#I still think it could be better but IDK what else to do

[digital--devil]

Torbek - Bearcat

Almost an AllWing

-mostly MudWing, also quite a lot of RainWing

-mix of a few tribes, a bit of a mutt in terms of heritage, hard to tell what he has

-very tall, towers over normal-sized dragons, and most large dragons too, even slightly taller than Coal

-jagged uneven teeth with tusks

-tail is half-paralysed, he can’t move it very well and doesn’t have any feeling in certain spots

-while most dragons have their tails in comfortable resting positions when not intentionally moving them, his just drags on the floor behind him.

-has broken shackles around his wrists/ankles

-dislikes fighting and confrontation, something that most dragons find him pathetic for

-despite being physically massive, is intimidated easily by others, even dragons who are much smaller and weaker than him

-MudWing instincts means he craves companionship, he doesn’t remember his parents or if he has any siblings

-Acts most like a RainWing, which he and Gecko have in common, they often go climbing together (Gecko is much better at him)

-can eat most things due to his mixed heritage

-gets drunk from eating rotten fermented fruit

-used to be a vagabond, he had no home and most climates feel uncomfortable to him due to his mixed heritage conflicting with itself

-cannot remember anything about his past or childhood

-used to work at Gator’s travelling carnival as a carny, which employed mostly hybrids who often struggled to get work and so would work for cheap

-was experimented on in an attempt to a dragon with the abilities and powers from all the tribes, and he was chosen because he was already a mixed dragon

-has various abilities and traits from different tribes

-when too stressed or scared, he enters a state where he becomes completely feral with a single-minded focus to hunt his enemies down. Only the death of his target or utter exhaustion will trigger him to come back to his senses.

-After the experiment, a prosthetic tail stinger was added to his tail, which did actually slightly improve his ability to move his tail, and he can more easily move it to stab things in short bursts of movement

-He typically only uses his new abilities when in this state, such as his venom and tail stinger, he’s scared to use them normally

-grows temporary gills during his fight against Agdon (a RainWing/SandWing hybrid)

-the experiments performed on him heavily messed with his mind, including his perception of time, making him believe that it had been years since he had seen the rest of the group, even though for them it had only been a few months

-(the aim of the experimentation was essentially to create a ‘perfect’ dragon, with all the tribes abilities, that could be used as a powerful weapon. However, even after everything that’d been done to him, he remained mostly docile and non-aggressive. He hates fighting, and in combat situations will just freeze up, something that is very abnormal for dragons, and it utterly baffled the dragons who did this to him, as it was expected that the perfect dragon would be violent, ‘as dragons should be’)

Visible Tribe Features (ones in bold are the ones that only appeared after he was experimented on)

MudWing: Size, brown scales, need for belonging, face shape, firebreath when hot enough

NightWing: Black scales, ability to blend into shadows

RainWing: Climbing, need for suntime, long fangs (tusks), corrosive magenta venom

SeaWing: magenta glow scales, gills

SandWing: tail stinger with acidic magenta venom

SilkWing: underdeveloped wing buds

IceWing: icicle spikes, poor circulation, long serrated claws

Skywing: much larger wings

[girl-lostconnection]

I'm so sorry you have to deal with people being so demanding, and I hope that they actually listen to your post and stop, cause it's just really rude in general.

On the other hand, I, for some reason, keep thinking about your story of reader dying and the 141 grieving and how, for me personally, when it comes to one of my loved ones, no matter how much time passes, I just can't stop thinking about them, craving their love, the way that they loved, and how you can see the similarities in others but it isn't quite right, it still doesn't feel the same, and you're just never left satisfied when you want their love again and no one else can do that, because it's not them. You're still loved, yes, but it's not the same.

Idk. I just was thinking about that and was wondering if that's what they might feel. They still have each other and love each other, but I wonder if there are times when they want or feel like they need it to be like reader's way to feel better on some days, where little things that upset them were originally made better by something reader did, but now that they're gone they're just left with that feeling to simmer.

You know one of the things I had to learn while dealing with grief — it doesn’t become smaller. You just get bigger, you get more experiences the older you get and all of that grief is still there. But grief is just what is left of your love for the person who is no longer there.

I think for them it would manifest differently but I can definitely see Johnny trying his best to keep going because he knows he has three more partners and they have to keep going and they have to keep living. Because Reader wouldn’t be happy with them just ending it all, because there is so much more time left, so many things they haven’t done. I think for him it would be one of the things that would eventually result in early retirement. He already lost a quarter of his heart when he lost Reader, he doesn’t want it happening again. And as much as he loves being demolitions expert, he knows there is a different type of life out there. One that can give him and his partners stability and safety.

I think Johnny would be the person that despite it all still sometimes talks about Reader like they are still there. He mentions references to movies and music and books, he draws them in his sketchbooks, he mentions that “this is the dessert they always wanted to try”. With time it turns into a warm kind of nostalgia, the love that he carries with him, his grief manifesting in trying to compensate for everything Reader wouldn’t experience by living through it himself. And by living on. When his time comes he hopes to see Reader again and say “see? I did well, didnae i? It was a good life. A long life, like you wanted. Bet you are proud of me”

Like i mentioned before Kyle took it in one of the worst hits, he’d keep holding onto Reader’s clothes and mementos as long as he can. He googles obsessively brands of clothes, he finds exactly the same articles because even if these get ruined or good forbid someone throws them out — he will know what to order. It won’t be the same, but he could pretend that it is. He already pretends that he’s alright, he already pretends that the hoodies he’s wearing with Reader’s name and rank are just part of his standard uniform.

I feel like Kyle is a person who has never experienced a loss this big before. He never lost someone who was this close, someone who’s still in his head, someone whose voice he keeps hearing when he talks to himself. Kyle likes to imagine that Reader never passes on. That they are still there, maybe noncorporeal, maybe he can’t see them, but at this point he’d settle for anything.

I think Kyle was never one for religion but whenever he passes church he’d get in to light a candle and say a quick not even a prayer but sort of a wish. Like that’s the only way he can chat with you, like something holy could really pass his “I’m okay, love, I’m eating well. Last mission was shite, but you know how it is. You no longer come to me when i dream. Are you upset, baby? I’m sorry, I’ll be more careful next time, i know you don’t like me getting injured. Just please, come back. I can’t sleep well without you.”

