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ginnsbaker · 9 months ago

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fic: if i bleed (you'll be the last to know) (1/?)

“I'm sorry, I'm not sure I understand,” you say, hands retreating into the pockets of your white coat. Leigh takes a deep breath, steeling herself for what she knows will be a difficult conversation.

“I recently found out that my husband was cheating on me,” she says, her green eyes boring into yours. “With you.” Or the one where you fall in love with the widow of an ex-lover you never knew was married.

Pairing: Leigh Shaw x Fem!Reader | Word count for this part: 6k+ | Warnings: None for now | A/N: I wrote about 30k words of the Succession Wanda but hit a wall in terms of plot progression. So that's on hold. Allow me to apologize with this two-shot. P.S. I've always wanted to write for Leigh, and this idea came out of nowhere. Loosely based on canon.

Masterlist | Next Part

Leigh wakes up in a bed that’s not hers for the first time in months, and the unfamiliar scent of freshly cut grass and cedarwood almost immediately overwhelms her senses, suffocating her with its cloying sweetness.

“Jules?” she croaks out, her mind clawing its way through the fog. When it lifts a few seconds later, Leigh realizes where she is and what she’s done.

And how she’s very, very naked underneath the sheets.

The person lying next to her in the bed starts to move. Right away, she knows it's not her sister, unless she's somehow caught up in a prank she doesn't find amusing at all. And so, she braces herself for her dead husband’s brother's voice to shatter the silence.

But it never comes. Instead, an arm drapes itself across her stomach, pulling her towards warmth. Leigh gets the sudden urge to vomit, except she skipped dinner and there isn’t anything to bring up. Last night, in a desperate attempt to fill the void left by Matt's absence, she had reached out to someone she shouldn't have. Someone Leigh didn’t even like to begin with. A knot tightens further in her stomach as she considers what her husband’s ghost would think.

Would he approve? Would he feel betrayed or disgusted as she does?

Careful not to disturb Danny, who still sleeps soundly beside her, Leigh slips out of bed with the grace of a cat. She gathers her clothes from the floor and dresses herself with heavy limbs, each garment reminding her of how Danny had taken them off her body.

As messed up as it sounds, Leigh can't help but draw parallels between him and Matt. They share the same blood, but there's not a single trait in Danny that triggers memories of Matt. With Danny, it's all about his own desires, his movements reflecting his wants. But with Matt, it's like he's always bending to Leigh’s will, submitting to her.

It tears Leigh’s heart anew.

As she finishes dressing, Leigh glances around searching for her watch. She second-guesses whether she even wore it last night, the disarray of her thoughts mirrored in the disarray of the room. Her eyes scan the bedside table, the floor, and the dresser, but there's no sign of the timepiece.

A sudden sound from Danny startles her, and she freezes in place. She doesn't believe she can prevent herself from literally bolting out of the house if he so much as breathes her name. She’s rooted in her spot however, waiting for his breathing to steady, her heart pounding in her ears. Only when she's certain he's in a deep slumber does she release a pent-up breath, a sigh of relief escaping her lips. In that moment, she mentally curses herself once more, acutely aware of the mess she's created, before tiptoeing towards the bedroom door and abandoning the search for her watch altogether.

As she considers her options, she entertains the idea of escaping town altogether. Maybe if she leaves, she can avoid Danny for the coming days, possibly forever. Leigh wonders if she ever made Matt feel this trapped, inadvertently pushing him to leave in the only way he knew she could never follow.

Several days after ignoring Danny’s calls and attempts to talk to her, he retaliates by telling her the most absurd thing about his brother.

He tells Leigh she wasn’t the only one. There had been two others in the last year.

And the last one, he fell for hard. Or at least that’s what Danny believes.

“I don’t believe you,” she says, her eyes beginning to sting a little. “If you think making me hate Matt would change my mind about us, then—”

“I’m not trying to manipulate you, Leigh,” Danny interrupts calmly, shaking his head. “I just believe you deserve to know the truth. Maybe it'll help you stop blaming yourself and move on.”

“It just seems a little too convenient that this 'truth' works in your favor to tarnish Matt's reputation, doesn't it?” Leigh points out with a humorless smile. She’s always thought the worst of Danny, but she never imagined he’d go as far as fabricating a story just to get her on his side.

“I understand your skepticism, I do. I couldn’t believe it at first either,” he says, his gaze dropping to the ground as if the transgression he’s confessing were his own, not Matt’s. “But think about it. Have you ever walked in on Matt just as he's ending a call? Noticed how he's suddenly started spending more time at work, consistently twice a week? And what about his sudden interest in going to the gym and being conscious about what he eats? These are all signs, Leigh.”

His words push her to think about it, even though she doesn't want to. Leigh starts to reflect on how Matt had stopped leaving his phone unattended during showers, how he had suddenly logged off his social media accounts from her laptop, or the noticeable enhancement of his physique—all juxtaposed against a lingering decrease in his appetite for intimacy with his wife.

“I…” Leigh hesitates, searching for a rebuttal but finding none. Then Danny gives her a look—one of pity and longing that makes her want to crawl out of her skin—and suddenly she finds herself vehemently denying all of it.

“I still don’t believe you,” she says, desperately clinging to the last shreds of the illusion she had crafted around her marriage.

Danny's expression remains unreadable and it drives her further up the wall. “Fine. Believe what you want, Leigh. I'm just trying to look out for you.”

Leigh's jaw tightens. “Regardless of what you say—whether it’s real or not—I know what I want, and it's not to be with you.”

He keeps up the stony facade, opting instead to pull a card out of his wallet and hand it to her. Leigh accepts the card, her fingers quivering, as a solitary tear finally breaks free and trails down her cheek.

Danny begins to reach out, intending to brush away her tear, but hesitates at the last moment, withdrawing his hand.

“See for yourself. Goodbye, Leigh.”

Just two days later, Leigh finds herself in front of the small animal clinic you own, situated a short walk away from Beautiful Beast—the fitness studio her mom owns and where she works.

Though the sun hangs low in the sky, she's been awake long before it began to rise. She waits for the receptionist to flip the sign from “Sorry, we’re closed” to “Come in, we’re open,” ignoring the curious glance directed her way when the receptionist notices she isn’t accompanied by a furry companion. With a determined smile on her lips, Leigh pushes open the door and steps into the clinic knowing she'll leave it with answers—whatever they might be.

The receptionist looks up from her computer, her expression shifting from curiosity to concern when she sees the look on Leigh's face. “Can I help you?”

Leigh clears her throat, trying to steady her voice. She tells her she’s looking for you, her words coming out in a rush.

The receptionist furrows her brow. “Do you have an appointment?”

Leigh shakes her head, blinking rapidly as she comes up with an excuse. “No, it's... it's urgent,” she stammers. “I need to speak to her right away.”

The receptionist appears mildly annoyed, but it doesn’t faze Leigh in the slightest. “I'll check if she's available. Please take a seat,” she says.

Leigh nods mutely and sinks into one of the chairs. She clasps her hands together tightly in her lap, trying to quell the rising tide of panic threatening to consume her. She imagines Matt’s ghost watching her this very second, frowning at her doubts about their relationship by coming here in the first place.

And what if she’s wrong? What if Matt wasn’t cheating on her after all? But Leigh had to come here to put the issue to rest. Matt would understand why she needs to do this. He always did.

A few moments later, the door behind the reception desk opens and the receptionist emerges from it, motioning for Leigh to enter.

Leigh finds you standing behind your desk, your back to her, arranging a stack of medical records on the shelf.

“Dr. Y/N?” Leigh calls out softly.

You turn around at the sound of her voice, and when she sees you for the first time, Leigh immediately knows.

Danny was telling the truth. It takes everything in her not to break down in front of a stranger her husband fell in love with.

You, however, don’t recognize the woman standing before you, thinking perhaps she's simply one of your past clients. You offer Leigh a contrite smile. “You wanted to see me? Miss…?”

“Leigh Shaw.”

The name doesn’t ring a bell either, but you keep a friendly smile on your face.

Leigh hesitates for a moment before continuing, her voice sounding fragile. “I need to talk to you about my husband,” she says, studying your clueless face. You're stunning and accomplished—a doctor and a businesswoman. You have a smile that could brighten even the darkest room.

Matt never stood a chance, did he?

“I'm sorry, I'm not sure I understand,” you say, hands retreating into the pockets of your white coat.

Leigh takes a deep breath, steeling herself for what she knows will be a difficult conversation.

“I recently found out that my husband was cheating on me,” she says, her green eyes boring into yours. “With you.”

After leaving your clinic, Leigh heads straight to Matt’s grave, stomping angrily on the sparse sheet of grass that has begun to sprout from his resting place.

“You're such a fucking liar!” she spits out at the unsusceptible headstone, the heat of fury spreading through her veins and to every molecule in her body. The cold wind lashes through her hair as Leigh drops to her knees, feeling like the entire world is bearing down on her. She reaches out to touch the cold marble of the headstone, still seeking solace from the one who caused her so much hurt.

“Why, Matt?”

She knows there will be no answers—only the cold silence of death.

Leigh feels a surge of anger rise within her once more as she recalls the way you looked at her—the pain in your eyes when she revealed to you that Matt had died. What you two had was real, as real as what she had with him. She had been hoping it was at least just a fling, but alas, she couldn’t be further from her assumptions.

“I can't believe I ever loved you,” Leigh mutters bitterly. She wants to scream, to rage against the injustice of it all. But all she can do is clutch at the grass beneath her, her nails digging into the earth as if trying to anchor herself against the torrent of pain crippling her chest. Tears stream down her face as she finally collapses to the ground, assuming a fetal position, whispering, “I can't believe I still do.”

You continue to stare at the space that Leigh previously occupied for a good ten minutes, not moving an inch from where you stood—shocked, hurt, confused. Matt, the man you had been seeing, was dead. And not just dead, but married. Married to someone else, someone named Leigh Shaw, a name so important but he managed to hide from you for weeks.

Matt had never mentioned a wife, never wore a ring, never hinted at the existence of someone waiting for him at home. If he had, you would never have let him get as close to you like he did. You've always respected boundaries and families—and now you've discovered that unwittingly, you've destroyed one.

Leigh's departure was swift, just as soon as you confessed to having feelings for her husband and how Matt reciprocated those same feelings. Leigh, ruthless in her questioning, demanded to know if you had slept with Matt. You swore you never did, detailing how Matt abruptly ghosted you after your first kiss, leaving you with nothing but unanswered texts and missed calls.

You wanted so badly for Leigh to believe you, and you think she did. However, none of it mattered in the end. He cheated all the same. He hurt the woman he made a promise to love and stay faithful to.

Because of you.

You feel sickened by your own naivety; by the way you have allowed yourself to be fooled by his lies. And yet, amidst the anger and self-recrimination, there is a profound sense of loss. Despite the circumstances of your relationship, you had cared for Matt deeply. Maybe even loved him.

But how much of it was real? How much of it was not about him running from his problems with his wife and using you as a distraction? The ease with which he slipped out of your life suddenly fits into place.

While his passing deeply rattled you, it's now largely overshadowed by thoughts of his widow.

Leigh Shaw.

Earlier, even though you said sorry over and over, it felt like it wasn't enough, and you wanted to do more to make her feel better. What stopped you was the realization that you're likely the last person she would want comfort from. A sense of helplessness washes over you as you come to the conclusion that there's nothing you can do to undo the damage that's been done. Matt is gone, and Leigh's world has been shattered in ways you can't even begin to imagine.

Moving on from Matt is something you know you could do. He wasn’t the first person to break your heart, be it through deceit or demise. But the situation with Leigh is unfamiliar territory.

How do you fix this for her?

Will she even let you?

When Leigh tells Jules about Matt’s infidelity, her sister fixates on the detail that she slept with Danny. It’s not the response Leigh expected. She anticipated shock, and maybe even a bit of outrage on her behalf. But instead, Jules latches onto the one detail that seems to pale in comparison to the enormity of Matt's betrayal.

“But how could you?” Jules asks, her voice incredulous as she chews on a dumpling. “How could you sleep with Danny?”

Faced with her sister's disapproval, Leigh finds herself clamming up. “Are you kidding? I just told you that Matt was cheating on me, and your response is to judge me for hooking up with a single guy while I'm single?” Leigh retorts, hastily wiping her lips with a napkin.

Jules just shakes her head, putting down her chopsticks. “Leigh, I get it. Matt’s betrayal is awful, and you have every right to be angry. But the ‘single guy’ you hooked up with isn't just any guy, and you know it. You don't think it's weird? What would people think? That all this time, sleeping with your husband’s brother has always been an option?”

Leigh's eyes widen in shock, and for a moment, she's speechless. She hadn't—didn't want to entertain the idea of what sleeping with Danny would imply. She was chasing a feeling; any feeling that wasn’t emptiness. And with Danny, she did feel something, even if it was regret and shame. At least it proved she was still capable of feeling at all.

“It… just happened,” Leigh murmurs, rubbing her temples. Hollowness and migraines, she's almost forgotten.

“And? Is it going to be a ‘thing’?” Jules probes, eyebrows raised.

Leigh lifts her gaze, biting back a defensive retort. Instead she simply says, “Absolutely not.”

Jules seems satisfied with that, knocking back the rest of her beer. “Good.”

But as Jules moves on, Leigh’s left stewing in her own thoughts. Telling Jules felt like yelling into a void—exhausting and utterly pointless. Now she’s dreading the thought of breaking the news to Drew. If Jules’ reaction was any indication, she’s in for another round of disappointment.

Being a young widow already sets her apart, but nothing makes her feel more alone than her family's inability to truly grasp her grief. She guesses she's been feeling alone for years, long before Matt came into her life and subsequently left it.

Jules, catching the tail end of Leigh's distant look, leans in and asks, “So, what's the plan now? You still going to that grief counseling group? Danny's been showing up there, right?”

Leigh's gaze sharpens, a bit taken aback by the sudden shift back to practicalities. “Are you asking about my plans with Danny? Because I already told you, that's over. I'm never seeing him again.”

Jules raises her hands in a placating gesture, mindful that one wrong move could tip Leigh over the edge for good. “Not really, no. I'm asking if you're still keen on processing your grief. Now that it turns out Matt was... well, a snake.”

Jules calling Matt a snake doesn't sit well with Leigh even with his cheating coming to light. But she supposes it's Jules' way of being on her side every once in a while. It's a clumsy attempt, but an attempt nonetheless.

“Yeah, I'm still going,” Leigh finally says, her gaze dropping to her lap before meeting Jules' eyes again. “Not for Danny, not for anyone else, but for me. Turns out, finding out your rotting husband was living a double life does a number on you. Who knew, right?”

Jules cracks a small, rueful smile at that and says, “Who knew indeed.”

Leigh thinks back to the time when she believed she knew Matt inside and out, a belief so deeply ingrained it felt like a cornerstone of her identity as his wife. She prided herself on their connection, convinced that they shared everything—every thought, every fear, every dream. It was a pride rooted in the belief that she knew him better than anyone else could, and he, her, in the same intimate manner.

It was the kind of recognition that’s not only about knowing his favorite color or the way he took his coffee. It’s deeper and more layered. She knew the exact tone of voice he'd use when he was about to apologize, the look in his eyes when he was holding back tears, the subtle shift in his posture when he was trying to be braver than he felt. And she thought he knew her just as intricately—the silent language of her sighs, the meaning behind her quietest smiles, the small, everyday details that they believed only they could understand about each other.

“It's hard, you know? Feeling like you're mourning someone who never really existed,” Leigh mumbles after a long pause.

“Yeah, I can't even imagine,” Jules responds, reaching across the table to give Leigh's hand a brief squeeze. “But I'm here, okay? Even if I don't always get it right.”

Jules, Drew, Danny, her mom—all of them—rarely get it right. It has always been Matt.

He has always been all she has and needed.

Even if Leigh wasn't aware that she was probably just getting his scraps.

Maybe it was me, Leigh keeps thinking over the next several days. Maybe I pushed him to it.

It doesn’t help that there’s a new member who has also been widowed, and she’s sharing about her late husband who had quite a number of mistresses throughout their eighteen years of marriage.

Leigh listens, her fingers twisted together in her lap, as the woman talks about the signs she missed, the lies she believed.

“I just keep thinking,” the woman's voice breaks, “if I'd been more attentive, more... I don't know, less demanding, maybe things would've been different.”

Maybe it was me, Leigh keeps screaming inside. Maybe I pushed him to it.

It took Leigh a long time to return to the apartment she shared with Matt after his passing.

Mostly, it's because Leigh found it difficult to confront the scattered remnants of him that would remain untouched in his absence. No longer would he be picking up his favorite shirt or completing another page of his crossword puzzle book. Yet, these belongings would remain his, just as Leigh felt she still belonged to him.

So it’s ironic that now, surrounded by the same belongings in her bedroom at her mother’s home, she's being overwhelmed by the impulse to turn them all into ashes. In a sudden frenzy, Leigh grabs a box and begins to throw everything inside. The sound of her ragged breathing fills the room, only matched by the soft thuds of objects landing in the cardboard.

“Stupid fucking toys!” she shouts, tossing a figurine with more force than necessary.

“And this shirt—what were you thinking?” She grabs a garishly patterned fabric, shaking it at the empty air as if expecting an answer.

Her voice cracks, “You're not even here, and you're driving me crazy!”

As Leigh's wrath burns through the remnants of Matt’s life, her thoughts take a dark turn. The things he owned, the pieces of his life flying from her hand—it all leads her back to the one person who had a piece of him, a piece that was never hers.

The thought of your face, the one that belonged to him too at one point, flashes in her mind, and she's on the edge of losing all control.

If only Leigh could throw you into the box too.

Finally, she finds the book he gave her for her last birthday, the one she never read, and for a moment, her movements pause. Then, with a cry of anguish, she tosses it in as well. When the box is full, she kicks it. Once, twice, thrice—each kick releasing a burst of pent-up fury until she's gasping for breath.

A knock at the door startles her. It's soft but persistent, making it obvious that whoever is outside has heard the commotion in her room. “Leigh, honey, are you done in there?” Amy's voice seeps through the wood.

Leigh wipes at her eyes. “Almost. I, uh… just give me a minute,” she calls back. She’s not done—not really. But she’ll probably set the house on fire if she doesn’t stop here.

Pushing herself up, Leigh opens the door. She knows the sight she presents isn't pretty—eyes swollen red, nose a mess, and those dark circles. But her mom has seen this look more times than either would care to count.

“You okay?” her mom asks, though the answer's written all over Leigh's face.

Leigh shakes her head, no energy to pretend.

“Want some breakfast?”

Again, “No,” slips out.

Then, “Need a ride to the studio?” her mom tries again.

“Yes,” Leigh finds herself saying, clinging to the offer like a lifeline, a small acknowledgment that life, somehow, must go on.

The following day, Leigh looks at the box, then at everything around her. She mutters, “Screw this,” and starts pulling everything out of the box, putting it all back where it came from.

Leigh's back at running, not because she loves it, but because the sun insists on poking her awake before the rest of the world stirs. It's an old hobby, dusted off to fill the gaping mornings before her first yoga class.

It’s easy to do because she realizes she’s good at it. Leigh’s only been at it for just a couple of weeks and already she's feeling fitter, faster. She likes the pain too, not being aware before that there are different kinds of pain, and some of them do feel good—addicting even.

Mid-thought, her routine jog takes a wild left turn: stranded in the middle of the bustling traffic is a French Bulldog, looking decidedly out of place. Ignoring the honks and the near misses, Leigh bolts across the street. It's a bit of a mad dash, dodging cars that are swerving and braking hard. She scoops him up in her arms and doesn’t stop to think about the close calls.

It hits her then—she's surprised at her own gutsiness, not even pausing to think that she could've been clipped by a car not paying attention. Maybe all this time spent wrestling with thoughts of death has brought her to a strange peace with it and is no longer scared of it. It's like she's danced with death so much, it's just another shadow she passes by—not something that paralyzes her in place anymore.

Leigh’s not sure if being this fearless is actually a good thing though.

After cooling her heels on the sidewalk for half an hour, with no owner in sight, she shrugs and decides he’s coming home with her.

Jules gives her a scrutinizing look the moment she walks in. “What, you went out for a run and decided to get a dog?”

“Rescue mission,” Leigh shoots back, setting the dog down. “Found him in the middle of Second Street. Seems he’s lost.”

Jules doesn't miss a beat, heading straight for the newcomer. She kneels, her hands gently petting the dog, her eyes softening in a way that Leigh rarely sees. The dog, clearly pleased with the attention, wags its tail vigorously. Her eyes are practically giving her away, so it sounds almost funny when she looks up at Leigh and says, “Just don't get too attached, okay?”

“I won’t, which is why I named him Visitor. It’s temporary,” Leigh says with a smile, looking very proud of the name she came up with.

Jules chuckles, standing up and brushing off her knees. “Nerd. Matt would've gotten a kick out of that.”

The room just freezes at the mention of his name. Talking about Matt is like walking into a glass door you didn't see.

Jules tries to backpedal, “Hey, sorry, I—” But Leigh's quick to brush it off with a shrug.

“Don't worry about it. Let's just figure out where Visitor here belongs, okay?”

As they refocus on Visitor, Jules can't help but notice the way the dog favors one leg as he trots over to sit snugly between Leigh's legs, looking up at her with those big, trusting eyes. “Looks like he's got a bit of a limp,” Jules points out.

