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triptanite · 8 months ago

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Headcanons: night routines, cuddles, and sleeping positions with the companions

it's done! we did it! enjoy :3

Pairings: Reader X (Alphabetical) (Astarion - Gale - Halsin - Karlach - Laezel - Minthara - Shadowheart - Wyll) (Gortash - Raphael - Rolan)

Content warning/s: none

MASTERLIST

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Headcanons below

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The Companions (Alphabetical)

ASTARION

Something that may surprise you is Astarion's preference for personal space when he sleeps. Given how enthusiastically he pursues you early on (and his reasons for doing so), you thought that he would be clinging to your side as soon as your tent flap closed.

Instead however, you find that Astarion appreciates a very active goodnight cuddle before separating to sleep. You're both lying down on your sides, facing each other. Your bodies curl into one another, legs overlapping. Astarion traces over the silhouette of your body as you talk about your day, the softest touch of his fingertips bringing goosebumps to your skin. He hovers over the area where neck meets shoulder, lightly scarred from his previous feedings.

You rest your hand comfortably at his side, taking advantage of his stillness to really study his features. The smile lines in his pale skin, the length of his pointed ears, the sliver of collarbone under his shirt. He's constantly on the move during the day, so you drink in the details while you can. He debriefs to you as well, moving his hand to interlace his fingers with yours. His body is cool, and you notice his tendency to press up closer to you on to sap your body heat.

Once it's time for sleep, you untangle from each other and sleep pretty normally. He's not much of a sleep-snuggler. Though, with your nightly conversations you're not left necessarily wanting for more (not that you mind either way). You sleep in your regular position, and he on his back in the typical elven meditative pose. It's comfortable, safe, familiar.

GALE

Your nightly routine with Gale revolves around a lot of tending to the day's wounds and mishaps, paired with a constant flurry of comfortable conversation. A tear in your trousers gets patched up while staffs are cleaned and reinforced. Adjustments for tomorrow's spells are made, trails are planned. Gale sifts through your alchemy pouches, answering your questions about herb origins with gusto. You move as a unit, like two gears in the same machine. As you move about, there are other conversations occuring, subtle ones, silent ones. Gale presses his forehead to yours to stop you from scowling as you mend; you hand him bits of twine and leather as he passes by, knowing that he's looking for them.

Even as you lie together, there is movement. You're tucked under Gale's chin as he lays on his back. If you're quite still, you can feel his pulse in his neck. Gale busies his ever-moving hands by drawing on your back. Alchameic symbols, runes he's seen, trails you've walked. He illustrates his thoughts and your adventures, your body his canvas.

When you start to fall asleep, you'll wriggle your body down so that your temple rests atop his chest. He traces the curve of your neck to your shoulder. Gale switches to words, messily writing incantations over your skin like a tattoo. If you pay attention, you catch him writing 'I love you' over and over, but you elect not to say anything as he does. Before you tuck your arm around his side, you trace love hearts over his stomach. Your head over his heart, you feel it beat a little faster, then slow as you both fall asleep.

HALSIN

Halsin enjoys being present. He drinks in the sight of you slowly, revels in the ability to simply take his time. After living such a long life lived already and the turmoil of the Shadow-Cursed Lands, he has an even greater appreciation for the smaller things in life. You've not lived quite as long as he, but you've already seen and done more than seemingly entire villages of people. Time and circumstance has worn you both down to a point. Resilience bounces you back, but a healthy regular dose of affection helps too.

At night, you both sit close to the fire. Halsin whittles, chipping away slivers of wood to carve out tiny pieces of art. He looks up, stretching his neck, and watches you as you map the stars above. You scrawl over maps and spare parchment, trying to write and doodle down your memories lest you forget them. When you look over to Halsin, your eyes meet, and you chuckle a little being caught off guard.

Taking you by the hand, Halsin leads you to your shared tent. You undress him, taking your time to smooth his hair back, to run your nails over his biceps. He returns the favour, cupping your curves with his large palms, spreading warmth all throughout your body. He lays on his side in the bedroll, one arm bent and tucked under his head. You use this as a pillow, enjoying his scent so close; wood and musk. Halsins free arm drapes over your midsection to pull you in closer. You push your knee through his legs and you slot together like puzzle pieces. You begin to talk about your latest mapping, your need for more parchment, and plans for tomorrow. Halsin kisses you on the forehead, entire being relaxed. You'll sleep squished together like this, encompassed by heat and comfort.

KARLACH

Cuddle supreme. You bet that once that engine is pacified enough to touch that Mama K is all over you like green on grass.

Prior to this, Karlach was sure (if not overly cautious) about maintaining a healthy distance between you. She was excessively worried about setting you ablaze during the night, and often opted to sleep just outside of her tent while you claimed her bedroll inside. Her claims of worry were partially genuine, but she also enjoyed how you left her tent. The smell you lingered on her sheets, and you often left little things behind like a water canteen or a book you'd been reading.

Once her engine was quelled though, the things she imagined could finally come to fruition. You often cuddle facing each other, changing positions like the moon over the sky. Most comfortably, Karlach settles her head under your chin, face pressed up against your neck and chest. Her arms wrap all the way around your middle, her legs crossing over yours. You curl both arms around her head, trying to leave enough room for her to breathe, and use your free hand to run through her hair. When you start gently scratching over her scalp, you get a snoring Karlach in an instant.

You find that you need to leave the tent flap partially open to vent out some of the warmth; even the most frigid nights are no match for Karlach's body heat. With how impossibly close you're smooshed together, there's little room for the cold to find you anyway.

LAEZEL

Given her dedication towards training and being the youngest in the group, it shouldn't be a surprise that Laezel is quite inexperienced when it comes to affection. Before she met you, and even during, quiet intimacy is somewhat foreign. When you first explained what cuddling was, Laezel thought it was some kind of defensive grapple.

When you both settle for the evening, you find yourselves prepping in comfortable silence for the days ahead. Laezel counts rations and sharpens blades. You condition leather and secure packs. Sometimes, she admires you silently as you focus on your tasks. She smiles to herself at your willingness to help, your competence, she feels security in your choosing her as a partner. Once it's time to settle into your bedrolls, you spend a few precious moments facing each other. She grips your hands in hers and studies your face. She stares with such intensity that it's like she's trying to commit every freckle and line to memory forever. There is some truth to this. When she closes her eyes in peaceful moments, she meditates on the things in her life that bring her joy; her accomplishments, her goals, and you, her partner.

Laezel most often sleeps on her back, leaving her more ready to react to ambushes in the night. She refuses to let go of one of your hands though, with you acting as a kind of anchor for her. Laezel's mind is constantly buzzing with what's to come next, reflecting on what's already happened. It's rare, and precious to her, to indulge in quiet moments of care.

MINTHARA

For practical reasons, Minthana rarely falls asleep with her limbs restricted - it's much harder to stab an intruder if one of your arms is cuddled under your lover. A light sleeper, Minthana doesn't mind sleeping on her side with you. She enjoys being the big spoon, and is certain to let you know that it's not solely because of the protective factor as she deems you just as capable as she (though internally, there's certainly a reflexive protective factor at play here).

Before you sleep, Minthana will curl around you, pressing the entire front of her body to your back. She commits your scent to memory, and recalls the days events aloud. You hold one of her hands in both of yours, mostly paying attention. She enjoys the way you massage her hands, rubbing your thumbs against her wrist, testing the sharpness of her nails against your skin.

When it's time to sleep, Minthana untangles from you, laying on her back or side. She likes to know that you're there though, so she crosses one of her legs over yours in some way. Her ankle rests over yours, or your thigh against her hip, or even just your heels touching each other. Enough closeness to feel your presence, enough space to breathe freely.

SHADOWHEART

You and Shadowheart vary your nighttime routines. Most times, you'll be engaging in mutual and self care, reflecting on the day, prayer, and washing. You offer to brush through Shadowheart's hair, carefully working through knots and bumps and smoothing it into something comfortable to sleep in. The feeling sends tingles down her spine, and she shivers like a cat purring, feeling sleepier and sleepier. She, in return, examines your hands. She cleans over them with a warm washcloth, applying healing balms and ointments to your cuts and bruises, filing your nails to shape.

You both spend time setting and resetting your shared bed space. Being adventurers, and with Shadowheart's past, you're used to moving around often. Your bedroll, your belongings, everything is set up ready to pack at a moment's notice. Though, if you take the time you notice small personal touches that make it feel like yours. A dense hairbrush adorned in silver, Shadowheart's. A thick, hand-woven blanket made in fibre native to your home, yours.

When you begin to collapse from exhaustion, more often than not Shadowheart will settle in behind you. You don't mind being the little spoon, indulging in Shadowheart's body heat and mindlessly playing with her fingers in yours. Shadowheart enjoys pressing her face to the back of your neck, sharing your body heat. She feels somewhat protective of you in the night. Quietly, she worries every now and again that something in the dark will take you away forever. You sense that fear sometimes, the way she drifts off in thought before squeezing you a little tighter. It's a feeling you're not unfamiliar with. She falls asleep to the sound of your voice as you tell her of your adventures past. She dreams of your adventures together in the future; this is something you have in common.

WYLL

Wyll enjoys holding you close basically any chance he gets, and bedtime is no exception. You both keep a reasonable distance while doing simultaneous night routines: Wyll polishes and stores your days' weapons, you pack and prep bags for the next day. As you flit past each other, there are subtle passing touches. A lingering glance at your exposed shoulder, the tips of your fingers grazing against his night clothes. Some are less so, you rake your fingers over his hair and horns, pressing your faces together. Or he'll stand behind you as you wipe down your face, body pressed impossibily close to yours. He teases you about the blush that crawls up your neck.

As you lay together, Wyll finds that sleeping on his back with some tactically stacked pillows works best for his horns. You rest your head at his collarbones, holding his hand. It calms you to feel his chest rise and fall as he breathes, and you never pass up an opportunity to ask him about his seemingly endless adventurous stories. Wyll watches you doodle on his palm, his other hand holds you at your waist, occasionally slipping his hand under your nightshirt to caress your skin.

Lying on your side, you fold your leg over his. You relish in how he squirms slightly depending on where your thigh ends up. Revenge. Most nights, you both fall asleep just like this in each other's embrace. Surrounded by a nest of pillows and a light blanket, you fall into warmth. Comfort in the night that takes you away from the horrors of the day.

Bonus!

NPCs (Alphabetical)

GORTASH

Routine is something both you and Gortash appreciate but rarely achieve with your busy schedules. If Gortash gets a moment at home, you're out in combat. If you come back at a reasonable hour, he's in meeting after meeting. The one thing you try in earnest to maintain though is a nightly routine when your times do align.

You both debrief and undress, spewing out the stress of the day with little regard for whether it makes sense or how many tangents you go off on. Gortash stands at your back as you sit in front of your vanity. He loosens your hair while you clean your wounds, chuckling about the injuries you'd inflicted in reply. You take Gortash's hand in yours and sit him down on the mattress. You run your fingers over his temples and he melts like snow. His muscles are tight as you massage over his neck, his shoulders, leaving light scratch marks over his skin.

In bed, you both lie on your sides, facing the window. The night sky casts the dimmest light into your room, the air outside is quiet and still. There is respite here. You curl around Gortash's back, spooning him as he clutches your hands tight in his. This is your routine, your normalcy. Here, neither of you are bloodstained, neither are performing. Comfort is a strange and rare indulgence in your plights to take over the world; but whether here in your chambers, in a bedroll camping in the forest, or in a jail cell, it's the one thing you can find in each other.

RAPHAEL

Raphael is fond of studying you, examining every inch, every curve of your being with all the patience in the Hells. He's currently asked you to pose for a portrait, draped loosely along a red velvet chaise while the light of the outside world shines just right over your body. It's difficult to catch your face, your eyes especially, in paint. Raphael finds your eye contact far too inviting to concentrate for another quiet hour, so he ceases.

Placing his brushes down, you sit up and crack your neck. You stretch the stiffness from your limbs and extend your hands out to encourage Raphael to join you. He kicks off his dress shoes, climbing atop you with his knee inbetween your legs. His spine curves as he lowers down, lips brushing over your ear as he embraces you.

With some effort, you wrap your arms around him, smothered by warmth and the faint scent of sulphur. You do get used to it after a while. An open window allows a gentle breeze in the room, slowly drying the paint. The light diffuses through sheer curtains, and it makes you sleepy. Time is confusing and unruly here, but you crave a lazy afternoon (at least, that's how it feels) nap. Stroking the back of Raphael's hair, you relax back and close your eyes. Despite his reservations, Raphael soon joins you. His face stays buried against your neck, every breath embued with your smell. You're surrounded by each other, neither of you especially keen to move away.

ROLAN

Finding a place to sleep in Ramazith's Tower wasn't the difficult part, choosing where to sleep was. For the first few weeks, you and Rolan explored a great depth, you'd never climbed so many stairs and walked so many invisible platforms in your life.

One night, you'd decided rather adventurously to sleep up high on a balcony. You'd made a nest of sorts with Rolan, harvesting pillows and blankets and a mattress. The weather was clear and mild as the sky slowly turned to black. Rolan had set up approximately four hundred fail safes to ensure neither of you would fall in your sleep.

You both huddle down into the swathes of fabric. You remark to Rolan how different this was to the camps you'd slept in when you met him, or the Emerald Grove where he and his siblings had stayed. You face each other, legs interlocking, and Rolan places both hands on either side of your face. He remarks that it's to keep you warm but the air has barely a chill. You shift slightly to point out constellations in the sky, and Rolan's hands move downward and settle at your sides. He plays with the hem of your nightshirt, eyes affixed to wherever you point and gesture. The spell of night overtakes you both, and you fall asleep with your foreheads pressed lightly together.

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waa we did it gamers my first multi character piece!! Originally this was supposed to be a short and sweet dotpoint-style headcanons post but apparently I can't help myself. Because of how many characters there were to write and because I'm me it took a little longer than expected but I'm really happy

I've been committing myself to doing even just a little tiny bit of writing/creative stuff every day (with some gaps obvs I'm only human) and I gotta say it really does help

so if you're reading this, go write something. Or draw, or edit, or whatever but just do a little bit of something today. its good for the soul

take care! :3

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path-of-grass-and-leaves · 4 months ago

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Bioregional Magic: Working with Invasive Plants

UPG Time: All information comes from my personal practice.

Within a locally based practice, one might feel compelled to work with only native plants. After all, it makes sense to want to form relationships with beneficial plants that grow naturally in your area.

But what about that enormous patch of 4 foot-tall Mugwort growing in the corner of the yard? Or the huge Rose of Sharon shrub covered in edible blooms? What do we do when native plants are scarce or too valuable to local wildlife to disturb, and the ever-abundant invasives are right there?

We put them to work. Invasive plants are a useful resource that we can collect and utilize without harming (and often benefiting) the local ecosystem.

Invasive vs Non-Native & Naturalized

Remember that not every non-native plant is invasive. Not even every weedy non-native plant is invasive. Invasive plants grow rapidly, have few predators or pathogens, out-compete natives, and harm the ecosystem. Plants classified as non-native don't support wildlife as well as native plants, but do not pose an ecological threat. Naturalized plants are non-native plants that have successfully integrated themselves into their new environment without causing ecological damage.

Additionally, some species are invasive in certain states or provinces but are fine in others, so look up your local invasive species list!

Invasive Species Correspondences

There are a few general correspondences that come to mind when I think of invasive plants. They are weedy with an aggressive growth rate. They out-compete and smother their native competitors.

If you're looking for fast-acting magic, a quick prosperity working, or magic that gives you an advantage over someone else, these are the plants to use. I could also see them being used in workings related to adapting in an unfamiliar environment.

On the contrary, they can be great for curses and hexes, with the ability to choke, smother, overwhelm, and destroy.

Ethical Harvest

All living things deserve dignity and respect. If you are an animist, regularly work with plants and animals, or have a set of "Ethical" or "Honorable" harvest rules in your practice, you probably agree.

Invasive plants aren't trying to destroy our ecosystem. They were introduced by humans and unfortunately do far too well in their new environment. In my practice, if you harvest these plants with contempt or hatred, your magic will fall short.

In terms of safe harvesting practices, it's important to wear protective gear and be aware of potential toxicity. Additionally, one should be aware of how to properly collect different species. Certain harvest or culling methods can actually cause some plants to reproduce faster. Mugwort, which is invasive in some parts of the US, spreads by rhizome and pulling it from the ground will only make it grow faster.

Narrowing Correspondences

While the general correspondences listed above can be very useful, they aren't unique to any individual plant. All invasive plants are native to somewhere, meaning that there is some place where they have their own ecological benefits and rich cultural meaning.

As practitioners, we want to actually get to know these plants on an individual level. A good starting point is through learning about their ecological benefits within their native range, and their symbolism/folkore. The intent here isn't to absorb this symbolism into our paths and divorce it from its original context. The goal should be to learn about these plants so they can be approached from a place of appreciation and respect, and perceived as more than just "invasive".

Once you've learned about an individual plant, you can begin to write your own correspondences. Some things to pay attention to are time of year fruiting, sun/shade tolerance, leaf shape, seed dispersal, growth pattern, and wildlife value (if applicable in your area, otherwise, look into wildlife value within the plant's native range).

Invasive Plant Offerings

If you want to venerate an invasive plant, or are performing a working that requires leaving offerings, it should be done in a way that doesn't encourage outdoor growth. This means no watering or offering things like compost. Here are some ideas for invasive plant offerings:

Bowls of water, compost, or fruit, left for a specific period of time and then removed

Incense

Devotional art and jewelry

Stones and other natural items

Compostable trinkets and art made from materials sourced from the plant (nothing that could encourage reproduction, like seeds)

Utilizing Invasive Plant Materials

Invasive plants can be harvested with virtually no damage to the ecosystem. More often than not, they will just keep growing back, providing a near-endless source of materials and ingredients. This differs from native plants, where harvesting requires great care and should be done sparingly.

Some ideas for utilizing invasive plant materials:

Wands and stangs

Ingredients for workings that require specific plant parts (roots to represent death, flowers for love workings, etc.)

Incense blends and smoke bundles

Wreaths for warding or altar decor

Edible plants: kitchen magic, teas, tinctures, infusions, recipes

Flower petals for strewing

Offerings for associated spirits or Deities

Bath Teas for ritual baths and glamours

Botanical salts for specific workings

Note: If you are applying a plant to your skin, using it for incense, or consuming it, please properly identify the plant and confirm that it's safe for your intended use. Always use a plant reference book, foraging book, or field guide in addition to a search engine. Never rely on plant identification apps. Learn about look alikes too. Never expose yourself, household, or your pets to potentially toxic plants.

#bioregional magic #animism #nature magic #spirit work #land spirits #witchcraft #witchblr #witchcraft community #plant magic

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inkpetrichor · 11 days ago

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Nasty Dog! | Kuroo Tetsurou x f!reader

5.- Part five

masterlist here<3

cw. MDNI. fem! reader. delinquent! reader. use of yn. smoking. cursing. angst. hurt/comfort. smut. p in v. unprotected sex. creampie. lots of dirty talking. absolute filth but kinda cute(?. lemme know if i missed anything<3 wc. 5.6k an. enjoy! as usual, comments are appreciated<3

Tuesday painted the sky outside your window gray—not stormy, just... blank. The kind of sky that felt like waiting. Another day you had to skip. You had half a cigarette left and no lighter, which somehow felt symbolic.

"Come to me when you're ready to actually talk feelings..."

You weren't ready. And you couldn't blame him.

You couldn't blame him for wanting more—wanting something real. For having the spine to say this isn't enough when it would've been easier to keep things messy and half-lit like you always did.

He had self-respect. He knew what he deserved. And deep down, you admired that about him.

And you wanted him. God, you wanted him. Not just in your bed, not just in passing—you loved him. You didn't know when it started, only that it had sunk in slowly, like ink through paper. But when he asked for your honesty, for something real, the words just wouldn't come.

You didn't know how to say I love you without feeling like you were standing on a ledge with your chest cracked open. You'd never been taught how.

It was like trying to have a conversation in a language you'd only just started learning—fumbling for the right words, terrified of saying the wrong ones.

And now here you were, half a cigarette in hand, no lighter, and no clue how to stop ruining things before they could ever really begin.

Then your phone buzzed.

Emi <3: sorry babes, had 2 give u a lil push (˶ > ₃ < ˶)♡ : ???

Before you could type out a proper what the fuck, there was a knock on your door.

And you knew. You just knew.

That knock wasn't generic. It wasn't a neighbor or delivery guy. It was three short raps, one beat slower than the others.

The same rhythm he'd used a hundred times before. He'd come over so many times it became second nature. Familiar. Specific... Him.

Your chest tightened painfully, like something inside you had braced for impact without warning.

You opened the door.

And there he was.

Kuroo Tetsurou's tall frame stood in your doorway like a memory come back to make you suffer, looking thoroughly unimpressed. His arms were crossed. His shoulders slouched. There was no smug glint in his eyes—just quiet frustration and something heavier under it, like disappointment dressed in black and red.

You stared.

He stared back.

"What are you doing here, Tetsurou?" you asked, voice dull. Tired. Like you were already too exhausted to handle whatever this was going to be.

He shrugged slightly, but it was half-hearted.

"Emi came up to me today... With that mutt of hers. What's his name again? Ki... something?"

"Kenkiba," you muttered, a half-smile twitching at your mouth despite yourself.

"Right. Him." He squinted like the memory annoyed him. "He was giving me the stink eye the whole time she talked. Didn't blink once. I thought he might bite me."

You huffed out a scoff, dragging a hand down your face.

"Sounds like him."

Silence bloomed for a second—thick and humid. Not hostile, just... heavy.

"She told me not to give up on you," he said softly after a beat.

Your throat tightened. Closing around words you weren't ready to speak. You looked away from him.

"And?" you asked, voice thinner than you meant.

Kuroo tilted his head. His gaze swept over your face like he was trying to read something in between the fine lines of your exhaustion.

"Still figuring it out," he said simply.

The honesty made your stomach twist. You'd missed that. His way of speaking plainly, even when the truth was sharp.

You sighed, long and quiet, and stepped back. "Come in, make yourself at home. You know where everything is anyway."

Kuroo didn't say anything. Just stepped inside like he always used to do—quiet but present, all warmth and height and gravity. The air felt heavier with him in the room, but it wasn't unpleasant.

It was familiar.

And dangerous.

He glanced around your tiny entryway like it was both a crime scene and a memory. His fingertips grazed the edge of your shoe rack like touching it might tell him if things had really changed. You didn't move. You barely breathed.

You weren't ready for this conversation.

But you'd left the door open anyway.

The living room was dim, cozy in that lived-in way—shadows pooling in corners, the soft hum of the TV playing some sitcom rerun you hadn't bothered turning off. A half-finished drink sweating on the coffee table. Folded blankets no one used. Familiarity buried under the dust of everything you hadn't said.

Kuroo sat opposite you at the dining table, fingers idly drumming against the wood while you picked at a loose thread in your sleeve. A glass of water for each of you.

His eyes flicked toward your couch, then quickly away.

You broke the silence first, eyes still fixed on the thread in your sleeve.

"How was practice?"

Kuroo leaned back slightly in his chair. The sharp tension that had hung in the air earlier began to loosen a little.

"Yaku lost a bet to Lev."

That got your attention. You raised a brow, lips twitching.

"Had to wear one of Lev's hoodies for the whole practice," Kuroo continued, almost fondly. "Looked like a pissed-off gremlin drowning in beige fleece."

You snorted, the image so vivid you could practically see it.

"He threw his shoes at you?"

"Twice," Kuroo said with a weary sigh. "Once for laughing, once just because I was there."

A real smile curled on your lips this time. Small, but it warmed your face.

"I like Yaku."

"He likes you too," Kuroo replied. "In a scary, sorta fan way. He's rooting for you. And, weirdly enough, also slightly afraid of you."

You were about to fire back something snarky when—

Creaaak.

The door to your dad's room swung open, slow and yawning like it resented being disturbed.

It was like the sound and smell of conversation had dragged him from his nap. You stiffened, eyes flicking to the hallway.

Kuroo went still.

It hit him all at once—how quiet this house had always been. Empty whenever he came over. Just the two of you. Always careful. Private. The unspoken rule had been: no family, no interruptions.

Now there were footsteps. Heavy ones. Presence.

This wasn't just anyone stepping into the room. This was your father—and it was the first time either of you had ever been this close to the other's home life. Kuroo felt it like a shift in pressure, like the air had gone thick.

He sat up straighter, instincts clicking into place like armor.

Your father emerged from the hallway, slow and deliberate. He shuffled out in sweats and a grey tank top that had seen better days, scratching his belly like a bear half-disturbed from hibernation.

Kuroo shot up from his seat. His posture went ramrod straight and his eyes widened.

The man was huge. Not just muscular—solid. Towering. Heavy hands, boxer's shoulders, a chest like a steel barrel, and a scowl carved into his face like a statue that had never known joy. He looked like he could knock out a grown man with one hand and still make it home in time for dinner. Kuroo felt like a goddamn pair of chopsticks next to him.

And the look your dad gave him?

Like he was already imagining what it'd feel like to snap him in half and make a wish.

"Dad. Kuroo Tetsurou. Kuroo Tetsurou. Dad." you introduced lazily. Too casual in his opinion.

Kuroo scrambled to his feet and bowed, polite and slightly terrified. "Nice to meet you, sir."

Your dad grunted. Not a word. Just grunt.

"He's my tutor," you said, arms folding across your chest.

Another grunt. Slightly lower.

"And the guy I'm in love with."

Silence.

Your dad's eyes flicked wider—just a twitch—but in his world, that was basically a scream. He looked at you, then back at Kuroo, who was now staring at you like you'd grown a second head.

Did you want him to die? Because he was pretty sure that's what you were going for.

Then your dad squinted. His chin tilted up ever so slightly as he peered at Kuroo through his lower lashes, expression calculating now. Something in his gaze sharpened—predatory, maybe. Appraising.

Kuroo could see the resemblance.

"Are you the guy my daughter cried herself to sleep over the other day?"

Your eyes flew open, panic shooting through you.

"Da—"

"What do you do for a living?" he cut in.

You blinked. Panic changed to cringe.

What the fuck was that question?

Kuroo stammered. "I—I'm a student, sir."

"And?"

