#after all how could ‘two randos about his brother from under his nose?’

[artiststarme]

Steve looking up at Uncle Wayne as the father figure he never had. Unlike his dad, he doesn’t cheat or disappear from his life when things get tough. Eddie loves it because it means he can see his boyfriend even more. It’s all fun and games until Steve goes to his father figure to complain about his boyfriend leaving him at a McDonald’s after a fight they had. Then Eddie has to deal with an upset boyfriend, a disappointed uncle, and an angry Robin to boot.

He has no choice but to take desperate measures. Eddie tells Hopper that Wayne is trying to take his “cool dad” spot in the Party and watches the chaos unfold.

By time anyone realizes what he’s done, he’s made up with Steve and escapes another murderous rage by the skin of his teeth. Mission accomplished, indeed.

Should I make this into a longer fic? I feel like I could go places with this lol

[bamfdaddio]

X-Men Abridged: 1968

The X-Men, those ever-so-slightly exhausting mutants that have sworn to protect a world that hates and fears them, are a cultural juggernaut with a long, tangled history. Want to unravel this tapestry? Then read the Abridged X-Men!

(X-Men 40 - 51) - written by Roy Thomas, Gary Friedrich and Arnold Drake. Drawn by Werner Roth, Don Heck, George Tuska and Jim Steranko

Did you know Frankenstein’s monster was an android, sent to earth by aliens as an ambassador?

My English Lit professor LIED TO ME! (X-Men 40)

Whereas last year served up a cohesive narrative by making it all about Factor Three, 1968 gives us a hodgepodge of clumsy and confusing storylines. This might be due to the different writers at the helm: last year was all about Roy Thomas, this year we’ve got three dudes pulling it in different directions.

What doesn’t change is the prose. So much purple prose.

Anyway, this year is all about THE DEATH OF PROFESSOR XAVIER and THE RETURN OF MAGNETO! (If you think this is terrific foreshadowing and not something that kills all narrative tension, boy howdy, you’ll love reading comics from this era.)

The best kind of foreshadowing drags you into an alley, punches you in the nose and steals your shoes. Fuck subtlety and proper twists. (X-Men 41)

Anyway, Xavier is acting all out of character: cranky, angry, impatient, barely using his powers for immoral purposes… He pushes the X-Men to the brink and continually sequesters himself with a troubled Jean.

Meanwhile, Bobby and Hank’s date with Zelda and Vera is interrupted… again. At this point, I just have to believe that Zelda and Vera are embroiled in some torrid lesbian relationship, while Hank and Bobby serve as their beards.ANYWAY, their date is interrupted by the Grotesk, the last remaining heir to an advanced subterranean species who have recently been slaughtered by an earthquake machine of human making. Look, how many underground societies does the Marvel Earth even have? Did these Grotesks live next to the Molemen? I…

In defense of Grotesk, spinning him around like a fucking bola is one of the top three things I´d like to do with Angel too. (X-Men 42)

The X-Men try to stop the Grotesk from sinking the Eastern seaboard into the Atlantic, and in the end, the Professor sacrifices himself to stop him, paying pays the ultimate price!

OR DOES HE

To make it even more tragic, apparently Xavier was dealing with some mysterious illness that neither human medicine nor mutant powers could cure. But before he died, he somehow transferred his powers to Jean. (Either pretend this happened or retcon it him awakening Jean’s latent telepathy.) Anyway, Chuck wanted to prepare them for the return of… Magneto. (Also Pietro and Wanda.)

Quicksilver crashes Xavier’s funeral, unsure whether he should ask the X-Men for help. He doesn’t. Meanwhile, Magneto somehow has duped some hapless time-displaced TikTokker into filming the grisly affair. (X-Men 43)

What follows is a sort of confusing crossover with the Avengers where the X-Men mostly get sidelined in favour of some drama involving the House of M. Wanda has some temporary mental damage that only Magneto can cure? Also, Pietro hates humans now, which, given the state of the world in general, I can only concur with.

Magneto captures the X-Men in customized cages, designed to be unescapable, but Angel escapes by simply pushing the right button. He flies off to get help, stumbles upon a weird and ultimately meaningless side quest and finally returns with the Avengers!

But! Magneto turns the X-Men against Earth’s Mightiest Heroes! Just kidding: the X-Men pretend to go along with Magneto’s mind games, but this was all a plot concocted by the heroes to make Magneto feel like he’s winning. Instead, the heroes attack and drive Magneto back. Toad, who finally is fed up with Magneto’s abuse, emancipates himself and defies Magneto, kicking him out of the helicopter he, Wanda and Pietro flee in. Magneto seemingly falls to his death in the water.

OR DOES HE.

First of all: why would Magneto just make a non-ferrous aircraft? Second of all: why would he then BRING IT ALONG? Big mad. (Avengers 53)

Following Xavier’s death, Foggy Nelson reads his will. The Professor bequeaths the school to the X-Men! Fred Duncan, Professor X’s FBI liaison is also there! And then! Juggernaut briefly returns from the dimension of Cyttorak, stirs up trouble and is then sucked back into the ruby of Cyttorak thanks to a Professor Ex Machina from the grave. This somehow convinces Fred Duncan that the X-Men should split up, fearing they may be too big a target for evil mutants and thinking they might be better at responding to threats spread out over the continent.

Yeah, Angel will be so much more effective when he isn’t part of a team of much more powerful individuals. (X-Men 46)

So, the X-Men split up! In NYC, Bobby and Hank battle Warlock, the most forgettable villain ever, when he interrupts their date. They also get into a fight with hippies because of… poetry?

