brush burns on your arms from how hard you were pulling on your binds.

“You kids have no idea how lucky you are,” Mr. Carrigan said. “There was a time when kids came from miles around, just to be sitting where you are.” He came to a stop in front of you holding a pair of pliers.

“What do you think you’re doing with those?” you asked, chest heaving in panic. 

All he did was smile in response. 

“You fudging touch her again, and I’ll fudging kill you!” Dean growled. 

“Very good!” Madge praised just before you heard your love groan in pain again. 

You had no time to focus on Dean because Mr. Carrigan grabbed your hand. 

“No, no, don’t!” Sam begged from beside you. 

“Get off me!” you cried, and your cry soon turned into a scream as the god painfully pulled your index fingernail off. 

“Oh, we got a winner!” Mr. Carrigan exclaimed happily. He disappeared from your line of sight again, and you dropped your head back on your chair. Your finger and arm were throbbing, and you couldn’t help but cry. 

“I swear to god, (Y/N), I’ll fucking kill them,” you heard Dean mutter through the white hot pain roaring in your ears.

“What else, dear?” Madge cooed. 

“Well, let’s see. Uh, fingernails, blood. Oh! Sweet Peter on a popsicle stick,” the man laughed. “I forgot the tooth.”

“Oh, dear!”

“Merry Christmas, guys,” Dean said, out of breath. 

You turned your head to see Madge and Mr. Carrigan advancing on Dean. The man held the pliers up and grabbed Dean’s chin harshly. “Open wide… and say, ‘Aah’.”

Suddenly, the doorbell rang. 

“Somebody gonna get that?” Dean asked around the tool in his mouth. “You should get that.”

“Come on,” Mr. Carrigan finally said. 

You knew you had to act fast, and you started working the knife out of your sleeve as soon as the doors shut behind the Carrigans. Silently, all three of you got out of your binds. You hid with Dean behind one of the kitchen doors. 

“Now, where were we?” you heard Madge say. 

You pulled a drawer out to hold the door closed and trapped the Carrigans in the kitchen. Almost immediately, the couple was attempting to open them. 

You made your way over to Sam at the other end of the kitchen and leaned on the door beside him.

“What do we do now? The evergreen stakes are in the basement!” Dean whispered. 

“Well, we need more evergreen, Dean!” Sam replied. 

You looked over at the tree in the corner of the living room. “Guys. Bingo.”

Dean smirked excitedly. “Sam, help me get this.” He had his brother assist him in moving the large cabinet next to the door in front of it.

While the boys worked, you pushed the Christmas tree over and broke three large branches off it. You tossed one to both boys who caught them with ease. 

Gripping your stake tightly, you waited with bated breath as the house went silent. Suddenly, Mr. Carrigan tackled Dean to the ground. Madge grabbed your shoulder before you could help Dean and wheeled you around. “You little thing,” she chastised. “I loved that tree.”

You raised your stake, but she hit you hard and threw you back onto the plastic-covered couch. The woman stalked toward you, and you whacked her to the ground with the branches of your stake. You scrambled to your feet before she could recover and stabbed her through the chest with your stake.

“Madge!” Mr. Carrigan screamed just before Sam stabbed him with his own makeshift stake.

You moved to stand beside the two boys, chest heaving from the effort. “Merry Christmas, ya filthy animals,” you breathed out at the dead bodies at your feet. The two boys huffed out labored laughs before Dean slung his arm around your shoulder and began leading you out of the house. 

***

“How’d you keep Dean from finding this stuff?” Sam asked.

You pulled a few plastic bags out from under the bed you shared with the older Winchester. “He doesn’t look under here unless it’s for his shoes. I’ve been making sure they’re next to mine by the door every night,” you explained with a smile. You handed one of the bags to Sam. “It’s not much, but I found a crappy dollar store down the road. I was hoping you’d change your mind.”

Sam looked down sheepishly. “You do get why I was… hesitant, though, right?”

You stood up and nodded. “Absolutely, I do.”

He gave you a lopsided smile. 

“C’mon,” you said. “Oh! I almost forgot!”

“What?”

You stooped to pull out the little plastic Christmas tree from under Sam’s bed and held it up with a wide grin.

***

Dean returned almost an hour later holding a six pack. “What’s all this?” he asked, almost in a sort of daze as he looked around the decorated room.

You continued to busy yourself with making eggnog while the brothers talked.

“What do you think it is? It’s– it’s Christmas,” Sam replied.

You walked over to Sam with a cup of your concoction.

“What made you change your mind?” Dean asked him.

“Oh, thanks,” Sam told you without answering his brother.

“Lemme know if it needs more of a kick,” you said. 

Sam took a swig and coughed. “Nope, all good.”

“Yeah?” you grinned.

Sam nodded and smiled. 

Dean came up behind you and slipped an arm around your waist, his hand landing just above your ass. He smirked down at you and took the other cup of eggnog from your left hand. He gulped almost half of it down, unfazed by the strong whiskey taste. 

“Well, uh, have a seat. Let’s do… Christmas stuff, or whatever,” Sam awkwardly said. 

You sat beside Dean on the couch next to the small Christmas tree decorated with car air fresheners. Sam pulled up a chair across from you. 

“All right, first things first,” Dean nodded, and you handed him the two packages he’d wrapped shoddily in brown paper bags. “Merry Christmas, Sam.” Dean handed him one of the two bags.

Sam smiled widely. “Where’d you get these?”

“Someplace special,” Dean smirked. At Sam’s deadpan expression, Dean continued, “The gas mart down the street. Open them up.”

“Well, great minds think alike, Dean.” Sam brought out two packages wrapped in newspaper. He gave the first to Dean. 

“Really?” Dean asked, eyes shining with surprise. 

You left Dean’s arms momentarily to reach under the couch and brought out two packages daintily wrapped in brown paper. You handed one to each of the boys, and they handed their gifts to you. “You didn’t have to get me anything, guys,” you said. 

“Yeah, we did. Shuddup,” Dean remarked, smirking. 

You relaxed back against him while Sam opened his gift from Dean. “Skin mags!” he laughed. “And shaving cream.”

“You like?” Dean questioned.

Sam smiled and nodded. He then opened the gift from you. “Oh, no way!” He held up the Staind cassette tapes you’d gotten for him to add to Dean’s collection for long drives; especially for when Dean was gone. 

You grinned widely as he admired the tapes. “Okay, Dee, your turn,” you told him. 

He chuckled and unwrapped Sam’s gift to him. “Look at this! Fuel for me and fuel for my baby.” He held up a candy bar and a bottle of oil, and you laughed. “These are awesome,” the older brother said. “Thanks, Sammy.” 

“Okay, now mine,” you beamed. 

“Oh, holy shit,” Dean breathed out while he opened the Bowie knife you’d gotten engraved for him. On the hilt of the blade were his initials, and the handle was engraved to look just like the side of his prized Taurus pistol. “Jesus, (Y/N), this is—” he couldn’t seem to find the words, instead opting to place a long kiss on the side of your forehead. 

At last, you opened yours. Sam gave you the second book in a series you’d been reading on Greek myths, for which you were eternally grateful, but Dean’s gift truly floored you.

“Where’d you get this?” you asked, fingering the small beaded bracelet Dean had given you. 

“Off some kid in the lobby,” he smirked.

Tears filled your eyes at how close of attention he paid to you and your stories. 

“There’s something else in there, too.” 

You looked up to Dean with complete admiration before rummaging around in the bag once more. You pulled out a ripped piece of paper from the notepad at a motel you’d recently stayed at with the words, “Redeem on Dean’s expiration date.” You looked up to him in confusion.

“It’s, uh, for this,” Dean revealed, thumbing the amulet around his neck. “I want you to have it.” 

You threw your arms around his neck and hugged him tightly. He returned your fierce embrace, pulling you impossibly closer across his lap. 

“Merry Christmas, Deano,” you whispered into his shoulder.

Dean pulled away from you and kissed your forehead. He then held his eggnog up to cheers you and Sam. “Merry Christmas, guys.”

The three of you sat in silence sipping your drinks before Sam broke the quiet. 

He looked quite sad as he began, “Hey, Dean, y—” but Sam cut himself off, sighing and shaking his head. “Do you feel like watching the game?” he finally asked.

Dean grinned in relief. “Absolutely.”

You clicked on the television before settling into Dean’s side. He lazily thumbed your hip and sighed in content. Sam turned his chair to face the television.

***

Later that night, long after Dean and Sam had gone to bed, you were still wide awake. Snow had begun softly falling outside the motel room window, and the moonlight reflected off the white blanket over the Impala beautifully. Wrapped in a blanket, you made your way over to your duffel bag. You hadn’t taken the bracelet that Dean gave you off, and you were still holding the piece of paper to “redeem” when Dean was gone. 

You took your wallet out and slipped the piece of paper into the see-through pocket where your ID sat, and there it would stay until this was all over. 

