#I do like the idea of him diving into the woods to save someone

[adrift-in-thyme]

do you have any thoughts on.... the Hero's Shade? :3

- hero-of-the-wolf

Oof well he makes me very sad that’s for sure 😅

Nintendo had THREE TIMELINES come from OoT and none had a canonically happy ending for the Hero of Time. WHYYYY

Anyway. I love his interactions with TP Link. He’s so strict at first (understandably since he knows how dangerous this hero stuff is), but then immediately starts showing what a softy he is. Any time Link earns a new skill I can just FEEL his pride. That’s his great great great great grandson your honor

Also the thought of him waiting as long as he did, watching his land morph and grow and shrink and fall KILLS ME. Malon is gone, his children are gone, Zelda is gone (I hc that they were besties in the child timeline). Yet he remains. Alone. Again.

I like to think the Skull Kid can see him though. I like to think they’re still friends. And I like to think Link’s Epona remembers him and loves him just as her ancestor did. She knows who he is even when practically everyone has forgotten he even existed

Also he hugs Link at the end. I don’t care that we don’t see it. It happens. Miyamoto told me so

[rootspiral]

AGATHA ALL ALONG DEEP DIVE: episode 1 part 1

(Wandavision entries: [1][2][3])

(AAA entries: ep1 [1][2][3][4] ep2 [1][2][3][4] ep3 [1][2][3] ep4 [1][2][3][4][5][6][7][+1] ep5 [1][2][3][4][5] ep6 [1][2][3] ep7 [1][2][3][4][5][6] ep8 [1][2][3][4][5][6][7][8][9] ep9 [1][2][3][4][5][6])

IT'S TIME TO REWATCH AGATHA ALL ALONG, WITCHES! And as usual, spoilers below.

episode 1, Seekest Thou The Road

Wanda is dead (no she ain't). As a result, her spell is weakened and Agatha has changed from her nosy neighbor character to detective Agnes (or caught the true crime bug, as Herb will put it.)

Stinky grimy Agnes, so serious and depressed. As soon as she appears onscreen she's humming the Ballad.

Detective Agnes has just been recalled to action after being off duty for a while. She was punished for "punching a suspect", which is code for going after Wanda. Agnes points out that now the suspect is a convicted felon, i.e. that she was right after all and Wanda is dangerous and evil. "I can't be right and wrong" she says. "Yes, you can" says Herb, because both Agatha and Wanda are villain and victim. And lol at the police tape symbolizing Herb's fence. You know the poor guy is in his garden looking down at Agnes in her Bonher family tshirt, wondering what the hell is going on.

oh that's a seriously good shot

Agatha looks heartbroken when she sees Wanda's body, doesn't she? She looks so sorry.

Herb (the real Herb behind the illusion) confirms that Agatha is acting different than usual.

THIRD TIME SHE DISCREETLY DRIES HER TEARS

There is nothing funny about Detective Agnes. Or rather, it's funny to watch her because she's so intense, but we laugh at her, she's not being a clown on purpose like Agatha usually is. And Agatha right now is in a lot of pain, even more than usual having completely lost her agency. This character so unkempt, so sad, so doggedly searching for answers, is more true to Agatha's real self than what she usually lets people see. Deep down she's just a tragic lesbian wet rat.

Somebody called in to have the body found, and I think that somebody was Rio. Why would the body be next to the water otherwise? It's like the River of Life laid her gently where Agatha could find her. In other words, Wanda's death brought her to Agatha. I'm curious about these woods too, we know they don't actually exist as this is all in Agatha's head, but where did the idea come from? Are these the woods where she killed the Salemites? Where she gave birth to Nicky? Or where she buried him?

Agatha's victims from the finale flashing throughout the opening. Wherever it may bend, I'll see you at the end.

"based on the danish series WANDAVISDYEN" never fails to destroy me. and it's so clever too, it's like they're telling first time watchers that yes, this seems like a grim detective show, but you clever audiences know that things are not as they seem and this is a parody, right?? this is not serious at all, it's funny! Laugh! Except. It's not funny. It's not funny at all. And you're going to realize only when it's too late. It's the same thing they do with Sharon/Mrs. Hart, they lure you in with laughs only to hit you with heartbreak. This show is not a comedy at all. It's at its very core a senseless tragedy.

Sarah/Dottie lives next door too, was Agatha talking to her through a window, or does the library desk symbolize another fence? This poor woman, hasn't she suffered enough? But they all more or less try to help Agnes, that's sweet. Has anyone from SWORD or whomever dropped in to talk to them, did the Avengers just decide to leave Agatha there? Did Monica (or Ralph) even explain to the poor people of Westview that she's a witch, or do they just think she's a random neighbor who couldn't be saved from Wanda's Hex?

THE MAILMAN CONTINUES BEING SUSPICIOUS. Is Agatha putting words in his mouth, or was he (the "messanger") sent by someone to warn her about the Darkhold being destroyed???

her FACE when she sees Rio

and the way Rio just stares and stares. When you rewatch this scene knowing that this is the first time she gets to see Agatha in centuries... and she has to be cool and she has to be gentle. I think it's deliberate that they put Phil/Harold/Ross Geller in here, because he's one of the funniest people in Westview and it's suggesting a first time viewer to read this scene as a comedy. Except it's a cosmic tale of tragedy and heartbreak, but you're not supposed to notice yet, even if it's right there under your nose.

Stop being such a lone wolf, Agnes. Or rather, stop being such a sad and lonely covenless witch, Agatha.

Rio laughs her delighted little laugh, licks her lips, looks out the window for a moment as if overwhelmed, then goes back looking at Agatha and basically devouring her with her eyes. ("te veo.") (thank you for my life aubrey plaza.) Agatha stares daggers back, but her body language stars getting defensive. She feels very vulnerable.

Yep, defensive. And wistful.

She is doing her job, like always. But she's also going above and beyond. There is technically no need for her to wake Agatha up, but here she is, dropping gentle clues, guiding her with such patience and care.

"If you wanna be in control you can be" is said in such a kind tone, but it's also sexy?? I think Rio really likes for Agatha to take control, in a lot of ways. Her body language is the opposite of what Agatha is doing too.

Oh noes she's making herself so small now. She's like, intrigued and angry and happy and scared to see Rio. They're both being so tentative!! And she doesn't actually know who Rio is because she's under the damn spell, so her body language and feelings are pure instinct. They come from somewhere very very true and deep. (and LOL that mug says "get a clue")

Is this who you are now, Agatha? the intense but lonely detective? she's genuinely interested, because Rio investigates Agatha just as Agatha investigates everybody else. Rio simply cannot get enough of her. and she keeps talking with this gentle, warm, understated tone.

Gains personal space. Keeps staring and staring.

oh now we're leaning. they do this every scene they are together, they keep getting closer and closer even if they don't mean to, like magnets.

Agatha literally bolts to the door and tells her to leave. Rio's presence is so overwhelming in so many different and complicated ways, and she doesn't even understand why that is at the moment. Kathryn Hahn is playing this perfectly straight (no pun intended), there is genuine pain in her voice.

"Te veo", which is not "see you," but I see you, I'm always looking for you, I'm always watching. And I finally see you, after all this time.

Oh, honey.

I'm running out of space again, but I promise I'll continue this tomorrow. Thank you for all the notes you guys, I was not expecting so many! I'm doing this mostly to amuse myself, but it's nice to know that the brainrot is collective 🙃🙃🙃

go to the next entry

[lucygxybaird]

billy x reader - time traveler billy

Everything happens so quickly that you don’t have time — at first — to realize how odd the situation is. The man’s clothes make him look like a refugee from a Western, and everything about him, from the curl of his hair to the way he stands marks him out as someone…different, somehow. Not to mention, of course, that he’s standing in the middle of the street, looking about as out of place and freaked out as a squirrel dropped into the middle of the ocean. 

But even if you could put your finger on it, you don’t have the time to consider what makes him so strange. 

First, you’ll have to get him out of the path of the oncoming car. 

You have, in point of fact, never actually tackled someone before, let alone someone who seems to be quite a bit taller than you and undoubtedly heavier. But you take your best shot, leaning in and diving at his waist, hoping to make him fold like a lawn chair. Maybe it’s just the shock, or maybe you actually find the right angle — you have no idea, but it doesn’t really matter. You manage to knock the guy sideways, both of you stumbling toward the safety of the sidewalk as the car screeches past, the driver laying on his horn. 

You watch as the guy flinches at the noise, actually clapping his hands over his ears as he squeezes his eyes shut, like he’s praying with all his might that the noise will just stop. Fortunately for him, the car turns the corner up ahead, and the sound of the horn fades as it goes. You watch it go, wondering absently how long Speed Racer is going to keep honking, and then you look back at the guy whose life you’ve saved.

“Are you okay?” It’s probably a stupid question, considering what little information you already have, but you don’t know what else to say. The guy lowers his hands and squints at you, staring as if you’re the one dressed like an extra from The Good, The Bad and The Ugly. “Hey — are you alright?”

He shakes his head, more like he’s trying to chase away a bothersome gnat than answering you. 

You’re starting to worry that he’s hit his head, although you can’t see a cut or a bruise on his temple. Now that you’re looking at him properly, it’s really rather difficult to keep from noticing how…well, how hot he is. It’s probably — definitely — inappropriate to even think about it, you’re well aware, considering he’s either injured, intoxicated in some way, or just going through it, but you can’t ignore the fact now that it’s quite literally staring you in the face. 

His eyes are large and blue, framed by thick, dark lashes as long as your pinky finger, set above a strong, straight nose that reminds you of a Greek statue, as perfectly sculpted as if it’s been made from marble. His lips are astonishingly full, his jawline and cheekbones each as defined as the dictionary, and you think there just might be the shadow of a dimple in his chin. And he’s tall, too, topping you by nearly a foot, his broad shoulders tapering to an angular waist. You realize, belatedly, that you’re staring, but then again, so is he.

“Are you okay?” you say again. “Is there something I can do for you? Someone I can call?”

He swallows, giving another shake of his head. “I don’t…I dunno where I am.” 

It’s the first time you’ve heard him speak, and his voice brings to mind sage brush and sunsets, the smoke that swirls over a campfire as it crackles with life, warm and husky, with a twang that makes you think of the bite of whiskey. 

“Okay,” you say, and without thinking about it, you take his hand. It feels natural, like trying to guide a lost child, or trying to make sure you don’t lose him in a crowd. As soon as his palm touches yours, you feel a shock race up your arm, and you have the strangest sensation of a door closing, separating one moment from the next as definitively as an axe splitting wood. 

His fingers curl around yours, his expression almost pleading. 

“Okay,” you repeat. “Okay. Just…come with me. I’ll help you.”

You can tell, if not just by the expression on his face — half-hopeful, half-bracing, as if he’s expecting a blow to fall any second — that he’s not used to asking for help, especially not from strangers. It makes your heart hurt just a little bit. You give his hand a gentle squeeze, and you’re softened — or maybe melted — by the way he smiles at you, shy but appearing more heartened than he did just a moment ago.

Then another car whizzes by, and he winces like someone has taken a shot at him. He ducks down, his eyes so wide that they look like a pair of full moons, their cornflower centers the only source of color in his face. “The hell is that?”

You stare at him. If he didn’t look so terrified, you’d think he was joking. But if he’s not joking, then he’s either on an incredible cocktail of drugs, or he’s from that weird isolated cult town in The Village. “It’s…it’s a car,” you say. 

“A car,” he repeats, as if you’ve just told him the secret to life in Mandarin. 

“Yeah,” you say. “You know…a horseless carriage.” 

For some reason, this seems to impart some understanding to him, but you can tell he’s still plenty freaked out. “Carriages don’t go that fuckin’ fast!”

You try very, very hard not to laugh, but god, it’s hard. You’re having to draw on nearly every ounce of compassion you have. It helps that, really, he’s not wrong. Not that you’ve ever ridden in a carriage, because you’re not Keira Knightley in a period film, but you don’t think they’re capable of speeds like that. 

“If it makes you feel any better,” you say, “you don’t have to worry about getting into a horseless carriage with me. I hate driving.” 

Now that it’s just the two of you standing on the sidewalk again, the road mercifully free of cars, he seems to relax a little, at least enough to consider your words. “Well,” he says. “That’s something.” 

Not entirely sure where to go, you decide the police station is as good a place as any. It might be a little Hallmark movie of the week, but maybe someone has already filed a missing persons report on him. With that thought, it occurs to you that you need some information first. 

“Do you remember your name?” you ask.

The look he gives you indicates he has never been quite so offended in his life. You can’t help but laugh this time. “Well, I don’t know!” you say. “You don’t know where you are, you’re walking around here looking like a puppy at the start of an ASPCA ad — maybe you’re suffering from some kind of amnesia.”

He doesn’t look any less nonplussed, but something about your laughter has loosened the muscles in his face. He smiles at you. You try to ignore the way your stomach flips to focus on his answer. “Billy,” he says. 

You fight the urge to repeat his name, rolling it around in your mouth like candy. “Come on,” you say, his hand still in yours. “We’re not gonna get anywhere just standing here. Do you trust me?”

He smiles again, though this time with a bit of a razor’s edge to it. “Not like I got much choice, honey,” he says, and then pauses, softens. “Yeah. You’ve been nicer to me than most people would’ve, findin’ a stranger in the middle of nowhere, actin’ like he’s been dropped on his head. I wouldn’t have blamed ya if you’d run the other direction.”

You have no idea why, but what springs from your mouth before you can help yourself is: “I couldn’t do that to you.”

He studies you for a minute. His gaze feels as physical as a caress, and just as intimate. If not more so. You both do and don’t want it to stop. 

“Come on,” you say again, at least in part to break the silence. “Follow me.”

The two of you start walking, following the weathered gray slabs of cracked, uneven concrete that your small town calls a sidewalk as it winds its way into town. 

After a few moments of quiet, he says, “You never told me your name.” 

When you introduce yourself, he smiles again. “That’s nice,” he says. “Pretty.”

Your stomach flips again, and you have to remind yourself that you don’t know anything about this guy, except — only just now — his name. The fact that he’s tall, gorgeous, and really does give off a hurt puppy sort of vibe doesn’t matter. And it definitely doesn’t matter that his smile spreads across his face like a sunrise coloring the sky with ribbons of pastels. He could be a serial killer, or if not that extreme, some kind of — 

The two of you are still, for reasons not entirely clear to you and probably not much clearer to him, holding hands, so you’re jerked out of your thoughts by the fact that he’s gone stock still. 

“You’re takin’ me to the sheriff?”

If the dread clinging to his voice like a weed choking out a weaker plant wasn’t bad enough, he’s frozen still on the sidewalk, looking at you as if you’ve…well, as if you’ve betrayed him somehow. The pit of your stomach turns to ice.

“The sheriff?” you repeat. You feel oddly, stupidly, disappointed. A guy with nothing to hide doesn’t act like this when someone brings him to the authorities. The disillusionment washing over you makes your tongue sharp. “Who the hell are you, Barney Fife?”

He frowns. “I told you my name.”

“Yeah, I — never mind.” You shake your head and let go of his hand. The bare skin of your palm feels oddly cold. “What’s the matter? I thought someone might be looking for you. Maybe someone filed a missing persons report.”

“I don’t think so, darlin’.” He glances at the police station again, his throat bobbing. A pause, and then, softly, like he’s making a confession: “Nobody left that cares about me that much. Unless they wanna cause me some hurt.”

You feel the strangest mixture of sympathetic and prickly, as if you’ve been caught doing something wrong by someone who has been directly and seriously hurt by your actions. “Well…” You clear your throat, trying to find the right words to defend yourself. “I mean, listen, what kind of hurt? Are you a criminal or something?”

One corner of his mouth tilts up in a bitter approximation of a grin. “Or somethin’, honey,” he says. “I got a reputation I never wanted and that I’m not proud of, an’ not one person reads about me in the paper or sees my name on a wanted poster—”

Wanted poster? But something about his fierce, stung expression keeps your mouth shut.

“ — ever gave a damn about the truth. About why I did all that stuff. I didn’t want to!” When his voice rises, equal parts angry and hurt, you can’t help yourself. You reach for his hand again. He takes a deep breath, his fingers grasping yours. “I didn’t want to do any of it. I just wanted…I wanted things to get better. Every time I thought they would, they just got worse.”

You know it would make sense to ask what he actually did, but somehow, you can’t bring yourself to put the words out there. He looks ashamed and angry, but defiant, too, as if daring you to do it. Or, worse, to pass judgement. But you just press your lips together. 

“I wanted to go straight,” he says. “I wanted a good job for a respectable boss, so I could keep a roof over my head and food in my belly. Damn it, I just wanted some peace—”

When his voice breaks, you feel it in your chest, as if a fissure has opened up in your collarbone. Your own eyes burn, a reaction as instantaneous and out of your control as a burning red welt raising up around a bee’s stinger. It hurts you, to see him hurt, and you can’t even begin to explain to yourself why that is. 

“Well, I…I…” You fumble your words, not even sure what you’re going to say. But you know you have to say something. “I…okay, so, we’ll…we’ll go somewhere else. We’ll figure it out.”

He looks about as shocked to hear you say that as he was by the car burning rubber on the road leading into town. “You mean it?”

You swallow down the stupid feeling that you’re going to cry, and you nod. “Yeah, come on,” you say, and you hold out your hand again. He takes it. “We’ll go back to my place.”

He offers you another crooked smile, but this one is more surprised, almost tender, like you’ve shown him something sweet and unexpected hidden in the palm of your hand. “You sure about that, sweetheart?” he says. “You don’t know me all that well. I’d understand if you didn’t want a strange man in your home.”

Forget not knowing him that well, you don’t really know him at all, but you just tell him, “I’m sure.”

Because you are. In what seems to be the theme of the day, you can’t explain why, but it just feels…safe. Despite the little Dateline-themed voice in your head telling you otherwise, you can’t ignore the certainty, heavy and inexplicable, that you’ve been here before. He’ll step into your apartment and feel at ease, because this isn’t the first time he’s been your home. It will fit like an old coat, comfortable and soft and easy. 

It’s insane, but you can’t turn your thoughts away from it. 

His fingers lace with yours, and he rubs his thumb over your knuckle. The way he’s looking at you, so intently, his gaze never wavering from yours, makes you feel as though you’re being turned inside out, exposed. The moment when he froze with fear as the two of you approached the police — sheriff — station seems distant in both time and space, like you’ve gone forward many miles and many years in time in the space of just a few minutes.

“No cars, right?” he says, his crooked smile widening. The word cars sits in his mouth like he isn’t quite used to the shape of it, but you’re so charmed by the fact that he’s trying to make a joke. That the two of you have a joke to share. 

