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canniballistix · 4 years ago

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Parallels/metaphor/whatever of john winchester and god both as absentee fathers in hbo spn?

"I can't," Dean hissed.

His hand was shaking. Why was his hand shaking? This was something he'd done a thousand times. He'd lost track of the number of girls he'd kissed.

And yet… his hand shook. His hand shook as it cradled the one which cupped against his cheek, and it only served to make this whole thing all the more intimate.

The boy sighed, and Dean could feel the weight of his breath. "I thought you liked me."

"I do!" Dean said, even as the hand slipped out from under his. "I do, I do, swear to God I do."

"I-it's okay," the boy said. His hand dropped back onto his knee. "Look, I-- I get it, man. You're a guy's guy, and I'm… I dunno."

"Hey." Dean but his hand on the boy's shoulder and gripped it firmly. Though this steadied his hand, he could suddenly feel the way the boy was quaking. "It's nothin' to do with you, okay? You're… I mean, you're…"

The boy's piercing eyes were fixed on Dean's face as he struggled to find the right words. The longer they alluded Dean, the deeper the boy's heart sank.

At last, Dean sighed. "You're fuckin' gorgeous, okay?" he said at last. "Look at you. Jesus."

The hint of a smile tugged at the boy's lips.

"And you got good taste in music, and you're smart," Dean continued. His list ended there, however.

The boy cleared his throat. "But…?"

Dean closed his eyes. The way a business man closes his eyes just before he fired a good, hardworking family man. "But…" he managed to say, fingers wandering across the hem of the boy's shirt, "as much as I want to… I can't."

The boy sat there a moment longer.

It was a strange sort of quiet here, under the bleachers.

It should have been just as loud as the rest of the football field. Yet, somehow, the sounds of the crickets were so much softer. The wind seemed to miss them entirely. Here, on an autumn night, these two boys may as well have been in their own world.

The boy brushed away Dean's hand. Like it was a mosquito. Like it was nothing. "Fine. I get it," he said, getting to his feet. "Really creative way to get out of kissing me. Dramatic. Shakespearean, even."

Dean pounded the ground with one fist, then leapt up after the boy. "God, Jesse, wait--"

Jesse. That's it. His name was Jesse.

"I'm done."

"Please, if you just let me explain, I--"

"You're not explaining!" Jesse whirled to face Dean. "You're not saying anything!"

Dean took a deep breath in, and he was surprised to find that his lungs seemed to be quivering, as well.

Jesse stared at Dean. His fists were clenched at his sides. The floodlights over the football field cast an otherworldly light over his dark and messy hair, like light from heaven itself.

It did not reach Dean where he stood, still under the bleachers, his hand just barely reaching out into its warmth.

"Well?" Jesse prompted.

"My dad," Dean blurted out.

Jesse raised an eyebrow. "You dad?"

Dean shook his head. "If he found out-- if he knew--"

"How could he?" Jesse asked.

Dean blinked. His heart was hammering against his ribcage.

"He's not watching, Dean," Jesse said, a hand raised to the sky.

Dean thought about that. He looked to the sky, as well, inexplicably feeling as if John Winchester might be peering down at him from the top of the bleachers.

And yet, despite that strange terror that John was watching, that he would somehow know, this was the first time Dean realized that his father wasn't there. And not just on the bleachers, but anywhere-- anywhere at all in Dean's life where it might have mattered.

Wherever a father should have been--loving or kind or cruel or spiteful--there was merely a hole. A blank space where John may have fit, and yet never did.

The fear was melting away.

Because there was nothing there.

Only stars.

