#i feel visceral rage when i remember he exists

[littlemyinvadeshighbury]

Everyday I'm forced to wake up in a world where Richard Dawkins invented the word meme

#i feel visceral rage when i remember he exists #the selfish gene #richard dawkins #evolutionary biology #anthropology #why did HE get to invent it huh #hes just so lame #this all stems from having to read The Selfish Gene in one of my bioanth courses #and it felt like utter bullshit bc of my brain #my personal hell #meme

[happyk44]

Coral and Percy have the best relationship between a schizoid sister and a borderline brother.

"I think I'd notice if you stopped calling me."

Percy paused from where he'd been balancing a coin on his desk to flick around. He shifted, his phone sliding off his shoulder and away from his ear until he caught it quick and pressed it back. "What?"

Coral's voice was flat on the other side. "I think I'd notice if you stopped calling." The pause was like a still breeze. Then, "I don't normally notice that kind of thing."

Because she didn't remember people unless externally prompted, Percy remembered. And even then it was only things she closely associated with the person - like books and coffee and TV shows they watched together for her mom.

He shifted in his chair, drawing his legs to his chest. Inside his heart was fluttery. A tickling wave. He grinned in spite of himself. "That's nice." He tilted his head back. "But would you call me once you noticed?"

"Probably not."

He snorted. Figures, he thought. Par for the course, but still a little disappointing. He'd call her, if he realized they hadn't spoken for a while. It was literally the reason they'd been talking for the last twenty minutes. He wasn't that attached to her but she was chronically alone. And she was his sister. And she was important. She helped him survive his way to Camp Jupiter, helped him with his powers.

(Although he could do without the feeling of wanting to explode someone into nothing but bloody paste whenever his rage spiked, but that wasn't something she exactly expected to happen when she was trying to teach him to let go of the gentle tides and embrace the raging storm)

She wasn't someone he wanted to forget and set aside like they never existed, never mattered.

"But I'd check if you were dead."

His head fell down. The coin on his desk glinted up at him. "Oh?"

"If you're not dead, I'll assume you're busy," she went on. "Or that you don't want to call me. And if you are dead, I'll visit your grave."

Back were the delightful flutters. "Will you bring flowers?"

"That's what you're supposed to do," she said.

He pressed a foot on the leg of his desk and pushed back. Rolling across the floor, he bumped into the frame of his bed. "You're also supposed to call people you like."

"But I don't have anything to talk about," she said. "Why would I call just to hang up?"

He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "You don't have to have something to talk about. You can just call to check in or see how things are or-" He gestured wildly with his free hand. "-to fucking just say you're still alive!" He scooted aggressively around to kick himself off the bedframe and roll backwards into his desk.

She was silent. A second ticked by, then another and another. The tense silence throttled him.

Once, during their journey to Camp Jupiter, Percy woke up sobbing from a dream he couldn't recall. Complicated feelings welled up in his throat - anger, panic, distress, fear. It was like his body remembered something volatile his amnesiac brain had thrown away. In that moment, he'd desperately wished it hadn't.

Coral woke up to his cries. She sat there for a few seconds and tried to soothe him almost robotically. Rubbing his back and murmuring, "It's okay. Everything's fine." After a couple minutes, his cries and shaking still hadn't subsided so she just. Left. Grabbed her sleeping bag and her backpack and walked off, leaving him to suffer in the dark and cold alone.

Eventually he cried himself back to sleep like a baby. When he woke up again, she was there with breakfast. He'd gotten pissed at the sight of her. The memory of her unintended rejection burned through his veins. It was like a switch snapped in his brain. Suddenly helpful friend and sister turned into callous acquaintance. He shouted at her viscerally, growing angrier and angrier as she sat there unmoving, unchanging, uncaring.

He couldn't remember what he'd screamed, but her words afterwards still rung clearly in his head. A flat "Are you done?"

He was not. But instead of screaming more, he had stormed off to go slash at some trees until the boiling simmered down. She just sat a couple hundred yards away waiting. Daydreaming. Unbothered by his destructive mood or the fact that he was clearly upset.

The switch slowly cranked back to "friend and sister" over the course of the next couple weeks, clicking back into place when she stepped in to save him from a group of monsters determined to prove his invincible skin had its limits. It was during that time, and the moments together thereafter, he pieced together that Coral wasn't good with emotion.

She followed life according to a script. Thank the bus driver. Tip your waiter. Basic things she'd learned from her mom. Things she didn't even care about, or really get the point of. Soothe your brother when he wakes up crying from an episode. Pat his back and tell him everything is fine. What someone would do for a child who skinned their knee.

But Percy's cries hadn't been from a skinned knee. There was no bandaid to place, or ointment to give. A cookie would not stop him from his blubbering.

So she simply bounced. Without a script to determine the next steps, she simply did not care enough to stick around when she wanted to sleep. Which made it kind that she helped him later on with those monsters - knowing full well they couldn't hurt him and that eventually he'd strike them all down himself.

Made it kind that she bought him food he liked in the morning after his episode, when gas station snacks were closer and cheaper to get.

The stronger an emotion was displayed, the less likely she was to deal with it. If Percy had been sniffling instead of on the very edge of screaming, she probably wouldn't have left. Whether or not she could feel the sensation herself, outward display of emotion, especially towards her, clearly made her uncomfortable.

The last time Percy had seen her in person, there'd been a minor altercation at a cafe that led to some guy screeching at her in the parking lot. Percy had boiled with anger at everything he said, his hands itching to hit back. But Coral just stared blankly. The longer she stayed quiet and empty-faced, the louder and angrier the guy got.

This guy wasn't Percy. She wasn't helping him get from point A to point B. She didn't need to stick around and listen to him scream. So after the second spike of volume and rage in the guy, she took Percy's wrist and began walking away.

Which only pissed the asshole off even more. He followed them, Coral kept walking, Percy kept wanting to do something stupid - a faint voice in his head reminding him not to be impulsive, that punching an angry douchebag would only lead to more issues.

But after the guy followed them to the edge of the parking lot, Coral simply turned on her heel and choked him where he stood with a simple look. Instantly everything in Percy turned from raging hot to ice code. The man had fallen to his knees as Coral regarded him. It wasn't even a cruel indifference. Just emptiness - like she was deciding if she wanted a toasted or untoasted bagel.

Before Percy could tell her to stop, she did it herself, turned, and carried on like nothing had happened. The silence that paraded between them then was almost the same as now. Distantly Percy knew it was all in his head - just like then Coral was simply in her own world. If she'd wanted to hang up because he got a little bit too loud, he'd be hearing the ringtone.

She could handle him being a bit too loud, a bit too vibrant. It was his Poseidon nature, she'd say. Like being quietly, and sometimes tortuously, detached was her Neptune-born way.

Still. He didn't like it. But he held his tongue and resisted the urge to say her name, the way he would've if he was talking to Grover and the line went quiet for too long.

Finally, "Do you want me to call you to tell you I'm still alive?"

"I'd appreciate it, yeah," he said. His pulse slowed with her voice.

"Okay." A pause. "I'm alive."

It was the most dry way he'd ever heard someone declare they were alive. Laughter hit him in the gut. It rolled through him, bringing a quiet quake with it, before erupting through his mouth and bouncing out into the air. Seconds later, he sagged back into his chair. Quiet giggles simmered down as he closed his eyes.

"Thanks for letting me know," he said.

"You're welcome." Pause. "How many times am I supposed to do that? My mom said once a month is fine for her, but you are." Pause. He pulled his knees to his chest again. His chin nestled between them. "Needier," she decided and he scowled, "than she is."

"I am not needy!"

"You call me a lot."

His eyes snapped open. His pulled his phone away from his face to stare at it in befuddlement. Then back to his ear to huff, "This is the second time I've called you in the last four months!"

"What's your point?"

His point? "Your mom called you way more than that!"

"She's my mom." Percy dropped his forehead to his knees, suppressing the urge to groan. "Besides, she doesn't expect me to respond. You do."

The groan broke free. Coral didn't respond to it. "Once a month is fine," he said slowly, lifting his head. "Or once every two months. Your choice. Just..." A thought hit him. "Do you even have my number?"

He knew he took hers and gave his over - but whether or not she'd put it into her phone or even listened when he told it to her was up in the air.

"Of course. I memorized it."

His back straightened. "You did?"

"Of course," she said. "I memorized my mom's and yours. What if I lose my phone and need to call you?"

But she didn't call. What she did in life never struck her as important to talk about, so his phone never rang with her waiting on the other line. And still she memorized his number. Just in case.

He tucked into himself again. "Good point."

"I'm tired of talking now," she said and he almost laughed at the straightforwardness of it.

There was a gentle pang in his chest - a nervous sensation that she was tired of him. It was a feeling he was annoyingly familiar with. Talking to Grover and hearing him give a little sigh in the middle of a conversation would strike it up. Coming home with monster guts on new clothes, his mom giving a pinched frown as she threw them in the wash. Annabeth whenever he asked her too many clarification questions during one of her planning rants.

Obviously the feeling was dumb. He knew they weren't tired of him. Maybe sometimes, but not enough to worry that they'd grow too exhausted by his presence and throw him to the curb. He'd worry anyway. He could bat the feeling off as much as he wanted but a piece always remained. Like lint. Tt was really only with Coral the feeling was easy to ball up and throw away in its entirety. If she was tired of him, she'd tell him. She was never anything but blunt and upfront.

She didn't know how not to be. Sometimes he found it a little enviable.

"Bye, Percy. I'll tell you if I'm alive in a month."

He grinned. With a warm laugh, he replied contentedly, "Looking forward to it."

#my writing #percy jackson #pjo fanfic #my fanfic #daughters of neptune #happy's asks #glitterytheoristmentality #idk if i did bpd percy any justice but lol i tried to squeeze in some symptoms there #anyway i am. tired. lol. but hey first fic of 2024 #happy talks pjo #bpd!percy

[batfleckgifs]

Hi, I love your gifs! But this is an unconventional ask tho.

Here is something actually I want to discuss with someone, kind of asking for confirmation or a second opinion, and feel free to ignore this if this is too weird.

In ZSJL, when Clark was just resurrected, he was fighting the League and steadily making his way to Bruce. I always think of it as because he was provoked by Cyborg, so he started fighting the League, then he was provoked some more because he was fired upon. Therefore he was simply mowing down everyone he sees, anyone who was present.

But with theatrical cut it was more like he was specifically targeting Bruce.

I don't know if it was because theatrical cut's existence influenced others to think the same in ZSJL, or that it influenced me to think differently, or is this a free for interpretation not transparent kind of thing.

Please share your thoughts if you want! And I'm sorry how long it got oops.

Don't even worry about it. I love talking about these movies non stop so it's never a bother truly.

I think just as a clear cut clarification: the snydercut was the original intent so the theatrical cut is the frankenstein's monster so to speak.

But I think yeah the Snyder Cut tells the story as Clark's resurrection triggering Victor's defense mechanism which in turn provokes Clark to protect himself. He doesn't really grow aggressive until he was hit with Cyborg's blast if I'm remembering correctly.

The Joss Whedon cut, I'm afraid I remember less, but I think that read is valid because it is carried a bit from the Snyder cut too where there's this interesting moment where you're aware that Clark doesn't have memory of much if at all but his last moments with Bruce in BVS are still enough to evoke such a visceral reaction to him that his rage and confusion is projected to him the very moment he sees him.

Like if you rewatch this moment - you can clearly see that there's an intrinsic recognition in him when Bruce comes into the scene that isn't really there when its just the other four members of that league.

The ferocity of that intent I think is definitely up to you. Although I think the "Do you bleed?" mocking he does in Joss Whedon's version makes it more bluntly obvious compared to like the Snyder it which also does heavily mirror or echo the Nightmare Dream as well as that moment in BVS before the fight. I do think that is un-characteristic of Clark though. Just for me personally.

#aesrc-stel #inbox. #does this answer your question? i'm not suuuure #but i hope this helps! #lol i'm happy to talk more if this just sounds like nonsense to you

[starlit-hopes-and-dreams]

Word Find Tag

Catch up p4, completing May's backlog 😅 Thanks for the tag, @dogmomwrites! <3

Special rules for this one: If you can't find a word, leave a fun fact about your WIP, OCs, or writing process!

My words: harbinger, reserve, viscera, lunge, and note

Your words: denial, death, deserve, distance, and distress

Gently tagging: @k--havok, @poetinprose, @experi-sketches

Wow,, these words were hard! Had to skip back to Shattered Soul to get four out of the five, instead of three lol.

CW for blood, and extremely crude language in viscera, im so sorry 😅

Harbinger

Yeah, didn't think I'd have this one (in any of my wips, apparently lol). Fun fact time!

I enjoy this book so much that I've considered making Shattered Dreams a prequel and starting with this one.

Reserve Alaia

"Who—what are you?" she whispered. He cocked his head. "I'm Darian Arrio-alvaro Devante, a Guardian class mage. What has happened to you, little fae? Where is your clan?" Her eyes widened as golden scrollwork appeared on his temples, framing his eyes for a moment before fading out again. She bit her lip, unsure how to answer that. Why did they think she was fae? Was that the only reason they weren't slicing her head from her body at this moment, or ripping into her with those fangs? Pain cascaded through her again, even worse this time. Tears pricked her eyes as she leaned forward, a whimper escaping as her shadow pulsed with waves of urgent warning. She felt whatever reserves of magic the Veil had given her gutter and recognized her borrowed time was running out.

Viscera Serin

"She was easy enough to manipulate the first time," Marcus said with a laugh. "She's nothing but a lying whore, but at least she's an enthusiastic whore. I can see why you risked being sent to Menai for a chance to fuck her. I hope her cunt was worth it." Serin shook with rage and a visceral terror as Marcus approached him as well. Serin's body remembered what Marcus had done to it, what he was capable of. The goddess licked her lips. Delicious. He has such fear of you, Marcus. He feels such despair at the thought of you fucking his lover.

Lunge Alaia

Kiral crumpled beneath her, and she fell with him, twisting to avoid falling on his sword. Scrambling up, she lunged across the sand to Darian. Jesam held him in his lap, tears tracking down his dirty face as he held a hand over the wound, trying to staunch the blood that was gushing out. "Get the leathers off!" Alaia shouted as she kneeled beside them, taking Darian's pale ash-streaked face in between her hands. "You will stay with me. I will never forgive you if you told me I'm your mate only to run away from me to die." He tried to speak, his amber eyes pained as they locked onto hers, but nothing emerged from his mouth except blood, and he coughed.

Note Aleix

Aleix scrubbed a hand over his face, thinking he had never been so bored in his entire century of existence. Alaia was incredibly wary of all of them. As a result, she spent most of her time outside in the gardens behind the Hall of Healing. After Aleix had persuaded her to come to the beach with him, no one had been able to keep her out of them. So, he had spent the last four weeks watching as she weeded, pruned, and watered the plants. She resisted any attempts to draw her into conversation and continued to refuse offers to see the city or visit a grove. Which left him with nothing to do but stand there. Kiala said the gardening was good exercise to rebuild her endurance after her ordeal. Alaia had accepted the herbal and the little journal Kiala had offered her, taking the book outside with her and making notes about the various plants when her body made her rest. That had been fairly often to start, but he could tell she was gaining strength. The sun had given her pallid skin a healthy glow, and she was starting to put on some weight. All good signs of physical recovery. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, stifling a sigh. He was not used to being inactive.

#starlit plays tag games #word find tag #shattered soul #once again very sorry for the things Marcus says XD

[whimsicaldragonette]

ARC Review: We Could Be So Good by Cat Sebastian

Preorder

Add to Goodreads

Publication Date: June 6, 2023

Synopsis:

[I have opted to remove the comps listed on Goodreads because they are nonsense.]

Nick Russo has worked his way from a rough Brooklyn neighborhood to a reporting job at one of the city's biggest newspapers. But the late 1950s are a hostile time for gay men, and Nick knows that he can't let anyone into his life. He just never counted on meeting someone as impossible to say no to as Andy. Andy Fleming's newspaper-tycoon father wants him to take over the family business. Andy, though, has no intention of running the paper. He's barely able to run his life--he's never paid a bill on time, routinely gets lost on the way to work, and would rather gouge out his own eyes than deal with office politics. Andy agrees to work for a year in the newsroom, knowing he'll make an ass of himself and hate every second of it. Except, Nick Russo keeps rescuing Andy: showing him the ropes, tracking down his keys, freeing his tie when it gets stuck in the ancient filing cabinets. Their unlikely friendship soon sharpens into feelings they can't deny. But what feels possible in secret--this fragile, tender thing between them--seems doomed in the light of day. Now Nick and Andy have to decide if, for the first time, they're willing to fight.

My Rating: ★★★★★

A few months ago he told himself that his choices—that any queer person’s choices—were either to hide or brazen it out, and that’s still true. But there’s another possibility: pushing back against the injustices that force people to make impossible choices.

