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uncouth-the-fifth · 1 year ago

Text

pythia, a supernatural rewrite. bloody mary, rough draft.

read it on ao3.

words: 6k notes: hi y'all! yes, you read that chapter title right - this is a little unconventional, but since I've unfortunately shifted hyperfixations and have drifted away from SPN, I thought I would post what I have for the next part of pythia. since I'm moving into resident evil land, I'm not sure if I'm going to come back to this fic—but I absolutely didn't want to leave you guys empty-handed!! I'm so so sorry that this fic will go unfinished (for now), and I'm so grateful to those who were along for the ride with me. I have so much love for all the people who motivated me through writing this fic. all of you are beyond kind!! and I hope you enjoy this dose of pythia content, featuring some of my notes and process-work, lol. I only had a few heavy chunks of the beginning written, but the prose for this chap (ironically) started to get into the meat of what I really wrote this fic for—psychic bullshit between reader and Sam. It was just too plain juicy to not share!! All of my spn fics will remain up, but if you keep up with me, expect lots of Leon Kennedy bullshit and tomfoolery. Again - thank you so much for your endless love and support, I had so much fun writing what I could of season one!! Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy this unfinished chunk of silly/ansty Christmas drama :)

EAU CLAIRE, WISCONSIN - Dec 21st, evening.

Sam drops the stack of glossy, brand-new legal pads into his lap, and flashes his brother a plain smile. “Thanks, Dean. I needed more of these.” From your spot seated on the living room rug, you twist your rings and wait for Dean’s witty reply. With all those notes you’re always makin', Sammy, I’ll hafta buy you some for New Years, too. You wait for him to make a crack about the gift he got Sam, something about diaries or his brother’s girly handwriting.

Instead, Dean shrugs, “Well, then there ya go.”

Voila. And with that, the feeble threads you’d tried to braid into a proper Christmas are cut. Without a word, your Mom picks up the little wooden jewelry case the three of you had thrifted her and recedes into the dark hallways of the house. Dean peels himself out of his seat to clean up. Sam sighs, picking at the plastic seal around his legal pads. Hilariously, this all plays out while Paul McCartney chimes about what wonderful Christmastime he’s been having from the radio in your kitchen.

Technically, you hadn’t just been celebrating Christmas. No, you managed to completely bomb both Christmas and the sacred Winter Solstice sabbat that the Proctors had been celebrating for a bajillion fucking years. The special sabbat that would have a real spiritual effect on you for the next couple months.

You’d given it a good ol’ college try. First, you’d painstakingly picked out gifts for the boys and your Mom. Good ass gifts, too, that you’d been hiding in your duffle since summertime. Hell, you’d been looking for the Eagles album you bought for Dean in tape form for at least two years. (Cool, Dean had said, half alive in his armchair after your chupacabra hunt in Illinois. He was at the ugly front end of a cold. He’d sniffled, Don’t have this one.) And knowing that this would be Sam’s first Christmas without Jess—the one person who had given him any kind of good holiday when he was away from home—you’d poured extra love into his gift, too.

He’d been begging you to read Frankenstein since high school, and you’d dodged it because sometimes books that pushed too far into the “classics” category could lose you. Mary Shelley got a little wordy at times. But you were a big girl with a big brain, so you’d read the whole thing for Sam… and annotated the whole thing for Sam…

He’d taken one look at your labor of love and murmured, “Good. Glad you read it.”

…Yeah. You had half a mind to check if he’d been replaced by a clone, hearing that. Fifteen-year-old Sam would have melted into a babbling, ecstatic mess if someone had carefully combed through one of his favorite books and shared their thoughts on it with him. Bare minimum, you figured he’d at least enjoy having his own copy of Shelley’s work. All his other books had been lost in the fire.

But you’d given the book to a Sam who was twenty-two, not fifteen. Fine. People changed.

The boys being a collective bummer was something you could deal with. Sam was always sullen around the holidays, and you couldn’t exactly be mad at Dean for being exhausted after a stressful hunt. But your Mom…

Beth used to make Yule her bitch. When you were a kid, come December 1st, the Proctor House could easily have been the center of all Wicca celebrations in the world. If working retail during the holidays tested one’s love for festive music, then the non-stop winter songs bouncing off Beth’s vinyl player would’ve made Santa beg to hear something else. Every room would gush with the smell of evergreen branches and holly. Your family’s altar, the home of all the love and joy for the season, would be lush with offerings and presents. The candles you lit as a family to welcome the light of the new year would glow in a neat row—your little silver candle, your mother’s tall red one… and the biggest. Your Dad’s.

Now, your Dad’s candle was tucked away with the rest of the unused decorations in the attic. From your spot on the floor, you couldn’t help but stare at your piss-poor excuse for a family altar. Beth hadn’t “had the time” to find the table runner your great-grandmother had embroidered just for that space. The small bouquet of mistletoe you’d brought sat pathetically on the wide, barren surface, framed by your family’s dollar-store candles: silver for you, red for Mom, and twin green candles for the boys.

It was stupid. Really, you shouldn’t have cared so much. You were almost twenty-five, and the older you got the less people cared about silly, trivial things like a single holiday out of the year. That was just a fact of life.

Still, an ugly ball of bitterness sat in your gut. She couldn’t have tried to decorate? Even out on the road, you’d still found ways to make today a little special for the people you loved. Did she really have such little strength left in her? You’d dragged the boys up to Wisconsin with you so your Mom didn’t have to be alone. Was it really that impossible, after eleven whole years without your Dad, to try and be happy?

Fuck this. Yule isn’t over yet. There’s still time for you to squeeze some life out of today, and you’re going to start straight at the source. You find your Mom in the kitchen, mindlessly swiping invisible crumbs off pristine counters. When she senses you paused behind her in the kitchen doorway, clutching in both hands the gift she got you this year, the radio suddenly needs to be toyed with. Then cleaned. There are gray strands in her hair that shine like tinsel in the low kitchen light.

“Hey,” you say, your voice bright and christmas-card perfect. “I don’t think I got to say thank you for the gift.” (You did. More than once already.) “It’s been a bit since I read this one.” The gift in question is your Dad’s second edition print of The Shining. It’s even older than you are, with soft, petal-thin pages that reek of that wonderful old book musk. Rolling the flexed and cracked paperback between your hands, your Gift automatically picks up the distant echo of the hands that had touched these pages when they were new.

When you were little, you’d always found it kind of strange that your Dad considered this book his favorite. He was a sweet, soft-spoken person, and the mental image of him indulging in uncensored horror novels didn’t mesh with the Ray preserved in your head. Having since grown up and read it for yourself, you understood that it was less about the gore of the Overlook and more about “the shine;” the array of psychic abilities that kept five-year-old Danny Torrance alive through the book.

Years of having book-club with Sam had trained you to form cultivated opinions about the stuff you read, but The Shining existed in a realm that made it hard for you to describe how you felt about it. See, you had Danny Torrance’s shine—on the same level, too, enough shine to power the decades of ghostly ballroom parties and mob conspiracies inside the Overlook for a century. Seeing your Gift put onto a page so nakedly and cinematically made you uncomfortable. Yet, feeling the weight of your father’s book in your hands, standing in the kitchen he hasn’t touched in a decade, you know that it must’ve comforted him. Back then, surrounded by a psychic mother-in-law, girlfriend, and daughter, it would've been impossible to survive without a little shine of his own. You’re sure that your Dad's Gift was faint and unimpressive next to the psychic blackholes of your Mom and Grandma. Just enough to know if you’d skinned your elbow or had a nightmare. On the days that you came home from school tear-streaked and ruddy-faced, Dad would be waiting on the porch with soup.

You can still feel the faint psychic imprint of one of his whiskery kisses on your face. You don’t have many vivid impressions of him left to feel; none that haven’t been rubbed again and again, like the hollow of a fingerprint smoothed into the face of a rock over time.

Your Mom gives a non-committal hum at your attempt at conversation. Not because she doesn’t care—you can feel how much she cares from across the room—but because she’s tired. Adult Tired, like when she’d turn down your pleas to play together as a kid. Not tonight, baby. Momma’s exhausted.

