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witch-hazels-musings · 4 years ago

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Hi Hi!!! I was wondering if I could request a reader treating their S/O's wounds after a fight/accident. Possibly with Diluc, Kaeya, and Albedo? Thank you so much I absolutely love your writing :D

^ I love Albedo so much - silly little forgetful genius

Warning -> cleaning injuries, playful/joking

Character X GN Reader | Anthology

Includes: Diluc, Kaeya, Albedo⚘

Diluc

Diluc would be pretty angry if he got hurt. It doesn’t matter hoe either, it could be because he was out protecting the city or found himself in a fight, but his pride would be hurt the most if it was because of an accident

He’d beat himself up for being careless and not paying attention - don’t mistake his terrible mood for being annoyed at you, it’s all turned inward

“This is a pretty bad cut.” You take his arm in your hand and look over the wound. It’s hard to tell, but it looks as if it spans from his triceps to his upper bicep. The blood has soaked into his shirt and when you go to examine the rip he pulls away from you.

“You don't need to fuss with it.”

“It’s not as bad as it looks.”

“Of course I do.” You reach back out to him but he pushes your hand away which makes you huff. It was admirable how much he did and how hard he fought for others, but sometimes his pride got in the way of what was best. You wished he would let those walls down easier.

Diluc was always so much for you - in everything he did you couldn’t keep yourself together and you felt your body tingle from the tips of your fingers to the bottom of your feet. You loved him and sometimes it was painful

“Still, it needs to be treated.” You reached for him for the third time and his hesitancy began to slip. Carefully, you unbuttoned his shirt, keeping a close watch on his facial expressions. His eyebrows are furrowed and his mouth is turned into a frown but he isn’t fighting you. Once you get enough of it unbuttoned, you slide it over his shoulder, and, as if you could forget, you catch sight of his beautiful skin. The muscles around his eye scrunched as you slide the sleeve of his shirt over the injury. “Sorry.”

You’d seen him many times before, but the air in your lungs always escaped when you did, there was something beautiful about him with his shirt half off - how it accentuated his chest and back muscles, the way his vibrant hair complemented his dark shirt and pale skin

You began to clean his wound. First, you wiping it with a cloth, making sure to use a gentle touch so as to not irritate the skin anymore before applying the medicinal cream you often kept on hand.

Even as your eyes looked over the injury, you couldn’t help but glance at his face and look for any sign of discomfort. Soon, you found your gaze trailing down his neck and over his chest. It was unbelievable how attractive he was, and you couldn’t understand that out of everyone, he chose you.

You rummaged through the medical supplies until your hands found the bandages. Shifting closer to Diluc and resting his hand against your outer thigh you began to wrap his injury as carefully as you could.

“Do you want to talk about what happened?”

“Not particularly, all that you need to know is the issue has been dealt with.” His chin rested in his free hand and he avoided your eyes.

“Hmm. I’m not surprised, you’re more than capable. I’m nearly done.” You wrapped his arm a few more times for good measure before clipping the bandages together with one of the small metal clasps. “That should do. We should change the bandages tomorrow, but I don’t think you’ll lose the arm.” You chuckle and bend to your side, the items in the medical kit a disorganized mess and you work quickly to get them back in order. When you sit back up Diluc is still sitting in the chair in front of you, which you didn’t expect.

You open your mouth to say something but stop when he turns to you. He runs his fingers against the side of your head, pushing strands of your hair over your ear. His hand rests there for a second, his thumb sliding across your cheek and you feel the goosebumps climb up your back and over your shoulders, seeping into your heart.

“I’ll be more careful next time.” His eyes shift back and forth between your own, his face haloed by fiery hair.

“Mhm.” You nod and he releases you. You gaze at him as he stands by the dresser and works his way into a fresh shirt.

Kaeya

Kaeya loves being pampered by you - he cannot get enough of your touch anyway, and when you care for him, clean him up - all your attention on him - well he gets kind of a big head

“How many times have I told you to be more careful.” You scold him as you position yourself behind the chair.

“At this point, I’ve lost count.” He bent backward and tilted his head until he could look up at you. Even though the two of you had been together for some time, he still found ways to set your veins on fire.

He looked at you and at this angle, you were given a perfect view of his neck and chest. You couldn’t help but notice the discolored skin where he had been injured in battles past. He may be quick on his feet, but he was still human.

As nimbly as he could, he wrapped one of his arms around your back and pulled you close to him.

“Who needs to worry about being safe when they have their own personal nurse.” You laughed and leaned down to place a quick kiss on his forehead. He hummed and the sound warmed your chest.

“I might be out of a job if you don’t be more careful.” You traced your fingers up his neck and along his jawline before giving him a gentle pat against his ear. “Now lean up so I can work.”

He complied, returning his arm to rest on his legs and you settled back over his shoulder. With a light touch, you gripped onto his bicep and pushed it further into the light. The injury, while painful looking, didn’t seem to be too dangerous.

Kaeya was cocky - sometimes more than he should be, and while he was perfectly capable of keeping himself out of harm's way, he didn’t know everything all the time

Taking care of him like this was intimate in its own way. He wanted to be close to you and normally his hands were the ones trailing their way across your skin, but when these situations came up you had more justification to touch him without reservation

The cut stretched across his shoulder blade, almost as if a blade was deflected from striking him in the back. You grabbed the cloth from the warm tub of water and wring it out until there were only a few drops coming off of it. Wrapping it around your hand so you have more control, you slip your pointer and middle finger into the cloth and hold it together in your palm, this way you can clean the skin around the cut more efficiently.

You admire how flawless his skin is as you clean the blood. You hope this doesn’t leave a lasting scar, but honestly, it wouldn’t be the first and unlikely to be the last. As carefully as you could, you begin to clean the edges of the injury. When you hear him suck in the air quickly you stop.

“Ah, did that hurt?”

“Heh, nothing I can’t handle.” He laughs in good humor and shifts a bit in the chair.

“Oh, so I can stop being so gentle then?”

“Now hold on.” He begins to turn around, his confident smile already slipping.

“I’m kidding.” You reassure him with a snicker, placing your hand on the side of his arm. “Be a good patient and relax.”

You finish cleaning his wound and covering it with the healing ointment before working on placing the bandage. Thankfully, the Knights always had everything on hand so it made the whole process quick and relatively painless.

“I think we are good.” You pack away the items and place them back into the medical cabinet, the door closes with a satisfying click. Walking over to the small refreshment table you pour water into a cup and make sure you take both it and the pain medication back to Kaeya. As you make your way back to him he’s already putting his shirt back on, a shame really. “Here, these should help with the pain.”

You hold out your hand to him and wait for him to finish. When he turns around and his eyes land on the pills in your hand he smirks.

“I know another way to alleviate pain.” He walks toward you and you already feel the urge to roll your eyes.

“And what is that?”

“Kissing.” He looks down at you and pulls at your shirt. He closes his eyes and leans down to your face but you hold him off.

“Hey now. Why don’t you take these and then we can talk.” You knock your knuckles onto his slightly exposed chest and with a huff he concedes. Quickly, he takes the medicine in his hands and tosses them in his mouth, you offer him the water but he doesn’t take it. “Good jo…” He cuts you off. His lips connecting with yours and his hands pulling you close.

He pulls away and looks at you, “See, my way is so much better.”

“Cheeky.” You poke back and fail in your attempt to get away from his lips.

Albedo

He’s taken care of himself for so long that it’s still a shock sometimes to have someone dote on him as much as you do - you’re always around to help him and he’s starting to find your company quite enjoyable

Here’s the kicker - Albedo wouldn’t notice if he had been injured until way later - so when you react loudly near him he doesn’t completely follow nor understand what has made you so upset

“Albedo! What happened?” You reach out to his face and when he disconnects from the papers that have kept his attention for so long you see the confusion in his eyes.

“Y/N, sorry. I’m not sure I know what you mean.”

“You have a cut on your face.” You brush his hair away from his forehead and shake your head as you see the cut across his brow.

He reached up and touched his head, when he pulled his hand back to his line of sight and saw the blood on his fingertips his reaction was calm. “Well, this is a surprise.”

You turn around and walk toward one of the cabinets in the research facility. It wasn’t uncommon for small accidents like these to happen here. Often, the experiments would become quite volatile or their reactions unexpected. You pulled the items from the shelf and remembered the time an unfortunate student lost his eyebrows.

Quickly, you made your way back to Albedo’s side and placed the medical box on the counter next to you. As you rummage through the items in the box you start to talk to yourself, narrating out everything you were doing as well as your thoughts.

“I know there should be some things in here that will help. I could have sworn that it had, ah yes. Here you are tricky thing.” You tear open a small bag and pull out a cloth. As quickly as possible you get it wet and feel it begin to lather under your fingers. “I’ll use this to clean your wound and then I’ll bandage it.”

You walk back to Albedo and place your hand against his cheek. He’s been watching you this whole time and lets you do as you please. “Where is Sucrose when you need her. At least she seems to keep you out of harm's way … sometimes at least.” At this point, you are mumbling, and more to yourself than you are to Albedo. When he laughs you freeze, one hand resting under his chin and the other against his forehead. “What’s so funny?”

“You’re so upset that you’re talking to yourself.”

“Oh … really?”

“Mhm”

“… I didn’t even notice.” You feel your ears get warm and pinch your lips together.

“It’s fine. I often talk out loud when I’m looking at my research.”

It never ceased to amaze you how similar the two of you were - how you could both get so lost in whatever you were doing that the world seemed to fade away

Still - Albedo was the only person in your life who could keep your attention on the here and now - from the day you met him he was your present and, hopefully, your future

“This should be enough, does your head hurt?” You placed the bandage over his injury. The research facility was really to thank for the adhesive additions to small bandages like this. Somehow, they managed to make the edges sticky enough to adhere to the skin, but not too much to make it impossible to remove.

“No, it seems to be okay. Thank you.” He reached up and grabbed your hand and let it rest in his lap.

“No problem.” You avert your eyes and let them rest on the floor. He gives your hand a squeeze before letting you go and the warmth of his palm leaves yours chilled. The two of you just live in the comfortable silence for a second, he glances your way and you push the medical box along the counter. Finally, you break the silence, “I should put this back.”

You pack up the items and close the box before walking back to the cabinet where you got it. As you slide it back onto the shelf the question you never got the answer to slipped back into your brain.

“Hey,” you begin, turning around and leaning against the counter. “So do you remember how you got the cut on your head?” You cross your arms and stare at him from across the space.

He scratches his head with his pencil and shakes his head. “I can’t recall. Oh, are you busy though?”

“No, I’m free the rest of the day.” You reply.

“Excellent, would you be inclined to stay and assist me? I have a number of things I’m working on and would appreciate the extra hands.”

“Sure. Where can I start?” You push yourself from the counter and take a few steps toward him.

“Ah yes, I need to organize the specimens in the closet back there … ” he stands and begins to walk toward the back closet, you head that way and reach it before he does. “There were a number of things to do …”

His voice trails off as you open the door and find a great number of items littering the floor. Boxes, books, papers, and other random items spread about in complete disarray.

“Oh … I think I remember how I got injured.” He stares over your shoulder and in defeat, you cover your eyes with your hand.

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nillegible · 4 years ago

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the JGY amnesia Fic

[AN: Someday I will come up with decent titles for my fics... but not now XD I hope you like this fic, the premise is that the issue with XY and NMJ happens before JZX’s death, and so the argument and the stairs moves up in the timeline! And JGY hits his head and gets TV-show amnesia, and remembers no one, not even himself, but is otherwise his sharp, suspicious self...]

He wakes up sure that he is dying, nothing else could hurt so sharp, agonizing pain radiating out from the back of his head, stabbing sharply every time he is swung, and he forces his eyes open. The light burns, but he can make out an earth green and brown collar, and a strong jawline. He is being carried by this man.

He doesn’t know who this is, but he feels… safe. Even though every step this man takes makes his eyes water.

He blacks out.

His name is Jin Guangyao. It rolls smoothly off his tongue, but sits wrongly in his mind. “Temporary amnesia,” the doctor had informed him, when Jin Guangyao could not tell him the answers to any pf his questions; not his name, or the date, or where they were.

A fancy young master in white-and-gold robes, who introduces himself as Jin Zixuan, is the one who sits by his side and tells Jin Guangyao the basics of his life. There is such an obvious lack of detail that it leaves him intrigued. And Jin Zixuan looks ashamed when Jin Guangyao asked if he was Jin Zixuan’s uncle. “No, I’m your older brother,” he says. “We… we share a birthday, but you’re a day younger.”

Jin Guangyao watches him for a moment, and wonders at the source of his brother’s shame. “I’m a bastard, aren’t I?” he asks.

“My father legitimized you!” Jin Zixuan protests. “You’re my brother.”

Jin Guangyao smiles at him. This man is clearly naïve, but has no ill-intent. The man who had named Jin Guangyao Jin Guangyao, however? He is yet to ascertain that.

Jin Guangyao’s memory doesn’t return within the first week. With his head injury healed, though, he’s allowed to leave the infirmary which allows him to collect a lot more useful data.

There is a lot of work piled up in his room. Disorganized, as if someone had gone through it to take the important paperwork to work on while he is <infirm>. That he was assigned so much work that was non-essential makes him wonder if he was actually pretty low on the social ladder, here. He goes through all of them anyway, most of it is useful information, painting a picture of Jin sect’s activities, and the sorts of projects that they allow to drag on for weeks. Jin Guangyao has left meticulous notes in a separate notebook about how to put everything into a more sensible order. That such reworking was required

His accessories, or lack-there-of, are even more enlightening. There’s also a scholarly-sort of hat, and only a few cheap hair ribbons. Nothing at all like the intricate jade hairpins or crowns with intricate metalwork and precious stones that Jin Zixuan and Jin Zixun wore daily.

Jin Guangyao’s place here is… obvious.

He wonders who the man who had picked him up after his injury, was. No one tells him, not even Jin Zixuan, he just pats Jin Guangyao’s hand and says, “Don’t worry, you’re safe now.” The implications of that are obvious, of course, that the stranger was the one who had hurt him. And yet it’s a subject no one speaks of, of how Jin Guangyao had fallen down the thousand steps of Koi Tower, and he hadn’t asked after the first two times. He stays wary, watching everyone. Someone had tried to kill him, and he doesn’t even remember which of his acquaintances might want him dead.

Lan Xichen arrives two days after his release from the infirmary, Lan-Zongzhu, according to everyone else. He’s beautiful, the most beautiful person that Jin Guangyao has ever seen. Since he remembers all of a week, this doesn’t sound like a compliment, but Jin Guangyao could probably search for decades and not find anyone more beautiful. It would not be fair.

They have tea together, after Lan Xichen – “Call me er-ge, you are my sworn brother, A-Yao,” – has checked him over worriedly, and checked his meridians, and pressed his fingertips gently to the back of Jin Guangyao’s head, to where his head injury had been, and ascertained that he truly is well.

“They did not tell me you were injured,” he says. “Da-ge had to, and this is the week of new students for the summer lectures, I could not leave. Jin Zixuan promised me you were well, though,” he says. Sincerity shines through him, and Jin Guangyao wonders what on earth he, an unwelcome child in his own family, could have done to make this man care for him.

So he asks.

Lan Xichen describes a heroic young man, who gave him shelter when he needed it most, who had smiled and laughed at him, and helped him with chores he could not do, and gave him the strength to fight a war. Lan Xichen tells him that this kind young man had gone into a war that did not affect him, only to help, that he had turned spy against a raging mad man, and finally taken off his head.

“So that is why my father took me in,” says Jin Guangyao. There’s a flicker of pain on Lan Xichen’s face as Jin Guangyao tells him what he’s surmised about how he’s treated here. “Did you know?” asks Jin Guangyao.

“I suspected,” Lan Xichen says softly. “But you were too proud to tell me. You insisted you were happy here. I visited when I could, but I never… I’m so sorry.”

Jin Guangyao reaches out to pat Lan Xichen’s hand, it feels so familiar, even if Jin Guangyao can’t remember doing it before. He must have, Lan Xichen’s sad face cannot be borne. “I’m sure I didn’t want to bother you, er-ge. You’re overworking yourself even now.” The signs are there, even behind his flawless composure. “You look so tired.”

“I had to come,” says Lan Xichen. “I was so scared that you…” He trails off, then turns his hand, holding onto him tightly. “If you don’t remember your place at Koi tower, do you want to return with me until your memory recovers? We’re still reconstructing, but Cloud Rececsses is still an excellent place to ”

“This Jin Guangyao is honoured, but what if it doesn’t?” asks Jin Guangyao practically. “I can’t just leave my home like that.” More quietly, he adds, “There must have been some reason I didn’t leave before.”

“You never said, exactly, but I believe it was because of your mother,” says Lan Xichen. “She wished that you would gain your father’s recognition, and a place at Koi Tower.”

“Do you know anything about her?” Jin Guangyao is not an idiot, he knows from the snide remarks, the way that people try not to touch him that he is of low birth, that his mother’s occupation was. That. He wonders if Lan Xichen will lie to him.

“She was an educated woman,” he says. “A renowned beauty. You’ve told me that you take after her, in many ways. She was skilled in the arts. She never taught you art but she was your master in calligraphy and music. She loved you very much and wanted you to have a good education because she knew… she knew that A-Yao is so incredibly smart and destined for greater things.” He squeezes Jin Guangyao’s hand. “Her life was not easy. She suffered, but she loved you. She would be proud of you, to know how much you achieved.”

It should matter, it does matter, Jin Guangyao’s heart squeezes, but it is from sympathy for what Lan Xichen is feeling. The dark honey-gold eyes are bright with tears. Clearly Jin Guangyao had loved her very much, before. But Jin Guangyao cannot find in him any love for a woman that Jin Guangyao cannot imagine. A woman with his face, a prostitute, but educated, talented. And ambitious to have Jin Guangshan’s son.

“My father did not take her in, I gather?”

“He did not. She died of illness shortly before I met you.”

“Thank you for telling me,” says Jin Guangyao.

Lan Xichen stays an entire afternoon, and readies himself to leave at dusk. Jin Guangyao accompanies him to the sky-pavilion on Koi Tower that the Jin disciples use to take off from.

There’s a last nagging question that Jin Guangyao hadn’t managed to slide into the conversation, as it meandered into cultivation theory and Jin Guangyao and Lan Xichen had tried to piece out some kind of pattern in what kinds of cultivation knowledge he had retained, and what he had forgotten. It had been an interesting exercise.

“Er-ge, before you go,” says Jin Guangyao. He looks around cautiously, but no one is near enough to overhear. “You’re older than Jin Zixuan, aren’t you?” he asks, and Lan Xichen nods. “So our da-ge… you never said. Is he… did he die during the war?”

“No!” cries Lan Xichen. “A-Yao no, he’s not. He’s fine, he just could not find time to visit.”

Lie.

It’s the first time Lan Xichen has lied to him today, but Jin Guangyao is certain of it.

“No one talks about him, and I couldn’t find any letters from him. I did find a few of yours. No one even says his name. Who is he?”

“Nie Mingjue,” says Lan Xichen, sounding defeated. “Of course you would think to ask, but his name is Nie Mingjue.”

Everything falls into place. Jin Guangyao has seen some Nie disciple couriers on their way to private meetings with his father and the Jin council of elders. Hard faced and angry looking, they kept to themselves and departed the moment they could, without staying for a meal or entertainment.

“You think he pushed me down the stairs,” says Jin Guangyao.

“No,” says Lan Xichen. “We know he did. He kicked you down the stairs. He–”

“And you believe that?” asks Jin Guangyao.

“Of course I do,” says Lan Xichen. “Da-ge was the one who told me. I knew that things were difficult between the two of you, recently, but I had not imagined… It does not matter, we are looking through the records now, so that you can be free of your vows to him, and even if we can’t find something, he won’t visit Koi Tower again, Jin-zongzhu has forbidden it.”

“Oh,” says Jin Guangyao, mind whirring. “Okay then.”

“Is A-Yao afraid we’re covering something up?” asks Lan Xichen. Jin Guangyao is not sure what gave it away, he thought he’d kept his face smooth.

“Naturally I trust er-ge,” he says, smiling up at him. “I just remember him, vaguely. He picked me up. He saved me.”

It’s Jin Guangyao’s first memory, pained and fragmented though it is.

“He did take you up to the infirmary right after,” Lan Xichen agrees. He looks faintly puzzled, like he’s not sure why that matters to Jin Guangyao.