"He's the captain of the volleyball team," you said quickly, rubbing your temples in secondhand embarrassment.

Your dad's brow twitched. He didn't say anything, but the surprise was there—buried beneath his blank expression.

"And top of his class," you added.

"Top of your class?"

"Top of my class, Sir."

Your dad grunted again—less annoyed this time. Thoughtful, maybe.

Then, without another word, he reached out and grabbed your glass of water off the table, downed it in two massive gulps.

You scowled. "I was drinking that, thank you."

If he heard, he ignored it. He wandered into the kitchen and the faucet creaked awake as he filled the glass under the sputtering tap. His free hand patted at his pockets.

Then, without so much as a glance, he tossed something in your direction.

You caught it mid-air, reflexive.

Your fingers closed around the shape before your brain caught up. The feel was familiar—rectangular, thin, slightly glossy. You looked down and gasped. Audibly.

A pack of cigarettes.

But not just any. The cigarettes—the most expensive ones the local konbini carried, the ones you only ever admired from behind the counter like they were luxury perfume.

"I saw your report card, kiddo. You've been doing great," he muttered, not looking directly at you as he set the glass back down on the table with a clink. His eyes flicked to Kuroo next. "I guess I gotta thank you for that too. Though I assume since you play sports, you don't smoke."

"No sir."

"Good. Maybe you can get her to quit that bullshit too."

You rolled your eyes, a wry little grin tugging at your mouth. "What will you give me when I don't smoke and still do well in school?"

"Good point," he murmured, almost to himself.

Then he looked at Kuroo, giving him a jerk of his chin.

"Sit down, son. This ain't the military. Just don't make her cry again or I'll make you wish it was."

Kuroo nodded so fast he almost gave himself whiplash.

"Yessir."

He sank back into his seat with zero resistance, spine still straight as a rail, like he didn’t trust gravity not to betray him.

Your dad grabbed his battered bomber jacket from the hook by the door, slinging it over one shoulder. It looked too light for the weather, but that was just how he was—too stubborn to feel the cold.

"I'm going out. Go ahead and have dinner without me," he said gruffly, hand already on the knob.

Then his eyes slid to Kuroo. A pause. Then back to you.

"Behave."

You raised a hand in a lazy salute, leaning back in your chair.

"Have fun~"

He grunted once—final, almost fond—and shut the door behind him. The lock clicked into place with a soft metallic snick.

Silence.

Kuroo let out the longest exhale of his life.

"Are you insane?! He could've killed me with a flick of his pinky."

You burst out laughing. The sound cracked out of you, light and sudden.

"But he didn't. Relax—he's harmless."

"Uh, yeah. I don't believe you."

"Tetsurou."

"Y/N."

You sighed, brushing a hand through your hair.

"Follow me, please."

You stood and padded toward your room, feeling his presence shuffle behind you—socked feet brushing over the floor, quieter than usual. When the door clicked shut behind him, you went straight to your bag, kneeling beside it with shaky fingers.

Not from fear.

But from the crushing awareness that you'd said it.

That you loved him.

Out loud.

In front of your dad. Like a lunatic.

Your hands trembled as you pulled a box of chocolates from your bag and turned, holding it out.

Kuroo blinked down at the box like it had materialized out of nowhere. His brow furrowed slightly as he glanced between your face and the glossy packaging, confusion shifting slowly into something quieter. Curious. Guarded. Like he was afraid to hope.

You cleared your throat and dropped your gaze to the floor.

"I, uh..." you started, voice barely above a whisper. "You said... you wanted, like—a cute confession. Like in the movies. With chocolate... And a letter... n' shit."

He stared at you, eyes unreadable. You kept yours fixed on the floor like it might open up and swallow you whole.

"So," you said quietly, forcing the words out before they slipped away, "here's the chocolate."

Kuroo looked down at the box in his hands, fingers twitching like he didn't know whether to laugh or hug you.

You kept talking, like if you stopped you'd fall apart.

"I… I didn't write a letter because that's stupid, and I'm not good at feelings. You know that. But I thought maybe you'd… I don't know. You'd get what I mean if I just… if I just showed you."

Your breath hitched. The pressure in your chest was building—tight and relentless behind your ribs.

"I didn't mean to hurt you, Tetsurou," you said, finally looking at him just to look down again, running away from the intensity of his golden, honeyed eyes.

You blinked rapidly, trying to keep it back, but the heat of guilt and shame stung anyway. The tears came fast—hot, unwelcome, and traitorous.

"I just— I didn't want to fuck it up. That's the only thing I knew from the start. That if I let it get serious, I'd do something stupid and mess it all up. And then you'd leave. And I thought it'd be easier to keep it simple and just not... not feel so much."

Your voice broke and you squeezed your eyes shut.

The tears spilled over.

"I didn't mean to hurt you," you said again, softer now. A whisper, like the truth had grown too heavy to speak at full volume.

Kuroo's voice met you like a steady anchor—

"But you did," he said softly. Not sharp. Not angry. Just real.

You looked up slowly, the shame burning hot behind your eyes.

He was already watching you.

"I know," you whispered.

He took a breath. Slow. Full of something more than just oxygen.

Then came that smirk—that lopsided, him kind of smirk that made your heart stumble. The one you'd missed like hell.

His golden eyes scanned your face, and he still hadn't let go of the chocolates. They hovered between you like a fragile offering. A truce.

"You really thought I meant the chocolate part?"

You let out a wet, broken laugh. "I panicked."

"God," he muttered, stepping forward.

Then he kissed you.

Warm hands slid up to cradle your face, thumbs brushing over damp cheeks as his mouth found yours—soft and grounding. Not desperate. Not hurried. Just full. Steady. Like he was trying to tether you to him, to the now, so you'd stop spiraling through everything you'd been afraid of.

You clung to his shirt like it was the only solid thing left in the world. Your lips parted beneath his with a quiet, gasping sob.

"I'm sorry," you breathed into him. Again and again. Each one more cracked than the last, as his mouth moved from yours to your cheek, to the corner of your eye.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—"

"I know," he whispered, pressing his forehead to yours. "I know."

He kissed the top of your head, fingers trailing down to your hips, grounding you with quiet presence. Holding you there. Steady.

"I love you too, by the way," he said. Soft. Firm. Impossible to mistake.

You froze.

"It was quite ballsy to say it in front of your dad," he added, voice nearly a whisper.

You looked up at him, nose pink and eyes red and blotchy. "You love me?"

"Yeah," he said like it was obvious. "Why else would I put up with you acting like my feelings were a math problem you could ignore into submission?"

You shoved his chest, still crying but laughing now too, emotions a tangled mess in your throat.

"You're such a dick," you sniffled.

"And you are too," he said, pulling you into another kiss. "Now shut up and let me hold you before I cry too."

You kissed like you had all the time in the world.

No more frantic hands or clashing teeth. No power games. No pretending you didn't care.

It was just you, and Kuroo, and the quiet press of his lips against yours.

You felt him sigh into it, like kissing you brought him some kind of peace. Like it was relief. Forgiveness. Home.

His lips trailed along your jaw, slow and reverent, rediscovering you inch by inch—re-memorizing every part of the map he’d gone too long without touching.

"I missed you," he breathed, voice cracking like the words were breaking out of him whether he wanted them to or not. A truth he needed to say aloud.

You hated how much that made your throat close up. Your hands curled around his shirt, pulling him closer without even realizing it. Not desperate. Just... greedy. Needy. Because you'd missed him. Because you loved him. Because you needed him. And he felt so fucking good—solid and warm and real—breathing against your mouth like he needed you just the same.

"Tetsurou..." you muttered, tugging at his hair, breath skimming his cheek. "You make me so fucking soft, it's disgusting."

That got a low laugh from him, warm against your skin. "Guess we're both disgusting, then."

But you weren't. Not with how his hands moved—gentle, steady, worshipping. Hands sliding up under your shirt, fingers slow and sure as they brushed across your stomach, your ribs, the curve of your breast. Not groping. Savoring.

Not with how gently he pushed you onto your bed. Soft like a whisper, smiling into the kiss when you pulled him by the collar of his shirt on top of you like you couldn't be apart from him for longer than strictly needed.

Not with how you kissed him back, mouth parting with quiet need, teeth grazing his lower lip like a silent promise. He tasted like the ghost of salt and sweetness. Like missing someone so badly it hurt.

You kissed him harder. Deeper. Tongues tangling like you were trying to swallow each other whole. When you ground your hips up against him, you felt how hard he already was, thick and twitching against your thigh.

He groaned into your mouth, hands sliding down to hook under your thighs.

"You're shaking," he murmured, lips brushing the shell of your ear—almost shy, like he didn't want to scare you off with how soft you suddenly felt.

"I know," you whispered, breath hitching as your hips rolled against his. "I just don't know how to do this when it feels this fucking real."

He brushed his thumb along your cheek, down to your jaw, tilting your face up before dipping to press his mouth to your collarbone. Each kiss was barely there at first—featherlight—until his teeth scraped your skin and he growled against it.

"Then don't think," he said, voice rough. "Just let me make you feel good. Let me ruin you a little more."

You exhaled hard, like you were exorcising fear. Then you nodded.

Clothes came off slower this time, but not without heat. He stripped you like he wanted to remember how every inch of you felt beneath his hands.

His mouth left a trail down your chest, sucking your nipple into his mouth until your back arched off the bed. You whimpered, and when you tugged his hair, he groaned—eyes fluttering shut like the sound of your need physically hurt him. He didn't tease—he devoured.

"Look at you," he rasped, forehead pressed to the center of your chest, voice breathless and thick with hunger. "You're so fucking beautiful like this. I like it when you're all tough and bratty—but this?"

His hand slipped between your thighs, fingers gliding through your slick folds as he kissed your sternum.

"This is gonna fucking ruin me."

You swore under your breath, face burning, but you didn't stop him. Your legs opened wider—offering, surrendering.

When he finally pushed into you, it wasn't exactly gentle, but it was sweet. Slow, deep, intentional. A filthy stretch that filled every inch of you and made your mouth fall open in a raw, aching gasp.

"Oh—fuck—Tetsurou—" you choked, nails clawing into his back, dragging down his sweat-slick skin.

"You feel that?" he groaned, cock grinding in deep with one thick, steady thrust. "So fucking deep… Christ, you're gripping me."

Your walls clenched reflexively around him and he stuttered forward, a broken sound ripping from his throat.

You whimpered, eyes rolling back as your legs locked around his hips, pulling him impossibly closer.

"You feel... you feel so good, I can't—"

"You can," he muttered against your mouth, voice wrecked. "You're fucking perfect around me. So wet—fuck—so wet for me I can hear it. Just take it. Let me give this to you."

He was right. You could feel it—could hear it—the obscene, slick sound of him fucking into you, each thrust louder, wetter, drawing filthy friction from your swollen, aching cunt. You were soaked, stretched around him so perfectly it felt like your body was made to be ruined by his.

His hips moved in long, grinding thrusts—intentional, filthy in their closeness. His pelvis dragged against your clit just right, every stroke hitting that spot that made your voice break, made your moans crack into desperate little gasps of his name.

"Tetsurou—please, don't stop—"

It wasn't about power tonight, or payback, or pushing limits. It was about closeness. Forgiveness. The way your hands trembled in his hair as he kissed your tears away. The way you clung to him like he could patch up everything you didn't know how to say.

"I've got you," he panted, one hand gripping your thigh, the other planted beside your head. His hips slammed deeper now, still controlled, but with a force that made the bed creak. The air was sticky with sweat and sex.

"Not going anywhere. Gonna make you come—hah, fuck—gonna come so hard you forget what you were crying about."

You whimpered something wrecked and incoherent, and his rhythm faltered for a heartbeat.

"Say it again," he gasped, fucking you harder, faster. "Say my fucking name while I make you come."

"Tetsurou—please, please—fuck, I'm gonna—"

He caught your face, fingers firm on your jaw as he kissed you like he needed your breath to survive.

"Come for me, baby. Let me feel it. Let me have all of it."

And you did. You came with a sob into his neck, shattering around him, nails digging into his back as your body locked down on him, trembling so violently he had to pin your hips to ride it out. But it wasn't enough—not with the way you pulsed around him, hot and wet and pleading.

He cursed—loud, low—and shoved in deep. Once. Twice.

Then he followed with a strangled groan.

He buried himself to the hilt, cock throbbing in thick pulses as he spilled inside you. His mouth was at your throat, panting, praising, kissing the slick skin beneath your jaw.

"Fuck—fuck—" he groaned. "You feel too fucking good—I can't—can't let you go—"

You held him like an anchor, legs still trembling around his hips, breath shallow and stuttering.

His cock twitched inside you with aftershocks, and he didn't pull out—not yet. He just stayed there, forehead resting against yours, one hand stroking your thigh like it was the only way to keep breathing.

Every thrust, every kiss, every shaky breath felt like a thread stitching two bruised hearts back together.

You stayed like that for a while—tangled, breathless, still joined at the hips as the air slowly cooled around you. His weight pressed into you, grounding, comforting. Like he was trying to hold every broken piece in place with nothing but skin and closeness.

Your hands combed through his damp hair, fingers lazy and loving, like you needed something—someone—to hold onto.

Because you did.

"You're everything I was scared to want," you mumbled into his hair, voice low and raw, scraped clean by everything he'd just pulled out of you.

He smiled—not smug, just soft—and pressed a kiss to your neck.

"You've always been mine," he murmured. "You were just too damn stubborn."

He rolled to his back, bringing you with him, bodies still warm and sticky. You settled on his chest, legs tangled with his, cheek resting over his heart. It was still beating hard, like maybe he hadn't quite come back down yet either.

His fingers lazily traced shapes on your hip while your hand lay flat against his chest, feeling the slow, steady rise and fall.

You weren't used to this.

The silence that didn't need to be filled.

The peace after the wreckage.

But you were quickly learning to crave this part just as much as the rest of him.

He shifted slightly, the arm around you tightening—not possessive, not afraid. Just anchoring.

"Your dad really threw me under the bus, huh?"

You snorted softly. "Yeah. He has a gift for timing."

"He said you cried over me..." His voice was quiet, careful.

You paused, then sighed. "I did."

He nodded slowly, eyes fixed on the ceiling like he couldn’t quite face you yet. "I cried too. The day at the beach."

You looked up at him. "You did?"

He gave a low, humorless chuckle. "Got on the train home, sat down, and just—bam. Tears. Like an idiot." He finally glanced at you, lips tilting into a crooked smile. "I didn't even make it one stop before some old lady handed me a tissue."

You couldn't bring yourself to laugh, even though he grinned like he wanted you to. The moment felt impossibly softer as your fingers curled gently in the hair at the nape of his neck.

"I'm sorry," you murmured. "I didn't mean to make you feel like that."

"I know." His voice was barely above a whisper. "I get it now. Why you pulled away. I wish you hadn't, but... I get it."

A beat passed. Then a little fire reignited in you, sparked by the memory of a certain someone perched all too comfortably on his arm.

"You're lucky you're cute, though," you grumbled.

He raised an eyebrow, smile faltering slightly. "Yeah?"

You squinted up at him. "Otherwise I'd still be mad about you flirting with Hebinuma like it was your fucking job."

His grin returned in full force. "Okay, in my defense—"

"There is no defense."

"—I never touched her."

"You didn't need to. You let her touch you. Let her put her dirty paws all over you."

He laughed. "Alright, alright. Guilty as charged. But, for the record..." He leaned in, brushing his nose against yours, voice dropping into a teasing whisper, "You made it so easy to make jealous~ You looked so pretty... all mad and possessive like that."

You tried to roll your eyes but ended up burying your face in his neck instead. "Ugh. That's disgusting."

"You love it."

"...Maybe."

He kissed the top of your head, fingers smoothing gently down your back.

"Don't gotta pretend anymore, y'know. You can just be soft with me."

You let out a slow breath against his skin. "You make it really hard not to be."

"Good."

"I can say cheesy shit and not immediately shove you away to preserve my street cred."

Kuroo gave you a dangerous grin. "Oh really? Try."

You hesitated. "Don't laugh."

"I won't."

You narrowed your eyes, skeptical. "...I... I like you."

He snorted immediately at how absurdly difficult that had been for you—especially considering you'd just said you loved him.

"Fuck you! You said you wouldn't laugh!"

"I'm sorry!" he cackled, then tackled you with kisses, smothering your face as you flailed, trying to push him off, while he sang in a childish voice like he was teasing you at recess. "You like me~ You like me~ You liiiike me~"

"I'm gonna punch you in the ribs."

"You liiiike me~"

"I'LL BITE YOU."

He rolled onto his back, still grinning like a fool, pulling you with him so you ended up half on top of him again. You let your head drop onto his shoulder with a long, dramatic sigh.

"You're the worst," you muttered.

"You're in love with the worst, then."

"...Unfortunately."

He turned his head to look at you, gaze soft—like you were the only person who had ever mattered. His thumb brushed your cheek, grazing the skin beneath your eye.

"I love you too."

Your breath caught a little.

"I know," you whispered.

He kissed you again—slow, unhurried. Like he had forever. Because maybe now, he did.

No more pretending.

No more hiding.

No more guessing.

Just his fingers tangled with yours, your limbs intertwined beneath the sheets, the distant hum of the street outside, and the quiet, sleepy freedom of knowing you could love each other out loud now.

And god, did it feel good.

You nestled closer into Kuroo's chest, and he let out a little hum of satisfaction, arms tightening around you like you were something precious. You were still a little sweaty, tangled in the sheets and each other, but neither of you moved to clean up just yet.

He kissed your temple, your cheek, the corner of your mouth—small, lazy things, like he finally had the time to show you how much he liked having you like this. All his.

You tilted your head, catching his mouth with yours, slow and indulgent.

You shifted slightly, letting your leg hook over his thigh again, the closeness grounding you. "You really cried on the train?"

"Like a baby."

"...Fuck. That makes me wanna cry all over again."

He smiled, and this time, it was quieter. Realer.

"Don't. I've got you now. And if you cry again, your dad will kill me... Speaking of your dad killing me—we should probably get dressed before he gets back."

"I kinda don't wanna move, though," you groaned, burying your face in the crook of his neck.

"We also have to clean up. And you need to pee. Friction during sex pushes all kinds of bacteria into your urethra and you could get a nasty UTI—"

"Tetsurou. I know. You say it every time."

"It’s ‘cause every time, you don’t wanna let go! And seriously, your urethra needs—"

"I’ll go if you stop saying urethra."

"Real mature, Y/N. It's simply a body part. Nothing to be ashamed of," he mocked with that signature grin.

You groaned and stood up, tugging on the long t-shirt you used as pajamas.

When you came back, he'd put on pants and even made your bed. He was scrolling through his phone, looking as beautiful as usual.

"Don't leave yet..." you murmured.

His eyes lifted, widening slightly.

"You wanna... cuddle with clothes on or something?"

His surprise melted into a sly smile, but there was a warmth behind it that was unmistakable.

"Cuddle? With clothes on? We're moving a little too fast, Y/N. I don't know if I'm ready for that yet," he teased.

"Shut up."

You flopped next to him, your arms immediately winding around his torso, pressing your cheek to its rightful place on his chest.

"Wanna watch the first season of Death Note?"

"I can't, unfortunately. I gotta get home—and I doubt your dad would let me stay. But maybe..."

"Maybe?"

"Maybe you could come home with me tomorrow. After practice. I know it's not a Thursday but..."

The unsure way he said it hurt you. Like he still didn't quite believe he could ask for things—didn't trust that you'd say yes.

You hugged him tighter, arms looping around his waist, and pressed a kiss over his heart without even thinking. It caught him off guard.

You didn't notice. You were too busy leaving more soft kisses along his chest, murmuring apologies into his skin.

"Thank you. I'll be there," you whispered.

Your voice was the softest he'd ever heard. And somehow, it made something settle in him. Like everything was finally clicking into place.

He hugged you back with a labored sigh.

Like he could finally stop holding back.

Like he could finally hold you how he'd always wanted—without worry.

For the first time, you walked him to the door and said goodbye with a long kiss, followed by many smaller ones he scattered across your face like the first one wasn't enough.

"See you tomorrow. Stop skipping class. Things are getting a little harder lately, and if you miss too much you could fail the exams."

"I guess you'll have to put me up to date with the contents."

"Thursdays after class?"

"After practice." you corrected. He smiled.

"After practice."

You watched him go, your hand lingering on the doorframe even after he disappeared down the stairs. For a long moment, you didn't move—just stood there with your lips still tingling and your heart still echoing with his laughter.

Something in you had finally unraveled tonight. Not in a bad way. Just… looser. Lighter. Like you could finally breathe.

You shut the door softly behind you, the apartment unusually quiet as you padded back into your room. Kuroo's scent still clung to your sheets—warm laundry and a hint of sweat—and you smiled into your pillow before flopping down on it like some idiot in love.

Because maybe you were. Maybe it was stupid. Maybe it was dangerous.

But it felt good. And for now, that was enough.

But peace, as always, was temporary. The whispers crawling through Nekoma's halls were growing fangs—sharp with rumor, slick with malice. And somewhere in the dark, a ghost stirred, reanimated by a snake with a grudge.

And this time, she wasn’t coming for you directly.

Next chapter↪

tags. @themoreeviltwin @taylordenae @rhea-sylvea @iluvikeu @tgnvhp @adangerousbalance @orphicarchive @tammytaamm @iluvmusicxoxo @rvm1ne @kuzoq @espressocandies @ashley95943734 @jayathelostdragon @kyokoyya @crystal-lilac @kuzuven0208

#haikyuu #hq fanfic #hq x reader #haikyu x reader #haikyuu fanfiction #haikyuu fluff #hq #kuroo x reader #kuroo smut #kuroo tetsuro x reader #kuroo testuro #kuroo tetsuro x you #kuroo tetsuro fluff #kuroo tetsurou #nekoma

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star-crossed-fates · 2 months ago

Text

Even My Damnation Spells Your Name

Chapter 7: Written in My Pulse

Synopsis: In a city of steel and stars, you fall in love with a man the world calls a monster. He looks at you like you’ve haunted every life he’s ever lived. Sylus is danger wrapped in silk, secrets stitched into every glance, every touch, every word spoken like a spell. He’s yours before you even realize what you’re remembering.

Because this isn’t the first time.

Dreams unravel you. Memories not your own. A dragon’s death cry. A kiss beneath bloodied skies. A love too eternal to stay buried. As the past bleeds into the present, you begin to piece together the truth. Some memories burn brighter than the stars, others wound deeper than any blade.

And love, no matter how timeless, always demands a price.

Pairing: Female! MC [Named] x Sylus

Rating: Explicit 18+ [MDNI]

Spoilers: Sylus's myth cards/memories. Please note: memories might be a little different than from game for story purposes.

Warnings: NSFW, Explicit smut, including various kinks: Praise, degradation talk, first time, CP, DP, anal sex/play, probably some Dragon!Sylus smut, maybe a lot of it. Many, many more that I'm forgetting to list. Consider yourself warned. - Unlikely to be completely canon. - MC is named. Her personality is darker than in the game, far more morally grey. - Switching between MC's memories/dreams/flashbacks and current timeline. - Other love interests will not show up in this. - Some plot, but not super planned out. Basically, this is a "what if the closer they became, the more MC remembers her life with him on Philos.

You don’t belong here. The thought cycles for the third time as you sip on a flute of champagne that tastes like carbonated disappointment. Gold glitter swirls in the glass because someone somewhere decided that Linkon’s high society needed their drinks to shimmer like fairy vomit.

Nina leans into your side, grinning like she’s just found the last donut at a debrief. You’re both tucked away in a corner like delinquents at a school function. The ballroom is polished marble, decadent chandeliers, and people with names like Worthington and Deveraux discussing fiscal policy and post-Wanderer tax relief. Truly thrilling stuff.

Some wear supposedly symbolic masks, but all you can think about is how the real masks are the invisible ones, plastered in false smiles and manicured charm.

Ethan appears before you like a bad rerun, smile too wide and tie too tight. You sigh internally.

“Anira, hey!” He greets an octave too high, clearly a few drinks in. “Didn’t think I’d find you all the way over here in the… anti-social corner.”

Nina slides away with a whisper of, “Good luck,” and you silently curse her betrayal.

Ethan leans in too close. “You look incredible tonight. That dress—wow. Didn’t know Hunters cleaned up this well.”

“I clean up just fine when threatened with mandatory attendance and department-wide guilt-tripping.”

He laughs, missing the dry edge in your tone. “You know, they’ve got this whole garden terrace upstairs. Real quiet. Real private.”

You blink at him. “That sounds like a terrible place to get murdered.”

He falters, smile wilting, but rallies. “I was just saying—”

“Ethan,” you interrupt gently, “I appreciate the compliment, but I’m not looking for a terrace murder or a slow dance. I’m just here for the open bar and my annual quota of forced social interaction.”

He opens his mouth again, but you’ve already turned back to your drink, tilting it toward him slightly. “Cheers.”

Ethan slinks away, leaving you in blessed silence, or at least the closest thing to it in a ballroom filled with violins and champagne flutes. You catch yourself staring into the glittered fizz, the sound around you fading like fog against the tide.

Days have bled forward, but a name-shaped shadow stretched across your spine continues to cling. His voice still murmurs in the silence between heartbeats, echoing down a corridor of thought that shouldn’t exist.

You’ve turned it over in your mind until it splintered beneath the pressure of logic. Truth is circling just out of reach, coiled and waiting, and whatever it is, it doesn’t feel small.

It feels seismic.

There’s a tremor threading below your skin, as though some ancient part of you is beginning to stir, rising slowly from where it’s slept in the hollowed chambers of your bones.

Even now, his voice lingers in your chest, curling like smoke through the latticework of your ribs, as if your body were built to echo him. Whatever that was—whatever it still is—etched itself into the architecture of your mind, a scar that glows when you breathe too deep.

You shift your weight, heels biting into your ankles with the elegance of a slow betrayal. Across the ballroom, Nina is contorting her face into a tragedy of epic proportions behind a flute of champagne. You stifle a laugh with a breath of a smile, slanted and too tired to bloom fully.

You’re supposed to be paying attention. To the speeches. The fundraiser. The orchestral swell of ego in tuxedos. But your mind keeps backsliding back to him. He lives in the part of your brain that won’t shut up at night, the yearning that never learned to behave.

