#lore? sure - it's somewhere in my mind half written

[superat626]

Sometimes you have to draw your favourite shapeshifting bastard ever as an Aspect of Tep.

[thisblogisaboutabook]

The Sprite and the Shifter

Tamlin x Original Character/Sprite - Fluff - Smut

After rescuing a sprite from the paws of a predator, Tamlin finds a friend in the most unlikely of fae. The only problem is, he’s a grump and she’s sunshine personified. Well, that and the very big (very little) problem - she’s less than a foot tall - and he might be falling in love with her.

A/n: This is one of my favorite stories I’ve written yet 🥹

Warnings: Contains Crescent City lore that could be spoilery if you think too much on it, Smut, a few little size difference innuendos sprinkled in, language, alcohol, mental health struggles, MDNI.

A tickle brushed against the nape of its neck as the beast prowled through his forest. The hitchhiker he’d begrudgingly picked up marveling at the world around her.

He’d found her under the paw of a bob-tailed forest cat, trying her best to reason with the hungry creature. It was said that sprites could wield power quite larger than their size would suggest, but this tiny, stubborn creature simply crossed her arms with brows drawn and a pointed finger, lecturing it and refusing to harm the cat that surely saw her as its lunch. With a half-hearted growl from the beast, the forest cat ran at the sight of him to which the Sprite tapped her petite foot in irritation, “I could have handled it!”

The beast only gave what appeared to be a roll of its eyes and wandered on, leaving the little fae be.

“Wait!” She squeaked. “My wing!” He glanced back spotting her through the brush, running with all her might on legs barely longer than the height of one his paws.

He thought about leaving the ungrateful female behind but… well, the guilt of leaving the it behind to fend for itself was likely more inconvenient than taking her somewhere to have her bent wing tended to.

“Please! I can’t fly like this!”

An image flashed through his mind of a fae dying on a table, wings cut off by a witch, and an act of kindness in its final moments. Not today. Today his heart wouldn’t dwell on it, but he could offer kindness to the sprite. So he lowered himself on his haunches and waited for her to catch up, giving an irritated flick of his tail as he waited for her to climb on.

The beast was beginning to regret his kindness as he let out a displeasured rumble from his throat when her small, barely perceptible voice sighed in wonder, “Look! Those flowers are almost as tall as you! Can we smell them? Please please please.”

He wanted to ignore her, he really did, but the awe in that voice made him pause. In this court now overrun by thorns and weeds, she still found beauty. It wouldn’t be long before she’d see it for what it was - a wasteland squandered by its own High Lord.

Letting out a huff through flared nostrils the beast hung its head low in reluctant deference to the tiny fae’s command, grimacing as she grabbed fistfuls of his fur, tugging herself on top of his head, an eager wing twitching with excitement brushing along the shell of his ear, with an exclaimed “oops, sorry!” as it twitched at the tickling sensation.

Apparently hauling her body up on top of his head wasn’t enough as he felt weight distributing to the right side of his head as she pulled herself up an antler, and steadied her feet on a tine halfway up. “I can smell it from here! It’s amazing! I’ve never seen one like this.”

The beast thought to itself that she’d said that about the last four flowers they’d had to stop and investigate but kept it to himself.

Hours later they stumbled out of brush into the fields leading to the Spring Court manor. Excitedly she jumped up and down with glee, pushing down on the brow of her savior. He really should have left her somewhere but there was no turning back now.

“Is it safe here? Will you be hunted?” She asked wearily.

The beast finally spoke, “I am not prey.”

Whether she was shocked to realize the beast could speak or not, she didn’t let on. Scurrying down his snout and nearly tumbling as she dropped to her knees, she pulled a corner of his lip up to inspect his sharpened teeth. “With canines like THAT, I suppose not.”

“Do you know if anyone lives there? It looks abandoned.”

The beast only prowled toward the manor the tiny fae nervously grasping onto its fur, little fingers tugging tight clumps into her grasp as if that would protect her from any dangers within.

Prowling next to a velvet lounge the beast dipped low. “Off.”

“But-“ she shrieked.

“You’re safe. Get off.” tone leaving no room for objection.

“O-okay.”

And with that the beast shifted into a rugged, beautiful male. He waited for the realization, the shock, the hate to cross her features but it never came.

No, the pixie jumped up and down shrieking with glee. “Shapeshifter! Eeeeek! I’ve never met one of you before!”

The male almost let a corner of his mouth tug upward. When was the last time he’d smiled? It felt unnatural and he kept his features neutral.

He squatted down, extending a palm. She felt lecherous admiring the muscles of his exposed chest but it was right there before her. “Wow.” she let slip, her eyes blown wide.

And he couldn’t help it, he let out a small sound of amusement. He wasn’t quite sure anyone viewed him as anything less than a male who’d let himself go at this point.

At least he had pants on. She wondered how the magic worked considering he had no clothing as a beast. “Let’s get your wing fixed.”

She took a step into his palm, grasping onto a calloused finger for balance as he carried her to a small infirmary within the manor.

Sitting on a small table back turned toward the male, he assessed the delicate structure of her iridescent wings, up close he noted that they were membranous with pearlescent veins throughout. He couldn’t help but marvel at them, wondering what colors of paint it would take to recreate such a spectrum of color. He wondered if Fey- no, he wouldn’t think of her today. He couldn’t allow himself to spiral, he’d brought the sprite all this way and her wing needed tending to.

It took much longer than anticipated but with guidance from the little faerie and his own knowledge, they were able to set the wing. Unfortunately, it could take a few days to heal. The light filtering through the windows had since become a blend of oranges and reds, night would be upon them soon.

“You may stay the night in a guest room.” his tone impassive in hopes she wouldn’t notice the shame hidden within. The rooms were hardly fit for prisoners, let alone a guest - but it was better than sending her flightless into the darkened forests. There were threats far worse than bobtail cats on the hunt under the cover of night.

“Really?” Her eyes lit up. “Oh, thank you! Thank you!”

He only grumbled in dismissal of the thank you’s. Surely the manor would feel like a prison to her by the time she’d leave. “It’s nothing. Find a place to sleep and it’s yours for the night and- what exactly is it that you eat?”

The male wasn’t exactly prepared to host but surely there was something that could be provided - though he doubted his usual meal of venison would be appetizing to her.

“Do you have sugar and water? Or perhaps honey?”

With a nod, he led her to the kitchen, she sat on a counter, ankles crossed as he let a pot of tea steep, pulling out sugar cubes to melt into it and providing honey in the smallest dish he could find.

She let out a sigh of contentment as she sipped the tea - an herbal blend that would ease the aching of her healing wing and hopefully help her rest. With genuine gratitude, the faerie expressed her thanks. “Oh!” She gasped. “Oh, I’ve been so very rude. What is your name?”

Something pulled at him with the question, she truly didn’t realize who he was. “Tamlin.” he spoke curtly. “And what is your name?”

“Fleur” she smiled.

“Fleur” he repeated - a lovely flower in his palace of thorns and decay.

An oddly adorable yawn spilled from her as she began to drift off. The tea clearly doing its job. He carried her to the least objectionable room in his manor and laid her carefully on a pillow, placing a silken kerchief over her delicate form.

“Goodnight, flower.” He whispered.

————

Tamlin awoke before dawn, sleep evading him as usual, but today he felt a little lighter. Certainly it had nothing to do with actually interacting with another being, with reveling in the way she experienced the world with such joy.

As he wandered through the halls, he found himself pulled toward the room he’d left her in, his heart sinking slightly when the fae was no longer there. No note or sign of her presence aside from the missing kerchief.

Very well. Best to leave before the walls come crashing in on her. Yet Tamlin found his shoulders dropping slightly as he carried himself back to his chamber, the energy to press through the day no longer tangible.

Falling back into bed, he lay quietly as the sun began to peek over the hills, casting rays into his room. A slight shimmer glinting in the dawn. That’s when Tamlin noticed - curled up on a shredded chaise by the long burnt-out fire place lay the little sprite, sound asleep under his kerchief.

The corners of Tamlin’s lips rose slightly as he drifted back to sleep.

Smile be damned as tiny hands pinched his cheeks two hours later. “Hello! Are you alive in there? You’re sleeping the day away!”

Letting out a sigh, Tamlin sat himself up hearing an “oof!” as she tumbled off of his face.

Placing her hands on the curvature of her hips, she scowled at him. “A little warning next time, please!”

“Apologies. Perhaps you could find a gentler way of waking someone. Why are you in here anyway?”

She flushed. “Oh, I- well I got tired of waiting for you and didn’t know my way around the manor so I just came in to wake you up.”

“No you didn’t” he tsk’d.

She flushed, knowing she’d been caught.

“Oh….” She rubbed the back of her neck the rosey tint of embarrassment lingering across her delicate features.

“Well, there was a spider in my room and- well, they’re not all bad but this one was rather insistent that I was intruding in its space.”

Whatever he’d expected her to reply with was not that.

“-and, well, this house is so big and I knew I would be safe with you.”

Safe. She felt safe with him. She’d sought him out and found comfort in his presence. He wasn’t sure how to feel about that, that instinct to protect roiling beneath his surface. Swallowing the lump in his throat, he spoke.

“Show me where it is and I’ll eliminate the problem.”

“No!” She cried. “It wasn’t hurting anyone - it was just displeasured and I was a stranger in its space.”

Tamlin thought. Apparently he’d brought a pacifist into his home - first refusing to use her power on the cat and now, a spider? What an interesting little creature.

“Fine. I’ll ward the house against spiders.”

“But that’s its home! And I’m only a guest.” She retorted.

He dragged a hand across his face. Good grief, this little thing. “This is my home, not a spiders.”

“You don’t need all of this space! I have seen no others here. Surely it can take up space in your residence without putting you out.”

He should have left her in the wood where he found her. Truly. But he admired her kind heart.

“Fine, how about this? I will ward the house with the exception of that room so your spider will not be evicted. I, for one, would prefer not to have my manor overrun by the things.”

He couldn’t hear it but by the way her cheeks puffed and deflated he assumed the sigh she let out was her giving in to his solution for now.

————-

After another breakfast of tea and honey, the pixie sat straight, looking to her wings with an attempt to flutter the damaged one. “I should go and make the most of the daylight.”

A slight pang of disappointment rang through the male. Worry for her? Guilt for sending her away when he had room to spare? Sadness for the lack of her company, regardless of how pesky she was? He wasn’t sure but the words fell from his lips. “Stay.”

She jumped to her feet with glee. “Really? Oh thank you, thank you!” Springing forward, she flung herself against his wrist, hugging him. “I would kiss your cheek but… well, my wings.” Her eyes shone as she stared into his. “Thank you.” She repeated earnestly.

—————-

Tamlin had to admit that he didn’t mind her company. He carried her through his gardens, expecting her to frown at the weed-infested, malnourished state of it but she only smiled. “It’s beautiful!”

How she found beauty in such a place, he was unsure. “You should have seen it in its prime.” He didn’t mean for the words to escape him but they fell off of his lips with sadness.

“I like it now.” She hummed. “Maybe when Calanmai comes, the garden will grow further.”

He stiffened, blinking. “Calanmai has not been celebrated by the High Lord in several years.”

“Oh.. Why not?” She puzzled.

Distrust crossed his features. Was this a scheme? Had someone sent her to coax him into partaking in the Great Rite once again? His heart sunk. “I need to go take care of some things. You can find your way back into the manor.”

“Wait!” She cried but he only pivoted, taking long strides back to the house.

Tamlin sat in his study an hour later, eyes glazed as thoughts of the past spiraled. Would he ever feel better? The urge to rip the study to shreds that once would have clawed its way out of him wasn’t there, just an ache in his chest. Empty. Void.

A shadow flew across his desk overlooking the garden and again moments later, and suddenly a falcon swooped from the sky, straight toward where he’d left Fleur.

Fear ripped through Tamlin, he ran like he’d never run before shifting into his beast form to amplify his pace. He wouldn’t make it to her in time. Oh gods- he’d left her out there just for her to die.

“Fleur!” Tamlin roared as he bound into the garden, tearing through the briars, ignoring how they barbed into the pads of his paws. Exposing his teeth he launched toward the large bird of prey.

Screeching to a stop, nearly taking out the sprite and the falcon as he slowed, falling into a seated position from the velocity of halting.

“Are you okay??” She asked, concern etching her tone.

“Me!?” He asked. “I saw this falcon come swooping out of the sky to grab you.”

Fleur brought a hand to cover her mouth as she snickered. “No, silly! She came to find me. This is Perrey. I live with her and her hatchlings.” The bird clicked its beak affectionately brushing the top of its head against the faerie.

Tamlin’s jaw dropped. “How?”

“That’s a story for another time” she smiled sadly, scratching the feathers of the falcons neck.

“Perrey says she can fly me back to her nest. So I suppose this is goodbye.”

Tamlin looked to the sky, gray in the distance, grasping at straws for a reason to have her stay, regardless of her motives for being in his court. A lonely male, indeed.

With an awkward scratch to the back of his neck, and insecurity in his voice he replied. “It’s going to storm soon. I know it’s safe for Perrey but with your healing wing, it would be best to keep your wings in a dry, temperate controlled environment.”

She looked to the bird and Tamlin could have sworn the bird gave a nod of the head. After a long pause, it extended a wing and all but pushed her toward Tamlin.

With a disgruntled humph and a scowl to her supposed “friend” she looked back to Tamlin. “I don’t want to be a burden.”

“You are in no way a burden.” He meant it.

“Okay, I think that would be good. Thank you, Tamlin.”

Letting out a high pitched whistle-cry, the falcon looked to him and then back to her and Fleur whirred around looking at the bird. “What!?”

The bird looked to him again with - yes, that was definitely a nod - “Oh gods, Perrey! I’m mortified!” The bird let out a huff and shook her head, leaving the Sprite behind before she could change her mind.

“I’m so sorry.” Fleur blurt out. “I didn’t know! No wonder you left me out here.”

Tamlin cocked his head. “You didn’t tell me you were the High Lord! I would never have asked why you didn’t partake had I known.”

Recognizing this as his opportunity to apologize he bent down to pick her up. “Come, little one. It seems we both have stories to tell.”

———————————

The pair sat by the fire. Tamlin in a large armchair and Fleur cross legged tucked into the crook of his arm. He’d added a small drop of whiskey to her sugar concoction knowing they’d likely both need it if they were to get to know eachother.

“Would you like to go first? Or me?” She asked.

Tamlin’s heartbeat picked up. She would likely hate him after this and if she left - he wasn’t sure he wanted to know her further, to have that much more reason to mourn the loss of her companionship. Now she was a pleasant stranger and knowing her? Well, that would feel a lot like friendship.

With a sigh, he muttered. “I’ll go first.”

To her credit, she only stared starry eyed at him as he spoke, never looking at him with disgust - only empathy and perhaps a bit of sadness.

He told her of love squandered and how he’d come to be the broken High Lord of the Spring Court, how he’d failed his court and mourned the male he had once been, the male he could have become.

When he’d finished she looked to him. “I’m so sorry you went through all of that. I’m sure it was hard. Maybe what happened wasn’t all right, but people can learn and grow. You could even love again if you wished.”

He appreciated her effort in consoling him but mostly that she didn’t flee or reprimand him, when he’d already spent so long berating himself.

In fact, getting it all off of his chest felt good. He felt a slight relief to that ancient ache within his heart.

“Well, your turn little flower. How does a Sprite end up in the care of a falcon? Where do the Sprites hide? Truthfully, I always thought you were a myth.”

She flushed. “I- I don’t remember everything. I remember, I think, or maybe dreamed of a burst of flame, a wave of water, a flash of white light, a mother’s hands picking me up gently, and whispering.” She hugged her arms around her waist. “Her voice was a breath of life, changing and moulding, whispering of growing flowers in the darkest places. It felt like love, like a gift for a sacrifice that I cannot remember.”

She shook her head. “I haven’t told anyone because I know it sounds crazy but it’s all I know. The next thing I remember was being carried in Perrey’s talons, thinking she would kill me only for her to provide me with protection.”

She blinked rapidly looking up into the emerald- eyed male’s gaze, met with only kindness. “Do you believe me?” She whispered, averting her gaze before she could be crushed beneath the weight of judgement.

He lowered his palm. A silent offering. She took a step onto it, standing straight and he raised her with a steady, fluid motion, careful not to let her fall over. “Of course I do. I don’t know your past but I know you have a place here - if you’d like.”

She was right. He did have plenty of room in his manor. And a friend - it would be nice to have one.

——————————

Fleur - A month later

Time flew by as she reveled in warm spring days, basking her now healed wings in the rays of sun filtering down through puffy white clouds. When arriving to the manor, Fleur wasn’t familiar with her own power beyond her ability to fly, but Tamlin had taken to working with her and she discovered she had the ability to revive various flora.

In fact, after the past month of hard-work and practice, the gardens around the manor flourished.

Fleur adored Tamlin and smiled to herself one day as she watched him in the gardens. She thought he was beautiful when she met him but she hadn’t realized how much of a physical toll his grief had taken on him until he started to gain a healthy complexion, his eyes were no longer hallowed out with purple underneath, his hair was lush and shiny - she’d spent countless nights running her hands through it as they chatted.

Today he donned a flower crown she’d begged him to let her weave into his hair. He was patient with her as she did it, and she blushed at the result. She couldn’t ignore the feeling in her chest as she admired her work. This strong, powerful male who didn’t balk from the softness and beauty of the world. The male who allowed the smallest of his denizens to play dress-up with his hair, and donned the crown proudly as they tended the garden.

Perrey - the meddling buzzard - had stopped to check in several times, teasing her for having a crush. She only scoffed at such a suggestion, things would never work between them. Based on his hands and feet his… appendage was likely as tall as she was. She blushed at the thought, pushing it far back into her mind. She’d taken to sleeping on a pillow in his room. She’d continued sleeping on the chaise for a week after her first night spent in the manor, but Tamlin sometimes had bad dreams and she’d use her powers to soothe him with the sweetest scents of spring and gentle breezes, humming soft tunes until he’d settle.

She, too, would have ocasional nightmares, those images of fire, water, and ash. They felt so real, like another life. Another world. But she’d hear a voice on those nights, when the dreams would become whimpers, not the Mother she’d once dreamed of but Tamlin’s voice. “I am here. You are safe. I will protect you.”

One night she’d woken to that voice to find that it truly was Tamlin soothing her through the nightmare. She didn’t want to embarrass him and selfishly, she ached to hear his unfiltered words. He’d told her of his days writing limericks during a war and she didn’t know what to expect - truly she’d never even heard a limerick before - that she could remember anyway. But even if she had, this one would be her favorite.

“Find someone who grows flowers in the darkest parts of you.

Take heed when things get hard and don't you ever turn around.

You'll find someone, someday, somewhere that grows you to the clouds.

Sweetest of the sunflowers, you're the sun to me.”

“Little flower?” Tamlin’s voice drew her from her daydreaming. “Calanmai is coming.”

Her heart lurched. They’d discussed the holiday and the potential of the Spring Court High Lord partaking this year. They’d surveyed the land together and while she thought the Spring Court to be a lovely place, she now understood the whisperings she’d heard from the pollinators during her time in the forest. The flowers were dwindling, the harvests no longer plenty.

She understood his hesitance to partake and would never push him to join if it was not comfortable.

An ugly part of her that she tried to push down deep tugged at her. Jealousy. She would be thrilled for all the creatures, all the residents of the Spring Court, but she would never have the opportunity to partake. As far as she knew, she was the only Sprite within this kingdom and while Tamlin was a shapeshifter, how would one approach the topic? But she was still a being, she still felt urges and desire, and Tamlin, something glowed within her when she thought of the male.

Perhaps he saw her as no more than a pest but, she had a hard time finding that to be true. She had little to no experience in romantic affairs but she had enough sense to realize that people didn’t whisper words like “you’re the sun to me” into the ears of someone they didn’t care for.

Remembering that he likely anticipated her response she forced a smile. “Oh?”

His lips pressed into a firm line. “I’ve been thinking and I have been failing my people. I have been failing my people for quite some time and need to partake for the greater good of my Court.”

An ache filled her, not the bitter ache of jealousy, but that of concern for a friend. “Are you comfortable in doing so?”

He gave a half-smile. “I’ve participated in centuries worth of Calanmai nights. I will be fine.” She looked to her feet shyly before looking back to him. “Just don’t force yourself to participate if you’re not willing. Duties be damned, your consent is important too.”

He gave a nod to her. “I appreciate your concern, little one.”

He sat in silent contemplation, words forming on his lips before pressing them into a line again.

“Fleur.”

Her heart fluttered at her name on his lips. “Yes?”

He hesitated for another moment. “Just- Please be careful on the night of Calanmai. I cannot and will not force you to do anything against your will, but perhaps you should stay here. The magic of the night is wild, primal. And you’re….”

Small. Fragile. Breakable.

She was well aware.

“You’re lovely and I don’t know how I would react if someone hurt you.”

He cares about me.

She closed her eyes, letting the thought float away. It didn’t matter. None of it mattered. He could never be hers.

“Oh, okay.” She whispered.

———————————-

Calanmai - Tamlin

His heart raced as he bound away from the manor. He’d reminded Fleur of the dangers. He wouldn’t lock her away or force her to stay in but he prayed that his reasoning was enough for her to do so.

A bitter thought passed through him, he didn’t want whatever maiden the basest version of himself would chose. He wanted Fleur. Fuck- he felt like a degenerate for it too.

She deserved better and they could never truly work anyway, aside from perhaps grinding against his pinky, there was no anatomical way to be with her. He knew she was an adult, that despite her lack of memories, she was mature enough and understood herself enough to know that she was a grown female with desires of her own. Hell, he’d even scented her arousal a time or two. It killed him. Why couldn’t she be his? It was a sick trick of fate to put someone so perfect in his grasp, just for it to never work.

He wanted to know what sweet sounds she would make as she came on his fingers, his tongue, his cock. He ached for it. He could make himself small but- his magic only went so far. He couldn’t constantly be at her size. Was he sick for wondering if there was a way to make it work? He’d never want to push her into a relationship. What they had was too precious.

He had shrunk down to her size one day and she shared with him all the details of her world, the way the sun created prisms off the orbs of dew on blades of grass, the way she could curl up in a larger flower and nap, the pollen feeling silken against exposed skin. And that day, all he wanted to do as he watched her marvel was to take her into his arms - hold her, kiss her, submit himself wholly to her. His heart longed for it.

He knew he couldn’t shift to her size again without taking their friendship to a point of no return. He couldn’t fathom losing her companionship.

The drums rang out and he began his routine. He found the stag with ease. His bare chest covered with swirls of paint heaved as the urge to find the maiden took over. He wandered the crowd, women reached for him, caressing his arms and exposed chest with grabby fingers. He didn’t want them, the magic didn’t want them.

His body began to move on its own accord, the initial sign of setting its target, he wandered again through the crowd, closer and closer to the edge. His legs began sprinting across the field, further and further from the crowd, right toward - the manor.

Gods - no. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. He began to sweat, the beast warring within. He was in pain, warring against it. He couldn’t go to her. She deserved so much more than this.

He begged to the mother, anyone who would listen to hold him back. Finally, through much disdain, he found himself in the stables, using any tethers he could find to bind himself to a post. He hoped it was enough to keep him away. He was strong willed but the beast inside was strong. Perhaps his will and the additional measures would be enough to hold him back. The horses chuffed at his intrusion, doing nothing to hide the irritation of his disruption to their rest, one going as far as to let out a loud neigh.

Tamlin fought and fought, sweat now drenching him, letting out pathetic whimpers and pleas. To whom? He didn’t know. The desire within him was so strong. Images of the day he’d shrunk down to her size flashing across his mind. She was everything. Perfect. Anyone who saw her would agree, with beauty and luscious curves that would bring kingdoms to their knees.

“She could be yours.” The beast in his mind roared. “She wants you. Take her. Just shift.”

“No!!!” He cried out, tears brimming his eyes as the lust burned through him.

His pupils blew wide at the sound of a tiny voice, sweeter than any nectar. “Tamlin?”

“Fleur” he heaved. “You can’t be here. You have to go!”

“What’s wrong? Who tied you here?” She flew to him, frantic, concerned.

She cared for him.

“Fleur, please.” Tamlin whimpered. The beast requested. One begging her to leave, the other begging her to relieve him of his lust.

She sniffed the air and he knew it wasn’t the horse shit she was smelling. “Oh, Tamlin. The magic. It chose me, didn’t it?”

“Fleur, I can’t.”

“Look at me.” She placed her delicate hands on his chin. “Do you want this?”

“No! I mean, yes. Fleur, there’s nothing more in this world I want but I can’t.”

She paused, deep in thought. “Why can’t you? And not because of the difference in size, why can’t your heart?”

The silver threatened to spill over his lashes. “Because you’re everything, Fleur. I can’t ruin us, ruin you.”

“Then don’t.” She stated plainly.

He took pause at the response. The simplicity of it.

“Ask me what I want, Tam.” Her eyes searched his, wings now fluttering to hover directly in front of his face.

Through heavy breaths he rasped. “What? What is it you want?”

“I want you, Tamlin. I want your friendship. I want your love, your touch. I want to know the electricity of your fingers tracing down my spine, the feel of your lips against mine, to know your body as well as my own. I want you to feel how much I care for you in every way, not just the emotional, the physical too. I want to know what the connection between our souls feels like when you’re buried inside of me, claiming me as yours. Because that is what I am Tamlin, I am yours - if you want me.”

“You’re all I want.” He growled.

“Then have me.”

—————————-

Fuck, she was beautiful - bare before him, spread on his bed like a delicacy, his to feast upon. And he was going to, and he would take a long time reveling in the sweet nectar currently dripping before him. They’d barely made it to his room, his magic cleaning the dirt of the stables off of him and spiriting away their clothes. He’d broken through his reigns at her command, and before shifting to her size, she begged him to shift her to his size, wanting to experience the world as he does.

He wasn’t prepared for the way the shift amplified her already unattainable beauty. Her hair normally appearing a shade so blonde it was nearly light now refracted under the soft fae lights with pastel shades of aqua, pink, and purple. Her skin practically glowed with radiance and her wings, they laid spread beneath her like a stained glass blown by the finest artisan. Forget the ethereal beauty of the High Fae, she was truly otherworldly, a goddess of spring. And he was hers, prepared to worship at her altar.

Her breasts heaved with anticipation as he admired her. The base instinct in him seemed to settle now, as if even it submitted to her.

He watched her with both predatory intent and awe as her round breasts and pert nipples rose and fell with each desperate breath of anticipation.

Stopping him from his final question of “are you sure?” she raised a hand up, the other falling to the apex of her thighs. “Please.” She whispered. “Tamlin, I need you.”

He lost any semblance of control, halting her as she began bringing those luxurious thighs of silken skin together in an attempt to create friction between them. His muscled grip holding them apart. “I’m going to taste you now.”

And taste her he did, he swiped up her center with a broad, flattened maneuver of his tongue. Her essence coated him and he’d never reveled in anything so delicious. He could die a happy male knowing he’d tasted the nectar of the gods. With expert precision his tongue circled her clit in teasing motions, and the moans that fell from her lips were sinful, a siren’s song of lust and temptation, a sound he would play on repeat long after this night.

A hand flew to his hair, tugging on it, her legs falling over his shoulders as he knelt at the edge of the bed. He ran a finger, collecting her essence to ease the slide into her. He groaned at the tight feel of her as his finger slid in, sending vibrations to her clit.

He worked her open with careful diligence, her moans pulling the strings of his ministrations into her core, whatever pulled those sweet songs from her, he paid rapt attention to. He knew she’d never been with anyone and his heart selfishly swelled at the idea of being her first and last, because that’s what this was. Not a one night stand, not just a “rite”, but a claiming of body and soul.

He puffed up with male pride, reveling at the grip of her sex as he slid another lubricated finger into her, this time curling in a way that elicited louder moans from her plush lips. With the next curl of his fingers, he sucked the swollen bud of her clit, humming with satisfaction at the way her body was responding to him. The hand that wasn’t currently wringing delicious whimpers from the female, gripped onto a supple thigh tensing around his shoulders.

A low growl escaped him, vibrating through her core and she shot up, trying to push away from him. He pulled his head back in worry, “What is it? Are you okay?”

Fleur gave a wicked smile. “Yes! I’ve never been better but, when I come at the touch of another for the first time, when I come for you - I don’t want it to be alone. I want to come together. Can we?

And if he hadn’t already been so riled up by the divine female splayed before him, this would have done him in. His eyes rolled back in bliss at the sentiment, “Gods, you are truly a gift.”

With that he scooped her up in a quick motion, depositing her further back on the silken sheets of his bed. There were so many ways he wanted to take her but this first time it would be gentle, he could leash that inner beast and savor this moment with the reverence it deserved.

Purple irises peered up at him filled with adoration, trust, hope, anticipation, so many emotions swirling in those eyes. She propped up on elbows to watch as he reached down once more, filling her with three fingers, so fucking wet and ready for him.

She let out his name in a gasp when he withdrew his fingers, his arm disappearing from between her legs to cradle her neck. She gaped at where his cock stood erect and throbbing, pre-cum leaking from the slit of it.

Leaning down he kissed her forehead and then taking her chin with his thumb and forefinger, emotion dancing in his eyes. “It’s okay, love. I promise I’ll take care of you. Do you trust me?”

She bit her lower lip, the corners tilting up as her eyes raked over the gorgeous muscled male above her, taking all of him in, committing him to memory. Flashing a soft, genuine smile she nodded her head eagerly. “Always.”

With that he gripped his cock with one hand, sliding the head through her slick, and carefully pushed in.

The combined sounds of pleasure emanating from the two could have shaken the walls of the manor. The stretch of his cock against her tight cunt sending waves of bliss through them.

“Please” she whimpered, offering permission for him to sink deeper into her heat.

“Fuck, Flower. I never dreamed you’d be so tight.”

She quirked an eyebrow, simultaneously letting out a moan as he pushed into her inch by inch. “You thought about this?”

He dropped his head to the crook of her neck, his cock now completely enveloped by her - warm, silken walls gripping fitting him like they were custom fit for eachother.

“Oh, gods!” Fleur cried out. “Tamlin, it’s too, it’s so-“

“Shhh baby. You’re doing so good for me.” He praised with soothing coos. And oh, by the flutter he felt around his cock his baby liked to be praised. He tucked that away mentally for safe keeping.

He held still, fighting the primal urge to fuck into her until she was screaming his name. No, there would be time for that later.

He let out a soft chuckle as she shifted her hips, canting them off the bed in a desperate attempt for friction.

“You ready?” He grinned, canines flashing like a fiend.

“I’ve been ready for this. You’re not the only one with a- ooooh” she let out a moan at a slight buck of his hips.

“What was that?” He mocked.

“Mmm” she hummed. “You’re not the only one with an active imagination.”

“Hmm” he feigned consideration. “Well, let me enlighten you, little flower.”

With that he pulled back and thrust into her gently, groaning as her breasts bounced with the motion. “These-“ He rolled a nipple between his fingers, leaning down to suckle at one, pulling back to release it with a pop “are delectable”

She gasped at the sensation and before she could speak further he began moving in a gentle rhythm, her moans reverberated off the walls, a chorus for his own enjoyment.

“There are so many things I want to do to you, do with you, Fleur.” He whispered and she could read in the expression, the way he took her in with such warmth that he meant more than just sexually.

She could only manage another sweet sigh as he pushed into her, increasing his pace and the weight of his thrusts. The way he stretched her and filled her in ways she never dreamed was sending her so close to the edge. “I’m gonna come.” She cried, lips forming that telltale “O”.

“Cum with me, Fleur.” He whispered into the shell of her ear. She shook her head in a “yes”, creases forming across her brow as her face contorted with pleasure.

Tamlin placed a thumb to her clit adding just the pressure she needed to fall over the edge, causing her to shatter around him in squeezing waves as she climaxed. She looked so fucking beautiful coming on him.

Tamlin came as she fell apart around him, with a deep cry of ecstasy he found his release, the heat of him filling her. Tamlin’s eyes screwed shut at the shock running through him with his orgasm, behind his eyelids golden vines swirled and wound from the once darkened depths of his soul into… he opened his eyes to find hers blown wide, not from the magnitude of their climax but from the snap.

“Mate?” He asked.

“Yes!” She cried out. “Mate.”