*My Review and Favorite Quotes below the cut.

My Review:

I read this book in one sitting - while I was supposed to be reading an entirely different book. I picked it up meaning to read a chapter or two while I ate lunch -- because it's easier to read on a kindle than a paperback while eating -- and the next thing I knew I was turning the last page. I can't remember the last time I did that. I knew I would love it from the beginning; that was a given - it's a Cat Sebastian book. But I wasn't prepared for how much I would love it, or for how many feelings it gave me. This book is devastating in its quiet queer joy and relentless hope while living in the face of prejudice and hate. It's about a queer couple in the newspaper publishing world of New York City of the 1950s. It's about the slow realization of feelings, and the inevitable and infinitesimal merging of lives, and the way you can breathe easier when you have a community of people like you who understand you and know you. It's about the comfort and happiness to be found in the little things in life. And it's so soft and domestic, even with the uncertainty and the lies and the hiding. Which takes skill. I teared up several times, enough that it made it difficult to keep reading. I *felt* the truth in this story viscerally. Times may have changed (somewhat) but I could still understand the hesitance and the fear and defiant joy that make up a queer existence. In some ways it was starkly different than Cat Sebastian's other books, and yet in other ways it felt familiar. She straddled the line between quiet joy and simmering rage at the realities of queer life. It was intense and healing and beautiful. I didn't want it to end. I was bracing myself for tragedy as the book progressed, and I'm so glad that isn't the sort of story Cat Sebastian is telling here. That instead she is telling a story of people who just want to live their lives, and who find the courage in themselves to do so despite the fear and threats. Like Nick, I was dreading reading about another queer tragedy. The characters were beautifully drawn and felt so real. I came to care about them so much and feel like they were my friends. It was masterfully done. The setting also felt incredibly, painfully real. It was 100% believable. *Thanks to NetGalley and Avon for providing an early copy for review.

Favorite Quotes:

Nick has spent years making sure that when people look at him, they don’t see anything that sticks out like a sore thumb—they don’t see anything at all, they hardly even see a person, just a man in a suit.

---

Andy gives him this flat, disappointed look that Nick recognizes because Nick invented it and now he’s going to have to sue Andy for copyright infringement.

---

“Back in his day they didn’t have Band-Aids,” Nick continues. “They just slapped mud on their wounds and went back to drawing the news on the walls of their caves.” “I can still hear you,” Jorgensen says. “It’s nice when the elderly keep their hearing,” Andy observes.

---

“It’s the creme de menthe,” Nick says, eying the green liquid distastefully. “It’s like drinking toothpaste, if toothpaste got ideas above its station.”

---

“A heart doctor, though,” he says in a tone that suggests that getting jilted in favor of cardiologists is all anyone can expect. That maybe Andy should have considered medical school if he didn’t want to get jilted. That Emily did what she had to do, because who could turn down a heart doctor?

---

“I was going to make minestrone soup,” Nick says. “You like soup.” “I do like soup,” Andy agrees. “I take it that’s an invitation, not you taunting me with soup I don’t get to eat.”

---

He feels as if he’s been turned inside out, as if he just learned that a part of his heart is on the outside of his body, in the possession of somebody else entirely.

---

But somehow, a journalist being hurt because he’s on to a dangerous story seems less traumatic than someone being attacked for living his life.

---

Andy worries that it’s his lot in life to be mocked by elderly Italian women.

---

Andy isn’t expecting an epiphany at eight on a Monday morning when he’s still mostly asleep, when his first cup of coffee is still hot in his hand. Honestly, Andy isn’t expecting an epiphany ever.

---

A couple times a year, Nick finds a tale of gay misery and woe on his desk, because apparently Bailey has taken it upon himself to be Nick’s personal sad gay librarian.

----

“You have shitty taste in books. Would it kill you to read something that isn’t totally dismal?” “I’m paid for my taste in books,” Bailey says easily. “And I don’t mind dismal things. I’m trying to be your friend, aren’t I?”

---

Families might usually be bonded by blood, but maybe sometimes they’re bonded by shared secrets, by a delicate mixture of caution and faith, by the conviction that hiding together is better in every way than hiding alone.

---

That might be what turns the tide and makes Nick enjoy the book, at least a little. These men are finding time and energy to flirt and have queer parties and get jealous and fall in love despite bombs and injuries and death. That feels like the truest thing he’s ever read.

---

“Yes, well. I figured, you see.” He stops, looking suddenly at a loss. “People in New York have hearts, too, don’t they?” And Emily must really love him if she’s susceptible to a line like that.

----

A few months ago he told himself that his choices—that any queer person’s choices—were either to hide or brazen it out, and that’s still true. But there’s another possibility: pushing back against the injustices that force people to make impossible choices.

#cat sebastian #we could be so good #queer romance #queer historical romance #queer books #romance #historical romance #lgbt+ #shilo reads #arc review #netgalley #best books of 2023 #favorites #oh my god they were roommates #friends to lovers #grumpy x sunshine #soft domesticity #disaster bi

[navree]

https://href.li/?https://www.reddit.com/r/HouseOfTheDragon/comments/zjkdxf/now_this_is_an_interesting_tidbit_from_tom/?utm_source=share&utm_medium=web2x&context=3

what do you think of this? aegon and aemond were loyal to one another till the end in the book, I really hope their relationship "spiralling" isn't permanent

I think it's not out of the realm of possibility that we're going to see the relationship spiral for a period of time. TGC makes some good points in that video, which is that Aegon and Aemond have a lot of complicated feelings towards one another that have yet to be fully expressed or resolved. One thing we also have to keep in mind is that Aegon and Aemond are going to go from massive highs to massive lows in a really short amount of time in season 2. Aegon is the only person, in the book, who isn't viscerally angry/horrified/disgusted with Aemond following the events of Storm's End (he literally throws him a party my son I love you), and I think that'll likely be important for Aemond, now that the show's made it clear that he didn't intend to kill Lucerys and clearly understands that this is a massive fuckup. So we might see them get closer for a moment, if Aegon's the one trying to stick by his side while Alicent and Otto are upset with him, both out of whatever brotherly affection might exist, as well as knowing what it's like to be seen as the screw up.

Problem is, Blood and Cheese follows soon after. Blood and Cheese, for however much it was spurred by Aemond's actions, is an attack on Aegon. It's Aegon's mother who is physically assaulted in her own rooms, it's Aegon's children who are terrorized, it's Aegon sister and Aegon's wife who is being psychologically tortured, it's Aegon's daughter threatened with rape at one point, and it's Aegon's son who is murdered. Blood and Cheese are a strike by Rhaenyra against Aegon, his son for her son. And while everyone in the family is going to be hugely affected by what happens, we know from the book that Aegon takes it really badly, that he "raged, and drank, and raged", and I don't think it's out of the realm of possibility that, in that rage and that grief over what's happened to his family, is going to let loose on Aemond. Blood and Cheese say point blank "an eye for an eye, a son for a son", Jahaerys for Lucerys, and who killed Lucerys? Aemond did. It's entirely possible that Aegon is going to blame Aemond for what happened, and be vicious in doing so, and that the relationship will spiral out for a time, especially if all those other unresolved feelings get dredged up in the ensuing conversations.

I don't think it'll be a permanent rift. Things said in grief and anger are often excused, and Aegon's going through it in a way nobody else except for Helaena could understand, and Aemond's likely going to go the route of blaming himself for what happens (personally I think we should get one of those scenes where Person A allows Person B to beat them into the ground without fighting back because they think they deserve it, I would like to see it), but whatever spiraling that happens as things reach an emotional crescendo with them doesn't have to last, and likely won't. Rook's Rest happens soon afterwards, where Aegon and Aemond are fighting together against Rhaenys, and Aemond's going to be named the Prince Regent (and despite wanting to be king, very conspicuously doesn't name himself as such and only calls himself "Prince Regent and Protector of the Realm" while Aegon recovers).

And even beyond all of that, one thing to remember is that the actors aren't the writers. TGC has amazing insights into Aegon as a character and generally seems to get him far better than even the writers do sometimes, but he is still ultimately beholden to act out what he's given, and what he says at a convention isn't necessarily gospel truth unless the writers take what he says into account when starting pre-production for the next season. So his interpretations isn't necessarily how it's even going to go.

#personal #answered #anonymous #do i want to see blood and cheese? no i think it's going to be horrible #but am i excited to see how the interpersonal relationships and dynamics react to it? yes yes i am #but god i can really see the miasma of complication coming from that as it relates to aegon and aemond #and i for one am ready #i do wonder if they're going to have them both fight meleys at the same time #or if it'll be aemond and vhagar against rhaenys and meleys first #and then sunfyre and aegon swoop in to help #considering that the book makes a note of the fact that meleys could have won if she was just fighting vhagar alone #but adding in sunfyre was the thing that sealed her fate #and then of course vhagar helping save sunfyre when it seems like meleys is about to kill him #two bros saving each other and whatnot after the whole mess that came from aemond's mistake #and then aegon placing enough trust in him to want him to rule in his stead #and know that he won't usurp the crown even if he might actually want it #i think they should do some sort of 'break apart to grow closer' type thing with them they really should

[polyghostfacehours]

🏹anon here i’m trying to remember if I’ve requested for you or someone else but could we get a fic where reader kills someone for whatever reason and the boys find them and find it really hard and then they have bloody sex w possible knifeplay (but only If you wanna Ofc) bc that’s all I can think about right now 😌

I had a bad-ish day mentally, so this came out darker than expected. I also tried a different style of writing than usual. I'm really sorry that this took so long Bow! This got long because my fee-fees were working overtime. Also made it pre-relationship, because I'm a slut for best friends to lovers as a trope.

TW: NSFW, homicide, dissociation, knifeplay, bloodplay, woundplay

Poly!Ghostface x Reader - Blood on Your Hands

It felt like liquid heat ripping through your veins, the booming sound of blood rushing in your head like a too-loud swarm of cicadas. It gnashed angrily against your forehead, and the longer you stood there staring at what you'd just done, the louder it got.

Multiple stab wounds, bruising in the neck and collarbone area. You can practically see the headlines as they blaze through your mind's vision. You were going to go to jail. He hadn't even done anything to you yet, just gotten a little too words-y with you, thinly-veiled threats spilling drunkenly from him of what he'd do to your parents, your sibling, your relatives.

The worst part of this though? You felt euphoric. Truly free from the constraints of what society told you was an appropriate way to fight back. Was it undue retribution on your part? Perhaps. But damn if it didn't feel like that first kiss in adolescence, one you have after a shitty date at a roller skating rink with the first decently-attractive kid that promised to pay for your cardboard pizza and have you home by 9.

Your best friends, Billy and Stu, had always had your back. And you had always had theirs. Keeping their secret relationship from their girlfriends, when you had walked in on them one night. Covering their tracks for the illicit activities that you knew were wrong but could ignore because out of sight out of mind and hey, there wasn't anyone else you gave two genuine shits about in this town. Even after secretly witnessing what happened at Woodsboro that fateful night, you played ignorance to their schemes. You'd rather die than lose the two people you've ever had a true connection with.

So standing there at the dead of night, in the middle of the woods that harbored a beaten path towards the river you were planning on having a few joints at, you stared down at the drunkard who'd tried to stake claim to your spot. The man who'd aggressively threatened you, thinking you a young pushover, and the man that now lied in rigor mortis below you. The man who forced you into the visceral rage that'd been building up all these years of your miserable existence. And you did the one thing you thought you could never bring yourself to do.

When the two boys arrived, they came with gloves and tools and heat. Your phone call had shocked them. They didn't know that you had known for years about what they had done at your old hometown. But they had come for you anyway.

It was almost mesmerizing, watching Billy and Stu hack away at the body. It was the first time they'd done so, they had told you. You could see Billy physically try to stop the twisted grin that spread along his face. And if the childlike glee that crossed Stu's face and said anything, it was something he had fantasized about countless nights.

Once they had tied the individual body parts in burlap sacks and stuffed them into Stu's sedan, they had informed you of their plan to burn them in a bonfire deeper within the woods. They offered to drive you home. You refused. Soaked head to toe in drying blood and coagulating viscera, you wanted nothing more than to jump into the still, cold water and bathe in the endorphins that still fogged your mind. You had expected your two friends to shrug their shoulders and leave, opting to wash the blood now coating them in the comforting stream of a hot shower.

instead, they offered to join. You say you were going to get naked. They reply that they didn't mind. And in your hazy state of being, you hadn't noticed the dark, lustful clouds in their eyes; the way their eyes trailed up and down your body and took in whatever you had to offer. Something they had, unbeknownst to you, fantasized about when they were alone, and when they were together.

It didn't take long for the three of you to start touching one another. Under the pretenses of "You've got some blood there" or "let me get that for you" you allowed large, tainted hands to roam over you. Your mind begins to wander. You think of the glint of the knife he had dropped in his inebriation, the glimpses of organs within the gashes from the way you had drove it into him over and over. Flashes of the man's too-purple, too-green face after you strangled his dying body. Disgusting thoughts that sped through your mind like a macabre, lurid kaleidoscope you had never even wanted to look through, but was forced into your eye socket anyway.

Arousal sickeningly stirred in your being, and you could see it stir in theirs, the tips of their erections now bobbing just slightly above the water you three waded in, shame absent in their eyes as you washed each other. When you absentmindedly went to grab Billy's in front of you, in front of his boyfriend who stood just behind you, you were still dazed from all that had happened. His groan startled you out of your trance and you pull your arm back as if he was a match and you had been burned. Red shame covered your face as you stuttered out an apology to the two, you didn't know what was wrong with you, why you did that, "oh god im sorry".

This is all quieted when Stu presses himself against your back, his large hands trailing from their spot on your shoulders, down your arms, and settling on your hips. His hardness pushed against your still bloody back and you gasp. You look back at him questioningly, and where you expected to see blue in his eyes you saw black. Billy moved to grab your jaw and turn you to face him once again. His cheeks were flushed, and his lips parted to say words that had you almost keeling over.

"Do that again."

So you did. And then the metaphorical dam burst. Pumping him as the three of you stood in the water, you felt Stu press tightly to you, using your back and his stomach to grind his erection between slick skin. His hand reached around to begin rubbing you slowly and just as you're about to collapse from the sudden spark of pleasure, his other arm wrapped around your waist to hold you up.

Billy's grip on your jaw hadn't relinquished, but his other hand had come up to grasp the side of your neck. You were forced to stare him dead in the eyes and he bites his lips and groans as you tighten your grip and twist your wrist. He tells you how good you're working him and Stu chimes in about how hot this was. The moonlight bathing the three of you had Billy looking ethereal, and you couldn't help but try and move forward to kiss him. He wouldn't let you though, a playful smirk on his features as his hand gripped your throat not only from the side, but now wholly. His eyes flickered behind you, and with the cruelty only a man like Billy Loomis could muster, he kisses Stu and turns your head to watch.

If the sight wasn't enough to tow you over the edge, the fingers that moved to enter you finally was. Stu begins pumping them into you, curling to rub that one spot as Billy's chest presses against yours. You let out a pathetic moan, eyes tearing up and body trembling as a the orgasm that had been building finally sweeps over you. The two finish their impromptu make-out session, and turn to look at you.

Unbridled affection pools in their eyes at the sight of their twitching, glaze-eyed, still bloody and beautiful companion. They had had you in all aspects but love, and they could hardly believe they could now finally have you in the way the two had craved for years. In the way the two had spoken of in hushed whispers during and after hot, steamy fucking or a lazy movie marathon. In a way the two had buried deep inside, afraid of the unconventional and afraid of rejection from the only other person they had ever grown to love besides each other.

Billy pushes your still lazily stroking hand off of him and turns you to face Stu, whispering in your ear to "wait just a sec" before wading off back onto the shore to grab something. Stu's lips crash onto yours before you can say a thing, and soon his cock is in your mouth as you kneel further into the water. You look up at him as your lips and tongue work, gliding them along the underside before taking him deep. He stares down at you and the grip of his hand in your hair has you groaning around him, the tremors setting off needy moans in the man himself. He calls you his world, tells you how badly he wanted this, wanted you. How much he and Billy needed you between them, around them, on top of them, below them.

A pair of hands on your shoulders pulls you up and off of Stu. With a noise of indignation, you see Stu shoot Billy a 'what the fuck' look, before a flash of white light passes over his face and a too wide grin appears on his visage. He cackles as you turn around to see what Billy had shown him.

His bowie knife.

"Holy shit."

Was all that could leave your lips. Your loins burned and ached now, the excitement practically palpable on your tongue. With a gesture of the knife, Billy has Stu move you two closer to the shore, so that the water just barely hit his and Stu's knees. With a command of "lift them up." you feel Stu's hands under your thighs as he lifts you off your feet and spreads your legs, allowing you to lean your back against his chest. Billy doesn't ask for consent; he didn't need to. He knew the moment he and Stu had heard what happened that whatever dark shit swirled in their being was present in you as well.

