#if you touch a grave you get a memory of the deceased in your brain for a fleeting moment

[gootube]

sin paz

[cosmicaddress]

ESPer talent: Necroscope

“I know more than you can possibly imagine. And what I don’t know I can get to know -- almost anything.” --Harry Keogh

Necroscopes are the very rarest types of ESPer, so rare that it is thought that there have never been more than three in existence at any given time throughout all of recorded history. Literally speaking, “necroscope” means an instrument for viewing the dead. While this is perhaps not the most technically accurate term—“necrophone” might almost be better since the psychic communication most closely imitates speaking—it nonetheless conveys this rarest of extrasensory talents well. A necroscope can communicate with the dead, speak with them, learn from them, and even at times, channel them. They have been described by those lying in their graves as light in the darkness because they are someone for the dead to talk to in their quiet isolation, a medium through which they can complete the things their deaths forced them to leave undone.

As we mentioned earlier, the dead lie in their graves quietly, no longer able to manipulate their body (at least so they think). There is no conventional way to communicate with the dead; they cannot read, hear, or speak. They do not know touch unless the person touching them is a necromancer, one with a particular psychic ability to rend the soul by destroying the body. Blind, deaf, and dumb, there is no way for ordinary people to reach them … but necroscopes are no ordinary people.

The activities of necromancers notwithstanding, the dead want to talk. The difference between a necroscope and a necromancer is that a necromancer forces his victims to surrender their truths under torture. A necroscope’s approach is gentler; necroscopes are typically accepted as peers, and the dead are willing to share with them. It’s human nature to want to show off if you’ve got something or to talk with anyone if you’re lonely. As a general rule, necroscopes are congenial people interested in bettering the world around them. Arrogant and hostile necroscopes often find their contacts have little to say. This rejection alone is usually sufficient to open their minds up to the sufferings of others.

Necroscopes bypass the ordinary physical media of communications and speak with the dead directly, one mind to another. Most of the time, it is equivalent to simply speaking with the dead, having a conversation as one would with any living person. Give and take, presenting thoughts as words, etc. This level of communication—words and sentences—is known as “deadspeaking.”

However, if the necroscope trusts the dead person (which they generally can, since few dead people are likely to double-cross the only person they can talk to), it can become a very intimate communication style.

The necroscope can open the channel wider, not forcing thoughts and knowledge to be throttled through mere words but instead allowing for gestalt communication—conversation not through granular words and sentences but through living ideas. The reason such communication requires trust is that, at these times, the differentiation between one mind and another begins to blur, and opening your inner mind to another consciousness is a concept most people are loathe to try.

This technique, known as “vectoring,” is how the necroscope can learn skills from the dead. By communing with the dead and living their experiences vicariously, a necroscope can build up a store of knowledge and training in a short amount of time. Vectoring can also be used to access the skills of the dead and use them as a sort of library for personal use. For example, with vectoring, a necroscope who speaks only English can contact a dead bilingual and begin talking in a second language using the deceased’s skills. This is how the line between consciousnesses is blurred, then: one brain can access the memories of another as if they were its own.

And if the line can be blurred, be sure that it can be removed altogether. This is known as “channeling,” and at these times, it may seem as though the necroscope is a person possessed. The two minds, necroscope and dead, become as one, each drawing on the full store of knowledge of the other. Not simply knowledge, though, but also fears, mannerisms, idiosyncrasies, accents, and style. For the necroscope, this is a method of quickly accessing knowledge that would otherwise take long months or even years to learn. Why study brain surgery from a renowned doctor when you can channel him right now and save your friend’s life?

The deceased gets a gift, as well, the chance to live again, only for a short while and in someone else’s body to be sure, but to live again and practice and display those skills which were learned in life and honed in the quiet of death. The channeled spirit must access the instinctive balance and awareness of the body that the necroscope carries with him, but the actions are those of the channeled personality.

When channeling, the necroscope cannot hold anything back if it is to work. He must yield control of his body to become a dual personality with the dead person in command. The necroscope’s consciousness is forced into the cerebellum and brain stem to ensure that the body continues functioning. It is up to the channeled personality to voluntarily leave the living shell, or else the necroscope must force the interloper out through willpower alone. This is why a necroscope should never attempt to channel a willful and devious person. To do so is to invite a long and difficult battle of wills with someone with nothing to lose.

[fuck-goes-on]

Honour

pairing/s: past din djarin x gn! reader because you’re dead

summary: din visits you after a long, long time and bringing grogu along to introduce him to you

warning/s: DECEASED READER (you’re dead, you’re gone, you’re nada), grief, mourning, angst, crying, big hurt but also big comfort, bittersweet, helmet removal, and you’re dead

note/s: somewhat a continuation and sequel to Creed!! this idea was on the whim, like i just thought WHAT IF- and now we’re here LOL this is uh third person omnipresent because i wanted to include what grogu was thinking and feeling KEK

masterlist

Why he came back, he didn't know. Or maybe he didn't want to know. Maybe he already knew but refused to acknowledge it.

As the Razor Crest descended from the sky and landed in a forest, there was a coo coming from behind him. He turned around to see Grogu tilting his head like he did whenever he was confused or questioning something. The kid was silently asking him why they were there with his big eyes, when his distress and upset was obvious.

Din sighed and stood up from the pilot's seat, reaching to carry Grogu up in his arms. His steps were heavier than usual with heart ache as they walked out of the ship. His ad'ika perked up and looked around in wonder, admiring the tall, green trees and the sunlight filtering through the leaves. It was beautiful to the child.

But not to Din.

Din brought him and his child back at the planet where he lost everything. The planet where he lost his life. The planet where he lost his soul. The planet where he lost his love. The planet where he lost his heart. The planet where he lost you.

Flashes of your smile went through his head each time he stepped on twigs and leaves. Flashes of those three fucking knives went through his head each time the light hit his eyes. Flashes of his arms holding your dead body went through his head as he slowly walked to your grave.

Grogu's ears drooped down as he felt his buir's hurt. He knew that his buir had dark memories on the pretty planet, knew that being there caused him to retreat into his self-loathing thoughts; He just didn't understand why. Why were they there? Why does his buir always put himself through pain and agony?

It all came to light as Din stopped in front of a mound of dirt covered in grass and wildflowers. Rocks stacked on rocks surrounded the mound and were weathered and aged with moss and cracks. Your name was still visible where it was carved into the largest rock at the top of the grave.

Din fell on his knees, clutching at Grogu so tightly that he squeaks loudly in surprise. His mind was racing with the days when you were the one who was beside him during his travels across the galaxy. When you were the one who made him smile so much the clan would think you were a sorcerer. When you were the one who soothed his nightmares and cries. When you were the one he took care of and the one who took care of him.

Not that he didn't love Grogu, maker above he loved his kid so much that he brought the womp rat with him to see you after so many years. Or, what he left of you.

Placing the kid down on the ground beside him, Din took a moment to just wallow in his hurt, to just let himself be overwhelmed with the negative emotions he pushed away and ignored ever since you passed. Back then, he would've surely lost his mind if he let your death suffocate him into his own demise, but now— Now he has his kid with him. His ad'ika that could have had another buir if you were still alive.

Grogu clawed at Din's cuisse, trying to get his attention as he climbed up on his lap. His buir didn't react, however, and that made him worried. He frantically scraped his claws on the shiny surface of buir's armour, the beskar strong enough that it didn't leave a single mark. When all he could feel was pain and heartbreak in the midst of emptiness, Grogu opened his mouth and wailed as loudly as he could.

Din snapped out of his spiralling thoughts and craddled Grogu back on his chest. His ad'ika whimpered sadly and scratched at his helmet, wanting to see his face. Removing his helmet was still a challenge to do, only having taken it off once and that was when— But he's slowly getting used to removing it for Grogu, for his clan of two.

As his buir bared his face for him to see, Grogu felt his usual smile of seeing his handsome father fall at the sight of his tears streaming down his cheeks. He raised his clawed hand to try and wipe the offending liquid away, and hopefully it would wipe away his buir's sadness too.

Din smiled weakly at his son's attempts at comforting him, at the touch of his son's hand. You would've loved him, he thinks to himself. You would've been a better parent than him, a hardened mandalorian bounty hunter, with your teasing and caring nature.

You would've.

Grogu complained out loud when he was placed down once more but quietened when Din looked at him. He pouted and fell on his butt, sitting with his back to his buir. A large, gloved hand rested on his head and stroked him lightly.

"Grogu..." Din said at last, smiling once more when his ad'ika swiveled his head towards him in response. Holding back his sniffles, he points to the rock that carried your name. "I'd like you to meet your other buir. My riduur."

The kid made a noise of confusion, turning to look at the mound and scrutinising it in his gaze. Blowing a raspberry, Grogu looked back at his buir unimpressed. He doesn't get it; How can he have another buir when he already has one?

"My ka'rta, my lover," The mandalorian gently explained, "They are clan even if they are gone." Din grimaced as his mind kindly reminded him of that fateful day you fell. He could see Grogu work it out in his little toddler brain, trying to understand what he said, if he could understand Din at all. But, soon, his son's eyes brightened and stared at the mound with a renewed light.

Din watched as Grogu shakily stood up on his little feet and walked closer to your grave. The womp rat tilted his head left and right, flexing his tiny hands before flopping face down on the ground. He sat up in concern for his child, almost picking the kid up to see if he was alright, but before he could, the kid wiggled his whole body vigorously. It didn't occur to him what Grogu was doing, and when it did, he almost goddamn broke down.

Grogu was hugging the mound of dirt, letting his face get buried in the patches of grass and wildflowers. His claws were flapping and hitting the ground like how he would hit Din when he's happy in his arms. He wiggled around for a moment until he found a comfortable place and curled up, cooing loudly.

The sight made Din crumble down and cry. Tears were uncontrollable as they cascaded down from his eyes. Feelings of happiness and sadness filled his whole being; Happy because Grogu accepted you as his buir so quickly after knowing who you were for a minute, but sad because you would never know his child— your child.

Laying down beside the grave, Din turned his body to face Grogu who was slowly drifting off into sleep. He wondered if his ad'ika could see his memories of you, if his ad'ika could somehow feel you. As he reached out to caress Grogu's back, it was almost easy to imagine you laying there on the grass with them, smiling brightly at both him and the kid and humming softly under your breath. It was almost easy to imagine you holding Grogu in your arms as you curled into Din's.

It was almost easy to imagine.

BONUS:

You murmured stories of your adventures with Din to the sleeping child on top of you, hovering your hands over his little body comfortingly. It surprised you when the child saw you, and more so when the child understood who you were. You turned your head to look at your husband, drinking in his aged but still handsome face. Reaching out to cradle his cheek in the palm of your hand, your soul hurting when you remembered you couldn't touch him.

You settled with just watching your lover fall asleep next to your son, next to you.

It was easy to imagine.

general taglist: @stillshelbs @pedroepascal @pedrocentric (oomf and kitty im tagging u because i want u to cry with me)

[herstarburststories]

He didn’t make it to 42

Pairing: Dean Winchester x reader

Summary: it’s Dean’s birthday, you go to visit him with some news and things that need to be said.

A/N: Happy bday, De.

Warnings: so much angst, mentions of sex, hopeful/happy ending (?)

Dean’s dead. It’s Dean’s birthday and he’s dead. You can’t argue much.

Sam denied the demon blood inside him, and that didn’t stop its evil nature from growing and gasping for his fresh air to the point he was almost shocked alive. Dean denied his dad’s destructive methods’ results for the longest time, and that didn’t stop the cicatrixes in every emotion he had ever shown. You denied the absence of Dean and that didn’t stop the bricks cracking in your soul. There’s only so far you can go with your eyes closed.

So here you are. Standing in front of an empty grave. You are bigger than the dull tombstone, yet you can’t help but not to feel tall, at all. How can you even start to talk? Talking to Dean used to be easy even when it got hard and now you’re feeling like a lost kid in a supermarket. Your snide thinking spells out his name with venom, saying it isn’t easy for you to open your barmy mouth and spill out contrarian shit because this isn’t Dean, just another meaningless symbolism that Sam promises that will help. The real Dean died almost a year ago, he was burned in a hunter’s funeral, the flames dancing over his body as the smell of burnt meat invaded your nostrils. Whenever you try to remember his fragrance, that manly aroma which you loved to scent each morning, all your brain can come up with is the odor of his skin and guts burning. The smell lingers like bad perfume, it doesn’t matter how many times you wash yourself with his soap-- that only broke your heart worse.