“I understand,” says Jin Guangyao. “Nie-zongzhu would of course regret his action after his moment of anger.”

“He does,” Lan Xichen assures him. “You should write to him, if you are willing to accept his apologies, but Da-ge is terribly sorry.”

“Thank you er-ge, I will,” Jin Guangyao promises. The relief on Lan Xichen’s face is too pure for this world.

He waves goodbye after Lan Xichen takes off, and steps back into the maze of Koi Tower, mulling over all the new knowledge that Lan Xichen had brought with him. He was right, he should write to Nie Mingjue.

But after some more research.

What could they have possibly quarrelled about so badly?

Jin Guangyao makes his way back to his rooms, keeping his face expressionless at the gilded opulence and overt unfriendliness of his home. He doesn’t understand his past self at all.

Why does he still live here, where he’s so clearly unwanted?

Why did he even care for the acknowledgement of Jin Guangshan, who from even just Jin Guangyao’s few interactions this week and the gossip he’s picked up, is a selfish, disgusting pervert who wouldn’t spit on Jin Guangyao if he was on fire.

Just because his mother wanted him to?

She was a good woman, he hears again, in Lan Xichen’s sincere voice. But Jin Guangyao doesn’t get it. She had to have been a fool, to believe in Jin Guangshan, or terribly cold and cruel to send him to Jin Guangshan knowing exactly what kind of derision would await him here. He is a war hero, and yet he’s treated like a servant.

Jin Guangyao is in the mood to be charitable, so he picks the former.

He still doesn’t know why he stayed.

[You can now read part 2 here!]

#meng yao #jin guangyao #nie mingjue #lan xichen #3zun #fix-it #JGY revaluating his own life objectively #amnesia #the fictional kind

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boop-le-snoot · 4 years ago

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PARTY FAVOURS | CHAPTER 4

Rating: Explicit.

‼️TW: Reader is EIGHTEEN! Recreational drug use, smoking and alcohol consumption, deeply internalised self-loathing, very questionable moral standards. Daddy kink taken half-seriously. BDSM themes in later chapters - explicit content will come with it's own TWs. FIRST PERSON POV. Bullying and non-explicit violence in this chapter, Peter whump.

Summary: You're Peter's classmate, a child of rich and famous but uncaring parents. Getting paired up for a lengthy project with the boy was an interesting turn of events and you don't know whether to feel blessed or cursed when you develop, seemingly, a perfectly normal, harmless crush on Tony Stark. Fueled by feelings of inadequacy and boredom, your life spirals out of control - and you're lucky your newfound friends are there to pick up the pieces even if you cannot find it in yourself to believe these amazing human (and not so human) beings voluntarily give you more than a fleeting glance and an offhanded thought. And they brought cake!

A/N: WE'VE GOT PLOT! Peter Parker deserves better. Steeb needs a vibe check cuz he keeps failing them :( Boomers are hot but ... Boomers. KitKat, anyone? Natasha is a Brain Cell™. Enjoy, deviants.

THE TAG LIST IS NOW OPEN! @another-stark-sub @mostly-marvel-musings @vozit @littlegasps @pilloclock @shereadsinquiet @hermione-grangers-wife @downeyreads @individualistfem

Beta read by the lovely and patient @miscmarvelwritings 👑 - titty gators assemble! 👀

I scheduled a visit to the tower two days after my "illness" episode. Most of my lows passed without any lingering, the headache was gone and so was the nausea. My mood was still somewhere between "please kill me" and "I could eat a lot of cake right now" but it was bearable. I was very much looking forward to occupying myself with the project if only to divert my focus from overthinking about my own misery.

Peter said he was going to see Tony straight after school and offered for me to tag along with him: Tony sent his driver to pick up the boy. I didn't have the heart to refuse, seeing no point in waiting for an Uber on a rainy workday afternoon. Traffic was horrendous in New York city no matter the weather but a downpour took the congestions to a new height.

When I spotted the sleek, black brand new Audi I made a beeline for it, waving to Happy as I crawled inside as fast as I could. "Don't get the seats wet," The chauffeur grumbled.

"It's wet outside," I rolled my eyes into the next dimension. Whoever thought his nickname was in any way appropriate needed a psych eval. Peter sat on my right side looking wet and downright miserable. I had to swallow a string of expletives at the sight in front of me: the entirety of Peter's right cheek was an ugly shade of blue, eye on it's way to swelling shut and lip busted open. "What in the everliving fuck happened to you?!" Breathing through my nose, I fought bubbling rage inside of me. Peter looked like he went toe to toe with a Hulk.

"Flash happened," The boy mumbled, whining and brooding simultaneously. His cheeks glowed.

"That little runt?" I took another pause to steady my breathing, tentatively reaching out for Peter's hand. He grasped it tightly in gratitude. "Well, did you at least fight back?"

"No, I... I can't do that," Peter became even smaller, curling into the seat and in himself. I was disappointed for sure as I wouldn't just stand there and take a beating, but Pete was different. He was sensitive-a total pacifist to boot.

"Do any of the teachers know? I'm guessing this isn't the first time," Sure, I've seen Parker with an occasional scrape or a bruise but I'd always figured it was just him being a teenage nuisance. Curtain of depression I had over the previous days slowly began morphing into cold fury.

"No, well, they probably do. But Flash is the principal's son so they ignore it, I guess," Peter sighed in defeat. "Mr. Stark doesn't know either. Please don't tell him," He begged.

"Abuse thrives in silence," I parroted our sex-ed teacher but otherwise made no promises. My mind raced between comforting Peter and ordering Happy to turn the car around so I could find the shitty excuse of a human named Flash Thompson and violently make it known what happens to people when they get me pissed off.

"What are you going to tell Tony?" I asked Peter as we herded into the elevator, slightly wet and mostly miserable.

"I have an idea or two," The boy answered darkly.

"You have been summoned to the common floor, I was instructed to notify you there is food to be eaten before sciencing, per Doctor Banner's orders," Friday announced, rerouting the elevator to the aforementioned destination. Peter groaned loudly, burying his face in his hands.

"What the fuck happened to you, kid?" Bucky decided screeching like a banshee and attracting at least five of his teammates to come running from the dining room was the best way to approach an obviously spooked Peter. The boy shuffled his feet awkwardly.

"Our classmate beat him up," I answered before Pete could lie. "The fucking runt that doesn't know his damn place. His two cronies probably too," The venom in my voice could've melted steel. I was genuinely furious.

"What's his name?" Captain-Steve growled. I was taken aback at the large blonde man suddenly standing up, fists clenched. My feet moved involuntarily, taking a step back from the enraged supersoldier and Pete cowered, startled.

I stepped in front of him immediately. "I'm gonna need you to chill the fuck down, Cap," The trembling in my voice persisted but I stood my ground nonetheless. "Your roid rage is going to land you in prison if you keep going," In my own rage, self-preservation went out of the window along with common sense. The hairs on the back of my neck were standing up, Peter was downright shaking behind me.

"She's right," Bucky darkly eyed his friend. "Off to the sparring mats with you." He grabbed Rogers by the shoulder with his prosthetic arm all but hauling the blonde towards the elevator. Thor immediately took the Captain's other side, not quite touching him but obviously giving his friend a vibe check. I could've clapped. Not that Steve resisted much, but still.

"Everyone calm down, please," The Black Widow piped up in an even tone. I can always count on a fellow woman to keep calm in a situation where men's tempers almost cause a disaster. "Now, tell us what happened," She approached Peter on quiet feet. The boy shuffled around me looking every bit as dejected as I felt about the situation. "And someone fetch some ice for that bruise," Romanoff's offhand gesture had Barton scrambling into the kitchen.

Peter sat down on the couch, looking at the floor. "Flash has been bothering me since, like, forever and today I just ignored his usual remarks because I had a calculus test, I- I wanted to make sure I knew everything, and I was sitting in a really quiet corner, and I- Ned was hanging out with MJ somewhere and I guess Flash got angry that I didn't answer," Peter rambled in his usual nervous fashion, sentences jumbling together. Natasha kept nodding, simply hugging the boy softly with one arm. As soon as Clint came back with a bag of frozen peas wrapped in a towel Natasha's other arm pressed it gently to Peter's bruised face. The assassin frowned at the pained whine that left Peter's lips.

"Honestly, that dude is a fucking piece of shit, I'm surprised how he's not in jail yet," I piped up from where I was pacing along the large window overlooking the city skyline. Wound up and tense, I couldn't stay still. "He stole a senior's car for a joyride, last year. He routinely picks on the freshmen and I've personally dislocated his wrist from slapping me on the ass in, like, eight grade," Peter's eyebrows raised at my admission and Natasha gave me a vaguely approving hum.

I caught Peter's eye the moment elevator doors opened revealing a panicked looking Tony and a worried Bruce with Loki standing behind them, talking to a man in... Robes? And a red cape?

"What happened to my science child?!" Tony's fury rang high. The engineer rushed over to Peter, frantically checking him over and growling at the state of his face, letting out a string of expletives seeing the busted lip had started to bleed again.

I gave a tiny tilt of my lips to Bruce who had the oddest compilation of worried, confused and amused in his expression.

"You should probably get him to a doctor, I think his mouth is cut on the inside," I scooted closer to Banner, informing him quietly.

"I'm a doctor," The man in the cape announced, ... strutting (!) over to Pete. There was really no other way to describe his long, precise strides. He quickly butted Tony out of the way and instructed Peter to open his mouth.

"This is utter chaos," Loki muttered, sitting down on the furthest end of the couch.

"It is and I'm living for it," I sighed. The situation was very disorganized with Tony flailing about in blind panic, Bruce just standing there, Cap's rage quit and subsequent intervention by his buddies. Then the new strange dude... Loki was brooding and honestly? Big mood. The only person who made some resemblance of order out if this cluster fuck was Natasha.

All and all, it was quite endearing. I imagined that's what a large, close family would look like. When I said I was enjoying myself - no lie there, even despite the grim situation.

"How are you? Are you hurt?" Bruce quietly asked me, laced with concern. His shoulders relaxed somewhat when I shook my head negative. "Hungry?" I nodded affirmatively and the doctor produced a kit kat bar seemingly out of nowhere, winking at me with a boyish smile. I just about melted on the spot, tearing off a block and giving it to him to avoid any embarrassing reactions I might possibly spout in the wake of my recently acquired crush.

We munched in silence as the Cape Guy explained to Peter (and anxious Tony) that a few butterfly stitches would be needed as well as CT scan to rule out a possible concussion. At that point Tony was steadily turning purple in colour, rage and anxiety combining for a large storm that no doubt will hit sooner or later.

I felt responsible, I guess. Peter must've known Tony was going to react so strongly to his science son getting hurt and well, I hated seeing Tony so mad and helpless. On soft feet, I padded over to the engineer, making sure to stay within direct line of vision. "Tones?" He shot his eyes at me. He was furious. "Look, I'm going to make that fucker's life a living hell," Tony made an agitated noise of protest however I wasn't having it. I knew I'd be in trouble later but for now, I firmly placed my palm over his mouth, enjoying the surprised widening of his eyes at the frivolous gesture. "Listen, right now you can't do shit. You guys are super-powered individuals and Flash is just a nasty kid. You'll get in a big fat mess and he'll get to go away with a slap on the wrist," Tony sagged, visibly, bodily, and I felt it was safe to remove my hand from his face.

"I hate to say it but she's right," Bruce piped up behind me, voice soft.

I nodded. "I'm going to ruin the guy without putting a single finger on him," Tony nodded grimly and Cape Guy halted his examination of Peter's head to give me a mildly concerned stare. "My mother is a litigator, a vicious one at that. I've learned a trick or two," I winked with a grim sort of amusement causing the man to snort. Tony chuckled humorlessly. "As much as I hate to be the voice of reason, it would be a shame for anybody in this tower to end up behind bars. Even if it would be for a good cause," I finished my speech, patting Tony on the shoulder. The surprised squeak made its way out of my mouth when the billionaire pulled me tight against his chest, wrapping his arms around me in a desperate hug.

Ignoring my skyrocketing heartbeat, I wrapped myself around him as best as I could. Whatever issues the man had, they had to be quite painful if he reacted to the situation so intensely. I was selfish, but not heartless, so I gave into the affectionate gesture despite the inappropriate feelings that blossomed within me.

"I don't know what I've done to deserve you," Peter whined, fat round tears beginning to drip down his cheeks. I could tell he was embarrassed beyond Hell but his feelings overwhelmed him enough to just spill through. I immediately made my meanest big eyes to Natasha and Cape Guy who immediately hugged the life out of Pete. There, all set.

"Now go get that scan done," I frowned, seeing Peter start to nod off. "I don't know your name, but can you arrange that? Since you're a doctor," I nodded to the Cape Guy.

"I'm Stephen Strange," he replied, effortlessly picking up a dozing Peter and carrying him to the elevator. Before I could react, he waved his one free hand in some sort of a circle and a glowing ring appeared with what seemed to be a ER room - Strange hastily stepped through, followed by Tony suddenly withdrawing and hurrying after the ... Wizard? The portal closed immediately after.

"What the fuuuuuck..." I gaped at the now empty space. Strange, indeed. Even Loki's scoff didn't put a dent in my perplexed curiosity.

"So, lawyer family, huh?" Natasha, who I'd forgotten about, spoke up, mildly interested.

"Just my mother," I replied casually. They were the last thing in the world I wanted to talk about, especially after being so upset for the past hour. Man, I needed a drink. My hands itched for a cigarette.

"What about your father?" The spy didn't relent, pushing the issue with deadly politeness - I was actually sure she'd threaten me into talking about it even if I refused to.

"He's a celebrity manager."

"Cool," Her tone perked up at that. "Know anyone famous?"

"Know? No," I thought about all the A-list Hollywood stars I've been around, the endless parade of one-hit-wonder musicians that my dad hung out with on a daily basis. "I've crossed paths with at least half the Billboard TOP 40 but that's about it. Katy Perry was really nice," I added as an afterthought.

"I see," Natasha gave me a thoughtful once-over, patting the seat next to her. "So tell me, what do you have in mind for this Flash kid?"

My smile came out sharp and vicious. People tended to underestimate the quiet, quirky loner and I was about to remind them exactly why my kind of kids usually ended up with either millions in their bank accounts or a lengthy criminal record. "I'm going to annihilate any chance he has with having a social life, a girlfriend and I'll be damned if he gets into college without his parents going bankrupt. It goes like this..."

The ominous beginning of my plan attracted everybody in the room, even Loki. If anything, he offered the most constructive advice and the smirk he wore was positively devilish. Steve, Bucky and Thor emerged sometime during the scheming and hastily joined us, identically grim expressions on their faces. We barely managed to get done with our nefarious cackling when a portal appeared once again, Stephen stepping out of it with Tony carrying a sleeping Peter. The boy's head was bandaged, he looked like a mummy.

I stood up, beelining for Tony. "Is Pete okay? Did you call May?"

"He's not concussed but he's taking the day off tomorrow. Yes, I called May. Pete is staying here tonight," Tony looked and sounded like an exhausted, worried parent.

The urge to squee appeared again and I stomped it down with a hard "Good. We made a plan. The fucker is going to choke on his own misery," I gestured to the people sitting in a circle behind me.

Strange snorted.

Furious. I was furious.

Hands on my hips, I swerved towards him, instantly recognizing the ridiculousness of the situation. Here I stood, an eighteen year old high school student, in my fluffy rainbow sweater and denim overalls, staring down a whole grown ass man with magic powers. I digress, my pride won the race against my common sense. "Ex-fucking-cuse you, Voldemort, that's my fucking friend on the line," I seethed, giving him my best death glare.

"Language," Tony barely held together his laughter, looking at the unfolding mess with amusement. Somewhere behind me, somebody chuckled, then I recognised Loki's signature "ehehe" and it kind of went downhill from there. It's a miracle Peter didn't wake up.

"I'd be careful, Strange, she holds up against Stark very well," Loki's quiet compliment only made me preen and puff out my chest in a display of dominance. Stephen's responding eye roll was more fond than annoyed. I counted it as a win.

#tony stark x reader #tony stark x y/n #bruce banner x y/n #bruce banner x reader #stephen strange x reader #Stephen Strange x y/n #bun writes #party favours #repeat after me: PETER PARKER DESERVES BETTER

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daydreamreality · 4 years ago

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Thinking about actor availability, and how that affects my perception of Jess and how strongly I feel about shipping Literati.

Really thought this would only be a few paragraphs going over the points where Jess could have disappeared never to be seen again, but it turned into a freaking essay so LONG POST warning if you decide to click ahead.

If the last we saw of Jess was hanging up the phone in the season 3 finale: "Well, it was fun ride while it lasted. That's about how I thought this would end." Still have a lot empathy for this kid and wish him well, but you screwed with Rory's heart like I knew would happen. Was that intentional? No. But he was so immature, out of control with his emotions, zero communication skills, not trusting in others...the list of reasons why he wasn't ready for a serious relationship, even if the feelings were serious, goes on. There was no way Rory wasn't going to end up as collateral damage in his personal breakdown that I could feel was going to happen. And this is the thought I had as a teenager with no dating experience watching this show for the first time. Did I want to date him? Hell no! I could see that trainwreck from a mile away. Rory was naïve to put her heart in his trust but that's part of her good qualities - she's sees the best in people and champions for them. I could go on a tangent about why exactly Jess was such an important character to me when I first watched the show (and probably why he stuck around unconsciously until I decided on a whim to rewatch GG in lockdown) but...I don't know, maybe some other time.

In the context of the entire show, I would look back at the relationship as my favorite one to watch of Rory's in the series (The build-up! The connection! Their deep belief in and respect for each other! The angst!) and Jess being a really fun character to root for (and yell at) but endgame? It was a short lived but important relationship. It’s fun to think about what ifs and how circumstances could have changed to make it work, but we can move on.

The ill-fated spin-off: I have no idea what this show would have been about except focusing on Jess and Jimmy and I’m not about to theorize. I still like Jess at this point so it would probably make me like him more since we’re getting a deeper dive into his character, but in regard to shipping him with Rory, this opinion would not change unless he all of sudden showed some great maturity. But I doubt this show would have even gotten a whole season so that probably wouldn’t happen. And then he’s living in California…this is too much, moving on.

If the last we see of Jess is in season 4: About the same feeling as above. Life, as expected, has not been treating Jess well. At all. His jadedness and hostility is at an all-time high when he shows up to get his car. Do I see the reasons informing his behavior and have empathy (once again, for a KID)? Yes, but he's also being a jerk. "The years don't seem to have hardened you." Well this year sure has!

I love the "I love you" scene but too little too late, buddy. That's probably why I love it, it's all a bit hopeless. Just keep shoveling the angst at me. I do like fics where this scene is reimagined with Rory running after him to give him a piece of her mind or Jess finding some other words to say (I really feel like he had more to say there but got overwhelmed), and coming to a tentative reconciliation: exchanging numbers, "don't fall off the face of the earth," but getting back together? No. You hurt her and you're feeling the consequences. Rory is not obligated or responsible to reciprocate those feelings, nor is she in a place to do that right now.

But season 4 does cement that Luke and Jess's relationship is one of my favorites in the entire show. There's probably a whole other post in me regarding that so I'll keep it brief. Because of his respect for Luke, Jess makes tentative steps towards maturing in interpersonal relationships. He shows some vulnerability and honesty with a veil of sarcasm and awkwardness because, well, it's JESS.

But then of course this all goes to hell when applied to Rory. Sometimes I like to think how this dorm scene would have gone down if Rory stepped back for a second and went, "Hold on. You're not making any sense, chill out," and they could have talked a bit and had a similar reconciliation like I said above because I really think that’s all he was going for - to talk to her, apologize, and make an attempt at reciprocation like he did with Luke. But getting back together here? Canonically, he hasn't made enough progress. He set aside his personal feelings to be in his mother's wedding and used the knowledge from the self-help book to apologize to Luke, but I don't think the book's message has sunk in all the way yet and he’s still got a massive chip on his shoulder preventing him from making a good life for himself. Getting rejected by Rory here is an important moment and I really like it. It's fun to think about the AU if Rory had said yes (hello road trip!), but it's very in-character for her to not be able to handle Jess's crisis and just shouting "NO, make it stop." This is one of my proudest of Rory moments: Protect your heart girl, he ain't ready. The seeds have been planted that Jess will continue to grow and I wish him well on his journey. Endgame material? Nah. Goodbye forever, take care my friend...

