#so here's a collection of face-to-face instead

[clairewritesfanfics]

Old Friends

Your Character Settings: AFAB, Jason Todd's childhood friend, civilian, famous author

Pairing: Jason Todd x Reader

“When the cops told me they’d be sending over a bodyguard, I didn’t expect them to send in a superhero,” you said, setting down the frog-shaped pitcher on the coffee table. 

You then took a seat directly facing Red Hood. Tall. Bulky. Vigilante. Alleged colleague of the Bats if you were going by the giant red bat logo across his chest. He looked almost comical on your thrifted loveseat, but he kept his knees together and folded his hands politely over them, as though that would help make him look smaller. 

“I was told you were getting death threats,” he said. 

“Authors get that kind of mail all the time.”

“But it got worse, right?”

You shrugged. “I can deal with that type of thing, I called the cops for a different matter.” You gestured at the envelope on the table.

Red Hood examined the contents. They were photos of a shattered library window, specifically, the Jason Todd Collection, which was a library that doubled as a shelter full of secondhand sofas and couches and two bathrooms. It’s been around for three months and completely owned and funded by you. 

“I’ve heard about this place,” he said. “It’s amazing.”

“Thanks, I’m glad you think so because I want help finding the son of a bitch that broke in and beat up the people sleeping inside.”

“I’m pretty sure the cops already dealt with that.”

“They said they were going to deal with it, but a few officers took some pictures and didn’t even bother interviewing the victims.”

“I understand your concern for the victims and I don’t mean to be rude, but I came here to ensure that you were safe. It’s not exactly a secret that you own the Ja…” he paused briefly before continuing, “that you own the shelter. An attack on the place could’ve been a way of getting your attention. The shelter was attacked after your latest book release, correct?”

Your growing temper simmered and you reclined on your armchair. He was right. “Okay, I see where you’re coming from.”

“Ma’am–”

“Don’t call me that, makes me feel old. Just call me by my first name.”

He hesitated before saying your name and, “your new book’s controversial.”

“Yeah. Not everyone’s happy that I brought back a character from the dead. He was a fan favorite so half of my readers were happy to see him again, but the rest think that resurrection cheapens the plot.”

“I think you foreshadowed Hector’s return pretty consistently.”

“You read my books?”

He tilted his red helmet and you could feel him smiling under that thing. “I like love stories.”

“That–Jason!”

His whole body stiffened, but then a giant, furry thing emerged from behind his loveseat and started sniffing his shoes and thighs. 

You sighed. “That’s Jason. He usually hides in my room when I have people over. C’mere, boy.”

Instead of running to your lap like he always did, your seventy-kilogram, stranger-fearing rescue folded its legs and laid its heavy head on Red Hood’s boot. 

“Huh. That’s never happened before.” You eyed the hero suspiciously. “Can you talk to animals or something?”

He chuckled. “No superpowers, I’m afraid, guess he just likes me.” He bent down and gently rubbed the dog’s head. 

Your throat rumbled lowly with mild jealousy. It took you a whole year before Jason would let you approach him without peeing.

Red Hood then asked, “So…Jason?”

“What?”

“Was that always his name?”

“No. According to the shelter that found him he never answered to a single name. When I got him, I refused to just call him dog or it, so I reinforced the name Jason.”

“...you named him after Jason Todd?”

“Yes, I did.” You crossed your arms. “Now, can we please discuss the reason why you’re here?”

“I didn’t mean to get on your nerves, I was just–”

“–curious, I know.”

“You must’ve really cared for this Todd.”

You thought of Jason, beaming as he handed you a cheeseburger, laughing at a joke you told him, and you smiled. “He was my best friend.”

Red Hood said nothing.

“He died a few years ago. He was the smartest person I knew and he… he didn’t even get to finish high school.” You exhaled and looked at your bookshelf. “I want the world to remember his name, even if it’s just from the dedication pages in my books and a small library.”

***

Red Hood made himself comfortable on the rooftop overlooking your apartment. You may not have cared about several death threats but he did, and he wasn’t about to leave you alone unguarded.

“So this is where you’ve been,” a sing-song voice interrupted his thoughts.

Jason clicked his tongue.

Nightwing wrapped his arm around his brother’s shoulder. “Heard everything from Babs. I can’t believe you approached her as Red Hood before you showed up as Jason.”

“Go away, dickhead.”

“Nuh-uh.”

“Tsk.”

“She’s really cute, are her books any good though? Never found the time to read, well, anything. But Babs said–”

Dick’s words merged with the city’s usual background noise as Jason continued to watch you behind your balcony door.

He watched as you knelt down to help Jason the Dog slip into a red hoodie before pressing a tender kiss between its eyes.

He then opened his phone and scanned your weekly schedule. You were too reckless. You left a lot of your things out in the open. What if a freak found your planner?

He made a mental note to install some cameras when you leave to get groceries tomorrow.

Disclaimer: The image of Red Hood used in this post does not belong to writerclaire. It's by Dexter Soy and was lifted from: https://www.reddit.com/r/DCcomics/comments/h0iavp/cover_from_red_hood_and_the_outlaws_20_by_dexter/

MAIN MASTERLIST

Any questions for the author? Ask here.

[moonstruckme]

i saw your requests are open again! maybe you’d consider weiting a follow up on that awfully cute college au lily x reader story? maybe lily is late to the date or smt but its all cute and fluffy?

just an idea and no pressure!

have a lovely day!

Thank you, hope you're having a lovely day too ml!

cw: non magical uni au, written with the 70s in mind except there's no homophobia

part 1

Lily Evans x fem!reader ♡ 694 words

You leave your class for the last time this term in a fugue. Names and definitions run through your head on a tired, neverending loop, but the opening of the doors as students flood from the building feels like your classmates letting out a collective breath. It’s a kaleidoscope of sunlight and voices and movement, and so you perhaps can’t be blamed when Lily has to call your name more than once for you to hear her. 

She’s nearly made it to you when you turn. Flushed cheeks and glittery eyes, she looks genuinely happy to see you. That pop rocks feeling starts up again in your middle. It’s a warm day, and Lily’s shoulders are out for the sun, revealing freckles scattered like fine powder down her arms and over her collarbones. 

“Hi,” you say, surprised. 

“Hi.” Lily presses a cup into your hand, leaning in to kiss your cheek. Heat radiates outward from the touch of her lips until you’re quite sure you’re aflame from the tips of your ears down to your chest. “How was your exam?” 

“I feel like it went okay,” you murmur. Shy in the way Lily’s so good at making you. You look at the cup wet with condensation in your palm. “Is this for me?” 

“Mhm.” She brushes a piece of hair behind her ear. “I thought you might like a reward after your last exam.” 

You have to bite down on your lip to suppress the full magnitude of your smile. It pleases you beyond belief that Lily knows your drink order. You’ve only had one date—and you weren’t entirely sure if it was a date for most of it. You’d talked yourself into believing it to be a simple thank-you for taking notes for her while she was asleep during your exam review. Lily might have only been a touchy person, playing with your fingers atop the table while you chatted over coffee. She probably smiled that way for everyone. She seems the outgoing, friendly sort, so it likely didn’t mean anything that she’d asked you if you fancied a walk after your drinks were both long emptied, and kept talking with you until the sun sank low over campus. 

You haven’t seen each other since then. You’d nearly convinced yourself that you were right and Lily was only being kind out of a sense of gratitude, but now here she is. 

“You remembered when my last exam was?” you ask. 

It’s gorgeous, the sweet flush that spreads across Lily’s cheeks. Your heart pitters. “Yeah,” she says, halfway to bashful. “I mean, it’s not so hard to listen to you, you know.” 

Your smile fights harder to be unleashed. You’ve been so occupied in being made nervous by Lily, you didn’t realize you held the power to make her nervous in turn. It’s thrilling. “You’re sweet,” you tell her. 

Lily’s blush worsens. “Did you—are you tired after your exam?” 

You hum. You’ve begun walking together unthinkingly, meandering through campus. “I woke up early to go over my notes one more time.” You take a long sip of your drink and sigh. “I hope it was worthwhile.” 

“I’m sure you did well.” Lily’s hand wraps around the crook of your elbow, nudging you closer so that your shoulders bump. Her fingers feel like electric sparks skittering down the inside of your forearm. She says secretively, “You’re brilliant.” 

Now it’s you hot in the face again. Back and forth, like a tennis match. “We’ll see,” you mumble, shrugging. 

Her fingers link through yours, squeezing. “You want to go home and rest?” 

“I don’t know.” You glance at her. Unsure of what she’s asking, or if she’s waiting for you to ask instead. “I might.” 

“Can I walk with you?” 

“Please,” you blurt. You and Lily both flush now, the evidence of hers visible and blatant. You’d pity her for how reactive her skin is, if only it weren’t so satisfying for you to look at. You think you both know you won’t leave her waiting outside once you get back to yours. 

“Alright,” says Lily, still glowing red and yet confident despite it. “I will, then.” 

[brokenbough]

Absolutely incredible job on the first thing you posted on here! That sounds like I think I’m qualified to appraise the quality of writing and I’m not, sorry if it came off weird. I just loved it, I guess is more accurate to say.

Grumpy Simon is the very best, and you nailed him. He wants her to cuddle into him so bad he’s such an idiot. This concept was so wonderful and again you executed it beautifully :)

Not a request, just a musing, but I think this would be the PERFECT situation for jealousy playing a role in forcing Simon to admit his blossoming feelings for reader. He thinks he hates it when she lays on him, even though he’s starting to realize he craves it, he still resents her for it because he hates feeling feelings and she’s making him do that he just doesn’t realize that’s his problem with the situation.

But imagine how incredibly bothered and angry and jealous he’d be if reader curled into Johnny or Gaz or god forbid his CAPTAIN or even Graves or Los Vaqueros oh god instead of him. I think regardless or whether it happens on accident (maybe she settles with the rest of the group because Simon is on watch and when she gets sleepy she slumps onto whichever comfy shoulder is nearest) or on purpose (maybe he was being an asshole or had pushed her away so she tried her best to find a new pillow that wouldn’t upset her Lieutenant) I think he’d be so jealous and his feelings would come to the forefront and he’d have to confront them.

I also think it could be a cute idea for Simon to like prohibit her from sleeping on his shoulder and so on the mission she literally can’t sleep at all. She struggles and tries, just lays quietly while they sleep so as not to bother them, but she can’t get comfortable, needs the warmth and something softer than the ground to curl up into and lay her head on. This unexpected consequence takes a toll on Simon, as he sees how exhausted and frustrated she is - he’s pissed off that he cares about this beyond the possible impact on the mission. He’s also impressed but also saddened by how she’s trying to push through the mission even though she’s so much less experienced and is getting less rest than any of them.

Maybe these could be combined and that’s why she ended up falling asleep on someone else? Like she’s so tired her body draws her to the nearest willing shoulder.

Anyway just some fun ideas! I hope you’re well 🩷

One, so sad you don't write yourself. You 100% should, I love your brain. I hope you're well too

Two, I hope this is up to yalls standards. Sorry its so long. I watched two movies making this, i got distracted 😋😋 :>>>

Not proofread 🤕

------------

After two years of being with the team, it almost became ritual for presents for either you or Ghost to be a collection of the two of you together, one sleep or both.

You thought it was a cute tradition. It was something you almost looked forward to, more than clothes or jewelry or trinkets. It was your favorite gift and you wouldn't trade not one photo for anything else.

But cute was not something Ghost was akin to. It was kind of the... opposite of Ghost. He was a hardened, seasoned soldier, not some fluffy pillow you could kick back on.

Yes, maybe he let you lay on his lap sometimes, and maybe you've gone to him for comfort on more than one occasion, hugging him tightly, blubbering sorrys and other apologies.

He never cooed at you, reassured you, or even hugged you back... but he let you mush your tiny face into his chest whenever life got too much for you.

Maybe it was after a mission, maybe days after and the memories came back. He'd been through it himself, he knew the feeling. Only he didn't have anyone to lean on, so maybe you leaning on him gave him some sort of closure. He doesn't know, he doesn't really think about it. He can't, not with his life on the line almost everyday and yours. It was a distraction, wasted time he simply didn't have.

So, like any sane person with having good literally put in front of them, he pushed you away. He kept his distance, kept you off his shoulder, because whether he wanted to admit it or not, he was growing... fond of you. Not attached. Merely... tolerant of you-- your behavior-- and that in of itself was dangerous. Fondness, trust, softness, got you killed in the field.

You didn't even notice at first, too caught up with each grueling mission. You were sputtering, running on the last fumes of your gas. Sleep didn't come easy when you were being shot at, yelled at, and pulled onto yet another plane.

But here... it's cold. And cold makes you unnaturally sleepy. It was something you've known about yourself since childhood. When it got cold, you got sleepy. That's just how it's always been. And now, in the Candian cold, in the less than warm safe house, you were getting tired.

You had last watch with Johnny, Kyle and Price first, Ghost and Price after.

