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y-rhywbeth2 · 6 months

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Gods and Clergy: Bane

Link: Disclaimer regarding D&D "canon" & Index [tldr: D&D lore is a giant conflicting mess. Larian's lore is also a conflicting mess. You learn to take what you want and leave the rest]

Well, I did the murderhobos, might as well cover the deity and daily business of our favourite hot-topic-shopping dictator and co. now? Ahahahahaaaaa There is too much goddamn material on Bane, I'm going to kill Ed Greenwood-

Intro: If you're not consumed with fear and hatred while trying to take over a city which you intend to rule with cruelty and an iron fist then this is not the religion/political party for you. If this is not the religion/party for you, please lower your neck so that I can attach this slave collar to it.

Banites: The hierarchy and rituals and stupid toys of the church of Bane is what you get when Lawful Evil and Lawful Stupid have a horrible, overcomplicated offspring called Lawful Sadistic. Bring me the avatar of Bane I'm going to stab this fucker Also, being goth is mandatory.

Dreadmasters: More teleporting! Bossy, immune to fear and fond of magic rods. Also, do you remember that "divine oath" Durge and Gortash swore...?

The Chosen: Should be way more impressive than what we saw in game. Forging unbreakable oaths! Pet beholders! Detachable shadow spies! Etcetera!

Bane: Boy, the world (and my sanity) would've been a much better off if this dude had gotten intensive therapy instead of divine power!

(This thing is too fucking long and should perhaps be split into two posts but ooooh my god am I not editing this anymore.)

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Bane's clergy often hear their god whispering his dogma in their dreams:

"Serve no one but me. Fear me always - and make others fear me even more than you do. The Black Hand always strikes down on those who stand against it in the end. Defy me and die - or in your death find loyalty, for I shall compel it. Submit to my will, [as uttered by my ranking clergy] since true power can only be gained through service to me. [Spread the dark fear of Bane.] It is the doom of those unguided by me to let power spill through their hands. [Those who cross the Black Hand meet their dooms earlier and more harshly than those who worship other deities.]" - Bane's Dogma [with 14th century addendums in brackets]

Bane is basically the quintessential villain of the Realms. When a person pictures the face of evil, they picture this god and his followers.

The most important thing to know about Bane and his religion, in my opinion, is summed up here:

"The summons [from Ao] had come wearing the face and form of that which each of the gods feared most. [...] To the Black Lord, Bane, the summons came in the guise of absolute love and understanding, its light searing his essence as it carried him from his kingdom." - Shadowdale

You want to give one of the most evil bastard in the pantheon a panic attack? Give him a hug.

Following a brief version of a backstory that has been given for him; the mortal who would be Bane was born on Abeir, Toril's linked twin planet/parallel universe. There he was a nameless battle slave to Maram of the Great Spear - an ancient primordial being of absolute evil whom the Netherese had summoned into the world, where it broke free and started inflicting horrors upon the world. While in the service of said horrifying evil, the young slave nurtured ambitions of having absolute power for himself.

While on Toril he teamed up with his two future frenemies, Bhaal and Myrkul, and they killed (or possibly subjugated) his master and took his power for themselves, before heading off to nag Jergal for his job. After bickering, the ex-slave known only as "the Bane of the Ancients" wins the draw and gets to be what he always wanted - the epitome of tyranny with godlike power. The next step for him is to conquer the mortal world and destroy all the other gods so that none have power and control over him.

Banite religion is founded on the principle of making Bane's dream of global domination possible. Every Banite is a link in the chains of Bane's power. What they rule, he rules. All Banites strive to take over something (village, city, kingdom, army, whatever). All Banites are expected to aid and obey their superiors in this domination.

When in control, a Banite is to use their power to "further the cause of hate, fear, destruction and strife." Doing so within the control of the law is preferable, but chaos is tolerated as long as that chaos is wielded as a tool with perfect control. You can get voted into power by stirring up people's fears of minorities, or start the apocalypse and present yourself as the saviour - but you must not be overwhelmed, or you have failed.

The world is divided into slaves who have no power and exist to serve, and the powerful who command them. Bane is the rightful master of all and all are to serve him, and by extension his followers (those with the strength to seek, take and hold power), willingly or by force. Control is the key virtue in the eyes of the faith. Always be in control and/or be controlled by somebody more capable/deserving of power than you. As their lessers are expected to obey every order perfectly, the superiors are expected to be competent in their leadership and wield perfect command.

Banites pride themselves on being cold and decisive in all that they say and do. They also enjoy cutting sarcasm. It's vital to appear in command of yourself and the world around you - shouting, loss of temper and other outbursts of behaviour that suggest a lack of control/power are avoided like the plague. Two Banites on the brink of killing each other may appear to be in the midst of only a polite, but insistent disagreement.

Bane used to enjoy watching his power hungry idiots backstabbing each other to climb the ranks while overzealous worshippers splintered into factions and started killing each other (most notably a divide between the divine-magic based orthodoxy and the arcane-magic based reformers/"Transformers".) Then Mystra technically killed him during a fight with Torm in the Time of Troubles, and Cyric took over his church. When Bane made a comeback in the 14th century he immediately decided they wouldn't be doing that anymore. Now it's an united rigid hierarchy from top to bottom, and Banites are a well organised, well equipped unit.

The laws of the heathens are irrelevant, but a Banite who gets caught breaking those law trying to achieve their goals is expected to suck it up and do the time for failure - unless they've been doing such a good job that everybody's too far under their control to try and punish them for it, in which case great job. A+ in Bane worship.

Banites typically establish themselves in an area by finding a location out of sight of a civilisation and building a fortress, where they build their power until they are too strong a force to drive off. Taking over an existing fort is also a possibility. The temple is run like a military base: spartan, with only tapestries showing Bane's symbol and religious texts on it for decoration. The courtyard is meant for military drills and rituals, and there's a mass hall for dining and holding prayer. They like pointy architecture. And black. Oh, and the torture basements! Can't forget those. It's also where they keep a variety of trained monsters in pens. You may end up sharing your cell with a displacer beast or something, but don't worry about it.

Banites have a secret network of teleporting spells. The actual "portals" will be any space of stone big enough to stand on, which are magically connected to other points (also stone). If you stand on one and speak the correct password, then it will teleport you to the destination designated by that password. There are no spells or barriers that can prevent the teleporter from arriving at their destination. Banites can bring others along with them if they are physically connected when the password is said. They can't bring more than 100lbs of inanimate matter with them.

All are welcome to convert to Bane. There will be an interview where your intentions are checked, although if it turns out you're not actually evil-aligned you can still join. There's a good chance that they'll use magic to turn you into an "incorruptible champion of evil and uncompromising disciple of order" anyway; "for Bane recognizes the value of those who have seen the lure of good and turned away from it to serve evil."

Or just use dark magic to twist you from a person into a weapon/guard/servant bound to the service of Bane anyway.

Banites are also able to ensure loyalty with a magically binding divine oath called the Dark Promise, cast by his favoured priests (Dreadmasters). It's an old spell, back from the early days when Bane was a new god and his followers were vulnerable, and is not used as often. When the spell is cast and the oath is made, a set of circumstances are set into motion that targets of the spell must follow to the letter. The promise must have Bane's interests at heart and the conditions and stipulations cannot be endanger the individuals' lives. If the oath is violated, it drains the oath breaker's life force. The damage done by this spell cannot be healed, and if the oath breaking does not cease then they will die.

Bane is one of the few exceptions amongst the gods in that his worshippers are all henotheistic rather than polytheistic. Banites consider worship of other deities "foolish," Bane is the only master you should truly serve. All under Banite rule will be forced to convert to the worship of Bane. They are however willing to cooperate with the followers of Loviatar (pain), Talona (disease), Malar (predation), and Mask (thievery) as Bane has terrified these gods into allying with him. From a certain school of Banite thought, this means that they and their followers are part of the chains of Bane's will (the gods/faithful in question probably wouldn't agree). Bhaal was, or perhaps still is, a servant of Bane and he and Myrkul have also been counted amongst Bane's allies in the past, despite their tendency to squabble, so cooperation with Bhaalists and Myrkulites is not unimaginable when it serves both their deities.

Banites do not get on so well with... anybody, but they particularly hate worshippers of Ilmater (compassion), Tyr (justice), Helm (non-Banite order), Lathander (optimism/renewal), Torm (champion of the innocent), Oghma (knowledge) and Mystra. If they get their hands on one they'll usually torture them and leave their mutilated bodies somewhere for the distressed public to find. Bane and Cyric are still at war, both due to humiliation and the fact that they're still fighting over areas of divine power that the other has stolen/reclaimed from the other, and the corpses of Cyricists that fall into Banite hands are usually found with "heretic" branded on their foreheads as a warning to others who worship the usurper.

Banite clergy are expected to always be armed, and it is mandatory that you at least wear something black at all times. For ceremonial purposes, Banites wear black armour or robes with a blood-red cape. Wizards like to enchant their robes so that they swirl and give off illusions of glittering with "black stars" and have blood dripping off the hem. The higher in the ranks you go, the fancier the clothes get. Banites used to have facial tattooing, although this made them rather easy to identify and kill off when Cyric took over and some purges took place. The highest ranking Banites can be identified by a gem that they wear on their forehead. Banites are not expected to wear anything that would identify their religious affiliations if it would get them persecuted, but they do like decorating their clothes with spikes and are are expected to dress in a certain specific colour that I'm getting sick of typing out. When Bane rules the world we will all be dressing as goths under threat of execution...

Each priest has a ceremonial staff denoting their rank, which they will have at these rituals. When a Banite dies they are buried with it. They are unenchanted and purely for ceremony, at most being used to light braziers. It starts with a simple black wood staff [level 1], which at higher ranks has an ivory skull at the top [lvl 2-4]. Higher yet they add silver plating, and the skull is the size of a fist [lvl 5], and the even higher level priests that skull has ram horns [lvl 6]. After that you get real human skulls! [at lvl 7+]! They're allowed to decorate theirs how they like, as well as adding enchantments. So gemstones, magic runes, etc.

Bane's holy symbol is the Black Hand, a symbol of terror recognisable to the entire Realms. Versions include a black handprint, a black claw or a metal gauntlet embedded with jewels. Priests usually wear a replica of the hand as a carved pendant of black stone. There is another Black Hand seen on his high-ranking priests: elbow-length gloves crafted of flexible metal mesh or chainmail, usually worn on the left hand. It emits an eerie dark radiance, i's supposed to be black, and a non-Banite found wearing one can expect every Banite on the planet to hunt them to the ends of the world for this blasphemy (also it's about 50,000gp in value jfc). The gauntlet cannot be damaged by force and absorbs all spells of third level or less. Area of effect spells are not negated, but cannot affect the wearer. It can drain magic out of items, should the wearer touch them with intent to do so. The wearer can then discharge all of the absorbed magic into the body of another by touching them, causing them damage. They can also paralyze undead and living beings via touch.

To question or disobey a superior is to question or disobey Bane himself, and is answered by torture, disfigurement and/or death. The word of a Banite of superior rank is law, and you will do literally anything they ask you to do.

Banites have invented a magic whip (a mystic lash) that does all sorts of fun nonsense in case that happens. It's made of glowing red energy. If the priest needs their hands free then the whip can actually wield itself (need to scourge that annoying initiate, but you don't want to look up from your book? Then good news!) If the wielder choses, a lash of the whip may cause one of the following; paralysis, memory loss, seizures, extra damage plus the disintegration of equipment, or electrocution.

One is expected to greet those of higher rank by kneeling in front of them and kissing their boots

At the bottom of the hierarchy are the novices, who are addressed by the title of "slave." If they're good enough, Bane will send them a dream vision or manifest as a voice speaking from one of his altars - he will name them, and they are allowed to enter the first rank of the priesthood… of which there are 12 ranks with their own unique addresses, which everybody is expected to memorise. Disrespect to a higher rank will, as mentioned, involve insulting Bane and lead to torture, disfigurement and potential death.

The only time you're not expected to use the titles is when in the presence of heathens, Banites will address each other as Brother/Sister Faithful (when speaking to an equal/lesser) or Dread Brother/Sister (when addressing a superior).

Banites do not refer to each other by name, only by the name of their rank (unless there are too many individuals of the same rank. In the case you had a room full of Black Fangs, you would address them individually as Black Fang [Surname].) It's generally impossible for eavesdroppers to learn the names or personal details of a Banite.

The rankings are determined by character level, and are as follows:

Watchful Brother/Sister/Sibling

Deadly Adept

Trusted Servant

Willing Whip

Hooded Menace

Black Fang

Striking Hand

Vigilant Talon

Masked Death

Dark Doom

Higher Doom

Deep Mystery

The Deep Mysteries include the Deeper Mysteries… which have their own ranks! Secret, higher levels which are unknown to those of the first 11 levels who must address all higher ranking Banites as "Deep Mystery." There is no official means by which a Banite is bestowed this title, they bestow them upon themselves if they believe they should have the rank. The test lies in the fact that in order to keep the title their fellow Banites must also begin using them - in other words if you are not a pretender and truly have the power and authority to hold this title, then your siblings in the faith will follow.

The ranks of the Deep Mysteries, in order of authority, from lowest to highest:

Vigilator

Lord/Lady of Mysteries

Lord/Lady of the Hand

Imperceptor

Dark Imperceptor

Grand Bloodletter

High Inquisitor

The High Imperceptor is the Banite of highest rank of the Deep Mysteries, supreme living servant of Bane, and unlike the prior titles this one cannot be self-bestowed. I haven't seen any explanation for how it is bestowed, but I imagine Bane decides.

Banites don't bother with set holy days. We will have a holy day whenever the leading priest decides we're having one, and it will be called whatever they decide it is. This usually means a) somebody fucked up, time for a public punishment; or b) we've got an enemy/traitor, time for human sacrifice.

Rituals are to be held in as close to pitch darkness as is possible, gathered around the Black Altar (a wood table covered in a black cloth, a block of black stone - whatever, just so long as it's black so we can give it an ominous name). The Black Altar is to be made holy by having a replica of the Holy Hand of Bane floating above it (this too has to be black in colour). This is a levitating 6 foot tall stone hand that can sense alignments within a 60 foot radius, and it will attack good-aligned people on encountering them. When not in use it patrols Banite locations, seeking out spies and intruders and killing them.

And that the Seat of Bane will be placed in front of the Black Altar. The chair is black, its back is carved into the shape of a hand. Senior clergy sit in the throne when acting as Bane's voice for the rest of the congregation. So the leader of the area's Banites sits in the chair, and that means Bane is sitting in the chair. While sitting in it, the seated can read the thoughts of all beings within 90 yards. it can project a forcefield around the chair; can nullify magic in the area; allows the seated to see through illusions and invisibility; know the alignment of everyone present; allow the seated to speak with dead; and also conjure walls of fire. If the chair is knocked over, it causes a massive explosion of fire that kills everyone around it.

Then the party. With minimum partying and maximum solemn, ominous chanting and deep, heavy drum beats. Those guilty of disobedience or other failures will be chained to the altar and whipped in front of the congregation. And then there's the human sacrifice: "Sacrifices had to be humiliated, tortured, and made to show fear before dying to be acceptable to Bane, and they usually met their deaths through slashing, flogging, or being crushed by the Hand of Bane."

The traditional power base of the Banite faith was Zhentil Keep, the base of operations for the Zhentarim. The Black Network has once again been taken from Bane by Cyricists however, after the death of Fzoul Chembryl a few decades back - Fzoul was a Chosen of Bane and basically his favourite servant (who has since been made into a quasi-deity bearing some of Bane's divine power, that he may continue to serve) and Zhentil Keep is currently in ruins. The loss of the Keep (for a second time) destroyed Zhentarim power, and now they're mostly just a bunch of mercenaries with good connections on the black market trade routes (slaves, drugs, weapons, etc) as far as I can find.

The Dreadmasters are Bane's specialty priests, making up 10% of all Banites. Dreadmaster is a unisex title. They spend their time doing all the spellwork and making all the delightful inventions that have been giving me a headache. They have a stupid number of spells given to them. Nobody else's specialty priests have this many fucking spells.

They cannot feel fear from sources other than Bane

They can, however, project the feeling of absolute terror into every being within 10 feet of them, usually causing everyone to run screaming.

They can completely destroy the souls of the dying

Create extra evil undead

Create powerful, still sapient undead servants from dead Banites (from ghouls up to vampires)

Create animated suits of armour that serve the Banites, powered by people's souls

Make a warding symbol drawn with a mixture containing three drops of blood from a collection made by sacrificing 30 people. The ward is invisible and cannot be detected, and when activated it drains the life out of everyone present.

They have a supernatural knack for reading other's true moods and intentions They have a supernatural level of charisma and authority over their servants, who cannot help but be fanatically loyal

They are exceptionally skilled in the artificing of magical wands, rods and staves. When they use them the magic of the items is increased.

They're the ones who cast the stonewalk spells that make the teleport network run.

They're also the priests responsible for binding the Dark Promise.

"The Chosen of Bane are tyrants in every sense of the word, consumed with the quest for absolute power. Hand-picked by the deity of tyranny and fear, [they] are both charismatic and filled with hate [...] They seek only to rule with absolute, unchallenged authority over every living and undead create across the world."

They are unbothered by temperature, both hot and cold, as well as resistant to being burned or electrocuted.

They do not age, though they will still die at an age where they would've died if they did age.

Supernatural insight into motives and emotions, and a massive boost to their charisma.

They can mind control people, are immune to fear, can share this immunity with others or increase the fear they feel.

