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drenix004 · 6 months ago

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𝐕𝐈𝐂𝐈𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐓𝐔𝐃𝐄

Soshiro Hoshina x Fem!Oc!

CHAPTER ONE

MASTERLIST | AO | PR | CH.1| CH.2 | CH.3

English is not my mother tongue, so there may be spelling errors. An apology for that in advance :D

A groan of pain escaped her lips as she felt a tug on her hair.

"You're going to make me bald," she complained.

"Sorry, I'm almost done."

"You said that half an hour ago," Ana, the youngest of the quadruplets, huffed as she watched the eldest combing their sister's hair from her seat by the window. "You've changed her hairstyle three times; even I can feel the pain in my scalp."

"This is the final one," Hinata rolled her eyes at the youngest's impatience. Ana was the most impatient of the four. "And get down from that window; you could fall and break something, at best." She gave her a reproachful look before finishing the last decorative clip in the second quadruplet's hair.

"Alright, alright!" Ana climbed down from the window frame. When Hinata stepped aside and saw her sister's reflection in the mirror, she was speechless.

"Pretty, isn't it?"

"Pretty? More like a Christmas tree."

A vein appeared on the eldest's forehead.

"What do you mean, a Christmas tree?!" Hinata pinched Ana's cheeks, sparking a quarrel between the two.

Meanwhile, Liana admired her reflection in the mirror, appreciating the beautiful hairstyle for which she had endured all the pulling and tugging.

Never, as far as she could remember, had she or her sisters been dressed so meticulously and specially for a day like today.

"Can I leave two front strands loose?" Her question halted the argument behind her.

"Hmm? Of course." Hinata approached and carefully released two front strands, curling them with her fingers.

"Thanks." Liana rose from the chair, where she had been seated until then, and carefully smoothed out the expensive kimono her grandmother had given her. She didn't want the matriarch to notice any wrinkles.

"You still haven't made up with Lilia, have you?" Lilian, the third quadruplet, spoke from the eldest's bed. She had been silent since they started styling their sister's hair.

Hinata smiled awkwardly as she began putting away the items she had used on her vanity, feeling the younger ones' eyes on her.

"It's late; we shouldn't make Grandma angry." She changed the subject while ushering her sisters out of her room.

Lilian dropped the topic for now. It had been two weeks since the argument between Lilia and Hinata, and the eldest's decision not to respond spoke volumes.

"This kimono itches," Liana commented as she walked through the halls, followed by her sisters. "Is all this protocol really necessary? Grandma hardly let me sleep."

"You're meeting your fiancé; it's necessary to know manners and etiquette."

"I'm going to be a hunter, not a future heir," Liana protested.

"If you're that frivolous with your fiancé, you'll scare him away," Lilian mocked.

"Let her, that way I'll have a chance," Ana chimed in.

"What if he's ugly?"

"Enough, both of you," Hinata interrupted just as they reached the entrance of the house. "Grandmother," she greeted. The three younger ones bowed respectfully.

Naomi didn't return the greeting; she merely examined Liana's appearance from head to toe, searching for any imperfections.

"Get in," she said before entering the luxurious vehicle through the right door, which the family chauffeur held open.

Liana followed, but not before hearing Hinata's whispered wish of good luck.

The vehicle started its journey, and the enormous traditional house grew smaller as they moved forward.

Liana sat straight, hands clasped on her lap, watching people pass by with boredom. She rarely left the house, so her little world was confined to it.

Even so, people didn't catch her attention due to her limited interaction with them; she preferred quiet, nature-surrounded places.

"It's needless to say that I expect no mistakes, and I hope the etiquette training I gave you bears fruit."

"You'll see results," Liana responded without looking at her. Unconsciously, she clenched her feet, feeling the pain from the blisters on her soles—a vivid memory of her grandmother's etiquette lessons each time she made a mistake.

"I hope so."

"Among the four… why me?" she decided to ask, turning away from the window to look directly at her grandmother.

"You're the most suitable," her biting tone ended the conversation.

✥---------------✥---------------✥---------------✥---------------✥

That her father had arranged a marriage was not a real surprise; what was surprising was that the one engaged was him and not his brother Soichiro, being the successor.

His brother, of course, had mocked him, saying a bunch of nonsense until their father silenced him.

He felt a great curiosity knowing his fiancée belonged to the Nakano clan.

His father had told him they were a clan of military nobility, descendants of samurais. But what he really wanted to see was the albinism that only the members had.

In the portraits, and from what was said about them, they were depicted as white demons with red eyes and a cold gaze.

"This marriage is necessary, Soshiro; it will help the family. The exchange of knowledge is crucial for survival in these times." Soshiro listened attentively to his father, kneeling in front of him. It was only minutes before the guests arrived. "Marriages sometimes don't start with love; as long as you get along with her, that's enough, son."

"Is it true they have red eyes like demons?" he dared to ask, like any curious child his age.

"They do, resembling blood. But don't ask unless she decides to speak about it first. Above all, respect." His father stood as a servant knocked before entering, announcing their guests' arrival. "It's time."

They both left and walked down the impeccably polished wooden halls, whose reflections gleamed under the soft evening light. Soshiro noticed that the garden had also been meticulously arranged. The main garden featured a beautiful bonsai, surrounded by perfectly traced geometric shapes in the sand. The finishing touch was provided by the stones, strategically placed to create an almost zen aesthetic balance.

The shrubs and plants adorning the house had been watered and pruned with care. Every small detail had been covered, ordered, and cleaned by his father's strict orders. The air smelled of wet earth and fresh flowers, a mix that brought tranquility.

Upon reaching the room, they sat on the cushions arranged on the tatami. In front of them were two more cushions, prepared with equal care. The silence in the room was only interrupted by the whisper of the wind against the paper doors.

His father gave an order, and one of the servants slid open a paper door. Soshiro first noticed the older woman who entered; her hair as white as snow and her red eyes reminded him of a winter rabbit, an intriguing and disconcerting sight. But it was his fiancée's appearance that truly caught his attention, making him widen his eyes.

The girl was pretty, no doubt. But his surprise lay not in her beauty but in her unexpected appearance. She wasn't albino like her grandmother. Her hair was a shade of pink similar to cherry blossom flowers. When the girl looked at him, Soshiro was captivated by her deep, serene red eyes, framed by thick lashes the same color as her hair.

Her cold gaze contrasted with her delicate and pretty appearance, and her foreign features gave her an ethereal, almost unreal beauty.

"Son, this is Naomi Nakano, leader of the Nakano clan," his father's introduction abruptly pulled him out of his reverie. Soshiro closed his eyes briefly and bowed respectfully, as custom dictated.

"Pleasure to meet you, Nakano-sama. I am Soshiro Hoshina, thank you for taking the time to come despite your busy schedule."

"The pleasure is mine," Naomi replied, bowing as well, followed by the young girl. "This is Liana Nakano, my granddaughter and your fiancée."

Liana also bowed respectfully to Soshiro.

"Son, why don't you show her around the house? After all, she'll be coming here often for training with you," his father encouraged. Behind his words, he also implied that he wanted him out of the way for a conversation with the clan matriarch that didn't require his presence.

Soshiro nodded, standing and waiting for Liana to do the same.

"Liana."

Her name, pronounced by her grandmother, was a direct order for her to do the same, which she did. Soshiro felt an atmosphere of control that internally displeased him, but he said and expressed nothing.

#soshiro hoshina #hoshina soshiro #kn8 #kaiju no 8 x reader #kaiju no. 8 #soshiro x oc #husband!soshiro #hoshina x reader #fem oc #husband hoshina #soshiro #hoshina #hoshina soshiro x wife! reader

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gepardstitties · 2 years ago

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Frozen in Time

(oneshot, Gepard x y/n)

Summary: Gepard rescues you from the eternal freeze and you wake up in his apartment???

Genre: hurt/comfort, angst, fluff

cw: implied sui attempt, a little bit of spice

❆ ❆ ❆

It's cold. Bitterly cold. The glacial wind whips at your face, the snow blinding you. You've never faced the eternal freeze without your uniform before. You now understand just how much of a difference that uniform makes. The cold seeps into body, making it more and more difficult to move. You keep pushing on. You need to get away from... from what happened. You'd rather be frozen solid and numb then have to deal with this pain alone.

Suddenly you feel the cold on your face, but not like before. You seem to be completely submerged in the snow. Did you... fall? You feel your vision leaving you, your body going numb. You hear faint voices approaching in the distance.

"Captain! Over here! There's somebody buried in the snow!"

"Is that- is that y/n!?"

The incredulous voice of the Captain is the last thing you hear before all your senses fade to black.

❆ ❆ ❆

You're eyes flutter open gently, momentarily blinded by the warm light of the room. You scan your surroundings. Where am I? The apartment is neat and organized, and the faint smell of vanilla wafts through the air. The window is slightly cracked, allowing you to hear the bustling sounds of the Administrative District at night.

Suddenly, the door across the room opens, releasing a cloud of steam. From within the steam, a broad figure emerges. You're struck by fear. What is this person going to do to you?? He comes closer and his features become more apparent. Soft, tousled blond hair, slightly damp from the shower. Towel wrapped around his waist. Water droplets dripping down his bare chest and outlining the contour of his defined abs. And his eyes- those deep pools of sky blue, staring down at you with surprise and concern. C- Captain Gepard???

"Oh, you're awake!" He flushes awkwardly, "My apologies, let me go get some clothes on!"

He rushes out of your sight and into what you assume to be his bedroom. The reality of your situation finally sinks in. One moment you were freezing to death in a snowbank, and the next you were face to face with a dripping wet, SHIRTLESS Captain Gepard Landau. Thank Qlipoth the frostbite didn't kill you.

He emerges from the bedroom, a soft t-shirt hanging off his muscular frame. You've never seen him dressed so casually before. Mind you, you've never even seen him off duty before. He crosses the room to sit next to you on the couch. You move to sit up, but he presses his hand to your chest, gently keeping you from moving.

"Don't move! You still have frostbite! You were out in that cold for a really long time..."

You look away, feeling a pang of guilt for worrying your Captain.

"Captain I'm... I'm sorry for worrying you that way. I know you have more pressing issues to deal with."

"You don't need to feel guilty, y/n. Protecting people is never a waste of time. And you don't need to call me captain here," he smiles, "call me Gepard."

"Ok Ca- I mean, Gepard!"

He laughs warmly. "That's more like it," he chuckles. "Are you warm enough in those clothes? Do you need a blanket?"

You look down at yourself and freeze. Soft cotton t-shirt, warm sweatpants- THESE AREN'T YOUR CLOTHES. A furious blush spreads across your cheeks, no, your whole entire body.

"Is something the matter?"

"D- did you... change me??"

"Well I couldn't just leave you there in those sopping wet clothes. I tried my best not to look, I promise." Now he starts to blush too. "I'll uhh... I'll go make you some tea!"

Gepard gets up awkwardly and disappears into the kitchen. You're left alone with your thoughts. Alone in that cold, cold blizzard. Trying desperately to escape the memories.

Those memories...

A single tear escapes your eye and soon you have no control over yourself. Tears stream down your cheeks and your breath catches in your throat. This is why you ran into the Eternal Freeze. To escape these unbearable feelings, or maybe just to not feel anything at all, or maybe even-

Gepard returns with your tea. He freezes in the doorway. "Y/n!" As if by instinct, he rushes over to your side and sweeps you into his arms. "What's wrong? Are you okay? Are you hurt?"

You can't even answer through the tears, so you just keep crying. He holds you tight, waiting until you're ready to talk. His presence is sturdy and calming. He smells warm, like vanilla and something you can't quite put your finger on. You relax into his chest and manage a small "I'm sorry."

"There's no need to apologize," Gepard soothes, "all that matters to me is your safety. You don't have to talk about it if you don't feel comfortable, but I hope one day you can trust me enough to confide in me for matters of this sort."

