#looking forward to reading others' answers!

[gardens-light]

I always look forward to seeing these types of posts on my feed, as it gets me thinking about what writing goals I'd like to achieve or set. As well as, see the goals/accomplishments of other fellow writes.

My answers are below, and keep reblogging with yours. :)

💖 Might be a tad small, but I'd like to achieve at least 50 fanfics by the end of this year. Weather they're requests/prompts or ideas of my own.

🛳 Maybe dive more into platonic ships. As I do favourite romance.

🤔 I would like to write one shots/series for under rated characters. Such as Crosshairs, Hound, Bulkhead (and more) from Transformers, Abe Sapien from Hellboy, etc.

🥸 My sister knows, and has read a couple of mine. As we often share ideas, inspiration, character/fandom ideas etc, since she also writes fanfics. My husband is aware that I write fanfics, but he doesn't quite know exactly what kind of things I write. But I don't plan on telling anyone else.

🥵 100% yes.

👻 Maybe more in depth the with action genre. And step out of my comfort zone by exploring horror or dark elements.

🦄 I do prefer 2nd person. But might write a fic in 1st or 3rd.

🐌 May not be writing goals exactly. But organizing my drafts better, as there has been a few fics that sat there for months collecting dust.

🦖 I'd like to get back into Hellboy, as I realize that I abandoned a series idea years ago. And my attempt at it really needs to be re-written, as I don't like how it sounds anymore. I might also do more anime fandoms, but the faze tends to come and go for me.

🍄 DC Comics/Universe. Although I'm mainly a Marvel fan, there has been a few ideas I've had, that would better suit DC characters.

🌈 It may not be research, but I do tend to read a few fanfics or orgianal fics of fandoms I'm new/returning to. As well as, binge watching TV/movies of that character/fandom.

But I also do research on writing. (Sub-genres/plots. Kinks/fetishes. Cliches. Building motivation, organization, writing goals. etc.)

✨ I'd say my use of deceptive language and onomatopoeias. And how I try to use other writing techniques to immerse readers that little more.

🥕 Certainly my grammar, as I've noticed a few spelling mistakes over the time. And my sense of scale and anatomy, I appreciate people telling me how way off I've been in my past fics and how it affected their reading experience.

🫘 I'm actually planning on writing a young adult, fantasy novel with OCs. And I've recently started up on Fiverr for writing commissions.

🥳 I'd probably just give myself a cheat day from my diet and exercise. Or buy that thing I've been eyeing up for ages.

🎃 I've actually been meaning to write seasonal fics. But the time I have a moment to write, or the idea comes to me, the season's over. But certainly gonna try and give those ago this year.

🐾 Another thing that's been on my 'To Do List' for a while, and would like to try to participate at least one or two this year.

✍️ Honestly it would have to be comments. Not the amount of comments, but just comments in general- even if it's just one or two. As that's the main way people have given me valuable feedback, and it helps me grow to be better writer.

👾 I'm honestly not sure what 'bad' writing habits, that I may have. There's bound to be a good few that I don't notice, and would try and break them if they're pointed out to me.

🤖 I mainly use my laptop or phone for writing for convenience. As I do tend to do a bit of writing on my breaks at work, but I suppose having an area dedicated to me writing at home wouldn't be too bad.

🦷 I'm currently working on two different series for the Transformers fandom. One is for the character Knockout in TFP, I love this character and have many ideas for the series, but he's mainly seen as asexual in the fandom. I agree and respect the views of this character, but since I don't really have anyone in my friends/family that identifies as asexual, I'm honestly worried I may accidentally misrepresent the character and/or those who identifies as such.

💥 I have an idea for a one shot for The Joker from DC- Suicide Squad. As the one-shot I've got planned is an semi original idea, and many dark elements that would challenge me, and get me out of my comfort zone.

🍕 Due to my part time job, and personal commitments. I do only write/post things whenever I have a free moment to dedicate an hour or two to this hobby. But I'd would like to try and post more per month, but also not to flood anyone's feed.

🛏 I'm sure there's a few tropes/cliches that I've already written for. But I'd like to write 'bed one' or 'cuddle for warmth' cliche, as they're surprisingly the ones I don't write about. Yet they're my favourite.

🪩 Might be a little controversial, but don't be afraid to give your reader a nickname or codename in your fics. For example, in my Transformer fics, Reader is an military officer so they have an nickname such as 'Lieutenant Echo' or 'Private Valkyrie.' As to me, these give the Reader a little more depth and personality to their character, and doesn't take them out of the reading experience by reading 'Y/N' over and over.

🎉 In all honesty? Probably not, as just like anyone. I'm my own worst critic.

💌 Yep! Those sort of things keeps my motivation going, and gets me out of writer's block sometimes.

Writer Goal Ask List for a New Year 🎉

These writer asks are always so fun to both ask and answer. Fanfic or original fiction writers, reblog away! These are asks based in new goals for a new year.

💖 What is your primary writing goal for this year?

🛳 Are there any new ships you want to write for? (Platonic, romantic, or anything in between.)

🤔 Are there any new characters you want to write about?

🥸 Does anyone in IRL know you write fanfic or original fiction? If not, do you plan on telling anyone this year?

🥵 Any plans to write steamy or spicy content this year?

👻 Is there a new genre you'd like to write?

🦄 Is there a new POV you'd like to try writing?

🐌 What is one of your smallest writing goals?

🦖 Are there any fandoms you wrote for in the past that you'd like to return to?

🍄 Are there any fandoms you've never written for but want to try?

🌈 What research do you plan on doing for your writing?

✨What's one area of your writing that you think needs the least amount of improvement?

��� What's one area of your writing that you think needs the most amount of improvement?

🫘 Spill the beans. What's a new project you're doing this year?

🥳 How are you going to celebrate when you achieve one of your writing goals?

🎃 Do you plan on writing any seasonal fics?

🐾 Do you plan on writing for any fests or competitions?

✍️ Which stat matters most to you (if at all!): subscriptions, kudos/favorites, comments, bookmarks, word count, or hits?

👾 Do you have any "bad" writing habits you want to break?

🤖 Are you looking to change your current writing setup? (Or establish one, if you don't have one?)

🦷 Is there a chapter, scene, or WIP you're dreading to write (but is necessary to your plot)? Share a snippet or tell us about it!

💥Is there a chapter, scene, or WIP you're most excited to write? Share a snippet or tell us about it!

🍕Will you be making any changes to your posting schedule (if you have one)? (Or do you want to establish a posting schedule?)

🛏 Is there a new trope you'd like to write this year?

🪩 Do you have any "good" writing habits you want to cultivate?

🎉 How are you going to be kind to yourself if you don't meet your goals?

💌 Are you willing to take requests or prompts for writing?

[pboogerswbb]

SO IT GOES - chapter 6

Paige Bueckers x oc Warnings: language, sexual content and language, being sick? overthinking? p being melodramatic Wordcount: 4.4K A/C: was feeling inspired :)) anyway pls be patient with me posting, i'm applying to schools rn!! anyway this went a direction i hadn't planned but... uhh... i have no excuses i was going with the flow. anyway enjoy x (also what a scare yesterday just hoping p is doing fine and i'm sure everything's okay!)

-

Before London

You need a ride to work tmr?

I don’t but thank you x

My eyes roam the texts as they had repeatedly since last night, trying to decipher each letter as if some ancient code I couldn’t understand. Is she seriously gonna be like that? Like she wasn’t the one who pulled me in. She kissed me. Why was she taking it out on me now? I don’t got time for this anyway, to be stressing about something like this. 

I hadn’t seen Izara since Saturday, not at work, not in the apartment building, hell, I’d even gone to the gym every morning praying that she might show up but it was as if the girl had disappeared from the face of the earth. I knew she was avoiding me, and I guess she had reason but fuck, I thought she’d be better than that. Not a word since Saturday, other than those strange cryptic texts. Fine. Be that way.

“My favourite girls!!” Trey’s voice blatantly interjects my spinning thoughts as me, Arike, Satou and Lou are sat at a circular table, eating lunch. Not that I had been eating per say, more so poking my fork here and there trying to stomach a piece of chicken now and then. The heaviness in the pit of my stomach made it hard to eat at all.

I lift my eyes, hoping Izara would be trailing behind the man as usual. But it’s Ava instead, holding a notepad and taking quick steps to keep up. I mean I knew it wasn’t Iz before even looking up - there was an uncomfortable void of heels tapping against the hardwood as the pair approach us eagerly.

“Oh hey!” Lou smiles from her chair next to me. “What’s up?”

“So we were thinking,” Trey starts, leaning forward against the table. “If y’all could film some clips answering comments on your own since our dear Zari isn’t here.”

“Uh, where is she anyway?” I ask as casually as I can - though the way everyone’s heads snap to me tells me it was a feeble attempt.

Trey’s dark brown eyes study me for a while with an expression I can’t quite read before answering. “She’s home sick, poor girl.”

Bullshit. She’s trying to avoid me, I know it. I can’t believe it, I thought she would be more mature than this, than faking being “sick” just to get away from an awkward conversation with me. Why was she assuming how I felt anyway? Like the kiss mattered to me? Like I’d want more?

I mean all that was true. God did it matter and God did I want, no, need more. Much more. But she didn’t know that, so why was she assuming. I thought we were friends. You know what this is? Bad friendship.

“Oh damn, hope she feels better,” Arike answers for me, noticing the way I’m gone in my thoughts.

“Y-yeah for sure,” I mumble, letting out a frustrated sigh. “I’mma go to the weight room.”

I place the fork down on my half eaten plate harshly, getting up abruptly making my irritation quite clear to everyone around me.

“Paige you gotta eat a little more,” Lou encourages but I shake my head.

“Nah, m’ not hungry,” I murmur and take my plate back, preparing to take out my aggravation at some weights, ignoring the way Arike and the rest of the girls eye me as I walk away.

-

“So how are we feeling about the first game soon?” My dad’s voice echoes through the speaker but I barely hear him, pacing my apartment’s living room. Truthfully I hadn’t thought much about the upcoming game. I knew that was bad. That I should be ecstatic, or scared as hell, but I didn’t feel anything else besides the dread of what happened between me and Iz. 

Matter of fact, I hadn’t been able to think of anything else but the way she looked all night, the way her green smoked out eyes twinkled at me, the way she threw her head back when she laughed at my jokes, when she pressed her front against me. The way her full breasts felt against my chest, the way her round ass felt under my hands. God, the whimper she let out when I squeezed it as gently as I could.

“Paige?”

“Uh what?” I mumble, ears burning, completely forgotten about the call with my dad.

“What’s going on with you?” His secure, steady voice asks, grounding me.

“Nothin’ dad,” I murmur, rubbing my eyes and looking out the window into the street, eyeing every dark haired woman just in case they were Izara.

“Paige Madison.”

I groan. I might be 23-years-old but my dad’s stern voice turns me into a teenager without fail each time.

“You’re comin’ to the first game still, right?”

“Yes, of course,” he says, like it’s obvious. “Why?”

“Nothin’, just miss you,” I mumble, coming up with an excuse for my low mood - though it wasn’t far off. Everytime I felt sad or anxious I just wanted my dad.

“I miss you too, kid. You know you just say the word and I’m there, okay?”

“No I know, I know. I’m just tired I think,” I sigh, my chest warming at my dad’s comforting words.

“Uh oh,” he starts. “Paige Madison… Don’t tell me.”

“Huh? Tell you what?”

“Is this about a girl?” He asks.

I pause, coming to a halt with my pacing. “Hu- I- What?!”

“You always say “I’m just tired” when you got a girl on your mind,” my dad laughs, doing a horrible impression of me.

“No!” I argue a little too fast and a little too passionately. “I mean, no. Just tired. Long practice.”

“Mhm alright,” my dad mumbles, an amused tone in his voice that irritates me in a way only a parent could. “So no girl?”

“No dadddd,” I whine like a teenage girl. “There’s no girl.”

I didn’t like lying to him. I wanted to tell him all about Izara. I knew my dad would adore that girl. He always said I needed a woman to keep me in check - Izzie did just that. But I also didn’t want to tell my dad about this girl knowing it likely wasn’t going to go anywhere, especially now that she had been hiding from me since our kiss.

“Okay dad tell Drew I said hi and I’ll play Fortnite with him tomorrow,” I say into the phone, ready to hang up.

“Okay kid, love you.”

“Love you dad.”

The silence is deafening, again. Like it used to be before I became friends with Iz. I felt alone, anxious, my head spinning with thoughts I couldn’t turn off. I thought she was mature enough to handle this like two adults. If she just wanted to be friends then she could just tell me, at least we could continue our friendship like that.

But usually when I kissed a girl, they didn’t run away like this. Quite the opposite. Did she not like the way I kissed? Was I off my game? Maybe the tongue was too much? Maybe she didn’t like my outfit. I’m a good kisser, I know I am. Good enough to get girls into bed with ease. So what is the trouble now? And I also know that that was the best kiss I had ever had. That our lips fit together just right. Fuck this girl had me going out of my mind. And now I just had to wait for her to reach out, it didn’t feel fair.

No. It wasn’t fair. Why did I have to wait for her? Who said I had to? Fuck that.

Too frenzied to even throw a shirt over my sports bra, I walk downstairs determined, knocking on Izara’s door angrily, preparing a speech of everything I’d been thinking the past few days: Look, Izzie, we’re both adults. You clearly think the kiss was a mistake. But avoiding me and acting like this is ridiculous and stupid and we don’t need to be acting like teenage-

“Paige?” 

Izzie opens the door, voice weak and nasally. She’s in a pale pink pyjama set, hair up in a clip and nose red and irritated. She wasn’t lying. Definitely not. She is sick. 

Quick, improvise.

“Uh, hey,” I mumble, my cheeks turning pink, her red eyes staring up at me reminiscent of Saturday night and the moments before our kiss on the balcony. “Trey told me you were sick.”

She chuckles, looking down at her dishevelled appearance and returns her gaze to me. “How did you know,” she jokes. She’s acting like nothing happened between us. How could she act like that? I guess it’s better than if she actually had been avoiding me.

“Was worried, haven’t seen you since… The party,” I say unsurely.

“Uh… Yeah. Crazy party huh,” Izzie says almost to herself. “Well, anyway, thanks for checking in but I’m perfectly okay. Just a cold and I think it’s passing.”

She begins to close the door but I grab it, holding it open.

“You been resting?” I ask concerned.

The girl shrugs. “Well at first but now I’m just getting bored so I’ve been doing some work from home.”

“Izzie…”

“What?”

“You gotta be restin’ if you’re sick,” I argue, which makes the girl roll her eyes.

“I’m fine Paige,” she answers, but I step inside.

“Let me in.”

“No, you’ll get sick,” she complains but I shake my head.

“I won’t. I’m built different.”

Izzie laughs, deciding it was pointless to try to argue and lets me in.

Her apartment is spotless as always, laptop open on her dining table with schedules and notebooks piled next to it. This bitch hadn’t been resting, no she’s been working and cleaning.

“Izzie!” I groan and close the laptop.

“Shoes! Shoes shoes shoes!” She yelps, voice breaking as she does. 

“‘M sorry!” I gasp and take my sneakers off quickly, placing them neatly by the entrance. I feel her eyes fixed on me. 

“Do you ever wear a shirt?” She asks, blowing her stuffy nose, which makes me let out a single laugh.

“Why, you want me to?” I ask confidently, easily falling into the same effortlessness as before.

My words make the girl blush. Perhaps the kiss wasn’t that bad? Fuck, I don’t know. Maybe I should just ask… Ask what?! If the kiss was good?! Bro… Get a grip.

“Well you’re going to get cold, it’s freezing here,” she tells me, turning away and walking to the couch where pillows are neatly arranged, an expensive looking blanket neatly folded on the armrest. I didn’t have the heart to tell her it definitely was not cold, that her apartment was scorching hot already making me sweat.

“Yo, you’re kidding right?” I laugh as I watch her somewhat pitifully curling up against the corner of the couch on her single throw pillow.

“What?”

“Iz, you’re sick!”

“Wow, thanks for rubbing it in my face,” she says nasally, blowing her nose again.

“Bro, that pillow is just sad! You need a nest,” I gasp, walking to her bedroom.

“Wait wait wait, it’s a mess in there,” she yelps, following after me. Mess, it is not. There is one hoodie on the bed, which is unmade. That’s it. I pull the heavy blanket off her bed, grabbing all four pillows and walking decisively to the couch with the dark-haired girl on my tail.

“What are you doing?” She asks as I begin to set up each pillow into a nest against the corner of the couch. She’s grabbing my arm and peeking at my actions from behind my back, clearly confused.

“I’m makin’ you a nest,” I explain, brows furrowing as I focus. This is serious business. “My stepmom does this when we’re sick.”

“A nest?” Izzie laughs.

“Yeah, get in,” I order, grabbing the girl’s shoulders and sitting her down. “Now lie back. Get comfy.”

Hesitating for a moment, Izzie curls up against the pillows as I place the blanket over her, watching as she gets comfortable with a smile on her face.

“There you go,” I coo, trying her forehead which is burning hot. “You have a fever Iz, I’m gonna get you some meds.”

“Paige, you don’t have to do this,” she sighs, looking up at me softly. I want to lean down and kiss her again. Instead, I bring my hand to her warm cheek, stroking it softly. She looks vulnerable, gentle for once. It made me want her even more.

“Lemme take care of you ma.”

She doesn’t comment on the nickname, matter of fact there’s a hint of a smile on her face when she nods. 

“The cabinet above the microwave.”

“Got it,” I tell her, pretty much scurrying to the kitchen, gathering everything you could think - water, painkillers, nose spray, I even cut up some fruit for her. But when I return the poor girl is in her nest, cuddled up, fast asleep. It hurts my heart to wake her up, but she needs these meds in her.

“Iz,” I murmur carefully, brushing dark locks away from her face. She blinks herself awake, rubbing her face. Everything about it makes me want to wrap her in my arms and never let anyone close in case they hurt her. 

“Fuck, I fell asleep,” she yawns. “I’m sorry I’m a mess.”

“You’re sick ma,” I remind her, sitting next to the girl on the couch and watching as she takes her medicine.

“This is so embarrassing,” she murmurs, sipping on the glass of water. Her cheeks are bright red, hair undone and eyes tired - I swear it’s the most beautiful I’ve ever seen her look.

“Izara,” I say sternly. “You’re sick, lemme help.”

“You’re gonna get sick too, and you have your first game soon love.”

“I’ll be fine, I got mad immune system powers.”

She giggles. “Immune system powers?”

“You heard,” I nod, fighting a grin. She coughs a little.

“Paige?”

Oh God. She’s gonna bring up the kiss now. I know it. I can feel it.

“Y-yeah?”

She takes a deep breath. “Can we watch Lady and The Tramp?”

-

“How are you already crying?” Paige asks with a giggle, leaning against the opposite corner of the couch. 

“Lady as a puppy always makes me cry! How could it not?” I sniffle, wiping my nose, watching the scene where Lady doesn’t want to sleep in her dog bed, the poor puppy crying for her dad. 

The blonde is chewing on an apple in her sports bra and black Nike sweats, muscles grown more prominent over her training period with the Wings, arms bigger, shoulders wider, outline of the muscles on her abdomen faintly visible even as she slouches. 

“What kinda names are Darling and Jimmy Dear anyway?” She asks, dramatically frustrated.

“Paige, you’re slow,” I laugh. “Lady thinks those are their names because they call each other those as like, pet names darling.”

The blond thinks for a while, and then grins. “Oh.”

We both burst into a choir of laughter, though it feels rough against my scratchy throat. Still, I could feel the medication already making me feel better. Or maybe it was the company.

My mind had been a mess after I escaped the party. I felt embarrassed, childish even for running away like I did, leaving Paige high and dry. Once I woke up the next morning it was hard to figure out what truly happened and what was my mind playing tricks on me. But I knew the kiss really took place the moment I remembered it, the weight of Paige’s kiss a mere memory on my lips. One wouldn’t forget a kiss like that. It was impossible.

Getting sick had been a lucky coincidence, giving me time to think and take some distance from the situation. I found it impossible to figure out where my desire for Paige and desire for physical contact differed. I couldn’t tell if I was just lonely. Or if I really liked her. I never considered it, me having feelings (if you could call it that) for a girl again. But now as she sat there, looking like that, I wanted nothing but to get on her. To climb onto her lap and kiss her again like we had on the balcony. Without the drunken hue, just us feeling each other.

Even as sick as I am, the familiar burn and ache that always showed up around the blonde begins to grow between my legs, making me squirm. Fuck, maybe I did like her. All I knew I definitely wasn’t in a place to start anything - that no matter what this was it would have to stay casual. I haven’t gotten rid of the ghost of my past relationship. No, not at all. I could see it looming around every corner, peeking through windows, just right outside my line of vision. I wasn’t ready.

Paige’s hand comes over to my bare feet poking out of the blanket, bringing them to her lap and beginning to rub them almost as if subconsciously, like unaware of the entire thing. Except her cheeks turn red as she does. My entire body relaxes, and I let her. For almost half of the movie she massages each toe, the arch of my foot, my ankle, leaving goosebumps everywhere. 

“I’m cold,” I complain, pulling my feet back under the blanket, feeling like a block of ice.

“I’m so hot,” Paige groans, now more invested in the movie, making small comments here and there.

“Lucky,” I groan which makes her snicker.

“Scooch,” The blonde tells me. Before I can resist she’s made her way under the blanket, into the nest, lying behind me and wrapping an arm around my waist. I fit in her arms perfectly, like I was made to be her counterpart, born to be in her arms like this, every curve of her body slotting with mine just right. My ass pressing into her, the blonde’s chin brushing against my shoulder, hot breath tickling against my ear nearly making me moan. Fuck.

“I- I thought you were hot,” I mumble, beginning to lose my composure.

“But you’re cold,” she murmurs into my ear, nose nuzzling into my hair as we keep watching the movie. Though I can’t concentrate. Even on my favourite movie. My head spinning too fast, speeding up even more when my pyjama top hikes up and Paige’s fingertips rub circles against my lower stomach, dangerously close to dipping into my pyjama pants.

“P-paige,” I almost whisper, my voice coming out breathy.

“Mhm?” The blonde’s voice is shaky too, a hoarse hum straight into my ear making me even wetter than I already am.

“You’re gonna get sick,” I remind her, my chest heaving.

“I’m good,” she breathes out, shifting a little, her head fitting just in the crook of my neck. Perfectly. “Are you?”

