#scar's junk drawer

[scarthefangirl]

Me everyday: *gets a fic idea* Yes I need to start this!

My 45 wips:

[scarthefangirl]

wish I had that

Well this sure hit me like a ton of bricks

[silassinclair]

Let me Take Care of You

Yandere Boxer x Injured Reader

Summary: It’s always been you taking care of Viktor and the other fighters. After all you’re the gym’s doctor! It’s your job. But what happens when it’s the other way around and you’re the one with the injury this time?

CW// Injuries, Blood, Personal Space Invaded

Masterlist Here!!

The gym was packed with fighters training for the upcoming fight this weekend. This weekend Viktor was going to be fighting a German fighter named Iron Klaus; the famous Iron Claw of Berlin. One punch from him and the opponent will be out like a light. So Viktor has been training especially hard in dodging and weaving for the past month.

While everyone was focused on training you decided to clean up a little bit around the clinic. The last doctor who worked here had no organizational skills whatsoever and it peeved you. So why not use the spare time to tidy up a little?

The top cabinet was pretty dusty. The dust was pretty annoying too because the fighters with a dust allergy would always be sneezing whenever they came in. Wetting one of the paper towels you look for something to stand on so you can reach the cabinet. There’s no stools or four legged chairs, only your swivel chair.

“This idea a terrible idea.” You think to yourself. But you have to get rid of that dust for the sake of your patients. So you wheel the chair over and put a foot on it. The wheels immediately feel like they want to slide out from under you. But you ignore it. You stand to your full height with both feet on the chair and begin dusting off the cabinet top.

But suddenly one of the six plastic wheels burst off the chair, throwing you completely off balance and sending you falling to the hard tile floor.

“AH-!” You scream and hit your head on the counter then fall to the floor with a loud thud. Groaning in pain you massage your tail bone. But then something gets in your eye. Something wet.

Tapping your forehead you flinch with a hiss when you accidentally touch an open wound.

“Oh shit oh shit oh shit.” You mutter repeatedly and rush to grab a mirror. Shuffling through the junk drawer of your desk you find a compact mirror and flip it open. And to your horror you see that the top right of your forehead as a long bleeding cut. Luckily it isn’t too deep but without proper care it could scar.

“Great…”

Getting some rubbing alcohol and a cotton pad you spurt some onto the pad. But just as you’re about to dab it onto the cut the door slams open causing you to drop the wet pad.

“Can you knock-?! Viktor?” You calm down when you see it’s just Viktor. If it were Alexi you would have thrown the alcohol bottle at him.

“I need some ice..” His words fall off his tongue and his eyes widen when he finally looks at you. Viktor takes large hurriedly steps towards you immediately.

“What happened kroshechnyy!?” He asks worriedly. “You’re bleeding so much. It may scar your simpatichnyy (pretty) face.”

You roll your eyes. “It looks worse than it feels. It’s alright. I was just about to disinfect before you came barging in. And don’t slam my door open anymore, you’ll break it.”

Viktor just grunts and takes you by the arm and pretty much forces you to sit on the bed. “I will help you.” He says and looks through your cabinets and drawers for supplies. He gets some hydrogen peroxide, cotton balls, gauze, and medical tape.

“You really don’t have to do that, go back to training Viktor. Don’t waste your time with me.” You say earnestly. He needs to spend his time training, not taking care of you. It was your own fault for getting into this mess anyways.

With all the supplies in hand Viktor turns to you with a shake of his head. “Any second spent with you is a second well spent, not wasted. So let me take care of you.”

And he wasn’t asking. He goes to work immediately and dabs some of the hydrogen peroxide onto a cotton ball and dabs it onto your forehead. When you wince in pain he shushes you calmly like a baby. Cooing and reassuring you that everything is going to be okay.

“Shh shh kroshechnyy, it will only hurt a bit.” He whispers and cleans the wound. The bleeding has stopped now.

His eyes are calm and focused as all his attention is on you. Helping you, taking care of you, loving you. It feels so domestic cleaning your wound. It makes him feel like the two of you are lovers. He gently lays a square of thin gauze over the cut and tapes it down with some of the medical tape.

“Sorry if the job is… sloppy. I am not used to attending wounds.” He mutters with disappointment in himself.

But you reassure him with a light smile. “Hey it’s a better job than what I would’ve done with just a compact mirror. I appreciate it, thank you.”

Viktor nods softly, he turns away from your gaze as pink blush dusts his pale cheeks.

You sit still for a moment. The sting of the cut is slowly fading away thanks to Viktor’s first aid. But then you remember why Viktor came into the office in the first place; you retrieve a bag of ice from the mini fridge.

“Here. Thank you again for helping me.” You say and hand him the bag.

Viktor nods with a small grunt and accepts the bag.

“So what’s the ice for?” You ask. “Did you get hurt?”

Viktor nods. “Olēg hit me pretty hard in the ribs. Old bald bastard still packs a mean punch.”

You chuckle. “Well it’s good practice for you against your upcoming match with that German guy. Anyway, you can rest here while you use that ice.”

Viktor smiles slightly. “You’ll let me rest here? Usually you always try to shoot me away kroshechnyy.”

Well he had a point. It annoyed you when Viktor would come in here on the daily and just watch you while you worked. But for the past few weeks he hasn’t visited due to his rigorous training regiment. Deep down you missed his calm presence and his awkward attempts at making small talk. So what if you missed him a little bit? He was the only decent company here. All the other fighters have no manners.

“This time is an exception, think of it as a thank you for patching me up this time.” You say whilst organizing some drawers.

You feel warmth press up from behind and turn your head slightly to the side. Viktor’s gotten up from the bed and came up behind you, pinning you to the desk with a hand on the hardwood on either side. His front is right against your back and you can feel his warm breath on the side of your cheek. He leant his face down lower; his lips just barely graze the shell of your ear.

“Viktor what did I say about personal space-”

“Sorry, I can’t help myself. I just really miss you.” He says with a low hum. His voice is rich and deep like honey, but also dark and dangerous like the night.

Shivers shoot up your spine. What was he trying to pull? “Viktor I said I wanted to take it slow with the whole becoming friends again thing…”

His hand slams down on the desk making you jump with a yelp.

“Well I’m getting impatient.” The growl in his voice makes your blood run cold.

“O-Okay okay j-just calm down for a sec.” You say wobbly. The feeling of his nose on the top of your head makes your train of thought stall. He inhales your scent slowly, reminiscing in the nostalgic smell of your lavender shampoo.

“Just let me hold you close… please. Think of it as your gift to me for patching you up.”

You nod your head in understanding. Viktor is a damaged man. He’s touch starved, affection starved, and had a rough up bringing. If he wanted some semblance of comfort from you then you’ll happily give it. Even if it’s awkward and slightly uncomfortable for yourself. But hey, maybe the uncomfortable feeling will go away soon once you two re-bond overtime.

“It’s alright.” You whisper and pat his back. “I’m here now… Just don’t fuck up again okay? Or I really won’t forgive you ever again.”

He hums lowly. “I’ll never. Never again.”

His arms wrap around you into a warm embrace. And you welcome the embrace. His exterior is cold but his arms are warm. You can’t help but put your arms around him in return.

The two of you bask in a couple minutes of calm silence. But shouts from outside the clinic yelling for Viktor can be heard. Said blonde grumbles in annoyance as he lets go of you, much to his distaste.

“Be more careful next time kroshechnyy. And take care of yourself.” He says while petting your hair. You bag his hand off your head with a grunt.

“Okay okay personal space breaking time is over. Now get out there and train.” You say and push him towards the door.

He rolls his eyes and opens the door. But before leaving he turns quickly to kiss your cheek, then shuts the door immediately and runs off.

“Bastard…” You mutter to yourself.

[ateriblewriter]

Butterflies (t.z)

Continuation of I’m Here

TRIGGERS: self harm, self worth, hinting at other things (if you or anyone ever needs help please do reach out)

a/n: sorry this a year late. but here it is! read with caution.

Enjoy?

"Do you have any sharpies? Or a permanent marker or something like that?" Trevor untangled himself from around your body when he felt the time was right. He didn't wait for your answer before he started to rummage through the drawers of junk that were in the kitchen.

Trevor wasn't about to act like he all the answers in world or like he was going to be the one to fix you. Because in reality that would be impossible, you needed someone trained in that field to help you long term. But that didn't mean that he couldn't help in the moment or at least try.

And he had an idea, something that he had seen when he was younger. A reminder for when your feelings got a little too big for you to handle by yourself. It also a place holder until he was able to help you find the correct help you needed. Because he wasn't going to leave you alone to deal with this on your own.

"Um. I think there might be one in the cup next to the sink." You mumble trying to remember where they were. You knew you had some. "Or else it's in with my art supplies. I don't know. I'm sorry."

"Hey now. There is nothing to be sorry about y/n." Trevor carried you over to your couch and making his way to your art corner to start scrounging around for that marker.

It took him a minute to find your collection, it turned out they were with the art supplies that hadn't been touched in months. He picked out two colors, purple and blue, your favorite color along with one of his.

Returning to where he had left you, he made himself comfortable. He snagged a blanket from the bin and laid it across the both of you. Trevor wasn't

"Give me your arm" He said, not asking. You didn't have the strength to question what his motives were, so you presented him with your wrist full of healing scars. He grimmaced seeing them, wondering how long this had been going on and why he didn't notice earlier.

Trevor took the purple marker starting to draw something. He started off with the body, adding some sort of antenna to what was supposed to be it head. He then took the blue marker and made wings on either side of its body.

"A butterfly?" You question rubbing and tracing over the temporary tattoo with the tip of your finger.

Your friend nodded and explained the simple rules: you want the butterfly to live by letting it fade naturally and reapplying it when you feel that certain urge. Oh and if you do act on those urges the butterfly dies.

You could do that. Or at least try. It seemed easy enough.

"You think she's gonna like it?" Trevor asked peeling off the bandage that once covered his newly acquired tattoo that laid on his right shoulder. He was looking to get something new to add to his collection of art in his body and he chose a butterfly design.

"A butterfly?" Mason scratched his head. He was a little unimpressed and a bit confused. But that's because he didn't know the significance of the creature. "I don't know man, it just seems kind of-"

"Perfect, right?" Trevor finished his sentence. He had grabbed a warm wash cloth to clean the remaining goop off.

"I was gonna say weird. But whatever floats your boat." The younger man shrugged. He didn't care what Trevor decided to put on his body.

Trevor groaned, quickly finishing up his tattoo care so they could go meet up with you. You would like the new ink, he was pretty positive of it. He just needed to show it to you know.

You weren't paying attention to what you were doing. Sometimes you do things and it just sort of happens and you don't really remember it. It was almost like you were in some sort of trance. A trance that had you acting upon some of those heavy feelings that had been plaguing you lately.

"Shit" You mumbled when you heard the knocking on the door. You had completely forgotten that Trevor and Mason were coming over. There was a fresh mark on your arm that you needed to take care of.

You hurried to the bathroom in search of some sort of bandage for your arm. Maybe you could play it off as an accident. You didn't need to tell Trevor what had happened. It would be fine right? Oh god you hoped Trevor wouldn't notice.