Leigh frowns and leans down to get a closer look, her fingers gently probing around Visitor's leg until she finds a tender spot. The moment she applies a little pressure, Visitor yelps, pulling away sharply and retreating a few steps.

Jules winces at the reaction. “Yeah, that's not good. Maybe we should take him to a vet?”

Leigh can barely hold back a grimace as her brain immediately links you to the situation.

“What's wrong?” Jules notices the sudden shift in Leigh’s mood. “There's St. Mary's Animal Clinic nearby. I heard they're great.”

That's your clinic. Leigh's throat tightens at the thought, the memories of her visit flooding back. “Are there others around here?”

Jules looks puzzled at the question. “I mean, I can look it up, but what's wrong with St. Mary's?”

Leigh considers whether she should tell Jules about meeting you. Part of her really knows it’s unfair to dislike you, especially if you genuinely didn't know Matt was married. But she knows Jules too well—tell her, and it'll turn into a whole thing. Leigh's not sure she's up for that drama.

Despite her reservations, Leigh decides to bite the bullet, her curiosity getting the better of her. Besides, if she can’t be brave enough to talk about this in her counseling group, she should probably at least tell Jules.

“Actually, Jules,” Leigh begins, “St. Mary's Animal Clinic is where... where she works.”

Jules's eyes widen in shock, her hand flying to her mouth. “Wait, you mean... you mean her, as in…?” she stammers, disbelief written all over her face.

“Yup,” Leigh confirms, smacking her lips forcefully.

“Oh my god—that bitch,” Jules spits out, her voice dripping with disdain before Leigh can even brace for impact.

“She didn’t know Matt’s married,” Leigh clarifies quickly.

“And you bought that?”

“I had a feeling she was telling the truth. Besides, I can’t imagine Matt being that brazen to pursue someone while married. He can be a little self-righteous sometimes,” Leigh says, only half-sure of her statement. Recently, she has to remind herself that maybe she never really knew him at all.

Then, an idea sparks in Jules's mind. “You know what?” she says, a mischievous glint in her eye. “Maybe this is a good opportunity. After all, she owes you one, right? Maybe she'll treat Visitor for free, to make up for being... well, you know.”

Leigh rubs her nose, skeptical of the idea. “I don't know, Jules. I don't want to impose…”

Jules leans in, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “I mean, if she's the reason you're hurting, maybe she should make it right?”

She isn't hurting because of you, not directly. That's why Jules’ suggestion hangs in the air, unappealing. Leigh remembers the pity in your eyes from that morning, and she doesn't want it. She doesn't want anything from you at all. Her resolve instantly hardens like ice.

“No,” Leigh finally says. “I don't want her charity. I'll pay for Visitor's bills myself. And I'll keep the receipts for when his real owners show up.” It's a decision that feels surprisingly empowering, a small reclaiming of control in a world that's felt off-kilter for too long.

Jules merely sighs; she knows better than to push Leigh when her mind’s made up.

“Have it your way.”

Leigh brings Visitor to St. Mary’s the very next day.

There's a certain set to her jaw, a readiness for something less than pleasant. She doesn’t need to go through reception this time because she spots you right away, escorting a client to the door, cradling their puppy in your arms. Seeing you with a pet makes Leigh realize why you’ve chosen this profession. You fit right in among the animals, she muses bitterly.

It's with a sense of satisfaction that she watches your smile dissipate as soon as your eyes land on hers.

She strides confidently towards you, dog in arms, forcing you to quickly hand off the puppy back to its owner. Yet, you recover with a swiftness that's begrudgingly admirable as you give her a look that’s equal parts professional and friendly—like you were actually looking forward to seeing her again.

“Good morning, Leigh. How can I help you?”

Without a word, Leigh extends the dog she’s carrying towards you, a silent transfer of trust, or perhaps, necessity. You gesture towards the consultation room, an invitation she accepts with a terse nod, following you into the space where you effortlessly shift into doctor mode.

As you begin to charm her dog, she can't help but narrow her eyes. It irks her, watching Visitor take to you instantly, as if you were old friends. “What's his name?” you ask, looking up at Leigh.

“Visitor.”

Your eyebrows shoot up in surprise at the name, just in time for your irises to capture the light seeping through the office blinds. They glow a hazel-brown, disarmingly so. Leigh forces herself to focus back on the purpose of her visit.

Leigh continues, “He’s limping on his left hind leg. I’d appreciate it if you can prescribe him something. I'll try not to take up too much of your time.”

Ignoring the undercurrent of Leigh's insinuation, your attention remains undividedly on Visitor. The well-being of the dog before you eclipses any personal sentiments, as it always does.

“I'm sorry, but before we can consider any medication, I need to examine him thoroughly. It's possible he might require some lab tests to rule out anything serious,” you tell her. Despite sounding apologetic, Leigh interprets it as your polite way of telling her to fuck off and let you do your job.

As you palpate the dog's leg carefully, you begin your routine questions. “Can you tell me his birthday? Any vaccination history?”

They’re basic, but they seem to catch Leigh off guard anyway. “He’s not mine. I found him on the street yesterday,” she reveals with a reluctant sigh.

The news prompts a more detailed response from you.

“I see. In that case, we should definitely line up some tests for Visitor. We need to ensure he doesn't have distemper or any other airborne virus that could be affecting his mobility,” you suggest, already mentally cataloging the necessary procedures.

You start detailing the tests you intend to perform, explaining their purposes and associated costs. Leigh is clearly deluged by it all and you decide to take pity on the poor woman by adding that it’s still up to her which tests to proceed with, if any at all.

“Your call, Leigh,” you tell her.

Leigh can't shake off the vibe that you're throwing a gauntlet down in front of her. It's like her inner competitor wakes up, refusing to back down. “Do all of them,” she declares, tipping her chin up towards you. “Whatever you think is best.”

“That’s a good decision. We’ll take care of it right away,” you say, already picking up the phone to call the reception for assistance.

Leigh's still trying to get a read on you. Was her arm twisted into this choice, or did you genuinely have Visitor's best interest at heart? She's not about to hand out trust like free samples, especially when she could end up misjudging you. It’s a tricky spot, especially because she’s clearly been wrong before.

The tests take their time, roughly an hour, after which Leigh finds herself pacing the lobby. An additional quarter-hour trickles by before the receptionist finally calls her back into the consultation room.

“Good news,” you start, making sure to catch her eye. She meets your look briefly before her attention shifts to Visitor. “It's only a sprain. The X-ray revealed no breaks or other issues. But,” you pause, checking to see if she's still fully engaged, “his blood tests indicated a low platelet count and evidence of an infection.”

Leigh listens intently, nodding along.

You explain what this means in a clear, concise manner, avoiding medical jargon as much as possible. “It's something we can manage with medication. I'll prescribe some antibiotics for the infection and pain medication to help with his discomfort. It's important that he completes the course of antibiotics to clear the infection completely.”

You watch Leigh closely, gauging her reaction and ready to answer any questions she might have. “We'll need to keep an eye on his platelet count, so I'd like to schedule a follow-up visit next week. This will also give us a chance to check how his leg is healing.”

“Will he be okay?” she asks without looking up from Visitor, busy scratching behind his ears.

“He'll be just fine,” you reassure her, adding, “Any questions about what we discussed?”

Leigh stays silent and you take it as your cue that she doesn’t have any thoughts on the matter. As she wraps up without saying much more, you realize it's time to wrap things up too. But there's something niggling at you, something that's been on your mind since the last time she was here. You're about to let her go, but then, out of nowhere, you feel this urge to clear the air about that whole mess with Matt.

“So, uhm, about the other week when you…” you trail off, suddenly feeling like you're balancing on a tightrope without a net. You’re not so easily spooked by confrontations, but Leigh makes you nervous in a way you can’t explain. “I guess I just wanted to say sorry… for your loss, and for—”

“Does he really need to take pain medication for seven days?” Leigh cuts you off suddenly. It’s sharp enough for you to shut your mouth and abandon your attempt to get personal.

“Yes, the full course is important to ensure he's comfortable and that the inflammation goes down properly. It's just as crucial as the antibiotics for his recovery…”

Leigh nods, carefully scooping Visitor into her arms, preparing to leave.

You try one last time. “Leigh, I really am sorry–”

“I’ll see you next week, Dr. Y/L/N,” she says dismissively and then she’s gone.

#unbetad #my writing #my fic #elizabeth olsen x reader #elizabeth olsen #leigh shaw x reader #leigh shaw x female reader #leigh shaw #sorry for your loss au #leigh shaw x you #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff x you #sorry i had to tag wanda x reader for visibility

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sunshine-jesse · 10 months ago

Text

In defense of Andrew Graves: Facing Yourself

Alt title: Andrew Graves: The Will to Plow Her

I think my analysis of Andrew is one of the best essays I've written so far. But since then, I think I've expanded my understanding of his character in a way that urges me to add on to my prior essay. What I intend on doing is further fleshing out my reading of Burial, and going deeper in detail on why I think Decay ends up panning out the way it does. This essay will end up sharing a lot of text with my prior one, but will add enough scattered throughout that I think it merits a complete reread instead of just scrolling down and seeing what's new.

I've focused a lot on Ashley in my past writings. She's my favorite character in the story (and depending on how episode 3 pans out, maybe ever) and I'm pretty mortified by how some parts of the fandom have reacted towards her, so I pretty much made it my life's mission to push back against that. From highlighting the ways Andrew mistreats her, to coming up with justifications for her behavior that aren't just being a manipulative bitch, I really wanted to prove that a more favorable picture of her could be painted than most were willing to.

But in doing so, I've left Andrew in the dust.

In highlighting his flaws and the ways he mistreats Ashley, I think I've implied a level of intentionality to his actions that I don't believe he has. When I say that Ashley did nothing wrong, it's in direct response to the idea that she holds the most responsibility and agency in how their dynamic plays out, when in reality, I believe she has very little. Most of her actions in-story are in reaction to a variety of stimuli that come directly from Andrew, that he has control over and are aware of how Ashley feels about. His refusal to use clear and direct language to deny her most toxic tendencies causes her more and more stress as time goes on, and instead of giving her clear answers he opts to be catty, passive-aggressive, or, at his worst, threatening. Never direct and never clear, except when establishing boundaries over his name after the choking scene. Andrew fails to help Ashley be better in some frankly depressing ways throughout the whole story, especially in their childhoods, so we never get to see where she'd fall short if given a better influence.

...

Kind of. More on that later!

In mentioning his thing about preferring to be called Andrew instead of Andy, I also implicitly mention one of the places where Ashley falls short in their dynamic and could stand to do better: recognition.

This scene says a lot. It's the most heartbreaking scene in the game, if you ask me, and probably the single most profound and well-written moment in the entire story. I could write a whole 2000 word essay on it alone, but I've already said most of what I have to say about it through what I've said in other essays, so I'll spare you all that. Instead, I'll use it to highlight something:

"I had fun."

Their dysfunction is fun to her. She's so used to abuse and alienation that even the most awful, stressful (as far as we know) route of the game is still fun to her. And that's not a sign of her being a secret evil sociopath or whatever; that's actually not abnormal behavior to develop for a lifelong victim of abuse. Those highs and lows, those strong emotional highs and lows are -addicting-. They're -fun.- Part of why abuse victims get into so many abusive relationships is because it's easy to pick up on those patterns of thought and take advantage of them, and the cycle of abuse is often furthered when a victim of abuse tries to draw out mutually abusive behaviors in someone with no interest in having that kind of dynamic.

This is where I'm willing to acknowledge Ashley's manipulative tendencies. Not just as a matter of controlling Andrew for its own sake, purely out of jealousy or possessiveness, but as a matter of trying to further the only dynamic she's ever known in her life. Better the devil you know, right?

That push and pull- that emotional rollercoaster- is all many of us know. And it's all Ashley knows. This dynamic is something she's so used to that she reacts incredibly harshly to any attempt to change it, because she doesn't know that things can be better. Because of this, she refuses to engage with who Andrew really is, and tells herself- and him- that she *hates* Andrew:

This scene is almost as heartbreaking as the above one in a lot of ways.

Andrew putting his foot down about the Andy/Andrew name dichotomy wasn't arbitrary and it wasn't just about his comfort. It was about Andrew giving a clear indication about what needs to happen for their relationship to improve. He's recognizing the cycle between them and wants to put a stop to it, because he's confident that things between them CAN get better and evolve into something healthier. Ashley, not understanding that their dynamic can get better, because their "fun" little push and pull of abuse is all she knows, rejects that. She rejects the unknown, and says- in Andrew's mind at least- that she'll never accept that new dynamic, nor will she accept who he really is.

Ouch. No wonder he looks so sad in that screenshot.

They have a conflict of understanding here, and I think it's fair to pin most of the responsibility on Ashley. Andrew was clear in what he wanted, and Ashley just... Didn't. She didn't see the importance of it ("...whatever that means in practice") and didn't really ask. This gap in communication, perfectly displayed in this scene, is likely what causes the Decay ending. He wants things to be better, and wants to treat Ashley better, and whether or not he understands the ways in which she communicates with him is in part what determines what he sees her as.

But there's a lot of evidence that he always wanted things to be better, that he always wanted to treat her better. But external factors have made it very, very difficult, and I think there are two key points in which he started to shed the importance of those external factors and seek that better relationship, both of which happening in the apartment: The killing of the warden and the 302 lady. In the first case, he was forced to do it to protect Ashley in a way he hadn't done before, or depending on how you look at it, since the death of Nina. But the intentionality was the key point here. After this point, he calls Ashley Leyley, which may or may not seem important at this point, but it's something I'll draw attention to later, so keep that in mind.

Next is the killing of the 302 lady, which is the much, much bigger point. We don't learn much about it until later on- as at first he just gives an excuse about the nail gun that doesn't line up with what we see on the map- but during the dream, it's revealed it was a calculated, intentional killing that he did to make sure there was no evidence left behind, and because Ashley (supposedly) would've wanted him to do it anyway. I say supposedly because Ashley herself doesn't seem to ever want Andrew to kill for her past Nina's death, because he only ever kills for her to defend one or both of them. If you want more evidence that violence for violence's sake isn't something she wants, look at this part in the final dream:

A knife isn't what opens the door, despite it being placed on the ground in that very map. While it seems obvious that the knife (violence) would be the key to solving the puzzle, it's put there explicitly to show you that it isn't. It's not what she wants; what she wants is a flower.

So, why is this important? Why am I centering Ashley- again- when this essay is supposed to be about Andrew?

It's because these two killings are when Andrew's self-delusion over who he really is starts to break down. It's still there, mind, as he still relies upon Ashley as an excuse to justify it, but, as well as what I've said before, the name ultimatum is an implicit confession that the normalcy he finds comfort in is starting to lose its grasp on him. There's a lot that's been said about Andy being something close to a "moral impulse" for Andrew, given his child self's reaction to Nina's death being the only thing he does that approximates a normal moral response to his and Ashley's actions, but if you do think that- which I think is a reasonable thing to think even if I don't necessarily agree- there's something you must also keep in mind:

-He- is the one who doesn't want to be called that anymore. -He- is the one who wants to let that moral impulse go, and Ashley is the one making it difficult.

That reading is assuming that Andy is a moral impulse, which I think is... either wrong or too simplistic. Every time I see that reading, it's from someone who's trying to paint him too sympathetically and absolve him of most moral responsibility. I also find it infantilizing to equate morality with childhood in such a way? But that's another tangent that I didn't sign up to talk about. What I do think, however, is that it's a useful framing device to display his own relationship with morality; the allegory to his child self doesn't have to be there for the general pattern to exist.

When Ashley starts to grill Andrew over the killing of the 302 lady, he gets mad. Very mad. Ashley sees it as pointless, as him covering his own ass, but he genuinely did it for her sake, because he thought that's what she wanted, and that it'd make her happy. But what makes her happy isn't violence- or any similarly extreme action for that matter- it's attention and validation. Something he's always reluctant to give her, despite the fact that he always chose her over the alternatives. But despite making that choice, it's always empty and meaningless, because in Ashley's mind, he never did it for her sake.

And hoo boy, does he not like it being framed like this.

He is perfectly willing to do whatever it takes to keep them happy and safe... but only for her sake. It has to be for her sake. He still needs that traditional role, and he still needs to have a narrative in which he's the good guy- a protector. Because it can't be for his sake. It can't be because that's what he wants. He has to uphold that romantic (in the literary tradition sense) ideal. His darkly romantic idealistic streak colors many of his actions and beliefs. This is most plainly visible in his quip about a double suicide being romantic, but it's also visible within the symbolism present within his dream, such as how he can only pave his own path in blood unless Ashley lights the way. It's visible within his appreciation for poetry, and it's visible with how the cultist within the dream speaks in Shakespearean English.

But the transient nature of this ideal is also revealed within this dream, because there's never a cohesive, guided path, even with Ashley there to light it up. Contrary to Ashley's dream, where you literally have maps showing you where to go, Andrew's dream has many more dead ends and no map to guide him. The symbolic role he acts out gives him no clarity, and there's no overarching narrative; merely a bunch of disconnected symbols.

This is contrasted with Ashley's dream, which has narratives so clear that the story literally gives the dream an episode title.

In a sense, he wants to view himself as an actor acting out a role in a story. He wants his life to be poetic, to represent something greater, and to have a cohesive narrative. This is why he's so disconnected from his true desires: He's more concerned with acting as a representative of an ideal than a person with agency. But every time the mask drops, every time he stops acting, his true self becomes visible. He naturally settles into being comfortable around Ashley, in treating her with warmth and kindness, and their banter becomes much less toxic. As intent as he is on acting out his role, it does nothing for him, and as his dream sequence shows, it doesn't even form a cohesive narrative, because he can't act one out. It's too contrary to who he really is, and what he really wants. But that idealization doesn't just apply to himself, it also applies to Ashley. Specifically, who Ashley is, vs who he wants her to be.

In his unique dream sequence, he sees two versions of Ashley; the child version of her- Leyley- and the adult version of her- Ashley. And the differences in the ways he interacts with the two of them are stunning. Leyley is an obstinate, annoying child. She's the one he NEEDS to take care of, and he hates that. He hates Leyley for what she did for his childhood. He hates that he needs to provide for her. He has the option of trying to kill her, even, over something as small as a candle!

But in the room with all the murders, the gilded cage, he sees Ashley as an adult. This version of Ashley is stuck in a closet that he himself has to open- and to choose to see. Their interactions are calm and friendly. She teases him a bit, sure, but she's still helpful, and they have fun together. He doesn't need her, and she doesn't need him. He needed Leyley- needed the candle- but here, there are other limbs strewn about for him to take. And, crucially, he doesn't even have the option to kill this Ashley for one of the limbs.

And during the choking scene, he lets her go the moment she acknowledges that he doesn't need her anymore. This is the first time we know of that he seems comfortable enough to set a clear boundary, which is acknowledging that their prior dynamic is dead and that they're now Andrew and Ashley, not Andy and Leyley. It's a bit late to express a clear boundary -after- literally acting like he was going to kill someone, but it's the first time we know of that he sets a clear standard for what, in his mind, would improve his relationship with Ashley.

After all, what he wants is to want her, not need her. He wants Ashley for Ashley's sake. Not for what she can provide him. He doesn't even need her for sleep, he just wants her. But Ashley has trouble acknowledging this, because he's never before shown that WANT. Only a NEED. She keeps trying to find ways to make him need her, because she's never seen what his desire for her is really like. She's only ever seen him desiring someone else, someone other than her.

She's only ever seen him as Andy, because she's never truly seen Andrew, only the violence he can inflict on others. But Andrew can see both:

He can see Leyley, the needy, bratty child who always needs his attention, that he needs to provide for. The one he hates and wants to get rid of. The one he kills for to protect.

And he can see Ashley, the one who engages in friendly and cute banter with him. Who comforts and shows him physical affection. The one he loves. The one he kills for to make happy.

He just can't choose which one he wants to see. Every outside influence- from his parents, to Julia, to Nina- makes him see her as Leyley. Ashley herself makes him see her as Leyley too, whenever she brings up all the things he did for her, and calls him Andy, his child self, instead of Andrew, his current self. And as long as he sees that child, he feels like one too, and can never give Ashley anything that comes from the heart.

But he really, really wants to see Ashley as an adult. He wants to take pride in her, how much she's grown, and how driven and competent she really is.

But god damn, does that bitch ever make it hard, because there IS no real difference between Ashley and Leyley. She's grown and changed over time, taking more adult (and stereotypically feminine) responsibility upon herself, but the fact that her temperament and personality hasn't changed much obfuscates that growth. When you talk to Ashley in the closet during the dream after getting the limb, Andrew asks Ashley to come out of the closet, but she refuses to come out because he won't invite Leyley over to play, which is a pretty strong metaphor for how he interfaces with different aspects of Ashley's personality and refuses to accept others. But the reality is that he needs to accept both, or rather, see her whole self as Ashley, rather than just the parts he likes.

In the end, it's him who has to make the choice how to see her. Ashley can only see what she's been shown, but Andrew can choose.

And in the basement scene, he makes that choice.

If Ashley refuses to leave him alone with their parents, that's it. In one of the most critical and important moments of his life, she couldn't give him the space needed to make up his own mind. She couldn't treat him as an adult. She couldn't see him as Andrew. If she does give him that choice, she chooses to acknowledge that Andrew is an adult who can be trusted to make his own decisions, even though she (perhaps foolishly) believes that this choice lines up with her own interests. And frankly it does either way, but in accepting their mom's offer, her chooses to see her as Leyley once and for all. He chooses not to reciprocate what Ashley showed him. He does it because he needs to, not because he wants to. Because it's his duty, not his desire.