She’s asking for consent, I can tell. To dip her fingers underneath the band, to slide them into my panties. And God I want to give it to her. To let her have her way with me. The temptation is growing nearly impossible to resist.

“I-” I nearly say it. But then I shift to my back, to meet her gaze. Paige’s face is flushed, nostrils flaring as she breathes, hand remaining on my bare stomach. “How are you feeling about the game?”

“Oh, uhh,” Paige is taken aback, pulling her hand back to my dismay, bringing it to her jaw and rubbing it. “I mean, I haven’t really thought about it if I’m honest? I’m excited to see my dad and Dorka.”

“She went to Uconn with you, right?”

The blonde nods. “I mean issa big moment for sure, but I just wanna take it one day at a time.”

I hesitate. “Are you not nervous at all?”

She lets out a single laugh and looks around the room. “Nah I am. Just tryna keep my mind off it.”

I nod, understanding. I wish I could carry some of her worry, I could tell she was more nervous than she let on. But instead of talking I slide my hand into hers, which seems to comfort the girl more than words, her blue eyes locking with mine. She’s thinking, mulling something over in her head. I can tell.

“The party… Iz, I-”

“Shh,” I tell her before she can keep going, my throat going dry, the ache between my thighs nearly painful. I wasn’t ready to talk, at all. All I wanted was to feel it again, the weight of her lips on mine. So bad I felt dizzy.

“Nah, Izzie, c’mon. I think we both feel we-”

“Paige?”

“Yeah mama?”

“Kiss me.”

-

It makes no sense. But I don’t hesitate. Leaning down, my lips crashing into hers with such hunger it makes me uncharacteristically whine. My body is on fire, every inch burning up as our lips slide against one another, boxers growing damp quickly. My hand carefully holds her cheek, like the girl next to me might break. But to my surprise she pulls me on top of her by the back of my head.

I’m tasting for every inch of her, slowing down and taking my time, unlike that drunken mess on the balcony. Somehow this is even better, the kiss of the century even. Her body is cool to the touch, a sign of the fever going down. But I barely register, kissing her bottom lip affectionately, my hands holding her face. Izzie responds, her teeth pulling on my lip harshly making me groan. Her warm tongue brushes over it, soothingly.

I open my mouth further, my tongue meeting hers, other hand moving to the bare waist of the girl underneath me. I can’t believe this is real. That I’m kissing Izara. It feels like some type of dream, but the ache between my legs proves that every second is real. That she’s really underneath me. And If I’m feeling my core throbbing just from the kiss, I’m certain the dark haired girl feels something similar and the idea of my girl feeling such pain and not having it taken care of breaks my heart.

So my thumb dips underneath the band of her satin pyjama pants, feeling the lace of her underwear as it does. Zari lets out a shaky whimper, her eyes fluttering open.

“Paige,” she whines, brows furrowing.

“Yeah?” I ask breathlessly, leaning down to kiss under her ear which makes her squirm under my weight.

“C-can you keep your hands,” another moan as I suck on her neck, careful not to leave a mark. Izara didn’t seem like the type of woman you marked. “On top of the clothes.”

God she’s gonna be the death of me. But I oblige happily, pulling my hand back to her bare waist.

“Whatever you want Izzie,” I say between ragged breaths, making the girl moan as I keep kissing her neck. Izara’s hands wrap around my back, long acrylics scratching at the skin there.

“Shit,” I cuss under my breath, feeling like I might die or cum in my pants if I don’t get to have her. Still, I keep kissing her, fully aware what a privilege it was just to be on her like this. I do everything to try to stay composed, to keep my cool, to focus on putting on my best show as I return back to sloppily kissing her lips, shifting on top of her, my other hand beside Izzie’s face to hold me up. 

As I move my hips, my knee presses into her core, against the sheer fabric of the pajamas making her gasp straight into my mouth. I repeat the movement with purpose now, and can feel the heat radiating off her, the fabric between her legs growing damp. She wants this just as bad as I do.

“Lemme keep going, please,” I whimper, brows furrowed and barely conscious of what is happening at this point. “Lemme help ma, won’t even touch you.”

Her face is contorted with need, chest heaving desperately. 

“It hurts don’t it? Lemme help,” I coo, my lips wrapping around her earlobe and sucking softly. “Please.”

“Paige,” she whimpers, her body shaking with need. But I feel her shift, legs wrapping around my body. “Please.”

Oh God, I might actually cum in my sweats.

I kiss her all over, her neck, bare shoulders, mind spinning with need, my cunt growing wetter and wetter with every moan that leaves Izzie’s lips as I push my knee against her core, gently, so as to not hurt her.

“P-paige,” she moans my name. My name. 

“Ohh fuck,” I cuss, squeezing my eyes shut at the way her voice sounds, deep and gravelly, turning more high-pitched each time I grind my knee into her cunt.

“Let me get you right ma, please,” I beg breathlessly, shaking my head to myself trying to keep myself present. “Please, Iz, would do anything to fuck you,”

She’s speechless, whimpering desperately, but I can feel her muscles turning tense from the pleasure I’m giving her, legs shaking gently.

“Would be so good, just lemme eat that pussy,” I moan into her ear. “Gimme five.”

Pulling back, I meet her gaze. Her contorted face, dark brows furrowed and lips parted, green eyes blown out black. This is the most beautiful she has ever looked. Easily. Could look at her like this forever.

I can tell she’s considering, mulling it over in her head. Just as her lips part the ring of her phone interrupts the moment, the obnoxious sound blaring over the movie playing in the back. Of course. I can never have anything good. Just little tastes.

“Fuck,” Izzie mumbles and abruptly sits up as if suddenly thinking clearly. I climb off her, watching as she fumbles to find her phone.

“Here,” I catch it, handing it to her. It’s Kiran, her brother.

“Fuck, I promised I’d help him with his paper,” she groans, still trying to catch her breath.

“Uh, okay,” I murmur, attempting to catch mine, awkwardly shifting further on the couch, watching as the girl gets up and walks into the bedroom, closing the door behind her, leaving me there once again. Wanting more.

-

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[homunculus-argument]

oh wise tumblr finnish gothy twink, i need your guidance

if everything goes well, im moving to finland for university in not a long time. the thing is, i have between 0 and no idea what finland is like, besides cold. what are things i should know before going there? any advice shall be welcomed with open arms

Hard to answer without knowing where you're from so I've got no idea what you would already know - like if you've never seen snow, it'd be important to know that touching it with bare skin kind of hurts, so avoid doing that. Finnish culture is a high-context introvert culture where you're expected to read the room and pick up on very subtle cues what you're supposed to do, but people who are obviously not native finns get some slack for not always guessing correctly (unless you're black, which I naturally have no personal experience of, but people can be racist as hell).

Best I can suggest is try to look at what other people are doing. If you walk into an area that's crowded but dead silent, it's probably rude to talk there. If you walk into a place where everyone's taking their shoes off, it's probably rude to keep your shoes on. Sometimes people smoke in places with an obvious "no smoking allowed" sign visible, but that doesn't mean it's allowed, the people smoking are being rude.

Finns are absolutely zealous and dogmatic about rules. Breaking rules in situations where following them would be pointless and impractical is sometimes agreed to be okay, but if some rule is strictly followed, people who see you breaking it can and will take it as a personal insult, a way of saying "I don't think the same rules apply to me, because I think I'm better than you." The rule itself might be completely arbitrary, it's the principle that matters.

Also try to pay attention to the distance people keep between each other. How close to stand other people varies from culture to culture, and it's generally unconscious and easy to miss if you're not actively trying to observe it. If someone you're talking to takes a step back, that doesn't necessarily mean you should take a step forward.

[sylvia-und-sybille]

💯 [100] How many words does your WIP currently have? How many words do you hope it’ll have when it’s done? 2.3K+ now, and whatever happens, that happens.

⌛️ [Hourglass] How long have you been working on this WIP? 3 days.

📚 [Books] Is this WIP part of a series or standalone? AU location (starts as) and aged-up characters.

🎀 [Bow] How many named characters are in this WIP? How many do get a POV? OTP only. Even as 3rd person's point of view there's little of point of view at all (as thoughts or just about a person alone.)

💖 [Heart] What is your favorite moment in this WIP? OTP talk & do things together.

🎶 [Notes] Do you have any other WIP related things, like moodboards, character portraits, playlists or similar? It can happen in 0.001% of cases (if, then fanfictions only.)

📖 [Open Book] What form do you want this WIP to take when it’s done? Posted, printed, published, etc? Posted only.

🐀 [Rat] Name three reasons why this WIP is great at being insert genre here. (You can send a genre, or let the recipient pick one.) Romance, as it's about a lot of love (as in every fanfiction about them.)

🐁[Mouse] Name three reasons why this WIP is horrible at being insert genre here. (You can send a genre, or let the recipient pick one.) Humour. Unfortunately, no funny moments.

🔎 [Magnifier] Is there a phrase/word you know you use too often? Will you change it in editing? So (for years.) If exaggerate, the answer is, so what? So to be it. | Whenever possible, I try to find other way to glue parts of looong sentences and not to break them into shorter ones. The writer of the original version had looong sentences as well and paragraphs can seem almost endless in many cases.

🍖 [Meat] How many fictional people were harmed in the making of this WIP? EVERY SINGLE of my fanfictions & original stories has happy end (unless past when I wanted to write about harm done to or defeat of a bad or unpleasant character.) In the case of latest WIP fanfiction: deep sadness of both, character 2: wish to cry before relief, no harm.

🌈 [Rainbow] If at the beginning of your WIP the characters knew about the end, would they kill you to stop you from writing it? They would look forward to a plot twist (mostly character 2, as character 1 had an idea.)

‍🎨 [Palette] If your WIP was a color, which color would it be? Rainbow, as they deserve.

🍩 [Donut] What’s the weirdest thing someone eats in your WIP? What’s the best thing? No food or drinks are mentioned (yet?)

🔒 [Lock] Would you let your family, friends, or other people you know in real life read your WIP? No, and I almost don't know people in real life. Yes, I'm so called "live under a rock."

🖋️ [Pen] Describe your WIP in a single, terrible sentence. At first, the two are icebergs, but very, very soon, nothing is under water . . . (They talk about character 1 as having an iceberg, so . . .) . . . positive plot twist, philosophical discussion, something else unexpected (positive again.) (Note: something else is before plot twist, though. | I've had to search for answers to at least understand how such description can be possible.)

❌ [Cross] What would your WIP get cancelled on Twitter for? What does it mean even? If as not accepted, one of important parts is gender non-conformity. Those who are against girls & women who don't look feminine can be highly displeased. BUT what can I say, the version the fanfiction is based on has scenes with character 2 in man's shirt. So yes, haters can hate as long as they want.

UPDATE a day after: I've had an idea (chapter 2, not one-shot as it was planned initially) which is the reason to "get cancelled on Twitter," but I don't care. The idea supposed to be a part of some future fanfiction (no matter which, but based on the modern version of the story,) but the wish to add this to the current one was too strong, so it will be here :D The first chapter discussed above has two plot twists, but this idea is an enormous plot twist. Second plot twist & new one will result in (in my opinion, at least) it's too good to be true | unrealistic, but I don't care. I want this to exist, so it will.

Random WIP Ask Game

💯 [100] How many words does your WIP currently have? How many words do you hope it'll have when it's done?

⌛️ [Hourglass] How long have you been working on this WIP?

📚 [Books] Is this WIP part of a series or standalone?

🎀 [Bow] How many named characters are in this WIP? How many do get a POV?

💖 [Heart] What is your favorite moment in this WIP?

🎶 [Notes] Do you have any other WIP related things, like moodboards, character portraits, playlists or similar?

📖 [Open Book] What form do you want this WIP to take when it's done? Posted, printed, published, etc?

🐀 [Rat] Name three reasons why this WIP is great at being insert genre here. (You can send a genre, or let the recipient pick one.)

🐁[Mouse] Name three reasons why this WIP is horrible at being insert genre here. (You can send a genre, or let the recipient pick one.)

🔎 [Magnifier] Is there a phrase/word you know you use too often? Will you change it in editing?

🍖 [Meat] How many fictional people were harmed in the making of this WIP?

🌈 [Rainbow] If at the beginning of your WIP the characters knew about the end, would they kill you to stop you from writing it?

‍🎨 [Palette] If your WIP was a color, which color would it be?

🍩 [Donut] What's the weirdest thing someone eats in your WIP? What's the best thing?

🔒 [Lock] Would you let your family, friends, or other people you know in real life read your WIP?

🖋️ [Pen] Describe your WIP in a single, terrible sentence.

❌ [Cross] What would your WIP get cancelled on Twitter for?

[musings-of-a-rose]

Could I request Benny x female reader where they engage in mutual masturbation and they make out throughout?

Touch

Pairing: Benny Miller x best friend f!reader

Word Count: 1900+

Rating: Mature - 18+ ONLY!

Warnings: Just like ao3, “creator chooses not to use warnings.” If you click Keep Reading, that means you agree that you’re the age to handle mature themes. Also by clicking Keep Reading, you understand warnings may not be complete in order to avoid spoilers for the story. 

Notes: Listen. This was a hot ask. I'll admit, I had to think on this one a bit (and that was mostly staring at the wall). A huge thanks to @mermaidxatxheart as usual for listening to my Ted Talks and insecurities.

**If you want to be added to the taglist, join here or let me know!

❤If you enjoy the fic, please consider giving me a warm beverage! (It is not required in any way!)

→Tell Tumblr this should be shared with others by reblogging! That's what the algorithm loves (it's how it works here. I don't make the rules!)

**Reader is not described

Main Masterlist

Benny Miller Masterlist

“The date went bad I take it?” Benny’s eyebrows are raised as he motions for me to come inside his apartment. He closes the door behind me as I huff.

“He kept taking out his phone and texting. His mom. He was giving her a play by play of our date.”

Benny chuckled. “What? During your date?”

I kick off my heels and set them on his shoe mat. “I’m all for strong family bonds, but maybe wait until after the date? I could barely talk to him. It was literally every 2 minutes.”

Benny chuckled again. “Well I’m sorry it sucked. You’re welcome to come finish this terrible movie I’m watching.”

I follow Benny to his couch, plopping down next to him. We’d been best friends for years. He was always someone I could count on to be there for me, good or bad. He never judged or questioned me, but somehow always seemed to have an answer to my problems. He hands me a drink and offers me some popcorn from the giant bowl in his lap. I grab a handful and watch whatever b horror movie is on the tv. 

“Ugh even the ugly ass monster in this bad movie is getting laid why can’t I?”

Benny coughs, choking a little on his popcorn. “What?”

Fuck, I said that out loud. 

“I uh…nothing.”

He takes a swig from his drink, clearing the last of the popcorn. “Afraid no one will touch you again?”

I groan, but I’m also desperate for advice. “No. Well…maybe. It’s not even sex. I just want someone to touch me again. Someone that’s not me or Henry Cavill.”

Benny laughs, his head flying back. “You know Henry Cavill?”

I can feel the heat on my cheeks, but I’ve already said it. “That’s…that’s the name of my vibrator.” His laughter is contagious and I can’t stop myself from smiling. He makes some quips about it and then something happens in the movie that captures our attention. 

“I can help you with that if you’d like.”

My head snaps in his direction. “What?” Did he just offer to…surely not.

He turns his head, his bright blue eyes boring into mine, a sparkle in them. “I can help you with your problem.”

Heat burns my cheeks and I’m grasping at words. Surely he doesn’t mean…he can’t…without thinking, I glance down at his hands, the grip on his bottle, and how small it looks in them. I swallow hard.

“Ben, be serious.”

He leans forward, the muscles in his arms flexing slightly as he places his bottle on the coffee table before sitting back, casually laying an arm across the back of the couch as if he didn’t just suggest shoving his hand down my pants. 

“I’m serious, sweetheart. Look, you’ve had a really rough go of it. And I would make sure you were taken care of. You’re too pent up. Let some steam out.”

I shift slightly in my seat, which doesn’t go unnoticed by him. It’s not that I’ve never thought about it. Benny is extremely attractive. I just never would ever think he’d be ok with that with me. For me? I can’t even think. 

“Ben…I can’t lose your friendship. That would break me.”

He extends a long finger from the hand that’s across the back of the couch and pokes my head. “Do you think I’d ever let that happen?”

I swat at his hand out of reflex. “Is that something we could control though?”

He thinks for a moment. “It’s us. We’re best friends. We take care of each other. I think we’d be fine.”

“But what if it changes everything?”

He takes my hand in his large one, completely engulfing me. He looks into my eyes and does that thing where his eyebrows pull together and makes me melt. “I promise to not let it change the way I feel about you. Do you promise?”

Could I make that promise? The not-so-minor crush I’ve harbored for him for years is begging. Your feelings won’t change because you already like him. 

“How would…I mean, what would you…”

Benny shifts to face me better. “I’d touch you however you need me to. Maybe make out a little bit if you need to be distracted.”

I press my thighs together, hoping that he didn’t notice. But judging by the way he shifts and his eyes darken slightly, I think he very much noticed. Pressing my thighs together did nothing to quell the heat, my body begging me to just let me be touched. I feel safe with Benny and I know he’d never cross a line. My skin is hot thinking about it and I finally cave, promising myself that we’d still be friends. Just friends that gave each other a hand sometimes. 

Before I can talk myself out of it, I nod, moving to undo the button on my pants. Benny reaches out and stills my hand with his own and I look up at him.

“I need you to say it out loud, sweetheart.”

I swallow hard, trying my best to give him eye contact. Were his eyes always so blue? 

“Y-yes.”

“Yes, what? I need specifics.”

I let out a huff and this fucker chuckles. “Touch me, Benny. I..want you to touch me.”

Benny scoots closer to me on the couch, his leg pressed against mine. His large hand cups my cheek as he dips his head close to mine, his breath puffing out over my face, fanning the anticipatory fire between my thighs. “Can I kiss you?” he whispers. 

“Yes.” 

I barely get it out before his lips are on mine, soft but guiding, his tongue gently probing at my lips. I open them and his tongue slides inside my mouth, gracefully dancing with my own as he moans slightly into me. Both of his hands are on my face now, cupping my cheeks as he continues to kiss me. Then one moves to the back of my head, slightly gripping my hair as he tips my head back, exposing my neck to him. I gasp as his teeth skirt along my skin, gently nipping and kissing along my pulse point. The hand that isn’t entangled in my hair starts to glide down my body, barely even fumbling as he unbuttons my pants. But he doesn’t touch me. Not yet. Over my jeans, he caresses my inner thighs as I spread my legs, tracing the line where my underwear sits, up and down, up and down, driving me mad. My heart is racing, pounding against my ears. I feel him pause just above my mound and I want to cry. 

“Can you slide your pants off for me?” He breathes into my ear. My hands fumble as I try to shove and kick my pants off, ignoring the smirk on Benny’s face as the pants land somewhere across the room. 

“Panties too. Promise I won’t look.” He covers his face, a large gap between his fingers where his eye is obviously looking out. 

“Don’t you need to see?”

He closes the gap in his fingers but keeps his eyes covered. “Nope. Your sounds will guide me to where I need to be.”

Fuck. Me.

I toss my underwear somewhere by my pants. “Ok I’m-”

I have no time to think because he’s back on me, kissing me hard, like he’s never needed anything so bad. My fingers tangle in his hair, the cool air from his apartment hitting my bare skin, but I don’t care. Benny’s large hand is on my inner thighs again, tracing circles, but also pushing them open. I keep them where he leaves them, my body practically shaking with anticipation.

One long finger slides down me and I jolt, my thighs trying to close, but he pushes them back open before resuming his touch. He slides all the way down to my entrance, gently tracing circles there and I gasp, my eyes still closed as I let myself get lost in his touch. Our foreheads are pressed together, his own breaths coming out a little more ragged as he drags his dampened finger back up me, pausing when my legs jump. He takes his time at this spot, small circles across my clit, fast and slow, fast and slow, my breaths coming out in small, fast pants. 

He slows his movements, gently pushing a finger inside me. I moan, louder as he pulls out and adds a second finger, curling them inside of me as he moves them in and out. One spot has me gasping his name and that’s where he stays, curling and rubbing inside of me as his thumb resumes circling my clit, slow and fast, gentle and harder, the pressure building quick and fast. I grip his wrist and he stills. 

“Can I touch you? I want you to come with me.”

He nods and I move my hand over and undo his button, sliding his zipper down gently. He’s already hard, straining against his boxers. I lower them enough for him to spring free and he grunts. I grip his wrist again and pull his hand out of me with a whimper, but then slide him back in and out, fucking myself with his hand a few times as he moans in my ear. Then I take his wet hand and rub it against my palm, dropping his hand back on me before gripping him with my slicked hand. He whimpers, swearing under his breath before he pushes his fingers inside me again, immediately resuming the slow curling and rubbing, his thumb pressing gently on my clit. I slowly work him up and down, squeezing harder and softer, matching my pace to his. He kisses me hard but then breaks it, our foreheads pressed together as we pant and moan. 

In some super move, he pushes me onto my back, his hand still firmly working me over, my legs spread wide as he settles between them, fucking his hips into my hand. His arm strains next to me as he holds himself up, curling his fingers a little deeper, swirling a little more and I can’t hold back anymore. I cum, his name tumbling from my lips in praise, my legs twitching as I pulse around his fingers. Another few presses of his hips and Benny grunts, small pants coming from him as he spills himself over my stomach, my shirt hiked up to my chest. We stay like that for several long moments, both of us trying to catch our breaths. His eyes open and meet mine, holding my gaze for a moment before he blinks, pulling his hand from me as he sits up. He tucks himself back in as he looks around, shrugs, then reaches behind him and pulls his shirt up and over his head. He drops his shirt on my cunt, using the sleeve to clean off my stomach, to hold up his promise of not looking. He glances down and picks up my underwear and pants, handing them to me as he turns his head away. I make sure I’m cleaned off before getting dressed, sitting back down on the couch, the movie still playing on in the background. Minutes pass in silence between us, my stomach twisting in knots with every passing second. 

Benny clears his throat. “So…are we never talking about this again or can I finally take you on a date?”

My eyes snap up to him, his already on me. There’s no pressure here, he’d be ok if I said we’re never talking about it again. But that’s not what I want. 

“Just so long as we can have dessert at home.”

