#(please ignore the logistics of everyone’s whereabouts

[canyousevmyheavydirtysoul]

You’re My Bodyguard, Not My Owner. (Chapter 28) (Brendon Urie x Reader)

Twenty-two years earlier. (Y/L/N) family home, whereabouts unknown.

Your father carefully placed your delicate body back into your cradle, placing his index finger in your tiny open palm; your fingers instinctively wrapped around his bigger one and gripped it tight.

“Isn’t she a beauty?” he fussed, gazing adoringly at your sleeping frame.

“Very much so,” The Director concurred, stepping up to take a stand next to your father and clamp a hand on his shoulder. He knew precisely what was running through his friend’s mind, and he needed to reassure him. “You’re doing the right thing, Erik.”

“Am I?” your father wondered, frowning a bit as he took in your infant features and how peaceful and innocent you looked. “Because I’m starting to think that I’m about to make the biggest mistake of my life.”

“That can be argued.”

“She’s just a baby, Nick.”

The Director’s lips pursed slightly and his eyes narrowed infinitesimally as he looked at you. He understood where your father’s hesitation was coming from; if it were up to him, Fury would personally escort you and your parents to the most untraceable, safest corner of the Earth to ensure that nothing would ever happen to any of you. Sadly, that was not an option.

Both men were not at all pleased with the logistics of what was about to happen, but they both knew what the future held, and they recognized that this was perhaps the only way to guarantee that they would have at least some form of un upper hand.

“There’s no other way?” Fury spoke a moment later, voice uncharacteristically soft, “No other person?”

Your father gave a sad shake of his head as he sighed. “Not in this universe or the next,” he answered, “It’s her…”

“Destiny?”

“I was going to say ‘birthright’,” your father chuckled, looking to his friend before turning to you and gently touching your cheek, “but I suppose ‘destiny’ isn’t incorrect.”

Fury observed the act of unconditional love being exchanged before him, allowing it to run its course before he too leaned down to touch your face.

“Nothing bad will ever happen to her, Erik,” he said lowly, “I promise you that.”

“I don’t doubt that you will protect her when I’m unable to do so,” your father replied, a crease forming along his forehead, “but as much as I need you to protect her, I need you to guide her still more. Can you do that for me?”

“Hey, I’m no Norse god,” Fury scoffed before nodding, “but you can bet your ass that I’ll do the best that I can.”

“That’s all I ask of you,” your father whispered, giving The Director a tight-lipped smile before turning to face you.

“My beautiful snowflake,” he muttered. A sad smile graced his youthful features as he looked down at you – the epitome of innocence and ignorance – and his smile quickly turned into a frown as his thoughts drifted to what he was about to do.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered, kissing your head softly before straightening up, “this is never what I wanted for you.” He shook his head as he touched his right index and middle finger to his forehead, and then pressed it to yours. “But in time,” he closed his eyes and when he reopened them a moment later, they were a glowing-grey in colour, “I hope you will understand the reasoning behind my actions.”

With that, seemingly in a trance, he drew in a deep breath and as he exhaled – slowly and carefully – the grey gradually drained from his eyes. After the colour had completely diminished, your father broke out of his trance with a light shake of his head.

The Director, who had been looking on in silence the entire time, was the first to speak. “Is it done?” he questioned, forehead creasing as he took a cautious step forward, joining your father in looking down at you.

“Yes,” your father spoke quietly.

You looked up at your father and godfather with lips curved into a smile and eyes the colour of glowing-grey.

“It’s done.”

 Present day. A diner somewhere on the outskirts of North Carolina.

Roughly seven hours had passed since you fled from S.H.I.E.L.D HQ, and much to your amazement, there had been no pouty-lipped, emotionless bodyguards pursuing you in a car chase, or dropping out of a helicopter, or chasing you on foot the entire way like you expected there to be. Not a single one. It was a tad disappointing, to be honest.

Sweat looked good on Brendon.

You could envision your recapture right now; a bunch of agents busting through the door and rushing over to you, weapons drawn, faces creased with a bitter mixture of anger and irritation, beckoning for you to get up, saying how could you do something like this when you know the risks involved and that Fury was irate and that you better never try something like this ever again. Then comes the rough gripping of the arm, and the guiding towards whatever vehicle they chose to accompany them on this particular mission, then the opening of the door for you (as if you were royalty, a queen being tended to by her servants and not an escaped asset; but you knew better than to think of it as any more than a guileless gallantry) and after you climbed in, the door would shut again, and they would drive you back to where ‘you would be safest’.