You just found a bandage, when you spotted the butterfly you had just drawn on your arm the day before. You panic a little, the drawing didn't have a purpose anymore and had to go. You drop the band-aid to reach for a nail scrubber and start to get rid of the butterfly.

"Come on, Y/n, open the door!" Trevor banged on the door again.

"You think she forgot?" Mason crossed his arms. It wouldn't be the first time it slipped her mind that they were supposed to hang.

"No we were talking about it earlier. I highly doubt she forgot so soon." Trevor frowned unsure what to do. Should he wait for you, maybe you were still getting ready. But he had a sinking suspicion that wasn't the case.

Trevor fished the key you had given him out of his pocket and opened the door. He suggested Mason stay there. Mason had no idea what Trevor had walked into last time something like this had happened, so he agreed to stay put.

Cautiously he entered your apartment and started to look around for you. He found you in the bathroom scrubbing away. He notice the red on your arm and put two and two together.

"Hey, Y/n?" He called out. He wasn't fully sure if you had completely heard him so he tried reaching you again. "Can you hear me?"

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry" You continue what you were doing.

"Hey. Listen to me. You're okay. It happens. I'm not mad." Trevor wanted to grab onto your wrists to get you to stop scrubbing at the butterfly that had already been cleanly washed off, but you swore you could still see a piece of it. Instead he grabbed onto your shoulders and turned you to face him so wrap his arms around you and pull you in close. "It's okay. Wanna draw a new one?"

Let me know what you think! Anything is appreciated!

[littlemessyjessi]

“Couple of Chaos” : A Kim Namjoon/RM Commissioned Request: Plus Size Reader, Messy Reader

Kim Namjoon x Reader, Plus Size Reader, Messy Reader, Established Relationship

.

.

Prompt: Namjoonie and his partner who is just as much of a mess as him. A darling. A lovely person. Love of his life. But just as much of a chaotic mess as he is, lol.

. 

“Life is the messy bits.” - Lisa Friedman

. 

Headcanons:  How Namjoon and Reader deal with the both of them being messy as hell. 

First and freaking foremost, you’re both disasters

just full on

You’re both equally chaotic

one as bad as the other

and yet ya’ll will get on each other’s nerves so bad with messes

like��. ya’ll both do it and yet when it’s the other person it’s somehow terrible

hypocrites, the both of yuns

that being said, in a way, ya’ll kinda complete each other

Namjoon is a perpetual passport loser right? 

And I’ve lost count of how many times he’s lost his air pods

Well, cue…. you

His personal storage locker… or purse.  Whichever you want to refer to it

If you carry a purse, just snatch his shit from him and keep up with it so this man can actually board a plane

If you don’t carry a purse but wear a bra, stick it in the boulder holder

If you don’t do either, put it in your pocket for him

If you don’t have pockets then you have bigger problems to worry about that Namjoon-ah and his lack of ability to keep up with his shit

Now, assuming that you do have these things, you do this so often that Namjoon just knows you have them. 

Needs chapstick? If you’re in a relatively private company, he just goes into your pocketeses for it

Passport? Ok, so Namjoon is smart as fuck. We get it.  However, he do be having some primo himbo energy at times.  

Picture this: Airport.  Namjoonie lost passport.  “Oh, wait a second.  I know where it is!”  Just turns and sticks his hand in your bra and deep sea dives in the titties until he has found what he’s looking for. Assuming that you have titties. If you don't, well again- homeboy is just deep sea diving in whatever area you're currently keeping his belongings.

meanwhile, the eyes of everyone around him have been scarred and you’ve just been violated in front of the entire airport 

he realizes this in about 3 seconds and all he can do is give you that cute dimpled smile

of course he’s forgiven.  It’s Joonie.  If you don’t forgive him then I’ll be along directly to deliver an ass whoopin'. Let's not play with sweet Namu's precious feelings. He's an angel and a perfectly wonderful person. Fuck with him and you fuck with me. And I have raged stored from the age of three. I am now in my 30s. I have it and I will use it.

so yeah

and going back to ya’ll getting on each other’s nerves

doom piles

There.  I said it.   

Ya’ll both got doom piles and junk drawers and whole ass closets just full of random crap

and you nearly kill each other over it on a regular basis

“Jagiyaaaaaaaaaaa! Come on! There is a full on mountain of stuff here and you can’t even close this drawer.”  

“Namjoon, would you like to discuss the entire guest bedroom full of figurines? Or perhaps, the closet full of books?  Or maybe, just maybe, you would like to explain to me why there is an drawer in our bedroom full of baby things when neither one of us has any plans of having children anytime soon?” 

“....” *Joon bites lip and narrows eyes

“....” *you lift a brow*

“Alright, jagi. My mistake. You hungry?” 

“Yes, I’m starving.” 

“Wonderful.” he smirks.  “Where would you like to eat?” 

Your head slowly turns around. 

You narrow your eyes at his smug ass face. 

“How fucking dare you, Kim Namjoon?” 

And he has the audacity to smirk at you because he knows he bested you cause you can’t decided where to eat to save your life.

Jokes on him though because you just needed a project.  It was sorting through your doom piles but now that he’s pissed you off it quickly changed to annoying the ever living hell out of him. 

Lowkey though, jokes actually on you because Joon loves it when your fiesty and sometimes purposefully does this shit just to rile you up. 

You also know this about him though.  Which is why you left the junk drawer open and also why you got sassy.   

He likes that you’re a mess and you love that about him too.

. 

. 

"This is the stuff that drives me crazy This is the stuff that's getting to me lately In the middle of my little mess I forget how big I'm blessed"

- This is the Stuff, Francesca Battistelli

. 

Members Reaction to the Deities of Destruction and Disaster: 

Seokjin:  (A/N: omfg Seokjin you did not have to be so aggressively attractive. And that goes for you too, Namjoon)

Long suffering sigh.  The hyung energy is strong here.   It’s part frustration and part pure bewilderment as to why, how and what even is he going to do with the both of you.  That being said, Seokjinnie thinks the two of you are super cute together.  You definitely get scolded but also, he cracks easily because come on.  Look at ya’ll.  Thanks God every day that Namjoon uses you as his purse though.  He is so tired of standing around in an airport, lol. 

Yoongi:  (A/N: Cue the dreamy sigh. Just look at them. Look at the smiles. Look at the damn ARMS!)

I’m gonna be so for real with you right now.  He does not give a shit about the mess. I mean, don’t get his things in a mess but if you roll up in a 2003 lifted Tacoma, open the door and a bunch of shit falls out… I mean, maybe he might give you a little bit of a lecture but honestly?  That’s ya’ll’s problem, lol.   But also stop losing ya’ll fucking airpods, the both of you.   If a bra works then do that because he will not be loaning you another pair ever again.  And he refuses to talk about why. 

Hoseok: (A/N: Mother of God. I have the fattest crush on Hoseok. Also peep that cute little Kookie. And how DARE you attack me like this, Namjoon?!)

Never in the history of ever was anyone annoyed more by this than Hoseok, lol.  However, he doesn’t bitch.  Oddly enough, he never complains about it.  He never bitches.  He never lectures.  He does, however, come over to hang out and help the both of you clean your mess.  Hoseok is great for body doubling if you have ADHD.  However, if you have an issue with him doing the cleaning it might be an issue.  It makes him itch and he needs to scratch it.   

Jimin:  (A/N: It's unspeakable how much handsomeness is in this gif.)

An actual ANGEL for body doubling if you have ADHD and you’re trying to handle the depression hoarder situation in your bedroom.  Super respectful and understanding.  He just enjoys spending time with his loved ones so he would gladly come help if you want it or just keep the both of you company.  Because clearly body doubling does not with you and Joon together. You just make it a bigger mess.  Acknowledging this: Jimin finds this chaos hilarious and doesn’t do anything to stop.  Ya’ll are wild and unkempt and honestly? Jiminie is here for it. 

Side note: I am particularly attached to Jimin in this gif. Look how beautiful. Look how handsome. I swear, that man is dangerous. We are all very, very, very lucky that he's such a sweetheart because don't act like if he asked you for a kidney that you wouldn't immediately start looking for something to carve with . And if that happened to be a spoon, we'd all just accept our fate. Don't lie.

Extra Sidenote: Namjoon be looking extra delectable. *chef's kiss*

Taehyung:  (A/N: First of all, damn Namjoon. Those arms. Sweet lord. I'm looking, Joonie. Respectfully, of course..... but I do be lookin. Second, does Taehyung not look like the most precious creature in all the land?)

A precious darling. He does not give a shit about the mess.  He just loves his hyung.  He loves his hyung’s love.  Ya’ll are special to him and that’s how you are.  He thinks it is part of ya’ll’s charm and your charm as a couple.  Ya’ll are a messy couple but not in the having your dirty laundry out for everyone to see way. In a “aw, Jiminie, look at them.  They are such tragic disasters but they’re disasters together.” kind of way.  He will find a way to make it romantic no matter what. 

Jungkook:  (A/N: Just Jungkook out here living his best y/n life, honestly, lol. )

Ok, so here’s the thing, lol.  Jungkookie has had his own issues with messes here and there. Also, let's be honest.... he's got the fattest crush on Namjoon, lol. His crush on Namjoon may even rival the crush I have on Hoseok. Like, I kinda doubt it because there ain't much I wouldn't do for that man but still. Jungkook loves him's Namjoonie. He loves all that Namjoon-ah is associated with. He's his biggest fan, lol. With you, it is honestly the same. Like... his hyung is in love? Who is this person that has captured the heart of the most magnificent Namjoonie? If you managed to do that and Namjoon is happy.... honestly Jungkook adores you. Regardless of the hopeless fucking messes that the both of you clearly are. He and Taehyung share this but in addition to this, Jungkookie will literally help you with anything you need. He just wants to hang out with you both so he'll do like his Jimin hyung and either just chill while you sort or he'll help you. Or just hang out in the chaos and not solve anything, lol. He just loves his hyung and he loves his hyung's love as well. It's as simple as that.

.

A/N: Thank you so much for reading my content and thank you so much to @alisoncdariel for commissioning this piece! I hope you enjoy it!

Permanent Taglist:

@thickemadame

@toomanyfictionalboyfriends

@blackirisposts

@alisoncdariel

@therealmrshale

@thegreatirene

@angelus320

@thedarkwinterrose

@m-rae23

@shycupcakealissa

@minshookie29

@kelly-fushiguro345

@vj21

@btsiguess-kpop

@abc-abc1234-a

@pinkcherrybombs

@speedyhandsbonkpalace

@sunnysidesblog

@milkshakelol

@poopypantsmcgee666-blog

@lyn-g

@glassesandthunderthighs

@tacobacoyeet

@owenniasstars

@adventuresofnight

@queenlexusloverofbts

@leah-halliwell92

@amethyst09

@kalliravenne

@sullybot

@disneymarina

@mother2monsters

@maxis140403

@fortunecookiesworld

@lathalea

@skyys-universe

[scarthefangirl]

I want to write but I don't want to write

[roslamm]

"Counting the stars on your body, I don't say words of love"

(This is my first attempt to write fan fiction. so there won't be something brilliant haha)

Blake liked to sleep.

She could lie in bed and doze. Take a long nap. Although life on the run and eternal danger has left an indelible mark on her.