“No cars,” you say.

You’re walking again. Now and again you pass other people, who look at Billy the way you must have looked at him when you first saw him — eyebrows furrowed, pushing down over their eyes, glance flicking over him as if a quick look will make any more sense than a lingering one. Billy doesn’t seem to notice, or if he does, he doesn’t seem to care. He’s too busy looking around at everything else; it all seems to shock him to varying degrees, whether it’s the buildings around you, the streetlights and the power lines silhouetted against the sky, the concrete beneath your feet and the asphalt of the road running beside you. 

As another car zooms by, Billy lets go of your hand, dosey-do’s behind you, and takes your other hand. Now he’s standing between you and the road. “I don’t like those things,” he mutters, more to himself than to you. “But I like you near ‘em even less.” 

Your apartment building is a brick rectangle studded with windows, a pair of double doors set in the middle at the top of a wide set of concrete steps. You lead Billy inside and he stops as you reach for the elevator button. 

“What the hell?” he says, again speaking under his breath.

You push the button, watching Billy’s face as the call button lights up. He flinches at the ding, looking around for the source of the noise; you squeeze his hand gently. You wonder again where the hell he came from, that every piece of modern technology seems to make as little sense to him as ancient Egyptian hieroglyphics. “It’s okay,” you say. “Just trust me.” 

Implicit in your voice is this: I won’t let anything happen to you.

He seems to hear your silent promise, or maybe the words you actually say are enough. Billy smiles thinly and nods.

When the doors slide open, though, he balks. “Are we supposed to go in there?”

“Yes. It’ll take us up to the floor my apartment is on, without us having to go up all those stairs.”

He swallows. “Okay.”

You step into the elevator and he trails after you with the air of a child who is expecting a switching out back. When the elevator starts to rise upward, Billy stares at you incredulously. “It’s okay,” you say again. “It won’t take long, I promise.”

He has a white-knuckle grip on your hand, and he jumps a little at the ding from somewhere above your heads as the elevator comes to a stop. When the doors slide open, he relaxes a little. “That’s all?”

“That’s all,” you confirm, and you lead him down the hallway. He waits while you fish your keys out and let yourselves inside your apartment.

As soon as the door closes behind you, Billy’s shoulders soften. You watch him as he looks around, feeling oddly nervous. As if it matters whether or not he likes your place.

Your building is old — you think from the 1920s or thereabouts, if you remember what your landlord said when she showed you the place five years ago — and it shows in the way it looks. Wooden parquet floors the color of honey are softened by rugs that you found at a flea market, a brown velvet couch slouching in front of a square, red-brick fireplace, framed by a mantle scattered with knickknacks. Billy smiles as he wanders over, picking up a little statuette shaped like a cat, wearing a collar of flat chips of glass.

“Cute,” he says, offering you another smile, and you feel inordinately pleased. 

His gaze roams around the living room. To his left, a doorway hung with a beaded curtain leads into the kitchen, and in front of him, a hallway runs to the back of the apartment, with your bedroom on one side and a bathroom on the other. His gaze turns back to the mantle, lifting to the wall above it, where a flatscreen TV is fixed.

“What is that?” he says, leaning forward to inspect this dim reflection in the screen. “A mirror?”

Despite yourself, a snort works its way out of your mouth, and he shoots you a wounded look. “Sorry,” you say, putting your hand over your mouth. “Sorry. No, it’s my TV.”

You have another, smaller one in your room, but you decide one television might be enough for him to deal with right now.

“A — a T…V?” he says, repeating the two letters distinctly, as if they have nothing to do with each other. “What’s that?”

Your lips part, and you stare at him for a second. “Billy,” you say. “Where are you from?”

His brow furrows, like he doesn’t quite understand what you’re asking. “Well,” he says slowly. “Most recently I’ve been livin’ in New Mexico. Why?”

New Mexico. That really doesn’t answer your question. “Where in New Mexico?”

His puzzled frown deepens, but he doesn’t ask why you’re pressing him. Maybe he figures you deserve to know, after saving his life and bringing him back to your apartment. “Lincoln, right now,” he says.

You don’t know much about Lincoln — or New Mexico, for that matter — but you don’t think it’s some reclusive community where they wouldn’t know about elevators or cars. 

The next question you have is crazy, totally insane, really — but you think you’ve seen doctors on TV ask concussion victims the same thing. And that’s definitely all it is. Because there’s no way this could actually be the problem. 

“Billy,” you say again. “What year is it?”

Now it’s his turn to huff out a laugh through his nose. “What year is it? It’s 1881.” 

You’re so floored by this statement that you blurt out, without much — or any — tact: “No, it’s not.”

He looks like he’s on the verge of arguing with you, but maybe everything hits him all at once. The cars, the technology he doesn’t understand, the very world around him that looks so different from what he’s used to. “What…what year is it, then?”

You blink. “2024,” you say. 

This time, when he laughs, there’s no humor in it, only a sharp incredulity. “You’re crazy,” he says, but without much heat. It’s almost like a plea, as though he’s offering you the opportunity to take it back. To say something that actually makes sense, because — and you have to give it to him, he’s not wrong — this doesn’t make sense at all.

And yet, unless he’s been severely brainwashes or he’s just putting you on, it’s also the only option.

“How did I get here?” he says, and he sounds — and looks — like he might cry again. “What do I do now?”

“I don’t know,” you say. Then you reach for him, and even before your hands find his face, he’s moving closer to you. He holds onto your waist, like you’re a lifeline. “I don’t know. I don’t know how you got here, or why, but you’re not alone, okay? You have me.”

It doesn’t even register with you at first that this is an incredibly strange, if not downright dangerous, thing to say to someone you met not even two hours ago. Especially considering you’re saying it to a man who is bigger and undoubtedly stronger than you. But you don’t feel like you’re putting yourself at risk. 

Billy, though, says what you’re thinking, except he says it with a sense of wonder. It almost sounds like a prayer. “I don’t even know you,” he murmurs.

Yes, you do.

The thought seems to come from outside of you, as if someone has turned to a fresh page in your mind and written it there in their own hand. 

Billy says your name, still in that awestruck voice. It feels as though there is a web spun between you, gossamer-fine but indissoluble. The fact that he could be an honest-to-god time traveler makes more sense to you than the idea that you only met him today. 

“1881,” you repeat, and he chuckles.

“2024,” he returns. 

“How old are you?” 

“Twenty-two.”

“Oh,” you say, relieved. Although technically if he’s twenty-two and from the year 1881, that means he’s around 165 years old, but who’s counting? “Me too.”

He smiles, an uptick of the corner of his mouth that nonetheless makes your heart skip in your chest. You decide that you want his hands on you, always, his gaze on you, always, but then you remember something else you have to show him. 

“Come here,” you say, taking his hand again. You lead him down the hallway to the bathroom, the sight of which earns you another look at his stunned, disbelieving face. “Okay. This is my bathroom.” You point. “That’s a toilet.” You try to remember when toilets were invented. “It’s like…an outhouse. But inside.” 

Billy snorts. “I know what a toilet is.”

You hum. There’s that, at least. “This is definitely new,” you say, and you point to the shower. He nods. You have one of those with a glass door, which you — a little embarrassingly, now — have declared with decals of cartoon sea creatures, including a whale, a puffer fish, and a little scuba diver.  “Right. This a shower.”

You push the door open, reaching inside and turning the knob so the water comes pouring out. Billy jumps at the sudden noise and stares as steam fill the room. “It’s hot?” he says uncertainly.

“It can be,” you say. “If you twist this knob here, it can get cooler, though. But it won’t hurt you.”

“What do you do?” he says, peering at the shower. “It’s for bathin’?”

You nod. “You just…” You blush and gesture vaguely at his clothes, before gesturing equally vaguely to the floor. “And step in. There’s soap and shampoo for your hair.”

He smiles crookedly. “Are you tryin’ to tell me I don’t smell like roses, honey?”

You laugh a little. “I mean, well…”

He grins again before looking resolutely at the shower. “Okay,” he says. “I’ll try.”

You give him privacy, shutting the door behind you, though you hover nervously in the hallway in case he needs you. You’re worried about him slipping and falling, so you have to resist the temptation to press your ear against the door. Finally, you hear the water shut off — you’re proud of him for figuring out how to do that, without dousing himself in ice water or boiling himself alive — and you realize, just then, that you have to get him fresh clothes.

“Hold on!” you call through the door.

You hurry into your room and find an old college t-shirt that you “borrowed” from your dad, along with a pair of pajama bottoms that are advertised as unisex but absolutely swim on you at the cuffs, so you hope they’re long enough for him. You knock on the bathroom door, and when it opens a crack, you hold out the clothes while carefully turning your head away. “Here,” you say. “These should fit.”

“Thank you,” he says, voice muffled by the door, and then he takes the clothes and the door shuts again. 

You perch on the couch in the living room, waiting for him. The bathroom door opens fully, releasing a cloud of fragrant steam, and you smile encouragingly as you see Billy standing in the doorway. The pants do indeed fit, although the t-shirt hangs on him a little. 

“What did you think?” you ask. “Of your first shower experience?”

Billy chuckles, coming to sit next to you on the couch. You’re so aware of his proximity that it makes the air between you sing. There’s something about the sight of him, freshly showered and smiling, seemingly more relaxed now, that makes you want to lean into him. 

“It was nice,” he says. “Warm.” 

You’ve lost count of how many times today that it’s happened, but once again, he takes your hand. 

“Thank you for takin’ care of me,” he says softly. “You’re a sweet girl. I’m glad I met you.”

Coming from anyone else, being called a sweet girl would make you feel like a toy poodle. But coming from Billy, in his warm, molasses-slow drawl, it just makes you feel warm, like you’re bathing in sunshine. 

“I’m glad, too,” you murmur.

It would be crazy to kiss him right now, right? You know the answer is yes. You know that. Still, ever since the moment his voice broke outside the police station, you’ve felt…protective over him. More than that, you’ve felt connected. It’s as if seeing him break down, even if it was only for a moment, in turn broke down something between the two of you. 

You remember that sensation when you first took his hand, as if a door had slammed solidly shut between this moment and the rest of your life, and you think maybe there wasn’t so much of a barrier up in the first place.

Billy touches your cheek with the very pads of his fingertips, as if he’s afraid that you’re a bubble that will burst from rough contact. “What the hell?” he says softly, and you laugh, because you know it’s not really a question you’re supposed to answer. “We just met today?”

You nod.

“And some way or another, I’ve traveled…” A pause while he does the math. “140-odd years in the future?”

You nod again. 

“Alright, then,” he says mildly, and he kisses you.

It feels like the world turns inside out from a point centered around the two of you, spiraling and twisting outward until it forms again, entirely new, bigger and grander, humming and buzzing like a live-wire. Your hands grasping his shoulders feel like the only reason you aren’t just floating away, and the way he grips your waist makes you think he feels the same. You press closer to him, his arms encircling you as he pulls you onto his lap.

A hoarse chuckle comes from somewhere around the fireplace. “You kids usually take longer than this.”

You jump out of your skin, and before you can blink, you find yourself sprawled on the couch cushions, Billy on his feet in front of you. One hand goes to his belt only to grasp at the air. He scowls and brandishes his fists instead, and then—

“Old Moss?”

You sit up. “You know this guy?”

An old man has his elbow propped on the mantelpiece, a tattered hat perched on his head. He’s shorter than Billy, stockier, but their clothes are much the same, along with the weathered tan on their faces. The old man, though, has a beard covering the lower half of his face, spilling over his chest like dirty cotton. 

“I…” Billy shakes his head, seemingly just as flummoxed — if not more — than he was before. “I knew him when I was a kid. He helped my family cross the country.”

The old man — Old Moss — chuckles. “I’m not Old Moss, son,” he says. “I took on this form to make you more comfortable. Otherwise you would have tried to wallop me, I bet, and that wouldn’t have been good for you.”

Billy stiffens, and he puts one arm behind him, to keep you behind him on the couch. “Who the hell are you, then?”

Old Moss (you don’t know what else to call him) shrugs. “A representative of the universe,” he says, waving his hand to underscore this grand sentiment. “My speciality is helpin’ lovers find each other in every lifetime.” 

A shiver dances down your spine. “Every lifetime?” you murmur.

“Oh, sure,” Old Moss says. “You two have found each other in every life since your souls first came into being.” He smiles crookedly. “Thanks to me. You’re welcome.”

Another grin creases his face. “This time, I thought I’d try things a little bit differently,” he says, shrugging. “I’ve never pulled one soul from a different point in time before. I wasn’t sure if it would work, to be honest with you.”

He grins again. “Judgin’ by the way you were treatin’ her face like an ice cream cone, though, I’m guessing it did.”

Despite yourself, you giggle. 

Out of the corner of his mouth, slanting a glance at you, Billy murmurs, “What’s a—?”

“I’ll get you one later. You’ll like it,” you assure him, and now you do stand next to him, patting him gently on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, though, you kiss better than that.”

Old Moss chuckles. “You guys got any questions before I go?”

You think for a second. “How many lives has it been?”

“Mmm…” The old man tugs on his beard thoughtfully. “I’d say this is your…I dunno, I lost track. Somewhere around 200, I think, maybe a little north of that.”

Your hand creeps into Billy’s, and he squeezes gently.

“And we loved each other in all of them?” you say.

Old Moss’s expression is almost unbearably kind. He nods. “All of them,” he says.

Billy’s shoulder presses against yours, and you feel the contact from the top of your head to the soles of your feet. Somehow, over 200 lifetimes of loving him doesn’t seem like a surprise. 

“An’ I…I get to stay here with her?” Billy says now. “I don’t gotta go back there?”

Buried in the snowy tangles of his beard, Old Moss’s mouth twitches. You can’t tell if it’s a smile, or if he’s trying to swallow tears. “Yeah, son,” he says. “You get to stay.”

Billy’s hand tightens around yours, as if he’s worried — despite Old Moss’s confirmation — that someone is going to take him away from you. You grip his hand tighter in turn. Like you’re going to let that happen.

You look over at Billy, and he turns his head to meet your gaze. You can see every one of those lifetimes in his eyes, caught in his gaze like snowflakes on his lashes, and you hope there’s going hundreds more, going on until the world itself ends. Nothing else will be enough. 

By the time you can turn your eyes away from him, Old Moss is gone. You look over at Billy again, and he grins at you. “I guess representatives of the universe favor Irish goodbyes.”

You grin back at him, winding your arms around his neck. “It seems like I’m stuck with you now,” you say, and he chuckles. 

“Seems so.”

He leans down to kiss you. The world turns inside out and spirals again — and again — and again — and…by the time it’s settled again, and Billy breaks the kiss, you think that you’d be happy if you spent this lifetime and each one to come just doing this.

“So…” Billy smiles crookedly. “About that ice cream cone?”

You laugh. There’s a thousand things to set him up with — how the hell does somebody get a Social Security number at twenty-something years old? — but you can figure that out later.

For now — 

“Let’s take you to get one,” you say. “And I’ll introduce you to the unbeatable combination of gummy bears and ice cream.”

“What are—?”

You laugh, taking his hand and rising onto your toes to peck his cheek. “Just trust me. You’ll love it.” 

[swxppedshitposts]

Muse Bravery Checklist: Alexsander Lovecraft Repost and fill out the form all about what your muse would/wouldn’t be brave enough to do. Then tag any friends you’d like to see do it as well! Note that some of these aren’t smart things to do but in this case, bravery and risk are both included.

Tagged By: @hunting-songs Tagging: All you bitches <3

My muse would … [x] Spend the night in a haunted building (He lives in one lmao) [x] Go into a burning/collapsing building to save someone (If it's a woman or child, then yeah, probably) [x] Take a shortcut through a dark alleyway [x] Stay calm with a weapon pointed at them [x] Be confident defending themselves from an attack [x] Touch a dangerous exotic animal (Soup the maybe alligator isn't just an exception <3 He IS the dangerous exotic animal in most cases tbf) [x] Take someone else’s punishment to protect them (Only if he cares lmao) [x] Travel to an unknown place by themselves [x] Spend a night in the woods alone [ ] Witness (or join) a séance (I don't think he has enough reason to do that? I'm not saying he wouldn't if he had the right motive though) [x] Play a scary video game in the dark alone (He does this for fun) [ ] Explore a pitch black catacomb with only one light (He would definitely think of this as just a very stupid move to make for no good reason lmao he wouldn't do this for just anybody) [x] Contact the spirit of someone they once knew [x] Spend the night in a cemetery [x] Sit in a room with one hundred creepy dolls (Literally just his house) [x] Hang their feet over the edge of a tall building [ ] Swim in dark, murky waters without being able to touch the bottom (Again, that's just stupid to do without a valid reason) [x] Be covered in spiders, snakes, or other insects [x] Go looking for the source of a mysterious sound late at night (Also arguably stupid thing to do but he's more likely to do this than the other things because he can usually defend himself pretty well) [ ] Spend an hour sealed up in a coffin (Trauma </3 NOPE) [ ] Go sailing miles from shore without any communication (Another arguably dumb thing to do without a necessary purpose) [/] Use a Ouija board (^^, but could be convinced) [ ] Go diving in a dark, underwater cave (What for?) [ ] Climb through a long tunnel just big enough to fit through (He's been known to be creatively suicidal but not this creatively suicidal LMAO suffocating to death over a long period of time doesn't sound like a great way to go out) [x] Explore a spot where cult rituals were performed [x] Go walking late at night, alone (Common activity for him) [x] Spend the night in a home where someone was murdered (Again, he lives there <3) [ ] Go surfing on the Dark Web (Too paranoid!!!) [x] Play an urban legend game (bloody mary, the midnight man, etc…) (Most of them are bollocks but I like the idea of him being able to summon certain people he once knew in this way if he wants to) [x] Stay home alone with a suspected killer on the loose (What else is he going to do about it? Call Caroline???) [x] Climb a dangerous mountain where many others have died on their way to the top (Mountains are his preferred place to chill) [x] Explore ancient ruins where strange things have happened [x] Touch a supposedly cursed object (His curse probably cancels out most other curses tbh) [x] Check out a creepy cellar or attic [/] Cross an unstable bridge over a huge drop (I mean, he could just use his wings, so? Maybe? If he was with people he could do that around?) [ ] Pick up a hitchhiker in the middle of the night

[rejaytionships]

archive: first rosemary fic from april 2022

[cw for abuse mentions]

---

Exhausted. Afraid. Anxiously awaiting for her husband to fall asleep.