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[dunmeshistash]

TBH i think mithrun looks most masculine when he attacks marcille in bed

I wasn't gonna answer this but this is why I wrote this section of that post

But another trait of him that seem to make people read him as "super manly" it's that sometimes Mithrun is scary and aggressive, I'm not even going into why that's bad (correlating aggressiveness with manliness is uh…. not great….) not even to mention he only acts that way when he's triggered by wanting to take revenge on the demon, otherwise he seems to avoid hurting others.

In case this isn't a silly joke you should probably reevaluate your concept of masculinity, what that means to you, and if that's really the association you want to make going forward

[velvetchrry]

━━━━ IT REMAINS

pairing: johnny “soap” mactavish x psychiatrist!reader

4.3k. after being shot in the head, johnny works with a psychiatrist to get his life back. **contains dark themes - read at your own risk.

It’s a tick.

Nine. That’s how many hash marks make up the upper margin of your notes. That’s how many times Sergeant MacTavish has rubbed the spot on his forehead where he was shot months ago. If you listen closely you can hear the pad of his thumb race along the grown out hairs of his mohawk.

It’s how he gives himself quiet comfort. When you ask him a question that makes him feel squeamish, he absentmindedly runs his finger along it. You’d have more hash marks if you deigned to keep track at the beginning of your session but this is only the first time you’re meeting him. You’ve also gotten farther than any of his other psychiatrists thus far. 32 minutes in.

His first psychiatrist, Dr. Williams is great. Phenomenal, actually. Old school, nearing his late fifties — he showed you the ropes when you started here. You thought for sure his calm demeanor would be just what MacTavish needed. He made it approximately 17 minutes into the session.

You’re not even sure Dr. Williams was able to get an answer out of him that day. You were here; heard the raised voice of Sergeant MacTavish. Watched as one of the Lieutenants who accompanied him dragged him out. Dr. Williams left his office a few minutes after that, pink-faced and flustered. The only time you’ve ever seen him like that.

MacTavish went through two other psychiatrists before landing in your lap. Why me? you couldn’t help but think. What could I possibly have that they don’t? You’re the youngest psychiatrist here by a mile. Fresh meat. A larva who has yet to transform, metamorphose.

He’s been staring at the same speck on your carpet for a few minutes now. You saw this faraway look in his eyes at the beginning of the session. Those piercing blues fogged over, mist on the lake. Pupils pinpricked.

His leg bounces slightly. Sweat glistens on his upper lip. Talking about what happened, bringing up that day is what has set him off in other sessions before. You weren’t ready to breach the subject until a few minutes ago.

“Johnny?” you try again, gingerly. He didn’t like when you called him Sergeant MacTavish earlier.

“Doc?” he says calmly, as if you haven’t been waiting in silence for him to answer your question.

“Would you like me to repeat the question?”

He sucks his teeth. Ponders. You let him. If there’s anything you’ve observed about his behavior thus far is that he does not like to be pushed, likely due to the fact that he simply needs more time than before. With a TBI like his, it’s not shocking. Memory loss and concentration issues are almost a guarantee. Along with the other symptoms he’s been experiencing — mood changes, difficulty sleeping, sensitivity to sound — and that’s only what you’ve been able to gather so far from his own admissions this session and the notes from those very brief prior ones.

“I dinnae want ta talk about it,” he finally says.

“Alright,” you answer simply. Calmly.

His shoulders visibly slacken at that.

You wonder if he expected you to push him. And, had this not been your first session, you may have. But not this time. He’s not ready for that yet.

He does surprise you, however. When Sergeant MacTavish makes it the full hour, you award him with an honest smile.

“This is a great step forward, Johnny. I’m proud of you.”

You look down at your slightly smudged notes, the air still heavy with the scent of fresh ink. Notes on Johnny’s sisters, parents, home. How he imagines his life in the future — back home to the Highlands, maybe a little cottage in the woods, walking distance to his relatives. Surrounded by family — a wife, children. Animals. Fending for himself and his family. Providing.

It’s… sweet. His fantasy of the future. You imagine in different circumstances he might have been an ideal husband. He has a protective instinct that drives him in everything he does. A wolf defending his pack. Maw dripping with the blood of those who would stand to hurt anyone he loves.

“Thanks, Doc.”

He scratches the scar again as he stands up. It’s still raised — pink flesh that draws your eye in. He waits for you, maybe the most awkward you’ve seen him thus far. You stand and offer your hand. His engulfs yours. He holds it tight, like letting go of you will make him slip out of reality again.

“Next week, same time?” You hate the phrase as soon as it comes out, making you sound like every movie shrink ever, but routine is important for him right now.

He swallows thickly and nods his head, finally letting go of your hand. You walk him to the exit, to the waiting Lieutenant. He goes without a fuss.

You don’t run into any problems until a few sessions later.

He’s agitated, but hasn’t told you why yet. You give him time, give him space. Let him work out what he wants to tell you. The Newton’s cradle that usually occupies your desktop is shoved in a drawer. Silence envelops the two of you, other than his ragged breathing as he tries to get ahold of his emotions.

You’re not sure how long you’ve been holding your own breath but you allow some oxygen into your lungs. You feel like you’re standing at the door of an airplane and he’s the one strapping your parachute. Checking for rips and tears. Making sure the deployment handle is secure.

“Johnny?” you murmur. Wait.

He rubs his scar.

“Lonely,” he blurts out.

“That’s to be expected,” you hum as your finger absentmindedly brushes across the large CONFIDENTIAL in red ink that runs across his folder. He hasn’t been allowed to talk to any family or friends. They all think he’s dead until the man who killed him is in custody and — while you have your disagreements on whether or not that is the best course of action for him — you don’t outrank the military men who made this decision.

“Yer the only friend I get ta see.”

You hesitate and realize that was your error as soon as his face drops.

“We’re friends, no?”

You give him a genuine smile. “I’m your psychiatrist, Johnny.”

“Said ya wanted what’s best for me. Said ya cared.” He’s agitated, fist clenched and shaking against his thigh. He strokes his scar in quick succession with his other hand. His usually serene, handsome face is contorted, as if what he’s hearing is causing him physical pain. He is seconds away from another episode.

“That is true and I meant it when I said it.”

He unfurls his fist but his fingertip never leaves his head. “So we’re friends then?”

You shouldn’t placate him with confirmation. If it were any other patient, you wouldn’t. You would stop this in its tracks, before anything has time to bloom. Cut out the dead root before it rots the rest of the plant. But it’s him — and you can’t be another in a long list of people who have failed him.

“Yes Johnny. We’re… friends.”

He beams at you and you think you see a piece of Johnny from before the accident. The golden retriever energy you suspect made up his personality. The finger on the scar stills.

“I knew you were the right one for me, Doc.”

You make it through three months with him.

“Bonnie flowers,” he nods towards the vase on your desk.

Lily of the valley, baby’s breath and red roses encompassed in a simple glass vase with a lilac satin bow. No note, but it was your birthday week and you figured one of your friends or parents just forgot to add one. You’ll figure out who sent it later.

“Mmm, they are.”

You level him with a look.

“You’re avoiding my question, Johnny,” you remark. He’s had enough sessions with you, become comfortable enough for you to be able to challenge him a bit. He sinks further into the couch and you sit up straighter, closer to the edge of your seat, not letting him run away from the question with physical distance. “Can we talk about this?” you ask his permission.

There’s a tick in his jaw as he mulls it over, eyes never leaving the flowers. You wait, unsure what his reaction will be.

“Can I say no?”

You nod. “You can always say no to me, Johnny. Though, it’s easier for me to help you if you say yes.”

He looks down at his lap, hands folded neatly. The hair on his arms escapes from his long sleeve a little bit. He rubs a knuckle.

“Ya ken I trust ya, Doc, it’s just…” he pinches his brow together, eyes shut as he brings a hand to his head. He hunches over slightly.

“Johnny?” his name lingers in the air. The physical distress he shows gives you heartburn, acid creeping up your throat. He groans, and pushes his fingertips so hard against his forehead you’re sure it’ll bruise.

The bottle of water is in your hands before you realize what you’re doing — standing from your seat and sitting next to him on the couch in your office. You offer it and he lets his hand idle on yours for a second before removing the lid and taking a long sip.

He sighs in relief and lets his muscles relax, leaning backwards into the sofa. A warm, massive hand settles on your knee and you startle but don’t recoil. It would set him back if you pulled away.

“I’m not ready, Doc,” he croaks, and the crack in his voice breaks your heart.

“Alright, Johnny,” you soothe. You grab the back of the hand resting on your knee and squeeze before standing up to return to your chair. “That’s alright. Take your time.”

A knock on your office surprises you a few nights later.

It’s late on a Friday night — you should have been home by now, but you had few things to wrap up before your week off. Notes to finish, information to chart. You were only slightly worried about Johnny, hoping one week off wouldn’t regress him any. At the end of his last session, you made sure to spend some time telling him that you wouldn’t see him next week. You emphasized that you’d be back the following week and would resume as normal.

There’s nothing you hate more than disrupting his routine. It’s been paramount to his recovery thus far. Last week his physician requested an MRI to update his brain imaging, since there hasn’t been any since the incident and it set him off. He only calmed down once you were paged and arrived — stripped yourself of any metal, put on two different pairs of ear plugs and sat vigil next to him on the scanner — your hand brushing against his exposed leg in a soothing motion as his head was inside the tube.

You wonder who could possibly be here at this time of night. As far as you know, you were the last one, but someone else could have easily had a late patient that you weren’t aware of.

The doorknob turns before you can reach it.

Johnny stands in the opening to your office. He is visibly distressed, sweat glistening on his brow. His fingers flex and squeeze as he walks in and closes your office door behind him, hard enough that you jump where you stand.

“Hello, Johnny. What brings you here so late? Where’s your escort?”

He’s still looking off in the distance as he approaches you. You hold your ground, tilting your chin up slightly to look at him. Now that he’s in front of you it’s easier to see how ragged his breathing is, how hard he’s fighting for control over his emotions.

“Do you want to sit?” you try again.

He doesn’t respond, simply holds his ground as you talk. His eyes flicker back and forth as he ponders something. Is he trying to use the calming techniques you’ve taught him?

Your fingers twitch, almost reaching out on instinct to grab his wrist. He sucks in a large breath, his chest nearly brushing against yours as he does. The hairs on your scalp tickle as you feel his exhale caress your face. Patiently, you wait for him. You’re used to this. Sometimes he needs a moment.

“Ye cannae just…” he starts then stops, pinching his eyes shut as he gets his thoughts together. He inhales deeply again before continuing, his voice more desperate. “Why’re ye leaving me, Doc?”

“I’m not leaving you, Johnny. I’ll be back the week after next.”

The line of his jaw sharpens as he clenches his teeth. His fingers continue to flex and contract, half moons indenting the skin of his palm as he does. The thin wire holding him together is about to break and you’re standing in the middle of the debris field.

“I’ll tell ye about it,” he pleads. He brings his hand up to cup your jaw and you hold your ground. Johnny has never frightened you, no matter how many times you’ve seen him agitated. You know, down to your core, he would never hurt you — so you stay still, let him make physical contact. “I’ll tell ye everything.” He dangles the bait over you like you’re a starving animal. The thing you’ve been waiting for all these sessions. A thumb traces the slope of your cheek.

“Okay,” you agree, bringing your hand up to lightly hold against the one stroking you. You wrap your fingers around his and pull his hand off your face. “We’ll talk about it when I return, alright?”

Wrong move.

He snaps.

Before you can react, Johnny grips the back of your neck and pulls you firmly to his chest. His other arm locks itself around your waist. You gasp, breathing in the scent of him as your face is pressed tightly to his body. Your hands fly up to push yourself away but it’s no use. Johnny is carved from stone, immovable, statuesque. He doesn’t crush you, only holds you as his arms lock in place. Your stiffened frame moves with his chest, his rapid breathing competing over the sound of your own.

Panic creeps into your throat, tightening the noose. You know Johnny would never harm you, but you’re not quite certain the lengths he would go when he’s feeling threatened — and right now he’s feeling very threatened.

Fingers wrap around the hair at your nape as he pulls your head back. He kisses you hard and it’s a battle of teeth and tongue as you try to back away from it, remove yourself from the situation. You whine in protest and Johnny groans.

Finally his mouth releases yours. Panting, you gasp for air.

“Johnny… this is… highly inappropriate,” you wheeze.

He looks into your eyes lovingly, as if his stare could keep you in place forever.

“Kept the flowers I gave ye,” he breathes.

Your eyes widen in realization. “You? You’re the one who sent those to me?”

A wide grin splits his face. “My girl’s birthday. ‘Course I did.”

You try not to focus on the fact that he knew when your birthday was — something you definitely did not share with him. “Johnny… I’m your psychiatrist.”

“Yer my friend. Said it yerself. Said a lot of things, hen. ‘We’re in this together’, ‘I’ll do whatever it takes to help ye’, ‘Rely on me, even on bad days’,” he leans in, nose pressed to your hair and taking a whiff. “Cannae let you go… no’ now.”

You try pushing yourself off him again to no avail. “Johnny…”

With both arms now wrapped around your middle, he lifts you with ease, setting your ass down gently on top of your desk. He brushes a stray hair out of your face. “Said I can ‘always say no’ to ye. I’m saying it now. Cannae let you go, hen,” he repeats.

“Johnny,” you echo, strained as you attempt to wiggle out of his hold. You try to keep your voice strong and even but it’s becoming more and more difficult the longer you’re stuck in his hold.

He shushes you before you can continue talking, a massive palm covering your mouth. “Know ye want it too, pretty girl.” His large knee forces your legs apart, bumping it against your clothed center. You startle and he chubs up — your jump barely moving you in the strong grip of his arm. “Take such good care of me. Let me return the favor,” he murmurs, pupils blown out wide as he replaces his hand with his mouth.

You try to push him away again as he kisses you, but it’s no use. You’d have better luck tipping over a skyscraper with your bare hands. Defeated, you submit — not by kissing him back but no longer fighting him either.

“Tha’s it,” he coos when he decides to back away. He takes you with him, sliding your bottom across the desk and supporting your body weight until your legs are firmly underneath you. Suddenly you’re turning around and he’s forcing your face down to the cool wood. The action causes you to screech and he lays his body against yours and shushes your cries, smoothing a hand along the exposed skin of your cheek.

“S’alright, pretty girl. S’alright. Nobody’ll ever touch ye again. Safe with me, always.”

A shiver races down your spine. Johnny hums in delight, his hips crushed firmly to your ass. His thick length is pressed against you and he shudders. Impossibly, he pulls you by the waist against him even more and wraps a massive paw around your middle to tear your pants down your body. Your panties come with it and you can’t help the moan that escapes at the sensation and sudden coolness.

“Johnny…” you start again, knowing that kissing him is beyond innappropriate but fucking him on your desk is a different monster entirely.

A few thick digits in your mouth quiet you and you gargle at the sudden intrusion. “Shh, bonnie,” he pacifies you, before wrapping his arm around your front and swiping a long stripe up your core with his spit-moistened fingers.

He braces your squirming body down with his large forearm. You yelp as he continues to swirl around your sensitive nub, the motion getting his fingers wetter and wetter as your body responds to his touch. He continues his ministrations with deft and experienced fingers that have your legs trembling underneath you. Eyes closed, you cry out in pleasure — and then come back to reality when you realize you’re about to be fucked by your vulnerable head trauma patient.

“Johnny! We can’t do this,” you plead.

“Why no’ hen? We both want it.” You can’t see him with how you’re positioned but you just know he’s doing that little head tilt thing he does when he’s genuinely confused.

“It’s not right, I’ll lose my job,” you whisper.

He huffs. “Don’t need it. I’ll take care of ye.”

A bulky finger slides into you and your knees knock together. “You’re my patient,” you reply, breathless.

“Gonna help me at home from now on,” he responds effortlessly, stretching you with another finger, continuing his slow, lazy pumps.

Home?

“W… what do you mean by ‘home’, Johnny?” your psychiatrist brain asks, waiting for your patient to define his train of thought like you would in any other session. As if you were across the couch from one another — instead of his fingers spreading you wide as your body is splayed on your desk.

“Home,” he replies simply, like the word should explain itself. A third finger enters you and you suck in a breath at the slight burn. You whimper.

“Pretty baby,” he coos, accent thicker than you’ve ever heard it.

Your nipples pebble but you attempt to resist giving him anymore physical responses. “We can’t do this Johnny,” you tremble — from his fingers or the situation you currently find yourself in, you’re not sure.

“This beautiful body is telling me otherwise, Doc,” he practically purrs, his fingers picking up speed.

“Please Johnny… I…” you gasp.

He rips his hand out and you bite down hard on your cheek to prevent yourself from crying at the loss of contact.

“Want more, baby?!” he beams, the sound of his zipper your only warning before his thick, warm cock rubs lengthwise against the entrance to your cunt, hard length massaging your clit as he pumps.

‘No,’ your mind thinks, but your traitorous body says ‘yes, yes, yes,’ as you draw in a sharp breath, legs pushing your ass back without asking your brain.

Johnny makes a pleased grunt as he continues, lubing his cock with your wet, pulsing pussy. You can’t help it — you moan. A sharp slap on your ass pushes you further into the wood and Johnny soothes the sting by hitting your reddening cheek with his sticky cock a few times in a row.

His hand wraps around the back of your neck, keeping you in place but he’s surprisingly gentle. “Meant to be mine,” he declares as he enters you slowly. You suck in a large breath. “Only good thing that came outta this,” and you know he’s tapping the side of his head with his other hand without looking back at him. You whine and he groans when he enters you to the hilt, squeezing the flesh of your hip with the hand not securing your neck.

That’s it.

You’re fucked.

In more ways than one.

Johnny’s fingertips dig into your skin as he picks up the pace slightly. You grip the side of your desk, not bothering to stop him now. It’s too late for that. Arguments die on your tongue as Johnny pounds into you from behind, the bony protuberance of your pelvis hitting bruisingly against the hardwood with every thrust.

You resort to holding on as best you can as Johnny slams against you, like his anger is seeping out of his skin by doing it. The slapping of flesh and your combined pants sucking the air from the room. Johnny bucks into you until his pace gets sloppy and then he stills, pulling himself out with frustrated groan.

His hands leave you and you lay there, boneless, but watch as he drags your chair around the desk, cock bobbing and glistening in the light as he walks. He supports your weight effortlessly as he places you in your chair, like a delicate piece of china. He grunts as he drops to his knees in front of you, and you watch with hooded eyes as his arms come up underneath your knees and pull you to the edge of the seat — right to his waiting mouth.

Johnny swirls and curls his tongue around the sensitive flesh of your pussy, wrapping a strong arm across your lap to keep your bucking hips down. It stings a little, his solid arm pressing into the bruises forming on your hip. You pant and whine, unable to control the noises spilling out of you.

He doesn’t stop, licking and sucking until that little bundle of nerves can’t take it anymore. With all your strength you try to back away from his mouth but the effort is fruitless. Tears stream down your cheek, the sensitivity making you plead with him. “I can’t… Johnny please… please…”

He hums, the vibration sending a shockwave up your spinal column. He slows down but only slightly and you see stars, head floating as you cum on his tongue. He hums again and you shiver violently in reaction. Pulling back now, he smiles drunkenly at you and kisses your pussy before standing and lining himself back up with you.

Your legs are firmly secured and he throws your calves onto his broad shoulders. He teases your entrance before he lets out a sputtered groan. “Bonnie little thing,” he sighs before spearing you on his cock. You're contorted at an impossible angle, one you’re definitely going to feel later, as Johnny relentlessly drives himself into you.

Voice cracking, you can’t stop the sounds of pleasure that escape from between your lips. Sweat drips down Johnny’s brow as he concentrates. One of your hands grips the arm of your chair and the other finds your lower stomach, feeling Johnny’s cock push into you. The thick hair covering his muscular body tickles but it’s barely noticeable over the pleasure coursing through your system.

Your toes curl as another orgasm rips through you, and you bite down hard on the forearm braced beside your head. Johnny whines in pleasure, hips stuttering before resuming their normal brutal rhythm.

“‘M close, bonnie,” he pants. His motions become more flustered as he approaches his climax. The hand gripping onto the arm of your chair now curls around his forearm as you hold tight to him.

He releases, his spend coating your walls in thick spurts and he drops his body on top of yours. You can feel him twitching inside of you as you wrap your arms around his shoulders.

After a few moments, Johnny catches his breath and snakes his arms under you. He lifts you out of the chair and brings you to the couch he’s sat on countless times before, letting your limp form curl against his. He pets your head lovingly as you lay against him, humming softly to himself.

When you fall asleep, Johnny whispers his plans of the future to you. The house he’d purchased in the Highlands a couple of weeks ago is ready to move into. You won’t have to worry your pretty little head about a thing. The plane is chartered, and you’ll both be on it. He’ll be able to last longer next time, and you’re going to give him the most beautiful family — together you’ve already started to.

[sasheemo]

When We Collide

Chapter 14

Chapter Summary: You wake to Agatha's unsettling yet impossibly grounding presence, unspoken questions threatening to unravel a fragile moment. And just like that, walls begin to crack.

Word Count: 2.8k

A/N (very long, sorryyy): I still can’t believe it, but here we are. After exactly one month since the last chapter was published, I’m officially back! I can’t promise the creative block I’ve been struggling with for When We Collide is completely gone, but I’m really trying, and I’m so happy to continue this story.

Before you dive in, I just want to take a moment to make a small dedication:

Over the past week, I’ve received an overwhelming amount of love and support that I never expected. Moots, strangers, and even anonymous readers stepped forward in the comments of my update posts on Tumblr or slid into my DMs to show their appreciation and encouragement. You know who you are. It’s because of all of you that, in just over 24 hours, I managed to write an entire chapter after being stuck for a whole month. You gave me an incredible boost of energy and motivation. So, this chapter is for you. To my moots, followers, and each dedicated reader of When We Collide. To everyone who messaged me privately or left a comment on a post or a fic. To those who, even without reaching out directly, have always supported me with their thoughts and good vibes, waiting patiently for an update and never abandoning this story. What you’ve done, and continue to do, for me is amazing. You’ve filled me with so much love and support, and I truly hope this chapter (and the ones to come—yes, they’re coming, hehe) can serve as a proper thank-you.

It’s true that writing should primarily be for yourself, but when you receive this kind of support and encouragement, it becomes something truly special to write for others too.