The cold steel of the knife teased your collarbone, the sharp edge pulling a whimper from your mouth just as much as it pulled that unrelenting bubble of fear in your gut. You couldn't taste the steel, but somehow something thick and acetic coated your tongue. Is that how anticipation tastes like? Or were you just imagining Billy fucking your mouth with the knife? You didn't know.

The sharp sting of metal breaking skin pulled you out of your reverie as Billy pulled the knife down your sternum to just above your belly button. Blood pooled as he went, releasing in small rivulets, and you both shuddered. Billy's expression could hardly be contained. It was savage, a toothy grin on his face and he could hardly believe that he was cutting you up. He felt like any second his dick or the world would explode . He leaned down to tongue at the wound, probing the now searing flesh, and you hiss. It hurt, but it didn't. It hurt, but also made you want to cum. Billy's tongue, now sufficiently coated, moved to one of your nipples as he alid his hands along your chest and sides. He could taste both your blood and the dried blood of the man, a combination he thought he'd like but quickly decided against when he noticed the juxtaposition of your sweetness and the acrid taste of the man. He thinks he wants Stu's blood on you next time.

Stu groans at the sight of his boyfriend's tongue on his best friend's bloodied chest, and before you knew it you felt his cockhead probing your entrance before gingerly slipping you down onto him. You gasp at the dual sensations; the sharp pain of Billy's tongue moving back to your wound and the pleasure of Stu slipping inside of you with nary a warning, hitting you deep and well. Stu's grip on the back of your thighs tightens as he begins to languidly move you up and down on his cock.

Billy continues working your chest with his tongue before beginning the path southward. His pupils dilate even further, if possible, at the sight of the blood having trailed down to stain your genitals in crimson. Stu's cock was also now a diluted red color from thrusting in and out of you, both your juices and blood covering him. Billy licked his lips at the slight, leaning forward to begin working you over with his tongue, head dipping down slightly to every so often to lap at Stu as well. It was more for his sick pleasure than either of yours, as Stu's thrusting jostled you too hard for Billy to properly work you over, but the small flicks of tongue that were able to brush your most sensitive area had you whining.

Before long, Stu's movements had become jagged and rushed, and he moved to have his whole arms wrapped around the underside of your thighs and torso, using his hands to grip at his elbows and nearly fold you in half. The new angle hit you just right and once Billy felt he had had enough of a taste, his hand moved to speedily rub you. You almost scream through your second orgasm as it hits, thankful that you were in the middle of the woods and at the river, far from anyone. Your insides clenching and pulling on Stu had him burying his face in your neck, and a few minutes later he releases inside of you with a bite that breaks skin.

Stu slides out of you with a groan, allowing his cum to dribble out of you and into the water. But instead of setting you down, the two move you back onto shore. Billy was once again instructing Stu on where to place you, and as he lays you down on a patch of damp grass, you're surprised to see Billy straddle your abdomen. He regards you for a second, taking in your wet, bloodied visage again for what felt like the thousandth time that night. As his eyes drift to your wound and his cock pulses in front of you, he lowers himself down. Your eyes widen as you begin to understand what he's getting at, and you watch in awe as he uses his thumb to press the underside of his cock to your sternum, onto your wound.

You feel both the hardness of his length on the cut, as well as the softness of his balls begin to slide back and forth and you throw your head back, squeezing your eyes shut. A whiny noise leaves your lips, and you can hear Billy chuckle and Stu's usual obnoxious laugh. They call you cute, and slutty, and perfect. You think to yourself how absolutely fucked up this is. How perfectly fitting this seems for someone horrible like Billy. He moves his hands to your chest to squeeze whatever you have to give against his length, regardless of how flat or voluminous you are, and his breath hitches as blood is smeared all over your abdomen and his cock.

The pain makes you dizzy in a way that isn't as bad as you thought it'd be. It stings, and it feels too hot. Yet the expressions your best friend (boyfriend?) makes as he glides himself along faster and faster makes it all worth it. In the corner of your eye you see Stu fisting himself rapidly, hard and leaking once again. He makes eye contact with you and grins, moving closer on his knees to now stroke himself almost above your chest next to Billy.

Giving your chest another squeeze and pulling whatever he can even further against his cock, Billy bends himself downward to hover right over your lips. He smiles at you, a real smile, and you smile back. He moves down the rest of the way to kiss you in a way that is somehow chaste and passionate at once. By the time he pulls back, his eyes are glazed and his cock is twitching, and after a long deep groan he releases right onto your wound. The sight brings Stu over the edge, and within a few seconds your chest is absolutely bathed in cum.

The night had begun cold and ended warm. Words of praise for how good you did were thrown your way from the two boys, and the three of you laugh. Neither of you are sure why. Maybe it was the post-sex high. Maybe it was the fact you killed someone and Billy and Stu's first instinct was to fuck you. Maybe it was because the three of you finally were able to come together in the way you had all desperately wanted. Maybe it was the non-verbal acknowledgement that the three of you were the scum of the Earth.

Whatever it was, you were glad for it. The three of you burned the body that night, and later when you laid down in their bed with them your limbs tangled and kisses and make-outs exchanged, the only thoughts that went through your mind is how glad you were to not be alone.

#billy loomis #stu macher #billy loomis x reader #stu macher x reader #ghostface #ghostface x reader #poly ghostface #poly!ghostface #poly ghostface x reader #poly!ghostface x reader #slasher imagines #slashers x reader #slasher x reader #billy loomis x reader x stu macher #billy x reader x stu

[calaofnoldor]

What’s Mine

Characters: Sam x F!Reader, Dean

Words: 7,595

Summary: The secret you and Sam are hiding from Dean is threatened by your inability to keep your hands off each other.

Warnings: 18+ no actual smut but plenty of implied smut, pre-smut, and smut adjacency lol, secret dating, enemies to lovers, jealousy and possessiveness (exhibited by both sam and reader), slight obsession with sam’s big ass hands (i blame this largely on @walkerboy290​‘s glorious hand porn gif sets), and language

A/N: inspired by and written for @thinkinghardhardlythinking​ bc she’s been bugging me to write smut and using her birthday as a bargaining chip, so i hope you’re happy sai. happy (belated) birthday babe! i suppose in my subconscious need to truly honor you, this became the longest one shot i’ve ever written... that and this is now also a little birthday gesture for the brilliant and beautiful @sams-sass​​ (damn your close birthdays!) even though she never asked for smut (if you hate it, i’ll write you something else!) happy birthday to you too, darling!

also written for @superbadassnatural​‘s 333 badass followers celebration with the prompt “___ and I are together.” “Yeah, right, and I’m Santa.” and @writethelifeyouwant​‘s 300 follower fic challenge with the prompt “All the pretty girls like Samuel” (both prompts are bolded in the fic) i’m sorry i’m so late! congratulations to both of you and thanks for letting me enter your challenges!

[basically i have a lot of people to blame for this disaster 😂]

Square Filled: Secret Dating for @spnfluffbingo​ and Enemies to Lovers for @girl-next-door-writes​ Make Me Feel Bingo

MASTERLIST

The waffles on your plate are surprisingly good for a sketchy, 50’s-themed diner, but unfortunately your attention is elsewhere. In fact, the two distinctly masculine voices behind you have been obnoxiously impairing your ability to savor the buttery, syrup-doused carbs since their owners sat down in the adjoining booth. It’s the topic of their discussion that disturbs you, and nips at your conscience until you realize you can no longer take off without imparting a few words to your oblivious colleagues.

Turning your head subtly to the side, you try to catch a glimpse of the men you’re about to confront in your peripheral vision. From what you can see, they’re both rather burly, a little rough around the edges, and from what you’ve heard, recklessly cocksure. You know the type all too well. Being a lone hunter of the fairer sex for most of your life means you’ve long since learned that the best way to combat their kind is with a steadfast façade of thick skin and unwavering confidence.

So you sigh and put on your best smile before turning around, crossing your forearms along the top of the booth seat, “Listen fellas, I hate to interrupt, but I really wouldn’t bother with the bamboo dagger and Shinto priest if I were you.”

“And who the hell are you?” the one with shorter hair demands. He’s a bit stockier than his companion and has a face that looks like it was designed by Abercrombie and Fitch - well that explains the arrogance.

“I’m the person who’s about to save your asses evidently,” you respond with a smug grin, trying not to let their absurdly good looks deter your act.

Abercrombie’s partner, the Fabio wannabe, releases a quiet scoff, “And how are you gonna do that?” he questions dubiously.

“By letting you in on a little secret…” Throwing him a tight smile, you lean forward and lower your voice, “That ōkami you’re after? It’s not an ōkami, it’s a ghoul.” Sitting back, you await the outrage.

“What?! But that’s not possible, I checked the lore. And it’s obviously got a type.” Fabio’s glossy chestnut locks fall across his delicate features as he shakes his head in disbelief, and you almost snort out loud. How did this amateur expect to hunt with hair like that?

You look him over, taking in the broad shoulders and muscled arms, as well as the obvious height advantage he’s got over Abercrombie even whilst they’re both seated. To be honest, you’re surprised he’s referencing lore at all. Guys his size always assume they can either outman or outgun whatever obstacles cross their path, and they almost never take women like you seriously, despite your ample years of acquired knowledge and invaluable experience. It’s this experience that surmises a bit of antagonism here is inevitable, so you might as well get a head start.

“Yeah well maybe you should check again, big guy,” you glance down at his hands, your first mistake as their sheer size render you speechless and subsequently agitated at yourself for the momentary lapse of visceral lust, but the show must go on, “Make sure those giant, lumbering hands of yours don’t fumble over anything important or you might miss the connection to Isabelle Harding. You see it’s not ‘a type’; it’s revenge.”

“Wh- Bu- I looked through the files. I wouldn’t have missed that,” Fabio insists.

“Oh yeah? Why don’t you type ‘Isabelle Harding’ and ‘1987 school bombing’ into your search bar and see what comes up?” you gesture towards the laptop on their table with a raised brow. Minutes later, both men are dumbfounded by the revelation on the screen, staring between it and you with their mouths agape.  

You chuckle silently at their faces, “Don’t worry, there’s no need to thank me. Although you rookies might wanna go home and let the more experienced hunter finish up here.” As you’re about to bid them farewell, you dip back in to add, “Oh and a word of free advice, maybe don’t discuss supernatural monsters quite so loudly in public spaces next time. It might invite unwanted attention.”

With that, you turn around and slap some cash down next to your unfinished waffles, before grabbing your jacket and strutting out the door.

Sam is left in utter confusion. The sudden animosity you had spouted his way seems completely baseless and unwarranted. Had he somehow offended you? Sam generally considers himself a highly respectful and fairly easy-going guy, not quite as hot-blooded as his brother, and thus not as likely to provoke such antipathy from a complete stranger. To make matters worse, he certainly can’t deny that something about you had registered within his subconscious as inexplicably attractive, despite the way you’d embarrassed him. In his flustered and slightly aroused state, it had been all he could do to remain awestruck in his seat and stare blatantly at your ass as you walked away.

The next time Sam sees you is only twelve hours later and no less humiliating. You’re mid-swing in the killing blow against what you had accurately predicted to be a ghoul as he and Dean tumble in. Despite the low lighting, Sam is once again stupefied by your raging beauty, augmented by the incredible skill you’re displaying in a much more physical sense this time around. Before he can drag his eyes away, there’s a collective shout of “watch out!” and suddenly you’re right in front of him. In a blur of events, you somehow manage to push Sam out of the way and successfully decapitate the unexpected second ghoul that had been sneaking up behind him, with only a slice across the arm to show for it.

“Didn’t I tell you two to go home?” You’re panting from the exertion and Sam’s gaze lands on the neckline of your shirt, skewed from the fight and revealing a good amount of cleavage. He quickly averts his eyes. What is happening? Sam can’t remember the last time anyone had evoked such a staggering reaction from him. He feels as if he’s a mere spectator in his own body.

Across from him, you press your hand against the wound and curse when it comes back covered in blood. At your groan of pain, Sam finally finds his voice again, “Shit. I’m so sorry! I don’t know how I missed that other one. I- that normally doesn’t happen.”

“Yeah, I bet that’s what you say to all the girls, huh?” you reply offhand, still a bit out of breath.

It’s easy for Sam to dismiss your mocking given that he feels terribly guilty for being the cause of your injury. From where he’s standing, the cut looks deep. “Here, at least let me stitch it up for you. It’s too awkward a position for you to do it yourself,” he offers, holding out his ginormous hands to you like he’s waving a white flag.

“I think you’ve done enough damage for one day, haven’t you, big guy? At this point, I’d rather Abercrombie over there be the one behind the needle.”

“Who- what?” are the first words Dean speaks since the action has died down.

You turn to face the shorter guy, “Oh don’t look so surprised. You might as well be the model for a slightly older Ken doll. Are you up for it or not?”

Dean’s mouth hangs open as he tries to determine whether he should feel flattered or insulted.

“Uh- actually, I’m better at stitches than my brother,” Sam butts in.

“With those jumbo, fumbling hands? Yeah, sure you are, big guy,” you decline skeptically.

“It’s Sam,” he states through a clenched jaw.

“OK, Sam. Since I just saved your life, you mind making yourself useful and burning those bodies while your bro puts my arm back together? You know, as a ‘thank you’ perhaps?”

Sam is stunned for the third time that day. No one has ever belittled him (whilst gratuitously attacking his size) insofar without any apparent reason. It seems as though his very existence upsets you and the arbitrariness of your contempt has caused an anger to stir beneath him, but beyond that lies bewilderment and irritation. How had he managed to accomplish two such massive mistakes in front of you in the span of so short a time? Perturbed and bitter, Sam silently sets to work on the bodies.

Meanwhile, you’ve come to a surprising realization as Dean begins to cut the fabric of your flannel away from your damaged arm, the name ‘Sam’ and the words ‘my brother’ resounding in your head, “Wait a second- there’s no way… you’re not… the Winchesters, are you? Sam and… Dean?”

“The one and only, sweetheart.” He sends you a dazzling smile that is as perfect as you’d expect, but within his eyes is an underlying poignancy that you recognize as clear as day: an indication of a traumatic past and a lifetime spent plastering on tough veneers. You notice as well how gentle his touch is and how his stitches are practiced and prudent. Perhaps you had judged him too hastily.

Through an incredulous chuckle, you retort, “Well I can’t say I didn’t expect more from you, but at least this’ll get me a free round of drinks at the hunters’ pub tonight.”

Dean laughs with you before sobering at the thought of how his baby brother must be feeling, “Hey listen, take it easy on Sammy, alright? I don’t know what’s gotten into him today but he’s not usually like this. He’s actually the smart one, believe it or not.”

Scoffing, you can’t help but smile back at Dean and soon find an easy rhythm with the older Winchester, despite your awkward introduction.

From several yards away, however, Sam looks wistfully back to see you smiling lightheartedly at something Dean’s said, the two of you huddled in close proximity as his brother’s hands drift across your bare skin. Something akin to envy bubbles within his chest although he’s aware it makes no sense, so with a frown, Sam does his best to shake it off and get back to work.

But it’s not easy to forget you. And just as Sam is beginning to think he’s rid that awful day from his memory, you pop back into his life three months down the line.

“Well, if it isn’t the overgrown hunter extraordinaire Sammy Winchester.” The sarcasm that oozes from your otherwise beguiling voice has him gritting his teeth in no time.

“It’s Sam.”

“So you here to mess up my hunt again, Sam?”

Although he wishes he could have been the bigger man instead of surrendering to the resentment you roused within him, after a couple repeated hatchet burying attempts fall through, Sam just can’t resist the little game you’ve started.

Over the next few months, you and Dean form a fortuitously close bond and the older Winchester develops a habit of calling you up when faced with a troublesome hunt, and vice versa. Despite Sam’s fabricated displeasure, a show he puts on mostly for Dean (since any other emotion would seem illogical given the way you treat him), Sam is peculiarly and begrudgingly excited to see you every time. But the match never ends. In fact, Sam lets it intensify each time you work together, always astounded by how you manage to get him so worked up.

“I’m telling you, it’s a rugaru!”

“Right, because the last time we listened to you, things worked out so well,” you remark sardonically.

“The lore says-“

“Ooh, quoting the lore again now are we, Mr. Know It All?”

At this point, Sam is about as huffy and puffy as the big bad wolf and if he were a cartoon character, there’d surely be steam erupting from his ears. “Look, Y/N, this isn’t about who knows more or who’s right; this is about saving those people’s lives!”

“You think I don’t know that? Was I not the one who saved your life the first time we met?”

“OK, alright, just shut up you two!” Dean finally shouts above you, “Would it kill you to just get along for two seconds?”