But after all these years. But right now. Today. Tomorrow. Maybe for the rest of her life, Blake will remember that sleeping in bed always beckons her.

Sleep beckons in bed with her.

Their morning was just breaking through the windows of their room. The sun's rays played, touching the chest of drawers, several bookshelves, a recently purchased painting on the wall, floor boards and various small junk on it.

The day only comes on the heels of the night, replacing it.

Blake was already awake. She is lying on the white sheets of her bed. Their beds. Her chin is on her left hand, the other girl is also lying on her back, her head is turned the other way, her hands are behind her head, and her back is slowly rising and falling. Blake gently tracks down the freckles on someone else's back.

She's counting.

91...

92...

93...

The golden eyes of the faun cling to a path of scars, scratches and small burns on the shoulder blades, sides and neck. God. Her hand runs her palm over the warm skin, over the chiseled muscles of her back. She likes it so much. But she lost count. We'll have to count again. What a pity…

Blake giggled, squinting her eyes. This is the absolute laugh of a schoolgirl in love.

Her fingers trace the lines over her freckles again. This time she reaches the neck and the number one hundred and forty-one, when her brain sees a golden shock of hair. When Yang sleeps, she rakes her hair into a bun. No matter what she pulled.

Blake touches, kneads, strokes and combs this hair with the most gentle movements she is capable of. They always smell delicious. Grass and fresh apples. Blake can taste it on his tongue.

Suddenly, the back moves. Hands and head move behind the back. Blake only has time to make an embarrassing squeak when a strong hand pulls her under him.

-Yang?

Blake is pressed, feeling the warmth and heaviness of the blonde's naked body. It's hard for her to breathe, but it's not that bad.

Yang mumbles something, sending a vibration down the neck and the heat in them of Belladonna's stomach. The faun's ears twitch. The face turns red.

Blake stretches out his hands and puts them on Yang's shoulder blades, now she practically can't see where the freckles are, but surprisingly, it seems she already knows the exact location of each one. As well as the place of any scar or burn.

-Blake - the voice is hoarse, sleepy. On exhalation

-Mm? - Blake doesn't want to lose count again. But she is already being heard by Yang's voice.

-How many freckles do I have on my back and shoulders? - this time the voice is hurried, strong, as if giving a command.

-One hundred and seventy-five. Ninety-three on the back. Fifty-eight on one hand, twenty-four on the other.

Blake feels Yang's lips stretch in a smile on his neck. She moves again, this time rising above the girl. Yang's look is sly and cunning. The smile is ready to split the face in two, and the cheeks are flushed with happiness.

-Blake, do you like counting freckles so much?

For some reason, Blake blushes. Golden eyes look anywhere but at the girl's face.

-They're beautiful…

-It's just freckles. Pigment on the surface of the skin, if you want.

Blake still looks at Yang and can't help himself. It's always been that way. It's impossible to lie to Yang Xiao Long when she looks straight into her eyes.

-Because they look like constellations!

The faun seriously blurts out these words, frowning, and immediately shuts up when the blonde's eyebrows fly up. Blake picks through the Blonde's fallen strands and looks as if trying to burn a hole in them.

-What?..

-It's true, you have the constellation of the dragon on your left hand, the Ursa Minor on your right, and the Ursa Major on your back. I can't tear myself away from your freckles…

The more Blake talks, the quieter it gets, but her confidence doesn't leave her.

And Yang is watching.

Just looking.

Yang has no words because that's the sweetest thing Blake could say to her. The blonde looks thoughtfully, her face is no longer a silly grin, but a soft expression. If it were possible, hearts would appear in her eyes.

-This is the most snotty and sweet speech I've heard from you in my entire life... I love you, Blake Belladonna. - Yang interrupts the girl's tirade. The faun looks at her seriously again.

-Yang Xiao Long, counting the stars on your body, I'm not saying words of love. Because that's not enough to convey how I feel.

And when Yang falls on Blake again, choking with laughter and hugging her tightly, Blake realizes, kissing her face, that yes.

She likes to sleep in bed with her.

Not sleeping in bed with her.

She likes just being with her.

And just for the rest of my life, count Yang's freckles.

(I'm not sure that Yang and Blake will behave that way. But most likely, bees will say the cutest, sweetest things about love with a serious face. because it's them)

[scarthefangirl]

Mine has to be Sun to me by Zach Bryan

reblog or reply with your love song. you know, the one that you think is what love sounds like

[aryanightshade]

XXIV.

Restless Hours

-

Steve spends the next handful of days drifting between nightmares like a ship lost at sea. The only relief he finds are icebergs of wakefulness that leave him jerking upright, panting, vision blurry with panic as his sweat-soaked sheets tangle around his legs, leaving him confused and hazy at the jumbled way time is slouching onwards, despite everything.

Robin’s absence hurts worse than the aching wounds on his side, rawer, leaking more than blood, and he finds himself reaching for where she should be laying even though he knows that she’s safe in her own bed at home with her parents.

Steve doesn’t want to be alone. He wants Robin. He wants Max and Nancy and the rest of his friends where he can see them and know that they’re safe. He wants to rustle Dustin’s hair and call him a shithead and make sure nothing dangerous comes near him ever again.

He wants Eddie. Wants to trade places with Eddie, just a little.

His mouth is dry and tastes like something crawled into it and died. He stumbles to the bathroom and shoves his mouth under the tap, gulping down water until he feels like he’s about to burst. It doesn’t make him feel any better, and he braces his hands on the side of the sink fighting back a wave of nausea. The stitches in his shoulder ping at him spitefully, but Steve ignores them as he stares at his reflection in the mirror.

He looks… awful. Like he’s aged a thousand years in a week. Robin wasn’t joking when she said he looked terrible. He has dark hallows under his eyes from lack of real sleep, and his hair is deflated and greasy, flecked with ash and spores and dried blood.

There’s something else, too. Underneath all the physical stuff. Something in his eyes. Steve stares at his reflection, and a stranger looks back at him. One older and colder and broken beyond repair. Gently, he prods his cheek with his fingertip, scraping a little crescent moon with the tip of his nail, like he can peel back his skin and look right inside, can paw through the junk drawer of his skull to figure out what’s different now. What specific part of him has gone missing. Individually, the little bits that are him all still seem to be there. The moles dotting his cheeks and jaw, hooded hazel eyes, the little hooked scar swooping through his eyebrow, another one, flat and shiny, on his temple. So many souvenirs from their brushes with the underworld, all telling a story across his skin.

You can ask. I know you want all the sordid details.

That’s okay.

Steve swallows around the golf ball-sized lump in his throat. He can almost see it, playing out like a reel from a film projector across the back of his eyes. The soft afternoon sunlight spilling in from the trees behind Eddie, draping him gold dust and lighting up the edges of his frazzled curls like the filament in a lightbulb as he stared at Steve with those big, gentle eyes, and Steve realized that he, like most people, had Eddie Munson pegged totally wrong. That Eddie was kind and sweet and funny and doesn’t make Steve feel like shit about himself. That he’s loud and brash and flows to fill the space around him like water with all his noise and energy. That he fills the empty spaces inside of Steve, too. Fitting neatly inside him like he was meant to be there.

There are too many ghosts here, in this house, and now that he’s up and restless, not high enough to sleep and too anxious to do much else, Steve finds himself pacing the hallway between the kitchen and the base of the stairs, socked feet wearing tracks in the carpet. Outside, night begins to fall, draping the world in layers of violet shadow, and Steve realizes that he has no idea what day it is. How long has he been slipping in and out of sleep? One day? Two?

Read on A03

[scarthefangirl]

I think of reading fanfics as research for my writing, so really its just for the benefit of my followers. Its almost like I have to do it, for the good of the whole

[scarthefangirl]

My sister is a teen mom (okay 19 but she's living at home so-) and she isn't dating the baby daddy (she was, its a long story) but her life isn't that different. Obviously she had to make changes but she isn't giving things up, she's just making more time for a baby.

Her baby was unplanned and when she found out she was pregnant her and the father had already broken up. Easiest way out would've been to abort the baby and never let anyone know. She was 18. But she didn't. We have a very religious family and go to church. She went through with telling our Christian family (im also a Christian) and everything. And now we are living with the cutest baby ever and I love him so much and she does too, and our family does. It won't always be easy and it definitely wasn't ideal but the baby makes everything worth it. I know its not the life for everyone but if you're having sex think about the possibility so you don't have to get an abortion. My sisters pregnancy affected our whole family, yes, but we don't stop loving her or expect her to give up her life.

When I hold my nephew I don't know how anyone could ever kill such an innocent thing. At least give it up for adoption. I can't imagine being pregnant in a rough situation and I have so much respect for mothers who raise their babies under hard circumstances, and I wish their was better support. But I promise, there are people out there who care about those babies.

I love my nephew. And he was alive since conception.

Motherhood sounds genuinely awful though. You can no longer follow any other life goals, you have to give up all your hobbies, and you have to lose 98% of your entire personality to conform with other families.

I believe that’a kind of a sexist and narrow minded view of mothers, but it’s true that parenthood comes with a lot of sacrifices not everyone wants to make. It is up to each individual whether or not they engage in reproductive activity and risk pregnancy, or keep the baby afterwards. Society needs to do better at creating a safe and stable support system for mothers; we have failed in that area

[scarthefangirl]

I want more requests

[boojersey]

lmfao if u want to know the shit i get up to in the middle of the night i just carved that elementary school S into my thigh with a knife bc ...idk

[ereardon]

As It Was [Chapter 3][Hangman x Reader]

Summary: When Jake Seresin calls to tell you he’s accepted a permanent position at Top Gun, you’re elated to finally be living in the same city as your best friend. But everything changes when Jake tells you his news — he has a new girlfriend, and he’s serious about her. And while you want to like her, for Jake’s sake, something about her feels wrong. Jake's arrival in San Diego also puts you in the direct path of Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw, who has set his sights on you despite being Jake’s sworn enemy. Every move Rooster makes, Jake intercepts. What game are these two playing, and why is Jake more concerned about you moving on with Rooster than he is about his own relationship? 

Warnings: Cursing, alcohol, no use of y/n, violence, illusion to smut, mention of death

Pairing: Jake “Hangman” Seresin x Reader 

WC: 5K

Series masterlist here

You decided it would look too impatient, too pathetic, to wait outside. Instead, you shuffled around inside the house doing mindless chores to kill the time. You had been ready for forty minutes, blonde hair perfectly curled and pulled back in a messy bun, a few strands left hanging out to frame your face. Tight blue dress with a slit that went dangerously high, capped sleeves to make up for it in modesty, strappy heels. 

You were elbow deep in the junk drawer of the kitchen when you heard a rumbling in the driveway. Quickly, you extricated yourself from the pile of tape and old receipts and shoved the drawer closed. 

The doorbell rang and you swung open the door to see Rooster in a pair of jeans and a button down shirt, wide grin across his lips. For the first time, you noticed a few faded scars on the left side of his face. Your fingers twitched at your side, wanting desperately to trace them. 

“Well shit,” he muttered, stepping in the doorway. “You look amazing.” 

You smiled and reached for your purse that was hung on the back of the closet door. “Ready to go?” 