Series Rewrite Taglist: @polireader @brightlilith @atcamillanorrman @jrizzelle @insomnia-bookworm @procrastination20 @mrs-liebgott @djs8891 @tiggytaylor @staple-your-mouth @jesstherebel @rach5ive @strawberrykiwisdogog @bruhidkjustwannaread @mxltifxnd0m @sunshine-on-marz @big-ol-boat @mgchaser @capncrankle @chervbs @simpingdeadcharacters @nesnejwritings @stillhere197 @tearsforhan @take-it-on-the-run @iloveyou2mia @maxinehufflepuffprincess @ohgeehowdigethere @seninjakitey @berarenado @s0urw00lf @princessleahorgana @quarterhorse19 @isla-finke-blog @silverdoragon @karacaroldanvers @gayandfairycore @examishbookwyrm @star-yawnznn @real-sharena-h @fandomloverrr @metalmonki @onlyangel-444 @yu-winchester @benniwiththefanni @daisychaingirl @immagods @missmieux @yoongi-holland @littledebbieinabigworld

[skzms]

🌊 ೃ‧₊◜ sea may rise, sky may fall epilogue

pairing: lee know x f!reader x han jisung

summary: felix tells us about his life, the crew, the year han yujun was vanquished, and the year after that. about the crew, the captain, minho and jisung, and his own life

word count: 11.6k

warnings: homophobia; religious themes and trauma; one mention of suicial ideation and drinking as coping; references to prostitution (good and bad) and attempted assault (nothing too graphic); violence and murder, as always; ace!felix 🖤🩶🤍💜

author's note: and here we are <3 the official end of sea may rise, sky may fall. thank you thank you thank you again for all your love on this series, every single comment, message, DM. they all mean the world to me. my biggest project ever, my soul project, it means everything to me. so thank you for following along <3 and a very, very special thank you to @xenteaart for providing me a necessary second perspective on felix's story! also for her beautiful thoughts on Minho's kitties that I consider canon now oh and it's too long again hahahah I'm just a humble fanfic writer, let me write about them happy. love you all!

this series is 🔞, so minors, please DNI

series masterlist // skzms masterlist

< interlude - THE END

Hi, my name’s Lee Felix, and I’m part of a crew of privateers. Their cook, actually.

That’s how I would greet people if I ever met new people any more, but I rarely do. And if I do, our captain is usually the one who steps up, all confidence and sharp eyes, and does the talking for us. I don’t mind it, I’ve met enough people I wish I hadn’t for a lifetime. I’m happy with my crew, my friends.

Some of those friends of mine call me Yongbok. I’m not sure why. I mean, that’s also my name, but it was a random tidbit I told them once that I thought they would forget about; that whoever my mother was wrote the name on a piece of paper and attached it to the basket she abandoned me at the church gates in.

It’s not like I hate it, not at all. I don’t hate much any more. I used to hate a lot.

Though for the first few years of my life I didn’t. I was a happy child, obsessed with the flower garden behind the church in Nassau where I grew up, spending days and days outside, playing with the local kids, enjoying the attention of everyone who came to the church to talk to the vicar, who they told what a beautiful child I was, what a blessing from God I was.

I was happy because I thought I was loved. But when I turned 14, I realised that I wasn’t. That all I was for the vicar was a project. A project, a challenge sent by God, to turn the little godless, hopeless, bastard boy who was dropped on his doorstep into a devout follower who never asked any questions. But I wasn’t. Looking back, I knew I could never have been what he thought I needed to be. But the thing that tipped the scales against me was when I fell in love with the baker’s son when I was 14 and the vicar found him on his knees in front of me behind the tool shed.

He made me feel every single thing I was not with every crack of his palm across my face. The violence, his words – they all made me realise that, all this time, everything I had thought was fatherly affection was actually a maniacal striving to please a God that didn’t exist. I almost ended my life that night. But stubbornness kept me alive. Then and for the next years, when it felt like my fate was sealed.

Because I grew up all angles, except where it mattered. Big eyes and full lips. Lithe little body that everyone wanted. Blonde hair that I let grow out in an act of defiance until the vicar dragged me into his study and chopped it all off with his rusty scissors. But I just let it grow out again.

He finally threw me out when he caught a visiting pastor make eyes at me. Told me I was sent to him by satan. A succubus, a temptress, a vile being. He didn’t even let me get my things, chased me out of his house in the middle of the night. I ran until I couldn’t any more. I slept in the woods that night, shivering and hungry, but by the time morning came, I knew I was going to do whatever I had to do to survive.

That’s how I ended up at the Crimson Pearl. And really, in the beginning it wasn’t so bad. I knew people wanted me, saw my body as something desirable, and sex never meant much to me, anyway.

The working conditions and the pay weren’t bad, and when I figured out which clients would tip well and which should be avoided, I settled into a fine life there. I even found some friends amongst the other prostitutes, as much as it was possible when every day was a fight for survival. But most importantly, I had independence, a roof over my head and a warm meal every day, and I was far, far away from my vicious adopted father. Though I saw him once. At the brothel, slipping into the room with one of the other boys. I drank myself to sleep that night.

But then the owner of the Crimson Pearl was murdered in his home one night, and his successor was a drunk monster. He would come in late, when the sun had already long set, half drunk, ignoring our complaints of dirty sheets and lack of soap. He would get progressively drunker throughout the night until all he did was sit and complain and “sample the wares” to “ensure the quality of the merchandise” as he called it – as he slept with any of us that he wanted, as roughly and meanly as he wanted. Charging patrons for our services became less and less of a priority the later it got, especially when late at night, his friends came in, and he happily invited them to pick whichever one of us to have their way with, ruthlessly, mercilessly – and without paying, of course.

And mostly, we were able to stick together, get the worst patrons out, protect each other, but then the new owner realised what we were doing, and he became very angry. From then on, none of us were allowed to help each other any more. We were forced to sit there, to listen, and if any of us moved, he would hurt us. It was torture.

I somehow managed to avoid being picked by the worst of them for weeks, until I couldn’t, when one of his buddies locked eyes with me and the owner ordered me to take him to my room. I knew that this would be change everything - if I managed to survive. I was terrified, but God, did I put up a fight. But he was too strong. He hurt me and I panicked and I screamed, screamed for someone, anyone, even though I knew none of my friends would help, could help, and I prayed, prayed to the God I didn’t believe in any more to do something, anything–

And then the door flew open, and the captain rushed in like a vengeful angel, dragged the man off me as if he didn’t weigh a thing, shoved him into the wall so hard the whole house rattled. Someone dragged him out, took him away, but all I could see was the captain. She approached me carefully, dressed me quickly, but gently, wrapped me in her coat and led me outside.

Later, they told me it was Minho who had pinned the man to the wall before dragging him outside. Changbin, who held the owner at gunpoint while the others went through the other rooms. They gutted the Crimson Pearl, divided the scant takings between the other working boys and girls so they could run, put up somewhere for a while, while they found new jobs. They killed the owner and all of his friends who had been tormenting us for years in the alley behind the brothel, leaving them in the dirt to die. I felt sick with hatred and satisfaction and gratitude.

But I didn’t notice any of that at the time. I was dazed and in pain, shivering, the captain’s coat only helping so much in the cold breeze. And I remember the captain’s eyes, the kindest ones I’d ever seen, asking me all kinds of questions, like if I was okay, if I could walk, if I needed a doctor, if I had anywhere to go. I did my best to answer her through the shivers and the tears and the captain took one long look at me before she asked me the question that would change my life.

“Do you want to join us, Felix? Or at least stay with us for then night? We will keep you safe.”

And that’s all it took, then, for me to say yes. But to be honest, I would’ve said yes to anyone in that moment, if it meant escaping the hopelessness of my life.

To her credit, she asked me again the next night, when she called me to her quarters – after I slept, washed, got some food in me, was in a better condition to make life-changing decisions. She asked me again, told me there was space for me on her crew, but also let me know in no uncertain terms that I could leave whenever I wanted. But if life had taught me anything, it was that nothing in this life was free. So I asked her what I needed to do to earn my keep on the ship, she had just shrugged her shoulders.

“Whatever you want, whatever you can do.”

A searing sense of disappointment had rocketed down my spine, and she must’ve been able to see it on my face.

“Felix? What’s wrong?” she asked, confused, concerned, so, so kindly.

“I don’t want to sell my body any more,” I somehow managed to whisper before the tears overtook me and made me crumble into myself like a house of cards. I hadn’t noticed until just then how much I had hoped I could stay. Because the last 24 hours had been the first in a long time when nobody tried to touch me or talk to me or sell my body – when I felt somewhat safe.

She approached me carefully, asked me if she could touch me, a gesture so kind it made me cry harder, but I nodded, and she placed two strong, comforting hands on my shoulders, kneading my muscles, brushing her thumbs over my skin in regular circles until it grounded me a little.

“You don’t have to, Felix, never again. We would never ask that of you,” she murmured, lowly, calmly, and I had sobbed even harder. It’s a miracle now, looking back, how calm she stayed, faced with the broken shell of a boy in front of her. But she’s incredible like that. But back then, I didn’t even know how broken I was.

“But there’s nothing else I can do. I can’t fight, I never went to school. I’m useless to you if it’s not for my body.”

The captain had looked at me with so much pain in her eyes and shaken her head with determination.

“Don’t talk like that. I’m sure there’s something you can do. What do you do for fun?”

It was such an unexpected question at that moment, something nobody had ever bothered to ask me before, and it shook me out of my breakdown a little.

I said the only thing I could think of.

“I like to cook?”

And the captain had broken out into a huge smile.

“That’s perfect! We actually need someone to work in our kitchen. We’ve been doing a rotation and let me tell you, some weeks are definitely rougher than others.”

Her tone was so light, so hopeful, that I couldn’t help but latch on.

“Yeah? Why?”

She gave me a pained smile.

“Chan tried to make scrambled eggs the other week, and it ended up being just a dry brick. And the week after that Changbin put so much pepper in the stew it was inedible. He was nearly chased off the gangplank by 20 hungry pirates.”

I couldn’t help but giggle. The way she talked about them, like they weren’t just her crew, but like they were friends – it gave me so much hope.

“I …” I started, gathered all the courage that was left in my brittle body, “I make really nice scrambled eggs. The other … working boys and girls always said so. The … uh, never mind.”

But the captain just kept looking at me steadily and gave me an encouraging nod.

“No, please, tell me!”

I huffed out an awkward, broken little laugh. I felt stupid, but I felt like I had nothing more to lose.

“It’s … uh … the secret is to … add a little milk. Make them over low heat. Makes them all … silky. And if you have herbs, it really … it’s really nice.”

I’ll never forget the smile on the captain’s face when I finally raised my head. She clapped her hands happily.

“Oh, I’m so happy you’re here,” she exclaimed, jumped to her feet from where she was still crouching next to me. “I don’t know how much longer I would’ve survived Chan or Changbin’s weeks. You will make all of us very, very happy.”