Even though this scene doesn't feel like closure at all, I really thought this was the end of Jess Mariano. So imagine my surprise when -

SEASON 6: HE'S BACK. Coming out of the shadows, [literally] it's Jess Marianoooo *air horns* *confetti* *jazz hands* *Jess rolls his eyes at the fanfare*

Alright, that's out of my system. But for real that's what my mind did at this point. For context, the way I watched this show for the first time was getting the DVDs from the library while a couple of seasons were still on the air; when a new season was available to borrow, I would rewatch all the seasons up to the current point so my memories and favorite parts of the show are seasons 1-4. Because I was not bingeing the show all the way through, seeing Jess here seemingly so different didn’t feel out of place. A shock, yes! A happy surprise. But nothing about him seemed OOC. A year had gone by, we’d seen some signs of maturity in him, and getting rejected by Rory was a big kick in the ass for him to start making bigger changes in his life. I really cannot emphasize how satisfying and sensical his positive character development felt to me.

The slight maturity we see in season 4 in its full potential. Jess is still Jess: guarded, self-deprecating, and a bit prickly but he shows a sense of calm and feeling more comfortable in his skin. This is really satisfying to see as someone who always "knew" there was a kind and capable heart underneath the exterior just like Rory did, and that tough guy, must protect myself at all costs posturing has melted away. But that side of him isn't gone, it's not like the writing did a complete 180 on his character. I love this. He's just...more at peace with himself but he's not a different person, and he's found something to direct his focus and intellect on. He's made his peace with Luke, and now he has something of worth to show Rory to try to mend that hurt as well.

Yes, it would have been nice to see how and why he decided to write a book and work in publishing but this course of events is not out of left field, nor is Jess enough of a main character at this point for scenes like this to be necessary to the show unless they were tied to Luke and showing another side of him. Jess has shown in the past that he has a good work ethic if he feels it is worth it. The problem wasn't him being lazy, just poor decision making and focusing on RIGHT NOW, "I need to get out of Stars Hollow and live my life," and not considering the consequences of his actions. Which as an immature kid whose life had told him he can only depend on himself...not out of the ordinary. The dude’s life passion is literature and has probably read every book he can get his hands on, it’s not crazy that he had his own story in him.

Here is where Literati becomes endgame material for me. Prior to the revival it was always my feeling that post-series they would reconnect while Rory was on the campaign or afterwards. It would be low drama (except for Lorelai criticism), slowly gaining trust in each other again, and eventually starting a committed relationship within a year or two of being friends with sexual tension (lol). They made their adolescent mistakes, hurt each other, but learned from it and started over on infinitely better footing.

The match just makes sense to me at this point for many reasons; I don't feel like I need to list them all out because you can go to any pro-Literati post and I'll probably agree with the majority of the points. The biggest issue they had was timing: “Right heart, wrong time.” I like especially how they even out each other's more extreme personality traits. For example, Rory learning from Jess to consider her own feelings instead of sacrificing herself for others, and Jess considering others before himself all the time. Or professionally, I can see Jess encouraging her to step away from her ultra-organized, “everything has to be just so” ways when it benefits her to seize an opportunity right now, don’t worry about the details, you got this. Maybe Jess has another book in him, but his self-deprecation and disorganization prevent him from getting it done but Rory helps him be more objective and focused. There’s this…synergistic energy I feel with the two of them: they’re great by themselves, but form something better together.

Judging from Rory's reactions towards him in this season, I don't think it's OOC for her to have romantic feelings for him again. She's extremely proud of his accomplishments and not unhappy to see him (not holding a grudge). They fall back into their comfortable dynamic even if it makes them both a bit nervous. Now some could argue that this means that Rory only wants to be friends with him but...when have Jess and Rory ever been just friends? If "Another Year in the Life" comes out (I've got serious doubts but would love to be proved wrong) and Rory rejects him or he's not even a part of it, fine! But I just don't see anything in canon that says explicitly she'll never feel romantic towards him again.

Now the kiss...there's a lot of ways to read that scene. Do I think Jess was in the right to assume "everything is fixed" as a go ahead? No. But that's part of why he is such an engaging character: he's impulsive and acts in accordance to his feelings, and yes, this gets himself and others in trouble.

Do I think Rory purposefully went to the open house to "use" Jess to get back at Logan? No. I think she genuinely wanted to support him, and Logan being out of town meant she wouldn't have to explain why it was important for her to go. I see the kiss paralleling the one in 2x22 but instead of Rory not being able to hold her feelings in any longer, Jess initiates. The way I see it is she was unaware she still had lingering feelings towards him (not out of nowhere, I mean their relationship has "unfinished business" written all over it) and that scared the crap out of her, just like at the end of season 2. So she runs away to the "safe space" that is being with Logan. Because she's in love with Logan, she has a sense of obligation towards him, and Rory has shown many times that she does not react well to change and highly emotional situations.

Is this scene a deal breaker for a future relationship between them? I don't think so. Jess says that he isn't sorry she came, which I take as "I'll never be sorry to see you no matter the context." Yes, this hurt him and made him pretty mad, but I don't think he's holding a grudge against her for this; even in the moment he's more concerned that someone cheated on her and her safety getting to her car. He sets a boundary that he doesn't deserve his feelings to be pushed around like this and Rory agrees. Not that I condone this sort of tit-for-tat hurting of each other (which I don't think Rory was going for in the first place) but it's almost like...that cycle is now broken. The whole scene is so open ended, it doesn't feel like a "good bye forever" to Jess.

"But Rory is so in love with Logan!" I don't know about you, but that "I'm in love with him despite all the bad he's done..." sounds so defeated and sad. It's almost like she's resigned herself to being in love with Logan. The first time I watched this, I thought this was foreshadowing that the relationship was on its last legs. To keep them together, Logan almost dies so Rory will bury her hurt out of guilt for holding a grudge against him. She is completely entitled to feeling hurt by Logan's actions, and I hate that she feels like she has to do this. But it happened, moving on.

"But Rory is a cheater!" When I think about Rory's characteristics, "cheater" doesn't make the list. She feels entitled to the men that she's loved and this isn’t super great behavior, but I don't view her as inherently unfaithful or okay with cheating. I give her leeway on the season 2 Jess kiss because she was a teenager with a lot of conflicting emotions and everything around her was pushing her to stay with Dean. The season 4 Dean debacle...she was still very young and naïve. I put most of the blame on Dean for manipulating her; I say most because if Rory really wanted to be with him, she should have been more sure of the status of his marriage, but I repeat: he manipulated her and she was very young and naïve. I dare to say she has been conditioned to view Dean as nothing but safe and trustworthy so why wouldn't she believe him... Season 4 was all about her being out of sorts when away from the Stars Hollow bubble and trying to reclaim some normalcy. Narratively, I see why this makes sense and I don't think the intention was to say “Rory is okay with cheating,” but to show very explicitly that Rory isn't perfect. This show goes to extremes, at this point I kind of just accept it and don't jump to "this person/character is terrible!" Certain characteristics and behaviors I have less patience for (mild) or will make me lose all respect for a character (extreme - honestly very few GG characters fall into this category for me); you may feel differently and that's fine. When other plot points in this series are much more bizarre and OOC, while this turn of events makes me uncomfortable and angry, at least it makes sense to me.

The 6x18 kiss I've already said that I don't think Rory had premeditated intent to cheat on Logan judging from the fact that Jess initiated it; yes, she went with it nor was it a complete surprise, I get this. The "I couldn't even cheat on him..." line I think is an outburst of guilt and regret, not her saying she had a plan in mind. Maybe I'm being too soft on her, I don't know...she did stay there late but maybe she just got lost in the book while waiting to say bye. We've seen her not know how to deal with conflicting emotions and change to her status quo, and attempt to distract herself when life isn't panning out the way she wants and not think about the consequences in the moment, so I don't find this scene OOC or intentionally cruel. The revival...I don’t think I can even go there right now because it would just be me screaming incoherently about how much I hate "full circle" and how bizarre the entire thing was. Maybe something of value would eventually come out with a lot of editing. XD

This isn’t to say I’m 100% on Rory’s side all the time. Pretty much every character in this show has at some point made me smile, made me laugh (generally with them, but some characters it’s more like at), made me want to give them a hug, made me roll my eyes, and made me want to throw something at them. That’s why I love it so much! Even if the drama is turned up to 1000, I still get the sense that these characters are human. My favs end up on my “will protect at all costs” and “shit” lists throughout the series, no one is immune. Except Lane. She really is the best person in this entire show. #JusticeForLaneKim

If ASP had written season 7: (Remember there being some sort of theme to this post? Only two episodes in s6, but Jess sure does make an impact.) I bet Jess would show up at some point. MV is loyal to the creators and not the show, if it was important for Jess to be there I’m sure his shooting schedule would have been accounted for. Storyline would have been similar to the revival because AYITL is ASPs season she didn’t get to do without considering how time passing affects the characters (I’M STILL SALTY) except Rory is at Yale and I think the book was a new idea. Shipping as endgame doesn’t change, and I bet there wouldn’t be a nice little Literati ending because we’ve got to end it the same way, right? I don't even need them to be together at the end because Rory has greater plans to focus on, but just a moment! One moment is all I asked for... I don’t know if this makes me mad because I felt like the narrative had been pushing us along this path for so long even if actual "endgame" was going to be offscreen or if I kind of like just having it in my imagination. Little bit of column A, little bit of column B. In any case, it could have been cool to see Jess present for the birth of his half-sister and giving Luke some support.

Like I said, I'm not touching AYITL right now. The whole starting point of this was, "huh, if MV never came back to the show, how would I feel about Jess and Literati?" And he was in it so it doesn't really fit into this even though we've gone on a meandering journey as pieces of discourse that have never sat right with me but didn't quite know how to express that disagreement until now popped in my mind. So there you go. If you’ve made it to end, claps to you, what a champ.

At the end of the day, Literati is the ship that makes me feel the most things, it's kind of just a gut thing. This really isn't any sort of argument just an outpouring of love for the show and these characters. I don't know how well that's communicated, but hey, I try. I’ve got a lot of nostalgia for the pairing and I always viewed Jess as being Rory’s, and only Rory’s, choice.

#Gilmore Girls #Literati #rory x jess #Jess Mariano #I've been writing and editing this for 2 weeks and just accidentally pressed post and uhhhh #I don’t think there's more you can do self #Just run with it

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botwstoriesandsuch · 5 years ago

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Day 4 Revalink: Free Day

I’m very very late, like almost 24hrs late, so sorry about that. If I don’t have a break down over my AP teacher giving me six hours of homework this week, then perhaps I can be more punctual. But that’s neither here nor there...if you’re reading this far in that perhaps you would be interested in some Revalink fluff? Sounds like a plan then! Time for some

Revalink sleeping headcanon/scenario

Link has a nightmare, and Revali is sleepy? What could happen?? :O

It would have been better if it was a knock at the door, but alas, his house had no walls

Revali awoke from his hammock, hearing small thumps on the wooden framing of his abode, causing the hinges of his hammock to sway.

I’m going to kill whatever unholy creature is trying to wake me up at this hour

Hopping off, Revali turned toward the source of the thumping, begrudging. His hair was all loose, and rubber his eyes wearily. Upon looking out the entrance, he was greeted by a shocking visitor

There Link stood, a leather bag in hand. His hair wasn’t tied up, but fell freely on his neck. Dark circles had formed under his eyes, but he greeted with Revali with a small wave. His tired, blue eyes gleamed, and Link’s smile made the Rito’s heart stop. It was way too early for this, why did this Hylian have to be so darn handso—

Goddess above, my hair is disastrous, I don’t have my armour on, how long has he been knocking? Do I snore? I’m pretty sure I don’t... HYLIA HELP ME my diary has just been laying open on that desk ooohhh fuuu—

This would have been a good time to slam the door on him, but again, no doors.

Cutting into his thoughts, Link spoke. “I’m sorry, I know you’re mad at me for waking you up at this hour...”

Revali tensed, hardening his gaze to put on an expression of frustration, rather than delight, at Link’s presence.

“...but I, well, I was trying to get some sleep at the inn. But I just...couldn’t.”

“So your first course of action was to awaken me so that both of us no have to suffer from your insomnia?”

He shrugged his shoulders, sheepishly. “I really sorry, but, can I just...hang out here for a bit?”

And by hang out, they both knew that just meant he wanted to spend the night.

“Well, you spend all your time here anyway. Always perstering me and being in my company throughout the day. So whats the difference if you invade my personal space at night too.”

The feathers on Revalis neck go FLOOF

“I suppose it wouldn't hurt to save you the time and rupees. What are their prices now, 80 rupees per bed?”

Turning back inside, Revali started to shuffle through some of his belonging, being sure to tuck his diary away on a high shelf. Looking back, he noticed that Link still hadn’t moved from where he was standing, shuffling awkwardly by the entrance and unsure about his movement. Revali sighed and beckoned with his wing.

“Come on, then. I have a spare hammock around somewhere...”

~And they were roommates~

that first night, Link slept like a baby in Revali’s company, but he would soon discover that being in a hammock was a lot different than a bed

Even after staying there for a few days, Link struggles to get in and out, flipping the hammock several times, much to Revali’s delight

However, he’s not as delighted by Link constantly rocking and swaying in the middle of the night, the metal hinges creaking as he tries to sleep

“Are you trying to have the metal sing you a lullaby??!!?!”

But eventually, they come across a great solution, just one giant snug hammock

Revali got the idea after Link kept creeping into his hammock because “it’s warmer here”

So now we have a big hammock, with four hinges so it doesn't sway as much. Also lots of pillows and blankets

Revali always has to smack Link’s hand away from his stuff, because Hylia help him if he disorganizes his perfect abode.

He eventually install little shelves and buys a new pillow and just puts it in one corner of the home

“Anything outside of this corner, you cannot touch, understand?”

Link touches stuff outside of the corner

Especially at night, he just snuggles up with Revali

“Do you have to put your arm around me like that? I get up much earlier that you, I’ve seen you sleep in until noon.”

Link just closes his eyes and smiles. “Exactly, this is now my method for getting up earlier. Whenever you wake up, you’ll have to move my arm and I’ll wake up too. You know, so we can start the day together.”

Revali’s feathers = floof

Link’s plan, however, doesn’t really work as he doesn’t wake up when Revali shifts his arm around in the morning.

But, he stays and sleeps in with him, as a part of him also wants to rise every morning with Link

#botw #breath of the wild #legend of zelda botw #loz botw #revalink #revalink week #revali #link #link botw #botw headcanons

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imtryingmyfuckingbe · 4 years ago

Text

Werewolf of Portland

Pairing: Dean x FBI!Reader

Word count: 10K

I’m not good a summaries, but I drew inspiration from anytime the boys give actual FBI Agents the “talk”, as well as that episode where Jody calls them out for using Bobby as their “supervisor”. This is a repost because I accidentally deleted the original, but it gave me time to edit it better. I’m thinking of doing a second part if I get enough feedback or requests for it, so please, please, please tell me what you think. I’m hungry for feedback haha. Also I know nothing about Portland or official FBI Badges so please keep that in mind as you read.

Warnings: Canon violence, profanity, and a plot twist I didn’t even see coming

Werewolf of Portland

The repugnant, putrid scent overcomes the clearing, spread by the gentle breeze. Despite the green grass littered with wild flowers, the unforgiving scent of rotten eggs clings to the workers’ hazmat suits. Flies buzz incessantly around the body, like that of an opaque blanket if adorned with beady eyes and veiny wings.

While the forensic cleaners work to gather the corpse’s remains for transportation, Agent Y/L/N stands at the edge of the control zone. Her day started at 4:39 in the morning, wherein she spent the next five hours scouring the field alongside her team. Even with her duties tended to, she refuses to leave the scene. The sparse clues yielded in the first examination plague her mind.

No fingerprints, no shoe prints, no footprints, no DNA; the list of what they don’t have extends further than what they do.

The body itself— what little the attacker left of it, at least— covered the majority of the scene. Torn to pieces, heart removed; remains scattered. She hopes the coroner can get something from her examination. The lacking evidence in addition to this being the fourth body found places an insurmountable weight on Y/N’s shoulders.

The public’s outrage cries for the FBI to put the criminal behind bars, but they’re no closer to identifying witnesses, let alone a culprit. Y/N signs, running her hand through her hair. No matter the amount of cases she faces, no matter how gruesome, she never lets it desensitize her. If she becomes numb to the pain of blood and guts, she fails to invest herself in solving the case.

Turning from the scene, she instead takes in the myriad official vans and workers putting about. Her partner speaks with forensics, gathering whatever helpful information they can provide. A small side glance her way and the lift of his hand by his side, he beckons Y/N over. However, her lead feet refuse to move. Still engulfed in the horror show behind her, she takes a moment to collect her thoughts.

Y/N struggles to keep her emotions in check. Rage courses through her veins at the heinous acts humans commit, to fulfill sadistic pleasure or cure one’s demons. Unfortunately, in the FBI, she must swallow her anger and sadness, replacing it with a monotone voice and calculated expressions. Taking a breath, she departs from the border and heads towards Agent Colt.

He finishes speaking with the worker, who leaves the partners in peace.

“They’ve got nothing. We’ve got nothing. Not for this one, not for the past three.”

She already knows this. A thought tickles the back of her mind, but she cannot name it. “All right. Maybe they got sloppy; maybe this time the coroner will get something. Anything.” Elijah rolls his eyes, pursing his lips and rubbing his chin. Y/N knows he’s saying We can’t base our investigation on maybe. Another sigh. “Fine, let’s run through this again.”

Elijah leads the way to their company car. “So, the heart. That’s the main focus. It’s missing.”

“Yes. This points to it being personal. It takes a lot of passion and hatred to rip through someone’s chest and remove their fucking heart. Which, another thing, the hearts aren’t just removed. They’re taken.”

“Right. Okay, haphazard blood splatter; no pattern. I’d say our killer is disorganized. Listless.”

“Not completely. I mean, there’s an even month between each murder. That leans more towards organized. There’s ritual. It’s not really first come, first serve, ya know?”

Elijah pauses at his door, fingers clasped tightly around its handle. He worries his bottom lip between his teeth, staring off into the distance. Y/N knows that look. She’s seen it in herself, survivors and fellow agents. He’s not looking at the clearing, but trying to connect the dots. Perhaps the weight of solving this doesn’t rest solely on Y/N’s shoulders.

As Elijah returns from his reverie and yanks open the car door, Y/N hears a deep, raspy voice greet the local law enforcement. Her partner settles into his seat, staring at her with drawn eyebrows and pursed lips. She holds up a finger.

Casting a quick glance behind her, Y/N finds two suits mid-introduction with the sheriff. The pair hold up identification booklets, much like the one in her pocket. Their suits hang too loosely off of their bodies, their dress shoes too scuffed. The longer she watches their body language, the larger the pit in her stomach grows. She turns around to lean against the car, keeping focus on the men. They talk for a moment more before the sheriff nods in her direction.

Y/N watches their shoulders tense, standing taller from the rigidness. Yes, she muses, something is off.

The window she leans against pulls on her coat as Elijah rolls it down. “Hey, you coming?”

Pondering for a moment whether she should let him in on her instincts, Y/N decides against it. “Yeah,” she leans down, poking her head through the window. “I’m going to stay here, actually. I want to see if I can squeeze anything else out of the uniforms.”

Elijah chuckles. “We’re uniforms too, you know.”

She returns the laugh. “Right, well, you head back to the office. Make a fresh pot of coffee, too. I’ll meet you there.”

He holds two fingers to his forehead before dramatically sweeping them across his face. “Aye, aye, captain.”

Y/N stands as he rolls the window back up, patting the roof. Elijah peels off while she returns her attention to the still-gawking men. Their postures only straighten as she nears; if they stood any more rigid she’d swear they were wax figures. “Harold,” she acknowledges the sheriff. He nods. “How’s it going on your end?” Y/N keeps the men in her peripheral but focuses on Harold.

Harold’s eyes shift to the pair, then back to Y/N. “As I was telling your fellow agents—” at this statement, the men share a glance, “—still nothing.”

“Right, well I want to go over everything again. Give me a moment.” She finally turns to greet the supposed agents. “Gentlemen, to whom do I owe the pleasure?” Scanning their faces, she studies them for any quirk of the lips or perspiration on the brow.