Let me know what you think of the chapter, and thank you from the bottom of my heart! 💜

PS: Spoiler—I literally felt my heart break while writing a certain piece of dialogue. Had to pause, pick up the pieces, and keep going. Sorry y’all, I couldn’t resist 💔

Chapter Index

Read on AO3

You stir awake to the faint glow of the early afternoon, the light filtering softly through the edges of the curtains. For a brief, suspended moment, your mind lingers in the haze of sleep, the kind where nothing feels quite real, and you’re not entirely sure where you are. Then the weight registers.

The warm, undeniable weight of someone pressed against you.

Your breath catches, your body locking in place as you become acutely, painfully aware of Agatha’s head resting on your shoulder.

Her dark hair brushes against your neck, faintly ticklish, while her arm lies draped across your waist.

You don’t dare move. Not even a twitch.

Every nerve in your body stands at attention, screaming for you to do something. But you lie there, frozen, your heart hammering so loudly you’re sure it’ll wake her. The thought of turning your head to look at her fills you with a mixture of terror and curiosity, and you’re too paralyzed to face either.

You try—really try—to focus on the practicalities. How did this even happen? You’d climbed into bed hours ago, stiff as a board, determined to keep your distance. You’d stayed on your side, curled up awkwardly, staring at the wall like it held the answers to every question you were too afraid to ask.

But then sleep had come. Or at least something like it—a restless tangle of half-dreams and unconscious movements, shifting and turning under the weight of the night’s tension. 

At some point, the gap between you must have closed. At some point, her arm must have found its way across you.

A thousand excuses rush through your mind, each more fragile than the last, as if rationalizing the moment could make the closeness disappear. But they all crumble, leaving behind one undeniable truth: you don’t want to move. Not really.

You tell yourself it’s fear. Fear of waking her. Fear of the look on her face if she realized the position you’re in. Confusion? Annoyance? Disgust? The thought twists your stomach into painful knots. But beneath the fear, another emotion lingers, quieter and far more dangerous.

It feels… good.

You hate how much you notice it, how your senses seem to betray you with every passing second. The softness of her hair brushing your neck, the heat of her body radiating against your side, the faint pressure of her arm resting on you—it all feels far too natural, far too easy, like some cruel joke the universe decided to play.

You squeeze your eyes shut, willing yourself to move, to shift, to put some distance between you. But your body doesn’t listen. You’re too hyper-aware of every tiny detail, of how close she is, of how safe she feels.

A shaky exhale escapes you, your chest rising just enough to disturb the delicate stillness between you. Agatha stirs slightly in her sleep, a soft sound escaping her lips as her arm tightens instinctively around you.

Your heart practically leaps into your throat.

You swallow hard, trying to convince yourself that this is normal. That there’s nothing strange or inappropriate about lying here like this. That it doesn’t mean anything. That it’s just an accident, a coincidence. That’s all.

It’s fine. Everything is fine. Except it’s not. 

Because no matter how much you want to believe that this is accidental, that she’s completely unaware, a small, traitorous part of you wonders what it would mean if she wasn’t.

You try to focus on the ceiling, on the faint creak of the house settling around you, on anything other than her. But it’s impossible. Because no matter how still you stay, no matter how hard you try to quiet your thoughts, Agatha’s presence fills every corner of the room—and every corner of you.

Your breath hitches as you finally, finally let yourself turn your head. It’s tentative at first, a small, hesitant shift of movement. 

Your chin almost brushes her forehead, and the nearness of her—so close you could count the faint freckles scattered across her skin—leaves you utterly undone. 

For a moment, you can’t think, can’t breathe. The sight of her like this, her face so close to yours, is enough to send your thoughts spiraling.

Your gaze moves carefully, tracing her features as if each one might dissolve into smoke if you looked too quickly.

Sharp and soft. The words loop in your mind like a mantra, and you can’t stop staring. The sharp lines of her jaw and cheekbones, the delicate curve of her lips—they blend danger and allure in a way that leaves you off-balance, like she was never meant to be anything less than both.

Your let your thoughts drift, unbidden, to what you know about her. And, perhaps more troubling, to what you don’t.

You’ve spent all your life in the same coven, shared the same spaces, breathed the same air, yet she’s always been distant. A figure just out of reach, admired and feared in equal measure by most.

You sift through your memories, trying to piece together fragments, to make sense of the person sprawled across you now.

Everyone has been speaking of Agatha’s power in hushed tones since you were children—the raw, unpredictable force of her magic. How it brims with potential but defies control. Even the older witches have always been wary of her, watching her like a storm poised on the horizon.

And then there’s the story. The one no one speaks of outright but that lingers in fragments, carried around by rumors and half-truths.

It was just over a couple of years ago. One of the daughters of your mother’s friends—a girl you barely knew, though her name still echoes through the village homes and halls—was found dead in the woods. Cold, lifeless. Drained.

The whispers said it was Agatha.

They claimed she had taken the girl’s power, siphoned it like a flame devouring a candlewick. That she left her there, alone in the woods, to die. 

But that girl wasn’t just anyone. She was Agatha’s best friend.

The rumors painted it as a calculated act of power, a way to send a message and solidify her place as the rightful heir to the coven’s legacy. They said her magic demanded sacrifice, and she hadn’t hesitated to give one.

But that version of the story never sat right with you.

Even more so now, with Agatha asleep beside you, her head resting on your shoulder, her breathing slow and even in sleep. The idea of this Agatha—the Agatha who clings to you in her slumber—being the monster the rumors describe feels impossible to reconcile.

You’ve always wondered if there was more to the story. If the truth had been buried beneath layers of fear, jealousy, and Evanora’s carefully orchestrated manipulations. 

Because if there’s one thing you know about Evanora Harkness, it’s that she’d burn the truth to ashes to protect her image.

The slow rise and fall of your chest brushes faintly against Agatha’s arm, jolting you back to the present. You exhale shakily, your gaze locking once again on her face.

She looks so… harmless. The thought slips into your mind unbidden, and you can’t stop yourself from clinging to it. Here, now, in your bed, tangled against you, she does look harmless. Innocent, even.

And yet… the stories remain. The danger, the sharpness, the fury—it’s still there, lurking just beneath her momentary serene exterior. 

You should move. You really should. Break the moment, pull away, regain the distance you’re supposed to have. But you don’t. You can’t. Because for all the danger and mystery that surrounds Agatha Harkness, there’s something else, too.

Something that keeps you rooted in place, your gaze drinking her in, feeling her presence in every breath you take.

The stillness is interrupted by a faint shift. Agatha stirs against you, her body shifting slightly as her fingers twitch where her hand rests near your waist. Her breathing changes, no longer the even, steady rhythm of sleep but something shallower, more conscious.

You freeze, your own breath caught in your chest. Her head lifts just a fraction before settling again, her hair brushing against your neck in a way that sends an involuntary shiver down your spine. For one agonizing moment, you wonder if she’ll pull away.

But she doesn’t.

Instead, Agatha lets out a soft exhale, her lashes fluttering as her eyes blink open, slow and heavy with sleep. There’s a beat—a single, suspended second where her gaze adjusts, flitting from the faint light of the room to you.

Her arm remains draped across your waist, though her fingers flex slightly, testing their place. Her lips twitch, just barely, into something resembling a smirk.

“Is this how you treat all your guests, or am I just special?” she murmurs, her voice husky and rough from sleep, the teasing lilt sharp enough to make your stomach flip.

The words pull you from your haze of panic into full-blown mortification, heat rising to your face as you open your mouth, then close it, scrambling for a response. 

“You—you asked me to stay!” you stammer, your voice breaking as you shift just a little, glaring at her. “Don’t twist this into—”

Agatha cuts you off with an expression so faux-innocent you want to scream, her tone light but laced with mockery. 

“Did I?” she muses, her brow quirking as though she’s genuinely pondering it. “Hmm. Doesn’t sound like me.”

Your jaw drops. 

Your heart hasn’t stopped pounding since she stirred, and her smirk only makes it worse. The audacity, the smugness. She’s so calm, like waking up tangled together is just another morning for her.

For you? It’s a waking nightmare—or at least, that’s the excuse you cling to as you try to suppress the heat that is completely taking hold of your whole body. Your fists clench at your sides, and your frustration boils over. 

“You did! You said—” you stop yourself, huffing in exasperation as her smirk turns into a full-blown grin. “Ugh, you’re impossible.”

“And you’re far too fun to annoy.” she counters shifting slightly, her arm sliding away from your waist as she props herself up on one elbow.

You bite back another retort, your face burning as you turn your head to look anywhere but at her. She’s infuriating. Smug and sharp-tongued and—close. Too close.

The silence stretches for a beat, and you take a deep breath, willing yourself to calm down. 

It doesn’t help that she’s still watching you, her gaze a quiet weight against your skin. You can feel it without looking—how her smirk lingers, how her eyes flicker between amusement and something unreadable.

She shifts again, finally breaking the silence. 

“Well,” she says softly, her voice still carrying that teasing lilt, “if this is how you handle all your guests, I can’t imagine they stay very long.”

Your breath hitches, and you glance at her despite yourself, catching the faintest flicker of something beneath her grin. She’s teasing, sure—but there’s an edge to it, a quiet discomfort she’s trying to mask.

You huff again, crossing your arms and refusing to let her get the last word. “Maybe they don’t. But you did ask me to stay, so if you have complaints, take it up with yourself.”

Her grin softens slightly, but she doesn’t respond. Instead, she leans back a little, her hand brushing against the blanket as she rests her weight on her palm. Her gaze flickers briefly to the window, her expression almost thoughtful.

You watch her for a moment, your own irritation ebbing away as curiosity takes its place. She’s still infuriating, still impossible—but there’s something else, too. Something quieter. 

You should let it go. The tension, the moment—it’s already too much and you both literally just woke up. But the question lodges itself in your throat, unspoken words buzzing like a swarm. You don’t even mean to say it. It just… slips out. “What really happened that day?”

Agatha’s head tilts slightly, her eyes cutting back to yours in a sharp, measured motion. 

“What?” she asks, her tone casual, but there’s a sudden wariness in her gaze, the edge of a blade being drawn.

You hesitate, regretting the words almost immediately, but it’s too late now. 

“The girl.” you clarify, your voice quieter than you intended. “The one they say you… killed.”

The room seems to still, the air shifting as the words settle between you. 

Agatha doesn’t move, her expression unreadable, but the flicker of something raw flashes behind her eyes—a shadow that vanishes almost as quickly as it appears.

Her lips curve into a smirk that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. 

“Really?” she drawls, leaning back slightly, the picture of feigned nonchalance. “That’s what you want to talk about? Here? Now?”

Your stomach twists at the sharpness of her tone, but you don’t look away. 

“I just…” You pause, choosing your words carefully. “I just want to know the truth.”

Agatha lets out a soft, bitter laugh, shaking her head as she looks away again. 

“The truth…” she mutters, her voice low, almost mocking. “You’re the first person to actually ask me for it, you know?”

The words hit you like a slap, leaving you momentarily speechless. 

“Wait.” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. “No one’s ever—?”

“No.” Agatha cuts in sharply, her tone laced with dry amusement that barely conceals the bitterness beneath.“Why would they? They already think they know. They don’t need my version.” 

She scoffs, her lips curling into a sardonic smirk.

Your chest tightens painfully at the words, the weight of what she’s said settling over you like a heavy fog. If no one’s ever asked for her version of the story, if no one’s cared enough to hear the truth… then everything you’ve heard—the whispers, the rumors, the stories—might not be true. Or at least, not entirely.

Agatha’s gaze flickers back to you, piercing and unreadable, as if she can sense where your thoughts are heading. 

“I know what they say.” she continues, her voice quieter now, colder. “Some of it’s lies, some of it’s not.”

Your breath catches, her words hanging between you like a challenge, daring you to press further. And you do. 

“But if not all of it’s true…” you ask, your voice trembling slightly, “… then why?”

You hesitate, the question twisting in your chest before it finally escapes. “Why do you let them believe those things about you, hmm?”

That stops her cold.

Her gaze locks on you, her expression sharp and unyielding, but there’s something flickering beneath the surface—something fragile and dangerous and far too human.

For a moment, you swear you see something shatter behind the mask she wears so flawlessly. And when she finally speaks, her whispered answer tears through the silence like thunder.

“Because the truth is too awful.”

The words hang in the air, and for a moment, all you can do is stare at her. The rawness in her voice, the vulnerability she so desperately tries to hide, steals the breath from your lungs.

But you don’t back down. Not now.

“Maybe.” you say quietly, your voice softening but steady. “But I don’t think it’s worse than the lies, than the stories people tell.”

Her head tilts slightly, her eyes narrowing as she studies you. The tension in her shoulders doesn’t ease, but there’s something in her gaze—a flicker of hesitation, of consideration.

“You’re persistent.” she mutters, the edge returning to her voice, though it’s quieter now.

“And you’re exhausting.” you reply, trying to keep your tone casual despite the knot in your chest tightening with every passing second. “But since it looks like we’re stuck together—and you’re literally in my bed—you might as well tell me.”

You know the truth, though: you’re not really stuck together. Agatha could leave anytime she wanted—she’s clever, resourceful, and probably already thought of four different ways to slip out unnoticed, if she needed or wanted to.

But you also suspect that getting Agatha Harkness to open up requires more than simple patience. She needs to feel cornered—not with malice, but with intent. She has to know that someone is paying attention, that someone cares enough to ask, and that walking away won’t make the questions disappear. So you hold her gaze, refusing to let the moment slip away.

Agatha exhales sharply, the sound laced with frustration as she rubs a hand over her face. For a long, agonizing moment, you think she might retreat entirely. But then her hand falls, and she looks at you again.

And just like that, the walls begin to crack.

[dianawinchester03]

Season 3, Episode 3 - Bad Day At Black Road (Part Two)

Series Masterlist

Authors Note: This is part two! Make sure to read part one to understand. Enjoy!

_______________________________________________

Later that day, they decided to head back to Grossman and Wayne’s place to find some sort of answers after hearing that Wayne suddenly died of a freak accident. Dean pushed the door open, the trio stalking in slowly as Grossman groaned. He was teary eyed, holding up a picture and a beer. “Oh, man. What do you want?”

“What about your friend, that’s bad luck” Dean answered, drawing his gun. “Fuck off” Grossman narrowed his eyes at them, “We know someone hired you to steal the rabbits foot. A woman” Y/N stated. “Oh yeah? Well how do you know that?” Grossman tilted his head, almost sassing her. “Because she just stole it back from us,” Dean told him.

Grossman erupted in a fit of laughter, cackling at the three. They all glared at him, “Listen man, this is ser- OH!” Sam stepped forward, ultimately tripping on the wire to the radio. He tried to catch it but ended up falling face first again, attempting to grip the lamp for support but thanks to his baby gorilla weight, they all went tumbling down.

Grossman was cracking up, his eyes almost swelling with tears as Dean and Y/N shared a look that said, ‘Oh my god’ Y/N breathed heavily through her nose, “Sam, you okay?” Dean asked without looking behind him. “Yeah, I’m good.” Sam sat up groaning and panting, pushing the radio and the lamp off of himself before gripping the couch.

“I want you to tell us her name,” Dean demanded as he stepped towards Grossman. “Fuck you” Grossman smirked, Dean and Y/N snorted in amusement. “It wasn’t a freak accident that killed your partner” Y/N revealed, “What?” Grossman asked, confused. “It was the rabbit's foot,” Dean added firmly. Grossman chuckled, unconvinced by them. “You’re crazy, man”

“You know I’m not. You saw what happened, what it did. All the flukes, all the luck. When you lose the foot, that luck goes sour. That’s what killed your friend” Grossman’s smile faded slightly as he narrowed his eyes at them, “Right” He scoffed, unconvinced. Y/N’s eye twitched, she suddenly lost her patience in a snap, stuffing her gun in Dean’s hand. She marched over to Grossman, snatching him up by his collar.

Sam and Dean both watched with wide eyes as Y/N pinned Grossman to wall, holding him there. “Hey! What’s the matter with you, you crazy bitch!” Grossman complained, trying to wriggle out of Y/N’s grip. “No, you listen to me” She snapped, her voice was calm but firm. But Sam and Dean knew her well enough to know that she was pissed.

Using her telekinesis, she kept him pinned to the wall effortlessly. Her eyes shone white as her veins lit up aqua blue, “My brother here is next on that fucking rabbit foot’s list. And who knows how many more innocent people after that. Now if you don’t help us stop this damn thing, that puts those deaths on your bald shiny head” She growled at him, reeling him back to slam him into the wall once more.

Grossman gulped at the sight of Y/N’s eyes, he began to sweat as she kept him pinned to the wall. “Whoa, whoa, okay!” He exclaimed. Sam and Dean were gawping as they glanced between each other and Y/N. She loosened her grip on his collar, “Now I can read people. And I get it. You’re a thief and a scumbag. That’s fine. But you’re not a killer. Are you?”

Grossman averted his eyes off hers as he mumbled, “No” He shook his head. “No.” He repeated. Y/N studied him for a moment, narrowing her eyes when she realised he was telling the truth. “Good” She nodded before giving his collar a rough tug,.

Dean was equally shocked at her sudden burst of anger but also mesmerized.

-

They were now exiting the building, Dean was cackling his ass off while Sam looked at Y/N with concern. “Oh my God! That was amazing!” Dean exclaimed, still laughing. Y/N snickered at the sound of his laugh, “It’s not that funny” She muttered. “Not that funny?” Dean replied, raising his eyebrows, “You had the poor guy those close to shitting his pants.” Dean pointed to the door as he cackled.

“Well he pissed me off. You were taking too long” Y/N deadpanned as the three of them walked further down the parking lot. “Yeah, did you see the look on his face? He was about to piss himself” Sam added with a chuckle, he looked over at Y/N. She huffed loudly and folded her arms across her chest.

“I don’t know what got into me, okay? Something in me just…snapped.” Y/N explained. Dean placed a hand on shoulder while he wiped a tear away from his eyes that he got from laughing so hard. “If it makes you feel better, it was hot as hell watching you do that” He whispered into her ear.

Y/N’s face heated up at his words, she blushed deeply at the thought of what he said. “Shut up” She mumbled, shoving him away. “What? It’s the truth” He said through a smirk, wiggling his eyebrows. “You have no shame” She muttered, shaking her head in amusement. “None whatsoever” He agreed smugly.

Sam shook his head with an amused chuckle, rolling his eyes at his brother’s crude comment but chose to ignore it. He then eyed Y/N with the same expression of concern as before. “You okay?” He asked her. Y/N looked away from her boyfriend and met Sam’s eyes, her face dropped slightly. “I’m fine,” She assured him. But even she wasn’t sure how much of that was true.

“Are you sure?” He repeated, he knew her well enough like his brother to know when she was lying. She nodded in response as Dean’s phone rang, “Hello?” Dean answered as he pressed his phone to his ear. “Dean, great news” Bobby’s voice came through the speaker.

Meanwhile, Sam unknowingly stepped on a piece of gum.

Y/N walked towards Dean when she saw his face drop, tiptoeing to press her ear to his phone in order to hear the conversation. “Wasn’t easy but I found a heavyweight cleansing ritual that should do the trick” Bobby told them as Sam grimaced, lifting his foot up when he saw he stepped in gum. Dean and Y/N shared a panicked look.

“Bobby, that’s, uh, great. Except Sam, uh…” Dean’s words trailed when he looked behind him to see his little brother desperately trying to get the gum off of his shoe. “Sam lost the foot” Y/N chimed in, “He what?!” Bobby exclaimed. “Bobby, listen. Listen. This, uh-“ Dean glanced over to y/n, choosing his words wisely,

“This good looking girl stole it from him. I’m serious, she was in her mid 20s. And she was sharp, you know? Good enough with the con to play us” Dean explained as Sam desperately tried to get the gum off of his shoe, scraping it against a sewer grate. “Plus, she only gave the guys she hired a name, probably an alias or something. Lugosi” Y/N added.

“Luigi?” Dean muttered, “Lugosi” Sam and Y/N corrected again in unison. “Lugosi? Lugo-” Bobby thought before it dawned on him, “Oh shit, it’s probably Bela” He huffed, just that moment, Sam’s shoe slipped from his foot and ended up falling into the sewer grate with a loud splash. “Bela Lugosi? That’s cute” Y/N scoffed sarcastically.

“Bela Talbot’s her real name. Crossed paths with her once or twice” Bobby told them. “Well, she knew about the rabbit's foot. Is she a hunter?” Dean asked, “Pretty fuckin’ far from a hunter. But she knows her way around the territory” Bobby scoffed in response. “She’s been out of the country. Last I heard she was in the Middle East someplace” He informed them.

“Yeah, well I guess she’s back” Dean sighed as Sam attempted to stick his hand through the grate to retrieve his shoe but came up short, grumbling and sighing in defeat as he stood up. “Which means seriously bad luck for you” Bobby added, “Great” Dean and Y/N muttered sarcastically. “But, if it is Bela, at least I might know folks who know where to find her”

They sighed in relief, “Alright. Thanks Bobby. Again” Dean chuckled as Bobby rolled his eyes. “Just look out for your brother, ya idjits” The line then went dead and Dean flipped the phone before he and Y/N spun around to face a now frowny Sam. “What?” Dean asked. “I lost my shoe” Sam pouted extensively. Dean shot him an unimpressed look as Y/N covered her mouth, trying not to laugh her ass off.

Y/N barely stifled her laughter as Dean raised an eyebrow at his little brother. “You’re complaining about a shoe?” Dean muttered, disbelief and annoyance filled his words. “My shoe!” Sam exclaimed like an upset child while Y/N muffled her amusement behind her hand.

Sam sighed loudly, crossing his arms across his chest in a child-like manner. Y/N was now snorting, unable to hold back her laugh anymore. “Come on, you poor baby” She laughed, walking over to Sam to grip him by his wrist. “I hate you,” Sam mumbled, shooting her an irritated look. “Yeah, sure you do” She snickered, still clutching his wrist.

“Come on, I’ll buy you a new pair of those cheap, crappy shoes as soon as we find this chick” Y/N promised as she started to tug on his wrist. Dean rolled his eyes at the two before stalking over to his car.

____________________________________________

The Impala and Harley pulled up to a crappy motel, “Alright, Bobby, thanks. We owe ya. Another one” Dean spoke into the phone before hanging up as he parked his car, Y/N turned off her own engine besides him as she peeled off her helmet. “What’d Bobby say?” She asked, fixing her hair. “He’s got it on pretty good authority this Bela chick lives in Queens. Now it’ll take us about two hours to get there on Quinn” Dean told her, checking his watch.