He blocked the door for a moment. “One second. Just need to give you a second look.” 

You smirked and grabbed his hand, pulling him out the door. “Come on, plenty of time to gawk tonight.” 

Rooster glanced over at you in the passenger seat of his truck as you sped down the freeway. 

“Are you going to tell me where we’re going?” you demanded. “Or are you just going to keep staring at me and almost get us launched off the bridge?” 

He chuckled. “Where has Seresin been hiding you all my life?”

You relaxed back into the seat. “What’s your real name? I know it can’t be Rooster. I’m talking God-given, your mother calls you this name.” 

“Bradley,” he said quietly and you sensed a shift in the air in the cab of the truck. You turned to him and he had his eyes glued to the road. You knew better than to press him, just from the energy he was giving off, so instead you laid your hand on his thigh, felt his leg stiffen under your touch. “Fuck, you’re going to make this hard on me, aren’t you?” he whispered. 

You dug your fingertips into his denim-clad muscular thigh. “Definitely.” 

Rooster pulled into a parking spot in a largely empty parking lot. You looked around as he opened your door and shivered in the evening air. 

“Alright, are you going to murder me? Because the whole squad knows we’re on a date, so you have no alibi.” 

He placed one large hand on your lower back and steered you toward a brick wall, pulling you in close to his side. 

You looked up at him. “That’s not a response,” you said and he gave you a sly grin. 

“Relax,” he said, leading you to a door that seemed to appear out of nowhere on the side of the building. He reached for it and yanked it open. 

You stepped inside to find a prohibition style cocktail bar, red velvet booths lining one wall, a giant wooden bar with dim chandelier lighting above it. Rooster smiled at the bartender as you walked past, and directed you to a booth at the far end of the room, away from the stage, tucked into the corner. 

You sat down and he scooted in until your thighs were touching. 

“Surprised?” he asked and you nodded with a smile. “Good.” He laid one warm hand on your upper thigh, pinkie tucking in under the slit of your dress and grazing bare skin. You jumped slightly at the vibration of his finger dragging across your thigh and he smirked. 

A waitress appeared. “Two negronis please,” he said before she could put down a cocktail menu. 

“What if I don’t like gin?” you asked, turning to him, propping one arm up on the back of the plush seat. 

Rooster leaned into you closer. “Well, date over, I guess.”

“Good thing it’s my favorite, then,” you said and he smiled. 

“Knew there was something about you that I liked,” he said, voice thick and you watched his eyes flick over your features, reading you like an open book. “Last time I’m going to ask. What’s the deal with you and Seresin?” 

The waitress deposited your drinks and you snatched yours up, taking a sip. It was perfect. “Jake has been my best friend since we were eighteen. Simple as that.” 

“And you’re telling me you two never dated?”

You shook your head. “Never.” 

Rooster tipped his head. “I’ve seen him around you. Watched him touch you.” His hand shifted and you felt all five fingers duck beneath the fabric of your dress at the very top of the slit. Rooster’s fingers pressed down against your thigh, only a few inches from your panties. He leaned in closer until his mouth was touching your ear. “Do you let him touch you like this?” 

Your breath was ragged as he pulled back with a grin, extracting his fingers from under your dress to grab his drink, taking a long swig. “Are you always this bold?” you asked. 

He shook his head. “You never answered my question, sweetheart. Do you let Seresin touch you? The way you’re thinking about me touching you?” 

“And how is that?” you murmured. 

“I think you know.” “I want to hear you say it.” 

“Do you let him kiss you?” he whispered and you shook your head. “Slide his hands down your back and over your ass?” Head shake. “Prop you up on the counter, spread your legs apart with his hands, dig his thumbs into your thighs so he can see how wet you are.” You shook your head again, chest rising as one of Rooster’s hands slid up your thigh, over your hip, to your lower back. His brown eyes locked on yours. “You don’t let him run his fingers over your chest, pinch you with his thumb and index finger?” Another head shake. His hand started to journey upward until it threaded into the bun at the nape of your neck and his fingers tightened in your hair. Rooster leaned closer, tugging gently on your bun so you were looking up at him, eyes wide, pupils dilated. “Let him pull your hair while he fucks you from behind?” 

At this point you were panting and he lowered his gaze to watch your chest rise and fall under the silky blue material. He released his grip on your hair and you sunk back down, watching him smirk and take another sip of his drink. You had never in your life met someone so forward and sexy from the start. Even the mustache, which previously would have sent you running for the hills, somehow added to the allure. “Now I see why Jake didn’t want me to come tonight,” you said, watching Rooster’s eyes darken. He gulped down the rest of his drink. 

“Oh yeah? What did he say?”

“That you weren’t good enough for me,” you answered and he scoffed. You reached out and traced over the scar on his left cheek and he jolted. Instead of pulling away, you simply flattened your fingers against his skin, looking up into his eyes. “He’s wrong, you know.” 

“About what?” Rooster’s voice was gruff. Jake was obviously his Achilles’ heel. You were going to force it out of one of them, or both of them, someday. But that was for another time, another place. 

You let your fingers drop from his face. “You’re good enough,” you whispered, watching Rooster’s face soften. “I’m not some piece of fine China, not to be touched, like Jake will have you believe. I’m not his responsibility, no matter how much he likes to think I am. So don’t treat me differently than any other girl you would take on a date.”

He gave you a wide grin and to your surprise, scooted off the bench seat to standing, holding out his hand. “Dance with me.” 

Again, not a request. Simply a demand, and you immediately put your hand in his, let him lead you out onto the dance floor. The band on the stage was playing a loud swing song, and Rooster pulled you effortlessly into his arms, spinning you around the dance floor expertly. You laughed and let him dance you in circles song after song, and when the music finally slowed he pulled you in tightly, a large hand pressed deeply into the dip of your lower back and you threaded one hand through the ends of his hair around the nape of his neck. 

“Rooster,” you said and he looked down at you. 

“Yeah, baby?” he replied. 

“Let’s get out of here.” 

Back in the truck, he turned to you. “Where to?” 

You turned, your chin resting on your shoulder. “Let’s go to the beach. Oh and I am starving, you promised me dinner.” 

Rooster grinned as you tore into the burger, bare feet propped on the dashboard as he drove out into the darkness. You leaned over and fed him a bite, wiping at his mustache when it inevitably came in contact with some sauce. 

He held out a hand to help you down from the bed of the truck, and your toes sunk quickly in the sand. Rooster followed on your heels, his hand grasped tightly around yours. When you stopped near the shore and sat down on the dry part of the sand bank, he sat down behind you, pulling you into his arms, your back pressed against his chest. You leaned back, let him trace invisible lines up your forearms. The beach was empty, save for the dying remnants of a fire someone had forgotten to completely smother a few hundred feet away. 

“Who taught you to dance?” you asked after several minutes of silence. 

He paused. Then, “My mother.” You sensed a change in his voice. Swiveling around, you hiked up your dress and straddled his lap, Rooster’s hands naturally settling on your waist. 

“Bradley?” you asked and he looked up, surprise creasing his face at your use of his first name. 

“What is it, honey?”

“Why don’t you like to be called by your first name?” 

He shook his head. “Who said I didn’t?”

“Well nobody said it. It’s just the way you acted when I asked your real, God-given name. Made it seem like there was something you weren’t telling me.” 

He sighed. “It wasn’t you asking my name. You mentioned my mother. She, uh, she died a few years ago.” 

“Oh, my God,” you said, reaching out and pressing both hands to his cheeks before pulling him into a hug. “I am so sorry.” 

His large, warm hands wrapped around you and you stroked your fingers up and down the length of his back, all taunt muscles underneath his shirt. “It’s OK,” he said, but you heard his voice. He was broken. It was something you recognized all too well. 

You pulled back, smoothing your hands through his hair and coming to rest on his broad shoulders. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have pressed you on it.” 

Rooster shook his head. “It’s OK. It’s better this way. I like you, Abby. I’m not afraid to tell you that. I’m not afraid to tell you what I want or what baggage I’m toting around.” 

He was honest and raw in a way that you had seen very few men before him ever act, and never on a first date. Something about him felt instantaneously familiar. And then his hands started to tighten on your waist and you felt a jolt of electricity buzz through your core. “You are not at all who I expected,” you murmured and he smiled. 

“No?”

You shook your head. “No. You’re so much better.” Then you leaned down and pressed your lips against his, felt one of Rooster’s hands come up to grip your neck, the other sliding across your back until he was touching your side. He shifted underneath you and rolled you, gently, until you were on your back in the sand. For a moment, you were reminded of a week before when you had been in an eerily similar position with Jake, the night he took you to the Hard Deck. Before Diana. Before Rooster. Before everything had changed. 

And then Rooster’s tongue pushed softly between your lips and every thought of Jake evaporated from your mind.

***

“Did you sleep with him?”

You threw a tired look over your shoulder. “That’s none of your business.” 

Jake dropped the tote bag of food from the farmer’s market on your kitchen counter and lifted his sunglasses off, setting them down near the bag. “It sure as hell is my business. He’s my fucking wingman. And you’re my best friend.”

You huffed and started to pull the fruit and vegetables out of the bag, slapping them onto the marble counter. “I’m not going to answer.” 

“Why not?” his tone was icy. 

“That’s between me and Bradley.” 

You watched Jake’s jaw set into a hard line. Your use of Rooster’s first name set him on fire. “So it's Bradley now?” 

“Yes, it is.”

“You seriously like him?”

You plunged a few apples into the water and vinegar bath you had set up in the second sink. “No, I just went on a date with him because he repulses me.” Jake’s fist balled up at his side. “Obviously I like him, Jake. You’re not blind. He’s a fucking gorgeous pilot. What's not to like?” You knew that would get under Jake’s skin. Being an aviator was his personality, and he never let you forget it. 

“He’s not right for you.”

“Oh yeah? Speaking of not right. When were you going to tell me about Diana?” 

Jake paused, his hands outstretched on the kitchen island. “What do you mean? I told you about her last week.” 

Whipping around, you gave him a dark look. “You had a girlfriend. For six months. And you never once thought to tell me? What the fuck? You say I’m your best friend. We talk every single day. And somehow she never came up? You were hiding her from me.” 

“I wasn’t hiding her,” he whispered. 

“No? So I must have just blacked out every time you mentioned her for the last six months, is that it?” You threw down the kitchen towel you had been using to dry the produce and Jake looked up with shock. “What the fuck are we doing here, Jake? Sneaking around, lying to each other? Messing in each other’s love lives? This isn’t us. This isn’t who we are. I used to be able to trust you. I thought you coming to San Diego would be the best fucking thing that had ever happened. That it would be like UT all over again. That I would have my best friend back.”

“Bubs,” he said, moving forward and pressing his hands against your arms, thumbs rubbing back and forth softly. “Hey, honey, it’s me. I’m the same person. I’m still your best friend. I want the best for you. Why is that too much to ask?”

You looked up into his soft green eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me about Diana sooner?”

He stuttered, but you didn’t drop your gaze. “Abby,” he whispered. 

You shook your head and he gripped you tighter. You tried to look away and he reached up one hand, guiding your line of sight back to his. 

“Sweetheart, come on,” he whispered. “You know I would have told you eventually. I was just waiting for the right time.” 