Simon would probably have the hardest times adjusting to the absence of Reader, because he takes the longest time to accept their death. He tries so hard to pull away from the moment where he would need to actually process the notion that it finds him itself and hits him with the force of minivan.

There is aching that he can’t relief, there is itch he can scratch — there is a person who he could tell any of his jokes and who’d not just joke in return but laugh at it and this person is gone. They are not coming back, he can’t even find them somewhere to watch out of the shadows, he can’t stalk them.

Losing people like that is always the hardest because with living people you at least can call/text/send a letter with a carrier pigeon. You can come back and open old wounds, you can pick up the fight, you can look them in the eyes and get some closure. Simon is not getting any. He fights every step of the way, he drags his feet. He’s easily agitated, he feels like hitting his head on the wall every time something stabs him from inside reminding that you are gone.

He comes up with a joke and yeah, of course he can tell it to anyone out of 141, but he wants to tell it to Reader. He wants to tell it to them specifically because they’d have a funny response which they’d choke out of themselves by laughing so hard he actually starts laughing. He misses it. He misses them. He misses their smell, the feel of them, the way he could talk to them and they would just get him so well like no one else would. He doesn’t just lose a partner when Reader dies — he loses a friend.

Price is…Price is complicated. He’s one to bottle it all up and throw it so deep down it may never come up other in his subconscious habits. He makes tea for five people and not four, he shops for five, he still buys the snacks Reader liked, he starts planning celebration for their birthday just on the back of his mind until he catches himself doing it and just forces it all down deeper.

Price would be a high functioning alcoholic in his grief, but still an alcoholic. He drinks a little more than he should, he forces down a drink he’d previously wouldn’t because he knows his limits. But it burns and it numbs and for a few hours he can breathe again. Alcohol allows himself to loosen a lid on everything he feels, it puts safe distance between his feeling and him and he actually allows himself to process some of them.

He cries, he ruins his office, he punches through the wall, he routinely throws up. Once he gets so drunk he actually starts having hallucinations, intoxication so severe he almost chokes on his own vomit. Soap finds him just in time to get him help. After this he gets out on suicide watch for 72 hours and the team would start actually guard him in shifts.

Price still drinks but now next to him there is always someone who also remembers his limits and doesn’t let him overstep them. John hates it at times. He hates himself much more though. He hates Reader sometimes too, because that’s not fair that they are gone. Because look what a fucking mess he is, love, bloody disgrace to drink himself under the fucking table.

Price has the fastest adjustment to Reader staying deceased but at the same time he can’t fully process his grief. Part of him is scared that he will drive himself mad if he does, another part just doesn’t want to. It’s stubborn and unhealthy but so what. He’s a captain, he lost soldiers before, he’s gonna deal with it this way.

But i think he’s also the second person who retires straight after Soap because he finds a new almost obsessively-desperate purpose in keeping his boys alive and well. He may be a fucked up man but his boys already lost one of their own, he doesn’t want to drag them through his death as well

[studiogrimm810]

Agitated

pairings/characters: (pining)dean winchester x gn!reader

summary: you know you're outmatched for a hunt so you call up bobby for some help but instead he sends dean. now you're forced to deal with his cocky attitude and still somehow get this hunt done. this man will be the death of you

warnings: bickering and annoyance, some blood and a fight scene, fadeaway to sex but nothing too graphic

word count: 5,121

A/N: this is a request!!! oh my god i could not stop writing this. i really hope i captured the pure annoyance they have for each other and also framed it into some steamy sexual tension,, idk, lmk how feel about this one!! :):)

———————

This is the worst. The absolute worst. You knew better than to try and go at this hunt alone but you seriously think you’d reconsider if you knew this was the outcome. You got here early, getting a motel room for yourself and eating lunch while waiting for him. Ugh. Him.

There was a nest of at least half a dozen vamps camped out nearby that you’ve been tracking for a while but you’re out of your league here so you called Bobby.

Ah, Bobby. How you loved him. He was quite the mentor for you when you lost your mother. He showed you the ropes, gifted you a car he pieced together on his lot, and offered a listening ear when you needed it. So of course, when you need help, you call him.

Except this time he’s busy so he sends, what he calls his ‘second-best’, Dean fucking Winchester.

God. You had asked if there really wasn’t anyone else he could send but he insisted that Dean was the best he could do. Bobby and Sam apparently were deep into some research for whatever apocalypse they’ve got on their plate now and they could spare Dean for the sake of your safety. Dean needed to hunt anyways, he itched to get back into action.

So now, halfway through rage eating your lunch, you hear the familiar rumble of Dean’s trademark gas-guzzler and plant your face in your hands. If you wanted to successfully complete this hunt then you needed to just take a deep breath and shove aside your irritations.

You finish your lunch and wait for the text or call saying that he’s got a room and is ready to regroup. That call came a lot sooner than expected.

“Hey, Dean,” you greet indifferently.

“Heya, sweetheart,” you can hear his sarcastic smirk and it makes you roll your eyes, “listen, I’ve kinda got a problem here.”

“What?” You try, but fail, to keep the bite out of your voice.

“Motel’s all booked up and the only other one is across town, looks like I’ll have to bunk with you.” God- of course.

“You’re kidding,” you internally groan, biting your tongue.

“Wish I was, sweetheart,” you can hear his own stifled sigh.

“Don’t call me that,” you scold, standing to go to the door and properly greet him. You open the door and he’s leaning against the hood of his car, pocketing his phone and plastering a fake smirk. You’ve noticed he knows how to make you tick. It usually starts as a feigned sweetness but soon sours as you aren’t receptive. He claims he’s trying to keep the peace between you two but you claim he’s full of shit.

“Whatever, princess,” he uses more sarcastically, as if it’s such a high request to ask to be addressed by your own name. “Hope you’ve got the room ‘cause I’m not sleeping on any floors,” Dean states, rounding his car to get his bags out of the trunk.

Fuck. You could shoot yourself if you had the fucking gun.

“Yeah, about that,” you fold your arms over your chest, squinting from the blinding sunlight you’re forced to face to keep looking at him as he moves. Fucking dick.