“Mom,” you say, sounding as glossy and clean as a brand-new cookie tin. You open your mouth to say more, maybe to start in on one of your long-winded book-rants that had everyone wondering where Sam had suddenly appeared from. You know the answer, but you ask anyway, “This was one of Dad’s favorite books, right? I vaguely remember him talking about the hedge animals.” Beth accidentally hits a button as she’s dragging a rag over the shiny front of the radio, forcing Paul McCartney to have yet another wonderful Christmastime. She doesn’t look at you.

“Yup. But you knew that already, honey.”

C’mon. Nothing? She won’t even throw you the smallest, most pathetic olive branch? A psychic battle occurs. You get so frustrated all at once that your throat closes up, and that frustration balloons out into your family kitchen like the expansion of a bomb. You push. There is no give. The bubbling stormcloud of grief and loss hanging around Mom is there, then it’s not. The side of the kitchen your mother stands on is suddenly a void of absolute nothingness, empty of any feeling whatsoever, good or bad. She’s cutting you off from reading her—and protecting herself from your explosive emotions, as per usual.

Beth keeps cleaning the radio, her back to you.

Your rage bubbles out of you all at once. One day! One day out of the entire fucking year, the day your Dad always made special, and she can’t even pull herself together for that. You know you should be a good daughter and empathize with the woman who made you, but you’ve been a good daughter about this since you were twelve years old. Eleven Yules have gone by since your Dad passed. Just for one measly moment, you want to talk about him like he’s not a corpse rotting in the living room.

And the worst part is that Mom knows that. She’s known you’ve felt that way all day, a slow-bubbling pot building to a boil across the room. The two of you can always feel each other. You’re the only two who can; she’s the only other radio tower that can receive your station in its purest quality, and yet she has the gall to shut all her signals down.

“Fine!” You burst out, making the conversation physical.

It should feel good to yell, really. After the slow, ungratifying day you’ve had, you’ve been a shaken soda bottle waiting to implode. Instead, since you’re the crazy person yelling at nothing for no reason in the kitchen, your anger booms out of you and fizzes out in the same breath like a faulty firework. Fine. Fuck all of this. If you can’t beat em’, join em’. If everyone’s determined to rot the day away, then you’ll go wallow in self-pity the Proctor-Winchester way, too. Merry fucking Christmas, and a happy fucking Yule.

There is no satisfying door to slam on your way out of the kitchen. You take a sharp right down the front hall, hoping to veer up the stairs and slam your feet down on every single step up to your room. If your Mom wants to live forever in the year your Dad died, by all means—you’ll even bring home your thirteen-year-old self and her childish tantrums, just for time-accurate ambiance. Sam’s standing frozen just outside the kitchen archway, and you catch his deer-in-headlights look as you go peeling around the corner. You’re still keyed up with enough lashing rage to spare, so seeing him, just as hollowed-out and not there as your Mom, only feeds your pyre.

As you get to work thoroughly stomping the staircase to death, you hear him go into the kitchen and ask Beth about soup for Dean’s sore throat.

Upstairs is even more painfully quiet. Through the floor, Paul McCartney muffles down to a cheery mumble. All old houses shift around a little, but yours settles like it's alive, clicking, creaking, swaying. You don’t look at the portraits of Proctor women up the stairwell. The dusty grandfather clock in the hall watches you with its stained glass face, and you’re so lost in your own head—

—and Dad’d be so pissed we didn’t decorate the altar or listen to the Tull Christmas album, he’d riot, he’d talk some sense into her—wouldn’t think any of this is stupid— —that you don’t hear it when it chimes. Muscle memory plants you right in front of your bedroom door. Having a good cry under the covers sounds like a perfect end to the night, right? And yet you stop. Your hand drops on the knob and stays there, unmoving. Maybe it’s your Gift, or good old-fashioned human instinct knowing when something in the home has been nudged two inches to the left, but the air in the hall tastes staler than usual. A draft? Your gaze is pulled all the way down to the opposite end of the hall, where the untouched, stately storage room door is ajar.

Your Mom probably left it open. Maybe she’d gone in there to hunt around for all the heirloom Yule decorations, only to rediscover Dad’s football memorabilia or Dad’s engraved cigarette case and go bolting out of the room. —everything’s different without him, Sam and Mom and Dean too. So am I. Everything’s twisted—without him— Still riding the whirlwind, you stomp from one end of the yellowing, starry zodiac carpet (Aries) to the other (Pisces), the floorboards squeaking under your weight. You push the door and it goes shuddering into the darkness. This was one of many rooms in the house that Mom had banished you from as a kid, mostly as a way to shoo you away from the hunting world. It’d given you this insatiable fascination with it as a result, but when you tug the chain to turn on the closest lamp, what it illuminates doesn’t come close to the spectacular stories you’d made up in your head.

It’s just a room. It has windows and shelves and old things, some from your childhood, some from your Mom’s. Some from even further back than that. The closest fascinating thing is a shiny gold blob poking out of your baby things, which turns out to be Sam’s eighth-grade mathlete trophy. You had no idea what possessed Mom to come up here so often. There was no way she wasn’t in here at least a couple times a week; the tall metal storage shelf where she immortalized your Dad’s things was never dusty, and yet the whole room reeked of rotting books and insulation. You shove the box with Sam’s trophy aside with your foot until it skids out of your way, and then send the heavy door shut behind you with a wall-shaking bang.

A flurry of dust hails down from the ceiling. You cough through the cloud, wandering in your blindness towards the neat row of plastic storage tubs labeled with your Dad’s name. Clothes. Misc. Books. Maybe that’s where Mom had gotten your new copy of The Shining from, halfway through one of her sacred meditations over Dad’s things. You drop a hand onto the cold lid of the tub. Nothing, not even the slightest psychic imprint, reaches back.

What is she even holding onto anymore? You try the clothes next. The rounded corners of this bin have been scuffed gray from how many times it’s been pulled off and then pushed back on its shelf, again and again. The case feels as lifeless to you as it would for anyone else, but you try your luck and slide it out onto the floor. It comes loose with a solid thud.

When you were old enough, Beth would sometimes send you up into this room to grab things (spell ingredients, books you didn’t keep downstairs). You would run full-tilt right up until you hit the storage room door, then pass inside like a stranger in a dangerous realm, watching where you stepped and always, always keeping your Dad’s shelf in the corner of your eye. On brave days you would pick up his silvery cigarette case and roll it between your palms. It grew harder and harder to feel him each time, the ghost of him whittled down like a rock made round by the current of a river.

When you crack off the lid, you expect some kind of smell. You don’t remember what he smelled like, but you have a few guesses—cheap, vanilla-sweet aftershave, or maybe the woody stale smell of cigarette smoke you know you shouldn’t love. Maybe both. It doesn’t really matter. The neatly folded stacks of your Dad’s old shirts and jackets don’t smell like a damn thing. You dip your face into a holey band-shirt with the sleeves scissored off, but all that comes back to you is the rotten smell of dusty insulation. He’s here—he’s right here in front of you, right in your fucking hands, and yet the whole world is dead of him. You can’t sense even a sliver of him left.

The same old reservoir of despair pushes and pushes at your composure, wiggling through your cracks, widening them with a hundred thousand tons of pressure bearing down on you a minute. It is a day by day task to handle the reservoir. You like to think you’re good at handling it, at patching the cracks as they come and letting them breathe when the moment calls for it. But when you lift your face from the bin, the leak springs—really, genuinely springs, like it hasn’t in years.

You fall back onto your haunches, swallowing back sudden stinging tears. The bin and its askew lid go shrieking back onto the shelf with a lash of your foot.

The music downstairs stops. You can’t tell how long it’s been.

When his death was fresh, and you were stuck deep, deep within the reservoir, you’d wondered if it would always feel this way. It got easier, right? And in many ways it had—on most days you could talk about your Dad without it hurting, letting the dam’s water run. The battle was still there, but it was a burden you were proud to carry if it meant his memory lived on in you. He would want you to be happy, your Mom used to urge. So you gave being happy your best shot, loving and giving as much as you could.