These were words used to describe twenty-six year old Valerie Barrett, the small-town girl who could have been. The successful financial career she had was stunted when she was engaged and wed by one of her coworkers, thirty-three year old Roy Barrett. Who seemed once like a charming, charismatic alpha male slowly started to show his true colours. He would belittle Valerie’s work, he would make crude comments on the job about her, he would convince her she wasn’t good enough for the position she spent her whole life to enter.

Things took their biggest dive when Roy demanded Valerie deny a promotion, as it would have meant she would spend more time at work, while Roy was hoping Valerie could cut back work hours to instead raise a future family. When Valerie refused, Roy took the liberty of rejecting the promotion himself, subtly making his wife look less and less competent at the job and definitely in no place to handle any more responsibility. It took her a while to find out why the idea of promotion was suddenly off the table.

They tried for a kid, and tried, and tried. After a year of failure to carry a child to term, or even carry at all, Roy grew from tired to frustrated to belligerent, even going so far as to accuse Valerie of intentionally sabotaging their family for her selfish reasons. He became more controlling, more irritable, more… violent. Valerie told herself it was just grief manifesting in intense manners, that Roy truly loved her no matter what.

Which is why it was so hard to find out Roy had been curating an affair behind Valerie’s back. It was seemingly just her husband being overly friendly with a fellow female co-worker, but that optimistic reality faded away when her husband started going on more frequent “business trips”, or when she had found garments not belonging to her in their shared room. She asked Roy, who blatantly denied what was happening and called her delusional; he even had the gall to accuse her of cheating instead and spinning the blame to get people off of her case. She was met with more anger, more belligerence, more hurt.

Valerie couldn’t take it anymore.

The radio in the kitchen beside her was on low volume, as a radio show host started to describe the recent outbursts of alleged “alternate” encounters. How people were apparently being taken away from their families by horrifying creatures with no humanity to them. Valerie scoffed; it simply sounded like her husband had been getting around.

Part of her wished they would take him next.

She turned the radio off as she finished cleaning her last plate, listening in carefully and praying her husband was finally asleep; the snoring emitting from her bedroom confirmed her hopes. Quietly, she moved to her back porch, sitting on a beautifully carved birch wood chair. Letting out a deep exhale, she gazed up at the sky before closing her eyes.

She began praying under her breath. Someone, anyone, please save her. Save her from this fate, from her husband. The God she stopped believing in, any other God, even the alternates coming upon them. Even if she had to go down as payment, she wanted him to go down with her, too. Whoever would come to help, she would do anything to repay them.

But it was no use. Prayers, never get answered, right?

She opened her eyes, and was mortified to see a pair of eyes staring right back at her. She wanted to scream, cry, anything; but a lump in her throat held her silent.

“Do not be afraid,” the figure in front of her calmly spoke. “I bring you good news.”

Valerie gawked upon the being floating in front of her face; it looked almost angelic, but something seemed… off about it. She couldn’t place quite what, though. It could have just been the feeling of utter shock that this moment was real. “... God?”

The figure let out a low chuckle. “I am the angel Gabriel. I have come to bring you good news.”

“Gabriel…” Valerie murmured. “Have you come to answer my prayer?”

“Your prayer was heard, Valerie. Soon shall you be free again.”

Tears swelled in her eyes. Was this real? She pinched her skin to see if she would wake up.

The angel, Gabriel, took notice. “My sweet child, you are not dreaming. I come to you in the flesh, awake and alive.”

Valerie moved off of her chair and onto her knees, bowing into a prayerful position. “How would I become free, Gabriel?”

“Lay your head to rest. When you awaken, he will be gone. Then you shall rejoice!”

“Where… would he be going?”

The angel’s smile grew wider, almost eerily so. “The Lord works in mysterious ways, o little lamb.”

Valerie took this as her hint to not press on further, despite the chilling sensation running down her back. “Thank you, Gabriel. Thank you and thank the Lord, for taking pity upon a non-believer.”

“Your heart is pure.” Gabriel reached a hand out, hovering it just above Valerie’s head. “Believe once more, and you shall be forgiven in His eyes. Devote yourself to Him. Devote yourself to me.” His voice seemed to permeate Valerie’s head; despite being quieter, it felt loud and clear inside of her head.

Valerie gazed up at the glowing figure. “For your graciousness, Gabriel, I shall do what you please.” She bowed her head once more.

Gabriel’s smile grew greatly, his jaw appearing to extend past what should be possible. His eyes were opened wide, his face growing darker and more ominous. He placed his hand upon Valerie’s head finally, bending down to place his mouth close to her ear. “Devote yourself to me,” he whispered repetitively, as if it was subliminal messaging.

He placed a soft kiss upon Valerie’s forehead before returning to standing position, his facial features back to normal. “Rest now, my lamb. In the morning, you shall see that your prayer has been fulfilled.”

Valerie stood up, taking Gabriel’s hand in her own. She looked into his eyes; angels should have been beings of light and safety, so why was Gabriel’s gaze so eerie? Perhaps the Bible took some creative liberties. It was no matter, she was still allegedly being saved. “I would hope so,” she grinned, lightly shaking the angel’s hand before heading back inside.

She made her way to her bedroom, carefully getting ready and laying down for bed quietly enough as to not wake her husband in his final moments with her. She closed her eyes, hearing only the ambiance of the outside.

And soon also, the static of a presence in Valerie’s house. It inched closer to her by the second, stopping right above where her husband was resting. She cracked her eyes open just enough to see what was happening, but not enough to be noticeably awake. To her horror, a dark creature was hovering above Roy, its long claws scraping against his face. “Roooy,” it called to him, in her voice. “Darling, breakfast is ready,” the beast cooed.

Valerie fully closed her eyes again. She could hear her husband wake up in exhausted grumbling. She could hear him ask what breakfast was doing ready at such an early hour. She could then hear his scream of horror as he processed what was on top of him. She heard it for so long, and then it stopped in a sudden halt. She didn’t bother opening her eyes. Was this truly God’s doing, or were the suspicious feelings from the angel — the entity posing as an angel — starting to show itself as a correct interpretation?

She felt a presence move above her. The ringing in her ears grew louder and louder. “Valerieee,” it called to her in her husband’s voice. “Why aren’t you awake yet? I’m so hungry…”

Somehow, the creature masquerading as her husband seemed less threatening than the real deal. The creature Valerie was certain she should have been afraid of.

A second voice cut in. “Not her,” it simply stated in a low tone; it sounded familiar.

That was the last thing she heard before consciousness was stolen from her.

It wasn’t until the sun had been long in the sky that she had awoken to the same voice. “Wake up, Valerie Desrosiers,” it beamed. “Wake up and rejoice!”

Valerie rubbed her eyes, sitting up slowly. She turned to the source of the voice; Gabriel was in her room, on the side of her bed that her husband once laid upon. “Desrosiers…?” Valerie questioned tiredly.

“Is that not your name, my lamb?” Gabriel seemed to inch closer, although it did not appear like he moved a muscle. “Shall I refer to you as Barrett?”

Valerie felt herself cringe. Barrett. Such a hideous name. “Desrosiers is fine.”

Gabriel grinned. “Then it shall be your name forever more. The man you once feared shall have no control over you. Your devotion has given you freedom.”

Valerie looked around the room; it was as if Roy left without a trace. “Will I see him at work?” she asked, a twinge of fear present in her tone.

“As I shall see to it, he will never grace your presence another day.”

Valerie lit up, but her light died as fast as it was born. “What about my boss? Wouldn’t he worry if my husband was no longer at work?”

Gabriel placed a hand on Valerie’s shoulder. “Fear not, my lamb. You shall tell him your truth. Do you know where Roy Barrett has gone?”

Valerie thought for a second before shaking her head. “I guess not, no.”

“Then that is what you shall tell him.”

“But… didn’t I have something to do with him being gone?” Valerie felt her throat swell up. “What if he knows?”

“Dear child, all will be fine. Return to your daily life and say not a word of your prayer. As long as you are devout to me, I shall see that you never falter.”

Valerie’s chest grew tighter and tighter. Gabriel radiated mal-intent, yet all of his words and actions brought her comfort and safety. He had to be connected to the supposed alternate spikes, right? It would be a wild coincidence for an “angel” to show up and promise that her husband will no longer bother her, only for a creature reminiscent of the alternates of the tales on the radio to snatch him away. Just what was this entity hiding?

Gabriel’s brow furrowed. “Is there any doubt in your heart?” His grip on Valerie’s shoulder grew tighter.

Valerie gulped. “Ah, no, Gabriel!” she spat out. “I simply… need time to process. This is a very big change, holy one.”

“That is… understandable.” Gabriel’s grip loosened, moving slowly down her arm and stopping at her hand; he entwined his fingers with hers. “Miracles are a sight to behold. Nevertheless, you must get on with your day.” He placed a kiss gracefully onto the back of Valerie’s hand. “Shall you ever need me, you may reach out with prayer.” The angel — entity — let go of Valerie’s hand and stood up. “And you shall most certainly need me, always,” he whispered lowly.

Before Valerie could even answer, she blinked, and Gabriel vanished. It was only her now, seemingly alone again… right?

She prepared for her day at work, wondering what will entail now that she has been seen by a powerful force. How long until the being that showed her mercy eventually turns? How long until her blessings become curses?

She prayed, internally, that it would not be for a while.

[zepskies]

@lamentationsofalonelypotato

Why hello my lovely friend!! 😍 I'm so ready to dive into your thoughts on this chapter. 💜💜

Right off the bat, the sexual tension with the gambling 👌🏻. I don't know what it is, but I always love in movies or shows or books when they have a poker game/card game between two people who are obviously into each other. I don't think it's a trope, but- the sexy smiles over the cards, the bluffing, the flirting, the teasing, just OH GOODNESS 😮‍💨

Yesss I love those kinds of scenes too! (Clearly lol) I'm so glad you agree. 😏

I'm not going to lie, I would have thought this to myself if I was in her situation. At the same time I feel bad for her because she has all this bottled inside and it's probably even worse that she's in close counters with him, just second guessing everything. BUT I also love that you've given us these wonderful domestic moments between the two of them. ❤️

The close quarters are a blessing and a curse here, isn't it? 😅 Thank you for that compliment!! I wanted the buildup here to be about the small moments of connection. 💗

DANG IT DEAN STOP HIDING FROM YOUR FEELINGS! Man really out there chopping wood trying to forget all his problems and relieve some tension 👀, while the reader is inside trying to educate herself🤣

Ughhhhh you just wanna throttle him!! loll Meanwhile, she's wasting absolutely no time to learn all the can about this man, because with him it's like trying to pry open an old clam. 🤣🤣

The way you integrated John's journal into this chapter was so good! It adds on to the lore of the story. I'd never read through the official "John's Journal" merch so it was nice to see those little details and honestly made me feel more connected to the reader, because it was the first time that I was reading the entries too!

Aww thank you!! It honestly made me emotional (and sympathize so much more with Jhhn) just reading the journal, so I just tried to infuse as much of my own reading experience in the reader character. I'm so glad it made you feel more connected to her. 💞

Girl it's okay we can cry together- DEAN WAS IN THE CRIB WITH SAM. Nothing is okay. I am made of tears. INCONSOLABLE 😭

Girl when I read that part of the journal, the way I was like:

(And YES, spray that man like a bad dog!!)

AND he knows that she is supposed to be HIS. For the love of rice krispy treats! SHE HAS A BROKEN ANKLE DEAN. Don't let her leave!!! Sweetie he's a grumpy old onion, you gotta peel him back one gorgeous layer at a time. 🤣

Girl you took me OUTttt. 🤣🤣🤣

This bit is also so heartbreaking, because it's literally her meeting her mate and her believing that he doesn't want her, when it's probably all he does. There's something so raw about that. The idea of finding someone who was literally made for you and believing that they want no part of you. Oh goodness my fragile heart😭

Yeeeeep, honestly reminds me of If The Stars Wish It So, when the reader has that moment of "is it me? Why doesn't he want me?" But in reality, Dean's fighting his instincts to be with her tooth and nail. 🥲🥲

I'm not going to lie, I wasn't expecting it to be a Bear. I literally thought this was going to turn into Dean saving her from a Wendigo- because of the allusions to her dad being killed by one, but this was such a (un)pleasant surprise LOL

LOLL you know what, initially I was going to go the Wendigo route for this climactic moment, but it felt more surprising to me to have it be a non-supernatural threat, just a typical bear wandering through his territory. 😂

I LOVE this insight into his head, just a little piece but enough for the readers to see that Dean does in fact care and that he does feel something for her! Not to mention again... HE PICKS HER UP. I've read Dean in so many fics doing that but each time it just makes me *swoon*.

Thank you!!! I thought this window into his head was needed, but also, Alpha Dean is just so....ALPHA. 🫠🫠🫠

And oh my word, him finally sitting down with her on the couch and allowing himself to let down some of his walls and let the reader in is just so good!! Not to mention now the reader is going to tell him the truth over how she lost her dad! I'm very excited to read the next chapter, but this one was amazing Alex! 🤗

He finally broke down a bit, seeing how much he was affecting her! 😭 I'm so glad you enjoyed that. I tried my best to make it feel like a natural progression. I so hope you enjoy the next chapter, my friend! 🥰💕

Against the Wind - Part 2

Pairing: Alpha!Dean Winchester x F. Omega!Reader 

Summary: You wake up in a strange alpha’s cabin in the middle of a snowstorm, all with a busted ankle. He holds shadows in his eyes, even though his hands are gentle. There are iron shutters around his heart, even though he saved you. You might just save him in return.

AN: Thank you guys so much for all the amazing feedback on Part 1! Now, most of your theories and questions will be answered...

Jacklesverse Bingo24 Prompt: True Mates @jacklesversebingo

Song Inspo: “Against the Wind” by Bob Seger

Word Count: 3.8K

Tags/Warnings: Angst, and peril, the other kind of "hunting."

Series Masterlist || Bingo Masterlist

Part 2: Seems Like Yesterday

“I’ll raise you 25,” you say, tossing five chocolate covered pretzels into the middle pile. It’s a risky bet, considering how much you lost in the last hand. Dean regards you with an amused, if critical eye while he holds his cards.

“Ooh, you’re bluffing,” he says. You pop your brows at him, a subtle smile tugging at your lips.

“You want to test that theory? Put your money where your mouth is,” you challenge.

He tilts his head at you with a raise of his own brows.

“Cheeky omega,” he mutters. His attention returns to his cards as he deliberates on his next move.

You attempt to be nonchalant as you glance down at your cards again. It’s a shitty hand, but he doesn’t need to know that. The alpha’s won the last two hands of Texas Hold ‘Em, but you did win the first one. Though you suspect he let you win.

You want to at least even the score before he resumes his work out in the shed. He spends most of his time there during the day, or making sure the firewood is stocked. It seems like he takes any excuse not to spend too much time in your presence.

More than anything, you want to ask him if he feels what you feel—the same tug in the pit of your stomach every time he’s nearby. You just haven’t found a way to broach that with him.

Hey, I know we just met like two minutes ago, but I think we’re supposed to be together. Do you feel it too?

You nearly roll your eyes at yourself. Yeah, that’ll go over well.

So you have to be content with mornings like this and in the evenings, where he lets you put on one of his records, and you two share dinner together, maybe another round of cards. Or you’ll read a book while lounging on the chaise, and he lays out on the couch, listening to his music with his eyes closed. You like watching him like that, with a relaxed, damn near peaceful set to his face.

Too often he holds that harder, stoic expression, or that divot between his brows that makes you want to soothe two of your fingers there; or better yet, lean in and press your lips—

“It’s your move,” Dean reminds you. He’s finally played his hand, but you were too distracted to hear what he said.

“What’d you do?” you ask, surveying the piles of cards.

“Call,” he repeats, popping a few pretzels into his mouth. He washes it down with beer and more barbeque chips. Those are worth $10 in this little fantasy betting. He points a finger towards you with the same hand that holds his beer, teasing, “You got all the lights on in there? Or am I boring you?”

You glance up at him, fighting a smile. “All right, keep your pants on. Let me see…”

As the dealer, he’s already turned over the River: the last card in the hand. It’s a 10 of Clubs, which means your One Pair is actually a Two Pair. It’s still not a great hand, but it’s decent enough to maybe let you get the best of your opponent.

After you go “all in,” Dean’s lips twitch at a smile, and he humors you, going all in as well. You’re on tenterhooks when he finally reveals his hand.

“Ooh, it ain’t a cheesy ‘90s sitcom, but it’s still…a Full House,” he brags as he lays out each card in a smooth line of overlapping cards, the mix of glossy red diamonds and black spades showing the truth. He won again.

You huff in defeat, your shoulders sinking in your seat at the kitchen table. You turn over your measly hand. Sweeping the winnings toward himself (a mound of chocolate covered pretzels, a stack of barbecue chips, and a handful of Oreos), Dean chuckles and tosses you a wink.

“Ah, don’t beat yourself up, sweetheart. I’ve been hustlin’ poker for a long time. Hell, I’ve been playing this game before I even knew my times tables,” he says as he collects the cards.

“That young?” you reply. “Who taught you?”

“My dad,” he says. “Oh, believe me, I used to get my ass kicked many a’ time, but by the time I turned sixteen, I was hustlin’ grown ass men in skeevy bars out of their daily paycheck.”

“You were hanging out in bars at sixteen?” you ask incredulously. There, Dean seems to realize he’s said too much. He becomes more guarded as he puts away the deck and cleans the crumbs off the table.

“My dad was always working. You could say I didn’t really have a curfew,” he says.

“A latchkey kid, huh?” you reply, hiding the way you’re trying so hard to glean any more hints of truth between his words.

“Heh, yeah.” He gets up from the table and tosses the breakfast dishes in the sink, then travels to the front door to don his jacket and boots.

“All right, I’ll be out back,” he says.

Out back, code for out in the shed. You nod, and in a flash, he’s shutting the door behind him.

You’ve learned another small tidbit about him, one that feels more important than it seems on the surface. And yet, it only elicits more questions you doubt he’ll be willing to answer so easily. He’s more than tight-lipped about his past, only giving vague outlines and general pictures.

Even his stories—like being raised up in a family of traveling mechanics, putting Nair in Sam’s shampoo when he was a kid, or the guy’s serious fear of clowns—feel like they’re missing some key details.

You decide to take up your crutches and head for your room. There you unearth the journal from its hiding place under your pillow. This time, you turn to the very beginning. Before all the jargon about mythology (and an odd footnote about a “Turducken Slammer”), there are actual journal entries. The first one dates back to November 6, 1983. The first line already captures your attention.