Yeah! Put the slam in poetry slam, odd beatniks! *aggressive finger snaps* (X-Men 47)

Jean and Scott ‘go undercover’ in California, with Jean becoming a model and Scott ‘pretending’ to be her superjealous boyfriend. So, instead of actually forming a relationship, they just pretend to have one? Fuck, these two are exhausting. Jean also forgot she attends a university, apparently. Which is just as well, because it means boring Ted and his boring brother disappear from the narrative.

They are attacked by an increasingly silly string of villains and it’s obvious that nobody really knows what to do with this book. They even skip an issue: the preview for issue 49 is something completely different than what we’re getting.

The year ends of a sort of high note, however, introducing two familiar faces. Mesmero,a hitherto unknown follower of Magneto, is amassing an army of would-be mutants by… hypnotizing them? Through their… X-Gene? Among them is a curious gal named Lorna Dane, who is rocking the brown hair. Bobby saves her from her drone-like state and keeps an eye on her while the rest of the X-Men investigate Mesmero.

Lorna meanwhile takes a shower, washed out the cheap dye and is revealed to have green hair. (Fuck yeah! But also maybe buy better dye?) Bobby and Lorna are captured by Mesmero and his cronies, and Bobby warns the other X-Men telepathically. They let themselves be captured by Mesmero too, figuring it’s the easiest way to find his lair. There, Mesmero awakens Lorna’s latent magnetism powers, and bestows on her two sweet titles:

Somewhere in Kenya, Storm is upset and doesn’t know why. (X-Men 50)

And, in another shocking twist (gasp²), Magneto’s alive!

You say ‘aura of unspeakable evil’, I say ‘prime dom top daddy’. (X-Men 50)

He fights the X-Men while Polaris tries to determine who she holds allegiance to: the father she just met or these other randos she just met. You’d think she would maybe not want to hang out with the raving demagogue, but hey. Maybe it’s magnetic attraction. The X-Men flee, forced to regroup, and we end the year there, with the ‘innocent’ Lorna Dane under Magneto’s thrall.

Didn’t you take Art History? Oh! Issue 50 has the familiar logo for the first time, created by Jim Steranko!

So one cape tassel goes over the shoulder and one goes under it? Why is there a little skull with horns in the middle? Why the strappy sandals? Mesmero, sashay away. (X-Men 50)

Ugliest Costume: It’s a toss-up between Mesmero and Polaris, but since I assume Mesmero designed Polaris’ outfit, we’ll just give it to him.

Best new character: I didn’t think she’d earn it, because I’m not the biggest fan of Lorna Dane (most writers use her as a plot device, rather than a character), but otherwise this would go to Grotesk and that’s never going to happen.

Most audacious retcon: Jean is able to psychically penetrate Juggernaut’s helmet, which used to protect him from Charles’ influence.

It’s also kinda funny how after years of retcons where Polaris, Scarlet Witch and Quicksilver sometimes are and sometimes aren’t Magneto’s kids, how it is right now is the same as when it started: Lorna is Magneto’s daughter, the twins aren’t.

What to read: Nothing. This is not a great year.

Death proof: ‘Chuck’ kicks the bucket for the first time.

[kayteewritessteve]

Secrets and Sins - 4/13

Description: You flee from an abusive situation and find yourself on the other side of the country, creating new friends and possibly finding new love. But will you be able to escape your past? To truly move on with your life? Or will everything come crashing down around you in the blink of an eye?

Catch up HERE.

Word Count: 2,700 ish.

Pairing: Mobster!Steve Rogers x Reader.

Rating: 18+

Warnings: Violence. Drinking. Curse words. Brief mentions of abusive behaviour, and moments of abuse—nothing to in depth but could be upsetting to some. Plus possible other triggering thoughts and feelings described.

A/N: I sadly don’t own any of these characters. And no beta reader, so I do proudly own all the errors, so there’s that.

A few days after your girls night out, and your run in with those piercing deep blues eyes, you are at work. Finding it unbelievably hard to get your mind off the well dressed guy from the club. Though you had tried everything you could to put him out of your mind. Reasoning that you’d never see him again, and even if you did, the same rules would still apply. Dating was not an option for you at this time. That much you knew. But it seemed the more you tried to forget him, the more he just took over your head. He had basically become your main thought since that night and you prayed the thoughts would kindly fuck off, and fast. As it was becoming pretty damn inconvenient, to say the least. But lord, if that man couldn’t fill out a suit in all the right ways—

“Y/N?”

You shook your head, “Wha-yeah…?” Looking up you saw Wanda, arms crossed with a smirk on her face. You had clearly zoned out, again. Fuck.

“Whatcha thinkin’ bout?” She asked with a knowing look then giggled, “Let me guess, does it have something to do with blue eyes?”

You groaned and continued tidying up the table you were clearing, “Yes, I feel like a love sick teenager. Pining over some dude I talked to for all of 10 minutes, one I’ll never meet again.” You grumbled out that last part. No, you were bitter about your shit luck at all.

“I still can’t believe you turned him down.” she shook her head as she helped you grab all the dirty dishes from the table.

“What was I supposed to do?” You rolled your eyes before mumbling, mainly to yourself, “Such an awkward moment.”

“Turning him down was probably not the route you should have taken there though, but,” she shrugged, “to late now”

“Not helping, Wanda!” You spat out and though you were trying to sound stern, it clearly didn’t work, at all. As you both ended up laughing as you headed towards the bar to put the glasses in the dirty bin. “This is just my luck. I bet he was probably super sweet and would have wooed me off my damn feet and proposed in like a year. We would have had beautiful babies and both lived long and happy lives.” You sighed dreamily in a mock way.

Wanda just chuckled and shook her head, as Gamora joined you both behind the bar, “We pining over blue eyes again?” She asked wiggling her eyebrows and looking between Wanda and you.