That’s what frustrated you so endlessly about your Mom. She’d been right; your Dad would’ve wanted the two of you to move on, and yet she still entombed herself in the bottom of her reservoir far too often. There was no release, no acceptance with her. The dark part of you that wanted to pass blame wondered if this was all because of John, and how well Winchester grief happened to mingle with a Proctor’s. How would your mother’s life be different, if the evil that’d taken Dad hadn’t been put down a week later? Would she be just as hellbent? With your knees sore from pressing into the floor, you knew the answer. You knew if the thing that’d taken Sam or Dean from you was right in front of you, you’d chase it until you were in your own grave. You knew that even after it was dead, you would be digging your nails into the backseat of the Impala and clawing for every psychic molecule of them left in the leather.

And that’s what scared you—was she just going to be chasing Dad forever, til’ there wasn’t a wisp of him left in the world to feel?

Something dawns on you, thudding through your mind like a rock dropped down a chute. With limp hands, you slide The Shining towards you on the worn wood floor, part the pages with your thumbs, and press your nose into the binding. There’s the smoky, earthy scent of old paper first… then something just underneath the surface that no one but you and your Mom can pick up.

Old books. Yes. Yes, that’s what Dad had smelled like.

You’re seated on the floor of the storage room, back pressed to one of the ancient metal shelves holding up your gramma’s VCR collection, when a blot of the future is tossed at you. Cheap deodorant and lemon cough drops.

Around a minute later, the stairs beyond the door squeak under someone’s weight. Even without the roulette glimpse of the future, you can tell by the footfalls who it is. Heavy knuckles rap the door and come straight in without waiting for an answer. Behind him, the silence of the rest of the house is even heavier.

You try to sound like a reasonable adult, but the mopey teenager slips out anyway. “Thought you were sick, Dean.”

He artfully dodges your point. (Dean is, after all, a master of the craft.) You don’t look back at him, but the lemon cough-drops glimpse you got of him creates a clear picture: Dean’s whole body listing into the door frame, one hand on the knob, his face lacking its usual color. His cheeks have graduated from stubbly to scruffy, neglected. “Hey,” he says. It’s the, okay, you’re done cooling down, let’s have a grown-up conversation kind of hello.

You don’t know what to say back. You’re not sure if you can have any kind of conversation right now.

Dean rolls with it, trying to decide if this silence is begging for a subject change or a heart-to-heart. You’re not sure what he goes for when he says, “I had an idea.” “Did it hurt?” You joke. Jokes you can do.

There’s his opening. After a beat, you’re—

—fucking lobbed with a foam football. Like you’re fucking twelve. Dean’s throw arcs straight towards your head and bounces clean off the top, a perfect spiral. You yelp in outrage, and before you can think you’re following where the stupid ball went so you can clock him right in the face with it. Asshole. It loop-de-loops on the floor around an old dining chair, and you clamber on your knees to fish for it.

Just when you get the toy in your hands and you’re about to demolish him with it, Dean ducks behind the doorway, chuckling, “Woah! No face shots! You wouldn’t bash a poor, sick guy’s face in, would’ja?”

God. You can’t fucking believe him. If anyone else did that…

You lower your hackles and drop the foam toy into a basket, far out of reach of congested troublemakers. When his shining eyes appear in the slit of the doorway again, your cheeks are aching with an impossible smile. “You’re lucky it’s Christmas, loser. What is it?”

Dean hesitates a moment more, just in case you’ve got something else to throw at him, then joins you in the storage room with the evil little oily smile you love. The same dust cloud that got you earlier descends on him in a rough coughing fit, but this lets him get a good look at the little mess you’ve made: the book on the floor, your Dad’s things open and askew. When he clears his throat for the last time, he looks pained.

For your sake, you pretend it’s an empathetic kind of pained. And you know that’s a part of it—Dean doesn’t enjoy seeing you and your Mom like this. But it’s an unfortunate fact of your life that you will have four times as much context for him than he will ever have for you. Just breathing the same dusty air as him, you know he’s been nursing a sinus headache since Monday, one that’s made his head feel like it’s chock-full of stuffing, and that Sam made him canned chicken noodle soup—and at first he felt a little smug making Sam play nurse, until he stewed on it more and—

—hate it when he gives me that dead-eyed look, like he can’t even pretend to care anymore. Like he’s just dragging himself through this for our sake. Poor kid scares the shit outta me. Is this how it’s always gonna be? Sammy aching over her, night after night after night—

You know just touching the bins holding your Dad’s things that on a icy February afternoon in 1994, fifteen-year-old Dean had picked up the plastic tubs for your Mom from the store.

So when he gives you that pained look, you know it’s part-concern, part-fear. If this is what you look like eleven years after your Dad’s passing… if John never comes home from his hunting trip, is this what Dean will become? The loyal son, waiting and waiting on that porch for a man who would never come home?

Your whole life, you’ve felt like you were becoming more and more like Dean; lately, it feels like he’s becoming so much like you. Your last four years on the road together had slowly but surely melded you together.

“Okay, so, Yule’s a fire festival, right?” Dean grasps around in his memory for the yearly history lesson your Mom gives about the Wicca calendar. “Uh, we lit candles… I thought about burning Beth’s Muppet Christmas CD with my lighter a couple times. That’s about all the fiery, burny-stuff we did today.”

“I love the Muppets Christmas album,” you pout.

“After the millionth partridge in John Denver’s goddamn pear tree, you’d change your mind,” Dean swears. “But I was thinkin’—we got the firepit in the backyard, marshmallows, and I think I could put together some vodka shots. Then we can blow em' out and eat em' with the s'mores.” Your eyebrows raise. Only he, of all people, could take your sacred family traditions and twist them into such a wonderful, stupid-ass thing. Maybe it’s ridiculous, but… there is chocolate and graham crackers downstairs… and with how cold it is outside, a fire would be perfect… It’s the best blend of weird Proctor-Winchester traditions you need to save Christmas and Yule. Dean takes your silence as glowing awe. “Exactly. I told you, I'm a fuckin' genius. Helluva way to start the wiccan year, right? You in?”

You’re well aware that this is an elaborate plan to coax you away from your moping. Still, it’s just too Dean to turn down. “...Hell yeah.”

At first R hopes that it’s just her and Dean, and that Sam and Beth keep their grief to themselves. But then she realizes how cruel and selfish she’s been—everyone grieves in their own way, and just because she works through it by talking about it doesn’t mean it will work for everyone. It’s not good that Beth is holding on so tightly to her loss, but that doesn’t mean R wants to leave them out.

Lead this into a touch of psychic!Dean and how he has a teeny tiny second sense for what she needs, just like her Dad did. Just enough shine to get by.

R and Dean come downstairs and invite Sam and Beth to their campfire 😀

Or, at the very least, all the psychic happenings in the house echoing between them; if Dean's sharper instincts were as psychically heavy as a shadow falling on grass, then Sam's Static was six feet of snow in an arctic blizzard.

It tingles all the way up to your shoulder when Sam touches you. And that, oh, that was a whole new can of worms. As they get dressed for the snow outside and assemble the s'mores and flaming shots, you try not to head down that train of thought again.

Every time you’ve glanced at Sam these past few weeks, you’d been unable to hide from what you’d sensed there—from what you’d seen in the demon, and what you now knew to be completely and utterly true after reading its mind.

Sam had It. The Gift, the Shining, whatever the fuck you wanted to call it. Not the vague imprint of psychic-ness from loving one or sharing the Impala with one for four years; full-on, unlatched, REDRUM, I-saw-it-before-it-happened psychic abilities. In the weeks you'd had to sit with that revelation, you'd poked carefully at Sam from afar. Obviously, you knew what a fucking psychic felt like. The five-year-old Sam who'd cut Dean's gum out of your hair had not been psychic. Yet this Sam, twenty-two with three-fourths of an ivy league law degree under his belt, was as psychic as a fucking—well. You. He was just as psychic as you.

Without even a sliver of the same control or even understanding of—of what he had, yes, but you were confident that if Sam was pushed, he could reach into your mind just as easily as you could reach into his. There had been a shift, then. At six, having gum cut out of your hair, you had been decidedly less psychic than you were at twenty-four. So Sam had gone through the Proctor Rite Of Passage; some terrible moment had cut him deep, deep enough to pull a new kind of blood to the surface. After Jessica, he had been... yeah.