The taller one speaks first. “I’m, uh, Agent Pert and this is Agent Bonham,” he gestures next to him.

Pert and Bonham? Really? She refrains from rolling her eyes.

Instead, Y/N doesn’t respond, using the pressure of silence in her favor. Harold clears his throat, uncomfortable with the tension. She ignores him, keeping focus on the men before her. Most of her suspects break under her gaze; very few can sustain their façade in an encounter with her steely eyes and stiff posture. Harold excuses himself, unable to withstand her harsh eyes. The men continue to stare, neither willing to relent. Unfortunately, this renders them at an impasse. She, too, will not look away or speak.

Agent Pert concedes, taking the lead. “Right, well, we’re here from DC to investigate the murders. What have you got?” His voice imperceptibly wavers— if untrained, Y/N wouldn’t notice the quiver— the corner of his lip twitching.

Ignoring his request, she commands, “Let me see your badges, agents.”

Another conversation through a shared look before they hand them over. They’re good, the badges. A smidgen off center of authentic. If not for the incorrect serial code and too high insignia placement, Y/N would accept them at face value. She closes the booklets and pockets them, earning a small Hey of protest from the short one. Cocking an eyebrow, she dares them to challenge her.

“Impersonating a federal agent is a crime, I’m sure you know.”

“Impersonating a— call our superior and check! Let me see your badge!” Crew cut exclaims, indignant.

“I’ll lend my badge after I’ve talked to your superior officer.” She wonders how far they intend to take this rouse.

With their business card in hand, she retreats a few steps. As she dials the number the little whisper in the back of her head pesters her further. The questionable agents and unsolvable case remind her of… something.

“Agent Willis,” a voice grunts.

“Willis? What’s your outpost?”

“Headquarters. Who is this?”

“Agent Y/L/N. It appears I have two of your agents here; I’m sure some wires crossed when you sent them down? What were your orders for Agents Tyler and Grohl?”

“Who are you to question my authority, Agent?”

His growl pulls the pressing thought to the forefront of her mind. 2005, in Cincinnati on her first case. Similar to her case today: bodies piled up with no leads and peculiar circumstances. She ran into someone claiming to be FBI, too. Fresh from the academy with the weight of the world on her shoulders, she accepted his excuse of bureaucratic miscommunication; why don’t we work the case together?

She laughs. “Wait, hold on. I know you.”

“Noyoudon’t,” he spits out, too quickly.

“Yeah, I do. Fuck, what’s your name?” she mumbles, more to herself than him. “Singer! Ohio, we worked a case together. Culprit never caught and you went on your merry way.”

He blubbers, failing to produce a proper excuse. “I don’t know a Singer, Agent.”

She rolls her eyes, finally turning to face the men. The stricken look on their faces only further points to the truth. “All right, Willis. Even if that were true, you also don’t know your agents’ names. They introduced themselves as Pert and Bonham. Really, Singer? Rockstars’ names?” The humor of the situations drains, replaced with its severity. “All right, I’m taking your men in. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll stay put and wait for mine to come get you.”

“Wait— Y/L/N, right? Hear me out,” he pleads, urgency ringing clear in his voice.

“You have ten seconds.”

“Listen, they’re there to help. Your attacker ain’t what you think it is. I closed that case in Cincinnati, thanks to your help. But, it wasn’t a person. It was a vampire.”

She laughs again, this time wild and unbelieving. “Yeah, right. And this one is a fucking Chupacabra.”

“No, it’s not. We think it’s a werewolf.”

“You’re fucking nuts. No, I’m calling this in.”

“Y/N. Wait. Talk to them, please. People are still in danger. Their names are Sam and Dean. Winchester.” The desperation in his voice settles with unease in her chest. Her time on the force yields too much experience in discerning honesty from duplicity.

Rather than respond, she ends the call and returns to the newly named Winchesters. They stand unmoving, shoulder to shoulder; if not for the wind tussling the tall one’s hair, she’d think they were statues. “So.” They squirm under her gaze. “Which one of you is Sam and Dean?” Their eyes widen at her remark, startled by her knowledge of their true identities.

Crew cut juts his chin out and squares his shoulders. “I’m Dean. That’s Sam. Why don’t you tell us who you are and how the hell you know our names?”

“I’ll be the one asking questions, gentleman. I’ve half a mind to put you in cuffs. First, you impersonate a federal agent; second, your pal Singer brings up werewolves? Sounds like three peas in a pod headed for St. Christopher’s Asylum to me.” Neither respond. “Thirty seconds, boys. You have thirty seconds to make me believe you or the only way you’re leaving is in cuffs.” For emphasis, she pats her hip, whereupon the cuffs hang.

The pregnant silence leers on.

“25.”

Sam sighs, running his hand through his hair. “All right. There are things in this world that you don’t know about; that not many people know about. The bumps in the night, the clichés; most of them are real. Have you had anything happen to you that you can’t explain? Or had an unsolvable case?” He pauses for her answer, but she only looks on, hands on her hips.

Vampires? Werewolves? What the fresh fuck? Her mind reels with the implications of his statement; even still, it doesn’t feel wrong. A few cases come to mind instantly: the serial killer who left victims’ eyes burnt out, people torn to shreds in supposed animal attacks by nothing from these parts. How many victims faced the unknown rather than human wrath? She can handle psychopaths, serial killers, the insane. She knows that evil; deals with it regularly. But the supernatural? No.

“Right, well, we hunt those things. We take them out,” he gestures between himself and Dean.

Y/N’s hands drop from her sides, falling limp at her thighs. “Just you two?” She whispers, cold and disbelieving.

“No,” Dean speaks up. “Not just us. There’s a lot of us out there.”

“Listen, I’m going to need more than just your word. I don’t know you, and I sure as hell don’t trust you. What can you give me that will make me believe you?” Despite not wanting it, she needs proof. Plus, if they turn out to be nuts, she can lock them up and toss the key; no harm, no foul.

They nod once, curt but understanding. Sam takes a step forward, hand raised in her direction. “This’ll take a leap of faith, Agent…”

“Y/L/N.”

“Agent Y/L/N. Let us work on this with you,” Sam implores. “And if we’re wrong, you can book us yourself.”

“Sammy, hold up. Who’s to say we can trust her either? She’s just some Fed. Who’s to say she won’t cuff us anyway?” Dean protests, turning towards Sam.

While the two quietly argue, Y/N takes a step back. Running her tongue over her teeth in concentration, she ponders the options. Even if Sam offers her control, she knows their type: they won’t let her actually take the lead. Dean reminds her of her father, and that man never relinquished supervision. In order for this to work in her favor— seeking the truth, protecting the public— Y/N must fulfill the role as the dutiful public servant. Perhaps they’re not fucking lunatics, and this thing turns out to be real, she’d be way out of her element anyway. Still, she refuses to give up control.

Staring off towards the field, where the body once laid, she contemplates the little evidence recovered. Vics torn to shreds, no prints, no DNA. Local PD swears it’s a cougar, an animal indigenous to the area. Even still, animals are simpler than humans. They kill for sustenance or safety. The brutality of this kill, the length of the claw marks, lack of fur, ritual occurrences; it all points in the wrong direction. Y/N would quicker say some furry decided killing offers more sexual release over cosplay than call it a fucking cougar.

“If you expect me to try to trust you, or at least what you say, then I need your trust, too. This goes both ways,” she interrupts. The men cease their heated discussion, turning towards her. “I don’t like what you’re telling me. I don’t want to believe it. But… I trust my gut, and I think you guys are either great liars or telling the truth.” Sam smiles, but Y/N holds up a hand. “However, I will not put my eggs in one basket. I need insurance that you’ll hold up your end of the bargain. This means I’m taking point, and you guys are consultants. Anything you know, you tell me. Anything you find, you tell me. Anything you do, you tell me. Capiche?”

Sam nods before Dean, nudging his side to encourage his agreement. Dean tosses his hands in the air. “Fine. Where to next, Agent?” Venom drips with each word.

“I need to get back to the station. My partner, Agent Colt, will be—”

“Colt? Agent Colt? The irony.” Dean interrupts. Sam elbows him again, and Y/N chooses to ignore him altogether.

“I’m going back to the station. I’ll talk to the Uniforms and tell them to give you anything pertinent to this specific scene. Anything to do with the others can wait until tonight. Meet me at Carlton’s, off of Hamilton street. I’ll bring the files for the other Vics.” She hands Sam her business card, not trusting Dean to keep it.

“What about our badges?”

Y/N rolls her eyes, exhausted. “Fuck, man. I’m trying my hardest to ignore the federal crime you committed right in front of me. Prove you’re right and you’ll get them back. Until then, you’re consultants employed by the Bureau.”

She pushes passed them, heading towards Harold. Their boots crunch on the gravel as they lag behind her. He halts his conversation with one of deputies upon their arrival. “Sheriff, these two are fresh blood from the academy.” She juts her thumb over her shoulder. “HQ thought this would be a good case for them to learn on the job. Tell them anything you know and let them case the scene. I’m going back to the station to meet up with Elijah.”

“But—” Harold begins. Y/N levels him with sharp eyes and pressed lips, stopping him in his tracks. “Right. Okay. Follow me, Agents.” Sam and Dean shoulder passed Y/N, catching up to the Sheriff with a few long strides.

Y/N stands for a moment, hands in her jacket pockets, watching the two men. If this turns out to be a rouse— if she let two criminals onto the field with her permission— that’s her head. Shaking the thought away, she turns. She’s able to hitch a ride back to the station with the forensic profilers.

———————————————————————————————————

Elijah spared his questions when she returned, thankfully. Instead, he shoved a hot cup of cop shop coffee into her hands before continuing their earlier evaluation. “Right, can’t be disorganized, but he’s definitely passionate. That shows connection to the victims.”

Y/N sips her coffee. Forcing the bitterness down her throat, she also swallows her new knowledge. She must work this case like any other, for it might be. “You think it’s a man?”

Around the bite of an apple, he says, “Yes. Female offenders aren’t typically serial murderers; they’re passion killers. Black Widows, Angels of Death, you know the type.”

“I do, but Wuronous diverged from the typical female murderer.”

“Yeah, that’s one of many. Most other women utilized poison for their kills. The ME didn’t find any traces of cyanide, arsenic, or tetrodotoxin— nothing. Doesn’t fall in line with what we know.”

Y/N simmers. She knows this, of course. “Let’s keep the possibilities in mind.” She sifts through the crime scene pictures, lining up the photos of the different victims side by side. “Placement doesn’t seem to matter, so that leans away from obsessive compulsiveness. The offensive wounds support this, too.”

“Y/N, what are we reaching for? We don’t have a profile, a motive; nothing.”

“Not true. Let’s lay it all out, one more time. Hearts are taken, gruesome attack wounds, lower body left alone. Maybe these are passion killings, and the only thing in common with the victims is the killer. I mean, people come and go all the time here. Maybe they knew the Unsub outside of Portland. The ritualistic pattern of the murders makes me think the killer stalks the victims in the month down time; gets to know their schedule, comings and goings. They’re all aged between twenty-five and thirty-five. Maybe the killer is attracted to the ages rather than physical descriptions. Also—” Y/N stops, sighing.

Even as she tries to string everything together, she knows Elijah is right. Too much of the evidence contradicts any profile they could scrape up. Ritualistic but not obsessive, disorganized but keeps to a schedule, passionate murders between unrelated victims. Nothing points them in any definitive direction. They’re grasping at straws here.

Sam and Dean creep to the forefront of her mind. She downs her coffee in one go. It heats her stomach, and she blames her rising temperature on the beverage rather than brimming anger. Clenching her fists, she crushes the paper cup. Elijah reaches over to rub her shoulder, massaging her tense muscles. “It’s okay, Y/N/N. We’ll catch this son of a bitch,” he encourages, misunderstanding her frustration.

She rubs her eyes, forcing them open. Wordlessly, Elijah fills hands here a new cup of coffee, topping himself off as well. They sit in silence, pouring over their respective files. The victims must have connections; even if Y/N allows herself to believe the Winchesters, she can’t believe monsters don’t have rituals. Psychology reaches further than humanity— scientists observe it in animals. In order to keep hope and keep going, Y/N trusts in the knowledge that all things in existence operate off of some code.

Another sigh, another gulp. “One more time. From the first victim. Elijah, there has to be something.”

He purses his lips, clear indignation warring his exhaustion and winning. Even still, he nods. “All right, Vic One: Stephanie Lane, age 27. She worked at the local vet clinic on Broad Street. Usual nine to five, Monday through Friday. Killer got her leaving work Thursday night, July Fifth, around six p.m. Scratched her up, took her heart. Passerby found her body two days later.” He wets his lips, staring at her file.

Y/N nods in confirmation, already well aware of the facts. With a fine-tooth comb, they revisit each victim after Stephanie Lane. Jonathan Grism, Marcus Kent, and, the most recent, Gabrielle Shaw. All with varying occupations and seemingly no connections, aside from enjoying the casual run or grueling hike. Despite their apparent love of nature, the Unsub chose to kill them in their daily routine.

On a whim, Y/N searches each date (July 5th, August 3rd, September 2nd, and October 1st) for any similarities in the dates, coming up short and further exasperated. Elijah keeps to himself while she abuses her keyboard, refusing defeat. Only on her fifth page of Google searches does she find anything worth noting; unfortunately it supports the Winchesters. Each murder occurred on a full moon.

She slams her laptop closed, finishing her coffee and crushing her cup. “I need a break, Elijah. Just some time to clear my head and get fresh eyes.” She stands, tossing her cup into the wastebasket. Elijah leans back, clasping his fingers behind his head. “I’m getting some sleep. You should too. You look like shit.”

Elijah laughs. “Thanks, Y/N/N. You don’t look too much better yourself.”

She shoves his shoulder as she passes, shouting a goodbye over her shoulder. Elijah hollers something back, but she’s already out of the front doors. The crisp air helps the fog in her head, supplementing it with aches in her bones. Her boots crunch leaves with each step, and she forces her focus onto the noise.

Crunch, crunch, crunch.

Werewolves?

Crunch, crunch, crunch.

The supernatural?

Crunch, crunch— smack.

A broad chest stops her, calloused fingers grasping her upper arm to steady her. Y/N looks up, palms pressing against a soft t-shirt, into effervescent green eyes. Dean grins down at her, the left corner of his lip tilted in an almost-sneer, if not for the mischief in his eyes. She rolls her eyes, pushing back against his firm chest. He releases her, hands up in mock surrender.

“Agent, fancy seeing you here.”

“Where? Outside of the station where I work? Must be kismet.” Sarcasm drips from her words like venomous honey, sickly sweet and sticky.

“Well, to be fair, you did say to tell you anything we find, so here I am.”

Her heart stutters, excited. They found something. This could be the end of the murders. Straightening her back and returning to Agent Y/L/N— locking Y/N into a tight box at the back of her mind— she faces Dean head on. “All right, what have you found?” Her voice lacks the previous emotion, all business and no play.

Dean sighs, a look flitting across his face and disappearing before Y/N can place it. “Walk with me.” He turns on his heel without awaiting her response, starting down the sidewalk.

She follows, despite the annoyance burning the bottom of her feet with each step. They continue down the street in silence, save for their steps and the seldom passing cars. While she wants answers, Y/N knows pestering delays the process. Dean seems like a man who has been through the ringer a couple times. If he shares similarities with herself, he won’t share anything until he’s ready— another form of control she wants to rip from his fingers.

By the time they reach the doors to the Sunshine Diner, Y/N must clench her fists to bury the frustration of unanswered questions. Dean holds the door, motioning for her to go in. In the back right corner of the restaurant sits Sam, typing furiously on his laptop. So. It appears Dean did search for her once they found something. Pleased at the notion, she lets some of the annoyance roll off her shoulders.

Dean settles in next to Sam, Y/N taking the opposing side of the booth. “So, get this,” Sam begins. “Your murders started four months ago, right? Well, turns out a small werewolf pack traveled from Washington to Portland because they drew too much attention to themselves. One of our connections in Seattle worked the case until they completely disappeared, no trace, no nothing. Within a month of leaving Washington, the Portland murders began.” He finished, peering at her through the too-long tendrils of his hair.

Y/N schools her face into indifference, despite her racing heart and sweating palms. He sounds so sure and calm, like they run into werewolves grocery shopping. Dean looks at her, too, sharp eyes searching for anything in her expression or body language.

For a moment of reprieve, the waitress approaches the table. Rushed and rough, the trio relay their orders: Sam an egg white omelet, Dean the Bacon Supreme, and Y/N another black coffee; she ignores her shaking hands and clammy skin. The server jots down their choices, rushing off to the next table.

Y/N clasps her fingers together, leaning forward. “That sounds like a nicely wrapped present with a bow on top. I need your process. How did you come to this conclusion? Who is this supposed hunter?”

Sam squints at her, mouth agape. “Those are your questions, really? Nothing about werewolves?” He turns to Dean, bewildered. Dean shrugs, looking all too comfortable for the topic of conversation.

The server returns with their drinks, setting the three coffees and one orange juice in front of the respective customers. As if purposefully slow, she takes her time to offer creamer or sugar, unaware of the tension. Dean taps one of his fingers on the surface of the table while Sam makes polite small talk with the waitress. Y/N continues to study the men before her. Finally, the server leaves once more.

“Listen, if I’m going to believe your bucket of crazy, then I’m going to believe it. So, no. I’m not going to ask about werewolves, I’m asking about the details of your research. I need to know how credible you are.”

This time, Dean leans forward, staring straight into her eyes and speaking low. “The hunter we know in Washington, Richard, kept track of them enough to know their comings and goings. He put out the word through the Hunter grapevine that he needed help with the… extermination of the pack, but by the time anyone could come to help, they migrated south. To here. We know it’s this pack because the victims share the same hobby: doing shit in nature. Runners, hikers, whatever. It makes them easy targets—”

“— Except they weren’t killed on hikes or runs. They were killed after work or errands or—”

Dean continues speaking, as if she hadn’t interjected. “—This specific pack only eats the heart, a common characteristic of werewolves. However, a lot of them eat more of the body, and depending on what they eat points to which pack is most likely to be the attacker. These sons of bitches blend in, except on the full moon, where they go apeshit for hearts. Richard identified the pack leader; Sam found where they’re holed up in. Good enough for you, Agent?”

She wants to slap the pleased look straight off of his plump lips and pretty green eyes. Instead, Y/N props her head up in her palm, keeping her eyes level with Dean’s, swallowing her ire and replacing it with feigned kindness. “Yes. When are we going to get them?” The thought of coming face to face with a monster rushes like winter water through her veins. She reminds herself she deals with monsters on the daily; hers only lack claws and fangs, and whatever else. The circumstances only vary slightly.

“We? There is no ‘we’, sweetheart. We kept you in the loop, like you asked, but you don’t know Jack from Shit about how the gank these fuckers. You do your job, and we’ll—”

Y/N raises her hand, silencing Dean. “Listen, sweetheart, I know the area. I’m guessing they’re staying at the Crest Apartments off of 205, right? Developers left it abandoned when the surveyors refused to clear it due to landslide likelihood. I know the woods, the city, everything. As for what I don’t know, you can teach me. I may not be trained in proper monster lore, but I know how to fight.”

Dean leans further forward, meeting her at the halfway mark of the table. He lowers his voice, speaking gruffly as if to admonish. “You might be an agent in the normal world, but to us you’re just a civvie. No matter what you think you can do, no matter what you think you know, you’ve never faced these things in real life. I’m not about to put your stubborn ass in danger just so you can prove a point.”

Y/N opens her mouth to retort, but Sam grabs Dean’s collar and pulls him back. “Enough with the pissing contest. I get it: you’re both badass,” he interrupts, at his wits end. “Listen, Y/N,” he begins, softer. “I’m sure you’re good at what you do. You got the location correct without any intel, save for what you know about your city. But Dean’s right. If you come, you’re more of a liability than helpful.”

Y/N closes her eyes, taking a deep breath and holding it for five counts. When she exhales, she forces a smile upon her lips, albeit a bit sardonic, and opens her eyes. The men stare at her, awaiting her response. She stands, instead, straightening her jacket. “Gentleman, I’ll see you tonight. Bring an extra weapon, seeing as I’m sure normal bullets won’t kill a werewolf. Nine o’clock?” Rather than wait for a response, she nods her head and departs onto the street once more.

