#oh my god all the updates I’m seeing on tumblr

[yingxtkm]

I should sign up and become a prophet at this point jk haha, but potential updated miniroth hug doodle soon tm??? 👀

Could we get a doodle of Lucrecia and Sephiroth hugging? Please? 🥺

Yes ofc! Ironically I had an old sketch from Inktober ‘22 (bottom one) that I’ll also add in bc why not hehe

[python333]

task force 141 reacting to [reader] giving them a 'happy father's day' card — python333

— — — —

synopsis you give the tf141 boys some happy father's day cards!!

relationships platonic!taskforce 141 & younger!reader.

characters cap. price, soap, ghost.

warnings 2nd person pov [you/yours/yourself], usage of c/n [code name/call sign], reader is intended to be around 16/17-20/21 but can be interpreted as older as long as they're below 24 (just so that the headcanons make more sense), maybe ooc?

note i'm so sorry but there's no gaz in this one BUT i can explain why!! i was doing my research (going through three different tumblr posts) to figure out the actual age of each character and gaz is apparently 24?? in new updates or whatever?? anyway, even before i found that out, i could only ever imagine writing him as an older brother, simply because he doesn't feel fatherly to me but still has those protecive-familial vibes so if yall want me to write something on him being ur older brother then feel free to request/reply/comment or whatever and i will! :3 this is all comfort no hurt and pure fluff so enjoy!!

JOHN “BRAVO SIX” PRICE

➥ OH GOD.

➥ man i don’t even have daddy issues and i’m crying.

➥ gives you that one dad smile he has—y’all know the one. don’t pretend you don’t—and thanks you for it.

➥ gives you a lil hug too because why not?

➥ tears up just the tiniest bit but it’s pretty unnoticeable but i need you to know that it’s there.

➥ either keeps it propped up on his desk, in one of the drawers of his desk, or puts it in a small frame and puts that on or in his desk.

➥ definitely reads it at least once a week.

➥ he’s so genuinely flattered by it i think that after you leave his office he’d tear up a bit.

➥ you thought he was acting as a father figure to you before?

➥ be prepared for him to take it to a whole nother level.

➥ starts getting you cheesy birthday cards after you start giving him father’s day cards.

➥ is he a father biologically? no. is he one mentally, emotionally, and spiritually? absolutely.

—

You were reasonably pretty nervous.

It wasn’t ever really a secret that you and Price had some sort of father-child-like relationship, what with the amount of hair ruffles, head pats, shoulder pats, etc. that you’d received from him and the swatting at his hand with your own that you had given back. But none of that took away the nervousness you had when you gave Price a father’s day card for the first time.

It’s not that you thought that he would be weirded out by it, you just had a small habit of overthinking things, and this happened to be one of those things. The card didn’t say too much inside of it, a simple ‘happy father’s day!’ and a sentence you wrote that mentioned that you were grateful to know him. That’s it. That’s all it was. And yet, your hand shook as you held it, the other hand knocking on the door of Price’s office.

He nodded in greeting and opened it, and stepped out of the way to let you walk in and sit in front of his desk. He sat at his usual seat after shutting the door, and you set the card in your lap, not wanting him to see it just yet.

“Is there any particular reason why you wanted to come into my office?” Price asked, breaking the silence. You took a deep breath and nodded before you quickly handed over the card, slipping it onto his side of the desk. He took a good look at it for a moment, reading the ‘happy father’s day!’ on the front and looking over the cheesy illustration on the cover. You anxiously waited for him to say something as he simply stared at it, before he picked it up and opened it, reading the short few words that were written on the inside.

You watched as his expression melted into a softer one, and he stared at the card for another moment before wordlessly getting up. Before you could say anything, or question anything, he knelt down to the level of the chair you were sitting in and hugged you. You were frozen with surprise before you hugged him back, loosely wrapping your arms over his shoulders, a little confused by the hug but appreciating the embrace nonetheless. He rubbed your back for a quick moment before standing back up straight and patting your shoulder.

”Thank you,” He said, smiling down at you. “I really appreciated that, kiddo.”

Oh, wow. I don’t know why, but I think I might start crying. “Yeah—yeah, of course,” You’d replied, quickly getting up and giving Price a quick hug before swiftly walking to the door, “I’ll just, uh, I’ll be in my room. Or, actually, no, I’m gonna go—I’m gonna go bother Soap in his office, so if you need me I’ll be in there okaybyeCaptainI’llseeyoulater!” You rushed out, not looking back as you closed the door behind you.

Price had blinked at the door for a moment before huffing out a small laugh and sitting back down in his chair, looking at the card you’d given him one last time before sighing and letting himself tear up a bit. Eventually, after just sitting there and staring at the card, he unlocked one of the few locked drawers at the bottom of his desk and put the card there, for safekeeping.

—

JOHN “SOAP” MACTAVISH

➥ he’s so excited when he reads that card.

➥ he’s so flattered?? and is so happy?? and oh my god he might pass out?? from all the positive emotions he feels??

➥ be careful with what you say because you might break him beyond repair.

➥ it’s like you’ve given a puppy it’s first treat, honestly.

➥ won’t cry but is very close to!!

➥ will definitely show off the card to everyone.

➥ when i say everyone i mean EVERYONE.

➥ he will talk everyone’s ear off about it, no matter who they are or what they’re doing, hell, the man could be pissing with his dick out at the urinals and everything and he’ll still be ranting to the poor soul in the bathroom about what a sweetheart you are and how you gave him a father’s day card.

➥ he starts calling you ‘lamb’ and ‘duckie’ after the whole ordeal.

➥ no i didn’t ask chatgpt for terms of endearment scottish parents use for their children haha!!

➥ he buys a corkboard just to pin the card to in his office.

➥ like it’s literally just in the middle, nothing else on the corkboard, just that singular father’s day card.

➥ the whole thing is just reserved for father’s day cards tbh. he hopes to fill it up with as many cards as you’ll give him, and if you only give him the one, then damn it, the corkboard’s only gonna have one thing on it and whoever questions it can mind their damn business.

—

You didn’t really know what to expect with Soap when you gave him the card.

You felt pretty confident giving it to him, knowing the guy could probably receive a rock with googly eyes on it from you and still cry tears of joy knowing you gave it to him of all people, so giving this card to him was no big deal, right?

You found him in the recreational center, lounging on the couch, reading a book—shocking, I know—and quietly reading the words out loud to himself. The moment you had entered the center, though, he looked up from his book and nodded in greeting at you with a smile on his face and watched as you walked over to him.

Before he could say anything, you quickly put the card in his lap and watched as he looked up at you, a surprised and amused expression on his face.

“What’s this?” He asked, not looking down at the card just yet.

“Read it,” You’d insisted, gesturing towards the card in his lap. He blinked at you for a moment before muttering, “Alright, then,” under his breath and looking down at the card. He picked it up and read the three short words on the front and looked over the illustration on the cover, and the moment the words registered in his brain, his face broke out into a grin and he looked up at you.

“Aww, this is sae sweet,” Soap gushed, “Thank ye!”

He got up before you could talk and hugged you tightly, lifting you off the ground a bit, cooing, “Ye're jist the sweetest, ma God, when did ye get the card?”

“I got it a while ago,” You had admitted, “Decided to give it to you now.”

Soap set you down and put both of his hands on your shoulders, gently rubbing circles into them with his thumb, looking down at you with an elated grin, "I'm gonnae hang this up in ma office—I'll get a corkboard an' everything, jist for this."

You looked up at him with a confused, but amused look on your face, asking, “And you’re just gonna hang that card on there?”

He nodded in confirmation and responded, “Aye, it'll be deid center, naething else on there."

—

SIMON “GHOST” RILEY

➥ oh my goodness.

➥ the moment you hand him the card, it’s like he already knows what it is without reading it.

➥ probably thinks it’s a joke at first.

➥ when he realizes that you’re serious he straight up tears up.

➥ like in front of you and everything he’ll tear up.

➥ “... Are you crying?” ghost, tearing up and literally about to start sobbing, "No.”

➥ he treasures that thing and would literally cease to exist if he ever lost it or if it got destroyed.

➥ won’t flaunt it at all, instead he keeps it in the pocket of a jacket he never wears anymore.

➥ if you ever give him more cards, he’ll consider getting a box to keep them in.

➥ he’s always called you ‘kid’ but after this he starts calling you ‘kiddo’.

➥ THERE’S A DIFFERENCE. I CANNOT TELL YOU WHAT IT IS BUT THERE IS A DIFFERENCE.

➥ listen kiddo is more affectionate and its softer and its not as playful as kid its more personal and and and [explodes]

➥ the others notice the small change in behavior he has towards you (being more lighthearted with his teasing, generally being less cold with you, etc.) and will tease him endlessly about it.

➥ by others i mean soap and gaz. those two team up and tease him to death.

➥ he could care less though!! he tells himself that they’re idiots anyway and that his behavior hasn’t changed that much.

➥ he’s in denial and i think that him and me are the same fr.

—

You had practically searched every corner, crevice, nook, and cranny of the base searching for Ghost. When you finally found him, he was in the armory and weapons room cleaning the barrel of his rifle, hyperfocused on wiping away the gunk on the gun. You stopped by the door, hesitating in giving him the card. It really shouldn’t be that hard, You thought, What’s the worst that could happen?

You were aware that there were many things that could happen, most of which were bad, but you ignored them for the sake of building up your confidence to give him the card. You stood there for a while, just sort of staring at him, before he—not even looking up from his gun—called out to you with a simple yet firm, “Do you need something?”

You probably could’ve died right there, his firm voice almost completely shattering your confidence for reasons you couldn’t specify, but you instead cleared your throat and walked out of the doorway and completely into the room. You walked over to him and before he could ask any further questions you held the card out to him, your hand having a small tremble to it, an uncomfortably visible display of your nervousness.

He stared at the card for a moment before setting down the cloth he was using to clean his gun and grabbing it, reading the front for a moment before huffing out a small laugh and looking up at you to tease you for it. He was going to tell you what a ‘funny’ joke it was, to tell you to just go do whatever work you’re probably skipping out on when he sees the look on your face that tells him that you’re pretty serious about the card.

He looked back down at the card and read it again, the words ‘happy father’s day’ echoing through his mind as he opened it. He read the few short words on the inside of the card and the shitty drawing of a ghost right next to one that was scribbled out—because of course you had to use pen and weren’t satisfied with the first ghost you drew even though Ghost could make out through the scribbles that they practically looked the same.

You were pretty nervous the longer the silence stretched out, and you were about to take back the card and go jump off a cliff to avoid ever looking at Ghost again when suddenly you hear a sniffle.

“Are you… are you crying?” You’d asked, more confused than nervous now, watching as Ghost shook his head negatively and continued to stare at the inside of the card.

“No,” He answered, sniffling again.

“... You sure?” You’d asked again, far less nervous now, your tone becoming more teasing.

“Positive.” Ghost said firmly, though his voice had wavered a bit. He looked up at you and reached his hand up to give you a pat on the shoulder, muttering, “Thank you for that, kiddo.”

"Yeah, no problem," You had said back, smiling down at Ghost before taking a step back, "I'll leave you to keep cleaning your gun, or whatever."

Ghost had simply nodded and looked back at the table where your card and his gun laid, and you didn't stay long enough to watch him tear up all over again at the sight of the letter.

[romana-after-dark]

Our Gentle Sins: Part 5

Dark!Logan Howlett x fem!reader

My god this header is ass but I was an emo kid what can I say

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Chapter summary: Past. You get sick Present. You can't help fall into him.

Warnings: This fic features non con, pregnancy, and themes of religous trauma. I will not be saying everything that happens to warm you, by clicking read more you are prepared for extremely dark themes and that you at 18+. You are responsible for your own media consumption.

2.6 words

a/n: Mean girls reference for mean girls day1!!

Before

This was terrible. Absolutely awful. You were feverish, dizzy, nauseous, diarrhea… all of it. You knew you should say you can’t work… you were barely functioning, you didn’t want to get your kids sick, but your anxiety simply didn’t allow it. When Charles greeted you this morning, you felt awful and considered asking if maybe it was possible for you to potentially go to your room early today…

And yet, when he greeted you and asked how you were, you lied and said a cheery, ‘wonderful!’.

For the last few weeks, you and Logan had lunch together almost every day. You started making extra for him and bringing him a fork, just in case he comes. This last week, however, he hasn’t shown. You didn’t blame him. What a man doesn’t want after kissing a woman is for her to freak out, lock herself in a changing room for 20 minutes and cry, then proceed to not speak as he drives her home. Not your best moment, if you were honest.

But it had taken you by surprise, and with a myriad of guilt swirling in your head, you’d worked yourself into a panic attack. It was happening so fast, so fucking fast and you weren’t ready. 

Logan was… you wanted him, you wanted him so fucking. The strong muscles busting out of his wife beater, the way his jeans hung low on his hips, the way that if you asked him to reach for something for you, you could see a trail of hair leading to something making you blush. Sinful thoughts swirled your head, always making your fingers trail over the cotton panties on under your night dress… but you couldn’t fathom him actually wanting you until that moment. When your lay in bed, pj’s looking like something out of little house on the prairie rather than the lingerie you were sure a man like Logan was used to. He was probably drowning in pussy, women who were far prettier and sexier than you.

Women who didn’t come with baggage

Women who didn’t do the things you had done.

It was no wonder he was avoiding you. He could slide himself into one of the many beautiful, mentally stable women here. He’d probably gone and done that as soon as you’d gotten home, realize you weren’t worth the- Oh fuck.

Rushing to the bathroom, you throw up, making it quick before cleaning up and getting it to gether for class. You could make it through the day. It would be fine.

It was not.

Most of your classes you just gave them reading time, or to work on other school work which they were grateful for. Occasionally, someone would come up and ask a question as you did your best to avoid breathing on them; if someone got sick because of you, you’d never forgive yourself, but your fear of rejection made it difficult to express your feelings. For all the talk about women being the emotional ones, somehow you were never allowed to express them. Even as a child, you were hit for crying, until you learned that voicing a need was disrespectful. You wouldn’t disrespect mr. xavier like that.

As your students filed out before lunch, you had grand plans of napping on your desk during lunch before you straight up passed out. Those plans proved silly when Logan walked into your room, looking like a kicked puppy.

