#when i was supposed to be doing the dishes

[drferox]

Pets are very commonly overweight. And very commonly the reason given will be ‘because my parents feed them more than they’re supposed to, and they won’t listen when I tell them to stop’.

And I sympathise. I understand. Parents are hard, especially when they still think of you as ‘their kid’ and not ‘grown adult with autonomy’. Getting your parent to change their behavior is very difficult.

My two cats have a scoop in their bag of food, and they get one scoop each for dinner. It’s a very simple system: 1 scoop 1 cat. If I notice they’re getting a bit podgy then I make the scoop a bit concave. If they’re looking a bit light, I give them a little extra breakfast. But dinner is always the same, never more than one scoop.

But last night I watch my mother (the very same woman that scolded me for my weight since I was ten) decide to feed the cats for me while I finished washing the dishes.

The cats follow her, mewing pathetically, as she carries the food bag to their bowls. And I watch, as she’s talking to me and making eye contact, while she gives one cat a slightly heaped scoop of food, and then the other.

And then, dear reader, she replaces the scoop into the bag, as though it’s the most natural thing in the world, and proceeds to give each cat an additional handful of food.

I was astounded. I was politely mortified that you just increased the cats’ meals by at least 80%. No wonder they’ve been podgy!

We had a polite but firm discussion about how that is a measured scoop in the bag, and have-you-been-feeding-that-much-the-whole-time, but I do not think she has listened. I think I will need to gently ban her from feeding the cats.

[hivemuthur]

If it’s okay to request, may I request hcs or something with Viktor where he’s dating an autisc reader?

Okay, first of - I have no idea what I have done to be granted such trust, thank you so much Anon! I have been provided amazing advice from @rennethen while writing this and done some research and I hope, I hope, I hope it meets expectations.

ViktorXAutistic!Reader HeadCannons

viktorxgn!reader mature, fluff and again: Viktor setting impossible standards for real-life men

author’s note: I have decided to not include tics, as they come in so many variations and I didn't want to impose anything upon Readers, but I can imagine Viktor being a total sweetheart about them.

word count: 1,4K

—

Since your first meeting, Viktor has been smitten with your bluntness and your ability to take his acrimonious jokes apart without a hint of incredulity in your voice. The way you keep asking subsidiary questions until you dig through the layers of his sass to the actual thing he meant to say  leaves his soul naked as day, every single time. Finally, an inquisitive mind, he thinks to himself, as you go for the killing blow:

“So, what you’ve meant to say is that you find me attractive?”

“Eh, I suppose that is what I meant,” he admits dumbly, scratching the back of his neck. “Though usually I tend to be a little bit less straight forward.”

“I prefer straight forward,” you tell him with wide eyes.

“I… I shall remember that.”

Viktor soon realises that being asked a lot of questions makes him blush in a funny way and his chest gets all fuzzy. So, he begins to share every little aspect of his work with you. The more questions you ask, the warmer his heart gets and somehow the way you get excited about his ideas is worth more than any other academical pat on the back he ever received.

Before asking you out for the first time, Viktor conducts a thorough research, not very different to the ones he conducts for the sake of a thesis. He finds out what are your favourite places and favourite spots to sit. He books two reservations, just in case.

He does the same thing when you try out a new place. Just in case. It has proven useful only once.

As a man who values routine, he finds it absolutely endearing that good things remain in your orbit for a long time and discovers that being greeted with his own name by the barista is actually a nice little feeling.

When he asked you if he could kiss you for the first time, he held his breath while you were reconsidering. He found it hard not to laugh stupidly and nod his head a couple times too many when you responded with the same question.

He cupped your face and brushed his thumb on your lip tentatively. At first, he just rubbed his nose against yours. Then, his cheek, as he pulled you closer. You decided his hair smelled nice and that he could proceed. You didn’t know what to do with your hands at first, because he was wearing an incredibly itchy jumper, so you settled on his neck, and he took it as an invitation to kiss you deeper.

When you told him about it he gave the jumper to Caitlyn, and even though the sleeves are not long enough for her, she wears it often. Gradually, Viktor is in the process of exchanging his wardrobe to touch-friendly materials, currently he is half-way through. He wears the offensive clothes to meetings with Jayce, because Jayce will hug even a hedgehog.

You teach Viktor the value of comfort, not just in the clothing department. Suddenly he finds that his blankets are softer and that his flat increased the base number of cushions.

He religiously cuts the tags out of your clothes and his work is so precise it’s as if the tag was never there in the first place.

Viktor will still periodically ask for a permission to touch you, only to hear “Yes, please.” And it still makes him blush.

He keeps two notebooks—one on your current food fixations. He writes down a start date of each and marks every little alteration. He examines the lifecycle of each dish, as you eat it every day for a month and suddenly stop, to move on to the next one. On the back of the notebook he has a list of old reliables.

The second notebook, he treats more seriously—it’s a journal of stimming. He makes a note of each gesture in order to recognize your emotions better. After a while he is able to tell if you are feeling overwhelmed, just excited or trying to concentrate.

He is completely bemused by the fact that you always know what entered the bowl first—the cereal or the milk.

When you unconsciously repeat words back at him in his accent he makes it intentionally heavier, because he finds in unbearably cute.

After some time, he’s learned to recognise when you are masking. When it happened for the first time, he allowed himself a pinch of panic. Only when you unravelled at home, he sighed, partially relieved, and made a note of it in his journal.

Viktor carries a pair of noise cancelling headphones when you go out together. He puts them on you if you get overstimulated and presents you with something else to shift your focus into—a tight hug, a smell or he presses gently on your shoulders to steady you.

If you happen to have a meltdown at either of your homes, he wordlessly prepares you your favourite food and stays close enough for you to reach. Sometimes, he does a full body scan with you, to see which part requires the most attention.

There are certain sounds that Viktor makes which you particularly like—the click of his tongue, the intercepting ‘ehs’ and ‘ahs’—and once he connects the dots between him making those and a smile that always blooms on your face, he produces as many as he can, while still sounding natural.

He enjoys just existing with you. Sitting in the same room, while he works, and you read is his definition of a happy place. Just glancing over to you, your tongue filling your cheek as you read something particularly interesting, the small sounds you make at turning points in the story make his heart flutter.

He finds himself involuntarily memorizing the lyrics of the songs you play on repeat. He has no idea who the artist are, but he knows their songs by heart now. It makes him feel old, in a funny way.

It completely disarms him, when you return his gifts. After three futile attempts to give you something of popular romantic demand, he scolded himself for not changing the method soon enough. Instead of jewellery, he encourages your special interests, through getting you books on the topics or taking you places that embody your passions.

On the other side of the coin, your gifts are deeply appreciated. Every little pebbling trinket has it’s special place in the box on his desk. He takes them out periodically and counts how many times a tiny detail in the chaos of the outside world has made you think of him.

For dates, Viktor chooses times and days in which the world is less crowded. Instead of a busy Saturday night, you go out in the middle of the week. After a particularly failed attempt of gifting you perfume, Viktor takes you to a balm perfume workshop, where you can make scents for each other that are buildable and unoffensive to sensitive skin.

He’s built an intimacy with you that is based on trust and constant checking. He takes care of the mood and gives you enough stops to reconsider on the way.

You both talk a lot during sex. A change of mind is natural and there is enough space made for it. He has learned a lot about himself, and his self-esteem strengthened, when he realised that, ‘I don’t like it,’ doesn’t mean ‘I don’t like you.’

If, for whatever reason, the communication turns nonverbal, you both have come up with a system of pats that signals where each of you should direct your attention.

Your inquisitive mind helped him find three additional positions, in which he feels comfortable and painless, and it eludes him entirely how he could have missed them.

Viktor’s favourite part of aftercare is cuddling you naked. He adores the way your warm body melts into his. If you add head scratches to it, he will fall asleep in your arms. He breaths in the smell of your hair and his heart beat evens out with yours.

[itsabouttimex2]

Fizzling Neon

“…can I tell you something that bothers me?”

There’s not quite a sneer on your coworker’s face, but the expression he wears while turning to you is regardless unhappy. The man’s never much cared for your rambles, and especially not while the two of you were on kitchen duty.

Then, he’s never much cared for you in general.

But if he has to choose between his own thoughts (centering mostly on his ex-wife, if you had to guess) your awkward ramblings, or a droning and dead silence that was cut only by Chica’s muffled gorging, the gray-haired man would probably pick you, though he would do so reluctantly.

Very reluctantly.

“Well?” the aged man finally grunts, arms crossed as he leans back against the counter. His tense posture screams impatience, but at least he’s waiting for you to say something instead of outright ignoring you. “What is it?”

You hesitate, unsure if you should bother, even with his explicit approval. Your coworker doesn’t like you- he’s made that clear enough over the past four months. Still, there’s something gnawing at you, something you need to get off your chest before it eats you alive. A rattling clatter of pots and pans kicks up in the washing area, accompanied by incessant crunching noises- the avian animatronic must’ve gotten into an unfinished dish.

You don’t want to sound like some manic conspiracy theorist, of course- that type pops up on the premises of the Pizzaplex constantly, filming themselves as they harangue the workers and scare the children- only to scurry away when you pleaded with Monty to scare them off- the kids always got a kick out of that, at least.

Still, all antics aside… maybe talking about it would do you some good.

“…it doesn’t make any sense for them to be animatronics.”

He turns to you, sporting an expression that implies you may well have grown a second head, utterly dumbfounded by such an out of pocket (to him) statement.

His brows knit together tightly, lips twisting into a grimace that makes him look even less pleasant than he already does. “What in the blazing hell are you even talking about?” he finally asks, his voice a low growl that barely carries over the distant clang of metal on tile as Chica shuffles around.

You squirm for a moment, then spill in a hurried rush of words built around cobbled knowledge from your childhood.

“It’s just… these are… they’re robots. And, animatronics are, well, they… animatronics- real animatronics, I mean, they’re- they’re puppets! Animatronics are supposed to be puppets hooked to machinery hidden in the ground, machines that host the puppet’s programming for the routines they perform! They’re supposed to be fragile, breakable! You’re supposed to be able to shatter them, shove them around, pick them up and throw them- in case they break down and block people in an emergency! Or, or like… the design specs, in general, they’re- so like, if an animatronic closes around a kid’s hands, the design specs of these things are specifically built to be fragile enough to never exert enough force to hurt the kid! They’re not supposed to be able to move arcade machines, or jostle vending machines, or pick up kids! And-“

“You know what, kid? And I’m gonna be real level with you, just cause I don’t think the management bothers doing it when they really should- nobody gives half a damn about your autist bullshit. They were always called animatronics. From the first fucking pizzeria to the last pissing pizzaplex, they were animatronics, puppets, machines, and no one except for you gives a shit about the name they use. And look, you wanna obsess over this crap, fine. Just don’t bring it up with me again. Got enough on my plate without babysitting your paranoia about trivial corpo branding bullshit.”

He throws his soiled dishrag against the metal interior of the sink before him, then stomps off towards the staff room in order to punch out and head home, probably hoping to down a fifth of whiskey and pass out.

You stand there in shocked silence for a moment, throat tight and eyes growing wet, trying to compose yourself as the angry pounding of his footsteps fades away.

It hurts. You wish it didn’t hurt so bad, especially when the scorn comes from someone you don’t particularly know or care for, someone you know doesn’t particularly care for you.

You want to shove those painful feelings away, because you know if you dwell on it too long, you’ll start spiraling, and there’s no one here who wants to listen- not without mocking you or brushing you off.

Except- the sound of metal footsteps breaks your train of thought, and those steps are heavy and deliberate, echoing through the empty kitchen. You freeze, pulse quickening, because it’s late, nearly time to close, and you’re very certainly the last person in the pizzaplex.

“Oh, Superstar…”

His voice, as always, is smooth and warm, carrying an affectionate tone that he usually reserves for children. You don’t need to turn around to know who that soothing voicebox belongs to.

You swallow, hard, gripping the edge of the kitchen countertop as the sound of metal feet against porcelain grows louder. He’s close now, just behind you, and you feel the subtle hum of his mechanical frame, a strange, ever-present vibration that seems to radiate from him, and you are awash in the cyan hue that drifts from his mechanical body.

Glamrock Freddy.

You open your mouth to respond, but no words come out at first. There’s a lump buried deep in your throat, and with it there’s a fear that if you try to explain yourself, you might break down entirely.

Freddy waits, a patience so unshakable it mirrors the steel he’s built from.

And he waits a little longer still, right up until there are tears brimming in your eyes, threatening to spill, and then one of his large paws reaches to bundle around the back of your head, holding it there as though he’s cradling something fragile, something precious.

At his gentle, synthetic touch your lips press tightly together, unwilling to speak for risk of breaking a dam that spills regardless, and as the first of many tears trickle down your cheek, Freddy’s thumb; soft with synthetic padding, swipes it from your face.

“That was very unkind of him, Superstar. I will be sure to report his behavior to management, for it is in violation of the rules of the Mega Pizzaplex.”

“N-no, Freddy, it’s fine. Really… really, it’s fine, and I don’t want to cause any trouble.

The ursine machine, so many warmth welling behind his eyes that the kitchen feels cold in comparison, he tilts his head, his illuminated blue eyes narrowing ever so slightly, not in anger but in something softer- concern, and to some degree even disbelief. He doesn’t move the heft of his hand, still cradling your head with the care of someone holding glass. “It is not fine,” he insists gently, voicebox unwavering. “Everyone within the Pizzaplec must treat one another with respect. The rules are very clear.”

A bitter laugh escapes you before you can stop it. “Yeah, well, rules don’t really stop people from being jerks, do they? Just… just please let it go, Freddy. It’s not worth it.”

There is a long, lingering moment where he continues to stare, eye lights drooped at your insistence on allowing things to be. But, finally, he lowers his hand, though his frame remains close, looming like a shield against the sterile, fluorescent lights kitchen. “Your feelings are worth it, Superstar,” he says after a beat. “But I will not push.”

Then he pauses, awkward and almost ashamed, then kneels to level his gaze to your own, and quietly speaks. “And I did not mean to eavesdrop on the staff, but I did overhear the management speaking to one another about the weather.

Oh. Oh no.

“So I wanted to tell you that a snowstorm is predicted, and, on behalf of the Pizzaplex, I wanted to extend you an invitation to stay overnight, since you do not have a way to get home if the bus is out.”

Oh, Cassie was going to be devastated.