They can also cast gaes, which is basically exactly the same as the Dark Promise, but doesn't necessarily have to benefit Bane (blasphemous as that sounds).

They can summon undead beholders to serve them

They can grant their own shadows independence as an undead creature of the same name (shadows), While separate the shadow is free-willed, though the two remain telepathically linked.

They are served by a retinue of their own master's servants including: doppelgangers; helmed horrors; beholders; undead Banites; hell hounds; imps; displacer beasts; Banelar nagas (evil snake things with human faces)

Bane doesn't like using avatars, if he needs to manifest on Toril he just possesses people in positions of wealth and power who transform into handsome, yet "oily" looking black haired men as long as he's inhabiting them. The souls of these people are forced to watch as the god does what he wants. Once the body is "worn out" from all the punishment he puts them through (mortal shells, so fragile) he'll move to another evil or neutral mortal via touch.

If he strikes out with his gauntleted hand, then there is a good chance that the person stuck will drop dead.

In combat he warps the face into a more beastial visage. His hands become talons capable of "rending flesh and bone" and in the Time of Troubles when he was first forced to manifest as a normal human he immediately started editing the body into a more demonic visage although that might've been because he'd just crash landed in his own temple and destroyed it, and only had a few moments until his torture happy zealots turned up to find what seemed to be some random dude standing in the wreckage. He was in kind of a panic trying to make sure they saw Bane, God of Tyranny not... that.

His other manifestations as a pair of blazing red eyes staring out from the darkness, and a black, taloned hand which was the temperature of ice to the touch. They work exactly like his other manifestation.

Bane sometimes announces his presence, and that he is paying attention to you, with the sudden manifestation of the giant footprint of a boot, scorched into the earth. He shows his approval of his followers through their sudden discovery of a black sapphire. His disapproval is shown through the sudden appearance of red carnelian, ground into dust.

He is served by various devils, beholders, death tyrants (the undead remains of beholders that failed him), black dragons, banelar nagas and pride incarnates

Bane can cast any spell at will, save those that heal or create.

Bane was slain in the Time of Troubles. After his death his followers had an even bigger row between those who were loyal to Bane (orthodoxy) and those who worshipped his portfolio instead of the god himself and switched to Cyric. Many of the Orthodoxy began worshipping Iyachtu Xvim the Godson, son of Bane (whose mother was either a fiend or a fallen human paladin, nobody's sure).

Xvim was doing a pretty ok job in his nascent godhood up until 1372 DR, when Bane hijacked the essence of himself he'd left in his son and destroyed him - being reborn within his body and immediately regaining the rank of Greater Deity. About a few years following the Bhaalspawn Crisis, the year where Bhaal was supposed to be reborn from the death of his kids but failed.

Bane went on to continue being one of the most infamous, powerful and dangerous gods on Faerûn up until the Second Sundering, when suddenly we've got confusion.

In BG3 canon, the Dead Three are clearly greater than quasi-deity status. Due to new rules that WotC pulled out of their ass, gods of lesser deity status or higher cannot manifest avatars. Bane can still empower clerics and have Chosen, so he's most likely still a Greater Deity in BG3.

In Descent into Avernus, the Dead Three are apparently quasi-deities now, forced to exist in permanent avatars on Toril and unable to grant spells of have Chosen.

I think this nicely explains what I mean when I say D&D has no fucking "real" canon, it's all just a mountain of everyone's headcanons.

#Bane doesn't need to torture people; having to learn all the stupid details in his religion is already hell #enver gortash #long post #baldurs gate 3 #bg3

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flwrs4sturniolo · 4 days

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𝐒𝐇𝐄'𝐒 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐇 𝐈𝐓 (part one)

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 : chrissturnioloxfem!oc

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 : lorelai swift didn't know how she survived before she met chris sturniolo

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 : smoking, swearing

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 : 715

𝐥𝐢𝐥𝐬 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐤𝐬 : hii, i'm so ready to write this as it is my first fic. it is intended lowercase by the way :)

huge thanks to my fav @certifiedstarrr. i'll never be able to repay you for how much you've done for me. i love you with my whole heart.

another huge thanks to my girl @slutsformatt you're the sweetest girl i know and i'm so glad we're friends.

ᶜᵃˢᵗ .ᐟ

y/n as

𝙇𝙊𝙍𝙀𝙇𝘼𝙄 𝙎𝙒𝙄𝙁𝙏

ੈ✩‧₊˚ / lore , little swift , rory / leo

❛ you're on your own kid ❜ — taylor swift

@ lorelaiswift | @ irlbelle ᥫ᭡

nessa barrett as

𝘼𝙇𝙀𝙓𝘼𝙉𝘿𝙍𝘼 𝘽𝘼𝙍𝙇𝙊𝙒

ੈ✩‧₊˚ / alex / aries

❛ cigarette daydream ❜ — cage the elephant

@ alexbarlow | @ irlariel ᥫ᭡

quenlin blackwell as

𝙈𝘼𝘾𝙆𝙀𝙉𝙕𝙄𝙀 𝙂𝙍𝘼𝙔

ੈ✩‧₊˚ / kenzie , zie / pisces

❛ happiness is a butterfly ❜ — lana del ray

@ mackenziegray | @ irltiana ᥫ᭡

christopher sturniolo as

𝙃𝙄𝙈𝙎𝙀𝙇𝙁

ੈ✩‧₊˚ / chris / leo

❛ florida ❜ — dominic fike

@ christophersturniolo | @ fakechris ᥫ᭡

matthew sturniolo as

𝙃𝙄𝙈𝙎𝙀𝙇𝙁

ੈ✩‧₊˚ / matt / leo

❛ ivy ❜ — frank ocean

@ matthew.sturniolo | @ iheartdilfs ᥫ᭡

madison beer as

𝘾𝙃𝘼𝙍𝙇𝙊𝙏𝙏𝙀 𝙅𝘼𝙈𝙀𝙎

✩‧₊˚ / char , charlie , lottie / aquarius

❛ end of beginning ❜ — djo

@ charlottejames | @ iheartmilfs ᥫ᭡

nicolas sturniolo as

𝙃𝙄𝙈𝙎𝙀𝙇𝙁

ੈ✩‧₊˚ / nick / leo

❛ maneater ❜ — nelly furtado

@ nicolassturniolo | @ theblueprint ᥫ᭡

lorelaiswift

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lorelaiswift dear society, out tomorrow.

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LORELAI GRACE SWIFT was the kind of girl on the outside that both boys and girls would want. but on the inside, she was so much more.

the whole world knew her as taylor swift's younger sister and growing up, she loved that people knew her and wanted to take selfies. it was fun. until it wasn't.

growing up and constantly hearing music made the girl love it just as much as her older sister did. she started off helping her sister write some songs and then ended up with her debut album when she was only sixteen. it immediately went to number one on the charts and she finally felt as if she was doing something as lorelai, not lorelai swift.

of course, that feeling didn't last very long. the constant hate on social media and even older celebrities tweeting about a teenager was too much. it was all happening so much and lorelai couldn't handle it.

she stayed strong for a while. she tried so hard to push through it because she knew it was hard to be in the spotlight. but sometimes that spotlight was too bright. from then on, the brunette limited her instagram comments and stopped writing songs.

still, nothing changed. she was harassed in public several times and never had any privacy. since then, lorelai hadn't been on any social media since 2022 and today was the first time in nearly three years that the apps had been on her phone.

she was currently sitting on her balcony with a cigarette clutched in her fingertips. it was an old habit that she'd yet overcome. alex and kenzie were currently blowing up the group chat about her song, but she'd answer them later.

she couldn't be more grateful for the two girls who stuck by her while the whole world hated her. she could never repay them. plus charlotte, they were her life support.

alex — tiktoker 🥲

kenzie — youtuber 📷

lorelai had written dear society nearly six months ago. she was in one of the darkest times of her life, she had pushed everyone away, meaning the only thing she could turn to was her music.

she had written and recorded the song in a week, sending the demo to taylor and the girls. alex, kenzie and charlotte soon showed up at her house with chocolate and pizza, more than happy to see their best friend on her feet again.

she was grateful that she had people in her life who would stay by her side even when she pushed them away. she didn't want to imagine where she would be now if they hadn't forced her to get up and start her life again.

after finishing her cigarette, once again, the girl's phone buzzed several times in a row, making her sit up and grab it.

chris yapping about lorelai swift for 20 minutes and 6 seconds...

lorelai couldn't lie, she was immediately intrigued by the video. she recognised them. flipping her phone around, she pressed play and went to the time stamp that kenzie had sent.

"guys! i just can't believe she's finally back." chris ran his hands down his face while his brothers gave each other looks. "we get it, chris." matt sighed.

"her music is incredible though." chris nodded at nick's words, thanking him for agreeing. "what would you do if you were to meet lorelai?" matt fed into his brother's obsession.

"first, freak the fuck out. then i'd ask to take her out, and i would take her out for a fancy dinner, spoil her with as much fancy food as she wants, and give her the treatment she deserves." he 'joked'.

nick and matt laughed along with his joke, not thinking he was serious at all. but he was.

lorelai finished the video, not realising there was a smile on her face. she couldn't lie, he was attractive. the way he spoke about her made her laugh. she couldn't shake the feeling of familiarity when she watched them, but she shook it off.

one thing that she noticed was that they never mentioned taylor. not once did they mention that she was her sister.

to them, she was lorelai swift, chris' celebrity crush. not lorelai swift, taylor swift's little sister.

nobody had done that apart from her closest friends before.

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 !

@certifiedstarrr @slutsformatt @sturnsbitch @elliewrites1 @livialifesblog @jnkvivi @aaliyahsturniolo1

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underground-secret · 5 months

Text

The Hunter and the Witch~ Dean

Winchester x f!reader

Description: Sam is haunted by a vision of a woman trapped in his childhood house

Warning: cannon violence, tension/ minor flirting, slight angst and comfort, mentions of death, mentions of a dead parent, the use of witchcraft that isn't exactly apart of Supernatural lore but does have ties to many folklore's interpretations of a witches capability from European Folklore to Appalachian Folk Magic and many more (i used a mix of different lore to create my own interpretation) this took so long to research, l also was testing things out in my apartment so i'd be able to write it properly- literally rearranging furniture for it

Tag list: @jesllianaquilesrolonsworld ,

@okayiamkassandra, @fablerose , @ada--44

Word Count: 12,947

Home

(Master list, Previous Ch., Next Ch.)

I stumble into the boys motel room, stifling a yawn from passing through my lips. Did I wake up two hours ago and refuse to get out of the stiff motel bed instead of coming to meet my lovely friends in their room?

Yes!

“Good morning my little stabby hunters” I greet cheerfully, closing and locking the door behind me. Sam mumbles some incoherent version of a greeting from where he sat on his bed while Dean looks up from Sam’s laptop, “Mornin’ sweetheart”

I walk up to each boy individually giving their hair a nice ruffle before shuffling my way to sit criss-cross applesauce on the unoccupied bed. “You had perfect timing ‘cause I think I found a few candidates for our next gig.”

“Oooh how fun” I half sarcastically say, “read ‘em out!”

“Alright we got a fishing trawler found off the coast of Cali” I nod pretending to know what a ‘trawler’ is, “ –-its crew vanished. And, uh, we got some cattle mutilations in West Texas.” Dean lists out looking up every now and then for a reaction, “Hey. Sammy.” He calls out to his brother who’s sat drawing something on a little notepad.

Sam looks up, giving Dean an annoyed look waiting for what he has to say. Dean leans back in his chair, “Am I boring you with this hunting evil stuff?”

“No. I’m listening. Keep going.” Sam declares, going right back to his drawing. He was in fact not paying attention.

“And, here, a Sacramento man shot himself in the head. Three times.” He stops speaking again, waving his hand in the air intended to get his brother's attention, “Any of these things blowin’ up your skirt, pal?”

Sam suddenly sits up fully, “Wait. I’ve seen this.”

“Seen what?” I ask, Dean and I sharing a confused look. But Sam doesn't answer, he just crosses the room towards his duffel bag, searching for something. “What are you doing?” Dean asks. Again Sam doesn't answer, finally finding whatever he was looking for he pauses studying the two things in his hands, he swiftly turns around “I know where we have to go next.”

“Where?” Dean muses, asking the question were both thinking.

“Back home –- back to Kansas” Sam breathes, a hint of panic in his eyes.

“Okay, random. Where’d that come from?”

Sam shows the thing he took out of his bag, a photo, to his brother, I get up to view it too. “All right, um, this photo was taken in front of our old house, right? The house where Mom died?” Sam asks, looking between the sort of family photo taken in front of their house and his brother.

“Yeah.” Dean answers plainly.

“And it didn’t burn down, right? I mean, not completely, they rebuilt it, right?” Sam asks further.

“Yeah it took ‘em a while to, I think it was mostly out of respect because no one ever moved in after you either, as far as I know.” I answer only knowing because I lived in town even after they moved away.

“Okay, well, someone lives there now…and, I, uh, look, this is gonna sound crazy but….the people who live in our old house –- I think they might be in danger.” Sam stammers

“Why would you think that?” Dean asks the obvious question. “Uh…it’s just, um….look, just trust me on this, okay?” He starts to walk away to the other side of the room, Dean following suit, “Wait, whoa, whoa, trust you?”

The fighting begins, I think to myself as I chew on the inside of my cheek. I knew Dean would probably act harsher then he meant to, his mom—his old house being a very rough topic for him.

Now it’s Sam’s turn to answer simply, “Yeah.”

“Come on, man, that’s weak. You gotta give me a little bit more than that.” Dean raises his voice slightly.

“I can’t really explain it is all” Sam says looking around the room instead of making eye contact.

“Well, tough. I’m not goin’ anywhere until you do” Dean crosses his arms waiting expectantly.

Sam sighs, “I have these nightmares.”

“I’ve noticed” Dean says while nodding and I want to step in and lecture him for coming off so mean, but I bite my tongue.

“And sometimes…” Sam pauses for a while before continuing, “…they come true.” This time I don’t bite my tongue, the word slipping out of my lips out of pure shock, “Sam” I gasp. “Come again?” Dean says almost at the same time as my gasp.

“Look….I dreamt about Jessica’s death –- for days before it happened.” Sam tries to explain further, nearly getting cut off by his brother, “Sam, people have weird dreams, man. I’m sure it’s just a coincidence.” I know Dean doesn't want to believe it, I know he’s scared of what this could mean. But I can’t help but feel this is like the argument Dean had started on my twelfth birthday, all those years ago. It felt especially silly to feel this way now, not when I never held a grudge against him because of it. Maybe I should have but I could never find it within myself to do so.

Dean sits down on one of the beds and it’s clear he doesn't know what to do with himself. Sam begins to explain himself more, which I hate the fact he has to, “No, I dreamt about the blood dripping, her on the ceiling, the fire, everything, and I didn’t do anything about it ‘cause I didn’t believe it. And now I’m dreaming about that tree, about our house, and about some woman inside screaming for help. I mean, that’s where it all started, man, this has to mean something, right?”

“I don’t know.” Dean huffs out. It’s clear he’s overwhelmed, which is a significantly better reaction than what I got to his whole realization of what I really was—a witch—despite the fact he already knew that. I want to respect their relationship and not speak when it’s not my right to, and yet if it comes down to it I know I will. I won’t let their relationship fall apart because of this, I won’t let a hatred form between them. Let alone like how Dean had hated me for months and I had hated myself too.

“I-it can mean something. There's a lot of cultures that believe that dreams are capable of showing the future as a guidance or even as a warning. Egyptians, Romans, and Greeks, they all believed in this; it's,um, called oneiromancy.” I pipe in quietly as if scared that saying it too loud would shatter the delicate atmosphere. Sam was looking at me with big eyes like he was hanging on to each word I spoke, nodding along.

“All right, just slow down, would ya?” Dean stands abruptly beginning to pace the carpeted floor, “I mean, first you tell me that you’ve got the Shining? And then you tell me that I’ve gotta go back home? Especially when….”

“When what?” Sam asks carefully.

Dean sounds on the verge of tears, probably the most vulnerable he’s been in a long time, “When I swore to myself that I would never go back there?” The air, the atmosphere itself, felt fragile then too as if something so palpable had to be careful of where it stood

Sam begins softly, his eyes scrunched in a mix of worry and sympathy, “Look, Dean, we have to check this out. Just to make sure.”

“I know we do.” Dean nods, his head hung low.

The Impala pulls up in front of the old Winchester house, the cute little two story green house standing there simply. I can’t help but wonder if in a hundred years these people who lived in Lawrence would know what happened here? The family that was lost here? Maybe not physically but you can trace everything back to this simple house, where these boys lost a piece of themselves no matter how young they were. You can still feel it in the air now, in this car with Dean's head hung low as he peers up at his old house, the only and last house he’s ever had.

“You gonna be all right, man?” Sam asks, trying to catch his brother's eyes. Dean swallow’s thickly, “Let me get back to you on that.” We exit the safety of the car and with each step forward the weight of this settles on our shoulders, the realness of this all. I know this isn’t about me, but if I let my mind stop focusing on the task at hand I know that it will wisp away to my old house. Just on the other side of town, to every moment I spent wandering the streets with no where particular in mind-

A sharp knocking on the front door snaps me out of my mind. A pretty blonde opens the door, her eyebrows scrunched in what seems like stress, “Yes?” she answers.

“Sorry to bother you, ma’am, but we’re with the Federal—“ Dean begins his lie getting cut off by his brother, “I’m Sam Winchester, this is my brother, Dean, and our friend Y/N. My brother and I, uh, we used to live here. You know, we were just drivin’ by, and we were wondering if we could come see the old place.”