“Logan, I’m sorry-” You were about to apolgize for the panic attack, but he started talking first.

“I know you probably hate me-” 

You both stop and blink. 

“No, I’m sorry. You took me out trying to do something nice-”

“No, no,” He interrupted. Logan stuffed his hands into his pockets. “I… shouldn't have done that, the kiss, I mean.”

Your face feels warm at the mention, but that honestly didn’t mean much. You’ve been warm all day. Still, you didn’t want Logan to think you were some crazy homeschooled jungle freak. All you wanted was to just be normal.

You try to stand. “That’s s-sweet of you…” That attempt didn’t get far, feeling dizzy as the room swirls around you. Vaguely, you can hear Logan call your name in a question, but it’s hard to hear over the muffled sound in your ears. For a moment, you’re falling, then rising again. Logan had you in his arms, and you cling to his plain white shirt as you come back to it. He’s already carrying you out of the room.

*

Logan is aware of the attention on them. Prying eyes of teachers and whispers from students, gossiping about the pretty little teacher in the arms of the local asshole. No one would get it. No one understood what he felt for you, not when he barely understood it himself. He came to apologize, to ask for things to go back to normal as if he could ever be normal about you, but the distance was killing him. He needed those lunch dates. He needed watching movies with you in the lounge tucked away on the other side of the couch like you were nervous. His gentle baby doll, needing him to guide her. He couldn’t live like he was now, not after tasting you.

Then he saw you there, looking flushed and unwell, and thank god he moved closer to you because you passed out into his arms. 

“Logan, what the hell did you-” Scott tried to talk to him, but Logan brushes passed with you in his arms.

“She’s sick. Can you figure out someone to take over the class?”

But Scott was insufferable, putting his hand on Logan’s arm to stop him. “I’m gonna need you to tell me what’s going on.”

“What the fuck does it look like?” Logan snapped, turning around quickly. He regretted it when your little hand tugged on his shirt, groaning. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m gonna get you to bed.” He looked over at Scott with a glare. “As soon as Mr. White knight lets me go.”

If Scott could take off his glasses, Logan was sure he’d see his eyes roll. “Just- fuck, why is she unconcious?”

“Because I drugged her.” Logan deadpans and waits for Scott to open his mouth. “No, dumbass she’s sick. She’s fucking burning up.”

To his horror, Scott reached for you, and on instinct Logan pulled away. When Scott glared at him, Logan aquiessed.

“Jesus… that’s not good…”

“Yeah, it’s not, so if you don’t mind, I’m going to take her to bed so she can rest.”

Logan felt Scotts eyes on his as he walked towards your room.

“Make good choices, Logan…”

*

Logan didn’t leave your side the rest of the day except to get you water. He called Remy to get your medicine, and the man showed up in a jiffy trying to fuss over you, but Logan practically kicked him out, saying you needed to rest. Truth was, Logan didn’t want anyone else touching you. You didn’t need anyone else, you only needed him. He was gonna take care of you. Logan kept a respectful distance as you sweated your fever out, sitting on the chair in the room and watching Tv after you deliriously requested bobs burgers. This was the last thing he expected you to watch.

He never touched you anywhere unnecessary, and when you asked for his help getting to the bathroom, he closed the door behind him to give you privacy. When he heard you washing your hands, Logan panicked a bit at the idea of you standing without his help in this state, and entered the bathroom to walk you back to your bed.

“I’ll be okay, Logan. I can walk by myself now. I'm not a doll.”

“Yeah, you are. My dolly.” He resisted the urge to kiss the top of your head as he tucked you into bed again.

“Lo?” You mumble, some song playing on the show in the background.

“Yeah, baby doll?” 

“Can you lay with me?”

He shouldn’t. He really shouldn’t. It was a step in the wrong direction, crossing boundaries that were blurring every day… but he could never say no to you. Not ever.

Which is why when Charles came in to check on you, and he found you asleep on Logan’s stomach, he knew he was in trouble.

“Staying away from her, are me?”

“Listen, Chuck I know it looks bad but she’s-”

Charles voice remained cool, but Logan knew he was in trouble. “Sick, yes, I’ve heard. Cyclops has informed me she fell sick. I’m glad you are taking care of her, by surely Gambit could have handled it.”

“Remy don’t know what the fuck she needs.” Logan snapped, sounding overly defensive. Yeah, logically Remy probably could’ve handled it, but he doesn’t know you like he does. Logan was the only person who could give you what you need.

“I believe Gambit is her friend. He would take care of her.”

“Cut to the chase, wheel. Am I in trouble?”

There was a pause of silence, Charles glancing to the TV, then back to Logan. “I told you before, I won’t tell you what to do. But has she told you about her past.?”

Logan swallowed, a bit of anger bubbling up in his at the little knowledge you gave him. “Some. She was homeschool, weird church stuff. Teen marriage.”

He nodded. “Her husband beat her, quite severely. Frankly, I can’t believe she survived it all. Parents, courts, police, medical, at every corner of her life this child was failed by the system, and she is a child, Logan.”

“She’s twenty thr-”

“And you still have 150 years on her, give or take. And considering how she was raised and the lock and key her husband kept on her, mentally she’s younger. I took a chance on her because she needed it. She has a good heart and is skilled at what she does even if she doesn’t know how to divide or what a mitochondria is. Just as I’ve taken in everyone here who is lost, a stray, abandoned by the ones who claimed to love them and cast aside by the world. There are many beautiful women here, Logan. You are a handsome man. You do not need to go after the girl about to fall apart.

But he didn’t understand. Charles could never understand. He didn’t get that Logan didn’t want the other women here, he didn’t want anyone but you. You were meant for him, and he was meant for you.

After

It was getting harder and harder to pretend that you weren’t pregnant. Harder to act like you were fine and getting through the day.

Harder to avoid Logan without making it obvious you were avoiding him, when all the students and teachers were well aware you and him used to eat lunch together and spend most of your free time with him or Remy.

Harder to ignore when you were vomiting in the morning. It was bad, it was so bad and you didn’t want to think about the future, but this was forcing you to content with the fact life was inside you. You didn’t want this baby… not like this, anyway. You had dreamed of this life, even dreamed of it with Logan. A baby in your, happy little job at the school, Logan by your side… You didn’t understand why he did what he did to you, what you did wrong. Why he had to disappoint you like everyone had. 

When the door to your bathroom opened, you didn’t have to look up. Soon, large hands were wrapped around your hair as you threw up, and you didn’t have it in you to tell him to go away. He wouldn’t listen anyway, he never did.

Logan could smell when you were throwing up, always lurking nearby and with his heightened smell, he was always on you. So, this had become the routine. He was allowed near you for this. Logan would hold your hair, rub your back and whisper gentle words while you got it out and for a moment you’d pretend, pretend he hadn’t violated you, that you weren’t scared of him. Pretend like you were a cute little married couple awaiting a little bundle of joy and attending church and he was the love you thought he could be, protecting you and caring for you. When it was over, Logan helps you brush your teeth and wash your mouth.

As you stare in the mirror, you don’t recognize yourself. You looked tired. Thinner. A mess as Logan stood behind you brushing your teeth. That’s when the bubble began to crack and you remembered that you let your rapist touch you again. That you were just as weak and pathetic as you had alway been. That you were trapped, always trapped, doomed by your body and your womb and your heart that was always bleeding for some sad soul and now you were beginning to rely on Logan again.

He wiped your mouth with his sleeve, rugged flannel gentle on your lips. Sweet as he ever was.

“I have to go, for a bit.” When you looked at him through the mirror, he clarified. “Maybe a month. Maybe less…”

You blink. “No.”

He blinks right back. “What do you mean, no?”

“I mean, you don’t get to do this. You don’t get to do what you did and then just leave me alone!”

“I’m not.” Logan turned you towards him, and you hated that you just wanted him to hug you. “I’m coming back. It’ll give you some space, and when I get back we can talk, and… we can figure things out… and we can get you to a doctor, dolly.”

The idea of going to a doctor again, especially another OB/GYN, was scary… the idea that soon, you wouldn’t be able to hide what was happening was even scarier. But the idea of doing this alone, without Logan?

“No.” Your eyes fill with tears, already partially wet from the puke. “I need you now! You don’t get to just break me and walk away!”

There's silence for a beat, but then he sighs. You can see a softening of his features, maybe a little smile. He was happy you were depending on him. You knew you were falling down the wrong path, but it was so hard not to. You parents said this was who you were meant to be, that it was biological, Gods plan for men and women… were they right all along? “There’s a girl, western Washington area, pretty rural. Mutant. Her family is…. They think she’s possessed. Performing exorcisms on her. She’s not gonna live… Kurt and I are gonna help her, hopefully bring her back. She needs help, dolly. No one helped you, but we’re gonna help her.”

Logan knew that would get you. A girl in a strict religious family being abused? Yeah, it was a chapter out of your book. Most of the chapters, honestly.

You sat back against the counter, pajama dress still on. You close your eyes. “What if I end the pregnancy? You just gonna do it again?”

Slowly, he raises a hand to your face, and despite his efforts to be careful you still flinch. “What happened will never, ever happen again, Dolly. I could never really hurt you, don’t you understand that? You won’t get an abortion. I know it. But we’re gonna figure this out. You, me, our child.” A hand on your stomach. “A family.”

Thank you all so much for your love!!!! Dont forget to check out the spotify, and telling me more songs!!!!

A few questions about remy last chapter

Let me know your thoughts on the story below!!!

Comments mean the world! It's what keeps me writing. I dont need reblogs (although they are helpful to spread my work!) but interactive comments are s special. theorizing or noticing little things makes me melt.

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[wynnyfryd]

Trailer park Steve AU part 63

part 1 | part 62 | tumblr masterlist | ao3

cw: references to canonical horror. short update today while i restructure some stuff in the next scene <3

“I’m staying with him,” Steve says, toeing a weed in the soft soil. Testing the give. Thinks maybe he’ll be doing that for the rest of his life. 

“Uh,” Robin objects. They’re at the top of the hill again, halfway to the car — everyone but Eddie, who refused to leave the boathouse after telling them in horrific detail how a cheerleader floated up to the ceiling and popped like a cheap balloon, and whose pale, frightened face Steve can see staring at them through a grimy window, two black dots hardly daring to blink. 

“Steve.”

“Huh?” 

Max calls him a total space-case.

Robin groans up at the sky. "As much as we would all love to have a spooky sleepover with you two under a tarp—”

“Mm, would we love that?” Dustin wonders. 

“—I'm not so sure our parents would be too thrilled about us not coming home when there's a freaky evil killer magician on the loose!"

Max snorts at that; mutters under her breath. “My mom probably wouldn’t mind.”

Dustin whines, “Mine would!”

Three people turn in unison to lay into him for being a dick, but he’s already holding up his hands in surrender, cringing so hard it folds his face like crumpled paper. “Sorry,” he winces. “Sorry. That was rude.”

“Yep,” Max agrees with a flat smack of her lips.

Eddie's still waiting by the window.

Steve just nods at them — arms folded, shoulders broad. "Dustin’s right.” He turns to Robin. “You both are.”

“Thank you,” she sighs, the sound long and airy, sweet with relief that he's seen reason.

She takes a wide step toward the car.

Steve says, “Which is why I'm staying here, and you're all going home."

Her foot falls back down to the ground; legs stretched in a standing split, shoes slipping on wet grass. “Oh, my god." This sigh is sour. "Oh, my god, of course you are.”

“We’re not leaving you,” says Dustin.

“Wasn’t asking,” Steve replies.

Robin lets out a strangled noise of frustration and shimmies herself upright. "Steve, please!" She marches over. "I know you’re all” —her hands come up around her head, voice warbling; wooOoo-ooh— “about your boyfriend-slash-not-boyfriend-slash-whatever being in danger, and I get that, babe, I really do, but I don't! Know how! To drive!"

Steve turns to Max. 

She’s looking right at them, mouth pinched in a flat line over the laugh she's holding back. Restrained as ever, but Steve can see the glimmer of excitement at the edge of her expression — the subtle twitch of her nostrils, the muscle jumping in her jaw. 

I've driven it before. 

"...Do not," he warns as he presses his keys into her palm; closes her fist around the metal, "fuck this up."

—

part 64

tag list in separate reblogs under '#trailer park steve au taglist' if you'd like to filter that content. if you want to be added please comment and let me know (must be over 21; please either verify in the comment or have your age visible on your blog)

[the-one-who-lambs]

uhh hello!! sorry if this is a tall order LOL but I wanna ask, do you have any narilamb fanfic recs? :D I already read yours and I really like bamsara’s and I’m waiting for epicaandk’s to update (that one is my fav ever <3) but idk what to read now lol

Tall order?? Naaaaah, I'm always happy to give recs. Oh boy, I'm gonna go in reverse chronological order.

If you've read all of my narilamb fics (have you seriously? I'm impressed, that's probably well over half the 150k+ I've written for this damn fandom. Also, to anyone seeing this from a reblog, my stuff is over at onethirdofimpossible!) then here we go!

You already mentioned it, but The Rehabilitation of Death is excellent so far! This one is by @bamsara who is new to the CotL fandom but apparently not new to fanfic writing; they have a really popular FNAF fic and I assume the well-deserved attention this fic's been getting is a byproduct of the popularity they've already gotten in other fandoms. :D Welcome, bamsara! Many of the fic writers in this fandom are friends with each other already, but we don't bite if you wanna say hi.

Feel No Evil and Language Barrier, both by @payasita. I always love how payasita portrays this duo (in both digital art and writing), with so much sass and repressed loneliness, knowing they're stuck together for eternity and making the best of it. (And maybe falling in love, depending on how dense Narinder keeps being.) What makes these come alive for me is how well thought out the setting is outside the Lamb and Narinder. The descriptions and weight of emotions really pop here.

LITERALLY ANYTHING written by pavi / @i-eat-deodorant. Depending on how spicy you want your fics to be he has even more here. Character analysis, diction, pacing, etc. are consistently 10/10. Top-quality banter between a sassy Lamb and tired old man Narinder. We constantly bounce ideas off each other and inspire each other a lot but I promise I'm not hyping him up just because he's my friend oh my god please just go bless your eyes.