Fleur didn’t know a lot about mates but she’d heard whisperings of it, a bond so rare and precious. She refused to ruin the moment by contemplating the logistics of it, they may be able to carry out the act of mating but the actual prospect of carrying a child - which seemed to be a key facet of the bond. No, instead of considering she crashed her lips into his, kissing the mate she was blessed with until he dropped his weight off of her, falling to her side and pulling her onto his chest, her wings fluttering joyously with the motion.

“My little flower.” He beamed, pressing a kiss to the top of her pastel hair. “My perfect mate.”

———————————

Epilogue

The morning after their first coupling, Fleur found herself once again tiny, curled up into the warmth of Tamlin’s neck. They found that it took considerable power to shift her size and he could only shift his for specific periods of time, though it was easier. They accepted the bond right away and never looked back. The year’s harvest was the most fruitful in Spring’s history and Tamlin took time rebuilding his court, with his little mate by his side. He was so proud of her, so enamored by the kind, joyous soul he’d fallen so hopelessly in love with. He never minded their difference in sizes and quite honestly, they had fun exploring the various way they could enjoy each other regardless of size. Everything was wonderful. Until the day Lucien and Elain visited, with the sweetest baby one could dream of in tow.

Fleur doted over the child with such wonder. The joy Tamlin so often remembered filling her eyes as she took in his court, and he also felt longing flowing from her through the bond. Tamlin always wanted children and had accepted that it wouldn’t be feasible for them, the shifting being potentially dangerous to a developing child. He could shift to her size but there was always a small chance that the pregnancy could hurt her given that he wasn’t truly a Sprite. Neither were comfortable risking it.

Fleur hid the longing so well, the slight sadness she carried. He knew the sadness had nothing to do with him and that she was otherwise overjoyed with their life but he could understand the pang of grief. He felt it sometimes too, which led him to his study late one night. He’d felt her grief and refused to let his pride hold them back.

One morning, Tamlin woke Fleur early. “We have company coming today.”

She rubbed her bleary eyes as she propped up from her spot against his neck. “What? Who? Are Lucien and Elain back from the continent?”

He gave a smile. “No love, get ready and meet me in the study in an hour. Does that work? I’ll have tea ready for you.”

She gave a curious second look to him but knew her efforts to pry the information from him would be futile.

So an hour later she found herself sitting in the study with Tamlin; his ex-lover, now High Lady of the Night Court, and her mate. Feyre glanced anxiously around the room, placing a hand on her mate’s thigh and giving a soft smile, he returned it in kind. She looked back to Tamlin and Fleur with a smile, eyes alight with hope. “We think we found it. Helion helped, granting us access to dated tomes regarding shifting and ancient High Lords.”

Tamlin gave a small smile and Fleur could feel a huge wave of hope and nervousness down their bond. “Found what?” She asked, not unkindly.

Tamlin looked to her softly. “You don’t have to say yes, and you have plenty of time to think on this if you wish, but…”

Fleur’s legs bounced with excitement, anticipating the next words to fall from her mate’s lips. “We can shift you permanently to the size of a High Fae.” He looked to her cautiously, “I could try to shift to your size permanently but for the purpose of-“

She interrupted him with a squeal, flying to press a kiss to his cheek and then to Feyre and Rhysand as well. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” She cried.

The High Lady and High Lord of the Night Court gave her soft smiles before Rhysand asked, “I assume that’s a yes then?”

“Yes!” She squealed. With that Tamlin used his powers to shift her to her High Fae height. Feyre marveling at her wings, studying them with awe. “You’re lovely.” She spoke with nothing but kindness. “Are you sure you want this?” Tamlin asked. She shook her head eagerly. “Yes! I’m positive!”

With that, Tamlin, Feyre, and Rhysand each dropped a kernel of light onto Fleur.

The moment felt magical but nothing felt different afterward. Tamlin and Feyre looked to eachother. “Now,” Feyre spoke. “Try to shift to your Sprite form. Will it into your mind.”

Fleur fought for a moment. “Take a few breaths, love.” Tamlin whispered. So she did, willing the image into her mind once again. And suddenly, she was small. “Oh…” she frowned. “Does this mean it didn’t work?”

“The opposite!” Feyre spoke with glee. “It worked! Can you shift yourself back?”

Understanding fell upon Fleur and she followed the same process, imagining her larger form and taking breaths. To her absolute joy, she grew large again. “You-“ she spoke through broken sobs. “You gave me the ability to shift! I can be this size all the time and shift back into my Sprite form when I wish?”

“Yes.” Tamlin spoke gently, placing his arms around her waist. “You can be whatever you want, flower.”

“I can’t believe this. Thank you all for this gift. How can I ever repay you?”

Rhysand nodded toward Tamlin. “The debt has already been paid.”

Tamlin gave an unreadable look to the High Lord and then to his former lover. “There was never a debt.”

“Congratulations to you both.” Feyre spoke, Rhysand mirroring the sentiment before winnowing away. Tamlin paused finding a note on the chair that Feyre had vacated.

I am happy. Now, it’s your turn.

Tamlin took his mate’s hand in his, discarding the note into a wastebasket. “Shall we begin?”

He laughed as he caught his footing, barely bracing himself for his mate to jump into his arms. Between kisses, she challenged, “Give me all you’ve got, my love.”

————————

Tag: @tamlinweek for the shapeshifter theme

General ACOTAR tag: @lilah-asteria

[cve-th3mvsic]

i should probably have an “intro” post

hi, i’m tobias ^^ toby is cool too

(i based this off of @stanleyvampire14 ‘s intro because i didn’t really know how to do one)

i have a side blog: [ @askblog-cvesocs ] if you wanna check that out ^^ i plan on posting at least once daily, but sometimes i may not get to it.

My pronouns page if you wanna check it out

i’m on an inactive spree as of now. if i post, it’s just because i felt like i needed to get a thought somewhere. — i’m pretty sure tumblr is a place where you share your thoughts n stuff, ya js post whatever. anything that comes to mind. i’ll post something from time to time. js to say somethin.

— i don’t currently have the mental capacity to interact with anyone, but if you would like to interact with me, feel free to<3 i js won’t be the one interacting first.

—my socializing skills are not at all the greatest. — i won’t apologize for it though. if i wanna get better at socializing, i’ll try. some people would probably say “sorry” for not being great at socializing, but i’m not. (dunno if that sounds.. snarky. but it’s not meant to be.)

(↑ as of july 30th, 2024)

• my pronouns: he/him, it/its

• INFJ-A (idk what it’s actually called but yah)

• i’m 5’9.. not that important, but whatever

• i’m a sagittarius

• i am on the spectrum. i struggle with social cues i think. when i talk to people, it’s difficult to tell if they’re annoyed or uninterested when they are. i use tone tags like (/j), (/nm) (/pos) (/lh) (/neu) and so on. i also separate things often — in text- ya know. like with brackets “[]” and parentheses, because it makes more sense for my brain. i will often ask questions for clarification, so like if it may be a “common sense” kind of thing, i might not know.

my brain works a lot differently than others’ do. i may not be able to comprehend things as quickly as others, so please bare with me.

• i always speak my mind. if i have an opinion on somethin, there’s a big chance that ima say it. — i’ll most likely say the first thought that comes to mind pretty often. just to say it tbh.

___

[more below the cut]

• likes:

[writing] — i have a story that i haven’t written yet. it’s called “shit talker”. i can tell you all about it, but for some damn reason i can’t actually put it in “book” form

—[my favorite song artists]: [the shins] , [neon trees] , [ellie goulding] , [pastel ghost] , [crystal castles] , [ajr] , [cage the elephant] , [alt-j] , [phoenix] , [vacations] (recently started to listen to their music) — i like [tokio hotel] too

—[top 5 favorite songs (as of now)]:

•| “When You Sleep” by my bloody valentine (this is my number one most favorite song of all time.)

•| “Taking What’s Not Yours” by TV Girl

•| “Lovely Day” by alt-J

•| “I’m So Tired…” by Lauv & Troye Sivan

•| “RUNAWAY” by half•alive

—[my favorite colors]:

•| green

•| purple

•| yellow

•| brown

(i can’t color the words the way i wanna ☹️)

• dislikes:

—throwing up/mentions of throwing up. i have emetophobia. i do not like the words vomit or throw up. they make me extremely uncomfortable and it even makes me feel sick. (even writing this is making me feel sick)

[there’s not much else that comes to mind. i will let you know if i don’t like something or i’m uncomfortable.]

other things:

• i’m rewatching fruits basket (and absolutely obsessing over it.) i love momiji. he’s such a sweetie. <3

• i like to write. i have a shit ton of ocs. i for sure have 30+ ocs, most of which only have a name and little to no background, but there’s still plenty of ocs that have yet to be cooked up. my brain wants as many as possible.. i have 14 main ocs. they all have the most background and have lore.

• i read lord of the flies

• i roleplay. i honestly see it as writing with another person. — i haven’t written with other people very much, but i’d like to ^^ if you wanna rp or write with me, lmk!! if you haven’t noticed already, i type a lot. when i rp, i write as if i’m writing a book. i use more than one oc because my silly brain can’t do just one. it’s too little going on for me with just one oc, sooo…

___

last updated: (07/30/2024) — july 30th, 2024 — 10:10pm

___

[riddlerosehearts]

decided i'm going to start posting my thoughts on baldur's gate 3 every so often as i make my way through the game, because it'd be nice to have some of this stuff about first playthrough written down somewhere! my tav is a half-high elf bard named elenion (he/they) who's neutral good-aligned, and despite being a bard he's very reserved and is always feigning self-confidence. also, he's a college of lore bard who honestly would've fit the sage background pretty well but i went ahead and gave him entertainer instead lol. i guess that actually gives me the opportunity to see more of the inspiration goals by not having the same background as gale! anyway though, here's a few thoughts about what i've done while still being very early in act 1:

at the point i'm at in the story right now, i was supposed to go look for halsin, but instead i decided to finally find karlach. i feel like i probably should've gotten her sooner, but once i got to the grove i didn't wanna venture too far from the main objectives--and the grove is where you recruit wyll and learn about karlach in the first place.

however, halsin sounds very wise and capable so i guess he can handle himself while he waits, and the mindflayer tadpole symptoms aren't progressing like they're supposed to, so why not just go off and act like we've got all the time in the world! maybe elenion is just easily distracted. they did waste quite a bit of time earlier when they found alfira and felt compelled to help her finish her song. and speaking of, i was not expecting such a beautiful cutscene for that?! or for the squirrels we talked to using speak with animals to be so mean and hate her song 😭 but i hope we get to see alfira again and that nothing bad happens to her, and i hope i don't eventually regret saying that!

also, wyll did say karlach is a danger to the entire sword coast, which makes hunting her down sound pretty important... and elenion has an interest in history so they recognized the phrase "advocatus diaboli" and were able to mention the blood war when wyll first talked about her. so maybe they're also interested in seeing if they can get a devil who fought in the blood war and is now wandering the material plane to answer a few questions before taking her down. anyway, point is we're leaving the druids and our quest for a cure hanging to go hunt a devil.

took me a bit to find her despite wyll's quest leading you to her, though. i have a horrible sense of direction, which i guess is okay because my horrible sense of direction did lead me to accidentally find scratch and now we have a dog!

eventually i did get to karlach, and elenion's mind connected to hers and gave him a much closer look at who karlach is and what she's doing here than he expected. naturally he convinced wyll to stand down because karlach does not seem evil. and then he tried to ask karlach some of the questions he had in mind back at camp, but she won't reveal anything until we hunt down the paladins that are still hunting her. understandable, i guess. i like her though! i should try and make sure to get her earlier on my next playthrough.

encountered mizora for the first time when i rested at camp, and i'm very intrigued by what's going on with wyll and i actually have been since way before i played the game and found out he was a fabled hero who was also a warlock. which is why i also think it's a huge shame that from what i've heard at least, he was given a lot less content for his quest and his romance than the other companions were.

wandered around the world a bit more and ended up freeing a poor guy who was being spun around on a windmill by goblins. then i got the scene with gale where he teaches you how to channel the weave, and it not only had bard-specific dialogue options but also had an option that specifically reflected my character's proficiency in history, which was all really neat to see. god, there must be an insane amount of different dialogue branches in this game. love that there was also an option to be like "yeah that was neat, but i could've done it myself lol" since a bard is already a spellcaster.

the range of these particular dialogue options is killing me LMAO

i had high enough approval with gale to trigger a very obviously romantic scene and then the game is literally like "okay, so do you want to kiss him or do you want his severed head on a spike" 😭 like wtf do you THINK?! i can't even imagine how i'd roleplay a character who would be cruel enough to get this far and lead gale on so much before picking to project an image of his head on a spike directly into his mind. and yet i am so curious about what happens if you do--but not curious enough to reload and try to find out. mostly because i cannot bring myself to be mean to gale.

anyway, i picked the romantic walk option. i thought elenion would consider the kiss thing to be a bit too forward. but that was such a sweet scene and i love flustered gale gets when he realizes how you feel about him. going into this game i really thought i'd wanna try for astarion or shadowheart's romances first, and i do like them a lot and want to keep learning more about both of them, but gale surprised me with how much i already liked him from his introduction. he's just really charming and funny and also fits well with the character i made, so i will definitely keep progressing his romance.

aaand i've been progressing a bit slowly because of irl stuff but everything about this game is so good that i wish i'd picked it up sooner! i've been spoiled on quite a bit of things about the story already, but there's also a lot that i haven't been spoiled on and i can't wait to experience all of it anyway.

[waywardstation]

I don't post a lot about any of my writing or story bits about my characters often myself (if ever, im horribly shy about my writing skills ;w;), but the process I follow sounds similar to some of the others who have sent asks about the same thing to you!

Nothings linear when I plan or write things ever, it all comes randomly when it wants to show up I can never force it, the way it works for me is if I have the story or plot point I want to improve/add to in mind, I kinda just let my mind go on autopilot, to think, I don't think. I put my music on shuffle and if a song gets the right vibes, the idea builds off that to draw it out, and usually I imagine different scenarios and interactions with the song (its always very vauge like a mixing pot of potential) and just go about working or cleaning, even sleeping as I got good at lucid dreaming years ago, and THEN, the braincell connects juuuuust right and I get a whole dialouge session or a complete scene thought up that I hastily scribble down to just have the key words or lines to hold it there. I have notepads and mini sketchbooks everywheres with bits and pieces of story, lore or character creations in them. My poor phones note app needs to be sorted very badly XD

Another way I learned to get ideas or character development improved on is to talk/type it out to a friend that knows about the thing in question and just, type or talk! Half of any current ideas I've gotten lately have all been half formed until I had gone and typed up an entire wall to explain things, and as I'm doing so, more smaller pieces, or even HUGE pieces I didn't think of before become known all of a sudden that fit into place perfectly! It's just like Rubber Duck Debugging for people who type codes for software and websites. If something breaks or they can't find the issue they talk to a rubber duck to hear themself back and then that usually helps find the problem because they no longer have to see the code like they have been for god knows how long, they can hear it instead and they pick up on the bug that way!

Also just like Warden Anon, I too see everything you've written like a movie being played out in my head, it helps you describe your scenes and interactions very very well to be able to easily visualize what your portraying! XD

Some folks can see what your writing just like it's a movie and some folks see it just as the script but still have that same understanding, or its just a haze. It's called Aphantasia! There was a trend going around about how clearly you can see an apple when you think about it with your eyes closed not too long ago!

What a thought process OP!! It’s so interesting to hear about; I’m simultaneously so similar but so different from that. I will listen to music as well (it has to be instrumental though, no words and very quiet. I have tinnitus, so it needs to be just enough to dull the ringing) and just sit down somewhere secluded; I can’t do other things like you do - though wow, you’re lucky you can lucid dream so easily!!

Talking can help so much too!! From getting help from beta readers, to publicly sharing concepts on this blog that others can help me walk through, it really does help a lot!! I should do it more, though - the rubber duck coding comparison is a good way to reemphasize why it’s so helpful!

And that’s so good to hear that my work can actually be visualized!! I can’t really visualize it myself ^^ I’m not quite sure I can articulate what it’s actually like to me, but it’s definitely not like a movie, or any clear visuals of any sort. I realized that when my brother brought up an aphantasia test, asking me to visualize an elephant a few years ago ^^ It’s interesting how brains work like that!!

Thanks for sharing OP!!! Loved hearing your thoughts and reading about what you shared!!

[angelzarchive]

★ ┈ KAIT’S RULES — BYF & DNI!

angelzarchive © — please read all <3

• BYF: this blog + certain blogs i interact with contain 18+ content. minors, it is better for you own safety if you dni with said content by blocking the ‘✿ nsfw’ tag. if you are a minor ignoring my warnings and i see you interact with my 18+ works, you will be blocked. ageless blogs may also be blocked, just as a precaution.

• BYF: i would really appreciate if you had your age somewhere in your bio! if you’re not comfy with putting your age out there, then please by all means dm me. + please don’t lie about your age, i’m only trying to look out for you.

• BYF: any hate whether you are anon or not is strictly not tolerated, towards me or towards my followers. you know the saying— if you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all. obviously that does not mean i won’t take constructive criticism, i am very open minded when it comes down to it. if you have any tips or suggestions or you see a mistake with lore/ tags, don’t be afraid to let me know!

• BYF: all of my fics are written with AFAB reader in mind, but i will try to make it as gn as i possibly can!

• BYF: i mainly write for character x reader/ character x oc!

• i’ll say it again. DNI!! with nsfw posts if you are under the age of 18 or an ageless blog. it is not my responsibility if you do so and decide that you do not like what you saw.

• DNI: if you are racist, homophobic, xenophobic, transphobic, sexist, etc. my blog does not welcome you.

• DNI if you shame writers for their content. just don’t read it???

• please do not modify, repost, translate, or claim any of the content posted on this blog. do not link or promote my work on any other social media sites, especially without my permission.

• requests are currently OPEN. all i ask is that you keep them sensible and you’re patient with me. i have crippling anxiety so fics may take a little while but that’s only because i’m making sure they’re as perfect as they can be!

★ ┈ CHARACTERS I MAY WRITE FOR!

now, getting into the good stuff. here is a list of the characters i would be open to writing for, which you may make requests for!

(if you don’t see a characters name it’s most likely because i’m afraid my writing won’t do them any justice)

ATTACK ON TITAN: eren jeager, mikasa ackerman, armin arlert, levi ackerman, erwin smith, jean kirchstein, connie springer, sasha braus, reiner braun, porco galliard, zeke jeager!

BTS: all members!

THE WALKING DEAD: rick grimes, daryl dixon, shane walsh, glenn rhee, carl grimes, rosita espinosa, negan smith!

+ more fandoms & characters to be added

★ ┈ CONTENT I WILL AND WONT WRITE!

if there’s anything not included that you’d like me to write for, feel free to send me an ask.

will write: female/ gn reader, headcanons, reactions, one shots, scenarios, fluff, angst, smut/ NSFW, poly relationship, most kinks e.g, size kink, breeding, stepcest, etc (just ask if you’re not sure!), some aspects of dub-con (previous consent/ healthy & trusting relationship setting), drugs, alcohol, violence, pregnancy!

won’t write: nsfw content with minors— they have to be of age, male reader, non-con, sexual assault in detail, ageplay, a/b/o, scat, bloodplay, gore in a sexual sense, pedophilia, suicide/self-harm in detail, hybrid/ half human, incest, necrophilia!

[antihero-writings]

Before it Kills You Too (Ch2 Snippets 1, 2 & 3)

Fandom: Lore Olympus

Chapter Summary: When Hera gets into a car accident after a fight, Zeus has a moment to ruminate on their relationship. Written using the song “Wait” by Maroon 5 as a prompt.

Character Focus: Zeus

Please note!! This is the previous Ch2 snippets I posted + a new snippet (the new snippet starts with “I would venture to guess she was driving too fast.”)

I’ve been having trouble with this chapter for a very long time, so I’ve decided to post it snippet-by-snippet, because that seems like the only way I’ll successfully finish this fic. 

While this should be as close to the final version as it can be, anything in this snippet is subject to change when the full chapter comes out. (And, hey, to that end, if there’s anything you think needs to be edited here, please kindly let me know!!)

Im really excited about this snippet!! Definitely one of my favorite parts of the chapter!!

Thanks again SO much to those who support this fic and want to read more!! The fact that you want to read more really does mean the world to me!! I appreciate your kind comments so much!!

I’d really appreciate it if you could leave a comment and/or reblog!!! I’m not kidding when I say that makes my week!!

Tagging some folks who’ve shown interest!! @jayyy007 @autumnmoon21 @sunsetsofanemoia, @lynnie51 @what-the-fuckaroni @masquejj

And please do let me know if you’d like me to add you to a taglist for this fic, or message you when new snippets/the next chapter come/s out!!

Chapter 2 Snippets 1, 2 & 3:

Hera was standing in the crowded meadow, surrounded by her friends, laughing that girly little giggle full of sunshine that just about made Zeus’ heart ooze in a puddle out of his chest.

Her blue dress made her eyes look like two shimmering sapphires.

“Have I seen her in a dress that color?” Zeus inquired excitedly from behind the bushes.

“How can we know what you’ve seen?” Aidoneus muttered. “With you creeping around, you might have seen her naked for all we know.”

Zeus punched him in the arm, (lightly).

“I don’t think she’s worn a dress that color!” Posiedon bubbled.

“Thank you, Posiedon. At least someone can answer a question.”

“I think she looks like the sea on summer day.” He put his hands on his face, them sliding slowly.

Zeus eyed him. “Alright, keep it in your toga, Little Green Man.”

“Should we really be here?” Aidoneus muttered. “We weren’t invited.”

“Oh come on,” Zeus stood up, putting his hands on his hips. “Who wouldn’t want to see the King of the gods here?”

Poseidon grinned and stood up behind his brother. “No one!”

“Hestia, Demeter… assorted sane people.” Hades muttered as he stood to follow.

“If that’s sanity I’m glad I’m insane.” Zeus trilled as he strutted up to the entrance.

A cute pink nymph—(rather well endowed in the chestal region—not that he noticed!)—greeted them at the archway.

“Oh! Zeus!” She flushed and bowed. “It’s an honor. Welcome!”

“Why it’s an honor to meet you, my lady.” He kissed her hand, and she giggled. “See?” he turned to his brothers. “They’re delighted to have us.”

“I’ve got a bad feeling.” Hades muttered.

Hera was closer now; she smelled like summer, and she looked like it too. Poseidon was right about the ocean thing; she practically shimmered as she spoke with her friends.

“I’m gonna go talk to her.”

“Wait—!” Hades was soon swallowed by the crowd.

Zeus scooched behind her at lightning speed. One by one her friends began to take notice, their eyes widening.

Hera took a step back and would have tripped in surprise if he hadn’t caught her.

“Careful there, you might fall, Birthday Girl.”

“Oh, Zeus!” She looked up at him, the back of her head hitting his chest, “hi!”

That golden smile.

“I made you something!” As she spun to face him, he produced a little carving of a bird from his pocket. (And, no, he didn’t make it).

“Oh!” She pushed a strand of hair behind her ear, gently taking it from him, “It’s beautiful!”

All his responsibilities and stresses melted away with the sight of that smile, and he forgot there was anyone else at the party…in the world.

(…He wished he saw that smile anymore.)

Zeus’ chair was spinning empty at his desk before his assistant could say another word—

And Olympus wept, distant peals of thunder rending the sky into pieces.

Lightning crackled and cackled through his hair, creating violet tracks through the air, as Zeus sped through the sky.

It was freezing, and people were staring, but he didn’t care.

All that mattered was getting to his wife.

“My you look stunning.” Zeus sidled up behind his wife, running his fingers gently along her arm. “Is that a new dress?”

“New as that girlfriend of yours.” Hera grunted.

His eyes widened with shock, his voice with an indignant undertone to it. “Is something wrong?”

She paused a moment. He could see words fluttering behind her lips—(like they did so often, too often)—the words Yes you did something wrong, how can you not know?

He knew she wouldn’t believe him when he said he didn’t mean to hurt her.

“You weren’t invited,” she said softly.

“Not invited? Me?” He put his hand to his chest, like the thought of him ever not being welcome to somewhere was absurd. “To what?”

“The party, you nitwit!” She whirled around, her hair nearly whipping him in the face. “You just came barging in like you owned the place!”

“Well…to be fair—”

He stopped short at the look in her eyes, like two blue-hot flames.

He knew it was taking her a great amount of effort not to slap him.

“Do you know how long I’d been preparing for that?! How long it took me to get everything just right? I told you, but you never even listened, did you? And then you just barged right in!”

“Why are you so upset? What’s so important about a party?!”

“They were my friends.” Her gaze softened, and her tone became more serious. “They were—” Until she cut herself off, and her expression hardened as she whirled around, her hair billowing behind her.

“Bunny, wait!” His tone was softer too.

He wished she’d just turn around. That he could say sorry.

Was it really so hard? He should have started there.

Had he ever apologized for that?

He was always doing that; barging in where he wasn’t welcome. The world was his, yes but…he had to concede there were some parts of it he ought not just barge in on.

When he burst into the hospital, however, they wouldn’t dare tell him he wasn’t invited, wouldn’t dare tell him he couldn’t see her.

“Where. is my. wife?” Lightning slammed into a lamppost just outside the front door, shattering its glass box, and making the light spark, the rain pounding at the window like rabid dogs.

The desk clerk looked like she was about to pee out of sheer fear.

“Sh-sh-she’s not out of surgery yet, your majesty...I understand you want to see her, but I can’t let you…until-until they’re finished.” She was practically vibrating. “I assure you the moment she gets out, we’ll notify you.”

Surgery? He wanted to demand. She’s the queen of the gods, how could she be in surgery?

Electricity sparked in his eyes, trailing throughout his hair. He could say I demand you let me see her. He could say I don’t care! She’s my wife, and I’m not waiting! She’s fine! She’s the queen—she’s my queen—she won’t be hurt from a little car accident!

But there were some places he ought not just barge in on… and the surgeons room was probably one of them.

The lightning let out a sighing crackle, before he closed his eyes, his hair falling back upon his shoulders. It was then that he noticed he was dripping wet from head to toe. He sighed himself before muttering something like a garbled “I understand, thank you.” And turning to sit in the lobby. Behind him the desk clerk’s coworker held her to keep her from fainting.

He snapped his fingers, drying off, so as not to get their nice, barf-colored carpet all wet. Once he sat down in a chair—(the cushions didn’t have any cush to them)—a kid in the chair across from him scooched away.

He could have that kid lightly charred if he wanted.

Instead he settled for a nice glare, and reached over to pick up last month’s—(or maybe it was a few months ago)—issue of  “Goddess weekly” listening to the rain die down to a drum.

The same old gossip. Usually if he picked one of these up he’d check for any news he ought to be aware of. You know, as the king. Not to mention the ladies weren’t unappealing. Now he flicked through without seeing any of it.

Speaking of ladies, there was a nymph sitting across the room from him, her skin blue, her ears down, and a cute little half smile. She surely wasn’t in here for anything serious. She kept glancing from her own magazine to him—but not in a nervous way. If he wasn’t mistaken, she wouldn’t be opposed to a session of hide-the-German-sausage.

If he wanted he could take her there in a darkened closet in the hallway. It wouldn’t take long—(if it didn’t need to…or it could take all night). That would be a nice way to relieve the stress bubbling in his body.

—Someone was laying next to him, her skin smooth, practically glowing. There was rather a lot of it exposed.

She turned over, her eyes fluttering open, a small smile creasing her features as she rolled onto his chest, tickling his chin with her fingers.

“I had a wonderful time,” she twittered, and he practically purred, staring into those big blue eyes, glittering like river stones.

He pushed her green hair behind her ear.

“Is that all? I’d like to think a night with the King of the gods would be more than merely ‘wonderful.’”

She giggled. “No no, it was much more than wonderful! It was spectacular! Mind-blowing!” She threw her arms in the air.

“That’s more like it.” He grinned—

When was that again? Two years ago, or two days ago?

It could have been either.

Had he apologized for that?

Would it have mattered if he had? Would she have forgiven him? Would he have stopped?—

Bile rose in his throat, and he dove his nose so hard into the magazine he almost smacked himself with it.

His wife was bruised and bleeding, and potentially worse in a nearby room, at the mercy of some quack holding a scalpel and a few comforting words…and here he was thinking of betraying her for the…

How many times had it been now?

He threw the magazine back on the table and sank in the chair till his head was nearly on the bottom cushion, his lip flapping his he blew out a breath, making his hair fly up a little.

The kid and his mom got called, and seemed glad of a reason to leave.

After a healthy dose of moping he pulled out his phone. After checking fatesbook and playing a few games he decided it was time to open his messages.

He didn’t want to be alone. He wanted some sensible and non-conjugal company.

He scrolled through and clicked on a name.

A number of old conversations sprinkled the page, often detailing Zeus asking about getting together and the correspondent saying they were busy.

He thought a moment about what to say—(a rare occurrence for him)—before deciding any vague requests would probably get ignored, so he simply decided the boldfaced truth:

Hera’s been in a car accident. She’s in surgery.

“WHAT?!” The word was spoken aloud—and very loudly at that.

Hades was standing in front of him. If the king being here wasn’t enough reason for weird looks, this outburst had sent more than a few eyes their way.

Zeus did a finger wave at the nymph, before he grabbed his brother’s arm, whisking him off to a less crowded hallway.

The only thing here was a vending machine, and a few overly picturesque pictures of trees.

“How did this happen?!”  Hades shout-whispered.

“I would venture to guess she was driving too fast.”

“I could have gathered that myself, thank you very much!” Hades was clearly trying not to shout. “What was she doing?! Where was she going?!”

Zeus rolled folded his arms. “Does it matter?”

“Sure it matters! Well at least it’d be good to know!”

“…I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?! What do you mean you don’t know?! She’s your wife—!”

“I said I don’t know!” he kicked the vending machine.

The air shattered and reformed itself.

Zeus sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, his voice softening. “I…I don’t know.”

Two sides of him warred. One wanted to shout at Hades. He expected him to know where she was at all times? Oh yeah, that would go over well with her. What kind of helicopter husband would he be then?

And yet, it felt wrong for him not to know. Like some sort of failure. She was his wife. Shouldn’t he? Shouldn’t he have asked? Shouldn’t he care?

Hades’ gaze softened.

“I upset her.” Zeus murmured. “We got into a fight.”

Hades leaned against the wall. He was probably resisting the urge to say he could have gathered that too.

Zeus leaned his head forward onto the glass of the vending machine, his hair falling to the side, his reflection vaguely eyeing him.

“We got into a fight and she…I hadn’t even realized she went for a drive.” He paused, observing the chocolate and chips sitting in neat rows in the machine. “Do you think she liked Twyx?”

“Huh?”

“Do you think she liked Twyx?”

Hades pondered it a moment. “Probably. She tends to like things with caramel in them.”

Zeus smiled wryly. “See? I didn’t even know that.”

“I’m sure you’ll be able to ask her all your burning questions about her favorite candy flavors very soon.”

“That’s not the point.” Zeus whispered.

Zeus was feeling a little off-kilter.

He nearly fell into a three-thousand drachma vase.

Okay, make that a lot.

The sound of heels on the staircase. The white one they’d painted for that one event…what had they been celebrating again?

His hazy gaze made her glitter even more than usual.

“Have I ever told you that you’re like the sea on a summer’s day?” Zeus’ voice came out blurry. He put his hand in his hair, trying to look sexy, you know, like the kind of guy you’d wanna forgive.

This was met by her hair slapping him in the face as she walked by him. She paused a few steps below him, turning.

“Is that alcohol I smell on your breath?”

“I may have had one—“ He hiccuped, “or five, appletinis.”

“And this is what? An intelligent conversation you’re trying to have?” She folded her arms over her chest.

“Actually,” he held up a finger. The action made him feel off-balance so he leaned against the railing, trying to land in a sexy pose. “There is something I wanted to say.”

“You’re barely coherent when you’re sober, at least spare me until then.”

He rolled his eyes—(and made himself feel even dizzier).

She turned to go back up the stairs.

“Wait!” He shouted.

She stopped, looked over her shoulder, eyes narrow as a cat’s. “What?”

“I-hic!” He covered his mouth as if embarrassed. Clearly emotion was dangerous. “I wasn’t trying to get wasted! I just-hic!-needed more than three or four to say this.”

“Oh yeah? Spit it out Grape Sorbet.” She folded her arms over her chest.

“I’m…” he held on to the railing for support. “I’m sorry.”