“Winchester. Yeah, that’s so funny. You know, I think I found some of your photos the other night.” She laughs lightly. Dean's face drops a little, a mix of curiosity and longing on his face that if I hadn’t seen it before, hadn’t known him so well I wouldn’t have recognized it. “You did?” he asks, and I'd have to think it was a look of longing for his life back then, before he lost his mom, to a life that was so simple and child-like because that might have been the only time he really was a child.

She nods and steps aside, “Come on in.” The inside of the house wasn’t so much different from what I’ve been told about it, she shuts and locks the door behind us and we wait for her to lead us further in before moving. “I’m Jenny by the way” she says moving past us. She leads us into the big kitchen, a young girl doing homework at the table while an adorable jumpy toddler bounces in his little playpen, I can’t help the smile that creeps up on my face at the sight.

“Juice! Juice! Juice! Juice!” The toddler chants, bouncing as he speaks.

“That’s Ritchie. He’s kind of a juice junkie.” She introduces going over to the fridge, taking out a sippy cup and handing it to the bouncy baby. “He has good taste” I laugh, the kid being just so freaking adorable.

Jenny walks over to her daughter, “Sari, this is Sam and Dean, they used to live here. And that’s their friend Y/n.” I smile at the girl who greets us with a small “Hi.” Dean for some reason waved awkwardly at the child, as if he doesn't know how to act around kids when that’s so far from the truth.

“Hey, Sari.” Sam smiles before allowing her to get back to her homework.

“So, you just moved in?” Dean asks, jumping right to it. “Yeah, from Wichita.” Jenny answers, referring to a different part of Kansas.

“You got family here, or….?” Dean continues to ask, and honestly it’s kind of a creepy question. She answers a little hesitantly, “No. I just, uh….needed a fresh start, that’s all. So, new town, new job –- I mean, as soon as I find one. New house.”

“Do you like it here?” I ask genuinely. “Well, uh, all due respect to your childhood home” She starts looking at the boys as she speaks, “…I mean, I’m sure you had lots of happy memories here…but this place has its issues.”

“What do you mean?” Sam asks almost a little too quickly.

Jenny sighs, “Well, it’s just getting old. Like the wiring, you know? We’ve got flickering lights almost hourly.”

“I think that’s an easy fix” I try to remain hopeful, it’s not like we can just tell her ‘oh yeah that’s ‘cause your house is probably haunted by a demon or something.’ And under the assumption that it was just faulty wiring, I really wasn’t sure if it was an easy fix. I mean I am no electrician.

“Anything else?” Dean adds in.

“Um…sink’s backed up, there’s rats in the basement.” She lists off before pausing for a beat, looking between us nervously, “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to complain.” Dean looks a little taken back by this concern, because what was written on his face was far from offense, “No. Have you seen the rats or have you just heard scratching?”

“It’s just the scratching, actually.” She answers.

“Mom?” Sari calls out lightly, Jenny kneels down to her daughter waiting for her to continue, “Ask them if it was here when they lived here.”

“What, Sari?” Sam asks, confused.

“The thing in my closet.” She answers weakly, and I swear my heart broke a little at the way in which she said it.

“Oh, no, baby, there was nothing in their closets.” Jenny answers softly, reminding me of my mothers soft tone when she spoke to us. Jenny looks up at the boys, “Right?”

Sam stumbles over his words as he answers, “Right. No, no, of course not.”

“She had a nightmare the other night.” Jenny explains, a hand on her daughter's shoulder.

Sari shakes her head, “I wasn’t dreaming. It came into my bedroom –- and it was on fire.”

Uh oh.

~~~~~~~~

“You hear that? A figure on fire.” Sam whisper-shouts, mainly to his brother who was walking a little too quickly then necessary to his car. The man in question turns around swiftly, “And that woman, Jenny, that was the woman in your dreams?”

“Yeah. And you hear what she was talking about? Scratching, flickering lights, both signs of a malevolent spirit.” Sam bites back.

“Yeah, well, I’m just freaked out that your weirdo visions are comin’ true.” Dean snaps.

Sam’s eyes were wide with panic, “Well, forget about that for a minute. The thing in the house, do you think it’s the thing that killed Mom and Jessica?”

“I don’t know!” Dean snaps.

Back and forth they fight like two dogs having a barking match from just over the fence. “Well, I mean, has it come back or has it been here the whole time?” Sam starts again.

“Or maybe it’s something else entirely, Sam, we don’t know yet.”

“Well, those people are in danger, Dean. We have to get ‘em out of that house.”

“And we will.”

“No, I mean now.”

“And how you gonna do that, huh? You got a story that she’s gonna believe?”

“Then what are we supposed to do?”

“Both of you, stop!” I nearly shout, both boys going quiet, “Look” I sigh. “I get this is scary and all but you two bickering isn’t going to get us anywhere! And if we want to help that nice family we have to think logically. We don’t know what we’re dealing with, maybe it’s something else or maybe we have to prepare ourselves for the fact that it is that monster.

Either way we can’t just run into this with assumptions or lead on feeling alone, okay? ‘Cause that’s how we mess up and wind up dead and I don’t know ‘bout you boys but i’m not quite craving the taste of death just yet.” I take a deep breath before continuing, “So, let’s pretend this is any ol’ case, any other hunt. What do we do first?”

“Research” Dean mumbles as if he was a kid who got caught doing something wrong, which arguably isn’t so far from the truth.

“Check our bases, dig into the history” Sam adds.

“Exactly” I smile, “Good job”

Dean opens the driver seat door, getting in as he speaks, “Except this time, we already know what happened.”

Sam and I followed suit, “Yeah, but how much do we know? I mean, how much do you actually remember?” he asks. Dean looks around a little uncomfortable, “About that night, you mean?”

“Yeah.”

“Not much. I remember the fire…the heat.” He pauses, “And then I carried you out the front door.”

“You did?” Sam asks surprised.

Dean scuffs, starting the car and pulling out of the spot, “Yeah, what, you never knew that?”

Sam shakes his head, “No.”

Dean continues, “And, well, you know Dad’s story as well as I do. Mom was….was on the ceiling. And whatever put her there was long gone by the time Dad found her.”

“And he never had a theory about what did it?” Sam questions further, and up until now I didn’t realize how much he was kept in the dark about such a significant moment in his life.

Dean shrugs, “If he did, he kept it to himself. God knows we asked him enough times.” Sam starts again, “Okay. So, if we’re gonna figure out what’s goin’ on now…we have to figure out what happened back then. And see if it’s the same thing.”

Dean again looks around uncomfortably, his fingers drumming on the steering wheel, “Yeah. We’ll talk to Dad’s friends, neighbors, people who were there at the time.”

Sam notices this obvious movement like I did and pauses for a moment, you could see the gears turning in his head, “Does this feel like just another job to you?” Dean clears his throat, suddenly jerking the car off to the left side of the road right up to the curb, the car poorly parked, “I’ll be right back. I gotta go to the bathroom.” The second he finishes his sentence he’s out of the car and walking away into some local business that I couldn’t quite see the name of.

“I- I don’t understand him” Sam suddenly says as he watches his brother leave, turning in the passenger seat to talk to me properly, “It would be so much easier if he just…” He sighs, “talked to me.”

“I… don’t want to excuse his actions because you are right, but at the same time you know he was never taught how to be vulnerable.” I try to explain, carefully choosing my words knowing there were eggshells surrounding our feet. He then mumbles something incoherently about their childhood, he looks back up at me, “you know, you don’t really talk about your childhood either.”

“Maybe it’s just something about Kansas” I joke, he laughs lowly, “But I ,uh, I would like to tell you about it…someday…” I offer shyly, trying to offer him something in a moment where he has nothing

“I’d like that, at least I could get closer to one of you” Sam smiles, sadly.

“Hey and maybe it will open the door to encourage Dean to speak up” I say.

“Yeah you know that’s not gonna happen” He scuffs.

“Well, I was trying to be a little optimistic.”

When Dean came back to the car he was dead quiet, his eyes were glossy but he refused to talk. It wasn’t uncommon for him, not one bit.

Sitting in the back of the Impala, I watched the buildings and trees pass by. All blocks I was familiar with even if it was far from where I had actually lived, but when you're lonely you tend to find walking for an eternity isn’t so bad. Funnily enough, sitting in the back of this car felt eerily similar to when I was a child, my dad as quiet as an owl, a then changed man having lost his world. Only, he had forgotten my brother and I had lost her too, and that we were still around to begin with.

Dean stared at the road like my dad had all those years ago, so deeply as if they were to look away it would disappear right beneath them. Then Sam sat in the passenger seat looking between his brother and out the window not knowing what to say, like my brother always did. And I of course still played the same role because some things never change, some feelings never do fully leave.

Dean suddenly clears his throat, “Alright, up ahead is an old pal of dads.” Just as suddenly as he said it, he also hadn’t given us time to say anything before pulling over once more, this time in front of a mechanic's place. A sign reading “Guenther’s Auto Repair” in big red letters hung above a large garage unit. The smell of metal and grease breeze by my nose as I exit the car, following after the two taller men with what I thought was a forgotten sadness now back. I can’t imagine how they must feel, how Dean must feel.

They effortlessly found and began a discussion with the owner, easily lying about being cops which felt especially wrong today. It felt wrong to lie to anyone from the town I pretty much grew up in, even if I never knew any of them.

“So you and John Winchester, you used to own this garage together?” Dean asks the older man. I knew their father was a mechanic but hadn’t known he had his own garage and partner.

“Yeah, we used to, a long time ago. Matter of fact, it must be, uh…twenty years since John disappeared. So why the cops interested all of a sudden?” He says, whipping his dirty hands on a rag stained with car grease.

“Oh, we’re re-opening some of our unsolved cases, and the Winchester disappearance is one of ‘em.” Dean answers smoothly, and I guess it isn’t technically a lie either. He accepts the answer with no further, visible, speculation, “Oh, well, what do you wanna know about John?”

“Well, whatever you remember, you know, whatever sticks out in your mind.” Dean suggests.

“Well…he was a stubborn bastard, I remember that.” He laughs. “And, uh, whatever the game, he hated to lose, you know? It’s that whole Marine thing. But, oh, he sure loved Mary. And he doted on those kids.” To that I have to stop myself from reacting, for some reason I can’t picture John being anything less of what he is now, in terms of strictness and toughness.

“But that was before the fire?” Sam points out.

He nods, “That’s right.”

“He ever talk about that night?” Sam adds. He seems to think for a moment, “No, not at first. I think he was in shock.”

“Right. But eventually? What did he say about it?” Sam clarifies.

“Oh, he wasn’t thinkin’ straight. He said somethin’ caused that fire and killed Mary.”

“He ever say what did it?” Dean asks this time.

“Nothin’ did it. It was an accident –- an electrical short in the ceiling or walls or somethin’. I begged him to get some help, but….” He explains.

“But what?”

“Oh, he just got worse and worse.” He answered, sympathy written all over his face.

“How?” Dean asks carefully.

“He started readin’ these strange ol’ books. He started goin’ to see this palm reader in town.” He says, suddenly catching my attention, an air of familiarity surrounding it.

“Palm reader? Uh, do you have a name?” Dean questions. I scrunch my eyebrows together trying to remember why this was familiar.

He responds at the same time it suddenly hits me, “No” he scuffs.

The name leaves my mouth in quiet thought, “Missouri Moseley.”

All three of them look at me strangely, before Dean grabs hold of my upper arm, throwing the man a smile and a “Excuse us.” He begins pulling me away from the garage and back to the car, his brother following after us after he had thanked the man.

“Where’d you get that name from?” Dean asks me sternly, looking down at me with sharp curious eyes, his grip on my arm never faulting.

I look up at him, his green eyes piercing mine, expectantly, but I find myself at a loss for words. Each syllable ready to be spoken but dying on my tongue, all in the fault of once more feeling like my younger self. Sam reaches for his brother's shoulder, almost pulling him away from me, “Ease up, Dean.” He shakes his brother off, but listens, releasing my arm and swallowing thickly, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to-“

“It’s okay” I cut him off quickly. I wasn’t scared of him at that moment, but of the past and I knew he was too. We all were.

“I remember your dad came over and mentioned that name, along with her being the real deal. I just don’t remember what the conversation was about, I mean it had to be years ago…” I feel my eyebrows scrunch together again as I try to recall more, glimpses of the memory popping up. Our dads sitting on the long vintage couches my mom had bought for the house while me and my brother ran outside to play, “It was at the original house, m-maybe a year before we moved to Kansas.”

“So three years after mom died” Sam nods.

“Yeah that seems about right, but I’m not sure if that encounter was like right after your dad met this Missouri or some time after.” I add

“It sounds familiar. '' Dean breathed out before rounding the car to the trunk, digging through it before pulling out the journal. “In Dad’s journal…here, look at this.” He flips it open, handing it off to his brother, “First page, first sentence, read that.”

Sam takes the book, reading the sentence out loud, “I went to Missouri and I learned the truth.”

“I always thought he meant the state.” Deans shrugs.

Missouri’s house was a cute little two story place. I admire the light brown wood paneling and stained glass windows, something I knew my mom would have loved. Dean and Sam sat squished together on a small couch, all of us waiting for her to be finished with her client. I choose to stand, not only to see them both quietly fight to sit on the couch but also to slightly look around the place without wandering around.

A round faced, warm brown skinned lady with big curly hair tied back in a ponytail escorts a man out of her house, “All right, there. Don’t you worry ‘bout a thing. Your wife is crazy about you.” She tells him, her voice a natural soft and sweet tone, accompanied with a southern accent.

She closes the front door behind him, turning to face us, “Whew. Poor bastard. His woman is cold-bangin’ the gardener.” Her sweet voice does nothing to soften her blunt statement, my eyes go wide with the comment.

“Why didn’t you tell him?” Dean asks her,

“People don’t come here for the truth. They come for good news.” She answers simply, causing the room to fall quiet for a beat, “Well? Y/n, Sam and Dean, come on already, I ain’t got all day.” She leaves the room, I follow after her only pausing when I realize the boys weren’t following. I turn back towards them waving them over, they share a look before getting up and following.

“Well, lemme look at ya.” She laughs, “Oh, you boys grew up handsome.” She points a finger at Dean, “And you were one goofy-lookin’ kid, too.” A burst of laughter slips through my lips before I can control myself, his face falls and he glares at her.

Her gaze turns to me, my laughter dying out but a permanent smile left on my face, “Oh, you never lost your beauty” She smiles.

“You knew me when I was younger?” I ask, confused.

“Well of course, I knew your mother. Bless her soul” She answers, only leaving me more confused ‘cause my mom never mentioned her and I would sure remember such a sweet and funny woman.

“We helped each other out back then”, she explains, “She would always show me pictures of you and your brother. You were always a smiley girl, it’s good to see you didn’t lose that. Your mother would be glad too.” A warmth blossoms in my heart at that, my smile softens with me and it was like something I didn’t even know was within was fulfilled. It was hard to find new memories of my mom when I really didn’t know anyone who had known her, other than our family, to ask. Missouri hadn’t given me a full in depth memory and yet, it was enough. Enough to know someone else clearly adored my mom and had seen her in the same light I did. I don’t know why my mom never told us about her, but for some reason I didn’t feel the need to ask.

She gives me one last smile before giving her attention to Sam, she grabs his hand, her face falling, “Oh, honey…I’m sorry about your girlfriend.” A wave of shock clearly passes over the boys face, “And your father –- he’s missin’?” she continued.

“How’d you know all that?” Sam asks, clearly forgetting she is a psychic.

“Well, you were just thinkin’ it just now.” She explains.

“Well, where is he? Is he okay?” Dean rapidly spews out.

She half shrugs, “I don’t know.”

“Don’t know? Well, you’re supposed to be a psychic, right?” He snaps back, far too hostile.

She gives him a weird look, “Boy, you see me sawin’ some bony tramp in half? You think I’m a magician? I may be able to read thoughts and sense energies in a room, but I can’t just pull facts out of thin air.” A laugh passes through my lips before I could stop myself, I nudge Dean's shoulder who glares sharply at me before turning that look to Missouri, only furthering my spits of giggles that I try to bite back.

Her demeanor changes back to gentle, “Sit, please.” We listen to her, I took a seat beside Sam so that I wasn’t squished between both boys. Missouri suddenly snaps at Dean, “Boy, you put your foot on my coffee table, I’m ‘a whack you with a spoon!”

“I didn’t do anything.” Dean argues, his voice seemingly an octave higher- like a child.

“But you were thinkin’ about it.” She answers.

“Oh, I like you” I say through my laughter, it was quite the breath of fresh air to see someone put gruff ‘macho man’ Dean in his place.

Sam gets back on topic, whipping the smile that formed on his face, “Okay. So, our dad –- when did you first meet him?”

“He came for a reading. A few days after the fire. I just told him what was really out there in the dark. I guess you could say…I drew back the curtains for him.” She responds.

“What about the fire? Do you know about what killed our mom?” Dean asks.

“A little. Your daddy took me to your house. He was hopin’ I could sense the echoes, the fingerprints of this thing” She explains.

“And could you?” Sam asks

She shakes her head, “I…”

“What was it?”

She answers softly, “I don’t know. Oh, but it was evil.”, She pauses for a beat, “So…you think somethin’ is back in that house?”

“Definitely” Sam breathes.

She shakes her head again, “I don’t understand.”

“What?” Sam asks.

“I haven’t been back inside, but I’ve been keepin’ an eye on the place, and it’s been quiet. No sudden deaths, no freak accidents. Why is it actin’ up now?” She explains.

“I don’t know. But Dad going missing and Jessica dying and now this house all happening at once –- it just feels like something’s starting.” Sam says, eyebrows scrunched in worry.

“That’s a comforting thought.” Dean mumbles.