Dean stumbled out into the light. He grabbed Jesse by the front of his hoodie, and kissed him like his life depended on it.

~~~~~

"I can't," Castiel said.

Dean rolled his eyes. "You can't what? You can't taste?"

The angel returned a shrug. This was something new he'd picked up from Dean, though he didn't seem to have it down just yet-- Castiel only shrugged his shoulders when he didn't feel like answering, not because he didn't know the answer.

"You're not even gonna try?" Dean asked, pushing the plate of french fries a little closer. "C'mon, how bad could it be?"

"I told you, I can't," Castiel replied, pushing the plate back towards Dean.

"Now that's just stupid," Dean said. "You can't eat at all? For real? Your vessel can eat, can't he?"

"Of course he can," Castiel said, all but rolling his eyes. "I cannot."

Dean gave into temptation and growled lightly, pulling the plate towards himself and chomping down on another french fry.

The diner was quiet. When he was traveling with Castiel, Dean preferred to dine at night-- in fact, he preferred to work on as much of a night schedule as possible. Castiel was, to put it lightly, a fucking weirdo, and corralling him into acting even remotely human was a full-time job.

But anything goes at three in the morning in a twenty-four-hour truck stop.

All that could be heard was the clattering of dishes in the kitchen-- far fewer than those filling the sink twelve hours previously. Occasionally, something would come flying down the highway. Funny how much faster they seemed to rush by when there was so much stillness in-between.

Dean sipped his coffee.

Castiel sat very still, his hands folded delicately on table in front of him. He was staring out at that highway, and yet his eyes seemed hardly focused at all.

Dean leaned forward, trying in vain to see what it was that had Castiel so captured. As he did, he saw the man's reflection ripple along the surface of the glass, light against the darkness of the night.

In passing, Castiel's reflection looked just as one might expect. He was, after all, a dirty little man in a trenchcoat, and that was reflected quite plainly. The closer you looked, however--the longer and deeper you stared into the forms, into his eyes--the more you would see.

Some people saw God or Jesus or whatever. Some people would catch a rare glimpse of the true angel, its power lessened to that of a sharp headache by the reflection. Most people, though, saw people.

No one in particular. Just shadows of people half-remembered, ghosts of the past.

As Dean looked at Castiel's reflection, he saw something familiar in the sharpness of his eyes. In the dark mess of his hair. In the tautness of his lower lids as he gazed out into nothingness.

A boy. His name nearly forgotten--James or Jonathan or something--but his face as crisp and clear as ever.

His first kiss.

Not his first-first kiss. Not really. But his first kiss that had felt the way they say it should.

"Whaddya mean?" Dean asked.

Castiel turned to look at Dean. He didn't ask for clarification-- not out loud, at least.

Dean set his jaw. "What do you mean you can't?" he said. "You can't… like, physically?"

Castiel frowned. "No. I'm quite capable of eating."

He paused.

A pause so long he may have, in fact, finished talking.

Dean cleared his throat. "But…?"

"But," Castiel said, almost stalling, "it is frowned upon."

Dean scoffed. "Frowned upon?"

"Yes," Castiel continued. "The garrison is very strict about how… involved we should be in human culture. Eating, listening to music, dancing--"

"You're not allowed to dance?!" Dean smacked his forehead, biting back a laugh. "Goddamn. Remind me to show you Footloose sometime. You'd get a kick outta that one."

"Mm."

Castiel did not seem near as enchanted by this as Dean. It occurred to Dean that, if listening to music was forbidden, watching movies was likely on the shit list, too.

Dean cleared his throat again. "I mean. That sounds…" But he couldn't think of the words, exactly. "Wh-who told you not to do that junk?"

Castiel cocked his head. "God, of course."

"Right. God." Dean nodded slowly. "Sounds like a stand-up guy."

"I wouldn't know," Castiel said. "I've never met him."

Dean squinted. "You've never met God." Not a question, exactly, though he intended it to be. "Isn't he, like… your dad?"

Castiel sighed. "I suppose you could say that."

"But you've never met him?"

"I've never met him."

"But you're living your life by his rules?"

"Of course," Castiel said. "He… if he found out-- if he knew that I was--"

"How could he?"

Castiel blinked.

"Cas." Dean pushed the plate of french fries back across the table. "God's not watching."

Castiel thought about that. For some reason, he turned to look out the window once more, gazing balefully at a streetlight in the parking lot. As if God himself would appear under it.

And yet, despite that strange terror that God was looking down at him, that he would somehow know, this was the first time that Cas truly realized that his father wasn't there. Not just under the streetlight, but anywhere-- anywhere at all on Earth that may have mattered.

Wherever God should have been--loving or kind or cruel or spiteful--there was merely a hole. A blank space which may have been holy, and yet never was.

The fear was melting away.

Because there was nothing there.

Perhaps Cas himself was the holiest thing on Earth.

Cas reached out and lifted a french fry from the thick ceramic plate. He made eating diner food look like a celebration of the Eucharist.

#im genuinely diseased #hbospn #hbo spn #dean winchester #castiel #destiel #deancas #fic #spn fic #spn fanfic

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chipper-smol · 4 years ago

Text

Vanilla 1 Chain

Prompt: The Aftermath of Ghost banishing the Grimm Troupe from the Troupe’s perspective.

lAST ONE!

( https://twitter.com/BerryCannibal )

Grimm let out a hum as he danced with himself, going through yet another imaginary routine as he allowed his thoughts to drift. The tent was unusually quiet without Brumm around - he was still surprised that his worried conduit had offered to take up a torch and pass out some of the scarlet flame this time around, perhaps he was finally warming up to the ritual? - allowing the perfect space for him to practice his final audience with The Pale King’s vessel.

He chuckled to himself at the memory of that wyrm... Always so frazzled, with his thoughts scattered all about, never in one place. He never did get to teach that fool how to relax before he up and disappeared, leaving this kingdom to be ravaged by Her incurable sickness. What a shame...

He was just coming out of a twirl when he felt a sharp pain in his chest. His knees buckled. He fell. Where were the Grimmkin when he needed them?

Letting out a faint growl, he tried to get back onto his feet as he clutched his- His... He looked down to where his hand was supposed to be touching the smooth, red carapace of his chest, horrified at the sight that greeted him. An open wound, leaking with bright, scarlet flame where the heart of any normal bug was supposed to be located. It was only after that first moment of shock that the pain set in.

Collapsing to the ground once more, Grimm let out a roar of misery and shock and anguish and pure, unfiltered agony. It felt as if the fires that once kept him fed and warm as a child was now burning him up from the inside, taking every part of his body with them. Under his claws he felt his body coming apart, leaving less and less shell to grip on to as he was consumed by what once kept him alive. What was happening? This was not how the ritual went. This was not supposed to happen-

~ Curtains closed. Lights out. Our lead actor has disappeared. ~

Grimm jerked up into a sitting position, breath laboured and raspy as he clutched his chest. It was solid now. Ok. He wasn’t dead, at least. The legacy didn’t end with him as he had feared when... Wait.

He glanced around the room, feeling his metaphorical heart sink when he saw the stitched-together crimson and plum and wine-coloured fabrics that covered the floor, the ever-gently pulsing veins, the scarlet, firelit lanterns... He wasn’t in the physical realm anymore, he quickly realized.

Rolling over, he grabbed a small hand mirror from beside the bed, frantically checking his physical appearance. The ritual hadn’t failed, had it? No. It was still going if the coal colouring of his crescent-shaped horns was anything to go by. Then that must’ve meant...

Oh. Oh, that traitor.

Grimm could feel a growl bubbling up from his chest as he considered what might’ve happened. He must’ve tried to stop the ritual early, perhaps even tried to kill the troupe as a whole by banishing them back to the dream realm. He must’ve manipulated Grimms poor co-actor in this important play into following him, they seemed so glad to help out with the ritual, after all...

Wait. The ritual. The child. Where was the child? Why hadn’t it called out to him yet? Where was the child?

Frantically, and yet gently, he began searching through the satin sheets of the bed he had woken up in. If the child wasn’t dead, it had to be there somewhere, right? Right? Ri- Ah. There it was...

He carefully picked up the limp grimmchild, studying it for a moment. It worried him how he could only barely see it’s chest move, and it wasn’t chirping or making any other kind of noise at him like it usually would, even in its sleep. Not that one could truly sleep in the dream realm.

“My child...” He rasped, quietly, holding it close to his chest, still feeling the gentle pulse of fire inside it. It was still alive, that much was true, but it would not remain that way for long at this stage of the ritual. It would need more flame, and quickly, but finding it could be difficult without his grimmkin to scour the vast wastelands between kingdoms for something worthy of the presence of the troupe in its entirety. Sighing, he cradled his child close as he sat for a long moment in hopelessness, considering his options.

“Marintide...” A voice murmured in his mind, the rasp undoubtedly belonging to The Nightmare King himself.

Right. Of course. They had received another call while performing their ritual in Hallownest. The other kingdom was far geographically, but travelling large distances had never been

much of a problem for the troupe. But then again, the troupe hadn’t been in this situation for several centuries. Last time they were banished was way back in-

A soft cough and whine of complaint sounded from the starving child. Right. Best not to dwell on that with a starving grimmchild in his arms.

Slowly, Grimm laid back down on the satin bed, still holding the child close to his chest as he focused on the brief glimpses he had been given of the kingdom when they had received their call. He admittedly struggled a little with remembering the less interesting details, such as the dying corals and thick bramble forests, but he managed none the less.

Waking up on cold, hard stone was not a welcome experience, but it was the best way to tell that they had arrived. Huffing as he got up, Grimm took a moment to look around. Without the Grimmkin to go before him and set up a comfortably warm tent, he was immediately exposed to the cold breeze coming in from the ocean and the sight of the beautifully ruined architecture that once was this great kingdom.

The stone beneath his feet was a brilliant cobalt blue, and he could see the sunlight reflecting off something gold in the distance. Sunlight? Ah. An aboveground kingdom, then. Something that looked like a lighthouse of sorts was off in the distance as well, just barely visible if he squinted through the gleam of gold from fallen pillars and monuments. The sun was glinting off the sea as well, the water so reflective that he almost missed the large, pale form that smoothly broke the surface and went back under in the same movement. A seawyrm, perhaps. He had been told of these before, though he couldn’t recall much...

Shaking his head to clear his mind of thought and clutching the grimmchild closer still, he made his way through the ruins towards the woods he had seen. Extracting flame from living creatures was a painful process for both him and the second party, but in this case, it would have to be done. The Grimm lineage would not end with him.

Stepping into the woods, there was immediate rustling to his left. He barely had time to think before a large, hunter-esque creature had him pinned to the ground, teeth bared, ready to end him.

He remained calm, though, reaching up and firmly placing his open palm over its eyes as he focused, sending into a deep, nightmare-ridden sleep... Sighing, Grimm nudged the large creature off of him, finally untucking the grimmchild from his cape. His expression quickly dropped when he saw the state they were in, flopping over limply in his hands instead of flying up and readily feasting on the nightmares of the sleeping hunter.

This was bad. This was really bad.

Quickly, he crouched down by the sleeping hunter, carefully placing his child upon their head. “Sorry about this...” He murmured, though he knew his apology would never be heard, though he knew there was no forgiveness to be had for what he was about to do.

Then, he started chanting.

The words that spilt from his lips made the fire inside him roar back to life. It was painful, but he had to endure. For his child. For the troupe. He gritted his teeth together to keep himself from screaming, wanting so dearly not to distress his child...

“Ngahhh...”

Grimm glanced up at the noise, finally stopping his chanting, smiling when he saw his child just as lively as ever. But...

He brought his hand up, gently touching his left horn, quickly finding a large patch missing, replaced by openly roaring scarlet fire. He was weakening, he realized, tucking the child close once more. They would need to finish the ritual soon. He’d just need to find Brumm so-

Right. Brumm wasn’t part of the troupe anymore. That traitor.

He didn’t have a conduit now. And he didn’t have a helper either. As sure as he was that he could get the vessel to meet him outside Hallownest, the banishment ritual would not allow him within several miles of the place.

He’d have to wait.

Slowly wasting away into a fire ghost, he’d have to wait.

He’d be willing to make that sacrifice for his child, yes.

He’d keep them alive and safe until a proper ritual could be conducted again, or until he finally grew unable to help it and it’d have to starve.

He just hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

( donotgogently )

( @wasabi-arts )

Grimm pets the small creature in his arms, looking over Dirtmouth from the cliff. “What a shame for our little friend to abandon you in such a place,” he cooed, starting his descent down king’s pass, “ and a place so dangerous and cold. To think that vessel didn't even bring you back to our Trope.” The child purred in his arms, content with the situation despite the abandonment.

The trek back to the troupe wasn’t long, and Grimm made his way into the tent. “Good evening, Master.” Brumm said, already offering to take the torch from Grimm’s hands, surprised by the sight of the child, as well as Grimm’s damaged horn. “Master, why do you hold the child? And may I ask what happened to your right horn?” Grimm simply smiled at Brumm, dismissing Brumm’s second question while petting the child. “I hate to admit such a circumstance, but I do believe our little visitor has abandoned the child. Brumm was silent for a moment, looking at the child. He didn’t like the idea of Grimm dying for the sake of a ritual, and would much rather let the ritual die. At least for a bit longer, if it must continue.

“Why do you think they abandoned it?” Brumm asked, curious. “The traveler seems attached to it.” With a thoughtful nod from Grimm, he pet the child once more to hear it purr. “Maybe it has something to do with the roar heard earlier?”

“Roar?” Grimm asked, cocking his head with curiosity. “I heard no such thing.”

Brumm was surprised at this comment, stopping his music at the thought. “But Master, the roar was quite loud. It rattled the tents of our troupe and the homes of this here town. The bug near the bench described it as something akin to a cry.”

“I see...”

Grimm looked out of the tent in the direction of the crossroads. The abandoned Vessel of the Pale King himself had likely gone down below, Grimm thought. That was the location of the black egg that the king set up long ago to contain the infection. And since The Knight was a vessel themself, that is likely where they went.

“I don't think we’ll see them for a while, my dear Brumm.” The child snored in his arms. “May I ask why not?” “Well, do believe our small friend has gone to fight the creature inside the

crossroads.” “...”

Brumm looked back at Grimm’s shattered horn. “Master,”he asked,resuming his music,”May I ask what happened to your horn?”

Grimm turned away from the tent’s entrance to face Brumm.

“Ah, I almost forgot.” He stated, touching the broken spot with his hand.”I had gotten into a bit of a scuffle with the creatures up in the cliffs trying to obtain the child.” The spot hurt, yes, however Grimm paid it no mind. It was merely a minor injury, he was far more concerned about the child in his arms.

“Well, Brumm, we should take care of the child in the knight’s absence, hm?”

Brumm nodded in agreement. “I do think we should take care of your injury too, Master.”

( @ouliarts )

( @null-icon )

It is the dead of night and the big top is quiet with the whispers of a phantomly audience. Your Master had told you to keep watch before he had rushed out in a hurry - the fastest you’ve seen him move outside of performance - but it is still the same dark, dreary town at the base of the looming cliffs off to the left. Winds still whipped about and crept underneath the tent fabrics, the scarlet haze of an ethereal presence flickers with the chill, and with a rumbling sigh gathered from the depths of your chest, you reach behind you to pull out your trusty accordions and begin to play a slow melody from something beyond your time as a Troupe member. It’s a delicate number though sharp and stuttered even to your skilled hands, suggesting that the you of another lifetime had not gotten to learn it well, but you are alone with your thoughts and the mumble of an uncaring audience so you practice and improvise in hopes of making it something worth playing for someone beyond deserving.

The tent flaps flutter open long after you’ve sat down with your legs crossed and your instrument falls silent. The winds outside had gotten stronger, but it was hardly an observation relevant when shortly after the flaps are sealed you feel your fur near singing from the blast of furious heat. Where you previously would have no need to look up at the looming figure that storms past, you can’t help but to draw your gaze upon him. His stance is proud and he glides elegantly through the entrance chamber, nodding to you his curt greeting as he adjusts something under his thin cloak. You would have assumed nothing was off if he wasn’t radiating the hellish heat of his rage, and when he exited into the main ring, one of the heads of his curving black horns snapped clean off bleeding an otherworldly vermillion that trickled into his wiry fabrics.

Sometime when the sun should have broken over the peaks, you decide to pay your Master a visit, your curiosity and concern uncharacteristically getting the best of you. You don’t get much more than a few strides into his secluded part of the big top when the maroon walls shudder despite his quiet rasp, “I do not believe I summoned you, Brumm.”

“Mmmrr… So it may be. You are not well.”

“Is that so? What makes you question my state of being? What is it you find in the need to bother my rest?”

“The tent still simmers with your anger. My sight did not deceive me when I spotted your-” You are interrupted when the soft grizzle sounds, the pale pink of small irises blinking through where your Master is concealed. “... If that is all you dare approach me for, be on your way, Brumm. You have disturbed me, and now my child. Let us sleep.”

“Have you bandaged yourself, Master?” The hesitance you are greeted with tells you all you need to know, and you go digging in your fur for the roll of fabric you sew onto the shreds of your patchy sleeves. “Mmmh. Let me cover the wound, then I will leave.”

“I do not remember giving you permission.” “I do not require it for this.” Grimm uncovering himself enough for cat-like eyes to stare into your mask is simply affirmation to your statement. His horn had stopped oozing, now simply glowing dimly, but still you settle beside him to begin carefully swathing his horn in gray linen. “Did you fight, Master?” “Yes.”

“What for?” “My child. You must understand, the child is the future of this troupe. Of us.”

“Hrm. Why was the Grimmchild beyond the big top?”

“I do not know, Brumm, but it does not matter. Our caller approaches us soon, and the ritual will soon begin. That is what’s most important.” After the timbre of his voice falls out, you have nothing left to say and so you shift the rest of your energy into securing the wrap you have now made. “It will grow back, but thank you regardless, Brumm.” And when you turn to leave as promised, Grimm speaks up again.

“Will you play me a song, musician?”

( https://twitter.com/Heck_Yena )

( tfwhynot)

The troupe was always on the move. When the ritual wasn’t in the picture they, for the most part, had to travel the old fashion way. The tents could be instantly packed and unpacked with a snap of Grimm’s fingers, coming in and out of the Nightmare realm with ease. The Grimmkin were a similar story, though they themselves were in control of which realm they were in at any time. It was the more unique bugs that couldn’t though, Brumm, Divine, and the Grimmsteads were anchored to the waking realm.

Grimm led the caravan on a wagon all his own. It held everything he needed to plan, maps, lists of supplies they had or needed, and written plans for performances of future and past. Brumm followed in the wagon behind. It carried all the other things that didn’t originate from the nightmare heart; containing currencies from lands of all sorts. Things to trade away for other things they may need or want, rations of food and water, and nicknacks collected for sentimental purposes. In the very back, the strongest and most loyal steed followed, wheeling Divine’s wagon with them. Jars of the various substances she excreted were stashed, herbs, and remedies, each with their own uses.

Brumm’s music floated around the caravan, the familiar tunes of his accordion helping fight off complete boredom. Grimmkin popped in and out, joking and chatting among themselves. The newest of them excited to be on the road again, the long darkness to come not quite setting in on them yet.

The road they traveled slowly grew rough, the wagon wheels bouncing slightly on the rocks that were sprinkled across the road. Two mountains off in the distance came into view, a thin and winding path was carved through, old and uncared for; it was made a mess by time. It had been made by a kingdom long gone and forgotten.

He waved down a few Kin that was chatting above him, “Explore the hills we are to tread,” He rasped out, “Report any dangers or curiosities you come across.” They nodded and dashed off, nothing but a rapidly disappearing blaze of scarlet fire left behind.

Time passed as Grimm waited, the steed pulling his wagon huffed at them, silently asking to rest soon. The road was still uneven, each wagon still bouncing off the occasional rock, tilting to and fro at the uneven path.

The Grimmkin still hadn’t returned as the wagons began to pull through the mountains. The walls of rock were high on each side, holes were mirrored on each side. A few old corpses could barely be seen, legs and arms of bugs both wild and sentient lay idle, their chests gaping open, innards long eaten by what lived here. He placed a hand on the child’s back where they were curled by his side in worry. They murmured in their sleep, still so small and weak. It’d be a while till the next ritual.

The walls were close together, they only just let the wagons pass without the worry of scraping the sides. There was no way to turn around once the caravan walked past the entrance, let alone run the other way if something happened.

“The path through should be short,” Grimm thought, “We’ll stop for rest and food on the other side,” he waved down more kin, a dozen more than last time, “If something happens we can deal with it,” He instructed them to carry torches and light the path, and most importantly, report back if they saw something, “We’ll always make it through.”

Music seeped through the artificial canon, echoing through the caves along each side. The old familiar tune felt uneasy, the vague feeling of nervousness permeating through the troupe enough to effect Brumm. The steeds began to slow, the sounds of their marching quieting as they pushed through the fatigue encasing their shells.

A puff of red smoke and a small novice was sitting beside Grimm. Their shrill and panicked voice woke the child, their words were spoken quickly, half slurred together, and hard to understand.

A sharp scree cut through all the noise, leaving a deafening quiet in its wake.

The Grimmkin immediately started to panic, “That’s the noise! Tha-”

A kin was slammed against the wall with a loud crack, their shell breaking on impact as a creature dug into them, shredding their garments as they fell, the Grimmkin wailing.

Jumping up Grimm tossed the reins to a nightmare kin. As he got on top of the wagon another scree rang out; the grimkin this time successfully dodging. Brumm’s wagon shook as the creature collided with it, the steed leading it letting out a panicked whimper.

The creature hissed on the ground, mandibles and legs flailing as for a moment before righting itself. It crouched down, ready to strike again when the wheels of Divine’s cart rolled over, only pinning it at first, the steed struggling to pull over the living speedbump. A squeak and a squelch and their rigid shell shattered, Divine letting out a startled yelp as the wheel suddenly dropped back to ground level.

Another screech, Grim immediately aimed to intercept it when yet another rang out.

It was like a domino effect, one after another after another screaming before leaping at the caravan. Grimm dashed, intercepting as many as he could before they hit, the air was just as full of fire as it was the creature as the kin attempted to help kill their attackers.

Still more kept coming, “Take them through as fast as possible,” Grimm barked at the nightmare leading them.

“Master?” Brumm called out, worry lacing his voice as much as panic.

“I’ll meet up with you on the other side, just go!”

They didn’t need to be told twice, the steeds immediately attempting to move as fast as their tired legs could carry them.

Flinging himself into the air Grim puffed up with a loud scream, doing his best to draw all of their attention. Fire flung from around him, lighting the small canyon with fire.

It worked, the beasts focusing on the largest threat. The wagons now having to deal with fewer things under their wheels could actually hurry, fear coursing through the steeds giving them new energy. The sound of Grimm’s fight growing more and more distant till it was nothing but an echo on the other side.

Once out the steeds couldn’t go any further if they tried. Their shells heaved as they drew breath, legs shaking as they unhitched themselves, collapsing on the ground with exhaustion. They huffed at the kin who immediately checked on them, shaking any attempts to get them to stand up, just wanting to be left alone.

With a grunt Brumm hopped out of the cart, afraid of what he might see.

It looked like the fuckers had attempted to burrow through the wagons. Shallow divots in the repurposed shells that made the walls and ceilings were spread across all the wagons.

He made his way to the front, seeing the nightmare doing their best to comfort Grimmchild as they cried.

“Mrmmm. Is the child hurt?”

They shook their head no, rubbing their back as they clung to the kin, ��scared and worried for their father, but completely unharmed,” they rumbled.

Brumm nodded as he looked to the other kin. A few quickly busied themselves but most were unsure, not knowing what to do without instruction from the master. No one could properly hunker down for the night without him and there wasn’t really a second in command for situations like this.

“Try and get some to start repairs on the wagons,” Brumm told the nightmare. He shifted in place trying to figure out what to do, he wasn’t a leader, he hated giving directions to others. There was a reason he was the only musician, as the sole bug who composed the music he just could never direct others to play something right.

Walking back to Divine he could hear her talking, her airy voice louder and sharper than usual.

“Aaaah! Where’s the master? He said he’d meet us! I can’t smell him here! Where is he?” The kin outside her wagon shrugged.

“Mrmmm. How are you fairing Divine?” Brumm asked, already knowing the answer.

“Aaaahhhhh! Just terribly! What are we supposed to do? The master said he’d be here!”