She raised an eyebrow. “I’m listening.”

“You…You were right.” He took a step closer.

“About what?” Her breath bated.

“I just…I didn’t want to admit it. I couldn’t…” He looked away. “I couldn’t tell you sober.”

“About what?” The words had a rough edge to them, her chest heaving with breath.

Ah. She knew. She knew what he was going to say, even before he said it.

“I…I did cheat on you.”

“Wh-What?” Her eyes tinted red…but there was so much hurt in the word.

Fear and shame rose in tandem like ocean waves, threatening to bowl him over, and he realized that the truth wasn’t going to help at all. But all he could do was let it pour out of him.

“You-hic-You asked if I was with-hic—”

“Stop.” She covered her mouth as if to keep the worst words from spilling out, tears welling in her eyes.

“But I—”

“I said stop!” Her voice rang through the room like something shattering.

Maybe something was.

Her heels against the stairs, fast and sharp, and away.

“Wait!”

Turn around please, let me apologize, let me explain, I won’t do it again.

He threw up in the vase.

“Daddy? What was that all about?” The small voice made his blood run cold. “What did you cheat at? Were you playing a game?”

Zeus turned, horrified, to see Ares, hiding behind a crack in the door.

“I shouldn’t have yelled at her.” He breathed. “It was stupid, really.”

Hades put a dollar in the vending machine and punched in a number.

“People say all kinds of things when they’re angry. Doesn’t mean you’re bad, just means you’re people. Which…” Hades looked him up and down, adding under his breath, “I wonder about sometimes.”

“...You must think I’m a terrible husband.”

Hades grabbed two chocolate bars and handed one to his brother.

“I think you need something sweet, maybe a little hydration, and some rest.”

Zeus unwrapped the bar and took a bite, not really tasting anything.

After a moment Hades sighed.

“It’s not so simple as that.” Hades said between bites, “I don’t necessarily think there’s such a thing as a ‘terrible husband’ or ‘the best husband.’ I…I don’t even think there’s such a thing as good and bad people. There’s just…people. There’s just husbands. But there are rules that come with being a person, and/or being a husband and…” he paused, trying to choose his words carefully, “you don’t always follow those rules.”

Zeus fell back against the wall, looking at the floor, denials dying in his throat.

It was raining.

No, actually it was pouring. And thundering. The lightning was like cracks in a collapsing sky, and Zeus’s gut was twisting like the snakes on the head of a gorgon.

“What? You-you think you can just undo this?!” Hera’s words were biting. “It’s done!” Her laugh was wry and sardonic, like an ache in her throat, red tainting the blue of her eyes. “You can’t just fix something like that! Once someone cheats at the game no one else just keeps playing!”

“It was a mistake! One stupid night!”

“One stupid night, huh?! Then how do you explain this?!” She held up his phone. The pictures. The…Oh Gaia.

The snakes in his gut bit down, and he bit his lip looking away. He hadn’t known she knew about that.

“You’ve got it all wrong! That was just—!”

“I thought you were different!” She bit off his excuse, the anger cracked, and the pain was bleeding through, and he wasn’t the only one making it rain: A tear fell down her face, then another, her mascara running black along her cheeks. “You made me smile, you made me laugh! You saved your brothers from your father. And I thought we could make a kingdom—a world—together!” She shook her head, grimacing, trying and failing to keep more tears from falling. “I thought we could be something!”

“We are! We have! I just made a mistake! I—!”

“No, Zeus.” There was a finality to her tone.

Tears streamed down her face now. He hated it when she cried. She didn’t do it often, and whenever she did he was ready to smite whoever hurt her but…he’d hurt her worst of all.

“I thought you were different. But you’re—“ the words were like an antique vase, riddled with cracks. “You’re just another bad guy.” She punched him in the arm, and the vase broke, the defiance into pain. She punched him in the arm…but it was weak and far too soft, and that’s how he knew she was really hurt; she could bring the sky down on him if she wanted.

She looked down at her hand, twisting her wedding ring with a finger.

“I’m staying with a friend tonight.”

Her wedding ring tinkled on the floor.

As she turned and walked away the word rang out like he was hoping his voice alone could rewrite his sins and bring her back:

“Wait!”

She didn’t stop, didn’t turn, didn’t make any indication she’d even heard him.

“Please…Please just wait.” These were soft.

He fell to his knees on the marble, scooping up her wedding ring and enclosing it in his fingers, holding it to his forehead, and trying not to bring the sky down upon himself.

He’d seen her angry. He’d seen her sad. But this? Seeing her break for him…was so much worse.

It reminded him too much of another time. Of a scar on her stomach. How she broke herself just to be his.

—(And he wondered, for a fleeting moment, if it would have been better if he had been the one to break.)—

“There you are!” Said a voice. “You can come see her now,”—a cleared throat— “your Majesty.”

*

Notes: Aright, so this chapter had a few things I was unsure about I thought I’d ask about here!

1. Does anyone have any other clever play-on-words for candy brands? I feel like Zeus would know that she likes caramel in general, so it’d make more sense if Hades said “she likes [X similar candy] so she’d probably like Twyx.” But Twyx is all my brain came up with and I don’t even know that it’s all that good XD

2. I’m aware that the gods don’t call each other “people” they call each other “beings.” However, Hades’ lines don’t have as much impact with “beings.” Did the fact that I used “people” stick out too much? Should I change it to “beings”?

3. I know Ancient Greek wedding ceremonies are different from ours, and they might not even have wedding rings. But that image was so impactful for me I decided to use it. Should I remove it? Or did you find it impactful?

Please let me know if there’s anything you felt was inaccurate to their characters!!

Thanks so much for reading!! 💕💕

[doctorsiren]

Ok. This has been bugging me since I watched it so I have a question. In baby hotline, what exactly happened in the first part? (Up until they meet up with Cleo) like I get the general gyst of it but I want to know Details (if you have them and if you’re willing to share ofc <3)

Okay I’m gonna die because I had like… half of this typed out and then Tumblr crashed on me and I lost everything I had written ;v;

But yeah I had to go back and watch the actual animatic again cuz it’s been a while haha

So basically, in the beginning, NPC is pretending to be Grian, and he’s hanging out with his best best buddy, Mumbo. Mumbo isn’t aware that he’s actually NPC, and he thinks that Grian’s just being really friendly.

But then, (NP)Grian starts acting strange. He starts alluding to his robotic-ness, and Mumbo starts to become uneasy. Something is wrong, and he can feel it.

Then, NPC reveals himself. He asks Mumbo if he wants to join him, become an NPC, become (in his mind) perfect. See, for NPC, he believed that Mumbo would say yes! Mumbo was his friend, and so he would definitely agree…

NPC’s never really had friends before. The only one who ever really cared about him was Taurtis. NPC was never taught how to love or even what love is since Grian never loved him.

Mumbo outright refuses. Now he knows that something is up. NPC has Grian’s gauntlet. And where’s Grian? How long has this copy been impersonating G? Mumbo wanted to be NPC’s friend, but now...he’s done something very wrong and Mumbo isn’t sure what to do.

NPC was not expecting Mumbo to say no. It catches him off-guard. No worry though. NPC has the gauntlet, and won’t take no for an answer. He *snapshoots* (hehe) Mumbo and turns him into NPC Mumbo Jumbo (AKA Mumbot). It was a split-second decision.

Now Mumbot is an NPC. He doesn’t feel quite right. He doesn’t feel like himself anymore.

NPC isn’t having the best time either. During the “Hotline!” Bits, he’s realizing what he did. He made a hasty decision, and he can’t just…go back from it. If he were to turn Mumbo back into a human, he would definitely throw him back in a closet. NPC was scared of being forgotten, so this was the way, he believed, it had to be. Also, he’s glitching. It’s not just an art choice, but an actual story thing. NPC was shut in a closet for around 4 years, and so he’s not up to date with the latest version of minecraft. His systems are outdated. That’s why in Part 2 (Touch-Tone Telephone), he’s confused and then afraid of the bees. He doesn’t know what they are since he was in the closet for that update.

In the next bit, NPC shakes away his bad feelings to look at his newly perfected friend. He’s a robot man like him! Mumbot isn’t fighting back anymore. He seems perfectly happy being this way! NPC tells him that, “hey look, everything went okay! What were you scared about?”

But then...Mumbot discovers his new powers.

If you’ll recall, NPC can teleport (he can fly too but smh that was too OP and I forgot that he could until like...Part 5).

Well, Mumbot can go zappy zap. He starts to show a sign of...what is that...evilness? Not quite, but it’s enough to scare NPC. Mumbo’s more powerful than NPC meant, and he’s not sure what to do.

NPC sees Mumbot and Robocleo and starts to think about his decisions. At one point, RoboCleo is holding Xisuma’s helmet (the one that Joe wore in Part 3).

We once again cut to NPC glitching and thinking about what he’s done

And then we get to Mumbot.

This is a really important thing actually. So, when Mumbot was near NPC, he acted strange. He acted the way that NPC wanted him to act, even if NPC didn’t know that’s what he wanted. This is because NPC is subconsciously controlling the NPCGang when they’re near him.

RoboCleo becomes his right hand man, Mumbot becomes his beeeest friend >:))) (smh NPC IS A SIMP FOR MUMBO AND SO MUMBOT IS A SIMP BACK BC OF THE CONTROLLING THING)

But now Mumbot was by himself. He starts to be able to think his own thoughts clearly. He starts to become depressed and anxious. He thinks that the real Grian must be dead. And that means Joe and Xisuma too. His friends...gone. Reduced to atoms.

And he starts to hate himself because he let this happen. He didn’t catch on early enough to stop NPC from doing this. He didn’t check in to see where NPC was.

And so he starts to cry.

But Jrumbot doesn’t like to see his papa sad. He runs in and tells his father that he still loves him. Mumbot looks at his baby boy and realizes that there’s nothing he can do, so he might as well make the best of the situation. So he takes his son to meet up with his other father, his brother, and his aunt.

So then, I know you said you meant to beginning bit, but whatever I’m doin’ the full thing.

So now NPC, Mumbot, Jrumbot, and Robocleo are sitting atop Grumbot’s head, vibing.

Smh look at them >:( stop being so cute /j

Since they’re near NPC, Mumbot and RoboCleo’s thoughts have been overridden by him and now they like him. He starts to talk about his anxieties and fears, but his two robot buddies reassure him that everything will be okay. They do this because NPC, deep down, wants them to. They obey.

NPC is telling them how he’s scared that they will forget about him or that they hate him.

Mumbot tells him that he would never hate him. That he would stay by his side.

(Also it’s really funny because someone told me that at this frame, they thought Mumbot and NPC were gonna kiss- AND LIKE THAT’S EXACTLY WHY I HAD TO HAVE THIRDWHEEL ROBOCLEO POP IN ON THE NEXT FRAME HAHAH)

NPC then gets his confidence back. He’s laughing and is fine.

But then the phone starts to ring.

Not a literal phone, but more of like...his consequences calling. He can’t run from them forever. He has to pick up the phone sometime.

And yeah! I hope that was helpful? I didn’t realize how confusing Baby Hotline was for people when I made it since I have the story in my head. Man, it’s nice to just...have somewhere to put this. But yeah. There’s a ton of lore and angst and stuff that goes on outside of the animatics that I don’t have the screen time to show sadly

BUT! Once I finish the animatic series, I will be writing it out as a full length fanfic, with TONS of extra stuff and like...full angst and character development. I hope that it all goes well haha

If you read all this, then I award you a choccy milk

[leonstamatis]

I know you have the masterpost, but is there a single post where you explain all of your Flowers IRM so far? All the characters where you have major differences from what's popular? If not, could you make one? I really enjoy all your interpretations. :)

hooo boy anon, i sure can. pull up a chair and let’s get into it. fair warning: this is so many words. it’s so many.

(updated 09/03/2021)

i’m going to start by saying that none of these flowers takes developed in a vacuum. so much of what i’m about to talk about came from conversations with jamie @waveridden (and, later on, a few other folks who i will name as they’re relevant) so i’m not gonna label them as “mine” specifically.

jaz and i have been running with the idea of “take what you like, throw out the rest” when it comes to lore? so a lot of this might be recognizable to you if you’re familiar with the wiki, and then it’ll take a turn somewhere along the line. okay! that’s it. those are my disclaimers. let’s get a move on.

Major Character Deviations:

Bryanayah Chang (she/her) - Bryanayah Chang is an antiques shop owner and a collector, specifically of movie memorabilia. She has an extensive collection of wigs, costumes, set pieces and other items. She’s just a regular human woman! Preferably of Taiwanese descent. She and Beck Whitney get along great and bond over their collections of odds and ends. Clutter abounds.

This is a new one that isn’t fully fleshed out yet. I just feel a little weird about the version of Brya that exists on the wiki, so it’s a possible different take and a chance to have another woman of color on the team.

Hurley Pacheco (they/she/he) - There actually isn’t much on Hurley’s page, but I think what I’ve written about her has been incorporated in some capacity. When I first started writing them, the only thing there was that he had the most ribs in the Chaotic League, or something like that? But in my head Hurley is a florist and a landscaper, joined the Flowers to spend more time in the Garden and learn about it, and her external ribcage is a series of roots. (I reference it as a gift from Brya in a few fics; I’m rethinking that now that Brya is a person, but either way, the external ribcage is plant-based and was given to Hurley by someone else.) Hurley is close friends with Brya and Matheo Carpenter, for whom I have changed absolutely nothing.

Dunn Keyes (she/they) - Dulcinea “Dunn Keyes” Quinones is a young woman of Puerto Rican descent. She was brought here by the season four alternates decree, but before that, she lived in a world where she was the mascot for Dunkin Donuts. Specifically, the world was Dunkin Donuts. If you look at a globe, the land is orange and the water is pink, and Dunn’s face is on it. She is a pop singer and a brand and performs at Dunkin amusement parks around the world - until she gets swapped, and ends up in this world. She is not a very good pitcher. She does her best anyway. She eventually after much back and forth ends up dating Basilio Mason on the LA Unlimited Tacos. My absolute beloved.

Jamie has a very good fic about this here. I am working on one as well, but it’s not ready to share yet.

This was the result of Jamie saying “What if Dunn Keyes was like Aria Joie but for Dunkin” at one in the morning and both of us losing our minds about it for two and a half hours. I regret nothing.

Nic Winkler (he/him) - The thing about Nic is that we haven’t really changed all that much about the lore itself other than the treatment of his disability. Most of this is from Jamie’s fic here, but the general idea is: Remove the bit about supernatural hearing that makes up for only having one ear? Nic is deaf and uses hearing aids, and both feedback and reverb interfere with that in a tangible way. I think most of what is different about Nic in my works is the characterization, and also, he’s in love with Margo. In my head he’s somewhere on the asexual spectrum, but I’m not going to make that one a necessary part of the lore here because I’ve never explicitly incorporated it. He and Margo become co-captains after Beck is feedbacked, rather than Beck staying on as coach.

Nic and Margo got married over the Grand Siesta. This is non-negotiable, for me. /j

Gloria Bugsnax (xe/xem) - I do not remember where Jamie and I came up with this one, but. The general idea is, Gloria has the same origin story - there’s a death at an away game, xe breaks out of xyr flower pot and comes to life and joins the roster. But the main difference is that after that, xe starts to become more and more human as time passes. The Garden takes away the plant parts of xem until xe’s essentially a regular person, albeit one with some really sharp teeth and weird vine-like hair and a lack of understanding of what, exactly, it means to be a person. I love xem. I love xem so much.

Gloria should be friends with some of the Baltimore Crabs. That’s all.

Margarito Nava (xe/xem) - So I’m mostly including Margo here on the off chance that you aren’t really involved in fandom or the side server? I don’t write xem particularly differently from how Cat plays xem on Twitter, personality-wise. Dating Nic is a deviation, but I’ve already talked about that. However, if you are unfamiliar with the Twitter RP, and you are only looking at the wiki, I have to say that’s not my Margo right there. The bit about being a mirrorverse version of a real-world baseball player, mostly. I throw that right out the window, I do not mess with it. Margo’s just a nice guy (gender-neutral). I also generally don’t give xem a plant arm, but I can be persuaded.

I do think Margo and Nagomi Nava of the Hellmouth Sunbeams should be twins. I feel like I’ve made my case for that, but I also know people are plenty attached to what’s already out there and I respect that. This take is entirely optional and is not in a majority of my works. Excluding the big one.

Hiroto Cerna (ze/zem) - Tiny changes for this one. I think of Hiroto as being a paladin of the Garden? So not the cool kid riding a motorcycle and flying overhead as Cali died. I picture zem as a cabbage white moth person. The wings function as a sort of cape. Ze was born as a soldier and a messenger for the Garden and walked out of the woods to replace Cali. Ze functions as a protector for the team. Or, uh. Ze did. Before ze died. Alas.

Moses Mason (any pronouns) - I have been told that my takes on Moses justify classifying her as an alternate take, but really it’s just me connecting what seems to be kind of dissonant takes on his wiki page? Like I wanted. Connective tissue. Between the parts about “an actor in Hollywood” and “a concrete flower person.” So for Moses, I see it as: Moses Mason was a Hollywood actor and a player for the LA Unlimited Tacos. They were part of the Wyatt Masoning and had their identity and memories jumbled like the rest of the team, but they recovered from most of it. When they came to the Garden, they were still searching for an anchor and something to hold onto. This allowed the Garden to start transforming him into a flower/human hybrid. Things stayed like that for a while, with Moses serving as the sort of voice for the Garden and a vector for its growth, until he became a Receiver and got the temporary Alternate modification. At that time, Moses started to converge with a different version of themself from another reality - where the Garden is actually a statue garden, and he is one of the sculptures in it. I picture it less as a full transformation and more like patches of marble that resemble vitiligo. The alternate modification wears off, but the stonework stays.

Sim @fourteenthidol did some beautiful artwork of them that makes me just. So fucking happy every time I look at it.

I will shut up about Moses Mason after this, I promise, but it’s important that you know they are in love with Jacob and also Layna. They are all so important to me. Speaking of...

Alaynabella Hollywood (she/they) - So Layna is actually one where I would say I deviate pretty heavily from what’s typically done? I did not know, for one, that people typically characterize her as a lesbian. So she’s bi in everything I do. Beyond that, Layna is less a human with dog characteristics and more a literal werewolf. My specific take on her is that, when the sun died at the end of season ten and took the moon with it, she lost the ability to transform? Or she lost whatever amount of control she had over it prior to that point. Important points: 1) She did not like the Garden before this. 2) She learns to love the Garden after, because it gives her a way to access that part of herself again and continue to change and transform. And now she’s a weird plant-wolf hybrid sometimes! I adore her. She’s in Seattle now and I hope she’s doing okay out there.

Again, she is in love with Moses and Jacob. It’s important that you know this.

Allan Kranch (she/her, or other times they/them or he/him) - So here’s the thing about Allan Kranch. We’ve done a whole bunch of IRMs for them. I see Allan either as an early-twenties Black woman who goes by Lani, or as a former grad student who fell into the fens and became a water elemental. I have written fic about each of these! But perhaps most importantly, the characterization that lands for me is that Kranch was a shitty broadcaster out in Ohio before he joined the Flowers. He’s divorced from Jeb Kranch, a Tacos Shadows player. This interp is in hen @fourteenfifteen’s fic, So Much To Recover. I think about it constantly.

Scores Baserunner (she/her) - Going to start by saying I love the Scores Baserunner lore as is. This is an additional take I’m fond of, but I’ve written about both because I like both. Scores is a former Scorekeeper as introduced in my fic “weights and measures.” She worked behind the scenes for a few different teams before she broke the rules to see Day X live, and then was kicked out of her position and put into active play. She wears a big heavy cloak and I love her.

Those are most of the major character changes I’ve done. There are a few smaller ones here and there, so I’ll list those too. These are not necessary for understanding my fic or anything, unless said writing is specifically about this concept? I guess? I don’t know what I’m saying anymore, it’s fine.

Minor Character Deviations

King Weatherman (he/him) - Sometimes I think it’s fun for King Weatherman to be a he/him lesbian. OG King as portrayed on the wiki still delights me, but this one is fun to play around with and I do on occasion.

Beck Whitney (she/her) - Beck has not been a part of the team’s leadership since like season eight. Also, she’s like hundreds of years old. Luis Acevedo turned her into a vampire back in like the 1800s at her request. I’m stealing that one from Rai @catboydeicide because I love it so, so dearly.

Zesty Yaboi is in love with Jayden Wright on the Hellmouth Sunbeams. Jayden is not a literal bone lawyer; she works in verifying archaeological finds for museums. Hence, “bone lawyer.” I am very attached to this. It is not technically Flowers lore, but it’s tangential, so I’m including it. 

Zeboriah Wilson and Inez Owens. This is a tiny change. Inez functions as a disability aid for Zeb? I’m still trying to figure out how to make this one work in a way that adequately considers the complexities of being a blind pitcher. I’m really not sure, and I’m open to any pointers or thoughts from anyone else. Either way, even if Inez isn’t seeing eye bees, they’re best friends. That part’s important.

Inez Owens is bees, still, but there is one little ladybug in there that functions as their queen. Nothing else is different I just like this one.

This one might be a little controversial but I don’t ever write Cali as still being alive? I know that’s important to the Flowers’ worldbuilding, but. Yeah. I’m not going to get into my reasoning but it is a pretty big shift away from popular fanon, so I felt I should note it here.

I will say that even characters I haven’t listed here - Jacob, I am referring to Jacob - are perhaps different from common fanon based on my characterization of them. I haven’t changed the lore, per se, just how that lore impacts their behavior and their relationships with the Garden and ILB as a whole.

(Mads @socksmaybe knocked me out with the idea that after Moses dies, Jacob gets a wreath of wildflowers and plants. This does require you to buy into Jacob being in love with Moses and grieving for them. However, it means a lot to me personally, so I’m mentioning it in the hopes that more people will also spend time thinking about it. I think about it all the time. All the time!!)

There are some Flowers I’m still trying to rework? Namely Chambers Simmons and Castillo Turner. I do not know what I want to do with them. I’ve been trying to think of some way to IRM them for, uh. Months. So hey, if you have any alternatives, I would absolutely love to hear them. This goes for any of the Flowers, actually; I will take any and all input and I will go stupid, go crazy, aaaa.

Thank you for asking for my takes! Honestly, I’d love to get some of this up on the wiki someday? But personally I find the wiki kind of intimidating and I have no idea how to write for it. Pipe dreams! I have them.

I hope this covered everything you wanted to know, but feel free to reach out with anything more specific that I didn’t cover! I’m sure I’m forgetting someone.

[vivithefolle]

Not sure if you already talked about this. (I’m pretty sure you have) but someone seemed to notice that when the trio get into fights, Hermione’s always in the right. Even when she’s supposed to be wrong she always seems to be half right. That kind of bothers me. Especially since it’s evident in the whole Scabbers situation.

I have indeed, on Quora, so let’s move yet another answer of mine to Tumblr!

Hermione is seldom wrong in the Harry Potter books. Sometimes she makes mistakes but those mistakes are either completely swept under the rug or downright ignored.

It’s partly due to lazy writing and partly due to Rowling’s own growing bias in favour of her Author Avatar that was fuelled by Steve Kloves, the primary advocate of the Hermione Granger Is The Perfect Girl Ever line of thinking (an utterly ridiculous line of thinking mind you).

Lizo: Steve, Hermione is a character that you have said is one of your favorites. Has that made her easier to write?

Steve: Yeah, I mean, I like writing all three, but I've always loved writing Hermione. Because, I just, one, she's a tremendous character for a lot of reasons for a writer, which also is she can carry exposition in a wonderful way because you just assume she read it in a book. If I need to tell the audience something...

JKR: Absolutely right, I find that all the time in the book, if you need to tell your readers something just put it in her. There are only two characters that you can put it convincingly into their dialogue. One is Hermione, the other is Dumbledore. In both cases you accept, it's plausible that they have, well Dumbledore knows pretty much everything anyway, but that Hermione has read it somewhere. So, she's handy.

Now this, right here, is the exact core of the problem.

Rowling herself admits it: if she wants the readers to have information, she puts Hermione in the scene. Hermione is our primary means of exposition because, like *grits teeth* Sssssteve puts it, it’s easy to assume that she’s read about it somewhere and it makes sense.

That’s all well and good but at first, if you notice, Ron also gave us exposition about the wizarding world, mostly about its culture. He was able to recall the exact year of the Wizarding Confederation that outlawed dragon breeding in Philosopher’s Stone! He explained what were respectively a “Mudblood”, a “Squib”, and Parseltongue, Hermione doing a little exposition about the history of that last one! He was also able to identify Sirius, after being dragged into the Whomping Willow, as an Animagi!

But then Goblet of Fire happens and you can notice the first change that will exponentially grow through the books: instead of Ron, pureblood Ron, born-before-the-end-of-the-war Ron, lived-through-the-aftermath-of-the-war Ron, identifying the Dark Mark, it’s instead Hermione, muggleborn Hermione, lived-as-a-Muggle-for-most-of-her-life Hermione, has-no-idea-about-the-emotional-impact-of-the-Mark Hermione who looks terrified as the Dark Mark shoots into the sky!

And it only will get worse, by the end of the series, Hermione pretty much knows about everything the plot needs her to know, instead of having to work with things she knows but can’t always apply to the situation:

Suddenly has a deep knowledge of Magical Law (in the will of Dumbledore’s chapter, while we had Rufus Scrimgeour who could have provided it to us, or to a lesser extent, Ron could have explained how a wizarding will basically worked)

Is suddenly an expert at finding edible plants and mushrooms. Apparently books are always the goddamn answer in JKR’s world, you can literally learn anything from them

She can decipher all the Tales of Beedle the Bard (may I remind you that they were written in Runes, okay Hermione may have a few years of Ancient Runes education BUT I once tried to translate a 3k+ story I had written for fun, from French to English, which means I knew what the subtleties and intentions were, I knew which turns of phrase I had to preserve so it would make sense in the end, and it still took me two gruelling weeks to get a satisfying result!)

Has suddenly grown a sense of quick-thinking (escaping Xenophilius’ house, using the jinx to make Harry’s face weird-looking) despite it being the only remaining flaw she had at the time (remember when she turned her back on her enemy while he was still conscious just to compliment Harry, and almost died as a result, even though she had been training in the DA to learn how to fight Death Eaters?) Quick-thinking under pressure can be learned, but it takes time and a lot of work to force your brain to override its instinct - and it’s fine because we’re all human and different. But no suddenly Hermione is the Greatest Strategist Evah™ and those silly boys (who actually were the original quick-thinking ones, and one of them was established as the strategist early on) better be grateful for this literal goddess because she protects them from all harm with her superhuman brain.

Somehow knows about Quidditch stuff - she knows about a Snitch’s “memory-touch”. Why should she give all the answers? Why can’t Ron give us this particular tidbit of information?

And then when we come to something Ron actually knows, the damn narration itself goes “woah a book that Ron has read but Hermione hasn’t??? shocking!! incredible!! Ron is not dumb, somebody call the news channel”. But… is that really so surprising? We’ve never seen Hermione read wizarding fiction or even Muggle fiction. We’ve never seen Hermione with anything other than schoolbooks in her hands. Of course Ron has read books she hasn’t read since she doesn’t seem to read fiction at all!

Sorry, bit of a tangent over here.

There are only two characters that you can put it convincingly into their dialogue.

So, that’s one part of the problem: the fact that Rowling, after making Ron our insight into magical culture and Hermione our provider of knowledge, ended up saying “eh whatever I guess Hermione can tell us everything we gotta know because it’s more convenient for me”. Which is a decision that was not based on Hermione’s character, but simply lazy writing. Long story short, it probably went: “Could Ron explain this bit of trivia? Meh, better make Hermione say it cause she’ll have read it in a book. It’s convenient and I won’t need to bother myself with exploring Ron’s characterisation.”

(And thus completely forgetting that Ron could maybe ask his big brothers via owl and provide us with a good heap of extra advanced knowledge - Bill is supposed to have aced his NEWTs after all.)

The other part of the problem is quite simply that Hermione is more often than not, either painted as a victim by the narrative (which makes more people take her side, classic manipulation tactic), or made to be right anytime it’s about a plot point.

Hermione’s mistakes are never explicitly stated, corrected, or even pointed out as being unethical.

Hermione only gets one mistake expressedly pointed out as being a mistake: her misadventure in Polyjuice Potion. The rest of them? Even her crush on Lockhart can’t be counted as a mistake - people get crushes all the time, based solely on physical appearance, it’s not something awful or terrible (Except when it’s Ron who crushes on someone. Ron crushing on someone is absolutely forbidden, and he must be punished with much ridicule and humiliation if he thinks he can get away with not worshipping Hermione like the goddess she is. The nerve of him, really.).

Throughout the books Hermione eventually morphs into Rowling’s Powerful Angel of Vengeance, that punishes the people who dared to do something she disliked - Rita is silenced but at a very ethically dubious price; Marietta gets scarred for life because she was more loyal to her mother than to a bunch of people her friend insisted she hang out with; Umbridge is led to a very, very alarming fate that is never made clear but some people have ideas and they’re not all very kid-friendly; Ron first is “helped” without knowing it because Hermione can’t be bothered to have faith in his capabilities, then when he fails to dutifully reward her for “helping” him, she causes him bodily harm before actively bullying him for not mind-reading her interest in him; causes even more bodily harm to Ron because that’s how feminism works; etc.

Hermione’s mistakes are always justified through the plot itself (which is lazy writing).

Turning into a cat? Only affects her.

The Firebolt? Scabbers? Well, in the end, it was really sent by Sirius Black and Crookshanks really wasn’t the culprit. Therefore all the feelings that were hurt and all the trust lost are irrelevant because Hermione was right all along.

Trying to free the house-elves? Well, it’s the intent that counts, right? And we’re never told enough about house-elf lore to know whether they’re poor brainwashed victims or powerful Penate-like symbiotes who need to serve a wizard to survive?

Kidnapping Rita Skeeter, trapping her and blackmailing her? Rita may be one foul little beetle, but that’s going a bit far, isn’t it? Harry approves? Oh, well, I guess it’s okay then…? A main character can’t have a dubious morality, right?

Manipulating Harry into forming Dumbledore’s Army and forcing him to relive a traumatic event with the same woman she’s kidnapped and blackmail and that she knows he hates? In the end, it all works out for the best and Harry’s hurt feelings don’t matter since it’s all about the greater good.

Using the centaurs to get rid of Umbridge (which poses the highly distressing question of what did the centaurs do to her?), realizing that the centaurs aren’t nice little horsies that are going to gently obey her every orders like good Disney princess’ companions, my goodness could this be an opportunity for character growth - nevermind, here comes Grawp the Giant Ex Machina, saving her arse and protecting Hermione from all that scary possibility of introspection. Thanks, Grawp Ex Machina.

Trying to dissuade a highly stressed-out and irrational Harry from rescuing Sirius by telling him exactly what he needed not to hear, a.k.a. “you have a saving people-thing” which causes Harry to completely go bonkers and go save his godfather without thinking twice? Well she was right after all, it was a trap! Nevermind how mind-boggingly insenstive and inadept at dealing with someone else’s feelings she was being, she was right! That means it wasn’t Hermione’s mistake!… probably. (Geez, I’m sensing a pattern here…)

Endangering Cormac’s life (Confunding him WHILE HE’S ON HIS BROOM) to promote Ron’s success? Oh but that’s so romantic! (Yeaaaah, how romantic to display exactly how much faith you lack in your crush. Top it off with a broken neck and that’s a picture perfect first date!)

Assaulting Ron with magic and causing him even more scars than he already had? But he was being cold with her first, right? And he totally should have known she was asking him out! It’s not like her invitation was even worse than his attempt to ask her out two years earlier! Plus she’s just a teenage girl expressing her emotions, anyone who tries to find fault in this is a disgusting abusive misogynist pig! Ha!

Getting all jealous that Harry is better than her at Potions, then pretending she’s not jealous by claiming that TEH BOOK IS EVIL, HARRY, and giving him the cold shoulder too? But no, she’s right, look, Harry used Sectumsempra and he almost killed Draco, nevermind that he’s very horrified about it! Hermione was right, like she always is!

Hermione Obliviating her parents, which pulls her from the “ethically dubious” zone into the “wow okay I’m pretty sure that this counts as a violation of basic human rights” zone, makes her one of those quirky wizardfolk who have the privilege to control those simple-minded Muggles because it’s for the greater good? But nooo she’s crying about it so it’s obviously very sad and angsty and it shows her devotion to the cause!