“Always,” Wanda laughed then skipped away to tend to her table.

“Girl, seriously, you gotta get over it,” Gamora started, pausing mid way through making a drink then nodding, “or under something else. Et vite.” she added firmly. She had this weird thing for randomly throwing words in different languages into her sentences—Usually French, much like she just did, she was a damn language chameleon. Any language she wanted to learn, she did.— It was weird at first but you’d gotten used to it now. However the first time she’d done it, it had confused the hell out of you, but she just informed you that she had travelled before college, and picked up the French language then, and really fucking quickly at that.

But not only that, she had also almost married some rando dude named Peter while she was backpacking through Europe, only to later find him in bed with some English chick named Tessa. Gamora has gone into vivid detail about the girls ‘dicked eyebrows’, saying she was pissed he cheated on her with a ‘fugly ass bitch like that’. And that the girl would have been better off just shaving her eyebrows off entirely and starting from scratch. It was a hilarious story that almost resulted in you peeing your damn pants. Fucking Gamora. Girl had a way with story telling.

“I know. I know. I’m pathetic,” you joked, “but seriously, I’m pretty much over it.” You paused, that was a lie. Sound more convincing. “Just focusing on getting my life on track right now, which is more important currently then dating. That is why I turned him down in the first place.” Better? Kind of, but not really.

“Good plan. Men suck. Chicks before dicks and all that jazz,” she waved a hand around then wandered off to drop off the drinks she’d just made to one of her tables.

A few hours later the front door opened and Thor entered in front of a tall slender man, with long jet black hair. Who did not look impressed to be here. That had to be Loki, and even though he looked nothing like Thor, the girls had told you a bit about him. Including the stark difference in appearances, something about Loki being adopted, or something. They also informed you that he was pretty harmless, but had his snappy moments. And tended to be in a mischievous mood often. He disliked incompetence, idiocy and tardiness, among many other things. Guy sounded exhausting. But as long as you worked hard, kept your mouth shut and showed up on time he was happy. Or at least as happy as a grumpy man could be.

You began working your way through the pile of dirty cups, as your section was all taken care of, for the moment, and you didn’t want to just stand around doing nothing. And looking useless.

Thor approached the bar, “Y/N, this is brother Loki, the other owner of this wonderful establishment.” He motioned around with both hands, in a flourishing way before gesturing to you, “Loki, this is Y/N, our newest waitress. She is fitting in wond—“

“Thank you, Thor,” he cut him off rather shortly, “but i’ll be the judge of how well she is ‘fitting in’ here,” he said sharply. Thor just smiled apologetically at you and nodded.

“Y/N, was it?” Loki asked, and you put your hand out for him to shake but all he did was look at it, interestingly, then crinkle his nose to stare at you.

“Ah…Yes, sir,” you lowered your hand back down, awkwardly. What a dick.

“Try not to screw up,” was all he said in return.

“Of course, sir,” you nodded, resisting the urge to roll your eyes and instead shot him an overly fake smile, teeth and all. Not like he’d know it was fake. However, by the twinkle in Thor’s eyes and the smirk on his lips, you figured he did. Whelp, there you have it. Your first official meeting with your other boss. Such a dick.

Loki took off through the door to the stairs with Thor following close behind. It was weird for Loki to be here as it was the middle of the month, Wanda had told you he only ever showed up at the end of the month to check the books. Well, unless he had a meeting. You’d bet that was probably the case.

You shook your head then refocused on continuing to clean the dishes but after a few minutes someone cleared their throat, startling you and you dropped the glass in your hand, it shattered upon impact with the floor. “Shit,” You mumbled and cringed before looking up, and instantly thinking you must have passed out. Or maybe you had died? Because the blue eyes staring at you couldn’t be real, could they? There was no way they belonged to the mystery man from the club.

You quickly blinked at him a few times as if waiting for him to vanish into thin air. But he didn’t. You shook your head “Ah, sorry, don’t mind me.” You waved off your, once again, awkward behaviour, “So, what can I get cha?”

There was that damn smirk again, “No apologies needed,” his eyes lowered clearly looking at your name tag. “Y/N. and I’ll take a scotch. Neat.” You could hear the amusement oozing off his words. Whelp, he knows your name now…And where you work. Fuck.

You absently nodded your response before spinning around to find the best scotch the pub had, an idea popping into your head. You pulled the bottle off the shelf and poured 2 fingers into the glass then turned around to put the glass in front of him. ��How much do I owe you, doll?”

You raised your hand and shook your head. “Nothing. Call us even.”

He just stared at you for a moment, his expression blank, unreadable. What you wouldn’t give for the power of mind reading right about now. But then he broke the silence, “If I remember correctly, I got you two drinks,” he raised a smug brow towards you.

You laughed and shook your head again, “Well, you caught me there, I guess I still owe you.”

He looked thoughtful for a moment then nodded, “I guess you do.” The words sent a chill down your spin as he turned around and headed towards the door to the left of the bar, the same one Thor and Loki had gone through only moments earlier. Clearly Loki was, in fact, here for a meeting.

You began to wonder what blue eyes did for a living, why would he be meeting with Thor and Loki. Maybe he was in the business? Or worked for a liquor company? Possibly a lawyer or business partner, maybe? He was in the VIP section at the club… You shook your head. That’s none of your business. You had turned him down, and for good reason, so what he did for a living shouldn’t matter to you.

Just as you were trying to refocus on cleaning yet again, you noticed him pause to look back at you, he had only made it a few steps away from the bar, and once again a smirk plastered on his handsome face. “See you around, Y/N,” but it wasn’t wishful thinking, no, it was a promise. You heard it in his voice. And the way your name rolled off his tongue not only made you weak in the knees, but also made you acutely aware that he was rather pleased with himself. Pleased with the fact that he had learned your name, without your help.

