#For What Reason!!! to be Hysterical i suppose! i swear she has a sense of humor...

[exitpursuedbyavulcan]

With No One Around

When you and Aemond need to relax, you have a secret spot where you can go and be all alone.

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Wife!Reader (2nd person)

Warnings: kissing, deep throating, Aemond has a spite-fueled breeding kink

This work is a part of my 12 Days of Smuff event! Read the rest here.

My Masterlist

With No One Around

Prompt: In Nature & Deep Throating

Vhagar sensed your intentions the moment you and Aemond climbed down from her saddle, giving you an annoyed, rumbling growl before she lumbered as far away as she could while still being close enough to guard you. You mumbled teasing words at her, but you couldn’t help but love the curmudgeonly old dragon. And be very thankful that she only understood High Valyrian.

Aemond huffed, grabbing your hand and practically dragging you through the trees. You cursed his long legs and scrambled to keep up with him so he wouldn’t pull your arm clean off. “In quite a hurry, are you?”

He only gave a frustrated hum. It was answer enough.

That day had been hard. On both of you.

It was the first day of the Festival of the Mother, and as it always did on holidays, everything went wrong.

The king was too ill to attend. Aegon was hung over. Helaena was in one of her distant moods, which did nothing to help calm the hysterical twins. It was supposed to be their first public event since the announcement of their birth, a way to show the world that their line was strong, secure, and, most importantly, true. Yet the future heir spent the morning biting everyone and everything he could find while his sister wailed ceaselessly.

In the end, Helaena and the twins stayed in their rooms, leaving only Queen Alicent, Aegon, Aemond, and you to attend. Not exactly the best showing for a day dedicated to the mother.

Especially not when you and Aemond had been wed nearly two years with no children to show for it – though not for lack of valiant effort – and all the nobility seemed able to talk about was the child Rhaenyra would give birth to in mere weeks.

That was what set Aemond on edge. He would not be able to dismiss this child as a threat to his family. For unlike its elder half-brothers, it would not be a bastard. It would be a true continuation of Rhaenyra’s line – a full-blooded Valyrian. And a boon of legitimacy to her bid for the throne.

You were not sure exactly why, but Aemond believed that if Rhaenyra took the throne, she would immediately move to slaughter her half-siblings and their families. The one time you asked him why, he refused to explain. You would have pushed further, but his lip had twitched toward his scar, and you knew what that meant – it was one of the first things you’d learned about him.

Whatever the cause, he had pulled you away after the ceremony in such a hurry that he didn’t even call for a wheelhouse to take you to Vhagar. He’d just lifted you atop the first saddled horse he found, swinging up behind you and sending the beast racing through the city.

Which is how you ended up here – being pulled along by Aemond as he brought you to his special place. A small outcropping on Blackwater Bay, just outside the Kingswood. It had ample enough space for Vhagar to rest and was completely private.

It was where Aemond would come whenever he got overwhelmed, whether by the pain from his eye, exhaustion after being forced to appear in public and be sociable, or just the stress and frustration of his everyday life. He used it for the same reasons still, but he now had a better way to calm himself rather than mope by the cliff’s edge.

Now, he had you.

And you were never going to complain about his using you for stress relief.

Aemond brought you just outside the tree line, then whirled on you, gripping you tightly as he pulled you into a searing kiss. “I swear by all the gods,” he moaned as you opened to him, “we will not return home until there is a babe in your belly.”

He didn’t give you a chance to respond before again diving into you and moving one hand down to cup your rear. You moaned as he pulled you against him, rolling his hips to show you just how eager he was.

“We may be here a while then,” you managed to eke out between kisses. You weren’t sure why he was delaying; he was more than hard enough, and you hoped your own movements against him would show him you were ready as well. “What will we eat?”

He growled. This was not the conversation he wanted to have. He’d always preferred no conversation when you were intimate, but you couldn’t help yourself. “Vhagar will cook us some venison.”

You laughed at the answer but were quickly cut off when he moved his hands to your shoulders to push you down on the soft grass. Aemond was in quite the mood, and you weren’t sure you liked it.

So, you decided to tease him. After all, he deserved it.

You let him push you to your knees but resisted his attempts to push you down further. He tried, but you were stronger than you appeared, especially when you were this annoyed with him.

“What are you doing – ” you cut him off this time, reaching up to grab his thighs and squeeze.

With a saccharine smile, you brought your hands to the ties of his trousers and began to unlace them, one by one. “I’m just helping you relax. If you put a baby in me now, I fear it will be born angry.”

Aemond growled softly, in warning to not delay too long, and begrudging permission.