“All we can do is wait. Master will come with time.”

Divine hissed in worry, she shifted and wiggled as much as she could, “But couldn’t he just puff back in any second? Why isn’t he here!” Her face was in a deep frown, something no one saw often, it made her smiling mask half look out of place and strange.

“Mrmmm. He may still be trying to buy time, he can’t see how far we are.”

“Aaahhhhh! But what if! What if…” She trailed off, not wanting to say what she thought. If she said it, what if it came true?

“Impossible, it’s never happened before. He’ll return. Master may come back hurt, but he will come back.” Brumm reassured.

Divine still wasn’t sure about that but dropped it, “What are we supposed to do till he comes back?”

“Mrmm,” Brumm had to think for a moment, “I don’t know. I’ll start getting food ready I guess. Keep medical supplies at the ready when he returns.”

“Ahh… But what am I supposed to do? I’ll worry myself into knots if I don’t do something!”

“You can watch the child. The nightmare caring for them now has more important things they can do. Just make sure they’re calm, try to get them to sleep.” Divine nodded at Brumm and he set off to try and put things together.

As time passed though Brumm couldn’t stop worry from clouding his head. He kept a bag of medical supplies on him while he cooked while doing his best to focus on the task at hand, making a basic soup from what they had. Though the spot they were at wasn't the best, the kin were able to find a river, grabbing buckets to add to the cauldron and give to the steeds. There wasn’t any promise of something that tasted amazing but everyone would appreciate having something in their stomachs for now.

There was little conversation as food was passed around. Not even the novices, often cheerful and mischievous, found it in them to crack jokes. Brumm at least took the chance to fully get what damages were. The wheels would need to be replaced, many cracks and deformations from the blasted things would make it risky to set off too soon, they’d need some material to make some final repairs but the wagons were still okay enough that there wasn’t worry of them falling apart or rain seeping through, the steeds were tired and a bit scratched up but would be okay with rest, and while a few Grimmkin had been lost the majority were okay, shaken up, but okay.

The tents appeared in a flash, faster and more sudden than Brumm had seen in a long time. It was almost dizzying, everyone having to be moved and placed within different rooms.

“Master!” Brumm realized. He had to find him, figure out what happened, make sure he was okay.

Where was he even? A quick turn around and he was in the main stage with a few other confused kin, a few mourning over dropping their meal in their daze.

Master’s room, Grimm had to be there. He was quick to shuffle as best as he could in the darkened stage.

“Master?” Brumm called.

“Come in Brumm.”

Brumm tentatively moved the curtain, peering in. His mast was sprawled out on a fainting couch.

“Master! Your horn-”

“I know Brumm, it looks worse than it feels.”

Brumm couldn’t believe that. One of Grimm’s horns had been torn off, the thick shell left was jagged and cracked around it. The soft flesh within weeping blood now that it was exposed.

Grimm had been injured before but this… This had never happened. Maybe a crack or scratch, but even during the ritual Brumm had never seen a piece of Grimm torn off.

“You-You need to get that cleaned immediately!” Brumm moved closer, trying his best to see if there was anything else.

Grimm chuckled, “I haven’t heard you order someone around in a long time.”

That made Brumm freeze, “I… Mrmm. I’m sorry master that wasn’t my intent.”

Finally, Grimm turned to face him, “There is no need to apologize, my friend, I was only teasing.”

Grimm had a tired smile, blood slowly winding its way down the side of his face. There were a few other scratches and cuts, small tears in his cloak, but nothing nearly as bad as his horn.

“I’m just glad everyone is okay,” He turned back looking down to what Brumm could now see was the Grimmchild. They rested their head on their father's arm, purring softly as Grimm’s other hand lightly scratched their head.

“Please master, let me dress your wounds. Even if it’s not as bad as you say it still needs to be taken care of soon rather than later.”

Grimm looked back at Brumm, seeing him fidget with worry, “Very well.”

He shifted into a better position, sitting upright with his cloak completely out of the way, much to the complaint of Grimmchild. Grimm shushed them as Brumm moved in front of him. Even sitting on a couch this low to the ground Grim was still at eye level with Brumm.

Brumm had to take a deep breath to calm his nerves as he pulled out supplies to clean his master, “Mrmm. This is probably going to sting,” he warned.

He poured a cleaning acid on a clean towel, it wasn’t strong enough to do much more than sting, but it still cleaned. He carefully dabbed at the wound, waiting to see if there was any reaction. Grimm’s eye twitched slightly but he kept calm as Brumm thoroughly cleaned his head.

Placing the used rag aside, pulling a large pair of tweezers out. Grimm bowed his head slightly, allowing Brumm easier access. Carefully Brumm pulled bits of shell that had embedded themself in the wound. Grimm huffing as a large piece, roughly the size of a piece of geo, was taken out.

After cleaning it again Brumm placed a layer of protective shell over it, a large circular disk of shell cleaned and cut to help cover a wound till it healed so nothing got in. It was a bit big but it did the job. With some adhesive strips, it was secured.

Brumm stepped back, “It’s done, master. Mrmm.”

That same tired smile from before appeared again, “Thank you for caring for me, my friend. Tell me, was the rest of the troupe okay?”

“Yes, a few kin were lost but given some time to rest everyone will be okay. The wagons will likely need to be replaced soon though.”

Grimm nodded, “Rest, that certainly sounds nice. Would the troupe be okay if I rested for now?”

“Mrm. I believe so, though it would be a good idea to talk to everyone and address what happened.”

“Of course, of course,” Grim, let out a slow sigh, looking down as the child got comfortable again. “Could you leave me to rest then?”

Brumm nodded silently and left. As he lifted the curtain he turned again, taking one final look at his master. He was too tired to hang as he usually slept, instead opting to curl around the child on the fainting couch.

“Rest well master.”

( @kiwikoala )

( @vibeseeker )

Crimson flames slowly licked up the draping curtains, draining away all color except the ocean of red that surrounded the young king and the visage of the ever beating Nightmare Heart. The ever present silence within the realm was only pierced by the steady thump of the constantly beating object, joined soon by the child's own pulse.

That is until a sharp crack echoed through the red hued abyss, quickly following the noise the growing troupe master had been blinded by a bright light. He quickly beat his wings in an adrenaline fueled struggle to wipe away the blazing heat that seared into his retinas, only to be met by a new presence that felt somewhat familiar. However the very energy called out to him, drawing him to cautiously approach.

"So I see the mewling cub shows its strength, choosing to find me within my own realm," The figure slightly turned and with a snap set their hand alight with a crimson flame, unveiling the form of the Nightmare King "It's almost cute, though that won't prove you as a worthy enough vessel alone."

"I... I just... I wasn't trying too..." Grimmchild nervously spoke as he pushed off the larger beings baited words, fanning out his wings and drifting to the floor below "my... my father, he... where is he? I... I was just with him..." panic started to grip at the small things words, as his eyes darted around and finally took in the lack of a landscape around the pair "...where am I? Who are you? What did you do?"

"Hah, poor thing, did your father never tell you of your purpose?" The Nightmare spoke with a chuckle and slowly bent down to be a little closer to the child's level, the pinkish red of his eyes burning deep within "a shame then, a kin not properly warned will make the process far more difficult than it should be..."

"...kin? My... my purpose? Wh..what do you mean?" Grimmchild asked with a slight hitch to his voice, pulling his wings back as worry tugged at the edges of his mind "I... I really want to go home... where is home?" He asked again, not expecting a real answer but hoping that the strange 'kin' would take pity upon him.

The larger figure let off a deep sigh as it drew back up to its full height, looking away with an almost bored expression adorning their face.

"Fine, perhaps you were simply dragged here out of pure luck then, as I doubt a weakling could get here of skill alone..." The Nightmare King then lifted one of his hands before giving a simple snap that caused the child to burst into crimson flames, almost immediately cooking them inside and out as their skin was charred and reduced to ash.

Grimmchild awoke with a start, jolting up upon the soft sheets of a fine bed deep within the maze of tents that was the troupe. His breathing was laboured and irregular, and a tear was starting to build up on the edge of his eyes, that is until a black wing gently pulled him back into a kind embrace.

"Is everything alright little one?" Grimm spoke out with a softer tone, moving himself a little closer in order to better comfort his son.

"A... a nightmare... it... it felt s..so..." the child stuttered for a while, struggling to form words until Grimm tightened the hug a little further and carefully wrapped his wing around them. Laying the both of them back into the bed.

"Its okay little one, nightmares are just that, nightmares. Just try and get back to sleep, alright?"

"A..alright..."

( @doodle-chris )

#and that's all of them!#hollowknight #hollow knight #otherart #otherfic #fanart #giftcorner #telephoneknight #long post #also bolded names are people who im still trying to get accounts to link to #stand by for thems

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youvebeenlivingfictional · 4 years ago

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I’m Always Curious Part Twenty Seven

Previous Part | Next Part | Masterlist Notes: I hope everyone’s having a good week 💕

Sooo..... How are we doing................ Also for this week, new character incoming, the person I was picturing when I wrote Eli Durling is Michael Ealy, in case y’all want someone to picture

Warnings: ….Angst again I know my bad again

Also cursing and mentions of canon-typical violence Summary: I took the hands that were offered to me in introduction and did my damnedest to keep contact.

“Jett Reno, engineering.” Engineering, how was it I always wound up rooming with someone from engineering?

The problem was, with my separation from the Enterprise and the wounds of Somonia still fresh, I found myself desperate for connection where my life had been voided of it.

Jett, Tilly-- I took the hands that were offered to me in introduction and did my damnedest to keep contact.

-- “What brought you to Starfleet?” I could tell by the strained way Jett was asking that she didn’t do small talk for fun the way Tilly did. I’d been on the Hiawatha for a couple of days and we’d hardly talked when we’d been in our quarters together. Neither of us had pushed to fill the silence. But now, Jett was making the effort to… Chat. Maybe it was an attempt to stop my harried pacing in the cramped craft, but I could hardly keep still. My first official mission was set to begin in just a few minutes-- I was piloting a new federation attack fighter with an experimental cloaking device into Klingon airspace for the purposes of picking up subspace chatter. The Hiawatha would be in range as it ferried the first few war-wounded to Starbase 515. As soon as I collected what transmissions I could, I was to return to the ship, and then we’d jump to maximum warp -- barring any complications. “... My dad was an attaché to the Federation when I was growing up. I was brought to a lot of planets when he had custody. And when I was home there were a lot of different languages around me. I was just... curious.” Jett grunted. “What about you?” I asked. “I was always taking shit apart when I was a kid,” Jett leaned away from the control panel, “I had a teacher at school that steered me to circuit analysis. Kicked off from there.” She pulled off her gloves, turning back to me. “Good thing she jumped in when she did, I was electrocuting myself like, once a week. My mom was a doctor, said electrocuting yourself is frowned upon.” I smiled a little bit, “You know, I’ve heard that.” “Apparently everyone but me had.” “When you joined Starfleet...You ever think you’d be doing something like this?” “Helping a language nerd fly into enemy space? Can’t say it was in my top five. Did you think you’d be a pilot?” I shook my head, shoving my hands into my pockets, “No. I always liked flight sims, but steering was the furthest thing from my mind. I had this...Grand idea of going to new planets, building bridges between cultures… Not getting my ass bounced from ship to ship to ship and keeping my head down in the hopes I don’t wind up on Admiral Cornwell’s bad side…” I sighed, shrugging, “But we put our dreams away.” Jett’s brows were furrowed, and I could see the question she wanted to ask, but instead asked: “You got a plan after this?” “After the mission?” “After the war.” I was quiet for a moment, turning to survey the control panel. “... I think I’d rather focus on what I’m gonna do after the mission, not get too far ahead of myself.” Jett pursed her lips, nodding a little bit, looking around. “You oughta get off of this vessel if you don’t wanna join me for its maiden voyage,” I warned. Jett grunted, picking up her toolkit and heading for the ramp. “Try not to get blown up out there,” She said over her shoulder, “I did good work on this ship.” “I’ll do my damnedest,” I called back.

It became routine for Jett and I to chat before missions - occasionally making plans for what we would do once I got back. My missions tended to vacillate between two types: either a transmission intercept, or a mission type that protocol labeled a 22-9-14. 22-9-14 operations consisted of approaching a Klingon craft, deploying a tracking and transmission device, and piloting the hell out of there before any Warbirds could catch wise. It didn’t always work of course -- which was why Eli and I started calling 22-9-14s ‘Tag and Runs’. Lieutenant Commander Eli Durling was a security officer stationed on the Hiawatha for the purpose of handling Communications-based missions. I’d known of him while I was at the Academy. He had been a couple of years ahead of me, and we had a few mutual friends, but as we'd been focused in different course tracks, I'd never had occasion to really interact with him until now. He’d graduated top of his class, and had been stationed on a ship in the Mempa sector until the war had broken out.

Durling reminded me of Pike, a little. When he wasn’t focused on the mission at hand, he was fairly easygoing, lighthearted, and made it a point to follow orders - when those orders were the right course of action in a given situation. Eli wasn’t above changing course mid-mission when something took a bad turn, and he wasn’t afraid to go to bat for me with command for doing the same, either. He covered my back, and I covered his.

“You should see the job Durling did to his phaser canons,” Jett half-yelled, half-grumbled from under the control panel. I eyed where her legs were in view, just beside my pilot’s seat. “Something tells me the job was done by a Klingon Warbird and not by Eli himself.” “Well if he hadn’t gotten spotted by a Warbird, they wouldn’t have chased him, fired at him, and fucked up his phaser canons.” “...You might have a point there.” “I’m wounded, lieutenant,” I heard from just behind me, and I turned to see Eli ducking his head to step onto the craft. “I really hope you mean emotionally," I teased. Eli’s lips twitched into a smile, and I returned it. It was moments like this that his attractiveness was...Really not lost on me. He was handsome, with golden, copper brown skin and gentle blue eyes. His smile, which was turned at me now, was typically kind -- a kind smile that could turn flirtatious or teasing at the drop of a hat. “I’m broken up inside,” Eli reassured me. “Mm, mhm,” I nodded, “What’s going on?” “I’ve got some news.” “Is it that you learned how to fix your phaser canons yourself?” Jett asked, sitting up from under the console. “Sadly, no.” “Sadly? That’s not sadly no, that’s morbidly depressingly no,” Jett grumbled as she took my hand to help her up, “You have any idea how long it’s gonna take me to fix those when you inevitably fuck them up again?” “Well, not long at all. The lieutenant and I are being transferred.” Jett and I let that sink in in silence as the three of us stood in silence. It felt like a punch - but Reno recovered faster than I did. “...Well, godspeed to whoever takes you over, Durling. You’re an engineer’s worst nightmare.”

“I’ll miss you, too, Reno,” Eli chuckled before turning to me, “We’ll be shipping out once you get back, as long as everything is status quo.” “Got it.” “Be careful out there.” “Yessir.”

I watched Eli go before I lowered my eyes, making a careful study of my shoes. I’d been on the Hiawatha for two months now. It was only just starting to feel… Not like the Enterprise, but like a safe space again. “Well,” I said after a moment, “Least you’ll be getting your room back to yourself.” “Looks like it,” Jett agreed, “Don’t get all mushy on me, huh?” I shook my head, pushing back my upset and flattening my expression before meeting her eye: “I was about to ask the same of you.” Jett nodded. “Would’ve been nice if we could’ve seen this through together.” “Would’ve,” I agreed quietly. “But we put our dreams away,” Jett reached out, slapping me on the shoulder before picking up her toolkit, “Don’t get blown up at the last minute. It would be a hell of an anti-climax.”

I scrolled through the contacts on my PADD stilling over Sidhu, Thira for a moment. The little status bubble beside her name read ‘Active’. Despite the fact that Eli and I were stationed together on the USS Pinnacle, and had been for months, I was antsy for news of the Enterprise. I’d reached out to Cornwell for an update on the crew, but I had yet to get an answer from her. I couldn’t blame her. She was entrenched in strategy, but I was desperate for news -- especially after the news of the Hiawatha’s loss had reached us nearly a week after Eli and I had been re-stationed.

I scrolled further down on the contacts list, tapping on the contact name for Tilly, Sylvia. I eyed the ‘Active’ bubble beside her name before tapping on the small video icon. I lifted the PADD up to my face, grinning when Tilly came into view. “Hi!” She greeted, waving. “Hey there. How are you?” I asked, shifting back on my bed. “Oh…” I watched Tilly glance at her surroundings before she answered, “Lorca’s on the warpath.” “The literal warpath or the metaphorical one?” Tilly laughed before sighing, “Both.” I winched, “Sorry, Tills.” “It’s not all awful,” She shrugged, “I have a roommate again, actually. Michael Burnham.” My brows rose. I knew of Michael Burnham - her name was splashed across briefings in relation to the war and the Battle of the Binary Stars. But I’d known of her, first and foremost, through Spock. He’d never spoken of her in honeyed tones, mind, but I knew that he regarded her highly. What was all of this doing to Spock? I couldn’t imagine him having to reason himself through this with limited intel from the Federation at such a distance-- “Hello? Hel-- Hello? Did I cut out? Am I frozen? Are you frozen?” I was jolted from my reverie at Tilly’s waterfall of questions. “I’m sorry,” I smiled, “Got distracted-- How’s the roomie situation?” “Well she frowned about as much as you did when you got on board.” “I warmed up.” “So did she,” Tilly smiled, and I relaxed a little, folding my legs up under myself. “Glad to hear it.” I looked away from my PADD as the doors to my room opened. “Hey, Eli,” I greeted. I saw Tilly’s eyes widen, and I glanced down to see her smoothing her hair down hurriedly. “Eli, you remember Tilly,” I added as he crossed to my bed - I’d introduced them on a previous call. “Course I do,” He smiled, sitting down beside me and giving the screen a wave, “Nice to see you again, Sylvia.” I grinned as a flush as red as her hair well up on Tilly’s cheeks. “Hi,” She answered, matching Eli’s wave. Her gaze was directed away from the screen as an announcement that I couldn’t make out crackled on her end. “Ahh-- I have to go,” She said hurriedly, turning back to the screen, “I’m sorry!” “No, don’t worry about it,” I shook my head, “Be careful.” “You guys, too!” Tilly chirped before hanging up. I looked down at the screen as it winked off. I eyed the contact for Sidhu, Thira, one more time before swiping away from my contacts. Eli leaned back against the wall, shifting further back on my bed. “If you put your shoes on my bed, Durling--” “I know the rules, kid,” He chuckled. I rolled my eyes. He’d taken to calling me that weeks ago, and I couldn't get him to shake it. “What’s got you in here, anyway?” I asked, “New mission?” “Can’t sleep.” I frowned, glancing over at Eli before I turned back to my messages. I had a new message, but where the hell was it? It wasn’t from Cornwell, I’d already checked. “Something wrong?” I pressed. “Just one of those nights. Ever have one?” “Oh, all the--” I froze, damn near dropping my PADD at the sight of the unopened message. It was recent - minutes old. And it was from Una. “...You okay, kid?” Eli’s knee nudged mine, but I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the words ‘You’re on the Pinnacle?’.

“I-- I um… Yes. I have those nights all the time. Think I’m gonna have another one of those nights tonight.” Eli crowded closer, peering over my shoulder. “Bad news?” “I don’t know yet… Can you gimme a minute?”

It had started with Paledore, apparently. He’d been looking for something I’d sent him a while ago, some verb conjugation that I'd worked on, and he’d noticed that my status was active. He’d figured that it had to be a fluke, and he’d gone about his business. But it had happened again and again, and he’d brought it up to Thaleh, who had brought it up to Spock. Spock had done some digging, located me in Starfleet's medical database at the Academy, and then in the ship’s records for the Pinnacle. He had brought that information to Una. Una, who was now staring at me through a video feed. Her face was carefully blank. I’d seen that look before -- I knew that she was making a concentrated effort to not give anything away. Una could be hard to read in the first place, but I may as well have been looking at a statue. My heart was thudding low in my chest, beating out a panicked, jittery tattoo that usually only accompanied the running of a 22-9-14 and a Klingon Warbird on my tail. “...So,” I started, “How’s the Pergamum?” “You’re alive.” I gave a small nod. “Yeah, they’re not trucking a corpse around on the Pinnacle for the sake of filling the new communications specialist minimum.” “You’ve been alive this entire time and you’re making jokes?” Una seethed. It chilled me through the screen and I lowered my eyes, swallowing thickly. “I know you’re upset--” “Upset?” She repeated with a scorning little laugh, “I have spent the last year watching the repercussions that your loss has had on this crew, on Pike-- and you’re making jokes.” Guilt spun through me and wobbled like a top. “Can I explain?” “I wish you would.”

I took a deep breath, steadying my nerves before I told Una what had happened - all I could remember. Soivo, Somonia, Cornwell, my time on the Discovery and the Hiawatha. Una’s face remained unmoved throughout. My only indication that the screen hadn’t frozen was Una’s occasional shift in her seat. Once I’d finished my explanation, Una gave a small nod. “Well… That certainly lines up with the timeline that Spock put together.” I couldn’t help but smile a little at that, even as I ached at the mention. “Of course he put a timeline together,” I muttered, scrubbing my hand over my eyes. I sighed, quiet for a few moments. “How are you all?” I asked, “Will you tell me that?” “You don’t deserve that answer.” I clenched my jaw, hot tears prickling at my eyes as I felt my entire being want to fold in on itself. “Una, please understand--” The video feed cut, the message on the screen indicating that the call had been terminated from Una’s side. My fingers curled around the device, my chest racking with sobs as I curled forward.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” I heard behind me, “What did that punching bag say to you?” I raised my hands to stop the bag from swinging back and hitting me before I turned back to see Eli. After Una’s abrupt end to our call, I had cried until I couldn’t anymore - until my sobs had been dry and my breathing had been hiccups. And then, when the hurt had still ebbed through me, when I saw that there were no transmissions waiting for translation or missions for me to run, I went to work the rest of my hurt out on a punching bag. “I’m not in the mood, Durling,” I cautioned quietly. My voice was hoarse from its rough use earlier, and my body and nerves were rung raw from the war, from losing Jett -- from my call with Una, and from the news that had hard followed - the Discovery had been destroyed. My last call with Tilly had been our last call. Eli took a couple of cautious steps closer to me, looking me over. “I can see that. Came to offer my assistance.” I arched a brow. “Assistance?” I repeated, “The bag over here offered the same thing and look where it’s wound up.” Eli smiled a little. “You’re gonna run yourself ragged like this,” he warned. I shook my head a bit, biting the inside of my cheek to staunch a fresh wave of tears. “I already have, Eli, I can’t--” I took in a deep, shuddering breath, “I can’t rest my head right now. That’s just a fact.” “Neither can I. Maybe we can help each other out with that.” “I’m not gonna ask you to help me.” “Why not?” “You see the mood I’m in?” I nodded toward the bag, “At least one of us needs to be in a condition to fly.” “I think I can handle you.” I arched a brow. “Eli,” I warned softly. He took a step closer, warm blue eyes and kind smile pointed at me with all softness and sincerity. “Kid,” he murmured, “You don’t have to worry about being gentle with me.” Tag list: @angels-pie ; @fantasticcopeaglepasta ; @mylittlelonelyappreciationtoo ; @how-am-i-serpose-to-know ; @onlyhereforthefandomandgiggles ; @inmyowncorner ; @tardis-23 ; @2manyfandoms-solittletime ; @paintballkid711 ; @katrynec ; @hypnobananaangelfish

#I'm Always Curious #captain pike x reader #Captain Pike/Reader #Captain Pike Imagine #Captain Pike x You #Captain Pike/You #christopher pike x reader #christopher pike/reader #Christopher Pike x You #christopher pike imagine #Christopher Pike/You

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merakiaes · 5 years ago

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By Your Side - James Conrad

Pairing: James Conrad x reader

Requested: Yes.

Prompts: None.

Warnings/notes: I didn’t include very much interaction between James and reader in this, sadly, so send in more requests for James please, I love him😭 Not proofread so sorry in advance for any mistakes in grammar or spelling. Leave a comment and tell me what you think, hope you enjoy it xx

Wordcount: 3513

Summary: You get separated from James in the crash and are forced to leave your post and head out to find your way back to him and the others alongside Jack Chapman after almost being killed.

You thought you were done with this kind of life. Both you and James did.

After James’s mission-gone-wrong in Malaysia in 1965, on which he was supposed to rescue Jenny, the seven-year-old illegitimate daughter of a Malaysian woman and a British embassy worker, who was kidnapped and held for ransom by a unit of rogue Indonesian soldiers, only for both the girl and two of his five men to be killed in an ambush, he hadn’t been the same.

The failure of the mission marked the beginning of his disillusioned outlook, as he lost trust in his government and country as well as himself.

It was his last mission as a soldier in the British Special Forces. Ever since then, he had cautiously accepted freelance missions only when he felt the odds weren't stacked against him, said missions only getting scarcer and scarcer as he settled down with you.

Before the mission, you had been in Vietnam alongside him, to teach jungle warfare and survival techniques to American troops.

You were both trackers, specialists in survival and recovering lost people. You were basically the same person, with very similar backgrounds and reasons for choosing the way in life that you had, and hit it off immediately, your professional relationship taking a more intimate turn.

You hadn’t been there with him during the Malaysian mission, you had never been right in the action, not even once, but you saw the effect the last mission had on him and decided right then and there that you were done.