She stretched out her hand to me, calmly waited for me to take it and helped me up. I swayed a little, but I managed to steady myself a little, scrub the tears off my cheeks.

“Why don’t you talk to Hyunjin later, let him know whatever you might need for, let’s say, two weeks at sea? And then he can get it before we set off.”

I nodded dumbly, and slowly turned to leave. But before I reached the door, I remembered something that had left me no peace.

“Captain?” I asked, and she hummed in response, all her attention back on me, “I … I saw … the cabin … I mean, it has two beds …”

She blinked at me, clearly not understanding, and I realised I needed to be brave one more time. She made me believe it would be okay.

“Will I have to share my cabin with someone?”

She gave me a long look, until her eyes widened in recognition. But the pity I feared would appear on her face never came. Instead, she smiled.

“Only if you want to.”

I took the deepest breath yet.

“I … if it’s possible at all, I … I really don’t want to.”

And she just nodded, gave me another smile before she turned back to her desk. “Then you won’t.”

From that day onwards, that cabin was my home. The next day, when I came back from my nervous, quick trip to the baths, I found a key, placed perfectly in the middle of my pillow. It was the key to the cabin door.

And I did lock the door for weeks, until I managed to leave it unlocked for one or two nights at a time without having a panic attack. Then three. Then four. Until one day I realised I had forgotten about the key entirely. I was safe.

And I never did have a roommate, for all the years I was on the ship. I was never asked to share, never even asked why I was the only one with no bunkmate, which was something I very quickly realised I was alone in.

Until the day Han Jisung arrived, and I saw the fear in his eyes when he saw the two bunks and I felt like I was looking in a cruel, warped mirror at my past, broken self. Hyunjin had whispered it to me, when he got back from the captain, that he was to get his own cabin as well, with a key, for the same reason I did, but something told me to do what I had never considered before – to offer him the second bunk in my room. Because Jisung seemed scared. Lost. Safe. And like he could really use a friend.

And I mean, he really did need a friend, that’s what we all learned. The day he set foot on our ship, a year and a half ago, started like any other. The sun rose on a cloudless sky, there was a stiff east wind. We intercepted one of Han Yujun’s ships only an hour after breakfast. It was way off course of its regular route and basically fell right into our lap. Everything seemed simple, like a routine.

But it quickly became very clear that this crew was different from his usual ones. The men were ruthless, angry, and overestimated themselves – but that was par of the course for the type of men Han Yujun hired. What was weird was how entirely aimless and uncoordinated they were. What was even weirder, was that their captain was nowhere to be seen.

And just when we thought that maybe he was hiding in the ship, or they just didn’t have one, a young man strutted into the middle of the fight.

It was clear from the first second that whoever he was, he was not like his crew. His boots were clean and expensive looking, his features were elegant, his skin soft and unmarred, and he was wearing an emerald green silk jacket that was entirely inappropriate for life on a ship.

That, and none of his crew paid him any mind. Worse, one of them laughed right into his face, and even tried to shove him into our swords, something that made the elegantly dressed captain draw his sword and raise it against his own crew member, something that was so entirely unheard of, it was almost laughable.

It was Minho who ordered Chan and Changbin to take that one hostage. There was a glint in his eye as he turned to the captain. They looked at each other, did their weird little telepathic communication thing, and the moment passed.

The man put up a good fight, a much better one than we thought he would be able to, based on his looks, but, like they usually did, in the end, he lost, and he was dragged, kicking and screaming, into the hold of our ship, while we dealt with the rest.

Nothing else was out of the ordinary about the clean-up, raiding of the other ship, where I ended up getting a less than impressive haul of their leftover provisions that were clearly of the cheapest kind – until Chan came running in while Hyunjin was helping me peel potatoes a day later exclaiming that the guy they had captured was none other than Han Yujun’s nephew. And that the captain had just offered him a spot on the crew.

It was an outrage. Hyunjin couldn’t believe it. He kept asking Chan if he was sure, asking him to repeat over and over again what he heard, but it always ended up the same. The man in the emerald silk jacket’s name was Han Jisung, nephew of Han Yujun, the man we had been holding Andros and the surrounding islands in a violent political and criminal chokehold, the man we had been working for years to take down. And the captain had offered him a place among us. Hyunjin was immediately against it, huffed and puffed, talked of going to the captain to talk her out of it, but Chan stopped him, somehow. He calmly talked to him until Hyunjin no longer looked he was about run out the door. But he was by no means done.

“Do you think he’ll accept the captain’s offer?” Hyunjin asked, his arms crossed over his chest, a petulant scowl on his face.

Chan shrugged.

“I think he might, but he’s stubborn. Kind of arrogant.”

Hyunjin narrowed his eyes further and Chan sighed.

“But come on, Hyune, imagine how much he knows. He could be the last piece of the puzzle, we could finally get Han Yujun …”

And as much as I hated it, he had a point. Though, Hyunjin didn’t seem to agree.

“Is that why the captain is asking him to join us? So he can be useful? I’m not harbouring the enemy’s family in my cabins on the off chance we get something out of him before he murders one of us!”

Chan lifted his hands defensively.

“Listen, I’m not saying to trust him, immediately, I will keep an eye on him, but the captain, she kind of seemed convinced and … well, she’s never been wrong.”

Hyunjin grumbled, gave Chan another glare.

“Well, there’s a first time for everything …”

But I could tell his resolve was starting to melt. After all, the captain really had never made a wrong call.

Before he left to go back to the cells, we made Chan promise to find out as much as possible about Jisung in the hours he was set to guard him, and to report anything suspicious back to us.

He came back the next day and, almost sheepishly, told us, that there was nothing suspicious whatsoever about the man. Carefully, he relayed everything Jisung had told him. That his parents were dead, probably killed by his uncle, though he had no proof, so there was nothing he could do. That he had no money to his name beyond what his uncle gave him, no home beyond his uncle’s house, where he was under constant surveillance from the staff. That he was meant to marry some other politician’s daughter, one he had made the mistake of sleeping with a few times, and who had consequently blackmailed him into agreeing to the marriage ploy her father and his uncle had hatched, by telling him she was pregnant, only for him to find out that she wasn’t.

Hyunjin was still a little wary, told Chan it was weird that he just told him all of this, but Chan looked almost sad. He kept insisting that something was different about Han Jisung, that he seemed … real. That he looked so sad when he spoke about his parents. That he called them Eomma and Appa, as well, just like Chan back in the day. That there had been tears in his eyes when he spoke of them. Hyunjin eventually came around, though not before he made Chan promise to keep a tight watch on him. I … didn’t know what I thought. I had seen Jisung, on the day he was captured, and I saw how his crew treated him, so what Chan told us did line up. But nonetheless – Han Yujun was his family. There was no knowing what he was like, what he thought, what he believed in. Hell, he may have no plans of dismantling his uncle’s empire. Maybe he just wanted to inherit it.

So I was pretty much dead set on keeping my distance, on being very careful and going to the captain if I thought anything at all was off – until Chan brought Jisung to lunch the day he accepted the captain’s offer and I walked out of the kitchen to find not a strange, rugged captain, not an unlikeable aristocrat asshole, not Han Yujun’s nephew, but just … a boy. My age. Deathly pale, looking one stiff breeze away from either vomiting or turning around and running away. So I made a split-second decision. After all, the captain only took one look at me and gave me a chance.

I gave him the most trustworthy, positive smile I could muster, and stretched out my hand.

“Ah, you’re Jisung! So you took the captain’s offer. Welcome. You won’t regret it.”

And I led him to my part of the table, where Hyunjin gave me an incredulous stare, one I returned by motioning to Jisung and furrowing my brows, wordlessly saying look at him! He’s shaking like a leaf.

And it’s really a testament to Jisung’s personality how fast and how entirely he melted Hyunjin within just a few minutes. So much so that, even when he mentioned the captain and Minho fighting, when Minho stormed in, a flavour of anger and self-loathing he only ever exuded when something happened between him and the captain, Hyunjin ended up reassuring Jisung.

And I couldn’t even blame him, because there was something so shockingly, absolutely unexpectedly sincere about the man. I suddenly understood why Chan believed every word he said because Han Jisung seemed to just do that. Tell the truth. His clumsy attempts at returning Changbin and Hyunjin’s banter. His panicked look around when Hyunjin asked him about his sexuality. His genuine, concern and confusion in his big sparkling eyes when Seungmin grilled him about the maps. Every single thing he felt was just right there, his expressive face so revealing, it was simply impossible for him to be lying.

It was also what gave him away a few weeks later, when I caught him staring at the captain across the deck as she talked to Seungmin. Jisung’s expression was nothing short of starstruck, big eyes, flushed cheeks. I didn’t think much of it then, because almost any of us on the crew, who were into women, were infatuated with her at some point. And Jisung, with his round cheeks and his almost puppy-like infatuation with her, didn’t feel threatening in the slightest. Cute, even.

But then we heard of the kiss. Of Chan rounding the corner to Minho, half naked, trapping Jisung’s equally half-dressed body against the wall, Jisung’s tongue in his mouth.

The guilt was radiating off Chan in waves that night, to the point where it drove us fucking crazy. But we couldn’t get it out of him, no matter how often we asked. We only found out what happened two weeks later, when I woke up, docked in Nassau, to Jisung’s bed unslept in, the hazy memory of him disappearing with the captain in my mind and badly contained hangover anxiety buzzing through my veins.

Chan, Hyunjin and Seungmin were already waiting in the kitchen when I walked in and Chan told us everything, spilled it all like he had been waiting for for a long time. What he saw. How he ran to the captain to tell her without a second thought. The look in her eyes. Then, Minho, half-wet and out of his mind, barking at him to leave before he locked himself in with the captain. And through it all, he kept saying that he didn’t know what to do. Kept asking us if it was wrong that he told the captain. But that it was the captain! And Minho … Minho was meant to be faithful. How could Minho betray her?! Minho’s love had always been obvious, it was the captain who clearly kept the distance between them. So it didn’t make any sense for him to do this. And she deserved, to know? Right?