~~~~~~~~~

The ride back to the Winchesters house was the light in this complex time. The entire ride Missouri lectured Dean on his driving saying he was just a little too reckless and was gonna get us all killed despite it being a generally short one. They bickered back and forth a while until Dean gave up grumbling something below his breath, causing another snap response from the woman herself.

When we finally arrived Dean quickly got out of the car before anyone else could even register being parked, I genuinely don’t think I've ever seen him happy to be out of Baby. He had very obviously, and purposefully, positioned himself so that he was standing next to me away from Missouri, in fact two people away as she stood on the other side of Sammy. I searched for Dean's hand, my fingers brushed against his larger rougher hand. I clasped it gently, giving it a reassuring squeeze to hopefully ease his tension, caused by the beef he had with the nice lady that was helping us to begin with, even though I most definitely found the whole thing hilarious. Just as Sam knocked on the door I released Dean's hand, bringing both my hands to clasp in front of me. A peak of nervousness rests in my gut as I feel his gaze on me, I ignore it, focusing my eyes forward while I rock on the balls of my feet.

Jenny answers the door, her blond hair messy and clear stress present in the crinkled corner of her eyes and worry etched into her pupils. She holds her baby, Ritchie, close to her chest, “Sam, Dean, Y/N. What are you doing here?”

Sam smiles at the blond, “Hey, Jenny. This is our friend, Missouri.”

“If it’s not too much trouble, we were hoping to show her the old house. You know, for old time’s sake” Dean chimes in.

She scrunches her nose, “You know, this isn’t a good time. I’m kind of busy.”

“Listen, Jenny, it’s important.” Dean tries to explain before Missouri smacks him hard on the back of the head, far harder than I ever do, “Ow!” He yelps, turning around swiftly towards the shorter woman, “How did you-!” He nearly yells holding the back of his head. He looks at her with big wild eyes, his yelling coming from the fact she was able to quietly get behind Sam and I to hit him.

Missouri cuts him off, “Give the poor girl a break, can’t you see she’s upset?” She then turns to Jenny, “Forgive this boy, he means well, he’s just not the sharpest tool in the shed, but hear me out.” Dean looks further stunned.

“About what?” Jenny asks, adjusting her hold on her kid.

“About this house.” Missouri answers.

“What are you talking about?” Jenny looks between us all, nervously.

“I think you know what I’m talking about. You think there’s something in this house, something that wants to hurt your family. Am I mistaken?” Missouri says.

“Who are you?” Jenny asks just above a whisper.

“We’re people who can help, who can stop this thing. But you’re gonna have to trust us, just a little.” Missouri smiles comfortingly but even so Jenny looks unsure.

She seems to go over it in her head before finally sighing, “Alright.”

The four of us stand in Sari’s bedroom, Jenny having given us room to do what we need to while she waits downstairs with her kids. Sari’s room was a dark blue, a contrast to her pink and white furniture and toys.

“If there’s a dark energy around here, this room should be the center of it.” Missouri states, looking around the room carefully from where she stood.

“Why?” Sam asks.

“This used to be your nursery, Sam. This is where it all happened.” She answers, looking around the room. Dean pulls out his DIY EMF from the inside of his coat pocket, “That an EMF?” Missouri asks.

“Yeah.” Dean smiles smugly.

“Amateur.” Missouri says lowly, I don’t know why she was targeting Dean specifically but his reaction to her was too amusing to really ponder it.

The EMF beeps frantically, “I don’t know if you boys should be disappointed or relieved, but this ain’t the thing that took your mom.” Missouri announces.

“Wait, are you sure?” Sam asks frantically, getting a confident nod, “How do you know?”

“It isn’t the same energy I felt the last time I was here. It’s somethin’ different.” She answers, pausing for a beat before adding, “Can you feel it Y/N?”

My eyes widened in shock, “I’m sorry what?”

“You still got a lot to learn ‘bout your abilities'' She responds waving me over, “c’mere, you might be able to sense the energy.”

I hesitantly place my bag down before slowly walking over to her, she either senses my nervousness or reads my mind because she explains what she means, “Witches tend to have the best intuition and connection to the natural world, you should be able to sense energies especially spiritual ones with a second sight.”

She situates me in front of her with my back towards her, her hands clasp my arms tightly as they rest at my side. “Close your eyes, and just like meditation let everythin’ else fall away.”

I follow her instructions, my eyes fluttering shut reluctantly. I feel incredibly silly as I take a deep breath, the sage-y perfume of the woman behind me filling my nose. I breathe out slowly, forcing my mind to shut out the real world, which isn’t as hard as it should be with the quiet room and my nearly regular meditating. Complete darkness surrounds me as if the room itself had fallen away with all the people in it too, just me floating in an abyss.

I focused more closely on the house itself, extending my awareness far out to the block and then as if a dark fog hugged it I zeroed in on the house. Using my conscious self I pictured what it was like to walk through the house this time with a deep focus and new eyes.

With each step I ventured further into the house cautiously, a buzzing feeling rang through the house like when two strong magnets fight for equilibrium with a clatter. But despite the buzzing a physical warm glow emitted from the home's edges and like a hand reaching out it tried to conquer more of the house, yet it couldn’t. A force I couldn't quite tell held it back. The hair on the back of my neck stood tall, a cold chill running down my spine, I shrugged it off as I walked back up the stairs and down the hall to my physical self.

My foot only breached the doorway when a dreadful feeling filled the halls as if rooted beneath the wallpaper, a twinge of fear made its home in my stomach. I had never done this before, never went into my mind to feel the very things I hunt. I have no experience here, this is not my domain. They must know that as hushed murmurs fluttered around me with voices I couldn’t detect but knew they didn’t belong to anyone in the room. They wouldn’t be able to talk to me here so normally, maybe Missouri but certainly not Sam or Dean.

The murmurs became louder, each whisper jumbled over the next, talking over each other to the point of no recognition. My back hits the hard archway of the door's entrance, the sheer loudness of combined voices knocking me off balance. I braced myself against the door, nails biting into wood, my eyes shut tightly in effort to focus even further.

An unfamiliar cold hand brushes my forearm dragging its fingers up to my elbow as if standing beside me, I swiftly turn around backing up a few feet to see nothing near me. Another brush touches me, this time the back of my neck accompanied by a hot breath fanning by my ear. I don’t move away. this is not my domain, but it will be, and I will not show fear now. Latin spews from its mouth flowing right into my ear, a simple teasing statement, “Another toy.”

My eyes shoot open, pupils blown wide as my eyes adjust to the lighting as well as my mind being back in focus of the physical realm. My heart beats harshly against my chest, my lungs heaving with adrenaline.

A large hand clasps around my upper arm tightly, I nearly stumble back a step before my mind finally catches up with the present. “What is it?” Dean spews out quickly, his green eyes nearly crazed with worry.

I open my mouth to answer only to have Missouri answer for me instead, “You saw them.”

“F-felt more like” I stammer the feeling of its touch still lingering.

“What are they doing here?” Dean asks, looking between Missouri and I for answers, his hand still on my arm. Thing is I don’t have an answer, all that creepy spirit touching and I still don’t know everything.

But of course Missouri does, “They’re here because of what happened to your family. You see, all those years ago, real evil came to you. It walked this house. That kind of evil leaves wounds. And sometimes, wounds get infected.”

“This house buzzes with energy, literally you can feel it attracting paranormal energy. There’s two here right now…ones in the room. My head turns towards the closet, “A poltergeist. I’m not sure if it sees it as a game or what but I think it wants Jenny and her kids dead.” I know I’m right when Missouri nods her head.

“You both said there was more than one spirit.”

“There is. I just can’t quite make out the second one.” Missouri answers before adding, “You pick up anythin’”

“Only that it felt…good, if that makes sense. It was very different from the other. It was like this warmth trying to consume the house or really rid the house of its evil.” I answer by trying to make sense of everything that I have experienced.

“You’re sure of this?” Dean asks me, gaining my attention again by squeezing my arm before finally letting go.

“Yes.” I breathe simply, failing to explain that my only other hunch was the fact that it hadn’t been bothering me or I suppose terrorizing me like the poltergeist had with its touching.

A hard determined look sharpens on Dean's face, “Well, one thing’s for damn sure –- nobody’s dyin’ in this house ever again. So whatever is here, how do we stop it?”

“We’re gonna cleanse the house” Missouri answers simply, “Y/N, what you have in that bag of yours?”

A devilish smirk stretches itself on my face, “You wanna do purifying bags?” I ask back instead of answering. I walk back over to my discarded bag picking it up and swinging it over my shoulder, “Let’s do this downstairs, don’t want to make a mess in the kids room” Missouri says, answering my question without really answering it.

“Copy” I smile, taking the lead as we exit the room. With a sudden need for my specialty I found a new pep in my step as I quickly descended the stairs beelining for the nearest table. I carefully placed my bag down on the dining room table, pulling out my spell book marked and written in along with small corked glass bottles of different roots and herbs I carry. “When did you put all of this in your bag?” Sam asks, picking up a vial of crossroad dirt.

“Before I left with Dean to come get you, ‘cause you never know when you're gonna have to put together a spell or a potion of sorts” I answer, pulling out a couple empty small brown pouches.

“So you’ve been carrying this ‘round with you this whole time?” Dean asks this time.

“Mhm” I hum as I sit getting right to work.

With a little bag in front of me I put in each ‘ingredient’, for lack of a better word, not needing to look at my book for the right amount in each.

“Well don’t be lazy, help the girl!” Missouri lectures hitting Dean on the back of the head again. He grumbles no longer snapping back with something, he sits down next to me looking for direction.

With the feeling of his gaze on the side of my face I swirl my finger towards my spell book, a purple haze floating through the air turning the pages of my book to the right section for him to follow without me having to stop my work. He doesn't say anything as he takes off his jacket and rolls up the sleeves of his flannel, putting his forearms on display as he picks up bits of root, unfortunately catching my attention enough to pause my work and stare at him.

His eyes move from my book to the bag he was working on, his eyes sharp and focus as it passes across the words on the page. He moves his hand to the book using a finger to drag across the page underneath each word, the veins in his hand bulging as he does so. His eyebrows scrunch and his jaw ticks as he asks, “What is this stuff anyway?”

“That’s angelica root your holding” I mentioned first, referring to the fuzzy green plant in his hand. “And that’s van van oil, crossroad dirt, sage” I point to each bottle, naming off each ingredient we’re using.

He nods as I speak, his eyes still holding the same level of focus. From his listening to the gentle touch he used as he handled each bottle, all I could feel was pure endearment. The sudden quietness in the room made me painfully aware of the fact that we were the only ones left in said room and that Missouri along with Sam had left at some point, most likely to talk to Jenny.

“What are we supposed to do with it?” Dean questioned, knocking his knee into mine to get my attention once more. A bashful smile breaks its way onto my face at his touch, “We put them inside the walls of each corner of each floor of the house, north, south, east, west.”

“We’ll be punchin’ holes in the dry wall. Jenny’s gonna love that.” Dean points out.

My lips formed a tight line, cringing, “Yeah…this is just how this goes but to be fair some holes in the walls are better than evil spirits.”

He huffed a laugh, “And this will destroy the spirits?”

“It should, it's supposed to purify the house completely, we’ll probably each take a floor but we do have to work quickly because when they catch on to what we’re doing, they get seriously pissed.” I answered

“Won’t they catch on with us doing it here?”

“You would think that but spirits don’t always know until it’s actually happening like when we make the holes then it’s a big deal.” I inform, tying off another bag.

“Huh” He replies as he continues to work.

Soon silence falls upon us while we work, our arms brushing against each other every now and then.

“Are holes in drywall a hard fix?” I ask, breaking the comfortable silence, worried that the spirits won’t be the only pissed ones.

A deep chuckle passes through his lips, “That depends, sweetheart, but it should be.” He went on to explain the logistics of it, and while it wasn’t something I really cared to know about I didn’t stop him from explaining.

By the time his explanation of spackles and walls was over our purifying bags were done too.

Missouri and Sam walk back into the room, the floor creaking slightly underneath them. “You guys almost done?” Sam asked

“Yup” I hummed, “The bags are all done just gotta finish cleaning up”

“Good. Jenny and her kids just left, they’ll be back in an hour or two” Sam explained, placing a bunch of heavy items on the table. “I brought these in from the car, take your pick.”

I look up at the heavy mass, a hammer, a small ax, and two crowbars lay on the table. Though it is an odd collection of weapons as long as it is capable of making a hole in the wall it doesn't really matter, Sam picks up the hammer testing the weight of it in his hand.

With every part of the plan settled I throw the rest of the vials and leftover bags in my bag worrying about organization later, gently tucking my thick spell book into my bag I turn swiftly around, “Let’s get it done.”

“I’ll take this floor” Dean says, picking up his four bags, “Sammy you take upstairs, and you two can take the basement.”

“And remember you need to put a bag in each corner, north, south, east, west.” I order as everyone has the right amount of bags and a weapon of choice.

A collective nod was all we needed to spring into action, with the cold heavy crowbar in my hand I took the lead down the basement Missouri following closely after me. Without any words needed, we split up her heading to the west side of the floor and me to the east.

A chill runs up my spine, an uncomfortable feeling floating in the air, I roll my shoulders trying to rid myself of the feeling. My knees hit the floor, the coldness seeping through my pants. I knock on the wall in an attempt to hear a hollow part, Dean having mentioned before that would be the easiest way to make a hole. My knuckles hit the wall in at least ten separate spots before it no longer sounds solid. I stand back up for better leverage before changing my hold on the crowbar to be horizontal, bashing the end of it into the wall repeatedly until it cracks.

A heavy sliding noise shuffles behind me, I snap my head to the sound of a large dark table moving across the floor right into Missouri. My mouth opens to scream her name in warning but just as the first syllable leaves my mouth a nail comes flying at my face. Out of reflex alone I send the nail flying to the left, the invisible force of my power altering its trajectory. My eyes follow where the nail came from, an open red tool box, more nails come flying my way and each time I knock them away. Knowing it wouldn’t stop I gripped the crowbar harder using only a glimpse back at the wall to know where I was aiming for. While I used one hand and half my focus on changing the direction of the nails I used my other to slam the crowbars end into the already cracked wall but only when it sounded like it broke through enough did I glimpse back again. With another look forward at the coming nails, only one more left, I waited until it got closer, the old nail zooming toward my eye. Just as it got but an inch away I dropped to the floor, turning my body as I went, throwing the purification bag in.

I got up quickly, dropping my crowbar, almost tripping over my other foot as I ran to Missouri, pushing the table away from her, throwing another bag into the hole she had already made before she got attacked. She breathes heavily, a hand on her chest. “You okay?” I ask, putting a hand on her shoulder and leading her away from the table. She nods her head, handing me her two bags, wordlessly telling me to finish the floor.

I grip the bags in one hand as I pick up my discarded crowbar, seeing the nails that flew at me sticking out of the walls. I head over to the undisturbed wall slamming the crowbar into the wall, not even attempting to do the knocking at this point. While I threw in the third bag, worry consumed me at the realization that the spirits must be attacking the boys too. Without wasting any more time I go to the last undisturbed wall, again slamming the crowbar into it. Call it paranoia or instinct that made me turn so that my shoulder was facing the wall instead of my face to see if another attack would be coming. Either way it was that alone that saved me from the poltergeist throwing a wooden chair at my head. I duck again just in time for the chair to smash into pieces above me, wood undoubtedly falling into my hair.

“Stop throwing stuff!” I yell at the air itself or really the incredibly annoying poltergeist. With a huff I throw in the last bag, all the activity silencing on this floor. I get up walking over to Missouri as I pick out chunks of wood from my hair, as soon as I get close enough she reaches up and takes a particularly large piece of chair out of my hair showing it to me with a laugh before tossing it somewhere on the floor.

“Y/N!” A voice yells with a strain, clearly coming from a distance away. Right away I recognize the voice, Deans, I go running climbing up the stairs two at a time. Forget about my hair, forget about leaving Missouri behind (no offense).

The ground floor is practically untouched other than the clear mess that is peeking out from the kitchen, I look around quickly and see no one, “Dean?!” I shout back evident fear in my voice, getting an immediate “Up here.” Slight relief hits me as I again sprint up the stairs, twirling around the banister the second I reach the second floor seeing the closest open door. Forgetting about precautions I immediately approach the door, my hand on the archway when I see Dean on the floor cradling a hurt-limp Sam.

“Wha-“ I begin saying only to lose my train of thought.

“Let’s get him up” Missouri suddenly says from behind me, very calmly. She nudges past me heading straight for the boys, but neither of them move. She leans down beside Sam pressing two fingers to the side of his neck, “He’s still alive, he’ll be just fine.”

He gives her a curt nod before leaning back on his feet and standing, dragging his brother up with him, just as he does so Sam comes to. His eyes fluttering open and close, “It’s okay Sammy, just gonna bring you downstairs” Dean tells him, putting his brother's arm around his shoulder.

Carefully he walks his brother downstairs, Sam grumbling something halfway through before going limp again. Finally they reach the living room, Dean carefully lays his brother on the couch then moves to sit on the coffee table right across from him.

“He’ll be alright” I say softly, placing a hand on Dean's shoulder.

“I know” he replies.