But today is Dean’s birthday. He deserves a visit, even if it’s not him. Then you go and attempt to deal with the desolation, push it away just a little, and pick up something from the enormous pile of things you wish to tell Dean. You glance at the cold tombstone: Dean Winchester. 1979 - 2020. Beloved son, big brother, and husband. Hunter. A hero. Simple definitions that can never make it up for who he was and what he meant. You purse your lips and cough a little, a gentle wind touches your cheek so tenderly. If you were still a believer, you’d think this is some sort of sign, Dean’s presence or some other pious hoax. All you do now is to remain in quietude, a deep breath. Ultimately, your voice comes:

‘’You didn’t make it to forty two, huh?’’ You scoff humorless, reminiscing to the multiple days that Dean said he wouldn’t go past 35. He did live each year like it was the last--- you aren’t sure if it's such a good thing. If you carry on like your days are outnumbered, you are silently entertaining yourself until death's knock on your door. ‘’I always hated when you were right. Let’s be honest, you had the words of a pessimist and the wants of an optimist. Still, if you were to be right about something, it would be about a bad situation. A nest with too many vampires, how crappy the motel’s bedroom would be, or how that third glass of wine would make me tipsy. So yeah, I always hated when you were right. And look at you now! You aren’t right, you aren’t wrong. You are dead! And I’m the crazy girl screaming at an empty tombstone.’’

You let out a laugh empty of joy. That’s how a hunter’s life is: you die and people stop talking about you because it’s too sad or too long gone to hold any pity, meanwhile the ones who recall about you go loud with all the spirits in their heads. You put your hand in the pockets of the heavy leather jacket that once belonged to a green eyed man who would be turning 42 today, some strange force causing you to speak again.

‘’Wow.’’ You shake your head to the blue way you paint the scene until you notice that you never greeted him. ‘’Hey.’’ The simple word adds a comical insult to injury. ‘’Guess the dead don’t care about manners, huh?’’ You arch your eyebrows with a grin that demonstrates anything but happiness. ‘’Miracle died. Sam digged a hole next to the bunker and buried him there. He isn’t the same since you died, you know? Not the deceased dog-- Well, he wasn’t the same either. Always whining and scratching your door like a fucking cat, and sniffing your old boots. He made me company in your bed and I whined as much as he did when you didn’t come back home that day. He stood by the door most days, waiting for you to appear. I can’t judge him, I did the same.’’ You shrug, not caring about how risible that confession may look. It's true. You became as irrational as a loyal dog at some point in this sorrow. ‘’And Sam, your baby brother… I think he died with you right there, Dean. He didn’t try to bring you back as he promised, but I shouted and screamed so much. I said I would burn the bunker and throw Baby over a cliff if he didn’t-- if he didn’t let me try. I lived up to the mad woman title.’’

You are crestfallen, pacing on top of where the eldest Winchester - Sam’s brand new nomination -  supposedly was buried. You know your boots barely touch an infected land, there's no deceased man under your steps. The dead thing is in you.

‘’I spent days dragging your body everywhere and nowhere, anywhere I could catch a crumb of relief in hope to bring you back. But I couldn’t. Jack could, but that ungrateful idiot doesn’t wanna follow his grandpa steps and get too attached to mere humans, the creation or whatever. As if we are just some skin and bone to him, as if you are just another human.’’

You sit down on the tombstone, some tender solace in being close to a thing that's supposed to represent him, like sleeping hugged to a pillow or waking up to a photograph of his. Your nails sink against the gelid concrete at the thought of screaming into the sky for the new God that seemed as deaf as the last one. His calm answer to your burning pain. How he dared to tell you he knew what he was doing— as if he was the original lord and not a three years old. You can't make him do it, so you hold on the fury of some overthrown nation.

‘’Anyway, I couldn’t bring you back. Your body, well, you know how human anatomy works. Your body started to smell like death. We tried to stop with human and magic ways, and it wouldn’t work because you were dead. You should’ve seen the doctor’s face when we got you in that fancy hospital tha night. I think we traumatized the doctor with so much violence and trauma. She didn’t even give us a false hope or anything, you know? She just asked about organ donation of what was left. She just wanted to take every little thing out of you, as if you were just another accident on a Tuesday night.’’ Your shake your head as the memories and your points start to mix, it's hard to discern things and keep a straight line when you have an open wound in your insides. ‘’Well, they couldn’t bring you back to life, and neither could Rowena or whatever I looked for. Don’t be mad because I tried, Winchester. You know I’m too stubborn for my own good. I had to try.’’ you refuse to apologize, yet adds the playful words in his eulogy. ‘’But then your body started to stink and God, how could I continue to be so violent to your corpse? That was when I decided to listen to you for the first time and to Sam, so I let you go. I hate you for asking that.’’ What an ambiguous, contradictory truth to bare. You are glimpses of a person for months because of Dean Winchester, still have the energy to argue his selfless logic, just to love him even more. He's got your devotion, but man you can hate him sometimes. ‘’I hate you for going on that stupid hunt. I hate you for being dead, you giant idiot that I love so much.’’ You can't bring your mouth to say loved. "I was always telling you to let the past go and now I’m in love with a dead thing. What a comic way to end our history. I told you that Miracle died, right? I don’t know if dogs go to heaven, but I hope he’s in there with you. I wonder what your heaven is like. I bet it has Whiskey.''

Your dry chuckle makes your notice the tears in your eyes, glistening your orbs as they go like a waterfall to be absorbed by the thirsty land after leaving your cheeks.

"Sam and I-- We tried to make some sense out of this cruelty, but we can’t. You are dead and I can’t seem to put it past me. I still sleep in your bed, and I can still taste your body burning on the roof of my mouth in the quiet nights. I cried this morning because someone asked for a burger, can you believe that? It was so stupid since I used to shake my head and argue with you about cholesterol. Suddenly I was crying at lunch in a restaurant because some stupid kid asked for a burger with extra bacon. They sang Happy birthday to this dumbass child, and I interrupted with my awful crying, and wished that you were celebrating your birthday and not that kid. I guess you could say I wish death upon an innocent child with a problematic eating routine.’’ That was a whole new level of low, as if you are the one wrapped with the sentiment of laying six feet under.

‘’Everyone tells you about how grief is singular and particular with similar emotions that bring people who went through this together. They even have that crap stages thing and all that. You know what they don’t tell you?’’ Your mouth shuts for a moment, like you are waiting some response. You nod as if whatever you were expecting is handed to you. ‘’Grief can be fucking ridiculous. Who cries because of a burger full of oil and cardiac diseases? Who cries because they found a grocery store recipe under her dead boyfriend’s bed? Who falls on the ground screaming in the middle of the mall because they saw a flannel? Who? Those things are so stupid.’’ You smile like there's no tomorrow and the laugh leaving your lips is a treacherous tone. Perhaps you just aren't build up to express joy anymore. ‘’You see it in the movies and in the books and you think, you know, you think to yourself that grieving is being sad on special dates and randomly remembering the loved ones because of some screaming memory, like a flannel or their perfume. Thing is, it’s not just that. All your body seems so small, so tight for all the ache and agony inside it. Your senses go wild, you are not just one person in one place. You’re just the pain everywhere, like being pulled apart and you beg to jump in the fucking grave with them. At least you would be together, at least you would feel like one person and not suffering edges of a broken earthy thing. And--And you start remembering things you didn’t even know you had mesmerized. I look at the ceiling and remember you saying you’d paint it someday. I look at the kitchen and remember me screaming at you for giving Miracle the rest of the food. I smell Sam’s clothes and started crying because hey, they don’t smell like alcohol. You don’t iron them while drinking anymore, so of course they don’t smell like cheap beer.’’ You are chuckling through the tears and it only makes it more monstrous. ‘’Everything is you now that you are gone. Every man has something similar to you, every garden is green as your eyes, and each step sounds like you are coming home. They didn’t prepare me, not for this.’’ You said breathless. A soft single follows. The knife cuts both ways; the empty breeze and the words hurt. Where's the middle term? Where's the limbo? Where's the only safe place for you to rest your weary head?

Out of nowhere, you blurt out, ‘’I can’t masturbate,’’ I know it’s something stupid and even selfish to say, but I think you’d like to know. I can’t masturbate. That’s a part of the whole losing someone process that people are too ashamed to discuss, or maybe they don’t have the urge to be touched anymore because after someone you love dies, after someone-- the hands who touched are dead and cold, you become a haunted object. That’s how I feel most days, like I’m a haunted house because you touched me and now you’re dead and some days I believe I am too.’’ You look around the places. It's beautiful. It's lonely. It has trees and flowers and green. Not as green as Dean's eyes, but it doesn't matter anymore. He doesn't even have eyes at this point. ‘’Well, I can’t masturbate. I can’t touch myself. And I can’t ask someone else either. I tried and ended up punching the guy, Dean. I swear. I panicked when he was between my legs and just punched his nose. You’d have liked it, you were always the jealous kind. I won’t admit that, but I thought it was kinda hot. Especially when you got possessive in sex.’’ A dirty grin appeared on your lips, the echoes of luxury lasting in your eyes for a brief moment. ‘’I don’t think I can be cared for anymore, honestly. Sam tried to hug me when Miracle died and I… It was like I wasn't there. I got frozen in time, and I live in my sleep. In my nightmares you are alive. I  dream about the day you died every week and I used to wake up screaming, but now those nightmares are the only proof you were alive now that you’re as dead as the police report says this time. It was the most painful, calamitous moment for you and I swear it was a nightmare for me, but then I realized that at least I had you there, egoistical or not, I made my nightmare into a dream.’’ You aren't sure which opinion Dean would have on that. Would he understand? Would he shake his head? You wish you can ask him just this one more thing, just beg him to write it down for you on how to be without him here.

You raise on your feet, glaring at the name craved in the concrete. The tears go by still, although they're as usual as the blood in glir veins at this point. ‘’Death is so silly. What it takes, anyway?" Each word conquers more inches of pure wrath. ''People die because they stumbled on their own feet and hit their head somewhere, or they drove their car too close and too fast to the cliff, or because they were giving birth, or because they dated the wrong person, or because they were hunting a fucking vampire and got impaled. What are the chances? How stupid, and idiotic is death? Always creeping and waiting to bite and chew a piece of you-- Taking every scrap of you from me like that’s its right.’’ You are screaming, starting to kick and punch the tombstone with any piece of straight you have. Your limbs hurt and the blood is visible, but you keep going. ‘’YOUR STUPID DOG DIED, DEAN! AND YOU DIED! AND I DIED! SAMMY DIED! YEAH, IS SAID SAMMY! GO AHEAD, TELL ME ONLY YOU CAN CALL HIM THAT.’’ Another punch, your knuckles are ripped. Another kick, your boot as a hole. ‘’DO SOMETHING ABOUT IT.’’ Kick. ‘’SAMMY, SAMMY, SAMMY!’’ A punch to each name. Anything to get a reaction, to get comfort. Anything. ‘’YOU CAN’T BECAUSE YOU ARE DEAD.’’ Gasping for something you don't need anymore, sweet oxygen, your eyes are on the tombstone again. And the definitions. And the trees. Your body is sore and aching. It is the kind and coercion no person wants which you needed; the freedom of feeling outside the exact pain that was inside. ‘’You can’t because you are dead. I’ve been playing some sick games in my mind, you know? Sam stopped hunting and had his closure. He was always better at letting go than you and I, but he’s still hurting. I never saw him hurting so much. I think he knows you won’t come back this time, how could you make us promise something like that?  Well, my twisted game is a bunch of misleading what ifs. What if you hadn’t gone after John? What if you hadn’t gone on that last hunt? What if you had stayed with Lisa? At first I didn’t like her much. Jealous, I admit that. But she grew on me. She gave you something I couldn’t back then and I’ll always be thankful for that. And even though it would rip me apart, I’d rather you to die at sixth after living your suburban dream with her. Have another kid besides Ben, maybe a girl this time, and just have that apple pie life. You and Sam would live close and your kids would always play. They’d be as close as brothers. Maybe I’d get a guy and bring my own kids and we could’ve a barbecue and everyone would be happy. But we don’t get soft epilogues here. It ends how it starts, right? Bloody and desperate. I thought maybe, maybe Lisa could understand what’s going through my head now. I drove to her new address and parked close to her house. I must have spent hours there, thinking if I should come in or not, If she somehow remembered after Castiel died or if I could make her brain work again if I told her the truth. But then I just drove back home and fell asleep wrapped in that stupid lumberjack flannel of yours. The one I always mocked, yeah? She may understand me, but I know you wouldn’t want that. You want her, you want me and Sam to be happy. I don’t know if I can do that, Dean. It’s like myt brittle soul shrewd and my body is just waiting to collapse.’’ You signed, overwhelmed by the battle without an anthem. The victory with no triumph. Is it still a win when you don't have someone to come home too? ‘’Your dog died, it’s the first birthday you didn’t live to see, and I bought all the things you told Mrs Butters you wanted for your birthday because it’s your birthday. I just don’t know how to celebrate it with you dead. People stop counting after they die, right? They just say he’d have been 42 or he died at 41. They give melancholy smiles when they wake up and check the day on their phones and a woe atmosphere swallows them for the rest of the day. Then they get better the next day. I think everyday is your birthday.’’ You attempt to wipe away your tears, which only causes your pulsating hand to stain your face red. ‘’Dean, for the first time, what died stayed dead! Congrats.’’ Once again, a hysterical laugh. ‘’I wish but no. What died didn’t stay dead, you are alive, so alive in my head. I swear you are there some days. I wake and watch the door, so sure you’ll come back. Sam says I’m living in delusion and I have to wake up and keep going since that's what you would want. That's enough to make him keep going, but it only makes me angry. Everyone we know and some strangers looks at me like I'm a house on fire and no longer a warm home, like I'm a car accident. They think I don't notice but I do.’’ You look at your boots, the whole is rolling out blood like your hands. You feel closer to Dean. How sick.