And then there was Jisung. Chan was so disappointed when he told us about pulling Jisung aside after the kiss, how awkward it had been, confronting him. But how Chan had done it, for the captain. And how Jisung had said “I don’t want to break them up” and how angry it had made Chan because how was the outcome of him kissing Minho not going to be him and the captain breaking up?!

But while Chan raged, while Hyunjin bit his bottom lip to shreds, while Seungmin argued with Chan, saying that we shouldn’t meddle in their relationship, whatever it was; that whatever they were or weren’t, wasn’t for us to get involved in – I remembered the way Jisung looked at the captain and suddenly realised that maybe, just maybe, Jisung meant something very different when he said that he didn’t want to break them up.

But it was crazy, unheard of – something that was possible in fiction, or in your wildest dreams, but it didn’t just happen. And the captain and Minho, their relationship wasn’t exactly casual, something that Jisung would just be able to insert himself into. Their bond had been built over years, years of the two of them against the world, locked into the captain’s quarters, Minho’s entire existence dedicated to protecting and serving the captain – the captain’s gaze always returning to Minho, relying on him, needing him. Jisung had just joined. He had no history with either of them. It was madness.

Looking back at it now, I still think I was right. I still think that Jisung was crazy, delusional even, for falling for both of them the way he did. Because he did fall, head over heels, completely crazily and entirely, over such a short period of time. And I told him this, a few months ago, on one of the nights he spent in our cabin, something that had become increasingly rare, most of his nights, and his days, spent with the captain and Minho now (except for meal times. He still faithfully appears in the kitchen every single day, for breakfast, lunch, and dinner prep. Most of the days even on time, unless he stumbles in flushed and dazed, with love bites all over his neck and I have to tell him to go scrub his face and hands and arms, for good measure, before I will even consider letting him get close to something edible, but I digress).

When I told him I thought he was insane, Jisung, dear, sweet, Jisung, had only hidden his face in my pillow, squealed like a teenage girl, before looking at me with stars in his eyes, until I couldn’t remember how I could ever be mad about it.

“I know, Lix … isn’t it crazy? How did this happen?!”

I didn’t tell him this back then, but I truly believe that he was the only person who could’ve done what he did, become what he did, simply because he was Jisung. Jisung, with his heart on his sleeve, Jisung with his pretty face and his little waist and his frankly dangerous arrogance and his shocking ruthlessness and proficiency with a sword – and his inability to tell anything but the truth, without which none of this would’ve ever happened. Because a lesser person would’ve just … shut up. Counted their blessings, kept their feelings to themselves, either left the ship or moved on. But Jisung didn’t. Jisung pushed Minho until he cracked, Jisung kept looking at the captain like she hung the stars in the sky – and then loved Minho so openly and unashamedly that it took Minho months to stop blushing every time Jisung flirted with him in public. Adored the captain with everything he had, never tried to change her, instead met her where she was and with his own love, and his love of Minho and her love, made her soften and bloom in front of all of us.

Not in her treatment of our enemies, oh no, she’s a cold, as murderous, as merciless and violent as ever. But when it’s just us, the crew on the ship, sailing from one port to the next, on the simple cargo delivery jobs we’ve started taking every now and again, dipping our toes into legitimate business in the absence of the region’s most notorious criminal, she was glowing. She, always accompanied by Jisung and Minho, of course, spent more time of her mealtimes in the mess. Stuck around afterwards. Told us stories, countless stories, of her life before us, sometimes aided by Seungmin, when it was something that happened while they were sailing under their old captain. She told us stories of the Americas, of the open ocean, of the Arctic. Of the European shores that she saw but never got to set foot on. Of battles so gruesome, so bloody, the stories alone made us gasp and Minho pale.

It’s nice. We can hear the stories now, because life is peaceful. The seas are safer. We barely ever run into drug or human traffickers any more, and when we do, they’re usually small groups, splintered off what used to be Han Yujun subsidised organisations. They’re easy to eradicate, often relying on only a handful of ships, most of which we intercept, making the business one of astronomical losses that cannot even be offset by the few that escape Jeongin’s watchful eye.

Needless to say, it’s been a good year, since the day Han Yujun died. We sail. We deliver cargo. Patrol the few areas where traffickers and criminals still operate. We’ve even made a tentative peace with the new administration of Andros Island, Han Yujun’s successor, who has allowed us to walk and sail freely after the extent of the crimes Han Yujun had been committing had been revealed. That and I think he’s into the captain. Minho seems to think so, too, because he always finds a reason to go on land with the captain when we dock at Andros. If she’s noticed, I wouldn’t be able to tell. But she doesn’t stop him.

Sometimes we meet the captain’s former captain, mostly in Nassau, where have been going more often since the news of the captain’s victory over Han Yujun has made our crew somewhat of a guest of honour, always guaranteeing us a docking place at the quays, a good price on everything from provisions to fabric, which meant that Hyunjin could finally do the upgrade of all the textiles on the ship, that he’s been wanting for so long – sowing us all new sheets, new curtains, new, more lavish clothing, even buy us sturdier leather boots. For my last birthday, he gave me baby blue sheets, dotted all over with small, hand embroidered daisies. I cried so much it made Hyunjin cry, too, but I think it was happy tears. He blushes every time I walk right past him on laundry day to wash them with my own hands, because I don’t trust anyone else with them. They’re my most prized possession.

But our crew discount also made it impossible for Hyunjin to have a counterargument when Minho one day returned from one of his brooding walks with three kittens in his arms and tears in his eyes, talking about how he had found them behind a fish shop, where the fishmonger was trying to beat them away with a broom. How one of them had a broken leg and how the fishmonger had vowed to kill them if they ever came back, something Minho said we couldn’t let happen.

Not like Hyunjin could’ve resisted him, not when our usual, grumpy, scary Minho was softly cradling a little tabby to his chest, carefully holding his little broken paw in his palm, while two orange kittens were climbing over his shoulders.

Minho bathed them in one of the bathtubs, the water filled only an inch, scrubbing their little limbs and faces, talking to them quietly and not making a fuss when one of them inevitably scratched him.

So Hyunjin sighed, and planned in more provisions. And Minho called them Soonie, Doongie and Dori, and they slept every night in a corner of the captain’s quarters (and sometimes, if one of us was very lucky, in one of our beds), and they became a treasured part of our crew – and Minho’s pride and joy.

And he’s so soft for them, too, cooing and smiling at them, picking them up and carrying them around in his pockets. And I know I talked a lot about Jisung and the captain softening, opening up, but in neither of them has it been as obvious as in Minho. He seems so much happier, so much more at peace, and much less scary and volatile, like something very heavy has finally lifted off his chest. He still gets bitchy, of course he does, he’s our Minho after all, but these days he usually comes around soon enough, mumbles something close enough to an apology or just dumps one of the kitties on our arms as a way of asking for forgiveness.

But, of course, not everything is perfect. The captain still distances herself or locks herself away sometimes, Jisung still has his moments of arrogance, and Minho still broods and scowls and lashes out. It’s just the way it is. I don’t love them any less for it. It just means they’re human. They’re my family, I love them despite it all. And I want them to be well, when they don’t seem to be.

I usually keep an eye on Minho when we dock in Nassau. I don’t think he knows that I know that his mother is buried there. And to be honest, I only know it because I visited the old, dilapidated churchyard the other month, after I heard of my adoptive father, the vicar’s, passing. I went alone, walked the paths of my childhood, even made it into the chapel, down the cool, empty aisle, all the way to the door of the sacristy – though I couldn’t go further. It was like his ghost was still haunting the place, like I would open the door, and he would be there, staring me down. So I turned, pushed through the big, heavy door, out into the balmy autumn air and took a deep, shaky breath. As I was walking through the graveyard, trying to regulate my heartbeat, strolling aimlessly under the cool shade of the sparse pines, one particular grave suddenly caught my eye.

It had no headstone, nothing to mark it except a crooked, rotten wooden cross that barely hung on by a single nail. It stood out like a sore thumb amongst the other, thick, intricately carved headstones. The name was barely legible any more.

Lee Young-mi, 08/11/16–– to 16/10/16––

And sure, it could’ve been a coincidence, but the last name, the date, the year. The shoddily nailed together cross. That and, in retrospect, Minho’s irritability every time we set foot on Nassau. It all made a little too much sense.

And really, Minho’s apprehension had always been visible, I had just always assumed he hated Nassau for all the reasons we all sometimes hated it; because it smelled bad, and because its neutrality provided a safe harbour for us privateers, yes, but also by its very nature did the same for crime and depravity. But now, knowing that his mother was buried there – it was hard not to see how it affected him. How he got quiet, distracted. Often zoned out, scowling at some point in the middle distance.

And usually either Jisung or the captain would find him eventually, and he would soften, his eyes losing some of their darkness, but I still kept an eye on him. Just to be safe.

I do it because I care about him, and deep down, also because I sometimes still have a hard time feeling like I deserve being on the ship. Watching out for Minho, even in just such a small way, makes me feel a little bit more deserving of his fierce protection.

God, this sounds bad, doesn’t it? Like the only reason I care for them is because I feel guilty … But it’s so much more than that, I promise. I love them so deeply.

Like that one night, when I found the captain on the deck, during the two weeks we thought we lost Minho and Jisung, on our way to Andros to end it all – I meant it when I said she should let herself love them when we found them. I remember my own hopelessness, trying to shove it aside so I could help her push through, because I couldn’t stand the knowledge that she, who had done everything for us, was there in front of me, falling apart because she lost the one thing she always wanted but always denied herself.