“Were you able to finish the floor?” I ask even though maybe it wasn’t the proper time to.

“No. I was hurled with knives the second I made the hole, then I heard something upstairs and ran to see if Sammy was okay…I don’t think he finished either” He explains, his eyebrows scrunched together.

“It’s okay, i’ll go finish it and you guys can stay here, watch over him” I say, giving his shoulder a little squeeze before moving my hand away.

“Are you crazy?! That’s dangerous. Did you not just see what happened to Sam?!” Dean shoots back, not quite yelling but his voice is definitely louder than needed.

I smiled at him sweetly knowing this was coming from a place of worry and not an incompetent sort of deal, “Don’t worry I can take care of myself just fine, I did so down stairs when we finished up. Got some nails thrown at me, a chair and a table, you know just the usual playing house with the ghost.”

“That’s not the point. I’m coming with you.” He stands up abruptly and I swear I saw his jaw tick.

“Okay. I’m not gonna argue with you” I respond with humor in my voice. “But. If you did want to stay behind to watch your brother I wouldn't fault you for it either.”

He looks at me strangely with those beautiful green eyes before diverting them just past me, “I’m coming with you.”

“Right.” I smile “‘You got the bags?”

He answers by shuffling through his jacket pockets and pulling out a bag from each, he holds them up in an almost teasing way. I take a half step forward, grabbing a bag right out of his hand, only then realizing how close my small step puts us, having to lean my head back far enough to look up at him comfortably. But I don’t move away as I ask him, “What about your axe?”

He tilts his head down slightly towards me, his breathe hot on my face, “Dropped it in the kitchen”

“Good.” I say, nearly and pathetically getting distracted by our closeness…and his eyes… and his lips. “ ‘Cause I have no idea where I left that crowbar”

He laughs and steps away, his shoulder brushing mine as he walks away to the kitchen. Before I can turn to follow him Missouri meets my eyes, giving me a pointed-knowing look about what just happened. ‘Shut up’ I playfully mouth.

Finally I turn around following after the man in question. He comes out of the kitchen holding the small axe but just behind him is a mess. The kitchen looks like a tornado went through it with draws and cabinets open, utensils on the floor, broken dishes scattered around, the table turned over with knives sticking out of it (a tornado could not do that but the point of the mess still stands.) I look back at Dean then behind him repeatedly, “Did you have fun?” I remark sarcastically.

“Oh, not as much fun as you had” He replies gruffly, reaching up to my hair, his fingers sinking in as he ruffles out small chips of wood. My cheeks feel warm at the small contact and even more so when he pulls away and gives me that smirk. Then he walks away towards the back of the house with a cocky look in his eye like he knew exactly what he had done. I take a short deep breath before following him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

A few hours later every purifying bag is put in place and Sammy is conscious and now we stand in the disaster that is the kitchen, broken cabinets and chair bits on the floor as well as a collection of utensils, all just to see the bunt of the fight.

“‘You sure this is over?” Sam questions, his voice a little rough.

“I’m sure. Why? Why do you ask?” Missouri answers.

“Never mind.” He sighs, “It’s nothin’, I guess.”

The front door opens followed by footsteps, “Hello? We’re home.” Jenny calls out before finding us in the kitchen pure shock written on her face, “What happened?”

“Hi, sorry. Um, we’ll pay for all of this.” Sam word vomits, the words spilling out quickly and anxiously. Both Dean and I’s heads snap towards him, I seriously want to ask him ‘with what money???’ But before anyone can fathom a word Missouri beat us to it, “Don’t you worry. Dean’s gonna clean up this mess.” Again with her (maybe) uncalled targeting I have to bite back a smirk, meanwhile Dean stands unmoving his eyebrows scrunched looking at the shorter woman with a total bewildered expression.

“Well, what are you waiting for, boy? Get the mop.” She adds, and I don’t know how she has this much power but he listens and begins to walk away or really shuffle away, “And don’t cuss at me!” She lectures.

Laughter slips through my lips as he mutters under his breath, Sam joining in on the hilarious nature that is his brother being bossed around.

Wiping a tear out of the corner of my eye I touch Sam’s shoulder, “I’m gonna go get him and fix this up…” I twirl my finger slightly to signal I mean magically, “Bring Jenny inside somewhere.” He nods, “Okay but you should really let him suffer”

I laugh again, rolling my eyes as I move away.

I find Dean standing in front of a broom closet trying to balance several cleaning objects in his hands at once. I admire his effort but there’s just no way anyone could clean that kitchen when it’s quite literally just destroyed. I grabbed a broom from him that was seconds away from falling, “Not to ruin your fun but I figured it would be easier to use magic on the kitchen than a mop.”

“Thank god” He sighs, shoving everything back in the closet including the broom I held.

Back in the kitchen I try not to get stressed at just how bad it is. Taking a calming breath I walk over to the kitchen counters, closing my eyes, I feel my hair move around me slightly from a small drift in the room, my body stands completely still as I let my hands feel the cool counter below me and the steadiness of it all. As my body relaxes and my shoulders drop, relieving its tension I become a conduit for magic, a dance of ethereal threads weaving through me. The energy flowed from my core to my fingertips, the flow gracefully extending to every nook and cranny. As if tracing an intricate pattern, it embraced the room, coaxing broken shards and scattered pieces back into harmony. The air felt electric with the essence of restoration, and the kitchen hummed with the soothing melody of enchantment.

When I open my eyes again, I feel a gaze on me. I turn my whole body, so that I was standing sideways, to it and of course it’s Dean, he meets my eyes, his mouth just slightly agape and I can only imagine what the swirling of purple energy around the room fixing items must have looked like. His green eyes are slightly glossy with what is maybe curiousity or amazement, either way it was a weird look. Before I could question him I saw, out of the corner of my eye, a tall familiar figure. Sam stands by the kitchen archway waving his hand, signaling it was time to go.

Hours later darkness consumes the Impala. After dropping Missouri back home Sam insisted we came back to the house for a stakeout. It was hard to argue with someone who had a bad feeling over something that is quite literally life or death, so we stayed. We’d been in here so long in fact that I’d taken to lying down flat in the backseat, my legs propped up on the seats (shoes off so Dean wouldn’t complain but at least I got to showcase my cute dragonfly socks).

I stare up at the beige-ish interior roof, my hands laying across my chest. I breathe in and out evenly, but with the prospect of being bored, memories of my life here swarm my head and suddenly I miss my mom more than I've had in a long time. If I focus hard enough on the roof I can still hear the remnants of her laughter and I could see her smile, the one I inherited, on her soft face. That old longing, that old sadness that I thought I was over fills my heart, its hands creep up on it clasping it tightly. It’s been years. So many years since she’s been gone and yet still this feeling—this rawness in my chest, this endless longing is home in my body just as it was the first time around.

I miss my mom.

I want to cry and I want her back, tears threaten my eyes and that stupid tightness in my throat prevails almost like it’s choking me, a tightness that’s so painful I want to rip my throat out. I swallow forcefully, I hate this feeling and I hate death and I hate that I'm feeling this in the back of the car with my best friends just right up front. It’s too vulnerable, it’s too open, too close to home…I want to go home.

I want to go home.

I shut my eyes tightly trying to erase these feelings to move them back in the dusty box they had sat in. But it isn’t that easy and I know it isn’t so instead I breathe deeply and choose to listen to Dean and Sam talk, focusing on the up and down of their words and the softness of each syllable.

“All right, so, tell me again, what are we still doin’ here?” Dean asks, impatience clear on his tongue.

“I don’t know. I just…” Sam sighs, “…still have a bad feeling.”

“Why? Missouri did her whole Zelda Rubenstein thing, the house should be clean, it should be over.” Dean explains.

“Yeah, well, probably. But I just wanna make sure, that’s all.” Sam answers.

“Yeah, well, problem is I could be sleeping in a bed right now.” Dean responds and I hear him slide down his seat, probably closing his eyes in the process, “Like Y/N back there” he adds, softer, and even with my eyes closed a smile produces itself on my face. The small warmth that spreads in my chest fends off the grief, at least enough for it not to be at the forefront of my mind.

The quiet peace that falls over the Impala is short lived, Sam suddenly yelling, “Guys. Look” My eyes shoot open, “Dean!” He hits his brother's shoulder.

I sit up quickly catching a glimpse of Jenny yelling by her window, with nothing more to be said- we jump out of the car. I shuffled to the car door, leaving my shoes behind, the second I’m out and the door is slammed shut I run after the boys who were only two paces ahead. “You two grab the kids, I’ll get Jenny.” Dean commands as Sam tries the door which of course is locked. Dean pushes him slightly to the side, he takes a step back lifting his leg and kicking in the door. Broken pieces of wood stick out from the side of it.

The dark wooden floors are cold beneath my sock-covered feet, each step up the staircase seems far too long even as we reach the top. At the top Dean stops at a door close to the stairs but I don’t use any more focus to take anything else as Sam and I run down the hall, “Get Sari! I’ll get the baby!” I yell after him. Stopping at the closest door I swing it open only to reveal a bathroom, I curse underneath my breath before spinning around to the door right across the hall. Once more I swing it open, this time revealing a baby room with a white crib in the middle of it. I rush over only slowing to not scare Richie as I approach, somehow he’s still asleep wrapped up in his little blanket.

Carefully I reach in the crib scooping him up from underneath his upper back, my other arm going for his legs. Once in my arms I rearrange him so my dominant hand rests on his lower back while the crook of my other arm cradles his little head, just like holding a baby doll except this one is way cuter and also very alive. Standing back at my full height I fix his blanket around him before exiting the room. I know Sam can handle himself so I head towards the stairs, the baby had to be the priority right now. I quickly descend the stairs, only half way down when I feel Sam close behind, a relief hitting me.

My feet only just hit the ground level when Sam calls my name, swiftly I turn towards him Sari in his arms.

“Y/N, you need to take the kids and go outside.” He orders, placing Sari on the floor.

“Okay, what about you aren’t you coming?” I rushed out, cradling Richie in one arm so I could take hold of Sari’s hand.

Panic is written all over his face and something else lies in his eyes, “Take them. Don’t look back” And before I can argue any further he’s nudging me forward, reluctantly I go only because I know I can’t help with two kids in my arms. I run towards the door at this point, pulling Sari along with me, just behind me I hear a slam to the floor and I know it’s Sam- relief gone. But even so I rush forward.

The chill breeze of the night hits me hard. Jenny and Dean stand on the edge of the grass line. Only a few paces from them Sari lets go of my hand and runs to her mom, Jenny leaning down to catch her and hold her tightly. “Sam’s inside you have to go now” I speak quickly, my words jumbling over itself. Dean's eyes widen and pure fear fills them, on top of being scared guilt fills me now too. He runs to the front door and I hear it slam loudly. I hand Richie back over to his mom who is very obviously relieved to have him again.

Dean runs back to the Impala pulling out a shotgun and an ax, going right back to the door. I know I could open the door for him, it would be easy and I wouldn’t even break a sweat. Yet, my feet remain planted to the grown, the chaos of it all—the guilt. My purifying bags didn’t work, it nearly got a whole family killed and Sam’s now in trouble too. It’s my fault. It’s my fault.

My feet won’t move, my body won’t react, I can't even redeem myself. I don’t want to lose anyone else, I don’t want to. I can’t.

Move.

Move. Please move, I beg myself— my very being to do something anything but be helpless. I hate being helpless and yet I’m here doing nothing, anxiety and fear encasing me to this spot. I hear Dean hacking away at the door, faint grunts leaving his mouth as he does so but still I can’t move. Sari begins to cry latching on to her moms legs only waking up Ritchie in the process who then begins to cry too. The loud crying rings in my ears, only making my heart beat faster.

Jenny, visibly overwhelmed, wrestles with the challenge of consoling both kids, her distress mirrored in her eyes. Without conscious thought, my arms extend, offering to hold Ritchie. To my surprise, she entrusts the baby to me, planting a tender kiss on his forehead before gathering Sari into her embrace. Sari's legs encircle her mother's waist, a protective hand cradling the back of her head.

Richie moving in my arms breaks me out of my panic, if only because someone in need was right there, someone who surely couldn’t help themselves. I begin to rock him, moving my weight from one foot to another but my stress and worry is still there and he must feel it too because it does barely anything to help. I look back up, Dean is still hacking away at the door, not enough progress has been made. I rearrange the baby, using my free arm I lift up a hand my palm facing towards the direction of the door, with barely any thought needed the door slams open. Dean looks back at me for only a second before running in.

Richie's cries persist as I rock him, murmuring reassurances, "It's okay, everything will be okay." I desperately rack my mind for any calming measures, when I suddenly recall my mother singing me lullabies. But still I struggle to remember any of them, the memory too distant to be anything more than a hymn, instead I decide to softly sing "A Lullaby" by Dear Nora – even though it came out way after my mothers passing it always reminded me of her. And I had always kept a small hope that one day if I were to have kids that I would sing it to them too.

As I move a strand of hair from Richie's face, he begins to settle. My voice trembles with fear, but it seems to have a soothing effect anyways. Richie stops crying, and I meet Jenny's gaze. She offers a sad smile while holding her daughter close.

Both boys came out of that house. Relief had hit me like a ton of bricks, my knees felt wobbly with it. At first they could barely speak, shocked at what they saw but then the police and firefighters came and it was all the usual.

It was hours later until everything was resolved, and it wasn’t until Missouri came over that they actually spilt what happened. Their mom was there, she was the good spirit that I had felt, the one that was fighting off the evil and she did exactly that when it had attacked Sam. Somehow, she was still at the house after all these years protecting it. She had used the last of her abilities to say…sorry.

It’s morning now, Missouri cleared the house for real this time no spirit was left in there. The kids were sleeping still, Jenny was giving the photos she found to Dean and Sam sat with Missouri on the steps talking.

I had nothing to say to anyone in particular so I sat in the Impala, my legs outside the car, digging through my bag, when I finally pulled out my spell book I turned to the purifying page, I looked it over again trying to see if we did something wrong and messed up the amounts. But no. We did it right, but for some reason it didn’t work—it didn’t work and people could have died. Holding the book on my lap I reach up to the top of it, my hand holding the single page ready to tear it out when it’s suddenly taken from my grasp “Hey, what are you doing?!” Dean yells, holding it out of reach.

“It didn’t work. It needs to go, please give it back.” I answered, my jaw clenched.

“This was your moms, you’d hate yourself if you ripped it up.” Dean lectures.

“No I wouldn't, give it back. I need to make sure this never happens again.” I shoot up from my seat reaching up to grab it back but his arm shoots down behind his back.

“Yeah, you would. Sorry to break it to you sweetheart but I know you pretty damn well.”

I don’t care if he’s right. I don’t. That page needs to go, I can’t make this mistake again. I won’t. I reach for it again behind his back but again he moves it, “Dean. I’m not joking around give it back.” I don’t often get angry, but I am.

He looks down at me, his eyes scrunched in confusion and concern, “What’s going on with you?”

I huff, frustrated, “What’s going on is I messed up. Badly. They could have died and don’t try to say I don’t know that for sure because I do. And I know you do too, so I don’t need any comforting lies”

"We screw up, sweetheart. It's part of the gig. But we fixed it. They're alive and kickin', okay?" His words carried that gruff reassurance he always had, even when he was being a bit of a hypocrite. Book at his side, guard lowered just a bit, it was my chance to snag it back. "Not this," I jabbed a finger at the book. "I'm good at this. I don't mess up on this."

"I don't care that you're all emotional right now. You're not trashing your spell book." Arms crossed in front of his chest, he held his ground.

My chest heaved, my eyes scrunched in frustration as I looked up at him, my free hand in a tight fist my nails digging into my palm. “But, it needs to—“ I say back, weakly, already my fight was crumbling, being replaced with something else. Suddenly his arms were around me and my face was buried in his chest. His arms held my upper back tightly, his hands going up to cup my head, his fingers entangled into my hair a little while his chin rested on top of my head. With each breath I took, inhaling his smell of something woody and some sort of spice mixed into one, any resolve I had left was gone.

I wanted to keep fighting, I wanted to tell him he was wrong but he held me so close and so gentle that I couldn’t. If that in itself had made me weak then so be it. I wrap my arms around his center, even with my book in my hand. It had to be seconds later when he must have felt the tension leaving my shoulders when he pulled away, his hands dropped down to the crook of my arm holding me a short distance away. His green eyes locked with mine in a silent agreement.

I pull away fully when Sam and Missouri approach, quickly whipping my eyes just in case and tucking a piece of hair behind my ear. We each exchange hugs with her, even Dean who surprisingly gets no comment this time.

Missouri smiles, “Don’t you be strangers.”

“We won’t.” Dean nods as he rounds the car.

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themissinghand · 1 year

Text

Genshin Impact: The Overworked God [1]

Part 2

Summary: In which one of the lore writers who help write the world of Genshin Impact was suddenly thrusted in the very world they created. He doesn't know how this happened and the way home seemed like a pipe dream.

Well, testing characters is one thing, but playing God?

Oh boy.

Note: SAGAU if you squint but not really. Mainly fluff and healing mainly between a tired worker and the oldest Archon.

Male OC!

Warning: Genshin themes with mentions of war, and death. And OC needs some rest.

"Good morning, your Grace."

"5 more minutes..?"

"You are the Creator."

It took approximately one hard pinch to the elbow and 55 seconds later that Kai decided (albeit begrudgingly) that this was his reality.

Always negotiate the terms and pay for any job.

Payment is obviously going back home, but also monetary compensation, enough to retire early as a billionaire. And maybe a nice villa. Or bed.