“You’re giving me such shit for going on one date with Bradley,” you whispered, your throat closing in, tears peppering the backs of your eyes. “Meanwhile, you lied to me for half a year.” You pushed his arms away, folded yours over your chest. “You should go.” 

“Bubs,” Jake begged and you shook your head. 

“Jake, please. I’ll talk to you later.” 

He knew you well enough to know you were firm on your decision. Jake grabbed his sunglasses from the counter, and hesitated before stepping closer, pressing his lips to your cheek. 

Once you heard the door shut and his truck buzz to life, you slipped down to sitting, back against the wooden cabinets. Why did he care so much about you and Rooster? And why were you really so mad at him for hiding his relationship with Diana? 

***

“Are you alright?” Bob tipped his head, his wire frames sliding down his nose. 

You nodded, setting your drink down on the bar behind you, readjusting on the hard stool. Phoenix and Rooster were in the middle of a heated pool game, demolishing two other uniformed aviators. Rooster had offered to take you anywhere, but you knew where he had hoped to end up and you had quickly acquiesced, changing into a pair of faux leather leggings and an off the shoulder sweater before hopping in the passenger seat of his truck and hurtling off to the Hard Deck. “Just fine, thanks.” 

He leaned back against his chair, hand digging in a plastic cup of peanuts, as Phoenix sunk the final ball into the far left corner of the table. She and Rooster cheered and hugged, and you watched the faces of their opponents fall as they handed over two crisp twenties each. 

“Good game,” Rooster said, patting one of the guys on the back before slipping the cash into his back pocket and coming to stand between your legs. He leaned over, one hand on either side of you gripping the wooden bar. “How you doing, baby?” 

You smiled up at him. “Just fine.”

“Fine?” he repeated, shaking his head. “That won’t do.” He reached both arms behind you and pulled you up until you were hoisted into his arms. You laughed and he took a seat on the piano bench, setting you down so your legs were thrown across his. 

Rooster reached for the keys and the overhead music cut out, everyone rushing to clamor around the old wooden upright piano. You wrapped one arm around his neck and he punched down on the keys and the pedals, singing loudly, shades pulled over his eyes. You looked around as everyone joined in, drunken smiling faces. 

Bradley was the type of man you had been looking for. Fun, energetic, determined. Someone who knew what he wanted. Someone who could be your safe place, and also push you. 

The song ended and he leaned back, sweat on his brow, a glow over his entire face. You reached over and wrapped your other hand around his neck, pulled him in for a kiss. Nearby, a few of the other aviators howled and you smirked against his lips. 

“Fuck off, Coyote,” he muttered, sliding his lips to the side and you heard a laugh behind you. 

You pulled apart, and Rooster smiled. “Can I get you another drink?” he asked and you nodded. 

Leaning back against the wall, you watched him walk away, a loopy grin on his face as he leaned over the wooden bar, chatting casually with the bartender. Phoenix and Bob took their spots at the end of the pool table against two new competitors. Then, out of the corner of your eye, you saw a familiar blond head weaving through the crowd. 

Jake appeared at the other end of the table, and to your surprise he had Diana’s hand gripped tightly in his. The rest of the team looked up with surprise. 

“Hangman,” the guy nearest to him said. They shook hands. 

“Fanboy,” he replied casually, his eyes trailing around the room and locking on yours. You hadn’t spoken since the day before when you kicked him out of your house after the farmer’s market. Jake smoothed his arm over Diana’s back, nudging her forward. She looked uncomfortable in front of the group, a frown painted on her face. “Guys, this is Diana. My girlfriend.” 

Bob and Coyote shot glances at you, eyes widened with surprise. Diana also locked eyes with you, and the heat of the stare made you look down at your feet. When you looked up after a beat, she was still looking. You felt an arm brush against yours, Rooster holding out a beer and you grabbed it, silently praising him for the distraction. His arm slid around your waist, large fingers rubbing against the waistband of your leggings and you looked up, smiling. 

Across the table, Jake’s fingers tightened on Diana’s side. 

“Um, nice to meet you,” Bob said softly, cutting through the tension. Rooster and Jake were staring at each other, neither moving or blinking. 

Diana shifted. “Nice to meet you too,” she replied quietly. She looked more out of place here at the bar than she had the night you met at Jake’s house. Her tanned fingers fiddled with the sleeves of her shirt and the strap of her purse and you felt guilty that Jake was doing nothing to ease her discomfort. 

“Diana,” you said and everyone’s eyes turned. “Do you want to get a drink at the bar?” 

She squinted at you before Jake gave her a nod. “Sure.” 

You smiled, pushing the untouched beer back into Rooster’s hand and he slid it easily over to Phoenix who took a swig. You rounded the corner of the table, brushing past Jake. Diana had already turned toward the bar, her back to Jake, and you felt his fingertips graze your back and you took a step to the right, making sure they could no longer make contact. 

At the bar, you smiled at Diana, spreading your forearms out on the wooden top. “Glad you could make it,” you said. 

She smiled and nodded. The bartender approached the both of you. 

“Gin and tonic,” you said in unison and she cracked a smile. 

“Nice choice,” Diana said and you laughed.

“Have to grow out of the vodka cranberry at some point, right?” 

She nodded, turning around to sneak a peek at Jake who was deep in conversation with one of the other aviators. “How do you do it?” she asked. 

“Do what?” 

“Date a pilot. They’re gone all the time. And when they’re gone, it’s so fucking dangerous. You wake up every day thinking they’re not going to come back.” 

You shrugged and laid your credit card down on the sticky bar top. “I don’t think there’s any way to prevent feeling the way you do. You just have to have faith they’ll come home. I’ve been worried about Jake for a decade, and he’s still here.” 

“But what about Rooster. Bradley, right?” she asked, cocking her head toward the wall where Rooster stood. “What do you do when he’s gone?” 

You laughed. “We’ve been on one date. Technically two if you count tonight. So don’t think I’m the best person to ask.” 

She squinted. “Really? Jake told me you two were serious.” 

The bartender slid your drinks back to you and you took a sip. “I’m not sure why he’d say that. Especially when he fought so hard to keep us apart.” 

Her jaw settled and she flung another look at Jake. “What do you mean?”

You waved your hand in the air. “Oh, nothing. He just said Rooster wasn’t good enough for me. Something stupid like that. It’s just Jake being Jake, you know how he is.” 

She grabbed her drink. “I’m going to go to the bathroom, if you’ll excuse me.” 

“Sure.” 

You watched as she took off toward the bathroom hallway, Jake’s eyes trailing her. You pushed off the barstool, making your way back to the pool table, and Jake followed after her. 

Rooster was leaning against the wall where you had left him, and you nuzzled into his side. “That was nice of you,” he said and you shot him an appreciative look. 

“Well, I try.” 

His hand stroked your hair. “You’re so gorgeous,” he said, leaning down and pressing his lips to yours firmly. You put your cup down on the edge of the pool table, tossing your arms around his neck and leaning into it. Just as you felt Rooster’s tongue press against your plump lips,  you felt a hand grab your shoulder. 

“The fuck did you say to her?” Jake demanded, face red with anger. 

You looked at him in shock. You could count on one hand the number of times Jake had gotten angry with you or gotten in your face. And it had always been when he was drunk. “I don’t know what you’re talking about?” you said calmly, backing up a step. 

“To Diana. What the fuck did you say to her to make her so upset?” 

You shook your head. “Nothing! Jake, I promise. She asked me how I deal with Rooster during long deployments and I said he and I had been on two dates. And she said that was funny because you had implied he and I were really serious.” 

His eyes were bugging out of his head. “You had no right to say anything to her.” 

Rooster’s arms came around your waist protectively. “Seresin, you need to back off. She didn’t do anything. You’re blowing this way out of proportion.” 

“Don’t fuck with me, Bradshaw!” he yelled and you felt Rooster’s arms tighten around you, pull you back away from Jake. Jake spotted this, his eyes trailing all of the contact points Rooster had on you. “What the fuck are you doing with your hands on her?” he whispered menacingly. “Don’t fucking touch her.” 

“Jake,” you said, stepping forward, reaching out for him. It was your natural reaction to touch him, hold him, try to calm him. He had been yours for so long you forgot he now belonged to someone else. To your surprise, his hand came up to block you, and you stumbled a bit, veering off to the left and bumping into the pool table. Rooster immediately lunged forward to check on you, and Jake grabbed his shirt, fists balled up against Rooster’s chest. 

“Don’t you dare touch her,” he gritted out, pressing Bradley back against the wall. You looked up in horror, expecting Rooster to shove Jake back or knock him out. Instead, he simply stood there as Jake shook in anger. “You don’t know anything about her. You don’t deserve her.” 

Rooster looked at him. He was taller by several inches, but they were a match for each other in stature otherwise. “Seresin, you need to calm down.”

“Don’t tell me what to do.” 

“Go back to your girlfriend,” Rooster said. “And leave me to mine.” 

You watched Jake’s arms shake and against your better judgment, you lunged forward, hitting at his arms with your hands. “Jake, stop!” you said, grabbing his forearms and pressing them down. “Look at me. Look at me!” 

Finally, he pulled his green eyes off of Rooster to you. You reached up, pressed your palms to either side of his face. 

“Jake,” you whispered. “Let’s go outside.” 

He was rooted in place and you dropped both hands to his back, pushing him, hard, out the door. You gave Rooster an apologetic look behind you. As you steered Jake out, you saw Diana standing quietly near the bar, her face drawn in a tight frown. 

Outside, you shoved Jake by the shoulders. “What the fuck was that?” you yelled and he grimaced. “What the fuck is wrong with you? Are you wasted? What is going on?” 

“I don’t like him,” he said, licking his lips, eyes darting back toward the bar. “And I sure as hell don’t like him with you. His hands all over you. Like you’re fucking trash.” 

You slapped him, hard, on the cheek and he bent from the shock of the impact. “Don’t you dare call me trash.” 

“Abby,” he said, stepping forward and you took a step back. “Honey, that’s not what I meant.” He put his head into his hands and grunted. “Fuck! This is coming out all wrong.” When he looked up, you could see tears forming in his eyes.

Meanwhile, tears began to stream down your face in earnest. “What is going on with you, Jake? It’s like all of the sudden you’re a different person. What happened to the man that I knew? The Jake who would do anything for me? What happened to that person?” 

He looked up at you with a frown. “Maybe he doesn’t exist anymore. Maybe I can’t watch you date Bradshaw and still be that person for you.” 

“Why?” you sobbed. “Why is it so hard to watch me with Bradley? Don’t you want me to be happy?” 

“All I ever wanted is for you to be happy,” he said, his voice cracking. “I care about you more than I care about myself.” 

You shook your head. “That’s not true.” Your voice was small, the tears choking you. “If that were true, you’d want me to be happy. With or without Bradley.”

“He’s not good enough for you,” Jake repeated, stepping in closer, cupping your chin with his fingertips. “Sweetheart, I can’t stand to watch you get hurt.” 

“You’re hurting me right now,” you said softly and you watched your words tear him in two. His eyes clouded over in an instant. You pulled away and looked toward the window. Diana and Rooster were plainly visible in the yellow glow of the bar. “You’re hurting them, too. It’s time to think about someone besides yourself, Jake. It’s time to grow up.” 