"Why do you care so much? I'm just a low level recruit..."

He pulls you closer into his chest, resting his head on yours. "I've been noticing you since the very first day of your training, y/n. You're strong. Even if you don't realize. You make everyone around you feel safe. All I want is to do the same for you."

Tears threaten to fall from your eyes again.

"G- Gepard..."

"Shh," Gepard says gently. "You're safe here. No matter what. I promise."

Here in Gepard's arms, everything seems to stand still. Or maybe...

You're frozen in time.

❆ ❆ ❆

a/n: This is my first fic, I really hope you like it! Gepard is so precious I love him sm udehgpiuahfvjbarfkbvgad

#honkai star rail #gepard #gepard landau #fanfic #oneshot #fluff #angst #light angst #hurt/comfort #x reader #gepard x reader #gepard x y/n #hoyoverse #mihoyo #star rail #fanfiction #gepard oneshot honkai star rail #gepard is my fav himbo #i love him so much

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spade-riddles · 9 months ago

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Submission: Death/Dying/Mortality & The Jack-O-Lantern of it all.

The first 🎃 was sent on May 13, 2023.

#4. �� “Speaking of, I love Halloween, don’t you? I’m already counting the days until October.”

#11. 🎃 “Imagine this. It is 3 am and Halloween is over"

All Saints Day, while exact origins are uncertain, was originally most commonly celebrated in May (like, a LONG time ago. ~300-600 A.D). Specifically…MAY 13. The night before All Saints Day was called “All-Hallows Eve”, which is what we now know as Halloween. (I acknowledge that is through the Christianity lens, as I know there this is a holiday with pagan roots as well).

This is a celebration dedicated to remember the dead. I believe the use of the pumpkin/jack-o-lantern and the references to this celebration were easter eggs for the direction of TS11, before we even KNEW a new album was in the works. Furthermore, someone sent in a post identifying May 13 as the first documented date of JK & KK, which was also linked to the original spade riddles about MAY.

Now that it has been a few days since the release of TTPD, I’m shocked to see just how many references there are to the concept of death, dying, endings, resurrection, etc. Here is an incomplete list of all of the references to this theme throughout the TTPD rollout and release:

TN easter egg

“We hereby conduct this post-mortem” - AKA….after death. This was ultimately revealed to be lyrics from “How Did It End?”

Track 4 - Down Bad

“I might just die, it would make no difference.”

Track 5 - So Long, London

“My white knuckle dying grip holding tight to your quiet resentment.”

“I died on the altar waiting for the proof.”

Track 9 - Guilty As Sin

“One slip I’m falling back into the hedge maze, but what a way to die.”

Track 10 - Who’s Afraid of Little Old Me?

“If you wanted me dead you should’ve just said. Nothing makes me feel more alive.”

Track 12 - loml

“Are they second hand embarrassed that I can’t get out of bed, cause something counterfeits dead?”

“And I’ll still see it until I die, You’re the loss of my life.”

Track 14 - The Smallest Man Who Ever Lived

“Were you sent by someone who wanted me dead?”

“I would’ve died for your sins, Instead, I just died inside.”

Track 16 - Clara Bow

“I’m not trying to exaggerate but I think I might die if it happened, die if it happened to me”

Track 17 - The Black Dog

“Old habits die screaming.”

“Now I wanna sell my house and set fire to all my clothes, and hire a priest to come and exorcise my demons, Even if I die screaming, And I hope you hear it.”

Track 19 - The Albatross:

“She’s the death you chose”

Track 21 - How Did It End:

“We hereby conduct this post-mortem”

“Say it once again with feeling, How the death rattle breathing, Silenced as the soul was leaving, The deflation of our dreaming, Leaving me bereft and reeling. My beloved ghost and me, Sitting in a tree,D-Y-I-N-G”

Track 23 - I Hate It Here

“I dreamed about it in the dark, the night I felt like I might die”

Track 25 - I Look In People’s Windows

“I had died the tiniest death.”

And finally…resurrection (note: I am not a religious person, I’m writing about this from a literature/contextual perspective).

Track 9 - Guilty as Sin:

What if I roll the stone away? They’re gonna crucify me anyway. What if the way you hold me is actually what’s holy? If long suffering propriety is what they want from me, they don’t know how you’ve haunted me so stunningly. I choose you and me, religiously

propriety (noun) - 1: the quality or state of being proper or suitable, 2: conformity to what is socially acceptable in conduct or speech, fear or offending against conventional rules of behavior especially between the sexes.

🫚 - 2/5/2024

Frost untouched, Conformity wins fights.

This 🫚 message seems to convey the message that conforming to what what society and the media, her fans, etc expect of her and will tolerate from her, is the only way she could gain enough traction to move forward. But in Guilty as Sin, she finally asks the questions “what happens if I roll away the stone?” Rolling away the stone, in a biblical sense, would reveal an empty tomb. An empty tomb was EVIDENCE that Jesus had risen from the dead.

So my thought is, what does rolling away the stone mean for Taylor? What are the implications of her asking, “What if I just give them all the evidence revealing my truth? They are going to judge me no matter what, so I might as well. If they want me to suffer my entire life by conforming to societal standards, they don’t know how impossible of an ask that is.”In Summary, 🫚 & 🎃 have absolutely proven themselves credible in foreshadowing the themes of this album and overarching story. And I’m sure as we continue to decipher their messages, we are going to find so much more.

#submission #🎃#🫚#this is excellent work

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imaginesforallkindoflove · 8 months ago

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For Vaultknight nation ✨️🙌 sorry fort shortness I am writing something bigger

(They're cutiespapooties)

“What is that?”

That was Maximus’s first question as he glanced at a nearby and nearly destroyed store. All of the windows had been smashed, and the front door was torn open. Without a doubt, some people tried to get inside, as an attempt to get shelter or in hope to find something to destroy. It was dangerous too, as it threatened to fall over. But Maximus was attracted by it, by the still bright yellow letters. He could read the shop’s name: The Gamer’s Den. He found it odd. Turning to Lucy with a smile, he called her over. Knowing she would be as interested as he was, she would love to explore that one building.

Ever since they had parted ways with their teams, if you could call it that, Maximus and Lucy’s relationship had blossomed. Of course, they stayed in contact with Vault 4 and Lucy’s vault, now run over by the fierce Stephanie Harper. It had been hard for Maximus at the beginning. It was relatively new for the former Brotherhood member. All he had known his whole life was bullying and discipline. He had suffered, he had bled, he had grown. But Lucy changed his life forever. God, he loved her silly words, her innocence about the world they were living in. And he admired her bravery.

“Is that… a game store? Oh Maximus look!” She pointed to a RobCo promotional sign with an excited face. “Oh jolly, Norm would have loved to see this! Let’s try and find some of those games!”

“Sure.” He smiled back at her as he followed her inside.

“They were supposed to release those when the bombs dropped.” Lucy whispered as she caught a box behind the counter, a bit opened. Maximus knelt down beside her and started to rummage through the packaged games. They looked brand new despite the dust on them.

“I feel kind of bad for them.” Maximus admitted. He had noticed the skeletons around the city and inside the shop as well. “They must have believed they would be safe there.” His voice was barely audible.

Lucy hummed as she tried to find interesting games for her brother. She always had felt awful about the skeletons, she… tried to pretend they didn't exist. But how could she not? Those skeletons had been people, with hopes, dreams, problems on their own. She couldn’t shake the image of that family when she left her vault. Entering that home had not been a good decision and seeing that Vault Tec had sold those “Plan D” pills… How did the parents feel about giving them to their children? They wanted to spare them, giving them a quick death, and pretend nothing was happening. What a sad way to end your life.

Maximus noticed how gloom Lucy looked. He shouldn't have spoken about the skeletons… He was used to it, but not the vault dweller. Maximus decided to cheer her up. With a smile, he approached her and kissed her cheek.

“Don't think too much about it, Lu. You weren't the one who dropped the bombs.”

“You're right.” She sighed as she picked up some games and put them in her bag. “Let’s go back to the vault and give those to Norm. He will be happy to see you again. He likes you.”

“Really? Because I feel that each time I come with you, he stares at me like he wants me dead.”

“Oh that's just how Norm looks at people.”

#n speaks #fallout amazon #fallout prime #lucy maclean #fallout maximus #maximus x lucy #vaultknight

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bi-bats · 1 year ago

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TRICK OR TREAT !!!!!!!!!!! =D

!! HAPPY HALLOWEEENNNNNNN LEOOOOOOOO

I can't NOT give you a jaytimkon snippet for Halloween. I know what you're looking for in the candy bowl 😂 SOOOOO here's the beginning of the next chapter of Bad Days!! I really want to get it posted soon but I have to write smut for it and that always takes me forever to do 😂😂😂

Anyways, I won't delay any longer, here's your treat!!

~ ✨ ~

Kon hovers an inch above the fire escape, hesitating. He’s already been here for three minutes, trying to work up the nerve to knock.

But he’s just being a bother, isn’t he? Jason doesn’t want him here. He’s fine with having him around sometimes, sure, but Tim is always there.

It’s Jason and Tim, and Kon.

Just because they get along, had like, one actual real conversation and they all took a nap on his couch? That doesn’t mean that he wants to let Kon mope around his apartment.

Even though Kon kinda wants to see him.

He should leave. It’s ridiculously late anyways, so ridiculously late that it’s actually ridiculously early, and Jason’s probably falling asleep, probably has his mouth hanging just a tiny bit open and his head nuzzled into his pillow the way he nuzzled into Kon and his heart does a soft little squeeze in his chest and why is he still here he’s just been floating out here like an idiot he needs to leave—

The blinds on the other end of the window he’s staring at pull up, and Jason looks at him through the glass, unnaturally bright green eyes dancing with something amused.

Jason’s thick, calloused fingers pop the lock on the window and slide it open, and Kon’s stomach goes tight.

“You gonna hang out there until the sun comes up?”

A smirk begins to crawl across Jason’s lips as he leans his palms on the windowsill.

Kon feels his face go warm as his eyes drop down at the fire escape. He floats down far enough to toe at the metal, rubbing at his arm.

“Nah, man, sorry. I was just— looking for Tim, but he’s not here, so. Yeah, it’s cool, I’ll see you—”

“Kon.”

Kon’s eyes flicker up and snag on the frown on Jason’s lips.

“You’ve been out here for the last five minutes. You okay?”

Kon opens his mouth to say Yeah, dude, I’m fine, don’t sweat it, I’ll see you later, but nothing makes it out. He ends up just sort of floating there, saying nothing, for a solid five seconds before he clamps his mouth shut.

Then he floats up a few feet, ready to just fly off because seriously, what the fuck is he doing there?

And then Jason’s hand wraps around his ankle, warm and steady.

“Come inside,” he says, his tone a low, steady rumble.

Kon hesitates, letting Jason hold him there, before he gives in to the lull of the request.

“Okay,” he says, and his voice is quiet and contained in a way he tries not to be in front of anyone.

Jason doesn’t release him, holding his leg like the string of a balloon as he tugs him into the apartment.

He only lets go to close the window, and Kon lets himself float down until he’s hovering just above the ground, not quite putting his feet down.

The apartment is clean except for a few guns on the counter and some dishes in the sink. The couch is laid out into the futon, the blanket they all slept under draped across it like Jason was sitting there the whole time Kon was outside, a book open and face down next to the slightly sunken spot.

It smells like the lemon cleaning spray that Alfred uses at the manor, and soy sauce and onions and pork from whatever Jason has on the stove, and the scent of the cologne Jason uses, warm and sweet and spicy, and at the bottom of all of it, it smells like Jason himself, that warm human smell that Kon doesn’t realize he’s looking for until he finds it.

“What are you doing up?” Jason asks, walking to the sink and turning on the tap.

