#your brother has finished his story and you feel the eyes of what inhabitants him turn to you

[thebirdmanhewatches]

Me casually creating my third set of sims featuring a god figure self insert, the central focus of its torment, those complicit, and a child chosen: sure hope I don’t accidentally make a story more beautiful than any I try to construct with thought

[rheaitis]

See your Female Arjuna and crave for reverse, what if Karna born girl

“I do not have a son,” Pritha says once her husband has finished his enumeration of the ways in which they could obtain heirs despite the curse keeping him forcibly celibate, just as though she is an ignorant girl in some backwater village. Behind his back, Madri rolls her eyes in what would be brazen mockery from one less graceful, and is still amusing enough to make Pritha purse her lips to avoid a smile.

“Ah,” Pandu says. “Very well, O Blessed One, we will contrive a solution.”

They know, each as well as the other, what solution it is likely to be: one from the getting of a child and the other from being begotten. They look away to the soil, to the sky, both mortified, while fearless Madri glances from one to another, curious.

“I do not have a son,” Pritha says again, “but, O King, I have been blessed by the sage Durvasa and can summon the gods into my embrace.”

Pandu’s head swings up, eyes shining eager, pale face flushing a blotchy red. So eager, her valiant husband, like a boy on his first hunt, a pup on the scent.

It is Madri who says, “May not such gifts be perilous in mortal hands? You may win a son and lose a wife, O Husband.”

It would be heartwarming if Pritha could be certain it wasn’t manipulative instead. Regardless, she reaches out to tangle her fingers with Madri’s, and smiles at Pandu before saying, “I cannot be certain it will be a son, but you will lose no wives to this quest. In my thoughtless youth I summoned Aditya to my bed and he left me a daughter golden as dawn-bright Usha.”

Vasu is conscious of the stares she’s getting, on top of the stares all of them are getting. It is foolish how unprepared she feels for any of it when they had discussed the likely situation every night after the younger children had fallen asleep, she and Yudh shoulder to shoulder facing their mother like disciples, supplicants. Queen Pritha was lovely in the forest, but with every day on the road she has grown more splendid: at the head of the procession now she looks like an idol into which some god has breathed life. Her children and stepsons, Vasu diagnoses with an expert eye, are far less presentable. Vasu is the only one of them to have ever inhabited a city, a palace, and she was only four when outriders from Pandu took her from the arms of the nanny she’d thought was her mother.

“They’re looking at us,” Arjun complains from behind her shoulder, his pony nudging at her geldling. “I don’t like it.”

Arjun is her absolute favourite, a thing which she does not even attempt to disguise. But he is, like all little brothers—and Vasu is an expert in the matter, having five—an annoying brat with a gift for overstating the obvious.

“It’ll be worse when we get to the palace,” Bhim says ghoulishly. “All those cousins!”

“I’m sure they’ll be nice,” Vasu tells him. “Now look after the twins, I need to go talk to Yudh. Don’t hare off on a ride, this isn’t like home.”

It would be home, it would have to be, but for all she’s nineteen and a woman grown, Vasu feels for a moment as shockingly young as Madri’s sons: nine and still bawling for their parents every night.

The cousins are awful. The aunt is fine if remote, the uncles are… Vasu isn’t sure what she thinks of the uncles, for all they make it very clear what they variously think of her: Shakuni a tool, Vidura a protege, Dhritarashtra the possibility for an alliance. Grand-Uncle Bhishma, if he notices her beyond the archery, does not approve. It’s fine, Vasu’s not looking for approval and she is, she knows she is, an aberration, out of place in the neat story of Pandu’s sons, like an extra thumb on a hand.

But the cousins, oh the cousins. The eldest of them is the girl, Dushala, a month or so younger than Yudh and nearly as quiet. Then the unending stream of boys, led by Suyodhan who would be comely if he weren’t scowling and Sushasan whose name is a despairing parent’s fond wish. Vasu felt guilty for not being able to keep all their names in mind, but only a little because Yudh couldn’t either. Probably their mother could, as she’d always known not only the names but histories of all the servants, sages and itinerant mendicants they encountered.To Vasu they’re a river of troubles that Bhim keeps enthusiastically diving into to take on the crocodiles and eels in the depths.

And then the river tries to drown him. Vasu listens dry-eyed to their mother’s reasoning and agrees to keep it quiet. Then she and Yudh go out to their favourite hiding-place—and what a horror it is that they need such a spot, here in the home of her brothers’ father—and drink their way steadily through the last of their year’s stash of honeymead. In the morning she bawls them all out, makes them swear to never venture away from each other, never listen to their cousins, never trust anyone in service to the princes of the Elephant Throne.

It should, Vasu knows, be rather a surprise that it has taken so long for anyone to plot her marriage than to find it in her mother's plans, but it has been so long, and she is twenty-one and old for it, that it comes as a shock to have Queens Pritha and Gandhari turn to her one morning while she's doing her best to be unobtrusive, and say

"It is a good match."

"We do need eyes in Kampilya."

Another thing unsurprising, that it is her mother who cares for the politics of it openly and her aunt tries to disguise it with words of care.

It is, and they do. Vasu does not bother protesting that she has little interest in men and less in marriage, or that she would far prefer to watch her brothers grow into the glorious heroes they’re sure to become. She is Pandu’s daughter by adoption and Pritha’s by birth, a woman of the Yadavas far more than of the Kauravas: a political animal from curled hair to painted toenails. Better alliances will keep Yudh’s throne more stable, and their cousins have sent away their only girl.

The boys are gratifyingly miserable, Bhim cooking up a storm and Arjun coaxing her into archery lessons he no longer needs and the twins mutely clinging. With all that it is hardest to bid farewell to Yudh, who takes it all with dry eyes and a clenched jaw. He is seventeen, too old to need or heed her assurances, this brother whose birth restored her to her mother's arms and found her the only father she has ever had.

“You will see me again,” she tells him at last, and prods at him when he mulishly rounds his shoulders. “It is not so far in a light chariot, from here to Kampilya.”

“We met the twins’ uncle last year,” Yudh counters, “and our own never to this day.”

“My sons will see theirs,” she tells him as she gets up to dress, as her maids have been begging her for half the morning. “I’ll come to your coronation, little brother.”

Three years, five months and nine days after she sees them for the last time, a messenger comes to Vasupriya with news of her brothers’ death.

Her husband finds her in the outer courtyard of their quarters, methodically shredding a dropped tailfeather from one of the peacocks thronging the walls.

“We set out at dawn,” Shikhandi says, dropping to sit beside her and taking her wringing hands between his. "It is not so far in a light chariot."

[koskela-knights]

Again

https://archiveofourown.org/works/52250887

Short drabble about Jaakko waking up from a bad dream. Or so he thinks. Drabble beneath the cut but also feel free to read it on ao3

The repetitive alarm clock finally blasts him awake. Jaakko’s eyes shoot open, wide and bloodshot. His heart is pounding in his chest, but at least it is pounding. He is alive. He gawks at a ceiling. The old fan is still hanging there. Cobwebs are plastered onto some of its blades. He’s back home. Slowly, he moves his hand over his heart. It’s still there. He clasps onto his shirt, wrinkling the fabric between his clammy fingers. He is trembling. Jaakko’s mouth feels dry. There’s a faint taste of metal on the back of his tongue but when he spits in his hand, there’s no sign of blood. He wipes his hand off on his blanket and continues to lie on his back and stare at the ceiling while he takes in the sensations of living. His breath is even. The pulse of his heart is palpable. He had died only seconds ago, somewhere completely else. Or so he thought. It had been a terrible death, too. A monster had inhabited his body, filling it with eternal darkness. It poured out of him like the blood that had filled his throat and nose. And then his lifeless body crashed into the concrete beneath. Mere seconds in real-time had felt like a never-ending terror. In his memory, he’d been falling forever. He’d been swimming against ruthless waves of nothingness. Through the chaos he had heard a familiar voice call out to him. Audible, but always out of reach.

 “Jaakko? My brother…”

He wanted to answer the call, but he had lost his voice.

“Jaakko! Jaakko?!” Ilmo’s booming voice interrupts his thoughts. “Get your lazy ass out of bed. We have to head to work!” Frustrated, Jaakko closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. He’s no longer dead, he’s no longer dreaming either. He takes a deep breath. And then another one, just to be sure he is indeed really alive. Then he gets up.

He is back at their home, in the trailer. There is no possessed writer, no Saga Anderson who got all tangled up in a horror story. Was it all just a dream then, a big, bad nightmare? Already exhausted, Jaakko stumbles to the kitchen where his ever-cheerful brother is awaiting him. Unlike Jaakko who is still only wearing his boxers and shirt, Ilmo is fully dressed and ready to go.

“There you are, finally! I thought you’d never wake up” Ilmo exclaims. Blissfully ignorant of the faith that had befallen his brother. When he notices Jaakko’s drained look, the smile turns into a frown. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

 “I might as well have,” Jaakko grunts and takes a seat in the plastic kitchen chair.  The bright light inside the trailer, his peppy brother… Everything suddenly feels so uncanny. Too good to be true. He had truly died.

 “I think you should have some coffee, brother. Here, freshly poured,” Ilmo shoves the hot cup under his nose.

 “W-what day is it?” Jaakko mutters before he slowly takes a sip.

“13th of September. We ought to head to Coffee World. Finish your cup, get dressed and we’ll go. I’ll buy you a sandwich on the go.”

Jaakko almost spits out his coffee at the mention of the date. He vividly remembers this day and the cursed morning that followed after. The missing writer, the FBI’s involvement, the failed killing of said writer, the FBC taking over and then being possessed and killed in less than the blink of an eye. The mere memory makes Jaakko clutch onto his shirt again. Is there any darkness still lingering inside of him?

 “Jaakko… Are you alright?”

“I-, I just got a bad feeling about today. Sure, we shouldn’t stay home?”

Ilmo snorts. “You are the stay-at-home dad, not me. But you gotta help me today at the park. Plus, we gotta be prepared for possible interrogation by the feds.” Jaakko blankly stares at his brother. He truly doesn’t seem to know what is coming for them. With difficulty, he swallows down the last drip of coffee. Maybe, he has a chance to change the direction of the story. Maybe, he can live. Just maybe.

[melohax]

I’ve seen some people who finished Omori talking about how they don’t understand the game’s plot, what happens in the good ending or why the protagonist even decided to change his ways. So then, here’s my thoughts on Omori’s story.

Warning: SPOILERS AHOY. Only read this if you’ve already finished the game and seen the good or true ending. Or if you don’t plan on playing the game at all but still want to know the whole story.

I’ve seen some people around the internet talk about how Sunny’s character isn’t clear to them or how they feel Sunny doesn’t deserve a good ending. Here’s some thoughts I have on why I think Sunny’s growth was well depicted.

There’s two main routes you can go through in the game: the “Reality” route and the “Hikikomori” route.

In the “Hikikomori” route, Sunny stays in Headspace forever and we get to learn many additional details about him. Sunny’s parents are implied to have known what Sunny did to Mari all along. It’s also implied that Sunny’s mother covered the whole thing up and chose to present it as a suicide as well cus, in her own words, she can’t bear the thought of losing both of her kids.

Sunny’s mother insinuates her son isn’t a “good boy” even though she begs him to be good but she still sees him as her little boy (as seen by the overly-sweet and positive messages she leaves around the house and her voice mails) and needs him alive so she can survive her own grief. Sunny’s father is shown cutting down the hanging tree and telling Sunny he isn’t his son, presumably disowning Sunny. The father keeps being absent forever afterwards.

Fast forward to the present and the “Reality” route, Sunny’s moving in 3 days. He knows his time is up in the real world and the biggest catalyst for his personal growth is that he’s finally seeing his old friends in the REAL world after 4 years of only seeing their loving, idealized child version in dreams. For the first time, he gets to witness the collateral consequences of what he did to Mari in his now teenaged friends: Aubrey spirals into delinquency after feeling like she was thrown aside by everyone she loved. Hero is guilt ridden, can’t even go near Mari’s grave and gives up on his dreams of being a chef. Kel wants to make things better but feels powerless, useless and like a screwup. Basil lives in a miserable state of almost constant fear and psychosis.

Sunny finally gets to see the huge toll his lie took on his friends’ entire lives as they keep blaming themselves for not knowing about Mari’s supposed suicidal ideations. He’s finally forced to face reality and he still tries to hide in dreamworld but he can’t. The inhabitants of Headspace are all people or fictional characters he knows or likes in real life (that he changed in his dreams, like how Kim’s brother is a sweet gentle giant and Sweetheart looks just like the candy shop owner at the supermarket) and their quests end up leading him to events where he’s reminded over and over again his dreams will end soon (the end of the underwater highway, the tree near the whale, the shadows of Mari and Basil) and that he needs to delve into Blackspace.

This shows how his own subconscious mind knows well what needs to be done; he’s putting the mental and emotional effort of making himself face what he’s done, shown through the contrast between the whimsical nature of Headspace and the dark surrealism of Blackspace.

As this happens in Sunny’s psyche, in the real world he can try to “atone” a bit by doing good things for his little community like completing requests people around him have. He still has a lot of trouble being near Basil in the real world but considering his entire subconscious mainly revolves around finding and rescuing Basil, he wants and needs to face Basil sincerely before he runs out of time.

We’re shown through memories that Sunny’s personality was always quiet, wary, a bit distant and very bad at dealing with pressure. Some people even describe him as cowardly or mediocre but he was just a small kid who’s entire world ended when he was 12. Since then, he never left his house, spending most of his days asleep rather than awake. It’s no wonder his personality isn’t as developed as his friends. His friends, although they were also in immense pain, at least still continued to live beyond Mari’s death. Sunny didn’t. He only lived through sleep.

Subconsciously, it’s shown Sunny both loves and hates Basil. This is seen in Blackspace with the dialogue he has with the “strangers” walking in the void. They talk about how Sunny (as Omori) does horrible things to Basil in the darkness of Blackspace because he struggles with facing the truth of his own actions. It’s also revealed through datamine of Blackspace’s metaphorical photo album that Basil, in his attempts to save Sunny from the judgement of others and to get him to come out of catatonia, was the one who come up with the plan to hang Mari.

Sunny describes Mari as looking as if calmly asleep when he drags her up the stairs. Her eyes remained peacefully closed until Sunny and Basil hung her. Then, Sunny turned back to look at Mari’s corpse, her previously closed eyes were wide open. She might have even been still alive, might have opened her eyes during or after the noose was tied to her neck. Or the belief he saw her eyes open could have been a manifestation of Sunny’s guilt, instead.

Either way, the horrifying possibilities surrounding Mari’s death lead to Sunny handling his emotional pain by subconsciously taking it out on Basil. It’s why Basil in Blackspace is shown constantly suffering and dying in many different ways. It’s the only way Sunny has been able to deal with himself; by forcing Basil into the darkest corners of his mind, his perfect colorful dreamworld can’t be ruined by the ugly reality Basil’s mere presence represents. It’s less painful to try to forget Basil and to forever blame him for both of their sins.

Still, even with all these conflicted feelings, Sunny’s tried to come to terms with love he still feels for Basil many times before. The shadows point out how this isn’t the first time he’s tried to save the Flower Boy; how all the previous times before ended in Sunny failing to find redemption and so his mind turns back to torturing the Basil of his dreams instead.

However, one of the Blackspace shadows also mentions a very important detail that changes almost everything this time around: his time is almost up in the real world. Whether this means he’ll commit suicide or move away, it’s almost time for him to leave the friends he’s always loved so much behind.

Sunny is forced to do a lot of internal work and self-reflection in what little time he has left. It’s shown through his dream actions, the surreal imagery surrounding him and the characters with all the sub plots his subconscious makes up.

In the route to the good ending, he traverses Blackspace and manages to listen to every harsh truth Basil’s shadow has to tell him. His attempts to save Basil mean he’s fighting his own mind, forcing himself to accept the truth.

To achieve redemption for his greatest mistake, Sunny needs to start with accepting Basil entirely; he has to stop making Basil take the brunt of their combined regrets. It means being willing to finally face the REAL Basil instead of permanently burying him in the most painful place within Sunny’s mind.

So basically, it’s obvious to me that Sunny is forced out of his “comfortable” hikikomori misery the moment he opens the door to meet the REAL Kel.

Sunny and Basil have a confrontation in the real world. When Sunny entera Basil’s room, we see poor Basil suicidal and at his limit. He’s clearly in the throes of a psychotic episode and at the mercy of hallucinations and delusions he can’t escape from (“There’s no way out of this is there, Sunny?”). Basil attacks you in an attempt to save you by killing the “thing behind you” but as we know, there isn’t actually something behind you.

There was never any monster to take the blame for Basil’s regrets, nor yours. It’s always been just you.

Meanwhile, Sunny is trying his best not to completely lose his shit so he can save Basil and stop him from potentially killing the both of them. Sunny likely loses an eye in the fight, shown by the blood coming from your socket and the bandage over it in the hospital.

Incidentally, the eye you lose is on the same side as the eye that can be seen peeking through the hair of Mari’s face as she’s hanging from the tree.

In the good ending, the song at the end talks about how even after confessing the truth, Sunny is alone once again, so it’s not actually clear if Aubrey, Kel and Hero actually forgave him. I feel like this is deliberately left up to interpretation by the writers. The lyrics then continue on to say Sunny still finds it hard to wake up, still finds himself plagued some days with lingering regret, but that he still tries to take it all one step at a time to carry on living.

With the song’s lyrics in mind, the end scene that shows Basil and Sunny smiling at each other while Mari’s shadow leaves them doesn’t mean they’re completely fine all of a sudden. Whether their friends forgave them or not, they at least finally have the relief of honesty. The burden of their unbearable shared secret is now off their shoulders. It’s finally out in the open, which means they both can now start healing and working to find the redemption Sunny was looking for in Blackspace. It also means they can go back to loving each other again without the crushing pain they both felt in each other’s presence.

I agree that Aubrey and the gang get pretty left out in the good ending, though. I wish there was more of them and their reactions to the truth BUT I think it’s sadly a deliberate choice by the writers to leave their reaction up to the player’s interpretation. This can feel extremely unfulfilling to many people (me included, I hate when authors do that tbh) but also to many others that’s a good thing cus they get to apply their own personal meaning and feelings.

I personally feel like the friends forgiving Sunny and Basil right off the bat would be incredibly unrealistic. I think they would need a lot of time (especially Aubrey) for them to forgive the lie that wrecked their lives for years. Forgiveness isn’t impossible but it would probably come in the form of a slow, difficult, heartbreaking process. Bittersweet.

Redemption isn’t just about forgiveness, anyway.

Even if a person is never forgiven by the people they’ve hurt, they can still find redemption for their actions through doing good for the people around them and the world at large. An example of this is shown through what Sunny can do on his last days in his neighborhood. The gratitude and additional flowers he receives in the hospital from each person he’s helped are proof he can still do good for others even after something as horrible and unforgivable as accidental murder. In a way, it’s proof that his life is still worth living.

But ultimately that’s just my own interpretation of the ending and I understand other people would interpret it all differently. Some see forgiveness as a given in the story while there’s also others who think Sunny doesn’t deserve forgiveness or those who think Sunny is a sociopath/psychopath or that Basil is the true villain of the game. I think this is why the ending was left so open, to favor all the different interpretations people have of it.

ETA: Here’s a different take on Sunny’s parents. This post argues that, despite the initial implications, they actually didn’t know about the attempted coverup. It’s a really good writeup explaining the whys and hows and has me reconsidering that part of the story!

https://www.reddit.com/r/OMORI/comments/kr9nvx/major_spoilers_regarding_sunny_his_parents_and/?utm_source=share&utm_medium=ios_app&utm_name=iossmf

[majoraop]

It partially overlapped with the Corazon Week so I didn’t have much time to make something for the Heart Pirates Week, but I managed to write a short story inspired by several prompts at once ("strength", "longing", "soft", and "caged"). The prompts are mostly used in the song pictured above (written by Law’s reincarnation in my “A Tale of Two Dragons” soulmate AU), which I included in the fanfic. The story features the CoraLaw pairing, the core Heart Pirates crew (Shachi/Penguin/Bepo), and a one-sided LuLaw.