This is what results in the Decay ending. Through his inability to see Ashley as an adult, he surrenders his agency and views all of his actions as an extension of his responsibilities, his role, which he no longer wishes to uphold. He dissociates fully from who he really is, acting in accordance with that disconnected, barely-cohesive narrative that exists only within his mind. The game starts to resemble the heartwrenching tragedy that many seem to take for granted that it is, as their dynamic fully doubles down on its painful toxicity. And, in an example of a poetic book end, Ashley's dream shows a double suicide, closing the book on their tragic tale.

It's tragic. It's heartwrenching. It's poetic. It's beautiful.

...Except it's not. Not at all.

It's actually fucking stupid, pointless, and brutal, and Burial shows us that. When we view their spiral as beautiful, we project the same darkly romantic ideal that Andrew possesses onto the story.

But the actual reality is horrifying.

Ashley spends most of Decay terrified of Andrew, the one person she found comfort in. He acts cold, distant, and aggressive towards her, showing pointless cruelty instead of any warmth. All she wants is comfort; all she wants is to not die. She doesn't want to engage in this death spiral at all, and, in her dream sequence, shows none of the same willingness to die alongside Andrew that Andrew does with her. The moment we stop focusing on the end of the Decay dream sequence, which has very striking imagery, and if you choose not to shoot, one of the most beautiful scenes in the game, we can see it for what it really is:

A scared animal running away from a predator.

The moment you see Decay through Ashley's eyes, and not the perspective of some romantic ideal, Decay becomes terrifying, tense, and painful. There is no catharsis to be had in this tragedy. It's easily avoidable as long as Andrew chooses to engage with reality, and not the empty promises of his mother and incoherent narrative of his ideal.

Finding beauty and meaning in tragedy is how we cope with the harshness of reality. But there is no coherent narrative to the tragedies we experience, just like there's no coherent narrative to the ideal Andrew wishes to uphold. It's something we create- that he creates- but it's not something that actually exists.

And when Andrew casts aside his desire for that ideal, and the responsibilities it shackles him to, it grants him clarity that he never had before. He sees the world for how it really is, and acknowledges that nobody- the least of which their mother- is as different from Ashley as they pretend to be.

They're no better than her, and he's tired of people pretending that they are. People are all the same, no matter what ideals they try to uphold and represent. They still sacrifice others in the name of advancing themselves, still punch down whenever they can, and still lay blame on those beneath them rather than try to take control of their lives. They just use those ideals to justify themselves, but Ashley, and now Andrew, reject even the need for that justification.

This is why I believe the story is nihilistic. Not in that it asserts the inherent meaninglessness of life, but in that it grapples with the ideals we uphold and how they obfuscate the reality of the world we live in. The story, intentionally or not, highlights how ideals are often but a pretense we use to justify what we were likely going to do regardless, and how holding to them too strongly can lead to our ruin- and how monstrous they make us look to those who do not share them.

Consequently, this is how I view the part of the fanbase who thinks Decay is a good ending.

(the characters themselves represent existentialism rather than nihilism but i couldn't really fit that analysis in here without it feeling forced so i might cover that another time)

From that point on, their relationship becomes a lot more friendly, lighthearted, and playful. They ironically start acting more like children, but to quote CS Lewis:

"Critics who treat adult as a term of approval, instead of as a merely descriptive term, cannot be adult themselves. To be concerned about being grown up, to admire the grown up because it is grown up, to blush at the suspicion of being childish; these things are the marks of childhood and adolescence."

He's not ashamed of being playful with Ashley, or showing affection towards her. He's grown up. He finally sees her, and himself, as an adult- although he still doesn't show that in full until much later on (more or that later). But in Decay, he still sees her as a child, and to an extent, probably himself. Let's compare the ways in which he reacts to being called Andy. In Decay, he lashes out at Ashley and gets angry, even threatening her. But in Questionable Burial, he calmly says that Andy is dead and doesn't need Ashley's comfort, but still tries to reassure her that she's still needed. He's not ashamed of or hostile towards their prior dynamic, because he's grown past it. He still acknowledges Ashley's need to feel needed, but here, he recognizes its importance to her, whereas he was hostile towards it before.

It's a display of respect towards her feelings.

This interaction doesn't happen in the Sane ending, however. He doesn't play games with her and is just a lot less fun to be around all together. Why is that? Because he still hasn't yet shaken viewing Ashley as Leyley there. He still views her as a burden, as someone who needs taking care of. He's calmly accepted that, too, mind you, but he lacks respect for her because she's still a child, in his mind. But in Questionable?

The vision did more than just make him extremely embarrassed and lay his deepest desires bare. It forced him to recognize Ashley as an adult. When choosing between "Never" and "Never say never," if Never is chosen, the burden of thought is lifted off of him. But if Ashley chooses "Never say never!", he has to reckon with the fact that Ashley is an adult, someone who can consent to those kinds of things. Someone who MIGHT. Someone who has agency, and can make her own decisions. And more importantly… someone who can trust him to make his own.

Whether he desires sex or not is secondary; he's always had those feelings and has always been ashamed of them. But now that the part of him where that shame came from is dead and buried, there's no childish impulse to grow up. There's no attachment to the hate and bitterness he had before. Look at what he worries about when he picks up that she's uncertain or confused about who he is now:

It's her feelings.

He wants to be fun to be around. He wants to make Ashley happy. He loves her, and not as a romantic interest or even as a sibling. He loves her independent of all that baggage.

He loves her as a person.

Their relationship runs contrary to societal ideals in some pretty huge ways. So contrary, in fact, that it's hard for some to accept it as anything good, that it can ever be best for the people involved. It's incestuous. It involves them killing and eating their parents. It involves them distancing themselves so much from society that it's hard to believe they'll ever fit in it again. It's chaotic, it's messy, it's codependent, and maybe even toxic. And yet, here they are. They're coexisting. They're happy. They're healing. They're navigating the world in the only way they can: together.

Meanwhile, in Decay, Andrew refuses to allow himself to get closer to Ashley. He surrenders all agency to her, buys into his own narrative, drinks his own Kool-Aid, and may or may not condemn one or both of them to death in the process. Like it or not, the only path where Andrew takes ownership of his life is the one where he's closest to his sister. It's the one where he decides where they will go next, the one where he decides his own feelings matter, and acts in accordance with what he wants instead of how he thinks he should act.

His agency, his freedom, and his growth don't happen in spite of his codependency; they're happen because of it. They can't grow alone. They can't heal alone.

In reading the story, one must interrogate how important those societal ideals are in the face of the realities of what makes people happy. Are those ideals worth upholding in spite of this? Can we really allow people to fall through the cracks in the name of social norms? Can we blame people for taking rash actions when the social contract has failed them?

Or are we so blinded by those ideals that we can't see that people can be happy while blatantly disregarding them?

All I know is that in Burial, Andrew, having cast aside normalcy, now appears to be truly happy for the first time in his life.

Who are we to take that from him?

#the coffin of andy and leyley #andrew graves #ashley graves #tcoaal #gaming #gravecest #tcoaal essay

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yostresswritinggirl · 2 years ago

Text

That Loud House

pairings -> Alhaitham x Reader x Kaveh; poly

words -> 2,574 words

An architect, a scribe, and a prodigal drop out walked out of a house. Somehow they all fell in love, even tho they don't look like it when they're outside. (next)

As a local citizen in Sumeru City, you must have heard about that loud house in the higher levels.

Infamous for reasons already in the name, it had become a running gag, transcending the foundation of the structure to its well-known owners.

The loudness of that house wasn't anything new, but the occupants and its most recent addition made the legendary house ever so entertaining than annoying. Their names known far and wide, even touching the desert with gossip.

Out comes Alhaitham, the grand Scribe of the Akademiya holding himself to such high regard as both the lunatic and the savior of all of Sumeru.

Next leaves Kaveh with a bit more pep in his steps, so uncharacteristic of the Master Architect when he's frequently whining about his living conditions and roommate.

And last but never ever least exits you, gently closing and locking the door behind you unlike the first two to leave, rubbing at your eyes as you stumbled through the streets of the city with nothing but muscle memory guiding you.

No one knows how the relationship of that loud house came to be, only that one day, suddenly three people lived there. And those three people loved each other, expressed in some way that none of the Vahumana scholars can ever explain.

How you three came to be is a very... peculiar arrangement that people could only know if they asked. But out of your trio, only Kaveh is the approachable one, and even he didn't know the full story.

The true story of your relationship is privy to only you and Alhaitham, but the man would never entertain gossipers (for the sole reason of wanting them to overthink and hypothesize). And the two had made it very clear that they don't want you to be bothered by such trivial matters.

Foundation

No one would ever believe that Alhaitham started this complicated relationship, but he did. And no one but him and his clever brain would know how long he had planned for this.

"I see you're spacing out again," you pause in your walk as you silently watch the silver-haired Scribe make his way over. "Good morning."

"Good morning, Alhaitham." The scholar easily falls into step with you as you continued your leisurely walk, consciously adjusting your hair when you realized how well-kept next to your sleep-deprived self. "I'm fine, how about you?"

You've known the man even before he became a Scribe, even before he graduated and became your senior. How your closeness came to be is already a blur in your mind, but if there's one thing you're certain of, he at least enjoys your company.

You've bonded over collaborations for research before and after he graduated. Perhaps that's what draws him to you, he always liked and supported your ideas as much as he can even when no one does. Sadly, his work and your problems kept your interactions scarce.

"Wrong, it is actually already afternoon. Clearly, you are not fine and you can't deny it now." Oh my - you gently, slowly put your palm to your face, already so done with his antics for today.

It looks like you have a lot to catch up on since the last you talked. And Alhaitham, ever so smart, caught on with the impending long talk who proceeded to guide you to the tables outside Djafar Tavern.

When Eymen came over to take your orders, Alhaitham instead ordered for the two of you when you were about to refuse the service. Right, he's a rich guy now.

"How's your research been?" And at the sight of your sour face, he connected the dots almost immediately. "Same old?"

"Same old Akademiya. They won't fund anything that's not useful or groundbreaking, and I really liked this topic, too." And at his urging nods, you went on a tangent of the curiosities you've been hooked on for a while now, another idea he approves. "I don't understand why they are so heavily guarded with research regarding the history of the desert. I just want to learn more."

"Then leave the Akademiya." Stabbing into the Tandoori Roast Chicken a little too harshly, you looked at him with wide, incredulous eyes. "What? If the Akademiya is restricting you then you can continue your research without their laws applying to you."

Lunatic. That's just like him. Looking at you innocently with a raised brow as if he didn't just say something so out of pocket.

"You know I can't do that."

"Why not?" Bingo! That hesitant side glance confirmed his hypothesis easily, there's more than just the Akademiya that's putting circles under your eyes. Even as you occupied yourself with chewing the chicken, he kept his eyes on you like a hawk.

You sighed. "Research is my only income, unlike you, Scribe." He must be paid really well for his position, after all. "Rent in the City is also rising, I have to pay that next week, too. I'm so tired."

What is up with the people his close to and financial problems? He shakes his head. "Then drop out of the Akademiya and live with me." Unfortunately, this time he didn't care that you had chicken in your mouth. He continued while you're busy coughing your lungs out. "With my income, I'm more than glad to support your research. With this arrangement, you can focus on what you want and your health as we-"

HUH?! "Shu - fu - shut, shut up for a second." Eymen quickly came to your aid with a glass of water after seeing the commotion, but as he was about to pat your back, a stern look from your friend(?) made him think twice. "Do you even know what you're saying?"

"Yes. It's quite simple really," Alhaitham sat up straighter on his seat and uncrossed his arms. "I'll be your research support, I can even help you on them if need be, and living under my roof will remove you of financial burden.

"Deal." Eymen let out a loud 'huh?!' as he looks at you like you have a fungus head. "And I assume that you want something out of this, too?"

Nodding approvingly of your perceptive thinking, his next words both had you and Eymen reeling. "In exchange, date me and Kaveh."

... On second thought, it's not just you and Alhaitham that knows the true story.

But no one ever believes Eymen the bartender.

Surveying

Apparently, they were not in a relationship. Apparently, Kaveh doesn't even know about the terms and conditions of what transpired that day.

"Oh! Fancy meeting you here!" With the context, you awkwardly reciprocated the hug the architect greeted you with.

"You two know each other?" Alhaitham emerged from the guest room were your bags and items will be making home until this arrangement is over.

Kaveh, your Kshahrewar senior raised to the power of 2 was someone you had also collaborated with beforehand. Learning about the different periods Sumeru went through, as well as the civilizations of the other regions, the architect thought it was common sense to ask you for building inspirations.

The architecture was a part of your studies, right? Perhaps by seeing the different buildings all over Teyvat, he could infer his own design for his plates. You remember working on it for two days straight because you didn't want to disappoint him with a half-baked result, not when such a household name depended on you, a no name researcher.

"Well, that makes things easier then. They are staying with us from now on."

"They are?" The blond turns to you. "You are?!" You nod. "Oh, an angel descends from the skies to preserve my sanity in this house!"

You shake the hand offered to you, his smile brightening up more. "Let's get along, shall we?"

And get along you did. To be fair, it wasn't really that hard knowing Kaveh is Kaveh, and Alhaitham as his point of reference makes everyone look like saints.

However, being in the middle of these two also guarantees you to always be in the middle of their notorious arguing, even after you all settled into a genuine relationship.

"It's called a passion project, what is so hard to understand about that? Then again, knowing you, it wouldn't be too far fetched." Closing your eyes, the taste of the freshly cooked baklava became more apparent to your taste buds.

"It's not about whether this project is so important to you, it's the fact that it is missing a crucial factor: feasibility." Pulling the mug in your left hand, you washed down the sweetness of the pastry with slightly bitter coffee.

"What do you know about architecture to tell if it's feasible or not? You took one look at my plates and think you know better." Gulping your food, you let out a silent yawn as you tried to blink the sleepiness away.

"One look at it and I can see that you've put zero thought to the prices of the materials." What time is it? Maybe you can get some last minute nap before heading out.

"Why you -" Before you can register their morning argument subsiding, the feeling of hands on yours and your cheek jolted you awake.

"Why are you dozing off? Did you not sleep enough tonight?" As Alhaitham takes away the mug in your hand, Kaveh proceeds to wipe the pastry crumbs around your lips. Shaking your head, your blond lover moves to stand behind your chair.

"You told us you have an important errand today, you're gonna be late!" Then he starts to brush your hair back to style it as usual. Prying an eye open, you see a glimpse of Alhaitham cleaning up the table, as well as a hint of a subtle smile when his gaze caught sight of you and Kaveh.

Of course, if there's one thing that Kaveh and Alhaitham can agree on, it's their love for you. And that's honestly enough for them.

Structuring

Alhaitham viewed you as his responsibility in this symbiotic relationship, and when the time came that Kaveh settled into the arrangement, taking care of you became easier.

While it's not apparent, the Scribe hated seeing you stressed or down especially when you're susceptible to it than normal.

Things such as bills, needs, funding, rejected thesis can greatly affect your mental health greatly. And that in turn messes with the functionality of your brain, the same brain that he greatly adores. So with lesser jargon Alhaitham entrusted this information to Kaveh so that they both can look out for you when the other isn't there.

Unlike Alhaitham however, Kaveh's less used to your antics.

A shrill scream that can definitely be heard past the walls of the house made him jump and trip out of his bed, stumbling out of his room as he made a mad dash towards the room where the scream came from.

"(Y/N)?! What's wrong?!" Oh gosh, did you get hurt? Did someone break in?! Alhaitham is going to kill him for real this time!

Turning around from your spot in the middle of the living room, you pulled your hands out of your messy hair at the sight of your blond architect. "Kaveh? Oh shoot, I'm sorry did I wake you?" You thought you were alone in the house.

Shaking his head, his hands land on your shoulders to look for any signs of injuries. But no, based on the messiness of your hair, it seems more like an internal turmoil. "I heard your scream, tell me what's wrong, dear."

"Sorry, sorry, I was just really frustrated -" He needs to get you to clear your mind then, like what Alhaitham instructed- "Because of this stupid DIY miniature set."

"What?" Looking past you to the coffee table, there was the evidence of your frustrations. Cloth and wooden panels strewn about, and a mess of papers either discarded or needed littered the carpeted floor. "Why are you working on a DIY miniature house? Is that a house?"

"To destress." You raise your hands up in defense when Kaveh sent you a deadpan. "I think it's a Mondstadt style house."

"Why didn't you ask me to help then?" Forgetting his initial plan, he went on to seat on the floor and caught sight of the instructions page. Occupied with the interesting structure, you curiously sat next to him as he looked at the pieces. "I'm an architect, this is my forte!"

But... you're the one that's... trying to destress?

When Alhaitham came home, the house was suspiciously quiet despite having the lights open. Did one of you leave the main floor lights on by accident? Hanging his cape by the door, walking further into his shared home finally gave him the answer.

Cut up paper and trimmed fake plants scattered the area together with various small tools that he carefully picked up before anyone could step on it. There is a small model of what seems to be Mondstadt structure in the middle of the mess that could easily fit in his palm.

"This is what you two did the whole time?" But he expected the lack of response.

After all, as he turns towards the couch, there Kaveh laid stretched over the entire length of the long seat with his arm shielding his closed eyes. And there you lay on top, basically faceplanting the architect's chest.

Alhaitham could see the dried up clear glue on the tips of your fingertips.

His attention averts back to the miniature house. And that's when he sees it. Leaning down, the Scribe plucks up a copper wire with tiny bulbs jutting out here and there, with a switch at one end.

Oh. You two must have forgotten to add the wiring before assembling the piece and slept the frustration away.

Chuckling to himself, the man crossed his legs as he sat, picking up the discarded tweezer and glue. What would you two do without him really?

You were startled out of your shopping trip at the sound of someone screaming your name, followed by a person you've never met writing over to you. A mahamata personnel?

"We're sorry to bother you but Mr. Alhaitham and Kaveh -" Of course, it's about them.

It was a fallacy that everyone keeps committing at this point, believed in assumptions without evidence, but you followed the man to the destination to Treasures Street.

And when you stood in between the two quarreling scoundrels you call your lovers, the man who was hoping you'd stop the disturbance on peace looked confused. Of course he was.

After all, the arguments are part of the charm. Just because you came into the picture doesn't mean they'll stop in your presence, no, that's not your function in this relationship. However -

"I made progress."

"You did?! Thank goodness, I was worried you'll have to wait another day for dusk!" Kaveh flipped like a switch at the good news, eagerly suggesting to eat out for the occassion.

"Did you write it down? I wish to compare notes with my own hypothesis back home once we're done. When's the last time you hydrated?"

The public watched in confusion as the trio of lovers left the scene towards Lambad's Tavern, the argument turning into a conversation of jargons and lexicon that they can't follow.

It's always so eventful seeing the occupants of that loud house when they're together.

They just wish things were a little quieter.

Finally, the lesser organized poly series counterpart of CtM is here. Should have stuck to the headcanons format honestly but at least I know this isn't gonna be a one off thing lol

@ireallylikehamsters

#genshin x reader #genshin impact x reader #kaveh x reader #alhaitham x reader #al haitham x reader #genshin impact fluff #gender neutral #exile.flower #poly kavetham #sumeru arc

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teyamsgrl · 1 year ago

Text

how sorry i am ✧ lo'ak

❗️MDNI ❗️

OKOK lo'ak is ofc our sweet baby but the idea of enemies to lovers with lo'ak just 🦋🦋🦋 / i hope you all enjoy!! just look at his lil mean face above >:(

°˖➴ warnings: fem metkayina reader, enemies to lovers, agedup!lo'ak, mean!lo'ak, sub!lo'ak, blood mention (not sex related), slight angst, slow burn??, body worship, oral f receiving, some nipple play - paskalin: honey

lo'ak being your brother's best friend was quite the shit position. ever since lo'ak and his family joined the metkayina people a year ago he has despised you, very publicly as well. anytime he saw you, he teased you, talked down to you, etc. he made you feel shitty, but here's the catch: you had an undeniable crush on him. as much as you wanted to deny the fact, you just couldn't. it was something about how you saw him with other people, observing how he really is. how he took care of his little sister and was always willing to help others out. you knew he harassed you for a specific reason; what it was you had no idea. you still acted hostile towards him to keep your true feelings covered, plus it was unfair to let him treat you like this without retaliation.