“No,” Sam admits.

“Probably,” you say at the same time, causing Sam to shoot you his overly perfected bitch face.

SIX MONTHS LATER

“What the fuck?!” Dean’s booming voice echoes throughout the bunker and moments later you and Sam come flying into the kitchen to answer his call, guns at the ready.

“What? What is it?” you ask while Sam scans the room.

A whimper is the only the way to describe the sound of Dean’s reply, as he points toward an unseen object on the floor. Edging toward him, you lower your gun in the direction of his finger until you discover the source of Dean’s distress.

With a sigh, you look toward Sam who is also exhaling in relief at the sight of the entity in question. The two of you share a moment of wordless conversation before simultaneously dropping your guns with a conclusive nod.

“Why does this feel like déjà vu?” Dean’s tone is still timid and appalled, and you nearly laugh at the idea of a grown-ass man looking so aghast because of a used condom.

“Because it kinda is…” you supply unhelpfully, earning yourself a small glare from the man beside you.

“Dean,” Sam begins with a deep breath, “There’s something we have to tell you… Y/N and I are together.”

The snort that escapes Dean is full-bodied and borderline psychotic, “Yeah, right, and I’m Santa!”

You wait till his snickering subsides, “No, it- it’s true.” Your voice is hesitant yet hopeful, “We’re not joking. We’ve kinda become… a thing.”

“A thing?”

“Yeah, well you know, I don’t wanna have to put a label on it or-“

“Y/N’s my girlfriend,” Sam declares with conviction as he reaches out to curl his long fingers around your waist and lasso you towards him.

“-Buuuut, that is the one I’d use if anyone asks,” you quickly affirm with a stiff pat to your boyfriend’s abdomen, wincing at the unversed attempt of PDA and missing the dimpled grin that crosses Sam’s amused features.

“Well, I don’t buy it. I don’t believe either of you.” Dean’s sturgeon face comes on strong as he shakes his head and points a challenging finger at you, “Kiss him, right now,” he dares with perked brows.

The eye roll you respond with is so dramatic your entire head moves with it. But then, without a moment of pause, you turn your body into Sam’s, reach up to grab the back of his neck and pull him down for a searing kiss. Now this is something you’re well-versed in. The reunion of your lips starts off relatively slow, but it doesn’t take long to escalate into something more fiery that involves tongue, the eager push and pull movements of your bodies, and Sam’s enormous hands cradling your head.

After a moment of shock, Dean objects, “Alright, alright, I get it! That’s enough of that!”

Unwilling to recede just yet, you linger in the kiss for a little longer, delaying your separation by nibbling down on Sam’s lower lip and tugging gently, only releasing it as you pull away torturously slow. When the two of you finally open your languid eyes, it’s to stare into each other’s dilated pupils and ponder the moment for an indiscernible minute.

“What th- I said, I get it! Now could please stop ogling each other before my lunch comes back out the wrong way?!”

But the way Sam’s smiling at you is addictive and you can’t bring yourself to look away until he forces a break by leaning in to plant a tender kiss upon your forehead before tucking you into his side as he faces his brother again.

Dean’s face is covered by his hand, “I’m gonna need a minute. I just-“ His features leap through a range of expressions as he tries to find the right words, “When the hell did this start anyway? I thought you two couldn’t stand each other?”

“Yeahhh, that was mostly an act. Although we bought it at first too,” you explain with a shrug.

“We weren’t pretending the whole time. It just kind of happened and we didn’t really know how else to act around each other by then,” Sam adds.

“Right, basically it turns out there’s a fine line between love and hate... and that line is hardcore yearning.” Your words bring a chuckle to Sam’s lips but his brother still looks out of sorts.

Shaking his head with closed eyes, Dean sighs, “Alright, can someone just explain to me exactly how this happened, because I’m still not computing here. But spare me the details and try to keep it PG-13,” he emphasizes with adamant hand gestures.

“How do you know it’s not PG-13?” you inquire with a held-back laugh.

“Ha. With the way you two were playing tonsil hockey just now, I can tell you’ve been around the bend way more than I wanna know. My little brother doesn’t kiss like that on the first date.”

It’s impossible to hold back a giggle at the memory of your ‘first date’ and the way Sam had kissed you, “OK well, that would be hard, considering the story involves a lot of sex... You wanna give it a go, big guy?” you pass the ball over to Sam with a quirked brow and lowered voice, to which he responds with narrowed eyes and pursed lips, a little warning glance that you’re well aware means ‘save it for the bedroom’ but you simply smirk up at him.  

‘Big guy’ used to be a term you called Sam in contempt, but when the feelings between you evolved and a sexual relationship developed, it became an innuendo, such that calling him ‘big guy’ in front of Dean or in public almost always results in glorious sex. In fact, sometimes you believe the nickname has held a slightly obscene connotation for you since the beginning.

Afterall, your carnal longing for him has been present from day one, although at the time you had believed it to be purely physical. Sure, you had dreams about having him in various positions in your bed, but you figured those were merely betrayals of your subconscious mind. That was until one day, a heated argument in a rare moment alone had ended up in a violent make out session, after which the two of you had just barely gotten the last of your clothes back on before Dean walked in. One look at your worked up and frenetic states alongside the disordered condition of your surroundings, and he immediately assumed you’d been fighting again (which wasn’t terribly far from the truth), chortling as he asked if you would have killed each other had he returned a bit later.

With a clearing of his throat, Sam begins to recount the tale, “Uh, well it started in that motel in South Carolina, while you were out getting food…”

“Look, all I’m saying is there is no way he’s using the hospital as a dump site! It’s just not feasible!”

With complete disregard for the peace and quiet of the other residents within this thin-walled motel, you and Sam once again find yourselves in a shouting match.

“Oh right, I forgot! You’re Sam Winchester! How could you POSSIBLY be wrong?! Mister ‘look at me, my IQ and LSAT score match my fucking height! Oh and I also happen to have the physique of an Adonis without even owning a gym membership!’” you roar bitterly, gesticulating with your hands to help better communicate your pent-up indignation.

“Right and you’re Y/N Y/L/N, so how could YOU possibly be wrong? Miss ‘look at me, I never went to college but I’m a genius AND I can kick ass! Oh and I also happen to look effortlessly stunning through it all!’” Sam suddenly seems bigger than ever as he towers over you, that panty-soaking deep voice emanating from his diaphragm and infusing itself throughout the entire room until all you can see, hear, and breathe is Sam.

The fury takes over and you don’t notice your feet taking you closer to him, “Oh yeah because you don’t make EVERYTHING you do look so unnecessarily hot and make me wanna rip your clothes off all the damn time!”

“Fuck! And you don’t always drive me crazy when we have these stupid arguments and your chest starts heaving and you look so insanely delectable I just wanna pick you up and fuck you against the closest surface!” By now, the distance between you is essentially nonexistent and your brain is no longer run by reason.

“So why don’t you then?” are your famous last words, prompting Sam to grab you wildly by the back of a thigh, lifting slightly and driving you to climb up him like a spider monkey fleeing from a grounded predator, while his other hand pushes your hair aside to gain better access to your face. Your mouths clash in a fierce battle and before you know it, Sam’s huge hands are cupping your ass as your legs wrap around his waist and you rut into him, hands flying from his shoulders to his hair. Those divine chestnut locks that you’ve always dreamed of running your fingers through. They’re somehow even softer than you imagined and the revelation, in conjunction with the way Sam’s tongue is becoming increasingly aggressive causes a fresh surge of libidinous energy to rocket through you. As a result, you give his silky strands an irresistible tug and drink in the moan he makes, the sinful sound reverberating straight down to your core as you clench around nothing.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Sam groans as he grudgingly forces himself to pull back as much as he can, “Are you sure? Is this what you want? Cause I can’t- Y/N I won’t be able to stop myself if we keep going.” His eyes squeeze shut as if the notion of stopping or the act of keeping his lips away from yours is causing him genuine pain, and the entire gesture moves you.

“Fuck, you really are the opposite of everything I thought you would be,” you make a quick mental note to apologize later for your initially presumptuous behavior although you can’t find it within yourself to feel any remorse right now, “Yes, please Sam, fuck me. I want you so bad… I think I have since we met and I saw those gorgeous hands of yours,” you confess, biting your lip lightly.

Sam breathes out a low incredulous laugh, “What, these?” he asks, removing one of the aforementioned hands away from your butt to bring it into your line of vision.

“Yes, fuck they’re so big and beautiful and strong and-“

“Alright, I don’t need to know about your weird hand fetish!” Dean hollers abruptly, rubbing his fingers across his eyes as if he could somehow erase the image of you and his brother together out of his retinas. “OK, but that was like… four months ago. You mean you’ve been sneaking around behind my back this whole time?”

“Well at first we didn’t want to tell you because we weren’t even sure what it was ourselves,” you divulge.

“Yeah, we didn’t want to try to explain something that we didn’t understand yet,” Sam supplements, hoping his brother will understand the motive behind your secrecy.

You nod along, “But then… it got a little harder to hide.”

The apprehension behind Dean’s emerald eyes is unmistakable as he reluctantly inquires, “That’s why this felt like déjà vu?”

It’s with a grimace that you reply, hesitantly, “Remember the time you found those panties in the backseat of the Impala?”

Dean’s eyes grow comically wide and Sam ducks his head in preparation of what’s to come.

“Yeah, there’s a story behind that…”

The click of her heels against the porcelain-tiled foyer irritates you as the three of you stride through her front door. You’re posing as detectives sent to question this overdressed young woman about her late husband, but the moment she lays her eyes on Sam, you reckon she’s forgotten her beloved’s damn name.

“Oh my… lord and savior. Well aren’t you a tall drink of water?” she beholds breathlessly with a seductive bite of her painted ruby lips.

You cough loudly and Dean sniggers, thinking you’re annoyed about Sam getting such commendation and attention during a serious case.

“I know this might be the grief talking, but I would climb you like a tree,” she purrs, sauntering up to Sam with an exaggerated sway of her hips. With her half-lidded doe eyes adorned with dark, fluttery lashes and low, sultry voice, you have to admit she’s quite attractive.

Grinding your teeth as your nails dig into your palms, you glower at the woman unreservedly. She, however, takes no notice, running her hands along Sam’s forearms before gripping at his bicep to lead him toward her living room. “Please, come have a seat, detective. You can ask me whatever you want.” The wink she appends is somehow the final nail in the coffin.

It’s with zero hesitation that you feign the reception of a notification on your phone before declaring, “Oh would you look at that, the uh… Sheriff needs us back at the station, Sam. He says it’s urgent.” You try to keep your tone even, thankful that you all maintained your real first names for these aliases, “Dean, you’re good to conduct this interview on your own, right?” Without waiting for an answer, you trample over to snatch Sam’s other arm and ignoring the horny widow’s gaping mouth, proceed to haul him away.

Dean sends you a strange look but relents, “Uh, yeah I guess, OK.”

As soon as the door closes behind you, your hand shifts down to lace your fingers with Sam’s, marching him towards the Impala with a staunch and mighty purpose. Even Sam’s elongated legs stumble to keep up.

“So uh… when did you give the Sheriff your number?” There’s an edge in his voice that normally disappears when it’s just the two of you.

“Wha- I didn’t. Sam, I just made all that up,” you tell him as you reach the car and open its back door. Pushing Sam inside, you climb in swiftly after him, wasting no time as you straddle his thighs and begin to undress him, only pausing when he looks up at you in adorable, puppy-like confusion.

“Wait, what? Then what are we doing?”

That’s when it finally dawns on you, “Hold on a sec, were you… jealous?” You can’t help but smile, finding it amusing that he’s stewing in his own envy after what you just witnessed.

“No, I just- He was kinda all over you this morning.”

“You mean like the way Mrs. My-Husband-Just-Died-But-I-Wanna-Climb-You-Like-a-Tree was in there?”

“Oh, that’s what this is about?” Sam perks up, the hint of a smug grin ghosting across his lips.

“She was practically holding your hand!”

“That’s what bothered you the most?” He dips his head to catch your eyes and those variegated irises burn into you with an intense, questioning gaze, alight with mischievous curiosity.

“They’re my hands to hold,” you contend with a pout, subconsciously clenching your thighs around his as you seize one of his large hands with two of your much smaller ones, “Just like you’re my tree to climb.”

Sam’s head falls back in bright laughter, “I thought you said they were ‘oversized’ and ‘ungainly’?” he teases, quoting your previous slights.

“You know I only said that cause Dean was there.”

“I’m pretty sure you called them ‘fumbly’ and ‘lumbering’ the first time we met.”

Staring at his fingers as you play with them, you shiver at the memory of how they feel all over you. “That was cause I used to think all hunters with a Y chromosome were cocky, misogynistic assholes who needed to be knocked down a peg or two.”

“But I proved you wrong, right?”

“Fuck yes you did. So, so wrong. And now you’re mine, and I don’t like seeing other people touch what’s mine,” you growl before returning to your earlier task of removing his clothes, pouncing on him when your fingers finally land on bare skin. You kiss him fiercely, swallowing his surprised grunts with glee, and as his hands start travelling from your hips up to your back, holding you tight against him, your lips move down to his pulse point, sucking, licking, and nibbling, “Mine.”

“Fucking Jesus Christ on a cracker! You goddamn rabbits!” Dean squawks in protest as he begins to pace the floor, “Have you no decency?! And in my poor Baby! While I was busy doing all the work, saving lives!”

You roll your eyes at his melodramatics and can feel the tension in Sam’s abdominal muscles as he attempts to restrain his laughter. As if Dean had never taken a break during a case for a stress-relieving quickie before, or hadn’t been at least somewhat grateful to be left alone with a beautiful woman.

His next comment confirms your point, “Although, if I remember correctly that lady was a fox.” After a brief pondering pause and an introspectively appreciative smirk, Dean’s whining resumes, “But seriously! I can’t believe you two! Here I was feeling bad for forcing you to work and live together, hoping you’d eventually learn to get along when this whole time you were shacking up like animals and casually defiling my Baby just because what? Some girl touched Sam’s hand?!”

Feeling emboldened by the catharsis of this long-overdue airing of your dirty laundry, you decide to add to Dean’s exasperation, “Yeah and in the spirit of honesty, that might’ve happened more than once.” Sam tries to hold back his snort as he gives your hip a playful cautionary squeeze while Dean’s feet come to a full stop as he turns to give you a death glare. “Hey, it’s not my fault all the pretty girls like Samuel! And I’m pretty sure we wiped her down after.”

“I don’t even-“ Dean purses his lips and quirks his head with a dynamic expression of unbearable vexation, “You better be getting me pie every day of the week for what you did.“ He takes a deep breath before circling back, “Wait, OK so you’re telling me that a used condom ended up in our kitchen because- what? You two couldn’t keep it in your pants long enough to find a bed? You know what, forget I asked. I don’t wanna know. Did you at least sanitize the place after?? No, of course you didn’t, you left a fucking condom on the floor… I think I’m gonna throw up.”

But you hardly hear Dean’s rambling because you and Sam are far too wrapped up in each other, smiling as you recall the events of that morning.

Your eyes slowly drift open to find the most exalting sight in all the world: Sam Winchester’s sleeping face, blissful and serene. Lifting a hand to gingerly cup his cheek, the corners of your mouth curl up when he leans into your touch. It’s moments like this that make you wish you could wake up next to him every morning.

Only after you’ve traced his every feature and planted a soft kiss where his dimple would be if he were awake and smiling, do you carefully peel yourself from his side, slipping out of his hold as you quietly climb out of bed. Sam rolls over a bit and you freeze with bated breath, watching as his big arm extends out in your direction as if trying to reach for you in his sleep, before stilling again.

Mornings like this are rare and you want him to soak up all the restful sleep he can. Once you’re sure you haven’t woken him, you scan the room for something to cover your naked figure, until your eyes land on the flannel he’d worn the night before. Picking it up, you bring it to your nose and inhale deeply to revel in the residual scent of Sam. Another glimpse at his peaceful, sleeping form has you smiling fondly. God, you are such a goner for that man. It’s becoming hard to reserve your soft looks toward him for private moments alone.

You can barely remember how it happened, but over time, you’d come to learn that Sam is nothing like you originally imagined him to be. He’s kind-hearted and open-minded, the type of soul that can find hope and beauty in even the darkest of places, a far cry from the shallow macho man silhouette you’d expected him to fill. In fact, Sam routinely defies the expectations others have enforced upon him, proving his worth time and time again as he’s persisted through some of what must be the toughest challenges to ever face a single human. Yet through it all, his spirit remains intact, never once yielding to cynicism or resentment or apathy or even the building of walls as you and Dean have resorted to. He is truly the bravest man you know and infinitely more competent than your first fluke of a hunt with him had mistakenly suggested, both in the field and in bed.