You yanked open the door and let it swing back in his face. 

Tag list: @hotch-meeeeeuppppp @blue-aconite @abaker74 @vir-tual @justanothermagicalsara @hiddleless @lexhalstead3 @stevieharringtongf @katiebby04 @clairedelarosa-blog @chiffondaydreams @thechillingadventuresoftayla @hopefulinlove @teenwolf01 @emptyloverofmine @zablife @lgg5989 @evans-dejong

[scarthefangirl]

Dude i need them to watch things.

i love subtitles i can actually understand what's happening

[uncouth-the-fifth]

pythia, a supernatural rewrite. phantom traveler, p.0

read it on Ao3. masterlist.

words: 6677

notes: heyyyy! sorry for the late update. the first chapter isn't finished yet, but i just started a new job, so i've been slow to catch up and didn't want to leave you guys hanging any longer. here's a little half-chapter to sate you :p feat. our first Bobby appearance and some good angst.

EAU CLAIRE, WISCONSIN - Nov. 24th, evening.

Sam had never seen so many hunters in one place before.

He’d always known that Thanksgiving was a busy time of year for the Proctors, but he’d never had the chance to see it in person. Dad always had “better things to do” when Beth’s party-of-the-year came ‘round, even if Dean begged him and Sam silently urged it by being caught up on all of his work. The celebration was Dad’s bane and Dean’s heaven: dozens of other hunters, all bringing free food and old stories to one table. ____ had called him every year to mope about it—or, he called her, from whatever random payphone was closest. It was the biggest event of the year in her house, and one of the most important ways the Proctors gave back to their hunter counterparts.

____’s family had been an epicenter of the hunting community for literal generations, so by noon the house was already full. Sam had been up since seven, running errands for Beth and helping Dean and ____ cook the prepped food. For a brief moment he had fooled himself into thinking things would be relaxing. Then, a few individual hunters had started trickling in (“Mavin, Scott, and Carol,” ____ had explained), followed by families (“Those are the Baynes’, n’ uh comin’ up behind em are the Hirths.”), and partner sets (“Carl n’ Melanie, vamp hunters—oh! And that’s Bennie and Manuel, from Texas.”), all people Beth knew. All hunters.

All of them squeezed into the second floor of the Proctor House, trickling out into the stairwells, hanging out the windows to smoke, and plastering themselves to every possible surface in the house. Sam had to squeeze through to get into the kitchen. There were big, burly hunters playing cards around the coffee table. More varieties of them sat on the arms and backs of chairs to make bets on the game. Fresh-eyed hunting girls flocked to Beth’s lace-clothed reading table, doing tarot, trading crystals, and consulting her library. Gruffer hunters lined the hallways of the house, conspiring in coarse voices with one another. Sam even thought he’d seen some kids reading comics on the stairwell.

Each crevice was filled with warm, boisterous chatter and laughter. Every single person in the house had a paper plate loaded with Thanksgiving dinner. The air cloyed with incense and buttery food, like ____’s home always did. They could’ve all been one massive, normal family, had it not been for the matching bandaids on every arm and the drying water on every face. Beth had a family friend playing bouncer, checking in every guest with a cut from a silver knife and a faceful of holy water. Just to be safe. Sam watched a little girl go giggling up the stairwell, a bright My Little Pony bandaid on her right shoulder. The old silver-checking scars on his arm stung.

The only safe haven was the kitchen. Beth was so busy she couldn’t even lift her head to greet him, but Sam didn’t mind. The hair at his neck had been uncomfortably prickling all afternoon. Though he wanted to give them the benefit of the doubt, it’d been trained into him to raise his hackles around other hunters.

“Hey,” he greeted her, “I found the masking tape.”

“Atta boy,” Beth said, and gestured wildly with her free hand to the rows of filled tupperware on the counter. Sam recognized them. Since he, Dean, and Dad could never make it, she always sent out leftovers for them. “Can you label those?” She asked. “I made a list of people we’re sendin’ em’ out to—it’s over on the fridge, baby. And hey, you seen my kid?”

Sam plucked the hastily written list off the fridge, stole a sharpie from the junk drawer, and ignored a pair of men in the kitchen archway peering at him. “Sure I can,” he told her, itching his neck, “and I think I saw ____ run-off with Bobby a while ago.”

“Trying to get the peach cobbler recipe out of him, I’ll bet.” Beth shoveled some mashed potatoes into the last of the tupperware. Her face settled into smug delight. “Smart girl. Maybe this’ll be the year.”

Sam put on a smile for her. “What does the future say?”

Beth made a face, similar to the airy, keen one ____ made when she was deep in thought, and pat Sam on the back. She smirked. “Outlook: not so good.”

Sam started labelling the leftovers with tape and sharpie, first with Rufus’s green bean casserole and Caleb’s stuffing. Pastor Jim was somewhere in the house too. Bobby had come early this morning to “help Beth with a case,” but really he just wanted a home-cooked meal. Beyond them, Sam couldn’t name a single hunter outside his family that he knew personally. He felt so exposed with his back to the party that he angled himself toward the kitchen doorway instead, skin crawling. An entire house hosting his family’s crazy secret. The thought alone was insane.

If it was just him, Dad, and Dean, Sam could contain the obsessive training, bloody bandages, and constant moving in their own little universe. But everywhere he looked there was a man like his father and a boy like his brother—even girls like ____. The pen he’d built for that side of his life had been battered open, and all the cattle had spilled out into the surrounding field. No wonder ____ always holed up in her room during these parties. Sam made a mental note to check around the attic for her soon.

Beth leaned out into the hall, parting the nearby hunters in her wake. “Dean!” She hollered, “Get your ass in here! Pie’s out in ten!”

An excited murmur bubbled out of the house of hunters, and a few more people chipped in to call for Dean, just as eager for pie. A few minutes later the lines of hunters filling out either side of the hallway parted again, this time for his glowing brother. Dean looked revived—at least in comparison to the last few days. Their lead in Michigan hadn’t panned out. ____ hadn’t once had a vision of Dad. If Beth had, she hadn’t shared it. Sam could tell that his brother was starting to spin his wheels, so even if he wasn’t enjoying himself, he’d been hoping some conversation and free food would boost Dean’s spirits a little. Either it was, or Dean was an incredible faker. He gleamed at the prospect of dessert, having spent the last few hours trading stories and making a name for himself. There was even a set of girl’s hands on his shoulders—but that was just ____, hiding behind him.

Sam turned back to his task and pretended he wasn’t looking at her, feeling curiously relieved. Regardless, she crawled out from behind Dean and raced toward Sam anyway, hiding in his shadow instead. “Lucky,” she told him, voice smooth and melodic, “Dean dragged me around on a fuckin’ world tour while you were safe in here.”

“That bad?” Sam guessed. He kept his voice low, so ____ tilted even closer to hear what he has to say.

____ just grimaced. Sam could fill in the rest. When people had first started filing in, the curious women and the rowdy greenhorns and the rough veterans, they’d all tried to coax a fortune out of her. It looked to Sam like they were all hunting for some truth. He’d heard rumors that people thought ____ didn’t have the Gift, period, which Sam could’ve laughed at. Her Gift bled from her every pore. It’d always been palpable to Sam, but in four years, it’d become the grandest presence in every room ____ walked into. How could a house full of hunters not feel it? Sam’s intuition was sharp, sure, but that was the mark of any hunter worth their salt. And he was already rusty.

She touched his arm, and Sam could feel her Gift tingle all the way down through his hand. Like always.

“It’s hell out there,” ____ said.

“Oh, hush,” Bobby scolded. He emerged from the hustle and bustle of the house, a six-pack in one hand and a plate of mashed potatoes in the other. “Havin’ a couple’a people lookin’ atcha for a little while won’t kill you.”

____ punched her fists to her sides. “Four people I don’t know have pinched my cheeks and called me cute. Four!”

“Must be agony,” Sam teased. His voice sounded hoarse, unused, and plain, so he cleared his throat just in time for ____ to tickle his side.

Sam jumped, but clamped down on the embarrassing yelp before it could escape. When he whips back to glare at her, she’s smiling devilishly, and the butterflies in Sam’s chest roast in a molten river of shame. He twists back to the tupperware.

After pie is served, the volume in the house goes down a few notches. Beth starts saying goodbye to people, but many more will stay well into the night, leaving a living room full of sleepy old men and drink-happy card players to fill the house’s strange natural silence. Dean plates some pumpkin pie for himself and forces some dinner onto Beth, who’s been on her feet the whole day. Bobby takes some too, letting ____ steal swipes of whip cream, and Sam digs into the food that’d been waiting for him for two hours now. They’re elbow to elbow in the kitchen’s retro dinner booth. ____’s thigh is pressed comfortably against Sam’s, and every once in a while their shoulders will brush when she collapses into giggles in her chair. He doesn’t think she’s aware she’s doing it, but her Gift greets him at every touch, glowing with easy happiness.

(She seems… she feels so good. Purifying.)

“—no, no, we all know who’s the favorite,” ____ was grumbling, eyes playful. “You’re mom’s, Sam is Bobby’s. Simple math.”

“Hol’ on, hol’ on,” Dean flopped back in his seat, wiping pie crust crumbs from his face. “Let’s be reasonable here. I’m everybody’s favorite, first off.”

Bobby and Beth made the same doubtful chuff, sending ____ into hysterics and Dean into outrage. He sputtered around his grin, aiming his fork at her as he talked, and ____ pushed up onto her feet to slam her hands into the table, rattling the silverware. Both of them are beaming and laughing and threatening to throttle each other. Bobby sniped at them to shut up and stifled a smile behind his bottle. Beth lounged back, exhausted after the events of the day, and took in the two bantering with maternal amusement. The rangehood over the stove threw a soft amber glow across the kitchen, but Sam felt like the light was passing right through him.

The year before last, Sam had gone to his first-ever Thanksgiving dinner. He didn’t count the years where Dad had fallen asleep on the couch, leaving him and Dean to eat KFC by lamplight, or all the years Beth sent leftovers. Sam was a determined pre-law sophomore. The rhythm of everyday life had become less of a song and dance for him, like it’d always been. Sam’s mind knew: run five miles to school, keep your head down, write a book report, keep your head down, run five miles to an empty home. It was hard, but he’d been starting to feel like life wasn’t a list of commands anymore. It was Jess. He met Jessica’s parents, he gave her dad a firm handshake, he complimented her mom’s cooking. That was what life could’ve been for him; more than expecting to die.

Last year, Sam had gone to his second-ever Thanksgiving dinner. Beth couldn’t send leftovers through the mail, so she sent recipes instead, and he called ____ again to ask her to visit. Again, she’d whispered, I can’t. Sam was a spirited pre-law junior. He’d shaken Robert Moore’s hand and complimented Amanda Moore’s cooking. He wasn’t exactly what they wanted for Jessica, Sam knew that. His past was shady, he knew too much of what he shouldn’t, and the microwave fizzed out when he touched it because he was so nervous. Still, Sam was spirited. He pulled Robert Moore aside and asked if he could propose to his daughter. When Sam temporarily forgot why he was hunting again, he reminded himself how much Jessica’s father must’ve regretted saying yes.