Lounging on the cushy couch the safe house provided, curled up in one of the few blankets, you leaned to the side, Ghost's shoulder the comfortable pillow you remember. You yawn, nuzzling a little closer before your eyes open again.

His finger on the side of your head, pushed you away, moving you closer to Johnny before removing himself from the couch entirely.

He didn't even bother looking at you.

You frowned, watching him walk further and further away. He walked until he was completely out of your eyesight, making your frown droop even more.

You were pulled out of the sad fog by Soap. He shook you slightly, wrapping his arm around your smaller body.

"'S okay bonnie. He's usually a prick." Johnny assures with a small smile, pulling you closer as you surrendered to the fate that was Soap's shoulder.

It was warm, soft, nice. But not Ghost warm, soft, nice. Simon wasn't just warm, he was a fucking furnace, constantly burning, a crackling fire that lulled you to sleep. And he wasn't soft, he was fluff you melt into, like that one pillow you got and can only find cheap replacements for because others are too firm. And godforbid someone call his shoulder just nice. His presence, scent, the way his breath was its own type of calming was just... perfect. Soap was just... just mediocre. But it would have to do because it didn't seem like Ghost was gonna return anytime soon and you needed sleep.

------------

When Ghost had left he wasn't prepared for the anger, the fury that bubbled in his chest seeing you asleep on someone else, let alone cuddled up to fucking Johnny on the small couch. Laying on top of him like he was the softest bed you've made contact with.

He squinted his eyes at the sight, his balled up fists itching for a throwing knife. He couldn't see your bunched up face, contorted in agony because Soap, as big as he was, just wasn't thick enough to sink into. It was more uncomfortable than you would've liked to admit. Bless Soap's poor, sad face if he ever found out he wasn't comfortable enough for his favorite lass.

Ghost stormed out again, standing in the cold silently as his entire body heated up with annoyance, and anger, and every other synonym of the two.

He was on watch now, even though his mind was clouded with images of you and someone else.

You, you, you.

You and someone else.

------------

A soft shake jolted you awake, a knife in your hand before you registered the soft, amused smile and eyes of your captain.

"Easy there." He said, helping you up, watching as you stretched and groaned, cracking your neck, Johnny still out cold.

"Sorry. Force of habit." You say with a sheepish smile, looking around the ever quiet room. You caught Ghost's eyes before quickly looking away, the look in his eyes nothing short of barely controlled rage.

You didn't know how you'd made him mad, but he looked angry. Angrier than when he chewed you out for sleeping on him your very first mission.

"No need to apologize." He continues before shaking Johnny awake too.

When Johnny finally sat up-- having to be promptly smacked awake-- Price informed the two of you that you were now on watch.

You went to the window, looking out at the quiet snow that fell in unique snowflakes, catching up with its brothers and sisters, quietly laying next to its family before watching another fall.

The house was quiet, aside from Price's unbridled snores and Gaz soft muses in his sleep. You don't know where Ghost went off too, probably the very back room to lie down.

You couldn't take the silence anymore as you finally looked at Soap, beckoning him over to talk.

Your whispers surely too quiet to wake anyone else in the house. It was only the drop of something heavy that finally pulled your head up from snickering with Soap, shattering the bubble of silence that seemed to envelope the house.

You turned, watching Ghost angrily arrange fire in the small hearth. He didn't look at you again, glaring at an oblivious Soap as the both of you made your way over, watching the lieutenant work.

"What're ya doin' Lt.?" Soap asks, looking into the fireplace.

You looked too, focusing more on the hands that worked than the actual work.

"Fuck does it look like Johnny?" Ghost said, snappier than usual.

"Why're you fillin' up the fireplace?" You ask, looking to an offended Soap and back to the pile of neatly arranged logs.

"Can't have you fallin' asleep on watch." He answers gruffly, throwing a match into the fire. His 'you' sounding like sin. Reprimand.

Soap was too enamored with the fire to question Ghost's words. Not cryptic, but unusual.

"I wouldn't fall asleep on watch-" you say in an offended tone before he cuts in.

"But you fall asleep in the cold." He says, clipped and clearly aggravated. Accusatory, like he shouldn't know that.

You stare up a him blankly, watching his eyes. Watching him watch you with the same blank look.

"How-" you start to question before he checks your shoulder, knocking you into Johnny, pulling the Scottish man back to reality. Soap pulls a rattled you back to the window, looking out at the soft, untouched snow, mindlessly continuing the conversation from before.

But him-- his words rattled around in your brain as the other man talked, his words going in one ear and out the other as Ghost's words floated around the empty space between your ears. Just him, his words, the fire that crackled behind him.

Him, him, him.

Him and his words.

------------

You were finally relieved from duty as the sun started to come up, making the snow sparkle. The sun itself tinting the sky pink and orange and red, painting the sky picturesque.

You looked away from its beauty solemnly as everyone else started to wake. You turned away, stretching again before watching the others work, looking like little ants. The thought made you smile, giggling to yourself and putting you in good spirits, something unusual from the usual bite you had in the mornings. They weren't your thing.

The rest of the task force looks at you before you just wave them off, helping with breakfast.

Price talks as the rest eat.

"Evac comes at noon, be packed up and ready by then. We have new leads to follow, so wake up." He says, a pointed look at the ever groggy Johnny. You'd say he slept as much as you, if not more on leave.

You snicker, elbowing softly. The deathly glare he gives you makes you laugh more.

Gaz starts to laugh too, seemingly more amused by how tickled you looked with Johnny than Johnny himself.

Ghost is quiet, not bothering to join in with the happy that seemed to surround you indefinitely. The sunlight crept in through the windows, shining on you softly as you literally glowed in his eyes. He shook his head, squeezing his eyes sit before opening them again. But there you sat, smile on your mouth, cheeks tinted red from laughing, your eyes crinkled in amusement, and you-- glowing.

------------

The ride back was boisterous. Well, for four out of the six people aboard it. Price and Gaz laughing, Soap-- in a better mood-- making even the pilot laugh.

But you sat alone on the other side, right in front of Ghost. You tried to sit next to him, catch up on some sleep before being deployed again, but he had sat his pack in the chair next to him, not even sparing you a glance. His jaw was clenched shut, eyes burning a hole in the side of plane.

You said nothing, walking past him and past the rest before settling on the other side. Right in front of Ghost. The silence around you deafening, the tension in between tense enough to be cut with your nails.

No one said anything, no one even looked at you two, too caught up in their own jokes and theatrics.

Luckily for you, it was a short ride back to Washington.

You'd been up on more missions than usual, which meant you'd been up for longer than usual. The sleep you got with Soap had been the most you'd gotten over a week. You'd only slept 4 hours.

The promise of a proper bed and food that wasn't MREs was the only thing fueling your near empty tank. Probably everyone else's too.

When you finally landed at base, debriefed, and ate, you were finally permitted to sleep. You couldn't even make it to your room before you crashed on the couch in the secluded area that was reserved for the 141. Soap and Gaz were already there, playing a card game.

A head peaked over one of the couches. Ghost. You took the seat next to Price, watching him read a little before scooting closer and laying on his shoulder.

You settle next to him, getting a small smile in return.

"Tired?" Price asks, looking you over before turning the page.

"Mhm." You mumble, noncommittal.

You look around for a moment, taking in the happy that enveloped the two men before switching over to Ghost who looked at you. Finally, you think.

You aren't sure why you wanted him to look at you, but he had been avoiding you since.. well yesterday. You were too tired to notice it, but now that you think about it, he hasn't talked to you in mayb a week, besides barking orders and that time by the fire.

You huff softly, shifting closer to the captain. He leaned back, wrapping an arm around you. He smelled like cigar smoke and... well, warm. Maybe Old Spice.

You drifted off to sleep, the last thing you saw being Ghost's skull balaclava. It was seared into the back of your eyelids as you closed them, trying to find solace in your dreams.

It never came.

------------

You awoke by yourself, passed out on the couch. You rubbed your eyes, lifting up and rubbing at the crick in your neck.

You found a mass of black in front of you. You were startled to say the least, pinching yourself to make sure it wasn't a dream.

It wasn't.

You looked up, catching Ghost again.

Looking away, you yawned, fighting the tiredness again. You couldn't get proper sleep anywhere.

A voice cut through your thoughts. Gruff, demanding, definite.

"Enjoying yourself?" It asked.

You looked back to Ghost, watching his mask move slightly.

"What?" You say, still a bit dazed from the short nap. You took a glance around the room. Cards discarded on a table some way off, Price's book discarded on the table in-between the two sofas.

"Sleeping around, I mean." He says, voice deeper than usual. He was ticked off.

Why?

"Sleeping-- what?" You ask again, offended, angry, annoyed. What the fuck was this man's game? Why was he bothering playing games with you in the fist place?

"First Soap, then Price. Who's next? Gaz?" He asks, glaring at you.

"What are you talking about?" You demand now, sitting up properly.

"I'm talking about you sleeping with everyone."

Your brain takes a moment to catch up before glaring at him.

"You mean on them? Because I'm tired? Because I've been up for 84 fucking hours, I think I deserve sleep." You spit out.

"On them, with them, same difference." He comments nonchalantly.

"Uhm, no. Not the same thing." You argue, eyeing him like he's grown a third head.

"They are to me."

".... Are- Ghost, are you jealous?" You ask, not expecting an answer.

He scoffs like it's the most ridiculous thing in the world, but his eyes tell-- scream a different story to you.

"You are." You laugh.

"I'm not. You're.. you're ridiculous." He says, scoffing again.

"No. I'm right. You are jealous."

"Uhm, no. I'm not." He reiterates.

"Yeah, you are." You say, full on smiling now.

He doesn't answer you a third time, opting to just look at you blankly, hoping his jealousy couldn't be seen through his mask.

It wasn't, but it was easily spotted through his eyes.

He huffed again, leaning back into the couch, crossing his arms.

"Fine. I'll only... sleep with you, if you apologize." You finally say after a moment of too long silence.

"Apologize?" He says, clearly annoyed at the prospect. "For what?"

"Do you really want me to go down the list?"

F"Go on." He taunts.

"One, for ignoring me for no reason. Two, for being jealous for no reason and making me lose out on sleep. Three, making me lose out on sleep when I could've used it. Four--"

"Okay. I get it. Jesus." He huffs again, his arms crossing tighter.

"Apologize." You say again.

He gives you a look, eyeing you like you've just spoken blasphemy.

You give him a look like you're not playing.

"...." He tsks audibly, opening his legs slightly for comfortability.

You raise an eyebrow, narrowing your eyes at him.

He clears his throat, his leg bouncing for a second. "And.. me..." He clears his throat again. "You only sleep with me. Okay?" He says, his authoritive voice back on.

"Mhm. I'll only sleep with you. Simon." You taunt.

"Me, and my shoulder." He continues, eyeing you seriously.

"Mhm."

"Good." He huffs out one last time before leaving.

------------

"He said that? Him and his shoulder?"

"Mhm. Cause he knows what's good for him." You nod, eating a bit more.

"Okay girl. Okay." Gaz concedes, picking off your plate before recoiling when you smack his hand.

"What're you two on?" Ghost asks, eyeing Gaz.

"She's all yours man." Gaz says, raising his hands in surrender.

Ghost's eyes narrow, eyeing you after.

You only shrug, leaning on his shoulder. Pre-deployment nap after eating? Hell yeah.

[reveryfics]

Mr. Lifeguard

Robert "Bob" Reynolds x Male Reader

Summary: The pool was the ideal refuge from the sweltering summer heat. However, Bob was apprehensive about joining everyone. So, when you offered to swim with him later that night he accepted.

A/N: So, I have a lot of angst for Bob and while I currently have a more fluff type request for him in my drafts, I think he needs a cute summer pool fic. This will be my last post for awhile, while I'm gone requests are still open.

TW: Fluff - Awkward flirting

The oppressive humidity of a New York City summer settled over the Tower like a thick, damp blanket. Outside, the city shimmered in the heat, the asphalt radiating a blistering warmth that made even a short walk feel like a marathon. It was the kind of heat that seeped into your bones, leaving you lethargic and desperate for relief.

You were sprawled across Bob's bed, a book resting unread on your chest. The gentle whir of the fan was the only sound breaking the silence, a rhythmic hum that did little to combat the stifling air. The cool breeze it offered was a welcome reprieve, a small pocket of comfort in a sweltering world. You'd been staring at the same line of text for what felt like an eternity, the words blurring into an indecipherable mess as your mind drifted. Across from you, Bob was in a similar state, his own book lying forgotten on his stomach as he gazed at the ceiling. The shared stillness was comfortable, a testament to the easygoing rhythm you'd fallen into over the past few weeks.

Earlier that morning, a collective decision had been made in the common room. The tower had a state-of-the-art pool room, a luxurious oasis that, for whatever reason, had never been used. This seemed like the perfect day to rectify that. The idea was met with a chorus of excited agreements, a symphony of splashing and cannonball fantasies. But one voice was notably absent from the chorus. Bob had hung back, a flicker of apprehension in his eyes.

"I think I'll stay here," he'd said, his voice soft. "I'm not really a... a pool person."

