#Slash Moron

[downthetubes]

In Memoriam: Comic artist and colourist John Michael Burns

We're sorry to report the passing of artist and colourist John Michael Burns, who we have just learned passed away in February. He was the nephew of 2000AD artist John M. Burns, who died late last year, his credits spanning over 40 years in the industry

[ghostlightfic]

Since sifloop getting together isn't planned for this fic... I'm the meantime, do you have any headcanons or ideas for ways they might get together/confess/realize they have feelings for each other? How might the whole clone situation factor into all that?

SO HERE'S THE THING. i already have a plan for them to get together in another fic after ghostlight is over and i don't want to spoil the absolute clusterfuck i have planned there ❤

HOWEVER. i will share a bit of a funny au (for my own goddamn fic universe) where the confession goes a bit differently. the basic conceit for that is that in a combination of accidental and purposeful wish craft from isabeau loop AND siffrin chucks isabeau into a romcom style timeloop where he has to confess. you'd think this would be an easy ask but due to varying mental issues and poor communication it doesn't go super well LMFAO. for the sake of not spoiling ******** **** (the get-together fic) i don't want to go super in depth about it but it's a wild ride for sure. ask me about it one day once ******** **** is posted

i will also say that siffrin realizes he's crushing on loop first but due to extenuating circumstances he does not tell them or isa. bless their heart

[gingerlee-holds]

Old? You're not even out of your teens wh-?

THANK YOU

now you, you’re old

ancient old man with a long white beard, hobbling around yelling at clouds, that’s what you are

[wally-franks]

I feel like people underestimate wally so bad. (In like a lot of aspects.) He obviously isn't a 100000000IQ mastermind. But he also isn't some dumb clueless fuck. He knows his shit!! One huge aspect where it really shows is that he knows how to stay out of trouble!! I think when you work at jds that's literally the smartest thing you could do. Try to get along with as many people as you can and STAY OUTTA TROUBLEEE

[bitchthefuck1]

Aemond stans defending him because "Luke cut his eye out" like their boy wasn't fully about to beat another child to death with a rock

[performing-personhood]

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[ctommyisnt]

I hate autistic people

[lordprettyflackotara]

hitchhiker || chapter three || the proxies

tw: mentions of murder (the usual), descriptions of gore, simpy Tim

a/n: the next chapter is going to be sum else. prepare yourselves now ;)

<— chapter two

You turned to Nova, who quickly led you over to your living room.

“I understand being excited about this case but I could’ve invited him in if you weren’t here,” You sighed. Nova’s curls were in space buns, her bare baby face staring back at you with a frown. “Well I guess it’s a good thing I was here then. Last thing you need is dick from a literal hitchhiker,” She argued sassily. She put her hands on her hips, giving you a motherly look. You rolled your eyes, Nova reaching out and grabbing your wrist.

“I have to show you, you’re the only person I can trust,” She explained. She led you over to your living room, documents and photographs laid all over your white living room carpet. “Is it really okay for me to see all of this?” You questioned. She sat down on the floor, excitedly patting the spot beside her. “Absolutely not but that’s why no one else is going to know, right?” Nova said, arching an eyebrow. You joined her on the floor, the sight of all the papers overwhelming. “Right,” You agreed. Nova began dividing up the papers, placing three in front of you.

“They found Winston’s body. Did an autopsy and everything,” Nova began. Your eyes widened in horror. “Found his body? He’s dead?” You gasped. Nova nodded. Her face flashed a glimpse of sadness for a moment before it hardened again. “He was slaughtered. His body was completely dismembered, his torso the only thing left,” She explained. You felt your stomach churn. “Oh God,” You whispered. She began looking for a certain paper, shoving the others aside.

“My guess is that they tried to make his corpse unidentifiable. But they were morons. They didn’t account for his daughter’s name being tatted on his chest. Dead giveaway.”

You arched an eyebrow, “They?”

“I think there’s three of them.”

She pointed at the photographs in front of you. Each one contained individual silver bullets, with different backgrounds. “Those bullets are from a revolver and they’ve been found in all of these cases. From Florida to South Dakota to Oregon,” Nova told you. She brought out three more photos of two women, one man. “Those murders were of the head chiefs investigating this symbol,” She told you. She then held up a crumbled piece of notebook paper with an X through a circle.

“Meanwhile in Rhode Island, Utah, and New York, we’ve found at least four victims with a similar slash wound to the throat,” Nova told you. You cringed at the thought of her bluntly showing you the gore, but instead she held up diagrams of the bodies. Each were drawn and had notes dissecting every little mark on the victims body. “Every single one of them were slashed in the throat with the same blade. Look, same start and end point every time. No jagged edges, just a straight blade,” She pointed out. Nova braced herself as she showed you another pile.

“Now the third set of the victims seem to have it the worst. In Texas, New Mexico, South Carolina and countless other states, there have been findings of bodies like this,” She told you. She set out at least ten papers, the drawn diagram autopsies. You felt your stomach churn as you soaked in all of the pictures. “T-they’re all-” You stuttered, swallowing. Nova nodded affirmatively. Each drawing showed only the torso of the victims, the arms, head, and legs completely chopped off. In each of the drawings the torso itself seemed mangled, torn apart.

“It looks like they’re shot or sliced to death, before they’re dismembered,” She said. You felt your mouth run dry. “One of them shoots the victims or slices them, the third dismembers them,” She told you. You couldn’t make sense of what you were seeing. You grabbed the dreaded symbol of death. The paper was so crumbled it would’ve torn it if you weren’t careful. “I don’t understand, all of this torture and despair over this symbol?” You asked. Nova shifted through the papers, digging out a report. “I don’t know what it means, but I know whoever it belongs to doesn’t want it getting out there,” Nova said. She nervously bit her bottom lip as her eyes darted across all of her papers.

“Who was the first detective? How did they find it?” You asked. She brought out a picture of a tall detective, his hair buzzed and green eyes lit up as he smiled for the photo. “This is detective Wolf. He was investigating a triple homicide. It looks like a daughter murdered her entire family at fourteen and escaped. When they went through the home drawings with those symbols were everywhere,” Nova said. She showed you a picture of the girls bedroom. Pictures of the symbol were plastered all over her walls, along with words scratched onto the walls itself. He’s coming. There’s no escape. It’s him.

The words appeared to be scribbled onto the wall with raw charcoal. Jesus Christ they should’ve gotten that kid some pencils. “Now they just assumed the girl to be schizophrenic. That was until they found the same symbol all the way in Kansas,” Nova told you. You noticed the under eye bags that hung under her chocolate orbs. When was the last time she had slept? “Similar case. Teenage boy lost his shit, stabbed parents to death while little sister was at daycare. Investigated his room and guess what? Same symbol. Same ominous words,” She told you. Digging through her vanilla folder she held out a newspaper article to you. “Now here’s the funny part. Detective Wolf wasn’t killed until the symbol was found again. It’s like whoever this symbol belongs to went back to cover their tracks,” She rambled.

You put your hand on her shoulder, snapping her out of her addictive trance. “I think you’re onto something,” You admitted. She looked at you, her lips dry and face paler than usual. This case looked like it was draining her energy. “But with that being said you need to watch your back. Whatever gang or person or thing that’s behind this has no problem traveling to slaughter someone to keep it sacred. You need to watch your back,” You advised. Nova gave you a tired smile. She placed her hand on yours. “I’m going to solve this case. Just keep a lookout for me on the civilian side of things, alright?” She asked. You nodded. You watched as she grabbed her papers, putting them in a particular order as she organized them back into her folder.

“Why don’t you crash here for the night? Take the bed and i’ll join you in a bit. I think old episodes of friends are running at this time of night,” You suggested. Nova clipped the folder together, securing her findings. “Thanks, you’re the best,” She said. You both rose to your feet, Nova quick to throw her arms around you. “I don’t know what i’d do without you,” Nova mumbled. You squeezed her tighter, knowing how the stress of cases affected her. And truthfully, you didn’t know what you’d do without her either.

“Hey don’t stay up too late, you have work tomorrow!”

\/

You did in fact stay up too late, resulting in you falling asleep on the couch. You were awoken by knocking on your front door. Groggily you dragged yourself over to the door, trying to remember if you put on make up last night so you could rub your eye. You were so tired you didn’t look through the peephole, opening the door. You became fully awake at the sight of Tim. Quickly you brushed your hand over your tangled hair, suddenly becoming self conscious of your appearance. But why should you be? He’s the one that left dinner. He looked he hadn’t slept, his brown eyes looking back at you. He wore his standard mustard yellow jacket, a bouquet of red roses in his hand. You opened your mouth to speak, Tim quick to stop you.

“I know what you’re going to say and before you do let me just say, i’m sorry,” He rambled. You shifted your weight to one leg, looking up at him. Maybe you were a simp. Maybe you were just down bad. But you decided to overlook his weird behavior. “Apology acknowledged. The roses…?” You started to ask, your voice trailing off. Tim awkwardly rubbed the back of his neck. “They’re for you. I didn’t know what your favorite flower was but I assumed roses would do for now,” Tim said shyly. It was your first time seeing him so relaxed when speaking. He appeared to be alone, Brian and Toby no where in sight. “Apology accepted or denied?” Tim asked you. You took the roses from him, smelling the delicate flowers. “Acknowledged for now. Don’t push it,” You say sternly but in a soft tone. Tim gulped as you signaled for him to come into your apartment.

“You look like you didn’t get much sleep,” You commented. You reached under your kitchen sink, grabbing a vase for the flowers. “Neither do you,” He deflected, trying to change the subject back to you. He liked talking about you. Talking to you. Your face went red as you looked down. “Oh well uh, I was up late with Nova. Fell asleep on the couch,” You admitted, embarrassment practically dripping off of you. You grabbed a pair of scissors, cutting the stems of the roses. “Is Nova your roommate?” Tim asked curiously. You put some water in the vase, finishing cutting the stems. “Oh no she just has a key to my place. Comes over during the day usually but she spends the night sometimes,” You explained.

Tim walked over beside you, leaning against the counter. He was much taller than you, his gaze fully centered on you as put the roses into the vase. His mind was rattled for many reasons. Some suspected Nova had a crush on you but you were oblivious. Some thought Nova was going to endanger you because of her line of work. And some were just flat out jealous a stranger he didn’t know got to spend the night with you instead of him. “Want some coffee?” You asked. Your sweet voice snapped him out of his thoughts. “I’d love some,” He chirped. Your apartment was extremely small to Tim. It looked like you had attempted to make it tidy, but with it being so small all of your items looked cluttered.

“Straight black right?” You asked, setting the vase on your counter. Tim gave you a small smile. “You remembered,” He commented. You popped the empty coffee pot into the machine, pushing a button so the coffee would brew. “Hard to forget when you didn’t order anything else,” You replied. Huh. You were not as oblivious as Tim thought you were. Tim was typically nauseous ninety percent of the time. The only time his body ever really ate a hearty meal was when Masky fronted. If anything, Masky was so gluttonous it explained Tim’s consistent nausea.

Another suspected reason was Tim’s diet. Tim’s diet consisted of coffee and cigarettes. Yum. “So about last night I uh… I want to make it up to you,” Tim told you, trying to continue the conversation. The smell of coffee filled his nose, the scent flooding your apartment. “I thought that’s what the roses were for?” You asked. Mentally you felt like you had every right to be stand offish. Tim and Brian disappeared randomly. And although you were grateful for some time alone with Toby, that didn’t excuse their actions. Especially when no explanation was provided. Not one that’s good enough anyways.

“They are but I wanted to um, ask you if uh, you wanted to go out with me sometime today. Just the two of us,” Tim asked. He felt like a fourteen year old kid who just asked out his middle school crush. You felt your face flush pink. Did Tim just ask you out on a date? “I work until around ten tonight. Are you okay with that?” You asked slowly. After your previous breakup you hadn’t had too much experience with men. A tension began to bubble in the room, one you hadn’t realized was there before. Was Tim trying to hit on you? “Works for me. I don’t think much will be open but we can always walk around the Davidson park,” Tim suggested. He could feel his nerves eating at his bones as he awaited your answer. Davidson park was a massive park given to their town by the state, large oak trees and multiple kinds of flowers planted all over the place.

The coffee had finished brewing, your hand wrapping around the coffee pots handle. “What about Brian and Toby? I know Brian doesn’t like me but Toby and I had a nice walk home together,” You said dryly. You went to grab two mugs, the only two that were clean. You stared at them in the cabinet, your hands hovering over them. You mentally scolded yourself when you realized they were both hello kitty themed. Thanks Nova. “Don’t take Brian personally. He has a hard time socializing. We never stay in one place too long and he’s scared of getting attached,” Tim explained. Technically he wasn’t lying. You tried to nonchalantly pour you both cups of coffee, ignoring Tim’s eyes examining the hello kitty mugs. “What about Toby?” You questioned. One mug had hello kitty dancing and in the other one she’s winking with a wand. You mentally face palmed. Not exactly like there was a more ‘masculine’ mug you could hand him. Or honestly, literally any kind of boring adult mug would’ve worked.

“I think it’s great you guys like each other but i’d like the honor of getting to know you too,” Tim answered quickly. You poured both cups of coffee, deciding on Tim getting the dancing hello kitty mug. He took it without question, sipping the steaming coffee like it was nothing. “Alright let’s call it a date. I’ll meet you at Davidson park around eleven?” You suggested. Tim nodded, watching as you scooped a spoonful of sugar. He couldn’t help but want this routine all of the time. He’d make sure you were taken care of, pampered and fed. With the lack of clean dishes and yesterday’s clothes still on your body, it was apparent to him you were struggling. He didn’t want you to struggle ever again.

As Tim sipped his coffee, all he could think about was all of the ways he wanted to take care of you.

“Hey y/n?”

“Hmm?” You hummed, grabbing your almost empty creamer from your fridge.

“Nice mugs by the way.”

[samwinchesterism]

in re: “cas knows dean better than sam”

“cas sees dean as a whole person and sam just sees dean’s façade as his big brother slash parent” but like how and where. outside of your fanfiction. season and episode. scene and line. if it’s so obvious and apparent you should have at least 3-5 concrete examples right? “sam doesn’t know dean carried him out of the burning house” yeah but did cas? outside of a footnote in the angelic manila folder they gave him between seasons 3 and 4 so he could better manipulate him and sam into doing heaven’s bidding? like if you’re going to say “cas knows dean better than sam” than you need to show how cas succeeds where you perceive sam to be failing at the very least. but even your perceptions of how sam doesn’t measure up are so warped, blinkered, and moronic that it wouldn’t even be worth much if you could provide the textual evidence, but at least you’d have a semblance of a point. like say anything without going “as an eldest daughter…” “well my relationship with my sibling isn’t…” please say anything without fucking projecting your own self-pitying crybaby bullshit onto your little woobie dean and using the actual canon text of the show. I’m literally begging you.

like the thing of it all is and always has been that you’re so hell-bent on twisting the sam and dean relationship to fit into this narrow and almost entirely inaccurate mold which is the basis upon which you build the entire Destiel Mythos that you literally lose all sense of media literacy. you don’t even miss the forest for the trees, you miss the trees for like, the pretend invisible things you’re seeing in between the trees, the forest is a whole long way away from your current level of perception. because the Destiel Mythos is based entirely on the fact that dean is Not Seen and Not Appreciated and Not Loved and Cannot Be Himself until cas comes along, and that Family (read: sam) Is Only A Burden on Him That He Must Be Freed From In Order to Flourish, so you keep trying to warp the sam relationship into something that is only one dimension of it – and keep ignoring the ways in which dean is seen, loved and understood within it, because you need to keep lying to yourselves that there is a narrative need to emancipate dean from something that he has never wanted emancipation from because it is ultimately a net good for dean in the particular circumstances of their lives. it’s also profoundly unhealthy, codependent, evil and toxic etc. (a lot more dean’s fault than sam’s but I will nawt be getting into all that right now) but that doesn’t change the fact that sam and dean both know and understand and feel deeply that they are each other’s person – that they know the best and love the most in the world. but that – which IS true canon fact – is incompatible with the Destiel Mythos so it must be ignored and all good sense must be thrown out the window in order to do it.

anyway i digress there are two main categories of Bad Thinking that i will be addressing below

childhood/ “parent/child” / blah blah blah

every single thing people are saying in favour of the deeply stupid thesis in the title of this post is proof positive of the very silly form of ‘analysis’ I just described. a few things:

“wah sam didn’t know that dean carried him out of the burning house :( this means that dean withholds things from sam to protect him because he is a PARENT and sam can only know things about him in the context of him being a PARENT to him” – what the fuck are you on about genuinely. first of all reducing the sam/dean relationship exclusively to parent/child is in itself foolishness for so many reasons that I don’t have time for right now. but also, it’s clear that this is just something that happened when sam was a baby that just never came up. in the scene (1.09) where this is brought up, dean is mildly surprised that he or john never mentioned that detail and then states that sam knows the rest of the story (i.e. the actual traumatic stuff) just as well as dean does – which is true, demonstrably whenever they talk about it.

obviously there are some things that happened to dean in their childhood that sam doesn’t know about (or didn’t know about, until told in whatever episode they come up in). equally, there are things dean doesn’t know about sam’s childhood, e.g. the fact that he was so lonely he needed a zanna (11.08). or how dean didn’t remember that sam was friends with barry cook until he mentions it when they go back to their old school (4.13). or about the nature of sam’s relationship with amy pond (7.03). these don’t mean that ‘sam withheld these things to protect dean out of parental love’ lol, it’s just that there are details and events in each of their lives that the other happens to not have been told about.

similarly “sam didn’t even know dean wanted to be a firefighter L” girl did dean know sam wanted to be a lawyer? in 1.01 he’s pretty surprised that sam has a law school interview. the point here isn’t “neither sam nor dean know each other well,” these are minutiae that aren’t relevant to how well you know someone as a whole, and very poorly demonstrate the bad and inaccurate point that dean withholds things from sam the way a parent does a child (on a constant or regular basis). obviously the way they were raised, sam was deemed too young to know about certain things until he got older and dean had to keep that secret, but as shown in 3.08 flashbacks, most if not all of this is eventually revealed throughout their childhood when sam is still fairly young.

or possibly the dumbest one is that “wah sam doesn’t even know that dean reads books L” whenever that was he was also obviously joking because in more serious moments (e.g. 8.14) he admits that dean is smart/a better researcher than he is, literally remembers dean reading to him as a kid (8.21) so like. clam down  

one of the extra annoying variants of this type of ‘proof’ covers things that are very clearly novel pieces of information about dean that dean, sam, and the audience are learning about dean in real time. like if you’re actually watching the show to comprehend it as it was intended to be comprehended, instead of funnelling everything through the Destiel Machine until it’s unrecognizable slop that fits neatly into your pre-ordained molds that Make Destiel Necessary In the Narrative (when it actually isn’t, at all) it’s abundantly clear. the top two worst offenders:

“sam didn’t even know that dean is good with kids :( he doesn’t even realize that dean raised him :(” first of all you people need to understand that parentification does not literally create a parent-child dynamic between siblings but I digress – this doesn’t make any sense bro. in 1.03 dean admits he doesn’t know any kids as an adult. dean being good with his own kid brother when they were both kids is to any reasonable person not necessarily linked with him being good with other random kids when he’s an adult. in 1.03 it’s clear that dean himself is a bit surprised that he’s able to connect w/ lucas so well because he’s clearly not dealt with a lot of kids since sam grew up. the whole point of this is that dean, sam, and the audience are all sort of seeing a new side of dean. who again is just 26. after this very early episode, there’s no question from sam that dean is able to connect w kids. sam being a bit surprised by this also has absolutely zero connection with him not understanding or realizing that dean looked out for him when they were both kids – sam is standing there at 22 years of age talking about adult dean and children – of fucking course he doesn’t mean himself are you stupid.

from the very first season, sam is very clearly aware of everything dean ~did for him~ when they were kids, see e.g. 1.21: “Dean...ah...I wanna thank you. […] For everything. You've always had my back you know? Even when I couldn't count on anyone I could always count on you. And I don't know, I just wanted to let you know, just in case.”

and 1.06: DEAN: Well, I’m a freak, too. I’m right there with ya, all the way. (SAM laughs.) SAM: Yeah, I know you are.

and then possibly even more stupidly, the one where it’s like “wah sam doesn’t even know dean can cook :( he doesn’t even know that DEAN was the one making him food as a babe in arms :(” – when sam is surprised that dean made something fairly gourmet and from scratch literally the first time they have ever had a permanent living space with a functional kitchen. in this VERY scene (8.14), dean himself points out that they haven’t had a kitchen before and when sam remarks on the irregularity of him doing serious cooking, he says “I’m nesting”, clearly showing that this is a novel development because they now have a kitchen, and that it’s irregular relative to past behaviour – both of them acknowledge this. because real proper in-depth cooking and making box mac and cheese for sam until he was like 11 and old enough to be left alone are two different things, which sam understands because he’s smart, unlike whoever chooses to make this point. dean never showed significant signs of liking to cook before this, which is what the exchange is about, but he did have to prepare food for them both when sam was too young – of course sam knows he had to, there are childhood memories referred to (e.g. 14.11) where sam is mentioned to literally help dean do the cooking as kids lol (and yes, genius, sam says ‘I didn’t know you knew what a kitchen was’ or something to that effect, but if you think he’s being 100% literal there I have an oceanfront property in Kansas to sell you)

again, obviously there are pieces that sam doesn’t know about dean, e.g. when he’s talking about his response to mary dying in 1.03. but again, Sam is 22, dean is 26, the last time they were in regular contact was when sam was 18-20, these are things that happen when people grow up, they’re able to reflect and share on childhood experiences if they’re close with their siblings as adults. it’s clearly not something that 26 y/o dean wanted to hide from 22 y/o sam. yes sam didn’t know everything about how dean felt when they were young, but that’s equally true in the other direction, and it’s such an irrelevant point in this discussion when, crucially, sam does learn these things about dean mostly fairly early on in the series (i.e. when they’re really not that deep into adulthood yet). cas was also not magically blessed w/ knowledge about dean, he also had to learn whatever it is that he knows, but somehow sam has to know everything about dean from age 7 or it doesn’t count when it’s sam lol.

“sam doesn’t know the One True Dean / doesn’t see through his facades”

the next branch of defending this flawed thesis is invariably that sam has little idea of the fronts and facades that dean puts up and is content to just believe them, whereas cas digs deep and sees the One True Dean that stupid sam always misses. there is nothing in the text that demonstrates this is true. multiple times, we see sam being very knowing of the fact that dean puts up fronts and facades. sam is also knowledgeable of the way dean perceives himself, and – demonstrated in multiple episodes before such sam lines were very poorly recycled and regurgitated into cas’s dialogue in 15.18, but keep acting like that was the first time anyone ever showed that they knew the One True Dean.

Obviously there are times where sam teases dean when he’s being more touchy-feely than usual, but 9.99 times out of 10 (as a conservative estimate in case there's something i'm forgetting otherwise i would say every time) that’s very clearly coming from a place of knowing the real dean vs. the façade he puts up because that’s the whole joke. and it’s allowed to be a joke because they’re siblings and that’s what siblings do lol. esp since sam and dean have touchy feely moments at the end of like every episode.

examples of all of the above off the top of my head (there are more than these, but these are the ones I can think of):

2.02 (about John’s death)

Sam: “I mean this ‘strong silent’ thing of yours, it's crap. […] I'm over it. This isn't just anyone we're talking about, this is Dad. I know how you felt about the man.”

Dean: “You know what, back off, all right? Just because I'm not caring and sharing like you want me to.”

Sam: “No, no, no, that's not what this is about, Dean. I don't care how you deal with this. But you have to deal with it, man. Listen, I'm your brother, all right? I just want to make sure you're okay.”

2.03 (Sam to Dean, also about John’s death): “You know, you slap on this big fake smile but I can see right through it. Because I know how you feel, Dean. Dad's dead. And he left a hole, and it hurts so bad you can't take it, but you can't just fill up that hole with whoever you want to. It's an insult to his memory.”

Note that Dean essentially admits that Sam is right in these two instances in 2.04 bc I know yall have stupid shit to say about john too that has nothing to do with how anyone actually felt about him in canon

3.07 (about Dean’s demon deal – also proven true in later episodes)

SAM: Dude, drop the attitude, Dean. Quit turning everything into a punch line. And you know something else? Stop trying to act like you're not afraid.

DEAN: I'm not!

SAM: You're lying. And you may as well drop it 'cause I can see right through you.

DEAN: You got no idea what you're talking about.

SAM: Yeah, I do. You're scared, Dean. You're scared because your year is running out, and you're still going to Hell, and you're freaked.

DEAN: And how do you know that?

SAM: Because I know you! […] Yeah, I've been following you around my entire life! I mean, I've been looking up to you since I was four, Dean. Studying you, trying to be just like my big brother. So yeah, I know you. Better than anyone else in the entire world. And this is exactly how you act when you're terrified. And, I mean, I can't blame you. It's just […] I wish you would drop the show and be my brother again. 'Cause... (can't find words; tears in his eyes) just 'cause.

5.18 [Sam figures out what Dean is doing re: his plan to let Michael possess him, tracks him down, and eventually is the catalyst for Dean ‘making the right call’, which he predicts] – e.g.:

SAM: No, you won’t. When push shoves, you’ll make the right call

DEAN: You know, if tables were turned…I’d let you rot in here. Hell, I have let you rot in here.

SAM: Yeah, well…I guess I’m not that smart.

DEAN: I—I don’t get it. Sam, why are you doing this?

SAM: Because… you’re still my big brother.

8.14 (basically the o.g. version of whatever went on in 15.18 + sam intrinsically understanding the trials are a death wish for dean): “I'm closing the gates. It's a suicide mission for you. I want to slam hell shut, too, okay? But I want to survive it. I want to live, and so should you. You have friends up here, family. I mean, hell, you even got your own room now. You were right, okay? I see light at the end of this tunnel. And I'm sorry you don't – I am. But it's there. And if you come with me, I can take you to it. […] I AM smart, and so are you. You're not a grunt, Dean. You're a genius – when it comes to lore, to – you're the best damn hunter I have ever seen – better than me, better than dad. I believe in you, Dean. So, please – please believe in me, too.”

10.22 (understanding how much dean has ~done for him~)

SAM: I'm saving my brother.

CASTIEL: You told Dean—

SAM: —I know what I told Dean. Cas, look. I've been the one out there, messed up and scared. And alone. And Dean—

CASTIEL: He did whatever he could to save you.

SAM: Yes. I mean, it's become his thing. I owe him this. I owe him everything.

10.23 (basically the o.g. version of whatever went on in 15.18, x2 – from Sam to Dean): “You were also willing to summon death to make sure you could never do any more harm. You summoned me because you knew I would do anything to protect you. That's not evil, Dean. That's not an evil man. That is a good man crying to be heard, searching for... some other way. […] You will never, ever hear me say that you -- the real you -- is anything but good.”

11.13 (Sam understanding exactly how Dean feels about Amara being his ‘deepest desire’, and confirming that it doesn’t make him a bad person)

Dean: Why? Because if she is that means that I’m…

Sam: Means you’re what? Complicit? Weak? Evil?

Dean: For starters, yeah.

Sam: Dean. Do you honestly think you ever had a choice in the matter? She’s the sister of God, and for some reason she picked you and that sucks, but if you think I’m gonna blame you or judge you…I’m not.

Dean: You know that I want her ass dead.

Sam: Yes. Of course. And I know you’ve also probably beaten yourself up a hundred times over it, but where has that gotten us? (Long silence) Just how bad is it?

13.02 (Sam perfectly explaining Dean’s psyche to Jack)

JACK: Is that why Dean hates me?

SAM: Dean doesn’t hate you. It… Look, sometimes the wires in Dean’s head get crossed and—and he gets frustrated, and then he mixes frustration with anger, and—and fear.

JACK: Why would he be afraid?

SAM: Because Dean feels like it’s his job to protect everyone. And right now, we need to protect you. But we may also need to protect people from you.

14.03 [Sam assesses Dean’s psychological/emotional response to the Michael possession; end of episode, Dean confirms that Sam’s assessment was fully accurate]

14.10 [Sam is the only one able to snap Dean out of his weird Michael mind loop by using their code word]

14.11 [Sam figuring out that something is troubling Dean just based on the fact that Dean hugs him]

15.17 (self explanatory at this point)

DEAN: Chuck has to die. He has to! Otherwise he'll keep us tap dancing forever, and I can't live like that, man! I can't live like that! I won't!

SAM: I know you feel like that right now, okay. I know you do. But you gotta trust me. My entire life, you've protected me— from Dad, from Lucifer, from everything. I didn't always like it, you know, but... it's the one thing in the whole world that I could always count on. It's the only thing I've ever known that was true. So please... put the gun away. Just put it away, and we'll figure it out, Dean, we'll find another way, you and me. We always do.

like maybe there are some cas moments w dean along these lines too. i don't know, i don't remember what the guy says or does anymore it's been too many years and he is not memorable. but the point is where and in what capacity and based on what metric other than the amount of bad fanfic you've read does cas exceed sam in these respects.

so basically just. genuinely, what are you people literally ever talking about. go watch the show instead of saying stupid wrong stuff about sam on the hellsites all day. or watch another show (please for the love of god watch any other show this one is absolutely lost on you and it’s such a stupid one too i'm embarrassed for you)

[livwritesstuff]

Tommy POV, wc: 2890, full version on ao3

Tommy Hagan is not jealous of Eddie Munson.

He’s not.

There’s nothing to be jealous of, in his opinion, and Tommy probably wouldn’t be thinking about him at all if Eddie wasn’t the most publicly well known member of his graduating class – well, he hadn’t actually been in his graduating class, Tommy supposes.

They had been seniors at the same time, though.

If Tommy happened to be jealous of anything – and that’s a big if – it would probably have something to do with the famous thing. Everyone has a small part of them that wants to be famous at least in some capacity, he’s pretty sure, even if Eddie isn’t really, truly famous – not like the red carpet celebrities. He’s a writer. Even the most well known writers never get all that much attention, but Munson has his own Wikipedia page, and that’s more than anybody else from Hawkins, Indiana can say. Hawkins itself barely even has a Wikipedia page, and it’s only because of all the atrocities that happened in town in the mid-eighties.

Tommy hadn’t been around for the end of it all – the earthquake-slash-serial killer situation that never made any sense to him. He remembers his mom calling him at his college dorm when the deaths first started. He remembers her asking, “You went to school with that Munson boy, right? Do you think he could do something like this?”

And Tommy had been twenty and a total moron, so he’d said some dumb shit like, “Yeah, he’s into freaky stuff like that. Somebody should’ve put him on a list ages ago,” even though four years of experience told him that Eddie was all bark, no bite. Tommy hadn’t been surprised at all by the statements that later came out clearing Eddie's name, and by then his parents had already high-tailed it out of Hawkins so it all sort of became irrelevant to him.

Tommy never even returned to Hawkins one single time after he left for college (barring his high school reunion, obviously), and twenty years after graduation, he doesn’t really think about those years all that much.

He doesn’t love the person he’d been in high school. He was whiny and immature and had his priorities all messed up. Most of the memories he has of his teenage years, he looks back at and cringes, feels a whole lot of shame and embarrassment, but also some pride at how much he’s grown over the last twenty years. He also knows he’d been kind of a dick in high school, but that he’s less ashamed of. It’s normal, he knows, for kids to be mean, that it’s a standard response to being untreated kindly in other ways. Like, his dad had been an asshole to him as a kid, always on him about his grades and his smart mouth and how he’d no longer been a standout on any of his sports teams after starting high school, and Tommy had coped with that by poking kids beneath him at school. 

It’s just the pecking order of high school. It’s normal.

Even now, when Tommy’s son had dealt with some pricks in the year above him shoving him around, he had come home from school and tormented his little sister for a while – it’s normal, no matter how much his wife had tried to convince him it was something that needed addressing. It’s just kids being kids. They grow out of it eventually, just like Tommy had.

Occasionally he wonders where the kids he’d spent all those years with in the Hawkins public school system had ended up, but these days the internet makes that pretty damn easy to figure out.

He’s learned Tina got married and had kids real young. She still lives in Indiana. Carol, who he’d split up with before heading off to college, lives in Alabama now and she’s got kids and a husband too. Jonathan Byers is a photographer in California – Tommy isn’t into all that art-y crap, so he has no clue if he’s any good, but he definitely recognizes some of the organizations he’s worked for and if that’s any indication, Tommy would wager he’s not too shabby. No wife, though, he noted, so he’d either been right about Byer’s being a queer, or women just found him repulsive (admittedly, Tommy leans more towards the former – he’s a photographer). Tammy Thompson still lives in Tennessee, though it doesn’t seem like she does music anymore (husband, kids, blah blah blah). 

If he’s honest, the only person Tommy is actually interested in tracking down is Steve Harrington, and he’s the one person Tommy can’t find a single trace of online. No MySpace, no Facebook, no weird blog thing, nothing.

Vaguely, he wonders if Steve might be dead. A truly massive proportion of Hawkins had died over just a few short years in the mid-eighties. Maybe Harrington was one of them.

Tommy doubts it. 

He would have known. 

Steve’s parents would have made sure everyone knew if their son had died. Funnily enough, Steve’s mom is actually on Facebook, and pretty actively too, but there’s no sign of Steve anywhere on her page. 

He hadn’t even shown up for their high school reunion in the winter of ‘04, which is odd because Tommy had been certain he would.

He doesn’t obsess over it – he really doesn’t. It’s just a thought that pops into his mind every now and then – where the hell is Steve Harrington?

In the late spring of 2007, he gets his answer.

“Tom,” his wife says, “That guy from your high school is on the cover of this magazine.”

He knows without asking for clarity that it’s Munson – no other person makes sense – and when he eventually gets his hands on the magazine, he finds that he’s correct.

Eddie Munson is on the cover of a magazine because, apparently, he published another book. 

Truthfully, Tommy already knew that. 

It’s his fourth book (which, for the record, Tommy hadn’t known until he knew it because it’s not like he’s keeping tabs on this guy or whatever), and it’s been getting a whole bunch of mainstream attention after a controversial landing on the top of all those book charts Tommy doesn’t follow despite featuring a gay love store amidst all his normal fantasy crap. It sparked a whole debate about banning books and everything (dumb, Tommy knows, because if he learned anything in business school it’s that if you really don’t want something to exist, the best thing you can do is not funnel money and attention into it). 

Tommy does, in fact, watch the news so he’d already caught wind of all this – it’s part of the reason he can’t shake the guy – and it’s why Eddie Munson is on the cover of this magazine (because, seriously, nobody gives a shit about writers until it hits the news).

He allows himself a moment to look at the cover, to look at Eddie, who apparently goes by Ed now. Tommy is loath to admit it, but he looks good. His hair is normal and he’s grown into his frame, not all long and lanky and gangly limbs like Tommy remembers from school. He looks well-fed, confident, happy.

He looks good.

Tommy thumbs through the first few pages of the magazine until he reaches Eddie’s interview, and, again, he allows himself to look over the photo of him that takes up nearly three-quarters of the first page even if he has no intention of actually reading the article itself because, again, Eddie looks good (and maybe there’s something about the scruff of facial hair along his jaw that Tommy's eye gets stuck on). Tommy’s allowed to say that men look good when it’s true – it’s 2007, as his wife likes to remind him whenever it’s convenient for her, and if she’s allowed to say that Angelina Jolie looked good in that CIA movie, then Tommy is allowed to say that Eddie Munson looks good here.

When Tommy flips to the next page, he’s met with a photo that stops him in his tracks, has his feet frozen to the floor because –

Jesus Christ, that’s Steve Harrington.

Fuck, okay, so he’s reading this fucking article.

It takes Tommy a long time to get through it, honestly. Eddie comes out in the article, which might be a big deal, might not (and he doesn't care to be enlightened, thanks). He keeps getting distracted by the pictures scattered throughout it.

The pictures of Steve, mostly.

Because, well, if Eddie Munson looks good, Steve…

Steve looks alive.

Tommy didn’t realize it until this exact moment, but Steve had existed in his head for the last two decades as the eighteen-year-old he’d been the last time they were in the same room together. It hadn’t exactly occurred to him that Steve’s been aging this whole time too, just like Tommy has.

It’s undeniable that Steve is older. 

His hair is starting to go gray at his temples (it’s the only thing that’s changed about his hair since he’s still styling it the same as he did in high school – because why mess with a good thing, Tommy supposes) and he’s got just the hint of crow's feet around his eyes when he smiles. He’s smiling in all the photos – every damn one – and it has Tommy struck by how unbelievably happy Steve seems. It’s an effect that somehow both takes years off the age Tommy knows he is and shines a light on just how good those years must have been for him. 

There’s no solo shots of him like there are for Munson – though according to the article, it's actually Harrington now – and only half the photos are in color. The rest of them – the more candid ones – are smaller and left in black-and-white. 

The one that caught Tommy’s eye first – because it was meant to, he’s pretty sure; it takes up half the page – is right in that sweet spot between staged and candid where Steve and Eddie both know that they’re being photographed even though neither of them are actually posing. Eddie is grinning at Steve in a wicked way that still feels familiar to Tommy even two decades since he’d last seen it on him (probably swaggering around the cafeteria like a total jackass – not that Tommy would know anything about that). Steve is grinning right back at him with a smile Tommy doesn’t think he’s ever seen before.

Or maybe he has, but not on this version of his face, not since Steve was as young as his oldest daughter.