“No,” Dean demands, his shoulders slacking from lack of effort to keep his bags held. Yep, he’s pissed.

“I never have to share a motel, Dean!” You shrug with an annoyed bitchface. “I’m not all ‘buddy-buddy’ like you and Sam are. I like my privacy.” You squint at him like that’s a dig and not really a chip at your own lonely ego.

“Well I call the bed sweetheart, you can take the couch,” Dean grumbles, scrunching his nose in a mocking manner as he walks past you and into the motel.

Regardless, this was the last room the motel had so it’s not your fault there’s just one bed.

———

“So, you think they’re camped out here?” Dean asks, looking at the map with his arms crossed over his chest. You nod, nibbling on the end of a pen.

“I’ve been tracking them for a while- it’s their kinda hideout,” you add, thinking of different ways to approach this. Dean turns back as if to say something but rolls his eyes at you.

“That’s disgusting,” he points loosely like the oral act isn’t even worth the energy to spotlight.

“Good thing it’s not your pen,” you retort, looking back down at your laptop and refreshing the local news. Dean just scoffs, walking over to the small fridge provided by the motel.

“No beer?” He baffles.

“I’m not an enabler,” you sass, finding it your current life’s mission to kick him at any turn. God, the nerve to come into your room, make his snippy comments at your fidgets, and bash you for not keeping beer on tap like a fucking bartender. You couldn’t wait for this to be over.

“And I’m not an alcoholic.”

Ha, yeah okay.

You scroll around the 3D map on your laptop, looking for different access points of the rundown building but the shitty satellite rendering is too blurry and bubbly to really make anything out.

“Seriously? That’s what you’ve been wasting your time with?” Dean raises a brow.

“I’m checking my bases, Dean, back off,” you groan, leaning back in your chair and rubbing a hand down your face.

“Just sayin’, you’ll get more info first hand, princess, may as well just get on with it,” Dean insists, “not like we have any way to pass the time,” he’s not letting this beer thing go.

“Fine! Let’s just go, guns blazing,” you sit up, scooting back your chair with the force of which you popped up. You go to ruffle through your bag, grabbing a long sleeve shirt to slip over your tank top.

“You’re gonna be cold,” Dean says plainly.

“Shut up,” you shoulder-check him on the way out.

———

The sun is starting to set, casting a beautiful golden haze across the horizon. You two are headed north so thankfully the sun isn’t blinding your peripheral but instead Dean’s.

The drive is quiet other than the hum of some 80s band, or whatever it is Dean is obsessed with, on the radio. It’s weird, you don’t know why your hatred for Dean blossomed so naturally but it just did. Since the second you were disappointed to find that that is who was the sweet Sam Winchesters brother you’ve been irked by just the reminder of his presence.

He probably started it anyway.

The Impala starts to slow as you two come up to the hidden gravel drive for the abandoned building on Dean’s GPS. The rumble of gravel crunching under the tires is a satisfying dig in your ears.

Dean parks the Impala so you two can go the rest of the way on foot. You both gear up and sneak along the tree line until the building is in sight. It’s an old rangers station- blanketed with moss and vines, shards of glass poking out of crunched window frames, entrance doors missing- it looked completely vacant.

“I’m gonna take a wild guess and say your hunch was wrong,” Dean straightens out of his pre-fight stance. You don’t offer him a response, you just step past him to the entrance to see if there’s even a hint of this being the right place.

There’s nothing.

God, how could you be so stupid? You felt a pit of embarrassment swirl its way around your insides. You couldn’t confront Dean right now. You couldn’t deal with his sarcastic quips.

You have to though, you have to face him to get back to the Impala and back to your shared room. This was torture.

What if more people get hurt because you didn’t find the right spot? The longer you sit and stew the more likely that is to be true. You have to just keep your head on straight and find the next lead.

So with that, you spin on your heel and head back to the Impala. “I don’t wanna hear it,” you mumble as you pass him, this time shifting your shoulder out of the way so you don’t bump into him.

You miss the way Dean’s features soften with understanding and guilt and he decides to keep his mouth shut.

The drive back for you was thick with tension. Your mind ran with how to go about the situation next. What lead to follow and what instincts to trust because apparently this one was wrong.

The drive back for Dean, however, was different. He kept the music to a volume he knew wouldn’t bother you as much and he drummed along to the beat on his steering wheel with his fingers casually, hoping the common habit of his will show that he’s not angry and how you shouldn’t blame yourself so much. That even if it feels as detrimental as it does that in reality it’s not a big deal but just a failed lead.

He doesn’t use his words though. He’s offering common decency and not pleasantries.

You’re quick to duck into the motel as soon as the car is in park and recenter yourself at the drawing board.

Dean hesitates, finding it annoying how much you’re beating yourself up over this. He doesn’t know why it bothers him so much. Maybe it’s because he understands the guilt of not being good enough. Maybe it’s because he just doesn’t want to be around some mopey child. Maybe he doesn’t have to know.

“There have been a few disappearances- the last location they were all seen is this bar. Maybe we could start there,” you’re starting to doubt yourself.

“I agree,” Dean nods from behind you. You turn to look at him, a little taken back by his compliance. No shoving and no pushback.

“Really?” You cock a brow, still finding it odd that he hasn’t bashed you more for your screw up earlier.

“Yeah, I think that’s the next step,” Dean repeats, the annoyance of having to do so showing in his tone. You squint slightly as if waiting for him to say something else but he doesn’t.

“Fine, let’s go,” you walk right back out of the room and to the Impala, not bothering with your jacket or keys.

Dean snatches your keys from the kitchen table and locks up the room. You could thank him but why thank him for locking a door? It’s not like he did anything special.

The bar was in the middle of town so the drive consisted of a lot of turns but was still rather swift. You reach for the door knob but Dean stops you.

“What?” You ask defensively.

“That look normal to you?” Dean points, not matching your tone. What is up with him?

You follow his point, finding a couple making out against the side of the brick building. They look drunk and disoriented but nothing too out of the ordinary for a Friday night outside of a bar.

“He’s faking,” Dean adds, keeping his eyes on the couple but taking your silence as confusion. “He’s not drunk.”

“And how do you know that?”