“What are you doing up?” Kon asks back, still hovering in the space between Jason’s couch and the little wooden dining table he has set up in the corner.

The question didn’t come out as confrontationally as he thinks it does, but he still blushes.

God, what’s wrong with him?

“Sorry, I’m — that was rude.” Kon shifts his weight from one foot to the other in the air.

Jason gives him a shrug. “S’alright, I get it. Bad day?”

“Yeah,” Kon mumbles.

Somehow, the look that Jason turns and gives him makes him feel even more self-conscious than he already does.

“Dads, huh?” Jason asks, raising an eyebrow.

Kon clenches his jaw a little, so he doesn’t scowl.

“You hungry?” Jason asks.

Kon’s jaw loosens.

First, the answer to that question has never been no, and the smell of sweet and salty Asian barbecue pork isn’t making him less hungry.

But also, he thought Jason was going to ask what happened, and then he’d have to explain when he doesn’t even really have a right to be upset.

“Yeah, I could eat.”

Jason nods and turns, shutting the tap and silencing the rush of water before he grabs a dishtowel and wipes his hands.

He glances back at Kon, then drops his eyes to the inch of space between his feet and the ground. Jason grins a little, something amused glittering in the bright green of his eyes.

“The floor isn’t lava, you know.”

Kon hesitates for a moment before lowering down slowly, letting his feet graze the floor.

“Take a seat, I’ll grab a couple of plates.”

Kon walks to the couch, touching his feet to the hardwood on every step without allowing the ground to bear his weight. He lets himself settle on the couch where Jason was sitting so he can watch him move around the kitchen. A rush of steam plumes out of the steamer basket when he opens the lid, his feet make soft noises as his socks pad against the wood.

He tucks his knees up a little, not quite all the way against his chest, but enough to make room for Jason to sit down across from him.

Jason places the steamer basket on the couch and hands Kon a plate, then drops three buns on it.

“If I’d known you were coming I would’ve made some classic comfort food.”

Kon snorts humorlessly, picking up a bun. It’s a little bouncy under his fingers, and he already knows it’s going to be fluffy and delicious before he even bites into it.

He doesn’t think he wants to eat anything that reminds him of Ma’s kitchen right now anyways.

“Don’t sweat it, I’m already interrupting your—morning,” Kon decides after a glance at the clock on the stove.

“I wasn’t busy,” Jason says, tearing off a chunk of the bun in his hands to let the inside cool. Steam pours out of it in a puff, carrying the smell of the spices.

“Thanks,” Kon says, biting into his bun without waiting. He was right, it’s fucking delicious. The pork is moist and tender and the dough didn’t get soggy at all, and he makes a pleased noise as he rolls it over his tongue.

“That’s a nice benefit of your genes, huh?” Jason says, blowing on his food and eyeing Kon’s lips.

Kon shrugs. He doesn’t really want to think about his genetics right now.

“So, where do I aim?” Jason asks.

Kon’s eyebrows furrow as he tilts his head at Jason.

“Shoulder? Head? I can steal some kryptonite bullets from B in the morning.”

Kon pauses chewing for a second, looking at the amusement in Jason’s eyes before he swallows his food.

“Are you giving me the Clark is an Asshole special?”

Jason grins, crooked and wide and a little dangerous, and Kon’s stomach does a flip.

#🐆leo #batsasks #writing snippets #jaykon #jaytimkon fic #batwrites

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tracybirds · 1 year ago

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"snoozeville" with Alan? (although that's normal for him, so if you're not sure what to do with that, I don't mind if you pick someone else instead)

Thank you for the prompt and for your patience :D Alas, Alan's pov for this one wasn't quite working, but I hope you enjoy this alternative :) (now off to snoozeville myself!)

snoozeville: [character] falls asleep somewhere that isn’t their bed.

---

Scott groaned, shoving away the reconnaissance reports as he scrubbed at his eyes. The dim light of the tablets formed an oasis in the inky dark and the villa was silent but for the faint crash of waves against the cliff. The night was clear and calm and he padded over to the windows to gaze out at the rippling reflection of the moon above. The stars twinkled as he picked out constellations, the instinct from his scouting days as present as ever. He winced as he spied Orion in the east, its steady rise enough to tell him how late the hour had become.

He yawned, turning off the tablet screen and making his way up to his room by the light of his communicator.

The habit of checking in on his family hadn’t always been as compulsive as it was now, but Scott didn’t think it did him any harm. It was needless reassurance perhaps, but at each door as he listened to soft breathing and the murmurs of dreams, he could feel his own heartbeat starting to slow.

Gordon’s room was closest to the lounge, with John’s opposite, to compensate for their sunrise and nocturnal activities respectively, so as not to disrupt the heavier sleeper in the family.

Scott nudged the door open, suppressing a smile to see Gordon sprawled across the bed and hugging a pillow with one arm. The aquarium light through the water gave the room an eerie glow like a underwater grotto. This was as silent and still as Scott ever saw his brother and he took a moment to enjoy the peace.

He backed out of the room quietly and turned to John’s room. He laid a hand on the solid oak door to ground himself, knowing John wasn’t there and resisting the urge to check all the same. A small part of Scott felt guilty not including him in the nightly ritual even when he was absent, but John loathed any perceived invasion of his privacy and it wasn’t worth the inevitable argument when EOS tattled on him. So he compromised, hand on the door, and called up Thunderbird Five.

“You’re late tonight,” observed EOS. “He’s already asleep.”

Scott grimaced, remembering the long, arduous evening he’d left behind.

“Tell him I’m sorry,” whispered Scott. “I lost track of time.”

“He worries.”

“Ditto, then.”

EOS said nothing and Scott sighed.

“I’ll catch him tomorrow, I promise. He’s really sleeping?”

“Three hours and seventeen minutes. He has entered his third sleep cycle tonight.”

“Good,” said Scott softly. “He needs it.”

“So do you, Scott Tracy.”

“Goodnight, EOS.”

He shut down the call without waiting for a response.

Alan’s room was dim and dark, carved into the side of the mountain with no natural light except from that which was funnelled down through the rocks as a skylight. These provided a link to the outside world, the sky and stars that he loved, and a much needed release from his endless video games.

Scott peeked in, hardly noticing the empty bed. It has been a long time since he’d given up on wrestling his youngest brother into bed each night and Alan genuinely seemed to prefer the floor. Scott wrinkled his nose at the musty smell, making a mental note to ask Alan to do a spring clean of the place. There was no sound, not even Alan’s usual quiet snuffling, and Scott frowned, stepping forward into the room fully.

“Allie?” he called softly, picking his way across the floor where gaming gear lay abandoned and dirty clothes were strewn wildly. The moonlight shone through the skylights, illuminating the empty space where Alan normally slept.

“Alan?”

Scott swore to himself, his heart rate spiking as he hurried into Virgil’s room.

“Virgil,” he hissed, “Virgil, wake up.”

“Whaa-?” mumbled his brother, one hand already groping for his comm as he struggled upright. “Is there an emergency?”

“Alan’s gone,” said Scott. “He’s not in his room.”

Virgil blinked blearily at Scott.

“Oh,” he said. “Alan’s in your bed.”

Scott froze.

“He’s what?”

“Yeah, I guess he wasn’t feeling well.”

“Why didn’t he tell me?”

Virgil shrugged. “You looked busy. Don’t worry I took a look at him. Just needs rest now.”

Scott felt the words slice into him, although he knew Virgil was merely stating fact, not placing blame.

“Thanks, Virg,” he said, swallowing down the guilt that stuck in his throat. “Get some sleep, I’ll look after him.”

Virgil grunted, asleep again before his head touched the pillow and snoring lightly as Scott turned out the light.

He crept towards his own room, not bothering to turn on the lights. Everything was organised with military precision. The only anomaly was Alan, and Scott felt carefully for him before climbing into bed.

Alan stirred beside him, curling into Scott’s chest as he wrapped him in a gentle hug.

“Hey, sprout,” said Scott. “Not feeling so good, huh?”

Alan shook his head silently.

“What type of hurt are we dealing with?”

“Throat,” whispered Alan. “Head. Everywhere.”

Scott held him close, humming as he thought.

“Virgil said he gave you something? When was that?”

Alan shrugged.

“I can get you something else,” began Scott, but Alan shook his head once more.

“Please,” he croaked. “Just stay. And sleep.”

Scott thought he could do that.

[feel free to send me a prompt plus a character!]

(yes I still have a fair few to write but they're so fun!!)

#scott tracy #sometimes i fic #thunderbirds are go #alan tracy #idk there's a few in there #have fun <3 #fanfic 🥰#scott 💙#2015 #family feels #h/c #sleepy sleeps 💤#thunderbirds #collected works (mine)#alan ❤️

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gayphob1a · 1 year ago

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Don't Blame Steve

TW: Smut whoops

“Hands!”

“Yes, Chef!” Steve yells, running as fast as he dares to the sous without being reprimanded for creating a hazard. The saucier he had been stationed with shoots him a warning glare, and he knows after this rush he’ll have his ass handed to him on one of the maitre d’s silver platters for abandoning his position, but he’s been given explicit instructions. When the sous calls, he is to run, not walk. He can take the wrath of a measly saucier if it means his chef de cuisine won’t be involved in this particular dispute.

The man is horrifying, a dark void that pulls everyone in with his initial charisma, only to snap in an instant and leave you feeling like an empty shell of your former self. He runs his kitchen with an iron fist. Hopper himself would cower in Timothy’s presence. Not even swinging a bat into the flowering maw of a demogorgon could hold up to the terror he instills. The sous, though better, is no walk in the park either. She seems like a sweet woman at first, Rosie, but if her call for help goes unheeded there’s no telling what she may use as a weapon. Steve thought, based on this fact alone, that they may even get along the first time he saw her throw a metal spoon across the kitchen in a fit of rage, but this idea was quickly thrown out the window when he narrowly avoided an egg timer hitting him in the head with enough force he very well may have been on the receiving end of another concussion. And at the hands of a 54 year old woman no less.

Steve comes skidding to a halt at Rosie’s side, close enough to smell the bourbon leaking from her pores and he desperately hopes she’s just horribly hungover. The last time she showed up drunk he went home with burns burgeoning on third degree. Why Timothy never picks up on this, or chooses to ignore it, he doesn’t understand — considering he once came in and was immediately reprimanded for his untied shoelace.

“I need you on mise. Running low on shallots and cilantro for garnish.”

Steve tries not to roll his eyes, but well, he’s never been the best at keeping a handle on his facial expressions, and Rosie must pick up on some slight twitch in his expression or the exasperated sigh in his “yes, chef.”

“What? Do you think you have better things to be doing? We’re in the weeds and I’m running low on fucking garnishes. Maybe if you were half decent at staging I would have had everything I needed before we were getting fucked in the ass.”

“No, chef. I’m sorry, I’m on it.”

“Good. I don’t miss twice, kid.”

Steve spends the rest of the evening rush by Rosie’s side, dicing in silence like a well-trained dog. He almost misses the call for closing, overstimulated and exhausted both physically and emotionally. All through his closing duties, he’s berated by Sam, the saucier he abandoned firing dishes on his own. He almost doesn’t think he’ll make it through the night, but like always, he does, and drives home on autopilot, hardly registering the traffic as he listens to one of Eddie’s heavy metal tapes to release some of the tension thrumming in his veins. Since culinary school, he’s developed more of a taste for Eddie’s music, finding comfort in the thrumming baselines and heavy drums that make his teeth rattle with how loud it blares through the speakers.

He trudges up the stairs to their apartment, his every muscle alighting in pain. His head is pounding, and he tries to remember the last time he drank water, but days are starting to blur together and he’s not sure he even has today. Still, none of that can stop the smile that erupts over Steve’s features when he sees Eddie waiting for him with dinner set out on the table, despite it being 10 o'clock at night.