Freddy straightens up at your lack of apparent response, his hulking frame towering over you once more, though his demeanor remains calm. “I spoke to the daycare attendant about preparing a bed for you- his residence has many cozy spots, and I believe you will find it suitable.”

You cringe when he mentions the daycare, snapping your thoughts from the soon to be birthday girl.

The attendant's dual personalities were a lot to handle during even just the day- but Moon's presence at night, especially, would be downright unnerving. But Freddy, gentle and unyielding, he turns you around with his big paws and nudges you towards the kitchen’s entrance.

The white doors swing open as Freddy pushes you past them, and the sounds of the nearly silent Pizzaplex greet you. The faint hum of machines powering down for the night drifts through the air, and the glittering lights of arcade machines flicker in the distance, while the mascots painted on the walls seem to grin down at you with their smiles.

It dawns on you now, staring up at the acrylic likeness of the lead animatronic that you hadn’t said yes to his offer, hadn’t quite stuck yourself through with the promise of a full night with the daycare attendant… and with Freddy going in the opposite direction, no doubt heading to his own room for the night… well, there wasn’t exactly anyone around to ensure that your footfall led you to the ever-unnerving nursery.

And, for that matter, a revelation dawning quickly upon you- you didn’t even know if the weather had started turning for the worse. If the storm was so bad that it would put out the local bus, sure, then you might not have a choice. But a light sprinkle wouldn’t kill you, and the lost and found wouldn’t mind you “borrowing” a jacket or scarf.

You turn toward the far end of the Pizzaplex, where the staff exit looms. You could just… check for yourself. There’s a strange, dread pang in your chest like the bite of an icicle, the notion that you might be caught going off-course, then returned to your path like an errant child.

Freddy surely wouldn’t mind you only checking out the window, would he?

Definitely not.

But still you step lightly, shoes squeaking faintly against the polished floor as the exit grew nearer and nearer. The Pizzaplex, as well as you've grown to know it, comes to feel unnaturally large when it’s this quiet- without at least a dozen children to draw your attention from the winding halls and the sprawling white floor, sometimes the place feels more like a labyrinth than a glorified daycare.

Though the twin doors come into reach without obstruction, there's still a prickling sense of unease that crawls the length of your skin, sending shivers down your spine as you reach for the silver handles.

Just a peek isn't going to hurt anyone, you tell yourself with a measure of false confidence.

It does not stop the trembling chill that races your heart to pump erratically as you make the move to push the doors open, and your skin grows colder still at the sight before you.

Snowflakes.

Fluffy, chunky snowflakes, cascading from the sky in a relentless flurry, the parking lot and roads already blanketed in white. The wind howls, biting and sharp. The city looks almost like a desolate tundra, smeared in thick strokes of white. The last bus is nowhere to be seen, likely sent back to the station early to avoid the storm.

You pull harshly on the doors, snapping them shut to prevent a gale wind from blowing through, to prevent snow from spilling onto the tile, and then you turn back, resigning yourself to a long night in the daycare, and then there’s a flicker of movement in the reflection of the chilled glass. You freeze, breath hitching sharply.

Slowly, you turn around, expecting to see Freddy or perhaps one of the staff bots patrolling the area.

And there is no one around.

Not that you can see, at least.

But the sound -faint, metallic clicking- tells you something is near. It’s sharply deliberate, like the tapping of long nails against glass.

And then a gangly shadow falls over you, dragging half of a shriek out of your lips right before you slap your hands over them.

Your head snaps up, eyes wide, and there, in a fluid arc of motion, leaping from the ceiling, is Moon, his painted grin wide and unsettlingly toothy in the dim lighting. He cast an eerie silhouette across the room as he lands upright with barely a thud, tilting his head to regard you.

“Why are you out of bed?”

“I was just…”, you start to say, but the words catch in your throat as he draws nearer. “I was only…”

“You know it’s against the rules to wander, don’t you?”

Your heart races as you stumble back, desperate to put distance between yourself and the unsettling animatronic. For all that you (and perhaps none but you and Cassie shared this feeling) had a soft spot for Sun, there was no denying that Moon had grown strange of late, often over-bolstering his “child-caring protocols”, to the terror of his many, many charges. Too often you had to step in and watch over them in his place just to ensure the kids would get some measure of sleep.

“I-I… no, i was just… just checking the weather,” you stammer, trying to keep your voice steady.

“Oh, checking the weather!” he repeats, his tone exaggeratedly bright and overly cheerful, though there’s an unmistakable edge beneath it. “But the rules are very clear- no wandering after hours! And you wouldn’t want to break the rules, would you, Starlight?”

That nickname doesn’t feel the same way that “Superstar” feels, not as warm or bright or genuine.

…but it’s still nice (admittedly less so under these circumstances) to have someone care enough to give you a moniker- and unlike Freddy, who simply maintained that everyone he liked was his special “Superstar”, the lunar half of the daycare attendant was far more reserved with his affections.

If he had let that feeling grow a little longer, that slow drift of bubbling warmth rising around your heart, maybe you wouldn’t have screamed out even past the barriers of your hands as he lunged forward and snagged his thin fingers around each side of your waist.

Instead, you simply shriek and kick.

That doesn’t stop Moon from lifting you slowly, his grip more than firm enough to make escape impossible. He tilts his head, his painted grin never wavering, though there’s something unsettling about the way his glowing red eyes seem to scan every inch of you, as if gauging your intent.

“No screaming,” he chides softly, his voice lowering to a whisper that echoes unnaturally in the empty Pizzaplex. “You’ll wake everyone up. Naughty, naughty.”

Your breath hitches as you struggle against his unyielding grip, your hands clawing uselessly at his smooth, cold arms. Moon holds you aloft effortlessly, his glowing red eyes locked on yours with an intensity that makes your stomach twist.

“Please,” you manage to croak, weak voice trembling. “I- I wasn’t… I wasn’t trying to cause trouble! I just… I just wanted to see if the storm was bad.”

His metal grin remains fixed, the crescent of his face gleaming faintly in the low light. “Storms are dangerous, Starlight,” he murmurs, his voice mechanical but almost sing-song, and still dripping with a strange condescension. “You could get lost. Hurt. It’s better to stay where things are safe.”

There is an unsteady pulse pounding through your chest now, a staccato rhythm that you’re certain he can sense. His glowing red eyes narrow, and his rictus grin; for all that it is fixed in place by steel, seems to grow wider.

He cradles you closer, the warmth of his metallic hands seeping through your uniform. The hum of his inner workings vibrate faintly, a reminder of the sheer difference between your anatomies. His voice drops lower, head leaning in to hiss lowly in your ear.

“And safe,” he whispers, “means staying close to me, Starlight.”

[yoredoesmore]

The Life of A Married Couple | Soshiro Hoshina | IDMCWBM

a/n: “I Drink My Coffee With Blueberry Milk” is my new mini series featuring a stoic and always serious reader and her funny and teasing husband (Soshiro)! “IDMCWBM” is a long acronym but we will live 

(I'm not dead guys, exam season is almost over please bear with me! > <)

Husband Soshiro who has multiple folders dedicated to different pictures of you. One is for funny pictures, one is for candid pictures, one for professionally taken images and so many more the list goes on!

You who pretends to not be affected by the fact that you haven't seen your husband in 12 hours but the second someone mentions his name you melt internally 

Husband Soshiro who leaves his office door unlocked at night because he knows that you like to take a nap in there. You act like its no big deal when he catches you but he absolutely loves it

You who once tried to make his favorite dish for him but you ended up creating something so gruesome and terrible that Hoshina lost his appetite that day and has ever since claimed a new dish as his new favorite (don't mention the old dish, he will get war flashbacks)

Husband Soshiro who buys you a cup of flan every month and places it in the exact same spot in the fridge every time, because during your first date you mentioned your love for flan. (You actually prefer pudding over flan but he got it mixed up but that is a secret you will take to the grave)

You who personally tends to his blades, fixes them up and polishes them whenever necessary, since you are the only person Soshiro trusts them with.

Husband Soshiro who once overheard a cadet make an inappropriate comment about you and later that day completely demolished him during the combat training session. He walked away smiling, not even bothering to help him up, which earned him many suspicious looks from the others. (Especially Kafka found himself freaked out by the Captain's roughness)

You who goes lengths to ease up your husbands work life. “Oh, these folders are supposed to be inspected by the Vice Captain? No worries, I will handle them myself.” No matter how much needs to be done in your own office, you will do anything so that Soshiro can rest a little more.

Husband Soshiro who agreed to a “no display of intimacy/PDA in public and especially not at work” rule but he can't help himself but pull you into an empty training room every now and then and show you just how much he needs you. You pretend to be upset but not so deep down you need this just as much as he does (you end up initiating round two)

a/n: I could write these for hours :>. To everyone who has send in a request, please bear with me I'm working on them !! > < for the time being please accept my crumbs

[loverslantern]

The Hunter and The Witch~ Dean Winchester x f!reader

Description: To obtain a mystic gun capable of destroying the demon that killed their mother, the group must team up with John and face off against vampires.

Warnings: cannon violence and gore, John Winchester, arguing, girl kissing (not really a warning but), slightly jealous Dean??, reader being a nerd

Word Count: 8.5k

Dead Man's Blood

(Masterlist, Previous Chapter, Outfit Board)

 The cafe is quiet except for the distant chatter of conversations that melt together, the clinks of glasses and dishes, the clacking of a keyboard, and the shuffling of paper. So, maybe quiet isn’t the right word. Nevertheless, the steady background noise is peaceful. It brings me back to the days when I’d linger in cafes to study for an upcoming exam in both high school and college. Though, I suppose, looking through various obituaries and news articles to find our next hunt isn’t that different. “Well, man,” Dean starts, folding his newspaper. “Not a decent lead in all of Nebraska. What’ve you got?”

  I lean back in my seat, pushing away from the screen I’ve been looking out for God knows how long. “Nothing of note in Iowa, Kansas, or Missouri,” I announce, noting some of the states surrounding Nebraska. The various tabs open for each state are a little concerning. “Unless you count a woman in Iowa who managed to fall 10,000 feet from an airplane and survive.”

  “Sounds more like ‘That’s Incredible’ than, uh, ‘Twilight Zone,’” Dean remarks.

  “Yeah definitely weird but not that concerning,” I nod. It surely reeked of the supernatural because there was no human way to do that, but it also wasn’t a top-of-the-list concern when no one got hurt and it seemed like an isolated event.

  “Hey, Sam, you know we could keep heading East. New York. Upstate. We could drop by and see Sarah again. Huh?” Dean suggests, smirking as he leans his elbows on the table. “Cool chick man, smokin’” he whistles. I shake my head, mentally grimacing. Yeah, she was attractive but to say it aloud and whistle about some girl your brother was clearly into? A little weird. “You two seemed pretty friendly. What do you say?”

  “Yeah, I dunno, maybe someday,” he answers vaguely. “But in the meantime, we got a lot of work to do Dean, and you know that.”

  “Yeah, alright,” Dean gives in.

  “You get anything in the states you checked?” I ask Sam, knowing he had looked at Wyoming, Colorado, and South Dakota. More states that surround the state we currently reside in. “Yeah,” he exhales. “Uh, a man in Colorado. A local man named Daniel Elkins was found mauled in his home.”

  “That’s certainly one way to go,” I mumble.

  “Elkins?” Dean echos. “I know that name.”

  “You do?” I ask.

  “Doesn’t ring a bell,” Sam shakes his head.”Sounds like the police don’t know what to think,” he continues as his brother mumbles Elkins under his breath and pulls out their Dad’s journal. “At first they said it was some sort of bear attack and now, they’ve found some signs of robbery.”

  “You know, sometimes it amazes me how the police solve anything,” I remark. Sure, if it’s supernatural related then they don’t have the upper hand of knowledge but seriously a bear attack and a robbery are two completely different things.

  Dean hums absentmindedly in acknowledgment, flicking through the journal. “There, check it out,” he announces, flipping the book around for us to see. A phone number resides on the page right next to the name. “You think it’s the same Elkins?” Sam asks.

  “It’s a Colorado area code,” Dean points out. 

****

  Sam kneels on the wooden porch, the flashlight illuminating his work with the lockpick. It’s not too long before the lock clicks, and the door creeps open with a turn and push.

  “Looks like the maid didn’t come today,” Dean comments, looking over a table cluttered with books and papers. Otherwise, this room was pretty clean at least in terms of the crime. “Hey, there’s salt over here. Right beside the door,” Sam announces, lingering by the front door. 

  “You mean protection against demon salt or, ‘oops I spilled the popcorn’ salt?” Dean asks, his interest tuned into a journal he discovered on the desk.

  My flashlight guides my eyes across the room. It didn’t happen in this room, it doesn’t seem like the perpetrator(s) came from the front door into the entryway. “It’s clearly a ring,” Sam clarifies. “You think this guy Elkins was a player?”

  “Definitely,” he answers. I wander a little further into the house, the real mess lying in the next room over, the door knocked off its hinges. “That looks a hell of a lot like Dad’s,” Sam says. I look over my shoulder, and both boys are checking out the journal. “Yep, except this dates back to the 60s,” Dean responds.

  I step into what looks to be an office, or what’s left of it. It’s pure destruction. If you told me a tornado came through this room I’d believe you. Broken and overturned furniture litter the floor, books and papers scattered about. I can barely see the floor, it's all covered. “Whoever this guy was, he put up a hell of a fight,” I comment as I carefully step further into the room, glass crunching beneath my shoe. Glass but no broken windows. “Whatever attacked him, it looks like there was more than one,” Sam adds, looking up at the ceiling. I follow his gaze to the broken sunroof, the source of the glass.

  Where did the police get a bear attack from even if he did have scratch marks on him? Did they think it fell into the sunroof? I could understand the robbery considering the mess, but a bear? Seriously? I shake my head at the thought, walking over to the cleared-off desk. Whatever was atop it was on the floor now. “Do you think whoever or whatever did this was looking for something?” I ask, taking in the mess again. Some of it was from fighting, but the desk's open draws, which were barely hanging on, suggests it may be more. It could be an added motive. “Maybe,” Sam answers before his attention turns over to his brother who is crouched down and examining the floor. “You got something?” Sam asks.

 “I dunno,” he answers. “Some scratches on the floor.”

  “Death throes maybe?” Sam suggests, referring to the last moments before the end. 