“Watch,” he leans in a little closer to see them from your angle. “When she kisses his neck he loses his ‘daze’. You can see him scan-, there!” He cuts himself off as the man across the parking lot does exactly what Dean is describing. You look a little closer now, seeing a slimy smirk lift the man’s lips as he grabs the woman with a bit more force.

“Dammit,” you mumble, straightening up in your seat a bit. Before either of you can get out of the car in time, the woman is shoved into a nearby truck and the man climbs in after. Dean fires up the engine and follows the truck from a safe distance.

You beat yourself down a bit, wondering how you managed to miss something so clear. You would’ve overlooked them without a second thought and they turned out to be your next lead. Were you really this bad of a hunter? Maybe Dean was right to have such little trust in you.

“How damn cold do you keep this car?” You hound, wrapping your arms over your chest to try and churn some warmth over yourself.

“I told you you’d be cold,” you could hear the eye-roll without even looking at him. You stare out the window, Dean still staying on the truck's tail.

A few moments pass and you continue to ignore him. “God, if you’re gonna pout about it,” he adjusts, grabbing a spare flannel of his from the back seat, “here.”

“I’m not pouting,” you scoff.

“Sure you’re not. Just take it,” he shoves it in your lap and you hesitate to touch it. “I’m not diseased, princess, you can borrow my clothes. Won’t kill ya’.”

“Whatever,” you mumble, grabbing the flannel and slipping it over your arms. The cloth settles over your skin like a warm blanket and you have to force yourself to ignore how much it smells like him. You feel a need to thank him again but seriously, was it really that special or was he just doing the bare minimum? Or perhaps you were too embarrassed to thank him because doing so would admit that you didn’t entirely dread his presence.

Dean glances over to make sure you actually put it on and hasn't discarded one of his favorite flannels- which he would take as an act of war quite frankly- but is a little stunned to see how homey it makes you look. You're practically drowning in the tarp of cloth, but the way it melts with your skin catches his eyes for a bit too long. To see your hair settle over the pattern like a claim makes him want to never look away.

But he has to because he’s driving and just nicked the rumble strips.

“Driving at night is hard, huh?” You tease, “heard it gets that way with old age.”

“Hey! I’m not that much older than you,” he defends, forcing his eyes in the road ahead and the truck to follow. He can’t let himself wonder why you caught his attention so intensely or why he’s itching to look back for another peek.

Finally, after what felt like years to Dean, the truck turns off into a driveway of an older farm house. Dean drives past and parks off the side of the road around a turn where they won’t be spotted.

Now it’s time to really gear up, but this time it’s a little different. Dean finds himself wanting to make extra sure that you’re set and that you have any possible weapon you might need.

“Stay close, don’t split up under any circumstance,” Dean instructs. He hadn’t done that last time and you want to combat him because who is he to tell you what to do? But the wind brushing over you too carries his scent past your nose again and it’s almost like it shuts you up completely. You just nod in response.

The night sky rained over you two, soft pelts of misty rain dampening your clothes and you’re now really starting to feel thankful for the offered flannel, maybe you should’ve said something. But as you near the home, you reckon it’s not the right time to mention a lousy ‘thanks’ for such a simple offer.

Dean picks the lock of the back door and you follow him in, machete in hand. You can hear voices and laughter flowing from what you guess to be the main room. Dean halts right along the door frame, ducking in to count what they’re up against, he holds up 3 fingers to you and you nod.

On his signal, you both pounce.

The fight is brutal on your muscles since you often forget just how strong vamp’s are. The one you’re up against is at least a foot taller than you and is bulkier than is really fair, but you use the advantage of being smaller to slip out of his grasp and decapitate him from behind.

Dean is next to take care of his opponent and now it’s two against one. The vamp comes after you first, probably thinking you’re a quicker target, but Dean intercepts and slams the vamp

against a wall. You take this opportunity to go to the woman from earlier who is huddled in a corner, watching in horror as this happens.

Thankfully, she is physically unharmed and the adrenaline of the situation has burned through the alcohol she had ingested.

“Hey, I’m not gonna hurt you,” you shake your head with arms braced to show you aren’t a threat. “Can you walk?” You ask. She nods. “Good, okay,” you reach over to the pocket of one of the vamps, seeing a set of keys hooked to his belt loop, and hand the keys to her. “The truck outside. Take it and go- now.”

She snatched the keys and bolts. You breathe a breath of relief at how easy it was to get her out of here. You turn to see that Dean is still fighting the creature and you jump to your feet, approaching them. You bring up your weapon but the vamp sees you in time and shoves you hard. You stumble into a dusty china cabinet and hear Dean call your name. The impact rattles through your body but you have to help. You have to.

Getting to your feet takes a moment, but a pained gasp sets you with a fresh rush of adrenaline. The vamp has latched its teeth into Dean’s neck. He’s paralyzed with pain, raspy breaths barely escaping his gaped lips. That’s all the fucking power you need. You ram into the vamp, getting him to unhook his jaw and throwing him to the ground. In the blood drunken haze, you’re able to rid of its head with a quick swipe of your machete.

Dean groans, sliding against the wall and you drop your weapon, running to him.

“Hey-, you’re okay,” you speak before you have enough evidence to believe it. “You with me?”

“Y-Yeah,” he pants, his head going slack on the side he wasn’t bitten. It’s deep.

“Okay, hold on,” you say, reaching down to rip off a good portion of your shirt to cover the bleeding. He reaches out to stop you. “Don’t worry, it’s not your precious flannel I’m tearing up,” you actually joke. Not as a mock or tease but as an actual joke that you smile for to show your lightheartedness.

“With you? I’d never know what to believe,” he comes back. He doesn’t seem to have enough energy to smile but you can tell the initial joke was receptive.

He hisses as you press the cloth against his wound, your other hand cupping his cheek to keep him in place. His intense screw of pain seems to melt a bit under your touch.

“We gotta get you outta here, big guy,” you pat his cheek lightly, trying to keep him present. “How dizzy you are, can you walk?” You ask, unsure of how much blood he’s lost.

“I’ll be fine, don’t worry ‘bout me, sweetheart,” he slurs. Dumbass.