You were okay with him going on easy missions every once in a blue moon, but you weren’t ready to let him go put his life in danger.

Luckily, he didn’t even want to do those kinds of things anymore in the first place, turning down every offer that would be too great a risk to never be able to see you again. Not that you knew about the last part.

But then Bill Randa showed up with an offer to accompany him and a large crew to an uncharted island, thinking that James’ raw courage, survival skills and understanding of nature could represent the expedition’s best shot at making it off the island alive.

You had been the first to protest and James hadn’t been far behind, shaking his head and turning him down. But the more money they put on the table, both literally and metaphorically speaking, the more tempted you could see him become.

As you might have guessed by now, he accepted, on the one condition that they recruited you too, saying you wouldn’t go without each other.

A closed deal and some time later, you were sitting in the back of a chopper, heading straight into the ruthless storm surrounding the island.

You were in the chopper with Jack Chapman, while James was in a chopper with Mason and Slivko.

You had been planning to go together in the same chopper, but James had come out later and you had already been in the air alongside the rest of the choppers by then.

Storms had never been much of a problem for you, seeing as you were a survivalist and an expert in anything having to do with nature.

You weren’t worried for a second, not even when the strikes of lightning struck right next to the open doors, and before you knew it, the storm was over and you were safe.

At least that what you had thought.

But then it happened.

First the bombs, dropping into the ground and leaving loud, bright explosion in their wake, and then a tree shooting through the air like a big arrow, trunk-first and heading straight for one of the choppers, smashing through its windshield and sending the flying vessel to the ground.

It all happened so quickly after that, and at the same time, everything around you was moving in slow motion.

You had wasted no time in searching for James’s hand beside you, only to realize with a panicked whimper that he was in another chopper.

Bringing your hand back to your lap where you clenched both hands into fists, you took a peek outside, your heart hammering in your chest at the sight you were met with.

Together, all of you watched the giant shadow that stood in the distance, standing as tall as the sun, completely blocking the view and its big, hairy fist shooting out in first of many hits, striking the side of another chopper inside which you could see the soldiers struggling to hold on as it fell.

Once it had made contact with the ground, the creature picked it back up, holding it above its head, roared, and swallowed the soldier.

It was all chaos from there on forward, the comms going wild.

“On guard, Fox Five! Fox Eight is down! Fox Four is down! Respond, Fox Three!”

“Oh, my God!”

“Fox Seven moving into position, three o’clock.”

“Does anybody know what that is?”

“I don’t know, man. God damn…”

“Three klicks west of Red LZ.”

“Jesus! I’ve never seen anything like it!”

“Set a perimeter of three-hundred meters. Do not engage.”

“Roger. Climb one eight-hundred.”

“Is that a monkey?” Chapman’s voice came from the front of the chopper you were currently sitting in the back of, but you could only focus on the giant gorilla standing in front of you, wearily taking note of the way it was getting more and more agitated the more you circled around it.

“What the hell is that?”

“Somebody talk to me, man.”

“Turn right, heading two-five-zero. Contact approach.”

“Fox Leader to Fox Group. Form a perimeter. Ready gunner positions.”

“Holy shit! Look at that thing! I’m freaking out here!”

“Fox Leader to Fox Group. Fire at will!”

You had been so engrossed in watching and inspecting the foreign creature that you had tapped out of the comms for a minute, only getting pulled back to reality when you heard Packard’s final order, moving back inside the chopper and yelling out a loud “No!” to Chapman and his copilot.

But it was already too late, the gorilla letting out a mighty roar just as the first bullets flew.

To a start, it just brought its arms up to its face to cover himself, but soon, the more you circulated and the more you shot, the more aggressive he got, standing up straight and hitting at any chopper that came too close.

Your chopper came across James’, and your eyes met for the briefest second, both wide-eyed and chests heaving up and down in the panic of not being able to get to one another, and then before you knew it, your chopper was struck in the side, the flying vessel instantly starting to jerk.

“Fox Six, we got nominal control. We are going down.” Chapman spoke into his comms, before turning his head around to look at you, yelling out. “Hold on!”

You did as told, pushing your back into your seat and holding on to your seat belt as if your life depended on it, which you guessed it kind of did.

The chopper was spinning and jerking and you started getting dizzy and disoriented in no time, a deafening roar drowning out the sounds of the propellers above you just as you hit the first tree-top.

And then silence, and then darkness, as you braced for impact and crashed into the forest.

You had no idea for how long you were out, but when you came back to consciousness, your ears were ringing loudly, your entire body aching and as you regained your composure, you realized, being pulled.

Forcing your eyes to open, the first thing you were met with was a sharp, pounding pain in your head, your hand instantly moving up to the sore spot.

The second thing you realized, when pulling your hand back in front of your face, was that you were bleeding.

Third, you realized that it was now eerily quiet all around you, the sounds of the choppers’ propellers no longer there, and fourth, you realized as you looked up, that Chapman had just dragged you out of your crashed chopper, the soldier helping you sit up with your back against a fallen tree.

Once he had made sure that you could sit by yourself, he knelt in front of you, grabbing your face in his hands and twisting it to the side.

“You hit your head pretty bad.” He wasted no time in informing you, and you winced as he reached up and pressed a dry cloth against the wound on the side of your head.

But you said nothing, letting him clean you up while looking around. “Where are we?” You asked, taking in the thick forest and taking note of how you were the only ones there.

“At the west side of the island.” He replied, leaving the cloth at your head for you to hold.

When you took over for his hand with your own, your eyes flickered over to the crashed and burning chopper, your throat growing thick at the sight of the pilot inside, hanging upside down. “Is he-“ You trailed off and Chapman nodded, sighing.

“Yeah.”

“Shit.” You cursed, using your free hand to push yourself up on your feet, a familiar face suddenly popping up in your head.

“James.” You breathed, stumbling after Chapman who was moving to grab a walkie-talkie. “I have to find James.”

“You will. I promise.” He answered, sparing you a glance over his shoulder and showing you the radio. “But right now, our first priority is to get in contact with the others and find out their locations.”

You sighed, but nodded, and just then, as if on cue, the radio buzzed, causing both of you to turn to look at it.

“This is Fox Leader to Fox Group. Anybody with ears, come back. Respond. Over.”

“Fox, Chapman.” Chapman wasted no time in replying.

“Fox Six, Chapman.” The voice over the radio came again. “Say again, your last.”

“Four klicks west, highest peak November Alpha three-zero-zero. Over.”

“Roger that, Chapman. West highest mountain peak. Over.”

“Fox Six confirm, we’re at the Sea Stallion. (Y/L/N) is here with me.”

“Roger that. Hold your position. We’ll come to you. There’s enough munitions on that Sea Stallion to kill this thing. Survey your perimeter. Locate possible ambush sites. Over.”

Jack kept talking into the radio, repeatedly pushing and letting go of the button to give people on the other side a chance to respond, but no more words came through, only wavering static.

He sighed at that, standing up and turning to you. “Are you okay? Can you walk?” He asked and you nodded.

“Yeah, my legs are fine.”

“Good.” He nodded back, clipping the radio to his belt and heading over to the chopper, bending down to pick something up before turning back to face you. “Do you know how to shoot one of these?”

You stared at the rifle in his hands, sighing, but nodded. “I don’t like it but yeah.”

“Good.” He said again, holding it out.

You walked up to him and took it into your hands, adjusting your grip into the correct one while he bent down to pick up a rifle for himself.

He then grabbed his notebook and a knife, shoving the book into his pocket and the knife into its holster, before grabbing the radio from his belt and bringing it to his lips.

“Chapman to all stations. Recon environment.” He spoke into it, letting go of the button and waiting for a reply.

When he got none, he simply put it back into his belt and started walking without another word.

You moved to follow, but stopped yourself short when catching sight of a red flare gun lying on the ground, quickly reaching down to grab it and shoving it into the hem of your pants before jogging to catch up to him.

You walked for a long while, in complete silence in order to be able to focus undividedly on your surroundings.

While Jack scoped the area for any possible threats or dangers, you analyzed everything else, trying to get a good perception of the flora, fauna and more or less everything around you in order to be able to track your way back to James.

After a good hour of just trekking through the thick rain forest, the trees around you started thinning out and soon enough, you were walking into a clearing of thin, pale, peeled tree trunks, with no green leaves in sight.

You guessed that it was time for a break when Chapman suddenly stopped and stabbed his knife into one of the trunks, hanging his belt with all of his stuff on it, including the notebook.

He sat down on a trunk on the ground, one that was much thicker than he others, but you stayed on your feet, continuing to look around.

“Fox Leader, this is Chapman. Fox Leader this is Chapman, over.”

Once again, he only got static in response and he sighed, shaking his head.

“Dear Billy… Sometimes life just punch you in the balls.” He mumbled, slacking his shoulders and putting the walkie-talkie down. “Damn it.” He rubbed his eyes.

Suddenly, the trunk he was sitting on started moving, having him up on his feet in no time.

“What the-“ You started as you watched a face and four legs start to emerge from the trunk, or what you had believed was a trunk, at least, but got cut off by the loud sound of shooting, your eyes widening as the strange creature let out a wail of pain.

Jack stopped firing at it once he understood that it wasn’t going to make an attempt on his life, and it walked away as if nothing had ever happened.

Your eyes met each other’s but before either of you could say or do anything else, or even react, an animalistic gurgle reached your ears, and you quickly widened your eyes.

“Watch out!” You yelled, sprinting forward and shoving Jack to the ground just as the lizard-like creature pounced on him.

The two of you wasted no time in opening fire, its screeches deafening.

But the bullets seemed to do nothing but slow it down only briefly, and the only reason you escaped with your lives intact was because you, just a few seconds before it was about to eat you whole, remembered the flare gun, rushing to grab it and from the hem of your pants and firing it straight into its mouth.

You were a survivalist and you did know your weapons, more than capable of shooting a gun, but unlike James and the rest of the soldiers you’d come there with, including the one you were currently with, you were no fighter, so all you could do was run and try your hardest not to fall to the forest floor in a panic attack.

You must have been running for at least half an hour, your lungs on the verge of bursting by the time you finally slowed down into an easy walk, figuring that the coast was clear and that you weren’t being chased.

“What- What the hell was that?” “ Jack stumbled to a stop, taking support against the trunk of a tree and struggling to catch his breath.

“Your guess is as good as mine.” You replied, leaning your hands on your knees and spitting on the ground in an attempt to get rid of the strong taste of iron in your mouth. “It looked like some kind of lizard.”

“A lizard?” Jack quickly whipped around to face you. “The thing was as big as a fucking dinosaur!”

You said nothing, focusing on catching your breath and leaving him to do the same thing, looking around.

You were back in the rain forest now, tall, green trees towering above you, and your interest was instantly piqued when you saw the small, white dots on the ground, quickly rushing over and crouching down.

Jack, taking note of your behavior, pushed himself off the tree, following you. “What? What is it?” He asked, and you reached your hand out.

“Mushrooms.” You mumbled.

“So?” He asked in confusion, and you stood back up, turning to face him.

“Where there’s mushrooms, there’s water.” You said, turning your head to the side and nodding. “This way.”

“We were supposed to stay close to the Sea Stallion, wait for them to come to us.” He argued quickly, and a glare instantly made its way onto your face as you whipped back around to face him, no doubt taking him by surprise judging by the way he stumbled back.

You couldn’t care less, simply staring him down.

“You want to go back there? Stay around and wait to be eaten? Then be my guest.” You snapped. “But I’d very much like to get back to James and get out of here alive. I don’t take orders from Packard, I don’t have to do shit. You make your own choices.”

The determined look on his face fell, and after a moment of silence, he nodded.

“I’ll follow you. Do your thing.” He said quietly and you took a step back, nodding your head and dropping the glare, turning around and starting to walk away without another word, leaving him to follow.

You were on your guard the entire time that you walked, guns held securely against your chests and fingers at the ready at the triggers.

Around you, it was completely silent, aside from faraway animals’ sounds, that you couldn’t quite figure out.

Other than that, the only sound that could be heard was the jangling and clinking of Jack’s dog tags, and the crunch of the leaves under your shoes.

However, just as you were walking into a small clearing, your ears picked up on a rustle; one that didn’t come from your feet.

“Stop, wait. Did you hear that?” You whispered, your arm shooting out in front of Jack to stop him in his tracks.

“What, hear what?” He asked back, looking around frantically while raising his rifle.

Another rustle came from the bushes a few meters away from you, causing you to raise your gun too.

Exchanging a wary look, the two of you hunched down slightly and began creeping toward the source of the sound, light on your feet and your fingers ready to pull the trigger.

Looking at each other once more, you raised your hand with three fingers up, silently beginning to count down and mouthing the numbers as you went.

When you reached the last finger, you lowered your hand to the rifle again and moved to burst through the bushes and attack, but just as you did so, another person appeared through the twigs and leaves, instantly raising his hand in defense when being faced by the barrels of two guns.

“Whoa, easy!”

“Oh, my God.” You breathed out, your face falling in disbelief. “James.”

Beside you, Jack slowly lowered his rifle at the familiar face, wasting no time in reuniting with his fellow soldiers who weren’t far behind, while you dropped the rifle completely to the ground and shot forward, straight into James’ open arms.

“Oh, thank God. I was so worried.” He breathed back, wasting no time in hugging you close to his chest, his hands cradling the back of your head and his lips pressing against your forehead.

You squeezed your eyes shut at the familiar feeling of his arms around you, your cheek pressed against his chest. “I thought I lost you.” You whispered, tears starting to sting your eyes.

When hearing you sniffle, he unwrapped his arms from around you and moved his hands to cradle your face instead, forcing you to look up at him.

“I’m here, darling. I’m not going anywhere.” He said, shaking his head and swiping his thumbs over your cheeks.

You stared into each other’s eyes for a moment longer, before his green ones flickered up to your head, his eyebrows knotting together with worry. “You’re bleeding.” He noted, beginning to raise his hand to your injury.

But you stopped him, catching his wrist and bringing his hand back down, intertwining your fingers with his. “It’s nothing.” You assured, honestly having forgotten all about it until it had been brought back up.

He gave you a doubtful look, and you flashed him an assuring smile. “I’m fine now.” You said. “Just… don’t leave me again.”

His face softened and his eyes, too, and before you knew it, he had pulled you into another embrace, his strong arms wrapping around you and his chin resting on the top of your head.

“Never.” He promised, holding you close.

You could’ve stayed there in his arms forever but unfortunately you had no time to waste, having to hurry off to stop Packard from burning the entire island down and from killing Kong.

James kept his promise and didn’t leave you again, the two getting off the island with your lives intact and continuing on with your lives, side by side and now completely retired from anything life-threatening.

#james conrad imagine #james conrad x reader #james conrad #tom hiddleston x reader #tom hiddleston #tom hiddleston imagine #kong skull island #loki

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thisisapaige · 4 years ago

Text

When a Claim is Laid on a Living Soul, it Leaves a Mark, a Brand

(For Suptober20. Day 4 Prompt: Branded. Word Count: 1017.)

Cut for length and Casifer being creepy. If you prefer, you can read it on Ao3 right on this here link.

A beer run was Dean’s excuse to leave the bunker and to be alone. Once Dean pulled up to the convenience store-- the kind in the middle of nowhere, Dean’s favourite-- he shifted the Impala into park and stared out the windshield. There wasn’t much to look at but the old siding of the sun-bleached building and the empty gravel parking lot overrun by dry brittle grass. Baby’s engine rumbled.

Driving usually cleared Dean's head. Baby's warm, familiar interior usually made him feel safe. Right now though, his head was anything but clear. He felt anything but safe. He couldn't process. He couldn't comprehend. The last few days brought hit after hit after hit and Dean just couldn't make sense of it.

There was no way. There was no way it was true. He couldn't have done it. He couldn't have wanted it. He couldn't have chosen it. No way.

No way.

Dirty water filled Dean's head. Maybe he could drown in the metaphorical ocean. Maybe then he would understand what he witnessed in that vessel beneath the sea.

Dean turned the car off, sighed, and leaned into the backrest. He listened to the engine ping as it cooled. Everything else was still and silent: no birds, no vehicles on the street behind him, no door chime of someone entering the store. The wind blew.

“Dean, Dean, Dean.” A low deep rumble, silky sweet and saccharine, sounded in Dean’s ear. “You look so…” The click of a tongue, followed by a high, happy hum, set Dean’s hair on end. “Defeated.”

Straightening his posture, Dean placed both hands on the wheel. He refused to glance behind him. He refused to startle. He refused to cry out. Dean clenched his jaw and fixed his gaze on the fading letters of a years-old advertisement peeling from the store’s walls.

“Give him back,” Dean said.

Because Dean knew the one who sat behind him. Sitting there, in the back seat of the Impala like, like he was him.

“Now why would I do that?” The voice was his but it was all wrong-- the cadence off, the syllables lilting and mocking. “He agreed to this, you know. You know how it works. He said yes.”

“No.” Dean squeezed his eyes shut, steadying himself. His skin crawled. “Not possible.”

“Really?” A hand touched the back of Dean’s neck. Dean shuddered. After a laugh-- wrong, all wrong-- the hand went away. “Then tell me, Dean, why am I here?”

“He didn’t know. He didn’t know what he was doing.”

A bark of a laugh made Dean’s ear’s ring. “Sure, the angel doesn’t know what it means to be a vessel.”

Baby’s well-worn steering wheel creaked under Dean’s grip. His knuckles turned white. “What are you gonna do to him?”

“Nothing. He’s just minding his own business. Ignoring the world. Resting. I get the impression you boys don’t let him do that often. He stays out of my way; I stay out of his. A beneficial arrangement for both of us.”

“Look, you're out. Just let him go. Fly off and find a different--”

“Nah, I don’t think so.” Hot breath slithered over Dean’s neck like a snake. “I like this body. It’s very clean, very safe. We both know you aren’t going to hurt me when I’m all up in your boyfriend’s grill, now, don’t we?”

“Why are you doing this?”

“Because…” A chin rested on Dean’s shoulder; lips tickled the skin of his temple. “Because you, Dean, shot me in the head. Because dear little Sammy locked me up in a cage for hundreds of years. Because…” A hand clamped over Dean’s shoulder, holding him in place as the voice hissed into his ear, “I hate you.”

“The feeling,” Dean said, voice breaking, “is mutual.”

“Good.”

The hand squeezed. It was right on that spot. Right on that spot he gripped Dean tight. Right on that spot he gripped Dean tight when he pulled him out of Hell-- when he saved Dean. The mark wasn’t there anymore but Dean could still feel it, feel it branded on his soul.

“Don’t touch me,” Dean said.

“Why not? I mean, it’s the same hands. Don’t think I didn’t notice how you looked at them. At all of me.”

“You’re not him.”

“Oh, but I am,” the voice said. Not him. Not his voice. Not his voice. Dean shuddered when the hand squeezed tighter. “I’m not all bad, Dean. I could give you what you want. No hesitation, no questions, no doubt. Just you and your dear, dear, Castiel.”

“I will kill you,” Dean said through gritted teeth.

“No, you won’t. Not as long as I am him.”

It was his hand on Dean’s shoulder. It was his chin resting in the crook of Dean’s neck. It was his lips grazing across Dean’s ear to leave a wet, sloppy kiss on Dean’s cheek.

But it wasn’t him.

It was Lucifer.

“Be seeing you real soon, Dean,” Lucifer said.

The wind blew-- the sound of wings-- and Lucifer was gone. Left alone in the Impala, Dean gasped for breath. His body shook and his skin stretched too tight over his bones. The car was too hot, too hot, too hot.

Dean opened the car door and swung his feet onto the gravel. He filled his lungs with cool fresh air. He willed himself to calm. He willed his shaky legs to hold him. He willed himself to walk into the store and shop like nothing was wrong.

When he returned to the Impala with a bag full of whiskey-- beer wasn’t gonna cut it tonight-- Dean removed his jacket and rolled up the sleeve of his t-shirt.

In the shape of Castiel's stolen hand, a dark purple bruise bloomed over Dean's shoulder. Lucifer knew what he was doing. It was his little parting gift, a dark negative of Castiel’s burn all those years ago. Dean touched the raised edges of the handprint, aggravating its dull ache until he felt it deep in his core. It was like a mark on his soul.

Like he was branded.

#suptober20 #dean winchester #castiel #casifer #spn fic #destiel #supernatural #fanfiction #destiel fic #Lucifer is creepy #angst #on the dark side #season 11 #post episode 11x14 #missing scene #rampant use of passive voice for effect #because you can indeed flout the so called writing rules if you want #i give you permission :)#writing paige

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mirkwoodshewolf · 5 years ago

Text

You’re not him; Jack Kline x reader

*Author’s note*

Okay so SPOILER ALERT!!!! IF YOU HAVEN’T WATCHED THE PREMIERE EPISODE OF SPN THEN STOP RIGHT HERE AND GO WATCH IT BEFORE READING THIS FIC!!! If you have seen the episode then you can stay, so if you don’t want to be spoiled PLEASE. LEAVE. NOW!!

So warning wise it’s the typical SPN warning; swearing, violence, zombies, ghosts, and there is a scene with kissing w/o consent (ALWAYS ASK BEFORE KISSING OR TOUCHING SOMEONE. CONSENT IS POWER!!) other than that, not really anything else. Hope you all enjoy this fic :)

Taglist:

@psychosupernatural

@plethora-of-things

@ixchel-9275

@waddles03

________________________________________________________

Well we were screwed….no I don’t even think screwed is even the right word I would use right now. Here we are trapped like rats in a crypt with a bunch of possessed zombies trying to break down the door. As my brothers and Cas were trying to figure a way out of this place or how to stop those—things outside, I was on the ground touching Jack’s cheek.

Thanks to the bastard Chuck, Jack’s forever gone. His eyes burned out and I knew that there was no coming back from that. This was all too much for me. Jack didn’t deserve something like this, no one did. Not Pamela, not Kevin, and certainly not Jack.

“Jack—” I muttered as I leaned my forehead against his chest. Why must everything bad happen to those we care about? Just shortly before Lucifer stole Jack’s grace, the two of us admitted to each other while we were stuck in Apocalypse world with Mary that we started developing feelings for each other.

While he was fully human, I taught him the basic necessities on how to stay alive. And from there we just—kinda grew closer to each other. Even when he burned out his soul, he somehow made me still believe that he was in love with me.

Now he’s gone.

Suddenly I began to hear something. Something from within the walls. As my brothers kept arguing with each other, I pressed my ear to the wall.

“(Y/n)? (N/n).” Dean said.

“Guys I—I think there’s a pipeline in here.”

“Probably a sewage line.” Both Sam and Dean came up and Sam helped me stand back up while both he and Dean removed the concrete slab to reveal the brick structure underneath. Using the iron pick they chipped away at the brick wall but suddenly coming out was a possessed corpse.

I jumped back screaming. God I hate it when those things do that. Cas then picked up the concrete slab and slammed it right on top of the corpse which killed it but the ghost that had it possessed took off flying.

“God I hate it when that happens!”

“You’ve been doing this since you were ten, how does that still scare you?” asked Dean.

“Hey give me a wendigo, vamp, werewolf, leviathan, whatever any day. But having something that just pops out, especially when they look like they’re from the Thriller music video, forget it!”

“Well so much for your pipe theory, now what do we do?”

“Hello.” No. It—it can’t be. We all turned around and there stood Jack alive!

My heart stopped and I froze like a deer in headlight.

“Jack? You’re alive?” Sam asked in disbelief. It can’t be, it just can’t be. Please anyone but god tell me this is a joke.

“That’s not Jack. It’s a demon.” Cas said. At that point, I was enraged. Okay making my older brother into one, and forcing my big brother into being the vessel of the devil himself is one thing, but no I repeat no demon should ever, ever possess Jack’s body.

“What?”

“Yeah.” The demon said using Jack’s voice. “Sorry about that.” he shrugged nonchalantly.

“How in the hell—”

“Look I just got here and I needed a body so—”

“So you are a demon.” Sam asked to confirm this was a demon and not one of those spirits that came out of hell.

“Yeah. I would do the whole eyes thing but—no eyes.” He then walked over towards my bag and pulled out the sunglasses he and I once bought for him when he and I had some downtime together a few months back before we hung out with those teens we saved from the psycho serial killer clown.

“Put those down!” I snapped. Of course he ignored me and put the shades over his eyes and he said.

“Sorry but I gotta blend in.”

“Get out of him!” Cas sneered.

“Look I know it’s weird. Okay where do I start? Like the first day of school. Hi, uhh my name’s Belphegor I—” I snapped as I trudged up towards him, gripped him by the throat and pinned him against the wall holding my demon blade.

“Get. Out of him!”

“Ooo wow kitty’s got claws. I like that in a woman. I would wink but like I said—no eyes.”

“I’m not gonna ask you again you son of a bitch!”

“Look, hey I can get you out of here. I can help.”

“(Y/n).” Dean said to me trying to get me to get off this demon possessing my boyfriend’s corpse.

“No, I’m with (y/n) on this. He’s an abomination!” Cas said as he came up over my shoulder.

“You’re an abomination with that stupid, dumb trench coat.” I pressed the blade closer to the demon’s neck and I snarled at him.

“You don’t get to talk to him!”