Splinching Ron while fleeing from the Ministry? Eeeh, but he’s fine, they’ve got Dittany, he’s good as new!… blood loss? Anaemia? What’s that?

Hermione was wrong about the Deathly Hallows not existing? Um, um, that doesn’t matter, LOOK DOBBY IS DEAD AND HARRY IS BACK TO LOOKING FOR THE HORCRUXES!! Therefore Hermione was right, the Hallows weren’t important for their quest, therefore the Hallows might as well not exist, HERMIONE WAS RIGHT NO REALLY I’VE GOT RECEIPTS -

The books never forget to remind Harry and Ron of their own shortcomings and moments of weakness.

Harry’s wrath and recklessness cost Sirius his life. This is the lesson he has to learn from his entitled behaviour in OotP: actions have consequences, and the greater your responsibility, the greater the cost will be.

Ron’s envy and insecurity lead him astray; they’re used to humiliate, ridicule and torture him throughout the books. They’re supposed to teach him that he’s worth something - but how is he supposed to believe that, when nobody ever tells him he’s worth anything? When nobody ever apologizes to him? When his feelings are taken for granted over and over? When his two friends seem to discard him whenever he does one thing wrong?

Hermione is never punished. Hermione is never said to be wrong, never shown to be wrong, never called out on her behaviour. From Prisoner of Azkaban to mid-Deathly Hallows, she stays exactly the same character. She doesn’t grow up. She doesn’t learn. She doesn’t change. She has virtually no character arc.

The only time, THE ONLY TIME IN SEVEN BOOKS, the only time we have something remotely resembling a call-out of Hermione’s horrible behaviour is with this sole quote in HBP:

Harry was left to ponder in silence the depths to which girls would sink to get revenge.

Note how it’s about “girls” and not Hermione in particular, which implies that any girl would do what Hermione does to Ron. Thanks for the generalization, JKR, but I like to believe I’m actually a decent sort of person that doesn’t resort to petty cruelty and exploits my friends’ insecurities whenever I’m angry with them.

Hermione NEVER has to apologize. Hermione NEVER has to learn from her mistakes because she’s always presented as a victim when she really isn’t. Hermione NEVER develops into something more - she’s emotionally stuck at fourteen years old. Even less than that when you consider that her reaction to Ron’s return in Deathly Hallows is to trash him with her fists - and she was going to get her wand!! The utter psychopathic b- wanted TO THROW BIRDS AT HIM AGAIN!!! - and this reaction is an appropriate one for a four-years old girl, but certainly not for a supposedly “mature” seventeen-years old.

(Yes, because what separates a child from an adult is the ability to reign in your emotions and not succumb to your impulses. Exactly what Ron did when he left the tent (notice that he had drawn his wand, then he left before he could start hexing Harry), he left to calm himself down. Exactly what Hermione fails to do when Ron returns (she has the impulse to strike him and immediately succumbs to it, which proves to us that The Brightest Witch Of Her Age has all the maturity of a very small child).)

All of that, on top of the awful portrayal in the movies which removes all of Ron’s characteristics to stuff them into Hermione and turns her into some impossible epitome of perfection, eventually contributed to the portrayal of Hermione as the one who is always right and knows everything.

Add to it JKR’s own ridiculous bias (“Ron was quite emotionally immature compared to the other two”, yeah right I don’t see him trying to force freedom onto unwilling creatures or making Harry fly into an irrational rage with mere words but you do you, Jo) and the sexist misconception that “girls are innately more mature than boys”, and you get yourself this apparent behemoth of righteousness that was literally the sole reason why those two silly boys survived everything, and don’t you dare criticize this angel of perfection OR ELSE.

[missdawnandherdusk]

Something Old

Draco X Gryffindor!Reader

Part One    Part Two    Part Three    Part Four    

Part Five    Part Six    Part Seven    Part Eight

Part Nine

Summary: Now that winter break was upon you, you finally had time to look into what your mother told you about as well as confront the other parent in the situation, the one you dread to think about and the one Draco had to live with.

A/N: Hello my darling loves! We’re finally getting somewhere with plot! And lore! And Latin! ((Seriously, something is lost when you know Latin and can translate the spells on the top of your head... it’s less... magical. But funny because the spells mean exactly what they’re doing and I don’t know if that a cheap lazy move or brilliant.)) Let me know what you guys think! Also I’m toying with the idea of uploading this to AO3... would you guys want that? Love you guys, stay safe. 

Tags: @un-limiteddd @geekysimmerthings @coffee-addicti @ilikestuffproductions @msmcsmutt @ravn-87 @artemismohr18 @whygz @crazywritingbug @dolphincommander @bisexualbumblebeesstuff @fuzzy-panda @bitemebro522 @zombiesnips-blog @jillanaholland @shookyungsoo @savingdraco @welcometomyworldwithoutrules @akari180 @slytherin-emerald @chaotic-good-gemini @memalfoy-spidey @theres-a-dog-outside-omg�� @queenfeatherwings​ @fanficflaneuse​ @go-whovian-universe​ @spicyshenanigans @darling-im-not-okay-i-promise​ @dietkiwi​ @katsukink​ @takemetothekingdom​ @strangerr-things​ @tmnt-queen​ @mccloudchloe​

Snape eyed me as I smiled through my exam, on cloud none the entire way. I had gotten through my History of Magic exam no problem and now Snape wanted us to recreate our Bellum Amoris antidotes. Weeks of worrying and I was finished with the second fastest time.

Draco beat me by a few minutes—he was allowed to the ingredients first—and we walked out of the exam hand in hand, not caring much about anyone who decided to gawk at us.

I was in too good of a mood. The term was done for the winter, I had finished all of my exams, and I wouldn’t be alone for the holidays when I remained at Hogwarts this year as I had the years before.

“I told you, you had nothing to worry about,” Draco nudged my shoulder. “Except beating my time of course.” A grin stretched across his face. “Which you couldn’t of course,”

I rolled my eyes and let out a laugh.

“I think I’ll be okay missing one point because I wasn’t as fast as you,” I drawled.

“Oh, I’m sure you’re dreading the fact,” He teased back as we made our way to the Great Hall. “Have you heard anything from your mother?” His voice lowered.

“Not yet, thought I suppose she’s waiting to hear from me,” I mumbled. 

“You didn’t answer her!?” Draco grew agitated.

“I did,” I reaffirmed, giving him a look. “But I said that I would talk about it later when we had time to... figure things out? I didn’t know what to say...”

“We’re gonna figure this out,” He reassured as we entered the Great Hall that was really magical with the Christmas decorations and warmth from the people within.

“Y/n! Draco!”

We both tensed until we saw Hermione waving at us along with the four Weasleys and Harry. No one was glaring at us—Draco—so I took that as a good sign as we sat down for dinner.

It was easy to sink into the familiarity and safety of the school, but with the Yule Ball coming, worry nagged at my mind. It was a big deal and an even bigger deal to pure-bloods. Another occasion to show off and “be better” than everyone else. My mother wouldn’t care, and I knew that... but Draco’s parents—father—had to have something to say about it and it worried me.

“Have you heard from your father?” I asked in a soft voice during dinner when the others were concerned with the upcoming task for the tournament.

His expression darkened as he glared at his plate.

So, yes then.

“Dray,” I whispered softly, rubbing his arm softly. “What happened?”

“Not here,” He said curtly, his eyes dancing around the merry scene around us.

I nodded and we both put on masks of calm and ease through dinner. His hand held mine throughout and we both lost our appetites. Maybe I should have written my mother a bit more than the vague note I gave. She would know what to do.

____________________________

Draco had gotten the letter last night, before he sent you the invitation to dinner. It what prompted him to send it in the first place. He knew that you could take away the depressing cloud that hovered whenever his father spoke to him.

And you did, almost easily. When he was with you, it was easy to focus on your smile, the way your hair fell into and out of place constantly, the way you almost danced down the hallways because you always gave off the demeanor of not having a care or fear in the world. It rubbed off on him. He’d rather be frustrated with the simple secrets that you kept than frustrated with the conflict about family and legacies.

And you were exactly what he needed last night. Your warmth, and comfort, the games you played and gentle touched you gave and small sounds that were his now to hold. But there were

still dark moments of the night that he couldn’t escape when his father’s words weighed him down.

Draco would never understand how you managed to pick up on the fact that his father had sent him something. Maybe he hadn’t given it away and you were just worrying again.

After dinner the two of you split up for some time, to drop off books and changed from school uniforms and in your case hopefully to find something warmer to wear.

Draco almost didn’t want to take you up to the Astronomy Tower because it was so frigid outside. He racked his brain for anywhere else to go in the school that offered solidarity and warmth. He could sneak you into the Slytherin dorms... but it might pose a danger to you as his house wasn’t as welcoming as yours had been to his relationship with you. The library seemed to be the best place at the moment to finally start looking into what was going on.

He met you outside you Common Room, as always and the two of you walk together. he had taken your books from you the moment you stepped out and though you gave him a curt you, you said nothing.

“I was thinking maybe we go to the library,” He offered. “It’s too cold for you in the Tower.” You hummed in agreement, silent in your thoughts again.

“It’ll probably be empty because of the end of term,” You mused, nodding as if you had settled on the idea.

“You’re quiet again,” He noted, the notion bothering him more than he thought.

“Thinking,”

“Now there’s an idea.” He teased as the two of you sat in a back table in the vacant library. 

__________________________

It wasn’t the same as being alone with him in the Astronomy Tower, but it was much warmer being surrounded by lit fires and a million books.

“Where do you want to start?” The question slipped through as I pulled out parchment and quill to take notes.

I knew the last thing he wanted to talk about was his father, but that’s what worried me the most. It was all for naught if his father could get between us and make whatever this had become into a tragedy. As if he knew this, he slid a folded parchment over to me, not meeting my eyes.

Taking it, I took a breath in and opened it: 

~

Draco,

I have heard many rumors about you, and I pray that none of them are true. You have been raised better than to fraternize a Lupine let alone allow her to kiss you. It is atrocious behavior and it will stop immediately.

They are a disgrace to pure bloods everywhere and are almost worse than the Weasleys. I have raised you with higher standards than this. I am appalled to even hear that these things might be going on.

I do not want you to go near her. I want to hear nothing of you being with her or the people she considers friends. Do not believe her lies or the things that she tells you. It is what the Lupines do. They lie and bend the truth into something that is horrendous. It is what they have always done, and you know this.

She is nothing more than a she-demon come to ruin everything that I have built for you and to steal everything that I have worked all my life to give you.

You are a Malfoy. Do not forget that.

I am beyond disappointed to hear this. Correct what has been done immediately. 

Your Father,

Lucius Malfoy

~

I frowned at the letter as I read it a few more times, trying to figure out what I wanted to address first. At the moment, I just wanted to send this to my mother and see what she would do knowing the fire in her was stronger than mine. But I didn’t do any of that.

Instead, I placed the letter down and looked up to wary blue eyes. “Well,” I whispered. “What are you going to do?”

“What do you mean what am I going to do?” He snapped; a soft look from me and he took a deep breath, calming.

“If... I know that I’ve dragged you into this. And that you didn’t have much of a choice. So, if you want to... I...” My gaze fell to my lap as I tried to find the right words to tell him... to let him go.

“Why would you think—”

“Because I don’t want you to get talked down to like this by someone who’s supposed to love you!” I threw the letter on the table. “I’m... I’m not worth ruining... You shouldn’t be treated like an errant child because you’re talking to me,”

“I’m always treated like an errant child Y/n,” He scoffed. “Now at least I have a good reason.” 

“What?” I looked up, the frown returning to my face.

“Nothing I ever did for my father has been good enough. I think landing in Slytherin was the last time he was actually proud of something that I did.” Draco picked up the letter and rolled his eyes, tearing it in half.

“What are you doing?” I demanded.

“What I should have done when I got this letter,” He muttered, tossing it into the nearest fireplace.

I marveled at him, a small smile playing at my lips. I had hoped he would choose me, but now that he had, something heavy was lifted from my shoulders. Though I still wasn’t quite taken with how his father talked to him, but I knew it wasn’t my place to go against Lucius no matter how much of a...

Never mind.

“Now, to the books?” He sat back down, picking up the book I had taken from him not too long ago and he leafed through the pages.

I smiled and wrapped my arms around him, hugging him tightly for a moment and whispering a small thanks before we settled in to read. Taking another book—The Nature of a Soul— from the stack, we got to work. My eyes scanned the table of contents and then the pages.

...Every person has a soul created of the either stars, or earth. Those who have earthen souls are born without magic, but those with Souls of The Stars will grow to be wizards. It is not genetics that decides but the universe itself...

I scribbled down notes as I read, leafing through pages.

...Souls born of the same matter bond to another. It is rare for a Soul of The Stars to bond, but when it does happen it is the work of the universe and no man or magic can break it. This was known as the Consentire Animi Pace. Seers of our kind have often prophesied about Great Darkness that would take hold before these Animi came to unite what was unraveled by generations past. Millenia has passed since this foretelling and it is doubted to exist...

I nudged Draco and showed him the page, watching the way his eyebrows furrowed slightly and he gnawed on his lip when he read something due to concentration. It made me smile.

“Great Darkness?” He muttered softly.

“You know as well as I do who it could be,” My voice was soft and hesitant.

I knew that Draco’s father had fought alongside Voldemort in the first war and I wondered what happened if it came down to it, what would Draco choose? With what I knew from Harry’s

adventures and life story, the threat of Voldemort loomed now more than ever. Was that the Great Darkness that the text referred to?

“This talks about a prophecy,” He murmured, pulling the book that he was reading. “That might be what this is, I can only make out some of it...”

He showed me the carpet page filled with intricate designs and detailed lettering. Some of the page was burned away, leaving half in its wake. I ran my hand softly over the artwork before reading the script:

Nox defluet et malum surget. 

Dos Animī consentiens

Eō die, nox non vincet

Cum illī ...

I stared at the text, grabbing my parchment and slowly translating.

“What do you know?” I asked softly. “What could you translate?”

“Nox is night, malum, evil...” His brow furrowed again.

“Night... falls—will fall and evil will rise. Two souls... joining?” I wrote down what I could. “On that day, night will not conquer, because these souls...”

“You can read this?” He was baffled.

I shrugged. “Just some Latin. Mother taught it to me. That’s why spells are so easy for me... it’s just Latin all I have to do is translate.”

“Bloody hell that’s genius,” He muttered.

“But some of the prophecy is missing... I think most of it probably.” I mused, leafing through the book to see if I could find anything else.

“Do you really think that this is about is though?” He asked softly, timid. “Even if it’s not... it’s still something to know. And it might be important.”

“The only person who would see this as important is Trelawney.” Draco scoffed, leaning back in his chair.

“Maybe she’s the one we really need to talk to if prophecies are caught up in all of this.” I thought aloud. “Did you find anything else?” I looked up from my notes.

“Nothing of use. You?”

“Souls apparently are made from either stars or earth and magic or muggle has nothing to do with genetics,” I shrugged, reading over my notes. “So that’s new I guess.”

“What do you mean it has nothing to do with blood?” He snapped.

“I read it; I didn’t say that it was law. And what does it matter anyway? Magic is magic, no matter who uses it or doesn’t.” I defended, narrowing my eyes.

He grumbled and folded his arms sulking.

“Draco,” I chided, but gave up the notion.

I knew it would take time to undo what his father had engrained in him. Maybe this was step one.

Soon after finding nothing more about the prophecy or soul matter, Pince said that she was closing the library for the night and that we should head to bed before curfew. Returning the books to their proper places, Draco and I walked quietly along the halls.

“I didn’t mean to snap at you.” Draco sighed, taking my hand. “Forgive me?” 

I nodded and offered a small smile.

“We grew up in different worlds, it was bound to clash eventually.”

“Doesn’t make it right for me to take it out on you,”

I raised an eyebrow at him, a smug smile finding its way to my face.

“Yeah, yeah shut up.” He muttered.

“One step at a time,”

We walked along in thought, no words needing to be spoken. Pausing outside the Gryffindor portrait, Draco leaned down and pressed a soft and gentle kiss to my lips.

“Goodnight Y/n,” 

“Goodnight Draco,”

There were words stuck on the tips of our tongue that neither of us dare to utter but felt all the same:

I love you.

.

.

Part 11?

[sirsparklepants]

I've been staring at my WIPs a lot recently, as you do, and I think it's time to release everything I've got of my favorite story I will never write. I kind of fell out of Overwatch before I had the spoons for longfic, and now there's so much lore to catch up on (this dates from before Doomfist was released) that I'm just not going to be able to incorporate, but it's still a really great idea that I really love, so I'm going to put my story notes and snippets out into the wild.

The Darkness In Our Hands

Jesse McCree wasn't expecting to get a message when the Recall went out. He'd been Blackwatch, after all - he'd written half their playbook. But he'd lived five years with the death and slander of Gabriel Reyes burning in his chest, not knowing who to blame, and this new Overwatch was the best way to find out who had killed him so he could kill them right back. But the deeper he looks, the more mysteries he finds - and he'll need some help if he's ever going to get his justice.

[[MORE]]

Crime and conspiracy fic

Opening: McCree, in the middle of nowhere, New Mexico - give insight into the state of the world and how territorial governments are, him thinking on Reyes and what he owes to him, the recall message, decides to respond but have his own agenda.

He travels thinking about how different from the rest of Overwatch Blackwatch was, and how he hopes at least one Blackwatch agent has made it back, thinking about past with Genji - flashbacks to unsavory missions maybe? Arrival - he sees new faces and is not particularly prepared because he didn't feel it was secure enough to ask on a comm line who was there. Not as familiar with this base, paranoia rising, but then a familiar face! Sort of. (when he arrives Reinhardt and Brigitte are fighting about Brigitte calling Torb on him, Reinhardt doesn't want to pull Torb away from his wife) ← might combine these two into one chapter?

Genji puts him off when he initially tries to talk though, and when McCree pulls him aside to speak about his own personal mission Genji talks first about Hanzo and Genji's changes, and McCree realizes that Genji is so utterly different as to be unrelatable, so he never does tell Genji the whole story of why he's there. Genji asks him to give Hanzo a chance instead of acting on his loyalties to Genji and providing retribution. End of section, Hanzo arrives

McCree and Hanzo spend some time scoping each other out but they can both tell they're very different from the people around them. A particular do-gooder incident happens and they bond over looking at each other like “r u srs rn”. Meanwhile, Winston is creating profiles for everyone and trying to find a fit for like… intelligence gathering, brute force, explosives, etc - team roles I guess? In the interests of that are exhaustive interviews and training. First kinky sex somewhere in here

McCree is getting antsy at this point and I need to move along from character development to actual plot, so time to send out trial field intel squad for a rootin tootin hopefully not shootin time! They go - somewhere with a large Asian population where someone McCree’s size won't stand out. Uh. This is a note to do more research into where Omniums are. Hong Kong maybe? Hong Kong is a good city for crime. Maybe Singapore if I want to make things difficult for them what with all the weapons laws. Anyway. Somewhere with an omnic population that's not great with outsiders but Genji knows enough about their culture to be respectful and he's metal enough he won't stand out. They're not actually researching Talon but McCree is! Hanzo catches him and then they're wary partners. The omnic culture thing is a breadcrumb, be sure to emphasize it.

They leave and Genji finds out Jesse and Hanzo are screwing and starts laughing and taunting them both and being a fucker, he gets slightly let in on the Reyes plot, Intel Squad tentatively a success, they've all bonded and everyone is confused about it

Meanwhile while they were gone a stomach bug swept the base and Mercy throws a fit about not being a GP. McCree shares a cigar with her to calm her down and starts making a plan to try and get information sneakily out of everyone by reminiscing - I think??? No one knows who Reaper actually is at this point??? Anyway everyone talks shit about the UN and there's more worldbuilding dumps because this feels like the right place to put it. McCree and Hanzo and Genji are kept basically quarantined until the base isn't contagious and in that time they devise A Plan. Also enter Zenyatta because Mercy really needs a backup doctor

Lúcio isn't vetted yet so McCree gets sent out alone to send him an offer, there's a Talon base in Brazil he investigates on the way maybe? I feel like this is enough outline to be getting on with atm tho. Yeah, talon base in Brazil where there's a mention of Talon trying to infiltrate Vishkar

Meanwhile, Ana and 76 have shown up at Gibraltar because they figured out someone was tracking their movements and wanted to go to ground in the general area but spotted the activity there and they're both not best pleased that Overwatch has started back up. When McCree comes back with Lúcio there's another fight he walks into - a running joke? Every time he returns to base there's someone yelling. Second kinky sex, very dominance and pain flavored because McCree needs to shut his brain up. Or maybe not, that’s a long time to go without porn??? Maybe they have coitus interruptus with Genji and that’s how he finds out

Ana and 76 hang around for a while but can't stomach the idea of being there too long because they have their own mission but they drop the bomb that Reaper is Reyes and he's Teh Evulz now because they know too much and i need to get rid of them so we don’t have experienced field operatives for mccree to work around. Also some Widowmaker info dump here. McCree pretends to be shocked but he has a different definition of evil than most people so he doubles down on his investigation and wants Hanzo to give up some contacts. Metal arm fisting here maybe???

what. the fuck. has reaper been doing all this time. has he just been swanning around in the background ruining investigations? maybe he’s laying low because the winston raid thing made him so visible? talon needs to work underground so yeah this sounds right. in the meantime VISKHAR because lucio is here now so we can talk more about the evils of corporations and have corporate espionage going on. Lucio says they should look more into vishkar and they make contact with symmetra who is a whistleblower, ideological clash because that’s what i’m about. lucio and symmetra are both trans with prosthetics btw, that’s happening now because i said so and because hormones are a horrible way to control someone and so it makes sense that vishkar controls sym’s access to them along with her arm. because they’re fuckers. A N Y W A Y vishkar knows things about the old omnica corporation.

sombra makes contact with them here because she’s been keeping an eye on the new overwatch and talon thinks that maybe mccree could be an ally, not that he knows that at the time but they test him out with a dead drop with omnic-related code shit on a TEAM MISSION which happens to, idk, build goodwill or something. winston got info from someone for something and i have to have at least one team mission happen in the foreground, it can’t be all background shit and Intel Group. the mission goes. okay-ish. someone gets fairly seriously injured? tracer, maybe, or reinhardt, either way i can write their significant others fussing over them. it’s a member of old overwatch so winston can be conflicted and take people off field missions for a bit so mccree can tinker around and end up having to ask zenyatta for help. a much longer sex scene than normal here somewhere? OHYES this is where i’m gonna stick the scene where Hanzo makes McCree take off his prosthetic legs and makes McCree leave on his prosthetic arm (because pain kink and metal arm kink and he has to have both arms to handle him) and basically makes McCree fuck him in exactly the way he likes, up to and including making McCree bounce him up and down on his lap. AND THEN ACTUAL AFTERCARE HAPPENS FOR ONCE, A TURNING POINT. perhaps there’s a scene where one of them lays their head on the other’s sweaty heaving chest and doesn’t even mind the sweat in fine romance novel tradition

something has to happen here for pacing reasons but i’m fucked if i know exactly what. uhhhh for Reasons they have to go to an omnic city? more omnic culture and worldbuilding dump here.

aaaaand then the Reveal Chapter: reyes knows something about this mystery mccree stumbled into when he was investigating the death, and he’s willing to talk. hanzo and mccree make plans to meet with him. and then we find out that the reason reyes blew switzerland was because he was working for talon ALL ALONG. the chapter ends with a ridiculous dramatic sequence where mccree puts together all the evidence and goes “so talon was created to fight the god programs”

okay this is the chapter when i get down to the nitty-gritty and break down the structure of talon and have like. a nice artsy chapter explaining how the omnics came to be and how the government created wars to be fucks and all that. i will get to the details of this LATER but the important part is that at the end of it hanzo and mccree are secret talon moles and they have actually pretty kink-free sex while staring into each other’s eyes and kind of freak each other out with how they like and trust each other and that doesn’t happen in their world but it’s overshadowed by the freakout of them agreeing to work for a shadow organization that wants to destabilize all the world’s governments, the fuck were we thinking??? the fuck was i thinking this isn’t even the proper climax, i die

okay for pacing reasons i have to have at least two chapters of them doing double agent things and getting more deeply involved in overwatch, fuck. some public missions should be mentioned where they like. intervene in humanitarian crisises and shit. crises. whatever. maybe hanzo and mccree have to split up and feel sad that they miss each other? one chapter for hanzo to make contact with his shady criminal underworld people to get verifiable info - maybe like. idk. plastic surgery clinic records - and mccree to re-emerge and rehabilitate his image?

and after that one chapter where like. winston gets suspicious about shit. and maybe??? they have to bring EVERYONE in on this huge conspiracy? they have enough evidence to convince other people? yeah i like this, i want to emphasize how ragtag and vigilante-like and underground the new overwatch is. probably an actual defining the relationship talk and possessive sex here.

story ends with like. a giant news story break i think. as i get closer to the end i’ll know more about what threads need resolving. BUT that is the end of my outline. I DID IT HOORAY

Notes

So McCree responds to the recall not because he believes in the cause like Winston does - he probably still sees most of Overwatch as outsiders, although he's at least surface friendly with most of them by the time he leaves based on in-game interactions - but because something in Overwatch killed Reyes, who he doesn't yet know is Reaper, and joining back up with Overwatch is his best chance to find out what it was and hit them back for killing someone who had his loyalty. He's friendly still because that's the best way to get what he wants, i.e. information and access to records, but this isn't like Blackwatch. He's not surrounded by people who came from the same type of lawless loyalty structure he did, who think the way he thinks - they all believe in restorative justice, and his whole life, justice has been nothing but punitive. The only person he was counting on to understand him, Genji, has changed, and it's probably better for him, but he's become different. He doesn't lash out the way he used to. He believes in second chances, where in the places they both came from, you paid for a second chance in blood. He's done with revenge. He's well and truly gotten out of the life, and McCree has never changed his mindset and never will, because it's kept him alive this long. But Genji has brought along someone he does understand - his brother. McCree gets Hanzo, he gets why he did what he did, even though he regrets it. McCree isn't happy about it, but when he was fifteen he came along to meet the cartels with Deadlock, and when he was sixteen he saw what they did to turncoats. You pay for treachery with blood in their world, and Genji betrayed the Shimadas by passing along information. Hanzo paid when he lost his place, and he made his clan pay for what they made him do. Him, McCree understands, and McCree starts testing him out, because he could use an ally in finding out what was under the surface of squeaky clean Overwatch.

And Hanzo understands him. Hanzo is here because he owes a debt to his brother, still, and because he wants to understand Genji. But everyone in Overwatch is alien to him. They take him working for them as a given, as if of course he would want to make up for what he's done. But there's a difference between owing a debt and regretting his whole life. Hanzo was an assassin after he left the Shimadas, and he feels no need to atone for that. It was what he was skilled in, and he also became skilled in finding things out his clients did not wish him to, because being manipulated by his clan taught him to be canny, to find out people's real motivations. So he knows McCree wants his skills for something, but he's willing to make an alliance for the sake of mutual understanding.

So they ally together, with the understanding that any betrayal will be paid in blood, that they both know different tricks of the trade. McCree wants information on Overwatch, and Hanzo wants protection and information on Genji. McCree works on the old guard to find things out, and Hanzo gets in touch with his criminal contacts in every place he's deployed on a mission. And they start to find things out about Talon...

I don't actually know what the resolution to that story would be. The talon-is-hydra-overwatch-is-shield thing has been done. Maybe I'd go a route of "talon was actually founded by Reaper to fight corruption in the UN and that's how he has all those Blackwatch members" and there would be a worldwide conspiracy where the God programs and therefore the omnic crisis were created by top tiers of government and weapons corporations to create a threat that would keep governments separate, give them more power, and give the companies more profit.

...y'know what I actually really like that idea. The world was getting closer and closer to more human rights and one large global government, and corporations and world powers really didn't like that. So what's the best way for humans to give power to government? When they want to be protected from a threat, of course. And they won't be thinking rationally. They'll want to stay apart, because of course the whole thing is *insert other country*'s fault. So Hanzo and McCree run into Reaper and discover this conspiracy and are from then on Reaper's agents inside Overwatch, both to get information and to get enough media exposure they're familiar faces and trusted by the public. So when they blow this thing wide open, it can't be swept under the rug.

Bonus things in this story:

-they have to bring Genji in because he has the most connections to the omnic community through Zenyatta and Omnics have some key evidence to the conspiracy

-bastion provides an essential clue.

-omnic culture and worldbuilding

-underground cities

-Sombra is key, both as a contact that knows what's going on in Mexico (where Important Things should happen just because I mentioned the cartels so they should play at leat a minor part) and in helping them to get into Blackwatch data undetected

-symmetra helps them spy on Vishkar, which was one of the corporations to profit the most from the crisis because they got the most contracts for rebuilding

-Hanzo, McCree, and Genji sit around and exchange stories about things they had to do for deadlock/the Shimadas; it's all horrifically violent and gory but they all three get drunk and laugh about it because it's their life and they won't let it break them and it kept them alive

-it ends with Genji being happy that he's not forced to do lots of violence any more and McCree and Hanzo being perfectly happy with their very violent lives

So Talon has a ruling council which both Reaper and Doomfist are a part of and factions are #confirmed (ty for info people who are up on overwatch lore I Cannot watch a video rn), and Talon is all involved in a global conspiracy. That's canon. So what if Talon is several disparate movements that allied themselves? They need to fight this war on all the fronts they can, given the potential power of their opponents.

Irl, the UN is not a super powerful body - people put much more faith in individual governments of countries. So what makes the UN able to create a peacekeeping force? Well, what if before the crisis, some large thing happened that made the world move towards one earth government and the UN being powerful is remnants of that?

Kind of tempted to channel my frustration with the world falling apart and all the political conflicts into saying that in like... 2022 or sth, something bad enough happened that humanity decided that the only solution was to come together - perhaps we came close to nuclear annihilation? Just writing about it as a small bit of backstory and making the Scary Potential a side note in history seems like it could be really reassuring. Thoughts? (2020 note: I wrote this in 2017 and all I have to say today is OOF)

With this cooperation between nations, corporations couldn't take advantage of cheap labor in developing countries any more, and there was more of a focus on education. That could account for the leaps and bounds in science in sixty years. But that lack of cheap labor meant that robotics was developed more and more, until automation became artificial intelligences. Omnics.

The game takes place in 2076 and the Crisis took place anywhere from 20 to 30 years before that. I'll say it didn't officially start until 2050, but for several years there were developing tensions and small-scale attacks. Historians disagree about the exact cause of the crisis.

It was in the best interest of the Omnica Corporation to not let on how intelligent and sentient Omnics were - with the new focus on human rights, it was only a matter of time before an omnic rights movement erupted.

But the information started to leak. Sometime in the late 2040s, people who worked closely with Omnics started to talk to other people, tell them about how they really were intelligent and person like. And if it came out that the corporation had been deliberately hiding that, things would be bad.

So they had to do damage control.

Meanwhile, the governments of nations that used to be world powers, that used to do as they pleased, aren't that pleased with the fact that they have a lot of eyes on them and they can't meddle the way they used to in the world.

So they get together, and they throw money at the problem, and they come up the the God Programs.

Scientists worked in cells, and when they were done, they often disappeared. There could be no evidence.

And then it didn't matter how intelligent Omnics were. They were the enemy, and everyone hated them. The top executives of the Omnica corporation knew they would be hated, so they had a backup plan. They disappeared. They had surgeries. Their money went somewhere else under a different name. And they resurfaced in areas very far from any of the fighting.

Here is the secret that the Omnics and Sombra help uncover: Omnics were not meant to evolve, to change, beyond basic learning. Originally, they couldn't modify themselves. They had to come to a licensed technician, who was human. Quality control. Planned obsolescence. What the God programs did was take that cap off, distribute a patch that meant that Omnics could fix themselves - but there was a worm in the code that allowed them to be taken over. And the information that would allow that to happen? Before the crisis, it was proprietary corporate information. That shit had the highest security levels in the modern world. Corporations are very protective of their secrets. So either they were infiltrated or the crisis was an inside job. Either way, it was orchestrated by humans.