‘’Help, I’m still right where you left me." You plea, his love lingering like a bruise. ''I think gravity is overwhelming and it keeps me here. Sometimes it’s like I’m one of those dusted books Sam used to read. Or those Bukowski ones that you hid, so we wouldn’t see how smart you’re. You tried so hard to hide your intelligence because you didn’t think you were entitled to it. You saw yourself as the protector and never the valuable one for protection. You, the man who made an EMF out of an old radio, who rebuilt the Impala from the ground multiple times, and who knew patterns better than any detective. The man who showed me I could rely on someone other than myself. The dude with a lopsided grin, tough hands and a heart of gold. I miss you so much. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were singing all those classic rock songs and Taylor Swift pop hits, while I drove here. I would think you were home, smelling like guts because you wanted to eat before taking a shower after a hunt. I would think that you are in the Deancave, waiting for me to curl up on your lap to watch Scooby Doo or Doctor Sexy MD until we aren’t watching anymore. If I didn’t know better I would think no death could take you from me. There would be no tear us apart in our vows.’’ The only thing that keeps your organism working is that Dean died knowing how much you loved him. You never let this talk for later or never. No tomorrow is promised. That's a nice comfort, maybe that's what will help you to let go in the future. ‘’But yesterday your stupid, skink dog died and I lost the last living thing that I had from you. You know what’s more angerting? I cried and Sam cried and I noticed we were the living things you left behind and all we have is each other. All your closets of backlogged dreams were left for us-- so yeah. Sam is done hunting and he’s met a lovely girl, and they are moving in like in your domestic dreams. I’m taking care of the family business like your other contradictory dream and making sure Sam is safe enough to be normal. Because I have to, we have too. Stupidly enough, I still wait for the day you’ll burst out the door and tell us to hit the road again. I still watch every episode of your dumb tv shows to make sure I’ll know everything that happened when you ask. I still drive around in your car and close my eyes when the street is calm, only picturing you driving as Baby’s engineers go wild but those are my hands on the steering wheel. If I didn't know better, I’d think you are still around. But I know better. I still feel you all around. I love you.’’

Your monologuing ends as astutely as it stated. You get up, press a kiss to your ruined for the next weeks hands and place it on the rock with writings. You turn around and walk back to the car that you parked near, only in case of Dean wanting to see Baby. How knows? You and your clandestine faith. You lick your lip and get in the car.

You swear you the AC/DC cassette wasn't there before, but when you turn on the car and the radio it starts playing. It's the first true smile that comes to your mouth, it's bloodstained and you look like a shameless woman. With that you can deal.

It hurts a bearable hurt for now. You didn't think it was possible. Maybe someday.

The end.

(she takes a little longer to arive in heaven than sammy. his baby brother says that women are most likely to live around six years more than men. it doesn't ease him up, though. dean waited sam for too long, his platonic soulmate. and now he has to wait his romantic one too? the eldest Winchester considers it the best earthly present when the he sense you around, that smell of orange and apples. it's you, he knows before even turning around. he can't wait to love you again. your name rolls off your tongue so naturally, as if you had seen each other just yesterday: ‘’hey, y/n.’’)

But then again, nothing ever really ends, does it?

REBLOG AND COMMENT. Feedback is magic and helps me!

Starburst's footnote: It just didn't feel right to make an author's note on the top. I wanted it all only to be an arrow to the story. So, this is my side note: it's six am and I'm up writing this after inspiration kissed me with a bruise in the middle of the night. Or more like grabbed my throat. Anyway, I had to write and finish this one to post today, even pushing sleep aside. Hey, we are writers, that's what we do! I've been watching the show since I was eleven and I cried like a baby with the finale. This series was just so important and crucial to molde aspects of relationships for me. The song marjorie by Taylor Swift was used here, and so was the line "you got my devotion/ but man, I can hate you sometimes" by Harry Styles. I told you guys I would use it somewhere! A special thanks to @msmarvelouswinchester​ who helped me with her encouraging and opinon. You are the best! And with all of this I wanna say: Happy bday, Dean Winchester!

REBLOG AND COMMENT! Feedback is magic! Especially about this fic, I’d like to know your opinion. Tags in the reblog! Send an ask or dm to get in the taglist.

[slytherin-puffskein]

little wish upon the waves.

If only we could be reborn. Let's play again then, okay?

for @hogwartsmysterystory

- - -

His palms were red, and his knuckles white as he kept clenching and unclenching his hands. His breath was stuck in his ragged throat. His eyes were stinging, too many tears have been shed. For a short moment, he considered this to be a huge mistake. For a short moment, he considered going back home, back to Barnaby, back to his Kneazle and Puffskein, away from all this pain and suffering.

But he couldn’t. He had to do this. He had sworn himself to do it, and would never forgive himself if he were to chicken out. He will do it, and walk away with a massive weight finally off his shoulders.

America is odd. Extremely odd. Different money, mannerisms, food, everything, and it didn’t fit quite well with Laurent King’s tastes. He would be considered a liar if he were to claim he enjoyed Michigan more than Kildare, and would definitely say the truth if he declared America sucked. However, it had to be taken into consideration that he might be biased. After all, maybe all of this it only felt bad because of the reason he was here. Maybe under different circumstances, he would have found the strength to smile, even laugh. But now, he only found himself wandering through grey streets with an ashen face and hunched shoulders, fingers nervously playing with his engagement ring as he tried to ignore his heart hammering against his chest.

All of his attempts to calm himself down weren’t giving out any satisfying results, however. If he were to be honest, he would have preferred to have Barnaby by his side, but he knew very well he couldn’t. He said it himself. Stay here, love. It’s... it’s something I need to deal with myself. Luckily, his fiancé has been understanding, but he still hugged him tightly before he left. Maybe he’s reliving memories, bad ones, and fearing them. Us parting away once again, and even though it’s under different circumstances he might be scared we won’t be reunited until a while. I must admit, I feel the same way as well...

The Battle of Hogwarts had carved deep scars onto their hearts.

Where it is... where it is... it’s supposed to be around here... The sound of waves crashing together filled his ears and irritated him, a reaction that made him stop in his tracks for a second. Usually anything coming from nature had the power to appease him and bring a smile on his face, but now he was just wishing for silence. How odd. That was his only wish, which contrasted heavily to the loud guy he generally was. However, if all sounds suddenly died down he would then be doomed to mull over his own thoughts, which he fervently wished to avoid.

There it is.

It wasn’t hard to miss, really, and Laurent felt pretty disgruntled that he hadn’t noticed it earlier. Maybe he has been too lost in his own head, too distracted to focus on anything. He had much to think about, after all. His eyes fluttered shut as he attempted to empty his mind, but only deformed faces from the war rushed through him. Bulging, bloody eyes, twisted mouth with rotten teeth, crooked fingers reaching for him, the suddenly pain of the spell hitting his leg... his unconsciously leaned down and touched his calf, feeling the hard metal underneath his pants.

The Battle of Hogwarts had carved deep scars onto his body.

He slowly stepped forward, gaze fixed on the grass, watching it slowly move under the soft breeze. It felt cold, and it nipped at Laurent’s cheek in the most unpleasant way possible.

Closing his eyes once again, he saw himself with his mother. His whore of a mother. He had learned many things about her, but yet he couldn’t bring himself to hate her. Not entirely. Not after all the advice she had given him.

One, specifically.

“Do you know how wishes are made, my love?” She has been speaking French that day, like they would do when they were home. Learning English has been a hard feat for her following her meeting with the British man who would become her future husband, and so she had never hesitated to speak her mother tongue to her son out of nostalgia and as a way to teach it to him. “You write a message on a piece of paper. It doesn’t matter how long it is. You write down your wish, and place it in a glass bottle. Then, you throw it in the ocean, and if you’re lucky enough it might come true.”

He had his wish. He had a bottle. He had Lake Michigan stretching out besides him.

And he had Ethren Acheron Whitecross’ grave standing before him, silent and almost mocking him with what it was implying.

Hi, your friend is dead.

Laurent quietly pulled out a letter from his coat’s pocket and, with shaky fingers, placed it in front of the cold stone. Looking at the green envelope, he smiled softly, but no joy was behind that simple action. The letter’s content floated in his mind, crushing his heart.

You are cordially invited to Laurent Dorian King and Barnaby Cecil Lee’s wedding.

Now, he had his wish to make. His letter. He slid it out from his other pocket along with the bottle, and rolled it before placing it inside. He sealed it carefully, and made sure it wouldn’t accidentally open from too harsh movements.

With trembling legs threatening to give out at any moment, he headed to the lake, its waves crashing against the shore and sounding like it was beckoning him to just get this over with already. A last look was given to the bottle before he kissed it gently, a tear rolling down his cheek. Once he managed to gather his courage together he took a few steps back, and tossed the message as hard and as far as he could.

Staring as it crashed into the merciless waves, he finally allowed himself to openly sob.

- - -

Dear Ethren,

I don’t know even know if you will receive this message. My mom told me this method might work, message in a bottle thrown in the sea and all that jazz, but we both know that she is quite unreliable. Still, I figured out it was worth a shot. Anything to talk to you somehow.

Talk. How funny. ‘You can’t talk to dead people’ was said way too many times to me, but people never considered how I couldn’t care less about their claims. This is my life, my business, my own shit to deal with, and no one else shall get a say about it. As you can see, I ignored their advice and proceeded to write this. 

I... don’t know how it works when you are dead. Obviously. But I always believed deceased people were somewhere, watching over us with a look filled with love... or judgment. After all, you probably judged me when you saw that Niffler bite me.

But you probably looked at me with the most sincere love as Barnaby proposed to me. If you didn’t, it’s fine, and it’s my way to announce it to you: I’m engaged. To Barnaby. Finally, right? I’m pretty sure you were convinced we’d end up married as soon as we started dating. I know for sure a lot of people thought so, so why not you?

Anyway, I’m getting distracted. Writing a letter is hard, I need to keep my ideas together, and you know very well how scatter brained I can be.

Ethren Acheron Whitecross. You’re dead. I finally accepted it, but it won’t stop me from inviting you to my wedding. Let me give you a rundown of what will now happen: I’ll visit your grave. I’ll throw this letter in the lake, I’ll place an official invitation on your grave.

And I’ll hope you will get my message and come to my wedding. You can’t physically come, but your soul can be around, right? Like Hogwarts’ ghosts, just not fully visible.

As I said I know little of death, but I know this: I want you to be here. You’re my friend, Ethren. Were, are, and will always be, no matter what happens. I love you, and no arrow through the heart can change this. You’re one of my closest friends, and it will be a shame to not invite you.

I don’t know what else to write. Maybe I should just say my wish again: please come. Somehow.

With love,

Lau

(Don’t be upset if Merula isn’t here. I couldn’t find and invite her)

[fangsforhire]

{ So I'll find what lies BENEATH; your SICK twisted smile. }

FLASHBACK;

MORIARTY.