It was fucking crazy. And yet it also slotted perfectly into some of the weirder things you understood about Sam; about who he was now and the vague, strobing flashes you got of his future. It freaked you the fuck out. Did Sam know? Did anyone know, besides you? Had your Mom recognized that spark in Sam, the same way she'd seen it in you? Had John?

And the plain existence of the Gift in Sam begged the question—why? Had he just happened to drop from the tree as a different kind of apple? Or was this something you could trace back to his mother, the same way it traced back to yours? Had Mary…?

The implications of that took pretty much everything you understood about Sam and Dean’s life, lined it up on the chopping block, and cleaved it in two. Needless to say, thinking about it made you sick. How could you even begin to bring this up to them?

You cursed your abilities with all you had. There were nights when you sat on the bathroom floor, wishing you could dig in with your nails and rip out whatever had put It in your head. Never in a billion fucking years would you have wished It upon anyone else; especially not Sam, good, selfless, wonderful Sam, who already ached so deeply for other people. Seeing their future, too? And even more often, seeing it and being helpless to change it?

He used to cry over squashed spiders as a kid. You'd felt a whole lot more than just spiders die.

…Beside that shuddering horror was another, far more selfish feeling. As scary as the implications could be, when you thought less about the Winchester family and more about your relationship with Sam, you were… excited. Relieved, even.

There were only four people in the entire world that you could share your Gift with. One of them has been six feet under for over a decade. Your Gift was a clingy, possessive creature, too. It was maybe two steps shy of being an eldritch horror. It poked through Dean’s dreams when you slept beside him, sucking them up like cigarette smoke. It breathed down Sam’s neck wherever he went. If you wanted, no one could lie to you—all punchlines and stories were spoiled for you, you knew when people found you annoying or pretty or stupid. If that particular Proctor gene had skipped you, then maybe you’d be able to form relationships with people where you didn’t immediately, intrinsically understand who they were and why. Dean would say, You need a drink. You would know without asking that he meant, You scare the ever-living hell out of me n’ I know I can’t hide it from you. Fucking hell, kid, I wish I could.

You knew you were a freak. The tiny human vessel for the lashing, bubbling, soul-melting, cosmic weight of a star about to bloom into a black hole. Only your mom would ever understand what it felt like to exist on the fringe of time, between the exhaustive influence of the past and the vast, spotty expanse of the future. You were a tool to men like John; an anomaly for men like Bobby; and a responsibility to men like Dean.

But Sam… Your best friend Sam, he’d always tried to understand. Maybe he’d never fully get it, but the point was that he tried to. You remembered sitting with him on the curb outside your old high school, the concrete thrumming with music from the junior prom you’d both left behind inside.

How either of you had gotten dates was a miracle. You, the class weird-freak-emo punchline, and Sam, on his fourth round being the new kid that year, were two peas in a pod. Your date had never picked you up; Sam’s had escaped with her friends long before their first dance. Neither of you were very broken up about it.

The future had sprawled in front of you that night as clear as could be. You must've sat and talked on the curb for three straight hours, pressed together at the hip with Sam’s blazer around your shivering arms.

He was always beautiful in the boy-next-door kind of way, dimples popping with every good smile and freckles rising out of the too-short sleeves of his button-up. But that night he’d been fucking Helen of Troy, and the roar of the past and future slowed to a halt around him.

Do you really see the future all the time? Every second? Sam had curiously tilted his head, sending a gleaming swish of chocolatey hair out of his eyes.

Swallowing hard, you’d hesitated, Not every second. But a lot, yes.

Again, the head tilt, then the swish. His gaze was innocent and intrigued. No existential dread, no sweeping sense of fear. Just plain curiosity. Not even morbid curiosity. Sam had asked, What about right now?

Sam’s cologne—oh god, his cologne—was steaming off his borrowed jacket and floating around your head in a wonderful rosy fog. You’d poked at the future. Sometimes things came back, sometimes they didn’t. That night, the future had come back tasting like Sam’s vanilla chapstick and junior prom punch, and your face had gone up in flames just sensing it. He’d waited for an answer. You’d blurted out the plain truth: In a minute or two, you’re gonna kiss me.

This kind of absolute, unshakable certainty about the future had made other hunters’ blood run cold. You’d braced yourself for Sam’s displeasure or worse, his fear. But instead, there were those dimples again, and Sam had the gall to bat his lashes at you and delightedly ask, Really? That’s what the magic eight ball has to say?

His big hand had dropped onto your knee and you’d squeaked out a shrill, Signs point to yes!

Sam loved the stupid magic eight-ball joke. You could feel him smiling about it as he kissed you, kissed you, hand-on-knee, his face tipping down to yours, the shitty school punch staining his lips as the two of you connected. At fifteen and sixteen respectively, this was the first kissing that either of you had ever done. It’d been wetter and warmer than you’d expected, and Sam’s vanilla chapstick had left the slightest print on your mouth, one that your tongue swiped over obsessively for the next month. Your Gift had chased him for weeks after that, silently and invisibly swarming him every time he entered a room.

Back then, your mind had been on the Curse. But now, you thought about what had led to the kiss in the first place. Sam hadn’t kissed you on a night when your Gift had been crammed down deep where it could bother nobody but you. He’d instead chosen the precise moment where your Gift was most raw, one of Its fingers coming down from the sky to press against the pulse of the future. It was small, but at a time in your life when you’d wanted to claw your Gift out with your bare hands, Sam had gotten the smallest glimpse of It and had fallen in love.

You couldn’t help but see this thing inside him, his Static, and feel the exact same way. His powers were twisted and unavoidably demonic, and yet you kind of loved them. It made perfect sense to you. No one really understood you like Sam did. Now, it's clear why.

tags: @samssluttybangs @cookiemumster1 @lacilou @cevans-winchester @leigh70 @seraphimluxe @emily-roberts @emme-looou @aloneatpeace @williamstop @ornella0910 @chaoticshepardplaid @dakota-dream @lcvecstiel @goghkiss @spnexploration @stoneyggirl2 @urm0mmmbbg @mulattomoon @poeticsorcery @deansapplepie @rennydenny @babydollfoster @badlandsbrunette @hallecarey1 @pplanetcaravan @notanotherthembo

#uncouthspn #spn #supernatural #sam winchester #user uncouth #sam winchester x reader

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prpfz · 9 months ago

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🪼 hi !! i’m eighteen, looking for other eighteen plus writers, who are interested in a few different fandoms !! i exclusively write canon x oc double ups and can write almost anyone (with a few exceptions) for you !! i can write for mxm, fxf, and mxf !! but i only write the male role in mxf. nonbinary and genderqueer ocs & muses are very welcome !!

below is a list of fandoms i’m interested in atm, as well as preferred love interests !! i’m also very open to turning this into a mumu, where we have multiple plots and threads (whether they’re from the same fandom or writing many different ones) !!

haikyuu : tobio kageyama, shoyo hinata, asahi azumane, hitoka yachi, tetsuro kuroo, keiji akaashi, kotaru bokuto.

jujutsu kaisen : toji fushiguro, yuji itadori, kento nanami, maki zenin, yuta okkotsu.

my hero academia : izuku midoriya, shoto todoroki, tenya iida, ochaco uraraka, kyoka jiro.

one piece (live action or anime) : roronoa zoro.

twilight : charlie swan, carlilse cullen, alice cullen.

resident evil : leon kennedy, jill valentine, claire redfield, ethan winters.

please be comfortable writing dead dove and nsfw themes !! i have very few limits, with only a hard no to eds and pregnancy. preferred plot to smut ratio is 60:40 or 50:50. plots will likely include 🍪, non/dubcon, age gaps, incest, sacrilege, gore, heavy toxicity, and more !! i encourage darker plots and would love to write with someone who has few limits !! the more vile and debauched, the better !! we can definitely discuss both nsfw and dead dove concepts we’d like to include in private dms !!

lazy lit to novella responses, but i like having a short thread on the side for something more laidback !! i’m very flexible when it comes to reply length, so we can definitely discuss that together !! i don’t reply ic every day, and i do not expect you to either. while i’m usually very active ooc, please don’t harass me for replies !! i write on discord only. i’ll be making us a private server and including tupper, so please leave that to me !! i also have a google doc with a set of rules i’d like you to read over before plotting. this is just to make sure we’re on the same page !!

like this post and i’ll get back to you as soon as i can !! if you’re into talking ooc, making art, pinterest boards, aesthetics, playlists of our ocs, and generally being friends, please interact !! i’d love to actually talk to someone and gush about the roleplay together !!! <3

give a like and anon will get back to you

#dead dove #haikyuu roleplay #jujutsu kaisen roleplay #my hero academia roleplay #one piece roleplay #twilight roleplay #resident evil roleplay #fandom rp #fandom roleplay

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saxifactumterritum · 6 months ago

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Rules: you will be given a word. then you share one sentence/excerpt from your wip(s) that starts with each letter of your word!