A Tale of Two Dragons – Moon Chapter “You could smile for once, you know?” Penguin told Law while elbowing a chuckling Shachi.   “Is he always like this?” Rocinante sat next to Law, smiling at the camera Luffy was holding.   “Yeah. He has always been like this.” Law sighed, already exhausted even if they had just departed for their Moon Tour—as Luffy had dubbed it.   “My…brother”—just a moment of hesitation, but Rocinante couldn’t avoid forever bringing Doffy up—“told me that all people inhabiting our world came from the moon. I wonder what we’ll find there!”   “I told you already,” Law said with a grin. “There are people with wings on the moon—like angels.”   “Really?” Bepo, the younger component of their band, was staring at Law with a gaping mouth.   “Really,” Law echoed him with a serious face. Penguin and Shachi tried to say something, but Law sent a glare in their direction and they closed their mouths. “They have fluffy wings and celestial voices,” he continued.   “Oh…” Bepo blushed. He was a timid boy with a soft spot for pretty singers—but a skilled drummer for his age.   “Law…you should stop now,” Rocinante reproached him playfully.   “But it’s real!” Luffy exclaimed. “I remember people with wings living in the old world!”   Everyone looked at him, wondering if he was joking. However, there was no trace of doubts or lies in Luffy’s eyes. Law actually believed in those stories too, but he still had fun teasing Bepo.   “I can’t wait to meet them!” the boy whispered, blushing even more, and everyone laughed. --- “Look, Law, we’re almost there!”   Luffy’s enthusiasm rubbed off on Law, too, when he looked out of the porthole of the flying ship they rented for their journey. The moon was so near now that he could distinguish a large city quite clearly. Sentient beings were living up there, and he wouldn’t be able to refuse Luffy his craved moon concert. Law groaned. His life had changed so fast he hadn’t been able to adapt yet. He hadn't even finished writing his new song!   “It looks beautiful,” Rocinante whispered, putting an arm around his shoulders. “I can’t believe we’re travelling together as we promised to do.”   “If only those troublemakers weren't around…”   “Oh no, it’s better like this!” Rocinante smiled. “Your friends are a nice, funny bunch, and I can help with your band. You know, I’ve learned some useful skills.”   Law stared at his confident grin. “What skills?” he asked, mildly worried. He hoped it didn’t involve setting things on fire—the speciality of Rocinante’s old self.   “I’m a dresser,” Rocinante said proudly. “Well, not really—not yet at least, but I studied costume design. I have a great fashion sense, you know?”   Law didn’t remember the old Roci and his Corazon alter ego having a great fashion sense at all—if anything else, it was the contrary.   “Leave it to me,” Rocinante said, puffing up his chest.   Law felt a shiver running down his spine as he hesitantly nodded at him. --- You always gave me strength Once, I was a child who lost his heart Once, I was a child who got your heart On the second night after they arrived at their destination, Law was finally able to sit down and work on his song.   Penguin was playing his guitar in another room together with Shachi, the bassist of their band. Bepo and Luffy were keeping them company, and Law heard the latter singing. His cheerful voice put him in a good mood, which helped him resolve a difficult verse. He would have loved to spend some time alone with Rocinante, but he needed to finish writing his composition first. Besides, Roci was busy designing their stage costumes.   Law looked down at his laptop and deleted a sentence. He remained pensive for a moment. Then, he typed a new line. He hummed the refrain one last time and nodded, satisfied. He would sing this song alone, Luffy only joining him for the chorus. He needed to sing this song alone.   Law saved the file and closed the lid of his laptop. --- They still needed an agent so, after finishing working on his song, Law started searching for one.   Bepo, Shachi, and Penguin accompanied him while Roci kept working on their costumes. Luffy, too, decided to stay back: he hadn't had much time to learn Law's new song, and even if he would only sing the chorus he wanted to practise some more. Law wondered if Luffy understood how much that song was important for him and thus wanted to make a perfect performance. Sorry, he thought, knowing how Luffy felt about him.   “This place is huge!”   Penguin’s comment pulled Law out of his thoughts, and he surveyed his surroundings. That city was the main hub of the moon. The skyscrapers that soared against the starry night looked like buildings out of an ancient civilization, but they were made from glass and not blocks of stone. A giant bubble covered the city under a protective dome and shielded it from cosmic radiations, and at its outskirts, smaller bubbles encircled fields and farms. Factories were situated on the dark side of the moon and connected to the central hub by underground bullet train. During their stay there, Law had learned that water was scarce on the moon: there weren’t rivers, lakes, or seas, but people had been able to survive thanks to their advanced technology. Tiny humanoid robots took care of manual labour, so the citizens of the moon had plenty of free time. Unsurprisingly, upon learning that Law and his group were a rock band, they had immediately asked them to hold a concert.   “People of the moon do have wings, but they are small,” Bepo interrupted Law’s thoughts, sounding a bit disappointed. “They can't fly like that.”   “They don’t need wings to fly,” Shachi told him. “Can’t you see the floating vehicles above our heads?”   “It’s not the same.” Bepo pouted.   “But their wings are still fluffy at least,” Shachi insisted, clearly amused.   “Aye-Aye, they are fluffy.” Bepo nodded, smiling.   Law barely registered their silly conversation as he wondered how many marvellous things were waiting for him and Roci to discover. The thought of being able to experience all of that with him filled him with a happiness he had never felt before in his current of previous lives. --- Finding an agent turned out to be surprisingly easy. After talking with some local people, they met an extravagant man with sparkly, ambitious eyes—a foreigner probably, since he didn't have wings. Nevertheless, he had the right contacts, so they hired him.   The day of the concert arrived in no time, and now Law was staring, appalled, at the clothes and accessories displayed before him. “What. Are. These.” He managed to say after the first moment of shock.   “These? Your stage costume and accessories, of course!” Rocinante said with a big grin on his face.   Law glared at the black leather pants, the belt with a ridiculous-looking, heart-shaped buckle, the earrings, the rings, and the “shoes”. The shoes were the worst part: how was he supposed to sing and dance on those stilts?! Law put his hand to his face, sighing, and flung himself upon the armchair behind him.   “You’ll look great in them, Law!” Luffy exclaimed, looking at him like he usually looked at delicious meat—his favourite food.   Law felt a bit bad for him since he couldn’t reciprocate his feelings, but Luffy was a good person and had accepted Law's relationship with Roci without hesitation. Law sighed again and closed his eyes, massaging his temples with his thumbs.   “I love it!” Bepo cried next to him when Roci showed him his costume. Law glanced at it and was only able to distinguish a white fur-something.   “And these are for you,” Rocinante told Penguin and Shachi with a smiling face. Law straightened his back, ready to savour the horror on his friends’ faces, but they didn't react as he expected but just let out their breath in relief.   Law stood up to see their costumes closer and then frowned. “Why do their clothes look normal and they also have a shirt? Why can’t I wear a shirt too?!”   “It’s because you’re the star, my dear!” Rocinante beamed.   “But Luffy is the co-star, and yet he'll wear a shirt!” Law felt he was losing his sanity.   “It fits his look better,” Rocinante replied with a serious expression.   “…I give up.” Law threw his hands on the air and returned to his armchair. Besides, it wouldn't be the first time he appeared in public shirtless...Oh. He had just remembered about that. So, there were still parts of his past pirate life that he had not recalled yet. Ok, let’s go all out then. “Roci, I need you to paint my chest,” he said, trying not to blush.   At that, even Rocinante looked surprised. “What do you mean?”   “I mean a fake tattoo—nothing too complex, just some black ink.”   “Oh, I remember that!” Luffy chimed in.   Just perfect. Law wanted to disappear, but it wasn’t like his heart-shaped tattoo had been a mystery in his past life. He had walked around showing it on his bare chest like war painting when—no, he needed to stop thinking about that. Doflamingo wasn’t an enemy anymore. Now, we’re all free from our past.   “I…can draw it if you show me the design you’ve in mind,” Roci told him.   “Follow me.” Law stood up. “Just you,” he added when he saw the others moving too. That symbol on his chest had been his source of strength during his turbulent, painful past. More importantly, it had been a memento of his Cora-san. Only Rocinante could hear about it. --- When Law stepped out of his dressing room, he was welcomed by Penguin and Shachi’s barely held laughter and Luffy’s loud cheering. Bepo, instead, just looked at him with a worried expression.   Law sighed and tried a few slow steps on his heels. Thankfully, he was able to walk normally.   “You look fantastic,” Rocinante whispered, his eyes lingering on Law’s painted chest.   Law blushed. There were no secrets left between them: he literally wore his heart on his skin—his feelings for that man for all to see.   Now, he was ready to step on stage and scream his love for him. The white sea of clouds below me is spotless, I recall colourless roofs and skin now spotted, I recall cries and tears, smoke and flames, I recall being saved and then encaged. I remember falling on a pile of trash, I remember silence—and when it crashed. You always gave me strength Once, I was a child who lost his heart Once, I was a child who got your heart The waves are rolling and splashing before me, I recall blue oceans and endless adventures, I recall allies, friends, and their laughter, I recall legends, myths, and old treasures. I remember searching for the truth of my name, I remember crowning the very King of Pirates. You always gave me strength Once, I was a child who lost his heart Once, I was a child who got your heart The boundless sea of stars is sparkling above me, I recall worlds below and above the mountains, I recall the promise I exchanged with you, I recall black feathers, comfy and soft. I remember longing for you in the night, I remember you smiling for the last time. You always gave me strength Once, I was a child who lost his heart Once, I was a child who got your heart You always gave me strength Once, I was a child who lost his heart Once, I was a child who got your heart… A child no more, I give your heart back. [SOULMATE]

[path-of-my-childhood]

The Story Behind Every Song on folklore - According to Aaron Dessner

By: Brady Gerber for Vulture Date: July 27th 2020

The National multi-instrumentalist spoke to Vulture over the phone from upstate New York a few hours after the surprise release of Swift’s eighth studio album. (“A pretty wild ride,” he admits, sounding tired yet happy.) He was clear that he can’t speak on behalf of Swift’s lyrics, much like he can’t for The National frontman Matt Berninger’s either, or the thinking behind Jack Antonoff’s songs. (Here’s a cheat sheet: Jack’s songs soar, Aaron’s glide.) But Dessner was game to speak to his specific contributions, influences, and own interpretations of each song on folklore, a record you can sum up by two words that came up often during our conversation: nostalgic and wry.

“the 1″

“the 1” and “hoax,” the first song and the last song, were the last songs we did. The album was sort of finished before that. We thought it was complete, but Taylor then went back into the folder of ideas that I had shared. I think in a way, she didn’t realize she was writing for this album or a future something. She wrote “the 1,” and then she wrote “hoax” a couple of hours later and sent them in the middle of the night. When I woke up in the morning, I wrote her before she woke up in LA and said, “These have to be on the record.” She woke up and said, “I agree” [laughs] These are the bookends, you know?

It’s clear that “the 1” is not written from her perspective. It’s written from another friend’s perspective. There’s an emotional wryness and rawness, while also to this kind of wink in her eyes. There’s a little bit of her sense of humor in there, in addition to this kind of sadness that exists both underneath and on the surface. I enjoy that about her writing.

The song began from the voice memo she sent me, and then I worked on the music some and we tracked her vocals, and then my brother added orchestration. There are a few other little bits, but basically that was one of the very last things we did.

“cardigan“

That’s the first song we wrote [in early May]. After Taylor asked if I would be interested in writing with her remotely and working on songs, I said, “Are you interested in a certain kind of sound?” She said, “I’m just interested in what you do and what you’re up to. Just send anything, literally anything, it could be the weirdest thing you’ve ever done,” so I sent a folder of stuff I had done that I was really excited about recently. “cardigan” was one of those sketches; it was originally called “Maple.” It was basically exactly what it is on the record, except we added orchestration later that my brother wrote.

I sent [the file] at 9 p.m., and around 2 a.m. or something, there was “cardigan,” fully written. That’s when I realized something crazy was happening. She just dialed directly into the heart of the music and wrote an incredible song and fully conceived of it and then kept going. It harkens back to lessons learned, or experiences in your youth, in a really beautiful way and this sense of longing and sadness, but ultimately, it’s cathartic. I thought it was a perfect match for the music, and how her voice feels. It was kind of a guide. It had these lower register parts, and I think we both realized that this was a bit of a lightning rod for a lot of the rest of the record.

The National’s Influence On Swift

She said that she’s a fan of the emotion that’s conveyed in our music. She doesn’t often get to work with music that is so raw and emotional, or melodic and emotional, at the same time. When I sent her the folder, that was one of the main feelings. She said, “What the fuck? How do you just have that?” [laughs] I was humbled and honored because she just said, “It’s a gift, and I want to write to all of this.” She didn’t write to all of it, but a lot of it, and relatively quickly.

She is a fan of the band, and she’s a fan of Big Red Machine. She’s well aware of the sentiment of it and what I do, but she didn’t ask for a certain kind of thing. I know that the film [I Am Easy To Find] has really affected her, and she’s very much in love with that film and the record. Maybe it’s subconsciously been an influence.

“the last great american dynasty”

I wrote that after we’d been working for a while. It was an attempt to write something attractive, more uptempo and kind of pushing. I also was interested in this almost In Rainbows-style latticework of electric guitars. They come in and sort of pull you along, kind of reminiscent of Big Red Machine. It was very much in this sound world that I’ve been playing around with, and she immediately clicked with that. Initially I was imagining these dreamlike distant electric guitars and electronics but with an element of folk. There’s a lot going on in that sense. I sent it before I went on a run, and when I got back from the run, that song was there [laughs].

She told me the story behind it, which sort of recounts the narrative of Rebekah Harkness, whom people actually called Betty. She was married to the heir of Standard Oil fortune, married into the Harkness family, and they bought this house in Rhode Island up on a cliff. It’s kind of the story of this woman and the outrageous parties she threw. She was infamous for not fitting in, entirely, in society; that story, at the end, becomes personal. Eventually, Taylor bought that house. I think that is symptomatic of folklore, this type of narrative song. We didn’t do very much to that either.

“exile” (ft. Bon Iver)

Taylor and William Bowery, the singer-songwriter, wrote that song initially together and sent it to me as a sort of a rough demo where Taylor was singing both the male and female parts. It’s supposed to be a dialogue between two lovers. I interpreted that and built the song, played the piano, and built around that template. We recorded Taylor’s vocals with her singing her parts but also the male parts.

We talked a lot about who she thought would be perfect to sing, and we kept coming back to Justin [Vernon]. Obviously, he’s a dear friend of mine and collaborator. I said, “Well, if he’s inspired by the song, he’ll do it, and if not, he won’t.” I sent it to him and said, “No pressure at all, literally no pressure, but how do you feel about this?” He said, “Wow.” He wrote some parts into it also, and we went back and forth a little bit, but it felt like an incredibly natural and safe collaboration between friends. It didn’t feel like getting a guest star or whatever. It was just like, well, we’re working on something, and obviously he’s crazy talented, but it just felt right. I think they both put so much raw emotion into it. It’s like a surface bubbling. It’s believable, you know? You believe that they’re having this intense dialogue.

With other people I had to be secretive, but with Justin, because he was going to sing, I actually did send him a version of the song with her vocals and told him what I was up to. He was like, “Whoa! Awesome!” But he’s been involved in so many big collaborative things that he wasn’t interested in it from that point of view. It’s more because he loved the song and he thought he could do something with it that would add something.

“my tears ricochet”

This is one of my absolute favorite songs on the record. I think it’s a brilliant composition, and Taylor’s words, the way her voice sounds and how this song feels, are, to me, one of the critical pieces. It’s lodged in my brain. That’s also very important to Taylor and Jack. It’s like a beacon for this record.

“mirrorball”

“mirrorball” is, to me, a hazy sort of beautiful. It almost reminds me of ‘90s-era Cardigans, or something like Mazzy Star. It has this kind of glow and haze. It feels really good before “seven,” which becomes very wistful and nostalgic. There are just such iconic images in the lyrics [“Spinning in my highest heels”], which aren’t coming to me at the moment because my brain is not working [laughs].

How Jack Antonoff’s Folklore Songs Differ From Dessner’s

I think we have different styles, and we weren’t making them together or in the same room. We both could probably come closer together in a sense that weirdly works. It’s like an archipelago, and each song is an island, but it’s all related. Taylor obviously binds it all together. And I think Jack, if he was working with orchestrations, there’s an emotional quality to his songs that’s clearly in the same world as mine.

We actually didn’t have a moodboard for the album at all. I don’t think that way. I don’t really know if she does either. I don’t think Jack... well, Jack might, but when I say the Cardigans or Mazzy Star, those aren’t Jack’s words about “mirrorball,” it’s just what calls to mind for me. Mainly she talked about emotion and to lean into it, the nostalgia and wistfulness, and the kind of raw, meditative emotion that I often kind of inhabit that I think felt very much where her heart was. We didn’t shy away from that.

“seven”

This is the second song we wrote. It’s kind of looking back at childhood and those childhood feelings, recounting memories and memorializing them. It’s this beautiful folk song. It has one of the most important lines on the record: “And just like a folk song, our love will be passed on.” That’s what this album is doing. It’s passing down. It’s memorializing love, childhood, and memories. It’s a folkloric way of processing.

“august”

This is maybe the closest thing to a pop song. It gets loud. It has this shimmering summer haze to it. It’s kind of like coming out of “seven” where you have this image of her in the swing and she’s seven years old, and then in “august” I think it feels like fast-forwarding to now. That’s an interesting contrast. I think it’s just a breezy, sort of intoxicating feeling.

“this is me trying”

“this is me trying,” to me, relates to the entire album. Maybe I’m reading into it too much from my own perspective, but [I think of] the whole album as an exercise and working through these stories, whether personal or old through someone else’s perspective. It’s connecting a lot of things. But I love the feeling in it and the production that Jack did. It has this lazy swagger.

“illicit affairs”

This feels like one of the real folk songs on the record, a sharp-witted narrative folk song. It just shows her versatility and her power as a songwriter, the sharpness of her writing. It’s a great song.

“invisible string”

That was another one where it was music that I’d been playing for a couple of months and sort of humming along to her. It felt like one of the songs that pulls you along. Just playing it on one guitar, it has this emotional locomotion in it, a meditative finger-picking pattern that I really gravitate to. It’s played on this rubber bridge that my friend put on [the guitar] and it deadens the strings so that it sounds old. The core of it sounds like a folk song.

It’s also kind of a sneaky pop song, because of the beat that comes in. She knew that there was something coming because she said, “You know, I love this and I’m hearing something already.” And then she said, “This will change the story,” this beautiful and direct kind of recounting of a relationship in its origin.

“mad woman”

That might be the most scathing song on folklore. It has a darkness that I think is cathartic, sort of witch-hunting and gaslighting and maybe bullying. Sometimes you become the person people try to pin you into a corner to be, which is not really fair. But again, don’t quote me on that [laughs], I just have my own interpretation. It’s one of the biggest releases on the album to me. It has this very sharp tone to it, but sort of in gothic folklore. It’s this record’s goth song.

“epiphany”

For “epiphany,” she did have this idea of a beautiful drone, or a very cinematic sort of widescreen song, where it’s not a lot of accents but more like a sea to bathe in. A stillness, in a sense. I first made this crazy drone which starts the song, and it’s there the whole time. It’s lots of different instruments played and then slowed down and reversed. It created this giant stack of harmony, which is so giant that it was kind of hard to manage, sonically, but it was very beautiful to get lost in. And then I played the piano to it, and it almost felt classical or something, those suspended chords.

I think she just heard it, and instantly, this song came to her, which is really an important one. It’s partially the story of her grandfather, who was a soldier, and partially then a story about a nurse in modern times. I don’t know if this is how she did it, but to me, it’s like a nurse, doctor, or medical professional, where med school doesn’t fully prepare you for seeing someone pass away or just the difficult emotional things that you’ll encounter in your job. In the past, heroes were just soldiers. Now they’re also medical professionals. To me, that’s the underlying mission of the song. There are some things that you see that are hard to talk about. You can’t talk about it. You just bear witness to them. But there’s something else incredibly soothing and comforting about this song. To me, it’s this Icelandic kind of feel, almost classical. My brother did really beautiful orchestration of it.

“betty”

This one Taylor and William wrote, and then both Jack and I worked on it. We all kind of passed it around. This is the one where Taylor wanted a reference. She wanted it to have an early Bob Dylan, sort of a Freewheelin’ Bob Dylan feel. We pushed it a little more towards John Wesley Harding, since it has some drums. It’s this epic narrative folk song where it tells us a long story and connects back to “cardigan.” It starts to connect dots and I think it’s a beautifully written folk song.

Is ‘betty” queer canon? I can’t speak to what it’s about. I have my own ideas. I also know where Taylor’s heart is, and I think that’s great anytime a song takes on greater meaning for anyone.

Is William Bowery secretly Joe Alwyn? I don’t know. We’re close, but she won’t tell me that. I think it’s actually someone else, but it’s good to have some mysteries.

“peace”

I wrote this, and Justin provided the pulse. We trade ideas all the time and he made a folder, and there was a pulse in there that I wrote these basslines to. In the other parts of the composition, I did it to Justin’s pulse. Taylor heard this sketch and she wrote the song. It reminds me of Joni Mitchell, in a way - there’s this really powerful and emotional love song, even the impressionistic, almost jazz-like bridge, and she weaves it perfectly together. This is one of my favorites, for sure. But the truth is that the music, that way of playing with harmonized basslines, is something that probably comes a little bit from me being inspired by how Justin does that sometimes. There’s probably a connection there. We didn’t talk too much about it [laughs].

“hoax”

This is a big departure. I think she said to me, “Don’t try to give it any other space other than what feels natural to you.” If you leave me in a room with a piano, I might play something like this. I take a lot of comfort in this. I think I imagined her playing this and singing it. After writing all these songs, this one felt the most emotional and, in a way, the rawest. It is one of my favorites. There’s sadness, but it’s a kind of hopeful sadness. It’s a recognition that you take on the burden of your partners, your loved ones, and their ups and downs. That’s both “peace” and “hoax” to me. That’s part of how I feel about those songs because I think that’s life. There’s a reality, the gravity or an understanding of the human condition.

Does Taylor Explain Her Lyrics?

She would always talk about it. The narrative is essential, and kind of what it’s all about. We’d always talk about that upfront and saying that would guide me with the music. But again, she is operating at many levels where there are connections between all of these songs, or many of them are interrelated in the characters that reappear. There are threads. I think that sometimes she would point it out entirely, but I would start to see these patterns. It’s cool when you see someone’s mind working.

“the lakes”

That’s a Jack song. It’s a beautiful kind of garden, or like you’re lost in a beautiful garden. There’s a kind of Greek poetry to it. Tragic poetry, I guess.

The Meaning Of Folklore

We didn’t talk about it at first. It was only after writing six or seven songs, basically when I thought my writing was done, when we got on the phone and said, “OK, I think we’re making an album. I have these six other ideas that I love with Jack [Antonoff] that we’ve already done, and I think what we’ve done fits really well with them.” It’s sort of these narratives, these folkloric songs, with characters that interweave and are written from different perspectives. She had a vision, and it was connecting back in some way to the folk tradition, but obviously not entirely sonically. It’s more about the narrative aspect of it.

I think it’s this sort of nostalgia and wistfulness that is in a lot of the songs. A lot of them have this kind of longing for looking back on things that have happened in your life, in your friend’s life, or another loved one’s life, and the kind of storytelling around that. That was clear to her. But then we kept going, and more and more songs happened.

It was a very organic process where [meaning] wasn’t something that we really discussed. It just kind of would happen where she would dive back into the folder and find other things that were inspiring. Or she and William Bowery would write “exile,” and then that happened. There were different stages of the process.

Okay, but is it A24-core? [Laughs.] Good comparison. 

[tealincubusspeckles]

Love Locket 4: Wicked Heart

Relationship: Polyamory with the Incubi brothers

### Mika looked over to the boys. Each of them was at different stages of shock and upset. James: Mika, what your asking to do is gonna put yourself in danger and I-

Sam growled: we-

James corrected: We are against it.

Mika rubbed her face and raised her brow.

Damien's frown depended: Mika, please.

Mika looks to Damien: I will be my own villain if I have to make a point. You all know this

The boys were silent. Erik took a breath and stepped forward and knelt down to kiss Mika's hand

Erik: I said I would follow you anywhere to the end of my days.

James glared at his brother while the others seemed betrayed.

James: Fine. Erik you be her chaperone. Make sure she is protected. Sam...

Sam looked away his arms crossed at the display before him before glaring at his brothers

Sam: Yeah, I get it. I'll sit on the throne.

James nods then gave a look to Matthew who catches his eye then gives a bright smile

Matthew: Leave personal affairs to me. No one will know she is the culprit.

Damien: Matthew, I will help on that front. I can pass people on the streets much faster than you.

Matthew gives a nod to Damien then James let's out a sigh and stands straight.

James: So it is settled, Mika. Mika stood and gave each of the boys a bittersweet smile

Mika: let's go and show my darling father the doll he created.

Mika had enough of her father's judgments. She lived on her own. She had kids yet he still had the audacity to run his mouth. How she was a fool and tainted for thinking "beasts" such as her boys loved her. Mika knew she wasn't able to change human opinion overnight. But if he wanted to paint her as a tainted monster. She was gonna prove just how bad she was. She just needed to distance herself from the kingdom and go rouge. If she was mad so be it. The boys made a promise at this table to protect Mika. Erik was the last shot, if she truly goes mad he was to finish her off. This was their silent agreement. The 6 of them had been lovers long enough to know the terms.

Backstory Summary: Many years later Humans have gained a small but shaky rule over Abyssal Plain beings like demons and fae. With Humans trying to essentially fight back other Abyssal Plains inhabitants have started to want to suppress them again. Since 18 years old Mika has been living in secret with the boys since she helped them overthrow their father the Demon Lord. Mika then gets a vision through her dreams and warns the boys that Hell wants to break into the Abyssal Plains. The boys know the Abyssal Plains would not be prepared essentially due to the humans trying to gain control. However, the boys feel that if they manage to reach out to humans that the humans would for a short while aiding the demon and Abyssal Plain beings against Hell's planned outbreak. Mika and the boys learn that one human community leader is none other than David Anderson who upon learning that Mika is alive considers the boys as enemies and tries to attack. But Mika had requested earlier that the boys not harm David since her mother would be sad. Mika asked this because she knew her mother truly loved her father and losing a loved one can drive you mad. So the boys went back to report to Mika. Mika thinks she should go visit to "convince" her father. Since after all her father taught her if you can make a deal, take over by force. What Mika's dad doesn't know is she is a mother and willing to do whatever she believes is necessary. She has a kid with each of the boys. 

Inspiration Station- a list that inspired this snippet.

Inspiration Quote: "You either die a hero or you live long enough to see yourself become the villain" Batman: The Bark Night

###

Inspiration stories:

1. "My Kingdom" by Brytte Mystere or Tumblr @LucieMiddleford

2. Disney Snow White

###

Inspiration Songs:

1. "Whore" by InThisMoment

2.. "My Demons" by Starset

3. "Courtesy Call" by Thousand Foot Krutch

4. "Wolf In Sheep's Clothing" by Set It Off

[mxvladdy]

True Form- Leviathan

Here it is. Sorry for the delay! I hope you like it!