There's an implication that no humans worked in the Omniums at all, that they were completely automated, and I'm just... Gonna ignore that because it boggles the mind. The people who worked there did have to wear constant radiation shielding because apparently if Omniums are destroyed they leak radiation (or is it that the Australian one was destroyed with a nuclear device? Can anyone help me find a straight answer on this because it makes no sense) but they did work there because automation and seeing things indirectly through cameras and things means the Omniums were networked, and if they were networked they were less secure. So people worked there.

The plan to make the god programs was started off by the fraud accusations and was what caused the executives to bail the fuck out. Several plastic surgery clinics got entirely new wings just before the omnic crisis and I think this should be a weird clue that someone - probably Sombra through her hacking or Symmetra through her knowledge of corporate ins and outs - digs up.

The God programs and the militarized omnics that were pumped out allowed omnics to modify themselves and to develop things like their own independent communication methods and languages. Omnic language is a combination of binary and different computer code languages. There are different regional "dialects" depending what code language was easiest for the omnics in the area to learn and adapt to when modifying their own programming. It's also most often encrypted with... Probably some method I'll have to do research on.

Oops well I think I just ran myself into a big fuckin' wall here, and that wall is Widowmaker. She is canonically brainwashed by Talon into an assassin, and I don't want to make her husband Awful Abusive Forever and erase what was done to her.

Maybe Widowmaker is the face of Talon's moral ambiguity - she was created by a now-defunct Mad Science branch because while her husband wasn't awful for her, he was in a key position, and killing him would destabilize the power structure, and because Talon as a group's motto is probably "the end justifies the means", they still use her. This is probably a major sticking point for any omnics that want to join Talon's cause, and I could use that to highlight how desperate people can get when they're facing someone who has massive power over them.

Actually, have a couple of crime and conspiracy fic tidbits related to that: when he first went on the run, Hanzo got a nasty infection because he was so used to biotics that he didn't glove up or properly sterilize his tools before treating his own wounds. After a ten day course of penicillin derivative and a bad stomach reaction to them, he learned. Conversely, Deadlock probably had one or two fairly low-power biotic emitters, probably military surplus, and use of them was a privilege if you were high-ranking or a reward if you'd done particularly well but got kind of fucked up in the meantime. McCree has one or two big scars on his torso, and they're pretty visible because he got them young, but they don't inhibit his movements because he got treatment for them during his Blackwatch days. Hanzo, on the other hand, has a nasty hypertrophic scar on his upper thigh from the infection he got, and it occasionally restricts his movements.

Snippets

The stomach virus one

They hadn't been directed to medbay after the debriefing. This new Overwatch hadn't exactly established much standard operating procedure - hard to when you were a bunch of vigilantes and more or less all wanted under international law - but it still struck Jesse wrong, whatever Winston said. He'd known Angela longer than he'd known anyone here but Genji. They didn't run in the same circles, but they'd both been recruited before they were really supposed to be, and that gave them a bit of camaraderie Jesse wasn't afraid to lean on. He left the Shimadas to their not quite good-natured bickering and headed for the office just off the infirmary.

Angela's face, when he opened the door, made him glad he'd stopped by. Even her legendary (and probably nanite-enhanced, given the direction of her research) youthful looks were flagging under some kind of strain. Her undereyes were dark and her mouth was drawn, which in a trauma surgeon used to work in the field meant she'd been working for days on four hours or less. Jesse didn't have to do much beyond waving the nice cigars he'd picked up in (location) at her before she was out of her chair and headed towards the nearest balcony with him, monitor clipped to the lapel of her white coat. They hadn't smoked together since the recall, but the old tradition they shared seemed to be as clear in her mind as it was in his.

He was quiet for a few moments, just passing her the lighter, until they'd both blown out slow mouthfuls of fragrant smoke. Then Angela sighed, and some of the tension slipped away from her shoulders as she stared off at the waves. "You probably shouldn't be even this close to me, Jesse."

Jesse laughed at her, a low quiet chuckle. Anything truly serious and Athena wouldn't have let him anywhere near medical. "And why's that?" he asked her, slowly pulling in the rich smoke and rolling it around his mouth.

"The whole base has come down with a nasty stomach virus," she told him. "I have most of them in cots, hooked up to IVs. It's horrible! A certain amount of bodily fluids is to be expected in this job, of course, but the cleaning drones simply can't keep up. It's as much as I can do to keep everyone hydrated and mostly clean. Comfortable is out of the question. It's very contagious, and I haven't done work like this since my residency! I'm not a generalist. I don't prescribe birth control or deal with routine ailments!" Her accent grew sharper as she spoke, and when she'd finished, she took a deep breath before taking her own smooth pull of cigar smoke.

Jesse winced. He was glad any lingering sour smell was covered up by their cigars. He'd take blood and guts over vomit any day. "The whole base?" he asked. No wonder the corridors had been so quiet.

Angela nodded emphatically. "Everyone present, except for Winston, of course. I'm simply thankful it isn't zoonotic."

Jesse whistled. The infirmary had to be filled to capacity. "And nothing you've given 'em makes the nausea any better? That does sound nasty."

Angela froze with her cigar halfway to her mouth, and then began to curse emphatically. (German curses here.) She pulled her bangs with her free hand. "I can't believe I've been so stupid! I never give patients an antiemetic, it's dangerous when they could have been drinking poisoned water, but that doesn't apply here! (More German curses.)" Eventually, she subsided and took a particularly vicious pull off of her cigar.

"Easy with that," Jesse told her. "That's the good stuff - don't waste it."

"Oh, I'm not wasting it, believe me," she told him. "It's keeping me from storming Winston's office and demanding he add a generalist to the staff. Doctors have specializations, and this one isn't mine!"

"I could talk to him, if you like," Jesse told her. His voice was even, though inside he was triumphant. He'd wanted a reason to bring Zenyatta on, and the universe had just dumped it in his lap. "Might even have someone in mind."

"Would you?" Angela asked him, staring wistfully at the half a cigar she had left. "It's only - I have to dose everyone now, and wait half an hour to see how they respond, and I haven't slept since - too long."

"Wouldn't mind a bit," Jesse told her. "You worry about clearing out the infirmary. I'll work on our fearless leader."

Angela looked, briefly, as if she was about to cry. Instead, she breathed in deeply and closed her eyes for a moment. When she opened them again, her expression had settled. "Thank you, Jesse," she told him, and smiled. The expression was no less lovely for being surrounded by signs of her exhaustion. "These really are quite nice," she added, puffing again on her cigar.

Jesse laughed. "You come find me whenever you need another one," he told her. They smoked the rest of their cigars in silence.

The twelve o'clock high one

76 - Morrison - sighed. There came the sounds of him pacing around the room, his ridiculous boots heavy against the grating. "Winston," he said finally, "you like movies. You ever watch any old war movies - from the 20th century, I mean?"

"Well, no," Winston said, sounding honestly puzzled. "Most of them are well over a century old. I didn't think they'd have much cultural relevance."

Morrison snorted. "Not much cultural relevance," he repeated. "Maybe not out in the world, but here in Overwatch - in any place you've got to take command and order people into the line of fire - they still matter. Put one on your list. Twelve O'Clock High. The original, from 1949, not the remake they made right after the crisis." His gruff voice didn't make it a suggestion. Still used to ordering people around, McCree guessed.

"I will, but why would you pull me aside just to say that?" Winston sounded baffled and slightly irritated.

Morrison sighed again, a heavy put-upon sound. "This would be easier if you'd seen the damn thing. Used to have all the command track recruits watch it." The pacing sounds started up again for several moments.

"It's a movie about leadership," Morrison said finally. "And about what happens when you get too close to the people under your command. It's bad for you and it's bad for the mission, and it gets people killed. You can't be their commander and their friend at the same time."

"I fail to see how any of this is your business," Winston said, voice firm and starting to get frosty. You tell 'em, bud, McCree thought.

"I watched this organization fall once because of its commanders," Morrison said. "I can't watch you make the same mistakes. I bowed too far to the UN, but Reyes was too close to his men. Some of them came in young, but they'd done things that made sure they would never be kids again. Reyes couldn't see that. They were all loyal to him in their own way, as much as they could be, but he thought it meant he owed them some loyalty too, and he couldn't do that and send them into danger like we had back then for special ops. They got into his head, made him too much like them, and he snapped."

Winston was saying something else, and McCree forced himself to pay attention to that instead of the rush of blood in his ears, his clenched hands, his pounding heart.

"I believe that will be all, 76," Winston said. The frost in his tone had thickened up into a full ice sheet. McCree took that as his cue to slink out before the super soldier sniffed out his hiding spot - literally, maybe.

Morrison thought his loyalty put Reyes in a bad spot? It sure had - but it was his lingering loyalty to Jack Morrison that had gotten him killed, McCree was sure. Morrison really was blind if he thought Reyes had been doing anything in Zurich besides trying to pull Morrison's blond ass out of there before it blew.

what I have of chapter one

Jesse McCree had disappeared. Oh, he surfaced every now and then in some attention-grabbing way, but it wasn't healthy for a man with a bounty as high as his to go around under his own name. He'd taken a handful of false identities with him when he'd left Blackwatch, and he did enough flashy stunts with his familiar getup from the bounty posters to keep anyone from digging deeper and finding them. Most people figured he spent the rest of his time lurking around all the lonely, uncivilized places of the Southwest, like he had before he joined up - it was closer to the twenty-second century than the twenty-first, but urban sprawl hadn't conquered all the emptiness of his home state yet. So he was very surprised to receive any communication addressed to Jesse McCree at all, much less on the secure comm he carried more for sentiment than practicalities these days. And yet there was still a quiet, persistent chirp indicating a message for him.

Jesse wasn't stupid, of course. He didn't open the message that day. He'd spent too much time in a covert ops unit to trust anything that could send an active signal. He let it stay in the hard-sided guitar case that held his weapons and anything else he didn't want connected to the soft-spoken insurance adjuster who rented his Albuquerque apartment. Instead, he used his legitimate phone to reserve Chris Stevenson a campsite at a national park and rent a car for the weekend. No one had yet managed to bring enough signal towers out there that phones worked, and the campers liked it that way. Chris liked it too - it gave him a good excuse for not being available if his boss called with a last minute assignment, he told the park ranger.

Jesse, on the other hand, wasn't much for camping - he'd spent more than enough time out under the stars, first in Deadlock and then in Blackwatch, and his back wasn't as young as it used to be. But needs must - the signal could be a trap, or it could be someone from the old days needing his help. You could say a lot of bad things about Jesse McCree - most did, these days. But he knew what he owed Reyes and Blackwatch both, and he paid back his debts.

The canyon he'd chosen had several isolated hiking trails, and he set off for one just after dawn the day after he'd arrived. The other tents, few as they were, were quiet. He still waited until he'd reached the peak of his chosen trail, where he could see anyone coming, before he played the message.

Of all the faces he'd expected to project in front of him, Winston's wasn't among them. He was too recognizable, and Jesse stifled the urge to curse. The audio was routed through the wireless headset he'd brought, of course, but five years on, Winston's face still screamed Overwatch to anyone who cared to see. A talking gorilla was hard to forget. Still, Jesse let the message finish - it was very early - and dropped the comm into a pocket of the backpack he'd brought with him. Then he sat down right where he was.

Anyone passing by might have thought he'd be watching the sunrise, but he'd seen too many from the wrong end when he was with Deadlock to be stunned by nature's beauty any more. Chris was watching the sunrise, of course - a natural early riser, he saw sunrises from as many places as he could get away with. But Jesse McCree just happened to be staring at the horizon while he contemplated his options.

He didn't doubt the comm had sent some sort of locational ping out, so he'd need to burn Chris no matter what he decided. A pity - he'd liked being somewhere familiar, a place where he knew the lay of the land, how to find the best restaurant in a little highway town, which outcroppings kept you out of view of the satellites passing by, which streets nice people avoided at night. Couldn't be helped, though. Most of the Southwest was dangerous for him now. He couldn’t be sure someone hadn’t piggybacked whatever ping Winston’s call had sent out. He was inclined to curse his luck, hop a train, and move out - somewhere east, maybe - except. There was something he owed, and a debt to a ghost didn't make it any less real. He didn't have anything in common with the old Overwatch staff he guessed that idealistic message had been aimed at, but they had resources and records. Maybe he could use them to track down what really happened to Reyes.

Jesse’d been halfway to disappearing on a deep-cover mission - all they did in Blackwatch those days - when the news about Zurich broke. He could smell bullshit on a cover story from a mile away, and this one reeked. Reyes wasn’t jealous of Morrison - that asshole had to deal with the paperwork and politics while Reyes got to intervene in the real hot spots. If he’d been in Zurich, it was out of a sense of loyalty to his old army buddy. That loyalty had gotten him killed, and no one in Overwatch seemed interested in doing anything but slandering him after the fact.

Just because they didn't do much of an investigation didn't mean that they didn't still have records up in Gibraltar, though. The Watchpoints had all been networked at one point. Athena had had limits put on her when the Petras Act passed, but Winston had made her devious, under all the fussing. She had to be if she was going to fight Overwatch’s enemies. McCree's access had been stripped when the UN had recalled Blackwatch’s authorization, but that meant jack shit if Athena decided he needed to know something. And he knew how to ingratiate himself with her.

It’d mean the end of his relatively peaceful existence, but hell, he'd already known he'd have to get rid of Chris and go on the run. Might as well run a little farther than usual. He could check out the lay of the land, see who all was there and what they were up to. It wouldn't be fun - he was Reyes’ man to the bone, still, and none of the proper Overwatch agents would understand that - but this was the closest he'd come to being able to pay back the man who'd changed his life in years. He couldn't let it slip through his fingertips.

International travel was, according to those who could remember, a bit more difficult to manage now than it was before the Crisis. The United States especially had buckled down on the jingoism, blaming most of Europe for letting the Omnica Corporation run wild. It wasn't as bad as it has been in the 20s, of course, but if Overwatch hadn't provided the encryption on his passport themselves, McCree would have found himself paying a pretty penny for a good fake. As it was, he wasn't exactly flush with cash right now, so he was glad Chris’s papers were still good.

Chris Stevenson, despite his whitebread name, had family in Spain: a sister who'd recently taken ill. So he - and Jesse McCree, under his skin - was flying to Madrid. Teleporters were still new and expensive, and Chris couldn't afford one. The days of the ancient, cramped airliners were long over, though. Chris had a ticket on an overnight flight, with his own little cot and plastic privacy wall and two credits to use in the onboard cafeteria.

The flight attendant directed them all through the ship’s amenities, pointing out the cafeteria and the bathrooms as well as the small rec area, on the way to direct them all to their berths. They had to go through the first class lounge first thing, of course - probably to make them all regret they hadn’t coughed up enough to spend half the trip on leather furniture drinking premium cocktails. Jesse couldn’t care less about it. He planned to eat, sleep, and then eat on this trip; airline food wasn’t that great, but he’d eaten plenty of bad shit in his life, and he’d need the rest and the calories to find the best ways to ditch Chris’s identity and make his way across the border into Gibraltar.

The berths were more private than the ones on most of the Overwatch transports he’d been on in his time, but that wasn’t saying much; military didn’t think anything of communal bunkrooms for everyone but officers, and Overwatch had always been true to its military roots. The ship wasn’t ritzy enough to have sound cancelling tech in any cabin but first class, so he could hear the contained but emphatic ruckus happening two berths over. Politeness would have dictated Chris did his best to ignore it, but Jesse had always been an incurable snoop, and years of covert ops hadn’t exactly curbed that. He tucked his bags under the plastic frame of his ship’s cot and leaned against the thin barrier under the guise of working his boots off.

“I don’t see why we’re kept out of the lounge,” a voice Jesse pegged as belonging to someone around Reinhardt’s age said crossly. “We paid our fare just like everyone else!”

“I’m afraid the lounge is for first class passengers only,” said their flight attendant, in the calming tones universal to customer service employees who weren’t allowed to tell customers to fuck off but who really wished they could. “However, if you would like to upgrade -”

“Don’t you upgrade me!” the older voice said again. “I went on these transports when they were first made, twenty years ago, and they didn’t have any sort of restrictions! This is just - it’s a cash grab, is what it is, by unscrupulous -”

“Pop! He can’t do anything about that. I’m sure it’s corporate policy,” interrupted a younger voice, audibly embarrassed. “I’m so sorry about this.”

“It’s quite all right - I understand change is difficult. Can I offer you -”

“We’re not interested in little placating gifts, like drink tickets, you corporate shill!” the older voice yelled again.

Jesse felt a twinge of sympathy for the flight attendant having to deal with all that, but he felt it was safe to tune out at that point. His boots - sturdy hiking boots, not the attention-getting cowboy boots of his wanted poster getup, good for grip on all sorts of surfaces - were unlaced and under the bunk and they weren’t quite underway, so he decided he’d be hitting the cafeteria early. And maybe he’d shell out for a drink for the old man’s traveling companion, he thought, shuffling quietly past the squabble. He was sure the flight attendant couldn’t drink on duty, or else he’d send him one first.

It was a ten-hour flight, and mission discipline should have sent him right to sleep for seven of them after his mediocre cafeteria meal. But he hadn’t had anyone hanging over his shoulder to enforce that discipline in five years, and sleep didn’t come easy. After an hour of trying to force himself into something deeper than a doze, he gave up and summoned the flight attendant for a drink. Jesse would have preferred to work out his troubles in a gym or at the range, but the transport had neither, and this was a good enough substitute to quiet the buzzing of his brain enough for a few hours’ rest.

He just couldn’t work it out, was the thing. Why had Winston called him, of all people, back? It didn’t fit with the do-gooder message he’d sent out. Jesse didn’t recall running with him much on the very few occasions he’d been sent to liaise with the main Overwatch forces, so it wasn’t out of some misplaced nostalgia. Winston’d been close with Tracer, though, and she’d seen him in action enough to know that he didn’t hold with tugging on heartstrings as a way to run things. None of Blackwatch had. Why did Winston bother sending the message out to them at all?

Jesse doubted many of the Blackwatch members - those still out of jail after the Petras Act stripped them of their pardons, anyway - would be at Gibraltar when he showed, with a message like that. Maybe Genji would. He’d been pretty tight with Reyes. Not as tight as Jesse, but the man needed some guidance on letting anger fuel you instead of rule you when he first joined up, and Reyes had that in spades. Jesse hoped he’d be there, or else he’d be running a covert mission in enemy territory solo, with no extraction plan and no end point. He could do it, but it’d be tricky. He hadn’t used anything more than basic infiltration skills in years, since his neighbors rarely required the effort. Overwatch was all trained operatives, though, and he’d be kept on his toes even with reliable backup.

Wasn’t worth borrowing trouble about, though. Jesse had more immediate concerns, like the best way to ditch Chris without raising too many suspicions, and how long he’d have to wait in Madrid before Peacekeeper made her own way across the Atlantic. And before all that, he needed to sleep. He knocked back the last swallow of his liquor and laid down, determined to get a little rest while he was secure.

It turned out that Peacekeeper wouldn’t be in Madrid after all. His smuggler contact had left him a coded message that told him to meet her for dinner in Malaga. Jesse’d had to hustle to get to the train, but he’d made it - and he was riding on the inside this time. Europe had more satellite cameras fixed on it than the deserts of the US did, and there was no reason to draw the attention of their flagging algorithms. Besides, the wireless connection inside the train was better.

One of Overwatch’s support staff had cooked up a program that disengaged an identity from public records gradually, in case anyone needed to use them again or the activity was being monitored. Jesse wasn’t supposed to have it still, but it’d been useful enough he transferred it from phone to phone. Over the next couple of weeks, Chris’s landlord and acquaintances would receive messages that his sister was sicker than he thought and he’d need to stay in Spain to manage her affairs. His bank account would make purchases to back that up. And with no close friends in the area, he’d quietly disappear unless Jesse needed him again. The program needed a stable connection to work, though, so it could learn from the communications he’d sent as Chris. The connection on the train was nicely anonymous, so it couldn’t be traced back to him.

Twenty minutes out from Malaga, Jesse took his bag into the bathroom. Instead of Chris’s baggy sweatshirt and wind pants, he put on tight jeans and a flannel button-up and pulled out a pair of wire-rimmed glasses. When he came out, he begged a hair tie off of a woman on the train, waggling his prosthetic fingers in explanation (they did get tangled in his hair if he wasn’t careful). When he was done, he looked like a tourist of a different type - a hipster American with a backpack and a guitar. The two days of stubble on his face made most natives peg him for an aging graduate student and give him a wide berth.

Carla, his contact, had left him a note at the Malaga information desk, and he followed her instructions to a worn-down bar that had probably been popular before the Crisis. It was looking a little worse for wear, though, and even before sundown had plenty of quiet, dark corners. Jesse spotted her iron-gray braid at a corner table and sat down, though not before getting a glass of wine at the bar.

“Auntie,” he said in Spanish as he settled in. He was sure Carla had heard his boots and spotted him well before he’d reached her table, but no use not being polite to someone who had your prize possession. “I hope you’ve been taking good care of my girl.”

Carla looked up at him and rolled her eyes. “Don’t I always?” she said in her crisp Iberian accent.

“You do, but the way you left Madrid, I’d almost think you wanted to keep her,” Jesse said, smiling in a way that didn’t hide the watchful glint in his eye.

Carla shook her head, but Jesse noticed she didn’t outright deny it. “Madrid gets so crowded this time of year,” she said. “It’s a little quieter here.”

“La Linea is even more peaceful, I hear,” Jesse said, leaning back as he sipped his wine. “That’s where I want to take her next.”

“Ah, going to take her to see the Rock?” Carla asked. “It’s quite the sight.”

“I am,” Jesse told her. “In fact, you could call it the reason we even came to Spain. There’s a little problem, though.”

“Oh?” Carla asked. “Nothing to spoil your holiday, I hope.”

Jesse put the fingers of his flesh hand to his mouth and then put it back on the table, like a man fighting the urge to bite his nails. “I hope not either. See, I want to cross the border, but I don’t have all her papers - her mother, you know how she is. But I really want her to be able to see the sights. Are the guards there understanding?” Meaning, of course, could they be bribed.

Carla shifted in her chair and leaned in on one elbow. “Most of them are family men and women, not career military the way it was a few years ago,” she said, meaning mob. “They should be able to work something out with you - they understand how it is for men in your position. After all, it’s not like there’s anything really dangerous she could get into these days.”

“That’s true,” Jesse agreed. “And I’ll keep a close eye on her, of course.” Meaning that he’d make sure Peacekeeper didn’t cause any trouble that brought too much attention to their operations.

Carla nodded. “I might just know a young man down there who could help you,” she said. “I’ll send him a message once I see you both get on the bus, and he’ll look out for you both.”

“I appreciate it,” Jesse told her, with an expression of relief. Carla’s reputation would make it a lot easier to get past the border guards while he was carrying. “How much did she cost you? I know how my girl can eat.”

“No, no,” Carla said, waving her hands in a way that was all show. “She was a pleasure. It wasn’t any trouble.”

“I insist,” Jesse said firmly. “Let me pay for the train tickets, at least. You couldn’t have been expecting Madrid to be so busy.”

“Well, that’s true,” Carla said. “But I’d watch your girl for you any time, you know that.”

“I do,” Jesse agreed. “Now, c’mon, tell me how much the tickets were, and I’ll pay you back.”

Carla named a sum with a show of reluctance, and Jesse added it to the already agreed-upon price before transferring it to her account. If she’d had to leave Madrid in such a hurry, it was probably because the law was getting too close for comfort, and Jesse was sure she’d had to bribe her way out. It was just good business to pay her back for that, and he’d been trusting Carla with Peacekeeper for a long time. His burner phone beeped, and after a moment, so did hers. She nodded, satisfied, and pushed away from the table.

“Come, let’s go get your girl,” she said. “I’m sure you missed her. She’s waiting at the bus station.”

Carla had been as good as her word. Even with Peacekeeper sewn into the lining of a laptop bag, Jesse hadn’t had any trouble getting past the border into Gibraltar, and even if she wasn’t at his hip, he felt better holding her steadying weight. He’d transferred all his belongings into a hiking backpack when he’d gotten there, and only as he started up the Rock did he send the signal from the communicator that would tell Athena and Winston he was on his way - and exactly how close he was. There were plenty of hidden protections that he was sure were still active on the base, and he’d need the signal to get in.

It only took a few moments to connect, and Winston’s voice was cautious as he answered. “McCree?”

“In the flesh,” Jesse answered. “Know I didn’t call ahead, but I was hopin’ my invitation still stood.”

[c-is-for-circinate]

The Three Dragons, or, Repentence, Revelry, and the Hero Resolve (a tale of Onde)

So when I offered to go telling stories from my D&D game the other, I got several votes for the elves, and I wrote that one out, but several people were also very interested in the dragons, and, well.  The Hero Resolve is one of my very favorite not-technically-a-god-but-honestly-might-as-well-be NPCs in this game, and making up folklore for a world that doesn’t exist is pretty damn awesome, so--

Once upon a time, there were three evil dragons.

.

Things tend to come in threes in stories.  On Nokomoris, where the entire eastern side of the continent has been settled for tens of thousands of years by dwarves, gnomes, and humans, tales of people-in-threes are everywhere.  This tale in particular, which has been told and retold so many times in a million forms that it’s barely recognizable, is sometimes told about a dwarf, a gnome, and a human villain, a trio of bandits or thieves or murderers or the like.  It’s also sometimes told about three trolls, or three vampires, or three unwary foxes, or anything at all that might bring harm to a small village in the middle of nowhere.

The way the story is most truthfully told, the way that matches up, more than it doesn’t, with the world that actually happened--begins with three dragons.  They were all of them adults but far from old yet, and they lived together in the mountains somewhere, in one lair shared between the three of them.

The largest and strongest and proudest of them all was the black dragon.  His very favorite thing was to come roaring in to a village or farm and strike terror into every heart, to ravage and ruin it and leave half of it to spoiling without even taking it for himself, and send the survivors terrified away to tell tales of his power and glory.  He was, he knew in his heart, the very very best; and he was full of violence and wrath, but his greatest sin was pride.

The fastest and cleverest and most joyfully cruel of them all was the green dragon.  Her very favorite thing to do was to catch just a scant clawful of little squishy two-legged people, and promise their survival if they’d play her game and could win it.  She never played fair but sometimes she let them go, if they’d entertained her just exactly the right amount to tickle her happy.  The world was, she knew in her heart, the most wonderful toy to be played; she knew vengeance and anger, but her greatest sin was cruelty.

The third dragon, the blue dragon, was the youngest and smallest of the three.  They were not as strong or as fast as their friends, though they were sturdy (and any dragon is strong and fast enough.)  They were not as clever or as vain, but they were wise (and every dragon is smart and beautiful enough.)  They were, in fact, very much the most practical dragon of the trio, and very much the most beloved.

(But C, you say, that’s not how dragon stats compare in 5e at all.  It’s blue dragons with the high str and cha, black dragons with the high dex.  The adult blue dragon CR is higher than the others!)

(But y’all, I say--this is a fairytale.  And also not all chromatic dragons exactly match their written stat blocks.)

(Yes.  I said “not all chromatic dragons”.  Back to the story.)

The third dragon was the practical one, as I said, and was very much the one who made it possible for three adult dragons to live and hunt and pillage the countryside together instead of fighting each other to miserable pieces.  The blue dragon had seen very easily how the three dragons might fight, and might destroy one another in the process, or might go their separate ways and each take his or her or their own small patch of territory, to defend from heroes and larger dragons alike--or they could band together and rule and ravage the skies. 

The blue dragon made sure that when they chose which village to attack, it would be large and mighty enough to satisfy the black dragon’s vanity, and that they didn’t accidentally step on anybody interesting enough to satisfy the green dragon’s need for a challenge.  They made sure that any survivors left to spread their tales could not raise an army against them, or find the secret trails up the mountainside to the dragons’ shared lair.  They ate nearly every two-legged victim the green dragon might have let go.  Their greatest sin was callousness, for they cared about no one at all besides their two dragon companions, and them only barely at that.

And so the three dragons fought, and flew, and thought themselves invincible for many years.

.

Now, there’s another figure that’s a cornerstone of folk tales throughout Nokomoris, and that, my friends, is the Pretty Witch.  Oh, she’s a princess sometimes, buckled under by the weight of trying to protect her kingdom, but on the whole, princess stories never really took off around here.  The great romantic heroine of the ages is the village witch.

Usually she’s a druid or a sorceress, to go by d&d terms.  Sometimes, in the stories, she summons a fae or a demon or a celestial or an elemental from another plane to help her against some great threat, and they fall in love; other times she captures an enemy and keeps them in her hut, and they fall in love as she nurses them to health and also interrogates them for their evil plan; in yet other stories, a brave hero faces all the witch’s challenges and proves they can protect her.  Some of the best stories, of course, combine all three.

Most real village witches never reach such a fairytale happily-ever-after, of course, or even get past casting second- and third-level spells.  The vast majority of village witches are either old enough to be someone’s (or everyone’s) mother or too busy to be interested in most offers of romance, and plenty of them are both.  That part’s true enough of the witch in this story, too.

Her power, on the other hand...

Well.  There are always exceptions.

.

The story says that one day as all three dragons swooped together onto a village on the edge of their territory, they watched a small woman step from a hut on the side of the village and raise a staff.  The story says that, mid-swoop, they began to feel themselves shrink--that the black dragon found his scales running together and turning soft and brown-pink-pale, and the green dragon found her claws growing short and weak and flat on her arms, and the blue dragon found their wings disappearing from their back even as they tried to pull up and fly away.

The story says that by the time the three dragons hit the ground, they were dragons no longer.  Every story argues, a bit, about what they were and which one was which, but--in every good bit of folklore about three people out in the world, there’s a dwarf, a gnome, and a human, so that must be what these three were here, right?

(It wasn’t, in reality--but it doesn’t really matter.   They were all people, soft and squishy two-leggers, and what does it change if all three were halflings or tieflings or even dragonborn, any more?)

They hit the ground on two legs each, naked and brown and pink and suddenly, for perhaps the first time in their long dragon lives, scared.  And all at once, they began to run.

(But C, you say--what about legendary resistances?  And anyway Polymorph is a concentration spell, one witch can’t cast it on three dragons at the same time anyway.  Hell, if they were swooping down on the village, fall damage alone should have knocked at least one of them out of it when they hit the--)

(Shhh, shh, I say.  It’s a story.  This isn’t how it really happened.  Of course it isn’t.  It really took days, or a team of adventurers, and probably both, and there were traps and wands and artifacts of all kinds that went into the doing.  This is only the version people tell each other--and it’s a better, shorter one, and lets us get to the rest of the story much quicker, usually.)

(But really, you say, even still, it’s just Polymorph--one good injury and they’d be right back to being themselves.  Surely three adult dragons would know enough about magic to realize that.  Surely one of them would be smart enough to try and injure themselves or one of the others to break it, right?  Maybe the blue one.)

(You have to let me get back to my story, for that.)

So--yes, yes, you’re right.  They all three of them hit the ground and fell immediately unconscious, how’s that?  Or perhaps only one of them did, but that was very much enough.  However it happened (and it must have been more than a thousand years ago, it must have been before Kera the Conqueror swept through the lands, must have been a thousand or two thousand years before your mother was born), however they fell, whatever they saw--the three ex-dragons did not become themselves again.  The spell did not break.

(Not even True Polymorph can do that, you say--

Yes, I say.  I know.)

(And why do we keep interrupting the story like this, anyway?)

(Well.  Because it’s a fairytale.  It’s the lore of legends.  This is a story to tell at bedtimes and campfires and long afternoons spent working with your hands while the children at your feet learn to spin yarn and shell beans and mend things.  This is the sort of story that’s meant to be told with interruptions.)

.

The man who had once been the black dragon woke up, and discovered that he was still a man, and he fled.

He had no direction in mind; his head was clouded, and his eyes were weak, and his feet were soft and clawless and he had no wings at all, and he had never run across ground like this before in all the many years of his life.  He had no thought save escape, and he ran without stopping except to fall to his knees and drink from a nearby stream like a dog before he forced himself up to run again.

He collapsed, eventually, outside a woodcutter’s hut.  He could not even bestir himself when the woodcutter and his wife brought him inside to nurse him back to health.

It took a full week before he could do more than stand and hobble, and in that time the woodcutter’s family nursed him with nothing but kindness, and man who had once been a black dragon found himself struck to the heart by it.  He had done so many things in his time as a dragon that he had been proud of, but now it seemed that he was a person, weak and desperate, and would be for the rest of his life.  It was unthinkable that a mere woodcutter like this should nurse a great black dragon back to health.