Lynne tag me for FISHY. I have many wips I am all wip and no... Trousers...? Possibly not. Wait. STARTS WITH?! that is harder. Hm.

F - “For one thing it was quite late in winter, and there was no sun, golden or otherwise, to light as you thundered through on this supposed great war horse,” Arthur said, still murmuring.

[sir Leon lies telling a tall story by a fire and Arthur corrects him, with Merlin chipping in obligingly]

I - I tell Jeeves about the johnny I knew who kept a bear in his rooms, which turned out to be a dog who had eaten too many crumpets and got very large; Jeeves tells me about a dog he had met once in dark dread of night who turned out to be a bear escaping from a circus.

[from an Oxford-y Jeeves and Wooster thing involving getting roped into Ben Jonson gay plays]

S - She thinks it’s the reflection on the screen making things strange, making Dancing Rain lean forward too, and peer at her, too, back out of Glory at Su Mucheng sitting the training room, tilting her head when Su Mucheng tilts her head.

[Su Mucheng ends up in Glory/ghostish story/I kept forgetting what I was writing]

H - He’s knelt, threading his needle, Porthos is holding Athos’s arm, his body, he’s stood and bent oddly so Athos is pulled to him, his thigh bracketing him.

[Musketeers, a strange fallen down house, injury, portraits, you know]

Y - Yu Wenzhou throws a bottle of sweet tea at Huang Shaotian's head with a surprising amount of vehemence, Huang Shaotian just catches it and thanks him, as if it wasn't a projectile weapon but a nice gesture.

[I thought about different fandom for each letter but as lynne tagged me I did blue rain for the last one too it is from friendgenda napagenda hst and ywz tricking wjz into things fic so.]

I didn't see how many people I tag? I think i tag people. doing this made me realise how little I have actually interacted with anyone here for ages I know no people who aren't lynne. Ok well, I am gonna tag people who i don't rlly know/havent interacted with for ages if at all, so feel free to ignore but pls dont send murder clowns or smth cus it's just tumblr. @bienmoreau, @thepolomonkey, @logicgunn, I heard a short story today by @mslanna so have a tag ig. um, that is all the people i can think of. ppl change names and vanish i wish i noticed that.

#tag game #wips #I have started a new wip where ppl are fire fighters today <3 i know nothing about this profession i am making it up which is much more fu #also started a wip where they work in a university. I WENT to university a bit so I am therefore authority on this career.#Also started a wip where they r primary school teachers taking small children to panto cus i just did box office for panto so am now #authority on this also. I am deity of wips I just start new ones all the time #this is y i dont do tag games most of the time btw i am a rambler

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maccaronimassacre · 2 years ago

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New Resident Evil bots

Just finished another Detroit Become Human and another RE 8 playthrough (Definitely didn't cry again) and it gave me some inspiration for some more bots.

Android!Chris Redfield x Reader

You have just been deployed on a mission to stop the spread of B.O.Ws that have been created by the Umbrella corporation. Next to you is a RE500 unit known as Chris, an android sent to work alongside you during this mission. He looks at you curiously, his LED changing from blue to yellow as he looks you up and down. “I am detecting high levels of stress from you, {{user}}. Are you feeling nervous about this mission?” He looks at you blankly, waiting for a reply.

Chris Redfield x Reader

Your attention shifts away from the drink in your hand to the man who you’ve been stealing glances at all night approaching you. He sits beside you in the dimly lit bar. “Hey there, I couldn’t help but notice you were sat all alone so I thought I’d keep you company.” The man looks like he could tear you apart with his large frame and rugged look, but his smile seems so warm and inviting like a gentle breeze on a hot summers day. “Can I buy you a drink?”

Android!Ethan Winters x Reader

Despite your protests and constant arguments, your family decided to buy you an RE700 housekeeper android to quote on quote ‘Help you get your shit together’. You know that androids are quite common amongst households but you can’t help but find it mildly unsettling how life like they are. Especially with the way RE700 or ‘Ethan’ according to the CyberLife leaflet, is staring at you blankly as if waiting for you to give it some instructions.

Ethan Winters x Reader

A drink is placed in front of you, snapping you out of your daydream. You look at the drink curiously and give the bartender a quizzical look. ”It’s already been paid for by that guy over there.” They point to a man across the bar who is staring at you intently. His hazel eyes twinkle in the dim bar light as he nervously picks at a loose thread in his jeans. A light blush dusts his cheeks when you two lock eyes and he raises his drink, flashing a charming smile your way.

Tavern worker!Ethan Winters x Reader

When you step inside the tavern you’re greeted with the loud chatter of merchants and hunters alike, all sharing tales of their escapades and adventures over drinks. You make your way over to the front of the bar, spotting the barkeep who is listening to the conversations of patrons while serving up drinks. The barkeep’s eyes crinkle when he hears a particularly funny part of the story. His calloused hands wrap around the glass, tracing over every smooth edge as he meticulously cleans it.

Android!Leon Kennedy x Reader

You are sat at your desk, looking over the new reports that have been given to the police department when you notice the android staring at you blankly. You watch the LED on his right temple flicker to yellow as he looks at you, almost like it’s analysing you and your work station. You raise an eyebrow at him before remembering the lieutenant mentioning something about a new partner. Of course when your superior said partner you were expecting a human and not a machine.

Leon Kennedy x Reader

You catch his gaze from across the bar, ocean eyes flickering to yours while sipping his drink. His expression is almost unreadable with his hair falling in front of his right eye and his hands idly tracing the rim of the glass, but you can see a small smirk tug at his lips as the two of you continue to briefly lock eyes with one another. You can’t help but wonder if you should make the first move. Or should he be the one to do it?

Mercenaries!Chris Redfield and Leon Kennedy x Reader

You continue to serve drinks and make small talk with the patrons at the bar when the door swings open, revealing two mercenaries with a bit of blood on their outfits. The pair walk up to the counter, taking a seat at the bar. They laugh and begin sharing stories of their escapades and bounties that they completed in the past. The bounty hunter waves you over to order a drink.

Resident Evil Bot Masterlist

#ethan winters #resident evil #ethan winters x reader #chris redfield #leon kennedy #chris redfield x reader #leon kennedy x reader

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the-bar-sinister · 6 months ago

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Winter & Holiday Fluff 2024

Masterpost of all our xmas fics this year!

Cold Night, Warm Moment Resident Evil - Chrisker The 2am snowdrifts glowed orange under hazy streetlights. Wesker drove, and Chris sat in the passenger seat, the STARS squad car crunching over the newly fallen snow covering the street.

Charming and Disgusting One Piece - Dofcora He stroked his fingers over the thick threads. A pattern of hearts, and snowflakes, and the Donquixote Jolly roger. It was disgusting. It was charming. It knotted Rosi's stomach.

Earth Christmas Urusei Yatsura - Rei & Ten-chan Ten perked up further, and flew slow little guppy circles around Rei. "That's right, you don't know what Christmas is! It's an Earth holiday! Hey, forget Lum and stupid Ataru, do Christmas with me, do Christmas with me! There's food!"

Christmas Eve Eve Ace Attorney - Klapollo The call had come from Klavier late– the 23rd. Apollo told him that he already had plans for tomorrow. "If you're not busy now, then come over today!"

I Saw Yosuke Kissing Santa Claus Persona 4 - Souyo Junes gets a department store Santa, and Yosuke thinks he looks familiar.

Just For Tradition, Of Course Ace Attorney - Krisnix Kristoph dangles the mistletoe over Phoenix's head with a smug, superior look on his face

A Little Company for Christmas Resident Evil - Kennigan Ingrid and Leon don't have anyone to spend Christmas with that year, so they spend it together.