A mere WHISPER amongst men. A name crafted to produce mass fear and panic. Genocide heavy in the air. Oh while it was completely true he did disregard most rumours. How could he idly let this one pass by? ( M so anonymous that he’d become infamous within the criminal world. Like trying to catch smoke with your bare hands. ) One too many times of hearing about him had indeed piqued his interest. How could one human attract the continual attention of deadly convicts?

Head shook as he SNATCHED the newspaper article and flung it carelessly aside. Getting in touch with the right people proved second nature; but he hadn’t expected to be approached, to be ensnared within his spiders web like a moth to a flame. Crafty fucker wasn’t he? Keeping his distance had proved effortless; executing expected targets, remaining in touch with only one man. ( Sure, M had captured his eye- said to possess genius intellect but he was a ghost too. ) Few knew his name. Destined to forget the second it left their lips. He’d eradicated, erased any footprint through history. With centuries under his belt, it was easy-peasy. It also aided him in the fact he owned no paper trail - created rather than born unlike the majority of all species.

Perhaps that’s why he’d naively ASSUMED it would all be plain sailing - that he’d endure contracts until the man ceased to exist. He hadn’t expected to become so intrigued… and yet, curiosity wasn’t a sin, no? When you play with fire, you get burned. He’d discovered this the hard way, and so why was he prepared to dance in the flames now? ( It was simple; the headline had spread - Moriarty was dead. Yeah right. Hadn’t you heard pigs can also fly? ) Eyes blinked rapidly as he re-read the words printed; disbelief evident. No text - no phone call. Radio silence; oh wasn’t it awful? It made his skin crawl. Sure M had become noisy, engaging the media but to commit suicide so… messily? From what he’d researched on the man; while theatrics was his style; he loathed getting his hands dirty. So why would he change tactics now?

‘Doesn’t make sense. Fucking imbeciles.’

The NIGGLING escalated, prompting him to slip trade-mark weapon into the confines of his jeans and follow all leads. It was after exhausting the obvious he’d found himself upon the roof; sniffing the air suspiciously. ( The stench of blood profound and yet - really; O-positive? The most popular blood type known to man? Disappointment became overwhelming; wrinkling his nose in disgust. Surely one such as Moriarty exhibited the rarest? ) Fingers pinched the bridge of his nose; using inhuman senses to locate blood traces the police had overlooked.

Not even forensics could impress or out-do a vampire seeking ANSWERS.

Getting enough DNA evidence entailed half hanging from the edge; using ancient abilities and gaining excruciating temples. ( However somewhat grimly satisfied; it was deposited inside the vials he used to sate thirst. ) Sacrificing them in the name of science and ignoring all instinct- dead man's blood utterly… revolting. Not appetising in the least and oh my word did it stink; urging him to empty his stomach contents as heavy duties followed the very path Holmes himself had.

Thankfully SECURITY had died down as dusk fell - permitting him to drop gracefully and land without a sound. ( If anyone witnessed the display; they would have seen nothing but a blur, moving with clinical precision, a smirk gracing his lips. ) After all, if anything could unearth such mystery it was he. 

PRESENT;

TIME had passed like the pulse behind a bruise; enough facts revealed that he was becoming cockily confident. All the while Moriarty’s empire was being dismantled - unfaithful followers fleeing pathetically across the continent. ( Jesus, you’d think they had no self-respect. Shredding documentation, displaying cowardice. Surely they expected to be rounded up like cattle? How could they believe he was as deceased as the media claimed? ) Did only he hold enough brain cells to do nothing? Lying low, calmly preparing for the moment he’d pursue him like a predator hunting prey? Tracking held it’s difficulties but locating specific humans even ones as elusive as Moriarty was very much achievable. With the right pressure. The rest seemed blind and he wasn’t surprised when only he established Sherlock Holmes was also still unfortunately breathing.

Now, squinting through the sniper SCOPE; his frustrations increased tenfold. Chin resting on the table he’d shifted closer to the window, achieving that perfect vantage point. Watson, Sherlocks… pet - unleashed and displaying grief was sickening. ( The grave had been placed with tender loving care; for no one dared speak ill of the dead. Lying through their teeth to lessen their own guilt. ) What did they always drone? He was wonderful; never hurt a fly. Yeah, fucking right. Codswallop. Even the ex-army Doctor was performing a heartening tribute; all the while Lucien could see clearly, Holmes viewing his own memorial.

Finger itched to pull the TRIGGER but thankfully, he refrained.

Well, the BASTARD surely was cold he’d give him that. He mused - after snapping several photos undetected. Had he and Moriarty contracted the idea together or were it a sheer coincidence they were both alive and kicking? ( Packing up; he listened to the fading presence; already aware of Holmes’s master plan. ) He was going to disassemble what was rest of his nemesis which was amusing really. Had Moriarty persuaded him over to the dark side? Did he believe he was doing it all for the greater good? A tongue ran over teeth as he bound his time and discreetly returned to his car, armed with the proof he’d required for his own peace of mind.

Leverage.

If SHERLOCK was alive; Jim definitely was. There was no uncertainty anymore. Like following bread crumbs; for that delightful crimson substance he’d analysed? An average john-doe; no doubt collateral damage in the grand scheme of things; it was geniuses in its own right and yet it had infuriated him to no end. ( Why hadn’t anyone else bothered to believe the impossible? Were they all sheep shepherded by their master? ) He had damn good reason to eliminate them on the sight. Probably would have done had he not been aware of Holmes’s intentions. Let the deducer try to dig dirt up on him. He’d pat his back if he managed to obtain a single scrap, his tracks far too covered to care.

No, his focus was on searching for M and well - miraculously hours later, he’d hit the jackpot. ( Too soon; much too soon. ) Moriarty wanted to be found - he may as well be wearing a neon sign that screamed to those with any remote common sense. Were they all staring through splatters of mud? Why hadn’t they worked it out? Or was it the conscience he lacked that kept them from considering the alternative?

Well, whatever it WAS; sitting on such knowledge was boring and it wasn’t like he had anything to lose. For fear did not plague him; the only thing tending to keep him awake at night being an undesirable boner. ( So uncouth but then no one was perfect; not even the slippery snake, he’d located nearby, no doubt eagerly awaiting his arrival. ) For surely he found this entire affair tedious. His existence dragging just as Lucien was his feet, nails dug into palms.

Strikes of anticipation. Staking the place out - INSTINCT.

Alas, only once he’d taken his own PRECAUTIONS; did he shift closer towards the building; listening intently. Sure enough, this scent was more like it; sweet and intoxicating. Consuming his very being; taunting the devil within. ( Down boy; this is business, not pleasure. ) Scolding himself for premature excitement he found the opening he was looking for. All but purring as he gained access to the flat; azure blues twinkling in mischief.

‘Well well. Should I say some cheesy shit like gotcha, kitten. Or is that too cliche?’

[evangelene]

To Take (Pt.2)

Summary: With all your memories gone, and the sudden information that you are now a vampire–who do you trust? Do you trust your mind that says to hate Yoongi? Or your heart that says you could never?

Part One / Part Three

Three weeks after your sudden awakening into the life of a vampire, you finally found the library. Turns out the entire basement of the castle was a maze of libraries--of which, none were labeled. The unhelpful nature of the castle and its books did not aid in your quest to remember/ figure out whom the hell you were supposed to be/ what were you now that you were a vampire.

The first room you stumbled upon was a mess: dusty and cluttered to the point that some rows of tables were positively littered with books, scraps of papers, quills, modern pens, random notes in languages you couldn't read nevertheless speak, texts that were in equally strange tongues, and piles upon piles of printed images ranging from frayed old parchment to newer, sleeker photographs. The mildew in the room caused you to sneeze practically every two feet; if there was one thing about immortality, it was that it did not clear your allergies.

You strode past the nearest length of shelving, brushing your fingers delicately over the spines of books covered in dust; several of them were so old that you could see the uneven pages aged and yellowed.  There were centuries worth of mystery and gunk that came off on your fingertips. These millions of books contained a history of worlds and universes that you were no longer aware of; it scared you to think that one of them could contain information of your past--information that was taken from you. You were sure that you could find answers within the pages, but you were aware that they wouldn't be the answers that would bring back the old self that everyone was so anxiously waiting for you to rediscover.

It felt like you were stepping into shoes three sizes too large for you.

You strode through to another library. This one had a table that drew you in almost immediately--on top of it was an array of withered lilies in different colors and varieties. Spread around the decayed plants were stacks of books about flowers and gardening, and large swaths of blueprint paper drawn out with different sketches for flower beds and garden designs that felt too familiar. As your fingers toyed with the edge of a white lily petal long since crinkled with mold, you heard the sound of a woman's laugh echo through the back of your mind. You tried to picture her face, what she sounded like or what she meant to you but, as quickly as she appeared, she was gone.

"Ah, I found you."

You nearly jumped to the high, vaulted ceiling, whirling around to face the ecstatic voice. Your hands ripped themselves from the table as if you were caught doing something you shouldn't. Hoseok only chuckled softly, keeping his distance from you until you calmed down enough that he deemed it safe for him to approach you. "Sorry, sorry! I tend to have light footsteps." He eyeballed the table that you had been staring at when he first entered, noting the way your hands twitched with want to touch the lilies again.

"Ah, that was Yoongi's last project. Aside from Namjoon, he's the only one that comes down here on a regular basis. The books were a source for him to search for an escape route out of this castle. He stopped coming down here for a bit, but, while you were out, this was practically the only place we could go to in order to find him." Hoseok grabbed a book from the table, flipping through page after page of intricately labeled seed packets. His hand fanned out on the blueprints as he snapped the book closed with a dusty thud. "These are for the flowerbeds outside in the clearing. Did you see them?"

You thought of Yoongi, his face illuminated by the sun as he saw you for the first time after you'd awoken.

"Yes." You whispered.

"He worked hard on those gardens for months; before his project, it used to be just a gazebo and millions of dandelions and crabgrass. He cleared it all, gathered the stones, planted and tended to those gardens as best as he could. He did so much research that we had to check that he was eating enough to survive. He may not look like it, but Yoongi is neat and meticulous--he never goes halfway on anything."

You stared at the lilies on the table, feeling your fingers already reaching out once more to grab it. The petal crumbled to dust under your touch; once more you heard that laughter, but this time you closed your eyes, visions of flowerbeds outside a small cottage overlapped with the sensation of a hand smaller than yours gripping onto the back of your dress. You opened your eyes, meeting Hoseok's gaze; he looked like he already knew exactly what you had seen and was waiting for a million questions to flow off your tongue.

"What do you want to know?" He murmured, his hand coming to rest between your shoulder-blades; firmly grounding you from the loose flashes of memory.

"I--why can't I hate him for making me like this?"

"That's not a question that I can answer for you." He chuckled, the moment of sadness suddenly disappearing as his arms wrapped around your middle. You found sunshine in the basement as he lifted you off your feet and spun you in tight, quick circles that had you both dizzy and elated. You screamed at first, but the shouting turned into bubbles of laughter that mimicked his own. Something about the sound of Hoseok laughing infected the confused synapses of your brain and you no longer knew why you were laughing; it was as if there were a thousand inside jokes that your body knew but your mind no longer remembered. And you didn't really care; Hoseok made the darkness seem bright.

You liked how you felt when you were around him. It wasn't heavy like it was with Namjoon, it wasn't confusing like it was with Yoongi, it wasn't brotherly in the same way that it was with Seokjin--with Hoseok it was like there could only ever be smiles. Tears weren't a concept in a world with this man.

He captured your face in both his hands to get a better look at your face the second he let your rubbery legs hit the ground, his eyes glittering with laughter that didn't make it past his lips. "You were--you are still--something special to all of us. We all needed you here in the castle for different reasons, you're not just a friend to us all, Y/N. You're our sister--and to Yoongi you're something far more. You were the warmth that melted the glacier Min Yoongi--we'd been trying to reach him for so long that we thought it was impossible until you came along." He softened. "But what we want and who you were isn't important because who you are now is still our sister. This new person is still precious to all of us regardless if you hate or love Yoongi."

You stared up at him with furrowed eyebrows, cupping his face in your hands much like he was doing to you. It made him chuckle and, in turn, it loosened the knot growing in your chest. For some reason, you couldn't find it in yourself to allow this man to be sad for even a second.

"Please forgive us. What happened was mostly out fault, but we couldn't watch you die."

"I died?" But there wasn't any fear in it; instead you were using your thumbs to smooth out the worry wrinkles on Hoseok's forehead.

"Almost; you almost did."

You couldn't find any words to say--partly because the fact didn't seem to surprise you and partly because it felt like an answer that you already knew. Instead, you just let out a small hum and waited for him to continue.