“You’re so fucking stubborn,” you huff, removing your free hand to grab his own hand. You swear he whined when you did so, but it was so quiet and could’ve been excused as a draw of pain. “Hold tight, okay?” You instruct. You knew if he had enough energy he would be batting you away and demanding he knew how to handle a wound like this and it almost worries you that he’s not. “C’mon,” you snake your arm around his back, lifting him the best you can and thankfully he works with you. You’re really gonna have to start saying your thanks out loud.

You lead him out the front door and curse as the rain has picked up. You can’t walk him through this- between the blood loss and getting wet, he’ll freeze. You set him in a semi-stable looking chair and use your hands to steady his face. The reaction he gives you when your skin lands on his stirs a curiosity in you.

“Wait here, keep applying pressure, I’m gonna get the car,” you enunciate so he can really hear you.

“Ain’t no way in hell I’m letting you drive my baby,” he slurs but you're already fishing through his leather jacket pockets.

“Try and stop me, pretty boy,” you say it as a tease- reprimand for the nicknames he’s bugged you with- but it rolls off your tongue with more meaning than you intended.

He doesn’t fight you as you head off to the hidden location of the Impala. The rain drenched you quickly but you don’t let that slow you down. Dean needs you.

Dean would fight more- he really would. If this were a situation where you needed him or Sammy needed him, he could fight past the haze of blood loss. He could drive his own damn car to safety. If he really needed to, he’s sure his body could supply enough adrenaline to power him through his own petty pain. But that’s just it. He doesn’t need to, and in all reality he can’t but it’s just that if he convinces himself that he’s choosing to let you take care of him then that’s less embarrassing then failing you.

He forces on his consciousness, waiting for the familiar growl of his precious Baby. His chariot to take him far from here and to shelter him in times of need.

And there it is.

He peels his eyes open enough to see you emerge for his car and goddamn. Your clothes are wet and stuck against your skin- his flannel hugging your torso like he should be. To see you in his clothes and in the driver's seat of his car is enough to feel his heart stutter.

“Let’s get you situated,” you announce, slipping your arm to its previous hold around his body. He stands with more strength now and you feel your worry dampen. Dean doesn’t argue and doesn’t make a comment about you driving his car again but he does mumble something about you letting him get in the car by himself so you can get out of the rain. You don’t listen and it ignites the familiar burn of anger in his chest that he’s actually used to with you.

After making sure he’s settled, you close his door and round back to the driver's side, pulling out of the driveway and carefully navigating through the foggy rain and back to the motel.

Light conversation buzzes between you in a primary attempt to keep him awake but also a secondary want to continue to just chat. You’ve never really just talked with him like this before. When you first met, he was quick to flirt and when you weren’t receptive you assumed he took it to heart and turned cold on you. You don’t recognize that Dean right now in the slightest.

He’s able to walk by himself by the time you make it back to the motel. He stumbles out of the car in a stubborn attempt to prove such but you remind him that just because he technically can doesn’t mean he should be expected to. He doesn’t mention how much your statement actually resonates with him.

“Sit,” you instruct, placing him on the king bed that reminds you of your sleeping arrangements. It’s a subtle irk but not enough for you to dwell on again, you have bigger problems to deal with at present. You grab your first aid kit and shuffle through the items and get to work.

The heat is blasting and you managed to get a towel to wrap around his damp frame to keep him from shivering but he’s also got enough energy to combat you, so now you’ve ended up with the towel around your shoulders.

“How’re you feeling?” You ask as you pour the disinfectant over the wound. He hisses but answers the distraction in the form of a question.

“Fine, sweetheart, don’t worry about me,” he says in his usual gruff. No longer slurring. Progress.

“Too late,” you murmur, cleaning the stained blood.

“Awe, someone starting to care? Who gave you a heart?” Dean smirks. You don’t entertain the usual banter.

“You could’ve died,” the words pass your lips with a slight waver. You dry the wound, starting to dress it.

“But I didn’t,” Dean reminds, his eyes watching yours for any hint as to why you got so freaked.

“Yeah,” you say out of obligation and not belief.

“Hey,” he reaches up to stop your working hands and when you don’t meet his gaze and calls your name. “I’m okay,” he repeats once your eyes meet his- you couldn’t help yourself with the way your name sounded on his tongue. “I’ve survived a lot worse.”

“That doesn’t make me feel better.”

“It’s meant to.”

You sigh, looking down at his hands around your own now idle ones.

“Okay,” you finally agree, hoping the false belief will settle your nerves enough.

“It’s gonna take a lot more than that to get rid of me,” he jokes with a smirk, “you know how persistent I can be,” he winks and you roll your eyes even if his wink bubbles something in you that’s never been effected by him like that before.

“Shut up and let me finish this,” you push aside his hold and secure the bandage to his skin. After packing back up the kit you start to stand but Dean stops you. His hand grips your wrist gently but the gravity of something not physical pulls you against your will. His lips part like he wants to say something but he doesn’t. He almost looks ashamed as he drops his hold on you like it’s burned him.

“What?” you ask, your voice a whisper.

“Nothin’, sorry,” he shakes his head, averting his gaze.

“You can tell me,” it’s not something you’d ever expect to offer but you can quite help yourself when he looks so pathetic.

“We should get into some dry clothes.”

“Yeah, sure,” you agree, knowing that’s not what he was talking about but accepting it as it is. You grab your bag and get out some comfortable clothes for sleep. You excuse yourself to the bathroom but curse at the broken latch.

“No peeking,” you warn after alerting Dean to the issue and he just scoffs a smirk.

“No promises.” And fuck, he’s glad he didn’t make it because through the crack he catches a glimpse of your shimmering skin as you dry off and replace your outfit with a pair of sleep shorts and a way too big shirt. He admires the cozy feel your clothes give you. As you exit the bathroom he clears his throat and busies himself with getting his bed ready on the couch.

“What’re you doing?” You ask as he lays a blanket over the couch.

“Getting ready for bed,” he says as if it’s a stupid question.

“We can share a bed, Dean, it won’t kill ya,” you use his own remark from earlier against him. You don’t know why he’s suddenly so docile. You worry maybe the injury burned him of his usual spark. “Seriously, don’t make me watch you sleep crunched up on that couch,” you insist.

“Fine,” he subsides, making his way back over to you and the bed. You start to crawl under the covers, sticking to your side but the radiating heat of how close he is makes you want to scooch closer.