I buried my wife today. Even as I write that down, I don’t believe it. Last week we were a normal family…eating dinner, going to Dean’s T-ball game, buying toys for baby Sammy. But in an instant, it all changed… When I try to think back, get it all straight in my head…I feel like I’m going crazy. Like someone ripped both my arms off, plucked my eyes out. I’m wandering around, alone and lost and I can’t do anything.

This is Dean’s father, you realize. The more that you read, with no small amount of dismay, you also realize that this man is writing about his wife, Mary.

Dean’s mom…

He writes about their house burning with all their memories inside, along with Mary. Somehow, he saw her pinned bloody to the ceiling.

Along with these pages is a clipping from a news story:

House Fire Kills Mother of Two

Lawrence, Kansas.

You’re spellbound by it all. You keep reading.

November 13, 1983

…Most of our clothes and photos are ruined, even our safe—the safe with Mary��s old diaries, the boys’ savings bonds, what little jewelry we had…all gone. How could my house, my whole life, go up like that, so fast, so hot? How could my wife just burn up and disappear?

The police don’t believe his story, about how she died before the fire, about what he saw. So he tries to convince himself that what he saw wasn’t real. Still, he can’t find rest, and he worries about his sons’ safety.

December 4, 1983

I haven’t let them out of my sight since the fire. Dean still hardly talks. I try to make small talk, or ask him if he wants to throw the baseball around. Anything to make him feel like a normal kid again. He never budges from my side—or from his brother.

Every morning when I wake up, Dean is inside the crib, arms wrapped around baby Sam. Like he’s trying to protect him from whatever is out there in the night.

Sammy cries a lot, wanting his mom. I don’t know how to stop it, and part of me doesn’t want to. It breaks my heart to think that soon he won’t remember her at all.

You don’t realize you’re crying until a droplet lands on the page. You quickly wipe it away before it becomes a stain, and you dry it all the way with your breath before you move on to the next page, sniffling. Your heart hurts, even as your guilt grows. You know now that you’re really, truly invading Dean’s privacy by reading his father’s words. You just can’t stop yourself from turning the next page.

John becomes convinced that someone, or something, started the fire that destroyed his life and took his wife away from him and his sons. He leaves his job and the remnants of that world behind, to venture deeper into the darker one. But in that darkness, he finds truth.

He visits a psychic, Missouri, who leads him back to his house and senses the echoes of an evil presence—something that shakes her to the core, and John too: the creature that killed his wife.

December 20

…She told me that it was the most powerful, awful thing she’s ever come across.

On January 1, 1984, John makes a New Year’s resolution. He determines to find the answers himself.

A shiver runs down your spine. In John’s words, your heart breaks for Dean, but you also see yourself. You try not to think about why.

You keep flipping through the rest of the journal past January. There are translations of a Latin exorcism, and like you read before, strange drawing of evil looking creatures—as well as what they are, scraps of their history, and how to kill them.

Silver bullet to the heart, can’t withstand iron, salt and burn.

You pause on a certain page, more filled with lore than the rest, and a primitive drawing in the center.

WENDIGO

Cree: Evil that devours.

Wood spirit. Eats live flesh. Lives in forests.

Perfect hunter.

Your breath stills in your lungs as a cold sweat forms across your skin. The more you read, the faster your heart beats.

The crunch of dead leaves. Your father shouting at you to run, and keep running.

The coarse shout of a bear morphs into something other. It’s a sharper, whirring sound like wind howling amidst animalistic clicking, and then bones breaking—your father’s scream cut short. You turn around with your rifle in hand, poised to shoot blindly.

Your stomach churns as bile rises into your throat. You feel sick, and wrong, and you suddenly have the urge to throw the journal against the wall.

“Omega?” calls Dean’s sharp voice. “You okay?”

You jolt badly at the sudden noise. You didn’t hear him reenter the house. He likely caught the scent of your distress. He pushes the door of your room open to find you, but he stops short in the doorway. His surprise quickly morphs into a frown when he notices what you’re holding in your lap.

You gasp, freezing where you sit, but there’s no point in trying to cover up what you’ve done. With an angry purse of his lips, he reaches over and takes the journal from your hands.

“What the hell are you doing with this?” he demands.

“I’m…I’m sorry. I just—” You swallow past the lump in your throat. “I was just curious. I wanted to know more about you. I thought it was…a normal journal.”

“So this is how you go about it, huh? Got everything you wanted, Columbo?” he says, his sarcasm cutting into you. He flips through the journal to make sure all the pages are intact before he tucks the journal under his arm. “Seriously, going into somebody’s stuff? Who the hell raised you?”

At that, you begin to bristle.

“My dad,” you snap back. Though remembering the passages you’ve lived with for the past few hours, you soften with a painful twinge of sympathy in your heart. 

“And it looks like yours raised you to be some kind of…well, what are you, a ghostbuster or something?” you ask.

His jaw locks. “Or something.” 

With an exasperated sigh at his hedging, you swing your legs around the edge of the bed and haul yourself up with your crutches so you can at least match his stance (more or less).

“Dean, please, just talk to me,” you implore, gesturing at the journal tucked under his arm. “The things I read—”

“Are none of your goddamn business!” he growls, making the omega inside you cringe. The alpha’s voice is deep and sharp, and even though he isn’t crowding you, his height and broadness are still intimidating.

“The sooner you heal up, the sooner I can ship you back to where you belong,” he says. “Back to your life, so you can stop sticking your nose into mine.” 

Your mouth actually falls open in shock. His vehement words feel almost as powerful as a physical blow, if to your soul. They make your arms tremble while holding yourself upright on your crutches. Hot tears well up in your eyes, though you try to blink them away. After a moment, you’re able to collect yourself enough to speak.

“I’m sorry for going through your stuff,” you say, in a quiet voice.

You hobble awkwardly past him out of the room. You don’t stop until you reach the front door, where your snow boots are. You manage to get them on by yourself so you can go outside and get some fresh air, not to mention some much needed distance from the alpha’s burning presence. You can still feel him trailing behind you. You hear his heavy boots.

“Where the hell are you going?” he grits out.

You hobble faster.

Dean watches you go out the door without a word in irritation, even though it triggers an alarm deep in his gut every time you leave the safety of the cabin. 

The snow depth has lightened somewhat since the storm, but it’s still not easy to navigate on your crutches. You get some distance from the cabin, mindful not to go too far. You know you’re limited, and you didn’t even take a gun with you.

Finding a solid tree to lean on, you rest there and try in vain to stifle your tears. You know you were wrong for snooping, and he had a right to be mad, but did he really have to be such a freakin’ bear? 

Fucking alphas. I swear.

You thought you were starting to connect with him, but clearly, Dean wants nothing to do with you. He wants you out of his life. 

Does he not feel the same pull you feel to him? Does he really not realize…that he’s meant to be your mate?

You take in a shaky breath through your nose. If he does, apparently he doesn’t care.

Just then, you hear the crunch of snow nearby. Twigs snapping.

Your body stiffens with a terrible memory—of that day in the woods. Your breath comes out in short puffs on the cold air, your eyes wide as you listen closely.

Hearing nothing, you allow yourself to breathe a little easier. You venture a few paces forward and to the right, but you stop shy of how it slopes downward. Some unnamed feeling tells you to look over the edge.

You lean over and cast your gaze down the slope, but all you see is snow and trees down below. With a shaky breath, you lean back and look out to the north again. Plodding along the trail, heading towards you, is a bear.

Oh shit…

You remember Dean mentioning something about a bear passing by his cabin a couple of days before the storm. Looks like he’s back to make his rounds.

His fur is dark; from this distance, you can’t tell if it’s a black bear or a grizzly. It doesn’t make much difference when all you have on your person is a can of bear spray. His gait is massive, unhurried, but he lets out a braying sound when your gaze meets his, as if acknowledging you. He stops there for a moment, assessing. Your body locks up with fear.

The bear groans again, this time sharper. You finally snap out of your reverie and force your body to move slowly backward with your crutches spearing into the snow. The cabin isn’t that far, maybe thirty or forty yards at most. Still, the bear can probably beat you.

Instead of trying to run, you stand your ground and shout at the bear, hoping he’ll back off. Your voice dies in your throat when he rears up on his hind legs, with a loud roar. Trembling, you miss a step and get knocked back into the snow on your ass, your crunches falling out at your sides. You scramble inside your jacket for anything that might help you. 

Bear spray!

You hurry to get the cap off with shaking hands, but before you can even aim, the creature’s heave paws thudding into the ground in front of you—a gunshot rings out and hits the animal in the chest. 

The bear falters, then roars in pain and anger.

Two more shots finally bring it down to an even heavier thud, not far from your feet.

In this moment, these are the things you don’t know about Dean Winchester:

For one, the scent of an omega in distress always calls to an alpha’s protective instincts. But the scent of your abject fear feels like someone tried to rip his lungs out through his stomach.

Second, when he sees you there, your wide, shiny eyes filled with the remnants of panic, yet relief at the sight of him, it takes everything within him not to drop to his knees, grab you by the hair, sink his teeth into your neck and claim you, right there in the snow. Maybe then you’d start listening to him and stop taking your life into your hands.

Instead, his lips purse as he wracks his rifle and slings the strap of it over his shoulder. He stalks toward you and scoops you up, crutches and all. He brings you back to the cabin without a word.

His jaw is once again locked with silence and strain; he doesn’t trust himself to speak until he’s brought you inside and carried you over to the chaise. He sits beside you there and takes an inventory of you with his eyes.

“You okay?” he asks at last.

You manage to meet his gaze and give a little nod.

“Okay. Don’t move,” he says shortly. He gets up and goes to the kitchen, where he grabs a foldable set of knives and a cooler from under the sink.

You watch him in silence, and you realize he’s going back to gut the bear. You didn’t know that he actually hunted out here…well, hunted to eat. He continues to gather items in silence. It gets to a point where you can’t stand it, or his curtness, any longer.

“Thank you,” you say, halting his steps. Dean glances at you over his shoulder, then continues strapping up his supplies. He huffs in response.

“We’re gonna be eatin’ good for a while,” he says without looking at you. 

His attitude both hurts you and aggravates you, so much that you refuse to take it anymore. 

“Look, Dean. I’m sorry, okay? I shouldn’t have butted into your life,” you say. Frustrated tears well up in your eyes. Expelling a sharp sigh, you amend yourself. “I’m sorry for invading your privacy. I’m sorry about what you went through, and I’m…I’m sorry about your mom. I’m sorry for today. I’ll just…stay out of your way, and I’ll leave as soon as I can.”

Dean finally turns your way, but your lips tremble as you turn your face away from him and shut your eyes tightly against the salty burn of tears. Deep inside, his heart withers in his chest. He sighs and drops his supplies on the couch. He walks over with those heavy boots, and he sits on the edge of the chaise beside you. He hesitates for a moment, but eventually, he rests a warm, calloused hand on your arm and earns your tearful gaze. 

“I’m sorry. I, uh…shouldn’t have yelled at you,” he says. 

You sniff, quickly wiping away your embarrassing tears as they come. Your cheeks are hot with it.

“What is it you wanna know? About me,” he asks, surprising you that much more.

 Your mouth parts, but nothing comes out. It takes you some time to think, but the first thing that comes to your mind is…

“Everything in that journal,” you say, licking your dry lips. “Is it real?”

Dean holds your gaze steadily. You know the truth without him having to say it, but he does.

“I was a hunter,” he says. “Those things you read about, I found ‘em. Killed ‘em. It was my job.”

“And now?” you ask, once that large bit of information has time to set into your brain.

His lips tug at a half smile. “Consider me…mostly retired.”

You exhale softly, and you nod. It earns a furrowed look from Dean.

“You don’t seem all that freaked out by this,” he says, with a more scrutinizing gaze on you.

“Should I be?” you say, with an unsteady laugh.

He raises his brows. “In my experience, yeah.”

You chew on the inside of your lip. You don’t know if you should even put into words what you’ve been holding onto for months. Like John, no one believed you. Even your own mother had started to look at you like you needed a shrink.

“Omega?” Dean presses. His green eyes are perceptive as they take in the conflicted look on your face. “There something you wanna tell me?”

You deliberate for a moment longer. Then, you release a sigh and glance down at your hands clenching in your lap.

“A few months ago, I lost my dad,” you begin.

Dean nods. “Yeah, you said—”

“I lost him in these woods,” you say.

That quiets the alpha.

You shake your head, and you find your words as the memories that have been haunting your nights return to you.

“Like I said, we used to go hiking here every year…”

AN: Just so you know, all of the journal entries appear in the official "John's Journal" SPN merch. 😉

Next Time:

Unease prickles down your spine, though you don’t know why.

“Dad?” you whisper-yell, trying not to spook whatever animal might be out there.

A gunshot rings out, along with your dad’s voice in a shout. Your eyes widen in alarm, and you call his name louder, taking off in a run to find him.

You end up rising over a hill you hadn’t crossed before, but you see your dad below; you recognize his bright blue puffer jacket that Mom got him for his birthday. You call his name, and he looks up at you with fear in his eyes.

Not for himself, but for you.

▶️ Keep Reading: Part 3

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[aviculor]

A film that came out this year, simply titled Blood. A child is bitten by the family dog after it went missing for several days in the woods, giving him a...condition. One with an....unorthodox treatment. That's all I know ahead of time, and anything further will be under a read-more just like before.

Oh, I guess I can say one other thing before I dive in. I didn't intend things to work out this way, but it's fitting that I'm watching this after Birth/Rebirth since this is also a film about what lines a mother will cross to save her child. We got a theme this week.

Oh, this one comes with subtitles, nice.

As much as I like environmental storytelling, I think we need a little more details about this family where the dad already moved on, implying the divorce was because he was having an affair, yet the mom is such a stranger to her kids that she didn't know the son doesn't like olives. And what do you mean the dad used to pick them off? Wouldn't he just not put them on the plate in the first place? Anyway, point being, I think it might be a bit selfish for Jess to want sole custody. I suppose it's a thematic "I wasn't there for my son before, so now I need to do whatever it takes to keep him" type of thing. I mean, I'm not going to sit here nitpicking the plot's setup. I do get the point. It's just that I don't know if I'm actually rooting for Jess as the protagonist here. But that could make what happens next more interesting.

...Ah, I see that was the intended idea after all.

Okay, so it's not rabies but like slow-onset vampirism. I'm not sure if that makes the situation better or worse than Birth/Rebirth which had a strictly mundane reality where it just happened that a doctor found a way to successfully resuscitate someone from brain death...and stage 1 decomposition. But the supernatural begets a certain suspension of disbelief that softens the impact of the horrors you're witnessing. Like, it's definitely more painful to imagine yourself in Lila's shoes than Owen's because her condition is more grounded in reality.

Damaging out the blood bag in the hospital's inventory while stealing it, that's smart. Didn't see Rose or Celie do that in Birth/Rebirth, they just filled up a luggage case with whatever they needed and ran when anyone called out to them. Although, I think Jess might raise a few eyebrows by saying their whole supply of O- was bad. I don't mean to keep comparing the two films, there's just a lot of overlap in the plot and themes. Jess and Celie are even both nurses.

The tissue sample didn't show signs of any known viral infection. That's very...specific wording.

Oh my god, the sudden shot of Owen with tapetum lucidum is great. Ooh, this is what I'm here for.

You know, I really don't think a cancer patient who's been continually having blood drawn for days would be capable of ripping apart the metal scaffolding of a bed or shoving open a padlocked door. Very impressive display of her newfound will to live, someone should call up John Kramer and tell him about this. Wait, what? How long? Since Saw 3?

Oof, right on the barbed wire. That's rough. For a second I thought Owen was going to go full predator mode on her. Given Jess' reaction to what she walked in on and what happened next, maybe that's what should have happened.

"Something in the tree"? Maybe this lore development could have happened sooner instead of it coming out of nowhere when something more pressing is actively happening.

You know, for a second I thought we were leading up to Owen eating the baby as the last shot before credits roll. Although this still is its own brand of Unfortunate. At least Patrick didn't walk in on it, that would have been a little hard to explain. But also another missed opportunity for a gut-punch ending.

Prosecuting Jess for negligence because the kids were (allegedly) playing near a known water hazard? Buddy, you already took them away from her. This literally happened on your watch.

I liked it. Two different sites refused to buffer properly which made actually finishing it a chore, but the film itself was very good. A couple criticisms about the writing, but that's just because I can see the vision. Everything else about it was solid. I did like Birth/Rebirth more.

WAIT, PATRICK IS SKEET ULRICH!?

[niicevibe]

How you meet and fall in love with aizen x female reader plz

Fluff

Ooh boy, I can't imagine this would be an easy thing to accomplish at all, but let's dive in. Jeez, this ran longer than I meant it to, though, but a build up to the fluff you asked for was totally necessary.

𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬: fem!reader requested, fluff (+ a sprinkling of angst near the end bc it's Aizen).

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: alcohol consumption, kidnapping(ish), Aizen-level manipulation turned semi-affectionate behaviour??? an a dash of unspoken obsession??? i have no idea what to call it, lmao.

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 2.5k

izakaya → a japanese bar. haori → the white garb shinigami captains wear over the black shihakushō.

see sōsuke/reader headcanons here.

Sōsuke, being a man who's had his eyes wide open for quite a while now, probably would've been considering this as an option for his grand scheme of destroying the Soul Society. Sure, he has his Kyōka Suigetsu that already made him rather invincible to those who have seen its release. He doesn't need to go as far as finding a partner to help blind the entire Gotei from his plans, rather, he finds the idea of playing "house" amusing, it being likely that he hasn't bothered to pursue any kind of relationship out of a lack of interest... at the time.

Like I've mentioned before, Sōsuke would have only decided to pursue you if the right conditions have been met. I strongly believe in him being demi-romantic/demi-sexual, and for those who don't already know, being demi-romantic/demi-sexual means that someone only develops romantic feelings or only has strong sexual feelings for another person when they have a strong emotional connection to them. A bond has to exist.

As good an actor as he is, he wouldn't want to bother with the extra effort of it. He'd likely use that effort to find someone good enough to play his co-star. His and yours' ideals would have to align, and while Sōsuke's emotional range doesn't exactly involve direct romancing, there is a degree to which he would allow himself to cross-- for the sake of his plans, he'd tell himself. That established connection I spoke of would have to be strong for him to go through with it.

His searching is casually done, ear to the ground while he performs his duties as Captain and as he strategizes. He's put small feelers out, briefly mentioning in a forced conversation that he "wouldn't mind" finding a good woman to settle down with. And for a good amount of time, no one has managed to cross his path that interested him.

Ironically, it'd been a bit of tipsy mumbling that caught his attention.