"He--he can't let anything slip out of his control. Yoongi, he needs to make you happy--it's in every pore and cell of his body. He wants you to live a life free of pain and sadness. Everything that Yoongi has done has been to protect you. Therefore, we're all afraid to ruin his work by telling you too much." His smile grew into something warm, something that reminded you of the sun; you couldn't help but beam a grin back up at him.

"It's not life without pain--you need the bad to appreciate the good." You whispered, dropping your hands from his face to cup them around his own on your cheeks. "Yoongi..." Something flashed before you and you were back in the garden meeting the stare of the man with the cold, hard eyes that both drew you in and pushed you away. "Yoongi only wanted me for this castle...he only wanted me because...because..."

"Because you reminded him of your mother?"

As your stare shot up from a point far off in the distance to the reality of the man before you, Hoseok continued; he had already anticipated your questions. "I can't tell you too much, but your mother was very close with Yoongi's family--she would bring you to this castle often. The you who doesn't know any better is probably thinking that he only wants you here because you remind him of his deceased parents."

"They--"

"Y/N, to many people we are monsters--some of us deserve that title and others don't; the village that you came from is blind to that fact." He sighed. "Your mother stopped coming when you were old enough to speak and that had been the last that we'd heard from either of you."

There was a ghost of a red ball bouncing off the floor once before landing into tiny, child hands that led up to a pale face with little fangs. Those eyes were bright with innocence and almost nothing like the darkened impassivity of the ones that haunted the male now.

"Yoongi chose you, Y/N--not because of his parents and not because he needed to fill an empty role in order to survive--he chose you because you are someone special. Like your mother, you find humanity in monsters and you love them for it--but unlike her, you are not blinded by it."

"My mother." You murmured, feeling tears slide down your cheeks--tears quickly wiped away by Hoseok's thumbs and then his shirt as he pulled you in for a tight hug. He was the glue that kept all your pieces together in that moment--you wanted to thank him but flashes of white lilies lying on a grave stopped you. "She's dead...isn't she?" You whispered, hating how your voice cracked.

"No matter how hard your mother tried, she couldn't believe that there were monsters who didn't deserve to be loved."

"Lilies." You sobbed into Hoseok's shoulder. "She loved lilies."

"Yes," he chuckled softly, swaying with you in his arms. "But they are also your favorite flower. Both are reasons why Yoongi made that garden for you; he wanted to see you smile when you awoke."

~.~

You stood at the very edge of the forest, staring into the dappled depths of the woods where sunlight slipped between the leaves. For some reason, you couldn't take that first step forward into the shadows. There was something in your chest--some sort of déjà vu that had you feeling like you would throw up if you even dipped a toe past the first line of trees.

Those woods meant something to you--leaving the castle was something the past you dreaded to the point of sickness. 'Why?' was a question that you didn't want to find the answer to just yet, but the call of the woods was stronger.

You swallowed down your doubt despite it all and stepped forward, your bare feet digging into the mossy and woody ground. You weren't wearing shoes purely because you couldn't figure out where the hell your shoes were; you didn't feel like asking either--something told you that the boys didn't want you to go into those woods by yourself.  But it was that fact that made you all the more motivated to see just exactly what they were hiding.

The second your skin became shrouded in the shadows, goosebumps spilled across your spine. You continued forward despite how heavy your body felt. The farther you got away from the castle the more dangerous the woods felt--the trees seem to reach for you with branches for fingertips, clinging to your hair and your clothing.; the very grass beneath your feet felt sharp and the air was musky and hard to breath in. You swallowed, hearing whispers in the noises of the animals of the forest. The woods were deep and thick; there was seemingly no end to how far you could walk. Even though it had been morning light when you entered, it was now starting to darken. Then and only then did you see hints of fire in the distance and, suddenly, the trees broke to a meadow no man's land.

You stayed within that ending line of trees, staring at the cottages and cobbled roads lit by lanterns and shrouded with fields of crops. Ghosts of yourself as a child came running at you from the misty dark, only to pass through you with giggles. Cold fingers seemed to tap up your spine until you shivered just to shake the feeling.

This had to be your village--the place you came from; the place that you grew up in. Despite the answers that flickered in the torch light, you couldn't make yourself leave the woods to find them.

You were gathering the courage to move your foot, the energy to press forward even though the weight of the air felt like it was trying to drive you deep into the earth, when you heard the hurried crunch of footsteps running through the forest behind you. The labored breath and hiss of your name startled you out of your skin, causing you to spin around only to have a warm body crash into you. You were wrapped in muscled arms, held so tightly that you believed--if you were still human--you would have broken something; as the vampire you were now, it was somehow a comforting pressure.

"Jungkook." You let out a breath you hadn't realized you'd been holding in.

"What are you doing out here?" He hissed into your shoulder, but it sounded more like worry than a warning.

"I--I wanted to see my village." You whispered. "But in the end I couldn't go all the way."

He let out a sigh, leaning back to stare at you. "You scare us too much, you know that?"

You grinned up at him as an answer to his rhetorical question, cocking your head to the side. "Why are you here? Did the others send you?"

"I came when I couldn't find you."

Your eyes softened on him, on this boy in front of you; your heart seemed to be entirely aware of what he meant to the you that had been erased. Even though you couldn't remember any of your time spent with him, you knew instantly you would do anything to protect him from the world.

He's the youngest. You don't know where the thought came from, but it was there all the same and you knew that it had to be true--all flashes and whispers in your head had been true so far.

"Jungkook, I won't go to the village yet, okay? I--I'll let you know when I decide to."

His eyes lit up, a small bunny smile brightening up his darkened features. "You will?"

You nodded, unable to help the way his grin infected your own. "I will." You smoothed out his wild hair, brushing it back off his forehead. "These woods are dangerous aren't they? And you ran here all by yourself."

"For me they're not--for you...it's different."

"Different how?" You bit your cheek, feeling dread leak from the village up into your chest.

"Female vampires are rare--very rare; something about the breeding process and/ or turning process makes it extremely difficult to produce a female. Because of this, it makes you prime prey for the monsters in the woods--both human and not."

You stared at him, about to open your mouth with a snappy retort when he cut you off.

"Y/N, please. There's a lot you don't know right now, so please just promise me that, when you decide to come back here, you won't go alone."

You knew that you couldn't keep that promise, but you agreed to it anyways--if only to ease the youngest's mind for now.

He wrapped his arms around your shoulders, pausing when he felt your bones through your skin. "When was the last time you drank blood?"

"I--"

He didn't hesitate to bite the inside of his wrist with his teeth, holding it out to you. "You need to drink--I know it's hard at first, but it's important."

"No...Jungkook--please don't make me." You tried to shove him away but he was much too strong for you in your weakened state.

He brought his wrist closer to you, just under your nose. You caught the hints of copper and suddenly your lips were on his skin and you were drinking in thirsty gulps.

The smoke ripped you from the moment of ravenous hunger.

You were a smoky ghost watching yourself amongst seven boys--all seven boys. Quickly your gaze searched all their faces until you found the one that you hadn't met yet.

Taehyung.

You found him just in time to watch him pick the past you up by your waist, hoisting you up over his shoulder only to run with you into the water. Unceremoniously, he crashed down in a heavy splash, surfacing with you with laughter. The you from Jungkook's memories giggled and splashed wildly as you screeched his name with crazed laughter and chased after him. You had barely gotten a few trudging, watery steps before Jungkook burst from underneath the water and wrapped his arms around your middle, yanking you out deeper into the lake with him.

The lake--it had to be the one from behind the gazebo. When the smoky you turned over your shoulder, you could barely see the outline of said structure across a field of grass and dandelions. Though you didn't remember this lake's name, you felt that there was something sacred about it--at least sacred to the boys and yourself.

The past you kicked at the youngest until suddenly there was another pair of arms around you, pulling you free from Jungkook's grip. Yoongi twisted you around, hiking your legs around his hips so he could look up at you. With your wet hair dangling down on his face, he leaned up to kiss you--almost jealously eyeing the maknae. It was a sight that made your chest twist and drop; there was so much kindness, so much love in Yoongi's eyes that he seemed like an entirely different person than the present Yoongi.

Taehyung grinned devilishly and kicked the back of Yoongi's knees, knocking both of you into the water. "Get a room you two!" He chuckled, his hand snatching out to grab your arm in order to keep you above the surface; he seemed to care less about Yoongi who came spurting up water moments later.

Jungkook, who appeared almost sullen that you were taken from his grasp, turned his back to you--giving you the perfect opening to splash your way on over to him like a bull in a china shop; it was clearly apparent that you were a land mammal. You clung to his back, reaching up with one hand to ruffle his hair. "Yoongi's a butt, isn't he?"

His chuckle vibrated through your chest. "Y/N, you love him."

"And I love all of you too, ya know? There's more than just one type of love."

"You're going to make an annoying cousin-in-law."

"Sister-in-law sounds better." You giggled, squeezing your thighs and gently kicking him in the shins with your heels. "Now giddy up! We have a Yoongi to wrestle! Chicken! Chicken!"

Jungkook's wrist was taken from you and, immediately, you were out of his memory, back into the reality where you were no longer human.

Something in your heart tugged at the pain in Jungkook's eyes; you wanted to fix it but you couldn't place the cause--as a result you could only stare up at him hopelessly.

"Taehyung." You managed to choke out even though you already had this horrible feeling that the answer wasn't one you wanted. "I want to see Taehyung."

Jungkook's eyes filled almost instantly, leaving you to move on instinct--your hands coming up to cradle his face and feverishly wipe away his tears. "What? What's wrong?" You said. "Are you okay?"

The youngest's lip quivered, his head dropping to rest on your shoulder so you couldn't see him break. "You're back--I can see it in your eyes. A part of you is back." His breath was hot and tired. "Taehyung would love to see this version of you again."

"Where is he?" You choked out.  "Jungkook, where is Taehyung?"

He didn't say anything for a while; he just stood there with his face buried into your shoulder. When he finally spoke, his voice was soft and pleading. "Let's go back to the castle, Y/N. We can still go back--this can still be okay."

"Jungkook--"

"Please, Y/N. Don't make me show you."

"I want to know. I need to know."

His wrist was in front of you once more; even though you were no longer thirsty, you let his blood pass your lips.

The smoke wasn't gentle; this time it took you violently--ripping you forcefully from the safety of Jungkook.

"Taehyung." You felt an immense sense of déjà vu watching yourself stand in the woods with a man curled over on the ground. It was difficult for you to see past the way the past you stood with shaking shoulders. When you finally got a good look at what the man was holding, you felt the urge to throw up.

Blood. So much blood. Even as a vampire this blood smelled like flowers--overly perfumey in a way that made you shudder just thinking about drinking it. It was the blood of someone important to you.  

"Taehyung, it's not your fault." Your shadow self stepped to the side to get a better look at the past you's face, your throat constricting at the sound of your past self on the verge of tears. You couldn't recognize the body beneath Taehyung--it was too bloody, twisted, and bruised beyond compare. "Taehyung." Your past self practically shouted, trying to bring him back to you. "You know it's not your fault."

"Maybe...maybe we could have saved her--you don't know that!" He screamed back at you, his eyes flashing a vivid red as he snapped his head up to meet your gaze. "If I hadn't tried to turn her maybe she could have--"

"She asked you to!" You shouted back, your chest heaving with the effort it took to make the words come out. When you turned away from the scene to let your present self catch your breath, you spotted past Jungkook crouched by a tree, his hands in his hair as he looked on in shock. He was frozen; you were positive he wasn't letting any air get to his lungs.

"Us vampires, we kill, Y/N." You whipped back around to see the sorrow in Taehyung's eyes, the absolute hopelessness. "We kill so fucking easily. How am I supposed to believe that this isn't my fault?"

"She asked you to." You whispered, your past self's fingers twitching as if you wanted to reach out to him but couldn't. "She asked you to turn her even though she knew that it wouldn't work--she asked you to turn her because she wanted you to have all of her memories. She wanted to live through you."

"Why would she do that?" He hissed, his fingers tightening around the body. "Why? She knew that 99% of females won't turn--she knew that she would die and she wanted me to suffer--she wanted me to--"

"No, Taehyung--" You dove for him but it was too late, he was dropping Jia's body to the ground and taking off into the woods on a howl that broke what was left in you. The past you, instead of breaking down in front of the body like you wanted to, turned to take care of the frozen Jungkook. "Hey--Hey Kookie, it'll be okay, it'll be fine." But you were crying all the same.