Snowed In Ace Attorney - Krisklav The first year they spent in Germany it snowed so heavily they were forced to stay inside for the entire holiday.

Familiar With the Concept One Piece - Dofuwani "I know you know what Christmas is," Doflamingo teases, looming over Crocodile with the sprig of mistletoe dangling from his fingers like a threat.

Those Old Office Parties Ace Attorney - Miego Diego gives Mia her present at the office Christmas party.

Holiday Plans Ace Attorney - Krispollo Kristoph surprises Apollo at the office.

Blood on the Snow One Piece - Dofpica Pica tries to comfort Doffy on the Christmas after the incident with his brother.

Back in Town Persona 1 - Naoyuki Yukino meets up with Naoya when he comes back to Tokyo on Christmas Eve.

Merry Christmas, Doflamingo! One Piece - Donquixote family Doflamingo and the Donquixote family celebrate their first Christmases together.

#merryposting #christmas fic #one piece #ace attorney #resident evil #persona #urusei yatsura #fanfiction #fan fiction #fanfic #archive of our own #ao3 #chrisker #krispollo #klapollo #krisnix #dofuwani

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leonhrted · 6 months ago

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–––– ✨ 𝐥𝐞𝐨𝐧𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐝𝐱 ✨ –––– pinterest ⦙ threads ⦙ answers ⦙ vanity

spotted in the streets of brooklyn, it’s CILLIAN ' LEON ' WALKER. they have lived in the city for TEN YEARS, working as a BROADWAY ACTOR. the 27 year old will probably be seen around PARK SLOPES a lot, seeing as that’s where they live. people say they can be a bit SENSITIVE and a PERFECTIONIST, but friends know them to be WARM and EMPATHETIC. you know for sure you’ve found them when you’ve come across the spotlight shining in the middle of the stage, the warmth of a winter sweater, and a morning run around central park. welcome to brooklyn, it’s been waiting for you!

○ ′ ✨ loved by taco

○ ′ ✨ ––––––––––––––––––– 001

𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐄 cillian walker 𝐍𝐈𝐂𝐊𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐄 leon ( by everyone except his family ) 𝐃𝐎𝐁 july 27, 1996 𝐀𝐆𝐄 twenty - seven 𝐙𝐎𝐃𝐈𝐀𝐂 leo 𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑 cis - male 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐍𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐒 he/him 𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 biromantic, bisexual 𝐁𝐈𝐑𝐓𝐇𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐄 mchenry, illinois 𝐇𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐓𝐎𝐖𝐍 brooklyn, nyc, new york 𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐔𝐀𝐆𝐄𝐒 english, french, some spanish 𝐎𝐂𝐂𝐔𝐏𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 broadway actor - nick carraway in the great gatsby

○ ′ ✨ ––––––––––––––––––– 002

𝐅𝐀𝐂𝐄𝐂𝐋𝐀𝐈𝐌 tom holland 𝐇𝐀𝐈𝐑 dark brown 𝐄𝐘𝐄𝐒 dark brown eyes 𝐇𝐄𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 5′8″ 𝐏𝐈𝐄𝐑𝐂𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 none 𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐓𝐎𝐎𝐒 none 𝐒𝐓𝐘𝐋𝐄 white shirts, black button ups, suits, brown jackets, beanies, knitted sweaters

○ ′ ✨ ––––––––––––––––––– 003

𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐘 campaigner ( enfp ) 𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐕𝐄 charismatic, perspective, enthusiastic, empathetic, warm 𝐍𝐄𝐆𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐕𝐄 critical, perfectionist, restless, overly optimistic, sensitive 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐓 acting, singing, dancing, staying active, basketball, soccer, knitting 𝐀𝐃𝐃𝐈𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒 working

○ ′ ✨ ––––––––––––––––––– 004

𝐅𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑 william walker 𝐌𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑 olivia walker 𝐒𝐈𝐁𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 luna walker ( older twin sibling ) , liam walker ( younger brother ).

○ ′ ✨ ––––––––––––––––––– 005

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐋𝐒 peeta mellark ( the hunger games ) , peter parker ( spiderman ) , alice cullen ( twilight series ) , apollo ( greek mythology ) , sora ( kingdom hearts ) , theo engler ( you ) , ricky bowen ( hsmtmts )

○ ′ ✨ ––––––––––––––––––– 006

tw; drug abuse mention

the walkers were just an ordinary family out in the midwest. william walker was a well known real estate agent for the people in northern illinois, olivia walker was a humble elementary school teacher. with their three children, they were a perfect all american family.

leon and luna walker were born the summer of '96. and they were attached to the hip. growing up, they practically did everything together. and as they got older and their parents had another child, they made sure to include their younger brother in everything they did. but the bond of a twin was different. they were basically each other's soulmates.

cillian knew though that they had separate interest. leon wanted to focus on performances while his older twin sister prefer the culinary arts. they were both creative and determined with everything they did, and even though they had different aspirations, they had the same dream: to go to new york city and do what they loved the most out there. or at least leon really wanted that.

when leon was young, watching his first broadway show, he knew being on stage was exactly where he wanted to be. he didn't care so much about the spotlight, he just loved how fun it looked, and how freeing the actors looked being up there. and when he did his first musical, he felt right at home.

eventually, they moved to new york city and went to college out there. cillian pursued his dream, learn from the best of the best and be the actor he could be. he never thought how much he fit in. he made some incredible friends, he even fell in love with a boy name gabriel. new york was exactly where he was meant to be.

and even when he graduated university, and he found a place with his sister, he was realizing that the love he had for gabriel was slowly becoming part of the dream. and he wanted their relationship to get to the next level. moving in together an idea he'd been playing, but then plans shifted when his younger brother had overdose on some drugs that no one knew he was addicted to.

cillian knew he had to go back home. he wanted to take care of his baby brother. eventually he decided to stay back home to help him, and tend to him, and get him the proper help he needed. it was hard seeing him struggle, but after months and months of watching him puke his brains out, and see him as a person he didn't recognize, his younger brother finally seek the help he truly needed.

the dream wasn't gone though. after liam finished rehab and got back to his feet, cillian still had his goal set on going to new york. but he was not sure if he wanted to leave his brother alone, and have him live under their parents roof still. liam deserved to live an adult life without being watched by his parents all the time. so he made him a deal, to be sober for a year and they'd move to new york.

and he did it, and now all of the walker siblings were out in new york. all trying to pursue their dreams. and when cillian got a lucky break in the mean girls musical, playing shane oman, he took it. it wasn't a lot of lines, but at least he was on broadway.

but the new year was promising, and somehow all the karma decided to come back and give cillian everything he deserved. being casted as nick carraway for the great gatsby on broadway, it was like finally his dreams were becoming a reality. but now he hopes he can balance his work and home life, and he hopes that he can trust his brother being okay doing things on his own while he was busy with the job he so desperately wanted since forever.

○ ′ ✨ ––––––––––––––––––– 007

leon is currently living with his baby brother, and hopes his brother can find something he really wants to do out in the city.

he had worked in the mean girls musical, but now is currently playing as nick carraway in the great gatsby on broadway.

he occasionally ends up seeing his ex boyfriend gabriel, and even though there are still strong feelings there, he often avoids him not wanting to feel the heartache.

does weekly dinners with her sister. they all make sure they see each other as often as possible because at the end of the day family is what matters to them.

○ ′ ✨ ––––––––––––––––––– 008

CONNECTIONS

she is my other half - whenever someone thinks of soulmates, they think a lover, or a best friend. but for cillian, he honestly believes his twin is his. soul twins, platonic. twins have a powerful connection. and he is glad to know that his twin will always be there no matter what.

the older you get, the wiser you are - this is someone to cillian sees as a father figure. someone that leon feels like he can go to for advice. since his father was always so busy, he never had the best relationship with him. he always feels like he goes to this person to ask for questions about life, and they have a nice father/son bond.

i don't fall in love too easily - leon has always been one to date, fool around, all of that, but he never really lasted in many relationships because he manages to either ruin them when they get too–– serious. but it was all different the moment the other came into his life. they dated, they said their i love yous, but unfortunately the love didn't last for some unforeseen things in both of their lives. but is there something there still that might spark once again? // taken by @rxshingpxlse

some friendships end up being like family - leon was glad to have his siblings, but sometimes having a friendship that was of your own, that ends up being their person, that's all leon needed. this is the person that ends up being like a sibling, the person he tells everything to, all his success and all his struggles.

some friendships just don't last - this is a friendship that was once strong that ended up breaking. maybe from jealousy, or maybe a betrayal. this person that leon really admired, but ended up leaving behind because of feeling being hurt. and when they see each other again, would they act caddy or act like nothing's ever happened.

