#it all hits particularly hard when half of it is DEAD

[pixielle]

are you normal or have you cried as you thought abt your otp whilst listening to the dulcet tones of Phil Collins as he sings "You'll Be In My Heart" from Disney's animated feature film Tarzan (1999)

[wonderjanga]

Black Adam getting Confused

I was reading the wiki trying to learn more about Theo Adam, and on the page I read that he was just evil and essentially just killed the Batsons for a scarab. That’s it. Then Adam possessed him. See, the wiki doesn’t say if Adam has any of Theo’s memories, but what if he did?

Adam’s pissed. He wants to take down the current champion. So, he flies to Fawcett to take him out. He’s then met with a golden retriever of a man who feels familiar and a looks a little too excited to be seeing Adam. Did the wizard not tell this oaf about him?

Marvel: “This is awesome! I’ve never met someone like me!” *starts yapping about how it’s awesome to meet another champion*

Black Adam: *not even listening, the words sound like this to him, is just thinking of where he knows this man is from*

Marvel: *still yapping*

Black Adam: *gets hit with a flashback so hard you would’ve thought it was a flash-bang. Remembers stabbing C.C. in the back, literally, and leaving him to die*

Marvel: *asks Adam something*

Black Adam: “What was that?” *is literally reliving when Theo went after Marilyn next*

Marvel: “What’s your name?”

Black Adam: *stares for a few moments, confused, wondering if Marvel remembers him*

It’s not like this deters Adam though. He still thinks the man is his sworn enemy. They still fight to near deaths and all that, but the memories bother Adam. Not because he was ashamed Theo killed Batson in such an underhanded way (he was just a tad bit), but rather because he doesn’t know how the man is alive. As far as Adam knew, dead people couldn’t just come back and be champions. If that were the case, wouldn’t the very first champion still be the current one?

Teth finally got to ask his question after a particularly brutal fight that messed the both of them up. Adam was on the ground, nose bloody, but nothing more. The current champion never went anything further than immobilizing him. It infuriated him, but since the man gave him more chances to kill him, whether it be on purpose or not, he’d let the matter go. Speaking of the man, he was standing, lip split open, bruises on his face, one of his eyes was half closed and had blood leaking from it, a consequence of Adam aiming for his eye. The current champion’s appearance once again reminded him of Batson once more.

Black Adam: “How’re you alive?”

Marvel: “Huh? What?”

Black Adam: “You should’ve died. In a tomb.” *coughs* “He used the knife. He let you bleed out. The tomb was collapsing and you should’ve only been a normal human being at the time.”

Marvel: *slowly coming to a realization that, holy fudge sticks, Adam thinks he’s his dad*

Black Adam: “So tell me, how are you alive?”

Marvel: *is silent for a bit and definitely won’t turn down the chance to make his dad sound like a badass* “I refused to die.”

Black Adam: “…What?”

Marvel: “I refused to die. I couldn’t leave my wife, my children, my friends, everyone I knew behind. So, I refused to die. I crawled out of the tomb and then the Wizard found me.”

That was actually true. Well, everything but the Wizard thing. In this AU, when C.C. had been stabbed, he managed to crawl out of the tomb, even with a leg that had gotten crushed by debris. Though unfortunately, he died due to blood loss soon after. This was all detailed in a newspaper Billy happened to find about a week after he got kicked out of the house by Ebenezer.

By the way, during that entire speech about making his dad sound like a badass, Marvel didn’t smile. And if Teth was being honest, he uh… he didn’t like that. Mostly because even during the times Marvel fought him, he still smiled at him. He didn’t know how to feel about an unsmiling Marvel. So now, back in Kahndaq, Teth sat on his throne kind of just running the entire interaction through his head over and over again.

But you see, this isn’t the only time Adam’s been completely befuddled by Billy. There was a time he went to Fawcett in disguise and happened to me a certain someone…

Black Adam: *walking down the sidewalk*

Billy: *running down the sidewalk, bumps into him, and then looks up to Adam*

Black Adam: “Watch where you’re going-” *almost goes into cardiac arrest when he sees a kid that looks exactly like his nephew, just white*

Billy: “Sorry, Mister.” *continues running*

Black Adam: *watches him run off with a mortified look on his face*

When he tries to find out more about the kid that bumped into him, he had been pronounced missing and presumed dead. This made Adam kind of feel like shitting himself because for a brief moment he entertained the thought that his nephew had reincarnated or something.

[arkangelo-7]

Okay, but, BatAdvil.

At this point in his career, Bruce has developed more synthetic drugs than a Pfizer employee without health insurance—it just comes with the territory. Given his close proximity to the Rouge Gallery and Gotham’s semi-poisonous smog, he’s had to teach himself the art of medicinal drugs. There’s an entire fridge dedicated to his creations, but his magnum opus will always be BatAdvil.

Bruce designed it following a particularly godawful run-in with Killer Croc back in 2005, but it was Dick Grayson who actually coined the term. Alfred was suspicious but ever since BatAdvil’s creation, Bruce has kept a tiny bottle of it on him at all times; any time the Joker or Poison Ivy gets a particularly nasty hit in, he’ll pop a pill and suddenly he’s 25 years old again and pain’s only a distant memory.

Eventually, though, the Robins get their hands on it.

Dick routinely steals Bruce’s horde. It’s because he’s so generous with it; anytime he’s in a team up and his partner gets whacked around by one of Blüdhaven’s worst, Dick, guilty, offers up the pills to both superpowered and pedestrian hero’s alike. It’d made him extremely popular with the Justice League—there’s regular fights over who gets to assist Nightwing in hopes of getting their hands on some free BatAdvil.

Jason, once he’s adopted and learns the Secert, immediately sees the potential of dealing BatAdvil. He starts with the Titans, because their proximity to Dick means they’re already hooked, and goes on to dominate the Justice League as the leading BatAdvil dealer. He makes a killing off that stuff and keeps his cash stash locked away in a random chimney in Wayne Manor.

Tim knows about it. Tim knows everything, actually, but he’s acutely aware of Bruce’s miracle pills and Jason’s dealings with the JL. Once Jason’s dead, Tim not only takes over the Robin mantle, but also Jason’s superhero drug ring. He runs it so efficiently that when Jason comes back, he half considers hiring Tim for his criminal enterprises before he decides that trying to kill him would he more rewarding.

Side note: Tim 100% uses the chemical composition of BatAdvil to make a pain-relieving energy drink. It works great, but the problem is that it’s shit on his liver, so he has to go back to regular coffee after a few weeks to avoid losing another internal organ.

Damian and Steph are similar in that they both at first think BatAdvil is stupid. They stick to regular Advil or just go to hard drugs for when they’re seriously injured. But then they both have a scenario where they have some sort of project or test the next morning and have to study, but also just broke like three ribs fighting the Riddler two hours before. They take BatAdvil once and never go back.

Bruce, to this day, uses the stuff religiously. Like, on a daily basis. (He’s got eight kids, he’s forty-five, and he’s beating up criminals on the regular. It’s tough on his knees.) But like regular Advil, the more BatAdvil one takes, the more their immunity grows and the larger their dose has to be. Bruce accidentally gives Clark one of his every-day pills BatAdvils after he gets whacked during an alien invasion and Clark immediately passes out. The League freaks out and Batman awkwardly disappears and pretends like it wasn’t his fault. Dick cries tears of laughter when he hears.

[hoiststowline]

tell me why

prowl x reader a/n: newly edited from my initial post on ao3, I will update it there as well!!

Sensing his deadpan before your feet even leave the stairs, you save him the scoff that was certainly headed your way and offer a middle finger instead. 

"You've got to be fragging joking." He won't open the passenger door, heaven forbid he let you sit in the driver's seat, yet his side-view mirror jerks your way in an aggravated manner. Languidly looking you up and down, and not in a way that makes you feel good about yourself, he continues with as much disgust, if not more. "Do you even care about appearances, or have you just given up entirely?"

"I'm sorry," You start, hand defiantly coming to your hip, anger seeping far too easily into your tone, now riled up. "I didn't really have a second to change when you called me at eleven-forty-eight, yelling at me to be outside in three minutes." Backpack hanging from one shoulder, the toe of your sneaker meets the pavement in an irked manner. "You're lucky I even picked up, I have you blocked from four different numbers, and yet, you've managed a way to contact me."

The police cruiser sputters, his engine growling as he argues, temper flaring alongside a familiar dramatic display. "I'm lucky?! y/n, please, I should drive off and leave you pissed that I got you out of recharge for nothing."

Your fingers curl around the door handle, tugging it twice to ignore his unkept threat. "Open the door," 

"You're the biggest pain in the aft I know, and that's saying something." The door pops open, narrowly missing your kneecaps, but you can't find an ounce of energy to start up another round of quarreling. Prowl's voice echoes from the center console as you throw your bag in the backseat, hard, bouncing off the leather before landing on the floor with an unceremonious thud. "Would you stop that?"

"You woke me up and are giving me attitude?" His rear-view mirror moves erratically now, straightening out until you're looking back at your reflection. 

"Get out." He doesn't particularly mean it, because the whole reason he called you is because he needs you, something he'd rather drop dead than admit. You're the bravest and yet the daftest individual to even offer a smidge of trust towards Prowl, but the only being that's shown him a glimmer of kindness in epochs. "I'll do it without you."

But the recently slammed door doesn't re-open, and his engine never cuts out, leaving the conversation hanging in empty air. The two of you sit in silence, the mech baiting you to erupt into an argument, but the only thing you propose is to sit in the front seat with arms crossed over your chest. 

"I hate you." The seatbelt clicks across your waist, tightening gently as a warning to behave. "I hate you so much, y/n, and I hate that I even resorted to coming here."

"You don't hate me because you wouldn't be here if you did." You jeer, sniffling before looking out the window, unimpressed by his nonchalant jab. "I'm one of the few friends you have, you bastard."

"Please," He takes off, moving down your street with purpose, hardly disclosing the actual reason for darkening your doorstep. "Let's set the record straight, we are not friends, not by any definition."

"Oh?" Your palm meets his dashboard, a half-hearted hit. "Then what are we, Prowl?"

"I'm an Autobot." Prowl snuffs, coming to a stop at a red light, yet jamming on his breaks a little too violently. "You, are annoying."

Rolling incurious eyes, you offer a swift kick the glovebox, leaving some residual dirt along the plastic. Beating him up was probably not the smartest idea you've had recently, though it was a valid response- you were on the verge of burnout. But the worst part of it all was that you could never deny Prowl, even as exhaustion threatened to claim you. He was abusing you, knowing your weakness was your compassion and ability to jump when he told you to. 

"Stuff it, you overgrown toaster." Your crankiness was leaving you with no filter, eyelids heavy as he began again down deserted roads, kicking up unsettled dirt with squeaky clean tires. 

"I have been alerted there is Decepticon activity in a secluded area where your species partakes in...street racing?" He relays it as if he's reading a transmission. "And I needed a driver."

"So you roll up, as a police car, to an area where people are doing illegal activities, with me in the passenger seat?" Elbow resting against the paneling of the door, your chin meets your hand. "Aren't you the smartest person alive."

"I-" For the first time since you've met him, he actually gives pause as if surveying his next round of words carefully. Whether that be to think of an insult or to think of a reason for how he's right, you give him thirty seconds before continuing. 

"You really woke me up on a Tuesday night for this shit, Prowl? I know you hate me but for fucks sake." He's been driving straightforwardly for a few minutes now, and taking in your surroundings, you realize he's long left city lines. "Hey, where are we going? How far away is this place?" 

"I lied." It's short as if he isn't going to provide any more information, and to nobody's surprise, he doesn't.

"You woke me up! For nothing! And you aren't even at least going to tell me why?!" Throwing your hands up in exasperation, you begin erratically pulling on the handle, even as he increases his speed. "Prowl, let me out, or so help me-" 

"You'll what?" Part of you wished the sadistic mech would open the door like you know he would, leaving you clean on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere. He'd done it before, but every time except once, he'd come back to get you, much to his grumbled annoyance. Yet, at this very moment, walking home was better than being with him any longer, patience long since tried. "Tough luck."

"I'll key you. I'll run my keys over your doors and steal your sirens, kick your bumper, disconnect your voice box-" Rattling off as many empty threats you could think of before you ran out of breath, you end the rant with one final blow. "Fuck you, Prowl, this is the last time I ever do anything for you. You insufferable, bird-brained jackass-"

Prowl takes it, every single one of your denunciations, listening and waiting patiently for your incessant prattling to end. He could wait, he's waited thus long, stewing in sleepless nights and throwing any object that he picked up, berthroom walls littered with dents from his servo meeting the metal. He could take one more klik of your unendurable squabble before he transforms, moving cautiously until you're wriggling in the palm of his servo, staring up at him as he stands off the pavement.  

"I will dump an entire gallon of iced tea in your interior," You stand, dusting yourself off as the black and white mech deposits your backpack at your feet. "Pause. Aren't you supposed to be careful about this shit? I know we're in the middle of nowhere but-" 

Prowl's staring, intently so. He eerily hasn't said a single word in five minutes, which is unlike the Prowl you were just previously bickering back and forth with. A frown is permanently etched onto his face plate, cerulean optics unblinking as he observes you and your body language, vexation evident.

"You're not often correct, y/n, but I will give you credit about one thing." A retort looms on your lips, but he silences you with one look. "You are one of the few friends I have left." 

There's a brief moment where it all comes at you ridiculously hard, his unselfish words for once, not agitated or backhanded. Prowl woke you up so late because he couldn't stand to be alone with his rampaging thoughts anymore, putting it off as long as possible before it all boiled over in one fell swoop. It's why he's indignant and irate towards you, at least more than normal because he's trying to process something uncertain of how to proceed. You cock your head to the side, trying to read his well-stifled emotions, but it all comes back to one thing where you release a shaky laugh.

"You're an asshole." Your palm finds your forehead, smacking it with a guiltiness residing in your chest, but the insult this time is much less sincere. Prowl deserved it, he and you both knew he did, but you were blindsided by his vagueness and impromptu wanting to meet up. "I really do hate you."

"You say that as if I don't hear it every damn cycle," His unoccupied hand comes to your back, circling you leaving you no means to escape. "Old news, y/n."

"Are you going to say it, or are you going to make me?" You push away his digit as it smacks you, enough to say 'Cut it out'. 

"Pain in my aft." Prowl gravels, leaning forward to deposit a kiss on the crown of your head. "Don't expect a ride home, ungrateful brat."

You refuse to believe you're blushing, reduced to nothing, as Prowl just offered genuine affection and not a mean-spirited one. Feeling relief in the non-existent explanation and exchange of pitiful and disputatious words, it could only be described as the last puzzle piece finally slotting into place. 

"Kindly, shut the-" You're interrupted as he presses a benign digit over your lips, successfully silencing you, though you don't doubt that wouldn't have happened anyway, even without his assistance. Instead of fighting back, you pull away from his soft pressure to kiss the tip of his finger, letting your lips linger before a weary sigh escapes you.

"Are you wearing that petrolatum on your dermas?" Prowl spits with disgust, yanking his servo away. "You are, aren't you? You fragging gremlin."

You hate Prowl. He was selfish, infuriating, and generally unfriendly to everyone he's ever had the pleasure of meeting, but for some otherworldly reason, you found yourself attracted to his stupid face and his outwardly unlikeable personality. There was a mountain of gold buried under layers of hardened concrete and false promise, but you were up for the challenge if he would let you in. 

[empthy1]

like them? ── .✦ patrick zweig x reader

hallo!! this is more a character study than anything. his loser ways intrigue me. not really happy with the ending :[ hope you enjoy anyways ‪♡. 2k words.

You were perfect.

Your glacé demeanor was the thing that drew him to you. Screw what anyone else said, he deserved a minute amount of softness once in a blue moon.

Especially after a particularly humiliating challenger.

So what if he was distracted by you? That doesn't account for his less than stellar performance, surely (he can blame the motel mattress for the crick in his back) but it sure contributed. That toothy grin was lethal, and you didn't even know it.

He was drawn back to your sparkling eyes every time he hit, the sound of the thwack fading into the back of his mind. He knew you wouldn't catch him—you were watching the ball flicker over the net with every hard strike.

It was only inevitable you would catch him.

The ball sails past him, slamming into the rusted, chain-link fence with a loud crash. It tauntingly lodged in one of the openings. As your eyes dart to catch its motion, you instead catch his dark gaze right on yours.

Patrick plucks the ball from its sunken position and pockets it, shoving it into his too-big shorts. He swore they fit a couple months ago.

He shuffles off the court after a half-hearted handshake with his (much) younger opponent, who gives him a movie star grin—like he’d won Wimbledon and not a backwater challenger.

You're waiting for him at the barrier, hands pressing into the metal. It's gotten a bit nippier, recently, in the late November month.

The sight of your trembling shoulders and fixed gaze makes him bold enough to invite you for a bite to eat.

He’s cute, all bumbling motions and wry, nervous smirks. His hip hits the barrier after one particularly eager motion. He thinks he hides his resulting wince well.

(He does not.)

You ended up in a diner. There were two in the town. He’d learned from the woman at the motel. He only heard half of her sentence as he was dead on his feet, but he distinctly remembers being told one was "absolute shit."

When he took a sip of jet black coffee and felt the bitter, smooth burn on his tongue, he knew he chose the right one.

He tries to start conversation. A cough instantly lodges the second he tries to speak, catching on the buildup in his throat.

“-sorry. Yeah, so… why were you here to watch?” You definitely look too cool for this town. Too cool for him, which is a sentence he never thought he’d think. His younger self would be aghast.

You purse your lips familiarly, and suddenly it's not you sitting across from him but her, tawny skin matte in the diner's shitty lighting and messy braid slung over one shoulder. Your words snap him out of his revere.

"Oh, well, I'm just a fan. You've got such a explosive style... I like it."

Well that's something she'd never say.

The unfamiliar kindness to your tone makes him smile crookedly.

He's different that night, around you. Not that you'd know.

His soft laughter rings through the almost-empty diner. You'd both ordered food by now—just waiting it to be delivered from the noisy kitchen. He can't remember exactly what you'd said that made him laugh like that, tinkling in a way he'd never let escape him before, but he finds he can't really remember.

When your food comes, you do this polite little shimmy back, eyes following the plate of pancakes as it's placed down in front of you. Jesus, that's familiar. He misses seeing how his eyes would go big at every meal, eagerly taking in the veritable mountain of food in front of him.

Then, his hot plate of eggs and toast is placed down in front of him and he can't help but dig in. He forgets all about him, if only for a moment, at the melt of warm, cheesy eggs on his tongue. Yep. Definitely the good diner.

One thing he's used to—feeling hungry. For food, for people, for happiness.

It leads to impulses. Bad ones.

He's accepted dates from so many sleazes. Let them push him and treat him wrong for reasons he doesn't want to think about can't understand.

Whatever. Introspection's a bitch.

He prefers to let them feed him on their dime and then have the mediocre sex they expect from him for their kindness. He slips out after they fall asleep and returns to his apartment or motel room (or car, when it's that bad.)

Oddly enough, you don't give him those urges. The results of his mindless swiping don't feel like the little meet-cute he'd fallen into.

The last thing he expects to do is to slip you his number he scrawled on the receipt for the bill you split. Can't imagine why he's kissing your cheek under the awning, protecting you both from the rain before waving you off—giggling, actually laughing at the view of you as you run to your car, hood pulled up over your head.

Not even a thought ran through him about propositioning you.

He returns to his stuffy motel room, peels off his shirt at the muted hum of the shitty AC. Broken again. He'll be gone by morning, anyway.

Slumping back against the mattress, his eyelids press visions of light eyes and curling hair to his mind. They don't feel as oppressive, as terrifying when their intercut with your voice, your smile.

The next time he sees you, it's colder. Far into winter, his breaths puff clouds into the air. The city is windier than the small town you'd met in, the skyscrapers tunneling the frigid air right against his back.

This was a long time coming. You'd think him younger (or busier) with the way he's glued to his phone—awaiting your messages and, later, calls.

He definitely feels younger; less like a man in his early thirties and more like a teenage girl. He hadn't crushed like this since—

That's enough of that.

The long trudge to your apartment was only caused by the less-than-ideal parking your old building had. By the time he made it to your doorstep, ringing the bell with tingling fingers and rubbing his reddening nose, he was thoroughly frozen.

His clothes was less than ideal, too—unused to being in a place that snows during the winter months. He runs from the freezing temperatures, fearing the slowness they bring and the idleness that may trap him. He flees to California and Florida for the winter, creeping around the coast and clinging on to the barest hints of heat that remain there.

Your apartment is his California, now.

The second the door opens, he's hit with a wave of warmth. The warm air seeps over his skin, coming from the rumbling heater and the scattered burning candles and the happily humming oven.

Yeah. He could get used to that. Especially the bright smile on your face at the sight of him, nose red and eyes squinted despondently.

"Pat. Come in. Jeez—you look cold."

Being swept into your apartment felt intimate. His shoulders tensed at the tug of his coat, unwilling to part with it even if you were just trying to be a good hostess—

Yet, as soon as the heavy fabric slipped off his back, he realized how laden it had been with ice and melted snow, keeping the chill pressed to his skin.