“Hey baby. Rough day?” And Steve just melts into the way Eddie can read him in an instant, falling into his arms with a heavy sigh. He nods silently and inhales Eddie’s scent. He’s just showered and he smells like sandalwood, Steve’s favorite scent. It reminds him of the fact that Eddie changed the bodywash he uses when he discovered that tidbit of information. Eddie isn’t even a particularly huge fan of sandalwood. He doesn’t hate it or anything, it just wasn’t really on his radar until Steve said something, and now he may even love it for the way it makes Steve nestle into his neck and take in deep breaths, sighing at the way it mingles on his skin.

Eddie is no chef and Steve knows that. He doesn’t expect perfection — in fact, after nearly 11 hours of perfection, he prefers a little chaos and junk food. Eddie always delivers, plating up a simple turkey sandwich and potato chips with a vase of flowers and candlelight.

“I love you,” Steve sighs, settling into his seat which Eddie pushes in for him, leaving a kiss on the top of his head.

“I love you too. And I saved you plenty of hot water for a bath when you’re done.”

Steve tucks into his sandwich, eating like he’s been starving in a desert for months. Eddie watches with pure adoration on his face, eating much slower and stopping Steve every couple bites to remind him to drink the ice water he put out. After the first half (Eddie cut his sandwich into triangles. However juvenile, Steve has always found it easier to eat them this way and Eddie finds it adorable), Steve is ready to talk. He regails the evening and the vicious humbling he received after closing in as much detail as he can muster, but frankly the day starts to slip away as soon as he gets home. Maybe it’s the repeated trauma, but his brain has a way of compartmentalizing in a matter of hours. There’s just one complaint that never seems to go away.

“And I’m not even getting paid for any of this!”

Eddie gave up asking if working in kitchens was really worth it after the first week. Steve’s answer was always the same. Despite the mental and physical toll, his goals remained clear. He was going to get through this stupid stage and get a real job in a kitchen until he could save up enough money to one day open his own place dedicated to all the recipes that made him fall in love with cooking in the first place, everything the kids loved when he experimented in the kitchen for them.

Eddie has to drag Steve out of his seat to the bathroom when they finish. Steve’s body aches so bad he could fall asleep at the table. It wouldn’t be the first time and Eddie isn’t letting that happen again, lest he be charged with Steve’s complaints of sore everything in the morning. He draws the bath and puts in epsom salt for the pain and lavender scented bubble bath because it eases the knot in Steve’s mind that has his shoulders permanently pressed to his ears. He helps Steve over the ledge of the tub and gently lowers him into the steaming water. It’s the perfect temperature, nearly scalding just the way Steve likes so he can enjoy the water’s warm embrace as long as possible. They remain quiet as Eddie massages Steve’s legs, working the knots out of his calves and running his thumbs up and down the arches of his feet. Steve lets out an occasional contented sigh, relishing in the fact that Eddie enjoys pampering him just as much as he needs it after a day like today.

The few unpredictable strands of Eddie’s hair that can never be contained by a bun, no matter how neat, are starting to form loose ringlets. Steve reaches out to wind one around his fingers, moves his hand to his boyfriend’s steam warmed cheeks, and draws him in for a delightfully slow kiss. Eddie’s hands travel up Steve’s legs to his thighs, raising them slightly from the porcelain of the tub so he can run his fingers over his taught hamstrings like the frets of his guitar. He plays Steve nearly as well, no, better, and Steve sings his praises into Eddie’s lips.

“Feeling better?” Eddie asks, his forehead pressed to Steve’s, their breath intermingling in heavy puffs between them.

“Much.” Steve replies. He closes his eyes and focuses on the sensation of Eddie’s fingers all over him. His firm, deliberate strokes graze higher up Steve’s thighs, ghosting between his legs and Steve chokes back a whimper. The bubbles hide the way he’s been steadily growing harder, but Eddie’s hands reveal all. He’s not always in the mood after work, but the princess treatment, as Eddie likes to call it, makes his heart swell… amongst other things.

Steve tries to stand, but the bath is still warm and Eddie’s hands hold him in place. “Just relax. Let me take care of you sweetheart.”

“I want to touch you,” Steve whines.

“You will, but we can take it slow tonight, right?”

And Steve’s mind is foggy, sure, a combination of the long hours and Eddie’s expert touch, but he doesn’t think he’s that foggy until the words just kind of slip out of him. “Yes, chef,” he moans.

A hand flies up to clasp over his mouth and his eyes go wide. Eddie is silent, watching like a hawk, his hand still and gripping onto Steve’s thigh in a vice grip. “I– I don’t… I’m so sorry. That just came out. Fuck.”

“Woah woah, hold on there big boy. It’s okay. Look, you don’t have to, I know you had a long day, but maybe just… say it again?”

“Y-yes chef.” Steve tries it out, wondering if it will feel foreign in his mouth, but it doesn’t. It feels natural, like an extension of himself, bearing himself raw to Eddie in a rare way he never has before. He wants to feel Eddie prodding at this part of him, taking him apart piece by piece like he has to every other aspect of his soul until now.

“Jesus christ. How does anyone get anything done in that kitchen with you around?”

“You say that every day.”

“Yeah, but now I mean it. You’re walking around all night saying ‘yes chef’ like an adorable little slut. I wouldn’t be able to think straight.” Eddie splashes Steve with the velocity at which he moves his hand to his dick, gripping tight enough to make Steve moan. His head falls back against the tub, the ends of his hair grazing the bubbly warm water. The contrast of cold porcelain against hot skin makes him realize just how hard his whole body must be flushing, damp from the water and sweat mixing on his skin. His hands find the sides of the tub and hold on for dear life as Eddie’s hand pumps and twists up the length of his shaft. He can feel Eddie’s eyes on him, staring, taking in every expression and breathy noise he releases.

“Just relax, baby. I’ve got you.”

“You’ve got me.”

“That’s right. Good boy.”

Eddie’s hand speeds up, sloshing water up all around Steve’s chest. Heat pools in his stomach and Steve feels his balls draw up, nearing the edge in record time from the praise.

“Wait,” he says, dropping a hand down to still Eddie’s wrist.

“You okay?” Eddie asks, stopping instantly, concern lacing his voice.

“‘M okay. I don’t want to cum yet. Want to fuck you.”

Eddie hums. “I thought I was taking care of you?”

“You can take care of me while I fuck you. Ride me into the mattress.”

“Fuck, Stevie. Let’s go.” Eddie helps Steve out of the tub, drying him just enough that he’s not dripping into the carpet. Steve’s skin is red hot, the heat bubbling over into Eddie’s chest as they collide in a sloppy kiss, hardly breaking apart as they stumble to the bedroom.

Eddie pushes Steve down onto the bed and hovers over him, admiring. He’s hard and aching, leaking against his stomach and he pulls Eddie into him, crashing their lips back together so hard their teeth clack against one another. Eddie is still fully dressed and that just won’t do. Steve’s hands roam Eddie’s body, feeling and squeezing until he reaches the hem of his t-shirt and pulls it over his head. Eddie has new tattoos all over his chest, including Steve’s bat, and he loves to kiss over it, sucking bruises into the outline until it’s puffy and sticking out, raised against his milky white skin. Eddie undoes his belt hastily, pulling his pants and underwear off his hips until they fall to the ground with a clank of his belt buckle against the floor.

“Lay back, I want you inside me.”

Steve groans. “You need to prep?”

“What do you think I do all day when you’re gone baby?”

Steve reaches around between Eddie's cheeks and sure enough he’s loose and pliant, ready to take Steve’s considerable girth. Steve twitches pathetically, precum spurting out of his tip all over the happy trail leading down to his pubes, thinking about Eddie laid out in their bed playing with himself, moaning wildly alone while he waits for Steve to trudge up the stairs to their little apartment with no promise he’ll even be fucked at all.

“You ready for me?” Eddie asks.

“Yes chef.”

“Shit you don’t know what you’re doing to me.”

“I may have some idea.” Steve smirks, his eyes tracing over Eddie’s frame to his throbbing erection.

“Steve.”

“Yes?”

“Shut up.” Eddie straddles Steve’s hips and grabs his cock, lining himself up to sink down in one swift movement.

The room is filled with the sound of their moans, their scents mingling together in a heady musk. Eddie’s hands find themselves on Steve’s chest, squeezing his pecks, a juxtaposition of soft skin and hard muscles sprinkled with thick hair. He bounces up and down at a ruthless pace, grinding his hips down with a little twist each time he sinks to the hilt. Steve falls apart under him, his face burying in the pillow beneath him, catching the cries and spit that pool on his tongue. He wants to plant his feet, drive his hips up and pound back relentlessly, drag more of those wanton moans from Eddie’s throat, but he’s so exhausted, the pleasure only adding to the led in his bones, so he lets Eddie take what he needs, let’s him dedicate his heart to Steve’s pleasure. He’s going to come already after being driven to the edge not five minutes earlier, but he needs to stave it off, hold back until he can be painted with Eddie’s cum.

But Eddie knows him all too well. Knows every sound, knows the meaning of every pleasured grimace on his face. “Don’t wait for me honey. I want to make you feel good.”

“Can I…”

“Cum inside me baby. Want to feel you fall apart while I milk it out of you.”

Those words are all he needs, coming in thick ropes that paint Eddie’s walls. Steve is sensitive, crying out Eddie’s name as he keeps riding the last of Steve’s hard on, chasing his own pleasure.

“Come on, Chef.” Steve wraps a hand around Eddie’s dick, stroking him hard and fast. “Need to see you cum on the fly, please.��

“Fuckkkk,” Eddie moans as he cums all over Steve’s chest. He falls boneless into Steve’s open arms. Steve wraps his arms around his neck and rubs a gentle hand up and down his back, kissing the hair matted with sweat against his forehead.

“We need another bath.” Steve giggles.

“I’ll get a wash cloth. We can shower in the morning,” Eddie sighs, squeezing Steve back and letting his affection pour out in droves. He lifts himself off of Steve and feels his spend leaking out and making a mess. “But maybe we sleep on the couch tonight? I’m not changing the sheets.”

Eddie scurries off to the bathroom so he doesn’t drip all over the carpet and returns a couple minutes later to towel Steve off. He picks Steve up, throwing him over his shoulder to carry him to the living room, neither of them being bothered to even put on boxers. Eddie puts on a movie and they drift to sleep in each other’s arms, a tangle of limbs and shared body heat so they can both fit on the small couch. The next morning they shower together as promised before Steve has to leave for the restaurant. All day, with every call of ‘Yes, chef!’ he can’t help but think of Eddie and smile to himself. He doesn’t think working in a kitchen will ever be the same again.