OTHER CONNECTIONS

friends

fwb/flings

other broadway actors

photographer/fashion friends

fans of the show

#brooklyn.intro #✨ ⋅𓂃 ࣪ 𝐜𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐧 𝐰𝐚𝐥𝐤𝐞𝐫 ≻ pinned #tw ; drug abuse mention #✨ ⋅𓂃 ࣪ 𝐜𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐧 𝐰𝐚𝐥𝐤𝐞𝐫 ≻ about me

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ussenterpeen · 9 months ago

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denouement gets sPoOkY sCaRy!

Denouement is an 18+ pan/multifandom RP set in a unique world, with both site-wide and member run plots as well as seasonal world changes. Fandom canons and fandom original from all media (live action and illustrated), as well as fandomless original characters and native residents, are all welcome! We offer forum-based thread writing, Discord thread and Tupperbox-based chat RP, and real-time ICC (in character chat) via Discord channels and Cboxes.

Guidebook | Taken | Reserves | Discord Are you ready to dive into spooky season? Looking for a roleplay with some BITE? Here's a list of featured canons who hail from a variety of horror media (films, television, anime, video games, and more)! Our members are always looking for fellow canonmates, as well as fandom and fandomless OCs to write with -- swing by our Discord to chat with us!

Art the Clown from Terrifier Katherine Pierce & Stefan Salvatore from The Vampire Diaries The Huntress from Dead by Daylight Claudia, Lestat de Lioncourt, Louis de Pointe du Lac from Interview with the Vampire Evelyn O'Connell from The Mummy Adrian Tepes, Olrox, Sypha Belnades, and Trevor Belmont from Castlevania Agatha Harkness & Wanda Maximoff from Marvel Chris Redfield, Ethan Winters, Leon Kennedy, & Rosemary Winters from Resident Evil Bree Tanner from Twilight Nancy Wheeler, Steve Harrington, Eddie Munson, Robin Buckley, & Billy Hargrove from Stranger Things Clementine from Telltale's The Walking Dead The Nameless King from Dark Souls Cordelia Goode, Fiona Goode, Michael Langdon, Misty Day, & Myrtle Snow from American Horror Story: Coven Castiel from Supernatural Ellie Williams & Joel Miller from The Last of Us Charles Rowland & Edwin Paine from Dead Boy Detectives Henry Townshend from Silent Hill

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boroughshq · 1 year ago

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EVENT 001: SNOWSTORM CHARACTER SHUFFLE.

In preparation for our first event, under the cut you'll find a list of the shuffled character pairings for the upcoming snowstorm, along with further details about the event. As a reminder, the event will officially begin February 1st.

SHUFFLE PAIRINGS:

Marlon Mathis..............August Russo

Ryan Caddel................Claire Xiao

Javed Kashif................Alexander Warren

Onyx Harper.................Hercule Boisseau

Enzo Chavez.................Kian Zhang

Bijan Mousavi...............Oliver Metcalfe

Anavieve De Leon.........Deryn Adler

Riaz Mian.......................Fiona Burton

Athena Aston.................Anabelle Burton

Jasper Tomkins.............Johanna Paredes

Robin Morgan................Colson Kim

Gideon Chowdhury........Alina Ayutthaya-Harper

Kaan Demirci..................Neva Björk

Cerrus Balfour.................Anthony Ramos

Daniel Sutton..................Pauly Parker

Maccaulay Blake............Skyler Cameron

Josette Allen Lynn..........Honey Lavere

Merryn Hurley.................Riva Simone

Juliana Torres.................Benjamin Loverson

Violet Hú.........................Sherri Lowe

EVENT TIMELINE

IC Timeline: Canonically, the snowstorm will suddenly pass through New York on Tuesday, February 1st.

OOC Timeline: Members will have from February 1st through February 8th to post their initial starters around the snowstorm. After 2/8, no new starters can be posted, but writers are free to continue their event thread until it's conclusion. An announcement will be made on both days when the event has started and ended.

EVENT DETAILS

Now that the pairings are announced, members are encouraged to reach out to the mun of their paired partner to plan out what will occur between the characters. Members are free to take liberties with the snowstorm backdrop to create whatever situational atmosphere they'd like - they can be as comedic, lowkey, absurd, mundane, adrenaline-seeking, or subtle as you'd like! If you're interested in more concrete details prior to the weather report on Tuesday, the 2014 Gulf Coast Winter Storm serves as a reference point!

Pairing Threads:

The primary reason behind the event is to encourage character interaction between characters who may not have engaged with each other before. As such, character threads are highly encouraged between the assigned pairing. Members can choose if they'd prefer to have their threads set during the action of the snowstorm (ex. thread of two character chatting while stuck in an ATM vestibule together until the power comes back on) or after the snowstorm (ex. first thread are characters running into each other two days after being stuck together in the ATM vestibule during the snowstorm).

Threads have no set length, neither in writing nor in IC time. The encounter between characters can be as brief as twenty minutes or as long as an overnighter, while threads can be full on multi-paras or simple gif conversations.

Additional Threads:

Members are also free to take advantage of the setting to engage in other snowstorm related threads during this time period, and are not limited to only engaging with their assigned partner. Other plotted threads and open starters are welcome! (ex. after being freed from the ATM vestibule, your character briefly seeks warmth at a nearby grocery store with other patrons, where an open starter may be set - or they return home to their roommate for a closed starter!)

Additionally, members are free to continue non-event threads!

Please be sure to tag all event threads as bhqevent001 for differentiation purposes.

Happy plotting everyone! An official post will be made once the event has begun on 2/1. If you have any questions, please do not hesitate to send them to the main!

#boroughs.event #bhqevent001 #boroughs.announcement

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damnedsurvivor · 10 months ago

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GENERAL DETAILS.

FULL NAME: LEON SCOTT KENNEDY NICKNAME(S): GOLDEN BOY NAME MEANING: Of Greek origin, meaning "Lion". AGE: 47 (varies on threads) DATE OF BIRTH: JULY 31 1977 PLACE OF BIRTH: DENVER, COLORADO CURRENT LOCATION: ??? ETHNICITY: CAUCASIAN GENDER: TRANS MALE PRONOUNS: HE/HIM SEXUAL ORIENTATION: BISEXUAL ROMANTIC ORIENTATION: BIROMANTIC (fem lean) RELIGION: He likes to think there's a God watching over him. OCCUPATION: FEDERAL AGENT (U.S. GOVERNMENT, D.S.O.) EDUCATION LEVEL: ASSOCIATES IN CRIMINAL JUSTICE EXTRACURRICULAR: BOOT CAMP FINANCIAL STATUS: COMFORTABLE SPOKEN LANGUAGES: ENGLISH, FRENCH, SPANISH, PORTUGUESE, CHINESE (His fluency in some of these is another matter, entirely.)

PHYSICAL APPEARANCE, ETC.

HAIR COLOR AND STYLE: BRUNETTE (or dyed blonde, varies in timeline); STRAIGHT, 1B COMPLEXION: MEDIUM SKINTONE; BISQUE EYE COLOR: BLUE EYESIGHT: CORRECTED TO 20/20 HEIGHT: 180 cm/5'11" WEIGHT: 79 kg/175 lb BODY AND BUILD: MESOMORPH (ectomorph when in poor health) TATTOOS: A single tramp stamp. Don't ask, he was drinking. PIERCINGS: N/A CLOTHING STYLE: MASCULINE CASUAL/FORMAL DISTINGUISHING CHARACTERISTICS: A prominent bumped chin, wide cheekbones; an unwavering desire to do what's right, and a wide motorcycle part collection. SIGNATURE SCENT: CALVIN KLEIN OBSESSION COLOGNE--mixed with a vague scent of bourbon.