“So what are we doing here then?” Sam asked, raising a brow as he scanned the cheap motel. Dean and Y/N shared a look, “You, my brother in Christ, are staying here with an old friend because we don’t want your bad luck getting us killed” Y/N simply said as she smiled widely. “An old friend?” Sam scoffed, rolling his eyes.

“Not just an old friend who wants to see you” Dean grinned as he got out of the car, “Come on” He nodded his head towards the motel while Y/N snickered beside him. Sam groaned in defeat, “Ugh” He mumbled under his breath but trudged towards the motel anyway, Y/N walked by his side, still amused by his annoyance.

She checked her phone, making sure she had the right room number the friend texted her. As they approached the door, Y/N brought her knuckles up and knocked against the door loudly. “Open up, skank. It’s us!!” The door opened after a few moments, revealing a blonde girl, “What the fuck, slut? You scared the shit out of me” Jo grumbled, putting away the knife she had in her hand.

Sam’s heart dropped upon seeing his girlfriend, rushing in to hug her. “Oh thank, Go- AH!” He yelped, only to trip on his own two feet, falling directly onto Jo. Y/N burst out laughing, practically wheezing, the moment she saw Sam’s body collapse onto her own girlfriend. Jo grunted in pain from the impact, “Well, that’s not the hello kiss I was looking forward to but it’s better than nothing” She huffed, shoving her boyfriend off of her.

Sam immediately stood up, his face flushed in embarrassment. Y/N cackled from outside, clutching her stomach in amusement. Dean stood beside her with a smirk, “Smooth as ever, Sammy” He cackled, shaking his head fondly at his little brother. “That rabbit foot ain’t no joke, huh?” Jo said tenderly as Sam helped her up, apologizing profusely.

Sam shook his head, as Jo held his face between her hands, placing a chaste kiss on his lips. Dean and Y/N made exaggerated puking sounds behind them, rolling her eyes at the couple in front of her. Dean shook his head again with a chuckle, wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling her close to him as Jo flipped them both off.

“Okay, what are we supposed to do now?” Sam asked, “Nothing” Dean, Y/N and Jo said in unison. Jo then went over to pull a chair, placing it for Sam it sit. “I don’t want you doing anything, okay?” Dean ordered as he pushed his little brother to sit down. “Sit right here and don’t move, okay? Don’t turn on the light, don’t turn off the light.”

“If you need anything, let Jo help you, whether it’s to go to the bathroom or scratch your damn nose, kapishe?” Y/N stated firmly. Sam stared up at them before nodding firmly as he slumped in the chair, “Yeah, got it” He mumbled while Jo chuckled, rubbing his shoulders soothingly. Dean and Y/N left the room promptly as Sam mumbled to himself.

His nose twitched as he suddenly felt his nose feeling it was itchy due to her words. He begrudgingly scratched it, only to get his hand smacked away by his girlfriend. Sam groaned in annoyance, “I can itch my nose and go to the bathroom myself. I’m a grown man” He whined, slumping his head back as he glared at the ceiling in defeat.

Jo rolled her eyes, crossing her arms across her chest, “You also just tripped and fell onto me, so excuse me if I don’t think you can do anything without getting hurt” She deadpanned.

-

Dean and Y/N shut the door behind them, both of them letting out a breath they had been holding in. “Think he’ll be okay?” Y/N questioned, shooting him a concerned look. Dean nodded, wrapping his arms around her waist, pulling her against him. “Yeah, he’s got his girl with him. He’ll be alright…he’s got to be” He muttered against her neck.

Y/N sighed, nodding slightly as she placed a small kiss on Dean's lip. “Let’s go” She said. He kissed her back softly, nodding his head as he grabbed her hand and intertwined their fingers together. “Yeah, let’s go” He mumbled quietly as she led him to her bike.

She got his spare helmet from Baby’s trunk, slightly tiptoeing to strap it up onto his head. Dean chuckled lightly at the difference in their heights as he bent down for her, making it easier for her to fasten the buckle. As soon as he was strapped up, she swung her leg over, placing her own helmet on and then patted the seat behind her.

He hopped on the motorcycle, instantly snaking his arms around her waist. She started up the engine before taking off, the roar of her motorcycle filling the air.

____________________________________________

Queens, New York

Dean and Y/N made it to Queens in record setting time the next morning before sunrise, meanwhile Bela was up in her penthouse, quarreling with her benefactor over the phone. “Because you shook on 1.5” Bela argued as she descended her staircase, the sound of her heels clanking against the hardwood. “Well maybe I should just take it somewhere else” She challenged, the British twang rolling off of her tongue.

She gently petted her cat, sitting up on her counter. “Don’t threaten me, Luke. Despite your reputation, you don’t scare me” she smirked as she moved to lean against her kitchen sink, her eyes trained on her security monitor. “Well I’m glad you see it that way. I’ll see you at the airstrip in an hour.” With that, she hung up her phone.

Her cat suddenly began hissing as Dean and Y/N quickly averted from the cameras, Bela didn’t see as she was picking up the rabbit’s foot with a pair of kitchen thongs. She placed the foot down on her counter, now on alert due to her cat’s hisses. She then opened her wine fridge, slowly reaching in to retrieve her stashed gun.

Bela kept her clear and wary gaze at her front door. Slowly inching towards it, her eyes widened when her alarm started beeping saying “ERROR” and a sticky note with the words, ‘Turn Around’ was scribbled onto it by Y/N. The cocking of two guns made Bela spin around to see Dean and Y/N aiming their guns at her. She quickly retaliated, cocking her gun at them.

“You left without your tip,” Dean said smugly. This made Bela’s brow twitch with interest.

____________________________________________

Black Rock, New York

Meanwhile, Sam was growing excessively bored in his seat. Jo went to take a shower as he sat, rocking his chair back and forth. Suddenly, the air conditioner across the room started whirring and clucking, causing Sam’s head to whip in its direction. Then smoke began coming through the vents, “Oh, come on” Sam whined, pointing to it in defeat. “I didn’t- I wasn’t-….” he sighed.

The water was still on in the bathroom and Sam didn’t want to bother Jo, so he cautiously stood up from his seat. Inching towards the busted air conditioner. Suddenly, the inside of the air conditioner burst into flames.

Sam flinched slightly at the burst of flames, backing away as he frantically waved his hands around in a panic. “Oh, crap, crap” He muttered under his breath as he looked around. He quickly snatched a blanket from off the bed, rushing over to the air conditioner. He attempted to put it out with the blanket, slapping it a couple of times until it finally diminished.

As soon as the fire was finally gone, Sam threw the blanket on the floor in exhaustion. He sniffed the air, still smelling fire. Sam exclaimed in terror when he lifted his arm, now realizing his left sleeve was on fire. “AHH!!” He frantically patted at the flames in a panic as he tried to put it out.

“Ah, fuck, fuck, fuck, FUCK!!” He yelled in horror as he continued to smack his arm in hope for the fire to be extinguished. “ANGEL!!!” Sam called out for Jo. In the bathroom, Jo quickly turned the shower off, wrapping a towel around her body as she opened the door to see the room full of smoke with Sam in the middle of it patting at his arm.

“Sam??” She exclaimed in concern as she ran over towards him. “WHAT THE FUCK?!” Jo quickly stripped her towel off, attempting to use it to put the fire on Sam’s sleeve out. Sam tried to use the curtain to pat the fire, panicking as it continued to smolder and burn the fabric of his sleeve.

“No, DONT!” Jo exclaimed, but it was too late, Sam somehow managed to trip, taking her down with him. The naked woman and her oaf of a boyfriend were now both unconscious due to the fall. The curtain ripped down in the process, covering Jo’s body.

Kubrick and his buddy stared at them through the window, wide eyed, amused expressions on both their faces. Kubrick was a friend of the currently incarcerated Gordon Walker. He put out a hit on Sam and Y/N, claiming that they were anti-christs. Kubrick was a fellow hunter friend, who was quite religious.

So he believed that faith led him to Sam after searching for the Winchesters and Y/N for weeks at Gordon’s request. Now staring up at the sky with a content smile.

____________________________________________

Queens, New York

“You’re gonna give it back” Y/N demanded as she and Dean had an intense face off, their guns still aimed at Bela. “Ha, ha. Sweetie. No, I’m not” Bela chuckled smugly. “Yeah, we’ll see. Bela, right?” Dean smirked, narrowing his eyes at her. “That’s right, Dean and Y/N” Bela smirked back in response, “You know the things cursed, don’t ya?” Y/N pointed out as they circled each other.

“You’d be surprised what some people would pay for something like that” Bela snarked, “Really?” Dean cocked an eyebrow. “There’s a lucrative market out there. A lot of money to be made” Dean and Y/N’s brows furrowed with a tinge of disgust at Bela’s words, “You hunters with all those amulets and talismans you use to stop those big bad monsters. Any one of them could put your children’s children through college” Bella chuckled darkly.

“So you know the truth about what’s really going on out there and this is what you decide to do with it?” Dean scoffed as Y/N gritted her teeth, her finger was itching to pull the trigger. “You become a thief?” Dean chastised Bela with a sarcastic smolder, “I procure unique items for a select clientele” Bela defended.

“Yeah. A thief” Y/N stated bluntly, “No. A great thief” Bela grinned widely. Dean clenched his jaw, slightly rolling his eyes, “There’s no such thing as a good thief” He stated as Y/N stepped closer to Bela, glaring at her with fury in her veins. Bela smirked tauntingly in response, “There’s no such thing as a good hunter” She retorted back.

____________________________________________

Black Rock, New York

Kubrick and his buddy, Creedy, were now duck taping an unconscious Sam to a chair. He groaned in annoyance as he slowly came to, “Oh, he’s awake” Creedy mused as Kubrick smirked, “Back with us, eh?” he said as he got off of the bed. “Aye, we didn’t even have to touch you. You just went all spastic and knocked you and your girlfriend out yourself. It was like watching Jerry Lewis ride a stacked chair” Creedy laughed.

Sam squinted, trying to adjust his eyes. “Who are you? What do you- wait- Jo. Where’s Jo?!” Sam’s eyes frantically searched the room, remembering that Jo was completely naked when they got knocked out by the fall. A bile of disgust rumbled in Sam’s stomach.

Kubrick chuckled, walking closer to Sam. “Your girl’s taking a little nap. But you don’t have to worry ‘bout her. We took good care of her. Helped her put some clothes on. She’s in good hands” Kubrick smirked as he pointed to the bed with his gun. A now clothed Jo was gagged and tied to the bed, completely passed out from the chloroform they stifled her with.

Sam’s eyes widened with anger at seeing the state of his girlfriend. He struggled against his chair, trying desperately to break free. “Jo?! Baby, wake up!” Sam shouted, pleadingly. He felt disgusted with himself and ashamed that he touched that rabbit's foot now and pulled her down with him. Now these men, whom he has no idea are, saw the love of his life, passed out and bare.

Kubrick chuckled, moving closer to Sam, putting his face near his, “That ain’t gonna work” He warned smugly. Sam clenched his jaw, swallowing the anger, “What do you want?” He asked gruffly. “I used to think your friend Gordon sent me” Kubrick snapped his fingers, “Gordon? Oh, come on, man” Sam groaned in annoyance. “Because he asked me to track you down and put bullets in your head and Y/N’s.” Kubrick stated as he began to pace the room.

“Great, that sounds like him,” Sam huffed sarcastically. “But…” Kubrick put a finger up. “…as it turns out. I’m on a mission from God” He smirked before backhanding Sam across his face. Sam winced in pain at the force of his backhand. Kubrick leaned down at eye level with Sam, “Gordon said you and Y/N were the most evil sons of bitches there was” Kubrick claimed as he grabbed a handful of Sam’s hair.

Kubrick chuckled darkly, gripping Sam’s hair tighter, “Careful, Samuel. You might burn in hell with them if you keep taking the Lord's name in vain like that” Kubrick teased. Sam winced at his tight grip, grunting in pain. “Fuck you” He spat, rearing his head back to head butt Kubrick in his nose.

Kubrick stumbled back at the head-butt, clutching his now bloody nose. Creedy walked over to Kubrick, helping him up as he stumbled. His face contorted with anger and it was now Creedy’s turn to punch Sam. Sam’s head flopped to the other side, spitting out blood onto the floor as he glared at the two men.

His chin was now covered in blood. It stung badly and he could start to taste the copper of blood. His nose began to bleed, but it didn’t matter. His only worry was Jo on the bed, still passed out, but her eyes were now fluttering, attempting to wake from the chloroform.

____________________________________________

Queens, New York

“Look, Bela, my brother, he touched the foot. And when you took it from him, his luck went from-/” Y/N tried to explain but Bela cut her off, “I know how it works” Bela stated calmly, “So then you know he’s gonna die unless we can destroy it” Dean responded, their guns still trained on her. “Oh” Bela gasped dramatically, making Dean and Y/N’s raise their eyebrows.

“You can have the foot” They looked shocked at this, “For 1.5 million” This made them roll their eyes. “Nice. Yeah. I’ll just call my banker” Dean snarked. “How’d you even find the fucking thing? Stuck in the back of some storage place, middle of nowhere?” Dean asked. Bela then averted her gaze to an Ouija board that was sitting proudly on top of her fireplace.

Y/N seemed shocked, “I just asked a few of the ghosts of the people it had killed. They were very attuned into its location” Bela smirked as she turned back to them. Dean shook his head as he narrowed his eyes again at her. “So you’re only out for yourself, huh? It’s all about number one?” He scoffed. “Being a hunter is so much more noble? A bunch of obsessed, revenge-driven sociopaths trying to save a world that can’t be saved” Bela shot back.

This struck a nerve within Y/N, “Well, aren’t you a glass half full” She retorted, “We’re all going to hell, Y/N. Might as well enjoy the ride” Bela shrugged, this made Y/N’s chest ache when Dean said. “I actually agree with you there” Y/N’s gaze averted to Dean, slightly rolling her eyes to cover up the aching feeling in her chest. “Anywho, this has been…nice, but, uh, look at the time. Oh, and this?” Dean smirked, lifting the rabbit's foot up between his fingers, dangling it with a smirk.

Bela and Y/N’s jaws dropped. “What the fuck, Dean?!” Y/N screamed at her boyfriend, almost dropping her gun in the process. She had been too focused on her growing dislike towards Bela to notice Dean had snatched up the cursed object from the counter. “She’s not the only one with sticky fingers,” Dean shrugged, smiling wickedly. “If it’s any consolation, I think you’re a truly awful person” he snapped at Bela.

Bela had enough, shooting at Dean twice but narrowly missing due to the rabbit's luck. Y/N swiftly ducked underneath, charging towards the woman, spearing Bela in the process. Bela yelped from being slammed onto the ground, Y/N pinning her down and now had a tight grip on her hair, pressing her gun to her forehead as a warning to not try anything funny. Bela grunted in pain, glaring at the woman currently pinning her down.

Bela began to flail, swinging her arms out at Y/N wildly in an attempt to hit her, she knocked the psychic’s gun out of her hand, sending it darting across the room. Y/N growled, still pinning her down with her legs as she punched Bela straight across her face. She then retrieved her knife out of her jacket pocket, the dagger’s ancient powers activating her own as she placed it directly underneath Bela’s chin.

Bela froze as soon as the dagger touched her neck, swallowing in fear as she looked up at Y/N, who had a menacing glare, like she was ready to snap any minute now. She couldn’t move, she felt like her veins were on fire from the magic. Bela instantly recognized the dagger, “Where…did you..get that?” She grunted weakly.

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you” Y/N scoffed, pressing the dagger more into her neck, not enough to draw blood, but she wanted to make the threat known. She narrowed her eyes into slits, baring her teeth at the thief. The sounds of sirens in the distance blaring caught their attention, “Princess, let’s go!” Dean shouted.

Y/N gritted her teeth, staring into Bela’s now terrified eyes, before pushing the dagger away from her and standing up. Dean grabbed her hand and they sprinted out the front door, running down the stairs onto the streets of New York.

-

Bela gasped, gripping her own throat as she attempted to catch her breath, still sprawled out on the ground. She’d know that dagger anywhere, she’d been looking for it for ages. It was nothing but a myth within small circles and minimal people knew of its existence. Most thought it was just a legend, a fable. It was barely documented in any history books and she was stunned.

A relic like that could easily start auctioning at 10 million dollars. The questions that bared in Bela’s mind was,

How the fuck did Y/N L/N become in possession of Maverick’s Dagger? And how would Bela be able to steal it from her?

-

Meanwhile, Y/N was breathing heavily at the adrenaline of what just happened, her hand still intertwined with Dean’s grasp as they sprinted down the road in the city and over to her bike. They quickly got on the motorcycle and she started up the engine, driving off into the distance at top speed. As they took off, Dean tightly wrapped his arms around her waist, holding her close.

____________________________________________

Black Rock, New York

Jo’s muffled screams through her gag echoed through the room as Creedy and Kubrick repeatedly punched a half conscious Sam, now tossing a cold glass of water over his face. Sam groaned, blinking heavily as he regained consciousness and slowly looked up at the men. He squinted, trying to adjust his eyes to the light, still a bit wobbly and dizzy.

“You were part of that demon plan to open the gate” Kubrick narrowed his eyes at Sam, “We did everything we could to stop it” Sam tried to tell them. “Lie, lie, lie. You were in on it” Kubrick insisted, pointing as Sam. “You know what their next move is too, don’t you?”

Sam shook his head, “No, I don’t, okay? You’re wrong about all of this” He whimpered, “Where are they gonna hit us next?” Kubrick asked, Sam just sighed, shaking his head in defeat. “Where??” Kubrick demanded as he slapped the side of his face with his left hand.

Jo continued to struggle and scream painfully, trying to get out of her bindings as she thrashed in her spot. “I don’t know anything!” Sam cried, gritting his teeth. Kubrick took a step towards Jo in the bed, making his intentions clear. “No, please” Sam pleaded, “Don’t hurt her, please” He sobbed, his eyes wide, looking up at the man.

Kubrick ignored him, walking over to her and gripping a handful of her hair, yanking her head back to look at her. She hissed in pain as her eyes met his, a slight fear present behind them but she remained determined, refusing to show them any weakness.

“Gordon told me about you and Y/N, Sam. About your powers. You guys are some kind of weirdo, psychic freaks” Kubrick seethed as he flicked his hunting knife open, pressing it against Jo’s throat. Sam flinched as the blade touched Jo’s skin, his heartbeat thundered in his throat, pounding against his Adam’s apple.

He struggled against the duct tape, “No, not anymore! We have no powers, no visions! Nothing, it’s just-“ Sam pleaded, lying about it to protect Y/N but Kubrick realized so he slid the knife slightly, nicking Jo’s jaw enough to draw blood. “Lie!”

Jo screamed against the gag, shutting her eyes in pain as she felt the blood running down her chin. Kubrick looked over at Sam, narrowing his eyes with a smug expression as Creedy stood with his arms crossed over his chest. Sam looked over at his suffering girlfriend in pity.

“I don’t know anything! I’m not hiding anything!” He sobbed, trying to be convincing. “Now, no more lies. There’s an army of demons out there, pushing at a world already on the brink.” Kubrick demanded, trailing the knife down Jo’s arm. “We’re on deck for the end game here, right?” He smirked sadistically.

“So maybe, just maybe you can understand…why we can’t take chances” He then tossed his knife aside and unholstered his gun, aiming it directly at Sam’s forehead. Sam swallowed hard, his eyes widened as he saw the gun aimed at his head. “Woah, okay, okay. Now hold on a minute-” Sam pleaded, his breath quickening with a mixture of fear and panic as Jo screamed, begging Kubrick not to kill her boyfriend.

Creedy pulled his friend back, trying to stop him. Slapping up Sam a bit was alright by him, but watching Kubrick torture Jo and now try to kill Sam was too far for him. “Kubrick-” Creedy tried to reason, “No! You saw what happened, Creedy. Ask yourself, why are we here? Because you saw a picture on the web? Because we chose this motel instead of another?” Kubrick asked his friend rhetorically.

They stumbled upon a picture of the trio at Biggerson’s on the Internet, which was posted due to Sam winning the millionth customer award. Now the luck had turned sour, they sounded up finding him after hunting them for weeks with no outcome, “Look, I can explain all of that if-” Sam was cut off by a finger from Kubrick pointed at him. “Shut up” He gritted his teeth at Sam before turning back to Creedy.

Creedy sighed, looking conflicted. But Kubrick was stubborn and not going to back down easily, “It’s God, Creedy. He led us here for one reason. To do his work. This is destiny” Kubrick insisted, resuming his gun at Sam, ready to shoot. The cocking of two guns behind them made their heads whip to the side, “Nope. No destiny. Just a rabbit's foot” Dean smirked aiming his gun at Creedy as Y/N stood by his side, aiming her gun at Kubrick.

Kubrick and Creedy looked completely caught off guard as Dean and Y/N stood at the doorway, pointing their guns at them with narrowed eyes. Jo smiled behind the gag, breathing a sigh of relief behind it as she watched the pair stand proudly at the doorway.

Kubrick and Creedy exchanged uncertain looks, as if they were communicating to each other with their eyes on what they should do. Creedy raised his hands in surrender as Kubrick smirked cockily, not taking his gun away from Sam. “Put the gun down, son or you’re gonna be scraping brain off the wall” Kubrick threatened.

“Oh, this thing?” Dean shook his gun, toying with him. “Yeah, that thing” Kubrick smiled menacingly, Dean then handed his gun to his girlfriend (who was still mad at him for touching the rabbit’s foot but hadn’t gotten a chance to chew him out for it yet), “Okay, but you see, there’s something about me that you don’t know.” Dean smirked as he picked up a pen from the nightstand next to him.

“Yeah, what would that be?” Kubrick snorted, now aiming his gun at Dean. “It’s my lucky day.” Dean smiled before suddenly flicking the pen over to Kubrick. The pen got stuck right in the barrel of the gun, shocking both Sam and Jo as Y/N shook her head with disappointment. “Oh my god. Did you see that shot?” Dean laughed, impressed with himself.

Creedy took the chance and lunged at Dean, only to miss drastically when Dean simply ducked out of the way. Then with a wave of Y/N’s hand, she sent him flying into the wall, hitting it back first with a loud thud and heavy grunt. Y/N smirked in satisfaction when Creedy flew back, hitting the wall.