The flannel he had on underneath, layered over a long-sleeve, was much warmer. It seemed to absorb from the air and from his own body heat, insulating his trembling arms. His frozen hands rise to rub at his biceps, before slipping up to bathe in the pocket of heat it'd created.

He doesn't even notice being led to the couch, pressed into the cushion by your gentle hands. He settles heavily against one of your throw pillows.

The bustle of you in the kitchen is firmly background noise now, the faint clicking of a mechanical timer buzzing on the counter. Without the cumbersome weight of the cold, the desire for sleep enfolds his mind. His eyelids droop heavy, burdened no more with gelid crystals of ice.

A melting droplet slips down his cheek, followed soon by a salty one. They runoff, fading into the throw pillow that bears his curly head.

He's knocked out before the timer even beeps.

“Hey, hey.” Is softly cooed in his ear, a warm hand shaking his shoulder.

Oh. It’s Art, waking him up for practice—whatever, five more minutes. He attempts to shrug off the touch and flop on his belly, but his resting place feels smaller than his bed was at Mark Rebellato.

No, the fingers are too slim, and this is definitely closer to twin-sized. Tashi, then. Dude, he just got back from tour yesterday. He huffs and grumbles and tries to roll over again. Can’t she let him sleep in—

But he keeps getting shaken, and he blinks open bleary eyes to find no hint of… them. Just you, blinking down at him with a steaming bowl clutched in your other hand.

His sleep-crusted eyes flutter, caught off-guard at the rush of memories and then the brutal battering of your visage on his brain. Right. You're here, with him—or he's here, with you. In your apartment, on your couch. He'd fallen asleep.

"Dinner, Pat. Have you gotten thinner?"

He probably has. He accepts the bowl greedily, digging the offered fork deep into the white rice and chicken, dripping with a sauce he's never had but supremely enjoys.

It's different, home-cooked meals. He'd never had one, a true one, until he'd met him. To have a member of the family cook and pour hours into a dish was something he'd never seen. He usually didn't even glimpse the cooks, and was shooed from the bustling kitchen anytime he so much as tried to peek in.

The presentation wasn't the masterful art he'd grown to know, with perfectly placed leaves and round dollops of puree. But it steamed, wafting scents into his nose. He appreciated every bite.

You'd flipped on the TV while he was devouring the meal. Once he zones back in, he hears it—a droning voice enunciating familiar words.

"This is live coverage of the Australian Open, looks like the Donaldsons are coming in now—"

His head shoots up.

Gaze contacting with the screen, he glimpses cropped blond and a newly-cut bob. His eyes are downcast, following obediently behind her like an acolyte. Occasionally, he sees his gaze dart up, as if she'd acknowledge him and stray from her warpath.

Yeah, he's seen this before. Keep pushing, Sisyphus. She's no Orpheus.

He finds the strength to turn it off. His thin fingers tug the remote from your lap, impacting the little red button harshly. The place of it on your coffee table echoes.

"...can we go to bed?"

He's never been cradled like this before. After you'd fussed, shoved him into a too-big sweatshirt (he doesn't know where you got it) and graciously let him take his jeans off, you tugged him to your chest and buried your nose in his still-damp hair.

His hands are still warm from the bowl when they snake over your skin. Bared thighs slot against yours, pulled close and tangled in the web that is you.

Usually, he'd struggle. Resist the pull and tug of silken, sticky threads—each one only entrapping him further.

This time, he sinks into them. Surrenders, like a venom-laded fly to be wrapped and ensnared. The sounds of your breathing soothe his restless mind.

You're no longer him, with his smile and the youthful glimmer he used to see. Or her, with your funny, but scathing commentary. He doesn't see her in your focused looks, or hear him in your laughs. They meld together, swirled and blended into an amalgamation.

You soothe the roughened edges of the image. There's no cutting feeling in his gut or the curl of a vice around his ribs.

Just the press of your collarbone against his forehead and your breath through his short tresses.

[loverslantern]

The Hunter and The Witch~ Dean Winchester x f!reader

Description: A dangerous spirit is bound to an old family portrait that brings misfortune and death to anyone who buys it.

Warnings: Cannon violence and gore. flirting if you can call it that

Word Count: 10,688

Provenance

(Master list, Previous Chapter, Outfit Board)

Music thrums through the dimly lit bar, mingling with the hum of conversation and clinking glasses, drawing a crowd that fills nearly every corner.

I managed to escape from Sam and his research onto the safety of the dance floor two songs ago. And while I wasn’t always privy to dancing, it’s hard to ignore a live band.

So, I let the bassline sink into my bones, guiding my steps as I start to move. My hips sway in time with the sultry beat, each sway slow and deliberate. My arms lift, hands tracing soft arcs above me as I lose myself in the music. Then, fingertips brush my waist, and if they didn’t feel so familiar, I’d pull away. But, I know these hands, I know each callous as I feel them through my dress. “‘You come to dance?” I ask, turning in his hold to face him. He wears that charming smile, eyes dropped to my hips that still move with the music. “No, uh…” his eyes move back to my face. A smile stretches itself onto my lips as I tilt my head to indicate I’m listening even if I’m dancing. “Uh,” he turns his head away, “Sam was tryin’ to wave us down, but you were, um….” his eyes meet mine, “distracted.”

“Little disappointed that wasn’t a ‘yes,’” I tease, although I know he isn’t the type to dance. I slide my hand over his where it rests on my waist, gently pulling it away and taking it in mine. “Too bad Sam needs us, huh?” I say, starting to walk backward and leading him with me. “Yeah,” he sighs, “Too bad.” Something mellows in his eyes then, something I can’t quite grasp before I turn around and guide him back to our table. 

The moment we reach Sam I collapse onto the little stool with a bright smile and a satisfied huff, taking my abandoned half-drunken soda into my hands. “Alright, I think we got something,” Sam announces, looking between us.

“Hit it!” I point at him.

“Oh yeah, me too,” Dean answers, glancing back at the bar to a girl I forgot he was talking to.

“Or not…” I mumble as he continues. “I think we need to take a little shore leave, just a little bit. What do you think, huh?” he asks, looking back at us, “I’m so in the door with this one.”

“So, what are we today, Dean?” Sam mocks. “I mean, are we rock stars, are we army rangers?”

I avert my eyes to the newspapers strewn about the table, pretending like I do not hear their conversation. “Reality TV scouts, looking for people with special skills,” Dean answers, and I can hear the grin on his face, “I mean, hey, it’s not that far off right?”

“You are being particularly icky with this one,” I comment, looking at him now as I bite on the thin black straw in my drink.

“She’s right,” Sam adds. 

“Yeah, well it’s working,” Dean counters, “By the way, she’s got a friend over there. Possibly hook you up. What do you think?”

“Dean, no thanks, I can get my own dates,” Sam answers.

“Yeah, you can but you don’t,” he argues. I hit his arm, throwing him a look. He shouldn’t be pushing his brother like this. He can’t possibly expect Sam to be ready to move on when his girlfriend died only a couple of months ago, let alone not feel guilty for moving on. “What is that supposed to mean?” Sam bites back. But, I give Dean a ‘don’t’ look, they don’t need another thing to fight over. “Nothing,” he answers, taking my warning, “What you got?”

“Mark and Ann Telesca of New Paltz, New York were both found dead in their own home, a few days ago. Throats were slit. There were no prints, no murder weapons, all…” Sam trails off, his findings coming to an abrupt end. “Dean!” he yells, gaining back the attention of his brother, “….No prints, no murder weapons, all doors and windows locked from the inside.”

“Could just be a garden variety murder you know, not our department,” Dean rationalizes, taking a sip of his beer.

“Says the guy who wasn’t paying attention,” I mumble.

“Hey!” he grumbles.

“What? It’s true!”

“Anyway,” Sam interjects, “Dad says differently.”

“What do you mean?” Dean asks, suddenly more interested. 

“Dad noted three murders in the same area of upstate New York. First one here in 1912, second one right here in 1945, and the third in 1970, the same M.O. as the Telescas. Their throats were slit, doors were locked from the inside. Now so much time had passed between murders that nobody checked the pattern, except Dad. He kept his eyes peeled for another one.”

I have to give John credit, he seemed to have a hunch for these sorts of things and was persistent enough to keep up on it. It’s admirable at the very least. “Alright, I’m with ya,” Dean replies, “It’s worth checking out. We can’t pick this up til first thing though, right?”

I roll my eyes, though, of course, I'm not surprised. Not only does he not trust the legitimacy of a case until it has the John Winchester seal of approval rather than just trusting his brother, but of course, he’s immediately trying to go back to his potential hook-up. “Yeah,” Sam sighs. 

“Good,” Dean grins, immediately going back to the bar. I don’t know whether to be disgusted or jealous. “Anywho,” I start, “I’m gonna go back to the dance floor, wanna join me?”

“No, you go,” Sam insists.

“Okay, well if you change your mind you know where to find me. Or, if you just need anything,” I offer. 

Sam and I check out the Telesca's house while Dean reaps the consequences of a hangover. Either way, the house was a bust. There’s no sign of anything supernatural, in fact, there’s no sign of anything.

We approach the Impala and in it, a sleeping Dean occupies the passenger seat. He sleeps slouched with sunglasses on, I suppose to combat the sun for when he does decide to wake up and join us. Sam walks around the car sporting a mischievous smile as he leans into the open window and honks the horn. Dean jumps awake, his sunglasses slipping down his face. I scuff, laughing a little as I get into the backseat. To be fair, it is a little funny. And Sam, who finds it infinitely more funny than I do, laughs loudly as he takes the driver's seat. “Man, that is so not cool,” Dean grumbles, adjusting his sunglasses clumsily.

“We swept the Telescas with the EMF. It’s clean,” Sam informs, “And last night, while you were…well…out.”

“Good times,” Dean smirks, a satisfied look on his face. I cringe even though something sharp stabs my heart. 

“I checked the history of the house. Nothing strange about the Telescas,” Sam elaborates. 

“Alright, so if it’s not the people and it’s not the house, then maybe it’s the contents. Cursed object or something,” Dean deduces.

“Yeah, funny story,” I start, “There’s literally nothing in that house. 

“Yeah, you said that,” he counters. 

“No, like literally empty,” I clarify, “Like empty empty, like more than just crime scene cleaners.”

“No furniture, nothing,” Sam explains. 

“Which could mean it’s either in storage somewhere, given to family…” 

“…Or at an auction,” Sam adds, finishing my sentence. 

****

Beautiful classical music plays in the auction house, where nearly every surface is covered in trinkets or furniture. Nicely dressed people flutter around in their expensive suits and dresses, holding champagne flutes as they chat. 

To say we stick out is an understatement. We aren’t dressed nearly as nice as we should be for a place like this. I mean, they have violin players here. I feel incredibly awkward as we walk around, it’s like everyone’s staring…. They might actually be staring. Maybe we should’ve gotten more entail for a place like this before coming in because it is a horrible day to be wearing shorts. 

The class difference feels apparent not only just clothing but in manners. Their prideful eyes flip onto us, seeping in as if they can read us. They can sniff out our class the same way we can see theirs. And it’s no help that Dean keeps stopping for the finger food, shoving it into his mouth without care. “Consignment auctions, estate sales. Looks like a garage sale for Wasps if you ask me,” Dean comments.

“They’re usually nicer than this,” I respond, looking around, “I mean in terms of people and environment ...not that this environment isn’t nice but it’s…”

“Disturbing?” Dean answers, popping another piece of food in his mouth. 

“I was going to say pretentious but that works too,” I nod. Thrift stores and estate sales were usually nice experiences but a place like this is more about boasting through showing your wealth than enjoying your search for items to complete your home or yourself. In other words, it’s a great way to remind you of your class and just how much you don’t fit in. 

“Can I help you?” a voice suddenly asks. An older man with grey hair and blue eyes stares at us. Dean looks him up and down before shoving more food in his mouth, “I’d like some champagne, please,” he says putting on his best posh voice. 

“No, baby, he’s not a waiter,” I cut in, putting a hand on Dean’s upper arm. 

Sam holds out his hand, “I’m Sam Conners,” he greets. But, his introduction is not met with the same friendliness. The man just looks at him, not moving. Sam gives a sharp nod, retracting his hand, “That’s my brother Dean and my sister-in-law Y/N. “We’re art dealers, with Connors Limited.” 

“You are….” the man searches for the word as he looks at us with skepticism. “Art dealers.”

“That’s right,” Sam confirms. 

“I’m Daniel Blake,” he finally introduces himself, “This is my auction house. Now gentlemen and madam this is a private showing, and I don’t remember seeing you on the guest list.”

“We’re there chuckles, you just need to take another look,” Dean answers, unamused, as he grabs a drink off a passing waiter. “Finally,” he mumbles, bringing it up to his lips.

“What I think my husband means to say,” I intervene quickly, the word sounding strange on my tongue. It’s a title seeped in irony—one I long for even though he spent last night with someone else. And yet, here I am, calling him my husband, craving a title that’s only pretend. “Names are such funny things. They just….slip on by. If you should like, I have no problem looking at the guest list with you so we can get this all cleared up.”

He raises his chin high, seeming to consider my offer. “Very well,” he answers, “Come along.” He turns around, stiff in his movements. I move away from Dean, my hand slipping off his arm as I throw back a wide-eyed glance. I follow after the man, moving further and further away from the boys. He goes to a security guy and asks him to go fetch the book because apparently, he can’t do it himself. “I don’t mean to come off as intruding but I didn’t see a ring on your finger,” he says.

He didn’t believe Sam’s lie. He’s testing me to determine our legitimacy. I put on my best smile, “You must have glossed over it,” I reason. I hold up my left hand, displaying a matching wedding band and an engagement ring. Both are aged silver bands, the engagement ring having a simple diamond at its center. It’s all I could come up with on short notice—quite literally in the seconds it took me to answer and raise my hand. “Charming,” he comments, lacking conviction. I put my hand back down, keeping the rings there even as my smile falters.

Finally, the rather thick book reaches the hands of Mr. Blake who simply wastes no time in cracking it open. He flips through the pages until he finds the names under ‘C,’ his finger skimming down the page. His face drops. He clears his throat. “Yes, there you are,” he declares, placing the book in a way I can see. His pointer finger is just below our names, newly placed by yours truly. “I apologize for the disruption,” he says, closing the book with a thump. 

“Oh, that’s okay. With all those names it’s easy to miss,” I reply. I almost feel bad for deceiving him, he must feel crazy. But, we do need to figure out what killed the Telesca's and everyone before them so it is necessary. “Now, if you’ll excuse me I’m going to go back to my boys,” I say with a nod, wanting nothing more to get away from this man….no offense to him. 

I feel his eyes burning into the back of my skull as I walk back to the Winchesters like he still suspects us and is just waiting for a slip. So, without a second thought, I move closer to Dean, slipping my hand beneath his blue jacket and resting it on his back. He doesn’t question it; his eyes flicker to mine, but he just pulls me closer, wrapping an arm around my shoulder. The warmth of him sends butterflies crashing into my stomach, and my pulse quickens until I can barely focus on anything but the solid warmth of his touch. My heart pounds so wildly that I have to force my gaze forward.

That’s when I notice the dark-haired woman standing in front of them. Her hair is pulled back with two curled strands framing either side of her face, highlighting her sharp, thin eyebrows and kind grey eyes that are fixed intently on Sam. She wears a black dress with a bit of a plunging neckline, accented by a sparkling brooch at its center. “But, Dad’s right about one thing, sensationalism brings out the crowds,” she says, adding to whatever conversation was at hand, “Even the rich ones.” 

“Is it possible to see the provenances?” Sam asks.

“I’m afraid there isn’t any chance of that,” Mr. Blake says, his voice suddenly appearing from behind us. What could he have possibly found? “Why not?” Sam asks.

“I fear we have guests complaining about your….” he looks us up and down. “Appearance. We do have a very strict dress code.” A sigh escapes my lips, no way this constitutes us being kicked out. So much for creating a whole illusion.

“Well, we don’t have to be told twice,” Dean responds putting on his horrible posh voice again. He’s probably done with this scene.

“Apparently you do,” Mr.Blake retorts cooly.

“Okay. It’s alright,” Sam intervenes. “We don’t want any trouble. We’ll go.” 

The day’s light filters in through the entryway as we step out. It’s hard to tell if guests were complaining about us or if he truly just wanted us to go. Either way, he got us to leave. We pause just a few steps away from the doorway, Sam already moving far ahead of us. 

The sun catches Dean’s eyes as he turns to look at me, a smirk playing on his lips, “I guess I’m your husband now,” he says, his voice low. My heart stutters behind my ribcage and it takes all my willpower to keep my eyes on his and not let them dip to his mouth. “That you are,” I answer, an easy smile on my face.

“Maybe I should get you a ring,” he teases.

“Apparently, you have,” I hold up my left hand for him, the rings still there. He reaches for my hand, thumb brushing over the bands, his eyes lingering on the diamond. The gentle pressure sends a rush of warmth through me, and my stomach does about ten flips consecutively. He looks at me through his lashes, that smirk only deepening, “You bad girl.”

I gasp, taking my hand from his to hit his chest. “I didn’t steal them!” I insist, but he just catches my hand again, bringing his thumb back to the rings. 

“Have to admit,” he murmurs, eyes sparkling as he meets mine, “I have good taste. Could’ve added a few more diamonds, though.” He says it so casually, with such cockiness, and it just fuels a quiet, barren dream that I now want more than anything. “Well,” I reply, feigning nonchalance. “You can keep that in mind for the next time we get married.”

I slip from his hold with a teasing smile, and he lets me go. I let the rings disappear from my finger, leaving the same way they came. At least I have control over them leaving. It hurts to give myself hope, and I don’t know why I do it. I fix my faltering smile before I spin around, walking backward as I speak to him. He hasn't moved from where we stood, something written on his face. “I really didn’t steal them. They aren’t real.” 

****

“Were you really flirting with that girl?” I ask Sam, a proud smile on my face. He rolls his eyes, no doubt knowing where I got my information from. “I wasn’t flirting. We were just talking art,” he defends.

I laugh, “I think that might count as flirting. At least in your book.” I don’t mean to tease him too harshly over this, after all, I’m proud of him. Maybe that sounds weird but just like Dean I want him to be happy, and it’s good if he’s trying to move on after Jessica. “Grant Wood, Grandma Moses?” Dean mocks, “Where’d that come from?” he asks as we approach their room, bags in hand. I’ll go to my room later, as for now, it’s easier to stick with them.

“Art history course,” he answers simply, “It’s good for meeting girls.”

I laugh again, nudging his arm with my own, “Look at you go.”

He scuffs despite the smile on his face. Dean puts the key in the lock, turning it as he says, “It’s like I don’t even know you.”

He pushes the door open to reveal a complete disco-themed room. The walk-in is lined with black and white diamond wallpaper, and a metal divider made of circles separates the walk-in from the sitting area. Very ‘70s. Meanwhile, the sitting area has granite-like floors and completely black walls that contrast with the two white seats that face a long dresser-like table where speakers and lamps rest, and right above it an abstract painting sits. More of the same dividers separate the sitting area from the back where the two queen beds reside, the diamond wallpaper makes its reappearance there as well as the red carpet. 

“Huh,” the boys hum at the same time.

“‘Huh’ might be an understatement,” I mumble, following after them into the themed room. I feel like we should be in Vegas with a room like this, that feels more appropriate. But, at least it’s fun…? They move deeper into their room, dumping their bags on their respective beds while I leave mine by the door. “What was…providence?” Dean asks.

“Prov-e-nance,” Sam corrects, “It’s a certificate of origin, like a biography. You know we can use them to check the history of the pieces, see if any of them have a freaky past.”

“See, your art history class isn’t just helpful with getting girls,” I say, taking a seat on one of the white seats. Apparently, they found a painting that belonged to the Telesca's. The painting was a family portrait with two young boys in suits on the left and a young girl in a frilly dress holding a doll with matching clothes on the right. And, at the center a woman, likely the mother, sits wearing a dress with similar frills and ribbons as her daughter, a balding man with a serious face standing behind her.

“Speaking of girls…” Dean snaps his fingers at his brother, smirking.

“Yeah, maybe you can get her to write it all down on a cocktail napkin,” Sam responds, smirking right back.

“Not me,” Dean laughs.

Sam’s face drops, “No no no, pick-ups are your thing, Dean.”

“It wasn’t my ass she was checking out,” Dean remarks, giving him a look.

“Sam, she couldn’t take her eyes off of you,” I add, “And I wasn’t even there for half the conversation.”

“In other words, you want me to use her to get information,” he responds.

“Sometimes you gotta take one for the team,” Dean reasons. “Call her.”  I’m tempted to correct him and put it in kinder words. But, I stop myself as I realize that if we frame it as a proper date, he might back down. He might not feel ready to move on or feel too guilty about it and, frankly, no one could blame him.

****

A Re-run of Scooby-Doo plays on the large TV in front of us, the take-out we ate a while ago sitting in the trash can now as we lounge on his bed. Our backs lean on the cushioned headboards, the crisp motel blanket covering both of us as we sit side by side, close enough for our thighs to touch. He chuckles at some silly joke Scooby made, the sweet sound warming my heart.