The air shifts as if the room exhales all at once and forgets how to breathe back in. Everyone's attention snaps to the ballroom doors as if fate has just walked in. You follow their lines of sight, but truthfully, you already know who you’re going to see.

Sylus.

Stars curse you; he looks like sin dressed in shadow. Tailored black suit, the kind that drinks the light and kisses every sharp line of him. Silver hair styled like moonlight frozen mid-fall. Those eyes burning infernal, steady as eclipses, unbothered by the sea of teeth and secrets around him as if he’s already named every threat in the room and deemed them unworthy.

He looks like a god built for ruin.

He walks toward you without breaking stride. Every movement is smooth, intentional, and unapologetically lethal, like he could waltz his way into heaven or hell, and neither would dare stop him.

Nina appears by your side, staring at him with a kind of reverent awe. She leans toward you, eyes wide. “Anira… Is that him?”

You don’t answer, because Sylus is already standing in front of you with a little curve of his mouth that makes the room fall away. “Evening, hope I’m not late.”

Before your brain can even attempt a reboot, Nina barrels past you like a one-woman stampede. “Oh my god,” she exclaims, grabbing his hand like she’s meeting a celebrity. “You’re him, aren’t you?”

Sylus raises an elegant brow. “Him?”

“The mystery guy Anira’s been daydreaming about! The one she’s been doodling in the margins of her reports and drooling over during briefings—”

It comes out in one long, horrifying breath. You make a very specific, strangled, soul-leaving-your-body kind of sound. You are torn between three options: Launching yourself out the nearest window. Stuffing Nina into a decorative urn. Simply dropping dead on the spot and letting the gods sort it out.

Sylus’s eyes, twin shards of garnet dusk, cut to you with a glint that dances like a secret on the edge of his mouth. “It better be me she’s been drooling over.”

Your eyes narrow, but he’s already giving you a look—half-amused, half-daring—a sidelong little tilt of the head that sends heat pooling low in your spine.

“I’ve been daydreaming about food, actually,” you say coolly, folding your arms like a shield you know won’t help. “Particularly dumplings. Very romantic dumplings.”

“Oh, I see,” he sulks, as though deeply wounded. “So I’ve been replaced by steamed carbs.”

“Not replaced,” you correct sweetly. “Just… prioritized.”

Nina looks between the two of you, grinning like she’s watching her favourite drama unfold in real time. “Oh, this is way better than what I imagined. You guys flirt like it’s a sport.”

Sylus chuckles smugly. “I do enjoy a bit of cardio.”

You shoot him a look. “Try walking home.”

Nina gives you a not-so-subtle wink and excuses herself. “I’m gonna go find more champagne and definitely not eavesdrop from ten feet away.”

She vanishes before you can stop her, leaving you alone with a man who is absolutely going to ruin your night in the most spectacular way possible.

Sylus leans in just a little, just enough for only you to hear. “Dumplings, huh?”

“Don’t you have a zone to rule?”

He grins. “Later. Right now, I’m prioritizing.”

You stand there with your arms still crossed, trying to recalibrate while he towers over you like he belongs in this room and every room you’ll ever walk into.

“What are you doing here, Sylus?”

His eyes sweep across your face slowly, and you’re painfully aware of how close he is. “You’ve been avoiding me,” he states.

You open your mouth to protest, but… you have. You’ve buried yourself in reports, doubled your hours at the range, and even let Nina drag you to a yoga class that almost snapped your spine in half just to keep your mind away from silver hair, red eyes, and the memories that are not your own.

He tilts his head slightly. “So I thought I’d come to you.”

Your heart gives a stupid lurch in your chest, and not even your snarky reflexes can save you fast enough. “Risky move,” you manage. “This room is full of Hunters.”

He shrugs, elegant and unbothered. “I’m not worried.” His expression shifts. Quietly, like it slips out before he can think better of it, he admits, “I wanted to make sure you’re alright.”

It hits you right in the sternum. You blink, stunned for half a second. Of course, that’s when fate decides to intervene.

“Anira,” your name drops like a threat.

You flinch.

Ethan. You can already smell the whisky on his breath before he’s in range. He’s not sloshed, but he’s definitely had enough to inflate his ego to critical mass.

He zeroes in on Sylus, shoulders squaring like a cat puffing its fur. “This guy bothering you?”

Sylus straightens from his lean, smooth-as-poured-silk. “Not yet. Should I be?"

“You her boyfriend?” Ethan sneers.

You cough loudly, stepping between them before Ethan combusts from sheer alpha energy. “Alright, that’s enough testosterone for one evening.”

Ethan glares but backs off a little, muttering under his breath about needing another drink. Sylus watches him with amused pity, like a wolf indulging a housecat that thinks it’s a lion.

“Was that the part where I was supposed to be intimidated?” he asks mildly.

“Don’t tease him,” you grumble. “He’s harmless.”

“Mm. He wanted to fight me with his feelings.”

You snort. “You’re such an ass.”

“Only when it works,” he retorts, offering you his hand. “Dance with me?”

The moment your fingers brush, it’s like flipping a switch. The ballroom narrows to a single thread of gravity, and you’re caught in the pull. One of his hands finds the small of your back, the other cradles your fingers with maddening reverence, as if holding a live flame he’s dying to be burned by.

It’s entirely appropriate. Chaste even. It still makes your thighs press together under your dress. He sets your skin alight, nerves singing in tongues you never learned but suddenly understand. The music is slow and classic, but his fingers drift just enough to keep your skin buzzing.

It’s the kind of wanting that lives in marrow, that speaks in the language of forgotten nights and what-if dreams. Your traitorous mind can’t stop imagining the ruin of your name on his lips, shattered on pleasure, spat like sin, or moaned like prayer.

Either would wreck you.

You catch your lower lip with your teeth, and his eyes dip like you’ve whispered scripture. The space between you vanishes one stolen breath at a time.

Sylus moves like he’s written this rhythm into his blood. Every shift of his frame is perfectly measured, like he’s dancing along the edge of a blade and daring you to fall. His thumb traces a lazy circle in that tender hollow where your spine curves inward, a single motion that steals every coherent thought from your skull.

Your pulse hammers, frantic. Your breath stutters, catching like it’s tangled in lace. You’re dizzy with want, drunk on proximity. You wonder if he knows and is enjoying every second of your undoing.

You tilt your head back to meet his gaze and immediately wish you hadn’t. His eyes catch the chandelier light like garnets left too long in the sun, dark and burning, swallowing the fire whole. There’s hunger in them, old and barely leashed, that doesn’t ask permission. It prowls through your thoughts, curling into the hollow places you pretend don’t ache for him.

His thumb brushes a fraction lower, and your knees go weak. You curse these heels. You curse this dress. You curse the way your body is learning the shape of his with terrifying ease, already memorizing every shift of his weight, every breath he draws.

He’s not even trying, and still, restraint feels like a dying language on your tongue. You long to kiss him until the world forgets its name. Until yours dissolves between his teeth. Until your mouth knows nothing but the shape of him—his hunger, his heat, his name said like a secret too dangerous to keep.

Your entire body is trembling with the effort it takes not to crawl into his arms and do something deeply inadvisable right here on the glossy ballroom floor, in front of half the city’s elite and at least three people who’d probably faint.

“You’re playing a dangerous game,” you whisper.

Sylus leans just close enough that his lips nearly brush the shell of your ear. “Only if I’m losing.”

His breath is warm, and it sends a full-body shiver down your spine. Just when your mind starts conjuring images you absolutely should not entertain in public, he pulls back slightly to search your face with a tenderness that undoes you more than anything else.

“You look beautiful tonight.” It rumbles from him, soft as midnight rain and unbearably sincere.

You laugh, a breathless sound that barely escapes your lips. “And you look like the reason women make bad decisions in hotel elevators.”

He grins, slow as sin and twice as inviting. “Then I suppose the real question is…” He leans in, “Are you planning to make any bad decisions tonight, kitten?”

Bad decisions happen to be your favourite.

The air shivers between you, charged like stormlight caught in glass. Your blood has gone molten, your skin too tight for your bones.

And your mouth?

Your mouth aches with the ghost of a kiss not yet taken, like it’s already forgotten how to be untouched.

You don’t remember the drive. Only fragments like the blur of city lights smeared across the windows, the low hum of the engine swallowed by the sound of your pulse.

But his hand, you remember. Resting on your thigh like it had always belonged there, casual in its possession, maddening in its restraint. Each idle sweep of his thumb, an unfinished sentence on your skin. The way he looked at you parked beneath the hush of a red light, like he could taste the tension and was deciding whether to bite down or let you squirm.

Now, you’re inside a mansion that feels like it stepped out of another lifetime—sleek obsidian stonework with ceilings high enough to trap stars. The moment the door clicks shut, restraint fucking shatters. You’re on him like gravity has surrendered to want, hands splayed against his chest, chasing the rhythm of his breath as if it holds the key to yours. You kiss him like hunger given shape, a raw, relentless pull that strips the air from your lungs and replaces it with heat.

He stumbles back, laughter coiled tight in his throat but never quite escaping, his spine catching the wall in the shadowed mouth of the entryway. One brow lifts, carved in smug approval, but you don’t pause to admire it.

Your mouth is already reclaiming his. He tastes like dark promises and defiance, like a man who’s never known hesitation and doesn’t plan to start now. His hands find your waist, fingers flexing once, twice, before pulling you closer, until even the breath between you is stolen and shared.

You move like your body was born knowing the weight of him, the shape of him, and how to make him falter with nothing but touch.

You’re done holding back. His suit jacket slips from his shoulders, pooling at your feet without ceremony. Your fingers dive into the buttons of his shirt, too eager to care about precision. One snaps off and skitters across the floor, and his chest trembles with the unmistakable rhythm of a smothered laugh.

“Sylus,” you murmur against his neck, “don’t start.”

“I haven’t said a word.”

“But you’re thinking loud enough to make me bite you.”

He leans in, just enough that his lips almost brush your ear. His voice is smoke and velvet and amusement edged with hunger. “Then bite.”

So you do, just above his collarbone, sharp enough to make him hiss, sharp enough to make his grip tighten.

“Fuck,” he breathes, half-laugh, half-curse. “You’re dangerous when you’re done being polite.”

You pull back, flushed and furious with wanting, the taste of him still lingering on your tongue. “I’ve been good. So good, Sylus. Letting you circle me like you’ve got all the time in the world while I burn under your hands. But I’m done playing spectator to your self-control.”

His smile could tear a lesser woman in two. “You’re ready to lose control?”

Your nails dig into the edge of his shirt. “No. I’m ready to make you lose yours.”

His breath catches, but it’s the silence that follows that undoes you. His smirk doesn’t just fade. It shatters. His crimson eyes darken, catching the low light like coals stirred from slumber, like he’s been pacing the edge of this moment for far too long, waiting for you to open the cage and invite the fall.

“If you’re going to break, then let it be against me,” he purrs, voice scraped raw. One hand finds your wrist and guides your hand slowly over his heaving chest. “Be greedy with me. Take what you want. Show me what you desire.”

He kisses you like he already knows the shape of your hunger. One hand at the back of your neck, the other splayed at your waist, anchoring you to the present even as he dismantles it. His mouth moves slowly at first, teasing, letting you lean into him with an impatience you don’t bother hiding.

You melt forward with no resistance, pressing against him like you’re desperate to blur the lines between where you end and he begins. Your hands roam across the taut landscape of his chest, memorizing every rise and hollow like scripture.

Sylus presses you into the nearest wall with intent. His lips graze your jaw, the scrape of his teeth followed by the velvet flick of his tongue at your throat. It’s a worship, indecent in how reverent it feels. A slow descent into delirium.

His fingertips trace the arc of your hips, slipping just beneath the hem of your dress as if coaxing permission from your skin. Every drag of contact kindles that feral throb that’s lived too long between your thighs.

You reach for his belt, unthreading it in a single fluid motion. His breath stutters, but he doesn’t stop you. He watches. Still. Waiting.

His eyes are fire made flesh, burning without smoke, without apology. He lets you lead, and that power in your hands is as heady as the scent of his skin.

His hands begin to rise, fingers trailing up your thigh. When he reaches the edge of where your restraint erodes, you freeze.

“Wait.”

It comes out too fast, too sharp. Your body tenses against him. Sylus stops immediately. Not just his hands, but everything. The teasing drops from his face like a veil being drawn back, revealing gentle concern.

He leans back just enough to give you space without letting go. “What’s wrong?”

You feel the words clawing at your throat—hesitating now that they’re at the edge of your tongue. Your face burns. Your hands tremble just slightly where they rest on his chest, and you hate that after being so bold, this is what trips you up.

You force the words out, fumbling, letting your eyes fall to the floor. “I haven’t… done this before.”

His fingers brush under your chin, lifting your face back to his. “Anira.” He says your name like a prayer dragged over embers. His thumb drags lightly over your lower lip, slow enough to make your stomach clench. “If you need me to go slower… or stop entirely… say the word.”

You shake your head. “I don’t want you to stop.”

He smiles, slow, molten, deliciously dangerous. “Good, because I don’t think I could.”

His mouth finds yours like a vow etched in flame. No longer a question, but the answer to every agony you’ve carried in silence. The kiss is deep and devastating, a communion that unmakes you by degrees, trading breath for longing, hesitation for fervour.

His fingers slip beneath the delicate straps of your dress, touch scorching where it lands. He traces the slope of your shoulders as though memorizing the way you unravel for him. Inch by excruciating inch, he guides the fabric down, letting it sigh to the floor.

The air bites at your exposed flesh, but you barely register the chill. His hands are already there, anchoring you to his warmth, stealing your breath before the cold can even hope to claim it.

His strong arms curve around you, and he lifts you from the ground. You cling to him out of instinct, legs curling at his waist. He carries you through the hallway without looking away, like letting go of your gaze might break the spell between you.

The bedroom door eases open with a nudge of his foot, shadows stretching across the floor in soft waves. He lays you down with care that borders on reverence, and he stands over you for a single breathless second—eyes aflame, chest rising like he’s been holding his need on a blade’s edge.

You reach for him, fingers curling into the open edges of his shirt, and you drag it down his arms, knuckles brushing against taut muscle. The fabric slips from his shoulders like water over stone, catching at his elbows before he shrugs it free.

He’s cut from tension and midnight shadow, each breath stretching across his chest like he’s straining to keep himself from devouring you whole. You sit up slightly, palms sliding along the hard planes of him, nails grazing the dip beneath his collarbones, and the way his breath stutters makes heat coil low in your belly.

“You’re not real,” you murmur against his skin, lips brushing his sternum. “You can’t be.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, but it’s ragged around the edges. “Then don’t stop touching me,” he whispers, voice frayed. “Remind me I am.”

Sylus kisses you like he’s trying to collapse time, like if he goes deep enough, he’ll find the first moment your soul ever touched his. You can’t tell if this is longing or memory, but it’s splitting through you, like lightning seeking its twin in the open sky. You arch toward him, drawn by instinct, or fate, or the echo of home.

His hands skim over your breasts, teasing you through the lace of your bra before sliding around to unhook it with a deft flick. The air hits your overheated skin, and you shiver, nipples pebbling in the chill. He takes your pert nipple into his hot, wet mouth, tongue swirling around the sensitive peak. You don’t even realize you’ve whimpered until he smirks against your skin.

He groans softly, his hand slipping down your stomach and between your thighs to cup your pussy through your soaked panties. The heat of him, the pressure, makes you rock instinctively against his touch. All you feel is need, ancient and aching, like your soul is crawling back toward someone it never stopped belonging to.

His fingers slip beneath the delicate lace, brushing against your dripping lips. You gasp, hips bucking as he parts you gently, circling your clit with feather-light strokes that leave you aching for more.

Sylus’s hands move like your body is a language he once knew and is now relearning, one searing syllable at a time. You can’t tell if you’re trembling from want or memory. Only that his hands are both the cause and the cure.

His fingers hook into your underwear, tugging them slowly down your thighs. You lift your hips to help him, breath coming faster now, anticipation coiling tight in your core.

When you’re exposed and wanting before him, the hungry way he looks at you sends a shiver racing down your spine. His palm slowly ghosts back up your leg, and he has this look about him, as if he’s both savouring and mourning each caress.

You’ve never pined for safety the way you ache to unravel in his hands, to be stripped down to whatever soul he can summon from you. He holds you like he’s memorizing the shape of your surrender. Like he wants the echo of it on his palms for the rest of time.

“You undo me.” His breath is hot against your throat as his fingers glide through your seam, teasing and exploring as you tremble. “Every fucking time. Like you were made to break me open.”

He circles your clit with maddening slowness, drawing out your pleasure. You drown in sensation, in him, in an echo older than memory, rising too wild for the cage of your skin. Breath forgets you when he touches you. You become shards of want scattered across his palms, his lips, the low burn of his voice when he whispers your name.

One finger slips lower, circling your entrance tentatively before pressing inside. A broken whimper escapes your lips at the unfamiliar intrusion, the stretching sensation as he works you open. Your inner walls flutter and clench, trying to draw him deeper.

Your hips rock to meet his strokes, chasing the burgeoning bliss. He adds a second finger, pumping slowly, carefully. Letting you adjust to the feeling of him moving inside you. His thumb finds your clit, rubbing firm circles as his fingers thrust deeper, pushing you to the edge.

You run your hands over him like you’re mapping starlight, tracing muscle and shadow, wondering how something so solid can feel so celestial beneath your fingertips.

The tension snaps. Your release doesn’t shatter; it blooms. Fire unfolding in your belly, in your chest, in your throat, until all you can do is cry out his name like it’s the only word you’ve ever known.

Sylus gentles as he works you through it, panting heavily as your pussy spasms around his plunging fingers. He doesn’t withdraw until he’s worked every last shockwave from your writhing body.

Your fingers brush the sharp lines of his hips, tracing the edge where fabric clings too tightly to skin. He watches you with maddening stillness, like a creature caught between indulgence and self-control.

You toy with the button at his waist, slip the fastening loose, and his breath hitches, not loud, not sharp, but enough to make your pulse stumble. The zipper yields with a sigh, metal teeth parting like a secret you’ve coaxed free, and when you ease the fabric down over the sculpted lines of his thighs, he finally moves—just enough to let them fall away.

Your breath catches at the sight of him, thick and hard and intimidatingly large. A pearl of moisture glistens at the swollen tip, and your mouth waters with the urge to taste.

The sight of him makes your breath stall in your throat. Like he was never meant for anything so mundane as clothing, like his body was carved to be seen in shadow and low light, to be touched in reverence.

Sylus settles his hips between your thighs, the hot brand of his heavy cock nestling against your soaked slit. “Do you want it, kitten?”

Do you want it? Holy fuck. There’s no word for the way your body aches. No language is vast enough for the need. It’s not just want—it’s famine. It’s centuries of thirst. It’s a hunger born before this lifetime, one your soul remembers even if your mind does not.

Every nerve in your body sings a single answer, louder than breath, louder than blood. You want it like you’re drowning and he’s the only air that’s ever mattered. You want it like it might destroy you, and you’ll fucking thank him for the ruin.

In answer, you reach down and wrap your fingers around his shaft, marvelling at the girth of him. He hisses through his teeth, hips jerking reflexively into your palm.

You give him a languid stroke from root to tip and guide him to your entrance. Even in the haze of desire, you tense instinctively. He's so much bigger than his fingers, hard and hot and heavy.

Sylus pauses, sensing your hesitation. He brushes a tender kiss to your forehead, your cheek, and the corner of your mouth. "We can stop," he reassures, voice settling low, a promise dragged over gravel, like he’s swallowing fire to keep you from burning "If it's too much, we can—”

“I think I’ve been waiting for you longer than I’ve even been alive," you interject.

Your legs wrap around him and urge him forward, breath catching as he begins to push inside. It’s overwhelming, the feeling of him filling you inch by devastating inch. Your body yields to the insistent press of his, inner walls fluttering and clenching around his length.

“Breathe for me, sweetie,” he cajoles, brushing his lips to your ear. “You’re shaking. Is it too much?”

Your fingers find his back because you need to feel the way his muscles shift, like coiled storms under your palms. “Don’t you dare stop.”

He goes slowly, letting you adjust. The burn of it, the mind-bending stretch, has your toes curling. You make a choked little sound, low and pleading, hips rising as if your body is begging without your permission.

He bottoms out with a wrecked moan, buried to the hilt inside your tight heat. Your eyes flutter closed, breath coming in shallow pants as your body slowly relaxes. You feel split open, impaled on his girth. Every breath shifts him inside you, scrawling voltage down your limbs in a feverish script only your bones can read.

Experimentally, you roll your hips. Sylus groans, low and guttural, fingers digging into your thighs. Emboldened, you do it again, revelling in the drag of him, the exquisite friction. His breath tangles mid-air, suspended on a thread of sensation, as your body sinks him deeper.

Your hips shift restlessly, needing friction, needing movement to ease the building ache. He answers with a slow, deep stroke that makes your body chime in celestial static, constellations stuttering across your nerves like Morse code from a god.

A low moan escapes your kiss-swollen lips as he sets a steady rhythm of long, measured thrusts that have every vein and ridge of him sliding along your walls, hitting places inside you that you never knew existed.

It's all so new, so intense, that you are stripped of thought, pared down to pulse and craving and the echo of his name in your bones.

"Anira," he pants, voice fracturing on a moan, like the first crack in obsidian threaded with zeal he no longer bothers to hide. “You’re going to make me come just by squeezing me like that.”

When he moans your name, it doesn’t sound like a man losing control; it sounds like a man remembering something sacred. You’d let him ruin you a thousand times if it meant hearing your name in his mouth again.

Your head falls back, lips parting on a silent cry as his cock drags over that sensitive spot inside you again and again. Every kiss, every thrust, feels like falling upward, like being pulled into some higher place where pleasure doesn’t have a name strong enough.

“S-Sylus.” His name breaks from your lips like a spell that’s been waiting lifetimes to be spoken again.

“Say my name again,” he urges in a threadbare whisper fraying against your ear like it might fall apart. “I want to know how it sounds when it belongs to you.”

You recite his name like the word existed before time and your mouth was made to speak it. He reaches between your bodies, fingers finding your swollen pearl, sweeping over the sensitive nub as his hips stutter out of rhythm.

The added stimulation has ecstasy cracking open the sky behind your ribs, and every nerve becomes a burning sun. It’s as if he’s dragging the heavens through your skin, one breath at a time.

Your cunt clenches around his pistoning shaft, pulsing and fluttering as your orgasm rips through you. Your thighs tremble, toes curling as he fucks you through it. You are no longer a person, only sensation strung on the edge of his breath.

He buries his face in the crook of your neck, breath hot and damp against your skin. You feel him throb and swell inside you, stretching you impossibly wider. His body trembles, and he mutters, half-formed and desperate, trying to tether himself to restraint. His control has always been a fortress—cold, towering, impenetrable—now it crumbles for you. “I can’t—fuck, I can’t—”

His words dissolve into a rugged groan, hips snapping forward as he spills himself inside you. You feel the hot rush of his release, the pulsing of his cock as he empties himself in long, shuddering spurts.

He repeats your name like it’s salvation, like you’re the shore his body crashes against, again and again, until he’s nothing but waves and you are the sea that drowns him.

For long moments, you lie tangled together, his softening cock still buried inside you as you both come down from the high. Your cunt throbs, pleasantly sore and still fluttering intermittently.

Reluctantly, he withdraws. You both hiss at the sensation, oversensitive flesh protesting the movement. A trickle of his release seeps out of you, warm and wet against your thighs.

He rolls to the side, pulling you with him until you're draped across his chest, head pillowed on his shoulder. You lie there in the hush that follows the storm. The world outside doesn’t matter. It’s just you and the man who peeled you open like a hymn and worshipped every fragile breath you gave him.

Your legs tingle in the most exquisite way, and your lips are swollen from too many kisses and not enough of them all at once.

He exhales, the sound low and molten, and you glance over to find his crimson eyes half-lidded. “Are you alright?”

You nod, a little dazed. “I think I’m dreaming.”

A slow, crooked smile lifts the corner of his mouth. “If you are, don’t wake up.”

You shift, your body sore and sated, and curl in closer. His scent pools in the hollow of your throat—red sandalwood and the scorched-sweet edge of burned amber.

Neither of you speaks. There’s no need. He brushes his fingers through your hair, over and over, like he’s memorizing the texture of trust. Does he feel it too, this impossible thread stitched between your bones and his?

“Say something,” you murmur into his chest, the words muffled by his heartbeat.

“Something?” he echoes, amused.

“Sylus,” you tut.

His breath is warm against your skin, and you can feel the slowly steadying rhythm of his pulse in your chest as you lie against him.

His voice cuts through the quiet. “You always wanted me to speak. Every time, like… you needed to hear it to know you’re not dreaming.” You shift against him slightly, tilting your head to look up at his face, but his expression gives you nothing. Just an unreadable calm, like the surface of still water veiling the pull of a hidden current far beneath. That odd, unwelcome feeling creeps up your spine.

What does he mean?

Fuck. I hope the wait was worth it. 😅

Chapter Masterlist

A03 [Cross-posted]

Taglist: @mcdepressed290, @animecrazy76, @harmonyrae, @for-hearthand-home, @redseablooming

Take care everyone and enjoy! ☺️

#dragon sylus #l&ds sylus #lads sylus #lnds sylus #love and deepspace sylus #sylus #sylus love and deepspace #sylus smut #love and deepspace #sylus x mc #sylus x you #sylus x oc

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dalishthunder · 2 months ago

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I literally am cursed with visions and sometimes wake up in a cold sweat to pace around my room thinking about this and what he must have endured to become the person he was. Like researching the Heian era has been my hobby for the past month, when I'm not writing or at work I'm researching because my degree is in anthropology and my job provides me with very little stimulation in that department, and I have an insane thirst for knowledge and have studied anatomy, in addition to working in the medical simulation field closely with med students and doctors, and enjoy all of that (held a human heart in my hand once which was super cool)

Anyways, onto my further Sukuna thoughts:

Things Heian Era Japan was cool with: Infanticide.

It was a fairly common practice to leave babies you either couldn't take care of, or who suffered from disabilities out into the woods and leave them. It was considered a mercy, and that it would release their soul back into the universe to be reincarnated.

Beauty in the Heian era was very closely linked with goodness. If you were beautiful it meant you were a good person, with the inverse also being true. In a world of superstitions where evil was thought to be the work of demons, where curses and spirits (actually are real in the jjk world) lurk around every corner, how would a child have been treated having been born with four arms, two mouths, and two faces?

