#he cannot be killed in a way that matters

[sofavoritepuppy]

secrets out- schlatt

fluff, references to smut, mostly just pure fluff tho :)

You blink your eyes slowly as you wake up. You hear the soft chirping of birds outside, and the sun casts your bedroom in an almost angelic glow. You stretch a little bit, but come to find there’s no resistance. You realize that, unlike most mornings when you wake, Schlatt’s arms aren’t around your waist. You groan, coming to the conclusion you should probably go and look for him. You decided he’s most likely in the kitchen making coffee, probably on his second pot as well. A small grin spreads across your face as you think fondly of him and his crippling caffeine addiction. You’ve had to hide the grounds from him multiple times, tough love as you say.

You swing your legs over the edge of the bed as you try to sit up. “Fuck!” You mutter under your breath, soreness seeping into your entire lower body. 

Speaking of tough love, last night was a lot of fun. You slide out from under the comforter and steal one of Schlatt’s shirts. You grab a pair of panties too, but it hardly matters due to the length of the shirt. “Jay?” You call out meekly, wincing with every step to the door. You sneak out of the bedroom and out into the hall. Voices float from the kitchen and you smile. You imagined your boyfriend listening to a podcast, or watching COD videos like he usually does when making the two of you food. You run your fingers through your hair as you slowly make your way to his kitchen. “Jay,” you call out again. 

“I am genuinely struggling to walk right now, thank you for that. If you aren’t making me breakfast right now after last night, I might actually kill you.” You complain as you step into the kitchen. 

However, as soon as you lay eyes on the scene in front of you, you feel your heart drop.

Ted, Eddie, and Charlie are all sitting at your kitchen table with Schlatt, a look of pure shock on their face. Hand still in your hair and eyes wide, you survey everyone whose eyes are currently on you. Eddie is staring at you wide eyed, brows furrowed together. Charlie is blinking, mouth agape, and rubbing his eyes every few seconds like he expects you to disappear. You snap your eyes up to Schlatt, giving him a panicked look as you tug on the hem of your shirt, attempting to cover yourself further.  “So…” You mumble, red flushing your cheeks. “I didn’t know that you guys were coming today.”

“We thought uh, we thought we’d surprise Schlatt for his birthday, but it looks like he surprised us.” Ted says. “We were going to invite you to this, but you said you’d be busy this week with that secret boyfriend of yours- oh. Oh.”

“Yeah…” You mumble as you look at Schlatt helplessly. 

“So.” Schlatt says and pushes up from his seat. “It appears the secret’s out.”  

He walks over to you and slings an arm over your shoulder. The group’s eye’s follow him do this usually platonic action, something Schlatt has done to them many times, but it has an awfully intimate sort of feel to it this time around. “I cannot believe you two are fucking.” Charlie says.

“We aren’t fucking dude, we’re dating.” You say, punctuating the sentence with an eye roll. 

“For how long?” Ted asks.

You look up at Schlatt and he lets out a chuckle. “Uh, for about a year and a half now.” He says.

The shock on everyone's face returns, and Ted looks aghast.  “A year?” He says, astounded. “She's been on Chuckle Sandwich since then! You guys have visited me in LA since then! You- you- you probably fucked after seeing me!” 

You and Schlatt share a look. “Well yes, but also-” Schlatt starts to say before you smack your hand over his mouth.

“Nope. We are not sharing this fun fact right now, big guy.” You say, knowing exactly what story he was about to share. 

“Why? What did you do?” Ted exclaims. 

Schlatt muffles against your hand but it stays firmly pressed against his mouth. “Ted, I really don’t think this is the time to share.” You say, sickly false sweetness dripping from your voice.

Ted opens his mouth to say something but is quickly stopped when you yelp. Schlatt bit you. You yank your hand away immediately. “Jesus Jay!”

“Had to have you bring your arm back down. Your shirt was too far up, you were flashing everyone.”

You turn a deep red yet again and say, “I’m going to go change.”

You look up at Schlatt pointedly. “Be good.”

He holds up his hands in mock-surrender. “What have I ever done? You’re the one who gave me the world's most graphic good morning!”

You roll your eyes as you walk out. You rush back to Schlatt’s room and pull on a pair of his sweatpants. They were massively oversized on you, you had to roll the waistband at least four times. “WHEN I WAS IN THE SHOWER? ON THE COUCH?” You hear Ted yell through the wall. Schlatt apparently could not listen to simple instructions. You rush back to the kitchen to see Charlie and Eddie cackling at Ted and Schlatt are arguing. “No dude!” Schlatt yells. “Do you remember what she was wearing that day? You wouldn’t be able to resist either dumbass!” 

He points at you like you were an example. “Schlatt.” You said, voice hard.

He knew what you meant immediately. He knows thats your you-need-to-shut-the-fuck-up-before-I beat-your-ass voice. “Sorry doll.” He mumbles, looking at the floor.

Charlie’s jaw falls back open. “Did- did I just hear JSchlatt use- use a- use a pet name? And apologize?”

Schlatt scowls at Charlie as he wraps his arms around your waist. “The fuck about it you fucking bimbo? Do you only call your girlfriend by her name?”

“No but like, I’m not you. I’m not a big ass tough guy.” 

“Aw Schlatt’s not that tough, are you love?” You say, and boop Schlatt on the nose for added emphasis.

“Dude you’re fucking embaressing me,” He replies and buries his face into your neck.

Ted, Eddie and Charlie look aghast. This is not the man they know. Eddie opens his mouth to say something, but is shut down by a loud ringing from Schlatt’s phone. He pulls it out, looks at it and sighs. “I have to take this,” He says, annoyed. 

He then shoots a pointed look at you. “Be good.” He says, copying you.

You dramatically nod and bat your eyelashes at him as he walks out. You turn back the group, and all of them open their mouths at once to start asking questions.

“So you woke up here?”

“Yup.”

“How often do you sleepover here?”

“Never.”

“The fuck you mean by that?”

“I live here.”

“EXCUSE ME?”

“Mhm.”

You point at a door across the living room. “That's where I stream from. Schlatt streams in the other spare bedroom upstairs.”

“You two live together?”

“Yup. Coming up on four months of living here.”

“You’re kidding right? There’s no way Schlatt can’t be heard screaming in the back of your streams?”

“He’s actually super quiet domestically.”

“Domestically?!? Sorry, are you guys like, in love?”

“Nope. Hate that guy.”

---

first schlatt fic ever yayy (i didn't want to post this to ao3 lol) tell if u guys like it and any requests or anything!!

[godmadeaterribleerror]

Chapter 2 - Under My Skin

Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist

Author's Note: If you're mad at me for getting any lore or myths wrong through this story, consider that Supernatural themselves cannot track their own lore, and I'm doing my goddamn best.

Chapter title from Akaska Sad by Rina Sawayama

Word Count: 15.7k

Chapter Summary/Warnings: Dean and John take on an odd, difficult case, and you try—and fail—to avoid them. Usual warnings.

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, enemies to friends to lovers, canon divergence, slow burn, angst, fluff, monster of the week.

Chapter 1 - Chapter 3

Read on A03!

Lately, Dean’s life was fucking lonely. It was made of long car rides where Dad wouldn’t speak to him, countless cases where he felt almost useless, and restless nights where he’d get up to use the bathroom, look at the couch, and feel a little piece of him die again when Sam wasn’t there.

Every town looked the same. Every girl did too. He didn’t try to talk to them—he never had—but there was still something in him that was so furiously lonely, he was burning through chicks night by night in a desperate plea that they’d offer him something. Sometimes they’d talk to him, and that would become enough. He was never really all that interested—they all had the same voice and same words and same boring, apple pie lives that Dean would never get to be a part of—but it carried him over until the next one. Until he and Dad got the monster, left town, and nobody there would have to spare Dean a thought for the rest of their lives.

He tried to make them remember. He poured all he had to spare into the sex, and making it good enough that maybe—when each woman was married with kids and some sort of boring office job—they’d still use the memory of him to get off. They might not remember his name, or his voice, or his face, but they’d remember how he made them feel. And that did a little more to curb the loneliness. The pit like feeling of uselessness.

But sometimes he’d strike out, and be forced to wake up on an empty, stiff motel mattress. Dad would already be gone—getting coffee or working there leads or just fucking sick of Dean not being Sam—and it would only be Dean in the whole world. And that wasn’t enough. It couldn’t just be Dean. It’s never supposed to just be Dean. When it’s just him, everything gets too loud and too quiet and so hot, but also massive and empty and cold. Corners are shaper and knives are duller and colors are all muted, because only Dean can see them and he doesn’t deserve to. 

And when that happened, sometimes he’d grab his phone and consider calling Sammy. He’d stare at the number—hidden from Dad with a fake contact, just in case—and allow his thumb to hover over the call button, but never press it. He couldn’t. He’d have no way to get to California, Sam probably wouldn’t want to see him, and Dad would freakin’ kill him for even considering it. Dean couldn’t even say Sam’s damn name without Dad’s jaw ticking and an unsettling tension falling over the room.

So Dean stayed lonely. He worked every case lonely, found every bed lonely, and woke every morning lonely. 

But he wasn’t lonely in his dreams. It didn’t matter why he wasn’t, but he wasn’t. That, at the very least, was something Dean could count on. When he slept, he’d never be lonely, because-

It didn’t matter. They were just dreams, and dreams didn’t mean shit. Even it had been the same person starring in them every night—the same beautiful, twisted salvation to the pit that had formed inside of Dean, that he loathed and craved and couldn’t figure out how to get rid of—for the past year, Dean wasn’t some crystals and tea leaves chick who was going to try and find meaning in his freakin’ dreams.

This lady seemed to be, though. She was dressed like she belonged at Woodstock, there were dreamcatchers and random dried plants all over her house, and she kept trying to offer Dean a palm reading. Telling him his aura was strong. That didn’t fucking mean anything, because that shit wasn’t real, and Dean should know. His whole life was figuring out what things were real, and what was fake.

This magic, witchy bullshit was fake. 

The ghost haunting Woodstock Chick’s house was very real.

“You know,” Woodstock frowned at Dean and Dad from across the table. “I’m a little surprised you’re listening to me.”

Dad shrugged. “Well, ma’am it’s routine to investigate complaints. It ain’t our job to judge, just hear what you’ve got for us. Now, we’ve got the objects flyin’ around-“

“It’s just,” Woodstock let out a breathy laugh, shaking her head slightly. “I’ve been filing these complaints for weeks, and all I’ve gotten is made fun of by my neighbors. Then, suddenly, you’re taking me seriously? Sending three officers to talk to me-“

Dean cleared his throat, shooting Dad a weary look. “Sorry, did you say three?”

“Yeah. You two, plus the one yesterday. Young woman, with the rings and lip gloss. She was gorgeous, good skin and hair, bright aura, just like yours.” she smiled at Dean as she continued. “She kind of looked like a,” Woodstock frowned, tilting her head. “Like a cat.”

Dad scowled. “A cat.”

Woodstock nodded. “You know, just like how he,” she nodded at Dean, and he frowned. “Looks like a puppy. It not about their faces, it’s about their energy-“

“And you’re saying this chick had the energy of a cat?” Dean asked, not allowing himself to dwell on the puppy thing. He had too much shit to worry about already. “Ma’am, we-“

“We’re takin’ your complaints seriously, ma’am.” Dad’s voice was firm over Dean’s, and Dean felt a cringe of shame in his chest. “Now, tell us about the lights, and we’ll let you keep goin’ with your day.”

Woodstock continued, Dad asking more careful, smart questions as Dean sat in silence, and the lady’s problem was pretty obviously a ghost. Kind of a douchebag of a ghost, but just a ghost. The hard part was just gonna be figuring out who it was, because Woodstock was insisting nobody had ever died in this house, that she had no dead relatives, and that she’d never even killed anyone.

That last question did get them kicked out, though.

“We ain’t accusin’ you of anything, ma’am.” Dad remained in the threshold of Woodstock’s door, holding the angry woman’s gaze. “It’s a just part of our report-”

Woodstock let out a dry laugh. “Nice try, officer, I don’t know what you’re trying to pull, but I do know that’s a lie. If you come back, come back with a warrant, or-“ Woodstock paused, looking between Dean and Dad. “Send Officer Brown. She was nicer, and didn’t ask me stupid questions.”

The door slammed, Dad groaned—running a hand over his face before stomping back to the Impala—and Dean was frozen in place as Woodstock’s words rang a loud, clean, golden bell in his brain. When Dad shouted at him to haul ass he managed to move, but barely. Everything was far away, because things that were supposed to be trapped in dreams were starting to follow Dean into the real world. They weren’t supposed to. Dean had promised himself he’d keep Her trapped down, where he never had to think about her until sleep dragged Her back to the surface of his brain.

And that hadn’t really been working. Sometimes he’d smell fruity perfume on a woman, and She’d flash in front of his eyes. Sometimes he’d have some random girl next to him or over him or under him, and they’d moan, and it would sound like a siren. The worst was when someone would look at him and a tiny, traitorous asshole voice would whisper She’d look at you better. She’d be better. You’re a piece of shit, Dean Winchester, because She’d been the freakin’ best and you left her.

He hadn’t left Her. He’d escaped her. Outsmarted whatever bullshit she’d been trying to pull on him, whatever scam She’d been running. And it didn’t fucking matter that his brain was clinging onto every piece of Her he’d gotten to see that day—that the bells were made of Her beautiful voice saying Brown’s a cop—because she’d probably stopped hunting. Realized it wasn’t the fun little rush She thought it was and crawled back home to her fancy, stupid life. 

But She’d told him she’d been hunting since she was fifteen.

That had probably been a lie too.

It hadn’t sounded like a lie. 

Well, maybe She’d just been an awesome liar. 

Dean needed to snap the hell out of it. He’d tread down this path countless times, the voice—it seemed to live in his chest, a little to the right of his heart—trying to work out what that whole thing had been, and a good reason for Dean to track Her down and ask if She’d felt it too. 

But She’d been playing him, and he never wanted to see Her drop-dead gorgeous face again. It didn’t matter what he’d felt, because Dad was right. It had probably been some sort of trick, made of all those pretty lies and words She’d been using on him. So Dean didn’t mention to Dad that Brown had been one of Her aliases, because he wasn’t supposed to remember anything about Her. Dad was seething in the driver’s seat—grumbling about lone, stupid hunters interfering in their case—but She wasn’t here, probably, so it didn’t matter anyway.

Another three days passed, and they still couldn’t figure out who the ghost was. Everyone Woodstock knew was clean—and claimed she was too—and everyone in this town died of old age like a bunch of freaking suckers, so they had nothing. This ghost couldn’t chill the fuck out, Woodstock had been telling anyone who would listen about how it had started to throw plates at her head—how she didn’t feel safe—so Dad had them on rotating watches. Keeping an eye on the house from the forest in case Woodstock started screaming while the other kept working it, searching for just one goddamn idea of who the ghost could be.

They hadn’t figured out who the other hunter was, either, but Dean was growing more and more certain it might be Her. He could’ve sworn he saw a flash of perfectly styled shiny hair on the street. He was either going batshit crazy, or he’d heard Her voice in a corner store while he was buying aftershave. And a feeling like gravity had reformed in his eyes, bringing his attention to shadows that might be Her and making his every nerve flare when he smelled something sweet. Most of all, he’d been in the motel parking lot a handful of times and felt it. That odd, light feeling that had surrounded him when he’d met Her, making it so easy to breathe he’d been certain he’d been doing it wrong before. That he’d started to do it wrong again, after She’d left. It had felt so good and been so impossibly to duplicate—Dean had really tried to, as well, in body after body after body—but it was back like a fucking asteroid, crashing into him and obliterating everything he’d thought had been right.

But he hadn’t told Dad. To start, Dad would look at him like he was a fucking idiot, and ask if Dean had watched a chick flick while drinking one too many beers. Then Dean would mumble no, and Dad would roll his eyes and tell him to get his shit together, because they had a job to do.

Dean could’ve told Sammy. He would’ve listened, made a little fun of Dean, and then started to ask a bunch of  questions about what made Dean think it was Her. Maybe Sam would have found an explanation about how the vampire baby made men go crazy or something. Maybe She’d been a monster, and Sam would figure out what kind the moment Dean explained it.