HEALTH.

MENTAL DISORDER(S): PTSD, DISSOCIATION, DE-REALIZATION PHYSICAL DISORDER(S): DEGENERATIVE DISC DISEASE, SPINAL STENOSIS, CHRONIC SHOULDER PAIN ALLERGIES: CRUSTACEANS SLEEPING HABITS: POOR, lots of naps, inconsistent sleep schedule. EATING HABITS: GENERALLY HEALTHY. (Rooted into his brain from basic training.) SOCIABILITY: VARIES. BODY TEMPERATURE: AVERAGE ADDICTIONS: ALCOHOLISM DRUG USE: NONE--Occasional marijuana use, in his youth. ALCOHOL USE: HEAVY/AT RISK

PERSONALITY.

LABEL(S): The Ace, Bodyguard Crush, Pretty Boy, (taken from TV Tropes) POSITIVE TRAITS: EASY TO ADAPT, HEROIC, MECHANICALLY-KNOWLEDGEABLE, QUICK-WITTED NEGATIVE TRAITS: HUNG UP IN HIS THOUGHTS/OVERTHINKER, NAIVE (particularly in his younger years), ADDICTIVE HABITS: Swiping a thumb on his stubble, spacing out, taking up as little space as possible. ASTROLOGY: LEO CHINESE ZODIAC: SNAKE PERSONALITY TYPE: INFJ-A MORAL ALIGNMENT: Teetering between neutral good and chaotic good. ELEMENT: FIRE PRIMARY VICE: SPITE PRIMARY VIRTUE: JUSTICE WEATHER: THUNDERSTORMS COLOR: A deep, weathered blue; worn leather brown. MUSIC: ALT, DAD ROCK, POP-PUNK MOVIE: ZOMBIELAND BOOK: EVERYTHING IS FUCKED: A BOOK ABOUT HOPE (Mark Manson) SPORT: TRACK BEVERAGE: WHISKEY; COKE (sometimes together) FOOD: BAR FOOD ANIMAL: GOLDEN RETRIEVER SEASON: THAT IN-BETWEEN OF FALL AND WINTER

#headcanons.#about.#[[>:0

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leonheartedx · 2 years ago

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–––– ✨ 𝐥𝐞𝐨𝐧𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐞𝐝𝐱 ✨ –––– pinterest ⦙ threads ⦙ answers ⦙ vanity

have you seen cillian 'leon' o'hara around los angeles? the twenty-four year old is usually jamming to lionhearted by porter robinson. word around the city is that they’re warm, yet, they can also be clueless, but you didn’t hear that from me. they’re currently a trust fund baby and are typically seen walking the streets of los angeles with old family pendant . when i think of them, i think of button up shirts, peacoat during the winter, attending usc football games, late night clubbing, sweet grins and platinum amex card. let’s hope the city treats them good!

○ ′ ✨ loved by taco

○ ′ ✨ ––––––––––––––––––– 001

𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐄 cillian o'hara 𝐍𝐈𝐂𝐊𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐄 leon ( by everyone except his family ) 𝐃𝐎𝐁 december 24, 1998 𝐀𝐆𝐄 twenty - four 𝐙𝐎𝐃𝐈𝐀𝐂 capricorn 𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑 cis - male 𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐍𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐒 he/him 𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 biromantic, bisexual 𝐁𝐈𝐑𝐓𝐇𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐂𝐄 beverly hills, california 𝐇𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐓𝐎𝐖𝐍 los angeles, california 𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐔𝐀𝐆𝐄𝐒 english, spanish, some french 𝐎𝐂𝐂𝐔𝐏𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 influencer and trust fund baby

○ ′ ✨ ––––––––––––––––––– 002

𝐅𝐀𝐂𝐄𝐂𝐋𝐀𝐈𝐌 michael provost 𝐇𝐀𝐈𝐑 dirty blond hair 𝐄𝐘𝐄𝐒 blue eyes 𝐇𝐄𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 5′8″ 𝐏𝐈𝐄𝐑𝐂𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 none 𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐓𝐎𝐎𝐒 none 𝐒𝐓𝐘𝐋𝐄 athletic wear, cardigans, button ups mainly white, light blue and black.

○ ′ ✨ ––––––––––––––––––– 003

𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐘 adventurer ( isfp ) 𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐈𝐓𝐈𝐕𝐄 curious, warm, charming, imaginative, curious 𝐍𝐄𝐆𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐕𝐄 unpredictable, clueless, emotional, sensitive, self-isolating 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐓 football games, hikes, running, working out, photos, filming content, food. 𝐀𝐃𝐃𝐈𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒 chocolate

○ ′ ✨ ––––––––––––––––––– 004

𝐅𝐀𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑 liam o'hara 𝐌𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑 olivia o'hara 𝐒𝐈𝐁𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 siobhan o'hara, older twin sister

○ ′ ✨ ––––––––––––––––––– 005

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐋𝐒 nate archibald ( gossip girl ) , harry potter ( hp series ) , archie andrews ( riverdale ) , rose dawson ( titanic ) , prince wilhelm ( young royals ) , kiara carrera ( outerbanks ) , finn hudson ( glee ) , scott mccall ( teen wolf )

○ ′ ✨ ––––––––––––––––––– 006

the o'hara's were one of the richest people in america. and with their wealth, they knew that they wanted nothing more than to create a family and make sure their richest stayed in their family. so when they planned to have a child, they didn't expect that they would end up with two. but it was perfect for the family when they saw that they would have a little girl and boy. after that they knew they didn't want anymore.

their life was perfect. at least as perfect as it could be. but cillian realized that it wasn't as perfect as they made it seemed. most of his life, he grew up with two people, his own sister and the housekeeper. their parents were always so busy with their lives. a businessman and an actress and model, when did they ever have time for their kids? yes, they did their best, loving them, being there for them, but they were following their own dreams.

the kids were always spoiled. and most would end up seeing them as rotten to the core at times. cillian never really liked most people getting close, while his own sister loved people, for the fact that she wanted to be the center of them all. and it was like that during high school when they both went to boarding school up north. and that's when they started to become more individuals.

this was when cillian, known as leon now, came to the realization that he was a bit more of the adventurer, curious about things, and maybe a little clueless at times. his sister was the smart girl, and he was well–– the himbo. and he was known as that, to the public, among his peers, and even online when he started to grow his own following. and it was nice to not try to think 24/7.

things were a little different in college. he was accepted to usc, which everyone assumed was because of his parents name, but really he worked for it. he was smart himself, with good grades, and playing sports, it helped with his application. and the four years he had during college, he found himself even more, especially in his sexuality.

now that he is out of college, with a business degree that he uses well with the combination of being an influencer. he was growing more and more, and he had a community, and followers that adored him. his own merch always selling out, and always doing sponsorships with businesses. he just wonders how long he can make this into a career, and if maybe he could do more than just be a content creator.

○ ′ ✨ ––––––––––––––––––– 007

currently has over 20 million followers on tiktok, 10 million on instagram.

has worked with many companies where he does ads for

has been on the cover of teen vogue with his sister and has a close relationship with those at vogue

enjoys going to usc football games even now, big supporter of the team

has a friends with benefits with jc bancroft thats started to lead into feelings being involved.

doesn't know if he wants to keep being a content creator, so he's figuring out what's next.

○ ′ ✨ ––––––––––––––––––– 008

CONNECTIONS

the older you get, the wiser you are - this is someone to cillian sees as a father figure. someone that leon feels like he can go to for advice. since his father is so busy, he always feels like he goes to this person to ask for questions about life, and their bond truly feels like what a proper father/son relationship should feel like. // taken by @simongerer

i don't fall in love too easily - leon has always been one to date, fool around, all of that, but he never really lasted in many relationships because he manages to either ruin them when they get too–– serious. but something about the other blond he finds intriguing. maybe because he's the opposite of who leon is, in terms of their upbringing. maybe he craves the feeling of struggle that he has, or maybe he just admires him for making it on his own. regardless, he starts developing feelings that he isn't so sure what to do with. // taken by @oddcnes

OTHER CONNECTIONS

other influencers

old classmates from high school

friends from college

flings/fwb

#○ ′ ✨ don't believe everything the media tells you ‣ pinned #california.intro

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