Oh, and Brendon would be there, too. He’d be the one doing the arm gripping and tedious lecturing.

He would be – if they had shown up.

You were 99% sure that there would be no S.H.I.E.L.D agents finding you anytime soon – even your bodyguard. You had taken all the precautions necessary to ensure that you would be off S.H.I.E.L.D’s radar for a significant amount of time; about forty-five minutes away from HQ, you pulled over at a convenience store to stock up on supplies and to use the ATM to withdraw some cash from the credit card you had taken. You withdrew as much money as you could but made sure not to max it out and once you pocketed the cash, you bent the card in half and tossed it in a nearby trashcan before hurrying back to your vehicle and driving off; you took the back route out of state, opposite to the route you were originally driving on so as to throw S.H.I.E.L.D off.

The SUV wasn’t a problem, either; you had specifically targeted the only off-limits one – that was due in for a repair to its tracking system. It would suffice as a reliable form of transport until you could get to somewhere you could find something more practical – it wasn’t the most inconspicuous of vehicles, after all. So as far as practical things go, you had done everything to make sure that you were a ghost.

Yet, you still couldn’t shake the uncertainty of that 1%.

“Hey, pretty eyes,” the busboy’s voice broke you out of your trance, and you shook your head a little before turning to him with raised brows. He slung a tattered dishrag over his right shoulder and cocked his head up at you. “You alright?”

“Perfect. Why do you ask?”

He made little effort to hide his amusement when he replied, making vague hand gestures at the crockery on the table in front of you; the food on which lied entirely untouched.

“Rez brought your food over a solid fifteen minutes ago, and you haven’t taken a single bite. Haven’t even nicked a fry.”

Your gaze fell upon the burger and fries combo in front of you. The sight made you nauseous all of a sudden. The sun had only risen about an hour ago; you should’ve ordered something more breakfast-friendly instead.

“Oh. Yeah,” you mumbled, voice completely monotonous; you didn’t care to be wasting precious moments on useless talk with a busboy when your time could be better spent gazing out of the diner window and thinking about how much of a disaster your life is.

For goodness sake, busboy, let a girl be depressed in peace.

An uncomfortable quiet was what followed, as you took it upon yourself to study the top bun of your burger in detail while your newfound acquaintance rocked back and forth on his heels, occasionally letting out a low whistle. You counted eighteen sesame seeds before he broke the silence.

“So do you want me to heat it up for you or…?”

“Actually, if you don’t mind,” you lifted the plate from the table and handed it to him, “Make it a take-out, please.”

He thinned his lips and gave a two-fingered salute. “Sure thing.”

“And,” you stopped him before he could walk away, “could I pay in the meantime? I’m kinda on a… tight schedule.”

“Yeah, ‘course. You can come right up front; Bets will ring you up.”

“Thank you,” you gave him a small smile as you gathered your jacket and car keys and slid out of the booth.

Bets was a pudgy, ginger-haired woman, dressed in a classic diner uniform – white skirt draped with a splotched red-apron and a white shirt with her name embroidered across the breast pocket. She wore glasses that despite her efforts to keep them in place, kept sliding down the ridge of her nose; her eyelids were overly caked with blue eye shadow, and you could see the stains her red lipstick left on her teeth when she grinned at you as you approached the till.

“Cheeseburger and shake, righ’?”

You confirmed with a nod, only offering Bets a sliver of your attention, since most of it had now been drawn towards the TV bracketed to the wall on your right. The volume was turned down rather soft, so you couldn’t quite make out what was being said, but there was no mistaking the blue-eyed man whose picture took up the majority of the screen; the background was of some or other hotel or conference center – you weren’t too sure. Even through a picture being broadcasted on a TV screen, his allure radiated through, drawing you in instantly. It was ridiculous that someone had that kind of magnetism, but even in the way he was posed in the picture, eyes sparkling and a coy smirk on his lips, it was clear that he had the ability to charm everyone and everything he came across – even the lens of a camera.

“That’ll be $9.28, hun,” Bets spoke, and you fished through your pockets before pulling out a ten and a five and handing it over.

“Keep the change. And, uh, could you turn that up, please?” you waved a hand at the TV and Bets obliged, picking up the remote and turning the volume up.

