#its almost like an old faded love (platonic) language

[tsuntsunfangirl]

*sees Loki S2 Trailer 2* Is he crying again?

Of course, he's crying again.

I bet you all my hard-earned travel money that he's crying again.

[thetriggeredhappy]

imagine,,, wholesome platonic pyro x team,,, -🦂

i’ll admit, this one is a longie. (no warnings)

-

The second the end-of-day klaxon fired off, Pyro was jumping to their feet and bolting back towards base. Maybe this should worry the team, but they could hear giddy laughter bubbling up from somewhere within the suit, so they weren’t all that worried.

When everyone else got back to base, there was a sign pinned to the swinging doors into the common area, done in five colors of crayon with various smiley faces dotting the empty spaces. “Everyone come back at 7 o’clock please!” it said cheerfully. There was some mild grumbling from Medic, who’d wanted to get something to eat before he headed to go set to work on a project. Heavy clapped him on the shoulder gently and assured him that he could have a sandwich from Heavy’s little fridge.

At a few minutes to 7, nearly all of the mercs had turned up outside the doors of the common area. Scout ended up darting off to find Heavy and Medic, and was dragging them both back down the hall to the place when the doors swung open and Pyro hopped forth brandishing a balloon sword and wearing a party hat.

They gave some incomprehensible cheer, and gestured for the team to go inside.

The vision before them as they filed in was met mostly with wide eyes and complete surprise. The entire common area and kitchen were transformed into a bright, technicolor scene, balloons and streamers and banners hung aloft and across the walls. The chairs, usually in dull, age-worn greys and greens and blacks, were draped in bright new fabric, and every table had a polka-dotted tablecloth. The harsh overheads were dimmed as their beams were inturrupted with dozens of balloons of various colors, and the large table they all so often sat and ate at was absolutely covered with food. A record was spinning away, volume low but immediately working as a wonderful final touch to transform the room, so often home to tiredness and bickering and infighting during their time off, instead making it a place full of light and life.

Everyone ended up investigating something different. Scout, for one, immediately bounded over to the table of food. “Jesus H. fuckin’ Christ, Mumbles, this must’a taken you all night!” he exclaimed, shocked and enthusiastic all at the same time. He zeroed in on a massive stack of chocolate chip cookies, picking one up off the pile and eating it practically in one bite and talking through it. “I’m fuckin’ starving here though, thanks for—“

Then he stopped. Kept chewing, eyebrows furrowing together for a moment, energy freezing in its tracks as he did so, staring off into space like trying to remember something.

Suddenly, a very different energy. He looked at Pyro, who had their hands clasped together and was watching his reaction carefully. For maybe the first time in his life, he was entirely lost for words, for five, ten, fifteen seconds.

“Mumbles, this is... this why you asked me to get that recipe for you? For cookies?” he asked, quiet now, taken aback. Pyro nodded, asked him a question. He took a second or two to sort out what they asked, and then he nodded distractedly. “No, yeah, you nailed it, it’s perfect. Exactly right. It’s...”

He swallowed hard, swiped hard at his eyes with his forearm, laughed a little. Pyro opened their arms, and he accepted the hug immediately, pulling them into a tight embrace, lifting them up off the ground a little with it.

“Yeah. Tastes just like back home. My Ma would be real proud of you, ain’t anybody that ever gets it this right.” A harder squeeze for a minute. “Thank you. I... seriously, there’s not even words. Thank you. You’re the best, pal.”

Pyro squeezed him right back, and then released, moving away as he turned back to the table again, picking up another cookie and starting to eat it much more studiously.

They picked up a plate they’d set aside in the kitchen, hurrying over to present it to Heavy, who was investigating the balloons with some amount of amusement. He laughed the second he laid eyes on it, taking it from Pyro and looking more closely.

“Leetle Pyro, what is this?” he asked, clearly amused and pleased. “How did you make such leetle sandviches? Why is this?”

Pyro’s reply was cheerful, gesturing first to the sandwiches, then holding their finger and thumb close together, then gesturing over towards the rest of the team. Heavy gave a hearty laugh.

“Baby sandviches for baby team?” he asked, still laughing. Pyro nodded. “Oh, Doktor will love this. I go now to show him. Thank you, Pyro. Perhaps I make these and give to team more. Is very good joke.”

Pyro nodded, and Heavy wandered away, still laughing. They watched as he recounted the joke to Medic, clearly very proud of himself, laughing just as hard as the first time even as Medic fought down a grin and rolled his eyes. Heavy then moved on to the next teammate and repeated it.

Demo appeared to be talking Soldier down from popping every balloon on the same side of the color spectrum as the other team. Pyro moved over, jumping to grab hold of one of the strings, and handed one to Demo, who raised an eyebrow, already entertained by whatever they were on about. They grabbed another balloon and held it up to their own face, and inhaled exaggeratedly.

Demo’s expression lit up. “Och, now there’s an idea!” he said, and turned to Soldier. “Look here, watch this one!”

He pinched near the tail of the balloon, nipping a hole in the rubber and taking a deep inhale of it before pinching it back off again. He then turned back to Soldier and grinned.

“Aye, how do I—“ he started to ask, but promptly broke down in laughter at how high-pitched his voice had gone, only redoubling as he heard how ridiculous it was. Soldier and Pyro laughed as well, and within moments Engie had wandered over to see what the commotion was and was laughing as well. Pyro handed their balloon over to Soldier, who immediately moved to do the same thing, and soon the three of them were fully occupied with joking around with each other.

Pyro looked around and noted Spy looking at the sleeve that the record on the player belonged to, clearly trying very hard to seem bored. They moved over and took hold of the sleeve of his jacket, ignoring his protests and pulling him over to the table.

They promptly lifted a wine bottle from the wide selection of alcohol there at the end. They handed it to him, and he took it with a frown and started looking over the label.

His eyebrows shot up, and then he promptly narrowed his eyes at Pyro, a series of questions there in his eyes. The first was vocalized within a few seconds. “Not a particularly old selection, not to mention from some little local winery in France that I am quite sure very few people have ever even heard of,” he said pointedly. “And I’m sure very difficult to track down, even if you knew such an assuredly small backwater nowhere of a town existed. What would cause you to place a specialty order from anywhere like that?”

Pyro just looked at him, hands clasped behind their back.

Spy glanced around at their teammates for a few moments before he spoke again, his voice low. “I’m not entirely sure how you came into knowledge of my place of birth, but I assume I can trust you to make sure nobody else learns it,” he said, a weight to the word that implied it might not be trust, but instead a threat.

Pyro nodded without even needing to think about it, though, and Spy’s shoulders sagged momentarily. He then straightened, looking over the label for a few more moments, expression softening ever so slightly with each passing moment.

“And I’m sure there is not anyone who would be able to tell you this, but I do prefer red wine when given the opportunity of a choice,” he finally deigned to say, much lighter than before. He looked over at Pyro. “So thank you.”

Pyro nodded cheerfully, and edged a glass from the rest and towards him, then bounded off again.

Sniper was stood off away from the bustle to one side of the room, looking vaguely uncomfortable from his body language, even as his face was an impassive mask, revealing nothing. He visibly jumped as a balloon was popped by Medic on accident, frowning hard at it. Pyro moved over and greeted him, and he just nodded at them distractedly, gaze continuing to move between the record player and the table of food and the chaos of Soldier and Demo laughing themselves half to death over the helium and the bright, multicolored light filtering through the balloons. Pyro gingerly took hold of his sleeve where it was rolled up to his elbow and gently tugged on it, leading him through the door into the kitchen.

There were three overheads, but two had been blocked out almost entirely by a mass of black balloons, the final having a white sheet pinned over it to dull the light. Once through the door, the majority of the noise and commotion faded into the background. Pyro then prompted Sniper to look at a bag of coffee that was next to the coffee machine, which apparently already held a full pot of the stuff. Sniper investigated without fanfare, reading over the label.

“Some fancy fair-trade nonsense,” he said, even as his expression betrayed him being impressed, and somewhat surprised. “Leagues better than that tea nonsense our Europeans drinks, at least, and the bulk store buggery we’ve usually got.”

Pyro gestured enthusiastically towards the pot that had already been brewed. Sniper scratched awkwardly at the back of his neck.

“Don’t exactly have a mug for it, mate,” he said carefully. “Mine broke at breakfast a week or so ago, remember? Planned on headed out to a... thrift shop, or flea market or the like, sometime this weekend. Then I can give it a try. If, er... if there’s any left by then.”

Pyro put their hands on their hips, tapping their foot impatiently.

Sniper sighed, moving over to the cabinet where they kept cups. “I’ll just knick one from the other blokes, sure they won’t mind,” he finally agreed, pulling the doors open.

He froze for a few seconds, then gingerly pulled out a mug with a little ribbon bow affixed to the handle.

Sniper was at a loss for words for a moment, then laughed incredulously. “Mate, this was... in pieces, probably two dozen shards, this was long gone,” he marveled, looking over the tiny little cracks that showed up along the surface of it, just barely marring the surface that then read “#1 Sniper” bold and clear. “How bloody long did this take you?”

Pyro shrugged, a little bashful. Sniper appeared to be at a loss for what to do, and ended up putting the mug down, reaching over and giving them an awkward clap on the shoulder.

“Thanks, mate. I appreciate it,” he said, and maybe it would’ve been an underwhelming reaction for most people, but it was an awful lot more than Sniper generally gave to anyone, and so Pyro brightened immediately, bopping him right back.

Engie called them before they could even make it around to him. “Firebug!”

They left the kitchen right away, leaving Sniper behind to the relative quiet and dark and peace. Engie was by the table, looking over a bottle. They greeted him cheerfully.

“Now, this here says it’s sweet tea,” he said, holding up the bottle in question. “Now does that mean it’s some, uh, northern sweet tea that’s not much sweet of anything, or real sweet tea?”

“Maybe it’s Long Island iced tea,” Scout quipped from down the table. “You should chug it and see.”

Pyro waved Scout off and assured him it was real. They explained that they’d gone through all the steps to make the sweet tea the proper way, the same way he’d bemoaned to them every time they were stationed anywhere but in the heart of the United States’ South. Heating the tea up, adding tons of sugar while it was hot, and chilling it again. Engie nodded, apparently satisfied.

They then gestured him over a ways down the table, and directed his attention towards the center. He needed to lean up on his toes and crane his neck a little to see it over the mass of food there, but when his eyes landed on the centerpiece, he absolutely lit up, laughing a little.

“Firebug, where in Sam Hill did you manage to find bluebonnets?” he asked, absolutely delighted. “Those are a full month or so outta season. And those are fresh—bless your heart, did you grow these?”

Pyro nodded, and Engie laughed, drew them into a hug, clapping them on the back as he did so.

“You’re too sweet for your own good, honest you are,” Engie said, and Pyro laughed. “Doin’ all of this for everyone.”

Pyro shrugged, assured him it wasn’t any trouble, and drew back enough to point out to him that they’d made some food that he in particular would probably be excited about, and moved away as he picked up a plate and started digging right in.

They moved over to Soldier, and ended up tugging on his jacket until he finally abandoned where he and Demo were attempting to peer pressure Heavy into inhaling some helium. Pyro dragged him out the back door, making sure to prop it open behind them and saving a balloon from escaping and flying off into the stratosphere. They led him to the dumpster they’d dragged a few meters closer to the door, and flipped open the lid, quickly reaching inside and coming up with two armfuls.

Soldier could not have possibly looked any more excited than he did in that exact moment as he processed the sight of Lieutenant Bites and Lance Corporal Chompers wearing little party hats and covered in little pieces of paper confetti. He promptly set about informing those two—and the several other raccoons rapidly starting to escape from the dumpster—about just how goddamn adorable they looked in their tiny hats and rainbow confetti. He ended up seizing the Lieutenant and holding him tight to his chest, bringing him inside to show to Demo for the five minutes he managed to keep hold of him for before he darted right back out the door and joined his raccoon friends in tearing their cute little hats into shreds. Soldier brought the entire container of sour cream off of the table to give to them outside, and nobody stopped him.

Inside, he picked up one of the records and moved over to Medic, who was busy watching Heavy and Demo go lightheaded from inhaling helium, rolling his eyes the entire time even as he didn’t stop them. Pyro tapped him on the shoulder to get his attention, and handed over the record.

Medic looked pleased, glancing over the record, flipping it over to look at the specific music on it. “I was not aware that we owned any records of classical music,” he mused, visibly cheered up. “I thought that our Soldier had shattered most of them last time we attempted to play board games as a team bonding exercise.”

Pyro nodded, and Medic looked over the album again.

“Ja, this is new. Did you buy this specifically for this, er... occassion?” Medic asked, eyebrows drawn together.

Pyro shook their head, gesturing fro the record to Medic.

“It’s for me then?” Medic asked, starting to grin, and Pyro for one didn’t comment on how worrying he looked when he was pleased with something. “Danke, how very kind of you! It is very much appreciated, my friend. Might I play it now?”

Pyro nodded, and he did. The first swells of a symphony filled the room, and Scout and Demo briefly bemoaned listening to “boring fancy-pants music”, but the tunes were so lighthearted and cheerful that they quickly forgot about it, letting it fade into background noise.

The change of music to something more calm and the general mood of the room settling down were enough to coax Sniper out from the kitchen, and soon Soldier had returned, his and Scout’s moods significantly mellowed out following what they’d been given by Pyro. Soon enough, they were all sat around the table, digging in and talking cheerfully. It was an eclectic assortment of options, and everyone was surprised to find foods specific to their own tastes, and all talked excitedly about their own meals, the stories surrounding the times when they’d eaten them. Heavy, for one, wouldn’t stop repeating his new favorite joke about baby sandwiches for baby teammates.

And then plates were being passed around. Spy was trying brisket, and the Engineer was trying clam chowder, and Scout was trying brautwurst, and Medic was trying crocodile jerky. Some of them collectively bemoaned the favorite food of the others—only Sniper seemed to enjoy the stew Heavy so much liked, saying it had some weird spice combinations, and the corn on the cob that Soldier was ripping through had far too much salt and butter on it according to the entire Support team as well as Demo and Heavy. And only Scout was brave enough (or rather, dared) to try the family recipe venison pie, but upon him saying it actually wasn’t that bad, Medic and Soldier we’re inclined to try, the reception lukewarm and positive respectively. Others were enthusiastic, Scout in particular being surprised that the quiche was something that “Mister hoity-toity” Spy himself claimed to be a favorite, and there being a unanimous consensus at the table that the chocolate chip cookies were downright delicious. Pyro assured Scout that they would make more for him when he seemed a little worried that everyone else would clear that plate and not leave any left over.

For hours, they sat, they ate, they talked, they told stories. Some from their childhoods, and growing up, and traveling, others simply the product of their going on tangents of tangents.

There was only a cake left on the table at the end of the night, luckily a very small one, most of them two steps past full. They agreed that everyone would at least attempt one slice of it, and Pyro stood up and fetched a cake knife and some fresh plates from the kitchen.

“Hey, hey Mumbles,” Scout said upon their return before they could even sit down. “How come you did all this, anyways? Like, seriously, this—this had to be like, days of work.”

“Weeks, even,” Spy chimed a few chairs down.

“Entire weekends,” Engie agreed.

“Awful lot of work to go to, aye?” Demo asked, blinking curiously at them.

Pyro shifted, a little nervous, set the knife down to fidget with their hands for a few seconds. Their reply was so mumbled that nobody could pick up on it.

“I beg your pardon?” Medic asked, leaning in a little, brows furrowed.

Pyro repeated themselves slightly louder.

“Afraid I didn’t catch that,” Engie said from their right.

Pyro repeated themselves slightly louder.

In an instant, Scout was on his feet, openly shocked. “Woah, hold on, are you fuckin’ serious?!” he all but shouted, absolutely aghast.

Questioning noises from around the table.

“They said it’s their fuckin’ birthday.”

An amount of chaos. Some were incredulous, some shocked, others apologetic, others mostly just confused.

“Jesus H. fucking Christ, Mumbles, how come you didn’t tell nobody?!” Scout demanded, voice rising over most of the others and cutting through the noise. “I mean, shit, I don’t even have a gift or nothin’!”

Pyro’s response was drowned out by the rest of the team carrying on, and Scout gestured wildly at them to make them shut up, and silence fell again. He gestured at them, then, and they repeated themselves, speaking slowly and clearly and loudly to be understood through the mask.

“Well, maybe the only gift I really wanted was to give something to all the rest of you guys. To thank you for being my friend.”

Silence, and then chaos again.

A few voices could be picked out. Heavy, exclaiming “Of course leetle Pyro is friend, is credit to team!”. Sniper exclaiming, “Look, we don’t—no need to thank us, we like being mates with you, you lunatic!”. Demo exclaiming, “Cut it with the thanks lark, all these gifts, you know we love ya to death, lad!”. Soldier exclaiming, “We aren’t friends, we are brothers! Metaphorically!”. Similar sentiments echoed, mercs pointing at each other end agreeing heartily, and they carried on for quite some time before they all started falling quiet again, apparently noticing the sound coming from within Pyro’s suit, hands clasped across the bottommost part of their mask.