Once he was through the door you groaned then crouched down to clean up the broken glass. You weren’t sure you’d be able to handle anymore run-ins with him, at least not without jumping him right then and there. But you couldn’t. Dating = bad news bears. So instead, you decided it would probably be best to just die right here on the floor. Or quit your job. Yeah, that one. You rolled your eyes. Always so dramatic.

Once again, here you were pining over the same blue eyed guy, wishing you could have been in a position to have accepted his first date invite. Now you only had more for your mind to run with about him. You had noticed just how fucking hot he was at the club, but the low lighting did not do him justice. And yes, his hair was blonde, and styled just right. His suit looked tailored to him, and most likely super expensive. Making the ‘where he worked’ question pop back up in your head. Obviously he made good money, where ever he worked—

You heard hasty footsteps coming towards you and looked up to see Wanda scampering over, before she crouched down beside you to help you clean up the broken glass. She quickly peered around then whispered harshly, “Y/N, do you know who that was?!”

You gave her a puzzled look and whispered back, “Yeah,” you said slowly, “blue eyes. But how do you know who that was…?”

“What!?” She damn near yelled before slapping a hand over her mouth, “THAT was blue eyes!? Oh god…oh god. Not good.”

You furrowed your brows at her “Jesus Wanda, what’s gotten into you….?” You hissed before it clicked, “Wait, why is that not good?!”

“That was Steve Rogers. As in the mob boss Steve Rogers. As in the King of fucking New York Steven Grant Rogers. As in—“

“I get it, Wanda. Shit.” you cut her off with a glare, then it sank in and your eyes widened, “Oh fuck. Nope. Nooope. No.” You shook your head adamantly, “No fucking thank you.”

“He came in, took one look at you then headed directly for the bar.” She looked thoughtful for a second, “Which is odd because he never goes to the bar before his meetings with the guys. He usually comes in and goes straight upstairs,” she looked confused for a moment before shooting bolt up right to stand again. “Oh god. He only got a drink so he could talk to you,” she said rather loudly.

“Shhhh Wanda!” You grabbed her arm and pulled her back down, “Someone will hear you. Fuck.”

“Y/N, this is bad. What if he asks you out again?! You can’t say no!”

“Like hell I can’t,” you mumbled, “I refuse to get caught up in that world,” ..again. Though you left that last part out.

She shook her head vehemently, “No one rejects Steve Rogers, Y/N.”

“Well judging by the fact that I already have once before, I’m sure I’ll have no issues doing it again,” You both stood up and you threw out the broken glass and dirty paper towels. He had just been standing right in front of you, in the flesh, and he could have asked you out again, asked for your number, fucking anything. But he hadn’t. Maybe he wasn’t that interested in you. Furrowing your brow again as you turned back to Wanda, “Well, that is if I even find myself in that situation again.”

“Don’t look so damn conflicted about it,” she giggled, “let’s just hope he drops it and leaves you alone.” she said as she raised her left hand and crossed her fingers at you before she took off to tend to her tables. Yeah, let’s fucking hope he does.

“Shit. I knew that smirk only meant trouble,” you mumbled to yourself before going to check on your own tables. Hoping you could just avoid him from now on. Or at least once he was done his meeting with the brothers. You’d hide in the bathroom if you had to. Yes, that is a solid plan. You rolled your eyes again, aware it wasn’t.

With every passing minute you became more anxious. More nervous. What was with you and mob bosses!? Did you have a sign on your head that read ‘I like them as fucking dangerous as they come’. You were clearly a magnet for thugs. But at least you always held the bar high, only drawing in the fucking Kings. Fuck. You crinkled your nose. Jesus christ. This was just your fucking luck.

Just then the door by the bar opened. And your stomach was instantly in your throat. Steve and Thor exited with Loki close behind. You looked up at them before locking eyes with Steve. Still with that damn smirk on his face only this time he paired it with a wink in your direction. Probably the hottest fucking wink anyone had ever shot your way. Why does he have to fucking look like that!? Damnit. But then he turned to shake Thor and Loki’s hands, exchanging a few whispered words with them, words you couldn’t make out over the noise of the patrons around you, then just like that he promptly left. Without so much as a backwards glance.

You watched as he left before releasing the breath you didn’t realize you were holding. Happy he hadn’t interacted with you again. Hopefully it would stay that way. For your sake, at least.

The rest of your shift was relatively quiet. Or at least as quiet as a pub could be. You clocked out, grabbed your jacket and headed out the doors. Once again pulling your hood up over your head, checking both directions then heading down the now familiar 7 blocks towards your home. Completely oblivious to the blacked out Mercedes across the street from your work, and the pair of light blue eyes that watched you as you left.

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

@hopefulmoonobject @itsstillnotwhatyouthink @tessvillegas @boxofteenageideas @wangdeasang @giggleberts

[seenashwrite]

3 words. Dean's daughter MacRyeleighaynnabeau

Nash Note: Well-played. I will see your Winchester-child-naming-nightmare, and raise you an SPN fanfic triple-cringe trifecta in return: Domestic. Baby. Fluff. 

Call my fluff-bluff, have ye? [clears throat] Reader. Insert. Mommy.

Ooh, and - Sam. Gets. Dogs. I’m just sayin’, if we’re gonna get down, let’s get dooown, Mariana Trench this mother.

In summation: Nash. Does. Fluff.  Y’all enjoy it. It ain’t likely to happen again.

Status: CompleteWord Count: 1.8KCategory: One-shot, Domestic Family Fluff, Husband Dean, Reader Insert Mommy, Sam Has DogsRating: Teen & UpCharacter(s): Dean, Sam, You, Newborn with a stupid name, Rando nursePairing(s): Dean + You, and there’s Sam Feels bonusWarnings: so sweet you’ll need a dentistAuthor’s Note: Post-storyOverall Summary: See above; See Nash Twitch

.A Fluff By Any Other Name.