True Form- Leviathan 

In the celestial realm, he loved the waters and was gifted a body that was best suited for it from his father. It was beautiful, so sleek, shiny, and fast. When he was in the water even Mammon had trouble keeping up. But, the best part of it all was that some angels were envious of it. 

He was pretty close to Asmo during this time too. Asmo would help him dry brush his scales and moisturize the harder to reach areas across his body. In return when Levi would shed Asmo got to keep his pretty scales. From there Asmo would make makeup and jewelry from them. 

When he would visit the human realm with Lilith and Belphie they would play near any body of water that tickled their fancy to teased the mortals with his splendor. They would get a good laugh out of the stories of mermaids and great sea beasts that were created around him afterward. 

During the fall he was separated from the rest of the brothers. His unconscious body flung away from the pack to careen into the parts unknown while his brothers plummet into the Devildom. 

He comes to briefly to the feel of his blistered flayed skin hissing on impact by the cool ocean waters of the human realm. 

He slumbered for a long time down there. His body recovering from the war in the quiet. It adapted without him, working overtime to survive its new environment. His broken halo’s edges dull out, the deep trench’s currents buffering and polishing it down to horns. They grow out slowly into a large coral reef for the deep-sea inhabitants. 

The lack of light turns his skin a translucent grey color, the warm glow from the celestial realm leached from him. While his scales and hide turn dark and take on an oily sheen. Great clumps of basalt rock grow over the burns from tearing through the earth's atmosphere. The rapid heating and cooling of his skin formed iron-rich patches around his flaking scales. 

When he wakes he is distraught. His once illustrious serpentine tail and radiant body were now battered and stained in his eyes. He stays down there in the depths out of shame for a few more years. 

The rest of the changes to his body were of his own making. A grand mixture from the creatures that he observed around him. His bright celestial markings now took after the bioluminescent creatures that would flock around him. He grew his hair out, enchanting some strains to take after the jellyfish he ate. Absorbing their toxins to imbue into his hair and blood. 

He finds the fish with razor sharp teeth and large net-like mouths fascinating and takes after them too.  Once he is satisfied (and has pulled himself out of his little self-pity party) he moves from his den, traversing the ocean floor and migrating with some of the other larger sea beasts. 

The years of separation from his brothers did a number on his mental health and social skills. Being trapped under the water for so long healing has stunted that part of his physique. The years before his brothers found him have dulled his social skills with higher beings and humans. Making him antisocial as well as paranoid. 

His communication skills with sea life are much better. During his travels, he bested and then befriended many mythical creatures. But his greatest ally has to be the legendary sea beast Lotan.

The older beast taught Leviathan a lot about the human realm and what has changed over time. Took up a bit of a parental/ mentor role for Levithan. They settle together in the waters of the east sea. 

Leviathan was drawn to this particular patch of water because of the pretty boats, atakebune Lotan called them. For years he watched the coastal regions of China and Japan grow and prosper and more ships entered his territory. 

He became somewhat of a local legend. Sailors and warriors would bring him offerings of food, gold, people, and other valuables for safe passage through his waters or help in an upcoming naval battle. He sometimes helped but most of the time he just observed.

He did take great joy in battles. It was a great game for him. Something different from the boring year among the fish.  

Contrary to belief, he can’t control the weather or the seas but his massive body can create devastating waves and his control of sea life is deadly to sailors. His fishy friends eat well when he emerges for a battle. He keeps the bloated and rioting corpses of fallen soldiers. They feed his smaller friends and help him maintain his coral horns

His brother’s eventually find him and bring him to the Devildom after they hear rumors of a mischievous sea serpent.

Whether it was because of his old injuries or just all his time under the sea with a tail he doesn’t have great control in his bipedal form. Both his human and demonic form have a slight limp and no aptitude for physical activity. 100% has a pass to get out of P.E. 

Moving back in with the brothers really brought out his cardinal sin of envy. He used to be so close with them all and then he was separated for so long he feels like he will never catch up. Between their new forms (that he finds much more practical and prettier than his) and his inability to adjust to their new lifestyle, he cemented himself in his envy. He tucks himself away in his room and surrounds himself with distractions and stories. 

Diavolo gifted him his enchanted aquarium after hearing about his struggles to adapt from Lucifer. Levi was appreciative but will never say it. When he gets overwhelmed by life and his video games can’t distract from his racing thoughts he likes to go in for a swim and tend to his aquatic gardens.

Mini Fic

Warm water laps at your toes. The salt of it clinging to your feet in thin crusty layers. You wiggle them, washing away some of the grime and to propel yourself deeper into the water. You take joy in disrupting the mirror-like finish of the once still water. Smiling up at the giant sun lamp mounted over you, you adjust your sunglasses. 

Sunday lounge days were the best. Just you, a cold bottle of soda, and a new swimsuit. You missed the beach and waters of the human whelm but not the crowds. Ugh, screaming kids and impolite beach guests were the worst. This was the best alternative you could have imagined. Between the warmth of the heat lamp and the slow motions of the water underneath you, you felt the stress of the week slowly washing away.

Dipping your hands in the water you begin to push your floaty further away from the edge of the thick aquarium wall. The light blue water underneath you deepening to an emerald green when you reach the drop-off point of Levi’s tank. The water is cooler here, but still comfortable as most of your body is still dry and safely nestled in his oversized pool float. Little surface fish and aquatic animals swim by, splashing your floaty and nibbling at your toes gently in greeting. They all knew better than to actually bother you.  

Letting the gentle current of the water pumps push you around in lazy circles you pull out the manga Levi had bought you (magically coated to make it waterproof) and flip back to your last bookmark. Enjoying the peace and quiet you immerse yourself in his latest hyper fixation. 

A few chapters in and three empty soda bottles later you notice your idle turning had stopped. Leaving you at a complete standstill. The water around you was still. The little fishies that had been following you had disappeared to the devil knows when. Yet despite the sudden abandonment of your aquatic entourage you still felt a presence. The heavy aura of a predatory gaze makes the fine hairs of your neck stand on end. The self-preserving part of your mind kicking into fight or flight mode. Best to just ignore that for now...Peeking out from behind your sunglasses you lean over your floaty to see what had stopped you. A gargantuan milky white eye stares back up at you. 

When you had first been introduced to this side of Levi his pearly gaze had been so guarded. It had been by complete accident that you saw well- him. So that couldn’t have helped much with his confidence. You had come by to drop off a few handheld consoles that he had lent you to see if you would like one as a gift. You remember being by his desk trying to find a noncluttered space to put them all when the blue glow of his room was suddenly thrown into darkness.

That was the first time you had been face to face with The Leviathan. It was magnificent. Even your textbooks in your Introduction to Demonology didn’t do him justice. It was breathtaking and bone chilling all in one. You remember locking eyes with him and the both of you freezing. His reflexive gaze boring into you a mixture of betrayal and fear fighting for dominance. A wordless dare for you to scream or curse his appearance. They had been closed off to all your kind words and encouragements at the beginning. 

Now they are open and warm. If not a little mischievous. Scratch that-very mischievous. 

“Don’t you dare.” You warn with a dawning realization. “Levi!” You shout over the edge of your float after him. He sinks down without even making a ripple. The shadow of the beast's body turns the green waters black as he jets underneath you. The little flicks of bioluminescence on his hide blink in and out of focus as he moves. Distracted as you were leaning over the side you didn’t notice the slim tip of his tail rise from the other side. 

It happened quickly, a slight jerk on your ankle and then a shock of cold water. Coughing and sputtering you breach the surface. Floundering about blindly for your floaty, your hands rest on something thick and sturdy. He chitters and laughs at his little joke. “Ya-ya laugh it up.” You grip his tree trunk sized tail like a lifeline. He keeps still giving you time to blink the water out of your eyes. “Ok. You got me in the water now what?” 

HAvE- sUrpiEssss. Levi’s large mouth clicked clumsily over the syllables. His long thin teeth always made it hard to shape his words. It had taken some time and effort to get him to loosen up enough to talk. He was very self-conscious of the phlegmy- waterlogged sound of it. The years spent under the sea having permanently filled his lungs with briny saltwater. Each breath of air rattle deep in his barrel chest.  

Schooling your expression you shot him a scowl Lucifer would be proud of. “What, a mouthful of salt wasn’t enough?” He scoffs white eyes narrowing, seeing right through your false agitation. This wouldn’t be the first or the last time he got your attention like this and he knew you were fine with it. “Alright you oversized guppy, how far down is it?” 

Levi beams, wide mouth stretching to flash you his blood-stained fangs. His gills flaring up in excitement down his large neck and rib cage. Careful of his more toxic strands of hair and the abrasive patches of rock around his neck, you swim closer accepting help from his long pale fingers. Clutching onto his strong neck you give him a small thumbs up.

He dives into the water with practiced ease slowly descending to give your body and the magic protecting you time to acclimate. It was bone-chillingly at first, your whole body seizing as you are submerged. But soon the magic of your pact began to work warming you and making you able to breathe underneath the artificial currents. Eyes slowly adjusting to the lack of light you nestle into the crook of his neck for the remainder of the ride. 

He takes you to an underwater cave. The mouth hidden behind flowing purple and green water weeds. The entrance of the cave was like nothing you’ve seen before. Other caves in his habit were filled to the brim with coral and little crustaceans. Sometimes even an elusive mermaid or capricorn nursing injury. But this one was- empty. Warmer too as you swam deeper. The great sea beast dragging himself through the cave with his needle like claw above you. A defensive stance if ever you saw one. 

You catch his eye and raise a brow. Don’t worry- itss ssafe...I think. 

“Wait? You think?” You stop in your tracks only to have a massive hand nudge you along. He pushes you through the last of the tangled seaweed and kelp you look up into a- “nursery?” Levi smiles and nods twitchily. 

Do you like it? I’ve spent months getting this place ready. He leaves you to look around freely, instead slithering up to a slightly less floral. You gape turning slowly in circles to take in the beauty around you. The cove simmered with the lights from his heat lamp pushing through the cracks in the rocks from above. The yellow warmth makes it easier for the crazy amount of plants and sponges to thrive. But the vast majority of the light came from the jellies and fish that had probably never been seen by human eyes before floating around you. 

They were busy, grooming the anemones and rainbow colored corals, eating and pushing bits of waste away from large lilac colored eggs.  The larger of the sea creatures swim above you checking on some of the moving eggs completely ignoring you and Levi... “Are they-”

Sirens. Lotan found a broodmother and her clutch last winter. We thought they had been wiped out centuries ago. He chitters at one of the eggs and scratches at his coral horns. She needed a place to nest so we made a deal. Taking great care he pulls at a large clump of sargassum from the base and pats it into a bare patch of rock. You watch him with a growing smile as he pulls more plants and critters from his horns. Once satisfied he scoops up a few of the larger eggs below him and nestles them into their new home.

You peek over his shoulder to look into the nest. Hauntingly beautiful babies look back up at you. Cherub sweet faces follow you and Levi’s movements. Levi grins proudly as one of the girls stretches out in her small space. They should be hatching soon. With some prompting from Leviathan, you accepted an egg. The inhabited squirming and clawing at its elastic membrane. It looked too small for its leather confines. The baby siren opens her tiny mouth and screeches, little needle teeth biting and ripping at the egg.

“Should I help it?” You ask. She was squirming so hard it was a fight to keep her in your arms. Levi looks over and emits a little series of clicks and coos at the fussy babe. The babe stops wiggling as hard but begins to claw at a thinner part of the shell. He turns after that to tend to a few squirming eggs himself. His claws were much more helpful than your blunt human fingers. Well then... You wait until the little beast has punctured the shell itself before helping it widen the breech. 

Once freed the siren floats to the soft cave flooring. The kelp and anemones cushioning it, covering her body almost lovingly.  A swarm of little crabs and shrimp descend on it picking and eating away at the remaining goo and membrane clinging to the infant. She giggles at the tiny pinches and mouths nibbling at her tail and claws. With a squeal of delight, she crawled after them and began to devourer them. Blue and green blood coming up in clouds from her mouth. 

Levi laughs at your look of disgust momentarily distracted from freeing a few more babies. They will grow to bring the bodies of sailors to me for Diavolo’s navy. This is but practice. 

“Oh-” You blink down at the monster now enraptured with your toes. The mood changed quickly.

Oh no. Levi buries his face in his hands instantly regretting opening his big mouth. That’s gross, isn’t it? Of course, this whole thing is disgusting to a human. I should have never shown you, nobody likes this stuff. He coils in on himself sinking to the bottom, eggs forgot to his misery. 

“Now what a minute! I didn’t say that.” You sink down after him. “I don’t think it’s icky. Just another learning curve for us normies right? Honestly, this is kinda cool.” 

Really? He peeks out from behind his hair and fingers.

You grip his hands, struggling to pull them away from his face. “Yeah!” You beam. “I mean you built all this? It is beautiful. Totally reminds me of that anime you watched with me last month.” 

I think my roommate is a sea god and almost drowned my ex? He brightens tailing wagging. 

“Exactly! You’ve really outdone yourself this time. Plus think of all the cool names you can come up with for all these sirens.” His gills flare again with a shrill screech. 

Henry’s!

Ah- well maybe it would be better if someone else named them.

[ladyonfire28]

Adèle Haenel: "And the fight against racism, is that a black thing?" (March 1, 2016)

Her raw talent and her unique personality are shaking up French cinema. With two Césars in her pocket, the actress from Les Combattants became an icon of auteur cinema in Les Ogres and soon with the Dardenne brothers. Interview with a thoughtful and shady feminist.

The first vision we have of Adèle Haenel when we enter the hotel room, where she has just been photographed, is that of a tall girl in denim and worn-out suede boots looking for cotton to remove her make-up. She says that it's too much, that it's not her, that we have to take it all away - this sticky femininity - and right away.

She announces her color: strong, fierce, temperamental, a little prickly, when, during the interview, she frowns and throws your questions back to you - always with great relevance. She is beautiful and abrupt, her adolescent brusqueness (even though she is 27 years old), gives the impression of robustness: a sportswoman with the shoulders of a swimmer but the face of a femme fatale from the inter-war period, green eyes and a pulpy mouth. This is an unprecedented combination in French cinema, which tends to be dominated by young first-time coquettes looking for contracts with luxury brands. We have never seen Adèle H. at the front row of fashion shows, her appearances on the red carpet - the playground of her fellow female cast members - did not stick in our memories, and that's good.

We've been keeping an eye on her since Water Lilies (2007), by Céline Sciamma, to whom she declared her love at a César Award ceremony. She won two of them, hands down: for Suzanne, and then, last year, for Les Combattants, an emblematic film that created a new image of a virile heroine in French cinema. Adèle Haenel, an icon of auteur cinema, was thrown at the heart of the system: she is the most coveted actress of the moment and has just finished in Liège The Unknown Girl, by the Dardenne brothers, who will inevitably be screened again at the next Cannes Film Festival.

You have to hear her talk about cinema, with her eyes fixed and uninterrupted flow, to understand how incandescent this girl is. In Les Ogres, a choral film by Léa Fehner that talks about the daily life of an itinerant theater that performs Chekhov, she plays Mona, actress and pregnant. The diary of this tribe that travels from city to city, a tent on their back, also draws a universal portrait of actors, truculent monsters full of love and violence.

Madame Figaro - Since the success of Les Combattants, you intrigue people...

Adèle Haenel. - I can see that the demand is stronger, but I'm not chasing after advertising and I don't intend to invade the public space. I think we have to remain discreet. Notoriety hasn't changed anything in my life and it certainly won't change my desire to make films following the same line.

What is that line ?

I make a film to carry a message. I can feel when a director has something to say. I feel something, a desire, a vibration. There is a thread, an intuition, a truth that imposes itself on me. I know what I have to do, I can feel it. It is both mystical and very rational. What is interesting is to come out of a navel-gazing, to rise up, to talk about people, to talk about the world. I like the idea that everything fits together collectively: feelings, economics, politics. A film is a common story, and I want to be part of that dialogue. A film must be in direct resonance with its time: cinema is today. I do things for now, and it's not up to me, to us, to decide whether a film is going to stay, whether it's made for eternity. I feel extremely responsible.

You feel very inhabited when you talk about cinema...

I have many other reasons to live, but, yes, I am deeply interested in the representation of things. How does cinema fit into society? Who is it for? Cinema is obviously a political act. For example, even the latest Star Wars is political. I was really relieved to see so many women and different skin colors: it means that everyone can be a hero and that feels good.

It is said that in the movies women are taking over...

It's an evergreen content. They make a big deal out of it, but if you look at the numbers, it's not so true: women are still in the minority. I can't be satisfied with that.

Do you feel the prevailing machismo that is associated with cinema?

I'm not going to waste my time and energy educating these people.

Is it easier to succeed in this job when you are a man?

Your question is a strange one. Either we point out superficial phenomena - the decision-makers are men, they have the money and therefore the power - or we debate a broader question: in what world are we evolving? And there, it's always the same thing.  The world is cut in two: on the one hand, there is the man, the virile, all linked to superior qualities, and on the other hand, the lower part, the woman, the secret, the moods. Of course, all our representation is linked to this division. I often ask myself the following question: in a fair world, without discrimination, what is art? Art today is in dialogue with its time, so it does not abolish anything but is involved in the fight.

As we can't classify you, you have been labeled as virile...

I'd like someone to explain to me why people should always be defined. To be a woman, you would have to be a feminine woman, right? For me, it's redundant. I don't maintain any posture, I am myself. But the way people look at me doesn't bother me: make up your mind, there's no problem.

However, you embody a renewal at the antipodes of actresses on their first red carpets...

I don't know which ones you are talking about, but I will never be against other propositions from women. After all, they also are undoubtedly dealing with their inner truth. But then again, I don't want to comment on something that escapes me completely: the gaze of others. I realize that everything is complicated for actresses who are so solicited that they end up participating, willingly or unwillingly, in a kind of general cacophony.

Are you one of those ogresses that Léa Fehner describes in her film?

I've just eaten about twenty-five croissants, isn't that a clue? In Léa's film, there is an energy close to the one in Les Combattants: action as a solution to an era in crisis. Here, it's laughter and gluttony facing a personal anxiety and an era that values suffering. I think we need to wake people up, to make them understand that fatality is a terrible and disarming discourse. We are told that the planet is warming up, that people are being massacred, that entire populations are on the move. I am not saying that we are not powerless against this, but feeling concerned and responsible is already a first step towards action.

Are actors monsters?

I don't know and I don't care. I'm not here to tell people: I'm like this, I'm like that, I'm better than you. I don't have to deal with that. Why me? I don't know.

Yes, why you and not someone else? Actor, it's an elective profession...

What is an actor? Their hypersensitivity should not be overestimated. The key is courage. That's the most difficult thing, courage and sincerity: not hiding, committing yourself with what you have, with your face and your body, with everything, with no escape. We often say: "To be an actor is to be someone else" but above all, you have to accept being yourself. It's not the most well-balanced job on earth, but a healthy actor would be weird, wouldn't it?

Precisely, you are sometimes compared to... Depardieu.

There are worse critics. What I like about him is his poetic sensitivity, which is not fake at all. You can sense his love of texts. And then, come on, what an incredible freedom of acting!

Can you play everything?

I don't know. What I do know is that the feeling of comfort is dangerous. It would turn us into a small factory. As soon as I start a film, I don't sleep anymore. The first scenes are hell.

Is shooting naked a problem?

It annoys me. In all films, there's this double injunction from society or the audience: we actresses are asked to get naked but to feel guilty about it! But no guys, I'm not going to feel guilty so you can be fully satisfied that I hold this assigned place of the whore and the well-bred girl! The commitment I make when I make a movie is much bigger than that.

Your feminist side...

I don't have a feminist side, I'm a feminist simply because I want to exist.

Today, not all women are feminists…

So feminism is a girl thing, then? And the fight against racism is a black thing? It's not a power struggle or lobbying, it's not Pepsi against Coke. No, it's a fundamental question about humanity.

[thefanficmonster]

Promise

Anthony (The Dark Pictures Anthology: Little Hope) x Reader (Female)

Warnings: Death scenes, Grief, Housefire, Angst, Swearing

Genre: Angst, Romance

Summary: Sneaked glances and pass-by smiles are often times the start of the most beautiful of love stories. Sadly, many of those stories end too quickly, too soon for the souls in love to be able to enjoy them. This is the story of Y/N and Anthony. The love story that started with a promise and ended in flames.

Requested by @niksoiio Hi dear! Thank you so much for your wonderful request! I apologize for taking so long, but here it finally is! I know how excited you were for this fic, so I hope it fulfills your expectations and doesn’t let you down! Please enjoy! Love, Vy ❤

Never is a love story as pure as one long awaited to commence. The souls patiently waiting to intertwine, the emotions dying to shine through more than just glances and secret smiles. Feelings to mix, collide and dance together, creating a symphony of a lifetime. The symphony of love that lives beyond the end of the very souls that sparked it.

This is a love story, a story of loss, and a clear example, proof that a love simply doesn’t die. It’s an everlasting flame - burning brighter than the one that attempted to destroy it.

                                                              ~~~

“You seem restless tonight.“ Anthony walks into the living room, placing a cup of hot cocoa on the coffee table in front of Y/N who’s reading the back cover of the book he has been keeping himself busy with lately. 

Y/N has been Tanya’s friend since they met in middle school. When their friendship carried over into high school, that’s when her and Tanya’s adoptive brother Anthony met. They instantly became friends, sharing their love for thrillers and murder mysteries, similar taste in music and relatively similar personalities - the quiet peacemakers. The lovers, not fighters. Well, not fighters unless necessary. They are both protectors with many people they care about and would do anything to keep them safe. The two of them are pretty similar that way. 

Very compatible, as some would say. Tanya being the first to notice the connection between two of the closest people in her life. Knowing the shyness of the two and their self-doubt, she chose not to speak up about it until spoken to, expecting them to take ages to finally see what’s been going on between them. Guess she wasn’t far from the truth.

On this night Y/N and Tanya were supposed to spend their time studying together for the last exam of the semester before Christmas break began. They have agreed to meet at the Clarke house at six PM in the afternoon which has long passed and Tanya is still yet to return from the date she went on with her boyfriend Vince. She promised Y/N she’d make it home by six, but now it’s eight and there’s no sign of her whatsoever. A snowstorm started slowly taking over the town approximately two hours ago, probably the reason behind her friend’s absence, but to Y/N’s dismay, also the reason she’d have to spend the night at the Clarke household because her parents wouldn’t be able to collect her in this weather, especially not with the run-down car they drive.

“Sorry, I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” She nods in gratitude at the boy who sits down on the couch next to her as she takes the mug containing the hot beverage with as firm of a grip as she can muster with her shaky hands. 

She has indeed been restless since she arrived. Walking into the house, apart from Anthony who had let her in, the first person she saw was the youngest member of the family - Megan. The little girl has never done anything to her in particular, but there has always been something about her that has unnerved Y/N. Something in her eyes and demeanor, how empty and hollow her gaze was, almost like she was looking through people and objects instead of at them. The smile she sent her as a greeting sent chills down her spine, leaving her hands and knees shaky and her body jittery as if the house was colder than the outdoors. The thought that she’d have to sleep in this house made her stomach clench with discomfort, a sickening feeling of wrong taking over her mind and body.

“Maybe it’s the exam. You know, if Tanya doesn’t make it, I can help you. It’s not a difficult subject, after all.“ Anthony attempts to reassure her, giving her a sympathetic look as he takes a sip of his own cup.