The crying sound.

“Hey, hey, c’mon now Firebug, what’re the tears for?” Engie urged gently, hand on their shoulder. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong,” they assured, sniffling. “I just love you guys.”

Scout stood up again, apparently making a decision. “Okay, that’s it. Stand up,” he said, and Pyro did. “Alright, group hug. Everyone get in here.”

The team started rising from their own seats within a moment, for once not arguing with the unusual show of affection and camaraderie.

“Hey, that means you, Legs,” Scout said, pointing an accusatory finger towards Sniper as the man stood up. “Get the fuck in here. You too Spy, don’t be a dick.”

“I’m just moving to get around the table, don’t be an animal,” Spy deadpanned, and Sniper murmured an agreement, and then the whole team was there. All just stood, practically crushing Pyro under the weight of eight men’s worth of embraces, and they returned it as best they could, still a bit sniffly.

But then, “Happy birthday to Leetle Pyro,” Heavy said decisively, and the sentiment was immediately echoed by the rest of the team, and then the waterworks were back in full effect. This apparently prompted Soldier to decide they weren’t hugging Pyro tightly enough, at which point he started hugging at maximum strength, surprising several mercs and almost sending them toppling into the table. Once they decided the sappiness was over, and Demo asked if anyone actually had any room left for the cake and largely got a chorus of “no”s in response, Scout picked it up and shoved it directly into Spy’s face, and the mood was back to a cheerful version of normal as Medic reminded them idly that they still had plenty of alcohol left to consume.

Pyro wouldn’t be hard pressed to call it the best birthday ever, especially since their being the one celebrating it meant they were informed that they didn’t have to help with the cleanup afterwards.

[xxxtrouvaillexxx]

Paper Cranes

 A/N: I swear that I’m working on the first chapter of LSaD, I plan to have it out by THIS Saturday! I promise that it’s coming! In the mean time, I’ve been working on this piece for a hot minute and it’s kind of just been sitting around in my drafts and in the back of my head. So~ while you wait, here is a little something something to keep the waters calm. And I needed a little something to deal with quarantine. 

Pair: Bucky x Reader (platonic)

Synopsis: Y/N is an empath... More specifically, a healer with empathic abilities, which leads to from very severe trauma for y/n but you’d never stop helping your team for the world. Even when that trauma leads you to spend a night on to roof in tears and a very heated talk with your best friend Bucky.

Masterlist

Warning(s): angst (I’m a sucker for it...), an alarming amount of fluff, as usual.

Word Count: 3,931

The Tower has been bustling with life ever since the city closed down, or more aptly, the world as it seems. Every single one of the Avengers, other than Barton himself, was closed up in the same building for the last three weeks, and the air was becoming more restless every day. And the more anxious it became inside of these walls, the world was still doing worse for wear. 

You, feeling all of that, felt all of your own worries too. Not that you let anyone in on that little fact. You’re the personal on-site doctor to the Avengers along with being one of the hero’s themselves, though you had no real special power to name in the ways of fighting. You simply were rather good at kicking bad guy butt and were a rather well-known assassin with the Black Widow herself.

And though the two of you are as close as sisters, she doesn’t even know about your ability.

“Lady Y/N!”

You whipped your head around so quickly at Thor’s booming voice, you could have sworn that you’d given yourself whiplash, but you managed to give the large man a large grin and match his excitement.

“Thor!”

Laughing, he scooped you up and off of the floor in a tight hug as if you were light as a feather. If there was anyone who, throughout the entire time of being shut up in a building with the worlds most lovably irritating heros, could keep spirits high, it was Thor. The man was like a giant teddy bear, to be frank. You could swear that the only time you ever see him get intensely serious about an issue is during a mission, and it surely wasn’t anything you were going to start complaining about now.

Letting you down again to stand on your own feet, he grinned widely and with mischief.

“I require a bit of aid, I’m afraid. Sparring with the two super soldiers seems to be only a tad bit more interesting without the use of powers.”

“Don’t let him fool you, doll. We pummeled him and he doesn’t want to admit it,” Bucky said from the doorway. Steve was coming up from behind him with a smile too.

“Well, it seems you boys have had an eventful morning then.” The humor was obvious in your voice and they all laughed, Thor of course boomed.

“Indeed!”

“Well, how can I assist you three then?”

“Just Thor today, actually. He thought it would be funny to go easy on us old geezers. Lessons learned,” Steve said grinning as he passed you with a pat on the shoulder to the kitchen.

Thor after, another, belly full of laughter, showed you the bruises that now littered his arms and torso. There were no major wounds, and it looked like it was just hand to hand sparring, though if it were anyone other than Thor the damage would have been far worse coming from the two super soldiers.

Shaking your head, you smiled and pointed him to the couch. “You might as well get comfortable while we do this. You’ve got enough bruises to keep me busy for a week,” you joked and sat down beside him. “You know the drill, eyes closed and deep breaths.”

He followed your orders without complaint and you rested your hands against his chest first and matched your breathing to his and felt the steady stream of power flow through you. It was light, airy and cool, shining a beautiful gold from your fingertips in waves. But as gorgeous as it looked, this amazing power to heal the injured was a double-edged blade.

As soon as the marks on his skin began to fade and return to its normal color, images of their match flashed in your mind. Every punch and kick that Thor received felt like a blow of your own. Needless to say, you figured it hurt a lot more for you than it had for the god in front of you. Even if you knew that you didn’t physically attain any of the damage, it didn’t dull the sharp pains that coursed through your body.

The reason you always made them close their eyes before healing them of anything, an illness, battle wounds, haunting dreams, or trauma, was because it was easier than trying to force down every wince and grimace. Sometimes it just seemed impossible, which is also the reason you tried to keep healing sessions like this to more personal settings, not that that was always possible.

After a few measured deep breaths to match with Thor’s, you moved onto his arms and repeated the process. It didn’t take long, and by the time you were finished the sharp pains had faded into something of a dull throbbing. Though you didn’t imagine that would stop anytime soon.

“I feel like a brand new man! Thank you, Lady Y/N!” He grinned and launched himself into another suffocating hug before turning to the men in the kitchen. “I will remember to not pull my punches with you two the next time around!”

“We’ll look forward to your next challenge then. But don’t go crying to Y/N next time you get your ass handed to you,” Bucky hollered back.

“Hey! Language!” You exclaimed with a laugh when you heard Steve grumble and say something about needing to forget that moment ever happened… Not that any of you ever would, of course.

You all sat around for a while before Steve went off to speak with Tony about something or another and Thor decided to find and pester his brother. ‘Which I’m sure I’ll have the pleasure to hear about later from Loki himself’, you thought with a chuckle. And soon enough it was just you and Bucky left in the kitchen sharing a peaceful silence and tea for several minutes.

The two of you had grown particularly close over the time since he’s come to the tower and in Wakanda. He was one of your closest friends next to Natasha. Because of that, you took extra care of him not that you’d ever tell him that. You took extra time with him in the evenings and during routine checkups to help him with his nightmares and the general horrors his mind puts him through. You’d be sure to brush your hand across his skin periodically throughout the day subtly to draw out any built up worries and anxieties and he usually stayed pretty close by when he was feeling extra tense.

Of course, there was a part of you that dreaded his checkups and the late nights. Not because that you didn’t want to help him, but the pain that it caused you was sometimes almost to much for you to handle. His memories that flooded through your mind when you touched, the phantom pains you’d feel... You couldn’t understand how anybody could ever do something so absolutely horrible, least of all to another human being. And it was almost incomprehensible how Bucky had managed to survive so long after all of it, but you had managed to tie that to the fact that he was the strongest man you knew.

But no matter how much you may dread those visits and the things that followed, you would never stop helping him. And you would never tell him the truth about your power. You doubted that he’d ever let you continue if he knew what it did.

“I think everyone is going out for joyride tonight, you plan on joining?” He interrupted your thoughts with a warm voice and kind smile. 

“Not likely. I think I’ll just take the evening for myself. If everyone goes out, it might actually be quite around here for a change,” you chuckled. “What about you?”

“I haven’t decided yet, but Steve is trying pretty hard to get me out this time around.”

“So, probably then?”

He laughed and nodded, “Yeah, probably.”

“Where do they plan on going, anyway? Everything is shut down right now, so there isn’t much to do,” you asked. And it was true, with a global pandemic going around, everything was basically closed down until further notice everywhere. 

He shrugged and looked to the ceiling, “Who knows. Stark thought it would be a good idea to get the quinjets out and running before they sit around to long and need a toon up. And he thought it would be good for moral if we weren’t all cooped up in the tower again for another night together.”

You guffawed and shook your head. “Oh? And having everyone cooped up in the jets is going to be so much better for team moral, huh? Tell me how that works out for him.”

                                          »»-———————-««

It was roughly 11:30 now, and everyone was still out of the tower and flying around Lord knows where and you were in the tower alone. It had been nearly two months since these halls last ran silent except for the sound of your own footsteps. Nearly two months sinces you could freely express all of the pent up rage, and fear, and pain, and anxiety that has been building up inside of yourself.

On most if not all occasions, you were a very happy person. You enjoyed your work and the people you work with. You loved your family and friends, and the world even with all of its problems... And there were a lot of problems. And normally it would just be enough to spend a day to yourself with a book or a blank canvas and paint to release everything. You tried to always look toward the brighter side of things, but recently- without a way to vent out everything you’ve been taking in, things were to much. 

So you found yourself up on the towers roof at almost midnight with tears running down your cheeks and finding it hard to catch your breath. Your chest ached. The instant that the door closed behind you and you were hit with the cool night air it was like everything just rushed out in waves. 

You screamed, and wailed, and cried. You let yourself feel everything that you had been burying. Every last punch, kicks, knife and bullet, nightmare. It all came out in coughs and harsh please and grief. For yourself and for the people who went through it all. 

“It’s not fair,” you cried. “It’s not fair!”

After what felt like an eternity and your throat was coarse from the yelling and sobs, you felt like there was nothing left to cry. You’d gotten it all out and let go of everything, finally. And you knew you would be able to face everyone tomorrow as yourself rather than the shell of a person you have been until now. 

What you didn’t know, was that Bucky was there to witness it all.

                                         »»-———————-««

When you woke up the next morning you felt a great deal better than you had the previous night. Let alone the previous week. In a rather bright mood, you woke early and decided to make breakfast, nothing special because let’s be frank- you weren’t any Gordon Ramsey. But you could make a mean stack of pancakes and eggs.

An hour later, the kitchen was flooded with tired heros and grumbled good mornings. Though you were aware that Bucky seemed to linger in the doorway a little to long and continued to stare at you throughout breakfast. You could practically feel the discomfort and tension poor off of him. He didn’t mention it though so you assumed he wasn’t ready to come to you yet.

It wasn’t uncommon for Bucky to try and handle himself first, be it a nightmare or his own thoughts he tried to take care of it first. Sometimes it worked, sometimes not. But you never wanted to try and take that chance from him, so you let him be until he decided for himself.

They all happily ate their share of pancakes, gave thanks in some form or another; hugs, verbally, a slug to the shoulder, the usual. And then everyone dispersed to go about their own day. 

By the time that a week went by, you started to become genuinely concerned about Bucky. He was still tense and sticking close to you, but he wouldn’t let himself get close enough for you to touch him and draw out whatever it was that was causing him to be so worried. But he never left your side either. Everytime you left a room, a few minutes later he would follow. It was becoming so apparent that even Natasha said something over dinner, but Bucky didn’t bother to respond.

You didn’t want to take away the option of helping himself if he felt like he could, but he’s never gone longer than two days before saying something to you. It started to make you wonder if you had done something wrong or if he really felt like he didn’t need your help anymore.

Either way, you had to figure it out. The worry was beginning to choke you if you thought about it for to long. So after dinner, you excused yourself from the table and waited in the hall for Bucky to follow. 

Sure enough, after a minute he started down the hall too searching for which way you disappeared to.

You showed yourself to him and ignored his apparent surprise, “Are you okay, Bucky? Did something happen?”

His face changed, he looked hurt and sad. Like he couldn’t really bring himself to say anything or absorb what you asked. You waited patiently while he grapled for an answer. 

“What?” Was all that he managed to get out. 

“Well, you’ve been following me around a lot recently, and you only really stick to my side like this when you need to talk or help with something. But it’s already been a week and you haven’t said anything yet so I was starting to get worried that it was worse than usual or that maybe I did something wrong or that you-”

“That’s supposed to be my line!” He exclaimed, efficiently cutting off my nervous rant and giving me a turn at being confused. 

It must of been written all over your face because he quickly continued, “I was there. I saw- I heard you last week on the rooftop! How can you possibly be asking me if I’m alright!?”

Your heart stuttered to a stop at his words and you could practically feel the blood draining from your face. You didn’t even know where begin to explain why or what happened last week.

“Oh...” you trailed off and stepped back. “I didn’t know you were still here. I thought you went with Steve,” you have a humorless chuckle. “I don’t know why you’re so worried about it, I’m alright. Can we just forget about it?”

You knew it was a pathetic attempt to get him to let the problem go, you knew that there was no chance he was going to now that he’s been thinking about it for a week. 

“You were begging out there, Y/N. Begging! You can’t just tell me you’re alright and expect me to just let it go like this is nothing!”

You were silent for a long time, taking deep and long breaths to keep yourself calm before taking the corner of his sleeve and dragging him to your room. “We should go somewhere private so we can talk freely.”

He followed you without question.

                                        »»-———————-««

The two of you sat silently for nearly half an hour in your room. You felt completely uncomfortable in the situation. Usually, you were the one who was patiently waiting and comforting someone else while they thought over what they wanted to share or compose themselves. You were used to that, but being on the opposite end of that was new and something you came to learn within the first five minutes that you weren’t particularly fond of. 

Finally, Bucky decided to break the silence. “Why do you have so many origami cranes hangin’ in here?”

Your room decor was a bit unconventional, compared to that of everyone else in the tower that is. The room was covered in your own oil paintings, all the ones you deemed should never see the light of day but didn’t get rid of, couches and chairs, bookcases, and of course, countless bunches of paper cranes you’ve hung from the ceiling. Unconventional, maybe. But you loved it anyway. 

“There is a myth,” you nearly whispered it but you were sure that he caught the words anyway when he turned toward you. 

“Tell me about it?”

You took a deep breath and nodded. “It’s an old Japanese legend. It says that anybody who folds a thousand origami cranes will be granted a wish by the gods. Some of the old stories even say that you are granted happiness and eternal good luck instead of a wish. But you can use the wish on anything, a recovery to illness or injury for example. Usually they’re made as gifts for special friends or family.”

Standing, you grabbed one of the many strings of cranes and gave it to Bucky. “Cranes in Japan are considered holy creatures and supposedly live for a thousand years. That’s why a thousand cranes are made, one for each year of their life. And there are some stories that even say that all have to be folded within a year and strung together on the same string by the one who is making the wish for it to actually work.” You drifted off and smiled at the strand he held and shrugged. 

He stared at you for awhile before he looked around your room again. “All of them are stung on one sting.”

“So the legend goes,” you answered. 

“But you have at least a hundred of these hanging around your room,” he awed and shook the his gently. 

“53 to be exact. There are 53,142 cranes in this room. I’m working on another one now,” you laughed as his face grew in een more amazement. 

The strands all hung next to each other. Currently you had two rows of 25 and one of three. Honestly, it was rather beautiful in your opinion. It created a sort of curtain on one of your walls filled with different colors and stories. 

“Why?” He asked softly.

“Because I have a lot of wishes?”

“No. Don’t dodge. You wouldn’t have gone through all of this effort,” he waved toward the curtain, “for yourself alone. So why? How long have you been doing this for?”

“Nearly 15 years? I usually try to fold 10 every night before I go to sleep. You would be disgusted by how much I spend on paper,” you joked but he didn’t break. You groaned, “Fine! It’s because I didn’t know what else to do, okay? People were sad and hurting and scared, I felt it, and I didn’t know what I felt like there wasn’t anything I could do to help them. And so I started to make wishes for strangers mostly, people I felt needed it.”

“Felt?”

You bit your bottom lip and nodded hesitantly. “Or saw depending on the person. And it’s not like I’d ever do it on purpose, I’d just bump into someone and see everything! And I wouldn’t be able get it out of my head. I felt like there wasn’t anything I could do, Bucky. So I wished and wished and wished for them. For everyone.”

He looked at you incredulously, “Y/N... What do you mean, “See everything”?”

You blinked rapidly a few times and grabbed three more of the strands from the wall. “These,” you handed them to him, “are yours. These are the wishes I made for you. And before you say anything, just... Don’t freak out, okay? I didn’t make all of those to upset you, but I didn’t know what else to do.”

“I’m a healer, that’s always been who I am. But for me to be able to use that gift, I have to make physical contact with my patient. And I’ve been blessed to be able to mend body and mind! There isn’t anything in the world that would make me want to give up that gift, Bucky. But when I... touch people- anyone, Wanda, Nat, Thor, a stranger... You- I can see exactly how they got hurt mentally or physically. And I can feel the hurt too, like it were my own.”