“…Doctor Aaron Ross, world-renowned agnoiologist, physiologist and expert on Norse mythology, will be concluding his five-day seminar with an exclusive panel hosted at The Ritz hotel in Chicago, Illinois this evening. The event will begin at 6pm and…”

 “Chicago,” you muttered, catching the attention of the busboy, who’d just set your food down in front of you; he arched his brows as you turned to address him, “that’s a, what, ten hour drive from here?”

“Twelve, actually.”

“Twelve,” you repeated with a nod as you turned to look at the clock hanging on the wall above the exit.

7:30 am.

Extending your thanks to the diner employees, you grabbed your food and dashed for the SUV, starting up and heading for Chicago. If you kept up a steady pace, you’d arrive at around 8pm. And maybe, just maybe, you’d be able to score a dinner date with a certain acquaintance.

_______________________________

Thank you for reading x

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[webcricket]

Nudge Theory

Characters: CastielXReader, Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester

Word Count: 1465 (Act IV - Part I)

A/N: A five act mini-series. The reader and Castiel must work together to solve the curious case of the missing Winchesters. Fluff, smut, and a plot for kicks. Whatever happened to Sam and Dean Winchester anyway? Act IV is conveyed from the brothers’ perspective – their whereabouts and mischievous plotting revealed as the tables are unexpectedly turned. Action-packed fluff-filled conclusion coming your way next week!

Completed Series Masterlist:

webcricket.tumblr.com/post/162181272535/nudge-theory-masterlist

(X)

Nudge [verb] –

·       “Coax or gently encourage someone to do something.”

Act IV - Part I

“Y/N sounded pissed,” Dean snickered, tone not at all apologetic for the wild goose chase he and Sam sent you running on for the last couple of days. Driving up to the motel you and the angel were staying in, he set the Impala’s parking brake and smoothly released the clutch.

“Yeah, well Cas didn’t sound too pleased either,” Sam pointed out, groping blindly for his bag in the backseat, “you of all people know he hates being dicked around with. Well-meaning intentions aside, that’s exactly what happened here.”

“And there’s the real beauty of it Sammy,” Dean grasped his brother by the shoulder, “their shared anger will bring them even closer together. Real bonding material! Besides, how many times has Cas up and disappeared for days or weeks without so much as a word? No way in hell I’m feeling guilty about this one time, especially if it means he gets past this whole Debbie Downer shtick he’s been hung up on lately.”

“Right Dean. How totally selfless of you,” Sam smiled incredulously, shaking his head at his brother’s hair-brained scheming as he exited the car into the breezy night air. The metallic clatter of an ice bucket buffeted about the asphalt parking lot by the wind momentarily caught his attention. He dismissed it as a trivial detail.

Dean could barely contain the triumphant swagger threatening to burst forth from his person at any moment in the form of a victory dance, his green eyes flashing firework sparks in the pale artificial light as he hopped the small decorative fence in front of your motel door.

Setting you and Cas up to work a case together as a pre-text for meeting and falling hopelessly in love had been his idea. He’d known you for a good long while, appreciating your spunky but patient personality (spunky, but patient enough to endure his goofy shenanigans with a laugh and flat-out ignore any advances he made). He’d called you in on a few cases here and there over the years, keeping in touch with enough regularity to know you were still single and a little bit lonely as most hunters of your indomitable ilk tended to be. He also remembered your keen interest in hearing detailed accounts of his friend Cas, so much so you asked after the angel you’d never laid eyes upon every occasion you and Dean spoke, with Dean more than obliging in recounting (and frequently exaggerating) their unbelievable adventures – expounding Cas’ virtues like he was some fairy-tale prince for you to pine after. A supremely competent wingman, Dean laid the groundwork for your amorous inclinations toward the angel long before he knew what he was laying the groundwork for.

One caseless evening, teetering at the precipice of drunken insentience over a half-empty bottle of whisky with his mopey angelic friend planted dejectedly across the table droning on and on about bees or failure or some such nonsense to Dean’s disinterested ears, Dean’s inebriated mind divined the genius idea that you and Cas would be perfect for one another. Lord knew Cas needed someone spunky to inject some fun into his existence and show him the lighter side of life, someone patient and willing to listen to his endlessly odd meandering contemplations, to deal with his lack of hobbies beyond shadowing the brothers and the increasingly annoying 24/7 angels-don’t-require-sleep pacing of the bunker halls. Sure, Cas was family, but even family had its limits.