It was unthinkable for a person to have done the things the man had done, when he was a dragon.  How could a man live in this world of men, having done such things?  How could he be proud of who he was?  And so, faced with the kindness of the woodcutter’s family, the man who’d once been the black dragon began to feel the most tremendous guilt that has ever been felt in all the world for the things he’d done.

(Oh? Do you doubt him?  But man, or dragon, or dwarf, or tabaxi, whatever he was--he’d always been the best.  If he couldn’t be the very best killer, he could at least be the best at guilt.)

He would atone, he decided.  He would atone for the rest of his life.

When the man who’d once been a dragon could stand and walk without pain, dressed in the woodcutter’s old clothes and boots, the woodcutter finally asked what his name was.

“Repentance,” the man said, and went on his way to seek it, and that was the last anybody ever saw of the great black dragon.

.

(Oh, you think there’s more?  Of course there is.  A man appeared in the city to the south, and set himself to punishing every evil, including himself, however he could, and there are enough stories about him to last hours.  None of them are happy, of course--even when he found love, he could not allow it to bring him joy, because of course he deserved none.  And so the man Repentance found himself bringing sorrow even now to those who came to care about him most, caught in an endless loop of sin, and so he could never forgive himself or be redeemed, no matter what.  But at least he wasn’t a dragon.

Is that better?)

.

The woman who had once been the green dragon was even now a little cleverer than her first friend, and when she stood and realized that she was still a woman and not a dragon at all, she fled with a goal in mind.

It took days of careful, desperate travel, but she knew all the secret paths back to their lair in the mountains, where the three dragons had kept all the wealth and weapons they’d claimed as treasure over the years.  The woman draped herself in finery that seemed coarser and fouler-smelling now than it had when she was enormous and beautiful without it.  She put on the armor she’d plucked from the backs of knights, and then took it off again when it was too heavy, and eventually she had dressed and armed herself and filled a pack with as many riches as her new weak arms could carry, and set off again before anyone else could arrive to find her.

She found a port, and made her way onto a ship, bound over the sea to a land that had never known her as anything but this.  She sailed for days, and planned out her future.

She had lost her claws and so much of her power, but the world was still built of games, was it not?  And she could still play, with money and cleverness and secrets.  She was beautiful, apparently, by the standards of people, even if she was so much less awesome and terrible than she’d once been.  She could make claws out of daggers and a life out of this.  She could be a lady, a thief, a queen.  She could make do.

(You think she should be despairing, vengeful, angry?  Woman or dragon, gnome or goliath, no matter what--she was always ready to carve joy out of any chest she could find.  Why not find it again?)

When she disembarked in the new land, the guard at the port asked for her name.  “Revelry,” she said, and went off to seek it, and that was the last anybody ever saw of the great green dragon.

.

(Oh, it’s a parable now, is it?  Well.  What good folk story isn’t?

You want the rest?  She became a bandit queen and a baroness, and was feared and adored by many, and gathered riches and servants and lovers and secrets.  You could tell stories for days about the wicked and cruel exploits of the Baroness Revelry, and some of them would be sexy, and some of them would be fun, and some of them would leave you feeling queasy in the pit of your stomach afterwards, and in some of them, you’d be on her side.  After all, at least she wasn’t a dragon.

Is that enough?)

.

When the person who had once been the blue dragon awoke, they saw the witch of the village.  They saw the look in her eyes.  They saw the deep forest, and their own new delicate feet and hands and bones, and the torches from the other villagers approaching.

They stayed put.

The witch stayed, too, and watched them, and when the townspeople arrived she sent them away.  The witch was a very long way from young, and not as beautiful as she should have been, for this to be a really good story, but--for all that, there was something of power in her eyes.

“What will you do now?” the witch asked of the person who had once been a blue dragon, who had not taken their own eyes from the witch’s face and her gnarled broomstick.

“I don’t know,” said the person who was not a dragon any longer, who did not see any benefit to lying.  “What would you have me do?”

They were both quiet for a long moment as the witch looked the ex-dragon over, with her thoughts as impenetrable as a witch’s mind ever are.  Then she said, “Come inside.  I have floors that need sweeping and wood that will need chopping for the winter.”

.

The person who’d been a blue dragon slept on a pile of blankets on the witch’s floor.  The witch gave them chores to do in return.  They fetched water from the well, and scrubbed and cleaned, and learned to cook and tend a garden.  It was not a thing like being a dragon, except for all the wrong reasons.  The witch was small, and kind, and old, and not a bit of her was weak.  The no-longer-dragon had never known anyone as relentlessly practical as themself before.

Nearly every day people from the village would come by.  Some would come begging for help with colds and children and cows, and the witch was always kind to them, while her new lodger watched from the corner with sharp dragon-gold eyes.  Others would come with gifts, a few eggs here or a sack of flour there.  Sometimes the villagers with gifts had asked for help in the days before, and sometimes they hadn’t.

The person who was no longer a dragon asked questions, sometimes, and the witch would answer them, sometimes.

“Why do they bring you tribute?  Do you require it of them?”

“No,” said the witch, and, “they do it because it is kind, and right, and makes their world better in the long run.  Now go tend to the garden.”

Or, “Why do you not take over this village and half the countryside?  You have the power for it.”

“Because I do not wish it,” said the witch, and, “because they do not need me to, and because they and I are all happier that I do not.  Now go and tend the garden.”

Or, “Why are you kind to the ones who do not bring you gifts or tribute?  They do nothing for you, but you are generous to them.”

“Because,” said the witch, “it is kind, and I am able, and they are not, and that is what it means to be a person.  Now go and tend to the garden.”

Every time she answered a question, the witch would send them out to tend the garden.  The ex-dragon was careful with every plant, because it was only foolish to be careless with a witch’s garden, and learned to water every one exactly as much as it needed.  They learned to harvest berries and vegetables and herbs, and tend to the flowers and shrubs that produced nothing of any value, but only grew.  And they began, little by little, to understand.

.

Eventually it was winter.  The witch showed the one-time blue dragon how to drag their blankets closer to the fire, and how to chop the firewood and bank it at night to keep it going so they would both stay warm, and all the other things that needed to be done with the world frozen in white.

There was no more work to do in the garden, but by then the no-longer-dragon’s questions had changed, too.

“Why did you turn me into this?”  The witch could have picked anything, after all--a rabbit or an insect or a stone, and never thought about it ever again.  But she had chosen a person, who could walk and talk and think and work.

“Because it would save this village,” the witch said.  “I had not a care for you at all.  Now come and learn this potion.”

Or, weeks later, “Why did the villagers forgive me?”  They still came every day, and nodded to the ex-dragon when they passed, and didn’t flinch to do it.  They were not witches.  They didn’t have her power.

“Because they don’t know who you are,” the witch said.  “Or because they know and don’t care, or because you have done them no harm since coming here, or because they are too dead to hold a grudge, or perhaps they haven’t forgiven you at all and are only pretending.  Now go and bring this amulet to the miller and his wife.”

Or, after even more weeks, when it was nearly spring--”Why did you let me stay?”

“You know the answer to that already,” said the witch.  The person who had once ravaged the entire countryside as a great evil blue dragon found that they did know, after all.  It was the same reason as the bushes with no berries and the amulet for the miller, and everything else, too.

“Is there a difference between a dragon and a person?” the dragon-who-wasn’t asked.  “Between a tiefling and an aasimar and a human?  Between anything at all?”

“You know the answer to that, too,” said the witch, and of course, of course they did, by now.  “Ask what you really want to know.”

“Do you care now?” the person asked.  “Do you care about me, even though you didn’t then?”

The witch’s hard face softened, then.  “Do you?” she asked in return.  “Have you learned to care, after all that?”

The person thought about needy bushes and hungry inchworms and a thousand trips to the well on foot, about tea with the miller’s wife and little brown eggs from the seamstress’s daughter.�� They thought about whether they already knew the witch’s response to this question too, in their heart, and what it would mean if they were wrong.

“You know the answer to that,” the person who was a witch’s apprentice now said, because they had learned well, and because some things hurt too much to admit if they’re not returned.

Then the witch stepped forward, finally, and pulled them into her arms like a mother.  “You’re my own child, now,” she said.  “Everything changes.  The past only matters because it gave us what we have now.”

.

(Does it seem too easy?  It’s not.  Growth never, ever is.

It took more than a summer and a winter, when it really happened.  It took more pain and more yelling and more doubt to build that trust.  But it did grow.  And the story’s tidier, like this.)

(And if the forgiveness here surprises you on either side, or the willingness to try, well--)

(Witches are practical down to their bones, and whether they use it to be cruel or kind or selfish or saviors-of-all is down to them, but they all know there’s no sense in discarding an outstretched hand when it’s offered.  It worked, this time, for the right people with just the right amount of neediness and hope.  Sometimes the world does that.)

.

By the time summer came around again, the witch’s apprentice had had plenty of time to think and ponder and consider who they were to become.

The only difference between a dragon and a person was their shape, after all, so what was evil for a person must also be evil for a dragon.  What was wrong for a person must also be wrong for a dragon, and always had been, whether the dragon they’d been had known it or not.  So: they had done great evil, long ago and far away, and could not make it undone.  What next?

The witch, who was just as practical as her apprentice, sat and talked to them as they cooked and knit and worked potions and spells together in the hut all winter long, and by the time the world was warm again, the apprentice had made a decision.

“I can’t stay,” they said.  “I’ve done too much harm in the world.  I need to go out and do it good instead.”

“Because you think it will fix things?” the witch asked, to make sure, and also because she had grown to love her apprentice as her own child and did not want to see them leave, either.

“No,” said the apprentice, who had learned well.  “Because it’s kind and right and I’m able.”

“So be it,” said the witch, and hugged them close, and said, “Be Resolve, then, and return safe when you can.”

“Resolve,” the new druid said.  They went off not to seek it, for they’d already found it in their own heart, but to see it through.

And that was the last anybody ever saw of the blue dragon.

.

And that’s the end of the story.

.

(Well.  It’s an end.)

(Oh, you want to know about the Hero Resolve?  There are months‘ worth of stories about that, and you’d probably know a few dozen of them yourself already, if you lived in Nokomoris.  They all go more or less the same way, really.)

(The Hero Resolve arrives in a town, or a valley or kingdom or mountain or an island in the middle of the sea, and someone, somewhere, is suffering.  They find somebody with the power to do something about it.  It might be the sufferer themself, sometimes, but usually it’s not.  Maybe it’s the local lord who’s too distracted to notice the problem, or the local witch who’s too overwhelmed to cope.  Maybe the local bandits are too incompetent at stealing to provide for their children.  Resolve isn’t always picky in the way you’d expect, when they choose who to give advice.)

(The advice isn’t always easy to follow, mind you.  There’s hardly a good story in that.  But if they do follow Resolve’s suggestions--they’ll live happily ever after, eventually.)

(If not, Resolve will generally have to beat them up first, with shillelagh staff or beast form or just a bit of bare-handed cleverness, probably, depending on who’s telling the story.  But everyone else will live happily ever after anyway.)

(And that’s it.  That’s the Hero Resolve.  They roamed for years, back and forth across the continent, to every place you could ever name.  They fixed a lot of problems.  They probably took a couple levels in monk or something.  Every culture on Nokomoris has some variant on the Stubborn Hero stories if you ask.)

.

...

...

(Oh, you want more?)

.

(Well then.)

.

Once upon a time, as the Hero Resolve was out wandering the land, they came upon a rumor of a great evil on the other side of the sea.

(There, that’s how these stories are supposed to start, right?)

Since they had nothing else better to do that afternoon, they packed up their staff and their lunch and all their magic items, the bow with a string spun from spider-silk that could send an arrow through solid rock, the cloak that looked like a midsummer sky dyed with berries grown in water from the Spring of Life, and so on and so forth, as y’do.  They took a boat and sailed over to the kingdom on the other side of the sea and asked the crew and the passengers what they’d heard in these rumors about a cruel baroness who tormented the land with her powers, and pondered how they’d deal with the problem when they got there.

They had just about enough information to go looking for the Baroness’s castle when they disembarked in port, and found it in short enough order.  Some versions say they asked a magpie for help.  Other versions say the Baroness sent the magpie herself, to invite the renowned hero into her parlor, looking for another game or--

Or who knows what.  The important thing is that Resolve found themself ushered into a lavish entryway draped in silver and velvet, and from there into an even more lavish parlor draped in damask and gold, and then into an even more lavish dining room draped in platinum and silk.  They were still dressed in their sea-salt-stained traveling leathers, with their spidersilk bow and their sky blue cloak.  They had their iron knife at their belt, and their staff that had been a gift from the witch when they first left home, that looked like nothing so much as the gnarled stick of a broom with the bristles pulled off.  And there in the dining room of sumptuous luxury, they sat down to wait.

When the Baroness herself came in, she was--well, nobody is quite sure what she was, gnome or tiefling or even a tall graceful elf, in a world before elves.  She could have been dragonborn or human or one of the cat-people, bird-people, turtle-people from the south, who knows?  It’s different every time somebody tells the story.  Everybody agrees, though, on this: that she was as breathtakingly beautiful as a single moon on a pitch-dark night, and that her eyes glittered the color of gold.

Their eyes met, the Hero Resolve and the Baroness Revelry, two pairs of dragon-gold eyes in faces that should not have held them.  For one long, breathless moment, it was as though no time had passed at all, and then they fell into each others’ arms and hugged with arms they’d never had to put around each other before.

.

Resolve and Revelry slept that night curled up like lovers in Revelry’s enormous fur-draped bed.  They spoke, a little, about where and how and who they’d been in all the years since they’d seen each other.  They hid more.  The Great Hero Resolve had made a whole life out of seeing the end of the sort of deeds the Evil Baroness Revelry had made a life out of seeing done.  There was only so much they could admit to each other of themselves.

And yet...they were still both of them so very much themselves.  Revelry’s grin and sparkling wicked wit still brought Resolve to helpless laughter.  Resolve’s steadiness and dry understated insight warmed and calmed a thing in Revelry’s chest that had not been calm in so many years.  They had neither of them been quite this happy in all the time they’d been apart, and now, back with each other again, it seemed like the real loss hadn’t been their claws and fangs and wings at all.

Resolve was used to sleeping lightly and waking early.  The witch always rose with the sun, and it was only sensible for a hero on the road, whether they camped by the side of the road or in haylofts or let themself be made a guest of anywhere.  They opened their eyes with the first light of dawn, and looked down at the woman sleeping next to them, and thought about the sharp edge of their iron belt knife, which had killed fiends and monsters and people.

It would be simple, to do the job they’d come here to do.  They loved their oldest, dearest friend, of course they did, but--

How does an evil thing love?  It seemed impossible that Resolve could have ever really loved their dragon-companions, back when they were still a dragon, before they understood what love or evil or being a person even meant.  It seemed impossible for Resolve to still love her now, and if Revelry was still the same as she had been, how could she ever love anything at all in return?

The Hero Resolve felt the hilt of their knife on the floor beside the bed, and watched their long-lost heart’s companion sleep until Revelry opened her eyes, glinting golden in the morning sun.  And looking at those eyes, Resolve let the knife go, and promised themself that they would try again tomorrow.

That day they breakfasted together, and Revelry showed Resolve all the halls of her manor and all the gardens of her estate, and Resolve showed off some of their many shapes and forms, and they told longer and truer stories about their lives.  Resolve tried to grasp for their namesake every time they caught a glimpse of the evil in Revelry’s stories, again and again, all afternoon and all night.  They slept tangled together in the same bed again.

And so they lived for a week, with Resolve trying to find conviction within themself and failing, with Revelry discovering more joy in her long-lost friend than she’d felt in all the years in between, with Resolve’s iron knife tucked safely beneath their pillow in Revelry’s bed every night.

.

On the seventh morning, Resolve got as far as drawing the knife in hand.  They’d thought a million times this week about attacking their old friend in the middle of the day, and every time they caught sight of those old familiar eyes, they lost the nerve.  Murdering a sleeping lover in her very bed...it was cowardly and dishonorable, of course, but it would be effective.  Effective mattered more than honorable.  Resolve had learned that from the witch all those years ago.

Results mattered more than intentions.  Fine, Resolve loved Revelry with so much of their heart that this might break them forevermore.  So what?  Revelry was a monster, a scourge on the land around her, a murderer and worse.  That mattered.  Resolve’s own heart would heal, or wouldn’t.  They’d slaughtered too many people in their own time for their feelings to be worth more than the lives of Revelry’s future victims now.

And yet, as they sat poised with knife in hand, watching Revelry sleep...once more, they hesitated.  And this time, when Revelry opened her eyes, she saw the knife before Resolve could tuck it away.

“Are you going to kill me, my love?” Revelry asked, as calmly as a still summer morning.

“Yes,” said Resolve.  “Yes I am, because whatever you are to me, you bring so much suffering to the rest of the world.  It’s kind and right to do this, and I’m able, and whatever else I am or ever have been, I choose to be a person.”

Revelry nodded a long, slow nod in the quiet of the room’s dawn light.  Resolve waited for her to grab for a weapon or a spell or Resolve’s own staff, for the Baroness had become quite a wizard in her own right in the time since they’d known each other last.  And they waited, poised and frozen, until Revelry said,

“Then I’ll let you.”

Resolve drew back in shock and confusion, and Revelry continued, “I’ve felt more joy this week with you than from any thing I’ve seen or done in all the years we’ve been apart.  I’d rather you kill me than watch you leave again.  I’d rather know I could at least make you happy.”

“This won’t make me happy,” Resolve snapped, with tears in their eyes.  “It has to be done, even if it does ruin me to do it, but that doesn’t make me happy about it.”

Revelry frowned, then, and for the first time began to reach below her own pillow.  “Really?”

“You know I love you,” said Resolve, and all in a flurry their iron knife met the rod Revelry kept tucked safely to hand in bed every night, just in case--though this hadn’t been the way she’d expected to use it.

“Then I can’t let you kill me,” Revelry said, rolling to her feet and facing off against the great hero now, both of them barely armed and dressed in bedclothes, squaring off with the enormous fur-draped bed between them.  “I love you too much to let anything make you miserable, including yourself, whatever you think about your morals now.”  And then they fell to fighting.

It was a strange, furious half-battle, both of them trying too hard not to hurt the other in spite of themselves, desperately working to keep their voices down before the servants of the house could hear and came running.  They twisted and fought, arguing the whole time--

“I can’t just let you keep doing the things you’ve always done!  You were given a chance at a whole new life, and still you’ve chosen to be a monster!”

“Why do you care about them?  What are any of them worth that you care more about them than yourself?”

“Because they’re people!  And I’m a person!  And so are you, but you don’t want to be!”

“If I stop tricking idiots to their deaths, will that make you happy?  And keep you from trying to do something ridiculous and self-destructive like murdering your own lover in the name of honor?”

“It doesn’t count if you’re only doing it to please me!  I can’t be the only thing in the whole world you care about!  Your entire morality can’t just be me!”

“Well why not?”

And they fell back, both of them panting and bloodied, in now-ragged night gowns, staring at each other from opposite sides of a destroyed room.

“I don’t care about torturing them,” said Revelry.  “It’s fun.  I don’t care if it makes me evil, I don’t care about them or their feelings or their stupid little lives, but I care about you.  I’ll stop it all, if you ask me to.”

“This is a terrible foundation for a relationship,” Resolve said.  “But fine.”

.

(Yes, I’m taking liberties with the story.  Know your audience, they say.  Most of the time that bit’s just a lot of arguing, or more violent and less dramatic or romantic depending on who’s telling it, but who doesn’t love a good half-naked sword fight?  Why ruin the tattered nightgowns thinking about the fact that the two major participants are mainly caster-classes, anyway?)

(One of them is clearly an illogical idiot, you say.  Fair enough, but let’s table the discussion there before you and your neighbors get into your own virtual brawl over which one it is.  They’re both illogical idiots.  That’s how love--and fairytales-- work.)

(Want a life lesson from this one?  Don’t turn a single person into your entire moral compass and your whole world.  Also, don’t try to force yourself to stab the person you’re in love with for the Greater Good.  None of this exactly how it actually went, and it only worked out in the end with a whole lot of luck and a lot more hard work than we have time and space for here.  This is a fairytale.  It’s not meant to be exact history.)

(But yes, from me to you--it did really end happily-ever-after, even when it actually happened.  Or at least, as-happily-as-ever, which is about as good as real life ever gets.)

.

In the end, Resolve and Revelry slipped off in the middle of the afternoon, without a single word to the servants or any sign of their going.  Revelry brought a single small bag of tools and treasure, less even than she’d taken from her old hoard when she first began this life, and they boarded a boat back across the sea under fake names, with secret grins that threatened to burst out into laughter at every moment.

Resolve brought Revelry back to the home of the witch who they still called Mother, and introduced her by name, and did not explain the details of their past, although the witch was canny and clever and figured it out right away anyway.  Eventually, when Resolve ventured forth across the land once again, Revelry came with them, and together they learned to turn saving-the-world into a game interesting enough to keep Revelry’s attention even when Resolve wasn’t watching them at every moment.  She never did quite learn to embrace guilt or regret, but she grew to find a soft spot for scrappy, clever underdogs who just needed half a chance to learn to fight.

They did eventually come to the city where the man Repentance lived and worked, and met him and embraced him again, for a while.  He still remembered his love for the blue dragon, but he could not forgive his one-time companions for their pasts any more than he could forgive himself.  Revelry, at least, was easy for him to condemn and hate, but most especially he could not understand how Resolve might have come to see the evil of their past crimes and yet still willingly laugh and live and find joy in it all anyway.  In the end they parted ways quickly, for while they all three of them now sought to bring good to the world, Resolve and Revelry chose to pursue it through happiness and hope, and Repentence could only see regret.

And so they traveled on for many years, and lived very nearly happily for very nearly forever after, and that’s all there is to the story of the Hero Resolve and the Baroness Revelry.

.

The end.

.

(No, I mean it this time.)

.

(Look, that’s the end of the story!  There’s plenty of other little side-stories and folktales in there, but whenever anybody on Onde actually tells this story, this is where it ends.  That’s how it goes!)

(Yes, I mean it.)

(Yes, I realize I've said that these are two extremely high-level spellcasters, both of whom remember spending centuries of their lives as nigh-immortal dragons and one of whom has barely found enough of a sense of right and wrong to qualify as Chaotic Neutral.  And I’m suggesting they lived out the rest of their short natural lives as a couple of flightless humanoids and never found a way to correct their lives or forms.  And they never ran into any desperate tragedy of disparate species lifespans, or had to deal with archdruid timeless body, or--)

(Yes.  Yes, I did say at the beginning of the post that this was the story of my very favorite near-godlike NPC, but--)

.

(Okay.  Okay, fine.)

(There’s one more thing to know.)

(This isn’t part of the story, though, so don’t go spreading it around.  Nobody on Onde knows this part, except for those that do.  And that’s a story for a very different day.)

.

True Polymorph is a ninth-level spell.  It can transform any willing wizard or druid who’s already at a high enough level to cast it into a fully-grown adult green or blue dragon with ease.  It’s permanent, if you concentrate on it for a full hour.  And dragons can cast spells, even the sorts of spells that would let them turn back into an old humanoid form that’s gotten comfortable and familiar, and maybe they rarely learn to do much in the first thousand years or so of life, but most dragons aren’t forced to live as humanoids for a couple of decades or centuries to figure out how, so--

Well.  True Polymorph lasts without being concentrated on, anyway, once it sticks, but--even it doesn’t tend to hold up well to dropping to zero hit points or running afoul of a Dispel Magic, after a while.

(Yes, the RAW are ambiguous, here.  And?  This is Onde.  True Polymorph can guide the world into holding a new shape indefinitely, but it can’t rewrite the truth of existence.)

A fully-grown adult dragon may not find themself reduced to zero hit points all that often, but Resolve and Revelry weren’t about to give up adventuring just to return to their old forms forever.  Dispel could get...awkward.  There had to be a safer way, didn’t there?

“How did you make it stay?” Resolve asked the witch, so many years later that even an archdruid such as the witch had become old.  She shook her head.

“There’s a spell,” she said.  “With components I never saw in all my life before or since.  They’re long gone now.”

(Was it a spell?  Was it a one-use spell scroll, enchanted in centuries gone by and long forgotten?  Was it a magic item?)

(Does the nature of the MacGuffin matter, in the end, or just its effect?)

“But the spell exists” said Resolve--and, well, what are heroes for if not tracking down mysteries and finding components?  Plane-shifting to gather sap from the forests of the gods, or the bones of every material plane, or the dust from the plains below Sigil itself, or--well.  Does that matter, either, the how?

It’s very difficult to tell a legendary hero that there’s no way.

.

(They transformed the man Repentance back, too, when they changed themselves.  It took them two days to hunt him down and slaughter him, two dragons against one, when he decided that it was his duty as a dragon again to do exactly the thing that dragons were for.)

(It goes like that, sometimes.  Not every redemption arc quite works.  You can tell yourself that he let his oldest companions rip his throat out, in the end, out of the last shards of love for them or horror at what he’d become.  It might be true.)

(Everybody learns.  What they learn, on the other hand, is entirely up to them.)

.

There are people to the west of the Western Wall mountains, in the dragonlands where all colors of dragon are common, and known, and feared, who tell a story about a high valley in the dry lands of the peaks, surrounded by dense pine forests and bare dust-blasted stone and open sky.  If you need something--if you truly need something, and you’re desperate enough to do what it takes to get it, you can climb up there looking and ask.

You’ll get advice from somebody, if you’re lucky, if you can make it past the storms and the woods and the heights up the secret paths to get there.  Follow it no matter what, however hard it is, and things will turn out happily ever after for you in the end.  If you reject the advice, things will turn out happily ever after for someone, probably, but there’s a good chance you’ll get your ass kicked on top of the problems you already had, first.

It’s not a bad place to retire, when you’re old and enormous enough to call yourself truly Ancient.  Ruling the whole world is a nice idea to toss around every couple of decades, but really, it’s such a lot of work, and--really, it’s enough of a job just being your wife’s conscience (or letting your spouse be your conscience), let alone taking on an entire planet full of other people too.  Better, really, to let things go along on their own way.

It’s not a bad place to raise children up here, either.  Oh, there’s plenty of bloodlust and rage in most wyrmlings of any color, but--what’s bloodlust and rage got to do with anything?  How is anyone supposed to learn how to be a person, without somebody there to teach them that they are?

They go their own way, when they’re old enough, and some of them for the better and some of them for the worse, but--

Well.  That really is beyond the end of this story.  There’s no telling what hasn’t happened yet.

.

As to ‘happily-ever-after’...

That’s a fairytale ending, of course.  Resolve and Revelry have been to the feywild plenty enough times to know a fair few fairy tales direct from the source themselves, but at this point, we’re not really telling a campfire bedtime story any more, is it?  Now it’s just backstory for a couple of NPCs who are still alive.  They’re as happy as any old married couple who’s had centuries to grow into each other.

They’re not quite gods, because even an ancient dragon with an archwizard’s spellbook or an archdruid’s control is still a creature of flesh and blood and bone, and mortal in their own way.  Some villain or hero or furious ex-student, some god or quest or just old age and ennui will get them eventually.  No telling how, though, or when.  No telling what might happen in the mean time.

No telling when the Hero Resolve might pull on a different shape and go on walkabout for another few years once again, with or without their love at their side, and see what they’re able to do for the world.

[minnesotadruids]

What are the basic values of a druid? Trying to understand what exactly druidry is.

Druidry has no universally defined set of values, which makes it tricky to pin down. In terms of basic values, I can start with what druids might have in common.

Reverence for Nature: I find it hard to believe that there could ever be a druid who does not have some degree of appreciation for the natural world. This could range from a deep respect to all-out worship, depending on the individual. Many druids seek to establish a connection with the Earth and with Nature. We’re not here to conquer it, but to acknowledge that we are part of it. The Earth is a deity that we can prove exists.

Subcategory - Trees: I often meet up with people who have an interest in druidry around the Minneapolis area, and one thing that almost all of us mention is a love of trees that (at least in part) drew us in. After all, even the ancient Romans observed that the druids had something to do with trees and were the knowers of the oak.

Subcategory - Environmentalism: Stewardship, using our natural resources wisely, seeking balance, and taking care of our only home planet are important to modern druids. The Industrial Revolution in part led to the increase in popularity of the Druidry Revival Movement. Many druids promoted getting back to nature in a world where mills, factories, and machines began to dominate the landscape and take its toll. With deforestation, mining, and waste, we also have a concern for the animals that we should be sharing the world with.

Peace: According to Roman historian Strabo in his writing Geographica, the ancient druids “…prevented armies from engaging when drawn up in battle array against each other.” In the Druidry Revival Movement, many members were liberal Christians and Unitarians. The English Civil War and the Jacobite Rebellions, carrying overtones of religious superiority (Protestant vs Catholic) were ongoing or still fresh in the memory of the people. Many of these Revival Druids wanted a more peaceful existence and spirituality. Naturally, they liked the notion that the ancient druids had the power to halt warfare. Pacifism stuck around as a popular druid value in just about every modern druid order.

Balance: Many druids strive to practice mindfulness and moderation, while understanding that nature is about giving and taking. Even as there is day, so must there be night. There are many druids who embrace the dark and the light equally, while other druids see that the world is already saturated in darkness and try to balance that out, and that takes its toll on us. That brings us to the importance of self care. When we have too much of one thing that wears away at the heart, we need to give some balance to our own lives on a personal level.

Creativity: Many druids have some form of creative expression. The bardic arts aren’t limited to just poetry and song. We are also artisans, hobbyists, and craftspeople. We create sacred artwork, ritual tools, jewelry, supplies, and more. We may be in varying states of skill, but hey, everyone starts somewhere.

This is where I go out on a limb (oh the pun!) and cover additional values that I would hope most (if not all) druids have.

If there’s any single modern druidic writing that encompasses values, it’s the Druid’s Prayer, originally written by the bard Iolo Morganwg and has since been adapted into numerous versions. OBOD has an excellent page on the Druid’s Prayer [here] with their choice of verse. The next eight values below are right out of the prayer.

Protection: Okay, so who doesn’t want to be safe? Protection is universally important, particularly for people with fringe beliefs and practices. This is not limited to only physical protection; it can certainly also mean magical and spiritual protection as well.

Strength: I’m willing to bet this is primarily in the sense of nonphysical strength. This can mean emotional strength, courage, integrity, dedication, perseverance, and more. And yes, there are probably some body-builder druids who mean strength literally.

Knowledge: The ancient druids would take up to 19 years (vaguely like achieving a Master’s Degree today) to commit everything to memory. That included history, lore, law, medicine, astronomy/astrology, magic, theology, philosophy, logic, sacred geometry, and others. Of course with modern literacy, we can learn things much faster with the written word. That doesn’t mean we’re committing it all to memory, but we have the added ability to conduct research in the modern era and access knowledge almost instantaneously. We have a thirst for learning, which fosters a path to Awareness. Many of us are also on a quest for truth and discerning correct knowledge from the incorrect. There is a lot of misleading information out there and we feel it is important to get it right.

Understanding: I personally interpret this as wisdom. Wisdom is applied knowledge, which first requires us to understand what we know on a deeper level. Wisdom is often achieved through experiences. For many, druidry is an experiential lifestyle, not just merely a nature-based spirituality.

Justice: The ancient druids served many purposes, and some were looked up to as judges and interpreters of the law. Unfortunately we can’t all be judges, but perhaps not all ancient druids were judges anyway. Through logic and reason we can think and act justly. Living beings are deserving of fairness and a balance of equality.

Love: Concern and compassion for our fellow beings comes to us through the most powerful emotion. Sure, Nature can be cold and emotionless, yet druids still feel a driving force to gaze out at her beauty in love, wonder, and awe. (Regarding wonder and awe for Earth, see also [this video] on the Overview Effect.) For many, love is just part of the deal.

Divinity: Not all druids believe in a higher power, but many do. Some druids are hard polytheists, believing in many deities. Some druids are soft polytheists, believing that the gods are aspects of one divine source. Some druids are pantheists, believing that everything is divine, and deity is everything. Some druids are panentheists, believing everything is divine, yet deity is also a separate being. Some druids are monotheists and liberal Christians. Some druids are spiritual but not religious. Many druids, in addition to some of the above categories, are animists, believing that everything has its own spirit, even rocks and plants. Because of the flexibility in this category, it really doesn’t make a difference how you perceive divinity to be a druid. Write that down.