Until Kai goes home, he might as well get an easier life here.

Which clearly did not go as intended.

"I will not be the babysitter for any Archon." Kai already has countries to run, royal families to manage, and human relationships are ever so complicated. He doesn't have the time nor desire to babysit gods for goodness sake.

And besides, the 7 Archons comes so much later in time!

He's a game writer, not a politician or babysitter! It's only because he played kingdom simulation games before and read too many fictional works that he could figure things out.

Celestia is supposed to be his assistant since he's the Creator, but isn't he working too hard!? At this point, he's gonna retire early!

"But your Grace, you cannot manage the world yourself. Archons can help manage them for you!"

Yes, Celestia gave up in speaking in elegant and ambiguous ways after their first negotiation session.

Kai thought about it for a bit before agreeing, anything that spelled less work for him, he'll take it!

"But, I'm not going to be a babysitter!"

Archon war?

Stop making me do more work!

What happened? It was peaceful for such a long time!

Was it because there were too many gods or powerful creatures? Damn Celestia, you're supposed to keep it under control!

Kai has a migraine everyday, so this wasn't surprising, but did the gods have to fight each other, just so only 7 left?!

Celestia!

"It must be done your Grace! Isn't this what you and your team wrote?"

"Well I changed my mind."

"Your Grace! If you go out there now, they will use you and your powers!"

"But I can't watch people die just because some stupid god or creature that wants power!"

Celestia remained silent at his outburst.

"Tempus. It's too late, it had already begun."

"Celestia!"

"Everything is your will after all. You wrote the story, didn't you?"

It was then did Kai realize that Celestia didn't follow him, but rather the words and designs set by his team in the real world.

Celestia is like an AI robot, one that only acts in accordance to the wishes of it's Creator.

But isn't he the Creator right now?! Does this mean he needs more power to be recognized, or overthrow the set system?

Kai stomped out in fury and for the first time, not as Kai, but the God of Time and Creation.

Tempus.

Tempus never thought he would play God, but here he is, relying on his godly powers to save what's left of his creation.

"Tempus."

Kai sent his final message to his country's royal family before turning to greet the rude guest.

"Morax." One of the 7 victors of war, a newly appointed Archon, entered without announcing anything beforehand and immediately strides towards Kai.

When Morax stops in front of him, there's an awkward silence between them, and Kai knows this man is waiting for something.

"No." But Kai declines. He's got why too much things to deal with and he's not going to do something he's done too many times.

"Guizhong is dead." Kai frowns, ah, of course.

"Please." Morax pleads, and Kai is put at odds when seeing the Lord of Geo so weak, so desperate.

"Morax. You know I cannot."

"Kai." He almost hisses, and Kai could care less.

"I'll do anything to bring everyone back."

"They will die no matter what."

Because I wrote it.

"Shut up!" Kai does not flinch when the God of Contracts claws at him. He simply stares into those golden eyes of fury and desperation.

"Turn back time! Do it!" The entire world quakes at his call, and Tempus is stuck.

Stuck between pity and reality.

"If I do, what will you do? What can you do?" Tempus responds, tired of this entire show. He groans when he felt strong claws around his neck.

"I'll save Guizhong! I'll stop the Archon war!"

"You'll only suffer and regret." Like him.

"I will not." The resolve in his voice is undeniable.

"If only you had been there with me then Guizhong-"

"Will die. If not by the war, then by her people."

"What?" Morax freezes, and Kai could hear the bitter realization hit him.

"If not by her people, then by fate. If not by fate, then by Celestia, by YOU! You of all people know even Gods die, Morax. It's a war." Kai is sick of it.

Tempus tried everything, but he is a powerless, useless god against his own pen in his home world.

Morax inhales, then exhales.

"Do it. Turn back time."

Tempus sighs, a distant memory of a determined, hard-working, and adorable adepti resurfaced in his mind.

He remembers laughing and writing Zhongli's character-

"One chance." Then the Lord of Geo lets go and bows.

"Thank you." Tempus puts a hand on Morax's bloodied shoulder and closes his eyes.

This conversation turns into one of the past.

The Archon war occurs, and Tempus watches Morax fail.

If he prevents one red flag, another arises.

Everything repeats, like a never-ending cycle of torture.

"Morax."

"Tempus." The God of Time stops behind his sitting figure in front of Guizhong and many of his colleagues' graves.

Tempus puts a glazed lily on each of the graves and offers his own condolences.

"Morax. It's over now. Return."

"And where would I return?" Tempus holds out his hand.

"Then, come with me."

Morax accepted and followed.

For some reason, Morax holds onto his hand like his lifeline, and Tempus allows him.

Just like that, the two Gods made their way to Temporium, a land where time moves differently than in the rest of the world.

Temporium is a wonderful nation.

Old as time, this country is the first nation Tempus raised from the ground. It is also the country that he chose to call "home".

The royal family is the one that manages the country and Tempus is merely a guide and protector, helping them navigate the dangers of the past and the future.

His protective shield around this land slows down or speeds up time within the shield, creating a safe haven that is immune to any outside influences.

Kai wants to make this country similar to his real home.

Before he was thrown into this madness.

Tempus leads Morax into a transparent dome known as a green house and stops.

"Morax. Time is limited. So cherish it."

Surrounded by flowers and greenery, there stood a woman with a gentle smile.

"Morax?"

Tempus watches them reunite and thinks that losing sleep is worth it.

Looking up into the skies, Tempus thinks that since he was able to change fate, just slightly, it means Tempus is stronger, but not enough.

Celestia is wavering.

But he's too late.

Too many died, and too many suffered due to his hand. He can't just turn back time, for he will also revert to the past "him".

Nevertheless, Tempus swore to change the plot, and maybe, just maybe, end this never-ending madness.

Seeing as to how Morax and Guizhong are fine, Tempus disappears and reappears under a cherry blossom tree.

There was another person he saved, a sister and leader to many. There, two sisters cried in each other’s arms like no tomorrow.

Tempus watches solemnly, and repeats the same disappearing and reappearing, many times.

Tempus shouldn't be at this tea party.

"Morax. Let's rebuild Liyue."

"Guizhong. They betrayed you." Morax clearly looks like he was withholding his rage.

"I know." Guizhong acknowledges, but isn't afraid.

"But even so, I understand their reasons. To protect their land from an unwanted war."

Her kindness knows no bounds. Truly, no one deserves her.

"Thus Morax, this time, we will rebuild Liyue with the adepti, and we will stand together. As always."

"Guizhong. I...cannot afford to lose you again." She smiles wistfully, and then looks at Tempus.

"I too am afraid of disappearing, and without Tempus, perhaps I would have perished. It was he who saved me and led me to his realm to heal. For that, thank you."

Morax too bows in gratitude.

"I apologize that I cannot save everyone."

"That would be too much to ask from you, Tempus. For you are not an omnipotent, omniscient or omnipresent God."

For the first time, Tempus feels slightly relieved at someone's words.

"I'm sure you did your best and already changed so many people’s lives."

Huh. A soft smile blooms on his face and the two seemed surprised.

Truly, no one deserves her.

Eventually they leave, and Tempus, sends them off peacefully, wishing them the best.

Then, Liyue is built once again.

This time, they build the foundation and protect the city together.

But again, even the gods cannot go against time.

When Guizhong dies, she dies as she scatters her wisdom all over Liyue, to her people, to her country and to her loved ones.

This time, she dies without regrets.

This time, she dies because Celestia told her it was time.

There was no forewarning, but it looked like she knew.

She spent the last of her time with Morax and Tempus before she fades and flutters away like dust.

Again, Morax receives a stone dumbbell, challenging him to unlock.

But this time, there was one thing that changed.

"Morax, I hope you can befriend Tempus. He's the oldest of all gods, the one who has drifted the longest among all. Yet, he is perhaps the one that is the loneliest and wisest, or perhaps that is why he acts the way he acts." She says after she gives him her dumbbell.

"If I have one regret, it would be that I have never gained his trust."

"Guizhong, that's impossible-"

"Morax, he has never shown us more than courtesy and kindness. Maybe I am greedy, but I want to become a friend to all." She smiles.

"That is why, I hope you can be his friend in place of I."

"Of course. By your gift, I pledge to fulfill your will." Morax holds her hand as she disintegrates.

"Thank you Morax. I hope only happiness and prosperity follow you."

Like dust, they slip through his fingers and disappear.

Like all of his comrades, friends, and loved ones.

And Tempus could only watch from the distance like a powerless God he is.

"The loneliest and wisest huh..."

He could only laugh bitterly.

"Tempus."

"Morax." The god replies with a low hum, "What brings you here?"

"I want to give you my gratitude."

"No need." Tempus does not turn to greet him, but simply continues to write. Morax watches him write with a mysterious utensil, a pen.

Tempus truly is worthy of being called a genius amongst geniuses.

A god who built a country, and protected his realm despite the Archon War, and survived. No wonder he is heavily respected and worshiped by his people.

"Teach me."

The god stops.

"What are you talking about?"

"Teach me how to build Liyue."

"It's already built."

"How to govern as a God." Without Guizhong and his friends, Morax is incapable of running a country. His hands were made to fight and seal monsters, not to care for people.

"You do not need to govern a country. Barbatos-"

"He's a fool." Morax heard a muffled laugh.

"But his country is still functioning quite well isn't it?" Tempus turns around, his azure eyes meets his golden ones.

"Tempus."

"What will I get in return? God of Contracts?" Tempus smiles before he stands.

"What do you need?"

"Trade." Morax blinks.

"Free trade amongst civilians. No taxes or barriers." Morax doesn't quite understand his terms, but he's willing to learn.

"I accept."

"You don't even know what I said didn't you?" Tempus crosses his arms and shook his head.

"I believe you are a fair person and one who will teach me what I need to know.”

“Just like old times isn’t it?”

This was Morax's first contract, and certainly won't be the last.

Time passes quickly, and soon, Morax and Barbatos become the two of the original seven left.

Despite this, Tempus does his job as both a Creator and babysitter job well.

He ensures Gods fulfill their duty and if they need help, they can seek him out. If Tempus ever saw something worth his time (which is like...every time), he too would interfere, gaining the Archons' favour.

He realized the power of the butterfly effect. From saving Gods such as Guizhong and Makoto, even with what little power he had during the Archon War to extend their life, it played an immense part in changing the Archons themselves.

Again, too much work, and too little time.

Even if he slows down time, he could never get enough sleep.

It's also blatantly obviously the Archons are treating him too well, but he originally thought it made sense with all the effort he put in to change the plot.

But their affectionate gestures increased after they found of he was the Creator.

Tempus really shouldn't have told Morax this a while back and allowed him to tell the other Archons. Luckily, he prevented them from telling anyone else under the pretense that it was his order.

Even so, Kai finally feels a little more at ease. He could finally get some sleep.

Could he really complain about the children (Archons) when they gave him the most premium material to sleep on?

Or hear a private concert from a certain bard?

Or try out the best food in the jungles?

Or let him sleep under the giant cherry blossoms whenever he wants?

Or take him out to a hot springs in Liyue?

"Kai. How are you feeling?" Zhongli asks from behind him, who is washing his long, long hair.

"Good...Thanks...Zhongli."

Kai can finally relax a bit and it’s well deserved. Taking care of kids is hard. Much less 7 at once.

At least they’re paying him back with interest.

Zhongli couldn't help but smile proudly when the sleepless God fell asleep in his domain.

He'd be sure to brag about this at their next Archon meeting.

Not knowing it would be their last.

#manga #genshin impact #genshin fanfic #genshin fluff #genshin #genshin imagines #genshin x reader #genshin sagau #zhongli #genshin morax #genshin impact morax #morax #rex lapis #genshin x oc #genshin x male reader #zhongli x oc #zhongli x reader

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according2thelore · 3 months

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ohhhhh man now you’ve got me brooding over es!sam. it never occurred to me before that among them, he would end up feeling always the square peg in a round hole. the pride and resilience and hope he carried like medals in the first seasons gave him a sense of value and esteem, and i can’t imagine how it feels to be thrown into this inevitability where none of himself remains and in fact the bits he tries to hold onto are an irritant to the quid pro quo in a way nobody will outright honestly explain to him. rather than saving himself and his brother and the world like he thought he would at the end of it all, everywhere he looks is just another form of loss. ls!boys would lap up his es brother, the eager (and adorably naive) hunter with ideas and brawn and something to prove, so much of the same flowing through the blood of all 3 of them, but imagine the grief es!sam feels walking through the cold echoing hallways of the bunker, everything just a nauseating maelstrom of weapons and lore books and charts, no john, no mary, no jess, no wives and no children, no living friends, no presence or interest in the world he always dreamed to blend into, and nobody at his side to truly understand or feel that grief with him. and on top of that the things he feels about dean, complex and ugly and heavy to hold, have somehow been tugged out of him into the open in the future and locked behind a door he has no key to and even touching the knob burns his hand - the derision/amusement of the ls!bros even if they don’t intend it as such, the constant knowing smiles like he isn’t THEM like they don’t know how it feels and how much it suffocates him ohhhh man look what you’ve done to my poor heart with these snippets

YES!!!! ANON!!! YOU GET IT!!!!

first off, your writing is gorgeous?? holy shit?? eating all of your words they are in my mouth now i am sorry

but YES

he would def feel like the odd man out (depending on the season ES!Sam is from) because the other three love the life. they find joy and purpose and meaning in the hunt in a way sam lost. the hunt is a tool. a means to an end.

i think it wouldn't take long for LS!Sam to see the bunker, with the dozens of empty rooms--the shell of a home, only echoes and blades and the collected sum total of knowledge of people long-dead--and ask the group, "is this fucking it?"

no one knows what he's talking about (ES!Dean is so excited because he gets a kickass bunker AND a garage AND an armory AND sammy forever??), but sam is shaking because there are shirts folded in some of the empty rooms' dressers. dead men who thought they'd come back, a physical reminder of every goddamn person they've lost in the endless quest for vengeance. everything sam left for.

"is this all i fucking get?" ES!Sam snaps. "an underground crypt? no wife. no kids. no job. no fucking friends? did the hunt really fucking bury us?"

and everyone goes deadly fucking silent. LS!Dean has to leave the room because it's everything he'd always feared LS!Sam thinks. sam has always needed others more than dean does (or at least, that's what dean thinks, we literally see contradictory evidence in the show but okay). LS!Dean's afraid that sam has always resented him for the way their lives ended up, for dragging sam down with him.

and ES!Dean is crushed because this is his dream. he gets to save lives. he gets to carry dad's legacy. he gets to keep sam, all the unnecessary fluff--a mission to keep them together, girls, obligations--removed. and sam is disgusted by it.

LS!Sam just stares at ES!Sam blankly. he's annoyed with him, before something smaller, something pitying, slips into the shape of his mouth. he gets up to follow LS!Dean, leaving ES!Sam to wallow in his own sick. in this moment, Sam can't even empathize with himself.

and ES!Sam is sitting in the blast radius of his own fury. no one will look him in the eye. LS!Dean looks sick before he leaves the table. no one will answer his questions. no one even tries.

LS!Sam keeps trying to say, "this is what i want, sam. i don't mind. i love what i do, and i love doing it with dean." and all sam can hear is i gave up. i couldn't get out. i'm coping. don't destroy this glass house with a hammer because it's the only home i have left.

and ES!Sam still aches. because ES!Dean is already choosing another sam. LS!Dean looks at him like he has the power to kill him. LS!Sam looks at him like he pities him, which is the deepest cut of all.

poor sam. poor sam who doesn't want to die for this. poor sam who doesn't get us, who isn't us.

LS!Dean, ironically enough, is the closest ES!Sam gets to compassion, but it always feels like blows directed at himself. yeah. it sucks, kid. it fucking blows. i wanted you to get a wife. to get out. i...i tried. i'm sorry. it's more self-recrimination than care.

but GOD! ES!Sam goes for a run and sprints until he throws up because he sees the packed strength of LS!Dean's arms, the crow's feet at the corners of his eyes. he sees the easy way LS!Sam&Dean laugh with each other, the way they talk with looks alone, the naked adoration. he sees ES!Dean and aches and aches and aches and aches and aches. he needs something he doesn't have the words for, something he's terrified to name, because does that mean that he's giving up? does that mean that he's the fucked up one--perverting this easy life that they all clearly adore?

and even the joy he finds--talking with LS!Dean in the kitchen, sparring with ES!Dean in the gym, enthusing with LS!Sam over texts--there are moments. small ones. where sam realizes that the person talking to him kind of stops, content. he's already part of this system, of this unit. sometimes the pauses feel patronizing. or excited. or so full of tension that sam is already hardening in his jeans. or sad. and it's confusing, but sam is walking down the empty hallways, passing rooms of dead men and seeking out his brother, always his brother, always.

GRAH!!! lonely ES!Sam. bitter ES!Sam. joyful ES!Sam. jealous ES!Sam. possessive ES!Sam. ES!Sam choking on the things he doesn't understand--the things he can't--that have made their lives the way they are.

thank you for this ask, anon! it was beautifully written! and now i am also thinking about this! perpetual motion machine of devouring ES!Sam whole!

-lizzy

#ask box #lizzy answers #ES/LS verse #anon <3

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b0njourbeach · 2 months

Text

Last but not least:

My Rook Hunt rant!

(Long have I been trying to avoid it because, oh boy. This man gives me so little to accept as Canon and so much to speculate.)