There would be two schools of thought imo, one, his mother took him out into the woods and left him to die. Or, what I think is more likely, was too afraid of him to do that because what if pissing off a demon just made things worse?

Gege confirmed that Sukuna has never considered himself human despite having been born one, and I posit that started with his own mother being absolutely terrified of him. In a world of curses and demons and spirits where beautiful is seen as good, giving birth to something so deformed, how could that be human? (I also think he would have been born with teeth, it does occasionally happen and it would make sense given that he devoured his twin)

How early RCT factors into this:

His autoimmune disorder would have been attacking his body and probably stunting his growth, damaging his organs, etc.

Medical trauma - I have no doubt that at multiple times in his life, people had tried to "humanize" him in the form of amputation attempts. (I also think that's where at least one of his tattoos come into play as well as the name 'Sukuna')

His mother was starving, and the Heian era is marked with many famines and high taxes that starved out average working class people. He was likely malnourished, so on top of everything he was going through, his body probably wasn't healing itself on its own

It was quite literally a situation of: if he didn't develop RCT early, he would have died very young.

To elaborate on some of that, Sukuna should probably be even taller and/or wider than he is so that his body could accommodate his organs since his second mouth takes up like a third of his abdomen. His organs are probably failing because they can't keep up with his body and because of his autoimmune issues. This is how he knows how to essentially make his body work with cursed energy and RCT.

I am once again thinking about disabled sukuna

#Things Heian Era Japan was not cool with tho: People on their periods entering temples or other holy places because they were “unclean”#(sorry that's where my researches took me last night and has very little to do with everything expounded upon above)#But yeah I'm cursed with visions #I'm cursed with visions and knowledge enough to pick apart details and apply them to real world things #Anyone else thinking about how the name 'sukuna' essentially means vanquisher of evils (literally dwelling where exorcisms are performed)#And that one of the tattoos he has looks essentially like the yoke you would put on a beast of burden #It drives me to madness #And I think it's not only supported by the material but that Gege actively wrote some of that in #The amount of symbolism he packed into jjk that goes over fans' heads is wild to me #Like the fact that Sukuna is treated like Mara (Buddhist god - king of the malignant asura. God of temptation + suffering + war + death)#But if you understand Buddhist sutras and know The Buddha's story you can pretty easily see that no Sukuna is not in fact Mara #He is Angulimala the murderer who tried to kill Buddha on the road only to stop and follow the middle path and become a devoted disciple #Like while Gojo is meant to be the Buddha Yuji is the reincarnation of the Bodhisattva of mercy #And he is the knotweed #He is the herb that treats the ills #He is the mercy that reaches Sukuna finally #And turns him back onto the middle path #I am driven to madness #me: *pointing at jjk fans* how are you not getting this??? How are you all not getting this???? Yes it's about fights and duels and stuff #And curses and yes it's a shonen but I think gege could have done so much more if he had made it as a seinen #Jump stifled him. Fans stifled him. HE WAS COOKING #and they saw the dish and thought it was totinos pizze rolls but did not appreciate the complex and rich flavor that was not in fact totino #sorry I'm a little bit insane #odt

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carpentvrs · 11 months ago

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The End — Mattheo Riddle

pairing :: mattheo riddle x reader

summary :: all things must come to an end, right?

based on the song the end by tom odell

warnings :: cursing (like one or two times), (mentions of) addiction & substance abuse & a toxic household, angst!! no use of y/n, tom‘s mattheo‘s brother, after hogwarts au, voldy doesn’t exist

a/n :: very angsty but i hope you like it anyway! again, english isn’t my native language so please don’t mind any mistakes. if requested, I’m up for a part two! biggest thank you to alex for helping me write <33 rebolgs are very appreciated

some things begin with the knowledge of them having an end. like watching a movie or reading a book, like going on a walk or on vacation. soon enough you will turn off the tv, close the book, return home, and tell your friends all about your summer days. if the movie is bad, you know it won’t go on forever. one more hour and you can walk out the cinema. if the book is good, you can reread it sometime, if it’s bad, close it. you can always or never again go on walks and if you don’t or do enjoy your summer trip, you know you’ll come back home either way. So many different possibilities, always the same fate. It has to end one day.

a relationship isn’t like that. it can either go on forever, until both lovers fall into the nothingness, trying to find each other even in the afterlife, hand in hand in every universe.

or it’ll end. in a peaceful or in a painful way. it ends with ’ i don’t think we want the same things for our future ‘ or with infidelity. it ends with different beliefs or with different lovers. it ends with one trying and the other giving up, it ends with one failing and the other failing to help.

mattheo riddle feels as though you two are growing apart, your usually interlocked fingers slipping through each others, no one reaching to strengthen the hold. he knows it’s his fault, he puts you through things you shouldn’t have to go through. he tries to get clean, but both of you know that with him, it’s always one wobbly step forward and three steady ones back. he tries nonetheless.

“uhm, hey, can we talk, maybe? go for a walk in the park if you’d like?”

you know what he wants to talk about. you hadn’t seen each other in a while, despite being in a relationship – if you could still call it that. not seeing each other for a month, that’s not usual, right? at least it shouldn’t be. you know it and he knows it, there’s no denying. at least you agreed to meet up now.

he puts on his leather jacket and grabs his keychain, the rattling sound of his keys and the many key rings and charms colliding together reminding him of your promise. if you make it through to next month, i’ll craft you another key ring. try for me, love. please. you did it just as a little reminder that you do care. but he’s never managed a whole month before. maybe the bottle opener attached to the key chain was a bigger reminder that eventually, one beer wouldn’t hurt him. or two.

you made key rings and charms for almost everyone. all your friends have them and your family does too. wether its an initial of their name or of their partner‘s name, a symbol or whatever else they wished for, you made it for them. and everyone loves them. so does mattheo, you thought. or did. otherwise he’d surely make more effort to treat them with care and most of them wouldn’t have scrapes and scratches all over them, and there wouldn’t be a crack in your initial either, which, to no one’s surprise, was another result of one-too-many drunken nights.

he wants to make things right, and he’s certain it’s gonna work. spending time together in the park you went to after your first date sounds nice, doesn’t it?

your first official date was in a small pub, a few months after your joint time in Hogwarts had ended. you still remember walking through the rose garden in the north side of that park after that date. the sky was painted in a velvety black, the sun‘s final farewell long forgotten and the gates were already shut. but you managed to sneak in anyway. he picked a rose for you and you appreciated the gesture more than anything, soon enough you and him both had a little rose charm attached to your keychains. he lost his, you still have yours.

looking at it now, you should’ve realized then that the way he stumbled on the way back home was already a warning sign that he didn’t hold back when alcohol was involved. And if he couldn’t keep it together on a first date, then why would he around friends? Why would he around his family, why would he around yours? And why would he not use it as a way to calm his nerves whenever life gets serious when he so obviously already did that for nothing more than a harmless first date with a person he’s known for almost longer than he’s not?

you know most of his problems go way back. they come from his father’s unloving and cold gaze and his mother’s absence whenever his father lifted his finger. as if that wasn’t enough, his brother tom would always be in the spotlight, while mattheo was kept hidden away in the shadows. if that’s how he felt, no wonder he had to find a way to forget all about it.

you tried to help. you always did.

but how were you supposed to help someone who didn’t want help himself? drugs surely aren’t the only way out. self control is a term long forgotten in mattheo‘s mind, and it was solely on him to change that.

hence you’re not as certain as him that this talk is going to help. mattheo has made too many empty promises, told too many lies and had too many accidents. sometimes even unforgivable ones. the hand that rested on that red haired girl’s lower back every time you’d meet up with your friends, that couldn’t just be a mistake. you’d love to know what he whispered in her ear whenever he had too much to drink, and you crave to know her replies, considering the relationship between you and mattheo wasn’t ever a secret. at least you didn’t make it one.

he’s already sitting on a bench in the park, carefully petting a dog that was busy sniffing the ground beneath him. mattheo sees you and immediately stands up to make his way over to you, leaving the dog behind to run back to its owner.

“they kinda look alike, don’t they?”

“who?”

“that dog and its owner, same eye and hair colour”

you smile slightly and look up at mattheo. your good looking, sweet and romantic matty. you used to be so deeply in love, one look at him and you were on cloud nine, swooning and giggling with nothing but pure adoration and love in your eyes. your little dates used to be fun, with deep conversation and lighthearted gossip sessions with moments of comforting silence filling the spaces in between.

and now? meaningless topics and useless small talk. Just the same as your last few meetups one month ago. It was more of a chore than it was enjoyable. some time has passed, the birds loudly chirping while you and him walked with slow steps, his hands buried in the pockets of his jacket, yours swinging slowly on either side of your body.

„i’ve been clean for almost three weeks now, actually. 20 days.“

your eyes widened and your head quickly turns to look at him. you’re happy for him, you truly are. but your heart still doesn’t feel as full as it usually would with mattheo, and if he managed to keep that 20 day streak during a whole month of almost no contact between you two, then he would manage it also when you’re not with him anymore. right?

„oh, that’s great! ‘m proud of you, mattheo,“

„you don’t sound as happy as I expected,“ he begins, „is something wrong?“

at that moment he knows he has to claw back his confidence. maybe you had already given up, and he just didn’t want to believe it. he know you well, without a doubt. it was the lack of his nickname that gave it away. your loving ‚ matty ‘ was replaced by a simple ‚ mattheo ‘ , no nickname, no pet name. 20 days, for him, is a long time. why aren’t you half as happy as when he told you about his one week achievement 2 months ago? is it because just a day after telling you about it, you found him asleep on his couch with a half empty whiskey bottle on the table in front of him?

„no- i mean, yes, actually. it’s just-“ you stumbled over your words. you don’t want to have to say it, don’t want to say it loud, don’t want to see his pained reaction and, most importantly, you don’t want to be the cause of it. but you know you can’t keep going like this, you had lost hope a while ago, and this is the only way out.

„do you think we can be friends?“

he blinks. „what?“

your voice is shakier than ever. „friends, mattheo. i can’t keep going like this. i want to break up, once and for all. our relationship has been going downhill for too long now, you know that.“ your eyes are fixated on your shoes, not daring to look him in his eyes.

he swears he can he hear his heart being shattered and torn apart and feels how a part of his soul is leaving his body, leaving the rest to grow tired and dark and empty. tears slowly fill his eyes as he reaches for your hands, making you look at him.

you do, but quickly pull your arms back. „you can’t do this to me! i- i need you, i can’t do this without you, i can’t!“ warm tears roll down your face, and you want to hug him so bad. keep his body close to yours and not let go.

but you have to let go.

mattheo hates it. but if being friends with you means he doesn’t lose you completely, then maybe it’ll be okay. and if he really loved you, and you really loved him, then maybe, if he gets better, you’d come back. he hopes.

„and if i change?“

„maybe, matty- mattheo,“ your voice trembles „but i need to be sure you don’t hurt either of us for now. i need time, but i don’t want to lose you. friends mattheo, please?“

„you wanna be friends? after all thi-“

„mattheo i‘m begging you“

he pinches his nose, tears streaming down his face. this is his fault. of course it is. this is the consequence he has to deal with. He should’ve realized sooner that his alcohol consumption wasn’t only his, but also the problem of the people around him. and now he loses you just because of his reckless and stupid behavior. he has to change. he needs to.

„alright! fuck, alright. friends. i‘ll make it better, i swear. i won’t disappoint you, not again.“

you nod, mustering up a smile as well as you could. you hug him one last time, feeling his hand wrap around you body with a tight hold on your shirt. you feel his tears falling onto your shirt, and he feels yours.

he hates it, but maybe he needs this wake-up call. he will change. 20 days and many more to come, he won’t go back. and he’ll do it for you.

the sun slowly sets and you’ve reached the same rose garden you’d come to after your first date. the memories flood back but it’s no use.

mattheo and you, you’ve now reached the end.

⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚

it wasn’t until two days later that you went to the same park again with your best friend alex. „isn’t that mattheo over there?“

your heart paused for a second as you looked over and saw the boys with beer bottles in their hands. draco took a sip as theo had already downed almost half oh his beer in one swig.

you felt your heart break thinking about how mattheo already started drinking again after only two days. until you actually looked at his hands, finding nothing but a simple can of coke.

you left out a sigh of relief, smiling to yourself.

your eyes locked and he smiled back at you, even his eyes seemingly lighting up. you blushed slightly, turning you head back to alex. 22 days wasn’t a lot, but it was great starting point. especially for him.

„yeah, that’s my matty.“

hope you liked it! requests are open <3

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my-rose-tinted-glasses · 6 months ago

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Rose Recaps 2024 - Korea [ Thailand | Japan ]

Starting my list of favourite shows with Korea. They gave us so much angst, and some of them I still haven't fully been able to shake. Let's go.

The one with the existential dread

Love For Love's Sake

I was not ready. Not that I think there was a way I would be, but still. I was floored. It was an ambitious concept but executed pretty much flawlessly. If they had a bit more time, I think the world building could've benefited a little, cause there were parts that felt a bit rushed but overall the themes were well conveyed throughout. This show can be interpreted in a variety of ways, and one can take from it different things. For so much of this show I was filled with anxiety and sadness, but by the end the overall message of self love healed a small part of me. The visuals were strong and the actors did a wonderful job.

Favourite Moment:

Obvious perhaps, but no one can deny the beauty of this moment. Just the pure relief and joy I felt, made it one of my favourites of the year.

The one with all the yearning

The Time of Fever

I was so normal about this show. First let me just say, that I don't think of this show as a prequel. I know it is one, but I prefer to think of it as its own thing. This show drove me crazy. I suffered through it twice, and I kept finding new things that drove me insane. The yearning, the pining, the love these two have for each other that can only be rivalled by the fear they both share. Hotae is afraid of his feelings, because he can't understand them or can't accept them, but he also can't resist the pull. Donghee is afraid because he does understand, but he also knows what it means, so he needs to protect his friend from all the ugliness he himself has endured. And the actors just portrait these emotions so well. Truly some of the best acting I've seen this year. The camera work is outstanding, the framing always intentional and the lighting is good enough to break your heart.

Favourite Moment:

The heater between them??? Incredible. I'm still in awe of this whole scene. From the feeding of the orange slice to the kiss itself and their body language right to their expressions at the end. It was a flawless scene.

The one with all the trauma

Let Free the Curse of Taekwondo

Every week I was filled with excitement and dread waiting for new episodes. It was a painful journey for them and for me. Such a raw depiction of how trauma follows you long after you left the place where you endured it behind you. Closure is such an overused word, because it always sounds like there's a switch you can flip, and you're fine. Like it's that simple. The way Dohoe carried all of the abuse with him, how he shaped his life around it unconsciously, all along believing he was healing himself, it was heartbreaking to watch. And JuYeong. The boy who waited. The boy who understood and gave him the space to heal. Time stopped for 12 years for both of them. But they have a lifetime left to heal together and find happiness in the simple act of loving and being loved by each other.

Favourite Moment:

The symbolism destroyed me. The cross, the wall, the confession. Masterful.

The one that wasn't like the others

Love In The Big City

I don't even know what to say any more. It was an amazing adaption. Stellar acting, great script, gorgeous visuals. It's messy and it all feels so real. Young is one of my favourite characters of all time, both the one from the book and the one from the series. I wanted to hug him and hit him over the head at several points. I did appreciate the bigger presence of the T-aras, it left me more hopeful than the novel. I'm still not over the break up though.

Favourite Moment:

The honesty, the unconditional acceptance. To watch Young experience it for the first time was overwhelming.

Honourable mention to Boys Be Brave that I adored. And the only reason is not in this list is because of the second couple. They needed more time, and even with the time they had I thought the writing of that storyline was a bit messy. But I loved the mains.

Be back soon with the next one. Maybe💜

#love for love's sake #the time of fever #let free the curse of taekwondo #love in the big city #korean bl #multi bl #rose recaps 2024

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thewertsearch · 5 months ago

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Ask Comp 9/1

Anonymous asked: has sally been introduced to cursed tavros yet?

[ cursed tavros jumpscare :D ]

Cursed indeed - but mind you, I don't think I could do much better. My handcraft skills are nonexistent!

Anonymous asked: ol tavvy is down with the clown ;o) Anonymous asked: Please, if you will, imagine if when Vriska kissed Tavros, he told her that he was already dating Gamzee.

Heh. I really do think Gamzee x Tavros could have worked out, at least until Gamzee lost his shit. Hell, even if Gamzee did lose his shit, he'd probably still be less of a threat to Tavros than Vriska was.

Anonymous asked: Did you notice Gamzee referenced Earth in his rap? ("6 trillion hemos all up on one rock bleeding as equals") How do you think he learned about it? Some weird pre-game precognition or just his stoned mind being accidentally right?

This isn't necessarily a reference to Earth - but it wouldn't surprise me if it was, because Gamzee's cult seems fully aware of the existence of Earth.

The 'paradise planet' referenced in Gamzee's intro is stated to not exist yet, which is exactly how the narration refereed to Earth in Hivebent's intro. I believe that the 'rowdy minstrels' he's talking about are literally ICP, although he clearly isn't aware of that fact.

@wizardlyghost asked:

A sentiment shared by Eggman, every Space Player, and the villain of Muppets Most Wanted.

Anonymous asked: Now that you've passed where fedorafreak's gray, serviceable hand-held computing device's battery has died, you might appreciate the following short piece of fan art: www tumblr com/vastderp-placeholder/7741061457/savior-of-the-texting-world-rise-up

The fucking implication that the phone is the Player in this scenario is obliterating me.

Also, its God Tier form has wings. Was it a troll all along, or are wings a symbol of divine apotheosis in phone culture, too?

@clueless-rarito asked: Heeey paranatural reference! Hell yeah!

Is anyone else totally stoked to see Eightfold again? I know I am!

Anonymous asked: bilious sick 😭

English's trick made our Bilious sick. :(

Anonymous asked: One of, if not my absolute favorite, quotes/moments in Homestuck is Karkat’s speech to Jade about his failed frog breeding here. Just such a wonderfully tragic moment that stuck with me since the first time I read it.

In a comic chock-full of great lines, that last one might just be the best so far. This was one of the last scenes before Act 5's true finale, and it was an excellent pick.

@drakethedeep asked: One theory I've heard about the Denizen's Choice that tend to headcanon, Is that the choice is to be happy/free or to matter. That much as how God-tiers only grants survival by never having an impact, the denizens have thier playes coose between seeking their happiness and survival, or to struggle to achieve things that while objevtivly monumental, might not be worth the sacrifices needed to achieve it. I like this theory because of how it themes to fit the themes of Sburb.

I really like the space you're playing in, but I'm not so sure if all the Choices we've seen would necessarily fit this interpretation. After all, Davesprite implicitly chose the 'survival' option when he first met Hephaestus, and he's not exactly a happy camper. He didn't end up particularly free, either, since he was almost immediately bound to a Sprite, and later to the Battlefield.

I guess you could say he 'mattered', because he is he reason the Alpha Timeline exists the way it does - but, technically, everyone's actions contribute to the Alpha Timeline being the way it is. I definitely think there's something to this theory.

Anonymous asked: Without the Door to actually enter the universe, all you've done is make a really big frog.

I guess, when you think about it, there's not really anything they can do with their universe without that door. I suppose they could just fly towards their frog and hope for the best, but somehow, I don't think that'll achieve much.

@morganwick asked: Of course, even though he wasn't fooled by Gamzee using Terezi's "voice", Karkat still showed up on the roof anyway. Perhaps he decided he couldn't take the risk that Terezi was actually there and Gamzee might catch her unawares.

Gamzee's been having a lot of fun 'impersonating' Terezi lately. Just like before, I don't think he ever intended to fool Karkat with his transparent ruse - he just wanted to unsettle the guy. It worked.

@morganwick asked: If Typheus is the mailman, does that make him PM's favorite Denizen?

Maybe it makes him the head of her mail service!

We never saw any other mail Carapacians, and I kind of love the idea that they were operating out of a Denizen's Palace the whole time.

@bladekindeyewear asked: You said: "Mind you, I don’t know if it’s necessarily always a good or heroic thing to allow a Sburb Player full agency over their actions, nor is it necessarily a bad thing to restrict them, in certain cases." Oh I'm completely with you there. In fact, you might DEFINE Heroism as denying agency to those who would do ill, in part. This would make both "Heroic" and "Just" deaths result from trying to stamp your own intentions upon reality, halted by others. Neutrality would be ineffectual.

That's certainly part of heroism - but to me, it's not even close to all of it. A firefighter, for example, is heroic in ways which don't involve another person, as their only real 'opponent' is nature itself.

I personally define heroism as the will to do good, in situations where doing good requires bravery. 'Good', of course, is a fairly slippery concept, though, so that definition is just as ambiguous as any other.

Anonymous asked: Doctor Who anon here. Doctor Who has no canon for purely practical reasons. It's so massive - there's the show, but there's also the Big Finish audio dramas, the DW magazine comics, the Radio Times comics, the IDW comics, the Titan comics, the Virgin novels and short stories, the BBC novels and short stories. And no one owns all of it. The BBC don't even own the daleks or K9. And each piece of media will freely contradict others. No one has the right to decide what's canon, so they just don't. It's also because the people running Doctor Who the show have a deep respect for the extended media. In the 90s, it was the non-BBC licensed, fan-led projects which kept DW alive. Russell T. Davies, first showrunner of the modern era, wrote Virgin novels, so did Mark Gatiss. Nick Briggs, modern voice of the daleks, is the head of Big Finish. So they didn't want to decanonise that stuff, but they also don't want to be beholden to it when writing their own stories. So the fanbase tends to operate on tiers of canon. Basically something can be assumed to still be part of the show's continiuity until the show contradicts it. Big Finish would generally be considered the next highest "tier" of canon. The Doctor Who magazine comics probably wouldn't contradict the show, but the show could contradict them any time. The old books and comics are dubious. But that's all just fan categorisation. Officially, nothing has been deemed canon or not. In fact, rather amusingly, the only thing that has been explicitly deemed "canon" by the BBC is the Doctor Who: Battles in Time card game. That's officially canon. Nothing else. Not even the show.

I think I've heard of 'canon tiers' before, in the context of the Star Wars fandom. I think it's a good way to delineate how 'true' a given event is considered to be, especially in a large, complex shared universe - but at the same time, being consciously aware of these tiers might hurt your investment a little.

You'll never be able to escape the fact that your favourite stories or characters are effectively fanfiction, at least from the perspective of higher tiers. They have no influence whatsoever over the more ''real'' part of the story, unless they're promoted its tier some day.

I do like the idea that all the other Doctor Who stories are fanfiction of the card game, though. That's definitely going to be my canon, from now on.

@morganwick asked: Well, back in Act 4 you said that John and Dave would make S-Tier if and when "John [threw] aside his passivity to do something heroic, and…Dave [would] finally drop that poker face and do something sincere", which is why I pegged the suicide mission conversation as when Dave might make the jump.

I think, on reflection, it's almost always a heartwarming event that catapults a character into S-Tier.

In my opinion, that's one of the most impressive feelings that a work of fiction can inspire in you, mostly because it's really hard to get you invested enough for it to hit properly. Homestuck's pulled it off an extremely impressive number of times already, and we're only halfway finished!

Anonymous asked: It is so fucking awesome to see a new reader in the year of our lord 2024 2025 who's actually like. Engaging with the themes of the story. Lotta people just see it for the memes or the "totally random" plot but some of the shit you're reading into what's happening is like. Eerily similar to actual Hussie commentary. Gold star for reading comprehension, you do not piss on the poor Anonymous asked: Your homestuck liveblogs are lovely and insightful and make me remember a lot of details of the comic that have been lost to time. You will comment on something and I'll go "oh huh homestuck was better than I remember it being." Thank you <3 @honestlyvan asked: Truly your liveblog is the best kind of re-experiencing the experience. I'm surprised at how much your thoughts and reads parallel mine, it's kind of fun to see someone else's deductions go along the same routes. I can't wait for you to get to the Truly Horseshit portions of the plot (and I say this lovingly, I think you're in a great position to give us a real raw read on them without having to deal with the various Mega and Gigapauses) Also -- you keep pointing out a shitton of foreshadowing I didn't catch until my second readthrough. I can't wait for you to get to the bits where it applies and be like "son of a bitch", I think where I'm in the reading of your backlog and where you're in the reading of the comic you've passed at least one of those bits already :D @worldweary-walker asked: The liveblog is so cool. It's a lot of fun seeing you put things together, and the posts where you come up with three completely right conclusions and two wrong ones always amaze me. Impressive work!

Thank you so much! I know I say this a lot, but a lot of these sentiments are exactly why I like reading liveblogs myself. I'm just really glad I can do that for others.

I can totally understand why someone would just read Homestuck for the memes. I wouldn't have been nearly as analytical if I'd read it as a schoolgirl, and a lot of the 2010s fandom were even younger than that!

@divineerdrick asked: Now we have multiple explanations for what is wrong with the kid's session. Vriska has made herself responsible for Jack's rise to power, Karkat believes he gave Bilious Slick cancer, and Gamzee created the harlequin doll that would torment John and prompt Jack's rage-fueled act of rebellion. You've already suspected that Doc Scratch probably has multiple plans in play at once, and we can see that here. It seems he insured, through multiple causes, the kid's universe has always been doomed. Gamzee, as usual, seems to be the wild card. But he's acting out during a crisis of faith, a faith tied to Alternia's twisted social structure, which Scratch seems to have had a hand in. So despite how random Gamzee's actions appear to be, it's possible Scratch managed to seed even this seemingly unpredictable action.

I think Scratch probably did 90% of the work in making Gamzee go ballistic, from multiple directions at once. Looking back, it's shocking just how much of the comic was Scratch's doing.

'Caused' is a loaded phrase in Paradox Space, but what's happening is definitely what he planned.

Anonymous asked: It kind of seems like Rage as an aspect is evil, no? Do you think an aspect can carry an inherent moral weight? If not, what are the neutral meanings of aspects that seem to, and if so, how do you feel about it?

Personally, I doubt that any of the Aspects have a moral alignment - not even the scary-sounding ones. After all, you can Rage against tyranny, or bring Doom to a corrupt institution. Yeah, Gamzee is using Rage for evil, but his perception-shielding could just as easily be used to hide an innocent bystander from an aggressive Underling.