It Was For You, O Death by blueberry-muffin-massacre (if they have a tumblr, let me know so I can tag!). An intriguing alternative ending to the final battle wherein the Lamb chooses a secret third option by refusing to give up the Red Crown and still observing Narinder as the God of Death. So many details are so well thought out and duality their relationship is nicely characterized-- both genuine care for each other and also quite unhealthy. A fine line treaded well!

Confessional by jusmove (again, lmk if they have a tumblr). Been a while since I've read it, but I love how the Lamb chips at Narinder's very carefully built emotional walls. Their personalities are very well fleshed out here, especially Narinder's cognitive dissonance at being able to process love.

Confession by @thewitchoftheweed. I didn't expect a part two to this one, but my god I was so thrilled when it did update. Narinder and Lamb with their unique and parallel loneliness and their fucked-up sense of everything. Their relationship is very rocky here, and I love how they navigate it: with tension and eventual, pained acceptance. Mind the rating.

Of Character Development and Being Dense by @calliecature. A short and sweet narilamb classic. They're both mutually pining and one of them is too emotionally repressed to realize it. Guess who.

Not An Offering, But a Gift by @checkplzjuliet. Small confession fic. I especially love how Narinder's descriptions twist the knife of his situation here, and how Lambert is a total foil for him! There are a lot of good things happening in such a short span, which is impressive.

Also, if you think you've read all my narilamb fics... I do have a secret one out there too. Just so you know.

Happy reading!

I'm already friends with many of the people here, but if any of the writers I've tagged have been kinda wanting to reach out for a while but feel a little anxious... Don't be. I've made my best friends in this fandom by literally just waiting for some of my readers to get over whatever assumption they have that I'm cool and say hi. Or being the more confident one first.

[scoonsalicious]

Unwanted: Chapter 16, Unaccompanied - Pt. 1

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Avenger!Fem!Reader

Summary: When your FWB relationship with your best friend Bucky Barnes turns into something more, you couldn’t be happier. That is, however, until a new Avenger sets her sights on your super soldier and he inadvertently breaks your heart. You take on a mission you might not be prepared for to put some distance between the two of you and open yourself up to past traumas. Too bad the only one who can help you heal is the one person you can no longer trust.

Warnings: (For this part only; see Story Masterlist for general Warnings) Language, Vomiting ��

Word Count: 1k

Previously On...: Jade's been trying to get into your head about Bucky, but he assured you she was just trying to cause trouble between the two of you.

A/N: We are officially half way through the story, lovelies! I'm so happy to be on this journey with all of you! NOTE! The tag list is a fickle bitch, so I'm not really going to be dealing with it anymore. If you want to be notified when I update, please enable notifications from my Blog page!

Banner By: The absolutely amazing @mrsbuckybarnes1917!

Thank you to all those who have been reading; if you like what you've read, likes, comments, and reblogs give me life, and I truly appreciate them, and you!

Taglist: (Sadly, tag list is closed; Tumblr will not let me add anyone new. If you want to be notified when I update, please Follow me for Notifications!) @jmeelee @cazellen @mrsbuckybarnes1917 @blackhawkfanatic @buckybarnessimpp @hayjat @capswife @itsteambarnes @marygoddessofmischief @sebastians-love @learisa @lethallyprotected @rabbitrabbit12321 @buckybarnesandmarvel @fanfictiongirl77 @calwitch @fantasyfootballchampion @selella @jackiehollanderr @wintercrows @sashaisready @missvelvetsstuff @angelbabyyy99 @keylimebeag @maybefoxysouls @vicmc624 @j23r23 @wintercrows @crist1216 @cjand10 @pattiemac1@les-sel @dottirose @winterslove1917 @harperkenobi @ivet4 @casey1-2007 @mrsevans90 @steeph-aniie @bean-bean2000 @beanbagbitch @peachiestevie @wintrsoldrluvr @shadowzena43

Tumblr will not let me directly tag the following: @marcswife21 @erelierraceala @jupiter-107 @doublejeon @hiqhkey @unaxv @brookeleclerc

The day you and Bucky were scheduled to leave for Moscow, you went to the dining room to say your goodbyes before boarding the Quinjet. The team was gathered around the large dining table when you walked in, plates of Thai food spread across the space. 

“You ordered Thai?” you moaned. “Knowing that I’m about to spend hours in a tin can, stuck eating MREs for who knows how long, risking my life for truth, justice, and freedom, and you order Thai just as I’m leaving? I thought you were my friends! My family! Do I mean nothing to the lot of you?!”

“Relax, drama queen,” Nat said. “I’ll fix you a to-go container.”

“Thank you, Natasha,” you said. “You are a true friend.” You glared around the room at everyone else, pointing an accusing finger. “The rest of you, however… I will remember this.”

Bucky wrapped an arm around you and squeezed your shoulders. “Maybe we can make a detour in Thailand and get it straight from the source, doll,” he said with a laugh.

“I like your way of thinking, Barnes,” you said. Natasha handed you the to-go container and you did a little happy dance. “Thank you, Natty!” you squealed, opening up the container to take a sniff of the deliciousness contained within. 

As soon as the scent of Khao Soi hit your nostrils, you were overcome with a wave of nausea. “Oh my God,” you groaned, shoving the container into Bucky’s arms and throwing your hands over your mouth. You sprinted toward the nearest bathroom and barely made it to the toilet before you were vomiting into the bowl.

As you heaved, you felt a cool, metal hand pull your hair away from your face and a warm flesh hand rubbing circles on your back. “You okay, doll?” Bucky asked, his voice full of concern as you heaved up the contents of your stomach. 

“I think there’s something wrong with that Khao Soi,” you told him once your stomach muscles had stopped spasming. “Maybe the coconut was bad?”

Bucky grabbed a few squares of toilet paper and gently wiped at the sides of your mouth. “Gotta say, it smelled all right to me.” He placed a palm to your forehead. “You’re feeling a little warm. You sure you’re not comin’ down with something?”

“Maybe,” you said, giving it some thought. “I have been feeling really tired lately.” 

“If you’re sick, you know can’t I can’t let you go on this mission,” Steve’s voice came from where he was standing in the doorway. “It’s a liability.”

This was the first time Steve had spoken to you in ages, and you couldn’t help but wonder if it had something to do with the fact that you and Bucky weren’t technically in a relationship anymore. 

“I’m fine, Steve,” you said, but before you could further protest in favor of your good health, another wave of nausea overtook you and you were once again vomiting into the toilet bowl. 

“It’s alright, baby,” Bucky said. “I can do the mission solo. It’s more important for you to rest and get better.”

You nodded, feeling miserable and completely drained now. “Will you help me back to my room, Buck?”

“Of course, sweets.” You flushed the toilet and Bucky helped you stand up. In an instant, he’d scooped you up, carrying you, bridal-style, back down to your room. He deposited you gently on the edge of the tub in your bathroom and poured you a cup of water.

“Here, rinse your mouth,” he said, offering you the glass, and you accepted gratefully. You swished the liquid through your mouth, rinsing away the acidic taste of bile before you spat the water out in the sink. While you were doing that, Bucky brought you a change of clothes, helping you out of your tac-suit and into one of his tee shirts and a pair of pajama pants. 

“Better?” he asked as he tucked you into your bed. 

You nodded, burrowing down into your scarlet comforter. Wanda had been right– it had been permanent, and it was now your favorite bedding. “Thanks, Buck,” you murmured. “I’m sorry we won’t be going on the mission together. I was really looking forward to it.”

“Me, too.” He pressed a kiss to your forehead. “But you’ve got nothing to apologize for. I just want you gettin’ better.” You smiled at him as he grabbed your hand and kissed it. “I hate leaving you like this.”

You laughed. “It’s just a stomach bug, Buck,” you said, squeezing his hand in return. “I’ll be right as rain when you get back, promise. But you better go before Steve comes banging the door down for you.”

“Is there anything I can get you before I go?” he asked, brows furrowed with worry. “I could make you some tea.”

“No,” you stifled a yawn. “But thank you. I’m wiped; I think I’m just going to take a nap. Puking is exhausting. We gonna do our calls?” you asked him. Each time one of you was away on a mission, you would call the other once a day, a kind of proof-of-life to ensure to the other you were safe. If a call wasn’t possible, you’d make sure to at least send a text, never wanting the other to worry more than necessary.

“Of course,” he said. He leaned down to kiss you, but you pulled away.

“Buck,” you whined, “I just threw up. You don’t want to kiss me right now.”

“Always wanna kiss you, Pocket,” he said, leaning in again. This time you let him, though you kept it from getting too deep. Yes, you knew you were blurring the lines of the new parameters you had set up for your relationship, but successful missions were never something to be taken for granted, so you would never pass up the opportunity for what could possibly be a last kiss.

“Alright, Barnes,” you said when the kiss broke, “get outta here before Steve comes in and drags your ass out.”

With a final wave, Bucky departed, leaving you alone to drift off, the discomfort in your stomach temporarily forgotten.

<- Previous Part / Next Part ->

[mitchellpete]

Firsts

summary: You’re bad at playing hard to get, and you don’t want to let the opportunity slip. Maverick gives you your first motorcycle ride.

pairing: pete “maverick” mitchell x gn!reader

tags/warnings: maverick being flirty, shy!reader but also not really?, some drinking mentioned, overall fluff

word count: 1.4k

A/N: i feel terrible that i keep making excuses not to post so i'll let you guys have this one. i don't know who's still on top gun tumblr but i hope you guys are still around. and that you guys like this! it was supposed to be a drabble but..?? ANDDD one more thing: my request page has updated also!

-

“Wait, you’ve never been on a bike before?”

“I’ve been on a bike. I’ve never been on a motorcycle.”

Maverick scoffs and then cocks a brow, a smirk tugging at his lips in his frail attempt at reading you, or at least pretending he knew you.

Except he doesn’t, because out of the many outings at the bar, tonight had been the first time he’d spotted you. You were ashamed to admit that it was kind of flattering having him follow you around for a good half an hour, even after you locked eyes with mustache Hawaiian shirt blonde guy across the room. Ah, it was all a game. But God, was Maverick pretty. And charming. You couldn’t decide whether you were bad at playing hard to get or if you simply didn’t mind being the game.

(It was definitely the former.)

Panic filled you later that night when you watched him slip his jacket on on the opposite side of the room. He was still distractedly rambling with his friend, however, and you took the opportunity to push past at least 5 people and make it out of the door before he did. 

What to say or do the moment he stepped out? Your head was empty. But hey, he’d see you out there, make another flirtatious comment, make you blush and then it’d go on from there, right? God, please. 

This had to have been like the fourth time you’d seen him. He was most certainly the prettiest out of all the aviators that confidently waltzed into the bar every time you and your friend met for drinks. 

Miramar. A lovely place, truly. 

Beautiful, too. The sunset is beginning to form, and you step towards the wooden fence separating the sand from the small parking lot in front of the building. A packed bar, only a few vehicles. You wonder if any of them belong to Maverick. You pray that he walks this way at all.

The beach in front of you is littered with people, families, couples. There is chatter everywhere, drowning out the sound of the bell on the door behind you, or the sound of his voice if he happens to be walking out, talking to his friend.

That’s why when you eventually zone out maybe a good ten minutes later, you don’t notice that he’s already walked past you, striding towards the vehicle closest to you. The motorcycle. Red, black, adorned with decals that match the patches on his pretty jacket. You wish you’d noticed. 

He’d certainly noticed you, watching you avoid his gaze as he swung a leg over and took a seat. “Going for a swim?”

FUCK.

Tongue in your cheek, you meet his eyes. “No. I.. needed some air. Where’s your friend?”

“Where’s yours?” A cheeky smile spread on his face as he reached for the handles. 

Oh, he’s sooooooo—

“Inside. I’m uh, actually waiting for another friend right now. She’s picking me up soon, I think.” Lies, lies, lies.

“In a car?” 

“On a motorcycle, actually. How fast does yours go?” Jesus Christ. You know nothing about motorcycles, by the way.

He leans slightly forward, intrigued by your response. “Faster.”

“Hm.” You glance out at the shoreline again, at the sun turning bright orange. You feel the warmth on your cheeks. Stupid. You’re playing hard to get again, for fuck’s sake. He’s too pretty, it makes you nervous. 

Lucky for you, he breaks the tense feeling in your stomach with a laugh. “Actually?” 

He sticks the key into the ignition, filling you with the slight panic from before that he’s slipping away.

You fake a snicker, although it comes out dry and humorless. “I’m kidding. I don’t know a thing about motorcycles.”

The sudden rev of the engine startles you, and he smiles. “Some people are just meant to look pretty on the back of ‘em, I think.”

There was already a warmth to your cheeks, but now it’s heat. “Well.. that sounds like fun.”

Furrowed brows. “Wait, you’ve never been on a bike before?”

You snicker again, this time for real. “I’ve been on a bike. I’ve never been on a motorcycle.”

Maverick scoffs and then cocks a brow, a smirk tugging at his lips in his frail attempt at reading you, or at least pretending he knew you. Playfully rolling his eyes, he revs the engine again and waves you over with his hand. “Come on.”

Your face falls. A different kind of panic. “Huh?”

“Just a quick ride. Before your friend gets here.”

“A-are you sure?” 

“You’re scared?” He grins.

“I—No. I just..” You hesitantly make your way over, your legs suddenly weak. “I drank a little, so I don’t—”

“Can you relax?” He laughs again, his laughter as pretty as he is. “It’s not scary, I promise. Here, step on that part. Just hold onto me and hop on.” He points down below and then sticks his arm out for you to grab.

“I’m not scared,” you mumble as you manage to perch yourself on the space behind him, careful not to grip his arm too tight. “I think you’re a little strange, is all.”

 “How so? You gotta hold onto me, sweetheart.” Another engine rev. What is his deal?

You lean forward as much as you can, pressing yourself to him and wrapping your arms around his middle. The seat behind his is slightly raised, and your face absentmindedly presses into the back crook of his neck. It’s too late to pull back when you realize, and the heat in your cheeks starts to burn. Nevertheless, you go through with your accusations.

“Well,” you begin, conscious of your voice as to not be loud in his ear. “You follow me around the bar for some stupid bet, and.. now you’ve forced me onto your bike.”

Ha. As if you hadn’t planned all of this. Sort of.