The others, in their excitement, hadn't noticed his reluctance at first. But when asked, he admitted the truth, a bit sheepishly. "I've never actually learned how to swim," he confessed, his gaze dropping to the floor. "I'm perfectly content to just stay in my room with the fan and a good book."

No one pushed him. The last thing anyone wanted was for him to feel uncomfortable. Instead of joining the others, you decided to stay behind with him. The lure of the cool water was tempting, but the prospect of a quiet afternoon with Bob was even more appealing. You both had settled into this peaceful routine, the kind of easy camaraderie that didn't need words.

As the fan continued to hum, you finally broke the silence. The words tumbled out before you could even think about them. "I could teach you," you blurted out, the thought suddenly crystal clear in your mind. "Later tonight, after everyone's gone. We'll have the whole place to ourselves."

Bob's head tilted, his gaze slowly shifting from the ceiling to you. A slow, playful smirk spread across his face, a spark of amusement lighting his eyes. "Oh, so you're going to be Mr. Lifeguard, are you?" he said, his voice a low, teasing rumble. "I hope you know CPR."

You rolled your eyes, a playful smile on your own face. "You'll be perfectly fine," you retorted, a laugh bubbling up in your chest. "Besides, I'll get you a floaty if you need one."

The smirk on his face widened, a genuine, joyful crinkle forming around his eyes. "Okay," he said, a soft, warm tone in his voice. "Deal. On both counts.".

Later that night, you went back to your room and changed into a pair of swim trunks, grabbing a towel and a pair of flip-flops. The cool fabric of your trunks was a welcome change from the oppressive humidity of the day, a small promise of the refreshing evening to come. You made your way back to Bob's room, a soft knock on the door announcing your arrival.

He was already standing by the door when you arrived, a fluffy white towel draped over his shoulder. He was dressed in a pair of simple black swim trunks, his bare chest and arms on display. For a moment, he seemed to hesitate, a flicker of nerves in his eyes as he took in your ready-for-the-pool appearance. But as soon as his eyes met yours, his face lit up, a brilliant, genuine smile spreading across his lips.

"Ready to go, Mr. Lifeguard?" he said, his voice a low, teasing whisper.

You grinned in return, a playful roll of your eyes as you gestured for him to lead the way. "Lead the way, Captain Floaty."

The halls of the tower were silent, the usual daytime bustle replaced by a peaceful hush. Your footsteps echoed softly in the quiet as the two of you walked side-by-side, the air-conditioned coolness of the tower a stark contrast to the muggy heat outside. As you walked, Bob's gaze drifted from his bare feet to you.

"So, how did you learn to swim?" he asked, his voice soft, almost a mumble in the quiet hall.

You shrugged, a casual movement of your shoulders as a faint smile touched your lips. "My father," you began, the memory of the past as clear as day in your mind. "He was a big believer in sink or swim. He just pushed me in the deep end one day when I was a kid and told me I'd swim if I wanted to survive."

You could feel Bob's gaze harden, the playful glint in his eyes replaced with a sudden, intense seriousness. "Your dad's a fucking asshole," he mumbled, the words a low, guttural growl that escaped his lips before he could stop them.

You laughed softly, a dry, humorless chuckle. "Yeah," you agreed, the word a soft exhalation of air. "Yeah, he was a cunt." The honesty of the moment hung in the air between you, a silent acknowledgment of a shared understanding. The conversation ended there, the two of you continuing to walk in a comfortable silence until you reached the pool room.

The pool room was a sight to behold. A massive, Olympic-sized pool filled the center of the cavernous room, its crystal-clear water shimmering under the soft, recessed lighting. The air was warm and humid, carrying the faint, clean scent of chlorine. The far wall was a floor-to-ceiling window, offering a breathtaking view of the illuminated city skyline. It was a space designed for leisure, a stark contrast to the high-tech tower.

Bob stopped at the edge of the pool, his toes curling slightly against the cool tile. He looked out at the vast expanse of water with a mix of awe and trepidation, a deep furrow forming between his brows. You watched him, a quiet smile on your face.

"Don't worry," you said, your voice soft and reassuring. "We'll start slow. The shallow end is right here."

You gestured to the steps leading down into the water, your own feet already splashing into the cool depths. The water felt incredible, a refreshing shock to your skin after the heat of the day. You turned back to Bob, who was still standing on the edge, his towel now draped over a nearby chair.

"C'mon," you coaxed, a playful glint in your eyes. "It's not a shark tank, I promise."

He let out a nervous laugh, a sound that was half-chuckle, half-exasperated sigh. He took a deep breath, his shoulders squaring as he slowly descended the steps. The moment the water touched his skin, a shiver ran through him, a stark contrast to the hot flush on his face.

"Okay," he said, his voice a little strained. "Okay. So, what's first?"

You moved closer, the water swirling around your waist. "First," you said, your voice dropping to a low, calm tone, "we're just going to get you comfortable in the water. I want you to sit down on these steps and just feel the water, feel how it holds you up."

He nodded, a look of fierce concentration on his face. He sat down on the second step, the water lapping at his chest. You watched as he took a deep breath, his shoulders slowly relaxing as he leaned back, the water supporting him. You could see the tension in his body melting away, replaced by a sense of calm.

"See?" you said, a genuine smile spreading across your face. "Not so bad."

You waded out a bit further into the pool, the water now reaching your waist, but kept your eyes on Bob the entire time. He was still sitting on the steps, his body a little more relaxed now, the water a comforting embrace around him. A thoughtful expression was on his face as he watched you move through the water with an effortless grace.

"Feeling brave enough to join me yet?" you teased, a playful smirk on your lips. "I can go get your floaty if you need it. We'll find one with a cool shark design."

He let out a soft laugh, the sound echoing lightly in the cavernous room. "I think I'll pass on the shark floaty for now," he said, a hint of amusement in his voice as he pushed himself up from the steps. He moved slowly, deliberately, the water resisting his every movement. He took a single step off the stairs and into the shallower part of the pool, his feet finding purchase on the smooth, tiled floor. He took another step, and then another, his movements a bit stiff, like a cat testing a new surface.

"Okay," he said, his voice a little strained as he tried to find his balance. "So, what's the next step?"

"Now," you said, your voice calm and steady, "I want you to try to float on your back."

His eyes widened in a flash of pure panic. "Whoa, whoa, whoa," he said, his hands coming up in a gesture of surrender. "Absolutely not. I'm not ready for that. I'll sink."

You chuckled softly, waded a few steps closer to him. "You're not going to sink," you reassured him, your voice firm and confident. "The water is going to hold you up. It's all about trust. Trust in the water." You gently placed your hands on his back, your touch a warm, comforting pressure against his skin. "I've got you," you promised, your gaze locked with his. "Just lean back and let the water take you."

He hesitated for a moment, a whirlwind of doubt and trust swirling in his eyes. Then, with a deep breath, he leaned back, his body going rigid as he fought against the natural buoyancy of the water. His feet lifted from the floor and he tensed, his muscles coiling in protest. But you held him steady, your hands a solid anchor against his back.

"Relax," you murmured, your voice a soothing balm against his fear. "Just relax."

Slowly, his body began to loosen, his muscles unclenching as he felt the water's gentle embrace. He let out a shaky exhale, his eyes fluttering shut. His head bobbed gently on the surface, his hair fanning out around him like a golden halo. He was floating. For the first time in his life, he was floating, a sense of weightlessness washing over him as the fear melted away. You kept a firm, steadying hand on his back, a silent promise that you would not let him go. The only sounds in the room were the gentle lapping of the water and the soft, steady rhythm of your breathing. It was a perfect, quiet moment of trust, a shared breath of air in the vast, silent sea of the pool.

He let out a long, shaky breath, the sound a soft puff of air on the still surface of the water. His eyes fluttered open, a brilliant blue against the golden glow of the pool lights. He looked up at you, a soft, amazed smile spreading across his face.

"I'm... I'm doing it," he whispered, the wonder in his voice as clear as the water around you.

You smiled down at him, a genuine warmth spreading through your chest. Your hand slowly moved from his back, a gentle caress against his skin as you pushed away from him, moving to float beside him. The weightless sensation was peaceful, quiet, the only sounds in the vast room were the gentle lapping of the water against your bodies and the soft, rhythmic sound of your breathing.

As you drifted a few feet away, Bob's hand found yours in the water, his fingers carefully intertwining with yours. His touch was warm and steady, a silent anchor in the cool depths. He was still smiling, but there was a new look in his eyes now, a spark of something different, something a little more than just relief.

"You know," he said, his voice a low, teasing rumble that sent a shiver through you, "I'm starting to think you're pretty good at this whole 'lifeguard' thing."

You let out a soft laugh, your head tilting back as you floated, your gaze on the illuminated ceiling. "I'm a natural," you replied, your voice filled with a playful confidence.

"Yeah, well," he said, his fingers tightening around yours. "I've gotta say, you're a lot better than my old lifeguard. He was just a picture on a cereal box."

You turned your head to look at him, a quizzical expression on your face. "A... cereal box?"

"Yeah," he said, a sheepish grin spreading across his face. "The one with the smiling sun on it. I used to just stare at him and hope for the best."

You burst out laughing, a genuine, uninhibited sound that echoed in the quiet room. "I'm going to take that as a compliment," you said, your voice still a little breathless from your laughter.

"You should," he said, his gaze locked with yours. "I mean, he's a great guy, but he's got nothing on you. You're... you're a much better floaty than a sun." The last part of his sentence came out in a rush, a clumsy, adorable attempt at a compliment that made your heart do a little flip-flop in your chest.

You squeezed his hand gently, a soft, tender smile on your face. "I'm a much better floaty than a sun," you repeated, the words a silent promise that you would always be there to hold him up.

You both floated there in the silent, shimmering pool, your fingers still intertwined, a quiet island in the middle of a vast, tranquil sea. The city lights twinkled like scattered diamonds through the massive window, a beautiful backdrop to your private world. You talked aimlessly, your voices low and soft, carried on the humid air. You discussed a new book you were reading, the chaotic state of his room, his surprisingly meticulous habit of doing the dishes after everyone else had abandoned them. The topics were mundane, but the conversation was easy, a comfortable back-and-forth that felt as natural as breathing.

After a while, the conversation faded into a comfortable silence. The only sounds were the soft lapping of the water and the gentle rhythm of your breathing. You just floated there, suspended in the serene moment, a warm, fuzzy feeling spreading through your chest as you looked at the man beside you. The city lights reflected in his bright blue eyes, making them sparkle like the stars in a night sky.

You couldn't help but feel a pull towards him, an undeniable magnetism that had been building between you for weeks. And in this moment, suspended in the quiet, intimate bubble of the pool, you decided to take a chance.

"You know," you said, your voice a soft, low murmur, "if I'm a better floaty than a sun, I hope you're a better swimmer than a flounder."

Bob let out a soft, surprised chuckle, the sound a low rumble against your joined hands. "A flounder?" he asked, his voice laced with amusement. "That's a bit of a stretch, isn't it?"

"I don't know," you replied, a playful smirk on your lips. "You're pretty flat on your back right now. Plus, you've got those big, beautiful eyes on the side of your head. It's a close call."

He laughed, a genuine, uninhibited sound that made your heart skip a beat. "You're... you're a mess," he said, shaking his head slightly, but his smile was wide and brilliant.

"I can be," you admitted, your own smile mirroring his. "But hey, I'm a mess that's holding your hand in the middle of a swimming pool at two in the morning. And you're a guy who just learned to float. So I think we're doing pretty well."

He squeezed your hand, his gaze locked with yours, the playful spark in his eyes now mixed with a deep, unreadable emotion. "Yeah," he said, his voice soft, almost a whisper. "I think we are."

The quiet hours bled into one another, and you and Bob eventually drifted toward the shallower end, the silence punctuated by the soft slosh of water. The initial awkwardness had completely vanished, replaced by a comfortable intimacy that felt both new and familiar. You had a few more failed attempts at teaching him a proper stroke, dissolving into laughter as he flailed his arms and legs in a chaotic, sputtering effort. But it didn't matter. The goal wasn't to turn him into an Olympic swimmer; it was just to be there with him, to share this moment.

"I think I'm ready for the next level," Bob declared with a dramatic sigh, pushing himself up to sit on the steps, his legs dangling in the water. He was breathing a little heavily from his clumsy attempts at a backstroke, a triumphant grin on his face.

"Oh yeah?" you challenged, resting your forearms on the edge of the pool beside him. "And what's that?"

He looked at you, his eyes twinkling with a mischievous light. "I think it's time for me to learn how to do a cannonball."

You let out a snort of laughter, shaking your head. "Absolutely not. You'll flood the entire floor."

"Hey, you're the lifeguard," he said, splashing a bit of water at you. "You're supposed to be encouraging me to be adventurous."

Before you could retort, he pushed himself up from the steps, a newfound confidence in his movements. He stood at the edge of the pool, a playful glint in his eyes as he looked down at you. Without a moment's hesitation, he launched himself into the air, his knees tucked to his chest, and landed with a spectacular, thunderous splash that sent a tidal wave of water crashing over you.