I think that more or less any ability can be used for both good or evil. The only real exception would be a power that's deliberately designed to be irreparably, comically evil. 'The ability to torture everyone for all eternity' would be one of those powers, but Homestuck's Aspect abilities would not.

@worldweary-walker asked: have you read Kill Six Billion Demons?

I have not! It's on my long and constantly growing list, which means I'll get to it between now and, uh, 2096.

Anonymous asked: re: the ancestors' story. WHAT IF WE ALL JUST CRIED like. the sheer transition from inane antics to the. that @corporalotherbear asked: There's a very popular fanmade version of the sufferer's final sermon and following vast expletive, voiced by a man that would go on to be the english voice actor of Izuku Midoriya. I can't add links to asks but if it's spoiler-friendly then your vetter can probably send you "The sufferer's last sermon"

Oh, I kind of love this interpretation. It really sells just how unwinnable the Sufferer's rebellion truly was.

@wolygan asked: I forgot how she is so happy when she is running away. This Girl is still able to believe that good is coming. Except Lord English won't let that happen, no matter what. @wickedsick asked:

That was possibly the fastest you have ever been proven wrong about something

That poor girl. She suffered just as much as the Signless did, but she'll only be known to Alternia as a monster - and unlike Troll Jesus, no one will ever mourn the Handmaid.

Anonymous asked: the sufferer cult is definitely independent of the juggalos! the use of the word sectarian to describe the war waged against the signless's beliefs is not a coincidence, imo. (we also see that highblood is most often used to specifically describe purplebloods). they're just two different religious organizations. given that the grand highblood was a juggalo man/subjuggulator and occupied significant power it seems to suggest that clown religion was a Big Thing among the purplebloods, which would not truck with the signless' cult being so small and secretive. there's one theory that part of the reason the neophyte was sent on mindfang's case was bc the GHB (given that mindfang mentions the neophyte was sent by subjuggulators specifically) knew she was a secret sufferite and wanted to get rid of her. mindfang does talk about how it seemed like they were giving up on her case entirely by sending just one neophyte (granted this is partially bc she underestimated her). it would track that while they definitely wanted to get rid of mindfang, they also were fine with the neophyte dying. this also follows with the fact that after mindfang gets out of that trial, she manages to persist without being caught right up until her death at the hands of the summoner. were they happy that the neophyte got killed, enough to stop putting much effort into mindfang's capture?

I think the Highbloods probably did set Redglare up. I speculated that it was possible when we first heard about her death, and that was before we knew she was a Signless cultist.

Also: lmao, do you remember when Hussie told us that the Juggalo Cult was 'obscure'? That's starting to feel like something that was quietly retconned offscreen.

@clueless-rarito asked: In case you like to know, "Dolorosa" is meant to evoke the spanish word "Doloroso" meaning painful but changing the O for an A turn it feminine.

Dolorosa; in other words, the woman in pain.

Fucking hell, she deserved so much better. It's amazing how much bleaker the Ancestors' lives were, compared to their descendants. Modern Alternia is bad enough as it is!

@lon-kasi asked: Fanwork recommendation: The same guy who did the EoA5 reanimation just did Intermission 2 as well. Like, less than six hours before I sent this ask. It's incredible.

Yessss! These are amazing.

My favorite parts are all the extra touches that weren't in the original animation, such as Rose beginning to realizing how badly she was tricked - or Jade, unused to her own powers, almost knocking John on his ass while she teleports him.

Anonymous asked: Now that you've seen what a Reckoning on Skaia looks like, you can see why Karkat was rushing Kanaya to get their frog done. Despite jumping the gun, skipping the lore elements and just killing their way to the end, the troll kids never had enough time. Especially since, now that I'm thinking about it, if it wasn't the Reckoning then it probably would have been Jack as the "time's up, now turn in your work" event. @marinerofthestars asked: With the revelation that Alternia was built to and ended up speedrunning an Sgrub/Sburb session to catastrophic effect (great job reading this far, btw), how long would you expect a “standard” session to take?

We've got two different asks here - one saying that normal sessions are meant to be shorter than Hivebent's, and the other saying they're meant to be longer.

I honestly don't know which I believe. It feels unrealistic for a Sburb session to take months, but Scratch really did seem to be saying that the trolls were extremely effective Players, implying most sessions take longer to beat. Maybe the reboot session will clue us in a little?

Anonymous asked: “How do you expect to out run me, When I Am Already Here.” Is such a hard line, and it’s completely missable in the alt text for the site banner. I know a lot of people missed it when these panels dropped. I remember HS being considered super unique because of how much the comic messes with formatting things like that.

I was super close to missing some of that scene, even though I'd already been warned about the alt text. There was just so much going on at the time, I almost didn't think to look at the banners.

@royalvorpal asked: "I thought words would be exchanged" How do you expect them to talk when they are in person?

pffffffffffffffffffft

Alright, that one fucking got me.

@bladekindeyewear asked: "But no, apparently not, because it took Karkat zero words and sixty seconds to completely shut Gamzee down. Now, don’t get me wrong, that’s incredibly impressive - but what did he actually do?" If you look back IN RETROSPECT at some of what Gamzee has been telling Karkat, it almost looks like pale flirting, like he was actually WANTING him to do this behind his threats. p3361: "FTC: i wonder if you can all be at with me in time and make me get my reconsider on?" Anonymous asked: You may not like it, but this is what peak moirallegience looks like.

Yeah, this really does make that exchange read as a little flirtatious.

Still, is this really how a moirallegiance is meant to work? Are moirails really expected to risk their lives to halt their prospective partner's rampage? This is starting to sound more dangerous than a kismesissitude!

@bladekindeyewear asked: I'm not sure how well it applies to the revised Homestuck website and it's probably impossible in the collection, but you could view any past/future page in any CSS format the site gave you with a keyword, like the black-on-green Doc Scratch format. So when Andrew did the "SNOP" to SBAHJ-mode, he was intentionally giving us a tool to view the ENTIRE SITE in SBAHJ mode.

There's a 'theme override' button, but I need to finish Homestuck to unlock it. I guess the comic's theme will change in more spoilery ways, later on.

Anonymous asked: Dolorosa/Mindfang is the true kicker of the “vriska keeps ending up in mirror relationships to her ancestor” belief, bc its the one where there is NO way vriska could know that shes in a mirror relationship. Eridan- orphaner dualscar and mindfangs romance was in the journal. Tavros- she knew about the summoner. But while there are hints to the dolorosas identity- sharp teeth, lower blood color, and a very vague if you stretch it hint about horn shape- no way vriska could have put those pieces together!!!

Man, it's still so fucked up that the Dolorosa went out like that. I still think it's at least remotely possible that she revived as a vampire, but I'm not gonna kid myself - her story is over. We're not gonna see her.

Anonymous asked: You've mentioned "ratfic" and something called "the Methods" before, is that something you've read?

If I could write an essay about Steven Moffat, I could write an entire thesis about Harry Potter and the Methods of Rationality - but it'd be radioactively critical, and it feels mean-spirited to just post a rant about something unprompted.

If people want my thoughts in detail, I might stick them on the sideblog later - but for now, I'll just tell you that if it wasn't for that fic, XAE A-12 Musk would never have been born. Not a joke.

Anonymous asked: i love the complete about face on gamzee lol. "clearly the fact that he's gone nuts is something wrong with the timeline" gamzee is revealed to be responsible for lil cal "actually fuck this guy"

If we do ever recover the original Gamzee, it's going to really suck for him to face his friends. After everything he's done, will anyone ever really trust him again?

@elkian asked: Love the Exiles. So glad nothing bad happens to them, ever, (I assume the pause before the third s175 post is bc you, like me, took a break to cry over AR hesitating to kill his friend :,(

I was so bummed, guys. Carapacians don't have ghosts, I assume - so the Exiles, sans PM and maybe WV, are gone forever.

The Red Miles will probably have obliterated their corpses, so we can't even prototype most of them - but I'm holding out hope for Waywardsprite.

Anonymous asked: heh, you aren't alone in preferring god tier dave without his hood. i was around for when cascade dropped and wasnt able to watch it straight away due to the various troubles, but one of the first things i heard about it was people talking about how stupid they thought dave's hood looked.

I know, right? Like, yeah, it definitely says 'knight', but Dave's got great hair, and it feels like a shame to cover it.

@bladekindeyewear asked: "PCG: SHE WAS CONSTANTLY FIXING MY FUCKUPS. PCG: ROBOTS FROM THE FUTURE ALWAYS COMING BACK TO TELL ME HOW SOME HASTY SHIT I DID WITH FROG BREEDING OR WHATEVER WOULD MAKE IT BE IMPOSSIBLE TO WIN. PCG: MY OWN PERSONAL MISTAKES PROBABLY ACCOUNTED FOR MORE DOOMED ARADIABOTS THAN ANYTHING ELSE." Now that the Tumor's revealed for the precision device it was, it's also clear that Aradia, likely following the Horrorterrors' instructions, FORCED them to breed the frog JUST RIGHT to create the Sun.

Yeah, the existence of that precision device really fucking threw me. Whatever it did, the frog cancer probably was deliberately engineered to cause it - and I think it was engineered by Scratch, rather than the Horrorterrors. He was also talking to Aradia during the session, and this event was key to his plan.

Anonymous asked: (And one more ask from the person without a tumblr. -DJ) The thing is, Scratch could have just said "you must create the Green Sun, it is essential for the existence of the multiverse, not doing so will create a paradox". But either he chose to trick them, by only but saying "true words", just for fun…or there is some reason telling them about their true mission wouldn't work - RM

Either is possible, and it's pretty much impossible to say. That said, the Vast Glub is proof that he does just like messing with people, so I'm going with the former answer.

Anonymous asked: (forwarding another ask from the person without a Tumblr account -DJ) Do you think there are interesting parallels between Scratch and Tarquin from OOTS? - RM

Well, they are both meta-aware villains with extremely wide-reaching plans, and they're both pretty weird about women. Hopefully this means that Scratch's much cooler son will kick his ass in a later Act.

@bladekindeyewear asked: One tiny cute detail in Cascade I love is how when the Green Sun lights up in the distance for the trolls, Terezi tries to point at it, and Karkat gently takes her arm and re-points it in the right direction. XD

Shoulda brought the Smelloscope, Terezi!

Anonymous asked: The first time i read homestuck my shit bugged out and I literally just missed the entire scrapbook section and cascade. The SECOND time I read homestuck cascade gave me such a neuron firing high that only harrow the ninth has ever gotten close to

That's exactly how to describe it. Cascade blasted my neurons, in exactly the same way that part of Harrow the Ninth did.

@rwbypro asked: Ngl one of my favorite parts about homestuck is the fact that Doc Scratch Won, like he got Exactly what he wanted, and he played everyone like fiddles, one of my all time favorite villains in anything!

He did, the bastard! Scratch managed to pull it off without a hitch.

These are the exact kind of convoluted masterstrokes you want to see in a time-travel story, and I think English's machinations will only grow more intricate, going forward.

@sanctferum asked: The juggalo cult believes in a pair of mirthful messiahs rather than just the one, so if English is one of the messiahs, that's only half the equation. Presumably, the other messiah would be Scratch.

That works! I originally thought that the Messiahs were the two members of ICP, but let's be honest, they still could be. I absolutely would not put it past this comic to reveal that Lord English was Shaggy 2 Dope the whole time.

@sanctferum asked: So now that you've seen Lord English's true appearance: he's got a peg leg, and that peg leg is a golden cuestick, filling in the last missing piece of the Felt analogy - the one that moves the billiards around in the first place. For good measure, English's peg leg, single golden tooth and his garish coat give him a stereotypical pimp appearance, which is fitting given his treatment of his female servants so far (not to mention Scratch's own treatment of both the Handmaid and whichever female player he is manipulating at any given moment. He even explicitly uses the word grooming to describe raising Handmaid!). If there was ever a pimp for Dave to lock in his own crib while dropping it like it was hot, this would be him.

Ayy, you're right! I've been waiting for the Felt's cuestick since the Intermission days!

You're also right about the comic's villains. Scratch and English aren't just screwing over female Players - they've also been fucking with Mindfang, the Handmaid, the Condesce, and even Snowman. It's absolutely a pattern.

These guys aren't just cosmic villains, they're misogynist cosmic villains. Mundane evil and supernatural evil, all together in one convenient package of shit.

Anonymous asked: Now that we've gotten past this point in the comic- I just wanted to say I forgot Expatri8 was ever a name used to refer to Darkleer- mainly because all I ever see people refering to him as is Darkleer. And at first it kinda threw me for a loop when you called him that even though it's the only name you knew for him- Anyhows- You probably noted this at some point but only upper middle class to high blood colors seem to have name names, with some exceptions. Like, they're weird, but Mindfang, Redglare, and Dualscar are all fesable names. Meanwhile the lower bloods just have titles.

It is absolutely in character of Alternia not to allow lowbloods to have names.

Anonymous asked: Just read your liveblog over the last two days. I adore your analysis! I second that one person’s reccomendation of In Stars And Time. Also I reccomend the Blue Lips homestuck video, it’s lived in my head for ages. I’m 99% sure it’s safe to watch now? It’s about the events of murderstuck and I don’t THINK it references anything you don’t know. Anyhoot! I know you mentioned vriska being like Azula when you first started getting to know her. Now that you’re as far as you are, I’d like to argue… Vriska is more like Zuko, in a way? Like. The way she wants to wipe things clean, the way he wants to restore his honor. The way they both have a “parent” that leads them to how things are, and for a while they cling to that as “right” and how things should be… One time I saw a post that Vriska is girl Zuko and Eridan is boy Azula and all the comments were arguing that no, vriska is Azula, but lowkey that post changed my brain chemistry and idk why people were SO vehemently against changing the genders of the characters in the comparison

I think Vriska works well as girl Zuko. You're right - they both started off under the thumb of an abusive parent, and they both try to 'fix' their past mistakes without understanding the wider context behind why they made them. Now, does this mean Vriska will also be getting a kickass redemption arc, which turns her into one of the comic's most straightforwardly heroic characters? Possibly, but I ain't holding my breath.

It's a little harder for me to see the second comparison, though. Like her brother, Azula was made into what she is by her horrible father, whereas Eridan became what he is on his own, with some assistance from Alternian culture.

Perhaps there are layers here that I'm just not seeing. I haven't read the Avatar sequel comics yet, so they might do more with Azula's character that I don't know about.

@mrjocrafter asked: I was trying to think about what the characters' moon alignment means in terms of their characterization, thought "Prospit dreamers are relatively passive while Derse dreamers are relatively active", then realized that's only true for the humans, the Post-Scratch Trolls' 6 Prospit dreamers (excluding Sollux, as his 'official' alignment, according to the Extended Zodiac, is Derse) are the more active characters. Then I realized that on Earth darkness and dark-associated characters are edgy and countercultural, while on Alternia light and light-associated characters are countercultural instead! Goddamn this comic just keeps coming back for more themes Also, I know you've compared Taylor to Vriska in the past, but she really strikes me as more of a Terezi. Beyond the surface level stuff (like going blind and then relying on a supernatural sense), Taylor, like Terezi has a strong moral compass but will twist it into pretzels to do the most horrific shit and there's a 50/50 chance she even regrets it afterwards. Meanwhile, Amy, who I think makes a much better Vriska, does her atrocities either under manipulation (like Vriska) or just does it without thinking about it and feels bad about it later (hey, also like Vriska). Also, Taylor Hebert and Amelia Dallon are coincidentally both valid troll names.

Yup! Which means Kanaya is a troll goth, which is still amazing.

And... hmm, I'm not sure whether I'd call Dave active or passive. He certainly acts more on his own initiative than John, but he also spends a lot of time getting bossed around by Terezi. He's kind of in the middle, really.

I do think Terezi's reframing of her violence as 'justice' is very Taylor-coded - and Amy is absolutely a Vriska, if we're working off the 'female, controversial, and morally ambiguous' definition given by a previous asker. Plus, well...

...yeah. And let's not even talk about Ward. (Because I haven't read it.)

Really, all these characters are multifaceted, and you can draw many different parallels in many different directions. If I had the time, I could probably draw lines from each of the trolls to a different cape in the Wormverse - but for now, we must continue!

@morganwick asked: Bec's influence on Jack is so strong that not only is he reduced to following Jade around like a puppy, he kills CD for completing the mission he gave him and leaves Jade, one of the players he's supposed to be killing, on her quest bed, the nature of which he didn't seem to know about when it came to John. Bec = absolute king.

Bec is a king.

It really does seem like his influence over Jack is increasing as time passes. Is Davesprite going to get more birdlike, as well? Or is Bec just a special case because he's a First Guardian?

Anonymous asked: oh my god you really just cleaned the board with the last minute Dave+Rose quest slab guess??? Like. You were going on about other things and then you just casually mention "oh I guess this could happen too" like okay!!! Seer!!!!

Yeah, I'm pretty proud of that one. I was just thinking about how Aradia might help the Derse kids, once she'd met them at the Sun, and then it hit me: she's been in exactly the same situation, in exactly the same place, because of exactly the same sun!

Anonymous asked: dogtier IS in fact what the entire fandom calls her, if you came up with that yourself congrats on the authentic 2011 homestuck experience, move over carcinisation this is the new big thing in convergent evolution

I did, but come on. That pun makes itself.

Anonymous asked: Fun fact: the music used in [S] Begin Intermission 2, "English", is the same when reversed. It is an EXTREMELY excellent detail. And another example of Toby Fox being a brilliant composer. @sanctferum asked: English by Toby Fox is a really cool song in that its a musical palindrome, playing the same both forwards and backwards, as befits the titular entity. The whole Felt album it's from is based around creating songs with time gimmicks in them, so it serves as a very good semifinal track to almost close the album out. @emotionallyglued asked: You finally got to the part where our big bad man appears! Simple question to ask but I'm looking forward towards the answer: what do you think of Lord English's theme? Grandiose enough to fit a villain of his caliber or did you expect something more/else?

Oh, shit, that's cool!

I liked the song a lot. Sure, it's not as bombastic as the boss theme I went with myself, but it is much, much scarier. It was the perfect way to remind us that this wasn't really a victory - that English's plan went off without a hitch. Our heroes are still in terrible, terrible danger.

@morganwick asked: post/756751870755733504 Still think of Doc Scratch as "Big Cal"? @sanctferum asked: You've heard of Lil' Cal and Big Cal, now get ready for the deadliest and dastardliest villain of all: Biggest Cal. Anonymous asked: you've seen lil cal, now get ready for BIG CAL @lon-kasi asked: finally, Big Ca- well. actually. Scratch was Big Cal, wasn't he? so finally, Bigger Cal

This is the real reason Scratch wouldn't tell Rose his boss's name - because if she'd known her manipulator worked for Bigger Cal, she'd have been too god damn scared to go grimdark.

Anonymous asked: T1ck T0ck goes the God Tier Clock. Its chime signals the Br8k of Scratch's H34D. And with the arrival of Lord English, he lets loose two great, Vast honk HONKS. Anonymous asked: Did you notice something about the English sequence? First, we see Scratch's clock. t1ck, t0ck. Then, his head breaks. 8r8k H34DS. He releases the Vast Honk. honk HONK.

This motherfucker died to the very words that birthed him.

I guarantee you that this was deliberate on Scratch's part. He didn't need to foreshadow his plan so blatantly - but this horrible little troll knew that nobody would get the joke until it was too late.

bladekindeyewear asked: "S u c k e r s ." The bioorganic-looking Tumor opening up to reveal a precision device. Twice the mass of a universe. Doc Scratch fucking played EVERYONE SO HARD. We couldn't believe THEY CREATED THE GREEN SUN, so hard many of us watched without REALIZING IT. If you reread the talk Doc and Rose had from p3627 onward, the amount of TRANSPARENT DODGES AND WEASELING he did in that conversation to mislead Rose and the entire readership is so blatant and shameless, oh my fucking god!!! Anonymous asked: Not only did Scratch never said the tumor would destroy the green sun, he also specifically said they would travel to the green sun LOCATION, not to the green sun itself.

God damn it!

Scratch may have been stoic on the outside, but you mark my words: he was absolutely roaring with laughter on the inside.

@sunbluethinking asked: Regarding 'a dozen or two sweeps,' you do have to remember that it seems like one sweep is roughly equivalent to two human years? (See Terezi's and Dave's 'I'm six' conversation, or whatever it was.) So my impression is that a dozen sweeps would be equivalent to 24 years and two dozen sweeps would be equivalent to 48 years. Still really short, but not quite as absurdly short. (Which actually reminds me of the question of the problem of rate of maturation in fictional races with different lifespans. (Dungeon Meshi touches on this, but) in the case of Homestuck, I think it seems like the trolls mature to adulthood at about the same rate. It's just their adult lifespans that are different.) @bellcarved asked: If my math is correct, "a dozen or two sweeps" is a range of 26 to 52 years. Still not great, but 26 would be the low end of the life expectancy, while they tend to live around half as long as a human.

So either Aradia was about to die, or she wasn't - but either way, she was always going to die young.

We still don't know whether God Tier stops you aging, do we? I have to assume so, because death by old age isn't really Heroic or Just, but I'd feel a lot better if it was 100% confirmed.

Anonymous asked: And here we learn the story of Jesus and the second coming- @bellcarved asked: Now you know the truth: Karkat Vantas is the second coming of Troll Jegus Christ. Anonymous asked: I doubt I'm the first to say this but, the story of the Signless is undeniably based off the story of Jesus Christ. @skelekingfeddy asked: you do realise that the sufferer is Troll Jegus right. the irons/cancer symbol is the crucifix. his method of execution turned into the main symbol of a religion. the dolorosa is mary. karkat is the second coming. hes literally just Troll Jegus lmao @sanctferum asked: turns out, Terezi was right all along. troll jegus was real after all, and he was indeed the best jegus. shame on you for not believing, Dave

God damn it, Karkat. You hate yourself so much, even though you're literally the second coming of Christ.

And really does add weight to Terezi's claim that Alternia had the 'best' Jesus. Sure, says she's joking here, but... well, her Ancestor was a follower of the Signless, wasn't she? Could Terezi have inherited more of Redglare's legacy than we thought?

Anonymous asked: now that you know about the signless i recommend you take another read of karkat's long password on page 3972

...huh.

It almost makes it seem like Karkat's vaguely cognizant of the Sufferer's life, the same way the Sufferer was cognizant of his pre-Scratch incarnation. Funny, that.

@morganwick asked: "For a bisexual alien, his shipping is awfully straight, isn't it?" Well, consider that when he drew that he was trying to adhere to the human model of reproduction with its explicit requirement of one person of each sex, as best he could from his alien perspective. Note that in the same conversation he's struggling to understand the "human taboo of incest". @manorinthewoods asked: Karkat's humanshipping is straight because John told him he wasn't gay, and presumably, he extrapolated. ~LOSS (28/12/24) Anonymous asked: Karkat's very straight shipping chart is the way it is because John's Not A Homosexual:tm:

I totally forgot I came to the same conclusion, back in that legendary group chat.

Man, Rose x Kanaya is really going to throw Karkat for a loop. He'll probably think that John was just bullshitting him.

@skelekingfeddy asked: steven moffat is a valid troll name Anonymous asked: You've brought it up too much not to ask, what did Moffat do that pissed you off so badly?

Once more, I am very tempted to make this a full essay, but I'll save time by just pointing to Hbomberguy's famous Sherlock video, which I agree with, like, 80% of - particularly the Doctor Who segment that I've timestamped.

In a nutshell, Moffat was always really good at generating intrigue, and building hype for future events - but as a showrunner, he never really delivered on his promises, and was very fond of handwaving established canon to the side. Pet peeve of mine, as you can imagine.

@rwbypro asked: We warned you bro, we warned you about the most important character @skelekingfeddy asked: carcinoGeneticist may have engineered the cancer…but terminallyCapricious was the one who made it terminal. ;o) @capribornio asked: Honk, honk :0) Heyyyy you reached the part where Gamzee became my favorite enemy. Forget Vriska, Jack and Doc Scratch - Gamzee may have his buttons pushed by the good ol' Doc, but he managed to make things worse than even Vriska got to (and killed more main characters, too!). Anonymous asked:Congratulations on reaching this point. So, Gamzee chucklefucked the universe. Crazy, right? @bellcarved asked: Gamzee's "Bard of Rage" title is looking more accurate than ever, now. His own rage lead him to put the clowns in John's dreams, which ended up inspiring the rage that made Jack Noir go to the lengths he did. Bardic inspiration, if you will. …also, this makes Perfect Jack a collaborative effort between Vriska and Gamzee. @capribornio asked: I feel like you get Gamzee much better than most livebloggers (and a part of the fandom, too). Gamzee is an orchestrator, on a much bigger level than any could have predicted. The silly little troll dissappeared once he got off the slime, got his religion destroyed, and got Lil Cal.

I told you, guys! I told you Bards were overpowered!

Yeah, he's already getting pretty crafty, isn't he? Maybe, instead of manipulating Gamzee like he did the girls, Scratch has actually been coaching him. After all, his own manipulating days are over, so maybe he saw fit to train a successor...

Anonymous asked: if vriska was presented with a choice about the creation of bec noir, it would have had to be before the veil because the trolls only flee into the veil AFTER bec shows up and wrecks their reward- and that's their first introduction to him. any choice she could have made about bec/jack after that would result in a doomed timeline, because it would break the loop. that's why it has to be before the veil. @manorinthewoods asked: What I mean is that the Choice that would have prevented Bec Noir is something that would have made Vriska change who she was, in such a way that she wouldn't later make Bec. Vriska's Choice that made Bec can't have occurred in the Veil, because there wasn't a Denizen to give it, so whatever it was, it must have been something to do with character growth that she failed to do. ~LOSS (28/12/24)

Oh, right, that makes sense!

Yeah, poor Vriska simply wasn't self-aware enough to make such a Choice before the Veil. It's interesting what-if, though.