Just as the author of the article said, the photos don’t show the faces of Steve’s children, either leaving them artfully out-of-focus or choosing shots where they’re turned away from the camera, but they’re still present, and it makes the whole spread almost feel like a photo album in a way, like it should be private but instead was published for the whole world to see.

Steve has three of them – kids, Tommy means. He didn’t know that Steve was a family kind of guy. It makes sense though, when he thinks about it. Steve’s parents were kind of a nightmare — present in the worst ways, and absent in the worst ways too (though it hadn’t seemed that way when Tommy was a teenager looking for a failsafe party house). He'd always felt kind of bad for the guy. Like, Tommy's dad had been a total piece of work, but they'd at least been around, and he'd stuck around long enough for them to sort out their issues at least most of the way, and these days he's a pretty kickass grandpa to Tommy's children.

Tommy wonders about Steve's parents now, wonders if they maybe came around like his own parents had, but then he remembers Mrs. Harrington's Facebook page and how there's not a damn trace of her son on there, never mind three grandchildren.

Tommy isn't sure he wants to touch that.

Steve is probably a really good dad, Tommy decides. He’d been kind of that way when they were friends — Steve used to say he wasn’t all that bright, but he always had a freaky sixth sense for reading people, for caring about them in exactly the way they needed.

There's one photo where Steve is managing to holding his youngest daughter — a tiny little baby still — and her bottle in one arm (that's a level-three dad hold, Tommy knows). The bottle is angled in a way that obscures her face, and Steve's other hand is being tugged on by another daughter, this one with a mop of curly brown hair remarkably similar to Eddie's when it was still long.

That's another thing Tommy won't let himself think about, (because he knows if did he'd start wondering if any of those kids were half-Steve).

Anyways, Tommy doesn't need glance to see that Steve wears fatherhood like a favorite sweater.

There’s something about this, about seeing these pictures, about the way Tommy is getting an answer to that question he’s had for years about where his childhood best friend has been all these years, that is making him feel like his ribcage is being split open, bones splintering and shattering as everything vulnerable inside his chest in suddenly out for display.

He probably should feel uncomfortable, right? Like, a guy he’d been seriously close to growing up — sleepovers and gym locker rooms and all that shit — had turned out to be gay. If his own son came home from school saying that his best friend came out or whatever as gay…well, again, it’s 2007, and Tommy doesn’t think his wife would allow him to denounce the friendship entirely, but there certainly wouldn’t be any sleepovers anymore. He thinks that’s pretty reasonable.  

What was the likelihood that Steve had been, like, into Tommy?

And that should be an uncomfortable notion too, and in a sense, it kind of is, but not necessarily in the way he would expect. 

He just doesn’t understand why all this feels so much like a loss because he knows that he hasn’t really lost anything – not since he got his hands on the magazine, anyways. Steve Harrington hasn’t played any sort of role in Tommy’s life since their final falling out in 1984, and as far as he’s aware, having a falling out with a close friend is pretty much a guaranteed part of growing up. His wife even experienced something similar when her own grade school best friend suddenly stopped answering calls and stopped reaching out after they’d started college – and his wife is basically the nicest person Tommy has ever known, so…it happens to even the best.

It’s just…Steve had always continued to exist in Tommy’s life in a way, even if he wasn't physically present, and maybe Tommy had figured it could be the same for Steve too, that maybe he sometimes wonders where Tommy is, wonders what he’s up to.

This article and these photos makes it pretty fucking clear that Tommy doesn’t even exist in the same galaxy as the life Steve is living.

And that’s not to mention the Eddie fucking Munson of it all.

Tommy had been kind of ignoring the Eddie of it all until he couldn’t ignore it anymore, because he doesn't care about Eddie Munson.

He'd never cared, but he'd spent years seeing the guy's face and his name everywhere, and now it feels like a sick joke, like he's the piece of Steve left in Tommy's life.

If the article is accurate (and he has no reason to believe it isn’t), Steve and Eddie have been together for longer than Tommy has even known his wife. Steve has been with Eddie for longer than Steve was ever friends with Tommy – not by a lot, but still more. That’s a long fucking time, and it’s clear as day on both of their faces that they’re just as in love with each other fourteen years in as they were on day one.

It’s not just Steve, and it’s not just Eddie, and it’s not one more than the other. It’s both of them.

There’s one photo in particular – a small black-and-white one that keeps pulling Tommy’s attention.

It’s another candid shot, taken from a bit of a distance. In it, Steve has Eddie boxed in against the counter in what has to be their kitchen. Eddie is leaning back against the edge of the granite countertop and looking at Steve with something sappy and fond on his face, and Steve’s hands are this close to grabbing Eddie’s waist as he looks at him the exact same way.

It’s shit out of a fairy tale or something, and sure, maybe someone could argue that they’re laying it on thick just for the sake of the magazine or whatever, but Tommy knows Steve Harrington and that look on his face is more real than Tommy had ever seen in all the years he'd known him.

So maybe Tommy has a reason or two (or three or four) to be jealous of Eddie Munson.

[atleast8courics]

Anyway hi I have something of a reputation of being a hard ass in my moderating duties on are slash 196 because I was never one to tolerate any sort of bigoted stupidity since I wanted to harbor an environment that let a bunch of queer kids thrive and shitpost without being surrounded by hateful morons like they were my cubs and I was an extremely territorial mama bear.

On top of that, we constantly had admins breathing down our necks to clean up all the “””violent””” commentary like “punch nazis” and “right wing lives don’t matter” day in and day out, with users typically getting banned by them soon after without any input from us, while our modqueue filled up to absurd degrees and our modmail sat unanswered because it was mostly “”people”” we banned calling us slurs and telling us to kill ourselves. But I ain’t gotta mod shit and be protective of a specific environment here, so what the fuck is up you goddamn nerds say hello.

[shintin]

The Hickey on Your Neck

↳ Vash the Stampede x Female Reader

One-shot

Summary: Only seconds before closing your eyes do you realize that the dreams you had forgotten among the lust and thrust of your lover were the life you were destined to lead.

Or a story about how You and Vash fucked from dawn to dusk on his birthday.

Word count: +17.5 k.

Genre: explicit smut, romance, angst (Trigun au).

Warnings/Tags: +18, NSFW, established relationship, soft/dom Vash the Stampede, too much fluff and kissing, scar worship, plant patterns display, manhandling, cunnilingus + fellatio, creampie,  fingering (with prosthetic arm), unprotected sex (c’mon! We want his seeds), multiple orgasms, hair pulling, two smut scenes (one romantic, other hardcore), aftercare, emotional trauma, violence, blood and gore, post-Trigun Stampede but no manga spoilers.

Notes: I'd never written a Trigun fic before, but with this Vash brain rot, I'm sure it won't be the last. I originally intended to name this fic "Sleepless Nightmare" after TOMBI song, but somehow changed my mind. You'll see why. "Elay" in my mother tongue means the Moon of a Tribe. A nick name Vash will use for reader.

By the way, you can also read the Disclaimers and Writer's Note at the end.

Song Recommendation: The Hickey on Your Neck Playlist

You can read my fics on AO3 and Wattpad. If you have any questions, don’t be shy and ASK. This is my DISCORD account, in case you want to contact me.

Back to master list.

07:30 pm – July 21st

A hole had been left in your heart. Throwing yourself backward, you tripped over your feet. Your head slammed into the floor as your arms did little to break your fall. It was a pain you'd never known, a pain you never thought you could feel, never would have even imagined. From the inside out, you were lit on fire by a bullet that went off in your chest.

All of a sudden, everything slowed down.

So this, you thought, was what dying felt like.

You blinked, and it seemed to take forever. The images before you were unfocused, with colors, bodies, and lights swaying in unison and stilted movements blurring. Your ears couldn't hear clearly. All the sounds were garbled, warped, and too high or low.

Who … she?

I asked for a tall, blond man with … eyes, and the folks pointed at her.

How come … shot her …?

She said … had never met such a man.

… idiot! What if she's with the gunman?

Whatever. … doesn't draw a gun anymore; rumor has it.

What a moron! The man may not kill, but … wiped out … whole city!

What … … we should … then?

If … … his girl, … … screwed up!

… the bounty! … get lost before the news …!

It was like all the words were banging into each other, colliding again, spinning around you. Your name seemed to be being called, but you couldn't hear it. Everything was muffled, slippery, and off-balance, like it was there, just out of reach, but you couldn't find it.

Heavy footsteps stomped, stomped, and stomped the ground, and a familiar face appeared before you. The shape, the golden and green colors drew your attention, and you tried raising your hand to feel his warmth once more and assure him that everything was okay, but it was too hard, and suddenly you couldn't breathe. Your throat felt like it was being slashed, holes punching into your lungs, and the more you blinked, the less clearly you could see. The tightest breaths, tiny little gasps, were soon all you could manage. Pain, pain, and more pain followed the dizziness and lightheaded feeling. It was terrible, never seeming to end.

Your sight suddenly went dim. Blindness overtook you.

Blood dripped from you rather than being seen as you blinked, blinked, and blinked in a desperate attempt to regain your vision, but all you saw was a cloud of white. A short frantic gasp and the pounding of your eardrums were all heard. Some warm sensation spread throughout your body as the fresh blood pooled under you.

You knew your life was about to evaporate, and it only made you think about how short you lived with him and how he would blame himself for your loss. Leaving your tears to fall, you whispered, "I-I'm sorry, Vash."

05:45 am - July 21st

A sharp intake of breath caused your eyes to fly open. Your skin froze in a cold sweat as your brain waded in waves of distress. Inhaling as much as possible was the only thing you could do. Your chest heaved, and your heart raced. You looked around, feeling the stillness within the madness, blinking hard against the white ceiling.

Your hands reached your throat and chest. No blood. No holes. You could feel your pulse. That must be the sound of your heart, at least, you hoped.

There was a strange feeling in your gut, like your instincts were stumbling through mud, and your bones were filled with stones. Your eyes shifted to the other side of the bed, and you sighed in relief. The reality sleeping next to you brought a moment of clarity. You sat up on your elbows, head spinning as you glanced at the nightstand.

The glass was empty.

You slowly pushed the sheets aside and felt more awake with your bare feet touching the cold floor. Picking up the glass, you tiptoed toward the murky kitchen.

You reached for the pitcher on the table, but the water never made it to your lips; instead, your trembling hands grabbed the faded and scratched edges of the cabinet as if letting go of this old piece of plywood would plunge you into the blackhole of your nightmare.

A muffled whimper escaped from the bottom of your throat, and you whispered, it was just a dream. Yet, your white knuckles became wet as tears streamed down your face, blurring the cracked tiles before you.

You shouldn't have cried. You should have been stronger. Not just for yourself, but...

Incoherent thoughts still occurred to you as you pressed your palm to your lips—a fruitless attempt to stop any further crying from coming out.

It was just a dream. Everything was fine.

Your glistening eyes were fixed on the glass of water as you took a sip and pushed the venom-like lump down your throat. Nobody was going to lose anyone. This fear was deeply buried under the sands of your heart. Why did it have to appear today of all days?

A chill ran down your esophagus. Your hand shook involuntarily, and a few drops of water slid from the corner of your mouth to your chin and neck and then ran to your perked nipples.

Looking down at your body, you wiped the drops away before feeling cold. After all, this planet didn't earn its name, "Noman's Land" for nothing. The weather could get pretty chilly and cruel in this desert when those two suns weren't out. Moreover, let's not forget how many people were denied heat due to a lack of resources. Ugh! So, it's not like you didn't know you should've worn something, but God damn it! You woke up feeling a great deal of fear. Fuck! Still, you weren't eager to catch a cold. At least, not today. As you were about to return to bed, you suddenly stopped. Random images filled your mind.

Tears staining emerald green eyes, red flowers blooming on blood, and heart-wrenching screams fading in the night, all in an empty room filled with balloons and mud.

The next gulp of water tasted salty, leaving you feeling numb. Tears must have flowed down your cheeks. You lowered your glass and let your thoughts drift away.

There was a flash of your limp body in your mind, accompanied by a sharp twinge in your gut, a screaming sensation in your body, as if your lungs craved for air.

You wicked away the images, expunging thoughts of pain and death from your mind. The churning in your stomach began to slow, but your skin took on a damp, clammy sensation in its wake. You struggled to recount the things you had eaten last night. It must be it. No doubt, you had eaten poorly.

It was just a dream. What the hell was wrong with you? Crying over a dream? What were you, five? No, not today! Not today! Not today! Get your shits together!

After a moment of hesitation, you rubbed your eyes with the back of your hand, ran your palm across your forehead and nose, and stopped it on your mouth before glancing at the bed.

Your pale face bloomed with a faint smile as you saw the sight—a miracle in this barren wilderness.

The curtains of the half-open window fluttered lazily with the morning breeze, letting the suns' rays play upon his scarred shoulder blades now and then, and run their greedy fingers through the golden waves of his hair, an enraged sea of sunflowers bounded by rough rocky beaches on the side. Oh! His undercut was glorious from where you watched.

He was sleeping with his eyelids slowly moving. The corners of his lips were curved upwards. Today seemed to be one of those rare days when he was free of the burdens of his past. Was he dreaming? What was his dream about? Love? Peace? Foods? Probably sweets!

You tried to avoid the woods squeaking beneath your feet as you walked back. Putting the glass of water next to the orange-tinted shades, you slowly climbed back under the warm sheets without shifting the mattress too much.

Once your head touched the pillow, cinnamon, and caramel again filled your nostrils. The man ate so many donuts that you feared he would become one. When you pictured it, your smile reached your eyes, and you giggled silently.

Like on the days you woke up early, you rolled over to face him and let your eyes roam over his abs muscles and those beautiful V lines guiding you to his secret paradise. Other than the massive gash across his chest, he had several cuts on his arms, wounds on his shoulders, and scars all over his back and legs. This man was a walking history, marked with painful memories, and luckily, your lips had perfectly mastered the story behind every blemish, slit, and stitch on his body.

It wasn't that simple, though.

When you first met him, he was a broken man covered in an old cloak, his eyes filled with agony. He was consumed by remorse, but nonetheless, he was still full of life and willing to try and glue back all his broken parts. Indeed, it was a challenge for him, and somehow, it didn't come easy to you either. Your heart ached when you removed each piece of clothing from his body. You cursed those who hurt him. It took you time and love to learn how to cherish those wounds instead of looking at them with pity. And little by little, your eyes learned to see a delicate kind of beauty in them, as if, every once in a while, you could see the sunlight shining through the cracks of his heart, lighting up your world in a most wonderful way.

Perhaps that's why after years of running, running, and running, he stopped for once and decided to rest. Something about you must have felt like home. And how lucky you were to have this?

06:30 am - July 21st

You couldn't look away from him, your mind unable to comprehend the perfection of this happiness. He was so ethereal you could hardly fathom that he was yours, wanted and loved you. You couldn't even hear yourself think over the rush of blood in your ears. The sight of him sleeping beside you, relaxed and vulnerable, was causing wild, desperate thoughts to race through your head. God! The fantasies you'd had about him. The places your mind had gone.

You sighed and brushed your face to the pillow, hoping he would roll over to you in his sleep so you could get back into his arms and the legs draped around you. Your eyelids peered at the glistening prosthetic arm in the soft light of the down. Could he feel your warmth whenever you kissed those fingers? How come you had never asked? There were many things you hadn't asked him yet.

Maybe you should start tomorrow? Hm? It's not like the world was ending today.

"You're going to come back over here, or you want to leave me cold and lonely?" he murmured, the raggedness in his voice confirming that he had been sleeping. Your gaze shifted upwards to meet his eyes, only to realize they were still shut, but his lips were painted with a playful grin.

Something inside you melted. It moved by his words, his smile, and his voice.

"I thought you were asleep." You scooted closer, and he wrapped his arms around you, cautious not to accidentally hurt you when he slipped his left arm beneath your neck. "I didn't want to wake you up." Your forehead pressed against his chest, and you felt the coldness of the iron mesh against your skin. His chin rested on your head, and his toes caressed your legs. The prickles of scars and fine hairs of his limbs tickled yours, and you felt blessed.

Funny how your nightmare faded the moment you felt his warmth like he burned a hole right through your head and pulled all your thoughts out. Well, other than that, it seemed like this morning, everything about him was exactly what you needed. His voice was calm and caring, his arms protective, and his presence comforting. You didn't want him to let go of you.

"Even if you had woken me up," he said, his artificial fingers sinking into your hair, and he continued, "I wouldn't have minded." A light kiss on the crown of your head followed his honest words. Even though this man kissed you every day and night, you could feel a silent giggle seeping into your body, causing your face to blush bright red.

Vash yawned soundlessly as he pulled you closer, his eyes still closed. The two of you were so close, too close, but never close enough for him. You had come to realize that your body heat did more for him than any blanket could. It was always in his eyes, aching with a desperate yearning he could only meet with you and your touch.

A joyful happiness settled between you as his hands drew shapes and patterns alongside your spine like those bright ones sometimes you could see on his body. Your lips curved into a smile as you watched him. His hair thick and blonde. The lines of his body sharp and robust. Damn! He had everything about him beautifully crafted. His nose. His chin. His ears and eyebrows. The eyelashes any girl would kill for and those turquoise-green eyes you longed to see. He had a gorgeous mouth.

You lingered too long there, your eyes betraying your mind.

Vash smiled. "What are you doing?" He fiddled with your hair, wrapping a lock around his finger.

In response, you sighed. Clearly, you would never discover how to avoid getting caught red-handed every time. "Just enjoying the view," you said, still staring at his mouth. You reached and touched two fingers to his bottom lip only to feel a rush of memories.

Long nights. Early morning. His mouth on you. Everywhere. Over and over again.

07:15 am - July 21st

He laughed sheepishly at your response.

You brushed a strand of hair off his forehead. His hair had grown a little long. You stroked his cheeks and drew his head back toward you, pressing your lush mouth against his. It never took him long to part his lips. He kissed you back, holding your head steady with his prosthetic arm while his other embraced you tightly. You could feel him smiling against your lips.

He had your heart, and you loved him quite horribly, too. This fact always smacked you over the head so hard you felt dizzy. You should have been afraid and wanted to hide it, as he was the most wanted man on the planet, but love had made you bold and brave.

You pulled back and studied his kiss-inspiring lips. Your whole body was filled with a warmth you wanted to share with him because it was pure, and so was he. There was no way for you to find the right words to describe how you felt.

The morning light was shining through the windows at the perfect angle and time. His muscles were taut, bathed in gold.

"Can you lie back, Vash?" you asked, pushing his shoulder back toward the bed. Finally fluttering his eyes open, he lifted his head in your direction.

Oh.

God.

His eyes.

He blinked dark lashes, revealing a spectrum of sadness and beauty, unlike anything you'd seen before. The way a person could convey so much with a glance caught you off guard. He had an extraordinary amount of pain paired with even more extraordinary passion.