But Sam wasn’t here, and Dean didn’t have any real evidence. He hadn’t seen that fancy car She’d been driving, and when he’d very casually asked the front desk of their motel—the only one if town—if anyone with Her name was in a room he’d gotten a no, but she’d probably be in a real hotel. With good water pressure and room service and little shampoo bottles that she didn’t need. 

She hadn’t been in a fancy hotel last year. But that had probably just been another part of the scam.

So he didn’t tell Dad. Dean just took his shifts to watch Woodstock, worked the case, and fucking prayed they’d wrap this up and he could forget the whole thing. Dad would find something soon, they’d gank the ghost, and it would be done. 

Dad had even said he had a new lead, when they’d swapped the watch. Dean had dropped off the car and gotten orders to stay here until Dad got back, to call only if it was an absolute emergency, and to message if he thought of anything new. 

He’d been trying to. Dad was off working the lead, and Dean really wanted to help, but no matter how long leaned against the trees—watching Woodstock’s house and frowning into the air—he couldn’t think of shit. His brain felt numb, because this was freaking boring, and none of it made sense. It was just a ghost, it shouldn’t be this hard. Shit, with another hunter on the case, the asshole should’ve been ash days ago. Maybe it had been Her, and she’d realized they were in town, and She’d left. Been worried they’d try to turn her in for her bullshit, even though She had no way to know they’d figured her out. 

Maybe She hadn’t wanted to see Dean. Which shouldn’t bother him at all, but the thought made his stomach turn and heart split down the center. He didn’t get it. It shouldn’t hurt, because he sure as hell didn’t want to see Her. He was looking everywhere for Her, but he didn’t want to see Her. He didn’t. He didn’t-

He did. He could. That was fucking Her. Walking up the steps of Woodstock’s house with a large bag, knocking on the door and being welcomed in with a warm smile Woodstock hadn’t offered Dad or Dean. 

She looked hot. Dean wasn’t sure it was possible for Her not to—She’d even looked sexy covered in blood—but she’d somehow gotten hotter. She wasn’t wearing that horrible jacket anymore, but well-fitting, casual clothing that She moved so easily in. Clothing that suited Her, that She looked comfortable in, that Dean wanted to touch to see what fabric She liked. It would tell him more about Her, about what she deemed suitable for herself, what she enjoyed, what she wanted. And if She allowed him close enough, maybe Dean could rip it off Her body-

Fuck. It was happening again. Dean had just looked at Her and she’d dragged him under some sort of trance. The feeling had returned in full force, like an inevitable kind of cancer over his brain that Dean didn’t know how to cure. Part of him didn’t even want to cure it—it felt right and natural and filled up that pit with a shifting light that was shaped like Her—but he had to. He was useless like this. Useless to the hunt, useless to himself, useless to Dad. Dad would smack him on the head and tell him to get a goddamn grip, because a girl wasn’t worth falling down for. Dean’s job wasn’t staring at pretty things and trying to make sense of them, it was creating ash and spilling blood. He was a solider, not a prince who was going to save the damsel. 

And She wasn’t a damsel. She was a bitch. The prettiest, funniest, smartest bitch Dean had ever met, who seemed like Cinderella but was really a stepsister. Dean didn’t need Her, and he shouldn’t be sparing Her a single thought at all. He should just text Dad that She was the other hunter, that She seemed tight with Woodstock, and that She’d been in the house for a long time.

A really long time. 

Too long. It had been almost an hour since She’d disappeared off the porch, and unless she was there for a sleepover, she should’ve been out by now. Maybe the ghost had gotten the jump on Her and Woodstock. Maybe Dean had to go in and save Her, not because it was Her, but because that was his job. And maybe She’d thank him, and kiss him because She was so grateful he’d put his grudge aside to save her life, and it would be awesome and She’d taste like sugar and be soft under his hands-

“Dean Winchester.” 

He nearly leapt out of his goddamn skin, spinning around with wide-eyes and clenched fists that couldn’t seem to remember how to fly and land square in Her pretty, mocking face. She was standing barely three feet away, Her arms crossed and brows raised, her bag nowhere in sight.

“Fucking hell, Princess.“ The nickname slipped out of him without thought, because She really did look like royalty. He knew why that was now—easy to look smoking hot and fancy when you had the money for it—but it didn’t change the fact. Her lips were glossy, her eyes seemed to shimmer with that pretty color that washed over his dreams, that causal clothing really did look like it was made to touch Her, and Dean couldn’t believe he was jealous of a fabric-

“What are you doing here.” Her voice still had that haunting, angel-like quality, but it was flat. Bored. Almost dead.

He gave Her a smirk, and he wasn’t sure why it hurt that She barely even blinked back. “Funny, I was just about to ask you the same thing. What could a bitch like you be doing in a place like this?“

Her eyes narrowed, and Dean could’ve sworn She curled a little into her body. “I asked first.”

Dean shrugged. “I asked louder.”

“I- You know what? I don’t care.” She stood a little taller, her voice somehow growing colder. “Whatever you’re up to, stop. This is my hunt. I got here first, I’m handling it, and you’re only going to slow me down.”

Dean let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Ghosts aren’t really gonna respect dibs, sweetheart.”

Her eyes flashed with something Dean didn’t really understand. “They don’t, but I’m not that worried about it, De. Like I said, I’m handling it.”

He glared at Her, ignoring how something in his chest was humming, trying to get Her to call him De over and over again forever. “Sorry,” he drawled Her name, leaning forward and trying not to think about how she didn’t flinch away. How he could smell that same, fruity perfume and sugar from before. “I guess we’ll just have to let the better hunter win.”

She raised Her chin, holding his gaze. “I’m warning you, Winchester. Leave.“

He chuckled. “I’m good, Princess. Think I’ll pass, but trying to warn me was cute-”

“Listen to me.” She hissed, leaning close enough that Dean could pick out every small bump on Her face, isolate every color in Her eyes. “I’m not asking. Go back to Sam and John, tell them you figured it out and it’s done, and get the fuck out of my way.”

Something brittle snapped in Dean’s spine, his jaw clenching as the words pushed out of him like vomit. “Sam’s not with us. He left.”

He didn’t know why the fuck he’d tell Her that. She wouldn’t care. She seemed to hate Dean as much as he hated Her—probably bitter he’d got the up on Her, didn’t want him to mess with whatever scam she was trying to pull on Woodstock—and She’d met Sam twice. He shouldn’t have told Her that, because Dad hated even talking about it. Hell, Bobby barely knew about it. It was family business, and She wasn’t family, and that perfume had to be some sort of pheromone because it was making Dean a freaking dumbass-

“Is he okay?”

Dean blinked at Her, and her expression wasn’t soft, but it wasn’t empty. She didn’t seem like a statue anymore, and whatever was behind Her eyes looked real. Just as real as it had been last year, like there was a whole universe inside of Her that Dean had wanted to explore. To find out what She was made of, and if it was as similar to heaven as it seemed.

It wasn’t. Dean knew that, in his working brain—rather than his heart that stretched for Her and his dick that ached for Her to be just a little closer—She wasn’t heaven. She was temptation in a beautiful form, determined to make Dean weak and pathetic and soft, everything he couldn’t allow himself to be. But he still told Her the truth. His voice lower and without any venom, his body tensed slightly, his brain spinning as the strange look in Her eyes seemed to glow, dragging the words out of him. 

“He’s fine. Off at college. Decided he didn’t want-“ Dean cut himself off with a small shake of his head. He wouldn’t be that weak or dumb, exposing a gap in his armor she’d use to make him crumble to his knees. “He was done hunting. Wanted a normal life.”

She was just looking at him. Scanning over him carefully, holding one of Her own hands and just fucking staring, like Dean might be an illusion or his words might be a lie, and She was trying to look for evidence of it.

“That sucks.” She finally said, and it sounded so real. Like She might actually give a shit that Dean was lonely. That Sam had left him. “Sorry.”

 “I don’t need your pity, sweetheart-“

“I don’t pity you.” She snapped, Her features growing harsh once more. “I’m saying that fucking sucks, I know you cared about him. I’m apologizing because it’s probably complicated and messy and not all that fun to deal with.”

Dean scowled, something raw snapping along his heartstrings. “I’m doing just fine, Princess. I’ve got my dad, and Sammy’s safe in California. He’s still my brother, and it’s not like he’s fucking dead. So I’m good.”

She raised her brows, an amusement that made Dean’s gut boil written over Her face. “Yeah, you really sound it.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Watch it-“

“Or what.” She hissed, leaning forward until Dean was almost drowning in Her. “You gonna run to John and tell him that the little moroi bitch is bullying you? That you need to hurry up on the hunt, because you can’t stand that I’m going to get this thing all by my fucking self-“

“All by-“ Dean stared at Her. “You’re still hunting alone?”

Her face twisted, her words hushed and furious. “That is none of your fucking business-“

“It is if you’re going to get yourself killed-“ 

She snorted. “Shut the fuck up. Don’t pretend like you give a shit about me-“

“I give a shit if you end up monster chow.” Dean sneered, pretending something wasn’t cracking along his ribs at the certain, settled hatred in Her voice. “The job is saving people, not choosing who. You try and jump in front of that ghost, I’ll stop you-“

“Please,” She scoffed, narrowing her eyes. “I’d like to see you fucking try.”

Dean’s breathing was ragged. His heart was violent in his chest, and his hands were curled at his side, and She was so fucking infuriating. Dean shouldn’t give a shit about Her, but his skin felt like it was being flayed at the thought of Her in danger or pain, and She shouldn’t sound like she was wounded by being the little moroi bitch, because She was, and Dean wanted to grab Her by the neck and slam his lips to Her’s-

“Stay out of my way, Winchester.” She hissed, still so close, and looking so warm and soft, and Dean was so close to figuring out what the hell that fruit was-

She was gone. She leaned back in a rough, sharp movement—like Dean was a magnet and She was only just strong enough to pull herself away—and just walked away. 

He might be stuck here forever—on the edge of the woods outside Woodstock’s haunted house—his body trying to cling to her and his brain trying to erase Her forever. It was something he’d been trying to do for a year, something he’d never managed, and something that was made so much more difficult by the fact that She looked back. That their eyes met one last time, and it was like lightning through his blood.

He would have chased Her in Dad hadn’t called right then. He spent the next two days trying to convince himself he wouldn’t have, but it was a fucking lie. He wasn’t sure what he would have done when he caught Her, but he would’ve chased Her. Rushed after Her and asked why had She lied, why did She look like she wanted to punch Dean when She’d been the one to hurt him, if She had looked back because she could feel it too. Feel the gravity, feel the drug, feel the storm that threatened to consume Dean in Her name. Ask if She dreamt of him, ask if She saw him in shadows, ask if She was a monster and beg her to set him free.

But he hadn’t chased after Her. So it didn’t matter. Dad had picked Dean up—long after She’d been gone, Dean still rooted in place, his head still spinning—and he hadn’t seen Her since, so it didn’t matter. Maybe She’d left. Maybe She’d just skipped town, and Dean would never see her again.

That shouldn’t feel horrible. It should be relieving, the idea that he’d won. That he’d gotten the hunt, gotten Her away from him, gotten a justification for why he hadn’t told Dad he’d seen Her. It would mean that She was gone, and Dean could pretend that had never happened at all. But it still felt like fucking shit, and Dean couldn’t figure out how to stop it. It ate away at his brain as the days blurred together, and they hit dead end after dead end. She remained at least out of sight, Dean still didn’t tell Dad that She’d ever been in town, and the hauntings just fucking stopped. No more lights, no more temperature drops, no more screaming Woodstock. 

It couldn’t have been Her. There were no graveyard disturbances, She hadn’t entered the house since their conversation, and it wasn’t like the EMF was gone. On the second day of no activity they’d had broken into Woodstock’s house, checked to see if it was gone, and it wasn’t. It had just stopped haunting.

Dad was losing his mind. He was barely speaking to Dean, shooting down all his ideas, and mostly just reading book after book and grumbling that it didn’t make any goddamn sense. Ghosts just didn’t stop, they still didn’t know who the hell the son of a bitch was, and they couldn’t leave until this thing was dealt with.

Dean suggested drinks—the motel room was starting to feel like a cage, they both needed it, and maybe the answer would be one or two bottles deep—and Dad had grunted an agreement. It was a small victory, but a victory all the same. Maybe Dean could find a woman there to distract from this disaster, distract him from Her-

He didn’t need to be distracted from Her. There was nothing to distract from. Dean might be dreaming about Her still—dreams where he did grab Her and kiss her, She fell to her knees and he went right down with Her, and it was fucking awesome—but She wasn’t anywhere real around him, so it didn’t matter. Every shadow on the darkened street was shaped like Her, but shadows weren’t real. That gravity in Dean’s chest was trying pull and pry Dean open so She could take a look, but that was just an emotion, and Dean wasn’t about to be some sort of pussy about his feelings. The whole bar seemed to smell like that strange fucking fruit and sugar, but Dean could just be losing his mind. The woman in the booth looked exactly like Her, and sat with her knees tucked up like she did, and was wearing the same shirt-

Shit.

“Dad, I don’t feel great, maybe we could-“

“You’ve gotta be fuckin’ kidding me.”

Dean felt the blood drain from his face. Dad had seen Her. His face was drawn in a scowl, the glare he used during hunts was furrowing at his brow, and there was a glint in his eyes that set everything on edge.

He was fucked. She was going to tell Dad they’d run into each other, Dad would fucking murder him for not mentioning it, and She’d just fuck off and get herself killed with the ghost. Dean didn’t know why that last one felt just as terrifying as Dad’s wrath, but it might actually be worse. Dad wouldn’t actually kill him. He’d get yelled at and probably banned from driving for a month, but Dad would never hurt him. 

Dad would hurt Her. He was already stalking over to Her booth—She hadn’t even looked up, which didn’t increase Dean’s faith in Her lone hunting abilities—with white-knuckled fists that would have probably collided with Her face if she wasn’t a chick. Dean barely ran after him in time for them to reach the booth, to stop at Dad’s side right as he slammed his hand on the table.

She flinched slightly as she looked up, and the air around them became wired and electric.

“What the hell are you doin’ here, girl.” Dad lowered himself down to Her eye level as he spat the words out. “Ain’t no way you’re in town just by fuckin’ coincidence.”

She huffed a dry laugh, holding Dad’s gaze as she answered. “Not a coincidence. Just me, having the worst luck in the world.” Her attention finally turned to Dean, he felt alive, and Her words remained just as flat as before. “Hiya, Deano. You look like shit.” She looked back to Dad, her pretty lips curling into a smirk. “You both look like shit.”

“You think you’re smart-“

She snorted, cutting Dad off with a bored grin. “I am smart. Sit down, you’re drawing attention.”

She waved a loose hand around the bar, and She was right. People were wide eyed, watching them nervously, and they didn’t need that. Attention was bad in this line of business. It was downright dangerous. And Dad knew that, so he gave Dean a curt nod to listen to Her, and slid into the booth once Dean was settled across from Her. 

It was a little freaking insane, how She only got prettier. How in the low, golden light of the bar she seemed to have a halo around Her head. But it wasn’t real. Nothing about Her was real, and Dean would have to remember that. Dad was real, was looking at Her like she’d tried to key the Impala, and Dean needed to figure out where that hatred for Her had gone and bring it back. Convince Her to skip town—because She’d get in the way, not because the idea of Her being thrown across a room by a spirit made him sick—and cover his own ass, because he was still in danger of Her snitching on him. 

But She was hardly looking at him. Her attention was divided between Dad, her own hands, and the neon red, cherry and ice and paper umbrella drink in front of Her-

“Are you drinking a fucking Shirley Temple?” Dean spoke before he could stop himself, and She shot him a glare.

“You got a problem with that, Winchester?”

“Nah,” Dean shrugged, a smirk tugging at his lips. “I just didn’t know you were that much a prissy little princess-“

“They’re good drinks, dick.” She snapped. “It’s called having fun. Something you two buttheads,” She gestured between Dean and Dad. “Clearly know nothing about.”

Dean learned forward, bracing his elbows on the table. “I know plenty about having fun, sweetheart. Some might call me a master at it.“

She snorted. It was freaking adorable. “Some might call you a manwhore-“

“Watch yourself, girl.” Dad snapped, and Dean’s whole body tightened. Everything was rigid from the fury on Dad’s face—all directed at Her, all sick in Dean’s stomach—and raw from Her words. 