@flambeaufelid asked: ICP albums liveblog maybe??? (Do people liveblog music reactions? They should.) Anonymous asked: Since you mentioned the possibility of having to listen to ICP albums to understand Gamzee better, I figured I’d better let you know that while reading a bit about juggalos, ICP, and ICP’s music does help with understanding Gamzee better if you’re unfamiliar with them (though I wouldn’t say it’s crucial), I don’t recommend listening to their music unless you’re comfortable with graphic depictions of gore, murder, and other forms of violence. (Speaking from personal experience here; I tried listening to them because Gamzee’s my favorite character and quickly realized I didn’t enjoy that.) Anonymous asked: I would say listening to icp is not necessary… I tried myself and failed not even half way through one album so I admittedly could be wrong but… I think it was never intended to be THAT serious

I checked out Miracles, back when ICP was first brought up, but I haven't seen any of their other music. It's probably not actually necessary to listen to the band to understand Gamzee, but I might still do it for fun, since the graphic content wouldn't bother me much.

@skelekingfeddy asked: according to hussie the fifth wall is what divides two narrators/authors @sanctferum asked: According to Hussie's comments, if the fourth wall is the wall between the character and the author/their audience, then the fifth wall is specifically the wall dividing omniscient narrators from each other. or something like that

I, uh, guess that makes sense. Presumably Scratch would be our second 'author' in this scenario, even though he's not literally another author of Homestuck.

#asks #full liveblog #act 5.2

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the-whispers-of-death · 1 year ago

Text

The Stars and the Moon

Pairing: Simon "Ghost" Riley x Male!Reader Summary: You are outside the base, just staring up at the night sky and enjoying the peace the sight evokes. Ghost joins you. Content: Fluff, so much fluff, Ghost so soft he's most likely ooc, Closed off!Reader, desi!Reader, Reader has been in the military for a while, a tiny bit of cursing (like one bad word). Word Count: 990 words Author's Note: Simon currently has the hold on my brain rot, RIP my love John Price. I'd think he'd love to star-gaze, so I wrote this with him in mind and then he was like "What if I just loved Reader more than the stars and the moon?". He took over my brain to write for me and I just couldn't stop him.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

You stood outside the base, a few steps to the left of the entrance to the base. It was a chilly night tonight, a soft breeze ruffling your clothes and your short-cropped black hair.

Your eyes were on the starry night sky, taking every detail of the twinkling stars and the bright full moon. It was peaceful, a respite from all of the chaos of war.

There was no bloodshed here. No screams of pain that permeated the air. Just you and the stars.

Until you heard the door to the base open and a pair of heavy footsteps walk over to you, interrupting the peaceful silence.

“What are you doing out here, lad?” Ghost asked as he settled right next to you. His honey-brown eyes that were the only features of his that were showing beneath his balaclava and white skull mask went to the night sky, as if he too wanted to find the peace in it that you did.

You sighed, sitting down on the concrete ground, no care that there were chairs that you could’ve sat on. “Just looking at the stars, needed a reminder that not everything is drenched with blood,” you murmured.

Ghost was silent for a few seconds before he grunted and sat down on the concrete, joining you. “Guess the stars, they are pretty.”

That was the last thing he said before silence washed over you two, a familiar occurrence. Both of you had at least ten years in the military, having seen your fair share of traumatic things. So you two often gravitated towards each other, two broken soldiers seeking each other out in hopes you’ll bring out the light in each other.

“Though, you know, you’re more peaceful than the stars ever could be,” Ghost said after a few minutes, his gruff voice so soft that it was barely a whisper. He turned his head to look at you, his piercing brown eyes boring into you, taking in your brown skin that had a few old battle scars on it, your brown eyes which twinkled in the moonlight. “Lad, you know that, don’t you?”

You turned to look at him, raising a brow. “I’m just a soldier, Ghost.”

“Simon.”

No one on the Task Force ever called him “Simon”, except for Price, but even then Price didn’t call him by it that much. And most of the time when others tried to call him by first name, he’d correct them with his call sign. But you… You got to call him “Simon” now.

“Simon,” you said, memorizing the way it rolled off your tongue like it belonged there. “I appreciate the sentiment, but I’m surely not more peaceful than the stars. They’re breathtaking and a symbol of all that’s left to explore, a symbol of a vast universe. They’ve been written about in poems for centuries to evoke feelings of content and beauty.”

Ghost scooted closer on the concrete to you, his warm gloved hand resting on your thigh. “You’re breathtaking,” he murmured, his voice full of awe. “The way you move, the way you laugh, the way you don’t take any bullshit. It’s breathtaking, absolutely mesmerizing. Sure, the stars are evidence of a vast universe, but who needs a vast universe to explore when there’s you?”

His hand on your thigh tightened and he pulled you closer, so close you were almost sitting on his lap. It was enough to get your heart racing.

“What good are the stars and the moon if they’re not you? They can’t make me feel safe like you can, they can’t make me laugh. They can’t complete me.” His other hand languidly moved along your side, up your neck and jaw until it cupped your cheek, so gentle and tender. “The stars are beautiful, but there’s nothing more beautiful than a good man, a man who knows of war and bloodshed and still fights for the greater good. And that’s you. You could’ve retired by now, settled down, but you’re here. You’re here with me, along side all of us, getting your hands dirty with blood and ashes so that those back home can sleep well at night.”

Your eyes fluttered at his words, your body melting against his touch. “Simon, I’m not all you make me up to be. I’m not some perfect human being.”

Ghost nodded, leaning in until his forehead pressed against yours. “I know. And that what makes me love you.”

His confession took the breath out of your lungs, your eyes wide as you stared into his.

“These past few months that we have grown closer have only made me fall in love with you,” he whispered, his lips so close but so far away due to his balaclava and mask. “And I can’t hold it in anymore. Please, please tell me to stop, to go away, and I will.”

“Don’t,” you replied, shaking your head when he wanted to pull away, your hand reaching for his, which still cupped your cheek. “Don’t leave, don’t go. I’ve fallen in love with you too.”

Your heart ached for him, your mind never strayed from thoughts of him. Of his laugh, his corny jokes, the way his presence filled up a room. On the surface, you thought your want—need—for him to be by your side was because he was your friend, the only one who took one look at your broken, closed off soul and said he’d stay by your side, but you knew that it was deeper than that. You were just as entranced by him as he was by you.

“Stay with me,” you begged softly.

“Nowhere else I’d rather be,” Ghost said, no longer trying to pull away from you. His eyes closed as he pressed his forehead against yours just the tiniest bit harder. “As long as you'll have me, I’m yours.”

“Then let me be your stars and the moon.”

“Be my universe.”

Reblogs are welcomed & appreciated!

#simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x male reader #simon ghost riley x reader #simon ghost riley fanfiction #ghost cod #call of duty #cod mwii #call of duty modern warfare 2 #cod mw2 #my writing #fanfic #fluff #ghost x male reader #cod x male reader #cod modern warefare 2 #cod #cod x reader #desi!reader #:)

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still-not-over-transformers · 2 years ago

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Hi frieeeend! Glad to be one of ur first requests ^^

I was wondering if you could do some TFP Ratchet x female reader 🫣 some smut OR some angsty fluff where Ratchet feels insecure about his age and vitality and y/n (suggestively his s/o) comforts him :)) whatever u choose

Take ur time! ❤️

Whew, never have I ever written so much so quickly (in a good way). I guess I got carried away a bit. Hope you like it :3

*Anything in italics is either a sound effect or a character’s inner thoughts*

Young At Spark

TFP Ratchet x Reader

Warnings: Suggestive

Word Count: 2000+ (Holy Sh*t)

It had been a relatively quiet day in the Autobot base for you. Jack, Miko, and Raph were at school taking their final exams, and the autobots were out on an extensive energon scouting mission somewhere in the rural wilderness of Serbia. You would’ve found a trip to Europe to be a fun outing, but couldn’t bear the thought of leaving your favorite medic alone. As you returned from a brief walk around the halls of the base, a loud *clang* followed by a frustrated and exasperated shout could be heard from the main room. He sounds actually pissed off, you thought to yourself before briskly making your way to the main room. You turned to see Ratchet picking up various shattered metal pieces from the floor, all the while muttering incoherent profanities and curses.

“Ratchet? Is everything okay?” you asked softly, although the concern was easy to glean from your tone. The medic was clearly surprised by your sudden appearance and seemed a bit startled as his blue optics locked onto you. “Oh, (Y/N)... E-everything is fine. I just… was clumsy and dropped the device I was trying to adjust. I um, I’m sorry if I may have startled you.” In fact, everything was indeed not fine with Ratchet, as that morning his thoughts had gotten away from him and locked onto you, and not in the way he usually enjoys.

I can’t upset (Y/N) with my frivolous doubts. Albeit it will be difficult as her mental prowess is always… rather intuitive, the aging medic tried to silence his thoughts and re-focused on (Y/N). Ratchet cleared his throat as he noticed you had already conjured up a broom, “No need for that, I shall clean up my own mess.” You paused at the increasingly odd behavior of the normally composed medic, and you began to grow suspicious of why he seemed to be hiding something from you.

You two had been close for some time, albeit when you first met the resident Autobot medic it wasn’t a great first meeting. With Ratchet insisting the base was getting far too crowded. You quickly won him over though. Unlike the kids, you were far more mature and patient, and you didn’t actively break his tools or go off placing yourself in unnecessary danger, like a certain someone with pink puffball hair… Another admirable quality you possessed was your sharp mind, and your ability to quickly grasp new concepts and actually be interested in things like science.

The first time Ratchet really noticed you was when he was struggling to decipher an unfamiliar set of code which had come into their possession regarding imperative intel. Despite applying the standard techniques to decipher the code, there was some sort of new trick that had been embedded in the code. As (Y/N) had watched the medic continuously failed to succeed, you had been watching closely, and had noticed the answer didn’t lie in breaking the code through conventional means, rather through a visual pattern. Your sharp eye and wit had spotted a pattern of certain colors and symbols, and after explaining this to Ratchet, the two of you were able to team up and crack the code.

“Ratchet… What’s actually going on? You seem upset at more than accidentally breaking something. You know you can tell me anything, right?” You looked up at him, hoping the medic would let you help him. Primus, she’s onto me, Ratchet quickly finished picking up the broken mess on the floor, before turning towards (Y/N). “I appreciate your concern for me, I do, but I insist it was just a fleeting moment of frustration. Nothing more.” Before you could open your mouth to say anything else, the comms system flashed and Optimus Prime’s voice sounded over the audio “Ratchet, we require your presence immediately. We are taking Decepticon-fire and Arcee is down!”

His azure optics widened in surprise before turning to you. “I’ll man the groundbridge. …Be careful, otherwise I may throw a wrench at you” you had an ever-so-slight smile on your face, but your heart was still heavy as no one could ever foresee when things would go wrong. “I promise to return unharmed” Ratchet said softly, hoping that you wouldn’t fret too much over him, before powering up the groundbridge and speeding through in his alt-mode.

As Ratchet sped through the swirling vortex of green and blue energy, his thoughts from earlier resurfaced. He had been replaying the moment you had first met, the first time you had touched servos/hands, the moments where he would place you on his shoulder as you both reviewed data and worked on projects.

The memory that was the source of his inner turmoil was the first time you kissed. You had shifted your weight on his shoulder and just planted one right on his lips. He could remember the rush of heat to his entire frame, something he had not experienced since his youth back on Cybertron, and that was a very long time ago. It wasn’t long after that you two had been intimate with one another, albeit it took a lot of learning on his part since you were both an organic and far smaller than him. The size difference didn’t bother him much, as he was very VERY creative. You were so vigorous, energetic, passionate, and youthful…. And youth had long since surpassed Ratchet.

He should be above silly things such as anxiety or doubt, but now he felt all of his confidence melt away as the thought of such a stunning and lively being as yourself, being held back by an old rust bucket with one pede in the well of Allsparks. The very idea of him disappointing you felt equivalent to losing a patient. Spark-crushing. Perhaps it was wrong of him to think some old bot like him could ever give you what you truly deserved from a partner. …*PEW PEW* The resounding ringing of blaster fire pulled the medic out of his anxious self-pitying stupor, and into a battlefield before him.

Ratchet had only just exited the groundbridge, but he could already make out his fellow Autobots as they duked it out with various Decepticons and Vehicons. He had to focus, as he was here as a medic not a sniveling idiot. As his optics scanned the field for the injured Arcee, he saw the femme leaning against a large boulder, pinned down as she took cover from Vehicon blaster-fire.

His white and scarlet armor glinted in the light of the sun, as he quickly made his way through the battlefield, being trailed by Optimus and Bumblebee as they provided coverfire. Ratchet was able to make it to Arcee, quickly scanning her to assess her injuries. “I’m fine, Doc. Just a few scratches that’s all,” the two-wheeler calmly stated. “Ep-ep! I’m the medic and I will be the one to diagnose y–” Ratchet was interrupted by the sound of crackling electricity from behind. “Nice of you to join the party, Ratchet!” Ugh, not Knockout of all bots… Ratchet thought, as he saw the ever-polished and buffed Decepticon standing a short distance from him. “Knockout, I am in no mood to deal with your incessant posturing…” Ratchet drew his blasters as he glared at Knockout. “Well they do say bots get crankier as they age, huh? Perhaps you’re better suited as a doorstop at your age?” the Decepticon medic cackled.

Ratchet felt his energon boil and before anyone could realize, he charged at Knockout, optics wide with fury, “You’ll look like a doorstop once I’m through with you!!!” Knockout was taken aback by the sudden vigor and frenzied rage from the Autobot medic, genuinely shocked as to what had gotten into him. “PRIMUS I didn’t know you could move that fast!” Knockout ordered the surrounding Vehicons to begin firing at Ratchet, but was interrupted by opposing fire from Optimus, Bulkhead, and Bumblebee. Before Ratchet could reach him, Knockout quickly transformed and retreated along with the remaining Vehicons.

Ratchet had no choice but to stop his charge, but his rage was not so easily quelled. He was boiling over with anger, HOW DARE HE INSULT ME LIKE THAT? HOW DARE HE ASSUME– Ratchet’s angry thoughts were cut short by the sensation of a large servo on his shoulder, and Optimus’s voice. “Old friend, what has gotten into you? Why would you abandon your patient and charge after Knockout?” Prime’s face was full of concern for his long-time friend and confidant as this was out of character. The medic’s rage began to subside, as he realized what a fool he had made of himself. “M-my apologies Optimus, I don’t know what came over me.” Ratchet immediately went back over to Arcee and helped her onto her pedes, ashamed at his actions.

Back at base, (Y/N) powered up the groundbridge after receiving the call from Optimus. You were still worried about Ratchet, as you had been struggling to think of what on earth he was so upset about. As the portal opened, the Autobots began to make their way through, including Ratchet who was assisting an annoyed Arcee into the base.

As you began to acknowledge everyone’s return, Bulkhead suddenly approached Ratchet, “What the scrap was that about?!” Ratchet’s optics briefly darted towards the wrecker, but as in usual fashion, the medic turned away and scoffed at the question, “Think nothing of it. Just stress from being engaged in combat.” Despite being assisted by Ratchet, Arcee piped in with her concerns “Bulkhead has a point, Ratchet. You lost it at whatever Knockout said to you. What gives?”

Growing increasingly frustrated with the sudden interrogation, Ratchet snaps his helm around “I’ve already told you that it was inconsequential. Now let me proceed with scanning you for injuries and move on!” The tension in the room could’ve been cut with a knife as the rest of the group falls silent, and no one presses the matter further. Standing at the controls, you were taken aback by Ratchet’s behavior, as this was severely out of character for your normally patient, if a bit sassy-medic. But you remained silent as you watched Arcee begrudgingly allow Ratchet to assess her.

It wasn’t long before Arcee returned to the main area of the base, being cleared of any injuries by Ratchet, but you noticied that he had yet to reappear. Normally the only other area on base you could find Ratchet would be in one of the back storerooms which usually housed various supplies. You quietly made your way through the halls, the faint sound of something falling making you hone in on one particular room. The motion-sensors on the door allowed you entry into the storeroom, and you quickly spotted Ratchet with his back turned against one of the shelves. It felt as if you were walking on glass as you approached him, “...Ratchet? You’re really starting to worry me. Can you please, please… tell me what is wrong?”

“...I’m sorry, (Y/N) for worrying you. That is the last thing I would want to do to you” Ratchet replied, but his back remained turned away from you. You approached him and closed the door behind you. Stepping closer, you wrapped your arms around his heel in a hug, hoping your touch would comfort him “I know. But Ratchet…. You are hurting yourself by holding in.. whatever it is that’s making you act this way. We’ve been through too much for you to shut yourself off from me.” A heavy sigh escaped from the medic’s vents and he shifted his frame to look at you.

As you briefly stepped back, he knelt down to move his faceplate closer to your level, “You deserve to know of course… You deserve better. …Perhaps if I was in a different field of medical training, I would be better suited to explain myself, so I shall try my best.” He took a deep breath, clearly struggling “I’ve been concerned that I may not be the mech best suited for you.”

You stood before him frozen as you struggle to process his words, “...Come again?” Ratchet felt as if someone were twisting a blade in his gut, but continued, “I meant that you deserve the best. You are so kind and full of life and vigor, and I am perhaps too old to provide you with what a younger mech could.” He can’t bear to meet your gaze any longer, and turns his face away from you in shame. He is shocked to feel a brief sting on his helm, looking back to see you holding a small wrench in your hands. “Hopefully that will knock some sense back into you” your eyes were welling-up with tears as you dropped the wrench.

“You really think your age would change how I feel for you? You think I would care what anyone, bot or con or human has to say about it?” You approach Ratchet and gently place your hands on his cheeks, staring deeply into his optics, “Ratchet, you are the only man for me. So what if you’re mature and full of experience? You’re my one and only and don’t ever think otherwise.” You lean in and plant a deep and sweet kiss against his cool lips.

It felt like time stood still as he looked at your beautiful face. Your warm lips were like fireworks as you pressed them to his, How can she be this perfect? How do I deserve her? Ratchet’s mind swirled as you pulled away from him, feeling a gentle brush as he swiped a tear from your eye with a servo, “(Y/N), please forgive me for putting you through such torment. I… I was insecure about many things. I still wonder if I am truly capable of fulfilling all of your needs.”

You stepped forward and kissed him again, albeit with a little more heat. You raised an eyebrow as you pulled away, a devilish grin playing on your lips, “You have always fulfilled my every need. You could always test how well you’re able to please me…?” The look in your eyes and tone in your voice was easy for the medic to decipher. He felt his frame heat up and his engine rev, “...I suppose I can run a few… tests to see the results.” He gave you a half-cocked smirk before gently scooping you into his servo and setting you on one of the upper shelves, before showering your neck and collarbone in sensual kisses.

Primus, hopefully no unlucky soul needed any supplies from that room…

#transformers #transformers prime #transformersprime #autobots #ratchet #ratchet x reader #transformers x reader #tfp ratchet x reader #tfp ratchet #transformers reader insert #transformers oneshot

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miimo96 · 9 months ago

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Thoughts on Madoka magica walpurgisnaught rising Trailer 2

AAAAAHHH OMG WE'RE SO BACK! Oh my god juat look at my 2 Lovebirds ^^ not even 2 minutes in and Already the animation Looks absolutely Beautiful and I can't stress this enough but just seeing Madoka and Homura dancing again hand and hand just makes me all warm and Fuzzy inside AHHHHHH ^w^

What's this, NEW Characters!? 👀 I'm guessing these are probably either magical girls who almost became witches or people from the side series Madoka magica Record, either way this is already looking to be the most Unique outta the franchise, Also yay Cheese/bebe/Nagisa is back ^_^

Can we all just appreciate how Madoka magica Never fails to make its scenery ABSOLUTELY Beautiful, Like I don't even know what this is but just WOW, I already get the feeling we're going to be getting some more biblical or symbolic representations here, And all for it >_<

Uh oh, Looks like someone didn't heed Homura's Warning, I'm guessing that's probably why She looks like that, knowing her she probably either tried stopping Homura and tried fixing things back to way it was, and as punishment got Seriously messed up, word of advice Sayaka, Next time don't MESS with Homura ^^

YOOOUUUU!? Why is HE back!? OMG NO Get this mother f$%ker Outta her NOW! GET OUT! GET OUUTTT!! I already get a bad feeling with him being around, I get that Homura Needed him to whatever the hell she needed him to do but No I just can't with him and judging from what I'm seeing, he's looking pretty better than Last time!? What the hell man!?

Omg I SO can't wait for this movie, already 2025 is Looking like a good year, and I gotta feeling I know how this Thing is going to end, and it I'll be with be with me crying in a theater for 10 EFFING MINUTES, that and maybe Homura and Madoka MIGHT end up becoming Gods together, because I feel like that's the only way this movie can end; Homura's whole deal is that she believes that Madokas whole sacrifice Wasn't what she Really wanted, she believes that even though Madoka sacrificed herself to save everyone else, it isn't what SHE really wanted in the end, if ya wanna know what I'm talking about check out rebellion and watch the scen with Madoka and Homura having a heart to heart, the part where she's braiding Homura's hair ^^ Anyway with Homura having that mindset now We get to the point of where we are now, but the thing IS, yes while what Madoka said is True, it wasn't really the mindset she had going in when she sacrificed her existence, to Save all magical girls; she was Fine with doing this and being alone if it meant saving her friends, ESPECIALLY even Homura, Because what she was doing with Time travel previously, was technically Cursing her, basically Madoka sacrificed herself to save Homura, not just the other magical girls, in the end, it was all for Homura.

Homura believes that what she is doing, is for Madoka's sake, when in reality, it's actually hers, Because she couldn't handle being Alone, she ended up going against Madoka's wishes, and Reset the world once again, with the excuse "That it's what Madoka would've wanted" Homura's whole character arc is that she's Selfish, she'll do ANYTHING to be Madoka, even if it means Destroying the world, *sigh *I wish I could word this better but I think the Only way this series could end, is if both of them end up becoming "Gods" let me explain. Since neither of them is willing to give the other one up, and pretty much always ends up sacrificing themself for each other, i think the only way we really could see this series end on a "Happy" ending, is if the 2 of them both end up becoming Gods, and remake the world into THEIR Image; that way none of them is Alone and they don't have to suffer anymore, they can BE the creators of their New world and have each other by their side, since they basically represent 2 halfs of Yin and yang, from the colors of their outfits, (Madoka's being light, Homura's being Dark,) to their personalities, (1 being Selfless the other being SELFISH,) they can basically act as the Law and Order of their New world, and run things how they see fit, both being the embodiments of Oder and Chaos. I think that would be a pretty good way to send things off and in my opinion, would really be a cool ending for these 2 character's arcs, Since they've already been through so much it would only make sense for this would be their ending, It would be an ending that's not completely Heartbreaking, but is just Bittersweet, they won't get to live together in the real world, but they WILL have each other, and I think the thing that really proves this and that sent me down this rabbit hole to begin with, was the end credits of Rebellion, Where it depicts 2 girls, (That look VERY similar to Madoka and Homura) walking hand and hand off into the Abyss, which to me is a metaphor for the afterlife or where ever the heck magical girls when they're taken by the Law of cycle, possibly representing those 2 becoming GODS together, basically Sharing the same fate and running the world as they see fit.^^

Anyway yeah, Totally can't wait for this Movie , Oh i feels SOO Good to be back baby ^^ See ya in 2025

#anime #kawaii #2000s anime #90s anime #anime / manga #shounen #animanga #madoka magica #puella magi madoka magica #pmmm madoka #homura akemi #sayaka miki #kyoko sakura #mami tomoe #madoka kaname #madoka x homura #pmmm #walpurgisnacht rising #miimo96

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thejournallo · 1 year ago

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Explain the basic: Spells, Hexes and Curses

As always, I will love to hear your thoughts! and if you have any questions, I will be more than happy to answer them! If you liked it, leave a comment or reblog (that is always appreciated!). if you are intrested in more method check the masterlist!

Discleimer: Don't start your journey as a witch by doing spells without knowing how to protect yourself.

It's important to note that the concept of spells, hexes, and curses can vary widely among practitioners. Some may follow positive and ethical paths, while others may engage in practices that involve more negative or harmful energies. Here's a general overview:

Spells:

Spells are rituals or actions performed with the intention of bringing about a specific result or change.

They can be categorized as positive (such as healing or protection spells) or negative (such as banishing or binding spells).

Spellwork often involves the use of herbs, crystals, candles, symbols, and spoken words to channel energy and focus intent.

Hexes:

A hex is typically considered a negative spell with the intent to cause harm or misfortune to the target.

Hexes are believed to work by manipulating energy to bring about negative consequences.

It's important to note that many practitioners follow the Wiccan Rede, which encourages the use of magic for positive purposes and advises against causing harm.

Curses:

Curses are similar to hexes but may be more severe or long-lasting.

They are often intended to bring about significant harm or suffering to the person targeted.

Some practitioners believe in the concept of the "Rule of Three," which suggests that any energy or intent sent out into the world, whether positive or negative, will return to the sender threefold.

I do follow the rule of three because everything comes back to you; as you sow so you shall reap. So be careful with any spell (or hexes or curses) because it may come back to you!

It's also important to approach the subject with respect and cultural sensitivity, as different traditions and individuals may have varying beliefs and practices. As with any belief system, there are diverse perspectives within the witchcraft community, and not all practitioners engage in hexes or curses.

what to do before you start a spell?

I will explain step-by-step how I prepare before any spell.

I clense my space.

I protect myself with a symbol or by praying to a god, which means that I am dedicating that spell to the specific god or asking for protection and guidance during the spell.

I prepare everything I need and clense it with smoke one by one.

The first thing I did was light up a white candle to keep track of the spell with the flame (I will do another post where I explain better how to read flames).

then I proceed to do my spell.

some other posts of basic things you should know before a spell:

healing, protecting, and grounding.

shielding and banishing

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yourmomxx · 2 years ago

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Sweet Child O’ Mine

father of mine masterlist

summary: It’s time for Dean to face what he has been so afraid of the entire time. Meanwhile, the monster that has already taken one young man’s life, is on its way to claim the next one

warnings: canon violence, child abandonment, swear words, angst, daddy issues, character death, throwing up, this is written like an episode of Supernatural

word count: 11,2k (whoops)

disclaimer: What I know about Group Homes is what I know from my country (and Google), so I apologize if I made any mistakes

pt1 pt2 pt3

@psycho-magnotheric-slime

Now

The cafeteria was loud. The mixed noise of talking children and clattering dishes and cutlery filled the air, creating a yet bearable loudness.

You were sat at one of the light blue tables, across from you your best friends Cassandra Claire and Finnegan Beckett.

Cass and Finn.