“Night, Dean,” you say as he flicks the lamp off but he’s quiet and unmoving, like he has some sort of unfinished business. You push yourself up on your elbow and look back at him sitting on the edge of the bed. “Okay seriously, what’s up with you?”

No response.

“Dean?”

He sighs, turning to look back at you as well. His profile is illuminated by the moonlight pouring in from a split in the curtains.

“Thank you,” his voice is small like you’ve never expected he was capable of. You sit up fully, turning to him with your legs folded.

“You don’t have to thank me,” you shake your head, a small smile pulling up your lips. He doesn’t return the expression.

“You’re a good hunter, yaknow,” he compliments like he won’t get another chance to tell you so. You smile a bit bigger.

“Dean Winchester, did you just flatter me?” You tease.

“You’re strong and resilient,” he continues and your smile falters a bit due to your confusion. “Stubborn and a pain in my ass,” his expression remains a softened yearn. “I never knew why you got to me so damn  bad. You’re smart and funny and captivating,” he snaps his jaw like he crossed a line and his cheeks flush. “I- I think I know now,” he finishes after a beat.

“Know what?” You ask, your heart puttering in your chest.

“Why I can’t get you off my mind,” his eyes dip down to your lips, “why, no matter what I do, I can’t forget you,” he looks so pained. So conflicted.

It hits. It all hits. His helpful offerings, your banter, the way he responded to your touch, and the way you felt yourself reciprocating his apparent feelings.

You lean in, you can’t help it, he’s so beautiful in this light- the way his eyes sparkle under it- but he tenses as you get too close so you halt.

“What are you afraid of?” You ask with a simple head tilt.

“I uh-, haven’t got that one worked out just yet,” he scoffs simply and his smile forces a small one of your own.

“Then just shut up for a minute,” you shake your head, leaning in and placing a soft kiss against his lips. It’s almost a ghost of a kiss but you can feel the emotion he funnels into it. He’s soft and gentle at first but his desperation takes over, leading the kiss through a dizzying spiral as he guides you into the mattress, hovering over you and encapsulating you with his radiating heat.

He doesn’t stop. He doesn’t stop kissing you until you’re unsure where your clothes have ended up. He doesn’t stop kissing you until you forget your own name. He doesn’t stop kissing you until your breathless pants slow from your high.

And when all is said and done, he doesn’t stop holding you through the night until the warmth of the sun blesses your exposed skin.

———————

thank you so much for reading!! <3

>pictures are not my own, i have the originals linked here (pinterest) >>check out my other works here

>tags: @blossomingorchids @areswasneverhere

[asfateentertwines]

Look I know we’re not getting shit with the episode count now a days but obsessed with flashbacks to the people the ghosts loved in life. Like let them haunt the narrative PLEASE

Janet whose father spirals, always thinking of how he could have saved her if he forced her to stop. Getting worse and worse, doubling down on his beliefs even as he crumbles. Her brother, forced into the role she dreamed of. Knowing that every step he takes leaves her bloody footprints behind him. How she feels so forgettable but her shadow has been at every one of her family’s shoulder for decades. Her father dying at the hand of incompetence and feeling her fingers dig into his flesh knowing she would have been great. That his faith in a twisted falsity won’t forgive him. The eyes in the fire burn their skin and scorch their pride.

Rhonda who so clearly left love behind. Her best friend seeing her in every blur in her peripheral. How the lyrics turn acidic in her mouth, how she hears a snort and “seriously, cherry pop?” every time but her voice is so, so hoarse. How the gravel in her own burns like hands on her own skin. Rhonda who stuck her classmates to the core. It had to be her fault, had to be, or else it could be them. Or it could be theirs. Rhonda who is swept away but holds an iron grip on their shoulders. Who watches over every failure with the surety that she would have been better. Her parents, crushed under the loss of the only good thing they ever did. Marjorie’s voice lingers and generations feel her fingers over their throat; a lost mystery that drags them forward.

Wally being the fragility of their own lives. Untouchable and above it all, dying in an instant with a broken neck and the promises he was made. The future they were so sure he had, the way he could have made it. But no one knew him. Every story is empty, every memory wrong, he’s forgotten even with a thousand retellings and a blaring stadium named after him. His mother standing in the moment he had. Lost in a split second loop even as decades move past her. How he moves on before they do, haunting because of what they lost in him and no one remembering what he lost for himself. A life lived and mourned for others.

Charley who was swept under the rug. Who no one wants to think of. Who makes them consider their cruelty, they humanity. Who died surrounded by people, knowing they coaxed him into death with kicks and laughs. How an accidental death with no murderer is still a trial of human cruelty. Emilio, aching for years at his own naivety, trying to be better, to make it better for the next Charley. Except Charley is always there (actually this time) and he still can’t hold on. Moving on and feeling every breath stolen from someone else’s lungs. How one boy meant nothing and said so much about people who never saw him. His parents, asked the question of would they rather a dead or gay son but knowing there was never a choice cause they were one and the same and maybe that’s their fault. Emilio holding his husband, seeing baby Charlie on the monitor, knowing a part of him will never not be 17.

Idk if any of this made sense but just give me the people left behind, let them have an impact. I’m losing my mind

[dreamerdrop]

Could you tell us more about the WIP called Zebras?

Zebras is an episode related little what if based on If Wishes Were Horses, wherein Julian falls asleep reading medical notes about Bajoran war orphans and finds himself dreaming about his own childhood, and thus wakes up to a small imaginary version of himself pre-augmentation.

I need to rewrite the bulk of it, but here’s a snippet from the ending without any further context.

Julian doesn't really want to be around people, but he does want to drink until he blacks out, so he finds himself sitting in a corner at Quarks, tossing back synthehol like his life depends on it, when Jadzia approaches him, looking uncomfortable.

“You know... What I meant was, does this mean you have a secret yearning to be a father,” Jadzia says softly, almost whispering so that nobody else will hear. “I was… trying to joke about you maybe having a pregnancy fetish or something, and… maybe that was why you liked the idea that I already had a worm in my belly…?” she sits across from him, her smile is very contrite.