A simple outdoor izakaya east of the Seireitei had been the location the voice had come from, complaints that eventually turn into sensical verbiages that has Sōsuke tuning into you. Why does the Soul Society do things one way and not the other? Why weren't we deployed there to save those Rukongans? Why did they have to die because we couldn't act on our own? Sōsuke can sense your heartache; it resonates with him all too well.

You're sitting all alone, no companion and no other guests around. Understandable; it is quite late now. He decides to approach you upon recognizing you as one of his higher ranked officers, sitting down in the stool next to yours where you slump into the table, tears streaming down your face and onto the wood.

Don't get confused by what happens next, now. Sōsuke isn't here to offer sympathy or comfort. He found someone who both has constraints against the Soul Society for its never-ending poor decision-making, and who is in a state of vulnerability. It only makes inserting himself your mind that much easier.

He'll pull the end of his haori into his fingers and reach for your face, lightly dabbing at your emotionally-heated cheeks until your eyes open, and they open wide. Perhaps you're too deep into the bottle of sake only inches from your head to fully register that it's Captain Aizen wiping your tears away, but when you address him as such, maybe not.

"... it's so unfair, Captain Aizen..." You sniff unapologetically loud. "This life is so unfair."

His stare down at you is lukewarm, while his thoughts sear his brain, telling him that you could be just what he's looking for.

"Hm... It is unfair, isn't it?"

Conveniently enough, the izakaya is meant to be closing, prompting its owner to inquire about Sōsuke's subordinate.

"She's one of yours, right, Captain? Mind seeing that she gets home? She's a good kid."

Perhaps it should be inconvenient that a Captain has to carry his Third Seat home from over his shoulder, but his mind races with the possibilities he now has by inserting him into your memories. Will you remember him? Or will your brain erase him by morning? Will he have to start from scratch? Remind you of his favour performed to you?

Apparently, come the next day, neither of those became necessary. At a time in the morning that you knew he'd be awake and decent, you arrived at the doors of his quarters holding a small, hastily wrapped package between trembling fingers. You hadn't lost your memory, no thanks to the dangerous amount of liquor you drank the night before. It'd all been in an effort to erase the day's memories, as you don't necessarily normally drink yourself into near unconsciousness. It simply was too much of a sight to bear weight for. Despite your rank and seasoned skills, well... No one should have to see what you did.

When the door opens, you flinch, prepared physically considering how fast you ran to the nearest shop to purchase the contents of the parcel you currently hold in a death grip, but mentally? You can feel the shame of your behaviour the night prior pooling beneath your tongue, and so, your begin to speak before he can.

"C-Captain Aizen! I'm here to apologize for last night! I'm... still in disbelief that you carried me home, but... my public display of intoxication, I swear, sir, that doesn't portray my character whatsoever. I-I'm not like that, I-I promise--"

"Good morning, Third Seat ______." You blink owlishly at him, once more in a shock that stops your heart when he interrupts you. "Calm down. I'm not upset with you. And, I didn't think for a moment that it reflected your professionalism."

Naturally, the moment Sōsuke returned to his quarters, he'd pulled up whatever information was available in your files to peruse the woman he'd chosen to pursue.

"Besides, I know of your accomplishments. I've heard the praises sung of you, _____."

Not a total lie. He has heard of his third seat's performance in regards to the reports delivered to him after your involvement in certain events. Reflecting on them through the evening only solidified the fib.

"O-Oh... what a relief, then." You exhale rather sharply before finally extending the package to your superior. "An apology gift, sir. It's just a simple tea set, but the tea paired with it is exquisite."

"A kind gesture, but this isn't necessary, _____. It was no trouble to assist you to your quarters. It was a mere coincidence that I'd been passing through in that direction."

You persist on him taking it, something that amuses him for a reason he can't place. He sees you won't take no for an answer, simply because the embarrassment you'd experienced upon recalling his hands on you has your insistence fuelling your exchange.

"Well... since you're so insistent on making things up to me, why don't you come in and brew us a pot of one of those "exquisite" teas you mentioned?"

Another won opportunity, Sōsuke muses to himself as you unravel the wrappings and set out the items with still shaking hands. He notes this; wonders if your nerves getting to you is due to a hidden authority complex, or if it's him in particular. He wouldn't mind it either way. Perhaps you're like his lieutenant in this way, but he hopes not. At the very least, you'd better have a fighting spirit for when the time comes.

Over tea, he insists on conversation, even pulling out a package of sweets for the two of you to share. You're nervous, and it shows, but Sōsuke does well to soften you out. Before long, the two of you chat like old friends, until your respective duties were due to interrupt it.

For a while, it remains like this, things like passing greetings and idle chatter when you make increased personal deliveries of reports to his office. There's always a fresh pot of tea awaiting your arrival, as if he'd expected you be the one to come until it became a true pattern; at the same times of those select days of the week, your presence became a part of the upholstery to his office, his quarters.

Even if it'd meant filling your day to the brim with little time to rest, you could barely find it in you to mind. The man you've known as "Captain" for a forgotten number of years by this is the same man whose mild mannerisms and soft-spoken concerns, whose sense of duty and a sense of when and how to settle down after a taxing day, and whose apparent interest in you no longer seems to tiptoe on the line of subordinate and superior. Your desire to admit your own fallacy is no more easily ignorable than an oncoming horde of Adjuchas. And while you are surprised that Sōsuke is the one to say the words first, to suggest that the two of you address the unnamed emotional attention between you, well naturally, it doesn't faze him one bit.

It went all according to his plans, after all. So why would finally having you dancing in his palm surprise him? No, that isn't what gets him at all. It the fact that he enjoys playing this small game of house with you. The domestication, the comforts, the eased worries, and not just through you being his third seat or by you helping to solidify his act of being one of the kindest captains in the Gotei Thirteen. There's something different that he has trouble articulating. Because never in his time in the Soul Society has he attempted to search out a person to love when it served him no true purpose.

But he enjoys the doting, the coddling, even the light chastising when he's caught lightly teasing his lieutenant. He enjoys your willingness to listen, hearing him out when he finally tests the waters and speaking on what you'd been drunkenly mumbling about the night he came across you at that izakaya. Why the Soul Society behaves the way it does, about the Soul King's existence, about the Royal Guard, none of which you'd been privy to until that moment... And with a deep discussion, you come to conclude that maybe this place isn't the paradise you were promised after death. That maybe, something needs to be done.

He wouldn't involve you on the plans that he, Gin, and Tōsen have laid out. It's hard to decide whether "trust" is the right word to use, but Sōsuke teeters on that lip of whether he would trust you enough to ever involve you in them. So far, things have only been spoken on in theory.

And so, on the day that Garganta split across the highest point in the sky above the Seireitei, he'd managed to split your mind. He'd kept you in the dark, kept you privy to what you didn't need to know, apparently. With so much having gone on already during the Ryōka Invasion, like Sōsuke's apparent death and him leaving you behind so abruptly in order to suit those plans he'd only theorized and shared with you, witnessing his lies unfold with his hand plunged through the Kuchiki girl's chest... so many thoughts and questions running through your head... yet despite the emergence of such a desperate, new situation...

... wondering whether he ever even cared for you became the biggest, most enraging one of them all. And whether he'll bother to answer to it or not, somehow, he still makes that one drastic decision that makes you float within that golden light, higher in the air, despite your weak, embarrassed protesting.

Because on the day you brought over that quaint little tea set as a means of asking for forgiveness, and partook in a cup of morning tea with your captain that led you into daring to imagining domesticity with him, abduction and betrayals weren't what you envisioned for your future. But he's always been an insect of a man with many plans, and you simply became trapped within the web of them.

While having a true, genuine connection to Sōsuke might seem impossible, don't sell yourself short. You've been with him long enough that he's seen merit in keeping you around, not simply as a mask, and not only during the time of his act while still in the Soul Society. Even post abduction to Hueco Mundo, he finds it difficult to understand he took those actions in the first place. Why did he bring you after all? Did he, perhaps, play that character too well, that now he's left with an unnatural attachment to you?

Sōsuke isn't someone who makes mistakes. It's why he's gotten away with doing so much over the past 100+ years. It's how he managed to fool you... and apparently, himself. Now, he always has you close by, while you do your best to make the best of a scary situation. It isn't that you've fallen out of love with Sōsuke Aizen-- not at all. Having spent so many years with him, you know it's simply impossible. And while you can't condone all that he's done, you're able to at least detach yourself from the truth of it. He's given you many other reasons to love him, after all.

On the sidelines during meetings with his ten Espada, you'll stand either near the wall (preferably) or near him (to be protected by his reiatsu against all the others' reiatsu). The space you share with him in his tower is comfortable... mostly empty and minimalist, but comfortable. You certainly could do without those two helpers who stare their daggers into your back (and who would just love to drive their weapons into it, too), but you know that you're covered there.

A lot of his attention goes on you. He's sure of your bitterness, and while he finds that your rage is an extremely attractive emotion on you, he does well in quelling it.

The Sōsuke you fell in love with in the Soul Society and the Sōsuke you play house with in Las Noches... two very different people. While in his guise, Sōsuke was a patient lover. In fact, he would've tiptoed around you to make sure he didn't push anything too far with you, simply to keep that mask up. You never admitted to him that it bothered you, but since the act is up, you thought to be honest with him about your feelings. All of them. Even the dark and downright hateful ones you have for him abducting you from your home.

This Las Noches Sōsuke shows no holds barred. Everything of him is laid on the table and most days, it's more than you can handle. Being so unfamiliar with the premise of it, Sōsuke doesn't know if he can truly name the emotions he feels for you as "love". But at the very least, he can admit to himself that if you hadn't been here with him, he would be different.

(that's it, that's all I've got for this crazy, crazy man 😮‍💨)

[undiscovered-horizon]

Dark!Druig Headcanons

[check out the 500 followers special!]

I have finally watched Eternals and now I understand why y'all are so obsessed with this man because same

This is a concept that is neither new nor uncommon

But my God do I love it

So let's dive into it

You’re part of the commune, just living your best rustic cottagecore life without a care about the outside world

Goals tbh

And it’s a perfectly normal day when Druig takes notice of you

It’s not like you’ve just appeared, you were born there

Druig may have been looking but he wasn’t seeing

You’re just carrying a basket of produce, waving and smiling at the children running around

And it’s as if Arishem himself bitch slapped Druig

He eavesdrops on your thoughts and comes to the realization that you’re the personification of human virtues, without an ounce of vice

Druig is watching you from a distance like one watches a wild animal in its natural habitat, careful not to disturb it. He also begins to follow you around

And as much as he would like to show the humankind what it can be, a weird fear clouds his mind

What if the world corrupts you? What if your virtues are delicate enough to be devoured by the odiousness of darkest desires?

No, he can’t risk that

And with that thought, he approaches you for the very first time in an attempt to see if your words are as chaste as your image in his head

Ever since Druig quite clearly suggests that you should "surrender" yourself to his protection and live like you deserve

Pointing out the possible dangers lurking around and the fact that not all people have pure intentions and that he, and only he, could keep you safe and sound

The vision of the world he presents to you is definitely embellished for certain purposes

The proposition, although kind, is met with rejection: it’s not that you don’t like Druig or don't believe his words, you just like your simple, rustic life

It’s a very rewarding lifestyle, to know that your mangoes, rumberries, grapefruits and avocados feed the community you love and care about

Man I love fruit

Besides, Druig has done so much for you, your family and the entire community. He would have no reason to deceive you, would he?

Druig's not keen on negotiations

I mean, you are just a human after all, right? He’s a timeless space being, he probably knows better

You’ll love staying by his side! You just don’t know it yet

So the next bit you’ve, kind of, brought unto yourself. Until you see reason, Druig doesn’t have many options, does he?

He starts off with more subtle things like mind-controlling everyone into alienating you

There are two reasons for that: 1) he doesn't want to risk anyone tainting your kindness and gentleness, and 2) if no one engages in a relationship with you, the loneliness will bring you straight to him

Yes, the idea of being your savior has been occupying his mind for quite some time

Your friends don't have the time to talk to you, some people start to completely ignore you, and your family is genuinely disinterested in you

He fights with his own thoughts about whether he should plant a seed of dislike in your head towards those around you: sure, it would make this whole ordeal easier for him but wouldn't it be a speck of dirt on your otherwise chaste spirit? In the end, he settles for unwavering ambivalence

Druig knows he's breaking your heart, he hears it in your thoughts, but it's a step towards the greater good: sometimes you have to lose first to win later.

So don't be surprised when you wake up one day to a thought in your head that maybe venturing alone into the woods isn't a good idea and that maybe you should stop by Druig's and see how he's doing

But it's rude to show up at someone's house empty-handed, so you bring some fruit with you

Druig definitely got you to hand-feed him grapes or berries

Depending on how receptive you are to his coercion, he might put himself into your dreams

Especially if you're having a nightmare, "saving" you from whatever's bringing you woe

He could, of course, plant an entirely new dream into your head but where's the fun in that? Druig plays his cards well

Even if consciously you know it's just a dream and none of it is real, you can't help your subconscious mind being more drawn towards Druig - just the way he planned everything

In all honesty, it would be less than child's play to make you devoted to him but such a scenario can't quite satisfy the itch inside him. He longs for you to choose to be by his side like a game he plays to win and although he does cheat in this game, the win is a lot less satisfying when the game is rigged to your favor __________ @restingbitchsblog

[geocait0815]

Demons Grasp - Chapter 11

Warning: Some gore, blood, death.

Something warm hits my face, then I hear a clank and a thud.

I see no light, no long lost relatives.

Slowly, I open my eyes. The stranger - I still have no idea what his name is - lies on his back in front of me. His one good eye stares into the night sky, unblinking. A hole gapes in his forehead, blood oozing from it.

He is dead.

I scramble backwards, landing on my butt, kicking away from the body. When I touch my face I can feel something wet. Brining my fingers in front of my eyes I realize that my face is covered in his blood.

I barely register the steps behind me. I am grabbed below my armpits and dragged to my feet. Someone puts an arm around me and starts leading me towards the exit of the alley. I see Tess running towards me. But I do not know if she reaches me. Because my knees buckle suddenly. And then there is only blackness.

********

I wake up and find myself lying on a leather seat. I smell wood, booze and perspiration. And blood. Why do I still smell blood? Oh right, I am covered in it.

Slowly I sit up and look around. I am in a dimly lit dive bar. One wall is occupied by a dark wooden bar. Shelves stacked with an impressive collection of bottles line the wall behind it. Scattered throughout the rest of the room are tables with mismatched chairs. There are booths along the wall opposite of the bar, separated by L-shaped leather benches like the one I am sitting on.

Tess sits on a stool, with her back to me. A blond woman, clad in leather, stands opposite of her behind the bar. She notices me first. “Good morning, sunshine. How are we feeling?” Her voice is rough, like that of a heavy smoker, but friendly. “Peachy” I respond. “What happened?” Tess swirls around and hops off her stool. She comes over, slides next to me into the booth and pulls me into a hug.

“Damnit, MC. You had me worried sick. When I walked in here earlier I noticed that you were not behind me. I went back out but you weren’t there either. I had a really bad feeling about this. So I called Jacky” she nods to the woman behind the bar “and her people to help me look for you.” “People?” “The others are still out taking care of the body” Jacky chimes in. 

“We got lucky and found you in that alley with that dude holding a gun to your head. This is when Jacky sprang into action. He was so focused on you, he did not even see her coming. She was the one that shot him.”

“Thank you, Jacky. You saved my life. But I’m sorry I put you in such a position.” “Not my first rodeo,” she shrugs. “You look like you could use something strong.” I nod and get up to walk towards the bar, legs still wobbly. I gratefully accept the glass she filled for me generously and knock it back in one gulp. Dan would be proud. But this does take off the edge a bit.

“So, this place is yours?” I ask. Jacky nods again. “Have been for twenty years.” “Tess mentioned that you could help us. More than you already did, I mean?” Another nod. “We are accepting private security gigs, like protection from domestic violence, transport of valuables and so on. Most of my people are vets. They found a home and a purpose here, after they got home.” 

“I can send six men,” she continues. “My best. Their services are yours for ten grand.” I have to swallow hard. That is all my savings plus some. I will figure it out. “Thank you.”

As she fills up my glass again, I notice a phone lying on the bar. “Is that his?” “Yes” Tess picks it up. “He received a call from his employers, right before…” my voice trails off. “That is good news. We might be able to trace back that call and extract more information from the phone itself.” Tess seems to be genuinely optimistic about this, which I find comforting. “Let’s head back to the others and get to work, then.” she chirps.

“Before we do that. Tess, I could really use that shower now.” “Sure thing.”

Jacky puts a card on the table and pushed it over to me. “My number. Let me know when and where you need us.”

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

[lucygxybaird]

time-traveler billy preview

author's note: i have a feeling this one is gonna be super long -- potentially multiple parts? - so i thought i would share what i have since that prompt has been sitting in my inbox since the dawn of time (sorry!!)

Everything happens so quickly that you don’t have time — at first — to realize how odd the situation is. The man’s clothes make him look like a refugee from a Western, and everything about him, from the curl of his hair to the way he stands marks him out as someone…different, somehow. Not to mention, of course, that he’s standing in the middle of the street, looking about as out of place and freaked out as a squirrel dropped into the middle of the ocean. 

But even if you could put your finger on it, you don’t have the time to consider what makes him so strange. 

First, you’ll have to get him out of the path of the oncoming car. 

You have, in point of fact, never actually tackled someone before. But you take your best shot, leaning in and diving at his waist, hoping to make him fold like a lawn chair. Maybe it’s just the shock, or maybe you actually find the right angle — you have no idea, but it doesn’t really matter. You manage to knock the guy sideways, both of you stumbling toward the safety of the sidewalk as the car screeches past, the driver laying on his horn. 

You watch as the guy flinches at the noise, actually clapping his hands over his ears as he squeezes his eyes shut, like he’s praying with all his might that the noise will just stop. Fortunately for him, the car turns the corner up ahead, and the sound of the horn fades as it goes. You watch it go, wondering absently how long Speed Racer is going to keep honking, and then you look back at the guy whose life you’ve saved.

“Are you okay?” It’s probably a stupid question, considering what little information you already have, but you don’t know what else to say. The guy lowers his hands and squints at you, staring as if you’re the one dressed like an extra from The Good, The Bad and The Ugly. “Hey — are you alright?”

He shakes his head, more like he’s trying to chase away a bothersome gnat than answering you. 

You’re starting to worry that he’s hit his head, although you can’t see a cut or a bruise on his temple. Now that you’re looking at him properly, it’s really rather difficult to keep from noticing how…well, how hot he is. It’s probably — definitely — inappropriate to even think about it, you’re well aware, considering he’s either injured, intoxicated in some way, or just going through it, but you can’t ignore the fact now that it’s quite literally staring you in the face. 