———————————————————————————————————

From the moment she stepped outside of the diner to the moment she parked her car behind Sam and Dean, her phone rang. Y/N assumed the alternating unknown numbers belonged to the brothers, likely wishing to dissuade her from joining their crusade. She ignored them, deleting any voicemails they left. She knows they’re right; she doesn’t know left from right when it comes to monsters. But it’ll be a cold day in Hell when she lets some terror run rampage in her city.

Instead, she chose to bide her time researching werewolf lore between several more cups of coffee. Luckily she came across a duo well versed in their knowledge: the Ghostfacers. Although they posted their most recent content a year ago, she assumes lore stays the same. Silver bullet, shot to the head or heart, werewolf down for the count.

Y/N alights from her car, closing the door. Sam and Dean stand at their trunk, rummaging through— an entire arsenal of weapons? Y/N still has half the mind to arrest them. First impersonating federal agents to knives and machetes and guns in a hidden compartment of their car? She forces anxiety down, instead choosing once again to believe Sam and Dean are not raging psychopaths. Every bone in her body screams to cuff them and book them; her entire career banks on capturing nuts jobs like these two.

Still, she makes her way to their car, stopping at her front bumper to lean on it. “So. Silver, huh?”

Sam turns to face her, loading his .45 absentmindedly as he takes in her appearance. Gone is her official suit, in its place jeans, boots, and a well-worn long-sleeve. Dean rummages through the trunk, ignoring her presence. “You researched,” Sam replies, more so a statement than a question.

“I don’t go in half cocked. Pun intended. Got any leftover bullets? I’ve got a .45, too,” she muses, patting her hip for emphasis.

Dean sighs, rubbing his temple with his free hand, the other occupied with a magazine. “For the last time,” he begins, turning to face her, “I don’t want you here. We don’t want you here. If things get hairy in there, we can’t protect you, Y/N. You’re a liability. You don’t know—”

“— Jack from shit, yeah, yeah,” she dismisses, waving a hand. “Stow the crap, I’m coming. Now, do you want me going in defenseless or do you have silver to spare?” She stands straight, squaring her shoulders and holding her head high.

Sam covers a laugh with a cough, his attention trained on Dean. Y/N forces her unwavering gaze onto him, who in turn rolls his eyes. His shoulders sag in defeat as he returns attention to his trunk. Wordlessly, he passes her a simple pistol, already loaded. She adjusts her grip, searching for a comfortable hold.

“Thanks.”

Dean barely nods his head. Y/N leaves the pair for a moment, returning her own gun to the glove box and locking it.

Upon her return, Dean closes the trunk with a deafening slam, leaning against it. “All right, let’s get some things straight. We go in first, you follow. We’ll call clear and then we move forward as a group, understood?” Y/N wants to roll her eyes— Dean seems to forget she works raids on the regular— but she nods. “Good. We counted five. You see someone who isn’t us,” he motions between Sam and himself with his gun, “you shoot. Bullet to the heart will do the job.” He delivers a pointed look in her direction, awaiting confirmation.

“Got it.”

He looks at her for a moment, his eyes alight with enough fire to bore holes into her clothing. A familiar look hides behind his façade of rage; it rests on the tip of Y/N’s tongue. Perhaps a concoction of grief and hope. She sees it in herself when a case grows too heavy; grief for the pain and hope for the end. In this moment, Y/N feels like she knows Dean.

The moment breaks when he shakes his head and walks heavy footed to the building. Sam falls in line with Y/N, resting a hand on her shoulder to slow her. She cranes her neck to look him in the eye, skin burning whereupon his palm rests. “He doesn’t want casualties. He doesn’t have the best way of showing it, but Dean cares about people. He’s got enough blood on his hands.” Sam squeezes her shoulder, sparing a tight lipped smile, before dropping his hand.

A few long strides puts him next to Dean, shoulder to shoulder. Y/N hangs back, processing Sam’s vague confession. She understands the need to protect others. The most pressing motivation for joining the Bureau stems from this desire. These men fight in a war separate to her own, but not dissimilar. They’re two sides of the same coin, both Y/N and Dean aching to save, save, save.

She shrugs her shoulders, pushing the nerves building in her chest down to her toes. If Sam and Dean tell the truth of the awaiting horrors, she needs to ready herself. In matters of life and death, anxiety only increases the chances of death. Adrenaline only carries her so far before it peters out.

Dean stands at the front door, gun raised and legs parted. Sam stands to the side, hand on the handle. Y/N, as promised, stands back and behind Dean. With a nod from Dean, Sam pulls the handle, opening the heavy door. The brothers file in first, flashlights illuminating the unfinished floor and walls.

Their footsteps echo as they clear each room, a foreboding cadence through the empty halls. Dean looks back at Y/N, ensuring she still follows. She keeps her gun pointed to the ground and her senses open. At the first corner, Dean holds his arm out. Sam and Y/N flatten themselves against the wall while Dean looks around the corner. He nods, stepping out into the open once more.

A crunch from the right hallway drags Y/N’s attention from the brothers proceeding to the left. Peering down the corridor, she finds it empty. Just as she turns to catch up, another crunch sounds, followed by a squelch and a footstep. Looking behind her, Y/N finds Dean and Sam halfway down the hallway. “Dean!” she shouts as quietly as she can. He doesn’t turn. “Dean. Sam!”

Nothing.

She sighs, frustrated. One side begs her to run down the hallway to warn them; the other implores her to follow her gut and the noise. Another wayward glance in their direction and Y/N turns right. She steps carefully, avoiding debris. Heel, toe. Heel, toe.

The further she travels down the hallway, the darker it gets. Footsteps and low voices grow closer as she reaches another left or right turn. She presses against the left wall, sparing a glance down the right corridor. Empty. The left hallway, however, offers cover to three silhouettes crowding in front of a closed door. She startles back, heart hammering against her ribs.

Y/N holds her breath, calming the relentless anxiety in her chest. Breathe in, hold four seconds, breathe out. Rinse and repeat. She looks back to where she last saw Sam and Dean; they’re gone. Great. Now she's truly dug herself an early grave.

With one last breath, Y/N turns the corner, aims and shoots. One of the people— werewolves— yowls in pain, collapsing to the ground. Yellow eyes glow in the dark, the only light from their end of the hall. Guttural growls roll from their chests as they stalk towards Y/N. She fires again. It hits the plaster, sending dust and shards flying.

“Fuck.”

The monsters pick up speed, running full force in her direction. She fires one more time, hitting one in the leg. It crashes to the floor, knees hitting the ground with a sickening crack. The other continues. Y/N whips around, running down the hallway towards Sam and Dean— she hopes. Her feet thump with each step and she pays little mind to the trash and tools on the ground.

A foolish mistake, it seems, as she stomps on an empty chip packet. Her right foot slips from beneath her, sending her careening to the ground. The side of her head smacks against the concrete. Her vision blacks for a moment before the pain spreads in webs from her cheek to her neck, down her back. The heavy footfalls of her pursuer sound muffled compared to the needling throbbing in her head.

With a groan, she pushes herself onto her hands and knees. A hand on the wall stabilizes her, she clambers to her feet. An unfortunate time to do so; the werewolf runs full force into her, slamming her onto the ground once more. Autopilot takes over as she raises her palms to the man’s chest, pushing as hard as she can.

He snarls, snapping his teeth as he tries to reach her neck. Y/N blocks his throat with her forearm, using her spare hand to blindly search for her gun. Instead of the handle, she grasps a wrench. Good enough. With as much force as she can muster, she clobbers the werewolf’s head. He falls off of her, a hand pressed to his bleeding forehead.

In the second of reprieve, she spots the pistol a few feet away. She throws herself through the air, grabbing the handle before turning onto her back, the gun pointed towards the monster.

He dives after her. Bang. The shot rings out through the hallway. His body tenses before relaxing completely, eyes half lidded and empty. Y/N rolls out of the way as it collides with the floor. Her breaths come ragged and short, but the fight persists. The unforgiving footsteps of her aggressors afford little time to catch her breath; she pushes herself up once more.

Panting, but not yet done, she turns towards the thundering steps. Sam and Dean race towards her, guns at the ready. “Oh, thank God.” She drops her guard and lowers her pistol to her side, leaning against the wall to catch her breath.

Dean reaches her first, fire in his eyes and coating his words. “What the fuck is wrong with you? I told you to stay with us, Y/N!” He grabs her chin, calloused fingers tilting her face to get a better look at her wounds. He pulls back, lifting and examining each arm. Y/N, too spent, lets him search for whatever he wants to find. She feels the welting of a bruise on her right cheek and a trickle of blood from her forehead.

“I got— I got three,” she gasps, watching Sam turn the werewolf over.

Dean releases her, shaking his head. She touches her cheek, wincing at its sensitivity. “Oh, how nice. You also almost got yourself killed. I swear to—”

“—Dean,” Sam warns. “There are two more. We can worry about this later.”

“I got— I killed one of the others, but the third one I just hit in the knee.” Admitting to killing something, despite it being a monster, settles heavily in her stomach. She presses her hand to her lips, forcing her lunch to stay put.

No time to puke, Y/N, she scolds herself.

Shaking her head, she compels herself to focus. She nods at Sam and Dean, who take their positions at the front once more. This time she has no intentions of abandoning their protection. They stalk forward, albeit not as carefully as before; the ruckus certainly alerted the rest of the pact to their presence. Turning the corner, they find the werewolf Y/N shot first. A trail of blood leads the room they convened outside of, the door open this time.

The trio step lightly and quickly to the room. Dean peers in before entering. Inside, the wounded werewolf leans against the wall, a hand pressed against his thigh. Dean shoots him on the spot, wasting no time. Another body lies in the corner, torn the shreds. Aside from the two corpses, the room yields no tell-tale signs of the rest of the pack. Even still, Sam and Dean survey every nook and cranny. Y/N hovers by the door, working on slowing her breath and calming her heart.

She peaks out into the hallway, just in case. The darkness limits her view, but she can’t hear anything either. Her ears ring, a relentless low buzzing from hitting her head and firing her gun too closely. Dean places a hand on her lower back as he passes, alerting her to his presence. The warmth spreads through her body, even when he lets go and walks ahead.

“Do you think they left?” she wonders aloud. It’s what she would do, but packs could think differently than humans.

Sam walks next to her, looking at her in his peripheral. “Maybe. But we want to clear the whole building, no stone left unturned and all that.”

She nods, instantly regretting it. Her brain tumbles around her head, hitting the walls and throbbing. Y/N rubs her temple, but says nothing. Lord knows Dean would already have a smartass retort on the tip of his tongue. Instead, she concentrates on putting one foot in front of the other.

They clear the first floor easily, no signs of the last two. Dean leads them back to the front of the building to the stairwell. The door refuses to open, no matter how much force they use. The handle turns, but something on the other side blocks its pathway. Sam and Dean brace their backs against the door, plant their feet on the ground, and push as hard as they can. It budges slightly, only enough for them to see inside.

One of the railings torn from the stairs leans against the door, while another, wedged between the railing on the door and the first step of the stairs, holds it in place. They’d have to get in there to open the door. The brothers try once again, opening it a smidgen further.

As Sam and Dean discuss the next step, Y/N formulates her own plan. She knows the boys, Dean in particular, won’t like it. Stepping closer to them, she chooses to stand next to Sam, hoping for his support.

“Listen,” she interrupts. Both brothers run their attention to her, Sam’s eyebrows raised and Dean’s drawn down. For a moment, she wonders if they have other facial expressions or if they always look this perturbed. “I can fit in there,” she motions to the opening in the door, a crack about a foot wide. Dean opens his mouth to disagree, but she holds up a hand. “I’ll get in there and move the railings so you guys can get in too. Quick and simple. Won’t go off on my own, promise.”

Sam and Dean meet eyes, silently coming to an agreement. Dean pinches the bridge of his nose, sighing. “Fine. Be quick.” He sets his steely gaze upon her face. “And, I fucking swear, Y/N— if you go off by yourself I will kill you.”

She rolls her eyes. “Sure, you will.”

She shoves passed him, knocking his shoulder on purpose. He grumbles something under his breath, but moves out of the way. A deep breath in, Y/N sidles through the opening. She barely makes it, struggling to get around the railing. Once inside, she grasps the leaning railing, using her whole body to pull the steel from where it’s wedged. Inch by inch, she gets it out of the way.

It hits the floor with a reverberating clang, settling in the alcove beneath the stairs. The other falls to the ground, closing the door with its force. Y/N sighs, throwing her head back in frustration. Fists bang on the other side of the door, Dean shouting her name along with profanities.

“I’m fine, you oaf. Give me a second,” she yells back, exasperated.

“Hurry up, Y/N.”

She groans, sinking to her knees for more leverage. Breathlessly, she retorts, “I. Am. Trying.” With a grunt, she pushes the steel into a vertical position. “All right, you should have enough—”

“Need a hand?” a low voice taunts from above.

Y/N looks up. An unassuming woman stands at the platform of the first level, hands on her hips and an all teeth grin baring her lips. “Dean?” she yells, urgent and frightened. The door opens with enough room for Sam and Dean to squeeze through.

Dean barges in first, gun raised. He casts a glance at Y/N, following her gaze to the landing. Mechanically, he pulls the trigger. The woman falls with a thud. Y/N lets out a breath, hands white knuckling the railing and eyes trained on the body. Sam grabs the metal while Dean pries Y/N’s fingers off, more gently than he’s been with her all day.

She looks at him, eyes wide. As much as she wants to act fearlessly, she’s seen more people— things— die in front of her today than in her entire life. Dean nods, as if to say It’s okay, we get it. She steps back, letting him take the railing. Together, the brothers shift it to rest upon the other.

Y/N closes her eyes, clenching and unclenching her fists. Her nails dig crescents into her palms, the stinging centering her. Okay. Okay. I can do this. Her skin burns under the gaze of Sam and Dean, even if she can’t see them herself. Opening her eyes, she focuses on the men before her.

“You good?” Dean asks, warm and low, a hand reaching out to her.

“Yeah. Yeah. Let’s go.” She motions before her, allowing them to take the lead again.

Four down, one to go, Y/N reminds herself with each step. The task seems less daunting with the odds in their favor at three against one. On the second platform, they exit into the hallway. The builders didn’t get so far as to hinge a door to the opening, thankfully. The trio stalk down the corridor, straining to hear anything out of place.

The end of the hallway yields a wall and two doors opposite of each other— one opened and one closed. The brothers broach the entryway of the open room, clearing it with a quick sweep. Similar to how they entered the building, Dean stands in front of the closed door while Sam grasps the handle. Pushing it open, Dean rushes in, Y/N and Sam following closely behind.

The door slams shut behind them. Y/N whips around, ready to fire and finish the job. She stumbles, lowering her weapon, jaw dropped. Dean steps in front of her, half blocking her from— “Elijah?” Dean looks back at Y/N, brows furrowed and lips parted. Sam rests a hand on her shoulder, steadying her.

“Y/N, Y/N, Y/N,” he taunts, almost as if scolding her. “I see you’re running around with scum. I thought you were better than that.”

She shakes her head, struggling to wrap her head around the man before her— her friend— being a monster. “What— how…”

He rolls his eyes. “Wah-how? Blah, blah, blah. You were always so naive.” He twirls a knife between his fingers, a small smirk dancing on his lips. Y/N looks away, unable to handle Elijah being the culprit she sought so long to capture. “When they came to town all those months ago, I caught one of them. I was ready to cuff ‘em and book ‘em, like we’re trained. But Eddie, the one you shot in the leg, Y/N, presented an offer I couldn’t refuse.” His voice glides like silk over her skin. It takes everything not to vomit.

“Only downside is once a month I’d get a little craz—”

The shot rings clear in the air, stopping Elijah’s tirade. Y/N’s head shoots up in time to watch him crumble to the ground. He settles with a soft finality, folded over himself. Dean turns around, saying something, but she can’t hear him. She shakes her head, tears stinging her eyes. Her knees give out, collapsing. Sam falls with her, softening the blow.

She pushes off of him. “Get off of me, get off of me,” she screeches, banging her fists into his chest until he releases her. He holds his hands up in surrender as she scrambles a few feet away.

Y/N rests on her knees, forehead touching the cool ground as if in prayer. Dirt and dust grind in her wound, she knows, but she can’t feel it. She can only replay Elijah’s fall. The separation of the man she knew and the man who he became felt too small. She never noticed a difference. He acted the same: kind, funny, a good agent. A good friend.

Her sobs wrench in her chest, burning her throat. She wants to scream, but it comes out strangled, reverberating from the ground back to her— furious and despairing and inconsolable. Running her fingers through her hair, she grips the roots needing something to hold. Everything feels new in a terrible, sickening way. Just yesterday she believed she and Elijah would put the murderer behind bars. Now, she knows monsters exist. She fought one. She knew one.

Y/N breathes in, steeling herself. The man she knew died four months ago. She pushes herself onto her hind legs, wiping her tears. The burn of her fingers against her wounds calm her. Dealing with physical pain numbs the emotional. She presses her fingers to the bruise, hissing but reveling in the tenderness.

She struggles to her feet, all too aware of the aches in her legs, and turns to face Sam and Dean. They stand by the door, leaning on the border. In her moment of desolation, they moved Elijah somewhere. Out of her sight. Not wanting attention, or Are you okay’s, she pushes past them, avoiding contact. Silently, they follow her to the stairwell and out onto the street. The cool air dries her tears and fills her lungs. For the first time since peering around that godforsaken corner, she can breathe.

Sam and Dean keep a respectable distance, letting her lead them to the cars. Wordlessly, Y/N returns the gun to Dean’s grasp, leaning against her front bumper. She tilts her head back to gaze at the waning moon.

“You good?” Dean asks, settling next to her.

She looks at him, really looks at him, for perhaps the first time. The green of his eyes highlight the bags beneath them. His laugh lines contradict the exhaustion heavy on his lips. His shoulders hang low, weighed down by the knowledge of darkness and pain.

Y/N sighs, accepting the beer he offers her. “I’ll be all right.” She means it. Maybe her monsters don’t have fangs and claws and familiar faces, but they’re monsters all the same. “You know what’s funny?” Dean raises an eyebrow, taking a swig of his El Sol. “I’ve seen worse,” she giggles.

Dean looks away, shaking his head with a low chuckle. “Yeah? Like what?”

She sips her beer, too, thinking of a good story. “One time there was this weird inbred family that captured people and hunted them down. Had a barn with cages and shit. They kept their victims cars in a junkyard-graveyard thing, and—”

Sam and Dean share a look before busting out laughing. She glances between them, offended at their mockery. “All right, I’ll keep my stories to myself, then.”

“No,” Sam gets out between bursts. “No, we, um— we hunted those guys. Thought they were monsters. Turned out to be hicks with too much time on their hands.”

It’s Y/N’s turn to laugh. “No fucking way! Must’ve just missed each other.” She shakes her head, taking another sip.

“Small world,” Dean whispers into his bottle.

They settle into a comfortable silence, the tension from the day drained. Y/N lets her mind wander— from meeting these men to now, and everything between. She tries to think back to before all this; before yesterday. The person who stood on the outskirts of the caution tape versus the person who sits on the hood of her car are miles apart.

“Oh, that reminds me.” She pushes off of her bumper, unlocking her car. From the inside door she grabs two small booklets. Y/N passes the fake badges to the respective users. “A few tips: don’t use famous names. That’s the first thing that gave you away. Secondly,” she takes Dean’s badge back, opening it up. “Your official federal insignia is too low. It should be square with your picture. And your serial code is the wrong date. The first number—sometimes letter— is the year this was manufactured. We get new badges every two years, alternating between numbers and letters. Right now,” she says, opening her own booklet, “we are on letter Q.” She passes the badge back to Dean, who pockets it.

Sam nods, “Thanks for the information.”

“Yeah, I just love helping people—”

“— impersonate federal officers,” Dean and Sam interrupt, saying it in unison.

She laughs. “I’m glad you guys didn’t turn out to be crazy.”

In another pocket of silence, they finish their beers. Dean grabs the empty bottles, tossing them into a beat up green cooler while Sam turns to rest on the side of the Impala. Y/N readies herself to say goodbye, ignoring the ache in her chest. She refuses to admit it aloud, but she wishes she met them under different circumstances. She wishes she met Dean under different circumstances.