Book 5/6 mentions

Rook is such fascinating character. Both in his actions, his design, habits, his mind - Everything. No doubt he's rather odd the way he is, this peculiar little guy with a mind as unique as the spring flower and as mysterious as the universe. Yet, there have been certainly some aspects in game where you can see his distinctive personality and that he's far beyond Savanaclaws natural enemy and #2 Neige Fanboy (reference intended).

For one, I really like to speak a particular moment in-game that has many Neige-"disliker", Rook Fans and Vil Enjoyer on edge:

And everyone be like "Don't let Vil hear", "Vil's not gonna be happy about that one", "Vil about to overblot for a second time" and so on. But there's just so much wrong with it. Because the literal four sentences after that one were:

"But it wasn't Neige himself who moved me. It was all the elements of the show combined that made him shine. There was the music, costumes, and overall design, of course. And the wizard and other cast, members were spectacular-- especially the villains."

Correct me if I'm wrong but isn't Vil the Villain in the show? It would've been perfect crumbs for the RookVil shippers but all they see is "omg, Rook fanboys about Neige." And there's another thing that people deeply seem to hate about Rook:

"He made Vil overblot because he betrayed him!"

He did not. It's not even because I like Rook and justify his actions, it's plain and simply wrong. Rook "betrayed" Vil and NRC sure (although I already gave my opinion about that topic here) but Rook has *not* caused Vils overblot. The story is quite simple: Vil tries to poison Neige -> He gets stopped -> Overblots -> They all perform -> Rook votes for RSA. The End. End of story. No discussion needed. I'm sorry if you can't comprehend the story line but I am not going to discuss over such simple period of time that happened in the matter of a few chapters.

But I'll get to Rooks special love for Neige and Vil later. First I'd like to talk about the eccentric Hunter himself but oh boy, where do I even start? There's so much to unpack, yet there is barely anything to work with.

(I'd like to mention at this point that I find it extremely hilarious that we get the most Rook/Pomefiore lore not in the Book of Pomefiore but literally a Book later during their break in into the Island of Woe and during the Escape out of Tartarus. Like alright, you had your Book but casually Loredrop on us because why the fuck not. We're all about to get royally fucked every turn but you go girl.)

The first time we get to meet Rook is during Book 2 where MC and the Heartslabyul gang tries to protect potential victims of the mysterious destruction. When do we get to see him again? I don't even remember, he just shows up, fucks around and disappears like hepatitis. I think outside of Book 5 and Book 6, the only *real* sight of Rook is in events or Vignettes which mainly imply him bothering the hell out of whoever has his current attention.

We've got Leona being watched by a blushing Rook in Rooks Labcoat Vignette, Malleus who throws an object with insane speed almost directly into his face because Rook was a little too interested in Lilia in his Sports Uniform Vignette, his Ceremonial Robes Vignette was basically him wanting to take a shower in Octavinelle and forcing Floyd to come with him (one of the funniest interactions if you ask me). These are the only cards I own and I'm rather slacking off when it comes to keeping up with all Vignettes and Events, so the only one I can talk about is his Culinary Crucible Vignette where he was pretty much his blushing self while watching Cater doing his thing (Poor Chef who thought Rook was just extremely excited to cook).

All these interactions seemed rather silly to me - Until I watched/read Rooks Halloween Vignette where he talks a little about his childhood: He was a child who struggled greatly to express himself. That was, until his parents took him to watch the fateful Play that was previously mentioned in the screenshot I've shown. That day, he became the person we see now: The dramatic and overly expressive Rook, that could be the prime example of a theater kid.

If we keep this in mind, his actions suddenly make sense: Theater is build on dramatics, exaggeration and poetry. If you struggle to express yourself but learn from something as expressive as acting, it's only natural that you're becoming this overwhelming expressive being we see in Rook. So I personally believe that he has no ill intention when being himself. In fact I believe it's the only way he can express himself and he's mildly smart it about it as well:

He knows that his extroverted nature is overwhelming to introverts such as Leona (for example), so he keeps his distance. Yet, he can't help but admire the beastman for the person he is - So in order to not overwhelm him, he watches from afar. This, on another note, leads to him having this "stalker" being. Though he keeps pushing his luck by ignoring any kind of boundary being put up by anyone (no matter if it's Leona, Ruggie or even Floyd who, in the end, just accepted his fate).

I also believe that him being naturally rather incapable of expressing himself is one part of why we know so little about him. Another part is - in my opinion - that he's purposely hiding. Not in the literal sense but in the way Cater hides himself. Rook is a prime example of "pretending to be overly opened up but in reality it's a facade to hide your real being" (I can promise you, it's an actual psychological thing. I just can't remember the name rn and I'm too lazy to Google it). You'd look at Rook and believe you know everything about him but you barely know how many siblings he has or if his parents are still alive. In fact, the only thing we know is that he has a large (and extremely wealthy) family that is big enough that they barely manage to see each other.

This is where I come to another point: It's a common belief that the Tweels are a Mafia family but I don't think I've ever seen anyone say the same thing about Rook, yet it would make sense. He's a hunter, he knows how to kill (and I don't doubt he did it too), he survived in the most absurd situations in the wild, his observation skills are almost inhumane and his family is much a secret as the pictures behind his wallpaper. I know we, as a fandom, joke about it but has anyone genuinely considered that Rook may or may not have a criminal family? It would certainly explain why he has the vibe of a rough guy yet the behavior of Royalty - Sure, it may also be because he's part of Pomefiore but realistically speaking: You can't tell me that he "fixed" habits he gained during his whole life growing up, then one Model (which is obvious Vil) comes across and suddenly he's the little petite guy. There had to be at least a base growing up that Vil just intensified.

I currently feel like I'm missing half of fhe things I want to say about him, fuck my life.

Ah, there is one thing I'd also like to talk about that people either misinterpret, mischaracterize or ignore: His relationship with Epel. Many view Rook as nothing but Vils little Lap dog, the Chihuahua in his purse if you will - While I can understand that, there's more to him and it's especially showing when Rook is talking with Epel. If Rook would be truly as loyal as Vil would hope him to be, he wouldn't be as nice to Epel as he is. Not only in Book 6 (which is undoubtedly one of the biggest "supportive step dad" moments), we can find Rook multiple times trying to help out dear Farmerboy to adapt to the fancy life in Pomefiore by giving him educated tips and hints without judging him (One specific moment I have in mind is Epels Ceremonial Robes Vignette where Epel struggled to handle the fancy way of eating that was wanted in Pomefiore - Instead of judging Epel like the other pretty boys do, Rook actually tries to help him out). Just had to add this because it's such subtle hint on his nature yet it's such a sweet way.

I feel like I've been missing a few things right now but they won't come to mind, so it is what it is. Since I killed the limit, the HCs are here.

#twisted wonderland #twst #rook hunt #🥀 twst

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phonydiaries · 6 months

Text

Someone's Memory - Lies of P

Takes place during the opera house fight, apologies if I got some lore wrong but it was all done in the name of sadboys

No intended pairing but if you interpret or enjoy this as promeo/carmeo/any ship that’s cool and valid

Warnings: canon-typical violence with a sprinkle of weird robot gore for funsies

---

The glinting puppetstring of the legion shielded P’s eyes from the bright white burst which rippled through the wide open space of the opera house. A flash of heat singed the edges of his coat as his hand lowered and he peered through the billowing smoke. There, descended from his monstrous corpse of a throne stood Romeo, King of Puppets.

He was somehow more and less regal than Pinocchio had expected- tall and imposing but with a Lear-like posture, as if he’d aged considerably. This was most conflicting, as upon closer inspection he was sure Romeo was a man, but only barely. The half of his face which remained unmarred by char and decay looked hardly older than a boy. This revelation stirred in the puppet an unexpected and unpleasant tightness in his chest, but there was no use in indulging it. He’d do what was expected of him, as he always did. The King’s reign would end here.

The blade of Romeo’s scythe dragged languid across the floor as he advanced, leaving a faint scrawling along its glassy surface. He drew it slowly behind him and steadied his grip with both hands.

“I have to kill you.” His voice buzzed, strangely resonant and far away, as if something inside him had broken. “There’s no other way.”

At this P’s gaze narrowed. He’d sounded almost remorseful. What care did the king have if he lived or died? Was it merely his appearance? Perhaps he was only so moved as P had been at the thought of slaughtering something so convincingly human. Well, little good it would do him.

His steps echoed in time with Romeo’s and the two watched each other like circling hawks through keen eyes. P’s shoulder flinched back as the blade of the scythe cut through smoky air, staking its claim at the puppets feet. Quickly, he turned on his heels, sidling up behind the king and winding up to strike his exposed back. But as he swung, the blade caught on the outer shell of Romeo’s forearm as he whipped himself around. Suddenly his good eye alit with an expression P couldn’t discern.

“Tricky…” The king said under his breath, the word holding some elusive weight as it left his lips.

P’s blade slid across the armored limb with a ringing that cut through the air. Foolishly he made a cheap swing for the King’s head, but his opponent was swift and weaved his way out of range. There was no time for P to calculate his next move as Romeo charged for him, the staff of his scythe already flying. Reflexively, P met the weapon with the steel of his own, a resonant CLANG crying out around them. Through sheer force the puppet shoved Romeo’s blade away, forcing an opening just long enough to land a strike to the king’s torso. Romeo’s eyes twitched and flickered eerily between the blade piercing his chest and the face of the puppet that wielded it.

A wave of fear crashed over P as he jerked the hilt of his weapon uselessly. The serrated edge had caught stubbornly in the King’s mechanized skeleton and refused to budge. Romeo closed a glimmering hand around the weapon and thrashed his body wildly to the side, the inertia throwing P to the floor unarmed. As he scrambled to stand, his back brushed the wall of the arena, still hot to the touch. He was cornered. He watched with unblinking eyes as Romeo seized the hilt, which jutted out from the meat of his shoulder at a strange angle, and ripped it with unfeeling carelessness from his body. He gave it a curious glance before letting the weapon clatter unceremoniously to the floor.

P’s heart thrummed incessantly as the king met his gaze. Though the fresh wound sparked and smoked, there he stood hauntingly composed. Heat made the air about them grow thick, and auburn flames licked at the heels of the king as he stepped closer. His chin dipped solemnly as he raised the mighty scythe above his head.

“There’s no other way.” He echoed gravely, fingers curling about his weapon in reluctant duty. His shoulders rolled back and as the blade reached its crest he froze. P’s arm was outstretched, the puppetstring held high, shielding his face. He stared at the unmoving king, puzzled. But as his eyes followed the stark path of the puppetstring’s tether, he discovered the arrowhead buried in the dead center of Romeo’s chest. Before P could blink, the king was dragged before him.

The sudden closeness shocked him too much to flinch. He stared with a dumb, blank expression, his chest still rising and falling with a quickness at his narrowly-averted beheading. His nose was practically touching Romeo’s, and he squinted in response to the red flicker emanating from the king’s socket. It was then that something in Romeo’s face shifted, a strange softening of features, even those more grotesque, the exposed jawbone of his right half unclenching. His brow turned up and his good eye went foggy, as if suddenly overcome with emotion.

“...Carlo?”

The puppet string dislodged from Romeo’s chest with a horrible gnashing sound, ripping through layers of charred metal. With it was pulled a ruptured heart, still beating even half destroyed, in an arrhythmic dissonance. Bits of shrapnel clattered to the floor as the king’s head sunk low and lifeless into his chest. As his legs faltered, P reached out reflexively. He held the fallen puppet firmly and with as much grace as could be mustered, guided his body to rest against a pillar. The king wheezed and his head rolled lethargically against the pillar. The rest of his body went limp. P’s gaze flickered across the face of this puppet in sudden awe. So he’d known Carlo. How? And to what extent?

The king’s body shook with a shudder of a laugh. His speech was strained and yet held a sure and unexpected warmth, perhaps even longing. It was as if new depths previously unknown to even himself had been unlocked by this onslaught of memory. How ironic, the liveliness he knew only on his deathbed.

P’s throat felt tight. He was sure this was the first time they had met, but it was clear to him now that this puppet- or something inside this puppet- had known the boy from the painting, and well enough that even as he lay dying, still held affections for him. He longed to know more, to hear of all the times they’d spent together. Oh, how he would listen with rapt attention, how he would ask to be told again and again until the retellings were as clear to him as memory. Just as they should’ve been from the start.

“Carlo, My Carlo… I was sure I’d never see you again, not since-“ the king stopped himself, eyes suddenly twitching with something akin to fear. His gaze locked with Pinocchio’s and his brows knit hesitantly. “You do still know me, don’t you?” He asked.

He did not know the king, but as he looked upon the poor man, crestfallen, a half crushed heart protruding from his open wound, it seemed horribly cruel to admit this. He conjured up the image of Carlo’s portrait in his mind and made mimic the best he could, imagining the way those lips may have curled and the way those eyes may have crinkled with fondness for this once beloved friend. He nodded assuredly at the king. It was a deception yes, but a kind one.

“Of course I do.” He said, low and certain. He didn’t care much for words, truth be told. They filled his mouth in a way he found quite displeasing, and never seemed to fall quite the way he intended. But he was aware that Carlo had not shared this same distaste for conversation.

At this, all the raw and jagged edges of Romeo’s face seemed to soften, awash with relief. This was interrupted quickly with -P could only assume- a sharp pain in the king's chest, which made him wince as he curled in on himself. His eyes squeezed shut momentarily and when he opened them again, he stared up at the ceiling. It was a curious thing, P observed, that he seemed to be looking through the ceiling rather than at it; straight through to a deep and starlit sky.

“Please tell me… do you know what comes after death? Have you felt it?” Asked the king, his gaze still wandering and foggy. This seemed too grand, too important a thing to lie about, and the question startled P. He shook his head apologetically, but the king seemed not to mind, preoccupied with the invisible solaris above him. He let out a sigh that sounded just as sad as it did pretty.

“Whatever it is that comes next, I admit I am afraid to see it alone.” Romeo spoke, the timbre of his voice faltering.

At this P held an awful feeling in his chest, one of desolate hollowness, a kind of gnawing guilt taking root. He did not care for this at all. With a mind of caring servitude, P knelt before the king. Romeo’s gaze fell from the ceiling, meeting with that of his old friend.

“Then I’ll stay with you.” P said simply. The corners of Romeo’s mouth lifted in a melancholic smile and he extended his weary hand. P clasped it tight and bowed his head. Romeo’s lids fluttered.

“Thank you, Carlo.” He breathed. As his eyes gently closed, the inner machinations of the puppet droned to a halt.

With the king’s hand still in his, P pressed the cold palm to his own cheek and tried to will a memory into place. If there was any part of him that held recollection of Romeo, he wanted desperately to know it. But nothing came. And so in the absence of fact, Pinocchio dreamt something up. He painted a tender scene in his mind, one in which Carlo and Romeo were only boys still, untouched by the world. He imagined them looking up at the stars bedded by cool grass, the world around them quiet and warm.

As this invented memory faded, Pinocchio pressed a kiss into the palm of Romeo’s hand and folded it neatly against the fallen puppets heart. He wondered if king was a grand enough title to be remembered by, or if friend would be truer, nobler, far more fitting, simple as it was. He left the opera house heavier than he had found it.

#im not gonna lie i edited this sloppy style I'm so fucking tired rn #combat is obviously inaccurate to gameplay #but it's always okay to sacrifice accuracy for homoerotic fights to the death #didn’t write this with the intention of it being promeo/carmeo/Any ship #but if you interpret it that way that’s totally cool!#guys it felt so weird to not write in second person or in present tense for the first time in months #lies of p #lop #lies of p fanfic #romeo king of puppets #lies of p romeo #my writing #promeo #carmeo

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ghost-bxrd · 2 months

Note

For "your court of owls batfam" au , how would Bruce react if Cobb ever got seriously hurt to the point of maybe having to be replaced? Also how do Dick and Jason feel about Cobb? Do they get along or is it strictly professional?

MWAHAHA I GOT ONE PERSON INTERESTED IN THIS AU ALREADY! *cheers*

Okay so Talon lore is that very little can keep a Talon down permanently. They can even regrow limbs if given enough time! So that’s neat. But basically replacing Talons isn’t a practice often exercised.

I know the Court canonically tried getting rid of Cobb in the Court of Owls saga because he got defeated by Batman and they didn’t think he’d “recover from the shame of being so thoroughly deafeated”.

It therefore stands to reason that he’s aware that he’s easily replaceable (there is always more than one Talon at any given time, although stored away in cryo usually) if he doesn’t perform to the Court’s expectations. Cobb is the best, been the best, Talon for over a century (?) now, but that means nothing if he fails to fulfill his missions.

So let’s say Cobb gets heavily injured by something that shouldn’t have been much of a challenge for a Talon. Let’s say his inattention/hubris/whatever nearly gets Bruce killed—-

That would be scandalous.

For one, his injuries will take several weeks to heal. Weeks in which the Voice will be virtually defenseless without their Talon. This is unacceptable.

And Two, some regular two bit criminals should have never been able to best a Talon in such a way. It’s a disgrace to the Court.

No, no, a new Talon must take Cobb’s place now. He has become obsolete. His services have been appreciated, but, “oh, you understand dear Talon, don’t you? The weak must be culled from the flock”.

And Cobb understands. He does. He’d thought- he thought he’d have more time, though. Time to convince Bruce to let him train the boy after all, to make sure his Voice is protected even after Cobb is gone. That the Court’s machinations will not see Bruce dead before the year is done because the new Talon will not know that Bruce is the best thing to have happened to the Court in a century. They will end up killing Bruce, killing Dick— (he shouldn’t care- he doesn’t care. He doesn’t. He doesn’t. He doesn’t-)

But then Bruce storms into the labs like the onset of a hurricane, all righteous fury and indignation, Dick hot on his heels (wide eyed and still too little with not enough training to hold out against the new Talon long enough to at least escape) demanding what the fuck is going on and why his Talon isn’t back by his side yet.