His face spread into a wide smile the moment he saw you. These smiles, they changed him, and moments like this killed you a little.

He had the kind of face that made you forget where you were, who you were, and what you might say or do. You held his face in your hands as you laid his head down on the pillow. A half-lidded gaze sat on his face as he leaned to your touch, and you kissed him. Slowly, this time. His eyes fell closed. His mouth responded to yours.

Your fingers moved to his neck, then to his hair, and your mouth followed them. Soft lips caressed his earlobes and nipped the tiny single hoop, hot breaths hitting his skin, surprising a giggle out of him.

His hands reached up to pull you closer, but you stopped him. "No," you whispered. "Don't move." Without a second thought, he dropped his hands.

"Lie back and keep your eyes closed," you muttered, and strangely, he didn't object. His obedience led to you kissing him everywhere. His cheeks. His eyelids. His chin. The tip of his nose and the space between his eyebrows. All across his forehead and along his jawline. Every inch of his face. Soft, small kisses that said more than you ever could. You wanted him to know how you felt. You wanted him to feel it in the way only he could, the way he could sense the depth of your emotions. You wanted him to know and never forget.

And you wanted to take your time.

As your mouth moved down his neck, he gasped. You peeked up at his features only to meet a crooked grin on his face. The moment was worth savoring. It seemed like Mr. Vash was enjoying himself, so your tongue continued to adore his arm's sculpted hills and valleys, the perfect shape of his torso.

You breathed in the scent of his skin and took in the taste of him as your hands ran down his abs, kissing your way across and down the line of his torso. You kissed around his navel, and the trails of fine hair underneath caressed your lips. He kept reaching for you, trying to touch you until you told him to stop.

"Please," he said, taking a deep breath. "I want to feel—"

Even though he couldn't see you, you raised your brows with a head tilt and gentled back his arms. "Not yet. Not now."

He let out a breath in protest and crossed his arms behind his neck until your hands went further down and his eyes flew open. Blinking at him, you found out you were still fascinated by his eyes—such a stunning shade of green. "Close your eyes, Vash," you had to tell him.

A big gulp of air filled up his Adam apple. "No." He hardly spoke.

"Close your eyes!"

With his sharp gaze following your every move, he shook his head and leaned on his elbows.

"Fine." You rolled your eyes, and your hand grabbed the base of his hardness.

As soon as your nails brushed the skin of his length, he sat up and stared at you. He was breathing so fast you could hear and see his chest moving.

With a smile, you looked him in the eyes and leaned your head down. Your mouth took in the tip, and your tongue traced circles as Vash gasped. The sight of your bent head made him bite his lip. No doubt every fiber of his being demanded you to take him fully in your mouth, but he wanted you to call the shots. Allowing you to control the pace pushed him to the edge. He enjoyed the thrill of knowing he was at your mercy.

Soft hairs of his thighs against your ears, your nose skimmed his sensitive areas, and your lips kissed all over those favorite parts. The smooth skin of your fingers rolled around was warm and delicate, so fragile you were afraid you might tear it with your teeth. You felt his hardness throb against your cheek, pleading with you not to neglect him. Your thumb rubbed the pre-cum off the pink tip as you raised your head.

You looked up at him, his hair gleaming like golden flames, his cheeks drenched with sweat, and his lower lip stuck between his teeth, and you realized that his eyes looked at you with a look of something like trepidation, as if he was nervous. His face was still flushed red, and he had an expression somewhere between unworthiness and pleasure. With every stroke, his breath grew heavier. Obviously, he wanted more but was trying to contain his desire. Did he feel he was getting something he didn't deserve again?

There was no way you could let him be alone with these thoughts. So, before his dazzled eyes, you licked your thumb and watched how blood drained from his head and rushed straight to his torso. In surrender, he fell back; his eyes squeezed shut. You closed your mouth to half his length, and he turned his face to the pillow, stifling a moan. A tremor ran through his body, and his hands gripped the sheets tightly. Your hands ran down his legs, grabbing them just above his knees and inching them apart so you could trail kisses down the insides of his thighs.

He looked like he was in so much pain. So much pain.

You licked the pain away.

Twirling your fingers around the length, you took the crown in your mouth. Only enough to tease. Too little to satisfy. Your lips gently pressed against it, and when Vash was ready to scream, you accepted his whole length in your mouth.

Your lips were sealed tight as you hummed and increased the speed of your ministration. He threaded his fingers through your hair and molded his hands into your head, not to push you further down but to tilt your face up.

His forehead and neck were dripping sweat. The lines of emotion on his face were so deep you wondered how you must look to him. His throat bobbed, and you felt yourself drown in his eyes, enigmatic yet expressive, like sea foam, tempestuous but very calm. His fingers trailed over your salivate-covered lips, and you noticed that the sadness in his eyes had receded.

The world was suddenly brighter, bigger, and more beautiful.

07:40 am - July 21st

Taking hold of you by the arm pits, Vash pulled you in until your chest touched his. Next, you were rolled over so that your back touched the mattress, and he crawled onto you. Now his arms were propped up on either side of your head so he would not crush you under his weight. Looking into his eyes, you were pinned in place. His urgency ignited your bones. The polished planes of his face glowed with rivulets of sweat. His hardness was poking desperately against your thigh.

"I want to … …, …," he whispered. Intoxicated, you couldn't digest anything except his body hovering over you.

"… ?" His body pressed closer, and you realized you were paying attention to nothing but the dandelions blowing wishes in your lungs.

His eyes were heavy now in a way that worried you, but his gaze was still so tender, focused, and full of emotions you could hardly bring yourself to say anything. As your words faded, they became an unspoken whisper. Your lips glued together.

Screams.

Death.

Screams.

Your heart suddenly raced. What if these moments were destined to expire?

The sound of a clock striking midnight. A pumpkin carriage. The possibility of losing him.

You didn't want your arms to be deprived of his warmth. His touch. His lips, God, his lips, his mouth on your neck, his body wrapped around yours. The nightmare had caused this all, you knew, but the realization was like a pendulum the size of the moon. It wouldn't stop slamming into you.

Blinking fast, you swallowed back the fear building in your throat. God! He was speaking with you, but you couldn't hear him.

You were worried, really worried something was going to happen to him. What if bounty hunters found him? Could his brother hurt him? No. No. No. Even though you were only a human, you would never allow such a thing to happen. You just couldn't. You...

"Hey," he said, his voice soft, so soft. His arms were stronger than all the bones in your body. He pulled your figure close. You heard the beats of his heart humming deeply within his chest, and the steel of his arm encircled your whole body, releasing tension from your limbs. The icicles in your body were melted by his heat. Something about this frame made you want to freeze it forever. "You okay, Firefly? Wanna stop?"

The words he said sent waves of emotion coursing through you. He could read you like an open palm. You weren't lost before you met him, but you were never found until he laid eyes on you. Your tears stung as they fell backward down your throat, burning as they went. "Kiss me, Vash," you said before closing your eyes.

He searched your face, unsure what to do, hesitating, until you felt his lips on your shoulder, tender and scorching, so gentle you could almost believe it was the kiss of breeze and not a man.

Again.

This time, it was on your collarbones and felt like an ache that needed to be soothed. You didn't want to do anything to stop his mouth from touching your body.

He pulled back.

Desire.

Crave.

Need.

Again.

Your eyes refused to open.

His finger grazed the corner of your mouth, tracing its shape, the curves, the seams, and the dips. You felt him so much closer, his body heat filling the air around you, along with his smell and something sweet, until nothing was left. Your senses were so engulfed in his scent you didn't even realize your back was arching toward him as you breathed him in until you found out his fingers were no longer on your lips because his hand had gotten around your body.

"So, where do you want me to kiss you?" Vash whispered, his chest heaving, his words almost gasping. A wave of blistering heat moved through you, sealed shut your mouth. You didn't specify precisely where you wanted him to kiss you, and he didn't seem to have any difficulty selecting the spot. 

He whispered your name as he kissed the corner of your eyebrow. "Here?" His lips brushed over the shell of your ear, and your body squirmed slightly. "Or here?" He pressed a kiss against your neck, right beneath your ear, and you tipped your head to let him in, biting down the urge to beg him to take more, to take faster, as he murmured, "tell me."

Clasping your warm fingers with his cold metallic ones, he hovered over you to kiss your throat. You were the oxygen he desperately needed to breathe. His body was almost on top of yours, one hand in your hair while the other held yours delicately yet firmly. His lips crushed yours in no time.

A kiss like this was like swimming in honey rivers, like being dipped in gold, like diving into an ocean of bliss and not realizing you were drowning because you were too caught up in the current to notice. Nothing mattered anymore—neither your nightmare, this room, or the whole fucking planet.

All that mattered was this.

This.

This moment. These lips. This strong body pressed against yours, and these firm hands that always found a way you bring you closer. Oh, My Gosh! You wanted so much more of him. You wanted all of him.

Your eyes opened up.

Not content to be passive, your hands ran down his back, dancing over his broad shoulders, pressing into his dimples, and squeezing his hips.

Your hand grabbed a fistful of his hair when he broke for air with a groan, but you pushed him back, kissing his neck, arm, collarbones, and chest. It was amazing. Being with him, touching him, holding him like this. The rush of adrenaline was so intense and euphoric that you felt invincible.

He muttered your name, his lips mouthing the letters, barely speaking. Your skin was scorched everywhere he hadn't touched you.

He kissed your top lip.

He licked your bottom lip.

He kissed just under your chin, the tip of your nose, the length of your forehead, both temples and cheeks across your jawline. Then your neck, behind your ears, the space between your breasts. He nibbled your nipples and left trails of kisses all the way down your belly button until his entire form moved down your figure, disappearing as he shifted downward, and suddenly his chest was hovering above your hips.

Grasping your calves, he spread your legs apart just enough for his head to fit between. Your thighs were lifted, and you couldn't see him anymore. His only visible features were the top of his head, the curve of his shoulders, and the unsteady rise and fall of his back as he breathed. Eventually, even that sight was lost, with your head falling backward and muffled moans leaving your mouth.

Vash ran his hands down and up around your bare upper thighs and ribs, and he held your hips to make you stand still. Your eyes lit up like small firecrackers every time his hair teased your groins until his lips kissed you there, and fireworks exploded in the back of your head.

As his right hand pressed against your stomach, his tongue played around to make you scream aloud. His mouth brushed against your skin in places you couldn't see but felt deeply. Oh my! You were out of your body, touching stars, when you realized he was working his way up your body, leaving two fingers of that prosthetic arm behind.

"It might feel a bit cold," he said as his nose glided the skin of your stomach, leaving random kisses around your breasts and collarbones just to ease your tension. "Tell me if it hurts, okay?" His hair was a mess, the wetness on his lips all familiar.

A nod came from you in response. He almost seemed to be smiling as his fingers slipped inside your slit, and your nails dug into the fabric. Moaning, you felt his warm hand brushing your hair backward as the other moved up and down inside your walls.

Your mouth was parted in a silent moan, and his small pecks covered you all around. There were tears in your eyes, baby hairs sticking to your sweaty forehead.

As his thumb and two fingers hit all the right spots, your throat wailed in frustration.

You grabbed his free arm, and he pulled himself up, onto you, on top of you. As if reading your thoughts, he kissed you hard. How strange, yet sweet, all you could taste was you, yourself, on his tongue. You moaned at the taste, and he opened his mouth more for you, allowing you to brush your tongue against his teeth.

The stinging coldness of his fingers was long gone. You had forgotten everything. There was something you shouldn't have forgotten, but you couldn't even remember why, what you were forgetting. Amid his length caressing your side and those digits thrusting backward and forward, paying attention to anything else was hard.

You could die from this, you decided. From wanting him, from the pleasure of being with him.

You must be smiling because he was looking at you and smiling too. His forehead was pressed against yours. His skin was flushed with heat. His hand had kept your head still. Your hands gripped his nick, sliding into the hollow behind it. You placed your palms just above his nape, and your fingertips gently began to squeeze and massage his undercut.

"Va-sh."

For a moment, you thought life poured out of you, or maybe your vision fractured as release barreled into you, and you grasped his name over and over again till your body calmed under his weight.

08:10 am- July 21st

Your eyes landed on his glistening wet metallic fingers, and you were dripping, burning, melting with anticipation. He was still on top of you when you thought you heard him speak, his mouth close to your ear.

"I love you," he whispered and kissed your brow. It never occurred to you that he could be like this, so human, so real, but it was there. It was right there. Raw, written across his face. You were about to mutter all the words and worries you held in your chest, but suddenly he stood up and stared blankly at the other side of the room.

You followed his gaze to the pane of glass separating you from the reality outside. You awaited his lips to part. You waited to listen to him speak. His eyes weren't revealing anything about what he was thinking, what was going on.

Something about the realization struck fear into your heart. In the span of a single instant, darkness surrounded your vision. Images appeared in the blur of your sight again.

The petals of red Geraniums floating in the sky, a boy running through blood-stained sands, the time speeding up and slowing down in fits and starts, streaks of green and red staining your dilated eyes, stars exploding, lights flashing, sparking, and then it's all darkness and Vash's screams.

You shook your head.

The images disappeared, but the heartaches and fears lingered, and you had to keep reminding yourself to breathe. Your lungs begged for air, but you looked around for Vash instead.

It seemed he wanted to scream, but you knew the words wouldn't leave his mouth. Those thoughts would expand in his head, explosive and angry, pressing against the ridges of his mind, and then he would hide them behind a smile. As he always did.

"Vash?" you called, just before witnessing how a car's radio sound from the street ripped open his past, pulled out what was left of his heart, and dropped it on the floor.

"… been two years since that fateful July 21st. A crowd has gathered at what used to be the third city of July to pay their respects. Even after two years, the pain of losing their loved ones has yet to heal. The suspect said to have murdered 90 percent of the city, also known as the Humanoid Typhoon, still remains at large. Vash the Stampede is on the run. If I were the demon who turned the whole city into a gaping crater overnight, I'd hide my face too. There is no forgetting the sorrow of loved ones taken from us. The Alliance of Cities has raised the dead or alive bounty on Vash the Stampede to $$60 billion, the highest in the history of…"

The loud words bounced around in the haze of your head, fogging your senses, misting your eyes, and clouding your concentration. In your bones, there was just ice. Your entire being wanted to vomit. Reality slapped you in the face, punched you in the jaw, and dumped you into sand oceans. You grasped the nightstand to keep yourself steady. The orange shades fell on the floor, leaving a big crack on display.

Vash was shaking his head over and over and over and over. He was looking at his hands like he would see some blood on them, as if waiting for the part where someone would tell him this wasn't real and he didn't actually kill those 200,000 innocent people.

Oh, my beloved.

The pain was so plain on his face; it was killing you. Your gaze was drawn to the balled fists at his sides, the furrows in his brow, and the tension in his jaw. Minutes ago, this man was free, but now he was a prisoner of his own crime. In your heart, you wished you could release him from the claws of self-reproach.

Having seen his terror too often, you knew it well.

Sometimes, even when he was asleep, his tormented mind would grip his heart, and such emptiness and sadness would fill him that you felt he was suffocating, as if his sleepless nightmares never had an end.

You didn't know him before,

but

you

thought

he

had

lost

a

bit

of

himself

on

the

day

of

July

incident.

As time passed, you assumed he had finally learned not to dwell on what had happened. You imagined he avoided it like a cripple learning not to put weight on his injured leg.

However, deep down, you knew he was living on eggshells, always wondering when something would break, when everything would crumble. You always dreaded this day. This silence. It was not just an ordinary silence caused by the lack of things that moved or made noise, but a deep and tired silence that sometimes covered him like an invisible cloak—like the one ruling between your shared walls right now.

Stacks of sorrow had grown inside him, settling on his bones and snapping him in half. A cable twisted around his neck, a worm crawling across his stomach. It was the night, midnight, and the twilight of indecision. Too many pains to bear.

How naive of him to think he could slip into the role of a regular being and live a normal life in love and peace.

Vash.

Vash the stampede with a dream.

The mere thought of it filled him with mortification. He began to think others were right when they said things like him were better off destroyed.

Shaking his head, he coughed against the torture in his lungs, heaving strange, horrible gasps until his whole body spasmed into submission, leaving him sitting on the bed's edge like a sack full of nothingness. The old gunman looked as if he might collapse, barely breathing, his life-force being torn asunder.

You felt like your throat was closing up. You knew the infamous humanoid typhoon was everything broken and glued back together, and now knives bore holes into his cracked bones, filled with grief that could take his breath away.

Your face was drained of color, your ears ringing with your heart pounding. His desperate screams from your nightmare echoed in your head as if on repeat. His agony was acute. His terror palpable. Tears sprung to your eyes. It was painful to look at him, being so close and far away from him.

"Local news. You know how dumb they are," you said, trying to hide your petrified and nerve-wracking thoughts from his reach. What if he never experienced peace? What if there was no sanctuary, and the pain was always a whisper away, no matter where he went?

Pressing your nails to your palm, you continued, "None of that incident was your fault. You know that too. You hear me?"

His eyes widened a little. No one had ever cared about him for this long. No one had kept him ever this closely to read his thoughts word by word. No one had ever treated him like a human being. Then again, he thought you didn't know about all of his sins. In a century and a half, he hadn't been able to forgive himself; how could you? It made him wonder how long you could endure him before running for your life.

His head was spinning, thoughts knocking into one another. He clenched his fists and pushed back down the misery that had stuck with him. Even though he didn't want this, you'd probably be better off without him.

"Vash?" You swallowed and dug your fingers into the sheets desperately, a tear trickling down your cheek. It kept hitting you in the face, in the skull, in the spine, this knowledge of just how much you loved him.

His lips looked like they were barely able to form words. He could only take these harsh gasps and wonder why his body hadn't given up.

On all fours, you approached him and sat on your knees on the edge of the bed with a slight distance between you and him. You knew he wouldn't object, but you didn't want to intrude on his privacy. Thus, you remained silent so that he wouldn't be left by himself, and he would know you wouldn't leave him alone.

09:15 am – July 21st

Time passed, and you checked on him occasionally to see if he wanted to talk until he raised his head slightly.

"I'm a demon," he said the sentence so quietly. So, so quietly. He ran a hand across his face, both hands through his hair, looking like he wanted to scream, to break something, like he was truly about to lose his mind. "The world sees me as a threat. An unfixable monster. An abomination. They want me dead." His voice sounded sorrowful, almost like he had already accepted these labels.

Thousand pieces of feeling stabbed you in the heart. "I don't think you're a demon. Also, I don't think you're some sick, twisted monster. I don't think you're a heartless killer, and I don't think you deserve to die. You're not a humanoid typhoon. No, you're not any of the things people have said about you," you told him, words tripping and stumbling out of you.