"lo'ak's staying over" you brother says as he enters your pod late in the evening, lo'ak trailing behind him. you roll your eyes, "great..", you glance up quickly to take in lo'ak's appearance. pretty. "trust me, i'm not pleased about seeing you either" lo'ak scoffs and takes a seat on your brother's cot, taking his bow off of his back. you continue cutting the fruits scattered around you on the woven mat, tossing them into a bowl afterwards. you go to slice the next one in half, accidentally nicking one of your fingers. "ouch.." you mumble, looking down to see the pearl of blood on your finger. you wipe it on a nearby rag, catching lo'ak's eyes on you. "awwww, can't handle a little cut?" he teases, pouting at you. "shut up" you mumble again, moving back to continue cutting, making sure the blood didn't get anywhere else. "can't even cut fruit properly, damn" he smirks watching your eyes narrow in anger. sometimes you wish your brother did something to defend you, but he probably just accepted that you and lo'ak hated each other and it would always be that way. you ignore his comment, "always knew you were a bit incompetent but shit, that's bad" he chuckles mockingly, causing anger to bubble up inside of you. you may secretly like him but he is a dick. you throw down the large fruit in your hand and the knife, standing up and rushing out of your pod. you had it with him, and yourself. what kept drawing you to him? and why couldn't you turn it off? you turn and run past all the other marui, feet hitting the sand as you exhale. you approach the water, about to call your ilu before you hear a voice calling you, "y/n! wait!"

you scoff as you recognize the voice right away, "just leave me alone, lo'ak" you state firmly, back facing him as he comes closer. "y/n" he places a hand on your shoulder, urging you to face him. the ecstatic feeling that ran through your body was indescribable, he had never touched you before, even when passing by. you turn to come face to face with him, your eyes gazing up into his. "i'm sorry-" he mumbles, his amber eyes blank and searching yours. "sorry? you're sorry? after a year of harassing me you're suddenly sorry? i bet my brother made you do this..." you sigh and bring your hands to your head, tugging your braids gently out of frustration. "he didn't, i swear-" you cut him off again, feelings bursting out of your mouth without a second thought. "yeah sure, lo'ak, i doubt it. what made you feel so bad today? instead of yesterday or the day before? fuck- you have never felt bad about making fun of me before, and it's so stupid that i don't just avoid you because of my... because-" you stop yourself before you go too far off the edge and are unable to turn back. "because of what?" he inquires, you have never heard his voice so gentle towards you before. "because i like you, okay?! i like you too much for my own good and i hate the fact that i do!" you scream, tears forming in your eyes as you realize what you've just admitted. you take a deep breath in, unable to release it before lo'ak's lips are on yours, kissing feverishly. you gasp and pull away, trying to figure out if that actually just happened. "don't- don't do that just to mess with me, please" he shakes his head immediately, denying your accusation. "i'm not, i'm genuinely sorry about everything i've said to you. i don't know why i did it, probably projecting my own shit but- i like you too, so much. i just want to make it up to you, if you'd even let me.." you notice how his tail is moving, softly moving left and right as if in anticipation. you nod at his words, trying to comprehend his side of things. "i'm willing to forgive you. you'll most definitely have to prove it, but i'm willing to. and willing to become more eventually… if you'd want that", a small smile pulls itself onto your lips. "thank you..." he smiles back and reaches for your hips, "let me make it up to you, show you how sorry i am, please. how much i feel for you..."

you breathe shakily as he sinks to his knees, bending to start at your ankle and place delicate kisses up your leg. your run your hand along his cheek as he moves to repeat the actions on your other leg. "you're so beautiful, so beautiful..." he whispers and stands back up, kissing along your jaw now. you sigh in delight and tilt your head to allow him to continue. he smiles against your skin and moves down your neck and the middle of your chest. "can i take it off?" he questions as his hands run behind your back to the tie of your top. you nod and shiver as he removes it, the evening air grazing your nipples, breasts perky and freckles glowing. "shit.." he breathes and kisses his way to your nipple, flicking his tongue over it once to test the waters. the whimper that leaves your mouth says enough as he sucks it into his mouth. "l-lo'ak" you stutter out as his warm mouth has your nipple encapsulated, your thighs pressing together to relieve the arousal beginning to pool.

he releases it with a pop, kissing to the other. "i just wanna worship your fucking body.. never seen someone prettier" you whine at his words as he sucks the other nipple into his mouth, tongue rolling around it and toying with it. your hands weave their way into his hair, tugging on his braids as another whine escapes your lips. he hums and unlatches again, hands lingering over your loincloth. "wanna taste.. wanna make you feel good... please", he almost whimpers the sentence out, "yes, lo'ak, yes". he unties your loincloth and helps you step out of it, moving to his knees again. he licks his lips and looks over your wet pussy, his head leaning on your stomach. "tell me what you want, please princess, i just wanna please you..." he kisses your stomach and awaits a response from you, his ragged breaths tickling your stomach.

"mouth, mouth..." you look down on him as he places one of your feet on his shoulder, giving him the perfect angle to dive in. which he does. his tongue makes it's first move against your clit, eager bud pulsing under his tongue. you moan and toss your head back, your hips fervently pushing against his tongue. he moves further, tongue delving into your tight and dripping hole. "that's good, that's so good-" you gasp and keep yourself steady by your grip on his braids. he hums into you, the vibrations bringing you even more pleasure. his mouth never falters, licking and sucking and kissing all over your pussy. he shifts away to breathe quickly, "you taste so sweet, even better than i would've thought. so beautiful, i wanna be down here forever" he whines out and moves back in, nose nudging your clit as his tongue glides around and in your hole again. he takes note of your demeanor change, breathing more heavy and hip movements more aggressive.

"you're close, baby. fuck my face, use me. just feel good... i got you" he mumbles as he brings a couple fingers to stroke your clit at a fast pace, desperate to bring you to an orgasm. your eyes roll back as you hold his braids tighter, grinding onto his tongue and into his fingers. "oh great mother- i'm- lo'ak i'm gonna-" you squeal as he frantically rubs your clit, removing his mouth so he can coax you through it. "that's it, you're so perfect, i got you, so perfect... just let go" he moans softly as your orgasm snaps in you, cum flowing out of you as his tongue retreats back into your pussy to collect what he can. your chest is heaving as your legs wobble, mind out of sorts at the fact that lo'ak who 'hated' you just hours ago confessed to you and made you cum.

he helps your leg down, holding you close as he stands back up. "there we go..." he says as you instantly hug around his waist. "thank you, lo'ak" you look up to catch his eyes which are now glowing softly. "no need to thank me, it's the least i could do. you know, to apologize and prove myself to you, all that. i will be doing that very often, if you'll let me" he holds your face in his sizable hands, his thumbs brushing your cheeks. "well, that was amazing honestly.. and yes, i want to please you sometime as well..." your one finger trails down to his waistband and plays with it. "mhmmm, but you're my first priority always, and i'm gonna start acting like it. no more mean guy..." he sighs, clearly ashamed of how he's acted this past year. "it's alright, paskalin... let's spend the day together tomorrow? i want to show you a special place" you rest your head on his heart, hearing the rapid beats. "i'd really like that" he smiles and rests his chin on your head, basking in your loving presence.

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hobiespick · 3 months ago

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Heya! I was wondering if you got any headcanons for Sam Winchester x werewolf! Reader, except, reader can actually turn whenever she (or gn if you want) wants, and the only real thing a full moon does is force her to be in her werewolf form (aka force her to keep the wolf teeth and claws out for no reason)

The thing that should not be

Pairings : Sam Winchester x reader

a/n : FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, HI, HELLO, IM SORRY IT TOOK SO LONG I SUCK SO BAD, IM SO SORRY. My requests aren't open (yet) but its not even your fault I should have 100% specified that, but this is my first ever ask and ur also one of my favourite moots and I didn't want to dissapoint so here are some fuckinf cute Sam x Werewolf!Reader. I felt the carnal need to write a metric fuckton of context before getting into the actual headcanons (which are very long I have no idea if they can be considered as hcs) so the reader gets beaten up by earth-shattering plot purposes :3. Sammy juicy headcanons start when you see the '🧿' emoji if you don't wanna read the context (melodramatic sigh). And yes the title of the fic is based on the metallica song :). as always, enjoy my shitty thoughts <3

Warnings: angst with comfort (no don't clap it's fine, omg ur makin me blush); guess who joined the cool kids club and uses "____." instead of "Y/n"; literally a flash of gore, shitty dad(s), fake death, mentions of suicide, Sam looks at you and goes DO YOU WANT M-; Dean being himself; reader is also a hunter and has been raised like that (fml); Dean makes a twillight refrence; reader is frankenstein coded in the most nuanced way, Mary Shelley please don't haunt me; Dean is very happy to have a bestfriend/sister :)

word count: 8,102

- Okay, so for starters, the fact that you aren't actually a monster (you don't get the urge to kill or wreak havoc) is actually a supernatural miracle.

Your parents haven't talked to you since you called them the night you were hunting a werewolf and told them, horror-struck between sniffles and voice cracks, that it bit you, and you’re going to turn, and you’re horrified, and you’re going to drive home to put a pistol in your father's hand and hopefully stop you from turning in the thing you shouldn't be.

Your father replied, after successfully not saying a word besides "Hey, kid-" before getting cut off by you and your hiccups. He sank his teeth into the inside of his cheek, enough to draw blood.

"You are not to come home; your mother won't bear to see you like this."

Your father objected before telling you you can finish the job by yourself; you always have.

He abruptly ended the phonecall like you weren't his daughter, more like an annoying salesman. You don't know what he'll say to your mother after that call; that was the hospital, and you tragically died? "Died a hero.." Your father would say when he described another hunter's tragic passing at the dinner table—paranormal tragic passing. So paranormal that your mother had knocked on wood and prayed it wouldn't get you or your family.

So you don't call, It's really me, dad. I'm fine, I figured it out by myself. How could you? after him suggesting it's better to kill yourself than take a shot at finding a solution together? You would rather have him believe you're dead. Or at least cry with you; it's okay, honey. come home; it'll be okay, spend the last days at home, please-

The last word you get from him is a text message you are too quick to open on your flip-phone to see the next day. When you rub at your eyebags after tracking down a witch, the witch. It was the second day when everything about you felt off; you were squemish, anxious, and haven't left your motel room all day. if you get this—the message read, "if you get this?!" if you get this, if you get this, if you get this—your brain repeats it over and over, taking the words apart and tattooing itself that phrase, because it held much more meaning to it than your father probably didn't intend; he would hear it if he read it before sending, you thought, that little 'if' haunting and tormenting like a damn demon. if you haven't already killed yourself; if you haven't already turned into something that took my daughter, my pride and joy, away from me; if you haven't already died–

- speaking to you like he's directly referring to the disease in your veins. Your brain moves on and reads the next ridiculous waste of your attention. I wanted you to know I told your mother that it was the hospital I was talking to yesterday, calling that you’re dead, house fire, so no remains to pick up—Damn, you know him or what? Even your fake death is stripped away from it's respect—"no remains to pick up"—like a toppled statue, a monument of what was once a hero (in dad's old-fashioned monster-hunting world), shattered and insignificant, no longer breathing or living, if you ever even had. Or a tree struck by lighting, again, "no remains to pick up" no meaningful remains or genuinely nothing, just a memory of another young hunter who died 'tragically'. You could imagine your tombstone with an even dumber epitaph to match it and an empty or nonexistent grave lying six feet underneath for closure. Your eyes move on, there will be a funeral with no grave, of course, I just wanted you to know that your mother and everyone else is devastated, we miss you, sugar. I love you, kid. Your father had overestimated your suicidal tendencies, and the way he didn't try to save his daughter in order to not go against the rules and possibilities of hunting only showed you how much he loves you.

So you track down the witch. You barely make it to her doorstep when she opens it with a too reassuring smile, saying your name and that she expected you, even going as far as offering you tea after opening the door and letting you in, to which you declined. You're not an idiot. But you do sit down, forced, when she, Willow Thorne, won't have you, a guest, standing up, a whole damn hunter being forced to sit down and accept being treated kindly like you deserve. When you walked in, the entire image of a satanic worshipper who sold her soul to demons and hexed everybody—that you betted all your life savings fitted the description of Willow shattered and laughed in your face.

Her home was filled with plants hanging and resting in every corner she could place; various crystals were sitting in cute porcelain plates like candy, candles of different colors on a bookshelf filled with books like The Language of Flowers, Astronomy for Beginners, and Sigils. Even more crystals, bigger and taller ones on a purple tablecloth. The house is adorned in shades of dark purple, violet, green, and warm colors. This home was a whimsigothic musem that would send your thirteen-year-old self into a shrieking, excited mess. Your parents never let you own crystals or a tarot deck; they were too afraid you'd turn darkside one way or another. well, mommy, daddy, if you could see me right now with lycanthrope blood pumping through my veins.

Willow Thorne is a wiccan type of witch; she does not receive her power from demons; she receives her magic from nature and probably practices her witchcraft the way she sees fit. This doesn't help build back the distrust you were trained to have in her. You flinch when you feel a tail curling around your bouncing leg; you glance down, and your eyes are met with a black cat's green ones—this must be her familiar—the little words on his purple collar reading 'Creek'. She gives you another flash of her warm smile and starts talking about her cat. This can't be real. Your every instinct screams that you should take her down or that she will take you down. Your options shrink the longer you stay. You keep a hand anxiously fiddling with your belt, thinking about the gun in your waistband. She's deceiving you with honeyed words and unassuming appearance; who the fuck knows, maybe the cat is manipulating you too. Throwing up would be the calmest reaction you could have right now, because the thoughts in your head started going at each other's throats and doubting in this situation could get you killed. Thoughts like, fuck her, her cozy house with purple witchy twitchy girl interior, and her affectionate black cat she mentioned she rescued when nobody would because of superstitions—you curse in your head, you're not actually upset at her although you do not let your guard down, you're upset at yourself for being so easily coaxed into trusting her, it's all too easy, and it is intimidating you.

You're pretty sure you're gonna rip your vocal cords out of frustration and an overall feeling of overwhelmingness; everything seems to piss you off today, even more than usual. How are you good?! All bright and beaming with nothing but positivity. You're not supposed to be good! I have believed all my life you aren't!..are you like me too? A thing that should not be? Before breaking down and crying about your situation, and if you did, she would make you that tea and rub your back with her hand that radiated ease and made you slump your shoulders with relief.

Before you get other fun thoughts like Am I on the wrong side of the war? You start discussing bussiness since you forgot that's what your here for. Even if your eyes water like a little kid after being scolded for something they didn't do, your voice is nowhere near close to sounding like one. You demand a cure, bargaining for a deal to stop the lycanthropy metamorphosis you feel taking over little by little and make you human again. If she can't, you have a gun with silver bullets in your trunk and your will written out, but by now it probably has no significance.

Much to your disappointment, she—Willow—insisted you called her, tells you she cannot take away your curse, but she can soothe it a little, keep it in a cage locked deep into your subconscious. In exchange, she could ask for fucking anything in the world, but she wants loyalty.

"Define, loyalty." You ask through gritted teeth, yeah, that will stop the tears, definitely, great intimidation skills, _____ .

"I'm talking about respect, mutual aid, when it all comes down for me, when I get threatened by a hunter, I want you to be there. I need you to have my back." She admitted, studying your eyes trying to reslove the conflict in them, anything that could give her hope. You couldn't explain this to anyone, ever, Yeah I almost turned into a werewolf once but my witch friend did a ritual on me, so i'm all good now.

Willow is now sitting on an ottoman facing her couch, where you're sitting. Her hands fidget with her bracelets until she clasps them together, and she is leaning towards you. Her gentle tone is imbued with gentle authority that commands her mutual respect without making her overbearing. Keeping steady eye contact, she is discussing serious matters with a serious tone like she should. You can't lie, it catches you off-guard, it herds you in the corner and softly shakes your shoulders, forcing you to listen.

You'd be every synonym in the dictionary for the word 'idiot' if you hadn't accepted this deal. You shake hands, and the warm smile she wears causes a domino effect, making you do the same, even if you had been crying.

It's a funky ritual. She makes you lay on the couch while she lights all sorts of candles; she closes the curtains even though it's already dark so light cannot come in. The only light present is the salt lamp in the far corner and the numeruous lighted candles. She even has to kick Creek out of the room, much to the cat's protests outside the door. They slowly come to a stop as he finds something that's more interesting than whatever ritual his owner is cooking up with a guest—that he feels drawn to for whatever reason. You feel nervous, and she feels nervous too, because you are. Willow reassures you and tells you that after it ends you will pass out for a while, but that's fine because she says you can spend the night if she isn't pushing it.

The celling becomes your newest fascination, and you study every small bump and gray spot in order to distract your mind from... well, thinking. Not for the ritual, but for reassurance, she lies and says you have to hold her hand. Her warm hand against yours seems to punch out of your lungs every doubt whether this will work or not and the sadness your father produced with an unfatherly amount of bluntness and cold parenting that was the verbal equivalent of stabbing your spine and twisting the knife, but you can't pull out the knife, well, you can try, but it will hurt even worse and it will infect spreading yellow or purple marks around it–. She—her hand—has the ability to make you breathe again without feeling like you have leg irons around your neck dragging it down and hands squashing your lungs to bits. She speaks incantations in what you know is latin and instructs you to close your eyes. You swear you hear a candle stop burning in the process—something you can't physically hear, but you had. You can make out a few words (your ears keep ringing and something is happening because you hear her voice; it's distorted and weird, but she told you, strictly, not to open your eyes, so you don't). Words like: lupus-wolf, tollere-take away? You're not sure on that one; that's what three straight days of crying might do to one, mutare- which means change. Okay, that was a nice distraction now what el–

You feel the imprint of a huge dog-like paw pressing into your Adam's apple and cutting off your breath. She obviously takes notice by the way you're writhing and choking and swatting away at nothing—something you're trying to fight even with closed eyes, but there is nothing there. Your palm doesn't make contact with anything. Quickly, Willow chants something you're too busy choking to catch. The pressure on your throat dissolves, and you can breathe again. She calms her own breath and squeezes your hand. When she doesn't feel you squeeze back, she remembers that you're supposed to pass out after the spell. Willow drapes a blanket on you and goes off to order something to eat. When she opens the living room door, Creek doesn't hesitate to run in and settle on your chest. The cat purrs as he patiently waits for you to wake up.

You wake up fifteen minutes later with the smell of food flooding your nostrils, stronger than it has ever been before. It's almost like it's sitting right under your nose. You open your eyes, and the smell has a color, and you can clearly see how it snakes its way in from the kitchen into the half-open door. Your nails feel heavier than usual. This is hopefully a fever dream. But the food isn't here, nor is Willow; you can hear her humming a song in the kitchen, Voodoo Chile by Jimi Hendrix.

The weight of the shadow on your chest brings you back to earth, and you run your hands through his black fur with closed eyes as your head falls back onto the couch. The feeling of fur on your fingertips feeding to your serotonin levels rising. Creek seems to know what it's like to be disowned by your own father and forced to have a fake death in order to 'die' in a way that won't make your mother think you were cursed, or worse, that the whole family is now. Creek notices you're awake and gets off you, but not before making biscuits.

"Thanks, Creek." You mumble before pushing yourself up in a sitting position with a groan.

You can feel the rich, velvety, dark green rug beneath your socks; you would have appreciated it properly if you could actually see the details woven into it. Your eyes keep focusing and unfocusing like they're getting adjusted, and the room doesn't seem so dark anymore. God, how long did you pass out? As you tried to gather your thoughts (if the spell was easy on you enough to actually leave some), memories of the ritual came flooding back—the chanting in latin, the flickering candle(s), the punching smell of herbs, the murder attempt from a wolf spirit/ghost?! who the hell knows anymore? Now you were wide awake, and everything felt different. If it weren't for the fucking ritual that was just performed on you, you would've blamed the faint ringing in your years, shitty eyesight, and banging headache on a terrible hangover or a cold so bad it would make your throat ache for the tea your mom would make you when your immune system failed you. She promised she would teach me how to make it. Your grief echoed to you.

You rub at your temples at thats when you notice why did your nails feel heavier than usual. You had fucking claws, well, not animal claws, but they are honorably elongated and sharper than they had ever been. As you looked up from your lap, your eyes fell on a mirror.

A tall mirror leaning on its back legs, with black edges and details on the rim, you would again appreciate if you had the ability to see a single thing in the distance.

Your eyes widened, mortified, seeing yourself. It looked like one of your parents's worst nightmares. Something out of a dream your mom would have—a nightmare so nasty and vivid she would be forced by her paranoia to get up and check that you're still in bed sleeping soundly.

Your eyes were no longer the familiar color you have seen in the mirror or in old photos of your family members you've grown to love. The shade wasn't even close to yours; crazy how one small change made such a big difference in your appearance. Your pupils were slitted vertically, shrinking only to dilate a little once again, getting adjusted. You slowly got up on foal legs and fell on your knees in front of the mirror. Even if you didn't think it was night because you weren't seeing darkness, the light of the moon shone down on the mirror and floor thanks to the now open curtains. That's when your vision stopped unfocusing and finally cleared.

You were now looking at yourself. It felt incredibly alien and familiar at the same time; you looked at yourself every day, whether it was the mirror in your bathroom at home, a crappy motel one that faced the bed (which you cover up with a scoff each time), or a reflection in the car of your vanity mirror checking yourself before going in a precinct, pretending to be a reporter (the things middle-aged pigs would confess to a doe-eyed girl from the press..).

You gently pulled the corner of your upper lip only to reveal your enlarged and sharpened front canines. Your hand fell and instead went to cover your mouth in order to muffle your sobs. You must have done a horrible job because the second you slapped the hand over your mouth, you heard Willlow gasp as if she felt it too.

She drops the food she was unpacking and runs in, taking a moment to calm her heaving chest in the doorway; her hands were holding it like an earthquake had shaked her up; even her round glasses had slipped and rested on the tip of her nose.

"_______, you woke up!" she exclaims cheerfully. "I was just—how do you fee-?"

She kept stuttering and cutting herself off. Willow didn't need to say anything else; she saw the tears welling up in your eyes and felt the same shock you did from the kitchen.