Another pretty laugh. “It’s a motorcycle,” he mocks you. 

That gets a laugh out of you, squeezing your arms around him a bit as he starts to move. 

“Although, I do have to say—” He halts, a foot firm on the ground, and turns to look you over his shoulder. “Out of anybody I’ve followed around the bar, you’re the only one I’d give a ride to.”

God. You think you’re already in love with him. “That so?”

He presses his lips together and nods, fake serious. 

Pressing your forehead to the back of his jacket, you chuckle. “I guess that means I owe you something.”

“I’ll start driving on one condition,” he offers, his tone playful.

“Hm?”

“Give me a kiss.”

Oh boy. It’s easy by now; you’re already melting into him. Glancing up, your surroundings become a blur and all the outside chatter, the bell on the door and the sound of the other cars go completely silent as you lean your neck to reach. It’s a peck, but it’s complete; all of your lips feel the soft skin of his cheek, plump from a smile under your kiss. And then your chin goes to rest on his shoulder, and next thing you know, you’re off. 

There’s suddenly wind; you weren’t prepared for your hair to flow, as he took off from the parking lot and immediately down the road.

You’re clinging onto him with all your might, maybe a little scared for a moment, but then it starts to feel nice. You don’t even recall the moment he’d slipped his aviators on; perhaps the little kiss you gave him left you in awe instead of vice-versa, or maybe it was the drinks you’d had earlier? Maverick says something but you barely hear it, your stomach fluttering in excitement as he swerves between cars to get out of their way, to fly by beyond them on the road and to make the moment about just the two of you. Nobody else on the road. 

He turns onto a different road, this one longer and less crowded, and you squeal as he starts going faster. A euphoric feeling overtakes you, and even in the wind, through the sound of the engine and Maverick’s muffled voice, you’re convinced you can’t let him slip away after this one either. 

“Maverick!”

Wind, wind, wind. The engine.

Tapping a hand on his side instead, you catch his attention. He slows down just a bit, momentarily glancing over his shoulder again before looking back at the road. 

“You wanna stop?” he yells.

“No!” you shout back. “I just wanted you to know something!”

“What is it?!”

You lean closer to his ear, face in the crook of his neck again. “I was lying! There is no friend!”

He grins. “I know!”

[endursent]

- God Shattering Star

【 content; morax | rex lapis x reader , slow burn , mutual pining , multi-chapter , archon war period , afab!reader 】

【 note; i also want to ask you to keep in mind english isn't my first language and i tend to mix my "it's" and "its"-es in the flurry of writing. i go through it and run it through a spell-checker but if you spot any errors please let me know. this one is also a little longer. tumblr is all caught up now as well, so expect some days between updates. i might also post a sunday one-shot before the 6th chapter, cant get this stupid bird outta my brain, we'll see. | read on ao3 】

【 word count; 6.204 | previous chapter - next chapter | masterlist 】

- Chapter 5 - Putrefaction

You scratch your cheek awkwardly, avoiding Guizhong’s gaze and smile. You were supposed to head back home soon, with the infected now fine and healthy… 

  Tossing your stuff together back in the basket you brought with you, a knock had come to your door and an attendant had given you summons to Guizhong’s palace, a short walk through a few hallways. It was decorated in a subtle manner, no big wall scrolls or long hanging silks, but the wood along walls and ceilings was all carved and the floors centred with decorated carpets. 

  What you assumed would be a formal goodbye, as it had been a greeting when you came first into the palace… had turned into a proposition. 

  A god had fallen near the western border, and the already crumbled settlement from the heavy earthquake yesterday, was now drenched in miasma from the quickly rotting essence scattered by their death. A report had been sent to the capital with request of a cleanser, the worst of the injuries have been patched and thus they decided not to allocate more hands to the west, but with the scarcity of skilled cleansers, there is never one on-site at the borders, hence why such–usually rare–cases were brought to you when you were down south. 

  “I know you must be looking forward to returning home,” Guizhong’s voice is gentle, she stands in front of a low table in the… workshop? Office? There’s clutter everywhere. “But only you are suitable for this task… of course, you will be compensated for the trouble–oh! Speaking of.” She reaches behind her to a box that sits on her desk, she turns back to you and sets it in your hand. “For you.”

  “Me?” you look down at the box, it’s a golden colour, decorated with dark streaks that represent gushes of wind. Should you open it now? Save it for later?

  Before you can look up to try and gauge whether Guizhong is waiting for you to open it, she takes your shoulders, spins you around, and practically walks you out of her office. “You can thank me later, off you go!”

  It’s a four day’s journey by cart, so there’s no time to waste, and your sense of duty and compassion prevent you from saying no to the request, so you obediently hurry off after she practically shoo’s you away. There are people hurting that need your help, perhaps the days of sitting in small villages and cleansing rotting wood are coming to an end. “I suppose I’m packed already,” you say and give her a wave as you retreat down the hallway, and the God of Dust smiles, the mere raise of her lips comparable to a beam of sunlight. 

  Standing by the gates at the peak of the high steps leading to the places, you read over a copy of the report that was sent in the aftermath of the heavy earthquake. The outpost Morax went to had collapsed almost entirely, with only a single building with a roof able to shield them for the night. The outpost is southwest of the capital, and you wonder if the quake was connected to the death of the god beyond the Guili Assembly, it would be quite the coincidence if it wasn’t…

  You hear footsteps behind you and turn to see a familiar face that almost makes you laugh.

  “Babysitting duty again?” your mouth twitches, barely able to hold back a grin from the frankly stinky look Moon Carver is giving you. 

  “Hmph,” he walks past you, and despite not confirming that he was the one to escort you, it was an educated guess. He didn’t object when you followed him down the steps. “This one has other duties to tend to far from the capital but keeps getting called back to walk you around.”

  You fold your arms over your chest, ensuring the basket on your back doesn’t slip as you bounce down the stairs. “Like what? What do adepti normally do on the job?” you touch your chin. “Babysit… other humans? On a wider scale?”

  “It will take too long to walk,” he grumbles something else under his breath as well, ignoring your pondering entirely and you wonder what other option there is to get there. You suppose a cart tugged along by a horse or ox will speed it significantly, but no one mentioned anything about it. “We are short on time.” 

  The next moment brought you both momentary awe and prolonged terror, a gust of wind nearly tosses your balance on the steep steps as a glow of green and brown, the warm hues of autumn leaves and a setting sun, nearly blind you. You barely manage to squint and make out a form next to you where Moon Carver had been standing when you feel a sudden tug on your basket. 

  He hooked an antler under the strap on your shoulder and tossed you onto his back, you clumsily adjusted yourself, blinking in confusion and surprise, you look down to see his legs lift and take a step down the stairs… quite a high step for–

  You almost lose your balance again as he suddenly trots into the air, you wrap your arms around his neck as wind flies past your head. “N-no flying!” your pleas are useless as roofs become the size of cubed tofu below you, and you squeeze your eyes shut. One would think there would be a sense of weightlessness when taking flight–but all you could feel and focus on was the demanding law of gravity trying to pull you down back to earth. “Slow down!!” 

  “Stop whining, this is much faster.” 

  Of course, you’re aware that adepti can fly, countless tales and paintings depict them above the clouds or mountains… but not usually with passengers!

  You were sure you were choking him with how tight your arms were wrapped around his neck and likely hurting him by digging your feet into his sides, but he didn’t complain. A ride on an adeptus bird might be smoother, because Moon Carver hops and trots in the air, as if he were jumping between rocks to cross a river, or clouds to pass between mountains causing your body to lift off his back (making you think you’re about to be tossed off) before hurting your poor hip bone when you hit his spine again. You didn’t dare look down, keeping your eyes closed tightly and face buried in the softer fur of his head and neck, the hairs along his body being shorter and stiffer. 

  “How high up are we?” you dare ask, but refuse to peek your eyes open just yet.

  Moon Carver is silent for a few seconds. “High. Do not look if it scares you.”

  With that useless information, you finally squint your eyes open despite his advice and thankfully you don’t see the ground below you, a dooming invitation. Clouds cover your view of the ground as the adeptus leaps between puffed peaks, the sun feels significantly warming so high above the ground and feels so close you feel like reaching out to try and grab it like a rare gem–but that means letting go of your iron grip around the poor stag’s neck, and your body doesn’t let you consider it for more than a second and a half. 

  The ride was, frankly, terrifying. But leaping several kilometres in one hop means you got to your destination before the sun’s top half had sunk beneath the mountains. The air had gotten colder quickly once the sun sank, and you were thankful for reaching your destination before you began to feel the cold on your nose. The descent was possibly more terrifying than the ascent, Moon Carver didn’t give you a warning before he suddenly dove down and you lost your grip for a moment. You really did think you were about to fly off and meet the earth in a flattening embrace.

  Moon Carver didn’t change back once you got off his back, he did let you lean against him as you readjusted to standing on the ground, only inclining his head–and almost knocking his large antlers into your forehead. You pat his back. “Hahh… I never want to do that again, let’s go by ground next time,” you nod to yourself, as if it had been decided with your words alone. “I thought I was going to die four times through that.”

  “You were never in any danger,” Moon Carver makes a snorting sound, shaking his snout slightly–you aren’t sure if he’s actually scoffing at your (in your opinion) very rational fear of death up there, or just making a normal huffing noise animals make sometimes. “In any case, the outpost that stood despite the tremors is just up ahead.”

  The area is thick with trees, they’re far taller than you’ve seen before, stretching high above your head as you follow a road wheel-marked by the Millelith taking supplies and soldiers back and forth between outposts and the main road. It’s almost eerily quiet, as if all animals and bugs have left the surrounding area behind, leaving only your shoes and Moon Carver’s hooves hitting the ground with every step. 

  You arrive at a clearing sitting at the foot of a high hill with a watchtower stretching into the sky, the sky has darkened and the stars sit high in the sky, distant dots you must squint to make out whether they flicker or are static. The outpost is livelier than the empty forest, but the air is distinctively tense, a Millelith soldier stops as he’s carrying a bundle of firewood when he sees the two of you approach and Moon Carver side-eyes you. “Looks like it can be taken from here, I’ll be going now.”

  “Oh, uh–fly safe,” you turn as he does, he makes the huffing sound again but says nothing more and leaves into the forest again. You look back as the Millelith soldier approaches you. “Hello, I’m–”

  “The cleanser that was sent for. I remember you,” he says. “I had mild symptoms and only stayed for a few nights, but I saw you in the ward.”

  Damn, this guy must be unlucky to have been in two situations like this within a month. Hopefully that doesn’t rub off on you. You give him a small, polite smile. “I’m glad you got better.”

  “Come, I’ll show you where the affected are,” he sets his bag down by the side of a cracked wall as he brings you to the–barely–standing building. You see lights inside and can practically smell the miasma coming from inside, you pull the left collar of your robe up over your nose as you follow the soldier inside… and the sight is far worse than the smell. 

  Twenty-four soldiers are either lying down on the floor or sitting up against the surrounding walls, tables have been stacked on one side and space made for them to fit in one part of the three story building. Only two healers are present to tend to them, rushing between patients to either check wounds, help them adjust their position or administer treatment. Among the two is a familiar silhouette, Morax’s hood is pulled down as he holds the leg of an injured man between his hands, a golden glow emanating from his clothed hands. His eyebrows are furrowed in concentration as dark, gooey blood leaking from the pores of the man’s skin and onto the cloth laid on the floor under him. 

  You don’t want to break his concentration, so you busy yourself by setting your basket down and fetching your tools, bundling them up in a cloth and slinging across your torso and shoulder. You kneel beside a man by the door, his breaths are raspy and desperate, as if every inhale requires immense effort to make–he barely seems lucid, eyes fixed on the ceiling and making no indication he even notices you. 

  Alongside the terrible stench of blood, rotted flesh and bodily fluids, is the air in the room that was terribly thick. It’s difficult to breathe it in, like when you were young and hid from old Lin trying to drag you back to the archives by lying under four layers of fur for too long. 

  His stomach is wide open beneath the bandages, it’s as if all blood had dried up from his body, the bare flesh is dry and quivers under your touch. The man doesn’t move or react even as you prod at open muscle, it’s all stiffened up and firm… and peeking between torn tendons are pulsing and writhing organs. Your nose scrunches up as the dark mass twitches when your hand touches the flesh close to it–as if it were trying to shrink back. You would’ve expected an organ to have a sheen to it, to be moist and slippery, but its texture looked like a steamed bun. 

  As soon as you poked at the sensitive, open flesh, your finger nearly sank into it. You quickly retracted your hand, the amount of foul energies in his body was almost disgusting. Your finger felt as if it had just stuck itself into wet mud–somehow without the moisture–and very cold to the touch mud at that. 

  You slap a talisman on the floor next to you and scribble on it, the energies are spread throughout his whole body, which requires a more lengthy process than if it were just condensed in his arm or leg… even just in the skin or one organ. You look up to find any open windows, the air is already heavy, if you light incense it’ll make the air so stuffy not even you will be able to breathe without sneezing. 

  All of the windows are already open, so the heavy air you have is the best you’re going to get for now. You take out a few sticks… how many do you even have? You didn’t exactly shop before you set off… you’ve made them yourself a few times–but they don’t work as well as ones crafted by temples. One will have to do for now, cleansing the man will likely take its time, and you want to properly assess–

  As you stick the incense into the small portable pot, long fingers wrap around your wrist. 

  You almost jump from the sudden touch, head whipping up and almost knocking foreheads with Morax behind you. Thankfully he tilts his head back in time, but his fingers remain around your wrist. “Don’t start yet,” he speaks strangely quietly, as if he doesn’t want anyone to hear your conversation. “Put your hand to it and hold it.”

  He guides your hand to the man’s belly, to the open muscle below torn skin and lets you press your fingers to it… it’s gross, but you keep focused. Squinting at the tissue, you try to feel for whatever Morax is trying to bring to your attention. It takes a few seconds of consideration before you feel it. 

  A squirming, warm mass beneath the cold muscle. It brushes against your finger and you yank your hand back again–Morax lets go and doesn’t hold your fingers to it. “U-urgh, what was that?” you make a face. It had been under the muscle, so you wouldn’t feel it properly–but it was like it touched you through the barrier of flesh, touched your brain. It felt like a sharp stone being ground quickly across the surface of another stone, like it was trying to slip into your spine. 