Julian grimaces. Of course, that had been what she was trying to joke about... Leave it to Jadzia to phrase it in the most awkward way possible, and for Julian to interpret it as incorrectly as imaginable.

They really did make quite a pair.

“So… who was he?” she asks, and Julian had so very much been dreading when that question would finally come up. His throat feels dry.

“He was… a friend. I knew him a long time ago…” he finds himself staring into the middle distance, several memories playing through his mind.

“What happened?”

Julian breathes slowly, trying not to get lost in the flood of thoughts and emotions that he feels like he might as well be drowning in.

“He died. He was... He was sick. His parents, they… it was difficult for them. Looking after him, because he was… they… they wanted to help him, to fix him, to make him…” Julian chokes on the words, crying. His face heats with shame.

“He was stupid. He was stupid, and annoying, and nobody liked him, and his parents…” he doesn't mean the words at all. He’s not sure where they’re coming from, but he can’t seem to stop them. Jadzia is looking at him in almost horror.

“They took him away to fix him, but… he didn't come back. I think... I think his parents were happier without him,” he says quietly. Jadzia shakes her head, opening her mouth to protest.

“They were. They had another child. I heard… I heard them telling their new child how much better he was. How much smarter, and easier to handle he was. They… I… They didn’t miss him at all…”

Jadzia isn’t stupid. Julian knows she can tell there’s more to this than he’s willing to admit. Julian knows he’s giving away too much. He knows he’ll regret this one day. Right now, the image of watching Jules die all over again is fresh in his mind.

“Sometimes, I think… I might be the only one who misses him at all.”

Jadzia reaches a hand out and squeezes his shoulder. She lifts her own glass and clinks it against Julian’s.

“We can miss him together, at least for tonight,” she says.

The burn of synthehol doesn’t warm him as much as the genuine kindness in Jadzia’s eyes, nor does it sting as much as the still-present pity.

He supposes that one day, she’ll look at him normally again, but just for tonight… he’s grateful that someone else can feel sorry for Jules. He’s glad he won’t be the only one to miss him anymore.

END.

I’m not quite sure what to do with the rest of it in the lead up to that yet though, since I’ve been puzzling over the character voices for a while for this… I think I’ve got Julian being too much of a jerk and being sort of too… idk, softboy-ish? Rather than like… himself. And I think it makes zero sense for me not to have Sisko and Miles more involved as well, since y’know, they’re both parents and here is Julian with a tiny kid.

Anyway, it’s been a WIP since maybe November last year and I come back to it occasionally and hopefully one day I will finish it. Hopefully. Maybe. We’ll see!

[lookinthymirror]

“jewish people need our own state so that we can be safe” correct!

criticize the israeli government all you want but do it in good faith. overanalyzing everything it does with the intention of demonizing it and purposefully zeroing in on everything it gets wrong is unproductive and useless.

eagerly using unreliable sources says a lot, idk. i think all of us can be so eager to have things confirm our biases. wait a little. see if it’s actually true.

if it did happen, to weaponize that is gross and shows your lack of actual concern. you’re weaponizing it by starting off with statements of jewish safety. israel has improved jewish circumstances whether you like it or not. i could be wrong but i also think you’re not living in israel which makes it even more selfish. israel isn’t perfect. it does fail jews. it will continue to fail jews. but so does everyone else. there seems to be some kind of sick pleasure derived from constantly pointing out that israel is flawed. it falls into “the jews are the new nazis/the jews have become what they hate” territory to me. nothing more right wing than obsessively telling a minority that we are our REAL enemy or the sort.

“if israel is for jewish safety why does it have the potential to harm and kill and oppress jews?” such is the price you pay for having a country in the first place. most israelis understand this well and know it beats all other circumstances, like living in a non-jewish country. most israelis were forced out of those non-jewish countries and had no other choice but to live in israel, where the dark realities of racism and exclusion and oppression still triumph over being anywhere else.

the condescending, cocky “if israel is for jewish safety then why are jews unsafe” crowd fail to operate in reality. israel was never meant to be a utopia. it was a desperate, determined effort of improving something. of doing something, anything. sorry it fails your purity tests but that’s not what it’s here for. it’s not here to please you and make you happy, especially if you’re in a much better and more privileged situation than other jews.

“jewish people need our own state so that we can be safe” well soldiers and settlers from that state kidnapped a peace activist rabbi today and his whereabouts are unknown.

his name is rabbi arik ascherman and he is head of the israeli human rights organization torat tzedek. his work lately has been centered around advocating for farmers/shepherds in the west bank who are being driven from their homes by israeli settlers. this is an excerpt from a speech he gave in december to israelis for peace:

“And so what is left? I think in this dark period, our goal here and in Israel/Palestine is to do what we can to preserve something until there will be a better day. I think we have to show solidarity so that even if we can't stop the evil, just as so many times we Jews through the centuries just wished somebody had been with us, without knocking on the door or busting down the door, at least we can be there so people will not be alone! That's what I tell people all the time. I tell one of the Palestinians we're working with: you are not alone. That I can do.

And as I wrote in the newspaper already in January of 2023, it may take our blood. No one cares about Palestinian blood. There's a little bit more notice paid to Israeli blood. Being absolutely non-violent, we are going to have to take actions that put ourselves more and more in danger. Maybe we have to live on Palestinian land next to the outposts with all the risks that that entails. And we're going to have to think of a creative way, in any way we can, to preserve whatever we can until there will be a better time, until there will be some Hanukkah light, until there will be a Hanukkah miracle.”