She was lowly cursing at the paper straw in her apple juice box and a few strands of her black bangs slipped into her view. The wolf cut, which had been so present a few months ago, was now already grown out and even the shortest strands of Cass’s hair were reaching her shoulders.

Finn seemed caught up in his own world as he carefully laid out little figures and symbols with his french fries. He still had a few, slightly red acne spots lingering on his skin, amongst freckles covering his nose and cheeks. His hair was flaming red, just as Roy’s had been, but other than him Finn usually hid the tousled locks under a cap.

Roy. The news of his death had hit the three of you hard. You had been a friendgroup of four, Roy and Finn, and Cass and you.

Almost a week ago you had been eating lunch at this exact table, the seat to your right had been taken, laughing about terrible jokes, bickering, and not even considering it all to end as soon as it did.

And especially how it did.

Roy’s body was still lying at the morgue. The authorities had kept it there for ‘further investigation purposes’ as they had said, so no funeral had been possible yet.

Of course, the adults had introduced all of you to helping hotlines and offered their own support in case anyone wanted to talk about their feelings and their grief in the safeness of a closed room.

Not that one of you took that into consideration.

The only way you three were coping with the whole situation was through joking around and pretending none of it ever happened. Which was fine.

You and Cass had sometimes talked in the darkness of your rooms, careful and short conversations while sleeping over because neither of you wanted to spend the night alone.

But other than that? Zero. And it was alright that way. The right moment would come.

Maybe.

“Aha!” Cass suddenly yelled out triumphantly, and startled Finn out of admiring his artwork.

You looked up at her from half-heartedly poking around in your own food, as she proudly held up the apple juice that was now pierced with what looked like the abused version of a thin straw.

You gave a small clap. “Bravo” and she grinned at you before turning to Finn.

Well done, Cassie,” he sarcastically said. “You won the hard fight against the opening of a box of apple juice.”

Cass pouted and took a sip. “You don’t appreciate my victories enough, Finn. And don't call me that. Cassie.” She dramatically shuddered at the nickname.

“I’m mentally unstable, not five.”

Finn examined her perfectly done eyeliner and makeup with skeptically raised eyebrows. “You don’t look mentally unstable to me,” he remarked.

Cass gasped. “Excuse me? Prejudices??” She exclaimed.

“You see that?” She asked, frantically pointing at her face. “See how perfect my makeup is today? That's not a good thing, dumbass! Perfect makeup means that I am absolutely mentally fucked!”

You nodded supportively, and Finn just raised his eyebrows, before he dedicated his attention back to poking around in his food.

“Don't you think that's kind of ironic?” He pointed out, and Cass simply ignored him, except for the tiny eye roll she gave.

“Guys, I need your help deciding what color I'm going to dye my hair next,” she changed the topic instead and desperately ran her hands through her hair.

Finn’s head whipped around, back to his friend. “You're honestly thinking about dying your hair right now?” He asked incredulously.

She groaned and threw him a look.

“No, Finnegan, I am not actively thinking about dying my hair, but I sense a mental breakdown coming and if I'm going to absolutely lose my shit and take it out on my hair, I want the result to look good. Otherwise, we are met with that weird yellow-green-combination again.” Cass let her body shudder dramatically.

“I liked the yellow-green-combination,” you interjected.

Cass reached over the table to lay her hand above yours and looked up at you with sweet eyes. “Thanks, hun.”

“I don’t know why you’re making such a big deal out of it,” mumbled Finn, his mouth stuffed full of fries. “Just leave them black.”

“I don’t think you quite understood how a mental breakdown works, man,” you said.

Finn shrugged and dipped a frie into his ketchup. “Whatever.”

You looked at Cass. “I’ll go shopping with you soon and then we will choose a color together,” you promised.

“Thanks,” she said and eyed Finn, “at least someone who cares if I ruin my good looks or not.”

But Finn didn’t hear her, or maybe he just ignored what she was saying. Because he changed the topic.

“Did the FBI agents get a hold of you guys yet?” He suddenly asked.

Your eyebrows shot up in confusion. “The what?”

“The FBI agents,” Finn repeated.

“Why, thank you, I got that part, but what is the FBI doing here?”

Cass just shrugged her shoulders. “Apparently they are here investigating Roy's murder.”

“What, they think someone murdered him?” You asked in disbelief.

“Well, he will not have crushed his ribs all on his own now, will he?” Finn drew a heart shape with the remaining ketchup on the plate.

“It's better than the state police,” retorted Cass, “who still think that it was some kind of ... animal attack.”

You snorted. “Yeah, right, because a bear sneaking into a castle, pushing down on someone's chest and then just leaving seems so plausible.”

Your friends raised their eyebrows in agreement.

“What did they ask you guys?” You closed your waterbottle and absentmindedly started cleaning up your plate.

Cass shrugged and leaned back in her chair with crossed arms. “Not much, the usual, I guess,” she answered, “Wanted me to tell them some things about Roy, his behavior lately, who would have wanted to hurt him…” She trailed off.

“Same here. Routine stuff,” Finn said. Then he leaned a bit closer and lowered his voice.

“To be honest, I don't really care why they're here, they are both incredibly handsome.”

“Finn!” You and Cassandra exclaimed at the same time.

“What?!” The boy widened his arms in defense. “Let me enjoy the one good thing that came from Roy's death.”

Cass shoved him in response. “God, you are a manwhore!” She grumbled.

Finn rubbed his arm with an offended pout on his lips and you giggled. “Geez, we must seem so fucked up, our best friend got murdered and here we are, joking about his death.” You shook your head lightly.

“It's what he would have wanted.” Cass scooted a bit closer on her seat and took both yours and Finn’s hand in acted solemnity.

“If I die,” she vowed, “you are now officially allowed to joke about my death as much as you want. On any occasion.”

“Sick!” You called out and Cass smirked.

“Can we please get back to the part where she said if?” Finn pointed out.

Cass rolled her eyes and pulled back.

“I'm a witch, after all,” she reminded him with a threatening silken voice that had a tone of mockery. “And one day, I will figure out the secret of necromancy, just you wait.”

Finn scoffed and grinned. “Right, you with your crystals, and your smokey sticks and your herbs and tarot cards.”

He wiggled his fingers in front of her face. “That's some real serious stuff you got there, Cass.”

She pushed him away. “Yeah, keep making fun of it. We'll see who has the last laugh when I turn immortal and outlive all of you idiots.”

Finn shook his head. He looked at you and pointed his forefinger to his temple, moving it in circles to indicate what he held of her words.

You shook your head grinning, and Cass, who noticed the interaction, promptly took Finn’s sugar-glazed donut and dumped it in his untouched mayonnaise.

"Ew! Jesus, Cass, you are disgusting!" Finn yelled as he stared at the disaster.

She just shrugged and was quick to eat her own food before he would get any ideas.

For a while, it was quiet. You continued cleaning and sorting your lunch plate, while Cass ate and Finn and her did not speak a word to each other.

It wasn’t an uncomfortable silence, though, just a break from conversation.

Eventually, Cass was the one to break it.

“So, uhm, did you guys, like - I mean, have you been thinking about Roy, too? Or, like, dreaming or something?” With every word her voice got more quiet until it was only a low mumble, drifting apart in the busy noise around.

But still everything she said managed to pierce through the air and directly into your heart.

“Why would you bring that up?” Finn asked through gritted teeth, he almost sounded mad.

Cass avoided eye contact with both of you and pressed the palms of her hands against her forehead, as if to stop it from giving her incredible pain.

“I’ve been having those horrible nightmares, since it happened,” she sighed in despair.

“It’s the same thing over and over again. I see something going into his room, but when I try to open the door, it’s locked. And I hit it, and I scream, but there’s just no sound coming out of my mouth. And when the door finally opens, there he is, lying on the bed, just-”

A heavy clatter interrupted her monologue and made you flinch. Finn had thrown his fork onto his dinner plate.

“Didn’t ask about fucking details, Cassandra,” he hissed lowly, stood up and walked away with his tray in hand.

Cass looked after him as he left and put her head in her hands with a groan.

“I didn’t mean to upset him,” she mumbled into the fabric of her sleeve.

“I know,” you said. She raised her head. You gave her a sympathetic smile.

“D’you think he hates me now?”

You shook your head no. “He’s just grieving. We all are. He will get himself together again, promise.”

For a second, her lips quirked up in a small smile.

“Come on,” you said then and swung your leg over the bench, standing up. “We’ve been sitting here for far too long anyways.”

You took your tray and Cass was quick to follow you and put the dirty dishes away.

“I didn’t have any, by the way.” Confused, she looked at you.

“Nightmares,” you added.

Cass nodded. “Yeah, didn’t think so.” She shrugged. “Guess I’ll deal with this the same way I deal with everything: completely and utterly alone.”

You jokingly shoved her at her theatrics, and she grinned. “Shut up. I’ll be damned if I let you deal with any of this on your own. Got me?”

She laid a hand upon her heart and the other on your shoulder. “You’re so sweet,” she said. “And I suppose that also includes helping me study for my biology exam which I have definitely already studied for?”

You pulled back and inhaled sharply, pretending to think. “Ah ma’am, I am afraid this feature is not included in your subscription. We apologize for any discomfort this may bring.”

“It brings a great deal of discomfort!” Cass exclaimed while you two walked the hallway to your rooms.

“You can write me an email-complaint,” you joked. “No guarantees though. You’ve had like two weeks to study for that one.”

“I know, I know, but it’s so endlessly boring and complicated!” she cried.

You shrugged. “There’s a reason I didn’t take the AP class.”

“And I will forever envy you for it.”

You stopped when you reached the two doors to your bedrooms that laid right across of each other.

“Then,” you said and bowed lightly, “farewell my friend. May your head not explode while rehearsing for the terribly difficult school subject that is AP biology.”

She flipped you off and disappeared into her room. Laughing to yourself, you opened the door and slipped into your own.

༺ ｡ ° ୨❀୧ ° ｡ ༻

Central Nebraska 2007

The past few hunting days had been rough. Sam and Dean had driven from one case to the next without a break, been beaten up by an entire pack of werewolves and hunted down a loose chupacabra outside of its usual territory.

Dean was beyond exhausted. His muscles ached, his head was pounding, and the lack of sleep was weighing his limbs down. He was practically dragging himself over the gravel path, before he swung open the door to Harvelle’s Roadhouse.

The air that hit them from inside was stuffy, warm, and smelt like sweat and alcohol. Low but loud enough music fell into an uncoordinated melody with loud chatter and the clinking of glass.

Dean felt like he had never experienced something more beautiful, after the weeks he’s had.

“Deeeeeannnn!”

He heard the excited cry of his name before he saw where it came from. He spotted a bright sundress on a small girl, and out of instinct crouched down as she sped towards him.

With a grunt, Dean picked her up in his arms mid sprint and lifted her up. Behind him, Sam closed the door again as Dean made his way over to the bar with little Y/N on his hip.

“How is my favorite girl today?” He asked her and she grinned at him.

“I’m good! I missed you,” she added.

Dean’s chest clammed with how much he loved her.

“Well, I’m back now, ready to give you allllll my attention. Come on, show me those fangs.” He nodded his head at her chin at his request, and Y/N drew her lips back and bared her teeth to him.

Dean held the hand that wasn’t holding her in front of his eyes and pretended to be blinded. “Wow, those are clean! I can’t even see anything.”

With a giggle, Y/N closed her mouth again and Dean blinked hard a few times.

“I brush them extra hard. Ask Auntie Ellen.”

Dean nodded. “I totally believe you. Every werewolf would be jealous of those teeth. Oh, did I say werewolf? I meant vampire, of course.”

Dean shook his head at himself, and Y/N beamed up at him with the brightest shining eyes he had ever seen.

“Good to see you again, boys,” Ellen greeted them and pulled out two glasses. “The usual?”

Sam and Dean nodded. Ellen started pouring. When Sam took his drink, he pointed somewhere in the back of the bar and said, “I’ll go have a talk with Ash.” Then he was gone.

Dean placed Y/N on one of the bar stools and took his seat next to her.

“Dean, can you play Operation with me?” Y/N asked him, and Dean stilled in his movement to take a sip of his drink. He opened his mouth to answer her, but Ellen was faster.

“Baby, let Dean rest for a bit. I’m sure these past few days haven’t been all sugar and cakes for him. Maybe later, alright?”

Y/N pouted a bit, but then shrugged and shuffled off the barstool. “Okay,” she said, and disappeared between the people, probably to the private rooms.

Dean looked after her and then turned back to Ellen with a thankful look on his face.

“Can’t believe that game is still so popular. I mean, I used to play with that in my childhood,” he said, and took a sip from his drink. The alcohol burned a bit down his throat, but it was exactly what he needed right now. Dean closed his eyes and sighed appreciatively.

“Really glad you’re back,” Ellen then told him honestly, as she opened up a beer for herself and folded her arms on the counter. “She’s been asking me nothing else than ‘When will Dean come back’ for the past few weeks. I can’t hear that sentence anymore.”

Dean chuckled and she took a sip.

“Yeah,” he dragged, and threw a look in the direction that Y/N had disappeared in. Ellen tilted her head and gave him a look he couldn’t quite read.

“You’re really good with her, ya know?” She twirled the bottle loosely on the counter. Dean avoided her inquiring gaze and looked into the liquor in his glass instead. He vaguely saw his reflection in it.

“’ve always been good with kids, I guess.” He shrugged it off.

Ellen hummed. Dean didn’t know what to make of it. He looked up at her again.

“For what it’s worth, she makes it really easy,” he said. Ellen raised her eyebrows. “To lo- to like her, I mean. She’s a great kid. You did good with her.”

Ellen sighed. “Yeah, I like to think I did. Wasn’t always easy.”

Dean nodded. A bit after they had met, Ellen had vaguely told him how she got to Y/N. How someone had just dumped the little girl, barely one year old, on her doorstep. No note, only a name and date of birth, and a blanket in the basket she had been put in.

When he had first heard the story, Dean’s hand had cramped around his beer bottle so hard his knuckles had turned white.

Stories like this about kids always got to him. But about this one? Hell, the lengths he would go to protect that little girl. She had made her way into his heart so easily, no preparation or caution, just boosted right into it with her bright smile and those happy eyes.

And Dean had never spent a day not wanting to know her.

Sometimes, when he thought about it, he thought about how easy it was. To love a kid. She wasn’t even his, but every time he had to say goodbye to her for God knows how long again, his heart broke a little more.

And he thought about how it was that easy, and how yet, somehow his father had not managed it. Had left his children alone, abandoned, in ran down motel rooms, without any contact for days and sometimes weeks. How he had felt absent, even when he was physically present, and how Dean could never do enough to feel enough for him.

It made him ache, but he had promised himself to never make anyone else feel this way. And maybe, just maybe, this little wonder he had come across was supposed to be his salvation.

“Dean, I have to tell you something.”

Somehow, the way Ellen said it, made Dean stiffen. A strange mixture of regret and hurt crossed her exes.

“It’s about your daddy,” she added.

“And about Y/N.”

༺ ｡ ° ୨❀୧ ° ｡ ༻

Now

If Sam had tried to read the different emotions that were crossing his older brother’s face right now, he would have given up as soon as he had started.

But one thing was certain, they were many, and probably none of them were good.

They stood in front of the wooden door to their last room.

Your room, to be exact.

And they stood there for the second time today, to be exact.

Maria had pointed them the numbers of the bedrooms where Roy Kendall’s friends lived, they had paid each of them a visit and asked them questions about the deceased.

None of those interrogations had proven to be useful to them, though.

Also, funny enough, it turns out that Cassandra Claire and Y/N Winchester’s room happened to lay just across the hallway from each other.

But when Sam offered to move on to her after finishing Cassandra’s questioning, Dean had not-so-smoothly avoided his question and decided he was in desperate need of some lunch.

Which is why, now, they were standing here, staring at the old wooden door with filled stomachs and angel Castiel in tow - who had decided to join them after all.

Said angel now leaned in closer to Sam and not so silently whispered, “Is he- frozen? Shall I wake him?”

Dean snorted and shook his head, as if Castiel’s words had actually woken him up from the sort of trance he had been trapped in.

“I’m fine,” he grumbled, still talking into the direction of the - apparently very intimidating – wooden door.

Sam raised his eyebrows, fully aware that his brother couldn’t see him. “Well then,” he said, extending his hand to the door. “Knock.”

Dean threw a murdering look over his shoulder at his little brother and took a deep breath in, shook his shoulders.

Sam resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He knew this had to be difficult for Dean, but he also wanted to get all of this over with. He could think of more fun things than spending his entire day in an orphanage, investigating a murder. Also, his suit was starting to get itchy.

The sound of Dean knocking at the door felt like a salvation. “Agents Shield and Stark and …” He threw Cas a look, “… Miller. We’re here to ask you some questions about the death of Roy Kendall.”

For a second, it was quiet. Then, “It’s open.”

The voice from inside made a chill run down Sam’s spine. He couldn’t imagine what his brother felt. But even if Dean was falling apart inside, he didn’t let his face show any of it.

Dean’s heart twisted with the door handle, as he pushed the door open and entered into the room. After him, Sam and Castiel entered, and Dean closed the door behind them again.

The room wasn’t big, but it had been decorated to be comfortable. In the middle of the wall to their right, a twin-sized bed with unified colors was placed, a small bedside table next to it.

To their left was a tall wardrobe that almost reached the ceiling, and under the window on the wall opposite them stood a nice desk.

And there, shuffling through some papers, stood a young teenage girl, with her back turned to them.

“Sorry about the mess, I-“ Dean’s heart skipped a beat as you turned around.

You hadn’t changed, not a bit, but had grown so much. The roundness in your features, like with all children, had gone away as you grew older. You had changed your hair, and your voice was different, but it was so unmistakably you that Dean needed a second to catch himself.

He feared his feet would buckle under him, as you looked at him with wide open eyes, those eyes that he remembered looked so much like your mother’s.

You felt your whole world tumble around you as you looked at them. At him. Your heart was speeding in your chest, a feeling spreading in your stomach as if you had been sucker punched.

This couldn’t be real, there was no way. But then again, there was no reason why it wouldn’t be. There were more epic scenarios you could have come up with to reunite with your … family. And nevertheless, you had stopped having dreams like that a long time ago. You had given up on hoping a day like this would come.

But now it was here, apparently, and it was so unspectacular, it was almost funny.

They walked in here, after years, in fancy suits and badges, wanting to know about- what exactly was it they wanted to know about?

You cleared your throat and took a deep breath, gathering yourself.

“What are you doing here?” Compared to the chaos inside of you, your voice sounded calm and collected, almost devoid of any emotion, and a part of you was proud.

Sam cleared his throat. You noticed he looked older.

Well, no shit. But more … drawn, from his experience. Trauma, maybe. You hadn’t been aware of much when you were a child, but that their work took a toll on them, that had been unmistaken.

And Sam’s eyes held a story that seemed as tragic as it seemed muddled.

“We heard about Roy Kendall’s death,” he answered.

Your eyebrows shot up to your hairline. They had heard about Roy. Did that mean they were here to-

“And we’re here to find out what killed him.”

What?

“What?”

“Yeah, we, uh-“ Sam shifted his weight awkwardly, “We don’t think it was a … natural death.”

“Well, no shit.” Roy’s chest had been cracked open. You were no coroner, but even you knew that couldn’t exactly be filed under the case of natural deaths.

Now, Dean took a small step forward, trying his best to hold eye contact with you, and your shoulders subconsciously stiffened.

“Y/N-,” he started.

“Dean,” you shot back.

And that wort was like a punch in his guts. Dean felt physically sick. But how could he expect any different really?

You noticed him stumbling slightly at the word, a look of hurt crossing over his face.

Good, you thought.

A part of you wanted to hit him in the chest, scream at him until your voice was raw, Why did you do this? Why did you leave me? When did you stop loving me?

But in the end, you didn’t.

You would rather die than give him the satisfaction of breaking down.

Why you thought he would feel satisfaction at your hurt, you didn’t know.

“So, Roy,” you simply said, something to break the pressing silence in the room.

Sam nodded. “Yes, exactly. We, uhm –“ He pointed to the third man you had never seen before, “and Castiel, we wanted to ask you a few things about him.”

You glanced at the guy in the trenchcoat, who raised his hand to do an awkward little wave. “Nice to meet you.”

“Too,” you said.

There was a silence again, until Dean took the floor. “So, he was one of your friends?” He asked, “That Roy kid?”

People had been doing it for days, yet something about them talking about one of your best friends in the past tense made your stomach turn with uneasiness.

You hummed in agreement.

“We’re sorry for your loss,” Sam said.

“Stick it,” you bit back, and crossed your arms in front of your chest. Sam and Dean exchanged a look.

“Did your friend mention anything … out of the ordinary happen, before he was killed?” The third guy, with the trenchcoat and the weird name which you had already forgotten, asked.

You clenched your jaw and something about the way Dean pressed his eyes shut in exasperation made you believe that this guy’s bluntness was something quite common.

“No,” you simply said. Trenchcoat frowned.

“Are you sure?” Sam asked, taking a slight step forward.

“Yes, I am. Roy never said anything about anything strange that would be in any way valuable to your case.”

“What do you mean by that?” Dean questioned.

You shrugged. “What I said.”

“Y/N, any information you can give us about Roy’s behavior before he died is extremely important and could really help us,” Sam urged.

Something about the way your name slipped off his tongue, with that sense of familiarity and normal, made your skin itch.

You took a deep breath and cleared your throat. “Well, I mean - he just mentioned that he was having those … terrible nightmares all of a sudden.” You shrugged. “Like I said, nothing that would be worth writing down.”

Sam did it anyways.

Dean tilted his head and looked at you quizzically. “Why would you think his nightmares were unusual? I mean, everyone has bad dreams from time to time.”

You shifted your weight uncomfortably. “Yeah, I know, but it’s just …” You paused. This was stupid. “It’s stupid, really, but – Roy doesn’t usually dream.”

Didn’t, you corrected in your head, but the word didn’t make it past your lips.

Sam and Dean looked at each other.

“And it was just strange, because he was having these nightmares frequently, or rather this nightmare, because it was always the exact same,” you keep rambling on.

“What was it about?” Dean asked.

You swept your hand across your forehead. “I don’t know, he wouldn’t talk much about it. Just said that it was like the worst day of his life replaying over and over.”

Dean nodded. Sam frowned in interest.

“Do you know what that was? The worst day of his life?”

You shrugged. “The day he lost his parents, probably,” you said. “The entire house burnt down right in front of him. He made it out, they didn’t.”

Your voice was quiet and pressed, still feeling bad about sharing such an intimate part of Roy’s history with those … strangers. A nagging part in the back of your mind kept telling you he wouldn’t – couldn’t – mind anymore.

Sam’s pen kept scraping over his notebook, and Dean threw a glimpse over his brother’s shoulder. As you watched them, your gaze fell on trenchcoat-guy, who was still positioned in the corner of your room, just a few steps behind them.

He was observing you with interest, blue eyes staring back into yours as if he was looking directly at your soul. Something like a chill ran down your spine.

The man tilted his head, as you diverted your attention back to Dean and Sam. His brows were furrowed.

Cas recognized you. He didn’t know where from, but you looked so weirdly … familiar. Your features, the shape of your face. They way you talked and moved.

“Your boyfriend is staring at me weirdly,” you mentioned to Dean, as you caught the man’s gaze again.

Dean turned his head and looked at him, then back to you. “Yeah, he tends to do that.”

You lifted your eyebrows and made an ‘Ah’ sound. Trenchcoat was getting weirder by the second. But at least the guy had stopped his creepy staring. For now.

“Look, I don’t want you guys here. But I understand that your presence is necessary in order to catch whatever it is that’s killing my friends. So, you just do your thing, look around a bit, kill something, and then leave. Both of you.”

With a look at the third guy in the trenchcoat, you added, “Three.”

Dean avoided your eyes, but Sam nodded jerkily and cleared his throat again. “Yeah, we uh … we understand that.”

He straightened his coat and turned to leave the room. “Thank you for your help for now, really. We’ll get in touch if we need anything else.”

You nodded simply, even though you didn’t exactly know what to make of that idea.

As Sam and trenchcoat-guy made their way to leave the room, Dean took a small step towards you and pulled something out of his suit jacket.

“And if there’s anything else you might remember or see, you can always give us a call.” You stared at the small paper he had handed to you. With dark blue pen, a phone number was sloppily scribbled on it. The edges of the paper were uneven, it had probably been ripped off a bigger sheet.

You pursed your lips and nodded.

“Yeah.” You didn’t know what else to say. Thank you wasn’t really in the cards right now. Dean cleared his throat and stepped back with a nod. Then, they left the room one by one.

“Have a nice day,” Sam said.

“You, too.” The answer came automatically. The door closed behind them with a click, and you were alone again.

The small paper suddenly felt incredibly heavy in your hand.

—

When Dean stepped through the threshold and out into the hallway, he felt like a heavy weight had been lifted off his chest. He took a deep breath like a man starved.

The sick feeling in his stomach still lingered.

He didn’t even wait for the click of the closing door before he started making his way to the exit, trusting that his brother and Castiel would follow.

His fast steps echoed over the hallway, when suddenly he felt a hand on his shoulder yank him around. Dean was staring into the eyes of his younger brother. He shook his arm to let Sam’s hand harshly fall off.

“What?”

Sam didn’t say anything, and Dean just glared at him. It was Castiel who spoke up first. His head was tilted, eyebrows scrunched, and a curious tone in his voice.

“She is your … daughter.” It wasn’t a question. Cas had figured out the root of all of Dean’s hesitation – to come here, to stay here, to investigate. All because of one person, that he knew was so close to Dean Winchester, but yet way too far than two people with their natural bond should be.

“What gave it away?” Dean turned to Cas. His tone was bitter. “The attitude or the way she hates my guts?”

Castiel looked him up and down.

“She is so similar to you,” he stated matter-of-factly, completely ignoring Dean’s sarcastic response.

Dean exchanged an annoyed look with his little brother, who simply shrugged.

“All right, now that we’ve cleared that up,” Dean gruffed and made his way down the hallway again, “Let’s go.”

He trusted that the others followed him quietly.

When they reached the gravel path that led from the small castle to their car, Sam picked up his pace to catch up with his older brother. “Dean, I’ve been thinking.”

The man scoffed. “Oh, don’t hurt yourself like that, Sammy.”