  “I am not sure,” Morax mumbles, you feel his warm breath fan over the skin beneath your ear and you turn your head. His conspicuous eyes had the same soft glow to them as usual, and you briefly wonder if they glow in the dark when he goes to sleep. “Not all of them have this… passenger, it’s possible the spirit has not departed yet, the remains are yet fresh.”

  You don’t usually deal in ghosts and spirits, but extracting the miasma left behind, as well as the soul, uses the same method… just a lot more practice, focus and energy. 

  Wait.

  You give him a slightly startled look. “If it’s the spirit… it’s not good to keep the afflicted all in the same room, the soul grows stronger if the shards of it are close together. They should be moved apart, even just three together could be dangerous.”

  “The deceased’s soul was scattered halfway over Teyvat, the dust settled on twenty bodies won’t produce much danger,” Morax shakes his head. It is less than a fraction of the dead god’s soul, it won’t be able to do much damage even if it were to combine. 

  “Not to you, no,” you blurt out, then immediately regret it when he raises his brows. You stutter a few times. “W-well, I mean–we’re just human, even a small fraction of a god can kick us around like a cuju ball!” you accidentally raised your voice slightly in your hurry to explain what you meant and caught the attention of one of the two healers, giving you a confused look–as if judging you for talking about cuju now of all times. You just gave them a crooked smile before turning back to Morax. 

  He considers you for a moment. He would put a stop to any foreign power if he felt it, and with his presence in the room, it wouldn’t do much damage before he notices–and they don’t have much in terms of whole buildings, building tents for every individual injured would consume more resources than he wants to allocate. “We will have to work with what we have, if anything comes up then I will handle it.”

  You nod and can’t help but feel a bit silly, of course they didn’t cram them all into this space because they had an abundance of other options… 

  You feel like you’ve been sitting in a hot spring for too long, the thick air feels like warm steam coming from the water and your body feels the need to stretch out. You’ve barely been in here for half an hour and it’s already so stuffy and uncomfortable. 

  Morax’s eyes watch you as you look down to the silent man next to the two of you, his iris flicker from your face down to your hands and the way you clench and then stretch your fingers unconsciously. His voice catches you off guard as you are trying to adjust to the environment. “Let us speak outside.”

  You blink up at him as he stands and leaves, you stuff your incense back into the cloth bag across your torso and follow him. The cooler air is immediately a relief, it’s clean and flows right to your lungs uninterrupted. You stand and bask in it for a few seconds before looking around to see where the god went off to… where did he go?

  Only the higher centre of the building still stands, the stretches of what were probably barracks have crumbled and leaves little but broken rock and wood sitting on the ground with a few ominous stains licking the bottom of one larger piece of rubble. You avert your gaze from the destruction and spot Morax’s white robe by the end of a high fence, walking to him, you slow your pace as you get closer.

  He turns to you and inclines his head for you to follow, you do as asked and fall into step next to him as he rounds the fence. Your hand immediately moves to your nose again–almost as if the simple barrier of wooden fencing had been protecting you from a fouler scent than even the one inside the building, this one strikes you like a stone wall. 

  The corpses had been covered with sheets… but it hardly did much to cover the stench emanating from them. Coin purses had been laid on their chests already, indicated by the small bump under the sheets, but you had an inkling that there was something missing, something that required your hands. 

  “They passed during the quake, thankfully we did not lose many… but their bodies were exposed to the scattered ashes until the morning after,” Morax says, facing you and only regarding the dead with a turn of his head. “Both their lingering spirit and body will intertwine with the rotting essence if left to it, possibly creating corrupted beasts or ghosts.”

  You’ve only had to cleanse a corpse once… and it was a relatively fresh corpse. You feel sick already and you’re a good three metres away. “I see…”

  He turns his head to you, a pinch to his brow. “I know this is… unpleasant. I would not ask it of you if it was not necessary…” 

  You quickly raise your hands, waving them about. “No, no! It’s my job–it’s what I'm here for, it’s okay!” You’ll complain about it… inwardly… but you’ll still do it. 

  His expression doesn’t change much, but you see a tinge of… gratefulness? Appreciation? You’re not entirely sure what it is, but the mild softening of his furrowed brow and the small movement of his bottom lip are a noticeable change when his face is so often still as a rock. “I’ll have new clothes brought to you so the smell doesn’t stick to the ones you’re wearing,” he says and walks past you. “I have a matter to attend to, come to me when you have finished.”

  Looks like you’ve a task to complete before you can tend to the afflicted. You’re not entirely sure if this should take priority… but it’s likely they want the bodies to be taken back to the capital as soon as possible so they can be buried before they decompose too much. You hope the injured can hold on for a while.

  Thankfully, extracting from a corpse is far less of a ‘careful’ operation. Removing miasma that has burrowed itself into a living body causes pain when extracted, but as the corpse is still and not living, you can allow yourself to be a bit rougher. Thankfully you’re not extracting the spirit out of them either, so you can make quick work of it. 

  After changing into the robes a soldier brought to you–though they’re clearly made for a man much larger than you, so the sleeves droop down far beyond your fingers–you prepare your equipment and get started. Your sleeve almost knocks over your trusted bell and you decide to tie them back, ignoring the chill of the night. 

  Removing the sheet off of the first body causes the stench to increase tenfold, and exposes you to a gruesome sight. The man had been crushed by something, his head and left shoulder torn off–likely when his body was pulled out from under whatever had crushed him–leaving only stretches of muscle, skin and bones sticking out from the unnervingly flat side where the body usually continues on, the left arm is lying next to his torso, likely severed from the shoulder and chest after they were crushed. You shake your head and look further down the torso to try and not stare at the uncomfortable sight.

  The left side of his abdomen and the severed arm are completely white, and ice cold to the touch, similarly to the man from earlier–though he had been alive… you hope. Inky black veins web across the pale skin and near pulse as you poke at them, the skin ripples like water when poked, blood spurting out of the stumped ends and you have to turn your head to try and not puke at the sight. Focus… you’ve done this many times before. Just locate the source of entry and drag it out. 

  You prod at the squishy body and only glance at it in the corner of your eye… it almost feels like everywhere is the source of the energy! You suppose it makes sense, you had heard it was like dust, and if it scattered all over the body… you’ll have to try and bait it towards one point and drag it from there. You had been asleep as the golden essence had fallen from the sky like snow, so you missed it completely. Thankfully the capital is protected with seals and barriers, so it brushed the dust off and no one in the city was afflicted, most people were asleep anyway. 

  You don’t like to bait this type of miasma, but it has to be done. 

  Lighting a single stick of incense should be enough, you’ll have to ask for more to be brought with the next supply cart. It’s not necessary for a cleanse, but it prevents jumpy energy from simply hopping around and possibly entering a new host or vessel to burrow in, or just fleeing out a window–and since you’re out in the open, it can go in any direction. Thankfully the soldier still has his weapon, and it’s clean of the energy. You unsheathe it a bit and press the back of your index finger to it–a place that won’t be used much or be an annoyance when you’ll definitely need to use your hands in the coming days. A thin drop of blood–as well as a burning sting–indicates you’ve cut through the top of your skin and you withdraw your hand. Even a small cut like this is enough.

  You take your bell and hold it as you press the wound to the man’s cold skin, your eyes slip closed… and you think hard. The miasma left by dead gods are usually heavy in negative energies and emotions, defeated in an attempt to protect their land, killed by those they trust in a struggle for influence and power, struck down at the end of a long and exhausting battle… it seeks out more negative energy to feed on and grow.

  Negative emotions, you dig for what the energy seeks.

  It’s always the same sight. Your mind’s eye turns to the same event when you imagine what has brought you distress in the past. 

  A clap of thunder, rain so heavy it brings you to your knees, dust and grime settle between your fingernails as you dig and push away stone and mud. Your heart thunders in your chest, so loudly you’re not sure whether it beats twice in place of one, or if it’s the constant rhythmic thunder flashing across the sky when you find a hand between the crumbled walls.

  The absolute despair and agony it brought once it didn’t move when you wrapped your fingers around hers. How cold the skin was, you tugged and pulled, but the rubble was too heavy, you weren’t strong enough to lift it, nor to pull her out. Your hands shake as you close them around hers and try warm it up, it’s just because of the rain, it’s cold because winter is coming, it’s not because–

  You feel a prick of warmth and your eyes snap open, you were too caught up in your head. The dark miasma has gathered around your finger and latched onto the small cut so tightly it raises goosebumps on your entire arm. You shake your hand with the bell in it, and it chimes quietly–but the inky dark tendrils quiver and twitch as if it had been struck, their grasp loosening on the host body. 

  You close your fist, a streak of black stretching from your finger to the corpse, and pull harshly. 

  In your haste–and being distracted by the foul stench–you realise you forgot to prepare a jar to trap the miasma inside. You pull your hand further and higher away from the body, but it stubbornly clings to it, a thread connecting your hand to the torso. You pull more, jaw clenching as you cling to the energy and refuse to let it snap back into the corpse. Why is it so stubborn?! You’ve never seen energy like this cling to the body it’s tainting with such stubbornness, your arm trembles with strain, until with a snap; like a tight rope breaking apart that topples your balance as the ‘rope’ snaps back into your raised fist.

  Your ass is saved from a harsh blow against the ground as a warm hand grabs your bicep and holds you up, at the same time as six glowing stone pieces lock around the dark energy swirling around your hand. You blink, momentarily disoriented from almost falling and look up to see Morax’s chest barely a cup’s distance away from your face.

  You quickly right yourself and nearly hop away, startled by his sudden appearance–weren’t you supposed to go to him later? What a fortunate time for him to appear. “M-my lord…?!” you blurt out, still unsure how to address him. 

  The cubed rock and ore which strangely resembles a burr puzzle you saw kids try and put together at a festival a few years ago, hovers in the air for a few seconds before drifting into Morax’s open hand, settling there. “Please be more careful, you could have hurt yourself.”

  Your neck warms up with embarrassment, this is how you show your cleansing abilities to him? By forgetting–you never forget!–a part of the process and almost falling over like an idiot?? “Ah… I’m sorry–I’m usually far more careful than this, I swear,” you bow your head, as if asking for forgiveness before raising it again. “I… thought you were occupied, did you need something…?” 

  He’s silent for a moment, as if contemplating how to answer your question. You miss the way his eyes glance down to your hand and then back to your face. “No. I merely… sensed something amiss, so I came to ensure everything was alright.”

  “Oh… ah, thank you,” you clasp your hands together and look at the floating cube in his hand. “I can… purify that for you.” 

  “No need,” he says and the cube lifts into the air, the golden ore in the centre of the edges lights up and it twitches a few times, before it lowers again, now dim. “It’s vanquished. Do you need assistance? I can call for someone to stay close by.”

  You shake your head fiercely. “No! Not at all! That was an accident, I promise you–I’m perfectly capable of handling this, please don’t worry about me!”

  He seems hesitant to just leave, but doesn’t want to seem like distrusts you either. Morax looks down to the cube in his hand and extends it towards you. The ore lights up again to a dim hue as it floats to your open hands. “Keep it with you. It will react if the energies get out of hand.” 

  You bow at the waist, still terribly embarrassed and hoping it might hide the heat of your cheeks as he finally turns and leaves. “Thank you! I’ll take good care of it!” 

  You sigh in relief when you’re finally alone again. You look down at the stone cube in your hands and frown. “... I’ll never get over this,” you mumble to yourself. This definitely will keep you up at night…

  Thankfully, the other corpses didn’t give you any trouble–not now that you were expecting this weird, sticky miasma that clung to all of them. Usually, it’s misty and easier to manipulate with your hands, it doesn’t resist and follows gestures easier, but this seems like it’s trying to wrestle you at every turn, and when you finally get hold of it, it decides to stick to you instead with fierce stubbornness.

  When the final jar was sealed, you sighed with relief and didn’t linger for long. You put the sheets back over their bodies as they had been before and made sure the mora was touching them and not on top of the large cloth. 

  Now, to find Morax… this outpost isn’t very large, especially now that there’s really only one ‘place’ to be in. 

  Finding him was relatively easy, but your energy had been thoroughly drained from tugging back and forth and you were hardly in the state to start extracting from living beings that might thrash or try to kick you away from them… you still feel a phantom sting from that one guy at the ward some time ago that had been very deeply afflicted and kicked you right in the bottom of the sternum. 

  The room is just as stuffy and uncomfortable as it was when you entered it first, you were starting to become accustomed to the smell… kind of. The smell of the corpses was worse, but this isn’t much of an improvement. 

  You squat down next to Morax as he’s examining a man with a darkened forehead, it bulges and looks almost soft–as if it would burst if you poked it too harshly. “Any progress?” you say quietly. 

  “Hm,” he makes a noise of acknowledgement, but doesn’t give you a proper answer. After a while, he lowers his glowing hands and shakes his head. “It’s difficult to say… I must have you perform an extraction, with a specimen outside of the body it will be far easier to examine.”

  Hah… you can feel the tug of your tired body, but ignore it the best you can–you’ve been able to do mostly idle work for many days now since the last of the ward patients left, some hard work won’t do you in for once. 

  One injured person was taken out of the room and placed outside where you would do the cleansing in the case that it will act strangely or lash out when extracted, you prepare everything… and prepare yourself mentally as well, not only are you tired, but you’ll have to do it directly in front of Rex Lapis. You just hope you won’t look like an idiot for the second time today, or third.

  It had been the man with the bulging forehead that was brought outside, and you can’t help but wonder if the one with the open stomach was even still alive… you dip your brush into ink and draw a half-moon on each side of the dark bulge on his face, between the gaps, you neatly write down the appropriate characters to seal the energy inside the space of his forehead it inhabits, so it won’t try to escape your grasp. 

  You clean your hands and get to work. 

  Thankfully, there’s no need to poke around and try to locate the source… it’s very obvious. You just hope the mass won’t explode and spew pus, blood and other gross liquids on your face after the extraction is done. 

  Morax stands opposite of you, on the other side of the table that was brought out to lay the man on, he watches your every move like a hawk–he’s probably just curious… or has nothing else to really look at, but it’s making you nervous. 