She knew that would’ve hurt a lot. This made Kubrick look at her with suspicion, seeing her use telekinesis on him. He quickly tried to pull the pen out of the gun’s barrel as Dean said, “I’m amazing” before picking up a remote from the table and hurling it straight at Kubrick.

It slammed into Kubrick’s forehead, knocking him unconscious instantly. He fell to the door with a loud thud as Dean smirked smugly, “I’m Batman” He practically mewed as Sam, Jo and Y/N looked unimpressed, “Yeah, you’re Batman” Sam scoffed, “And I’m Catwoman” Y/N added sarcastically, rolling her eyes, harshly shoving her gun into his chest as his face dropped subsequently.

She made her way over to Jo immediately as Dean made his way over to Sam, Y/N took out her butterfly from her butterfly knife from her boot. Flicking it open to cut Jo out of her bounds.

“Are you okay, honey?” She asked as Jo nodded, still gagged, groaning as she tried to talk, which was muffled against the gag tied over her mouth. Y/N cut the duct tape and removed the gag, tossing it aside. Jo coughed, her voice raw and hoarse from the gag and the constant screams she had yelled out.

Dean did the same, cutting his brother out of the duct tape that bound him to the chair. Sam sighed in relief as he felt the tape being cut free, his sore wrists were finally freed. The red marks on his wrists would definitely leave a mark, showing the tightness of the duct tape.

“You alright, champ?” Dean asked Sam, clapping him on his shoulder. Sam simply nodded and immediately crossed the room, over to his girlfriend. Sam rushed over to Jo, checking her over to make sure she was okay. He pulled her into a tight and protective embrace, holding her close to his chest, her head resting on his shoulder.

Jo held onto him tightly as she shivered slightly, her body shaking from the trauma she just experienced but she attempted to keep a brave face. “I’m so sorry, angel. This is all my fault” Sam’s voice broke as he held her to his chest, his stature fully engulfed her small frame.

Jo shook her head, shushing him before pulling away slightly to look up at him, “No, no, don’t say that, Sammy. This isn’t your fault, I promise.” She reassured him, caressing his cheek, her thumb lovingly tracing his cheekbone as he leaned into her touch.

But he didn’t believe it. He didn’t know what he would have done if he was too late to save her, he didn’t want to know what he would have done if she got hurt.

Dean and Y/N watched Jo and Sam interact with frowns on their face but it eased them seeing how much love they were for each other.

Sam leaned down, capturing Jo’s lips tenderly but short. Her fingers brushed through his hair, massaging his scalp soothingly as they stayed in their embrace, holding each other lovingly.

Y/N looked at Dean and nodded towards the door, indicating for them to leave the two to give them a few minutes of time alone before they left to do the cleansing ritual.

Sam and Jo pulled apart, but their foreheads stayed resting on each other, their noses brushing lightly against each other. Sam leaned down to kiss her forehead, his hand on her waist, pulling her even closer, almost as if he was holding his whole world in his arms.

“I love you” Sam murmured, his lips still brushing against her forehead as Jo shut her eyes tight, inhaling his scent, savouring it. The smell of peppermint and coffee soothing her senses. She wanted that smell to fill her lungs. She opened her eyes again, looking up at him, her fingers still playing with his hair and lightly massaging his head.

Sam felt her fingers combing through his hair, massaging his scalp as he leaned into her hand, his forehead still on hers as she said with a small smile, “I love you more, Sammy” She whispered softly, looking into his eyes, getting lost in their hazel-green shade. She felt warm and safe in his arms, her head fitting perfectly in his chest.

-

They all were now in a cemetery, performing the cleansing ritual for the rabbit’s foot. The only thing left to do was toss it in the fire. Sam knelt down, sprinkling the last bit of the cayenne pepper into the hot pit as Y/N chanted the incantation spell Bobby gave them while Jo stood besides Sam.

“Alright. Bone ash. Cayenne pepper and the spell. That should do it” Sam said to his brother as he pushed himself up to his feet. Dean was still trying to milk his luck, scratching away at the last few scratch offs he bought. On the ride back from Queens, he begged Y/N to stop at a gas station and blew all of his money on tickets.

“One second” Dean mumbled, scratching away. “Dean-” Sam groaned, “Hey, back off, jinx. Daddy’s bringing the bacon home” Dean snapped, blowing away the dust from the scratch off as Y/N grimaced. “You’re seriously doing this now?” Jo asked, crossing her arms. “You did not just refer to yourself as ‘daddy’, gross” Y/N groaned, trying not to vomit.

“It’s a term of endearment, sweetheart. Don’t be a stick in the mud.” Dean mocked as he continued to scratch at the ticket. Y/N narrowed her eyes at her boyfriend, “You know damn well I’m no-”

“Please don’t finish that sentence, I’ve had enough torture for one day” Sam interrupted, a look of disgust on his face. “What? You would prefer mommy?” Jo joked with a smirk, earning a groan from Sam. “Dude, stop” Sam complained, a small laugh escaping his lips.

They were all exhausted and just wanted to get rid of the cursed object, finish this whole mess and get the hell out of here.

“Alright” Dean smiled as he moved over to the headstone he placed his jacket on, he stuffed the winning tickets into his pockets before taking the rabbit’s foot out, dangling it in the air. “Say goodbye, wascally wabbit” Sam sighed, shaking his head, “Dean, you really need to stop watching cartoons” He groaned. Jo chuckled at this but bit down on her bottom lip as Y/N snorted.

“I think you’ll find that belongs to me” Bela’s voice sounded behind them. They all spun around to see her now aiming and cocking her gun at them. “Or, you know, whatever” She smirked, “Put the foot down, honey” She demanded from Dean.

Dean swallowed, narrowing his eyes at Bela with a clenched jaw. “No. You’re not gonna shoot anybody” He scoffed, “See, I happen to be able to read people too. Okay, you’re a thief, fine, but you’re not-” Dean’s smug words were cut short when Bela shot twice, once at Sam’s shoulder and the other at Y/N’s.

Sam fell back at the impact of the bullet, groaning in pain as he clenched his shoulder. Y/N quickly stumbled backwards, her hand pressing against the bullet wound as she gritted her teeth to suppress a scream of pain that was threatening to escape her throat.

“SON OF A-” “YOU BITCH!” Dean and Jo shouted enraged, ready to maul Bela. “Back off, tiger. Back off” Bela gritted her teeth at them. Dean held back a growl of frustration, gritting his teeth to the point it begun to hurt, his fist clenched in anger at the fact that she shot Sam AND Y/N. He felt the urge to shoot a hole right in the middle of her forehead with the rage coursing through his veins.

Jo’s glared at Bela so deathly, you’d think the thief would be six feet under by now. She knelt to Sam’s side, cradling him. She shot Y/N a look of concern but Y/N gave her a thumbs up, indicating she was okay.

“You make one more move and I’ll pull the trigger” Bela threatened. Sam attempted to get up but Jo stopped him, gently pushing him back down as she sat him up and rested his head against the grave. Y/N took the shot pretty well, the pain was still stinging like hell but she was still on her feet.

She was still glaring at Bela, the pain in her shoulder forgotten for a moment with how mad she was. Dean’s heart plummeted as he moved back slightly and held his arms up in surrender, his hands shaking in pure rage.

“You’ve got the luck, Dean. You, I can’t hit.” Bela smirked before pointing at Sam with the gun, “But your brother?” she then pointed at Y/N, “And your girlfriend? Them I can’t miss” This made Dean snap. “What the hell is wrong with you?! You don’t just go around shooting people like that!” His voice went up and octave as he shouted.

“Relax, it’s a shoulder hit. I can aim. Besides, who here hasn’t shot a few people?” Bela scoffed cockily. Jo glared at Bela as rage coursed through her veins at the woman’s words. The fact that Bela was making jokes and making this whole thing out to be a fun little game was starting to piss her off.

Jo stood up, pushing Sam gently away from her as she stormed up to Bela, “You really think this is just some fun little game you’re playing?” She scoffed, her fists clenched. “Oh sweetie, it’s just business” Bela grinned before turning back to Dean. “Put the rabbit's foot on the ground, now.” She demanded.

Dean felt his heart pounding against his chest. All this was for a damn rabbit foot. He took a deep breath, his eyes fixated on the ground, trying to keep a calm composure but it wasn’t working. “Alright! Alright, take it easy” Dean slowly lowered the foot, pretending to place it down, “Think fast” he smirked, tossing it into Bela’s hand.

Instinctively, she caught it. “Fuck” She cursed, rolling her eyes. Dean smiled sarcastically, “Now, what do you say we destroy that ugly-ass piece of dead thing?” She rolled her eyes, annoyed by Dean’s smug cocky nature that she was beginning to hate more and more. She then looked over at Jo, who was glaring daggers at her. She shifted uncomfortably, swallowing the nervous lump in her throat.

-

Bela dropped the rabbit’s foot into the fire, allowing it to be set aflame. “Thanks” She scoffed sarcastically, “I’m out one-and-a-half million and on the bad side of a very powerful, fairly psychotic buyer” she grumbled as she stuck her hands in her pockets.

“Wow. I really don’t feel bad about that” Dean deadpanned but his hands were still shaking with anger. Jo just glared at the woman. Sam and Y/N weren’t in the mood for jokes after both getting shot. “Sam? Y/N? Jo?”

“Nope” The three responded in unison. “Not even a fucking little” Jo added, seething through her teeth as Sam and Y/N pressed bandannas to their wounds. “Hmm” Bela hummed, turning away from them. “Maybe next time, I’ll hang you out to dry” Bela smirked, leaning against this headstone Dean has his jacket on.

Y/N immediately went over to her, slapping her hand away from her man’s jacket. Oh, don’t go away angry, just go away” She seethed. Sam watched them from a distance, chuckling softly at the sight of the two woman bickering. Jo held Sam close as he shook his head, his lips in a thin line. Jo felt her anger start to fizzle away now that Bela was leaving.

“Have a goodnight, everyone” With that Bela left as Y/N eyed her suspiciously. She took her Dean’s jacket from the headstone and handed it to him.

-

They were now walking out of the cemetery, Dean had his arm wrapped around Y/N, who was clutching her shoulder. As Jo did the same with Sam. “You guys, good?” He asked the two. “I’ll live,” Sam nodded, leaning his head on Jo’s shoulder as she pressed a sweet, gentle kiss to his cheek.

Y/N gave Dean a weak smile, “Still hurts like a motherfucker but it’ll be alright.” She grimaced in pain, “Maybe a trip to the hospital would be good, if it doesn’t stop hurting that is.” Dean sighed, nodding in agreement, “We’ll go as soon as we get back to the motel.” He said, pressing a gentle kiss to her temple. He held her close, her head rested on his shoulder.

“So I guess we’re back to normal huh? No good luck, no bad luck” Dean sounded almost disappointed when he said this then remembered. “Oh- I forgot we’re up $46,000. I almost forget the…scratch tickets” His words trailed off when he searched his pockets, only to come up empty.

Dean’s heart plummeted as Bela’s car sped off, she honked her horn twice. Sam shook his head at his brother's stupidity, trying not to laugh along with Jo. “SON OF A BITCH!!” Dean bellowed, thinking Bela stole the tickets.

Dean pulled back from Y/N, his eyes widening as he frantically checked his own pockets. He felt around like a desperate man, praying that maybe he had just hidden them in another jacket pocket instead. This only made the three laugh harder.

“Relax, charming” Y/N chuckled, retrieving them from her pocket. She noticed when Bela went over to the headstone with Dean’s jacket, she was getting sticky fingers with the tickets. That’s why she went over and snatched it away from her. While no one was looking, she stuffed the tickets into her own pocket.

Dean’s heart started beating again when he saw Y/N take the tickets out of her pocket. His shoulders relaxed out of relief, his heart rate finally going back to normal. Dean looked down at his girlfriend like she was his hero, “God, I love you” He smiled, peppering her face with kisses.

She giggled as Dean covered her in kisses, feeling his lips all over her face. Sam and Jo made gagging sounds in the background, which earned them looks from Dean and Y/N. “Oh shut up, Sammy”

“You can thank me for saving your ass $46,000 with a new helmet for Quinn and dinner” She joked, her free and uninjured hand resting on his jaw. Dean grinned, pecking her lips, “I’ll buy the helmet and dinner, princess. Whatever you want” He chuckled, squeezing her hip lightly as they all began walking back to their vehicles.

Jo playfully swatted Sam’s chest, “Hey. Why didn’t you win $46,000 when you had the rabbit’s foot?” She teased him, linking her arm into his uninjured one. Sam rolled his eyes, “Shut up” He laughed, shaking his head. Jo giggled at this, rubbing her thumb over his arm as they walked together with an arm around each other.

“He won at least $5000 from this when I forced him to scratch a bunch, don’t worry” Dean chimed in, flashing Jo a grin over his shoulder. “Really?” Jo raised an eyebrow at Dean, her curiosity peaked. “Yeah” Dean grinned, chuckling as Sam rolled his eyes again, shaking his head in embarrassment.

____________________________________________

Aurora, New York

•Two Days Later

Jo rode Y/N’s bike back to her safehouse while she and Sam rode with Dean. They spent the previous day holed up in the safehouse and living on takeout. But the next day, Y/N insisted on cooking since it had been a while since any of them had a proper home cooked meal.

Her and Sam’s bullet wounds were almost fully healed, thanks to a healing balm she made. It was one of her first concoctions she learnt to make from a spell book Bobby gave her, it was originally owned by an old psychic friend of his. It was basically a ‘Psychism for Beginners’ manual. The balm was basic but smelt like crap so Y/N altered it to give it her own twist.

Now, the Winchester boys were passed out in the living room. Everyone fell asleep there since they decided to have a Back To The Future movie night marathon, binging all three movies.

The sun beamed down on them through the windows as the sounds of birds chirping filled the air. Jo and Y/N sat on the patio of the safe house, enjoying the morning sunlight and a cup of steaming coffee on their laps.

Jo exhaled, taking a sip of her drink before humming in satisfaction. Y/N did the same, her eyes shut as she felt the warmth of the sun’s rays on her face. This was a rare sight, to see the two girls enjoying some peace and quiet together, without the boys.

It was peaceful and relaxing. Something they both haven’t felt for a while, enjoying the silence and peace as the birds chirped outside. Y/N exhaled, taking another sip of her coffee as she let herself forget all her worries for a brief moment. Jo was still shaken up after the incident with Kubrick and Creedy but managed to keep her mind distracted, still trying to move on from the trauma.

Y/N noticed the look of despair on her sister’s face, contemplating whether or not to push on the topic. So instead, “Hey, you wanna head out to the grocery now?” She asked her. Jo snapped out of it, nodding as she finished her coffee, placing it on the table next to her. She stood up, stretching slightly, still feeling a tightness in her muscles from the bullet wound in her shoulder.

“Yeah, I think that’s a good idea, plus the boys will wake up soon” She said, yawning. Jo started walking with Y/N, opening the patio door to head back into the house. They both decided to get a quick shower and fix themselves up before leaving.

Dean and Sam were still sound asleep in the living room, sleeping on the couch and the armchair. Their bodies sprawled across the furniture like dead weight, they were out cold.

After showering, the girls crept downstairs so they didn’t wake up the boys. Y/N tiptoed over to the couch, leaning down slowly to pick up Dean’s keys. When she retrieved it, she quickly stuffed it into her pocket and laid a gentle kiss to his forehead.

Dean stirred a little upon feeling her lips on his forehead but he remained asleep, not showing any signs of waking up. Y/N smiled faintly, his freckles standing out in the sunlight. She could stare at him like this for hours, her heart fluttering at his peaceful look.

Jo did the same with Sam as Y/N tiptoed back to the kitchen. She gently moves his brown locks aside with her finger tips to press a light kiss to his cheek. Sam stirred sleepily, his eyes cracking open. He looked up at Jo, blinking a couple times before giving a sleepy smile. He leaned up to kiss her cheek softly. “Where are you two going?” He asked sleepily. His voice was gravelly and hoarse, sounding sleepy.

Jo chuckled softly, rubbing Sam’s cheek gently, “We’re gonna go to the grocery, we’ll be back soon, I promise. You can take another nap or something, go back to bed, baby” She said softly, her touch comforting. Sam nodded in response, closing his eyes again with a content hum as he got comfortable on the couch.

Jo moved to sit next to him, running her fingers through his hair soothingly. She knew this would help him fall asleep again. It definitely worked as he was knocked out in less than a minute, his breathing even with a small hint of snoring.

“You ready?” Y/N whispered to Jo as she got up from the couch. She went to the kitchen to get her sticky notes, scribbling a note that said, ‘Going on a supply run, brb. There’s coffee in the pot and leftover pizza in the fridge. Make sure you take the coffee maker off after, I love you babe xoxo’

She ripped it out from the pad and stuck it right on his nose, causing Jo to snort. Jo laughed quietly at the sticky note, shaking her head at Y/N. Dean was still sound asleep, unaware of what was happening. She took out her phone and snapped a picture just to show Sam later, knowing he’ll laugh at it too.

Y/N and Jo both made their way out to the driveway, Y/N took out the keys to the Impala, unlocking the car, “Ready to go?” She asked Jo with a grin as she slid into the driver’s seat. Jo nodded as she buckled in her seatbelt, “Yep, let’s go” She said as Y/N started the engine, driving out of the garage, leaving the boys to sleep through the day.

-

A few hours had passed since Y/N and Jo left and Dean was starting to stir from his awkward position on the small couch. Dean groaned, his back feeling stiff as he sat up, rubbing the back of his neck to relieve the tension and pain in his muscles. He rubbed his eyes, yawning and stretching, making a bone or two pop.

Dean looked around the living room, noticing his brother was still passed out on the other couch. He got up from the couch, his head whipping around to look for Y/N, finding her absent. She must still be upstairs but where was Jo? He looked confused and got up to check, rubbing his tired eyes.

He felt a piece of paper crumple at his feet. His brows furrowed as he lifted it up to see the sticky note Y/N left on his nose had fallen and stuck to his foot. He laughed to himself as he read the note, “She knows me too damn well” He said with a quiet chuckle, finding it entertaining that she knew he would have no problem drinking coffee or eating leftover pizza.

Just as Dean was about to pad over to the kitchen for some coffee, his phone rang on the coffee table. Dean looked over at the phone as the loud ringing interrupted him. He picked it up and answered it, not checking to see who was calling. “Hello?” He answered, his voice still hoarse and groggy from the sleep. His free hand was rubbing the back of his neck, trying to work out the kinks.

“Dean?? Where’s Y/N?!” Bobby’s panicked voice echoed through the phone, in the background, Dean heard items scattering. It sounded like Bobby was tearing his house apart. Dean was immediately on high alert as he heard Bobby’s panicked voice through the phone. He was wide awake now, panic coursing through his body. It was a bad habit of hunters to instantly think of the worst possible scenario.

Sam began to groan in his own spot on the couch, twisting and turning in his sleep. Dean paid Sam no attention as his brows knitted together, his heart racing, his mind going to dark places. “Bobby, what’s going on?” He asked frantically, his heart rate picking up speed.

“I can’t find the dagger, where’s the damn dagger?“ Bobby muttered in frustration. Confusion etched over Dean’s face, “What do you mean? Y/N didn’t tell you it showed up in her bag?” Dean asked. “It what?!” Bobby exclaimed, gripping his head. The way Bobby snapped made Dean flinch a bit, “No, the girl didn’t say a damn thing” Bobby snapped, his irritation growing.

Sam began to stir at the sound of his brother’s voice, becoming more and more aware of his surroundings. Dean then took up a pillow from the couch and tossed it at his brother before putting the phone on speaker.

Sam groaned as he caught the pillow, sitting up slightly and rubbing his eyes, looking like a big bear waking up from his long nap. Dean made a shushing motion with his hand, telling him to remain quiet. “Bobby, just calm down, alright?” Dean said in a calm, soothing tone, hoping to diffuse the situation. “What’s going on?” Sam asked, his voice filled with sleep.

Bobby took a breath as he ran a hand over his face, trying to ease his anxiety, “That knife Y/N found? It ain’t no knife, it’s a damn dagger. It’s Maverick’s fucking Dagger” Bobby told them. “It’s what?!” Sam and Dean asked in unison. Dean’s brows were furrowed again, confused by the name, not recognizing it anywhere but Sam was familiar with the story of Maverick’s Dagger. So his expression was a lot different to Dean’s, his heart pace rapidly growing.

“That’s impossible. I thought that was a myth” Sam gasped. Dean was even more confused. Did he miss a major detail in this mess they were dealing with? “Who the hell is Maverick?” He asked, his face scrunching up in confusion.

Bobby sighed, “Ronald Maverick. He was earth’s first known and widely recognized psychic in the late 1400s. He’s the reason the Seven Deadly sins were banished back to hell. I don’t know how I didn’t put it together when Y/N found that knife on Envy, but the legend goes, he sensed their return to earth in the early 1500s and he became so greedy for more power to send them back to hell. So he crafted the knife, using his own blood in order to exorcise them with the help of a witch, his wife.” He explained, his brows furrowed, the anger and panic was slowly subsiding as his voice became calmer.

“Only, he didn’t know his wife was actually harnessing energy from a ‘yellow eyed demon’ to power the dagger, so, out of anger, hurt and betrayal, he killed her with it. The dagger was never seen again until the Seven Deadly Sins came back on earth. Even I believed it was a myth before Bela called me and told me about it. That woman is a nasty thief and when something pretty valuable catches her eye, she takes it. And if this knife falls into the wrong hands, it’s gonna be hell to pay, boy” Bobby grumbled as he took off his cap.

“That damn hunk of junk makes any creature of nature greedy for power, angry for lost loved ones, it amplifies vengeance in their souls. Tainting it till it’s irreparable. Rumor has it, any full bred-psychic who even breathes too hard near the thing goes berserk if they don’t get enough power or vengeance. Long story short so we need to get that damn thing away from Y/N until it’s late. Good intentions or not, it’s evil beyond explanation” Bobby concluded.

Dean felt the blood drain from his face as he listened to what Bobby was telling them. His stomach dropped as the feeling of dread hit him like a ton of bricks. Dean swallowed the nervous lump in his throat, his heart racing as his thoughts began to race. His mind immediately going to Y/N and her whereabouts, his heart felt like it was going to beat out his chest in that moment.