“(Y/n) hey, hey okay back off! Back up!” Dean said as he came up and forced me off the demon.

“He’s defiling his corpse Dean! And you’re acting like you don’t even give a shit! What if this were Mary, huh?!”

“Hey listen to me She-wolf. Jack’s gone! Okay I know you don’t want to admit it yet but your boyfriend’s gone! Now I say we just listen to what he has to say, and if we don’t like it. Then you and Cas can stab him.”

“(Y/n),” Sam’s voice spoke up softly. I turned towards him and he agreed with Dean. “He’s right. We need to get out of here.” I forced myself out of Dean’s grip and walked away and faced the wall.

“Whew, feisty. She available?”

“Hey focus back to right here!” Dean snapped.

“Right. Look I’m not a crossroads demon or one of those black eyed ones that ooze slime to take out virgins or puppies or—virgin puppies. I like my job, I check in a soul, torment it. Repeat. Simple basic eternity to eternity job. You want all those bad guys back where they came from right? Me too. I mean—we’re like twinses guys.”

“We are not twinses!” Cas snarled.

“Can you fix this?” asked Sam gesturing towards outside.

“Umm no. but I can get you out of here.”

“How?” asked Dean.

“A little spell. You know nothing major.” God he was such a pain in the ass with his cycling of nonchalant teasing. “See a little graveyard dirt, and some uhh angel blood.”

“Cas.” I turned and watched as Cas reluctantly cut his palm with his angel blade and allowed some blood to flow into the demon’s hand.

“Oh wait, one more thing; I also need a lock of hair from a beautiful girl.” Oh hell no!

“You’re making that part up.” Cas stated.

“Actually I’m not. I need the hair otherwise it won’t work.” I walked up to him and Cas said.

“(Y/n) wait, you don’t have to do it. You know he’s lying.”

“Cas I don’t like it as much as you do but—what if he is telling the truth?” he and I looked at each other before I walked right up to the demon possessing my boyfriend’s body. He gave me Jack’s famed grin that once made me flutter and go weak at the knees.

“Well beautiful?” I took out my pocketknife and picked up a strand of my long hair. Then I cut a strand from underneath so that way no one would notice an uneven strand of hair.

I held the hair in my hands and hesitantly held it over Jack’s hand before finally placing it on top of the dirt and Cas’ blood. Just before I could remove my hand from his palm, his hand closed over mine and he hummed.

“Mm, so soft. Fierce and calloused but very soft at the same time. Been awhile since I held a girl’s hand.” I quickly took back my hand and held it over my chest and turned away getting creeped out. Cas protectively wrapped his arm around me as the demon then just held his arms out like he was about to do a chant.

But all he did next was clap his hands, the soil, blood and my hair fell to the ground. At first I thought it did nothing, that was until I heard nothing but silence outside.

“Huh.” He bragged. I was the first to race outside and all there were around were dead corpses no longer possessed.

“Holy shit.” I muttered.

“Didn’t I tell you? It worked. High five.” Belphegor said.

“The spirits have been destroyed.” Cas said as he walked ahead.

“No, I just blasted them out of those bodies. Yeah.”

“So where the hell are they now?” asked Dean.

We were now in the car driving on home hoping to figure out a plan. Thankfully Cas sat between me and the demon possessing Jack because all the while through the drive, I could feel his—well metaphorically speaking his eyes were on me.

“You know—you’ve got some good style taste there doll. I like ‘em.”

“Don’t call me doll.” I lowly muttered.

“Alright Romeo enough with the flirting back there. That’s our sister and I wouldn’t press her if I were you. You think we’re bad, she’s worse than us.” Dean spoke.

“Empty threats. Not to say that you’re not strong there doll. I mean—every female demons has envied you for the way you’ve been known to torture us. In fact some learn from you.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere with me.”

“On that note explain to me this, how many souls are we talking about specifically?” asked Sam trying to drive the conversation away.

“What you mean in hell?” asked Belphegor as Sam nodded.

“Oh I don’t know 2-3 billion.” Great.

“Okay for now we just stick to the plan. We head back to the bunker. Figure a way to close the riff.” Dean said as he kept driving.

“If you can.” Said Belphegor.

“You got any better ideas?”

“I do not. But if you wanna buy some time, you could just—contain the ghosts.”

“How?” I asked.

“Magic.” He stated with a shrug.

“And you just happen to know the right spell?” asked Cas skeptically.

“Lucky you.”

“What do you mean by contain them?” questioned Dean.

“Magical circle about a mile wide. No ghosts get in, no ghost get out.”

“Yeah, great, great.”

“But Sam we can’t. Harland, Kansas is less than a mile from the cemetery. What are we gonna do about the people there?”

“We get them out.” Dean stated.

“How?” asked Cas.

“We lie.”

As we drove on we soon found an abandoned car still running up ahead with its lights on.

“Whoa, whoa pull over for a second Dean.” Dean did as Sam suggested and we parked right behind the abandoned car. My brothers and I got out of Baby and we shined out flashlights on the car.

The first thing I noticed was the blood along the window, the radio was still playing but there was no body so this wasn’t your typical murder. Yet for some reason this scene was very familiar to me.

“This look so familiar to you guys?” asked Dean.

“Looks like a—woman in white.” Said Sam.

“Exactly.” I remembered back on the first case after we got Sam out of Stanford of the woman in white.

“Guys….I think this is our woman in white.”

“No way we sent her to hell years ago.” Dean said.

“No think about it. God opens up the doorway to hell, every soul to ever go down there escapes. Including our woman in white.” I explained.

“But then that means if she’s back—” Sam stated off before Dean finished his brother’s thought.

“Then every last one we ever killed and sent down there is back.” Well that’s just great.

By morning, donning on our fake FBI uniforms, we headed for Harland and began to evacuate the city.

“Alright look (y/n). Sam and I got the evacuation part down, so why don’t you and Cas take Crowley Jr. and get him the things he needs.”

“Are you serious Dean?” I snapped. “Dean you—you really don’t care how this is making me feel do you? I—I can’t even look at him. I just—I just can’t…..” I took off down the street and he called out to me.

I sat down on a nearby bench and pressed my face into hands trying to contain my sobs but I could feel tears in my eyes.

“(Y/n).” I looked up to see Cas standing over me. He sat down beside me and I said to him.

“If you’re—trying to make me go back there and make amends with Dean then uhh—” I looked around and found an abandoned half eaten peanut butter and jelly sandwich. “I’m about to hit you in the head with a PB&J sandwich.”

“No, no I—I get why you walked away from him. I—can’t even look at….you know. So I can’t imagine how it must be for you. After all you and Jack….”

“It may have seemed difficult to decipher our relationship especially when his soul completely burned out. But—somehow even in that soulless way, he still made me believe he was in love with me. I have no idea how but—he did. I just….feel like this is all my fault.”

“It wasn’t. The only person to blame for Jack’s death is God. All this time following his orders and commands, and this is how I’m repaid.”

“To be fair we did kinda make you turn against your traditionalist ways. I mean remember how you were back then.”

“Yeah I guess I did have a stick up my butt.”

“Not even a stick is big enough Cas to describe how stuck-up you were.” I teased which caused the two of us for the first time to actually laugh. It was small but still a laugh. “I just wish he was still here. Like here here, not some demon possessing him using his voice and doing those little quirks he did.”

“I know. So do I.” he wrapped his arm around my shoulder and hugged me close to him. “So do I. I promised his mom I would take care of him, now I feel like I let her down. Again.”

Eventually I went with Cas and Sam to do some evacuations. I went to one house just three blocks from where Cas went. Holding my shotgun close and ready to fire in case any ghosts came up, I called out.

“Hello? Anybody here?” I cautiously walked along the hallways leading towards the upstairs bedrooms. But when I opened the door, I held in my puke for right there before me were two teenage girls around my age covered in blood, however most of the blood came from their eyes and I knew only one legend that ever made that happen.

Bloody Mary.

I quickly raced to find a nearby mirror. It worked on her once before and it should work on her again. But just as I went to grab the mirror that hung in the hallway, she suddenly appeared before me in my reflection then turned into me.

Blood started tearing down my face as I couldn’t look away now. She had me.

“Been a long time Winchester sister. And in all that time you’ve become a killer, just like your brothers. All those people you’ve helped kill, Kevin, Charlie, Bobby, but worst of all precious Jack. It’s your fault all this happened to him. If he hadn’t liked you, he’d still have his grace.”

“Shut up……shut up!” I soon felt this agonizing pain as I collapsed into the table and she soon came out of the mirror repeating over and over that it was my fault, my fault, my fault.

“Hey.” Oh shit it—it couldn’t be him. I looked up and through the blood that had dripped down from my eyes, I could see Jack’s body standing before us. Bloody Mary turned into Jack and said.

“You’re a true monster. Killing Sam and Dean Winchester’s mother. Releasing the archangel Michael, it’s all your fault.”

“Yeah sorry there Mary but,” he lifted his shades revealing the burnt out holes in them. “Plus I’m not this guy uhh—Jack. So you might as well hit the road bitch cause honestly out of all the legends you were the worst, and as a demon I don’t mean in the good way.” Mary phased back into herself and launched at the demon but he held up a mirror before her.

And just like last time, her reflection spoke back to her which killed her right then and there. The mirror shattered and the demon shook the glass off of him.

“That bitch is gonna have it in for me when I get back. Lucky for her, I’ve got something up my sleeve for her for leaving hell in the first place.” Slowly I got up and wiped the blood out of my eyes. “Red looks good on you.” I growled and steadied myself up along the wall. “What? No thank you for saving your ass?”

“Not from you. Had it been Cas or Sam I would thank them. But not to creeps like you.”

“Aww c’mon babe after all the fun we had last night?”

“That was for the spell only and you know it! Now did you find your ingredients for the spell? Does Dean even know you left him?”

“Technically no. See for whatever reason I found myself here and I could hear you screaming….well bloody Mary up here so I figured might as well save one Winchester, maybe their cute sister and maybe get on a better side with you and the others.”

“Saving my life doesn’t atone for what you are.” I said as I cleaned my face up in the bathroom.

“Why so stuck on me? It’s not like I had a choice. This body was the nearest one I could find. I would’ve found another back at the cemetery but those meat suits were well you know. Wormy. Difficult to blend. I sorta got an answer from your brother but I wanna hear your side now. Who was he to you?”

I turned the tap off and stared at him through the mirror. I dabbed my eyes with a towel and muttered.

“He was a friend.”

“Ahh there it is.”

“What’s there?” I demanded.

“See down there,” he pointed downward gesturing to hell. “You may be praised for your fighting skills and some torture methods. But you are laughed at for your lying skills. I mean I know there’s some truth to it, but I know there’s gotta be more.”

He then slowly walked closer towards me as he continued.

“So c’mon just between us. Was he—Your confidant? Your secret keeper?” he now stood almost chest to chest with me as he now had me up against the vanity counter. “Your boyfriend?” at that my breath hitched sharply. “Ahhh, ding-ding. Seems I’ve found a winner?”

“So what if he was? Just because you have his body and use his voice to talk, doesn’t mean that you’re him. So stop with the flirtation and just—” suddenly I felt his lips on mine.

I almost lashed out but I was suddenly hit back to the time Jack and I shared our first kiss in Apocalypse world. Jack had just performed another puppet show for the kids, we told them an epic tale of a young warrior searching across the galaxy to eventually become a great warrior (Star Wars).

After getting all the little ones to bed, Jack and I just stayed up and talked and that’s when I leaned in and kissed him. At first I regretted it because he just sat there in shock, but when he kissed me back I threw my regret out the window and just accepted the kiss. And ever since then, we’ve been a couple.

I felt Jack’s hands cup underneath my chin just as he always placed them whenever we kissed. I tried to resist but I guess this is what I needed for long. Ever since his soul got burned out, his kisses didn’t hold the same feeling of love as they had compared to our first kiss.

Wait—what the fuck are you doing (y/n)?! You’re kissing a demon! A bloody demon! I whined and pushed him away from me and I slapped him in the face.

“Never. Kiss me. Again!” I snarled.

“Oh yeah like I haven’t heard that before.” He teased.

“I’m serious. Whatever you think is happening between us, forget it! Now get your stuff for the spell and get out of my sight!”

“As you wish. My sapphire star.” My heart stopped as he actually used the nickname Jack gave me. I turned back around and saw that he was gone.

“(Y/n)! (Y/n)!” soon running up the stairs was Cas. “I heard you screaming as I got closer to the house, are you alright?”

“Yeah, yeah I’m fine. I’m fine.” He cupped my face before saying.

“Your eyes are bleeding.”

“Oh right I—I had a little reunion with bloody Mary. But I handled it.” It was best not to tell Cas about the demon coming to save me, since I really had no real father figure in my life Cas has kinda filled in that role after getting him to loosen up a bit and hanging around us humans for a while.

“Does anything else hurt?”

“Well I’ve got a splitting headache.”

“Here.” He placed his two fingers to the center of my forehead and I felt this warmth come over me.

“Thanks Cas.”

“No problem. Come on Sam might need us.” I nodded and the two of us headed outside.

After reuniting with my brother and saving a mother and daughter from the killer clown as well as some other ghosts that popped out. We saw this bright light suddenly rushing across the ground like the tide coming out.

“The spell.” I said. The ghosts all glared at us and took chase.

“Run! Run get them out of here!” Sam urged us. I picked up the kid and took off running down the street. Once we got to across a certain path of the road, the ghosts stopped and psycho clown couldn’t reach us with his knife. He growled before yelling at us before my brother finally told him to shut up.

“It’s done. They can’t get out now.” I said.

“C’mon we gotta get to the high school.” Sam said as we now walked calmly out of the neighborhood to meet up with Dean and Balthagar.

After getting the mom and daughter to the high school five miles away, I was leaning against the wall of the high school when I felt two familiar hands cover my eyes.

“Guess who?”

“Enough.” I elbowed him in the chest.

“Ow! Hey I thought we had something back in the bathroom?”

“I already told you, you may wear Jack’s body but you aren’t him. You even touch me again, and I’ll let you see firsthand why demons down there probably talk about me.”

“Ohhh, kinky. I look forward to it.” He flirted. I glared at him and walked away from him. I came up to my brothers who were looking inside Baby’s trunk.

“Did he just cover your eyes playing the guess who game you and Jack used to do?” asked Dean.

“I don’t want to talk about it.” I told him bluntly. He looked towards Belphegor and he said.

“Listen, if he tries to flirt with you in anyway talk to us, okay. I—I had a talking to with Cas and he set me right. I should’ve been more understanding of what all this has meant to you (n/n) I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright. All of this really has gone to shit. I mean not just the souls of hell being free but God literally screwing us over. I mean—guys pardon my French but…..we are in some serious horse shit.”

“She’s right. I mean yeah we can keep up the lie for what 1 maybe 2 days before the real FBI shows.” Sam agreed with me. We already had two encounters with law enforcement we don’t need a third strike.

“Yeah I figured. But right now we need to get you fixed up.” Dean said gesturing to Sam’s shoulder. Of course stubborn as an ox Sam Winchester refused but with Dean’s persuasion he managed to talk Sam into showing him the bullet wound he telepathically got after shooting God.

It wound itself looked like it was about to close up but when Dean said there was no exit wound, I got a little worried.

“Hey you remember when you were little, and how I used to always distract you? You know when it involved a band-aid or something like that?” Dean asked as he got the rubbing alcohol out and poured it onto a cotton patch.

“Yeah you—used to tell some stupid joke. You even did it for the munchkin there.”

“Don’t go there green giant.” I mocked.

“Knock, knock.” Sam at first turned away like it was a joke. “Come on knock, knock.”

“Who’s—” before he could say there, Dean placed the patch on his bullet wound.

“Still got it.” Dean praised himself with a grin. I shook my head and I said nervously.

“Hey guys,” they turned towards me and I continued, “So—when Chuck said welcome to the end…..do you think he meant this? I mean by like—ending the entire human race with ghosts, demons, and all that?”

“Baby girl you know as well as I do he’s been playing us the entire time. So screw him.” Dean said.

“I know but….think about it. If one of us dies, that’s it. We’ve been lucky in the past but now that he’s pissed at us. He’s gonna ensure that no one or nothing brings us back. No resurrections this time. I may not look it but—I’m terrified guys.” Sam being the caring brother that he is, wrapped his arms around me in a big bear hug and I continued. “We’re nothing but rats to him. And now that he’s had his fun, he’s gonna ensure that we end up in the pathway with furious cats ready to devour us. While he just sits back and watches us being ripped apart.”

“Yeah nothing but rats in a maze. Sure we could go left, sure we could go right. But we were stuck in the damn maze. It makes you think—what did all of it mean?” Dean said agreeing with me.

“It meant a lot.” Sam answered. “We still saved people, saved you kiddo.” Sam said looking down at me.

“But what for?” I asked. He stroked down my hair. “He just throws us one end of the world after another and sits back just to make us do all the hard work.”

“Yeah. That’s what he does. He gets bored and-and-and-and pulls the rip-chord. That’s what he did with Apocalypse world, and probably….. with all of them. He moves on and starts another story. And you know what—good. Because if he bailed it’s just us. For the first time; it’s just us.”

“You forgot the 3 billion ghosts there Sammy.” I said.

“Yeah well what’s one more apocalypse right?” I softly laughed and shook my head. Sam patted my back comfortingly as he separated from me. “But seriously. If we win—when we win this. God’s gone. There’s no one to screw with us, there’s no more maze, it’s just us. Then we’re free.”

“So you, me and (n/n) versus every soul in hell……I like those odds.”

“Yeah. Me too.” The boys looked at me and Dean asked me.

“(N/n)?” I looked at them. I sighed deeply before saying.

“Well….I guess you know what this means, right boys?” they softly grinned at me and we turned towards Baby’s trunk as Sam said.

“We’ve got work to do.” Before closing it up.

505 notes · View notes

crvwly · 5 years ago

Note

after the body swap, crowley starts to feel aziraphale's love for him

Things are different.

Rather, everything is exactly the same as it was before Armageddon’t and Crowley and Aziraphale’s metaphoric declarations of independence from Heaven and Hell, but the moment Crowley steps back into his own body from Aziraphale’s he feels like he’s walked into a room in which all the furniture has been shifted just far enough to the left that you run your shins into every corner of every table and chair.

So, the same, but wildly disorienting.

Maybe it’s one of the effects of the Earth being essentially rebooted by the young Antichrist-who-was. Maybe the Ritz isn’t all it’s cracked up to be and he got food poisoning from that ridiculously indulgent Ceviche of Scallop Aziraphale insisted he order. Maybe this is the culmination of all of Crowley’s worst fears and, in switching bodies with Aziraphale, something angelic has seeped into him (and the worst consequence of that possibility, the true cause of Crowley’s fears—something demonic has seeped into Aziraphale).

Whatever it is, Crowley has no name for it. He felt it for the first time when they swapped back; a warmth, fuzzy and soft and nearly unnoticeable at first. He’d figured, at first, that it was a weird combination of the usual insufferable butterflies that come along with touching Az and the sensation of his soul-thingy transferring physical vessels.

The feeling stuck around for awhile, but once he got back to his flat and had a good shout at his plants the feeling disappeared, so he shrugged it off and drank himself to sleep, exhausted from the truly ridiculous series of events and finally free to crash for a few days.

He wakes up three days later and texts Aziraphale to meet up for lunch at the rustic little bakery on the end of Kendal Street because… well, because there's no reason not to anymore.

It's a terrifyingly freeing thought—the tiptoeing around, the risk of being caught and/or killed by some of the Powers That Be, it's over.

It's also dangerous. Now Crowley has no reason to stay away.

Az agrees, of course, because Crowley chose his favorite (local) bakery. They decide to meet at noon and Crowley takes an extraordinarily long shower and primps and preens himself like a lovesick peacock up until the last possible minute.

That feeling starts creeping back in as Crowley slinks up to the bakery. It's low and deep in his core, a subtle vibration that grows in intensity as he walks inside. Aziraphale is in one of the comfy armchairs facing the windows, already sipping on cocoa. Crowley smiles and runs a hand through his hair, pseudo-heart already skipping a beat at the sight of the back of Aziraphale's head.

Before the door is even shut, Aziraphale jumps in his seat like he's been bit on the arse by a bug and whips his head around.

"Oh!" he gasps, hand flying to his chest like he's having trouble breathing. "Crowley, you're here."

"Angel," Crowley greets with a quirked brow. He goes to say something clever and banter-y but before he can get anything out he's overwhelmed by that feeling, so intense that it steals his breath and fills his torso with a fluttering warmth that's suffocating.

He's dizzy with it—giddy with it, he realizes, unable to stop himself from smiling and letting out an extremely embarrassing giggle. He covers his mouth, cheeks pinkening, and leans against the wall for support.

Crowley doesn't feel giddiness. He feels pain, and need, and unrepentant pining for something he'll never have despite it being literally just across the room from him, practically within reach. In this moment, though, he's full to bursting with—well, with whatever the hell this is, and it hits him in waves that grow with each crest.

The object of his every desire, by coincidence, is staring at Crowley with his mouth agape, still grasping at his own lapels like if he lets go he'll fall to bits.

"Crowley," Aziraphale breathes, flushing brightly, "is that—my Lord, is that all coming from you?"

"I—I have absolutely no idea what—ha!—no idea what's going on," Crowley gasps.

The clerk behind the bakery counter, who's been watching in extreme confusion since Crowley walked in like a swaggering idiot, finally speaks up. "Sir, are you okay?"

"He's fine," Aziraphale answers quickly, rising from his seat. "I'm his… I know him."

He strides over to Crowley and goes to reach for him, then hesitates, like he's afraid to touch him. "Crowley, let's step outside."

The all-encompassing fluttering is distracting enough that Crowley doesn't even argue—he turns and fumbles for the door knob, but his hands are shaking and he can barely get ahold of it.

Aziraphale reaches for the knob and Crowley pulls his hand away, but not soon enough to avoid brushing his fingers against Az's palm.

The feeling multiplies and Crowley's chest constricts; tears sting the corners of his eyes. He can hear Aziraphale gasp beside him as he shoves the door open.

Crowley stumbles through the doorway and leans against the wall outside, pressing a hand to the base of his throat where his pulse—which by all means he shouldn't even have—is fluttering faster than the beat of a hummingbird's wings. He can't stop smiling, and something deep inside him feels… whole.

"Az," he rasps, a laugh bubbling out, "oh my God."

"Crowley," Aziraphale whispers, awed and a bit short of breath, "you—I—oh, Lord above, I can't believe I never realized—"

"Angel, please," Crowley begs, "what the hell is going on?"

"Oh, Crowley," Aziraphale says. Crowley can see tears in his eyes, too. "It's love."

Crowley barks out a laugh. "Love? I don't feel love. I've never felt love."

Aziraphale takes a shaky breath and wipes at the corners of his eyes. "You know, during Armageddon I kept—well, I kept feeling those flashes, those flashes of love, and I never could place where they were coming from," he babbles. "Oh, dear boy. I had thought… well, I had hoped it had been you, but it was so infrequent and spotty I couldn't be sure."

"It wasssn't," Crowley attempts to growl; it comes out as more of a pathetic hiss.

"Crowley, darling," Aziraphale says, "I think that, perhaps, when we borrowed each other's bodies it might have changed something. To put it delicately, I think that you may be able to—to feel my love."

The fluttering in Crowley's chest speeds up and rises into his throat, a ball of nervous energy, and he shakes his head. "No—I know what celestial 'love' feels like, this isn't it," he huffs, scrubbing his hand over his mouth to force away his smile.

Aziraphale titters nervously. "Crowley, that's not what I mean."

Crowley swallows hard, rubbing at his throat. "I can't focus like this. God, do you have to deal with this all the time?"

"No, this is different," Aziraphale says wearily. "I admit it's… very distracting."

"What do you mean this is different?" Crowley asks, furrowing his brow.

Aziraphale hesitates, then reaches out and gently takes Crowley's glasses from his face. "I've been trying to explain," he says, folding the glasses and depositing them in Crowley's jacket pocket.

Crowley blinks against the light and looks at Aziraphale, the fluttering lowering in volume to background noise for a moment in time. Aziraphale wants to see his eyes—this is important.

"The thing is, Crowley," Aziraphale says, his voice pitching higher with nerves, "I can feel your love—your romantic love, that is—for me right now."

Crowley's stomach bottoms out and his mouth goes dry. No. "I don't know what you mean," he rasps, looking away.

"It's okay, dear," Aziraphale says sweetly. He takes Crowley's chin in his hand tenderly, sending waves of warmth buzzing down his neck. "I think what you're feeling is my romantic love."

Crowley stares at Aziraphale, slack-jawed.

"Gosh, I haven't rendered you speechless since the eighties," Aziraphale laughs, looking far too innocent for someone who just said something so groundshaking. His eyes are still watery and Crowley can feel his fingers trembling against his face. "I didn't think—I didn't even consider that you would ever be able to feel love in the same capacity that angels do because. Well, you know."

"Hard to forget, yeah," Crowley mumbles.

"Sorry, dear," Aziraphale says, smiling softly. "I really was going to tell you soon. I realized that after all of this—after surviving the end of the world and the threat of our employers with you, there was no real base left to any of my fears about… this."

"This?"

"Us," Aziraphale says.

"Oh," Crowley exhales. "So—just to clarify, because I've been a bit off-kilter since I walked into the bakery—what you're saying is…"

Aziraphale smiles and brushes his thumb over Crowley's cheek, taking a step closer. "What I'm saying is, I love you."

If there were any room for doubt in Crowley's mind, it would have been washed away by the once again intensified waves of fluttering and warmth seeping into him through Aziraphale's hand. He reaches up and rests his hand over the angel's and takes a shuddering breath.

"I love you, too," Crowley whispers. He wraps his other arm around Aziraphale's back and pulls him in. "And please, please tell me I can—"