You came up from the deluge sputtering and wiping the water from your eyes, your hair plastered to your forehead. You saw Bob's head emerge from the water, his hair slicked back, a look of pure, unadulterated joy on his face.

"Well?" he asked, his voice filled with a childish glee. "How was that?"

"I think," you said, pushing a lock of hair from your eyes and a smile on your face, "we're going to need a bigger pool."

He laughed, a rich, vibrant sound that filled the room. He swam over to you, his movements still a little uncoordinated, but undeniably more confident than before. He reached out and gently brushed a stray drop of water from your cheek, his touch sending a warm shiver down your spine.

"Thank you," he said, his voice dropping to a low, tender murmur. "For this. For everything."

You smiled, your gaze softening as you looked into his eyes. "Always."

The first rays of dawn began to peek through the massive window, casting a gentle, ethereal glow over the pool. The light illuminated the quiet stillness of the water, a perfect mirror to the peaceful, shared moment between you. As the sun began to rise on a new day, you both knew this was more than just a swimming lesson. It was the start of something beautiful.

[starsfic]

Meet the Alternates

The SFW beginning of a lemon fic over on AO3, inspired by art such as @pronouns-d-ace's piece here.

It was rare that Pure Vanilla woke up in a good mood.

To most, he seemed like the perfect morning person, one who rose with the sun and the bluebirds and greeted the day with a smile, ready to accept the challenges of the day.

That, however, was the mask he wore, the mask he was now aware he was wearing. Few saw him linger in bed sometimes, wishing to just go back to sleep, already considering the amount of work that needed to be done. Sometimes he woke up at his desk, having fallen asleep in the middle of said work. Only his bluebirds and one other cookie had seen him breathe in and out, preparing for the work ahead, and then smile.

He loved his kingdom, truly. He loved his subjects, truly.

He just wished he had been better prepared for all of it.

However, those thoughts were a million miles away at the moment. His bed was soft and warm, the sun gently cradling him in coziness. He yawned but didn’t allow his orchid staff to open its eyes, instead snuggling deeper into his covers and stretching out his legs.

His foot knocked into someone’s leg.

A hand draped over his chest.

He leaned into the touch, enjoying the sensation of-

Wait.

Last he remembered, he had been falling asleep at his desk. Last he remembered, there was nobody to share his bed with. Last he remembered, his soul jam had been giving the faint, magical hum it always did- now, it was silent.

Pure Vanilla opened the eye of his orchid staff.

The room he was in looked like his room, covered in white and gold and warm sunshine yellow- it even had his plants. However, there was more blue than he recognized. Here and there, there were gold eyes on the walls, all looking around. Despite himself, he shivered, remembering the strange blue eyes that had watched him in the Spire of Deceit, the eyes that now lingered in the shadow of his cloak. The bed felt larger, and there was more books than he recognized. A tea set sat with too many cups on a table.

The body next to him moved.

Pure Vanilla looked and nearly screamed.

He knew that face. He had looked at that face in the mirror in the Spire of Deceit. He had nearly not recognized it, seeing the exhaustion and apathy that had lit up once-hopeful eyes, not even dwelling on the pale complexion and limp hair. 

Truthless Reclusion laid next to him.

As if thinking his name was akin to screaming it, the recluse opened his eyes.

They met eyes.

The two of them stared at each other. Pure Vanilla held his breath, suddenly both very afraid and uncertain of why he was so afraid. Without the figure before him, he would have never understood Deceit and its balance with Truth…he would have never combined souls with Shadow Milk and better understood his better half. Still, it was-

“ Nope .”

Truthless Recluse was hopping off the bed before Pure Vanilla could react. “Wait-” he managed, watching as the corrupted version of himself grabbed that familiar blue staff where it leaned next to his. “What do you mean, nope ?”

“I mean, nope . I do not wish to deal with this…” Truthless Recluse turned, hand raised as if preparing to gesture at him. He froze. “With all these clones?”

“Clones-?”

He turned his head, moving his staff to get a better look, and felt himself freeze.

There were at least ten other versions of himself laying in the bed. Some were pulled away while others were cuddled up. He turned and realized that at least nine other orchid staffs rested against the wall, waiting for their owners to wake up and collect them.

He recognized the brown garb of Healer Cookie. He even recognized the short hair of himself before his awakening. There even seemed to be another version of Truthless Recluse. However, the others eluded him-

“OW!”

At least three other versions sat up immediately, all looking around in surprise. Their harsh awakenings seemed to be a domino effect as the others stirred, looking around in confusion. Pure Vanilla turned as well, looking to see Truthless Recluse rub his arm. “Did you pinch yourself?” he said, unable to help the disbelief that was welling up. It was better than the hysterical laughter.

“Yes,” Truthless Recluse said, pulling his sleeve down. “I was wondering if this was a strange dream, because I could not sense the leech’s influence.”

“Leech-?”

“Do not call him that.”

The possessive snap belonged to two of the other hims. One wore what appeared to be a chiton, ombre going from midnight blue to white, his shoulders bare save for a blue shawl that clasped at the front with the souljam, his long hair braided back. The other wore what appeared to be his normal robes, except any brown was replaced for gold. What made Pure Vanilla uneasy, however, was the gold blindfold over his eyes. His long hair seemed to float, familiar golden eyes winking, akin to the eyes that lurked in Shadow Milk’s hair.

“Who…are you?” another version of him, wearing what seemed to be an adult version of his shepherd robes, looking around with hazy, concerned eyes. “Where are we?”

“I’m not sure,” the pre-awakened version of himself said, reaching out to give a comforting pat. His tone was similar to comforting Gingerbrave and the other two. “But, I’m sure we’ll figure it out.”

The other version of Truthless Recluse didn’t say a word as he slid off the bed. He headed to the balcony and opened it up. “Wherever it is,” he said. “I don’t recognize it.”

Pure Vanilla joined him. He was right. This place seemed more like a large manor than the Spire or the Vanilla Kingdom. It was large, with what appeared to be a lovely garden, but it seemed to be floating in space. It almost resembled the Dark Side of the Moon, yet he felt no connection, no power here.

Okay. So. He needed to lay out what he knew.

There was one…two…three…twelve versions of himself.

They seemed to be in some other realm that none of them had any connection with

None of them remembered how they got here.

They had name tags.

“We have name tags,” he said, unsure of how he didn’t realize that sooner. There was a small paper name tag with golden writing on it. “I suppose to help distinguish ourselves?”

“It may help,” the pre-awakened version of himself said, standing up from the bed and over to the tea set. He poured the tea into the twelve cups and sat down. Pure Vanilla mimicked him. The others drifted over, all sharing worried but determined looks as they took a cup of tea. “Even if it doesn’t, this would get confusing without these nicknames.”

“I’ll start,” Pure Vanilla offered, angling his staff to get a look. “I’m…Pure Vanilla.” That didn’t seem fair. And kind of boring.

None of them spoke up, however. “I’m Nilly,” the pre-awakened version of himself said next. It was hard not to notice a few shoulders slump at that.

Truthless Recluse was next. “I’m T.R.” he said with a faint hum. 

“I’m not sure what mine says-” Healer said, drawing attention to his blindfold and wrapped up orchid.

Fortune Teller leaned forward. “Yours says Healer, and I’m Fortune Teller. That seems very straightforward.”

“Mine says Assistant,” the Pure Vanilla in the chiton said, rubbing a thumb over his souljam. “That also seems straightforward. It was what I was baked for.”

“Really?” His curiosity got the better of him. “Assistant to who?”

Assistant’s smile could have lit up the night. “To the Fount, of course.” Silence dawned. He…he knew the Fount of Knowledge. Pure Vanilla swore that his souljam burned, lightly, at that sentence. “When he and his siblings were starting to corrupt, the witches thought it would be best for them to have companions that could help them understand their role in the world.” His smile turned a bit bitter. “I would say I didn’t do a good job at that, even with half of the souljam, but the Fount thinks the world of me.”

Silence fell before a throat lightly cleared. “I was given the name Vivid,” a version of him dressed in green and white said, the silver wing hairpiece that pinned his hair into a high ponytail fluttering lightly. “Our friend here,” he said as he patted the shoulder of the grown shepherd. “Is Shepherd.”

Shepherd nodded, looking a touch embarrassed. Pure Vanilla had to wonder about him- did he never go to the academy? Did he stay behind in his old village, continuing to tend to his sheep? If he thought back, he had been reluctant to go even when he displayed strong magic, fearing that the farm would suffer in his absence. However, his parents had convinced him to go, viewing it as a chance to give him a better life. In Shepherd’s world, did they fail to convince him?

The next version of himself, wearing a blue and yellow cardigan and a cap with little golden wings, cleared his throat. “I’m Blue, according to my tag.”

“And I am Kitsune,” the next version of himself said, wearing white robes similar to the ones worn in Dark Cacao’s kingdom. Soft-looking white fox ears twitched, alongside a tail. 

Next up was the other Truthless Recluse. “I am,” He peered at his tag. His cold and apathetic look dropped, replaced by a look of annoyance that practically seared the air. “...Reclusey.” He leaned back with a groan. “I am never going to escape that damn nickname…”

“Aw, I think it’s charming,” the Pure Vanilla with the blindfold and hair eyes cooed. “My name is Imitation Vanilla.”

A weird tension filled the air at the name. The eyes on the wall seemed to stare into his skin.

“What’s your story?” Shepherd spoke up.

“Oh, there’s no need to concern yourself with that,” Imitation said it so sweetly that Pure Vanilla almost believed him. “Everything’s fine.”

The silence drew thicker.

Unease curled down Pure Vanilla’s spine.

“...you’re a Beast, aren’t you?” Reclusey said, his voice softly breaking the silence.

Imitation smiled. Pure Vanilla wanted to deny it- there was no way a Beast could smile so sweetly. However, his mind drew back to being Truthless Recluse.

In a few moments, a rare few moments, Shadow Milk had smiled sweetly at him. When Hollyberry discussed her run-in with Eternal Sugar, she had described someone who was nothing but sweet to her. So, the Beasts could be sweet.

“Beast of what?” he asked.

Imitation didn’t say a word. Instead, his smile grew-

BANG!

Even with his poor eyesight, Pure Vanilla could see the explosion that rocked the manor, coming from the other side. All of them got up as one and rushed to the balcony, all craning their heads and staff to get a better look.

A small group was huddled in the garden, surrounding what looked to be three figures. They all looked like a big blob of blue.

“I’ll bet my library on that being the leech,” T.R. said.

Pure Vanilla sighed as he pulled away from the edge. “I won’t take you up on that bet.”

Mostly because he would lose.

The hallway outside looked something between the Spire and the Vanilla castle, all richly decorated with a sense of unison. If Pure Vanilla had chosen to stay there, he would have liked it. However, it only made him feel uneasy, and the sight of what appeared to be a fistfight in the garden only worsened the feeling.

A set of grand doors was thrown open, allowing access to the garden. From this angle, it looked like they were taking a calm, peaceful walk in the starlight. However, the sound of yelling and spells broke the peaceful atmosphere.

Pure Vanilla came to a stop when he reached the huddle. There appeared to be ten Shadow Milk Cookies. Seven were creating a crescent, revealing the three other fighting.

One was Shadow Milk. Pure Vanilla didn’t doubt it. That was his Shadow Milk, pulling the hair of a Shadow Milk wearing a blue and gold suit that was trying to bite him. A broken monocle sat on the floor with a blue hat, eyes blinking and looking quite dazed on the soft blue fabric. Moving around them to try and pull Shadow Milk off at various different angles was the Fount of Knowledge- no longer just a statue, but a cookie in gold and blue, his hair empty of eyes but glittering with stars, crowned with a small white crown.

As well as a completely panicked expression.

“Dearest!”

Pure Vanilla grunted as a hand shoved into his face, pushing him back, allowing Imitation to rush forward. Shadow Milk and the other version of him froze at the yell, allowing the blindfolded cookie to shove the former away before embracing the latter. The Fount wrapped his arms around Shadow Milk before he could lurch forward, leaving him to snap at the air. “Oh, your poor face,” the Beast cooed, reaching up to wipe at the jam rolling from his Shadow Milk’s nose. A flourish of green allowed the injuries to heal. “What happened?”

“Oh, Nilly, there…was a mild disagreement between myself and…” ‘Dearest’ squinted and looked around. “My other selves, I suppose, and things got a bit out of hand-”

His eyes landed on him.

Pure Vanilla had never seen a blush form so fast.

“I…see you have some other selves of your own, Nilly,” he said, voice slightly strained. “Who are they?”

“Well,” Imitation turned, not releasing his hold around ‘Dearest’s neck. “That is Pure Vanilla, T.R., Healer, Fortune Teller, Reclusey, Assistant, Nilly, Vivid, Blue, Shepherd, and Kitsune.” He smiled, leaning in. “And what is your nickname, my dear?”