Despite only knowing him for two days, Y/N can see herself in Dean. He bears the same weight she bears. Plus, it doesn’t hurt that his eyes remind her of fresh cut grass at the beginning of fall. Paired with his smell of cinnamon and gunpowder (a scent she knows all too well), she can’t help but want to know him. If they had met in a bar, she would definitely have taken him home.

Dean returns to her side, this time shoulder to shoulder. “You think you can handle that?” he inquires, pointing to her forehead and cheek.

She touches it gingerly. “Yeah, I think so.”

He nudges her shoulder with his, and she looks up at him. “You did well, tonight. Better than I thought you would, honestly.”

She grins, shaking her head. “Yeah, that’s what you get for doubting me.”

He looks ahead again, and she does, too. The sky brightens as the sun returns for its reign. The fatigue from the last twenty-four hours settles in, and, without much thought, she rests her head on Dean’s shoulder. He tenses for a moment, and she feels him look down at her, but he lets his shoulders sag again. He places a hand on her thigh, squeezing it gently, as if to say I’m right here. I’ve got you.

At least, she hopes that’s what he means.

The sun finishes its creep into the sky and the stars fade into a blanket of pink, orange, and purple. Y/N and Dean hop down from the hood of her car and Sam meets them between the bumpers once more. Sam dips down to hug Y/N first, wrapping his arms around her shoulders and squeezing tight. She fights not to groan when his grasp aggravates the aches in her bones. He releases her, casting a smile in her direction.

“Thank you for your help, Y/N. Here,” he passes her a torn piece of paper with two numbers scrawled across. One has an “S” next to it, the other a “D”. “These are our numbers. Call us if you run into anything else.”

She nods, grinning too. “The same applies to you guys. It doesn’t hurt to have someone on the inside.”

He pats her arm before taking his leave, settling into the passenger seat. Y/N turns to Dean. He doesn’t look like much of a hugger, so she extends her hand for a shake. Rolling his eyes, he grabs it, but wraps it around his waist. Dean envelopes her in his arms, holding tighter than Sam with one hand in her hair and the other barred across her shoulders. This time, she welcomes it, in spite of the pain.

He lets her go, but keeps his hands on her shoulders. “I mean it, Y/N.” His voice is low and sinful. “If you need anything, call us. Call me.”

“Anything?” she drawls playfully. He nods, regardless. “Even just to talk?”

Dean laughs. “Yeah. That’d be nice.” His right hand travels up to her neck. She wraps her fingers around his wrist, not entirely sure of his intentions but welcoming anything. He pulls her close, pressing his lips to her forehead. “Get home safe, Y/N,” he mumbles upon releasing her.

“You too, Dean.”

She waits for him to get in his car before she clambers into her driver’s seat. Her bones creek as she settles. Twisting her keys in the ignition, she rolls the windows down and heads home. Werewolves of London blares across her speakers, and she laughs. Yeah. She’ll be all right.

Taglist:

@angelicthreads

#dean winchester #dean winchester fic #dean winchester fanfiction #dean x reader #dean winchester x reader #fbi!reader #supernatural #supernatural fic #SUPERNATURAL AU #werewolf of portland

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diveronaevents · 4 years ago

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AUTHOR: Rogue

MENTIONED: ORSINO, ROSALINE, JULIET

TRIGGERS: Discussions of past torture/bodily injury, PTSD

SUMMARY: After taking some time to reflect, ROSALINE and ORSINO make a plan to leave Verona. As of MAY 23rd, ROSALINE and ORSINO are permanently in Amsterdam in order to take the city for the Capulets. Rosey will no longer be writing Rafaella in any capacity, but Rogue will continue to write Orion in an extremely limited one (occasional phone calls, emergency visits from characters to Amsterdam should you wish it, etc).

The positions of SPETTRO and ADVISOR are now open. Currently, Cosimo and VOLUMNIA are reviewing candidates for the ADVISOR position. If your character is interested in the SPETTRO position, you are welcome to think about their development, and also to send those thoughts to the main so we can discuss them! Thank you for bearing with us as we figured this out!

The sounds of the city below are a low hum he’s learned to tune out. It’s calm tonight, very few sirens, no drunken raucous to be found as he listens to Rafaella’s quiet breaths, feeling them as her chest rises and falls beneath his head.

He used to hold her like this often. Orion has no issue in the switching of position; it’s the why that trips him up, stealing one of the rare nights of peace until the quiet buzzes like a wasp’s nest in his mind.

She runs her hands through his hair and it feels different. The long nails she used to wear haven’t yet grown back, the foundation slow if they want her hands to eventually be strong and healthy again. She won’t ask, but she feels more than hears her hum as she presses her lips to his temple a moment. He sighs.

“Today was bad.” That’s putting it delicately, but it’s not untrue. Rafaella makes that tiny hum again, but her focus has shifted entirely from her book. It’s set aside on the end-table now, her formerly preoccupied hand finding his so she can link their fingers together. They’re very unlike each other in this one specific way, for all the things they share. When Rafaella tries to hide her hurts from him at first, trying to protect herself or him in some immeasurable way, Orion has no issue sharing his.

He outlines it clearly: there will be no intensive movement of his shoulder for the next twelve months. Were he to do so, he would certainly lose any range of motion, and may end up paralyzed. There are other, more minor hurts that will still take an awful lot of time to heal, but this is the most egregious. This is the injury that debilitates him in the eyes of her Uncle, and Orion has an awful sinking feeling in his chest that he tries to ignore.

(Will it debilitate him in the eyes of Rafaella, too? He’s never worried about this before. He’s never been weak.)

Orion laughs with no bitterness, genuinely amused by how thoroughly Marcelo has decimated him. “They’re really good at their job, hm?” He blinks up at Rafaella, almost coquettish. “I have a type. Competent with a shitty home life.”

Rafaella lets go of his hand and runs a finger down the bridge of his nose before tapping once, lightly. “Don’t forget beautiful.”

“Yes, and works of art. The triad.”

Her mouth twitches at the corners, soft and fond but still reserved compared to several months previous. His Rafaella is quieter, now. He finds he doesn’t mind.

“How long,” he asks calmly, “until Capulet disposes of me?”

The hand in his hair freezes.

“He’s not a man to take kindly to wasted resources,” Orion continues, blithe, even as he reaches for her hand again. He squeezes until Rafaella squeezes back, until he has awareness that she’s listening again. “I’ll certainly be demoted, but I could handle that. It’s the rest that has me on edge.”

Rafaella shifts him off of her so she can look him in the eye. She doesn’t let go of his hand, warm and solid in his. “You are not disposable.” Her eyes are red. He wants to kiss them at the corners.

“Not to you,” he reminds her. “Not to some.” It’s not good enough, not if Capulet is truly headed for war. “I know too much, and there’s no way to ensure my compliance if I’m not being paid for anything. There’s no reason to pay me if I’m not doing anything, and I’m not the right person to be an emissary, even if they weren’t leaning more into fights lately. Two plus two equalling four, the easiest solution would be — “

“No.” This is practically a snarl. Rafaella’s gaze is biting, some of her former venom appearing in the way she bares her teeth with the sound.

He waits. Her mind is so sharp, twisting and unfurling until it blooms with new ideas, potent strategy, or something witty and bold. He wishes he could listen to her think, sometimes. He wants to be in that maze, curve around the edges, hug the walls until he finds her waiting for him at the center.

If he’s realized something, it cannot be long until she realizes it too.

There. He finds it in her eyes, when anger becomes defeat and quickly rallies into determination. “That’s not happening.”

“Of course not.” Orion smiles.

It must be contagious, because her lips curve too, shaking her head. She has far less faith in her ability than he does, but that’s fine. Orion has never been over-burdened with insecurity, but some have said he may be overwhelmed by overconfidence.

If he splits some with Rafaella, it will balance.

“Since it’s not, though,” he points out, “we’re going to have to do something about it, and I don’t have anything in mind.” His head is still fuzzy, sometimes. Things don’t come with perfect clarity. He has been assured that they will, after extensive scans of his brain, but that will come slowly, too. His treasured independence has been cast aside in favor of being coddled and taken care of, and he doesn’t mind half as much as he should, so long as it’s Maeve or Rafaella doing the caring.

She brings their hands up to kiss his knuckles, her gaze very far away.

“I might,” Rafaella admits. Orion never doubted it. “Give me some time.”

When Rafaella Capulet tenders her resignation as Cosimo’s advisor, it does not go the way anyone thinks it will.

That it happens at all is a shock to the bloodstream for almost everyone.

She attends three meetings in the span of a day, one public, one revealed but under the guise of being secretive, and one that is truly kept from the world at large. There are other goodbyes, of course. Other meetings to be had for herself and Orion both, other tender words to share with those who love them and are loved in return, other stolen moments where the pair can be themselves and acknowledge what they’re giving up.

But first, it goes like this:

Near dawn, Rafaella and Juliana Capulet share espresso in Orion’s kitchen. He would call it their kitchen, but she still can’t believe that, can’t hold onto it without fearing she’ll break it. Orion’s house, Orion’s kitchen. She’s an invader he refuses to get rid of.

They talk at length, until the sun is high in the sky and Orion has left for physical therapy. What they speak of, it’s too soon to tell. What they plan for, only the two of them know. In the end, they simply hold each other, holding tight for a very long time, all the while knowing that even when separated, family doesn’t truly end.

Hugs do, though, and finding solace in one another will never quite be the same.

Next, Orion and Rafaella go together to meet two non-descript men in a simple cafe. Nothing is ostentatious, everything quiet, their heads bent low. The Montagues and Capulets alike who pass them by hear Orion and this man conversing in stilted, passable Dutch. When the two men depart, the couple seem extremely satisfied, Rafaella curling around Orion like a cat stretching toward the sun.

The third, of course, is the hardest. Meeting with Cosimo Capulet is never easy. Telling your Uncle you’re leaving him behind is infinitely worse.

Somehow, though, she manages it. She stands strong as she calmly explains their reasoning. Both Orion and Rafaella have been torn apart by this war, bloody and raw, but she doesn’t point that out. They have been nearly broken, slashed into so many times they’re shells of their former selves in so many ways, but these are not reasons that will impress Capulet. And so, with Orion’s hand tight in hers, she lies.

She lies about the up and coming organized crime groups in Amsterdam. She explains the disorganized and chaotic nature of the warring gangs, of how many have fallen victim to hubris and the law. She opens his eyes to a world of her own creation, where Amsterdam has a power vacuum in dire need of filling, and the Capulets desperately need allies if they’re going to win this war without dying out in the process. She spins and spins her web around him with enough half-truths and persuasive words to bring glory to his thoughts, and all the while, Orion’s hand stays in hers.

A role better suited to our current position, she admits, letting the hint of vulnerability in her show for just a moment. Or should I say our current predicament?

It’s easier than she wants it to be. Selfishly, desperately, she wants him to fight for her to stay. Rafaella has been accepted as his family; should he not fight to keep his family together? Yet he considers it with almost cerebral calm, like he’s watching a chess game rather than thinking of the future of his family, and Rafaella’s heart hardens.

When Verona implodes around him, when his throne is viciously stolen, when everything he’s built flourishes while he crumbles himself, Rafaella tells herself she will not be sorry.

#torture tw #torture mention tw #ptsd tw #ptsd mention tw #injury tw #a bittersweet farewell!#diveronadevelopment

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harristops · 4 years ago

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It pisses me off that Alyssa Naeher conceded 5 goals last night and there's not even 1/5 of the hate directed towards her than it would be if Ash had conceded 5 goals. I still don't get how she's the starting keeper when her club performances this year have been meh at best.

That game was rough, but Alyssa made some great saves even if she conceded 5 goals. I actually felt super bad for her because she looked so devastated and disappointed at the end of the match. I don’t want to pit her and Ash against each other, but like I get where you’re coming from. I do believe though that Alyssa is a far better country/USWNT player than club player, like many USWNT players. Lowkey, I think Ash is a better club player than country/USWNT player (but also she hasn’t seen too many recent INT’L minutes as of late). They’re both phenomenal keepers and come up strong. Honestly, it just seemed like Naeher had a bad game, and that happens to everyone. I don’t want to add to the “how is Alyssa the starting keeper on the USWNT and not Ashlyn” conversation because the USWNT has the best players on it, so there are a lot of considerations to put in place like chemistry with the team, strength and quality of the defense, etc., that cannot really be compared to the NWSL. I personally would still take Alyssa over Ashlyn for the #1 position, tbh.

I think that what this game showed more than anything is the test of mental strength. Alyssa appeared to be a bit beaten down after the third goal, and I think it really set the tone for the rest of the match. I hope that, if anything, people look at this match and appreciate the tenacity GKs have when it comes to keep playing at 100% even when the game has gone to shit. I wouldn’t blame the loss entirely on Naeher, though. I think their offense couldn’t seem to get it together and the defense was disorganized, and Thorns are just that good.

My only fear is that if Portland can thrash Chicago like that, I can’t imagine how Orlando is going to fair when we have to match up with them 😶

#asks #don't come after me pls its just my opinion #i love uncle naeher and ash to death but these are just my thoughts

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itsclydebitches · 4 years ago

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[1/5] Am I the only one who doesn’t see Salem as guilty for the atrocities she’s committed? Jinn straight up said that her dip in the Grimm pools tainted her with dark magic that compels her to act on an instinct shared with the Grimm’s progenitor, the Younger Brother. If she’s being roofied with deific dark magic that fundamentally overrides her free will and fills her with a magical instinct to cause destruction, then doesn’t that absolve her of blame?

BUCKLE UP this ended up being a whole ass essay as I happily ignore my actual work

So this is admittedly a very complicated situation and I want to preface my response by saying that I agree with a great deal of this. I’m no longer able to find it because my metas/ask responses exist in a disorganized hellhole, but I said much of the same in Volume 6. Namely that the Gods are indeed the primary parties responsible for this entire mess, Salem was done dirty by them, she was (to an extent) justified in her goals, and she didn’t know that jumping into a grimm pool would turn her into a grimm queen rather than just killing her. Salem is, in many respects, a victim.

But being a victim doesn’t mean you can’t also be a perpetrator. This is the basis for most complex villains in media: we understand how they got to where they are, we feel for them, we may even think they’re correct about things like the injustice around them (insert Magneto here), but their actions are nevertheless too immoral to be supported. We get that a shit life largely outside of his control and the manipulation of Palpatine turned Anakin into Darth Vader. Doesn’t mean Darth Vader is off the hook for his crimes. We know that Jack Torrance was driven insane by supernatural forces when all he wanted was to watch over a hotel with his family. Doesn’t mean we shrug off him trying to kill his wife and child. We know that Voldemort was a product of a messed-up love potion that may have made it impossible for him to love “normally.” Doesn’t mean he’s excused for being a wizard Hitler. The humanity of villains is what draws us to them, but being a victim in the past doesn’t perpetually excuse/justify everything you do in the future. This is why all of these villains die in the end. That’s pretty much the only “good” solution we’ve found to such a complex situation. We don’t want the villain to be unforgivable because we got to see the tragedy of their downfall. At the same time, we can’t excuse the horrors they’ve committed and just welcome them back into the fold. So they die, giving the heroes the chance to mourn them without guilt and the audience the chance to enjoy that redeeming act (if the villain performs one).

That’s part of the balance that Salem is immersed in, but of course that’s not acknowledging the actual argument here: how can we blame villains for their actions when they had no control over them? Not a wishy-washy, highly subjective concept of “control” – Example: Does someone like Kylo Ren “really” have a shot at being a good person when they’ve got Palpatine in their ear? (The answer is yes. Yes he does.) – but a much more simple and objective situation: there’s magic at work that 99% of people straight up cannot fight against it. Like the RWBY equivalent of the Imperius Curse.

However, RWBY’s first mistake here is that, unlike the Imperius Curse, there is no firmly established lore surrounding the grimm pool. In Harry Potter we know that most people can’t fight off the Imperius Curse. That’s established numerous times throughout the series and that knowledge impacts the storyworld: there are laws in place that say if you can prove you were under Imperius, you’re not considered guilty of the crime. RWBY has none of that. We can assume that the grimm pool took complete control of the good Salem and is forcing her to do things against her actual will… but that’s never established. It’s an assumption. An interpretive reading. We don’t know that the magic doesn’t erase her free will, but at the same time we don’t know it does either. All we do know is that the pool created a “desire for pure destruction” in Salem. However, desires aren’t the same thing as a loss of control. Even if we pump up the concept of a “desire” into a “need” instead, that’s still not the same thing as, say, a chip put into your head that literally forces you to obey a 66 Order you’d otherwise never even contemplate (Star Wars). Or a demon taking control of your body and using it as a puppet (Supernatural). Needs are strong… but they can be overcome. Even the most intense of needs that keep us alive. We could (again) interpret that the magic created a need for destruction so powerful it’s akin to a drive like hunger, that Salem has to give into it in order to survive/stay sane, but that still isn’t a blanket justification for how she goes about achieving that. The villain in a zombie apocalypse film might go, “I had to eat! There was no other way! It was me or them… and I chose me.” We understand the drive, but that doesn’t mean it’s okay that they slaughtered an entire settlement in order to steal their food. In the same way, Salem doesn’t get to excuse a thousand years of abuse, attempted enslavement, and large-scale murder in the name of “I have this desire/need now.” Not unless the show establishes that the magic is 100% controlling her with the “good” Salem just along for the ride. Which it hasn’t.

In addition to this, I think there are three other aspects to Salem’s situation that make her different from the examples listed above (Bucky and LotR).

1. Planting the Seed

Unlike these other two fandoms where the characters began as Certified Heroes™, Salem’s situation is (again) a bit more complicated. She was absolutely an abuse victim. She was absolutely one of the good guys alongside Ozma. She absolutely got screwed over by the Gods in a horrifying way… but at this point Salem’s actions become less straightforward. For me, I think her emotional response is completely justified. If I had a God who wouldn’t bring back my tragically dead lover for BS “It’s about balance” reasons when he’s the ones who creates and enforces these rules about balance, I’d want to get a second opinion from God #2. If those Gods proceeded to emotionally and physically torture me for daring to question them all while lording themselves over humanity as an “experiment,” I’d want to take them down too. The problem here is not Salem’s goals, but rather the way she goes about them. Namely, manipulation. She very deliberately does not tell the God of Darkness about her meeting with Light. Much more damning (because let’s be real, this is a story chock-full of people telling lies of omission and keeping secrets), she rallies the people not out of a noble cause – Hey, why are we letting these two beings treat us like lab rats? – but rather through a much more deliberate lie: you too can get immortality if you just come help me kill them.

I bring this up because it shows us that Salem had “bad” qualities long before the magic started its work on her. She was a flawed human whose flaws were emphasized more than the average hero corrupted by evil. She’s not a war hero fighting Nazis, or an average hobbit agreeing to an incredible self-sacrifice. She’s someone who (arguably selfishly) couldn’t let Ozma go and then did everything she could to get him back, with “everything” including manipulation and endangering others – to the point where everyone died. (As a side note, Salem basically did what others accuse Ozpin of. She brought people who never wanted to fight (civilians) into an actually impossible war (let’s kill two gods) under a falsehood (you’ll achieve immortality).) Are many of these mistakes human? Yes. Is it entirely Salem’s fault? No. She is not responsible for the Gods being the most dickish beings in the galaxy who chose to wipe out an entire species because they didn’t like them banding together. But Salem did have a hand in all this. She helped orchestrate the tragic conclusion. She’s not “pure” in the way that Bucky or Frodo was, which tells me that the magic perhaps isn’t full on corrupting her, but is building on something that we saw was already there.

To use your drinking analogy, drinking doesn’t actually make anyone do anything. It just lowers inhibitions to do things we already wanted to do. Which means we’re still very much responsible for making awful choices while under the influence of alcohol. That’s one interpretation of the magic here. That desire/need lowers Salem’s inhibitions and encourages a person who is already poised to be a villain finally become one. I’ve been drunk and I’ve never once considered getting behind the wheel because I know precisely how dangerous that is—and Salem’s choices are far, far more harmful. To me, saying Salem is excused from her choices (in the context of what RWBY has given us so far) is like someone saying, “How can you blame them for shooting up an entire store and taking multiple lives? They were drunk!” I can still very much blame them for choosing that act, even if their thinking was impaired, even if someone else initially poured the alcohol down their throat without their consent. You’re absolutely right that there’s no easy way to map Evil Dark Magic onto real-world morality, but Salem’s actions are extreme enough that what comparisons we can make don’t look good.