She gives him a soft smile and another nod of appreciation for his offer, “No, it’s not that. Or at least I think it isn’t. Exams don’t make me nervous until after I’ve finished them, if that makes sense.” She giggles weakly, basking in the warmth of the porcelain cup in her ice cold hands. It doesn’t have much of an effect though - instead of warming up her skin, her hands are basically cooling the drink and she still feels as tense and endangered as ever. “But a study partner could be pretty useful, thank you.”

After finishing the rather disappointing movie they found on TV as well as their drinks, they make their way to Anthony’s room to actually get some studying done because, judging by the nearing of nine PM and the constant lack of her friend, she wouldn’t be returning on time. Anne attempts to offer them before they go, an offer which they turn down in favor of making the most of the time they have left before their brains would require rest for the day.

“You see, I get that it’s far less complicated than it seems, but I’m terrible at paying attention in classes, let alone at taking notes.“ Y/N admits while they take a short ten minute break between note-reading and revising the chapters they’ll have an exam on the following day.

Anthony’s eyebrows furrow, “Why’s that? I mean, the professor isn’t boring. Not to me, at least.“

She shakes her head, “No, no, far from it. The rare time’s I’ve managed to focus I quite enjoyed the lectures. But I tend to get too stuck inside my head to hear anything else. My brain gets overwhelmed by the future, by what’s gonna happen five minutes, five days or maybe even five years from the present moment. I sometimes get so lost in those thoughts that I end up...this is gonna sound weird, but I feel like I end up living them.” Somewhere along the lines she could no longer hold his gaze, embarrassed and afraid of how his opinion of her might change with this newly revealed information.

However, much to her surprise, when her eyes meet his again he’s looking at her with nothing but intrigue and child-like curiosity. No amusement or humor or mocking, just wondering, hoping to find out more. Little does she know, that’s how he always looks at her when she is facing the other way. “That’s so interesting. I guess the real question is: Do the things you imagine ever end up coming true?” It was said with a lighthearted smile with the intention of easing the tension in her, calming her nerves, but he had unintentionally struck a chord.

She nods her head, her eyes widening slightly, “Well that’s the weirdest part - they do. Almost all the time unless I do something to prevent it. It freaks me out every time.” An aura of fear surrounds and inhabits her as her gaze wanders away from his again, this time subconsciously, “It scares me so much, Anthony. I know something’s terribly wrong with me. I’m a freak of nature or...I don’t even know what. I just know it’s bad. And I probably shouldn’t have told you all of this cause you now won’t ever look at me the same, you will avoid me. Call me crazy behind my back. I see why but-...”

Before the petrified girl could continue rambling, Anthony takes hold of her hands, firm and comforting. The sudden, unexpected contact of their hands silences her, freezing her eyes on his as she breathes heavily in hopes to stabilize her rapid heart and far worse shakiness. With his hands holding hers, she feels protected, guarded from whatever the future may hold and from the very fact that she could probably find out if she tried. For once though, she doesn’t feel like she has to. She doesn’t need to see what will happen and prepare, she trusts it won’t be so bad as long as she has this boy holding her by the hands, looking at her with such softness in his green orbs staring back at her.

“But that’s all nonsense, Y/N. I’d never say something behind your back, especially not something meanspirited or ill-willed. You...“ he trails off, hesitating for just a moment longer, deciding against prolonging this grey area his feelings have been locked in for far too long as it is, “You are very important to me, more than you know. I could never see you as anything but amazing, mesmerizing. You’re you, Y/N. And that’s why....“ Hesitation and doubt make one final attempt at beating his courage bloody. Much like last time, they fail and Anthony carries on, “That’s the reason I’ve fallen in love with you, Y/N. Quirks, oddities, they are all beautiful cause they are yours. And I love them cause they make you who you are.“

He has somehow managed to turn the tables on her, leaving her to be the speechless one despite her having just revealed her freaky ‘abilities’ to him. What looks like a fiasco in her mind he’s made seem like a perfectly put together kaleidoscope. Like every piece of her shattered courage and bravery is back in it’s spot. Although he’s somewhat managed to put her together, she’s still a long way from being whole, which is why words have failed her now. She hasn’t felt so complete in so long, and now the final piece missing is that response that just refuses to leave her chest.

Seeing her stunned as she is, Anthony feels the need to apologize, justify his out-of-the-blue confession that startled her so much, “I know I should’ve you sooner, or at least picked a better moment but-...”

It’s her turn to cut him off though her method is much more efficient - silencing him by pressing her lips against his.   Though caught off-guard, Anthony is quick to respond to it, kissing her back with the same amount of love she’s put in on her end.

“Hey, Y/N, I’m so sor- WHOA!“ The two pull apart at the sound of the familiar female voice that has suddenly filled the room. Tanya has picked the worst of moments to be coming home, and she’s more than aware of it. Despite feeling guilty for interrupting her brother and best friend’s moment, she’s also glad she didn’t miss it. After all, she’s been watching the two suffer in silence, pining for each other since the start of their high school freshmen year and even now that they’re in college. They’ve been quiet about their feelings for more than four years and she can’t be happier to finally see the prophecy fulfilled. “You know how long I’ve been waiting for you two to finally succumb to your hearts and turn those lame brains you have off?! Oh this is a relief like no other.” The older girl laughs, pleased with the outcome of four years of looking on at two very important people in her life adoring one another and not saying a word. Needless to say, she’s proud of them.

“Do you know what knocking is, Tanya?“ Anthony is the first to recover from the initial shock of his sister’s appearance.

“Only in theory. Not in practice.“ She replies sarcastically, giving a pleased smile that speaks volumes of how her spirits have been lifted all thanks to them. “I’ll go downstairs, pretend I didn’t see what I saw, make myself a cup of tea to warm up and when I come back I want to see that you two have pulled yourselves together. Your faces are burning red.” She instructs, backing out of the room but not before fixing them a narrow-eyed warning look.

She wasn’t wrong - they are indeed blushing a deep red and all they can do is smile when they look at each other, giggling a tiny bit.

Suddenly, Y/N’s eyes widen as though she has just remembered something of great importance. “Wait.” She mutters, more to herself than to Anthony. Her hand swiftly slides the ring off the middle finger of her left hand and offers it to Anthony, “Here.” The boy takes it hesitantly, turning it between his fingers as gently and cautiously as he can as though the ring would crack if his grip became any firmer. “By taking in, you’re making a statement, a promise. A promise that you won’t change your mind about me...about us by tomorrow. Or the day after that. Or by next week.” She’s unable to look at him yet again, instead focusing on her fidgeting hands rested in her lap.

After a brief moment of contemplating, Anthony hands her back the ring, “I don’t need to make a promise, I know I won’t change my mind. You could look into the future and see for yourself too.” He tells her reassuringly, a sweet smile on his face to show the lightheartedness of what he’s said, afraid it might be offensive to her if he didn’t clarify.

She shakes her head, “For once in my life I don’t want spoilers for the future. I’ll just let it play out. I’ll see it when it happens.” She pushes the ring back to him, “But I still want you to keep this. A reminder, if not a promise. A reminder that I promise to love you for a very long time.”

A warmth spreads throughout his chest, the wholesomeness of the moment having reached to his heart and soul. He curls his fingers over the ring protectively, “Alright, I’ll take it. As a promise that I too promise to love you for even longer.”

The strings of emotion connecting them are slowly being pulled, bringing them closer once again. They both lean in, ready to feel that incredible magic of a love-filled kiss another time.

“Consider this me knocking! My hands are kinda full so just open the door if I can come in!“ Lips less then an inch apart, they’re interrupted by the shout coming from the other side of the bedroom door.

The young pair laugh, accepting that their moment will have to be postponed before Anthony goes to let his sister, who’s carrying a cup of tea and some snacks, in. All Y/N can think about is how much happiness she’s found so unexpectedly, in a place she was all but willing to stay at. Life is full of surprises and unforeseen moments, so many things one can never predict. And even though Y/N can predict them, now she’d rather not. She now understands the importance of surprises in life and she wants to cherish them properly.

                                                            *  *  *

Flames, fear, screams, shouts, cries. All painted on the backs of her eyelids. The mortifying images playing out in front of her jolt her awake.

A nightmare, it’s just a nightmare, she tells herself.

But upon opening her eyes she is met by the misty darkness of the smoke-filled room her and her best friend are currently in. 

A nightmare that she could’ve predicted and warned the others about.

“Y/N, get out of the window! I need to find Megan!“ Tanya tells her urgently, ushering her towards the windowsill, “Go! Anthony will catch you!“

Looking down at the snow*covered yard below, she sees Anthony’s figure, motioning for her to jump. She can barely hear him over the ringing and thumping in her head but she trusts him. She believes she’ll be ok if she chooses to rely on him. So, following both his and his sister’s instructions, she jumps, falling into his arms. For a few moments it’s all blank around her and in her head. She wonders if it’s just the feeling of the fall or the fact that she could’ve died so easily. Or maybe the close proximity to Anthony. Either way his whisper wakes her up from the blank trance she has fallen into.

“It’s ok, I got you.“ He steadies Y/N on her shaky feet, taking her head and leading her to the front of the house.

The next few minutes are a show of nothing but horror and pain. Her and Anthony witness it together, unable to do anything but look on as ever member of the Clarke family, one by one, has life escaping their bodies in the most brutal of ways: Tanya and Megan never made it out of the house; Mr. Clarke was caught under the fallen ceiling in the living room and Dennis was the worst, having impaled himself on the fence below the attic window.

They saw it all happen. They couldn’t do anything. Fear-ridden, powerless and helpless, frozen in their spots by the horrifying scenes playing out in front of them.  With tears brimming her eyes and blurring her vision and her knees almost completely giving out, Y/N felt a little bit of her die with each member of the family. A large chunk of her died along with them. She can only imagine how Anthony feels.

“Mom...“ The distressed boy mutters, “Mom’s still in there! Mom!“ Before she could stop him, he’s running towards what used to be the front door of the house and into the burning hallway.

Y/N’s heart drops, adrenaline and the primal instinct to save the person she loves kicking in bringing her legs to life, carrying her forward. “Anthony no!” A loud cry of desperation leaves her aching chest.

She too enters the hallway, surrounded by the overwhelming heat that feels like it’s burning her skin off. She doesn’t dwell on that though, instead she lunges forward, hands grabbing at Anthony’s arm with all her might and yanking him back with as much strength as she has left. Thankfully, it’s enough to send the boy stumbling back, falling on the snow out in the yard, falling to safety just in time.

Just when the ceiling in the hallway collapses. Directly on top of Y/N.

Like the last breath had been drawn out of Anthony’s lungs. Like his last hope had just been shredded to pieces.

Like his life ended along with her, his heart severed and plucked out of his chest, thrown into the flames.

He bows his head, uncontrollable cries leaving his body, each feeling like a punch to the gut - oh so painful and oh so dreadful. As though his very soul is draining from his body with each scream of agony. Then he spots the shimmer in the snow, the twinkle in his darkened vision.

The promise ring that had fallen out of his pocket, its smooth, gleaming surface unharmed, reflecting the raging flames in front of him. Its statement, its meaning standing stronger than ever - an everlasting love. A brightly burning flame ignited by two souls so adored by each other. And even though one of the flames that started the fire has been extinguished, the fire of love hasn’t wavered.

The ring is sending him a message:

This is far from the end of his love. Far from the end of hers either. When two souls intertwine the way theirs have, the bond cannot be broken.

                                                            *  *  *

Half a century has passed and Anthony has never missed the day - each year gracing the town of Little Hope with his presence to commemorate his late family and loved one, bringing a flower to each of their graves.

Survivor’s guilt still haunts him. That night’s events still keep him up at night and the images still seep into his dreams. However, now he has a way to cope with it. He writes. He writes in a diary but in such a way that it’s composed of letters. Letters addressed to different members of his family though the majority are love letters for Y/N. He tells her about his day, how he wishes she were by his side, how he whishes they had more time or acted on their feeling sooner.

How he loves her even more now, how they have remained connected.

“Funny how we haven’t run into each other before. Fifty years and this is the first time I’m seeing you here.“ The deep male voice startles him, “I knew we’d run into each other eventually.“

It’s Vince, Tanya’s boyfriend - the person who’s been placing the flowers Anthony find on Tanya’s grave every year. He always assumed it was him, another man forever in love with the soul that is left to linger after its body vanished. Another man chained by a memory, one he wouldn’t escape even if he could. He still loves Tanya, no doubt about it, and he wishes to never stop loving her. Him and Anthony are rather similar that way.

“Though it was you. No one else knows Tanya’s favorite flowers.“ Anthony motions to the bouquet of white flowers in Vince’s hands, “Surprised you’re still here.“ He knows it’s not the wisest thing to say to a man who’s suffering down the same road of guilt and grief - the road only lit by the everlasting love that has remained in his heart as well as Vince’s.

“Surprised you haven’t stopped coming around.“ He replies though they both know what’s insinuated - they understand why neither of them can let go. They’re bound to bodiless souls that reside here. They are both more than determined to stay as close as possible to those souls they are so hopelessly in love with.  Vince’s eyes trail down to Anthony’s hand which is holding the bouquet he was going to place on his sister’s grave. He catches the glint of a ring on his finger, “You’re married?”

The promise ring. He’s chosen to wear it in place of a wedding ring. It is not only a way to cope but it’s exactly what him and Y/N agreed on all those years ago - a reminder that they’ll love each other for a very long time. For forever.

“Yes. I’m married.“

He indeed is - to Y/N and the memory of her. To her soul that his will forever be connected to.

@artlovingbre  @sparrow-gg  @megandaisy9

[annab-nana]

Love Her  - Colby Brock

Based on “Love Her” by the Jonas Brothers, it’s a series of little stories of the ups and downs of a relationship with Colby.

A/N: I loved writing this. It was a new style for me and I kinda dig it, so if y’all wanna request more song fics, that would be great.

Requested by an amazing anon 💙

Warnings: some curse words

Word Count: 1.9k+

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

Drive me crazy, make me mental

No other buttons she can push

“What are you doing?” you asked Colby for the third time. You had spaced out the times you had asked him pretty well, but you were honestly just bored and wanted to snuggle up to him and watch a movie or something. However, you laid in his bed alone. He was in bed with you earlier, but when he left to go to the bathroom, he sprawled out on the couch instead. You wanted to get up and lay with him there but sensed some sort of tension, so you stayed put. Y’all had been on your phones the whole time, but he had recently switched to his laptop and you wanted to know why.

“The same thing I was doing earlier, y/n. Work stuff,” he let out with a huff. Maybe he was stressed or maybe he was tired of you. You didn’t know, but you felt bad for being there. You walked into his bathroom to use it for a minute before entering his room again and plopping down on the bed. Since you were bored and Colby didn’t seem to be available, you got on TikTok but made sure you turned your volume down a lot so it wouldn’t bother him, but he somehow still heard it.

“Do you want to go home? I can take you home if you want,” Colby offered, but by the tone of his voice, it came out slightly harsher than he intended. You paused your video and tried to stop the tears that sprung into your eyes. He is just a little stressed. That’s it. It’s not your fault, y/n. He’s not mad at you. You told yourself.

“Do you want me to go home, Colby? It sounds like you don’t want me here,” You stated sternly as you fought back the tears and sat up on the bed. His eyes met yours and immediately softened when he saw your expression. He walked over to you and sat next to your figure.

“I’m sorry. I’ve just got a lot to do today and haven’t had the time to spend with you that I should have. I thought I’d have more time when I invited you, but stuff came up. I’m sorry, sweetheart. Let me finish up a few more things and then I’m all yours, okay?” He asked as he brought his fingers to your chin to direct your face to look at his. Lightly, you nodded your head and gave him a small smile. He planted a chaste kiss to your cheek before finishing up the last of his work things for the day.

One second she’s Miss Sentimental

Then she’s afraid she’s said too much

“What’s going on in that pretty little head of yours?” Colby asked after he noticed you had not said much in a while, which is very unlike you. You were normally quite the chatterbox, but he didn’t mind it. You laid with your back against his chest in one of the blue lounge chairs that sat by the pool. You and Colby always loved to go out and look at the stars, and lately, this was your favorite spot to do so.

“Just thinking,” you whispered as you gazed at a particular star that was twinkling brightly in its spot in the endless darkness of the wide open sky.

“What about, princess?” He pressed and you smiled as you looked up at him.

“Remember when we first did this?” You questioned and he hummed in response. You continued on with the story of how Colby had driven you to a place out on the edge of the city that had a lookout where you could see Los Angeles and all of its beauty. You two stayed there that night, looking at the beautiful view of the large city and all of the stars that inhabited the sky.

“And then we accidentally fell asleep for a bit and woke up and saw that it was almost morning time and watched the sunrise.” You finished the lengthy story before hearing Colby’s chuckle reverberate in his chest beneath your head.

“You know you can tell me to shut up sometimes. I know that I talk a good bit,” You muttered as you turned your attention back to the flickering lights that were sprinkled throughout the dark space above.

“Now, why would I do that? I love to listen to you and to hear your voice.” His words warmed your heart and you placed a kiss to his arm that was wrapped around you.

Opposites attract and we’re the living proof of this

But I keep comin’ back like a magnet

“You and y/n are so different. So, the people want to know how you two make things work? Do you ever get annoyed or tired of or angry with the other?” the interviewer asked Colby after Sam got finished with a question about him and Kat.

“Well, in every relationship, you get aggravated with the other. Sometimes, you get angry, and sometimes, you need your space. You can ask any of our friends and you can ask Sam. Y/n and I are complete opposites.” Colby pauses as Sam nods his head and agrees.

“But I think that’s the beauty of us and our relationship. I am extremely focused on work and am very deep and emotional and I get upset more than she does. She is so bubbly and happy all the time. She’s carefree and loves everything. I don’t think there is one thing that she hates. She’s like a light in my kinda dark life and I love that about her. And I like to think I help her when she has feelings like sadness that she isn’t used to feeling. You know what they say. Opposites attract,” he finished with a slight chuckle.

Cause when you love her, no matter the fight

“Ugh! I’m not having this argument anymore,” you huffed as you grabbed a pillow and blanket from Colby’s bed.

“Where are you going?” He asked, eyebrows furrowed and voice annoyed.

“To the movie room. I can’t stay up here with you tonight and I don’t want to get an uber home. You want to be alone, then alone you’ll be,” you spat before slamming his door shut and trudging down the steps until you reached the room you would be staying in for the night. You picked one of the couches that sat in the far back and laid your pillow down on it before laying down and snuggling into the blanket.

You know she’s always right, and it’s alright

You stayed cuddled into the blanket and facing the red wall when you heard the door open. You refused to turn around to see who it was, knowing it was probably him and pretended to be asleep.

“I know you’re not asleep, princess,” He whispered as you felt the couch dip near your feet where he sat, and his hand rubbed gently against your legs.

“It’s kind of hard to go to sleep when a certain asshole won’t leave me alone. Isn’t that what you said? That you wanted to be left alone? I left you alone and look where you are now,” You grumbled before turning away from him again.

“Hey, it’s just been a day for me, okay? You know I like to be alone to-”

“Recharge. I know, but I leave you alone a lot because I know that. I just don’t like it when you invite me over here to hang out then you shut me out, so I have to ask what’s wrong and then you blow up like you did earlier. I am scared that if I leave you alone anymore and if when we’re together and you act like that, then we won’t last very long. I love you, Colby. I really do, but I don’t know how much longer I can sit here and wonder what you’re thinking,” You finished your speech as you watched him nod in agreement and his hand continued to run up and down your leg soothingly.

“You’re right. I need to tell you how I feel so that things like that don’t happen again and I won't leave you wondering. But just don’t leave me alone when you think I need to be left alone. Leave me alone when I tell you I need to be because I want to think that you’re giving me space because I need it, not because you don’t like me anymore,” he confessed.

“You thought I was leaving because I didn’t like you anymore?” You snapped your head in his direction when he said that, and your eyes softened in his gaze. He nodded gently and you sat up, wrapping your arms around him.

“No, baby. I was just trying to give you the space I thought you wanted. This is why you need to tell me how you’re feeling so things like this don’t get mixed up,” you whispered in his ear. He pulled away from you and nodded his head in agreement.

“Let’s go upstairs, yeah?” He asked and you smiled before grabbing the pillow and blanket and following him up the stairs.

And they say love can hurt but seein’ her smile

Will get you every time, yeah, every time

Colby watched you from across the room. He stood in the kitchen and you sat at the table a bit away. He was deep in other thoughts that seemed to get him down, but he saw you bust out into a fit of laughter at something Aryia said. You and Tara both found his words to be quite hilarious and could not get your giggles to cease. The sound of it was like music to his ears and made the corners of his lips turn up slightly before the thoughts in his own head brought him down again.

A little while later, you hopped off the chair and waltzed into the kitchen to get another slice of pizza for both you and Jake. You reached for a plate and went to the pizza box before noticing that Colby was staring at you.

“Like what you see?” you giggled as you met his eye. He smiled a little, but it was one of the smallest smiles you had ever seen from him. You knew something was wrong. After pulling two slices of pepperoni pizza out and sliding them onto your plate, you went over to him and looked him right in the eye, searching as if you would find an answer in his baby blues that he was trying to tell you.

“You okay? What’s wrong? Why are you in here alone?” You spewed the string of questions and he shook his head.

“I’m fine. I’m just… chilling,” he muttered, but you didn’t buy it. You slipped your hand in his and tugged at it, pulling him to the table.

“Come on,” you smiled up at him and he thought his knees would buckle underneath at the beautiful sight.

“I made Sam get stuffed crust pizza just for you, so you better grab a slice and come hang out with your friends and girlfriend. You feel better, I promise.” He sighed before nodding and doing what he was told.

“Only because I love you,” He whispered under his breath, causing you to turn around and quirk an eyebrow.

“What was that?” He shook his head as he laughed.

“Nothing princess.”

Because you love her

[cowboyified]

Below are some WIPs I’m releasing into the wild. They were all written at different times over the past two years so any mistakes/cliches you can blame on past June, I don’t know them. 

Go, be free.

This first one I think is the one I’m most fond of. I had such a vision for it; bottlecaps in trees, river swimming, making out against the fridge, all that good stuff you get with weecest. 

The summer Sam is seventeen they stay in one place for long enough Dean starts referring to it as ‘home’. 

It’s an old farmhouse, miles from any other structure, bar an outhouse and hay shed. There’s a porch running the length of the front and back, the wooden boards pulled up from their nails, wavy with the weather. Weatherboard paint peeling, wallpaper inside torn and missing in most places. 

They’re squatting, technically. The property owned by a family saved by hunters once, friends of friends of Bobby’s, too distraught by what they’d witnessed to raise their kids on cursed land. Dean had told Sam that Dad had been told by Bobby that had been told by Pastor Jim that it was chupacabras. A whole pack of ‘em, feeding off the lambs in the back paddock, tried to take a bite out of the baby girl and Sam had said, “As if man, those things are tiny, I’ve seen pictures, you could kick one and it would limp away like a fucking chihuaha, you scared of chihuahas, huh, Dean?” But Sam still hikes his sheet up under his chin when he hears scuffling under their window between sleep. 

There’s remnants of the house’s past inhabitants still scattered around the place. Sam had stood and slid two inches on the wheels of a tiny replica car that had been jammed under the couch the second day they arrived, piffed it at his brother’s head, who’d caught it, exclaimed that it was Camero, dude, treat her with some respect and had sat it on top of the fridge. 

The bookshelf in the corner of their shared bedroom holds mostly dust and tattered occult books stolen from libraries from all over the country, left by hunters who have found what they’ve needed and moved on. There are a few of the worst Stephen King novels shoved haphazardly on the top shelf and Sam finds something funny in that, the irony in enjoying bad horror when the real deal lurks behind the screen door. 