  As soon as you finish preparation and place your hand on the bulging mass, you shiver. There’s something swimming inside. You steel yourself and concentrate, then close your fist and pull gently. 

  It’s like a wet eel, it slips between your fingers thrice before you get a good hold of it, your eyebrows furrowing in both frustration and concentration. “Be calm,” Morax’s voice sounds gently into your ears, he notices your frustration, born both from the slippery energy as well as your tired body aching for rest in this prolonged wrestle. “It’s almost done.”

  The simple reassurance was surprisingly effective. You raised your hand slowly and poured every mental and physical energy into pulling the corruption from the man’s head–with a final tug of defiance, the energy is separated from him far earlier than you expected, but you were ready this time and shoved it into a jar before it could wrap its weird, slimy tendrils around your hand…

  Just in time for you to hear a strange pop.

  And an absolutely foul stench invading your nose as the mass on the man’s forehead opens, the sound of the skin tearing violently and spewing out the liquid inside in a burst akin to a flask that had been sealed and gathered pressure. It wets your robe and lands on your cheek and neck, the white and red fatty liquid drips down and makes you cringe when it touches your collar as you try to swipe it away, but you’re too late.

  Quickly hunching down next to the table, you retch and return the early lunch that had mostly digested by now, splattering on the grass and dirtying your shoes. Your knees tremble slightly from the strain the extraction brought and you have to hold onto the table to not fall over.

  A hand softly touches your back, the warmth radiating from the palm both welcome and not as you cough with nothing left to puke out. “Did any of it get in your eyes or mouth?” You shake your head. “Good… I apologise, I should have known it would tear with the pressure of the corruption gone… I’ll have your clothes returned to you and you can rest for the night. I will examine what you extracted in the meantime.”

  … you’ve definitely earned a good sleep, and a wash. Or three.

[googledetective]

the theories that have been presented on this cast + one of my own :)

I do want to mention that I strongly believe this is a prequel due to a conversation I had with a bunch of people on discord earlier. (Everyone was 16+, dw.)

I haven’t seen anything about the first two at all so far, so I’ll be skipping over them and onto the third guy (oh my fucking lord).

(Also this post from @nesisamess helped a lot)

Staring onto the third dude,

(both posts are made by @zitherwaifuus :)

It seems that here this guy has some sort of relationship to XF-Future Tech, which if you’ve seen Min’s side story, you’d know is the company that came into her life and groomed her to be the Ultimate Student. She received special tutoring for them and worked her ass off for that title her entire life because of that. Next, this guy shares the same tie pin she does, and it’s also very notable that she dresses up with the same button down and tie in her MV. Not only do I think she is linked to the company now, but she might be working there before she was in the game. Who knows, though.

Next, I have not seen anything on the fourth girl besides a bunch of people on discord theorizing what the dandelion in her hair could mean. Unfortunately dandelions have different meanings from different cultures all over the world, so until it’s specified about where she’s from, I don’t think there’s many assumptions we can make yet.

Number Five, the purple guy.

Everyone seems to think so far that this is Elliot Cuevas, Charles Cuevas’s deceased brother. Now let me tell you that although I can’t see it based off design, the way he looks (playful and kinda weird but happy) and the way he was described by the creator in the latest qna (a popular joyous dude), can definitely make me see this being real. The only thing that is super far fetched about this is that we know he died a long time ago, and so if this is a prequel, it would have to be at least 15 years before drdt even starts.

Here’s also some more evidence from @sunlit-haru supporting the ‘that’s Elliot’ theory.

Now we’re up to the protagonist, who mind you is definitely my favorite so far. I will eliminate the rest of you protag dickriders so I will be the only simp left.

ANYWAYS, in the about page for this, it’s stated that this is a fangan for someone who wants to be the perfect teacher. Now with the hidden quote on the drdt tumblr page about this teacher…

( @demodraws0606 ‘s post)

Uh oh. I think we’ve figured out who this mysterious teacher might be. As for who is talking to them, I’ve personally got a few ideas, but they are not backed with any evidence.

1. The mastermind from this first killing game

2. Mai Akasaki or David Chiem still

3. The mastermind of the drdt killing game

Whoever it is, I think that these games are surely related and that each current kg participant does have a relation with one of these cast members. And that previous killing game’s end is why this one is happening.

Then, based off the post up top and a few others, people seem to think this is Teruko’s brother. I’m going to give a wild theory (no evidence) that Mai Akasaki knows him, only bc of the red in his hair. Then I think Mai would’ve found Teruko, and she would’ve been trying to reconnect them. Just a theory, though. There’s no evidence based around that this guy might be Teruko’s brother though, sadly.

Last but not least, @1moreff-creator pieced together some of the text on his badge:

I’m just gonna say that I’m seriously impressed with your efforts cause I have no fucking clue that could even be readable lmao.

*UPDATE ON TEXT: holy mother of god, @xmicrophonyx is a fucking god, and deciphered it. Here you go, and we all have got to give a serious thank you to them.

Sadly I cannot link the image of what the phone number gets to, but it gets linked to a yellow pill. I don’t have any ideas on how it would relate to the game, but I think it does. It’s used for high blood pressure and heart failure. If he’s really related to Teruko, I wouldn’t be surprised if he had high blood pressure lmao.

Also, the area code for 555 is just North America.

Here’s what I found on Wikipedia:

“The telephone number prefix 555 is a central office code in the North American Numbering Plan, used as the leading part of a group of 10,000 telephone numbers, 555-XXXX, in each numbering plan area (NPA) (area code). It has traditionally been used only for the provision of directory assistance, when dialing NPA-555-1212.

The central office code is also used for fictitious telephone numbers in North American television shows, films, video games, and other media in order to prevent practical jokers and curious callers from bothering telephone subscribers and organizations by calling telephone numbers they see in works of fiction.”

I don’t understand the first part, but it seems that this is a fictional number. If someone could explain to me wtf that first part even memes, I might be able to give more info.

Anyways, it seems that this guy ended up being a teacher at HPA, before or after the killing game. But I think this was very worth mentioning.

Unfortunately I’ve seen nothing about the next two, but I want to say that the girl in all pink (#8) I think is Felicity Giles, if that’s even possible. I just feel that’s Arturo’s sister. I know, I’m a weirdo. Even if #7 looks more like Arturo, I just cannot see it.

Moving on, nine and ten! If you look at them closely they’ve got the same eye pattern, suggesting they’re siblings, or likely twins, since they’ve got the fire/ice scheme going on.

Lastly, eleven which oh my god, Arturo’s dream girl! But she’s been theorized to be Whit’s mom. Here’s the post that argues a pretty convincing reason of why.

Oh boy. That woman is pretty cool and is very elegant, and has the same shade of blond hair that Whit dyed his too. I don’t think she’s any coincidence.

But joining along on that last little paragraph of this person’s post, it’s starting to seem a lot of characters do have connections to this cast and are seemingly mentioned quite a few times.

UPDATE: oh my lord, @accirax literally went on a deep dive for us and gave us a pretty good explanation and educated guess on everyone’s talents. I’m not going to link it because they covered pretty much every logical point as to why they have their guesses. Here’s the post if you haven’t already seen it https://www.tumblr.com/accirax/728687594893885440/drdt-new-character-talent-analysis

Anyways this is just the sum-up of everyone’s theorizing + a bit of my add on to it, and huge kudos to everyone who’s been making theories so far. I’ll be updating & crediting if there’s anymore notable things that come out.

Thanks for reading!

[annaisabookworm]

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@avalynlestrange : LOVE U SM

@veryberryjelly : *chefs kiss*

@mxqdii - AHHHHH NO SUCH GOOD FANFICS OMG-

@bettymylove : *faints when a new post notification comes*

@crazyhearttragedy : THE MOST ACTIVE MOOT EVER IN THE BEST WAY ALWAYS TALKING CONNECTING ASKING QUESTIONS OVERALL ♾️/10

@slytherinslut0 : OMG OMG HER MATTHEO RIDDLE SERIES BEG FOR ME IS THE BEST THING IVE EVER READ

A/n: I’m starting to write fics and I’m really active and supportive if you’d wanna follow me(no pressure at all though!) have a magical day 🩷🩷

[remypat]

In 2016, I heard many of my friends talk about a new anime centered around figure skating. I was eighteen years old, closeted, and I had never given figure skating a second thought. It just didn’t seem appealing to me. Well, after a couple weeks of having my tumblr page be flooded with clips from Yuri on Ice, I caved in and watched it. After all, you can only see butt-naked Victor so many times before finally saying “You know what? I guess I’ll give it a try”

And Oh My God. My life was never the same. 

First off, the story that is woven in this anime is so beautifully hilarious. Like, you’re telling me, that this 27 year old living legend got swept off his feet by a drunk Japanese man and he dropped everything to go be his coach? At eighteen, it seemed ridiculous but now as an openly queer 26 year old, all I can say is: I GET IT. I would have been in Japan yesterday. I’m a writer that loves campy humor and this was not just my cup of tea, it was like ambrosia sent from the gods of olympus. I love it.

I also fell in love with figure skating. I’ve watched Worlds, the Grand Prix, Nationals, and both the 2018 and 2022 Winter Olympics through my TV screen. I was so into figure skating, I still remember when Nathan Chen said that it was really hard for him (a straight man) to compete a gay-dominated sport. (Yeah, no one wants to bring that up since he won his gold medal.) But my point is, Yuri on Ice means a lot to me. It always will. Thanks to YOI, I fell in love with figure skating and it’s thanks to that love that I have created my own little story centered around figure skating. 

My story is called Why Lie Now?

Yes, it is a queer romance and yes, it is about figure skating, but it’s not Yuri on Ice. I cannot possibly ask you all to fill the void in your hearts with my story, but I implore you, that if you like queer romances, and you like figure skating, you just might really like this story too. 

I am updating in parts but for the meantime, please check it out!

[chaotic-orphan]

I found your blog today AND I spent like the whole day just reading your work.

I ended up spending ALLL My afternoon and evening reading the Intoxicating Fear up to the latest chapter and oh my GOD did you deliver. Kit is a fucking charmer of an asshole. LIKE HOW AM I CHARMED BY THIS SADISTIC MF???👁️👁️

😭 Your writing is just so good.

Haven't had anything make me feel so strongly for a while.

👉👈Your replies were restricted though, i would love to be added to the updates list if that's possible.

I kept seeing your name flash while up in my notifs during the day and am so happy my writing made you feel so strongly!!!🥹 thank you for telling me, and reaching out to tell me my damn replies were blocked [[idk how many years I have been on this app and still I am learning new things]] but i fixed it now so thank you again!!! And of course I will add you to the tag list!!!! Thank you for reading, I’m so happy you enjoyed it <3 ((I am smiling wide rn)) but unfortunately I cannot answer why Ambrose is so charming, I secretly think he’s just compelled us all into loving him? And thinking he’s cool?

Although, I have a little question if you’re up to answering??

Now, full disclosure, I am putting you on the spot but there is an opt out option if you don’t want to answer, and the opt out option is this emoji: “😌” [so mysterious, so demure, so mindful]

BUT MY QUESTION IS — because it’s been a hot topic in the last day or so — Kit and Ambrose, did you feel any gay subtext between ‘em? Are you waiting for Ambrose to run in, save the day, swoop Kit in his arms and kiss him? I was only yesterday (?) made aware that this is a common enough thing from people who read the series and fresh eyes would be wonderful on the topic

@jesterrinobutter idk if tumblr tags people when their ask is answered so JUST IN CASE :)

[the-bloody-sadist]

ONLY SIX OF YOU WILL SEE THIS IM SURE BUT I HAVE BEEN ABLE TO WRITE AGAIN TODAY AND I AM MAKING PROGRESS ON THAT SINNER EPILOGUE THATS BEEN THE HANGNAIL OF MY LIFE LATELY AND I CANNOT EXPRESS HOW MUCH IVE FELT LIKE I CANT WRITE ANYMORE BECAUSE MY FOCUS AND MOTIVATION HAS BEEN FUCKED UP (since my brain is too aware that writing doesn’t make me money and new followers, ART does, so I’m wasting time) BUT I DONT KNOW MAYBE I STILL GOT IT. QUESTION MARK.

THATS ALL. 🫡

JUST KNOW IM WRITING THAT SINNER THING.

On a quieter note, I really miss having commentary and compliments on my writing. It was a huge source of fulfillment and comfort to me. I still get a nice trickle of it over the months from new Sinner readers mostly, but I miss when I was posting Dancing With Death on here (even though I loathe looking at the absolute dogshit versions that are up on tumblr because the formatting for posts is INSANE and I can’t copy-paste from my word doc for updated edits….oh god the minx sex chapter is so bad…oh god…) to the point where I’m ALMOST. Almost. Thinking about taking it out of Patreon lockdown and posting all of the chapters I have here? Because I’m really stuck on it and I think that any sort of feedback/interest might be the shove I need to start working on it again.

That is, if it even gets interest 🙂‍↕️ which is the issue. Do I want to sacrifice the small chance I have at professionally publishing DWD by posting everything on here and dooming it to self-publishing? Or do I want to keep it in the basement on Patreon where nobody engages with it except my best bud (who’s the biggest fan I love him so much) and I’m not sure if I’m making the right story choices….?

TOUGH DECISIONS. I DONT USUALLY POST ABOUT RANDOM THOUGHTS BUT IVE HAD TO CUT OFF SO MANY PEOPLE AFTER THE ELECTION AND IM A BIT LONELY. YOU UNDERSTAND IM SURE.

OKAY GOODNIGHT SLEEP TIGHT MUAH SHOULD I SING YOU A LITTLE LULLABY?? NO???????? NO??? WHO THE FUCK SAID THAT?!?

[autisticlancemcclain]

thank u @zenstrike for the tag <333333333 i see ur mic and i'm elated about it

1. how many works do you have on ao3?

185! but i haven't updated in like a week and a half so we're probably closer to 190

2. what’s your total ao3 word count?