You could barely bring yourself to say that last part, and it was barely a murmur as it were, but you knew that he heard it by the way that the color drained from his face and he slouched back a bit.

“Bucky,” you reached out for him but stopped when he flinched away from you. You swallowed harshly and continued, “I don’t hate it Bucky. I prefer it this way, really! It makes it easier for me to understand who I’m helping and more than anything else it brings me closer to them. I’m okay, Bucky.”

“Stop telling me that you’re okay! How could you possibly be after-” he paled more if that were possible as he looked at the four rows of cranes he carried now, “Oh my God. Four years, you’ve seen everyth- You’ve felt everything for four years! Y/N, I-”

“Don’t you dare try to apologise or regret coming to me, James,” you interrupted in a hurry. “If I can breathe then I’m fine. And I will never regret helping you when you needed me. You’ve never done anything wrong. And what you saw last week wasn’t usually how I deal with... Well, everything that gets piled up. Usually I go out for a day to breathe and just let go. It’s just that with everything closed down right now, I hadn’t had the opportunity in months. It got to much, that’s all. It had nothing to do with you, I promise.”

Everything you said seemed to go in one ear and out the other with him. He simply grasped the cranes tighter and refused to make eye contact. 

“Bucky,” you whispered again and reached for him one more time and this time, he didn’t turn away. His wave of emotions hit you hard, there were to flashes of images or memories, just feelings of regret and horror and shame and fear. “It’s okay,” you breathed and raised to give him a hug. “It’s okay Bucky.”

Slowly he calmed down, and his emotions subsided into ripples rather than waves. His regret eased along with his fears. He pulled away from you eventually and offered a weak smile, that didn’t necessarily confirm any suspicions that you may have that he was lying or otherwise. 

He held up the cranes and smiled, “Thank you, so much, for these.Y/N I can’t ever thank you enough for these, let alone everything else that you’ve done for me. I understand why you would’ve kept this to yourself, if I’d known sooner I’d never had come to you. But because I did- God, I can do things without begin afraid. I can go out with Steve and not freak out, or go through the night without nightmares. I’ve you to thank you for that. You’ve done more for me than I could have ever asked you, and I’ll never be able to thank you enough for that but-”

You smiled and shook your head, “This, Bucky, is plenty.”

[skvaderarts]

Chapter Sixteen: Epiphany

You can check out the Masterlist Here for more links to places to read!

Chapter Sixteen: Epiphany

Note: Thanks for the comments as always! As mentioned, this chapter is a little shorter than normal, but the next few will more than make up for it. I just didn’t want to drag this sequence out so that we could get to the exciting part sooner. You don’t want to make things too bogged down. Enjoy and get hyped for the next chapter… It’s been a nightmare to write lol! Sorry for any mistakes. It was a long night.

-~-

Things had been relatively quiet for the last little while, Agnus’s alchemical monstrosities content with roaming the entryway aimlessly in almost total silence for the time being. While the magical seal on the door to the library and the three separate sets of retractable bars that shielded the doorway from further attacks were more than likely enough to keep the artificial demons at bay, there was still a certain amount of apprehension as to their current level of security. Considering the fact that the Cutlass and Gladius, much like the seal itself (presumably), were products of the Order and their unscrupulous experiments, their ability to gain entry into the room was questionable at the best. And a product of that uncertainty was a permeating sense of urgency in regardless to finding a relatively safe way out of Fortuna Castle before things escalated to a level that they couldn’t control.

As the silence in the air brewed tension between them, V glanced over his shoulder from the second story balcony. After Nero had helped him reach the upper section of the library, the younger devil hunter had retired to the far corner of the room, his attention fixed upon some sort of mechanical contraption. It was a welcome change, at least for the time being. While  V was indeed flattered that Nero had been so worried about the laceration that he had received during their mad dash to reach the library, he wasn’t accustomed to having someone worry over him. It was touching; even somewhat flattering… but not something he was entirely comfortable with. V’s rational mind told him that this was normal, and he acknowledged it readily, more than able to comprehend the concept of platonic familial concern. But, despite the fact that he knew there was nothing abnormal about having Nero worry over him (especially when he had good reason too) he still couldn’t stand it.

The young summoner took a moment to mentally chastise himself for his illogical thought process. Of course he didn’t like it. He wasn’t supposed to. Having other people be concerned about him wasn’t meant to be an enjoyable process. He doubted that Nero enjoyed worrying about him either. Nothing about the situation that the pair of brothers currently found themselves in was comfortable or reassuring. In fact, from what the longer white-haired man could tell, they currently had no way of leaving the room that they were trapped in. It was a double-edged sword in that regard. Nothing in, nothing out; the only threat being the very thing that kept other threats at bay. It was quite ironic in an almost poetic sort of way. V couldn’t help but find humor in their possible damnation. While the bleeding from his injury had indeed slowed and was more than likely trivial in the eyes of proper medical care, they needed to actually leave the castle for first aid to take place. But in the meantime, he could simply count himself lucky. The demon that had dealt this wound was composed almost entirely of sharp edges. It was a miracle that he stood here now, reading these books in search of the answers he had inadvertently risked both of their lives for.

As V combed through the pages of the worn-out old book he held in his hand, his attention was drawn back to Nero. The younger of the two had just cursed quite loudly, clearly fed up with the piece of almost steampunk like piece of machinery he had been tinkering with for nearly an hour. V considered inquiring as to the nature of the problem, but relented, acutely aware that he more than likely had nothing insightful to add to the dilemma. It was odd for him to be so far out of the loop, but to say that he thought he knew everything would be a bald-faced lie. No one knew absolutely everything that there was to know. This just happened to be one of the rare instances where he had no idea what was going on. He redirected his attention back to the book, closing it and placing it back in its proper place on the bookshelf. While V was aware of the fact that there was no one else around to see him misplace it and that they were under more than a small amount of time pressure, he simply didn’t feel right just laying the book down somewhere. It wasn’t’ the right thing to do and that wasn’t who he was. He would find the time necessary to make sure that he left this place in at least the same condition that he had found it.

V walked down the row of bookcases in front of him, dragging his finger idly down the spines of the books as he went. At least half of the works contained in this room were not written in English, and many of the ones that were had been transcribed in very old classical English or by hand, making them a trial by fire to read. Much of it was in either Latin or Adamic; the former he had some basic comprehension of, the latter less so. Although his love of literature had lent him an excellent grasp of written languages, this was testing his skills somewhat more than he would like. As he glanced over the books in his search for one that he might be able to actually decipher, his finger brushed over the cover of a sizable tome. The words on the cover caught his eye, but the spine was somewhat faded. He would need to remove this one from the shelf and take a better look at it. 

Upon removing the tome from the self, he took notice of several qualities it possessed. The book was weighty and delicate, clearly one of the oldest texts in this library. The leather binding had held true for who knew how long, the paper quite aged and much more coarse than what he was accustomed to. Surprisingly elegant handwriting lined each page of the book, several detailed illustrations accompanied by even more meandering descriptions and instructions practically overflowed from each page. It was all quite fascinating to look at if he was being honest. Could he keep this book? Would anyone notice or even care if he took it home with him to give a more thorough examination? He flipped the pages carefully until he reached the cover. When he had first opened it, it had automatically gone to the middle of the book. This was presumably due to the way it had been bound, but that wasn’t entirely important at the moment.

“Dux Connexionem Referat Inferis” The title of the text flowed effortlessly from his mouth as he traced the words with his finger, taking a moment to try and remember what all the words meant,” Yes… this may prove useful after all.”

Nero glanced up from his position on the floor below, his focus still clearly on the Gyro Blade he was currently knelt down in front of. “You know what that says, V?”

V shrugged slightly as he flipped through what seemed to be an overview of sorts, introducing it’s audience to the different topics contained within its pages. The headings were all written with different mediums, signifying that they had been added gradually over the course of the writer’s lifetime. Oddly enough, the first few dozen pages did not contain the elegant script that he had seen in the middle of the book. Was this the work of multiple authors? After a moment he nodded to himself. Much to his enjoyment, this book contained information on the nature of familiar contracts and something else that seemed to pertain to artificial demons.

“I believe this may be some sort of encyclopedia or index. It makes mention of a Hellgate on an island that periodically changes location and a demon emperor,” He said as he turned the pages, his eyes fixed upon the writing they contained,” While I don’t think I have time to decipher this entire book just yet, it may have the answers I was looking for. There is some mention of Nightmare’s conception.”

Nero gestured to the empty room, laughing to himself slightly. Nightmare was one of his summons, right? How powerful did it need to be to get mentioned in a book that old? “Right now we have nothing but time. Unless I can get this stupid thing working,” Nero said as he gesured irritatedly towards the Gyro Blade,” We aren’t going anywhere. Does that book say anything about this thing?”

V used his finger to bookmark the page before turning back to the table of contents, taking a moment to look it over. After a moment, he shook his head. 

“It mentions something about an alchemical substance called Anima Mercury in this article about Quicksilver, but I can’t quite make out anything specific aside from the fact that they share similar properties,” He looked up for a moment, an incredulous look plastered across his face,” I don’t have any answers for you, unfortunately. Have you tried kicking it?”

The youngest descendant of Sparda stared at his older brother blankly for a moment, his neck craning sideways. Had V just told a joke at a time like this? No, surely he had just heard him wrong. He had to be mistaken. The eldest of the two seemed to key into his younger counterpart’s train of thought, gesturing with his outstretched hand towards the contraption in question. “I’m quite serious. Apparently this device is powered by kinetic energy. That is a stipulation of the Animal Mercury. It grants sentience, but not locomotion. If you have previously moved the device, then I can only assume that-”

Before V could finish his explanation, Nero drew Req Queen and slammed it downward towards the mechanical spinning top esque device before him, kicking it as he did so for good measure. The spinning blades within folded outward at the top and the machine lifted up off of the ground, hovering in place as if waiting for further simulation. Nero stared at it blankly as V looked down at him, clearly fascinated by now functional Gyro Blade. He could tell by the look on Nero’s face that he hadn’t expected the device to actually move.

Upon realizing that the device actually functioned, Nero took a few steps back and charged forward, launching himself feet first into the device. It rocked forward, crashing into the door of the library with a loud bang. The seal guarding the door shattered and the bars opened automatically, allowing them to finally exit the building. V slipped down from the upper level and landed on one of the floor dividers, gaining him a raised eyebrow from Nero and a thoroughly displeased side as his wound pulled slightly and he began to bleed a bit more. It was nothing catastrophic, but it was uncomfortable, to say the least. Nero offered him a hand and, after taking a moment to consider his alternative options, V decided to take him up on the offer, at least for the time being. In this particular instance, he was once again reminded of how much he missed his cane. It would be particularly useful at the moment. With that, the two of them exited the library, V taking a moment to tuck the book into one of the coat’s interior pockets. He would take the time to look it over more thoroughly once they were safely within the walls of Nero’s charming little home again.

They made their way down the balcony and back into the art gallery, noting the distinct lack of Cutlass and Gladius as they went. It was enough to raise an uncomfortable feeling within V, piquing his interest. While he could easily imagine that they had retreated, it was still very strange to see barely any traces of them. Their previous assault had been a sheer act of chaotic willpower, one that they had very narrowly overcome. It was imperative that they figure out where they had gone and either slip past them or use their combined problem solving skills to get the drop on them.

So basically they were going with plan A.

From the moment they stepped foot into the lobby, they were struck by the overwhelming silence that permeated the room. There were no demons in here like there had been a short while ago. Well, at least none that were alive. A pile of dead remnants was stacked in the middle of the first floor, a few stray demons scattered about. It seemed that they had been attacked all at once while a few outliers had actually noticed the threat and had tried to protect their collective to no avail. The Cutlass had been eradicated with ruthless efficiency, and the Gladius seemed to have tried to flee back into the labs before the attack had ended them once and for all. This was evident by the sheer number of them that laid dead on the stairs that led up to the opening to the lab behind the painting.

Something wasn’t right here…

As they reached the bottom of the steps and took a step towards the front entrance, V stopped a moment. He couldn’t tell if it was his general condition or his injuries, but he felt substantially weaker all of a sudden. It was as if all the energy had been sucked from his body in that very instant. Nero grappled the sudden shift in their collective center of balance, wrapping his right arm around V to try and help him steady himself. He clearly didn’t look well. A sudden noise from in front of them drew his attention, and what he saw took him off guard. About a dozen individuals in black coats had made themselves visible to them, presumably the people responsible for the dead demons that littered the room. One of them stepped forward, gesturing towards them.

“We’ve been looking for you.” The hooded man said as he lowered his hood to allow his hair to be freed and his face to become visible. “You’re quite hard to track down. It took us several days. Some sort of ward, I presume?”

Nero shot them a defensive look, glancing cautiously at V who seemed to be trying to shake off the sudden dizziness that plagued him. “Were not in a talking mood right now, so you’re going to have to forgive us but we’re not sticking around.”

The hooded individuals seemed incensed by the comment, taking defensive stances as though they were preparing to attack. The leader, the tall man from before, placed his hands in his pockets and stretched, seemingly unafraid. “Terribly sorry, I must not have been clear. Our master requires an audience with him.”

He gestured towards V, nodding. The taller of the two was starting to come out of his dizzy spell, so he looked up from the floor and shook his head in denial. There was absolutely no way either of them was going with these mystery men in black coats. They sounded just like the cult V had overheard Nero reassuring Kyrie about earlier that day.

Before either party could speak further, the front gate to the castle creaked open, and a familiar woman stepped inside. Before anyone could speak, she took a defensive stance, readying herself. The cultists turned their attention to her and several of them immediately began to call forth their summons. It seemed that this group was comprised of a much higher number of summoners than the one she had taken on at the pier. The three of them could only hope they were equally as competent.

-~-

These last few chapters are going to be FUN! I’m working on them as you are reading this, so feel free to tune in on Wednesday, June 24th as we reach the climax of book one! I hoped you enjoyed this chapter despite the fact that it’s slightly shorter than normal (about 500 words) and I look forward to seeing you all next week! Stay safe out there!

[gcllys]

i think i just saw giselle epstein looking down at their phone in the middle of lecture hall . i wonder if they think that will help them get through their animal behavior major . i’m sure professor baker doesn’t mind , though , especially since gilly can be so + ebullient . then again , she can be a little - boisterous , so maybe prof b will mind after all . what do you think is catching their attention all of a sudden ? surely it can’t be more pictures of cotton candy skies . hey , you know , sometimes they really remind me of ALLOWING YOURSELF TO DROWN IN OTHERS FOR THE SENSATION OF BEING WANTED, UNCONTROLLABLE GIGGLES LACED WITH PEACH FLAVORED VODKA, SUN KISSED SKIES MELTING INTO CRAZED OCEANS, MOONLIGHT DANCING IN HAZEL ORBS , but maybe that’s just me . oh well . i hope their second year is treating them well ! 

i’m currently laid out on the beach, so please remember this as you read this ugly formatted introduction asdj !! ’m going to keep this as simple and sweet as i can considering introductions and me are not what some people would call compatible. i’m gi(anna), eighteen, who goes by the she and her pronouns !! i’m absolutely terrible at talking about myself but i’m absolutely excited to be jumping into this group with all of you and your breathtaking muses .. giselle is a combination of a few old muses of mine, and i’m pretty excited to explore her in ways i never got the chance to .. so without farther rambling, if you want to dig deeper into her please keep on reading :

. ◞  ‧  *  𝖎. 𝖘𝖙𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖘𝖙𝖎𝖈𝖘  .    ⁎  ∘  ヽ

full name : giselle ambria epstein 

nickname(s) : gilly, gigi

birthday : november fourth

zodiac : scorpio

moral alignment : chaotic neutral

gender : cisfemale

pronouns : she and her

sexual orientation : heterosexual

romantic orientation : heteroromantic

height : five ft five

language(s) spoken : english, italian, and a decent amount of spanish

. ◞  ‧  *  . 𝖎𝖎. 𝖆𝖊𝖘𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖙𝖎𝖈𝖘  .    ⁎  ∘  ヽ

allowing  yourself  to  drown  in  others  for  the  sensation  of  being  wanted  ,  uncontrollable  giggles  laced  in  peach  flavored  vodka  ,  sun  kissed  skies  melting  into  crazed  oceans,soft melodies singing you to sleep , moonlight dancing in hazel eyes , baby pink acrylic nails tapping softly on hard surfaces , sweet vanilla lingering in the air , fingertips dancing over bare honey dipped skin , pink glossy lips parting into a gentle smile.