Shaking the thoughts from your head, you wrap yourself in plaid and head out the door. Dean never questions your use of Sam’s shirts because ever since Sam firmly insisted on giving you his flannel after your second encounter with them resulted in Dean cutting your own top apart, you’ve grown into a habit of borrowing Sam’s clothes. You always claim they’re more comfortable than your own and Sam’s feigned annoyance over you ‘stealing’ his belongings tides Dean right over.

Half an hour passes before Sam approaches the bunker kitchen to find you with your back towards the entrance, busy prepping breakfast in nothing but his plaid. He pauses in the doorway to stare at you for a minute, licking his lips with an irrepressible smile. For some, this may seem like a stereotypical morning after, but for a couple of hunters, it feels like a dream come true.

After finally returning to the bunker last night following the completion of a series of successful hunts, you’ve got no solid obligations and very little on your to-do lists today, although Sam’s got more than a few ideas about how to pass the time, and a couple more come to mind when you stretch up on your toes to reach for something, causing the hem of his shirt to glide up until its corner reveals just slightest hint of your incredible ass. Sam can’t suppress his little grunt of approval, which catches your attention and makes you turn your head, peering back at him over your shoulder.

You smirk at the blessed view of him standing there in nothing but the pair of thin grey sweatpants you’d bought him a month ago when you discovered the viral online phenomenon, “Hey, big guy. You just gonna stand there and gawk or do you wanna make yourself useful and grab another plate from the top shelf?”

Chuckling at your false animosity, Sam stalks toward you, “Good morning to you too.” One of his vast hands falls upon your hip as he presses the maximum possible length of his body into your back side, while his other hand reaches up over your head to snatch the plate you’d asked for.

“Good morning indeed,” you concur with a silent gasp when you feel the generous bulge in his pants.

“Oh that’s not morning, baby girl,” Sam husks into your ear, “That’s all you.” His powerful arms slink around you and his lips find their way down the side of your neck, lingering in that tender spot just behind your ear whilst you tilt your head and close your eyes, contentedly surrendering yourself to the moment. “I ever tell you how good you look in my shirts?”

Wiggling your butt back to tease him a bit, you’re pleased with the hiss it elicits. “No, but you made it very clear how bad I look in Dean’s,” you counter playfully.

The man behind you scoffs, “I didn’t say you looked bad; you could never look bad. I just… don’t like seeing you wear his clothes.”

“Oh, I know,” you turn around in his arms, “I just don’t understand how Dean doesn’t know yet. I mean, I think you’ve been very obvious.”

“And you haven’t?”

“I’m not the one who leaves hickeys in very visible places all over your body!”

Sam’s eyes glaze over in lust, an idea clearly forming in his head as he glances down at you. “Dean’s a hot-blooded guy; he needs to know you’re off-limits,” he alleges before attacking your throat with his mouth.

“So why don’t we just tell him?”

Without pausing his efforts, Sam reminds you, “Because you said you thought it was kinda hot, all the sneaking around. Mmpf, and because you said you wanted to see how long it would take him to figure it out.”

You nod while running your fingers through his silken strands and leaning back to give him more purchase, “That’s true. But in my defence, we always have this conversation when we’re doing stuff like this and I can’t think straight when your hands and mouth are on me.”

“Kinda like how I can’t think straight when you’re wearing nothing but my shirt?” His kisses travel down from your neck to your collarbone and shoulder as he slides his loosely buttoned flannel off to one side, “Fuck, you’ve got me so hard.”

Without warning, Sam seizes your waist and hoists you into the air as if gravity were an absolute joke, before plopping you down on the edge of the steel counter, his thumbs digging lightly into your ribcage.

“Sam! This is where we eat!” you protest with a laugh.

“Exactly. Which is why I’m gonna devour you here.” He dives back into your neck, continuing his work on a little pink mark that’s already beginning to form.

“Oh fuck… Wait, what if Dean walks in?” It’s through a great struggle that you manage to push him back an inch.

“He’s got a date with the Impala. He’ll be in the garage all day, trust me.” Sam’s gaze sweeps over your body suggestively, “Now are you gonna let me taste what’s mine?”

With an equally lewd survey of his extensive frame, you reply, “As long as you let me impale myself on what’s mine later.”

His eyes darken and the way he’s looking at you like you’re the only person he’s ever wanted ignites a confidence within you, so in a rather swift motion, you grasp him by the shaft through his sweatpants – the delicious groan he emits at your touch is enough to turn your pussy into a slip and slide – and pull him back towards you until the clothed length of him is resting against your folds and your noses brush, while his hands settle naturally on your thighs.

Shivering, your breath stutters and for an instant you can do nothing but bask in the closeness of him. Sam seems to enjoy it too because he closes his eyes as he rests his forehead against yours with an elated sigh. For the second time today, you marvel at his beauty, whispering a string of gasping kisses along his lower eye socket and exquisite cheekbone, simply dying to breathe him in. All of him is so immaculate and sublime. Each time the two of you reconvene, you want to savor every fucking inch of him, but there are a lot of inches, so the task often overwhelms you. Still, you must try. Locking your ankles behind him, you use your legs to pull him even further into you and the friction makes you lose your mind.

“Fuck, baby girl, you keep that up I’ll be making a mess in my pants,” Sam grunts with his lips upon your cheek.

Your breathless laughter fills the air, thinking of the stain you've undoubtedly already left on his charming grey sweatpants. Nimble as he is, Sam takes advantage of your open mouth and plunges his tongue inside. After so much preamble, the kiss is heavy and full of need. When the pressure of his lips pushes your head back, your hands fly to his wrists for the sake of your balance.

From there, they journey upward across his vascular forearms to his bulging triceps, fondling his massive shoulders before sliding along his traps and up the gorgeous length of his perfect neck, until you finally reach the treasure trove of his impeccable locks. You tangle your fingers into the lush mane and yank, gently but zealously, making Sam growl into your mouth. His voice is the hottest thing you’ve ever heard and the sounds he makes always drive you insane.

Never breaking the kiss, Sam’s colossal moose paws roam up to your back as he slowly lays you down on the counter, his member somehow still notched at your entrance and the new angle rousing a quiet moan from you. When he ultimately pulls away, you pitch forward to chase after his lips, but Sam only grants you a devilish grin and a quick peck to the corner of your mouth before moving down to your jaw and neck. While one palm kneads at your breast through his shirt, the other begins pushing and pulling at fabric to uncover more of your skin for his wandering lips.

“Sam! Augh!” you cry out as your head falls back.

“I got you, baby. I’m all yours. Gonna make you feel so good.” As if to attest his words, he rolls his hips into yours and a needy whimper escapes you. With your fingers still twisted in his hair, Sam leaves no part of you untouched as his mouth travels down your body. But upon reaching your navel, he pauses, those vivid, color-changing eyes peeping up at you to check for any signs of discomfort or objection. Finding none, his thick tongue pokes out to lick a deliriously winding path from your belly button to your exposed clit. Then, pushing down tenderly on the insides of your knees to open you up to him, Sam directs you one last look that is both hungry and reverent, “I still can’t believe this is mine.”

Dean had stopped you halfway through your recollection, but it appears that was still too much for him, “What did I do to deserve this?! I feel like I need to go bathe in holy water for a week.”

You and Sam both open your mouths to respond but Dean cuts you off vehemently, “Ba-da-da-da!” His vocalized outcry is complete with animated gestures featuring an accusing index finger. “OK, before you two tell me another traumatizing story, that’s enough of the who, what, when, where, and how… I just need to know why. I mean, is this- are you- …?”

Sensing the protective wheels turning in his head, you decide to put Dean out his misery, “I’m not just with Sam because he’s an incredible lay if that’s what you’re wondering. We can skip the fatherly ‘what are your intentions’ talk. Yes, Dean, I am in love with your little brother… although ‘little’ is not exactly the word I’d use to describe him.”

“Sammy, could you please control your woman?”

“My woman?” Sam sounds mostly amused but you’re almost certain you can hear a hint of pride in his voice.

“Yeah, I admit I’m surprised I didn’t see it until now. You two are kinda oddly perfect for each other, you know, in a weird, kinky way.”

“To be honest, we’re pretty surprised too. I mean, he doesn’t look it but this guy is kind of territorial,” you quip whilst cocking a thumb in Sam’s direction.

“I don’t need to- Wait a minute, so all those bruises you told me were from hunts?” Dean’s eyebrows soar towards his hairline.

Chewing on your lip, you confirm his hypothesis with a miniscule nod.

“Yeah well that time you saw my back,” Sam chimes in vengefully, casting you a handsome grin full of mischief as he reveals, “that wasn’t a werewolf, that was Y/N.”

With eyes as round as dinner plates, Dean frantically shuts you both down, “OK, that’s it. Torture Dean time is over. I don’t wanna hear any more about your depraved sex lives! Look, I guess I’m happy for you guys, although mostly cause I don’t have to play referee anymore, but I’m gonna need you to follow some ground rules around here. Like rule number one! No sex in public places!” he starts counting with his fingers, “Always put a sock on it when you’re busy! And most importantly, no sex in Baby!”

Your laughter follows Dean as he wearily saunters out of the kitchen, an exhausted expression on his face. Turning to your newly outed boyfriend, you petition excitedly, “Does this mean we can have shower sex now?”

“Not while I’m around!” comes Dean’s snappy answer.

In contrast, Sam gives you the same look he did on that dreamy morning, “Oh trust me baby girl, I’m gonna get you wet somehow.”

“Still within hearing distance! I think I liked it better when you guys were at each other’s throats.”

As you’re giggling, Sam leans down to whisper in your ear, “For the record, I’m in love with you too.” And just like that, you’re tempted to re-enact your previous kitchen escapades.

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[nevertheless-moving]

Suicidal Misunderstanding XVII

Part I - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Part XIV - - - - Part XV - - - - Part XVI

Star Wars Time Travel AU #27

Anakin scarcely had time to relax into the confirmation that Obi-Wan still loved him when his Master drew back.

“Anakin- you have no idea how much I simply want to stay like this, but we don’t have much time before I have to talk to the council, and there’s some matters I really feel we must discuss privately before that happens.”

“Ok.” Anakin wiped his face with the sleeve of his robe and sat at the foot of his Master’s bed, vibrating with intensity. 

“First of all.” Obi-Wan took a deep breath. “I know this sounds insane, but I need you to believe me- I’m from four years in the future. Or I had an incredibly detailed, four year long vision. Either way- I know things. I know where the war is leading us.”

“Alright.” Anakin nodded in relief. Looks like Bant was right. Thank fuck- I hated her theory the least. “So when you-” He vaguely mimed a stabbing motion “-You were trying to ‘wake up’ - from a memory? 

“Yes! Exactly!” Obi-Wan replied, relieved at the ease of the explanation. 

Anakin smiled reassuringly, then lunged to grab a pillow to whack his Master over the head. “You- fucking- kara- blast- idiot.” Anakin grit out, thwacking his master repeatedly with gentle rage. “Do. You. Have. Any. Idea. How! Fucked! Up! That! WAS! FOR!-”

Obi-Wan snatched the pillow, “Yes! Yes! I didn’t intend to hurt you, but I did, and I’m sorry, and you are perfectly entitled to your anger, alright!”

“I- oh.” Anakin paused, sitting back on his heels, not really sure how to go respond.

“Anakin- I know the identity of the Sith Master. I know who’s behind everything.” Obi-Wan stared intently into Anakin’s eyes. 

“Obi-Wan- that’s great!” Anakin said excitedly. If Obi-Wan knew who was responsible for all their suffering then, “That could end the war, right?”

Obi-Wan continued to gaze searchingly at his dearest friend and brother’s face, gently opening himself up to their bond, trying to find any hint of duplicity.

Anakin faltered under the scrutiny. “Right?”

Obi-Wan took another deep breath. He didn’t know. This was Anakin, before Palpatine- did something to him. It wasn’t too late.

“Anakin...it’s...someone we trust. Someone you trust. He- Darth Sidious- he’s been running both sides of the war.”

Anakin paled, eyes darting to the door, voice dropping to a low, urgent whisper, “He’s on the Council? Fuck that’s bad. Obi-Wan, what do you need me to do? I don’t have my lightsaber right now, but-” 

“No!” Obi-Wan replied quickly. “No! I mean, yes, it’s bad. But he’s not on the council. It’s- Anakin. I’m so, so sorry. But I saw a security hologram of him giving the final order to- to wipe out the Jedi and the Separatist leadership.” Anakin watched in alarm as Obi-Wan shuddered viscerally.

“I saw his speeches declaring victory over us, over everything. He personally killed half the council when we finally, finally found him out, far too late. Yoda barely survived- we were- the two of us were all that was left. I spent the last few years listening to his decrees as ‘Emperor’ - declaring the scarce remaining Jedi traitors to be hunted down. Making non-humans second class citizens. Enslaving worlds.”

Obi-Wan grabbed the front of Anakin’s tunic. “Please Anakin. He- he’s evil. He doesn’t want peace, or freedom, or justice, or security. He’s just been manipulating us all for his own ends. All of us. This whole time.” 

“It’s going to be ok, Obi-Wan,” Anakin said earnestly, grasping his Master’s hands. “I believe you. If the force gave you this clear a warning- or this incredible a second chance, then obviously we have to listen! I won’t let it happen how you saw, I swear. I’ll do whatever it takes to stop him.”

Obi-Wan felt like he was teetering over the edge of a precipice. He sucked in another breath- why was it so hard to breathe- 

“Anakin- It’s Palpatine. Chancellor Palpatine is the Sith Lord.”

Anakin froze. “That’s- not funny.”

Obi-Wan barked out a single hysterical laugh. “No, no it is not. But it’s true. I told you- I saw it and- it makes a twisted sense, even only looking at the informational available at this point in time! How the Separatists  always stayed one step ahead despite our advantages. How the clones and the GAR came to exist in the first place. The constant increase in war time powers- Dooku karking told us the Senate was under the control of a Sith-” 

“We’re listening to Dooku now?” Anakin asked, getting angry for lack of a better response.

“Anakin...” 

“I mean of course that’s what the Sith would want you to believe! He’s the chancellor! Turning the Jedi against the leader of the republic is such a Sith move.”

“Anakin...”

“And- and- MIND CONTROL! What if it was it was mind control! You even said you thought that you thought Cody was mind-controlled, right?”

Obi-Wan drew back, alarmed and suspicious, “How do you know that?” he rasped hoarsely.

Anakin rolled his eyes. “You told Cody, remember? That first night? In the hovercar?”

“Ah. Right. Sorry. That first night is still a little fuzzy.” Obi-Wan wrinkled his nose. “I still can’t believe I time-traveled while high on one end and drunk on the other. It’s so- undignified.” 

Anakin snorted. “You must have taken a lot of spice, huh?” he joked.

Obi-Wan shifted uncomfortably.

“I- oh for Krong’s sake,” Anakin groaned, slapping himself in the forehead. “Obi-Wan- were you actually trying to kill yourself?”

“No!” Obi-Wan replied quickly to the loaded question. “I was just looking for a- temporary escape. I did mention that a Sith Empire ruled the galaxy and Yoda and I were all that was left of the Jedi order, right? He didn’t seem totally sane the last time I saw him, either! Not to mention, I spent most of the last three years alone in a desert.”

“Oh.” Anakin grew somber. “Master, that-”

“And that still doesn’t explain how you knew what I said to Cody.”

“Well, the day after I came back to our quarters to find you in the process of stabbing yourself in the heart you woke up, declared Master Che both dead and a Sith trick, then sunk into a self-induced coma.” Anakin snapped. “The healers, I think understandably, set aside privacy and called everyone in to try and figure out what the fuck was going on”

Obi-Wan cringed. “That...makes sense. Sorry again.” He cleared his throat. “Look, we’ve got seconds left before council interrupts- I just- didn’t want you to be blindsided by the Palpatine reveal.”

“But you admit there was mind control involved,” Anakin insisted. “Cody wouldn’t have turned on you without it, and neither would the Chancellor.”

“Anakin- I know we never liked to talk about it, but the Vod had a lot more opportunity to be compromised en mass. They were designed for a purpose we never fully understood and their entire childhood consisted of indoctrination; we already knew Dooku was involved with their ‘commissioning- we just ignored it.’”

Anakin bit the inside of his mouth, tasting blood as he restrained himself from screaming. He didn’t want to think about Kamino and he had to make Obi-Wan see past the nightmare he witnessed, before he convinced the council of an innocent man’s guilt.

“There wasn’t anyone else who might have been mind-controlled, who turned on you, or the Jedi? You said everyone died- there had to be someone besides some of the clones and one old man doing the killing,” he said desperately.

Obi-Wan’s sputtered, “That’s- that’s different- it was so obviously Palpatine’s influence.”

“But there was someone else you think might have been acting against his will.” Anakin pressed, sensing a weak point.