And he doesn’t accept the scientists’ reasonings that Cobb has done his duty; has become “outdated”. Doesn’t accept the reassurances of the “new one” being just as good— no, better, than the previous one. Doesn’t accept that a new Talon is supposed to protect him now. (“Him or none,” Bruce says, tone colder than the permafrost of the arctic, and at his side Dick’s eyes flash with unvoiced threat. “Now get out of my way.”)

As to the relationship between Cobb and the kids, well. His and Dick’s relationship is tense at first. Cobb has no interest being anything of a family to him despite their blood relations. He only sees Dick as a potential new (and perfect) Talon that could keep Bruce safe if he himself is deemed “outdated”. He’s not happy about all the potential “going to waste” by Dick being made Bruce’s ward, being allowed to live a sort of normal life. But once Dick approaches him for some training in physical combat… well. Sorry, Cobb tried. He really did. But Dick Grayson invented charisma, and even Cobb isn’t immune. He grudgingly starts liking the kid but will deny that until he’s blue in the face. Dick ends up being the Gray Son of Gotham, the highest ranking court member after Bruce with the training of a Talon.

With Jason it’s more straight forward. At first Cobb is pissed at Bruce for taking in a “street rat” and intending to adopt him, but… well, Jason grows on him “like fungus” (a direct quote). At first Cobb doesn’t really know what to make of Jason. The kid is loud and aggressive, but shrinks away like a wilting flower at the first signs of someone raising their voice. (He’s soft, Cobb thinks. The Court will eat him alive.)

But Jason’s also got a spine of steel as he clearly demonstrates when he jumps Cobb with a knife after an unfortunate misunderstanding where he assumed Bruce was in danger of him, and that kind of loyalty at least he can work with. (The kid’s still soft inside as all get out, but he’s excellent at covering it up with violence and bravado, and his charm is that he’s honest in a way so utterly foreign to the Court that it endears him to all the trustworthy members within a few months).

Jason becomes The Heart of the Court, the morality that Bruce was starting to have trouble clinging to; keeping them all on the right path towards a better future. A better Gotham.

(Cobb absolutely loves the children as much as Bruce does. It just takes him a bit longer to get there. And Jason is his favorite sorry I don’t make the rules. COUGH.)

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stevebabey · 2 years

Text

it’s too late for me now (i need you sticking around)

a/n: ruby?? finishing something?? u better believe it! this was inspired by future me hates me / the beths & i STRONGLY recommend it for the VIBES + much luv to my dearest kenny for the threats so that this finally got finished <3 intended lowercase + fem!reader. word count: 3.1k summary: it’s hard to believe in love after so many bad first dates — you’re desperate to make sure the next one sticks.

your run with love had its history.

consider it the lore of your life, but the winding tales of your many failed dates — that road was long. counting them went off both hands, much to your distaste. though, you’d hardly say you dated around; especially considering none of the guys seemed to make it past date three.

what was the problem? you were splendid company if you did say so yourself. you tried to not be too loud, nor too quiet, a good balance of serious and flirty, all loud or odd parts of your personality packed away to try not to scare off any dates. it didn’t seem to make a difference — the fault had to be the male population of hawkins.

so why did you keep accepting dates?

well, it wasn’t your fault for getting swept up in it each time. somehow, you never managed to learn your lesson — but when a boy slips sweet notes into your locker or plucks a flower to ask you to dinner, it kicks your heart into a fuss that won’t settle and you swoon.

you daydream about holding their hand, pressing a soft kiss to their brow, finding a soft spot in their heart where you can nestle & live and become someone that someone loves.

it doesn’t matter if you’re cradling your still bruised heart from being stood up by jeremy jones last month because when the next boy asks, your stupid heart still flutters out what if it’s real? what if this time it’s different?

and it never was.

perhaps, worst of all is that you were still so tangled up with the idea of love. there was no helping the flip of your stomach, the nervous anticipation, the skip of your heart when thought about love. the track record of your battered heart didn’t seem to matter, there was no shedding the hopeless romantic in you.

however, it meant you were a tad pickier these days. standards high enough to warrant being called a bitch from the guys who couldn’t handle the rejection but hey, if they can’t bother with flowers on the first date, it told you everything you needed. you wouldn’t get yourself pathetically worked up on boys that only asked you out over the phone and had different intentions.

but still, your poor heart loved to latch to whatever it could.

so, when steve harrington asks what you’re doing friday night on shift at family video, you have to curse the skip of your heart.

for the last couple of months, you had gotten to know steve as your co-worker. as anyone who grew up in hawkins did, you were well aware of his prior reputation with the ladies — so it was a pleasant surprise to find you actually enjoyed his company. maybe it helped to have robin who called him dingus in the most endearing way and introduced him as her best friend.

and if robin buckley, certified band nerd, and king steve could be best friends, then maybe you could give him a chance.

and somewhere between the dorky jokes and his handsome grin, you had melted into easy friendship with steve. between bad customers that you gossiped about after and both of you attempting to distract the other while on the work phone, the two of you drew close. so much that you started looking forward to shifts with him.

so naturally, you accidentally grew a crush the size of jupiter on him.

how could you not? he always picked you up for your friday shift, knowing your brother got dibs on the car and you’d have to walk otherwise. whenever it rained, steve would trot to the café down the road and return with a steaming cup of hot chocolate for you, extra marshmallows in your cup — even though you didn’t remember ever telling him your affinity for mallows.

this time, however, you were determined to not ruin a friendship just because your heart had different plans. for perhaps the first time, you were not going to fall for the delusions you fed to yourself, no matter how much you’d like to believe that steve was different. even though you had sworn you’d caught his gaze caught on you one too many times.

you didn’t think you could take another crumpling of your heart, your ideas of love crushed once again, especially from sweet steve. friends it would have to be.

“friday?” you ask nonchalantly, looking up from the returns cart and blinking at steve. “no plans, i think. why?”

on the other side of a shelf, steve looks as though your response surprises him, lips parted and you swear a patch of pink has crawled onto his cheeks. he clears his throat and ducks to place a tape on the shelf. “i was— do you like parties? there’s a party on friday.”

your pulse jumps for a moment, a nervous feeling settling in your stomach and you try to shake it off. “a party? yeah, who doesn’t like parties.”

it’s enough of a casual answer you hope, continuing to slot tapes back on the shelves slowly. without meaning to, your eyes dart back up to steve, trying to gauge what he’s building up to ask. butterflies swarm in your stomach and you clench your fists, willing them to dissolve.

“did you wanna go?” for the second time in one minute, steve clears his throat. you wonder if he’s nervous. “with me?”

you pick over his words, trying desperately to ignore the way your heart sings. no matter how much you’d like it, it seems far more likely that steve isn’t asking you out. is this how king steve asked girls out? all suave and chillaxed? steve wasn’t like that anymore and it leaves you with no hints to the true nature of his question.

even if he was asking you out, you’re not supposed to track that road you remind yourself. a beat later, you realise as the word date hasn’t even passed steve’s lips and feel embarrassment flush up your neck. friends. you were friends. friends go to parties together! all the time!

“yeah, that sounds cool.” you smile at him, pressing down the hot flush you can feel fighting onto your cheeks. casual. friends. not a date. you could do this.

speeding back to the task at hand, you miss the fist-pump steve does, hidden behind the shelf and the quiet ‘yes!’ from his lips.

—

how do you dress to go to a party with your friend, that you secretly wish was a date, without giving it away?

apparently, you don’t know the answer. at least half of your closet is strewn across your floor, a dozen different combinations tried and failed as you stare at yourself in the mirror. you twist back and forth, eyes analyzing like a hawk and a groan escapes you when you realise you don’t like this outfit either.

your hands pull at your face, dragging down your cheeks dramatically as you lean closer to the mirror and lock eyes with yourself. “it’s not even a date.” you whisper, trying to shake the nerves that are ruining every outfit you try.

it works; at least long enough for you to pull on one of your better pairs of jeans and the new top you had yet to wear out and finally, feel satisfied. you’re just swiping the last of your mascara when the horn of a car outside startles you, your hand nudging forward and dolloping black onto your cheek.

“shit.” you mutter and move to the window, peeking through the slats to spy steve’s bmw in the driveway.

“shit.” you repeat, wetting your thumb and doing your best to wipe the black from your cheek. in the mirror behind you, you catch the blink of your alarm clock. god, he’s 10 minutes later than you both agreed and you’re still not ready.

gathering your jacket and bag, you nearly stumble down the stairs, your footsteps thundering as you speed towards the door. rushing in a blur past the kitchen, you call out your hasty goodbyes and step outside, the door swinging closed behind you.

the night air is cool, the moon nearly full in the sky and beyond the rumbling of the engine in passing cars, it’s nearly peaceful outside. you don’t keep him waiting.

despite the chill, steve’s been waiting outside for you, leaning back on the hood of his car with his arms folded over his chest. he looks good; his navy shirt stretched deliciously over his biceps, hair fluffed in his usual style, looking a picture of cool. it’s broken immediately when he stands up in a rush to meet you, feet stumbling for just a moment before he catches himself. you must imagine the tips of his ears tinted redder than normal.

“hey!” the word is tinged with excitement and steve’s smile betrays it as well, wide and bright. “you look— you look great. amazing.”

it’s impossible to fight the hot glow that surges to your face, forcing you to duck your head to hide it for only a moment. god, the plan to not swoon has immediately foiled. you’re about to undoubtedly fumble through an awkward thank you when steve steps closer, one of his hands reaching for your face.

“sorry, y’just got some,” his thumb grazes your cheek, gentle as he can, over the swatch of black you hadn’t managed to rub off. your breath catches in your throat, the skin burning where he touches it and you fight the urge to follow his warmth when he drops his hand. “makeup— there was something, uh, on your cheek.”

when you don’t say anything, words stuck in your throat as you rein yourself in, steve ambles on nervously. “sorry, i’m late i just— shit, i hope you weren’t waiting, i just thought since when i pick you up for work, you’re always a bit late and—”

“—steve.” you cut him off, finally finding your voice. “you’re perfectly on time; any longer and i would have started fussing over something silly.”

it seems to relax steve a bit, hearing your voice and your assurances and you see the drop in his shoulders. he turns and opens the passenger door, a handsome smile back on his face as he nods at it. “after you then.”

the radio fills the airwaves on the drive to the party, crackly as you move between towers and you bounce your foot in time in hopes to iron out some of your nerves. you take a deep inhale but it manages to make things worse; the alluring scent of steve’s cologne floating through your nose, a musky mixture of bergamot and something sweet.

as steve parks up down the road, your eyes latch onto the house of the party, obvious from its flashing lights and occupants that spill out of every entrance. even before you open your door, you can hear the faint notes of a duran duran song playing inside. you clip the door closed and lean against it, waiting dutifully for steve to lock it and join you on the sidewalk.

the two of you begin to wander, steve’s pace slower than expected but when he nudges his shoulder against yours and begins to speak, you know why.

“y’know,” he begins, nervousness wrapped around each of his words. “i’m actually surprised you agreed to go on a date with me.”

the word hits you in the throat, halting your feet. it shouldn’t shock you too much but considering you had spent the better half of this evening convincing yourself this wasn’t a date, you can’t help your next words.

“wait, this is a date?”

you cringe as you watch steve take in your words, expression dimming and shoulders slumping like he can’t control it. fuck.

it’s like you’ve kicked a puppy and through the elation in your heart, you feel a sick twist in your stomach knowing that you’ve accidentally hurt steve. head spinning, you try to grapple with explanations but steve beats you to the punch.

“well, i guess that explains why you said yes.” the deprecating tone hurts your heart, a thousand thoughts competing for your attention but none as loud as the one that says tell him the truth!

“steve—” you begin, but he’s already speaking.

“would you have still said yes... if you knew that i was asking you on a date?” steve’s voice is smaller than you’ve ever heard it and his adam’s apple bobs as he swallows tightly, his words tinged with worry.

it’s a good question. the battle between your head and heart pulls you in both directions; your lovesick feelings denied by your desperation to never experience another failed date. especially with steve.

“i don’t know.” you answer honestly, only to desperately want to reel the words after you said it having seen steve’s face fall further.

the next words come out frazzled, too loud, as you try explain. “it’s not that i didn’t want to! i’ve just had so many— too many first dates that go nowhere. dates where they want to end in a parked car or stop calling or—”

cutting yourself off with a sigh, you try not to feel embarrassed at the ramble of your shitty love-life attempts. man, this evening was not going how you expected. you dig into your feelings, knowing that you owed steve the truth, that he deserved to hear what you truly meant. he waits patiently, his face giving away only a trace of his hopelessness.

“i like you steve.” you say, voice closer to a whisper at your admittance, eyes fluttering closed as you swallow your nerves. “i like you a stupid amount and i-i don’t think i could handle the heartache if you were just another failed first date.”

a beat of silence. and then, the softest oh falls from steve’s lips in his realization which forces your eyes open again, seeing some of the sadness lift from his figure. you can feel his gaze scan your face and he chews his lip in thought for a moment. your heart all but purrs in delight when he reaches out, his warms hands unfurling your clenched fists (when did you do that?) to hold in his delicately.

without thought, you begin to commit the rough feel of his hands, the curl of his fingers that keep your own warm and toasty.

“unfortunately, i can’t see the future, so it would be wrong to tell you i know we’ll be perfect for each other.” he smiles, a hint of teasing hidden within it.

the joking tone hits you the wrong way and you frown, pulling back a little. is he making fun of you? steve senses it instantly, tugging you closer and this time his tone is all serious, raspy and earnest.

“but, i can promise i will take every date you offer because i like you stupidly.” he blinks, seeming to register that he hasn’t said what he meant. “a stupid amount! i like you a stupid amount, too. as well.”

your words. he’s using your words to tell you how he feels. shit, you two haven’t even been on a date yet — somewhere in your mind, it quietly occurs that this means steve must have liked long before he worked the nerve to ask you out. you think your knees might be wobbling from the wonderful feeling in your chest that aches in the best way; you want it to live there forever.

“which means even if you offer me just tonight, i’ll—” he pauses and smiles so sweetly it makes your knees weak. “i’ll take it.”

you can’t help the hesitation in your bones, the feeling after another first date that crushed your thoughts about love running reminiscent under your skin.

but there’s something about steve. something that yearns, that makes you want to risk the future heartbreak, the wide-eyed late nights, and potential stupid mistakes all for the chance of his love.

oh well, if it went wrong, future you could hate you.

“you better not break my heart, harrington.”

the sunshine grin that breaks on his face could be bottled and sold, you think as it sets your body buzzing with giddiness. steve grins boyishly, tilting his head back as if he really has to think about it, pretending to hmm.

his eyes catch onto the house party and another emotion ripples across his face, gone as quick as it was there. the genuineness in his response touches you with surprise. “only if you promise the same.”

you want to kiss him. the urge has twisted into your heart-strings and you’re sure that steve’s gaze has dipped to your lips for just a moment. turning your head to survey the party, you realise that if this time you’re actually right this time, that there will be plenty of time for all of it.

you tuck the desire to taste his lips into your heart, bookmarked for later, and instead shift your hands in his, intertwining your fingers. you tug him along and finally begin the both of you walking in the direction of the party again.

“next time,” you begin, your smile already giving away your teasing. “use the word date, idiot.”

steve’s hand tightens in your own and when you glimpse at him, unable to help yourself, you can’t miss the beautiful blush on his cheeks.

“oh, i’m sorry, sweetheart. i’ll make sure to be clearer next time.” he drawls, a touch of sarcasm in his words. he pulls you even closer, close enough that you can feel the heat radiating from him. your arms are touching, you realise fondly.

“you better be.”

he leans in, breath warm on your ear and you can’t help but melt at the next words that fall from his lips, soft and natural. “do you wanna go on a date tomorrow?”

you can’t help your giggle, flustered and hot in the face because man, is he good at this. it makes you ache with want, wanting and wishing with every part of your being that this works.

even though you shouldn’t be promising anything dates before the first has happened, you know steve and you nod eagerly — then tug him into the music, your hands keeping you connected as you step into the dark together.

tomorrow, when he picks you up in his car, bouquet in his hands, you will let the buzz in your body take over because god if that doesn’t make you weak in the knees.

when he takes your hand, a thought will niggle in the back of your head, something about waiting for the other shoe to drop, for this date to be the last and for him to stop calling, stop dropping off flowers and kisses, for him to stop gazing at you like you hang the goddamn moon.

another thought, steadier and sure, will tell you that you might be waiting awhile.

—

just tagging ppl below! hehe sorry mutuals u HAVE to see this but also this means u shud tag ME in everything <3

@hawkinsindiana @harringtonbf @parkerroos @cptnleviackerman @skylergisondo @cultivatingkindness @aphrodites-perfume @lurkymurker @familyvideostevie @rogersharringtons @sattlersquarry @yellowharrington @upsidedownwithsteve @milkiane

#i left this alone long enuf that when i reread it to check for posting i was like DAMN WISH THAT WAS ME #anyways its a tale as old as time and that tale is that i LOVE steve harrington #he's my wife he's my babygirl he's the man for me <3 #ruby writes #steve harrington #steve x reader #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington fic #steve fic #steve harrington imagine #stranger things #stranger things imagine #stranger things fic #bada bing bada boom #i hate ppl who misuse tags so thats all from me folks #other than that enjoy!! <3

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