2. Demonstrating Free Will

I think a stronger argument regarding the magic not full-on corrupting her is that we see Salem enacting free will throughout the course of her new lifetime. Meaning, the magic didn’t just turn her 100% evil and that’s that, she’s a mindless, destructive machine now. Rather, we’ve seen Salem engaging in a large variety of “good” and “bad” things. If the magic truly created a desire that she absolutely can’t fight against, then presumably she would have just killed/enslaved the world from the get-go. But she doesn’t. Salem hangs out in a cabin until Ozma finds her. Does she then go on her evil rampage? Again, no. She and Ozma set out to do “good” throughout the kingdom, saving the people from grimm and the like. Their choice to enact this good via godhood is, uh, not great (lol) but it’s still a far better use of her powers than what we see Salem doing later. This comparative trend continues on. She’s apparently stable enough to have four kids and lead a semi-normal life for a time. She only murders Ozpin when it’s clear that he won’t join her in this new “replace humanity” plan. Does she attack the first time he says no? No, rather she waits until he tries to sneak the kids away, which means Salem waited for absolute proof of his “betrayal” before acting. She then focuses on Ozpin for a thousand years, leaving Remnant to mostly do its own thing. Then she decides (for reasons not made clear by the canon) to attack the world now, launching a far more devastating attack than we’ve ever seen. And “ever” is at least a thousand years.

All of this shows us that Salem has her own version of free will going on. She is making active choices and changing her behavior to suit a changing situation. That means she is responsible for choosing those truly heinous options: killing her children where before she raised them, killing Ozpin where before they argued, attacking the world where before she protected it. Salem has been bad since she came out of the pool, but she has a very wide range of badness that speaks to an ability to decide for herself just how bad she’ll be at any given time. The fact that Salem then gets really bad – genocidal dictator bad – makes her responsible for that change. To return to the previous comparison, a need to eat might drive someone to commit a technically “bad” thing like, say, stealing bread (Hey, Jean Valjean), but we see how that’s still a good person fulfilling that need in the least harmful way they possibly can. Salem could have fulfilled her own need in ways other than all the horror she’s pulled.

3. Accepting Responsibility

Finally, to take up the LotR example, even knowing that the Ring influences people with Evil Magic doesn’t mean that everyone caught up in that web is excused of their related crimes. We pity Gollum, but he’s still someone to be wary of, someone we treat as the potential threat he is, and someone who is labeled as a villain for his actions. Sam is not wrong to be furious with the things Gollum has done. They’re not erased in the name of, “But none of that was really his fault. Only the Ring’s. Be mad/wary of the Ring and the Ring only.” Boromir is very susceptible to the Ring’s magic, but that also doesn’t let him off the hook for his choices. He’s berated for suggesting they use the Ring themselves. Aragorn firmly insists he return the Ring to Frodo, making it clear that there will be consequences (a fight) if Boromir doesn’t resist better. In the end, both of these characters – Gollum and Boromir – die as a way of “repenting” for those sins (at least, that’s one possible interpretation of the text). Even Bilbo, so obsessed with the ring that he terrifies Frodo by making that demonic grab for it, immediately apologizes for that action. He (and the story) understands that “Something else was acting upon me” doesn’t mean that the correct response to that is, “Well why should I apologize/face consequences for those actions then? It wasn’t my fault.” It partly was their fault though. There’s a strength of will here that dictates whether you’re going to go “bad” and even if we acknowledge that at some point everyone will inevitably fail, that doesn’t mean they don’t face the repercussions of that failure. Or that they’re not responsible for fighting as hard as they can for as long as they can.

Which is the reason why Frodo is praised rather than damned. We understand the impact the Ring has on people and we watched him heroically struggle against it up until the very last second. (The same can be said of Boromir and Bilbo). Those two things work in tandem to show us how heroic Frodo is in the face of unimaginable odds. As said, RWBY has done nothing to establish the parameters of the grimm pool’s influence – can Salem resist it? How much? For how long? – but we also never see her struggling to do good even while the magic pulls her in a different direction. The context was never a pre-grimm pool Salem accepting the magic out of noble self-sacrifice, as Frodo did. There’s no scene where Salem begs Ozpin to help her stay on the right path and accepts his assistance like Frodo relied on Sam. And the worry is that if Salem is “cured” then the story won’t force her to face any punishment that equals the extent of her failure to resist the magic’s influence. Yeah, Frodo failed too, but his failure was at the very last moment, after struggling so hard, and it was a failure that was able to be very quickly fixed by Sam. Salem’s failure has been going on for centuries, we’ve never seen her struggle to overcome it, and we can’t fix the sheer amount of horror she’s introduced to the world. Immediately forgiving Frodo is a fair act within the context of his story. Immediately forgiving Salem would not be.

Overall I’d say that the Gods are absolutely responsible for this shit-show and need to be held accountable, but I don’t think that lets Salem off the hook for her own hand in all this. Even if someone chucks me into a situation I initially had no control over, I’m still responsible for the actions I take from then on out. Even if something is acting on me that makes being a good person that much harder, I still have a responsibility to fight against that with everything I have. So up until RWBY definitively says, “The magic is something that no human could have ever overcome or even slowed down and everything Salem did was a direct product of that magic,” she’s guilty. She’s not the only one who is guilty (looking at you, Light and Darkness) but she’s a very big part of it. Which brings me back to the ending point of the previous post: I don’t think RT has the ability to write a satisfying ending for such a complex situation. Not unless they just go the route of Salem being cured, choosing a redemption act, then dying for it. RT simplifies things too much and a story where Salem is excused of any and all responsibility in the name of “She started out as a victim” and “Magic was influencing her” isn’t going to go over well given the breadth and extent of her crimes. Not to mention, as laid out above, the implication that she was capable of lessening those crimes whenever she pleased.

#rwby #mymetas #Salem #Anonymous

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shibalen · 4 years ago

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(1/4)I’d like to request a matchup for Kuroshitsuji, OHSHC,&Free please. I’m an INTP bisexual female with slightly above shoulder-length black hair and a fringe. (Although, I do have an undercut as well so it’s a bit “odd” to most people. Basically, with my hair normally, I look like a young Japanese school girl but with my hair tied-up, I look like “a delinquent.”) I also need glasses however, I tend to avoid using them unless I’m on a device of sorts or reading for a prolonged period of time.

(2/4) I’m a 5’1 Capricorn and as such, I am known to be a very independent person who gets what they want done. The downside to this is if I’m forced to do something, my efficiency drops dramatically and so I’d think it’s quite useless to tell me to do something I have no interest in. Also, people who have met me for the first time tend not to take me seriously when I speak straightforwardly or pointedly because of my short stature. English is my 2nd language and Japanese is my 3rd.

(3/4) My hobbies include reading, writing, painting, drawing, and anything within the field of arts. Because of this, I’ve been told that I’m quite smart as I can ace an important exam without having studied seriously prior. Most of my time goes to my hobbies and so I don’t really bother with academics so as long as I don’t fail nor let my grades fall too low, I don’t put for much effort in school. I prefer to be alone or with another individual rather than in groups when it comes to working.

(4/4) or simply conversing as I tend to get overwhelmed with too much company (which, sadly, makes me more irritable and snappy at people.) I’m a classic(?)introvert case and because of my disorganized emotional nature, people tend to think I’m bi-polar. Sometimes, I’d like to be left alone since I prefer working seriously but I also like being affectionate towards people I like or cherish. Thank you for entertaining this long ask and I do apologize for it as well. Have a nice day!

♡ matchup for @vincent0kirishima

hello! i'm glad to have gotten to your matchup at last! i once again apologise for the delay °~°

future requests keep in mind that i only accept two fandoms per request. also, remember to send max three asks. i made this an exception because i forgot about the rule myself for a moment.

|| Kuroshitsuji: i match you with . . .

Beast

You give me such a strong vibe that I think matches incredibly with Beast's intense personality

A badass and beautiful woman with a smaller but just as powerful and independent woman ♡

Beast has quite an ill temper but I think your nature can balance it out well – your presence naturally soothes her fits

Then, during the times you're snappy she'll be the calm one to help you feel better

If you ever start feeling overwhelmed by crowds (or anything really) you know she will be there for you. Beast is an extremely devoted lover and cannot bear seeing you in any type of distress

She couldn't honestly care less about many other people but for you she'll be soft in a heartbeat

"Are you feeling all right?"

"This crowd is making me tired."

"That's all right, we can leave . . . Hey, bastards, you'd better shut your traps! y/n and I are going!"

A D O R E S your intelligence

Beast herself is quite smart as well but is used to working hard to get what she wants

She won't tell you what to do but will be stern when it comes to keeping your grades where you want them

But please don't get her wrong! She's there to remind you of your deadlines and homework, knowing it will save you from unnecessary stress later on

Also keeps and eye out whenever you need to wear your glasses

She just wants the best for you ♡

Arts are straight up Beast's alley! She'd be more than happy to watch to you indulge in your interests. Even more she'd love to take part in them with you

Quality time is extremely important to her so if you spend your day painting or drawing together she'd be over the moon ♡(> ਊ <)♡

Writes a lot of poems and lets you read them any time you want. If another person dares to sneak a peek though they might as well be dead

Some of the poems she creates are especially for you. She puts them into an envelope scented with her perfume and leaves them by your bedside in the mornings ♡

Imagine showing you her preforming act before the big show and asking for your opinion on improvements. Beast values your ideas and accepts your constructive criticism

Betty likes you too, and, unless you're afraid of her, she will nuzzle up to you ( ꈍᴗꈍ)

May whatever force out there have mercy on the poor soul that doesn't take you seriously because Beast certainly won't

She'll tear them to shreads if they dare to belittle you

She knows well how much you're capable of and won't allow anyone to think any less of you

Although I think she would prefer parties, I also believe that it's fine, seeing as you need your alone time. While Beast is out socalising you're usually at home recharging or working

At the end of the day you'll be affectionate in private – holding each other, talking about your day and just enjoying each other's presence

Loves holding you late at night

She still takes you out from time to time though. Amusement parks and carnivals at night are a favorite of hers: there aren't many people around to bother you but at the same time there are lots of fun activities for you to emerge yourselves in

Your appearance was a bonus that drew Beast in! It's cool af the way you can look sweet or more like a "delinquent" depending on your hairstyle

She loves adding touches of makeup to match whichever look you decide to go with (人 •͈ᴗ•͈)

Overall this is a more balanced relationship than what it may appear at first. You have just the right amount differences and similarities

I still can't get over the badass aura y'all would emit

So here, good folks, we have a couple you do not mess with

runner up: Sebastian Michaelis

|| OHSHC: i match you with . . .

Kyoya Ootori

Smart couple™ that everyone goes to for homework answers

It was definitely your go-getter attitude that made me pick Kyo for ya (ba dum tss). You're smart and driven just like him, which is great trait to share

You're both goal-oriented, knowing better than to let small problems in your relationship cause conflict

This strengthens your bond, proving to be something that brings you closer ♡

He helps keeping your emotional state in check

Probably didn't take you seriously either the first time you met I'm sorry it was too amusing for him to watch as you explained something from all the way down there

But in the end you proved him wrong and how so

Next time his smile was different, finding you interesting in a much better light

Never again fails to acknowledge your smarts. He doesn't need to tell you what to do or how to do it because you know those things for yourself

Finds it hot attractive as heck

Still, he wants you to see that you're able to achieve much more in academics and encourages you to bring out the best in yourself

Will talk to you in whichever language you'd like. He's an educated boy and has no problem speaking English (or probably any widely-spoken language)

Supports you wholeheartedly should you want to learn Japanese more in depth, and loves it when you speak it

Respects your introverted nature. Kyoya isn't a party person either so rest assured he won't be dragging you around to socialise. He understands well how being around a crowd can effect your mood

If you must make an appearance along side Kyoya, he makes sure your stay is as short as possible to ensure you wouldn't be overwhelmed by the mass

You gradually grow used to the rest of the funky members of the host club so you still hang out with them on your free time

Cue you and Kyoya silently watching their shenanigans unfold and making profit from them

Kyoya doesn't get jealous easily but it does internally annoy him a great deal if Tamaki along with Hikaru and Kaoru gather around you to ask all sorts of questions. Yep that's definitely not jealously.

But if the two of you are alone together you either choose to paint or read together (seriously, he could go about it for hours with you) or possibly study for an upcoming exam

This is where Kyoya encourages you to read the textbook just a little longer, solve another question, using, of course, bribing

Tickets to a theatre, writing utensils – anything you have wanted for a while

Kyoya naturally knows all the right strings to pull to motivate you, it might get a bit annoying every time he pulls that sly smirk

You get him back by putting ridiculous theme ideas into Tamaki's head, that are fun for everyone else except Kyoya

Just, you two could con 2 million out of a casino and no one would be surprised

There is overall a lot of playful competition between the two of ya

Plenty of witty and sarcastic remarks – everyone can see you're made for each other ♡

"Full marks yet again? I must say I'm impressed."

"It's only a natural talent. What, is the great Kyoya Ootori in need of a tutor?"

"Only if the session is private and you're my teacher."

Just kiss already

And get a room

Because Kyoya isn't a morning person, it's up to you to gently wake him up with some coffee and sweets and a smooch

He may grumble underneath the covers but it's one of those rare moments he's actually flustered

So soft (*´ω｀*)

runner up: (sorry, i was bribed to erase this part. tehe c(⑅ ◔ڼ◔)っ)

thank you for requesting! i'm sorry i didn't draw a clear conclusion with the second match but i felt ending it like that was fine (please agree) ^^ i truly hope you liked it! have a good day, dear ♡

#anime matchups #ohshc #kyoya ootori #kuroshitsuji #beast kuroshitsuji #len's matches #vincent0kirishima #matchups

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ohshcscenerios · 4 years ago

Text

Find Me

Chapter Seventeen - Choose Your Own Adventure

Previous Poll Result: Come together for lock-down

Kyoya realized with a heavy heart that their situation was becoming too dangerous. They couldn’t ignore the blatant warnings of their own demise any longer. Their search for Haruhi had already lead them down a twisting trail of deceit and betrayal but now their very lives were at stake.

He managed to gather Tamaki, Takashi, and Mitsukuni and convince them having a collective lock-down was their best option. Beside having more power in numbers they would also always be accounted for. Being together meant they could be secure in each other’s safety.

Unfortunately Hikaru ran off before Kyoya could speak with him. He vowed to find his brother before locking down with the others, claiming it would torture him to sit still while his brother needed him. Kaoru was always looking out for Hikaru, always putting his brother’s needs before his own, and it was now Hikaru’s turn to save him.

The former hosts agreed to lock-down at Kyoya’s mansion considering they would be equipped with the Black Onion Squad. Takashi and Mitsukuni felt confident in their own strength and skill but having an entire unit of soldiers at their disposal was also comforting.

Their families also went into lock-down at the Ootori residence - all except for the Hitachiin family. They refused to leave their sons behind. Each family had their own corridor to ensure their privacy. Thankfully Kyoya’s family was the largest among them so everyone fit fairly well on his mansion.

At first they didn’t understand why they needed to leave their homes and insisted on locking down on their own but after hearing about Kaoru’s mysterious disappearance they reluctantly packed their suitcases. Mitsukuni arrived with his own patisserie and Takashi brought his pets tanuki and chicken. Yoshio wasn’t exactly pleased to have live animals in his mansion, considering they’ve never even owned a dog before, but he wouldn’t dare cross Mr. Morinozuka.

By that evening everyone had somewhat settled in their assigned rooms. The former hosts decided to meet in Kyoya’s bedroom to discuss their nest steps. Kaoru’s disappearance proved whoever was behind their kidnappings will not be predictable or merciful. They were dealing with crazed criminals who stepped outside of the status quo. They were capable of murder, stealthy, and knew how to live in the shadows. They were facing an impossible enemy.

They sat back on his white couch in the lower half of his bedroom and sipped their hot green teas while they silently read over employee files, news articles, and potential leads. Kyoya’s coffee table was covered in disorganized papers.

“I hope Kao-chan is alright...” Mitsukuni said quietly before sipping his tea.

Takashi nodded, “Haruhi is still alive which probably means Kaoru is too.”

Tamaki thumbed through a pile of papers and set them down in front of him. He sipped his tea and sighed, “I want to be optimistic but I can’t find the silver lining. I’d rather feel numb than feel anything right now.”

Kyoya adjusted his glasses and looked away, swallowing back a sudden wave of tears threatening to rise, “I sometimes wish the same thing. I’d rather feel nothing at all than live with this overwhelming regret.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, “I should have went with her. I shouldn’t have let her go alone. I could have protected her, even if I were drunk, I could have protected her.”

Tamaki gingerly touched Kyoya’s knee, “You didn’t know. None of us knew-”

“Thay doesn’t change the fact that I’m a shitty fiance!” Kyoya barked back. “I should have went with her! I should have gotten off my lazy ass and went with her! She’s gone because I let her walk away alone.”

He had lived with this regret since Haruhi went missing. It haunted him day and night without rest. Every time he found a quiet moment to himself it never lasted long. He’d quickly be consumed with self-damning thoughts. Although Haruhi was taken against her will by people who moved silently and discreetly he couldn’t help but blame himself. If only he kissed her before she left. If only he changed his mind.

If only.

Takashi placed his tea cup down and squared his vision with Kyoya, “You cannot allow your regrets to berate you. Haruhi needs you at your strongest right now.”

Kyoya knew his tall friend was right but damnit, it was so hard. Every night he crumbled beneath his silent tears and every morning he had to rebuild himself before pulling away his bed sheets. With each passing day he felt himself becoming more hollow with every encouraging lie he had to tell himself. The hope he harbored right now balanced on shaky ground, ready to collapse with the right push.

“She’s alive. I suppose that’s all I can ask for right now.” Kyoya muttered, slumping back into the couch.

Tamaki patted his knee and went back to reading the pile of papers he put down. It was getting late and his body begged to find his bed for the night but as long as Kyoya stayed awake he felt it only fair to stay awake too.

“Do you think they’ll find Kao-chan?” Mitsukuni asked quietly, swishing his tea around in his cup.

Kyoya nodded, “I assigned a smaller Black Onion unit on Kaoru’s case. The Hitachiins also hired a team of police officers and private detectives. They’re not treating this lightly. I believe Kaoru will be found soon.”

“This is getting serious. I didn’t expect them to go after us.” Tamaki said worriedly.

Kyoya sighed, “The bastards said they want to return order to Japan. They wouldn’t explain themselves.”

“What does that have to do with us?” Tamaki asked.

“Hell if I should know. My guess is they’re an underground cult trying to rise to power. That is the best explanation to their unpredictable motives. Either that or they’re simply lunatics; mentally disturbed criminals.”

“Either way it doesn’t put Haruhi in a good position.” Takashi added.

“Did they hurt her?” Mitsukuni asked darkly.

“I don’t know. I asked but they wouldn’t let her answer me.” Kyoya replied through gritted teeth, “But she’s terrified.”

Mitsukuni’s normally cheerful eyes dulled over as his countenance fell into shadow, “They’ll pay for what they’ve done to Haruhi and Kaoru. They’ll pay with their lives.”

Takashi nodded silently, keeping his eyes down. His conscious would have fought against his thirst for revenge but now that two of his friends were missing and Ranka had been killed in cold blood, he needed to execute justice. Sadly, jail time didn’t feel like the right punishment, it was too lenient.

Kyoya’s cell phone rang from the table’s corner, breaking everyone of their concentration and colluding thoughts. Kyoya leaned over to read the caller ID.

Who is calling Kyoya? (Click to Vote)

I’m so sorry I haven’t updated all day. My sisters came over for a surprise visit. We had a lovely time together and it felt weird to feel happy while writing this angsty chapter. I hope you enjoyed it :). I’ll try to knock out another chapter before today ends.

#ouran high school host club #ohshc #choose your own adventure #find me #Kyoya Ootori #haruhi fujioka #tamaki suoh #hikaru hitachiin #kaoru hitachiin #takashi morinozuka #mitsukuni haninozuka #poll #vote

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bluejayblueskies · 4 years ago

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i shall come out gold

Part 14 of Whumptober 2020

Fandom: The Magnus Archives Characters: Jonathan Sims, Martin Blackwood, Jonah Magnus Tags: Whump, Graphic Depictions of Violence, Character Death, Burning/Burned Alive, Hurt/Comfort, Fluff (I promise)

Read on Ao3

The Archives smell of dust and old paper, and of acrid smoke as the first pages catch alight.

