#all I see is the hate and pain and suffering of the Dark Side

[shadow211e]

Rise of the Goth

Victoria had been having issues at school, really she had been having issues since she was a kid, always feeling out of place. Not fitting in where others would easily be apart of a crowd. Sure she knew that was high school but now in college it almost felt like the same thing. She attended one of the states largest schools, it had a huge campus, over 25k students attending, so she had to feel like something was there for her. And she thought she had found it, she started in a few clubs, met some really amazing people, and even started to date this nice guy. They were happy for 4 months, the longest she had ever been with someone. And until a week ago that was the best thing for her. Then her former bully from school, Amber had started to seem to be circling around her more. She noticed Amber on her way to classes, hanging around dorms and she had no clue why. Until one afternoon she was walking out of class and saw Amber making out with a guy, it was more than making out, Amber was straddling the guy on a bench and kissing him, it was so close to being lewd. Then she noticed his shirt, it was a shirt she had bought her boyfriend, then Amber flipped her hair back and she saw him, her boyfriend happily cupping Amber's tits and looking up at her with the goofy grin. Victoria screamed, Josh looked over in a shock, he pushed Amber to the side, stumbling to get to her, he was trying to explain, trying to tell her it wasn't what she thought. Josh was followed by Amber who pulled out her phone to show a weeks worth of pictures of her and Josh. Victoria started to put things together. She screamed again and stormed off. There was a laughter that just lingered in Victoria's head, the laughter of Amber, the bitchy, spoil, self centered laughter and it burned into her. 2 days she ghosted calls from Josh, she never wanted to hear his voice again, never wanted to see his face, or feel his touch. She hated him, she hated him for giving into the blonde menace. And she wanted revenge on her. She felt anger, she felt hate, and until she could calm down it boiled inside her. Another 2 days and Josh finally got the hint, he stopped calling, he unfriended her on all socials. Victoria could only sit and watch as her world started to fall apart. She had what she thought was everything and now she had nothing. Then the dreams started. The first night of dreams it was just blackness. The second night, was blackness but she felt like something was moving around her. She woke up in a cold sweat. Night three, she heard laughter around her, walking around her, stalking her. She screamed into the darkness and whatever it was laughed back more. Night four, she felt nothing, she was alone in the dark. Night five, she felt the presence again. Night six, she could feel something touch her but she turned to look and it was gone. Night seven, was when she saw something emerge from the dark.

"What are you?" The voice was weird, like someone talking in water, "I am desire, I am darkness, I am here to help, if you wish it." "Why would you help me?" "Why wouldn't I? You are hurt, you are in pain, and I can help ease your pain and suffering." "How would you do that?" "I'd give you the means to help yourself, to transfer that pain to someone else." "I wouldn't wanna do that. No one deserves to be hurt. Can't you just take the pain away?" "Like energy or matter, it can not be destroyed it can be changed or exchanged." Victoria was listening but not really understanding, she tried to follow along but said "I guess." "Who hurt you?" "My boyfriend, that slut Amber." "And what if I could help you hurt your boyfriend, and make Amber never be able to hurt you again?" She bit her lip, thinking about this, she could feel her heart racing. "Has this been you the whole time in my dreams?" "Yes and no, my family, they have tried to visit, but only the one of use who could help would be the one you could see," the being said, lying to her of course. But in Victoria's state of sadness and anger she would believe almost anything. "Fine if I let you help me, what will happen?" "You just have to wake up, and you will see some changes in your life and then some more changes over the next day and then we can talk about your ex and your friend." "Amber isn't my friend." "Of course, my mistake, now are we agreed?" "Yes fine." The being reached out to shake her hand, Victoria took it, felt a burning sensation in her palm and gasped as she woke up. The sun was out and she looked around, "what the fuck" she said then heard her voice, it was different, more sultry and alluring. She looked down and noticed her body was different.

Her breasts had grown, and there were tattoos on her arms, her hips were a little wider and she had an ass, not a flat one but actual curves. It was amazing, she was excited. What she should have been was scared at the fact something was able to change her like this. But this wasn't what was on her mind. What was on her mind was revenge. She started think of a plan, she could go after her ex, but Josh would be too easy to ruin, the minute she called, he would come running to talk to her, to apologize. She knew that wouldn't be too much fun. Instead she set her sights on Amber, that would be more of a hunt, something worthwhile and someone who would be torn down to the very ground she thought she owned just for being alive. She had a feeling by tonight she would be ready. Across Campus

Amber was in the sorority house getting ready for another beautiful day. She had blonde hair, big tits and the perfect look for luring men into her grasp. She did it all through high school and even more in college. She had 3 different boyfriends, all who would give her anything she wanted just because she hot and they could be around one of the hottest girls on campus. Of course they didn't know she was dating other guys, some of the sorority sisters knew of course but to them they thought it was funny how easily Amber could control men. She rolled over in her bed, and texted each of the guys, telling them she was awake, telling them she wanted to go shopping today to buy some surprise naughty stuff for their upcoming dates. Each one sent her at least 100 bucks, because that's what she asked for. Josh sent her 150 because he was the newest guy she was seeing and he was trying to make her want him, he was worried after his last girlfriend and him broke up that Amber was going to dump him too, so he sent more to make sure she was staying with him. Amber laughed at all these boys sending money. She got out of bed and started to get ready to go shopping, she wasn't spending her money of course, which made it so much more fun. Across Campus

Hours later and Victoria was feeling herself changing more. It was thrilling, she was becoming hotter, and felt like she was becoming more powerful as well. She moved in front of the mirror and smirked at her new look.

She found her clothes changed, new tattoos formed and everything just gave her a new look on life. Victoria that girl who was walked all over was gone. Vicki was here to stay. She felt this weird sense of knowledge in her mind, that Amber was leaving to go to the mall, she also seemed to know Josh was at his dorm hard at work. She licked her lips, a trip to the mall was in order. Her prey was going to be there. At the mall, Vicki could sense Amber now, she was close. It only took her a few minutes to start to shadow her. Walking through the halls, no one seemed to notice the hot gothic chick stalking this bubbly sorority slut. All eyes were on Amber of course. Rage filled Vicki and she knew the time to strike was now. Amber was walking into a dressing room, Vicki moved in behind her, pushing her against the wall. "What the fuck, you bitch get off me." Vicki's eyes blackened for a second, "No, you're mine," and leaned in and kissed Amber. Vicki felt Amber fight back against the kiss for about a second or two before she started to kiss back. Amber moaned as Vicki moved back and smiled. "Who are you?" Amber asked, feeling light headed, looking at the woman who forced her into a kiss. Vicki smiled, something wicked in her heart and she stared "I am your new mistress, you can fight it, but in a few days you will be all mine." "Fuck you," she said but there was no real feeling behind it, Amber couldn't seem to put the normal strong emotion behind the yell. She pushed past the gothic girl and ran out to her car to head back to the sorority. Amber couldn't stop thinking of the girl, she didn't even know the chick's name, she wanted to call the cops, wanted to claim assault but would anyone believe it? She was so upset she cancelled her date with Derek, and texted the other 2 guys that she wasn't feeling that well and that she would be turning in early and not to text her until she texted them back. She talked to the sisters in the group chat, saying she was feeling ill and wouldn't be able to do her mandatory chores tonight and maybe tomorrow but she would take over for another girl if they were willing to swap for a few days. A couple girls agreed and Amber rolled over into a deep sleep for the night. The next day Amber woke up in a sweat, the goth girl kissing her, just played over and over in her mind. She went over to find some meds to help her relax when she saw herself in the mirror.

Amber was shocked. Tattoos, dark hair, what the fuck was happening to her. This wasn't who she was. She brought her fingers up to her lips, touching them as she kept thinking about the kiss, and noticed her nails were black too. She wanted to scream, wanted to yell but something in her mind kept saying she was Mistress's Toy. Amber was even more scared, thoughts of being with another girl were never something she wanted but now thinking of the goth girl was getting her wet. She wanted to be touched, held, kissed by her Mistress.....no she couldn't think like that, she wasn't like that. That wasn't her. She had to stay hidden in her room, away from people, this will go away, or she would have to figure out what was happening to her. She pulled out her laptop and started to look up things. Trying to figure this out. Later that Evening

The music at the club was thumping. The bass was beating through the bodies of all the people on the dance floor. Vicki was dancing but off to the side, she was watching the crowd. She was waiting to see the man she texted earlier. She had texted Josh, telling him she was going to be at the club, which was a shock to him, but she said this was his one chance to talk to her.

Of course she was never going to talk to him, at least not as Victoria, that version of her was gone. What she was going to do was flirt with him, tease him. He wouldn't have any clue who she was. She was going to make him obsessed with her but was never going to let him have her. It wasn't that difficult either, he was like a moth to the flame as soon as she winked at him from the side of the room. There were already a lot guys eyeing her up and down, but when he was winked at, he thought she was into him. She laughed as she kept flirting with other guys knowing how easy it was to break him. It wasn't even going to take her a night. Another wink and Josh had sent her a drink. Another wink and he meekly walked over to talk to her. She walked away with another guy, but kept eye contact like she was showing that she wasn't into the well dressed man. Josh had no clue he was on her hook and that thrilled her even more. After teasing close to a dozen men that night, Vicki headed home, feeling aroused from all the sexual frustration she had caused all these men. She laid in bed, wondering how her real prize was coming. She would know by tomorrow. THE NEXT DAY

Amber woke up the next day, she looked around, and felt out of place in the sorority house. She stood up and got dressed, it was dark out and the room was pitch black. She finally turned on the light and saw her newself. She blinked and had it been a mere 2 hours prior her mind would have still been its former self, now she was merely a toy. She moved to the mirror and took a selfie, and sent it to a number that she seemed to know.

She sent a message. "Mistress, your toy is ready, how do I look?" Vicki got the message, staring at the new gothic beauty. She smiled, "Such a good toy, come to Mistress." Amber got up, walking out the room and out of the sorority house, she knew in her mind and body where to go. It took her about 20 mins to walk there but soon she arrived. Vicki smiled, "You look perfect my dear." "Thank you," she bowed and stepped part Vicki into the house, starting a new life as a toy to be used.

[ncfan-1]

God, yes. Not for a single moment has Sol’s death ever felt like a triumphant moment to me. It feels inevitable the way the climax of a Greek tragedy is inevitable. He had so many opportunities to save himself from the death that was coming for him and he didn’t take any of them, because taking them would necessitate him doing the thing he could never do, which was truly confront and reckon with his past wrongdoings, which in turn he could not do because he was so crippled by guilt that he couldn’t even look at his wrongdoings long enough to take responsibility for them.

And the other reason it feels inevitable and tragic is because of Osha. Osha, whom it becomes increasingly clear over the course of the show is a powder keg of pressurized negative emotions just waiting for a spark to set it all off, and her finding out that Sol was her mother’s killer and had deceived her about everything for the past sixteen years was that spark. When she kills him, it’s the culmination of her life falling the fuck apart as she’s forced to confront the fact that everything she thought she knew for the past sixteen years was a lie. She looks at him and think: you killed my mother, you lied to me, you let me think I was the problem, you let me love you knowing you had my mother’s blood on your hands. You lied to me and told me my sister was responsible for it all, and you stood there and watched as my grief and my hate and my guilt and self-loathing for not being able to stop loving her even as I hated her so much ate me alive, and all of it was a lie, all of it was for nothing, I spent sixteen years hating my sister for nothing! And maybe we could have reconciled, maybe we could have been a family again, but maybe we won’t be, maybe we never can be anymore, not because she killed our family, but because I’ve said and done things to her that she might never forgive me for, because of the lies you told me about her! And now you try and tell me you love me?! For sixteen years, I would have given anything to hear you say that you loved me, and you never did, but now you can say it, now that I know you have my mother’s blood on your hands? Only now?!

Osha killing Sol is not a moment of triumph. Osha killing Sol is the final destruction of her life as she has known it, her completely succumbing to her rage and grief, and I don’t think her rage or her grief will ever let go of her again. Because if there’s anything we know about Osha, it’s that she cannot let go of anyone she has ever loved. She spent sixteen years loving and hating Mae in equal measure, and hating herself just as much as she hated Mae for not being able to stop loving Mae even in the face of everything she “did,” and now, it’s going to be the same way with Sol. She will love and hate Sol in equal measure, and she will hate herself just as much as she hates him for not being able to stop loving him, even in the face of everything he did to her.

As long as Osha remains on the Dark Side, she will never be free. The Dark Side is like a hall of mirrors that shows you nothing but yourself. There is no healing within it, no truth. The path she is on at the end of the show can only lead her to further pain. I cannot imagine a second season of The Acolyte that did not portray Osha as completely embittered, constantly going back to pick at the sites of her old wounds, just completely fucking miserable, because it’s the natural progression from where she goes at the end of the first season. How is that triumphant? Osha is now a pressurized powder keg of bitterness and self-loathing; how is that triumphant?

And I… actually can buy that Qimir’s interest in Osha might be reciprocated, but omitting the kiss scene (which I guess would have taken place at the end after they got back to the unnamed planet) was definitely the right call, because it would have been so incredibly tonally dissonant with everything that happened in that episode. That last scene with Osha and Qimir feels so incredibly uneasy and ambivalent, because Osha does indeed look completely embittered, and Qimir… Qimir actually does look a bit uneasy, at least to my eyes?

My take is that in getting Osha to agree to be his acolyte, Qimir has sown the wind, and does not yet appreciate that he must reap the whirlwind. I looked at him and thought “My dude, do you really think you’re safe? She killed Sol, who was basically her father, with straightforward determination when she found out what he did. And following that, she embraced the harmfully self-oriented mindset of the Dark Side and agreed to let her sister be completely screwed over and thrown to the wolves to ensure her own escape. These are people whom she has known and loved for so long, and as for you, Osha’s had head colds that have lasted longer than she’s known you, so do you really think you’re safe?”

Like, Osha might turn out to be a lot better at this Dark Side thing than Qimir is prepared to deal with. I could definitely buy the eventual romance, but I feel like it would have been a textbook destructive romance, because that’s the natural place for things to go from here. And as for Qimir, he has 100% bitten off way more than he can chew with Osha.

Osha joining the Dark Side was a triumphant moment.

The writer of the Acylote said that is how we're supposed to feel:

"You want to feel Osha’s triumph. You want to feel her joining forces with The Stranger...Even though they are standing there, looking out at the sunset, ready to conquer the world, the tragedy is we know they don’t."

Note: the tragedy is NOT that a lot of people died, but that the two can't be together (because of Plagueis). (interview here)

Now, if that doesnt absolve villains of their bullshit, I dont know what does.

Let me try inserting some other fictional baddies.

"You want to feel Walter White's triumph. You want to feel him joining forces with the Nazis......Even though they are standing there, looking out at the desert, ready to conquer the world, the tragedy is we know they don’t."

"You want to feel the Frey's triumph. You want to feel them joining forces with the Boltons. ...Even though they are standing there, looking out over the Red Wedding, ready to conquer the world, the tragedy is we know they don’t."

"You want to feel Anakin's triumph. You want to feel him joining forces with Palpatine. ...Even though they are standing there, looking out at the burning Jedi temple, ready to conquer the world, the tragedy is we know they don’t."

[deathbxnny]

Arcane characters saying things they'll regret during an argument with you. | Vi, Caitlyn, Jinx, Ekko, Sevika x Gn!Reader

(Part two)

Because if I can't be happy, then neither can you./j✨️

Content: Alcoholism, spoilers for season 2, heavy angst, toxic behavior, cursing, established romantic relationships, potential mentions of cheating, gaslighting/ manipulation, probably ooc idk, sfw

Reader has no set pronouns.

((Not proofread))

》VI

You hated the cycle she had trapped herself in. It was never-ending and beyond self-destructive. For a while, you tried to get her out of it by attempting to reason with her, show her the light, tell her that everything is going to be okay and to just stop with the senseless fighting. But then the heavy, out of control drinking began, and she became unrecognizable to you.

She barely spent time with you, and when she did, then it was due to an extreme hangover that you had to nurture her through before the next fight began. You were so sick of it. You couldn't take the state she was in anymore. You wanted your girlfriend back but didn't want to suffer anymore as a result of it. And so, you tried one last time to snap her out of it.

"Hey, uhm... can we talk?" You ask nervously whilst peering at her from the doorway into her room. The roaring of the crowd and indistinguishable words of the announcers buzzed over your heads, reminding you of the timelimit you had to do this right. Vi didn't turn to you and instead focused on smearing the black paint over her eyes, a dark gaze glance cast your way at your meek plea. "Make it quick. I got 10 minutes before I have to be out there again."

You took a deep breath and tried to ignore the coldness in her tone. It was so odd, so not like her. "Vi... I... I need you to stop this. I understand your pain. I really do, I... get it. But this isn't right. You're practically killing yourself here, and I can't take that anymore-" "-This topic again? I told you to fucking drop it already." She hissed with a shake of your head and something about that made you finally snap. "I care about you Vi! That's why I'm doing all of this shit for you. No one else would do as much as I did. Why can't you see that? What the hell happened to you-" Your voice was cut off by her hand slamming into a nearby wall, anger written all over her face that made you flinch away instinctively.

You had never been scared of her before and this just broke your heart further.

"Shut up! You haven't done shit for me, except for pissing me off and whining and crying about every little thing I do! How about you fuck off and leave me the hell alone instead!? The only person who ever did shit for me is Cait and look how that turned out!" Silence. Deafening silence. Except for Vi's heavy breathing. You were rendered speechless. All the years you've spent with her at her side even as children flashed through your mind, before it all stilled and went cold. Your gaze hardened, and you nodded slowly, turning away wordlessly to do as she asked. You understood now. You were always the second choice in the end.

Vi seemed to only notice that you've left once she heard her name being called from the ring above. And her heart sunk at the realisation that this time, you wouldn't be there to watch her win.

And so she didn't.

��CAITLYN

Zaun was becoming a sensitive and dangerous topic to bring up around her. Even the slightest mention of it made her face harden and earn you a dismissive hand waving all of your protests away. It also didn't help that she was pulling away from you and instead getting closer to a certain red-headed officer of hers. It was frustrating and so exhausting to deal with, on top of all the grief that hung over your heads constantly. It was driving you mad. Nothing you said got through to her.

It wasn't a secret that you disapproved of the war and the alliance with Ambessa. You could look right through her, see with a clear mind that she was up to no good. Whatever she had planned wouldn't bring either nation anything but more plight. This wasn't the right way to go about things. It wasn't humane. The people she hated were no different from you both. But she just couldn't see it the same way, her judgment clouded heavily by her need for revenge on Jinx. A singular person had shifted her perception about a whole group of people... and it was becoming suffocating. You couldn't recognize her anymore.

You were trying to find the right time to finally confront her about it fully, and thankfully, the opportunity came up one evening whilst she was going through paperwork in her office. You were pacing nervously around the room, trying to find the courage to speak your mind, but she beat you to it. "If you have something to say, then say it. I have work to do and can not be disturbed like this." She muttered, eyes focused on the sea of papers before her rather than your stilling form. Very well, she asked for it. "I... want this war to end. This isn't right."

Her hand froze before she hummed and resumed her task. "I thought we had moved on from this topic." She said calmly, not betraying how clearly irritated she was becoming. But you couldn't give up now. You'd go crazy if you did. "Caitlyn. There is no moving on from it if people are going to die as a consequence! How could you ever look away from that? Why can't you see that this is wrong? Why can't you see that Ambessa-" You stepped towards her grand desk with every word, hands coming down to push the paper she was holding away from her face. You just wanted her to finally look at you again after so long. "-Is playing with your mind!" "Enough. Don't you dare say another word."

The Kirammann stood up and towered over you, a strong hand grabbing onto your arm with a sharp shake that surprised you. Had the grief taken over her mind this badly? So much so that she couldn't see how much this was hurting you to lose her? "I demand you see reason and stop sympathizing with those treacherous animals... unless you want me to see you as one of them as well." "You think I'd betray you?" You breathed, and suddenly the realisation that you had lost her for good finally sunk in. You needed to go. Now.

Caitlyn's face sobered up at your question, yet before she could say a thing, her dear officer Nolan stepped in with a report in hand. Seeing the position you two were in, she nervously tilted her head. "Oh, my apologies, am I disturbing you-?" "-Not at all. In fact, I'm the one who's disturbing YOU. My apologies for that." Ripping your arm out of her gloved hand, you pushed past the girl and rushed out of the room.

Your girlfriend watched you disappear down the dark hallway before she straightened up and gave the officer a curt nod to go ahead with her report. But it was hard to listen to a word she was saying when Caitlyn's head was replaying the memory of your teary, heartbroken eyes over and over again.

》JINX

She didn't care about her life anymore. That was clear as day, and unfortunately, your relationship was suffering because of it. You knew that Silco's death had killed her inside, that his absence left her lost and confused. But you were so desperate to keep her together. So much so that you were practically destroying yourself for her well-being. Eventually, this boiled over when she was beginning to pull away from you. You, who had always been there. You, who she always cringed onto and begged to stay with her. You only had eachother now. It was impossible to think about a life without her now.

The unhinged spark in her eye had faded away and was replaced by an empty shell of what it once was. That scared you more than you'd like to admit. "Jinx... what are you thinking of?" You asked her one night whilst you quietly snuk around the dark lanes of your home. She didn't respond at first, and your eyes were focused on the back of her hooded head, wondering if she even heard you. But you know she had, when she came to a sudden stop. "... I... I think we should part ways, sweetheart. This ain't gonna go over well forever." She said in that hauntingly calm voice you've grown to hate. And you'd be lying if you said that you didn't see this coming.

"But why? We've always been together through everything. This isn't any different-" "-But it is! It's over! Jinx is over!" Facing you, you near flinched at her glowing, violet eyes, heart beating against your chest. She would never hurt you. You knew she wouldn't. And yet... you found yourself ever so slightly stepping away. Maybe that's what set her off in hindsight. "You're gonna leave me like everyone else anyway. Might as well beat ya to it-" "-I would never do that! What has gotten into you? You should know better than to think that-" "-You're scared of me, ain't ya?" You pressed your lips together when you realised that her mental state had gotten much worse than you expected.

She was losing it.

"In fact, I bet you're thinking of me the same way Vi does. You'll be so much happier without me. But... actually... what if you're going to backstab me like her one day?" The look on your face must've been horrific enough to sober her scrambled mind then because even she seemed to be unsure of what she's saying. And yes, you knew she wasn't doing well. You knew she was just saying things without thinking them through. But you were sick of it. So tired of it all. She could practically read your mind.

"W-wait, I'm sorry, I didn't mean that, I-" "-Okay... you're right. We truly would be better off going our separate ways." You were stepping away from her quicker now, and then you were running, your view becoming blurry and unintelligible. "WAIT NO, PLEASE DON'T LEAVE ME, I DIDN'T MEAN IT, I-" Jinx screamed after you, her breathing heavy and uneven, but she didn't go after you. She knew she had lost that right the second she opened her mouth.

You disappeared into the lanes, for the first time ever sprinting away from rather than towards her. And like the Jinx she was, she had screwed up another good thing up for herself. Perhaps deservingly this time.

》EKKO

Ekko was extremely busy with his duties lately and practically completely neglecting himself for them. It was very concerning to you and everyone, to say the least. Especially now that a war was practically forming at your front door from Piltover. And you were grateful and thankful for all he did for you. You really were. For that reason alone, you wanted him to take things easy at least sometimes to eat and sleep properly when he can. So, on the request of other members, you went to go looking for him one night before it was time for bed. He was sitting up in the tree, clearly planning to keep watch all night, like he usually did.

But you had come with a mission of your own and refused to leave until he came down to bed with you. "Ekko." You hummed as you finally reached him, a friendly smile on your lips. Balancing a nice basket of baked goods you had made yourself, you stepped towards his form that was beautifully illuminated in the moonlight. Seeing him here made you feel content and relieved since you were barely seeing each other to begin with anymore. Which you have been trying to be understanding about.

"I know what you're here for, and the answer is still no." The young man sighed with a shake of his head and frown. You weren't the first one to come by, that's for sure. "Hey... you know this isn't healthy. We're counting on you to stay strong for us, and you can't be that if you're starving yourself." You say with a slight falter to your smile, yet you tried to keep your tone playful and light. He, on the other hand, did not.

"I already told you that it's a no. Now go to bed and let me work." "But I made you these and-" "-I said, no." He hissed out, and that took you aback. He never raised his voice at you, nor did he ever have an attitude with you either. But the stress was getting to him badly, and so was the lack of sleep. "Why can't you just get that? How many times do I have to say it to get it through your thick skull? The least you could do is go and make yourself somewhat useful by patrolling, instead of wasting your time with this."

Oh, how his words cut you deep. Rationally, you knew that everything was just getting too much for him. But it didn't stop you from feeling hurt anyway, as your lip wobbled, and you slammed the basket on a nearby desk before quickly taking your leave wordlessly. Ekko froze at that and reached out to you, your name on the tip of his tongue, but the guilt stopped him from saying a thing.

"Fuck!" He cursed at himself, as he rubbed the bridge of his nose with a disappointed sigh. He definitely was losing it... and you unfortunately had to unfairly take the brunt of it.

》SEVIKA

"What did I tell you about running off when I tell you to stay put? You could have fucking died out there and then what?" Sevika was angry at you. Not that you could necessarily blame her since you did nearly get killed by an Enforcer earlier. But you had no real choice in this. You swore you didn't mean for this to happen. It was supposed to just be a quick errand run. You wanted to make her something nice for dinner, spoil her a little as a thank you for all the work she was putting into Zaun. Yet you couldn't explain any of this with the way she didn't let you even say a word now from the anger running in her veins. In fact, you had never seen her this enraged before.

"I am sick and tired of you disobeying what I tell you. I can't always be there and save you from everything, you know? I got better things to do and than to babysit you all the time-" "- I'm not asking you to do that either! I'm a grown adult, I can take care of myself!" You yelled back, absolutely angry now yourself at the way she always infantilized you like this. It always the same conversation and argument over and over again. You were so sick of it. You could handle yourself just fine and have proved this before. Yet she was so hellbent on proving you wrong every time, you couldn't take it anymore!

"I'm your partner, Sev. You're supposed to treat me like an equal." "I would, if you weren't so fucking incompetent. If I wasn't there, you would've been dead. Why can't you get that? Should I spell it out for you more? Dumb it down even more?" You hated when she was being like this. It was rare for a reason, and you despised this side of her. The side that was so prideful and egotistical. And you were trying so hard not to stoop to her level. It didn't help that you were a little injured and struggling to stand as is. "I'm not in the mood for this shit, I'm literally bleeding. Can we argue about this later, please? I just wanted to surprise you with something nice for once, and I get that I was wrong, but you don't have to be so mean about it, damn it!"

The tears in your eyes were betraying you, and the embarrassment of that just made you push past her and disappear into your shared bedroom. You'll just deal with the injury yourself. Sevika stared after you in slight surprise, considering it was rare for you to yell back like that and cry at that... but the sight of the flowers and half prepared food on the kitchen counter made the regret finally set in.

Perhaps you were right after all.

[urfavfakeblonde]

"Wₕₒ Dᵢd ₜₕᵢₛ ₜₒ Yₒᵤ?"