#steddie #stranger things #eddie munson #steve harrington #18+ minors dni #chef!steve #life is beating the shit out of me but i'm back with the weird smut

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tangledbea · 1 year ago

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I was just thinking about Wish and all the blatant references in it. I remember watching it in theaters and at first I thought "Okay cute, the friends are the dwarves, that citizen wants long hair, funny homage, Asha's looking at the stars like Tiana, that's nice..." then it all went downhill to "Just. Stop." by the climax. Especially the Asha/Fairy Godmother theory: as a POC I find that very offensive. Then I realized... Tangled was the 50th DAC movie, and it also had lots of references. (1)

There were all the hidden items in the tower, Pinocchio in the Snuggly Duckling, and the books in the library referencing other Disney movie covers. Not to mention the New Dream scenes that were similar to other DP couples, like the boat (Ariel/Eric), the dying love confession (Belle/Adam) and the whole princess + thief premise (Aladdin/Jasmine). And yet, those easter eggs didn't stop Tangled from being its own unique film. Same goes for Encanto, the 60th movie, and it referenced others, too (2) I think both Encanto and Tangled can still hold up as classic, rewatchable movies despite the anniversary celebrationz because the writers/directors/general crew put the references in the background. They were fun to find out about, but you don't need to know about them to still enjoy it. Wish, on the other hand... I feel like you would have to literally watch all the DAC movies and then some (Mary Poppins) before it even begins to hold up to the standards of the previous 'celebration' films (3) And even then, the story relies on the callbacks to get you to enjoy it. If I stripped Wish of every single Easter egg it had, I'd be left with barely a shell. Meanwhile, if I did the same to Tangled, the result would be pretty much the exact same movie. TLDR: Tangled is a much better anniversary movie than Wish, and that's a fact. So those are my thoughts, thanks so much for reading all this, I appreciate it! :D (4)

The thing is, the other movies you mentioned (Tangled and Encanto) were markers of "how many animated movies they've released" milestones, while Wish was 100 years of the Disney company. It's not the same kind of milestone at all, because it was marking time rather than progress. Not that this is excusing Wish of its disappointing story, but expressing the difference between the movies and the studio's approach to them. Tangled and Encanto (which, by the way, is my second favorite Disney movie from recent years) weren't written to be the 50th movie and the 60th movie. They were written to be their own things and happened to fall in line with the 50th and 60th release. In fact, some numbers had to be fudged a little in order to make Tangled line up with the 50th release, and Encanto was the tenth one after Tangled. Disney didn't even expect Encanto to do well, and were blown out of the water with surprise when it became a smash hit. Where as Wish was "crafted" (I use the word loosely) to be the 100 year celebration of the company.

Every time I find out more about earlier concepts of the film that they opted not to use (the Star being a prince, the king and queen being a power couple villain duo) I get very frustrated and angry about what we could have had. They had some really solid, interesting concepts in there, and they threw it all out the window in order to cram as many references as they could into it. Asha has seven friends (for example), to be the seven dwarfs, but their characters aren't developed at all. They had to tell us what the deal was with color coordination, alliterative names and gimmicks that lined them up with the dwarfs instead of focusing on them at all and making it clear through that who they were supposed to be. Just, "Get it? There's seven of them and this one wears glasses and Asha calls her 'doc' and this one's always sleepy and this one's always sneezing and this one's kind of dopey and this one's grumpy, get it?!?!?!"

I like Alan "I went to Julliard" Tudyk, but not only does he not need to be in every single Disney movie these days, they really didn't have to make Valentino, you know, a thing. "Get it? This is the origin of talking Disney animals, get it?!?!?!?!?!" And they really gave him way too much screen time. I'm often not a fan of the comedy relief animal sidekick as it is (there are some exceptions - some I really like and some I'm neutral to), but boy howdy did they overplay Valentino and make me actively dislike him.

The interesting thing is, I'm not a fan of Raya and the Last Dragon. I don't hate it, but I'm not a fan. I gave it a shot, I watched it, but it left no impression on me. It felt very... Millennial check-listed. POCs, found family, no overt romance but if it's there it's LGBTQ, dragons (cause who doesn't like dragons?), etc. Raya is fine. But for me, it's forgettable. I've only watched it the one time, I barely remember what happens in it, and I have a lot of trouble remembering the characters' names.

But Wish? Wish, I think about often. I have never been so disappointed in a Disney movie as I am with Wish, because Wish has the bare bones potential to be something great. And instead, it's that. What Disney should have done for its 100 year anniversary was make a movie that was finely crafted to show everything they've learned about animation in the past 100 years. I made an observation on a different blog that, when to you take a step back, King Magnifico is a stand-in for corporate Disney, and the whole movie is the crew railing against the corporation stripping the creativity from its workers and not valuing art, even though it’s in the art business. They just want everyone to love them, because everyone always has. Magnifico wants to hoard the wishes the way that corporate Disney wants to hoard talent, and the citizens willingly give up their talent and work because they believe something good will eventually be done with it. It feels to me like the climax of the movie is the artists and animators fighting the good fight against their corporate overlords the same way that actors and writers were striking for so much of 2023. It felt like a battle for the soul of the movie. But although the heroes of the movie win in the end, it was actually corporate who won, because the movie was stripped of all of its heart and soul in order to cram in more references. The artists did what they could, but they still had to follow orders if they wanted the movie to get made.

Oh, and as a side note, you can't just make a mortal human be a literal fairy by giving her a magic stick. That's not how that works.

Anyway, for my money, Once Upon a Studio is a much better homage to 100 years of Disney than Wish ever will be. Anyway, sorry for this incredibly long-winded rant.

#Tangled #Answered

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elsaqueenofstress · 2 years ago

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some djats fans are very very insufferable when it comes to the whole "unreliable narrator" aspect of the story. an unreliable narrator is a character who lacks complete credibility or accuracy in their retelling of the story, which is what you get in the book. however, it's not because Everyone Is Lying All The Time On Purpose: it's because they all have literally different perspectives on each moment. warren and graham are convinced that "the six" sounds like "the sex" because it's what they felt at the time, but billy and karen disagree. daisy and billy think that the aurora cover is gorgeous and iconic because it spotlights them, while everyone else rolls their eyes at how predictable it is. warren still believes, forty years later, that karen was hooking up with one of the roadies because graham and karen's relationship was a secret, so his stories are sometimes completely false. graham can't view karen's choice to get an abortion as hers, and emphasizes his own betrayal over the feelings she expressed to him because they hurt too much. things like that!

"unreliable narration" doesn't just mean lying all the time, and it gets a little lame to watch people (most of whom are d/b shippers) claim that's the case. the book's opening lines aren't "they could have been making this shit up!" – they're "some [interviewees] were more forthcoming than others...on matters both big and small, sometimes accounts of the same events differ. the truth often lies, unclaimed, in the middle." there were probably details that characters left out on purpose, but why would everyone, especially after having not spoken in years, have agreed to completely lie about everything? billy tells his grown, adult daughter about cheating on her mother repeatedly, about missing her birth during his addiction, about the deep attraction he felt for daisy. people are so desperate for their ship to have been physically canon that they disregard these details and claim that he was just protecting julia's feelings (again, she's like forty at this point??) or that he and daisy agreed to leave out their apparently torrid affair (which especially falls apart after tjr released the bonus pages, where camila explicitly tells daisy "don't try to sugarcoat anything on my behalf" and daisy promises to do so). it does a disservice to whatever shreds of nuance or subtlety the book had, all traces of which the show decided to throw out the window in favor of cw-level drama and clunky character arcs

anyway the show's reasoning that "this is what really happened!!!" technically doesn't even hold up bc they changed too many random details lmao. like no matter how strong whatever they were smoking during the seventies was, i don't think it was enough for them to mass hallucinate the twins and pete, collectively forget what month they played chicago stadium, and all pretend like graham and karen didn't tell them about their relationship...? loved the casting loved some of the songs loved simone's plot but that was Not a good show methinks

#djats #daisy jones #daisy jones and the six #daisy x billy #billy dunne #billy x camila #graham dunne #karen sirko #eddie roundtree #warren rojas #daisy jones edit #notes

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psychogirlfriendandsupervillain · 10 months ago

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Other Man's Widow - Chapter 2

Female!Reader x Whitey Winn (Both young adults)

Modernish!AU (it's kinda 1950-60s coded?), inspired by the lyrics of Carrie Underwood's Church Bells and Hoizer's Dinner and Diatribes (Church Bells is the backflashes, Dinner and Diatribes is the vibe of the hot questioning room before the rain).

Warnings: Abuse, domestic abuse, murder, religious trauma(?).

Summary: The young deputy gets sent to comfort a young widow.

A/N: We get to see more of the other Godless characters :D.

Your tentative hands meet the edges of the cup. It is no longer burning to the touch as you lift it slowly to your lips. The air is damp and still your tongue feels dry. The young man across from you watches you take a sip with soft but attentive dark eyes. You push down the discomfort of being observed, hiding it in your handkerchief.

“How did he seem these last few days? Was he” Deputy Winn pauses, moving his pen in circles in the air and lifting his eyes up, looking for the right expression. “worried about anything?”

He’s sweet, trying hard to not involve you in anything you didn’t know before. His movements, while indicative of his youth and a wandering mind, are reminiscent of how one handles a bird that has flown in through an open window into the kitchen. Your arm itches and you brush a hand over the knit to soothe it.

“I don’t know about worried, John never tells me about his work. But the last week or so” You grip the handkerchief between your hands again “oh I don’t know.”

“Now any little thing could be important.” Deputy Winn makes a gesture with his hand, as if to soothe your worries.

“He’s been absentminded.” You confide, releasing a sigh. “The phone rang one night and the call seemed to agitate him.” A frown ghosts over your face.

“And when was this?” He takes up the pen again.

“Tuesday. I’d made shepard’s pie.”

“Any idea what it was about?” Whitey really hates to put her through this. Her face is veiled in held back emotion, flickers showing only in passing, shoulders move with even breaths. The shadows cast by the blinds make her seem to have lost days of sleep. Whitey wishes he could say something to ease your pain, but he knows that isn’t possible. All he can do is focus on his job, get the facts straight for McNue and the others, and maybe he can get you some closure.

You look up from your hands. “Work, he said.”

“Father.” The soft spoken word was loud in the empty hall. Reverend Griffin looked up from the fountain of holy water which he had dipped his hands.

“My child.” His face lit up with joy, eyes crinkling hinting at the smile hidden by his white beard. He waves a large hand. “Come in, you’re always welcome in God’s house.”

You slipped out from the shadows by the entrance under the organ loft, head lowered with the brim of your hat shutting out against the light shining in through the tall windows. Reverend Griffin’s arm circled around your back, herding you towards the front pew. Your shoes clicked against the stone floor, too loud, like you were taking up too much space. The floral fabric whispers against your legs as you sit down with him, hat in your hands.

“Father, I need advice.” You spoke quietly. “I feel as though I am lacking. I try to be a good wife to my John but my efforts fall short.” With effort you stopped your hands from picking at the seam of your dress. The reverend’s hands came to rest on top of yours, his body leaning forward and you lifted your gaze to his, keeping the side of your face towards him.

“My child, marriage is holy, sanctioned by the Lord himself. There will be trying times, as in all parts of His creation, but the bond between you and your husband is sacred. You will find the way.” His eyes were genuine, but his words stung your eyes and burn your right cheek. You blinked a few times and cleared your throat, returning the squeeze to his hand.

“Thank you, Father.”

“Just down the corridor and to the left.” The young man holds open the door for you. Your dress barely brushes past him and you step out into the hall with a quiet thanks.

On your way past the barred in front desk you note the spot of bright colour and meet eyes with Mary-Agnes, who is pausing her writing to tuck back an escaped strand of blond hair. The woman had shown you into the room with a firm but kind hand when the police car had dropped you off at the station. She told you that someone would be right with you, and if you had needed anything, you were just to call for Maggie, she’d told you in a warm tone that left no room for protests. You give a small smile to her and she returns a reassuring one. Behind her you see Miss Temple searching in an archive cabinet for some paper. Turning the corner you reach the restroom and close the door behind you. It was a wonder the station had put Maggie on reception desk work, when she had eyes that would pierce your soul if you had been around her longer.

You finish your business and after washing your hands you run the tap as cold as it will go. The water will only provide temporary relief, as you dab wet tissue at your neck. Taking a deep breath you look in the mirror, squeezing the edges of the porcelain sink.

You quietly slipped into the back pew on Sunday morning, the veil on your hat low over your brow. Reverend Goode shifted further in on the bench and you give him a nod in thanks. He wore his white clergy cloak, overseeing the baptism of the Gunners’ little bundle of joy later in the day. Baptisms never had been Reverend Griffin’s self appointed duties.

As the very man begun his sermon from the front of the room you couldn’t help the venomous glare that shot from under your cover. He had spoken of love on your wedding day. When you came to him, he spoke of marriage being a holy union. On this day he stood up there today preaching about care, and fidelity, when last night you were being beaten so hard you hit your head on the leg of a kitchen stool. That was his friend that did that.