“Are you sure about this, Jon?” Martin had asked as they stood outside what had once been the Institute and had once been the Panopticon, merged into something Jon just cryptically called my domain. “I- I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m all for burning some statements—Christ knows it was cathartic the last time—but you- you said you don’t know what it’ll do.”

“I imagine,” Jon said, his eyes fixed on the towering structure before them, “that it’ll do precisely what it did the last time: distract El- Jonah.”

“But you don’t know,” Martin pressed. “You see why that scares me, right? The last time you didn’t know something, we almost died!”

The last time had been Melanie and Georgie and corridors that stretched out for what could have been meters or could have been miles, and it had taken a price far too high for either of their comforts to survive. Martin wasn’t particularly keen to do it again.

“This- this isn’t like last time,” Jon insisted, and his eyes moved away from the tower to meet Martin’s. There was a hard determination in them, fostered over what might have been months of traveling through domains of fear and slowly losing everything they held dear. But Martin could still see the fear and uncertainty that lay beneath, because he knew Jon. He also knew there was nothing he could say to change Jon’s mind, not this time. “This place, it- it’s a part of me, Martin. I can’t know what’s inside myself. You just have to- to trust that I know what I’m doing. What I’m risking.”

Softly, Martin said, “I do trust you Jon. I just—I worry, that’s all. We’ve come so far, I don’t want to- to lose you.”

Jon reached forward and placed a gentle hand against Martin’s cheek. “I know. And you won’t. I promise.”

Martin laughed, but the humor wasn’t there. “I’m holding you to that.”

And then Jon handed him the lighter, the gold glinting faintly in the dreary grey light that this world was perpetually bathed in. He pressed a soft, almost hesitant kiss to Martin’s mouth, in a way that felt less like a promise and more like a wish, and said, “I’ll see you later, okay? When it’s over. I… I love you.”

And then he was gone, making his way up the stone stairs to whatever lay at the top of the tower, and Martin headed down. To the Archives.

They really haven’t changed at all, Martin thinks as he sets another yellowing page ablaze. The teetering shelves are all still there, overburdened with disorganized boxes of files and crammed too-close in the darkly lit space of document storage. Jon’s office door is hanging slightly ajar, and Martin hadn’t been able to resist looking in, at the desk covered in loose papers and empty coffee mugs and sticky notes of all different colors and sizes. The rib and the jar of ashes were still in his desk drawers. Martin doesn’t know why he tucked them in his backpack, next to the bandages and tea that isn’t tea anymore. He supposes he just doesn’t want Jon to have to lose any other parts of himself.

It’s almost too easy, to allow the flames to consume the entire room in a red-hot blaze that hurts Martin’s eyes as he stares in, watching paper after paper wither and crumble. He swears he can hear them scream as they disintegrate, just once as their stories are lost to the raw desolation of the fire. But then it’s quiet but for the crackle and pop of thousands of stories of fear being consumed as one.

He was right; it does feel cathartic, in a way. But he can’t help but watch the Archives burn, that place where he spent so many years as a prisoner and a tool and a watched man, and feel that it’s not right, somehow. That he doesn’t feel right, somehow. There’s something… off. He noticed it when first walking down the stairs, flicking the light switch and watching the faint bulbs that lined the hallways flicker on. He notices it now, standing just at the base of the stairs, feeling the intense heat radiating from the rooms around him. It’s not until he finally retreats up the stairs and emerges from the Archives that it clicks.

An Eye cannot see inside itself. And in the Archives, he was not watched.

“This place, it- it’s a part of me, Martin.”

“Jon,” Martin says, terror rising sticky and hot in his throat. He drops the lighter. And begins to run.

The Panopticon smells of blood and limestone, and of burnt flesh.

Somewhere above, someone is screaming.

Martin runs faster, tears beginning to stream down his cheeks, and hopes he isn’t too late.

“What,” Jonah Magnus says tightly, “have you done?”

The first thing Martin registers is that Jonah is still alive, and white-hot anger surges through him. He opens his mouth—to say what, exactly, he’s not entirely sure. Perhaps just to call Jonah all the increasingly derogatory names he’d come up for him on their journey here.

Then, he remembers the terror, the running, and the smell of burning. And he looks down.

“Oh, god,” he says, and falls to his knees. “Oh, god, Jon, no, no, no.” He reaches out, as if to touch the blistering skin before him, blackened and charred in places, and pulls his hand back at the last moment when the heat still radiating off Jon hits his palm full-force. “Oh Christ, what have I done?” he whispers, clamping a hand over his mouth in a desperate attempt to contain his shaking sobs.

“Martin,” Jonah says, more forcefully. “What. Have. You. Done?”

“I… I burned it,” Martin says in a small, shaking voice. “The Archives, they’re- they’re gone.” Martin stares at Jon’s face, at the singed-away eyebrows and cracked and bloody lips. Quietly, horrified, he says, “I burned him.”

“You what?” In an instant, there’s a hand, tight on Martin’s upper arm and firmly yanking him off the ground. When Martin looks at Jonah, his eyes are alight with a fury that makes a sudden fear thrum through Martin. “Do you know what you’ve done?” he hisses, squeezing Martin’s arm to the point of pain and beyond, and Martin can’t help the small whimper that escapes him. “You have doomed us all, you foolish, idiotic—"

From the ground, there comes a weak cough, and Jonah’s words grind to a halt. Martin doesn’t waste any time; he pulls, and perhaps it’s the surprise that loosens Jonah’s grip, but then Martin’s slipping free and kneeling on the ground next to Jon again, watching the slight rise and fall of his chest where before there had been none.

“Jon?” Martin says, a bit desperately.

There’s a pause that, to Martin, feels like an eternity. Then, Jon opens his eyes.

Martin remembers, with vivid clarity, the moment he’d returned to the safehouse with the world crumbling into pain and terror around him to find Jon crumpled on the floor, surrounded by blank pages and covered head to toe with spiraling words, inked over every inch of skin Martin could see. He remembers even more vividly the moment that Jon had opened his eyes, and how Martin had seen himself reflected in the shining silver-green mirrors they had become, and how his terror had been reflected in kind and tenfold in magnitude.

He’d looked away, and hadn’t looked back for a long while after that.

“Martin?” Jon says, in a voice made raw and cracked by the heat of a thousand open flames running through his veins, and his eyes are a soft brown that makes Martin laugh, a jerky, hiccupping noise that probably sounds more than a bit unhinged but is raw with relief.

“Jon,” Martin says, and the smile he offers Jon is the most genuine he’s given in a long, long time.

“No,” Jonah says, in a voice that’s just to the left of controlled. When Martin glances up, Jonah’s standing over them, eyes ablaze with equal parts fury and terror. “Don’t you understand? If there aren’t any Archives, then there isn’t an Archivist, and if there isn’t an Archivist, then this world, this- this balance of fear, it’s unsustainable. You’ve removed the linchpin, and there is nothing left to hold this reality together. You have doomed us all.”

In a raspy voice that still manages to sound disdainful, Jon says, “We were all already doomed. You saw to that.”

“We were powerful,” Jonah snaps, the last vestiges of feigned kindness and austerity gone. “We were free. And now we are nothing. This reality is nothing. It will fold, and bend, and break, all because of you.”

��“No,” Martin says. “The world will be saved because of us.”

Jonah’s eyes grow impossibly harder. “Is that so? Then I suppose it really has no more use for you, does it?”

His eyes begin to glow, a sickly purple that cuts through Martin to his very soul, and it occurs to Martin that here, now, with the Archivist burned out of Jon and Martin on his knees, Jonah holds all the cards.

And Martin holds a shining gold lighter, still clutched in his right hand.

Paper burns well, Martin thinks absently. And while Jon may have been the Archives, filled to the brim with the fear of others, Jonah is a catalogue of his own, of sights and sounds and everything that has ever been known. The flame licks against Jonah’s ankle, and eagerly swallows him whole.

The safehouse smells of sawdust and pine needles, and of the soft charring of logs on the fire.

Martin recalls the words, spoken long ago by a face lost to time and terror, that knowledge is not the same as understanding. He rewraps one of the bandages on Jon’s arm, bright white covering the rough texture of healing skin beneath, and finds he cannot disagree.

Knowledge, as told by Jonah Magnus: the world as it was could not survive without the Archive that brought it into existence.

Understanding, as felt by the former Archivist and former Forsaken as they stood outside a crumbling tower and watched the red bleed out of the sky: this world was not the only version of itself that could exist. And reality is more flexible than humanity gives it credit for.

Martin finishes wrapping the last bandage and presses a soft kiss to the inside of Jon’s wrist. “All done.”

Jon takes Martin’s hand in his and kisses it in kind. “Thank you.”

Martin smiles, and presses another kiss to the corner of Jon’s mouth. “Always.”

They sit, curled within each other’s embraces and staring at the fading sunlight trickling in through the window, and enjoy the delicate peace of a world alongside which they have begun to heal.

#whumptober2020 #no.14 #fire #the magnus archives #fic

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jereviendrai · 4 years ago

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||| ooc; does every character on this blog have bpd symptoms? is this problematic, considering they’re all villains or would-be villains? is there a way to give a villain a mental health disorder without stigmatizing the disorder? well--

OH AND BIG TRIGGER WARNING FOR A WIDE RANGE OF MENTAL HEALTH TOPICS SUCH AS: eating disorders, mental illness, stigmatization of mental illness, self harm, suicidal tendencies, and a fuckload more. I don’t go into detail. There are just mentions. I’m not gonna say a bunch of graphic shit, I promise! If I went into graphic detail, this would turn into a PhD thesis proposal, and that’d be WAY too long to be worth writing. Also I have BPD, but I’m not going to pretend that I’m an expert on the subject. I’m not. My word is not law, but it’d be nice if my word was taken into consideration.

this post got so fucking long and disorganized jesus christ

The answers are: yes, not inherently, and absolutely.

I want to get into the mental health of all three characters in a second, but I think it’s important to talk a little about the other two points first. That said, though -- yes, they’re all borderline. All three of them! And they all experience it differently! I will come back to that. Anyway--

I feel like it’s important to talk about villains, mental illness and stigma. There’s a really common (and insanely lazy) tendency for writers to explain a villain’s villainy by simply saying, “oh, well they’re a psychopath,” or, “they’re just crazy.” This is not only lazy and offensive, but it contributes to an unfair stigma against the mentally ill.

Mental illness might, say, compel someone to steal a chocolate bar or snap at someone out of anger. It might make a person’s emotions volatile. It might make someone unreasonable. They might suffer delusions of abandonment, of some plot against them, of people’s secret intent to humiliate them, etc. They might suffer and handle their suffering poorly. They may cause harm. But that doesn’t make them... evil. It makes them complex. And how they react to and handle their negative actions says more about them than any diagnosis could.

When you have a villain with a mental illness, you need to examine how the illness is hurting them. Write about how it hinders their progress. Write about how isolating it can be for them. Write about the impact and struggle. Not how the illness makes them so evil or so irredeemably awful. The illness should be what humanizes them and helps to make them relatable. No matter how untouchable and powerful your villain is, they have some personal struggle that is independent of their villainy. When done correctly, it can go a long way in fleshing out your villain and adding interesting inner conflict!

I know, I know. You might be asking, “yeah, but don’t people with mental health issues sometimes cause harm directly related to their symptoms?” To which I say: yeah, duh, of course. Just like a depressed person might say something mean when they’re having a bad day. Just like someone with ADHD might make someone feel like they aren’t being listened to. Just like someone who has social anxiety might make a friend feel unloved. Just like mentally healthy people also occasionally cause harm.

I’m not saying mental health issues don’t cause problems and maladaptive behaviors. I’m just saying it doesn’t... make someone inherently bad -- real or fictional. And I need people to internalize that.

ANYWAY ON TO THE CHARACTERS AND THEIR BPD

(i know, you’re probably like, “dude oh my god shut up and get on with it” sakjlfdkjsa)

I’m going to be referring to the four subtypes. I know these are controversial to some people. Some really don’t like these labels, others feel comforted by them, etc. They’re just to make it easier to talk about this whole thing. No one fits neatly into any one subtype! Some people don’t resemble any particular one! Everyone is different! Don’t box people into these subtypes if you haven’t been given consent, thanks!

Mr. A / Clark Donovan Mr. A is a classic example of the Quiet Borderline. Someone with quiet BPD mostly directs their symptoms inward. It’s harder to detect than other types, as the symptoms that are most prevalent are mostly expressed, well, inwardly. Self-esteem issues, self-blame, insecurity, withdrawing emotionally, pretending you’re not angry when you are, self harming tendencies, suicidal thoughts, etc. He’s also kind of clingy. Mr. A is an extremely loyal person to a fault. He is a people pleaser and will go to the ends of the Earth to make his loved ones happy, even if it hurts him. This is of detriment to him, as he often finds himself getting hurt on behalf of people who might not care as much as he does. He’s let a lot of bad people into his life solely because they made him feel loved, wanted and useful. He views everyone he loves through rose-tinted glasses and only takes them off long after he’s been laid to waste by them. He has terrible issues with self-image and has thus developed an eating disorder. He also has severe depersonalization/derealization disorder, which is a result of how his mental health interacts with his reality-warping powers. It creates a lot of anxiety with him, watching himself phase through things and bend the world around him on a whim. His motivations in life are connected to this, but his motivation to do evil things is not. He wants to bring other superpowered people together as a united front against humanity, as he feels that humanity is a threat to their continued existence. This has nothing to do with his mental health issues. The part of it that does tie in is that he’s painfully lonely and has chronic feelings of boredom, so being surrounded with a shit ton of different people mitigates that. It’s a motive for him bringing people closer to him, but it is not a motive for him to launch an attack on all humanity. He’d be really offended if you tried to accuse him of doing this on the basis that he’s just a bit ill. His illness literally just makes him crave contact with other living beings just like him. He sometimes does bad or stupid things because of this, but it literally has nothing to do with his motives as a villain. As an addendum of sorts, Mr. A’s alias and reluctance to use his given name (Clark Donovan) are a result of identity issues he suffers due to his BPD. He finds it hard to maintain a stable sense of identity, so he just... doesn’t.

Ivan Chanteur Ivan closely resembles what we like to call an Impulsive Borderline, comorbid with ADHD. He is an impulsive person, as the name of the subtype suggests. He’s a thrill-seeker who suffers from extreme levels of chronic boredom, which he desperately tries to combat by any means necessary. Staying still and doing repetitive tasks is literal torture for him. If he cannot get up and move and do whatever it takes to keep himself feeling fulfilled and occupied, he is probably going to fucking lose it. When he is actively vocalizing his boredom on a regular basis, this means the chronic feelings of boredom have reached critical mass. It’s not just boredom. It’s anxiety, it’s agitation, it’s existential dread, it’s an inability to focus, it’s pent-up energy that needs to go somewhere and can’t just stay in him anymore. If he can’t get it out in healthy ways, he usually resorts to self-harm or less-than-healthy pursuits. He’s been known to dabble in drugs, self-harm, occasional promiscuity on a bad night. While therapy’s helped him get a handle on it, there’ve been a lot of stressful and traumatic things going on in his life have have made it a lot harder to keep himself in check. Ivan is pretty charismatic, able to cast a wide net and catch all sorts of people in his social web. He has a sort of natural magnetism that, on a superficial level, should make him quite popular. But underneath it all, he has difficulty trusting people long enough to actually let them into his life. He’ll act like an open book, only to slam himself shut and reshelve himself before anyone can get anywhere near the end. He’s easy to befriend, but difficult to get close to. This has caused him to feel lonely and frustrated. He wishes he could easily form deep connections, but it’s hard and it hurts him. In addition to all of this, he engages in a wide variety of attention-seeking and risk-taking behaviors. He often spends time with people who are not good to him, simply for the thrill of it. This has often gotten him hurt, but he finds it hard to cut this habit in spite of everything. This leads to a lot of frustration and self-hatred, as it makes it hard for him to protect himself. Every time someone hurts or betrays him, he beats himself up over it and tells himself he should know better by now. All that said, though, he’s come a long way in therapy. He’s not quite able to keep a handle on all of it all the time, but he’s managed to secure one or two decently stable friendships along the way.

Eve Laurier Eve is particularly difficult to talk about, but I’m going to try my best. Eve is what happens when you make a conscious decision to be bad. He knows beyond a shadow of doubt that what he’s doing is wrong, but he feels so wronged by the world that he just cannot seem to motivate himself to care. This... again... has nothing to do with his BPD. If anything, it’s his struggles with this disorder that keep him at least somewhat... grounded in reality. Eve suffered a personal tragedy -- the loss of his twin sister in a housefire. Though ruled an accident, he cried foul play. Consumed with grief at the loss of the only person he felt could truly understand him, he vowed to find the culprit and make them pay. This set him down a path of vengeance that would make John Wick blush. Eve grew up as the heir to his family’s criminal enterprise. This put him in a position of power the very moment he was born. This also left him exposed to a lot of terrible, violent crimes from a very young age. Because this was normalized by his family, he internalized and compartmentalized any misgivings he had about violence. By the time he was ready for university, he had been thoroughly trained to carry out hitjobs on behalf of the family. He was a weapon from the moment he left the womb. He was groomed to do terrible things, and it’s because of this ongoing and continuous trauma that he developed his particular cocktail of mental health issues. He mostly fits in with the label of Petulant BPD. Repeated and violent trauma did a number on him, leaving him angry and hurt over what his parents let him fall victim to. He also experiences feelings of self-loathing over the part he feels he played in his own trauma, despite the fact that it started in early childhood. He is self-defeating and self-blaming. He has a difficult time expressing his feelings and has angry outbursts fairly regularly, often resulting in self-harm and suicidal ideation. He’s been known to reach for the nearest mind-altering substance just to get out of his head for a bit. His mood swings are intense and leave him feeling fatigued and anxious. He has severe social anxiety that sometimes manifests as cold indifference. He also has issues with control, has paranoid delusions about the people in his life and doesn’t often believe it when people say that they care for him. He will find any and every piece of evidence that points to the contrary, even if he has to make it up himself. This usually ensures that he’ll end up alone again. He doesn’t have very many close relationships, if any at all. His BPD is not the reason he hurts people. Any hurt caused by his BPD is directed at himself, not at others. His BPD is a direct result of what actually has primed him to hurt people. It’s a direct result of trauma. He’s traumatized. And no, trauma is no excuse for what he’s done -- but his BPD didn’t make him kidnap and torture Ivan while he waited for Ivan’s parents to send in the ransom. That was all Eve. That was his conscious decision to make, in spite of everything in his head telling him how awful and wrong he would be to do such a thing. He knew it was wrong and ignored it, as he was under the impression that Ivan’s family had a hand in his sister’s death. If anything, his BPD aggravates his feelings of shame and self-loathing when he does precisely what his parents had been training him to do his whole life.

Anyway-- I hope this was helpful or at least interesting.

The point I’m trying to make here is that mental illness isn’t some kind of ultimate litmus test of good and evil. A disorder doesn’t make you good or bad. It’s just another facet of who you are.

So... to that end... please for the love of fuck stop using personality disorders as the reason for someone’s villainy. Please. I am begging.

I wrote a bunch of BPD villains in various stages of villainhood because I have BPD and this disorder often makes you feel like you’re evil, a monster, etc. Honestly, on good days I feel like an inherently bad person who consciously chooses to do good. That’s very flawed and I know that logically I’m not inherently bad, but that’s kind of what stigma does. It makes you feel like you’re inherently bad. And that feeling influenced how I write all three of these characters.

This is an incoherent mess but today’s the day I find out if I have coronavirus and I’m so fucking stressed out and hopped up on DayQuil. Thanks for reading any of this, I guess?

#||| ooc;#||| canon; ivan chanteur #||| canon; mr. a #||| canon; eve laurier #||| canon;#PLEASE READ THIS I SPENT SO MUCH TIME #I LITERALLY SPENT HOURS ON THIS FOR NO REASON AKLJFJSAJDLKSKJDKSL #i'm listening to 'the spider' by weezer and it's a fucking mood right now #fucking christ ok tumblr lags so goddamn much when i open this in my drafts so i need to post this now #also yeah i guess this is me telling the world i have a personality disorder hi surprise i'm Messy and Traumatized who knew haha

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