Jungkook's lip quivered as he looked up at you, glassy-eyed. "But what if you don't make it when Yoongi turns you?"

You grinned at him despite the tears rolling down your cheeks. "I'll stay human, Kookie. I'll stay human and then you will never lose me."

You felt Jungkook's arms around your waist, the dampness of his blood seeping through the side of your dress--but you couldn't see; the smoke still blinded you. It was too much, all too much. "Y/N." Jungkook sounded so far away, but he got closer with each repetition of your name until, finally, you were back into the woods, staring up at the darkening sky.

"Jia." You croaked out, feeling unconscious tears dribble down your face and dapple your dress. "Jia is gone."

"Yes." Jungkook whispered. "Yes, she is."

"She--she was my sister." You croaked, unable to help the way your entire body wracked with the beginning of sobs as you stared up at Jungkook. "She...she didn't die because of Taehyung, did she? She didn't." You don't know how you knew this for sure, but something about the sound of her name and the image of Taehyung's back curled over her body had you positive that the words tumbling out your mouth were true. It was a fact that made you sob harder.

"He didn't." Jungkook whispered, this time it was his turn to be the rock for you. He held you up, wiping away your tears with his free hand. "Taehyung didn't kill her--she was already dead when she asked him to turn her. But, he loved her so much that when she ultimately died, he couldn't take it. He stopped drinking blood entirely."

"Where is he?" You whispered. "Where is Taehyung?"

Jungkook licked his lips, shaking his head. "We had to keep him chained in the woods and force feed him blood so he wouldn't become an uncontrollable vampire driven only by thirst. There are monsters in these woods that have fallen to such lows--we couldn't let him become like that. We--we couldn't we couldn't let your village hunt him down and kill him for turning into a monster."

You clutched Jungkook's shoulder tightly, whimpering. "Where is he now--I want to see him. Jungkook, I need to see Taehyung."

Jungkook lifted you up onto his back, hooking an elbow under either leg. "Hold onto me." He murmured softly; he was so grown up now--even if his appearance didn't show his true age. Somehow you wanted him to be back to that innocent child that you comforted in the woods--but the current you wasn't bred to be strong enough for all this yet.

"Where is Taehyung?" You cried into his shoulder-blade. "Where is he?"

"One step at a time, Y/N." Jungkook murmured. "One thing at a time."

And it was the first time that you felt so incredibly safe and broken at the same time that you grabbed fistfuls of Jungkook's shirt and thanked him even as you sobbed into the silken fabric.

~.~

You treaded through the halls, trying to make your way to the kitchen. Unfortunately, the map of the castle in your head was horribly flawed and that left you somehow on the third floor staring into an open room where Yoongi sat asleep at a desk completely littered with scraps of paper. He was a mess; for some reason Yoongi not being an absolute neat-freak surprised you.

You couldn't make yourself leave the frame of the study door and continue on your quest for the kitchen. Instead, you watched him. The icy Min Yoongi was completely and utterly passed out to the point that he was drooling on his papers. It looked to you that he hadn't slept in years; it was a complete 180 from the Yoongi you knew, and it was that fact that made the sight of the stoic man lying prone and sleeping was cute to you.

You knocked on the door, expecting him to wake up. To your surprise, he didn't even shift in his sleep other than the tiniest of snores.

He's normally such a light sleeper. Another thought that had to be true--he really must be exhausted.  You stepped deeper into the room, approaching him slowly as if he was a tiger that might wake up any second. It was the papers that had you curious; what could Yoongi possibly be slaving over at this hour to the point that he passed out on top of them?  

There were letters, years and years worth of letters written in his insanely beautiful scrawl. You read bits and pieces of sentences, finding the letters to be a diary of sorts--a diary entirely written to you about the happenings of his mind. Before you could sneak closer and read carefully, he started to sleep talk.

"Y/N." He whispered, your name ending on a snore. Yoongi's brow furrowed as he shivered and crumpled his hands into the papers on his desk.

Your mind empty and running on instinct, your hand reached out to press against his cheek.

Your skin had barely touched his when his eyes flew open and his head popped off the table. His hand snapped out to grasp yours--tightly as if he awoke to someone about to murder him. When Yoongi's eyes finally adjusted and recognized you, he loosened his grip.

"What are you doing here?" His voice was sharp, but it felt like a defense of false thorns thrown up to get you to leave--to forget that you saw him so vulnerable.

"You looked--I--the...never mind." You stared at where his hand met yours, waiting for him to realize what he was doing.

He followed your gaze when you stopped talking and let go quickly. "Don't come in this room again--if you do I'll take away your freedom to roam the castle."

Finding a bubble of rebellion in your chest, you lifted your chin to meet his stare for deathly stare. "But it's my castle now too, isn't it? You changed me, so now you don't get to decide what I can and can't do."

His eyes darted to you, something flashing across his irises too fast to catch before he was kicking his chair back with a sound that had you flinching automatically. Despite his size, he seemed to tower over you, causing you to back up instinctively.  He kept getting closer and closer until he backed you up against the nearest wall. Yoongi's body caged yours, seeming to tighten closer and closer until you felt that he was taking your air as well. Your heart told you that you were a rabbit and this was a wolf, its beat threatening to break your sternum at a rapid fire pace.

"You are just a changed being--I am born." He hissed like a wooden stake to your chest.

You dug your fingers into the wall, fighting against every nerve ending that told you to run. This was Yoongi--this was the man that was supposed to love you, the man that you were supposed to love. You couldn't run away. "But changed vampires are physically stronger, no?" You raised one eyebrow at him and tried your best to give him a smirk--but you felt it quiver at the last second.

The castle started to shake beneath you; it started off slow and low, building up to high-pitched tremors that seemed to ring in your ears. Yoongi's icy eyes captured you into tunnel-vision, making his stare the only thing that you could focus on. Your body trembled, but you were hypnotized by the man before you. "You may be physically stronger--"his voice seemed to echo and come from several different places at once "--but the castle listens to me."

"Y-You're scaring me." You whispered; your voice was so soft that you almost thought that you didn't say anything at all. Almost.

Yoongi leaned in close to you, his breath hot on the shell of your ear. "Good."

"You're too good for me, Y/N." You heard the flash of the past in Yoongi's voice--it was the only thing that kept you sane enough to bring your shaking hands up to Yoongi's face. He flinched at first, but you forced yourself to hold onto him until the castle snapped and cooled around you; you were no longer prisoner to Yoongi's gaze--it felt like two-ton weights had been lifted off your shoulders.

The man that had made you afraid wasn't the real person in the body before you; Yoongi was still in there.

"I will rip this mask off you." You hissed, your fingers pressing gently into his cheeks.

His eyes darkened immediately, shutting down the quick glimpses of the man the old you had loved. He pushed you away, whipping backwards towards his desk and as far away from you as he could. "You don't want to do that, your life will be much happier if you be who you are without your memories. Start over as you are."

"But I loved you, didn't I?" You said, your nails cutting into your palms from the loss of his cool skin on your heated hands. "And you loved me."

He didn't look at you; instead he scooted his chair closer to his desk and picked up his pen. "You did, but that Yoongi died with your human self. Leave, Y/N."

"I--"

"Leave." His voice echoed throughout the entire castle; this time you obeyed, the study door slamming behind you even though Yoongi was still seated and you had not closed it.

~.~

You found yourself back in that clearing, past the lily beds and at the very edge of the woods.  This time, you did not cross that line. Instead, you just watched the shadows dance with the wind. It wasn't long before you heard the light but tell-tale signs of someone creeping up behind you. For once, you were able to catch them off-guard.

"Seokjin." You said without turning around.

But Seokjin wasn't so easy to surprise--he was the oldest after all; he already knew all the tricks. "Are you alright? I felt the castle shift the other day and then I couldn't find you." You felt the protection in his voice, the readiness to hug you if you even started to show signs of fear or sadness.

"I'm fine; I was just talking with Yoongi." The shadows shifted as the wind rustled the leaves.

"Oh? How did that go?"

You turned over your shoulder to glare at him, your lip curling as he only grinned at you and patted your shoulder.

"He wants to protect you the best he can."

"I don't need protection, I need answers. Everyone wants me to be someone--even him; I just don't know what or who."

"You are yourself, Y/N. You always have been and still are, even without your memories. But, I am not one to keep you from doing what you please; you will do what you want regardless of what I say anyways."

You snorted, leaning into his shoulder--he was so tall; he felt more like a pillar to lean on than a man. "How did I ever fall in love with Yoongi? He's so....ugh."

Seokjin let out a laugh that seemed to reverberate off the trees. "Yeah, he's always been...ugh. But, that's where you balance each other out--you make him smile and he brings you out of the clouds."

"I..." you worried your hands in front of you, "he's cute when he sleeps."

Seokjin chuckled. "That's because he can't pretend that he wants you to leave when he's asleep. It's rare for him to fall asleep though lately. Did you manage to catch him in a moment of exhaustion?"

You looked up at Seokjin, half pouting, half glaring at your remembrance of how well that had worked out for you. "He said my name...and those letters..."

"Letters?"

"N-never mind." You murmured, lifting your gaze back to the woods with the intent to change the subject. "Taehyung is out there, isn't he?"

Seokjin sighed, wrapping his arm around your shoulder. "That is something that I am not going to tell you since it is not my place to do so."

You let out an impatient groan and lazily smacked the older male's chest. "Well, were we at least close?"

"You're close to all of us, Y/N--but Yoongi was the one you were most drawn to--the two of you were polar opposites who balanced each other out better than any of us expected. Yoongi, at such a young age, had never met someone with a heart crafted purely from gold; he'd only ever lived here and known the pain of people that hated him."

"I don't hate him." Your stomach twisted at the memory of the young boy with the red ball in his hands.  "I want to--but I don't think I can."

"You're not capable of hate--you're too much like your mother. You never broke despite everything that happened to you; because of that, you became the person that Yoongi wanted to be."

"Taehyung." You whispered, trying to forget the feel of Yoongi's skin on your fingertips. "Taehyung was close with my sister."

You could feel Seokjin's eyes on the side of your face. "Yes."

"Seokjin? What am I to you? To the boys here? To...to Taehyung?"

He curled you deeper into his chest as if he thought you might break once more--but you were tired and drained of tears. "To Taehyung you were the first friend he made with no strings attached, to Jungkook you were a big sister that he could always rely on--to the others you were an irreplaceable friend and cousin; though we all deemed you more sister than cousin."

It was your turn to stare at the side of his face while he got lost in his memories. "And you? What am I to you?"

"Someone I would give my life for." He murmured, turning to look at you out of the corner of his eyes. He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, smiling at you. "You are my most precious sister--I love the boys but I would never give myself up for their stupidity. You--you I'd do anything for."

There was something warm in your chest, like you'd found a long lost relative--a brother not by blood but by heart. "So I shouldn't go searching for my memories in those woods? Because that would be stupid, right? And then you'd have to come and risk everything and--"

"I won't say anything." He cut you off, squeezing your shoulder once before letting go entirely. "I will worry endlessly and do what I have to do to appease my aching heart--but I can't stop you from the inevitable. You are your own person, even without your memories. As long as you know who I am to you, you can be whichever version of yourself is easiest." He patted your head before turning back towards the castle without a second glance towards the woods. It was like he'd thrown a coin up in the air and was waiting to see what side it landed on--the truth, or momentary ignorance.

You stood there for a while--staring between the castle and the woods before you finally turned your back to the tree-line and ran towards the castle front doors where Jimin was waiting for you with a smile, and a maknae wrapped in a headlock.

[sweetxrevenge-blog1]

Utah

This is just a collection of things I drabbled out after finishing New Vegas Bounties bc it hit me really hard in the feelings haha. They don’t have a lot of explanation in them, but they’re just sort of an ‘in the moment’ thing.