Reverend Goode must have caught your stare because he turned towards you, and even in the shade of the organ loft you could see he saw. As all rose to join a hymn you moved to leave but the soft touch of his fingers against your arm stops you. You turned, face lowered, and the shame in his eyes when you finally met them almost matches the one you feel. The makeup once again felt unnatural on your face, the skin burned where the marks were. He held out his hand, carefully, hopefully, and you took it, held it tight as you joined the hymn.

You did not have to tell him. He knew. As he sat with you after the sermon, he held your hand and didn’t say a word as you both stared at the cross together.

“What do I do?” You asked, knowing he’d have no answers. Reverend Griffin was the leader of this congregation, and Roy could be out in the blink of an eye if he spoke poorly of the Reverend’s friend. You didn’t want that to happen to him. The town would suffer a great loss if this kind man moved away.

He squeezed your hand, and looking at him in the corner of your eye you could see cracks form in him, as if the reverend was struggling with his faith in the system he was in. Then he took a deep breath and met your eyes.

“Have faith in the Lord, my child.” His voice was grave, eyes urging you to forgive him for his own weakness but to trust his words. “His will be done.”

You nodded. “I will.”

#Whitey Winn x reader #godless

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ariswolfram · 4 months ago

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City of Ash

Part 1: Death

16,335 P. D., Terrus the 3rd., 17:29

Reach Timeline

Waking up after dying is truly an odd thing... your body has no weight, no mass, and no heartbeat. Your just a soul floating above you're once-conscious body.

Looking down at my cold corpse is equally as odd. I am transparent, with an odd green glow to myself. Still wearing all that I was wearing when I died... which is just a hospital gown. Meanwhile, my body is completely corporal. Though, as a soul, I cannot interact with it. Not like I want to, I'm finally freed of this awful place.

Looking around the room, I can see my body lying in stasis in the hospital bed. The heart monitor attached to my once-living body releasing a muffled, monotone hum. The room is foggy, as if looking through a dense mist.

Several nurses rush into the room and run to the side of my bed. Though, I'm a DNR... so they legally can't bring me back.

Instead, they set a coin down onto my dead body's eyes... I take both coins and pull on them. This action pulls out two translucent grey coins out of the physical coins, like ghost objects, ones I can interact with properly in spirit.

I put the coins into my pocket, and feel the ground shake slightly underneath my feet. Looking outside a window, I spot a train station. Seems a train is just arriving, words plastered onto its side, ‘ST-001-RCH — Soul Transit’. Several other souls who were seated at the station stand up and walk aboard the large vessel.

I rest my hand on the window, only to see it pass through it. I test this some more by pushing my arm through the window, but get interrupted by a loud, powerful voice emanating from the train.

"ALL ABOARD!"

Was that Scourge or Virtue? Ive never heard their voices before, but it sounded more feminine so I'm guessing it was Scourge. But the possibility of it being—

"—JUST GET IN THE FUCKING TRAIN!"

Reading my thoughts now, hm? Isn't that a bit rude?

The train starts moving. I fall out of the building and collapse to the floor in a panic, sprinting toward the train as it makes its way along the tracks. Someone stops me as i attempt to run aboard.

I look at them, getting a bit surprised by their form. Their head is a black hole, with an accretion disc of purple. Their body replicating the lifeless black of the black hole's surface. Almost mesmerizing to look at.

They (somehow) speak, despite not having a distinct mouth, "You have to pay for a ticket first, before boarding..."

"Wh—... when is the next train coming in then?"

"Not long, 15 minutes. Your at a high traffic area, plus your dead. You have no need to worry about trivial things like time..."

"... that's true..."

"Now, you gonna pay for it?"

"Oh! Right," I pass the two coins from earlier over to the Scour, who takes and deposits them into a box, "Sorry about that..."

"No need to apologize, sir." The Scour prints out a black ticket and hands it to me. Words printed on it in Celestial reading, ‘One way trip: Judgement’.

I take it and nod in thanks, and look at the tracks where the train once was, "... 15 minutes more cant be that bad..."

I move to one of the seats lining the inside of the station, and sit down. A moment of respite before being judged is always nice...

And although I know it should feel stressful, I really don't feel all that stressed. Almost like i know I'm in good hands. I mean, I didn't exactly do anything bad in life from what I know. My life was pretty bland.

Though... I did commit arson several times... alongside murder... but that was when I was young, I already served my time for that... right?

By the god's, what if He sends me to Torment?! I don't want to go there, It's literal hell! And if he does send me there, I don't want to be around to feel that pain... But I do kinda deserve it...

I mean, in my past i did some horrible things... And although I did serve time in the material planes, I'm not one to argue Saffron's judgement on my soul... If he says I deserve the 18th level, then I deserve the 18th level...

The next train arrives, snapping me back to reality. I get up and walk aboard, sitting down in a window seat to get comfortable.

After a few minutes, the train starts moving. Following a set of railways that lift off the ground to swerve into the distance.

#lore #lore drop #oc lore #singural hyperion #story #lore dump

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klove0511 · 1 year ago

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It's Rest I Want Chapter 4

“Just like that.”

The demon grinned, and Dean hated her. She had played on his one weakness, and she knew it. But hate or not, he couldn't be mad about it, not if it gave him Sam.

He opened his mouth to accept the deal when cold washed over him. Suddenly he was a passenger in his own body, completely frozen in place while something else took control.

No, he thought, struggling to move, to speak, to do anything at all.

Sorry, Dean.

The words blindsided him. Sam was possessing him? He knew ghosts could if they were powerful enough, but he'd never expected this. For a moment, just the smallest moment, he was happy. Dean had spent his whole life protecting Sam, and more than once he'd wished Sam didn't have to exist separate from himself. It was out there that could hurt him. He'd once heard a mother lamenting giving birth because now her baby wasn't safe in her body, and he'd understood exactly how she felt. The moment faded as soon as he heard Sam speak. His little brother, his beautiful, intelligent, stubborn asshole of a brother, was telling the demon no. That he would rather stay dead. Dean howled in fury, throwing everything he had at Sam in a vain attempt to reclaim control.

Then it was too late. The demon was gone and the summoning materials burned. Dean would have cried if he had control of his tear ducts. Since he didn't, he let his consciousness fall back into something like sleep.

He was alone in his body when he woke up in a strange motel room.

Sunlight filtered through the curtains, letting him see the ugly orange and olive décor. Some place still stuck in the 70s, then. There was a new bottle of whiskey on the table by the window, and next to it was a piece of paper folded in half. From the bed he could read his name, written in Sam's neat handwriting.

He crawled out of bed, reaching for the note.

Dean,

I’m sorry. I know you're pissed, and I get it. I shouldn't have done that to you. But please, you've got to understand, I couldn't let you make that deal. I wouldn't be able to live with myself if you went to Hell for me. Please try to understand.

Please. Let me go.

Sam

With a snarl he crumpled the paper, throwing it across the room. Rage boiled up, needing to be released. He flipped the table, hardly caring that the whiskey bottle shattered when it landed. For the next few minutes he was barely aware of what he was doing, just needing to break whatever was closest to him. Needing to feel the pain in his hand when he punched the wall.

By the time the fury was spent, the room was trashed. Dean sagged to the floor, drained of the anger that he'd been wearing like a shield these last few months. Fuck Sam. He— His breath hitched. He closed his eyes, fighting down the sobs that were threatening. Slowly he took one deep breath, then another. When he had a sliver of control he said, “You still here, Sam?”

Silence. He waited for a breeze or a cold spot. The room was as empty as it had been when he woke up. His restraint crumbled, and he mourned with deep, gasping sobs. He hated it. Hated that he couldn't stop, hated that even this didn't feel like enough. There was nothing he could do. Nothing to save Sam. Nothing to let this feeling out.

He'd had one moment where he was as close to Sam as he could possibly be, and Sam had— Sam had used Dean's body to make sure they would never— It was impossible. Unthinkable. They'd never share another meal. Never fight over laundry day. Never bitch at each other over who cleaned the guns or wanted terrible snacks for movie night. He’d never again feel Sam’s hands on him while tending Dean’s wounds. He couldn't be. He.

God, Dean had been an idiot. He'd thought he was doing ok, considering. He'd thought he was getting by, dealing with it. Yeah, ok, maybe he was drinking too much and barely eating or sleeping, but he'd been out there. He'd been hunting, and he hadn't even gotten himself killed yet. So, yeah. Considering the circumstances, he'd thought he was doing pretty good. He was a fucking idiot.

John was tucked into one of the back booths of the Roadhouse, nursing a beer while he pored over his research. Ash had told him to come, but he hadn’t specified why. He’d been passed out drunk in the trailer behind the bar when John had arrived two hours ago. Ellen had told John to just be patient. Ash didn’t live on the same schedule as the rest of the world.

When Ash did stagger into the main room, he was rumpled and hungover, which did nothing to deter him from starting his day with a beer. He was in another hideous sleeveless shirt, flannel this time, with the shoulders fraying where the sleeves had been cut off. At least this time he had a shirt on underneath it. “Yo, Papa Winchester! You made it!” he said by way of greeting.

John struggled not to glare. The man had proven his talents already, so it did John no favors to alienate him. “What have you got?”

Ash flopped into the seat across from him. “I,” he started dramatically, “have got a lead.”

John cocked his head expectantly.

Ash rolled his eyes and guzzled his beer. “Winchesters. No flair for theatrics.” He shook his head in disapproval. “Fine. All right, did Ellen catch you up?”

John grumbled low. “No. She didn’t. What is the lead.”

“Fine. Shit, dude. So, you know Dean has been working this case. Well, he managed to find out that the mothers—not always the moms, actually, but mostly them—all encountered our Yellow Eyed friend before the night of the fires.”

John thought of the list in his journal, names and dates where the demon had appeared prior to coming to their home. “What do you mean ‘encountered?’”

“I mean encountered. Ran into. Met. But I also mean made a deal with.”

John’s blood ran cold. “Mary wouldn’t.”

Ash winced and ran a hand through his mullet. “Sorry, my man. Unless you did, then it’s safe to say it was her.”

“What does that mean though? Made a deal for what?”

“That part ain’t real clear. This guy wasn’t making deals like a regular demon. Said he didn’t have any interest in their souls. Just wanted permission. But anyhow. That’s not the lead. All that did was give me more people to look for. It took some doing, mind, but I’ve found like a dozen of these people so far. And get this: most of ‘em have gone missing in the last month.”

Permission. He thought of the demon coming into their home, into Sammy’s nursery. Given what he knew of Azazel’s plans, this information just cemented his certainty that he’d made the right call letting Sam go. He swallowed back bile. “You figure out where they’ve been going?”

Ash beamed at him. “Ding ding ding! Give the man a medal. Now, understand that I haven’t actually found these kids, right? But I have found demonic omens that line up with the patterns you’ve observed. It stands to reason that the missing people that this demon has previously targeted just might be in the place with all the demonic signs.”

The guy looked so damn proud of himself. John clenched his jaw, trying to keep his patience. “Ash. Where.”

John had just about finished planning his route when Dean came through the door. Dean hadn't looked good when John had last seen him, half-crazed researching for weeks while he tried to save Sam, but he was barely recognizable now. His son looked gaunt, like he hadn't remembered to stop for food enough since they'd parted ways. He was unshaven, unwashed, and the smell of booze reached John from fifty feet away.

Ellen greeted Dean, who asked for Ash. Ash had disappeared into the back rooms again, doing whatever it was he did most of the time. It didn't take long for Dean to emerge from the back with a new look of determination. He was headed toward the bar when he caught sight of John, his eyes widening in surprise. His poker face was good though, and that was the only sign of recognition John saw. They watched each other a moment, John studying his son's changed appearance. He obviously wasn't sleeping enough either, judging from the dark circles under his eyes. It hurt, seeing Dean look so— He searched for an adequate word. So broken.