Manwhore. She wasn’t wrong, and he’d been called a lot worse, but it still stung like a freaking hornet along the cavity of his chest. There was no way for Her to know that, unless Dean’s whole face just screamed lonely. Lonely fucking trash to be used up and forgotten. It didn’t. He was so goddamn careful to ensure it didn’t. Even Dad didn’t know the extent of that pit, so it was impossible for Her to, and why did it feel like She’d just punched him in the gut-

“Listen to me,” Dad hissed Her full name, and it was a low threat that snapped Dean back into his body. “Skip town. This is our case, and we don’t need some fancy brat gettin’ in our way.”

She glanced at Dean, and he almost didn’t catch the small frown on Her face. It was fleeting—barely a flash on Her gorgeous features—but strong. Reaching all the way to Her eyes and filling them with an emotion Dean didn’t understand.

But then it was gone. And when She looked back to Dad her face was in bored and taunting once more. 

“I’m hate to break it to you, buddy, but ghosts don’t care about dibs.” Her lips curled into a smirk, and this was it. She was going to rat Dean out, he was dead-

“Lucky for you,” She picked up Her drink and leaned back in her seat. “It’s not a ghost. So maybe if you ask it really nicely, it’ll refuse to be killed by anyone but you.”

Dad scowled. “What the hell are you talkin’ about, girl. This ain’t another moroi thing, this is a fuckin’ ghost-“

“It’s not.” She grinned at them from around Her straw, and shit She had nice lips. They were a little puckered, Dean could still remember how soft they’d been, and they’d probably look even better wrapped around Dean’s-

“Whatever game you’re playin’,” Dad hissed at Her, snapping Dean out of his thoughts. “Cut the shit and say what you mean.”

She hummed, still wearing a bright, mocking grin. “You think it’s a ghost.”

“It is a ghost,” Dean muttered, watching Her carefully. “You’re not stupid, Princess, EMF plus random flying plates equals evil Casper.”

“That’s true.” She dropped Her empty glass on the table, leaning toward with a shrug. “But it’s still not a ghost.”

“You heard Dean, girl, it’s a ghost, plain and goddamn simple.”

“Have you seen it?” 

Dean glanced at Dad, and he’d bet a lot of money that their expressions were identical in pure freaking confusion.

“We don’t have time,” Dad grunted, his voice low and edged. “For fucking riddles. You-“

“It’s not a riddle.” She raised her brows, picking a cherry out of the glass. “Have either of you actually seen your alleged ghost? Did Maggie Rose tell you she saw it?”

Maggie Rose. Woodstock. The woman who would’ve definitely seen the ghost by now.

And who hadn’t mentioned it a single goddamn time.

“I’m guessing you haven’t found remains either.” She hummed, picking the cherry off the stem with Her teeth. “And you’ve been looking for who the ghost could be, but you’re not finding anything. You’ve been looking in the wrong place. Poltergeist’s don’t have to haunt the places where they died, and they often have little to no connection with their victims.”

Dad’s eyes narrowed. “This thing ain’t nearly violent enough to be a poltergeist-“

“That’s because it’s been getting enough attention so far. Maggie’s been screaming about it, and it’s found that satisfying enough.” She spun the stem between two fingers, looking between Dad And Dean with a triumphant grin. “Poltergeist.”

Dean was pretty sure Dad was going to leap across the table and strangle Her. His jaw was clenched, his body stiff at Dean’s side, and his words—when he finally spoke—were pushed through his teeth. 

“Dean.” He grunted, not looking away from Her. “I have to make a call to your uncle. Deal with her.”

“Yes, sir.” Dean nodded, and Dad slid out of the booth without another word. Leaving Dean.

But not alone.

Dean blinked at Her. Dad was gone, and She hadn’t mentioned that they’d seen each other before. Shit, She hadn’t even mentioned Sam, and his obvious absence. Dad would just chalk that up to Her being a bitch, but Dean was clinging to it. She should’ve said it. She had every reason to. But She fucking hadn’t, and some part of Dean was desperate to know why. To know if it was because the idea of him in trouble made Her feel like her skin was being ripped to shreds. It felt like that for Dean, whenever he was reminded that She hunted alone. Whenever a memory of Her covered in blood flashed through his brain. 

And he could still feel it. Feel the electricity in the air that was so different than before. It was charged and tense, but in a way that made Dean feel like he was breathing. He could feel things that didn’t make sense, but they were right. She was right. Across the table, running Her hands over her calves and watching Dean like he might try to take a bite of Her, She still felt like she could fit against him like another piece. 

“You’re not going to deal with me.”

Dean frowned at Her. She wasn’t meeting his gaze, poking the paper umbrella around the glass. “What?”

“What your dad said,” She muttered. “He told you to deal with me. You won’t.”

“What makes you think that?”

She finally looked at him. Really looked at him, for the first time since last year. On the curb She’d seen him, but not looked at him. Not like before. Not like that. Where Dean felt like She was seeing right into the pit—how empty and fucking pathetically worthless he was—and filling it up with something peaceful and silver and molten in his gut, like a melted star lighting him up from the inside. He wished it was real. Dean wished, more than almost fucking anything, that he didn’t know that this was part of Her scam or game. That She was looking at him like that because he made Her feel stripped and raw too. Because She saw something in him she wanted, and just kept digging for more without fear of him breaking Her.

But he also wished he wasn’t so fucking lonely that he could care about that. That he could get a hold over himself and just deal with Her. That She wasn’t giving him a strangely soft smile, and he wasn’t caving from how it made his heart freaking glow like a night-light. 

“Because,” She said, like it was simple. Like Dean should just know what she meant. “You won’t.”

“I might.” He leaned forward, holding Her eyes on his as he smirked. “You’re putting yourself in danger, Princess. Dealing with you would be the responsible thing to do.”

“Really.” Her voice was dry, disbelieving. “How would you deal with me, Dean Winchester?”

God, She was trying to kill him. She was looking at him like that, and there was a smug smirk on Her full lips, and Dean had spent the last year hating Her but now all he could think about was how the universe that existed in Her eyes, and how he wanted to see every inch of it. Bare skin and brilliant eyes that had been phantoms in is sleep, now real and touchable. He had a million ways he’d like to deal with Her, and all of them started with those blinding fucking eyes. Rolling back in Her head and fluttering under him and sparkling on his. Her voice saying his name like it was more than just a breath, like it was the blood in Her veins-

“I’m afraid that’s top secret, Princess.” Dean dragged himself together to shoot Her a wink, and he could’ve sworn she flushed. “But I’ll tell you if you give me that answer you owe me.”

She gave him a strange look. “We were even.”

Dean shook his head. “You had asked me two questions. I only asked you one.”

There was a small, frowning pout on Her lips, and Dean realized She might be trying to work out if he was lying. He wasn’t. That conversation lived in the corners of his brain all the goddamn time, he couldn’t forget it if he tried. And he had. He’d bet his life that he was right. She’d asked him two questions about Dad and Sam, called him De, and his whole brain had short-circuited. He’d only realized on the drive back, and he’d been planning to use that to try and get Her to do the game again, but-

But She’d been tricking him. A con-woman and spoiled bitch who had been planning to use him. He’d seen the evidence. He knew that’s what was real. That between them, Dean wasn’t the liar.

He should care about that more. He should stand up and leave, or threaten Her to get the hell out of Dad’s way, or at least stop fucking smiling at Her. But She’d nodded, dropping Her knees down to lean closer, and he was drugged on Her voice and smell and face.

And he stayed.

“Fine.” She said, and Dean felt a thrill-like rush through his body. She was so pretty. “Go.”

He didn’t have a question ready. He hadn’t really expected Her to agree. But She had, and now he was staring at Her, trying to find something. Anything at all that didn’t make him look like a gaping dumbass, lost in Her eyes and high on her smell. He should ask everything he’d wanted to scream at Her on the street, and throw in a shout of why the hell didn’t you tell my dad I knew you were here. It didn’t make any goddamn sense that She hadn’t, and Dean needed to know why. That’s what he should ask. He should just freaking ask why.

“Where are you staying?”

Son of a bitch. That wasn’t what he’d meant to ask, now She was staring at him like he was some kind of creep or asshole, and Dean had to figure out how the hell he could justify asking that.

“For the case,” he added quickly, his voice drained of most of the artificial, cocky arrogance he prided himself on. “Ya’ know. In case we need to find you.”

“You won’t.” She said, Her finger running over that scar on her palm. “This is my case-“

“Yeah, and you’ve got it handled.” Dean drawled, raising his brows. “You gonna answer the question?”

She sighed. “Same motel you’re at. Down the road.”

He shook his head. “No, I haven’t seen your car-“

“You remember my car?” 

He felt a little heat rush to his face, only worsened by how there was a little, dancing light in Her eyes that was trying to draw him into Her, as if he was only a moth and she was the freaking sun. And of course he remembered that car. It was Her car. He’d felt something seize in his chest every time he’d seen one like it for the last year. 

“I like cars,” Dean grumbled—hoping She wouldn’t see it for the half-lie it was—and a small smile pulled at her lips. It looked a little too real.

“Like your dad’s.” She nodded, starting to fish ice cubes out of Her glass. “The Impala.”

It was Dean’s turn to grin. “You remember my car?”

She definitely flushed that time. “Yeah,” She mumbled. “It’s memorable. Shut up and answer my question.”

Dean raised his brows, remained silents, and tried to bait Her into saying it again. It worked.

“You’re such a-“ She cut herself off with a sigh and roll of Her eyes. “How would you deal with me.”

“I’m so glad you asked,” Dean drawled Her name, feeling his grin overtake his face, every bit of his confidence returning—stronger than before—as She swallowed under his gaze. “I’d deal with you however you’d like.”

She blinked at him, and he was certain Her voice was higher than before. “I don’t, um, I-“ She glanced down at his lips, Her tongue poking out between her teeth. Dean wanted to bite it. “What?”

“However you tell me to,” he winked, and She looked like he’d shot her. Good. “I’ll deal with you. My question is how?”

“How-“

“How would you like me to deal with you, Princess?” 

Dean was pushing it. Shit, he didn’t even know what he was saying anymore, or why he couldn’t bring himself to sneer at Her, or mock her, or deal with her the way Dad had definitely meant. But he did know that Her eyes were wide and blown out, and Her lips looked soft, and he wanted to know if could get Her to be speechless. To gape at him all needy and dumb, so he could show Her exactly what fire She’d been playing with. That he wouldn’t roll over like a puppy, that whatever spell She’d cast on him—whatever aphrodisiac she’d been using—Dean might not be immune, but he could give better than he got. Maybe he’d get Her to bend enough that She’d admit what she’d been doing last year, and Dean would forgive Her because he didn’t know how not to. Because She was like tattoo on his brain that he didn’t want to get rid of.

Maybe he’d get to keep Her.

Maybe they could start over.

“I…” She trailed off, and Dean wanted to smash his lips to Her slack, open ones and start over. She was still gaping at him with a wide, open expression, and fuck he wanted to start over so bad. Against every bit of willpower and intelligence he had, Dean wanted to give into this strange instinct and start over.

“C’mon.” He drawled Her name, shooting her a wink. “Use some words.”

She glared at him, something hot flashing in Her eyes. “Pass. Ask me a different question.”

Dean scoffed under, dropping his voice to under his breath. “Who’s not fun now-“

“I heard that.”

“Course you did.” He rolled his eyes. “Fine, party pooper. What do you like?” 

She blinked at him. "What do I like?"

"Like you said, sweetheart, I like cars." Dean said, trying to make his words sound casual. Like he wasn't desperate to learn everything about Her that she'd offer. "What's your thing?"

"My thing." She said slowly, still looking at Dean like he was insane. "That I like."

He nodded, watching Her carefully, and she frowned into the air as she continued. 

"I don't know. Books? Movies and music?"

Dean gave Her an amused, flat look. "C'mon, you can gimme more than that-"

"No, I can't." She snapped. She was really hot when she snapped. "Movies and music is my answer, Winchester, deal with it."

Dean drawled Her name. “Everyone likes movies and music-“ 

“That doesn’t make it any less important to me.” She said, narrowing her eyes. “How would you like it if I said everyone drives cars-“ 

Dean scoffed. “They don’t drive them like I do, Princess-“ 

“And you don’t watch movies and listen to music like I do, Deano.” 

He chuckled, raising his hands in surrender. “Alright. Point proven.” He titled his head at Her. “What’s your favorite movie?” 

She laughed. A real laugh, and it sounded like music and rain and a soft summer breeze that shot right into Dean’s blood like a drug. “It’s my question, De. But nice try.”

He grinned at Her, clicking his tongue. "Bossy-"

"Shut up." She tilted her head at him, and Dean just grinned. "What's your favorite movie?"

"Untouchables." He said with a shrug. "Your turn."

She just looked at him with a small, teasing grin, and Dean realized she was waiting for him to repeat the question.

He chuckled, shaking his head. "Fine, sweetheart. What's your favorite movie?"

Her face split into a wide, full grin, and God, he was fucked. Nothing in the world seemed to matter more than that smile, and the way it made him feel like he was circling the sun, crashing down to Earth in a ball of fire, and turning to steam as She swallowed him in her gravity. He really didn't give a shit if it was real. Maybe Dean could get himself to be bloody and bright enough to match Her, and she'd feel this too. She'd feel this, and stay, and offer an explanation about last year. An explanation that would prove it wasn't all that bad, and that She was just as fucking empty as Dean was, and he'd fill Her up-

Fuck, he couldn't think that. Not right now, when She looked like that—beautiful in a way that might be deadly—and was smiling at him, and he couldn't get a damn grip and just hate Her. He wasn't supposed to be crashing back up into Her. Dad would be so freaking disappointed that Dean was dumb enough to fall for this act again.

But he was. His jeans felt tight, he couldn't stop grinning at Her, and that siren-like voice kept Dean in her orbit, with absolutely no desire to leave.

She had a million favorite movies. And She hadn't been lying. She watched movies differently than Dean did. Differently that anyone did. He'd never heard anyone use so many big art words in a row, followed by about twenty, very creative swears at a speed he could only describe as frantic. Like if She didn't get Dean to understand exactly why Indiana Jones was the perfect adventure movie, why chick flicks had irreplaceable cultural value, and sitcoms could be the best medium of television, the world might end.

And it should be reminding him that they weren't the same. That Dean was trapped in the mud—he'd been born here, he'd die here, and he belonged here—because it was the only place for things like him. Gut covered weapons, made of rust that would crumble to dust before they made it out alive. And She was just visiting. Using the mud to make Her feel alive or important until she could return to a world of people with ivory and marble who all spoke like this. She was using Dean to do the same, maybe more. Maybe worse. Maybe trying to pry him open and steal what little he had inside him. 

But, son of a bitch, She could have it. He'd stay right here with Her for a million freaking years, just as long as She kept smiling and rambling and giggling at Dean's small jokes between Her breathes. Maybe he could take that bite out of Her. Taste sugar and fruit and whatever else he was starting crave. He could take Her flesh and blood and call it even for what She’d done, because She was still so pretty, and Dean felt like he could be valuable under Her bright attention.

He’d repay Her for that bite by offering himself. He'd be that smeared, dulled weapon for Her. He shouldn't be. Dad would kill him. But he wanted to be. He wanted to stay here forever. And when the waitress came over—with plastic tits and syrupy words—he didn't even fully realize until She cleared her throat and jerked her head to the side. Even then he just frowned at Her, a drunken trance of her voice and smile still clouding his attention, because what the hell could possibly be more interesting—more important—than listening to Her talk?

Then the waitress leaned down, almost blocking Her from view, and Dean frowned.

"What?" His voice was irritated, impatient, but he didn't really care. He needed think lady to freaking move, before She somehow vanished like a dream through Dean's fingers, and he was alone again.

"You want anythin' to drink, handsome? The waitress asked, and Dean nodded. He could use a beer—it might help dull the raging wildfire inside him, trying to tear him between his hatred of what he knew She was and the raw, feral instinct to latch onto Her and never let go—and Her glass was almost out of ice cubes. If he got Her another glass, he could keep Her here just a little longer. As long as he could.

"Beer for me," he raised two fingers, pointing between Her and himself. "Virgin Shirley Temple for the lady."

The waitress blinked at him for a second, but got the message. Dean had Her. He didn't need to company of another pretty face, because none of them could be prettier that Her's. Shit, it wasn't even a fair comparison. Leaving this booth for anything—leaving Her for anything—would be like trading a burger for a fucking salad. Insane and pointless.