Goodness: Above I mentioned balance. To avoid contradictions, I should mention that balance is good in most situations. We certainly don’t need Evil to balance out Good. We don’t want half the world population to be racists, for example… zero racists is a good balance. Humility is also important. Druidry is not about egoism, nor power struggles, nor conceitedness. 

Community: The ancient druids were the spiritual leaders of their communities. Strabo mentions in Geographica  that the Gaulish Celts “…would not sacrifice without the presence of the Druids.” (Side note: most modern druid orders condemn animal or human sacrifice, but I digress.) We advance faster when we work together, such as in study groups, organizing events, or completing projects.

Leadership: Whether we are leaders of our communities, of our Groves, or how we lead our lives by example, leadership is important. There are many solo druids out there, and that’s perfectly fine. Solo druids are their own clergy, and leaders of their own spirit. Many solo druids feel they can get more accomplished if they follow their own guidance at their own pace.

There are certainly many more values that druids have that might not be listed here, but this is a good start. I am grateful with special thanks to my friends in Northern Roots Grove & Druid Order of North America (DONA) who helped ensure that I have a well-rounded list.

[jasontoddiefor]

Title: you gave up half your life Fandom: Supernatural Summary:  When Dean and Cas disappeared, Sam was lost. But in a world that had nearly broken apart so many times, he wasn’t the only one who needed support and guidance. AN: Remember when I ranted about season 7? Yeah good times. Here’s my 10.000 words Salty Post Season 7 Fix-it in which Sam Winchester accidentally starts organizing a bunch of Hunters all while trying to find his brother.

Read on AO3

Sam didn’t remember the first 48 hours after Dean had disappeared. He knew he must have gotten out of the building, away from the Leviathans, the demons and every pretty little hell his mind could have thrown at him, and driven away in the Impala. He had woken up covered in black goo at the side of a road outside of some tiny town he didn’t even know the name of, miles and hours away from where they had stopped the apocalypse 2.0.

Dean was gone.

Sam had to get him back.

The two of them had a pact, of course. If one of them died, the other would continue on with his life. No shady deals, no sacrifices, no years wasted away chasing after the barest whisper of hope.

That pact was lie.

Sam had known as much from the moment he had died for the first time. They had sworn it to assure each other that they weren’t too far gone yet, that they could still be functional members of society that weren’t utterly codependent.

During his time at Stanford, Sam had taken a course on children’s psychology. Siblings that grew up with absent parents tended to cling more to each other. The younger they were, the stronger the bond.

The course had been eye-opening and confronted him with more than just one uncomfortable truth. (Sam had never cried out for their father after a nightmare.) As long as Dean was out there, somewhere, Sam could manage.

But now Dean was gone.

Not dead, not possessed, just gone.

The pact was a lie and Sam was alone.

His next course of action was clear, he knew his mission (had done so once already in a fantasy land created by a cowardly angel): find Dean, consequences be damned.

(He heard Lucifer singing, oh, so sweetly, “This is why you were made for me.” He ignored it.)

X

Sam started to research. He had always liked that part of the job the most. Ever since he could think, he’d been absorbing knowledge. It was the most ordinary, white-picket-fence like part of being a Hunter. When he had been younger, Sam used to pretend that he was preparing for a school project instead of trying to figure out what was going to kill his family if he didn’t do his job correctly.

He began collecting books from all kinds of places. All his Leviathan research was already stored on his laptop and about five different hard drives he carried with him at all times. It was hard to find anything online Sam didn’t already know or the Leviathans hadn’t covered up themselves. The lore on purgatory, which Sam had already gone through, was about as vague and contrasting as possible. According to the Catholic church, it didn’t even exist anymore. At the same time, the older the lore, the more accurate and Dante had written a whole adventure about it. Sam should have asked Cas how reliable Dante's account of hell, purgatory, and heaven was. Sam had only been to two of those realms and his memories of both were hazy. What little the monsters had let slip out about purgatory didn’t help him either.

Sam was looking at a puzzle he didn’t know how to solve, where to start searching. Usually, Dean would throw in some random comment now, sparking a new thought process.

But Sam was alone.

(For now.)

He had to keep looking.

X

After he had gotten back from the Cage, Sam had to stop himself whenever he introduced Dean.

“This is my brother-,” he would say and halt. Dean took over then, playing whatever role he had assumed at the moment.

Sam had been too much of a coward to ask Dean if he knew that it took months for Sam to get it under control, until Adam was no longer the first name on his tongue.

“You’re my brother Adam,” Sam had whispered for a century, wrapped tightly in Grace while sheltering his younger brother.

The least damage to the most innocent of us, three of them had decided down there. The Cage did not provide any space for raging battles or accusations, and it was meant for only one of them. There was companionship to be found in equal suffering.

(Even in the darkest place on Earth, Sam hadn’t been on his own.)

Sam had lost one brother for eternity. He wasn’t going to lose another.

X

Sam had almost forgotten that he had a phone until it rang one day. He had been lying half asleep on the small table of the motel room, which still had two queen-sized beds because Sam hadn’t gotten out of the habit of asking for such yet. Last time, it had taken almost two months. Sam didn’t intend to be separated from his brother long enough to get rid of the habit again.

The ringing of the phone startled him awake. In his disorientation, he knocked his mug, half-filled with cold coffee, off the table.

“Shit,” Sam cursed and threw the nearest piece of fabric he could find over it.

He then rushed over to his bag, searching for his phone.

Please, he thought. I need just this one miracle.

Sam didn’t recognize the number on the phone. Memorizing numbers of hotel rooms, license plates, phones, holes in jeans, and bullets had been one of the first things John Winchester had taught Sam.

After Dean had shown Sam how to read such numbers.

“Hello?” Sam answered the phone. His voice was rough – when had he last talked to someone?

“Sam Winchester?”

Sam’s first reaction was to recoil. He wanted to scream, shout, throw something.

He did neither of those things.

“Kevin? Is that you?”

A sob rang from the other end of the line.

“Oh, God. It really is you. I know I memorized your number correctly, but the tablet messed with my head and I just, I need-“

“Kevin, breathe,” Sam ordered. “Where are you?”

“New York,” Kevin stammered. “State, not city. I managed to escape, but Crowley will know soon because I blew up his demons and I don’t know where to go or what to do-“

“I’ll come get you. Go somewhere safe and ward the room like you’re expecting the devil himself to knock and then call me again.”

He sent a quick and silent prayer to Castiel, the only angel worth praying to left these days despite everything, and began to pack his things. Truth be told, Sam hadn’t really thought about Kevin since that day. Crowley had just grabbed him and vanished, and Dean, always Sam’s priority, had been more important.

Dean would be ashamed Sam had let himself get so absorbed in such a single-minded attitude. This hyper-focusing, while it helped fighting one cause, could get you killed just as quickly. A Hunter couldn’t be entrenched. They had to think quickly and be flexible and open to other ideas. For all that Hunters hated deviating from the norm, if you only knew how to salt-n-burn bones, your third ghost would get you.

Within fifteen minutes, Sam was packed. He loaded his belongings into the Impala and drove off into the direction of New York.

X

Sam found Kevin in an overcrowded motel, hiding out in a wardrobe that was covered in so many sigils, it might as well be drenched in ink. Kevin had picked up on quite a lot of knowledge in the short time he had been exposed to the supernatural. Though, maybe, that also had to do with his status as a prophet of the Lord. Perhaps this knowledge was written into his soul.

When Sam opened the door, Kevin was cradling the demon tablet with one hand and a water bottle with the other.

“Hey, Kev-“

Sam didn’t get much further, as Kevin hit him with a glass full of water.

“I’m not a demon, Kevin,” Sam said slowly. He knew better than to scare the younger man now.

“You could have been possessed!” Kevin insisted, bloodshot eyes wide open with a crazed look.

Sam shook his head and pulled the collar of his shirt away from his neck to expose his anti-possession tattoo.

“Not with this. As long as I’ve got this one intact, I’m good.”

Kevin stared at the black ink.

“Is that Hunter standard?” He asked. “And can I get one?”

For the first time in weeks, or so it felt like, Sam managed to twist his face into something resembling a happy expression with the hint of a smile.

“Sure, Kevin. If you’re up for a long drive right now.”

Kevin was tired. It was written all over his face, his posture. He had a haunted look in his eyes, one Sam knew all too well. It was easy to forget that not everyone had been raised in this life like Sam and his brother had. But right now, staring in Kevin's sunken-in face, Sam was reminded of just how much Kevin had had to adapt since he’d woken up as a prophet.

“I need to keep moving,” Kevin insisted, subtly shifting so the tablet was pressing into his body uncomfortably.

“Okay. Then we keep moving.”

Kevin fell asleep in the backseat of the Impala within fifteen minutes, still holding onto the tablet. Once in a while, Sam glanced at Kevin, but he slept peacefully. The past weeks must have been an enormous strain on his body and mind if he rested as well as he did now, with no nightmares haunting him.

(The first few nights after Cas had taken Lucifer from him, Sam had been so out of it as well. He had fallen asleep and just woken up again, not chased by blood, torture, and screams. Nowadays, if he slept, he had night terrors. It almost made him miss Lucifer. Almost.)

Sam wished he could say the same.

X

After a couple days of pretty much non-stop driving, Sam and Kevin arrived in a relatively small town. They got a motel, checked for any signs of demons and promptly warded the room to withstand a minor assault. Then they left the Impala in the parking lot and headed for a diner. Kevin hadn’t eaten properly in days (not that Sam had either, but he also wasn’t recovering from a kidnapping) and needed something nutritious.

“Where are we?” Kevin asked while he was swirling his soup around with his spoon, not eating any of it.

“Nebraska, passed the state lines a couple hours ago.”

Kevin rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I can read road signs, Sam. But you were heading to this city specifically – why?”

“There’s a retired Hunter here, or at least, I hope he’s still here. He owns a tattoo shop.”

Kevin stared at him, not giving Sam the impression that he had made the connection. Then again, he’d been so out of it when Sam had picked him up, he might not even remember.

“You wanted to get an anti-possession tattoo,” Sam elaborated.

“Oooh, yeah.” Kevin looked down on his bowl. “I forgot about that. But why here? Couldn’t we have walked to any shop?”

The answer was yes, they could have, but Sam didn’t want to. Marty McKinnons never really left his state for hunting. Sam had met him when he was on his way to Stanford, seven days separated from Dean. Sam may or may not have had a minor breakdown in the passenger seat of Marty’s car while they drove away from a graveyard.

“I only managed seven fucking days of normal before the crazy came back again. What the hell was I thinking?” Sam had said then.

Marty had let Sam crash on his sofa that night and set his head straight again. He had been managing a shop and a band while hunting. “You don’t have to give it all up, kid,” Marty had said. “Or push it all away. If you see a ghost, take care of it or call someone who can. No need to go searching for cases like your daddy. If your neighborhood’s good, so are you.”

And then he had given Sam breakfast and driven him to the bus station.

“We could,” Sam finally replied. “But I’ve wanted to check out who else is still in the game, and if they know what the demons are up to.”

Kevin mustered Sam a little while longer. “Alright.”

He went back to pretending he was actually going to eat more of his soup and Sam picked at his salad.

X

Marty’s shop was crammed into an alley, an off-shoot of the main road. It was still standing. Sam took that as a good sign. Kevin walked slightly behind Sam, staying as close as he possibly could without full-on taking over Sam’s personal space.

Sam opened the door to the shop and the old bell attached to the doorframe rang. Marty had stolen it out of an abandoned church. Sam couldn’t quite recall what monster church bells warded against, but he could remember in perfect detail Marty’s hilarious tale about its acquisition. It had involved neon pink paint and lucky charms and had sounded like something out of a comedy sketch.

“Welcome to Artemis Tattoo’s, what can I do for you?”

Marty looked a little different than Sam recalled. It shouldn’t surprise him, it had been over a decade. The red-haired man was well into his fifties now, and his hair was graying, giving him a silver-fox look.

“Hey, Marty,” Sam greeted lamely. “It’s me, Sam-“

“Sam Winchester?” Marty interrupted him with wide eyes.

He took off his glasses and rubbed them over his black t-shirt before putting them on again.

“Christo, is that really you, kid?”

Sam shrugged helplessly. “Still me, still kicking.”

Compared to Sam, most people were smaller than him. Marty was the only person Sam knew who was taller than him still. When he marched towards you, it was impossible to not feel intimidated. Nobody would expect a man of Marty’s age and built to be as silent and fast as he was, so when he suddenly rushed towards Sam, Sam was caught off-guard. He didn’t even have a chance to act before Marty pulled him close.

He was hugging him, Sam realized belatedly.

“Holy fucking hell, kid,” Marty cursed. “You’re alive. You wouldn’t believe the shit I heard about you Winchesters in the past years. Where’s your brother?”

Sam tensed and Marty slowly let go of him. Marty had started hunting because his older sister had been killed by a witch, Sam remembered.

Sam didn’t have it as bad as him.

“Dean’s- he’s gone.”

(But he would be back.)

“Hell, kid. I’m sorry-“

“He’s not dead,” Sam insisted. Each time he said it out loud, he managed to stand a little bit straighter. “He’s just lost. I’ll find him. But that’s not what I’m here for. Look, this is Kevin.”

Sam stepped aside to let Marty get a good look at Kevin. Kevin waved timidly and nervously took in Marty’s many tattoos. The older man was covered in them from head to toe. Most of them were for the aesthetic, but quite a lot were there because they helped on the job.

Marty specialized in taking down witches, and while you couldn’t protect yourself from all of their spells, there were quite a lot counter measurements one could ink into their skin.

“Kevin’s a prophet. Crowley’s had him for a while-“

“Crowley?”

Right. Sometimes Sam forgot that not everybody dealt with demons on the daily like him.

“Current King of Hell,” Sam continued. “Kevin managed to escape, but we need to get him some extra security.”

Marty nodded slowly and then grinned, warm and toothily like Sam remembered. It was nice to be looked at in kindness for once instead of hatred and fear like most Hunters did nowadays.

“Anti-possession tattoo, you’re thinking?”

“Yes,” Kevin spoke up for the first time since they had entered the shop. “I don’t want one of those bastards in my head. If they know what I know…”

“Could get bad, I got you. Man, am I glad I don’t deal with those sons of a bitch. And you, Sam? Can I get you anything?”

Sam stuck his hand in his jeans pocket and pulled out a paper sheer that used to be white once upon a time.

“Yes, actually,” Sam said. “There is something I want.”

X

In the years Sam and Dean had been hiding from Heaven and Hell, they had learned more about wards than their father had in his entire life. Most of them had to be powered by blood, freshly spilled. A few of them, like the Enochian sigils Castiel had branded onto their ribs, could be applied and would work without a sacrifice, or one that only needed to be paid once.

Sam had never thought about putting anything other than the anti-possession tattoo on his skin (it was too easy to alter wards, to make them turn on the one using them, to have them drain you, they made you recognizable) but the last years had worn him down.

And if anything ever got close enough to him again to manipulate him (wear his body, wrap his soul in sweet lullabies while they tear into his brother’s flesh-), then perhaps Sam deserved it.

He wasn’t young and weak anymore.

(He had pulled Lucifer apart.)

Sam could afford to wear the wards he wanted.

“Are you sure?” Marty asked, studying the paper Sam had handed him. “This is… I don’t even recognize half of this.”

(Nobody would. Something had been meant for Archangel Grace only, but Sam had been there and he had listened. And he remembered.)

Kevin looked over the paper as well, frowning. When he met Sam’s eyes, he was troubled.

“That’s a lot,” Kevin said, something old lingering in his voice.

Maybe being a prophet didn’t just mean that Kevin could read God’s Word.

“I know,” Sam said. “I want it.”

(I consent.)

X

When they separated from Marty, the man pulled both of them into another heartfelt hug. Kevin looked like he was about to break and Sam’s hug was a little awkward as Marty was mindful not to touch Sam’s back.

“Don’t get into any trouble,” Marty said. “You have my phone number. If there’s anything you need, don’t hesitate to call.”

“Same goes for you, Marty,” Sam replied. “And if anyone wants to get the wards, but has questions about them, they can call me. I can explain.”

Marty smiled warmly and messed up Sam’s long hair. “You’re a good kid. Stay safe.”

X

They drove westward, hitting old libraries and archives, universities and churches. Sam kept learning, kept going. He couldn’t stop, wouldn’t stop. He felt a little bit like he was losing his mind.

(Except this was reality.)

Kevin wasn’t any better.

He barely slept. Most of the time, he was staring at the demon tablet, taking notes and trying to make sense of everything written there.

After a month of traveling, Kevin admitted defeat.

“I can’t do this if we keep moving,” he admitted quietly. “I need peace and calm to actually understand what I’m doing here.”

“Okay,” Sam said. He had expected it. “I’ll find a place.”

Some Hunters never traveled far away from their home, others were so lost they drifted until some monster killed them. As much as Sam had detested it, he had been raised on the road. He had studied for his finals lying on the backseat of the Impala. He had gotten a full-ride to Stanford with sticky-notes pinned to the windows.

(Sam wondered what he could have been if he had been able to recover in peace.)

X

Sam left Kevin at an old abandoned church. They set up traps for demons, bought enough non-perishable food to ensure Kevin wouldn’t have to leave the church for a while (until Sam found a better solution) and said their quiet goodbyes.

(“Looks like you’re well and truly on your own.”)

Everybody left.

Sam should be used to it by now.

It didn’t stop him from watching Kevin in the rearview-mirror until the distance ate him up.

X

Dean was gone two months now. Kevin called sometimes, but Sam couldn’t always keep up with his rambles. The Impala was stocked full with books kept in a neat organization system that hadn’t ever made sense to anyone but Dean.

X

Sam hunted a vampire in Colorado.

Then a witch in Utah.

A werewolf in Arizona.

Ghouls, shifters, ghosts, wendigos, rugaru-

And then, blood splattered over his clothes, Sam killed a demon.

Two hunters with twin shocked expressions pointed at Sam, then at the dead body and threw up their arms in defeat, shouting, “You can do that!?”

X

Sam had been avoiding demons to the best of his abilities. He knew they were hunting him and Kevin down, and while at some point he had entertained the thought of using himself as bait to lure them as far away from Kevin as possible, he had settled on trying to stay as far away from them as he could.

Until he couldn’t.

The demon was working on his own and he hadn’t been really all that well-informed or strong. It was easy enough to trap him and get him to break.

Sam hated torture, but not as much as Dean did.

(Because Dean wasn’t just good at it, he was great.)

But he could get a demon to start speaking if he wanted it to. The demon had boasted so proudly about how much he had made the owner of his meatsuit suffer until the soul had died, not knowing that his actions had only made it easier for Sam.

And then, when he had stabbed the knife through the demon’s heart, two college kids broke into the warehouse.

X

They must be siblings, twins maybe even, Sam thought. Both of them had curly dark hair, equally dark skin, and their expressions were too similar for them to not be family.

“You just killed a demon,” the smaller one said. “How do you- what. Just. What?”

Sam’s eyes narrowed.

“Who are you?” He asked.

“Dude, who are you? You just offed a demon!”

They couldn’t be older than twenty-five at most, at best if Sam allowed himself to hope. They knew about demons, so they had to be Hunters. Probably not in the business for long if they didn’t know demons could be killed. That was common knowledge amongst the community, or what was left of it. At least Sam thought it was. He and Dean had never really been close to a lot of Hunters because of their reputation.

“I’m Sam Winchester,” he introduced himself.

The eyes of the pair widened.

Not good.

Sam slowly shifted his body into a more versatile position and counted the exits. He would defend himself, no questions asked, but he didn’t want to hurt anyone. If he could get away from the two without the situation escalating into a fight, everything would be alright.

“Sam Winchester,” the taller twin spoke up. “You’re really Sam Winchester?”

And then something curious happened.

The twins dropped their shoulders in pure relief, hope lighting them up like they still had something to believe in that hadn’t been broken by blood and deals.

Well, that was a first.

“Dude,” the smaller one said. “Thank you so much.”

What.

Sam hadn’t said a word, but his confusion must have shown (damn it, he used to be better at acting, at pretending, at reassuring everyone that he was fine) because the kid immediately began to babble.

“You saved us. Just. Thank you. Just, thank you for everything.”

“You are welcome?”

Sam still didn’t know what they were talking about, but he sincerely hoped that he was right in assuming the two of them meant no harm. They put away their guns, practically vibrating with energy.

“I’m sorry, but have we met before?” Sam asked.

“No,” the taller replied. “I’m Gregory Rosswell and this one here next to me is my brother Frederick. Our parents got snatched by Leviathans a couple months back. We’ve been going after them ever since and everything else that came our way.”

Gregory glanced at the dead demon behind Sam. “Mostly ghosts though. Caught one demon, but he almost blew our brains out. Couldn’t chug enough salt and holy water at him fast enough.”

“Yeah,” Fred agreed. “How did you catch one so easily?”

“Devil’s trap,” Sam said.

“Oh.”

The twins shared a look. “Can you teach us how to draw one?”

X

Gregory and Frederick Rosswell were twenty-years-old (too young, children still, they shouldn’t be here) and had both been home from university when their parents had been replaced by Leviathans. When they had tried to do the same to Frederick, Gregory had cut off their heads with a cutlass from their father’s ancient weapons collection.

Sam refrained from asking whether the cutlass hidden beneath the backseat of the twins’ car was the one Gregory had used. They had a fairly impressive collection of knives and swords, but only two small handguns.

“We don’t need those much since we mostly go after Leviathans,” Gregory explained. “Didn’t even know there was more crazy out there until we ran into our first ghost.”

Gregory said it so casually that Sam didn’t know whether to be impressed or shocked. Leviathans weren’t easy to kill, even depowered as they now were, and Hunters, whose introduction to life was so violent, tended to die sooner than later.

When Sam tried to explain that, the Rosswells only looked at him in disbelief.

“Yeah, man. Back up a second. Vampires are real too?”                           

The twins turned to each other, conveying thoughts in half-smiles, a groan and a tap on the shoulder. Then they decided to invite Sam back into their conversation.

“What else is there?” Gregory asked. “And how do we kill it?”

“You don’t have to do this,” Sam said.

They were twenty, they shouldn’t be hunting when they had their whole lives still ahead of them.

(Sam was twenty-nine, was two-hundred-twenty, centuries, ages, older than his brother would ever be.) 

“We know,” Frederick replied. “But we don’t want to stop. We can’t stop.”

Sam had never met a Hunter who could. (Himself included.)

X

Sam had never actually taught someone how to be a Hunter. Frederick and Gregory got the basics done already and research wasn’t unfamiliar to them. Their father had been a policeman, so they knew how law enforcement worked and could pretend to be a part of it well enough. Sam didn’t feel like he was actually teaching them a lot by giving them a list of America’s Top Twenty Monsters and a How To Kill Them All manual.

If he was honest, he thought the twins did most of the work. For the weeks they stuck with him, they asked countless questions, treating him like a tired college professor.

“How much Holy Water can you bless at once?”

A lot, but no, you can’t just bless the ocean. That’s not how it works.

“Wooden stake for tricksters? Where does that even come from?”

Yes, wooden stake. Works if they’re not angels in disguise.

“Angels are real!?”

Yes, and they all suck. Never let one of them possess you. They may need your consent, but it doesn’t need to be an informed or gentle one. You’ll be out of control and feel like you’ve been strapped to a comet. (Like you’re trapped in the softest dream, surrounded by memories of your siblings when they still loved you and the world was whole and untainted.)

“I know Latin and I’d been learning Greek for my bachelor, but how many languages do you need to know?”

A lot.

“Why do you carry so many books around in your car? Wouldn’t it be easier to get a place to store them in?”

“And organize them properly?” Frederick teased.

Sam looked at the backseat of the car and yes, true enough, he had accumulated a small library.

“Oh, shut up, you two,” Sam muttered, and pointedly ignored that one of the stacks of books had fallen over, making the twins grin like idiots.

When they went their separate ways again, Sam was a little more convinced that he wasn’t sending the two of them off to their deaths. And if they ever met anything they didn’t know, they could call him. It was the least he could do.

X

What Sam hadn’t expected when he handed the Rosswells his number, was how often they would call. Sometimes they asked for help regarding hunts, but more often than not, they just asked about him or talked about whatever kind of crazy had happened to them lately. When Sam had started attending Stanford, he’d had to train himself in the delicate art of small talk. While attending school, he’d never connected much with his peers, too aware that he’d soon move away again, and with Dean around, he hadn’t needed to say a single word more than necessary. Even with all their differences, the choices that had made them grow apart, they got each other.

(Except when they didn’t and the world had to pay for it.)

At Stanford, though, Sam learned that small talk wasn’t just something you took part in to stay busy but to build longer-lasting relationships. The years on the road had made his skill rusty, but the Rosswells were doing their best to bring it back.

Sam didn’t know why telling them what he had for dinner was a good topic choice (but it did make him more conscious of the meals he kept skipping) or why he could listen to Gregory talking for a good fifteen minutes about how difficult it was to eat healthy on the road.

He always accepted their calls, never hit decline, even when they called in the middle of the night (Sam wasn’t sleeping anyway).

Marty called a few times too, his latest call informing Sam of his new partner Caitlyn, a young florist, who had set up her shop just a few meters away from him and put all her bouquets in holy water.

“She’s new to all of this. Vamps got her husband last year – that’s why she moved town.”

Kevin checked in less regularly and to even more random times than the twins. After one more erratic call that almost chased Sam halfway across the country, he asked the twins to go check in on Kevin.

At 3 a.m., his phone rang, and Sam got to stare at a picture of three young men, squatting in a confessional box and watching a movie on a laptop. Kevin was smiling tiredly and Frederick’s new scar was healed enough to be exposed.

They were healthy.

(They were alive.)

Sam could keep going.

X

Month four without Dean started by Sam staring at his phone and the many messages he had received in the few hours he had been asleep. Apparently, his friends had decided to team up and create a group chat.

The last dozen messages were everyone trying to make out what the hell Kevin’s sleep-deprived 4 a.m. message had meant while the prophet in question was probably (hopefully) fast asleep for once.

That’s Enochian, Sam typed mindlessly. It means Protection, but specifically referring to a situation in which demons are trying to possess someone who used to be an angel vessel.

Gregory: What?

Frederick: Hi Sam!!!

Marty: how is that ever a likely situation?

Sam grinned. It can also mean Protecting someone who is Loved by God. Angel vessels are precious to them. Ruining them is a severe offense.

Marty: yeah no goodbye I’m out. 

X

Sam met the Hilllains on a ghost hunt. They had three kids, fifteen, twelve and six years old, who all knew how to handle knives and shoot guns and what to do when your mom fell over because she had a vision. The Hillains usually didn’t leave their state since “Raising kids on the road is just irresponsible”.

Susan Hillain-Waterbury was the descendant of a long line of gifted people and Terrence Hillain was a priest turned Hunter after a run-in with a demon. Most of the time, they hunted on the weekends and brought home fast food as a treat on Sunday afternoons.

Sam stayed with them until Monday evening because Susan insisted on making her world-famous lasagna for him as a thank you.

X

Four months and two weeks into his search and Sam had stopped asking for a room with two beds. When he realized that, he abandoned most of his weapons except the knife and headed for the nearest bar. People made space for him when he walked past them, and he didn’t think it was just because of his height.

The bartender took one look at him and filled a crystal clear glass with something that smelled so strong it burned in Sam’s nose.

“First one’s on the house,” she said.

“Thank you,” Sam muttered and downed the drink in one go.

(“Free booze! Awesome. C’mon, Sammy. Smile at her! See if you can get a second!”)

“Just keep them going, please.”

Alcohol couldn’t properly knock Sam out anymore. He hadn’t tried drugs (strong ones, anyway), but those shouldn’t have much of an effect on him either. He remembered the peaceful embrace of another, the oblivion that came with being lulled into memories of happy times when Father still loved them all.

Sam was tired.

His research was going fucking nowhere and he couldn’t keep everything organized and he was failing Dean yet again. He hadn’t been able to get his brother out of hell and he wouldn’t be able to get him out of purgatory.

What a fucking waste of space he was.

X

When he stumbled out of the bar, he stabbed a man with blonde hair and green eyes right between his ribs, watched as the demon within perished. Wordlessly, he dropped the body in a side-alley where it would be found by morning and a mourning family would have a place to grief at.

What did Sam have left?

(Nothing.)

He put the few belongings he had bothered out pack back in the car and drove off.

X

The next day he hit a dog.

X

Sam wasn’t thinking when he wrapped the dog into his towel and drove to the nearest animal clinic.

“I need help,” Sam exclaimed when he entered the clinic. Admitting more than he wanted to. “The dog needs help.”

“He just came out of nowhere, right in front of my car. We need a doctor. Are you a doctor?”

The animal couldn’t die. Not now, not right in front of Sam because he had made another mistake. It shouldn’t have to pay for Sam’s flaws.

It couldn’t die.

It couldn’t die.

It couldn’t-

X

Sam’s shirt was still drenched in (Dean's) the dog’s blood. The smell didn’t bother him, it was too familiar to him to register on his mind.

When the doctor entered the room, everything was still a blur. Sam tried to keep his breathing under control, stop his hands from shaking and not fall into a panic.

Somehow, it ended with him owning a dog.

X

The motel he was staying at didn’t mind that he was keeping Dog, who still didn’t have a proper name. Sam had always been terrible about naming anything at all. When he was younger and had wanted a pet, Dean had collected the spiders of their motel rooms and named each and every one of them.

The various hero names Dean had slapped on them hadn’t been very creative either, but better than anything Sam had come up with.

The doctor who had done Dog’s surgery assured him that he was recovering well. Amelia Richardson, that was her name, was much kinder to him now that he apparently didn’t classify as a total asshole who hit animals while driving irresponsibly.

She still thought he was creepy and that there was something wrong with him (he was torn to bits and pieces, no amount of tape could fix him), but she stopped with the random accusations. The cash he earned at the motel, fixing a little bit of everything here and there, was enough to help him pay for Dog’s medication.

Sam felt like he was holding his breath and he didn’t know what he was waiting for.

X

Five months after Dean’s disappearance began with another random call. He didn’t recognize the number displayed on the phone screen, nor the voice speaking.

“Is this Sam Winchester?”

Sam evaluated the pros and cons of lying but settled on stating the truth. If it turned out this person meant to harm, Sam knew how to disappear quickly.

“Yes, who’s calling?”

The woman on the line sighed.

“My name’s Penny. I’m a… Hunter?” She trailed off, sounding unsure. Sam thought he heard a second voice ring in the background, saying something like, “That’s what Mackey called us!”

“Okay, jeez. I didn’t ask for your opinion Himari and Chasers sounds way better, it’s like Harry Potter,” Penny muttered. That was probably not meant for Sam’s ears. “Anyway. We already called Mackey – he’s another Hunter – but he couldn’t help us, and the Rosswells said you always help them with their cases so they gave us your number, and people are dying and we don’t know what to do.”

While Sam had gotten accustomed to his new network over time, he hadn’t expected the others to hand out his number. There was a certain risk attached to it but- Never mind. He could help out another Hunter, especially if she 

“Okay,” Sam said. “Yes, sure. Of course, I can help you. What are you hunting?”

“No idea.”

Sam grimaced and put the phone on speaker, another habit stemming from being around Dean 24/7. Whenever Bobby called them to give them a little help, they put the phone on speaker so the other could listen in. Sam didn’t need to do it anymore. He did it anyway.

“What and how does it kill then?”

“It burns the victims,” Penny said. Her voice sounded a little off, she probably hadn’t come across many burned corpses then already. The smell and the sight were always a little nauseating. “But there are also multiple bite marks and poison and the only reason we think it’s only one monster is that all victims have at least two of those signs.”

Sam couldn’t think of a single monster that killed in such a way, but that didn’t mean it didn’t exist. If the whole catastrophe with Eve had shown one thing, then that America’s monsters didn’t care about staying traditional. Much like humans, they had immigrated over the centuries and spread and there was no way to keep track of every country’s varied monster population.

“I’ll go do some research, Penny. Just send me what you have so far per SMS,” Sam replied, already packing his messenger bag. “I’ll call you back as soon as I got something. If a new victim pops up, give me another call.”

Sam hesitated. Penny couldn’t be doing this for long if she was unfamiliar with the term Hunter, right?