“Well, um, I’m Sage. That is Fount,” The Fount of Knowledge gave a polite nod. “That is Actor,” A Shadow Milk with a pixie cut waved. “Azure,” A pretty young lady smirked. “Awake,” A version of Sage, wearing more gold, nodded. “That is Save,” Another version of the Fount was looking around, his hair braided back, loose enough to expose the eyes peeking out. His robes resembled Assistant’s ombre chiton, and it explained why he looked relieved when Assistant walked up, wrapping a hand around his arm. “That is Sheep,” A Shadow Milk with wolf ears and tail huffed, but that failed to hide the smirk. “That is Swap,” There was another version of Sage, wearing more white. Reclusey huffed next to him, suggesting that it was his Shadow Milk. “And that is Shadow,” A Shadow Milk, wearing an outfit that was a cross between Shadow Milk’s jester outfit and Sage’s outfit, was looking at Imitation with a strange intensity. Was this Sage’s version of T.R.?

“You forgot this one,” Fount spoke up, wrapping an arm further around Shadow Milk.

“And that’s the brute.”

“Jester, actually.” Shadow Milk finally snapped, shoving an elbow into Fount’s side, hard enough that his pre-corrupted self had to take a step. Pure Vanilla watched as he rose, just above their heads.

They made eye contact.

‘Jester’ looked away first.

Well, that suggested how he still felt about him.

Maybe…maybe this strange situation was a chance to reopen conversation between them? Based on how Assistant and Save acted, with a gentle love, and how Imitation cooed and doted over Sage, he could hope, couldn’t he?

Pure Vanilla closed his eyes and took a deep breath, ready to suggest comparing stories. When he opened his eyes, however, he gave a start.

A small scroll floated in front of him.

“Read it,” Blue urged, stepping closer. “Maybe it has a clue?”

Pure Vanilla took it as urged, breaking the seal. When he unfurled it, a blank piece of parchment met his eyes. “It-” He paused before he could reveal it didn’t say a word, watching as gold and blue words etched themselves out.

To the others bound together by Truth and Deceit.

You need to learn about your different sides

Intimacy is the best way.

There are bedrooms in the manor.

(Have fun!)

The two groups fell silent.

“Wait, intimacy?” Assistant said, his face flushing. “As in, physical intimacy?”

“I guess, based on the comment about bedrooms-”

Pure Vanilla looked up and gave a start.

He now stood in the light of day. He stood in his gardens. He was all alone, save for a gardener who gaped. “How did you do that?” they said, their tone baffled. “You suddenly just appeared!”

“I…” Pure Vanilla looked down. The scroll was still in his hands. The words winked at him. “I don’t know.”

What on Earthbread was that?

Notes: Pure Vanilla: Awakened Pure Vanilla Nilly: Pre-Awakened Pure Vanilla Healer: Healer Cookie Fortune Teller: Fortune Teller Cookie T.R.: Canon Truthless Recluse Reclusey: Truthless Recluse from the Peak of Truth story Assistant: An AU where the witches made the Ancients to serve as companions to the Virtues to keep them from corrupting Imitation: My version of a swap AU. Nobody is certain what exactly Imitation is the Beast of, since he keeps that knowledge distorted. Vivid: Viridescent Daydream costume Blue: Pastel Blue costume Shepherd: AU where Pure Vanilla stayed a shepherd, never attending Blueberry Yogurt Academy and never receiving the souljam. Kitsune: That one fox China-exclusive costume Jester: OG Shadow Vanilla Fount: Fount of Knowledge Sage: Same AU as Imitation Actor: Same AU as Sage and Imitation, basically Shadow Milk's version of Healer Cookie, where he became an actor with amnesia Azure: Lady in Azure Sheep: Big bad wolf Shadow Milk Save: Same AU as Assistant, here the Fount suffered some effects of corruption but managed to save himself Swap: Sage of Truth from Peak of Truth story Shadow: Sage's version of Truthless Recluse Awake: Awakened Sage

[p-00e]

teaser - Cauldrons and Charms (?)

slytherin!gojo satoru x afab!Gryffindor!reader

Warning! - I do not agree with nor condone any of the heinous things JK Rowling has said about trans people and the LGBTQ+ community! This is my first real try at a fanfic and I hope you enjoy!! A full story is in the works right now, but heres a peek :)) -

Professor Binn’s history of magic paper was going to be the true cause of your death. In fact, Hermione’s better than magic zero sugar red bulls weren’t enough to pull you through the ten scrolls you had due in the next two days. Running a hand through your disheveled hair, you swept past the excited first years with a fresh two hours of sleep, sporting eyebags heavier than a mountain troll. 

“Mione! I swear if Binn doesn’t reduce his course workload, I will hex him into a-” 

Your fellow Gryffindor winced as she saw your shoulder shoved violently against broader and sturdier ones. Knocking your scrolls of parchment and sending them flying in the Great Hall. 

“Rats..” you muttered under your breath, quickly collecting your unfinished work and thinking of how you could use that Tongue Twister hex Fred taught you on the witch or wizard that shoved you. 

“What kind wheezing MORO-” your verbal tirade was interrupted by the sound of boisterous laughter, a laugh you were unfortunately extremely familiar with. 

Clad in black and green robes, stood the obnoxious, annoying excuse of a wizard, Gojo Satoru. A notorious snake who made it his personal mission to harass and ruin your life at Hogwarts. 

“Watch where you’re walking, someone might think you bumped into me on purpose, sweets” He chided with a smirk, silver ring clad hand ruffling his snow white locks. Picking up and unraveling one of your stray parchments, he eyes it like you've written some ancient undecipherable alien text then suddenly bursts into a fit of dreadful laughter.

“Listen, Gojo, I really really do not have the energy NOR the sufficient hours of sleep to deal with your goonish activities, so give me back my assignment before I send you a one way ticket to Madam Pomffrey.” You heard a small snicker, stemming from the tall figure next to your sworn enemy. Geto Suguru, in all his Slytherin glory, draped a lazy arm over his friend, sending a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes, your way. Opening your assignment, Gojo feigned a wince, shaking his head while tsking. “You know, for a witch as bright as you, obviously not as bright as me... I expect a better essay… like what is this? “The Goblin King, a fierce dictator..” You writin’ a paper or a fanfiction?? Honestly, considering your brains, you're doing a rather poor job at trying to impress me"

Letting out the loudest sigh in wizarding history, you turn to Geto, giving him a quizzical brow, as if to say aren’t you a prefect? Do something? - Unfortunately, Instead of doing his job, he peers over his friend's shoulder, reading along. "I mean, I could probably write a better essay with my EYES closed" He snickers, sending a wink to the hoard of slytherin girls that gathered at the Hall.

Pulling out your wand, you hesitated between hexing the living Gojo out of him and accio-ing your essay from his grasp. Tuning out his mindless criticism and self-satisfaction, you opted for punching him in the gut, swiftly grabbing your essay, hexing his hair piss yellow and cackling your victory away.

Just as your hex takes effect, your thoughts are interrupted by a violent, high pitched scream followed by the gasps of young girls, echoing along the halls, startling Nearly Headless Nick and causing the Fat Lady's glass to shatter.

"MY HAIRRRRRRRRR"

You pick up the pace, trying to reach the safety of your common room before you face the consequences of his wrath. Your escape was short lived, however, as his freakishly long legs strode to you with a speed that could rival a thunderbird. Grabbing you by the robe collar, he slowly leaned forward, grin still intact but a visible irritated wrinkle creases his eyebrows. "If you were trying to get my attention, you've certainly done a wonderful job L/n." You roll your eyes, trying to tug your robe out of his grip. "Why don't you let me go and saunter off to entertain your little cult. I mean WOW Gojo, you never told me you could sing! For half a second I reckoned a banshee had broken into Hogwarts!" Impatience colours his face, yet his smile remains,

"Right? there really IS nothing I can't do" He sighs, with genuine dejection, “But my overflowing talent is nothing new, now why don't YOU undo the hex, sweets? I have a quidditch practice in an hour and I really wouldn't want my loyal fans to faint from the hue of my hair”  

Scoffing you chide “Fans? You can't possibly be refering to that hoard of third years? That's not admiration, they're just blindly obsessed with your pompous personality, Godric knows why..."

He grinned, eyes gleaming at your words, as if your retort had reminded him how huge his ego actually was. “While I relish the praise, I’m not obsessed with your attitude, keep being so prickly and I might hav’ta kiss ya, sweets, but I doubt you'd be that lucky” 

Feeling your heart drop into the pits of your stomach, you resist the urge to expel the bile building up at the thought “Gojo I’d rather kiss a toad with a thousand boils than even IMAGINE a kiss with the likes of yo-” 

A stern cough interrupted your soliloquy, turning your heads to the sound, a not so happy Professor McGonnagall, stood, wand in hand. “Ms L/n! And to think one of the brightest witches in Hogwarts is acting a fool in the Great Hall, now if your show is over and done with, I’d suggest you carry on with your day.” Flushing, you're quick to defend yourself.

“Professor you don’t understand! He started it!” pointing your index to Gojo, who was not so sneakily trying to weasel himself out of losing house points. She raises her pointed nose at the lanky wizard, tsking in disappointment. “And Mr Gojo! I suggest you return to your table and get that ghastly hair fixed before your quidditch practice, I doubt Madame Hooch would be happy to see her star player looking so… yellow." He perks up at her words, "Awww professor, you think I'm a Star Player? I mean I obviously am but to think you agreed!" Sighing, she shoots him a glare that immediately shuts him up. Shooing the gawking students, McGonnagall quips "And to think that two of my most intelligent wizards are to be seen publicaly jousting in the hall, five points from both Gryffindor and Slytherin! I will see the two of you, in my office friday evening." Eyeing your hunched figures, she briskly turns away. Leaving the two (three with Geto who was thoroughly enjoying himself) of you with another detention together.

"Great"

divider creds to : @thecutestgrotto

thank you for reading :?

[anamelessfool]

I firmly believe Copia would love the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame so could you write a drabble around that? He seems like he'd be wow'd by everything (also I just know he'd be annoyed a band like Iron Maiden isnt in)

Little Something (GN! Reader x Copia)

You and Copia love little sidequests on your days off. You have a few hours to kill before soundcheck in Cincinnati and so Copia rounds up you and the ghouls for a tour of the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. Immediately the ghouls scatter to thirst over legendary guitars, perhaps spending their two hours chatting about a single Les Paul. You already know Cirrus is going to gag at all the Elton John artifacts. But now it's you and Copia striding arm and arm across the entrance floor of the curiously shaped building.

"You know Who is here at the Music Hall of Fame," you say.

"Who?"

"Yes."

"I know, they got in in 2017 and that's all I er--know about about them."

"No, I mean The Who!"

"Who are you talking about?"

"Yes."

"I already told you. Yes is in here."

"Who! The Band The Who!" You gasp through tears.

"Are you going to be this cheeky the whole time?" He growls a little but his mouth is quirked into a smile.

"Maybe."

He gives your nose a little flirty pinch for that.

You descend to the lower floors which are set up with exciting walk through displays of old dive bars and grungy historic clubs. They've never looked better. You wonder if the conservators left all the ancient chewing gum for future anthropologic study. At last you find yourself at the iconic facade of CBGB. The classic domed awning with the western style font. The owner had high hopes for it to be a honky-tonk haven but instead turned into one of the great birthplaces of punk and alt music.

"Did you know I went to the final concert at that place?" Copia says. " I went with Primo. Patti Smith."

"I didn't know you liked her. I thought she was folk. Is she not--"

"Rock? My dear, please! Rock is em-- rock is a state of mind! And she is quite rock, thank you very much." It feels like you're going through her whole discography on the bus to the next gig but you don't mind at all.

He's a bit of a snob here but it amuses you how much he puffs up about it. You throw him silly questions and he adds more fascinating quips and personal lore. Like the time he swore he stepped on Billy Idol's foot in a nightclub bathroom in Leeds once. Absolutely swore and you give it to him, giggling.

You each pick your favorite Elvis look from the costumes, then move over to Bowie's collection. "You know your legs would look great in those heels," you say as you come across these impressively tall groovy white platforms."

"They would, wouldn't they," he mutters. "Although I'm sure I'd trip and spill hot coals on the front row if I did."

"Fair enough."

"Maybe next tour--ah! Now look!"

The gift shop lays before you.

The thing about Copia is whenever he's out he always needs to get something. Doubly so at a place like this. A little trinket, a little treat. He calls it a "collection" but you've teased him about his rat-like tendencies before. So his eyes glitter a little when you approach the wall of record-shaped keychains. He bats at a few experimentally, hemming and hawing and muttering to himself. He gasps. "Ah! Look! I found your name!" And yes, there it is: your name in sparkly cursive on plastic record.

"When I was a kid they never had my name," chuckles Copia as he hands it to you.

"Hold on, maybe this time they will have it..." Your eyes scan the wall, then zero in on the target. "Oh! Look, here it is!"

"R-really?!" His mousey eyes get close to yours. You flip over the keychain, smirking.

It says BORT.

"No! Don't be-eh-- don't be fucking with me!" He stammers and his flustered little ramble is what always gets your motor running. You reach out a hand to his face and laugh again.