  “Yeah, maybe,” Dean says, grabbing a nearby notebook. He opens a page, placing it over the scratches before using a pencil to scratch over it revealing the marks better. “Or maybe a message.” He peels up the paper, some blood soaked into the back, but the markings are clear. “Look familiar?” He asks, holding it up.

  “Three letters, six digits,” Sam answers. “The location and combination of a post office box. It’s a mail drop.” The message was an incredible feat to manage before death took him under. To be able to scatch it out…it must be more than important.

  “Just the way Dad does it,” Dean adds. 

****

 A simple letter rests in Sam’s hand. The letter was found in the post office box. “‘J.W.’” Sam reads off the envelope, “You think that's John Winchester?”

  “I mean your Dad clearly knew the guy,” I offer, his number is inside the journal. “Maybe he even learned this way of communicating from him.” 

“Should we open it?” Dean asks, something uncertain yet insistent in his voice. But, no one gets to answer the question on each of our minds when, instead, there is a knock on the driver-side window. Dean gasps and flinches, his arm raised in defense. “Dad?” he breathes, his fist lowering. The door beside me opens then, hazel eyes looking at me expectantly. I raise my eyebrows with a tight-lipped smile as I scooch over. He takes my seat, closing the door behind him. “Dad, what are you doing here?” Sam asks. “Are you alright?”

  “Yeah, I’m okay,” he answers simply. He looks the same as the last time we saw him, with messy dark hair similar to Sam’s cut and a ragged beard. “I read the news about Daniel, I got here as fast as I could. I saw you three at his place.”

  “Why didn’t you come in Dad?” Sam questions, his voice soft as if he knows the answer.

  “You know why. Because I had to make sure you weren’t followed…by anyone or anything,” John responds. He sounds more paranoid than anything. It sounds like a sad excuse to avoid speaking and seeing his kids again, but I keep those thoughts to myself. “Nice job of covering your tracks by the way,” he compliments. And it’s like being buttered up before the roast— before you’re put right back on the fire that eats at you until you forget your self-worth. 

  “Yeah, well, we learned from the best,” Dean answers with a proud smile on his face as his chest puffs out a little bit.

  “Wait, you came all the way out here for this Elkins guy?” Sam points out.

  “Yeah. He was... he was a good man. He taught me a hell of a lot about hunting,” he reveals. I guess I was somewhat right on my assumption. “Well, you never mentioned him to us,” Sam shrugs.

  “We had a... we had kind of a falling out. I hadn't seen him in years,” he explains, gesturing towards the envelope. “I should look at that.” Sam hands it over easily, and his father wastes no time in opening it. “'If you're reading this, I'm already dead',” he reads, trailing off. “That son of a bitch.”

  “What is it?” Dean asks.

  “He had it the whole time,” he answers vaguely as if we know what he's talking about. “Has what?” I ask.   “When you searched the place, did you, did you see a gun? An antique, a Colt revolver, did you see it?” He asks each question one right after the other almost frantically.   “Uh, there was, there was an old case but it was empty,” Dean answers.

  “They have it,” John announces.

  “‘You mean whatever killed Elkins?” Dean asks. John opens the door, shifting to get out. “We gotta pick up the trail.” But before he can make it out of the vehicle Sam stops him, “Wait. ‘You want us to come with you?”

  “If Elkins was telling the truth, we gotta find this gun,” he explains, doing that thing where he’s insanely unhelpful.

  “The gun–why?” Sam pushes.   “Because it's important, that's why,” he replies. I roll my eyes, for a guy who wasn’t very present he managed to be incredibly irritating. “Dad, we don't even know what these things are yet,” Sam reasons. 

  “They were what Daniel Elkins killed best: Vampires,” he reveals, finally being helpful.   “Vampires? I thought there was no such thing,” Dean answers.

  “You didn’t?” I ask, surprised.

  “You did?” He throws right back with a just as surprised tone as mine.

  “Yeah,” I say like it's obvious. “I took down a nest back in college.” It was the first and only time I had encountered a vampire let alone a vampiric hunt. Students started to go missing, seemingly picked off one by one, and like any school word had spread quickly. It was weird, yes, but with no bodies and only having gossip I had nothing to work with. No one saw anything, the picks were clean and concise. Well, that was until certain bodies did show up. Four out of nine bodies were found, two were located near or around campus grounds, and the others were left in the town that was a short drive from the school. I managed to pull some strings and cash in ‘I owe you’ to see the bodies firsthand. My initial thought was vampires but the thought was more of a joke than anything, I thought I was watching too much Buffy. But then some research made a joke no longer a joke. It was vampires and I had to kill them.

  I can remember it still, the way the heads went flying and how blood caked my clothes. Buffy makes it look cleaner than what it is. 

  “You did?” John asks, his voice dripping in disbelief and sass. “Don’t sound so surprised,” I mumble, my distaste for him almost painfully clear in the curl of my lip. He has been here for less than five minutes and I’m already a little irritated. I’d like to think that I’m not a hateful person, that I don’t hold grudges or malice but when it comes to John Winchester suddenly I’m the biggest hater you’ve ever seen. “Well, I thought they were extinct. I thought Elkins and—“ he throws a glare at me. “And others had wiped them out. I was wrong.”   “You were,” I agree, smiling a little at the slow turn of his head as he stares at me with daggers. 

  “Most vampire lore is crap,” he starts, his voice gruff, looking back at his boys. “A cross won't repel them, sunlight won't kill them, and neither will a stake to the heart. But the bloodlust, that part's true. They need fresh human blood to survive. They were once people, so you won't know it's a vampire until it's too late.”

  “The way to kill them is decapitation,” I add. “Interestingly enough the story to get it right is a work of fiction, though, of course, you could argue that it was only presented that way and the author knew more than any normal person would. The final blow in Carmilla, written by some Irish guy, is her head being struck off. Before that was a stake through the heart but, it’s interesting that he would add the decapitation aspect especially when it’s the first ever Vampire novel so it’s not like he changed things to be different.”

  “Are you done?” John remarks, unamused.

  “Yeah, now I am,” I respond, equally unamused with him.

  “Wake up! Come on,” a voice demands. I grumble something incoherent, my fingers softly curling into the warmth beneath my hand. The something beneath my hand rumbles with the “Mm-hmm,” that follows from its lips. 

  My eyes squint open, my hand resting on Dean's chest, fingers clutching his shirt, his arm resting around my waist. We didn’t fall asleep like this when John hated the very idea of us sharing a bed even though we’d done it before. I know John doesn’t trust me, even though I haven’t done anything to warrant such feelings. It’s more like he doesn’t trust who I am and he makes it known with every look and side comment. Yet, as much as he hated it, he didn’t want me in a separate room because it would “waste time and money.” So, we had slept back to back which felt so horribly unnatural.

  I do not make a move to separate from him. He rubs his eyes and I want to bury my face into the pillow in a desperate attempt to grasp onto the remains of sleep but the sight of his messy short hair going every which way, and his eyes barely being held open from the sleep that clings to them keeps my attention. Even on interrupted sleep, he looks so good. “I picked up a police call,” John announces, the faint noise of radio static proving his statement. 

  “What happened?” Sam asks, his voice laced with sleep. Dean’s hand drops from his eyes going, instead, to my hand on his chest. He gives it a little squeeze and it would be so easy to just fall back into a sweet sleep with the butterflies that dance in my stomach. But, the harsh reality of, well, reality comes crashing back when John answers, “A couple called 911, ‘found a body in the street. Cops got there. Blood was missing. It's the vampires.”

  “How do you know?” Sam asks logically. But, John is already halfway out the door forgoing explanations as he typically does. “Just follow me, okay?” he responds, shutting the door behind him. 

“Huh, vampires,” Dean muses, his eyes still half open. “Gets funnier every time I hear it.”

****

 The spin of red and blue lights shatters the atmosphere, a long cloth placed over a body in the middle of the road, yellow tape sanctioning off the area as cops work the scene, and a certain irritating Winchester talking to a cop as we are forced to wait by the Impala like kids waiting while their parent talks to an old friend and you just know you’re going to be waiting forever. “I don’t see why we couldn’t have gone over with him,” Sam complains, sulking slightly. 

  “Should’ve let us sleep,” I agree, mumbling. I don’t see the point in dragging us from bed just to put us on the back burner, but I guess that’s John for you. 

  “Oh, don’t tell me it’s already starting,” Dean responds.   “What's starting?” he asks. But he doesn’t get his answer as their father approaches, Dean putting his focus there. “What have you got?” he asks his Dad. 

  “It was them alright,” John confirms. “Looks like they’re heading west. We’ll have to double back to get around that detour.”

  “How can you be so sure?” Sam asks, arms crossed. 

  “Sam…” Dean warns.

  “I just wanna know we're going in the right direction,” he snaps at his brother.

  “We are,” John answers vaguely.

  “How do you know?” 

  John hands something small to Dean, answering with “I found this.” 

  Dean cups the long and sharp tooth in the palm of his hand. “It’s a…” he tries to find the words, “a vampire fang.”

  “It’s not necessarily a fang,” I correct. “An entire set of teeth that look just like that descends when they attack, covering the normal set of teeth.” 

  “Any more questions?” John asks, looking at Sam expectantly, a certain bite to his words. Sam remains quiet, his eyes flicking away—the kind of answer his father wants. No, an answer he expects. “Alright, let’s get out of here, we’re losing daylight,” John orders. He walks to his truck, a vehicle I suddenly love because he doesn’t have to be in the same car as us. “Hey, Dean why don’t you touch up your car before you get rust?” he throws back the comment, “I wouldn’t have given you the damn thing if I thought you were going to ruin it.” 

  I look at Dean with widened eyes. His face drops. Drops. My heart might as well drop with it. I dig my nails into my palms in an attempt to control my mouth, my teeth clenched painfully to hold in my own comment. I should make him apologize. I should do more than that but I know it will only make it worse for them and that is the last thing I want. Yet, saying nothing feels worse so the word slips out before I can reel it back in. “Asshole,” I grumble beneath my breath, opening the back door to the Impala.

  “What’d you say?” John asks, seemingly having super hearing, pausing short of his truck. The stiffness in his shoulder is familiar, or similar. So, I duck into the car with an, “I didn’t say anything.” I expect him to say something or for him to make some sort of move. I see the unamused look on his face even as I close the door behind me, creating a barrier between us. I half expect him to drag me from the car and make me answer him. Dad said I never knew how to hold my tongue or when to stop. And maybe he was right.

*****

  The Impala rolls down the road, following John’s truck. “Vampires nest in groups of eight to ten,” Dean reads from the passenger seat. “Smaller packs are sent to hunt for food. Victims are taken to the nest where the pack keeps them alive, bleeding them for days or weeks. I wonder if that’s what happened to that 911 couple.”

  “I didn’t see the corpses well enough but it’s likely,” I answer, though I don’t know why John didn’t let us see the body or do any work.

  “It’s probably what Dad's thinking. ‘Course it would be nice if he just told us what he thinks,” Sam grumbles, a certain furrow to his brow.   “So it is starting,” Dean remarks.

  “What?”

  Well, this is my queue to keep my comments to myself and let them talk this out. 

  “Sam, we've been looking for Dad all year,” he explains. “Now we're not with him for more than a couple of hours and there's static already?” 

  “Hm. No. Look, I'm happy he's ok, alright?” he responds. “And I'm happy that we're all working together again.” “Well good.”

  “It’s just the way he treats us like we’re children,” Sam adds, seemingly unable to help himself. But I’m here for the John bashing. 

  “Oh God,” Dean mumbles. 

  “He barks orders at us Dean, he expects us to follow 'em without question. He keeps us on some crap need-to-know deal.”

  Sam’s not wrong. His vagueness is one of his worst traits which is saying something because he has a long list of horrible traits. He’s really the King of being as vague and unhelpful as possible for a reason I simply can’t discern. Maybe it makes him feel like he has some power or the upper hand.

  “He does what he does for a reason,” Dean reasons.   “What reason?” Sam pushes.

  “Our job!” Dean snaps. “There's no time to argue, there's no margin for error, alright? That's just the way the old man runs things.”   “I’d argue that leaving you guys in the dark can lead to more error,” I comment, accidentally saying my inside thoughts out loud. Luckily, I’m pretty much annoyed as Sam challenges his brother. “Yeah well maybe that worked when we were kids but not anymore, alright. Not after everything you and I have been through, Dean. I mean, are you telling me you're cool with just falling into line, and letting him run the whole show?” 

  A heavy silence fills the car as Dean stares at his brother like he’s trying to muster the right words. “If that’s what it takes.”

****

 We drive for what feels like an eternity, though it must only have been a couple of hours, the sky falling to darkness. Dean is on the phone with his father, keeping in touch with him even as we follow after his car. “Yeah, Dad. Alright, got it,” he answers before hanging up. “Pull off at the next exit.”

  “Why?” Sam asks with a certain edge or bite to his voice.

  “Cause Dad thinks we’ve got the vampire’s trail,” Dean responds.

  “How?” 

  “I don’t know; he didn’t say.”

  Suddenly I’m pushed back into my seat as the Impala goes faster, fast enough to overtake Johns truck. The car swerves in front of it, my body jerking sideways and forward as the vehicle swerves again and slams to a stop. My heart stammers in my chest as I look out the window, John's truck nearly missing the side of the Impala. “What the frick, S–” I yell, my cursing cut off as Sam gets out of the car. “Oh crap here we go,” Dean mumbles, following him out of the vehicle. I sigh, rolling my eyes, as much as I expected an argument to break out this is a very dramatic and dangerous way to start it. Even so, I follow them out of the Impala as Dean calls out for his brother.

  “What the hell was that?” John yells, stomping over to his son.

  “We need to talk.”

  John steps closer, getting face to face with him and I half expect him to grab Sam by the collar and shake some “sense” into him. “About what?”

  “About everything. Where are we going, Dad? What's the big deal about this gun?”

  “Sammy, come on, we can Q and A after we kill all the vampires,” Dean says.

  “You’re brothers right, we don’t have time for this,” John adds.   “Last time we saw you, you said it was too dangerous for us to be together. Now out of the blue, you need our help,” Sam yells. “Now obviously something big is going down, and we wanna know what!”   “Get back in the car.”   “No.”   “I said get back in the damn car.”   “Yeah. And I said no.”