Because our captain’s life had always been dedicated to us. To taking us in, giving us a home and a job and a purpose. Then to lead us towards a common goal. Working tirelessly, putting herself on the line time and time again, risking her life to keep us safe. The sacrifices she made for all of those years, to keep us safe and on track – they were never a secret. No, she never spoke about them, but it was obvious.

So when I told her to let herself love them, loudly and openly, what I really wanted to say was “you’ve sacrificed everything for us, so many times. Let yourself have this. We want you to have this.”

And thank God she did. When she threw herself into Jisung’s arms, in the middle of the battle of our lives, the smile on her face bright like she wasn’t covered in grime and blood and wasn’t bleeding from the cut on her arm – it was like the sun rose. Then, Minho, coming down those stairs with his bad eye covered by the eyepatch that has become a usual part of his getup now, his eye having never recovered, and slotting himself back into this place behind the captain – It was like they had never been gone in all senses except the tiredness in my bones, the pain of knowing what the captain and I went through, talked about during all those hours in Jisung’s cot.

I can look back on it now because we made it. It’s all good now. The three of them, they’re happy together. Jisung is a ball of sunshine. He still helps me in the kitchen, every single day, and often eats with us, but most of his days, and his nights, are spent in the captain’s quarters now. He usually occupies the spot behind the captain on the left side, the only person Minho trusts to take over his blind spot. Jisung is sweet. He’s usually touching one of them, and it would be wildly imrpoper on a pirate ship if it wasn’t us, and if it wasn’t him. His hand slithering into Minho’s back pocket, linking his pinky with the captain’s when he thinks nobody is looking. And while Jisung keeps his flirting to a minimum with the captain, no doubt her orders, because she is our captain after all, I’ve walked in on Minho and Jisung kissing more times than I can count – even in the baths once, doing … much more than kissing, an incident I have tried to scrub from my memory, to no avail.

Unlike Changbin, who was almost giddy with excitement, when he told a select group (Hyunjin, Chan, Jeongin and me) in great detail how, when he had to urgently wake the captain the other day, had made his bumbling, apologetic way into the captain’s bedroom, and had watched first, a fluffy, disoriented, shirtless Jisung, then a sleepy but murderous looking naked Minho, pop up, both of who protectively pushed down the captain between them when she tried to sit up, asking what was going on. I asked him once if he didn’t think he was a little too invested in their relationship, but he always just waves me off.

“I’ve watched Minho pine over the captain for years. I watched him get sad when she pushed him away, I let him take his anger out on me when he got frustrated – I deserve to be happy and a little nosey now.”

And it seems that the captain, loving, covertly, privately, yet openly, has made some others feel like they finally have permission to do the same.

Hyunjin and Chan became official in the late summer. It was an understated affair. One night, when everyone was gathered in the common area, just hanging out, drinking, reading, playing cards, a balmy, salty breeze blowing in through the portholes, Hyunjin skipped in, walked over to where Chan was lounging on a beanbag and planted himself right in his lap, just like he usually did.

Except this time he turned around, stared at a wide-eyed Chan with a petulant determination in his eyes, before he leaned in and kissed him square on the mouth. It was quite sweet, watching Chan melt into it, every one of his familiar touches speaking volumes about how much, and for how long, they’ve been doing this.

When Hyunjin pulled back he was blushing furiously, but he stared at everyone with a scowl, like he was challenging someone to say something negative. When nobody did, when everyone just slowly returned to whatever they were doing, Hyunjin deflated so visibly that Chan laughed, pressed a kiss to his temple and murmured a quiet “told you it would be fine” before kissing him again.

And Seungmin and Jeongin … whatever is going on between them is almost imperceptible, and I think most of the crew haven’t noticed. Even Hyunjin refuses to say anything at all about them, though I know he knows more than he lets on. But I don’t push. If they need to figure this out by themselves, they should. But something has clearly changed between them, finally. They no longer stare at each other when they think the other isn’t looking. They often look at each other now, over the table, something special in their eyes. Where there used to be sadness, uncertainty, longing, there’s warmth, love, want now. It’s tentative, like a blooming in sprint, but it’s there.

Them. Chan and Hyunjin’s easy companionship. The captain and Minho and Jisung’s devotion. I wish it didn’t, but it has made me wish for what I never thought I could have. Love. Intimacy. Partnership. But … maybe … no, I don’t know.

It’s all very new, you know. Something that has only just … he …

God, this is harder when it’s about me.

A couple weeks ago, while I was cleaning up the last plates after dinner. Changbin had wandered in, his fists buried deep in his pockets, looking so pale and nervous that I thought at first that he was ill.

But when I asked him if he was, he only blushed deeply, flush climbing from his neck up to his hairline until he was entirely pink.

“No, uhm …” he stammered out, “I was just wondering … when we go to Andros … I heard there’s a really big market. With wares from all over the world. Apparently the new governor has been making some trades and … well, I thought maybe you would want to check it out? Find some new stuff to cook with? Or just look around, really …”

He’d said all of this almost in one breath, barely looking at me, only throwing me little glances here or there, and I didn’t understand why he was so nervous.

“Sure, Bin,” I had laughed, but I regretted it immediately when his face fell, “Hyunjin and I were going to go together, he wanted to find some perfumes or soaps or fabrics, but you’re welcome to come, too!”

Whatever I said was clearly the wrong thing because his face fell even more, his eyebrows drawing together, making him look almost angry.

“Ah, it’s alright. You go with Hyunjin,” he had just muttered. He gave me a pained little smile and rushed out of the kitchen before I could say anything else.

When I told Jisung about it the next day while we were making lunch, he almost dropped his knife. He rushed over to me, took both my hands into his and stared at me so intently it almost scared me.

“Lix …” he breathed, his eyes sparkling brightly, “Changbin was asking you out! He was asking you out on a date!”

First, I blushed. Then I started panicking, really hard. So hard that I’m pretty sure I stopped breathing for a second, because Jisung suddenly looked very worried and led me over to sit on a crate of potatoes.

“Lix, are you okay? Breathe for me, please,” he mumbled, and I somehow managed to gulp down a single breath of air that felt like it lodged itself into my chest sideways.

“He can’t want to date me,” I choked out. Jisung looked confused.

“But, why, Lix? You’re wonderful? Anyone should be lucky to date you.”

I shook my head vehemently.

“He might think he wants to, but he doesn’t. Not when I’m … the way I am.”

“What do you mean? Don’t you like him?”

And to be honest, I had never even asked myself if I did. Because it had never been an option. And Changbin had just always … been there. A calm, soothing presence. Probably the person I loved cooking for the most because of how wholeheartedly he seemed to enjoy it, and how he would compliment me every single day. The heart and soul of the crew, always there for words of advice but never scared to tell the truth, to put someone into place when they were out of line. Yes, of course, he was gorgeous in a way I knew not everyone appreciated. His body was big and solid and strong and when he hugged me, I never wanted to let go.

“I … I don’t know, I … maybe? Maybe I could? But Jisung … it doesn’t matter. Because he will want to have sex with whoever he’s dating and I … I don’t think I ever want to do that again.”

That was only half the truth because I knew I didn’t. But that felt too scary to just … say.

Finally, Jisung seemed to understand. He blinked at me for a good few seconds, before he got up, started pacing up and down in front of me, deep in thought. Then he stopped.

“How do you know that? Did he say something?”

He sounded indignant, almost. I just stared at him, shook my head.

“I mean, no … I don’t know … I’ve never ever seen him flirt with anyone, so I wouldn’t know, but … doesn’t everyone want that? Have sex?”

Jisung shrugged.

“I mean, I do, yeah, but I was thinking and … if the captain had told me she wouldn’t want to sleep with me – I think I would’ve been okay with that. I would still want her, of course, but that would be … a separate thing, you know? Because I would still love her.”

I scoffed.

“Not everyone has a special relationship like that, Jisung. Changbin probably just has a stupid crush on me. It’ll pass.”

Jisung came back to me, sat next to me on the crate, wrapped an arm around me.

“You don’t know that. Just … why don’t you give it a chance? See where it goes? Wouldn’t you want to know? If there’s a chance? … Don’t you want to be loved?”

The way he asked it, with his own love shimmering in his voice, painting beautiful images of tenderness, reminding me of Seungmin’s gaze on Jeongin when he laughed, on Chan’s hand on Hyunjin’s waist when he opened doors for him – I almost hated Jisung because he was right, and I couldn’t ignore the fact that I did, desperately, want to be loved.

But I was also terrified to get hurt. Terrified of opening myself up to everything Changbin and I could be, only to be disappointed. To fall and to not be caught, or worse, to fall and then betray myself for the rest of my life, only so I could keep being loved.

So as much as I would like to describe the first weeks of Changbin’s, for lack of a better word, courtship, as a time of sweetness and soft touches, it was anything but. It was me, fighting tooth and nail, every day, to let myself hope while also protecting myself.

But he was … perfect. A few days after he asked me out, he started sticking around long after everyone was done with dinner. He didn’t say anything, just stayed, helped me carry the plates into the kitchen. Asked me if I would like him to go get the water, so I wouldn’t have to lug the full bucket back and forth. Talked to me as if he never asked me out, about anything and everything.

And before I knew it, it became a sort of ritual. Jisung, who used to help me clean up, subtly, seemingly casually, started leaving dinner with everyone else when he realised Changbin started sticking around – obnoxiously winking at me, shooting me thumbs up, before no doubt slipped away to tell the captain and Minho all about it. But I couldn’t be mad, so preoccupied was I with not falling head over heels for Changbin’s gentle hands when he washed the dishes, the way his hair fell into his eyes where he was leaned over the tub, how softly he talked about his life and the way his cheeks dimpled when he smiled.

He asked me out again two weeks after the first time he tried. At least this time, I was prepared. But I also knew that I needed to say something now, to protect myself – and to be fair to him. So when he asked me if I wanted to go on a walk with him the next time we were on Abaco, because he’d had heard there was a beach, usually deserted, with sand as fine as stardust and lots of shells to collect, I forced myself to interrupt him.