"Oh don't worry Cardi I have this one though." You drop it in his hand and give his cheek a peck.

It says what matters:

I 💓PAPA

****

PG-13 Asks for Copia and maybe other characters

[im-addicted-2u]

PREVIEW; how do you talk to a star? | f.w.

fred weasley x reader

warnings: no use of y/n, non-gryffindor reader (house unspecified), model student reader, potentially inaccurate portrayal of ootp because it’s been about eight years since i read it, INCOMPLETE! w.c. 736 author's note: i wanted to prove that i'm still writing since this fic has been taking me awhile...here's a short preview of my next post! inspired by a certain blog i won't tag until the final post.

That weekend, the Valentine’s Day Hogsmeade trip took place on the 17th. You went alone, solely for the fact that the only person you’d really want to go with wasn’t in your good books at the moment—and you’re too scared to ask him anyway. Still, your feet wandered to Zonko’s as if seeking him out; no dice.

With a roll of your eyes at your antics, you instead retreated to Honeydukes, something more up your alley. The scent of chocolate hits your nostrils and the warm atmosphere soothes your chilly face. The February winter wasn’t nearly as bad as January’s, but the respite of a cozy chocolate shop was always welcome. You meandered in the aisles with the grace of a dancer, knowing its selection well enough to pick up your favorites with your eyes closed.

You were eying a collection of fruity dark chocolate bars when a hand slid up your back. Instinctually, you tensed and just about uttered a hex, but stopped once a familiar freckled face appeared in your vision.

“I would try the raspberry one. It speaks to me,” said Fred, his hand still on your back, and even through your thick winter coat, you felt the bruising heat of his skin.

“What are you doing here?” You attempted to sound annoyed, but only came across intrigued, much to Fred’s evident delight as he smiled back at you.

“I figured I’d find you around things like you.” His words were met with your blank stare, and he snorted. “Sweet. C’mon, that one was obvious.”

Oh. You looked back at the candy bars, which seemed even more enticing now that you were avoiding looking at Fred. You grabbed the raspberry bar and clasped it with both hands, the force of which would eventually snap it if you didn’t let up.

“Are you messing with me?” you accused him, the effect dampened by your raging blush.

“Messing with you? Oh, I’d never.” Fred pulled you into his side, arm thrown once again haphazardly over your shoulders.

“See, now you’re just lying straight to my face,” you replied.

“Lying to you? Oh, I’d never.” He sent a smirk your way that you reply to with an eye roll.

The Fred of your imagination was far more charming, but even the lightest of teasing that he’s given you so far is enough to fluster you, so perhaps that version of Fred would truly make you combust.

“Where’s your other half?” you asked. 

“Date. Angelina,” Fred answered shortly, picking up a chocolate bar with key lime pie filling and pulling a face. “So you’re stuck with me for the next couple of hours.”

“I’ll try not to enjoy myself too much,” you said dryly, attempting to move down the aisle only for Fred to tug you back into him. His warmth invaded your skin;  he smelled like something homey, a clean blanket and a fire winding down to embers. He could tell you weren’t really fighting.

He gave your arm a squeeze, winked when you looked over, and replied, “Trust me, I intend for you to enjoy yourself plenty. We’re starting at Honeydukes, then we’ll head to Zonko’s, take a walk, grab some butterbeer. I made the plan as soon as I saw you.”

You raised an eyebrow, looking up at him from beneath your lashes. You never thought in your wildest dreams that this would be happening. That Fred Weasley would hold you close in a chocolate shop and talk about the two of you alone together for hours.

“That sounds like a date.”

Fred shrugged. “Could be. I’m showing you more of life, remember? Every girl needs a good date.”

You scoffed. “What if I’ve been on a date already?”

Fred hummed, but the mischievous twinkle in his eye proved he wasn’t really thinking about it. He prepared a million answers before you even asked the question. “A good date?”

“Sure.”

“You may have had dates already, but I intend to be your best date,” said Fred.

“Oh yeah?” You pretended not to swoon, but you think he saw it in your eyes, because he pulled you a little closer, rested his head atop yours, as if you were the only two people in the world.

If his head wasn’t above yours, if you’d maybe inclined your head up a little, you would’ve seen the soft, genuine smile on Fred’s face as he replied, “Yeah.”

[dfroggofarson]

I want it All

chapter one.

It all started with a little crush.

He was a regular at the small bookshop you started working at a year ago. You were sure he was at least ten years older than you, and still (or was it because of your daddy issues) you couldn't help but instantly notice how good-loking he was. Sharp features, hazel eyes, precise movements, polite words – and with time, you caught onto the subtle things that made him unique. How he preferred darker shirts and lighter suits, how his tie always had a funny pattern. His shoes were spotless, just like his whole attire, his speech, his gestures. He always went to find books in business, sometimes at the cooking or science section, but never touched romance, fantasy or esoterics. When he came to pay, he always asked for a paper bag. To your surprise, he didn’t have a loyalty card, even though he came to the shop once every week.

He always greeted you respectfully, his voice low and reserved – the kind of voice that would make you trail off when he spoke, even though he never interrupted your speech – paid silently and wished you a great day. You never initiated small talk, but he didn’t seem like the type who would appreciate it.

He looked like a real gentleman. Calm and collected.

You had no idea then that you’d have to add chilling to the list later, as well.

After weeks and weeks of silently eyeing him from behind the counter, the day came when you decided to stop drooling over the way his muscles stretched on his forearms, or how he furrowed his brows when he was reading a blurb, so subtly nobody else would’ve noticed.

Stop, you tell yourself. There was no hope to begin with anyway.

But it was nice to look forward to a customer every now and then.

Setting the alarm and locking the door behind you, you put away your keys and step out to the street. You look at your phone – half past nine. Not too late to go to the supermarket.

"Good evening."

You snap your head to look at the direction the sound came from. And lo and behold – the very cause of your renewing hopeless romantic problem stands there, under a street light, his white suit draped across his arm while he looks at you. You almost gasp – how can he look so good even now? – but manage to stop yourself, as worry starts to flood your mind.

Why is he here? He sure looks like he was waiting for the shop to close, with how he was standing just a few feet away from the back door. But why is he at the back door?

"Oh, hi! I’m sorry, I just closed the store, you’ll have to come back tomorrow," you inform him while walking closer.

"Ah, please excuse me for disturbing you so late, but I'm not here because of that." He pauses for a second, and pushes his glasses up his defined nose. You can't help but follow his long fingers with your eyes. "I came to ask for your contact information."

Your face becomes pale. You look up at him, mortified, a million things running through your mind as to what you could have done wrong. Did you mess up one of his book orders? Or rang him up a book he didn’t buy? Gave him a plastic bag instead of a paper one?

"Alright, yes of course, but… I could call my manager tomorrow morning if you have any complaints, sir, it’s much faster to tell her, as reviewing written reports can take up to days…" You blabber on, sending yourself spiraling, when he – for the first time – cuts you off.

"I meant your number."

You shut up and look at him in disbelief. "My number?"

"Yes, your phone number. Except in case you wouldn’t like me to take you out sometime the next week."

You just stare at him. Is this real life? Is this happening to you? Is this the same man you have been lusting after for months? Aren’t you hallucinating?

The urge to shake your head or look around to see if he was talking to someone else is strong, but you brace yourself. You wouldn’t want to make an idiot out of yourself in front of him.

"No, it’s uhh, are you… really? Are you serious?" You ask instead, and already want to punch yourself in the face upon actually verbalizing the words. But he doesn’t laugh, just answers your question casually.

"Yes, I am."

You stare at him for a couple more seconds, then snap out of it. "Okay, yeah, I mean, sure. No, I mean, thank you, I'd love that," you just want the ground to swallow you whole before that, being all flustered and rambling nonsense. You almost don’t notice the small smile lingering on his lips when he pulls out his phone, opens the contacts and hands it to you.

"Thank you. And sorry for holding you up," Nanami apologizes, but you rather he’d disturb you all night long instead of just dropping by.

"Let me properly introduce myself, then. I’m Kento Nanami," he says then, and you too introduce yourself (awkwardly) while typing your number and name into his phone.

"It's really nice to meet you, Nanami," you smile at him as pretty as you can, then give his phone back to him. He looks at it, then snickers.

My God. I need to stop reading so many explicit novels.

"No, not at all, I was about to head home anyways," you shake your head. "Then… I guess we’ll see each other around?"

"We will," he confirms with a curt nod. "Well then, good night."

"Good night."

It’s only when you hop onto the bus you realize that you forgot to ask for his number. You want to scream in agony and embarassment, but there’s no helping it now.

You’d have to wait for him to contact you.

The next morning, you wake up before your alarm goes off, get ready and make yourself as pretty as you possibly can. The dress code is strict, but you can put on some lipstick and jewellery that is more shiny than what you usually wear. And throughout your workday, you check your phone at least three times a minute in case he calls, texts, or sends any kind of sign.

And well, the signal ends up being he himself.

Your eyes widen when you see him walk through the door casually, his gaze quickly finding yours. And then he actually smiles at you, and heads to the business section.

"Oh. My God. I did not just witness this."

You turn to see your coworker, Shoko standing behind you, a few books in hand, her jaw also on the floor. She looks even more bevildered than you do. She quickly closes the gap between the two of you and grabs you by the shoulders. "Are you kidding me?! Did you put airborne drugs in his books or something? How’d you sweet-talk Mr. Cool?"

A stupid grin spreads across your face. "I don’t know! Last night when I closed the shop he was waiting for me outside. Said he wanted my contact information," you giggle quietly, and Shoko’s eyes widen. "I though he was going to complain, but no, he asked for my number."

"Shut up," she says while putting the books to their designated shelves.

"I did, unfortunately. I forgot to ask for his number."

"You idiot!" She hits your arm playfully, and leaves to the counter to ring up a customer, then comes back. "But he did waltz in here with a pretty smile. Looks like you didn’t mess up."

"I hope so."

Your eyes return to the tall, blonde man still browsing in his favourite section. You want to believe you were the reason he came here, since he was in just two days ago, and he rarely shops twice in a week.

As though he felt your gaze, he looks up and meets your eyes. You blush, but hold his stare for a couple of seconds before you look away to help other customers.

A few minutes later he comes to your register with a book in his hand.

"Hello."

"Hi," you breathe back.

There is a silent moment when you forget that you’re actually a cashier and he’s here to buy a book. You recollect yourself quickly, and ring up his read. You raise your brows in surprise when you see what he bought – a romantasy you’ve been meaning to read for a few weeks but never got the chance. You try to hide your puzzled expression as you bag it.

"I thought you liked business books and autobiographies," you remark. Nanami puts his hand on the counter.

"It’s not for me."

"Oh, I see," and boom, you're already feeling stupid. Of course it's not for him.

But hen you hand him the bag, he doesn’t take it. Instead, he reaches to gently push it back towards you. "Enjoy your read. And call me when you’ve finished your shift. I hope you'll have a nice day."

Nanami then smiles at you again, and leaves the shop with a polite nod.

You are left standing there again, with no words, until you realize something is sticking out from one of the pages. You open it up curiously, and find a little note that reads:

’You look beautiful today.’

Followed by his phone number.

You try not to squeal and melt at the same time. How can this man be so smooth?

When Nanami gets home, the first thing he does is open your social media accounts.

The first time he did it a couple of weeks earlier, he was surprised to see how few posts you had online, one every few months, with two to six pictures and a short caption. You mostly posted pictures which had your face and your friends’ faces in it, given that most of your accounts were private.

But, well, who was he if he couldn’t break his way into a few private profiles?

He observed the pictures and read through your posts, memorizing your characteristics, likes and dislikes, the people you interacted with and the way you did it. He had learned that you broke up with your boyfriend around six months ago. Nanami could not believe you were with an idiot like that guy in the first place – but low standards meant it would be cakewalk to sweep you off your feet.

He analyzes every little detail he could find about your public and private life, up to the point that he could make a full profile from the top of his head just by reading through you socials and meeting you in the book store from time to time.

When he looks at a picture of you, grinning and hugging your coworker he saw you exchanging excited words with, the edges of his mouth slowly curl up into a smile.

Poor girl… She has no idea what she’s gotten herself into.

thank you all for your continued support!! i look forward to writing evil Nanami dribbles, hehe. it just fits his character so perfectly, i love it so much. cw! in the next few episodes, you can expect:

manipulation

graphic descriptions of violence

nsfw contents

nothing being as it seems

and idk - more horrible things i wouldn't write if i was sane. if you're sensitive to contents like these, please refrain from reading further. he's gonna be a bad guy, people. and i mean it. anyway see you in a few days, and please let me know if you liked this! @realalpacorn here you go bestie, hope you enjoyed this as well :3 have a nice day everyone <3

read the prologue here, and check out the little playlist i made on my Spotify acc here! dividers by @strangergraphics and @cursed-carmine

[cherry-holmes]

From Salt, Iron, 𝓪𝓷𝓭 𝓵𝓪𝓬𝓮: A Supernatural Series

(Dean Winchester x Fem!Reader)

Part 14: Till Death Do Us Part

MAIN MASTERLIST

Summary: When Death herself comes to collect, the only shield left is the vow Dean made to you at the altar. But can he truly protect you? Till death do us part… or not even then?