  “Okay, you made your point tough guy,” Dean tries again, hovering between his father and his brother. But, of course, his words are directed at his brother. “Look we're all tired, we can talk about this later. Sammy, I mean it, come on.” Dean grabs him, pushing him back toward the car. He gives in, allowing his brother to move him along even as he glares at his father, mumbling, “This is why I left in the first place.”  “What’d you say?”

  Sam steps forward, snapping back, “You heard me.”

  “Yeah. You left. Your brother and me, we needed you. You walked away, Sam.”

  “Sam…” Dean warns.

  “You walked away!” John yells in his face.

  “Come on, stop,” I urge, trying to push John back as Dean had tried with his brother. But he just shoves me off, forcing me back a couple of steps.   “You're the one who said don't come back Dad, you closed that door, not me. You were just pissed off that you couldn't control me anymore!”

  Dean jumps in the middle, forcing them apart. “Listen, stop it, stop it. Stop it!! That's enough!!”   They don’t say another word; they just glare at each other over Dean’s head. “That means you too,” Dean adds, looking at his father. Despite the harsh words that linger in the air and the unspoken jabs that are begging to be said, they back off. Each step back into their vehicles. Dean sighs, the tension clear in his shoulders until he turns to me, brows furrowed as he half yells, “Are you okay?” The question is genuine despite how harsh they sound escaping his lips. There's a silence that falls between us; I don’t know why he asks me; it’s not like I was the one arguing. Perhaps it was because I stumbled back as his father shoved me or because he knows I do not like arguments. Either way, I nod silently, and he gives a single nod back, the stress soon returning to his face.

  With the sun on our back and the tree line at our front, blocking us, I watch a beat-up Camaro pull up the old barn. A man in a t-shirt walks up to the car, shielding his eyes as he escorts the person inside and making a very good guess it’s likely they’re both vampires. “Son of a bitch,” Dean curses. “So they’re really not afraid of the sun?”

  “Direct sunlight hurts like a nasty sunburn. The only way to kill ‘em is by beheading,” John answers and I roll my eyes at the repetition especially when half the information is something I already said. “And yeah, they sleep during the day—doesn’t mean they won’t wake up.”

  “So I guess walking right in’s not our best option,” Dean remarks.

  “Actually, that’s the plan,” John answers, immediately creeping from the treeline back to where the Impala and his truck are parked. 

  Weapons are handed out like candy on Halloween night, the machete's blade seeming to gleam as the sun hits it just right. Grasping the hilt reminds me of that day long ago, how my hand shook as I killed the first vampire. They look human, and the blood that falls is so human that it’s like killing one instead of a vampire. I had to remind myself they weren’t human and that they killed so many. Then, it was almost too easy.

  “So, you really wanna know about this Colt?” John suddenly asks.   “Yes sir,” Sam answers.

  It's just “a story, a legend really. Well, I thought it was. Never really believed it until I read Daniel's letter,” he starts. “Back in 1835, when Halley's comet was overhead, the same night those men died at the Alamo. They say Samuel Colt made a gun. A special gun. He made it for a hunter, a man like us only on horseback. ‘Story goes he made thirteen bullets, and this hunter used the gun a half dozen times before he disappeared, the gun along with him. And somehow Daniel got his hands on it. They say... they say this gun can kill anything.”

  Something unsettling settles in my gut, something I don’t want to discern. We aren’t in the nest, and yet it’s like the fight-or-flight instinct has kicked in. “Kill anything like supernatural anything?” Dean asks. The same thought eats at my mind but where concern hits me surprise hits him.

  “Like the demon,” Sam connects, and I feel foolish. Maybe it’s a survival instinct, or maybe it’s selfishness that makes me worry more about a weapon that can kill me rather than a gun that can kill the yellow-eyed demon. I don’t think I’ve ever been afraid of dying, at least not totally, especially when what I am makes it incredibly difficult to kill me, to begin with. But now I’m aware of something that can. It won’t be like a bullet wound you can maybe heal from; there won’t be hope—just death. Gone in the blink of an eye with no goodbye or warning.

  “Yeah, the demon. Ever since I picked up its trail I've been looking for a way to destroy that thing. Find the gun -- we may have it,” John answers.

  I want to be happy for them. I’m trying to be happy. I’m trying to push the fear away because isn’t it an irrational one? But I am scared. What if I don’t get a goodbye? What if it winds up in the wrong hands and I’m at the other end of it? Technically, right now it is in the wrong hands if the vampires do have it. “No offense, I'm glad this is an opportunity to get the damn thing,” I start, my fear turning into anger. “But did you, oh, I don't know, plan on informing us about this before we go into the place that has this gun, or was it Sam that convinced you?” I’m not an idiot; I am aware of the possibility that this could’ve been left out for God knows how long. “I mean, this could literally kill me, like end-end me, and you were just gonna, what, not mention it? ‘Cause it would’ve been a great warning.”

  He doesn’t answer, and I’m not sure if he’s going to acknowledge me, which is answer enough. I move to try to get in his way. “You know, somehow I find a new reason to dislike you, which is kind of impressive.” I know I’m being mean as if a jab could heal the panic in my veins.

  “You should be grateful I haven’t sent your ass back home,” he bites.

  “Yeah well, this ass saved your life back with the Daeva’s.”

  “Y/N,” Dean says, carefully touching my arm. But I step out of his hold, my shoulders going up as if trying to un-feel the touch, which is weird because I never do that with him. “No, Dean, this is serious,” I reason, my voice higher in an attempt to be louder, though it never nears a yell. I don’t dare look at him, weary of the hurt that might pass over his face.

  “Were you going to say something if Sam hadn’t called you out?” I ask him again. But, I’m sure I know the answer. He pauses for a beat too long, and I feel foolish again. I’m arguing with a guy who couldn’t care less about what happens to me. The anger simmers in my gut, bubbling down until it’s replaced by shame. “You know what? Never mind,” I give up. “Let’s just go kill the vampires.” I shake my head, walking away from the group towards the run-down barn. 

  I creep between the trees, careful of where I step so that I don’t make a sound, even though I’m outside the barn. I take a couple of deep breaths as I walk; I need to have a clear head. This isn’t the kind of hunt you can be careless on; one wrong move and it all goes up in flames. I clear my head of any leftover anger or negative emotions; I need to lead with focus, not emotions. 

  I move closer to the barn, finding a window that looks easy to get into without making so much noise. That is key. I lift myself onto the thin windowsill, cautious as to not let my legs or any body part slam into the wall. And with the knowledge that the boys are close behind, I move into the barn. I move silently, first observing the layout and the countless hammocks filled with vampires as well as the occasional vamp that rests on the floor. 

  Ever so slowly, I move forward, careful to step over the beer bottles as I move as quietly as a mouse. Inch by inch, I lurk towards a random vampire in a hammock. A lone vampire, or at least one that’s farthest away from the others, even if far isn’t far at all.

  I stand over his sleeping figure like a predator ready to pounce on its unsuspecting prey. Ever so carefully, I lift my blade, hovering it above its neck. With one quick motion, I know I am a hypocrite. Blood drips down its neck in waves like a relentless ocean; its eyes shoot open as the blade is plunged deeper. Its mouth parts in an attempt at a screech it can’t possibly make as its head is severed from its body. It did not get to warn the others. It did not get to say goodbye.

  I pull my blade from the mess; blood seeps into the fabric of the hammock and drips to the floor. I sense the Winchesters enter the barn as I pick my next target. The goal is to get as many asleep so that should they wake, it’d be a slightly easier fight. Again, I take my stance over a vampire when I hear the faint clink of a glass bottle knocking over. I hold incredibly still, so still, I feel like the narrator in “Tell-Tale Heart.”

  By luck alone, the vampire beneath my gaze does not stir, nor do any others. I turn my head slowly to where the noise originated, seeing Dean and Sam at the other end of the barn near each other. I swallow roughly, focusing in on the task at hand. Again, I drive my blade into the pale neck of the resting creature, blood spraying onto my cheek. I move to the next, stalking forth with my raised blade when an unearthly roar breaks the silence. The vampire beneath my gaze shoots up, clutching my wrist before I can lay the blade onto it. The machete vanishes from my hand, appearing in my other. I swing the blade; the cut is uncoordinated and messy in my non-dominant hand, slashing off its hand. My wrist is free as the limb goes flying, a horrible screech coming from the vampire as it clutches its wrist, blood spurting from where the hand used to be, bone exposed to the air. Glass shatters somewhere overhead, and I switch the weapon back to my dominant hand, unable to get another swing in when I dodge the lunging vampire.

  “Run!” John yells from the same direction as the broken glass. I sidestep just in time, narrowly avoiding a swing from a vampire lunging at me. More of them surge toward me, their snarls filling the air. Reluctantly, I turn and run. My heart pounds in my chest, the sound almost drowning out the thudding of their footsteps behind me. I race toward the back of the barn, but there’s no clear exit—just solid walls and shadows. I sprint toward one of the walls. My legs push forward harder, willing myself to pass through before I crash into it. 

  The world blurs for a heartbeat, and then I stumble forward, my feet skidding on the dirt outside. I glance back, breathless, at the wall I just passed through. A small smile tugs at the corner of my lips, I’m getting really good at the whole teleporting thing. But enough celebrating, I quickly round the outskirts of the barn and make my way up the hill to where the distinct figures of the Winchesters wait. A look of relief passes over Sam and Deans face at the sight of me but I can’t say the same for John. I know he doesn’t care if I get injured or die. 

  “They won't follow. They'll wait till tonight. Once a vampire has your scent, it's for life,” John informs, slightly out of breath.   “Well, what the hell do we do now?” Dean asks.

  I wipe the blood from my cheek with the back of my sleeve, glad that I decided to wear dark clothes today. “I’ll go back in there and finish it,” I answer.

  “No, you’re not,” Dean declares, taking a single step toward me.

  “Why not?” I ask. “I already killed two and—”

  “You did?” John cuts me off, reflecting the same surprise he did before.

  “No, my machete is just normally covered in blood.” 

  “You’re not goin’ back in,” Dean says firmly.

  “Dean—”

  “Not on my watch.”   “Oh, come on. This is quicker than waiting until night and you can have your special gun sooner,” I reason, following him as he walks away. 

  “Not happening.”

  “Don’t you want that gun?”

  He stops short of the Impala's trunk, his expression firm as he faces me. “Not at the expense of your life.” His eyes are set on mine, a challenge burning behind his irises.

  “I’m very capable of doing it myself,” I argue, my chin raised to meet his gaze head-on.

  “I know you are,” he replies, his voice low and sure. “‘Doesn’t mean I’m lettin’ you go.”

  “I don’t have to listen to you, you know,” I point out, the words sounding childish on my tongue.   His brow arches, the faintest flicker of amusement crossing his face. He wets his lips, voice dropping lower, “I don’t see you goin’.”

  The words hang heavy between us. He’s got me, and he knows it. I swallow hard, my pulse thrumming in my throat. His eyes drop briefly, flicking to the small space between us like he’s daring me to move. He tilts his head slightly, waiting, his confidence annoyingly attractive. His fingers brush my wrist, featherlight, trailing down the inside. It tickles my skin, my breath hitching slightly, loosening my hold on the machete. He doesn’t rush—his hand glides lower, steady, until he slides the weapon from my grasp as if he already knew my answer before I had the chance to utter it.

 “We’ll need dead man’s blood,” I manage, my voice quieter than I intended. His eyes flick back to mine, dark and unreadable, the weapon now clasped firmly in his hand alongside his own. He nods, his lips parted slightly.

****

  After splitting up from John and Sam—and some lying and distracting on our part— Dean and I managed to grab the dead man's blood from the local funeral home. Afterward, it took some extensive convincing, including arguing that it would be safer for me to act as bait instead of Dean to be where I am now.

  Now, I lean over the car’s popped hood, peering at the engine while the Winchesters watch from somewhere in the trees. “Car trouble?” a woman's voice asks. I turn around to see a dark-haired woman with thin eyebrows and striking blue eyes standing with another girl lingering behind. It didn’t take them long to show up. “Let me give you a lift. I’ll take you back to my place,” she purrs.

  I lean against the front of the Impala, tilting my head slightly as I eye her. “I’m sure you’d like that,” I respond, biting my bottom lip, purposefully teasing. She steps closer as expected, so close I can smell the lingering metallic scent of blood on her mouth as well as her strong perfume. She grabs my jaw roughly, her fingertips digging in as she holds my face firmly, forcing my head back an inch so that she can use our small height difference to her advantage. I let her do what she wants, I’m not afraid of her or the other vampire. I’m just here to get her close enough for a good shot. “Would you like that?” she asks, spinning my question.

  “I’m sorry, but I’m not Buffy and you’re not Spike,” I smile teasingly. 

  Her smile deepens, turning a little wicked. “You know, I should kill you for what you did to them.” 

  And I know she’s talking about the two I killed and the third I hurt. “Will you?” I challenge. I’m sure she won’t, at least not now. They like to play with their food. So, just as expected her eyes trace down my face, the collum of my neck, and dip beneath my shirt. “We could have some fun first,” she answers, eyes tracing back up.

  Her head tilts down, her hold on my face tightening as her lips brush mine. Her hand slips to the back of my head, grabbing a handful of hair and tugging. My lips part in a groan, my head harshly bent back, giving her the chance to crash her lips to mine. She kisses me roughly and fast, all teeth and tongue before pulling away and licking her lips as if savoring the taste. “Heard you had a boyfriend,” I remark. “You think he’d mind you–” She cuts me off with her lips, teeth clashing with mine. My hands grasp the Impala behind me, the cold metal digging into my palms contrasting with the heat of her mouth. 

  She gasps, an almost choking noise as she pulls away and I know the shot has been taken. My eyes fall to her chest, the arrowhead sticking out. “Dammit,” she curses. The Winchesters emerge from the trees, crossbows in hand and unreadable expressions on their faces. Her hands fall from my face as she steps back, my chest heaving a little as I try to catch my breath. “It barely even stings,” she claims.

  “Give it time, sweetheart,” John answers. “That arrow’s soaked in dead man’s blood. It’s like poison to you, isn’t it?”

  Real surprise passes over her features, a hand coming up to cradle where she’s been hit as she staggers backward, wavering before she collapses to the asphalt. “Load her up,” John directs, moving to the other vampire who’s also on the floor with an arrow through her. “I’ll take care of this one.”

  I turn around, shutting the hood of the car just as I hear the familiar squelch of blood.