[gonchillunchis]

ancient josuyasu doodle (circa 536 a.d)

[halfusek]

oopsie

so the stream was a flop (ill need to solve that problem in the future but that was very weird cuz these settings worked with batdr before and i doubt batdr was easier to stream performance wise) but yall didnt miss out on anything cuz uh

basically in 15 minutes i was done with the part of the. "game". that was. actually kind of looking like one. you know i didn't expect any polish to this, it was free and all. that was the part with gaskette, it was. fine. i did not find it interesting but at least it wasnt what the rest of the game was

but you know what, i get it. finally i get it

they, or maybe just mike, but its released under their company so i will say they,

they hate theorists

they hate dataminers

alright, point taken, i guess

just push away the fans who were the most interested in playing your games, cuz that's smart

it's sad really but oh well have it your way

[katsdynam1ght]

i need you all to understand and remember that mha takes place like 200 years in the future and there are people with literal windex bottles and guns for heads. queerness is probably the last concern of most parents these days. quirks and mutations are a much bigger issue

“kats what do you mean touya’s the reason natsuo’s homophobic” because he and his boyfriend-then-husband keigo can’t keep their hands off each other and natsuo thinks it’s gross. (for any aftg fans out there it’s like aaron with nicky ok)

“aren’t rei and enji more likely to be—” no. i don’t care how traditionally they were raised. enji is obsessed with all might and while it is fine for a man to be obsessed with another man without having feelings for him, there is an inherent layer of homoeroticism there (not necessarily queerness, but definitely homoeroticism) and even subconsciously i think enji can understand there’s something to all of that. he just doesn’t ever process it consciously. i genuinely do not think this man has it in him to be homophobic he has too much else to worry about (and he loves his family. if they’re happy who cares who they’re into)

rei, on the other hand, though she grew up with a certain set of standards, i believe works very hard to break away from all of those biases. again, she loves her family. as long as everyone’s happy, that’s really all she wants to see. she can’t control her children’s lives and she wouldn’t want to—that sort of behavior is what got them into all of this mess to begin with

“okay well why is natsuo—” i told you already also he canonically has a girlfriend (future wife? idk i haven’t read the manga i’ve just seen the panel) and he’s too much like my brother (i.e. the only straight person out of four kids) for me to ignore his blatant heterosexuality. also if you ask me i think he’s far more prone to repeating the abuse cycle than anyone in the family but that’s a topic for another day

“fuyumi?” lesbian. if anything deals with comphet. but i think by default she feels more secure and free around other women. even though she loves her father there are still impacts of bearing witness to his abusive behavior over the years and i think that is imprinted into every interaction she has with men her age and older throughout her life. she deserves a woman/women who will love and cherish her better than a man could

i will take no criticisms about touya as we should all be well aware by now that dabihawks is the only ship i can put him in. anything else and he loses his opportunities to be a better person and i am morally obligated to hate him. also sorry touya but keigo is the only person who can genuinely love you as you are. nobody else would be so attuned to your mood swings and so patient with your tantrums. also he wants to bite you a little bit but you’ll enjoy that

and finally

shouto: poly class A is all i’ll say about him

let the record show i do not care at all what anyone else’s opinions are about these characters. you will not change my mind. as far as i’m concerned everything i say is canon and i have the writing skill to back it up. i will be writing fic with all of this eventually

thank you and goodnight

sorry but i’m convinced natsuo is the only straight person in the todoroki family. he’s only homophobic because of touya though. (he would be more homophobic if he knew about his dad but i don’t think enji even processes his own sexuality so none of them know)

[muninnhuginn]

Thinking about "your weakness is how you always want to be the hero" and how the series returns to this at the end

Li Lianhua hated how he acted as Li Xiangyi and spent years trying to distance himself from it, but ultimately he still fell back into the similar patterns, for all his added experience

His main priority was always to "do the right thing" regardless of how that would impact on those around him. And it *did* impact those around him. From Qiao Wanmian and Shan Gudao as Li Xiangyi to Fang Duobing and Di Feisheng as Li Lianhua

Giving the Styx flower to the emperor so he could use it as leverage to guarantee Fang Duobing and his family's safety. Using the last of his power to save Yun Biqiu. Constantly putting others above himself whilst actively refusing to recognise that his self-sacrificial nature would hurt those he cared about most

And sure, he thinks he's going to die anyway. They're going to be hurt regardless and he can't do anything about that. His odds are low of the Styx flower even working. But ultimately, he refuses to even consider trying. Li Xiangyi has been dead a long time and Li Lianhua is just there to tide things over. What value is the life of a ghost

To the end, he lives and dies a hero. To the end, he refuses to live for himself.

[daily-hanamura]

[perilegs]

i miss horses

[roots-symphony]

why did agatha tell lilia the truth about her only being able to steal powers if she’s blasted first if her entire plan was to get them to blast her so she could steal their powers??

[sskk-manifesto]

--

[sieglinde-freud]

i need more non three houses side characters winning cyl tbh bc the lord outfits are so predictable and boring and for three houses all they do is the normal timeskip shit. like, felix and bernadetta’s art looks great, but the designs… come on. weve all seen mortal savant felix. thats literally just bernadetta’s timeskip outfit with added shoulder stuff. bring back queen camilla of nohr. they did something fun with marianne that one time until everyone was like “boo wah i hate creativity and serving cunt” but they need to not listen to the haters. when tharja wins in three years (if we dont hit eos) i want her cosplaying as grima or something like the lizard version

[alithetiredartist]

The dramatic irony of everything happening with Jojo Siwa is so fucking hilarious

First she exploits a disabled child -not hilarious- repeats the cycle of abuse that she was subjected to on dance moms with her own show, allegedly cheats on her girlfriend, etc, etc. then she goes through her “switch” and goes through her 14 year old emo phase at 20.

Tell me why this kid has the audacity to sing a song called Karma.

She tries so hard. She’s trying so hard to make it seem like she’s making the most dramatic change of her generation, she’s completely changed, no more rainbow glitter dance moms now we have emo sparkle darkness revenge fairy. She wants people to think she wrote Karma. She talks about her writing process, and she says how brilliant she is for thinking it up, but she also says that it was pitched to her a few times so we can’t accuse her of lying.

I think on paper this plan was probably a great idea, a chance to break out of her reputation for bows and glitter, but the execution is nothing but a disappointment. I think instead of going emo and taking inspiration from things she doesn't understand and being genuine, the switch honestly could've been welcomed with open arms but she's not genuine and she doesn't want to make a natural switch. She wants to be risky because she thinks it'll make her look cool or someone higher up decided for her and she went along with it because that's what'd make more money or maybe her mom made her.

Once it came out that Jojo didn't only not write the song herself, she wasn't even the first one to record it, that's when the irony of the situation kicks in. I know absolutely nothing about Brit Smith but she's and icon and I love her with my whole heart.

Brit Smith releasing her version of Karma and it doing better than Jojos is my favorite form of dramatic irony because of course this all happened to a song named Karma.