His mouth fell closed, struggling with some kind of emotion, struggling to find composure. Suddenly he gasped. "No." One broken word. Barely even a sound. He was shaking his head, looking away from you. He turned to face the window. "No. No, no—"

"Vash—"

"No," he said. His voice was so soft and so scared you could scarcely hear it. "No, you don't know what you're saying—"

"You're not a monster!" you said. "And I love you exactly as you are. I don't even want you to fix yourself; I don't think you need to be fixed. People here love you as you are. Your name is the only thing that scares them," you told him.

You knew people had the right to fear him. You knew. Humanoid Typhoon certainly wasn't made of sugar, spice, and everything nice, but rather from hurricanes, lightning, and all things that scared. Seeing dusty storms and raging winds, people thought he was scary. They feared he would harm them. In truth, he was only his own disaster, destroying himself for others. He was Vash. Your Vash. Vash the Stampede, and you loved him with all his fears and frights, dreams and nightmares, sins and scars.

You smiled and continued, "If they learn your name and start hunting you, we'll run away! We'll run, run, and keep running as far as we have to! And when things calm down, we'll settle by their side again. You won't kill. You'll never kill anyone again, and one day, people will begin seeing you as I do."

Maybe tears filled his eyes. Possibly his breath was trapped in his chest. Perhaps his heart warmed a little. No one knew, not even the author. He had his head down, his chest rising and falling.

You sat behind him. A map of pain had covered his entire back. Thick, thin, uneven, and terrible, scars like roads leading nowhere. There were bolts and ragged slices, marks of torture he was not protected from.

Kindness must be difficult when all you'd received was hatred. Being able to see goodness in the world must be so hard when your only experience had been terror. You wanted to say something to him. Something profound, complete, and memorable, but there was nothing suitable. This planet was a broken bone that didn't set right, and Vash wanted to glue it back together. Alone, all by himself.

You two differed in this respect. Fearless and unafraid were two different things. He was fearless. He dared to outshine the sun, stare down a bullet, kiss death and walk away with his back unguarded. He would hold the whole world in his palms despite its bone-crushing weight, despite its sharp edges crusted with blood, if only he could stop it from falling apart. But you? You were fearful. Sometimes you couldn't breathe around the clot of fear lodged in your throat. The only way to lessen its weight on your tongue was to scream until no words came out, while the only way to chase away its shadows was never to close your eyes at night. You were unafraid of one thing, though —he could tear down the world and bury you alive under the weight of his guilt, yet you would follow him without hesitation.

Your eyes rested upon woven strands of sunlight, alighting softly upon his scarred skin. These honeyed arcing rays gave him a light glimmer that revealed his plant patterns, pulsing slowly and dimly. Something about the scene was so divine, and you felt the dawn rise from your heart every morning and reach the sky.

You hugged him from behind by bridging the gap between your bodies and leaned your cheek against his sun-kissed back. Your hands gently caressed his stomach and chest as your lips left kisses on his love reminiscences—one by one.

You could hear him breathing in and out. Unevenly. Yet he was silent. Hands clenched, knuckles white. Of course, he wanted you with a desperate need he had never known. But his regret, sins, and crimes were so overwhelming they consumed him. He thought, how could you be so kind to a thing like him?

Unaware of the voices in his mind, you dropped a kiss on his spine. You kissed the curve of his shoulder. His shoulder blades. Five kisses down his spine, each softer than the other one. For every little moment of pain he had ever felt in his life, you wanted to make it all go away. You kissed his neck, trying to ignore the tension in his muscles, the ache spreading inside you, urging you to end his suffering.

Your words were heavy with sincerity when you said, "I don't care what everyone else thinks about you." You leaned your forehead to his shoulder, your breaths gently caressing his back. "Because you're the only good thing left in this world."

As his eyes widened, he breathed heavily, trying to gain control of himself. "What are you saying?" he asked, his hand caught in his hair. "How can you tell such a thing this after all this?" His hand pointed to the window, to the news on the radio.

Standing on your knees, you kissed the hand caught between his gold locks. The same hand he always tried to cover its scar with a glove. Because the idiot thought his scars would be repulsive. The idiot. Your favorite idiot.

You didn't sit back. Keeping your head there, your nose buried in his hair, and your chest pressed to his back—this smell. You had never seen a sea, but you had heard about them. And you believed if there was ever to be a sea in this hell hole, he would smell like a sunny beach. Sweet, enveloping, and warm.

"That is—" your voice broke when you spoke. "That's what the family is for, Vash."

A sudden searing heat flashed behind his eyes, and his heart leaped at your response. He dropped his hand on his knee and sat still in place by the weight of your words. His hand trembled, and his eyes were willing and wanting but filled with both sadness and happiness.

A family.

All this time, he thought you were with him all along because you didn't have a grasp on his sins, but now, he could see that you already knew everything. And despite all of this, you were still willing to forgive him and give him something he always wanted but never had without even requiring him to earn it or redeem himself.

You touched his arm and traced the tender skin with your fingertips. Scars everywhere. You kissed the back of his elbow. "I'm sorry for everything humans have done to you," you told him, and he took a shallow breath. "Forgive us." Another kiss. "Forgive me."

A delicate warmth filled Vash's heart and melted it into drops of warm honey that soothed the scars in his soul. He turned his head and stared at you with open, vulnerable eyes, a tight jaw, and tensed muscles. No one had ever apologized to him. According to his experience, he was usually the monster, the wicked one. The onus always was on him to make amends.

It stunned him how strange it felt. Up until now, he never thought he deserved forgiveness, let alone someone asking for it.

Running a tired hand across his face, he wasn't sure what to do with himself. A joy filled his heart, causing him to feel heavy with something he wasn't even sure he could describe.

Gratitude, perhaps.

The ache in his chest had grown more assertive, more painful. But for now, he didn't want to think about it. He simply just wanted to enjoy your proximity.

Your hand reached up to stroke the luminous curved shapes on his cheek, tracing them to the softness of the mole beneath his left eye. The look in those aquamarines breaking your heart. You couldn't bear to see his face covered in sorrow and guilt.

"You're a good man, my Vash," you said, your words soft, your hand gentle as you tilted his chin up toward your mouth. He was blinking fast, yet not denying. You whispered words on his lips that no one had ever spelled out for him. "Rem would've been proud of you," you told him, watching the movement in his throat and his effort to keep it together. It didn't take you long to kiss him once, tenderly.

He found himself at a loss for words, opting to convey his emotions through touch instead as he melded his lips with yours. He sighed into your mouth, and you kissed him even more deeply, almost desperately, as if trying to pass over your breaths to him. You could taste the salt on your tongue. The wet drops falling on your cheeks made your flesh burn. You were uncertain whose they were as you continued to try and cling to him.

10:00 am – July 21st

The sheets slowly slipped and fell to the floor as Vash pulled you into his arms, clutching you tight, hardly able to breathe. When he exhaled and looked at you again, there were stories in his eyes, thoughts, whispers, and feelings of things you had never seen before. His whole body seemed to be relaxed in relief. He looked like he was hanging on his sanity by a single, fraying thread. You.

And you promised yourself, at this moment, that you would hold him forever, just like this, until all the pain, the torture, and the suffering was gone, until he'd given a chance to live the kind of life where no one could ever hurt him this deeply ever again.

He touched your cheek. Soft, as if he wasn't sure if you were real. His four fingers caressed the side of your face gently before they slipped behind your neck, caught in that in-between spot below your ear, and his thumb brushed the apple of your cheek, then grazing your bottom lip.

You did so much with these lips, you thought. Touched, kissed, and pressed them against tender parts of his skin. You made promises, and the words they formed, the shapes and sounds they curved around, all for him.

Vash moved closer by just an inch. His free metallic hand cupped the other side of your face. He was holding you like you were made of crystals. Holding you and looking at his own hands, he couldn't believe you were real.

Gone was the man with guns and bullets. These hands treasuring you had never held a weapon. They were perfect and kind, never touched by death. He took your hands and pressed your palms to his face. Tears must have welled up in your eyes when you closed them.

You whispered his name, and he breathed harder than you.

Could this be a dream?

You shook, shuddered, splintered into teardrops, and he held you like no one had before. He wanted you. Seeing him cling to you as he might never let go did something to you, something heady, knowing that he might wish you, or need you, like this, made you want to protect him even though he didn't need your protection.

Gently, he stroked your hair and pressed his lips to your forehead. Gradually, his arms became the arms around your waist; his lips became the lips pressed against yours, his body the warmth you felt.

You weren't even breathing, but you were alive, and he was kissing you. Deeply, desperately. The palms of his hands were rubbing the small of your back as he lifted you into his lap. Your legs automatically wrapped around his hips, allowing him to kiss your neck, throat, and nipples.

You broke apart with his small licks here and there, breathing hard, and stared at him like a bonehead, your brain still too numb to figure out exactly how you two got here.

Tilting his head to a side, he pressed his lips against yours again, seeking you with a burning need, a new kind of desperation. His hands were threaded in your hair, his lips so soft, so urgent against yours, like fire and cinnamon exploding in your mouth.

Vash nibbled your bottom lip in a flash and pulled back just a little bit. Your body was flooded with heat and desire so intense you could hardly think when he parted his lips from you to sigh in your mouth, and that slight sound of pleasure drove you crazy.

Putting one hand under your neck, placing his mouth on your breast, and running his fingers down your back, he pressed your body closer, only to find something hard pressing against your groin.

Oh.

Well.

While he avoided your gaze, he smiled sheepishly and tentatively touched your thighs with his hands. Because of what had happened, you knew he would probably feel embarrassed to ask for it, but that didn't mean you wouldn't give it to him. He deserved the whole world if you had the chance to provide for him. His markings were glowing softly when you squeezed him closer to yourself, holding him tighter.

Biting his lip and stifling his groan, his smart-ass hands slid up your legs and into your thighs. Soon, his lips reached your chest. Your body ached everywhere, tasting colors and sounds you didn't even know existed. His forehead was pressed against your chin, and your hands gripped his shoulders. He was hot, gentle, and somehow in a hurry.

You were beyond the reach of rational thoughts. Beyond words, beyond comprehension. The world was beyond understanding because nothing could ever compare with this. Nothing could ever capture the way you were feeling right now. Nothing mattered anymore. You were left with only this moment: his mouth on your body, his hands on your skin, and his lust deep in his eyes, making you absolutely insane.

Your wetness was no longer a secret when he surrounded you everywhere. As he watched you, you reached down and adjusted his length against your slippery entrance over a few strokes. His pulse could be felt in your palm and soon inside of you.

Using both soft and hard hands, he gently grasped your hips and pulled you down toward him. As he entered, you gasped, every time surprised at his size, clinging desperately to his neck as he hitched your legs around his waist, his prosthetic arm settling beneath your thigh. You loved the feeling of him stretching you. You loved having him this close to you. You loved the way he manhandled you. You loved his hand around your neck and the little squeeze of his fingers around your nape.

His grip tightened when he sensed you were ready for him, and he started moving you up and down. You cried out and leaned your cheek to his nose, dying and somehow being brought back to life in the same moment, in the same breath.

Fuck! You were full of him.

He lifted your thighs, and you bit back the moan stuck in your throat. His mouth wouldn't let go of your skin, kissing you with an intensity that made you wonder why you hadn't died, caught on fire, or woken up from this dream yet. Then he returned his hands to your face and kissed you once, twice.

The room's silence was filled with your heavy breathing, your chest against Vash's. Your pulses hammered against each other. You felt his arms around you become unbearably tight as he yanked you up and down with even more force than before, hitting you in a place he seemed to know too well.

As his teeth caught your bottom lip momentarily, you pushed your nails to his shoulder, running your fingers through his hair to pull him into your mouth. He tasted so sweet. So hot and sweet. You kept trying to say his name, but you couldn't even breathe, much less say a single word.

The pace increased slightly; each thrust was hard, deliberate, wringing gasps, whimpers, and long, rolling moans from you.

Your eyes tingled with tears, falling fast down, traveling quietly down your cheeks, and he cupped your face in his hands, his thumbs two parentheses in your mouth, against your tongue and saliva. As if he had found Adam's ale between million mirages of the desert, he stared at you, his eyes like fire in the water.

"I love you," he whispered over and over, his voice fragile, uneven. His lips covered yours in a tender kiss. He kissed you and tasted your tears, the lingering flavor of pleasure laced in your mouth. He kissed you and kissed you until time toppled over, and your head spun into oblivion.

Vash loved you…

His temple was leaned against yours when you took his earlobe between your teeth, stripped him to his bones, and ruined him from the inside out. Your sweet little tongue was frantic when you whispered, "I'm yours to love."

Hearing your words, he held still for moments, sucking in the air because he felt almost dizzy with satisfaction, running his hands over your thighs.

You. You were his. You, the one who knew if you left him alone at that moment, would fall into the depths of his own hell; if he'd slipped through your fingers, he would be gone, and no one could bring him back. You did not erase all his pain or offer to solve all his problems. You didn't fix everything that was broken, but that wasn't what he needed anyway. What mattered the most was that you stayed.

He loved you.

He loved you so much.

Grasping your soft hips, he buried his face against your shoulder and sped up. You were his undoing, taking him apart and putting him back together differently, better, and more himself than he ever could have been. He gritted his teeth as his orgasm came barreling at him. His hands glided on your back when you shuddered, your inner walls squeezing him so hard he couldn't prevent his release. With a growl, he thrust wildly, once, twice—and then everything around you both disappeared until it was all just colors and light, the sun shines and oceans, apple trees, and blossoms.

Your eyes were still closed, and you felt his hands laced with yours, just to remind you that you had him here and that he was with you. Your partner in everything. His chest heaving, he buried his face in your neck, sweat covering his temples. Kissing him there, you inhaled the scent of his hair.

"You're my family too," you heard him whisper, his words etched into your soul as his lips moved against your skin. And you wished, more than ever, that you could capture moments like this and relive them forever.

12:50 pm – July 21st

You woke up with a smile, your skin still hot from the memory of your vile. You were cleaned with a wet towel, placed in bed with a kiss, and promptly fell asleep. Thankfully, no nightmares this time.

What time was it? You didn't know.

As you stretched your legs under the sheets, you realized your back was against Vash, his prosthetic arm resting on your pillow, the other tucked around your waist. Knowing he had held you this close warmed the pit of your stomach and made you feel so safe that you didn't ever want to move, but you had a thousand things to do today, but you never, ever wanted to move.

Truth be told, you loved these moments the most. The quiet contentment. Being enveloped by his naked body. You never felt closer to him than you did like this when there was nothing between you.

Today was a big day delayed by your nightmare and the sound of that stupid radio! There was no way you were going to let anything overshadow his birthday anymore. Even for a few hours, he deserved this celebration, this little distraction. He deserved to be happy, eat, and laugh.

You sighed, hating to wake him up since he seemed pretty tired. Slowly, you turned around in his arms. A smile tugged at your mouth as you watched him, amazed at how his presence could bring you such peace. He shifted again, burrowing deeper into the pillows, and you realized he must be exhausted.

Watching the movement of his throat, you breathed him in, running your hands along the deep, strong lines of muscle in his arm. His entire being felt raw. Powerful. Being a plant had something wild and terrifying about it; somehow, this knowledge only made you love him more. You traced the contours of his shoulder blades, then his spine. He stirred, but only briefly, and buried his face in your hair.

"Don't go," he whispered softly, pressing his nose to your scalp alongside his lips.

You tilted your head, gently kissing the column of his throat. "Vash," you whispered. "I'm not going anywhere."

Taking a deep breath, he said, "good."

You smiled. "Oh, but we should probably get out of bed. I promised Rosalina I'll help—"

A disapproving sound escaped his throat as he shook his head, deftly helping you turn around. He hugged you close again, your back pressed against his chest. Soft and husky, his voice was full of desire when he said, "C'mon, let me enjoy this. Feeling good."

"You don't want a cake?" you blurted out, but it certainly caught his attention.

You could feel he raised his head, stiffened and confused. "How come Rosalina's making me a cake?"

Did you hear correctly? Had he forgotten about his birthday? Did this day become neglected to the point where it was forgotten?

Turning around, you saw he was sitting, his body frozen and his heart probably pounding furiously. Getting him to attend his birthday would take more effort than you expected. Because he asked how you could possibly plan a party for him, why anyone would throw him a party, what if he didn't even like birthday parties, and so on. Still, you didn't fall short. Since the day he told you about Rem making them a cake for their birthday, you kept track of his birthday. The July incident wasn't going to overshadow his birthday. It was your vow to replace that memory with better ones. That forever and ever, you'd strive to drown out the darkness that had ruined his life.

In his eyes, tragedy and beauty could be seen, a stoicism that wouldn't be shaken, and childlike joy that couldn't help but flow. When he swallowed, you noticed the gentle movement in his throat and moved your hand to his ear, your pinkie touching his earring, then tracing down his jawline. You didn't receive a rejection, but you didn't receive a yes, either. Why wasn't he saying anything? He had you on your worried until he clasped his hands over his face.

Your hand brushed against his undercut as you gently kissed his temple and tried to pry his hands away from his face. "Vash?" you said, your words hardly a whisper. "Is everything alright?"

The reply took him a few seconds to come out, but when he finally did, he nodded. It was only once, but it was enough. "Yeah," he said softly. "I'm okay."

The feeling of relaxation washed over you as you exhaled. "If you don't want a—"

He held and squeezed your hand as he looked at you, his eyes round when he said, a little nervously, "what have I done," he whispered, his voice trembling, "to deserve you?"

Did you die of joy? Because he took your face in his hands and kissed you so passionately, it blew your mind. Your heart began to beat violently, and you didn't recognize yourself. You didn't recognize your hands, your bones, your heart. You felt new. "Thank you," he whispered. "For loving me and everything."

"It's very, very easy to love you, Vash," your lips might have said, but the words never left your lips. You didn't know what to do, so you reeled him in, kissed him, and lost yourself in his taste and feel, in the fantasy of what you might have. What you might be.

But wait! Didn't you know fate was a jealous, vicious mistress that never ever slept?

You blinked.

You blinked again, but this time for too long. You saw a flash of blood spewing inside your open mouth. Nausea returned with a swiftness that scared you. A breath was drawn, your fingers fluttering as you desperately tried pressing them against your stomach. Pain filled your eyes as you kept them open. Clenching your fists, you attempted to control spiraling thoughts.

However, nothing helped. Nothing helped. Nothing, you thought. Nothing, nothing, and nothing.

Where was Vash? Where were you?

Throughout your open eyes, terror oozed from your heart. You heard someone calling your name. A hand brushed lightly along your spine as you shivered suddenly at the unexpected sensation.

" …," the voice said, "do you … ?"

The warmth moved in only to meet the coldness of your skin. You felt it all. Again and again, a touch of his finger did pull you out of your nightmare.

A rustle of sheets caught your attention, and Vash pulled you onto his lap. Straddling him, your legs stretched across the rumpled fabric. Wrapping his arm around you, he spread his hand along your back.

It was just a dream. It was just a dream. It was just a dream.