Aziraphale beats him to the chase, tipping Crowley's chin up and kissing him sweetly. Crowley fails to hold back a pathetically needy whimper and kisses back, gripping the back of Aziraphale's jacket and holding him close with no intent of letting go.

#good omens #ineffable idiots #crowziraphale #azirowley #good omens fic #my writing #my fic #fic #long post

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akkeyagentofhelheim · 4 years ago

Text

Before I Fall, Fall

It was quiet in the Library.

A clock ticked rhythmically in the lazy light of the morning. The constant whir of cog and wheel filled the air, punctuated by a hum and bend, phasing between Aidorinian styled bannisters, past crane carvings on the side of a bookshelf, and above a sandy blonde head hunched in front of a small shrine, tucked away in the corner. A single incense stick smoked from where it stood in its base as Juro sat in silence, his eyes closed and hands held together in prayer, glowing softly between blue and gold as he paid his respects to the Bookkeepers that disappeared several hours ago.

Virion gave a single croon as it landed on his good shoulder in worry. He opened his eyes to give the golem a scratch on the head, “I’m fine…” he assured it softly, carefully getting to his feet. He was still sore all over, accompanied by lethargy in his limbs from the massive output of magic he made. He carefully thumbed the torn fabric of his kimono on his shoulder, lamenting the loss of the garments, the blood already dried a while ago. He had yet to change.

"I was careless. I forgot she saw everything," he murmured as Akkey's interrogation replayed in his head. "You're attached to Yun Milae." He placed a slender gloved hand on the edge of a table, leaning his full weight against it, the other covering part of his face as he struggled, "I know that. That's the problem…"

One thought led to another as he spiraled through his memories, ones he wished to forget but couldn’t. Virion could only watch and extend its magic around its master in protection.

“You are nothing but a tool. A vessel for infinite power, destined to be alone. You can’t leave this place. There’s nothing, nobody out there for you. Don’t let her stories get into your head.” There was a scream of pain as a whip was brought down onto his handler. He saw nothing but white.

“Well… this was Jurou’s idea, but I can’t fault him for it, I understand where he’s coming from. We’re your family now. Our law is no help, no harm, and record what you see...” The Elder’s lopsided grin shone down on him. He smiled back in the same way, “But between you and me, I break that rule a bit. I like helping people even just a little, makes me feel more myself, more human. But don’t tell the others.” They laughed together.

He fought with his Mentor, “She’s bad news, I can feel it! Why won’t you listen? She’s nothing like you!” He didn’t see him for years after as the Mentor stubbornly searched for where the suspicious girl came from.

“This is all my fault,” His Mentor was crying, “I’m the one who dug around and set off their radar. You need to run, Jin. I won’t have you pay for what I did!” The Elder laid in his lap, dead. He had lost control again. Everyone was gone, it was just him and his Mentor left, cowering away from the Weapon as she pressed on with her duty to bring him back to Chuugo.

A flash of light on blade. A protecting arm flung over him. The sickening sound of sword through body, streaking blood over his face. The tip of the weapon nicking him along the jaw in the process. The Mentor heaving against the pain to keep her away from him, the blade slicing him again as bodies collided. Blood trailing in two lines down his neck as he was pushed towards nix portals, whose captured users were also escaping themselves.

“Don’t forget who you are, Little Crane.”

He ran.

A bell-like sound pinged from the flat device with the multiple buttons that he used frequently to read entries from the Modern timelines, interrupting his light speed thoughts, bringing him back to the present, “It’s like Jii-jii and Jurou-san decided to reincarnate in one goat body…” Juro couldn’t help but laugh. The smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Juro shook his head, stretching his long arms up and growling softly at the back of his throat as he returned his focus to the rest of his intended tasks, "Right. Catch up on entries…" He pulled scrolls and devices towards him, supporting his weight against the table, and got to work.

The minutes passed, slowly turning into hours, daylight sliding across books and dust and inkwells as it filtered through the windows of the Library, only the workings of machinery and the scratch of pen heard for a long time. It was a picture of peace, just like the old days.

Juro reached for another black, flat box, fingers flying over the buttons all over its surface. The face of the box lit up brightly, its blue-white glow shining softly on his cheekbones. Text appeared from the light, and his amber eyes swept across quickly as he read them.

"Nothing out of place for Dario. Out for the weekend with friends as always. He has a show next week."

Juro's lashes lowered. Jin's entry was right on time. They've been very regular as of late, particularly revolving around a certain seidkonur's partner, worrying and keeping an eye on him. The Worst Bookkeeper truly… he grinned to himself in reproach at the Modern Bookkeeper’s unabashed display of his affinity towards Yun and his life, but it wasn't a serious issue any longer, and more in amused surrender. After all, their neutrality was a choice--it was his that wasn’t. And it was exactly how he was reprimanded in his early Bookkeeper days as well.

His brow furrowed at the intrusive memory, gritting his teeth as he balled it up and threw it in the darkest corners of his mind as he always did. His fingers clicked away again on the buttons, and the light shifted into a different set of words.

Binate World. A fairly new thread that appeared only a month ago. It wouldn’t have garnered such attention from Juro if it weren’t for two things: the timing, and the nature of the timeline. And he might have an idea of why.

He didn’t have as deep an understanding of other universes as either Yun or Milae, but he could still tell what generally happened. Two threads twisted into one, spawning two bookkeepers housing the same soul. Juro skimmed the entries from the timeline, a small laugh escaping him. The bookkeepers were young, and the way they wrote reflected it, wonder and awe seeping into their words as they learned how to string their sentences together in neutrality. They were growing fast, their world a mix of magic and mundane. They were already 8.

But there was still the question of when it happened that metaphorically raised a brow more. First, the Battle of the Jaw kicked off way earlier than it was supposed to, bringing a seidkonur all the way to the opposite side of the multiverse. Then, within days, the unnatural thread was created, seemingly out of nowhere. There's outside forces affecting these, I'm certain… His eyes lowered even further as he stared blankly at the entries, thoughts turning in his head. Immense power surges. Twisting threads. Disappearing marionettes and souls of the Court. Weaving of time and stories.

Golden eyes and a creeping darkness.

"I can't think of anyone else but her. It must be Frigga…" Juro’s lips barely moved when he commented, his eyes going out of focus.

The sounds of the Library became muted, like a veil was hung in the dimension where it existed within the Golden thread. Light and shadows began to melt together through his vision, becoming more hazy and indecipherable. The pen in his hand was still. Stringy shadows streaked across his line of vision. The Library disappeared.

Juro found himself in a bottomless abyss peppered with stars, standing on nothing, hearing nothing, feeling nothing. Across from him was a large, arch shaped shadow that hung from an unseen ceiling. He could barely make out the chains that wrapped around it, then shot outwards in millions of directions in a horrible scrape of metal sounds.

A small lonely figure stood in between him and the shadow, faced away from him, yet he knew who she was, with her light locks and bare feet.

“You’re a fucking mess, aren’t ya…”

Her voice bounced around in echoes, filling up the entire space, doubling, cycling, amplifying. Chains began straining against the dome, moving and pulling across space. She spoke again.

“All this power you sealed, uncontrolled, creating problems that you can just solve on your own if you would just accept it and learn… but you don’t want that, do ya?”

Several of the chains began to glow blue then gold, and his mouth opened in a voiceless scream at the sight, crying desperately for the light to stop, to keep the lines intact.

“You’re ashamed of who you were, and you want to erase yourself by locking it all up. You detach from anything that could cause you pain, and disguise it under neutrality. You’re addicted to this solitude. You want it. You need it.”

The child turned to face him finally, but her face was void of any features, a creepy mask of smooth skin and porcelain. Her movements were choppy, unarticulated, inhuman. Her cadence was different.

“You’re trapped, yet you have the key.”

It burst into a chaotic twist of dark lines and threads from behind her, tensing and pulling to its most extreme without snapping. The space around Juro flickered violently, the space phasing in and out of reach in two, three, four, five waves, threatening to rip at the seams, streaking past the girl and heading straight for him, wrapping itself around his limbs and torso and body and face in that familiar, terrifying way. His right side pulsed.

“So many new lines to trace, new stories to collect... and their words…. words are so important,” a different voice whispered in his ear, and his body seized, the sound crawling everywhere on his skin, the dialogue sounding familiar but incorrect, like they were spoken by the wrong lips. Light left his eyes as he stared blankly before him, unseeing. Another chain glowed with his colours.

“...fā vald ađ rifa örlagaröđina,” he replied to seemingly nobody, his voice a hollow sound.

”That’s right, darling,” the voice remained soft, “You know the importance of words and stories. Then maybe…”

It was inside his head now, “...maybe you can rewrite yours.”

The echoes of metal links and soft voices came to an abrupt stop.

Complete silence.

Darkness faded back into the Library as cog, wheel, and hum returned. The second hand of a clock ticked once more. The late afternoon light filtered through the windows again. Everything was still in place.

Juro was staring wordlessly before him, unaware, like there was no alarming bend of space that glimmered around him. With an accompanying sigh, his eyes slowly, finally came to a full close, lashes slipping over amber in one smooth motion. He fell sideways, his knees buckling and collapsing towards the ground until he hit something soft and feathery. His golem caught him in its wings with a worried caw, as his arm dropped to the side, pen rolling out of his fingers onto the wooden floor as he laid within his golem, unmoving.

Virion crooned again in concern, but relaxed when it realized that his breath was steady, “Sorry Vir… I’m… suddenly… really tired…” Juro could only mumble under his breath, sinking into the sea of blue and white.

He had fallen fast asleep.

It was quiet once more in the Library.

#before i fall fall #one shot #juro #eir #frigga

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dvoz-alternate · 5 years ago

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The Buccaneer Queen pt. 6

Pirate! ATEEZ x pirate! Reader

Genre: fantasy pirate AU, future romance(?)

Warnings: language, mentions of violence, crack moment(s), potential violence. Characters in story are purely for fictitious purposes and do not portray actual people.

AN: italics are thoughts

Word count: ~1.1k

Summary: Women are considered bad luck upon the vessels that sail the Seven Seas. Before you became the captain of The Astraea, a witch of sorts cursed you and the crew leaving a physical mark upon your chest just above where your heart would lie. Anyone that sees the Black Standard flying on the black and gold ship knows that they have stumbled upon the Armada of the Damned which is piloted by the Buccaneer Queen.

Edited: 10/02/2022

»»————-　➴　————-««

Previously:

“This seems like a giant ghost story or fable…” Jongho mumbled from your bed. “I wish it was,” you told him. “So... even you don’t know what happened exactly?” Hongjoong asked lifting his head from his hands. “I learned more from Aggus when I woke up,” you told him crossing your arms as you held a firm gaze, “but first let me ask you this. What makes a person human?”

»»————-　➴　————-««

Your question seemed to catch the eight men in the room off guard. “Do you mean metaphorically or physically?” Yeosang asked, leaning forward in his spot.

Shrugging you looked at him raising an eyebrow.

“I guess a person becomes a person or human when they have spirit,” Yunho spoke up, but his eyes were downcast like he was still trying to make sense of your riddle.

You nodded your head slowly, it was close to what you were expecting as an answer.

“Oh, you could also look at it like if the person has heart or something like that,” Wooyoung snapped his fingers pointing at Yunho. His answer made your head snap up and look at him.

Hongjoong’s eyes narrowed slightly. Why would that cause you to look so alarmed? He thought studying your facial expression.

Apparently Seonghwa caught it too, but was vocal about it. “Why does it seem like what Wooyoung said bothered you more than Yunho’s?” he asked, taking a step towards you.

The deep sigh you let out as you hang your head set everyone on edge. “People don’t just do things without reason,” you looked directly at Seonghwa, “which means that my question wasn’t random.”

The aggression in your voice made Seonghwa back down a smidge, “Then what did you mean?”

Inhaling you tried to settle the irritation that started blooming in your chest. Finally exhaling the boys could physically see the irritation dim from your features. You turned your body to look out the small window so you wouldn’t have to see their expressions as you finished the story. “When I woke I found myself in the infirmary with Aggus by my side. He told me that the captain died, and that I was to take his place…” your voice got soft as you realized you were finally going to tell a group of people something that was so private in your life.

To Ateez, this was the most vulnerable they’ve seen you.

Raising a hand you let a finger trace over the pattern on your chest, “I remember waking up disoriented and sitting up was painful. The look Aggus gave me looked like he witnessed a loved one died, and in a sense I guess he did.”

“What do you mean?” Mingi whispered, but was quickly shushed by Seonghwa.

“The witch stabbed me. After she did that she supposedly killed the captain. The crew was in too much shock to do anything to stop her rampage. Aggus mentioned that after the captain died that she came back to my body. Hands coated in red she removed the very thing that gives people life,” you hesitated, for a moment dropping your hand to your side. Turning back around you finally met their eyes, “She sealed away my life and left me branded and with a cursed title before disappearing with Seungcheol.”

Hongjoong put the pieces together as realization dawned on him, “You died, didn’t you?”

“The horrible irony of a life for a life…,” your voice was laced with sadness as you stared at the light haired man.

Yeonsang stood up from the bed, “You’re heartless.” You raised an eyebrow at him for his word choice. “Ah, sorry not in the metaphorical sense… y’know,” he tapped his fingers together averting his eyes quickly.

“You are right though. The witch stole and hid my heart leaving me with this,” you gestured to the scar that was visible to them.

“Can I take a closer look at it?” Hongjoong asked, standing from his chair. Nodding you let him come closer to inspect your scar. Hongjoong made eye contact with you as he carefully lifted a hand tracing the outline of the scar.

Someone made a ‘woo’ noise behind the two of you followed by another thump and grumbling. Feeling Hongjoong’s breath fan against your chest slightly you asked, “Do you recognize the symbol?”

He nodded his head ever so slightly before meeting your eyes again, “This symbol was on a random key that used to be in my possession. Woke up one day and it was lying on my desk.”

“A key?,” your brows furrowed slightly as you thought about it. Why a key?...

“Yeosang?”

“Hm?”

“Did we ever see this mark anywhere else?” Hongjoong asked, dropping his hand to look at his navigator.

“I’m pretty sure it was marked on a map that was aboard the Treasure. I could never figure it out though because the land structures never matched any that I’ve seen before,” Yeosang said, rubbing his jaw with his hand as he recalled the information.

Your eyes lit up slightly at the new information, “So we finally have a new direction.”

“There’s only one problem,” Mingi said, lifting himself off the bed.

“And what might that be my dear?” you asked, turning to face the other tall pirate in the room.

“Well for one our ship is in possession of the Royal Navy.”

Scoffing you rolled your eyes, “And?”

“It’s going to be hell trying to retrieve belongings from something that will either be auctioned off or possibly even gone,” Mingi scowled thinking about the situation.

“Where’s your sense of adventure Mingi?” You ask, patting him on the cheek.

San grabbed the hem of your shirt to gain your attention. Turning to look at him you tilted your head giving him your full attention. “If you don’t have a heart how are you living?”

Wooyoung scoffed, “She can’t be breathing if she doesn’t have a heart dumbass.”

Lifting an eyebrow you looked from San to Wooyoung, and then to Hongjoong before moving to your desk drawer. Rifling around the drawer you pulled out a small dagger. Holding it up you twirled it between your fingertips while maintaining eye contact with Wooyoung. Without even blinking you plunged the dagger into your chest down to the hilt. There was a lot of screaming in the cabin as you watched each man freak out over what just happened. Coughing slightly you gave Wooyoung a bloodied smile just to mess with him a little more making his screams turn into banshee shrieks.

Seonghwa rushed forward quickly withdrawing the small blade from your chest and pressing his shirt sleeve over the wound. “What the hell are you doing?” Seonghwa berated, wiping some of the blood from your lip.

“Proving that I am nothing, but my word. Look,” you pry Seonghwa’s hand away from your chest, “good as new.” And sure enough Seonghwa watched the last little bit of skin seal together threading light skin fibers over each other before his eyes.

“What.”

“The.”

“Hell.”

“Kind.”

“Of.”

“Adventure.”

“Is.”

“This.?” each member looked at each other and back at you.

Wiping the bloodied blade on the sleeve of your shirt you gave them a smirk, “This is a call to action. This is our destiny.”

»»————-　➴　————-««

masterlist

previous I next

#dvoz-alternate #ateez pirate au #hongjoong x reader #seonghwa x reader #yunho x reader #yeosang x reader #mingi x reader #san x reader #wooyoung x reader #jongho x reader #ateez fantasy au #ateez fluff #ateez x reader #ateez imagines #ateez drabbles #ateez fanfic

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shirtlesssammy · 5 years ago

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5x18: Point of No Return

Hey-our first request episode! It’s a good one, considering Adam might (?) be coming back this season, and then there’s the whole fathers are shitty theme. Oh, and Dean and Cas are fighting.

Then:

Remember Adam?

Now:

In an empty bar in Nowhere, USA, Zachariah commiserates with a man about The Man. Then the walls start shaking and the other guy wonders if it’s an earthquake. The place lights up and Zach sullenly admits that it’s his boss. Before you know it, the bartender and other guy’s eyes are burned out and Zach is back in the heavenly business.

On the alcohol train to Sad Town, Dean packs his only belongings (minus Baby, I guess) in preparation to saying yes to Michael. We say goodbye to the leather jacket (for good --well, I think we see it in Swan Song too, but --like, how crazy is it that there was a fundamental shift in the storytelling of the show when that jacket was stolen after season 5? Would Dean still be wearing it to this day? I would like to think that isn’t true.) He boxes up the jacket, Baby’s keys, his gun, and writes a letter. Oh, and he downs hard liquor straight from the bottle the whole melodramatic time he’s doing this. (Side note: he’s staying at Mike’s Travel Inn which is wonderfully fitting since he plans to become Michael’s own personal travel inn. Wanek!)

For Drama Llama Dean Science:

Sam finds Dean and confirms Dean’s own plans to him. Sam wants Dean to wait on this plan of letting Michael take him. Bobby has a plan. Okay, he doesn’t, but Sam is going to stop him anyway. Dean gets in a good dig about Sam not having demon blood to help him. Sam counters that he still brought help. Before Dean can react, Cas has flapped in and he zaps Dean back to Bobby’s.

Urgh, those were the days. Sometimes I REALLY miss flying Cas.

At Bobby’s we have a pissed off Dean, pissed off Cas, pissed off Bobby, and a peacemaker Sam. Bobby calls Dean “son”, and Dean counters that he isn’t Dean’s father. OUCH and a HALF. Bobby then shows Dean the bullet he wants to put through his brain. He doesn’t though because he promised Dean that he’d keep fighting.

Cas is suddenly hit with a massive wave of angel radio goodness and he’s gone. (I just love the editing of when Cas flaps away. Sigh.)

Cas ends up in a field somewhere.

For Side-profile Science:

In his attempt to investigate something coming out of the ground, two other angels attack him. He is an effortlessly badass angel though, and dispatches them with

I’m sorry, what was I saying?

He pulls someone from the ground and takes him back to Bobby’s. It’s Adam, Sam and Dean’s long lost/dead half-brother. Okay, the dramatic camera zooms and swelling music was just A+ soapy drama there. Cas engraves angel warding on Adam’s ribs and wakes him from his graveyard coma. Adam knows who Sam and Dean are --because the angels warned him about them. He demands to see Zachariah. Wherps.

They let him clean up, give him some hard liquor, and ask him to tell them his story. He tells them that he was in heaven (or prom to him) and angels interrupt to tell him he’s going to save the world. He’s the archangel Michael’s vessel. Dean thinks that’s insane. Cas points out that Adam is also of John Winchester’s bloodline, and Sam’s brother. Dean forgets he’s with company and propositions Cas.

Sam tries telling Adam that the angels are lying to him. Adam doesn’t believe him. Sam asks him to give them time to prove they’re right. He tells Adam that “they’re blood” and that’s why they should be trusted. (Dean’s little smile at that...like I get how that’s important to Dean, but also, I love how SO much about this show is how important these bonds are despite there being no blood between this found family.) Adam is appalled. They’re not family. John wasn’t his father (AND can we talk about how fucking jealous Dean was that John actually did things, like baseball games, with Adam, and Adam saw those baseball games as nothing? John wasn’t there for him on a day to day basis and so he wasn’t Adam’s father. Ugh, John was the woooorrsst.) (Dean’s little half-smile about John was also worth watching.)

Later, Adam tries making an escape but Sam catches him, and sits him down with a beer to discuss John.

Sam thinks Adam was lucky to not have John around all year (Ahem, you didn’t either, Sam…) Adam was alone a lot because his mom worked. He raised himself. Ugh, kinda like you and Dean, right Sam? Then Adam makes a Family Vacation reference and we KNOW he’s related to Dean. Btw, where are Dean and Cas during this convo?

Dean’s checking out Bobby’s safe room when Sam and Cas show up. Cas silently flirts with Dean. Dean forgets he’s in front of Sam and flirts right back at Cas. These two are killing me this season. They’re in that sweet spot of flirting before it all goes to hell. SIGH.

For the record, I’d like to point out that Cas was making that face at him the whole time they were in the living room with Bobby before Adam showed up. Also, I’d like to point out that both Dean and Cas were missing when Adam tried to escape.

Dean and Sam talk in private about not letting Adam let Michael in. Sam lets Dean know he’s not letting him do it either. Um, then Dean lists all the people that they’ve “gotten killed”, and I’d like to give a big shout out “Fuck you” to Chuck himself. According to Dean they got everyone killed! He’s “also tired of fighting who he’s supposed to be.” UGGH. Dean tells Sam that he doesn’t think Sam will be able to withstand the devil, so he’s got to be there to fight. Sam walks away.

Upstairs, Cas watches Adam intently as though making sure he won’t sleep walk away. When Sam heads upstairs, totally wrecked, Cas makes his way back down to the basement. (To finish their assignation - right, Boris?) He hears a crash. Dean Bean’s nowhere to be seen in the safe room so Cas opens the door. Dean directs his attention to a cabinet door with a bloody angel banishing sigil on it. BOOM! Cas out.

Dean creeps out of the basement through the cellar hatch. JellyDEAN noooooo!

Sam heads out to track down Dean, leaving Bobby to watch over Adam. In his dreams, Adam chillaxes at a playground when Zachariah smarmily flaps in. Zach tells Adam that he’ll see his mom soon, but first he’s got to figure out how to escape. Zachariah warns Adam about the Winchesters, describing Sam and Dean as dangerously codependent and more interested in saving each other than the world. Which is sorta...valid? “They’re not your family. Understand?”

Outside a bar, a street preacher shouts at random passerby when Dean runs up and asks if he knows who Dean Winchester is. “Dear god, yes,” the preacher replies (for all of us).

The preacher starts to pray to the angels about Dean’s location when Cas zaps him unconscious.

Cas flips the fuck out. “I rebelled for this?” he shouts as he bashes Dean around in the alley. “I gave everything for you. And this is what you give to me?”

Dean, always a glutton for punishment, eggs Cas on. Cas should destroy him! Why not? Don’t you know who he is??? He’s Dean Winchester, PROM KING of Self-Loathing High. Cas stops punching out his feelings. His fist uncurls.

He zaps Dean unconscious instead.

Back at Bobby’s house, Adam’s disappeared and Sam is a leeeetle bit stressed out.

Cas flaps in with a majorly roughed up Dean and announces that he was the cause of Dean’s injuries. Hashtag Dangerbird-of-the-Lord. About Adam’s whereabouts, Cas speculates that the angels nabbed him and took him to the Beautiful Room from season four.

Cue the close-up on baroque art, beer, and burgers. Adam’s enjoying his last meal when Zachariah flaps in to hand him a pink slip. “You’re not so much the ‘chosen one’ as you are a clammy scrap of bait.”

“Son of a bitch,” Adam mutters, Winchesterily.

Adam’s starting to realize that Zachariah is a pretty terrible friend. Zachariah reinforces this conclusion by making Adam cough up blood.

Down in Bobby’s panic room, Dean’s chained to the bed.

Sam fills Dean in on the situation: Adam’s being held prisoner at a location which is CRAWLING with angels. To Dean’s surprise, Sam unlocks Dean’s manacle. They need him for the fight ahead and Sam has faith that Dean will make the right choice - even if nobody else believes in him. Dean rewards this touching show of faith by swearing up and down that he’ll say yes to Michael at the first chance he gets. DEAN. BEAN. Sam’s faith in Dean is simply derived: “You’re still my big brother.” (*crying noise crying noise*)

Outside the warehouse, Cas flaps in with the Winchesters.

Dean’s surprised to learn that the Beautiful Room is in Van Nuys, California and not on Jupiter or (bless this boy) in a blade of grass. Cas tells them there are five extremely good warriors inside and he can’t fight them all off. He starts to take off his tie and IS IT GETTING HOT IN HERE?

Cas tells them that he’ll take care of the angels and then they can rescue Adam. Cas BBY.

Devastating dialogue alert:

Dean: Whoa, wait. You’re gonna take on five angels?

Cas: Yes.

Dean: Isn’t that suicide?

Cas: Maybe it is. But then I won’t have to watch you fail. I’m sorry, Dean. I don’t have the same faith in you that Sam does.

Cas whips out a box cutter. The next scene sees him striding into the warehouse alone. His spidey sense tingles. It’s an angel! Cas kills one of them and then makes his way to the middle of the room. Quicky, he’s surrounded by the other angels. He drops his blade, rips open his shirt, and blasts them and himself away with the angel banishing sigil he carved iNTo hIS sKin.

Dean and Sam hear the commotion and when Dean heads inside, the coast is clear. Inside the Beautiful Room, Adam’s slumped by the wall. “You came for me,” he mutters, surprised.