SERIES MASTERLIST

Previous chapter

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Fem!Reader

Word count: +4.9K

Warnings: Forced marriage. Violence typical of the series.

A/N: Hello! Well, turns out we are officially at the end of the road… almost! There’s still one last part left to officially close this chapter on Dean’s AU life! But tell me if you want to see more of Deer and Dean, I’ll be more than happy to explore more details of Deer into the Supernatural universe👀

«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»

The ride back to the Sinclair estate was a blur of hooves and heartbreak. You sat stiffly in the carriage beside your father, hands clenched in your lap, dress wrinkled and still smelling faintly of Dean. You'd barely had time to gather your things when his men pulled you from the cottage. No time to explain. No time to beg. No time to say goodbye.

"You've disgraced this family," your father muttered for the fifth time, staring out the window with a clenched jaw. "Running off with an American. Letting him defile you like some tavern wench."

"Stop," you snapped. Your voice cracked. "You don't know what we've been through."

"I know enough. I know the kind of man who hides in a shack with a young woman for days is not a man fit to wed her. I know he's beneath you. And I know he will answer for it."

"Father, you..."

"No," he turned to you, eyes hard. "You are a Sinclair. You will behave like one. You'll do your duty, or I will see to it that he suffers the consequences."

You didn't respond. You didn't dare.

But your silence was not peace—it was a storm waiting to split the sky.

«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»

Later, after you'd been locked in your own room like a disobedient child, the latch clicked behind you once more.

Beatrice.

She shut the door with quiet precision, her lips already tight with judgment.

"So," she said coolly, arms crossed over her corseted bodice. "It's true, then. You were hiding with a man."

You didn't answer immediately, turning instead to the window where the gray sky bled slowly into dusk. "Why are you here, Bea?"

She took a step forward. "Do you have any idea what you've done? The scandal you've caused? People are already whispering. They say you were found in a bed with him. Naked."

You turned to her slowly. "I was."

Bea recoiled, horror flickering over her face. "How could you? Do you realize how this affects me? How am I supposed to maintain a reputation when my sister has acted like some common..."

"Shut up." Your voice cracked through the air like a whip. "Just... this isn't about you."

"No. This is about our family," she hissed. "And you've ruined any chance I had of marrying well. First you broke your engagement with Mr. Bridgeton. Now you have... I don't even know how to call it... with some American man. There's no chance I can get out off your disaster clean. Any noble and wealthy family would let me in..."

A bitter smile curled on your lips. "So that's what this is about? Getting richer, a title, a marriage arrangement with some man you barely know?"

"I'm trying to protect what's left of our name," she snapped. "Unlike you, I don't have the luxury of being the tragic, mysterious sister. I must to marry. I have to be perfect."

You took a step toward her. "You think perfection is love? You think what our parents had was love? What Lottie has?"

Bea flinched. Her hands trembled. You softened. Only a little.

"You don't know what it is, Beatrice. Real love. It doesn't ask you to be 'perfect'. It doesn't demand obedience. It chooses you. Again and again, even when it's hard. Even when it's messy. Even when it costs everything."

A moment passed between you, thick with tension and something that might've been heartbreak.

"We are in love with each other," you said. "That isn't punishment. It isn't a crime. And I hope you get it for yourself one day."

Bea shook her head, eyes bright with something unshed. Finally, she turned and left.

«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»

As the last light of day slipped behind the trees, a maid arrived at your room carrying a gown you didn't recognize.

The dress was pale and stiff, unfamiliar in every way. Not the soft ivory you once imagined. Not the lace-trimmed dream you used to whisper about under your breath. It clung to you like someone else's skin, cold, formal, nothing like the fire that burned in your chest.

And still, your hands trembled. But not just from fear.

There was guilt, yes, so much of it. You thought of Dean. Of all the things he had run from in his life. Of how, in another life, he'd once flinched at the idea of forever, of wedding bands and promises too big to hold.

He hadn't said it to you, not directly. But you'd seen it in his eyes, years ago, in the modern world. The fear of being tethered. Of not being good enough.

And now, here he was: bound, bruised, and likely being forced into a vow he hadn't chosen.

But beneath the ache, something else stirred on your chest. Something fluttering and raw: pure love.

Because you were walking toward him. Toward Dean Winchester. The only man who had ever made you feel whole in a world that tried to split you in two. And even though none of it was how you imagined—not the chapel, not the silence, not the fear pressing into your lungs like ice—you couldn't ignore the truth.

You were marrying the love of your life.

Your heart pounded as the carriage rolled to a stop at the old chapel's door. The guards didn't wait for you to gather yourself. They opened the door, stepped back, and expected you to walk.

You did.

Your shoes clicked across the stone steps, and the world around you blurred in gold candlelight and dread.

And then... you saw him, Dean, and everything inside you snapped into place.

Standing at the front of the chapel, his hands were bound behind his back. Flanked by your father's men. A bruise bloomed across his cheekbone, angry and swollen, and a thin line of blood had dried near his temple.

You stopped walking.

"Move," one of the guards growled.

Your legs did, but your soul stayed frozen halfway between rage and sorrow.

Bea stood at the end of the pew. Even she looked pale now, nervous. But not enough to speak.

Dean's eyes met yours.

You couldn't tell what you saw in them, but it wasn't regret.

When you reached the front, your father appeared beside the priest. "Do it," he ordered.

"But—he's hurt. He shouldn't even be..."

"He will recover. And if he has any honor left in him, he will marry you and make this right."

You looked to Dean. He gave you the faintest nod. The kind of silent promise he only knew to give you.

The priest opened the book.

"Dearly beloved, we are gathered here..."

Your mind drifted as he spoke. You barely heard the words. This wasn't how it was meant to happen. The silence in the chapel was suffocating. You stood beside Dean at the altar, your hand trembling in his. The bruise on his cheek, barely healed, was still stark against his skin, a sickening reminder of what your father's men had done to him. You could barely look at it without flinching.

Your heart ached. You had dreamed of a wedding one day, yes, but not one forced under threats and bruises, not one shadowed by resentment and desperation.

You glanced at Dean, and he looked back at you, his jaw set, eyes soft in a way that didn't quite match the steel in his posture. As if to say: I'm here. I'm not going anywhere.

Still, you couldn't help the doubt whispering inside you. Maybe he was doing this only because he felt obligated. Because your father had made it clear it was marriage or death.

The priest's voice rang through the chapel, solemn and final: "If anyone here has reason that these two should not be joined in holy matrimony, speak now or forever hold your peace."

A moment of silence. Then...

"Dean!"

The chapel doors slammed open.

You turned, your breath catching in your throat. It was Sam.

He stood in the doorway, wild-eyed, chest heaving from running. His coat was torn, his shirt streaked with dirt and blood, but it was the urgency in his voice, frantic and sharp, that turned the air to ice.

Dean spun too, his whole body tensing. "Sammy!?"

The chapel erupted. Bea gasped. One of your father's guards reached for his weapon. The priest stepped back from the altar, eyes wide with confusion.

"What nonsense is this?!" your father roared, stepping forward.

"I'm not here to stop the wedding," Sam said, breathless, stepping forward. "But we don't have time. Dean, Claire... a reaper found you," he said, looking straight at you. "And it's not just any reaper. It's the same one that's been tracking her since she was pulled out of her time. It's here, guys. It's close."

Dean pulled you behind him instinctively. "You're sure?" he asked Sam.

"Yes. Cas and Jack are barely holding on—they're still at the cottage, weak," he said.

"What happened to Cas?" you asked, heart leaping.

"The reaper used something on them... some kind of power that cut them off. Like a spell or a force field," Sam explained. "We couldn't even feel them at first. That's why it took us so long to get here. The second we managed to break through, I came straight for you. The reaper's been stalking the veil around here for days. It's waiting."

Dean's hand tightened around yours. "Then we don't wait. We finish this and go."

"Dean... do you still want to do this? Even now?"

His gaze didn't waver. "Sweetheart, I crossed two centuries for you. You really think I'm gonna stop here?"

You blinked, breath catching, but he wasn't done.

"I love you," he said, quiet but steady. "I've loved you across time, across lives. I'm not letting you go again."

From behind you, your father's voice sliced through the silence. "Two centuries? What in God's name is this man talking about?"

You flinched, but before he could step forward, Bea reached out and stopped him.

"Let them be, Father," she said softly, her voice trembling with something unfamiliar—maybe awe, maybe envy, maybe understanding. "Just... let them be."

Your father stared at her, stunned into silence. But Bea didn't back down. For once, her sharp tongue and social pride were quieted by something she couldn't name.

Dean's hand found yours.

"Say yes," he whispered, for your ears only.

The priest looked stunned. "A-Are you certain?" he asked toward you.

"Absolutely, unconditionally yes," you replied, more confident, your eyes never leaving Dean's.

The rest of the ceremony passed in a blur. The words were said quickly, but meaningful.

Sam lingered near the entrance, one hand on the hilt of an angel blade, eyes scanning the windows as if the reaper might step through the shadows at any moment.

But at the altar, it was just you and Dean.

The priest, still shaken but steadying himself, turned to Dean.

"Do you, Dean Winchester, take Miss Sinclair to be your lawfully wedded wife? To have and to hold, in sickness and in health, for richer or poorer, to love and to cherish... till death do you part?"

Dean looked at you like you were his home. Like even the walls trembling with the approach of death couldn't pull him from this moment.

"Not even death could make me let go of you," he said, voice was rough but sure. "I take you, now and always."

Your breath caught. Something in your chest cracked open. The whole world might have been falling apart, and still, in that second, you felt more whole than you ever had.

The priest swallowed. "And do you, Miss Sinclair... "

"I do," you cut in, voice small but clear. "I choose you, now and always."

Dean smiled.

You didn't even wait for the cue. You rose on your toes and kissed him, your hands cupping his face, brushing over the bruise there like a silent apology. His arms wrapped around you, grounding you against him like there wasn't a reaper pacing the veil, like time hadn't broken to bring you here.

"By the power vested in me," the priest managed, "I now pronounce you husband and wife."

Now you were no longer alone. Not a Sinclair. Not a runaway.

You were a Winchester.

A rumble sounded outside, closer. The candles flickered. A chill seeped through the stained-glass windows like breath on your neck.

Dean pulled away just far enough to whisper, "Time to go, sweetheart."

But even as you turned, a shadow moved past the window — not a person, not quite a shape.

A presence.

Sam swore. "It's here."

Dean reached into his coat and drew his blade. "Then let's give Death a reason to regret showing up late to our wedding."

The chapel erupted into chaos: glass shattered, the front window of the chapel exploded inward with a terrible scream of wind, the candles on the altar went dark in one sharp gust.

And through the wreckage stepped a woman with eyes like black fire.

She was beautiful and terrible—ageless, her face veiled but her presence unmistakable. The reaper.

Dean shoved you behind him. Your father and his men raised their weapons. Sam pulled an iron blade from his coat. "Take out everyone!" he shouted to you.

You hesitated, but Dean turned to you, pressing a desperate kiss to your forehead. "Go. I'll come back to you."

"I'm not leaving you," you sobbed.

Dean turned to meet the reaper's stare. "You want someone? Take me. Not her."

The reaper tilted her head.

Behind you, Bea tugged at your wrist. "Come on. Please."

Your eyes locked onto Dean's, silently pleading—Let me stay. Let me fight with you. Or run away together.

Instead, he took your face in his hands—broad, calloused, warm—and kissed you. It wasn't rushed. It was steady. Full of confidence, love, and something fiercer: bravery.

When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours. "Go with them," he murmured. "Take your family somewhere safe. Sam and I will handle this."

"I love you, Dean," you whispered, voice trembling. "Take care. Both of you..."

"I love you too, baby" he said, no hesitation. Then, glancing toward your father—who stood rigid and pale, as if barely holding himself together—Dean added, "Take care of my wife."

Your father didn't speak. He just gave a tight nod before seizing your arm and Bea's, his grip firm and urgent. Without a word, he turned and pulled both of you toward the back of the chapel, away from the coming storm.

The three of you stumbled out into the night, skirts tangled, breath catching in your throats. Behind you, the chapel echoed with the sounds of chaos—shouts, the clash of metal, and the inhuman wail of something that did not belong in this world.

You didn't know where you were going, only that you had to get away from that thing, the woman with black fire in her eyes.

"This way!" your father commanded, pulling you behind a hedge.

"What is happening!?" Bea gasped. "What—what was that thing!? First a ghost at Lottie's ball, and now this!?"

Your father, both astonished and furious, spun toward you with wide, frantic eyes. "What are you even talking about!?" His voice, usually husky and thick, pitched into a higher, almost cracking register. "A reaper? A ghost?"

You didn't answer. You couldn't. There was no vocabulary for this. Not here. Not in your time. You only knew it wanted you, and that it would not stop.