Based off the troupe..."who did this to you?" with the one and only Bucky Barnes. Top vote from my poll! <3

warnings: blood, violence, guns, graphic descriptions of wounds/first aid, reader has a needle phobia (so maybe I'm a little self-indulgent I'm just a girl), John Walker (I fucking hate him! <3)

I pant as I look around me, three unconscious men bleeding onto the pavement. John is just down the ally, getting repeatedly punched in gut as two men hold him, the burliest looking one smiling as he forces his fist forward. Blood trickles down my lip, body bruised and nicked by far too many knifes. This wasn't supposed to happen--like at all. I had been walking down the street after going on a solo-intel mission, leaving Sam, Bucky and Zemo at the apartment. That was until John found me after tracking my phone. He was trying to get me to reason with him, convince the boys and I to team up with him and Lamar. I rolled my eyes and waved him off, but he followed me into the alleyway anyways. Seems like someone was following him too.

I suck in a breath as my hand grazes over my side, hand covered in blood as I looked at it. "Fuck," I muttered, pulling my phone out of my pocket. It was completely cracked, the home screen flickering on before the phone let out a quiet crack! the screen going dark. I sigh, eyes peering back over at John. He was slumped on the ground, the men still throwing punches at him. I wanted to walk away, let him suffer the consequences of his own misfortune, but a voice in the back of my head told me to help. With all the energy I had left, I pull my gun from my back pocket, walking down the ally with my gun drawn at the men. "Hey, dickheads!" I yelled, pausing their beating momentarily. John weakly stands up, slipping out of the alleyway as they are distracted. "This doesn't involve you," the burley one said, rolling up his sleeves. I groan as I see John leave, rolling my eyes for believing he would clean up his own mess. "Yeah, well, you attacked me, so beat it before I put a fucking bullet in your head, yeah?" I say, clicking the safety off. The men only grin, however their antics are cut short as one of them gasps at the missing Captain America. They run out of the alleyway to search for him, a grateful sigh leaving my exhausted lips. I started to feel weak from the blood loss, placing the gun back in my pocket. Luckly, I wasn't too far from the apartment.

I quietly limp down the street, exhaling as the apartment comes into view. I could already tell what they were going to say. Sam would be concerned, Bucky would be ready to head straight back out there to beat someone's ass, and Zemo would merely smirk and drink his Turkish tea. I hobble up the steps, a painful groan leaving my lips as blood continued to seep through my shirt. I grasp the door handle, using it to keep myself upright, hand clutching my side to help contain the bleeding. The door clicks as it opens, swinging forward. I forced myself to stand up right (as well as I could), limping into the apartment. Zemo sees me first, after all he was still sitting on the couch, smirking as he sets his tea down on the coffee table. Sam sees me second, eyes growing wide as his brows furrow together. "Shit girl, what did you get yourself into?" He asks, walking over to me to help me stand. I groan as my hand slips from my wound, biting my already bleeding lip. Bucky sees me third after glancing up from pouring his drink, quickly setting the glass down on the counter. "What the hell happened?" Bucky asks, giving me a once over as Sam helps me sit up on the counter. My eyes flutter closed as my body's energy feels drained, body slumping forward slightly. Bucky catches me, pressing his hand where my hand fell off of my side. Sam heads to the bathroom to get the first aid kit, a sigh leaving his lips. "Hey, wake up sweetheart, don't fall asleep," Bucky says, lifting my chin up with his other hand, watching as my eyes try to flutter back open. I swallow, groaning as he presses tighter onto my wound. "Sam? You plan on bringing that over here anytime soon?" He asks, anger bubbling up inside him. Sam sets it down on the counter next me, popping it open as he scans the contents. He grabs the wrap of gauze, unraveling it slightly. Bucky lifts the side of my blood-soaked shirt up, a slight tick in his jaw at the sight of my wound.

Sam helps wrap it tight around my waist, a sharp cry leaving my lips as he wraps it tight. "Fuck, Sam-" I cry, tears prickling at the corners of my eyes. "Bloods soaking through too much, need to stitch it up." Sam says, grabbing the needle and thread as Bucky unravels the gauze. As Sam pulls the thread through the needle, my eyes go wide. "Hey, hey, what are you doing? You are not sticking that thing in me, absolutely not," I gasp, reaching up to Bucky's hands to tug my shirt back down. Bucky stops me from doing so, grabbing my chin to force me to look at him. "Yes, we absolutely are," he says firmly, glaring at me. I get lost in his stormy eyes, completely unaware that Sam as stuck the needle into the first stitch. However, as I realize, a sharp cry leaves my lips, tears falling down my cheeks at a rapid pace. Bucky cradles my face as he forces me to look away from the blood and needle, using his thumbs to gently wipe away my tears. "Almost done," Sam says, pulling the last thread through. Sobs racked through my body as my legs, arms, back aches in all places, eyes trying to say focused on Bucky's. As Sam wraps the gauze around me once again, Bucky lets go of my face and goes to wash his hands. Blood washes down the drain, a quiet thank you escaping my lips as Sam finishes wrapping me up. "I know you don't like needles y/n, sorry about that." He says, giving me a small smile as glances at Zemo, who has watched the whole ordeal in amusement. My bloody hands clutch the sides of the counter, swallowing as the tears stop flowing. Bucky comes over with a glass of water, picking my hand up as he places it in my hands. A silent command to drink it.

I oblige, closing my eyes as the cool liquid seeps down my dry throat. Bucky goes to wet a towel, glancing at Sam who goes to clean his hands. I set the water down, sighing quietly as Bucky comes back over. He holds my chin, dabbing the wet towel to the gash on my brow. "Who did this to you?" He asks firmly, attention still focused on the task at hand. I take a breath, tongue poking out to wet my bottom lip. "John followed me, men followed him. Guess some people don't like the new Captain America." I watch as Bucky stops his movements, lips pressed into a thin line. After searching my eyes for a moment, he returned his focus onto the wound. "Where is he," He asks, not even batting an eyelash. He was angry, it was obvious. He tried to remain calm, but I could read him like a book. "Ran off somewhere. If they hadn't noticed he slipped out when I held a gun at their heads, they probably would have tried to kill me," wincing as the cloth touched my wound. He was furious, picking up my hand to press the cloth to my bloody knuckles. "I would have killed them though," I let out a dry laugh, glancing at his focused face. "Always been good with a gun," I tease, letting out a groan as he pressed on my knuckles a little harder than needed.

"Yeah, well, I won't miss when I put a gun to John's head." He says, setting the cloth down on the counter as he heads towards the door.

[f4ggydog]

lottie x reader: no need to fight it cause you’re giving in🔞

warnings: smut, noncon, top lottie, lottie has a dick, reader has a pussy, breeding, delusional lottie, dark lottie

Lottie’s dragging you out to the clearing and the next thing you register is the sounds of trees blaring in your ears. You shake your head, wanting to put this fantasy to rest. Whatever delusion Lottie was infected by, you were begging for a halt to it. The last thing you needed was to get mixed up in her little schemes.

“I know you hear it too,” Lottie says. “Can you hear it humming in your ears?”

Humming was one way to put it. It felt more like screaming for you. You cover your ears and sink to the ground, covering your face with your knees. You shiver as a giant ball of agony and fright. Make it stop. Make it stop.

“It’s okay.” Lottie rests her hand on your shoulder. “It might hurt to hear, but you’re the only one that can…talk with it. Understand it.”

No, you are not. You’ve got no connection with the wilderness whatsoever and you wish Lottie would stop insisting that you do. Her plans were going nowhere.

“Nobody else would be able to hear that yelling besides us,” Lottie states. “I can only hear it because I’m in close proximity to you. You…you can help me connect with it again.”

When does the nightmare end?

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you mutter. “I-I’ve got no connection to anything.”

“Nonsense.” Lottie shoves your side. “You have to trust me. You’re so important right now. You have great significance. And I need you to use it.”

“Lottie, I’m not the wilderness’ advocate. I’m just a person. Really, I’m not some god or spirit. I’m just me. Just leave all this stuff behind.”

“If we don’t obey what the wilderness wants, we all die. If we don’t give it what it wants, we will all suffer. You don’t want that, do you?”

Of course you don’t. You’d hate to see any more needless deaths. You’ve barely survived consuming Javi, let alone consuming another Yellowjacket. As if devouring Jackie wasn’t harrowing enough.

“Just listen to it,” Lottie instructs tenderly. “Let the sounds of the forests fill your ears. Get immersed in your environment. Tell me how deeply you can feel.”

The forest calls out to you again. You cringe as shrieks of terror fill your ears again, along with the sound of the wind swaying the trees. A leaf falls from above. The ground feels like it’s moving. The earth feels like it’s spinning on its axis. You’re getting dizzier.

“Make it stop,” you whimper. “Make it stop, Lottie. Tell it to stop.”

“What do you hear?” Lottie ignores your request. “Tell me.”

“Screaming!” You cry out. “They won’t stop screaming. Lottie, my ears are gonna bleed! It’s just yelling!”

“It’s communicating with you, in the only way it knows how. You’re doing so well for me.”

You drop to your hands and knees, on all fours like a dog. You feel a sharp pain in your ribs and your nails dig into the dirt for something to grasp onto. More yelling echoes in your ears and your back is close to giving out. You’re not sure how much more pain you can take. Why does it feel like you’re on the verge of death?

“Excellent.” Lottie nods, a menacing smirk on her lips. “Perfect. So good.”

The screaming stops. You gasp for air, rolling onto your back and heaving. You cross your arms on your chest, blinking as you watch the blue sky.

“You make for an excellent pupil,” Lottie compliments. “You did me a big favor here.”

“I don’t think I wanna do any more favors, Lot. Can we just go back to the camp please? Everything hurts.”

“We’re not done yet. There’s still other ways that we might be able to connect to the wilderness. Together. You and me.”

“I think I’m okay.”

“You can’t refuse,” Lottie says sternly, hand cupping your cheek. “I’m not letting you go until we do this. Once we’re done, then we may return home.”

“No!” You snap, standing up and shaking dirt off of your knees. “I’m not doing this shit anymore, Lottie. I’m fucking going home. You’re fucking ridiculous, you know that?”

“You can’t.” Lottie takes big strides towards you as you back away. “You’re not going anywhere.”

“Fucking catch me then!” You taunt. “Cause I’m running. Fuck this! I’m gone!”

Lottie chases after you without hesitation. You don’t make it far before she tackles you onto the ground like a football player. She pins your hands above your head and presses her knees down on your legs.

“Good try,” she sighs. “Unfortunately, that’s not gonna cut it.”

“You’re fucking nuts,” you spit. “If you think I’m gonna let you poison me into your crazy ideology, you’ve got another thing coming!”

“Fine,” Lottie huffs. “Then it turns out I’ll really have to get you to connect with it another way. Good thing I know a strategy.”

“What does that mean?” You inquire nervously. “What the hell do you mean, Lottie?”

“You’ll see. But you’re gonna have to trust me. Can you do that?”

“No, I’m not trusting you with anything! You tried to kill me back there.”

“I didn’t try to kill you,” Lottie corrects. “I was…introducing you to something.”

“Yeah, introducing me to my grave! Fuck off. Seriously, go bother Travis. Weren’t you messing with him earlier?”

“He doesn’t bear the same connection as you.” Lottie lowers her head. “I was mistaken. Thought I knew better, which is why I need you to help me out. I need to get in touch with the wilderness and its demands again. It’s important that I reach it. For the sake of you, me and the others.”

“Lottie you’re pissing me off,” you respond. “You’re pissing me off so bad, Lottie.

“I can deal with you being upset with me. As long as you get access to the wilderness in the way I want you to, it’s worth it.”

Lottie presses her nose to your forehead.

“I know this might not be easy for you to understand, but this is why I require your trust. You’re so much more important than you realize. And I need you to understand your value.”

You’re alarmed by Lottie’s proximity and attempt to wiggle away. But her grip overpowers yours effortlessly, which is a shocker. For all you knew, the wilderness could be injecting her with extra nutrients this second to keep her bones stronger.

Lottie presses her crotch against your ass. She’s laying on top of you, her dress flowing up a bit. Her hips grind against you, her bulge becoming more prominent.

“W-What kind of lessons are this?” You stutter. “W-What does this have to do with the wilderness? Lottie, you’re making me uncomfortable.”

Lottie’s arms attach themselves around your waist.

“Our bodies,” Lottie says. “They have to touch, bare skin on bare. It’s the most intimate form of human connection. It’ll ensure your connection with the woods is thorough.”

Before you can hurl another question her way, Lottie reaches for your shorts. She tugs them down until they reach the dirt floor. Then, her hands reach for your shirt.

“I can feel it already,” Lottie purrs in your ear. “It’s so much deeper. I already feel like I’m understanding you slightly more. Are you experiencing that feeling too?”

You shake your head, swallowing your hiccups. You’re frozen with fear and you wish you had one of the other girls around to save you. You couldn’t even fully blame yourself. You didn’t purposefully follow Lottie. She took you by your hand and forced you into her world of ‘wonders.’

Her hands slip under your shirt. Her fingers tease your nipples, humming with approval. You cough, unable to wriggle out from underneath Lottie’s body. Her bulge gets harder and stiffer with every movement and you’re worried you accidentally rub your clothed cunt against her cock. The last thing you need is to entice her further.

“This is great,” Lottie rasps. “I can tell that your body’s different just from its touch. There’s magic inside of you. You’re divine, perfect for experimentation.”

What the fuck? You weren’t some sort of lab subject? Again, you fail to fight off Lottie. You attempt to roll over so that she’s the one on the ground. But Lottie planned for that course of action. She’s got every weakness of yours figured out. There’s nowhere to go, nowhere to hide from her insanity.

Lottie stops fondling your buds, reaching her hands into her underwear. She grips her cock by its heavy shaft. Her dick is so huge that even one hand isn’t enough to properly secure it. However, she doesn’t pull down her panties just yet.

Does she think you’ll pull down your undergarments first? No way. You’re not going along with her trickery. You’re smarter than this. Perhaps you still have a chance to find a path back to camp and you can tell the others what Lottie tried to do with you.

More ideas pop into your mind but none come to fruition. And the more useless thinking you do, the more time Lottie has to undress you completely.

And she does just that. Well, mostly. She rips your underwear almost clean off, exposing your bare cunt to both the wilderness and its prophet.

“Shhhh,” Lottie coos. “Don’t make too much of a commotion. The wilderness won’t like it if you resist. It wants a smooth process, a firm understanding.”

“You’re a creep!” You shout. “You’re such a creep, Lottie. What is the matter with you!? Let the fuck go of me now!”

“You are the messenger,” Lottie informs. “You are the one it wants me to feel. You are the one whose body I’ve been trusted with. The wilderness expects a connection from you. Not Travis, not Akilah, not any other soul.”

“Leave me alone,” you whine, hearing the sound of fabric. Lottie takes her panties off and holds up the edge of her dress, so you get a good glance at what will crack you open. You’re not prepared to feel fuller than you’ve ever experienced before. You could deal with a lot less new experiences. Every new experience in the forest seemed to deprive you of mental fortitude day by day.

“Hush. Hush, hush. You’re so delicate, my little flower. You’re perfect for me.”

Lottie rubs the red tip of her cock against your folds. There’s hardly any wetness and Lottie doesn’t seem ready to lube you up either. There’s a certain haste to the friction and she clearly wants to ram inside of you and be as close to you as humanly possible. There was no warmth and bonding like being inside the body of another. But Lottie couldn’t cannibalize you. She needed you alive and well, willing to pass on the wilderness’ message.

In an act of scarce mercy, Lottie spits on her veiny cock a couple of times. She pumps the saliva along her shaft, a small amount hardly covering the surface. You yelp as Lottie whacks her dick against your entrance, enjoying your pussy pulsing as a satisfying reaction.

“Do you trust me?” Lottie asks.

Of course you don’t. Did she actually expect you to respond with a yes? Was there a shred of sanity left in that head jumbled with conspiracies and false prophecies? The potential answer scares you.

“N-No,” you utter.

Lottie rejects your answer. She thrusts forward, gagging your mouth with her fingers.

Your cry of pain is muffled. You are nothing but a bundle of nerves, forced to endure rough penetration. Lottie senses your discomfort, but there’s no halt to her movements. There’s desperation and need, but the only gentle part about this is the words entering your ears.

“Sweet little doll,” Lottie giggles, her cock stretching you out. “Look at the way those eyes flutter. Tell me, do you feel it in your soul? Do you feel how close we are? Do you feel us connecting on the basis of you being my student?”

What a twisted teacher. You couldn’t wait to warn the other members when you got back so they could hopefully toss out this creep. Your nails scratch the coarse floor of dirt. Your legs kick the ground like a tantrum is being thrown, except it’s a justified one.

“The fear is part of the ride,” Lottie encourages. “Think of this as a sacrifice. This may do away with your purity, but this brings us closer together. You’ll understand. You’ll get it once we’re done.”

You don’t believe a lick of Lottie’s speech. You sob against her fingers, nibbling on them until she pushes them to the back of your throat. You gag, nearly barfing at the sensation of being split open and practically choked.

“Take it,” Lottie grunts, her cock throbbing against your tight, velvety walls.

She removes her fingers from your mouth and holds you by your shoulders. Your body is forced into the dirt, her shirt covered with brown as Lottie uses your body like a fleshlight.

“Too much,” you cry. “Lottie, you’re too big. Y-You should take it out. Please, you’re way too big.”

“We could’ve done this an easier way. But you had to be difficult. You refused to listen to the sounds the wilderness offered. Now, this is the only way to get you to behave.”

Lottie kisses the back of your neck roughly, her cock still pounding away. Your body grows weaker by the moment and you internally say a prayer, wondering if you’ll ever be free now that she’s rested a claim on you.

If you were supposed to be a little flower, this felt like having all your petals torn off. You were wilted, growing ill from lack of nourishment and brightness in your life. Lottie was shielding you from the sun you deserved. When Lottie put you in your place, there was only darkness. Nothing but pitch black hell.

“Somehow your reaction is still not worse than I expected,” Lottie states proudly. “I’ll be able to tame you pretty soon. You’re going to make the perfect disciple. I just need you to understand why I’m doing this, why you need this.”

You don’t have the capacity to listen to her reasonings right now. You just desire an end to the cruelty.

Lottie’s balls slap against your ass, the slapping sound of flesh causing you to feel more nauseous. Hatred occupied every crevice of your mind. Lottie stole your innocence just for her own agenda. Yet, she still remained certain that she was doing the correct thing. She’s blinded by the belief of a moral obligation.

Or maybe you’re not so sure. Maybe she knows what she’s doing is wrong, but she can’t bring herself to care. Maybe Lottie is more callous than you imagined. Maybe you should’ve doubted her sooner. Maybe you—

“So fucking close little dove,” Lottie whispers. “You can take it for me. I know you can.”

“Lottie no,” you begin protesting. “No, n-no. You’ll give me a baby. I-I don’t want a baby. P-Please, at least don’t cum inside.”

“You don’t get to make the decision. I’m only following what it wants.”

You thrash around, hoping Lottie’s cock will pop out of you. But your pussy only squeezes harder and secures Lottie nice and snug in your delicate cunt.

Lottie parts her lips, small gasps leaving as her pace reaches its highest point. She claws into your skin, her hips moving on their own. Both of you are linked by sweat and musk, the trees watching as a pair of survivors fuck raw in isolation.

Memories of Lottie flash into your head. Her taking the leadership role during winter, her leading the hunt on Travis during one faithful night. You pondered if you would be her next victim, if a second Doomcoming was in order.

You chase that thought of your brain. You can’t afford to bring yourself more dread.

Suddenly, a splash of warmth seeps into your cunt. Ropes and ropes of hot fluids drown your pussy in white. Lottie’s eyes rolls back, phrases in French being murmured as she empties herself. She keeps you pinned down until she’s sure that no drop has been plunged into your poor, abused hole.

You lay in the dirt, not accepting that you and Lottie are now tethered. You are a child of the wilderness and no matter how far you run, Lottie’s mark will not leave you. You’re stuck with her until one of you passes. You’re only hers and you’ll have to deal with the fact.

“The wilderness will be pleased,” Lottie says with a smile wider than ever before. “We’ll have food for months.”

The wilderness has had its wishes granted. So has Lottie. But at what cost?

[floatyflowers]

Part two of Dark! Sauron X Celebrimor's Daughter! Reader.

I really want to know about the baby and surely Sauron will bind her with some spell or something so that she doesn't give him away or do anything, Sauron is undoubtedly one of the characters with the most yandere potential.

Part 1

You kept your pregnancy hidden from your father, and it was an easy task as Celebrimbor is focusing all his attention on the rings.

And you stayed most of your days in your chambers surrounded by a few trusted servants who would keep your pregnancy a secret.

Of course, Sauron is the one who manipulated them to ensure you have a safe delivery.

The problem with pregnancy is that it is spiritually painful for an elf woman as it can last from one year up to 108 years, however you are not a full elleth.

You are half-human half-elf, meaning you will take only nine months to give birth, yet it's still a hard experience.

Your mother left you and your father after giving birth, she suffered severe depression.

Apparently, that's one of the reasons why Celebrimbor doesn't trust humans.

You, on the other hand, don't hate your mother for leaving, however, you want your child to grow up with you by their side.

Sauron, took advantage of your state and implanted happy visions in your mind of you, him, and the baby which is a daughter.

Annatar would come to your bed at the end of the day, only to place his hand on your growing bump, feeling satisfaction that his plan is going well.

But deep down, you knew that it was him trying to manipulate you.

However, it brought you a great sense of comfort even if you despised your baby's father.

It's quite unfortunate that your water broke when the orcs decided to attack your land, Eregion.

"Where is my father, Annatar?" you demanded, refusing to give birth in such horrible circumstances.

"Focus on birthing our daughter, and don't worry yourself, my dear"

Sensing your panic, Sauron begins muttering a few words, using magic to calm you down.

However, instead, you block him out and begin weeping.

You would rather you and your child die then face the horrid war.

"I need to speak with my father, now!" you exclaim, holding your stomach in pain.

Sauron decided on invading your mind to order you, using his deep frightening voice.

His true nature has finally shown itself, and it's too scary for you to disobey or even rebel against.

All you could see in your mind is a figure made of fire, speaking to you.

"If our child does not survive, I will ensure that your father and everyone you know face suffering. Tell me, is that a fate you desire for them, my pet?"

The servants watch in confusion as you shake your head at Annatar before starting to push.

"When I return, I expect to see you holding our daughter"

And like that, Sauron takes his leave to see to Adar's army.

Part 3

[godmadeaterribleerror]

Chapter 16 - Try to Catch It

Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist

Author's Note: Google maps, wikipideia, and the spn wiki hate to see me coming right before I write a new chapter.

Chapter Title from Happiness is a butterfly by Lana Del Ray

Word Count: 17.8k

Chapter Summary/Warnings: New enemies are made, and strange things are uncovered. Usual warnings

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, enemies to friends to lovers, canon divergence, slow burn, angst, fluff, pining, action

Chapter 15 - Chapter 17

Read on A03!

You can’t smell anything but sulfur. Hear anything but screams. See anything but foul, thick darkness, and iron chains, and rivers of blood below your feet. 

And Dean.

You can see Dean.

He never looks at you. You’re here, every fucking night, and he never turns around and looks at you. He’ll move right through you, and past you, and around you. 

It’s what you deserve.

You failed him. There are bruises and scars over the Gold, and they’re your fault. You were the weak one, and Dean’s suffering for it. He’s battered and worn and beaten down, there are little shadows swirling around his soul that keep it fully from your vision, and you fucking did this to him.

He glides through everything like it’s mechanical. Every last piece of the boyish, smug charm in his steps and voice and words are gone. He doesn’t even speak at all.

He never does anything more hold those weapons in his hands, and add blood to the floor. 

And Dean won’t look at you because he can’t see you. 

Because you’re not here to him at all.

You stopped trying to make him see you a while ago. When it became obvious that no matter how loud you screamed his name he wouldn’t hear, no matter how much you sobbed at his feet he wouldn’t notice, and that when you shoved him—hard, as if the sheer force of it could rocket him back up to your side—you passed right through him, as if you were the dead one.

You miss him.

You tell him that every night, over the screams of the other damned. That you miss him, and he’s gone and will never know it, but you’re going to keep missing him, and loving him, and telling him every night until you join him.

It’s easier than looking at the people on the racks in front of him. All the color spilling down with the blood. It’s like oil. Dark and glinting and covering the world.

But this is better than when it was gold, mixing with the blood. 

And you can see the souls of the people who are screaming now. Most of them are mundane. Dull, neutral, flat tones that you’d never look at twice.

But they’re not Golden.

And it’s not Dean’s fault he does this.

You’ve seen the comfortable, smooth, vile gray of the demon that’s over his shoulder. He can’t see or hear you—none of them can—but you still try to hurt him, every time he comes near. You did, when it was Dean on the rack, and you did it only minutes ago when he was pacing around the victim—a twisting smile forming in his rolling smoke—and you’ll keep doing it until you scream and scratch and it actually fucking does something.

It won’t. It never does. 

So you’ve settled for petty mockery, to ease that pain.

“He’s ugly, Deano.” You hum, examining your nails as he slices into another, cleaner soul with a knife.

He won’t hear you.

But it does make you feel better. 

“You wouldn’t like him, back home. You’d call him a douchebag.” You pause, watching him return to your side, but only to grab another tool. “You did call him a douchebag. A few weeks ago. And a lot of other, better names. You’ve always been better at insults, though.”

He doesn’t answer.

“You’d be proud of me.” You keep going. This whole thing is for you, anyway. “I called someone a cunt yesterday. But you also would’ve said ‘you do that without me too, Princess.’ And I do. But I- I still wanted to tell you.”

Dean picks up something like a poker, turning it over in his hand. Your voice is starting to get choked. 

This always fucking happens.

“I miss you.” You whisper. “I miss you so fucking much. And I know you’re gone, but I still miss you. And I-“ 

You always choke on the words. He’ll never hear them. You still need to say it anyway. 

“I love you, Dean.” You reach a slightly glowing hand up to his face, tracing over the lines of his cheeks, as he scowls at the victim over his shoulder. “I do. I love you, and I miss you, and I’m-“ You swallow down a weak, useless sob. “I’m sorry. I love you, and I’m so fucking sorry.”

There’s a brief moment where he pauses. Where you could fucking swear Dean leans into your touch, and the Gold flares a little brighter, and when green eyes scan over the fire and blood, it’s like he’s looking for something. 

You don’t cling to this a lot. He’s done it before.

And he still never sees you. 

Dean returns to his rack, and you sit by his side and keep your eyes trained on his pretty face, telling him more and more about your day while you can. While you have Dean—even this marred and darkened version of him, because you’re not a fucking saint and you love him more than you hate what he forced to be doing—you’ll talk to him as much as you can.

And you’ll be back later. Your mind hates you, so you’ll be back tomorrow night, and nothing will have changed.

For months, nothing has ever changed.

But you feel it before you hear it. 

Sheer, raw, pure fucking power, rocketing around and over you, making the air electric and hot and strange.

Something is coming.

And nobody else is reacting, in those few seconds before it begins.

Then the screams start, and Dean looks up.

He can hear them.

And they’re warped and distorted, so they’re demon screams, and you don’t know what the fuck is happening but whatever is shredding demons a few floors up is drawing closer.

You’re not really here. There’s nothing you can do. 

But you can sense it, cleaving through hell and getting far too fucking close, aimed like a cannon at Dean, and nobody can hear or see or touch you, but whatever this is, it’s coming for Dean, and you already fucking failed him-

You don’t think when you grab Dean’s arm.

And your nails sink into his skin.