****

  The campfire burns bright in the middle of the small clearing of woods. She's still unconscious, secured with a rope around her that she could tear easily the moment she awakens. “Toss this on the fire. Saffron, skunk's cabbage, and trillium. It'll block our scent and hers until we're ready,” John orders as he walks back into the clearing with his eldest son in tow.

  Dean sniffs the bag contents and coughs, “Stuff stinks!”

  “That’s the point. It has to be strong enough to cover your scent,” I smile while simultaneously feeling bad for finding his reaction to the ingredients funny. “You can dust your clothes with the ashes and they, hopefully, won't be able to detect you.” I move to him, willing to take the bag from his grimacing face. 

  “‘You sure they’ll come after ‘er?” Sam asks as I carefully separate and dump the ingredients into the fire.

  “Yeah,” John answers. “Vampires mate for life—”

  “Didn’t seem she cared about that with Y/N” Dean remarks, cutting off his father. I give him a pointed look. And he just responds with, “What? She was the one who looked real into you.” There's a certain edge to his voice that I can’t quite discern, something almost snarky.

  “Well, one thing interpretations got right about vampires is how inherently sexual they are,” I explain. “I’m not sure why but I guess it makes sense considering how they take the blood is intimate.” Still, Dean doesn’t seem particularly satisfied with that answer.

  “She means more to the leader than the gun,” John continues. “But the blood sickness is going to wear off soon, so you don't have a lot of time.”   “A half-hour oughta do it,” Sam answers.   “And then I want you out of the area as fast as you can,” John orders.

  “But…”

  “Well, Dad you can’t take care of them all yourself,” Dean cuts his brother off.

  “I'll have her and the Colt,” John reasons.

  “That’s hardly a lot of protection,” I point out.

  “And if I remember you wanted to go in with less,” he bites back.

  “I also have abilities that you don’t. I can stay with you, ‘make sure you get it safely.”

  “‘Don’t need your protection,” he answers. I figure ego has some part of his decision so I drop it, if he doesn’t want backup then he doesn’t want it.

  “But after. We're gonna meet up, right?” Sam asks. “Use the gun together. Right?” There's a long pause, the question hanging in the air for one too many seconds. “You're leaving again, aren't you? You still wanna go after the demon alone. You know, I don't get you. You can't treat us like this.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like children,” Sam answers firmly.   “You are my children. I'm trying to keep you safe,” he reasons. I bite back my comment about how ironic that is coming from him as I walk a couple of steps away.   “Dad, all due respect but, uh, that's a bunch of crap,” Dean says, all heads snapping to him.   “Excuse me?”

  I half expect him to back off, instead, he doubles down. “You know what Sammy and I have been hunting. Hell you sent us on a few hunting trips yourself. You can't be that worried about keeping us safe.”   “It's not the same thing, Dean.”   “Then what is it? Why do you want us out of the big fight?”   “This demon? It's a bad son of a bitch. I can't make the same moves if I'm worried about keeping you alive.”   “You mean you can't be as reckless.”

  “Look... I don't expect to make it out of this fight in one piece.” The atmosphere seems to change, becoming a little heavier in the wake of his words. “Your mother's death ... it almost killed me. I can't watch my children die too. I won't.”

  I’m sure there is some truth to his words but at the same time, he's been a horrible father to them, leaving them alone as mere kids to fend for themselves, forcing them into the hunting world at a young age, and even bringing them on hunts when they should’ve been worrying about school not their lives.   “What happens if you die?” Dean points out. “Dad, what happens if you die, and we coulda done something about it? You know I’ve been thinking. I ...think maybe Sammy's right about this one. We should do this together.”

  Sam nods.

  “We're stronger as a family, Dad. We just are. You know it,” Dean argues. It may sound cheesy but it holds merit.  “We're running out of time. You do your job and you get out of the area. That's an order.” His answer is unsurprising and yet the way Dean looks down and the way Sam clenches his jaw makes me want to deck John Winchester until he agrees.

****

  We quickly follow after John, having already killed the vampires in the barn and freed the container of people they had. Of course, it’s against what we were directed to do but we aren’t exactly known for following rules, so there's that. We ditched the Impala some ways back, sticking to the trees with our crossbows as we approached John's truck and the group of vampires.

  We arrive in time to see John get knocked to the ground, his plan going south immediately. He’s backhanded into the door of his truck just as one of many arrows flies through the air, hitting the other vampires that crowd around. We emerge from the trees and I switch my crossbow to my off-hand to unseathe my machete. I easily walk up to one and in one clean motion send their head flying, the body buckling to the floor.

  Quickly I turn, my crossbow raised to shoot a vampire that was creeping up on Dean. “Don't!” someone yells. I pause, eyes landing on a vampire who looks like a rock band reject with his arm around Sam’s neck while Dean tries to lurk forward with a machete. “I'll break his neck. Put the blade down,” the man orders. Everything stands still for a moment as I drop both my weapons. Dean, however, pauses until the man tightens his hold on Sam’s neck and then the machete is dropped to the ground with a clink.

  Suddenly, the man’s arm is forced from Sam’s neck. It shakes as it's pulled away by an invisible force, his face contorting with confusion as he loses the ability to control his limbs. My head tilts slightly as I control him, forcing his other arm to remain at its side so that Sam is free to stumble away, his brother immediately dragging him behind him. The knees of the man buckle, forcing him to kneel on the asphalt. “You people. Why can't you leave us alone? We have as much right to live as you do,” the man cries and I falter. 

I falter. The one thing you’re never supposed to do in a fight. But, it doesn’t matter because his head is cleaned off his body before he can get up. John standing behind him, blood dripping from his machete. “Lutherrrr!!!!” the girl from before screams a horrible guttural scream that seems to reverberate in my ears. She’s dragged away by another vampire, fighting against their hold as she stares down John and her lover's body.

  I stand over the little table in the motel room making sure I didn’t leave anything when John enters—the first we’ve seen him since last night. “So boys,” he starts immediately, the door closing behind him feeling like a death sentence.

  “Yes sir,” Sam answers, both boys straightening out like soldiers.

  “You ignored a direct order back there,” he starts.

  “Yes sir,” Sam answers.   “Yeah, but we saved your ass,” Dean intervenes, nervous looks thrown his way from Sam and I.

  “You're right,” John, surprisingly, nods.   “I am?”

  “It scares the hell out of me. You two are all I've got. But I guess we are stronger as a family. So...we go after this damn thing. Together.”   “Yes sir,” they say in unison.

  “And I guess you can be there too,” he adds, looking over at me.

(Next Chapter)

Tag List: @jesllianaquilesrolonsworld @okayiamkassandra @fablesrose @ada--44 @bonkydarnes @star-yawnznn @crazyunsexycool @onlyangel-444 @seninjakitey @mystic-mara @mxltifxndom @stilesxreid @chaotic-luvrs @tiggytaylor @deanwasscaredbyacat @imaginexred @daisychaingirl @ugvvguggvvgu @yasmin12312 @squishytap

[bibibahngg]

【ｕｎｅｘｐｅｃｔｅｄｌｙ　ｙｏｕｒｓ】

------------------------------------------------------------------------------ ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚pairing: han jisung x reader ⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖summary: falling in love with your roommate jisung is chaotic in the best way. ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚warnings/genre: fluff!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! that's basically it. like there's a cat? idk? ⋆.˚⟡ ࣪ ˖notes: i haven't posted my writing in a loooooong time, but i think i've improved a lot over that time ngl!! anw, english isn't my first language, so there might be grammar issues and such. enjoyyyy ------------------------------------------------------------------------------

living with han jisung was like starring in your very own sitcom. it was chaotic, unpredictable, and occasionally hazardous to your health. like the time he tried to make pancakes.

"yn! breakfast is almost ready!" jisung called from the kitchen.

the phrase alone was enough to set off alarm bells. you hurried out of your room to investigate, and sure enough, smoke was already curling out of the kitchen doorway.

"ji, what did you do?" you demanded, rushing in to find him frantically fanning a smoking frying pan with a dish towel.

"it's fine! everything's under control!" he insisted, though the blackened.. um.. something... that was in the pan was saying something else. "why does it smell like you set a campfire in here?" "its artistic, okay? slightly charred is a valid flavor profile"

you snatched the pan from him and dumped the remains into the trash. "artistic my ass.. hannie, you literally almost set off the smoke alarm! what did i say about unsupervised cooking?"

he pouted, rubbing the back of his neck. "i just wanted to make breakfast for you, y'know? as a surprise.."

your annoyance softened a little. "that’s sweet" you admitted. "but maybe next time, let’s stick to cereal."

"or", he said, brightening, "you could cook and i could supervise!"

"you supervise? the guy who just tried to set the kitchen on fire?" "exactly! teamwork makes the dream work, right??"

you rolled your eyes affectionately, shoving a bowl of cereal into his hands. "here. eat this before you burn the whole building down"

"fine.. but i’m still your favorite roommate, right?"

"you're literally my only roommate, hanji.." ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

it was pouring rain when you returned from your grocery run, your arms full of bags and your raincoat looked.. rather suspicious. jisung, lounging on the couch, perked up as soon as you walked in.

"uhh yn, what’s in your coat..?" "..groceries?" "nuh-uh. groceries don’t move." "it's.. a new kind of.. pasta..?"

"c'mon, what’s in there??", he reached for the zipper, but you backed away, clutching your coat protectively.

but just then, a tiny, muffled meow escaped from your coat. both of you froze. "...", jisung was pointing at you like you'd just confessed to a crime. "is there a cat in your coat?"

you sighed and unzipped your coat to reveal a soaking wet, shivering black kitten curled up inside. "i mean come on! couldn't just leave her, she was in a box by the road, and it was raining so hard! look at her, she's so small!"

jisung stared at the kitten for a long moment before it let out another tiny meow. "so… can we keep her? please?" you spoke again.

he groaned. "yn you know i'm a dog guy! what am i supposed to do with a cat?"

the kitten blinked up at him with its big, round eyes, and his resolve melted immediately. "..fine", he muttered. "but i'm naming her bean."

"bean?"

"yeah" he said smugly. "because she's black, like a coffee bean. and also because she's cute, like me." ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

it didn't take long for bean to integrate herself into your chaotic little household. she adored climbing onto jisung's lap while he was gaming, batting at his controller until he lost matches.

one night, you came home to find jisung lying on the couch, wearing an expression of pure betrayal. bean was perched on his chest, staring him down with judgment. a lot of judgement.

"what happened..?" you asked, setting your bag down.

"she ate my last slice of pizza" he said mournfully.

you snorted. "you left it on the coffee table. that's, like, basically an invitation."

"she’s a menace", he grumbled. still, he smiled softly when he looked back at bean. "she’s just like you."

"...excuse me?" "black cat energy." "what?" "y'know?? you're all aloof and sarcastic, but deep down, you care. you just don’t show it much." were you in a romcom?

your cheeks warmed. "whatever, hannie..." ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

it was just some thursday evening when everything changed. you were in the kitchen, stirring a pot of soup, while jisung leaned on the counter, watching you.

"you're unusually quiet", you said without looking up.

"hm? 's nothing." his voice was soft, almost hesitant.

you glanced over your shoulder, only to find him staring at you with an expression you couldn't quite place.

"you're acting weird lately."

he chuckled nervously. "i just-" he hesitated, running a hand through his hair. "i think i'm in love with you."

the spoon in your hand froze mid-stir. "...what?"

"i'm serious", he continued. "you're… everything. you're funny and caring, even when you try not to be. you brought home a cat, for crying out loud, because you couldn't stand to see it suffer in the rain. you cook me dinner when i'm too lazy to fend for myself, and you make this place feel like home."

your heart thudded painfully in your chest as you turned to face him fully. "jisung-"

"i know it’s a lot", he said quickly. "and i'll get it if you don't feel the same. but i couldn't keep it in anymore."

for a long moment, the room was silent except for the simmering stew. then, slowly, a smile crept across your face. "you’re an idiot", you said, your voice shaking slightly.

"...wh-"

"i love you too", you admitted. you could feel your cheeks burning up. now, when i tell you his face lit up like a fucking christmas tree, i mean it. "wait, really?!" "..shut up and set the table before the food gets cold."

he beamed, practically skipping off to grab plates, while bean watched from her perch on the counter, tail flicking smugly.

you could swear she was planning her next bit of chaos. ------------------------------------------------------------------------------ a/n: im actually happy abt this one so like?? yay??????? anws han jisung is bias wrecking me so hard so here you go also late late late LATE happy new years i hope you guys have a great year to come bye bye!!!!!!!!

[funhouse-mirror-barbie]

All of the background/minor characters in Helluva Boss are much more interesting than the main characters and I’m entirely certain it’s because they aren’t forced into the Stolitz universe and they’re the only reason I watch the show now.

Like, look at this imp family/single parent unit here.

They’re watching the trial, but before that the imp woman was washing dishes and the son was grabbing cookies off the shelf.

Hi! Thanks so much for reaching out.

I absolutely agree and I think there are a couple of reasons for this—

First—The imps actually have RULES for how theyre designed as a species.

These rules are really simple, and so pretty much anyone can design an imp.

1. Imps have red skin and yellow eyes.

2. Scars, birthmarks, freckles, and other skin markings are white

3. All imps have horns. Biologically female imps have black horns and black hair, and biologically male imps have white hair and white and black striped horns.

What’s nice is that, even with these general guidelines, there’s plenty of room for variation in designing imps. Some imp’s legs are bent like a satyr’s some have more human legs, they have varying lengths of tails, different body shapes and sizes, etc.

Idk if these design rules were in place for Imps as a species from the very beginning of the show, but I think having these rules helps A LOT because it means the character designers do have freedom to make unique and appealing designs, while not getting TOO crazy, which prevents them from being too over-designed:

(All character design sheets by Erin Frost—former artist and character designer for Helluva Boss)

Second—due to being background characters, they’re less likely to over-designed in general. This hasn’t always been the case (and sometimes still isn’t) with Hellaverse shows, especially Hazbin’s Pilot:

I don’t even think these are all necessarily “bad” or incompetent character designs on their own, but they have a lot of little details, and when they’re all squished together like that, it causes some pretty rough visual clutter. Charlie is supposed to by the main focus of the above shots, but she doesn’t really stand out from the background crowd.

Same with shot of Alastor watching the broadcast—he stands out a little better since he’s silhouetted, but the characters in the foreground having so much going on really detracts from Alastor as the main focal point.