. ◞  ‧  *  . 𝖎𝖎𝖎. 𝖕𝖊𝖗𝖘𝖔𝖓𝖆𝖑𝖎𝖙𝖞 .    ⁎  ∘  ヽ

to lurking eyes the brunette tends to catch ditzy vibes and shallow tendencies, her image painting her in an self absorbed , “ you’re even in an sorority, wow shocking ” light. and usually labels such as those, tend to hold some kind of truth. for why would they occur if not? but when it comes to gisella, there’s more that meets the eye. she is ebullient in human, is devoured by an ocean of light heartedness and good intentions . she happens to be an energy that you can not help but want to lose yourself in ? her boisterous chatter in the sea of cheerleaders is an melody to your ears and when the sun disappears her giggles laced with peach vodka lingers in the air , the sound itself intoxicating. she herself is intoxicating .. whether it’s her light in your lungs or her darkness around your throat : the sensation is enchanting. she strives to be good, to be kind, to be caring .. but, she is at that grown age where she’s learning that she will not always be kind nor understanding nor selfless and thats okay. she so badly wants to live the life she was granted, that she tends to push worries and fear aside and do things that make her blood rush . she enjoys the memories that drunk nights give her, charmed by the loud house party music, is in love with living a little recklessly .. she’s show me how fast this car can go and i bet you wont jump kind of soul. she is compassionate, she is someone who will throw herself in crazed oceans to save you , but she also believes in loving herself and being kind to herself . and so, she tries not to drown for everyone . she is fiercely loyal, and loves being with people ? attaches herself on to others almost as if she doesnt make an impact on other lives she’ll slowly fade away. passionate, she feels the world around her on a level that most do not understand . but it tends to make her scattered ? she can ride the highs but sometimes she has to ride the lows too. she is a lover, will give you her all .. will always put the effort and time in. it makes her affectionate, she likes small touches .. hugs and hand holding . not just romantically but platonically too. she is not completely soft though, and kindness is not a weakness . she’s her mothers daughter, and with that comes a sense of stubborn , jealousness , finickiness , and carelessness . she can be hard to understand , hard to please .. she can be hurtful, even selfish sometimes . no matter how hard she tries to push it out.

. ◞  ‧  *  . 𝖎𝖛. 𝖍𝖊𝖆𝖉𝖈𝖆𝖓𝖓𝖔𝖓𝖘 .    ⁎  ∘  ヽ

she comes from a family of six, including her biological father, step mother who has always felt more like her biological mother than anything, her sibling from both of her biological parents, and her two half siblings.

the relationship she carries with each of them are insanely special, and go beyond the cliches of resentment.

she considers her step mother to be her mother, and will call her mom and/or mommy. she was thrown into her care at the age of five, and being that young and having years ahead of her with this women who genuinely and full heartedly cared and loved her it was not hard to fall in love with her back.

her three siblings are the three people in her life that, has really help shaped her and filled with world with light. sometimes, she cannot wrap her head around the fact that for five years she did not know they existed. the though saddens her, mostly because now she cannot picture even her simple days without them.

she does not speak of her birth mother, nor does know where she’s at or what she’s doing. she refuses any contact with her, and mostly tries to pretend the first five years of her life was a blur.

which for the most part it was, she was still insanely young. and while she had the ability to understand the vague concept of the matter: her mother no longer wanting her. she was a young child.

but her experience with the event left wounds on her that are not always vocal, being abandoned at a young age clearly had its impact on her and the way she functioned. especially with personal relationships. she’s at the point in her life where she’s either latching on to people with fear spilling out of her that they might leave, or constantly pushing people away so they never have a chance to leave.

 her mother and father were sweethearts of college, marrying after three years and falling insanely in love. her mother had always been certain she didn’t want kids, and so when she fell pregnant she slowly fell apart? she did not have the heart to rid the baby from her, and so she kept it. she loved her first born, but she was unfit. slowly becoming someone people couldn’t recognize. giselle’s father tried his best, but when his efforts failed he put him and his child first and left. the only problem was, that his ex wife was pregnant. and she decided to keep this baby out of spite, regardless of knowing that she couldn’t care for it.

 her step mother had been adopted by a family in italy when she was a baby, and it’s a place her and the kids constantly go. for, every single summer was spent there. and her parents? without questions, without hesitation accepted giselle like she was their own.

built on a personality of constantly needing people surrounding her, joining a sorority made her feel like home regardless of being away from home. and sigma kappa had seemed to be a perfect match for her : fueling the need to feel like she’s a living breathing human being.

she has always been drawn to animals but when it comes down to narrowing them out she fully wants to work with dogs.. hoping to one day run her own shelter, organization that helps them and of course other animals in need. collecting the abandoned, the neglected, and the unloved and presenting them with what they deserve.

she had four dogs through her childhood, three of whom are still remaining. they are fully the reason she had been triggered to want to work so closely to them. but it definitely cuts deeper than just that.

she is someone who has to constantly apply herself to get the results she wants, and school is the biggest department that shines through. she’s smart, but the effort is necessary. she needs to spend hours with her head in books, needs to take the time to do her assignments, notes. school never came naturally to her.

but sports did, throughout her life she played a handful. soccer, field hockey, volleyball, softball: but the one that truly stuck was cheerleading and it’s something she continues to do. it’s a passion of hers that can never die no matter how much she wants it to sometimes. she loves the sensation it brings her. the fact that it presents her an escape route. she doesn’t mind the hard work, the hours of practicing, the sore muscles and headaches from her hair being pulled too tight. the bumps and the cuts, it’s worth it.

her home is key west florida, and so the years after her mom left her .. she spent a lot of her time near the ocean. of course this is default of living right on it, but in simple terms it kind of brings her a sense of peace?? ocean waves remind her of childhood, her parents, siblings, brings a warm and cozy feeling. when she can’t sleep, she’d find herself sitting in the sand just watching the waves in the moonlight. when she needed inspiration? she’d take in the cotton candy sunsets and let them flow through her.

she has a lot of small talents, but one she recently decided to put more energy in is her singing. she always, for the longest time carried around her song journal. the pages being filled with song lyrics and small doodles .. it was kind of like her diary? and putting words together to make some sort of beautiful poetry not only excited her but kept her grounded. she has now recently started acting bringing these songs together and so far? she’s just having a blast with it. it’s a aspect of her life she’s fully down to explore.

. ◞  ‧  *  . 𝖛. 𝖈𝖔𝖓𝖓𝖊𝖈𝖙𝖎𝖔𝖓𝖘 .    ⁎  ∘  ヽ

platonic soulmate, girl squad, teammates, friends, best friends, ex best friends, friends with benefits, ex friends with benefits, hate ship, one night stand(s), failed relationship, almost relationship, good influence, bad influence, flirtationship, unlikely friends, family friends, frenemies, childhood friends, slow burn, confidant(s), ex fling, tutors, hardly related cousin, cousins, sibling like friendship, toxic friendship, forbidden romance, love/hate relationship, fake relationship, first loves, ex lover, toxic relationship, on and off relationship. 

[cloudbattrolls]

Lagan

Etuuya Vannyn | Present Night | Tulais Leisure Ship

The light from the transportalizer fades, and you stand in Tulais’s ship. A water ship, not the aircraft you’ve heard she has.

Distant shouts and laughter drift to your ears, and you grimace, turning to see multicolored flashing lights through the window in the strangely empty room you’re standing in. Is she planning to show you off like some sort of grotesque trophy? Surely not.

You open the window and lean out, only now realizing how big this vessel is, seeing the lights are at least a hundred feet away, as are the noises. It’s almost like a cruise ship in size, but built in a far more old-fashioned style. A sea breeze blows through your wavy hair as you gaze up at the stars, wondering why you’ve been left unattended.

It’s...nice.

No Rivali. No suspicious, fearful company trolls. No one you have to pretend for.

You whistle softly, hands in the pockets of your shabby jeans. It’s an old tune about a warrior forever searching for adventure on the sea. It makes you think of summersong.

Now there’s some peak foolishness, you note with amusement at yourself. But you can’t help it. Far better to enjoy the company of someone even worse than yourself than a decent troll. You can’t ever hurt Jeluno and you mean nothing to her except as a source of amusement, so what’s the harm? 

Well. Plenty, if she really does find a way to make her own drinkers. You wonder why she’s so fixated on it anyway; you didn’t for a moment believe she was incapable of fighting them off herself with the use of her crew and weapons. She’s bragged too many times about the technology she’s stolen.

So there must be some other reason, and it’s unlikely to be good news for anybody.

What’s she going to do, go hunt the caverns for it? You think dismissively. She doesn’t have that much patience, a young thing like her. 

Or she could rip one out of some other drinker she found. 

Would that really be a loss? Your kind has no value. 

“Is it true drinkers will seduce people to feed on them?”

Your quietude is over, apparently, since you turn and see Tulais in the doorway, wearing a skimpy outfit that makes you avert your eyes. She may not be a child, but she’s still young. Younger than summersong, certainly, and therefore too young to be looking at when dressed that way. 

“I’m sorry, are you expecting me to answer that? I’ve never seduced anyone in my life, thank you very much. Even monsters have standards, you know. Maybe normal drinkers do it, I don’t exactly hold interviews.”

Normal drinkers aren’t you, but it’s still sickening to want to pail one’s food sources. The fact that there’s a not inconsiderable portion of trolls into that is one of the great mysteries of Alternia. 

She laughs, and you definitely smell alcohol on her. This is going to be terrible, isn’t it. 

“Normal drinkers.” she says, scoffing. “Do you even know what that means, Vannyn?”

“Is there a reason I’m here, miss Tulais? Can I know it now, please? I’m sure you’d love to get back to your little get-together. Also, and not to sound like your lusus, please put something else on.”

She sniffs in a mildly offended way. “You really are old, huh?”

“I rent myself out to museums. It’s a great earner.”

She laughs again. You wouldn’t mind the inebriated levity if this weren’t also your boss. As it is, you’d rather be anywhere but here.

There’s a shuffle of clothing and when you dare to turn around again she’s wearing a jacket, at least, even if her skirt is still rather short. Small mercies, you suppose.

“Much appreciated. So. Why am I here?”

She takes a small vial out of the jacket pocket and drinks it, then looks at you with what you can tell, even from their silly surgically altered dark color, are clearer, more sober eyes.

The teal sits down at the room’s desk and turns on a softly glowing lamp shaped like a lantern. 

You let your own glow show for a moment, out of pure absurd pique. I can do that too. 

She doesn’t smile. Yes, this is the woman you know; staring you down, deciding your fate.

“To tell you something important. I assume as a rainbowdrinker, you already know more of your kind than I ever will, but I doubt you or any others know what I’ve discovered. It took a sweep of searching for me to find it, and I have accesses many trolls can only dream of.”

You don’t even bother to hide your severe lack of investment in what she’s saying, emphasizing it by picking dirt from under your claws. It’s rude, yes, but so is her assuming you care. Would she be interested in any random fact about trollkind?

“Tell me, Vannyn; what do you know of the angel worshipping sects?”

“They’re out to lunch, the empire doesn’t like them, and they think a bunch of winged snakes will come destroy the world and then make it new again.”

Now she laughs, a much more subdued and annoyingly knowing one than when she was tipsy. 

“Most trolls only see that surface. But you know how deceiving surfaces are.”

“Oh, no, miss, this is my first night out of caverns and papà forbade mirrors lest I fall victim to vanity.” You retort dryly. 

You’re probably digging yourself a mile-deep grave, but honestly. What other kind of response does that deserve?

Fortunately, she merely snorts.

“Modern angel worshipping cults are full of nothing but the delusional and desperate, yes. The old ones, sects that can be traced almost all the way back to the dawn of the Empire itself, contain grains of truth in their texts. Things trollkind has otherwise forgotten.”

You’re silent, waiting for her to get to the point already. 

“When I first met you, I thought you must be an anomaly. A fluke of nature. As I thought about it more, I realized no fluke could survive so long, flourish even. Why weren’t there more of you?”

Your fists clench. Tulais knows you were imperial property, but you and Rivali never told her the details. Even jadepup recognized how unwise it was to hand that knowledge over, and you trust their hatred of your nature to keep them quiet. 

“I found Lifeweaver’s research and thought that explained it, but when reading his notes I found something strange. Much of the data was gone, but he’d written an explanation of where he’d first gotten the idea: an angel sect’s record of all the creatures that once roamed Alternia but had long ago gone extinct.”

You want her to stop talking. You want the boat to sink, you want the room to catch on fire and take you with it. Anything.

“This sect spoke of how one of the creatures it worshipped had fallen, lost its wings due to disgrace, and assumed the shape of a troll. Yet this was merely a shell, for inside it was a conglomeration of worms - tiny snakes, in the original text - ever seeking troll blood to replace the divine feeling it had lost. Weaker than a seadweller, but faster than any troll, it could infect other creatures around it and control them, as well as turn them into lesser copies of itself.”

No no no no no no no no no -

Your elbows are digging into the floor before you realize you’ve fallen to your knees, clutching your head in your hands, not caring that the sharp tines of your horns rip your skin. 

It’s not like you can bleed.

“This is a story!” You say, with a very forced lighthearted tone. “A monster tale for wrigglers. Perhaps my wretched ancestor was inspired by it, but that doesn’t mean it's true. Why do you believe anything these fools wrote?”

She nods in an infuriatingly calm way, her faintly luminescent flower tattoos gleaming as she moves.

“I wouldn’t accept it as fact from the word of only one source. So I found others. Texts in languages long since dead, that I had painstakingly translated for me.”

“What did they say?” You ask, looking up at her from between the spaces of your fingers, voice hoarse and barely a whisper. “What else was there about my supposed fellows?”

The young, whole, living troll gives you a look of calculating curiosity and also, sickeningly, a hint of platonic pity. As if she has any right.

“Multiple records referred to the creature in different ways, some attributing abilities that couldn’t possibly be real, but there were enough consistencies in unrelated accounts that confirmed it: several drinkers like you existed once, whatever their true origin was. Perhaps they were even the progenitors of the more common kind that exist tonight.”

You want to bite her. You want to bite yourself. You want to bite everyone on this empress-damned ship, then sink it, so that all of this can end here and never be repeated.

“They died off for a reason.” You snarl, your face twisting with hate. “They should’ve stayed dead and gone, and Rhomox should’ve left well enough alone! But he never could, could he? Do you know how many Vannyns he killed?”

You spring to your feet and slam your hands on her desk, and her ears pin. Her teal pupils go slit in fear. One hand goes with a flash to what must be her sylladex, pulling at something.

“Dozens. Dozens at least. He paid caverns to produce more, and more, until finally he got me, his perfect little test subject. Someone who actually wanted to be a monster. Oh, I wanted it so badly, miss Tulais. I loved the idea of a cavern in my grip, terrified I could see into their very minds. Knowing if they spared a mutant, if they broke any law, I would eat them alive.”

You smile, twisted, bitter from memories.

“Rhomox didn’t need worms to make me an abomination, but he ensured I would remain one forever because of his designs.”

You back off from the desk, rage cooling to dull apathy. Natural, unnatural. Does it matter which you are? Does it matter if, once upon a time, other creatures like you walked the planet?

It can’t matter. 

You exist thanks to the suffering of others, and by rights you should be dead.

“I thought you’d be more interested.” She says, after a pause. “I guess I was wrong.”

She shrugs, stretches her arms, then looks at you again.

“Tescin is so afraid of you, but mostly you hate yourself. You don’t resent trollkind at all, do you?”

You snort. “I think lots of trolls are just as bad as me, worse sometimes, with less right. The species has plenty of room for improvement. They have that power, and I don’t. That’s what really separates us.”

She gives you a strange look, the wind ruffling her long hair. 

“In the stories, the first drinker Ozryel was originally a guardian of trollkind, until they fell due to their desire to understand us on a physical level, and drank blood. For that they were cast down, and became worms. But they began as a savior.”

You remember Tierel’s face, the features of a troll with nothing left to lose. Who would turn even to you for hope in a world drained of it by the Empire.

How delusional. So you’ve saved some people. What of it? You killed scores if not hundreds of fleet on the same night and enjoyed it. Not because they were a danger to the townsfolk, not because fleet is corrupt - no, you know very well you loved killing them because you could. Because their blood gave you the power you’ve always craved.

No matter how you play at decency, at being a person, you’re only a weapon that’s just as dangerous to the people it protects. 

“They never rose again, did they?” You retort. “They stayed a monster, and spawned other beasts to feed on trollkind thanks to their selfishness.”

You hadn’t thought Tulais was so foolish and sentimental. At least jadepup understands what drinkers really are.

Inexplicably, the teal smiles.

“Who’s to say Ozryel doesn’t stand in front of me in a way, trying for another chance at redemption? For all your talk, you still go on rescue missions. You’ve done well obeying me since Darkfall; you even helped those Imperial aides.”

You roll your bright jade eyes.

“Those aides weren’t a danger to anyone. It was only a few hours of trouble to get them hive, and what would’ve been the point of letting them drown?”

Your crew had acted like you were insane, but you’d insisted. It wasn’t like they’d been soldiers. Just a bunch of silly political trolls stranded on an island in a flood.

“Anyway, little acts of charity don’t change what I am. Ask the quadrants of all those fleet I killed; they’re surely still grieving. Ask the recruits I’m sure were put in their places, maybe not even ready for the battlefield, possibly dead by now too. I’m here for you to use me as best you can. I wasn’t made for idealistic nonsense.”