The saloon reeked of blood, gun smoke, and the cheap alcohol it supplied. The former two were new additions, courtesy of the bounty hunter standing in the middle of the room surrounded by the corpses of those who had betrayed her. All but one. The slippery little shit escaped from under her nose, running out into the snow. It was pointless, though- she stepped outside and fired off a round into his leg, sending him down. He shrieked in pain, dropping his tough-guy facade completely. Ketan stomped through the snow over to him, ignoring the pain shooting through her hands and arms as she grabbed a handful of his hair, tugging his head back to look him in the eyes, keeping a solid foot on his back. The fear she felt in his gaze was the most satisfying feeling she had felt in a long time, and she savored it too much to be disgusted with herself. "Why?" She demanded, she didn't ask. She commanded him to answer her. He was crying, ugly crying. "I w-was scared!" He cried, snot running down his face which was bright red from the cold and the tears. "There wasn't any way you'd win, it was safer to side with Marko! I didn't know he would- he would..." "You killed Randall without a second fucking thought. I don't want any of your goddamn excuses." Even though she had just challenged him to give her one worthwhile. "I didn't enjoy it! Neither of you ever took me seriously!" "We were trying to protect you, you little shitbag!" She shouted, tugging harder on his hair. There wasn’t anyone to draw the attention of, they were all dead. Her volume didn’t matter. "This life is not what you wanted! This is what happens! No matter what choice you make, you die, either way!" "I just wanted to be like you!" He sobbed, squeezing his eyes shut. "Then let's start with surviving a bullet to the brain," She spoke coldly, colder than the snow falling around them. She pressed the barrel of Sweet Revenge to Ford's temple, and pulled the trigger with no hesitation. He died instantly, falling limp out of her grip when she let go of him and stepped away. "Failed step one." Sweet Revenge was returned to its holster, and Ketan sighed. She hated herself. She hated that this was the only solution. The first time Steven was 'killed', she was filled with rage, ready to slaughter anything in her way to avenge him. This time, she just felt empty. A twinge of guilt ran through her, but she suppressed it just like she suppressed everything else. Ford wasn't a bad kid. He just had his head so high in the clouds, he was too scared to come back down to Earth. That didn't excuse him from Ketan's traitor policy: they die. Ketan lit a cigarette, eyes still set on the corpse in front of her. It hurt to kill him. She wasn't going to deny her own humanity, it hurt to have to be the one who put him down. She was so certain he was just some kid who needed guidance, who needed to be shown reality. He already knew reality, though, that was apparent when he abandoned his beliefs to join what he thought was the winning side. That's the kicker: it wasn't the winning side. It was the losing side. Anyone who opposed her was the loser, she made sure of it. It would catch up to her some day, like Marko kept insisting it would- she knew that. It was just going to catch up to him, first.

It was over. The cold, icy mountain air bit at her skin and the wounds still healing on her shaking hands. She stood alone, now; Marko's corpse was still warm beside her, if that man ever had any warmth in him at all. What a shame she hadn't brought a shovel with her, maybe she could have returned the grave he buried her alive in. It was, after all, conveniently empty now. Instead, she stared down at the fresh grave directly in front of her, right at her feet. The graveyard went on for a mile at least, countless unmarked wooden crosses in neat, organized lines; she wasn't sure whether the number or the sick tidiness of the way the corpses were buried was worse. However, only one grave held her interest, the one in which the dirt hadn't yet settled. Ketan knelt down by the wooden cross, careful not to disturb the mound and pulling her knife from its sheath on her thigh. Controlling her hands was still difficult, and she likely wasn't going to have perfect control of them ever again. Slowly but surely she carved into the wood, paying attention to neatness and detail as she wrote out the name of the deceased: Steven Randall. Once she was satisfied, she stowed the blade and pushed back to her feet. The tears were coming, and the first thing that came to mind was surprise that she was even capable of crying anymore. Her hand drifted towards the holster on her right side, pulling Sweet Revenge from its place there and looking it over. Part of her was tempted to bury the gun with him, as some sort of final step in fulfilling the revenge he wanted so dearly, the revenge he put on her shoulders. No, he didn't put it there. She did. The moment Ketan realized that she and Randall were family, that they were all each other had, that revenge became her responsibility whether he was alive or not. Maybe it was selfish to think he was all she had. She had other friends- she had Boone, Arcade, Veronica, all of the people she had encountered and who agreed to help her. It was definitely selfish to chase her own revenge high the way she had, leaving them all once more without a clue of her whereabouts, too consumed with hatred to bother telling them that she might not come back. That was the sad truth: it was entirely possible she wouldn't come back. But Randall was different from the others. He reminded her of someone, way back in the deep reaches of her mind where forgotten memories slept. It could have been anyone, perhaps her father or brother, if she ever had either. He was the first real friend she made after she crawled out of the grave, and how fitting it was that she avenged him after crawling out of one again. It wouldn't bring her peace. She knew that. Ketan would never know peace, no matter what she did, now. "I know you wanted me to keep it," She mumbled, idly returning the revolver to its holster at her side. "Doesn't feel right, not after all this, but like you said: would have just locked it back in the safe. Grave's about the same thing." Nightfall made the coldness of the air bitter, so much so it left a bad taste in your mouth. She let out a long, visible exhale, hands snaking their way into her jacket pockets. "Good bye, Randall, you crazy zombie bastard," her lips couldn't help but curl into a smile when she said it. Ketan turned to look back towards the pass she came through, turning to leave. Her steps were heavy through the snow, and her boots were soaking wet. She figured that if being shot through the hands and buried alive couldn't kill her, neither could frostbite. It was gonna be a long trip home.

Ketan's eyes opened like curtains being drawn at the speed of light, shooting upright in her bed. Her body was shaking, her breath was labored and she was coated in a cold sweat. It was the nightmare again. The same one that came every week, sometimes every night for several days in a row. It was so rare for her not to have it, she considered this normal, and she should have been used to it by now, but you never really got used to dying. It was Frosthill, the townspeople all on their knees in the street, then they're all gunned down. Their cries and the gunshots ring in her ears and echo like ghosts wailing at her in accusation, in blame. The blood turns the snow red, and it melts away while Ford, that fucking two-timing coward, puts a bullet in Steven's head without a second thought. It stings, she wants to scream, but she's gagged and she can't make a noise above a muffled yelp. The screams feel like rats trying to claw their way out of her throat, turning it sore and raw. Her stomach does somersaults, trembling in rage and pain as that monster, that horrific bastard has the nerve to touch her, to hold her jaw and force her to look at him. His words blend together into a cacophony of screams and laughter so concentrated it's deafening, as the ground below her opens, and swallows her whole. The darkness made it hard to breathe, like the chasm was getting deeper but tighter, suffocating her while she could still hear that hideous chorus of screams and laughter, telling her it was her fault, everything that happened was all her fault. Ketan ran a hand through her hair. Every time this happened, she would usually cope with it by getting hammered and passing out from that, since that generally drove the nightmare away. It was always temporary, every fix was temporary. Nothing could truly fix her psyche. Her eyes surveyed her hands. The large, grisly, round scars in the center of her palms and the backs of her hands were a constant reminder that the nightmare wasn't just a dream, but that it happened, and it happened because she fell for a trap she should have seen coming a mile away. The scarred areas were still tender and sore- her fingers, especially her middle and ring fingers, didn't work quite as well as they used to, just as she predicted. Nothing in her worked as well as it used to. Her mind wandered while she sat up in the middle of the night, eyes drying out from the heavy air conditioning blasting into her room. An idle thought wondered how much Med-X it took to kill you. She pushed the thought away. She considered getting up and seeing if anyone else was awake, but she didn't. This was her battle, it didn't matter to anyone else. Give her the Hypocrite of the Year award, but she wouldn't make others deal with her bullshit. She dealt with theirs so that she could forget about her own for even a short while.

A grumbling sigh found its way out of her throat and she reclined back into bed, staring at the ceiling fan as it spun. She just hoped sleep would find her again, soon.

[sageclover61]

War of Illusion part 7/8

The prior parts of this story can be found at the following link: http://sageclover61.tumblr.com/post/176111579487/spn-fic-prompt

Part 7 was already posted, but due to this prompt fill being written out of order, a little bit was added after it was posted that needed to have its own warnings included.

Trigger Warning: Mentions of Suicidal Thoughts

Word Count: 3744 Words

Story and tag list below the cut. 

When he landed, Sam was sitting on the floor in front of the couch, smiling widely, a half empty bottle of scotch next to him, amid a myriad of other bottles. It took awhile for Gabriel to figure out how to react. “Hey Sam, what are you doing down there?” he asked, perching on the couch and looking down at his older brother as his head slowly fell to lean against Gabriel’s leg.

Sam laughed bitterly, reaching clumsily for the bottle to take another drink from it. “-fell offa the couch.” His voice slurred, and Gabriel nodded softly.

“And why would you do something like that? The floor doesn't seem anywhere near as comfy as the couch, or a bed, or basically anything else.” Gabe hated that Sam was so hurt by the death of Dean that he felt the need to drink so much, and he really did hope that his plan regarding introducing Sam to Adam would help, but he couldn’t do that if Sam was drunk off his ass. There was just no sense in trying to reason with a drunk Winchester, regardless of which one it was.

Sam mumbled something that was indecipherable, a hand slowly reaching around to grab at Gabriel’s pant leg as he leaned more of his weight on him. “‘It’s Dean’s birthday, an’ I didn’ wanna be upset, but then I just started drinkin’ an’ now I can’t be upset, but I don’ wanna be like this, but I don’ know what to do an’ I don’ wanna be sad but I’m always sad if I don’ drink, but if I don’ drink than I just feel worse and then I start wantin; to jus’ end it, but then everyone else will be sad, and I don’ wanna make everyone sad, but I do anyway when I drink, and…” Sam carried on for a while, unaware that he was repeating himself in his drunken state.

Gabriel’s heart broke for his brother, knowing that this was a combination of Sam’s own sorrow at the loss of Dean, and Lucifer’s deep seated regret for the actions that had led to both him and Michael running from their home to escape the wrath of a Father that claimed to have endless mercy and love for all, yet still threatened death to the one he had once said he loved the most.

It would have been hard enough to deal with everything had it only been Sam’s sorrow, but the recent acquisition of all of Lucifer’s memories had only made the problem worse. And from the look of things, Sam had seen no other option to cope with his pain than to drown it in a bottle before it grew so great that he would see fit to join his brother in Hell.

With a heavy sigh, Gabriel carefully stood, bending down to pick Sam up, paying no mind to the size difference. There was no way that Sam would be able to stand on his own, let alone walk all the way from the couch to the bed, where Gabriel wanted him. “Come on kiddo, that’s more than enough drinking for today. It’s time for you to sleep some of this off before you say or do anything else that you’ll regret later.”

Sam was still mumbling as Gabriel laid him on the bed, only pausing to yawn, before reaching out and grabbing at Gabriel’s shirt and pulling at it. “Oh Sam, you’re breaking my heart here. Alright, move over. I’m not leaving, I promise. Not after what you just admitted.” Shifting Sam over so he could sit next to him, Gabriel smiled sadly as the tall man tried his hardest to get as close to him as possible, slowly falling into a light doze.

There was so much that needed to be done, not only to attempt to prepare for when Dean would return from Hell, but also to even attempt to begin to help Sam recover from the vast amount of pain that he had suffered over his lifetime, as well as from his recently remembered past as Lucifer, that Gabriel didn’t even know where to begin. All he could do was hope that trying to bring Adam into Sam’s life would make things a touch better, but even that was a long stretch. He had tried his hardest, but he couldn’t try to keep Sam afloat any longer by himself. Sam needed Dean, even more than Lucifer had needed Michael all those years ago in Heaven, but there was no way for Gabriel to free Dean without incurring vastly more problems for everyone involved.

But as Sam shifted, burying his head in Gabriel’s side, Gabriel shook his head, running a hand through his hair. There would be plenty enough time to struggle to find a way to keep Sam afloat tomorrow. For tonight, he would watch over Sam, and in the morning, he would take him to meet Adam. And after that?

Well, only the future would tell.

“You’re probably not going to like this, but you should know about it.” Gabriel wasn’t quite sure how to phrase it. How did you tell someone they had a half sibling they’d never known about? He had waited for Sam to wake up, and the hunter had even left his room without being asked, dragged, or threatened.

There was a movie playing in the background, but Sam didn’t know what movie it was. He was lying on the couch staring at his eyelids. He did that a lot, but he never saw what he was looking for. No surprises there. Sam opened his eyes and looked over at Gabriel. “Yeah?”

Gabriel walked over to the couch and sat down on the arm by Sam’s head. Sam’s legs were taking up all the rest of the couch. “When you and Dean were kids, John got involved with a woman when he was on a hunt and had another kid.”

Sam frowned. “Really?”

“He’s a good kid, name’s Adam. He graduated early, top of his class, and now he’s attending medical school. No one told him and his mother that John Winchester died. You guys don’t exactly have a list of people to notify in case of emergency. I gave him my condolences and mentioned he’s not the only child of John Winchester. He’s willing to meet you and I think you should.”

Sam agreed, so Gabriel flew him directly to the front porch of the Milligan household. “He’s expecting us,” Gabriel whispered when Sam tensed.