It reminded him of himself in those early days. Trying to care for two young boys while he grieved Mary, trying to process what he'd witnessed the night she died. He'd barely survived.

Learning about the supernatural from Missouri had been the only thing he could hold on to, a reason to keep going. His quest for revenge. Like Ellen had said, he did understand that. He just hadn't understood what she'd meant when she'd been talking about Dean, not until now, at least. He’d never suspected things between them had been like that.

Of course, he'd known the boys were close. He'd encouraged it their whole lives. They relied on each other, trusted each other. Sam had worked with Dean far better than he'd ever worked with John, and Dean had blossomed in the year the boys had hunted together without John commanding them. Seeing Dean now, John understood that he had done this to his son. That closeness, such a boon on a hunt where a good partner meant life or death, was only a source of pain. It was a wonder Dean hadn't gotten himself killed yet.

Dean obviously wasn't going to make the first move, so John tilted his head in a “come here” gesture. Dean hesitated a moment more, then set his jaw and moved. He didn't say anything as he slid into the booth, didn't even look at John.

John sighed and said, “You coming with me?”

Dean's face contorted, some subtle fight between pissed and darkly amused. But he said, “I'll meet you there, and I’ll call Bobby, have him join us. Don’t forget to bring the Colt.”

“Dean—”

“I'm not debating this with you.”

That hadn't been what he was going to do, but it didn't matter. Apologies could wait.

Dean drove 20 over the speed limit the whole way, letting the roar of Baby's engine soothe him. Seeing John had been a surprise, and he'd have words with Ellen later about that. For now, he had to concentrate on not getting himself killed long enough to get his revenge. The demon, then John. Or John, then the demon? He saw advantages to both, but trying to play out each scenario made him feel hollow and numb. The anger was protecting him right now, and he needed that if he was going to stay functional long enough to get this done. Fuck planning. He'd play this by ear.

The radio crackled, and he reached for it, intending to slot a tape in. He was going fast enough that it wasn't worth finding another radio station. Too soon he'd be out of range and have to try again. At least South Dakota wasn't far, relatively speaking. Another hour or two and he'd be there. Before he could get the tape in the player, he recognized the voice breaking through the static, and it wasn't the latest DJ. It was Sam.

Relief flooded him, followed closely by shame and more anger. It took him a minute to even recognize what Sam was trying to say.

“Slow.... down....”

Dean rolled his eyes and pressed harder on the gas.

“Dean...” Sam sounded pissed, and Dean had no trouble imagining the bitch face Sam was shooting at him. He glanced at the passenger seat, a grin on his face before he remembered.

He refocused on the road, glaring into the night. “Where have you been? I thought you might have moved on or something.”

“Tired.... Work....”

Dean tried to work that out. “Possession wears you out?”

“Yeah...”

“The things you learn.” The air was cooling rapidly, but he didn't slow down. “You doing ok, otherwise?”

It took longer for Sam to respond this time, and Dean wondered if it was because he was choosing his words or because talking like this was hard too. “…Worried...”

“What do you have to be worried about?” It came out incredulous and harsher than he intended, but things often did when he was angry.

“You.” Just one word, and the only one so far that had been crystal clear. Well then.

“You don't need to be worried about me. I'm fine.”

“Not...” The temperature dropped a couple more degrees, and Dean turned the heater up.

Sam wasn't wrong, and he wasn't the first to express concern. Ellen had said as much, and so had Bobby. The way John had looked at him had spoken volumes. Even Ash had said he looked like crap, which was more social than the guy normally was. “I'm fine enough.”

“Don't... kill... Dad...”

Dean furrowed his brow. “What? Why? How do you even know about that? I haven't told anyone.”

“Not... mad...”

“How the hell aren't you mad at him? Huh? He killed you. His own son.”

“Already.... dead...”

Dean shook his head in denial. The road in front of him was blurring, and he had to let the car slow a little. No way was he dying in a car crash right before— before he finished things.

“Yes...” There was a longer pause, and then Sam's voice came through softer, pleading. “Please...”

“How can you ask me that?” He pulled in a shuddering breath. “You already— You want me to let you stay dead. Ok. Fine. I haven't summoned any demons, have I? But you weren't dead. Not yet. Not until he pulled the plug. So that's on him.”

“Dean...”

“I can't let him walk, Sam. I just can't. He's the one who taught us that family is everything. I don't— How can you be ok with this?”

“Not... ... fault...” Sam's voice was fading, and it sparked panic in Dean’s gut. He wasn’t ready to lose this again already.

“Hey, now. Don't do that. Ok? Just. You don't have to talk.” He drummed his hands on the steering wheel. “It doesn't make any sense to me, is all. After the way we were raised. He loved you most, you know? And I knew it, and I never even was mad about it because I loved you most too. It was just how the world worked, as far as I could tell. Not saying I never got pissed at you. Hell, we both got pissed at you. But that didn't fucking matter. You were the one we were protecting.” He grimaced. “I always kind of wondered if it was because of Mom. She died protecting you, so we spent the next 23 years trying to do it too. So, to have him do what he did, just doesn't make sense to me. I’m sure he had his reasons.” Dean chewed his bottom lip. “But I trusted him to look after you the way I would, and I lost you. So screw him and his reasons.”

Dean drove in silence for a long time after that. Eventually the temperature in the car returned to normal, and the static faded to normal levels. He pushed the Metallica tape into the player but kept the volume low. Sam stayed quiet, though whether or not that was by choice Dean had no way to know. He didn't even know if Sam was still listening. Some time after he crossed the border into South Dakota, Dean said, “I won't kill him, if that's really what you want.”

The words hung in the air, and Dean regretted saying them. But then the radio crackled again, and Sam's voice clearly said, “Yes... Thank you.”

“I can't promise to forgive him. That's not— It's unforgivable.”

Sam didn't respond again, so Dean took it for agreement. At the least, it seemed Sam didn't want (or didn't have the energy) to argue the point.

Bobby was the first to arrive. He met John at the end of the dirt road that led to the town. It had fallen into disrepair over the last several decades, and the surrounding forest had reclaimed it. They’d have to hike the rest of the way.

John thought back to that voicemail he still had saved and wondered if Bobby was going to follow through on his threat. Neither of them spoke, just nodded acknowledgement into the stony silence. Dean couldn’t be that far behind, and John felt the need to settle things with Bobby first. However Dean felt, he trusted his son to have his eye on the prize. He wouldn’t stab John in the back until the demon was dead. Bobby had no such motivation, and he’d made it perfectly clear that he thought he’d make a better father to John’s boys than John did.

Eyeing Bobby’s shotgun carefully, he was prepared to dodge out of the way at a moment’s notice. “Bobby.”

Bobby grunted in response.

It wasn’t fear that had settled in John’s belly. Resignation, maybe. Low level grief that had nothing to do with Sam or Mary’s loss. He and Bobby had been good friends, once. It had been years since that was true, but the man had put their differences aside not that long ago. John didn’t expect him to be able to do it again.

He opted for blunt honesty. In truth, he didn’t know another way. “How worried do I need to be about you using that on me?” John asked.

Bobby clenched his jaw and gripped the gun a little tighter. “I’m here to make sure Dean don’t end up like his brother. That’s all.” Don’t risk Dean, and you have nothing to worry about went unsaid.

That was fair enough, he supposed. It was good, even, because if Bobby was watching Dean’s back then John could focus on making sure Azazel got put in the ground. He wouldn’t have to split his attention.

Dean arrived in Cold Oak, South Dakota just before midnight. Bobby hiked ahead, acting as scout. Dean privately thought it was just to get away from John for a while. The tension between the two of them had been palpable when he arrived.

John broke the silence after only a minute or two. “Are you ready for this?”

“What's that supposed to mean?” Dean said. He was tired and pissed off. Sam had to be somewhere close, and Dean didn't particularly want to think about how it would go if John found out about that. Besides, he hadn't had enough sleep in the last four months. At this point he figured he was allowed to be a little crabby.

“Just making sure your head's in the game.”

Dean side-eyed his father. “Of course it is. We've been preparing for this fight my whole life. I'm not about to fuck it up now.”

“Good.”

“Good.” Dean let that be it for maybe a minute, but he couldn't stop his mind from thinking about it. “Why do you think my head isn't in the game?”

John shrugged minutely, barely visible in the moonlight. “You look like shit, Dean. It's obvious you haven't been taking care of yourself lately. I don't know how far that goes.”

“Why do you care?”

John faltered a step, turning to actually look at Dean. “Because I'm your father.”

That was the last thing he should have said. Fury boiled up past all of Dean's exhaustion, and he struggled to remember that an hour ago he'd promised Sam not to murder John. “You're my father? Is that like how you were Sam's father when you told me to let him die? Or how about when you gave me a fake spell that was supposed to heal him? Or were you his father when you took him off life support? God, with parenting like that, who needs monsters?”

John stilled. The tension in the air was palpable. “Sam was already dead, Dean.”

“No. He wasn't. That's the whole point of life support. There was time to save him. What's the point of knowing about all this shit if Sam was going to die anyway?” He shook his head and started forward.

To his credit, John didn't raise his voice. If it had been Sam arguing with him, it probably would have already devolved into a shouting match. “It's not our place to mess with the natural order. That's part of what we do.”

Dean groaned and turned to face John. “Right. The natural order. Like you would’ve made the same choice if it was Mom.”

“Don’t bring your mother into this,” John growled.

Dean stepped up into John’s space. “Am I wrong? You let Sam die because of the demon and its fucking plans, and you’re too much of a coward to admit you were scared of your own son.” Dean snarled. “Did you know Mom made a deal with the thing?”

John ignored the distraction. “I wasn't scared of your brother; I was scared for him! The demon was going to use him.”

“How? Have you even met Sam? He's not an idiot. No way he'd let a demon use him to fight a war.”

Sam's voice rippled out of the darkness to Dean's left. “If you wanted Dean to listen to you, why didn't you just tell him what you learned? You didn't have a problem telling me. Except, oh right, I was in a coma.” Sam chuckled, dark anger lacing his voice.

John's expression was a mix of horror and grief. “Sam? What are you— Damn it, Dean, what the hell did you do? Didn't I teach you better than this?”

“Fuck you. I gave him a hunter’s funeral.”

“And it didn't concern you that he's a ghost anyway?”

Sam rolled his eyes and threw his arms wide. “What, you want him to burn the Impala? After giving him crap about it needing a wash? Give him a break.”

“I don't need you to defend me, Sam.” John and Sam fighting raised his peacekeeper instincts. He wanted to grab Sam's shoulder and push him back, to physically insert himself between the two of them. Only it wouldn't have worked anyway. Doing that had only ever made them shout louder.

John ignored Dean's statement completely. “Yes, if that's what it takes. What's dead should stay dead. You both know that.”

Sam snarled and reached for John, throwing him against a tree. He moved to follow John's trajectory, luckily not stutter stopping forward like most ghosts, and Dean scrambled to get in front of him.

“Woah, dude, chill out. What happened to not holding a grudge?” He was still livid, furious with John, but Sam needed him to be a voice of reason. Throwing people was serious vengeful spirit territory, and they needed to get a lid on this, right now.

Sam stopped moving, but he was still seething. “Why do you let him say shit like that? You—”

Sam didn't get to finish his sentence because a demon interrupted them. It was shaped like a little girl but sported long, wicked looking claws. Dean blasted it with rock salt, and it vanished into smoke. “Come on, we need to move. It knows we're here,” Dean said, helping John to his feet. “We must be close.” John looked a little dazed, but he moved ok. Dean hoped Sam hadn't managed to do too much damage.