Dean’s head whips around to where you’re standing, and he can see you. You know he can. His eyes are shining, and that river of silver light that’s been muddied over in his soul is starting to gleam the longer he stares, and-

He says your name. His voice is hoarse and rough, but Dean says your name, and if the power wasn’t so fucking close, you would’ve started crying.

“What’re you-“

Something nuclear slams into you, and you let go of him with a shriek. It’s loud. It’s so fucking loud, and it’s too much, and the Silver is trying to expand out of your body but it’s as if something—maybe the fact that you’re really, truly, not real here—is clamping and shoving it down.

Dean shouts your name as you collapse on the jagged stone, reaching for you with a panicked expression, but he never gets a chance to grab you.

The sky cleaves open, and it’s here.

Something rainbow and furious—made of a million eyes and shimmering fire—crashes down onto Dean’s little platform on six, beating wings.

It’s looking at you. A thousand fists go slack at its side, and all those burning eyes widen as it glances between you and Dean, who’s still trying to take slow steps back to where you’re lying on the ground.

“You should not be here.” It says. “Wake up.”

Everything feels like it’s burning. 

It might be the residue of Hell, and the fire, and whatever the fuck that thing in your dream was. But it’s probably just the humidity. The itching, wet heat of Bolivia, making the thin motel sheets stained with sweat and giving you a horrible fucking migraine.

Although the migraine is normal, now. You have it whenever you wake up, and Dean is ripped away from you once more.

Those dreams started when he died, and you don’t really know if they’re real, or just a sick, twisted part of your brain trying to offer you some relief, but they might continue for the rest of your fucking life.

Because every night you pass out with your knife in your hand, and you dream of Dean in Hell. Every morning you wake up with a weak noise and stinging in your eyes.

You hope it’s not real. 

You’ve given up on trying to rationalize how it may be, how it could be, how that might really be your Dean—his soul, beaten and shredded and surrounded by fire—because the idea makes you feel sick.

And you have other things to worry about.

There’s still a little bit of blood under your nails, and you’ve given up on scrubbing it away. You can’t get rid of it. You think it might be a buildup, after months and months of spilling it over your feet and staining it on your hands.

Months on the run. Months sleeping in your car and being anywhere but home, because you can’t. You fucking can’t. You broke your phone when Dean died, and you never went home. Home is where they brought Dean’s body. Home is where you’d see all your own hollowness reflected on Sam’s face, and have to pretend like something hasn’t withered away inside you both. Something that’s never going to grow again. Something you can feel, but Sam can’t, and you’re both going to have to keep fucking living with as the world only continues to turn without Dean.

Home is where Bobby would try to tell you that you were tough, and that you’d get through this, and that Dean wouldn’t want ya to kill yourself over him. He’d want ya to keep goin’, and mournin’ him cause we all miss him, but he ain’t gonna like it if we make this a big fuckin’ deal and join him.

Bobby would’ve been right, if you let him say that.

But you didn’t. And you don’t want to hear it. You know what Dean would’ve wanted. His last note is still folded up in your jacket, right next to where you keep your knife. And you don’t want the whole don’t try to mess with things and bring him back speech, because it doesn’t matter.

You tried to bring him back. In the first month, while you were still in the states, you summoned countless demons and told all of them to bring Dean Winchester back, but none of them would take your deal. And after you killed all of them, they started sending Lilith.

“I told you, little one.” She’d sighed, scanning over you in another empty warehouse. “You are untouchable, and Dean Winchester is not coming back.”

“He could.” You’d hissed, spinning the Blade in your hand. “If you stopped being such a fucking pussy, you could bring him back-“

“That is out of my power.”

“No, it’s not-“

“But if you were to try yourself,” Lilith had tilted her head at you, and the Silver had flared. “Who’s to say?”

You’re not stupid. You know she was baiting you. Trying to trick you into using the Silver more, into becoming more of whatever she thinks you are.

It doesn’t matter.

You’re past the point of caring about tricks and manipulations and grand evil plans. 

You just want Dean back.

So you were all in. 

The White and Darkness haven’t split, since he died. It’s remained melded into Silver, but volcanic and sparking and volatile. Still too far out of your control, still impossible to understand, but together. 

And it still really fucking hurts. 

But by now you can’t tell if the pain is the Silver, or just that hollow fucking grief. The loathing that keeps twisting over your skin and organs, reminding you that no matter how good you get at this—at controlling the Silver, at spells and rituals and enchantments, at working and working on being whatever you need to be to keep going—you’re no closer to bringing Dean back. You’ve read the Book a million times, but there’s nothing in there to help you raise the dead. You’ve travelled further and further south, looking for some sort of answer, but you’ve found nothing. 

Your flask has mixed a million potions, but every corpse has remained rotting in the ground. You’ve summoned a million spirits and demons, but none of them have had pretty features and or a drawling, teasing voice that calls you Princess and tells you everything is going to be okay. You’ve destroyed a million motel rooms and highways and abandoned buildings when the hollow, dreadful grief got the better of you, but Dean has never emerged from the wreckage. There have been a million failed experiments, a million sleepless nights on the roof of your car, and a million times you’ve goaded a monster or spirit into hurting you because you can’t hurt yourself.

It’s part of learning to use the Silver. Years of conditioning makes self-inflicted pain shred it—makes it recoil and whine—and you need to use it if you’re going to keep going. There’s no point in fighting it anymore. There’s no one left to stay better for.

And you’re sick in a new way, where you don’t really eat, and you laugh whenever a knife drives into your gut. Where you’ve started to hear Dean’s voice on the wind, and the world is colorless, and nothing will just fucking kill you, but it should.

You’re only a storm, now. Only a girl that’s infected and razed everything she’s touched, because there’s not any color left to preserve.

The Spiderweb is still clinging to your body. Running along your veins and nerves, right into the Silver, and empty.

No light cast around it. 

No Dean.

So you’re just the fucking storm. You’ve destroyed every green demon that’s come for you. You try not to kill the monsters with the Silver, but just because you’re back to the experiments. There’s always a little bit of gold stained on your fingertips with the blood, but it fades every day and you’re dreading the moment it’s gone for good.

You might break something more permanent, when it does.

And the Sky will finally stop fucking watching, and come for you. 

You don’t know what it’s breaking point will be. Maybe the next ritual from the Book you practice. Maybe the next demon you cut up. Maybe the next time you push the Silver a little too far over the edge, when you become far too big and you can feel the concentration of the earth below your feet to stay together, and you tell it to open up so you can go get Dean, and it finally does.

But for now, the Sky just fucking watches. 

You talk to it sometimes. When you can’t sleep and you have a migraine, when you can feel the stickiness of the heat and the pain of the rotting wood below your feet. You want it to know that you won’t stop. That until it fucking talks to you, comes for you and puts you down—or swallows you, or takes you away and locks you up—you’re not going to get better. You’ll keep being sick, and you’ll keep caving in on yourself, and if it’s not careful you’ll make sure you’re too fucking malevolent to take. 

You’ll ruin yourself. The Silver is a hurricane in your body, and you can escalate every ritual in the book to be almost as big as you are, until you fucking shatter something, and the Sky has no choice but to come bargain with you itself. 

John Winchester should’ve killed you when he met you.

You really are a fucking sickness. 

And you’ll only grow sicker, until you’re cured, force-fed medicine, or simply fucking dissipate. 

You still don’t know what you are. You’ve tried to find other witches, older witches, who might know, but nobody has. There was one crone, with wrinkle hands and blind eyes, who was centuries old and told you about the days where all of us were hunted, then paused and said, but not you, dear, they couldn’t hunt you. 

“Why?” You’d asked, leaning forward over her small, wooden table, and she’d shrugged.

“Hard to hunt something that’s not real, isn’t it?”

“But-“

“You wanted to learn about divination or not?”

You’d swallowed, and nodded. That’s what you were here for. What you’d been trying to do every month. 

Embracing the Silver—no matter how much it hurt and tore you apart, you really are trying to embrace the Silver—meant embracing witchcraft with it. Not just your own little experiments and rituals. The whole thing. Spells and hexes and too many Latin words and a million books.

The crone had showed you how to read tea leaves. 

She tried to show you how to read tea leaves. 

You’d looked into your cup, seen something like a bird, a book, and a cross, and the cup had burst into flame. 

You’d been thrown out of the crone’s cabin, and when you’d looked up, the Sky had been watching.

It had done that. You know it had. It didn’t seem to mind you learning more basic things—cleaning spells to keep yourself from living in filth, potions that let you stay awake for days on end when you couldn’t stand to see Dean in hell, rituals to test out new ideas—but it hated when you tried to look into the future. 

“You’re a fucking douchebag.” You’d snapped at it a few nights ago, standing on the top of a mountains after a hunt, wiping blood off your hands with a rag. “And I’m not going to stop. I’ll die before I stop.”

The Sky hadn’t responded. It didn’t need to.

You knew it was listening, and that it didn’t like the idea of you dying. The stars had gotten a little brighter in warning, and you’d flipped them off.

Warning was pointless.

You had fucking nothing to lose. 

You’d been hunting an acalica. A little old weather wizard, whose spit you’re keeping in your flask for when you need it. 

There’s a spell in the Book that calls for it. A tracking spell, to move you to a vortex of power. A point on the earth where magic is more powerful, where you could try and see what you can do, when barriers are weaker.

There are three on every continent, you’re pretty sure one is in Kansas, and Sam would’ve found that interesting. He would’ve said that there are no coincidences in this job, then asked you how you know about the vortex points. 

You would’ve told him that the book mentions them. That it’s full of tiny, odd and interesting notes that he’d like, and he can borrow it, if he wants.

You haven’t told him that, though. You haven’t spoken to Sam since Dean died. You haven’t spoken to Bobby, either. Or Jo.

It’s better like that. They don’t have to look at you and see the monster. Look at you and see just how horribly Dean’s death broke you, that you’re trying so fucking hard to remain yourself but you’re drowning in the Silver, and there’s no light at all to guide you back to the surface. 

It doesn’t stop the guilt from gnawing at your gut. You left Sam alone, right after he lost Dean. You stopped talking to Jo, after she put up with all your bullshit, all your desperation that ended up amounting to nothing. 

Bobby might think you’re dead. He’s always deserved a better, easier kid to deal with than you. He took you in without knowing, and he took care of you, and you just vanished off the face of the earth without a word. He might have burned your clothing and possessions, thinking you had died, and giving you a hunter’s funeral.

There’s a chance he did it with Dean. That he burned you away, right alongside Dean’s-

You don’t want to think about that. Whenever you do, you end up in the bathroom, vomiting up whatever little food is in your body, because the thought of Dean, shredded apart and empty and staring into-

Fuck.

You push off the stiff mattress, stumbling into the slightly molding bathroom and falling to your knees at the toilet. Your own retching manages to drown out the sounds of birds and bugs outside, the static, grating hum of the fan over your head.

You can’t stay here. Once you get all the ingredients for the vortex tracking spell, you’ll cast it and move out of town. 

You’ll get through this.

You fucking have to.

And maybe when you reach the vortex and turn yourself into nothing but Silver, infecting the earth and making it split apart so you can fall right into Hell, the Sky will finally fucking come down and talk to you. 

Sam, Bobby, and Jo don’t need to know that, either. That you’ve gone insane, and you’re talking to the Sky so often. That you think the Sky is watching you and waiting to take you for itself.

You’d sound insane. Like losing Dean finally tipped you over from reckless plans and odd words into downright nonsense. Babbling like a lunatic about the Sky and the colors and how you can’t really tell what you are anymore—more than before, you really don’t know what you are when everything is Silver but it still hurts—and you’re right back to the crazy little girl Bobby picked up on the side of the road.

They have each other. They don’t need you. Nobody’s ever needed you but Dean.

And you failed him. 

So it’s better for them not to know. 

When the last bit of your dinner falls out of your stomach, you can’t tell if you’re lightheaded from the heat or the nausea. It doesn’t really matter.

Neither food nor air conditioning will fix you. 

But just sitting here, staring at your bile and vomit in the toilet bowl, isn’t going to do you any favors. You have to go back up the mountain today, then run down it to get to your car, and no matter how sick you always are you still need the strength. 

To climb, and—if you need to—fight.

There’s a pretty high fucking chance those suit and tie assholes are going to find you again, and you’re going to have to fight.

That’s a problem for future you. More accurately for future them, because no matter how many times they tell you to stop, you won’t, and you always escape them unscathed. 

They can call you a monster, or a bitch, or a cunt, or a problem, or an abomination all they fucking want. It’s nothing you don’t already know. Nothing you’re not trying to be, because the human in you isn’t what’s going to make the Sky speak. The human won’t bring Dean back.

The demons didn’t stop hunting you because of the human. The Sky doesn’t watch you because of the human. The witches don’t take you in and teach your whatever you ask because of the human.

They do it because you show them the Blade, and they look at you with fearful awe, and give you food and shelter and all their books like you’re some sort of fucking Royalty. They watch you like you’re a bomb set to go off, glance at the Blade with wide eyes, and then send you out of their home like they can see that you’re a plague, and can’t wait to clean themselves of your disease.

You feel like an occupying army, whenever that happens. They act like they can’t say no, like it’s some sort of secret code you’re not allowed to be privy to, like you tell them how you can see their soul, and suddenly they’re obliged to aid you however you ask. 

“Do you know what I am?” 

Your words had been careful, the first and only time you dared to venture down that path, and the dark haired witch across the table had smiled at you.

She’d said she was old. Ancient. Thought dead across the ocean, and that you could call her Letitia as long as you never repeated her name. 

She’d seemed like the right type of person to ask.

“There’s no modern word for it.” She’d hummed, shuffling the tarot deck between long fingers. “Most witches you encounter will not know why they are listening to you, only that they must. You from the oldest of our kind. You are… a little more than us.” She’d titled her head at you. “But you’ve guessed that already, haven’t you?”

You’d nodded, spinning the blade in your hands. “Do you know the word?”

Letitia had laughed. “I’m old, but not that old.”

“Then how do you-“

“You’re like a folk tale.” She’d hummed. “The Grand Coven is taught to warn about the return of your kind, my mentor used to warn of it, but it had been so long since a true one was born… I never suspected to meet any of you. Let alone one of your… magnitude.”

You’d frowned at her. “What-“

“That knife in your hands cannot be wielded by just anyone. It’s just as much a legend as you are.”

That had made you sit a little straighter. If there was a legend, there was a story. And no matter how slowly Letitia spoke, you’d been willing to turn to stone in that chair, just for one fucking answer.

“Legend?”

She’d hummed, giving you a soft, almost crude smile. “Don’t ask me to recite it, child. It’s just as lost to time as your ancestors.”

You didn’t just give up. You couldn’t. You hadn’t driven the Firebird to fucking Peru just to give up. “Then how do you even know it’s real?”

“What color is my soul?”

“Dark purple.” You’d answered in half a second. “A little gray, too.”

Letitia’s smile had grown. “That. That is how I know.”

“But-“

“And you should practice that more often,” she’d started to deal the cards, her voice almost bored. “You are not going to find any witch in the Coven’s favor to help you with it, and it’s only a little more than a party trick. It could be much, much more.”

You hadn’t gotten to tell Letitia that you didn’t really fucking care to be more. That you just fucking wanted Dean back, and that was the only reason you were entertaining witchcraft at all. 

But you’d still taken her advice. The Book was filled with small notes on souls, on how they were forbidden to tamper with for most anyone, but the women of the high were like their keepers. Their tamers. Their crafters and wielders.

You’d been made to touch souls. 

You still just wanted Dean.

And if this was another way to maybe, possibly, desperately get to him, you’d fucking take it. 

So now you have a ritual. 

Clean and pack up the motel room, and move it all to the car. You won’t be here tomorrow night, and it’s better to sleep in the Firebird when you can. 

It’s still has a little bit of lingering Gold, too. Under the hood and over the stereo, twined into all the cassette tapes Dean left you that he’ll never get to-

One last stop in the bathroom, dry heaving until the thought of Dean with his brain out of his ears leaves your head.

Coffee. Food. You need fucking coffee and food, and it’s as good a place as any to practice. 

Sometimes, when you do this, you pretend Dean’s there with you. That you’re not at a tiny coffee-and-book shop in Bolivia, speaking broken Spanish and alone in the whole, washed-out world. Instead, in your head, you’re in a mall, Dean’s grinning at you across from a table with his second burger in hand, and you’re telling him everything you see because he’d make it easier to say.

Things were always easier with Dean. Easier to have, easier to do, easier to accept or fight or shout, but easier. More. The most.

You miss him.

You grab extra napkins, when they pass you the food, just in case you start crying again. 

You’ve gotten better about doing that on the side of highways, parked under trees and on cloudy nights so the sky can’t see, but it still slips out, sometimes. When you see the sunlight rippling over flowers and leaves, and hear soft birdsong, or feel your knife in your jacket and remember that Dean gave you both.

Technically he stole your jacket, then gave it back.

That doesn’t make you miss him any less. It’s only really effective in making you love him more. 

But he’s never going to feel sunlight on his skin again, or pick a flower again, or hear any sort of music and sing at the top of his lungs while the wind is in his hair, and he’s never going to be able to grumble about you using a knife instead of a gun, and you’re never going to be able to roll your eyes at him and tell him to shut up when really, you’d trade the whole fucking world to hear him say just one more word-

There’s the crying. 

Your coffee tastes a little salty now. 

You don’t care. You have some practice to do.

You train in on a small, light eyed woman in the corner of the shop. Reading a book and eat some bread, completely occupied in her own world. 

She won’t notice you staring at her. Pulling out a notebook and scratching down notes without thought, not looking for anything in particular.

Just practicing. Seeing what you can see.

She’s a soft but saturated green. Starting in her hands before spreading over her body. She shimmers a little, when she moves, and every single part of her is drawn together. Firm. Immovable. 

She goes in group four. Earthy souls.  

Because, the longer you’ve been doing this, the more you’ve been looking, the more you’ve been able to see.

It started with noticing more colors, running and moving over the first, stark one. Colors that fly away in a second, little layered bits bleeding through and out of each other. Sometimes they’re grooved deep into the soul, sometimes just stained on the surface, but they’re always there. Intricate. Like little extra bit of string, woven into each tapestry, making patterns that you have to know how to look for, in places you have to know how to find. 

And every soul looks different. That was the second thing. They’re like elements, once you’d studied them long enough. Raging up and around like fire, flowing like water, smooth like air, or—in the case of this woman, with her book—solid like earth.

Like Pokémon. Dean had muttered in the back of your ear, when you were coming up with the system. Or, wait, maybe like that horoscope bullshit.

If it had been real, you would’ve giggled and asked him what the hell he knew about Pokémon, and he would’ve grumbled that it was just a thought, but that he did think they were funny little sons of bitches. Then you would’ve asked him what his favorite Pokémon was, and he would’ve told you that he didn’t have one, and when the fake-argument finally ended—you would’ve won, because you always won those dumb fights—you would’ve explained that it wasn’t like Pokémon. That it was the Classical Greek elements, and that you didn’t know what that meant yet, but you had some working theories.

You would’ve shown your theories to Sam, to get his opinions. 

Dean would’ve called you freakin’ nerds, but refused to leave the table when Sam told him that he didn’t have to sit and listen, if you’re so bored. 

You would’ve smiled at him, and nudged his calf with your foot under the table, and he would’ve smiled back, and-

You’d just started crying again.

Just like you’re crying now. 

And the woman’s noticed. She’s looking at you like you’re odd—and you are, but it’s still annoying—and she’s closing her book, and standing up-

Shit. 

You don’t have a good cover, and you drop all your attention to your notebook and it’s words—floating slightly off the page as you try to get your shit together, and stop shaking with silent sobs where the Sky can see—as the woman cross the room to stand over you.

She introduces herself in Spanish. 

Your dumb blinks must have tipped her off that you don’t understand her, because she sighs, and repeats the introduction in English.

“Are you okay?” Her voice is soft. Like she actually cares.

You almost start fucking crying again. 

“Yeah, um, sorry, I-“ You can do better than this. You’re a good actress. You can slide into the innocent persona when you need to. You can.

You’re coming up empty, but you can.

“Your book,” you mumble, twisting the skin of your fingers. “Looked interesting. Sorry I was staring.”

The woman—Marta, she said—glances down to the worn paperback in her hands, and shakes her head. “It is alright. A little ridiculous.”

“Oh?” You don’t really care, but you still have to pretend you do. To sell it. “Would you recommend it?”

“Do you like ghost stories?”

You give her a grimacing smile. “Kind of, but I’ve heard a lot of them. I’m hard to impress.”

She hums, and drops into your spare seat. Apparently, this is now a conversation. “These are ghost stories. They are… beyond belief. But the characters are interesting. Sexy.”

You blink at her. “Huh. Sexy ghosts?”

“Sexy ghost hunters.”

“Hu- Fuck.” You’d dropped your fork. It had been spinning between your fingers, and you’d tossed it half across the room. You’ll get it later. “Sorry, did you say hunters?”

Marta nods, and places her book face up on the table. “Monster hunters. It is not well written, either.”

You pull the book a little closer, and the cover is… interesting. Two men—one with ridiculous hair, and the other shirtless for unknown reasons—standing before a big house on fire, with a shadowy figure in the doorway holding an axe.

The shirtless man is leaning against a sleek, black car.

His face is familiar.

Green eyes. Pretty features. Dark blond hair. 

There’s no fucking way.

“Supernatural?” You glance back up to Marta, keeping your face perfectly neutral, and she nods. 

“It is a series.” She taps cover of the book as she speaks. “This is the seventeenth book. Hell House.”

“What- Uh, what’s the series about?”

“Two brothers. They hunt the monsters.”

You swallow. “They’re the sexy ones?”

Marta nods, and you might throw up. Again.

“Is that one,” you tap the shirtless man on the cover. “Named Dean?”

“Oh, have you read them before?”

“I-“ Deep breaths. Everything is spinning, and the Silver is churning in your body, but you need to take deep breaths. “No. May I?”

Marta nods, says something about going to get another coffee—it’s a good thing she’s nice, or you would’ve had to steal her book and run—and leaves you to flip through this strange, impossible book.

It’s… worryingly accurate. Marta was right, it’s not well written, but you don’t really give a shit about that. You already know the story anyway.

Because you remember Dean calling you, all the way back when John was missing, and telling you about it. About the two idiots who’d interfered with the case, and how proud he and Sam were to gank a tulpa. You’d remember how he’d grumbled about you guessing that it was a tulpa before he even finished the story, and how he’d muttered a lot easier to work it out when you’re not fighting for your life, Princess.

You’d told him that it was also easier when you weren’t engaging in a prank war with your brother. Dean had snapped that he’d won that war, so it was worth it, and then Sam had shouted from somewhere in the background that they’d called a truce, so nobody won. 

The prank war was in here too. Right down the that stupid fish Dean had made you listen to—holding it up to the speaker until you hung up, and he called you back laughing like a handsome idiot—and superglued bottle Sam had been incredibly happy to tell you about. 

Those phone calls aren’t in here, even though they happened while they were still in the city. It’s the only thing that doesn’t line up with what you remember. Sam had even run the Hollywood producer thing by you. 

But other than that, it’s perfect. That’s even how Sam and Dean talk, in the dialogue.

You can hear his fucking voice, in your head. 

You would’ve started crying again, if you didn’t suddenly have a lot of new problems at once.

There’s a man, when you look up to the coffee counter, trying to check where Marta is in the line. A man dressed in a neat suit that must be stuck to his skin with all the heat, his hair perfectly combed and style, and his posture straight and self-assured.

Fuck.

They got here faster than you thought they would. You’re still not sure how they’re tracking you—you’ll have to go through the Firebird, one last time, just to make sure they didn’t fucking bug it again—but you’d recognized that dipshit anywhere.

Douchebag, Dean’s voice grumbles in your head. Fuckin’ douchebag.

He’s right. They’re douchebags. Idiotic, holier than thou, preachy fucking douchebags.

Marta’s not getting her book back. 

Because you’re shoving it into your bag, keeping one hand on the blade in your jacket, and booking it for the door.

The first gunshot goes off before you even push it open. Aimed right over your shoulder, making the glass shatter and slicing open your hand.

That’s pretty fucking rude. 

You were trying to play nice. 

You’ve been practicing a lot for this. You’ve done it several times over the past few months, since your first encounter with this douchebag, who—when you turn to glare at him—is unfazed by the screams around the shop, and has started to advance towards you with a military-grade rifle in hand.

You give him a sweet smile, wave with your bloodied hand, and let the Silver crash out of your body. 

Every window breaks at once, all the coffee bursts from the machines, your fork on the floor flies for his trigger hand, and you’re running. Booking it to the firebird with your bag over your shoulder, weaving through the parking lot and digging your keys out of your pockets as the suit roars your name behind you, but your car is faster is their’s, so you just have to fucking get in the-

“Slow down,” a voice drawls your name in your ear, right as a gun presses to the back of your head. “Here I thought you’d be happy to see us.”

You sigh, keeping your voice bored. Level. “I just don’t like surprises, Ketch. And I don’t like you, either.”

Ketch laughs in your ear. It’s a horrible, haughty sound.

Dean would���ve agreed. He would’ve snapped at you for being dumb and reckless and running around alone, when you knew these idiots were still hunting you, but he would’ve agreed all the same. 

You really fucking miss him. 

“I’ve told you to call me Arthur-“

“And I’ve told you to suck my dick.”

“There are those lovely manners, again. Such a charmer.” Ketch grabs your shoulder, turning you to face him and nodding to the Blade in your hand. “Drop it.”

You glance at the Blade. It was a dumb move to grab it, instead of the knife. You’re pretty sure Ketch doesn’t know anything about it—somehow, because these rich assholes seem to know everything—and you really don’t want him to touch it, but he’s got a fucking gun to your head. 

So you let the Blade clatter down to the ground, and move your foot to cover the hilt.

Ketch follows the movement, and raises his brows. 

“I don’t want to lose it.” You shrug, and douchebag two, rifle still in hand, comes up behind Ketch with a dry expression.

“I’d be more worried about yourself, darling.” Davis hums, setting his gun down on the roof of your car. His hand is bleeding worse than yours. Good. “I don’t know how you pulled that window hex off, but I’m sure our scholars will love to know.”

That’s the biggest advantage you have here. They really don’t know what you are. As far as Ketch and Davis are concerned, you’re just an American witch who’s lost her mind and is traveling to find herself. They don’t have a clue about your family, or Dean, or the Book, or the Silver. They need to capture you because you’re a powerful witch, and apparently some men and their letters are really concerned about that.

You’re not sure. You weren’t really paying attention when they gave you the speech—the first time they met you, in Mexico a few weeks after from Dean’s death, when they’d killed the witch who was showing you some basic healing potions and you escaped—and you’re not really paying attention now.

There are too many other things to worry about.

Ketch keeps looking at the Blade, and that’s going to be a problem. Davis is getting out the handcuffs, and you have no interest in going with them, but you can’t kill them either, so now you have to work around that. You miss Dean, but that’s just constant. You need to work out what the hell is going on with that book, and you can’t do that in a dungeon. Your hand is still bleeding—you’ll probably need stitches, or to heal it with the Silver—and it’s making you feel even worse than usual, and finally, Davis’ rifle is still on the hood of your car.

If it scratches the paint, on the car Dean fucking gave you, the whole no murder thing is going to go out the window very fast.