Dean was waiting for Sam in the hallway.

“No flowers?”

“Uh, she hates flowers. Figured I’d ask what she wants for dinner, run get it.”

“Maybe I would’ve appreciated the flowers.”

“You know, I’m going to let this go, because you’ve had a long day, but not as long as hers, so—”

“Ask me.”

“Ask… what?”

“You know.”

“Dean, did you sneak some morphine, or whatever they’ve been—”

“Ask me what your niece’s name is. Actually, no - ask me what it’s not.”

His voice hadn’t ratcheted down to the deep-deep levels of pissed off - and, to be sure, there were several subtle variations Sam knew well, having been on the receiving end of all of them - but Dean was definitely serious, and had crossed his arms for good measure.

“I legit don’t know where you’re going with—-”

“The dogs. All your foster dogs. You took the good names.”

“Okay, now, that’s— I started volunteering way before she ever got pregnant, before you two even got serious, come to think of it. And I just chose a bunch of names that I thought of off the top of my—-”

“I picked up on that, yeah - around the time you used Jessie. And on that real jumpy, kinda twitchy one, which was extra weird. And was a boy.”

“Wait, wait - that was such a sweet dog, and besides - you really would’ve wanted to name your daughter after my dead fiancée?!”

“Oh, everybody’s dead, Sam!” Dean whisper-hissed. “And, no, not necessarily, but I do wonder what Jessica’d think about that…. about that…. what damn breed was that thing?”

“A mix.”

“Of?”

“A pooset and a corgat.”

“Sam. The hell.”

“A poodle-basset hound mix and a rat terrier-corgi mix shared a special hug—”

“So it’s a poocorgaset.”

Sam stared.

“Corsetpoogat.”

Sam brought a hand up, slowly rubbed his temples.

“Can I pull from the rest of the real names? I mean, ratbassgipoo is turning my crank.”

“But always the poo.”

“Of course always the poo, what the hell good does -dle do anybody?”

The nurse cleared her throat - she was leaning into the hallway, a leg and foot still in the room.

“We’re done. Everything’s looking good. She said for you guys to come on in, but if you’re in the middle of…..”

“No! No, not at all. Hey, and this is my little brother, Sam. Sammy, this is our nurse, she’s been here the whole time, basically delivered Macka… Mmmuh… my kid.”

She raised her eyebrows at that, but smiled, extending her hand and shaking the one offered, introducing herself as Dean slipped past them.

“Uncle Sam, huh?”

“Uh-huh…. oh god, I just now realized that!”

“Eh… could be worse.”

“Yeah?”

“You could have a name that your nurse had to re-write on the birth certificate five times - twice for misspells, then again because she ran out of room. Me. I’m that person. We’re talking about me, here.”

“What was the fourth? Since there was a fifth?”

“Oh, well, that one? Can’t take credit for - under ‘father’s name’, the proud papa got a case of the jitters and wrote your father’s name.”

“Jeez, I’m so… I’m so sorry…” 

Sam would’ve sounded sincere if he hadn’t burst out laughing, but she immediately joined in. And though he didn’t know it at the time, he would be sincere with her many more times than not, and he’d be getting plenty of it in return. Starting that night, when he’d ask if she’d be interested in getting coffee sometime. She would be tips-to-toes sincere when saying she hoped to hear from him soon.

They’d still keep bursting into laughter, amongst and in between the sincere times, over a million different things through the years. There’d be the breath-stealing kind, prompted by the action of more amusing-than-scary hunts; the gasp-induced kind, stemming out of nervous relief over the hunts that weren’t; and her favorite, the bent-over, knotted-into-cramps kind, resulting from drunken Dean tales of hunts long past. And then his favorite, when the Winchester kids were raising hell, and there was nothing to do but laugh.

This time, this first time, after the birth of their niece, in the moment they’d met, would ultimately get ranked as the best, though it was followed closely by the tear-tinged round that erupted after another first, when they heard the justice of the peace say the words “husband and wife”.

But that’s another story.

For now, Sam closed the door quietly before tip-toeing to the bed, bending and giving you a kiss on the forehead. He glanced over to the bassinet and back.

“Nice work.”

“Work is right.”

Dean was seated in an armchair next to your bed, unlacing his boots, but paused and looked up at this, tacking on a clarification.

“Work is damn right.”

You winked in acknowledgment before speaking again.

“So listen, while I’ve got you both—-”

“We in trouble already?” Dean asked, changing his seat from the chair to the opposite side of the bed, perching near the end. 

“—-I wanted to make sure you knew that I haven’t totally lost my marbles with the name, and I know that’s what you’re both thinking.”

Sam opened his mouth, ready to protest, but Dean just held up his hands in a sort-of surrender.

“Babe, I know I said I’d be fine with whatever you chose, but we ain’t lied to each other yet, and wow - it’s horrible.”

“I really wish you wouldn’t worry. It’s an old family name, and, I mean… we could squeak a nickname out of it… probably… you know how some of these Gaelic names are, it’s hard to tell how to pronounce them on sight.”

“So how’s it pronounced?” Sam asked.

“Get ready,” Dean muttered.

And Sam’s jaw dropped briefly as something largely incomprehensible - possibly worse than the name was on paper - came out of your mouth.

“Sis?” 

“Bro?”

“That’s beyond horrible.”

“Yeah, it is. It is a vicious eyesore that she won’t be able to spell for who-knows-how-long, it makes ears bleed, and I’m a garbage parent for it, though I will point out her father was zero help.”