His eyes are large and blue, framed by thick, dark lashes as long as your pinky finger, set above a strong, straight nose that reminds you of a Greek statue, as perfectly sculpted as if it’s been made from marble. His lips are astonishingly full, his jawline and cheekbones each as defined as the dictionary, and you think there just might be the shadow of a dimple in his chin. And he’s tall, too, topping you by nearly a foot, his broad shoulders tapering to an angular waist. You realize, belatedly, that you’re staring, but then again, so is he.

“Are you okay?” you say again. “Is there something I can do for you? Someone I can call?”

He swallows, giving another shake of his head. “I don’t…I dunno where I am.” 

It’s the first time you’ve heard him speak, and his voice brings to mind sage brush and sunsets, the smoke that swirls over a campfire as it crackles with life, warm and husky, with a twang that makes you think of the bite of whiskey. 

“Okay,” you say, and without thinking about it, you take his hand. It feels natural, like trying to guide a lost child, or trying to make sure you don’t lose him in a crowd. As soon as his palm touches yours, you feel a shock race up your arm, and you have the strangest sensation of a door closing, separating one moment from the next as definitively as an axe splitting wood. 

His fingers curl around yours, his expression almost pleading. 

“Okay,” you repeat. “Okay. Just…come with me. I’ll help you.”

You can tell, if not just by the expression on his face — half-hopeful, half-bracing, as if he’s expecting a blow to fall any second — that he’s not used to asking for help, especially not from strangers. It makes your heart hurt just a little bit. You give his hand a gentle squeeze, and you’re softened — or maybe melted — by the way he smiles at you, shy but appearing more heartened than he did just a moment ago.

Then another car whizzes by, and he winces like someone has taken a shot at him. He ducks down, his eyes so wide that they look like a pair of full moons, their cornflower centers the only source of color in his face. “The hell is that?”

You stare at him. If he didn’t look so terrified, you’d think he was joking. But if he’s not joking, then he’s either on an incredible cocktail of drugs, or he’s from that weird isolated cult town in The Village. “It’s…it’s a car,” you say. 

“A car,” he repeats, as if you’ve just told him the secret to life in Mandarin. 

“Yeah,” you say. “You know…a horseless carriage.” 

For some reason, this seems to impart some understanding to him, but you can tell he’s still plenty freaked out. “Carriages don’t go that fuckin’ fast!”

You try very, very hard not to laugh, but god, it’s hard. You’re having to draw on nearly every ounce of compassion you have. It helps that, really, he’s not wrong. Not that you’ve ever ridden in a carriage, because you’re not Keira Knightley in a period film, but you don’t think they’re capable of speeds like that. 

“If it makes you feel any better,” you say, “you don’t have to worry about getting into a horseless carriage with me. I hate driving.” 

Now that it’s just the two of you standing on the sidewalk again, the road mercifully free of cars, he seems to relax a little, at least enough to consider your words. “Well,” he says. “That’s something.” 

Not entirely sure where to go, you decide the police station is as good a place as any. It might be a little Hallmark movie of the week, but maybe someone has already filed a missing persons report on him. With that thought, it occurs to you that you need some information first. 

“Do you remember your name?” you ask.

The look he gives you indicates he has never been quite so offended in his life. You can’t help but laugh this time. “Well, I don’t know!” you say. “You don’t know where you are, you’re walking around here looking like a puppy at the start of an ASPCA ad — maybe you’re suffering from some kind of amnesia.”

He doesn’t look any less nonplussed, but something about your laughter has loosened the muscles in his face. He smiles at you. You try to ignore the way your stomach flips to focus on his answer. “Billy,” he says. 

You fight the urge to repeat his name, rolling it around in your mouth like candy. “Come on,” you say, his hand still in yours. “We’re not gonna get anywhere just standing here. Do you trust me?”

He smiles again, though this time with a bit of a razor’s edge to it. “Not like I got much choice, honey,” he says, and then pauses, softens. “Yeah. You’ve been nicer to me than most people would’ve, findin’ a stranger in the middle of nowhere, actin’ like he’s been dropped on his head. I wouldn’t have blamed ya if you’d run the other direction.”

You have no idea why, but what springs from your mouth before you can help yourself is: “I couldn’t do that to you.”

He studies you for a minute. His gaze feels as physical as a caress, and just as intimate. If not more so. You both do and don’t want it to stop. 

“Come on,” you say again, at least in part to break the silence. “Follow me.”

The two of you start walking, following the weathered gray slabs of cracked, uneven concrete that your small town calls a sidewalk as it winds its way into town. 

After a few moments of quiet, he says, “You never told me your name.” 

When you introduce yourself, he smiles again. “That’s nice,” he says. “Pretty.”

Your stomach flips again, and you have to remind yourself that you don’t know anything about this guy, except — only just now — his name. The fact that he’s tall, gorgeous, and really does give off a hurt puppy sort of vibe doesn’t matter. And it definitely doesn’t matter that his smile spreads across his face like a sunrise coloring the sky with ribbons of pastels. He could be a serial killer, or if not that extreme, some kind of — 

The two of you are still, for reasons not entirely clear to you and probably not much clearer to him, holding hands, so you’re jerked out of your thoughts by the fact that he’s gone stock still. 

“You’re takin’ me to the sheriff?”

If the dread clinging to his voice like a weed choking out a weaker plant wasn’t bad enough, he’s frozen still on the sidewalk, looking at you as if you’ve…well, as if you’ve betrayed him somehow. The pit of your stomach turns to ice.

“The sheriff?” you repeat. You feel oddly, stupidly, disappointed. A guy with nothing to hide doesn’t act like this when someone brings him to the authorities. The disillusionment washing over you makes your tongue sharp. “Who the hell are you, Barney Fife?”

He frowns. “I told you my name.”

“Yeah, I — never mind.” You shake your head and let go of his hand. The bare skin of your palm feels oddly cold. “What’s the matter? I thought someone might be looking for you. Maybe someone filed a missing persons report.”

“I don’t think so, darlin’.” He glances at the police station again, his throat bobbing.  A pause, and then, softly, like he’s making a confession: “Nobody left that cares about me that much. Unless they wanna cause me some hurt.”

[redorich]

In the HermitCanyon au, How is my favorite Bee armored Admin doing? How long does it take for Xisuma to become.. aware of what is happening? For the first few sections it seemed like he was in a coma/unconscious. In the most recent bit Impulse tells Etho to get Xisuma, so at least theoretically he can now move, but how long has it taken him to get there, and where is he on the scale to full recovery? Are the other hermits keeping him safe with rabbit stew? (if they have rabbits that is...)

Part 2 of this.

Etho comes back twenty minutes later with a solemn look on his face. (At least, Puffy assumes. She can't actually see most of his face because of that mask of his.)

"X is in a bad way today," he says quietly. "I can take Puffy to him if you guys would like to stay here with Zedaph."

Impulse and Tango look nervously at each other. On one hand, they very much would like to stay with Zedaph, who is mostly healed but still very loopy and probably should not be moved. On the other hand, allowing Puffy deep into the Hermits' inner sanctum is a risk in and of itself, let alone with only one Hermit with her. Etho's a good fighter and a wily bastard, but Puffy is most certainly no slouch.

In the end, it comes down to trust. How much can they show Puffy before they can no longer trust that she won't snitch? How sure are they that she won't try to kill them all and steal their stuff?

"Tell Xisuma I said hi," Zedaph warbles from the bed in the corner of the room, out of any window's line of sight.

As Etho presses a button which removes a panel of the wall in a whir of piston noises, Puffy snorts out a little laugh. "I'll be sure to do that."

Tango nods subtly to Impulse. If Puffy brought Zedaph back to the canyon, saved him from a painful respawn, and didn't once ask for anything in return, then the Hermits can trust her at least this much.

Etho leads Puffy through a short hallway into a large circular room with a domed ceiling. The room is mostly quartz, though the walls are lined with sea lanterns and oak leaves. It’s beautiful. This place has been hiding under her feet this whole time?

“This is the Atrium,” Etho says, “or at least the main one. Come on, getting a mule will be more trouble than it’s worth if you’re not carrying anything.”

Puffy is speechless, utterly and profoundly, when Etho takes her through a tunnel on the opposite side of where she entered. It almost looks as though the tunnel here was carved by hand, then completely redone in dirt and grass and vines to give it a secretive, high fantasy look.

“Hey, Etho!” says a dark-haired man with a big smile as he comes trotting out of a branching hallway to the left. “Hey--” He catches sight of Puffy and his smile dissipates into panic. He shouts incoherently and dives back into the hallway he just exited.

“Hey Bdubs,” Etho greets impishly, then turns to Puffy. “Man, it’s like he saw a ghost or something. Maybe Mothman.”

Puffy bleats out a surprised laugh. Up ahead, she spots another Hermit lurking around the corner of the archway Etho is leading her toward.

“Etho,” says a tall blonde woman. “Cleo wants to talk to you about, er...” The blonde woman glances at Puffy. “Her thing,” she finishes lamely.

“Well, as you can see, I’m a bit busy at the moment. Would you mind telling Cleo so she doesn’t skin me alive?” Etho says sweetly.

The blonde woman snorts. “Face the music, Mothman. I’ll take care of Puffy from here. I assume you’re taking her to Xisuma?”

Etho wilts. Clearly, whoever this Cleo person is, she’s not someone to piss off. Puffy wonders what Etho did.

“See ya around,” Etho waves, somehow both cheery and morose at the same time, like a funeral for someone nobody liked. Puffy and the blonde woman watch him go.

“My name’s False, by the way,” the blonde woman says. “Thanks for the bandanna. Normally I’d be wearing it, but I just got back from beating up Iskall.”

The woman-- False-- laughs. Puffy is once again taken aback by the idea that the Hermits actually use the items that she makes for them. 

False takes off in a brisk walk toward the archway she’d come out of. Jumping a little bit at being torn from her thoughts, Puffy hurries to follow. It’s hard to keep up, since all Puffy wants to do is stare. She must be in the living quarters-- they let her in the living quarters?! Each door matches the high fantasy, underground sort of aesthetic, but a few doors are left open and each one is remarkably different on the inside. One room is built entirely out of red and white concrete, whereas another is Nether-themed with actual fire, and the room down the hall is entirely underwater!

One door is different. It’s got blue-purple banners along the frame, and when False opens the door for Puffy, she can see that the room is made of blackstone bricks. Maps of the Dream SMP line the wall, and in the center of the room there is a mildly ornate table made of warped wood.

At the end of the table in the back of the room, opposite the door, sits a trio. To the left, there is a plain-looking man with a beard and an “at” symbol on his shirt. He speaks in a Southern accent to a man on the right side of the table, who wears a red sweater and twirls a feather between his fingers like the cat that got the canary.

In between the two, at the head of the table, rests someone very unique. He’s obviously tall, that much is obvious even when he’s sitting down. He’s also got mesmerizing purple eyes which glow faintly against the dark of the blackstone. Puffy doesn’t know why, but she gets the feeling that they’re supposed to be glowing much brighter.

As taken by the man’s eyes as she is, Puffy doesn’t notice the non-invasive breathing tube the man also has (a cannula? She doesn’t know what it’s called, but that sounds right) until the man’s gaze falls upon her, still standing in the doorway next to False.

“Oh,” the man says. “You’re not supposed to be here. Welcome.”

False steps forward, breaking Puffy from her trance. “Puffy, this is Xisuma, Joe, and Grian. I’d introduce you to them as well, but... you know.”

“I don’t know-- oh,” Puffy says awkwardly, catching sight of the massive crochet blanket she’d made for the Hermit months ago, draped across Xisuma’s shoulders.

“Why are you here?” Grian asks with a tilted head. “No offense or anything, but I just lost a bet. I had three diamonds on Cub bringing you in here eventually-- he’s the one you usually meet at the barrel, you know.”

False interjects, “I didn’t bring her down here, it was Etho!”

“Shoot,” Joe says. “Cleo wins yet again.”

“It was Zedaph, actually,” Puffy says. All eyes turn to her. “I found him on the surface. He was really injured, so I brought him back here. Impulse and-- Tango? Yeah, Tango-- told Etho to take me down here.”

Puffy uncharacteristically twiddles her fingers a little bit, feeling in over her head. “Uh, you know I’m not gonna tell or anything, so... Why am I here?”

The full weight of Xisuma’s piercing stare falls upon her. Even as fragile as he looks, even as strong as Puffy is, she feels a jolt of apprehension.

“You’d know more about the red vines than we do,” he begins. “Etho mentioned that they’re what hurt Zedaph; he’s mentioned them on multiple occasions, and never in a good way. How long do you think it would take for those vines to reach our village, and what do you think would happen once they do?”

“As far as we’re aware, there are several players who are proponents of the vines, and claim they originate from some sort of egg?” Joe adds. “I’ve had a hard time calculating how big of a mushroom we’d need to make an omelet out of the egg, but apparently most of my fellow Hermits do not in fact want evil eggs on their omelets.”

“And how come the End is inaccessible?” Grian cuts in with a whine. “I want my elytra.”

Xisuma huffs a laugh into the cannula. “As you can see, we have many questions which only a native Dream SMP player like yourself can answer. In the interest of keeping ourselves safe--” he trails off into a coughing fit.

Puffy bites her lip, feeling as though she really shouldn’t be seeing this. Joe rests his hand on Xisuma’s back.

“You give us answers, and we’ll give you diamonds, netherite, whatever you want. And when we move out-- well, it wasn’t much of a secret anyway-- we’ll offer you a safe place with us,” Grian speaks up on Xisuma’s behalf.

A thousand thoughts spin inside Puffy’s head. She feels like Dorothy in that tornado, and Grian’s offer is the Wicked Witch. “Did you guys really save Tommy’s life?” she finds herself asking.

The Hermits seem taken aback.

“The blond kid?” False asks. “Yeah, but he was unconscious the whole time. I think Scar told the kid to keep us a secret, but... I don’t think any of us expected that to actually work.”

Puffy laughs disbelievingly. “He’s the one person on the entire server who keeps insisting that you guys aren’t real.”

“That’s good to hear,” Xisuma says quietly. “Do you have an answer for us, or would you like some time to consider?”

There are a thousand and one variables Puffy needs to think about. What is Dream’s stance on the Hermits? Who will she be setting herself against by allying with the Hermits? What will Puffy have to expect, from both underground and surface-dwelling players alike? Which players can she take in a fight?

Fuck it, she thinks. “You’ve got yourselves a deal.”

Xisuma smiles. Despite his ill condition, she gets the feeling that this nice, mild-mannered man is far more dangerous than she could ever hope to be.

“I’m glad to have you on our side, Puffy,” he says. “Thank you for your help.”

[rebrandedbard]

number 42 for the drabble prompts please? :)

42. “I swear it was an accident.”

tw: death (not of main characters), kinda gross corpse descriptions

WC: 2456

Poet’s Sight

Jaskier keeps falling in with dangerous creatures and Geralt is starting to think he’s cursed. That is, until Geralt takes a contract for a noonwraith and Jaskier gets ahead of him. It is then Geralt remembers something important about the nature of rare poets.

-

That made the third time. Three monsters in as many months, and Geralt was starting to worry. Somehow, Jaskier had a habit of stumbling upon the creatures before him, even when he was doing his best to stay away from the fight. Though his medallion offered no hints, Geralt felt sure Jaskier had been cursed somehow. There was no other explanation for it. For two of the hunts, Geralt had not yet arrived in town, would not have been able to defend Jaskier if he got himself into any kind of trouble, and Jaskier had been entirely unaware of the contracts. But this had been the final straw. As things were, Jaskier ought not to be living.

“I swear, it was an accident,” Jaskier said. “The light was low and it seemed like any ordinary dog. I swear, it was an ordinary dog. It had fur and everything—nothing at all as you described.”

Geralt squeezed Jaskier’s shoulders, the corpse of the beast just yards away from where they stood. “It was a barghest. Do you have any idea how much danger you were in! It would have eaten you alive if I let it, torn you from the bowels out!”

“But it…”

“They don’t have a quality of mercy.”

Jaskier stared at the corpse. He wore a pinched expression, not quite comprehending the vision before him. The fleshy, mutated monster looked so much larger, so much more twisted than it had moments before. Its odd tongue, prickled and forked, flopped out from its foaming maw. That same tongue had felt the same as any dog’s before as it licked Jaskier’s face. It had been smooth and slimy and affectionate. And it had not had such large teeth.

He’d gone out to fetch more wood for the fire—really, he’d gone out to relieve himself in private—and he’d happened upon a dog among the bushes. It had looked perfectly sweet in the moonlight: a shaggy brown and white thing with a fluffy, wagging tail. It had followed after him on his way back to camp. Jaskier had always been fond of dogs, so he’d stopped awhile to pet it. Really, it had been friendly. It curled up at his feet and allowed him to scratch it behind the ears. Everything had been just fine, and he’d just picked up a large stick to initiate a quick game of fetch when Geralt came crashing out of the trees, sword raised.

“It was an ordinary dog,” Jaskier whispered. He still had the stick in his hand.

Geralt looked Jaskier in the eye. His nostrils flared ever-so slightly, as if scenting for a lie. The lines in his face smoothed and he sighed, prying the stick from Jaskier’s grasp. “I thought you’d seen it. The way you raised the stick …” He looked at it. It would have snapped in an instant in a true fight. He tossed it near the barghest’s corpse and turned Jaskier back towards camp.

“… You felt fur?” he asked.

Jaskier nodded. “Soft as anything.”

“I don’t understand it. To you, it was as if it were nothing more than a dog.”

“Perhaps I’m seeing things wrong. Was it …  as it tasting me before the feast? When I pet it, was it simply waiting to size me up? Oh, Geralt, what if I’ve had my mind taken over by a witch? Am I seeing visions? Are you real?”

He reached up to grope at Geralt’s cheeks, pulling them and prodding at his armour, his swords, and his chest. Geralt pulled his hands away carefully and shook his head.

“There’s not a trace of magic around you as far as I can tell,” he grunted.

“Then we’ll have to find someone who can tell these things. I’m scared, Geralt. I already lack the ability to defend myself in other ways; if I don’t know when to run, I’ll surely wind up dead before the year is out, if not sooner!”

Probably sooner, Geralt thought. “We’ll consult a mage. There are curses strong enough to evade detection from the medallion. They’re rare, but not unheard of. A mage would be able to tell us more: what kind of curse it is and how to lift it.”