556,104. i am very excited to watch it jump up when i finally finish my longfic teehee

3. what fandoms do you write for?

literally just voltron lol. well not counting baby me's wattpad lol. i started writing almost two years ago and just went ham basically. i've been intentionally avoiding things that i know i will get hyperfixated on bc i don't want to stop my writing obsession lol

4. what are your top five fics by kudos?

ooooou i'm excited to check. i know it's changed quite a bit over time. i usually sort them by hits!

i will grind you to sand (beneath my louboutin heels) [voltron, 2573 words]: bamf lance fic where i give him a revolver and let him go ham basically

mr. snuggles [voltron, 1656 words]: one of my very earliest fics! lance, lover of weirdo animals, finds a demonic cat-sized spider and adopts it despite his friend's freakouts

he might not look like he gets bitches (but honey that dick was eleven inches) [voltron, 1136 words]: this one is so dorky lol but it's just secret relationship klance coming to light in the most embarrassing possible way

does anyone know where the love of god goes (when the waves turn the minutes to hours) [voltron, 4283]: a canon divergence au where lance is a seer and convinces the skeptics on his team of his abilities by ending the war

this is the part of me that you're never gonna ever get away) [voltron, 3262 words]: a lance & shiro hurt/comfort with a small autistic lance character study! i'm very proud of this one

5. do you respond to comments?

i definitely do on tumblr! it's one of the first things i do when i wake up actually. on ao3, though...i'm pretty sure i have about eight hundred unanswered comments sitting in my inbox 💀 it's an ongoing issue

6. what’s the fic you wrote with the angstiest ending?

i'm almost sure it's this post-game show lance leaving fic, because i got comments and asks for weeks begging me to write a happy ending lol. but this fic from the hana universe, from when keith is little and shiro is fighting for custody and they haven't figured things out yet. that one is sad. this dream pov adashi fic is also sad and has no happy ending bc, you know. shiro is in space and adam thinks he's dead and everything. my loneliest series is also still in progress and as such there is no happy ending. and this is my earliest angsty-ending fic with MCD

7. what’s the fic you wrote with the happiest ending?

oh god pretty much everything i write has a happy ending?? if i’m being serious?? frankly i don’t do a lot of linear plot. i just write Scenes that are vaguely connected. BUT my h2o fic had a plot that ended happily, as did my cowboy fic, but truly i’m more of a slice of life kinda gal. all my active wips are plot-driven, though, and i plan for all of them to end happily.

8. do you get hate on fics?

oh god yeah. i get it on brown eyed lance, autistic lance, adhd keith, allura just in general (are you sensing a pattern), my refusal to use readmores, and lately just some demands for me to write differently/more?? most of it is just funny so i post it to goof on it lol, but some of it i just delete and pout about until i forget about it 💀

9. do you write smut? if so, what kind?

yes and it’s nasty and i will literally never ever post it. although i guess i’ve written some softer stuff that’s more allusion than anything, like in my loneliest series.

10. do you write crossovers? what’s the craziest one you’ve written?

not anymore, but i did when i was a kid?? i think i wrote a pjo/hoo/divergent/the mortal instruments/homestuck/a bunch of other shit fic when i was 13. i’ve successfully blocked that era out of my mind tho so i’m not sure. i do a lot of insane aus, tho. i wrote a fic based off a country song written in the sixties. so.

11. have you ever had a fic stolen?

i’ve had people write continuations of my wips?? which i didn’t rly like. i just ignored it.

12. have you ever had a fic translated?

someone has asked me about translating a fic before! haven’t heard anything since tho.

13. have you ever co-written a fic before?

i have tried. i’m not very good at it. i have very Specific ideas about things and can be very controlling, so it’s honestly better that i don’t lol.

14. what’s your all-time favorite ship?

klance, easy. been in the trenches of this goddamn fandom since i was 13 years of age. it’s been a Journey.

15. what’s a WIP you want to finish, but doubt you ever will?

god, the butterfly effect. i get people asking me to update all the time and i genuinely feel bad, because i have absolutely no ideas or plans for it. i might try to come up with an ending of some kind?? but i wrote that like two years ago, so i have changed a LOT about my writing since then.

16. what are your writing strengths?

dialogue and humour, i think. and sometimes writing lack of emotional communication (if that makes sense — i like to try and write around an emotion).

17. what are your writing weaknesses?

i over explain a lot. and i overuse dialog ur tags sometimes. i have a Very Specific scene playing out in my head and i want everyone else to see it like i’m seeing it, which is my downfall a lot. i’ve been trying to work on implicit stage directions.

18. thoughts on writing dialogue in another language for a fic?

i think sometimes it’s necessary? it can be a good tool for humour, like with cussing that can’t be achieved in english. but while i understand and read several languages i have always always struggled to speak or write in them. it’s very frustrating so i often avoid the subject entirely lol.

19. first fandom you wrote for?

i’ve been writing fanfic in my head since before i knew what it was, but i started typing things at around 11 when i used to homestuck roleplay with my friends lol. messy messy times.

20. favorite fic you’ve ever written?

oh i am my own target audience. i have several.

i need a man (who’s patient and kind): keith-centric post canon (divergence) fic where lance takes him to his family and keith is good with kids and just keith being loved is the whole point. always.

what if i lose it all: an alternate universe where lance, as a baby, loses both his parents, and then is raised by his oldest siblings. in luis’ pov.

when does a ripple become a tidal wave (when does the reason become the flame): brogane fight & angst canon divergence post season 6; covering shiro’s guilt complex and keith’s unwavering loyalty

he’s into superstitions (black cats and voodoo dolls): halloween verse with witch lance and vampire keith! i have barely spoken about this au on here but rest assured i’m thinking about it all the fucking time

the applebee’s universe: modern au with young keith and lance learning how to love each other

ceilings (plaster): non-linear dream-like fic that’s just so trippy and strange i’m obsessed with it

if the sky comes falling down (for you) there’s nothing in this world i wouldn’t do: a keith character study about how the biggest bleeding heart in the universe loves

the hana universe: brogane-centric universe as their family starts rocky and grows

thank u again for the tag zen <33 open offer for anyone else who would like to hop on!!

[kanmom51]

Not only did I miss it all, well most of it, but the whole post I wrote about it is gone.

😭😭😭😭

Crazy crazy night.

As per usual, nothing new, shouldn’t be upset or surprised about it, everything goes down when I’m sleeping.

I managed to watch Suchwita, and off to bed I went.

Dreaming, hoping, beyond hope, that JK will come to us live.

And then it all unfolded.

And I missed it. 😭😭😭

So, I wake up, see it, vent to you guys, try to save my beautifully worded venting, and effing Tumblr just poofed it all away.

I’m so friggin frustrated.

So, here I am now, trying to re-write, not very successfully (so if this post sucks blame Tumblr), my thoughts for this morning.

After Suchwita JM posted.

A little while later JK replied.

Kind of makes you wonder who JM was missing, seeing he just spent time with army at his pre-recordings. Same goes with JK. Who you miss JK?

And then JK came live.

And he did a whole JM centered live.

A whole “this one is going to be about JM” friggin live.

He watched JM’s songs.

He watched JM centred videos.

He listened to love songs.

God, I do have my work cut out for me.

But before I’m off back to work (I’m sitting here re-writing my post in between calls and meetings instead of working for a living), I do want to mention one wittle point.

JM Suchwita. Cute, happy, interesting discussion.

And I know what y’all are gonna ask me. Letter. Right?

Well, how do I say it?

I’ll make it sweet and short.

I think I will word it like this:

Suga didn’t know about the song, didn’t hear it either.

JM said he wrote this song to deliver HIS emotion to the fans. All this while serendipity is playing in the background.

(Notice the reaction to Serendipity playing in the background while talking about Letter. Karmy see it all...)

And he moved on.

The speed JM moved on from that, he left road runner in the dust behind him wondering where JM was off too so fast.

Now, if indeed this was a song about army, for army, the biggest gift JM could have given army in his first solo album, kind of strange how little he wants to talk about it, don’t you think?

Also, the whole album JM doing without the members, it’s his solo album after all. And for this gift of his to army, something that’s supposed to be so personal/intimate (the song is so intimate), and he has JK join him? For background voice which he did oh so well ¾ of the way through the song?

Oh, btw, Face off not a breakup song. Just wanted to throw that in, by the by.

And then we have JK.

The man that came to us the morning before. Guitar ready. All to give us that spoiler to the song he sang with JM. The song that he didn’t play the guitar for, but learnt it to be able to play it for us.

The man that took part in this song.

This supposed song for army.

Not a word.

I mean he came and played the guitar for us telling us about this song.

And now he isn’t singing it? Talking about it? Listening to it?

For a HUGE gift for army, those two are acting pretty sus at how much they are avoiding it.

Anyway, I’m off back to work.

We have a great day coming.

JK CK dropping today.

Of course you’ll be getting a full rundown of the live. You know me.

It might take time though.

So I’ll leave you with a couple of little gifts for you to get the gist of the mood of this live we got, a droplet in the sea yet to come...

And I thought I'd be leaving you with that, lol.

Look what our Jiminie replied to his Jungkookie...

And I wouldn't be surprised the actual translation is cuter than that. Will keep you updated, of course. 😘

[thestruidora]

Sweetheart

Supernatural Fanfiction

Rating: Explicit

WARNINGS: This story will contain but it’ll not be limited to explicit 18+ content including Yandere, Borderline Personality Disorder, Stalker, Possessive Behavior, Romance, Angst, Angst, Fluff and Smut, Rape/Non-con Elements, Hurt/Comfort, Therapy, Miscommunication, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Obsessive Behavior, Smut, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Oral Sex, Dirty Talk, Praise Kink

Category: F/M

Pairings: Dean Winchester/You, Dean Winchester/Reader

Summary: Dean has borderline personality disorder and the reader is his favorite person.

Chapter Updates: Masterlist

Author's notes: It's Jensen's birthday and I'm on tumblr posting disturbing fanfiction about him. What better gift is there?

Chapter Three

Three of Swords

“The Three of Swords is a card of heartache and sadness. In a love reading, it can represent loneliness, infidelity or rejection.”

“Hi,” Dean’s mouth was dry, but his palms were sweating. He didn’t remember feeling this nervous in a very long time. “I have a session with Y/N.”

“Just one sec.” The receptionist said without sparing him a single glance, too busy typing something on the computer behind the front desk. After almost a full minute had gone by, she finally looked up at him. Her eyes grew under her blunt bangs, giving Dean a quick once-over, a charmed smile appearing on her lips. “Oh, hello! How can I help you?”

She giggled, honest-to-God giggled, and that only made Dean’s nerves rise.

He still had an effect on women, same as usual. He still made them lose track of their whereabouts, made them giddy without even having to try. And that meant that you, specifically, were immune to it. The only woman in the world he wanted to impress and you seemed to be unattainable.

“I have a therapy session with Y/N.” He repeated it.

“Of course.” She shook her head, trying to concentrate on her task. “Let me just look for your appointment… What’s your name?” She was all smiles, draping herself on her desk as she leaned forward in his direction.

“Dean.” He cracked the knuckles of his hands, feeling unsettled. He just wanted to see you. “Winchester.”

“Okay.” She typed some more on the keyboard. “Oh, here you are, ‘Winchester’. You’re right on time, she actually just wrapped up with her last patient and is already waiting for you. If you go through this corridor, it’s the second door to the right.”

“Thanks.” He replied, going down the path she indicated.

He thought about how he had gotten here, having to lie and manipulate someone he cared about. But it was for your own good.

“Yes, Dean, it is very much set in stone.” It had been your answer when he asked about being your patient. You had discernibly taken it as a joke with the way you laughed it off, moving to get up from the park bench and go on your way.

But Dean held your arm and prevented your exit.

“I’m serious.” He told you in a somber tone.

“But you basically just said you’d never want to go to therapy, wouldn't even consider it.” You eyed the big hand that was wrapped around your forearm, not understanding his abrupt change in demeanor.

“Yeah, but I think maybe I should.” He noticed your tense posture and let go of your arm, allowing some space between the two of you, his voice lowering in volume at his next words. “I didn’t want to have to spring this all up on you, but… Remember when I told you that I have no family left?”

“Yes.” Your tone matched his as you relaxed a bit into the conversation.

“I failed to mention that my brother’s death happened recently, a little over a year ago.” He couldn't believe he said it, he had never spoken about it to anyone other than Lisa, and he only ever said what she needed to know, which wasn’t much.

“I’m so sorry.” Your eyebrows frowned and your eyes filled with genuine compassion, and the way that your expression reminded him of Sam made his chest ache.

“I am too. And I think this sorrow has affected me more than I care to admit.” He confessed. “I talked to some people about itand it didn’t help. But when I talk to you, it does.” That was all true, everything he had told you up to that point had been the utter truth.

“Look, grief can be a devastating thing to go through. And there are plenty of people that can help you deal with it in the best possible way, professionals on the matter, I can absolutely refer you to-”

“No, please. You don’t understand, it has to be you.” Because you’re being haunted and I need to stay close to you to work the case.

“There are ways for people that feel uncomfortable to begin engaging in psychotherapy that are less invasive than what you think. You would start slow, ease your way into it, but I can’t be the one to do it.” Your expression was even and your voice gentle. “I already know you, on a personal level, that is not how a therapist/patient relationship should go.”

“I won’t be able to open up to some stranger.” That part was real. “And I think… I think I really need this. I’ve been having these nightmares, every night.” And so was that. “And sometimes, when I’m alone, I’ll just stare off into nothing… and think about ending things.” But that, his final move, the one that made your lips fall apart and your mind race with the repercussions of saying no to him; that was a lie.

“Dean, what you’re confiding in me is very serious. You’ve just described you’re having suicidal ideations.” He knew that, and he knew that it was wrong, but it was justified.

“Will you help me?”

Of course you would. And you did.

You gave him your business card, embossed with your full name in an elegant font, and the information on your private practice. You told him to call and set in an appointment, that you would make sure to vacate a date for him sooner than later, but that it might still take a couple of days. Apparently, you were very successful at your job.

He googled you to, you know, research the case.

A bunch of pictures of you came up and a few articles on your work as well. You used to wear braces when you were younger and your hair was different, but still the same sparkle in your eyes.

Your Facebook page was abandoned and your professional Instagram had almost no photos of you altogether. He really wished he could see what you posted in your personal account, but it was private. He didn’t believe that it would be a good idea to create a profile just to send you a request, he didn’t want you to think that he was some sort of stalker, after all.

But the articles on you were interesting, you seemed to be outright celebrated in your field. People would travel all over Michigan just for your expertise.