“Changbin, is this … am I reading this wrong, or are you trying to ask me out?”

Changbin looked almost relieved. He ran a nervous hand through his hair, chuckled sheepishly.

“Uh, yeah … I hope it wasn’t too awkward,” he mumbled, and it was so sweet I had to swallow down the army of butterflies wreaking havoc on my insides. This was going to hurt.

“Binnie, I don’t think …” I started, petered out because I lost my courage, but Changbin froze instantly. His face fell, and he looked devastated, but mostly embarrassed.

“Oh,” he breathed out, before he unfroze, gaze glued to the floor, “Oh, I see. Don’t worry. It was just … I just … never mind. Ignore what I said.”

And God, if I had been stronger, I would’ve left it at that. Let him think that was what it was and licked my wounds, healed my broken heart now, while it was only sporting cracks. But something in me, maybe it was my desperation to be loved, maybe it was Jisung’s influence, maybe it was just … something that told me that Changbin was different – something in me forced me to step forward, into Changbin’s space, making him look up at me with wide eyes.

“No, Binnie, it’s not that … I would love to go on a date with you,” I managed to mumble, and the way Changbin’s face brightened, the way his ridiculously beautiful smile returned, it made my heart ache.

“But … can we sit?”

Changbin nodded, and I led him out to the mess hall. We sat down at one of the tables and I put everything on the line. I told him about how I grew up. How I had never cared for sex. How I tried it and didn’t see the appeal. How I sold my body and never felt a thing. And finally, my voice so shaky it was barely recognisable, that I never wanted to have sex again.

“It’s … it’s not you. Not at all. I just … I don’t like it, having sex, it never felt like something I did for me. And I don’t think I ever want to do it again. Not with anyone.”

I was avoiding looking at him at this point, because I felt so fragile that one mean look from him would have shattered like a vial of glass. I had never opened myself up to anyone so entirely, not even the captain, not even Jisung. It was terrifying, placing my glass heart into his hands. But it was Changbin, right? Changbin would never. I hoped.

“So, much as you think you might want to date me … I don’t know if you do. Because I’m not like other people you could be dating. I won’t be able to give you that.”

Changbin was quiet for a long moment. So long I couldn’t take the suspense any more and finally looked at him.

He looked thoughtful, but not disgusted, and that was enough for the moment. Enough to make tendrils of hope bloom in my chest.

“So … just so I know I understood this correctly. You … you would like to date me, you might even like me, but you just don’t like sex. Don’t want to have it. With anyone, ever again?”

I nodded. I swallowed the need to grovel, to beg, to tell him I would do anything to be with him but that. I swallowed, suffocated the worst thought – that I would maybe even do if that was really needed for him to want me.

And Changbin nodded as well, looked at me so gently that tears started pooling in my eyes.

But then he said, “okay. Can you give me a day to think about it?” and just like that, he shattered my heart into a million pieces.

But I smiled. I nodded. Ignored the tears pooling in my eyes. I held my breath, watched dumbly as he smiled gently, touched my hand, ran his thumb over my knuckles, got up and left. Then I started crying. I cried myself to sleep that night and barely managed to get up in time to make breakfast. I walked into the kitchen to Jisung already there. He dropped everything when he saw my swollen eyes, and pulled me into a hug that just made me cry harder.

He asked me what happened, and I told him, stammered it out through the sobs, and he hugged me tighter, led me to the same crate of potatoes he sat me down a few weeks prior, and told me to just sit there while he made breakfast. He did it all himself, quietly, only asking small, hesitant questions every now and again, and somehow even made me coffee, scrambled me some eggs, let me remain in the kitchen while he took care of the breakfast rush. He did what he could to keep an eye on me, to distract me, but it was pointless. The pain of it, the humiliation, the terror of what Changbin could do with the information I had given him – the knowledge that I would have to face him again. I wondered which side the captain would choose if I told her I needed to go. If she could make Changbin keep his mouth shut. If she would ask him to leave. I couldn’t live with that, the crew needed Changbin …

When the doors swung open, I opened my mouth to ask Jisung if he thought I should go see the captain right away, but instead of his, I instead met Changbin’s eyes.

When he spotted me, his eyes widened and softened, and they were filled with so much pity it made me nauseous. He approached me slowly.

“Yongbokkie …” he breathed out, carefully went to crouch down in front of where I was still sitting on that stupid potato crate, probably looking like a fool, crying over him. “Why are you crying? What happened?”

It was too much. The pity. Now this. My throat felt like it was lined with glass shards, and it was audible in my voice.

“What do you mean what happened? Was the rejection not enough? Did you come to gloat?”

The realisation visibly washed over him and he paled.

“Hey, hey …” he reached out a careful hand, soothed it over my arm. I didn’t have the strength to pull away. I started crying again. “I didn’t … I never meant to.”

He took a deep breath and got up, made me scoot over until he could squeeze onto the crate next to me. The change of position was welcome. At least now I wasn’t forced to look at him any more.

“I wanted to take a day to think about it because … Yongbok, that was a big, important thing you shared with me there. It was really personal, and I could see how difficult it was.”

He took a deep breath. I watched, out of the corner of my eye, how he nervously cracked his knuckles in his lap. His hands still looked so soft and gentle and gorgeous, and I still wanted to hold them so badly, and it hurt so, so much.

“And to be honest, I had never heard of something like it before. I just kinda assumed everyone wanted to … you know. But, I thought about it all night, and I also … I talked to the captain – without mentioning your name, of course! Just, I needed advice and …”

He turned to me, waited for a second for me to do the same, but I couldn’t. He didn’t push me.

“Well, I think it’s fine. It makes sense, even. Hell, sex is not that important to me either. And if you really feel like that, then who am I to tell you anything different. Especially with the job you used to do, I mean … that must’ve been tough.”

It felt like an out of body experience, listening to him. He sounded so sincere, so serious.

“So I, uhh …” Changbin started, but hesitated, “Yongbokkie, I would really love it if you could look at me when I say this.”

Blindly, like I was pulled by an invisible string, I straightened up, turned to him, met his eyes, his sweet, soft eyes, looking back at me with an expression I’d never seen in them before.

“Yongbok, I’d still love to … you know … go on a date with you. Take you to that beach. Fully clothed, of course! I mean, if you want. Just … for the shells. And to hang out with you. Because I would like to do that. Spend more time with you. Like that. If you want it.”

I don’t remember what was going on in my poor, muddled head at that moment. White noise. Too many thoughts and so much hope and so many stupid butterflies because he was there, right in front of me, looking so gorgeous it made me dizzy and …

“You would … even if we can’t ever have sex?”

Changbin blushed, shrugged softly.

“Like, I said, it’s not really the most important thing to me, anyway.”

“No, but, Bin …” I insisted, “I need you to be sure, because … it won’t change. If you change your mind, then … Bin, it will hurt.”

Changbin shook his head, reached out, gently cupped my face in his hands and let his thumb run over my cheek.

“I’m sure. I would never want you to do something you’re not comfortable with. And I would never force you to do anything.”

He dropped his hands again, and their absence felt like a physical ache.

“So, let me ask you again. Do you want to take a walk with me, when we get to Abaco? I heard there’s a really nice beach, super secluded, with sand as fine as stardust, and with the prettiest shells you’ve ever seen.”

And I nodded.

And we went. And we walked, side by side, talking about everything under the sun, until we reached the secluded beach. And it was the most beautiful place I’d ever seen. The water was clear and turquoise, the sand so fine it sparkled in the sun like a thousand diamonds. And the shells! There were so many, one more perfect, more stunning than the other. We spent hours collecting them, and then we went back, dumped them all into a pile on the floor in the corner of the common room, arranged them into the perfect combinations, and then I taught Changbin how to tie macramé knots, and we made hanging ornaments. One for each of us, and one for Hyunjin, who joined us at some point, cooed over the pretty shells so much that Changbin agreed to make him one, too.

We were the last ones to leave the common room that night and Changbin insisted on walking me back to my cabin, blushing and ignoring my giggles when I told him he kind of had to because his cabin was literally right next door.

But he dropped me off, smiled at me so softly it made my entire chest erupt into butterflies, told me he had the best day he’d had in a long time and just … left. And I loved him even more for it because it gave me hope that he really meant it, but a part of me couldn’t help but wish he had kissed me, wished he had stayed. Not to … fool around, but just to spend more time with him. Maybe pull him up into my cot. Pull his body close, sink into his strong arms.

He didn’t kiss me on our next date either. Nor on the next one. Until we were sat on the same beach again weeks later, this time just chatting, snacking on the picnic basket I had made for us. I looked over at him, and suddenly, I knew I didn’t want to spend another minute without knowing what his lips tasted like.

So I climbed into his lap, dropped the cube of cheese in his hands back into the bowl he had just plucked it from, wrapped my hands around his neck and pressed my lips to his. The sound he made, something between a squeak and a breathy little moan, will be stuck in my head forever.

When he didn’t kiss me back, I pulled away, and he looked completely out of his depth.

“Is this fine?” he asked, breathless and entirely uncertain, and I realised that he meant if this was something I wanted to do. That he didn’t want me to feel pressured, that he wasn’t sure if I was doing this for myself or for him. I didn’t know if I should cry or laugh, but instead I just leaned in, kissed him again, only pulled back enough to whisper a few words to him.

“Don’t worry, I want this. I’m not made of glass.”

And that’s all it took for him to kiss me back, and it was a little cheesy and sometimes our teeth clashed because we were smiling so much, but despite that, or maybe because of that, it was so mind-numbingly good. Tender. Addicting.