As they stepped into the safety of the firelight, Roach raised her head, flicking her ears towards Jaskier. He wobbled over to her and wrapped his arms around her neck. She sniffed him, then turned her ear to Geralt for answers.

Geralt was looking at Jaskier carefully. It would be too dangerous to stay in the woods another night. Where there was one barghest, there were bound to be others. He would keep watch until first light, then they’d set out for the next town.

“Jaskier,” Geralt called.

Jaskier uncurled from Roach’s neck.

“I want you to stay in town for my next contract,” he said. “You’ll under a curfew until this gets resolved: indoors between dusk and dawn. I want you on the inn grounds whenever I’m not present. Are we understood?”

Jaskier balked at being confined indoors. “Can’t I come along with you?” he asked.

“No. If this is a curse, you might be a danger to me on contracts. To me and yourself.” It would be a greater liability than merely getting underfoot. This thing seemed to attract danger, or else to pull Jaskier towards danger. Either way, he was staying put somewhere safe.

“But Geralt—”

“I won’t hear any argument,” Geralt snapped. He narrowed his eyes, pinning Jaskier with a glare. “Do you remember what happened two weeks ago? You heard a woman cry in the middle of the night. And what did you do?”

Jaskier sighed and flopped down on his bedroll. “She didn’t wail like a banshee. And I’ve told you a hundred times over: she looked human! I held her hand! You can’t hold the hand of a ghost,” he protested. “And what’s more, she spoke. It wasn’t nonsense. How was I to know what she was if I can’t trust my own eyes and ears?”

He lay down in a huff, crossing his arms over his chest. Geralt could feel the frustration rolling off of him in waves. “What I find odd is that none of them so far have hurt me,” he mumbled.

“That’s because I came in time to save your satin-covered ass,” Geralt replied.

“I was with the banshee for hours, Geralt. You didn’t arrive in town until the middle of the night. Why would she wait to kill me when she had me already?”

Geralt thought about it. A banshee was more often an omen than an outright threat, though still dangerous. He’d stayed close to Jaskier for the next three days to see what dreaded fortune the omen foretold, but he’d not come to any harm in that time. Then again, he’d never heard of a banshee speaking before. It was possible Jaskier had not been with her for hours as he claimed, for if his senses were betraying him, how could he know the passing of the time? His accounts were questionable until this was resolved.

When they arrived in town the next morning, it was just before noon. There was no inn, but they were given permission to stay in one of the farmer’s barns. Geralt went to the alderman for a contract and left Jaskier safely behind, composing in among the hay. It was a noonwraith, Geralt discovered, that had been withering the fields. He oiled his sword and returned to the edge of town to wait for it to appear.

On the way, he stopped by the barn to update Jaskier. He was surprised to hear no music within. When he looked, he did not see Jaskier dozing among the hay. He was not where he’d left him at Roach’s side. Listening closely, he heard no heartbeat within. Jaskier was gone.

Geralt cursed and tore himself from the barn. “Jaskier!” he called. But Jaskier was not about. Geralt followed the trail of his scent toward the fields, his feet pounding on the dry earth. He’d made Jaskier promise not to leave the barn. He’d damn well better be enchanted to wander off so mindlessly on his own.

“Miss? Little miss, would you please slow down! I’m not supposed to be out here!”

Geralt turned his head toward the sound of Jaskier’s pleas. There, down the hill, he saw a flash of blue among the yellow stalks. Jaskier was running along the edge of the field, one arm out as if chasing something. He was shouting in his worried voice. As Geralt watched, Jaskier paced in front of the boundary, hesitating before an opening in among the tall crops.

“Little girl?” Jaskier called. “This isn’t a game! You bring me back my ring this instant!” Then, he called out again, diving into the fray.

But Geralt had seen no girl.

Geralt charged down the hill and entered the fields full-tilt. He followed the trail, catching up from behind, listening as he did. His sword was at the ready. The sun was already approaching its apex, and soon the wraith would be out. If it wasn’t out already.

“Troublesome girl!” Jaskier gruffed. “First she steals my ring, then she drops it in the dirt like a seed among the ro—”

There came a pause, and Geralt heard a stalk break somewhere ahead by Jaskier. His voice came again from the same place. “Well, that’s an odd find. Popped up like a lucky charm. Did the thing grow through you?”

The wind stirred, carrying Jaskier’s words clearly, though he was still too far to reach. Geralt’s blood ran cold. His medallion was trembling against his chest, warning of the wraith’s arrival.

“Oh? Is it yours, young lady?” Jaskier asked.

Geralt felt the panic wash over him. A ring in a field. A token from the wraith. The idiot ought not to have touched it! She’d make him the target of her wrath, dry up his soul into a husk, and force him to waste himself away like the withered stalks around them with only—

“A dance?” Jaskier asked. He laughed, voice ringing clear above the wind. “Oh, very well, but only a very short one; I’ve still got to find that little girl, give her a lecture about respecting personal property.”

Geralt was almost upon them. He could see the clearing in the field ahead, the strong sunlight filtering through. Jaskier’s voice was clearer, and the wind had a strange quality to it. It seemed to lull in time to Jaskier’s speech.

“Sister? Ah, then I’d best go easy on her,” Jaskier said. He was moving away quickly now. The wind blew, and suddenly Jaskier was laughing, bright and clear. “Buried your mother’s ring? What a scamp! And you’ve been out here every afternoon liking for it since—and no wonder! It’s a lovely piece. May I?”

Geralt broke through the field in time to see Jaskier dancing with the wraith. She was a hollowed thing, burned by the sun, her hair bleached white. They turned once, then Jaskier lowered himself on one knee and, taking the wraith’s hand, slipped the ring onto her finger.

“There!” Jaskier said. “You know? Our rings almost make a pair.”

The wind blew and Jaskier appeared to be listening. He laughed, patting the wraith’s hands, and the wind stopped blowing. “Oh no, I’m afraid I’m spoken for. It would make a lovely engagement ring, but not to me. Even so, I don’t suppose a kiss would be amiss.” And so he leaned forward and kissed the wraith’s cheek, as if she were not a lifeless husk.

Geralt was stunned. It was … it was as if the wraith were speaking to Jaskier. He watched the two of them start up the dance again. He’d witnessed the dancing of noonwraiths before, and their victims screamed in horror until their final breath. The wraith made them dance in a mad frenzy until they fell to the ground, dead from exhaustion and terror. This dance was a frolic, full of laughter. It was unhurried as Jaskier allowed himself to be twirled round and round. When the dance came to an end, it had not been any more than the length of a song. Jaskier tilted his head, listening while the wind whistled in the field.

“So soon?” he asked. “Well, I thank you for the lovely dance. You be sure to tell your sister to mind her manners for me, won’t you? I’ve got to head back myself before I give my witcher a fright. I—oh, there she is now!”

Geralt turned to look where Jaskier was waving, but he saw nothing at all.

“You mind your sister,” Jaskier said, wagging a finger at the empty air. “You’re much too old to be getting up to these tricks.”

And at once, Geralt understood. Jaskier was a poet. There were poets in this world who were made of a different cut—who could see beyond the limits of the physical world. The banshee, the barghest, the wraith … and Geralt was sure even now that Jaskier was shaking his finger in the face of a ghost. They were all of the other realm.

He had sight.

Jaskier waved as the wraith began to fade through the field, disappearing. “Take care!” he called. “And be careful on your way. There’s a contract in town, so there’s trouble about somewhere. Have no fear, we’ll be sure to make everything safe, my witcher and I.”

At that, Geralt snorted, and Jaskier turned his head.

Jaskier turned pale at once, clutching his hands to his chest. “Ger—I can explain, Geralt!” he stammered. “I swear, I would have stayed in the barn, but this little girl came in and she stole my ring right off my finger! It’s my father’s ring, and I couldn’t just let … her …” Jaskier blinked, staring at Geralt, perplexed. “Are you laughing?”

Indeed Geralt was. All the stress from the last three months bubbled up and escaped as laughter, shaking his shoulders.

Jaskier chuckled along nervously. “I would have thought you’d be furious with me for running out. Erm … did you finish your contract then?”

Geralt clapped an arm around Jaskier’s shoulder. “I’d say you finished it for me today,” he corrected. “And I’ve just figured out the answer to your little curse.”

Jaskier perked up slightly, realizing he wasn’t in trouble just yet. “Is that so? Will you tell me then?”

“If you promise me one thing.”

“What’s that?”

Geralt smiled and rubbed the ash from Jaskier’s lips with his glove. “Never,” he said, “kiss another noonwraith again.”

“Kiss a what?” Jaskier squawked.

[bcdwhcre]

“Run,” Levi Ackerman x Reader

Summary: There were warrants out for everyone on Captain Levi’s team along with a few others outside and you being you, you almost get caught and Levi saves the day.

I got this idea off a tik tok :/ where you get caught, jump off the building, boom Levi catches you.

Warnings: none! No spoilers, just season 2-3 Levi

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You were always pushing Levi’s buttons to no end, you were pretty sure you were the only one on his team to edge him on and purposely piss him off in ways the others thought was a little too scary considering how harsh Levi would punish if needed.

But when it came to you, he had a minor soft spot he would keep buried inside of his heart, making sure he kept it well hidden and made sure to punish you like the rest of the team.

Now since there were warrants out for everyone’s arrest after the kidnapping of Historia and Eren, Levi made sure to try his best to keep everyone in place, in check and safe while they came up with a plan to go rescue Eren.

You, on the other hand, didn’t mind and thought of this as a thrilling experience. On the run, it was like a high you never felt before and you wanted to seek more of it.

“Y/N, are you listening?” You snapped out of your endless thoughts, your eyes meeting Levi’s as you both sat alone in front of the camp fire you had built far in the woods away from the town.

“I am, you were talking about the plan going into town.” You repeated small parts of what he said but the rest was a blank and he sighed, scrunching his eyebrows together.

“You’re a pain in the ass.” He grumbled under his breath, his eyes staring at you as if he was trying to read your mind and figure out what was so important that it made you zone out.

He never got the answer though, he was used to the zoning out and your thoughts taking you elsewhere which also puts you in a lot of trouble and at risk since you don’t pay close attention to the key concepts of the mission at hand but he still watched over you like a hawk and he would admit that you were good at your job.

He never regretted picking you to join his team, you were great under pressure and even though you like to dive towards the danger, you still came out on top and always focused and got the job done. That’s what he liked most about you and the small connection you two shared in private was another reason why he was careful on watching over you.

Levi never intended to like one of his cadets, he never had the intention to feel any sort of connection or real feelings, something that was oddly new for him but also exciting when sharing that connection in private whether it was in his office or alone in a empty room.

Time moved on to where it was the day to go into the town. The mission wasn’t difficult to do and Levi was serious about there not being any fights or action behind this. All you had to do was watch the guards and try to find any sort of clues to where Eren could be.

Levi knew though that you would certainly cause trouble one way or another, it was in your nature to do something you weren’t supposed to and that made him a bit on edge, keeping himself prepared for the possibility.

It didn’t take long, as you stood in your designed area and kept your hood up and your gear hidden underneath the cloak, you leaned against the wall and pretended as if you weren’t doing anything suspicious.

As you heard Eren’s name get brought up, you kept your ears open and suddenly someone had tapped on your shoulder, cursing to yourself for not paying closer attention to your surroundings.

You tried to lift your head up slowly, trying to be careful on showing your full face before seeing the guard tug off your hood in an instant, looking at your face and both of you were stunned staring back at one another.

“and what are you doing here? There’s a warrant out for your arrest you know?” The guard was cocky, you didn’t like that and once he grabbed onto your upper arm, you tugged off the coat and used the gear to shoot up on the roof.

“I knew this was going to happen,” Levi mumbled under his breath as he seen you from afar as he stayed on top of the roof.

He had watched you run with a group of guards close behind you. He rolled his eyes at your need to get into some kind of altercation but he made sure to use his gear to stay close behind but far enough for the guards to not notice his presence.

It had taken almost twenty minutes of running to somehow get trapped on top of a tall building with your gear jamming up. You groaned, looking down at the drop down and how this could definitely kill you if you fell down.

“Nowhere to run now.” The military police men laughed at your state and the adrenaline pumping through your body during this moment was beyond addicting.

You were a huge adrenaline monkey, this is why you joined the scouts instead of the boring MPs as they stood around behind the wall like cowards. You had stared at them for a good while, watching them inch closer but you stood up on the ledge.

“What is she doing?! Her gear is jammed, she could die if she jumps!” Armin panicked as all of them watched you from afar, including Levi as he stayed on standby.

“It’s been fun boys but, I gotta run.” A evil grin came across your lips as you saluted them before leaning back and falling off the tall building.

The wind gushing through you was peaceful and you closed your eyes at the feeling of you falling through the sky until you suddenly felt someone snatch you up and you knew without even opening your eyes who it was. You looked up at him, the smile playing on your lips only grew wider.

“Are you insane?! You could’ve died.” Levi angrily looked at you, holding onto your waist with one hand and swinging along the buildings with the other.

“Hm, maybe a little insane but I knew you would catch me.” You mumbled under your breath, your arms securely wrapping around his neck as a small laugh leaves your mouth.

“Yeah right, you just have a death wish.” He was irritated with you by your careless and selfish actions. If he wasn’t there to catch you, you would be long dead and even thinking about that possibility made Levi angry.

He wouldn’t be able to handle it if he was a second too late and you fell on the hard ground, getting killed instantly. He would definitely blame himself but he would also be very much angry with you and your actions.

“Come on, Captain. No need to be so sour.” You teased, leaning over and pressing a quick kiss to his cheek before he settled on one of the buildings far from everyone else.

“You need to stop being so damn careless.”

He began to soften up from the light peck you gave him but still, in the back of his head he was still pretty angry and he definitely would have to scold you once you two were safe and back at the mini base you made in the woods.

Levi was never the one to overthink things, he was always confident in his plans and his actions along with his cadets actions. He never had any regrets with what he done and wanted to do but the thoughts of you falling down to your death repeated endlessly in his mind over and over again.

His eyes had stared at you and by the look of his face, you knew without him saying a word and that made you start to feel guilty of what you done.

“I’m sorry, Captain. It won’t happen again-“ You began to speak, throwing your arms around him in a tight hug even though he hated hugs.

Levi’s breathing had gone back to normal, trying to get rid of his thoughts and his feelings but they always circled back on you and he couldn’t help that. He was over protective of you, he felt like he needed to and as his feelings for you blossomed within the last months of you being on his team, he just felt like he needed to guard you at all costs.

“Don’t let it happen again, Cadet.”

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Anywhoooo, send in requests🤧

• Masterlist

[senjuhashirama]

Symbols in Hashirama's jutsus and their implications, part 1

I really like the symbolism and themes in Hashirama’s jutsus, so I decided to do this deep dive into it. The religious / folklore symbols can give us a few ideas on Hashirama’s fighting style, personality, and perhaps intentions too. Although I generally don’t believe that Kishimoto did all of this consciously, there’s a few implications we can gather from it. I added plenty of links for concepts that might be unknown to the reader but that aren’t in the scope of this topic. You can either google them or just proceed on the links I provided. I also recommend reading it in google doc which is more practical, because I added descriptions of pics and it can be read better but it’s up to you - google doc. 

1. Sage Art Wood Release: True Several Thousand Hand

This monstrous jutsu is, most likely, influenced by Eleven-faced and thousand-armed Kannon.

Originated in India, Kannon is a bodhisattva (which is someone who strives to achieve enlightenment and Buddhahood) who already achieved enlightenment, but decided to postpone Buddhahood to save all sentient beings from the cycle of suffering, therefore it is not Buddha. To put it another way, Kannon is known for indiscriminate compassion, and she is called a lord of mercy. That being said, another name for Kannon in Japan is Kanzeon, meaning the one who constantly surveys (kan 観)  the wold (ze 世)  listening to the sounds of suffering (on 音). Kannon is commonly depicted as a woman in Japan, sometimes with androgenous features, however she used to be depicted as a man in India.

Kannon has many forms and/or emanations (which is basically a duplication of enlightened mind), each having specifics and each watching over one of the six realms. The forms differ in accordance to specific text. In the manga, we can see two of the six main forms of Kannon mixed – Senju Kannon and 11-headed Kannon.

Senju Kannon, 1000-armed Kannon, is supposed to have 1000 arms including two “main” hands (although usually depicted with ~37 or ~42 for practical purposes). Senju Kannon watches over the hungry ghost realm. This form of Kannon is likewise prayed to avoid illness, eye problems and blindness. This can implicate Madara’s blindness, whether it’s literal (as sharingan making him go blind) or figurative.

What’s more, Hashirama’s statue has a few faces above the main face – a typical sign of Juichimen Kannon, who watches over the Asura realm. Although she’s called 11-headed Kannon, she doesn’t have 11 heads in every depiction and art. The main, big face, is supposed to show tranquility and compassion. The smaller heads above the main one usually show other emotions, like anger, compassion and cheerfulness. Statues and paintings show one more face placed on top of the head. It is popularly believed that the 10 faces are supposed to symbolize 10 stages of a path to attain enlightenment and the 11th is supposed to symbolize Buddha. However, Hashirama’s statue doesn’t have such a face. Instead, there’s a wooden golem sitting at the top.

That being said, Hashirama’s statue has one main face and one row of 8 faces around the head.  10th would be the golem’s face and 11th would be Hashirama’s own face. That way, Hashirama’s Kannon indeed has 11 heads.

According to folk tales, there’s another explanation for 11 heads. It says that a long time ago, Kannon promised to free all sentient beings from the cycle of suffering (samsara). After multiple failed attempts, her distress caused her head to be split into pieces. So she begged Buddha to help her, therefore Buddha gave her eleven heads to see the suffering. Kannon could finally see the suffering and she worked more to save everyone. But she still couldn’t save everyone, so the pain of her failures causes her arms to break apart. She begged Buddha to help her again and he granted her 1000 arms. Having 1000 arms, she could finally relieve the suffering. It’s not clear where this folktale came from.

In conclusion, the hands of Hashirama’s statue are supposed to alleviate the suffering of all people. I believe it can be read either as being ironic he’s using it to inflict pain through combat, but also as extremely explanatory, because Hashirama really wanted to alleviate Konoha’s suffering Madara was casting upon it (see Madara killed 3 vanguard units, killing innocent people). On the other hand, one of the tools typical Senju Kannon holds, is a sword, so there must have been some violence included in protecting the suffering sentient beings. 

As typical for Kannon, Hashirama’s statue has a third eye that symbolizes a state of enlightenment. It also has a robe typical of the Japanese version of Kannon. Moreso, she has two main hands in front in praying position, which is also common for Kannon. Unlike Senju Kannon, Hashirama’s statue doesn’t hold any tools in her hands and the hands don’t have eyes, which is also a popular theme for Senju Kannon in art.