“What about your charge?”

Of course she’d drag Uunive in. You should’ve seen it coming.

“A mistake.” You say sharply. “I hurt her badly with my lies. She deserves far better.”

There’s that obnoxious look of platonic pity again. Doesn’t Tulais get that feeling remorse about something doesn’t make it right? 

“You really are determined to not see any good in yourself.”

“There's none to see.” You growl. “Having standards isn’t redeeming, it’s basic and fixes nothing. Ask jadepup sometime; they’ll blather a lot, but they’re hardly wrong about me.”

“What if you got your own rooms? It’s about time, isn’t it. No doubt Tescin would appreciate it too. I can include a spare recuperacoon for your charge’s visits.”

You blink, then squint at her.

“What’s the catch?”

“I’d like you to assemble your own force from our allies in space for a new set of missions. You would answer to myself and my executive assistants, but would otherwise have free reign for field command during enemy engagement.”

Confusion simmers in your mind until you get it, except you don’t. Suspicious, your lips pull back, fingers clasped as you try to figure out her game.

“You want me back in combat?”

Her eyebrows raise as her painted teal claws tap the desk.

“If we’re to get off this planet in ten sweeps or less and begin our journey in time for the Empire to not catch up, the path needs to be clear. Your goal will be to destroy communications and sabotage mapping, but collateral is unavoidable.”

It’s her dismissive tone that makes you hate her. One of you is a monster, but the other is uncaring. It’s not that being invested makes you more moral; if anything, it only adds to your perversity. But Tulais should at least have that bare minimum. 

“You sound just like Fleet.”

Funnily enough, you’ve stopped caring about being disrespectful.

Her lips pull back in real offense, not the drunken huffiness of earlier.

“Dismissed, Vannyn.”

You turn and walk to the transportalizer with a pointed spring in your step, but right when you’re about to step on it she speaks again.

“Do you understand what you could do? You don’t have to believe the story; believe in the morale boost it would give. People would treat you differently.”

You turn and look at her, from her black eyes to her tattooed skin, her jacket and her bare legs.

“Even you thought I’d bite you tonight, didn’t you? At a second’s notice, you were ready to shoot me with some clever heat laser no doubt kept on you at all times.”

The look of guilt mixed with resentment and offense is enough of an answer.

You laugh softly.

“Be honest with yourself, miss Tulais. It’s so much less trouble.”

With a rush of light, you’re transported back hive. Rivali’s not here, but there’s a gently steaming cup of tea on the table; they’ll be back soon. You wonder if your boss really means to give you separate quarters.

She’s a new kind of nonsense, urging you to be positive but fearing, just like everyone would, that you’d still turn on her and tear out her throat. The teal has no need to play games, so why does she bother?

As if helping people would ever change how they saw you. As if you deserved that to begin with. 

Still, you’d like to know more about the story.

Your body goes still as stone. That’s not your thought.

“So! Having a rare opinion, are you?”

There’s no response. There never has been; you’d go mad if there was. Worms don’t think in words, in sentences. They hardly think at all.

But just as they inhabit you, you inhabit them. At least, so you believe; perhaps you’ve been hallucinating all these long sweeps. Rhomox certainly thought you were.

Rhomox, dead because his worms lashed out without your command.

Every so often, you’ll get an emotion, a prickling on the neck, a feeling that doesn’t match whatever’s on your mind. Reminding you why you’re still here, despite your best attempts.

“You're all curious, hm? Well, shove it. Your husk is entirely disinterested, and I make most of the decisions in this hive. None of you get a vote due to past crimes.”

If you were in the mood, you’d rip several out and crush them as a lesson. A completely ineffective one, but the dying bodies always make you feel a vindictive sort of satisfaction. 

Karina is right not to trust you, for who knows what else the worms have slid into your thinkpan, subtle things you may never detect? 

Ozryel. Could the tale exist - could it even refer to true events - or is it just another fabrication? An invention of Karina’s to suit her purposes?

All that you are is a lie, but even you don’t know exactly how deep that lie goes.

END

[team-free-will-you-idjits-67]

Chuck’s Plan (Part Four)

Description: You were brought back for a reason. Save Dean, help the Winchesters. The way you were brought back was something no one ever thought would happen.

POV: Female Reader

Characters: Sam Winchester,  Reader, Castiel, Jack Kline, Dean Winchester, Michael!Dean

Relationships: None (I honestly don’t know if this fic will even have a relationship tbh, it may just be strictly platonic.)

Warnings: Fluff. Angst. Explicit Language.

Word Count: 1393

A/N: Again, this based off AFTER SEASON 13! If you don’t want spoilers, please don’t read this! I’m pretty excited to see where this series will go, please give feedback!

A/N 2: Holy shit it’s back. Dun, dun, dun, dun. Jokes aside on me abandoning this for awhile, I’m loosely basing this off what is happening in season 14. So, of course, there are spoilers. Don’t come at me about spoilers when I’ve said multiple times there are spoilers.

This is also unbeta’d. All mistakes and how terrible this is is all on me. lol

Taglist

Masterlist / Misc. Fic Masterlist

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

It was weeks before you had a lead on Michael.

Duluth, Minnesota. A pile of bodies with burned out eyes were found. You knew it was a trap. There was no way Michael wouldn’t dispose of bodies that way if he wasn’t trying to lure Sam in.

You rumbled in protest, “I don’t trust this Sam.” You paced around his bedroom as he packed a few things, “Especially since you won’t let me go.”

Sam shoved a shirt into his duffel, exasperated, “Y/N,” he rubbed his hand over his bearded chin, “I know. It probably is, but this is a chance for me to gain some sort of information. See Michael, make sure Dean is at least still in there.”

You plopped onto the edge of his bed with crossed arms, “Michael probably won’t know what I am, like Cas didn’t.” You looked at him with slightly pouted lips, “It could be safe for me to go.”

He chuckled, “No offense to Cas, but Michael is a bit more powerful and a bit smarter. Just because you’re something new, that doesn’t mean he won’t figure out what you are.” He zipped up his duffel and stood in front of you, “It’s safer this way. Please.”

You rolled your eyes, “Fine Sammy,” you stood up from the bed and pointed at him, “But, if anything goes a wrong, even slightly, pray to me, call me. I don’t care. Get me there to help.”

He nodded, slight hope glimmering in the blue-green oasis of his eyes, “I will.”

---

You watched the taillights of the impala fade down the tunnel from the bunker’s garage. You closed the door with strings of grumbles, upset you were stuck on babysitting duty with Cas.

You wanted to help. You wanted to get Dean back, but Sam wanted to play things safe at first. Which is understandable, it is his brother’s life that’s on the line.

But you had the power to defeat Michael and get Dean back. You just needed another vessel.

As you walked back towards the library you thought over the fight you had with Sam and Cas.

“Nick!” You shot up from the wooden chair you were lounging in as it squeaked in protest, trying to find a way to go with Sam to get Dean back. “We can use Nick as Michael’s vessel.”

Sam barked, “No.” While Cas began to agree with you.

You both turned towards Sam. “Wha-,” you said in unison.

“I-it’s not his fault,” Sam looked down to the floor briefly, “Nick was housing. You know, he deserves a shot at rebuilding his life.”

Cas retorted, “And yet everytime I look at him, all I can see is the supreme agent of evil.” You nodded in agreement.

“Nick deserves a chance.” Sam stared you both down, sending slight shivers down your spine from his intensity, “He was a vessel. He didn’t do what Lucifer did.”

You rolled your eyes, “But, he said yes, fully knowing who he was saying yes to.”

Sam glared at you, “He deserves a chance.”

You turned on your heel and walked towards your bedroom. “Fine, whatever. But, I don’t like this plan. Not one bit,” you called over your shoulder.

You walked past the library, Cas and Jack were talking. You felt bad for Jack. Having the powers that you have now, you couldn’t imagine losing them. Especially to a family member, someone who is supposed to love you.

You stumbled through the bunker, anxiety settling deep within your stomach, creating a large pit inside you. You didn’t like anything that was happening, at all.

You stopped in front of Dean’s bedroom door, sadness pooling in your heart as you looked at the worn door. You opened it hesitantly, almost afraid that Dean could somehow be in there. You smirked as the door swung open, distant memories of Dean yelling at you to knock flitted through your mind.

You walked in slowly, taking in his room, still untouched since he was here weeks ago. Guns nailed to the walls, his neatly made bed, the iPod and headphones thrown onto the comforter, miscellaneous office supplies lined his desk, and a few family photos were propped against the lamp and wall.

You smiled as you picked up the newest photo. It was before Dean had said yes, before you had rescued Mary and the hunters from the other world.

You all were gathered around the map table, the table casting a soft yellow glow on all of your smiling faces. Jack sat at the head of the table, Sam and Cas were sitting on either side of him. Your arms were draped over Jack’s shoulders, protecting, at the time, the most powerful person in the room. Dean stood beside you, behind his brother.

You rubbed your fingers over the new, glossy photo as you reminisced from that day.

“C’mon Dean!” You shouted, giggling at the eldest Winchester’s incapabilities with technology. You looked over towards Sam, a smile was spread wide across his face. You had been giving Dean shit for the last 10 minutes about how long it was taking him to set up a timed photo on his phone. No one had the motivation to help him though, it was amusing to watch him figure it out himself.

Dean grumbled, something about how the ‘technology inclined people should be doing this.’ You giggled when Dean erupted with joy, “Aye! I got it!” He set his phone down on the makeshift tripod you all had made. He snuck a peak behind him towards you all, “Everyone ready?”

Everyone chuckled as you piped up, “We’ve been ready for 10 minutes Winchester.”

He shot you a dirty look before he hit the camera button. He darted around the table, sliding into place behind his brother as you all smiled for the photo.

When the picture was taken, you skipped towards Dean’s phone, taking a peak of the photo. You giggled as Dean came and looked over your shoulder. “Team Free Will 2.0,” he mused.

You handed him his phone as he continued to look at the picture, “Team Free Will 2.0.”

Even during that shitty time of trying to find and rescue Mary, trying to figure out what you would do with Lucifer, you all looked so happy. At ease from being together and being able to let go, for that one second.

“I wonder when he printed this out,” you mused to yourself. You flipped the photo over, noticing Dean’s signature handwriting on the back. Team Free Will 2.0, Family. 2017. You placed the picture back into its original spot with a sad smile as you continued to wander around his room.

You sat on his bed and slid up the brown cotton to sit against the headboard as you grabbed for his iPod and headphones. You slid the ear pieces over your ears and hit play. Led Zeppelin’s, Dazed and Confused started playing. You smiled at your shared love for classic rock as you closed your eyes and leaned your head against the wall.

You didn’t know how much time passed, you were so immersed in the music, trying to connect with Dean when Sam’s voice flooded your thoughts, “Y/N. I need you. Quick.”

Your eyes shot open as you ripped the headphones off and threw them onto the bed. Signaling in on Sam’s location, you unfurled your wings and got to the abandoned church in no time. Mary and Bobby were standing in your way as you could hear Sam murmuring something, “Guys.” Mary and Bobby turned around, “What’s go-.”

You stopped mid sentence, eyes wide as you looked at Sam knelt by Dean. Dean looked weak, supporting himself against an old, worn beam in the abandoned church. Tears welled in your eyes, “Dean?”

His reaction, the same as yours as a tear escaped his lower lid. “Y/N?” He choked out.

You ran towards him and kneeled, wiping the tear from his face, “It’s me Dean.” You looked towards Sam, beaming, “It’s really him.” You focused back towards Dean, his olive eyes pooling with tears as they watched you closely, almost like you would disappear. “Michael is gone.”

Dean shook his head, “I-I don’t know why he left…”

You smiled, “We’ll figure it out Dean. In the meantime, let’s get you home.”

Tags:

Forever Tags:

@emoryhemsworth , @nanie5 , @gabrielslittleangel, @alexwinchester23 , @assassinofletters , @caswinchester2000 , @justawaywardwinchester , @thehufflepuffblog , @kittenofsarcasm , @missihart23 , @spnfamily-alwayskeepfighting, @team-free-gallagher, @rhiannonj79 , @curly-haired-disaster, @mogaruke, @supernaturalsammy01, @heyitscam99, @hobby27, @crazyrebelbitch87 

Chuck’s Plan Tags:

@animegirlgeeky, @sillydecoy

[coffee-obsessed-writer]

The Letters

Dean x Reader (past); Reader x Bobby (present platonic), also some John & Sam Winchester

Summary: They met when they were kids, and stayed in touch once Dean left with his dad and brother. Years later, the Winchesters are back in town and this time their visit changes the entire course of the reader’s life.

Warnings: Some language, character death, depression, angst 

Word Count: 4615

A/N: This was from a request by @tiquismiquis for a fic with the song Snuff by Slipknot as the prompt. Song lyrics used in the fic are bolded. I hope you enjoy honey! I really do recommend listening to the song or reading the lyrics. I’ve honestly listened to this so many times now, it's just who I am now. Also, a big thank you to @docharleythegeekqueen for helping me out with this one!!! <3

Everything Tags: @his-paradox @sorenmarie87 @lefthologramdeer @grace-for-sale  @redm81 @becs-bunker @docharleythegeekqueen @moonchild-shoshanna @idontfuckingknowgurl

SPN Tags: @soythedemonqueen  // @kazosa  // @lucifer-in-leather // @perseusandmedusa // @tiquismiquis // @mrsbarnes-rogers  // @yorkeylover // @through-thesilver-lining // @illysamorgan // @fictionalabyss // @gettinjoyful // @auntsalgal // @stuckupstucky // @miss-spnm0mma // @teller258316 // @sphollis-blog // @sweet-things-4-life // @hobby27 // @sweetlythoughtfulbird // @theoriginalvicki // @dreamchester67 // @xxwarhawk // @assassinofmasyaf // @mahalaraewolfe // @negans-wife

It started innocently enough, around the time when your sister Annie became sick and admitted to the hospital like so many of the other kids in the neighborhood.

When you were 12, Dean Winchester rolled into town with his dad, John, and brother, Sam. Your dad was the Sheriff, and you can remember him having them over quite a bit. All your father would tell you was that they were there to help Annie and that you should be hospitable to the boys as they were around your age. After dinner, it was time for the grown-ups to talk, and you, Dean and Sam were exiled beyond the closed wooden doors to do whatever you wanted. Mostly, you and Dean played on your Nintendo while Sam begged for a turn.

This went on for more than a week and, in that short time, Dean became your best friend. He helped distract you from the idea of losing your sister by thinking of things you could do for her when she finally came home from the hospital. Dean made you laugh and told you exciting stories about their travels; he was the coolest boy you’d ever met. He always made you smile and feel like you could handle anything that happened.

When it was over, and time for them to leave, you remember crying. You put your arms tightly around Dean’s neck and asked him to write to you when he could. He said he would try. They had done what they came to do, saved Annie and all the other kids in the town, and disappeared into the dark of night.

An occasional letter would come every few months, and while you knew he had no permanent address, he told you to send them to someone named Bobby Singer, and that he would get them when he could. He talked about the different schools his dad would make him go to, the kids that he met and the ones that continually gave him and Sam a hard time. Dean wrote about how hard it was to be a good big brother to Sam and a good son to John. Once, he even confided in you that he’d thought of taking off on his own, but in the end, he couldn’t leave Sam.

When you wrote back, you’d tell him not to worry; that he was perfect the way he was because he was always trying. In the last letter you wrote, you got brave enough to admit about a dream you had of him where you kissed. He never replied to that one though. Eventually, the letters stopped, and over time, memories of Dean started to fade.

Seven years later, it happened again. Only you and Annie were older, and the memories of the previous threat were forefront in your mind. When you heard the whispers and rumblings of the townsfolk talking about all the children falling ill, you knew that whatever reason the Winchesters had come before, was happening again.

You’d gone to your father about it, hoping he had a quick way to call John back to town. Now six months away from retirement, your father waved you off, asking, “John, who?” As if none of it had ever happened.

“But, Annie… when we were kids. She got really sick, remember? All the kids did, dad. John, Dean, Sam… they came here in that old black car. They ate at this table! I was friends’ with his boys!”

You turned to Annie for help, but she would shrug and simply apologize. “I’m sorry sissy, I honestly don’t remember being in the hospital.”

He just stared into his meal and pretended not to hear anything you were saying. It was both infuriating and scary because at times you doubted it ever really happened. Then you would reread Dean’s old letters and know for certain, it had.

Taking matters into your own hands, you searched your room until you found the address Dean had given you so many years before. Using the limited internet the library on your college campus offered, you searched for the name Bobby Singer with the address you had in South Dakota. Calling several of the numbers listed, you finally found the one you were looking for. The old, gruff voice on the other end was short and dismissive at first, but as soon as you invoked the Winchester name, his tone changed completely. He listened to your story intently and promised you that he would get in touch with John; that someone would be there soon to handle whatever was happening to the children of the town.