When the waitress finally moved, She was gaping at him, her words suddenly soft. Almost nervous. 

"You, um-" She shook her head slightly. "Thanks."

Dean shrugged. "Not a big deal, you blew through that fancy girl drink in like a second anyway-"

"No, that's not-" She frowned at him, and Dean realized she was touching that scar again. "You remembered. That I don't drink."

"Oh." Dean stared at Her, his tongue almost glued into his mouth, his brain a little warm and soft from Her almost vulnerable gaze. "Yeah."

They were just staring at each other, and all Dean could manage to do was clear his throat, scratch the back of his neck, and force himself to speak. 

"You, uh," he swallowed, fidgeting with the cuff of his jacket. "Never mentioned why."

"Why-"

"You don't drink."

"I'm not twenty-one yet, Winchester, I don't think I-" She cut herself off, leaning a little away from Dean with a small frown. He waited, the silence resuming for a long, heavy second that sat and froze in Dean's lungs. She wasn't looking at him anymore, twisting a ring on Her finger, and when She spoke again, her voice had dropped to a mumble. "I want a clear head. It's safer."

"Safer?"

"For our job." She curled a little into herself, like Dean was trying to peel her apart. "I mean, I can't really afford to get drunk. It could end, uh, badly."

Something became sharp over Dean's skin. That wasn't it. It wasn't a lie, but Dean could read it all over Her—he wasn't sure how, but he could—that there was more to it. But that's not why there was a sore prickle rooted in his muscles. 

"Because you hunt alone."

She nodded, bringing Her knees up to her chest, and the ache worsened. 

"You could drink." He muttered, leaning back with a slight slam of his hand on the table. "If you'd hunt with a partner."

She sighed. "I'm not going to hunt with a partner-"

"Why?"

He'd snapped. He hadn't meant to, but the ache moved to his mouth and he needed Her to understand. To get that hunting alone was fucking dangerous, and would get Her killed, and he cared about that so goddamn much for no real reason. He shouldn't care. But the thought of Her covered in blood make his gut twist and his heart burn in his chest, so She needed to get it. Now.

She narrowed her eyes, finally looking at him. "Why what."

"Why won't you hunt with a partner." He grumbled, holding Her gaze. "What would make that so fucking bad, sweetheart?"

"Because, as I've told you all week, I don't need to.” Her words were firm, dropped to a hushed sneer. "Anyone else would get in my way."

"I haven't even seen you since the freaking house," Dean said Her name with a low huff. "How could that be getting in the way-"

"I'd be fucking babysitting." She hissed. "I don't need a bunch of assholes tell me what to do, how to fight, how to kill something, how to-"

"Be safe?" Dean cut Her off with a sneer. "Not act like you're too good for anyone else?"

"I never said that, you asshole." She was starting to hug herself, and Dean felt ill, but he wouldn't be the one to break. "I am not too good, I just refuse to be a little hunter fuck-doll beating bag."

Dean blinked. "What?”

She sighed in flat, unamused disbelief. "Hunter's don't have great track records with women. I mean, be fucking real, dude. It wouldn't be the monster's that kill me."

"You," he shook his head. "That's- There are assholes out there everywhere, that doesn't mean you just roll over and accept death-"

"So what should I do?" She raised Her brows. "Be your partner? Be you and your father's little fucking toy until one of you puts a bullet-"

She cut herself off, and Dean gaped at Her, fire crawling over his veins.

"I-" She swallowed, and Dean wished he didn't give a fuck how She suddenly seemed so small. "I'm-"

"Do you seriously believe," Dean muttered, unsure if the fire in his voice was for himself, Dad, or how She looked like a wounded animal. "That we'd- Shit, are you fucking kidding me-"

"It's- I-"

"Save it," He snapped. "We are not killers or fucking savage trash-"

"That's not-"

"You listen to me, Princess-"

"No! I just-" She sounded panicked. Cornered. "I’m sorry, I didn't mean it like that, it's complicated-"

He scoffed. "Not that complicated, sweetheart, you think I'm just as bad as that shit we hunt-"

"No I don't-"

"You do," he hissed Her name. "Drop the act. And, just so we're clear, I'd never hurt you-"

She laughed, shaking Her head. "You can't be fucking serious. That’s-“ She tensed, her face twisting slightly as she scratched at Her skin. "You don't get to tell me what I should and shouldn't do, Winchester. You don't get to act like you give a fuck if I hunt alone."

Dean's hand curled into a fist. "Nobody should hunt alone, it's, fuck, it's stupid-"

"I am not stupid-"

Dean huffed a dry laugh. "I got that, Princess. But you know what? I think," he leaned forward, letting the words fall out of his mouth before he could think about them. Before he could stop them. "That you're just too much of a crazy bitch to have anyone stick around."

It was silent, and She was just staring at him, her features moving through a million emotions that Dean couldn't understand. He'd won. She looked like he'd taken a knife right to Her heart, and she wasn't fighting back, so he'd won. And he couldn't fucking breathe. He felt sick, and faint, and freaking awful-

"Choke on my dick, Winchester.” She snapped, but there was something weaker in Her voice. Something that told Dean he’d hit on something fragile. That he was a piece of fucking shit that went for the killing blow because he couldn't help it. Because he was the very fucking, lower-than-the-sewers trash She'd just accused him of being-

He opened his mouth to say something, anything, to take it back or say they'd both gone too far, and he felt like shit and still wanted—despite literally everything—to start over. To at least ask Her to tell him the truth, to at least tell Her how hating her like this made him feel wrong-

But She was gone. She'd left the booth and stomped out the door before Dean could even make a sound, and he just goddamn sat there. She wouldn't come back, but he was still just sitting there. Dad was probably waiting for him, ready to demand a reason why he'd taken so long, but Dean still just sat there. Shit, they might have a poltergeist to deal with, but Dean wasn't freaking moving.

What finally got him was the waitress, making her way back to the table and saying some snide comment about his girlfriend not appreciating him. Dean didn't even spare the woman a look as he shot up, shoved past her, and marched out into the parking lot to find Dad and get the hell out of here. If Dad asked, Dean would say he'd taken care of it. Not of Her—She'd looked like he'd torn Her to shreds with his teeth—but the situation. She'd probably be gone by morning, not wanting to be anywhere near two mud and gut covered hunters. Near Dean.

Dad was still on the phone when Dean saw the Impala. Sitting in the front seat with a frown, the windows rolled down to combat the flat heat of air, speaking in a low, gruff voice to whoever was on the other end of the line.

"I don't care," he was muttering as Dean approached, his voice carried on the wind. "I can get the asshole no problem, Bobby, the poltergeist ain't my issue."

It was a poltergeist. If Bobby said it was a poltergeist, it was a poltergeist. She'd been right. And as Dean got closer, Dad obviously couldn't see him in the shadows, so he should probably say something to alert Dad that he was here

"Obviously it's the fuckin' girl." Dad snapped, and Dean froze. "Shit, she just shows up again? On another weird fuckin' case, bein' right about what it is, sinkin' her claws into Dean-"

Dad stopped talking—Bobby was probably saying something Dean couldn't hear—and Dean's breathing was shallow. He shouldn't be eavesdropping. Dad would kill him, and he just shouldn't. He trusted Dad, and if this wasn't something Dad wanted to hear, it wasn't something he had to hear. But She hadn't sunken Her claws into him. She'd just scratched him over his brain and scarred him, but Dad couldn't see that. She just haunted him, and drove him mad, and made him want to-

"She's the one Dean's obsessed with."

Dean frowned. He was not obsessed with Her. 

"She's a hunter alright. That moroi case me and the boys worked-" There was a small pause. "Yeah, moroi. Freakin' nasty little vampire baby shits. She-" Dad huffed, and Dean could hear the muffled sound of Bobby's voice. It sounded urgent. 

Then Dad said Her full name into the speaker, and Dean could hear his frown. "You heard of her, Bobby?"

Bobby must have said no—there was no reason for him to know Her—but whatever he did say made Dad's hands grip the wheel with white knuckles.

"The hell you mean you have to go- Bobby-" John groaned, the click of his phone being closed snapping through the air and Dean swallowed. The call was over. Time to pretend he wasn’t a piece of fucking shit that had been invading Dad's privacy.

Dean moved out of the shadows and opened the car door, Dad barely waiting for him to be seated before he started talking.

"We got a poltergeist." He grunted, turning on the engine. "Let's go."

Dean blinked. "Go? Like, now?"

"Damn right, now." Dad shot him a raised brow. "Why, you fuckin' waiting for somethin'-"

"No, sir." Dean shook his head, and Dad nodded, still watching him carefully.

"You take care of the girl?"

"Uh, yeah." Dean hated that the words tasted rotten in his mouth. "She's gone."

Dad nodded. "Remember, son. No pair of tits are worth more-"

"Then family." Dean finished. He'd heard that sentence enough to recite it in his sleep. It didn't matter. She didn't matter. Dean felt like a fucking asshole, but She didn't matter. "I know, Dad."

"Good." Dad muttered, pulling out of the lot. "Let's kill this fuckin' poltergeist and get the hell out of here."

—————————

Bobby doesn't know you're here. He thinks you're in Louisiana still, dealing with the kelpie.

You're not. You're in Illinois. Trying something on a poltergeist.

You'll tell him when you get home. Explain that you'd just wanted to test your ghost ritual again, and if you'd told that him before, he would've snapped that testing that stuff was dangerous, and the thing had already worked once, so there wasn't any goddamn reason to risk it again. 

And he was right. The rituals and spell and curses that had started to come to you in the dead of night—when it was just you and the White in the world, and the darkness became consuming—weren’t exactly safe to test on hunts. Not because of the rituals themselves, but because of the exposure. The danger of using magic where you could be discovered by another hunter. But you had to test them. You didn't know where they were coming from or how to stop them, but they always worked. You wake up and know that, if you said all these words and mixed these things together, you could make a veil between dead spirits and the living. A barrier that didn't kill the ghosts, but stopped them. A blockade that could be torn down, but bought you plenty of time and minimized any casualties. 

It was why Bobby wasn't stopping you. He insisted you stay far away from other hunters, and update him after every test to make sure you hadn't blown yourself up or worse, but he wasn't trying to hold you back. Convince you to just drown in the darkness until it eroded the White, and you lost control forever. But he still wouldn't be happy about the second test. And you could've justified it by pointing out that this was actually a poltergeist, so you'd had to figure out how to alter the ritual, but then you saw the Winchester's Impala in your motel parking lot. 

Which meant this it would be stupid to keep working the case. It meant you were in danger, because they were probably hunting the same poltergeist you were trying to do magical experiments on. 

Worse, it meant Dean was here.

And you're going to fucking scream.

He'd never left your brain. You haven't stopped moving, you never stop moving, but Dean has followed you everywhere. Into your head every second, still circling around his handsome face and pretty face and beautiful smile. Into the darkness when it started to slip out of you, fueled by an echo of unworthy and sick, edged with the phantom feeling of his body at your side.

He was in countless, lonely motel beds where you looked to the side and expected him to be there. He was on the curb when you were covered in grime and monster guts, and you looked up to find the shadow above you only a shadow. He was in your bag, because you’d never thrown out his shirt. It didn’t smell like him anymore—he was there too, in wet grass in the spring and the spice of cheap aftershave on a man in a bar—but you were still holding onto it. Holding onto Dean.

You weren’t sure what could make you let go. You’d even started to fish for information about him from Bobby with careful questions about the Winchesters. What they usually hunted, so you could avoid them. What Sam and Dean were like, in case you ever ran into them, so you’d know what to expect. If they always hunted with John, or if they ever went off on their own. Bobby would always give you a strange look and a short answer—whatever they ran into, they’re good boys in the same shit situation as every other hunter, and John never let them hunt alone—but you’d pieced more from what you already knew. Sam hated hunting, and Dean loved it, their relationship with John was complicated—you could’ve gotten that one yourself—and Dean was what Bobby called eager with women.

He slept around. He’d probably been trying to sleep with you, and given up when he realized that you weren’t easy. That you were tired and rough and so, so angry all the time. That you might be beautiful, but the same was a thunderstorm is beautiful. The same was a statue is beautiful.

Something you shouldn’t touch. Something you shouldn’t try to hold, even for a night.

Something that wasn’t worth Dean Winchester time. Something he’d seen, turned away from, and then left you. He’d left you because he’d seen you for what you were, and he hadn’t wanted anything from you in the first place, but he’d still fucking left you. And you hated him for that, because you’d been ready to offer him whatever he wanted. Against all reason and logic and caution, you’d wanted him more than you could describe. 

And against all your willpower, you couldn’t let go of him. Because you’d seen the Impala in the parking lot—the one you’d been searching for on every highway, in every small town and city—and the force of Dean is here had hit you like a hurricane. Everything had felt so fucking big, and you couldn’t hold onto the darkness in your body as your breathing became heavy and you attempted to keep yourself together. Nails digging into your skin as the wind howled through your room, the peeled paint on the walls cowering from you as your attention became vigilant, everything crashing back down into you when you bit down, and a lightbulb shattered across the room.

You’d avoided him. You’d hidden in crowds on the street when you saw him, and ducked behind shelves when he entered the corner store. You’d kept your shades angled so you could see the parking lot, and pushed down the way the White howled at the sight of him coming and going. You’d planned to handle the hunt in silence, and then just go.

The house owner was a sweet hippy who agreed to let you do the ritual when you told her she had the aura of a swan. You’d give it a few days after to ensure the barrier could hold, get rid of the poltergeist for good, and then leave without the Winchester’s ever even knowing you were here.

Then you’d seen Dean in the woods, and you couldn’t resist talking to him. He’d seen you anyway, so there wasn’t anything left to lose. And he’d still been so pretty, and your knees still felt weak, and the White still whined for him no matter how much of a dick he was being. It was insufferable, you’d left with darkness eating at your blood, and you’d looked back. You couldn’t stop looking back. Every time you had run on the street you’d turned around to see if he was frowning in adorable confusion around the busy sidewalks. When he was in the parking lot you’d checked to see if he was still pretty, even though you knew he would be. Of course he would be. He was an asshole like that. 

You’d looked back outside of the poltergeist house because you had to. You had to see if he was real or just another flickering dream, and you couldn’t resist the desire to see him—staring at you on the street and suffocating you with that same smell from last year—one more time. It’s why you hadn’t skipped town right after. It’s why you’d stayed so long in the bar. You just fucking had to. You could fight against his winks and grins and smooth words, making you smile when you hated him, making you laugh when you should’ve been running. It had seemed—for whatever strange reason—that Dean hadn’t told John you were here, but he definitely knew now, and you were certainly in very real danger. But Dean had carved you open again, and you’d stayed in that stupid booth until he’d given you a good reason to leave.

And it was a great reason. It would’ve been kinder to shoot you in the temple than say that. At least he would’ve killed you, and you wouldn’t have had to wage this war in your body. The war between your hatred of him, and how you want to go back. He’s such a fucking asshole, but you still want to turn around and go back. To ask him why he left, why he cares, how he seems to know your every raw nerve and if he's still feels this too. If he felt it before. 

You don't really want to know that last one. Because if he felt it before, that means he felt it and left. That he can feel it now and hates you for it. 

Because he does hate you. If it wasn't in his words, it was all over his face. How he’d laughed like you were just a silly little girl. How he’d looked right into you like he could see the darkness. How he’d grinned at you like a wolf, like he wanted to rip you apart. He sees what you are, and he despises it.

And you were fine with that. You despise him. He was an arrogant, smug, dickish, charming, controlling, annoying, handsome, caring, selfish, funny, sexy, adorable, funny, strong, sweet-

God fucking damnit. He was an asshole. He'd left you, he hated you, and you wouldn't fall for the cowboy-in-shining-leather thing again. You were going to take care of this poltergeist now, and leave town right after. Dean and John could be here another week trying to figure out if it was even dead for all you cared. You just had to go. Before this all got worse.

You've barely parked when your phone starts to buzz. You don’t look at the contact when you decline it—you don’t have the time—but then it just starts buzzing again. 

It’s Bobby.

You still don’t answer. If he’s in danger, he wouldn’t call you. If it’s an urgent question, he can handle it himself. If it’s a non-urgent question, he can wait for this to be done. If he was dying-

You almost pick up the phone. The thought flashes through your brain, a small stone grows in your throat, and you reach for the phone with a frantic movement. You’re about the dial him back when the first message comes through, and you sigh in relief.