🧿🧿🧿- later on, you have to bump into the Winchesters one way or another

- and it's exactly on a full moon when this time the ball isn't in your court and you don't get to decide whether you turn or not.

- your claws are sharp, your eyes have changed their original color completely with your pupils vertically slit, and your teeth (conveniently) remain the same; only a few of your front canines are enlarged and sharpened.

- as for senses, it's downright spectacular.

- you can hear deer stepping on tree branches, foxes running, and owls hooting when you're driving by the forest

- you smell how many people are in a room

- you have night vision (yes, your eyes to the flashy thingamajiggy when someone blinds you with their flashlight).

- as a hunter, you already know that your claws and fangs can rip out a human heart.

- ironically, as this whole situation is, you hunt alone on the principle that you don't long for companionship as some lycanthropes do.

- you've turned into a literal killing machine with no instinct to kill, so hunting with others is off the table since at the first sign of a threat (they think you are one, but you really aren't), a hunter exterminates.

- you meet the Winchesters on a ghoul hunt

- you have taken the case before them, but when you couldn't get anywhere with identifying whatever evil being was tormenting the locals with their mere presence, you thought about ditching it since it doesn't look like your type of thing and took the consideration that maybe humans were fucking around this time.

- so when you heard the FBI are in town investigating the case (detective Page and Plant), you placed that town in your rear view mirror; they got it covered..right?

- but something didn't feel right- it wasn't the shame of leaving a case with your tail between your legs (pun intended) with the weak motive, 'Maybe humans are really fucking around this time.'

- something wasn't right, so even if you were tired, you abruptly stopped the car and went over your research spread out on the flat of your closed trunk

- the slits of your eyes dance over the words on your laptop, your papers, and an old lore book you fought tooth and nail for. When you realized it's a ghoul you're dealing with, you turned the car around and went over every speed limit like hellhounds were scratching at your tires. It was your job to not let anybody else get hurt or someone else's grave be violated

- as the light of the moon shined down on you and your wild eyes looked back at you from the rear view mirror, you knew you couldn't have anyone see you, you had to be invisible

- *time skip* (as much as it pains me 'cause i am a sucker for details :))- you swoop in time to save the Winchesters

- and if they weren't tied up, they would've started fighting you too, because why was there a whole ass werewolf fist fighting a ghoul?? John trained them like Spartan warriors, but nothing prepared them for something like this.

- so they sit there like:??????

- they watch you take out a fucking ghoul all by yourself

- the head of the ghoul's person they're impersonating rolls onto the floor. You have to remind yourself it's not a real person; it's an evil spirit who kills to feed

- by the time you wipe the blood off your face, smearing it a bit in the process, and cut the ties holding the hunters loose, Sam is unnable to look away from your slit eyes adorned by a strange color that strangely suits you

- literally hearts in his fawn brown eyes like you still don't have blood on your face and you aren't trying to catch your breath; also, you took a nasty punch to your cheek, and he's pretty sure it's gonna leave a bruise, but he totally doesn't care, why? why do you ask?

- by the way Sam is scrunitizing you, and oh yeah, Sam is scrunitizing you, you're sure you're gonna have to ditch since you've been in this situation before and you know how it always ends

- there was no 'explaining yourself' to hunters when they saw you under the full moon or when they saw you change because you had to.

Before you can even open your mouth they have their methaphorical pitchforks sharpened and torches lit up, prepared to slaughter you, and if you're honest, you can't even blame them for it because you would've done the same.

- Dean rubs his wrist with his right hand; the imprint of the rope is still fresh on his skin like a tattoo. Sam focuses on not choking when you catch him staring.

"Who the hell are you?" Dean thinks out loud. You take a big lungs-exploding sigh and give a shot at introducing yourself since they seem more civilized than most hunters are

- Sam geeks out about you

He doesn't question you because he is suspicious (he has the right to be but surprisingly isn't). He has to feed his noisy, information-hungry brain or he will spontaneously combust

- "Are your senses even more enhanced during the full moon, or are they the same?"

- "Can you smell when somebody is afraid? Like the hormones from their pores?"

- "Is it annoying to always have super hearing? Like has it ever caused you to be..I don't know.. Anxious? It did?" He mourns over you, trying to imagine himself in your situation but possibly can't.

- "I'm really sorry you had to go through a whole..change all by yourself, but it just shows how strong you are, some don't even make it 'til the end."

- After you were done explaining to Sam (to which he gladly sat himself down and listened) how sometimes you genuinely consider you're inevitably going to become what you hunt and how in the beginning you and your senses have butted heads, how you had no idea how to go through it without having panic attacks because the click of a doorknob was sensitive to your hearing like a veteran was scared of fireworks, how you accidentally ripped a motel door off its hinges, a result of you being slightly irritated, still getting acoustumed to your abilities. Dean would go.

"..Do dog whistles work on y–" Before getting an elbow in the ribs by a glaring Sam.

- more shit Dean would ask you for the sake of his own little curiosity

- "Is 'bitch' even more offensive now?"

- "Who do you think would win in a fight? You or Jacob Black?"

- "What do I smell like? Y'know, since you can pick up on scents and alldat."

- Dean calls you Cujo

- It's the one nickname you can get behind, asking him what he thought about the book, and he's like, "Oh, I watched the movie, but i know a little. Sammy used to rattle on and on about his books when he was younger."

- if you think about it, an alais doesn't sound so bad in theory or practice while hunting.

- it's secretive, the boys don't need to divulge your real name, and it's actually high-key kickass (I literally watched Cujo just so I know what I'm talking about, a.k.a. the second reason why it took a millenium and a half for me to post these; the first reason is that i suck)

- Dean is thrilled to get to call you that- he gets this fucking smirk, like a dad about to drop the worst joke ever made on everyone, you and Sam brace yourselves for what's coming with matching eyerolls-

"Let's fuck em' up, Cujo."

- "Cujo, dude, you're just itching to raise a little hell right now, aren't you?"

- "Uh- a bacon cheeseburger, soda, yo, Cujo whaddya want? My treat >:]."

- "Cujo, put on that song you were listening to; I had it in my head the entire hunt." (I didn't mention the genre or artist bc I like to imagine Dean listening to everyone's fav category; ex. I imagine Dean screaming bikini kill lyrics whenever i'm sad)

- if you thought the 'canine/wolf' teasing stopped here, you're so painfully wrong

- Dean made you a mixtape, because that's his love language apparently, with only songs that are about werewolves

- I feel like it took him a longer time to find a suitable title than the songs themselves

- he has all of the possible picks on a piece of paper that stays in the pocket of his fifty pound leather jacket.

- the titles are: Songs to transform into; The howlin' hits; Songs that will make you wag your tail—that one is crossed out because he knows you will make him eat the tape if he does settle on it; Love at first bite; and finally the one he settled for is Songs you can sink your teeth into. Dean smiled at his work, it didn't feel like a prank anymore it was more like a gift and he didn't feel any ugly emotion or insecurity try to pull him back into not getting attached to you.

The final touch was a note saying

"Hey, Cujo, thought you might want these howlin' hits whenever you need to tune the world out.

P.S. : Sam told me to add one of the songs, it's that punk stuff you like - Dean"

- The songs he prudently picked out are these : Of Wolf and Man by Metallica; Bark at the Moon by Ozzy Osbourne; I Was A Teenage Werewolf by The Cramps; Wolf Moon by Type O Negative; Witch Wolf by STYX; Run with the Wolf by Rainbow; Lycanthropy by G.B.H and others.

- you accidentally made a kid cry once- a ball was literally flying towards you and you caught it just in time, thanks to your reflexes

- instinctively, you turned around in time and caught the ball as your claws grew and sank into the inanimate object

- it's all "Nice relfexes, _____" praise from Dean and proud and shy smiles from Sam until the owner of the ball starts sobbing in front of you

- it's a kid, a boy with red hair, no older than six years of age

- but we all know Dean's charm is basically made for this

- so he handles both the kid and his mom (flirting with a milf all day, poor Dean)

- you keep apologizing to the kid and the mom, but Dean just waves you off; you don't understand his generosity until Sam tells you that you accidentally secured Dean's hookup for tonight.

- Since Dean is not coming, not until early morning, nor is he there to call you and Sam 'dorks', you and his younger brother take advantage of it.

- you guys have a movie night with the most random movies ever

- it is chaotic

- from rom-coms you switch to a world war II documentary, then you watch re-runs of House MD on tv.

- Dean stumbles in at like five something a.m. and takes a picture of you and Sam snuggling under a blanket while the tv light casts shadows of orange and cold colors on your defenseless expressions.

- but can somebody actually blame you? Or Sam, for that matter?

- honorably want to mention your body heat is also enhanced

- You and Sam were sitting with your sides pressed into each other

- you were radiating pure furnace body heat, how could he not be sleepy??

- but that's not the only reason Sam knocks out so heavily

- it's you he's sitting down with (relaxing for once in his life) watching a ridiculous episode of House with thirteen ads rolling every ten minutes accompanied by lazy talking as if you're not debating books only you and morally grey forty-year-olds read (where that Kansas drawl of his is much more audible and pretty), after a marathon of fatally random movies

- younger Sam who had trouble going to sleep/getting some shut-eye because Dean and John are out late on a hunt.

- Sam especially couldn't fall asleep because Dean wasn't there

- it was a different story when Dean was at the age where he couldn't hunt but he could use a pistol and take care of his little brother

- both of them in a relatively warm motel room, alone (since John fucked off to god-knows-where, to hunt a monster they are never to breathe in the direction of as a conversation subject.)

- little Sammy (age where he believed nothing could beat his older brother) could peacefully fall asleep knowing Dean stays up and watches over him like a hawke, reading comic books by the tv light

- where little Dean keeps chanting in his head what Sammy is supposed to do after eating his dinner.

- Watch tv or look at the comic with me (Sammy can't read yet), brush his teeth, then tuck him in bed.

- now pre-teen Sam can hardly sleep

- he is plagued/tormented by flashing images his overthinking big brain mades of a thousand situations where his family got hurt, if not even killed

- Sam's grip on the shotgun is shaking; it shakes even harder when John's bark booms over his shoulder, right into his ear.

- "Sammy, dammit, what are you going to do when a demon breaks through the door and me and your brother aren't there to protect you?!"

- but Sam isn't twelve anymore

- he's a responsible adult

- snuggled beside you and denying any eepy allegations you decide to accuse him of

- so, the heat you contribute, the soft speaking on the tv, the darkness of the room, you being there is enough to lull Sam to sleep

- studies show you feel sleepy around the people you trust ;)

- the position you two fell asleep in cannot be described in any other word than childish

- somehow you would catch two kids, sleeping over at one of the other's houses, knocked out, and snoring in the same bed after watching a horror movie

- on one of the two queens the motel room contributes (the one closest to the tv) you and Sam have made this fluffy nest full of pillows, a huge blanket, plus a random quilt Bobby pulled out of thin air and gave it to you when he heard you complaining about the petal-thin blankets motels have during cold ass weather.

- When you both lied down on the bed with your legs greedily streched out, backs pressed against the headboard, and your head is resting on the wall while Sam, magically, was still able to hold his up after the very long day all of you endured. You predicted one of you wouldn't survive being in each other's presence and make it out not asleep, and god, you hoped it was you.

- Sam's breathing slows down after a while of comfortable silence, and you’re sure he's dying until you spare one quick glance and see him, downright snoozing with his lips parted without a care in the world, ghosts and eerie phenomenons weren't bothering or needing him now.

- during all of the movies and documentary and fuckin lazy intellectual commentary nobody else would have the patience to discuss with you or Sam, he somehow migrated on the bed/nest with his side flush against yours, like a magnet to another; it was inevitable not to stick together, literally.

- your shoulder was now pressed into his forearm, your head no longer resting uncomfortably, and his temple is resting on the top of your head.

- but (unfortunately) you weren't hugging or anything- like a mirror or a copycat, Sam has his arms crossed, just like you, so maybe that's why you didn't wake up full on cuddling, that does sound good though your brain mourns

- When you do wake up, the only slight change you notice is that you're sleeping on your side..so is Sam. You're facing Sam's neck and chin, and up close and personal, you can actually count the too-sexy amount of moles he modestly posesses. His arm serves the role of a pillow underneath his head, and the other is resting with his palm down facing the mattress.

- with Sam taking up the entire attention of your senses, it takes an emmbarassing while for you to hear the shower running, Dean; did he see you both like this? Was he going to mention it? Your gut fills with a small dose of embarrassement, preparing you for what's yet to come, and it protests at that.

- much displeasure from your senses to your brain and your heart that wanted to breathe Sam in more as he (hopefully) breathes you out, you turn on your other side, unconsciously careful not to disturb Clifford over here, and you try to determine what time it is from your surroundings alone.

- the light blue sneaking its way through the dark closed curtains and the slight chill in the air points all arrows to seven or eight in the morning, you could go back to sleep.

- Dean wasn't just feeling gracious; he didn't and wasn't even planning on sparing you or Sam

- that day, when he separately gets the both of you alone, he has the exact same conversation with different but not so different people.

-"You should've seen the two of you this morning when I came in, two kittens snoring together, it was fuckin' adorable." Dean teased–

—Monday, 13:34 p.m. — as he tossed his clothes into one of the laundromat's washing machines, making Sam paralyze in his seat as his fingers started fidgeting with the edges of his hoodie.

"You did?.." He inquires, not knowing what exactly Dean saw just this morning. Sam only woke up a little after you went back to sleep. He swore his cheek must have burned a hole through the pillow with how hard he was blushing. You were so close. There was a good distance between the edge of the bed and you. So your back was flush against his chest. If you're wondering where his arm went, it was around your waist. Sam—your own personal seatbelt. He probably thinks it's his fault too. Dean never ceased to describe Sam as a 'cuddlebug'.

"Uh-huh" Dean hums a confirmation, acting casual, scarily casual. Sam feels the teasing in Dean's tone; it's there, but Dean is not fully teasing yet, like he wants Sam to confess something first after boiling in his embarrassement for long enough.

—Monday, 20:02 p.m. — as he pulled the Impala into the driveway of a fast-food place you were so invested in you even forgot the name of; you froze and looked at him, searching for any emotion that might give him away, but Dean was a brick wall, a slight very Dean siginificant parted lips smirk paired with squinted eyes over the wheel, carefully driving into the driveway. Even the car seemed to betray you in your moment of weakness because you swear the volume is lower than it was a few seconds ago. Ozzy Osbourne's laugh can still be heard from the speakers, even if it's barely audible over your racing thoughts or your hearing trying its hardest to pick up on Dean's thoughts. The rythym of the drums seems to sync up with your heartbeat, or the other way around, you're not sure. Over every little sound, there still seems to be a little silence to fit in. You swallow a lump in your throat.

"..We had a movie night, we just fell asleep like that, that's all." You mumble, and Dean starts to feel a little bad for letting you be a victim to his spotlight-teasing and giving you no shade to reprieve to or show his undying approval.

Somehow, you still worry if Dean believes you have ruined the dynamic, and now he's cornering you to tell you to stop it or something (overthinking anxiety worms are eating away at your critical thinking skills). You just worry about what he thinks of this. You still worry about the Dean who doesn't correct random people on cases who mistake you and Sam for a couple; the Dean who just has to leave some arsenal or luggage in the front, just so you are forced to share the backseat with Sam; the Dean who always has to group you and Sam in a category when he teases you both (Geeks, nerds, smartasses, etc.). Cupid works hard, but Dean Winchester works harder.

"Hey-, Cuj- Doll." Dean sputters, switching glances between you and the wheel.

This didn't go as he planned it would, and now he is facing the consequences. The way you shrink in your seat and the way you avoid catching his eye makes Dean feel like a douchebag. If he didn't know any better he would thinks he is, but then you would actually be able to read him like a book and tell him otherwise. You hear the desperation in his voice; your candle of hope comes back to life and lights up. Your head turns to look at him with pleading eyes. Please don't be angry, please don't kick me to the curb, let me stay in the backseat a little more. Dean lets out a shaky exhale that turns into a laugh; he runs a hand down his face. You've watched him do that every time he got jumpscared by the monthly spirit with unfinished business. It was something you imagined Dean picked up from John, the picture in your head so clear (at least from the pictures you saw)— a tired dad in an old squeaky motel chair with a whiskey glass in his hand doing the same motion Dean was doing right now. Dean would mimic his father's gestures to try to look more like him; he didn't have his brunette curly hair, his dark brown eyes, Sam did.

Dean never had his voice either; he only perfected his bark to match his dad's. Sam hated the way his reflection resembled his father, Dean was either jealous of him for it or couldn't wrap his head around as to why his brother hated being their dad, probably the latter. Dad, at least in Dean's eyes, was a hero, a figure to be admired and emulated. But Sam? He didn't even have to try. Sam and John were so alike that they clashed constantly like two stubborn stags locking antlers in a duel.

"..Dean?" You call him out; you had no idea what was going on in his head; it would be pretty damn nice if you could know. Dean shots his head up at the mention of his name.

"Yeah?—sorry, I just, you and Sam are just so—" He sighs. "it's about time you two crazy kids broke that touch barrier." He guffaws, slowly pulling up to the ordering kiosk.

A new song starts playing on Dean's "hot summa' nights driving" mixtape, Emmit Remmus by The Red Hot Chili Peppers, he added it when Sam said that's one of his favorites.

- do I need to talk about how much of an immense help you have been on hunts?

- you don't need to help out on every hunt despite Sam's disappointment and Dean's kid-like joy to have their friend help them out who is a professional/werewolf/hunter/geek, who kind of gets his references?? But you are geniunely so good it's funny to have the boys call you up and be like "..so we need help". They're happy you'll show up but there is still that lick of shame that taunts the Winchesters whenever they are forced to call for aid.

- this one time, you wanted to hug them after not seeing them for two weeks, and when you went to attack Sam, you heard his bones crack.

- your strength still surprises you and knocks other people off their feet

- it was so loud (atleast for you), you were sure you broke something

- Sam did nothing but give you his (killer) dimply smile and reassure you didn't do anything (even if he slightly grunted); while Dean whined like a kid saying (lying) he doesn't want a hug (you coaxed him into it eventually)

- Sam feels like he's not allowed to call you by your nickname, like he fears it's Dean's thing and not his

- so when he finally puts on his big boy pants, he's like, "Uhh–Cujo- 🧍‍♂️so get this.."

- all red and shy, trying to act casual, as if he doesn't wonder about the reaction you might have if he calls you other nicknames, like honey, sweetheart, even baby, or if he had the excuse to hold your hand, how would you hold it? Fingers interlocked or palms flat?

- Sam would also love to just marvel at your slit eyes; if he could he would take a picture and put it in his wallet; don't get me wrong if he had one where you were normal, he would cherish it just as much.

- Sam thinks your nickname is actually really cool (probably because it's a Stephen King reference, nerd), and you take that as a compliment. Sam is hard to entertain or please by his brother's antics.

- But he prefers saying your name

- there's something so intimate about the syllables rolling off his tongue so easily

- "_____, Are you okay? What is it? The soundproof earmuffs? I'll go get them." When everything, and I mean when every sound is just too much.

- Sam got them for you; he couldn't handle seeing you wince one more time whenever a car with a bad engine would pass by the motel (during a stressful hunt); its tires squealing under the concrete, making a faint sound for the boys, but for you so much louder.

- you know how pathethic it is to be affected by such small things when you're blessed with such powers? How can you call yourself a hunter when decibels, frequencies, and fucking tire squeals make you their bitch? You wish you could train yourself in a way that would make you less sensitive to certain sounds. It just adds to the reasons why hunters have the excuse or classify you as "the frail one" not only because you're a girl. When you used to hunt with your dad and sometimes mom, the amount of dog-shit comments from other hunters who had sons, were nothing but mysogynistic, curlish, and ruthless. "Are you sure the riffle isn't too heavy?", "Does she even know how to kill this thing?", "She's going to drag us down, do you want us to die?"— the type of comments that would make your dad shoot daggers into them, defend you "She's a goddamn ______, what do you think?", and whisper into your ear "Show em' what you're made of." and you would (stubbornly) listen to his advice to the damn letter after you almost mouthed them off.

Your dad believed in "Actions are sometimes louder than words." and all that adult crap, you were not as zen.

Your mom actually encouraged the sarcasm you have replied with in the past. The funniest memory your mother can recall is a story she tells at every gathering and every chance she gets to everyone, she praised you like crazy. When another hunter's son had the nerve to fuck with a twelve-year-old you. "Aren't you afraid of breaking a nail out there?" The boy sneered, puffing out his chest like a peacock. You stared at him with pure disbelief. "The only way I'm breaking a nail tonight is by kicking your ass, you cocky brainless jerk." You spat back, your mother and father were there and so was the boy's father; the gravity of the situation was on your shoulders, and their stares felt even heavier in comparison; intimidating him was 100% on the table. You felt like everyone had the same exact thought occuring them, an unspoken demand passed everyone there, even you: Do something. And you did. Your mother's jaw went slack; she doubled over, gripping whatever surface was near her and she started to chortle, with her shoulders shaking like never before. Your father was holding in a chuckle while massaging the bridge of his nose.

- Sam has to disagree with you whenever you complain about how your senses make you look or about the way you underestimate yourself. "What?! You can't be serious. _____, It doesn't mean you're weak. In fact, it makes you even more interesting. Everyone has an Achilles heel; yours is stronger because you're an amazing hunter who figured a way out. It makes you even stronger, I have no idea how you deal with this crap! Dean and I would've gone insane if we were in your shoes for more than a day."