Within twenty-four hours, you heard the rumble of the old black car’s engine in front of the house. The Winchesters were back and ready to help. As if no time had passed, you found yourself one again flinging your arms around Dean’s neck and hugging him tightly. Ignoring John’s disapproving eye, Dean hugged you back and seemed genuinely happy to see you.

“It’s been a minute,” he said shoving his hands into the pocket of his coat; a twinkle of excitement in his eyes. “How’ve you been?”

“Not time for that Dean,” John barked, then turned to you, “Bobby says your father is turning his head to the situation?”

“He won’t acknowledge its happening again. Whatever it is,” you said and finished with a frustrated sigh.

“He never explained it to you?” Dean asked surprised but quickly backed off with one look from John.

“That’s her father’s choice, son. Not yours to judge.”

“Yes sir,” Dean said and took a step back from you.

It was the next night, that you and Dean had your first real encounter. Somehow John had broken through your father’s wall and convinced him to do whatever it was he had to do. You and Annie, though now technically adults, were banished to your room for the duration of the Winchester’s stay. Annie, who didn’t get to know them the first time, couldn’t have cared less, but you were devastated.

Once she was asleep, you climbed from your window and walked the three miles to the efficiency suits where the Winchesters were staying. You found them in Room 6. John was busy with your dad, and you found Sam and Dean watching a football game and arguing over something stupid. Dean’s face lit up when he saw you at the door and yanked you inside quickly.

You spent most of the evening sat between them and laughing and arguing over whatever was on the television. Sam was tired and excused himself to the bedroom, leaving you and Dean on your own. It took only minutes for him to kiss you, and not too long after that, he had all of you. It hadn’t been your first time, but it was the first time you could understand why people loved sex so much.

Afterward, you asked him the questions you always wanted answers too. What had happened to your sister back then? What was causing it to happen again now? That was when you learned the truth. The truth about what was out there under the surface of civilized society, stirring up bodies and going bump in the night.

Shocked and scared, Dean was sweet and held you. He listened to your questions and was patient while you tried to process all he was saying. When you had to go, he walked you the three miles home and waited until you signaled him from your room that all was well.  

It wasn’t.

A dark figure was hunched over your sister’s almost lifeless body. You turned back towards the window and called for him. But it was too late. It flew past you with a high-pitched scream and hurled itself out of the window, knocking you down in the process.

From there it was a blur. Your mother barging into the room, hearing Dean pounding on the front door, Annie’s body before you with her skin grey and lifeless. All you could remember was falling to your knees and screaming her name before the world went black around you.

  Her death was ruled as natural due to health issues. The Winchesters didn’t stay for the funeral. Two days after Annie died, your father came to you and told you the truth that you’d already heard from Dean. After that conversation, it was never brought up again. Your parents mourned for their daughter and completely left you out of the grieving process.

Two months later, the letters started again. They were much more detailed and heartfelt than the first time, and way more personal. Dean poured his heart out in apologies about Annie, expelling the guilt he felt at her loss.

 “…the losses pile up, and sometimes it hurts bad. The kind of bad you didn’t think was possible. But you gotta keep going. For Annie, for me…”

 You didn’t have any ill will against him, but the loathing you felt towards yourself was vast and deep. At times his words were all you had to help you through the worst of the days. When he opened up to you, you felt more at ease. The way he trusted you made you feel important and needed.

 “…stuck in another crappy motel for a few nights. Maybe if you were here it’d be better. I think about you a lot. I probably shouldn’t, but can’t always help it…”

 With each new piece of mail, Dean told you things that you imagined he would have never repeated to anyone else. You wrote back, asked him how he was able to live with what he saw happen to people. Begged him to tell you how to make sense of it all in your head. But he never answered those questions.

You assumed he hadn’t been to Bobby’s in a while to get the letters, because he never answered your specific questions, only wrote in a stream of consciousness that one usually reserved for their personal journals. Dean made you feel like you were his personal journal the way he confessed everything in his head and heart.

 “…sometimes it’s hard to keep my head up and focused. I need too, or they could both get hurt. Sammy’s hunting less and less, fighting with Dad more. How the hell am I supposed to keep them both alive when they can’t stop trying to be right all the time…”

 Some days, his letters were all you had. You would take out the old shoebox and read through his thirteen-year-old handwriting and smile. One of the last letters though was the one that gave you the hope that things could get better… one day.

 “…I sorta wish I could come get you and we could just take off. Let my dad and your parents handle shit and just be gone. We deserve that, don’t we? No monsters, just a happy life somewhere. Promise I’d let you have the first turn on Super Mario!”

 Then, three months later, the final letter came. It was about a year after Annie’s death. Dean went into detail about how Sam was leaving them and going away to college. He said this would be the last one. That he was going out to hunt on his own, breaking away from John whenever he could and he wanted to do so with no attachments.

 “…I gotta prove to him I can do this. With Sam gone, I’m all he’s got. So, like a good soldier, I gotta do what I hate doing. No distractions. I can’t have them with what I gotta do. I only wish you weren’t my friend, because then I could hurt you in the end. But you are so much more than my friend, so I have to hurt you and say goodbye. I hope you’ll be alright and not let any of what happened eat you up. Please don’t hate me...

                                                                                         - Dean”

 Everything changed after that. College, a part-time job—it all seemed pointless and obsolete. Without his letters, you found yourself lost in the mundane parts of merely existing. Your parents never really recovered from Annie’s death and had stopped speaking to you completely.

On the anniversary of that night, your father came to your room and told you that you had one month to pack up and go live on campus. He said they didn’t blame you for her death, but their expressions and body language betrayed the lie.

The next day, you had a bag packed, withdrew all the money from your savings account and left home, never to return.

Now, years later, as you sat in the deserted parking lot, the memory of that day you left felt as fresh as the blood on your hands was. It was the day you started hunting. Partially to try and seek revenge for Annie, and partially to try and find Dean. The hope he’d given you through the letters was all you had pushing you forward. So, you used it, along with everything you could learn about monsters, and set out to hunt.

  Twelve years into hunting, and you’d only ever caught a whiff of their names. Sam and Dean Winchester, the hunters who let the Devil free and stopped the apocalypse from ending the World, were just dust in the wind. Some reported their deaths, other hunters told tales of killing a vamp nest with them somewhere down in Louisiana, or maybe a werewolf in Oregon. A few times you’d driven to the address in South Dakota that you had for Bobby Singer, but never worked up the nerve to knock.

After a few years, you could feel yourself become cold to the job. It became about lashing out at the beasts you hunted and less about revenge or finding Dean. The box of his letters was tucked away in the trunk of your car, and no longer opened. Occasionally, at night when the whiskey was doing its job, you’d close your eyes and remember the night you spent with him and then chastise yourself for girlhood fantasies.

“It was never real,” you’d moan into the emptiness around you, “none of it. I was just another girl, from just another town.”

The silence spoke back in volumes, your parents’ voices in your ears blaming you for loving Dean more than Annie. They hadn’t said it of course, but your inner dialogue couldn’t care less about the actual facts and only plagued you with simulated situations that hurt the most.

The hangover was brutal, but you were up and functioning the next day. A new case involving a mysterious death had you dressed in your “work” attire as an investigative journalist doing a piece for some random magazine. A well-dressed, good-looking older man approached you, flashing his FBI badge quickly and questioning your presence around the crime scene. After a few moments of conversation, you realized he too was a hunter.

“Stayin’ local?” he asked as he handed you his false Agency card.

“Yeah. You know that place on Main, uh, Frankie’s, I think,” you asked, tucking the card into your pocket without looking. He nodded. “Meet me there at eight to compare notes?”

“Eight it is,” he replied, and turned back towards the crime scene.

Later that night, he entered the bar looking far different from the nice suit and wing tips. Now, he was dressed in layers of flannel with a blue puffer vest and trucker cap.

He saw you sitting alone at the table and headed your way. As he sat, the waitress approached and took your order for another round, including a few shots each of bourbon.

You nodded a greeting and smiled, “I’m (Y/F/N) (Y/L/N), good meeting you.”

“Bobby Singer,” he said holding out his hand, “don’t believe I remember you from ‘round the usual watering holes. Nice to meet ya.”

You were shaking his hand, but hearing his name hindered your ability to speak your own name. “Bobby, Singer? Bobby Singer from South Dakota?”

“The one and only,” he said and narrowed his eyes at you, “whoever spilled the beans about me, hope it was all good things.”

“We’ve spoken before, actually,” you said and quickly swallowed one of the shots that just arrived. “Years ago. I called you lookin’ for John Winchester.”

Bobby sat back in his seat and let his memory wander. His face lit up in recognition and he nodded. “Right, I do remember now. Had to be ‘bout, what, ten years ago?”

“Twelve.”

“I’ll be damned. John never did tell me how that went. Everything go alright?”

Vile rose in your throat just as your stomach processed the bourbon. You reached for the second shot, shaking your head as you slammed the glass back to the table.

“No, it didn’t.”

Bobby grabbed his first shot and took it down. “I’m real damn sorry, kid.”

You couldn’t help but cackle, “It’s been a long time since I was a kid.”

“Well, the sentiment’s the same. Real sorry for whoever it was you lost.”

You studied Bobby’s face and saw in it the kind of compassion only one who’s suffered in the same way could give. “Guess we all have a story, huh?”

“Sure do. But, can’t do much about those now, can we? Better to focus on what we can do.”

“Bobby, before we talk about this case… I gotta ask you something.”

“Shoot.”

“I used to mail letters to your house, for Dean. Do you know if he ever got them?”

Bobby’s face fell into a look of regret. “Oh damn, the letters, they were from you?”

“Did he?” Years of pent up love, rage, hope, and despair were wrapped up in those two words, and your ability to handle them or not was solely hinged on Bobby’s answer.

“He got a couple when you all were kids. But John found’em, made him stop writing to ya. He told me if I got any more I should burn ‘em.”

“What about later on, when they came back… I sent more then, too, did he—”

Bobby shook his head. “I didn’t burn ‘em, but I didn’t give ‘em to Dean either. I’m sorry. John was fightin’ with those boys constantly. Just didn’t seem the right time. I always planned on givin’em to him, but things haven’t exactly been light and breezy all these years.”

Your head was swirling in bourbon and revelations. All this time you both loved and hated Dean for giving you hope and then taking it away with no warning. But maybe because he didn’t get the letters, he thought you didn’t care and so he let go first. All these years later, did it still matter? Yes, you thought, it did.

You grabbed for your beer, but Bobby gently laid his hand over it so you couldn’t take it. “Easy, alright? There is work to do,” he paused, and saw that your head was not on the case, nor would it be. “Did he write to you? Cause I do remember John tellin’ him to knock that off.”

You nodded, and Bobby released his hand from your bottle. Pulling from it slowly, you finally put it down and smiled painfully. “Have a damn box full of bullshit that meant nothing.”

Bobby sat forward, his index finger wagging at you with each word. “Bullshit? Look girly, if Dean was writing you enough letters to fill a box, you best believe it wasn’t bullshit. That boy wouldn’t bother with ya if it ya didn’t mean somethin’ to him.”

Bobby dug deeply into his pocket and pulled out his phone. Within seconds he navigated his contacts and showed you Dean’s name on the screen. “We can call him right now if you wanna.”

Your heart felt like it could beat itself right out of your chest. This was the closest you’ve been to Dean Winchester in a long time and the temptation was overwhelming. You thought back to his last letter when he told you that you were more than a friend, and that’s why he had to hurt you by saying goodbye. That’s who Dean was. He sacrificed what he wanted for the greater good. It was why he was probably still alive now, and still hunting.

“All the stories about them true?” you asked, still staring at Bobby’s phone, now laid on the table in front of you.

“Which ones?”

“Lucifer, the apocalypse? Did they really stop it?”

Bobby nodded and sighed. “Had a front row seat for the show myself. Watched it all go down.”

It was your turn to sit back in your chair as the knowledge you’d just gained sunk in.

“Wanna make the call?” Bobby asked again, nudging the phone towards you.

“No.” You slid the phone back to him and saw he was unsure of what to say. “I know the truth now, that’s all that matters. If he’d gotten the letters, maybe he wouldn’t be doing all the good he’s doing,” you shrugged and finished your beer, fully knowing that you meant what you said, but deep down you still believed you meant nothing to Dean.

“That’s one way to look at it,” he said and watched in confusion as you stood up and threw a fifty-dollar bill on the table. “What’s that for?”

“My way of apologizing for running out on ya,” you said, “I can’t stay here Bobby. I’ll be too tempted to make that call. Dean and I… we’re better off where we are. If we were face to face after all these years, wouldn’t be good for anyone. But, I don’t trust myself to leave it be. It’s just better if I go.”

You forced a smile and clapped him on the shoulder before heading out the door. “Good to finally put a face with the legend though.”

Sitting in the front seat of your car and taking some time to sober up, you finally felt like you could move on; both with your current location and the rest of your life. Bobby could handle the current case, and you could do anything you wanted too. Continue hunting, start a new life somewhere else… it didn’t matter. You knew the truth, and that helped, but it was too late for you and your heart. You’d lost your smile years before, and your heart shortly thereafter. Sadly, you couldn’t see any way to revive either one.

You started your car and set out on the open road. Your mind kept circling around to Dean and how close you’d come to him again and began to replay the childish fantasy you once lived for. You could feel the pain seeping in, and suddenly jerked the car to the side of the road right before a long stretch of a bridge.

You popped the trunk and went around to the back. Digging through your tools you found the box with Dean’s letters and pulled out the last one he wrote. You shoved it in your pocket, closed the box and started walking towards the middle of the bridge. Leaning over the edge, you opened the lid and watched as the letters cascaded down to the river below. Some caught on the wind and were swept away, others landed in the icy water.

As you watched them disappear into the darkness, you looked up at the stars and whispered, “I’m done hoping Dean, I’m done. I’m letting you go.”

When you got back to the car, you touched the final one you kept in your pocket. It was a reminder, should the feeling of hope arise again, it would be something that could bring you back to the reality you knew you were meant for–being alone.

  Three Days Later…

“Do you know why he wanted us here?” Sam asked as Dean steered the Impala into Singer Automotive. Bobby’s old car was parked in its normal spot and Dean took the one next to it, turning off the engine.

“No, he didn’t really say. Just to come when we could,” Dean shrugged and tucked the keys in his coat pocket. “Don’t mind the visit though, been a while since we’ve been home.”

Sam and Dean entered through the back door without knocking as they usually did. They found Bobby in his normal place behind his desk, hunched over an old book.

“Hey Bobby,” Sam called cheerfully, “How goes it?”

“Heya boys, glad you were able to pop in. I know you keep such a busy schedule these days. Maybe next time I’ll get my secretary to call yours and you can pencil me in,” he retorted sarcastically.

Pushing back from the desk, Bobby rose with a groan, eliciting a concerned look exchanged between the brothers.

“You alright, Bobby? You’re surlier and a little slower than usual,” Dean smirked.

“Watch it, boy, I’ll still run circles around your smartass,” Bobby warned, as he moved past them to the bookshelf on the far wall. “I asked ya here ‘cause I got somethin’ for ya.”

They watched him retrieve a dusty old box that had been tucked away behind years’ worth of clutter. He handed it to Dean, who took it suspiciously and went to sit on the couch with it.

“Now, before you open it up, I gotta say I’m sorry. You should’ve had these years ago.”

“What are they?” Dean asked but didn’t need Bobby’s reply. He touched the tops of the old, yellowed envelopes, and looked up at his surrogate father. Dean’s eyes were wide with an undeterminable emotion that not even Sam could read.

“Dean? What are they?” he asked, glancing between Bobby and his brother.

“Letters,” Bobby answered. “Letters your dad wanted me to burn, but I couldn’t. After he was gone, I forgot about them.”

“Letters from who?” Sam asked, still confused. He sat next to Dean and tried to take one from the box, but Dean smacked his hand away and gave him a warning look.

“Bobby, why now? What in the hell would make you think of these now?” Dean asked, his demeanor getting more irate. “Bobby, please, you gotta tell me… why now?!”

“I sorta worked a case with her last week,” Bobby shrugged and knew by Dean’s expression that he was in for it. “I tried to get her to call you, but she said no.”

“She’s hunting?!” Dean roared and stood from the couch, nearly spilling the box all over the floor.

“Who?” Sam asked again, getting frustrated that neither Bobby nor Dean would answer him. He bypassed Dean this time and grabbed an envelope from the box. When he saw the return address, understanding washed over him. He sat back against the cushions and blew a gust of air from his lips. “Damn. I remember her. I remember you with her. I remember—”

“Shut it, Sam,” Dean mumbled and snatched the letter from his hand. Stepping over him Dean took the box and left the room.

With the box tucked under his arm, Dean went to take a beer from the fridge. He opened it, gulped down half and sat at the small kitchen table with the box in front of him. He started with the first letter. Dean swallowed hard as he pulled the paper from the envelope. It still smelled like her perfume. He slowly unfolded it and desperately tried to fight back all of the memories of her he’d locked away. But no sooner did he see her handwriting and the words, “Dear Dean,” they all came flooding back.