You were right there, Robert Moore had told him at Jessica’s funeral. You and your brother and your friend were all right there. They dragged you out, but my daughter doesn’t get to live?

Beth reached out and covered his hand. Sam bumbled off his train of thought, and landed right in the middle of one of Beth’s knowing, empathetic looks. It rattled him into hiding his face in his plate.

“All of you are my favorite,” Beth shook her head. “You’re all damn stupid, but you’re all my favorite.”

Dean pointed at her with his beer-hand. “See, now that’s just cheating. Pick one! Bobby could.”

Bobby exclaimed, “When!” At this, Dean gestured to himself, and Bobby rolled his eyes, “What? One of you two chuckleheads? Oh, please. Both of you should at least be smart enough to know ____’s my favorite.”

____, sly as always, made a point to cross her arms. There ya go, she gestured. Dean leveled his best cowboy glare at her, but it came across probably poutier than he would’ve preferred.

“Sam?” They spoke at the same time. Dean filled in, “Uh, you wanna weigh in on this, pal?”

Anything Sam could’ve said dropped out from underneath him. Beth’s eyes were calm and only observational, waiting to see what he’d do. On his other side, Bobby’s brow was furrowed at him. Dean and ____ were waiting for him to pick up his end of the banter, but Sam’s exhaustion weighed on him too fast for him to recover.

He stabbed some of his turkey. “Um… I think Bobby spoke his mind.”

“Exactly,” ____ enunciated, grinning. After a beat, the gusto in her posture drained away. She questioned Bobby, maybe putting on the doe eyes a little too hard. “...Unless you’re just messing with me to get to Dean?”

Bobby side-eyed Dean like that was absolutely his intention, but the soft hope in ____’s eyes, purposeful or not, gutted the grouchiest of old men. It killed Sam every time, so Bobby stood no chance. He squinted down at the remains of his pie and avoided her open gaze. “...You remember that time I took the three a’ you dear huntin’?”

“Which time?” Sam and Dean asked together.

Bobby waved his bottle at Dean, still squinting in thought. “It was one a’ the last times I took you, cause you were in high school by then… ____ was about twelve, n’ Sam was eleven…”

Sam did remember. He wasn’t as enthused about the killing animals thing as much as Dean and Bobby were, but there was a big detour between Dad's training and Bobby’s training where Sam thrived. It felt more like a choice. The drills, the sparring, the Latin studies. Bobby made it feel like it was something Sam had chosen. He still ruled with an iron fist, that was for sure, and Sam never forgot that things were life-or-death, but they had fun. Bobby made them lunch and they’d catch movies in town or frequent the local bookstore afterwards. They took breaks, and Sam tired himself out playing tag with ____ among the cars in Bobby’s scrapyard. It struck him that those were some of the last memories he had of playing as a kid.

It made sense to Sam why Bobby was joking that she was the favorite. ____ had always been his little agent, answering phone calls, fetching spell ingredients, and organizing books for him. Dean was better suited out in the scrapyard and Sam was better at copying Latin texts, so ____’s encyclopedic background came in handy. Sam was reasonably sure that ____ was the only person who knew Bobby’s deeper secrets as a result, like the codes to some of his lockups and where his supply caches were. Bobby and Beth were both centers of the hunter world in their own ways, so it was only efficient that they collaborated. Both of her parents were close with Bobby. He and her dad, Ray, had known each other since the very dawn of time. Sam had never pointed it out to ____, but he was sure that ever since her dad had passed, Bobby had made it his responsibility to look after her as best he could.

Beth’s face tilted with sympathy. “Was that the time she cried? I remember you telling me about that.”

“Hell yeah it was,” Bobby scoffed. He cycled through the film of his memory, playing it back for himself before he spoke. “So, I take these three deer hunting in the woods behind the house. All of em’ are in hunting gear too big for em—” Beth cooed at the thought, “—but Dean’s excited. He’s completely convinced he’s gonna shoot a buck, which gets Sam all cocky about it too.”

“This kid?” Beth clarified. She pointed at Sam, unconvinced. “This kid, who’d burst into tears steppin’ on the dog’s tail?”

Bobby nodded the affirmative. “Dean’s a shit influence.”

“You know it,” Dean winked at him.

“And this one—” Bobby jabbed a finger at ____, who groaned into her hands, “is whinin’ and complainin’ the entire walk out, talking about how cruel it is to hurt some poor, defensless animal, how it’s a waste of time—”

Dean’s grin glittered with meanness. “More like a waste of venison, if you ask me.”

____ removed one of the hands from her face to smack Dean’s knuckles on the table, and he was about to start a petty hand-smacking fight, if Beth hadn’t chased his back into his lap first.

Bobby continued, rolling his eyes. “Of course, these two devils are on her ass about it.”

Sam bit the inside of his cheek. He definitely remembered teasing her for it, probably only because Dean had been teasing her first. Since Dean wasn’t close enough to torment, ____ had to get her revenge from him instead, and gave his thigh a mean pinch under the table. Sam wouldn’t have hesitated to pinch her back just as fiercely, in the way that always made her shriek and laugh in outrage. But for whatever reason, his hands stayed in his lap, and Sam again suppressed the urge to look at her. She tried again; Sam swatted her hand away, and wilted a little at the playful smile waiting for him behind her fingers.

Bobby rolled again into the story, used to the constant interruption by now. “It was somethin’ she had to learn, she knew that, so I wasn’t about to give her shit for caring. Now, we’re out there for most of the day. The mother of all deer road trips must’ve been on, because we see ten, twenty of em’—and every single time, not one of the boys can hit em. ____ refused to.”

“I-I felt bad,” ____ shook her head, a sour taste in her mouth. “We’re monster hunters, evil hunters. Deers are just… deer. They’re beautiful. It didn’t feel right.”

“You gotta get used to th’ hard part of hunting somehow,” Bobby reminded. ____ exhaled until her cheeks puffed, like this was something she’d heard many times. Sam was certain he’d heard it just as much.

“Anyway. She kept refusin’ to shoot, every time they came around. I was getting short with her, the boys were egging’ her on, and finally she gets so pissed she just shoots. Kills a big ole’ buck,” Bobby held up a single finger, “with one shot.”

Beth whistled, surprise flourishing across her brow. “You’re kidding! That itty bitty kid? She barely came up to my ribs!”

“Yeah, that kid,” Dean grinned. He shuffled out of the booth to get another drink, but paused on the way to thunk his hands onto ____’s stiff shoulders with bouncy amusement. “Crying her brains out, mind you. She was shakin’ so hard she could barely lift her rifle. Weren’t you trying to get us to help you bury it, or somethin’?”

“Yeah,” ____ admitted. Her face was warm with embarrassment, but Dean’s teasing hands rubbed into her shoulder a bit and some of the tension there mellowed out.

Sam got a phantom feeling in his hands watching the exchange, like her Gift was tingling through them at the contact.

“Like I said before,” Dean raised his hands in defeat, “that’s a waste of deer jerky.”

“Which is why I was gettin’ pissed with her,” Bobby said. “But after I yelled at her, and Dean yelled at her… this mean, tough-ass little girl… drags this hundred-and-fifty pound buck all the way back to the house and buries the damn thing herself. Antlers n’ all. That’s why she’s my favorite. Girl’s thorough as all hell.”

Beth sat up a little straighter in her chair. “Really.”

“Yeah, really!” Dean snatched up a morsel of cold turkey from Sam’s plate. He cocked his hip against Bobby’s end of the booth, chewing. “Made us have a funeral n’ everything. We all had to go around and say something nice about the deer, n’ apologise to the deer and all of deer friggin’ kind. Stupidest day of my life.”

Beth’s laugh rang through the whole kitchen. She glowed with a peculiar, bright pride that seemed to melt ____ further into her chair, but deep down Sam could see that she wasn’t ashamed of the choice she’d made. ____’s eyes flickered up to his, then danced coyly down to Bobby’s plate. She swiped the last of the whipped cream off the debris there and boasted, “Sam read a prayer and everything. I am thorough as hell.”

“I expect nothing less. You’ve always been a real good kid,” she told ____, and the recognition was so earnest in her voice that even Sam felt flattered.

____ deflected the spotlight onto Bobby instead, nudging him with a clever elbow. “S’ real gooey of you to bring that up, you know.”

“Liquor makes me sentimental,” he deadpanned, and ____ burst into giggles. Sam’s ears tingled. “All I’m saying is,” Bobby cleared the fondness creeping past his beard, “S’ one thing to not give a shit - s’ another, to regret something and still follow through.”

He might have gone on to talk about being the tender age of twelve, and all adjacent bull, but Sam’s thoughts drifted too far away for him to hear them. Somewhere along the way he caught himself looking at ____. She’d worn a bandana today, and it suited the shape of her face… Laid back and relaxed, ____ looked just like her dad.

Sam didn’t drag his eyes away fast enough; ____ caught him looking. Like always, they hung there, Sam paralyzed in place and ____ holding her breath, just looking at each other. It had to have been only a second, but Sam took in too much of her appearance for it to be anything less than an hour. Her eyes were calm, open, and searching, in the way that usually made Sam feel split apart. Yet, understood. Acknowledged. The seam of his ribcage had opened, and she was sitting there with the scrub brush and the soap. She probably wasn’t even reading him, but the Proctor face was naturally piercing. Sam craved it. If those looks went on too long, he began to wish that she’d reach into his mind, into his heart, until she hit the center of it. Until she’d really seen him.

That was the problem here. All around them, Beth was laughing, Bobby was arguing, Dean was joking, and the party was spinning through every inch of the house. Yet he was here and she was there, and there were so damn good at looking at each other.

It was wrong. It was so terribly, evilly wrong, and it was all Sam’s fault.

He learned his lesson and didn’t glance her way again. In his peripherals, ____ deflated, but a while later Sam felt her hand appreciatively squeeze his shoulder. He fell safely into the background of the conversation, and every time he felt her eyes again, he reminded himself of Jessica.

_

CLARION, PENNSYLVANIA - Dec. 2nd, morning.

The Impala was loud and reassuring under your hands. It was hard to seep back into your own thoughts at the wheel; Baby wasn’t hard to drive if you knew what you were doing, but she was a bit longer than most cars were, making it a tougher task to wrestle her where you wanted. You’d needed the distraction all week. The boys could use some breakfast. It sounded like a good excuse, so you dove at the chance to drive.

The three of you had left your mom’s house without a single lead on John. Dean had tried to wiggle some out of the hunters at Thanksgiving, but all he’d done was put more attention on John’s absence than any of you needed. You got the feeling that more people looking for him would just send John further into the cracks, and after two months of searching, the boys were losing hope and you were losing focus.

Last night, you’d blinked awake to Sam having a nightmare. Dean hadn’t been back yet. It’d been your turn to share a double with his brother, so the two of you had fallen asleep watching court dramas, potential cases open on Sam’s laptop between you.

He always rolled onto his back and writhed, limbs thrashing out at the worst parts, no matter how curled up he’d been before he’d fallen asleep. It woke you up so fast that you’d ripped the laptop's chord out of the wall on accident, and like usual you scrambled to collect yourself. Sam had clipped you in the face before he’d come out of it. Pretty bad, too. You’d started to think that his dreams were finally letting up, after months and months of stress, but… this didn't just happen all in one day. Or a month. Or even in years.