I’m glad we decided to hang around if only to see him this content. I like the familiarity of this—of him. I wish we could have endless moments like this. If only we could live in a gap between time where all is well. I’d like that. I think he’d like that too. Time seems to melt together here where responsibility is put on hold to just…breathe. I hope Sam is having a good time on his date, that’d just make this whole day as perfect as it can get.

I’m pulled out of my thoughts as a plastic spoon comes crashing into my personal space, landing right in my (flavor) ice cream. “Hey!” I exclaim, laughter immediately bubbling from my lips, “You have your own ice cream.” He gathers a big spoonful and I don’t stop him or pull the container away. “So?” he shrugs, putting it into his mouth as he puts his arm around my shoulder, bringing me closer to his side. With a hand on his chest, I pull away enough to look up at him, “You’re ridiculous,” I say though my voice lacks conviction. His eyes meet mine, his head tilted down slightly, “Yeahhh,” he smirks, “But you love me.” He says it confidently as if he knows it's true even though he means it in a teasing way.

Then his eyes dip down and I can’t quite find the right words because the right words are “I do” and I can’t afford the truth. Not now….maybe not ever. This hunting trip has been a blessing and a curse. I get to spend more time with him than we probably ever had, and yet to be this close hurts. It’s as if he’s the sun and to even get in his gravity field would burn me right up. Though, maybe being like Icarus would be worth it. “You’re lucky I do,” I tease.

The click of the door tears my eyes away from him. “Sam!” I say excitedly as he comes into the motel room. “How was your date?” I ask.

“It was…” he searches for the words as he removes his blazer, “Good. I got the provenances.”

“Great!” I leap from the bed, leaving the rest of my ice cream on the nightstand, “I want to hear every single detail,” I take a couple of the manilla folders from him. 

“There’s really not any details to share,” he answers with a tight-lipped smile.

I give him a pointed look, “Really?”

“Yeah, really.”

“That’s not gonna work on me,” I say, taking a seat on one of the chairs in the living room area. 

“Fine,” he gives in, throwing his blazer over the back of the other chair before taking a seat, “The restaurant was fancy.” I practically hang onto each word, waiting for more to come. “And?” I ask, beaming.

“And the food was good.”

I groan, laying my head against the chair, “Dude, these are hardly details!” I twist in the seat to look back at his brother, “Dean, help me out here.” He looks up from the ice cream container in his hand, “This is all you, sweetheart,” he answers, shoving more ice cream in his mouth. Wait. My ice cream in his mouth. I roll my eyes, turning back around, “You guys are being such guys right now.”

A sheepish smile rests on Sam’s face, his eyes already on an open file. “Fine!” I give up, throwing my hands up, “Keep your date a secret!” I shake my head as I pick up a file of my own. 

I get to reading as the room falls into silence that’s only broken up by the sound of turning pages. “So, she just handed the providences over to you,” Dean starts.

“Provenances,” his brother corrects.

“Provenances,” Dean repeats with a bitter tone. 

“Yes. We went back to her place, I got a copy of the papers…”

“And?” Dean asks, using the very word I had used. I look up from my papers, expecting to hear more information than he was willing to give me. “And nothing. That’s it. I left,” Sam answers.

“You didn’t have to con her or do any…special favors—” 

“Eww,” I laugh, “Why’d you have to say it like that?” 

“Dean, would you get your mind out of the gutter, please?” 

“Hey, her head is in the gutter too,” he says and I can practically feel him pointing at me. I turn in my seat again, “I didn’t say anything!” I defend.

“You sure were thinking it though,” he remarks, a slight smirk threatening the corner of his mouth.

“And you know that how?” I counter giving him a pointed look. But, Sam cuts him off before he can get a word in, “Could you both stop, please?”

“Yeah, sorry,” I mumble, returning to my reading. 

“You know when this whole things done, we could stick around for a little bit,” Dean offers, not exactly backing down like his brother wanted.

“Why?” Sam asks.

“So you could take her out again,” he answers. “It’s obvious you’re into her, even I could see that.” It’s quite a conflicting situation. On the one hand, maybe we shouldn’t push or encourage him to go on dates when he’s clearly still grieving his girlfriend. In truth, it feels wrong and inconsiderate but on the other hand, maybe encouraging him could help with the moving on and accepting process. Or, perhaps this isn’t our place at all and we should shut up. “Hey, Sam, you said the first murder was in 1912, right?” I ask, deciding to move on from the conversation of dating. “Yeah, why?” he responds.

“I have a family portrait here from 1910 with the first sale in 1912 to Peter Simms,” I explain, lifting the paper for him to see. Then, there's a familiar presence behind me, a hand resting on the back of my chair. “Peter Simms murdered in 1912,” Dean reads, holding his Dad's journal in his free hand. 

“There’s another sale in ‘45 and then in ‘70. Does that match?” I ask, looking up at him.

“Yeah,” he nods, confirming this was what we were looking for.

“Then it was stored until it was donated to a charity auction last month. Where the Telescas bought it,” Sam fills in the rest of the information. “So, what do you think, it’s haunted? Or cursed?”

Dean shifts behind me, the journal coming to a soft close, “Either way, it’s toast.”

Pitch darkness cloaks us as we break in, from climbing the ridiculously tall metal gate to the careful way Sam disarms the security alarm before Dean works at the lock with careful, gloved hands. Our flashlights guide our way into the quiet auction house. It’s so different now without all the people, more enjoyable even. 

The painting is located quickly and cut from its frame with a switchblade. And as quickly as we came we left, doing almost everything in reverse. “Four minutes,” I announce, “‘Think that’s a new record.”

****

The cut-out painting lies in the dirt of a random side road. Something that took a lot of work and talent to do left to burn in the middle of nowhere. “Ugly ass thing. If you ask me we’re doing the art world a favor,” Dean remarks, dropping the lit match onto the art piece. 

This had to be some sort of crime.

I swing my legs off the bed, shoving my laptop onto the duvet as I get up to answer the knocking at my door. Before opening it, I tug my shirt to sit properly off my shoulder.

“Hey, we have a—” he stops short, those green eyes dropping to my bare legs. The oversized shirt I’m wearing only reaches mid-thigh. A smirk tugs at his perfect lips, and whatever he is going to say goes out the window. His gaze drags up my frame slowly, my insides going all warm and my stomach flipping in a way I wish it wouldn’t. “What were you up to?” he asks, the smirk still easy and lazy on his face. A huffed laugh escapes me, and I hope he doesn’t notice the blush creeping onto my cheeks. “What happened with ‘we have a…’?” I answer instead.

“What?” His eyes snap back to mine from wherever they were looking.

I laugh again. “Dean,” I say firmly, trying to keep the conversation on track. “What were you going to tell me?”

He shrugs, something he doesn’t do often, his smirk turning into a goofier smile. “I have no idea.”

I give him a pointed look, he’s messing with me now. “Come on, Winchester, focus.” 

His eyes dip down again, his tongue running along the inside of his cheek as his gaze crawls back up. “Oh, I’m plenty focused.”

“You were saying something about ‘we have a…’” I try again, hoping to jog his memory.

“Problem,” he finishes, shuffling a little bit as he adjusts how he’s standing. “Right. A problem.”

I wait for him to elaborate, but he just stares at me. “What's the problem?” I ask, leading this conversation.

“‘Can’t find my wallet,” he answers, nodding awkwardly. I try not to let the surprise show on my face. All this because he couldn’t find his wallet? “Do you need help finding it…?” I offer.

“Yeah,” he nods, then pauses. “Wait. No. I think I dropped it at the warehouse.”

“What!?” I exclaim. “Why didn’t you say that sooner!?” Immediately I spin right back into my room. “Let me get dressed real quick,” I add over my shoulder.

He steps into the room, letting the door shut behind him as I rummage through my duffle. “Wait.” I pause, turning to face him. His eyes dart up to meet mine, eyebrows raised as if he got caught doing something he shouldn’t have. I brush his antics off as I ask, “Do you want me to just,” I raise my hands, wiggling my fingers, “magick it here.” 

A small look of surprise hits his face as if he hadn’t thought of it. “Right. So–”

****

“You could have encouraged him instead of fake losing your wallet, you know right?” I ask, looking up at him as his brother and Sarah converse across the room. 

“Where’s the fun in that?” he remarks. 

“I don’t think making us think you could get caught for last night because you dropped your wallet is very fun,” I point out, crossing my arms across my chest. His wallet was in his pocket the whole time, which of course he knew about. What he really wanted was an excuse to get Sam and Sarah together again after their date. I don’t necessarily disagree with what he intended to do but it also isn’t exactly fun to be in the warehouse again. It’s like no matter what we still can't fit in.

But, he doesn’t need to say it. We both know Sam wouldn’t have come here otherwise. 

****

“I don’t understand, we burned the damn thing,” Sam says, frustrated. 

“Yeah, thank you Captain Obvious,” Dean grumbles. 

“And we can for sure rule out it’s not a duplicate….somehow…right?” I ask even though I’m not convinced of what I’m saying either. But a girl can dream. Sam turns in the passenger seat, delivering me the nastiest pointed look to ever be received. “Okay. Okay. I get it,” I say, raising my hands in defense. “I was trying to be…hopeful.” 

Dean nudges his brother's arm, getting him to lay off of me. “Alright, we just need to figure out another way to get rid of it. Any ideas?”

“Okay, alright. We, um, in almost all the lore about haunted paintings it’s always the painting’s subject that haunts ‘em,” Sam informs.

“Yeah. So we just need to figure out everything there is to know about that creepy-ass family and that creepy-ass painting,” Dean adds.

“Who do you think would know about them?” I ask.

****

The smell of old books fills my senses as we step into the second-hand bookstore, the little bell above the door chiming softly. It’s quiet and warm in the store with books stacked in piles littering the floor, making walking almost hard. Others are neatly arranged on tightly packed shelves in an attempt to fit more. If we weren’t here on business, I’d spend so much money here. I have to force my eyes away from the alluring spines of the novels, a gentle hand on my lower back encourages me to focus. I don’t need to turn my head to know the hand belongs to Dean.

“You said the Isaiah Merchant family, right?” the old man behind the counter asks.

“Yeah, that’s right,” Sam answers. The man lays out a huge book, dust sprinkling from it as he opens it to reveal the many news clippings inside. He’s well organized, I have to give him that. But, my focus is broken by the flicking of pages beside me. I look at Dean, his free hand holding open some old magazine about guns. Naturally, the guy encouraging me to focus is unfocused himself. But, he looks so happy as he flicks through the pages it’s hard to be upset. “Want me to buy that for you?” I ask softly, the words slipping from my lips before I have time to think. I kind of want to hit myself for that one.

But then he turns that smile on me and suddenly I do not want to hit myself. “I’m a big boy,” he says, his gaze dipping lower. “I can buy my own stuff.” His eyes slowly trail back up to meet mine, but his hand doesn’t stay still. It dips slightly, taking my stomach with it. His middle finger hooks lightly through a belt loop on my jean skirt, the rest of his fingers splayed on my very lower back. “You rarely buy things for yourself,” I point out. He only buys himself the necessities.

“I dug up every scrap of local history I could find,” the owner announces, pulling my attention forward. “So are you crime buffs?”

“Mhm,” I hum. “Yeah.”

“Why do you ask?” Dean asks, and I can feel the heat of his gaze pulling away from me.

“Well…” He holds up a newspaper article. The lead story, taking up most of the front page, is about the Titanic. But, a little further down to where he points is a side article titled: ‘Father Slaughters Family, Kills Himself.’

“Murder-suicide,” I mumble to myself. It’s certainly not the first.

“Yes. Yeah, that sounds about right,” Dean says, stumbling on his words.

“The whole family was killed?” Sam asks.

“It seems this Isaiah, he slits his kids’ throats, then his wife, then himself. Now he was a barber by trade. Used a straight razor,” he explains, his voice gravelly with age.

“Does it say why he might’ve done it?” I ask.

“Let’s look,” he answers, turning the newspaper around so that he can read it. “‘People who knew him describe Isaiah as having a stern and harsh temperament. Controlled his family with an iron fist.’”

It’s certainly not surprising news considering it was the early 1900’s. “Wife, uh, two sons, adopted daughter…” he continues. “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he mumbles as he skims the page. “‘There were whispers that the wife was gonna take the kids and leave.’ Which of course you know in that day and age, um….” he clears his throat. “So, instead, old man Isaiah…well he gave them all a shave.” He draws his hand across his throat, mimicking the motion of slitting one's throat as he laughs. 

“That’s, uh, certainly one way to put it,” I respond, my words harsh. It was hardly a laughing matter. An entire family was killed because some guy let his anger and ego get in the way when all his wife wanted was to get the kids and escape his wrath. His laugh dies down pretty quickly once he realizes no one is joining in. “Does it say what happened to the bodies?” Dean asks.

“Just that they were all cremated,” he answers.

“Anything else?” Sam asks.

“Yeah. Actually, I found a picture of the family.” He shuffles through the papers in the book, “It’s right here….somewhere. Right—here it is.” He holds up the paper for us to see. It’s the family portrait from the painting. 

“Hey, could we get a copy of this please?” Sam asks.

****

“I’m telling you, man, I’m sure of it. In the painting at the auction house, Dad is looking down. Painting here, Dad’s looking out. The painting has changed,” Sam argues for the fifth time since we’ve been sitting at the table.

“Alright,” Dean finally gives in. “So, you think that Daddy dearest is trapped in the painting and is handing out Columbian neckties like he did with his family?”

“Well yeah, it seems like it. But if his bones are already dusted then how are we gonna stop him?”

“Maybe not everything was burned,” I suggest. 

“Kind of hard to miss something when you’re cremated,” Sam counters.

“Well yeah but that doesn’t mean a keepsake doesn’t still exist,” I point out. “Or, not even a keepsake but maybe anything that’s on his person in the painting that’s still around now. If it’s personal enough.”

“Maybe,” Sam nods, seeing my point. “And if we figure out what and burn it then no more killing.”

“Yeah,” I nod with him, “We just have to figure out what…somehow.”

“And where,” he adds. 

“Well, if Isaiah’s position changed then maybe some other things in the painting changed as well,” Dean suggests. “You know it could give us some clues.”

“What, like a Da Vinci Code deal?” Sam asks. 

Dean's face goes blank, “I don’t….know..uh…I’m still waiting for the movie on that one. Anyway, we gotta get back in and see that painting.” He rises from his seat and moves across the room to his bed, he throws himself onto his back and crosses his arms across his chest. I have to stop myself from ogling him with the way the grey shirt looks on him, especially with those forearms on display…

“Which is a good thing cause you get some more time to crush on your girlfriend,” he teases.

“Dude. Enough already,” Sam says firmly.

“What?” He answers in defense.

‘“What? Ever since we got here, you’ve been trying to pimp me out to Sarah. Just back off, alright?”

“Well, you like her don’t you?” He reasons. Sam groans and rolls his eyes. “Alright, you like her, she likes you, you’re both consulting adults,” Dean adds.

“What’s the point, Dean?” Sam responds, his voice rising as his frustration rises too. “We’ll just leave. We always leave.” It’s quite a reminder. The life of a hunter isn’t a kind one for many reasons, one of them being how lonely it can get. It’s knowing a normal life can’t ever truly exist because once this is embedded into you it stays. And he had tried to get away from the hunting life and it had worked for as long as it did with his girlfriend whom he was happy with until, once more, the hunting life caught up to him and he had to lose it all unfairly. 

“Well, I’m not talking about marriage, Sam,” he defends.

“You know, I don’t get it. What do you care if I hook up?” he asks, getting more agitated. 

“Cause then maybe you wouldn’t be so cranky all the time,” he answers calmly. Sam stares at him, then huffs out a breath and looks away. Dean sits up from the bed as he continues, “You know, seriously Sam, this isn’t about just hooking up, okay? I mean, I–I think that this Sarah girl could be good for you.” But, once more he doesn’t get an answer other than a sigh.

“And…” he continues softly. “I don’t mean any disrespect but I’m sure this is about Jessica, right? Now I don’t know what it’s like to lose somebody like that…but…I would think that she would want you to be happy.”

Tears fill the younger Winchester’s eyes. But, Dean continues anyway. “God forbid have fun once in a while. Wouldn’t she?” “Yeah, I know she would,” he answers softly, a half smile managing on his lips. “Yeah, you’re right. Part of this is about Jessica. But not the main part.”

“What’s it about?” Dean asks. This time Sam doesn’t answer. And, luckily, I don’t have to give Dean a look to tell him not to push it because he lies back down. “Yeah, alright,” he says crossing his arms across his chest. “Well, we still gotta see that painting, which means you still gotta call Sarah so…” 

A little surprisingly Sam picks up his phone, clearing his throat as he does so. “Sarah, hey, it’s Sam,” he says awkwardly. “Hey, hi….Good, Good, yeah, umm. What about you?”

I have to try not to cringe at how awkward this is. It’s uncomfortable.

“Yeah good, good, really good,” he repeats himself.

“Smooth,” Dean mumbles.

“So, uh, so listen. Me and my br—we were, uh, thinking that maybe we’d like to come back in and look at the painting again. I–I think maybe we are interested in buying it.” There's a pause before his eyes widen and he exclaims, “What?!” He stands up and paces, “Who’d you sell it to?”

Oh frick.

“Sarah, I need an address right now.”

****

The Impala roars up the drive, Sam and I not waiting for it to come to a full stop before jumping out. Sarah runs down from the driveway, her eyes wide in panic, “Sam what’s happening?” I hear her ask as I move past them and up the porch.

“I told you, you shouldn’t have come,” Sam says from behind me. I knock as loudly as I can against the door, “Hello?” I call loudly. Dean appears at my side, banging on the door and shouting, “Anyone home?” From what I can see the lights look off.

“You said Evelyn might be in danger, what sort of danger?” Sarah asks. But, unfortunately, she has to be ignored for now as we try and get in. Sam goes to the windows and starts banging on them as best as he can with the metal gates in the way. “I can’t knock this sucker down. I gotta pick it,” Dean announces.

“No time,” I intervene, shaking my head. If Sarah wasn’t there I’d blast it open but she doesn’t deserve to be brought into this life any more than she’s being exposed to it. So, instead, I cover my hand with my sleeve and put it on the doorknob. I apply a little magick, a stream of purple mist going into the locks. I turn the knob and push the door open, revealing the darkness that cloaks the house. “What are you guys, burglars?” Sarah remarks. I don’t wait for their conversation to pan out as I nod towards inside, quietly asking Dean if he’s going to follow. Unsurprisingly, he follows after me as I step into the house before he quickly takes the lead. 

“Evelyn,” I call as we venture in deeper. I can hear the insistent steps that follow behind us, one set familiar the other not. 

A soft glow of light stretches into the hallway just enough to lead our way. We turn into what looks to be a lounge. A blonde lady sits half-turned on the sofa. I take in the room swiftly from the burning candles to the painting that sits above the mantle. The father in the painting isn’t looking straight or down, instead, he looks at the daughter. “Evelyn?” Sarah says softly, appearing beside us. But, based on the lack of reaction or even recognition it’s likely that we’re too late. “It’s Sarah Blake…” She carefully walks into the room and closer to the woman. “Are you alright?” She slowly reaches a hand out to Evelyn’s shoulder.

“Wait! That’s not a—

“Sarah don’t. Sarah!”

Our warnings don't stop her. Evelyn’s head tips back, exposing the long cut on her throat. Sarah screams, the noise seeming to reverberate. Her head is barely attached to her neck, blood spewing from the cut rapidly.  “Oh my God. Oh My God!” 

Sam quickly intervenes, putting an arm around her as he leads her out of the room.

We’re forced to watch Sam pace back and forth even though we’re supposed to be researching. He’s been doing it all morning. He’s very distracting. 

He finally stops with a knock on the door. The person behind it is the reason he was pacing in the first place. He opens the door and in storms Sarah. ”Hey. ‘You alright?” Sam asks.

“No, actually, I just lied to the cops and told them I went to Evelyn’s, alone, and found her like that,” she spews.  Her hands are balled in fists at her side, a fire of determination burning in her eyes. And even though she’s angry, Sam’s face relaxes. “Thank you,” he says sincerely.

“Don’t thank me, I’m about to call them right back if you don’t tell me what the hell’s going on,” she demands. “Who’s killing these people?” 

Sam looks at us for help, and the question is clear in his eyes. I shrug, I don’t feel comfortable enough to give a solid ‘yes’ but she won’t take no for an answer. She deserves an answer. He looks back at Sarah, “What,” he corrects.

“What?”

“It’s not ‘who.’ It’s ‘what’ is killing those people,” he elaborates. Expectantly, she looks at him like he’s crazy. He sighs, “Sarah, you saw that painting move.”

“No,” she says firmly. “No…I was…I was seeing things. It’s impossible.”

“Yeah well, welcome to our world,” Dean and I say in unison. I look at him a little shocked, “Jinx.”

“Sarah, I know this sounds crazy,” Sam continues. “But we think that painting is haunted.”

She bursts into laughter, tears filling her eyes. “You’re joking.” But, of course, we aren’t. She looks between Sam and Dean and I. “You’re not joking.”

“God, the guys I go out with,” she mumbles. And for Sam’s sake, I hold back my laughter.

“Sarah, think about it. Evelyn, the Telescas, they both had the painting. And there have been others before that,” Sam explains. “Wherever this thing goes people die. And we’re just trying to stop it. And that’s the truth.”