- he is also forcing back his infamous (spectacular) bitchface

- he doesn't 'hold back' actually

- he geniunely cannot glare at you, not when you're like this. He can make a few exceptions, like when you join in Dean's teasing/joking (the silly rambunctious energy Dean carries around had, unfortunately, contiminated you or awakened yours)

- or when you start teasing Sam yourself, he shoots you a glare that classifies as nothing but hot (in your book at least), the kind of Sam glare that makes you flush knowing he doesn't mean it at all.

- Dean making you those fake ass I.D's like "Joan Jett", "Stevie Nicks", "Kathleen Hanna" and when you asked him to make more subtle ones he was like, bet. "Kelly Hammer", "Diana Bowie", "Laura Ulrich".

a/n: I wanted to apologize again for taking so long and for the unnecessary amount of context that literally nobody asked for. Uhh yeah and feedback would be very much appreciated<3, sava out *mic drop*

#sam winchester #sam winchester x reader #supernatural #dean winchester #spn #supernatural fanfiction #jared padalecki #jensen ackles #supernatural headcanons #supernatural fandom #supernatural season 1 #reader insert #supernatural imagine #supernatural fic #sava preaches

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hughiecampbelle · 4 months ago

Text

Nausea (Billy Butcher Oneshot)

Character/s: Butcher

Word Count: 1,349

A/N: This is a re-upload bc the first time I posted it I got self-conscious and deleted it lol. It's just not my best writing, but I feel like I have to get it out. Just me writing about my issues again! I still have no idea what's going on, but all the same diagnoses come back from the first time (uc/crohn's/celiac/gastroparesis) and it's so infuriating. My doctors don't know what's wrong and my family, who I love, just think it's nerves. I don't think my very graphic symptoms are nerves 😅 I have so many remedies by my bed, it looks crazy. I haven't slept well in a few days bc of the pain, but I'm also so afraid of not being believed again, it's a vicious loop. Okay I swear I'm done complaining! Thank you for putting up with me!!! 💜💜💜💜💜💜

He knows when it’s happening. There is no great show or performance. There is no crying or whimpering. No one else would even notice, but he knows the signs. Albeit too late, but he does. You’re quieter, withdrawn, hand over mouth, hoping this will stop the nausea. Deep, even breaths: breathing through it. When that is not enough, when that stops working, you slip quietly out of the room and into the bathroom. He tries not to notice how long you’re gone. Mere minutes. It feels so much longer. Someone snatches his attention from you and suddenly, you’re back. You reappear as if you were never gone. You offer a smile, a joke or two, a sense of normalcy, but beneath you’re stomach is churning, clenching, radiating pain through your middle. You only let him tell a few people, who you’re sure told everyone else. Still, none react besides him. He doesn’t say anything, to do so would draw attention. That’s the last thing you want. Instead, he moves towards you, casually, standing beside you. Close. You can feel his jacket on your arm. Worn and scratchy. Familiar. He looks at you and you offer him a small, insignificant nod. That’s as far as he’ll get to asking if you’re okay. That’s as far as you’ll let him when you’re working.

Its been happening on and off for years. Off, for a long time. You thought it was over. Gone. Dead. It’s come back, though, an uninvited guest. This sudden pain, this distress, this mystery no one is curious enough to solve. When they looked, they found nothing. Said you were fine. You were embarrassed, hurt, questioning if it was all in your head. Eventually, you moved on. Things got better. You believed them. And now it’s back. A fullness, nausea, pain, weight loss. You can’t be in the apartment while he’s cooking. The smell repulses you. The taste, too. You can’t eat, afraid you’ll be sick. Again. He urges you, please, something more than your morning coffee, but you cannot handle it. Everything you try you end up spitting out: everything is gluey, everything is profoundly unappetizing. Hiding in the bathroom away from the scent or leaving altogether, it’s put a rift between you. Meals that were safe turned poisonous. Entire food groups cut off unwillingly. It’s been days. Your stomach growls, but that is a trick. You try to ignore it, hide it, knowing what he will insist. He watches you. You can feel it. You don’t say anything. It’s easier this way, not to fight, not to argue. This is a hill you will not die on. He does what he can, pouring your coffee, grateful you at least have that. So far, it doesn’t cause problems and it keeps you full. That’s all you can ask for.

He wants you to get looked at, checked out. You refuse. You were so sick, so scared, and they told you nothing was wrong. You were constantly doubting if this was even real, then and now. If they didn’t find anything, if they didn’t have the answers, you’re not sure what you’ll do. You can’t be doubted again. You can’t be looked at and deemed dramatic. You knew the pain was real. Why did you have to prove it? Why did you have to show them when they refused to believe you? So, you keep it to yourself, far from friends and family. They congratulated the weight you lost. Said you looked good. Remind them you were petrified to eat. You were smaller and that’s what mattered. It’s worse at night. Lying beside him, you push from him, untangling his arms from around you. A trash bin by your head, waiting for it to pass. If things are bad, really bad, you’ll lock yourself in, on the floor, praying for it to go away. He wakes up to an empty bed night after night. The pain wakes you up. You have nausea patches, and losanges, and a heating pad he is constantly rewarming. If you lay very still, perhaps you can trick it. Play dead. Hours you’ll spend curled in a ball, wondering what it was that you ate that set it off, that made it so angry. Was it the time? The combination? You were down to drinks with minerals and vitamins, hydrating agents to keep you going. Baby food. Liquid diet. You missed food. You missed having an appetite. You missed cooking. But it wasn’t worth it afterwards. Immediately or hours, the nausea, the pain, the discomfort invites itself back into your life.

Butcher isn't a natural worrier. There isn't a lot that scares him. But this? This leaves him petrified. There is something wrong and no one will listen. You try to shrug it off. It was so much worse all those years ago. It was excruciating. This, if anything, is a walk in the park in comparison. Uncomfortable sure, but that's all. It's not Vought or Homelander, that he can protect you from. That he can stop. Your body working against itself? That he can do nothing about. It isn't fair. It isn't right. And yet, there is nothing to be done. The tests they did were inconclusive. Why risk it again? Why waste your time? You assure him soon it will be gone, a few days, maybe a few weeks. Last time it was six months. You swallow that time like a prison sentence. Six months. You could do it again, if you had to. You could manage. Maybe by then they’d take you seriously. He wanted to yell and scream, at them. Order them around, insist they help, but would that even help? More tests, more waiting. By the time it would be your turn, it would have gone into remission. Loved ones would hypothesize, becoming doctors themselves. Their favorite diagnosis? Nerves. You weren’t anxious, or nervous, or worried. You were wasting away. You were spending your nights trying not to throw up and your days doing anything to prevent discomfort. Even certain clothes, too close, too constricting, were off the table. You couldn’t stand the way they looked at you, everyone but Butcher, wondering if it was physical or mental. He heard you, he saw you, he knew this was all too real. Why couldn’t others?

You're more tired, exhausted as soon as the sun starts setting. You lose a lot of hours at night, in the early mornings, praying to anyone who will listen that you’ll wake up tomorrow and it will be gone. That you will be fine again. That it really was all in your head. Falling asleep in the car. He tries to avoid bumps in the roads, potholes, not wanting to wake you. Your attention straining: it's always there, in the back of your mind, at the back of your throat. It sits deep in the pit of your stomach and it mocks you. When you finally do complain, just a little, when it's too much, he knows it's really getting bad. He's helpless all over again. The people he's loved, the people he's lost, he can't risk it. Not again. Not with you. There’s little can do, though. There’s little anyone can do. This is not someone he can kill, this is not an organization he can take down. This is chronic, spontaneous, vengeful. It has no rhyme or reason. You let the mask slip every so often. You’re scared. Scared of what they’ll find, scared of what they won’t. He reassures you, whatever it is, you’ll figure it out together. You trust him, you love him, but you can’t do that to him. You can’t be a burden. You body is your own to take care of. So, you throw up in the bathroom, and wear your patches, and make your jokes. You tell him it’s a three, always a three, on a scale from one to ten. You can’t let him worry, he’s got enough on his plate. Yours will remain empty until, hopefully soon, it goes away just as it has appeared.

#writing #billy butcher #billy butcher oneshot #billy butcher drabble #billy butcher x reader #the boys #the boys drabble #the boys oneshot #the boys x reader #stomach problems tw #tw stomach problems #stomach problems #nausea #nausea tw #tw nausea

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atimesfeeler · 18 days ago

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I loved @twilightkitkat 's post SO MUCH I just had to add to it. It reminded me of a fic I'm working on rn.

I especially liked the part with Vanessa because I don’t think she just left him because of the reason Wade thinks. She didn’t just want him to be a superhero or whatever- in the flash back, she’s begging him to open up to her, to be present, to let her help him and I don’t thinks Wade could do it.

He felt like, incorrectly, that he couldn’t burden her with it. He has so much baggage and pain and issues, and he can’t corrupt her with that. He had cancer and instead of spending his last days with her, he left her. And when he survived he avoided her until she was literally kidnapped.

Everyone thinks Logan runs but really Wade does. He doesn’t want the people he loves to know he’s in pain. At his birthday party, he’s obviously miserable but everybody’s together! And smiling! So he’s going to be happy and pretend he’s just fine. But he’s not even very good at hiding it bc, like mentioned before, it’s a little bitter. His jokes don’t land or they come out passive aggressive and tense. But nobody calls him out for it except Logan. Logan who tells him in the meanest way that he’s a clown but that he’s sad, pathetic, and attention starved. He’s not buying the clown act.

And when Logan moves in, I love the idea that he starts noticing Wade when his mask falls or he gets too tired to pretend.

I’m writing a fic where Wade deals with chronic pain in less healthy ways and, of course, he tries to hide it. It's more brief and censored on tumblr bc I don't want to get my account terminated again, but it will be more detailed on ao3.

…

He dealt with it in other ways. The pain.

After all, a little bit of death couldn’t hurt, right?

Treating himself gently only sometimes worked. If he did everything right, if he did all the steps then maybe, maybe it would ease up. Sleep well, wake up at the right time, eat breakfast, lunch, and dinner, draw a scalding bath, and take some hard hitting drugs.

Most days, Wade was much more impatient. Most days, Wade failed. It was too hard to take care of himself when waking up felt like dragging himself up from glacier water and pounding on the underside of the ice. Cooking was a nightmare he didn’t even want to consider tackling, and he was rarely patient enough to wait for the bath to fill or for sleep to take him as his body wracked with pain.

There were faster, easier, more instant ways of relieving the pain.

Any pain that didn’t stem from his own body was good.

With Vanessa, Wade had tried the healthy way. The three meals, ten hours of sleep, and taking his vitamins. The whole mile. There was this urge he constantly resisted that told him it would release the tension in his skull if he carved under his eye into his cheek where the migraine pulsed, like he was some sort of fucked up carpenter with voices in his head.

Vanessa didn’t understand it. If he was in pain, why would he want to be in more? She understood his masochistic tendencies in bed where they mixed pain and pleasure, but just pain? Just harm for the sake of being harmed? They got into a lot of fights about it.

He resisted the attempts. Hid them from her where he could. Sometimes he’d miscalculate, and she’d walk into the bathroom before he could heal and clean up his brain splattered on the bathroom tile. She hated it, and Wade hated that he was hurting her.

He reeled back any anger or snippy comments that stemmed from the sheer newness of having his body feel like it was dying all the time. It was so hard to interact when pain rippled through him like a feedback chamber. It made his fuse short and curt. His witty remarks turned snappish and bitchy. People asked stupid questions and made even stupider comments when he was having a Bad Pain Day, and everything felt a bit more raw and oozing. Wade didn’t have the energy to keep up the act and while his mind rarely stopped running, it shifted into something darker when pain was on his mind. His jokes fell flat, laced with a bitter ending. Sometimes, Wade didn’t even want to talk. He wanted to punch someone. Maybe even himself. And every time he snapped or said something he didn’t mean, he wanted to hurt himself even more.

Quickly, he grew exhausted putting on a brave face, and he had never been good at letting people help him. There was this awful clash of wanting to be comforted by the people he loved and hating that he needed comfort. It made him feel weak and pathetic, and Wade already hated so much about himself that he didn’t want anyone to see the twisted, fucked up parts of him. How ironic that he always had an audience anyway. He couldn’t hide it from you or whoever was watching him those days, but he could hide it from the people he loved. Shield them from it, almost.

On Bad Pain Days, Wade didn’t want anything to be different. He didn’t want to acknowledge the pain he dealt with, and seeing that pity on her face set his teeth on edge. It both hurt to be babied and, later, it hurt to be ignored when he stubbornly insisted he was fine.

Obviously, it didn’t work out.

It was better with Al.

Al tried to help. Once or twice. Her motherly instincts kicked in, maybe, Wade didn’t know. He shot himself once in front of her while they were watching the Bachelorette together, and she cursed him out and told him to stop and never do it again. Wade took his little attempts to the bathroom after that. He cleaned up after himself. He went out. Wade tended not to do the more dramatic methods that draw attention.

Wade had it down to a science. A decent chunk out of his frontal lobe sent Wade into a pleasant, almost subspace-like place. He would just… float and forget that his body hurt all that bad. It was good for Bad Brain DaysTM too when Wade’s thoughts were louder, faster than normal, and the voices stopped sounding like himself. When the fourth wall was a little too easy to see, and it got to him, being the doomed comic relief, when his head was trying to split his consciousness in two.

If his temporal lobe was nicked, then Wade would start hallucinating and hear a banger of a song while time, space, and movement sort of fucked up for a second. It felt like getting high, but he didn’t need an entire bag of cocaine and to hot box weed to get there.

If something happened to his parietal lobe, the pain wouldn’t know where to go. A bear could literally be eating his insides, but the pain signals couldn’t register if they had nowhere to go.

He did most of his questionable coping methods in the stereotypical bathroom spot. It was private, and Al got onto him for getting blood and bits all over the apartment. He once left his liver or his kidney in the kitchen sink, and Althea threatened to call the cops on him - her coke stash be damned. Now he’d drape himself in the empty tub, play music loudly, and expertly deal with the pain.

The system he had was fine. Regulated. It was working. It was fine. It wasn’t going to get any better.

Until Logan.

...

I haven't posted it on ao3 yet, but it will be apart of the series for my fic where Wade cries in the Honda instead of fighting.

#my writing #chronic pain #wade wilson #poolverine #poolverine fics

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mochatsin · 1 year ago

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WHEN MC CAN DRAW

Drawing and the arts is one of the things you’re most passionate about. There’s a lot of things, and certain demons, that are out there to give you inspiration to draw. How will the brothers react when they find out you’re a great artist?

literally in the middle of drawing when I thought about this and i'm wondering why it took me this long to think of an Artist!MC prompt damn. Enjoy reading!

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Lucifer

He already had a vague idea that you have a keen eye for the arts when he took you to a gallery once. You’re familiar with a lot of paintings in the human realm, but none of them could quite compare to the styles down here in Devildom.

Lucifer wanted to teach you more about the cultures of Devildom through painted histories and stories which is why he took you to the gallery, and he notices how observant you are of the details on the artwork. He assumed maybe you’re just very educated with the arts up in your world.

Though one day he found you in your room trying to draw a piece with the styles similar to the paintings you both saw the other day. The linework and colors are very on point, Lucifer would have assumed this wasn’t done by your own hands if he saw it displayed on the walls.

“You’re quite talented if you drew all this after just one art gallery tour.” Lucifer says as he moves closer to further inspect your art. If you ask him how to improve it or how the method works, he would be happy to give you some tips or pointers.

“As impressive as this is, I would like to see something you’ve made in your own style.” Lucifer would want you to show something that speaks more about you, not about Devildom. He’s curious to see what makes your art style original. He wants to see you take pride in whatever you create of course.

He’d love to have one of your artworks be framed somewhere in the house. You can use his office for that peace and quiet so that none of his brothers would disturb you while you worked. Lucifer wanted it framed in his room for him to enjoy, though after his brother’s protests and one heated dinner discussion, the piece was placed in the living room instead for everyone.

Mammon

Mammon doesn’t really have the best sense of boundaries when it comes to your room, so he ends up barging through the doors to see what you were up to and maybe try to whisk you away for a bit of gambling for the evening. Though he finds you on your desk doing some homework, papers scattered on your bed.

You tell him you’re busy working on a project so he whines but stays with you in your room. You have homework about summoning circles so you had several discarded drafts resting on your bed. Mammon can’t help but go through the papers while he waits out of pure boredom.

Mammon eventually spots under the pile a few of your own personal artworks you’ve made. You forgot to keep them away since they got buried underneath all those papers. “EY!! This ain’t part of a class project right?! This looks freakin’ fantastic!”

You can tell he’s being genuine about his compliments just by seeing the look on his face. “I-I'm not just sayin’ that cuz you’re my human! I know a gold mine when I see one yaknow?” Mammon says while he goes through the pile to see if there are more works out there for him to admire. He might be tempted to steal one of them just so he can piece of something you’re passionate about so close to him.

He would definitely urge you to sell some of them for profit, put up commissions online or advertise it on RAD. At first you wondered if this was part of his money-making schemes… he admits it was at first but he wants you to succeed in this if it’s something you genuinely want to do.

“You gotta cut me some slack sometimes ya know? I bet you’ll make bank outta this. I know my old plans for quick grimm haven't worked out, but this one I'm SURE won’t fail” his enthusiasm is almost contagious. Regardless of your decision, Mammon is happy enough to sit back and enjoy your artwork.

Levi

He is going to be so ecstatic knowing that you’re actually really good at drawing in any form of medium. Levi found out one day when he asked to borrow your notes for class and you lend him your notebook. He was flipping through the pages until he noticed that you’ve been doing little doodles at the back. “I-is that…”

Your peaceful little afternoon got chaotic when you heard an excited scream from down the hall, followed by rampant footsteps that got louder in a matter of seconds until your door opened. Levi has your notebook in hand, with the biggest grin plastered on his face.

“Y-YOU COULD DRAW RURI-CHAN?!” Levi doesn’t even give you the time to speak when he shows you the doodles and starts going on a rant on how you captured the details of her outfit so perfectly. Even the magic staff is actually on point!

There’s times he would be peeking by your door while you’re doodling something in your room. Levi wanted to ask if you could draw his favorite characters but he’s too shy to do so, but he’ll be the happiest when you agree to it.

“I-if you need the references i have a few!” He would say ‘few’ but ends up giving you what’s almost an entire album of art references that you could use. If you want, he can even take the figurines of said characters off his shelf (which is rare) so you can have a better look at it from all angles.

Levi would definitely have it posted on the walls, keeping all your artworks like a new collection. He would gush about how he wishes he could draw because it’s another way of expressing your love for something you care about. Would definitely commission you for certain things because he doesn’t want to keep asking you for free art.

Satan

Recently he got you hooked on this detective novel series, and you both spend a lot of time together just talking about your favorite parts. Satan loves that chase scene between the detective and thief since it was written so well, it’s almost like you can play the scene in your head.

He’s with you in his room, sitting on the couch with the book propped up by your knees. He assumes you’re just rereading the book and does his own thing. He likes that about your company where the silence is comforting, though there are times you ask Satan what he thinks the detective or the thief looks like in his head.

By the time Satan had to answer one more query that he realized you’re not actually reading the book. He sees that you’re holding onto a pen as you scribble something behind the book, so he decides to sneak behind you while you’re distracted out of curiosity.

He’s surprised to find you drawing on a notebook, looking at the chapter of the book with the chase scene that he mentioned the other day. “You’re… drawing the scene?” He asked, the corners of his lips tugging into a smile. He’s impressed that you got the compositions so well too. To him, you brought this scene to life.

“Is this why you were asking me all those questions? Well, I’d say you perfectly captured the scene and-” He’d talk about the details you’ve drawn and how it matches what’s written in the book, like a professional critique. He’d love to see the piece once you finish, and even see all your other works you’ve done in the past as well. One cat drawing would make him excited for sure.

One time you made him a bookmark by using your art for the designs. The brothers know that Satan doesn’t use those as often because he tends to finish books in one sitting, but he began to have that cute little bookmark pressed between the pages of his current book. Not only is the design so perfect, it’s from his precious human too.

Asmo

Asmo is adoring the attention he’s been getting from you recently whenever he would make a little fashion show in his room with all the new outfits he’s bought. He loves the awe he hears from you and how you eye him up and down after he strikes a pose.

He even saw you buying a magazine with him on the cover, and he just can’t help but feel giddy at the thought of how much you probably adore him because who wouldn’t? You must really love how he looks, right? Asmo even thought of giving you a private show just for your eyes.

Though he found out eventually that you’re using the poses in his magazines as reference when he saw that you’re trying to copy the pose he made on the cover. “I’m rather offended that you didn’t reference me, the source material itself! I’m always ready to be your model, hun!”

Asmo would make the perfect model because being in model magazines, he’s used to holding on poses for periods of time without complaint. He’s not shy about his body either so you can ask him to be in any sort of pose for you (but you have to stop him from being not so family friendly when you try to fix his position).

If you’re good at designing clothes then Asmo is going to fall for you even harder. He would admire all the designs you can do, and if you’re open to suggestions then as someone who works and shops frequently at Majolish, he would have a lot of good ideas. He’ll have the connections to make your designs come to life and model it for you.