Dean gives him a look when Sam pulls down and cracks open a copy of The Tommyknockers, snorts, “Haven’t you read that one already?” and Sam says, tucking himself into bed, “Yeah, it fucking sucks, King was royally off his head while writing it, that’s why it’s so good.” Sam finishes three quarters of it in one sitting while listening to Dean’s quiet snores from the other side of the room. 

It’s a ten minute drive to the closest town, an off the highway, invisible to the outside world, kind of one-street community. No reason to take the exit if you don’t already know it’s there, one store, one gas station, one bar in an old brick post office building, unfitting, the carpet pulled up at the corners but home to the best fries Sam has ever had in his life. 

Sam follows Dean out to the courtyard, neither of them are legally old enough to drink but there’s nothing else to do but to get respectably drunk in a place like this, anyone that has lived long enough in the true country is some kind of functioning alcoholic, so Dean orders a beer and isn’t asked for ID. In a town small enough for everyone to know every intricate detail in the threads of dirty laundry, they are foreigners. No one knows where they’re from or where they’re going and Sam knows that Dean likes it that way.

It’s never been a secret that Sam prefers to feel like he has a part in everyday normalcy. Dean thrives under anonymity, gets a kick out of it because it makes him feel dangerous. He had stopped accompanying Sam to school two states ago, a silent agreement with their father when Dean had come home early and helped John cut splits into the tips of bullets instead. Like hell I’m signing up for compulsory extra curricular activities. What’s the point in making friends with people whose biggest concerns are the answers to whatever bullshit test and who fucked who last Friday? 

Finding comfort in a nine-to-five kind of community is a flaw Sam’s been burdened to deal with. 

It’s early afternoon, the courtyard is empty and the table they chose rocks on its legs every time Dean slides his drink over for Sam to share. It’s bitter and Sam hasn’t had enough beer in his life to know if it’s supposed to be like that or if it has just soured from the long journey it took to get from the brewery to their glass. He drinks it and doesn’t grimace because his brother is looking at him through the rays of warm country sun. 

“Tastes like piss, huh,” Dean says, leaning forward out of the light so Sam can see him clearly again. He takes back the glass. 

“S’not that bad,” Sam replies, rubbing the leftover condensation into his hand, doesn’t look at Dean, finds it hard these days, twists in his gut all wrong. Sam knows why. 

His brother hums, “There’s gotta be something else to do around here.”

Sam thinks, Dad’s left the car, we can go wherever we want, but doesn’t say it because his brother is loyal to a disastrous fault. 

That’s a recurring thought. Sam in the shotgun seat, his brother behind the wheel, driving away. Just away, to someplace else and they’d be okay because they’d have each other and all Sam ever needs is his brother, like water. But John will be back in two weeks, term starts again in a month and he needs his father to sign the enrollment forms. Two more years. 

“You see the old dredge outside of town?” Sam asks, remembers passing it when they arrived, all twisted, rusting metal, the bones of it against the setting sun.

“What did I tell you about respecting your elders?”

“You told me that they all smell like porridge and are easily susceptible to sleight of hand. No, Dean, Dredge,” Sam stresses. “Big rusty old machine that pulls minerals out of water.”

“Looking to strike big, Sammy?”

“Yeah, you see, my family is poor, brother at home too dumb to get a job. Our father went to get milk and never came back,” Sam sniffs for effect. “I can’t go home empty handed again, sir.” 

“Ah, a real sob story,” Dean nods in understanding, tips his head back and finishes the beer. “Let’s get out there then, sonny. We shan't let that simpleton, downright fool of a brother go hungry.” Dean jabs Sam in the ribs when he stands, hard enough for him to gasp, gets Sam’s head under his arm before he can recover. Sam claws embarrassingly at his brother’s torso, face pressed warm into the side of Dean’s waist. 

“I will pray for us young Samuel, for I too, dream of riches,” his brother is exclaiming, tripping them out and onto the street. “I only ask that we share whatever bounty dredged as I saw the most exquisite pony a few miles back and I simply must have it.”

And Sam thinks - with his flushed cheek hard against Dean’s skin through the thin sweaty fabric of his shirt, heart beating too fast against his ribs in a way that has nothing to do with exhaustion - you can have it all. 

---

Sam’s brother’s perpetual state of being is ten miles over the speed limit; this can be applied to almost every aspect of him. Dean goes and goes and rarely stops. They’re pushing double that out of town, north of their property, into the forever stretch of flat land and Sam loses himself in it. That idea of away, of going and going and that Dean could take him because he’s an expert in the field. 

The Impala blasts Born To Be Wild and Sam imagines the lyrics spreading out over the dry grass. He rolls the window down and throws his head out, trying his best to keep his eyes open against the road’s wind. The sun beats down, warmth soaking through and into his bones and Sam laughs as the cattle turn to catch a glimpse of them soaring. 

Dean pulls him in, tugs at the back of his shirt, says something along the lines of, what are you, a dog? Should get you a shock collar for all the times you’re a little bitch, but Sam can’t hear him over the roaring of the open window and the look of transparent glee on Dean’s face, it’s loud and assaulting and Sam has to turn away because seeing Dean like that wobbles him dangerously from the nonchalant facade he has going on in relation to how he feels about his brother. But mostly his face hurts from smiling too wide.

Used as a warm up last year. Boyking!Sam

He thinks he’s in Louisiana, maybe. That he got here in the tray of a pickup and that he couldn’t feel the wind in his hair like maybe he should. The driver had stopped for a piss-break and Sam had snapped his neck without his hands.

He rubs them together now, tries to feel guilty but there’s nothing to feel guilty about because his hands are clean; he doesn’t have to use them anymore. 

Sam thinks he’s in Louisiana because he stepped out of the truck and into a wet kind of heat. There’s a church with thick greenery growing over the roof and white wood that’s been mold-blackened by the humidity. He laughs to the darkness because it's very funny to him that he’s driven himself subconsciously to a place of grace. 

He skips up the steps, two at a time, gleefully. The smell of the bayou and rotting wood has put him in a good mood. The lock snaps when he blinks, the chain unraveling and snaking into a coil at his feet. The doors open for him and maybe he did that with his mind too, or maybe they were just expecting him. 

The church has been used recently, its interior better kept than the outside, bibles tucked neatly in the backs of pews, ribbons tied into plaits. The white of the moon falls in blankets through the windows, shadows of leaves moving over the floor like rippling water and the bust of Mother Mary prays for him at the altar. 

Sam spreads his arms and addresses her, says to the room at large, “Shall I repent for my sins, oh Lord?” and it echoes, gives him goosebumps, a current under his skin. He has an audience here because God is omnipresent, this is a place of worship and Sam has always been good at that. 

A church in Louisiana, standing before a plaster of his mother’s namesake in a church for a God he used to think could have some defying factor in a destiny that was always going to be concrete. It’s funny, blatantly. Sam puts his hands gently to Mary’s cold face, kisses her on her lips before crushing her head, spraying ceramic. 

Sam stands behind the lectern, hands red with his own blood now, sticking the pages of the Good Book. He’s read it before anyway. 

“Am I to be forgiven?” 

Last is a casefic I had planned out in 2019. I didn’t get very far into the actual writing part of it, but I still think the setting is cool, less so the plot I had in mind. 

Just outside of Bridgeport, Connecticut there’s a community built on a sandbar. A small secluded semi-island, connected to the mainland by a mile-long beachfront. A town of forty to fifty now abandoned, vandalised residences.

The police find the bodies of the boys there, bleeding out and into the sand, each other’s skin caught under their fingernails. 

Sam watches as his brother pulls the sheet back from one of the corpses, laying blue on the steel morgue tray. He’s a kid, a boy, not even eighteen. Hairless, lanky, multiple stab wounds puckered around his belly and Sam thinks he does not look peaceful for someone who is meant to be at rest. 

Dean is quieter than usual, his body language stiff. They’ve seen their fair share of dead kids but Sam thinks that this one might look a little too much like an adolescent version of himself. Shaggy brown hair, too long limbs, college on the horizon. Sam blankets the sheet back over the boy’s face and hears his brother exhale in what he thinks might be relief.

The coroner tells them that the other two are the same, besides the youngest one. He’d been blinded, thumbs pushed through his eyes until they popped like grapes. He asks if they want to see him too and Sam says no, thank you, we’ve got what we need.

Which is a whole lot of nothing, but they’ve only just arrived and there’s evidence that doesn’t involve corpses that needs to be checked.

“Pussied out in there huh, Sammy?” Dean says as they’re walking down the funeral home’s front steps, past the manicured roses and trimmed lawn. You see these perfect hedges? We’ll treat your dead mother with the same detailed care!

Sam pulls at his tie and scoffs because he knows he wasn’t the only one uncomfortable standing in the morgue; cases that involve kids always rub them both wrong.

[imaginedxlan]

Champagne & Shackles; Beta Part Two (Fred Weasley)

a/n: i’m SORRY i’m terrible at time management, school is kicking me ass. i had no idea so many of you had the same affinity for the brothers of the beta fraternity as i do, this is for all my frat rats out there i love you most. this is an ode to my very favorite date party theme: champagne and shackles. in which you and you’re chad or brad of a date are candcuffed together until you finish a massive bottle of champagne between the two of you.

weeks after the infamous beta darty, you can’t seem to pull your thoughts or presence away from the ginger boy who made your heart skip a beat. That is, until you’re invited to the beta champagne and shackled date party.

y/f/n: your friend’s name

warnings: cussing, alcohol, mentions of sex, modern!fred, and also very typical frat boy lingo stolen straight from the mouths of frat boy i associate myself with

disclaimer: while they’re semi-drunk in this they’re still coherent and stable enough to know what they’re doing. nothing that happens in this is coercive or decided under an incapacitated mind. king freddie would never take advantage of a girl like that.

part one

consumed.

You have been completely consumed with the the thought of a certain red head for weeks now. Since you kissed him goodbye on your front lawn, the image of Fred Weasley has yet to leave your brain. While you’ve been at the same school for almost two years, you’ve seen him more in the few weeks following the beta darty than you have in the 18 months you’ve spent on campus. Lines in coffee shops, the terrace at the union, the corners of the library you’ve inhabited for years. He’s everywhere. Not that you’re complaining.

The grin that plays across his lips every time you catch his eye sends your heart into overdrive. You’ve spent countless nights awake in y/f/n’s bed analysing every text, every snapchat, every story. You replay the day in the beta backyard at least once a day, yearning for the feeling of his touch on your skin. You’ve hardly returned to the brick-faced mansion, however. You’ve of course been invited through Draco and the countless group messages that flood your phone the nights leading up to a beta party, but you want him to invite you. You want him to want you there.

Of course he wants you there. He spends hours in that filthy basement he calls home every weekend searching for you among the dozens of drunk girls, hoping you had decided to turn up this time. But you’re not there.

Y/f/n mentioned date party to you this past weekend. Draco being social chair of the fraternity, he’s been planning the function for weeks. Champagne and Shackles. A fan favorite among every sorority girl throughout the school. Mixing together handcuffs and a massive bottle of champagne would have nearly anyone begging for an invite. You decide not to get your hopes up, constantly reminding yourself that while he is the boy that made you feel like you were the only two people in the world while you were surrounded by hundreds of drunk college boys, he’s still a twenty year old beta boy. It’s hard to stray from the hook up culture that he’s been practically bred into. Nevertheless, there is still a glimmer of hope in you that you’ll be cuffed to him this Saturday night instead of another girl he’s probably found on greek row.

He’s been drafting this text in the notes app of his phone for three days now. He’s changed the wording, the punctuation and the amount of details in his intended invite to you one hundred times now. George and Oliver groan every time he stops their studying or game of Call of Duty to read them the revised text he’s come up with this time.

“My god, Weasley, you’re acting like you’re writing your vows.” Oliver jokes, setting his xbox controller down on the makeshift coffee table in the twins room. “Just send it, you know she’ll say yes.”

But that’s the problem, he doesn’t know that.

“Wood we’ve thrown six times in the past month, she’s come once.” Fred reminds him of the painful fact that it seems like you’re just not that into him. “If I was sure she was gonna say yes I would have done it by now.”

George snatches his twin’s phone from his hands, copying the now final draft of this overly thought out text asking you to his date party. Before Fred can spring up from his bed, George has already got the message pasted into Fred’s text chain with you and hit send, making the color drain from his twin’s face.

“Are you fucking serious, George.” Fred finally reaches his younger brother and tackles him to the ground. “I barely read through it she’s gonna think I’m a fucking weirdo.”

George is able to shake his brother off of him, bursting out laughing with Oliver at Fred’s crazed state. George knew Fred had feelings for you, well practically every who spoke to a drunk him for more that ten minutes knew, but it was still comical to see his twin get so worked up over a girl he hadn’t even slept with yet.

“Fred you’ve been reading the stupid thing for an hour now,” He points out, Oliver nods his head in agreement. “What’s the worst that could happen? Huh? She says no and you ask one of the eight hundred other girls who fawn over you every chance they get. I know you like her Freddie but this isn’t a life or death thing.”

As Fred caught his breath from his outburst, he knew George had a point. He wouldn’t drop dead if you rejected his offer, but it sure help like he would.

hey idk if you’ve heard but our date party is this saturday and i was wondering if you would want to come

Your phone lights up just as you sit down to eat dinner with a couple of your friends. Once you see the name fred weasley next to the notification your heart stops. Taking y/f/n’s hand in yours, you turn the screen so she can read it. Her lips turn up in a grin as she squeezes your hand.

“I told you he would ask you,” She squeals, shaking her shoulders in her little ‘happy dance’ as she likes to put it. “Draco won’t stop talking about how tweaked Weasley’s been over some stupid text. I knew it was about you, I just knew it.”

You laugh at her imitation of her boyfriend, knowing it’s not far off from how he actually sounds. You reread the text probably thirty times, feeling even more giddy over such a simple and honestly not very personal text, but you don’t care. He asked you.

You spend far less time crafting a response than Fred did writing the initial text to you. If what y/f/n said is true and he really mulled over this for days, you may pass out.

i’d love to :)

The love seemed a bit overboard in your opinion, but y/f/n convinced you that it was a perfect response. You didn’t allow yourself to start looking for possible dress options until he really asked you, afraid you might jinx it if you bought a dress prematurely. Now, however, you’re on a time crunch. Someone in the house had to have something you could borrow. That night you try on at least ten dresses, all the girls on your floor flooding your room gushing over the fact that the Fred Weasley is taking you to his date party. He’s someone nearly everyone knows, and if they didn’t they were probably a geed, or lived in sophomore slums.

You finally land on a dark blue, spaghetti strapped sequin dress that clung tight to your curves. While nearly every dress you tried on felt like it might work, this is champagne and shackles after all, you have to dress to impress. Y/f/n won’t stop talking about what Fred will do the minute he sees you in the dress, praying she gets to watch his jaw drop. The two of you stay up late into the night again mushing over the thought of the two of you being swept off your feet by beta boys, the same boys you could hardly think about a month ago without becoming nauseous.

pregames at the house, malfoy and i will come by yours to grab you and y/f/n at 6:30

The text comes in Friday night. You can hardly contain the bubbling feeling in your stomach. As much as you feel like you’re sixteen years old again, you don’t care. You’ve finally joined the ninety percent of girls on greek row in one category, you’re crushing on Fred Weasley.

As the day finally rolls around, Fred is surprisingly back to his calm and collected demeanor. As much as the boys, and to be honest he himself, expected him to be bouncing off the walls over a slew of what if’s regarding the night ahead of him, he was rather calm about it all. He’s one half of the coveted Weasley Twins after all, he has a reputation to uphold.

The same cannot be said for you. As you curl your hair and apply your makeup to perfection, you can’t stop your knee from bouncing under the vanity counter you’re sat in front of. What if he secretly thinks you look bad in your dress? That you look like you tried to hard? As much as y/f/n tried to remind you of the fact that he was the one nervous about asking you, nothing seems to ease your growing anxiety. The hours tick closer to six-thirty and you sit patiently on your bed, completely ready and aimlessly scrolling through your socials to keep your mind off of the fact that in only twenty minutes Fred and Draco would be at your door to take you back to beta. The actual date party would be at one of the satellite houses, the penthouse of a nearby apartment paid for by betas massive budget.

Y/f/n takes your hand and forces you to look at her.

“Y/n,” She begins, now holding both of your hands between hers. “You are the hottest bitch this campus has ever seen. No one, not even Fred Weasley, deserves to be blessed with the absolute vision you are right now, but I guess he’ll have to do.”

You laugh at her attempt to hype you up in ten hopes that the knots in your stomach fade away. They partially do, but part of you is still in shambles over the thought of seeing him. He probably looks like even more of a greek god in a suit. Y/f/n’s phone buzzes with an ever so poetic ‘here’ text from her boyfriend and she gives your hands one more squeeze before dragging you down the staircase of your house. The boys are waiting just beyond the lawn, the same one you kissed Fred on weeks ago. The two of them have their hands in their pockets, looking like they’re deep in conversation, not even noticing that you and y/f/n are standing walking toward them.

He’s wearing a dark gray suit with a white button down with the top three buttons undone. His hair is perfectly messy. You didn’t even think it was possible for him to get any hotter, but here he is.

The boys turn their heads and immediately stop their conversation. The blonde’s face turns up in a smirk as his eyes trail over y/f/n’s body, but Fred is standing perfectly still with his mouth slightly agape as he watches you come closer to him. His cool and collected affect quickly runs out of his body as he watches your dress glitter under the street light.

“Told you.” Y/f/n whispers in your ear before she drops your hand to meet her boyfriend.

Draco greets y/f/n with a kiss and Fred pulls you into a hug. You melt at his touch. Even in the heels you borrowed from y/f/n, he still towers over you, his chin resting on top of your head.

“You look...” Fred trails off, trying to find the words to describe the sight in front of him. Heavenly, goddess like, like he might just skip the date party and get down on one knee. “...incredible.��

You muster up whatever confidence you have in the midst of your imposing anxiety to give him a somewhat composed reply. “You don’t look half bad yourself, Weasley.”

That heart-melting, mind-scrambling smile returns to his lips before the four of you begin walking what to the beta house. Fred keeps his hand on the small of your back the entire walk, desperately trying to keep you close to him.

The ungodly amount of alcohol you consume at the pregame seems to overtake any remaining worries in your body. Fred never leaves your side, as if you’re already cuffed together before you even arrive at the function itself. You talk with George and Oliver again, and meet some of Fred’s other fraternity brothers like Lee Jordan and Theo Nott. They all seem to know who you are before you can even introduce yourself. It would be difficult to not know your face after watching fred gawk over your every instagram post. Any sort of reservations you once held about the beta boys melt away. They may be wildly intimidating to a stranger that passed them on the street, but watching the boys sing along to whatever song is blasting through the speaker while dancing like they’ve just learned to walk shows you that they’re like every other boy you’ve met.

The walk to the penthouse is short, but it seems to take forever to reign everyone in everyone once in a while. Fred is continuously checking up on you, grasping your hand or your waist, making sure you aren’t cold in your dress. The second you make it to the penthouse you’re immediately cuffed to the red haired boy and handed a comically large bottle of champagne and told the rules.

No unshackling until you’ve finished the bottle.

The party is far more cramped than the one in their backyard. You can’t bring yourself to care about the occasionally bumps from someone in the crowd or the growing smell of alcohol around you. You’re completely consumed by the angelic giant dancing with you. Even with the handcuffs, Fred’s fingers are still intertwined with yours as his other hand is holding you close to his body, roaming from your waist to your back and over your ass. Anytime you go to open the bottle you’d been given at the door to continue on feeding the buzzed state you’ve been in since you arrived at the beta house, Fred stops you. He still grabs you drinks from the makeshift bar and pulls you into the ‘shot room’ to send copious amounts of burning liquor down your throat, but the bottle stays off limits.

“You have no idea how much I’ve been thinking about you this month, y/n.” Fred hiccups his way through his confession as his lips are pressed close to your ear to make sure you hear every word he says over the loud music. “You do something to me.”

You know whatever you try to say will come out slurred, so you do the next best thing you can think of to tell him that you’re feeling the same way. You wrap your free hand behind his neck to press your lips to his. He immediately pulls you closer into him like he was a dying man grasping onto his only source of oxygen. Again, with your lips tangled in his, you’re suddenly the only two in the room. This moment is one you know will occupy your thoughts until the end of time. Held by the boy you’re completely enamored with as the world seems to stop around you. In every sense of the word, it is perfect.

When you pull away from each other to gasp for air, you move your lips to his ear.

“Why can’t I open the champagne?”

He leans back to look you in the eyes. The colored led lights changing on his face make him somehow even more breathtaking. That same smile appears on his lips before he leans down toward you again.

“I don’t want to finish it,” He yells over the bass of the speaker. “I want you to be stuck with me for as long as possible.”

Without a second thought, you pull your hands together to take the bottle from Fred’s free hand to pop the cork off the top before he can stop you. You bring the freshly opened champagne to your lips and take a swig before offering it over to him. His brows furrow in confusion, wondering if maybe you do want to be unchained from him.

“Freddie, if you think it’s going to take an empty bottle to get rid of me you’re wrong,” You try to shout, even in all the noise he hears you and his chest tightens. “Cuffed or not, I don’t want to be anywhere else.”

He doesn’t reply, he simply takes the bottle from your hand and begins to chugs the fizzy drink, spilling over his face slightly. Watching him fumble over the liquid you know isn’t easy to take in large amounts, you can’t help but laugh at the sight in front of you. The words of Kid Cudi’s Pursuit of Happiness flood yours ears and you pull yourself right back against Fred’s body. He pulls the bottle from his mouth and hands it back to you before bringing his hand to your cheek to meet your lips once again. You’re sure you’re perfectly done hair and makeup is a wreck by now but your mind is continuously pulled back to the impossible reality that you’re kissing Fred Weasley. Of all the girls in the party, on this campus that flock to his side any chance they get, you’re the one that Fred Weasley suddenly became nervous around. The one he spent days wracking his brain to craft the perfect image of himself to.

His hand entangles in your more than likely sweaty hair, keeping you held exactly in place against his body as his hips sway against yours. His lips move from yours to your jaw, placing quick and light kisses across the skin. Something that would under any circumstance feel sexually driven feels lighthearted, pulling numerous giggles from your lips. His hand wanders down to your side and in a swift motion begins to tickle you through you dress. You laugh only become louder as you try to keep from doubling over.

“Fred!” You squeal through the stream of giggles. “Freddie stop!”

When you begin to snort, Fred loses it. He can no longer contain his stoic face he had on when he began to tease you. You’re eventually pulled from the party, Freds hand clasping yours as he discards the empty bottle in some corner of the penthouse and brings you to be unchained from him by the pledges standing by the entrance. Even with the cuffs off your wrists, you’re still chained to him as if you’re forced to be. 

Before you can leave the apartment, Fred’s jacket is shrugged from his shoulders and placed around yours. You pull yours arms through the sleeves that are obviously too long for you. “What a gentleman.”

“Can’t have you catching a cold,” He replies, holding you by your waist as you walk back to the beta house. You’ve never seen it so empty or quiet, no one around with the exception of a few boys studying in their lounge. You return to the bedroom you were in only hours ago, it’s a mess from the pregame but you’re able to make out Fred’s bed from his brothers. Massive movie posters and stolen items from various sororities hanging on the walls around his bed, the Good Will Hunting poster above the bed with the blue comforter being a dead giveaway that it belonged to Fred. He told you it was his favorite one night.

“You don’t have to, but you’re welcome to crash here,” He asks, beginning unbutton his now stained dress shirt, revealing his toned abdomen. It’s a sight you don’t think you’ll ever quite get used to. You stop yourself from nearly drooling and shake yourself back to reality. “You can borrow some clothes, probably be pretty big on you but they’d be better than that dress.”