She takes a deep breath, “Then I guess you’d better show me. I’m coming with you.”

“What? No. Sarah no, you should just go home. This stuff can get dangerous and…and I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“Look, you guys are probably crazy,” she says bluntly. “But, if you’re right about this? Well, my Dad and I sold that painting that might’ve gotten these people killed. Look I’m not saying I’m not scared because I am scared as hell but…I’m not going to run and hide either.” She strides over to the door before pausing and turning back, “So are we going or what?” Then, she walks out. 

She’s cool. “Sam?” Dean says. Once he has his attention he points to the door after Sarah, “Marry that girl.”

****

“Uhh…isn’t this a crime scene?” Sarah asks as I open the door again. We didn’t have to rush inside this time but it’s easier than waiting for a lock to be picked. I probably should’ve done it when we broke into the warehouse….

“It is,” I answer as we walk in. “If it makes you feel better your prints are already inside…and on the victim and because you found her they’ve already been cataloged or considered. So a couple more won’t make a difference seeing as they likely don’t suspect you. I mean, they let you go after getting your statement so that’s good.”

She looks at me a little strangely, a tight-lipped smile on her lips. I’m probably not helping the crazy allegations. “I used to do the whole crime investigation thing….sort of,” I try to explain. The writing job I had was a weird one because I wasn’t really doing any crime investigation, I’m not certified like that. But I did need and use skills that investigators might have. It was kind of an excuse to be a nerd and write. Also, it paid well. She nods. I don’t think I’ve been convincing…maybe I should stop speaking. “You’ve already lied to the cops. What’s another infraction?” Dean remarks as Sam lifts the painting down from the wall. 

“Aren’t you worried that it’s…gonna kill us?” Sarah asks.

“Nah, it seems to do its thing at night,” Sam answers. “I think we’re alright in the daylight.”

Dean takes the photocopy of the original painting out of his pocket and holds it up in comparison. “Check it out. The razor, it’s closed in this one but it’s open in that one,” he points out.

“What are you guys looking for?” she butts in.

“Well, if the spirit’s changing aspects of the painting then it’s doing so for a reason,” Dean explains.

“What’s that thing in the painting,” I ask, squinting and pointing behind the family. “I mean the painting that’s in the painting.”

“Looks like a mausoleum,” Sam answers with a tilted head. Dean looks around before grabbing a glass ashtray from an end table. He holds it up to the mausoleum. “Merchant,” he confirms.

****

Carefully I step around the gravestones, no need to upset any more dead people. “This is the third boneyard we’ve checked,” Dean complains. “I think this ghost is jerking us around.”

“At least we’re looking for a whole building rather than a lonely gravestone,” I point out. This way we can beeline to the building area instead of searching each line of graves. “So this is what you guys do for a living?” Sarah asks.

“Not exactly. We don’t get paid,” Sam answers.

“Well, Mazel tov,” she remarks. 

After venturing deeper into the graveyard we found the mausoleum, the ‘Merchant’ name carved right into it. Dean breaks the lock, revealing the mass of cobwebs and dust. Various nameplates fill one wall while the other side holds the urns all lined up with glass-fronted boxes built into the walls. But the number of urns is weird.

“Okay, that right there,” she points at a doll in one of the boxes. “Is the creepiest thing I've ever seen.” 

“I think it’s cute,” I shrug. The doll isn’t creepy, it’s quite normal with its brown hair and white dress. There isn’t an eye missing or a smudge on it. “Well, it was a sort of tradition at the time,” Sam explains. “Whenever a child died sometimes they’d preserve the kid’s favorite toy in a glass case, put it next to the headstone or crypt.”

“Notice anything strange here,” Dean asks.

“Yeah, there’s only four urns,” I answer. “And unless I suck at counting there should be five.”

“Daddy dearest isn’t here,” he confirms.

“So where is he?” Sam asks.

****

An office building, a lot of lying, paydirt, and possibly interrupting an almost kiss between Sam and Sarah later leads us to another graveyard, a grave, and some shovels. According to what Dean and I had found, the surviving relatives of the Merchant family were ashamed of Isaiah enough to not want him to be kept with the rest of the family. So, he was given over to the county who gave him a simple burial. Not a cremation. Therefore, a body to burn. Which again, leads to the shovel in my hand. Bad day to wear a white shirt because now I have to keep my zip-up on and digging up a grave is already a workout. Yay, sweat.

Sam lifts himself out of the grave to stand with Sarah and her flashlight. Even with 2-3 people digging it’s a lot of work. I don’t even want to know how long we’ve been at this for. “You guys seem to be uncomfortably comfortable with this,” she comments. 

“Well, uh, this isn’t exactly the first grave we’ve dug,” Sam responds. “Still think I’m a catch?”

She laughs and God they need to kiss already. 

Finally, Dean’s shovel hits something hard. “Think I’ve got something,” he announces.

“Oh thank God,” I sigh, leaning on the handle of my shovel as I wipe some sweat from my forehead. “This so sucked.”

“Now you can stop worrying about your pretty little shirt gettin’ all dirty,” Dean remarks. I roll my eyes, of course, he picked up on that. “I’m gonna hit you with my shovel,” I threaten, my smile ruining the seriousness of my words. 

“Are they always like this?”

“Yup.”

“I’d like to see you try,” he counters as he looks me up and down.

“And I’ll hit both of you,” Sam threatens, peering into the grave. 

“Okay Obi-Wan Kenobi,” I mumble as I help Dean clear up more of the dirt to open it. 

“Nerd,” Dean remarks.

“Dude! You saw the movie too!” I defend.

“Shut up,” he grumbles. “Move back so I can open this.”

****

Lighter fluid and salt in place, Dean strikes his match. “You’ve been a real pain in the ass Isaiah. Good riddance.” He tosses the match in, everything going up in flames.

****

The Impala pulls in front of Evelyn’s house, hopefully, for the last time. “Keep the motor running,” Sam directs, opening the car door.

“I thought the painting was harmless now,” Sarah says beside me.

“Better safe than sorry. We’re gonna bury the sucker,” Sam explains.

Sarah gets out of the car, declaring, “I’m going with you.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah,” she answers, something shining in her eyes. Okay, now they really need to kiss. Sam tries to get out of the car again before Dean stops him, “We’ll stay here, you go make your move.” 

He scoffs and rolls his eyes as he gets out of the car. “Sam. I’m serious!” But, he’s ignored as they round the car and move up the stairs. Dean turns on the radio, a silly love song playing. I have to shake my head with how obvious it is, the upbeat tune paired with lyrics like “I’m in love with a girl that I’m talking about…I’m in love with a girl I can’t live without…” Sam practically whips around to give his brother a dirty look. But, Dean being Dean shrugs, seeing no problem with his intervention. Sam motions for him to cut it off, his eyes wide. Surprisingly, Dean shuts it off but not without sighing. “I’m fairly sure they’ll kiss even without your ridiculous music,” I say as I watch them enter the house.

“It’s not ridiculous,” he counters. 

“I love a good love song but that was painfully obvious, Dean. Plus, can you really kiss to that one?”

“One way to find out.”

“Yeah, you’re gonna try that on your next hookup?” I ask. He shakes his head but I can’t see his face from where I sit in the backseat and with his head downturned I can’t use the rearview mirror either. But, I don’t have time to dwell on it and he has no time to vocalize an answer when our attention is taken away by the front door slamming. 

He’s out of the Impala and up half the stairs before I can open my door. “Sammy, you alright?” he calls out, shoving himself against the door. His phone rings a half second later and I don’t think I’ve seen him pick up his phone quicker. “Tell me you slammed the front door,” he says. And I try to connect the pieces of the conversation with only half of it. Something with a girl. “Wasn’t the Dad looking at her?” Dean asks. “Maybe he was trying to warn us.” Well, that answers what girl.

“Hey, sweetheart?” He suddenly directs at me. “Could you—” I nod before he can finish. I know what he wants. “Move back,” he tells them. I know this time simply unlocking it won’t work with a spirit being the one to keep it closed. I guess Sarah gets to see a door exploding anyway. “Wait! What do you mean no time?!” But my hand is already raised, a blast of energy going right through the door. Shards of wood explode inward. 

“Where’d they go?” I ask, the entryway clear of people and spirits. When he told them to move I thought they’d remain close by, not disappear. “Damn things on ‘em,” Dean answers, moving past me to go in headfirst. “Sammy!” he yells. But there’s no response. “What could be left behind?” I ask, following after him, “We saw her urn!”

“I don’t know,” he throws back. Something crashes and slides fast behind me. I spin around, a large wooden cupboard now blocking the remains of the front door. Closing us in. “Really?” I get it doesn’t want us to leave but I just broke the door. “Sammy!” Dean yells. Something else slams and this time Dean’s gone too. “Dean! Sam!” I call, moving further down the hall. How big is this house? My phone buzzes in my pocket. I fumble for it, flipping it open before I can catch more than the first letter of the name. “Where did you go? I looked away for two seconds and you were gone. Are you with Sam?”

“I’m a little stuck right now,” he answers, his voice sounding a little gruffer.

“Where are you?” I repeat, spinning around slowly for any sign of where he went.

“That doesn’t matter I–”

“It kind of does,” I cut him off.

“Listen,” he says firmly. “I need you to do something for me, sweetheart,” he groans.

“Dea—”

“Think you can do somethin’ for me?”

“Yeah, Dean jus—”

“You gotta get back to the mausoleum and burn the doll, it might have her real hair,” he directs. ”The keys are in Baby, g—”

“I can get there quicker than that,” I cut him off. “Just…be safe and find Sam.” I hang up before he can say anything more. I roll my shoulders back, I can do this. I’ve teleported before. Hell, I managed to teleport to a place I’d never seen before back with the asylum hunt. This may be further but I’ve been there once so that’s going to have to be close enough. Also, I have no time for this. I exhale, summoning my powers forward. I don’t have time to focus on what I want as I did at the asylum. So, I put all my hope into it working as simply as I can. I flick my wrist and envision the inside of the mausoleum. Then…I’m there.

Man, I’m getting good at this. 

I waste no time in sending a small blast of energy at the glass covering. It shatters in the box, covering the doll in glass. Carefully, I lift the doll out of the box and hold it in one hand as I hold my pointer finger up. A little flame ignites from the tip of my finger, not hurting me in the slightest. “Sorry doll,” I mumble, holding her hair over the flame. Quickly, it ignites. Her brown hair goes up in flames and with it, I hope, the spirit of the ghost girl. I shake off my finger flame, not needing it anymore with how flammable the hair is. I put the doll down on the stone floor, letting it go up in flames as I take out my phone. I click on Sam’s contact, bouncing on the balls of my feet, nervously, as it rings. Please be okay. “Sam! Oh my god, are you guys okay? Did it work?” 

“We’re not bad.”

At the auction house, workers buzz around packing various things up in crates. The spirit is dead for good this time and no one else got hurt. “This was archived in the county records,” Dean announces, walking over with some papers. “The Merchant’s adopted daughter Melanie. Know why she was up for adoption? ‘Cause her real family was murdered in their beds.”

“She killed them?” Sarah asks.

“Yeah,” Dean answers. “Who’d suspect her? ‘Sweet little girl. So when she kills Isaiah and his family. The old man takes the blame. His spirit’s been trying to warn people ever since.”

“Guess she figured she couldn’t get away with it twice,” I say, thinking out loud. Yet, through death, she was able to get away with it continuously. 

“So where’s this one go?” One of the workers asks, holding up the Merchant family portrait.

“Take it out back and burn it,” Sarah directs. Both workers seem to pause at once, looking at her strangely as if she might be joking despite her serious tone. “I’m serious guys. Thanks,” she insists. She looks back at us, the workers walking off with the painting. “So why’d the girl do it?”

“Killing others? Killing herself? Some people are just born tortured. So when they die, their spirits are just as dark,” Sam answers.

“Maybe,” Dean adds and I agree with that far more than the idea that people are born evil when it’s more complicated than that. “I don’t really care,” he continues, “It’s over, we move on.”

“Ahh,” Sarah sighs. “I guess this means you’re leaving.”

I nudge Dean as he looks between the two. This is our cue to leave. “We’ll go wait in the car,” Dean says. “See you, Sarah.”

“It was nice meeting you,” I add, giving a little wave before we head out. “Now I can give you your thing,” I tell Dean.

“What ‘thing’?” he asks, looking confused.

“You’ll find out in just a second,” I laugh, skipping in front of him. I get to the car first and open the back door. I bend down as I open my duffle, taking what I left on top in my hands. I zip up my bag and turn to him holding it behind my bag before the big reveal. “Okay, it’s stupid,” I warn. “But here.” I hold out the magazine he had been reading at the old bookstore the other day. His eyebrows rise, and his mouth parts as if he wants to say something, except nothing comes out of his mouth he just smiles and takes it from my hands. “Sweetheart…” he trails off, looking down at the magazine. I smile brightly as he looks at it, practically beaming where I stand.

Then, a knock swifts both of our attentions. I look up at the auction house door, Dean turning to do the same. And right there in the doorway, Sam kisses Sarah, his head bent down to her level and his hands on her waist. “That’s my boy,” Dean smiles.

(Next Chapter)

Tag List: @jesllianaquilesrolonsworld @okayiamkassandra @fablesrose @ada--44 @bonkydarnes @star-yawnznn @crazyunsexycool @onlyangel-444 @seninjakitey @mystic-mara @mxltifxndom @stilesxreid @chaotic-luvrs @tiggytaylor @deanwasscaredbyacat @imaginexred @daisychaingirl

[literary-illuminati]

2024 Book Review #44 – The Archive Undying by Emma Mieko Candon

This was a book I went into with no hand holding or preconceptions, and so I very much dove into the deep end of the pool. This is, frankly, a mess - but a beautiful one. There’s a lot to love, a lot of meat to chew on; but Candon’s reach really does exceed her grasp in ways that show, and I cannot blame anyone in the slightest for finding the narrative alienating or hard to follow. But shoot for the moon and you still end up among the stars, right?

The book follows Sunai, a deeply traumatized drifter and guide, who absolutely never got over the apocalyptic collapse of the AI-governed city he grew up in – quite literally, as he was interfaced with the AI-god at the time, and has spent the decades since hiding his nature as a Relic despite his stubborn refusal to age and tendency to heal from all injuries in a matter of minutes. Should his nature be known, he would be conscripted as the pilot and adhesive for a towering killer mech, and used to protect and oppress the new city now growing in the ruins of the old. Instead he fled half-way across the world and spends his days helping salvagers and refugees and his nights on drunken benders. After receiving a letter from his past he goes on a particularly intense one of those, and wakes up having both slept with and accepted a job from Veyadi, a former Archivist of the same AI who he’s clearly already told too much. Despite his heroic efforts to avoid honest conversations or emotional connections, from there he’s dragged straight back into the world of dead gods and killer science.

This is a book that hits the ground running and never stops, without much in the way of care about whether you’re able to keep up. The setting has both history and politics that are clearly important but are never explained beyond the bits that are directly relevant, with the expectation that you’ll figure the rest out through context clues (or not). There’s all manner of words being used as technical terms and basically none of them are ever actually defined. Sunai spends half the book explicitly trying to head off or avoid revelation-heavy or important conversations and, while he might know what topic he’s evading by turning the conversation into a quickie, I at least did not. Which is something I enjoy, honestly – I felt I had a solid grasp on most things by the end, and the world was fascinating (if occasionally absurd) – but I really cannot hold it against anyone who checks out.

The narration doesn’t help, either. Technically speaking, the entire book is told from Sunai’s POV. He merely has an unusually porous consciousness, and so spends a large fraction of the book being directly spoken at by one of a couple different voices in his head, or else semi-conscious and seeing the world through one of several different people’s eyes. When he’s not just outright hallucinating or trapped in a VR simulation, or spiraling into flashbacks (some of which are even his). This I found harder to adapt to and more frustrating, and in many cases felt like Candon was trying to show off and not quite managing it, but when it worked it really did work (the playing with the narrative voice in the second act, especially).

The book’s most saliently about trauma and (failing to) deal with it. It is not especially subtle about how Sunai’s relic nature is just a literalization of how he latches on to the plans and hopes of others to avoid even considering the idea of what his own might look like, and makes no bones about making him the whole thing’s beating heart. The book, then, depends a great deal on how compelling you find him. Personally I found the broken wreck of a man endlessly endearing, even when he was also deeply frustrating to be stuck in the head of.

The book’s other characters fare less well, sadly. The other major characters, despite (or maybe because of) all the time spent looking through their eyes and ruminating on their motives, still end up feeling opaque and a bit arbitrary. There’s only so many world-shaking revelations you can layer on top of each other before they stop having much impact and you stop being that invested in the characters. Ruhi and Imaru especially suffered here, the former for having so many story beats stuffed into him he ended up feeling more like a plot device than a real character, the latter because she felt like the story highlighted her importance to Sunai and general significance and then didn’t really know what to do with her past a certain point. In both cases (and like, this is clearly intentional) you end up knowing quite a lot of what Sunai think of them and not that much about the characters themselves.

Veyadi does better, if not always consistently. His romance with Sunai (osculating between unhealthy coping mechanism FWBs and all-consuming devotion as the story progresses) is another of the book’s main throughlines and it largely worked for me – Sunai’s wilful refusal to accept either of their obvious feelings was well-done and didn’t last quite long enough to be frustrating, and it was always entertainingly unhealthy in one way or another. ‘adi’s character outside the romance is significantly more opaque. Partly for reasons of plot and preserving tension, but still – I ended the book caring that Sunai cared about it, but not really about him for his own sake.

I admit I feel personally let down by the ending less for what it does than what it teases at then fails to do. All that buildup and ominous foreshadowing about losing your identity and being subsumed and synthesized into a greater hole as the walls come down and in the end they and the remnant AI just end up being able to DM each other’s brains. My expectations of a perfect lyctorhood or even some original examination of codependent relationship realized as the literal synthesis of identities, entirely dashed.

The ending in general was also just, well, messy. Too many plates in the air, too much ambiguity and nuance that then needed to be forcefully resolved to tie things off, too much sublime technology and miraculous agency in conflict for the final result not to just feel arbitrary – especially since the neat resolution arrived at makes absolutely no sense at all unless the ‘AI’ in question was actually just some kind of incorporeal demon the whole time. The emotional beats do work, but the result feels like a bit less than the sum of its parts. But then I may need to accept that my standards for a good ending are just impossible for 99 books in 100 to hope meeting.

Still, mess aside a thoroughly enjoyable read and one I’m deeply sad doesn’t seem to have gotten more attention. Though it also definitely doesn’t need to be the first in a series (many such cases, these days).

[omgwhatchloe]

but what if i ask really nicely for more into on brain injury sean au

then i suppose…IF YOU INSIST…i might be compelled…

-first things first in this au sean has to change where EXACTLY he was walking on the ground on rhodes to alter where the bullet goes. one tiny half-step to the right when he turns, along with the shooter aiming just that tiny bit higher, and he gets shot through the skull, but survives.

now im not going to go into a lot of detail about where the bullet is in the brain and why he is reacting like this etc etc because even after research i dont know the ins and outs of it, so we’ll focus a lot more on his behaviour.

-so after the position of the shot is altered, they all expect him to be dead. miraculously, he is still alive on the floor of rhodes, but heavily unconscious. he is unconscious for two and a half weeks after they try their best to heal him. poor leopold strauss was NOT about to do any brain surgery and the bullet had to be left there. when he actually woke up, everyone was relieved and crowding him. however, he didnt say a word, he barely looked at them. he just laid where he was, staring, until they started to help him up and try to speak to him. within a few days, he had healed to his limit, meaning he could walk and start to move very uncoordinated.

-sean mumbles a lot unintelligibly to no one in particular. he doesnt speak intelligibly or respond when he’s spoken too, he doesnt even know someone is speaking to him. he opens his mouth when they try to feed him but wont make a single effort to feed himself as if he doesnt know how too. sometimes he can refuse to chew if he doesnt like the texture or taste, which is very often. he chews and swallows to fast, and it causes worry he will choke himself. he can technically walk but will not unless someone is actively moving him from one spot to another, so he has no urges to take care of himself and would spend all his time staring and mumbling if alone. he does sometimes reach his arms up to push at the people around him (not hard at all) but this pretty much means nothing, it doesnt mean he wants them to leave or is showing any sort of affection. when he gets angry suddenly, which can be often, he yells and hits (not very well) the people around him trying to calm him down. he can be calmed by having his face stroked, interestingly he doesnt care who does it. he cries too, when his mouth is being burnt by the food or he is just uncomfortable, like after an accident in which no one has tried to help him. when he cries, it can either be just completely silent tears like he doesnt know hes crying, or it can be accompanied by wailing.

-he also clenches his fists, pushes things in front of him around, pulls his own or others hair, kicks the dirt under him and chews when theres nothing in his mouth absentmindedly.

-of course, the gang are not caregivers. theyre murderers, outlaws or just very uneducated people. they try their best to take care of him for the first week after he wakes up, but sean has multiple accidents because no one tries to help him with ‘using the bathroom’ (well not really using a bathroom because theyre in the woods but yk what i mean). they have things they need to do and a lot of their plates are full even without sean, no one particularly WANTS to care for him, as awful as it may seem. they become easily frustrated at the complete lack of cooperation from him, even if it isnt his fault. they also become angry at each other around the whole situation.