Dean leaned forward in his chair, one hand gripping his hair and cradling his head, the other holding the letter, as one lone tear slowly slid down his cheek as he read the letters he never thought existed.

PART TWO — The Letters: Dear Dean

[grxhams]

hello, its naomi ( someone stop me ) and this gif makes me cry for reasons i can’t explain. i never saw this movie and i probably never will

graham as a vine. odysseus as a vine.

[ CHRIS EVANS. CISMALE. HE/HIM. ] GRAHAM CASSIDY aka ODYSSEUS has been a member of the God Club for FIVE YEARS. This time around they are THIRTY-FIVE years old and a UNI FILM AND HISTORY PROFESSOR. They ARE NOT devoted to returning to Olympus because THERE ARE NO THRONES LEFT FOR KINGS. Currently they only possess the power of INSTRUCTIVE MUSCLE MEMORY. 

smash that mfin’ like and we can chat to plot bc if i have to legally write an intro i’ll kermit i’ve had an emotional night. okay i threw something together. i just wanna be able to do replies and not feel guilty for not doing this.

g r a h a m

Well I come here more than you know                     And I'm sure you think I've OUTGROWN you                                         But I couldn't. – COIN, malibu ‘92

► GENERAL INFORMATION

FULL NAME: graham jonathan cassidy

NICKNAME(S): n/a

AGE: thirty-five ( 35 )

DATE OF BIRTH: december 25th

GENDER: cis male 

NATIONALITY: american

SPOKEN LANGUAGE(S): english

OCCUPATION: university professor

RELIGION: unaffiliated 

SEXUALITY: bisexual

► APPEARANCE

FACE CLAIM: chris evans

HEIGHT: 6′0

DOMINANT HAND: right handed

HAIR COLOR: medium brown

EYE COLOR: blue

SCARS: speckled with well-faded scars, a gnarly scar across his 

TATTOOS: an in memorium tattoo for his deceased mother, a small h on  his left hand’s ring finger, chris’ buddism clavicle tattoo

POWER(S): instructive muscle memory

► BACKGROUND

HOMETOWN: just outside of austin, tx

CURRENT RESIDENCE: new york

FINANCIAL STATUS: middle class 

EDUCATION LEVEL: a doctorate in history and film

FAMILIAL CONNECTIONS: marissa cassidy [ mother, deceased ]; william cassidy [ father, 58 ], younger sister [ open ]

ROMANTIC CONNECTIONS: heath cassidy [ spouse, 31 ]

PLATONIC CONNECTIONS: cousins, extended family

HOSTILE CONNECTIONS: open

► EXTRA INFORMATION

JUNG TYPE: estj 

TEMPERAMENT: sanguine

MORAL ALIGNMENT: chaotic good

SIN: pride

VIRTUE: charity

ZODIAC: capricorn

ELEMENT: earth

PINTEREST:  its gay

CHARACTER PLAYLIST: later

► PAST         tw: an abuse of commas on my part

     the first born son of a farmhand, graham learned to take care of the land and trust in his own hands before anything else. just a short, two-hour drive from the nearest big city - he had figured that he had grown up with a well-rounded childhood. that ideology was quickly shaken up when he enlisted in the army. basic training brought him up to south carolina where he truly discovered just what type of people existed in the world. the army introduced him to new experiences while also honing the skills he had developed at home. ranking up diligently, graham used his off time to take advantage of covered tuition. though learning from a book was never his strong suit but by making every class as interactive as possible, he managed to rack up a few degrees.      his twenty-first birthday came and went, but as he helping a mate build ikea furniture, she actually read the instructions and he found that.. he knew what to do. his hands moved almost of their own accord and the standard three hour desk took only a fourth of the time. cornered in the library, being told that he would manifest powers and that he was odysseus was a trip. laughing it off, he told a few people about the incident and his friends agreed that lsd was too easily accessible in new york. nonetheless, he was fascinated with his newfound ikea furniture building prowess, he spent weeks trying figure out what triggered this ability. he read manuals, he watched tutorials, he had other people read him manuals, but not all of them worked, through trial and error and a few stressful nights of googling, he found that indirect observation was the key to mastering his new abilities. becoming a quick fan of how-to audiobooks and written instruction, graham consumed everything from mechanics’ guides to cookbooks.      leaving his education on hold to become a ranger, a part of him felt like it was cheating, using this weird, newfound ability to advance his personal life, so he vowed to look up the godclub when he was back in the states. unfortunately, that day came sooner than anticipated. injuring his right shoulder and getting discharged with the grizzly truth of never having full mobility of his shoulder, graham returned to get his masters in something more solitary. on a whim he tacked on a teaching degree to his portfolio and he was able to pick up a job teaching subjects he loves.

► PERSONALITY        

gold, gold, gold. 

likes routine, very detail orientated, hardworking, knowledge and facts > feelings, emotionally guarded bordering on constipated, cold anger like clenching a fist around dry ice, ACTUALLY gets shit done, mom friend.

► CONNECTIONS 

heath -  

ride or die, close friends, confidants etc

gym buddies, neighbors, uncommon friends, frenemies, 

this scenario

however, very recently, i would say about this passed spring, graham lost his mother and has been very depresso about it. he would have taken the summer off and gone on a short trip and then spent the rest of his time wandering the streets after the sun has set. if you’re interested in meeting him then. lmk

[gerxrdwxy]

Memories - Happy Birthday Brendon

Read it on ao3 By PagebyPaige

Summary: Brendon is sad and alone and its his 30th birthday.

Word Count: 2047 Chapters: 1/1 Language: English

•Fandom(s): Panic! at the Disco •Rating: General •Warning(s): No Archive Warnings Apply •Categories: M/M, Multi •Character(s): Brendon Urie, Spencer Smith, Dallon Weekes, Ryan Ross, Sarah Orzechowski (mention), Dan Pawlovich (mention), Kenneth Harris (mention) •Relationships: Brendon Urie/Ryan Ross (Platonic), Past!Ryden, Brendon Urie/Spencer Smith (platonic), Brendon Urie/Dallon Weekes (platonic), Brendon Urie/Sarah Orzechowski •Additional Tags: Brendon is 30, April 12, Fluff, Angst, Brendon is sad and alone, happy birthday bren

How did he end up like this? Brendon is somehow alone and sad, moping in a dressing room on his 30th birthday mourning the loss of the friends he threw away.

Brendon finds himself lonely and unenergetic, completely unlike him. He doesn’t feel like talking to even Sarah, or fooling with his dogs. Brendon looks through the ‘House of Memories,’ the display of “artifacts” from older years of Panic! He looks at his ridiculous hair, the crazy makeup, stage outfits and fond memories. As he moves through and finally reaches Death of a Bachelor. Here he is, headlining a tour by himself, basically the entire record credited to him.

Brendon goes back again, this time really taking time to remember.

Brendon remembers Fever, him and his high school best friends getting together in a space they could barely afford, no idea how they would get by. They had had the band together for three years already and were finally preparing to record. Brendon’s family threw him out and that translated into stage makeup and ‘fuck everyone I like drugs’ type lyrics that were so artistic (courtesy of Ryan) that they somehow worked.

Brendon remembers Pretty. Odd., the messy Beatles album where they spent months in a cabin and most of them were pretty much constantly high. Meanwhile, Brendon and Ryan only got closer. They sang duets with intimate lyrics and Brendon thought they really had something going, maybe.

Brendon remembers Vices, and the god awful fight that caused it. Brendon pauses, unable to continue. Ryan. It’s all he can think of. Brendon had done something proud and stupid and he lost Ryan. His Ryan. Brendon lets himself relive the fight that cost him the love of his life.

Of course, it wasn’t just one fight. It was fights every single night, ending in slamming doors at 3am. Even the people around them could feel the tension slowly building up by the day, until one day everything fractured. The fight wasn’t anything major, just their average argument, but somehow it was different. Brendon and Ryan had reached their breaking points, and no matter what they did that night someone was going to explode. No one really excepted the end, though; everyone really just figured Brendon would trail Ryan like a dog forever. Clearly, that’s not quite what happened.

It was late at night and everyone else had gone to bed, not wanting to deal with Brendon and Ryan’s petty shit. They were talking about the new record, and what they wanted to do. Ryan wanted to be a bigger part of the musical process: Ryan wanted to sing. When he said it, Brendon couldn’t help but snort.

“Why the hell is this funny?”

“It’s just fuckin’ ironic, Ry. You, Ryan Ross, in the spotlight!” Ryan looked indignant.

“Why shouldn’t I be?”

“I- nevermind.”

“Spit it out, Bren!” Of course, the irony was obvious. Brendon had been trying for almost eight years to work around Ryan’s stage fright, putting everything into his vocals to make anything possible, musically, for Ryan. Now Ryan wanted his chance in the spotlight. So this is how it works, then? Brendon thought, You just get to choose when you want to be in the spotlight and everyone else just works around you? Why, when we started and I wanted to be included in the lyrics I sang was I shut out, but now that Ryan Drama Queen Ross wants to be in the spotlight he gets it? The hypocrisy, Jesus.

“You’re just a fucking hypocrite, okay? We only ever do things when Ryan wants to do them. When I wanted to write lyrics, it was all, 'No, Brendon, what we have now is working’ but now that you want the spotlight I’m just supposed to give it to you?”

“Yes, Brendon. I’m trying to get over my stage fright and sing in our band and I should be allowed to do that. Besides, not letting you in the artistic process was for the best.”

“And what the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“It means you can’t write, Brendon!”

“Well maybe I can! You don’t fucking know that, Ryan. I’ll prove it.”

“Go ahead and prove it, Brendon. But if this is how this is going to go, I’m going to find someone who doesn’t turn important decisions into petty fights!” Ryan stormed out the door and Brendon, still fuming, mentally bid him good riddance. It wasn’t until a few days later when he got the email that he realized: Ryan wasn’t coming back. Brendon had just thrown away the love of his life over some comment Ryan probably didn’t even mean. Still stubborn, Brendon was determined. He sat down that very day and began to write the beginnings of the next record, and the first thing he wrote about was Ryan Ross.

Brendon feels the tears on his cheeks and realizes he’s barely even crying anymore. He doesn’t know when he started, or when he slid to the floor. He picks himself up and moves on.

Brendon remembers Too Weird. He remembers getting a girlfriend and coming out almost simultaneously. Brendon remembers writing about girls. Brendon remembers writing about guys. Brendon remembers writing about Spencer. He sees himself again, slaving over lyrics powerful enough to show Spence what he needed to see. Hard as it was, when Brendon sees This Is Gospel framed on the wall, he thinks of Spencer now and knows it was worth it.

Brendon has once again reached Death of a Bachelor. Brendon thinks of Sarah, of his puppies, all his friends, all his fans, everything he has. He thinks about the fight with Dallon, nothing even major; it was just a little tiff, but now Dallon’s not even an official member anymore. Brendon is alone.

He picks himself up and goes and finds an unoccupied room. He finds a comfortable looking, semi-clean couch and flops down on it face first. He curls up into the fetal position, nearly falling off the couch in the process. Brendon sinks into the couch and cries. Brendon is a mess.

When he calls Dallon, he doesn’t care that he’s in the other room. He calls him anyways, sniffling into the phone and apologizing for their fight, begging him to rejoin the band fully. Dallon just sighs and tells Brendon they’ll discuss this later, and Brendon has too many things to do to worry too much.

When Brendon calls Spencer, he swallows back everything he planned on saying, and so all he tells the answering machine is that he hopes Spencer is doing well and that he’d love to see him soon. He hangs up before he cries again.

The last person on Brendon’s spontaneous must-call list is Ryan. Brendon doesn’t even know what to say, he just calls and sobs and mumbles something that might be 'I’m sorry’ or 'I miss you’ or 'please come back I fucked up and I love you.’ Who knows. Brendon has almost convinced himself he’s talking to a voicemail when he hears Ryan’s too familiar voice on the other end. He bursts into a fresh round of tears.

“Brendon? Bren? Brendon, are you okay?” Brendon’s heard Ryan’s voice recently, but this is different. He sounds so old, so much more mature. Too mature to deal with a grown ass thirty year old crying on his birthday. Brendon almost hangs up when Ryan speaks again.

“Happy Birthday, Brendon. I’ve got a surprise for you, by the way.” Brendon is astounded by how calm Ryan is. “That is, if you’re up for it…”

“What is it?” Brendon is suddenly an overeager child.

“It’s a surprise, Brendon. A surprise.”

Brendon sighs and hears a knock at the door. “Hey Ry, I gotta go. I have soundcheck like, now, and a full set in an hour. Bye Ryan.”

“I kn- bye Brendon,” Ryan chirps and hangs up, leaving him headachy and confused.

Every song in Brendon’s set is practically pointing fingers at him. Brendon plays This Is Gospel and can barely focus on the piano keys for the amount of glances he steals of the drum throne, it’s drummer a shadow of his predecessor. Brendon plays Golden Days side by side with Kenny and he thinks of every memory he describes and all he sees is Ryan. Finally, playing House of Memories he stares at Dallon, a silent apology for everything he managed to fuck up to get him here, without even Dallon as a constant.

When Brendon walks back out for his encore, he knows what he’s going to play. No one will expect it but it’s so, so fitting. Brendon just misses his goddamn friends.

Oh memories, where’d you go? You’re all I’ve ever known. How I miss yesterday. How’d I let it fade away? Don’t fade away!

Brendon’s song, one not well known out of Vices, the album of his heart, is an apology to all those he hurt. I’m sorry, Ryan, it says, for driving you away. I’m sorry, Spencer, that I couldn’t save you sooner. I’m sorry, Dallon, that I let a trivial fight rip the last link from my band. I’m sorry, Panic! at the Disco, that I am you now: a thirty-year-old man touring the world crying alone on his birthday. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I fucked up. I miss you.

As the lights dim, Brendon walks off the stage, ready to go back to his dressing room or the hotel or wherever to lie back down and cry. When he gets back, though, he gets three simultaneous phone calls. He answers Spencer first, shaking from exhaustion and adrenaline.

“Yeah?” Brendon is too tired to deal with people, yet still a little euphoric to have Spencer calling me.

“Dallon just called me telling me you won’t answer your phone, so please for the sake of us all answer him!”

“Oh, o-okay. Bye Spence.”

“Catch ya later.” Brendon shouldn’t be this disappointed by Spencer’s call, and yet he is. The fucker didn’t even say happy birthday! Regardless, he picks up his phone again and dials Dallon, wondering what the hell could be so urgent.

“Brendon Boyd Urie get your ass back on this stage right fucking now!” is all Brendon hears before Dallon hangs up. Not wanting to make Dallon bother Spencer again, Brendon quickly complies, not having time to deal with the rest of his missed calls. He’ll get to them later.

When Brendon finally gets himself back on stage, the arena is empty. Almost everyone has neatly filed out the doors, security on their heels. Brendon walks up to Dallon.

“So what the fuck was so damn urgent that you had to call Spencer Smith?” Brendon hears a snicker in the background; probably a tech guy snooping in their drama. Dallon now fumbles for words, not making a very convincing case.

“I, uh, well…. uh, I needed you to help me with…….. something.”

“Right, yes. Something. I’ll get right on it.” Brendon isn’t in the mood for games tonight. This time, the snickering is a certain little giggle, and Brendon does a double take. Tech guys don’t laugh like Ryan Ross. Brendon faces out into the crowd, trying to determine where the sound came from. He looks down and ends up locking eyes with the one and only Ryan Ross, seated next to Spencer Smith.

“Happy Birthday!” Dallon’s voice is behind him and it’s filled with barely veiled excitement. Ryan and Spencer grin at him from the front row and he gestures for them to mount the stage, still unsure how to react.

“You knew about this?” Brendon finally decides to ask Terrible Actor Dallon.

“It’s possible…”

“Oh for fucks sake.” Ryan. Dramatic as always. “It’s Brendon Urie is 30, damnit, and I dragged our asses -he gestures to Spencer and himself- out to Vegas to tell you happy birthday and Dallon can’t even speak English! This isn’t the friends I know.”

Brendon doesn’t even think now, he just loses it. He gives in, wrapping Ryan in a bear hug. Spencer soon joins, smothering them both, and Dallon adds himself on, his head sticking up above everyone else’s. Brendon smiles genuinely for the first time in a very long time inside the friend-pile. Things are shaping up to be pretty damn okay.

[seventitas-blog]

How We Came To Be (Seek Version)

Word Count : 1,793

Type: Chaptered [ I, II, III ]

Characters: You x Seventeen bias

Note: The member was not specified but made with S.Coups, Jun, Hoshi, and Mingyu in mind.

Written by: Tita #2

Note:

Here’s the male version of How We Came To Be in his POV.

Read the first version first!

Please appreciate the discography of BTS especially non-title tracks consisting of sexy and emotional R&B beats:

Miss Right

Coffee

이불킥 Blanket Kick

좋아요 Like (Slow Jam Remix)

House of Cards  

잡아줘 Hold Me Tight

그게 말이 돼 Does This Make Sense?