Sam sat there with his head in his hands, taking in everything Bobby told them, fear and panic coursing through his body. His head was spinning with the thoughts about that dagger and what it can do, the effects it has on psychics who wield it for too long. The fact that Y/N had possession of it right now, just the thought of it made Sam feel nauseous.

“Boys? You there?” Bobby’s voice echoed through the speaker. Either of the Winchesters had yet to say a word. Dean took a breath, shaking his head and forcing his panicked mind to focus again. He cleared his throat, “Yeah, Bobby. We’re still here” His voice was a little hoarse as he spoke.

Dean put one hand over his eyes as he tried to ground himself in the moment, his mind still racing with thoughts. He took slow breaths, in and out, his shoulders rising and falling at random intervals.

-

The door to the L/N New York safehouse opened and in walked Y/N and Jo. They froze in their tracks upon seeing Sam and Dean practically tearing apart the house, looking for the dagger. They tried getting onto Y/N but she wasn’t answering her phone.

As soon as they realised the girls were back, the boys rushed over like dogs in a hunt. They both crowded the girls, Sam grabbed Jo and Dean grabbed Y/N by the arm. “Where is it?” Dean demanded, “Where’s what?” She asked confused, almost stumbling with the grocery bags in hand.

“The dagger you found, where is it?” Dean asked again, his voice a lower tone, almost sounding like a growl. He was desperate, his heart pounding harshly in his ears, he was panicked. “Oh, it’s in my jacket. Why?” She asked as she and Jo placed the bags on the kitchen counter. She then took it out and handed it to Dean.

Dean snatched the dagger from Y/N’s hand. He grimaced, gripping the dagger tightly in his hand, “We need to destroy it” Y/N’s eyes bulged out, “What the fuck?! No, why?!” She exclaimed, trying to snatch it back from him.

“This ain’t a damn joke Y/N. That thing is dangerous as hell! You need to stay away from that thing!” Dean snapped, his tone sounding angry and desperate. “Charming, it’s fine!” Y/N snapped, her tone rising. She attempted to snatch the dagger back, but Dean held it higher out of her reach.

“Y/N, stop!” Sam stepped in, grabbing the dagger from his brother. “Bobby just called us, it’s Maverick’s Dagger” Sam dropped the ball, “No fucking way” Y/N gasped, recognizing its name. She knew the bare minimum when it came to it, having stumbled upon it when she and Sam were researching on lore sites about her lineage. “Does everyone know about this fucking dagger but me????” Dean rolled his eyes.

-

All four of them stood outside the safe house in a small clearing, Y/N and Jo clutching their jackets. “Good riddance” Y/N sighed as Sam, Dean and Jo watched her toss the dagger into the fire pit. The fire crackled and sparked, the flames dancing wildly as they consumed the dagger, slowly turning it to ash.

Not a single ounce of the dagger remained as the fire finally died, leaving nothing but ash and charcoal. Sam wrapped his arm around Jo, leading her back into the house as Y/N rested her head on Dean’s shoulder. “Is it terrible to say that I’m gonna miss it?”

Dean laughed softly, “Of course you would say that princess” He joked, kissing the top of her head as he wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her tightly into his side. Y/N rested her head against his chest, her eyes shutting as she savoured the moment.

Being in Dean’s arms was her favourite place to be, it always made her feel at ease and safe. She felt his lips on her head, her heart fluttering with butterflies in her stomach. His arm wrapped around her waist, holding her close. She wished it could last forever.

Dean hesitated for a moment, thinking of the possibilities. Nothing was easy like this, it felt suspiciously easy as if it was way too simple. It unnerved him a bit but he had to push that feeling down for her and Sam’s sake. It wasn’t something they needed to worry about, not at this moment.

But at least it was gone. He looked down at her, “I don’t know but I’m glad it’s gone for good” He said softly, kissing her forehead again. He held her close, resting his chin on her head as he swayed from side to side with her. The fire had died down, the ashes of the dagger were still fresh. He held her protectively in his arms, savouring this moment before it could be ruined.

“Come on, sweetie. I’ll get started on lunch, you must be starving” She said softly, unwrapping herself from his arms but she took his left hand into her right, leading him towards the house.

Dean nodded, giving her hand a gentle squeeze as his thumb ran back and forth over her skin.

He was starving, food definitely sounded good right about now. Especially with Y/N’s cooking, his mouth was beginning to water.

While she was walking to the house, something at the back of y/n’s mind told her that this wasn’t over yet. She forced herself to leave it there, not voicing her thoughts since they quite literally just burnt the dagger to a crisp.

That meant it was over. That meant it was gone forever. That meant there was no way it could apparently corrupt her now. Right?

____________________________________________

Author’s Note: HEEEELLLLLOOOOO AGAAAINNNN. This was SO long overdue. Once again, I am so sorry for making you guys wait but I really do hope that it was worth it!

This chapter is dedicated to my bestie @nesnejwritings , Maverick’s Dagger is named after him. I love you, sugarbear. I’ve said it once but I’ll say it again, thank you for always giving me the best advice when it comes to Genesis and always listening to me rant about it. I love love loveee you till the day I die❤️❤️❤️

Taglist: @hjgdhghoe @rach5ive @tiggytaylor @star-yawnznn @quarterhorse19

@deangirl96 @bitchykittenconnoisseur @globetrotter28 @hobby27 @mrsjjkwinchester

@juwu-theliciosa @magiccliopleurodon @nesnejwritings @karrah89 @whattheduckisupkyle

@iloveyou2mia @thelittlelightinthedarkness @lmhf1 @littletomboy2 @zigzoggy

@hey-its-zoe @modiddys-blog @thvxr @tommysaxes @cookiemonstermusic258 @elite4cekalyma

@ladykitana90 @strawberrykiwisdogog @barnes70stark

All in all, I hope you guys liked it🥰Be sure to tell me what you liked and hated!

Xoxo

[genderqueerdykes]

Book anon brought up is literally called Trans/Rad/Fem and it claims to be essays on "transfeminism" but the entire basis is how r@dical feminism helped build feminsim, including transfeminism - thus transfeminism couldn't exist without radf3minism, and tries to argue the two types of feminism are actually very similar and should support each other. Just a snippet of the summary: "This series of essays aims to reconstruct and reintroduce the r@dical feminist framework that its misbegotten inheritors seem determined to forget and in doing so boldly makes the claim that transfeminism, far from being antagonistic to r@dical feminism, is in fact its direct descendant. It shows how a comprehensive social theory of transsexual oppression flows almost naturally from r@dical feminist precepts and dares to declare that a materialist, r@dical transfeminism is the way forward to seize the foundations of patriarchy at the root." The author has a bunch of free writing on her site, and it's interesting because she seriously uses the term transemasculation and argues that trans men do face specific oppression for being trans men, but then she's got this incredibly bizarre essay on how trans men aren't allowed to relate to Stone Butch Blues even though she personally knows a lot who do. Her stuff also really only pays lipservice to but is notably absent of anyone outside the binary, which is interesting because she also considers herself 'third sexed'. And she parrots these ideas about "degendering" and "regendering" throughout all her essays that just don't seem to /quite/ line up with the broader social definitions of these terms. I don't know, it's like someone who infiltrates 'the enemy' to try and take them down from the inside and doesn't realize they're slowly being converted. Also, she's actually on tumblr (head's up). Here's her own explanation of her book: https://taliabhattwrites.tumblr.com/post/769862585675825152/im-sorry-if-youve-answered-this-or-if-it-should And for some comparison here's genderkoolaid's reaction to the book summary (with full summary included): https://genderkoolaid.tumblr.com/post/771666069645623296/question-have-you-heard-about-the-book

"but then she's got this incredibly bizarre essay on how trans men aren't allowed to relate to Stone Butch Blues,"

does. does she know that Leslie Feinberg was literally a polygender lesbian who identified partially as a trans man. does she know that Leslie lived as a trans man for many years before accepting being multigender. does she know. anything about what she's talking about. like yes, Jess in the book was written to challenge the idea of what a woman "should be". and rightfully so. that part of Leslie's identity needed to be discussed. Leslie's other genders do not overwrite the fact that ze was a transsexual woman. i want that to be clear!

but it doesn't change the fact that transmasculine people are still gonna relate to this experience whether or not they identify as women. also what about transmasculine women...? that right there is enough to tell me this person has no idea what the fuck they're talking about. Stone Butch Blues was quite literally written by someone who was partially a trans man. like you cannot erase the fact that Leslie literally called hirself "polygendered". that was the term ze used for hirself. Leslie was a trans man as well as a transsexual woman. get fucked, talia. you don't know what the fuck you're talking about. even if the character of Jess wasn't a trans man, it doesn't erase the fact that Leslie was. Jess is just a character based off of Leslie.

wow that's actual bullshit. thank you so much for letting me know about this, i had no clue. i don't read books unless i'm looking into a specific topic so i'll be sure to steer clear of that. this shit is sad. rad feminism has never and will never help anyone. rad feminism is about hating women. it's about seeing women as weaker and inferior to men. it's about thinking that women can never hurt anyone else because they can't hold power in society ever. rad feminism is about painting women as pathetic dainty little creatures who could never hurt a fly, that women are so stupid that they can't think for themselves and are always being taken advantage of no matter what, and it's also about how women can only look and act certain ways or else they're not women.

trans rad feminism hurts trans women. if you're a transradfem:

radfems fucking hate you and want you to die. snap out of it. this will not make them like you. this will not make them see you as a woman. they are happy you are spreading their propaganda, but they want you dead and see you as predatory men invading women's spaces. wake. the fuck. up. all you're doing is participating in trans/misogyny and the faster you realize it, the better off you'll be.

[asktheritobowyer]

(This is the blogger here, making a post that I never thought I'd be making, but due to recent events, regarding threads, and my inbox, I feel like I need to)

First of @askthenewritoelder @asktheritochampion @asksakitherito @askaritobard @askthehylianchampion I want to make it make clear, none of you are at fault for this, nor could any of you have predicted your replies, or posts would have caused something like this to happen.

As @asktheritochampion said on their blog, there has been no drama, or anything of the sort between us, just bloggers having fun with the characters, engaging, and creating fun scenario's for us to play out.

Unfortunately with that said, for the past couple of days, my inbox has been flooded with nothing but death threats to myself and the character of Harth.

I've had messages telling me to kill myself. I've had messages telling me they hope Harth commits suicide. I've had messages hoping Harth gets killed in his sleep by Tulin in graphic detail. I've had messages telling me they look forward to Teba stabbing Harth to death and taking Molli. I've had messages saying they hope Revali kidnaps Molli and kills Harth. I've had messages hoping Saki cooks Harth and feeds his remains to Rito Village. I've had messages telling me Harth is going to get hacked into pieces by Link, and he's going to eat him. I've had messages hoping I die for not falling in line and loving Revali like everyone else. I've had asks saying Harth should make a bow and shoot himself with it. etc...

It really is as bad as I'm describing. I sincerely wish it wasn't. Nor will I show the asks, as they're incredibly graphic and disturbing to read. I haven't gotten any genuine asks lately. Just simply death threats, or messages hoping I die, or Harth dies, or Molli getting taken away because Harth gets killed by someone. I've counted 60 so far and counting.

It goes without saying I'm here to have fun. I'm here to enjoy myself. I'm here to interact with others. I'm here to have fun answering asks in character. I'm here to engage with other threads. I'm here to respectfully freely express my feelings and opinions to others, and respect their opinions. I'm here to get into all sorts of fun shenanigans with Harth.

I didn't come here to be harassed. I didn't come here to get ridiculed for being different. I didn't come here to be sent constant death threats because I think differently. I didn't come here so people can tell me they hope Harth dies, so someone else can take his daughter. etc...

I understand people may like a character, but there comes a point where you shouldn't take things to this extent because someone has a different stance to someone else. Things have been taken way out of context, and people have gone to the extremes in my inbox.

We all have different opinions and should respect them. We should be polite to one another regardless of the differences. I'm just someone looking to have fun with others, and create stuff by myself or with them. Nothing more nothing less.

There's a right way to engage with someone and express yourself. This isn't that way. I don't want to make posts like these, but I'm hoping in doing so people are mindful of what their doing and the effect it can have on someone simply wishing to enjoy themselves.

[sengardet]

Don't Answer the Door

You are startled awake by a knock on your door. The clock on your nightstand reads 3:13 AM, and your heart flutters in your chest from the jarring disturbance. Groggy, you fumble for the light switch, blinking against the sudden brightness in your living room. The knocking continues.

Feeling a swell of unease, you approach the door. Peering through the peephole, you see two figures in dark suits, their posture rigid, their faces concealed by the distorting glass. You can’t make out any details—only that they’re official, authoritative, and impatient.

Your mind races. No one comes by at this hour for trivial reasons. You open the door with caution, pressing yourself against the frame. The two individuals stand in the hallway, their expressions cold, unreadable. They flash government identification so quickly you barely catch the emblem—some military or paramilitary organization you do not recognize. The taller of the two thrusts a crisp white envelope toward you without a word.

“Sign here,” the shorter one orders, voice devoid of emotion. You glance at the proffered documents, your stomach churning. Its heading reads: “Summons for Immediate Conscription: Experimental Soldier Program.”

Your eyes flick from the paper to their stern faces. “This… must be a mistake,” you begin, your voice trembling with the aftershocks of being yanked from slumber. “I’m just a civilian. I’m not in the reserves—or the military at all.”

Neither agent reacts. Reluctantly, you press the pen to the document and sign where indicated, wondering if you even have a choice.

“Report to the specified facility at dawn,” the taller agent informs you. “Any delay will be treated as desertion.”

They leave as swiftly as they arrived, departing down the hallway without further explanation. The words “compulsory conscription” and “Experimental Soldier Program” practically burn themselves into your mind.

An hour of restless pacing follows. Yes, you’re in good physical shape; you lift, you run track, you’ve taken pride in sculpting your body. But you’re no fighter.

The directive is clear, and the hour is growing late. Knowing you can’t escape this, you make a feeble attempt to sleep again, but every time you close your eyes, you imagine the two agents’ stony faces.

At dawn, you force yourself out the door and head to the address included in the summons.

When you finally arrive, armed guards greet you with silent scrutiny. Past the barbed-wire gate, past an austere courtyard, you’re directed into a squat, concrete building. Inside, the corridors are utilitarian, lined with unmarked doors and glaring fluorescent lights that hum incessantly.

They guide you to a large, steel-gray reception hall. On one side, you see a queue of grim-faced men and women—some in military fatigues, others looking as out-of-place as you do, obviously civilians. At the front of this line, bored clerks at desks check documents and stamp papers. An official gestures for you to join the line.

When your turn comes, a clerk scans the barcode from your summons, then passes your file to someone else who breezes through it silently.

“Fitness aptitude but no military training. Conscript assigned to Medical Research Trials.” He glances at you impassively. “Report to Lab Sixteen—down the west corridor, second right.”

You blink, swallowing hard. So they don’t intend to toss you into the battlefield. You almost feel relief. Almost. But something about “Medical Research Trials” feels equally foreboding. You muster a shaky nod, following the corridor signs that lead deeper into the facility.

Your footsteps echo as you move forward, unsure who to address. Eventually, a freckled redheaded woman—her hair pulled into a tight bun—approaches you. Her freckled nose crinkles with a faint smile that tries to be warm but only heightens your unease.

“You must be the new one,” she says, studying a tablet. “Come with me. I’m Dr. Whitley.”

At the center of this room, under harsh lights, stands an examination bed fitted with thick leather restraints. The sight of those straps makes your pulse spike. You glance at Dr. Whitley, suddenly desperate for answers. But before you can voice your concerns, a slender, disheveled-looking male assistant guides you to the table.

“Right this way,” he says politely, gesturing for you to lie down. When you hesitate, Dr. Whitley murmurs, “Just a precaution. The procedures can sometimes trigger involuntary thrashing.”

The assistant carefully loops the leather restraints around your wrists, over your biceps, across your torso, and around your ankles.

Your voice cracks with tension. “Is this—truly necessary?”

Dr. Whitley lifts a hand, as though to soothe an anxious animal. “We’ll be quick,” she says softly. “You’ll be perfectly fine.”

Fine. The word rattles uselessly in your mind. The overhead lights glare, making you squint as your heart pounds in your ears. You hear scuffles around you—other lab personnel filing in. A brunette in thick-rimmed glasses approaches with a calm, professional demeanor. She doesn’t bother asking permission before removing your shirt, her fingers lingering on your skin in an oddly reverent way. On your exposed chest, she places sticky electrodes connected to an EKG machine. You glimpse the display in your peripheral vision, its lines jumping in time with your pulse.

Thery pay no attention to the obvious distress expressed in your frantic heartbeat. Dr. Whitley studies the readout, tapping on her tablet. “Has the subject’s DNA been preserved so we can proceed with the experiment?” she asks aloud.

“Yes,” the male assistant replies. “We have the sample and the baseline data from their file.”

Dr. Whitley sets aside her tablet. “All right. Let’s see how that extraordinary physique holds up.” There’s a subtle, disconcerting excitement glimmering in her eyes.

The brunette with glasses retrieves another device—a small ultrasound probe. She applies a cool gel across your sternum and gently presses the wand against your pounding heart. On a nearby monitor, a grayscale image of your heart appears, pulsing and contracting in real time. You watch with wide eyes, unsettled by how intimate this glimpse inside your body feels—especially when you’re strapped down and powerless.

“Look at this,” Dr. Whitley murmurs. She points to the screen, where the shape of your heart flickers in contoured lines. "The ventricular wall dimensions are on the upper end relative to its advance size, but not constrictive."

The brunette nods, adjusting her thick glasses as she studies the display. "The heart rate is elevated now, but that's to be expected given the circumstances."

The redhead approaches the monitor more closely. "Optimistic about those contractions as well."

Lost in the moment, you feel a prick in your arm as the brunette fixes an IV port, and then there’s a sharp sting when she injects a cocktail of liquid that feels alarmingly warm. Within seconds, your heart pounds faster, harder.

A beep on the EKG intensifies, becoming frantic. Your breath hitches, sweat beading on your forehead. You can almost feel the wave of chemicals coursing through your veins.

“Look at the response,” the brunette exclaims softly, adjusting a dial. “We’re climbing steadily. Those contractions you like are getting stronger.” She says with a smile to Dr. Whitley.

You try to control your breathing, but the flooding anxiety sends your respiration into ragged, shallow gasps. Dr. Whitley steps closer, placing her hand against your slick chest. The warmth of her palm contrasts with the cool gel, and you can tell she’s feeling your heartbeat directly, pressing down just enough to sense every contraction.

“Oh, feel that,” she breathes, voice tinged with a near-reverent awe. “It’s wild—like a caged animal.”

A strangled whimper escapes you, your vision swimming. Each thunderous palpitation grows more forceful than the last. The edges of your awareness blur as the room spins. In the background, you hear them discussing your “incredible baseline,” the range they can push, the data sets they need to gather. Words like “glycosides” and “tolerance thresholds” begin to blur into an indecipherable haze.

Driven by equal parts horror and instinct, you struggle against the restraints. The leather digs into your wrists and ankles, unyielding. Dr. Whitley’s hand remains firmly over your chest, her demeanor more predatory now, a thin-lipped smile curving her freckled cheeks.

She glances at the brunette. “You said it yourself—I’ve always had a soft spot for strong hearts.” Her fingertip draws slow circles against your pectoral muscle. “There’s something so intimate about feeling another person’s life force like this, beating under your hand.”

The brunette’s mouth quivers with a grin. “Just don’t push too hard,” she cautions. “We need the subject alive for continued data collection.”

As if on cue, you feel another searing jolt of medication surge through the IV. Your body jolts. The beeping on the EKG ratchets up a notch.

From the corner of your eye, you see the dark haired man scribble notes: “Heart rate: 190… 200… 210…” His voice is a clinical drone. “Ventricular function… strong but nearing upper limit.”

Dr. Whitley leans over you again, studying your face. The overhead light draws harsh shadows across her features, making her freckles stand out like dark flecks of rust. “You’re doing very well,” she coos, as if praising a prized lab animal. “Just a bit more, and we’ll have what we need for this session.”

Her words run through your oxygen-starved mind. Session. That means there’s more to come.

You barely register the next injection into your IV port, only the jolt that makes your chest seize momentarily. The EKG squeals in response, and you tremble against the straps, moaning through gritted teeth, begging them to stop. Dr. Whitley presses down again, feeling the frantic pulse beneath her palm.

“Beautiful,” she whispers, more to herself than anyone else. “So strong… so determined to live.”

The brunette nods, stepping away to analyze real-time data on a monitor. “We have enough for the day’s baseline,” she says. “Let’s stabilize, then prepare for the biopsy this afternoon.”

Biopsy. The word jolts you, fanning the embers of your terror. Before you can beg for mercy—though in your core, you suspect it would be futile—your body is swept in a hazy wave of sedation. Some new mixture floods your veins. The tension in your muscles goes slack, your eyelids drooping.

The next time you regain awareness, it’s all at once. No gentle easing into reality—just a sudden, blinding rush of fluorescent light overhead, a wave of antiseptic stench, and the cold press of metal beneath your back.

Gradually, your vision clarifies enough to see Dr. Whitley leaning over you. Her red hair is pinned in a messy bun this time, stray curls framing her freckled cheeks. She’s not wearing the typical neutral expression of a physician. Instead, she looks… enraptured.

“You gave us quite a scare,” she murmurs, almost intimately. Her gloved hand lifts from somewhere around your sternum—or what should be your sternum. She steps aside, momentarily revealing the open cavity of your chest.

Your mind screams at the sight. Even in your near-sedated state, you realize you’re looking at your exposed ribcage—no, not exactly that, either. Metal retractors hold apart what must be the edges of your chest wall. And within that space… something wet and pink is beating, pulsing in a disturbingly recognizable rhythm.

Oh God, that’s your heart.

Terror floods you, but your body remains mostly limp, pinned by sedation and perhaps other restraints you cannot even feel. You try to shout, to ask what they’ve done, but only a thin, rattling exhalation escapes your lips.

“Shh,” Dr. Whitley soothes, sliding back into your line of sight. She’s wearing a surgical cap and mask, though the mask is tugged down just enough to reveal her mouth in a small, pleased smile. “You’re stable. We had to open your chest to resuscitate you effectively and examine some… structural qualities. Your heart is larger than we anticipated—stronger, too. But it needed a little help.”

As if on cue, you feel an odd tickle, and then something cold glides across the surface of that beating mass. You cannot feel your chest wall, but the raw sense of motion resonates through your body. You’re excruciatingly aware that your heart is outside your body’s normal protection.