Now Dean’s jaw dropped, but clearly in faux offense.

“I resent that - ‘cause every name I said I liked….”

“….every name we agreed on, that we loved for her….”

“….was already a dog’s name.”

You and Dean turned your heads in unison, leveling looks at Sam.

“I can’t have taken up all of them—-”

“Mary.”

“Jane.”

“Which also took out Mary Jane.”

“Erica.”

“Charlotte.”

“Bobby, which took away ‘Bobbie’.”

“Sandra.”

Dean wrinkled his nose, prompting you to roll your eyes.

“Right, right - Sandy, and we even would’ve been fine with Anne.”

“I haven’t named any of them Sandra or Anne,” Sam pointed out.

“No, but you did name that fire-engine-red cocker spaniel, the one that wouldn’t stop crawling into my lap, Anna - which was a real cute move, by the way,” Dean shot back.

“We’d already 86′d Anna, on your request, and I still haven’t heard that whole story,” you said, jabbing a finger into Dean’s chest before jabbing it in the air at Sam.

“The one that really pissed me off? And I get to be pissed off because of the disaster that currently ismy—”

“Whoa!” Dean interjected.

You gave him brief but pointed side-eye before getting back to fussing at Sam.

“Millie. You took Millie. And she was an adorable dachshund, an absolute doll, but, I mean, come on.”

The tone of your voice had changed, leaving the realm of good-natured teasing and stepping into something akin to disappointment. It wasn’t lost on Sam, who looked to his shoes, swallowing. Then he let his gaze drift to the bassinet, keeping it there even as you went on, though now with gentle care.

“But I get it. We get it.”

“Get what?”

“That menagerie of furry fluff. Thinking they’re it. Only kids you’ll ever have.”

Sam was completely focused, spellbound by the rise-and-fall of the tiny, striped-blanket-bundle’s easy breaths.

Dean’s voice now, definitely deep, definitely serious, definitely one of the subtle variations Sam valued above all the rest, the slightly scolding one that hid a bottomless well of love.

“Can’t know the future, Sammy. I know sometimes we have, but…. nothing’s in stone. I sure as hell didn’t picture this for me. Ever.”  

He nodded - it was true, just didn’t feel like it.

“And even if it was? Written in stone? Find another big-ass hammer, grenade launcher, whatever - lay waste, kiddo,” you added. 

The baby suddenly jolted herself with a sneeze, causing a reciprocal jolt across her audience. She shifted a little, smacked her lips a few times, didn’t show the first indication of waking up, that anything in her brand new world was even slightly out-of-sorts. Her uncle briefly thought on the realization of how hard he’d fight to keep her in such a place as he brought his eyes back to her parents.

And was surprised to find them grinning.

“What?”

“Check out her bracelet,” Dean said.

Sam looked to you, received a nod.

“Go ahead. She won’t notice.”

She didn’t, but did get a hell of a grip on a finger of the hand that moved her arm, so he slid the bracelet around with a few fingers of his free hand. Sam fought his own grin as he tucked her arm back under the blanket. Well, mostly - he opted to leave her hand out, let the grip remain for as long as she was willing to hold on to him, then raised an eyebrow at his shoulder-shaking, snickering brother.

Dean kept it up as he edged to the head of the bed, scooting in next to you best he could in the cramped space, quieting only when he let his eyes close, no need to see as he tilted on his side, laced his fingers through yours like he’d done a million times before, the metal of matching angel-blessed bands briefly clinking.

“So your nurse… she was in on this?”

You shrugged.

“The father’s name - that part was 100% true.”

Eyes still closed, Dean briefly gave a thumbs-up, took your hand again, went back to his dozing.

You shook your head at him a little, though a smile was on your face as you went on.

“She’s the whole package, my man.” 

Sam smiled, too.

“Yeah. I noticed that.”

“Thought you might.”

“Speaking of thoughts, what made you think of it? Not the prank, I mean—”

“Turns out, my great-grandmother had a nice, simple, easily pronounceable, no-brainer spelling, peach of a maiden name.”

“And the story on this middle name?”

“She’ll prove herself worthy.”

“Hardy-har-har.”

“It was the first name on both our lists…”

Even in the dim light, you saw his eyes go shiny.

“…and, we hedged our bets - figured even if you ran out of ideas, you’d never name one of your fluffs after yourself. Thought we’d do it for you.”

Author’s Note: If you genuinely liked this & kinda wanna re-blog it, but you don’t care for my snark as related to my deep-seated loathing of domesticated Winchesters, I made this into a legit, polished, proper, puppy gif included post that lives right HERE. 

* ~ * The hell is this about? * ~ * See Nash REALLY Write * ~ * 

ASKS FOR THIS ARE CLOSED…. I mean, unless it’s super-killer.

(And IF SO, no more “sweetheart”, as pleased as I am at that apparent Pavlovian response at the sight of my name.)

[dcadlynv-blog]

Where: Hotel California, room 203 When: June 24 2017 Who: Self-para Watch Out: Triggers for anxiety, bullying, violence, fire and burning, claustrophobia, and some mild gore.

Isabora was the nicest of them, but also the oldest, and so it had its own special sting, a needle that hurt more because it was blunter. It was a grade-school open secret. No one ever said it to her face; that was against the rules, and anyway, she was the kind of weak that made her tattle, ruin everything for everyone, keep everyone inside for recess. It’s Isabora’s fault. 

That should have stopped hurting by now. The skin should have thickened, scabbed and then scarred over. Nothing should be able to hurt anymore, or at least, not that. What the fuck. What the fuck. 

What the fuck.

What the fuck, Isadora observed to herself. Her purse she left on the desk, but her phone was still in her hand, always. The room was dim, moody. Atmospheric. She was fussing around for the flashlight to get a better look. I can see the seams in the wall.