You better call me back now, kid, we need to talk.

Not dying. Can be dealt with later. You’ll call him back when you’re done, because this will be quick, and you’ll get through it. You always do.

You’d convinced the homeowner to get out of town for a few days, to stay with her sister until you were done. The purification ritual was in the trunk of your latest stolen car—you’d meddled with the ingredients, giving it an extra kick—and this would be quick. 

There’s no blur as you start. You’re alert for your barrier to break—keeping in iron poker in your hands—but there’s no disturbance, so you just go through the motions. The basement is finished in five minutes, the first floor in ten, and you’ve only got two bags left when glass shatters downstairs, and the blur starts to cloud your head. Something cracked in the ritual, maybe because you’re almost done, but now you have to fight-

“Dean, you got the guns?”

You freeze as John Winchester’s voice sounds from down the stairs, and everything becomes too sharp. There’s a creaking sound from downstairs, the darkness is starting to spread up your spine and over the white popcorn ceilings of the house, you’re fucked, and the White is reaching out to-

“I got it, Dad, but I thought poltergeists-“

“Son of a bitch wants attention.” John snaps over Dean, and you might crush the bag in your hand. “We’re gonna give him some until he shows himself, and we find the asshole’s remains and burn them.”

This is bad. That’s not how poltergeists work at all—you’re a little shocked John thinks it is—and they’re going to fuck up your barrier, and you can’t tell them they’ll fuck up the barrier or John will turn one of those guns on you-

“Is the hippy chick home?” Dean asks, snapping you out of your panic as the White howls inside you. “I can deal with her while you take care of-“

“No need. Car ain’t in the driveway.” There’s a pause, and you can hear them shuffling downstairs. “Plus I know how you deal with the vics, Dean. We don’t need that right now.”

Something’s bitter in your mouth that has no right to be there, and no right to vanish at Dean’s grumbled words.

“I didn’t mean it like that, Dad-“

“I don’t care how you meant it. Focus up so we can get this shit done.”

There’s another few muffled sounds, an unmistakable click of a gun, and you’re moving before you think better of it. 

“Stop!” You’re almost shrieking—dropping the poker and shoving your last two bags into your pockets as you run down the stairs—and barely stop your body from colliding with Dean’s in the entrance hallway.

“What the fuckin’ hell are you doin’?!“ John’s roar makes you flinch, his rifle aimed right at your head. You take a stumbling step back as darkness wraps around your hands and your heart kicks into a rapid, frantic rhythm you can hear in your ears. John can see you. He’s going to kill you. You going to die, and they’ll burn your body, and shit you never called Bobby but the darkness is going to burst out of you and John’s going to kill you-

A hand steadies you by your shoulders, grass and spice and leather ease the darkness down, and you wish you didn’t relax into the warmth of behind you, that the pretty, rolling voice a little over your head didn’t soothe your panic.

“Woah, Dad, it’s just-“ Dean says your name, and John scoffs, not lowering his gun.

“I know who it is, Dean, that ain’t my issue.” John’s eyes narrow on you, hatred painted all over his face. It’s worse than Dean’s somehow. There’s something pure about it, like John didn’t have to look into you to see what an atrocity you are. He just senses it. “Why the fuck are you here, girl.”

“I’m hunting my poltergeist.” You snap, forcing your voice to sound angry and not terrified, your face to be a mask of annoyed and not painted in dread. “What possible other reason could I have.”

“Could be looking at real estate.” Dean mumbles with a shrug, and he’s still touching you. You can���t help but glance back as you jerk away from him, and the expression on his face is unreadable. Guarded but cautious, like when he’d watched you and John snap at each other in the booth. Like he’s waiting for a bomb to go off. “I hear this is a good neighborhood.”

You give him a flat look. “This house is haunted.”

He shoots you a wink, clearly fueled by you not just ignoring him. “Won’t once we’re done with it-“

“Once I’m done with it.” You narrow your eyes at him. “This is my hunt, Winchester. I was here first.”

“Poltergeists don’t respect dibs, Princess.” Dean snaps. “And you don’t even have a freakin’ gun.”

“I don’t need a gun-“

Dean lets out a dry, shouting laugh. “I take back what I said earlier, you are stupid if you’re about to try and kill this thing without a freakin’ gun-“

“You’re stupid if you think I’m just going to let you fuck this up-“

“We’re saving your ass from getting whacked by a poltergeist, some gratitude might be nice-“

“You’re getting in my fucking way-“

“You’re-“

“Enough!” John’s shouts over Dean, and you both freeze. You hadn’t realized you’d been shouting, or how close Dean had gotten. You can see his every freckle, every shade of green in his eyes, how his lips are slightly parted so his breath fans over your face-

“I don’t want you two talkin’ unless it’s telling me where the poltergeist is.” John hisses, and you force your body away from Dean’s. “We’re killin’ this thing right fuckin’ now, got it?”

Dean nods, bowing his head slightly, and you just glare at John. All you have to do is get upstairs place the last two bags, and you’ll be fine. If agreeing to work with them does that, you’ll do it.

You split up. John goes to the basement, Dean takes the first floor, you rush upstairs. The bags are in your pants, and you’re so close, but John and Dean are waving around guns and talking about ganking the poltergeist, and it can definitely fucking hear them. The paintings shake on the walls as the temperature drops, and it’s trying break through. You get the first bag just as the lights begin to flicker, and you sprint down the hall to the last wall. Just one more and it will be done, and you can leave-

“Fuck-“ Dean shouts right as you reach the spot, and your blood goes cold. “Dad! It’s on me- shit-“ 

Then he roars your name, and you’re moving before you can think. Grabbing the poker, half-falling down the stairs, and reaching Dean just as his gun is yanked out of his hands by nothing at all. His eyes widen as they meet your, his mouth opens to say something and-

“Dean!” You can barely hear your own scream as he flies across the room, his head knocking on the counter. 

His body slumps, and you’re not in a blur. This is a rush. Everything is wide around you, there’s an airy chill in your lungs, and the darkness is pouring out of you as the lights grow too bright and the windows bang on a windless night. The darkness starts to ignite over your hands—a phantom flame you’re not sure is real, burning and stinging at your skin—you whirl around, and, on instinct alone, shove the air. There’s a high, shrill, horrible sound of pain as the air goes up in flames, and then it all comes down. The room grows warm, the house goes quiet, and the darkness returns to you without a fight.

And Dean’s still slumped on the floor. 

“Dean!” You fall to your knees at his side—rolling his face to the side, grabbing his hand to take a pulse—and only notice John as he silently joins you, taking Dean’s face between his hands with a set jaw. 

You don’t know how long he’s been there.

You don’t know what he saw.

“What the hell-“

“Poltergeist.” You whisper, watching John examine Dean’s head. “Threw him across the room.”

John scowls. “You just let this shit happen-“

“I didn’t- I got the asshole.” You hiss, clawing at the skin near your nail until it stings. “House purification ritual, which I was already doing before! Nothing would’ve happened at all if you didn’t jump in with fucking guns-“

“Just-“ John raises his hand, and you fall silent. You’re still holding Dean’s hand. You don’t let it go.

“He’s okay.” You mumble, mostly for yourself. Mostly to fight the bile in your throat at the sight of him, sweaty and pale, not bleeding but moving, eyes fluttering but not waking up. “He’s gonna be okay.”

You almost miss John’s strange look. You almost forget about the axe over your head, and how he might know what you are. All you can really think about is Dean. You barely hear John order you to stay here while he grabs the car, and it feels a little pointless. You would’ve stayed here no matter what. 

He’s groaning. Dean keeping making low noises of pain, and his hand keeps flexing in yours, but he’s breathing. Shallow breathes, but he’s breathing. And he’ll be okay. He has to be okay. It’s just a Poltergeist, not even a strong one, and he’s young and strong, and he’ll be okay. Your breathing has become a little uneven, and you can feel the White rioting and bellowing inside you as he shudders slightly, but he’ll be okay. You won’t let him not be. He feels clammy when you press your hand to his brow—your fingers brush his hair, and it’s soft, and that’s not important but you’re going to think about it for a million years—so you shrug off your own jacket and toss it over his body. He’s still holding onto you, so you don’t drop his hand. When John gets back you loop his arm over your shoulders, your own arm around his waist, and haul his dead-weight up until John grabs the other side. 

When you reach the Impala—you working in silence with John to slide him carefully into the backseat—he clings to you. John drops his arm and it shoots over your stomach, his head falling onto your chest as he makes another low grunt of pain. And there’s such little color on his face, and he’s still shuddering when you move the jacket back over him, and you could fix this. You’ve never healed anyone before, but you could. You can feel the darkness moving into the tips of your fingers and over your heart as Dean takes a stuttered breath, and you have to-

“Get out.”

You look up and find that John has walked around the car and opened your door. “I-“

“Leave.” John grunts, not even sparing you glance as he speaks. “Now.”

You shake your head, and it’s a weak movement. There’s that feral instinct of survive still in your bones, but it’s not bigger than Dean. Nothing’s bigger than Dean. “No, I-“

“I ain’t askin’-“

“It’s not up to you-“

“My car. My rules.” John’s words sound pushed through his teeth. “Out.”

“I,” you swallow, glancing back down to Dean. “I could help-“

“You’ve done enough.“

“I could fix him!” You shout, and your sounds pleading. You feel like you’re pleading. It’s pathetic, and you don’t care because Dean makes a low, strained noise and you feel like you’re choking. “I could-“

“Listen to me very fuckin’ closely.” John sneers your full name, finally lowering down to meet your gaze. “The out of my fuckin’ car, and stay the hell away from my son. I don’t need you fixin’ him, because he’s not broken, and if he was the last thing he needs is some high horse brat making him weak.”

There’s a high ringing in your ears, and your voice is soft. “I-“

“He’d be fine if you hadn’t interfered with our work.” John snaps. “You’re out of your little pond, girl, and if I ever see you distractin’ Dean or fuckin’ with his brain again, I’ll put a bullet in yours. Got it?”

You nod, something vast and numb spreading over your chest as you carefully climb out of the car—making sure not to disturb Dean, or make his head worse—and leave John without another word. But you look back. You can’t help yourself from turning and watching the Impala pull away, from digging your nails into your skin as you cling to yourself until their headlights vanish around a corner. 

You’re already packed. Everything’s in your car—clothing, tools, books, makeup and hygiene products, first aid kit—and you could just drive out of town, but you don’t. You toss the last purification ritual bag into the truck, sit behind the wheel, just stare into the darkness.

You need to call Bobby. You need to go. John wouldn’t kill you with an injured Dean to care for, but he’d seen. He had to have seen. And not leaving now would be a death sentence. 

But you just sit in the car. Sit in the cancerous darkness that’s alight in your body, the image of Dean’s pained features burned into your eyes, flashing in front of you whenever you blink. All that boiling hatred for Dean is gone. Evaporated into thin air, leaving you ill and pained and empty. John was right. You hadn’t been fast enough, and Dean got hurt. Your barrier against the poltergeist made it violent, and Dean got hurt. You’re the sick one. It’s why he left to begin with. 

He was better for it. He didn’t need you—no one needed you—and John’s threat hadn’t been empty, so you need to drive away and never look back.

And yet you end up in the motel parking lot. Hunched in your seat as you wait for just a little proof that Dean’s okay. That you hadn’t held him and shattered him, like he’d shattered you. You’re there until the sun breaks the sky, until it’s beating over your head and you have to crack the windows. 

You’re there when your phone starts to ring, and you realize you’d forgotten to call Bobby.

You’ve barely picked up when he starts shouting, and you flinch away from the speaker. 

He uses your full name. First, middle, and Singer. He only uses your full name when he’s proud of you, or furious. And this feels more like the latter. You’re in trouble.

“You wanna tell me,” he hisses. “Why John fuckin’ Winchester knows who you are?”

“I, uh-” You swallow, twisting a ring with your thumb. “I don’t-“

“And I ain’t gonna buy your bullshit, kid, that shit doesn’t work on me.”

You sigh. “Bobby, look-“

“No, you look. I didn’t teach you to be a goddamn idjit dumbass,” he snaps your name, and you curl a little further into your seat. “You know what he’d do to ya’. Shit, what are you plannin’ on doin’ if you have a slip? If he sees that hoodoo shit happen?”

“Um, he might have already seen it.”

There’s silence on the other end for a long second, then a low, “What.”

“We just finished a poltergeist case.” You mumble, hoping he’s too angry to catch onto the why are you on a poltergeist case part. “And it attacked Dean. And I killed it.”

Bobby says your name slowly. “How the hell did ya’ kill a-“

“With my hands. I just, um, burned it.” You take a long breath. “And I think John saw.”

“And he just let ya’ off the fuckin’ hook-“

“Dean got hurt.” You whisper, and the words sting your tongue. “He was focused on that.”

“Balls.” Bobby mutters, and you can picture the frown on his face. “Well, you’re outta there now, we can-“

“No.” You sigh. “I can’t go, I have to-“ You cut yourself off, because it sounds stupid in your head. You do not have to make sure Dean’s okay. He hates you, everything logical in your brain says that you should be remembering how to hate him any time soon, and he’s not yours tocare about. John made that clear with his threat. Dean made it clear by leaving. But you’re still in the parking lot. And you still have to make sure Dean’s okay.

Bobby says your name through the phone, his voice slow. “You gonna tell me what happened last year. On that moroi hunt.”

“I ran into the Winchesters-“

“I ain’t slow, kid, I worked that part out. What happened that made you call me and flop around the house like a widowed fish for a week.”

You bring your knees up to your chest, shaking your head. “It’s… I can’t-“

“What if I ask if that was Dean’s shirt.” Bobby grunts. “That you were wearin’.”

“Yeah.” You drop your head back on the seat, letting out a heavy exhale. “It-“ 

You freeze, watching Dean finally step outside like he’s been summoned. He’s walking slowly, but walking, and he seems really okay, and he’s looking around the parking lot with a frown-‘

Shit.

You drop down in your seat, out of the view of the parking lot, and pray he didn’t see you.

“Bobby, I gotta-“

“You ain’t goin’ anywhere, we still got some shit to sort out-“

“I’ll come right home.” You keep your voice hushed, in case it could carry on the wind. “And you can yell at me there.”

Bobby sighs. “I wasn’t gonna yell-“

“Yeah you were-“

“No-“

“Lying is a sin, Bobby.” You smile, carefully pulling the car keys out of your jacket. “You’re not a very good role model-“

“Well, I’m gonna fuckin’ yell at ‘ya now!” He snaps, but you can hear the slight amusement in his voice. “Get home quick, and we’ll deal with this. John don’t know you’re with me, and unless Dean needs a week after your hunt-“

“I think he’s fine.” You mumble, craning your head up to see Dean gone from the lot. “I’ll be safe at home.”

“Not if I kill ya’ for pullin’ this shit on an old man.” Bobby grunts, and you grin he falls silent, a long moment of static before- “You okay, kiddo?”

“I’m okay.” You mumble, and you’re not, but you will be. You always are. “And I’m really sorry for-“

“Apologizin’ ain’t gonna help us,” Bobby mutters. “Get home, and keep outta trouble till we sort this.”

You nod. “I will.”

You’ll try. Dean’s still pulling at you in your chest and consuming your head, but you’ll try. If only for Bobby’s sanity, you’ll really try.

You’ll pretend you don’t stay in the lot for a minute longer to watch Dean walk back to his room, that you don’t glance back at the room as you drive away, and you’ll keep yourself away of trouble. 

Away from Dean.

End Note: I’d say this story is about to be John vs Bobby on who’s a better dad, but that would be like making a mouse (John) fight a dragon (Bobby).

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

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[dippedinmelancholy]

It’s been on my mind a lot lately, and generally I’m a pretty strong Rhysand hater without apologies, but I think I’m earnestly curious.

At the conclusion of ACOSF/HOFAS, how is Rhysand that different from Tamlin? How if Feyre the thing she was so against becoming?

Rhysand keeps her in a bubble so no one can touch her through her entire pregnancy. He lies to her about her own LIFE, subtly saying he’d rather Feyre die than lose the pregnancy and try again with Feyre ALIVE. He’s endlessly possessive throughout all of ACOSF. He rages at Nesta for daring to help save an entire race of people, threatening her with death AGAIN. He seeks to keep all of the Dread Trove items in the night court. He parades Feyre about the Hewn City to show off he did breed her, keeping up with his weird ‘mask’. He loses control of his magic when enraged.