-when sean gets upset or ignored in someone elses care, they rush to blame and berate each other about it. but the big elephant in the room is they do not want to be his caregiver, no one does. karen tried her best, but got quickly frustrated and angry at him, causing him to cry when yelled at (this was because it was a loud noise close to him, absolutely nothing to do with what she was saying). lenny got angry at her, and took over, only for find himself incredibly tired and frustrated within a few hours. despite being his partners/ex-partners, they feel helpless with him. they dont know why hes upset or what he wants most of the time, which means they cant help him. after a few days of lenny trying to help sean, prevent accidents, watch over him, cleaning him up, he actually walked out of camp. he spent a few days alone in the quiet because he genuinely couldn’t stand the camp or caring for sean anymore.

-he loved sean so much, but he couldnt stand the mumbling and the whining and the constant taps and hits. it was overwhelming, and he realised he couldnt do it. he couldn’t be his caregiver, he knew karen couldnt, he knew the women of the camp couldnt because they simply didnt know how too and got frustrated too. the men of the camp would never…so who? thats when he started to realise, along with everyone else, sean could not stay with them like this.

-so where would he go? that was the conversation, with many different arguments. only a few argued they could keep sean, but they were easily persuaded to change their minds. there was unfair suggestions, like dumping him on the side of the road. that was from micah, and he had the support of john, uncle and bill. eventually they decided he needed to be taken to an asylum or left at a state hospital, as sending him somewhere he’d be actually looked after was expensive and not guaranteed. micah had also suggested putting him down but was thankfully denied.

-lenny debating leaving with sean, becoming his caregiver, and he was really going to do it, until he actually cared for sean again for the next day and could barely leave him for a second. when he finally napped, lenny realised he himself had barely eaten, he hadnt touched his books, done his hair, or had any time for himself since he’d disappeared. god he wanted to care for sean but he just couldnt. the vision of their cottage he made up, where he cared for sean happily…while actually being happy…was unrealistic he realised. he’d always be angry and bored, and couldnt trust himself not to run away. he loved sean, he really did, he still wanted to cup his face and hold him close, but he couldn’t. a vital part of their previous relationship was dead with seans condition, and the rest was dying. sean didnt even recognise lenny, or any of them. he knew that for a fact because micah had bothered sean to get under his skin, sitting near him and trying to get his attention, and sean didnt react.

-the day before arthur was going to take him to a state hospital, their attitudes towards him changed. they had less frustration, more motivation, because they knew it was the last time theyd see and care for him. it made them feel a little uneasy when they thought of where he’d end up, with lenny feeling the worst about it. he still debated taking him and leaving the gang, but he knew he couldnt. he knew it would be the end of his life, his freedom, if he tried to care for him alone. but god the whole thing was killing him.

-they fed sean peaches, which he actually almost seemed to enjoy. he didnt spit anything out, though still lightly hit whoever was feeding him. he had no accidents that day, and napped mostly. he sat with the girls while they tidied him up, and spoke to him (with no response back). lenny read to him, even if he showed absolutely no interest and stared away from him. that night, they had a goodbye party and all actually paid attention to him, yes, dealing with him was easy that day, but that was because he was their main focus when normally he is not.

-ok lets end on a fluffy note where he sits with arthur and ‘watches’ his sketch. he enjoys the sound of the pencil against the pages, and seems to be almost smiling. they think he likes the sound of javier’s guitar, as he plays him a song. bill tries to give him whisky but is told no, but they do laugh when he tries too. lenny puts his arm around him and shifts his position so sean is cuddling into him. he falls asleep like that.

-he wakes the next day being kissed goodbye on the forehead by the girls as hes placed into the wagon. lenny sits in the back with him, holding him close. karen could barely bring herself to say goodbye. hosea and arthur drive, with hosea telling stories about sean when he first joined, especially his favourite, where sean got caught cheating at cards and stormed off to his bedroll. they had to lure him out and convince him to play again, and they promised to actually teach him how to play (as arthur had lied multiple times to him about the rules so he could win, poor sean didnt even know he was cheating.)

-they then arrive at the hospital, in ‘desperate need of aid as their friend has a bullet trapped in his head’.

[plasticageau-psychonauts]

"I was struck by lightning, walking down the street. I was hit by something last night in my sleep." --Dead Man's Party, Oingo Boingo

_________________________________________

CHARACTER NOTES:

- This AU takes place around 2-3 months after the events of Psychonauts 2, making him 11.

- Raz, alongside his grief and shame for his father's kidnapping and his peculiarly changing body, has undiagnosed ADHD. He has faced belittlement from superiors, being told he’s ‘not working hard enough’ and ‘needs to act normal like everyone else.’ This has led him to believe that he’s ‘broken’ and needs to ‘fix himself.’ As a result, he has developed a dangerous method of reducing his symptoms that has caused damage. But he still continues, believing that he needs to do this or else he will fail as a Psychonaut AND as a person.

- He can sometimes be prone to unexplained bursts of aggression/anger episodes, irritability, self-isolating behaviors, dread and anxiety. This is a vulnerable area that Raz doesn’t understand nor can he control, and is overall very frustrating for him.

-Raz is prone to overstimulation due to heightened senses of unknown cause, especially toward scent and sound. This is a relatively easy way to deter him.

- In this AU, the majority of Psychics can't feel touch when using their telekinesis to help them navigate without looking. However, Raz does. His telekinesis is heightened and is more developed than usual, which has helped him adapt to his half blindness. He can also manage SCARY amount of psionic pressure, particularly when angry.

- He tries to hide it, but he's absolutely sleep deprived.

- Raz has done all kinds of experimentation and tinkering with his Mental Projection ability in particular, which has resulted in him being able to create a 3-D and completely singular Archetype. Even though Doodleraz seems to bully him (affectionately), Raz doesn’t seem to care and even encourages it. Deep down, the relationship between the two is hearty and symbiotic. They are two peas in a pod, having some quarrels and play fights sometimes but overall sharing a deep, affectionate bond. Self care <3

- Raz hates touch and everything to do with it unless you are close to him. He won’t even offer handshakes. The only person he’s truly comfortable with being touched by is his Archetype and his family, but he will hesitantly let people he trusts touch him (Lili, Milla, Sasha)

_________________________________________

BACKSTORY:

[Around a month after the events of Psychonauts 2, in an almost parallel universe…]

Raz's family, The Aquatos, have faced all kinds of threats throughout the years. For example, their memories were fooled by machine and they [THOUGHT THEY] were cursed by fortune tellers to always die in water. After a threat has been resolved, the family thought that they were safe... until The Aquatos faced a sudden yet vicious attack from unknown, mysterious figures one night... but don't worry. Everyone's fine.

Except for Augustus, Raz’s dad, who was kidnapped.

All kinds of threats that seem to be related to the kidnapping in some way plague the Psychonauts, and one thing is for sure: there is an otherworldly danger threatening theirs.

Raz, hardly keeping it together with the tension rising in his family and the absence of his dad, begins to go through things he's never been through before.

He always noticed that his mind was very different from others. It's... overwhelming and difficult to navigate. There's so much going on at the same time... cobwebs, figments, judges, doubts, regrets, bad ideas, all flock together at alarming rates. And not to mention, his Archetype is acting... strange. There's so much going on inside his mind that even his censors are intimidated.

But maybe if he finds a way in that place he always sees the censors come out of ... he can find out the source of the problem.

And he can fix it.

As Raz is forced to navigate his divergent mind amidst a heart wrenching case that has him losing hope, the demand for him to keep 'fixing himself' to keep up with the world around him only grows bolder. He's not sure what he is anymore. He's touched areas of his mind never meant to be touched. Milla and Sasha are worried about him. His family is growing more suspicious of him. He can hardly tell mind from body anymore. He's not sure if he's even human anymore. He's lost an eye to his own censors.

Damage is being done, and he knows it.

But he continues to punish himself through this.

For his dad.

Because he would've much rather been stolen than his dad.

_________________________________________

ALT OUTFITS:

I swear I will make proper refs for his alt outfits.

Cold weather:

"LSD Plane" Appearance:

(This last drawing is a commission done for me by @silvrfissh , and it is GORGEOUS!! Her art is absolutely beautiful, please go show her love and support and consider commissioning her!)

_________________________________________

CHARACTER SPECIFIC ASK RULES:

For the love of all things divine, please do not be weird. I shouldn't even have to say this, but Tumblr is littered with degenerates, so here goes: do not ask NSFW/suggestive questions to him. He is a goddamn 11 year old. You will immediately be ignored, blocked, reported and publicly shamed (lol)

Don't be a dick Yes, this AU does tackle topics of ableism, but that doesn't mean you get to be a dick about partially blind people (infantilization counts). You will be ignored, blocked and reported. He is representing a very real condition.

^ However, IN CHARACTER picking on him for ANY reason is allowed (including for his eye.) With that being said, still be careful and don't get too rough. And don't expect your character to not be criticized in roleplay. I draw the line at character giving death threats or telling him to kill himself. That's a trigger for me.

[alwaysshallow]

coffee at midnight, part 12

John "Soap" MacTavish x f!reader

Military consumes your private time - to the point that you pretty much can't live without it. All of the boys from Task Force 141 are just like brothers, not only best friends – you know that you can trust them with your whole heart.

Somehow, one of them manages to steal it completely, and that's on Johnny MacTavish. Over months, you learn that's harder and harder to ignore that burning feeling in your heart. (4,6k)

READ ON AO3

previous part

You need a few seconds to understand what exactly happened in the last twenty minutes. A few seconds to look back, before you’ll leave this room—but understanding doesn’t come easy here. You just stare at the dead guy’s body with a wound in his head, thinking it will come to you, eventually.

The whole time, you felt like you were the observer of the situation. Watching everything behind a glass in slow motion, watching a movie where tragedies happen, but in these moments, thankfully, you’re usually not the participant. 

But here, you were a participant. You still are, but it’s hard to believe that so many things took place under the span of twenty minutes. Not an hour, not half a day.

What is funny in all of this, you had a particularly easy job. Had to be the perfect little spy, find the room, take the intel and run away, so you won’t get caught. Simple, yet, ending up tragically in beating up the guy and taking the pendrive before you checked if he’s still alive. You thought the whole situation would result in you having a few bruises there and there, but you made a mistake like a rookie, so you have two gun wounds.

You only blame yourself. It’s something that they teached you about in the military, on multiple trainings—to check. Not even twice, maybe thrice, if you’re not so sure about someone being dead. Because if the enemy is not dead, you’re as hell going to be.

Or, someone from your unit. Almost the same thing.

It was a reflex, when you grabbed a gun and shot the guy in the head. Without mercy in your action whatsoever, but it’s still a tad too late. There’s a bullet in your thigh anyway, your arm has a wound too. Not that bad, as he didn’t really know how to aim after being hit to the head, but… but it’s still only your fault. Even if he looked pretty beaten up, barely able to do anything other than grabbing your ankle.

It makes you angry. 

Not only the fact that you got shot like a rookie, but the fact that there’s no actual way in the world that someone didn’t hear the gunshot. No matter how fucked up and wasted people are, something like this doesn’t miss them. Music isn’t loud enough for them to skip it, at least not the guards that are watching everything like a hawk, waiting for someone to slip, so they can off them, if they are a problem. And here, you definitely are a problem that they’d want to eliminate.

You scrunch your nose, weighing your options. It wasn’t supposed to turn like that, and now you’ve got to think fast, before someone will eventually shoot you. This time, with deadly precision; you don’t escape death twice like it’s a “Final Destination” movie. 

So, you think. It’s not like you can show to anyone that you’ve been shot; there will be questions, assumptions and it will lead to your quick fall. Or, they’re already after you—nonetheless, you just need to go out of there and leave everything behind you. The guy’s dead, there’s nothing to do here. 

Steps that you take are slow; you pay attention to them, way more than you actually need to, but it’s hard to pretend you’re okay. Or to have your back straight, when you have two gunshot wounds and you need to move because it’s gonna be worse.

Being completely honest and straightforward, you’d prefer to rip the dress (annoyingly long dress) and at least try to look at the wound, estimate the damage, but it’s not an option right now. Even going to the bathroom isn’t one: you don’t know if motherfucker didn’t inform someone about your presence here before he died. He had multiple ways to do it, maybe some wouldn’t be visible to you, God only knows. 

All in all, going anywhere to inspect the wound is more dangerous than trying to get out, even if it potentially means you’re gonna pass out in the car. That’s why you push through with a pendrive in your bra (as, logically, it’s easier to steal a purse than having a pendrive slipping out), papers carefully folded in your purse, and a fake smile that you give everyone, so they won’t suspect you’re hurting.

You also tap the bracelet Alejandro gave you in a frantic manner the whole way to the back door, trying to get past many people. The only thing that is saving you is their drunkenness, the way that they don’t exactly get that you’re limping your way to the outside. 

There’s just a few obstacles in your way. Some guards wander there and there, not paying too much attention, but on your way you have to eventually sneak into the small cabin in the men’s bathroom, when you hear them reloading their guns and running towards your direction. Maybe it’s nothing, maybe they’re after someone else, but it’s better to be safe than sorry.

Especially when you’re limping, and you can’t quite do the Mission Impossible moves here; not when you do not want to do anything that might cause another injury. 

Because you probably wouldn’t be satisfied with additional leave. You spent enough time off the team already.

You can’t see what is happening, so you just listen. There’s people surely going forward, not even stopping to check the cabins around yours, but at least two are standing nearby. Talking, and you barely can hear about what—and you can barely understand, as it’s Russian and English at the same time. They have a heated conversation, that’s what you can definitely hear.

“...had to run somewhere,” one of them says. Seeming furious—and you really can’t blame them, you’d be furious yourself, if you’d find a dead guy from your team. Because that's what they did, you assume. “Three clear shots.”

The other man is saying something in Russian—you only catch some words, thanks to Nikolai that taught you, and they don’t seem friendly either. So, the moment they leave, you decide it’s the perfect time to go forward after another look or two, when the coast is clear.

You’re walking way quicker than the last time, caring even less about your limping and disguising your state. You realize that your time here is shorter second by second. It won’t do you any good, but it wouldn’t do you any good to act like you did earlier. At least, you think so.

An absurd idea grows in your mind, when you’re passing through hallways: because you start to debate on exiting the building through a window. It’s the “Mission Impossible” move, many times saved your life, but the last cells of common sense tells you it’s the worst idea ever with a two gun wounds. Not only that, there’s too many people to pull a stunt like that; no matter if it’s breaking the window, or simply opening it.

The idea flies out of your mind the moment someone grabs your arm and yanks you into their direction, to one of the darkest corners here. You don’t even have the time to see the person before you start attacking them; first with a kick, and you follow that with a quick punch in the gut; because screaming isn’t an option. With one man you can do something, but with an army? You’d be dead in seconds.

Surprisingly so, it doesn’t work. Or, it does, but not in the way that you think it would. They’re not attacking you, but they give you a little slap right in your butt, shushing you with a quick “Quiet”. The grip is loosening, and when you see Alejandro right in front of you, you realize that the person who is holding you is no one else but Soap.

They both seem to be scared and concerned at the same moment when you look at them.

“Ye tap the bracelet like crazy and then you attack me. ‘S not a good look on you, lassie,” MacTavish murmurs right to your ear, teasing it with his lips. For a second, you forget why you are here.

“Security’s going like crazy downstairs. What happened?”

Alejandro’s question makes you silent for a few seconds. You give them a faint smile, before you actually answer. “Well. I should start with: I had to kill someone—”

“—And you’ve been shot. Again. What were ye thinkin’?” You grit your teeth, hearing that tone from Soap. It seems patronizing, like you’re gonna get a twenty minute long talk about your decisions; and you hate it in the moment where all you want to do is just lie down and forget.

Yet, you really can’t say that you didn’t see that coming. You’ve been together with them for too long to not learn how they react.

“You know, these days I’m playing as a living human target,” you joke in response, trying not to wince under his touch, when he starts to walk again with you by his side. You find it easier to sneak with them—easier or better, as you have in the back of your mind the thought that they will help you, in case of emergency. They’re like bodyguards, making you feel safer than you felt earlier. “That was funny. You can’t deny it.”

Soap looks far from amused, as you can see. “Oh, very bloody much.”

You raise your eyebrow, surprised at his tone. “It’s not like I’ve done it on purpose. Besides, I’m good.”

“We know,” Alejandro says, before even Johnny opens his mouth. “He just has a lot to say lately, amiga.”

And it seems like he wants to prove it to you that he has a lot to say. He grabs you unexpectedly, bridal style, rushing to the car, Alejandro after him. Not giving a care in the world to the two men that are asking if you are good, they’re just pushing through. 

When you’re in the car, things are even wilder than they were. Before you know it, Soap lifts up your dress—without even asking you for permission—almost seeing your underwear, while Alejandro—more clumsily than not—tries to drive to the safe location, as your previous one already got compromised. Johnny doesn’t even react when you call him by his name; maybe that’s for the better because you’re not sure if you want to scold him or ask what he has in mind. 

After looking at your wound (way too close for your liking—it feels like you’re gonna lose your mind here), he ties his tie right above the wound. Tight. Preventing you from bleeding any further, and then he takes care of the second one. 

You thought you’d feel pain by now, but you’re too hypnotized in his movements to even notice something; it’s difficult enough for you to look at what he is doing, not straight at him, so your pain takes maybe the third place in importance.

It’s not a surprise that he cares, not at all. He always cared. No matter what the situation was, no matter what humor you had, he was always here. A loving man, making you smile with every little interaction, making an actual effort to do that. He was just a pure ray of sunshine on every step of your life, and you always knew that you could count on him.

But situations like this one, where you’re taken care of on a mission, gets to you at a much higher level than anything else he could do. He puts you first before anything, even himself.

“Price said there’s gonna be a medic nearby, so we’ll take you there. We’re… nearby, I think.” Alejandro says out of the blue, looking at you two. “No discussion,” he adds, when he sees how fast you open your mouth, as if to argue with him about it.

You roll your eyes. There’s nothing you can do about their attitude for that matter and you know it very well, so you wouldn’t even try to argue with them—and, what’s more, you’d prefer those two bullets out sooner than later. You’re not a two year old to make a fuss about something so serious. “Fine.”

“Perfect.”

You close your eyes. Crimson red flies right before them, haunting, along with the dead guy’s face, when you ride to the temporary base; it's something you're used to, massacre. Seeing a lot of blood, taking a lot of lives, whether you like it or not. Comes with a job, so you sweep away these images, trying to focus on the moment. You're alive, that's what matters—not who’s dead, especially when the people you love are still alive.

You’re grateful that you didn’t leave them tonight. Could’ve been better, of course, but it’s the thing for the past right now. You don't need to worry yourself with that.

You have enough of a headache when you arrive. There’s maybe two minutes of peace, and it’s broken the minute Price walks in with the whole ass Ted Talk that contains “you need to be more careful” for the twenty minutes straight. When they are sewing up the wound, after telling your captain the whole story, you hear how reckless you were, how rookies make these mistakes, but you shouldn’t.

You know it well, so maybe that’s why you don’t look at him when he says that. There’s a sting of shame, but also an irritation because how long can someone give you a scolding, when they see that you’re aware of everything that happened?

But, even if you’re a little bit irritated, and humbled by him, you know it’s because he cares about you. About everyone in that matter, so if it was Soap, he’d give him the same treatment—after all, you’re his family. Found, almost like a daughter. 

Out of the team, Ghost is the one that gets your jokes about being a living target, when the atmosphere is lighter; not only that, he’s the one to suggest that you should practice more, at which you laugh, asking if he’s gonna help you with that. One irrational conversation leads to another, and time is flowing by.

Price and Soap look at both of you like you are insane, Alejandro says something in Spanish under his nose, but it’s clear that he doesn’t find it funny either, what makes you and Ghost just continue joking. Kyle just snickers in the back, making coffee for everyone, and it’s all so domestic, even when Johnny gets defensive and says something about being stupid. For some time, even your wounds are all forgotten.

At least, it doesn’t bother you until you decide to take a few hours of rest before going into route again. The nap seems important, necessary after getting hit, but you can’t fall asleep; you toss and turn, but it doesn’t give you anything, when the stitches irritate you through your clothes. As much as you try, there’s no sense in making yourself go through that when you have a bandage nearby.

You sit on your bed and start wrapping the bandage around your thigh. Carefully, so it won’t make things worse—because you really want to sleep. Your eyelids feel heavy, everything that you do, every little move feels like you have to put some force into it, so it would be best to go to sleep.

It would be.

“How are you feeling? Better?” You hear. When you look up, you can see Soap, leaning against the door frame. Completely unbothered, like the mission didn’t happen, like you didn’t announce an hour ago that you want to sleep and you don’t want anyone to disturb you.

His shirt is slightly unbuttoned and way more disheveled than it was before; and he looks like a Greek God nonetheless. The one that people worship, look up to, not only because he’s smart but because he’s good looking. 

You almost feel jealous of that; he can’t really stay in elegant clothes more than he’s supposed to, yet he still looks good. No matter if his shirt has seen better times, as well as his hair. 