A fresh wave of adrenaline floods your system, or maybe it’s something Dr. Whitley just injected into your IV. She sets a large syringe down, and her expression brightens with a frightening, clinical enthusiasm. “Your heart’s conduction system is still reactive,” she tells another figure you barely register to her left—a nurse? An assistant? You’re too disoriented to focus. “But we want to see how it holds up under high-stress conditions. Given what happened earlier, I want to push it carefully this time.”

Careful doesn’t describe what happens next. Dr. Whitley places her hand flat against your heart—your actual heart—and the sensation buckles your mind. There’s a moment of primal panic, the knowledge that someone’s palm is physically in contact with the essence of your life, your existence. Her grip isn’t rough, but it’s firm enough that each beat is transmitted right into her glove, and you can tell she’s measuring every contraction.

She flicks a switch on the IV line. Immediately, your heart rate spikes. A trembling quake runs through your arms, and you gasp for air, which you can only half pull into your lungs. The EKG machine to the side chirps faster, almost frantic. Your heart pounds, straining against her palm.

She glances at the monitors. “Good,” she breathes. “Strong sinus rhythm at 120… 130… climbing.” Her green eyes gleam, half-lidded in fascination. “Let’s aim for 180. Then I’ll begin defibrillator testing.”

Defibrillator testing. The phrase sends a jolt of dread through your drug-clouded thoughts. Normally, defibrillation is used to restore a normal heartbeat when it’s lost, but she wants to test your heart’s “electrical resistance” at an accelerated rate. Alarm bells ring in your mind, but your limbs remain numb to commands. Whatever sedation they’ve used keeps you still, but tragically conscious.

With an eerie calm, Dr. Whitley slips a slender paddle-like device from a sterile tray nearby. It’s an internal defibrillator paddle, smaller than the usual external paddles but no less capable of delivering a massive shock. She holds it close to the apex of your heart, her other hand bracing gently against the organ’s side. On a separate console, the dark-haired assistant raises the charge level, reading out numbers that blend into a horrifying litany: “50 joules… 75… 100.”

At that moment, your heart is galloping near 180 beats per minute, each contraction rattling your half-open ribcage. Dr. Whitley nods once. The assistant presses a button.

The current slams into your heart like a tidal wave. Your vision goes white, and your body jerks upward despite the sedation. Even your respiratory attempts stall. For a second, your heart surges out of rhythm, thrashing erratically. The EKG squeals. It’s unclear whether it’s going to recover or slip into another flatline.

Dr. Whitley pulls back, checking the monitors and the limp spasm of your heart. “Sinus conversion… no, it’s fibrillating. Increase the energy in increments of 20 joules.”

Another shock. Your entire chest cavity—what remains of it—contracts violently. The wet muscle of your heart convulses under the contact. Stars explode in your vision. Even your mind, dulled by sedation, can barely cling to consciousness. Then the monitors beep in that dreaded monotone again: a flatline.

“No,” Dr. Whitley hisses, as though scolding your heart for not cooperating. “We’re not done.”

She drops the defibrillator paddle and quickly gestures for a different tool. In your delirium, you see it flash silver: a large syringe, maybe adrenaline or some specialized stimulant. She rams it directly into the muscle of your heart with a practiced jab. The sharp invasion of the needle conjures a swirl of nauseous dread in your gut.

The EKG remains flat. Gritting her teeth, Dr. Whitley removes the syringe and does something both primeval and intimately horrifying: she begins manually pumping your heart in her hands. Wrapping her gloved fingers around the unresponsive muscle, she squeezes it rhythmically, trying to coax it back into beating. Each squeeze makes your mind spin—an unnatural, nauseating feeling of an external force attempting to animate your core.

“Come on,” she mutters, her focus absolute. “Respond!”

A flicker. The EKG hiccups with an uneven beep. Then another. Your battered heart twitches, as though deciding whether to obey or give up entirely. With another firm compression from Dr. Whitley’s hands, it makes a feeble attempt at a beat on its own. The flatline disappears, replaced by slow, uncertain pulses.

“Good,” she praises softly, practically massaging your heart to guide it. “There we are. You’re too strong to quit now.”

Fresh sedation is introduced into your system. You find you can breathe slightly easier, but your chest remains unfeeling, your mind caught in the dreadful awareness of her manipulations. Slowly, your heart stabilizes, though it’s weaker than before. The EKG reads a tenuous sinus rhythm around 80 beats per minute, far from the explosive 180 that had been forced upon it.

You feel her shift her grip on your heart, and then you sense the clamp hooking around something thick and vital. The aorta. She’s actually holding it between her fingers. Despite the sedation, your body tries to recoil on pure reflex, but you can only twitch in your restraints.

Dr. Whitley gently pinches the top of your aorta. “Let’s see how it handles slight occlusion,” she remarks, applying pressure. The EKG spikes with a ragged beep as your heart works harder to push blood through the newly restricted vessel.

“Hmm,” she muses, narrowing her eyes at the monitor. “Systolic pressure is… quite high. That’s very good. Let’s test its elasticity.”

She transitions from using her fingers to applying the clamp. The metal jaws bite into your aorta with measured tension. Your struggling heart falters for a beat, then resumes, pumping fiercely against the partial blockage. The beeping grows frantic again.

Every contraction feels sharper in your remaining sense of your chest cavity—like a muffled wave of pressure fighting against an immovable dam. You can’t produce a coherent scream, but your mouth hangs open in silent torment. You vaguely hear Dr. Whitley ordering the assistant to record the new data points: “Mark the pressure reading at clamp intervals of 10 mmHg. We’ll see how far we can push before distention becomes dangerous.”

She tightens the clamp further. Another beep from the monitors. Your heart lurches like a panicked animal. She glances over with a satisfied curve to her lips. “Remarkably strong,” she comments, the same way a mechanic might admire a high-performance engine. “Even with partial occlusion, it’s still pushing blood efficiently. I wonder if we can refine those glycoside cocktails to build even more force…”

“There,” Dr. Whitley murmurs to someone behind her. “Look at the state of it now. Fat, bloated, and vascular—thoroughly engorged.” She shakes her head in a kind of clinical wonder. “Beautiful, really… It’s still trying valiantly, despite the occlusion.”

“What admirable resilience,” Dr. Whitley says softly, leaning closer, her hand pressing lightly on the top of your heart. Even with sedation muting your pain, the sensation of her gloved palm against the bare muscle is almost unspeakably perverse. “Squeezing so hard… but every contraction meets that clamp.”

She nods to the assistant, and you feel a subtle release of pressure—just a fraction. Your heart leaps, as if starved for the chance to push out a full volume of blood. The relief is fleeting, though, because Dr. Whitley doesn’t actually remove the clamp; she merely adjusts it, letting a bit more blood pass. You can sense your heart throbbing, swelling, pressing outward to fill the newfound space. It’s horrifyingly intimate, feeling that muscle balloon, gulping blood to send it through.

“Look how it squirms,” Dr. Whitley murmurs with a note of awe. it’s struggling to recover from the partial strangulation, but it’s not giving up. Fascinating.”

Through half-lidded eyes, you watch her mouth curve into something like a smile. She curls her fingers around the device, then deftly snaps it off. The clamp—or whatever contraption was occluding your aorta—releases fully. Your heart, no longer choked, thumps in a series of relief pulses that ripple through the cavity. It expands and contracts in robust waves, as if gulping in fresh life. The EKG responds with a higher, steadier pitch, though still faster than normal.

“There we are,” Dr. Whitley says, voice lowered to a near purr. “Look at it—so vigorous now, flushed with blood. The contractions are returning.”

Her hand slides across the muscle’s surface, and you feel your heart spasm under the contact. Another wave of cold floods through your IV, no doubt her doing. Your pulse spikes in response, thumping erratically for a moment until it finds a new, unnatural rhythm. Heat flushes your face, mixing with the chills of terror and the sedation in your veins. Each beat rings like thunder, as if you can hear it in your ears, sense it in your skull.

The difference is staggering—where moments ago your heart was strangled, now it’s unleashed, each contraction deep and forceful. In a sickening way, the sensation is almost euphoric. Your battered organ is desperate to reassert itself. It seizes the chance, pumping with renewed vigor, and the relief is so abrupt it’s disorienting.

Dr. Whitley observes every surge, measuring the bounding pulses with her other hand, as though she can count each gush of blood in her palm. “Incredible,” she whispers. “This subject’s heart is among the most reactive I’ve ever seen. No matter how hard we push it, it clings to survival with remarkable ferocity.”

The assistant steps forward to check the monitors, adjusting dials that control fluid drips, sedation levels, and stimulants. “Systolic normalizing,” he announces, scanning a readout. “If you’d like to proceed with additional tests—”

Dr. Whitley silences him with a subtle gesture, then gives a slight shake of her head. “No, not just yet. Let it recover. I want to see how it manages on its own for a moment.”

She eases her gloved hand around the apex of your heart, as though cradling a fragile artifact. Each throb jars you—mentally, physically, spiritually—knowing she’s effectively holding your life in her grip. Though there’s no direct pain, the knowledge of your vulnerability is more excruciating than any scalpel cut.

Time passes in weighted moments, each of your heartbeats echoing in your ears and throughout the lab. Dr. Whitley hums under her breath, enthralled by the motion of the muscle. The rest of the lab staff stands at quiet attention, letting her examine the heart’s unsubdued recovery. With each contraction, the organ flares, glistening under the intense lights—again, you’re thankful for the sedation that keeps raw agony at bay, but the mental horror is still enough to make your head swim.

“Admirable,” Dr. Whitley repeats, though more softly now. “It’s as though it’s reclaiming lost territory. Even after repeated shocks, high-pressure occlusions, forced arrests… it beats like it wants to take on the world.”

She runs a careful finger along an engorged coronary. “Look how enlarged these are,” she remarks, addressing no one in particular. “They’re inflated, carrying blood to a heart that refuses to quit. Note the color—rich and oxygenated. Subject’s hemoglobin count is higher than baseline, likely a response to the repeated stress.”

Her words blur into clinical jargon. Your eyelids slide lower, sedation tugging you back to semiconsciousness. For a dreadful moment, you see every ripple in the wet muscle, the branching veins like a labyrinth of dark lines feeding the organ.

[yukipri]

feelin kinda sad so eating an obscene amount of pasta

[hiraganasakura]

Hi so me being me I've decided to hyperanalyze the conversation Qrow and Raven had in Higanbana practically line by line bcus I have Many Thoughts and this is the best way I can think of to get them all out. If you can't tell I'm absolutely obsessed with these two. Btw.

Thanks to the RWBY wiki for providing transcripts for every episode, otherwise I definitely would have missed smth despite having just watched this scene recently lol

I put it under the read more for easier scrolling due to how long this post got!

I immediately noticed smth in the very first lines of the interaction:

Raven: "Hello, brother." Qrow: "...Raven."

You'll notice throughout the whole conversation that Raven never calls Qrow by his name, only condescendingly referring to him as "brother" this one time and never calling him anything else. Meanwhile, Qrow directly refers to Raven a total of three times throughout the conversation, and only one doesn't call Raven by her name (which we'll get to shortly)

On the other hand, Qrow doesn't bother with even so much as a greeting beyond simply stating Raven's name

It's different ways of communicating their distance. While Raven holds her relationship with Qrow over his head — never once, even outside of this scene, does she call him "brother" with affection iirc, only derision and condescension — Qrow doesn't seem to rly know how to greet her. He hesitates before saying her name and approaching her, as if trying to assess the situation before acting

Qrow: "So, what do you want?" Raven: "A girl can't just catch up with her family?" Qrow: "She can, but you're not. Now how 'bout we get on with it? Unless you plan on keeping these [drinks] comin'."

Again, Raven seems to bring up her familial ties with Qrow as a tactic to get him to do what she wants — in this case, stick around to talk to her despite him not seeming to rly want to. Frankly, it feels manipulative. We're gonna put a pin in this for now and come back to it in just a moment

Additionally, Qrow already knows that Raven's not just here for a friendly chat between two siblings, and sees right thru her facade that it is. Raven is here bcus she wants smth from him. But interestingly, it is Raven in V5 that says, in an almost frustrated/disappointed tone, "Family. Only coming around when they need something." There's another pin; keep both in mind

Raven: "Does she have it?" Qrow: "...Did you know Yang lost her arm?" Raven: "That's not—" Qrow: "Rhetorical question, I know you know. It's just obnoxious that you'd bring up family and then carry on like your own daughter doesn't exist." Raven: "I saved her." Qrow: "Once. Because that was your rule, right? Real 'Mom of the Year' material, sis."

Qrow dodges Raven's question about the Relic and instead brings up her hypocrisy in how she treats family. And it's a good point. Here she is lording her siblingship with Qrow over his head while simultaneously defending and upholding her rule that she is only obligated to help her own daughter a single time. Another pinpoint on our little conspiracy board

Also, here's the one time in this conversation Qrow refers to Raven as "sis". Like Raven's use of "brother", Qrow's use of "sis" is very pointed and with intent. But it's not to manipulate Raven, it's a snarky jab meant to rly hammer home Qrow's point

Raven: "I told you Beacon would fall, and it did. I told you Ozpin would fail, and he has. Now you tell me. Does. Salem. Have it?" Qrow: "I thought you weren't interested in all of that." Raven: "I just want to know what we are up against." Qrow: "And which 'we' are you referring to?"

A few things of note here. At some point in the past, Raven expressed an outright disinterest in Ozpin's inner circle, at least to Qrow. Qrow also feels excluded in the "we" Raven mentions being against Salem. To me, there seems to be a distinct possibility here that it wasn't that Raven felt personally disinterested in Ozpin's operations, but that she somehow felt excluded and feigned a lack of interest in order to protect herself. An idea that is further supported in my eyes by the following dialogue:

Qrow: "You should come back, Raven. The only way we'd beat her is by working together. All of us." Raven: "You're the one who left. The tribe raised us, and you turned your back on them." Qrow: "They were killers and thieves." Raven: "They were your family." Qrow: "You have a very skewed perception of that word."

And there it is. Raven's problem is laid out here for us, loud and clear: She feels like she was the one abandoned, not the one running away. She says it outright! "You're the one who left." To her, Qrow is the traitor, the one who left their family behind. If you ask Qrow (or, for that matter, Tai, Yang, and even Summer based on the scene in V9), it's the opposite

Bcus they have different definitions of family

Another thing to pin (I promise this will all become clear soon)

Raven: "I lead our people now. And as leader, I will do everything in my power to ensure our survival." Qrow: "I saw. The people of Shion saw, too." Raven: "The weak die. The strong live. Those are the rules." Qrow: "Well, you've certainly got someone strong on your side. I've seen the damage." Raven: "We couldn't have known the Grimm would set in as quickly as they did." Qrow: "I'm not talking about the Grimm. And I'm not talking about you, either."

Notice Raven's shift from "the tribe" to "our people". More of that guilt tripping!

Additionally, Raven is *obsessed* with rules. One save. The weak die, the strong live. Raven lives and breathes rules, even seemingly arbitrary ones. Guess what this is? Another pin!

Raven: "If you don't know where the Relic is, then we have nothing left to talk about." Qrow: "I don't know where the Spring Maiden is, either, but if you do, I need you to tell me." Raven: "And why would I do that?" Qrow: "Because without her, we're all going to die." Raven: "...And which 'we' are you referring to?"

Qrow's "either" here implies that he also doesn't know where the Crown of Choice is, which is... interesting. He's one of Ozpin's closest lieutenants, and is in the dark on where Beacon's Relic is? Wherever it is, it is such a closely kept secret that even Ozpin's best spy doesn't know where it is (maybe so that in the event Qrow gets captured by Salem he can't be forced into giving her the information?)

Meanwhile, Raven's "And why would I [tell you]?" implies that she does know who the Spring Maiden is (obviously. Raven's the Spring Maiden lol) but refuses to disclose to Qrow

A lantern sputters out after Qrow says "Without [Spring] we're all going to die." Now, I genuinely can't remember if this is headcanon or canon, but iirc Misfortune seems to act up when Qrow's upset. He's clearly tired of this little game of dancing around topics that Raven's been playing with him

And once again, Raven indicates a feeling of exclusion from Qrow's life in the iconic final line. She gets the final word in before leaving

We've finally reached the end of the conversation. Now what does all of this tell us?

And here is where all of those pins I wrote down are relevant. As I mentioned, the twins view family very differently

Qrow's view is pretty obvious: he views family as the ppl in his life who matter most to him. Unlike Raven, he does not view the tribe as family despite the fact that they raised him, disgustedly referring to them as "killers and thieves". It's implied that he was, in fact, neglected and/or likely abused by the Branwen tribe, saying in V6C4, "No one wanted me... I was cursed..." further explaining his distaste for them. Furthermore, despite not being related to Ruby by blood, they clearly consider one another family throughout the series, and he even seems closer to her than he seems to his niece who's actually blood related to him (I personally headcanon that he keeps more of a distance from Yang bcus she reminds him too much of Raven, who he feels abandoned and hurt by, but that's neither here nor there). Bloodlines and debts are secondary compared to loyalty, if they're considered at all. He is obviously furious that Raven only insists on saving Yang once and never directly interacting with her beyond that, despite Raven constantly guilting Qrow over abandoning his so-called "family" of the tribe. And yet. And yet. He still offers Raven a place back in his life, even if only to unite against Salem

Raven's view, to me, has been an enigma for a while. But after hyperanalyzing this conversation, after noting down all of those points of interest, I feel like I've finally cracked the code. Raven views family as an obligation, an exchange that always has an ulterior motive behind it. She seeks out Qrow only bcus she desires smth from him despite showing distaste when someone does the same to her; condescendingly calls Qrow "brother" more than his actual name and calls the tribe their "family" to try guilting him into doing what she wants; and feels fierce loyalty to the tribe but barely interacts with her daughter, only seeming to count one of the two as true family. She views the concept of family with cynicism and seems to feel an obligation to the tribe, as if she "owes" them for raising her

I think the two's perceptions of what defines family are all to do with the way the tribe treated both of them. This crosses a bit into headcanon territory, but as you can see by the above quotes and analysis, I rly don't think I'm just making it up entirely

As I already mentioned, I think it's implied that the Branwen tribe neglected/abused Qrow. In fact, we could probably blame their treatment of him for the deep self-loathing he has due to his "cursed" Semblance. But what about Raven?

Well, it's simple: I think she was abused, too, just in a different way. While Qrow was likely shown and told on a consistent basis that he was unwanted, unloved, undeserving of good things, Raven may have been shown and told she was wanted, loved, and deserving of good things... if she did what the tribe told her. If she repaid them for raising her and her brother, for being her "family". The way she uses her familial ties with Qrow as almost blackmail may be exactly the way the tribe treated her. Her obsession with following rules may stem from the fact that she had to follow the rules the tribe set for her in order to be accepted and deemed worth smth

As for her distance from Yang... honestly, I wonder if Raven is aware that Yang deserves better and keeps her distance as her way of doing that. When Summer confronts Raven in the V9 scene, Raven says, "...You're better at that life. Better than I was." She seems to have a fear and insecurity about being a good family member, a good mother, and maybe that's why she fled. Maybe she was scared of being like her abusers due to how she emulates them as a self-preservation tactic in so many other ways. Not entirely sure about this point tho

And I think too this is why the twins don't rly understand one another. They may have been unaware of the different ways in which the other was treated. Qrow, constantly unwanted and loathed, can't understand why Raven sticks around with the tribe; Raven, who obeyed the tribe and, in doing so, garnered enough of their favor to even eventually become leader, can't understand why Qrow can't just be "good", earn respect, and stay

This dissonance between the two experiences may also be completely intentional on the part of the tribe; abusers will often eliminate their targets' support systems in order to make them completely reliant on the abuser, so it's highly likely that the wedge was intentionally driven between the two siblings so that they could not find support in one another. This would also tie into why the twins seem to feel excluded from one another's lives and abandoned by one another: bcus they were made to feel that way by their common abusers, and did nothing to challenge these assumptions bcus they saw no reason to — and only seemed to keep proving one another right if they did

Which rly has some disturbing implications about how the Branwen tribe works. Like, do they just pick orphaned kids up off the street and abuse them into being perfect little bandits, molded to be of the greatest possible use and discarded if they're deemed worthless? Plus Qrow says his Semblance is how he got his name, which implies that the tribe also renames the kids they scoop up (possibly as a form of control or a way to make sure they can't be tracked down by any remaining family)? Plus there's the whole thing where Qrow and Raven were originally sent to Beacon to learn how to kill Huntsmen, which carries with it the implication that the Branwen tribe grooms literal orphan children into becoming stone-hearted murderers? What. The heck.

And if I'm right, if the Branwen tribe is that severely abusive, then like... wow, no wonder Qrow and Raven are Like That. They're both very deeply hurt people expressing it in different ways

I was considering adding their conversation at the Battle of Haven to this post, but I think that would be better as its own thing. Also I haven't gotten there on my rewatch yet so I may miss some details if I try to analyze it rn; it's better to wait overall methinks

But I have reached the point of my rewatch where we see Weiss and Whitley interact, and I think it would be very efficient to sum up what Qrow and Raven's relationship seems to be by using those siblings as a point of reference. Qrow = Weiss, actively trying to break free from and fight back against their abusers in different ways, while Raven = Whitley, continuing to do as their abusers want and have wanted as a method of self-preservation. Only, unlike Weiss and Whitley, Qrow and Raven have yet to come to a point where they can understand one another. I think that's a good way to briefly summarize the uh. Absolutely massive post this is.

In conclusion, I may have cracked the majority of the Branwen twins' pre-Beacon backstory purely by hyperanalyzing a single conversation. Oopsies

[amelikos]

We got some info about the new ending theme and comments from the VAs of Liko, Roy and Dot about the upcoming chapter, Rayquaza Rising (translation here).

Liko's VA comments on Liko's growth during the Terastal Debut chapter and looks forward to going on new adventures with the Rising Volt Tacklers.

Roy's VA mentions Roy's growth as well and hints that we will be getting a lot of answers in regards to Rakua, the Rakurium, Lucius and the Six Heroes in this chapter.

Dot's VA mentions that the characters will be faced with the truth behind the mysteries, and also hints at Kanuchan's upcoming evolution.

[skenpiel]

AAAAAARGHH!!!!!!!!! OK FINE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! I GIVE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! i guess i do like dirk now. whatever