Feyre spends her time doing what is the equivalent of “First Lady” things. Things she would have done in Spring. She helps the poor, hands out supplies, vaguely worried about funds though they’re so filthy rich (from a mystery fund! Don’t worry, Rhysand got all this money from completely good ways) that she doesn’t need to ever worry about spending too much or building too many houses. Yet, she’s not involved in real politics, trusting Rhysand to just tell her what happens. She only gets brought in for a vote for her OWN SISTER when a tie needs to be broken. When she tells Rhysand to stop berating Nesta, he just takes Nesta to a new house to berate her where Feyre can’t see or hear.

Tamlin loses control of his magic when he too is enraged. He sought to keep Feyre safe from people who wanted to kill her by keeping her with a guard. When she refused to listen, he trapped her in a house where no one could touch or get to her. He expected her to eventually take on the role of helping common people, expected that he would handle the politic end of being a High Lord. Expected to use tithe to pay for their ONE house. Expected eventually she would become pregnant with their children if they were lucky.

These are all facts. They’re all got some emotional attachment within the text, but these are the facts.

What is the difference between Tamlin and Rhysand that makes Tamlin abusive but Rhysand understandable? It’s not that Tamlin didn’t love Feyre, he absolutely did. He loved her so much he had constant nightmares of seeing her die. He loved her so much he wanted to protect her from EVERYTHING no matter the price. I just cannot seem to understand.

What is the difference between what Feyre was scared to become with Tamlin and what she is with Rhysand? What is the purpose of a High Lady versus a “Lady” of the court when she’s not involved in politics, and the things she is involved in, her entire court is content to lie to her about or ignore what she says?

These are the things I want to see discussed without the extreme emotional connection. These are the things within the narrative that drive me insane.

[24hrsoda]

Any thoughts about Jerry the Turkey?

Jerry has been pardoned (by Damian), however Gotham is no place for a beloved and unique pet such as Jerry. Damian can’t ensure that someone, or something, won’t eat Jerry. So Jerry was sent away to live in the Demon’s Palace where he would be cherished and cared for by Grandpa Ra’s.

Ra’s hates that bird. Jerry is loud, brainless, annoying, frightened by everything. Hardly as graceful or intelligent or pleasing to look at like the rest of the birds in Ra’s’ sanctuary.

No matter how many times Ra’s tried to lock Jerry outside in the gardens, the bird finds its way back inside the palace, and more specifically, in to Ra’s’ room. Makes itself comfortable on his bed, amongst his pillows. Leaves its feathers all over the place. If he didn’t think the bird so mindless, he would swear that the bird is doing this just to spite him.

He cannot kill it and feast on it, despite how much he wants to just to get it out of the way. It would bring him such joy, he would relish every bite, and pick every bone clean. But that would upset Damian.

And of course, Damian is not happy just knowing that Jerry is with Ra’s. The boy demands pictures. He wants to ‘see how much fun Jerry is having’. Either Damian wants to spite him, too, or he just wants to be assured that Ra’s hasn’t strangled that damn bird with his bare hands.

Alas, Ra’s would do anything for his boy. He cannot draw the line here.

With every photograph of himself with that beloathed bird they he sends to Gotham, he hopes Damian knows he is loved. Because Ra’s would never do such a stupid thing for anyone else.

[bwat5-blog]

Breaking The Cycle: Silco and Jinx's final talk

**Spoilers For Arcane**

The relationship between Silco and Jinx is wonderfully complex and dark. Father and daughter, teacher and student, but also haunter and haunted.... People love both of these characters and rightfully so. Even Silco who I have been so harsh on is a wonderful character in his own right. Brilliant, well spoken, and so tragically twisted he cannot see how lost he has become. Jinx, for her part, is the story of a little girl whose mind is ripped apart by the violence around her, and how through her own strength as well as the love and support of those she meets along the way reclaims her soul in the face of overwhelming loss.

What I want to talk about today is this discussion between "them" in the second to last episode of the series. I have done so in a few small ways over the last few weeks but never as a focus. And every time I have been surprised to read some of the thoughts and responses to this scene. So, to that end. I thought it merited a good focused look. To any who take the time to read, thank you so much. I hope you get something out of this like I do!

How We Got Here:

Okay, we are here to discuss that scene, but that is almost at the end of the show. I have written quite a bit about both Silco and Jinx, and their relationship. Therefore I am not doing a complete and total deep dive here regarding their past. But, as I like to say context is our friend. So to understand this moment, let's at least do a quick rundown of what lead to it.

Silco, Vander and Felicia were all very good friends in Zaun when they were young. Silco and Vander were the primary architects for the idea of Zaun but Felicia was very close with them. Silco and Vander swore an oath to create a safer Zaun for Felicia's unborn child, who of course is Vi.

Sometime after Felicia's death during their revolutionary activities, Vander blames Silco and almost kills him. Leading to their complete parting of ways, Silco losing an eye, and Silco completely reinventing himself from that pain and anger.

Taking revenge, Silco abducts Vander and causes the deaths of Sheriff Grayson and Benzo. During the attempted rescue of Vander, he tries to have Vi killed, and through his actions causing the scenario to begin with is responsible for the deaths of Vander, Mylo and Claggor.

Silco takes Powder for his own and raises her as his daughter. Teaching her to weaponize her pain and anger until she starts going by Jinx and becomes a part of his operations, spreading Shimmer and fear and death throughout the Undercity.

Silco is killed during Jinx's mental breakdown while trying to convince Jinx to kill Vi instead.

Now, a few things of note moving forward regarding their relationship that are very important:

Silco Did Love JInx- Despite the darkness of their meeting. I do think Silco loved Jinx as his daughter. He is shown to be very patient and defensive of her. He is extremely distraught when she is dying on the bridge after her fight with Ekko and even more so when it seems Singed may have killed her.

That Love Was Completely And Totally Toxic- As I stated in the beginning of this document I am not doing a whole run-down on their relationship again demonstrating Silco's influence. But for a quick example; Silco knows Jinx carries a tremendous amount of unresolved trauma over losing her family. She thinks Vi is dead. Silco finds out Vi is alive and the only thing he tries to do is kill her before she can find Jinx, to prevent losing her himself.

Jinx Loves Silco- At the end of the day, regardless of how their story together began, Silco matters to Jinx. She was with him during her formative years. She was so young when Connal died she probably barely remembers him. And she has mentally distanced herself from Vander as a father figure to protect herself. (I'm not saying she doesn't care. See almost all of season two as proof that she does. I'm just saying they don't have the same bond as they might have if things had gone differently. That's all).

Life Without Him:

In the wake of Silco's death, Jinx is alone. She and Vi are worlds apart, Vander is dead, Silco is gone, and the people of the Undercity fear her. But as the story develops she starts to come back to life, little by little. Growing "closer" with Sevika, Isha coming into her life. These things and more slowly start to open her world in a way that is more than death and destruction, especially when she reconnects with Vi.

But we do see hints of how Silco's legacy influences her.

Life With Isha-

In the months since the battle against Vi and Caitlyn, Jinx has found a measure of piece in living quietly with Isha. She stays out of the public eye. She has not fought against the Noxians or Enforcers. Her whole life is with this little girl who quite literally fell on her. And while of course there are bigger things at work, and we understand that this small world she has made for herself cannot last, we need to remember how we left things with Jinx. On her back, urging Vi to kill her. So how does Silco's memory intrude?:

Sevika comes in, wanting Jinx to take part in their upcoming rally. And when Jinx refuses Sevika grows frustrated:

S- "Silco spent his whole life trying to rally the undercity together.. stupid joke that it is, you have the chance to pull it off."

J- "I told you, I'm not interested".

S- "Do you know how much he sacrificed to protect you?!.. he believed in your potential". (As soon as she slams her fist down Jinx starts breathing heavy, glitching, eyes wide)

J- "well then he shouldn't have died!"

Cut to Silco's former office...

"Still giving me the silent treatment"

We listen as Jinx speaks to the open air, spinning Silco's old chair. What it basically comes to is she feels she probably owes him being that symbol (the idea of her owing him anything is completely outrageous but we aren't going there right now), but is afraid of losing what she has with Isha. She says he should speak up if he wants her to be his rebel leader otherwise, he really is gone. And there is no reason for her to stay.

Isha Taken-

Isha being taken at the rally is what drives Jinx back into the world against her will. Back into the violence and the death. And why did Isha attend that rally? Sevika came and spoke of Jinx's responsibility. Of Silco's sacrifice. Now, let me totally clear. Isha is a wild-child and was already doing stuff at the checkpoints and painting images for the rebellion. I am not putting this on Sevika in turns of blame. My point, is that it all comes back to Silco. Silco's shadow slithered into her peace and now, it's gone. And as we see, in this moment he is not comforting, or reassuring as a specter. He is another mocking demon in a moment of loss.

So what does this all mean:

The death of Silco, while incredibly emotional and traumatic for Jinx, was the beginning of her freedom. Even in death, Silco's reputation, his legacy, his actions, they all cast a shadow over Jinx that she cannot get away from. The people of Piltover see the monster Silco made her into, the people of Zaun see her as his heir. The one who can unite the Undercity in glorious revolution. All she wants is to be with Isha....

She can't get away from it. And through plot, and visual story telling the show is NOT vague about this. "Still giving me the silent treatment" implies she has tried to talk to him since his death. When does she finally see him? When she is angry, and scared for Isha, and pushing back against the shadows in her mind.

I am willing to admit that it's probably just my dislike of him (again as a villain he is amazing but I'd chuck him in a meatgrinder in person). But the way I see that image above is that after Jinx tearfully said he needed to speak up or it would mean he was really gone in his old office.. here he is laughing at her in a moment of darkness and rage.

"Haha, you wanted me. Here I am"..

In the Bunker:

J- "go away.. you're too late" S- "oh, it's a hell of a place. It says something about the late Marcus that he found imprisoning your sister to be a greater mercy than killing her" J- "killing isn't mercy" S- "a spark of rebellion still burns inside that husk, I see. No. Killing is a cycle. One that started long before Vander and me. And one that will continue long after the two of you. J- "I'm done running in circles' S- We build our own prisons. Bars forged of oaths, codes, commitments. Walls of self-doubt and accepted limitation. We inhabit these cells, these identities, we call them us. I thought I could break free by eliminating those I deemed my jailers. But... Jinx.. I think the cycle only ends when you find the will to walk away".

Okay, we come at last to the scene I really wanted to dig into here. Jinx is in the Kiramman bunker, not Stillwater as some folks seem to have missed. She has lost Isha. She has just spoken with Caitlyn, she is quiet, and weak, and sounds so.. so exhausted. Her hair is undone, she isn't eating, and she has been picking at the skin of her fingers. She is truly in a very dark place.

But it is so.. so different than the darkness we are used to from her. There is no glitching, no fits of rage or empty pained laughter. For all the pain she is in and the clear, crushing depression, there is also a clarity she has not really ever shown. She apologizes to Caitlyn in her way, she finally can see how much Vi loves her and how much she loves Vi in return. In giving up, in surrendering all of those horrible battles in her mind and laying them down because she intends to end her life, she is seeing things more clearly than she has ever been able to. And it is in this state we get the above exchange.

Now, I have seen some various gripes about this across several places. Here are a few:

Silco has been reduced to being a pro-piltover mouthpiece.

By hearing it from Silco we are seeing jinx hasn't really progressed.

The scene doesn't make sense because Silco would never say this.

Regarding the accusations of character assassination of Silco:

Silco as his own character, including his own story, beliefs, ideals and values, is completely and utterly irrelevant to this scene. This is not about what he would or wouldn't do if he were alive, because he isn't. At the risk of stating the extremely obvious, Jinx is alone in this place. But even as far as she has come her mind is still not whole. So in this terrible moment of loss and pain as she is on the cusp of a realization that will change her life forever, who Silco was does not matter. He is simply the pencil her mind is using to write the lesson in a way she can understand.

Regarding the accusation that seeing him means Jinx has not learned or progressed:

This moment is without a doubt, one of the most important moments in all of Jinx's development to me. She is seeing Silco because for better or worse she views him as a father figure. He has become the lens through which she at least partially views the world.

Remember this?:

When Vi was hurt, and alone , and wanted so badly to give up it was Vander she saw and heard in her mind. So as Jinx is processing this revelation, that she doesn't want to keep being this person anymore. She doesn't want to keep killing, to keep running in circles, to be a revolutionary or a terrorist anymore and she just wants it all to stop this conversation is how her mind does this.

Take away Silco from this moment and what are we left with: Jinx realizing that the only way for the horror to end is to walk away.

Let the message come from Silco in its way: Jinx's mind freeing itself of Silco's influence and what she feels she owes him because he is telling her it's okay to walk away.

CONCLUSION:

In this moment, Jinx is essentially, giving herself permission to turn away from the pain and death of her history. Away from the guilt of who she has been and even away from the corrupting tendrils of Silco's legacy. She applies this same lesson to what she does with Vi, giving Vi permission to start living for herself again and stop dwelling on the pain of their past.

Now of course, what she does with Vi is based in love, and right now she has come to believe that she herself is not worthy of said love. There is no good version of her in her mind. And thankfully she is able to be pulled out of that darkness by Ekko. But what we are seeing here regardless of her plans, is the clarity to realize that as long as she and Vi stay shackled to their pain, it will just keep repeating over and over.

Thank you for reading, have a a great day!

**Y'all I know I repeat this every time but I think it's important. So much of Jinx's story is impacted by her mental health especially the state she is in during this part of her story. I AM NOT in any way, shape, or form a mental health professional. I am just a fan doing my best to understand what I think is one of the best stories and one of it's best characters in my lifetime. Thank you**

[raayllum]

Right in front of our faces

So I've been thinking about self-eating a lot. Not only because it's weirdly on brand with everything in Claudia's arc (drinking her own blood, treating her own body basically as dark magic parts just for other people's metaphorical consumption, at least in her head, rather than for her own desires) but also because... Why, y'know? Why have this be a thing, why reserve it for the third arc, an arc wherein with the Archdragons gone Aaravos' main goal will be to dismantle the Cosmic Council?

In some ways, I think I was so focused on Aaravos' side of things—the easiest way to get revenge on the Stars (since they don't care about the destruction of their creation, not really, according to him) would be to kill them but he, for whatever reason, cannot do that—that I was missing the obvious other side of things.

Aaravos asks in 7x08, "Are you watching?" but wouldn't it be really bad for him if they were? What is stopping the Cosmic Council from transporting Aaravos to the same place they took Leola and permanently killing him, since permanently killing a Startouch elf is something we know the Cosmic Council, uniquely, can do? He couldn't stop them before when he was more powerful than he is now as a 'Fallen' Star.

Aaravos' plan hinges on eventually getting the Stars' attention, and they are presumably still at their full power, just no longer involved with Xadia. He is seemingly never concerned, even when making the choice to live and plot against them, that the Stars would just kill him the way they did with Leola.

Or maybe, perhaps, he already has a reason that they can't.

As he collapses in tears at Leola's trial, Aaravos' chest star is complete and right side up. After, presumably, 100 years of weeping, his star is inverted and the centre piece is missing when the Merciful One comes to see him.

The reason I brought up self-eating is because we see it's used as a form of chasing immortality, even beyond what Kim'Dael does. I've long speculated that Aaravos purposefully carved out his chest piece, whether to place it in something or to help create dark magic. He may not have done anything with it, even if it was on purpose, but I wonder... if he ate it, in order to ensure that the Cosmic Council couldn't kill him.

This is especially noteworthy since from what we see of Leola's trial, her destructive glow begins in her chest star and then spreads to her fingers, and the destruction of Aaravos' mortal form is radically different.

This doesn't really make sense. Leola was destroyed while in her mortal form, given that moments before she'd been living and interacting with things on earth, just like her father. Aaravos' destruction stems from the bite mark at first, but then begins elsewhere that's entirely separate (the foot) and never broaches the hands. Leola becomes entirely light, while Aaravos' body seems to be shattered, and does bear a striking resemblance to how dark!Callum crumbles in the 2x08 dark magic nightmares.

Furthermore, when Leola is killed and her star energy is sent down (for lack of a better description), we do see a symbol of a star being inverted, despite that not being a part of her character design.