You had graduated from college with accolades and written two books that had been published and sold pretty well. One was about Histrionic Personality Disorder, it was a very thick book and students would write papers on it. The other was a self-help book about dealing with loss, and the inspiration behind that one was the death of both of your parents due to a fatal car accident.

Dean couldn't imagine you as an orphan filled with trauma and heartache, you were so well-adjusted and joyful. He had always thought that you had this big, happy family with whom you’d spend the holidays every year. A huge pool of friends that rallied around you all of the time, because who wouldn't?

You were like the sun, and everyone close to you was just lucky to be in your orbit.

So he couldn't comprehend why on earth you’d choose to live in that godawful building that, as far as you knew, had a faulty heating system and a mice infestation. It wasn’t situated in a particularly nice neighborhood, either, from what he had scoped out from the place.

It hadn’t taken long for him to find your address, it was actually alarming just how easy it had been. He would take off from work early, park his stupid minivan across your street, and simply watch. The big glass windows of your house gave him lots to see.

You had a structured routine that he had committed to memory.

You woke up every day at the same time, read your emails first thing and only then you’d have breakfast. You’d put food in your cat’s and Loki’s bowl before getting in the shower. You didn’t tend to take long before leaving for work. When you’d return home, however, varied, depending on how busy your office was.

And that was the perfect opportunity for Dean to go in and inspect the area firsthand.

He shouldn’t do it, he knew that.

He knew, but still, his body kept moving, crossing the street and walking into your building. Getting in the elevator and pressing your floor number. Going up to your front door and picking the lock till it opened.

It wasn't like he had never had to break into places on a hunt before. Because that’s what he told himself, that he was on a hunt.

It didn’t matter how personal it felt.

It didn’t matter that the first thing he did after stepping in was to inhale the smell of the living room because it was saturated in your perfume.

It didn’t matter that he spent nearly ten full minutes contemplating the framed portraits on your walls, the old family pictures that you kept so that you could hold on to those happier moments when they were all in your life still; he did the same.

It didn’t matter that he stood in front of your bedroom door and hesitated to cross the threshold because it felt like it meant something.

And once he was in, it didn’t matter that he stayed for many hours, running his fingers through your bedsheets with a longing feeling in the back of his mind, or combing through your belongings inside the nightstand and in the closet, finding little mementos that he took with him.

A delicate necklace with a shimmering pendant attached to its chain. A bottle of body lotion that had a fresh, clean scent. One of your panties, made of off-white lace fabric, the type one might wear on their wedding night.

That wasn’t wrong, per se. Maybe a little strange, but he wasn’t hurting anybody.

He just wanted a few of your things, as keepsakes. To be fair, it was the least you could do, since everything he was doing was to protect you.

All things considered, Dean thought that you should be grateful, ‘cause when he pulled out his EMF meter, the thing lit up like a Christmas tree.

You definitely had a ghost, perhaps more than one. The whole apartment was getting a high reading, but the bathroom was where it was most concentrated. He would have to look further into that, but seeing that the spirit had already had ample opportunity to hurt you and didn’t, he believed that it would be ok to leave for the day, predominantly because, at that point, you could come back home at any minute.

That was three days ago, and since then he had developed a structured routine of his own.

He would wake up at the crack of dawn, surprisingly energized. Go about his daily tasks as usual, avoiding Lisa and her suspicious looks. Park across your street and watch you through your windows as you moved along your space, completely unconcerned. After you left, he would follow you to work, just to make sure you got there safely. Then, he was off to the library, researching the history of your building and any past deaths that may have happened there.

Lo and behold, there were, in fact, multiple deaths.

All males, of different ages and backgrounds. They would just appear dead by drowning in the bathtub and the police concluded they were all suicides. They were all lonely guys who rented the place by themselves, it made sense.

So clearly the ghost had a particular M.O. and stuck to it, because ever since you moved in, seven years ago, there were no more reported ‘suicides’. It was probably stuck to your apartment, specifically, but it didn’t go after women, which was reassuring.

But how it had all started was the important part.

The first person found dead in the place, the very first case of suicide that began the spree, wasn’t a man, but a young woman; Judith McCook, barely twenty-three when she met her demise.

Her family had given an interview to the local newspaper about the tragedy and they couldn't believe their daughter had taken her own life, blaming her passing on her then-boyfriend, who chose not to comment on anything. When Dean made a quick internet search on him, he found that the guy had moved away soon after the whole situation had gone down, and died in a bar fight years later.

So the Winchester had found his ghost. Poor Judith had died a horrible death and became a vengeful spirit, and even if she wasn’t a threat to you, it was still his duty to send her packing.

Problem was, she had been cremated, so there was no body to salt and burn. Which meant that Dean would have to go back to your apartment and look for an object that she might be tied to. He was planning on doing it today, but that was before he received a call about a spot opening up on your schedule and the possibility of his session being moved up, if he so desired. And after three entire days of not seeing you, at least not to your knowledge, he did desire it.

“Come in.” Your words brought him back to the present, calling him to enter after he had knocked on the door. “Please take a seat, anywhere you’d like.” You told him once he set foot into your office.

The room was different than what he had imagined. It had high ceilings and big windows that allowed the sun to shine through. There was a desk in the left corner, with many books and pieces of paper organized on top. There were framed diplomas and awards hanging on the walls, painted a light tone of beige. In the middle of the room, there was a leather armchair, which was where you were seated. In front of you was a big couch with soft-looking fabric cushions. And on the right corner, there was a beanbag on the floor and a chair by its side.

Considering his options, he decided to sit on the couch in front of you.

“Hi, Dean, how are you?”

You had your hair up and a pair of glasses on your face, not the thin-framed kind that he had previously pictured, but rounded and well-fitted for you. You were wearing a blazer and pleated pants, a notepad resting on your thighs, and a pen in your right hand. You looked beautiful and intimidating at the same time.

“I’m okay, all things considered. How are you?” He cracked the knuckles of his fingers again, and you took notice of the gesture before offering him a disarming smile.

“I’m okay myself, thanks for asking. So, should we get started?” You tapped your pen against the notepad on your lap, and he fixed himself on his seat.

“Fire away.” He replied, hoping that you couldn't see right through him.

“Alright, it’s your first session so before we can get down to the nitty gritty I’m going to ask you a few questions about yourself, just so that I can understand your past and we can get to working on your present, how does that sound?” You moved your hands while you spoke, your manicured nails and your pretty rings being the things Dean was trying to focus on.

“Fine.”

“If at any point you feel uncomfortable with my line of questioning you can just ask me to change the subject, and I’ll do so right away.” He had never seen himself in a situation like this. Sure, he was the one who essentially forced you to take him as a patient, but he definitely hadn’t thought this far ahead. “Let’s start from the beginning, then. What was your childhood like?”

“My childhood? Hm…” He could hear his heart beating in his ears. “Well, my mom died when I was four, and my dad didn’t take it very well, you know, losing her? So he sold the house that we lived in and put me and my brother in the car, just traveling, going from city to city.” That was an oversimplification, but it was not like he could tell you the real story.

“Is it safe to assume that you were always the new kid in town, then? Army brat type of thing?” You were effortlessly writing something down as you asked, the sound of the ball pen on the paper resonating in the otherwise silent room.

“Oh, yeah, big time.” He smiled at you and your insightfulness.

“Was it ever isolating, that lifestyle, or you enjoyed it?” Your posture was upright and confident, you were in your element.

“A little bit of both, I think.” He paid attention to your collarbone and your pulse beneath your skin, you were so calm while he was so anxious. Didn’t his presence affect you at all?

“What was your father’s name?” You looked up at him, pen ready for his response.

“John.”

“And your mother’s?”

“Mary.”

“You said that she passed away when you were four, do you have any memories of her?” Your tone wasn’t what he was used to hearing from you, it was clinical, emotionless.

“I do, not many.” He gulped, not exactly enjoying going down this lane.

“And are they very vivid memories or are they blurry, almost like a dream?” There was a photo of you on the day of your graduation on top of your desk, behind you. You were in your cap and gown, the proudest of grins on your lips.

“Blurry.” He kept looking at the photo, trying to visualize how his life would have been if he had gone to university like you did. Like Sam wanted to.

“That’s very common, it’s hard for adult brains to access certain images from childhood, especially from such a young age.”

Would you like him better if he was college educated, if he was a smart-ass that could awe you with his vast intellect? Was that your type?

“Tell me about your father, what was he like?” That made him snap his eyes right back at you.

“My dad?” He asked back so that he had time to rearrange his thoughts, and you simply nodded, unaware of his internal monologue. “My dad… was a hero, my hero. But also, a very complicated guy, with a lot of guilt.” You had a lot to write after that.

“Was he an affectionate man or was he more closed off?” Dean smirked just at the notion of putting ‘John Winchester’ and ‘affectionate’ in the same sentence.

“I’d say more closed off.” That earned another nod from you.

“What was your brother’s name?”

“Sam.” He reclined himself against the sofa’s back, attempting to become settled.

“You told me that your father put you and Sam on the road and that’s how you grew up, why do you think that was his response to your mother’s death?” That was a big question, and the real answer involved demons, angels, and the Devil himself, so instead Dean said:

“I think he lost his purpose, wanted to drown himself into work, and that’s what he did. Taught me and Sam everything I know.” That wasn’t entirely false, right?

“Oh, so all those road trips were work-related.” You ran out of space and had to switch to a blank page in order to write down some more notes. Dean always knew he had a complex family history, but he never thought that he would pay someone to analyze it and transcribe the highlights. But that was before he met you. “And you and your brother were involved in the work?”

“Yeah, my dad wanted us to be prepared, take over the family business one day, which we did after he died.” He explained.

“And what was the family business?” You inquired in the most innocuous way, as if nothing in his reply could shock you, and that was probably true, for most families.

“We hunted down all the things that go bump in the night, the creatures that no one else wants to deal with.” He said without thinking. He could tell it confused you, but he just said it.

Because he was growing tired of lying to you, because he wanted you to know him, the real him. But he couldn't, because the truth would not only scare you, but also not set you free, contrary to what anyone might think.

The truth would make you paranoid, distrusting of everything and everyone. You would see monsters wherever you looked. You’d have nightmares about carnage and gore. And you would live in fear of losing anyone you love or ever loved, because of beasts bigger, stronger, and more powerful than you.

He’d rather you be blissfully ignorant.

“Pest control. My family and I worked on pest control.” That’s what he followed up his last words with.

“I see.” Comprehension flashed across your features, and you were back to diligent note-taking. “Dean, you mentioned the other day that your brother had passed away fairly recently and that had taken a big toll on your mental health, were you two very close?”

“Sam and I…” He didn’t want to have to think about that. “We only had each other in the world, we were always together, and now that he’s…” He didn’t want to finish that phrase. “I feel all alone.” 

“Was he your younger or older brother?” Your eyes filled with empathy, but you kept going.

“Younger.” What was the point?

“By how many years?” It didn’t matter.

“Four.” Sammy was gone.

“I’m going to say something and I want you to correct me if I’m wrong.” You began, and Dean was so not ready for what was to come. “You were raised by a single father who took you and your little brother all across the country, going from one place to the next, never having a solid foundation to stand upon. I believe that you and Sam tried to be each other’s foundation, since you didn’t receive that from your primary caregiver. And ever since he passed, you feel a sense of helplessness. It’s almost like if you are not taking care of him you don’t know what to do with yourself. Am I right?”

Damn, you’re a good psychologist.

“You’re not wrong.” You cracked a lighthearted smile once he responded. He had missed those.

“I want you to know that it gets better. There actually are ways one can go about overcoming the immense hurt that comes from losing a loved one.” You spoke with all the authority that only someone who had personally gone through it could have.

“Did you ever lose someone like that?” He already knew the answer, but he wanted to know if you would open up to him like he opened up to you.

“I have.” It was all you gave him, showing clear signs that you did not want to get into it, but relationships are built on sharing. So he looked right into your eyes and continued.

“Who was it?” You held his gaze, surprised by his persistence.

“My parents, they died when I was still a teenager.” You said as if it didn’t hurt anymore, as if the wounds had closed up and healed. But he knew the scars were still there. “Now, back to you-”

“At least you still have your sister.” He interrupted. Your countenance contorted into bewilderment on how he knew that, and he felt like he had to explain. “You spoke about her once, in the park.”

“Ah.” You seemed to recall. “Yes, I still have my sister, but she’s the only person I have left ever since my brother passed away as well.”

“You had a brother?” He honestly did not know that.

“Yeah, he… He killed himself, seven years ago. Drowned in a bathtub.” You said in a restrained tone.

Realization hit him like a ton of bricks but he couldn't let it show.

So that’s why you lived where you did. You had the money to move, but you wouldn't. Because you wanted to stay close to your brother. Close to where he died.

That wasn’t moving forward, that wasn’t starting a new chapter in your life. That was the complete opposite of what you preached in your self-help book and what you preached to him.

You were just as messed up as he was. You also couldn't let go.

The only difference was that Dean knew what had happened to Sam, where he was, and why he would never come back. You, on the other hand, believed that your brother had opted out. But that wasn’t the case. He had been murdered by a ghost. And that had caused you suffering and torment, so Dean was going to fix it.

He would make it right, not because it was his duty as a hunter. No, that wasn’t the key reason.

He was gonna do it for you.

The watch on your wrist beeped and pulled him out of his considerations.

“Oh, my goodness, Dean, I’m so sorry, I’m gonna have to stop our session here because of time. I didn’t even realize, it went by so fast.” You closed your notepad and got up, smiling graciously at him.

“It really did.” He agreed, getting up from his seat himself.

“Anyways, I shouldn’t have gone on about my family like that, it was inappropriate.” You moved to put your annotations in one of the drawers of your desk.

“Y/N, you can always say whatever’s on your mind when you’re with me, we’re friends.” He walked over to you, trying to reach you, but you took a step back.

“No, we are therapist and patient now.” Your voice was stern and unwavering.

Dean’s heartbeat quickened.

That wasn’t what he wanted. He wanted more time with you. Wait, he needed more time with you to work the case and that would in turn help in furthering your relationship with him. He didn’t think that it would make it more restrained, more distant.

“I’ll see you same time next week?” Maybe you would, but he’d make sure to see you way sooner than that.