“Alright. Wound irritates me when I’m trying to sleep, so I’m… doing something with it,” you murmur, noticing how he scoffs at that. “What?”

“Do ye have to wear clothes at all?”

You laugh, shaking your head. Not taking him seriously because why would you? It’s him. Soap, cracking jokes, it’s not unusual. “Johnny—”

He takes a few steps forward; you observe him with double curiosity right now. Like a prey observes the predator, knowing that the attack is inevitable to happen. “I’m completely serious, lassie. We’re not going home for at least a couple of hours.”

“And, your point is?” You raise an eyebrow. It’s not hard to see that he hates the way you act on his obvious tries. Maybe for the first time, he can’t really decide if you are clueless, or if you’re just playing with him.

He purses his lips. For a moment, he’s silent—but it feels like an hour. An hour of longing glances, thinking what to do next. What you should and what you shouldn’t, applying to you and him. You both try to get through the other person’s thoughts with fear of being possibly rejected. Hell only knows how much time you spent on feeling like this in the past; some of that, you remember. But you can’t really recall from your memory when you understood that you feel something more to Soap than friendship. There’s fond memories of fear, annoyance at his actions with other girls, but realization is hard to find. 

“Open,” he says.

You take a shaky breath, looking at him. Your cheeks are hot, making you realize how you’re burning inside as well. Taking a walk on hot lava would be the right equivalent to what you’re feeling right now. “What?”

“Open,” he repeats, tapping your thighs. Kneeling right in front of you, a knight in shining armor, even if his doings are far, far away from that. “Or I’ll make you. I don’t really want to repeat myself again and again, ’m not patient enough for that.”

“Listen—”

“I need to see if you did it correctly, don’t I?” He harshly cuts you off. His blue eyes look like real sapphires now, looking right through yours with a question, even if he knows the answer already. Even if he doesn’t need an answer, if you’re honest with yourself. “Please.”

Please do that for you, so you just allow him to do what he wants. Inspect if you did everything that you needed to, even if you know perfectly well it’s not what he wants to do—at least, not the only thing. He just hides himself behind a barricade, thinking that he won’t get caught. 

He’s slow with his movements—you can’t help but think that it’s to mess with your head more. His “checking” contains lifting your dress higher and higher, without even looking at the bandage once. His eyes are glued to your skin, once again this evening; this time, with plenty of care. It’s clear that he wants something and he’s determined to get it.

There’s not a single protest from you.  

How could there be a protest, though? You want that. Maybe you’re not admitting it in front of yourself, but you do want that, badly. 

You wanted that for a long time. Waited for the right signal from him, so you wouldn’t make a complete fool of yourself if something would go wrong.

His fingertips trace the line higher and higher, feeling definitely confident about what he is doing. You call him by his callsign multiple times, but he doesn’t seem fazed by that; he’s maybe even more encouraged, leaving a single kiss on your thigh. Testing the waters, before he’ll dive deeper into it.

And you’re buying everything that he gives you.

Your last cells of restraint are hanging on a thread. Particularly thin one. “Soap, we—”

“—I’m not on duty right now,” he almost growls. A warning sign, something that you see immediately; as well as the sudden mood change, when he looks up at you. Soft eyes, eyes that could convince you to do anything he wants. “Please.”

“Johnny,” you say, your voice almost a whisper. He nuzzles your hand with his nose, and that alone makes you feel bad because of what you have to say right now. “We can’t.”

“We can’t, or ye dinnae want to?” he asks, taunting. Kissing your wrist higher and higher, crossing any boundaries you had. Folding you, piece by piece, in order to get what he wants. “No one will know.”

“Price said—”

“—He can kiss my ass, if I’m bein’ honest. We have hours.”

And that’s all you need. 

He keeps eye contact with you, as he drags your panties down. Royal blue eyes transform to something entirely different, something dirty, maybe predatory, if you’d look deeper. 

It’s something that you didn’t see earlier—and you thought you knew all of Soap’s faces. Turns out, not only it’s unusual to see this particular one, but you’re determined to learn more about your comrade.

Especially from the lover's side, a side that you don’t know very well. It’s the side that is reserved for hookups only, if anything. 

And normally, you’re experiencing the fun friend, the deep talks friend, so the difference is big, when you were never in a position like that. Under him, basically, but you can’t complain. 

When he leaves hickeys on your thigh, you can’t help but think that you always made fun of him with others—about that side. About him being a lover boy, whenever he came back after having a woman around him because it was easier than admitting that you wanted it to be courted by him. Adored, assuming that he’s a tender man.

He offered it to you thousands of times, serious or not. You always took it as a joke, something that you can laugh on with a glass of whiskey in your hand.

But right now, with his face buried between your thighs, you can’t help but think if you’d only take him more serious sooner, you could have it all. If you could have him, this, and maybe many more because no matter how Soap was, he always took care of things.

Even if it was for a quick moment.

You’re gone the moment he touches your clit; not a coherent thought in your mind. Fixation on him is too strong to care about anything else but his words, when he makes you do everything he wants you to do, like an obedient doll. If he wants you to dance, you’d dance—you lose every ounce of willpower when he speaks. Right now, you’re not even bothered by that fact.

The worst is when he wants you to lay still—it’s nearly impossible, as he speeds up the tempo, then suddenly slows the moment he sees you’re not doing what he wanted. Limiting the pleasure or extending it.

“Waited way too fuckin’ long f’ this,” he murmurs into your skin, when you yank his hair, trying to get him back to action. “Just say please, baby. ‘S all it takes.”

And you do. You say please multiple times, knowing perfectly well that you hate to use it, especially in fragile moments like this one—but when he pushes his fingers in, you forget about it instantly. There’s no other sound in the room besides the squelching, the obvious proof of John making out with your pussy, and you think you can go genuinely crazy.

Which is ironic enough because you are crazy about him. Been for a long time, if you’d like to count.

He seems to enjoy every little “please” that he gets from you, when your orgasm is close—he asks “if you want it”, and you have to beg, assure him that’s what you need. Your fingernails scratch his clothed shoulders, thighs squeeze his head, and he menacingly laughs because that was what he wanted all along.

You can’t hear what he says to you; you only see that his lips are moving, when you’re splayed on the bed, eyes on his fingers where your juices are. Body absolutely limp, with mind full but empty at the same time. It’s a funny feeling, keeping you wondering what will happen next.

Before he even unzips his belt or kisses you, there’s a call on his phone. He almost ignores it—almost. You can clearly see how his smug face drops the moment he sees who calls.

“Price?” you ask, even if you don’t need to. He’s the only man that could get him off the things that he was supposed to do, even if the said thing is you.

Whatever the captain says, upsets him visibly. Soap plays nervously with his mohawk—just like you were, a minute earlier—but he’s way more upset. He just mumbles, “yes, sir,” under his breath, the last thing he wants to say, and he hangs up. “Apparently, we have only thirty minutes now. Not hours like I said.”

You prop yourself on your elbow, looking at him for a few seconds before speaking. You’re torn between feeling disappointed and relieved by learning this information. “Right. I’ll… change, you can go.”

“Or: I can stay. It's not like I haven’t seen ye naked,” he says, cocking his head to the side. Boyish, making you think twice before you’ll actually answer him.

“It’s different this time,” you murmur bashfully, turning to him, so he’ll see your back instead of your face. Hot with emotions caused by his attitude; it’s like a never ending story.

“Different,” he repeats. You feel like he’s burning a hole through you, even if you can’t really see if he’s looking or not from that position. Maybe that’s the effect after you just were trembling in his hands. “How so?”

You want to give him an answer to that, but you can’t find a coherent thought that would satisfy him. If you’d tell him about the high of the moment, he’d probably corner you and ask if you’re not feeling all of it right now—and if you’d say that you’re shy right now, it wouldn’t be a good answer for him either.

You could be compared to a blind person, trying to find the right exit when there’s multiple ones; and you’re sure as hell that they would find the right solution first.

“Just different,” you finally decide to say, after you clean yourself up. Surprisingly, he doesn’t react to that. He’s silent, so you continue to quickly change, and then, the two of you are gone from the room.

The rest of the team are already waiting for you at the back of the building. They talk about something, but the moment they spot you and Soap they stop. If you wouldn’t know any better, you’d think that boys discussed something about you.

“You’re certainly better, huh?” Kyle asks, tilting his head to the side. Observing, just like he always does.

“I mean… it is better,” you say slowly, suspiciously looking at your comrade. “Why?”

“No reason. I suppose someone has magic hands,” he murmurs, a knowing smirk on his face. You do not like that, at any chance. “Wanna share some secrets?”

“You wish, Garrick.” You poke him in the chest with a smile; slightly forced because you didn’t expect that from him. “Better get to the car, or we’ll leave your ass.”

You keep quiet here, and thankfully no one pays mind to that, as you’re usually like this on the way home. Silent and in your thoughts about the mission.

This time, on your mind is John MacTavish.

[whererubbermeetstheroad]

What are some of your First Year headcanons for TWST?

Ohmygod, I am sooooo sorry this took so long. It was way harder than I thought it would be to corral all my ideas together, but FINALLY, here it is. I hope this is good enough lol.

Hooooooo boy. The amount of brainrot I’ve had for these little guys is unreal, even during the times when I wasn’t that into TWST. But honestly, I don’t really have a whole lot to say — not that much of a “headcanons” person, myself. And a lot of what I do have to say has already been said in my fics. But I’m going to do my best here…

Ace Trappola

Because of the whole Book One fiasco, there are a lot of… things, let’s say, that Ace has absolutely fought tooth-and-nail to keep from his seniors; injuries sustained from stupid stunts, fights, bad grades, etc. It’s sort of like he’s doing whatever he can to avoid getting collared, despite knowing, logically, he probably isn’t going to.

Basically, Ace is the definition of a kid whose parents were strict, so he learned to be sneaky.

He’s actually a really snappy dresser, and not half-bad at doing makeup. He probably would’ve been in Pomefiore if it weren’t for his lackadaisical views on hard work. Meanwhile, while he’s not a strict person by any means, his stubborn, relentless attitude about his own twisted morals is what got him into Heartslabyul.

Out of all the upperclassmen, Ace feels the closest to Floyd… surprisingly. Jamil used to be a close second, but after the winter break fiasco, he’s since been replaced by Cater.

With Floyd, Ace can mostly chalk up the underwater museum incident to Yuu’s own meddling. With Jamil, it’s a little… less certain.

Before coming to Night Raven College, Ace’s nervous habit was to scratch the back of his head. After coming to Night Raven College, it was to rub the back of his neck.

Not really related to Ace, but I always headcanoned that his older brother was twisted from the Ringmaster from “Dumbo (1941)”.

Deuce Spade

Surprisingly, there are a lot of things Deuce also tries to hide from his upperclassmen. He hates himself everytime he does it, but it’s better than bothering them every time he loses his temper and they have to sign him out of the infirmary.

Deuce has scars on his knuckles from his delinquent days. 

Deuce’s main job at an Unbirthday Party is to move the tables and chairs.

The Dark Mirror briefly considered Deuce for Savanaclaw due to his strength and his instinct to hit a problem until it got out of his way, but his self-imposed pressure to be an honor student landed him in Hearstlabyul instead.

Out of all the upperclassmen, Deuce feels the closest to Silver.

Having a mommy/daddy complex will do that to you.

He likes to put oyster sauce on his tarts now — not because he particularly likes the taste, but because it makes him feel warm inside. (Tell Ace, and you’re dead.)

Deuce is actually really good at croquet for some inexplicable reason.

Jack Howl

Whenever Jack needs to leave Savanaclaw outside of school hours, he just leaves without telling anybody.

At the beginning of the year, he used to actually scrawl a shitty note saying "I'm leaving" everytime he needed to leave, but rarely did people ever actually find it by the time he got back.

After everything that happened in Book 2 and Book 3, it's obvious to him that Ruggie and Leona really don't care enough, so he stopped leaving notes.

For the briefest of moments, Jack was considered for Heartslabyul by the Dark Mirror for his inflexible moral code. However, his steadfastness in the face of overwhelming odds landed him in Savanaclaw.

They grow nighthowlers in the Botanical Garden. They look exactly like blueberries. Not related to Jack (yet), but I thought it was important to mention.

Besides Vil, Jack feels the closest to Riddle in terms of upperclassmen.

He really does like Ruggie and Leona, but that’s… a lot to unpack, at best.

He and Epel regularly get into fights over whether pears or apples are better, even in situations where neither pears or apples are involved.

Professor Crewel, especially, is very exasperated with them.

For absolutely no real reason whatsoever, Jack has the entirety of the “Shaftlands’ Etiquette Manual for Youngsters (Ages 14—18)” memorized. 

Not related to Jack, but I always headcanoned his young sister as being twisted off of Bolt from “Bolt (2008)” and his younger brother as being based off the Sheriff of Nottingham from “Robin Hood (1973)”.

Epel Felmier

Epel is a transgender male. Just wanted to get that out of the way.

Epel does actually like macarons — strawberry-flavored ones are his favorite.

Epel does still get into a lot of fights around school, but he’s gotten better at hiding the evidence. Employing a trick he learned from Vil, he hides the bulk of his injuries using his clothes and makeup.

More often than he’d like to admit, Epel accidentally refers to Vil and Rook as his “parents” in his essays. Luckily, Professor Trein still gives him full credit, and he doesn’t comment.

He does the same thing when he’s talking about them to the other freshmen. They don’t stop him because a) it’s sweet, and b) it’s funny.

Once, Epel vented to Riddle about Vil, and accidentally referred to him as his “Ma” the whole time. By the end of it, Riddle looked very, very, very concerned.

Out of all the upperclassmen, Epel feels the closest to Leona.

Epel had no chances of ending up in Savanaclaw, but with the Dark Mirror sensing great magical power emanating from him, he very nearly ended up in Diasomnia. However, because he hadn’t developed his ultra-mega-powerful Signature Spell yet, it ended up diverting him into Pomefiore. Sorry, bud.

Am I only saying this because Epel is actually twisted off of a magic object, unlike the other characters? Yes, yes I am.

Ortho Shroud

He’s twisted from Hercules, don’t freaking @ me.

Ortho has a few issues with looking into mirrors, especially since he looks so much like OG!Ortho. 

Ortho has a few attachment issues, as a result of being an extrovert trapped in an introvert’s bubble for most of his life. 

The first-years completely and absolutely baby him, no questions asked.

It’s so bad that even if Ortho is completely at fault for something, they’ll take his side anyway.

Honestly, as much as I love this little guy, I really don’t have much to say about him…

Sebek Zigvolt

Suffers from severe attachment issues, for about the same reason as Ortho — being “too much” emotionally, and surrounded by people who put in the emotional bare minimum.

Silver is kind of an exception, but he’s so stone-faced, it also kind of doesn’t make a difference.

Has definitely called Trey “Father” more often than he’d like to admit. Trey thinks it’s funny, meanwhile Sebek is just straight-up mortified everytime.

Out of all the freshmen, Sebek actually feels the least close to the upperclassmen. But if I had to say which one he feels the closest to, even if it wouldn’t be saying much at all, it would have to be Silver.

While Sebek’s favorite food is salmon carpaccio, his (closeted) second-favorite is his dad’s homemade yogurt.

Am I projecting? Yes. I love my dad, sue me.

Sebek was actually way more comfortable with his human side than he was with his fae side when he was a kid, but because Briar Valley, that didn’t last too long.

Back in Briar Valley, Silver could usually go out by himself and not be bothered—mostly because he was General Vanrouge’s son and Malleus’s sort-of brother. Sebek, unfortunately, did not have that luxury.

The Dark Mirror considered Sebek for Ignihyde because of his never-ending diligence when it came to protecting Malleus and the other people he cared about. However, once it became extremely obvious that Sebek didn’t know how to turn down the volume on his own phone, it put him in Diasomnia.

Honestly, though, I think Sebek and Ortho would’ve both been better off if he HAD been sorted into Ignihyde.

Not related to Sebek, but I headcanon his older brother as being based on Tick-Tock the Crocodile from “Peter Pan (1953)” and his older sister as being twisted from Louis from “The Princess and the Frog (2009)”.

Yes, I know Louis is technically an ALLIGATOR, but shhhh. Lemme have this.

If it makes you feel better, though, I also headcanon their father as being from Port o’Bliss (the same place Sam is from), so through the power of genetics, it kind of works out.

Okay, I think that’s everything. I considered adding Yuu in here, but then again, anything we know about Yuu is mostly headcanons, so I don’t think it counts lol.

Thank you SO MUCH for your patience, and I hope my headcanons didn’t bore you, I know they’re kind of mundane lol.

[omegalomania]

What are some of your favorite aro-/ace-coded fob lyrics?

oh fuck yes a little bowl of seeds just for me

boycott love from disloyal order of water buffaloes is a personal favorite of mine. its a lyric i really really want tattooed at some point. that's not the only lyric i latch onto from an aro perspective but it's probably the biggest one

basically the entirety of it's hard to say "i do" when i don't but a special mention goes to you are appealing to emotions that i simply do not have as well as the only ring i want buried with me are the ones around my eyes

it's true romance is dead / i shot it in the chest and in the head from the music or the misery is also a favorite of mine, also just that whole song in general

i thought i loved you but it was just how you looked in the light in hum hallelujah resonates with a lot of queer folks i've found, and it's no different for me

same goes for it's a strange way of saying that i know i'm supposed to love you from g.i.n.a.s.f.s.

i'm outside the door, invite me in / so we can go back and play pretend from alone together brings me back to when i was trying to perform heteronormativity/amatonormativity even if it was making me miserable

i also hold to a very similar vibe with she said "i love you 'till i don't" / i am just playing house, no idea what i'm doing now from sunshine riptide and also most of burna boy's verse, frankly. i fell in love but i didn't fall down and feel like i'm bulletproof, baby in particular

american beauty/american psycho, particularly the first verse. i think i fell in love again / maybe i just took too much cough medicine

golden is a big one for queer folks in general i've found. the chorus especially hits hard from an aro and/or ace reading. and i saw god cry in the reflection of my enemies / and all the lovers with no time for me

i've got a dark alley and a bad idea that says you should shut your mouth is a heavy song no matter how you slice it. but that chorus gets to me in particular: we can fake it for the airwaves / force our smiles, baby, half-dead / from comparing myself to everyone else around me

the kids aren't alright reads to me as one big anthem for platonic love above anything romantic, which resonates super hard with me. the second verse has a lot of good lines that i latch onto from an aroace lens too. your love is anemic and i can't believe / that you couldn't see it coming from me

pretty much the whole chorus of HOLD ME TIGHT OR DON'T does it for me, and those verses have got some good aroallo vibes too! i never really feel a thing... confidants but never friends...

the whole of fake out is a gimme. that chorus rings real true. starts with love is in the air, i just gotta find a window to break out and finishing with but it was all a fake-out

i've got all this ringing in my ears and none on my fingers is one that has another highly applicable title but the whole refrain of the truth hurts worse / than anything i could bring myself to do to you paired with the one-two punch of that second verse REALLY gets under my skin

and of course, the culminating one: you are what you love, not who loves you from save rock and roll. obviously there are a LOT of ways to read that line

there are a couple other songs i latch onto - wilson (expensive mistakes); a little less "sixteen candles", a little more "touch me"; the (after) life of the party to name a few - but the ones listed above are the big lyrics that resonate with me on a personal level

just in general i have a shitton of fob over on my aro playlist (which doubles as a general aroace/queer playlist but has a lot of emphasis on aromanticism) in case i forgot to mention anything but like i said those are the big ones

[starrydixon]

Restless

*Requested from this ask :)*

Era: Prison Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Reader Pronouns: She/Her Word Count: 2.2k Warnings: language, anxiety, nightmares, brief descriptions of typical twd violence/gore, comfort-fluff!!

Summary: After another nightmare startles you awake in the middle of the night, you find it hard to fall back to sleep. Your boyfriend Daryl comes to the rescue when he senses your spot beside him in bed is empty. 

“You should be sleepin’.” Daryl drawled as his gravelly voice sounded from the doorway behind you as you stood outside on the bridge that connected one cellblock to another. 

“I’m sorry for waking you.” Your voice was barely above a whisper, mental and physical exhaustion making you too weary to sound any louder.

Although you didn't directly wake Daryl up when you snuck out of your shared cell, despite him being a notoriously light sleeper, the archer seemed to have a sixth sense about you and only awoke when his subconscious didn’t feel you beside him anymore. Daryl wasn’t surprised when he rolled over and only felt a cold mattress under his hand after blindly searching for your figure in the dark. 

“Don’t gotta be.” Daryl quickly dismissed as he shuffled over so he was standing beside you. Wordlessly, he handed you a cup of water that he knew you needed. You always got cottonmouth after being awoken from a nightmare, and often neglected the task of getting yourself some water so you could relieve the dryness in your throat.

“You rarely sleep, and I woke you up.” You insisted after taking a few gracious sips of the refreshing water. Your head ducked in shame and your posture slumped in defeat when you thought back to the image of Daryl’s sleeping figure snoring into his pillow only a few moments ago. 

“Was probably gonna wake up anyway from my own hellish mind, so I should be thankin’ ya for sparin’ me the trouble.” Daryl glanced over at you as a half smile lifted one corner of his mouth. He was unsure if his attempt at comforting you worked, judging by the worry line that only seemed to deepen between your furrowed eyebrows.