Before something else could happen, your father stood up and pointed a finger at his daughters. "Go back to the estate," he instructed. "I'll kill this... whatever the hell it is."

Decided, he took a step forward, but you reacted quickly by taking his sleeve and pulling him back with all your strength.

"Father, no!" you pleaded. "We all need to leave! That thing is not human! It'll kill you."

He shook you off, his expression one of fury sharpened by fear. "I don't know what madness you and these men have dragged us into, but I will not run from it. I will protect my family!"

You ran to him. "You can't fight it! You don't understand, it's not just some thief or a criminal... it's Death itself!"

He looked at you then, truly looked, and for a moment—just one—you saw the fear crack through the pride.

"You've been tainted by all this madness," he whispered. "That man, those people... They've poisoned your mind."

"That's not..." you tried to defend them, but your father spoke again.

"They even change your name. Claire? Your name is..."

Behind him, the chapel shook, interrupting him. The reaper's scream split the night, and glass fell like rain as Sam flew backward, landing hard against the ground with a grunt of pain.

"Sam!" you cried.

Dean was next, dragging himself out with a bleeding temple and a busted shoulder, his coat scorched and one of his sleeves torn away. He limped as he ran to Sam's side.

The reaper stepped through the ruined doorway, graceful as a ghost, her veil now lifted.

"I told Death I would collect her," she said, voice melodic and terrible. "She doesn't belong here among the living."

Dean stepped forward, blade raised. "Then take it up with me, bitch."

"And me," your father said, raising his pistol at her.

But the reaper didn't look at them. She looked straight at you. The moment her gaze locked with yours, the world tilted around. You could no longer hear Dean's voice or your father's ragged breathing, just the terrible, impossible pull that clawed beneath your ribs.

Your knees buckled.

"Claire!" Dean shouted.

Your father turned sharply, seeing your body sway, and stepped closer to shield you again.

But it was already too late.

The reaper moved faster than anyone could react. Your father raised his pistol and fired, but the bullet passed through her like smoke. She didn't even flinch.

"No!" you cried, grabbing your father's coat and pushing him backward with every ounce of strength you had.

The next second, the reaper's cold, translucent hand pressed to your chest. Your scream caught in your throat, and the world exploded into black.

Your body convulsed, lifted inches off the ground, your eyes rolling back as light burst behind your lids. It was like every memory, every heartbeat, every dream of yours was being torn from the roots. Your veins felt like fire and ice at the same time. The blood pressure in your system murmured lullabies of ending.

Bea shouted your name, but it was like hearing her underwater.

You could feel yourself leaving.

Then, a blinding, golden blast cracked across the earth like lightning, sending the reaper staggering backward—hissing, screaming, vanishing into the shadow.

You collapsed, but someone caught you. When you blinked, struggling to breathe, the face above you was not Dean's.

It was someone younger, blonde, with eyes like gold and stormlight. For a second, you could even swear it was Castiel, however...

"Hi," the boy said softly. "I'm Jack. You must be Claire."

Your chest hitched, barely get the word out.

"I got here as fast as I could," Jack whispered.

Behind him, Sam stood shakily, his face white with relief. "It's okay. She's okay," he said, over and over.

Dean dropped to his knees beside you, grabbing your hand like it was the only thing holding him to the world. "Sweetheart... hey, I'm here. I've got you. Just breathe, alright?"

You turned your head to him, tried to smile, and managed only a whisper. "I'm not going anywhere without you..."

Dean laughed, a breathless, broken sound, and kissed your knuckles. "That's my girl."

Your father, still frozen, stared at the scene in total disbelief.

"What in God's name... what are you people?" he whispered. "What is he?!" your father roared, pointing at Jack, eyes wild. "Is that thing with you too?"

Dean stood up, taking your now-weakened body carefully from Jack's arms and carrying you. His jaw was set, voice tight but calm. "Put the gun down," he said evenly. "We'll explain everything later. Right now, we need to move before the reaper comes back."

Your father was too stunned to resist when Bea dragged him toward the horses, though he kept looking back at Jack like he'd glimpsed something he could never unsee.

Jack turned to Sam and Dean. "Get Claire and her family to the cottage. Now."

Sam nodded. "Can you hold her?"

Jack didn't answer, he simply stepped into the reaper's path again, his silhouette glowing like a sunrise against the dark tide.

You rode fast, the wind stinging your cheeks, branches lashing at your veil. Dean held tight to your waist as the cottage came into view through the trees.

The front door flew open, and Castiel stumbled out, still in his female vessel, skin pale, eyes dim with effort.

"Where's Jack?" she rasped.

"He's holding her," Dean said. "We need you both. She's not gonna stop."

"I know," Castiel said. "Help me inside."

You helped settle her back onto the bed just as a vibration began in the earth, low and terrible. You turned back to the window, and in the distance—between the trees—the reaper flickered into view again.

"She's coming," Sam said, tightening his grip on his blade.

Dean pulled you to his side. "Whatever happens, I've got you."

Your father stood in the doorway, finally silent, his pistol lowered. "That thing... it spoke your name."

"I know," you said.

For once, he had nothing to say. Bea stood behind him, her hands clenched at her sides.

Out of nowhere, the cottage began to shake—wind screaming through the windows as lightning and thunder cracked the sky open.

"Step away from the door," Castiel warned, moving to the center of the room and raising her hands. "I'll need your blood," she said, turning to you.

You didn't hesitate. You'd seen Castiel and the Winchesters use their own blood to draw all kinds of symbols before. So you simply extended your arm toward her, ready to give whatever she needed.

But to your father, it was unacceptable, almost diabolical.

"Wait," he snapped, placing a protective hand over Castiel's as she reached for you. "You're not taking anything from my daughter."

"It's necessary," Sam said calmly, trying to sound both confident and reassuring. "The spell to banish the reaper only works with the blood of the soul it's trying to reclaim."

Your father didn't look convinced. Not even close.

"It's alright, Papa," Bea said gently, stepping forward and removing his hand from Castiel's with surprising grace. "I've seen my sister fight things I can't even begin to understand—but they're real. All of it. If we don't do this... that reaper will take her from us. Forever."

Still unsure, your father finally released you.

Castiel drew her angel blade from her coat and made a clean cut across your trembling palm. The pain was sharp, but you didn't flinch.

Then she began to chant, low, guttural Enochian words too strange for human mouths, too ancient for this world. Her fingers dipped into your blood and traced symbols across the kitchen table, each one glowing faintly with every sacred word she uttered.

Outside, a roar split the night. Wind howled through the cracks of the cottage like a dying scream.

Dean moved to your side, steadying you with a hand around your waist. "She's close," he murmured, eyes scanning the walls like he could see through them. "Too close."

Castiel's voice rose in pitch, her body swaying slightly as the spell demanded more from her. "We need time," she gasped.

But time was running out.

From the window, Bea let out a quiet gasp. "Look!"

You turned in time to see Jack, a glowing figure in the dark, facing the reaper alone in the field. His arms were outstretched, golden energy pulsing from his fingertips like waves of divine flame. The reaper struck at him with force that shook the earth, but he stood firm, shielding the cottage with his own power.

He was buying you minutes, seconds maybe.

"We have to finish it," Sam urged Castiel. "Now!"

"I'm trying," she gritted out. Sweat beaded along her temple as the last of the blood symbols flared brighter, casting harsh shadows against the wooden walls. Then she reached for your cut palm again and placed it at the center of the table, atop the largest sigil, her voice now a shout:

"Exoramus illam per flammae animae et lumen veritatis... fractura aeternitatis nunc!"

The symbols ignited.

Outside, a beam of golden light shot into the sky, striking the clouds themselves. Lightning struck the ground in answer—once, twice—and the air cracked with supernatural force.

The reaper screamed.

You could feel it, in your bones, in your blood. A sound not of pain, but rage. Her form flickered in and out of visibility, and then she turned her eyes toward the cottage, toward you.

She surged forward.

Jack braced himself, but he wouldn't hold her for long.

Castiel's voice dropped low again, murmuring the final invocation in a tone that sent chills through your spine. She raised her hand—and with one final gesture, slammed her bloody palm against the center of the sigil.

The floor rattled.

A burst of blinding white light exploded from the table, shooting outward in every direction like shockwaves. It passed through the walls. Through you.

And out in the field, Jack raised his hands one last time, catching the spell's wave like a conductor of divine wrath.

The reaper froze mid-strike, her scream warping into a wail as she was torn apart, her form unraveling into ash and wind, sucked upward into the sky and vanished.

Silence fell, utter and deafening. Outside, Jack stumbled back, falling to his knees. Castiel collapsed onto the table. Dean caught you before you could sway.

Sam exhaled, clutching the wall.

And your father, wide-eyed and breathless, whispered the only thing left in him: "What the fu—?"

«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»«»

Jack and Castiel stood at the edge of the clearing, the last embers of celestial light crackling faintly in the air. The reaper was gone, banished, hopefully destroyed. They had made sure of it, pouring every ounce of their celestial power into the final strike. Castiel looked shaken now, quiet and pale, her glow fading with exhaustion.

Inside the cottage, you sat curled beneath a wool blanket, Dean at your side with an arm wrapped around your shoulders. You hadn't stopped shaking. Neither had your sister.

Beatrice sat across from you, her usually perfect posture wilted, her eyes darting from your now husband, to the angelic figures outside, to the bloodstains on Sam's shirt.

Your father stood near the wall, arms crossed, pistol hanging limply from his hand like he no longer trusted it would be useful against whatever else might come through the woods.

"What I want," he said finally, voice low and brittle, "is the truth."

You met his eyes. And you lied.

"Dean is a merchant," you said, your voice steady despite the war still echoing in your bones. "From America. He came here months ago to trade with families in London, imported goods, art, fabrics.

Your father's brow furrowed. "Then why the secrecy? Why vanish with him into the woods like fugitives?"

You didn't flinch. "His family trades rare religious antiquities: texts, relics, sacred items. Their work takes them across continents, recovering and protecting things that others would abuse or misuse. When we fell in love, I knew you wouldn't approve. So it was my idea we must just ran away together."

"And him?" Your father gestured toward Sam, who looked up with a calm, practiced smile.

"Samuel is his brother. And Castiel is his sister," you added. "Jack is..." for a fraction of second you found yourself on a dead end, but Sam was quick.

"Is our nephew," he said. "Castiel's son."

Okay, you thought, there are certainly a lot of things you have missed.

Beatrice blinked, your father narrowed his eyes. "And what about that... thing? That demon woman that tried to tear your heart out?"

"We were caught in something big," Dean explained. "Things like that sometimes come with the territory. But now it's over, it won't happen again."

There was a pause. Your father didn't believe all of it. Of course he didn't.

But he had seen enough.

"And now what?" he asked.

You swallowed. "Now... I go with my husband. To America."

Beatrice gasped. "You're leaving?"

"Dean is my husband," you said. "My place is with him now."

For a moment, you could swear you saw regret in your father's eyes, like he suddenly realized he had sold his daughter into something dangerous and blasphemous.

Dean nodded beside you, his hand squeezed yours, warm and comforting. "I'll protect her with my life, sir" he promised. "We'll send letters. We'll find a way to keep in touch."

Your father turned away, staring out the window into the woods, as if waiting for something else to emerge from the trees. "Your mother would've hated this," he said. "And yet... maybe she'd have understood."

You blinked back tears. "I hope so."

He said nothing more.

Eventually, he and Bea took the guest room upstairs, their footsteps heavy on the wooden floorboards. Your father didn't hug you. But he didn't stop you, either.

Tomorrow, the portal will be open, and you'd leave 1815 behind forever.

And this time, you wouldn't be alone.

NEXT PART

🏷️Tag list: @thej2report | @mostlymarvelgirl | @anniebannanie0315 | @kr804573 | @britneynicolel | @globetrotter28 | @mandee7 | @cassiecourtemanche | @hobby27

[mizgnomer]

Face to Face - Crowley and Aziraphale in Good Omens

[hydrachea]

Anaxa VS the Council of Elders (2025, colorized)

[siffrinsometimes]

Back to the Ground

[sunsetzer]

On one hand, I want a final fantasy 6 remake, because the game is criminally underrated and the amount of fan content (which is all absolutely fantastic btw) is Not Enough for my neurodivergent, hyperfixating brain.

On the other hand, that would inevitably encourage more people to join the fandom, which would be great, except it seems these days the bigger a fandom gets the more toxic it becomes, and I really like what we have going on over here in our little corner. We all just love the game and its characters and nobody fights about who should and shouldn't date who or who you shouldn't like because they're ~problematique~. Nobody's trying to make one ship morally better than another, nobody's calling anyone names or threatening to doxx people who don't agree with their opinions. It's so peaceful and I love that for us. We're just vibing. Moisturized. Unbothered. In our lane. Flourishing.

[i-like-yoongi-a-latte]

a waiter called me darling and i expect nothing less from now on

[elboxitracio]

Actually what got me frutillitaposting tonight was that I FINALLY got the plum pudding doll <3<3