“Yeah, you’re family,” Dean says. But it’s too late for hugs and lollipops, because Zachariah shows up, stroking his metaphorical evil mustache. Zachariah starts bleeding out Adam and Sam while Dean is EXPERIENCING STRONG EMOTIONS. (Boris: When Dean says “Damnit, Zachariah” I only hear “Dean” from The Real Ghostbusters, and realize what a great job he did impersonating a character he had only read about.)

Dean agrees to say yes. While Zachariah calls down Michael, Dean takes one last look at Sam. Thoughts and feelings flit past like clouds and suddenly Dean arrives at a Realization™. He smiles, then winks at Sam.

Dean starts issuing his demands before he’ll turn over his body but number one on his list is that Michael destroys Zachariah.

RECORD SCRATCH

Dean refers to himself as a “sweet ass” which is not wrong, while Zachariah presses close to Dean threateningly, boasting that Michael would never kill him. No worries because Dean’s gonna smite you instead. With Zachariah close, Dean whips up Cas’s dropped angel blade and jams it up into Zachariah’s jaw.

The room shakes as Michael approaches. Sam, Dean, and Adam make for the door. Sam and Dean escape but the door slams shut in front of Adam. A bright light suffuses him and...that’s it.

Later, they recap in the Impala. Adam and Cas are in the wind but finding them is an issue for another episode. Because right now Sam needs to address Dean’s almost-yes moment. Dean explains his sudden change of mind. “The walls are coming down on us, and I look over to you and all I can think about is, ‘this stupid son of a bitch brought me here.’ I just didn’t want to let you down.” Dean apologizes to Sam for treating him like a kid. “Screw destiny right in the face. I say we take the fight to them, and do it our way.”

Battle brother mode ACTIVATED!

______________________________

Is That a Quote in Your Pocket or are You Just Happy to See Me?

You know, eight months of turned pages and screwed pooches but tonight, tonight’s when the magic happens.

Blow me, Cas.

We’re working on the power of love.

Maybe you could take a half a second and stop trying to sacrifice yourself for a change?

You pray too loud.

Watch your tone, boy.

Don’t piss of the nerd angels.

______________________________

Want to read more? Check out our Recap Archive!

#spn recap #spn rewatch #spn 5x18 #point of no return #dean winchester #sam winchester #castiel #cas #bobby singer #adam milligan #zachariah #supernatural season 5

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terfhunter420 · 5 years ago

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“how ya holding up?”

This is about how I'm “holding up” how I'm “doing” and if I “need anything” as a covidclerk because so many beautiful kind amazing stellar friends and otherwise have been asking me that more times than I can muster to answer, at some points. The long story short is “fantastic!!” because that's true – every letter of the word FANTASTIC has about a million facets intertwined within them.

Betwixt grief and global pandemic there is an incredible relationship. I have been through the standard stages of grief that I wholly know – I expect to cycle through them in multiples the longer this goes on, while always growing despite/in spite – I created new stages of grief that are probably related to the new type of cognitive dissonance I have mastered, and I have re-grieved the loss of my partner due to the fact that I can feel Nhiki laughing about the most reptilian parts of all this. The word GRIEF and the place of grief is not a triggering word or a scary place, rather, a declaration of floating just above the Earth – place of rest and reflection, a powerful position to be in for action and clarity. I don't want anyone to feel unsettled approaching me knowing I am cycling through a grieving process and I don't want anyone to feel spooked that I am answering with raw emotion.

DENIAL: what denial in a pandemic setting looks like is not true denial, per se. I'm not hoaxin' out or making light of the severity of the pneumonia and organ failure and cardiac arrest perpetuated by this virus. I am trying to absorb as much new information about how the virus behaves in the body and regurgitate harm reduction practices and efforts from each piece of new study. What denial has shown itself to be for me, as time has moved on and on and on, and every day I keep showing up to work in a fucking contagion zone, and I continue to remain healthy – even though I DID get sick when this all started – the more I am (hopefully, productively) twisting what must be fear into believing that I will be okay. I will stay alive. I am not dying from this. I can FEEL the sickening aura of tremendous outsider grief, and it's not colliding with my own. Which is interesting – I am empathic, and I have isolated my own grief from the rest? Is this something I can consider a level-up, or a form of denial? Have I sharpened a tool in my coping toolbox or have I dulled one?

ANGER: there is so much and it is not harmful. I am made of fire – my heart exists on fire – I am surrounded by salty chicks because they throw salt on my heartfire – I am knives – my knives are on fire! – I have a prayer to Lord Shiva tattooed on the base of my neck and it is vibrating constantly. OM NAMA SHIVAYA – wild destruction for the sake of wild growth. I WANT TO SEE THIS FAILED SYSTEM COLLAPSE. I MICRO/DOSE BELLADONNA TO BECOME ONE WITH THE ENTROPY. THERE IS NO FULL, CONTINUOUS UNITY and holy fuck is that scary or what! The response my own store took for basic safety measures was drip drip blackstrap molasses slow. The response the state has been unrolling has been drip drip pure unfiltered honey thick. The inappropriate responses of the TRUMP administration has been a maniacal outpouring of American vomit and bile foam. WHYYYYY of all presidents did this have to happen under this one? Well, some folks I know say it's because that's part of The Plan. I know what they're talking about. I hear them wide and clear – and it does not make sense for me to focus my energy exertion on processing the Grand Scheme of the Bourgeois and how it relates to global elite efforts. You begin saving the world one person at a time, after all. My biggest anger I have felt relates to the social conditioning that I felt like a threat to everyone around me, and everyone around me felt like an even bigger threat. That conditioning is nauseating so I have broken it.

BARGAINING: Should I keep my nails long or keep my nails short? Should I call out of work today? Should I lie about symptoms? I could keep my mouth shut at being placated or I could open it up and let the words fly out. Should I leave the cats to my mother or to a friend if I have to die? Should I spend time with this thoughtful chick? What if I cut most of my fingernails short? How do I get this guy to stop calling me a frontline hero and thanking me for my service? Can I trade spots with Nhiki for one day? What if I called out of work and said I needed a mental health day? What if I lied about symptoms just to get three days off and not two weeks off? What if I bought some scratch off lottery tickets? What if Nina met Death with me? How did I get here and how can I assure that I am never here again? HOW DO I GET OUT OF HERE?!?!? AM I TRAPPED WITH A METAPHORICAL GUN TO MY HEAD OR AM I JUST UNAFRAID? What if this is God (God is short for Good) placing me in a situation that I know I am meant for? How do I convince God (God is short for Good) that I am not meant for this? What if I convinced myself I am meant for this? Oh fuck it turns out I'm meant for this and it was insane to doubt thyself so much in the first place.

DEPRESSION & EXHAUSTION: My strongest trauma-bond is with the experience of helplessness. Living in a big helpless fury for weeks will lead to the inevitable: YANG flame snuffs and YANG must reignite itself. My candle wobbled, the YIN spilled everywhere. Now I have to carefully chip out the wick from the pool of wax, YIN poured up and out and over – tears, tears, tears – I had one night alone since this all started and I spent it in a heap on the ground full of trauma, remembering the way eyes with no life behind them roll in any direction that gravity takes 'em, being terrified that my baby would find me dead because that is the most horrific thing to go through, especially if that corpse wasn't supposed to die any time soon – tears, tears, tears – mourning the loss of our already fucked normalcy and expressing the fears of the future through screaming out to absolutely fucking no one. My face is puffy – and I need to work quick – because I'm too tired to keep going without my flame. What's that? I'm out of time?! TIME TO START TAKING TREMENDOUS AMOUNTS OF CBD. Oh god, perfect. All the serenity, without the cognitive hinderance... yeah baby, a global pandemic is what this shit was made for. At least something is made for this. Oh fuck, I have to remember I was made for this too. Not today – oh fuck, every day is today.

ACCEPTANCE: I am passionate. I am passionate for what my life means. I feel everything and everything and it is very beautiful. I love taking care of people, Nhiki taught me how to be taken care of. My life means help. My life means protection. My life means others are better from my existence – Yes – IT IS SYMBIOTIC, because that is WHAT MY LIFE MEANS. I am indeed a vessel for your sorrows and euphoria of all to flow through one side and come out the other sparkling and validated and warmed. How did I end up working in a vitamin department of a grocery store during a fucking global pandemic? HOW DIVINE THE NATURE OF TIMING – GOD IS SHORT FOR GOOD – ALL THINGS GOOD IN GOOD TIME. I assure you, dear customer, you will do everything I can so you won't die on my watch. My girls... you will not die because you are here, with me, and I love you. I have four beautiful girls in my house, and if I can keep them all fed, Dad is happy. I have a very important woman who has graced me with her presence, and if I can keep her feeling warm and smiling and appreciated, Dad is happy. The normalcy and it's failing systems can be collapsing all around me – somehow my world remains strong, remains in love, and remains standing – REMAINS GROWING AND PATIENT AND PROTECTIVE, as does my nature.

PASSIVE-AGGRESSION: I get passive aggressive at people who actively ignore the public health and safety standards imposed around me... apparently. You know I breathe in my own air for 40+ hours every week so it shouldn't be that much trouble for someone stopping by my store to do that for 40 minutes. Public Health is Selflessness. I feel like I work in an airport with the placating, gentle overhead announcements stuck betwixt the stepmom radio tracks reminding everyone of CDC guidelines and in-store signage instructions. The bright-but-not-abrasively-bright signage directing the flow of the public becomes such background noise that I almost forget it is there until I clean my glasses again or bump into it. I got a “talking to” by my bosses that I am passive aggressive. I probably am... Passive, Aggressive. This whole thing has been a balancing act between the two of these states and I think most moments I'd rather hop off that beam except I can't hop off it so it's a good thing my cautious vibe has taught me how to stay still.

COGNITIVE DISSONANCE: I was raised with the understanding that patience is the best virtue and the only acceptable state to operate from is “calm, cool, collected” – my whole life I've done hard work on balancing the importance of operating from that state with the equal importance of allowing my heart-on-fire to steady burn. Since pandemic started at the grocery store I have become LOUD AND OBNOXIOUS AND DANCING AND PASSIVE AGGRESSIVE ABOUT PUBLIC SAFETY AND HIGH AS FUCK ON CANNABINOIDS and have managed to balance that with MY REQUIREMENT to stay helpful and calm and knowledgable. I do active harm reduction with people that find themselves standing in front of me and a row of incredible forces of nature, looking for the slightest of anecdote for their respiratory/immune/blood/stress systems. And, WOW, gaining that footing in this new balance within a two month period of time has not been always graceful, or easy. Cognitive dissonance was required to achieve it and that's all on my brain's capacity to immediately shift my thought flow, like I have an internal sensory overload kill-switch.

LOVE: My Glorious Baby of Buttercups. You will thrive. I am your dad. I love you. You will always eat before me. I know you know that I know Death, baby. I convene with Death eagerly, and not one morning begins without immense gratitude to Death for Just. One. More. Day. “THANK YOU DEATH FOR SPARING MY LOVED ONES OF THE TRAGEDY THAT WILL BE THE LOSS OF ME. I LOVE YOU – BOOM SHANTI!!” The tip of my iceberg-on-fire of Love is a base idea that I want to give the world everyone... because every one deserves the goodness and glory of the world, and all it has to offer. God is short for Good. Beneath that sea surface, oh my god. It is inexpressible at best, the depths of passion I hold for the well wishes of everyone who has touched my soul. I thought before this pandemic I was already grieving everyone I know and love. I was attuned to mortality salience as sharply as could be. As I continue to know and love ANYONE, the more I grieve. Grief and Love is a tandem ride, and that is the most important lesson I have ever realized. Now, the tuning has only gotten FINER – like discovering a new energy wave that is actually measurable, the edges of my sword of feeling everything all the time are thinner and shinier and more deadly – Here and Now, I am digging pits of love and sorrow for strangers like never before. Reaching new rock bed foundations of my soul's capacity to care about the world and wanting everyone to be okay. Sparkly rock-beds! The infinite vast in my grief for my family, for my chosen family, for my Eastside community, for all of my girls leaves me in awe. I am unabashedly unafraid to speak to everyone and anyone. I MAY SAY I HAVE ALL OF THE TIME – I MAY SAY THAT YOU HAVE ALL OF THE TIME – THAT DOES NOT MEAN THAT YOU AND I HAVE ALL OF THE TIME. I refuse to squander all of this time not connecting.

And then – ohhh and then – as if Grief and Death and Life and Love have not unraveled me and twirled me back up often enough, the brightest softest Violet found herself around me, and I am stumbling, then falling, then floating for such a beauty and my grief for her is already so immense – despite all this newness, my grief for her feels ancient. Where she landed from I don't know – and where she'll go – I can't know. I think of her so gently, softly, and it turns out SHE IS GENTLE AND SOFT – so much meditation has been wishing I could more consciously grasp onto the first moment I saw her because that was the only point in time where I wasn't grieving her so immensely yet – because we caught on like my heart on fire and she can do anything she puts her mind to and she deserves to do anything she wants to do and I am privileged that it seems to be me that she wants to be held by and I'm really proud of her and I want everyone I love to meet her – sometimes it can feel really sad to be always grieving the people you love, and sometimes I question it by wondering if it pulls me away from the present – except when I realize, this practice is a mindfulness practice. GRIEF TEACHES YOU BALANCING PRESENT WITH PAST AND FUTURE BUT NOBODY ACES THESE PRACTICES ALL THE TIME, NOT EVEN DADDY.

AFTER YOU'RE GONE: NHIKI WHY DID YOU LEAVE US – OM NAMA SHIVAYA – NAM MYOHO RENGE KYO – it is always unfair (the word UNFAIR in this context is my inner child speaking) that no matter what is happening that you are not here experiencing it with me. Everything I have experienced since you left our Earthly bond (despite the beauty or despite the turmoil of it) has a permanent burnt tinge of envy of your celestial nature, with your concave shadow (this reformation of my heart) upon it. We could have pandemic'd successfully together – although we may not have known how to do this so easily as I have been without the knowledge I gained from the Death of You – now its just me and my Dad Energy digging all this out, and feeling you're just above up next to me – my missing you is so TANGIBLE it can manifest the whole energy of a room into the shape of your eyebrows, your teeth with the light from the window hitting the spit on them, your hands cracked/tracked open, or healed back shut – whatever you want. I can hear you: “You're so beautiful, Ems!” – and I can hear your bells go off and your tuning fork go off and I can feel you holding me and I can feel the REGRET IN EVERY NUCLEOUS REPLICATING WITH EACH NEW STRAND OF RNA – (REGRET HAS BEEN AN EPIGENETIC TRAIT OF MINE FOR FIVE HUNDRED AND SIXTY DAYS) – regret! about missing our night-time snuggle on our last night together! October 25 2018 was my last chance to hold you and I squandered it – because I fell asleep early – because you were high high high and the next day you finally got high enough and I am here, NOW: sometimes floating over this ground made of griefy-lovey sand dunes not wanting to use the full effort of my toes to keep my feet on the ground for too long, anymore. I do it anyway, with a full understanding of how to fix exhaustion. My grief for you is just love, with nowhere to go – and my grief is thusly my safest resting place. To wander my thoughts in my boundless love for you is to reset, relax, detach from any superficial misery and behold the most powerful thing: EVERYTHING. I remember what the soft edge of your ear feels like on the tip of my nose. I remember feeling the soft edge of your ear with the tip of my nose, and thinking, I need to remember this feeling for the rest of my life because you might not be here for it.

EUPHORIA: I grew a mustache. I left peak fertility and I have never felt more FULL of life.

CREATIVE OVERTAKING: I can see how one may deduct the opposite of “fantastic” based on the raw emotion I openly spew up and out and over. Except... thinking deeply, I couldn't feel so outwardly expressive and creatively fired if I wasn't feeling fantastic. I hold rage and serenity together, I hold grief and love together, I hold water and fire together, I hold anxiety and creativity together. Since the pandemic settled, my creative outlets have expanded into almost every thing I am up to. I made a crossword, I am making collages, I made a painting, I am wandering the neighborhood and being in awe of how lucky I am, I am making up silly songs, I am reading, I am making up love songs, I created a prettier place to sleep, I am wool felting, I am stringing my thoughts together with a new mindfulness level-up, I am etching new facets to listen with in my ears. That's the coolest part...

LISTENING: Throughout my life, I have admired most the people who can make you feel like the only person in a crowded room with how intently and wholly they listen to you. My grandparents, several grandparents. Nine times out of ten, these inspirations in the mastery of listening are people are significantly older than me. Listening is a lifelong practice, after all, so I am naturally in awe of those who have had the most time to practice. I have made it a point to cultivate this ability from an early age. Sometimes, it takes a fucking pandemic to further sharpen your coping skill tools – and your listening skills, too. I think as well, with fleetingly meeting Death more and more often as time goes on, the ability to listen more sharply naturally strengthens. Nothing is worse that not being able to remember what someone sounds like, feels like, looks like – and most importantly, their unique characteristics and mannerisms displayed when talking about something they love.

So these are the classic stages of grief and the newfound stages of grief that I am cycling betwixt and down and over and out. That may or may not answer the question of “how are you doing?” and it's the best way I can answer that one.

I get asked “how ya holding up?” and I'm wondering if that is the same inflection as the previous question, although I could take it for a spin relating to my direct physical position during these moments in time. My back hurts, but it's not terrible most days. My feet hurt, but not most days. I am fed, for most days. My menstruation got wild. My world is not collapsing, I am getting paid, the state gave me back my tax dollars and sent me a cheque for some future tax refunds of mine, I have four beautiful critters to quarantine with. I cook for them, I buy us everything we want, we get El Oasis sometimes, and I come home and the dishes are done.

I come home and the dishes are done was a thing that hadn't happened to me since my Nhiki stopped spoiling me on this plane of reality, so, it's a really special and thoughtful thing that I am treated to – and have been treated to for two months. For a long time after Nhiki left us I unconsciously stopped accepting help with physical things like bringing groceries from the car or carrying things or chores or having my food paid for or help on house maintenance and it has become a new complexity of my grieving process: to allow others to give me physical help that they believe I deserve from them, even if the thought never crossed my mind to ask. No I certainly don't have to do everything just because I don't mind doing everything. It is a special symbiosis and I have been so humbled by my baby buttercup. I love taking care of her – without feeling like I am literally taking care of her, because she loves taking care of me, without feeling like she is literally taking care of me.

Taking care of others – LOVE AND CARE is the only thing that moves me and things and time along. Time suspends when I am useless. And time suspension, well, that's a creepy fucking thing when you live majority of your consciousness on a linear plane of reality. Luckily for me there is literally/technically everyone available to love and care for. Even more luckily, I need not seek anyone. They are dancing down their own paths and those paths happen to collide with mine, and it is beautiful. How am I holding up? Um, considering I have so many fantastical souls I have the honor of caring for – I AM holding up. Not how, just am.

My boss quit our job a few days ago, and I was welcomed into her magical home. There is a deep ethereal bond between two people who have lost big loves to an untimely tragedy. Hers was five years ago – her heart aches for my measly eighteen months. My heart aches for her knowing what she's felt for so long. We talked about the guilt of waking up every day feeling good about being alive. Our loves wouldn't want it any other way, and yet... the void left behind when their suffering finally changed from theirs to ours is a big and trippy one. “Strong people” choose to fill that void with joy, we are both “strong people” although, if anyone asked us personally if we feel strong... we may disagree. Strong is the wrong word. The fact of the matter is, there is no other choice – except to crumble. And, when you are needed – when you have people to care for and attend to, the choice to crumble becomes a non-issue, a non-reality. LOVE IS EVERYTHING, and I feel everything – I am a fully feeling being. DEATH does not stop the fire that tells its story and moves within me. Absolutely not, it only makes the blues deeper and heartier, and the bright more blinding in its awe and heat. In heaven there is no heat, I've heard. Until then: I AM BURNING AND COVERED IN SALT and my business card says “Call me if your love drops dead, I know how you feel.”

The question of “do you need anything?” directed at me will only move me to flip that question back at the bearer. Do YOU need anything? Because baby, I have everything. Other than flipping the question back I tend to tell people “what I need is for you to follow the public health and safety guidelines to the best of your ability” and “stay safe” and “if you think of anything I need or want I would be honored” and I like to hope that is a creative prompt. The kind gestures and thoughtfulness I have experienced off my friends? Oh, they have taken flight with said prompt – soared! – and have filled my heart up!! Lovely!

People intuitively understand kindness, care, love, compassion. Yes these things are practices and yes they are mindfulnesses and every person still has all of this within them. This is the key understanding I try to keep at the forefront of my head, especially when protestors/outsiders storm my city to hold a Trump rally. Their anger is misdirected. Damn every safety net that was spun of illusion and damn every systemic failing that has led to a dramatic display of these human beings wearing their rifles around my downtown. Maybe because my world is so full of kindness, and love, and beauty, and patience... that I failed to remember these sorts of protests/gatherings would indeed happen the longer this shutdown went on. And HEY that’s WONDERFUL fuck remembering that.

Clearly the trifecta of my existence is LOVE and ENTROPY and MUTUAL AID – so to all of you wonderful humans who only reach out to ask me “how i'm doing” and “how i'm holding up” I want you to remember that simply you, thriving in all your glory, makes me proud to be alive and knowing you – and remember that I am constantly betwixt the sparkles of grief and love and anger and serenity and exhaustion and vibrance. So, nothing much with me has changed, even though I have overheard once or twice the theory that “everything” has changed, except the world that changed is not mine – because EVERYTHING IS LOVE. Remember to tell me about yourselves to me. I want to know how you feel, too. Because you matter, and you are essential, and so am I, and we are EVERYTHING.

Thanks for coming to my TED talk.

#covidclerk howareyoudoing howareyouholdingup doyouneedanything love mutualaid entropy

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dandeaix-oomph · 5 years ago

Text

incomplete THEY FUCK IN THE COFFIN chapter 4: cooking/drunk

Day Thirty-Two.

Ogata wakes to Sugimoto kissing him on his shoulder.

“Get up,” Sugimoto whispers, his eyes glitter-pen gold in the dim light. “It’s snowing. First snow. Come watch it with me.”

Ogata doesn’t care. He pulls the blanket tighter around him. “I want to sleep.”

“You can go back to sleep later.”

“No.”

For a moment, Ogata thinks that he has successfully dismissed Sugimoto as the bed dips and lifts as Sugimoto slips away. Then Sugimoto’s shadow falls over him and Ogata is scooped out of bed, blanket and all.

Sugimoto’s grin is too fucking bright for the asscrack of dawn. “You can sleep if you want,” he taunts, carrying Ogata out into the living room.

The couch is pushed up against the window; it seems Sugimoto has been prepared. He dumps Ogata onto the couch before sliding over the armrest, sliding the windows open as he hangs his arms out.

Cold, Ogata thinks, bundling himself up with the blanket. He hasn’t bothered putting on clothes after last night, what with Sugimoto acting as a human furnace beside him. “Winter sunrises are dreary,” he comments, leaning against Sugimoto.

Sugimoto raises an arm and hooks it around Ogata’s shoulders. “But I like to watch the snowfall.”

“Hmm.” Nuzzles Sugimoto’s chest. It’s like a memory pillow. “No snow in space?”

“None at all. Only rain and hail and occasionally, flaming debris.”

Ogata snorts. “Flaming debris? Very creative.”

“I don’t know what’s up with that too.” He buries his nose in Ogata’s hair. Kisses his hairline. “Don’t worry, no one has ever been struck by it yet. It’s like those debris have eyes: they don’t strike people.”

“So they are… semi-sentient?”

“Who knows.” Sugimoto stares out of the window again. “As much as sacred sites have their spirits, I suppose.”

The mortality rate always goes up during the winter season, but Ogata thinks he can afford to take a break, just for a day.

He switches off his phone and leaves the closed sign on the door, and after turning up the heater, spends the morning sitting on the kitchen counter as Sugimoto tries to prepare them a meal - an attempt quickly abandoned after Sugimoto realises that Ogata has been stealing the sliced sashimi every time he looks away.

“Out,” Sugimoto commands, trying to shove Ogata out of the kitchen. “Or there’ll be no more gourmet dishes for you.”

“Who cares,” Ogata replies, and proceeds to stick his hands down under Sugimoto’s pants.

“You know,” Sugimoto mutters, after they ended up making out on the kitchen floor and leaving Ogata frustratingly hard, “there is something I want to show you.”

“Your dick anytime soon, I hope.”

“Wait, wai -” Sugimoto seizes Ogata’s wrists. “Give me just five minutes. You see what it is, then we’ll get to fucking on a proper bed, ok? Not the, the kitchen floor, we prepare food here, it’s unsanitary.”

“It’s not like any of us don’t swallow -”

“Later!” Sugimoto shouts frantically. Funny how Sugimoto still gets embarrassed about sex even after so long. “The garage first.”

“The garage? I thought I’m not allowed in until you’re done?” That rule is created after Ogata has ribbed him too hard and Sugimoto ended up sulking for the next two days.