Obi-Wan looked gutted. “I don’t know- I want to believe you would never do such terrible things but you did and it all happened so fast...”

“So you admit-” Anakin stopped as his brain caught up with his mouth. “Wait- me?”

Obi-Wan’s face twisted in anguish but he didn’t break eye contact as he nodded.

Anakin swallowed hard. “Obi-Wan... what did I-” he cut himself off as the door opened.

Master Windu entered and squinted suspiciously at the two of them. 

"Mace!” Anakin said nervously. “We were just- crying. You know. Being attached and, and all that.”

Obi-Wan's jaw dropped open as he stared bug-eyed at his Padawan. “Mace?” he repeated, dumbfounded.

Mace Windu inhaled slowly through his nose. “Your friends had plenty of time to bond while we were trying to make sense of your more... disastrous traits.” He waved vaguely.

“You just gestured at all me,” Obi-Wan replied, offended. 

“Well, you’ll have the opportunity to help clear up our misconceptions. Master Aerdo is preparing a meeting room in the Halls so you can explain everything, just like you wanted.”

“Oh, fuck.” Anakin whispered softly. 

“It’s a different room, Anakin, I made sure of it.” Mace reassured him.

“Anakin?” Obi-Wan parroted in delight.

“Well, I’m glad you know everyone’s names, at least.” Windu muttered. “Master Che will be by to check you over one more time, she should have some proper robes for you. Should we contact Commander Cody? He’s at a pre-departure briefing with Master Tiin not too far away.” 

“No.” Obi-Wan responded sadly. “We can’t alert anyone outside the halls about even the existence of this meeting. Maintaining secrecy right now is too important. We’re going to need to take a significant amount of extremely careful action on a lot of fronts if we want to unravel the Sith’s plots- and I hate to say it but stopping the actual war is unfortunately going to need to wait for last. We’ll still end things sooner than they would otherwise, but if we meddle too much right now... Whatever story you were using to explain my- absence the past few days, please simply double down on that.” 

The Master of the Jedi Order nodded slowly, holding off on questions with well-practiced restraint.

“Alright Windu, Skywalker, get out.” Che ordered, brusquely pushing her way in with a hovercart. 

“Yes, Master Che.” Anakin acknowledged, jumping up. He gave Obi-Wan a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder before he departed. “We’re going to get through this.” he said valiantly, trying to project confidence.

Obi-Wan smiled weakly, “I’ll see you two soon.”

“That’s up to me, actually.” Master Che said cheerfully, snapping her gloves.

Part XVIII

#star wars #my au #suicidal misunderstanding au #star wars au no 27 #potentially triggering #suicide references #my tags got so long that im just going to post them later as a big meta #star wars fanfiction #time travel #star wars au

[cupcakemolotov]

My Only Love: Part 2

Well, ages later, and I managed this.

When Stefan and Damon find a coffin holding an original, they hope they find an ally. They find Caroline instead. Part 1 on A03

Warnings: Alternate Universe; Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence; original!caroline; hybrid!Klaus;Canon-Typical Violence; Blood Drinking; Blood and Gore; Character Death (Not OTP); Not Salvatore Friendly; Biting; No Smut Yet

                                                       -

Skirts and nails and lips bloody, her left hand curled carefully around the strange device she had plucked from Stefan’s hand the same way she’d taken his secrets, Caroline swept out of the dank and dreary basement to find just how the world had changed. A hundred years surely had more than one fascinating new thing to marvel at, and she wanted it all. 

But mostly she wanted her husband.

It was unfortunate that the house was both astonishing and an utter disappointment. The windows were boarded, and the time-worn furniture and fading curtains were as alien to her as the wide expanse of the rooms. There were no gas lamps or candles here, but strange and delicate things made from blown glass that hung from the ceiling and turned the room nearly noon bright. Some of it was tacky, the colors were atrocious and who picked out those chairs? 

Did this modern work not believe in pretty yet comfortable? She was quite certain Klaus had insisted on owning a set of chairs just like those in the 1800s and she hadn’t liked them then either. And what was that fabric?

What kind of place had she been put away to rot?

Outside, she could feel the burn if the sun and frustration clawed at her. When her father-in-law had left her to rot, he’d taken everything he could. Her daylight ring, the pretty jewelry Klaus had gifted her the morning of her abduction, her favorite hair combs. But right then it was the lack of daylight ring she raged at the most. 

Caroline stared at what looked to be the front door with impotent longing. Somewhere out there was Klaus, free from the machinations of father who had hunted him all her life and she wanted to see what changes that freedom had wrought, to taste the triumph from his tongue. To feel him beneath her hands, to know they were free. 

It'd only been a handful of hours to her memories since she’d seen him last, but she could feel the ache of centuries in her bones. The lack of the man who had stood with his hand curved around hers for all the years of her life. Her nails dug into her palms, gouging little half moons, and she took a slow breath. 

Klaus has broken his curse. Mikael was dead, and she knew her husband was hunting for her with the same need that sat in her bones. He’d come to her as soon as he knew she was awake. She’d woken in a world where they’d won. Her lips curved as she recalled Stefan’s words, the angry, bitter pill of her husband’s triumphs clear in his gaze. Below her, she could hear him grieving, the death of brother the song that would usher her into this new existence.

It was fitting she decided, for this young vampire who wished to destroy Klaus to understand the pain he wished her to suffer. He’d wanted her family destroyed, and instead sacrificed his own. She’d leave him that agony for a while yet, her compulsion ensuring he would stay where he was, keeping the cooling corpse of his brother company. Right then, she had something far more important to do. 

Carefully, she wiped her fingers clean on the skirt of her dress, mourning the ruined fabric of it even though it was already liberally covered in blood. Stefan had carried no handkerchief to offer her and she had no wish to search the house for something more suitable to wipe her hands on. She’d already seen more than enough of this place, and wished nothing to delay her husband finding her. 

Hands mostly clean, she considered the smooth shape of what Stefan had told her was a phone in her hand. A strange, modern device that connected people's voices to voice, sometimes face to face. A wonderful little thing that would bring Klaus to her, when the sun was high in the sky and she had no way to go to him. 

It was fascinating. Stefan’s explanation of how to use it and just how radio signals worked had been quite poor, when she wished to know every facet of the device. What kind of world had it become that such fascinating technology should be so badly understood by those who used it? 

Klaus would help her learn. 

For a moment, her finger hovered over the strange cover, this screen and she let herself wish this reunion would happen when she was a little more composed. A hundred years, and she was dressed in a relic of the past, dust covered and splattered with gore. The gore bothered her less than the dust, the ancient wrinkles she had no way to improve. And what was the point? She planned, hoped to be quite naked very soon. 

Pushing aside that niggling vanity, she carefully copied the motions Stefan had shown her to work the phone. Thankfully, English itself hadn’t seemed to have gone through so many changes it was completely unrecognizable, the shape and form of letters familiar even if utterly strange in this… digital format. First, the odd thing he’d called a passcode. Then she found the green box at the bottom with the strange symbol, followed by recent calls. 

There it was. His name. Klaus. 

Such a simple thing, such a lifetime of need. 

Pressing his name, her brows drew down sharply as nothing happened. Muttering under her breath a number of curses at incompetent things, she carefully prodded the screen until something changed. An unexpected jolt of noise startled her, a loud sound that she supposed was ringing. She was going to have to have so much to catch up on.

“Stefan, rethought my offer?”

The sound of Klaus’ voice, so clear and with that soft mix of charm and menace she knew so well, unexpectedly clogged her throat. Fingers flying to her mouth, Caroline swallowed hard. It was one thing to hear that her husband had triumphed, but it was another to hear his voice. To viscerally know that he was alive and if she could just get her voice to work, he’d be here. 

“Klaus.” The single word came out rough. There was a sudden, fraught silence, and she wondered if the blasted device had stopped working.

“Who is this?” Klaus’ voice was sharp, dangerously bladed, and her eyes narrowed at the threat she could hear beneath his words. 

“I am told,” she said in tones that had cooled considerably. “That you should be able to understand me as easily as I understand you. If you require an introduction to your wife, century between us or not, I am going to be very displeased, Klaus Mikaelson.”

Behind him, there was a crash, a noise that sounded like bone breaking. Her brows furrowed, ears straining to catch any hint of sound. “What was that?”

“Caroline.” Her name was clipped, a thousand things she couldn’t understand in his voice. “Where are you”?

Spine snapping taut in irritation at the blatant order in his voice, the way he ignored her question, her fingers tightened on the screen. “I believe the vampire Stefan called it a boarding house?”

“Stay there.”

Her jaw dropped as there was sudden silence, the screen changing to once again and it occurred to her that he was no longer listening to her. The screen cracked beneath her grip, and she tossed it away. Clearly her husband had forgotten a thing or two in the intervening years such as her dislike of rudeness.

Stay there. 

As if she was a minion. 

As if they hadn’t seen each other in decades and decades. Blowing out a slow breath, she wrangled her temper. He certainly knew where she was but had given her no indication how long it would take him to reach her. Maybe she should head back downstairs and entertain herself with Stefan until he arrived. 

Debating, she blinked when outside, there was a noise, a blur of movement, and then the door opened with a wrench that nearly removed the door from its hinges. Her breath hitched in her throat, and Klaus stared at her from the perimeter of the room, eyes hotly yellow. 

His hair was shorn shorter than she’d ever seen it, the cut and make of his clothing as strange and foreign as the wolf in his eyes. But she knew him down to her bones, and she took half a step towards him without thought. But when he continued to just stare at her, to watch her with a carefully set expression, her remembered annoyance sprang to the surface. 

Hand sliding to her hip, Caroline stopped moving and narrowed her eyes. Temper and the smallest bit of hurt turned her voice hard. “I cannot believe the very first thing you're making me do after being released from that box is remind you that I am not…”

His face lost its passiveness, something vibrant and wild crossing his face before the distance between them disappeared with the curve of his palm on her jaw, and the press of his mouth, firm and plush and wanting, swallowed her complaint. Hands grasping for the feel of his shoulders, his spine, she pressed back with the same gasping need he always elicited in her, teeth sinking into his lip as both a need to taste and a chastisement for his behavior. He groaned against her mouth, tongue chasing hers as she slicked along the blood, and her head spun as he tangled himself in her skirts as they staggered backwards. 

His palm pressed against the back of her skull as he pressed close and her spine hit the wall, so close that hip, thigh and stomach were all one line of burning contact even with her skirts and his clothes between them. There was nothing passive in his touch or kiss as they let mouths and hands roam, and she dug in with her nails, demanding more. 

When he pulled back, lingering so they breathed heavily against each other’s mouths, his hand left her face to cup her hip, pulling her even closer. His gaze flickered down the line of her chest, to the blood splattered material that was both his and the other vampires, and his mouth curved slow and pleased before returning to her face. When he spoke, his voice was low and raspy, a thousand benedictions behind his eyes.

“Caroline.”

#my fic #klaroline fanfic #klaroline drabble #klaroline #here we go again i think

[nevermindirah]

part 6, past and future: How every character in The Old Guard (2020) dir. Gina Prince-Bythewood relates to the main character, Nile Freeman

We know almost nothing about Lykon in canon. We know he was fucking gorgeous, and we know his permanent death was sudden and surprisingly early compared to Andy and Quynh. We know from that deleted scene that he was playful in battle. I want to know more about Lykon.

Nile will never see a picture of Lykon let alone meet him. But she's connected to him. As far as we know, they're the only two immortals of African descent who've existed so far. Nile, whose ancestors were stolen from West Africa and whose histories white supremacy did its level best to erase, might feel an especially strong urge to learn about Lykon.

What might Andy or Quynh remember about Lykon's history that Nile might treasure as a restored piece of her own stolen history? I don't know what comics canon says about his birthplace or where he lived, and I doubt Greg Rucka put that much thought into it, but what Andy and Quynh remember of Lykon and his family might have some kind of link, some kind of at very least spiritual kinship to ancestors Nile has been separated from since before she was born.

Nile might also find a kind of solace in hearing Andy and Quynh talk about Lykon, a solidarity with her own loss. I think the three of them will talk about Lykon how Nile's little brother and his potential future children will talk about Nile, and Nile will think about that, and when it's too awful to bear, she'll ask her big sisters to hug her and tell her stories about her big brother who died before she was born.

Quynh, though. Quynh is alive.

We know Nile got flashes of Quynh alongside the others at first, and we see her have one devastatingly visceral dream of Quynh. We don't know whether Quynh can have the dreams, because there's no fucking way she's getting REM sleep while constantly drowning to death, but if she does, her first dream of Nile would probably be the same as the others': snippets of her deployment in Afghanistan. We don't know if the dreams choose to show details that would make it easier for the immortals to find each other, or if it's more of a general highlight reel. Quynh might get snippets of Nile entering and then, uh, exiting the Merrick building — the dreams would probably consider that a helpful landmark. She might see both Nile and Booker's perspective on the family turning around up those stairs and leaving Booker behind at the bar.

Between the end of the movie and their eventual meeting (2 Old 2 Guard now also confirmed by Veronica Ngô Thanh Vân what!) Quynh is likely to dream snippets of Nile traveling, training, getting to know her new family. If she hasn't been having the dreams underwater, when Quynh finally resurfaces she'll start having dreams for the first time of both Nile and Booker. What a confusing juxtaposition that would be. We don't know how long Quynh and Andy took to find Joe and Nicky, but Quynh does, and if this is the first she's learning of both Nile and Booker she's liable to be confused as shit why the seemingly newer immortal has been found and brought into the family but they don't seem to be searching for the other one at all.

Once whatever happens happens and the family is reunited, Quynh and Nile will both be playing major catchup about family history, just from different directions. Quynh will be able to join Andy in telling Nile about their adventures from before Joe and Nicky came along. Nile will be able to tell Quynh about modern history (at least what she's able to given that she may or may not have interest in it, and the basket of yikes that is US public school curricula) and what the family have been up to lately. Nile and Quynh both missed the first 200 years of Booker, so they'll be united in watching the others puzzle at and grieve and rage over whatever the fuck happened that sent Booker into such a catastrophic spiral.

Based on that gorgeous red coat alone, I think Quynh is going to prioritize beauty and pleasure and comfort whenever she can, now that she can. Nile wanted to get an art history degree after her Marine service. I think these two alongside Joe are going to enjoy the shit out of all the modern fashions their mercenary bank accounts can afford.

And that's all I've got, for now at least, on what movie canon shows us of how every character in The Old Guard relates to the main character, Nile Freeman. You can find the whole series here on Tumblr and here on AO3. I love getting asks if you want to talk more about Nile and her new family!

#nile freeman #lykon #quynh #dirah discusses tog team dynamics #tog meta #tog #mine #userhayls #long post

[samsoleil]

you can now read the homeschooled au on ao3! or you can keep reading here. in this installment, the boys go to a mall for the first time and have an Experience™

(cw for sensory overload, if that's something that doesn't quite butter your bread roll)

One day, Sam realised that their dad was just a person.

He can’t remember the conversation, if it could be called that, in its entirety. But what he does remember with a surreal vividness is seeing Dad’s face, cold and hard with rage and frustration, and thinking, I don’t understand. Real life doesn’t have those scenes where the camera cuts to the perfect moment to explain the characters’ motivations. Dad had a whole life before Sam and lives most of his existence separate from Sam, with his own ideas and interpretations and some sort of equation that added one dead wife and two kids and came up with the mess that’s been Sam’s life so far. This experience of the world, a mark of being human.

And that thought was like a spotlight had been shone on Sam’s little corner of the world, this glaring thing, an unavoidable truth. It isn’t always there but, when it is, it’s inescapable. If Sam’s honest, it’s fuelled the fire in more than one of his arguments with their dad. Sam wonders if this is how Eve felt after biting into the fruit from the Tree of Knowledge, cursed with a realisation that can’t ever be unlearned.

But Dean’s different. Dean’s life isn’t this impossible, untouchable thing like Dad’s is; it’s Sam’s life, too, this thing they share, and Dean lives life more than anyone else Sam's met. Admittedly, Sam can name the amount of people he's actually met, beyond the handful of cashiers he's made uncomfortable eye contact with, on one hand. But he can't imagine that anyone who's ever spoken to Dean has left the conversation thinking, Well, he doesn't experience life as much as I do.

That’s not the point. The point is, Sam’s become accustomed to the concept that people in the real world have thoughts and feelings and lives that Sam will never know. But he and Dean had wanted to try going to a mall for lunch, instead of their usual cafés, and Sam had no idea that you could find this many people in a single place.

"Wow," he says, standing with Dean in the doorway.