Bobby broke through the trees then, out of breath and wild-eyed. “The Hell are you idiots doing back here?”

Dean filled him in tersely, and Bobby led all of them the last few yards to the town. Sure enough they had been close, and they broke through the woods into the town after just another 100 yards. The place looked empty, but it didn't feel empty. Standing by the tree line was enough to make Dean's hair stand on end. The buildings were in various states of disrepair. Some seemed largely intact, just a broken window or two. Others, like the house nearest them, had entire walls that had caved in, the wood rotting with time and neglect.

“Cheery place,” Dean murmured.

John glared at him, then motioned for them to split up and search the town. Dean silently groaned, rolling his eyes. They'd all been shouting at each other not ten minutes ago, and the Acheri demon suggested they'd already lost their element of surprise. John took the right while Bobby moved toward the center of town. Dean moved to the left, toward the collapsing house. A breath of wind on his neck made him look, and Sam was there, following.

“It's creepy when you do that,” he said.

“Do what?”

“Spooky ghost shit.” They moved cautiously. Well. Dean moved cautiously, and Sam moved silently. He had the same posture as Dean, though it probably didn't matter.

“Sorry I can't do creepy werewolf shit instead,” he deadpanned. “This place sucks. Seriously, why do you let him talk to you like that?”

Dean ignored the question. He hadn’t been letting John do anything. They walked in silence a few minutes while they searched the small town. “Does it hurt?”

Sam frowned, confused. “Does what hurt?”

Dean clenched his jaw a couple times before he managed to bite out, “Dying.”

The question surprised Sam, and he stopped walking while he considered his answer. The longer he took, the more certain Dean was that whatever he said was going to be a sanitized lie.

“If you mean after the spell, then no. I got kicked out of my body in the first couple hours after the crash, I think, and I didn’t feel anything after that.”

Dean swallowed thickly. “Good. That’s good.” The way Sam had phrased it, though. “You remember the accident?”

Sam chewed the side of his lip. “Yeah. You and Dad were knocked out, but I wasn’t. It was a demon possessing the truck driver.” Sam breathed a laugh. “I threatened it with the Colt. God. Dad really would have killed me if I’d used the last bullet on Stunt Demon #5.”

“I thought you weren’t pissed at him.”

Sam rubbed the back of his head. “Yeah. Uh. I don’t know. I’m not. Not like you are.”

“So what the hell was that back there, huh? Throwing people?” Dean cleared the next building. Nothing there but some battered and rotting furniture. They turned toward the center of town.

Sam didn’t answer. “Dude, are you seeing all these ghosts?”

“Most haunted town in America, or so the stories say. You can see them?”

“You can't? This place is full of spirits.” Sam grimaced and sidestepped an invisible object. Dean gave him an “Oh really?” look, and Sam elaborated. “I think— Most of them look old, but pretty normal. Like they just got sick or something. But some of them died bloody.”

“How can you tell?” He glanced at Sam, body restored in his spirit form.

Sam shrugged, stopping to study one. Dean wished it didn't look like thin air to him. “Some of them don't fit.”

“Don't fit how? Come on, Sam, stop being cryptic.”

“They're newer. Younger looking.”

Dean shifted, keeping an eye out for threats he could actually see. “So people have been coming here for years because of the stories. Some of them had to have been killed.”

“Well, yeah, some. That guy over there in the bell bottoms probably died back in the 70s. But her—” Sam pointed off to his right, toward the tavern where John had gone. “She looks modern. I mean, her clothes, but not just that. She looks,” he paused searching for the right word, “I don't know, fresher somehow. I can't really explain it.”

That seemed important and really fucking ominous. The demon was supposed to be here somewhere, though they couldn't figure out why. Ash had started finding other likely psychic kids somehow (the dude worked magic, seriously), and there'd been a half dozen so far that also had missing persons reports. If they had also been showing up here, and at least one was a ghost, then... Dean tried to fit the pieces together. He couldn't yet, but the picture that was forming was grim. He found himself half-grateful that Sam was already dead. He couldn't imagine what he'd do if Sam went missing and turned up here. Worse, if Dean found him too late. He shuddered, then pushed the thought from his mind.

While he'd been thinking, Sam had vanished. “Sam?” he called. “Come on, man, don't wander off.” Dean glanced around anxiously, wondering where his brother had gone. He had to keep moving, though. Sam would have to take care of himself.

Dean had cleared two buildings by the time Sam reappeared, blinking into the periphery of Dean's vision and making him jump. “Don't do that,” he barked. “I almost shot you.”

“It's just rock salt,” Sam said, brushing it off.

“And you're just a ghost, remember?”

Sam considered that a moment, then seemed to remember why he'd come back. “Dude, you need to find Dad and Bobby. One of the psychics is killing the others.”

Dean looked at him sharply. “It's not the demon?”

“No. Some girl is controlling the demons guarding the town. The ghost I talked to said this is some sort of Battle Royale, fight to the death sort of thing. Only the winner doesn't get to leave.”

Dean furrowed his brow. “That's messed up. Did he know why?”

“She didn't. But it sounds like there's a new 'round' every few weeks, so maybe it just isn't over.” The two of them started heading in the direction John had gone.

“That's a comforting thought. So the girl killing people, how long has she been here?”

“No idea. Sounds like she's won at least a few rounds though. Look, over there.” They could hear someone talking in the distance, and as Dean rounded the corner, he spotted John talking to a group of young adults who all looked around Sam's age.

Dean clenched his jaw. “That must be the newest crop. Lucky we got here before she picked them all off.” Drawing closer, he called out, “Dad!”

John looked over at Dean, then turned back to the group of kids he’d found. They’d all told him similar stories about blacking out and waking up in the ghost town. None of them seemed to know why they were there, but they’d just arrived earlier that day. “I’ll be right back,” he said. “Stay put.”

Jogging over to Dean, he asked, “What?”

Dean filled him in on the supposed killer amongst them.

John was skeptical. Ghosts weren’t a reliable source of information. Their perspectives were always skewed; they saw what they wanted to see. It was part of what made them dangerous. “Even if that’s true, it’s not one of those kids. All their stories match.”

Dean pursed his lips, but he didn’t protest. Together they walked back to the group, and John introduced him to Tony, Ava, Leah, Vaughn, and Mark. All the kids were about Sam’s age, but they were otherwise a pretty diverse crowd. Mark looked like he would have been more at home on the beaches of California, toned and solid and definitely not dressed for a South Dakota winter, while Vaughn was taller than all of them and beanpole thin, though in the dim light of his flashlight John couldn’t tell if the boy was also wiry like Sam had been for a while after his last growth spurts. Tony’s dark skin highlighted the whites of his eyes, and it made him look more scared than the others, and his glasses and chubby build spoke of a more sedate life than the other guys. Maybe he’d be more at home in a library than a haunted town. Ava and Leah stuck together, though he didn’t have the impression that they had known each other before today. Then again, they were both slim and of medium height, and they looked similar enough that they could have been sisters.

Ignoring the guys, Dean plastered on his best cocky grin and said, “Hello, ladies.”

John murmured at him, “Keep it in your pants, boy.”

Ava ducked her head, flattered. Leah just shifted uncomfortably.

“Have either of you seen anything? Any idea what might have brought you here?” Dean had turned the charm up to 11. It had been long enough since they’d worked together that John had forgotten that Dean sometimes did this, used his sex appeal like a girl, charming witnesses and victims into spilling their secrets. He was good at it, too.

The temperature was continuing to drop, though, and they needed to get everyone inside. “All right, everyone,” John said, voice pitched to carry over the wind that had just picked up. “There’s a tavern over there that’s still in decent shape. Let’s get there, get inside. Dean, you see if you can find anything useful.” He shot Dean a look to communicate that by ‘useful’ he meant ‘weapons.’ With luck, he’d also find Bobby and fill him in.

Dean nodded and trotted off the way he’d come, leaving John to babysit five young adults. He herded them toward the intact building he’d seen, not trying to make small talk. There was always the chance that they would let something slip when they thought he wasn’t listening, and it was a good chance to observe them. If Dean and Sam turned out to be right, then they needed to figure out who was killing the kids. His money was still on the demon, or at least a demon. Azazel was supposed to be here, but the signs could have been wrong. He had the guys work on barricading the door while he checked the windows.

“Everyone, stay close,” he said.

Ava hugged herself tighter. “Who are you guys? Did you bring us here?”

He glanced at her sharply. “We’re hunting the thing that did.”

“Thing?” Tony chimed in. “What the hell does that mean?”

He’d hoped to get out of this without giving them all the Talk. The less they knew about the supernatural the better. No one needed a bunch of kids deciding they wanted to be hunters and getting themselves killed for it. All five of them were approaching him now, arranged in a semi-circle, and he sighed, resigned to it. The version he gave was abridged, limited to ghosts and demons.

“You’re insane,” Leah said, backing away. “You and that other guy are going to kill us, aren’t you?”

“None of you are dying tonight,” John said. “Dean is looking for salt and anything else we can use against this thing. We didn’t expect to find all of you here.”

She was shaking her head though, refusing to believe him. When she bolted for the door she was already well out of reach. He could chase her, but that would mean abandoning the other four. He swore but let her go.

“I’ll go after her,” Ava said.

“No!” Mark whisper-shouted. “What if the thing finds you? We’re safer here.”

Vaughn raised an eyebrow at him. “You actually believe this? No way is this guy telling the truth. I’ll go with you, Ava. Stay here if you want, man.”

“At least it’s warmer in here! I’m going to freeze to death in that wind.” Mark rubbed at his arms and grumbled in frustration. “Fine. Do what you want. Try not to get killed.”

“All of you should stay inside,” John said. “It’s safer as a group.”

Ava and Vaughn ignored him and left through the only door. He growled, but let them go. When Dean got back with supplies one of them could chase after the others. In the meantime, he’d make sure this place was boarded up as tight as he could make it.

Leah came back on her own a minute later, complaining of the cold. “Sorry. It’s just—” She shrugged. He understood. She wasn’t taking back her words, but she was at least allowing the possibility that something was happening to her that she couldn’t explain. He figured she’d come around to ghosts and demons if and when any of them showed up.

Any of them, like Sam. How could Dean have fucked that up? Sam was supposed to be at peace. He was supposed to be gone, far beyond Azazel’s reach. John didn’t know if he believed in Heaven, exactly, but he wanted to. If Hell was real, then why not the other place? If it was real, then that’s where Sam should be. Not here in this ghost-filled wasteland. Definitely not in the one place where Azazel would be.

That was going to have to be Dean’s problem, though, because the demon from the woods was back. It appeared just behind Leah, and John had enough time to shove her roughly to the side before its claws stabbed out. It caught him square in the stomach, going right through the space she had occupied a moment before. Grunting, he aimed his shotgun and blasted the demon. It dissipated in a cloud of smoke with a shriek.

“Oh my God!” Leah crouched near him. Her eyes were wide, but she exuded competence as she pressed her hands to his wound. “Sorry. It’s too cold to lose a shirt. Everything’s filthy anyway.”

“Doctor?” he mumbled. The tingling in his fingers felt like blood loss more than hypothermia.

She shook her head and pressed harder. “ER nurse. I could probably get you stabilized if we weren’t in the middle of fucking nowhere with fucking demons. How is this real? I mean, I must be hallucinating. Except you’re really bleeding and that thing really attacked us.”

He felt lethargy pulling at him. “Hey. Tell Dean. Tell him—” He couldn’t get the words out; his throat wasn’t working right. Neither was his head, really. Everything was getting fuzzy, and there was a ringing in his ears. Just over Leah’s shoulder he thought he saw Sam flicker into view. Next to him was a stranger. Well. Damn it.

#spnproshipbang #wincest #tw mcd #season 2 AU #fic i wrote #spn #sam winchester #dean winchester #ghost!sam

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