A bittersweet silence fell over you both as you looked out at the darkened landscape of the prison yard and shadowy trees that lined the woods in the distance. Through the holes of the wired fence in front of you, your gaze would occasionally skim over the darkened outlines of the lifeless walkers as they stalked around the most outer fence. If you strained your hearing just enough, you could make out their groans and snarls. You tried to ignore their burdening presence as much as possible. 

“What was it about this time?” Daryl lightly prodded; not wanting to upset you and make you even more uncomfortable than you already were, but still wanting to give you the chance to open up if you chose too. 

“Those dead assholes over there.” You scoffed while pointing an accusing finger at the walkers that lined the fence. “I’m pretty sure I was just about to get torn to bits before waking up.” 

Before the end of the world happened, going to sleep was a way for you to escape from the daily stresses of your once domestic life. Although it wasn’t the healthiest coping mechanism, it worked for you. After coming home from a particularly demanding work shift, you’d often take a nap the second your head hit the pillow of your couch. If you had the type of day that required you to be on your feet all day, you’d look forward to the moment you’d be able to sleep the stress away in the comfort of your bed.

The escape that sleep once gave you was now taken away, thanks to the apocalypse. The horror, anxiety, and daily stress that came with living in a corrupt world didn’t leave you even when you slept. It haunted your consciousness during the day, and infiltrated your dreams whenever you managed to get a couple of hours of shuteye. Your dreams were no longer filled with weird scenarios that often made you laugh for the few moments you could remember them whenever you awoke in the morning. All you knew now were nightmares that seemed far too plausible for your liking. 

Some nights you’d dream about your new found family getting eaten by walkers: hearing their pained and desperate pleas for help that your dream prevented you from giving them. Other times, you’d dream about their walkerfied corpses chasing you, trying to tear your flesh apart in order to satisfy their indefinite hunger. Most nights though, you’d dream about the Governor. His voice haunted you as he spoke of his bloodlust for your family. You could vividly see him breaking down the protective fences surrounding the prison as he came back for vengeance. Just before you awoke, the last thing that would be engraved in your mind’s eye would be the bloodbath the dictator would leave in his wake. 

The gruesome and haunting images of walkers and the Governor isn’t what scared you the most, it was the fear of losing the ones you loved.

You would often fight sleep for as long as you could, just so you could avoid those poignant dreams. This resulted in you volunteering to take the nightly watch shift. You took as many shifts as you could, which was a lot since a majority of the people who lived in the prison were more than willing to give their shift to you. That coping mechanism got shut down before it even had the chance to start, since Daryl quickly caught wind of your extensive nightly shift-load. In a rare move, the archer had personally reported to the board to demand that they restrict the number of shifts you could take in a week. 

Daryl didn’t push matters, as he often let you come to him when you were ready to talk about whatever it was that was bothering you. However, he cared about your well being tremendously and grew concerned when he began to notice just how dark and heavy the circles and bags under your eyes were getting. You couldn’t be mad at the archer for too long, since his attentiveness was quite endearing. 

Whenever you did manage to fall asleep, a distressing nightmare would commonly wake you up with a start a few hours later. Much like tonight, your eyes would dart around every wall and dark corner that made up your tiny cell like a ritual, and you would struggle to differentiate between what was fiction and reality due to the disorienting fog that clouded your brain. 

From the cold sweat you had accumulated while you slept, your mismatched pajama set stuck to your body like glue; drenched and causing chills to wrack through your bones. Your body would still be in fight or flight mode, adrenaline surging through your veins and causing anxiety to keep you from finding sleep once again.

Daryl didn’t know how to respond. Everything he thought of saying would only make him sound like a broken record. You knew you were safe within the prison walls, and that walkers wouldn’t get to you unless you ventured outside the protective fences. You knew that Daryl would do everything in his power to protect you from harm if it ever came your way. You knew that he, Michonne, and yourself were going above and beyond to try to find the governor and take him down once and for all. 

The only thing Daryl could do was wrap his arm around your shoulders and pull you into his warm chest. You practically melted into his touch, your achy muscles going limp as you basked in his comforting embrace. No words had to be said between you two during times like these; his presence was enough to calm you down and make the looming aftershocks of your nightmare become still once again.

“I wish it got easier…living like this.” You admitted in a whisper as your gaze drifted back towards the dark prison yard.

Daryl could relate to what you were feeling, he felt it too. It was hard not to. A pang shot through his chest in empathy. “It ain’t supposed to be…if we don’t feel it, then we’re just as bad as those assholes out there.” Daryl expressed earnestly after a few moments of stilled silence had passed.

You didn’t respond. Instead, you pried your eyes away from the looming figures of the walkers that swayed in the distance and hid your face in Daryl’s chest.

“What do ya wanna do?” Daryl asked gently as he adjusted his chin against your head. His large hand rubbed soothing strides up and down your arm before moving to your back.

“I don’t know.” You admitted with your eyes closed. Your body was practically screaming at you to go to sleep, as the exhaustion was threatening to forcibly knock you unconscious. You didn’t know if you were ready to reface the daunting shadows that made up your tiny cell and practically suffocated you every time you laid down for the night. 

Swallowing the lump that was beginning to form in your throat, you lifted your head up from Daryl’s broad chest just enough to look at his moonlit face. “Would you make fun of me if I lit a candle?”

“What, like a nightlight?” Daryl raised an eyebrow as he glanced down at you. His heart simultaneously broke and swelled at the sight of the pout that contorted your fatigued face. 

“Sort of.” You mumbled in embarrassment while ducking your eyes from him. Letting out a chuckle, Daryl tightened his arms around your body. 

“Nah, I won’t make fun of ya…at least not tonight.” 

Groaning in embarrassment at his goading, you weakly whacked Daryl in the chest with your open palm. You could feel heat rush to the tips of your ears and the apples of your cheeks at your rather juvenile request. With your head still laid on Daryl’s chest, you turned so your gaze fell back onto the darkened prison yard for one last lingering glance.

“Alright, let’s go.” 

Daryl kept his arm wrapped over your shoulders as he led you back into the cellblock and into the dank and small cell you now called home. Although you avoided looking at him as you struck a match to light the candle that sat on the nightstand, you knew Daryl was smirking at you; and most likely having hundreds of teasing remarks burning the tip of his tongue. 

With a sigh, you slipped out of your slippers and set your hunting knife back on the nightstand before getting into bed. Daryl already had an arm open for you, waiting for the moment you’d scoot yourself into his side and rest your head on his chest. The archer didn’t mind when you spent the next few moments squirming around beside him, struggling to find a comfortable position that wouldn’t flare up your sensitive anxiety. When you did find that sweet spot, your muscles relaxed as you let the feeling of Daryl’s soothing heartbeat settle your heightened nerves. 

“Thank you.” You murmured into the material of Daryl’s cotton black t-shirt after a few moments of comfortable silence had passed.

“For?” Daryl was genuinely unsure about what you were thankful for as he couldn’t recall doing anything within the last twenty minutes or so that was worthy of gratitude.

You felt the pads of Daryl’s calloused fingers trail up and down your spine and occasionally massage your scalp, not only bringing you comfort, but for himself as well. Your fingers traced random designs on the expanse of his chest as you thought of a way to accurately express what you were feeling and thinking.

“For helping me.” You stated simply before lifting your head up slightly so you could peer up at him. Daryl scoffed lightly at your notion before tightening his arms around your frame. Your eyes closed as he placed a kiss on your hairline. 

“Told ya it’s nothin’,” Pausing, Daryl looked down at you and raised his hand to gently sweep a few strands of loose hair from out of your face. “It don’t matter what time of day or night it is, I’ll always be here for ya…you know that.”

You didn’t know if it was the sleep deprivation, the crash that followed the adrenaline rush you had, or both, but your eyes began to pool with salty tears that stung the corners of your eyes. Daryl’s thumb caressed over your cheek and you found yourself melting into the comforting touch. Nodding your head in acknowledgment, you leaned forwards and placed a gentle kiss on Daryl’s lips. The archer found himself holding the back of your neck more securely so he could deepen the kiss as a way to wordlessly express to you how much he meant what he had previously stated.

Soon, when the kiss you two shared had simmered down, you settled back down against Daryl’s chest and watched the dim light of the candle flicker against the concrete walls that surrounded you. Daryl’s hand resumed its soothing motions on your back. The longer you laid like that, basking in the safety that Daryl’s arms gave you, impending sleep began to loom over you. 

When you heard Daryl whisper the three words that always filled your heart with warmth and caused your stomach to flutter, you allowed sleep to overcome you with a smile uplifting the corners of your mouth. 

-

-

A/N: Thank you to the anon for this request! I hope you enjoyed and thank you for reading!❤️

[sleepy-the-loz-enthusiast]

CW: injury description, I felt sad so decided to make the LU boys suffer. But it ends with fluff. Enjoy !!

To say it had been a hard battle would be a severe understatement. Sure, fights were never easy, but often the heroes were left with only a few scrapes and bruises. Not now, though.

Half of the Chain were rendered unconscious and now being carried by their brothers. But the conscious ones weren't without their woes- Twilight's femur had snapped out of his skin, for Hylia's sake!- so he's stuck riding on Epona. But only after Warriors had reset the bone and force-fed him a red potion. His trousers are still ripped and sticky with drying blood and tiny scraps of his flesh. Though, having one of the sturdier members on horseback has it's advantages, as Wild would tell you if he was awake. Which he isn't, his self preservation died alongside his body 100 years ago, and now he's slumped against his brother's chest, basically sitting in his lap. Wild's face is pale enough to rival fresh snow- hell, it's whiter than the bandages that wrap around the majority of his body. Though no broken bones, so that's a plus.

Sky's seated at Twilight's back, his head resting on the Rancher's shoulder. His arms are tied around Twilight's waist with rope that came from somewhere. Sky's stamina had failed him midway through trying to take down a particularly vicious Hinox, which kindly kicked him into a tree when he crumpled to the ground. The one moment Hylia decides to bless them is when Sky smacks into the tree arm first. Sure, his whole arm basically shattered, but a broken arm can heal; a shattered spine cannot. He didn't get so lucky when his head also hit the tree with considerable force and several ribs cracked from the initial kick. Needless to say, the boy is still knocked out cold even after two fairies and Warriors' first aid skills.

Speaking of Warriors... he's fine. Physically, at least. The War has made sure he can't be outnumbered in a swarm. Mentally? Well, about as fine as someone caked in blood can be. None of it belongs to him; it's a disgusting mix of monster and his brothers. His eyes hold a haunted hollowness, and though his legs keep marching and his arms hold Legend securely, he's somewhere distant.

Legend's no better off than Wild or Sky. In fact, he's arguably the worst off out of all of them, though not in terms of physical wounds. The Veteran Hero has his nickname for a reason, and his nimble fighting style merely highlights it. No, the idiot forgot to keep track of how much magic his items used and insisted he was fine without any green potions, Hyrule needed them more so he could heal the others. He wasn't so fine when the magic exhaustion stopped his heart. And it took 10 minutes of CPR and two broken ribs for his body to resuscitate. He barely stayed awake long enough to have a green and a red potion poured down his throat. His limp body in Warriors' arms is the reason the Captain periodically ducks his head down to see if the boy's still breathing.

Four had been the last to fall, and boy did he fall hard. With no other options, he'd had to split into his colours to guard the others and fight. It wasn't going terribly until their brains and courage got knocked out. A moblin's club took Vio down, and a Lizalfos took Green down with a cut across his legs. This spurred Red and Blue into a panic, which then led to more reckless injuries. What makes them reckless is that they tried to hide it, not knowing that all the wounds the colours sustained would all show up on Four's body. Who knew Red was the type to hide a stab wound? So now the Rainbow is passed out on Hyrule's back, occasionally muttering something incoherent to himself, but otherwise staying dead silent.

As for Wind and Time? The Sailor had been the one fighting that Hinox alongside Sky, and he'd been the one to cry out when Sky got kicked into a tree. But what does a Link do when in a panicked situation? Start throwing bombs, because that's logical. But Wind's barely a teenager, and so throw bombs at a Hinox he does. It's just a shame that the ugly thing fell on him and broke his legs. And that he couldn't even cry out for help until Time found him silently sobbing to himself. When Warriors reset his legs and Hyrule healed them, Time held him close like he'd done for Twilight.

Time's injuries are superficial, in his opinion. A few slashes here and there, a broken nose, a heavily bruised foot, nothing compared to what the others- his boys- had been through. Now he leads the group since Warriors is hidden away in his own mind, Twilight is fighting to stay awake, and Hyrule has no sense of direction.

But thankfully Time knew the path back to his ranch like he knew the exact time down to the second. He could find his home even if he was beaten within an inch of his life and on the verge of death... that was quite the scolding he'd gotten after waking up. But enough about the past, he needs to focus on the now. It doesn't matter how much he'd love to just collapse onto the grass and sleep, he needs to get his boys to safety.

And in time, that's what Time does. The lights of LonLon ranch have never held so much hope before, neither does Malon's voice as he shouts to them in surprise.

"Oh, you poor things! Come on, come inside, we need go get y'all in bed!"

The following minutes of getting everyone inside and comfortable is a blur to say the least. Somehow, everyone awake has been given a warm mug of chamomile tea with a generous amount of honey, and everyone who'd been unconscious is resting amid fluffy pillows and blankets.

Hyrule drops off to sleep beside Legend and Wild not long after, his body finally giving in to exhaustion after running on fumes for hours. Malon gathers Time and Twilight into her arms- though Twi's more on her lap than anything from his position laid on the couch. Time manages to relay what happened to his wife, but Twilight can't fight sleep any longer. Especially not when Malon carding fingers through his hair reminds him so much of his mother... he misses her....

Warriors sits silently on a chair, his mug of tea forgotten without a sip. He stares into nowhere while trying to claw his way back into some form of awareness. His brothers are safe. They're safe. They aren't going to die. So why is he still so... paranoid? Absent? Afraid?

He doesn't notice when an older man takes a seat on the chair beside him. "Son? Ya gonna wash all that blood off you or what?" He asks, his accent similar to Malon's in a way Warriors' dazed mind can't comprehend.

When the Link doesn't respond, the older man's bushy eyebrows knit together in worry. "Link? Ya with me?"

No response. The man- Talon- sighs.

"Yer friends are safe, kiddo. See?" He points over to the pile of blankets. The blonde man follows the motion with his eyes. "They're all breathin', all still livin' and kickin'. You ain't got nothin' to worry about." The man keeps his voice as soft as it can be, and filled with quiet patience.

"Y'all are safe here in my ranch, no ugly so'n'so's gonna beat y'all up. You can rest now, Link."

And that's what breaks the dam.

Warriors gasps for air, his mind catching up and reeling. He breathes heavily for a few moments, all the while tears stream down his face. They leave pale, clean streaks in the blood coating his cheeks. Talon takes a cloth and gently wipes it away, muttering words of assurance.

"You back with me, sonny?"

"Y- yes. I... sorry."

"Don' worry, boy. Go get changed outta those bloody clothes and join yer brothers, yeah? Yer gonna be all okay."

Warriors just nods, still a little numb, and walks off.

He returns a while later, his hair and skin damp and his undershirt clings to his torso a little. His eyes are weary and bloodshot as he looks around at his brothers, all safe...

Legend and Wild both huddle into Hyrule. Four and Sky are still out cold but wrapped around eachother. Wind's somehow cuddling into Twilight's side where he's sprawled out on a couch. Time's nowhere to be seen, but if the snoring is anything to go by, he's in his own room. With Malon.

Warriors sighs deeply, the tension in his shoulders unwinding for the first time all day. Suddenly he's exhausted and slipping under a rouge blanket before he knows it.

Everyone's safe now. Not uninjured, not healed, but at least they're safe.

This is kind of shit but I was sad and really tired so here's the boys being horrifically injured but with a happy ending! I don't really know how to write Talon, but I imagine him and Malon have helped Time through a lot so he knows how to help a traumatised Link. Anyways, if you're reading this, thank you, and have a wondeful existence !

[jessiemeows]

Lost & Found

Chapter 2: Companionship and Sunsets

A/N: Hello! I wanted to say the first 2-3 chapters are a little slow and are basically retellings of what happens amongst the Amaya/Astarion universe that I created. The next chapter though is when their story begins to officially start :) Pls go easy on me, I don't have any proofreaders and I tried reading this a thousand times to make sure the grammar and spelling are good lmfao. ALSO! Love and smut won't be introduced till later chapters, right now its going to be painfully obvious that Amaya and Astarion are crushing on one another. So in other words it's a slow burn. OH, one more thing, I haven't posted much but I am pretty much done with the next chapter, I have to add in a few things that I forgot I wanted added in so maybe(hopefully) I'll post it by the end of the week? I plan on reading it and adding in more stuff tomorrow night, and then I have to get over my fears of posting it for a few days by rereading it 500 times lol.

Pairing: F!Durge, OC (Amaya), Tiefling, Selunite Cleric X Spawn Astarion

Rating: 18+!!! mentions of violence, blood, corpses, death, basically durge things if you know how that character is

WC: About 2300

Previous chapters: Prologue | Ch 1

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

Story:

The wreckage of the nautiloid stretched behind them as Astarion trailed a few steps behind Amaya. He watched as his new companion led him in what seemed to be an increasingly familiar pattern.

"Any idea where you're going, darling?" He said with his voice filled with amusement. "Because it seems to me we're walking in circles."

Amaya's shoulders tensed. "Yes, I know where I'm going." The words came out clipped, and Astarion suppressed a smile. Perhaps he shouldn't have been so harsh earlier—the knife to her throat, shoving her into the dirt but, what was done was done. And if he was being honest with himself, he didn't particularly care.

"I'm looking for someone," she continued, her voice softening. "She can't be too far from the beach. Unless she's dead, but I..." Her words trailed off into the now cooling evening air.

"And who might this mystery person be?"

Amaya twirled to face him, walking backward with surprising grace. "A half-elf who helped me on the ship. I don't remember her name, but I think she's a cleric, like me."

"Ah, clerics." Astarion clicked his tongue. "I've never much cared for the gods. Rather exhausting business, all that worship and devotion."

Her expression turned thoughtful. "True but, I don't know why I worship Selûne, to be honest. When I woke up on the nautiloid, I had only faint memories of her, but I could feel her presence, feel my magic flowing from her." She turned to walk beside him, their steps falling into sync. "Her presence felt light and hopeful, which was nice compared to..." Her voice faded, and Astarion caught the shadow that passed across her face. He chose not to press.

Instead, he studied her with new interest. "You don't remember anything?"

"Just my name—Amaya Othzál—and fragments that keep surfacing. The details are..." She shrugged, offering a faint smile. "Hazy."

"Must be the tadpole's doing."

"Or I hit my head really hard." Her giggle was soft and musical, and Astarion found himself oddly charmed by the sound.

"Yes, that would certainly explain a few things about you," he scoffed playfully, rolling his eyes but unable to suppress a low chuckle.

Amaya then halted suddenly, causing Astarion to collide with her, nearly losing his footing to almost knock her over. "Do you think by any chance you could not stop so abruptly," he hissed.

"There's a wounded mindflayer," she whispered, pointing ahead.

"Better it than us," he remarked coldly. "But do be careful near that thing."

Amaya then approached slowly, her divine magic radiating a blinding light at her fingertips. Astarion watched as she hesitated to kill the abomination, kneeling before the creature within seconds.

"What in the hells—what are you doing? Get away from that thing!" Astarion then yanked her backward by the arm, breaking the creature's hold.

Reality crashed back, and almost immediately Amaya brought her boot down on the monster with crushing force. "Death is too good for it," she then turned to Astarion with apologetic eyes. "Thank you."

"Just don't do that again," he muttered. Amaya nodded.

The two had walked on for several more minutes completing a full circle back onto the beach when suddenly, Amaya bolted forward. "Wait! I think that's her!" She sprinted toward a prone figure in the sand. "How did I not see her? She was so close." Dropping to her knees, she checked for signs of life. "She's breathing- just unconscious."

The half-elf stirred at Amaya's gentle touch. "Y-you're alive," she mumbled, blinking in confusion. "I'm alive. How is this possible?"

As the women spoke, Astarion hung back, only half-listening until he heard his name mentioned. Amaya was recounting their earlier encounter while the half-elf—Shadowheart, she called herself—cast a healing spell. Shadowy magic knitted Amaya's wound closed, though the skin remained angry and red.

"You kept him around after he tried to kill you?" Shadowheart's green eyes bored into Astarion.

"He's infected, just like us." Amaya glanced at him with those big and round yet unusual eyes of hers—deep red and glowing, but it was as if the color itself was wrong somehow. The bridge of her nose had started to burn in the sun, making her constellation of freckles stand out even more. "I would've done the same, I think."

"Well, it's all in the past now, isn't it?" Astarion drawled. "We should be moving forward, shouldn't we..." Astarion awaited for the half-elf to give him her name.

The half-elf's response was as cold as winter. "It’s Shadowheart."

“Shadowheart. Let's go now.”Astarion scoffed at the half-elf giving her an equally challenging stare back. Rolling her eyes at Astarion, Shadowheart then carefully wrapped Amaya's wound. "Thank you so much," Amaya said.