And we figured the rest out. When he got hard underneath me for the first time, he blushed, apologised, even though I told him not to, and manoeuvred me until our crotches weren’t touching any more. And when, a few days later, we were making out in my bed and I got hard, he didn’t panic, just pulled away and asked me to tell him if everything was alright. And I did. I told him that it was my body reacting to him, but that I still didn’t change my mind. I said the last part a lot less gracefully than I like to admit, with a lot more stammering and self-consciousness, but he understood. And then he told me that he needed me to know that, of course, he, or his body, wanted me like that, that he was attracted to me, but that had nothing to do with me. Or rather, that it didn’t mean that he wanted to do anything differently. That this was enough. He would deal with it later. And then I kissed him again, and he sighed into my lips and slipped his hand under my shirt, not touching me, just resting his warm palm and my back, and then I did cry a little bit because I couldn’t believe I got so lucky. He held me through that, too. And we fell asleep like that. And the next day, he got up with me and made breakfast with me and Jisung, who grinned at us like an idiot when we walked in together. And that was that.

So, yeah. That happened.

And I don’t know what the future holds. I really don’t. But these days, I’m no longer scared of it.

The captain is still as dedicated to this life, her ship, her crew, as ever. We still hunt the bad guys, stand up for those who need it. But the work feels less hopeless now, more like we’re making an actual difference. And because of what we went through, because our purpose remains the same, our crew has only become stronger, more tight-knit, more like a family since the day Han Yujun finally died.

So this, the crew, the ship, it feels like forever. I’d like for it to be. It would be my first.

I asked the captain once, if she thought she would one day put all of this behind her, settle down somewhere, maybe start a family, and she had scowled at me.

“And do what? Plant vegetables? Become a sedentary housewife, sit on the porch all day? No, thanks. I’d rather be out here, be free, be of use.”

I had nodded. It was understandable, after all. And really, I couldn’t picture her like that, either, at least not anytime soon.

“But what about a family? You could have that here, too?”

She had blinked at me for a solid second before she made a face, slapped my arm, shook her head like I had just suggested something outlandish.

But I can imagine it. A little captain running around the ship, growing up in conditions that normal people would frown at, but with more love than the little thing could ever wish for. Because we would all love on them. Maybe a little girl with Minho’s fierce eyes. A little Jisung with chubby cheeks and big, brown doe eyes that nobody can say no to. And even just seeing how Minho cares for Soonie, Doongie and Dori, how his voice softens when he talks to them, how he plays with them sometimes when he thinks nobody’s watching. They would make good parents. I dare say we all would.

But whatever happens, I will be around until the end. I couldn’t imagine a better place to be. I have a roof over my head, a warm cabin where the sunlight streams in in the morning. Soft, baby blue sheets with hand embroidered daisies that one of my best friends made for me. A kitchen I can call my own and a crew to feed. Jisung to prep the food for me and Changbin to do the dishes with me, when we don’t get distracted kissing each other until our lips are numb.

A crew I call my family. A captain I would follow until the ends of the earth. The captain’s second-in-command, who protects us all like it’s his second nature. A best friend who loves me with more enthusiasm than I ever thought I deserved. A boyfriend who likes me, might love me, exactly for who I am.

A really beautiful life.

< interlude - THE END

series masterlist // skzms masterlist // kofi

🔖 taglist: follow and turn on notifications for my library account: @skzms-library 🔞 I monitor ages over there, just like I used to do with my taglist. I will block minors and ageless blogs, and you'll have to message me again to get unblocked. so just have your age in your bio before you follow!

[spadesolace]

analyze my heart

thomasian! chaewon x lasallian! reader

one thing chaewon developed while taking her undergrad course, she unintentionally psychoanalyzes the people around her, especially her girlfriend

word count: 1.4k

spade speaks: advance valentine’s day 🩵

chaewon isn’t one to make her feelings known that easily. partially that was the reason why she took psychology as her major, to better understand her mind and what she feels- only to end up psychoanalyzing everyone around her.

it started with her parents - her dad specifically. the small mood swings that always resulted in a screaming match only for chaewon to run back to her room and cry about it. every conversation would start with them having a lovely chat and one small mistake from her would lead to her father asking her credibility.

“oh- why aren’t you confident when we talk about these things?”

“dad, i just-“

something simply caused their relationship to be rocky. no longer was her father the same caring man that she looked up to when growing up...

but their fights slowly decreased, once she found a way to slowly manipulate her father that would benefit the two of them. one that would result in a peaceful evening with little to none fighting and for her mother to finally relax.

her mother was next - her own insecurities being the target in every conversation. one of which is how religious her mother is. the idea of her daughter liking women brought such a drift in their relationship that it was chaewon’s goal to find out how it all started. all it took was a few glasses of wine and the right questions just for her mother to spill everything to her. to which everything made sense - her own grandparents were the stereotypical traditional family.

chaewon understood that psychoanalyzing her parents let alone sometimes her friends are crossing the line but then - you.

for her, you were the biggest mystery she has encountered. for someone that goes at the university that is known as the reddest of flags, you were the same as your university. a walking green flag.

your first date within españa made her realize how guarded you were. little to no details but the basics being shared yet you had chaewon swooning over you within the course of three hours. a complete mystery that she wishes to unveil.

it continued on - as you slowly opened up to chaewon a part of her wishes to learn more how deep your thoughts go. there were little icks she had gotten but that was merely due to the status quo. all she did was analyze you, yet you ended up analyzing her feelings.

“y/n… gusto kita (i like you).”

“i like you too, chaewon.”

even when things were made official between you two, chaewon still tried her best to unravel the mystery that is you. to find an answer as to what makes you - you.

on the other hand, you were making sure that kim chaewon wouldn’t break your heart. the stereotype that thomasians are ghosters left a bitter taste in your mouth, and hearing your friends warn you while dating chaewon. your guard was up and even if you’ve shared sentiments and traumas to her, it wasn’t one that would make her break you that easily.

you’ve heard stories of psychology majors being the reddest of flags but you never believed in them until you experienced it yourself.

sure, her university isn’t the best considering the amount of dramas and conspiracies you’ve heard from your friends but you never once thought of it as something that could affect your relationship with chaewon.

you’re well aware that chaewon tends to bottle her feelings up, not until she explodes like a soda bottle shaken and explodes as you open it. here she was, in your apartment ignoring you as she sighs every other minute. chaewon and amongst all other students from her university despise the admins at how inhumane their workloads are or how students are treated like robots but here you are.

“chae, take a break for a bit? you haven’t eaten anything yet.”

chaewon choose to ignore you as she read through her assignment again and again, switching from one file to another but you only grow more concerned as she continues to ignore your presence.

“chae… come on, just eat something.”

ignored yet again, you would have let it slide if it weren’t so later in the evening that you caught her up at 2AM still doing her assignments and readings. you’re used to her ignoring you when she has a bunch of schoolworks to finish but you’re still concerned for your girlfriend.

“chae…”

“Y/N. STOP! can’t you see me studying here? ihave to finish this by tonight and I can’t focus if you keep on-“

a part of you blocks out the rest of what chaewon had to say. the last thing you wanted to hear from her is screaming at you and blaming you. you watch her spit venom at you, taking it all in and realizing this was the girl you’ve been dating for two years. she broke again and you could only see how fierce and annoyed she is at you.

you made sure she won’t break your heart - yet here you are standing still as she packs her stuff. feeling your heart break as you do nothing and let her walk out of your place like many nights before.

this wasn’t the first time it’s happened.

this wasn’t the first time kim chaewon walked out on you.

this wasn’t the first time you heard a knock at your door at 3AM with a drunk chaewon waiting for you to open the door.

this wasn’t the first time you kissed her back while she’s intoxicated in your arms.

it’s a cycle. she breaks then leaves for a couple of days, you ignore her and she comes crawling back to you asking for forgiveness.

you’ve long analyzed her heart and her desire to keep you around despite how toxic it has become - despite knowing she wishes to learn more about you to use it against you.

everytime it happens, chaewon can’t hate you. she’s aware that half of the time it’s her that’s the problem. you’ve been so understanding and just wanting to take care of her yet here she is fucking it up once again by screaming at you as you let her do it.

you aren’t a people pleaser.

“do you not care about people’s opinions?” chaewon could only watch you shake your head as you finish writing your paper and ignoring every message and plead your classmates send your way for help.

“let them talk, it’s not my job to remind them of their responsibilities.” there was no sign of caring for what your friend’s have to say as you leave them in the dark as you close your laptop and silence your phone. ending the day with chaewon in your arms as you lay in her bed.

your family is so supportive.

she hasn’t seen any parent that is so supportive of their child who went for their passion, even if it were a small thing on a paper once you graduate. still, it baffles her knowing that you wanted to venture out and although there were some restrictions that made your parents say no to your crazy desires. they were still supportive as you tell them your project for your minor program with a huge smile on your face as they listened intently and asked questions. she feels out of place whenever your parents would ask her questions about her life, is this what having a normal conversation with relatives feels like?

and you never mentioned anything that left you questioning everything in life as you hit a dark point in your life.

you’re a mystery to kim chaewon because how could you be so perfectly fine with her screaming at you at the top of her lungs and leaving you for days until she’s back at your place wearing your clothes.

you have her wrapped around your finger as she circles around looking for a way to be above you. one thing chaewon never accounted for is that you’re too self aware.

chaewon can’t find your issues, what makes you imperfect but you know well enough what those are to hide it from anyone but yourself. not a day goes by where you mentally beat yourself for things you have no desire of telling anyone and sure, chaewon loves to psychoanalyze you as you keep this facade.

at the end of the day, you have her heart, knowing what she wants in a relationship and simply taking it as it is. even if there is something chaewon could use against you - you’ve analyzed her before she could even realize it.