We also know that Aaravos' body being destroyed differently in 7x09 isn't due to dark magic use, at least not in terms of his body. As of season seven, he hadn't done any dark magic in his new body, which is a soft reset. However, we also know that dark magic affects your soul/spirit (6x06) which would, presumably, be the same no matter the body in this case. Therefore, the reason Aaravos' body might've crumbled (beyond differences in execution style) might be because of the dark magic he's used that created a permanent hole in his spirit/self, and one that Leola, of course did not have.

I also think some of this in my head is connecting to the ideas of sacrifice. Other characters, especially parents, can sacrifice themselves in TDP canon in hopes of a better future for their children / the next generation (the three queens, the archdragons, Harrow, etc). Aaravos divorcing himself from the ability to sacrifice himself, especially after thousands of years with no daughter to speak of (until Claudia, but on her in a second), purposefully robs himself from the ability to make a meaningful contribution to the cycle. Death, permanent death, provides meaning and consequence, both things he's seemingly devoid of.

Sacrificing his ability to die (his heart) and at least, in theory, reunite with his daughter / no longer exist without her to ensure he can 'avenge' her is a hell of a thing, after all. And on a certain level, that seems like his endgame goal regardless. Even if all the above speculation is untrue and wily, unless he can execute himself, in destroying/killing (?) all the other Startouch elves, he will be alone and eternal... forever, with no way out, carrying only the pain of his child's death and withering satisfaction at punishing her murderers, unless he decided to eventually change.

Like I said: a hell of a thing.

[re-re-redline]

I am so glad you asked

What a Convo Between the Two Looks Like:

Rider: “……”

Saber: “………”

Rider: “……”

Saber: “………”

Rider: “Look, I’m so—“

Saber: “For the good of Rome, kill yourself.”

Rider: *Stunned silence.*

Rider: “…A-Alter. Just listen to me, I—!”

Saber: “Unnecessary. I already know and I don’t care.”

Rider: “………”

As you can see, Alter just cuts Constantine off anytime he speaks directly to him. He wants to hear nothing from him and is 99% sure he knows exactly what his creator is going to say next, and funnily enough? He’s actually right on the money most of the time.

Now, the contents of what he does say to Constantine vary depending on whose in the room with the two of them. He’s not going to say anything particularly inflammatory or cut deep with his insults if anyone else is around—Master especially—because he knows that someone’s going to jump to Constantine’s defense and that could start a fight. Hence he keeps it on the down low in public.

But in private? Oh, he’s not holding back. Alter constantly tells Constantine to off himself because, thanks to Alter now being here, Constantine is no longer needed in Chaldea.

Think about it. Alter is the ideal that Constantine made up of himself, he is THE BEST Constantine there is purely because of the fact that Micheal sees him that way (or saw due to Constantinople’s interference making it not so anymore.) So why would Master need someone like Constantine (Rider) when Constantine (Saber) now exists, hm? And if that’s not convincing then compare kits. Alter actually does damage and can survive way longer than Constantine can and ever will. And that’s all that matters to Master, right? Damage and survivability.

You see the picture I’m painting here? Alter constantly attacks Constantine’s insecurities when they both happen to be alone because he absolutely hates Constantine for giving Constantinople the material she needed to create him the way he is now.

And all poor Constantine can do is just stand there and take it because he knows Alter’s right about most of what he said. The one thing that Constantine will never ever concede to Alter is the fact that he is needed. Master NEEDS him and he knows that. His predecessors and the Holy Progenitor need him. His friends: Don Quixote & Sancho, both Vlads, Johanna, and so, so many more need him. He knows for a fact that there will be a Constantine shaped hole that cannot be filled if he were to end himself like Alter wants him to. And Micheal could never hurt the people he loves like that ever. …Unless he were giving his life for them, of course.

But yeah, Alter is not shy about showing his contempt. He just dials it down when other people are present to keep the peace. Though you can tell that he’s slowly getting angrier by the second when his sword starts emitting that ghastly cursed red aura from it. It starts off dim but gets to be an almost crackling and bright flame on his sword when he’s at his limit, it’s that apparent.

Thankfully for everyone, Alter doesn’t start on his own so the two can awkwardly sit in silence in a room together and nothing will happen. The two will just be sitting in envy of each other until one leaves.

Constantine is envious of Alter’s stoicism and ability to shake things off. He always tried to be that person when he was alive but just couldn’t hold himself together because of the immense pressure and stress he was under during those four years of his reign. He wanted to be the man his people deserved but could never truly fulfill that lofty standard he set for himself and that only led to his strong self loathing after death.

Alter is envious (as much as he can be) of Constantine’s ability to feel as well as his having memories of his family and friends in life. Alter wants to cry, to be afraid of dying and to feel weak or inadequate—he wants to feel all of the negative crap that Constantine loathes because that’s what completes a person. He also very much wants to feel joy and contentment like Constantine does. Maybe then when he finally gets his emotions back, he’ll understand why his chest tightens slightly every time he sees a family having fun. Maybe he’ll understand why he can’t bring himself to get new earrings, or why the person who gave them to him is so important to him. Maybe he’ll understand why he feels the ever so slight need to watch over Master like a hawk when they get sick. Maybe he’ll understand why…

See, the two of them envy what the other has not realizing that it actually sucks more than they think it does. They both simultaneously understand each other the most and the least out of everyone and it’s just… UGH! It’s both riveting and infuriating to watch these two interact for that reason. Ugh… These two need to reconcile so bad. You’d probably need to use a Command Spell to get Alter to not cut off Constantine mid-sentence and actually listen to him. You also would probably need to give Micheal a big pep talk so he can have the courage he needs to actually say what he’s really feeling. It’ll be messy but it is possible!

Endnote: I hope I answered your question! Alter’s pretty difficult to write dialogue wise because of how utterly dry he is, but that only adds to the tragedy of his existence. He could be more in that department but he just isn’t because he can’t be anything more. But you could definitely see on his face that the contempt runs so, so deep. Hence why he solely stabs at Micheal’s insecurities whenever they get to talk alone. A precise set of strikes that tells Constantine all he needs to know about what Alter thinks of him.

Alter would probably explode in anger—and yelling at the top of his lungs and grabbing Constantine by the collar and shaking him kind of anger—if they weren’t in Chaldea. The walls are thinner than they look and Alter, yet again doesn’t want to start anything with anyone else to keep the peace. That’s Alter at his most animated, otherwise he’ll be snarling and fuming at his creator. Shooting him dirty looks when he thinks no one’s looking and what not.

But that’s all I got for now. Thank you for your kind words and sharing your thoughts! I loved answering.

Have a good day, and I’ll be seeing you!

—Redline, over and out!

Constantine XI Alter (Saber)

>Spoilers for Constantine’s Interlude<

Foreword: This was supposed to be a sketch, I swear. But on another note, I am alive! Just slowly working up to writing after a few hectic weeks. But the train is moving, just very slowly which I imagine is nothing new. One thing I HAVE been getting up to is my painting of portraits of my blorbos for their birthdays. I suck at drawing anything festive, so I hope the quality of the piece makes up for it, hehe… I have Constantine’s done and I am extremely proud of it.

Buuut that’s in February, so let’s get into my explanation and thoughts on this hypothetical of my boi! Starting off with…why he looks like this.

(I would also like to note that I haven’t ran this through TTS yet so there probably is some grammatical errors and for that I will apologize in advance, I will iron them out soon.)

On the Subject of Appearance:

Alright, obvious and iconic Alter color palette aside, what’s up with the vast amounts of white? Because… Our guy wears black mostly in his first ascension and then dies it down in his second by adding a LOT of red, so it’d make sense his alternative would be set apart by having him wear and have the color white. Plus it illustrates just how DIFFERENT he is compared to Micheal, how opposite or perhaps…opposing he is. But more on that later. (Also I was planning on this being just a sketch so I wasn’t really thinking of coloring anything until his second ascension when I realized I would have to in order to communicate how different he is from Constantine and it kinda snowballed from there. Oops…)

Now…about the, uh, cracks on his skin. THAT is marble. Sections of Alter’s body are petrified marble with a few dry cracks in the skin. Why? Because of the legend circulating after his death of him being a marble statue. It’s like how Hans has mermaid scales and how Okita will forever have tuberculosis, Alter’s body along with several other things were affected by how people saw him. I’ll get into it more later.

But! There are some cool things, or not cool rather, to note about the marble patches on his body. Like how a lot of pain he’d feel is nullified by it thanks to lack of, y’know, nerves. This also goes for sensations in general as he wouldn’t know if you were tapping him on the shoulder or were pouring boiling water on that spot. So yeah, sections of his body cannot feel but can still move just fine. It doesn’t impede his movement at all! It just…cracks a lot.

If you ever see him stretch and pop his spine, you will not only hear the snapping of bones but also stone splitting. Don’t worry, it’ll fix itself so you don’t have to worry about him sustaining major damage from just moving around. It’ll just take some getting used to.

Now. You may have noticed that the marble patches grow more the further into his ascensions he is, to the point where his armor receives patches of marble on it too. Now this wouldn’t even be something to mention if not for the fact that I’d like to think that anything new he wears in his 2nd and 3rd ascension starts petrifying slowly over time. Not all the way but enough to the point where it gets to be a chore doing laundry.

But yeah, that’s all I got for his design so far. On to the next!

On The Subject of Class and Gameplay:

If you play JP or have Clairvoyance then you already know why its not the obvious choice. Because his legend mentions specifically that the angel who wakes him up will give him the sword he used on his final day. So it’d make sense that his class would change to Saber.

Now. In this hypothetical where I’m the one designing him as a unit. I’d imagine his gameplay to be like so:

2 Buster Cards with 5 hits, 2 Arts Cards with 4 hits, and 1 Quick card with 3 hits. Same card numbers but different hits.

His NP would be an Offensive Buster NP that does the following: Increase Buster Card Effectiveness for 3 Turns, Increase ATK for 1 Turn, Inflict Curse, Deal Major defense ignoring damage to one/all enemies, Restore HP by 2,000 (effect increases with Overcharge), Apply Resistance to Death by 5000% for 1 time (non-stackable) and Apply a stackable Guts for 5 turns that restores half of Constantine XI Alter (Saber)’s HP upon Death.

That is one hell of an NP that not only hits hard but also provides major survivability which is what Constantine is all about. Now, I could quite decide if he should be a Single Target or an AOE but I do imagine his gameplay to be your awesome clutch soloist unit for CQ’s, Advanced Quests or boss fights. Is this really cool hypothetical NP is a showing of my massive bias? …Maybe. But that’s not important, onto the skills!

Skill 1: The Ends Justify The Means (A) [Cooldown at LV.10 is 6 Turns]

Increase Buster Card Effectiveness for 3 Turns, Increase ATK for 3 turns for All Party Members and Apply Target Focus to All Party Members Excluding Constantine XI Alter (Saber) for 3 Turns.

Skill 2: Demise Privilege (Alternative) (C) [Cooldown at LV.10 is 7 Turns]

Increase NP Gauge for Self by 50%, Gain crit.stars per turn for 3 turns, Remove 2,000 HP from all Non-Roman Party Members and Restore HP by 3,000 to self, Apply Guts to self for 3 Turns.

Skill 3: Legend of The Marble Emperor (EX) [Cooldown at LV.10 is 6 Turns]

Apply a State Where Upon Hitting an Enemy, Inflict Curse (1,000 DMG) and Disastrous Curse for 3 Turns, Apply Special ATK to enemies with Curse.

As you can see, Alter is a very selfish DPS that drains HP from his non-Roman allies to keep himself alive along with inflicting curse stacks for damage over time. He’s be a nice pair up with Van Gogh for that last thing. And much like his NP, he really wants to live and it’s going to be difficult to kill him. So yes! Soloist in the form of a Saber.

Is his kit too cracked? …Maybe. Maybe not. I’ll let you all tell me what’s what.

On the Subject of Composition:

Constantine XI Alter is a Saber class servant comprised of three parts.

The first and the largest portion—the base, if you will—is Constantine’s ideal self, dreamed up during his final years of life in the late 1400s. As we are aware, Constantine utterly despises how weak he thinks he is. He hates the fact that he feels like he wants to breakdown and cry so much, he hates the fact that he’s terrified of dying, and most of all he hates that he isn’t strong enough to take the current crisis in stride like he believed his idols would have. Thus, Constantine saw his ideal self as a man who would not feel fear in times of crisis, would not cry when he was losing, and would not break under pressure. A truly stoic and strong leader that can handle any sort of disaster, that is to say: an emperor who wins and survives.

The second part that makes up this servant are the wishes of the people of Constantinople. After Constantine death, a rumor floated around that the emperor had not died. He was rescued by an angel at the brink of death and turned into a statue. He would then sleep in a hidden cave underneath the Golden Gate of Constantinople awaiting the call of an angel who would restore his form and give him the sword he used in the final battle. It was a lovely thing to hope for and believe in, thus that rumor turned into a legend backed by the hopes and dreams of the people. It is this that would have completed this variation of Constantine had it not been for…

The third and final part is less of a ‘part’ per se and more of a distortion of what already existed. A wild, vengeful anger and grief corrupted what would have been the lovely culmination of the ideal self of Constantine plus the people’s hopes and dreams and twisted it into a cold automaton hellbent on continuing the existence of Rome as he knew it no matter the cost. These intense negative emotions came from the one and only Constantinople herself. When our favorite emperor perished and the Ottomans took over, there was no one as throughly stricken by grief—if we ignore George and Constantine’s remaining family—as Constantinople. It was pure agony to watch her people be murdered, enslaved and violated for days with the subsequent rebuild and installation of new buildings hurting too. But the most painful thing of all was watching her subjects slowly disappear one by one: people she watched grow up and live life for centuries on end vanishing never to return until all that was left was a large group of strangers who now occupied that space. It was maddening to say the least. The result was a lot of time passing and the events of Constantine’s interlude (yes, I read a summary of it and it could not come sooner for me.) While Constantinople WAS forced into slumber through the battle, much like the emperor she is so deeply connected with, Constantinople made a final last ditch effort to have her and Constantine’s wish come true. Thus creation of an Alter of Constantine XI as well as a new singularity set shortly after the death of the real Constantine came to be.

On The Subject of Personality:

Alter is barely like the man we are familiar with, he would be practically unrecognizable if his face and voice were different. The most glaring difference is the lack of any expression on this man’s face. The muscles on his face only move for three reasons: he’s speaking, blinking, or the boiling rage underneath his skin has erupted upon the mention or appearance of the Ottomans. He just carries that same deadpan expression no matter what happens, good or bad. This is due to Constantine’s wishes to be a truly stoic man down to his core. Though, thanks to the distortion caused by Constantinople, most of his other emotions have been muted to make room for the, and I quote: “Boiling Rage™ that is 100% necessary and important to the restoration and maintenance of the Byzantine Empire. Yup, totally required. Why? Because screw you that’s why!”— Constantinople, circa Right Now. I jest, I jest. But really. Alter is either having tiny tinges of emotion flittering around in his skull sometimes—you know like the alleged to exist fruity taste of La Croix—or pure and absolute anger, no in between. Thankfully, for masters, the percentages of the anger is incredibly low unless for some odd reason you have Ottoman Turks that keep appearing left and right in your area.

Unlike our friend Micheal, or any sapient being really, Alter doesn’t really…have opinions. He’s just neutral about most things in the world and mostly shrugs at whatever he’s interacting with. Good weather? Okay. Great food? Okay. Amazing friends? Okay. The milk went bad and the store’s closed right now? Okay. You stepped on the corner of five different Lego blocks on your way to the bathroom? Okay. Your pillow is scorching hot and you can’t sleep? Okay. Several hundred people just died in utter agony? O—you get the point. I’m sure you know the one exception that Alter has, but allow me to provide you with one and we’ll get into another in the next section. The red earrings on his ears, cracked beyond belief yet still hanging just fine… Yes, Alter likes those. That’s why he hasn’t taken them off or removed them. Why? Well… He vaguely recalls someone important to him gifting him these. That man, after helping Constantine put his on, took out another similar pair and placed them on his own ears. He then said: “Now we match! Plus, I’ll be able to pick you out in even the most dense of crowds, my lord, as these earrings are one of a kind.”

(Yes, I headcanon that George gifted Constantine his iconic red earrings and has a matching blue pair for himself so that they both kinda match but hold their individuality all the same. A nice little thought that warms my heart.)