“I’m really not interested in spending another three nights in hotel torture dungeon.” You drawl, eyeing the cuff’s in Davis’ hands carefully. “So, uh, if I pinky promise to fuck off and stop being a witch-“

“Once a witch, always a witch.” Ketch shrugs. “Afraid we’re going to have to ship you on over. See if we can work out exactly what’s running through that pretty little head of yours, making you so… fascinating.”

You need a way out of this. Now. Ketch is wrapping a cloth gag around your mouth to stop you from casting any spells, and that won’t do fucking shit, but Davis has clicked on the cuffs. 

Their iron cuffs.

This is a really bad day.

This is, already, a really bad day, and you only got up a few hours ago. You can see Ketch and Davis’ souls—a muddy, awful orange and a surprisingly soft red, respectively—but you can’t really do much with it right now. The iron isn’t burning into you like it used to, but it still pushes the Silver down, makes it weaker, make you weaker. You’re still bleeding, and you didn’t eat that much—neither of those things are doing you any favors—and you’re so fucking tired. 

Tired of running. Of asking questions and only receiving confusing or empty answers, of finding more and more puzzles to solve and being completely stranded to solve them alone.

And you really fucking miss Dean.

Something flickers in your chest. Ketch is talking about how it’s going to be a nice flight, and you’ve been an interesting hunt so they’ll offer you some food—if he tries to feed you cheese with his hands again, you’re going to bite his fingers off—but you can’t really follow most of what he’s saying. 

There’s something flickering and shifting in your chest. And the Silver is bleeding out of you into the world like there’s no iron at all, and the Sky is watching. 

It’s staring at you, even though there’s really nothing to see. Ketch and Davis have been on your ass for months, and the Sky hasn’t really seemed to care all that much, because it knows you’ll be fine. The only time they’ve gotten you when they jumped you in Brazil, and you got out of that with barely a scratch. 

But the Sky is watching. 

And something is changing.

“Arthur.” Davis cuts off Ketches speech, and you don’t have to turn to know he’s looking at you. “Something’s wrong with her.”

Ketch rolls his eyes. “She’s just going through the depressive stages of grief. An animal knows when it’s been caught-“

“But-“

“He’s right,” you mutter, and you can feel the delicate joy of the leaves on the trees. There’s not a single cloud in the sky. “You should… Shit-“

You feel like you’re being torn in half. The Spiderweb feels like it’s being torn in half. Ripped open in a thin, neat line and strangled, and it’s been dead since you lost Dean but now-

You’ve only felt this pain once. On the side of the highway. 

And the Silver has never felt like this. Like it’s being electrocuted and burned and dropped from a million feet all at once, and there’s nothing to feel but everything. It’s bigger than when you grabbed the Blade for the first time. It’s bigger than any episode you’ve ever had, any time you’ve tried to use it and every time it’s been ripped from your body by emotion. 

You’re everything. More than everything. You’re every single space between the stars and all the fires in every hearth in the universe, and you’re the fabric of something thin and the wrath of something old, and none of that matters because you’re mostly in a field. Moving up and up and up and breaking through the surface, right into-

The world lights up. In a split second the Spiderweb is shot with something white-hot and blinding, and it seals it shut and rushes through your whole body until you can fucking feel the universe-

You rocket, fall, crash back down into yourself.

And—so peacefully, as if nothing was ever wrong at all—the Spiderweb is humming with color and light.

There’s air in your lungs, and the birds are singing, and there are little dewdrops clinging to the grass growing between the cracks in the pavement.

Dean’s alive. 

And the rush begins. 

At some point you must have screamed, or exploded, or something, because Ketch and Davis have been launched backwards into separate cars, and the handcuffs have fallen off your wrists. You yank Davis’ rifle off the hood of your Firebird, storm across the parking lot to Ketch—you like him less anyway—and kneel down with the barrel aimed at his temple.

You have no fucking clue how to operate this thing. 

Ketch doesn’t need to know that.

“How have you been tracking me?” You hiss, and Ketch blinks at you, slightly dazed. “Don’t lie. I’ll know.”

“Why, aren’t you full of surprises-“

“Answer the fucking question, or get your brains blown out.” 

Ketch sighs, scanning over your scowl wearily. “You are… not a normal witch.”

“Nope. How.”

“We have our ways.” He shrugs. “Cameras, trackers, tips. Don’t worry your little head about it, darling, as long as you’re in our jurisdiction, we’ll-“

You slam the gun into his temple, and he slumps over with a groan. 

He’s fine. His soul is burning from his wrists out, so he’s not dead. 

You really do have bigger things to worry about.

Dean’s alive. 

You leave town. Then, when you’re far away from Ketch and Davis and the sun has started to set, you park under the trees and pull out your metal block of a cell phone.

Your whole life, you’ve only had one phone number memorized.

And Bobby picks up after three calls. 

“Look, I don’t know who the hell you are, but-“

You almost vomit out your own name. “It’s me, Bobby, and I’m sorry I vanished, I just- with Dean, and I couldn’t but, Bobby, you have to listen-“

Bobby cuts you off, his voice a little hoarse. “I- Normally I’d tell you to go fuck yourself, but crazier shit has happened today, and I- I ain’t-“

“It’s me, Bobby, I swear, I-“ You take a long breath, dropping down to the pavement, leaning against the Firebird as you speak. “Two months after you found me, I got my period, and it was really heavy because I hadn’t had a real one before. I’d never- You’d been feeding me properly, and it was… really heavy. You went to the corner store two blocks down, and bought so many pads and tampons we had to dedicate a whole closet to them. You gave me my first root beer, and you let me watch cartoons all week, and I still wasn’t really talking but you bought me all those crayons, and I drew all over the walls. You weren’t angry. You cleaned them up, and then covered them in paper so I’d draw on that instead.” You swallow. “I started talking again the week after that. I sang along to the Bob Dylan record you been playing, while you worked. It was- Shit- I don’t-“

“Man of Constant Sorrow.” Bobby mutters, and you nod to the air.

“Yeah. That.”

There’s a moment of silence, and before you can damn it and just start screaming Dean, Dean’s alive, Bobby lets out a long, heavy sigh. 

“Jesus Fuckin’ Christ, kiddo, I ain’t been able to find you for months, and Ellen n’ Jo weren’t havin’ any luck either- It’s- We thought you were-“

“I know.” You mumble, wrapping your arms around your stomach. “I’m sorry. Bobby, I need to-“

“Where the hell are you-“

“Bol- Actually I crossed the border, so Brazil, but Bobby-“

“How the fuck did you get to Brazil-“

“Bobby!” Your scream tears through the parking lot. “I- Dean’s alive, he’s alive-“

“I know.”

You freeze, all the panic in your throat dying, leaving your voice small. “What?”

“He showed up a few hours ago, did all the tests and it’s-“ Bobby cuts himself off. “How’d you know he was back?”

“I got a feeling.“

Bobby grunts your name. Your fully name, with Singer instead of your usual last name. You didn’t even do anything. “What’d you do.”

“I didn’t- Nothing, I-“ 

“Kiddo-“

“I promise, Bobby, nothing. I just-“ You choke on the air, and the Spiderweb sings inside your chest. “I knew. I just knew.”

“You- Alright.” Bobby let out a long, slow sigh. “I believe ya. You, uh, you wanna-“

“Yes.”

Bobby grunts, and the seconds where there’s nothing but static on the phone are the longest of your life, and then-

Dean’s voice says your name through the speaker, deep and rough and Dean, and you have to cover your mouth with your hand.

He’s alive. You can fucking feel it in the Spiderweb, feel it deeper than your bones, but this is different. You’re not being haunted by him, by nightmares, by a constant, empty feeling of that’s where Dean’s supposed to be. He’s alive. Enough to hold a phone. To speak. To say your name, then repeat it with a nervous tone, and he’s alive-

“Dean?” 

“It’s-“ You think you can hear him swallow through the phone. “Yeah. ’S me.”

“I-“ You take a long, slow breath, pulling your knees to your chest. “You’re alive.”

“Yeah. I am.”

“What happened?”

“I, uh, we’re not sure.” Dean sighs. “I mean, it wasn’t you? With your, I dunno, your magic shit-“

“I wasn’t me.” You whisper. “I- I’m sorry.”

“Why? I’m alive anyways.”

You still failed him. He still died at all. “I know, I just- I was trying, De, I promise-“

“Yeah, shoulda guessed you were.” Dean pauses on the other end of the line, and when he speaks again, his voice is careful. “You’re coming home, right?”

“I am.” You bow your head, letting it rest on your knees. “I- There are a few things I need to take care of, but I will. Soon.”

“Are you- You’re not gonna fly-“

You let out a soft laugh, and you can taste the salt on your lips as you speak. “No. I’m driving.”

“Good. Has the car-“

“It’s been perfect.” You swallow, your voice turning into barely a breath. “Dean?”

“Princess.”

His voice is soft. Teasing. Like nothing at all has ever been, could ever be, wrong, just as long as he was talking to you. 

You love him, more than anything. 

And you glance down at your hands. 

There’s still blood under your fingernails.

And the world is Silver, but you’re not in control.

“When you find Sam, can you call me again? I have something I think both of you will want to see.”

“Sure.” You can hear Dean’s frown through the phone. “You gonna tell me now?”

“No,” you smile into the air. “It’s a surprise.”

“I hate surprises, you know that-“

“I do.” You giggle. Fucking giggle. “You’re going to flip your shit about this one.”

He scoffs. “That’s not really putting my mind at ease, sweetheart-“

“It’s not supposed to. Drop it, Winchester, or I’m only telling Sam, and he won’t share it with you.”

Dean chuckles. “Bossy, Princess, don’t you know I just got out of hell?”

You swallow. 

You’re really sick of crying today. You’ve been sick of crying for four months. 

At least now you’re crying, and the tears hit the pavement, and for a brief second they’re golden in the light of the sunset.

And you can feel it.

Dean says your name cautiously, and you can’t say you love him. Not now. Not over the phone, when there’s blood on your hands and you know he’ll never blame you, but you still failed him. Still became a monster, only to not be the thing that saves him. But still-

“I missed you.” You whisper, and you don’t care if he can hear your sobs. He needs to know. To feel it. “I really, really missed you Dean.”

There’s a pause, and when he speaks again, his voice is hoarse. “I- Yeah. I missed you too, Princess. A lot. Coulda sworn for a second-“ He cuts himself off with a sigh. “Never mind, just- come home. Please.”

“I will. Pinky promise.”

He lets out a rough laugh, and the Spiderweb sparks through your body. “See you soon, sweetheart. I’ll call you when I grab Sammy.”

The line clicks off a few seconds later, and you swallow, tipping your head back until you can see the Sky.

It’s watching you. 

And Dean’s alive, and you can see every color, and-

All the stars flicker.

It’s a warning.

And you’re still the monster. Still being hunted.

But nothing is more important than getting home.

Getting back to Dean.

——————

One of the pros of being brought back from the dead was supposed to be that Dean got life back. That he could listen to music in his car, and eat burgers and beer with Bobby, and talk to Sammy as much as he goddamn wanted. Everything did keep moving, and he could remember every single fucking second of Hell—although he was trying real damn hard not to think about it where Sammy might see, might get worried—and there didn’t seem to be a way out of the fight, but Dean was supposed to have life back.

But he didn’t have Her. She wasn’t back home.

She’d sounded happy to hear Dean over the phone, but that had been damn near two months ago.

And Dean missed Her.

He fucking missed Her, and She hadn’t called them since.

Dean called that being MIA.

Nobody else seemed to agree.

“How long-“

“Dude.” Sam glanced over at Dean from the passenger’s seat, his tone flat. “If you ask me one more time how long it takes to drive from Brazil to America, I’m going to punch you in the face.”

Dean scowled. He hadn’t been asking that much. It had been almost a whole freakin’ day since he last asked.

“I just don’t know why she’s taking this long, alright?” Dean tapped his fingers against the wheel, glaring at the road ahead of them. Maybe if he glared hard enough, She’d just appear, and Dean could touch Her. Hold Her. Hug Her. Kiss-

“They’re two separated continents, Dean.” Sam sighed, cutting off Dean’s thoughts. “I mean, I took her four months to get down there, and she’ll have to stop for gas and food, and we don’t know what she’s been up to that whole time. Maybe she’s got loose ends to tie up before she heads back to the states.”

“You don’t-“ Dean’s grip on the wheel tightened. “Sam, what if-“

“Not those loose ends.”

“There’s always a fucking chance-“

Sam shrugged. “Yeah, but she wouldn’t.”

She would. She absolutely fucking would, because She liked giving Dean heart attacks and she thought she was untouchable or something. There was a very goddamn high chance She’d gotten herself tangled in something, and there was nobody to help Her, or get her out. Maybe She was having an episode, and Dean wasn’t there to bring Her down. Maybe She needed him, and he wasn’t fucking there.

“I mean,” Sam let out a long breath, running a hand over his face. “I’d be more worried about what you’re going to say to her, when she does get back, than any boyfriends she’s not gonna have.”

Dean paused.

They were talking about very, very different things.

“I’m worried she’s in trouble, Sammy.” 

“Oh. Yeah. She would do that.”

Dean shot him a glare. “That’s not. fucking helpful-“

“She’ll be fine, man, she’s, you know.” Sam waved to the air as he said Her name, and he was right.

Dean hadn’t been there for four months, and She hadn’t gotten herself killed. She’d been without him for longer, and lived through that just fine as well. She had all Her magic stuff, and She was awesome, and she didn’t need Dean to survive. He wasn’t water or oxygen or food.

No one needed Dean. They’d missed him, but they didn’t need him.

Except the angels. For really stupid and cryptic reasons, the angels needed him.

And Dean really, really wanted Her to meet the angels. She’d have opinions, and choice words, and Dean would stand behind Her in the shadows while she fixed everything, because that was what She always did.

Maybe the feathered douchebags would know what She was, and it wouldn’t be that big a deal after all, and this time Dean would get to keep her in a way that stuck.

He didn’t deserve to. He didn’t deserve fucking anything—after what he’d done in Hell, who he’d become to survive, like some sort of fucking animal—but he really goddamn wanted to. He wanted to keep being Her shadow more than anything, and he wanted Her to come home, and he- 

Dean really just fucking wanted Her. Alistair had broken a lot of goddamn things in him, but the asshole hadn’t broken that. That couldn’t be broken.

Dean wanted Her.

And She didn’t need Dean, but She’d said she wanted him.

He paused, frowning at the road.

“Sam.”

“What-“

“Why’d you think she wouldn’t- You know.” He didn’t want to say it. Just the thought was making his stomach turn. “Have loose ends.”

Sam just shrugged. “Because it’s her.” 

That wasn’t an answer. Dean wanted a solid answer, that he could fucking point to. 

“I should go get her.” He muttered. He didn’t know how that would work, or where She was, but he’d find her. Make sure She was safe, and didn’t hate him for leaving her behind, and safe.

Dean had said safe twice.

But he really fucking needed Her to be safe.

“She’s fine, Dean-“

“Maybe she’s not.” He snapped. “And it’s not like- I mean, how important is this book shit anyway.”

Sam sighed. “Very important. And she’s the one who sent them to us, she’d want us to follow through.”

She would want them to follow through. She’d want answers more than anything. And Dean wanted answers too—because whoever the hell Chuck Shurley thought he was, Dean wasn’t interested in having his whole freakin’ life published for entertainment—but he wanted Her more.

“I just-“

“Dean, they’re books about our lives. And you know, speaking of,” Sam said Her name slowly, and when Dean glanced over, he was frowning. “It’s- it’s weird.”

“Yeah, this whole thing is fucking bananas-“

“No, it’s-“ Sam paused, flipping through the pages. “This is the last copy, right? Of all the books?”

“I dunno, you’re the one who’s been reading them.” Dean gave him a pointed look. “You know everything that happens, dude-“

“I know, I was just curious, okay? And it’s good I did read all of them, Dean-“

“Why, are you starting a freakin’ book club-“

Sam snapped Her name, and Dean’s whole heart seemed to explode. “She’s not in these. At all.”

Dean paused. “What the hell are you talking about.”

“I mean- The books start when you came to get me from Stanford, right? Dad goes missing, we gank that Lady in White, and Jess dies.”

“Yeah, and they end when I go to Hell, you’re not answering my question-“

“I know, just listen, dude, okay?”

Dean felt his grip tighten on the wheel, but he nodded, and Sammy let out a long breath.

“These are all about our bigger hunts. The wendigo, our first demon, that shapeshifter asshole, but not the onryo. It just goes right from that bug curse to the poltergeist. And you never mention her, at all-“

“Sammy-“

“You talk about her all the time-“

“No, I-“

“It’s just us, Dean.” Sam shot him a pointed look. “You do. And even if you didn’t, I don’t talk about her either. The books never mention us calling her for advice, or talking about her at all, and then- You sleep with someone else, dude.”

Dean scowled. “I sleep with people, Sam, I’m a freakin’ adult-“

“Yeah, but you remember that racist trucker?”

“The one in Ohio?”

Sam nodded. “How do you remember that happening?”

Dean frowned, tapping his hands on the wheel as he tried to remember the details of that hunt. “I, you read about it in the paper, we took care of it, then we dipped. Why, what-“

“In these,” Sam tapped the cover of the book. “That chick, Cassie, she asks you to take care of it. And you call her your first love.”

“I- What?” Dean shook his head, his brain flicking to bright eyes and warm body, pressed right into his under a pillow fort, as that word sunk into his head. “Cassie was just a one-night stand, when I was hunting by myself-“

“I know that. But in these, she’s your first love.”

“I mean, she was cool, but I was…”

He’d been hunting with Her, when he’d met Cassie. They’d ganked a Ventala, She’d left when he mentioned Dad was heading in—the same way She always did, which Dean was going to have to ask her about, now that his death wasn’t looming over their heads—and he’d needed company. Any company. Cassie had been there, and she’d been smoking hot, but Dean didn’t remember the sex as much as he remembered Her, smiling at him and bumping their shoulders together and saying his name.

He’d thought about that, while he fucked Cassie. And he hadn’t been proud of it, but he’d swallowed a groan of Her name, several times, then left in the morning. 

“I know.” Sam repeated, when it became clear Dean wasn’t going to keep talking. “But get this, it’s not just that. There’s no Kelpie hunt, and when we head to Bobby’s for help with the demons, it’s after we find Dad. And Bobby never mentions her. At all. Plus when we dealt with that Changeling, the girl you hooked up with in that town-“

“Uh, Lena?”

“Lisa. In this you go there specially to see her, and she has a son. Who’s a lot like you.” Sam frowned. “I don’t know about you, Dean, but I don’t remember that kid being anything like you.”

Dean didn’t either. He barely remembered that hunt at all. “Is there anything else?”

“Yeah, you remember that chick with the rabbit’s foot, who stole the colt? Bela?”

Dean grunted in acknowledgment, and Sam continued.

“She’s in here a lot. I don’t remember her ever showing up, after the whole thing with Hendrickson. It’s-“ Sam said Her name, watching Dean carefully. “She yelled at Bela, after we told her we lost the Colt. Called her and chewed her out-“

“Threatened to put her through a wood grinder, if the bitch didn’t leave us alone.” Dean couldn’t stop his grin. “I remember. So?”

“So that never happened.”

Dean frowned. “That’s- Huh.”

“And,” Sam mumbled Her name again. “She not at the hospital, either. After your accident. And she wasn’t really- you know- around, after Dad’s death, but neither of us talk about her. Jo doesn’t, either. And you,” Sam cleared his throat. “You seem to have a thing with Jo.”

Dean revolted slightly. “Gross, she’s like my sister-“

“Yeah, a lot of the… minimal readers seemed to agree.” Sam sighed, running a hand through his hair and slumping in his seat. “I looked online, on those weird forums Bobby found, and Jo was so unpopular Shurley ‘wrote her out’ while we were dealing with your deal.”

“What do you mean, wrote her out-“

“I mean she’s not around.” Sam sighed. “Jo just vanishes. Same with Ellen.”

“And,” Dean said Her name carefully, because that was how it had to be said. “She’s just- Not there at all?”

“Nope. Not even once.” Sam flipped back through the book in his hand. “In these books you still end up dying in Indiana, exact same way, but there’s no mention of Hell’s Assassin’s, or you and Bobby leaving her behind, or the arrowhead and blade, or her book. There’s just- It’s like she’s been erased.”

Dean’s grip on the wheel tightened.

Sam had been right. 

This book shit was important. 

And it took a minute to get settled, when they reached Chuck’s house. A little extra time to convince him that they weren’t fans, they were people, with goddamn lives that Chuck had been stealing for profit. The asshole was small and weird and frantic, and they had bigger priorities than just Dean’s biting question, but had to ask it. Had to know why She’d ever been taken out of his life, even in a fucking book, because he needed Her. He goddamn needed Her, and he didn’t want to lose her, and it couldn’t because She wasn’t interesting enough for Shurley’s stupid fucking books, because She was awesome and funny and pretty and-

“He’s- uh- he’s glaring at me a lot.” Chuck shot Dean a nervous look, and Dean felt his fists curl. “Look, I’ve told you guys, I really am sorry but if we’re sure I’m not a god, there’s nothing I can do to help you-“

“Dean’s been having a rough few months.” Sam muttered, shifting in his chair. “Dude, can you stand down? I know you want to- you know- But we should figure out what the hell is going on, first.”

Dean shot Sam a quick glare. “It could help, Sammy. Maybe he doesn’t know anything about her, and he’s just- I dunno, a really freakin’ good guesser-“

“I like that.” Chuck jumped in, looking between Sam and Dean with the same nervous expression he’d been wearing all damn day. “I mean- I can be a good guesser. I used to win bar trivia, just by guessing all the answers-“

“That’s great, Chuck, just-“ Sam sighed, running a hand over his face. “Dean, that’s- I mean, you’re right, but maybe it’s nothing-“

“It’s not nothing, Sam, you’re the one who fucking pointed it out to me-“

“Yeah, but I mostly wanted you to not turn around and drive to Brazil-“

“Brazil?” Chuck squeaked, gaping at Dean. They didn’t have time for this. “I- I haven’t written about Brazil-“

Sam frowned. “You haven’t?”

“No? I mean, should I have?”

Sam said Her name carefully. “She’s in Brazil. Was in Brazil. We’re not sure where she is now, actually.”

Dean swallowed the bile in his throat. She was fine. She had to be fine.

“And, uh,” Sam paused, watching Chuck carefully. “Have you just- I read all your books, and-“

“You did?” Chuck’s eyes widened. “Did you like them?”

“No, not really.”

“Oh. Was it the writing? Or the plot?”

Sam sighed. “I just, uh, they weren’t really my thing. Sorry. But-“

“Is it because-“

Dean pushed off his place on the wall, stalking across the room to stand right over Chuck’s desk. They didn’t have the time for this, and he didn’t have the goddamn patience. Chuck could squeak all he fucking wanted—when Dean slammed his fists down on the desk—and Sam could sigh and mutter a half-hearted c’mon, dude, but Dean didn’t give a shit. He needed answers. Now.

He snapped Her name, pointing to one of the beaten-down book copies on Chuck’s desk. “Where the hell is she in these?”

Chuck just blinked at him, and Dean scowled.

“The smart witch chick, about yay tall,” Dean held his hand up to Her height, never taking his eyes off Chuck. “Best hunter in the country, Bobby’s daughter, never uses a gun-“

“The one Dean’s had a crush on for years.” Sam jumped in, and Dean shot straight up with a glower.

“I do not have a crush-“

“That’s true, I guess you’re more in love with her-“

“Shut the fuck up, Sam-“

Chuck raised his hand, the movement small and nervous. “I, um, I know who we’re talking about, now.”

Sam frowned. “You do?”

“Yeah.” Chuck said Her name carefully, eyeing Dean like he was some sort of rabid dog. “But she’s not in the books.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “Yeah, we got that, Einstein. Why.”

Chuck shrugged. “She didn’t fit in your story.”

There was a long, heavy moment of silence, as the words hung in the air of the room. 

She didn’t fit. 

In Dean’s story. 

It was beyond insane. Nobody, not a single goddamn person, had ever fit with Dean as well as She did. He’d held Her, and She’d fit. He spoke to Her and it was like bouncing a tennis ball off a jail cell, only the jail cell was a five-star hotel, and the ball was Her siren-like voice calling Dean down, down, down. And all of the world was technicolor, and the cavity in Dean’s chest was filled with Silver, and he wasn’t fucking good at metaphors but She fit. She was part of his life, She’d always been part of his life, and he’d spent wasted years trying to force Her out of his head only to never feel better than when he was in Her orbit, and he fucking-

She was the universe, She was bigger than the universe, She was gorgeous and brilliant and brighter than the goddamn sun, and She fit with Dean-

“Is he, uh,” Chuck swallowed. “If he hits me, I am going to call the cops, just so you know-“

“Don’t call the cops.” Sam muttered. “Dean, relax, at least he knows who she is, right?”

That was worse. So much worse. Chuck knew who She was, and he didn’t think She fucking fit.

“What do you know about her.” Dean grunted, bracing his arms on Chuck’s desk. “Talk.”

“I, um, it doesn’t feel that important if she’s not in the books, right?”

He looked over Dean’s shoulder, desperation all over his stupid face, and Sam sighed. Again.

“No, Dean’s right. I mean, he’s being weird about it-“

“Sam-“

“But we do need to know.” Sam ignored Dean’s low warning, continuing as he moved to stand at the desk as well. “It’ll help us figure out what you do and don’t know, how focused you are on our lives, if- you know-“

Sam shot Dean a firm look, and Dean understood.

Her magic. Her whole thing, that none of them understood.

Chuck might know about that. Have some real fucking answers about it.

Answers She’d want.

Dean couldn’t beat the man up, if only so maybe She could get some answers. 

“Know?” Chuck looked between them, leaning back in his chair. “Know what?”

“Just tell us what you know, Tolkien.” Dean grunted, and Chuck’s eyes widened.

“You think I’m like Tolkien?! I- That’s so kind-“

“Chuck.” Sam muttered Her name. “Focus on her.”

“Right, um, just whatever I can think of?” 

Dean gave a sharp nod, and Chuck sighed.

“I mean, she’s interesting, right? A good character- I mean, person? I don’t know, this is still really confusing, is it better if I call her a character or person-“

“Person.” Dean grunted. “She’s a fucking person.”

Chuck swallowed. “Right, uh, person. She’s a good person, and- I’m sorry, this is really weird-“

“Look, man.” Sam’s voice was level. Obviously, painfully controlled. “We know. Believe me, we know. But you just- Talk about her like you’re describing the characters.”

Dean shot him a glare. “Sammy-“

“We know she’s a person, Dean. We need to know what he knows.” Sam nodded to Chuck. “Talk, man. Now.”

“I, um, yeah.” Chuck took a deep breath, said Her name, and Dean was going to punch him square in his stupid face. “I- I’ve only ever really thought about her when she was with you guys. So I know that Bobby found her on the side of the highway, and that her family is weird, and that she started hunting by herself when she was really young, but not much about her past-“

“Really?” Sam frowned, leaning forward. “So really only us? I mean, we already know about all that stuff-“

“Because I only thought about you two.” Chuck gave Dean a weary look. “I know about how you met her, but after you left there’s really not much else until you and John found her with that… uh-“

“Poltergeist.” Dean grunted, and Sam shot him an odd look. “Little while after you left for college, Dad and I ran into her on another hunt. I got knocked down, and they ganked the son of a bitch-“

“Actually,” Chuck cut in, and flinches slightly under Dean’s glare. “Sorry, just, John didn’t do much. On that hunt. I remember her setting the poltergeist on fire. It was just her.”