There really are just so many of them. Parents with their kids, old couples, gaggles of teenagers laughing and shouting. Sam sees a group of girls around Dean's age in bright colours, hair falling in a sheet around their shoulders. He sees two young parents with their baby, jostling them up and down as they wail, drawing dirty looks from a couple of older women chatting over coffee. Everything is fluorescent bulbs and colour and sound. It's wonderful. It's horrible. There are so many of them and Sam has no idea who any of them are. It’s the Tree of Knowledge again, if biting into fruit was comparable to plummeting off a cliff, and he doesn't think he’d be able to handle feeling like this all the time. It's almost too much, to think that everyone here is just as alive as Sam and Dean.

Sam reaches out slightly to tangle his fingers between Dean's. Dean's hand relaxes easily, less soft and larger than Sam's, and grips him reassuringly after Sam's fingers are threaded with his. He feels better, after that. He watches the small family as the baby suddenly stops crying, their mother pressing a pacifier into their mouth and receiving a gummy smile. Genetically, a person's DNA is half their mother and half their father. Sam has a matching theory about himself as a whole. Half of Sam is characters from books, TV shows, movies, and half of Sam is Dean.

He follows after Dean as they move out of the doorway, away from Sam's sudden movie moment, and they melt into the crowd. It's even worse once they get in there, and Sam keeps overhearing snippets of conversation, fragments of this bustling chaos of lives.

"-working Friday, and I don't know if-"

There's a girl with an ear full of piercings, silver and solid, wearing all black with ripped jeans and a leather jacket-

"-assignment? I haven't-"

-and the sun streaming in through one of the windows flashes off the glass of one of the stores, momentarily turning Sam's vision white, and it's enough to make his eyes sting-

"-Sarah, Katy, wai-"

-while the air is filled with the scent of a hundred different foods, sweet as spun sugar one second and then the smoky thickness of meat, and Sam's head turns to follow the smell of flowers carried by the curls of a dark-skinned man in jeans-

"-long black, two sugars. Do you ha-"

-who greets an older woman with greying hair, and Sam turns back to face the direction they're heading and sees a crowd of people too thick to move through.

"-believe, I mean, it was so-"

He squeezes Dean's hand. Dean squeezes back. Sam squeezes again, and they have a back and forth for a minute or so as they wait for a space to open up in the crowd ahead of them. Sam knows what the person at the counter is ordering and what the people at the table behind them did for their weekend and what Donnie did to Amy, did you hear?

I heard, Sam thinks viciously, Everyone in a ten mile radius heard, can you shut up?

And then he feels bad, because it's not their fault it's so loud in here. He can barely hear himself think. He can't even hear himself breathe, can just feel his lungs inhaling and exhaling in his chest. The functional unit of the lungs are small sacs called alveoli that have walls one cell thin, and the culmination of Sam's can usually run a five minute mile but today, now, they're barely keeping him standing.

"-diagnosis, it all happened so fast-"

It's been a minute since he last squeezed Dean's hand, so he squeezes again. And Dean squeezes back, hard, and that seems to help the frantic energy building in Sam's body, so when Dean starts to relax his hand Sam squeezes again and he doesn't let go.

"-don't know what I'd do-"

And Dean looks back, and something must show in Sam's face, because then they're moving, the crowd be damned. Someone brushes against Sam and he feels every part of it, too aware of the fabric of their shirt brushing against Sam's flannel. Someone else steps on the side of his shoe and he wants to step on them back, wants them to finish the job, wants to break out of his body. Dean's squeezing Sam's hand hard enough that he feels the bones in his hand shift, but it's all he has, right now. The rest of him is too busy paying attention to everything else.

"-rotten leaf in my salad, I want-"

There's a group of children laughing and stumbling over their feet, their mothers following behind with gentle smiles and chattering conversation, and Sam feels this tug of want-

"-failed my midterms, so I just-"

-and there's someone in a bright, multicoloured jacket holding hands with a girl dressed in all denim, laughing as they reach up to gently grasp her chin and lean in-

"-loud in here, do you want-"

-so Sam looks away, and no matter where he looks there's another person, another family, another store, another thing bright and beautiful and he can't take it, okay, it's just too much-

"-I said, that's crazy, no way-"

-for him to handle right now, the everything of it all, the thought that, all this time, the entire world has existed just outside of their motel room and he's barely a part of it.

"-beautiful, Mary-"

Sam's heart jolts in his chest.

I can't do this, he thinks desperately, still moving with Dean, pulled along by him, his hand encompassed by Dean's. He tamps down the visceral urge to just lie down here, press himself into the tile and be consumed. He sidesteps a puddle of someone's chocolate thickshake, his stomach turning over. He can feel the slick of his sweat between Dean's large, warm hand and his own. Part of him wants to tug away to dry his palm on his jeans, but he feels like he might fall apart if he does.

Dean leads him into a store and the temperature change shocks him, sending shivers cascading down his spine, and Sam feels suddenly unwell, like when he has the flu. But it's quieter in here, the cacophony of the mall muted by the racks of clothing. The fluorescents take all the red away, leaving Dean wearing an ugly brown flannel, and that sick feeling grows stronger. Sam closes his eyes, letting Dean guide him. He flinches at the clatter as Dean pulls something off the rack, the hanger tapping plastic against metal railing, and lets himself be swept along, around a corner and into a changing room, Dean pulling the curtains closed.

Sam bypasses the bench to sit down on the floor, gaze fixed on where the curtain brushes against the faux wood linoleum. He can still hear the chatter in the store, muffled as if underwater.

Dean crouches down in front of him, breaking his line of sight, but Sam can't move. He can't stay still. He's going to fall apart. He's going to turn to stone. He wants to run, run, out through the mall and back home, he wants to crawl into Dean's chest and stay there forever and never go outside again. Fuck outside. Outside is overrated. Outside is filled with people who couldn't give less of a shit about Sam, going about their days while he falls apart in the middle of a food court. Outside is filled with people who aren't Sam and Dean, living TV lives while they spin out on some highway in Nowhere, America.

"Sammy?" Dean says, and it's so loud, what the hell, Dean.

Sam untangles himself from his little ball of limbs to silently shoosh him, and he watches as the tense line of Dean's shoulders relax infinitesimally from where they were hitched up around his ears, all worry. Dean bats his hands away gently, fine, fine, he'll be quiet.

What happened? asks the moue of Dean's mouth, the furrow between his brows.

Sam shrugs.

That's not an answer.

And Sam knows it's not, but how is he meant to explain it when even he doesn't know what happened? It was just everything, all at once, and it crept under Sam's skin and into his head and he couldn't escape it. He looks up at Dean, helpless, and Dean's hands come up to cradle his face and it's alright. It'll be okay. Sam tips his head into the warmth of Dean's skin, lets his eyes fall closed.

Someone laughs from in the store and Sam flinches, then feels Dean's hands move to cover his ears instead. Sam sighs and leans into Dean's chest. He expects to hate it, being touched, worries that he'll want to shed his skin in a heap at the feeling of it, but it's Dean. Sam presses his forehead into Dean's ribs firm enough to bruise, and Dean pulls him along as he reshuffles on the floor so that Sam is between his legs, wrapped in warmth, anchored to the world. He moves his hands away from Sam's ears and Sam, with a bitter-sick feeling of betrayal, clamps his own over them, pressing hard. But Dean puts his hands on Sam's back instead, rubbing soothingly, and that's better than anything else.

A few moments pass, quietly, just the two of them. Sam’s still stuck in his head, which is tuned into the world like a radio turned up too high, but he does his best to focus on the smooth movements of Dean’s hands up and down his back, fingers running over the knobs of his spine. They’re called spinous processes, and they lengthen throughout the cervical spine but are mostly the same size in the thoracic spine. Sam checked. Dean kicked up only a little bit of a fuss. And when Sam realises that he’s playing that memory in his head, eyelids heavy, he notices that he’s feeling a little better.

As if reading his mind, Dean moves his hands to rest on Sam’s arms, and Sam settles back. He takes his hands away from his ears, blinking hard. His chest feels a bit tight, but he’s okay. He conveys as much to Dean, who looks over him, expression doubtful. But when he sees Sam watching his face he plasters on a grin, rubbing Sam’s arms quickly through his shirt before he moves back, too.

Dean signs for Baby. They don’t have to stay.

Part of Sam wants to leave, but it feels like giving up. And he wants to try the mall, was excited until he became overwhelmed and, if he tries, he can make the adrenaline feel more like anticipation.

“I want to stay." He accompanies the words with their signs. “Can we get pizza?”

Dean kept bringing it up in the car, subtle as a truck, and Sam saw some slices of a vegetarian pizza through the glass of one of the counters. It’s an easy choice to make. Sam doesn’t really feel like pizza, but he knows that Dean will try to cheer him up the same way he cheers himself up. And it works, for the most part. Dean just hasn’t quite realised that the main reason why is because Sam likes seeing Dean happy.

And, fine. Sam knows Dean needs him to be happy, too, and maybe that plays a bigger part in it all than Sam would care to admit. He knows that if he asked to leave, they would be as good as gone. It's enough to make him feel lightheaded, sometimes, the things that Dean would do for him. And it's not even because he has to. He chose Sam, over their dad, over hunting, over the chance to be free from Sam's drama forever. So they'll stay, and they'll get pizza, and they'll buy jackets and underwear and Dean's paraphernalia, and then they'll be gone. Sam just needs to hold on for a few more hours.

Dean beams and Sam feels his cheeks flush in response. Dean's so, so proud of him. He circles Sam's heart through his shirt and Sam feels something bright and beautiful settle in him. It’s contagious.

"That's my boy," Dean says, ruffling Sam's hair.

Sam pushes him away gently, reaching up to fix his hair, and Dean rocks back, still wearing that easy smile. Sam has to look away, eyes settling on the amulet sitting on Dean's chest and shining dully in the crappy change room lighting. Sam doesn't know how he does it. Sam knows better than anyone that life isn't always sunshine and roses but, even with Sam losing his grip over and over, Dean's still here. Maybe it's selfish, but Sam can't help but be desperately grateful. He wouldn't trade where they are now for anything. They're alive now in a way they weren't before, and Dean seems to be genuinely enjoying it. Sam wants to love existing that much.

Dean stands and offers him his hand.

One day, maybe I will, Sam thinks, and he reaches out.

#spn #spn hssd au #spn fic #supernatural #stanfordsweaters #still tagging you in these! #spn sam #spn dean #kael.txt #YALL I AM STILL LOSING IT OVER THIS AU..... i will not recover i will not improve that is a promise #if anyone is reading this and wants to see something. please please let me know.

[septembersghost]

#this is one of those episodes that was almost a little...too much" @laurelwinchester - I saw your tag on the photoset for 4x04, but this is too many thoughts to reply with and became a post. this is actually an interesting (interesting in a distressing way?) theme to me in S4 - Metamorphosis, Family Remains, and Jump the Shark are probably three of the most overtly horrific-as-in-bloody-and-gross episodes that they ever did (maybe also with Dead Men Don't Wear Plaid in S5?), and there's the scene of the boys tending their injuries in Heaven and Hell, there's everything about On the Head of a Pin (which is a masterpiece and a perfectly scripted/acted/directed episode, but it's brutal and visceral and crushing in a way that feels different in scope than almost anything else the show did) - I have a theory that S4 is in some ways the most "honest" depiction of how terrifying and awful their lives really are, and that we see it exposed in a particularly graphic sense due to the extreme trauma underlying Dean's death and torture and suffering in hell, and the rage and grief and feeling of helplessness that led Sam to become everything he feared in Dean's absence by drinking demon blood. Dean comes back, but nothing is what it was, and they hide truths and they hurt (themselves and each other) and are plunged into the violence of hunting in a starker way. angels are suddenly as real as demons, and they're faced with the bleak knowledge that heaven's machinations are as cruel as any devices of hell. trusting anything feels illusory. it's like...the veil that keeps us safe as viewers, that cleans the circumstances up a little bit, thins. the fear is nastier and is a monster all its own, and there are so many fractures and psychological issues and angst that even the episodes of levity, where we'd ordinarily just enjoy being in the story with the Winchesters, are tinged with that underlying trauma. they don't know each other like they did, and so we suddenly, after loving them and watching their story unfold, don't exactly know those versions of them either. there's this pervasive feeling of uncertainty and dread. S4 makes that more raw than they did anywhere else - and it's effective as what was originally planned as the penultimate chapter of the story, despite the fact that it didn’t end up being that - and it's necessary to expose the nerves of what's happened to them, but sometimes it's hard to look directly at it. (I think a lot about the scene between Dean and Tessa in Death Takes a Holiday, and why that's there, why we needed to hear that acknowledgment of, essentially, depression/suicidality, and how it was meant to speak to his arc...I've thought more about it since S15 ended than perhaps I even did a decade ago, for obvious reasons...and it aches that they managed to render so many of these themes, if not inert or irrelevant, then...antithetical to why they existed in the first place. I digress.) when they tried to lean on/recycle those themes again later, it never had the same resonance (and S4 and S5 function together in a number of ways regarding those themes and eventual breaths of reunion/reclamation/relinquishment/recovery...hmm unexpected alliteration is fun!) because the circumstances of S4 were so specifically entwined with those initial journeys. we can't see what happened to Dean in hell, so instead we're presented with the routine gore and the daily unease, wounds being stitched up in motel rooms, and sharp, ugly edges that exist on earth, alive. I watched Buffy for the first time essentially simultaneously with S4 ("I don't know how to live in this world, if these are the choices, if everything just gets stripped away. I don't see the point," is a very circa S4 Dean quote in my head), and I remember when she said - everything here is hard, and bright, and violent. everything I feel, everything I touch. this is hell. - it hit me hard for personal reasons at that time and has rattled around in my chest since, but it also made me think of what Dean was going through, despite the fact that he was literally in hell and didn't have the catharsis of the peace or relief she'd felt - you're pulled from the pit and put back together, every visible scar you once had gone, but every inner one still bleeding, and with the memory of every moment of loss and torment, and your vision of the world is not the same. your brother is not the same. you are not the same. hell, like a shadow with teeth, follows after you.

#apologizing because this is a repeat post since tumblr...ate the first one and it's nowhere to be found? tumblr hates me lately ;__; #me writing a message yesterday about jump the shark that i didn't send has had this on my mind #i've written about S4 before but it's endlessly fascinating and upsetting (i say this as a compliment...?) to me #supernatural #absolutely in no way is it what this post is but i'm filing it under the currently dormant tag #spn liveblog

[juneisafantasyaddict]

You don’t even need to go as far as reading Demon in the Woods to know that The Darkling is literally the only form of protection his people have. Episode 2 of Shadow and Bone, the carriage scene, Ivan and Fedyor literally talk about how the Little Palace is pretty much the only kind of protection they have.

How can anyone watch season 1 of Shadow and Bone and come to the conclusion that The Darkling is the reason why the Grisha are prosecuted??? Wtf?! The Fold isn’t even the reason why, we literally saw that Grisha have always been prosecuted by pretty much everyone.

I’m so irritated by this for a billion reasons, not just because I’m absolutely a fan of The Darkling but because of me as a Black, queer person.

The history of my people is literally full of people taking and taking and taking and telling us to just lay down and suffer. There’s a visceral emotion is feel when I watch episode 7, or when I remember parts of the books that actually talk about the horrors Grisha face. They are horrible enough on their own, but when I think about the fact that real life prosecuted minorities actually have faced/continue to face similar horrors, it literally makes me want to curl up in a fetal position and cry or it makes me want to fucking rage until my anger is something tangible and consuming.

Do you know how many Black people were kidnapped from their homes and used as fucking science experiments in America or Europe? You know, like how Shu Han kidnaps and experiments on Grisha? Do you know how many queer people are killed everyday just for being like Fjerda kills Grisha? What about the horrible things that happen everyday to women, religious minorities, etc?

Like forget the small science for a second, and just think about all the millions of oppressed and prosecuted people in the world who would give anything just to be able to live freely. Then, think about Aleksander Morozova’s entire story, the history of the Grisha, and then maybe you’ll see why so many people are so put off by the way LB chose to tell this story.

While you’re at it, make a list of all the civil rights heroes you now, read about them, then tell me how many of them were hated by their governments, how many of them were murdered because their governments used turncoats against them, how many of them no matter how ruthless their methods seemed are still celebrated by the people they fought for.

This isn’t me calling The Darkling a civil right hero, I think he’s an anti - hero. But I can see why people would be loyal to him. I can see why Ivan was fiercely loyal, I can see why a lot of the Grisha didn’t join Alina. I definitely would’ve stayed on team Darkling if I existed in the Grishaverse. And if you’re not blinded by LB’s “The Darkling is the worst and I will tell you why instead of writing stuff that makes sense” thing, you would see why too.

Sigh. I know this is fiction and fantasy, but it’s really not that hard to apply critical thinking skills when talking about stuff. If you can’t be objective, then please just say you hate The Darkling and go. Don’t try to blame people who have been prosecuted, hunted, killed, for centuries for their pain. It makes you a bigot, whether you did it intentionally or not.