“Otherwise, stick to silver, iron, salt, and holy water. Those works on most things.”

Seasoned Hunters would think of such advice as patronizing, as much as they appreciated help on a challenging hunt, they were all fairly arrogant, considering themselves experts.

“Thank you, Mr. Winchester.”

Sam snorted. “Just call me Sam, everyone does.”

He ended the call and halted, just for a moment. Everyone?

(He sure had surrounded himself with more people than he thought he would, than he ever should.)

X

Sam didn’t expect to run into any trouble while researching for Penny until he stood in front of the library, Dog’s leash still in his hand. He couldn’t take a dog into a library, could he? A bit helplessly and lost he stood in front of the library until a young girl took pity on him and told him he could leave Dog on the west side of the library, where they had a small sheltered space for dogs. Sam thanked her and quickly got to work.

He started looking for any incidents happening in the town Penny was in, but couldn’t find any. Then he moved on to ghosts, covering the basics before returning to researching all kinds of monsters. When the American usuals didn’t bring any results, Sam turned to European folklore and myths, where he soon discovered something fitting.

Sam dialed Penny’s number. “Hey, Penny? I think I know what it might be.”

“Really? But- what. That took you barely 3 hours!”

Sam glanced at the time displayed in the corner of his laptop. It really hadn’t taken that long.

“Well, want to hear what I found?”

“Yes, please.”

Sam smiled and scrolled to the top of his word document. “Okay, so, it looks like you’re dealing with a chimera from Greek mythology. It’s a fire-breathing female monster resembling a lion in the forepart, a goat in the middle, and a dragon or snake behind. In the myth, Bellerophon kills it by lodging a block of lead inside the Chimera's throat.”

“How are we supposed to stuff lead inside such a monster?” Penny replied, her voice bordering on hysterics.

“Look,” Sam said. “Myths like to make things more complicated, heroes more heroic and cunning. Most likely, you’ll be fine by using weapons made out of lead.”

“You sure?”

“As sure as you can be with those things.”

Penny took a deep breath, probably to calm herself. Sam waited until she was done to speak up again. “Do you need back up?”

“No,” Penny said. “Himari called Mackey again to tell him I called you – he says hi by the way? You called him after Bobby’s death apparently…?”

Oh, that Mackey. He was one of Bobby’s contacts. Sam had rung them all up to tell them about Bobby’s death. Not all of them were glad to hear of him, but a surprisingly high amount was.

“Yeah, I know Mackey. He’s a good guy.”

“Yeah, Himari worked with him before. Anyway, he’s driving our way to help out. I guess I’ll call when it was a success?”

“You do that. Much success and don’t forget to aim for the head.”

Penny laughed, still a little nervous but at least not as much as before. “Thanks for the help again, Sam.”

X

A week later, Sam got a call from Mackey, asking if he had any use for chimera blood.

“Always split the spoils with Bobby,” Mackey said. “I swear, Bobby had everything stored down there in his basement.”

“He did,” Sam agreed. He remembered spending two months at Bobby's by himself while John was out like always and Dean was gone. Sam had done a lot of research during that time, not all of it necessarily child-friendly despite Bobby’s attempts to keep him away from it. He’d spend at least one weekend labeling all the weird monster parts Bobby had been keeping on old shelves.

“Thanks for the call, Mackey, but I don’t have the space for that.”

Sam’s eyes drifted to the books and weapons already taking up most of the space in the Impala and some more.

“Too bad, I don’t have any either. You know any Hunter shops?”

“I…” Sam’s thoughts drifted back to Marty or rather Caitlyn. She didn’t hunt as much as the rest of them, only really when Marty asked her to be his back up. But she did start to collect more unusual ingredients, even if most of them were plant related.

“Actually, yes. How far are you from Nebraska? I know a good place there.” 

X

Sam began to run into Amelia everywhere or so it felt. She was funny and kind, and she understood what it was like to lose something so dear to you, you forgot how to breathe.

“So, Sam, I was thinking: Do you want to go out on Friday? A proper restaurant, I mean. Not another motel room talk.”

“I like our-“

Sam’s phone rang. Frederick was calling him. Last Sam had heard, the twins were a couple hours away from him. “Hold up. Hey Fred, everything alright?”

“Sam!”

Frederick’s panic immediately put Sam on edge. “Fred, what’s going on?”

“Can you come drive up? Gregory and I stumbled upon a werewolf pack and they’re hunting kids for sport and I think they’re onto us and I know there are four at least and we have no idea what to do. Just. Please. I know you’re busy searching for Dean, but we’re at our wit's end.”

Sam looked at Amelia. She was smiling softly still, much happier than the first time he’d met her. Riot, the finally renamed Dog, was lying next to her and wagging his tail.

“Sam?”

People were relying on Sam.

“I’ll be there as soon as possible, give me your coordinates.”

Dean’s cursing about dog fur on the Impala’s leather chased Sam over the highways. He broke the speed limit on most roads, haunted by images of two death he could prevent if he was just in time. Riot looked out of the window, peaceful and healthy. All of Sam’s belongings were crammed into the trunk and on the backseat. A whole life and five months.

X

Sam made it just in time. The werewolves had indeed caught up to the twins and jumped their motel room. When Sam emptied a whole load of silver bullets into the werewolves, Frederick was only wearing sweat pants and using a towel to cover up his chest, holding onto his unconscious brother whose head was bleeding.

The werewolves dropped to the ground, dead. Frederick, blood splattered over his face, didn’t let go of his silver knife or Gregory.

Sam didn’t bother checking whether the werewolves were really dead, they had taken a bullet to their heads and wouldn’t return from that (unless heaven or hell took mercy on them and neither were kind to anyone but themselves).

“Frederick,” Sam said. “You need to get up.”

Frederick didn’t move. The motel was pretty empty, but someone was bound to have heard the attack, the fight or the murder, and they would come looking. They couldn’t afford to lose time now.

“Fred, get up,” Sam ordered. He held out his hand and when Frederick, shaken up, lifted his, Sam quickly took the knife out of it and threw it in the small suitcase on the bed. “Get dressed, I’ll take care of Greg.”

Frederick seemed to be moving in slow motion, but he was finally returning to the action. Sam pulled the pillowcase off one of the pillows lying on the bed and used it to stop Gregory’s bleeding. He probably only had a concussion.

Then Sam picked Gregory up as carefully as he could and carried the man to the Impala. Riot looked up in interest when Sam laid Gregory on the backseat.

“Keep watch,” Sam told him and returned to the Rosswells’ room to help Frederick finish.

When he arrived, Frederick was as good as dressed and gathering everything of importance. Sam picked up two bags and threw one last look at the corpses on the ground. They had no time to get rid of the bodies, they would have to stay.

Frederick sits down next to Gregory and pulls his brother’s head in his lap.

“I’m sorry,” Frederick murmured. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, …”

The mantra followed them down the road until they were three cities further and utterly safe from being accused of any of the crimes they had committed.

X

“Do you have a safe place to stay somewhere?” Sam asked.

They were near Kansas now and could easily swing up to Nebraska. Neither Caitlyn nor Marty had enough space for the two hunters, but it would do long enough for Gregory to heal until the twins could hit the road again.

If they still wanted to after this encounter.

Sam had been injured so often in the past years, he hardly even blinked at a concussion anymore, he and Dean just kept on driving.

“We’ve got a house,” Frederick replied. “I don’t know what shape it’s in, but we were meaning to go check it out anyway.”

“Alright. Directions?”

X

Frederick led Sam to an abandoned house that was a good twenty-minute drive into the woods in the north of Kansas. It looked fairly old and was surprisingly big and in a good shape.

The entire façade of the building had been painted in a soft green. The color was starting to peel off in some places, but it was mostly intact.

“What is this place?” Sam asked after they had carried Gregory inside and let him continue resting on a sofa in the living room.

There was something off about this place that Sam couldn’t quite pinpoint, but it put him on edge. He felt like somebody was watching him, waiting for him to make a mistake. He began mustering the painted walls. Elaborate landscape paintings of a forest covered the living room. The longer he looked at it, the more did he think he was seeing familiar symbols.

“It’s our great-grandmother Agatha’s house,” Frederick said. “Never met her. According to our grandmother, she was a wicked witch who should have never been allowed to have a child. As soon as Grandmother was sixteen, she left and married a nice man and had a completely normal daughter who then had us. Agatha died back in 2009 shortly before you stopped the apocalypse that almost happened and she left everything to our mother. Mom wanted to sell the house, but no deal could be made. People had unfortunate accidents as soon as they stepped into the house.”

Sam stepped closer to the entrance door, tracing over carvings in the wood. “What?”

Frederick grimaced. “That’s why we were heading here. We wanted to check it out. We thought a ghost might be haunting the building.”

“Yeah, I’m not so sure about that,” Sam muttered.

“No?”

“These symbols spread all over the room, they’re runes. I’m pretty sure they’re wards. Any chance your great grandmother worshipped pagan gods?”

“I don’t know. But she got super old and she was from Norway.”

Sam sighed. “Alright. Let’s track down which god is protecting this house and get them a proper offering before they kill us.”

X

In the end, it was quite easy to figure out which god Agatha had worshipped. Sam found her altar in the eastern kitchen window, the first to see the sun in the morning. Old, half-burned candles with a sugary sweet smell stood around a handmade clay flower pot filled with small pink flowers that appeared to be blooming although nobody was taking care of them. And right next to the flower pot stood a bowl filled with sweets.

The irony of this situation wasn’t lost on Sam.

“It’s Loki,” Sam said when he returned to the living room. “Your great grandmother was a follower of Loki.”

“That was the trickster angel, right?” Frederick asked. “The one who died? Shouldn’t this house be clean of his influence then?”

Sam shook his heads. “You can never really kill a pagan god. More than any other beings, they cling to faith. As long as someone believes in them, they exist. Gabriel might be dead, but the idea of Loki is still around.”

(He wondered what that meant for angels. They did die, expect when God or whatever interfered. Castiel had died and come back. So why did God let one of his oldest angels die?)

“Anyway, I’ll get a package of chewing gum from the car. Not his favorite, but it’s sweet and an offering.”

“You’re not going to destroy the altar?”

Frederick’s expression was neutral. He wasn’t judging Sam or implying anything. He only wanted to know why Sam wasn’t getting rid of the threat.

And honestly? Sam didn’t know why. The thought hadn’t even occurred to him.

“This place has pretty strong wards,” Sam said. It was true, they must have been powered by Loki. If Agatha’s life force had also been included in that, it was no wonder she had died when Gabriel did. If the twins took up residency here, offering their blood and redrawing some of the ownership-tied wards, they had a pretty protected place to stay at. It shouldn’t cost them more than a couple sweets every now and then and some new candles. “There’s a bigger advantage to keeping it.”

X

The twins got settled and Sam spent a couple hours exploring the house. The wards Agatha had set up were truly impressive, even more so after they had made the offering. The house itself was a pretty nice place too. Sure, it needed some fixing and a new paint job, but the amount of knowledge stored in the crammed library in what must have been Agatha’s study was astonishing. Sam would definitely take a closer look once he had the time. Since they had no food or drink, Sam went back to the car to head to the nearest grocery store and buy some supplies.

X

After about two days, Gregory was already up and running again - or walking. Every time Frederick even just suggested Gregory take it slow or, God forbid, brought him food to his bed, Gregory looked slightly more murderous. His injuries weren’t as bad as they had seemed, but it had scared Fred regardless. It reminded Sam a little of his childhood when he’d been deemed old enough to give first-aid but too young to hunt still and Dean or Dad had come back already half out of it and Sam had to stitch them back together. They’d always looked as if they’d come straight out of a horror movie, but nothing vital had been hurt (well, except maybe once or twice.)

Sam and Fred had cleaned up what appeared to have been a guest bedroom and settled Gregory there. To avoid going stir-crazy, they’d cleaned up the other rooms afterward. The house had electricity and warm running water and Sam was sure those had only shown up after Sam had added a lot of treats to Loki’s altar.

He might have gone a little overboard, but Sam owed the guy. He’d died for them, the whole world, when he could have certainly taken up a golden throne right next to Lucifer. As twisted as Lucifer was, killing Gabriel had hurt him and that showed how much he would have loved to have his favorite sibling by his side.

And Gabriel has said “no”.

Frederick had only glanced questioning at the mountain of candy, porn magazines, crossword puzzles, honey, and candles, but Gregory was the one to actually ask about them.

“I thought altars were all blood, dark magic and-“ Gregory moved his hands through the air in the bad imitation of a TV witch. “You know?”

“Blood is for worshippers and, in this case, the owner of the house. The stuff I brought is just a guest gift.”

Maybe not just merely a guest gift, but also a little bribery to protect the three of them as they resided here.

“So whoever offers blood owns the house?” Gregory inquired.

Sam shrugged. “Basically.”

“And non-basically?”

Right, Sam had forgotten he was talking to an ex-history student. Without further prompting, he latched into a lecture on Pagan gods, worship, and ownership rules, only halting once to give Frederick a chance to get settled comfortably when he joined them.

X

Caitlyn: Fred & George are okay?

Gregory: It’s Greg

Frederick: Don’t ruin my fun, bro

Gregory: Of all the names you could have picked, why did it have to be Frederick again?

Sam: @Caitlyn They are getting better

Caitlyn: Sweet. We got a couple Hunters here asking how to get phoenix feathers. Anybody got some ideas? And can I give them your number? @Sam

Sam: Sure, tell them to give me a ring and I’ll see what I can do

X

Frederick and Gregory were up to something. Sam didn’t just guess so, he saw the incriminating looks they shared. Sam had been in and out of their house for a month now. He’d spent two weeks there going through the books their great-grandmother had possessed, but unfortunately, those didn’t provide much information on purgatory either.

Another dead end.

After that, Sam threw himself into helping other hunters. His number of acquaintances had grown exponentially the more the word spread that one Winchester was still alive and kicking and willing to just hand over everything he knew (while the other was gone, never dead. All of them thought it, Sam knew, but they didn’t dare say it around him.).

Hunters were guarded people, they wouldn't survive otherwise. Even information was just shared sparingly, so of course, they all jumped on the opportunity. It was strange to be confronted with Hunters who worked very specialized or were just at the beginning of their careers, as far as you could call killing monsters a job.

Of course, the older ones didn’t exactly trust Sam (he did have a history filled with a lot of dangerous bullshit such as letting Lucifer out of the Cage), but he was America’s expert on everything angelic and demonic.

Even if he didn’t really feel like it. There was so much to know about heaven and hell, Sam’s active knowledge barely scratched the surface and he didn’t dare try to reach for the memories he had buried.

(The Cage hadn’t been all bad, but trauma didn’t let you pick how you’d react to any memory at all.)

But compared to everyone else, that was still more so he taught how to exorcise demons and kill angels and hoped it was enough.

X

“So,” Gregory said one morning. “I’m all healed up and Himari called, asking for backup, so we think it’s time to leave again.”

Sam nodded and closed his book. “Time to move on then.”

“Yeah, about that…” Gregory trailed off and turned to his brother.

Frederick pushed himself away from the wall and began walking up and down.

“Look, Sam. We don’t really have use for this place. And you’ve got Riot.”

“A car’s not a home,” Gregory added. He bent down to pet the dog, who definitely enjoyed his stay at the house more than the endless hours on the road.

Frederick pointed at his brother. “Right? And a dog needs a home and you need a space for the library in your car.”

Sam frowned, realization only dawning slowly upon him. “You can’t-“

Gregory held up has hands. “We can. Look, we still got our parents’ house and all these wards and stuff? That’s your niche. We like hunting stuff that doesn’t require enchantments and we can’t even read half of the words painted on the ceiling.”

“You can learn,” Sam insisted. “This house belonged to your great-grandmother.”

Legacy was important to Hunters. All the lives saved, the knowledge passed on – many Hunters didn’t have any blood relatives left, so their hunting partners were the ones who carried their memories.

But Frederick and Gregory didn’t know that and Sam struggled to find the right words.

Frederick shrugged. “We never even met her, Sam. This house might as well belong to a stranger. We’ll, of course, come visit and crash here whenever, but otherwise? You need a place to search for your brother. Take it.”

X

It took another week for them to wear Sam down, and even then they wouldn’t leave until Sam had gone to the nearest supermarket and returned with new offerings for their pagan god and finally bled over the altar.

Frederick had looked smug the whole time while Gregory sent Sam’s new address to their mutual friends and acquaintances.

It didn’t even take a week for the first person to show up at his doorstep.

X

Sam had always liked doing things with his hands, repairing broken items, stitching up shirts. A lot of handiwork had come out of necessity, but there was also something soothing attached to it all. Over the course of the next weeks, Sam drove to the construction market about every day until the cashiers there greeted him by name.

He bought paint and tools and wood and started to repair the house where it was damaged and touch it up where it just didn’t look all right.

He added his books to the library/study and organized the artifacts Agatha had left lying around pretty much everywhere. The room that once must have belonged to the twins’ grandmother was turned into a guest room with two beds, as was another storage room, a corner of the basement, and the attic.

When Sam was finally satisfied, too much time had passed already, but Kevin Tran, while tired and exhausted, was not bitter and welcomed the change of scenery.

X

Fact was, a lot of Hunters distrusted Sam Winchester. He had a reputation that made them uneasy and the stories haunting him made him out to be much less human than he ought to be. Those Hunters relied on Garth to collect info for them, give them back up and so on. They pointed the new Hunters they found in his direction and Garth-

Well, Garth gave them Sam’s number.

Old school Hunters relied on old and proven methods, they would not suddenly think of recording exorcisms on their phones or starting a Supernatural Wikipedia. These New Age Hunters, as they liked to scoff, didn’t know how much the world had changed.

And they were right in that assessment.

When your first hunt involved leviathans and demons, angels stealing people who returned as mere shells, then you didn’t miss the times when the world was straightforward and didn’t include more than ten types of monsters.

X

“Hello, Agent Mercury? One of your field agents is claiming our body here is part of an FBI investigation-“

“The heads, Sam! It only leaves the heads!”

“-and the Park Rangers really-“

“So like, they steal from blood banks, but otherwise they’re vegan?”

“The military must be really desperate if they try to recruit people off the police.”

“Hypothetically, if a werewolf and a vampire had a kid together-“

“Winchester! Holy Christ, you won’t believe-“

“It’s Kevin,” the prophet interrupted Penny. “Sam’s making dinner.”

Silence. Kevin had to stop himself from laughing out loud.

“Oh. Hi, Kevin! How’s it going?”

“Good, but it’s been busy. How can Agatha’s help you today? Need some spells to get rid of a wicked witch or brain for your local zombie population?”

“Zombies…?” Penny trailed off, sounding unsure. Kevin imagined her shaking her head. “You know what? I don’t want to know. Do you guys know anything about a spell or a monster going after the blood of two drained lambs, the liver of a lion, and the eyes of a monkey? We got a bizarre case here in a zoo.”

Kevin glanced at the clock. He wasn’t going to work on the tablet anymore today and if he could help it, Sam wouldn’t shut himself away in his study/purgatory lore cave.

“Yeah, we can do some research. We’ll ring as soon as we got something.”

X

Soon after word had gotten out that Sam had settled somewhere, Mackey showed up at his doorstep, only Himari in tow. Penny, her better half in Himari’s own words, was apparently visiting family up north.

Sam didn’t buy the lie, but he saw no point in questioning her.

“Oh, man, Sam. I love what you’ve done with the place. It’s like Roadhouse and Bobby’s in one,” Mackey said.

Sam smiled and looked around. It really was starting to look like a proper place for hunters to crash at. “Not enough books and dirt for Bobby’s yet.”

Marty laughed and knocked his beer against Sam’s. “True enough. I swear the cleanest I ever saw Bobby’s was when your Daddy had dropped you off at his place again.”

Sam rolled his eyes, but still managed to smile softly. “That’s only ‘cause Bobby made me and- made us clean to keep us busy and away from the books depicting torture.”

“Oh, yeah. That sounds like Bobby!”

Himari, who up until then had only been nursing her tea silently, spoke up for the first time since she had stepped into Sam’s house. “What is the Roadhouse and Bobby’s?”

Mackey's cheerful expression fell and Sam too, who had been making all kinds of calls over the past weeks and should be used to it by now damn it, couldn’t stop his throat from closing up.

“That was before your time, kid,” Mackey replied. “The Roadhouse was the Hunter equivalent to a community center – a place to recover after or before a hunt. I swear, nobody ever managed to talk me out of a hunt before without even saying a word but Ellen. And Bobby was the meanest son of a bitch you could ever meet. You vaguely describe him your latest crazy, and he’d call you back within a day to tell you what the hell you’re facing and how to kill it. Also our go-to man if the authorities came calling. Without the two of them, the community’s shot to hell. Garth’s been picking up some slack, but he ain’t got time to teach anyone… That reminds me.”

Mackey picked his backpack up from the ground and rummaged through it until he found what he was looking for – a dirty sheet of paper apparently – and held it up victoriously.

“Here,” he said and gave it to Sam. “I got into contact with a couple Old Timers. Not sure if they’re on your contact list already, but they offered to help out with the huge influx of newbies so you’re not stuck handling all their questions.”

Sam scanned the list. A few names stuck out to him, but others he was only vaguely aware of or didn’t know at all.

“Thanks, Marty. I’ll give them a ring.”

X

When the Hillains asked for Sam’s help, he expected a little more “Could you be our back-up?” and less “Can we leave the kids with you for the week?” but Sam agreed anyway.

It was certainly an experience to have three kids running around for a week, but not one he minded. He had babysat couple times as a teenager to earn some extra cash, and the experience was familiar enough.

Besides, all three of them loved Riot and the dog was more than just happy about the extra attention.

X

Irv Franklin liked to think he was as good a man as a Hunter could be. Of course, he didn’t have utter faith in Sam Winchester, everybody knew the Winchesters messed around with Heaven and Hell and a whole lot of other things that shouldn’t be touched, but the kid was also Bobby’s kid.

And, really, everybody who actually cared about Bobby knew those two Winchester brats had been his whole world.

Tracy hadn’t wanted to come to Winchester’s place – called Agatha’s for some unfathomable reason – and Irv couldn’t blame her. He had told her she could stay in the motel, but she had decided to meet the man the demons had killed her family for.

From the outside, the house looked comfortable, not as militant as Irv had expected. Sam was kneeling on the porch, painting something on the windowsill. As soon as he spotted Irv and Tracy, he stood up.

“Irv! Good to see you.”

“Right back at you, Winchester,” Irv said and followed Sam inside.

The kid led Irv and Tracy into the kitchen and took a couple beers out of the fridge. “We only got beer and water right now,” he said apologetically.

Irv wondered who exactly we were, but didn’t ask. He had heard rumors about prophets, and everybody who went after demons knew that hell had been in an uproar lately. Sometimes it was better if you didn’t know anything.

“I did look into the killings you described,” Sam continued. “Couldn’t find anything directly, but the books in the living room contain everything I’ve got on ritualistic murders. Feel free to look through them, just don’t run off with them. One of the upstairs’ rooms is already occupied, but you can sleep downstairs in the basement if you want.”

Irv reached for one of the beers on the kitchen table. “Thanks, kid.”

They left two days later.

“He’s not really what I expected,” Tracy admitted carefully.

Maybe she could start to heal properly now.

Irv grimaced. “Winchesters rarely are.”

X

Sam’s study was a bit of a mess. Papers covered half the floor and whole books the other. Kevin kind of wanted to sigh in frustration, but that wouldn’t help anyone. Instead, he sat down on the ground next to Sam.

“Is everything alright?” Kevin asked, already knowing the answer.

Sam laughed bitterly, his ink-stained hands still brushing through Riot’s fur. “No, nothing’s alright. Just look at me, Kev, what am I doing? It’s been almost a year, and I still haven’t found a way to save him.”

Sam didn’t need to say out loud who he was talking about, it was as clear as day.

“I have only been wasting my time trying to- to-“

“Keep over two dozen hunters alive, researching about fifteen different things at the same time with more dedication than I ever put into my term papers despite my mom?” Kevin said drily. “Give yourself a break, Sam. You’re already doing more than humanly possible.”

“But it’s not enough!”

Sam’s outburst was not unexpected but that didn’t make it any more pleasant.

Kevin was used to it, though.

They kept themselves together well enough around others, but some things needed more than the duct tape they stuck onto their wounds.

“I want to visit my mom,” Kevin said into their silence. “I haven’t left the house in months and I think it’ll be safe enough. Just a quick trip. One last time.”

“Alright,” Sam agreed quietly.

Maybe this was healing. (Maybe it was giving up.)

X

Sam would never know.

Lazarus rose once more.

(Rinse. Rise. Repeat.)

[diamo-chan]

A bit of lore and backstory

(snippet of the ninth chapter of my unfinished unpublished fanfic in the classical trope of “let me put as much info as possible compressed into a tiny dialogue”)

not beta-read/ written on a tired mind/ english is not my native language/ my list of excuses goes on and on...

Word count: 1.7k

It was at times like these when Pheebe noticed that she was way too emotional to do her job the way it should be done. Binding her hair back into a loose ponytail she threw an exhausted glare at the blonde aristocrat who barely lifted his eyes from the book he was currently reading. A if they did not just have a war council, as if death itself was not waiting just around the gates.

“Vlad this is serious. If we want to survive this we have to work together, we have to talk like normal people.”

He turned the page, uninterested. ‘What the fuck was so important, he had to read it now?!’

“I will survive this, I’ve been through worse. And you are just food to us. A blood bag to satisfy Ivan’s needs. Why should I treat you, like you are anything special?”

Pheebe wanted to scream and flee the room. Hadn’t Vladimir disagreed to listen to her plan, they would already be all on their way to a safe place. But no, instead he was clinging to this mansion. They had more important things to take care of. And for once, she knew that Beliath would agree.

This is not about me. It is about Mary. About Ethan. Both are on the edge of death and you talk about waiting and planning”

He turns another page. But she saw the hand that held the book upright tighten against the Bordeaux hardcover. He took a deep breath to maintain his poise, before speaking with the certainty of a head of house, no room for discussion: “Ethan will manage, and if your friend doesn’t make it we can still share her blood, drain her before the battle. But we will not run into a confrontation unprepared!”

The last drop broke the barrel. How dares he even suggest using Mary in such a gruesome way? How dares he put organization above life. And at once, the words poured out before she could stop them. “I cannot understand how you can live with yourself, let alone how other people can live with you. You only care about yourself, don’t you? You don’t give a damn about the suffering of others”.

A reaction. He looked up. There was shock in his eyes, as well as a tiny warning of the storm that was rioting in his thoughts. Through tiny slits and gritted teeth he growled at her.

“You have no idea what it’s like to be immortal. Have you ever watched everyone you care about die, with nothing that you could do to stop it? You know nothing of pain and suffering!” His voice became louder and louder until, at the end, he was screaming in rage, at such a volume that Pheebe was sure, even Ivan in his room two floors above them, could hear every single word. She did not fear his anger, and he was powerless to lift his hand against her. At last, she got what she wanted and he was no longer as emotional as a stone. But he would not guilt trip her with a sad back-story or the typical “I-am-a-poor-misunderstood-immortal”-farce. Eyes hard, she brought her face closer to the blond man’s, who backed away in irritation.

“Do you know what it feels like to drive a knife through the heart of the person you love?”

At first he was taken aback by the question. Then a condescending smirk appeared on his face “Oh, yes, go on. Tell me the story of the vampire that fell in love with a hunter and gets staked down in return.”

Patience! She told herself. Think of him as a child that questions the whole world. “He was sick. Do you know what bloodlust does to a vampire?” His discomfort became more and more apparent. His eyes danced over her face on the search for some kind of weakness. She felt the threatening waves that he tried to sent off, but once again she thanked Miss Ginaldi’s team for her training. Not many Vampires have encountered bloodlust and survived it. None of the ones that Pheebe had known, at least. ”Incurable, it turns him into a feral beast, with no recognition of anything but blood.”

“How do you know that it was bloodlust? Maybe He attacked you because he just found out what you are and-“

“Because I was there when he caught it. I was there when he fought it.”, every word was pressed out with anger and frustration about Vlad’s stubbornness. About his way of denying anything he didn’t want to see or hear. “He always hoped that maybe it would go away. And he trusted me to step in if it didn’t. Because he knew who I was from the very beginning, or rather, who I was supposed to be.”

“That’s what vampires get for trusting a hunter.” Voice cold, face empty.

His expression remained calm and neutral, there was not one muscle that gave a sign of consideration, no empathy left for her words and it made her fume. Pheebe had tears brimming on her lashes, so short of falling to his ignorance. But her anger was without cause. Vlad could not have known, there was nothing he knew about her but her name and the fact, that she did not like him.

“I wasn’t a hunter back then. I was just…” she searched for a suitable word, an attempt to justify the unjustifiable, “an employee who wanted to help maintain peace.” But then her emotions dropped as pictures flashed in her memory, vivid as if she was at that place once again. Laughs, smiles, congratulations. Hands ruffling through her hair and telling her that it was time she grew up to the expectations.  So much positivity over a lost life. “You cannot imagine how proud my family was when they found us, when they saw what I have done. I don’t even know why I had that dagger with me in the first place. I swore to never touch these damned murder instruments!”

They were both breathing hard with keeping this discussion on a verbal level. The need to shake the pale boy was stagnant in Pheebes chest. Meanwhile Vlad has stood up to put his book back into the shelf, as it was apparent he would not be reading in peace with the hysterical girl in the library. Eyeing her from bottom to top his voice turned almost soothingly intrigued: “A Vampire willingly associated with someone who was connected to the circle?”

The facepalm was only mental. Of cause Vladimir would not know how the circle worked. For most of the vampire population it would remain a secret for all of their drawn-out lifetime. Meanwhile, for others, well…

“There were many vampires who worked with or for us, some voluntarily, some not.“ To sum up the whole picture Pheebe went for both extremes: “some came to council meetings, others were chained up and starving in the basement… With all those doors that my parents opened for me, to proudly present my new future, with that blood on my hands I could no longer play friends with your kind. I started my training so I can bring hope to those who don’t deem themselves worthy of it. I have saved almost fourty vampires, and it was never necessary to shed even a drop of blood for them to cooperate. Maybe they felt that I was a little like them, damned from the depth of my blood. A curse that already shows on my hands.”

Once it was pronounced the black eyes of the vampire scanned her arms to hind her hands unexpectedly bare. There were soft lines that faded on their way towards her elbow, as if drawn up with coal, fingerpainted with ashes of burned purity and hopes.

“Is that why you wear gloves?”

Pheebe nodded. “They are so I can touch my weapons. The vampire blood in my system keeps rejecting contact with the cursed materials. But it is also what keeps me immune to hypnosis and manipulation.” This was what made this discussion so hard for Vlad. She had seen the way he talked to the humen at Nikita’s party, and felt that he instantly surrounds them with his commanding aura to get his points across more easily. But talking to her was like talking to  the other house members. Futile, if she was as closed off to his point of view, as he was to her.

“Where did you get blood from our kind?” There was a little bit of disgust in his expression. But who would blame him, for not finding the aspect of being drained of your life essence, so someone else had it easier, appealing. He had never lived on that side of the food chain after all.

Suddenly she felt like a walking tome of hunter knowledge to Vladimir’s eyes. Maybe it was the way he looked at her, with morbid interest. Just how much was he allowed to know? Or rather how long would he survive to pass that knowledge on?: “It was an integral part of my training to regularly get vampire blood and venom injected, so it does not cause  turning if I die in battle or cause hallucinations when I am bitten.”

His eyebrow rose. “The effects of vampire blood in the human system are dangerous. You never know what it might cause”

Something rang in her memory as he said that sentence. She must have heard it somewhere. Or read it in a book. There were not many objectively useful tomes about vampire blood, the only ones are lost, stolen from the hunter association’s library, written during experiments and updated regularly. The last ones who were working on the manuscript were Monsieur and Madame Martine-Blanc, or so it was told.

“You know…There were two hunters who are kind of a legend in the circles, scientist, who were obsessed by the idea that the cure to any disease could lie in the blood of the elder vampires. My instructor, Doctor Ginaldi told me about them. One night they just disappeared, and took half of the inventory with them. After searching for their whereabouts for 3 month, they gave up.” And with a tiny laugh that was only encouraged by the uneasiness on the blond vampire face, she added:” And now, twenty years later, I read their names on a doorbell in the middle of fucking nowhere. Crazy, isn’t it?”