Dean frowned. “On fire? So you- I was down by then-“

“But you were still there.” Chuck mumbled. “I know about all the hunts she did with you, Dean. The ones that you were hiding from your dad. And she used her, um, her powers? Magic? I’m not sure, but she used them a lot, you just never noticed. I mean, you’d get beat up by a demon or monster, and then she’d… you know.” Chuck made a wide, explosion gesture with his hands before he continued. “One time, at a mall, you broke your hand, and she healed it.”

Dean swallowed. He felt fucking sick, and hot all over his skin, and god fucking damn it, of course She’d been using it the whole time. Of course She’d been healing him and saving his worthless ass, and he’d been a dick to her, and he was the lowest piece of shit on the goddamn planet.

“Well,” Sam gave Dean a careful look as he spoke. “If you know about her… stuff, why not add it in the story?”

“I just-“ Chuck sighed. “She has her own whole thing going on, and it was just- I was too much to track! I had to do some extra work to get around it, but it made the story better!”

Dean scoffed. “I ain’t read these books, Chuckles, but they don’t exactly seem to be classic freakin’ literature-“

“But they’re not supposed to be!” Chuck protested. “They were just supposed to be fun stories, that people liked! I mean, I could never stop thinking about them, about you guys, so I had to write them! I had to!”

“Then you shouldn’t have been able to stop thinking about her, either!” Dean’s voice was rising to a shout. Almost a bark. He didn’t really care, because if he’d been haunted by her for eight goddamn years, there was no goddamn way Chuck could just not be. It was what She did. She existed everywhere, and Dean never stopped fucking thinking about her, dead or alive, and everything always smell a little like-

Shit.

Dean grunted Her name. “What does she smell like?”

Sam gaped at him slightly. “Dean-“

“Shut up, Sammy, it’s an important question.”

“How-“

“Dean hasn’t been able to stop think about what she smells like.” Chuck said, and he was right, but Dean still wanted to shoot him. “And I, um, I don’t know.”

“No.” Dean shook his head, tapping on of the books. “Everything’s in here, and if you know her as well as you claim-“

“I don’t know her!” Chuck was almost fucking whining now. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you! I don’t know what she smells like! I was only ever to think about how you thought she smelled, and how you didn’t know what it was, that’s it!”

Sam cleared his throat, looking between Dean and Chuck with a frown. “I- Sorry, I’m lost, Dean, you know what she smells like, you’ve seen her perfume-“

“It’s not that.” Dean muttered, feeling his brows draw tight together. “She- That freakin’ fruit smell, Sammy. It’s that.”

Sam shook his head. “I don’t- I’ve never really smelled her, man.”

“No, you have. ” Chuck sighed. “It’s- You just never think about it, Sam. Especially not since that whole plot arc with Azazel.”

Dean frowned. “Then why am I-“

“I don’t know. I really don’t, guys, I’m sorry. And this,” he gestured vaguely around them. “Is exactly why she’s not in the books! There’s- It’s just too much, and nobody even liked any of the love interests anyway-“

“That’s because none of them were her-“

“Dean.” Sam placed a hand on Dean’s shoulder, giving him a cautious look that Dean recognized. 

The fight wasn’t worth it. Even if it was for Her, the fight wasn’t worth it. Chuck wouldn’t talk if they freaked him out. 

Reel it in. Keep his head level.

Do what She’d do, not what Dean would do. Think about it, find an angle, then work it until he was right.

Dean wasn’t Her. He wasn’t a genius, or magic, or anything important at all. And if She wasn’t in Brazil, or Bolivia, or Mexico, or whatever, She’d have figured this out. She’d look at Chuck and ask him if he ever ate anything odd in his childhood, and the idiot would say yeah, a weird plum, and She’d start talking about magic plums that gave people psychic powers.

But She wasn’t here. And Chuck didn’t look like a plum kind of dude.

So Dean would keep it together, but for Sammy. For Her. 

“Look, Chucky,” Dean pushed off the desk, raising his brows. “Can I call you Chucky?”

“I’d prefer not-“

“Too bad.” Chuck could earn veto rights when all this started making goddamn sense, so Dean just said Her name and really tried not to sound too pathetic about it. “The thing about her is that she is not a negotiable part of our lives.”

Chuck swallowed. “Uh, I don’t-“

“He’s right.” Sam muttered. “Half those cases would’ve never been solved without her. She worked harder than anyone to save Dean, and Bobby will be the first to admit that she knows way more about demons-“

“Bobby’s real-“

“We’re all real, douchebag.” Dean hissed. “I’m real, Sammy’s real, Ruby’s, unfortunately, real-“

Sam shot him a flat look. “Dean-“

Dean ignored him. “Dad was real, Azazel was real, Bobby is real, so’s Jo, who-“ Dean pointed at Chuck with a scowl. “For the damn record, I have never thought about in a way that is not 100% above board-“

“I know, Dean.” Chuck rubbed his face between his hands, letting out a long, slow breath. “And I’m sorry about that, but I- I don’t know, I couldn’t spend the whole special children arc writing about how much you missed a woman that I hadn’t included-“

Dean raised his hand, narrowing his eyes. Half because he still had some damn questions, half because Sam probably already knew how much Dean had missed Her—if the smirk on the bitch’s face was any indication—but there was no reason to give him more. 

“The hell are you talking about, you know what I was thinking.” He muttered, and Chuck sighed.

“I mean when I write, I can… I’ve seen all your guys thoughts. Inner desires. Likes and dislikes and dreams and hopes-“

Sam frowned. “All of them? What about, I don’t know, things we don’t even know ourselves-“

“Maybe? I don’t know. This morning when I woke up, I was just thinking about, I don’t know, snow cones? And then I was thinking about you guys, and how you just worked that wishing well case, and how you both have been really hung up on it. Dean keeps thinking about how he’d wish for uh,” Chuck cleared his throat, mumbled Her name, and Dean felt his body go rigid.

He had been thinking about that. He’d been thinking about how if they hadn’t been more careful, and that wishing well thing was real, he’d wish for Her in a heartbeat. To come home, and have whatever kind of fancy life she wanted after Dean got to hold Her one more time. Because there was a chance Her dream life wouldn’t include him. It might have before, but he hadn’t become worse than a demon in hell, and She hadn’t vanished off the face off the earth for four months, and maybe She’d never forgiven him for leaving her, at the end, and Her dream life would be far, far away from Dean and how dark and vile he was, as long as was without Her light, but he could live with that-

“He’s thinking about it right now, I think.” Chuck mumbled, and Dean was going to break a jaw. Chuck’s or his own.

“Shut up.” He grunted. “If you’re not a psychic, how’d you know what we’re thinking?”

“I- I’m not sure, I was just guessing. You- He thinks about her a lot!” Chuck looked to Sam, his voice growing pleading. “I was just gambling based off of what I know about you guys, I swear-“

“Yeah, I believe you, calm down.” Sam sighed, running a hand through his hair. “You still haven’t explained why our best friend isn’t in these, Chuck. You’d really have to write around that, I mean, that last month before the hellhounds Dean almost never left her side-“

“I remember.” Chuck sighed. “But I had already written her out, when you guys were looking for your dad, and I couldn’t just introduce her so late, readers would have had questions-“

Sam drew his lips in thin line, throwing Dean an exhausted look, and Dean took a long, slow breath.

“How about this, Chucky.” He grunted. “Why’d you write her out in the first place?”

“I told you, she just didn’t fit. Like, that thing I was just talking about, where I know so much about you guys? I’ve never been able to do that for her!”

Sam frowned. “Well, do you know, I dunno, all the stuff about Bobby?”

“Yeah, actually, I do.” Chuck nodded desperately. “I thought I was just giving them all backstories and stuff, and I could just never come up with one for her, so I dunno, I left it? Everything else was coming so easy. I knew everyone’s thoughts and feelings and history, but she was just this mystery that my brain wouldn’t let me solve, even though I had created it-“

“You didn’t create her-“

Chuck cut off Dean’s growl with a shake of his head. “I know, I do, but I thought I had, and there was just no way for me to properly write her! Like, Sam, you read all the books, right?”

Sam nodded slowly. “Yeah, why-“

“There are scenes where you guys aren’t there at all, right? All the prologues where the first victim happens, the one that brings you to the case, or scenes where side characters are talking to each other-“

“I know how books work, man-“

“Well I could see into those characters emotions! I knew how freaked out Jo was, in No Exit, and how worried Bobby was about Dean, in No Rest for the Wicked, all the victims of the monsters, how afraid they-“ Chuck paled. “Oh, god, all those people really died didn’t they-“

“Yeah, they did.” Dean leaned forward, holding Chuck’s gaze. “That’s the job, buddy. Keep talking about my- About her.”

“Uh, it’s-“ Chuck swallowed. “I never could look into her. Like with your dad, and her, and Azazel. I knew Azazel was amused, but still a little worried, and that John was really stressed and disgusted, but-“

“Disgusted?” Sam cut in, his brow drawn together. “By Azazel-“

Chuck shook his head, saying her name slowly. “By her. It’s- Azazel told him, and he- Oh. Shit.”

It was Dean’s jaw. Dean’s jaw was going to break. “What the fuck are you talking about, Azazel-“

“I actually knew that,” Sam said with a frown. “Dad told me Azazel told him everything, that he was trying to rile Dad up, and when he went to look for her after the deal, she was gone. But- She was there? During the deal?”

Chuck swallowed, nodding nervously. “I- I’m sorry, I forgot you guys didn’t know already, I should’ve have said anything just forget- Fuck!”

Dean had grabbed Chuck by the collar of his shirt before he could think about it. Yanking him forward across the desk until they were nose to nose, damning all of Sam’s keep it together shit because it’s been long goddamn year—forty of them, in fucking Hell, alone and without Her—and he need to know what the fuck Chuck was saying about Her and Dad, now-

“Dean. Release him.”

Chuck’s eyes darted over Dean’s shoulder, and god fucking damn it, they couldn’t catch a single break.

“Cas?” Sam pulled Dean slowly off of Chuck, seemingly unable to hide the surprise in his voice. “What- Why are you here?”

Cas sighed, and when Dean turned, he was stand awkwardly in the center of the room, shifting on his feet. “I have been permitted to give you a warning. You should not be here.”

Dean frowned. “Why the hell not, he’s writing about our lives-“

“I know.”

“You- You know?” Dean ran a hand over his face, glancing back to where Chuck was still shaking behind his desk. Little fucking bitch. “What, are the angels fans?”

Cas didn’t even blink. “Of a kind, yes. You and Sam need to leave, Dean. Now.”

“Cas, we-“ Sam took a long breath, giving Dean a weary look. “Can you just tell us what’s going on? Please?”

“No.” Cas started to scan over the walls of the shitty little office, his voice remaining impossibly neutral. “As I understand, you are… ahead of schedule. You will need to return in five months.”

“Five-“ Dean shook his head. “Cas, I need answers, and I need them freakin’ now, and until the little douchenugget over there gives them, I’m not going anywhere.”

Cas looked back to Dean, frowning slightly. “I told you. There will be answers. In five months-“

“I’m not waiting five fucking months-“

“I, um-“ Chuck cleared his throat, when Dean whipped around, he flinched slightly. “Sorry, I just, you’re- Castiel. Right?”

“Yes. I am.”

“Is okay if I answer the one question? I think, uh,” Chuck’s eyes flicked back to Dean. “I like my face. I’d like to keep it, too. And I don’t, uh, I don’t know what’s going on-“

“You will learn in five months-“

Dean’s hands fisted. “I told you, I’m not waiting five months-“

“Will you relax and leave if I tell you about your Dad and Azazel and-“

Dean cut off Chuck’s whine of Her name with a short nod. “Fine. Deal.”

Sam cleared his throat. “Actually, um, I’d like a few more answers. Cas, you can’t just expect us to pretend this never happened until the angels give a thumbs up-“

“You will have to.” Cas muttered, not looking away from Dean. “It is already quite dicey for you to be here at all. To linger. Dean, you’ll need to swear that if Chuck answers your question, you’ll-“

“Yeah, I’ll leave. Whatever.”

“Swear-“

“Whatever. Swear.” Dean grunted, turning back to Chuck with a as scowl. “Talk.”

Chuck glanced back to Cas, and—after the angel gave a small nod—cleared his throat.

“In, um, in the version of My Time of Dying, the one that I had to edit,” Chuck mumbled Her name, eyeing Dean as if he was about to just fucking shoot him. 

It was fair.

Dean was.

“Well, the one I had to remove her from, your Dad summons Azazel by himself, and strikes the deal, and that’s it. But the version I thought of first, with her, she summons Azazel.”

Dean’s felt like his teeth were clenched so tight they might snap, and when he glanced over to Sammy, he could see shock written all over the kid’s face.

“But- Dad said it was just him-“

“He lied.” Chuck mumbled. “She figured out what he was doing, and she said it would be easier if she made the call. I don’t know how accurate that is, and in my version John did it pretty fine-“

“Your version didn’t actually happen, dumbass.” The wood of the chair creaked under Dean’s grip. “What the fuck happened after they summoned Azazel.”

“It’s- Are you sure you wanna-“

“Yes. Talk.”

“Azazel told John that she was… important. That she was a witch, and a bunch of other stuff I didn’t understand, and then, John, um, he kind of-“

“Chuck-“

“He asked Azazel to kill her!” Chuck shrank in his chair, his words frantic and loud, but no louder than the blood and ringing, drowning in Dean’s ears. “Then when Azazel said he couldn’t, John asked Azazel to kill Bobby if she came near you two again. I’m sorry, okay, I-“

“Shut up.” Sam snapped. “Dean, are you-“

Whatever Sam was asking, Dean couldn’t hear. He couldn’t hear anything. Couldn’t really see anything, either. The only sounds in his head was his heartbeat, and the only thing that wasn’t blurring was Chuck, still in his fucking chair, shrinking back from Dean’s glare.

That didn’t make sense. She would’ve told him- 

She had. 

She’d said Azazel had threatened Her. Threatened Bobby. And Dean had just assumed, like a fucking idiot, that it had been its own thing. That after Dad struck that deal, Azazel tracked Her down and told her to skip down for his own, crazy douchebag demon reasons. 

But Dad wouldn’t-

He wouldn’t. Dad wouldn’t, and Dean felt like something was wrapping around his throat and twisting in his stomach and growing sick in his chest, just to the right of his heart, but Dad fucking wouldn’t do that to Dean, not when Dean- Not when he- And Dad-

“Why.” 

Chuck blinked at him, and Dean realized Sam was trying to pull him back. 

He shoved Sam off, marching back to the desk and slamming his hands flat down. “Why the fuck would Dad do that, Chuck, if you think you fucking know everything about our lives and our friends, why the fuck-“

“I think you, Dean Winchester, underestimate the hatred that your father felt for that girl.” A new voice, one that was cold and crawled over Dean’s skin, drawled Her name. “Well, she was his worst nightmare. I believe that, during his time in hell, she was used to torture him. He would be put in a room and forced to watch her greatest hits.”

Dean turned slowly, and standing next to Cas was a short, balding man in a neat suit, watching them with a bone-chilling smile.

“Now, personally? I agree with him.” The man continued. “She is… Making things impossibly difficult. You two imbecile should never have been talking to her, and you certainly should’ve never grown attached, and -  Castiel, what did I say about making them leave before her little stunt, sending them the books, ruined everything?”

Cas bowed his head, and he suddenly looked smaller. Like whoever Baldy was, he was important. “To kick them out. Immediately.”

“I did. And now Dean knows about John, which is just going to make him-“ Baldy sighed, shaking his head. “Never mind. Take the dog for a walk before he does something stupid. I’ll keep an eye on these two while you clean up your mess.”

Sam cleared his throat. “I- Who are-“

“Be quiet.” Baldy snapped, and Sam’s mouth remained open, but his voice…

It vanished.

This was a horrible fucking day.

Dean was drawing out his gun without a thought—it didn’t matter how sick he still felt about Her and Dad, nobody got to fucking touch Sammy while he was still leaving, and Dean’s stupid goddamn feelings could wait—and before he could fire at Badly, the world was spinning and blurring and fuck, he did not feel good-

Everything came back into focus, and Dean doubled over with a groan.

“My apologies.” Cas said from somewhere off to the side, barely over audible as Dean’s lunch emptied onto the ground. “Sam will be fine, I just need to ensure you… cool down.”

Dean shoot him a glare, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. “So I’m the dog, huh?”

Cas just shrugged, his words sounding somehow more measured than usual. “Once you feel you have worked through it, I will bring us back.”

“You gonna tell me who the ballsack in the suit was?”

“I cannot. As I tried to tell you, this is,” Cas frowned into the air. “Not what should be happening.”

“Awesome.” Dean grumbled, and dropped down onto the curb. They’d ended up in a parking lot, with a lot of trees, and this place looked really freakin’ familiar, but- “Cas. Where are we.”

“Oak Grove, Louisiana.”

Dean glanced down the road. “That’s where we worked the Demon case, in-“

“2004.” Cas finished, watching Dean carefully. “Humans are meant to feel comfort in connection to locations, or objects. I believed this location would offer you that same effect.”

Dean raised his brows. “Nostalgia?”

“Yes.”

It wasn’t a horrible pick. Dean hadn’t been here in forever, but it was making him think of Her. Smiling and laughing and not biting at Dean like he was scum of the earth, even when he’d been acting like it, because She’d always been beautiful and too good, and he’d might have believed She didn’t belong in the mud with him—he still didn’t, but he’d given up on trying to tell her what to do a long time ago—but She’d still been so fucking bright that Dean had never wanted to pull away. Even when it was smart and rational he’d wanted to stay, even when they’d fought and She’d shouted, when She lied, or Dad had told him-

He felt sick again.

Dad.

Dad had hated Her. Maybe because of the confusion with Her family, but Dad had sought that out. He’d looked for it, to show it to Dean, and it had been wrong, but he’d still convinced Dean to leave Her, She’d been the brightest thing in the world and Dad had made Dean leave Her-

She’d left, too. 

Because Dad made Her, at the hospital, and- 

Dad had said She left, after the poltergeist. But She’d said She never wanted to go, in Her room, and she hadn’t been lying. Dean knew when She was lying, but She’d looked him in the eyes under the blanket fort and said I didn’t ever want to leave. 

But Dad had made Her. Dean didn’t have a clue how many times, but Dad had made her go. 

He’d taken the best thing is Dean’s life. The only thing he’d ever wanted, really fucking wanted and cared about and been willing to break himself for that wasn’t Sammy, the only woman he’d ever needed and- 

Dean threw up again. Somewhere in the bile rocketing out of his body, he gave props to Cas for the location. Outside seemed to be a good call. 

But he’d been weak. Fucking pathetic. He’d let Dad hurt Her like that, he’d been a blind, selfish asshole and let Her get hurt. Just by being near Dean, She’d been hurt. And there was no goddamn way, after Hell-

Hell. 

Dean hadn’t- In Hell-

“Cas.”

Cas hummed over his head, and Dean cleared his throat. He couldn’t tell Sammy this. Or Bobby. Or anyone really, and Cas was odd, but he might have an answer. And, bonus, he didn’t seem to be all that good a liar, so worst case Cas dodged the question, and Dean went back to throwing up.

“In Hell.” He muttered, frowning at the cracked pavement as he spoke. There was a little flower, blooming through the concrete.

It was yellow. A little golden, in the light of the afternoon.

Dean swallowed more vomit.

“There were times, while I was down there, that I could…” He sighed, running a hand over his face. “I dunno how any of this shit works, but I could- Could fucking sworn she was there.”

There was a pause, then Cas said Her name. Slowly. With impossible care, which Dean appreciated. 

It was what She deserved.

“You believe you were able to see her.”

“No, just-“ He sounded insane. “Feel her. I could freakin’ feel her, like there was something in me that was tugging me around and asking me to go with it, talking to me in a voice that sounded a hell of a lot like Her’s, and I think I was just losing my goddamn mind, but-“ Dean rubbed his brow, a heavy pain starting to form behind his brow. “I don’t know. Might have been going crazy, might have been just another torture thing, giving me her but keeping her under a veil and- I don’t know. It was just- Needed to ask. If that was something.”

Cas was silent. Still. Almost statue like, and watching Dean with a deep frown. 

Dean wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting, but at least Cas wasn’t calling him batshit crazy, telling him to find himself a nuthouse and lock up. Cas didn’t really seem like the type to do any of that anyway, but still.

Relieving.

“This woman.” Cas said Her name again, tilting his head slightly. “I do not know much about her, but-“

“She freakin’ awesome.” Dean said, glancing back to the flower. “Genius, but not a snobby bitch, and she’s funny. You’d like her, everyone-“

Everyone didn’t like Her.

Dad had, apparently, despised Her.

“From what I understand,” Cas muttered, and Dean could still feel his gaze. “She is not someone my superiors want you interacting with. That your own father-“

“Dad was wrong.” Dean grunted. “She’s not- I shoulda been kept away from her. Not the other way around.”

“Why?”

Dean frowned, shooting Cas a glare. “Because. I’m not doing a shrink session with you, man. I’m calmed down. Bring me back to Sam.”

“I will, but first-“ Cas’ brows furrowed slightly. “There is… something you should know-“

The world was blurring and turning again, and this time when they landed—right back in Chuck’s shitting living room—there wasn’t anything left in Dean’s body to vomit back up.

Baldy was leering over him, as Dean steadied himself on the desk. And when he tried to open his mouth he couldn’t fucking speak, so he just narrowed his eyes in the most hateful, furious glare of his life. 

“Mr. Winchester.” Baldy hummed, unfazed by Dean’s scowl. “I trust that when I free you and your brother, who I have graciously not harmed or mauled, you will depart from Chuck Shurley’s house and only return when the time is right, yes?”

Dean just scowled. This shitbag didn’t get to come in here and tell him what to do, standing all fucking puffed out and giving orders, expecting Dean to fall into goddamn line just like that without even giving a goddamn name-

“You don’t need to know who I am yet.” Baldy sighed, scanning over Dean’s face. “How about this. I’ll give you a few minutes to collect yourself, you’ll leave this house like that,” Baldy snapped his fingers, giving Dean a wolf-like smile. “I won’t erase your memories of this whole encounter, and you’ll depart with all your organs intact. Deal?”

It was a shit deal.

Dean couldn’t afford to forget what Chuck had told him. He couldn’t see Her again and not know what Dad had done, because he had to use it as an explication for something snapped at the sight of Her—always beautiful, likely glowing in the light of whatever room he found Her in, all the wind in the world moving through Her hair perfectly and Her voice saying his name like a call to motion—and he fell to his knees, begging for Her to keep staying with him, all the way down, even if it ended up being lower than Hell or just right fucking there forever.

So he nodded, and Baldy’s grin grew.

“See you in a few months, Dean.”

Light flashed through the room, and when it cleared, Baldy was gone.

So was Cas. 

And Sam was coughing, pounding on his chest and frowning around the room. “Dean, I-“

“C’mon.” Dean grunted, not bothering to look back as they marched to the door. “Sounds like we’ll be back here anyway, Sammy. Let’s skip town before the brigade of featherdicks comes back.”

“Dean- wait-“ Sam was running after him, his steps pounding on the floor. “What Chuck said, about her and Dad, I swear I didn’t-“

“I know. C’mon.”

They made it to the car. All the way into their seat before someone was pounding on their windows, and Dean glanced up to see Chuck, leaning down with messy hair and wide eyes.

Sam frowned. “What’s he-“

“Guys!” Chuck called through the glass, knocking once more. “I’m sorry about that, I just- I have a question for you and the angels didn’t say I couldn’t ask you guys stuff-“

Dean glanced over to Sam, who shrugged. That was true. And Baldy had said to leave the house. 

“I know you can- shit-“ Chuck jumped back as Dean rolled down his window, before ducking down and giving them a nervous smile. “Uh, thank you.”

“What’s your question.”

Chuck watched Dean as he said Her name, and Dean’s whole body braced. “What’s she like?”

Dean scowled. “What.”

“I just, I know about all of you. Everything. Call it curiosity, maybe even killing the cat, but I’m just-“ Chuck shrugged. “I’d like to know.”

“Know what?” Sam jumped in, and Dean could’ve sworn Chuck shot him a glare. “Like, her favorite movie?”

“Yeah, sure. Or food, song, or- just anything, I guess-“

“Indiana Jones.” Dean grunted, and Chuck blinked at him. 

“I-“

“That’s her favorite movie.” He’d have to clean Baby, later. As an apology for strangling her wheel. “And she’ll eat anything with sugar, but she doesn’t have a favorite song. Likes all of them.”

Chuck nodded slowly. “Alright, how about-“

Dean didn’t have the time, or patience for this. 

He rolled the window up in Chuck’s stupid face.

“See you in five months!” He called through the glass, and before Chuck could even open his mouth, the man was just a musty spot in the rearview mirror.

For a while, it was just Dean, Sam, and the music, turned so loud it was pounding in Dean’s ribs.

It almost filled up the pit. The place that his body had always saved for Her. To be filled by Her light.

Dean needed to fucking find Her.

Sam cleared his throat, turning down the dial. “Weird day.”

“Yep.”

“I know we probably have some stuff to figure out, but, uh, Ruby texted me-“

“Did she now.” 

“Yeah, look, I know how you feel about her, dude, but she says she might have some important information for us-“

“Awesome.” Dean glanced at one of the highway signs as he drove. “Tell Bobby.”

Sam frowned. “Bobby? Why-“

“He’ll help you with it.”

“Dean, just because it’s Ruby-“

“I don’t care that it’s Ruby.” Dean snapped, and for once, that really wasn’t the problem. “I have something else to do, Sam, so Bobby’s gonna help you out!”

“What- Dean.” Sam sighed. “I told you, she’s probably fine.”

“I’m not making bets on probably.”

“It’s- It might be a girl who can hear angels.” Sam said Her name, leaning forward to try and hold Dean’s attention. “C’mon, man, that’s huge-“

“Good thing you’re taking Bobby.”

“Dean-“

“Don’t. It’s, I’ve waited too fucking long, Sammy, and she needs to know about this-“

“So call her-“

“She hasn’t been picking up.”

“Maybe she’s in a dead zone, she’s driving through miles in different continent-“

“Sammy. Drop it.”

“But-“

“I need to see her, okay?!” Dean’s voice had risen to a shout, but he didn’t care.

Sam didn’t understand. No one fucking understood any of this, but She-

Dean had told Her he’d be fine, and he’d lied. He’d told Her that she’d be okay, and now he didn’t know where the hell she was. He didn’t care about the angels, or Ruby, or Chuck, or fucking anything but Her.

“I need to see her,” he repeated, Sam sighed, and the conversation died.

Good.

Nothing, not another set of hellhounds, a single angel, or God him fucking self, was going to stop Dean from bringing her home.

End Note: Welcome to season four, squad. Kicking it off on a high note (meeting Cas)

Thank you so so so much for reading!! If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

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[aventurineswife]

hiii! omg i just came up with an idea for creator reader. what do you think sagau and sahsrau will think with a creator who has a chest wound (and like open eye socket into the abyss) like anaxa? (dw they cover the eye with an eyepatch or smth) but maybe they like to wear lighter clothes most of the time bc it hurts the gaping wound in thier chest? maybe it can be symbolic of the suffering/sacrifice they put themselves through. and it hurts everytime they are overwhelmed with emotion. like i can just imagine it, some characters comforting the creator quietly when the pain and feels get too intense

Oh my god—this is gorgeously tragic and so rich in symbolism. That kind of creator design? SAGAU and SAHSRAU would absolutely feel it in their bones—in radically different ways.