He already has a tee shirt and boxers held out for you. He’s secretly hoping you’re too tired to walk back to your own house so he can spend a little while longer with you. Taking the clothing from his hands, you begin to slip the straps of your dress down, signalling Fred to immediately turn around to give you some privacy. You mouth a quick oh my god to yourself before continuing the change into the boy’s clothing.

“You can turn around,” You tell him and his eyes meet yours once again. He gives you a quick once over before his lips break out in a smile. “What? What are you so smiley over?”

“I like you in my clothes.”

Immediately your heart begins to hammer in your chest as your cheeks begin to heat up. Exhaustion washes over you, the lack of sleep you got in the past week due to your constant overthinking finally catch up to you. After switching off the lights, he pulls back him dark comforter to let you slip into the warmth of his bed. As soon as your settled you turn on your side to face him. You’re both quiet, wordlessly taking in the sight of each other.

“I like you, y/n. A lot,” He finally breaks the silence. You can’t help but wonder if he’s drunker than he’s let on. He’s not, he knows exactly what he’s saying and means every word. “I don’t think I’ve ever felt this way about anyone before.”

You reach over to trace your finger up his defined cheek bones before resting your palm on the side of his face. His arm is lazily slung over your waist, absentmindedly keeping you close to him. You lean in further, pressing a soft kiss to his lips.

“I like you, Freddie, more than you know,” You confess. Your heart has never felt more full, you’re sure this whole month has been a dream and every second you’re terrified to wake up without even knowing Fred Weasley like you do now. “Thank you for taking me tonight.”

He softly chuckles, his hand moving up your body to stroke through your hair. Even in the dark you can see his bright smile, you’re new favorite sight. “I should be the one thanking you,” He tells you. “You have no idea how nervous I was that you wouldn’t come.”

You continue to shift closer to him, trying to expel the practically nonexistent space between the two of you. You nestle your face into the crook of his neck, finding his steady pulse quite calming. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Freddie.”

“I like it when you call me Freddie.”

You hum a response, suddenly becoming too tired to even speak. The warmth of his body radiating against yours mixed with the rhythm of his heartbeat lull you further into a deep sleep. His arms return to being wrapped around your waist, drinking in this moment and silently praying in would last forever. He presses a soft kiss to the top of your head before whispering, “Goodnight, y/n.”

Hours later George, Lee and Oliver stumble into the room, all with slices of pizza from the late night shop down the street and are met with the sight of you and Fred tangled in the sheets, light snores coming from the red haired boy. They wish they could find something about the moment that they would tease him about later, but they come up short. The image laid out in front of them looks like it was taken straight from a movie.

Needless to say your constant thoughts of the beta boy are soon replaced by his presence anywhere and everywhere you go. You aren’t sure of many things in life, but you’re certain that he was made for you and you for him.

tags:

@justmesadgirl @greyspilot @sunflowerdarlingx

[waywardsons-imagines]

I’m Not Okay

Author - Admin Aingeal

Characters - Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Y/N

Pairing - None

Summary/Request - When Y/N runs off on yet another suicide mission, the brothers find her having taken down an entire nest of vampires. They are determined to figure out what has been driving her, before it’s too late.

Word Count - 1,960

Warnings - Angst, Descriptions of Depression, Mentions of Blood (from killing vampires) (If you spot any other warnings I should add, please let me know so I can edit this post to include them!)

A/N - Based on the song “I’m Not Okay” by Citizen Soldier

Story -

The rain was pouring. With everything I had been dealing with inside, it was as if the sky decided to cry with me and just let it all out at once.

I stood there in the parking lot with my arms out as if I was trying to catch the water with my bare hands.

Machete in one hand - blood dripping onto the pavement from my fingers & the large blade, more still running down my shirt and finding its way to the ground around me, mixing with the water to form unique artwork around me.

Tonight - the monsters that inhabit my brain are screaming so damn loud. I can’t ignore them any longer. The walls I built up so that I would never have to hear their voices couldn’t go any higher.

I hear the rumble of an engine in the distance. They are approaching quickly, sure, but will they make it in time?

The person that they see, day in and day out, is nothing more than a mask. A facade. A blatant lie.

But it’s also the only way to cope that I’ve ever known.

Being the real me - broken, scared, desperate for something I can never obtain - has only ever resulted in being more and more alone in this world.

I hear the purr of the engine a short distance behind me - the doors slamming shut in their hurry, and their booming voices carrying through over the din of the downpour.

“Y/N! What the hell were you thinking?!”

Their footsteps cause distinct splashes as they make their way to where I stand. I find the sound amusing for as morbid a moment this has become.

“Dean, chill,” Sam interjected, seemingly noticing my exasperation of their presence. “She’s fine; that’s the important thing.”

I am far more thankful for the water falling from the sky than I ever have been before. It is hiding the falling tears and making it that much easier to replace the mask I need for the interaction ahead.

“Sorry guys,” I keep my tone stoic and passively positive as always as I turn to face them. “I got a lead, and I took my chance before they could move again.”

“Sorry?” Dean bit out. “All you can say is ‘sorry guys’? We were worried sick, Y/N!” His voice was rough as always.

“Dean!”

“No, Sam! Not this time!” His hand was out, waving to dismiss his brother. “What the fuck is going on with you, Y/N!? Sneaking off, not telling a damn one of us where the hell you’re going off to. Taking on demons, werewolves, even a fucking wendigo - ALONE.”

I felt unattached from my body. As if watching overhead at the scene playing out below me. With a stoic blink, I heard myself respond, “I don’t see what the big deal is. I came out of each one alive and well.”

I sidestep the brothers and start the sadly short journey to my car on the other side of the vast open lot.

“Look, Y/N,” Sam said softly. I could just hear the resignation. “We’re just worried. Taking on those creatures is dangerous; let alone doing it without backup. And now you’re here taking out an entire nest of vampires?”

He tried to stay strong - not the ever tough soldier his brother was, but the solid rock we all came to expect. I could hear his voice break, though, despite his best efforts.

I turn back and lock eyes with each of them again, all while still taking steps back toward the vehicles. I could feel how dead my stare was; I could feel how painfully emotionless my face rested.

‘I’m not okay - can’t you see that?’ I want to shout at them.

I have so much to say, but no one to hear it.

Despite how much is at stake, keeping quiet not burdening the brothers - or their angel - with the battle inside myself.

I feel the emotions clash - the want and the need to tell them everything, right here and right now - the futility of it, seeping in and convincing me they don’t care.

So, I let the monsters win, silencing me once again. Lying to myself, they’d never understand why it’s so hard to say that I’m not okay.

“I’m fine, Sam. Really.”

“Then what is your excuse?” Dean cut in. “What is your reason for going out on these suicide missions? I mean, come on Y/N, let’s face it - you’re either hell-bent on destruction, or you’re just being stupid. And we both know you are smarter than Sam and I put together. So what’s the deal? What’s next? Trying to take on HellHounds?!”

I blinked heavily.

I wish I had an answer. I wish I had a scar, a bruise, something to show the proof of the battles I face, day in and day out. Something to show for the invisible abuse - faced with the choice to either be judged or hideaway in secret as I inevitably choose to do.

I let out a soft but long sigh. “I have no answer for you. Not one you’d accept anyway.”

Words may be my only option. The only visible symptom to show for the battle that wages is the sheer desire to end the torment that is my life.

I look at the two of them for a moment before finally breaking away to turn back - back to my car, back to my escape, back to a place where they can’t see the battle playing out in my mind. I can only hide so much. The tears were beginning to fall once again.

I hear the steps approaching. Their long strides make it easy work to catch up to where I am. Feeling a hand grip my upper arm and spin me around quickly - my face must have physically shown how distraught and angry I am. Unable to hide my emotions as I usually would - my gaze clashed with the glaring green eyes of Dean’s boring into me.

The reason I say my face must’ve revealed more than I wanted is because, after a long but instant moment, I saw his face drop.

In all the years we’ve been fighting together, he has never seen this side of me, and for a good reason.

“Y/N? Wh-” he releases his grip on my arm, running his hand down his face, contemplating. “What is it?”

“It’s nothing, Dean,” I say, schooling my features. “Forget it.” Quickly I ground myself, now trying to turn my features to stone - removing any trace of the ever hidden emotions that were trying to pour out.

“Bullshit.” His voice stopped me dead in my tracks. “Talk to me,” he said and shared a silent look to his brother, almost as if to confirm he didn’t imagine things, “Talk to us.”

“What’s going on, Y/N?” Sam joined. “You know you don’t have to hide things from us.”

“I’m fine. Just -”

“No. You’re not, okay,” Sam interjected, joining Dean in speaking firmly. “Something is wrong; tell us.” Sam was quiet for a moment before adding, “Please.”

I felt guilty as I noticed his voice break.

Staring at the brothers, I felt a mixture of emotions — contempt, love, bitterness, relief.

“Fine,” I bit out.

Perhaps knowing it was a losing battle, I caved for the first time in my life. “I’m not okay. You’re right. But I don’t have the words to explain the hell that goes on within my mind on a daily basis.”

“Try.” Dean retorted instantly, seamlessly - I hadn’t even finished speaking. I knew he was trying to offer comfort, in his ‘unattached,’ ‘too cool for attachment’ way.

“Humor us,” he added after a beat of me not responding.

I looked at him with a pinched look, shaking my head. I could feel every emotion ripping through me like a storm.

“I am in a constant state of being numb, Dean,” I finally said. “Numb to emotions, numb to life itself. Most people survive because they can see that light at the end of the tunnel - but for me?” I shake my head. “There is no light. It’s all just a dark cage without a key, just suffocating darkness and weight, with demons screaming at me. I don’t control my thoughts anymore; they control me.”

Sam shook his head now. “Y/N, why didn’t you say something? We can help you get through whatever this is.” Sam tried taking my hand, trying to offer some sort of comfort.

“It’s not a phase, Sam.” I pull my hand free abruptly, ignoring the pain in my chest from seeing Sam’s hurt expression. “It’s who I am, all I ever have been. I’m never going to be safe, always inching closer to that final breaking point.”

Dean seemed exasperated. “That’s fine,” he said. “If you break, that’s okay. Just don’t hide, and don’t go running off.”

Dean wrapped his arms around me with a strength I couldn’t gently pull away from, pulling me in close but still speaking loud enough that Sam could hear, “We’ll help you pick up the pieces. We’re a family, like it or not, punk. As a member of this family, you’re not allowed to quit.”

My brow furrowed the moment he called me family.

Dean, holding me at arm's length, graced me with a small, awkward smile. “Look, this may be a battle you feel you have to face solo, and so be it,” he motioned with one of his hands as if dismissing the thought, “but don’t quit on us. Sam and I, we’re here, always. Even if you just need to sit in silence with someone, so you aren’t alone. We get it; we’ve all been through a lot.”

I couldn’t stop staring at him, conflicted and upset - his grip on my arms felt heavy. Itchy and uncomfortable, as the only place I wanted to be right now was in my car. The rain had long since stopped or lightened - I couldn’t tell - but I just wanted to start the engine — bake in the heater. Drive.

After a long awkward beat of silence, Dean rolled his eyes lightly in slight awkward annoyance. “This is the part where you say: ‘back atcha! We’re a team!’ Y/N.”

I took light offense to how he mocked my voice, but it didn’t matter.

With a light, honestly fake feeling laugh, I removed his arms from mine.

“You don’t entirely get it, Dean.”

Dean scoffed lightly. “What, are you saying we don’t have hard times too? I can guarantee we—“

In an outburst I couldn’t control, I snapped. “Stop! Okay?? I’m not dismissing that you two have had a shitty life! I’m saying you don’t hear what goes on in my head, Dean.”

Sam, raising a placating hand, tried to calm me. “Please, Y/N, we may not understand what exactly is going on, but we understand your reactions to it.”

I just stood still, breathing hard - trying so hard not to cry.

Sam took this as a sign to continue. “Y/N, we care for you. And honestly, we don’t think anyone should be alone with thoughts like that.”

I felt my face melt like paper catching on fire - every emotion displayed as I felt my chin tense, and my lips quiver as I burst into tears.

The brothers’ embrace was welcome, however wet.

The emotions were not as welcome, but it was unstoppable.

Dean was closest to my ear as I sobbed, and I heard him softly say, “You’re not okay, but you will be. We’re with you every step of the way.”

A part of me hated him saying that, but I couldn’t ignore the relief I felt.

Maybe I would be okay.

[consumedkings-archive]

WITCHING HOUR, a john seed/deputy fic.

chapter eight: the living sea of waking dreams

word count: 10k

rating: m for now, rating will change in later chapters as things develop, tags will be updated accordingly.

warnings: emotional manipulation/some weird humiliation tactics (joseph is a fucker), some weird/uncomfortable relationships getting dredged up, john is a jealous little shit. some spooky scaries go on, blood and body horror (i think? tagging just to be safe).

notes: we've got some ~things~ going on here in this next chapter. i feel really excited about where this story is going and how we're going to get all these little threads put together, but mostly, i hope you enjoyed this chapter! we've got a lot going on but i promise, it will all (hopefully) be worth it in the end. and also, a tiny reprieve: some soft elliot, as a treat, because we deserve it.

thank you to everyone reading and giving me your feedback!! i love hearing from yall <3 special thanks to @shallow-gravy​ and @vasiktomis​​ for listening to me slog through this chap : ))))

“Knock-knock!”

Isolde took in a deep breath, closing her eyes and willing patience to the forefront of her mind. It had only been an hour or so since she’d left the chapel, Joseph’s words ringing in her head, a death knell.

Not after the things I’ve done for you.

Even still, even now—he knew how to get under her skin. She thought she’d never wanted to kiss and throttle someone in equal amounts, in the entirety that she had known them; to think that once, she had let Joseph take her in an embrace, sweep the hair from her shoulder and bury his face in her neck and whisper sweet things into her skin.

He wasn’t the same, anymore. And neither was she.

“Come in, Santiago,” said Arden, from where she had set up her little space across the cabin’s modest room. The heater on the floor rattled laboriously, clicking and chugging away. Isolde swept her eyes over Arden’s space—a small makeshift bed on the couch, the table stacked with a few books and a notepad she was scribbling dutifully on. Isolde had politely offered her the bed, even though she didn’t want to, and the woman had waved her off and said it was no trouble at all, that she often fell asleep on the couch at home anyway.

It was still weird, thinking that someone was—with Jacob. For a long time. But, she supposed if there was any Seed boy she thought would be in a long-term relationship, then—

The door to the cabin swept open, revealing the dark-haired boy from before. Well, perhaps not boy, but young man. Certainly too young and good-looking to be wasting his time with the likes of Eden’s Gate, wasn’t he?

“You don’t have to babysit me anymore, do you?” Arden asked, not once looking up from her writing.

“No, no. Unfortunately, our time together has drawn to a close.” Santiago lifted his arms, spread in defeat. His eyes, a vibrant blue, turned to Isolde. “I am actually here for you.”

“Me?” Isolde’s eyes narrowed. “For what?”

“Joseph has asked me to fetch you.”

“And you’re a good boy, so you do whatever he says,” she replied tartly.

Santiago flashed a grin that was all teeth-pearly, perfectly bleached teeth. He was far more groomed than any of the others she’d seen trawling about the compound. “I am nothing if not loyal, princesa.”

Isolde sighed, passing a hand over her face as a headache began to fester and bloom behind her eyelids. She thought she might have been more willing to kick up a fuss if she thought it was worth the drama—but it probably wasn’t. As much as she didn’t want to admit it, Joseph was right; she couldn’t be of any help to them if she was being contrary just for the sake of her own spite. Even if she didn’t know where Joseph got off summoning her like she was part of the peasantry.

“Coming,” she sighed, picking her coat up off the bed and sliding it back on over her shoulders.

“A sweet word, coming from even sweet lips.”

“Alright, Romeo.”

She trudged out after Santiago in the snow, casting a quick glance around the compound. Though evening had fallen, the fluorescents surrounding lining the edges of the compound cast a cold, brutal light across it, highlighting every single pore of the place, every ragged inhabitant shuffling into their bunkhouse as watch switched and folks went to retire for the evening. Some of the roofs sagged with the weight of the snowfall, which trundled on without any kind of end in sight. Isolde couldn’t remember when she’d seen real, unadulterated sunshine last. In Georgia? Had it been that long?

None of it was anything like what John had told her. Of course, she had expected some differences—the man liked to embellish, to be sure—but the members of Eden’s Gate seemed to have lost their fire. They were wayward, adrift at sea, among waves of freezing cold water and what now seemed to be a resurgent threat that they had hoped to be rid of.

And Joseph, having comforted them so very little.

“Icy,” Santiago warned, offering her his hand as he opened the door inside with his other one. “Careful.”

“Thanks,” she muttered dryly. She took his hand anyway, pulling herself into the sputtering warmth of the chapel where—at the front—the silhouettes of Jacob and Joseph stood.

The two of them were suffused in a warm amber glow, but there was nothing warm about the mood in the room; the closer she got, she could hear Jacob’s insistent words—the firm, assertive gestures of his hands, the words, just didn’t feel like it was pertinent at the time, coming out of his mouth—the more she thought, I shouldn’t be here for this. Whatever they’re arguing about, whatever it is that’s gotten them to this point, I’m not supposed to be here.

Joseph didn’t respond to whatever it was that his brother was saying, but instead turned to look at her as she approached down the center aisle of the chapel. Despite the rattling warmth coming from several heaters placed throughout the chapel, Isolde felt a chill sink deep into the marrow of her bones.

“Thank you for coming,” he said by way of greeting. He lifted one hand and beckoned her forward when her feet slowed.

“I just hope this is something I need to be here for,” Isolde ventured cautiously, her gaze flickering to Jacob’s face. The redhead’s expression was drawn tight and hard, and not the way it normally was; it wasn’t calm and focused, but strained, like he was holding himself back from saying something to Joseph that he thought he might regret later.

She had never known Jacob to bite his tongue very much, but from her own experience with Joseph, well—he was apt at bringing out the worst in people.

“Did you know?” Joseph asked when she had finally come to a stop. “About my brother’s...” He wet his lips for a moment, his gaze darting across the empty space of the floor as he looked for the word he wanted to say. And then he landed: “Pursuits?”

Isolde blinked. “If you mean the woman he says is his partner—”

“Yes,” the blonde interjected, before she could finish—a thing he knew that she hated but he seemed unable to refrain from doing. “I do.”

Sol’s eyes narrowed. When she turned her gaze from Jacob to Joseph, she was greeted with the typical unreadable expression; as untroubled as the blue sky over a sunny sea.

But there were storm clouds. Somewhere, in there, on a horizon Joseph would not let her reach now and perhaps had not ever.

“I only knew of her today,” Isolde replied after a moment. “After we saw our little hunter out in Fall’s End, I imagine he felt it pressing that he retrieve her sooner rather than later.”

Joseph made a low noise. It was like a hm, but threatening. Hm, he said, interesting, that. But what it was he felt was so interesting about that particular line of information, Isolde couldn’t only venture a guess; and if she had to venture a guess, she would have said that it would probably be that he felt it was interesting that something was going on that he had not been aware of.

If there was one thing that she knew about Joseph, affirmatively, it was that he did not like not knowing.

“Isolde, why are you here?”

A familiar spark of anger lit, hot and fetid, in her belly. “Pardon me?

“Why are you here? In this compound? In Hope County?” Even as he spoke, Joseph’s gaze was fixed on the eldest Seed, the lines of his face peaceful and serene despite the idle venom burning in the timbre of his voice. “What did John send you here for?”

The anger burned up into soot, into dread, and sat just there, curled at the base of her neck. Isolde could not shake the idea that she had been brought in here to make a point, and that she really shouldn’t be there—that this was something Joseph and Jacob needed to settle between themselves, but that was never how Joseph had operated: fair had never been a stratagem in his playbook.

“Isolde,” Jacob said, his voice a low caution when she looked at him, shaking his head very slightly. It’s not worth it, he was saying, fighting, it’s not worth it.

“Joseph, this,” she plunged on pointedly, “is not something that I need to be a part of. I’ll go, so the two of you can—”

But when she went to depart, Joseph lifted his hand and pointed at her and ground out between his teeth, “Stay. Put.”

The poison in his voice was so potent it almost made her flinch. Almost. And then the indignation started to bloom: who do you think you are, to be talking to me like that? But they wouldn’t come; the words wouldn’t come, because when she lifted her gaze to Joseph’s and saw him looking at her, it was—

“I want you to say it, out loud, in front of Jacob,” he continued, the muscle of his jaw flexing viciously. “Tell him why John needed you here.”

Jacob said, raising his voice a little, “We all know why—”

“Because you are useless unless you are aware of what’s happening. Every detail. Isn’t that right?” he prompted. “Isolde?”

She felt her molars grind. It was clear, now, why he had asked her here. “Yes.”

Joseph turned his gaze to Jacob. “Is that what you want us to be? Want me to be? Ill-informed?”

The redhead was silent for a long heartbeat. He sucked his teeth, and said, “No, Joseph, I don’t—”

“No. More. Secrets.”

The blonde’s voice had pitched so low that she nearly couldn’t hear him, so close and low and intimate was it that he was speaking to his brother, so little space between them. Joseph looked to be controlling himself quite tightly; so very little of the leash available to himself, digging the choke chain deeper and deeper into him in an effort to remain intact.

“Joseph,” Jacob began, “I only—”

“A whole year?” the blonde bit out viciously. “An entire year you spent devoting your time to this—this—”

Isolde was familiar with the precipice at which Joseph was teetering. Right on the edge of saying something vicious and mean and unendingly cruel. She had pushed him there a few times before, in their brief few months together—had seen the way he pulled himself back time and time again, seconds away from grinding out some wretched insult.

“I won’t,” Joseph bit out, lifting a hand as though to temper himself, “tolerate it, Jacob.”

Silence stretched between the three of them for a moment, pulled taut as a rubber band. Though she knew why Joseph had wanted her here—to make a point, but also to put someone there to witness the verbal lashing—looking at the two of them now, she felt more than ever like an intruder on a world she knew so very little about.

John had done nothing to prepare her. He had given her the rosy version of the story, and even that included the cult and the killing and the residents of Hope County. It still hadn’t been enough.

The silence broke when Jacob said, “I understand, Joseph.”

For a second, there was nothing; just Joseph, sweeping his gaze over Jacob for a long moment, like he was trying to wring out any deception or sign that Jacob was being disingenuous—and of course, he could find none, and that meant there was only the tense, uncomfortable silence wadded up between them, in their own fists.

Finally, Joseph said, “That will be all,” and turned, tilting his face to the lukewarm light of the candles at the front of the chapel and closing his eyes.

The eldest Seed lingered for only a moment longer before he left; his eyes met with Isolde’s for a heartbeat before he made his decision, turning down the center walkway and heading for the doors. It wasn’t until they clicked shut that Isolde felt a tiny bit of relief—if only because the source of Joseph’s ire had now departed, and she could get a better look at him.

It was her job to make sure things were under control. John had asked her here for that exact reason—and this kind of in-fighting would be the kind of thing that would, eventually, be their unraveling if they didn’t get it under control. She had only seen Joseph so angry once before, almost over a year ago now, back before he was the Father of Eden’s Gate. Back when they had been—

There are things that I want to accomplish, and they’re best done with a wife—

“Joseph,” Isolde said, leaving the memory somewhere else—somewhere dark and deep she would never find it again, “what’s going on?”

The blonde did not open his eyes when he replied, “I cannot have secrets kept from me.” After a moment, he added, “And in that vein of thought, I should get in touch with our wayward brother.”