The front door flew open. “You must be Sam!” the teenager exclaimed. “I’m Adam!”

Sam gave the kid a weak smile and held out a hand. “Yes, I am Sam. It’s nice to meet you, Adam.”

Adam shook the proffered hand. “Did Gabriel mention I have a ghoul problem?”

“He did,” Sam replied. “I was curious about how you knew it was a ghoul.”

“Dad met Mom when she stitched him up after he’d hunted a ghoul, so I’ve done research on them. It seems highly coincidental that there would be more, but Dad only killed one and for how obvious they were being, I’d guess there were more. In some of my research, I found something about how they'll seek revenge if a family member is killed, which could explain why they’re here. I think they’ve been following me and Mom. She didn’t come home from work last night.”

Sam nodded. “May we come inside?”

“Of course.” Adam led the way towards the living room.

Sam hung back, whispering to Gabriel. “You’re sure he’s not a ghoul?”

Adam pretended not to hear and Gabriel answered, “Of course he isn’t. I already checked.”

“And the ghoul story?”

“For what it’s worth, I think there’s two. But I’m not doing your hunting for you. I think it’ll be a good bonding experience between you and your brother.” Gabriel sped up, forcing Sam to move faster.

Adam sat in the chair again and Gabriel crowded Sam on the couch. “I’ve done some research for the area. There’s been reports of frequent grave robbing.”

“That would fit with the idea that it’s ghouls,” Sam agreed. “They’re scavengers, but they can shapeshift to look like anything they’ve eaten, whether it’s bodies of the deceased or people they’ve attacked even if they don’t kill.”

“If they’re scavengers, why would they come after me and Mom?” Adam asked.

“Most likely for the reason you suspected: Revenge.They could also intend to use you to get to John. He’s dead, but they don’t know that.”

“How do you think we should hunt them?” Adam asked.

Sam looked at Adam and what he was was a kid who wanted to make everyone happy. Curses on John Winchester for introducing him to this life. Curses on him for ever having children. He wanted to tell his brother that he would handle it, but that would be unfair for other reasons. The kid wanted to help. So he’d have to let him and keep him safe. “They have to be killed by decapitation.” He smiled sadly. “Dean, my older brother, his favorite way was bashing in their brains. But decapitation is better, more thorough. But first we have to find them.”

Adam nodded and looked thoughtful. “If they’re after me, you could use me as bait!”

“No!” Sam howled, almost beyond thought. Gabriel gripped his knee sharply to keep him from bolting. “No,” Sam repeated gentler. “I’m sure you’re capable, but we never use someone as bait. We need weapons first. Machetes are good for ghouls.”

The teen considered, then nodded. “There’s one upstairs you can use. I’ve got a good long knife that I’ve had lots of practice with, can I use that?”

“That’s a good idea,” Sam agreed. A machete would have been better, but a weapon he already knew how to use would be safer. And hopefully Sam could kill it without Adam needing to get involved.

“Okay! I’ll go get them.” Adam jumped up and purposefully walked towards the next room.

The hairs on the back of Sam’s neck bristled. “Go with him,” Sam whispered. Something was wrong here. “If anything happens to him, I will stab you.”

Gabriel raised an eyebrow at Sam. He couldn’t feel any changes but chose not to question Sam. He got up. Raphael turned to look at him, but he didn’t say anything, just shrugged and continued towards the stairs. “What happened? Raphael asked when they were out of earshot of Sam.

“I’m not sure,” Gabriel replied. “He’s good at identifying things out of place, but I don’t feel anything, so I don’t know. It could be an overprotective big brother thing.” He shrugged. “A long knife? Raph, you wouldn’t happen to be talking about your blade would you?”

“Swords are good for decapitation. But I’d rather not have to explain that to Sam. Then again, fencing is a thing.”

“You can hardly decapitate a person with a foil.”

When Adam and Gabriel were out of sight, Sam stood. Gabriel had been certain nothing was out of the usual for this house. So why did it feel like he was being watched?

Sam closed his eyes. The wall Azazel had put up had been pretty sturdy. But he was an archangel and some preternatural senses would be pretty useful right about now. This was about keeping family safe, and when it comes to family, anything goes.

The smell hit Sam like a bag of bricks. It was death and decay, rotting corpses and the things that feast on them.

He let the barrier fall back into place and resisted the urge to run. He was being watched the only thing that runs is prey. Adam and Gabriel were elsewhere, so they were safe, because it was watching him.

Sam cast his gaze around the room. It wasn't an invisible creature and if it was in the house properly, then Gabriel would have noticed. As he looked, he found a grate in the wall. He didn’t have a weapon, not a physical one, but he couldn’t let it find another way out or give it time to kill Adam. He would not lose another one. Not today.

Focus, Sam. Pushing the grate telepathically was easy. He remembered what it felt like when he’d shoved the wardrobe. Archangels didn’t need their grace to retain their photographic memories, he just had to know what he was looking for. Finding the ghoul was even easier. Sam would have been a psychic in any life, but demon blood did weird things to natural abilities, and acted weirder still when angelic predispositions existed.

The ghoul jumped through the hole in the wall where the grate had been. It must have recognized the danger it was in. Sam had been born a dangerous predator. Everything that happened since then didn’t make that any less true.

Sam gave a mental push. He couldn't let the ghoul touch him. Gabriel would recognize any imposter, but Adam wouldn’t. The pictures on the wall shook, but the ghoul kept coming. There was a rush in Sam’s ears and he was certain that was blood dripping from his nose. He lost his balance when the floor vibrated in unison with what almost sounded like voices too loud and far away from him to make out any words.

The ghoul was right there and unaffected, so Sam reached out with his hands- those were his hands, right?- and shoved. It wasn’t so much a physical blow as a mental zap that vaporized the creature.

Sam was already half on the floor and he decided that it would be just as comfortable as a bed.

Gabriel and Raphael were upstairs when they heard the crash from the metal grate. They materialized their blades and hurried back downstairs in time to feel the house shaking, and then to see Sam smite the ghoul. “I thought you said he could handle a hunt,” Raphael said.

‘If I had thought this could happen, I would have recommended a coffee shop. Why was the ghoul that probably ate your mother in the wall?”

“I had no idea it was there.”

They stepped into the living room. Sam was lying on the floor, unmoving except for the rise and fall of his chest and the blood dripping from his nose. Gabriel looked to run forward, but Raphael stopped him. “Let me.”

Raphael approached Sam slowly. The hunter was human, but he was also Lucifer and Lucifer had never been someone you’d want to startle when he was sleeping and/or injured. This human had also been raised not to allow anyone to catch him unawares.

The archangel of healing knelt by Sam’s head and touched his forehead. The bloody nose was easy to stop. He wouldn’t know about the possible lingering headache until Sam told him about it. If he told him about it.

“Tell me what really happened.” Raphael looked over his shoulder at Gabriel. ‘I expect him to give me a modified explanation, but I can’t really make sure he’s alright if I don’t know the details.”

“He was fed demon blood by Azazel as an infant. The powers affected by that had started acting up, but when Azazel was killed, they had seemed to be gone. Michael put his and Lucifer’s grace into the amulet he’s wearing. I think he may have found a way to use both powers to find and smite the ghoul. When he used the psychic powers before, they have resulted in his nose bleeding. The demon plan was for Sam to be the boy king of Hell, but no one seems to know Sam very well at all. He never would have gone for it.”

Raphael nodded. “He may have tried to act as a conduit for the grace in the amulet. He’s lucky he didn’t fry himself, but I think he’ll be fine. We’ll know more when he wakes up.”

The archangels sat on the sofa while they waited for Sam to wake up. He slept soundly and without being plagued by nightmares. “We should wake him,” Gabriel suggested after the sky had turned dark. “He really shouldn’t sleep on the floor.”

“Let him sleep,” his brother replied. “From what you said yesterday, he needs some sleep without worrying about anything.”

“But, Raph, what if something’s wrong?”

Sam drifted into awareness when there were voices in the background of the pain in his head. Gabriel’s voice he recognized with certainty; the second voice was fuzzier. He thought he heard Gabriel say, “Raphael,” but that didn’t make sense. Raph was still in heaven so they were estranged from him. Right? Except then he said it again, so Sam sat up, looking for his other other little brother. He only saw Gabriel and Adam. Who had Gabriel been talking to? Maybe if he could see…

“Whoa! Sam, don’t do that!” Adam moved towards him. “You almost fried your brain once today, you don’t need to do it again.”

Sam could feel the wall between him and the demon powers. If he could just push it, then maybe he could see Raphael.

Gabriel crouched next to Sam. “Sam, stop, you’re going to hurt yourself and I need to you to not, okay?”

Sam blinked. He could almost see the wall as a physical structure and if he could just… A cold hand clasped his arm, causing the wall to disappear.

“Luci,” Adam said. “Regardless of why you think frying your brain is an acceptable risk, it’s not. I did not spend the last two decades down here just so Micahel can find me in negligence because you fried yourself.”

“Raph?” Sam blinked past the pounding in his head as he tried to see what he knew was there.

“Yes, it’s me,” Adam, Raphael, whispered. He leaned forward so he could lie down next to Sam. “Does your head hurt?”

Sam shrugged, but Raphael recognized the body language. It was Lucifer’s, “Something might hurt but I don’t care to talk about it because I’d rather suffer in silence,” shrug. Gabriel laid down on Sam’s other side and Raphael put a finger on Sam’s forehead.

Sam didn’t try to resist Raphael. It was nice having Raphael on one side and Gabriel on the other. I was almost like old times in their nest, except for the most important thing. They were missing their brother. Sam still felt like half of him was missing. Not the grace that hung safely around his neck.

“Was that necessary?” Gabriel asked after Raphael had knocked Sam out.

“I couldn’t figure out why his head hurts if he kept going on about missing Michael. You would think they were supposed to be one person, the way they’re so codependent.”

“Do you think Father intended to make two? Mica and Luci always talked about it as though they’d been created in the same instant.”

“Only Father knows what Father wanted, and I guess that if he wanted us to know, then he would have told us himself.”

“I think he did, though. His last words to us were to love humanity more than we love him. The apocalypse would destroy them and I don’t think he’d want us to destroy his favorite creation. Especially not in hopes of getting him to come home. He would just be angry. As angry or angrier than when Luci told him they were destroying the planet.”

“They are! But I get your point.” The two awake archangels laid in silence listening to the third sleep. Michael would come back to them, just they needed to have patience.

Chuck studied the pages he’d just written. Adam, who wasn’t supposed to make an appearance until after he had died, had already shown up. Why had the Trickster come back? He wasn’t supposed to make another appearance until he tried to get the boys to say yes! He knew where the road with Lilith was supposed to go, Sam was supposed to get addicted to demon blood so he could both kill Lilith and house an archangel. Except he already was.

It wasn’t what was supposed to happen, but Chuck decided that if you liked stories with redemption, this wasn’t too bad. Except he knew that Dean, Sam, and Adam weren’t supposed to be actual archangels, they were just supposed to be vessels. He’d tried to fix it! Ruby was supposed to kill some demons for Sam while Gabriel was busy keeping Dean alive, but nothing had changed! Gabriel killed the Wrong Demon and saved the Wrong Winchester and everything had only gotten more off track from there! The boys weren't supposed to know that Gabriel was an archangel, and now Sam knew Adam was also an archangel. He and Dean had not been supposed to ever meet the real Adam.

He was sure he could fix this though. Chuck was not going to subject his readers to Sam Winchester trying to join his brother in Hell. Lucifer really should have known better, but Chuck had left that part out of the novels because it wouldn’t make any sense for there to be two copies of three of the four archangels running around. He could just say that their memories were in that damn amulet, along with their powers.

But first he had to stop Sam from the dark track he was spiraling down. It was hardly like his ill-thought out suicide attempt would be successful, but still, none of his children should have to suffer like that. Raphael and Gabriel would find him and fix it, probably, but there had to be a way to stop him from reaching that mindset in the first place, and since the introduction of Raphael had not fixed it, which it should have. So, what could he do? Sam would be fine as soon as Michael came back, but Dean had to be in hell for four months and at the time of Dean’s birthday, it hadn’t even been one. So what could he- The thought came to him in a sudden moment of clarity, as if it’d been there all along and he simply hadn’t been looking at it from the right angle. Stasis. If Sam and Lucifer were in stasis until Dean walked through that door, then he would be fine!

Turning back to his computer with a satisfied smile, he began to write once more. And as he wrote, so it happened.

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