Cas likely would have brushed off Dean’s idea with nary a second thought, except for once Dean managed to kept his notoriously bombastic mouth shut. Sort of – he’d passed out, a thin string of spittle flowing over silent loose lips and cascading across the freckled back of his hand to pool on the table. Cas noted Dean did some of his most sincere listening whilst peaceably unconscious – mostly because the lack of voluntary muscle control severely hindered his ability to roll his eyes at the angel’s absurdly random musings.

Unlike Dean’s typical drunken theories, the notion of hooking you and Cas up still seemed absolutely brilliant when he awoke the next morning, head throbbing, cheek stuck to hand in turn stuck to table. Luckily, the first person he laid eyes on and enthusiastically spilled the proverbial beans to was his brother. Over a greasy diner breakfast to absorb whatever alcohol still circulated in Dean’s system and to avoid Cas’ innocently snooping angelic ears, Sam agreed to go along with the plan, primarily because Dean clearly wasn’t going to drop it any time soon and it was the fastest way to shut him up about it. Sam argued one caveat. He knew neither you or Cas would go along willingly on a traditional blind date. He also knew his brother would be unable to function in any kind of a normal and not overtly meddlesome capacity if you all simply worked a case together as an introduction. No, you had to be gently nudged in the right direction, free will and all being of utmost import – you and Cas had to choose each other, or at the very least have the illusion of choice.

Constructing a believable farce of a case (the best lies are based on truths – what better truth than a real case), setting the stage (leaving just enough clues in the bunker and bread crumbs in town to pique your interest and persistent concern), pulling the strings (ensuring you and Cas would both be at their beck and call at the same time and be compelled to help), and getting the logistics of the charade in place (easy-peasy when your late father, John Winchester, is something of a minor celebrity in the incredibly small town of Clifton Springs, NY where he saved the life of a perpetually grateful mayor’s son and his betrothed 13 years prior – all the folks in town practically tripping over each other to play their part in the strange production) – that was all 100% Sam Winchester. Yet despite Sam’s innumerable contributions without which none of this would have happened, and because the effort appeared to have been a resounding success based on Dean’s earlier phone call to Cas wherein he learned you and the angel evidently had gotten to know each other as intimately as possible, Dean Winchester intended to take full responsibility as match-maker extraordinaire.

Stationed before the motel door, fist poised to knock, Dean squared his shoulders and cleared his throat, donning a somber expression as he prepared to bask humbly in the glory of your everlasting gratitude.

Rolling his eyes, thoroughly done with the drama, Sam reached a lanky arm around his brother and thwacked a knuckle on the door – the door swung ominously inward without resistance.

Satisfaction stolen, Dean glowered at his brother before stepping jauntily across the threshold into the darkened room.

Intuiting something amiss, Sam’s bag dropped to the ground with a dull thud, his fingers instinctively reaching for and withdrawing the knife tucked discreetly inside his brown corduroy jacket. “Dean,” he warned in a hushed tone, yanking his brother stumbling backward by the coat collar.

“What?!” Dean whined, swatting Sam’s hand aside, ego too puffed up to recognize the blatant signs of a violent struggle before him.

“Dean, seriously?” Sam snorted, setting his jaw in the harsh manner that sufficed to belay both his worry and derision. He flicked the switch by the door, shedding further light on the situation.

Dean dispassionately examined the room – focus gliding over the unmade bed, overturned chairs and busted table, smashed picture frame, and random spattering of vivid red viscous fluid on the dingy carpet and multiple walls. He shrugged, snorting in retort, “Like I said, what?”

Sam’s square jaw threatened to dislocate just then under the gnashing force of teeth required to bite his tongue.

“Look, they’re just trying to get back at us,” Dean strode forward, picking up a snapped bloodied stump of table leg, using the pointed sliver of crimson painted wood to motion grandiosely around the room, “play us at our own game. The whole thing’s obviously staged.”

Wits undamped by over-inflated ego, Sam’s eyes alit on a wrinkled piece of pale beige toned mottled oddly familiar point of something vaguely flesh-like protruding out beneath the disjointed bed. Closer examination revealed the thing to be a crudely severed finger. And judging from the knobby rheumatic knuckles and age spots decorating the amputated bit, the severed finger of someone apparently elderly in years.

Dean could find no feasible way to explain this detached digit away as part of an elaborate payback hoax. You and Cas were indeed missing – really, actually, genuinely, and concerningly missing. Fortunately for everyone involved, Dean retains the remarkable ability to transition from jester to bad-ass hunter faster than anyone else in the known universe.

Continue Reading Act IV - Part II:

webcricket.tumblr.com/post/161871554020/nudge-theory