“I just know if you posted these fine works on Devilgram, it’ll get you tons of views for sure! Especially if the muse is me” Asmo says with a wink as he admires your art. If you made an account then he’ll be loud about it on his social media, wanting people to feast their eyes on it.

Beel

He does a lot of home workouts so often you spot him doing a lot of stretches or lifts around the house. There’s even times you offer to help like sitting on his back while he does his push ups or just being his little moral support.

Though he noticed all the attention you’re giving on his muscles recently. You offered to wipe off the dirt and sweat he got from his Fangol practice, and Beel sees how much you’re staring intently at his muscles while you wipe him dry with a towel. “MC… is there something wrong?”

It's only then you realize that your eyes have been glued to him for so long so you decide to explain. You tell Beel that you’ve been sketching recently with someone of his body type but you can’t seem to get the muscles correctly. Hearing that makes Beel smile though.

“Well, if you want me to help I could. But I want to see your works, if that’s okay with you” Beel said. He’s not much of an artist himself (Satan notes that Beel’s art still haunts him to this day), so he’s very supportive knowing that you can draw.

He has this awe in his face like how he looks when the restaurant serves him the biggest platter of food as soon as he sees your artworks. Beel is happy you’re sharing such talent with him. “This piece is so colorful. It reminds me of the rainbow layered parfait we had the other day… oh, now I'm hungry.” Even if Beel can eat books and things that aren’t exactly food, he never once tried that with your artworks.

He’d invite you more often to his little home workouts so you can study his muscles more closely. Beel would love it if you sit on his back while he does push ups as you draw. The sound of the pencil scribbling would bring him to focus.

Belphie

There’s an upcoming event for RAD that requires a lot of decorations. Since a lot of people are busy with their own tasks, you and Belphie were paired up to think of possible decor for the stage.

Belphie complained how Asmo or Levi should’ve been here instead but since they’re both in charge of the outfits, then he’ll settle with this because at least it requires minimal work. You both were trying to discuss the backdrop designs and the props but he fell asleep midway.

Belphie wakes up in a few minutes later to the sound of scribbling pens when he saw you creating the designs. You asked him to pick from one of the sets you made but he’s too stunned to even decided when all of them are so good. “You made all of that while I was asleep?” Belphie is in a state of disbelief.

The one that struck him the most is the starry sky landscape. For someone who loves to watch the stars, this one was particularly mesmerizing for Belphie. So out of personal bias he chose that one.

He never stopped bugging you about your art, always wanting to see what you’re drawing when he spots you on your notebook. He’s not much of a ‘draw me next’ kind of person, but he’d be absolutely happy if you did. More so if you drew him and Beel together.

Whenever you’re drawing, Belphie wants to take a nap by your lap while you do your work. He likes the look you make whenever you’re trying to figure out something in your art before he drifts off to sleep. His favorite part is waking up to see that you’ve already finished your piece so he gets to admire it first.

#obey me #obey me shall we date #shall-we-date-obey-me #obey me lucifer #obey me mammon #obey me leviathan #obey me satan #obey me asmodeus #obey me beelzebub #obey me belphegor #obey me headcanons #obey me scenarios

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daredvssy · 2 years ago

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Gloves

Saw an absolutely sinful photo of Copia's old grucifix gloves earlier and immediately set off to write this. Thank god I'm not all that interested in seeing heaven's gates because I'm definitely never going to make it there now! If you prefer to read on AO3, you can do so here :)

Ship: Cardinal Copia x Reader

Rating: 18+!!!!!! No minors PLEASE!

Wordcount: 2047

Warnings: smut, fingering, glove kink, f!receiving oral sex

It’s not like you meant for it to happen, really. When your beloved had come to you and asked if you could aid him in sorting through some documents he needed to translate, you had been quick to agree to help. After all, he always did so much and so rarely asked for any sort of assistance, and you definitely wouldn’t ever pass up a chance to spend a little extra time with him, no matter how that time was spent.

So yes, you had genuinely gone to his office with the best of intentions, truly meaning to help the Cardinal in any way that you could. And you would have, save for one problem. No matter what you did, you couldn’t seem to focus.

Those damn gloves he always wore were the problem. The smooth black leather stood out so blatantly from the red fabric of his cassock. Combined with the decorative grucifixes that adorned the backs of them, they served to automatically draw your attention to his hands.

And oh, what incredible hands they were. His hands were quite large, and by this point in your relationship you were all too aware of exactly how talented he was with those long, thick fingers. Just thinking about it was enough to have you squeezing your thighs together in a pathetic attempt to fight off a surge of arousal.

As you stared at his hands while he worked, you couldn’t help but wonder exactly how those fingers would feel inside you if he were to leave the gloves on. You already knew the leather was sinfully, luxuriously soft; you were well accustomed to the feeling of his gloved hands caressing your face or holding your own. The thought of that texture instead being used for less innocent touches had left you in a state where it was almost impossible for you to get any work done, or pay attention to anything else.

You were yanked out of your reverie with a jolt when you realized that Copia was looking at you expectantly, apparently waiting for you to answer a question he had asked.

“Sorry, what did you say?” you asked meekly, a little embarrassed to have been caught staring so intently that you hadn’t even heard him.

“I was asking if you are okay, cara,” he replied. If he was slightly annoyed by your strange behaviour, he very graciously didn’t show it. “You look like your thoughts are elsewhere, should we take a little break?”

“Maybe that’s a good idea,” you agreed, grateful for the suggestion. “I apologize Copia, I’m just a little distracted right now.”

“Distracted? Is something bothering you?” he asked, furrowing his brow in concern.

“I’m fine Copia,” you replied, a small smile gracing your lips. He was always so quick to react if he thought you were feeling even the slightest bit off. “It’s just something silly, really, you don’t need to worry about it,” you reassured him. Copia narrowed his eyes, unconvinced. “Mi amore, if it is bothering you then I am sure that it’s not silly. Tell me, what has you so preoccupied?” he pressed, unwilling to let the subject drop.

You flushed bright red, realizing he wasn’t going to let this go until you admitted exactly what it was that had made you so distracted. You took a deep breath in an attempt to steel yourself.

“Well,” you started, staring determinedly at a spot on the floor to avoid meeting his intent gaze. “It’s… your hands, I guess. Or… your gloves, actually.”

“My gloves?” said Copia, mystified. He reached over to you, one of the offending gloved hands gently guiding you by the chin to lift your head and look him in his duochromatic eyes. “What do you mean, cara?” he urged.

“Well it’s just… Your hands look so good in them, and they feel so nice and soft whenever you touch me in them… I guess I was just wondering what they would feel like if you touched me with them… somewhere else,” you admitted, the words flying out of you all at once.

Realization finally dawned on Copia’s face, and you were sure you were going to burst into flames in your embarrassment. You attempted to turn your gaze downward again, but were prevented from doing so when his grip on your chin tightened, insisting that you continued to look him in the eye.

“Come here, bella ragazza,” he directed you, moving his chair back and guiding you to stand in front of him, his desk behind you. “If only there was something I could do about this… distraction,” he said, pretending to be deep in thought. As he spoke, he ran both hands down your sides, coming to a stop with them resting around your waist. You shuddered slightly, his actions only fanning the flames of the arousal you had been feeling since shortly after you arrived at his office.

Copia removed his hands from your waist and leaned back, considering you. Almost unwillingly, a soft whimper escaped you at the loss of his touch. He smirked knowingly at the sound.

“Take this off,” he said, tugging at the hem of your dress. The tone of his voice left no room for argument, not that you would have protested anyways. You loved the times when he got like this, demanding and domineering. Quickly, you did as you were told, pulling your dress off over your head, not caring if you mussed your hair in the process. You were left in nothing but your bra and panties, shivering a little in the cool air of his office.

“Bene,” he said. He gestured towards his desk behind you. “Take a seat.”

Not needing any further instruction, you hopped up on his desk. Just as you had earlier, you squeezed your thighs together to alleviate the ache between your legs.

“None of that, bella,” he tutted, as he moved his chair forward to position himself closer to where you were perched on his desk. “Let me see you,” he demanded.

You huffed a little in response to his scolding, but made no further comment as you opened your legs a little for him.

“More,” he demanded, his hands coming up to your thighs to urge your legs to open even wider. He kept his hands in place as if he was holding your legs open. As he noticed the very clear wet patch that had formed on your panties, the smirk returned to his face.

“Yes, just as I expected,” he said, studying the wet spot intently. You were almost certain you were blushing redder than his cassock, at this point.

“Copiaaa,” you whined, drawing out the last syllable of his name. “Please touch me,” you begged.

“So needy,” he chuckled, teasing. “Don’t worry bella, I will take care of you.” He slowly, very gently dragged one of his gloved hands up from its place on your thigh to softly rub at your clit through the soaked fabric of your panties.

You mewled at the contact, gripping the side of his desk hard. You squirmed a little, trying to coax him to touch you with a little more pressure, to no avail.

He studied your face carefully as he continued to trace feather-light circles around your clit through the ruined fabric, like he was determined not to miss any of your reactions. He continued with this for a little bit, until you couldn’t take it anymore.

“Copia please,” you blurted out, well past the point where you would have felt any shame about how desperate you sounded.

“Please what?” he replied, feigning confusion. “What do you need, amore?”

“I need you to touch me!” you grunted out in frustration, trying again in vain to wiggle your hips in an attempt to make him touch you with more pressure.

“I’m already touching you, cara,” replied Copia. “You are going to need to be a little more specific.”

You whined again in distress at his refusal to cooperate and make things easy for you. “Harder, Copia please,” you begged.

Copia regarded you for a moment, as though he was considering his options. Just as you thought he was going to ignore your pleas and keep teasing you, he stopped altogether.

“Okie dokie,” he said cheerfully, hooking his fingers in the waistline of your drenched panties to pull them down. He discarded them quickly, and then finally, blissfully brought his hand back up to touch you again, firmer this time.

You hissed at the sensation of the soft leather of his gloves gliding smoothly around your clit, the sensation making you throw your head back in pleasure.

“Is that better, amore?” he asked as he rubbed you, coaxing gasps and moans and all sorts of other noises from your lips.

“Yes, yes Copia,” you moaned out. Satisfied with this response, he turned his attention to your entrance, gathering some of your wetness on his gloved fingers before slipping one of them inside of you.

You keened in approval as he began to pump his finger in and out of you, quickly adding a second finger alongside it. The added thickness of the gloves on his fingers combined with the smooth texture of the leather felt divine, and it wasn’t long before you had to squeeze your eyes shut, overwhelmed by the sensation.

While you weren’t looking, Copia took the opportunity to lean in and lap gently at your clit with his tongue, never one to pass up an opportunity to eat you out. Your eyes flew open at the sensation, your hands moving without your permission to grip his hair, moaning loudly.

Copia continued to curl his fingers in and out of you as he licked and sucked at your clit, the wet sounds it produced absolutely filthy.

One particularly well-aimed thrust of his fingers pressed perfectly against your sweet spot, ripping a gasp from your throat. “Fuck Copia!” you cried out, your legs beginning to tremble as he continued to attack that same spot over and over.

“Are you close, brava ragazza?” Copia asked, pausing his tongue’s ministrations to your clit momentarily to await your response.

“Yes, yes I’m so close Copia please please please!,” you practically sobbed.

“Good,” he replied plainly, before returning his mouth to you, sucking hard as he continued to curl his gloved fingers to rub against your sweet spot.

This was enough to send you spiraling over the edge, your orgasm crashing over you in waves as you clenched around his fingers, a litany of curses and his name leaving your mouth as he worked you through it. He kept going until you could handle no more, one of your hands pushing at his head to signal your oversensitivity. He pulled back, panting heavily as he brought his other arm up to wipe some of your mess off of his face. He slipped his fingers out of you, holding them up to examine the mess you had made of his glove.

“Come here,” he said, his voice wavering a little with his lust. You slid down into his lap, and he wrapped an arm around your waist, securing you in place with little concern for the wet spot you were most certainly going to leave on his cassock.

He held his fingers out for you to see the wetness he had collected on his gloves.

“Open,” he commanded you. Immediately, you opened your mouth for him, allowing him to slip his fingers in. Without further prompting, you closed your mouth around them, diligently sucking them clean.

“Good girl,” he praised, when he finally removed his fingers from your mouth. He pressed a gentle kiss to your lips, the chasteness of the action contrasting sharply with what he had just finished doing to you. When he broke the kiss, you leaned forward to rest your head against his shoulder.

“Copia?” you asked as he held you.

“Yes, amore?”

“That was very good, you know, but I’m pretty sure I’m never gonna be able to get any work done now.”

Copia chuckled at this. “Ehe… Well, I say fuck it for now,” he said. “Besides, I just thought of something better we could spend our evening doing.”

You smiled into his neck. You were in for a long night.

#ghost #ghost bc #the band ghost #cardinal copia #copia #cardinal copia x reader #cardinal copia x female reader #cardinal copia smut #papa emeritus iv #papa iv #papa emeritus iv x reader #papa emeritus iv x female reader #sorry rebecca

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ggomos-maribat · 1 year ago

Text

NMWYCAM [bonus deleted chapter]

This is a scene i wrote out but couldn't fit into the current chapters :)

Originally Damian was going to find out that Marinette knows their secret in another way...lol he was gonna get badly injured as Robin and Marinette saves him but reveals she knows his identity

***

2:51 a.m. Marinette was still awake, despite the kwamis telling her off. She found herself having excess energy that night, so she decided on sketching under the yellow desk lamp with some music on. All was calm and peaceful until her phone buzzed.

Damian: Hello

Damian: Are you awake? Can I call you right now?

Her keyboard popped up for the reply, but more messages came in.

Damian: You're probably sleeping

Damian: ...

Damian: sorry

Damian: I shouldn't have bothered

Damian: sweet dreams, Marinette

Smiling, she went ahead and pressed the call button. When it took him several rings to answer, she pictured a panicked Damian fumbling to answer his phone.

"What's up?" She asked.

"Did I wake you?" His warm voice filled her ears. "Sorry . . ."

"No, no, I was awake. Couldn't sleep." Marinette propped her legs up on her chair, tucking them to her chest. She saw a groggy Tikki peek out of her small blanket but she waved the kwami off to go back to sleep. "Is something the matter?"

"No, I . . . I was just lying in bed and got the sudden urge to talk to you," Damian recounted. "Is that strange?"

Marinette brought the back of her hand to her reddened cheek. This boy. "I think that means you miss me, Damian," she laughed. "How was patrol?"

"It went smoothly. We disrupted a smuggling operation and put Riddler back in Arkham. You? What were you doing?"

"Ah just drawing out some ideas. Nothing too important." Snuggled in her blanket under the calm night and talking to Damian was like a tight embrace, Marinette realized. "I hope you didn't push yourself too hard."

A scoff sounded out from Damian. "Father threatened to bench me when I chased after the Riddler. The others kept watching me like I'll disappear into thin air."

"They're just worried about you, you know. As they should be."

"I only need you to worry about me." A long pause. Then a long sigh. "Sorry, I . . . I don't know why I said that."

Marinette hummed, feeling more heat crawl under her skin. "It's alright. They say your inhibitions are looser at night, especially when you're tired. But it's okay to be vulnerable; it's just me."

"What do you mean by that? 'It's just you'?"

"I mean I understand that you're being honest about whatever you say to me right now. I won't judge you for it. I won't even bring it up tomorrow if that's what you want." She pressed her phone closer to her ear. "I don't want you to feel that you need to keep something to yourself just because it's me hearing your words."

". . . How come you always say the right thing?"

"I guess it's my forte?"

"What if I can't say the right things?"

"Just talking to you like this is enough for me," Marinette said. "I can be the one good with words, and you can be the one good with actions. You always are."

"That's not fair at all. You are also good with actions."

That elicited another laugh from her. "But you are very good at taking care of people through your gestures. Not a lot can do that."

"You're the only one who has ever said that."

"'Cause I'm the only one who notices."

Soon, whilst they talk, Marinette noticed that he was mumbling the ends of his words. Later on when she finished her amusing story about a deal with a client, she didn't hear a reply, but instead, light snoring at the other end of the line.

He sounds so relaxed. Now she had the urge to look at his sleeping face.

"Good night, Damian," she whispered. "I miss you too."

#maribat fic #maribat fanfic #dc x mlb #mlb x dc #maribat #dc x miraculous #NMWYCAM #PA!Marinette

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caramel1mochi · 28 days ago

Note

VYSE X READER VYSE X READER PLLSSSS VYSE X READER

SOBBING PLS MAKE THIS HAPPEN

Thanks for the request! Sorry for the wait, I swear I couldn't come up with anything until I saw the holiday ads. I don't know what we're celebrating but I've gobbled up 3 Grinch cakes already. Anyway hope it's to your liking!

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Bewitching [ Vyse x F! Reader ]

Words: 1k+

Please don't copy or steal my work and pass it off as your own! If you'd like to use one of my headcanons or something, I'd love it if you tagged or asked.‎ ‎‎ ‎

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。+❤ฺ·。❤ฺ·。+❤ฺ· +❤·。❤ฺ·。+❤ฺ·

This is a horrible idea.

These were the only words that ran through your mind during the entire festival. And with each note strung on an instrument, each move carried out by a dancer, they not only continued lingering in your brain, in fact, they were getting louder. The urge to rip off all of your fancy clothes and call everything off became overwhelming, but you knew your girlfriend wouldn't stand for it.

You picked at your fingers as you stared at your reflection in the pond in front of you. The pond was meant to be magical. But now? It only felt like another thing that mocked you for accepting this invitation.

With a huff, you stood up and turned to your girlfriend.

"Vyse, are you sure we should keep going?"

She wasn't looking at you. Instead, she watched the bustling crowd in the distance, the festival you two had to abandon just so you could gather your thoughts. The music was muffled from here. Compared to the array of colourful lights, the waters you were near was dim and hardly lit up by the moon above, but her tall frame stood out amongst the darkness.

Then, she spoke.

ㅤ

"What do you mean?"

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"You know what I− this entire date is a mistake. We never should've left the base!"

ㅤ

You hastily explained as you walked towards her, lifting your colourful dress to avoid stepping on the expensive fabric. You knew she was feigning ignorance just by that exaggerated tone she always took on.

She turned around to glance at you, the yellow glow from those slits piercing your eyes with ease.

ㅤ

"And why not, Y/N? Are you afraid of a few people's eyes on us?"

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"It's not us I'm worried about, it's you! People are staring at you!"

ㅤ

To you, she looked stunning, even when you never saw a smidgen of her features. Not her face, skin, nothing. You found the beauty in the metal that encased her skin, its reflective surface scattering the light in an array of colours and letting it all swirl in an alluring dance.

But she looked like a complete monster to the rest. You could tell by the pure horror on their faces when you entered earlier, how wide their eyes had gotten upon spotting her.

ㅤ

"And that should that warrant my attention because...?"

ㅤ

You sighed.

ㅤ

"Look at Kay/O — his appearance draws attention like yours. He doesn't ever leave the base, and I−"

ㅤ

You yelped once a vine wrapped around your waist. Within a split second, you were shoved towards Vyse, her hands gripping your shoulders the moment you landed against her torso. The adrenaline rendered you unable to protest against what she just did.

ㅤ

"Kay/O's cowardly decisions are his own, Y/N." A hand slithered around your waist, further trapping you. "If I'm unconcerned with how I'm perceived, why should you be?"

ㅤ

"At least show your face. Just this once? Please?"

ㅤ

Her 'ears' rose upright at this plea, and Vyse couldn't help but observe your soft features in silence. For a moment, despite her unreadable expression, you believed that she would listen; that she would finally take the thing off and let this only public date between you two go smoothly.

She caressed your cheek with two metal-encased fingers, the cold sensation brushing against your skin.

ㅤ

"Y/N, it's a privilege to admire me. If it gets too bothersome, then I'll strip them of it. Simple."

ㅤ

Her hands shifted downwards until her fingers intertwined with yours, embracing your warmth with the tender hold. Then, she took a step back, bringing you alongside her.

ㅤ

"Now, let's go before we miss the festival."

ㅤ

You were pretty much forced to follow her given her strength. Besides, who were you to deny her this opportunity after imprisonment at the Scions of Hourglass? But again, you were so still preoccupied with the staring. It felt like a spotlight shining upon you two, and you weren't doing anything beyond... attending the festival. It felt so shameful.

And you were proven right the moment you made your way among the people.

The crowds' stares preceded the entertainment that surrounded you. The extravagant decorations, stunning dances and intricate displays of artwork seemed insignificant next to your girlfriend, her mere presence dragging all eyes towards her with relative ease.

But it didn't seem to bother her. In fact, she kept the light conversation between you two alive, observing the exhibits in the process. However, you couldn't really focus no matter how much you tried. The staring was just too distracting.

Then, Vyse stopped.

ㅤ

"Look at this little display."

ㅤ

Following her gaze, you were drawn to a nearby gathering just next to you.

Amongst the foliage sat a stage where a band played an enchanting albeit loud tune. And if that wasn't impressive enough, there were also dancers positioned in front of them, each donning a bright fabric that swayed behind them as they moved.

Vyse was right, this was worth both of your time.

ㅤ

"This feels less dismal then the rest."

ㅤ

You hummed with a smile.

ㅤ

"Let's check it out."

ㅤ

She accompanied you as you marched between the tables to find one suitable and empty. Which, luckily, didn't take too long. You picked out a table near the front and the two of you sat down. There, you were finally given the chance to enjoy the show in peace. And surprisingly, you did.