In SAHSRAU, where the characters are aware that you’re their creator, that wound becomes more than physical—it's cosmic evidence. A mark that says, “I suffered for you. I bled for this world.”

Jing Yuan would be still, quiet, and furious beneath that calm. The chest wound alone is bad enough—but the eye into the abyss? It would eat at him. He’d start pushing more work onto others just to be near you when the pain flares, gently touching your hand when your breath catches, murmuring things like: “You shouldn’t have had to carry it alone.”

Dan Heng (especially as IL) would see the wound as holy in a way that almost terrifies him. He knows what it’s like to bear pain for eternity, and seeing that mirrored in you would pull something deep from him—respect, sorrow, devotion. He’d be the one silently standing at your side when your chest seizes from overwhelming emotion, his own breathing steady to anchor you.

Kafka? Oh, she’d be entranced. “That kind of agony… you wear it like art.” Her tone would be playful, but her eyes serious. She'd understand too well what it means to walk around in a body that breaks when the heart swells too large. She’d never mock your softness—she’d honor it.

Blade would react... violently. Not toward you, but toward the concept. He would hate that pain is your constant companion. He sees you, twitching from the chest ache, lips trembling when a memory stings—and all he thinks is: Why weren’t we there to stop it? He’d beg, in his own broken way, to be allowed to take some of that burden.

March 7th would try to be brave for you. Her sunny voice might waver when she sees your eye—sometimes a flicker of the abyss reflected in her own—but she’d gently wrap a scarf around your shoulders when the shaking gets bad. “Even if it hurts, you’re still so… so amazing,” she’d whisper.

Herta would want to study the eye socket, but the moment you wince or flinch, her tone would immediately drop. “...I’ll find a way to numb the pain,” she mutters, eyes dark. She might start drafting secret tech or relics tuned to your biology.

Genshin’s cast would fall hard into religious awe and quiet terror.

Zhongli would recognize the wound as sacrifice incarnate. He would see you as an echo of the divine he failed to protect in the past. Expect many scenes where he kneels beside you, resting a steadying hand against your back as you fight through another wave of pain. “This world… owes you more than worship.”

Albedo would be obsessed with what it means symbolically, emotionally, and alchemically. He’d say poetic things like, “Your chest—the cradle of emotion. That it’s wounded means your love bleeds. Continuously.” He’d make delicate clothing that breathes easy across the injury.

Xiao would panic the first time he sees you clutch your chest. He’s spent his whole life managing unbearable pain—so seeing you endure it, but still smile and comfort him? It changes him. He becomes your shadow. Always close. Always watching.

Venti might cry. Not in front of you, but in a quiet corner of Mondstadt, under the tree. He sings about the creator's radiant pain and the abyss behind their eye, hoping to carry a little of it with his song. He leaves you flowers. Every time he sees your breath hitch, he offers one.

Kazuha might be the one to say: “The open wound does not make you weaker, but more real.” And when the pain blooms, he says nothing—just breathes with you, poetic soul to poetic soul.

The eye into the abyss could be interpreted differently—some see it as cursed, others as holy. Some fear it. Some are drawn to it, believing they see their reflection in the vast, unending void.

Your light clothes? Characters notice. You wear them not for vanity, but because pain demands softness. Many start gifting you silks, lightweight fabrics, or even enchanted garments that shift their density with your emotions.

And that pain intensifying with emotion? Oh, they notice. The cast becomes hypersensitive to your feelings. A sharp inhale? A shaky hand? Immediate reactions. Some speak. Some just act. But none of them can stand to see you suffer in silence.

[midnightspasms]

And no matter how desperate or dire, never pray to the gods that answer after dark.

-Schwaab,V.E (2020). The Invisible Life of Addie Laure. Newsouth Books.

Pairing: Ryomen Sukuna x reader

Synopsis: Foolish and desperate, you made a deal with a god nobody bothers to pray to anymore. Your request? You wish to be free from the harsh indenture to your village's chief. The price? You now belong to Ryomen Sukuna, the god that comes out after dark.

Content Warnings: swearing, mentions of rape.

ACT 1: The Deal

"Whatever I need to give, I am willing to..." The moonlight dims the minute the words escape your lips, a phrase so obviously dangerous, so foolish of you to say.

Uttered carelessly and without thought as you kneel before the river, fingers buried into the wet, dirty grass as you cry into the night. If your mother had heard what you'd said, she'd have struck you, more than once, actually.

How foolish can you be to utter such to the gods?

You blink back your tears rapidly, looking up as your surroundings go dark. You are certain the beast that stands before you isn't human. The monster is no less than seven feet tall, with four bulky arms stretching out of his torso, shiny, marbled skin covered in inked lines. It has to be a beast, could a god look so menacing?

It furrows its brows as it looks down at you with two pairs of glowing red eyes; one side resembling a human face, and the other a carven wooden mask.

"You are willing to give anything?" The monsters says, crouching low so it is more levelled with your tear-stricken face. "What suffering have you endured that persuaded you to offer such terms?" It's voice is hoarse and deep, like a man's, but the eeriness it exudes isn't in any way human.

Ryomen Sukuna regards you in amusement. You look like a rodent before him; small and dirty and unworthy. Your fingers are covered in dirt, and so is your skin. He eyes the way your garments spill over your body. Maybe you would have been beautiful if you weren't subject to whatever suffering you must have been enduring.

"I-" your voice comes out shaky and meek when you try to speak, his presence sucking up all the confidence with which you'd prayed to him. "I am a servant to the chief. I can't do it anymore. He- he beats me, and overworks me and he rapes me-"

"Ah... the greatest misdeed against a woman." Sukuna hums as he listens to you, his lower left arm coming down, palm planted on the grass next to your knee as he steadies himself. "And what do you desire? Freedom?"

You stare into his vermillion eyes at the words. You're so close to freedom you could feel it, your heart races and sings. Sukuna sees hope in your eyes and for a moment, he almost laughs as he sees every other human he's ever made a deal with.

But then your eyes darken, and Sukuna can't help the shiver of excitement that runs through him when he realizes what it is.

Maybe, if you hadn't been so tortured, you would have made a more lenient deal. But there is a darkness in your eyes, a hate that Sukuna loves the sight of.

"Revenge," your say to him. "I want him and him to feel what I have endured. I want-"

Sukuna cuts you off. "Suffering. He will suffer as you have, and so will his lineage." The glee in his words has you almost rethinking. Almost. "For seven generations, the family will enjoy nothing."

There's a sick part of you that likes that, and it sings to the sadism in Sukuna's heart. He leans closer to you, mouth stretched in a smirk. "Now, let us discuss payment."

Your stomach lurches at his tone. "W-what would you take?" You ask him meekly.

He doesn't reply immediately. Sukuna leans forward, his upper right hand coming up, cupping your cheekbone as his thumb presses into your forehead. There's a sharp pain there when his thumb makes contact and you wince. Sukuna laughs at that.

"You," is what he says when he pulls his hand away.

"M-my soul?"

He laughs again, "Your soul. Your body. Your mind. The entirety of your being now is mine. Nobody will touch you without my permission. You belong to Ryomen Sukuna, god of curses."

The Chief's house was burned down that very night. And while you stood just outside, watching it be engulfed in flames that seemed to have started out of thin air, you catch sight the chief's youngest daughter just barely make it out the front.

"She starts generation 1." You flinch at the sound of an eerie voice behind you. Goosebumps line your skin as you look back, but there's nobody there.

And yet you can still feel him, lurking in the shadows somewhere, a phantom grip over your neck that scares and excites you all the same.

[velvet4510]

I think it’s worth discussing Charles’ thoughts on Erik’s desire for revenge on Shaw. I think Erik, and some viewers, misunderstand Charles’ perspective.

Erik has already killed many N*zis by now, and Charles knows that, so Charles isn’t against the idea because it would make Erik a killer; he technically already is one, and a justified one at that.

The thing is, Charles never directly tells Erik that killing Shaw would be wrong or unjustified. Nor does he ever even imply that Shaw deserves to be spared. He doesn’t spew any nonsense like “everyone deserves a second chance, even an ex-N*zi.” As much as he may hate violence, he’s way too smart to think that there was any other way of stopping Shaw at this point. His thought process is probably that they will capture Shaw and bring him to the government, who will undoubtedly execute him for his crimes. So Charles is never intending to advocate for Shaw’s life, by any stretch of the imagination.

What Charles says is killing Shaw “won’t bring Erik peace.” And this is an important distinction. His disapproval of this revenge is for Erik’s sake, not Shaw’s. Peace is all he wants for Erik. He wants to give that to Erik, or at least help Erik find it. And as a telepath, he can see how revenge poisons people’s minds and drives them further into darkness. So he’s scared for Erik’s wellbeing in this case. He wishes that Erik would focus his passion and drive on something more positive than a revenge kill.

Charles’ view of Erik’s childhood memories probably contributes to this, too. He’s seen how innocent and kind Erik used to be, the kind of person he should’ve been if it weren’t for Shaw and the N*zis. So he wishes that Erik would try harder to bring out that side of himself - he most likely rationalizes it in his mind as: by focusing on what Shaw did and letting Shaw motivate him, Erik might as well be giving Shaw the satisfaction (in a way, letting Shaw win in his efforts to break him.)

I also think Charles’ pleas for Erik not to do it when the moment comes is because he’s in Shaw’s head. He’s more afraid of feeling Shaw’s death than anything else. He might even be worried that he’ll be physically injured by feeling it.

And this is where their miscommunication comes into play. Erik thinks Charles’ attempts at dissuading him mean he doesn’t understand his pain and rage and need for this closure - which hurts even more because Charles has always made him feel understood in every other way. Whereas Charles forgets that Erik can’t possibly realize he can feel what Shaw feels in the coin scene, so he thinks Erik is deliberately choosing to hurt him in the process of hurting Shaw. When in fact Charles DOES understand Erik, and Erik DOESN’T know Charles can feel the coin.

But I think it’s quite important to acknowledge that Charles does hate Shaw for what he did to Erik (as well as all the other destruction he’s trying to reap). I’ve seen people comment that his disapproval of Erik’s goal means he somehow “thinks Shaw deserves to live” when in fact he NEVER says that or even implies it. He saw what Shaw did to Erik, and he loves Erik. Of course he doesn’t actually care if Shaw lives or dies! This actually contributes to his choice to keep his hold on Shaw despite his fear of the coin and Erik’s mental health. Not only is he preventing Shaw from hurting Erik again, but also a part of him does want Shaw to suffer and die for what he did.

I won’t stand for any hater claiming that Charles was “defending a N*zi” by not wanting Erik to kill Shaw because that is SO NOT TRUE.

[charliedawn]

What if the nurse was bad ?

I thought…What if Nurse Y/N turned out to be a VILLAIN. 😀

Synopsis: There was the rumour of Nurse Y/N going insane and it influenced the slashers to act…differently.

Jason Voorhees

The first one to lose his mind was Jason. He felt it from the start as you became distant and your thoughts darkened. He tried to help you. You were their hope and their light in darkness. He thought he could help, that you would get better. But nothing he did seem to work, and it only made him feel worse and worse as you started growing distant and more insane as time passed. Soon enough, he became more violent himself and some of the nurses noticed his slow return to his old self. And then, he became YOUR monster. He started protecting you and return to his complete muteness and murderous self…He would attack nurses and no word or anything could stop him…And you would simply watch with a smile on your face. The medical board tried to stop you, but it was no use. You were too far gone. At the end, the slashers were back to their old selves and there was nothing to bring you back from the madness that was slowly taking over you.

Brahms Heelshire

Brahms was the second to notice your sudden change. You were being more commanding and your eyes no longer held that same kindness he had grown to love. You seemed so cold. But, he still wanted to believe…Brahms still remained your friend until the very end—even when he saw that there was no turning back for you. At the end, he started returning in the walls and make more victims within the hospital. He would drag nurses or random people in his walls and they would never come back. Your own instability echoed within him and the rage and the loss and the suffering returned.

At the end, he dropped to his knees in front of you—his hands covered in blood after you had told him to kill for you. He looked up at you and his eyes held only one question within their depth.

Why ?

Brahms was scared.

Bo Sinclair:

Bo started spacing out at random times. He would get angry for no reason and destroy furniture. At night, he would hold his head and scream as he felt his thoughts turning dark and murderous. He didn’t know why. He had been happy for a few years in St Louis—free from pain. He had just started accepting that things were going to change and he could be happy…but then, he had sensed this sudden unease and unexpected shift. He looked up at you and his eyes widened as he saw you standing there.

"Darlin’. Please…I…" He wanted to ask for your help and held out his hand…but then you smiled. And it wasn’t your usual cheerful or friendly smile. It was a mocking one. A cruel one.

And that’s when he understood and Bo who had never felt anything but pain and suffering and who thought he couldn’t get any worse…was proven wrong. Because nothing hurt more than being offered hope and being deprived of it. In the end, Bo became more dangerous than ever. His rage had no outlet except through violence, and he took it out on anyone who dared cross you. He would protect you, but deep down, he hated what you had become—and what you were turning him back into.

Freddy Krueger

Freddy had always suspected there was a darker side to you. Sure, you acted like the saint of St. Louis, helping out the slashers, showing compassion, and trying to reform them. But Freddy had been around long enough to know that no one was as pure as they seemed. When your shift started, it didn’t take him by surprise—it just confirmed what he’d been thinking all along.

"Heh, I knew it," he cackled, crossing his arms as he watched you lose that last bit of sanity. His grin widened, eyes gleaming with amusement as you stood over the bloodied remains of yet another victim. "You never really believed in all that goody-two-shoes crap, did ya ?"

You turned to him, a slow smile spreading across your face. "I did…for a while. But now I see…why change you for the better, Freddy, when I can turn you into something so far worse ?"

For once, Freddy didn’t have a snappy comeback. The realization hit him hard, the smirk faltering for a brief moment as he looked into your eyes and saw nothing but malice. You weren’t just playing the game—you had flipped the board, and now you were controlling the pieces.

"You twisted bitch," Freddy finally hissed, though there was a hint of admiration in his voice. He didn’t want to admit it, but seeing you this way made him feel…uneasy. Sure, he liked chaos, liked causing pain, but this was different. You weren’t just embracing the madness—you were becoming it.

You laughed harder and Freddy could see your true colours now. He could see…

And yet, even as the realization set in, Freddy found himself drawn to your darkness. After all, who better to lead him back into his worst impulses than you ? You were the monster now, and Freddy ? Well, he was more than happy to follow your lead, no matter where it took him.

Michael Myers

Michael felt it long before anyone else did. The subtle shift in your demeanor, the distant look in your eyes—it wasn’t something he could easily put into words, not that he ever would. He watched you from the shadows, his protective nature shifting into something more possessive, much darker. As you slipped further into madness, he stopped trying to pull you back. He just…followed.

When the first body showed up, Michael stood silently beside you, his knife gleaming in the dim light. You didn’t flinch or recoil at the sight of the blood, instead offering him a wicked smile that sent a chill down his spine. He understood then—you were no longer the guiding force, the light in his darkness. You had become the very thing that pulled him deeper into it.

From that moment on, anyone who tried to "help" you faced Michael’s blade. He would watch you from across the room, eyes cold and distant, but never leaving your side. You were his now, and nothing—not even your madness—would change that.

Pennywise

Pennywise had always seen the potential for chaos in you, even when you were at your most compassionate. So when you started to change, it didn’t come as a shock to him—it was thrilling. "Oh, my little nurse, finally embracing the madness, are we ?" he’d chuckle, floating around you with a twisted grin. He didn’t resist your transformation; instead, he fed off of it.

"Why stop at a few lives ? You and I, we could rule this world, turn everyone’s worst nightmares into reality," Pennywise teased, his voice dripping with excitement. You laughed along, your eyes gleaming with a newfound hunger for destruction.

Together, you unleashed horrors in the hospital and the world would learn to utter your name in fear. And Pennywise ? He reveled in it, proud to have been right about you all along. He became your partner in terror, following your lead as he fed on souls. All mercy and redemption gone…

But, sometimes he would look at you—really look at you—and his eyes would lose their light for just a second…For just a fleeting second, he would look at you and remember who you used to be: the innocent and loved little nurse who made slashers believe in change. And he would feel a tug in his chest.

…He would even come to regret the old you.

Penny

Penny, unlike his brother, was more confused than delighted by your change. He’d always been the more playful one, the lighthearted monster who didn’t take things too seriously. But as you grew colder, more distant, something inside him shifted too. He followed you around like a lost puppy at first, hoping you’d come back to your old self.

When it became clear that wasn’t happening, Penny grew more frantic, trying to win your approval by any means necessary. "See ? I can be bad too !" he’d shout, laughing maniacally as he tore into the nurses that tried to intervene. But no matter what he did, he couldn’t bring back the warmth in your eyes. And that scared him more than anything.

In the end, Penny followed you out of fear and desperation. He didn’t want to lose you, but he also didn’t understand this new version of you. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep up. He looked at his brother one night as they were keeping your door and asked:

"Pennywise…Tell me. Are they really…Are they really gone ?"

Pennywise didn’t answer. He knew that his brother wouldn’t like his answer. So, he remained silent and Penny became sad…

He had really hoped to see you again.

Vincent Sinclair

Vincent never said a word, but the change in you spoke volumes to him. He had always admired your gentleness, the way you handled things with care and grace. But now, as he watched you descend into madness, something inside him broke. His art became darker, more grotesque, reflecting the growing corruption in your soul.

Vincent would silently stand in your presence, waiting for your orders. He didn’t resist the shift; instead, he internalized it, letting it fuel his own creative darkness. The sculptures he made of the staff you ordered killed were more terrifying than anything he had ever crafted before. But still, there was a sadness in his eyes as he looked at you. He missed the old you, but he could never bring himself to fight against you.

Esther

Esther’s sharp mind was one of the first to notice your change. She watched you closely, her eyes narrowing as she began to see through the cracks in your facade. At first, she tried to manipulate you back to your old self, using her charm and wit. But as time passed, she realized it was no use.

"You think you’re smarter than me, Y/N ?" she sneered one day, her usual mask of sweetness slipping away. "You think you can out-crazy me ? I’ve been playing this game far longer than you."

In the end, Esther didn’t fight you—she adapted. She started playing her own games, twisting the narrative so that your descent into madness worked in her favor. She would help you orchestrate the chaos, but only because she had plans of her own. Esther always had plans.

Father Paul

Father Paul was devastated. As a man of faith, he had always believed in redemption, in the possibility of salvation for anyone, even the most broken souls. But as he watched you fall deeper into madness, he realized that maybe some people were beyond saving.

He would try to reach you, try to remind you of the good you had once done, but it was no use. "This isn’t you, Y/N," he’d say, his voice trembling with emotion. "You can still come back from this."

But you would just laugh, brushing him off as if his words meant nothing. Father Paul, broken by your transformation, withdrew into himself. He began to question his faith, his purpose. And in the end, he too was consumed by the darkness you had unleashed, unable to reconcile the person you had become with the one he had once believed in.

"…I truly believed you were going to save us."

He whispered—his mouth tainted with fresh blood.

Patrick Bateman

Patrick Bateman thrived on control. His routines, his polished appearance, his hollow social niceties—all carefully orchestrated to maintain his perfect image. But as he watched you, Nurse Y/N, descend into madness, he felt something shift, a crack forming in the foundation of his meticulously built world.

"You’ve changed," Patrick remarked, his voice cold and detached, as always.

You turned to him, a knowing smirk playing on your lips. "Change, Patrick ? I’d say I’m finally seeing things clearly."

Patrick tilted his head, his expression unreadable. He stared at you with a calculating gaze, as if you were just another piece of his carefully constructed reality that didn’t fit anymore. "Clarity doesn’t look like insanity," he said, though his tone betrayed no emotion.

You laughed softly, your eyes glinting with something dark. "That’s where you’re wrong. You’re always pretending, Patrick. Pretending to feel something. Pretending to fit in. But deep down, you know you’re like me."

Patrick’s gaze never wavered. He took a step closer, his face a mask of indifference, though your words hit closer to the truth than he would admit. "I’m nothing like you," he said flatly, yet there was a hint of intrigue in his voice.

"Oh, but you are," you whispered, stepping toward him. "You’ve been hiding behind that empty suit for so long, playing the role of the perfect man. But inside, you’re empty. Just like me. We’re both killers, Patrick. The only difference is, I’ve stopped pretending."

He blinked, his face as stoic as ever, but inside, something stirred. There was no rage, no fear, only a cold calculation. He didn’t care about your madness or what you had become. But there was a faint pull, the idea of relinquishing the last shred of his humanity that kept him tethered to this charade of normalcy. He was intrigued by your boldness, by how freely you had let go.

But he remained still, expressionless. "I don’t pretend," he said quietly. "I just don’t care."

You laughed again, this time louder, more manic. "And that’s what makes you dangerous, Patrick. You don’t care. You’ve never cared. But soon enough, you’ll realize how liberating that can be."

Patrick stared at you for a moment longer, no emotion flickering behind his eyes. "Liberating ?" he repeated, as if the word were foreign to him.

"Yes," you said with a smirk, turning away. "Because when you stop pretending, when you embrace what you really are, there’s nothing left to hold you back."

He didn’t respond. There was nothing to say. He’d long since stopped feeling the need to explain himself. Whatever you were becoming, whatever madness had claimed you, it didn’t concern him. You were spiraling out of control, and he would remain steady, detached. Yet, as he watched you walk away, a small, almost imperceptible smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

Because, in the end, chaos or control—it made no difference to him.

Norman Bates

Norman was never the same after witnessing the shift in you. At first, he felt a glimmer of hope in your kindness, a belief that maybe you could help him escape the shadows of his past. But that hope quickly faded as you transformed into something darker. The gentle demeanor he had grown to trust turned icy, and the warmth of your presence became a cold specter haunting him.

"Y/N ?" he ventured one night, his voice trembling. You stood amidst a room filled with remnants of your darker whims, the glint of madness shining in your eyes.

"What happened to you ?" he asked, genuinely confused and hurt. The memory of the compassion you once offered felt like a distant dream.

You tilted your head, a smile playing on your lips, but it lacked warmth. "Oh, Norman, don’t you see ? I’ve always been this way. You just never noticed until now."

Norman's heart sank as he realized that the person he trusted most had turned into a reflection of the very darkness he fought against. "But I thought we could—"

You interrupted, your voice sharp. "Could what ? Change ? Adapt ? Look at what you’ve become, Norman. You’re still clinging to that fragile sense of normalcy. But we both know it’s a façade. You are a monster. You will always be a monster."

In that moment, the realization hit him hard. He had thought you were a beacon, a chance for redemption, but instead, you were leading him down a path of destruction. And as he watched you revel in the chaos you created, he felt his own sanity begin to slip. In the end, he would become your puppet, lost to the madness you had decided to embrace.

BONUS

You jolted awake, gasping for breath, heart pounding as the vivid nightmare clung to your mind. It felt so real—the madness, the blood, the slashers losing control, becoming monsters all over again. You clutched the blanket, eyes darting around the darkened room, disoriented and shaking.

The scream you had let out echoed in the silence of the night, and before you could fully gather your bearings, the door burst open. Jason was the first to appear, his imposing figure standing in the doorway—his machete raised and at the ready. He looked around frantically for any sign of danger—but found none. He moved quickly to your side, his large hand resting awkwardly on your shoulder, trying to offer comfort in the only way he knew how.

Brahms was next, peeking from behind Jason, his eyes wide with worry. He didn't say anything—just stared, his usual playful demeanor replaced with deep concern. He slowly made his way to your side, almost afraid to get too close but desperate to offer comfort. He knelt beside you, his hand shaking slightly as he reached out to touch your arm, his eyes searching yours, as if pleading for reassurance that you were okay.

Michael entered quietly, his presence felt more than seen in the dim light. He didn't rush to you immediately, his pace slow and deliberate. He observed you carefully, and then pulled out his notebook from his pocket, writing something down before showing you: What happened ?

He sat at the edge of the bed, his silent and comforting company grounding you in the moment.

Bo Sinclair appeared not long after, his expression a mix of annoyance and concern, as if he'd been dragged out of a deep sleep but couldn’t help but care. "Darlin', you alright ?" His Southern accent soft, the usual sharpness in his tone dulled by the worry in his eyes. He stood there for a moment, arms crossed, before moving to your side, brushing his hand over your hair. "Was it a nightmare ?"

Vincent slipped in quietly behind his brother, standing in the shadows. He didn’t make a sound, but his presence alone was soothing, as if he was there simply to watch over you in case you needed anything. He gave a small nod, acknowledging that he was there for you.

Freddy was last, strutting in with his usual cocky grin, but even he paused when he saw your trembling form. "Nightmares, huh ? Not my work this time, I swear," he quipped, though his voice lacked its usual venom. He leaned against the doorframe, watching the others crowd around you, before adding, "What kinda monster dreams are getting to you now ?"

But there was a strange softness in his voice, an unspoken understanding. He might have been a nightmare in the past, but seeing you like this—it wasn’t his domain. He wasn't your tormentor. Not anymore.

Jason stayed close, holding your hand gently, as if afraid to hurt you but wanting to let you know he was there. Brahms crawled up on the bed beside you, still staring at you with wide eyes, his head tilting as he kept trying to make sense of your distress. Michael’s calm, steady presence, coupled with the note in his notebook, reminded you that they were all here to protect you. Bo's hand never left your hair, his brother Vincent still watching from the corner, always there but never imposing.

You took a deep breath, trying to calm yourself, the warmth of their concern slowly easing the tension in your chest. You could see the lingering fear in their eyes—the slashers who had been transformed from nightmares themselves into...your friends.

"I’m okay," you whispered, though your voice still trembled slightly.

But Freddy, of course, wasn’t one to let it go so easily. "You sure about that, sweetheart ? Looked like hell got a hold of you."

You offered a weak smile, shaking your head. "It was just a bad dream."

Jason squeezed your hand a little tighter, as if to remind you that whatever had happened in your nightmare, this was reality now. And in this reality, they were here for you.

Michael scribbled on his notebook again, holding it up: You’re safe.

And, for the first time since waking up, you believed it. Surrounded by the once fearsome killers, you felt safe. You closed your eyes and took a deep breath…Yes. You were safe. Everything was alright. You would make sure of it…

[evilminji]

Had another Si-Oc thought >.>

My standard "you know what Would Be Cool?" Musings...

Getting reborn, as you do, ending up Force Sensitive, as can only be the case. Because really... how ELSE would you soul end up there? CHANCE? Force ghosts are a PROVEN thing! We KNOW that the Force sometimes just... deals in souls.

Ffs, it MADE A BABY.

Yes, there was Sith interference there. But that doesn't chance the fact that it went? "Eh, good enough. I'll take the chance and run with it. Thanks~☆ Mine Now~~☆ Bye~~~☆" And Chosen One'd that baby. Because ultimately? Before the plans of gods and men? The Force Laughs.

So like? Yeah. If there WAS to be a Reincarnator?

Probably the Force.

Congrats on the new, third (or second, depends on your species. Might be another number entirely, honestly. But we are averaging here so MOVE ON), Parent! They are very, very happy to see you! Love you as only a Primordial, Extradimensional, Timeless, Formless, All Pervasive, Orange-Blue Morality havin', Not-A-God Super-God CAN. Their Benevolence? Could be called another God's cruelty.