“Anything for the person who saved my life.” Shadowheart said, smiling at Amaya her eyes lighting up. “Now let's get moving, lead the way.”

After looting a couple of dead goblins, their path led them to roadside cliffs overlooking what appeared to be temple ruins. As the party approached, a strange rune carved into the ancient stones caught her attention. Amaya paused, "There's something unusual about that rune," she murmured, cautiously moving closer to investigate.

“Amaya, do be careful,” Astarion warned. He had no desire to rescue her from another predicament as he had with the mindflayer. Ignoring the warning from him, Amaya reached out and faintly touched the rune with her fingers, causing her to recoil in pain. Amidst the eerie glow of the rune, a hand abruptly materialized, causing the trio to jump.

“A hand? Anyone?” cried a disembodied voice from the sigil.

Astarion's eyes remained fixed on Amaya, whose complexion grew pale as she stared transfixed at the spectral limb before her. Without any warning, she swiftly slapped the hand.

"Ow!" the voice exclaimed. "Perhaps I should have clarified—a helping hand? Anyone?"

Astarion couldn't contain his laughter. In their brief time together, he'd sensed a kindred spirit in Amaya's mischievous nature. After Amaya interrogated the sigil, she managed to use what was left of her divine magic and successfully pulled out a man. The sudden recoil from the conjuration caused the tiefling to stumble and fall, crashing directly into Astarion, he quickly reached out and grabbed ahold of her waist before she could hit the ground. 

“Hello, I’m Gale of Waterdeep!” the strange man said while dusting off his deep purple robes as the trio surrounded him.

In the corner of Astarion's eyes, the setting sun caught his attention. The sky blazed in a brilliant transformation, shifting from molten gold to soft coral to dusky rose—colors he had not truly seen in nearly two centuries. The fading light painted the landscape in an ethereal glow, turning the mundane into something magical. 

Only half-listening to the conversation behind him, Amaya boasted to the wizard, "I took control of the ship, landed it safely, and saved the day." Astarion couldn't help but snort at her words.

"That vast, burning wreckage behind you somewhat contradicts your story, but here you stand, so who am I to argue?"  the wizard responded sarcastically back at her with amusement.

Lost again in the sunset, a gentle touch on his shoulder startled him from his reverie. Amaya stood beside him, her unusual red eyes reflecting the sunset's dying embers. "Are you coming? We're setting up camp here for the night." She studied his face with quiet curiosity. "Do you like the sunset?"

"I'm used to the busy city," he lied smoothly, "so it's rare to see it like this." The truth—that he hadn't properly watched a sunset in two hundred years, caught in his throat.

"It is beautiful," Amaya murmured, her words trailing off as she gazed at the painted sky. Then, practical as ever: "But you should set up your tent before darkness falls, unless you fancy fumbling with poles in the pitch black." She turned away with a small smile, heading toward a flat patch of ground. Astarion sighed and followed, his feet dragging slightly in the dirt.

Gale, who seemed to be the ever the show-off, had his tent erected in minutes through a series of precise magical gestures. With another flourish of his hands, he conjured a blazing fire in the center of their makeshift camp. The flames cast dancing shadows across the clearing as twilight deepened around them.

"I hate to be bossy," Gale announced, though his tone suggested otherwise, "but I'm designating myself camp cook. Our supplies may be limited, but I promise to make something satisfying for us all."

Shadowheart's response was laced with sarcasm. "Fine, Gale."

Amaya chuckled at their bickering as she scanned the campsite, her smile fading when she noticed Astarion's empty tent. "Hm," she murmured, concern creasing her brow before she pushed the thought aside.

Inside her own tent, Amaya carefully arranged her few possessions. One particular possession made her smile, an old stuffed bunny—somehow preserved in her bag of holding took pride of place on her thin mattress. She found herself imagining ways to make the space more homely: perhaps some hanging plants, or a few cozy blankets. 

Changing quickly from her tattered armor, she borrowed a pair of black trousers from Shadowheart, cinching them with rope to fit her smaller frame. Her dark red underclothes would have to suffice as sleeping attire for the night. As she folded her armor, several gold-plated medallions caught her eye. Most were too damaged to read, their engravings worn smooth or broken, but one bore a partial image—half a skull surrounded by droplets. The symbol tugged at her memory, but like so much else, remained frustratingly out of reach.

Night had fully settled when Amaya joined the others by the fire. Crickets sang their evening chorus as torchlight flickered between their four tents. Gale offered her a bowl of dried fruits and meat with a gentle smile, which she returned gratefully.

"Where's your pale friend?" Shadowheart's question cut through the peaceful silence.

Amaya toyed with a piece of dried meat between her fingers. "Oh, he set up his tent and wandered off somewhere."

"I'd be careful with him." Shadowheart's green eyes bore into her with intensity.

"You don't trust Astarion?"

"Trust is a rare currency, Amaya. I'm not sure I would spend it on someone who drew a knife on me moments after we met." The words fell between them like ice.

Gale choked on his food. "He did what?"

"It's fine," Amaya insisted, though her head began to pound. Dark, unsettling thoughts from earlier crept back, visions of severing Gale's hand and slitting Astarion’s throat caused her to shudder. Amaya then pushed the thoughts away, fighting a wave of nausea.

"Fine," Shadowheart conceded, her gaze fixed on the flames. "But I'm watching him."

----

An hour had passed, and there was still no sign of Astarion. Shadowheart had already retreated to her tent while Amaya tried to focus on Gale's lecture about ceremorphosis, but her headache made it difficult to concentrate. His words blurred together as she stared into the fire.

"Now we have tadpoles slithering through our heads like carnivorous foeti. That's not abstract."

"I'm not too worried," Amaya offered weakly. "We'll find someone who can help."

"That's the spirit! Let's be up with the lark—find a healer before the wee one gets hungry. Oh, hello Astarion!"

Amaya turned around to find the elf had changed into simpler attire: a light blue shirt with ruffled collar and low neckline, paired with well-worn brown trousers and ornate shoes. The clothing showed signs of careful mending, a stark contrast to his earlier pristine outfit.

"Ah, yes. Thank you," he said as Gale thrust a bowl at him, his lip curling slightly at its contents. "Sorry for disappearing. I needed a walk."

"Nonsense!" Gale waved off the apology. "It's been a difficult day. But this wizard needs his beauty sleep, or I'll be absolutely insufferable tomorrow. Goodnight to you both. I should check if Shadowheart's still awake..."

As Gale departed, Astarion settled beside Amaya, setting his untouched food aside.

"Not hungry?"

"Not particularly," he replied tersely.

"I only ate half of mine because I felt sick," she offered. "So you're not alone." Despite his prickly exterior, she found conversation with him came naturally. While she felt a connection with Shadowheart too, something about Astarion's presence put her at ease.

They both started speaking at once, then stopped. "Oh, sorry—you go first," Amaya insisted.

Astarion paused, choosing his words carefully. "So, we're resting here? Turning in for the night?"

"It's no feather bed, but it'll do." She hugged her knees to her chest, pushing dark curls from her face.

"I suppose." His crimson eyes darted around the clearing. "I'm not sure what I expected, really. This is all rather new for me. My nights usually involve bustling streets and bursting taverns. Curling up in the dirt is... a little novel."

"I could make you some tea with calming herbs," she offered. "Help you relax."

"Ah, no—tea isn't really my drink." He tapped his temple. "I'll be awake anyway, processing all this. You sleep, I'll keep watch."

"Thank you, that helps. But first—what do you think of our new companions?"

A wicked grin spread across his face. "Ha! Well, we've picked up a wizard who managed to get stuck in his own portal—hardly a promising introduction. And then there's someone whose parents hopefully meant well by naming their child Shadowheart. Rather ominous, don't you think? Unless she chose it herself, which would be even more concerning."

Amaya couldn't help but laugh. "I suppose you’re right but they are all we have currently," She stood, brushing off her borrowed clothes. “You’ll have to excuse me now, I should pray before bed. Have a good night and try to get some rest yourself.”

"The pleasure is all mine. Sweet dreams," he murmured, watching her silhouette move through the moonlight toward her tent.

[fanfictionalraven]

Reno

Title: Reno

Summary: The reader and Dean were best friends until one fateful night. Now she needs his help on a particularly difficult case but can they work together?

Characters: Reader, Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Bobby Singer

Word Count: 2,928

Warnings: Angst

Author’s Note: This story was originally posted by myself under the account Winchestersgirl92. It was published in 2017.

You sigh, running your hands over your face, as you lean back in the chair of yet another dusty, old motel room. A couple of takeout boxes sit next to your laptop on the table, untouched. You weren’t hungry anymore. A fourth victim had just been found.

You had rolled into town two days ago, confident you had a case on your hands. An easy case at that. Three victims, all weird, unexplainable deaths. At the morgue, you’d discovered a hex bag with each of the bodies. So, you returned to your room and settled into your research, trying to connect the dots. You’d spent the last two days retracing every step the three victims had taken but nothing panned out. Every lead you found was a dead end and, because of you, another person was dead.

You grab your phone and quickly find the contact you need. DEAN. Your finger hesitates before you change your mind and scroll back up to BOBBY. You press his name and put the phone to your ear, closing your eyes as it rings. 

“Yea,” Bobby says. You can’t help but smile at the gruff voice on the other end of the line. You had known Bobby Singer for most of your life. He’d been a close friend of your father’s which practically made him your uncle.

“Hey, Bobby,” you say into the phone. You can almost hear the smile in his voice when he answers you.

“Y/N. How’ve you been?” He asks. You sigh and shake your head, knowing he can’t see you but your silence speaks volumes. “What’s wrong?”

“I’ve got a case I can’t crack. Need some help,” you tell him. “A witch in Hastings, Nebraska. Should be easy enough but I can’t figure out who it is and someone else just died. I was gonna call Dean but I don’t think he’ll answer.”

“Well…I got him and Sam here now. I’ll send them out your way,” he tells you. You frown slightly, confused.

“Sam? But I thought –”

“Long story, kid. You’re about four hours away right now. Dean can make that in about two and a half,” he says. You thank him and set the phone back down, leaning back in your chair again.

Sam Winchester had died. Bobby had told you himself just a couple months ago. Sam had been like a brother to you and hearing of his death had hit you hard. But you knew it was nothing compared to what Dean was going through. His whole life had been dedicated to making sure his little brother was safe and taken care of. You had tried to call Dean then but all your calls went unanswered. You had been worried but you knew Bobby would keep an eye on him.

Now Sam was alive. You were overjoyed, of course, but a piece of you was anxious. You hoped it had all been a misunderstanding. Sam had never really died. He’d just slipped far enough away that everyone thought he had died. But you knew better. You’d been in the life long enough to know that there are ways. Dean knew these ways and would stop at nothing to get his little brother back.

You sigh again and close your laptop. You had a couple of hours before Sam and Dean would arrive and you were beat. The bed was calling your name loud and clear so you answered, falling face first onto it. Sleep overtakes you quickly, as do the nightmares.

You jolt awake, a few hours later, sitting upright immediately. You squeeze your eyes closed, trying to catch your breath. Just a nightmare. It was just a nightmare. It wasn’t real. 

“Alright there, Y/N?” A voice asks from across the room. Your eyes shoot open and you reach for your gun before freezing as your Y/E/C eyes meet green ones. Eyes you hadn’t seen in years. You swallow hard as your hand slowly withdraws from the gun.

“How the hell did you get in here?” You ask, never tearing your eyes away from him. He shrugs.

“Saw your car outside. Told the man at the desk I was meeting with the girl in room 12 and he gave me a key. You should probably start staying at more reputable places,” he tells you. The two of you stare at each other in silence for another minute before the door opens, drawing your attention. Sam steps in through the door, three cups of coffee and a white bag in his hands. He smiles widely when he sees you awake.

“Hey!!” He says, setting everything down on the table. You jump up from the bed and rush over to him, throwing your arms around him tight. He laughs lightly and returns your embrace, squeezing you slightly. “Haven’t seen you since –,” he stops, thinking, and you let him go, looking up at him.

“Since you left for Stanford,” you say. His face falls slightly and you reach up, putting your hands on his cheeks. You study his face and find it hasn’t changed much over the years. His hair is a little longer and his eyes a little sadder. You let him go then turn for the table, grabbing one of the cups. Sam opens the bag and pulls out a donut, handing it to you.

“Hope you still like jelly,” he says. You smile widely and kiss his cheek.

“God, I’ve missed you, Sam,” you tell him. He laughs as you walk over to the bed. You sit down and start on your breakfast, feeling Dean’s eyes still on you. Sam glances between the two of you as he picks up his own cup.

“When was the last time you two saw each other?” He asks. You open your mouth to answer when Dean cuts you off.

“August 15th, 2005. Reno,” he says. You frown at the memory and look up at him, his eyes boring into yours.

You had met the Winchester family through Bobby when you were about 18 and you and Dean had instantly clicked. It was like you had known each other your entire lives. He quickly became your best friend and you spent the next few years tagging along on hunts with them. As you’d grown older and Sam left for college, the two of you were inseparable. Partners on every hunt you took on and damn good at it too. And then…Reno. You hadn’t seen each other or spoken since.

You blink back tears and look back at your cup of coffee quickly, clearing your throat.

“Right, so, dunno what Bobby told you. Three vics when I got here. Hex bags. I can’t figure out who it is. Fourth victim was found early this morning. I haven’t actually checked out this body yet,” you explain before taking a long drink from your coffee. Sam nods and looks at Dean.

“You two wanna hit the morgue and I’ll see what I can dig up?” He asks. Dean looks at his brother and Sam frowns. “Or…Y/N and I can go to the morgue.” You stand, finishing off your donut, and look at Sam.

“Let me freshen up and change,” you tell him. He nods and watches you walk into the bathroom as Dean stares out the window.

************************************************************************

You and Sam leave the motel in your car. You glance over at him as you drive through the town and he smiles at you.

“I was sorry to hear about John. Bobby told me what happened. I would have called but I didn’t have your number anymore,” you tell him. His smile falls slightly and he shrugs, looking out the window.

“That was a while ago. You adjust,” he says. “You could’ve called Dean.”

“Dean doesn’t answer when I call anymore,” you say, plainly. He looks back over and you feel him watch you, waiting for an explanation. You don’t offer one as you continue to drive in silence.

The two of you get to the morgue and you introduce Sam to the medical examiner as your partner. He takes the lead, asking the same questions you had about all the other victims. The ME gives you a small plastic bag containing the same hex bag you’d retrieved from the other three bodies. You go back out to the car and start towards the fourth victim’s house to speak with her husband. You glance over at Sam as he carefully takes apart the hex bag.

“You’re gonna make me ask, aren’t you?” You ask him. He looks up at you, confusion evident on his face. You sigh and look forward as you drive. “Bobby called a couple months back and told me you were dead, Sam.” You look over at him again and watch his confusion evaporate. Heartache takes its place and you look forward again quickly. “What did he do?” You ask, your voice quiet. Sam hesitates, seeming to debate whether or not he should tell you. “Sam. What did he do?” You ask again.

“Demon deal. He’s got a year. Less than now,” he tells you. You stare dead ahead, gripping the steering wheel tighter.

Of course he made a deal. You’d known deep down he’d done something but hearing the words seemed to take your breath away. Less than a year and he’d be dragged to Hell. Less than a year and the man you – your best – Dean would be gone forever. You tried to picture your world without Dean. Sure the last couple of years you hadn’t had him around, but you’d always known he was alive. You knew that if you decided to, you could find him. This would be completely different.

“What happened in Reno?” Sam asks suddenly, pulling you from your thoughts. You look over at him quickly then shake your head, looking at the road again. “Dean, doesn’t even talk about you anymore. I actually thought you were dead until Bobby mentioned you once.”

“It’s a long story,” you say quietly. You pull the car into the latest victim’s driveway and look up at the house. “Can you…”

“Yea, I’ve got this. Call you when I’m done,” he says before getting out of the car. As soon as he closes the door, you throw the car into reverse and peel out of the driveway. You drive straight back to the motel. You don’t know what you’re going to say or do but you can’t just do nothing.

You kill the engine and climb out of the car. You slam the door, suddenly very angry, as you march up to your room. Fighting the key with trembling hands, you finally manage to get the door open before stepping into the room. You slam that door as well and see Dean jump, exactly where you two had left him that morning. He watches you for a moment before closing the laptop calmly and leaning back.

“A year?” You ask, voice trembling. He shrugs, nonchalant.

“Ten months now,” he says. You shake your head, staring at him. You can feel the lump in your throat rising, bringing with it the tears you didn’t want him to see.

“How could you?” You ask plainly. He shrugs again. Is all he can do shrug??

“I couldn’t do it without Sammy,” he says. “I wouldn’t.”

“And what is he supposed to do?! Did you think about that?! What is watching you get drug to Hell going to do to him?! To Bobby?! T–to me?!” You ask. He lets out a laugh as he pushes way from the table, rising to his feet.

“I think you’ll make it just fine, Sweetheart,” he says, walking over to the mini fridge. You shake your head as you watch him.

“What does that mean?!” You ask. He slams the door to the fridge closed and turns to face you, anger on his face.

“You left me, Y/N. No note. No text. No phone call. I woke up one morning and you were gone,” he says. “I thought someone or something had taken you. Then Bobby calls me, demanding to know what the hell I did to you cause you told him you never wanted to see me again. Do you know what that did to me?!”

“You asked me to marry you, Dean!! What the hell was I supposed to do?!” You ask. He stares at you, bewildered.

“Giving me an answer would have been a damn good place to start. Instead, you sleep with me then run off in the middle of the night,” he says. You shake your head and wipe at your cheeks furiously, the tears finally falling freely.

“We’re hunters. This life is too dangerous to get involved with someone, you know that. That’s why we never crossed that line, Dean. And then suddenly you’re saying that we should get married and I just – we would have regretted it,” you say, looking at him. Immediately, you regret that decision. His heart breaks across his face and he shakes his head, stepping towards you.

“There’s a lot of things I regret in my life, Y/N. But you – you’re not one of them. You never could be,” he says, his voice suddenly soft and tender. He crosses the room and takes your hands in his, gently squeezing them. You watch as he brings your hands up to his lips and kisses your knuckles lightly.

“Dean,” you say, shaking your head. You attempt to pull your hands away but he tightens his grip and pulls you closer to him. He reaches up with one hand and brushes your hair back from your cheek.

“I’ve got 10 months. You gonna make me spend them alone?” He asks, quietly. You close your eyes, his breath washing over your face.

“That’s not fair. I get 10 months with you then I’m left alone. What am I supposed to do then?” You ask, looking back up at him. He runs his thumb over your cheek gently and shrugs.

“Whatever you’ve been doing the last two years,” he tells you. He leans in, pressing his forehead against yours. You reach up, taking his face in your hands. His hands find your waist and he pulls you flush against him. You slide your hands down his neck and to his chest where you grab two fistfuls of his shirt. He leans in, his nose just brushing against yours. 

“I can’t,” you whisper, pushing away from him abruptly. You turn away from him, running your hands over your face. He grabs you by the elbow and spins you back around to face him.

“Stop that! Stop pretending that we meant nothing!” He snaps. You jerk your arm away from him quickly and glare up at him.

“I’m not pretending, Dean! There never was a ‘we’! We were friends! Just friends!” You yell. He stares at you, wide eyed. “I am sorry, Dean. I shouldn’t have left you the way I did. I never meant to hurt you that way.”

“And I never meant to fall in love with you but clearly, we both made mistakes,” he spats, venom in his words. You stare at him then, certain that everything you’re feeling is written on your face. Shock. Dean loves me. Joy. Dean loves me! Heartache. He said it was a mistake. You swallow hard and wipe at your eyes, trying to reign your emotions back in. You look down, staring at the toe of his boots.

“I have never had any feelings for you, Dean,” you tell him. He snorts a laugh and shakes his head. You look back up at him quickly.

“When you can look me in the face and tell me that, I might actually believe it,” he says, walking back across the room to the mini fridge again. He opens it and grabs one of the beer bottles you’d put in there when you first got to the motel. You feel the anger begin to bubble up in your chest again as you watch him smugly take a drink from the bottle.

“How dare you. You’re going to stand there and try and tell me you love me when you’re asking me to do this? To watch you die? How is that love, Dean? That’s just – that’s selfish! If you loved me, you wouldn’t ask me to stay,” you snap. Dean’s face falls slightly, probably realizing you’re right, but you don’t care. You quickly make your way around the room grabbing your clothes and equipment. “I knew calling you was a mistake,” you mumble, shoving a sweater into your bag. You feel a hand on your elbow and you sigh, closing your eyes. “You and Sam can handle this, right?”

“Of course,” he says quietly. You nod and zip your bag up quickly. You throw it over your shoulder and turn, looking up a him. 

“I am sorry,” you tell him. He nods and reaches up, gently placing his hand against your cheek again. 

“Me too,” he says. Instinctively, you turn into his hand, squeezing your eyes closed. You place your hand over his then press a chaste kiss to his palm. 

“Bye, Dean,” you whisper, stepping out of his touch. You turn for the door quickly, not wanting to risk one last glance at him. Struggling to keep it together, you leave the room and get into your car. You throw it into gear and just like that you drive off, leaving the man you loved – your best friend – Dean Winchester, in your past again. 

Read Reno - Before here.