It felt like nobody stared at you. You glanced at the people who sat next to you out of the corner of your eye, but you couldn't find a single person ogling. They were all enjoying the dance just as much as you and Vyse did.

For a moment, you were highly pleased by this. And you thought that maybe, it wasn't that Vyse just looked captivating, it was just that the festival wasn't interesting enough to keep the rest occupi−

Your eyes widened at the sound of a camera shutter next you.

But just as you went to look at the culprit, portions of the ground ripped apart once vines emerged from them. While some surrounded you, most of them encircled a certain table... next to you, too. Vyse had left her seat by the time you realised what was going on. And quickly, you stood up to look for your girlfriend, only to find her marching towards one of the tables where a different couple sat.

The man's phone was on the ground, a picture of Vyse on the screen, and their chairs were surrounded by razor-sharp vines adorned with thorns. They were trapped.

Vyse loomed over them.

ㅤ

"Looks like you have a death-wish." The vines' grip around the chairs tightened. "Shall I make it so?"

ㅤ

You approached and held her hand, attempting to pull her back towards you.

ㅤ

"Sweetie, don't hurt them."

ㅤ

Your words didn't sway her. In fact, it worsened the panic in the couple given that you unwittingly confirmed that Vyse meant her threat.

The man shakily mumbled something under his breath. Given that it was inaudible to either of you, Vyse stepped closer and stooped over to level their gazes.

ㅤ

"I didn't quite catch that. Do me a favour and repeat yourself."

ㅤ

"S− sorry, I'm− I'm sorry about that, madam..."

ㅤ

Vyse hummed at his pitiful stammering. She stood upright once more, throwing them one final glare before deeming his apology 'acceptable'. And luckily for them, the vines disappeared back into the ground.

But just as the couple thought it was finally over, she crossed her fingers, and with an audible crack, his phone was ripped into many pieces; any hope of it being repaired immediately went down the drain.

ㅤ

"Oh, I'm so sorry."

ㅤ

"Vyse!"

ㅤ

Vyse waved you off in the midst of her malevolent giggling.

ㅤ

"Lighten up; that could've been him." She promptly began moving, ignoring their panicked exchange at that comment. "Come along, Y/N."

ㅤ

The music drowned out their words of terror as you two walked off. Her hand now around your waist, she accompanied you back to the table you sat on to enjoy the show once more.

And so, the date continued like nothing happened.

But for some reason, the stares stopped, and nobody seemed to have the heart to even throw either of you a glance the whole time. And it was... great. You finally felt at ease. You couldn't help but smile merrily as you observed the festival with a newfound sense of peace.

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fourswords · 4 months ago

Text

okay so you guys know how the other day i was talking about ezlo and link in the minish cap (and how much i love them) and how ezlo is honestly a really hilarious companion for literally saying "Well...I don't need to tell you how to do your job." and pretty much leaving everything in the adventure up to link (who happens to be one of the Very Young Child links) aside from being a grumpy old nag (affectionate) and then later in the game commending him for not only having courage, but wisdom as well. so i started thinking about how that was kind of interesting and then started thinking about how he's the only wielder of the four sword who isn't split into four completely separate copies of himself and instead just splits himself into translucent, temporary copies that vanish the minute they hit anything—they're just there to do whatever task link needs to do (like push a rock) and then vanish. and the whole thing serves to create a very independent version of link which, while not unusual in the zelda series as a whole, IS extremely unusual when it comes to. y'know. the subset that is the four sword series. which is entirely based around cooperation!

and personally i am not someone who necessarily "likes" the minish cap manga all that much. like yes i think it's a cute little story and it's fun to read for sure but it doesn't actually add anything of value to the game's story as a whole (unlike, for example, the fsa manga) + (it doesn't even include the splitting mechanic?????) so it's absolutely not something i regard as anything to draw characterizations from. HOWEVER. i did remember this line that actually really fucking reinforces my point:

Ezlo: Link! Attack him now! Link: Vaati, it's not... ...your body that makes you a monster. It's that you... ...use other people to strengthen yourself. Me? I rely on my own power!

i'm including it because this entire theme does actually seem to be heavily mirrored throughout the entirety of the actual minish cap game. ezlo spends the whole time complaining and urging link to quit dawdling and go faster but also he basically goes "yeah i have no idea what to do here" multiple times throughout the game (hilarious for a companion) and link is, quite literally, dependent on himself and himself alone. even his splitting is just made up of direct copies of him that follow his every move! and that's something that goes against the whole point of four swords as a subseries(?) to the point where the fsa manga itself has link being all "ooooh i work better ALONE" and frames it as a BAD thing. which is genuinely the funniest thing ever. the hero of the minish is apparently so competent at his job as a hero that the rules of four swords as a whole (split apart! work together!) don't apply to him. he doesn't need anybody else. he's got this in the fucking bag. don't even worry about it

#i just think it's really really REALLY funny that fsa manga link tried to do things on his own and everything went to hell because of it #and then mc link in general is APPARENTLY just like 'yeah i got this lmao' *finishes his adventure in like two days. or some shit*#10/10. wouldn't change a thing. love it #mc #txt #minish cap

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ashesandhackles · 1 year ago

Text

Goblet of Fire Reread (Part 2)

Chapter 17,18,19, 20,21,22,23

"It struck him how very tall all of them were" Harry thinking this about the champions one moment and then being angry at being called "a little boy". Accurate teenage boy behavior.

Snape stepping in to stop Karkaroff and Maxime insulting Dumbledore by insulting Harry instead, "Don't go blaming Dumbledore for Potter's determination to break rules" XD

Fleur really cares about the honour of representing her school.

Hints of Barty Snr under Imperius: both in his behaviour + imagery (skull like appearance in the darkness)

Violet, the witch painting went up to Fat Lady to gossip. We shall hear of this friendship again in HBP.

I really really love Hermione's insight into Ron's feelings here, because the implication here is that she noticed that he doesn't talk about it. "He's always shunted to the side when people see you, and he puts up with it, never mentions it" and how she contextualises it with how he feels around his brothers. She has an understanding and kindness about this that is very sweet.

Fleur flirting with Cedric while some creepy paunchy man watching her. Damn, what it must be like to be sexualised every moment of your life and what harmful ideas have you internalised?

Harry noting that Fleur was part Veela to tell Ron only to remember The Great Tragedy that Ron isn't speaking to him.

weighing of wands chapter to set up the priori Incantentem at end of book, to remind us of Harry's connection with Voldemort's wand.

Hermione trying to force Harry and Ron to talk to each other, poor thing. I can really feel her anxiety building over this and she is so impatient, "you miss him, he misses you". Hermione on Ronarry agenda. She even tries to sneakily make him meet Ron in Three Broomsticks and then Harry cottons on. And then her getting irritated, Harry having to resist the urge to poke Ron is peak trio content.

Harry getting cheered up by the fact that Cho wasn't wearing a support Cedric badge. Also, it's a nice shade to her character - she is nice. She recognises the badges for what it is and doesn't take part in it.

his face breaks into the first smile in days cos of Sirius and Sirius redirecting attention away from himself and focusing on Harry - "never mind me, how are you?" Harry is so vulnerable with him that he talks about Ron with him.

Sirius' respect for Moody is very interesting, he displays more of this in Padfoot Returns chapter where he talks about how Moody captured DEs and not killed them. I believe @leogichidaa and @artemisia-black have had a tumblr discussion on this.

Ron doesn't come up to bed after Harry lashes out at him for interrupting his conversation with Sirius. Poor bean - wondering how things got this bad between him and Harry.

BCJ is so chilling on reread- essentially admits that he is keeping track of real Moody via the Foe Glass. "I'm not really in trouble until I see the whites of their eyes. That's when I open my trunk."

BCJ talking about Maxime and Karkaroff but also himself - 'They want to win. They want to beat Dumbledore. They'd like to prove he's only human'. And he laughs.

Ron catches Harry's eyes, but Harry is too resentful to care. Ron trying, in his own awkward way, to let Harry know that he is on Harry's side again.

Harry not needing to hear Ron apologise to forgive him. Clearly Hermione feels the same as I do, because she burst into tears, hugs them both and goes off to cry alone LOL

I saw this tumblr post about how Fleur dealt with the dragon was the most compassionate one - trying to put it to sleep - that she and Charlie would get along cos of it. Cute hc.

Pigwidgeon falling 12 feet down before flying with the letter is so funny. Also how cute that Harry's letter to Sirius had a "blow by blow" account of how exactly he swerved, circled and dodged the Horntail. Sirius would have found that very endearing.

LOL at Dean drawing Cedric with his head on fire for party banners. (apart from drawings of Harry dodging Horntail)

Harry calling out Hermione for bending of rules is so cute. When she says, "he is supposed to work out the egg on his own" when Lee picks up the egg, and Harry reminds her in undertone that he was supposed to work out the dragon alone too, and she "grins guiltily"

I am very disappointed in Dobby, whose political consciousness that shone and drove the plot of CoS is done to "acceptable" levels of radicalism. He tried to save Harry, explicitly against harry's wishes, because of his idea that Harry is a symbol of hope to the "enslaved dregs of the magical society, who are treated as vermin" and that defeat of Voldemort ensured that his kind are treated better. (he is still endearing, but speaks to the message of the books - he can be radical but cannot question the existing institution too much)

Winky's loyalty to Crouch is treated as pitiable, while Hermione's overzealousness with some gentle ribbing because JKR seems to find it endearing. We will probably get into white saviorism later, because I have THOUGHTS.

Ron and Harry sword fighting with fake wands, which are tin parrot and rubber haddock respectively, is hilarious. (Ron's parrot got the haddock's head)

Cedric telling Hufflepuffs to leave Harry alone. Looks like he was so grateful for Harry's tip, he steps in on the bullying.

Cho's words about who she is going to the ball with echoing with each step Harry took. Peak teenage experience. End of the world your crush has been asked out by someone else.

so funny that Ron keeps trying to ask Hermione who she is going to the ball with at unexpected times to surprise her into answering

love that Hermione was simultaneously appalled by fake-Moody making Malfoy a ferret while also not above referencing that incident to get Malfoy off her back. ("twitchy little ferret, aren't you Malfoy")

Ron notices Hermione's teeth is no longer the same. And Hermione is all sly and mischievous about the fact that she let Madam Pomphrey carry on a bit.

ok this is such a cute description: Hermione sitting to watch Ron and Harry's chess match which had recklessly brave pawns and a violent bishop

Dobby gets socks as presents from both Ron and Harry (reminder Ron also puts socks over his dead body) and Ron's Christmas jumper.

Dumbledore referencing Room of requirement. (he makes a joke that makes Harry snort and Percy frown- I guess he thinks the joke isn't appropriate for international magical cooperation?)

Parvati goes off with a Beauxbaton boy because Harry wasn't paying attention to her. She also lead him while dancing -so much so he felt like a show dog. Love how alpha she is xD

Percy glances at Harry about "hitch with Goblet of Fire" : indication of his coming arc where he doesn't believe Harry. (Also, while Percy is socialising with Bagman, he chooses to sit with Harry and Ron, which is indicative of how awkward he feels i think)

Snape and Karkaroff's conversation will get referenced in Prince's Tale, where Dumbledore grants him -"i think we sort too soon".

the image of Maxime storming away with fairies parting bushes is a very striking.

Chapter 24, 25, 26,27,28

Hermione drops key family history for Harry without either of them realising it: she used Fleamont Potter's Sleakazy's. Also at the implication that Harry asked about her hair LMAO.

Ron and Hermione reaching an unspoken agreement about sidestepping the big fight which involved FEELINGS.

the unicorn preferring a girl's touch is tied around the myth of pure creatures comfortable with "pure souls". I am really not sure how to read the gender politics of this book using this aspect of mythology.

lol, at Parvati being very "cool" towards Harry since the ball. Her retort actually makes him reflect - "perhaps I should have paid her more attention" and then, "ah well, she had a good time anyway". Honestly, stan Parvati.

Harry's so suspicious of Bagman offering him help, and rightly so. I love him putting Bagman on backfoot with his questions.

really curious about goblins and their hierarchy in the wizarding world. they are the marginalised who "fight back".

Rosmerta looking at James Potter, "who used to make her laugh"'s son yelling at a reporter in the middle of her pub XD

Love that Gryffindors get food related passwords like "banana fritters" and poor Ravenclaws have to solve a riddle every time they need to get in.

Where is the fanart of Snape with long grey nightshirt? Where?

Snape shutting Filch up when (in his mind) Moody came in, BCJ using Moody's distrust to check his office. Excellent stuff. My favourite part of the scene is Snape angrily declares Dumbledore's trust in him, and BCJ reminds him of "spots that don't come off". And Snape clutches his Dark Mark (and immediately hates himself for doing it xD)

Okay, Snape conceding power to Moody in this scene is so interesting. When Snape tries to look for Harry, BCJ makes him back off by saying "meaning Dumbledore is very interested to know who's got it in for the boy!" and Snape answers in a forced calm.

the tension between Snape and fake Moody can be cut through with a knife. Love how menacing the scene makes Moody, with Rowling using visual pictures of Moody's scars in the darkness

Lmao, Neville sending Professor Flitwick flying across room in class. And the description of "Professor Flitwick went whizzing resignedly past them" when the trio are talking. The implication that Flitwick just let Neville do his thing… XD

Hermione answering Harry's grim dark joke seriously. Nerd XD so much so the next time she takes Harry's joke seriously, he had to tell her that he is joking lol.

Harry goes off food when he is stressed or upset: a hangover from Dursley days when punishment is "no food".

"Your Wheezy, sir, your wheezy - the thing Harry Potter sir will miss the most!" LOL. The way this book is designed for Ronarry feels.

Merpeople have pet Grindylows. (also the chief is a woman)

Harry actually tries to yank the spear away from merman when they refused to help him, and hits Krum when Krum failed to realise that his shark teeth would hurt Hermione. My little feral boy.

Percy, "who looked very white", splashing out to meet Ron <3

Poor Krum - he is trying to engage Hermione and she is too busy either asking Harry about his task or cheering him for his marks to listen.

I love how much Harry gets so cheered by Sirius' letters. And even as he is tense that Sirius would get caught, he enters Potions classroom happy XD

'Scarlet woman'. It speaks to the generation Molly comes from that she has these ideas, and that Ron has noticed and picked it up.

Hermione, being also aware that Ron's regard for her is less than platonic, "determinedly avoiding Ron's eyes" when she mentions Viktor did invite her. (Also funny that Hermione is trying to puzzle out how Rita heard her, and Ron is like, "nvm, what did you say about Viktor's invitation?" lol)

@urupotterwrote a nice meta about how Snape was deliberately provoking Harry (after harry moves tables) to read his mind. Right when Harry angrily looks up, Snape's eyes bore into him to check if he had broken into his office.

Sirius made them climb a mountain for half an hour lol. He believes in outdoorsy kids.

Sirius having a fuller face, and looking like he is taking care of himself when Harry met him at the fire - but now he is back in his prison robes, his hair is longer and he is thin again. When Sirius broke into the fire, he was clearly at a place where he could hide better and take care of himself. He is living off rats.

And he notices the anxiety on Harry;s face and explains why he is here (he is very good at reading harry's face and just answering his thoughts. He does it again later in the scene). He is worried about how fishy things look, and it is clear one of the reasons of his lack of care for himself is hyperfixating on Harry's safety and circumstances surrounding the tournament. (he also moves a lot when he is thinking - it's part of why he makes for such a strong scene presence. There is either note of how he takes space, or his eyes)

Sirius backs Hermione here about Barty Crouch Snr's treatment of Winky ("if you want to know what a man's like.."). This is important for Hermione's complicated feelings about him in the next book. He was the only adult on her side - even Hagrid, who she counted on, didn't agree with her.

Sirius projecting all his family issues over Barty Crouch Jnr.

Sirius' description of Azkaban is just extremely solitary and drenched in death, and suffering. He can see and hear things that are near his cell or out of the window (he could see Dementors burying who he thought was BCJ outside the fortress). Speaks to the immense violation Barty Crouch Snr has committed by sending him there without a trial. (There is also the fact that Azkaban is horrible, and no one deserves it)

Snuffles, enuff said. He also allows them each to pat them on his head before they leave. how cute.

"If he thought we are standing in way of his career"..ah, seeds of Percy arc of OOTP. Hermione believes in him while Ron doesnt lol.

I haven't mentioned in my notes because it would get too long - but Sirius' exposition about the First War, I think, is important for the atmosphere that leads to friends turning on each other.

also, I really love the note of Sirius, as always, admiring the morals of Mad Eye Moody for trying to bring Death Eaters alive, versus his condemnation of Barty Crouch Snr's methods. This shade of him - combined with the fact that he would have absolutely killed Peter after Jily death if he had the chance, or even the previous book. @artemisia-black wrote about her interpretation of it in this meta.

House elves should be "seen, not heard" philosophy, where they have internalised that anything showing discontent from where they are is undesirable.

Hermione pulling a Blinky episode here XD if the worldbuilding wasn't so shitty, I would actually enjoy a critique of Hermione's impatience here because it is very in line with steam of young activists finding roadblocks within the very people they want to help.

Chekhov's gun: the eagle owl Harry observes flying over Hagrid's hut - the same owl we see in Harry's dream with Voldemort later.

Maxime is apparently trying to make up to Hagrid - she watches Hagrid's class and even tries to engage him in a conversation prior to this. Maybe she feels sorry about how the story about Hagrid's mother come out in the Prophet and wants to bond? What did Maxime face because of her parentage?

Ron being upset that the gold he paid Harry back with vanished, and how he hates being poor and how both Harry and Hermione don't know what to say: Hermione tries to cheer him up by saying she will get him a Niffler for Christmas, how cute.

harry regularly sending Sirius food and little notes with them. I CANT. they have my heart, they are everything.

love that Fleur and Cedric are apparently friendly enough that she keeps going on about underground tunnels to him, and how Fleur beams at Harry when he comes.

Harry and Cedric being jocks, and how they are less than happy with the state of the Quidditch pitch lol.

Dumbledore uses the Patronus to summon Hagrid. A known method of communication between the Order. ("a ghostly bird")

love the dynamic of Fred and George arguing: George seems to be the more cautious one of the two, saying putting something like that in writing is blackmail, while Fred is like, "You're not going to complain once we get the pay off, would you?" But the moment Ron asks what's up with them, George backs Fred and sends the letter himself.

I also really loved the moment of the trio confronting the twins. It was hilarious. it shows all their priorities - both Fred and Ron with confrontational and surprised, "what are you doing here?" and Harry and George on defensive, "sending letter?" and both Fred and Hermione with a suspicious, "What, at this time?"

Hermione still uncomfortable with the idea of breaking laws: "This isnt some silly school rule, it's the law". Given where they all end up in DH (honestly even OOTP), this is interesting. She even advises Ron to reach out to Percy to stop whatever the twins are doing, and Ron's like, "Are you mad? He would probably do a Crouch and turn them in!" XD

Harry being annoyed at Sirius being an Overbearing Dad XD "Who is he, to lecture me after all the stuff he did at school?"

Chekhov's gun: insect buzzing somewhere behind the curtain. Rita Skeeter.

Also seeing Crouch Snr struggle against the Imperius put on him by Voldemort tells us how incredible it is that Harry throws it off in the graveyard

Harry connecting the magic of Pensieve with the diary through means of his experience. Could be a cool worldbuilding detail if we want to think about how Tom preserved his "memory" in the diary, along with it being a container for his soul.

important to understand how Voldemort operates: he alone knows who works for him, and others get exposed to each other via shared jobs or connections. This adds to what Sirius says in Padfoot returns chapter.

Mulciber specialised in the Imperius, as per Karkaroff's testimony. Could he have done something in similar vein to Mary MacDonald? It could also be talked of as a "laugh" since students do find Moody's control of the spider in Unforgivables class darkly funny.

"He is no more a Death Eater than I am": Dumbledore's vouching of Snape is strong. I would love a fic that explores Snape and Dumbledore's equation in First War, and how Dumbledore sees bits of himself in a young man who also thinks he is brilliant, and wants power, but ends up hurting the person he loves in his blindness.

The trial essentially feels like a gladiator ring, with the accused chained to the chair. (Of course, Bagman doesnt get chained to the chair due to the relative popularity with the jury)

Ah, BCJ. His reaction here depends on how you read his involvement with Longbottoms - whether he actually did it, or whether he was at the wrong place at the wrong time. Of course, the book, with Cruciatus scene with spider, heavily suggest that he was indeed guilty. So, it is interesting to see his terror here - he is genuinely terrified of going to Azkaban, but he is also using his genuine terror to appeal to his parents, to get out and be free. (He does similar things throughout the book - use his real dislike of Malfoys, Snape but misdirect you about his motivations). It's a nice manipulative streak.

"You're no son of mine!" "Take them away, and may they rot there." I need a Crouch family deep dive, because it is essentially a version of Walburga burning her son's name off after he ran away. which is: "I want to pretend you don't even exist."

a very astute reader pointed out on reddit how Moody is not present for the Longbottoms trial (and his eyes were intact on both trials before). So the hc is that Bellatrix took out Moody's eye and he was recovering in the hospital at the time.

#hp reread #goblet of fire #harry james potter #barty crouch jr #barty crouch junior #sirius black #hermione granger #ron weasley #percy weasley #moody

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