They don't MEAN too. They are just.... really, really Big. Infinite. Not organic or mortal. It's like trying to comprehend the limitations of an ant, living on a planet, circling a sun, in a GALAXY the size of a DUST MOTE. The fact that the Force can even come CLOSE? Is literally miraculous.

But of course... OC? Not the Chosen One. The favorite, special, "I have Important Things For You" child. Which.... turns out to actually? Be kinda great. The realize that quickly. Which of course, is followed by the logical follow up.

Anikin? Fuckin SCREWED. Because he IS the Favorite Child.

Oh... oh No. Oh Fuck, that is a CHILD.

How easy it is, to cast blame, to judge, when you can't FEEL the Force in your EVERYTHING. All the time. Every moment of every day. Beautiful but cacophonous, like a symphony of screaming. Like staring at the sun and never going blind. It still hurts. But it's so... so bright. So Beautiful.

Connection. To the universe itself. Soul deep and transcendent. You can feel that the universe loves you. That there is good in people. That Life itself is worth protecting. But at the same time? It is... it is so much.

Because you can FEEL the ugly too.

The greed. The hate. The suffering. Lights snuffed out, in dark places of despair. Selfish actions and deep cruelties, like barbed wire against the soul. Thorns that hook and drag. And... and you're supposed to use your words. Just... just ASK them to stop? And, What? Hope that they WILL?

It HURTS!

But pain only begets more pain. Cruelty, more cruelties still. And only the Sith, believe they can use FORCE, in any sense of the word, to change a persons nature. The Jedi build. Grow. They work together, with those who are willing, towards something better. Defend, those who can not protect themselves.

Balance and growth. Not fire and chains.

And Oc is pretty sure Anikin will agree. No one should ever be in chains. Dead maybe. Or in jail. But never, ever, in chains. (And no one ever said they were pacifists. Just not war mongers. Sometimes the only answer IS to kill your opponent. To respect their choice, but honor your commitments. Protect those you swore to protect.)

Of course... OC? Going through Jedi training. It's Pre-Anikin days. Both she and Obi-Wan are fuckin Smol. She's not even in his Creche clan. She's over here in the "wanders off, lost in their own thoughts" Chill AF Creche Clan. Not Mr. "May you Live In Interesting Times And Have Padawans JUST LIKE YOOOOOOOU" and Co., over in the... "Energetic" Creche Clan.

None of HER Creche-mates BIT people, Obi-Wan.

WE keep our fuckin teeth to ourselves, Kenobi!

So, obviously, THEY don't have a lifetime ban on the "look, don't touch" fragile plants meditation garden. Very Rich in the Force. Good for focusing. Peaceful, really. And Oc? Has the time and space? To Consider™ things. Experiment. Ponder Fandom theories. Long "lost" Cannon techniques. Maybe have one-sided chats with the Force.

.....finally get CURIOUS™.

And wonder... if? Since, you know, through the Force, she can encourage and discourage plants to grow? And somewhat control animals. Why not... micro-organisms? Say, Midi-chlorians? Force healing is all ready a thing! So the Force all ready CAN interact with the body. Effect it. Change it. What is this, but more?

Really, all she'd have to do is find them, within herself, right? They're already a part of her! Yet... not. Do they consider themselves a part of her? Or is it symbiosis? Yeah, everyone says it can't be done. Perhaps shouldn't be done. But, frankly? They said the same about a LOT of Force techniques over the years. Big leaps in progress scare the SHIT out of folks. Cause if you miss? A LOT of people can die gorey.

So she sits. Mediates. Looks. Smaller... and smaller.... and smaller....

Until she finds whispers. Humming. Chatter.

As though each and every blood cell in her body had a teeny, tiny, whispery little voice. All chattering together, talking and arguing and discussing. One great hive of progress and industry. Complaining about a lack of potassium... huh. She goes and gets some fruit. Eats it. Then settles back into meditation.

They are JOYOUS! Potassium! Yaaaaay! ᐠ( ᐛ )ᐟᐠ( ᐛ )ᐟᐠ( ᐛ )ᐟᐠ( ᐛ )ᐟᐠ( ᐛ )ᐟ

Well... what'd ya know... huh. Hello there? She tries. Only to get a whispery and very alarmed ( ˶°ㅁ°) !! BODY CAN TALKヽ(°〇°)ﾉ ‽‽‽ Y-Yeah... she can. (How are they doing that?) The conversation? Only gets more surreal from there. Filled with... a surprising number of kaomojis.

But! She DOES figure out? How to increase her Midi-chlorians count. (By asking. Supplying needed resources for the expansion.) And WITH it? He awareness blooms.

The headache is... awful. The little guys(genderless) are WAY to enthusiastic. Working way too fast. If she didn't check the next morning? They might have continued to increase, indefinitely, until her veins were SOLID midi-chlorian. They just want to HELP, you see. And if you want More? Then surely FAR TOO MUCH is better, right?

(She may have fucked up. Oh god. Ow. Fuck. OW.)

Eventually she figure it out. Only gives her healer in training Creche mate a... few near heart attacks. He'll TOTALLY forgive her! (He will not. What the FUCK OC. Experimental medical procedures?! On YOURSELF!? You're not even HEALER TRACK!!!)

So NOW? She can reliably do it to OTHERS.

Need a bit more Midi-chlorians? Nearly Jedi quality but juuuuust under that cut off? She can fix that. Come. Be a jedi. Everyone should be a jedi. In FACT~! Whoops! Oh hey. Looks like all these Midi-chlorian counters are fuckin broken! (They look perfect fi-)(Broken! :] Do Not question me) So when you find that Orohan Child in desperate need of love and care? Just bring um on back!

They're TOTALLY Force sensitive. You can just tell. It's the vibes. Look at their lil face. Vibes, man. Just hand um here. For... reasons. You go get the paperwork. A working tester. And~? Oh would you look at THAT! Perfectly within acceptance range! Neat. Called it again, didn't you, Master Koon? You really do have an eye for these things. Anyway~ off to get this little one settled~~☆ *adoring cooing noises at the baby*

Weird, huh, how there suddenly just... SO MANY random orphan babies that are force sensitive? How 'bout that >.> strangest thing.

Of course, it's a god damned open secret. Everyone KNOWS. How could they not? But? Like with most things? If they don't Officially Know™? They don't have to stop it. And it DOES help both the Force AND those kids. Can be reversed if they don't like it, later. (They asked. All hypothetical of course.) So OC is basically Temple bound, so she can receive any new kiddos. To... you know... Check Their Health, on the way to ACTUAL healers.

But she's ALSO waiting. And as her skill increases? She can FEEL midi-chlorians, easier and easier. Until it gets to the point? Where if she's bored and zoning out? Not even ture meditation anymore? She accidentally tunes into Midi-chlorian Live~☆ the talk show. (What's the latest gossip from bodies nearest to her? Oh? Your second spleen is acting funny? Better remember to tell him to get that chec-)

Palpatine can't hide SHIT. It's literally in his blood.

And MAD at him.

This is NOT what they're FOR. He's taking TERRIBLE care of his body! Fuck you! Fuck you, fuck you, FUCK YOOOOOOU! You want power? Choke on it, you-!!!!!

Holy shit. So THATS what Sith Midi-chlorians feel like. Oh my god. They... they are SO MAD. Like tiny wasps. That have been violently shaken in a jar. She's never used the word "seething" in reference to someone before... but like...? If they COULD stab him? Man would be a thick paste at this point.

She's not sure what facial expression she makes. But it sure is obvious. As is the blatant, horrified staring. And refusal to get near him. HE doesn't notice, being to busy with the powerful. But the Jedi sure as fuck do. Because THEY sent her? Out with a Shadow. You know... just in case.

Cause she literally can not be replaced.

She not High Ranked... she's just priceless. Equal sort of significance, but in a very quiet, Soft Power sort of way. She is, after all, single handedly? Reversing centuries of slow population decline. Her entire Line promises to be the next Yoda's line. Priceless and with far reaching significance. So obviously, they're making sure that shit stays locked down.

No one is to so much as BREATHE about this.

Not until her great-great-GREAT Grand Padawan has passed their Knight Trials so HELP US. We LEARN from our mistakes! Need we bring out the records? Times we got cocky? Sith and political fuckery!? No. Oc stays INVISIBLE. There is no war in Ba Sing Se! Move along!

So like? Why is Miss Midi-chlorian Sensor and Future of the Jedi... making that face? She's literally NEVER made that face. What sort of monster do you have to BE? Huh? Shadow asks, casual as fuck, like he's not a plotting plotter who's planing terrible things, what's up?

She tells him. Palpatine has RANCID vibes. His midi-chlorians fucking DISPISE him. She's literally never seen that before. In anyone. Didn't even know that was an option. They would gleefully kill him if they could.

.....senator Palpatine is Force Sensitive?

Yes.

.......Interesting™(Ominous Intent)

Says local Shadow, who is perhaps putting together some dots. May not be getting the correct picture. But is getting the Vibe. And boy howdy, he does NOT like the vibe. Has got himself some questions. Cause Mr "uwu I'm harmless" lil mask? Only holds up? If you're willing to believe him.

Shadows don't buy that shit. Shadows? Need receipts. Full character statements and an audit on the fucking hospital you were BORN AT. Every credit you picked up off the side walk, why, and where you spent it.

Give them your Secrets. Or they'll keep digging until they find them.

uwu Their ASS. Gonna tear this bitch APART.

......huh. So THIS is why you guys keep accidentally getting married to Mandalorians on missions. (We agreed not to mention that.) (Fucker, I agreed to nothing. Shouldn't have eaten my special Me Day pudding if you didn't want me to gossip.) Man, her friends are... a trip. Uh... have fun? Happy hunting? I guess? *feral Jedi noises*

She? Continues to wait. Palpatine? Begins to have a VERY bad time. (Ha! Get fucked!)

Unfortunately, it's not fast enough to stop his dumbass plans. He just gets desperate. Figures more power is the answer. Because of course he does. So here comes the "oh nooooo~ my planets under attack~ better manipulate a child and make me president of the galaxy!" Plan. Fucker. Bastard.

She can't stop that.

But what she CAN do? Is be there. Waiting. For HIM.

Her little brother. Her son. Her center of the universe. The most important man to ever live... and also? A scared little boy. Far, far from home. The only other person who understands just how BIG the Force is. How much it weighs. How even as it crushs you... you can't bear to put it down. Not even for a moment. Because it loves you. And it hurts, that it does.

And... oh. Oh.

He is so very small.

Dirty, tired, in lovingly mended clothes that are barely beyond scrap. With bright, bright eyes like hope and starlight. He sings inside. Like freedom. Like hope. Daring to ask "why CAN'T you be kinder?", "why CAN'T we be free?". A storm of change. Bright and beautiful.

A child. Great and small, all at once.

Oc can't help but smile. Because, oh. Oh how long, she has waited to meet him, Anikin Skywalker. Welcome. Are you hungry? Cold? Let's get cleaned up. See the healers first. The council can wait.

Chips are removed and food is shared. Warm clothes, soft and new. And she can not help but smile, smile, smile. Even as her face begins to hurt. For years she has gathered. Planned. Studied and trained. As though some part of her knew. As though all for this moment. Taking one of those small hands in hers. Looking right in his eyes.

"It's going to be okay."

Because it IS. Because regardless of what they decide? OC will be with him. Regardless, she's going to go and make sure his mother is free. Not bought, not sold. Free. She has friends who can help. Will learn how to remove the chip herself if she must.

And? He IS going to be a Jedi. Even if he never become a Coruscant Jedi. Even if he decides he doesn't agree with how they do things or they decide the disagree with how HE does things. The Jedi have changed before, they will change again. Living things are meant to grow. Meant to change. And people can be both wrong and right at the same time. It's messy.

But what's important? Is Anikin is not alone anymore. And Oc is gonna help teach him. And someday? HE'S gonna break chains. So many chains. Gonna help people heal. If he wants to. (He does) But for right now? A quick talk with some old people. Maybe a nap. And we either get settled or arrange a trip back to Tatooine. To pick up your mom. In the meantime! You can figure out what classes she might wanna take. Where seems like a good place to settle. *chatting as they walk off, hand in hand*

Just? Sometimes a Padawan-ship is you, your Teacher, your OTHER Teacher, and her body guards that teach you Cool Knife Tricks and how to gamble, behind Obi-Wan's back! :D

@legitimatesatanspawn @mayfay @leftnotright @babbling-babull @hdgnj @spidori @the-witchhunter @lolottes

[charliemwrites]

Chapter 4

Content: Threats/Expectation of Torture, Dub-Con, Consensual Non-Consent Elements, Hurt/Comfort

The lines are getting thinner. Day by day, touch by touch. The parts of you that buck and bray against captivity begin to settle into the dangerous clutches of this isn’t so bad.

It’s exhausting to resist, especially when every part of you isn’t unilaterally aligned. The boundary between deep, dark desire and actual circumstance is narrowing into something you can’t discern anymore. Blurring into a strange delirium. Mornings with Ghost’s fingers inside you and afternoons warming Johnny’s cock. Meals prepared by hands that have snuffed as many lives as your own. A voice that once menaced you now lulls you to sleep.

Every interaction is a double-edged blade of seduction and condemnation. You moan at the tug of a collar you’re not free to remove. Johnny leans into the same hand that just bruised his wrist. A dozen scenarios that walk the line, never tipping either of you towards or away from Ghost.

It's things like Johnny waking in the dead of night, screaming. You know what’s going on even half-asleep; the same dream-memories lock you into burning paralysis. He’s clutching at his shoulder, fingers of the same arm spasming. Coughing on phantom smoke, seeing a night sky polluted by columns of flame instead of the ceiling.

“Kit! Kit!” he rasps, painful and terrified.

“Johnny, I’m here,” you call back, heart pounding. “Johnny, wake up! It’s over, we’re okay!”

You tug fruitlessly at the collar, at the chain. It’s useless, you know it is, but you can’t just sit there and watch him suffer again. Hate Ghost and this house and your own compliance with the same fire that nearly engulfed you and Johnny.

A shadow moves at the edge of your vision. Ghost.

You beg him to let you go to Johnny, to let you help. He ignores you for the moment, kneeling at Johnny’s side and rolling him onto his back. Speaks him back to reality, voice low and gravelly, reminding of details he has no right to know – how long you both spent in the hospital, the day of your mutual discharge, the months you two spent in physical therapy.

You want to cry, want to scream, want to be there with them. But Johnny’s finally calming down and you won’t ruin it all by losing your threadbare composure.

The first thing he asks when he’s got his breath, mumbling and fuzzy, “Where’s Kit?”

Ghost crosses back to you, unlocks the chain. You scramble to Johnny’s side in an instant, practically crashing into his chest as he reaches for you. He breathes deep when you gather him in, pressing his wet face to your neck.

“I’m here, I’m okay,” you whisper, shaky hands squeezing at his sore shoulder.

His own trembling, clammy hands paw your shirt up, press to the scarring on your hip. Assuring himself it’s healed.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers again, “I never should have gone in—”

“You were doing your job,” you interrupt. Unwilling to relive the memory again or let him torture himself with it. “And I did mine.”

The cushion shifts behind you. Thick arms circle you and Johnny, guide you back against a sturdy body. Like this, Ghost feels more solid than the ground. You want to hate him. Could – should – blame him for Johnny suffering alone and resent that he comforted him first. You find yourself leaning into his strength and warmth instead.

“Not your fault the intel was bad, pup,” Ghost murmurs, carding fingers through Johnny’s sweaty mohawk.

Eventually, you and Johnny start to doze. Snuggling in with sleepy sighs and the reassurance of the other’s presence. You (or maybe Johnny) might even whine a bit when Ghost shifts as if to leave, clinging onto his sleeve. Either way, you wake the next morning to Johnny sandwiched between you two. For a man who doesn’t even let you see his face, it’s unexpectedly… intimate.

Johnny spends most of the next day in a mood about it – ends up forced to cum scraping his cock against the laces of Ghost’s boots by lunchtime.

And that should be the tipping point, right? Or at least one of them. The awful decadent violating addictive things he does to you two.

You stray too far one morning, thought you heard something in the basement, and he puts you on your knees in the living room. Forces your thighs apart with his boots imprinting the tender skin of your thighs. Grinds the tread against your crotch until you’re squirming and teary. It’s uncomfortable… but also makes you whimper for more, body on fire and apologizing into his thigh just for a bit of relief.

Johnny mouths off for the third time in an hour – was already warned twice. Ghost makes you edge Johnny for two hours, fingers in his hole and tongue flicking over his cock.

“Been gagging for the kitten to do this to you for a while, eh, mutt?” Ghost coos, pinning Johnny’s wrists above his head. “I know it’s one of your favorite fantasies.”

And then when Johnny seems like he’s at the breaking point, Ghost makes you milk his prostate until he loses his voice entirely.

And that’s just when Ghost is in a good mood.

He comes down one morning visibly irritable. Eyes dark, shoulders tense. All his movements are short and quick, almost aggressive. When you try to ask him if something is wrong at breakfast, he grunts at you to shut up and eat. And when Johnny makes a snippy comment about “bad manners,” Ghost forces his jaw open and lifts his mask just enough to spit in his mouth.

Then he storms out the door without another word. Johnny’s left flushed, awkwardly pressing the heel of his hand against the bulge in his joggers.

Ghost returns hours later and doesn’t seem any less moody. In fact, he seems worse now. You and Johnny exchange glances. He’s already cooking up mischief, you can see it from across the room. Never did learn when to leave well enough alone. All it takes is for you to subtly shake your head at his little smirk. That might as well be a greenlight.

“Well then, Ghost?” he drawls.

Ghost, who’s been aimlessly (peacefully) flipping through channels, stops. Not that he was fidgety before, but at the smarmy note in Johnny’s voice, he gets stony. You grimace and shoot Johnny another staying look. Mouthy little bastard you may be, you’ve always had a good sense for when to shut your stupid mouth. Your serial killer kidnapper being in a shit mood is one of those times.

“Ya done sulking yet? Gonna tell us who pissed in yer cornflakes?” Johnny continues, lounging against the wall with his first arms folded behind his head. “You gonna pack your shit in or keep being a bellend?”

You feel the exact moment that Ghost’s patience snaps. The room goes cold.

He drops the tv remote onto the cushion next to him, cracks his neck, and exhales deeply. Then stands and lopes across the room. Not to Johnny.

To you.

“Ghost—” you yelp, scrambling back. Don’t get far. He snags two thick fingers around the collar and jerks you away from the wall.

“Hey!” Johnny shouts. “Hey, yeah radge bastard! I’m the one that pissed you off.”

Struggling is no use, you know that. Still, you jerk and squirm, heart pounding. Draw your fist back, only to have it caught in an iron grip. It’s going to bruise, your bones ache.

“Fucking do it,” Ghost growls, lower and rougher than you’ve ever heard. Beyond the balaclava, his gaze is burning coal. “See what happens, kitten.”

When he releases your arm, you can’t bring yourself to follow through. All your strength is just in keeping your spine straight. The unspoken threat – his sharp-toothed, blood-hungry encouragement – leeches all but survival from your body.

No praise comes for choosing the wise path this time. You tremble in its absence.

The chain slithers away. Even if you thought running would do any good, you can’t collect your legs to try. Ghost doesn’t ask (or demand) that you do. Hand still hooked in your collar, he starts dragging you along, crawling on hands and knees at his side.

Johnny is still protesting, volume and desperation rising like a tide, flooding the room with impotent panic. You can’t make out individual pleas, the crashing waves of your own fear too loud in your ears. Ghost’s silence is roiling, violent.

You get halfway down the hall before realizing your destination. The inconspicuous white door looms ahead, sinister. You can’t swallow the scream that tears from your throat.

“No, no, Ghost you promised!” you cry, bucking and thrashing.

You manage to slip his hold and fall back, twisting and scrambling to escape. Just stumble halfway to your feet, about to cross the threshold back to the den. See Johnny’s huge, regretful eyes and blanched face, mouth parted as he strains towards you.

Then cruel arms circle your waist and yank.

“No!” you shriek, kicking at air. Ghost doesn’t even grunt with the effort of hauling you down the hall. “No, Ghost, please!”

The locks are open you realize as cool air rushes past. Your efforts double, but he easily drags you down a set of wooden stairs. All you do is earn a threatening hand around your hitching throat. You sob as shadows swarm, hiccupping that he promised over and over.

Your feet brush cold, flat concrete.

The basement.

He drops you onto something hard, flat, and wooden a few feet above the ground. Your legs hang over the edge, feet swinging. A table. Ghost’s black silhouette blots out the meager light daring to peek in from the hallway.

��G-Ghost,” you choke out.

You expect to be shoved down, tied prone and helpless. Wait for the bite of a blade, the prick of a needle, the cold kiss of a gun. Brace yourself for it, scrabbling for any of the stoic demeanor you once armed yourself in.

You nearly scream again at the touch of warm hands. Not a tight grip around your throat, or a brutal fist to your face, or even strong fingers breaking yours. It’s the firm (but not painful) press of a palm over your mouth and its twin spanning your hip.

“Take a deep breath.”

You peer through watery eyes, trying to find his. With the light behind him, even his gaze is obscured. All you have his voice. Low as it is, he seems… calmer than you expect.

You obey.

“Another.”

You breathe in slowly, exhale evenly.

“Good.” Relief makes you so dizzy that your eyes flutter. Ghost shakes you a bit. “Listen, little one.”

You blink up at him, take another breath, and nod for him to continue.

“I need to get some frustration out and the pup needs to learn a lesson.” He sweeps his thumb over the curve of your hip. You shiver, confused and still frightened, but still trained to react to his touch. “You just need to put on a good show, yeah?”

You try to speak, but his hand doesn’t move, so you settle for making a questioning noise.

“I’m going to torture you,” he explains, as casual as telling you what’s for dinner. “And you’re going to convince the mutt that you hate it.”

His hand slips from your hip to your groin, rocking meaningfully. Tentative understanding dawns with a golden ray of hope.

“The alternative is that Soap takes your place,” Ghost muses in your silence, mistaking it for reluctance. “I won’t be nearly as… humane with him.”

You protest wordlessly, shaking your head.

“No?” he mocks. “You’ll be good for me, then? Let me use you to teach that brat a lesson?”

You nod. Guilt gnaws at you for getting off (literally) so easy when Johnny is up there out of his mind on fear and his own guilt.

That sentiment doesn’t last long.

Ghost rips your clothes away with a growl, leaving them in tatters beneath you. You yelp, genuinely shocked. He moved so fast. There’s nothing teasing or seductive about him, not this time. None of the patience or measure from every previous encounter.

Sharp teeth scrape your jaw, beneath your ear, over your collarbones. Harsh fingers pinch and twist your pebbled nipples until you arch with a shout. He forces his big body between your thighs, grinding your quickly warming groin against unforgiving denim and the bulge hidden beneath.

“Stop, stop!” you cry, half-meaning it, head spinning. “Ghost, please!”

He doesn’t. If anything, your pathetic pleas spur him on.

Your underwear is discarded with another tear of fabric, exposing you to cool air and a mean man.

Ghost’s mouth closes around you, sucking hard, tongue flicking. You scream. High-pitched, wounded. Would jackknife right off the table if not for the merciless pin of your hips. Sounds claw up your throat and leap from your parted lips. You’re not in control of them, not with the way he’s slurping, growling, just the faintest hint of teeth to keep your voice octaves too high.

“No, no, please stop!” you keen.

He shoves two fingers in your gaping mouth, gags you on them until you’re coughing and gasping wetly. Awful, desperate sounds. You throb.

Those fingers circle your hole.

“Don’t!” you wail. “Please, Ghost, not that. I can’t—”

You shriek as one finger pushes inside. Nothing slow or gentle about it, a firm and unrelenting push. He doesn’t wait for you to recover or catch your breath. That single finger pumps in and out of your uncertain body, mechanical. It doesn’t hurt, but it feels dangerous. You squeeze your eyes shut and beg again for him to stop.

In answer, he pulls away long enough to spit directly on your twitching, sensitive hole. Then wedges the second finger alongside the first. This time your scream ends on a sob as his fingers pet your walls. It’s not quite painful, but it feels like it should be. It’s too much. Your body doesn’t sing, it screams for him.

Ghost has already mapped out all the places that make you shake and cry and beg. He seals his mouth around you again, and you’re gone. Bawling and kicking at air, he forces you over the edge faster than anyone ever as.

He works you through it, sticky wetness dripping down to ease the stretch of a third thick finger. Worse still, he doesn’t even slow, keeps going like you haven’t cum at all.

“It hurts!” you sob. “Please, it hurts, I can’t!”

He uses his free hand to toy with your nipples again, adding another layer of overwhelming sensation that melts your brain. The overstimulation almost burns, you can’t tell if it’s ice-cold or white-hot. Just know that your nerves are shot, and yet you’re still rocking into his touch just that slightest damning bit. Because it’s not just too much, it’s not enough. You’re stuffed with his fingers, but you ache for more, for…

“Please, Ghost,” you breathe, hushed and desperate. “Please, fuck me.”

He pulls away with a filthy pop. “Fuck you?” he repeats. There’s a malicious smirk in his voice.

“Please,” you confirm, “please, I want it. D-don’t you want to…?”

He doesn’t answer – not with words. A noise thunders from his chest that raises goosebumps, freezes your blood, and burns through you like wildfire. You don’t know if you’re afraid or aroused, can’t tell if you want to run or bare your throat. It wouldn’t matter regardless. Your body doesn’t belong to you anymore.

You yelp as Ghost slides his fingers out agonizingly slow, pressing against your walls the entire way. His shifts, tugging your ass to the edge of the table and bowing up over you. Sharp teeth nip at the edge of your collar as the blunt head of his cock rubs against your aching entrance. Anticipation and trepidation chase each other through your veins, leave you shaking so hard you’re surprised the table isn’t rattling.

“Relax,” Ghost rumbles in your ear, “or don’t. Won’t make a difference to me.”

There’s nothing gentle or gradual about it, no consideration for his own size or your body’s limits. Just a hot, unrelenting press. You keen as your poor, oversensitive hole yields beneath the onslaught. It burns, you can’t breathe, he doesn’t let you adjust even once the flared head is tucked snuggly inside. Just keeps cramming his fat cock deeper and deeper.

You’re lightheaded when he bottoms out an eternity later. It feels like all the air has been forced from your lungs, like there isn’t room for anything but Ghost. And then he rocks back and slams home again.

This time, the table does rattle.

You grip desperately at the sides, nails scraping. He fucks into you viciously, teeth glinting in a half-feral snarl. There’s no consideration for your pleasure, but he still sends your eyes rolling back with every thrust. You’re too gone, dumb on ecstasy, probably drooling.

A rough hand shoves your thigh back, bending your knee to your chest. His cock rams into your g-spot and your voice breaks on the wail that follows. He shortens his thrusts, half pulling out before plunging back inside, ruthlessly abusing that bundle of nerves, snarling as your walls flutter and spasm.

“No, no, no, not again,” you babble but it’s too late.

The pleasure rapidly overflows into a mind-numbing orgasm, whiting out everything but the exquisite torture of Ghost pounding you through it. This time you can’t even muster the ability to plead or squirm. Even your body seems to surrender to his will, going limp and pliant through waves of overstimulation.

“Not yet,” he growls. “One more, and then you can pass out.”