This is also just like. Not a very good composition. I’m really not trying to be mean or rude but, the characters being so overly designed and having such similar color palettes really muddles things.

Also—because there are so many design elements trying to be incorporated at once, we sometimes end up losing all those little extra details that are added due to the visual clutter. I didn’t have any idea Alastor was a deer until like 2 years ago, because his antlers were so small I never noticed them. I thought he was an owl, tbh.

I think we get the most overly complicated designs when the character artists and designers are given like. 3 or 4 different themes or ideas that they have to blend together. Alastor is a deer AND a “radio demon” AND a practitioner of voudo. Angel Dust is a spider AND a mafioso AND a porn star. Some of those ideas absolutely end up being lost because so much is trying to be fit into the design.

The most infamous example of this is Queen Bee, who’s supposed to be a honey bee, lava lamp, fennec fox, party girl, and apparently also an animal tamer?

And I’ll be honest, I’m actually one of the few people who kind of likes her design. I think if you were to simplify her and take out a lot of the extra details, she could still be a fun sparkle dog-type character. But there’s so much going on with her, that a lot of her design elements get lost.

Like, apparently the little pink mark on her forehead is actually a closed eye??? Like I think it’s supposed to be an Ocelli, the third “eye” insects can have:

But it’s just like. Closed usually I guess. In theory, it’s not a terrible design idea for an insect character, but Bee has SO MUCH going on visually that this design choice gets entirely lost. I just thought it was like. A weird symbol on her forehead, and it took me AGES to realize it’s supposed to be her Ocelli or a third eye.

This happens a lot with more of the main characters in Hb and Hazbin, because they’re apparently supposed to be SO many different things that the character designs get too cluttered.

I think this is the main reason for a lot of the less appealing character designs in the Hellaverse, because they’re trying to be like. Ten different things at once. The imps avoid this fate though because, other than maybe their general profession and age, they’re supposed to be imps. They have those design rules we outlined before. I think thats what makes the biggest difference and is also why Mammon is actually the best design of the seven deadly sins because he’s literally just a round jester you look at him and your brain goes “yep that’s a jester” and youre not left trying to figure out what he’s supposed to be for 10 minutes. He’s not trying to be seven things at once. He’s a jester. With some extra arms. Sorry I was wrong when I said it was belphagor before. It’s mammon. Dudes literally just a jester.

[romeoandjulietyouwish]

come high water

tw- referenced domestic abuse

There was something on Darry’s mind, Pony could see it. He had a little frown on his face and Pony could practically see the thoughts spinning behind his eyes. All throughout dinner, Ponyboy’s eyes kept flickering to his big brother. Anxiety was growing in his chest. Was there something he forgot? Was it his turn to cook? 

But Darry didn’t say anything. And while Soda surely noticed his demeanor, he said nothing. Soda just went on and on about his day as usual. Soda volunteered to wash dishes. Ponyboy stood up, intending to go read his book, but Darry called, "Hey, Pone, I wanna talk to you for a sec."

Pony’s heart started thundering in his chest. What did he do? But there wasn’t anger on Darry’s face as he put a hand on Pony’s shoulder and guided him onto the front steps. This was where they used to have important talks with their dad. 

As they sat on the steps, Pony's leg was jogging as he waited for the yelling to start. But Darry didn't say anything for a long moment. Ponyboy looked up at his older brother and saw the furrow of his brow and the melancholy look in his eyes. Something was wrong.

Darry sighed and then looked over at him, "You and I need to have a serious conversation." Pony's heart started to race. Darry's hand squeezed Ponyboy's shoulder, "And before you start panicking, you're not in trouble."

Pony exhaled in relief. "Coulda started with that," he muttered. Darry chuckled. He leaned forward on his knees for a moment, saying nothing. Ponyboy nudged him a little, "What's so serious?"

Darry turned to face Pony and met his eyes. "I fucked up when I hit you that night." Pony started to look away, but Darry caught his chin gently. "Honey, I need you to look at me for this, okay?" Pony fought the urge to look away. He always struggled to meet people's eyes, but for Darry, he would. When their eyes met, Darry smiled sadly. "I love you so much, Ponykid, and I am so fucking sorry that I ever raised a hand to you."

Ponyboy shrugged, "I know you didn't mean it, not really." They’d talked about it a bit when Ponyboy got out of the hospital. Ponyboy knew Darry was still beating himself up for it.

Darry shook his head. "That don't mean anything. You ain't ever supposed to hurt the people you love. Even if it was an accident or I didn't mean it, I still hurt you." Darry took a deep breath. "The point I'm trying to make is that...that's not how you show that you love people."

"I know," Pony said softly. Darry's face was emotional in a way that was unusual. He was earnest in his need to get this point across. "I know that, Dar."

He wrapped his arms around Darry and hugged him. He didn’t know what else to do when there was such clear distress on his brother’s face. Darry returned the embrace, laying one hand on the back of Pony's head and sighing into his hair. They sat like that for a long moment before Darry started to talk again.

"I know you ain't interested in girls yet, but-"

"I wouldn't ever hit someone like that," Pony said quickly, intuiting where Darry was headed.

Darry kissed his head and held him a little firmer, "I know that. You're a good kid. I don’t think you got a mean bone in your body. But if anyone hits you, a girlfriend, a soc, a friend, I need to know, okay? And if you don’t feel comfortable talking to me about it, you talk to someone you do."

Pony pulled out of their embrace to look at Darry's face. There was such an intense look on his face and suddenly Pony understood why they were having this conversation. Darry wasn't concerned that Pony would be an abuser. He was terrified that Pony would be hurt again.

"Why are you so worried about that?" Pony asked with a confused frown. "Boys don’t get hit like that."

Darry sighed sadly, "They do, baby, more than you would think. It ain’t about bein’ tough what you can take in a fight. Being hurt by someone in your family, by a partner, it’s different." Ponyboy thought of Johnny and Steve, how bruised they’d been and their pain in their eyes when they talked about their folks. But he’d never heard of a boy being beat on by their girl. "So if you got a girlfriend and she hurts ya, I need to know."

"Why?"

Darry opened his mouth to answer, but before he could, "It’s because of me." The turned around to see Soda standing by the door with his arms wrapped around himself. His hands were still a little wet from the dishes. Soda shuffled over and sat down between the two of them. Immediately, Darry wrapped an arm around his shoulders and kissed his head.

Pony’s heart began to pound, "What are you talking about?"

Soda looked over at Pony with sad eyes, heavy with emotion. "When I…When I was with Sandy, she would hit me sometimes." 

Pony’s eyes widened and he reached out to take Soda’s hand. "I didn’t know."

Soda smiled sadly, "I know, baby. I didn’t want you to. Darry saw her do it one night and he stepped in and stopped her. I made him swear not to tell you what happened." Pony whined and threw his arms around Soda’s waist and squeezed him as hard as he could. He didn’t like the thought of his brother being hurt one bit.

Soda brought a hand up to Pony’s head and ran his fingers through his hair. "I’m so sorry, Soda."

Soda took a deep breath, "That’s why Darry’s so worried, he doesn’t want either of us to get hurt like that again."

"Which is why," Darry continued, touching Pony’s face, "if something like that ever happens, I need you to tell me, savvy?"

Pony nodded quickly, "I will." 

He looked at Soda. There was a question on his mind. Soda never talked about Sandy so Ponyboy never really asked about her. But now he couldn’t help himself, "Did you love Sandy even though she hurt you?"

Soda swallowed thickly, giving himself time to think. Darry reached over and squeezed the back of Soda’s neck in comfort. "Yeah, I did. Part of me still loves her now. It’s complicated, honey. Things aren’t so black and white."

"But she hurt you."

"I know." Soda looked down at his hands, almost in shame. "I know. But that ain’t how you show someone you love them and I…I didn’t realize until ." Ponyboy embraced his older brother again, hearing Soda sniff softly as tears filled his eyes. 

Soda pulled back, "Only if you ask her, should a girl ever hit you."

"Which is a different topic," Darry cut in sharply, giving Soda a look that made him laugh, "that we will discuss when you’re older." Pony was sure his face was the color of a beet. But his brother was laughing so he didn’t mind the embarrassment. "I know I seem overbearing," Darry said softly, "but I’m just trying to keep you boys safe."

Soda leaned into Darry, taking Pony along with him. The three brothers sat embraced on the front steps. Darry wished he could protected his brothers from anyone that wished them harm, but he’d have to make due with just holding them whenever he could and drying their tears.

[fuji09]

Derek Hale isn't as... grown-up as you think.

Part 2 of my "[character] isn't as..." series.

Yes, Derek Hale is an adult. No matter if he is 19, 20, 21, 22, ect... Derek is an adult season 1.

However, just because he is in his early twenties, doesn't make him a grown ass adult (as some like to lovingly call him).

Due to trauma that started when he was 15, Derek does not know how to adult.

At 15 he has to kill the girl he loves, Paige, to end her suffering as she's dying.

Then soon after, Kate Argent manipulates, grooms, uses, abuses, sexually assaults, and rapes Derek, when he is 15/16.

Then Kate burns his home to the ground with his family inside, losing his entire world. Only Laura and Peter (known at the time) survived. Peter was severely burned and catatonic. Cora was assumed dead in the fire but we later find she survived too.

So now Laura and Derek are the only ones left, and they leave their only home to go across the country to run and hide from hunters.

Laura is the alpha with only Derek as pack and they run away and end up hiding in New York for 6 years. Just the two of them for 6 years. We aren't really shown what went on during those 6 year, did they party to forget their troubles? Did they hide themselves away from everybody and became hermits? Did they just start over and live normal human lives?

Derek is constantly running. He can't ever settle, can't have security or feel safe. Always looking over his shoulder, and this starts when he's 15/16.

Now Laura returns to Beacon Hills and leaves Derek behind. She is killed and Derek comes looking for her, all alone. Derek returns to the place where he lost it all to try to find his sister, the only family he had left.

He finds out Laura was killed and ripped in half. That there is now an alpha running wild in Beacon Hills. There's a newly bitten werewolf. There are also hunters. The Argents, who is Kate's family, mock Derek's lack of family left alive. Derek could have easily turned around and left. Go right back to New York and not deal with this mess. But he doesn't leave. He stays.

He tries to help the newly bitten werewolf to the best of his ability. This boy can't even take care of himself but he's still trying to help Scott.

Scott fights him along the way, the alpha keeps attacking, and Derek tries to keep Scott from being killed, found out, or hurt someone.

Derek has no clue what to do. He was never meant to be an alpha. The guy lives in his burnt out husk of house and then lives in an abandoned train station.

He's literally still stuck as that 15 year old kid who lost it all. Derek makes many mistakes, and I think part of it has to do with not knowing how to speak to people. He's very short with everyone, uses facial expressions more than words, and has a hard time understanding others.

He gets frustrated easily and then reacts by getting physical, like shoving Scott in the wall and threatening to kill him if Scott risks everything by playing in the Lacrosse game even though he doesn't have a handle on his shifting and there are hunters everywhere. Turns out to be an empty threat because Scott does play and Derek does not kill him.

Derek still acts like a kid, and I honestly believe what helped him start to grow and actually become an adult was Scott. Derek felt responsible for Scott even though he didn't bite him. Sometimes people become the adult they are supposed to be when they get a pet or have a baby. They get their shit together when someone is dependent on them. Derek took Scott on like a brother.

Their relationship is a lot like brothers. They fight and argue, they protect each other, and they help (begrudgingly) each other. They may threaten to kill each other, but then when someone is actually trying to hurt the other, they protect each other.

Derek starts to grow up when he's around Scott and Stiles. Stiles is kinda like the annoying best friend of his now younger brother, so now he has someone who can dish it and take, but also someone who can help him figure shit out.

Derek doesn't have his shit together, he's a hot mess. He's scared and angry. He definitely has PTSD, it makes sense how he reacts to things. He also deals with severe guilt, anxiety, depression, self harm, and he's basically suicidal.

He does know how to keep his strength in check though. We see Stiles shoved against a wall by several people, Scott, Erica, Theo, and Derek. But Derek is the only one who doesn't shove him too hard. Derek is the only one who doesn't hurt Stiles when he shoved him, and most of the movement we see from Stiles is him jumping from being startled.

He does hit Stiles' head on the steering wheel, which Stiles totally deserved, but it wasn't hard enough to leave a mark or do any damage, it was just enough of a warning to never do that again. He knows how to be more gentle with humans.

Derek is a martyr and I really do believe he's suicidal because he also doesn't care if he dies, even though he partly doesn't want to die. He has zero self worth and has no issue with dying if it helps someone. He literally has to prove his worth to Scott and Stiles that they need him so he is worth saving. He doesn't think he's worth saving unless he's useful to someone and he believes that everyone else thinks that way too.

Derek puts up this rough front to keep people away to protect himself from getting hurt again. He makes himself look unapproachable and mean. But he actually cares a lot. He hides as a defense mechanism.

He was taught pain makes you human and keeps you near your humanity and that it also speeds up the healing process so he ends up hurting several werewolves, Scott, Erica, Isaac, Boyd, and Jackson. Whether it's to help them heal, teach them to hold on to their humanity, or fight even harder, he teaches these things to the other betas.

Derek is so damaged and stuck. He has trust issues. He may be wealthy, but he doesn't know what to do with it. He doesn't spend it for a long time. For two seasons he's squatting, until finally season 3 he gets a loft.

Derek may be an adult, but he definitely wasn't grown up for seasons 1 and 2.

Derek gets along with the teens because he still has the teen mindset. Which causes him to not always make the best choices.

He is still is an easy target to manipulate and try to control. As we see when Peter reveals he's the alpha. In order to keep Peter away from Stiles and not get himself killed, he has to "join" Peter's side. Which by the look on his face the whole time he hates it and doesn't actually agree with Peter, but he pretends for a while. He has to stand by and watch as his uncle assaults Scott again and gives him the memories of the fire. Which side note, I think Peter did that as a jab at Scott for saying maybe the Argents has a good reason to burn the Hales. Doesn't make it right at all, but it makes sense that he would be angry about that comment.

Derek knows he's hot and he uses that to his advantage when needed, but also because he seems to think that's all he's good for when it comes to girls. He's so awkward with women in the first 2 seasons. He seems unable to actually flirt well until season 3.

He works out way more than he should, punishing his body to hurt himself. He lets himself be shot, tazed, shocked, and beaten because he feels that he deserves it. He truly thinks he's a bad person and he's not. He self sabotages at times because he gets too cocky or scared when something is actually going right.