It was marbled, fake marbled, like you saw in clubs or restaurants, in the background of photos of a night out. Isadora dragged her finger down the place where one seam met the other, her acrylic catching on a flaw in the join. She sighed. Well, the liquor was free--even though her mouth was already starting to dry up. Her nose wrinkled. The air in here was dry, drier than the outside for sure. There was an electric fire place going somewhere, too, or else a white noise thing.

It was the pop of the pillow case catching that made her turn. Bedding is supposed to be flame-fucking-retardant, she found herself thinking. Is this Belial--I mean, War ... does he still do that kind of shit? He’d put a fire in his top three--she’d have preferred the man (she could handle that) or the murder (also that, provided it wasn’t her grabbing the shower curtain or whatever, her blood swirling down the iconic drain)--but how on earth would Ms. Thomas have known that he’d make that flippant comment and prep this so quick? It was like an effect, right--but it looked real, and--

The pillow split in the heat, releasing a gasp of feathers or filling or whatever it was. One landed on Isadora’s wrist, a little orange ember gently brushing skin, and she swore, leaping back, snatching up her purse. 

It’s a real fire. That’s a fucking real fire. 

There was now a list of shit to do: one, go and fucking warn people, especially her people. Two, gtfo. Three, put something on this--

“Watch--!” Isadora exclaimed, but bit off the end of the word. “What--” 

The fuck. His silent, icy glare finished for her. He was in his brown leather jacket, the one that made him look like an old school aviator. He was the same age she was right now, but it was like a superimposition over another version, the version she remembered him best at: a fresh fourteen, the oldest boy in eighth grade by way of a September birthday. He was looking at her like he had found her on the bottom of his shoe. She wanted to tell him that the aviator jacket was a bad choice, buddy, he looked like a poser and there was acne on his neck; but baby Isadora had had three separate CD mixes that she’d made for him, one for each stage of unrequited puppy love. She’d found the second one abandoned under the gym bleachers after a basketball game. The last one wasn’t for giving.

Isadora gaped. “Liam--?” 

 “Mm-hm,” he said. That was all he said. He looked away, like he was pretending he couldn’t hear her. 

Izzy, but also Snizzy: snitch plus Izzy. It’s followed her for years now. Despera-dora. Ignora-dora. Kids were pretty clever. College was worse: the same kids but drunk and mean, eager to impress one another with just how mean they could get. She had a strange, complicated name. Hi, I’m Izzy. Hi, I’m Izzy. She says it like that--just like that--in the mirror. I know, right? Super weird. Hi, I’m fucking socially awkward. 

I’m wearing a giant sock as a dress! Oh, right, I forgot about that! Oh my God! 

Her mind jittered, tearing like a bad quality video. Liam was always the good one, who made everyone else include her--overemphasizing, she realized later, so everyone knew that he was doing this to be good, because that was what good meant. He didn’t want to either, but fair was fair. But at the time she’d thought it was a mark of character. His pity was actually an opening.

He did not seem to notice the fire. “Move,” she said, ready to shove his skinny ass aside, but he managed to meander so he was in her way again, looking at her like she had gotten in his way. 

“Move,” Isadora repeated, reaching, shoving, nearly clawing. The fire blazed hot against her back.

“Wow,” Liam said, and she could feel it, his disbelief and his instant acceptance, of course, this was just like Izzy to be like that, she was never really all that grateful for being included. It wasn’t really being included, Isadora wanted to scream at him. Fuck the fuck off. 

“She makes it all about her,” said a voice, a familiar, female voice, young, too. Fifteen, sixteen? Dianna Scarfeld, on math team, you wouldn’t think anyone could be a mathlete Queen Bee, but she was and she was competitive. Her best friend, Margot Nguyen, also competitive, with everything, and never seemed to forget when Isadora placed above her in state. Margot would look at Izzy and smile. Isadora could see her thoughts projected through her tight professionalism: she took my medal from me, even though it was only third place. That was my scholarship.

Margot leaned into Dianna’s ear and whispered, “I know. It’s really tiring. We all work hard. I think the judges just felt sorry for her.” 

“I wish she hadn’t gotten Ms. Anya fired,” said another voice. The girl with the pink streaks in her hair and a fanciful name. Andromeda or something. “Ms. Anya just wanted it to be special.”

“It wasn’t for her, anyway.” Ms. Anya, sucking on a Dum-Dum, her ponytail high on her head. Her back was turned so that the word STAFF, in red, was facing Isadora. “Send postcards, okay? But don’t talk about it at lights out. This is just between us. If you laugh, you’ll give it away.”

“I’m done with her.” A young man in black formal wear and a blue bow-tie. He was talking to a young woman with a messy bun knobbed on the top of her head. He’d said no to prom without saying no, by pretending to get a call from his mom when she could see that his screen was blank. “God, I was just so done. Learn to talk to people, geez. Stop following me around. I just wanna get laid. I can’t do that if I’m fucking babysitting all the time. I wish I didn’t have to be so nice.” 

Like an auxiliary system kicking in after a thirty second delay, Isadora snapped. “Fuck you, too, then!” Isadora snatched at his sleeve--his name was Jordan, Jory, something like that?--but when she tugged him her way, he tugged back, harder, glaring with such withering disdain that Isadora froze. He slipped from her grasp like a fish. 

“Um, who’s this?” Her roommate’s brow crinkled. She stepped forward, closing the distance between him and Isadora, and he winnowed away into the the crowd. There was a crowd of people now. 