You’d called his name in a sharp whisper. Sam. Sammy. You’re okay, you’re okay, you’d said, the words unfortunately routine. After you’d felt brave enough to enter his bubble, Sam collapsed sideways and woke up laboriously. Sweat had plastered his hair to his forehead and his Stanford shirt to his skin. A foam of apologies was already pouring out of his mouth. You’d forgiven him without a thought, caring more about getting him clear of the nightmare. Like always, you rubbed his back, helped him even out his breathing, and cooed mindlessly to him until Sam was himself again.

The first thing he did was rip himself away from you. Then, he dragged himself out of bed and stood there, shuddering in the darkness, and dug his nails into the collar of his shirt. You’d started throwing out ideas to cheer him up—food, water, a walk, something—but by then Dean was awake too, and Sam cut you both off by slamming the bathroom door in your faces.

The Impala slid flawlessly into a spot in your motel’s lot. You went through the motions of turning off the car and hooking your fingers around the bag of breakfast you’d acquired, but couldn’t bring yourself to open the door. The raw inside of your cheek throbbed where Sam had clipped you during his nightmare. You tested the pain with your tongue, still tasting blood. It’d probably bruised, or at the very least split open against your tooth. Damn.

You checked your cheek in the rearview mirror. A subtle red blotch had bloomed on your skin, just vibrant enough to warrant concealer. Feeling foolish, you rooted around for your makeup bag and peppered enough on to make it through Sam’s security checks. He didn’t need any more reasons to feel awful about himself. It’s not like he could control his nightmares, as much as he clearly wanted to.

You could hear the boys talking through the door after you managed to drag yourself out of the Impala. Sam had this drag to his voice that immediately set you on edge, and the timber of Dean's jut out the second Sam stopped speaking, prepared with an unwavering answer. You didn't want to interrupt, but you couldn't sit there and just listen in on them.

They were facing each other at their respective bedsides when you came in. “So, what? All this, it… never keeps you up at night?” Sam was asking.

Dean paused, bracing an arm back so he could twist to look at the intruder. He was facing away from you otherwise, making a perfect window for your brief eye contact with Sam to jumpstart your heart. You hustled your breakfast and keys onto the table with a bit too much adrenaline as a result. It was hard, training your irritation not to spike at yourself, or at him, because neither of you was really at fault. It wasn't Sam's fault you were nuts and it wasn't your fault that you'd ended up with these feelings. More than ever you wished your feelings would just go away; it'd moved from cute to funny to unfortunate very quickly over the course of your life, and now it was just plain wrong. You shook yourself—get it together, you freak.

Dean turned back to his brother and scratched his hair. It startled up in every direction except one, where his head had been laying. He shrugged. “Uh, no, not really.”

You felt Sam's gaze linger on you, gauging if it was safe for you to witness this conversation. Apparently, he decided so. “Really?” He questioned Dean. “You're never afraid?”

Dean shook his head. You weren't about to poke holes in his facade right in front of the person he was putting it up for, but it was stupid-obvious to you that he was bullshitting. His fear was there so often that there was a groove for it in the nape of his neck, where the hair there stood on end, and in his hand where his weapon sat. Yours was in the deepest pit of your stomach, waiting. If you knew Sam at all, his fear was packed down tight behind his teeth. Today, packed a bit less.

Unimpressed, Sam ducked behind Dean, wiggled a hand under his pillow, and produced one of his brother's bigger hunting knives. It was more than the height of two of your hands, and just as wide.

Dean snatched it back up, scoffing and puffing out his shoulders. The knife’s shape slid neatly into his palm. “That's not fear,” he waved the tip in Sam's direction, “that is precaution.”

“And impractical,” you threw in. Trading Dean a fresh cup of coffee for his knife hand, you turned his fist over so you could see the pads of his fingers. “Look at this! You've got all these little cuts because you keep that cleaver under your pillow. Just keep it in the bedframe, like normal people do.”

“Right. Normal people,” Sam muttered.

You gave his shoulder a playful pat as you passed him, and tried to be normal when handing him the tea you'd picked out for him. He didn't react much to either. Sam took his drink with quiet surprise, forgetting what it was like for those around him to know him and his likes, and sipped it without word. You were mindful of your place around him today. The bruise in your cheek ached when you spoke, reminding you at every word what happened when you took a role that wasn't meant for you.

“Thank you,” Sam hummed around his breakfast wrap, and Dean lounged back with a donut and sighed, “Yeah, _____, thanks for breakfast. Baby's good?”

“I took her through a car wash,” you reported. Before Dean could grill you about the how and where, you clarified, “—the right way, I'm not stupid. I took care of her, don't worry.”

Over your shoulder, Dean made a happy, approving noise around his donut. You gave yourself a mental high five. Earning privileges with the Impala had taken you upwards of eight years, so you were scrupulous with your upkeep, both with the car and Dean's approval. It was special to him, so it was special to you. And, it was one of a few confidences that you'd earned over Sam—you made sure to stick out your tongue at him just to rub it in. Dean rarely trusted his brother with his car.

Sam flashed you a small, wincing smile back that seemed distracted. You reigned in your disappointment before it ran too far. He'd been distant the last week, but you'd neglected to mention it, knowing the circumstances. It was an exercise in not clawing your throat open, since your second nature was to mend any and all wrongs among the three of you. You had to remind yourself that you hadn't hurt Sam's feelings and he didn't resent you. His girlfriend was dead and his father was missing. None of this was about you. If he wasn't up for joking, then it was your job not to push him.

You thunked down beside Dean, tonguing the raw inside of your cheek. “Cases? I told you I got a feeling we'd finally get one today.”

“No obvious ones so far,” Dean bumped shoulders with you. “Any word from your mom?”

“I’d a’ told you,” you shrugged and leaned into him a little bit, your own breakfast in hand. With nothing else to say, you ate in silence and enjoyed each other's company, lulled into idleness by the rattle of the winter wind.

Occasionally, you managed to convince the boys to have slump days. A rougher winter storm would be passing through your end of Pennsylvania anyway, so all the three of you hoped to do was layer up and laze. You shrugged on your favorite sweater, a heavier skirt, and dragged every game you owned out of the car to force some life into the two. Sam was of course a damn serial killer when it came to scrabble. But you'd forgotten it at home, so he murdered you at trivial pursuit instead, then left to read and nap. Typical. You gave him plenty of openings to tease you or gloat about his victory, but Sam managed to shy out of each.

You and Dean had lost most of the pegs for battleship decades ago. Still, you improvised by ripping and rolling up little pieces of motel-pad paper, then using them as hits and misses. After tie-ing with Dean three times, you ended up throwing paper wads at Sam until he got up and played poker with you; Dean cheated, you cheated, and Sam also cheated. As always. This was the familiar rhythm of your childhood.

Before starting another (honest) game, you took five to help Dean out with making dinner, starting by boiling a pot of water. Then everything went black.

Instead of a normal dinner scene, you woke up on the floor, skin burning, your mind abuzz and the pot of water smashed sideways beside you. Dean hadn’t even finished cursing before you emerged from the vision that had made you faint. You’d fallen right into him, which meant you cried into him as well.

“Fuck, fuck, I’m sorry, m’ sorry, I-I didn’t mean to—” The tears were waiting for you when you came out of it, clogging your throat and nose fast enough to suffocate you. You choked. The sound seized, grating into an ugly and nasal sob. “Bad. Oh, Dean, s’ real bad this time.”

You tried to haul back the flood of words, to puke up anything but apologies, but the tears wouldn’t let you. Blazing liquid singed down your chin and limbs where the backsplash had hit you. It soaked into your clothes and Dean’s, since the first thing he’d done was steady you. Catching your breath was only made harder by what your Gift had shown you. Molten, purified hatred bloomed uncomfortably in the center of your powers, unlike anything you’d ever felt before.

“I know, I know. You’re all good, sweetheart,” he soothed. Dean peeled you away from him enough to get your boiling sweater off, his voice even and neutral, probably because he knew how embarrassed you’d get. His hands halted on the scalding water seeping through your tank top. A flare of uncertainty crossed his face. “You want me to help you or Sam?”

“Sam,” your breath hitched, and without hesitation, they switched places.

A towel pat across your jaw and belly in a few quick jumps. Sam appeared from behind it, brow crumpled with sympathy. Much after that was blurred by heavy tears. You remembered being confused that you were crying and confused that you were in pain, while anything else was forced undercurrent by your vision, seething and writhing through every conscious piece of your body with intent. The feeling wanted in. It pursued every crack in the walls you’d put between you, seeping. Violating. The burns barely qualified as first degree, but you sobbed into the crook of Sam’s arm like they were third-degree—fifth, sixth, melting you from the inside out.

When you could breathe around the leeching remains of your vision, you circled back: you were in the bathtub. Sam had put you in the bathtub. The water was lukewarm, because you’d fainted with a pot of boiling water in your hand and the burns needed to be cooled. It’d soaked through your sweater, skirt, and into your tank top. That left you in your bra and underwear, sobbing, searing your nails into Sam’s shirt, with your upper half glued to him over the bathtub’s edge.

“____,” he murmured. The familiar sound purred into your ear from the barrel of his chest, solid and grounding, a singer’s starting note. You wormed closer. The edge of the tub dug into your ribs, but Sam understood and squeezed you closer too. “Sh, sh, sh—you’re okay. Just a few more minutes and you can get out. We’ve got to cool those burns. You remember where you are?”

You shook your head. Tears squeezed down your face.

“That’s alright,” Sam said. One of his heavy, balming hands coasted through your hair, and even if you were sobbing, in your underwear, in a bathtub, and dogged by a vision, it was everything you wanted because of him. Your entire body sunk into his embrace. Sam was everywhere, his cheek on your head and his arms circled around you as far as they could manage. His warm breath fanned against your ear. Just his knuckles brushed the skin there, dragging down your face in a daze. It was so warm and uncomplicated that black psychic energy drained out of your pores just being there.

Sam swallowed. He hadn’t mastered his voice like his brother had. “You and me are in our motel room in Pennsylvania. Dean is just outside the bathroom, cleaning up and getting you a fresh set of clothes. You fainted helping with dinner—”

His name slipped out of your mouth in a sob. “I’m sorry. I-I didn’t want to make a mess and I don’t want t’ faint anymore n’... god, it was bad. I’m sorry, Sam. I hate the visions, I hate em’, I hate em’ so much…”

“I know,” he said, thickly. Sam’s knees thunked against the tub’s side, then his elbows, the wet tile squeaking under him. A long shuddering breath wrestled through his nose. “I know you do. But, one little spill doesn’t matter. You don’t have anything to be sorry about, okay? Not with me… Does, does anything help? With your visions?”

You reached up and grabbed the back of Sam’s collar.

“...Okay,” he laughed, humorlessly. The vicious chord of tension in his shoulders softened by an inch. “We can stay here for a bit longer, then.”

-

tags: @cookiemumster1 @lacilou @cevans-winchester @leigh70 @seraphimluxe @emily-roberts @emme-loou @dakota-dream

NEXT PART: phantom traveller, p.1