Derek actually tries though. He keeps getting kicked while he's down. He perseveres and he fucks up. And he also learns from those mistakes and tries to be better.

You can find part 1 of my" [character] isn't as..." series here about Stiles.

Hope y'all enjoyed part 2 about Derek and I'll be back with a part 3. Can y'all guess who it will be about?

[balkanradfem]

I just witnessed something so unexplainable and shocking I am losing my mind over it.

It's about plates.

I've been cleaning the kitchen today, and in the evening I went to put all dishes away. I was putting all of the bowls and the mugs in their designated spaces, when I took a hold of a plain, white plate, and thought I saw a glimpse of something I'd never seen before.

I thought I must have made it up at first, because it's a completely non-interesting, generic white plate, there was nothing ever on it, I've used it for 5 years now and had never seen any kind of print or decoration on it. Yet, right when I picked it up, for a split second, the light from the yellow lightbulb reflected directly on the plate and uncovered an invisible, beautiful decorative print going all around the edges.

It felt like uncovering some sort of magic. I thought maybe this was a special, one of a kind, magical plate that had invisible decorative print on it, and then I took out all other plates of the same make, angled them carefully towards the light so the lightbulb was directly reflected on them and... they all had it. They all had the invisible print on them. I've never seen it in 5 years because it's completely invisible unless you somehow reflect it in the exact specific angle in the artificial light. Look.

Why would the company manufacturing them do this? They're cheap plates and I saw people buying them out of convenience because they're so cheap it's not a shame when they break one, so they're cheaply produced for sure, so why would the company,,, go trough the effort of printing almost completely invisible decorative edge that nobody will ever likely see? If they did anything more visible, the plate might have increased value? What is the meaning behind this? Is it an easter egg? Did I uncover something secret? Is it to protect the plate from being copied? Is is supposed to be for fake control?

If you have these plates and can check, or if you knew they had the print, please tell me. I am scandalized by this. 5 years and I had no idea.

[sturnstarrz]

part one ✞︎

"watch your back." contains: mafia!chratt au, angst word count: 2k

The diner was quiet tonight, the kind of stillness that made the minutes drag into hours. The faint hum of the overhead lights mingled with the soft clatter of dishes in the back. You leaned against the counter, staring at the clock as it ticked closer to closing time.

You sigh, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. Your feet ached from standing all day, and your mind wandered to your mother at home, likely asleep now, with the television flickering softly. It was a slow night—too slow—and your thoughts felt like a weight pulling you under.

The bell above the door jingled, pulling you from your daze. Your head snapped up, and your heart stopped.

Matt.

He strode in like he owned the place, the same self-assured air he’d carried since you were kids. He was taller now, broader, his dark hair slightly tousled in a way that looked effortless. The suit he wore was flawless, tailored to perfection. He looked too put together to be in a small, run down diner like this one.

You froze, gripping the edge of the counter. What was he doing here? After all these years, why tonight? You hadn’t seen him or his brothers for the past few months, and when you used to, you avoided them at all costs.

Keeping your head down whenever they happened to be in the neighborhood, pretending not to see them. It was just too awkward and tense to bear.

He moved to the back of the diner, choosing a booth in the farthest corner. The soft leather creaked as he slid into the seat, his movements deliberate, calm. He leaned back, one arm draped over the booth’s edge, his dark eyes scanning the room before landing on you.

Your stomach twisted. Of course, tonight had to be the night your coworker called out, leaving you alone on the floor. You briefly considered pretending not to notice him, hoping he’d leave, but you knew better.

Matt didn’t do things without purpose. If he was here, he wanted you to see him.

Your legs felt like lead as you grabbed a menu and made your way to his table. You smoothed your apron nervously, your fingers trembling slightly. When you reached him, you kept your gaze firmly on the laminated menu in your hands, refusing to meet his eyes.

“Welcome to Frankie’s Diner,” you say, your voice sounding steadier than you felt. “Can I get you started with anything?”

There was a pause—a heavy, charged silence.

“Just a slice of apple pie,” Matt said, his tone maddeningly calm.

You swallowed hard, nodding. “Okay. Apple pie. Got it.”

You take the menu from him, his fingers brushing yours as he hands it to you. The contact was brief, but it sent a jolt through you like a live wire. Your breath caught, and despite your better judgment, your eyes snapped up to his blue ones.

His gaze was intense, darker than you remembered, filled with something you couldn’t quite decipher. His eyes locked onto yours, and for a moment, it felt like the rest of the diner faded away.

He says your name softly, rolling off his tongue like a secret.

Your heart hammers in your chest, but you tear your eyes away, retreating a step. “I’ll, uh, get that pie for you.”

You turned quickly, hurrying back to the kitchen, your hands shaking as you reached for a plate and a slice of pie. What were you supposed to think? Of him being here, looking at you like that?

You forced yourself to take a deep breath before returning to his table. You set the plate down carefully, your eyes fixed on the dessert rather than him. “Here you go,” you said quickly, the words tumbling out.

Matt didn’t say anything, just gave a small nod. You didn’t wait for more, spinning on your heel and retreating to the counter, where you busied herself wiping down already-clean surfaces.

The tension in the air was suffocating. You could feel his eyes on you, even though you refused to look. Minutes stretched on, each one heavier than the last, until finally, the bell above the door jingled again.

You glanced up in time to see Matt walking out, the door swinging shut behind him. He hadn’t said goodbye, hadn’t even acknowledged you as he left.

You exhale, the tension in your chest loosening, though your heart still raced. You grabbed a rag and headed to his table, determined to erase any trace of his presence.

That’s when you saw it.

On the napkin, written in neat, bold letters, was a single sentence:

“Watch your back.”

Your breath caught, your hands trembling as you picked up the napkin. The words seemed to pulse with an unspoken warning… or maybe a promise.

You glanced toward the door, half-expecting him to be standing there, watching you. But the street outside was empty.

It wasn’t until later that night, when you were buried underneath the covers in your bed, your mind filled with unavoidable thoughts, when a memory from years ago reminds you of what Matt meant.

1980 – 8th grade

The sun hung low in the sky, painting the neighborhood in warm amber hues as you walked home from school with Nick, Matt, and Chris. The triplets flanked you like a wall of silent protectors, their backpacks slung casually over their shoulders.

It had been a long day, and your nerves were already frayed. The teasing had started in second period when Tommy Baker—the class clown turned into relentless tormentor—had decided you were his target. By the time the final bell rang, you were brimming with a mixture of frustration and humiliation.

As you turned the corner onto Maple Street, you saw them: Tommy and his group of friends, lounging against the chain-link fence near the old baseball field.

Your stomach twisted, but you squared your shoulders, determined not to show fear.

“Look who it is,” Tommy sneered as you approached. His friends snickered, their laughs grating against your ears. “Little Miss Know-It-All with her bodyguards.”

“Leave her alone,” Nick said sharply, stepping forward. His tone carried a warning, but Tommy only grinned wider.

“What, can’t she fight her own battles?” Tommy shot back, his eyes glinting with mischief.

Your cheeks burned. “I don’t need them to fight for me,” you said, your voice trembling slightly.

“Yeah?” Tommy smirked. “You sure? ‘Cause you look like you’re about to cry, princess.”

You clenched your fists, the weight of his taunts crashing over you. “Shut up, Tommy,” you snapped, surprising even yourself.

Tommy’s grin faltered for a moment, but then he leaned closer, his voice dropping to a mock whisper. “What’re you gonna do, huh? Cry some more? Maybe I should buy you a box of tissues.”

That was it. The dam broke.

“I hate you!” you shouted, tears streaming down your face. “One day, I’m going to get back at you, Tommy Baker, and you’ll regret ever messing with me!”

Tommy and his friends burst out laughing, the sound echoing in your ears like a cruel chorus. “Good luck with that,” Tommy said, his laughter turning mean. “You’re nothing but a little crybaby bitch.”

Before you could respond, Nick’s fist connected with Tommy’s jaw.

The sound was sickening—a dull thud followed by Tommy’s startled yelp. He staggered back, clutching his face, and the laughter stopped cold.

“Don’t you ever talk to her like that again,” Nick growled, his fists clenched at his sides.

Tommy’s friends jumped into action, shoving Nick and throwing punches at Matt and Chris, who immediately leaped to defend their brother. The fight was chaotic—grunts, shouts, and the crunch of sneakers on gravel filled the air.

Nick tackled Tommy to the ground, landing blow after blow until Tommy’s nose bled and his cries turned desperate. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” Tommy choked out, but Nick didn’t stop.

“Nick, stop!” you cried, your voice breaking.

Matt and Chris finally yanked Nick off Tommy, holding him back as he struggled to break free. “He deserves it!” Nick shouted, his face red with fury.

“Enough!” Matt barked, his voice cutting through the chaos. “He’s done. Let’s go.”

Tommy and his friends lay scattered on the ground, groaning and clutching their bruises. You could hear distant voices—neighbors, maybe even someone calling the cops.

“Run,” Matt said sharply.

Without a word, the four of you took off, your hearts pounding as you sprinted through back alleys and side streets until you reached the Sturniolo house.

Once inside, Chris led you to the couch, sitting beside you as you tried to catch your breath. “Are you okay?” he asked softly, his hand resting gently on your shoulder.

 You were lucky their parents weren’t home yet. They would’ve been upset that the four of you caused a scene, especially Jimmy. Their father was not a pleasant man when he was upset with the boys.

You nodded, though tears still streamed down your cheeks. “I didn’t want it to go that far,” you whispered.

Nick gave you a small, reassuring smile from the other side of the couch. “I know. But you don’t have to worry. We’ve got your back.”

Matt paced the living room, his face dark with frustration. “This is why you’ve got to be tougher.” he said, his voice firm but not unkind. “You can’t let people like Tommy walk all over you.”

You looked up at him, your lip trembling. “I tried to stand up to him, but—”

“But you didn’t finish it,” Matt interrupted. “We can’t always be there to protect you. One day, you might be on your own, and you’ve got to know how to handle yourself.”

Chris shot him a warning look. “Matt, come on—”

“No,” Matt said, his gaze locking onto yours. “I mean it. We’ll always watch your back, but you’ve got to watch your own, too.”

His words hung in the air, heavy with meaning. You nodded slowly, wiping your tears with the sleeve of your jacket.

“Good,” Matt said, his tone softening just slightly. “Now go clean yourself up. You’re stronger than you think. Don’t forget that.”

You glanced at Chris, who gave you a small nod of encouragement. Then you stood, heading to the bathroom to wash away the tears and the memory of Tommy’s taunts.

Your heart races as you recall the memory, panic seeping into your chest. Matt was warning you of something. That’s why he came into the diner, knowing that would be the only way you couldn’t avoid seeing or talking to him.

You try to sleep but feel restless, tossing and turning until the sunlight shines through your bedroom window.

"Watch your back."

With a deep breath, you slid out of bed and dressed for the day, choosing a soft sweater and a pair of worn jeans. It was early February in New York, and one of the warmer days since the beginning of the year.

 You pulled your hair back into a loose ponytail, avoiding your reflection in the mirror too long. The faint dark circles under your eyes betrayed the restless night you’d had.

A faint cough from the next room broke your thoughts. You peeked into your mom’s room. Your mother lay propped up on pillows, her fragile frame almost swallowed by the bedding. Her aunt sat by her side, spooning medicine into her mouth with practiced care.

“Heading out?” your aunt asked without looking up.

You nod. “Yeah, to the library. I’ll be back later.”

Your mother’s tired eyes opened slightly. “Be safe, sweetheart,” she murmured.

“I will,” you whispered back, leaning down to kiss your mother’s forehead. You gave your aunt a grateful look before slipping out of the room.

Downstairs, you grabbed your bag and slung it over your shoulder. Stepping outside, the crisp morning air greeted you, and you took a moment to steady yourself.

But your resolve faltered when you spotted them across the street.

The triplets stood in their driveway, leaning casually against a sleek black car. Even from a distance, their presence was magnetic, a force you couldn’t ignore.

Nick saw you first. His face lit up with a grin, and he lifted a hand in an enthusiastic wave.

Your heart skipped. You hesitated, then gave a shy wave back, keeping your head low as you started walking down the block. Maybe if you just kept moving—

Nick’s voice carried easily across the quiet street, shouting your name, and before you knew it, he was jogging toward you.

He slowed his pace but didn’t stop, not until he was right in front of you, his broad smile impossible to resist.

“Hey,” he said, slightly out of breath, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his leather jacket. “You’re really just gonna walk past us like that? Don’t tell me you’re gonna continue to ignore our entire existence for another 5 years?”

“I’m sorry, I.. I—” You falter, glancing briefly at the brothers still across the street. Chris stood with his arms crossed, watching you intently. His smirk was subtle, but it sent a flutter through your chest. Matt, as stoic as ever, took a drag from his cigarette, his dark eyes fixed on you with an intensity that made your skin prickle.

“I didn’t want to interrupt,” you finally said, looking back at Nick.

Nick chuckled softly. “Interrupt what? Us standing around being bored? Nah, you’d be doing us a favor.”

You smiled despite herself, Nick’s easygoing energy as disarming as it had always been.

“Listen,” he said, his tone turning slightly more serious. “We’re hosting our uncle’s birthday celebration tonight at the club downtown. You should come.”

Your eyes widened, and you instinctively shook her head. “Nick, I don’t think—”

“Don’t think,” he interrupted, grinning again. “Just say yes. I’ll call you a taxi, have it pick you up. You won’t even have to worry about getting there.”

You hesitated, your mind racing. “I don’t know, Nick. It’s been… a long time. Things are different now.”

“Not that different,” he said, stepping closer. His voice softened, his eyes earnest. “We miss you- I miss you. Just come, for old times’ sake. You’ll be safe. You know we’d never let anything happen to you.”

Your heart ached at his words, the sincerity in his tone tugging at your resolve. You glanced over your shoulder again.

Chris was still watching, his smirk deepening when your eyes met. It was a look that held a thousand unspoken words, and it sent a shiver down your spine. You quickly looked away, your gaze landing on Matt.

Matt’s expression was unreadable, his sharp features shadowed as he took another drag from his cigarette. The smoke curled lazily around him, but his eyes never left yours. There was something both infuriating and alluring about the way he stared, like he was daring you to refuse.

“So, what do you say?” Nick’s voice brought you back, his hand lightly brushing your arm.