Isadora stared wide-eyed at her. Veronica? She looked older, but the same as Isadora had seen her last: baggy sweatshirt, smeared late-night eyeliner, oversized hipster glasses. Isadora had snagged those, once, mistaking them for her own sunnies, and found out that they were fake. Just clear lenses, no prescription. She couldn’t seem to see Isadora clearly now. She squinted at her and then shrugged. She walked away, replaced by, of all people, an aunt. Tia Blanca of the very small pursed lips and shawls for Sunday Mass; Tia Marisol of the Ugg boots at forty-five. They were bickering, in Spanish, over how shameful it must be for their brother. 

The fire took the whole bed now, lighting it up like a bonfire and sending the smoke billowing up in black gusts into the night sky. The ceiling was gone. In its place was a large, glowing LED billboard, cycling through three different ads. There were people, rows and rows of people, standing or slowly milling through, like a conveyor belt, patiently winding their way through so that Isadora could get a good listen to whatever they were saying. She knew, like she had always known, that they were definitely talking about her. 

What the fuck, Isadora thought. I’m in Times Square. People were really digging in, now. Sinners she knew from the board or from the congregations she had led or spoken to. People whose faces she couldn’t see--anonymous users, followers online, maybe, represented as their vague avatars or as mere presences. Maybe that’s the end of Ms. Thomas’ budget, Isadora thought. She’s gotta bring in the rando extras now. Whenever she tried to plow through, someone stepped in her way, forcing her back towards the flames. Her mouth was dried up, glued shut by dehydration, and the heat from the fire was still somehow real.

Because the rest of this shit was not. 

What the fuck, on a loop in her head, louder and louder. This was too much. She could feel it, fresh as it ever had been: that disappointment, that disgust, that confusion--like it was her fault no one could get her, like they’d done all that they could and then that was it, who could do more, who could blame them? 

“I’ve fucking done this before!” Isadora screamed. It wasn’t to them. “I’ve done this! I’ve won already! What the fuck!”

Her voice broke on the end. She was crying, but not really. No water left for tears, but something was scratching her eye viciously. When she rubbed at it, it was her false eyelash, come unstuck. She ripped one off first, then the other one. Her hands were streaked with gray--mascara or ash? Hard to say. 

“This isn’t real,” she said, and realized then that she’d been repeating that to herself, over and over, for a long time--that it almost didn’t matter, that it was almost worse because it wasn’t reality but it still had the power to hurt her, to make her angry, to make her small. The people around her were trapping her here, she’d die in this fire. 

It didn’t need to be real, that was the shitty part. It had never needed to be real. Shame and pain and fear would happily exist without cause, they didn’t need food or fuel, they didn’t mind an technical absence of reality. That was a small and unnecessary detail, and it would hurt her as much as the flames licking at her flesh. Pain of the body versus pain of the mind. 

“I’ve done this before, you bullshit nightmare bitch!” Isadora railed into the face of a L’Oreal model, mounted high above a massive CVS--an Instagirl who had gotten into a Twitter fight with her and lost. “What do I have to do to win for fucking good? What’s fucking good enough for you?”

No one turned. She couldn’t get their attention by screaming at them, or appealing to them, or giving them things or taking them away. When had that ever made a difference? It wasn’t enough. Why did she always compete, why did she always act like it was a puzzle to solve or a task to surmount, especially one she believed she’d already completed? 

What the fuck? More unlikely than the fire, than the Apocalypse, than anything else--why had none of what had happened to her made her proof against this kind of attack? 

I’ve got to get out of here. Another thought grew, ballooning in importance. She had to get out. It didn’t matter how. 

If they were going to look at her like this, then she was going to give them a reason.

She grabbed on to the body gliding past hers and clung to him, digging her nails into his flesh through his sleeves. Of course. Of course. He struggled, and she kicked him in the shins with the point of her stiletto. He yelped, the sound jarring and familiar, and his weight was suddenly unsteady, unbalanced. She swung him around, as if dancing. 

She shoved Luke into the fire. 

He didn’t stay there long. He felt like a brand in her hands, but she wrenched him back out, his suit jacket and trousers in flames, and Isadora pushed him onward, stumbling and screaming through the crowd, which parted for them now, shocked and horrified by the fire. She would not have much time; she didn’t know how they thought, maybe they’d turn out to have all the reasonable faculties of real human people. Some of them were screaming. 

Luke certainly was. He was clawing at her, scratching her bare arms, struggling for freedom. She was not looking at his face, and he was not looking at hers, violently jerking his head away so that he could pretend she was not there. She was not really breathing in through her nose. She did not want to smell Ms. Thomas’ undoubtedly hyper-real presentation of burning flesh. When she let go, it was like she was the one on fire. The burning body scrambled away, parting the last row of people as they screamed and staggered back. 

Isadora sprinted through the hole. One shoe was broken and slipped out beneath her; only desperation kept her upright. She felt her last remaining heel sink into something, she felt a sudden give under her weight, like popping a balloon made out of meat. She wrenched open the door and fell into the hallway. Her lungs swelled, pressing against her ribs from the inside. Air, air. She’d forgotten what air smelled like, what it felt like, how fucking good it felt. She tumbled to her knees.

Inside her room, people were crowding around Luke. Isadora grabbed the handle, fumbling with the lock, leaving black smears wherever she touched. She pulled it shut, hard. It clicked. 

She did not test the lock. She did not fall to pieces, or start laughing, or even get to her feet.

She threw up, instead, and that actually kind of helped.

They were just names. Her dad always liked to say that. People were full of talk, yak yak yak. Your mother and I thought it was a wonderful project. You were thorough, that’s all. Kids don’t have patience. The only people who are bored are the boring ones! Don’t mind them, Isadora. 

He never called her Izzy. I named you Isadora, it’s your beautiful name. Did I name you Izzy? No. 

Just do whatever you like. It’s what you do that counts.