At first, we see Hashirama’s statue sitting strait in the Japanese way, which is how Kannon is shown in works that depict Amida and Attendants (one of the two main attendants being Kannon). The reason for this position is for them to stand up fast and help the dying people reach nirvana.

We can speculate that Hashirama’s statue stands up right after to help Madara reach some kind of enlightenment, to show him the way Madara doesn’t see.

Without a doubt, this jutsu is supposed to show us Hashirama’s compassion, calmness and his great urge to protect everyone, including, at first, Madara. In the end, he has to use it against Madara to win the combat, but he really saves the village.

Senju Kannon (1000 armed Kannon): 

Juichimen Kannon (11-headed Kannon): 

2. Wood Release: Wood Dragon Technique

Dragons (Ryū, Ryu, Ryuu 龍; I will talk here specifically about Chinese dragons that are usually considered a different creatures than Western dragons) are serpentine creatures whose task is to protect Buddhism. They’re considered extremely powerful, however unlike in western culture, they are usually good and bring wealth and good fortune.

Dragons originated in China and they’re connected to the element of wood, or water. They’re also associated with Spring and blue/green colors.

It is usually said that dragons have the head of a camel, horns of a deer, scales of a carp, paws of a tiger, eyes of a hare and claws of an eagle. They also have a whisker under the chin. They have a bump on the forehead that helps the dragon float up to the heavens.

Typically, dragons in Japan have three claws on each leg, however, Hashirama’s dragon has four. Classical Chinese imperial dragon has, in comparison, five, but according to Chinese mythology, dragons with less claws were used for lower rank officials or for the general public. Dragons in Korea and Indonesia also typically have four claws.

Dragons are swift and they usually control rain, rainstorms and typhoons. They can also shapeshift into a human and mate with humans.

Besides Hashirama using a mokuton version of dragon, in Naruto we can also see a water dragon, fire dragon, Mei’s water dragon, crystal dragon used by Guren and Orochimaru’s snake dragon. 

3. Wood Release: Wood Human Technique

I can’t really decide what the main influence of this jutsu was, because I found two quite possible options. Because both are extremely vague and not much is known about them, I decided to do a write-up on both. This is actually all I could find and although I believe there must be more in ancient texts, internet doesn’t seem to provide more info. 

Although neither of these options is a Buddha, Golem’s face is placed in the same place a Buddha’s face would be on Kannon.

Option A: Magoraka 摩睺羅伽

Magorakas are defined as serpentine musicians, or as serpents who walk on their breasts. Their folklore originates in India. They belonged to the Brahmanic pantheon and were associated with dragons they usually have around their torso or, in some depictions, they wear a crown of serpents. Sometimes, they are pictured as a monstrous snake, they are also considered “humans but not humans.” They are one of the Eight Deva Guardians of Buddhism, which is eight legions of sentient and supernatural beings that were present when Buddha  expounded the Flower Sutra on Vultures Peak.

Some of their depictions have a third eye, just like Hashirama’s golem. Unfortunately, there aren't enough depictions. They, just like Hashirama’s golem, often wear serpent/snake/dragon around their torso. I was also wondering if the hair/crown on Hashirama’s golem head is supposed to be snakes or serpents. They also have a similar nose and eyebrows.

Option B: Ryūtōki 龍燈鬼 of Yaksha/Yasha

Ryuutoki is one of the Yaksha. Just like Magaroka, Yaksha is one of the groups of Eight Deva Guardians. Known to be brave fighters, they also used to be, in Hinduism manifestations, spirits of trees, forests and villages. It is said that later they converted to Buddhism. They can be both demonic or they can serve Gods as guardians. They do not have a definitive representation. Sometimes they can fly (or jump really well), just like Hashirama’s golem and they can also have fangs, which is also represented on Hashirama’s wooden golem. They share other similarities too – Yaksha are sometimes depicted with a third eye and large eyebrows. They can have horns and I wonder whether the “crown” on Hashirama’s golem is supposed to be horns after all.

It was suggested that Hashirama’s golem could be inspired by Ryūtōki, who is a Yaksha and he, just like Hashirama’s golem, wears a dragon/serpent around his torso.. His name means Dragon-Lamp Demon and he is associated with another Yaksha, Tentōki. According to a folk tale, they were once evil and demonic. After meeting Four Heavenly Kings, they were saved and decided to serve the Four Heavenly Kings. Since then, they carry lanterns for them.

Since Golem basically serves Hashirama and Ryuutoki was tamed by Four Heavenly Kings, I believe it’s supposed to symbolize Hashirama’s urge or ability to turn other people “good” and/or to defeat them, just like Four Heavenly Kings were doing. 

-

Thank you for reading the first part of the symbols in Hashirama’s jutsu! I might write more one day. Currently there’s part 1 only. 

Sources: 

http://mesosyn.com/myth2-17.html

https://kankiten.com/magoraka/

https://www.slmoss.com/slm7600

https://hokkejimonzeki.or.jp/en/elevenfaced/

https://www.christies.com/en/lot/lot-5731729

https://www.japanese-wiki-corpus.org/Buddhism/Senju%20Kannon%20(Thousand-Armed%20Goddess%20of%20Mercy).html

https://www.onmarkproductions.com/

[masterwords]

Rattle of Bones

Summary: Morgan likes to kick in doors, we all know this. Hotch, not very secretly, really likes when he does it. There is no actual plot here, just a lot of them being really fucking pretty and a lot of splintered wood.

Warnings: some (not graphic but definitely emotionally charged ) sexy time, doors kicked in, alcohol, minor injuries, canon-typical violence (minor), mention of Foyet & scars

Pairings: Hotch/Morgan

Words: 2.8k

Notes: This story is for @there-must-be-a-lock's Fics Against Humanity writing challenge. My chosen cards were: (white) Derek Morgan kicking down a door // (black) _________ to lovers is my favorite trope. Honestly not much of a stretch for me, but very very fun to write and totally chaotic, just like them.

**

Total: $257.43

“What is this?”

“It's a bill from the Shoreline Motel in Seaside, Oregon where you apparently kicked a door in. After they gave you a room key.” Hotch smirked, folding his arms over his chest and reclining with one hip firmly planted against his favorite spot on Morgan's desk. It was somehow smoothest right there, maybe from years of flagrant leaning like it was his job. Seeing Morgan squirm was almost delightful, the indignity of being billed for kicking a door off of its hinges to save lives too much for his skin to bear.

“The Bureau won't pay for it, apparently they've decided you've crossed a line this time. Something about unnecessary destruction of private property.” Gideon watched from the catwalk, leaning on the railing and feeling very pleased with the way the scenario played out. He'd intended to give it to Morgan himself, but Hotch needed the experience, the promotion talk was getting louder with each passing day, harder to ignore the noise from above, the sideways glances and the drooling over something they couldn't have. Yet. Not quite ready, he had to learn how to have the hard conversations with people he liked, not just people who had committed heinous crimes. People he thought fell into his narrow view of justice were easy to stare down, easy to interrogate but people he liked, situations he deemed unfair, those were tricky for him. Troubled waters when things went from black and white to muddy gray. So, Gideon watched them bicker over whether or not it was right, a point that he found to be a source of endless amusement because he knew very well that they were, essentially, both on the same side – Hotch's job may have been to hand over the bill and make sure it was taken care of, tow the Bureau's line as Lead Profiler and future Unit Chief, but that didn't mean he agreed with it. That was, sometimes, the job.

“This is bullshit,” Morgan muttered incredulously, tossing the bill to his desk. “I caught that guy.”

“Guess the motel thought you should have used the key they gave you...”

Beers after work at their favorite little dive smoothed things over between them. Hotch got the first round, frustrated silence settling on the table between them beside a bowl of stale popcorn and sticky beer rings from previous patrons missed by the waitress' quick swipe with a dingy rag. By the third round they were laughing like nothing had ever happened and in the morning Hotch smiled when he found a note from Accounts Payable in his interoffice mail envelope confirming payment of the bill right away. Whether he believed it was right or not, Morgan didn't hesitate to settle his debt and for the next month Hotch made sure he sprung for coffee and lunch as often as he could to try and make up for it. Morgan knew what he was doing, saw right through him, wasn't about to put a stop to it though. Rarely had he ever passed on a free drink or meal, even more unlikely was the idea that he would pass on being showered with attention from someone he was maybe a little in love with.

Some days, that love was a flame that engulfed him every time Hotch smiled, his dark eyes twinkling over some brief joy in the storm of his day. Some days it was seething hate over the curt tone he used, the clipped speech of a man wound too tight, his self-importance on full display. He really never knew what each morning would bring, and in many ways the anticipation of the pendulum swing was the most exciting part of it all.

Nothing was easy with Hotch but damn it was fun.

It was easier, the next time, to just intercept the bill and pay it himself than deal with trying to settle a long term debt – Morgan might have been impulsive but he wasn't destroying people's property for no reason and he didn't deserve to be saddled with it again. Sure, he kicked in the door but they could hear the unsub trying to get out the back door, that split second meant they caught their guy. In any case, he was pretty sure he'd paid for the door thrice over by the time he'd decided his last self-imposed debt to Morgan was settled so this really was just better for him in the long run. Besides, the BAU was his now, these were his shots to call. Gideon would have told him he was being too soft, setting a bad precedent, but Gideon had long since made his exit and Hotch didn't have to answer to that particular voice chiding him any longer.

It was only setting a precedent if he ever told Morgan he was paying out of his own pocket, anyway, and he wasn't that stupid.

A short staircase rose between the pool and the second floor of the motel. The pool was dry, likely hadn't been filled in years with anything but debris. Dirt crusted and littered with dead vermin fallen in and unable to get back out, an unsettling sight as they waited for the LEOs to prepare themselves for the takedown, ensure warrants were in place and the motel was aware of what was going on. Hotch shuddered at a rustling below, a snake slithering its smooth body through the corpses he would eventually devour, wondered how long it had been down there and if it ever could starve to death in such a place. He moved at a quick pace up the stairs when given the thumbs up, Morgan on his heels, and stopped before the door at the top. Right there, easy in, easy out. Rapid flash of their eyes meeting, an almost imperceptible nod of their heads, and then Morgan was lifting his leg and slamming the flat of his foot against the door beside the handle, right in the sweet spot. On bated breath, Hotch waited, expecting the door to fly apart at the seams, slam against the wall and allow them to rush in, a flood of guns and kevlar vests and voices shouting FBI in unison. Except the door didn't open like usual and Morgan let out an exasperated grunt, letting his leg drop and slamming his shoulder into the door with a little more force than necessary, angry at the pain and shoving the rest of the door wide open. A rickety old chair, barely hanging on by a thread but jammed up against the back of the door as a half-ass security measure, crashed against the TV stand. Glass and wires showered the crusty brown carpet, opulent in the grime. Hotch and Reid shoved past him and managed to catch the unsub in the bathroom as he tried to squirm his too large body through the tiny shower window. Each grabbed hold of an ankle and tugged him back inside, dropping him rather unceremoniously into the bath tub. Morgan was limping by the time Hotch dragged the man out and tossed him to the local police to deal with.

“You okay?” he asked, in that brisk and careless voice he affected to hide feelings he was ashamed of. A tone he used when he already knew the answer. The question was customary, a formality at best. Morgan was hurt, resting his haunches against the small table and rubbing at his sore knee. Try as he might, Hotch couldn't push past his frustration, trying to find something to do with himself while he seethed – yes, he'd sanctioned the kick, he was as much frustrated with himself as he was with Morgan, maybe more. He slapped a room key against Morgan's chest, his key, and muttered for him to go back to the hotel, he'd finish up at the station with Emily and JJ. “Put some ice on it,” he called behind him, breezing out of the room before his real feelings burst like a supernova, showering the entire crime scene in his blaze.

“I know you're pissed,” Morgan said from the bed where he'd settled himself almost an hour prior to Hotch even making it back, adjusting the ice against the growing lump of swelling on the side of his knee. It was nothing, he just tweaked it, twisted it funny when the door wouldn't budge. It'd hurt like a bitch for a few days and he'd be fine, more or less. Not a real injury, not his first rodeo, hoping Hotch wouldn't press for L&I and light duty. He was considering Hotch's anger a thinly veiled threat, tiptoeing dangerously close to a reprimand and the throbbing pain in his leg was barely more than an afterthought in comparison. Watching the way Hotch moved swiftly between files, hawk eyes darting over tiny print, he wondered if maybe kicking in doors shouldn't take a backseat to other options for a while. Like room keys.

“Can I get you anything?” Hotch asked, ignoring Morgan's prior statement entirely. He never looked up from his work, never turned his eyes to the man on the bed. Morgan grumbled something about Hotch being passive aggressive, clicking the buttons on the remote a little louder than necessary and it nearly sent him through the roof. Biting his lip to stop the dam from bursting, he continued the last of his work, reminding himself that everything Morgan did was designed to get a reaction out of him.

“You,” Morgan answered, finally. “Just bring your sorry ass over here already. For fuck sake.” With a huff, Hotch stopped what he was doing and sat down on the bed beside Morgan, hands folded in his lap.

“You're mad at me,” Morgan reiterated, not because he needed an answer, he was simply throwing the truth out there between them. Hotch could have gone all night doing a terrible job at pretending not to be, but Morgan opened it up and like a gaping wound it hung open there, raw and red.

“I'm not mat at you,” he countered, shaking his head. “I'm disappointed that this case ended in you getting hurt, that's never the outcome we want.”

“Oh please. Don't hand me that Unit Chief bullshit. You're mad at me.”

“Morgan...”

“You're fucking pissed at me, just admit it.”

Silence. Strained and furious silence. "Aaron!"

“Fine, yes, I'm mad at you for getting hurt,” Hotch snapped, rolling his eyes and Morgan's grin spread like wildfire, took on a wolfish quality.

“There you go...that's better...now get over here and let me have a taste of that anger...” Morgan pulled at Hotch's shoulder, tugged until he toppled over backward, head knocking against his sore knee. He didn't flinch, didn't budge, just curled forward until he could take Hotch's mouth with his own if he was so inclined. He hesitated, hovered there dangerously close, still smiling, listening to Hotch's quickened breath. “Bet it tastes a lot like vending machine cinnamon gum and police station coffee...”

Hotch was a bundle of helpless fury in his arms, skin electric, muscles coiled and angry beneath silk and cotton, Morgan's fingers working quickly at his tie. He couldn't get it out of their way fast enough, the last vestige of Hotch tossed to the floor in a rumpled heap. A quiet popping and ripping and the shirt, once buttoned, hung wide open baring all of his flesh, all of his scars, the expansion of ribs and flat expanse of glorious breastbone. Morgan's fingers played in the soft spaces, trailed along shimmering tracks and ridges where Foyet's knife had opened him up and he could feel it so close to the surface, his thundering heart and coursing rivers of blood just out of reach. He'd lay claim to them, they belonged to him now, every inch devoured by him time and time again. Now it was Aaron and it was Derek and it was heat and waves of temper pulsing through rough kisses and hands holding a little too hard, fingernails pressing crescents into soft flesh to release the tension.

Even if Morgan felt justified, even if Hotch agreed he'd made the right move, it was a long while before he mustered the courage to kick another door in. Every time it crossed his mind, his knee sent a shock of pain up his thigh, a tiny reminder that he'd better be sure it was worth the risk. So far, nothing was.

Until Hotch was bleeding, hands swollen and chained to a rusted old pipe beneath a long row of filthy sinks in an old high school gym bathroom. A gash at his wrist opened wide beneath too tight metal cuffs, dripped in deep red rivulets down his forearm, pooling in the bend of his elbow and seeping through the crisp blue of his shirt. The pipe wouldn't budge no matter how he tried, rocked back on his haunches and pulled with all his might to free himself. Head spinning, a low ache at the base of his neck reminding him of just how he'd been jumped, knocked out and dragged through the winding corridors, pinned behind a locked bathroom door. Outside he could hear gunshots, shouting, sirens blaring and he hollered, tried to raise his voice over the chaos. By the time his throat was fire, voice hardly able to rise through his chest another time, he rested his cheek against his bicep and hung there, exhausted and waiting.

With a deafening crash, the door splintered open, wood shattered and he ducked his head and crouched beneath the sink to protect himself. Coiling himself up as the door slammed against the wall on what was left of its hinges, he held his breath, knew instinctively who it was even through eyes squeezed shut. Dust settled and Morgan stepped through the wreckage like a gladiator, gun aimed ahead, peering through the storm he'd created. Triumphant. In no time at all he was crouched beside Hotch, releasing him from the cuffs and pulling him to his feet and secured him there, anchored against his chest. He couldn't help it, they were at a crime scene and it was wildly inappropriate behavior, he knew at any moment someone could come busting in and see them in a private moment better left for the hotel later. It didn't matter much to him right then, he just wrapped his arms tight around Hotch's shoulders, one hand splayed over the back of his neck and pressed their foreheads together.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice softer and gentler than Hotch's ever was beneath the weight of that question and Hotch nodded. So damn stubborn. Morgan pulled Hotch's hands to his mouth, pressed kisses against the bruised knuckles and whispered quiet admonitions, one for each scrape and bruise, every drop of spilled blood. “You should have waited.”

“I'll keep that in mind next time,” Hotch replied, eyes fluttering closed for a brief moment before remembering where they were, what was happening. It was so easy to forget when Morgan cast his spell.

“You gonna bill me for that door, boss?” Morgan asked at the dive bar later that night. The team hovered around them, playing pool and dancing and celebrating a successful end to a case. They pretended not to watch, always did, but the two of them could always feel eyes on them.

“I'll take care of it this time,” Hotch smirked, indicating for the bar tender to slide them two more beers. “But I can think of a few ways you can pay me back tonight.” Hotch's hand rested against Morgan's thigh, thick gauze wrapped around the pressure cut circling his wrist like a sadistic smile, Morgan's fingers grazing the fraying edges of the bandage mindlessly. This was the best part, the after. Where Hotch and Morgan were put away to rest and Aaron and Derek could play.

On the way out the door, ready for it to just be the two of them again, Morgan's arm snaked protectively around Hotch's waist, thumb hooked through a belt loop. Casual in appearance but there was nothing casual about how possessive and protective he was, how Hotch felt in his arms. He leaned in and pressed a kiss against Hotch's pulse, soft throb getting stronger against teasing lips. With the toe of his boot he knocked his foot against the door, more a nudge than a kick but eliciting the eye roll he'd been hoping for nonetheless.

“You're an idiot.”

“Takes one to know one...”