Turning carefully in the cradle of his arms, you pressed your forehead to his bare chest, your eyelashes fluttering against his rough gash.

"You okay?" he asked, his metallic fingers combing through your hair in a soothing act.

"Yes," you replied, forcing air into your lungs. You were breathing hard, head spinning as you held on to him. "Yes."

"Is something wrong, Elay?" He probably had lowered his head because his breath was touching your shoulder.

"Nothing," you claimed. Your heart was beating fast, too fast. You didn't know why you were lying. You should have just told him, but you didn't know why you weren't.

Wait.

Actually, you knew.

You were waiting.

You were waiting to see if this shit would pass. It had to, because today was a special day. Because you were already exhausted, and the radio's sound was repeating in your ears. Because you didn't want to add another burden to his shoulders with your silly nightmare. Even more, it wasn't real. Just a figment of your imagination, and saying it out loud would make it sound more real than it really was.

Vash asked no further questions. He was more of an "if you love someone, let them keep their secrets to themselves " guy. He pulled you close, and you melted into him, grateful for his warmth and steady hold. You took a deep, shuddering breath and let it all go, exhaling against him. A faint aroma of caramel lingered in your nostrils as you breathed in his skin's rich, heady scent. The minutes passed silently as you both listened to each other breathe.

01:45 pm – July 21st

It took a while, but your heart rate steadied.

You could feel it.

Here.

This.

Your bones against his bones. This was your home.

"What're you thinking?" His lips touched your neck, a graze that sparked, hot and cold, right down to your toes.

"Been thinking about you." You raised your head and looked at him. He was smiling, the unfaltering sun glinting in his eyes. You could see his fear, hopes, and love for you like a mirror to his soul in those mountain lake-colored spheres. Then there was something else as well—something like bliss. It was a faint glow, but it was there and made you so happy. You had blessed the blessing. He deserved happiness after everything he had been through. After all the horrors he had suffered alone.

"Me?"

As you closed the gap between you two again, you nodded against his chest. Nothing was said, but you could hear his heart racing until he exhaled. It was a heavy, uneven sound, as if he might have been holding his breath for too long.

Gently, you ran your hand along his back. "How long has it been since you celebrated your birthday?" you whispered.

"Hm?" He buried his face in your hair, and his nose glided over your scalp in what appeared to be caressing movements.

It didn't take a genius to figure out when he was ducking a question. You wiggled a little to loosen his grip and looked up. Your fingers ran through the soft, silky strands. The sight of him mesmerized you. His eyes were wide and bright. His lips soft and pale. He was perfect, bare, and beautiful, holding you in his arms. Sighing, you closed your eyes. "Let me ask it this way then," you said, "How many birthdays have you missed so far?"

Nothing came out of his mouth for what seemed like an eternity. You felt him finally move. In a gentle caress, his prosthetic fingers touched your face. "150 birthdays," he whispered, his voice uneven.

Your spine tingled involuntarily. 150 years of solitude. Loneliness. Alone with himself. On this giant planet. Where was his home? Where were his friends? His lovers?

You knew he was so much better at being alone as if being alone came more naturally. He led a life of deliberate seclusion, and when occasional loneliness crept in, he knew how to sink in and absorb its particular comforts or work his way out. After all, there were always bars and saloons and strangers around.

You knew he wanted to carry the weight of life all alone, even the burden of those he once loved. It wasn't fair, though. You had to be allowed to help him carry it all. A frown formed on your face, and you inhaled, "Happy birthday #1! Happy birthday #2! Happy birthday #3!..."

His metallic forefinger stopped your lips. Slowly, you looked up to meet his eyes. His expression was sad, sweet, and filled with love. You felt something thawed inside of you as you stared at him.

"You don't have to do this," he said as he separated his finger from your lips to brush away stray strands of hair from your face. A part of you wished his finger could stay there longer.

"Shut up and let yourself celebrate! We've got at least 150 birthdays to catch up on!"

He kissed your eye, and you felt his smile on your eyelid. His lips started moving tardily when he said, "I don't—"

"Shhhh! Since you interrupted me, I'm starting over!" you snapped and continued, "Happy birthday #1! Happy birthday #2! …"

The smile on his face grew bigger and bigger, as if he was filled with so much joy that he hardly recognized himself. You couldn't recall the last time he smiled this much. It was the most pure, unburdened bliss you had ever experienced.

He held you the entire time you felicitated all his forgotten birthdays. You could see it in how he looked at you. You could feel his fears disappearing and his emotions becoming something else. Now, his touch was hot and electric against your skin. Your heart was beating faster and harder, and he didn't have to say anything. You could feel the temperature change between you.

"You," he said, staring at your mouth. He touched his nose to yours, and something inside you jolted to life. You heard your breath caught, your ears turning red, unbidden. "I love you," he whispered.

The words did something to you every time you heard them. They built something new inside of you. You swallowed hard. A fire consumed your mind. "You know," you mumbled shyly, "It never gets old hearing you say that."

Leaning you back a little, he moved, his nose brushed the line of your jaw, and his lips touched your throat. You were holding your breath, terrified to move, to leave this moment.

"I love you," he said again.

Heat filled your veins. You could feel him in your blood, his whispers overwhelming your senses.

"Vash," you said. You wanted to talk to him about what happened hours ago. You knew you should've moved and snapped out of this but couldn't. You couldn't think. And then his hand brushed against your breasts. You breathed quickly, fighting against a sudden rush of pleasure.

It was impossible to pretend anything when he was this close to you. You knew he could feel how badly you wanted him. You could feel him, too. His heat. His desire. He made no secret of what he wanted from you. What he wanted you to do to him.

He kissed you softly, wrapping his arms around you, one too cold, the other too hot. Your body shifted forward in his embrace as you took another painful, agonizing breath.

"I know you're worried," he said, his lips too close to yours and his hot breath in your mouth. "I know we have to talk, but—" He never finished that sentence. He kissed you as he reached down, trailing his fingers along the inner parts of your thighs, and the movement seared through you. Your vision went white. You heard nothing but the pounding of your heart, then you remembered.

"Vash? Um-I have to-ah," you panted, "she is waiting."

You could feel his smile as he whispered the word in your ear. His fingers were teasing your groins. "Please." And you were gone.

One hand kept your head steady, the other roamed around your loins, and he kissed and melted you. Your eyes met his, and the feeling threatened to drown you. He kissed you, and every thought and worry wicked away, replaced by the feel of his mouth against your skin, his hand claiming your body.

Holy Molly!

He eft his kisses everywhere like he knew, like he knew how desperately you needed this, needed him, needed this comfort and release.

Like he needed it, too.

Taking hold of his neck, you raised yourself up to kiss his nose, cheeks, and lips. The line of your bodies was welded together. You felt yourself dissolving, becoming pure emotion as he parted his lips, teased you, and breathed into your mouth. "I love you," he said, gasping the words.

He kissed the top of your shoulder, and his artificial hand wandered over your body, down your back, cupping your back side, lingering on your upper thighs like he wanted to memorize the shape of you, always leaving you in awe of how gentle he was. Your muscles tightened with longing, and you were surprised at how much you wanted him.

Again.

So soon.

However, you had to stop this.

"I'd better get dressed," you said, pulling yourself back, grabbing sheets, and covering yourself with them. "I've got stuff to do."

A grin spread across his face as he watched you as if he could sense your frustration. You crawled from his lap, the bedsheets catching under your knees and making you lose your composure. Like a sneaky fox, he couldn't resist taking advantage of the moment. He yanked the rest of the sheet away from you and tucked you underneath him. His weight pinned you to the mattress, a knee intentionally jammed between your legs and slowly grinding you down.

"Here's what I want for my birthday," he said, kissing your parted lips. He knew what he was doing and knew you couldn't comprehend his words. "I have this idea. Just hear me out; I think that maybe you should consider being naked all the time. I mean, just always. Okay?"

"Okay. I have to—" What were you saying? He had his mouth all over you, sucking at your breasts, licking your throat, his fingers going straight to your sensitive spots.

The moment he got there, you knew you wouldn't let him go, even if he wanted to. So, you needed to gather your wits and act before it was too late.

Think. Think. Think.

"Vash!" you gasped, pushing him up with your hand as much as possible. "I know you're going nuts like a hunk in heat," you said, holding his cheeks between your hands and staring at his big downturned eyes. "I gotta shower and go to the saloon so you can meet me there at eight, okay, good boy?" You tapped on his shoulder.

With raised eyebrows, Vash got off you, but you remained trapped between his knees. Although he crossed his arms and pretended to be mad, you could see him fighting back a smile. It was amazing how that poor piece of sheet managed to cover his hips; otherwise, you wouldn't have been able to focus on his face.

"You were going to take a shower without me?" he said sternly.

You couldn't figure out what to say for a moment and then carefully asked, "would you like to join me?"

Considering your offer, he gazed at you, up and down, with a sweet, secret smile. The look in his eyes was enough to persuade you to agree to anything. You would do anything for this man if he asked. Even if he didn't bother to ask.

"Vash."

Your heart was heavy as you whispered his name, filled with emotion. You went still as he hovered over you, gently mouthing your nipples. His kisses grow more intent, leaving a trail of fire across your chest, down your torso, and rushing through your veins.

Suddenly, you forgot why you were even in such a hurry.

Your hands slipped around his neck, and you reeled him in. He felt incredible against you, his body fitting perfectly. You tilted his face up, your hand caught somewhere behind his neck and the base of his jaw, and you kissed him softly and slowly, heat filling your blood with dangerous speed.

As one hand held him steady, the other skimmed the smooth skin of your waist, gripping your hip hard. He parted your legs with his thigh, hearing you make a desperate sound deep in your throat, and it did something to him, to feel and hear you like that, to be assaulted by your pleasure and desire. It drove him crazy.

Vash buried his face in your neck, and his hand moved up to feel your breasts' tender skin, hot, soft, and sensitive to his touch. He wanted your body under his hands, the scent of your skin, and the light whisper of your hair against his. Licking your earlobes, he tried to ignore the strain in his muscles and the hard, desperate pressure driving him towards you, toward madness.

An ache was expanding inside you and demanding more, craving him to flip you over and lose yourself in you. You clung to him, your eyes half-lidded, your face flushed. Your breathes were heavy when you said, "take me, Vash."

His eyes widened, and he stared at you like he might be going deaf and blind at the same time, hunching over from the effort of inhaling and exhaling. He said nothing and only looked at you carefully from the top, drinking you in. His pulse was wild, his mind racing. There was no way he could refuse you.

02:50 pm - July 21st

Vash stepped aside, and you pushed the sheets away when he asked you to get up. Soon you were standing in the middle of the room as he had demanded.

He couldn't look away from you and probably couldn't even hear himself think over his heart beating fast like a thud against his skull. Pinning you against the closest wall, he kissed you wild enough for you never to forget why he was called the stampede. His fingers touched every everywhere. Every bend and arc. Every pit and hole. Leaving gentle slaps and smacks on the soft skin of yours.

It was lovely to feel your soft curves against his rough edges, and somehow, the paradox between the smoothness of your bodies pressed against each other made the scene even more surreal. In order not to miss any precious time, he picked you up, and you gasped, shocked, and scrambled to hold on for dear life. He pushed the bathroom door aside with his shoulder and carried you into the shower.

He needed you. Needed this. Now. You could see it in his eyes, in the upward arch of his erection.

He drew a deep, unsteady breath before switching the tap on.

A short scream tore through your throat.

You two got soaked in cold water as he pressed your front against the shower wall, losing himself in you like never before. His kisses were more profound, more desperate, and his hands less considerate than before. The heat more explosive, and everything between you wild, raw, and vulnerable. His mouth devoured you. He had his lips all over your body, his tongue tasting new places.

With the cold tiles touching your breasts, a sensation of pleasure spread throughout your entire body. You could feel it, the bottom half of your body urging you to press against him more deeply and fully. He had to hear the pleas of every cell in your body because his next thrust was so intense that you had to hold on to the wall with your palms to steady yourself while your cheeks pressed more and more against the cold ceramic as he had his way with you.

You lost track of time.

You had no idea how long you had been here. You didn't know how long he had gone haywire in you. Your knees were starting to shake when he turned you around, and your eyes fell on his soaked hair sticking to his forehead and clumping eyelashes blinking slowly. You considered yourself lucky for not only seeing such a marvel but also tasting him and feeling him.

With such hunger, he kissed your lips like he hadn't had them in years. You felt the hard tiles press against your back as he pushed himself inside, without hesitating to move up and down. Over and over again, you were lauded, his panting echoing within four walls.

So many times that you wanted to open your mouth to protest, but every time he took one turgid nipple into his mouth. Heat surged through your blood as his teeth scraped over the end of one, and you moaned instead of complaining. You couldn't stop thinking about how good it felt to feel him inside you, his tongue twirling around your other breast.

The pressure was built. You were consumed by the need to reach the climax in every action. Your stomach muscles were tightening and quivering.

He moved his hands from your hips to your head, tangles of wet hair wrapping around his fingers as he pulled you upwards for a kiss. His tongue immediately thrust past your lips, and he increased his speed.

God! Nothing had ever tasted as good as Vash, you thought. Sensual, decadent, the flavor of him slipped through you.

His hands clenched tighter in your hair, and his teeth bit the flesh of your neck, but you barely noticed, barely caring about the hickey it would leave as he threw back his head, groaning your name. The sight of him in the throes of his peak drove you to the edge, your inner muscles clamping around his hardness, pulling him in deeper.

You cried out, clutching his shoulders so tightly that your fingernails dug into his skin, and your screams were muffled against his chest. The plunk of shower water running between your feet could be heard as your body shook, and he leaned his forehead against your head.

His hot released load was dripping and sliding down on your thighs when you collapsed into his arms, feeling weak and unsteady. He held you close to himself, tight yet so gentle, stroking your wet hair with his fingers and leaving small pecks wherever he could reach. "We should eat something," he said, kissing the curve of your shoulder and the sides of your neck.

You were intoxicated by the pure, stunning power of his emotions, endless waves of love and desire, love and kindness, love and joy, love and tenderness.

So much tenderness.

You pressed your cheek against his chest and held him as he braced himself against the wall. Your bodies were wet and heavy with feeling, your hearts pounding with something more powerful than you had ever imagined possible.

Water was dripping from the mess of his hair. So gorgeous, you thought. Then you forgot where you were and what you were going to do. Your arms and limbs trembled slightly, and he was too terrified to let you go.

Too in love to let you go.

07:15 pm - July 21st

As night fell, the blue haze of the day lifted and revealed the stars brightening the sky, shining like beams of happiness, appearing still as an old photograph. The wind blew Vash's hair into a tousled bun.

He walked out of his favorite shop and leaned against the wall with a big bag of donuts and an even bigger smile. Yeah, he perfectly knew he would eat cake, but eating donuts had nothing to do with it: a warm-up, just appetizers.

His eyes followed the long shadows of townies milling around under the flickering lamppost lights, even though he couldn't make out any faces from such afar. He liked this town. It was so small that his typhoon hadn't yet found it. Or maybe because he was a stranger here. Nobody knew him, and everybody was safe from the curse his name carried around.

Everybody but you.

You already had been spelled by those fifteen letters.

V-A-S-H-T-H-E-S-T-A-M-P-E-D-E

Taking a look around, he tried to find a clock on a building or something. The birthday boy didn't want to be late. This and, of course, the words you uttered before you left the house:

"Eight o'clock, Vash. Don't forget! Don't be late! Don't be early and wear that white shirt. See you there!"

He sighed and took a donut from the bag, careful not to stain his white shirt with his clumsiness. It smelled great. What a heavenly aroma, smelling like honey. This and you and this town. It sure felt good to see happy people around.

Without further ado, he took a bite of his sugar-coated donut.

He expected it to taste incredible and super tasty, like being alive, but he couldn't feel it. There was a sense of numbness in him. The weight of an unknown worry was heavy against his heart.

A muffled whistle-like sound echoed in the distance, followed by several. Another shot rang out, this time sounding like it was meant. Suffocating silence, creaking doors, and screams that tore the sky open.

He felt strangely dull, as if his connection with his body had been cut off. The bag fell to the ground, and the donuts scattered around. People were crying, weeping, but all he could hear was the wind's wails in his ears, slapping sharply against his face.

He took uncertain steps forward. The area outside the saloon looked like more than a graveyard. It was worse than he had expected. There were injured people everywhere; some collapsed on the ground.

From where he stood, he counted two men, one woman, and a child dead. Open eyes, mouths agape, fresh blood still dripping down limp bodies. Where were you? Something about that realization struck fear into his veins.

The horrifying possibilities flashed through his mind. His mind was blank as to what had happened. Were you okay?

Vash looked over the crowd, still staring, waiting for you to show up. Waiting for you to find him. But you weren't anywhere to be found. In the chaos, he ran from one to another, people scattered around, and he didn't see you. The terror of this moment kicked him in the gut.

So many thoughts were tangled in his head that he couldn't untie the insanity. He glanced back at the doors you were supposed to come out, opening it with a smile.

He waited. He waited longer than was reasonable. Then he called you. Quietly at first, then louder. He shouted your name. His chest was being torn apart by fear, squeezing his heart. A part of him was afraid to speak the words aloud, fearful of making them true.

His legs felt like they had been formed from fresh clay, like he was moving through a fog. His voice reached everyone, pleading this time, running forward until the doors were in his line of sight.

"Is she in?" he asked, but no one answered. Everybody was frozen by the agony of the moment. All that could be heard were silent weeps and the wind howling.

Vash gulped, his throat all dry, and walked in; his lips parted, his eyes wide and horrified. The blood in his veins all ice.

Pain.

It began at his feet, bloomed up his legs, unfurled in his stomach, and worked its way up to his throat, only to explode behind his eyes. The sudden scream ripped itself from his lungs. It wrenched free from his chest without warning, without permission, and it was a scream so loud, so hard and violent, it broke his back. His hands were pressed against his knees, his head half bent.

Echoes of his misery would never be lost in the wind or carried away by the clouds but would always live between these walls. Forever.

His voice was unfamiliar to him. The horror, shock, and dread that flooded his body was something he had never felt — never known before, not like this.

The popped balloons on the walls. A half-ruined cake on the counter. Blood-stained confetti all around. A shoeless foot lying on the floor. Locks of tousled hair slipped from the makeshift shroud.

The numbness was now merciful, at least for a few moments. Then, everything crashed.

Vash fell next to the body. The knowledge rushed up in him, choking off his breath. Another scream tore its way out. Then another, and another. It felt as if his very essence had been ripped from him.

He pulled you into his arms, clutching you tightly, barely able to breathe. His fingers seized your hair and yanked it from your face. The golden strands of his hair fell onto your bloody face. You were called over and over, but it didn't seem like anything more than a sound. His pleas were like commands, begging you to open your eyes, but you ignored them as if playing a nasty prank.