하루만 Just One Day

Chapter Two: HOW I FOUND HAPPINESS AGAIN

♬  Coffee - BTS

I know I said I wasn’t a creep, and I know for a fact that I’m far from that. But when I looked for her I.D. and got her address, I saved her contact number.

I knew she was too out of it to remember how she got home, so I wanted to make sure that she knew she had a hero that night. I didn’t have any other agenda other than that. I guess I just wanted her to know we met. She intrigued me, but I wasn’t planning on pursuing her. Like I said, that night was different and she wasn’t like the other girls I met.

“Where’d you disappear to last night, man?” one of the members asked me the next day.

“Took a girl home.” I replied, as I sent another text to her. Thankfully she didn’t think I was a weirdo.

“Nice.”

“No, it’s not like that.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean I literally just took her to her place. She was passed out the whole time.”

“Wait so why are you texting her then?”

“I got her number.”

He shook his head in amazement. “I don’t know how you do it, bro.”

In some warped turn of events, we became instant friends, she and I. She was a foreigner, and didn’t speak my language well but with every spelling and grammar mistake she did, I grew fonder and fonder of her. We started going on friendly dates and hung out with my members as if she was a part of my inner circle. They gladly accepted her, because they knew that with her in the picture, I was happy again.

How did she make me happy? I didn’t know exactly what her magic was. She didn’t have an ethereal aura about her that made me fall for my ex girlfriend. She didn’t have a classic, traditional beauty that I preferred. But she was beautiful in her own command. When she smiled, it was radiant. When she laughed, it’s all I wanted to hear. She was so immensely happy-go-lucky that it made me, a broken and lovesick moron, happy. But I wasn’t ready to fall for her just yet; not when I still relapse and feel the pain creep back in from time to time.

I made sure she knew about everything I was going through. I had to. Countless times she would catch me staring a thousand yards away in the middle of a conversation because she would say or do something that reminded me of her. It would only be fair to her to know the reason behind that. But she always had a way of bringing me back to the present. She knew tricks on how to distract me from remembering and I hated that. I hated how uncomfortable I made her feel and how she had to adjust just so I wouldn’t shut down. So I tried to be better at being her friend.

“Noona. Why don’t you have a boyfriend?” I asked her one time, as we were lazily looking through vintage collections at a kitschy vinyl record shop. She liked going to places like that. Not even to buy but just to look around and listen to old songs for free.

“I just have pretty high standards.” she said, scanning the jazz section.

“Like what?” I cocked my head to the side.

“I have an actual list.”

“A list?”

“Yeah. I wrote down the things I want in a boyfriend, specifically.”

“Okay…like what?”

“Like…he has to have a good relationship with his parents. He has to be able to tell old man jokes in a funny way. He has to be fun to go shopping with. And he has to be able to dance with me. Like, slow dance with me. The romantic way.”

“That’s an awful lot.”

“That’s not even half of it.”

“You’re gonna die single if you keep a list that long.”

“Why can’t women have standards? Is it that bad to want someone worthy of my love?”

“Just because a guy can’t enjoy shopping doesn’t mean he doesn’t deserve your love. That’s kind of harsh.”

“Yeah well tough luck.”

“So let’s say a guy almost crosses everything off that list, but missed one…just one tiny thing! He’s not it?”

She paused for awhile and put the Frank Sinatra vinyl back in its pile. “No.”

“What?!”

“Look, I don’t like being judged for my preferences in men.” she snapped.

“You’re never going to get married if you’re like that.”

“That’s not really your problem, is it?”

She huffed and turned her back to me. Clearly I had upset her. Now she would kill me if I had admitted this but I almost liked seeing her get all riled up like that. To me, it was endearing and cute. There are girls whose tempers scare you away or piss you off. Not this one, though. She was older than me but I always felt an urge to coddle and baby her whenever she got that way with me. As she was probably fuming away her agitation, I put on Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong’s The Nearness Of You on the antique record player. That scratchy, hollow sound of bass was unmistakable; this was classic, romantic jazz.

She let out a small gasp of surprise when I reached for her hand and reeled her in to me.  As I put her arms around my nape and held her waist, her confused eyes searched my face for an explanation.

“What are you doing?” she whispered, looking around to see if people were staring. There was nobody else in that record shop besides us and the old man at the counter, who was fast asleep.

“Dancing with you.” I simply said.

“You’re crazy.”

I held her waist tighter and pulled her closer to my body so that she couldn’t writhe her way out.

“Just let me cross off one thing from that list.” I told her and gently swayed her from side to side the way my mother and father used to in the living room when I was young.

She blinked a few times at me before breaking out in fits of giggles while shaking her head. And just like that, she was smiling again.

I guess you could say it all started at that one small thing: I found joy in seeing her happy.

♬ It's not the pale moon that excites me

That, to me, was a sign that I had leaped forward. I wasn’t in a downward spiral anymore.

That thrills and delights me, oh no ♬

I found a new purpose and that was to keep making her happy; to be in her company.

♬ It's just the nearness of you ♬

I had a knack for giving her surprises like that, sometimes inadvertently humiliating her in the process. She would tell me that if I continued my streak of ‘surprise-embarrassing’ her she would go to one of my fansign events unannounced and cause a scene. I’d tell her that it didn’t scare me. In fact, I’d even play along with her and tell the fans she was my girlfriend.

“Once they start attacking you, joke’s on you.” I said.

“That must suck, to be your girlfriend.” she rolled her eyes.

“I’ll have you know that I’m a pretty good boyfriend.”

“Wanna bet?”

“Wanna date?”

Then she would scoff and playfully slap me.

I didn’t notice it at first, but I was slowly beginning to treat her as if she was my girlfriend. From the get-go there was never an intention like that. I didn’t think I was ready to open up again just yet. I knew I had developed some feelings for her by this time but I didn’t want to force myself into something I wasn’t sure about. Whatever I did, whatever I said - they all came out of me naturally. There were no pretensions. I have no idea at what point I started to fall in love with her but it seemed to reflect on my actions. We even had a big fight about it. She told me I was controlling, that I couldn’t let go of my past. That I have seemed to project my need to change my past onto her. In some ways, she was right.

“I just miss her so much.” I admitted, feeling defeated and hopeless once again.

I did still miss her.

I did still think about her.

I did still have a hard time letting go.

“But it’s different when she’s around. I forget everything when I’m with her.” I told Seungkwan one day.

“Then you should’ve told her that. All she knows now is you still miss your ex and you just look at her as some replacement.” he pointed out.

I heaved a sigh. “I can’t just tell her that. I like what we have. I don’t want to say something that might change it. I definitely feel something for her, but it’s not the right time to let her know about it. Not when I’m still fucking confused.”

“I understand, hyung. But think how confused she is right now too. You’re sending her mixed signals. It’s either treat her like a friend or let her know she’s more than that. Just how strong do you feel about her anyway?”

I thought hard about it and shook my head. I really didn’t know. And a big part of me refused to confront it. If I addressed it, she’d become entangled in the mess that I am. I decided to just continue with the semblance of a friendship that we had. Platonic, innocent, uncomplicated.

The problem was, she started avoiding me. She began dodging my calls, ignoring my texts and declining to even see me. Slowly, she became elusive and withdrawn.

“It’s probably for the best. Didn’t you say you didn’t want her getting involved with your predicament? Maybe she doesn’t want to get involved too that’s why she’s avoiding you.” my members said.

“Yeah maybe this is good. Give each other space and maybe avoid hurting her.”

I knew they were right, of course. In hindsight, it really was a good idea to just let her walk away and forget about making her a part of my convoluted life. She’d meet someone better, and I’d continue where I left off.

But why didn’t I feel good? Why was I holding on to her so much?

The death of a star in the cosmos best described her absence; a star burns bright for what seems like an eternity until it slowly dims, explodes, and collapses into a black hole. What once gave me light was now fading until it could burn no longer, and my happiness was no more.

[omektannou]

in honor of actually starting ayzebel’s blog take this drabble it’s not a drabble it’s four pages of anysus and ayzebel being sad and grumpy post-second punic war i wrote! it elaborates on a few headcanons and probably doesn’t make any sense, but that’s fine with me. enjoy ;-).

“I can feel it too,” Ayzebel promised. She felt her bones ache with every step and knew she had no strength left. Her mind was scatterbrained, even more than usual, completely forgetting one language or replaying phrases of Etruscan she heard in town on repeat. She either roamed the streets randomly, bumping into almost everyone, or did not leave the house at all.

The female personification raised her eyes and looked across the table. Anysus sat hunched over, quite like a lame beggar in the streets. Half of his face was hidden behind a large hand that now shook upon further inspection. The other half, his eyes, gazed at the mosaic floor with neither disappointment nor sadness—no emotional at all.

“Not as intensely as you.” She rarely talked this much, but the words tumbled out like a clumsy slave spilling stacked barrels at the port. They echoed just as loudly. “I really felt it when he came here. I didn't— I didn't think somewhere as far as Zama even affected us. Sometimes I dream I am one of the prisoners. He wasn't smart, just got lucky. They shouldn't have sued for peace.”

Not even that changed Anysus’ posture, and that opinion was one of his own. She did not have one either way, too blinded by pain to think for those few weeks.

“We’re doing fine financially already,” the girl continued, her hands folded so tightly in her lap that her tan knuckles blanched with the strain. The world would stop when Carthage didn't have money. “It doesn't seem like it, but we have enough to pay them. For now. Unlike… Unlike last time.” The war on the mercenaries had hit Ayzebel harder than the other. He’d already been in a downwards spiral of pain, and it was her first taste of it, so many years past Agathocles’ terror on the city.

“...What are we going to do?” she asked into the gloom of the dusty room, an old branch of the library she found Anysus hiding in. “What are you going to do?”

His tea was getting cold, she could see. He had not touched it. If Ayzebel had not been leaning forward, she might not have heard him at all. “I don't want to do anything at all.”

Her face, almost always without emotion, scrunched into an unreadable expression before melting away with an exhale. “We have the city. We don't have the empire,” she pointed out bluntly. “We never will if we can't raise an army. Numidia’s already started to— what a bitch. We can't do anything if we don't have a navy.”

Anysus’ voice was barely above a wheeze. “Ten.”

Her heart went out to him behind its walls, being ever rebuilt since Arria’s passing. Brick by brick, event by event. She knew the navy and the port was dearer to him than anything else, and it would be to her too if she'd been allowed. The two of them loved the sea itself equally. They had no elephants either, though most of them had died already. Anysus kept Kbiir, but in the recently empty pens under the outer wall, he looked lonely. “We still have merchants. The port is still open.” They had nothing to trade.

“Pirates,” was Anysus’ hoarse one-word answer.

“We could rely on aristocrats and privateers for their own vessels,” she insisted. “Romulus has his nose so far up patricians’ asses, he won't notice if he have more than ten war ships.” She had thought about all of this in her time alone and after the pain of Zama had subsided to a dull ache. What would happen if they lost.

The man did not have a response for that, it seemed, not even a shrug of his shoulders. He'd aged so much in seventeen short years since they last saw each other. Anysus always grew quickly as a child, and she joined his exponential growth in the sixth century, but this was different. This was wrong.

The angle brought the light to expose the depth and dark color of his undereye circles. He did not actually have wrinkles, but his face was always arranged in such a melancholy scowl that some still showed. His shoulders sagged with the weight of a heavy burden, though almost all of their responsibilities had gone with losing the war. The life had gone out of him when Romulus first brought the news of Aranth’s death, but he was now a walking corpse. Ayzebel could not say she looked better herself, an ashy pallor, frayed hair, and no kohl.

She wanted to know everything he saw with Hannibal. She could not imagining facing the Etruscans’ ghosts for fifteen years. When Arria had fled to Carthage with some of the population of Cisra, Ayzebel had thought that had been a hard thing to watch. She attempted to stay alive in one of the new Etruscan refugee neighborhoods but faded and faded under Ayzebel’s watch. Aranth had died even earlier, and Anysus had been made to trample on his grave. Well, no more than the Romans already had, she supposed.

The silence had lasted for more than a few moments, but it dispersed instead of hanging heavy in the air. They both knew they did not have to talk constantly. She was exhausting herself even further by venting.

A bracelet slid down her arm and clanged as it met other ones as she lifted her arm to grab the cup of tea. It was Etruscan, no doubt—they all were. Anysus’ were too. After all that work, Ayzebel didn't have enough energy to lift it to her lips, and let her arm lie limp on the table. The other one would have joined it if it could.

Ayzebel slumped in her chair further and stared at her lap. “I can't predict the future,” she admitted. “I don't know what will become of us.” Anysus only blinked at that, likely a bodily response and not even a reply.

“I can't— I can't stay in the city for too long.” Ah, a sentence. Perhaps they were getting somewhere.

Ayzebel knew he was more used to traveling, but she glanced up at him and raised an eyebrow. “I doubt you'll be going anywhere for a while.” She had seen him fall down the stairs or pass out on the stairs a few times now, and it'd only been a week. He averted his eyes.

They both ended up standing in front of the Etruscan community somehow. Ayzebel could not say how they got there or whose idea it was. Perhaps it was unspoken communication. They stood off to the side and watched people come and go and sniffed at whatever someone was cooking in the air. Some of them grew to know Ayzebel when she attended Arria, but she did not want them to see her right now. The noise was overbearing, even if it was caused by her second favorite people past her own. Anysus, though she would argue he was more emotional than she was, had nothing on his face at all.

“How long did she live?” Anysus asked suddenly, startling Ayzebel with the jarring question.

“A while,” was all she could manage before she thought about it further. “A few months. She… She slowly faded. Much like I imagine Aranth did.” They were no strangers to the other gender personification and loved them just as much, only platonically. Anysus nodded lifelessly.

“The sarcophagus, I— I couldn't bring it back—”

She looked up at him then, eyes scrunched in worry. His voice was frail and watery, threatening to break at any second. She had no idea what he was talking about; they hadn't talked about much since he got back. As she was about to ask, an image of a stone sarcophagus flashed into her mind violently. She'd seen it before, in her dreams.

She would still need to ask about the details. Ayzebel clutched a nearby railing and scanned the area with heavy eyes. Both of their eyes settled on two children laughing and playing with a dog. It looked to be one of the city strays, but it was playing with them rather than hurting them. Ayzebel wondered if she knew the children; she likely did.

The woman glanced back to Anysus. He was watching the same kids, but after the first outburst of emotion, his face was stone again. She could feel her own heart hardening too. They were both too hollow.

“Let’s visit Kbiir,” she offered quietly. She was happiest among her own pets, but Anysus needed to be somewhere familiar if they were to share miseries. The empty outer wall was depressing, but Ayzebel hoped they could both overlook that. Kbiir had been with Anysus the entire war.

She felt a sudden anger rise in her as the two of them turned away from the community, though she could not say why. She squashed it as she did any other emotion, but it continued to bubble over as she walked. She wanted to know everything about why nations died. Not that she wanted them to, but she wanted to know why Tyre and other Phoenicians hadn't died when they were conquered. Why Egypt hadn't. Why the Romans were so unkillable and how she could end them for once and for all.

“Don't bother,” Anysus said bluntly as they ascended a hill. He must have felt her anger radiating, as they sometimes tended to do, sharing emotions. They were both still very closed-off people, but their thoughts flowed back and forth. At least he stopped her before she started grinding her teeth and punching a wall. It all left her in a wave, and she found it hard to continue walking. Both of them might get dizzy and pass out in the street if they weren't careful.

Nothing had happened to the city, so they were both in good shape there. But the rest of what they were supposed to represent had crumbled. The Italian islands had been gone for decades, and after holding it since Carthage’s beginnings, Iberia was gone too. Personally and mentally, they were both absolute wrecks.

“‘m glad Hannibal sent back his wife early on,” Ayzebel said. “I hardly had anyone to talk to.”

Anysus’ answer was “I know,” but she got flashes of images of a random Carthaginian man and friendly bonfires in the dark until images of dry desert caked with blood interrupted them. She had found Anysus in horrible shape after Zama, and it lasted for about a week after. When she passed the banquet hall one day, a human family was sitting at the table with him. It was likely he had at least one person. She wondered what he saw of her time in the city, which was no war, but had been hard enough.

They reached a point in the city where Byrsa was not blocking the sky and they could see the sunset. The two of them stood off to the side of the narrow road and watched it. Bands of pink and yellow reached out for the sea in an orange haze.

“Sunsets in Etruria were always prettier,” Ayzebel observed, melancholy. The warm tones would contrast with the cool nights and bounce off of all the green foliage.

Anysus didn't say anything for a long time, his entire body taut as a bowstring. Neither of them were thinking of anything of any substance right now. After a few minutes and a cart rolling past, into the fading clamor used almost as a cover, Anysus whispered, “I miss them.”

Ayzebel looked at the deridingly pretty sunset with a sour twist of her lips. The beauty was useless if it was not permanent. She did not know how something so good could end. “I know.”