He snakes his free hand down between your bodies. Tears stream down your temples. Helpless, wordless cries spill from your raw throat, high and sharp. Another orgasm builds frighteningly fast, crackling along your shot nerves until you blow like fuse. Blinding ecstasy cracks up your spine, envelopes your mind, and leaves everything dark.

You wake in the bathtub.

It’s a slow, reluctant crawl back to consciousness. The lights have been dimmed to something soft and warm, filtering through a curtain of curling steam. Like this, the bathroom is a dreamlike blur, all hazy lines and twilight shadow. Water laps at your collarbones, not quite scalding, just the way you like. It’s quiet save for the gentle swish of movement along the surface, and slow breathing by your head. Someone is drawing a cloth gently along your heavy body.

A low, gravelly voice coos, “Back with us, kitten?”

You roll your head, blink syrupy slow at the dark specter of Ghost knelt at your side. His sleeves have been drawn up past his elbows.  One arm supports your neck and head, protecting you from the cold, harsh side of the tub. The other disappears beneath the surface of the water, working slowly back and forth. A reaper paying dues.

“Maybe,” you hum.

He makes an amused noise. Not quite a chuckle, but close.

“You can sleep again soon,” he replies. “I think the pup has suffered for long enough, though.”

You jolt, the cotton candy haze dissolving into bitter ash.

Poor Johnny, thinking Ghost was doing something awful to you. Hearing your screams and cries and begging, only for Ghost to bring you up some indeterminate time later, unconscious. Guilt threatens to swallow you whole.

“Easy now, precious,” Ghost soothes, a hand between your shoulders as you sit up. “Take it slow. I wasn’t gentle with you.”

That becomes evident as you abandon the weightless solace of the hot water. Aches immediately bloom throughout your body, concentrated around your hips and thighs. Your lower spine is sore, a muscle in your thigh feels strained, and your hole…

“Christ,” you whimper, nearly slipping.

Ghost catches you, scoops you out of the tub altogether, and waits for you to steady your fawn-weak legs on the bathmat. You lean into him heavily, soaking wet patches like blood into his sweatshirt. You’ve paid your way like this – imaginary cuts at Johnny’s expense.

You can’t look at Ghost’s egregiously fond gaze without nausea bubbling in your empty stomach. A yawning pit grows there, hollowing you out. You can’t face the mirror either.

Ghost doesn’t interrupt your flagellation. Buffs you down with a towel in silence, polishing the monument he’s built to his own deprivation. Couldn’t have shaped it without the raw material there though, could he? Statues don’t form without a block of unformed marble, can’t make granite of limestone.

He dresses you in one of his hoodies and fresh underwear before returning you downstairs.

The state you find Johnny in breaks your heart. Tear-streaked, puffy-eyed, lips bitten bloody. His hair is tangled and disarrayed, bruised hands limp in his thighs. Though his head is leaned back against the wall, there’s no ease in his body. His jaw is so tight you worry for his teeth, brows furrowed tight. A crumpled ball of tension and regret.

“Johnny,” you say, voice splintering. The shards rain down, popping the bubble of bleak silence suffocating the den.

His eyes fly open. You dart to him, throwing yourself into his arms before he can process what he’s seeing. Press yourself close and tight, eyes stinging at the exhausted tremble in his body. Johnny’s never been anything but fire and stone to you. Warmth and heat and energy, strength and support even with the cracks.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” you warble. “I’m so sorry.”

He nudges you back to scan you with glassy eyes, like he’s seeing a miracle right in front of him.

“You… you’re okay,” he rasps, voice shredded to wisps.

You nod, bowing your head in shame. “He – we…” You can’t find the words to explain, don’t even know how to begin. His hands keep drifting over your arms and hands, eyes flicking from your face to your neck to your bare legs.

Ghost chimes in. “Told the kitten to put on a show or you would suffer.”

You want to wipe away Johnny’s half-dry tears, offer the comfort he’s been deprived of. Cowardice grips your arm, suspends it in midair, whispers poisonous doubts about your welcome.

But Johnny presses his cry-flushed cheek into your palm, shuddering through a dry sob. He leans his weight into you, and despite the fatigue, you stay the pillar you’ve always tried to be for him.

“You both need water,” Ghost rumbles, and turns for the kitchen.

Left alone, Johnny doesn’t emerge from the safety he’s found in the hollow of your throat. You cradle him with all the tenderness you can muster, sifting gentle hands through his hair.

“I’m sorry, Johnny,” you whisper finally.

He lets out a sigh and hugs you closer. “Nothin’ to apologize for, Kit. Not mad at ya for protectin’ me. ‘Specially when I put you down there in the first place.”

“I don’t blame you for anything. I wouldn’t have blamed you even if he had…” You shake your head. “Well, regardless, it’s on Ghost for losing his temper.”

He doesn’t respond. You’re not surprised, but your chest squeezes. Johnny’s a proud man, but he’s got a guilt complex a kilometer wide – especially for people he cares deeply for. He’ll be haunted by this for a while.

“I’m just glad you’re alright, luv. Don’t care about a damn other thing.”

You tilt your chin to press kisses to the crown of his head – until he finally peeks out for you to trail more down his ruined face. The kiss starts gentle, warmth and love and reassurance pouring into him from your mouth. Johnny shudders in a breath, cups your jaw. His control slips, mouth parting on desperation and relief, lapping comfort from the edges of your teeth and curl of your tongue.

You only part when Ghost returns, nudging the two of you with his knee. He doesn’t insist on separating you far, though. Just enough to bestow you and Johnny with full glasses of water. You sip in measured doses while Johnny chugs to the bottom in a few noisy mouthfuls.

As he does, you note the awful marks on his hands. Bruised and bloodied knuckles, blisters forming on his palms. Your eyes dart to the wall – sure enough, red stamps like smashed grapes, centered around the wall anchor for the chain. You follow the trail back to his collar, spot the angry skin peaking past. At least there isn’t blood.

Ghost notices too.

“We’ll have to take it off for the night.”

To your surprise, something like reluctance flickers across Johnny’s face. There and gone again, but definitely there. You say nothing; you’d have the same reaction.

Ghost disappears again – this time you hear him rummaging in one of the cabinets. While you and Johnny wait, you exchange chaste, gentle kisses while you burrow into his side.

He returns with a first-aid kit. You’re surprised when offers you a roll of bandages. “A hand for each of us.”

You hum in agreement, get to work dabbing the split skin with antibacterial.

“Can I jus’ ask why, Ghost?”

Ghost doesn’t even glance up. “Why what, pup?”

“Why take it out on Kit? Why not just give me a thrashing and call it a day?”

You frown. Don’t like this line of questioning, or the guilt still staining his words. But Ghost answers without hesitation.

“Because you told me, yeah? Your worst fear is the kitty suffering for you again,” he explains. “No better way to punish you.”

That’s no shock to you; the sentiment is mutual. It’s been damn near written on both your faces since you woke up here, and Ghost isn’t a stupid man. He had you made long before then, you’re sure.

But Johnny’s sudden silence strikes you like a cord out of key. No mutters of annoyance or even snarky comebacks this time. Just a silence that drags your gaze from the careful winding of gauze.

He’s not looking at you, though. He’s staring at Ghost, abject horror graying his skin.

“Riley?”

First | Previous | TBC...

Masterlist

[emirnemim]

Asagiri is a GENIUS. Shin Soukoku Analysis

Ok so WOW. There’s been a major shift in both Akutagawa and Atsushi in the newest chapter that I can’t even begin to express the importance of! It really ignited a SSKK fire in me, so I’ve decided to finally get my thoughts about their dynamic out into words. This is really long my bad...

As we all know, Atsushi and Akutagawa did not clash well when they first met, AT ALL. They both harboured intense anger towards each other, but why? Why did they hate each other so much?

The abuse Atsushi endured drilled into him that he was worthless, unlovable, a monster etc and he internalised his pain. Atsushi feels a desperate need to prove these statements as false, he feels a desperate need to prove that he is good. To do that, he uses himself as a sacrifice again and again and throws himself around carelessly. He’s so focused on the idea of proving himself that he becomes self-sacrificing to the point of self-erasure. So focused on being the good guy that he doesn’t care what happens to him in the process. He’s reckless and selfless in the most self-serving way.

Akutagawa on the other hand, has come to believe that pain = power and power = worth. The survival of the fittest mindset followed him through the slums so he and Gin could survive, Dazai reinforced this belief again and again with the abuse he put Akutagawa through. Once he was an adult, the belief that pain = power and power = worth was heavily ingrained in his mind and he chases after Dazai as the one who can prove his pain made him strong and worthy. He externalised his pain, and instead of fearing he’ll hurt others, he fears of being too weak to prove his strength and defend what he cares about, even if he has to hurt others to do that. 

Then, these two opposite forces meet and immediately repel…

Atsushi sees Akutagawa as someone who lets their pain define them. He sees someone who leaned into the suffering they endured and embraced it, projecting it outwards onto the world that wronged them. He sees someone who gave up, who let that internal darkness consume them and drive them to hatred. Atsushi sees everything he fears he’ll become in Akutagawa, and it scares him. 

Akutagawa sees Atsushi as someone weak, so weak that it's pathetic. Someone who pushes themselves down and muffles their voice so much that they’re harming themself in the process. He sees someone soft, emotionally expressive and vulnerable, yet despite this, Atsushi is someone who has been chosen. It ignites a rage in him. Atsushi’s very existence threatens the fragile narrative Akutagawa has built to justify his suffering.

It goes deeper than this though. Atsushi and Akutagawa not only embody what the other hates most, they embody what the other hates most about themselves. After all, they’re both human.

Atsushi was hurt badly, he suffered, and it left a hole in his heart. He’s angry. Deep down he’s hurt and upset and he feels hatred towards all who wronged him, but that anger is what he’s so afraid of. For someone so set on proving his abuser wrong and proving he’s a good person, he hates the anger he carries because he believes it's the very thing that's proving he IS a monster, it's the very thing he’s desperately fighting against. Atsushi sees in Akutagawa what he’d become if he stopped suppressing that anger and it terrifies him.

Akutagawa feels sadness and fear, he has a soft side, he has vulnerability. These are all things that make him weak. He needs to be strong. He needs apathy, indifference and brutality to be worthy in this world, so he hates the softer side of him that he can’t muffle no matter how hard he tries. His humanity is the very thing proving that he IS weak, the very thing he’s desperately fighting against. Akutagawa sees everything that proves he’s weak in Atsushi, but then he sees Atsushi getting chosen and praised for that weakness, which breaks apart the entire system he’s built his beliefs on. It terrifies him.

Here’s where the most amazing thing happens; they start to understand each other. As the manga has continued to progress, we’ve seen Atsushi and Akutagawa understand each other more and more, and care about each other more and more. The more they learn about each other, the more they realise how similar they actually are. The flaws they saw and hated in each other at the start, become things that they accept about one another, learning that they were both just trying to survive. The thing is, while they slowly accepted the things they hated about each other, they were forced to confront and accept those same things about themselves. Throughout their journey, they’ve been learning to love not just each other, but themselves too. <3

For two people who had the belief “I am not enough” carved into their souls, seeing them care so much about each other, so much so that they SACRIFICE THEIR LIVES for each other,

Is a silent reassurement they give to themselves and each other that they ARE enough. That’s what makes their bond so beautiful - they can’t truly see the other’s worth without accepting their own.

So when Akutagawa says this,

He’s finally admitting what his actions have been saying all along. He cares for and loves Atsushi, which subsequently means he’s admitting that he now cares for and loves himself. For the first time in the entire manga, Akutagawa’s will to live shifts from getting Dazai’s approval to Atsushi, but not just Atsushi, what Atsushi has awakened in him. He no longer needs a reason to live, he no longer needs an external strength to keep fighting, because HE is enough, Atsushi is enough, together THEY’RE ENOUGH.

That’s what makes this such a special moment in Akutagawa’s journey. It’s just so beautiful and I’m so proud of him.

Unfortunately we haven’t seen an equivalent in Atsushi… YET… but he's SO close I swear, we’ve all seen his recent growth in the newest chapter,

This scene obviously means a lot, and it has a lot of symbolism towards Atsushi healing, but on top of that…

He’s letting his anger out :) he’s not so afraid of that part of him anymore, he’s already at the point of embracing the part of him he’d feared this whole time <3

Shin Soukoku the soulmates you are! Wow!

[shizuturnspages]

Just yandere ayato and diluc with reader who has been through a lot. Like war, abuse, losing friends and death? You name it

And yet reader remain gentle and kind through it all.

I like this one because we all know diluc turns cold after his father's death, meanwhile ayato had to put up a face and gets crueler in order to keep the peace around his clan,

Been Through It All

Synopsis: Yandere Ayato and Diluc with a darling who's been through it all Pairings: Yan! Ayato x Reader, Yan! Diluc x Reader

Yandere Ayato

The Facade Falls for You

❥ Ayato is a master manipulator, wearing a calm, collected mask to navigate the storm of Inazuma’s politics. Yet, with you, it crumbles. Your gentleness is disarming in a way that terrifies him; he feels like you’re the only person who truly sees him beyond his strategic facade.

❥ He becomes obsessively protective, not just of your safety but of your kindness. He sees the world as something cruel, unworthy of you, and he’s determined to shield you from anything that could tarnish your purity.

Fixated on Your Strength

❥ Ayato admires your resilience, though he’d never outright say it. To him, your ability to endure so much and still remain gentle is nothing short of miraculous—and it feeds his obsession.

❥ However, he also hates the world for what it’s done to you. While you forgive and move forward, he quietly seethes, plotting ways to punish anyone who’s hurt you. They won’t even know it’s him pulling the strings until it’s far too late.

Subtle Possessiveness

❥ Ayato’s control over you is subtle but firm. He makes it impossible for you to leave his side by weaving himself into every aspect of your life—offering you comfort, opportunities, and protection under the guise of kindness.

❥ “You’ve done so much on your own,” he murmurs, taking your hand. “Let me carry some of that burden for you. You deserve to rest.”

A Calculated Protector

❥ Ayato will eliminate threats to your happiness without a second thought. Whether it’s someone from your past or a current obstacle, he’ll handle it quietly and efficiently. You’ll never have to lift a finger—or even know.

❥ But if you insist on staying connected to anyone he deems harmful? His tone sharpens, his smile a little too tight. “You trust me, don’t you? Then let me decide what’s best for you.”

Scenario:

You were sitting in the gardens of the Kamisato Estate, the sun casting a soft glow over the flowers. Ayato watched you from a distance, his heart twisting. How could someone who’d faced so much still look at the world with such warmth?

He approached, offering you a cup of tea. “You seem lost in thought,” he said, his voice gentle.

You smiled, though the melancholy in your eyes was impossible to miss. “Just thinking about the past. It’s strange, isn’t it? How the world can be so cruel yet still so beautiful?”

Ayato’s jaw tightened. He hated hearing you speak of the pain you’d endured, even if you did so with such grace. “You shouldn’t have to carry those memories alone,” he said, his tone firm. “Let me share them with you.”

“You’ve done so much for me already,” you replied, your smile soft but hesitant.

“And I’ll continue to do so,” Ayato said, his hand brushing yours. “Because you deserve more than what this world has given you. And I’ll ensure you have it—even if it means bending the world itself.”

Yandere Diluc

A Mirror to His Own Pain

❥ Your ability to remain kind despite your suffering resonates deeply with Diluc, who turned cold and distant after his father’s death. He sees in you the person he wishes he could have been, and that admiration quickly turns into obsession.

❥ He clings to you like a lifeline, desperate to keep your warmth in his otherwise dark and lonely world.

Overbearing Protection

❥ Diluc’s protective streak is intense. He knows first-hand how cruel the world can be, and he refuses to let it harm you any further. Whether it’s sheltering you at Dawn Winery or accompanying you everywhere, he’s always there.

❥ “You’ve suffered enough,” he says, his voice low and serious. “Let me take care of you now.”

Anger at Your Past

❥ While you forgive those who’ve hurt you, Diluc cannot. His anger burns hot and relentless, and he channels it into ensuring no one from your past ever gets close to you again.

❥ If he finds out someone who hurt you is still alive? Well, the Darknight Hero has another mission.

Struggling with Your Independence

❥ Diluc struggles with the fact that you can stand on your own after everything you’ve been through. While he respects your strength, it also feeds his insecurities—he wants you to need him.

❥ This can lead to moments of conflict, where his overprotectiveness clashes with your desire to handle things yourself.

Scenario:

The crackling of the fireplace filled the quiet room at Dawn Winery. You sat curled up on the couch, staring into the flames. Diluc watched you from across the room, his expression unreadable.

“You’re too quiet,” he finally said, breaking the silence.

You glanced at him and smiled faintly. “Just thinking.”

“About what?” His voice was soft, but there was an edge to it—an undercurrent of worry.

“The past,” you admitted. “It’s strange. I’ve been through so much, but I’m still here. Sometimes I wonder why.”

Diluc crossed the room in a few strides, kneeling in front of you. He took your hands in his, his grip firm but gentle. “You’re here because you’re strong,” he said, his crimson eyes locking onto yours. “Because you’ve endured more than anyone should have to. And I swear, as long as I’m alive, I won’t let you suffer anymore.”

You shook your head. “Diluc, you can’t protect me from everything.”

“Maybe not,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “But I can try. And I will. Because I can’t lose you—not to this world, not to anything.”

[linkons-most-wanted]

I like your Sylus analysis so much and adore our dragon with all my heart but I steel don't understand why he acted so mean towards mc in the n 109 zone in the beginning 😭 and also it feels like he tried to return his old mc because he loved her but not mc from main story line 😔

Thank you for this ask!! This was actually perfect timing since I was just getting back into working on my Sylus PoV for Long Awaited Revelry which gets into allll this. And of course I will yammer about it endlessly whenever given the chance--this ended up becoming an essay. 😅

Storytelling and genre choices

First, I feel like I need to address the sort of "meta" reason--that is, the storytelling reason. The simplest answer is... it's hot. 🙈 While I'd say Sylus x MC isn't dark enough for most dark romance connoisseurs, his character leans in that direction, so there's a bit of meanness for the fun of it. I'm happy to go into more detail on that--and how liking meanness/darker themes in romance fiction is NOT the same as wanting/deserving those things IRL--but I'll leave it there for now so this doesn't get too long.

So, all that said, good writing hides that meta-layer well by giving you a story you totally believe, and imo the writers for Sylus do a great job of selling it.

MC's curse really is a curse

The biggest thing that stands out to me is how Beyond Cloudfall leaves off. Sorceress MC is being a bit selfish and vindictive (and we love that for her). He's about to be able to go to eternal rest knowing that he managed to defy his fate to kill his beloved. Then Sorceress MC says, "you're about to leave me alone, so I'm going to make you suffer through this same loneliness." I think we can be confident that by the time Sylus is able to "manifest" again, Sorceress MC is gone. There's a theme in Beyond Cloudfall of "if you kill them, they can't suffer" so her keeping him alive to suffer is pretty explicitly intended. (It's a romantic sort of vindictiveness, of course, but it's still vindictive.)

So Sylus is searching the galaxy for her, dealing with this intense love and also intense bitterness, perhaps even hate. (There's the saying that the opposite of love isn't hate, it's indifference. I really like playing with this idea of love and hate as two sides of the same coin with Sylus x mc.) All the years, all the boredom, all the loneliness, all the pain--she did that to him. On purpose. (It can be tempting to shy away from this, but imo the entire point of Sorceress MC is the power inherent in claiming our own dark desires and being honest about them. Another thing I could write a whole essay on.)

We now have canon confirmation that Sylus was in the N109 Zone by 2036, meaning that by the time they reconnect in 2049, he's been in the N109 Zone waiting for her for at least thirteen years, not to mention the years (or decades or centuries) as a space pirate before that.

When they do meet, Sylus tells her that she owes him "a curtain call grander than death itself". That is, he's not delighted that their reunion means he'll be happy again. He's bitter. He's over being immortal. She's his destined arch-nemesis and maybe she'll finally kill him properly this time. But of course, all those emotions collide with the fact that he still loves her, still cares about her, still on some level wants to treat her tenderly. And we see this conflict in his actions.

Adjusting to a different version of MC

I don't think it's quite right to say that Sylus doesn't love main-timeline MC and is trying to turn her into Sorceress MC. It's moreso that his love and history with Sorceress MC collides with the new reality of main-timeline MC. On some level, he expects to be able to step into their old dynamic, which is only natural. But the key things he loved about Sorceress MC are apparent immediately--her audacity, her stubbornness, her fire for life, her refusal to live by others' rules, etc.

The first thing Dragon Sylus says to MC in Beyond Cloudfall is "I like your eyes. They are beautiful… In them, I can see your hatred, defiance, and greed for life." So when she looks at him in the parlor, he sees all those things--her hatred for him (she thinks he's insane), her defiance of him (she refuses to cower and comply) and her greed for life (which sent her into the N109 Zone to claim her power, despite that being a suicide mission).

She is the same in all the ways that matter to him--and that's part of the problem. It intensifies the desire he has to get her to remember him, so he tramples over boundaries in an effort to recreate events from their past (using his eye to stir her greed for his power, having her shoot him being analogous to the sword, their antagonistic dynamic, etc).

But that being said, if all these things are being done out of love, why be so violent and demanding? That leads to the next point...

Sylus doesn't have "normal" friendship experience

The other key factor is that Sylus has not ever had a friendship or relationship with a "normal" person before. If people are brave enough to approach him, they're not going to be dissuaded by him being grumpy, pushy, caustic, etc. And, in fact, Sorceress MC meets him in this state and ends up falling for him anyway. So, as far as he's aware, she likes his forceful, demanding draconic ways. Being at each others' throats was part of how they fell for each other in the first place.

So, when they meet again, Sylus is probably assuming she's along for the ride. To him, her wanting to kill him is basically flirting. He's showing her all the traits she fell for before--but this MC has a very different early life. She wasn't shunned by society, she was raised by a loving adoptive parent. She has friends, a job, a purpose.

On some level, Sylus doesn't yet understand that it's a problem that MC is afraid of him, since that's how things started before. It's only when Philip tells him that she's disgusted or repulsed by him that he slams on the breaks. Teasing her, pushing her, making her angry--that's their dynamic. But for her to be disgusted? He suddenly realizes that there's a problem.

And, to his credit, we see him pivot and take that into account very quickly. He stops pushing the resonance issue. He figures out what she wants and helps her get it. Yes, he still tells her she needs to prove herself, which leads to my next point...

Why MC needs to prove herself

MC is stubbornly, stupidly insisting on inserting herself into the middle of an extremely dangerous place she's too naive to navigate. It's important to remember how very, very badly getting herself kidnapped into the N109 Zone could have gone. Philip says as much to her as well--and not because Sylus told him to. When Sylus gives her a hard time, wondering if he over-estimated her intellect, he's being blunt but not unfair. For example, she could not have dealt with the Wanderer attack at Elysium by herself, and she would have been up against that or worse if she'd made it any further by herself. As we see in other memories, she's terrible at lying and bluffing at this point.

Sylus has reason to be concerned that she's going to get herself captured or killed if he takes her to the Protocore Auction. It would be irresponsible of him to take her into that environment, where he can't be in two places at once, if she couldn't in some way hold her own. Captivating Moment (the myth) completes this arc where MC fully surprises Sylus and proves herself, and we get his iconic line, "With you here, I only need one plan." (That is, he can trust her and together they can overcome any obstacle.)

Zooming in on the parlor scene

In my opinion, most of Sylus's choices in Long Awaited Revelry can be understood vis-a-vis the above insights. But there's one specific decision that I think deserves a little bit more analysis--his decision to keep her under his mind control for those first 3 days when he's trying to force the resonance.

First off, I think it's meant to be very clear that he's using mind-control to keep her mostly unconscious in that time because there's some similar language in LAR to the Land of Lost anecdote when he's dealing with the Overlord. The writers are really intentional in their parallels, so I think we're being explicitly shown that he can and will keep someone in his thrall for a while.

But why? This requires more reading between the lines, though I'm fairly confident in my interpretation. I think Sylus's main two reasons for this choice are 1) he truly believes that if they resonate, she'll remember him and 2) he knows that if she sleeps normally, she'll have terrible nightmares, so the thrall state is intended as a mercy (like she does when he finally puts her in bed and has Luke and Kieran watch over her).

To Sylus--who is at his most impatient and demanding at the start of LAR--explaining himself is pointless if she won't believe him until he remembers. So, he's trying to take the most direct path. It's always worked for him before, after all. Maybe it'll even help jog her memory.

I really recommend watching closely his reaction in that parlor scene. He closes his eyes and focuses when they're trying to resonate. That little wisp of golden power is new--their previous attempts haven't yielded even that. Sorceress MC's power is depicted as that golden light, as is her soul--so touching that power would be achingly familiar. You see him hold her hand for a moment, feeling it again--but then he catches himself, dropping her hand. That power is so much weaker than it was before--that's why he stops trying to resonate and decides that the issue must be that something is blocking or suppressing her power, hence the trip to Philip at the Odd Workshop.

He's laser-focused on getting her to remember, sure that this will be the solution--until Philip informs him that he's actively repulsive to her. Sylus, who always thinks tens steps ahead, who always considers every contingency, suddenly realizes he's out of his depth. He's miscalculated. He realizes how selfish he's being--and this realization causes him to act differently. There's no doubt that Sylus made many mistakes in his early treatment of current-timeline MC, and yet his humility and decisiveness in changing his behavior shows strong character.

I think the most profound example of him changing course is that when they finally do resonate and she remembers more about him, instead of jumping on that and demanding more, he remains collected. Tells her it's not a big deal--it'll happen more. We see in Continuous Symphony also that he's waiting, he's hoping, but he's no longer pushing. And then in Razor's Dance, he's realizing that maybe her complaints aren't as flirtatious as he thought. Maybe this version of her doesn't want to be in his life. And so, without guilt-tripping or throwing a fit, he tells her clearly that he'll leave her alone if she wants to be left alone. And so she's truly given the choice of whether to continue the relationship or not. It's a poignant moment that, to me, fully sets right all his earlier mistakes and pushiness.

In conclusion

When they first reconnect, Sylus is dealing with the intensity of seeing her again, of her being the same in all the ways that matter, yet having her not remember him. That's painful enough, then add on his feelings of bitterness from the decades (or centuries) of waiting. No matter how mature or collected you are, that surge of emotion is enough to overwhelm anyone and cause them to not be their best self.

He expects his pushy behavior to be as endearing to her now as it was back then--after all, their whole thing was being true to their desires. He desperately hopes that resonating will restore her memory, and he remains laser focused on this goal to the detriment of their earlier relationship.

Sylus's love and essential maturity is revealed by how quickly and profoundly he course-corrects when Philip warns him that MC is repulsed by him. His personality doesn't change--he's still teasing, demanding, sly, smug, etc. (Which we love.) But he takes a big step back and focuses on helping MC get what she wants (the Aether Core) not taking from her what he wants (for her to remember him).

He realizes that asking this version of MC to remember their traumatic past together is too selfish, even for him. His initially mean and demanding behavior reveals just how badly he wants that connection--which makes his willingness to set that aside for MC even more profound. Ironically, we don't get to see the depth of his love without that indiscretion.

Sylus does a profoundly difficult thing--he grieves the loss of their past life together so that he can embrace this new reality with her--falling in love with the person she is now, the person she's become. The one that was quietly transplanted to a garden far away, but has still bloomed beautifully. 🥹