Vash held both of your hands in his. There was no touch. All he felt was an empty coldness. The silence grew even louder, consuming him like a pitch-black shadow. Biting his lip, he tasted a faint metallic taste on his tongue. The desperation in his expression, the grief carved into his features, the way he looked at you as if he were about to pass the gates of hell and utter his last farewell.

Suddenly, he wanted to laugh one of those strange, high-pitched, delusional laughs that marked the end of sanity. Because this world, he thought, had a terrible sense of humor. It always seemed to mock him, making his life more miserable and ruining his dreams by destroying everything he ever loved.

You were dead. This pain was truly real.

Vash broke apart. Sobs cracked open his chest and cried until the pain spiraled and peaked; he bawled until his head throbbed and his eyes swelled. His fingers dug into your back as he called, desperate for a sign of hope. Your hollow body was clutched to his heart, and he felt the injustice roared through him. The feeling fractured him apart. His forehead pressed against your cheek, and his mouth trembled as he whispered, "C-Come ba-ck." The words fell apart. He could only mumble stuttering sounds.

He kissed your knuckles briefly. Would you have blushed if you were still breathing, whining about how cheesy he was being? He could only imagine your reactions now.

Hot tears streamed down his face, and he squeezed his eyelids shut in an effort to make them stop. He sat there unmoving for quite some time with choppy breathing and watery eyes.

09:00 pm - July 21st

Things were in a state of disarray in his vision. People were coming in with dropped shoulders and muffled weeps in the air. Someone approached and touched his shoulder for comfort, and a fierce unknown rage emerged in him. He could kill the man there but would have to let go of you, and he couldn't.

Vash turned his face back and held you so tightly like you would be able to feel the faint beat of his heart. He wept, cradling you, and he wouldn't move nor speak a word other than your name. It was like seeing the sun through the water. His tears fell, but you wouldn't be able to kiss them away this time.

"How dare you mourn her!" Someone bent over him. "You killed her!" Weak fists landed on his back but hurt him more than torture and shots. "She died because of you! You bring misfortune and destruction everywhere you go!" yelled Rosalina with a devastated voice.

Words, he thought, were such unpredictable creatures. No gun, knife, army, or enemy could ever be more powerful than a sentence. Blades may cut and kill, but words would stab and stay, burying into the future, digging and failing to rip his skeletons from his flesh. These weren't nice things to say. Not now. Not after what he was going through. Not when his white shirt was covered in your blood, and his hands burned with the bit of warmth left in your body.

Vash continued to hold you, silent and steady, even as the tears receded, even when he began to tremble. He had you tight as his body shook, held you close when the tears started anew, held you in his arms, and stroked your hair, whispering, "Forgive me. Forgive me. Forgive me." His voice was a terrible thing, cracked and broken.

He felt guilty. Anyone who got close to him was doomed to die. He thought his actions and inactions always took away his loved ones. Oh, stubborn, stubborn Vash! Of course, he would blame himself for something that had nothing to do with him.

The once happy eyes of Rosalina spilled hot tears on his shirt. "For two years, you lived among us, looked into our eyes every day, and lied about who you are, Vash the Stampede!"

Several gasps were heard from the crowd, followed by whispers filling the air.

Vash the stampede was here.

Chaos.

Questions flew, and weeps were muffled. Everyone was shocked, horrified, freaking out. You had long been forgotten, he thought.

"Is he the most wanted Vash the Stampede?"

"Were there raids in the saloon because of him?"

"The bounty hunters were after the money on his head?"

"They shot us and ran away because of this man?"

"This guy really had us fooled!"

"Is this true?"

Vash's reality was too broken, too distracted to process these kinds of talks. This horrible instant was one mess of insanity in his mind. He couldn't make any sense of it. He didn't answer a word to anyone and just stroked your cold cheek with as much gentleness as he could.

Someone shouted, "What's the hell's the matter with you? Say something. At least make some excuse!"

"Shame on you for bringing danger to our town!"

"We've heard enough of your crying!"

"At least have the decency and go die like a man!"

"No normal human being could cause all these horrible things! He had to be a monster! Who else could have been responsible?"

"Did you feel some of the pain of people who died because of your reckless behaviors?"

He was dying, he thought. He must be. He thought he knew what death was like, but he must have been wrong because this was a whole different kind of dying—a whole different kind of pain.

"That girl died protecting this demon?"

"She knew about the humanoid typhoon all this time." The man gulped and pointed at your dead body. "Our loved ones are dead and hurt because of her stupid devotion to this walking disaster!"

The scene was quite unbelievable, horrifying. His mind reeled, incapable of comprehending or processing what he was hearing. Everything in him came to a halt while his thoughts caught up. It was for him that you died. The shock brought a quietness, a moment to gird his soul for what would come. Truth poured gasoline on the spark of denial in his belly, burning him alive. It fashioned itself into a knife and stabbed him in the eye. And the funny thing was, he didn't want to do anything to stop it. Anguish was all that remained of you; he embraced it with all he was. He deserved it. So he bled with a smile on his face, wishing the pain to end him this time.

"If that self-righteous whore had revealed his whereabouts, not only would she be alive now, but the others wouldn't be dead either!"

Blackness seemed to press against his eyes, ears, and throat. He couldn't breathe, hear, or see clearly, and the suffocation of the moment was so terrifying that he was almost sure he had lost his mind.

How many insults can one person take before throwing in the fucking towel? For him, that number was infinite, but for you, he wouldn't allow even one.

He stood up and grabbed a fistful of the man's shirt. He pointed a gun at the infamous criminal, but Vash ripped the gun out of his hand. "What did you say about her?" he asked with a voice like a rusty saw that wanted to cut the bone. His jaw was clenched, and his eyes were burning in absolute rage. Nobody had seen him like this. Not once. People were so used to his calm and kind demeanor that this side of him scared them. If they wanted a typhoon, they'd get one. He was fortified with a new kind of anger, a desperate, animal intensity that overpowered him and forced him to stand still.

The man was trembling in his grip. "N-nothing," he finally said. Vash's pulse was racing, breathing heavily, almost like he would burst. The muscles in his hand tensed, causing him to crack his knuckles. Almost like a blazing inferno, his blood boiled in his veins, burning him from the inside out. He was mainly angry with himself, but that wouldn't stop his urge to hunt each and every single one of those bounty hunters, just to make sure they suffered and felt a lot of pain, just like he felt. No longer did he want to show sympathy to anyone. Maybe he was really a monster, wasn't he?

"If they learn your name and start haunting you, we'll run away! We'll run, run, run, and keep running as far as we have to! And when things calm down, we'll settle by their side again. You won't kill. You'll never kill anyone again, and one day, people will begin seeing you as I do."

Recalling your words, his eyes widened, and his fist loosened. The man's face was devoid of color. Vash tried to read his eyes for something but saw nothing but terror in the end. He was afraid.

No.

Your race was merciless. How could they say such a thing about one of their own? This man probably deserved the worst, but you didn't want Vash to be cruel, only to be kind. And he couldn't do this to you. Because if he did and an afterlife existed, you'd probably be the only sad person in heaven right now.

Dropping the man on the floor, Vash crushed his gun in his hand and tossed it away. The stranger was groaning and hunching over when he returned to you.

It was the first time Rosalina had seen him like this, her brain unable to digest or process this information. Unlike the man she knew, this one had cold, sharp eyes only focused on you. The look on his face was different. Scary, even. Somehow that worried her even more. She might be sad for you, even hate her people for having talked disparagingly about you; maybe she would give them a piece of her mind and grieve your loss. Maybe. Right now, though, her child's safety was her top priority, and this blood-stained man didn't look very stable.

"Listen, we don't want to die! Leave here and never come back!"

Vash sat by your side, helpless, as if something had broken inside him and all his emotions had poured out. When you left him alone, did you take some part of him with you?

"Get her out of this town. This disaster would've never happened if you hadn't stumbled into this town. She'd still be alive," Rosalina said firmly, staring at your peaceful face like you were in a deep sleep.

Vash didn't answer or even glance at the woman who wanted to help you celebrate his birthday. Like an orphan, he pulled you impossibly close, your bodies soldering together. He pondered Rosalina's words and the night he saw you and wondered whether your life would have been different if he hadn't met you. Who was even capable of answering this? As he whispered your name and begged you for forgiveness, his tears washed the blood from your cheeks, and Rosalina felt something inside her die. As she watched him willingly take all blame upon himself alone, as if he was already familiar with this feeling, she felt something break apart inside her.

Vash resembled his wanted posters now. A tall man with blond hair covered in red, but this time, it was your blood instead of his famous coat. His hands were trembling so hard he couldn't even recognize them anymore. Even so, he picked you up, cuddling you in his arms, only to notice the hickey on your neck from hours ago. Pain cramped his joints, breaking away every single bone in his body. He wanted to shriek through the sky; he wanted to fall to his knees again and sob into the ground. He didn't know why the agony wasn't finding an escape through his tears.

"Think way back. Remember that story I told you? About the man that found a blank ticket that could take him anywhere he wanted? That man is all of us. Where you go is yours to choose. You'll always have that ticket in your pocket, no matter what darkness life throws at you. When you're ready, write down the destination. I promise you. You'll be alright."

He wished Rem was right, but there was no such concept as happiness in this world. There was only endless strife, destruction, and death. There was only loneliness, pain, and regret. Whatever he did, no matter how much he pleaded, no matter how much he wished with all his heart to make things right, life always had a way of taking everything from him.

It seemed like Vash the Stampede's life had peaked, and nothing that came after you would ever matter to him. Because for him, there was before you, and there was during you, but he didn't want any after you. You were the light he never knew he needed. He was lost in the darkness, wandering life without direction. Then he found you, and you brought him warmth and light. You were the one who saved him. Twice and he couldn't do the same.

As he walked forward, he pleaded with his bones to remain steady, to carry him through the rest of the day and into the rest of his meaningless life. He passed through the crowd as if he had never been a part of them. The sand dragged under his feet, his knees weak, but he held you tight and walked away. His footprints grew smaller and smaller until there was only the empty silence of a long, lonely night.

Let's let him be for now. Everyone deserves to be left alone for a moment or two, right? Be that as it may, he always lost his most precious ones on his birthdays. Maybe it would have been better if he had never been born so that he would not have to endure so much grief alone. Or perhaps it was the way it was so we could be part of his life.

Author note: My real world had grown so dark that I didn't want to live in it. That's why I escaped and spent the day in a world darker than mine. Please accept my sincere apologies for dragging you down here with me ^_^

If you have anything to say, don't be shy to use ASK and the comment sections.

Disclaimers: This fan-written story contains quotes from "The Song of Achilles", "King Killer Chronicles", "Shatter Me" series and "Reminders of him" books, "Hamlet" play, and "I am unafraid with him" poem by pencap on Tumblr.

The arts are from "Trigun Stampede" anime.

[olderthannetfic]

What's the current consensus (among you and your blog followers that is) on the good ole discourse topic of "fixed top-bottom roles dominate in fandom because straight women are imposing a heteronormative binary on slash and femlash"? Because that popped up recently in the fanfiction subreddit, and the replies (mostly blaming straight women and stereotypes, with the occasional smattering of "examine yourself") have been giving me a rage-induced headache.

--

LOL.

There is nothing new in this argument or my reactions to it.

Strict roles often come from men and from offline queer culture, not just from women and BL/slash.

The women (and "women") who like strict roles are often not straight, and the people whining about The Straights have no basis for telling who's who, which makes them inherently transphobic, biphobic, homophobic pieces of shit.

Role-based relationship dynamics are not necessarily heteronormative.

What this shit is, fundamentally, is reheated queer community wank from like the 80s about how butch/femme is insufficiently progressive and your sex life is political, wah wah wah.

People who fall for it in fandom now are some combination of radfem poisoned and those defensive idiots who think the cis gay men will validate them more than the BL fan sitting next to them.

They might be a trans man asserting that he's more male than you and thus more valid while ignoring that he isn't hanging out in other dude spaces because they disrespect his gender and/or laugh at his delusions about horny content. They might be a nonbinary person asserting their not-femaleness by asserting that everyone else is the most stereotypical cishet woman ever. They might be a woman pulling that "my gay best friend" shit.

Regardless, they're all the same morons we saw in the 90s, futilely hoping that some man will validate them.

No one is going to validate them.

If they could write for beans, they'd be a famous BL author themselves, making everyone like whatever dynamic they prefer. Instead, their only skill is crying about how the talented and productive people waste time on The Wrong Art.

Laugh in their faces. It's what they deserve.

[deekaye]

You know what the best part of marrying your best friend is?

Well, it's the unconditional love and acceptance. Even when he knows you snore like a freight train, or remembers those awkward teenage days when you looked like a potato, or how you cried over a simple injection for an entire week. He embraces all of you - quirks, flaws, and all.

I roll my eyes at my best friend slash husband, Seungkwan. He's at it again, playfully teasing me while I'm trying to cook breakfast. Despite his occasional antics, I've grown accustomed to them.

But what truly makes it special is how he loves my family as his own.

"Hey, mother. Did you know when I first saw you, I really thought you and my wife were sisters?" Seungkwan's voice drifted from the kitchen, mingling with the aroma of breakfast cooking on the stove. I smiled at the playful exchange between him and my mom.

Her laughter echoed through the room as she lightly swatted his shoulder. "You moron,how can you remember when you were just 3 years old when your family met us."

"Well, mother, ever since then… you haven't changed even a bit," Seungkwan teased, their shared laughter filling the air.

As I observed their easy rapport, a sense of warmth washed over me. They had effortlessly become family to each other, blending seamlessly into the fabric of our lives.

"Hey, my favorite father!" my husband exclaimed, offering a high five that my dad eagerly reciprocated. Their camaraderie was palpable, a testament to the bond they shared.

"My favorite son!" my dad retorted, a grin playing at the corners of his lips.

Seungkwan chuckled, his expression turning nostalgic. "I'm always glad you became my father! I always envied that woman in the back—" he nodded in my direction "—that she had you as a father. Now, I still can't believe I became your son!"

"Of course, you will always be my son, even if you didn't marry that monkey over there," they laughed together, oblivious to my presence. "Now, hold this flashlight. Let's fix your car. I can't believe you're already grown but can't fix this."

My dad's laughter mingled with Seungkwan's, their banter a familiar melody that filled our home with joy. In that moment, I realized how lucky I was to be surrounded by such love and laughter.

"I've been looking for you everywhere, yet you were just there beside me," The memory of our wedding vows flooded back as I gazed at him, reminding me of the journey that led us to this moment.

Back in college, when we were both grappling with heartbreak and disillusionment, I uttered those words almost as a whimsical notion. "If we can't find someone who will love us forever, let's just marry each other instead." And in that moment of vulnerability and uncertainty, he didn't hesitate to agree.

Now, as I reflect on our journey together, I realize that marrying him was the best decision I ever made. Despite all the missteps and regrets of the past, he has been my constant source of love, support, and happiness.

With Seungkwan by my side, my life has changed in ways I never imagined. In moments of doubt or despair, he's always been there to lift me up. It's almost as if he was the answer to my prayers all along, and I was just too blind to see it.

In him, I found not just a partner, but my soulmate, my confidante, my rock. And as we stand here, enveloped in each other's arms, I know with unwavering certainty that our love will continue to light the path ahead, guiding us through whatever challenges may come our way.

[arlecchno]

everything has changed (alhaitham x gn!reader)

ONE. i just wanna know you better

masterlist next

SUMMARY - alhaitham was positive that he was not worthy of anyone's love, nor was anyone worthy of his. but after bumping into you on a random wednesday morning, he was ought to be wrong in many ways. also; in which you attempt on asking alhaitham out a grand total of three times; three different ways, three different places, and three different situations, in hopes of him reciprocating your so called love— people do say that third time's the charm, right?

A/N - i have delayed this for far too long. i have maybe slept while editing this draft for around 4 times. i was supposed to post this last week. forgive me pls

“three times.”

“pardon?”

you smiled at the gray-haired man at his desk, holding up three fingers as you repeated yourself once more. “i'll only ask you out three times, and if you decline all three of them, i won't ever bother you again. you can trust me on that.”

if there's one thing about you that alhaitham could describe, it's that you are… maybe a tad bit weird.

no, scratch that, you're insanely weird.

it's silly, he thinks. you're a well-known and respected scholar slash biologist from the amurta darshan. there's no one in the akademiya who doesn't know you, not when you're widely known for your eccentric researches and experiments. no, alhaitham definitely did not look into your work profile after that little incident. and even if he did, it was purely for work purposes, he was mainly doing his duty to report about it to the higher ups, lest he craves punishment or a lecture from grand sage azar.

anyway, frankly speaking, you should be professional, at the very least. hell, you have a doctorate. the title itself should be written all over you.

so why are you speaking to him like… well, he doesn't know. like you're a fool? a desperate moron in love? whatever it is, it's anything but professional to him.

see, this all started due to that sudden incident from a few weeks ago.

nothing ever beats the rush hour in the akademiya on a wonderful wednesday morning, it seems.

as a full time worker at the prestigious institute, it was just another day for you and your overworked colleagues. however, getting errands done during this time around would be a death wish, everyone within the akademiya walls knew of that, and of course, you do too.

yet it seemed like you had just dug your own grave.

honestly— who wouldn't? you needed to head over to your lab immediately, the specimens in the crate you were currently carrying needed to be experimented on within the fifteen minute timeline you had mentally set up in your head, so it was obvious that you had no time to lose.

and to speak; the crowds in the house of daena honestly weren't that bad— maybe a little less spacious than usual, but still merely nothing for an experienced scholar like you. see, that's what you had initially thought before getting back to your private lab.

you just need to head on over to the biology section of the house of daena to retrieve a book titled ‘fungi and its extraordinary lives’, and you'll be set to continue conducting your ongoing research project. look— you did think of snatching the book way earlier before you even set out on an adventure of getting your crate of supplies, but it would've been too much work for you to go back and forth from your lab, as it was already close to the house of daena.

you figured it was best to do it on your way back instead, which, in full honesty— was not even a bad idea. it was just that things just had to escalate a whole lot differently than you had intended to.

see— your first mistake was keeping your eyes busy on your task instead of what's in front of you. which, in another sense, is what any other normal person would do. well, you know your way around the akademiya like the back of your hand. the shortcuts to aisle number thirty-six in the house of daena, the bathroom to the end of the hall on floor two, the shortest route to the archive room of the akademiya, you name it. so you thought you could just waltz your way through the library easily. again, your first mistake.

your second mistake was that you were clearly doing anything but walking, understandably so. you're well aware of the akademiya rules: no running in the institution, no careless mistakes, no idle chit chat and gossip— among many others. right, the handbooks weren't a stranger to you. there was even a point in your life where you were forced to memorise it from a to z by one of your professors because you were unfortunate enough to have unintentionally broken one of the many minuscule rules that one time, which in your opinion was quite the torture for a mere student like you back then. you may or may not still hold a grudge against the said professor.