You looked at him, his familiar warmth grounding you in a way you couldn’t explain. There was no denying how much you missed Nick… and Chris and Matt. You wondered how their mother was doing. Had their uncle completely changed them?

 From the way Nick spoke with such sincerity it made you doubt that.

With a sigh, you nodded.

“Fine,” you said quietly. “I’ll come.”

Nick’s grin returned, triumphant. “Good. I’ll take care of everything. The taxi will be outside at eight. Be ready.”

He squeezed your arm gently before turning back toward the driveway.

As he rejoined his brothers, you lingered for a moment, watching them again. Chris gave you a quick wink before Matt muttered something to him, his gaze still locked on you. You were too far away to hear what he said, but you felt the weight of his stare long after you turned and continued walking toward the town center.

Your steps were slow, your mind swirling with unease and anticipation. You told yourself it was just one night. One night wouldn’t change anything.

But deep down, you knew better.

read introduction here a/n: i just realized how dramatic this story actually is lol but i like it, hope u do too <3 also, i haven't seen it but if anyone has written this au before, pls let me know so i can give credit. divider credits : @bernardsbendystraws taglist requested ! : @watercolorskyy @matthewsturnsgf @ananskanansbsnwbensb

[gottencents]

013: a angel has fell in love [ Epilogue]

synopsis. SM Entertainment would’ve loved for FALLEN ANGELS and aespa to never share a stage — especially with Chanel possibly "corrupting" their prized “it girl,” Karina.

____________ ____________ ________ ____________

The sun had fully risen now, filling the room with a gentle warmth that contrasted with the quiet stillness between them. Chanel lay close to Karina, her body pressed gently against hers as they both soaked in the morning’s peaceful energy. The soft rays of light that spilled through the window caught on Karina’s dark hair, highlighting the delicate features of her face. Chanel watched her quietly, a sense of contentment washing over her as she admired the woman beside her.

Karina stirred slightly, her brow furrowing in that way that made Chanel smile every time she saw it. Slowly, her eyes fluttered open, and for a moment, everything else faded. Karina’s sleepy gaze met Chanel’s, and a tender smile formed on her lips—one that made Chanel’s heart skip a beat.

“Good morning,” Karina murmured softly, her voice thick with sleep but smooth nonetheless. Her voice, though still sleepy, held a warmth that made Chanel feel entirely seen and loved.

“Good morning,” Chanel whispered back, her voice no louder than the hum of the world outside the window.

The room was still, save for the quiet sounds of nature—a soft rustling of leaves, the distant hum of morning traffic, and the steady rhythm of their breathing. It was a moment suspended in time, neither rushed nor forced. It felt intimate, electric in its simplicity, as though the air between them held some unspoken magic.

The night before had been special, just as Chanel had hoped it would be. She had spent hours preparing dinner—homemade dishes that were admittedly clumsier than she had anticipated, but Karina didn’t mind. It was the thought that counted, and in Chanel’s mind, it was perfect.

Every glance exchanged, every laugh shared, every quiet touch had deepened their connection in ways Chanel hadn’t expected. She found herself falling deeper into Karina’s presence, a feeling that wasn’t new but felt infinitely more significant with each passing moment.

Karina had been her usual effortlessly charming self—the way she smiled when she talked about the simplest things, how her voice softened when she laughed at Chanel’s dorky comments. It was those little things, those small quirks, that made Chanel fall harder with every passing second.

“Do you remember when we first started dating?” Chanel asked, her voice floating through the quiet air, breaking the stillness.

“Of course,” Karina replied easily, squeezing Chanel’s hand gently. “How could I forget? You were a mess.”

Chanel rolled her eyes playfully, giggling softly. “A mess? Really?”

“Yes, a cute mess,” Karina added with a smirk, tilting her head slightly as she looked at Chanel. “But you’ve always been my favorite kind.”

Chanel blushed, a quiet warmth settling deep within her chest. “You always know what to say,” she teased.

“It’s not hard when you’re the one I want to talk to all the time,” Karina said softly, brushing a strand of Chanel’s hair back behind her ear.

Chanel felt her heart swell with the sweetness of the moment. Her fingers traced slow circles on Karina’s hand, her touch gentle. “You know,” she began hesitantly, “I wasn’t very good at this before.”

“At what?”

“Being in a relationship,” Chanel admitted with a soft laugh. “I used to think that love was supposed to be this grand, overwhelming thing—like it’s supposed to sweep you off your feet or something. But it’s not. Not with you, anyway.”

Karina studied her carefully, her expression gentle and understanding. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Chanel said slowly, “I thought love was supposed to be these big moments, these huge gestures that scream ‘look at me.’ But with you… it’s the little things that matter more. It’s waking up next to you, or the way you smile when you catch me staring. It’s those moments that make me feel whole.”

Karina’s gaze softened, and she pressed a light kiss to Chanel’s temple. “You’re perfect just as you are, Chanel. Every part of you.”

Chanel let out a soft sigh, leaning into the kiss. “Thank you,” she whispered, her voice trembling slightly.

Karina pulled back slightly, a small smile playing on her lips. “So,” she started, her voice laced with amusement, “are we just going to sit here being sappy, or do I get a proper good morning kiss?”

Chanel couldn’t help but laugh, the sound bubbling out of her naturally. “You’re impossible,” she said playfully.

“Come on,” Karina said softly, leaning in again. Her lips brushed lightly against Chanel’s in a tender, lingering kiss—slow and deliberate, conveying the depth of her emotions in a way that words never truly could.

Chanel’s breath hitched, her hands resting lightly on Karina’s cheeks. It was simple, and yet it spoke volumes. Every second felt like time was slowing down, every touch amplified by the quiet intimacy they shared.

When they finally pulled away, their foreheads rested together, and the space between them felt sacred. “I love you,” Karina whispered, her voice barely above a breath.

Chanel smiled, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. “Forever,” she whispered back.

The sun was beginning to set, casting a warm, golden glow over their small apartment. Chanel moved around the kitchen, humming softly to herself as she finished preparing dinner. Karina lounged on the couch, scrolling through her phone, but her attention was always on Chanel, her heart full with every small, tender movement.

“You’ve been humming that same tune for like, an hour,” Karina teased, setting her phone down on the coffee table.

Chanel giggled, glancing over her shoulder with a playful smile. “It’s the only thing that fits the vibe,” she said, stirring the sauce on the stove.

Karina tilted her head, watching her with that soft, affectionate gaze that Chanel had come to love so much. “What vibe is that exactly?”

Chanel smiled, her eyes crinkling with warmth. “The ‘I’m cooking for my amazing girlfriend’ vibe.”

Karina couldn’t help but laugh at her dorky little declaration. “You’re too cute, babe,” she murmured, crossing the room to stand behind Chanel. She wrapped her arms around Chanel’s waist, pulling her close for a gentle hug.

Chanel leaned back into her, letting out a content sigh. “You deserve all the cute things,” she said softly.

Karina pressed a kiss to the side of Chanel’s head, the touch lingering longer than usual. “You’re way too sweet for your own good,” she whispered.

As the dinner settled on the table, the atmosphere in the room became more intimate. They talked quietly about their day—small moments from work, silly interactions, and future plans. There was no rush, no pressure to fill the silence with anything but their shared presence.

After they finished eating, Chanel grabbed a blanket from the living room, draping it over their laps as they sat side by side on the couch. The soft hum of a favorite playlist played quietly in the background, creating a cozy ambiance.

“Do you ever think about how different things were a year ago?” Karina asked, breaking the comfortable silence.

Chanel gave her a soft smile. “All the time,” she admitted. “It feels like we’ve grown so much together.”

Karina intertwined their fingers, giving Chanel’s hand a gentle squeeze. “You’ve helped me grow too,” she said quietly. “I never imagined feeling this way, and now I can’t imagine not feeling it.”

Chanel squeezed back, her heart full of warmth. “You’re everything I didn’t know I needed,” she murmured.

A shy smile tugged at Karina’s lips as she leaned in slightly, her eyes locked on Chanel’s. “I love you, you know.”

Chanel’s breath hitched for a moment. “I know,” she whispered, her voice catching. “I love you too, Karina.”

There was a pause between them—just a quiet, intimate moment where time seemed to stop. Karina tilted her head slightly, her lips brushing softly against Chanel’s. It wasn’t rushed, it wasn’t frantic—it was gentle, tender, full of meaning. Chanel melted into the kiss, her heart pounding gently in her chest as everything else faded away.

When they pulled back slightly, their foreheads pressed together, Karina whispered, “You’re my home.”

Chanel smiled, her eyes shining with affection. “And you’re mine.”

The evening stretched on, filled with small touches, shared laughter, and conversations that flowed effortlessly. They didn’t need anything grand—just the simple presence of one another was enough. And as the stars began to peek out through the window, Chanel felt a warmth settle deep in her chest.

They were exactly where they were meant to be.

____________ ____________ ________ ____________

Taglist ( closed ) : @saysirhc @awkwardtoafault @yjiminswallet @gtfoiydlyj @1luvkarina @womanl0ver @hazel-tanthamore22 @deuxae @arihiu @spidrgamer @goofymickeyr

[apricitae-world]

BASHFUL DAWN

Xavier is exhausted after fighting against Soren and reliving his past. You try to help. [XAVIER X READER FLUFF]

THIS POST CONTAINS: Xavier X gender neutral reader, angst, fluff, Xavier is implied to have self-esteem issues, talking about feelings, cuddling and snuggling, my take on "Voyage of the Outcast" story chapter.

Enjoy.

BASHFUL DAWN

After the report of the college incident and the device left by Soren, Xavier had been missing from your life. The last day you two spoke seemed like a dream now, when he promised he would tell you everything.

Xavier always lies. Bile rises to your throat right after you wake up in the morning, plagued by the memories of your (boy)friend. Even though Xavier lived literally on the floor above yours, it seemed an invisible wall had been put between you.

You knocked on his door the following afternoon, but no response. You hadn't seem him in the Hunters Association for work either, Captain Jenna's brow furrowed in concern, but brushing it off like a "well earned rest". When you left the apartment to feed the stray cat, there was already a bowl of food in its telltale place. You visit Philos, inquiring poor Jeremiah to where his friend might have been. The man was sweating cold, saying he didn't know. Things reaching a breaking point when you visited your garden, the one you saved from a Wanderer oh so long ago.

It really felt like he was gone from your life, barely any signal of life to say he was there at all.

After a few days of trying to pick yourself up (Tara truly was a wonderful friend to hear your rants and watch your comfort movies), you see a familiar bedhead leaving a convenience store with five bowls of hotpot in hand.

"Xavier?" His lustrous blond hair was now matted and lifeless. His blue, shiny eyes did not reflect any light anymore, and his lovely white sweater, the one you stole and wore so many times, was almost falling from his shoulders.

He looked terrible.

"Hi." He says, still not meeting your gaze. You wanted to yell, scream, grab him by his arms and ask where the hell he has been. Even so, seeing him like this made your anger deflate like a sad balloon. "Are you okay?" You ask.

Xavier lifts his head, shocked. Guess he wasn't expecting that reaction either. "I was the one who ghosted you. I'm the one who is supposed to be making amends." He concludes and falls silent again. "I'm sorry. I keep messing up."

This version of your lover was nothing short of terrible. You had never seem him look so defeated. "Why didn't you reply to me texts? My calls? I dropped by your place so many times." Street lights and car honks were all around you, but you coudn't find yourself to care. In fact, your world seemed just too quiet.

"Let's go to my place. I guess I owe you an explanation." No more words were exchanged during the walk, and maybe you prefered it that way. The last thing you want is to make a fuss in front of the whole building.

The inside of Xavier's apartment was messy. Some dirty dishes here and there, unfinished books scattered around and no calm music playing. His trustworthy cleaning robot, the one he would not stop talking about a while back, layed gathering dust in a corner. The entire place seemed pretty much unrecognizable.

Xavier put some water to boil for his hotpots and sat beside you on the fluffly couch. "The first thing I should do is apologize. No one should go missing like that, especially after what we went through." You hum. A sign for him to keep going. "I tought things would be better if I tried to solve them by myself. No matter what, I want you to be safe. And happy."

"What makes you think I don't want to be part of this? Of finding things out with you?" You squish his face gently between your hands. He goes limp in your hold, content. "It's dangerous, and I don't even know if my plan will work at all."

"If you tell me what the plan is, then I can help you." You say matter-of-factly and raise a brow. Xavier's face scrunches and he laughs. His voice was a little hoarse, but beautiful as always. How you missed that.

"What do I have to say to make you understand we are in this together? Don't think you're getting rid of me so easily." He closes the distance between you, holding all of your body close against his. "I would never want to get rid of you."

Your lovely silence was interrupted by the sound of metal clanking against each other and the smell of something burning. "Xavier! The water for the hotpot!" You both look at each other with newfound horror before sprinting to the kitchen.

Some things never change.

-

The hotpots were delicious, even if you scolded him for eating instant food for a week straight. You both made a promise to clean the apartment on the following day and start putting things in order. Slowly.

"Thank you for being here. And not being mad." You think a little before replying. "I am mad, I won't deny. But I also like you a lot and don't want to lose what we have. If you promise me to be more open about what you want and what you need, we'll be alright."

"Okay. I'll try." Xavier takes a deep breath. "I love you." Thank goodness your boyfriend didn't have a phone right now, because your face was priceless: eyes open and mouth agape. "I love you too."

You two end up sharing a bed that night. His room was messy like the rest of the house, but you promised to fix it in the morning. As so, all the lights were turned off and you hugged Xavier from under the covers. Everything seemed alright in the world.

When the sun arrived the next morning, you two were still holding each other close. No matter how dark the night, there would always be stars to guide the way, and the morning would surely arrive. You hold Xavier a little tighter and drift back to sleep.

WOULD YOU LIKE TO REQUEST A FANFIC, DRABBLE OR FANART? TRY TIPPING ME ON KO-FI! IT HELPS ME BRING MORE CONTENT LIKE THIS IN THE FUTURE:

[in-a-faith-forgottenn-land]

i feels so bad and guilty today bc i didn’t do any chores around the house today

[moghedien]

ok but as a white person who grew up in a rice eating culture (Cajun), hearing other white people who didn’t grow up eating rice often talk about rice is sometimes the most maddening/insane experience

[shit-people-probably-didnt-say]

Im so baffled by the Thanksgiving menu, why are there so many beans??