On The Subject of Speech:

The way this man talks is so dry and bland that one would think that Alter is bored out his skull by simply existing. His voice is so flat and borderline monotone, no effort to emphasize anything or even to make digesting the info easier. And to make matters perhaps worse he doesn’t talk much and tends to make what little he does say compact. It’s a flavorless way of communication that only changes when, you know, the Boiling Rage surfaces.

You know how in Constantine’s Bond Profile #1 it states that he “sometimes speaks more roughly in times of duress?” (Or “a more crude tone” if we’re reading the fan translation.) Yeah, well that’s no longer a sometimes. He still doesn’t talk much but man is he swearing and being rude as hell when he is pissed. The imperial decorum that our Micheal lives by has gone out of the window and will not be seen again until Alter calms down. No, he won’t apologize to anyone. Don’t bother, it’s a fruitless endeavor.

On the Subject of His Knowledge:

Alright, what does Alter know about himself? He knows that he was crafted by Constantine to be the ideal version of him. He knows about the legend surrounding his death and that being the reason for the petrification on his body. And he knows about Constantinople messing with his Spirit Origin and his current reason for existing and the objective that comes with it. …That’s it. That is all he knows.

Nothing about his personal life or his family or his best friend who had his back throughout it all, nothing. In its place are vague and fuzzy vignettes of familiar people he can’t put a name or face to that appear in his mind’s eye from time to time.

Now, as for his opinions on what he knows… Uh, I’ll just get the one with the least words on it out of the way first. The petrification thing? Yeah, he could not care less. The patches of marble on his body don’t limit his mobility any and yeah, the petrifying of his clothes is kind of annoying but it’s slow enough to where it’s not that big of a deal. It’s whatever.

Now. As for his creation—that being Constantinople messing with him and him being Constantine’s ideal self—he has a…not very good opinion on the two. And by that I mean he absolutely hates them.

He hates Constantinople for twisting his already good spirit origin into what it is now and placing within him an undying anger. He also hates her for basically using him as a tool to get what she wants all because the ‘real’ Constantine rejected her wishes, essentially using him as a replacement. Not good.

He hates Constantine for cursing him with the ridiculous traits of being stoic down to his core as well being the ‘perfect’ emperor for his people. Because of that, not only does he not FEEL anything at all but he also has this immense pressure in his very soul that he MUST have Rome survive at all costs and that he must solely devote himself to that cause with every fiber of his being. Yes, the severity of those traits were caused by Constantinople’s anger and grief distorting him but the base traits were all on Constantine.

Now, in Constantine’s defense (because I am a Constantine defender), he had no idea that this would happen let alone that an Alter of himself based on what he saw as his ideal self, the emperor his people deserved and would suit them best, even existed in the first place. It was a dream to him. A dream of a man who was much better than he was, doing way better than he is and winning all at once. That is all that Alter was to him then and what he was to Constantine before the singularity.

Endnote: Whew… That was a lot! But I think that was I’ve got on Alter. As you can see, I’d been doin’ a big think on him and he was a very fun character to design both artistically and in writing. I h Endnote:

Whew… That was a lot! But I think that was I’ve got on Alter. As you can see, I’d been doin’ a big think on him and he was a very fun character to design both artistically and in writing. I hope you don’t mind the crumminess in the piece, if you can even call it that. I wasn’t joking when I said it was supposed to be a sketch hence the noticeable climb in effort across the ascensions.

In other more exciting news… I have 10 followers! Ten whole people! That’s enough to get one of those long tables at the fancy restaurants with!

It’s quite the milestone, one I was not expecting. So, to celebrate, I’m going to bypass the order of things I WANTED to get through with before I did this sort of thing—since I didn’t think I’d get 10 followers, honestly. But, I will be dropping a poll sometime soon—before the day’s end Nope, way too sleepy right now.—of a few headcanons you guys can choose from for me to do next! And not JUST for Constantine, Mehmed, or Sannan—no, no. I will also be tacking on my two other blorbos that I have neglected to mention, them being Hajime-chan (my strongest Saber) and Izou (my strongest Assassin.) So it’ll be Multi-Core Headcanons (haha), five people in one list. And don’t you worry, it won’t be like, one paragraph long or anything half-assed. That shit will be long, like 4k minimum per person which would—if I strictly hang around that number—would be a 20k long HC list.

So case in point! It’ll be a celebration and I implore you to vote.

But yeah. That’s all for this post. I’ll also be posting something else shortly after that is NOT the poll but a nice occurrence for lil’ ol’ me. If you have questions, comments, a desire for elaboration or a keyboard smash of your thoughts, let me know! And I’d like to thank you all for indulging my delusions today and before today and I hope you all have a great day.

—Redline, over and out!

[zephemeral]

Do you think when he dies, his eyes hit pause?

[shannonsketches]

[birdseyeart]

' You told her she could do anything, and, for you, all she wanted to do… was be kind. '

Enver & Dirge

[lbhslefttiddie]

a few Thoughts on the matter (somewhat long?):

the separation anxiety is real bad. yqy is no longer able to trust that sqq will not die or perhaps just vanish the Second yqy turns away. this drives sqq a Little bit insane bc for a minute he thinks yqy thinks he's not capable of taking care of himself. yqy is just not fully able to believe this is real and that he isnt going to lose xiao jiu all over again (and again, and again, and again—)

its only a matter of time before sqq figures out yqy's whole Thing is something that cannot be attributed wholly to poor teaching or care while he was gone. its fun bc in this world theres literally no one at all who could know the truth besides yqy, who is, of course, incapable of speaking about it. sqq is piecing together a working theory about some sort of curse he encountered during the time they were apart that deeply traumatized him, but whatever it is, it seems no one else ever found out about it....

honestly its good for the prev sect leader that the xuan su/ling xi caves bullshit isnt a thing anymore, because if it was sqq would have eventually pinned the prev sect leader as responsible for how deeply fucked up yqy is (which isnt wholly unfair) now and probably would have killed her lmao

yqy has lost all ability to pretend that sqq is not always his first priority. he wears the visage of placid geniality and reliable older brotherisms easily, because its worn itself into his skin over countless lifetimes, and he has not changed in that he is generally kind and avoids conflict, but when if comes to sqq he is not capable of remaining mild anymore. man cant even pretend to listen to the other side, if sqq says it went like this then it went like this, and he gets real threatening real fast when something presents itself as a risk to sqq. and everyone just has to sort of Deal With It, because yqy is Insanely Fucking Strong in this au, and sqq is, somehow, actually the only thing keeping him from tearing the world apart at the seams or otherwise tanking the sect

sqh never makes it to sect leader; yqy already knows about his future betrayal, so the instant sqq clocks the suspiciousness of him not dying from that one demon encounter his ass is getting investigated to hell and back; if he is caught he would get executed; though, given the cleverness and sheer drive to not die that fuels sqh (either iteration), its possible he would avoid that fate, whether by fleeing the sect or covering his ass well enough, but he will never be trusted enough to rise to peak lord in this life

yqy is so caught up in the I Don't Need Anything Or Care About Anything As Long As Xiao Jiu Is Okay mentality that romance does not even exist in his mind, and if it did, he would never dare threaten what he has for something that he doesnt need. sqq, however, is going to eventually decide that the best way to communicate that he isnt going anywhere is for them to get married

though he still went though most of his canon childhood trauma, sqq is much better better off emotionally here, because A) it is not even possible to doubt that yqy cares about him more than anything in the world and would have saved him if he could and that he tried so, so hard, and B) fussing over the mess that is yqy keeps him thoroughly occupied such that he cannot wallow in self hatred or start beefing with preteens or what have you

this does probably fall into the category of aus where lbh goes to bai zhan instead of qing jing because sqq could not give a single shit about lqg in this world

funny enough there is like a 70% chance lqg dies in this universe. theres a non-zero chance that with yqy unable to part from him that sqq just wouldn't end up going into secluded cultivation at the time that lqg is in the ling xi caves, and if he goes into seclusion With yqy there's like a 50/50 chance yqy would kill lqg himself. it might mot even be on purpose too, if qi deviating lqg tried to attack sqq, yqy could possibly smack him aside and do enough thoughtless damage then, considering his own strength and lqg's weakened state, to accidentally kill the guy. but also theres a definite possibility of him killing him on purpose for attacking sqq

if lqg dies then i think it would be so funny if lbh and lmy got together (not romantically; lbh definitely wanted to smash lqg in this au) to exact revenge on yqy but like. nothing comes of it ever. bc what are they gonna do? yqy is stronger here than he was in pidw canon, and with sqq always at his side all his weaknesses are covered. sqq himself could of course be identified as his primary weakness, but the man is untouchable in this au, both physically and in terms of his reputation; yqy is the one who killed lqg and straight up fucking said as much as soon as they left the caves; sqq is a distant master in this au but not abusive, he probably doesn't even remember lbh exists; hell, he possibly doesn't even know that ning yingying exists in this au, and even if he did he doesn't have a reputation as a lecher, and lbh and nyy likely never even met; yqy specifically made sure to kill qht so that she could never come back to punish sqq for letting her live, and with that there is no one left alive besides themselves who knows they once were slaves, nor of sj's involvement with wyz; sqh has been dealt with years ago, which means the immortal alliance conference demon invasion never happens, which means lbh never falls into the endless abyss, least of all by sqq's hand (and even if he had its not like anyone in the cultivation world would fault sqq for killing a heavenly demon in itself), which also means lbh will never find xin mo or become as powerful as he did in pidw. and even if they HAD things to accuse sqq of, his standing amongst his martial siblings in this life if MUCH better than once it was; they will stand for him in the name of sect solidarity.

all of this is to say that lbh and lmy might try some plots but nothing would ever come of it; perhaps eventually they will leave the sect in anger and end up falling in with the huan hua palace master, and perhaps this would eventually lead to an intersect war, perhaps, but nothing would come of that, either, and there's no guarantee that even the hhpm would try to fuck with that (gesturing at yqy) in this lifetime

equally likely that what would actually come of it is lbh finding out the truth about sxy and tlj and tanking hhp from the inside. as he deserves.

meanwhile lmy has split from lbh once its become clear they weren't going to get anywhere in avenging her brother and has since found herself in good company at tian yi overlook

in the 30% chance that lqg doesnt die in the ling xi caves, he may or may not become a fun occasional addition to qijiu sexytimes

more seriously, sqq and lqg do not have the same animosity they did in their original lifetimes. lqg still respects yqy for his strength but he does recognize that if sqq were a different person, he could have had yqy destroy half the world before anyone managed to stop him, and to recognize that he necessarily has to respect sqq as well. it helps that there aren't any sussy rumours about sqq in this life fro them to fight over.

meanwhile yqy remembers that in lifetimes where lqg has lived past the caves incident, he has been willing to put his life on the line to defend sqq, which is like the only metric by which he measures anyone's worth these days. sqq, for his part, can appreciate both the value of a dedicated guard dog who is capable of leaving his side for extended periods of time, and the physical prowess and stamina that accompanies the bai zhan war god's very pretty face

suddenly seized with the desire to write/draw a few short little scenes from the world after the events of You Can (Not) Redo (the uh. the yqy timeloop fanfiction. not the evangelion movie which i named it for) because it is, generally speaking, a happy ending, but also yqy is left deeply, deeply broken in ways that would be both fascinating and hilarious to explore

[gingermintpepper]

hi I love your tags so so much! they were so sweet and so interesting and creative and the whole Aphrodite type of beauty thing sounds really interesting do you have any articles and recommendations to read further into it??

-hogoflight

Hello my fine feathered (I am assuming possession of feathers if you are, indeed, capable of flight) @hogoflight! I'm always always happy to hear that people appreciate my frenzied rambling in the tags :D! I have a lot of articles and recommendations :D!! Ancient Greek notions of beauty and representations of it in their art and sculptures is a pretty well studied topic! There isn't any way for us now to know definitively what the beauty standard was (it varied widely from region to region and culture to culture after all) but here are a couple of my favourite reads about Aphrodite and what her representations tell us about idealised beauty!

Probably the most empirically extensive one I can list is Krönström's thesis which compares statues of Aphrodite and literary text referring to both the goddess and mortal women to determine physical ideals for women in five specific eras of Grecian antiquity. Including measurements of the statues there are many descriptions of Aphrodite as 'curvy' with a 'voluptuous figure' and with 'ample buttocks and bosom'.

"When the beauty traits are described in the texts, they are never extreme or anything that could not be found in normal people just that they are more beautiful in every aspect. Furthermore, the sculptures’ physical forms look healthy, they are tall and have distinct curves. Great examples of this are the Knida sculpture and de Milo (the Melian) sculpture."

Of course, these images are still idealised, and there was still a concept such as 'too fat' or 'too skinny' found in written records (and this thesis even includes analysis of pornographic writings and descriptions of the fashion and stylings of pubic hair of women from different regions!!) but from an interpretational standpoint? There is absolutely no reason why these can't refer to a fuller figure. Height was also a very important factor after all and over the course of many eras, it seems like being well proportioned in addition to the length and appearance of one's hair were the most important factors (and, like Apollo, greater beauty was given to those with curlier hair)

Mireille M. Lee's 'Other Ways of Seeing' essay which talks about the forgotten female viewers of Knidian Aphrodite which is also extremely illuminating on how Aphroditic sexuality and sensuality was perceived totally differently from the well documented male voyeuristic gaze (which was overly preoccupied with the statue's nakedness and therefore over-sensationalised the statue's physical appearance) vs women's perspective on the statue which is more centered on the beauty of simplicity in Aphrodite's garment and decoration and in her power and ability to captivate both in her finery and without it. I think it's especially useful in exploring the importance of finery, jewellry and adornment in representations of Aphroditic beauty.

"Some of the small-scale copies are heavily jeweled, especially those from the eastern Mediterranean, for example the Hellenistic gilded terracotta statuette in the Çanakkale Museum (Fig. 5) in which the goddess wears, in addition to the armband on her (right) arm, the following: a necklace with multiple pendants; cross-bands extending over both shoulders and hips, with a cascading pendant in the center; a coiled snake armband on the left arm and another snake on her left thigh, and a twisted anklet on her right leg. (The left leg has been restored, and might also have featured an anklet.)"

"Jewelry is especially associated with Aphrodite in Greek literature. As seen above, in the Homeric Hymn to Aphrodite, the goddess adorns herself with gold jewelry, dress-pins, and earrings in the shape of flowers (162–3)..."

Finally, and to me, the most important one in the argument for an interpretation of Hyacinthus as fat, beautiful and fundamentally Aphroditic comes from Brilmayer's brilliant brilliant thesis done on Aphrodite's work and influence in Archaic Greek Poetry which does away with all of that masculine preoccupation with physical proportion, measurement and bodily ideals for a focus on a Sapphic Aphroditic ideal centered in clothing, ornamentation and, most importantly cunning as symbols of Aphrodite and ultimately a feminine idealised form of beauty. This paper also discusses Pandora and Helen in these terms and it is just kind of a wonderful read tbh.

"Combining Homeric and Hesiodic elements with her own ideas, she [Sappho] alters the way female beauty is viewed. For example, the Homeric war chariot – a symbol of male, military prowess - comes to symbolise the totality of Aphrodite’s power uniting in itself male and female qualities. Having addressed the concept of beauty directly, Sappho then concludes that beauty lies in the eye of the beholder. With the help of Helen of Troy and her beloved Anaktoria, Sappho sets out to reinvent the concept of female beauty as a godlike, subjective quality that may be expressed in many ways, yet remains inspired by Aphrodite."

The conclusion to all of this of course is that Aphroditic ideal beauty is much more fluid compared to its stricter Apolline masculine standard. The nuances and understandings of both are of course, constantly being studied, analysed and scrutinised but really, if Dionysus who was both bearded and clean shorn, effeminate, birthed and rebirthed (and twice gestated!) and strongly associated with vegetation can be popularly portrayed as fat and handsome, why can't Hyacinthus?!

[brawngp2009]

🔨🔨🔨

[ahalliance]

how do i turn qantoine’s spontaneous marriage proposal to qetoiles into evidence of his early-days fear of qfrench drifing away and keeping secrets from one another

[bacchuschucklefuck]

(chuckles) Im so good at reading comprehension and my meat is huge

[warlockeye]

Bloodborne's cut dialogue altered my brain chemistry