“Do you really think it’s that big of a deal?” she prompted again. “To have started a fight with Jacob over a woman that he—”

“Even before a word is on my tongue, behold, O Lord, you know it altogether. You hem me in, behind and before, and lay your hand upon me.” His eyes fluttered open, the flicker of dark lashes illuminated by the amber glow, and he tilted his head to look at her. There was a hardness in his voice when he said, “God is perfect in knowledge, and I cannot be less. Not when He speaks directly to me.”

An unpleasant little thrill crawled down her spine when his eyes fixed on her, darting over her face like he wanted to savor her. “Then don’t use me as the whip you want to lash your brother with,” she snapped. “I’m not a humiliation tactic. You do know better than to do that to me.”

Joseph let out a little sigh. The corners of his mouth ticked upward, the shift in mood almost palpably changing the energy in the chapel—just like that, it was different. Not lighter, not better, but different.

“You’re right,” he agreed after a moment. “I do know you better than that.”

Isolde’s mouth pressed into a thin line. Deciding to forego that comment, she took a step forward, cinching her jacket in more securely around her waist. “You know what you cannot be, Joseph?” she asked. “You cannot be fighting with your brothers. Especially not the only one that’s here. Your people out there are disgruntled, and scared, and you can’t afford to be picking fights with the people who are the most loyal to you.”

“They are all,” Joseph replied, “loyal, Isolde." And then, after a moment of watching her: "Is this what you want to be doing? Herding us? Mothering us?”

“My professional opinion is that the image of your convent is severely lacking,” she bit out, once again ignoring the bait, “and the last thing you need to do is have them noticing that there’s a rift forming between the ones in charge. And yes—that is the only thing I can do for you lot at this point, and like an idiot, I agreed to come here and do it.”

Because I can’t say no to John, something tired inside of her said. Because I couldn’t say no to any of you, even if I wanted to.

The blonde reached up, and it took that gesture for Isolde to realize how closely they had drifted—it was so little effort, so little time between the movement of his hand and the time at which his fingers made contact with her cheek, brushing the hair away from her face and tucking it behind her ear. He moved so confidently and leisurely that Sol couldn’t think to pull back; and when she didn’t, the calloused fingertips trailed down the pillar of her throat, his eyes following their journey.

It was intimate; too soon her brain said, even though it had been so long since they had been in the same room, let alone regarded each other in even a passive capacity. But it was too soon enough that her brain fizzed out, the air moving thick as molasses in the journey between her mouth and lungs, the violent flashback of their closeness overwhelming her.

She said, “Joseph,” in a don’t kind of voice, and he dropped his hand from where it had come to a stop at the juncture between her neck and shoulder.

“It was smart of John, to ask you to come and shepherd us in his absence,” Joseph said, blithely ignoring the desperate little barb in the way Isolde said his name.

“I always thought you’d make a perfect Mother.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

It had been several days since their conversation in the hallway that night, and John had barely seen hide nor hair of Elliot.

Honestly, it would have been impressive how quickly she could make herself inaccessible, were it not so frustrating. He couldn’t help but wonder what the implications there were—had she known she could do this all along, and had been indulging in him for some reason? Had she simply decided to be done and that was it, meaning that she hadn’t been done before?

Not that she was done now, anyway. Not if John had anything to say about that. But for a few days, she barely spared him a glance—passed him in the hallway when she got home with a muttered greeting on occasion. She woke before him, left to the stables without him, and left him alone in the house. Left him alone without her venom, without her eyes on him. With her mother, no less.

Scarlet was, on paper, exactly the kind of woman that John felt confident in his ability to charm. Single, wealthy by inheritance, a little older and always with a martini in hand by ten? If he couldn’t impress her, he had to be doing something wrong. But in a way that seemed to be very typical of the Honeysett women, Scarlet remained veritably unimpressed and even disdainful of his presence—even though she had insisted he stay with them.

More and more, he was becoming convinced that it was not going to be to his benefit.

“Good morning, Mr. Seed,” Scarlet greeted him from where she sat at the table, perusing her magazine. Not once did her eyes lift to meet his, and not once did an ounce of enthusiasm enter her voice. “You are missing from the stables again today, I see. Not a horse person?”

“I might find myself to be one,” John replied with a leisurely sort of bitterness, “if Elliot would only allow me to come.”

“Yes, it’s very annoying, isn’t it?” The blonde mused idly, over her cup of coffee. “To not be handed exactly what you want when you want it?”

He sucked in a sharp breath, pouring himself a cup of coffee and trying to remind himself that this was all temporary. This house, this town, Scarlet and Sylvia and Wyatt—it was all temporary, and soon enough they would be the least of his concerns. All of his time and attention would be wrapped up in Elliot and the baby, and what their lives would look like once the end had come.

Because it would come, and then she would see. She would understand that everything he’d done had been for them, for her and their baby and—

“I only want to spend as much time with her as I can,” he replied, managing to keep his tone pleasant. “Before I go back home.”

“And when are you?” Scarlet idled. “Going, I mean?” And then, in what he could only think was a stretch of graciousness: “Not that you’ve overstayed, because I am sure you would never, and Delia is quite taken with you—”

“Surely.”

“—as is Elliot, despite her best efforts to act otherwise.”

“What?” John’s head snapped to where Scarlet was still browsing her magazine, and he cleared his throat at her arched brow to try and gather his scrambled thoughts. “What I mean is, has she—said anything to you about me?”

The blonde at the table, swathed in her silk robe and curls primly pinned back away from her face, made a sound that might have been amused. Might have been, anyway, had he not turned to look at her and seen the way her face remained serene and unexpressive.

“I am not blind, Mr. Seed,” Scarlet idled. “It takes very little investigation to find that my daughter is fond of you, against my wishes and her own.”

Before John could open his mouth to respond—and press for more information while his stomach did victorious little somersaults—she turned her head to the window, when the sound of a vehicle rolling up the drive spurred Boomer on to barking in the front room.

“Oh, would you look at that,” she murmured with a little sigh. “My prodigal child, returned home at last.”

He glanced out the window to see an unfamiliar car pulling up, a black truck that took the fresh snow of the unplowed drive to the Graves-Honeysett home with ease; from the driver’s side hopped a familiar face.

“Didn’t Elliot drive there this morning?” he asked, frowning as he watched Wyatt jog around to the passenger side despite Elliot’s waving from the front for him to stop. The man had been nothing but polite—even enthused—to meet him at the bar the other night, but that didn’t mean John had forgotten the way he’d gotten comfy enough to try and touch Elliot’s face and her hair. Even now, the man grinned, all sunshine, as he opened the passenger side door for her and offered her his hand.

Scarlet replied, her attention already having departed the window, “What a silly question to ask out loud, Mr. Seed. You're not stupid, so I would beg you—try not to give me that impression.”

His eyes darted to Scarlet for a moment, briefly grateful that she wasn’t looking at him to see the spark of irritation winding its way across his face; he could feel it furrowing his brows, drawing his mouth into a hard, tight line. Setting his coffee cup on the counter, John made his way out the front door just as Wyatt and Ell were nearly there.

“Oh, hey John!” Wyatt greeted him. His eyes swept over him briefly. “Boy, you’re really put together any chance you get, huh?”

“You can never be overdressed,” John replied as amicably as he could. “Watch the steps, Ell, they’re—”

“Icy, I know,” Elliot said. She puffed out a little breath of air and brushed his offered hand aside, instead favoring the railing with one hand and the top of Boomer’s head with the other, still refusing him the courtesy of meeting his eyes. It had been days. She had never once held such a grudge against him—not really, not where he couldn’t at least get her to give him the time of day.

“Where’s the Jeep?” he asked, his voice coming out a bit tighter than he would have liked as she brushed past him. “Surely you didn’t have Wyatt ferry you out here for fun.”

“Tire’s flat,” she snipped. “Would you prefer I walked?”

“You could have called.” He took in a sharp little breath, willing the accusation away. “I would have been more than happy to pick you up, Ell.”

“Don’t have a cell phone,” Elliot replied flatly. “And Wyatt was already there.”

“It wasn’t any trouble,” Wyatt interjected hurriedly, smiling at John with pearly whites on display. “I had to come into town anyway, and it was gonna be hours before the mechanic could get out there.”

“Well, it was very kind of you all the same,” John said with a smile that felt like it pulled too tight across his face, a smile that was harder and harder to maintain with every passing second that Wyatt West put his baby-blues on Elliot. And that was often; the blonde looked a little sheepish when his gaze met John’s, drawn away from the redhead who was readily retreating into the house.

“Like I said, wasn’t any trouble. Always happy to help,” the blonde insisted, hands tucked into his jacket pockets.

“Yes,” John replied pleasantly, “I can see that.”

Wyatt blinked, flushing. “Anyway, uh...Have a nice day, John. And you too, Freckles!”

He waved before turning on his heel and heading back to the truck. As soon as the driver’s door closed and he was starting to pull away, John turned to see Elliot watching him, her eyes narrowed.

“‘I can see that’?” She scoffed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, are we talking now?” His brows lifted, head tilting. “So kind of you, to grace me with eye contact when you’ve been storming around the last few days—”

“Don’t be a fucking baby,” Elliot snapped. “My life does not revolve around you. Especially when I can’t seem to figure out why the fuck you drove all the way here just to sulk around.”

“Perhaps it should at least be in my orbit,” John replied tersely, “considering that we are having a child together.”

“You—”

Elliot sucked in a sharp breath, clamping her mouth shut as she looked at him. There was a very brief moment where she looked like she wanted to say something, and very badly, but instead, the corner of her mouth ticked upward and she turned on her heel to walk inside without saying a word.

“It’s a cute nickname,” John continued tartly as he trailed after her. Don't walk away from me, don't, you owe me at least your attention. “Freckles. Do you prefer that one over Miss Honey?”

She closed the door behind her, promptly and without hesitation, letting it rattle in the door frame and in his face. He sucked in a sharp breath, passing a hand exhaustedly over his face.

Impudent. Surly. Ferociously, viciously, wretchedly stubborn. He knew this about her—had known this about her—and yet at every opportunity, she proved his idea of her correct, and he found himself getting more and more frustrated. It wasn’t fair, that even those moments of her attention still felt good, that the sting of her venom held some satisfaction for him, like he was addicted to it.

If she would just, came the thought, rolling over and over. If she would, if she would just, if she would just—

But just what? Just stop being that way? Would he have even liked her if she were not this purposefully obstinate problem to solve?

“No,” he sighed to himself, raking his fingers through his hair. “No, I wouldn’t.”

The reward would just have to be all that much sweeter in the end.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Three hours later, Elliot had forced herself to come to a decision.

She waffled on it for a while—going back and forth as she showered, scrubbing her hair and trying to let the hot water ease some of the growing aches and pains—and did her best to ignore the way something a little wicked chattered happily inside of her at the knowledge that John’s eyes had been sparking with jealousy. It felt immature, to like watching him squirm; more apparent than ever, too, was that old habits died hard.

There was a sick kind of satisfaction that came with finding John’s buttons and pushing them. It had felt the same way, back in Hope County—when he’d been burning with irritation and jealousy that Joseph had gotten her confession, not him, that she wouldn’t tell him what it was, pushing and pushing and jamming her finger into that button until he finally snapped and—

Kissed her.

That’s not what I’m trying to do, she thought, a little defiantly as she looked at herself in the mirror of the bathroom; tracing the WRATH scar, looking down to realize that there was, in fact, a baby bump. Oh, God, wasn’t that something fucking dreadful? Too real, but even still she’d known it was coming—worn looser, heavier clothes. She’d tried so hard not to look at herself in mirrors as of late that doing so now made her feel like she was looking at a stranger.

I’m not trying to get him to kiss me—the opposite, actually, I’m just trying to get him to fucking lay off for a minute—

And yet, as she found herself standing outside of the door to John’s room, her chest felt a little tight and her heart was doing that funny thing it liked to do when he was around; fluttering, leaping against her ribs, begging for attention. Elliot could have argued that it was just muscle memory at this point, that she had spent enough time around John letting him touch her and kiss her and say sweet things into her neck that her body was only working off of its basest instincts, and that was why she was feeling this way.

Clearing her throat, Elliot knocked on the door and said, “John?”

There was the sound of shuffling on the other side, and then his voice drifting to her: “Yes, Elliot?”

“It’s time for my appointment,” she managed out lamely. It felt even more stupid, saying it now, after she’d made such a big show of marching off after he’d committed to his display of jealousy. “Since the Jeep’s still waiting to get the tire fixed, do you think you could—”

The door swung open; John’s eyes flickered over her for a moment, his head tilting just before his mouth curved into a pleasant little smile that was two parts triumph and one part spite.

“What’s this?” he asked. “You need my help with something?”

Her mouth pressed into a thin line. “Don’t be an asshole, John.”

“I would never.” He propped himself up against the doorframe, folding his arms. “Wyatt’s taxi services currently unavailable?”

Already, she was regretting her decision—it had felt important, to have him along, but now she thought maybe she had been too forgiving for having forgiven anything at all.

“The appointment might be the one we figure out the baby’s gender, fuckface,” she snapped, “and since Wyatt’s not the baby’s father, I figured maybe you’d want to come in for this appointment, because it wouldn't feel right not to at least ask if you wanted to. Don’t worry though, I wouldn’t dream of inconveniencing you.”

“Wait!” The exclamation stopped her mid-turn from his door, the feeling of his fingers brushing the palm of her hand making her jerk out of his reach instinctively. John exhaled through his nose, and when she looked him with narrowed eyes and her arms crossed, he said, “I do want to—I want to come.”

“You sure aren’t acting like it.”

“I—Ell, I haven’t heard the baby’s heartbeat a single time,” he insisted, a little frantic. “I’ve respected that you didn’t want me there the last time, and you know, when I wasn’t here before is another thing, but finding out the gender and getting to hear the heartbeat—” He stopped, sighing. “I’m...”

Though there was a bit of pain stinging in the cavity of her chest at his earnesty, Elliot steeled herself, keeping her expression tight. “You’re what, John?” she prompted. She half-expected another blow-up; I’m the baby’s father, that baby is mine, I deserve this, it’s mine.

But instead, John’s mouth twisted and he said, “I’m—sorry.”

Elliot blinked. Had she ever heard John apologize? For anything, ever? And sincerely? She couldn’t recall a day or time in memory—and though her memory was spotty at best these days, she thought for certain that was something she would have remembered. Even when they’d been going to bury Joey, she wouldn’t let him get the words out.

“Uh,” she said very intelligently, “what?”

“I’m sorry,” John repeated, appearing a little frustrated at having to repeat himself. He shifted on his feet. “I want to come to the appointment. I mean—” And then, in what surely must have been pure agony: “Please let me come to the appointment.”

It felt so odd to hear the words coming out of his mouth that she could only blink rapidly and say, “Um, okay,” before turning and quickly heading down the hall and to the stairs. It had been her intention all along to ask John if he wanted to come to the appointment, to see the baby on the screen and find out the gender together—because despite his petty jealousy over someone he didn’t need to be concerned about in the least, and despite his insistence that he was the only person capable of loving her, she did see him making an effort instead of yanking her all the way to the other side. Even if it was a minute, tiny effort; it was an effort nonetheless.

“We’ll have to take your car,” Elliot said uneasily over her shoulder, pulling on her coat quickly. “And it’s soon, so—”

“Making haste,” John agreed from beside her. He reached over her shoulder to pull his own coat off of the rack. It wasn’t lost on her, then, that weeks ago he had gone to reach for her shoulder and she’d about jumped out of her skin; now, the smell of his cologne and his voice close to her ear was almost comforting, in an entirely self-indulgent way.

If she just broke it down to the piece of John she loved the most—his voice and the way the cologne smelled when it was on him, and the way it felt when his hands traced the scars on her hips, and the boyish grin he’d flash her—then maybe it could work. Then, maybe, things would have been fine.

But that’s not love, something inside of her said, as she made her way out the front door and to the car. John says he loves all the wretched things about you. Did you forget?

No. No, she had not forgotten the way John had kissed her when she had blood on her mouth, or the way he’d said, I would’ve fucked you there, or how it felt when he buried his face into her neck and said her name in a voice so broken she thought she might be holy.

“Too hot?” John asked, and she realized she was sitting in the car—that she had checked out halfway out the door—and they were now down at the end of the drive.

Elliot swallowed. Her face felt hot, and now it was not only because of her mind’s wanderings but also because she had been caught daydreaming.

“No,” she said, sinking back against the passenger seat. “No, it’s fine.”

He watched her for a moment before pulling out of the driveway and onto the street. She took a quick glance around the car; it was older, and sort of a beater. The kind of shitty Honda civic she’d see peeling out on the highway at 3AM because some idiot teenager thought she wouldn’t pull them over if the roads were empty. He’d probably lifted it on his way out of town to keep a low profile.

Her foot nudged something solid as she stretched out. Over the sound of the radio rattling and fuzzing tiredly, she heard a dull thunk. She squinted. It was a book. Unconditional Parenting.

“Jesus,” John muttered, “for a town this small, this traffic is a nightmare.”

“What?” Elliot asked, quickly averting her eyes from the book, feeling like she’d just rifled through someone’s personal drawer. “Oh, um—it’s a tourist town. People come here for the Christmas lights. They do like a whole lighting festival with that big tree in the square every night for weeks before Christmas.”

“And that’s why I can’t find parking.”

“That’s why you can’t find parking.”

He shot her a wry smile, taking a second loop around the square and a bit slower this time. Elliot turned her attention back out the window, but she couldn’t stop thinking about it—Unconditional Parenting. How long had he been reading baby books? Why was he so confident he’d get the chance to be a parent, anyway?

When he finally pulled into a parking spot, he let out a breath of relief. “How are we on time?”

Ell glanced at the car’s radio. “Ten minutes early,” she replied after a moment. “Right on time.”

“Great.” John paused. When neither of them moved to get out of the car, he cleared his throat and said, “So, what do you think?”

“About?” Elliot prompted. “The lighting festival?”

“What do you think baby is?” he clarified. Absently, he worried his thumbnail into the rubber of the steering wheel. “The lighting festival in a tourist town is the last thing on my mind right now.”

“Well, it should be on your mind,” she replied, a little petulant. “I think it’s nice, for the record. All of the vendors come in from out of town and even though the traffic’s a nightmare, it’s good business for the town and everyone’s always been respectful of it. Plus, the lights are nice.”

She paused, and when she looked at John, he was grinning at her. He seemed to be enjoying her firm defense of the lighting festival.

“And I think baby is a boy,” she added after a minute, pulling at a loose thread on her sweater. “Just my gut feeling.”

He seemed pleased by her answer, but if he actually was she couldn’t have said why; it was nearly impossible to read John sometimes, but especially in moments like this, in uncharted waters for them both. She lingered for a moment before she unbuckled and said quickly, “Anyway, we should probably go,” pulling herself out of the warmth of the car and into the chilly afternoon.

She wanted to go back to being angry. She wanted to go back to hating John, to being disgusted by him, to relishing in making him suffer, even just a little—but it was like her brain had reverted back to her neanderthal roots. Baby daddy reads parenting books, makes him a good father.

The sooner the moment was over and done with, the sooner she could go back to wallowing on the ways John had wronged her, instead of the ways he made her happy.

By the time they were back in the room, Elliot sitting on the end of the little bed and John in the chair under a pregnancy poster—Pregnant or thinking of getting pregnant? 3 things to discuss!—she had nearly steeled herself. If she just sat there, and replayed the last three months in her head, and reminded herself of all the reasons why she had left John behind in the first place, she would be just fine.

And then the door opened, and Dr. Harding stepped inside, and looked between Elliot and John with surprise.

“Hello, Elliot,” Harding greeted. “I see we’ve a guest today?”

“This is John,” Elliot said, trying not to sound too miserable given the riotous state of her brain. “This is the, uh—he's the father.”

John stood quickly, holding out his hand. “John Seed.”

“Nice to meet you. I’m Dr. Harding,” she said, reaching out and shaking his hand. “Excited? Elliot’s told you we might find out the gender today, yes?”

“Yes and yes,” John confirmed, sounding more and more like the kind of man she had fallen for and less like the egotistical psycho she’d turned in to the government. Right, the one that had lied, and coerced, and perhaps knowingly drugged her. She couldn’t afford to forget that bit.

As Elliot went through all of the normal questions—have you been eating well, yes, I see you haven’t lost weight, yeah, how is the sleep, it’s fine—she held on tight to that little thread of knowledge. John was here because she was letting him, not for any other reason, and it did feel good to know that this whole time he’d played by her rules. As much as he could have, anyway, showing up at her house unannounced.

She settled back against the propped back, grimacing as she shimmied the hem of her sweater up and Harding put a generous amount of gel on the swell of her stomach. Between doctor’s appointments, it was easy to pretend like maybe she wasn’t pregnant. The morning sickness had faded, her appetite had come back, she was getting fine enough sleep; if she didn’t look at herself in the mirror, if she ignored the pervading aches and pains, the roundness to her features then she could pretend like things were normal.

But then John pulled the chair over to the side of the bed, his fingers brushing hers, and nothing felt even remotely close to normal.

“Alright, let’s take a look at baby, shall we?” Harding said, settling in as she began to glide the instrument across Elliot’s stomach.

“Okay,” Elliot said, feeling uneasy. John’s eyes flickered to her, and while she chewed the inside of her cheek, her fingers curled around his—a thoughtless, absent-minded gesture, like she was a heat-seeking machine and the only heat that would do was his.

He didn’t say anything, but laced their fingers together just as Harding said, “Oh, there’s baby!”

The dull, steady heartbeat echoed. When she stole a glance in his direction, John’s eyes were transfixed on the screen as Harding went over where the features were, pointing them out on the screen to him.

“Your little one is about the size of a peach right now,” Harding was saying, “and let’s just see here...”

Oh, God, she thought, feeling her stomach roll. It was so real. Too real, to be laying there, after all of this time feeling so disconnected from her own body—like a vessel, but now with John’s fingers tangled with hers and the baby’s heartbeat and a fruit analogy regarding the size it felt too real. She could no longer act like it wasn’t happening.

“It looks like we’ve got a perfectly healthy baby boy,” were the words coming out of the doctor’s mouth when Elliot’s eyes drifted from John’s face. “It might be a bit early, but that's my educated inference. Congratulations, Elliot. And daddy too, of course.”

A boy. A boy. I’m having a boy.

A perfectly healthy baby boy.

The room felt a little like it was swimming, her throat tight and a steady burning behind her eyes and nose. She sat up a little and swallowed thickly. John had come to a stand too, to get a better look at the screen, but when she squirmed and moved he looked at her.

“Ell?” he asked, sounding very far away, or like he was talking to her underwater. His hand not interlocked with hers came up to her face, and she couldn’t find it in herself to pull away—not only because of the effort it would take, but because of the way it felt to have him right there when she thought she needed him the most. “What’s wrong? Hey, baby, are you—”

“I’m okay,” Elliot managed out, her voice thick and wobbly. “I’m f-fine, I just—um—”

I’m having a boy. Oh, God, it felt so fucking real, too fucking real, but in a good way—for once, her nerve-endings felt alive, and not with anxiety and dread but with happiness.

Sounding panicked, John tilted her face up and asked again, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” she said, a wet, raspy little laugh bubbling out of her, “nothing’s wrong, I’m just—I’m just really happy—”

It took his thumb sweeping wetness from her cheek for her to realize that she was crying. Some unshed emotion hiccuped in her chest, and she swallowed thickly, fingers wrapping around his wrist in what she understood too late was an effort to keep his hand there; skin to skin, pulse close to pulse.

I want a home with you, she’d said to him, that night, and he’d looked at her and said, You have it, Ell, I told you.

He’d said, I’m all yours.

He’d said, Take what you need from me.