#sab #The Darkling #This took a dark turn but it’s cool #antis really need to think better #because at this point you’re just making yourselves look silly

[revchainsaw]

Audition (1999)

Greetings my dear followers, and welcome to today's service at the Cult Tent Revival! Today we have on offering a movie who's reputation precedes it. Please brace yourselves for the godmother of torture porn ... Audition.

The Message

When salary man Aoyoma loses his wife he is heart broken. As the years pass his son matures and begins to feel bad for his lonely father. Aoyomas son urges his father to move on and to find love. Spurred by this endorsement Aoyoma shares his lady troubles with close friends, one of whom comes up with a master plan. They will hold a film audition, under the presupposition that there is a major role in an upcoming move to play a wife, many eligible women will come forward and Aoyoma will have his pick of the candidates. When the time comes they will announce that the film lost it's financial backers and Aoyoma will be left with a long list of bachelorettes.

Against his better judgment a lonely Aoyoma agrees to the charade. Many quirky and interesting young ladies from the area show up for interviews and auditions, but the wistful and brooding Asami is the one who catches Aoyomas eye. Though hesitant to act on his deceit Aoyoma eventually caves and begins to see Asami. It is revealed that she is the survivor of quite a bit of loss and abuse, and a former ballerina. Aoyoma seems not to put a whole lot of thought into this and seduces Asami. The stricken Asami asks Aoyoma to promise her that he will love no one else but her. He agrees not making any caveats for his family or deceased relative.

After the relationship is consummated Asami disappears and thus Aoyoma begins a desperate hunt to find his new girlfriend. However, many of the leads Aoyoma trails down using the information he gathered from the audition lead nowhere and the few that do turn up are quite disturbing. Eventually upon returning home Aoyoma sits down and enjoys a nice glass of bourbon, only to find Asami had beat him home and drugged his glass.

Fact and Fiction blur as we are treated to a smorgasbord of graphic horror. Asami beheading her old dancing instructor, feeding vomit to a tortured soul she has been keeping in an old sack, and of course the brutal and horrific torture of Aoyomi himself. Asami is eventually discovered in the midst of brutalizing Aoyomi by his son and suffers a fall. She breaks her neck but not before she repeats her vows to the mutilated Aoyomi and our film ends.

Let's get to the Benediction

Best Aspect: Dead Meat Cute

if you were to remove some of the brutal imagery from the second half of the film, and were to ignore the downright misogyny of a plan that includes a faux audition to lure women into a relationship you would wind up with the formula for a pretty basic rom com. In fact, without the eery score it could be said that a large part of Audition actually plays like a by the numbers love story. It is this morbid inverstion of these roles that actually serves the horror of this movie far more than it's torture porn and graphic imagery. Many people have shyed away from this movie due to it's reputation for fear that it is nothing more than graphic and shocking violence, but this is far from the case. Audition is a good movie, and it's hero and villain are quite sympathetic.

Worst Aspect: It Was All a Dream

There is much debate online regarding what was "real" in this film. Things begin happening where logic is thrown out of the window. I was personally tempted to fall back on the traditional Japanese ghost story themes of wronged women, of which Asami is one, and accept that something supernatural was going on. This was unfortunately negated by the films own director confirming that everything we are seeing on screen is real, just in a jumbled way due to the protagonist's drug induced state. That still doesn't explain some things and it really feels like Takashi Miikie is channeling his inner David Lynch here. The debate rages on even after Miike's revelation, because if you are trying to give this film a logical timeline we are confronted with many logical errors that a drug trip just can't explain away. The Best you can do is just sit back and accept what you are seeing. Enjoy the ride, but don't try to create a timeline or you will have a bad time.

Best and Worst Character: Predators and Prey

Asami and Aoyomi share the first and last place for best and worst character. Asami is a victim, she is taking power back, and she is clearly an intriquing black widow of sorts. Once she dons her torture gear the film is all in on her. We want to see this poor child take the power back into her hands, but she is also misdirected and though Aoyomi is not innocent she is definitely going to irredeemable levels of mistreatment to make her point. She's very unsympathetic and it really downplays Aoyomis wrong doings to the point that many will disagree with me that he deserved any of this.

Aoyomi is often interpreted as this innocent widower. His loss does make him sympathetic. He was genuinely looking for a connection and not just for sex, though if my interpretation of the "dream sequence" is correct, he did cave and have sex with a few of the auditioners besides Asami. That is however left up to your personal interpretation. He was still in the wrong however for his lies. He and his friend intentionally crafted a scenario that was inteded to trap young women so that he could choose from them. In a non horror movie this may have been a quirky object for a meet cute, but in both Audition and real life, it's fucking creepy and wrong. Asami saw this, and so should the audience. Of course I don't think that Aoyomi was evil, just misquided. He did however place himself in a position to do harm and Asami is an avenging Demon to punish the wicked.

What makes this film work however is this ambiguity. This is not a story of Good vs Evil, it's a story of Good and Evil. They both exist within and without one another and Audition is an important reminder of how easily our experiences and our loss can blind us to the moral implications of our actions.

Best Kill: Piano Wire

Within the dream sequence Asami is shown to approach her old dance instructor while he is playing on the Piano. She produces her weapon of choice, a piano wire, and the dance instructor gladly accepts his fate. We are greeted with flashes of several poignant images as she saws back and forth into the flesh of his neck before fully decapitating him, and his severed head lands with a satisfying and bloody thud onto the ground.

Most WTF Moment: In The Dog House

We are treated to an incredibly visceral scenario at one point in the film where Asami feeds her own vomit to a victim. Earlier on in the movie there is a writhing sack in Asami's home that we are left to ponder the contents of. Of course, we presume it is something living. In the dream sequence in the third act the bag is unbound and a man with several missing extremities slithers out. We can hear Asami of camera retching. She makes her way into focus and she produces a silver dog dish full of ... well, you guessed it. She places it before her pet, and the mutilated man gladly accepts his dinner.

Summary

I have stayed away from Audition for a very long time. I remember hearing rumours, though they may be just that, around the time that The Devil's Rejects was released, that there was only one movie that Rob Zombie was too afraid to watch a second time. That movie was Audition. That was enough of a negative endorsement for me. I am a fan of horror, of dread, of fear, but I think that in the pursuit of those experiences repulsion and gore can be excellent servants. but there are many films that think that disgust and gore are enough to inspire fear and that is just not the case. I was afraid that Audition was one of those movies. It is revolting, it is upsetting, and vile. But it is also terrifying and phantasmagoric. Audition walks the line of torture porn expertly and produces something better than a lazy gross out feature. It has layers, it has pathos, and more importantly it allows us to imagine our monsters more complexly.

Overall Grade: B

#B #Grade B #Grade: B #Horror #J Horror #Japan #Japanese #Audition #takashi miike #miike #1999 #90s #(B)

[adelindschade]

Inspired by THIS scene and how much Cece & Schmidt (New Girl) remind of Anthony & Kate in a modern sense (waggles fingers to Bridgerton & Sons AU plotted and published for all to cherish by @newtonsheffield)

I just had to write. How else is a girl to celebrate her two days off?? Enjoy the shenanigans. Script was slightly tweaked. 1,930 word count! 

A STIFF SITUATION (KATE X ANTHONY EDITION)

He wished he had opened his eyes when Anthony heard the very sharp click of the door handle turn. He would’ve anticipated who if he only spied sooner the figure crossing the panel of glass. Unfortunately, he prided his lids open too late, and he went rigid with the worst kind of anxiety.

Don’t be his brother. Don’t be his brother.

A fitted jogger suit came into view. Slimming. Stunning.

A curtain of hair wisped from shoulder to shoulder – long and dark and tied up into a ponytail, like a perfect waterfall.

Thank God.

Kate.

“Oh my God!”

He couldn’t help himself. It was a guttural reaction.

The groan was much louder than he anticipated, prompting her to pause under the arch with the most perplexed expression.

It was kind of cute, especially when no words came out of her mouth despite it being ajar.

“Are you serious right now?” He exasperated.

She blinked.

He continued before she could interject, more so to acquit himself than anything.

“How is it you still look this good under fluorescent lights?”

“I’m so, so sorry,” she began to pour out, a mix of panic and remorse. It didn’t suit her, he thought with furrowed brows. That wasn’t his Kate.

She had all but pushed the rolling divider that separated them to the wall in her haste to meet his side. “This is all my fault!”

Just as she took in his bedridden form cloaked with an unbecoming hospital gown, her big brown eyes descended to the cast of shame. The brazen baby blue ice pack atop it was another insult. He tried to suppress a wince as she herself paused mid-sentence.

“I thought-” she had just begun before her eyes settled. Her face contorted into heavy confusion. “What happened?” She asked, more sternly than before.

“Yeah,” he stammered, unable to form words. He had yet to master a reply despite having all morning to formulate something. He swallowed but it sounded by a grunt. “Um,” he prolonged, “here’s the thing… Um, this is embarrassing…”

The words were evading him and looking up at her inquisitive expression did little to help. God, how was it she looked this good, this cute, and also simultaneously this gorgeous all at once after jogging in summer heat?

He tried to talk with his hands, palm out but even then, his message fell flat. She was not impressed and hiked a brow.  His lips were reluctantly to take over.

“I broke my penis.”

Really, the placement of the cast should have implied as much.

Honestly, the woman was designed to torture him. Both physical and mentally. First, she broke it, and now she was making him voice it aloud. He felt humiliated. And also, oddly beguiled. It should be a badge of honor for someone to ride a dick so hard for it to break.

And she hadn’t even been there to witness the aftermath.

He thought it was a mere cramp. They took a break. She didn’t press the matter further. They slept it off. She left the bed early for her ritual morning jog – how the woman had energy left was beyond his comprehension. The moment he rose, as did his dick, he felt the agony that came – no pun intended – and no sooner did it begin, he foolishly called Benedict to assist him to the nearest hospital since he didn’t want Kate to see him in such disarray.

“You… what…?”

Dear God, she was going to make him repeat it! As if neither believed it in the first place.

“I broke my penis,” he stated more clearly, agitated with the whole fiasco. Why was he placating her part in this? He wasn’t the one that purposely bent it at an unnatural angle!

“Things were just out of control last night,” he explained – even though she was there! Her memory was just as fresh as his! He shouldn’t be the one doing the talking!

“And there was like, this one moment, where it was just…” he rambled both in words and ambiguous hands signs, “I woke up this morning with blinding pain; another moment I was watching myself, remembering last night. I think I finally understand what the tree of life is about.”

She was huffing, looking up and around, just as finished with the situation as he was. That was the Kate he knew – the sarcastic, expressive, and glowing woman he knew and loved. It was an art she could still look so radiant under just unflattering light and miffed with frustration.

“I can’t be certain of this but I’m almost positive your vagina contains a right angle,” he dared to speak into existence, looking at her dead in the eyes.

Anthony was not above Vagina-Blaming.

“I’m leaving,” she declared with a glare. Her arms crossed – damn her – unintentionally lifting the national treasures he considered her breasts. “I can’t believe I came-”

He was speaking over her in protest.

She was leaving. Her back was to him.

“How are you upset right now?”

God – he knew he was in for it given the velocity of her ponytail when it swung back to the other shoulder. Her eyes bore into his, lips curled into a scowl.

“Kate, you did this! What do you want from me?

“I didn’t think this would happen! I don’t want this to be a thing…” she waved between them. He nearly lurched forward; brow raised in disbelief as a swell of reactionary rage began to bubble.

Only, he realized, while Kate’s eyes were on him, she kept gesturing to his castor-padded shaft. She deflated and her voice softened uncharacteristically. “Because” she exhaled, “I like you. A lot. ”

Her head shook, distracted by the tacky tile pattern underneath them. She was comprehending her own words. A betraying smile fixed itself onto her lovely features, however brief it may have been. He saw it – it was there – even if she masked it with a stern line no sooner did it appear. “I can’t just always say what I feel…. It’s just, whatever, Anthony.”

She hid her expressive eyes by looking sideways, purposely  avoiding the connection between them. Her words were weak and her posture anxious, shifting from one foot to the another. Always moving, he thought fondly. His Kate was never one to stay still.

“You like me,” he repeated with an unapologetic grin. She loved him. Her loved her. They both knew it. Yet, neither were willing to speak it first. Fortunately, both were happy to set such a slight aside, knowing the truth between them, no matter if silent.

Was it he who made the first move? Likely. Or Kate – she was spontaneous like that.

Either way, he wasn’t complaining when their lips met and skipped passed the gentle delicacies that usually came after a quarrel. Mouth open and tongues in happy collusion, Anthony was quite pleased to revisit where they had last left.

Her hair was just as perfect and silky as he remembered when it wrapped it around his hand and pulled her deeper into their . Her hand on his chest for purchase, striking an electric sensation within him.

A crack disrupted the ambience of the lover’s reunion. A loud, unsettling stiff crack and then the jolting, sharp pain that followed within seconds. Blinding, burning, terrible pain!

He hadn’t even registered how hard her pushed her away but he registered the volume of their combined shouts as he jolted upwards, rigid as humanly possible. His eyes squeezed shut, still processing the intense discomfort that was as sharp as the first.

The pained whine that escaped his throat was too embarrassing for him to admit. Thank the Heaven’s she was the only one to bear witness to such an emasculate scene. She was nearly as rigid as he, coiled defensively in surprise when she took him in.

His voice cracked in between the segment of uncharacteristically high-pitched agony, verifying his worst reality.

His hand slapped the uncomfortable hospital bed in protest simultaneously as she apprehensively poached the question “what happened?”

It was his turn to look away, averting his face to the uninhabited side of the room, and his eyes remained squeezed shut for dear life. His knees were arched and his hands curled into the plastic sheets beneath him.

“Oh my God, why?” he protested, regaining some edge in his voice.

Her hands were up in the air as if surrendering. Her eyes scanned over his form, unsure of what to do next.

“Oh!” he fumbled. His hand jetted out and then returned to his hair, combing his back while his body arched instinctively. The pain reverberated and all he could muster was wide, panicked eyes and mouth agape, hoping no more unsettling sounds flushed out.

“Uh…” she chewed over, “what…?”

Her hands crossed and then one rose to her lips for her to anxiously bite at an immaculately polished nail. Then another until both hands concealed her mouth but her eyes were vivid with shock and worry.

“Oh my God, my penis is having a heart attack,” he grumbled back. His hand propelled outwards, halting her from coming closer. “Don’t touch me! Don’t touch me! You got to get out of here!”

“Alright,” she fluttered about, slow to turn back around.  Both of her hands reciprocated the gesture, as if to hold herself at bay until her feet could shuffle the other direction. Purse – where’s her purse? Big, black purse – can’t miss it– ah! There!

He wasn’t sure what words he was trying to verbalize. It was all a stuttered mess until she began to bend down to grab her oversized bag near the door.

Then his reaction was visceral.

“Don’t bend over!”

She nearly jumped out of her skin and looked at him, aghast.

“For crying out loud,” he lamented, averting his eyes to the ceiling. “Are you nuts?” He tried his best to blink the image away. Her pert little ass – not really, not little – ugh, forget it! But he couldn’t!

Thankfully, her hefty purse consumed the upper half of her body, concealing her blessed breasts.

“I’m sorry,” he cracked apologetically. His eyes were pleading. “It’s the yoga pants!”

She was awkwardly shifting from the room to the hallway, weaving in and out as she scrambled to retreat.

“I’m sorry for this,” she rushed out the words until her entire body was outside his room. Still, her head poked through, and then pass by the glass where her words were still quite clear. “I like you!” she tried to end on a good note, offering a smile through the pane.

“I like you, too, so much,” he assured, however gravel and pain he sounded. She was still peeking through the glass, optimistic and glowing and loving…

“Call a nurse!” he pleaded aloud, leaning outwards to project his voice. “A male nurse! Probably a heavy-set male nurse would be nice!”

She was contorting her body awkwardly to muster a wave, not quite ready to depart.  The bag was still in her arms, obstructing her chest. God Bless her. He never thought he’d say such a thing regarding her heavenly bosom but now was not the time.

“Bye,” her muffled voice sang sweetly from afar.

He was lurching more outwardly now, to the point of yelling.

“Describe it to them as like uh… as uh…battered highway cone!”  He pushed out hurriedly once she was out of frame.

He leaned back, eyes squeezed and body tight. He winced multiple times in a row. He uttered another unbecoming groan, flinching as he verbalized just sounds of peak discomfort.

#this scene was peak comedy #I had to write my take on it #kathony #kanthony #Bridgerton and sons #modern bridgerton #Bridgerton au #THERE ARE SO MANY TAGS TO ACCOUNT FOR #Kate sheffield #Kate sharma #btw cece is perfect representation of peak Kate energy #Anthony bridgerton #drabble #mine #fanfiction