[greenlakegalpals]

thinking about schneider again and how she has truely been through A LOT.

ultra religious catholic family from 1920's italy, born as the thirteenth child, in a storm, her mother remarried(divorce is NOT seen so highly in those times especially when youre ultra religious roman catholic, wouldnt be surprised if she was blamed for that). seen as a bad luck. slap in some religious trauma where she wonders if god hates her.

outright neglected and malnourished because there were too many mouths to feed family and very little food to go around in a country so extremely impoverished at the time. then her family moves to chicago usa of all places, now she has to deal with racism ontop of being an immigrant girl who didnt speak a lick of english. had to learn it by force, had to find odd jobs to support her family. considering shes based off a showgirl, very possible that was one of her many jobs to keep herself and her family afloat. so add sexism and the very real and common threat of sexual harrasment she nost likely dealt with. then she goes into bootlegging, though its helping her family..... this brings gangsters and cops and rival bootleggers who dont like competition.

so she had to defend herself and her families future. she had to sacrifice her own principles. shes not a killer, shes not a cold blooded unfeeling murderer. she loves and feels so deeply, especially for her family that she HAD to do the unthinkable, went against everything she was raised to be just to support them. even if it meant killing and lying and blackmailing.

oh and dont forget the religious trauma that made her think next to nothing about herself. she thinks herself as a sinner, cursed and left by god. the way she talks about herself obviously imply she thinks she deserves punishment.

i cant stop thinking about this girl

[ssparksflyy]

Hiii I hope you are having a great day!! I was wondering if you could make another percy jackson x daughter of Hecate reader? If you don’t/ can’t do it that’s fine I just though i would ask.

ask and thou shall receive ༉‧₊˚.

percy jackson dating hcs ! *���✩‧₊˚

pairing: percy jackson x latina!daughter of hecate!reader warning(s): swearin an: dw i got ur 2nd request that u wanted reader to be latina :)) i just added in some little things that tie in ♡♡ srry if these are short btw </3

in the dead of night, your eyes so greennnnnnnn

you and percy tend to stay up later than most of camp

your always up and out after curfew

you js function better at night okay

me asf

the day is reserved for lake dates and the night is reserved for sky watching dates ♡♡

youre literally attached by the hip if you couldnt tell

as they say in waitress, i love you means your never ever getting rid of me ♡

you usually watch from the roof of cabin 3, just cuddled up and sharing a blanket

but once percy suggested you watch from the docks

and you were like oh!

not actually but you looked really hesitant

he was like whats wrong??

so you told him about la llorona !! #coquette

it was so preppy

but now youre both scared to go to the lake at night

even though yk shes not real

and youve literally been through tartarus

and back

and you face unimaginable horrors every day

and percy's literally the son of the sea god

mexican folklore is scary ok yall

idc if it didnt scare you as a kid / you like horror

I DONT

IM TRAUMATIZED

MY GRANDMA PUT ON LA LEYENDA DE LA LLORONA WHEN I WAS FIVE AND I HAVENT KNOWN A DAY OF PEACE SINCE

sorry for trauma dumping yall

kinda silly how some story about a lady who drowned her kids is enough to make 2 of camp half blood's strongest soldiers shake in their boots

so u stick to rooftops ♡

you and hazel are bestiessss

shes a honorary member of cabin 20 of course

you exchange tips and tricks, hazel telling you about the things she saw hecate do and the things she said to her

and you tell her about the things youve picked up over the years :))

percy cant help but smile whenever he sees you two together

he sees hazel as a sister

(yall remember in son when he was ready to fight somebody for her or something like that i dont remember exactly what he said but i do know he was ready to fight)

and ur his fav girl ever ♡

his heart just feels warmed

same way he feels when he sees you playing with estelle

you show her a bit of ur powers and she flips outtttt

she asks sally to be a witch for halloween because "i want to be just like (y/n)!!!"

dont know about yall but if i went home and my family found out i was involved with ~brujeria~ i would not be accepted at home (please read as if youre white and cant say shit in spanish)

thats just the mad religious side talking dont worry yall

but sally and paul would literally let you in with open arms

the jackson's apartment is your second home

percy has a drawer reserved for your clothes in his room ♡♡

he loves it when you sleepover, at home or at camp

he absolutely adores kissing your hands

he doesnt care about the dangers you can produce from them, he'll kiss em allllll he wants

you could be cuddled up together, ur reading to him and he just grabs one of your hands and begins to leave a trail of kisses up your arm, shoulder, neck, cheek, and eventually leaving one on your temple

it just gets you like 😵‍💫

he loves his badass girlfriend, okay?

literally your #1 fan

would beat up anybody who talks shit !!!

tea is your holy ground ♡

because you cant drink coffee

cause ya know, adhd, youll just end up knocking out

though you do drink it when you cant fall asleep at night

its me, hi

and hot chocolate is strickly an only-in-december drink, because then it wont hit in december, since you had it earlier in the year

(my mom does that with gorditas and tamales broooo its painful)

so ya drink tea!

i dont drink tea, so im not even gonna try to tell you what his favorite is

he likes whatever you like

but you try a bunch of different teas and stuff together :)

youd probably adopt a black cat together when youre older

youre never gonna beat your neighbor's witch allegations

(probably because theyre true but youll obviously never say that)

i feel like percy would be more of a dog person but lets be real, he likes horses.

fuckin horse girl smh

but that does not mean he wouldnt love and care for the cat

he'd so let you stop to pet any stray cat you see on the street

takes pictures of the cat anytime you do ♡

you cook together !!

you teach percy a bunch of different recipes and stuff :)

has a 'kiss the cook' apron 100%

and what can ya say, you gotta kiss the cook

man you guys manage to stay silly throughout the horrors, we love

[sophieinwonderland]

Reminder That System Medicalism is a Religion: Exhibit A, @theinfernalcollective

This is pretty typical sysmed rhetoric.

And in typical sysmed fashion, has no sources to back it up whatsoever! As always, sysmeds rely on an argument by assertion. Facts just aren't on their side.

Never have been, never will be.

So they give a couple sources.

First is the DSM which doesn't say trauma is needed in all cases of DID, only that it's associated with trauma. It makes no such claim for OSDD-1 being associated with trauma at all. And on top of that, doesn't even mention the word system. Which is pretty big since most endogenic systems don't have a dissociative disorder and don't claim to.

Basically, it's a nothing source that doesn't back up what they claim it does.

As for Dr Candy Fox...

There's no evidence she actually said this.

And she has yet to respond to the message I sent her website. (Because yes, I did send her a message on her site to see if she actually agreed with this.)

But based on the context, it seems pretty obvious she would have been talking about dissociative identity disorder, not "being a system."

Now, before going any further into this conversation, let's take a step back and remember The Infernal Collective asking the anon to name a single psychiatrist, obviously expecting they wouldn't be able to.

How did THAT go?

Oh right, it's how it always goes when you meet a sysmeds' goalposts!

Did you expect anything different?

"This psychiatrist saying you can be plural without trauma doesn't count because he's talking about transgender people."

"And also the screenshots of his peer-reviewed book that was published by the American Psychiatric Association are posted on a site I don't like."

So when linked to an email from a dissociative expert, someone with 40 years of experience treating dissociative identity disorder, they again retreat to just... not liking the website the image is posted on?

And again, their source for Dr. Candy Fox was just something they allegedly heard in person during evaluationMeanwhile this is an actual email, with one of the foremost DID experts in the world!

Also, for the love of the gods, Transgender Mental Health does NOT say "transgender make plurality." Actually read the thing!!!

But hey, now that I'm done with that particular conversation and got what I need to make my point, I'll confess! All these anons were me!

Reminder, again, their source was "my doctor said it, trust me bro!"

And while I only named a couple doctors over the course of that conversation, I could have dropped so many more!

The fact is, it's not hard to look at a link and read the screenshots therein. Here, I'll even post the pics!

And in case you're thinking that they just trust Dr. Candy Fox's opinion so much and hold her in such high regard...

Nope.

But then...

WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU BASING YOUR BELIEFS ON?

Because it's not psychiatry. You can't cite a single doctor anywhere who has said you can't be a system without trauma!

System Medicalism is a Religion!

Sysmeds, like transmeds, do not base their bigotry in science or rationality. They do not follow the opinions of experts.

It's a religion to them! The Church of the Holy Trauma believes that Trauma and only Trauma has the might to bestow plurality upon the few chosen. And their faith is so unshakable because they've been told this by random uneducated nobodies on the internet, and it just feels true.

And because their FAITH in this idea is so strong, no amount of studies will change their mind. No amount of doctors coming forward to support endogenic systems. No amount of literal brain scans will convince them endogenic systems are real. As the saying goes, you can't reason someone outs of a position they didn't reason themselves into in the first place.

In the end, sysmeds continue to be an anti-science hate group with a religious devotion to their ideology of hate.

And this whole disaster is just another example of that.

[nalyra-dreaming]

I honestly can’t wait for Louis to finally connect the dots between many of Lestat’s behaviors and his past.

The fact the reason why Lestat was so mad at Paul and his religious rant is that he lost faith after God didn’t save him from the week long rape at Magnus’ hands. The reason behind his “set himself on fire” comment being that his mother ignored him like Louis did. The way his comments about being alone and leaving him struck Lestat so badly because everyone he loved abandoned him, everything he cared for hurt him, and everything he didn’t want followed and suffocated him. The reason why he was so awful to Claudia about Bruce being his own SA trauma. The threats made by Marius if he were ever to talk about the other vampires being the reason he kept them in the dark for all those years. And so many others.

I just wonder how Louis might react when learning all these information. Will he want to talk about it with Lestat? Will he be mad that he didn’t voice all that sooner? Will he feel bad for all the times he and Claudia inadvertently triggered his trauma? Would all those scenes be shown at all? Oh I have so many questions.

I hope they will be, just talked about this in another ask, but I HOPE that Louis will be there for some of those "documentary" scenes.

And I think he will react in ALL of these ways. He will experience all kinds of emotions when the pieces click into place at least, when he will ... understand.

A lot of understanding for Lestat's actions in s1&2 can only come from knowledge of his past. It is hinted at, but Louis' view of Lestat is a skewed one, an incomplete one.

It is no surprise that they reunite in the books when Louis understands.

And I think that might be the same in the show.