Dr. Harding was saying something, speaking softly to John. It was another reminder that it had been idiotic not to let him come in the first place—there was something so inherently endearing about John mmhming and nodding along, listening raptly as the doctor went over what they would be expecting in between this appointment and the next while his thumb swept affectionately over her cheek. She was sure that she heard the reaffirmation that she needed to be getting good sleep, staying as relaxed and unstressed as possible, but she couldn’t think about that. Her brain was going on loop, on repeat.

I’m having a boy, she thought, a perfectly healthy baby boy. My baby.

When Harding patted John’s shoulder and said, “I’ll give you two a minute,” before exiting, she felt John’s fingers threading through the hair at the nape of her neck; in a gesture that was painfully intimate, his forehead pressed to hers.

“Holy shit,” he whispered. “I can’t believe that—”

“I know,” she said, sniffing. “I can’t either.”

“You were right.” He grinned, their noses brushing, giving her hand a squeeze. So close to a kiss; she felt her lashes fluttering, the warmth of his hand spreading along the slope of her neck. “We’re having a boy. My God.”

Yes. We are having a boy. A perfectly healthy baby boy. Without her permission, the thought populated, permeating her brain.

Our baby.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“Yes, I have him right here.”

Staci blinked. A quick intake of his surroundings reminded him that he was sitting in the cab of one of Eden’s Gates trucks—lifted from the F.A.N.G. Center. Footage of him with the cultists—the other cultists—would now be available. Footage of him walking past the corpses of Jacob’s gutted chosen would now be available.

Jacob is going to kill me, he thought, lifting his eyes from the back of the seat to look at Helmi. The woman was watching him as she spoke on the phone, with Dani sitting next to him on the backbench. Helmi had been on the phone with someone for quite a while; he’d stopped paying attention what felt like eons ago. If he just let his brain drift off, he wouldn’t think about the bodies. Fucking God, their bodies—

Jacob’s going to fucking kill me.

Helmi's hand moved. On instinct, Staci flinched, and she rolled her eyes.

“Say hello, doggy,” she said, shoving the phone against his ear. He fumbled with it for a minute before he swallowed thickly.

When he looked at Dani frantically, she frowned, her brows furrowing, and she whispered, “Don’t embarrass me, Staci.”

“Um, h...” His mouth was painfully dry. “Hello?”

“Hello. Is this Staci Pratt?”

The voice on the other end was painfully pleasant. She had the same kind of accent Dani did—Norwegian, maybe, or Swedish—but her voice was a bit deeper, a rich timbre to it.

“I am,” he replied uneasily. “I-I mean, yes. It is.”

Helmi had faced forward in the driver’s seat again and started pulling away from the F.A.N.G. Center, turning the heat down low. As the truck pulled out onto the snowy highway, she flicked the headlights off and slowed to something close to a crawl.

“S-Sorry, but—”

“You do not have to apologize to me, Staci.”

“I just don’t know—um, who you are,” he managed out. As soon as he said the words, Dani dug her elbow into his ribs; he barely stifled the yelp, looking at her as she mouthed something he couldn’t understand.

She hissed, “I told you, she is—”

“My name is Kajsa. Helmi, and your Dani, and many of our brothers and sisters are...” Her voice trailed off, and she made a thoughtful hum. Pratt tried to ignore the way she said your Dani made his heart jump in his throat. “They are my charges. It is my responsibility to take care of them.”

“Oh,” Pratt said. “So what...What do you want with me?”

“Helmi says that you have made a very good impression,” Kajsa replied sweetly. “You have important knowledge, and I want to make sure that you are safe, and taken care of. Just as I would any of the others.”

He fought back a grimace. The words sounded sweet and enticing, but he couldn’t shake the way Dani had looked at the gutted corpses on the screen and said delightedly, It will happen to us all. If we are lucky, Helmi will be the one who does it for us.

Pratt’s gaze darted up to the front. Helmi’s dark eyes fixed on his in the mirror, like she had been watching him all along.

“It is my understanding that the Seeds have not endeared you to their cause? That you know what your colleague did, that your friends have left?”

“No,” he replied quickly. “I mean—that’s right. Um, I was working for Jacob, but it was more like—”

“Do not trouble yourself with recounting. I believe you,” Kajsa interrupted. And then, gently: “It must have been horrible.”

His chest tightened. Oh, no, he thought, shaking his head and pressing the heel of his hand against his left eye. No, fuck no, don’t listen to her, Pratt, you fucking idiot.

“By now you must have some grasp of what is going on,” the woman continued, “but in case you do not, I will tell you. Are you listening, Staci Pratt?”

Pratt’s head pressed against the back of the seat. He didn’t want to; he didn’t want to listen to her sweetness, her sympathy, the way she clicked her tongue and the timbre of her voice warming him down to the marrow of his bones when he felt like he’d been freezing this whole time.

“Yes,” he whispered. “I’m listening.”

“We are well-armed. We are organized. We have a common enemy with you. And a common friend, too.” She paused, and he thought that he could hear a smile in her voice when she said, “I can tell that you want to live, my darling. That you don’t want me to have Helmi pull over and gut you open, leave you for the crows and the wolves and the woods to take you.”

Opening his mouth did nothing to inspire the words to come out of him. Nausea rolled violently in his stomach—but there was nothing left to puke up, even if he’d wanted to.

He did want to live, but not like this. Not terrified. Not. Like. This.

“I want you to live too,” Kajsa murmured on the other end.

“But you’re going to have to do something for me.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

When Elliot opened her eyes, it had gotten dark outside.

It took her a minute to collect her bearings, sitting up in a bed in a dark room. At her feet, Boomer huffed and sighed at the disturbance, and then she remembered; she was in her bed. Back at home. John had driven the both of them back to the house, and she’d said that she needed to lay down—and he’d let her, without protest or complaint. He hadn’t even tried to insinuate she could use a napping companion.

Pulling herself out of bed, she rubbed her eyes tiredly and glanced out the window. Everything felt a little foggy. How long had she been sleeping? Had she really been out until late into the night?

She reached absently to her bedside table, blindly fumbling for the lamp switch; after what felt like an eternity of not being able to find it, Elliot sighed and skimmed her hand over her face, looking out the window. The night outside was brighter than it had been in a while, with no clouds in the sky and the moon illuminating the snowy landscape in an unforgiving blue-white, stretching out far and far and far until it hit the treeline.

Something darted on the horizon. She blinked rapidly, taking a step closer to the window and pushing on the glass pane until it started to slide up, grinding laboriously. The longer she looked, the longer Elliot thought maybe she had just been zoning out—but then she saw it again; a flash of something, pale and long, like spider bone-white in color skittering up the dark wood of a tree in the distant treeline.

A glimpse of pale limbs. Tangled, dark hair—she couldn’t make out the color, it was too dark—but it looked wet, it looked matted, like someone had hurt it. Like someone had blown its skull open.

Something metal rattled. The trash can, she thought, her attention snapping to the front of the house. When the sound of metal crashed in the night, the motion-activated light in the front kicked on. A shadow stretched along the snow, cast long and deformed by the warping of the light.

“Hey!” Elliot shouted, but the shadow did not twitch or move in response; just the sounds of rustling, like whoever it was found themselves too preoccupied with digging through the trash can. Her heart was pounding violently in her chest; the terror that had been knotting in her stomach was doused by something hotter, redder, angrier.

Rage.

She pushed herself away from the window and out the door into the hallway. As her feet hit the stairs, there was almost no noise—just the rushing of her movements as she pushed the front door open and hurried down the front steps, turning the corner to where the garbage can sat.

“Hey, listen to me!” she snapped, propelled by the anger when she saw the figure hunched over the garbage can. “You can’t be in—”

The figure lifted its head. From the back, her eyes swept over what looked like fur, a tail, up and up to the back of a head that had two ears perched on it, until the figure’s head turned—

Fury disappeared. It was now only dread, only pure, cold dread and terror sitting in her, gutting her, washing her out as the dog with a man’s face turned and looked at her and smiled.

The square teeth, gapped and pearly, oozed with the same dark liquid as she had thought she’d seen before. In the yellow light from the porch, it glittered dark as garnets, dropping into the snow and spreading out crimson.

Move, she thought, I have to move, I have to fucking move, I have to go I have to run I have to—

“Hey!”

It was her voice. It was her voice, but it wasn’t coming out of her—it was thrown, echoing from somewhere in the trees, the dog with the man’s face spreading its mouth wider. Somehow, she knew deep in the marrow of her bones that It was making that sound.

“Hey? Listen to me?”

The pitch was all wrong. Elliot felt a moan bubbling up in her, and It turned on its hind legs, feet hanging loose around its ribcage, and faced her fully. She managed one step back before It tilted its head, as if to say, where are you going?

“Hey, listen to me!”

There was something else in its teeth. Something else, wiry and golden, and even when she willed herself a step back

(whereveryougowhereveryourun)

her body would not move; she was trapped, frozen, watching as It stepped closer

(ItwillwaitforyouItwaitsforusall)

she realized that it was hair, in It’s teeth

(ITWAITSFORYOUITWAITSFORUSALLITWILLHAVEYOU)

her hair.

A hand landed on her shoulder, and she screamed.

When she lurched and twisted around, she was not met with a familiar face. It was a woman, hair dark and bundled up in winter clothes, watching her with concern furrowing her brows as the headlights of her car made Elliot squint. She immediately jerked away.

“Are you alright?” the woman asked, her hand dropping back to her side. She was tall—she had to be at least six feet tall, and her face was sharp and angular, her eyes nearly black without any light to show their color.

“Where—” Glancing around wildly, Elliot forced a swallow. She was not in front of her house. She was not even close to the front of her house. She was all the way at the end of the drive, standing in the—

“—found you in the middle of the road,” the woman said, the lilt of her accent jarring Elliot back to reality. “I was on my way home when I nearly hit you. Are you quite well?”

Her gaze snapped back to the woman. The dog; where was the dog with the man’s face? Where had she—

Every nerve-ending felt fried, like they had become pure static; she felt like she was vibrating. She stared at the dark-haired woman with the strange, rich accent, wondering why it itched at her. Weyfield was small. Too small for her to not know about someone with an accent living there.

“Who are you?” she asked after a moment, nails digging into her palms. “You don’t live around here.”

A smile stretched across the woman’s face. She had pearly teeth, and the kind of full mouth that looked pretty, sculpted—but in the smile, Elliot only thought, broken glass, her smile looks like broken glass.

Vaguely, she was aware of John’s voice; he must have heard her scream, or seen her down the driveway, the headlights of the unfamiliar car illuminating her in the dead of night. And yet, she couldn’t shake the feeling. Paranoia spread along her spine, worming into her lungs, a most effective parasite.

“I know you don’t live here,” Elliot managed out, her voice trembling as she took a step forward. There was a tiny pinprick of relief when she realized she’d regained her mobility. “Why are you driving around this neighborhood? Who are you?”

The woman turned and headed back towards the driver’s side of her car, hands tucked politely into the pockets of her coat.

“You should be more careful of your sleepwalking. Someone else might not have been so kind as to stop,” she called over her shoulder. “And—”

The woman paused, the smile still rooted firmly on her face as she opened her car door.

“I hear stress is bad for the baby.”

Something wretched and vile twisted in her stomach, hot as a branding iron. The panic that shot through her system was so vicious, so potent, that for a second she felt like the air had been sucked out of her lungs; it crashed over her in a wave so powerful that her vision swam and she thought, I’m going to pass out.

But there was another thought, too, squirming around in there, blinking its little emergency light:

My baby, my baby, you stay away from my baby.

“Ell!”

John’s hands landed on her before she thought think to pull away, even if she’d wanted to, as the headlights of the woman’s car turned away and began to drift down the drive. The idea that she ought to chase the car down occurred to her, but the tremble in her legs and the hitch of her breath reminded her that it would only serve to make her feel worse.

The brunette frantically checked her over, panting and out of breath as though he’d just sprinted down the drive; when his hands finally came to a stop, they were cradling her face, his eyes searching hers. Over his shoulder, she watched the receding red light of the woman’s car drifting in the dark, aimless in a sea of inky black, and she wanted to throw up.

“I heard you scream,” he said, breathless as his brows knit together at the center of his forehead. “What are you doing all the way out here? Baby, look at me, what’s wrong?”

“She knew,” Elliot managed out. Her voice felt like sandpaper grinding out of her lungs. “She knew I—she knew about our baby.”

“Who?” John looked over his shoulder, and then back at her, his thumbs smoothing over her cheekbones. “Elliot, who?”

I don’t know, but the words wouldn’t come.

I don’t know who she is,

but she knew about our baby,

and she has a smile like broken glass,

and a mouth as red as blood.

[winchesterwords]

“Keep Your Secrets” Part 1 - Sam Winchester x F!Reader

PART 2 PART 3

Summary: You are a professor at a local university who has been in touch with the younger Winchester brother. When Sam returns from a hunt to find you missing, how will he react when he finds a troubling clue in your office?

Word Count: 2373

Warning: None

Song I Wrote To: “Hold My Girl” by George Ezra

Note: This will be a two-part story! Let me know if you want to be tagged in the second part. 

-------

The Men of Letters Bunker was lit with warm light as the inhabitants sat around a table in the library. 

Sam Winchester lounged in his seat, his phone in his hands as a lore book lay open in front of him. “But why are their necks so long?” Jack asked, staring at a photo of a giraffe on Dean’s phone. 

“That seems like a question for him,” Dean said, gesturing to the Angel that sat across from him. Castiel tilted his head, thinking over the question. Dean waited patiently as Jack continued to look up photos of the animal he found to be so strange. 

“Why are you looking at me?” Cas asked, confused. 

“Well you angels are the ones that made everything,” Dean said. “So, tell the kid. Why are giraffe’s neck so damn long, Cas?” The Angel looked between Dean and back to Jack and then leaned slightly forward. 

“That was...not my department,” he revealed and Dean had to bite his cheek to keep himself from laughing. Sam had also smiled, but from the way he was looking at his phone, it had nothing to do with animals of the African savanna. 

“Why are you smiling?” Jack asked, as curious as ever. Sam didn’t seem to notice him. 

“He’s probably looking up facts about the moon,” Dean snorted. 

“Very funny,” Sam said, his eyes never leaving the screen in front of him. 

“I don’t like the moon,” Cas said. 

“Why?” Jack asked and Dean groaned, putting his hand up. 

“No, no, don’t get him started,” he begged the Nephilim, “please.” Jack frowned but dropped the subject. Suddenly,  Sam stood up, his fingers still flying over his screen. 

“I gotta run an errand,” he announced, pushing in his chair. “I’ll be back later.” Dean, Cas, and Jack watched as he headed for the garage. Dean rolled his eyes and took his phone back from the kid. 

“Where is he going?” Jack asked, staring after Sam. 

“Kid has a girlfriend,” Dean explained. “She’s a lore professor at a local university. He thinks we don’t know about her, but we do.” 

“He talks about her in his sleep,” Cas added and Dean looked at him with narrowed eyes. 

“Again, Cas? Listening to us sleep? Buddy, we’ve talked about this,” Dean said. 

“Wait, is that bad?” Jack asked. Cas tried to hide his smile, but Dean just turned towards the kid and then leaned back in his seat, his hands covering his face. 

“Oh my god…” 

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

Sam paused outside of the door to your office.

The whole drive over he had been nervous. It wasn’t the first time he had visited you at work. In fact, he had never seen you outside of the University at all. He had his concerns about people seeing you with him in public. It wasn’t because he wanted to keep you a secret, but if he could keep you away from the life of hunting to keep you safe, then that is exactly what he was going to do. 

Sam could hear you shuffling around inside, most likely preparing for your next lecture. Knocking quickly, Sam heard a muffled, “Come in,” from the other side and he pushed open the door. You looked up from your desk with a big smile. 

“Hi,” Sam said, shutting the door behind him. 

“You know, you don’t need to come to office hours,” you said, getting up from your seat. 

“How else am I supposed to catch you alone?” he asked, his hands going into his pockets. 

“Okay, fair enough,” you said with a laugh. Gesturing to the small couch in the center of the room, he joins you, relaxing immediately. 

“Oh,” Sam said, grabbing the messenger bag that hung on his shoulder. “I brought you a new one,” he said, handing you a leather-bound book. “It’s mostly on Japanese mythology, but there are other references in there too.” You took the book from him, running your hands over the cover. Reaching behind you, you plucked another old book from the table. 

“Then I suppose I can return this one to you,” you said, handing it back to him. 

“You finished it already?” he asked, placing the book of runes into his bag. 

“The way you talked about it had me very curious,” you said. You placed the new book on your coffee table. “Thank you,” you said and he smiled at you. “So, tell me, how is your family doing? Is your nephew doing better?”

“Yeah, Jack is doing much better, thank you. It just took him a bit to adjust after his mom died.” 

“Well, he seems like a tough kid to me,” you said, leaning back into the couch. “And your brother? He’s good?”

“Dean is great, though I think he has finally realized where I have been going all the time.”

“Oh, so I’m not your little secret after all?” you asked, teasing him. 

“I wouldn’t say secret…” he said. “However, I do like that I have been able to have you for myself.” You laughed, running a hand through your hair as you looked at him. 

“You really are something else, you know that Sam?” you asked, reaching out to play with the cuff on his flannel shirt. He leaned slightly into your touch, savoring the small moment. With everything going on right now with Jack and the different worlds, Sam needed a break and he was grateful for the time he spent with you. 

“What about you?” he asked. “How’s your mom doing?” 

“Great,” you said, your eyes brightening up at the mention of your mother. “Yeah, whatever was in that tea you gave me has worked like magic. She hasn’t had another migraine in weeks.” Sam smiled, trying to hide the awkwardness that had entered his stomach at the mention of magic. 

Little did you know, it was in fact magic tea after all. A simple request from Rowena had her dropping it off with a smile and toss of her red hair. Sam, of course, owed her and she assured him she would make sure to collect when needed. He never minded owing the witch a favor. He would never admit it to Dean, but he actually liked Rowena. 

“Well, I’m glad,” Sam said as he looked around your office. The entire room was covered in artifacts from your travels throughout the world. You had statues, art, and books from all over that covered most lore and mythologies. Sam had first met you when he needed a translation on an old scroll he had found in the file room. 

He had reached out to the history department of the University and they had directed him to your office and you had decided to meet with him immediately. As soon as he had met you, he knew he had to see you again.

Soon, Sam was making excuses to come and see you. Whether it was because he needed “help” on a translation or just because he wanted to loan you a book from his collection. It was how the whole book exchange had come about.

As for you, you were just happy to see him. Even though he always brought you a new book, scroll, or small token, it was just his company that you craved. Sam Winchester was a mystery to you, but one you were very willing to figure out. 

“Sam,” you said, regaining his attention, “when are you going to tell me more about what you do and how you know about all this?” you asked, gesturing the room around you. Sam smiled shyly, trying to come up with an answer that wasn’t technically a lie. 

“It’s just a hobby, (Y/N),” Sam settled on. It wasn’t really a lie. Hunting had started out as a hobby of sorts when he was younger. It only really became a job once Dean had shown up at Stanford and they set out to search for John. Thinking about it now, he had never truly realized just how much of a job it had become. You stared at him, your lips pursed slightly. 

“Hmm, alright, you. Keep your secrets,” you said. “But I’m still curious,” you said leaning forward to tap the center of his forehead jokingly. 

“Aren’t you always?” Sam said as he reached up to smooth some hair off your face. He leaned in slightly, but of course, the universe had other plans. The shrill sound of a phone permeated the moment and you sat back with a light sigh. 

“I had a feeling that was going to happen,” you said but urged him to take the call. Sam answered, not bothering to check the ID as he already knew who it would be. 

“Dean,” Sam greeted.

“Sammy,” Dean said, “we need you back here. The kid found a case not too far from here and I have a feeling we’re going to need the machetes on this one.”

“You have a feeling? Or are you just hoping we will?”

“Is there a difference?” Dean asked and Sam could hear him throwing weapons into his duffel bag. “Look, would you just get back here? Cas is trying to convince Jack that we don’t need the entire arsenal and he could use the backup.” Sam rolled his eyes. Sometimes he wondered how his brother managed to do anything without him.

“Alright, I’m on my way.” Sam hung up the phone and pocketed it. He looked at you with a frown. 

“Duty calls?” you asked. 

“Unfortunately,” he said. “I would stay, but…”

“But your mystery job needs your attention,” you said with a shrug. “Don’t worry, I get it.”

“But do you?” 

“Well, no, but I get that your brother is very important to you and he needs your help. So,” you stood and pulled him to his feet, “get going soldier before your big brother comes and drags you out by your ear.” Sam laughed, awkwardly pushing his hair away from his face.

“The two of you would get along very well and that honestly terrifies me,” Sam said, grabbing his bag. 

“Sounds like my kind of guy,” you joked and Sam rolled his eyes. 

“I’ll come to visit when I get back,” he said. 

“You better,” you said and then Sam reached forward and pulled you in for a hug. You held him back, memorizing the smell of books, metal, and something else you couldn’t put your finger on. Campfire, maybe?

He pulled out of the hug and headed for the door. Giving you one last look, he waved and left your office, ready to deal with whatever monster Jack had discovered. Sam only hoped that it was something easy enough to make the hunt go quickly and so that Jack could get more experience. That way he could make good on his promise and see you again as soon as possible. 

-------

Two Days Later

“Okay, be honest, kid,” Dean was saying as they headed to the kitchen, “how did it feel to kill your first vamp?” Cas rolled his eyes as he went to the fridge to get their usual post-hunt beers. Jack sat down at the kitchen table, blood still speckled on his shoes. 

“I think it felt...odd,” Jack admitted, taking the cold drink from Cas. “Do heads always make that sound when you take them off?” he asked. Dean grinned as he looked at Cas and Sam who were shaking their heads in unison. 

“You get used to it,” Dean said, leaning against the kitchen counter. “You know, it’s tradition to take your kid on a vampire hunt. Dad did it with Sammy and me and now we get to do it with you. I like it.” 

“I don’t think decapitations should be viewed as a good bonding experience, Dean,” Castiel said with a frown. Dean just shrugged and lifted his beer back to his lips. 

“As interesting as this conversation is,” Sam said, grabbing his beer. “I need to make a phone call.” 

“Tell the Professor I said hello!” Dean called after Sam and his younger brother sent a certain gesture back over his shoulder causing Dean to laugh. 

Sam entered his room and shut the door, pulling out his phone. He dialed your cellphone number and waited, but the call went to voicemail. He tried again and got the same result. Double-checking the time, he made sure he wasn’t calling you in the middle of a lecture, but today was your prep day. It was when you would spend the day in your office grading papers or preparing for the next class.

He then dialed your office phone but was greeted by silence once again. Sam took a deep breath, trying to not let his mind think of the worse possibilities. There could be many reasons why you weren’t answering. However, he needed to see for himself. 

Without telling the others, Sam quickly made his way to the garage and grabbed a set of keys. He jumped in the truck Cas usually drove and hit the gas. Halfway to the University, Dean tried calling Sam after noticing his absence, but Sam ignored him. He didn’t want to have to explain unless he was sure about what was going on. 

Arriving at the college, he calmly made his way to your department. Nobody batted an eye as he nearly ran towards your office. Your assistant had already gone home which, in itself, was odd. Ducking past his desk, Sam made it to the door of your office and braced himself before quickly picking the lock and pushing it open. 

He froze in the doorway as he took in what he saw. Furniture was splayed all over the floor, papers were strewn across your desk, and a broken coffee mug was shattered against the wall.

He closed the door tightly behind him and quickly made his way to your desk when his nose picked up on a familiar scent. It didn’t take long to find the source, a yellowish powder that ran along the edge of the polished wood. 

Sulfur. 

Sam quickly pulled out his phone and dialed Dean. 

“Dude, where did you go?” Dean asked, but Sam couldn’t speak. “Sam? Sammy?” 

“Dean, she’s gone.”