as you were double checking your to-do list with a pencil and piece of paper on your beloved crate, you hadn't realized that you were walking towards someone. okay, maybe the correct word for your actions right now would be sprinting, but you'd hate to admit that you were in the wrong.

now, this is your last mistake. the person that is about to bump into you is not a mere scholar, whom you can't just apologize to once or a few more times and move on with your day.

next thing you knew, you collided into the person's chest that was so hard it felt you just crashed into a wall, and much to your dismay, caused you to harshly fall on the pristine floors from the impact, along with your precious, precious crate, which is now most likely a lost cause as your specimens and other important stuff you had worked so hard to look for earlier were all over you and the extravagant floors of the house of daena. disgusting, you know, but that was the least of your worries right now.

as if that wasn't already downright embarrassing enough, you're now covered in gooey fungi, you have totally made a fool out of yourself, and all eyes are currently on you, scholars and students alike whispering amongst themselves at the scene they were witnessing. a monstrosity, truly.

you were sure that you'd be the main topic of gossip for at least a week. maybe two weeks at best.

the house of daena was silent, with only the chit and chatter amongst the scholars as an exception. at first sight, you wondered why everyone would pay so much attention to you instead of continuing on with what they were doing just a fleeting second ago. surely this happens in the akademiya at least once, no?

you've made two revelations to this; one, you were so ungodly hideous that everyone just had to stare. or two, you had probably just bumped into some hot-shot akademiyan.

of course, the first thing any sane person would do is look up to the perpetrator who had cause you this much damage. (it was your fault to begin with.)

so you did.

and of course any normal person who had just been bumped into would have thought of the same thing: have every reason to be angry at the person who bumped into you, whether they were in the wrong or not.

so it was only natural that you too, had the same thought in mind.

but the second you laid your eyes on him, it's as if the whole world stopped, and you finally understand why everyone was so adamant on just standing there and whispering about your little incident instead of helping you out like any decent human being would. and the latter of your revelation was definitely on spot. you would've done a victory dance if you were in any other situation except this.

because the person you had just bump into is none other than the scribe of the akademiya, the one and only, alhaitham.

you've heard of him a few times— apparently he's quite the reserved man, yet would not hesitate to call you out on your wrongdoings or foolish mistakes. well, that's what you heard anyway; as a mere worker who is trying to make ends meet, you are in no position to judge people based on what your fellow juniors run their mouths about these days.

for as long as you've been both an alum and full-time employee at the akademiya, it's truly a wonder that you've never actually seen the scribe in person. right, that's also what you've heard people say— that the scribe can hardly be spotted, nor can he be found easily to begin with. he's never in his office, and it's not often that you'd find him within the akademiya walls; the man is anywhere but at his working place, and somehow gets away with it because he's the scribe, whose presence is not of importance unless he deems so.

and if you are granted the position to say this; it is mainly because the higher ups of the akademiya takes great pride in their respected positions, so it is not a shocker that someone with an official title like grand scribe can frequently get away with such things.

egocentric, blunt, unambitious and many more— those are the few descriptions you've heard over the past few years from scholars about the scribe.

but out of all of the mysterious things you've miraculously heard about the man, you've never seen or heard people point out how attractive he is.

how could they not? he’s got a broad frame that could actually knock the breath out of you (which in this case, quite literally did knock you down), a set of clothes that somehow just screams him, despite the fact that you know next to nothing about the guy, tuft of gray hair that bounces graciously and looks luscious enough it makes you envious how he even manages to take such great care of it, and lastly, a pair of turquoise eyes that looked like an oasis from the sumeru desert, one you could just stare into forever, ever and ever.

this man is a whole package.

it was like the gods had granted you the perfect opportunity to present yourself in front of an attractive man, like the gods have finally decided to fill a bit of colour into your hopeless romantic and workaholic life, and gave you this blessing— except for the fact that this, this might be the most embarrassing way possible in doing so.

oh how you want the ground to swallow you up right now.

after what seemed like forever (it was less than thirty seconds), the man of the hour finally speaks, startling you with his voice. “would you rather sit down there like a fool or will you stand up?” ouch. maybe it's safe to say that at least one of the things people say about him are, in fact, true.

you blinked, once, twice, before you could pick up on what what he said and hurriedly stand up, glass jars of your specimens that were previously all over you clinking to the floor a little too loud, some already having been broken and shattered, but you could care less when the man in front of you was currently glaring at you like you have committed one of the six cardinal sins.

before he could even jab you more with his next few blunt words, you decided to bow down to a complete ninety-degree and started profusely apologizing, all previous thoughts of wanting to blame everything on him for ruining your prolonged experiment were thrown out the window (again, it is your fault in the first place.)

sure, this might hurt your pride and ego, but you'd rather do this than having the possibility of listening to the scribe giving you a lifelong lecture on the basic rules of the akademiya, or yet even worse, you get sent to the grand sage and have your doctorate and title revoked for being unprofessional, unethical, or whatever nonsense grand sage azar would demote you for. call yourself dramatic and insane, but you'd rather not inflict any chances of ending up humiliated or jobless. or both.

a beat passes, and you're still mumbling out apologies, causing alhaitham to clear his throat in order to cut you off.

“you… you can stand upright now,” he said, and it takes you another few seconds before you reluctantly do as he says, and the first thing you see is him looking at you with a puzzled expression plastered on his face.

“i apologize once again, scribe. it was my fault, i wasn't looking,” you looked down as you spoke, staring at your ruined materials on the white tiles.

alhaitham all but sighs, and tells you to look where you're going next time. you couldn't help but only nod, not even glancing at him once out of embarrassment. “you are fully aware of the akademiya rules, are you not? act one-o-three; no running in the institution unless–”

“–an emergency occurs, or and if ordered to by either of the six sages, grand sage included,” you finished his sentence with the slight of an eye roll, before remembering that this was the scribe, not your annoying biology professor who countlessly had you memorise the five-hundred-page worth of akademiya rules. truthfully, there was no need for a teaching institution to have that many rules.

then, he prompts another question: “do you perhaps need any help…” he seemed to have trailed off, and you flickered your eyes to him just for a fleeting second to see what he was doing. “amurta scholar?” he finished his question as he stared at your lab coat, a small badge to your left with the amurta logo pinned on it, indicating which darshan you are from.

“uh… no– it's alright,” you say sheepishly as you quickly crouched down, already starting to pick up your glass jars and whatnot. “you should get going, scribe. you must have a lot of work to do here in the akademiya.”

alhaitham could only nod as you tell him that, not even minding the fact that you were not able to see him as of the moment. he merely tells you to watch where you're going next time and starts to walk away; which in your opinion was maybe just a tad bit rude— the least he could do was help you out. but knowing him, as per what people talk about, that'd be nigh impossible. also, you did say that you didn't need any help, so you couldn't blame him per se. honestly, if you were in his shoes you'd probably have done the same.

so you hurriedly finished cleaning up your mess and ran to your lab, all in your splattered–with–gooey–fungi glory. as you sighed behind closed doors, you prayed to the gods above that your project would go smoothly and peacefully. fingers crossed.

well, maybe after yet another exhausting trip to the avidya forest for another set of fungi, that is.

but of course, it was only wishful thinking, there's not a lot to hope for when alhaitham pretty much occupied your mind the whole day. it has even gotten to the point where your fellow juniors had to snap you out of your daydream so that you could actually focus on your research.

sure, call yourself a hopeless romantic (maybe a crazy lunatic in this case), but who wouldn't fall for him at first sight? and who the hell cares about the things scholars gossip about him? a man with that sort of pretty privilege could run over your toe and you would gracefully thank him for it.

and, point in case— alhaitham isn't that bad. okay, sure, maybe a little too blunt and too uncaring for his own good, but he is not as bad as people make him seem.

maybe you should get to know alhaitham more, right? not because you're interested in him (you are, but that could be pushed aside for now), you merely want to debunk the bad rumors about him going around (they aren't even half as bad, just highly exaggerated and overall childish) and make sure that everyone knows that alhaitham is not just the egocentric and arrogant guy people always see (he probably is just exactly that, but it's worth the try).

you firmly believe there's more to the scribe than what meets the eye.

so, you make it your mission and goal to get to know alhaitham better, even if it may be the worst idea possible.

spoilers: it absolutely is the worst idea possible.

after the minor incident you had, you tried your very best to encounter him during work hours, which honestly wasn't as challenging as you thought it was. sure, he's not around much, but after maybe a week or so of hanging around the house of daena (stalking would be the ideal word you're looking for), you finally got to know his routine— well, only for when he's around the humongous library, but that will suffice for now.

evidently, alhaitham would only visit the house of daena on wednesdays, and weirdly on saturdays, at ten in the morning sharp. for what reason you quite have no clue, but he's frequently around the linguistics section, reading a book or two about ancient runes and that sort of stuff, sometimes even seen squabbling with a certain architect from the kshahrewar darshan too. you don't know kaveh much— but apparently he's acquainted with alhaitham, of all people.

but now that you know a part of his routine, you can probably catch the opportunity to get to know him. so ever since then, you have been, quote unquote, “bumping„ into him nonstop.

the first few times you bumped into him, you had greeted him a couple of times, and after a bit of coaxing, you somehow managed to drag him into small talk. you've even gotten to the point where you're asking him when he's free— reason why? of course, you just want to take him out for a bit during lunch break to make up for the incident you two had just a few weeks ago, definitely no ulterior motives whatsoever; which unfortunately, alhaitham kept declining because he quotes that “it would be a waste of time,” and that “things should just be left in the past.”

but that clearly didn’t stop you from trying, again and again. your guardians clearly didn't raise a quitter.

one thing you did find out about alhaitham after a few conversations with him is that the man is anything but fond of small talk, which was expected. and after countless attempts on trying to get him into one, you eventually had to go on a different route to get his attention.

so, here you are now, somehow having managed to reach your way to his office— and miraculously enough, alhaitham just so happens to also be present at the time, which gives you the perfect opportunity to raise the deal that has been dying to escape from your throat.

look— there's no denying that you are here for work purposes; you were requesting for one of your documentations to be cited and reviewed, and although alhaitham is mainly responsible for documenting data regarding the akademiya and the six darshans, he offered a helping hand during one of your small talks you had successfully managed to coax out of him.

and you did come here for that, but you just couldn't help but blurt everything out.

and it doesn't really help that alhaitham is looking at you like you've submitted the worst thesis possible. you haven't even handed it to him yet.

alhaitham continues to frown. “would it not be a hassle to be asking me out that much? why would you even be interested in me?” he had asked, and he didn't bother waiting for your reply as he continued speaking. “you could use those three times right now and i'll decline all of them instantly. that way, you won't have to bother me again.”

“well aren't you quite rude, scribe,” you huffed, retracting your hand back to your side. talk about rude; you're here for the sole purpose of asking him out. “give me a chance, would you? i'm confident that you'd have changed your mind by the time i'm on my last chance,” you grinned as you quirked your eyebrows up and down, and alhaitham almost rolled his eyes as he folded his arms over his chest and leans back on his chair. almost.

“i highly doubt it,” he says.

you tucked your files closer to your chest. “have you ever heard of the saying ‘third time's the charm’, scribe?”

“i believe so, yes,” he nods, then adds: “you'll only ever hear obsessive gamblers say that sort of nonsense when they've lost their current gamble, in hopes of winning the next round.”

in an instant, your jaw drops. “are you implying that i am gambling my love life?” see, if you look closely— alhaitham was this close to smiling.

“i am just saying that there is no point in pursuing something, or someone, in this case, when you've already failed the first time, biologist,” well, now you understand why scholars say he is unambitious. “it would be a waste of time to be around me, or be with me, for that matter. i doubt that i could ever reciprocate your feelings.”

ouch. you'll probably have to double check your list of alhaitham's personality chart again.

“please?” you plead, and alhaitham stares at you for a little too long that you eventually had to break eye contact to avoid his intense gaze. “i promise you that i will never bother you again, you can trust me on that. you won't even see my face on the grounds of the akademiya.”

he looks at you confusedly. “are you not the famous biologist with fifteen awards on their name? i am bound to bump into you in the near future, in one way or another.” he says, tapping his finger on his forearm.

huh, how did he know that you have won fifteen akademiyan awards? as far as you know, this guy knows nothing about you, the fact that he had to check which darshan you are from during your incident was enough proof.

maybe you're not the only one who is interested in the other.

“that's not the point!” you groaned, rubbing your temple with your free hand. this may or may not be directed to both your thoughts and him.

okay, maybe this was a bad idea after all— alhaitham is an impossible man. you'd think that you were capable enough to break his façade, to see the true him after a bit of pestering, but nooo, you're pretty damn sure this is him. there's no such thing as a façade. he's just… alhaitham. which could either be a blessing or a curse, if you ever manage to steal his heart. that, or maybe both. but then again, it still doesn't change the fact that he is one tough nut to crack.

alhaitham sighs. “will you really leave me alone?”

“huh?”

“will you really stop bothering me once you're over with your… shenanigans?”

you blinked. then, you widen your eyes, nodding. “of course. i won't pursue you again, scribe. all i am asking is for you to lend me your time for the duration of— uh, actually, i'm not sure what i am supposed to call this,” you mumble the last few words, but still audible enough for the gray-haired man to hear.

“say, hypothetically, what would you do if i were to agree to one of your three chances of asking me out? what will you do then?”

“oh,” you shift from one foot to another, awkwardness coursing through your veins at the lack of answer you could think of at the top of your head. “i… i am not quite sure. that's for future me to worry about, i guess?”

alhaitham raises a brow, but doesn't question your uncertainty. instead, he says something else in return: “alright, then. i will indulge in your antics for as long as you'd have me as your… social experiment.”

social experiment is just an over exaggeration, right? it has to be. no rational person says it like that.

“what?”

“i'm saying that i will agree to the terms you have given me, but you will stop bothering once your chances are up. do you understand?” he enunciates his words carefully, and you almost dropped your files, right then and there.

gulping, you nod, a small grin tugging at your lips, and alhaitham already regrets his words when you say: “of course.”

well, be prepared for a rollercoaster ride.

extra note - ok guys please keep me in your thoughts and prayers 🙏 writing slump is crazy this is the first work i’ve posted in over 2 months. that is ridonkulous. hope i don’t disappear again

taglist; @isotofl @dancinghillary @heartswonder

taglist is still open!! :D

[raineandsky]

Ur writing is soooo delicious 🤌 love it

Could u write a story about hero who is villain’s older brother and who is desperately trying to protect his little bro despite their completely different life attitudes . So villain is getting hurt and of course his older brother comes to his aid

Bonus points if there also is sidekick who doesn’t like villain but is still helping, cause he literally admires hero

I’d be really happy to read such story🩷

oooooh i loved this!! cant go wrong with some messed up family dynamics - thank you, hope you enjoy :)

(part 1) (part 2)

No one wants to see their brother hurt. Not even the hero, not even when his brother has so clearly already chosen his side.

It had happened so fast. The villain was facing off with someone. Another hero, at the distracted villain’s back. A kick, the slash of a blade. The two heroes had laughed and shared a friendly high-five when the villain had gone down.

Heroism hasn’t been what the hero had expected—it seems the hero is one of the only ones that doesn’t hunt villains down in the name of fun.

Waiting for the other heroes to leave had felt like an eternity. The villain—his brother—left suffering on the pavement whilst the pair look for food places on their phones. Eventually, though, finally, they make a decision and casually make their way to the end of the block.

The hero can’t leap up fast enough. His sidekick lags slightly behind, glancing nervously at the road around like it might eat him.

The hero sinks to his knees in front of the villain, earning half a second of attention before the villain scoffs irritably. “Oh my god,” he says flatly. “Go away.”

The hero fights a roll of bandages out of his bag. “I’m helping, you moron.”

“I don’t want you to.”

“Well I want to.”

Despite the attitude, the villain’s breathing is laboured, his face scrunched up slightly in pain. Blood is smeared on his clothes like the world’s ugliest, most heart wrenching painting.

“Ugh,” the villain says faintly. “You always had a thing for showing me up, didn’t you?”

“Saving your life isn’t me showing you up. I’m saving your goddamn life.”

“Don’t give yourself so much credit.”

The hero laughs, and the villain manages a a weak smile. The sidekick lingers awkwardly behind the hero, watching with wide eyes when the hero beckons him onto the ground next to him. “Hold that,” the hero says, holding the bundle of bandages to the sidekick, and he takes it without question so the hero can sever a strip from the roll.

The villain’s gaze flits up to him momentarily, like he’s just realising the sidekick’s there. He probably is, given the state he’s in. “Wow,” he says in the tones of brash sarcasm. “You brought your agency-sanctioned child with you and all.”

“I’m not a child!” the sidekick snaps, even though his voice has that traitorous childish squeak to it. “I’m a hero in training.”

“You go ahead and believe that, kid,” the villain says with a laugh that seems to pain him the moment it comes out.

The hero lays the bandage to the villain’s side, trying to ignore the way he winces at the contact. “Where’s your base?” the hero cuts in. If he didn’t, his brother would start an argument and then he’d never get a word in edgeways.

The villain rolls his eyes. “I don’t like you enough to tell you.”

“I’m trying to get you home, [Villain], I swear to god—”

“Give me one good reason to tell you.”

The hero thinks for a moment as he pulls the villain’s shirt back down and takes the roll back from the sidekick. “I’ll tell dad you ate his last cinnamon bun last year.”

The villain doesn’t look any less like shit, but he suddenly looks a little more alive. “You wouldn’t.”

“Where’s your base?”

“[Hero], that wasn’t me, I didn’t—”

“I saw you come in through the window and take it off the kitchen counter. Where is it?”

“You saw that?”

“[Villain].”

The villain groans in defeat. “You suck. It’s in that abandoned library at the other end of town.”

“Thank you. Right, [Sidekick], get his other side.”

The sidekick hesitates for a moment. “Is there a policy that we can drop villains off at home?”

“Of course not.” The hero fights off a slap as he helps the villain sit upright. “But if we don’t make sure people don’t die, who will?”

The ghost of a smile pulls at the sidekick’s lips. “That’s why I wanted to train with you. It’s just, I don’t know…”

He glances at the villain, who happily gives him a cold glare in return. “Only the best familial relations,” the villain says coolly.

“He’s my brother.” The hero ruffles the villain’s hair a little, earning a second, much harder slap. “We’re not on the same side, but at least he’s alive to be on the other side. I try to think of everyone we help as someone else’s brother.”

“I wish you were someone else’s brother,” the villain snaps, much to the hero’s amusement.

“Ah, that’s too bad for you then.” The hero gestures for the sidekick to take his spot, and together they heft the villain to his feet. “Because even when we’re on different sides of this war, you’re still my little brother.”

“Ew.” The villain makes an attempt to kick the hero and misses. “Don’t say that in front of your child.”

The hero laughs, and for a moment, it feels like they’re young again. Still at home. Still on the same side.

(next part)