“I’m serious.” Sam halted next to his brother and pulled him to a stop with a firm hand on his shoulder. “And I think, maybe… we should sit this one out.”

The way Sam said the last bit was careful, and Dean tilted his head as he turned to his younger brother. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m just saying, maybe this case is too personal for us, Dean. Maybe we should let some other hunter take care of it.”

Dean shook his head. “No way. This is the first time in years that I get to see my daughter, I will not just throw this away.” He lifted his index finger to point it at his brother.

“Well, what exactly is it that you want to do, Dean? It’s not like the two of you have the strongest father-daughter bond!” Sam scoffed and his arms in the air.

Dean started walking towards the impala again. “I know, and that’s why I want to make things right with her.”

“What for, Dean? Just so we leave her here, again?”

"I don’t know!” Dean whirled around in fury as he yelled the words. He slumped his shoulders.

“I don’t know, okay?” He said, his voice was smaller now. “Look, let’s just … let’s finish this case. Give me some time to figure things out and then we will decide.” Dean peeled himself out of his suit jacket and tossed it in the backseat of the impala. He slammed the door. “But first, let’s save some lives.”

Sam shook his head. “Alright. Whatever you say.” He matched Dean as he opened the door to the back and tossed his jacket on the leather seats.

“By the way, where’s Cas?”

Sam threw a look around them. He was right, the angel was nowhere to be found. He shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe he zapped to the motel again.”

Dean frowned as he pulled open the front door. The hinges squealed. “We need to have a serious talk with him about that. Can’t have him disappearing on me the entire time.”

Sam frowned. Dean meant them, right? Couldn’t have him disappearing on them the entire time. Us.

Right?

Sam decided to shrug his brother’s strange comment off for now and got in the passenger’s seat.

“We have to go there anyways. Do some research,” he said.

Dean hummed and started the car. Sam could about assume what that meant. The gravel gnarled under the Impala’s tires as they drove off.

—

Back alone in your room again, you sat on your desk chair as your playlist of favorite songs blasted through your headphones. Dark ink started covering your thighs, where you were drawing on them with your pen as you had placed them on the surface of the desk.

The past few minutes, your mind had been insanely occupied with processing what the actual fuck had just happened. Because. Well. What the actual fuck had just happened?

When they had knocked on your door, you had expected the normal questioning, something that Cass and Finn had been talking about anyways.

When you turned around, just to stare at the face of Dean Winchester, your mind had gone fully devoid of every thought ever formed.

The typical “heart slipping into your pants.”

It felt as if you had worked on autopilot, not even coherently remembering what you had said to them. Had your reaction been an appropriate one? After years of imagining this exact scenario, in all ways and forms it could’ve played out, you not being able to form a simple sentence had not been one of them.

In afterthought, maybe you should’ve punched Dean.

Maybe that would’ve been the appropriate response.

The sharp sound of a knock at your door made you startle. You pulled your headphones off your ears and turned the music off. Those things were great, but in all those years they had never quite managed to overpower the sounds around you.

Maybe that was why you were still allowed to wear them all the time.

“Who’s there?” You asked loudly into the room.

“Me.”

Your eyebrows furrowed. The fuck? How was there not a single normal person knocking on your bedroom door today?

“Who is me?” You asked again.

The door opened just the tiniest bit, creaking in the process, and through peeked the head of the third man that had accompanied Sam and Dean earlier.

Trenchcoat guy.

“It’s me,” he repeated.

You frowned. “Uhm - come in?” You invited him and lifted your feet off the table.

Trenchcoat guy carefully shuffled in through the gap in the door until he stood in your room, awkwardly, and his stiff posture made him look so out of place, it was almost funny.

When he didn’t seem to plan on doing anything more than eyeing the bookshelf on the other wall, you decided to speak up.

“I’m sorry, but I think I forgot your name.”

Slowly, he turned his attention back to you, as if he had now just remembered that you were there. “I’m Castiel,” he answered in a deep, gravelly voice.

You raised your eyebrows. “Ah. Right.” Another beat of silence. “Are you, like - Dean’s boyfriend or something?” You asked.

Castiel frowned and tilted his head. “Me and your father are not romantically involved in any way whatsoever,” he reassured you.

“Ah,” you said again. Then, “Did Dean send you?”

Castiel shook his head, almost offended at the implication. “After our … conversation, earlier, he figured you were not too enthusiastic to see him. That is why only I am here.”

You swallowed hard. No, that wasn’t true.

“He’s damn right.”

Castiel nodded.

Then it was quiet again. “Is there … anything you need?” You dragged out, unsure of what he was planning to do in here exactly.

“Well, no, not specifically, I just - wanted to talk to you,” Castiel said, though he seemed not too secure about his purpose himself. “About your father.”

“Dean,” you corrected, but were sure Castiel didn’t miss how your shoulders stiffened at it. The man in the trenchcoat frowned and dipped his head lightly.

“Yes, your father.” He repeated.

You shook your head. “He’s not my father. He’s just Dean.”

“As I understand it, you were conceived through him and your mother having sexual intercourse, therefore-“

“Okay! Thank you,” you interrupted him and raised your hand to sign stop. “What do you want?”

Castiel took a few steps closer to you, keeping his gaze fixed on the floor as he seemed to look for the right words.

“I fear your father- Dean,” he corrected himself with a look in your direction, “does feel very bad about what happened between you and him.”

You pursed your lips. “So? Did he tell you that?”

Castiel looked sheepish. “No,” he answered honestly, “But I know your- him. Just because he does not like to talk about his feelings does not mean that he does not feel them.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Let me ask you something, Castiel,” you said. He nodded. “Anything.”

“Do you know at all what happened? Between me and him?”

Again, Castiel looked away. You did not know this man. You did not know what his history with Dean was, or with Sam. But you knew that he knew nothing.

“No.” That one word confirmed it.

You bit the inside of your cheek.

“Then - excuse my choice of words - but you have no room to talk. And if Dean wants to tell me something, he can always do that himself. In person. He’s here anyway.”

Castiel nodded. “Alright.”

It was silent again, between you and him, until Castiel took in a sharp breath and leaned forward into something close to a bow.

“I’m sure they await me,” he explained. “Goodbye, Y/N.” He then turned around to open the door, but paused mid his action.

“You do look a lot like him, you know?” He said.

That’s it.

“Out,” you ordered him harshly and Castiel walked through the door, closing it behind him.

—

You had, in fact, ended up helping Cass study for her upcoming exam. Well, what means help, you had asked her questions and she had to answer them correctly - which worked expectedly not so well.

“I can just play the dead friend card,” she had joked, but you knew that she was actually actively considering it.

In that moment though, you had just skipped over her remark and continued asking her about the digestive system of a Baird’s beaked whale.

It was already late at night when the two of you finally hugged goodbye.

“Thank you so much,” she said. “You helped a lot. I’ll forget it all until tomorrow morning, but I do appreciate your effort.”

You smiled at her. “Don’t worry, you’ll nail it. Or at least not fail.”

She laughed. “You think too highly of me, Y/N.”

For a few moments, nobody said a word. “I never asked you,” Cass eventually started, “are you okay?”

You took a deep breath and shifted your weight. “Considering the circumstances, I guess. You?”

“Same thing,” she said. You laid your head back and stared at the ceiling. “It still feels weird only being three people,” you realized.

“Yeah,” Cass agreed quietly.

A few beats of silence passed, until you got yourself back together and shook your body as if to shake off your grief.

“But whatever,” you sighed. “Can’t change that now, can we?”

You looked at Cass and she hummed with a dull shrug, seeming lost in her own thoughts.

She absentmindedly opened her bedroom door, but just as she wanted to disappear into the room, you grabbed her arm to stop her for a second.

“By the way, about your nightmares,” you said, “maybe you can take some pills against that, if it gets too much. Unregulated sleep is probably worse than no sleep.”

Cass managed a tired smile. “Will try, thanks. Goodnight babes, love you,” she threw you a kiss.

“Love you too, good night,” you said back and smiled at her, waiting until she closed the door to enter your own room.

—

You didn’t know what woke you up. The glowing numbers of the digital clock on your nightstand showed it to be somewhere around half past three. Really not your usual wake-up time.

Just as you rolled around in your sheets to get your missing hours of sleep in, you heard strange shuffling outside your door. Perking up, you realized it sounded like the overlapping chatter of voices, and shoes pounding over the smooth floor.

Yeah, no way you would be going back to sleep now.

Especially not with the uncomfortable feeling that had settled into your stomach.

Stumbling a bit, your joints not quite awake yet, you trutted over to your door and creaked it open slightly.

The white light burned your eyes at the start, as you slipped out of your room and were met with the sight of multiple people fussing around not that far away.

The uneasy feeling only got worse, as you realized two things at once: The people were first responders, firefighters, to be exact. And they were all gathered around the open door across the hallway to yours.

Cass.

You moved on autopilot, as your feet carried you closer to the scene, eyes not leaving the gaping black hole that was the entrance to your best friend’s room.

“What happened?” You asked the closest paramedic next to you, a young man with brown hair and dark gear. It didn’t help much, because his voice faded out into the back of your head, as movement began to settle over the group.

The paramedic gestured his hands, as he talked to you, though that was not at all what had grabbed your attention.

You could only look at her, as she was lying sprawled out on the stretcher that was being wheeled out of her bedroom.

Cass.

But it wasn’t Cass, it couldn’t be. Dark grey plastic was wrapped around her body, covering her features as one of the firefighters that pushed the gurney zipped the material closed.

A body bag.

You felt bile rise into your throat.

Who put a seventeen-year-old in a body bag?

She wasn’t supposed to be there. What was she doing in there.

She had a biology exam tomorrow. She was supposed to join you at breakfast. In just a few hours. She was supposed to still lay in her bed and sleep, fast and sound.

Lay in her bed. Not on a moving gurney. Her bed.

You had laid in that bed. Just a few hours before.

The exam.

Breakfast.

Dark grey plastic.

Body Bag. A body. Dead. A dead body.

Dead. Dead. Gone.

Gone. Gone. Gone. Dead.

Like a distant echo, you still vaguely registered the young paramedic talking to you; he came to an abrupt stop when you bent over and threw up on his shoes.

༺ ｡ ° ୨❀୧ ° ｡ ༻

Sioux Falls 2009

The soft music that sounded through Grandpa Bobby’s old house reminded you of Auntie Ellen’s Roadhouse.

It made you a bit homesick, but for a while now, whenever you asked Dad if you could go there again, he just shook his head and said that it wasn’t possible.

That’s also the reason why you’d been living with Grandpa Bobby for very long now, he had told you.

Auntie Ellen and Jo came to visit sometimes, but it wasn’t the same. But you saw Dad much more often, and you liked that. You missed him whenever he went out and saved people.

Grandpa Bobby had told you that it was very important, what Dad and Uncle Sam did. That’s why you never complained when they stayed away for long.

Grandpa Bobby said they saved lives. Like firemen, he said. Or Sheriff Jody.

Auntie Ellen and Jo came over for a visit today. Dad had said that they were here to help him and Uncle Sam take care of something, that’s why they had to leave later.

Jo was playing your favorite boardgame with you. You had missed her. She was still very pretty. You knew your Dad thought that too.

“Alright,” Dad said, walking through the threshold that connected Grandpa Bobby’s workroom and the dinner table where you and Jo were currently playing. “It’s time to get this little Lady to sleep.”

You pouted at him.

“But Dad, I still want to stay up and play with Jo!”

Dad raised his eyebrows and threw a pointing look at his watch.

“It is already way past your bedtime, kiddo. And I heard tomorrow is a big school day?”

He was right. Tomorrow, you started your first singing lessons with all your bestest friends. Not all of them as best friends as Jo was, though.

Your shoulders slumped.

“Can I at least say Goodbye to you?”

Dean’s gaze went soft as he looked at you. He knew how hard this was for you, how he left all the time and came back for only such short periods. But he wanted to make this a better world for you to grow up in. And when all of this was over, and it would be tonight, hopefully, then he would allow himself to settle down and spend all the time he could give with you.

“Of course you can, my little love.”

Dad crouched down and lifted you up into his arms.

“Dean, Jo!” Came Auntie Ellen’s voice from the study, “We’re ready!”

Dad threw you a mysterious look as he stepped into Grandpa Bobby’s workspace, where he and Auntie Ellen and Uncle Sam already stood lined up.

You noticed the camera set up on a strange construction.

Auntie Ellen and Uncle Sam smiled when they saw you.

“You don’t mind a small addition, do you, Ellen?” Dad asked, and Auntie Ellen shook her head.

“Of course not!” She smiled, and made space for you and Dad to stand next to her. He was still carrying you in his arms, supporting your weight with his hip.

“Alright, on the count of three, all smile in the camera!” Uncle Sam said.

“One, two, three!”

You giggled when Dad tickled your stomach. You wanted to see the picture right now, but Grandpa Bobby had told you it would take a while to develop.

Enveloped in bear hugs from Auntie Ellen, Jo, Uncle Sam and Dad, to say goodbye to them, you finally agreed to go to bed.

“Dad?” You asked him, as he went to close the door behind him. Dad turned around and looked at you, snuggled into the warm blanket with your favorite stuffed animal under your arm.

“You’ll come back soon, right?”

Dad smiled at your words. “Of course I will, sweetheart. And Uncle Sam, and Auntie Ellen, and Jo. All of us.”

“You promise?”

Dad pressed a kiss into your hair.

“Don’t worry about that, baby. Sleep well.”

Even years later, Dean Winchester still carried an old photograph in his wallet, of a brunette mother, a blonde daughter, a father figure, and two brothers.

Though, one of them wasn’t looking at the camera, but rather at the small child he held on his side, his hand on her stomach as she blindingly smiled a carefree smile into the camera.

His own was dreamy as he watched her, and yes, for that moment, he dared to say, maybe even carefree as well.

༺ ｡ ° ୨❀୧ ° ｡ ༻

Now

Cass’s room was never quiet. Whether she was blasting music or playing guitar, singing her soul out in the shower or watching a move obnoxiously louder than it had to be.

Cass’s room was never quiet. Especially not as it was now.

The silver streams of light reaching through the window made her bedroom almost look so soft and inviting, as you stood there, observing, not quite in the hallway but not exactly in the room either.

It was macabre, what you saw. Not because the room looked so terrible, no, because it looked so … normal.

None of the bookshelves were tumbled over, or paper sprawled all across the floor.

The loose decoration items weren’t lying disheveled everywhere. No signs of a fight. A physical one.

The bed wasn’t made. Cass never did that.

The room looked so normal.

It looked so right.

So why wasn’t she?

“Y/N, sweetheart,” The sound of the familiar, comforting voice of Maria Whitlock reached your ears and made you slowly turn around.

Even through the blur of unshed tears in your eyes, you could make out the two familiar figures standing behind her.

“There’s someone here to talk to you.”

You blinked away the tears and caught Dean’s gaze, and for the first time since you had seen him again, his features looked so soft and merciful, towards you, it had the power to almost shatter your heart.

And you hated yourself for how much you wanted to be comforted by him, be held in his arms like the small child that once had been, only seeking safety with her-

“What are you doing here?” The question came out harsher than you had expected it to, almost an accusation. But neither Sam nor Dean did flinch at your tone.

“We wanted to talk to you.”

“Why?” It was obvious why. They knew, you knew, they knew you knew.

“I think you know about what,” Sam said, the softness in his voice grazing your stuttering heartbeat like a soft breeze.

Dean gestured in the direction of your room.

“In private.”

You didn’t want to speak alone to them. Then again, for the past almost-decade, it had been everything you could’ve wished for.

As you settled onto your bed, both Sam and Dean taking it upon themselves to find chairs to be comfortable, you felt like a small child again.

Looking at Dean, there was a familiarity that you needed, it was grounding, and you hated that it was. His presence, which had felt like home, and like safety for so long, being everything that you craved these past few days made your skin itch, because he still felt so right.

And you still felt so safe with him.

In a matter of seconds, you stood there and turned from a young woman into a small child, that wanted to throw herself in his arms and let him tell her that everything would turn out to be alright, because he was there, and he would look out for you. No matter what happened between the two of you, that had not changed, and you didn’t know what to think about it.

Sam was the first one to clear his throat. Of course he was.

“How are you feeling?”

Half-heartedly, because that was all you could muster right now, you raised an eyebrow at him. At least he had the decency to look a bit ashamed of his question.

“We’re sorry for your loss.”

Surprised, you turned your head to look at Dean. His green eyes were soft with sincerity.

“I don’t know how much she meant to you.” He glanced at Sam. “But I can imagine.”

You swallowed hard and looked back at your fumbling fingers again.

“Yeah, she was – she was great.” Your voice broke mid-sentence and you sniffled.

You cleared your throat. “Uhm, but – anyways, that’s not why you’re here. Am I right?”

Sam and Dean exchanged a look, that could be regret as much as it could be pity, and then turned back to you.

“We’re sorry. But if we want to catch whatever is doing this, we need to have all the information,” Sam apologized.

You nodded. You already knew what they were going to ask, so you saved their time and jumped straight to the answers.

“There was nothing – unusual.” You rubbed your eyes. “She was okay just yesterday, she was- I helped her studying biology, we-“ You interrupted yourself.

Sam threw you another pitying look.

“Is there a chance she might’ve had nightmares too? You know, like Roy,” Dean asked you.

You threw your hand in the air. “Yeah, I guess,” you said. “Didn’t really think that much into it. You know, considering what happened.”

Dean bit the inside of his cheeks and gulped. “Right.”

It was quiet again. The brothers looked at each other one last time, before Sam stood up and fixed his suit jacket.

“Alright. We’re gonna leave you now.”

Please don’t.

You nodded.

Sam stretched his hand out to reach for you, but hesitated mid-air and pulled his arm back again.

“Whenever you need something,” Dean said meaningfully, before he stepped out the door, “Call us.” Call me.

You hummed absently.

The click of the lock drowned the bedroom in a deafening silence again.

—

Night came sooner than you thought it would. Sleep didn’t.

You thought, with the exhaustion that had been dragging down your bones all day long, it would only be a matter of time until exhaustion claimed you.

Without thinking about it, you grabbed your phone from your nightstand and opened up your chat with Finn.

With a sting in your heart, you realized that the last text conversation the two of you had had, had been more than a week ago.

Before all of this started.

Your keyboard clicked as you typed out the message.

hey

The answer came almost instantly.

Hey

can’t sleep either?

Your thumbs hovered over the buttons as you thought of what to type next.

I’m sorry we didn’t talk the entire day

It’s okay

It’s not like I came to see you either

would it be terrible to ask how you’re feeling?

Everyone’s been asking that

Oh, how you knew.

But to be honest

I don’t know

First Roy now Cass

Hasn’t reached my brain tbh

Feels more like a dream and I could wake up any second

I know what you mean

You paused for a moment, before you decided to send out the next text.

I’m still waiting for her to waltz into my room at 6 in the morning because she wants to get some mini donuts at breakfast before they’re all gone

You could practically hear the snickering laugh of Finn’s, as the icon told you he was typing out his next message.

Or letting my Alexa play the most random songs

I swear to God I’ve heard less sexual content in actual porn than that one Nicki Minaj song

first of all, it was cardi b, you pig, and

second that song is legendary

she was right to show it to you

A short while, you didn’t get an answer and you were almost afraid that Finn had either fallen asleep or that you had said something inappropriate, when the familiar ding made your screen light up.

We can catch up tomorrow

You know, maybe it would help us both

I know we haven’t been the same since all of this started, but I would really like us to be

Now more than ever

A heavy tug clamped around your heart at his words

you’re right

let’s talk tomorrow

Alright

Goodnight Y/N

good night finn

Sleep didn’t come in the first second after you plugged your phone on the charger, or even after you turned around to face the other wall.

But, as you laid on your back and felt the comforting arms of exhaustion grab after you, you had a feeling that it would’ve been worse if you had not talked to Finn.

—

Meanwhile, in the motel, Dean was slamming his third book this evening shut and tossed it onto the ever-growing pile of “absolute useless crap that nobody needed and was a total waste of time”. The name had been his idea.

Sam didn’t even look up as his brother stood up with a screeching from the wooden floor as he slid the chair back, and started pacing around the room.

“I hate this,” he mumbled under his breath.

“How is it even possible that, everywhere we look, there isn’t even the smallest hint at what we might be chasing?”

Demonstratively, he picks up a book from the pile they brought back from the library, and lets it fall on the desk again.

“Not to mention that we’re completely wasting our time here reading through this absolute crap, and we’ve got jack squat!”

The paper rustled as Sam turned another page.

“I already told you, Dean,” he muttered, eyes still concentrated on the faded ink of the book. “There was nothing online, so we had to go old-school.”

Dean kept muttering under his breath. “This is ridiculous.”

Sam rolled his eyes and placed a new book where his brother had been sitting a few minutes ago.

“If you want it to go faster and we can catch this thing, sit down and get to reading. Research doesn’t do itself.”

Dean was still cursing under his breath when he reached the second chapter.

—

The loud chatter of multiple conversations, accompanied by faint music playing in the background and the occasional clinking of glasses or beer bottles was an all too familiar mix of noises for you.

The light in the Roadhouse bar was still a warm-toned white, and the men and women all towered over you in lengths. Immediately, the feeling of home engulfed you.

You were looking around, searching for the familiar set of colorful crayons, where had your Auntie Ellen put them? You were bored and wanted to draw a pretty picture of the horse you had seen this morning.

Squeezing through the people, they all made way for you when they realized who wanted to get past them, you tried calling out for Auntie Ellen or Jo, but no tone left your throat.

A panicked feeling settled in your stomach.

Then, you spotted a tall figure just a few feet away from you. They were wearing a cool leather jacket and had their back turned to you.

You made your way over to them. You didn’t know why, but somehow you knew that this stranger could help you.

When you had almost reached them, they suddenly started moving and walked away. You wanted to cry after them, but you still couldn’t speak.

You moved your legs as fast as you could, running after them, but the people in the bar suddenly got more and more, always shoving and not making room for you anymore.

The person still hadn’t shown you their face, you could only see their back as you fought to get to them. Then, they walked through the door out of the Roadhouse.

With one last push, and a protesting yell that didn’t leave your throat, you rushed after them into the light.

With a creak, the Impala’s door swung open, and you shuffled your feet out of the car until they hit the gravel.

Dad had offered to open the door for you, but you were a big girl already, you could get out of the car on your own.

When you turned around to ask him what you were doing here, you faltered.

The Impala was gone. So was Dad. And Uncle Sam. You looked around, but they were nowhere to be found. Your breathing quickened as you realized that you were alone, somewhere you didn’t know, on stoney ground with only your bunny slippers. You didn’t even have your favorite stuffed animal with you!

“Hey, let’s go,” you suddenly heard a voice say, and turned around to see a girl with black hair stand in front of you.

Suddenly, as you had just been looking up to her, the two of you were now eye to eye. She just stared at you.

A name popped into your head.

Cass.

That’s weird. You knew a Cass. And then it hit you.

Your best friend. Roy, Finn, Cassandra. Sam and Dean.

But Cass was dead. She couldn’t be here. Looking around, you noticed that the scenery around you was blurry by the edges.

Weren’t you standing on a pathway just now? Why were you in a cafeteria?

This wasn’t real, none of it. It was a dream.

Harsh dread clawed itself into your heart like iced water. You had to get out of here. How did you get out of a dream?

You knew it, you had done this before, with your nightmares. You had to die.

You moved your feet, tried running away, but the floor wouldn’t budge, no matter how hard you tried, you didn’t move an inch, it’s like you were stuck.

You began to panic. This couldn’t be, there had to be a way for you to get out.

The next thing you knew, you lost the ground beneath your feet, and everything was black. You were falling.

You felt your organs being lifted by the air pressing you up, felt your heart pump so hard you were afraid it would jump out of your chest.

There was nothing around, only darkness, only empty.

No, no, no.

You wanted to scream, but your vocal cords were cut. Not a sound escaped your lips.

You had to get out, if there was nothing around you, how could you die?

You screamed without a sound.

If this was your dream, why couldn’t you just shape it the way you wanted?

The next thing you knew, there was light around you, and you were running again.

“Dean, look at this.” Sam slammed a massive book under Dean’s nose, dangerously close to Dean’s freshly filled coffee. Reflexive, Dean pulled the cup a few inches away.

Sam placed his finger on one of the open pages of the book. “Here,” he said. “I think this could be it.” Dean leaned forward to read.

You had landed on a road, a highway, judging by the many cars around you. This time, you actually managed to run somewhere, even if a lot slower than you usually would. Like treading through water.

It felt like you were chasing something, but you didn’t know what it was.

“If this is really it,” Dean said, when he finished reading, “Then we have a big problem.”

You did your best to remember your original plan. Right now, you were on a stripe of green next to the busy road. You had to change that.

Sam nodded heavily. “We need to get to Saint George’s immediately.”

Sam grabbed his jacket, but Dean didn’t move an inch, still staring at the handwritten words on the old paper in front of him.

You used all your strength to tread to the left, where cars were rushing from both sides over the street.

“This thing basically feeds off of bad experiences, right?”

Sam nods.

It was a red car that did it. You saw it coming as you made a beeline over the highway. As you noticed the headlights speeding towards you, for a split second you asked yourself, “What if this isn’t a dream. What if this is real.” You didn’t feel the impact when the car hit you.

“Then that means-“ Dean’s head shot up so fast Sam feared his brother would get whiplash.

“Y/N,” Dean breathed out.

Your heart was still beating rapidly in your chest when you officially woke up. The memory of the nightmare was still rushing through your minds, pictures playing behind your eyelids.

You had a hard time breathing, your chest felt as if it was carrying a hard weight that caged in your lungs.

You forced open your eyes to get yourself a glass of water. You were met with two yellow glowing orbs staring right back at you, merely inches away from your face in the darkness of the room.

You couldn’t stop the terrified scream that erupted from your throat.

oooh guys, only one chapter to go! what are we thinking? do you have any ideas on what the monster could be? and what do we think about cass and finn? comments & reblogs are always appreciated, see y’all in the next part!

#dean winchester fic #dean winchester x child!reader #dean winchester #dean winchester x daughter!reader #dean winchester angst #dean winchester fluff #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester imagine #dean winchester x female!reader #dean winchester x you #supernatural imagine #supernatural #father of mine #sweet child o mine #yourmomxx

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