“I am done,” Sugimoto replies gravely. The statement lands with a thud, heavy with finality. “Mostly. I want you to take a look at it.”

Ogata is curious, but he is also achingly hard. “Must it be now?”

“It’ll only take five minutes,” Sugimoto stresses.

Which is how they end up stumbling into the garage, Ogata still trying to nip at Sugimoto's ear while Sugimoto squirms and chuckles in equal measure.

“Hey, be serious now.” Sugimoto pecks him on his right temple before nudging Ogata around to face the coffin. “What do you think of it?”

“Trashy.”

“You didn’t even look at it,” Sugimoto protests, “honestly, Ogata. This is important to me. Did I do alright?”

“You’ve definitely passed at first glance, at least,” Ogata informs dryly, finally pulling away. “Fine. Let’s have a look then.”

Sugimoto clasps his hands nervously behind his back as Ogata circles the coffin. Ogata checks the seams and the edges. No problem there, as per usual.

The designs, however.

“It… is pretty good, actually.” Albeit rather simple. Nevertheless, it is a far cry from when Sugimoto first started out: Ogata likes the patterns that Sugimoto has etched on the corners instead of merely tolerating their mediocrity. That’s a first. “Although I wasn’t expecting something this minimalistic. Your drafts have been much more detailed.”

“About that.” Sugimoto scratches his neck. “I was hoping that you can finish it for me.”

That is unexpected. Absently, Ogata traces a spiral. “I think you mentioned it before. Finishing touches, you called it.”

“I did. I wasn’t sure you remember.”

“Surprise,” Ogata answers flatly. “But the way you drafted around this space here...” He finally looks up. “This might as well be a blank canvas for me.”

“It is.” Sugimoto takes a step closer. Tentatively, he flattens his palm against the side of the coffin. “I reached the limits of my skills first, and then I ran out of ideas. I mean, you know what they say: grown-ups aren’t the most creative. Unless we fight to keep it, we will forget the fantasies of our childhood.

Ogata’s childhood has felt like a blanket made of lead, dragging him down until he manages to chip a hole in it so he can finally poke his head out and breathe. “Don’t say it like that’s a good thing.”

“But it can be,” Sugimoto insists. He ruffles Ogata’s hair, laughing when Ogata elbows him. “Just because you don’t throw them out, doesn’t mean that they’re all deadweights.”

“That’s sentimentality speaking.”

“Nothing wrong with that too. Without infusing anything with meaning, they’re all just items.” Sugimoto turns back to his coffin again. “But if you give it enough purpose… Remember how proud we used to be over some doodles when we’re kids? Sometimes, I feel like anything I create can come to life: grab a magic crayon. Draw an apple tree and a ferocious monster to guard it, and then a hot air balloon to fly you home.”

“Scribble a moon and your bedroom window around it, and then a cozy bed for you to sleep in.” Ogata taps on the edge. “And then they nail down the lid and burn you down into ashes at eight hundred degree celsius.”

“That took a morbid turn.”

“An absolute conversation killer,” Ogata agrees. “So are you done? Can we fuck now?”

“Ogata.”

“You said five min - stop grinning like that.” Ogata squishes Sugimoto’s cheeks with both hands. “I said stop it.”

Sugimoto puts an arm around Ogata’s waist. “You’re ridiculous.”

“No, I’m blue-balled.” Without hesitation, Ogata loops his arms around Sugimoto’s neck and jumps - Sugimoto’s hands dart out to grip Ogata by the thigh, but the suddenness of the movement has thrown off his balance, and Sugimoto staggers back, a leg kicking in the air, before he rights himself and tilts forward.

For a precarious moment, Ogata thinks that Sugimoto will end up dropping him; then Sugimoto has one hand flattened on his lower back and the other gripping the edge of the coffin.

Huh. A very convenient position. Ogata unhooks a leg. It thuds loudly at the base of the coffin.

“Please don’t do that again,” says Sugimoto.

Ogata quirks the end of his lips. “We’ll see.” Then, “Hey, a bed is a bed, right?”

Sugimoto looks aghast as he pats on the coffin. “This is a metaphor."

“You didn’t specify,” Ogata retorts smugly. “And isn’t it tradition to christen a new bed?”

“Oh no.”

“Oh yes.”

"Ogata," Sugimoto pleads, "I've spent too long on this coffin to get any dubious stains on it."

"I know eight different ways to bleach out stains from wood."

"That's not -"

"Either you fuck me right now," Ogata interrupts, "or no sex for a week."

Sugimoto does not look impressed. “We both know that’s not going to happen.”

Now that’s not fair. Ogata may have been the one initiating sex more often, but he’s also a stubborn bastard. “Do you wanna bet?”

“I feel like I’ll lose either way,” Sugimoto confesses. Reluctantly, he lets Ogata pull him down, his body a comfortable weight on top as he tucks his arms under Ogata’s lower back.

Sugimoto buries his face against Ogata’s sternum. The tip of his ears are red. “Why do you always do this to me?”

Ogata curls his fingers into Sugimoto’s hair. “Do what?”

“You know what.” Sugimoto stares up at him, eyes accusing before they soften into something, something that Ogata does not want to name. “You’re a handful.”

(It’s insanity-inducing, the way that Sugimoto gazes up at him. It makes his breath stutter, his heart fluttering like those stupid butterflies when they struggle to free themselves from a spider’s web. Sugimoto can probably hear the way that his lungs hollow when Sugimoto smiles, so soft, so fucking tender, and what the hell is this, Ogata doesn’t -)

Ogata jerks Sugimoto’s head back, relaxing when those eyes squeeze shut. He’s going to make Sugimoto fucking cry. “Just shut up and fuck me, Sugimoto.”

“Don’t put it that way,” Sugimoto protests, his eyebrows knitting together even as his lips curl. He kisses Ogata on the left pec, over his heart, and rests his lips there. Badump, badump; the rhythm of human love and human lives. “I am fond of you.”

“Is that a confession I hear?”

“If you wish,” Sugimoto allows. “As I’ve said, It can be anything at all - I could be anything you want me to be, you know.”

Ogata grabs the baby hair at the base of Sugimoto’s skull and tugs until Sugimoto shifts again, a knee between Ogata’s thigh and his face so close that Ogata can barely feel the brush of chapped lips against his. “Can you?”

“Not anymore,” Sugimoto admits. “But once upon a time. Nevermore,” he continues, “unless it’s Neverland. But to visit you’ll need a vessel.” He laughs when Ogata raps his knuckles against the coffin. “Stop that, that joke has gone on long enough.”

Ogata grins. “Then make m -”

Sugimoto kisses him, soft as a rosebud, and so he concentrates on that. Concentrates on the pulse under his fingers, the heat, the flicker of the lashes when Sugimoto pauses to stare at him.

Lovely, Ogata thinks before he can stop himself, and isn’t given the chance to berate his brain when Sugimoto starts tugging up Ogata’s sweater.

The hands are so hot against his sides, hot like tears, and they stream down to his hips to push down his pants to drip across his thighs and pool at his kidneys. Sugimoto’s mouth burns against his skin, and when he sucks around Ogata’s tit, Ogata feels a tremor rise from his bones, the earth rolling over in its slumber.

Kisses all the way down, cutting deep into his flesh - the thorns of rose vines, he thinks inbetween gasps, and wonders if it is worth the trouble to make Sugimoto run back upstairs for the lube.

Sugimoto seems to have reached the same conclusion. “Don’t make me,” he begs, before mouthing at Ogata’s hipbone, as though that will drive his point in deeper. “Don’t spoil the mood.”

“You are the one spoiling the mood,” Ogata argues, jutting a knee up to nudge. Sugimoto kisses Ogata’s belly again, and that tickles, the muscles in his abdomen jumping before Ogata can pretend nonchalance. “Don’t do that.”

“Don’t do what?” Sugimoto has the widest smirk on his face as he rubs his chin above Ogata’s belly-button, the faintest shadow prickling the skin. “This doesn't feel good?”

“Of course not, you fucking tease -” Ogata curls upwards in a squirm that makes him feel more like a cooked prawn instead. “You -”

“Woah.” Sugimoto narrowly catches Ogata’s leg before it can kick him and fracture a bone, or something. Ogata almost wishes it can. “This is for making me do all the chores that you have been putting off for years.”

“You decide to outsource your labour for free, don’t complain.”

#ddaixo

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wafflewarriors · 5 years ago

Text

The Not-So-French Mistake

Chapter 7: Inner Demons

Castiel devoured his cheeseburger like Famine had strolled into town.

As for Sam, he was grinning into a biteful of food as he stabbed another with his fork, and then proceeded to jab a few sweet peppers in amusement. Pasta salads were a rare treat when on the road. Dean usually protested against his healthy habits, but it was no use. Sam preferred naturally sweetened foods over the artificial pounds of meat, grease, and cholesterol Dean usually supported.

He cast his eyes from his meal to his laptop screen for a moment, mapping out Bobby's present location. “His cell is at a warehouse about seven hours from here. It's a long drive. You sure you don't want to stake out at a motel for the night? I mean, we can't search for Bobby if we're sleep deprived.”

“No. Unless you feel it wiser. I'll be alright.” Cas assured and then gestured toward the burger in his hands. “Thank you for this, Sam. I appreciate it.” A frail string of cheese laced onto Castiel's lip as he spoke. He pulled the burger further away, letting the line of softened cheese thin out until it snapped, latching onto the bottom of his chin. Cas made a huff, frowning at his nose in regard to the loose strand of cheddar.

“It's nothing, Cas,” Sam dismissed contentedly, relieved that Castiel was satisfied. His angelic friend had been uncomfortable in the car, whiny snarls resonating from his stomach. Sam disliked watching him hunch into himself, a pinching expression similar to pain decorating his face.

Castiel set his burger down respectfully, adding emphasis to his seriousness. He softly disagreed, shaking his head. “No, Sam. It isn’t ‘nothing’.”

While the added finger-quotes were a tad hysterical in the sincerity of the moment, Sam listened without a crack of a smile breaking along his face. Cas was serious, so he was as well.

“I... understand I am difficult as a human. This was all very sudden, and I am unfortunately slow to adapt. Hunger is foreign… and these, inner emotions of turmoil and guilt… I was capable of feeling as an angel, but this…” he struggled to explain, “Sam, I constantly feel this… panic, and it’s all very compressing within my vessel.” He took a breath. “Every nerve reacts to my being, and they bring overwhelming sensations. How do you cope with such complicated feelings?” Castiel almost looked distraught.

Sam held a soft, understanding gaze. “Cas, you’re anything but difficult. Sure, you’re not used to being human, but you’re our friend. You’re no burden to us. We can teach you.”

Cas looked uncertain. “I am also unsure of the social customs among humans. I had once believed I understood, but there are so many rules. Hidden, unspoken rules which determine your functionality. And the lying… I cannot even begin with how to lie…”

Sam set his fork in his dish, rolling a lone pasta noodle in thought. “It's about the body language. Looking nervous or tense tends to give you away. Hesitating doesn't help. The genuine expressions are what tells a lie from a truth. Not that lying is all that great, but sometimes it's necessary for cases.”

Cas nodded, worn. “Thank you, Sam. You have been very kind to me,” he murmured.

“You're welcome, Cas. Anytime.”

By the time they had finished their meal, the sun was touching the horizon, ambers and ochres illuminating the landscape. The clouds reflected salmon pinks and dusty blues. While the noontime sun had set a nightmare upon the previous town, the sunset was gorgeous. Sam admired the sky as if it were a delicate acrylic painting. Geese flew in an uneven V above the stolen truck, faint honks ringing into the evening air.

Cas fell asleep on the drive, his head lolling onto the window, sometimes jolting forward and startling him awake until he was lulled to sleep once again by the engine's purr and the setting sun's warmth blanketing his skin. It was no Impala, but drive was smooth and the road was velvety.

Sam knew angels shouldn't sleep, and that he should be concerned over Castiel's recent humanity, but all he could manage was guilty contentment. Castiel was rarely so peaceful.

When Dean slept, he either looked like he was ready to stab you in the gut or he was stupidly drooling on a pillow with his morning hedgehog hair at attention. But… that was Dean.

Castiel woke drowsily to silver lines of clouds weaving into the horizon, having furrowed downward into the silhouettes of spindly trees. Looming shadows and blinding streetlamps flickered past as the night defeated the light. He knew that as the sky darkened, so did Sam's thoughts.

Sluggishly, he shifted his head toward Sam, still leaning against the door of the vehicle. “Sam?”

Sam startled a bit, as if snapping out of lost, intense thoughts. “Yeah, Cas?”

“Are you alright?” He needed the truth.

Sam stared at the road, letting the silence envelope the innocent question until he whispered, “No. No, I'm really not.”

Castiel nestled his head between his chair and the window. “I suspected such. You seemed troubled after we left Sydney.”

Sam shifted his hands along the steering wheel. “She just… she dug up a lot of memories that I'd buried, you know? She's struggling… like I was… with the, uh, with the demon blood.”

Castiel shot a soulful look at Sam, sympathy washing over his features.

Sam paused thoughtfully. “You know… I used to really believe that I was a freak. Everyone knew it. Even you knew it. I was titled ‘the boy with the demon blood’ before I could walk. But then, I thought: maybe I can make that part of me my strength. Maybe I can use it to save people. I trusted Ruby, I trusted my powers, and ended up unleashing the one thing I was trying to stop. The one thing that caused me the most pain. The most sacrifice. The one ghost, to this day, that still haunts me.”

“Sam…” Guilt bled into Castiel’s features. “Others led you on that path. It wasn’t your fault.”

“And it’s kind of funny. You’d think I’d be worried about vampires, or demons, or witches. Every monster that I face daily. I’ve lived my whole life hunting the creatures that lurk behind people's shadows. But no, it’s the creature lurking behind my shadow. It’s the devil that haunts my sleep. It’s Satan. Lucifer gives me nightmares.”

“Sam.” Cas pleaded.

“But, it’s not even the nightmares... I’m just… I’m afraid Sydney will fear herself like I did once, and she’ll just wind up inflicting more pain―more suffering. I’m afraid she’s going to unleash her own Satan, you know? I’m terrified that it’ll be something that we can’t fight with bullets or brawn.” Sam’s eyes never left the road, deep-threaded pain shimmering along the whites of his eyes. His fists clenched the steering wheel like a life-source. “I don’t want anyone to go through that, Cas. The guilt I felt…” his voice cracked shamefully. “I don’t want her thinking she’s a freak. I can see it in her eyes. It’s the exact same look I saw in the mirror during the apocalypse.” Tears pooled in his eyes, his lashes dampening, but nothing dropped. “Nobody should ever feel that. Because not only can you not trust the world, but you can’t trust yourself. And that's scary.”

Castiel silenced as Sam’s heavy final words sank in. The thought invaded Castiel’s heart like a worm―a parasite―shimmying into the crevices of his aching soul. Not that Castiel had a soul, only humans had such, but it felt like it. And past Castiel’s brave face and stony appearance, his grace wept for Sam Winchester. He wept for Sam's losses, for his sorrow, for his fear, for his centuries of pain and torture in the Cage. He wept for Sam Winchester because Sam Winchester deserved to be wept for.

Unfortunately, Sam did not see past the hardened facade of Castiel's vessel.

Hours past. Cas frequently volunteered to drive, but Sam insisted he was ‘okay’ and he was ‘fine’. However, after his confession, it was clear he was far from such a claim.

Sam finally shredded the burdened silence with a sigh. “How are you holding up, Cas?”

Cas seemed genuinely flustered. “Me?”

Sam nodded thoughtfully. “Yeah. I think we've heard enough of my baggage for one night. Anything been bothering you lately?”

Cas wondered if there wasn't something that bothered him lately, but he replied, “Other than my wings having been reduced to nothing but feather dusters, I am adjusting.” The angel was rather proud of that metaphor (even though he’s stolen it from Dean).

Sam let his brow lower in puzzlement. “How can you still have wings and not be able to fly?”

Castiel was thankful for the questions he could answer. “My grace allows me to bend distances. so I can fly into the next space within the matter of a microsecond. Much like the theory of black holes. Picture taking a string as a representation of two distances, and then folding the string until both ends meet. I allow two places to become one.”

“Interesting.”

Cas continued to explain it simply, “Sigils generally control the bending of space. Whether it be banishing an angel or preventing it from entering warded areas. They hold an aura we cannot break unless disassembled. It targets our platform, if you will.”

“Platform?”

“You could say it's a layer of existence. It is very… complex. Difficult to visualize.

“Our blades, for example, exist in many platforms. Our grace, however, lives on one. Since only a shadow of our grace remains on this platform, normal weapons will not penetrate it. Normal weapons will only harm the vessel, and our grace will work to stitch the wound immediately.” Cas tried to aid Sam in visualizing it in a way he could understand. “There are other platforms, but they are generally irrelevant. Picture them as layers to reality.

“Simply put, a blade can kill grace as long as it exists on the same platform. They cannot penetrate shadows of grace,” he took a heavy breath. “It gets much more complicated when you visualize alternate universes as layers going vertically. Sydney managed to jump those layers when she entered our reality.” He added, “Humans cannot jump horizontal platforms without dying. Such as heaven or hell.”

Sam made a left turn, headlights sweeping across the barren, deserted asphalt. Sam was unsure if grace could apply to physics, but Castiel's description definitely granted him a vague insight on how it worked. “So when your grace drains…”

With the turn, Cas was nudged further into the window as inertia gently pulled him right. “Our vessels rely on human behaviors. Eating, sleeping. Just as human souls do. The less grace, the more human we become. Currently, my grace is very compressed and useless, but present. I believe something within the town was limiting my grace to become completely unavailable to me. I believe now that we have left the town, it is beginning to unravel. I should be able to utilize my grace's abilities very soon.”

Sam looked relieved to hear that. After a minute of thought, he conjured another curious question. “Do platforms apply to dreams?”

Cas nodded into the window. “Yes. That is its own platform. A complicated one. It merges both conscious and unconscious thoughts, depending on your state. It's a platform your soul is in charge of. Hence why those who are soulless do not dream.”

“Demons?”

“Lucifer created them to live amongst their own platform. Your demon knife exists on theirs.” He paused. “I suppose angel blades do as well. The Colt was designed to target their platform, and all other monsters’. There are very few things the Colt can't kill.”

“Witchcraft?”

“Witches discovered they could control platforms with specific spells. They generally target humanity’s.”

They continued the one-sided game of questionnaire until the questions ran dry. Admittedly, they were both thankful for the distraction.

The sun had yet to rise. Pale mountains of clouds had piled along the skyline, their peaks just barely cutting into the sky. Murky darkness had faded into pale, noticeable splotches of cobalt and a modest tone of lime. It was roughly five in the morning, dawn not having broken yet.

Castiel yawned, removing himself from his somewhat suitable pillow for the everlasting night, the window. He stretched, joints cracking and popping as he extended his stiff muscles. “I can understand why most humans abhor mornings.”

Sam parked, squinting at the warehouse that stood three blocks from the hunter. He scanned the windows for movement, and upon finding none, he bundled his gear in preparation for a fight. He squared his shoulders..

“Let’s get Bobby back."

Tags: @queen-bubble, @rosaren2498

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barbariccia · 4 years ago

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well, before we jet off anywhere, we better drop in on our friends old and new, the ones we’ll be directly working with.

hey, joker, how’s the new normandy treating you? any lingering ptsd from watching your old friend and commander get spaced saving you from the same fate? feel ready to fly? excellent!

Joker: Can you believe this, Commander? It’s my baby, better than new! It fits me like a glove! And leather seats! Military may set the hardware standard, but on a first-gen frigate they could care less if the seats breathe. Civilian sector comfort by design.

EDI: The reproduction is not intended to be perfect, Mr. Moreau. Seamless improvements were made.

joker........... does not like EDI. EDI is a blip in the machine to him, an ultimately unnecessary addition to the thing he considers to be his real arms and legs, so to speak. and EDI has terminals all over the ship, including one right next to joker, which communicates with him regarding piloting necessities that a human can’t manage in even half the time it manages.

worth noting, by the way, that despite EDI’s blobby avatar, it’s designed to have a feminine voice; a little lower than might be considered traditionally feminine and echoing with robotic undertones, but feminine nonetheless. it is very easy to consider EDI a she from just its voice alone, but at the end of the day it’s an AI, completely synthetic.

Joker: We’re staying, though, right? I mean, this seat is real leather.

Shepard: Good to see you’re keeping it all in perspective, Joker.

Joker: Uh, leather.

he spins away from you, but we grab the back of the chair - metaphorically speaking - and yank him right back. not so fast, mister, it’s been two years. the first thing we ask is how he feels about the normandy, has he settled in? and he wants to put it through its paces, to find out just how similar it feels to fly. EDI chimes in to say that it’s against safety standards - you know, those things that joker flew us right into the heart of during the battle of the citadel.

Joker: Commander, can we shut this thing off? I don’t need it in my day-to-day.

Shepard: If you don’t want to hear it, turn the damn sound off.

Joker: That doesn’t change anything. It’s still watching. Like some creepy kid staring at the back of your head in comp-sci. You just want to... punch him. But he’s “special” and sets fires or something.

Joker: ...Okay, a little too far there, but you know what I mean.

well, good to see that the old joke of “people with disabilities hate other people with different disabilities” still rings strong.

you go right ahead.

next we ask him about the good old days, because... well. it’s been two years for him, sure, but i guess shep’s still trying to adjust to that.

Joker: They seem like the good old days now, but come on. It was hell at the time. Geth, Saren, Sovereign. And then we got dumped. We’re stuck in a weird place, sure, but back then it wasn’t all sunshine and bunnies.

Shepard: What happened to the rest of the old crew? I heard most survived.

Joker: Most did. Pressly didn’t. The rest of us just sort of drifted apart. The Alliance didn’t care. I don’t think they liked all the non-humans in your crew. We were your team, Commander. With the Normandy destroyed and you gone, there wasn’t much keeping us together.

yeah, we really were the glue holding the team in place. a real shame - but then, there’s no reason for them to have stayed. not the non-humans, anyway, which is a sweet term and one that i’m getting on board with immediately, because i’ve never liked the term “aliens” in a galaxy where... well, humans are also technically aliens from a different perspective!

Shepard: What about the people we’re picking up?

Joker: Well... I would never say anything against Miranda. And expect to survive the reprisal. And Jacob is way too nice a guy for the number of ways he knows how to kill people. Uh, that’s just my opinion, though. There’s really no need to go spreading it around.

like i’ve mentioned before - yeah, they really do both feel like kaidan and ashley replacements, but weaker, too. miranda’s closed-off just for the sake of being closed-off at this point, rather than ashley’s mistrust of non-humans but willingness to fight with them if ordered to, and... okay, jacob and kaidan actually have a fair amount in common insofar as “nice dudes, also deadly dudes”. jacob doesn’t have a little bouffant, which is a point in his favour, imo.

hell, while i’m here i’ll talk to EDI.

Shepard: I want to know more about the people I’m working with.

EDI: Much of that data is classified. Do you have a specific inquiry?

HOO boy EDI ain’t wrong about that! almost everything you can ask her won’t net you answers; it merely tells you that there’s a block preventing it from giving you the information you seek. it does, however, give you some basic info on cerberus.

EDI: Cerberus is organized into task-oriented cells. Each operates in isolation. Members from one cell cannot recognize the members of another. Each cell’s agents are led by a single operator. We are called the Lazarus cell, which is directed by Operator Lawson.

that’s miranda.

well, our other questions are blocked, so fuck it. how you getting on, EDI?

EDI: Mr. Moreau does not trust me. It offends him that I am installed aboard “his ship’s” computers.

Joker: Yeah, the last Normandy did just fine without an AI reminding me the airlock is ajar.

you can ask it about the meaning behind its name (an acronym of Enhanced Defense Intelligence), and what it does, which is electronics operation, weapons guidance and jamming ... and collection of data for TIM, which we shouldn’t be surprised about. it also has hidden achievements; items it’s programmed for that even EDI doesn’t know what their function is, due to some of its hardware being kept offline. it’s happy (???) enough to work for us, though, since organic beings will never be as quick as AI tech.

EDI: This is a role that can only be filled by an Artificial Intelligence. Unfortunately, we are suspect.

Joker: Might have something to do with how an AI almost destroyed galactic civilization. Just putting it out there.

ok, lovebirds, enjoy your married life.

joker isn’t the only member of the original crew, actually. go down to the medical bay, and you’ll be met with none other than karin chakwas, who was notable in me1 for... uh, telling us about kaidan’s migraines.

Shepard: I’m shocked. You’re serving on a Cerberus vessel now?

Chakwas: Surprising, even to me. Yet, here I am.

Chakwas: The kind of trauma you endured would’ve changed most people, but not you, I see. Welcome back, Shepard.

uh, let’s not get too hasty there.

chakwas is set up comfortably enough, serviced by all the equipment she needs, but she’s missing private reserves of... whatever supplies. she’s also missing a bottle of brandy that she was saving “for a special occasion”, and we can promise we’ll keep an eye out to replace for her if we can see it.

Shepard: Doctor, you’ve been with the Alliance for years. Why leave now?

Chakwas: After the Normandy was lost, the surviving crew was reassigned. I was stationed at the Mars Naval Medical Center. A very respectable position, but it wasn’t on a starship. I’ve spent most of my life on war ships, never knowing what the next mission might bring. I’m used to the hum of engines, the creaking of bulkheads, that subtle vertigo when the momentum dampeners kick in. Life planet-side is just too static, too boring.

Shepard: You’re not the Cerberus type, though.

Chakwas: I don’t work for Cerberus; I work for you -- on a mission that may be crucial to the survial of the human race. I have faith that your dealings with Cerberus will be ethical. I trust you, Commander.

uh... sure, i guess.

Shepard: There’s a very good chance this mission will be one-way only. Are you prepared for that?

Chakwas: I’ve been through the Reclaiming of Shanxi, the Skyllian Blitz... We survived the Battle of the Citadel and the destruction of the Normandy together. I’ve lived a full life -- no regrets. I’d like to make sure the crew gets the same opportunity.

this is way too much responsibility, oh boy. oh boy!!!!

#mol plays me2 #squad: joker

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