You made quick work of his trousers, pulling them down only enough to retrieve his hardened cock, pumping it a few times to spread the moisture that had gathered at his tip before taking him into your mouth. Slowly, at first, because he wouldn’t relax if he got what he wanted immediately, but enough that he would not want to stop you to stick himself somewhere else.

You continued like this for a few moments, until Aemond got impatient and laced his fingers through your hair, moving you ever so slightly toward him.

The message was clear: more.

You happily obliged, bracing yourself with your hands on his rear, and took him further, and further, and further. And when your nose finally pressed into his stomach, you paused, hollowing your cheeks. You drew back just before you ran out of breath, running your tongue up the length of him before taking him all the way once more.

Aemond’s hands tightened in your hair as you repeated the action once, twice, three times. On the fourth, he gripped so tightly you were sure he’d tear half your hair out. On the fifth, he shouted a curse as he came, spilling down your throat and moaning as you sucked every last drop from him. When you pulled away, you left one last kiss on his tip.’

It took a while for him to catch his breath. He gazed at you adoringly the whole time. You waited until he was entirely calm before you teased him once more.

“Enjoyable as that was, I fear it will not produce a babe.���

Aemond’s smile fell into a frown of shame and affectionate annoyance, and you laughed.

#aemond #aemond targaryen #aemond targaryen fanfic #aemond fanfic #aemond targaryen imagine #aemond imagine #aemond fluff #aemond one eye #aemond smut #aemond the kinslayer #aemond x reader #aemond x you #aemond x y/n #aemond x fem!reader #hotd #hotd aemond #hotd fanfic #hotd smut #hotd imagine #hotd x reafer #house of the dragon #house of the dragon fanfic #ewan mitchell #12 days of smuff

[misscrazyfangirl321]

Hbd and sunny: get out of here.

At last, the follow-up to Poor Penny and Damien's Horrible No Good Very Bad Day (feat. bonding)

-

He finds her in the office, bent over some files, flipping through them with a determined look on her face. It's a look he knows all too well; he wore it himself once, some thirty years ago. She wants to fix the unfixable, to change what is already firmly set in place.

"Get out of here," he says flatly, without as much as a greeting. He will not let her become him, no matter what.

"I have to find out who did this." She doesn't even look up. "I have to stop them. I can't let them hurt anyone else, I-"

"We'll stop them. But not tonight. It's late; you need sleep."

She swallows. "I can't sleep. If I sleep, they might hurt someone else."

It's been days. Days since she and Damien were taken. Probably days since she's had a good night's sleep. No wonder she's barely making sense. "Listen, you need to-"

"I need to stop them. I thought you of all people would understand that."

The words land squarely between his ribs, and for a heartbeat, he cannot breathe, cannot think, cannot do anything but stare in horror, struggling to fit the cold words into the warm young woman that he knows.

Then she stills and looks up at him, face suddenly pale. "I'm-I'm so sorry. I didn't-I just meant because you're so determined to close cases, not-I didn't mean-" Tears well up in her eyes, and he forces himself to exhale, to let the pain wash over him and out.

"My wife's dead." He tries to keep his voice even. "Damien's not. So get out of here; he needs you with him, not here, buried in paperwork."

"But-" She's trembling, and he really wishes Ellie was here. She'd know exactly what to do, what to say, to fix this. He's a jagged blade meant to help a butterfly, and he doesn't know how to do anything but cut. "But it's my fault. They took me, but he-he could have gotten away. He almost did. But they put a gun to my head, and he-" She falls silent, burying her face in her hands, as the pieces fall into place. Then he sighs.

"It wasn't your fault-"

"It was!" She can scarcely manage each word. "So now I have to stop them, before-"

"Hey." He aims for gentle but firm, though Ellie has always been better at that than him. "He's alive. And he'll be a lot more upset if you're not there when he wakes up."

She says nothing, just continues shaking, and he tentatively steps toward her. Slow, uncertain, he reaches out, resting a hand lightly on her shoulder. That's how this comfort thing is supposed to work, right?

Her head lifts, eyes red and puffy, and she stares at him for three long seconds, until he's almost ready to yank his hand away and swear off doing the whole comfort thing at all-

And then he finds himself with two arms full of human. She clings to him, face buried in his chest, openly weeping against him. Oh; okay. That's... Not really in his wheelhouse. He clumsily brings his hand up to rest against her back, patting a couple of times for good measure.

"There, there," he tries, and she actually laughs, loud and sharp, bordering on hysterical.

"You are... Really not good at this," she whispers, taking a steadying breath, and he winces.

"Nope."

Then, so soft he can barely hear her- "Thank you."

She stays there for nearly two minutes; he watches the clock, the second hand ticking along, as she holds onto him for dear life. Then, at last, she exhales, releasing him and drawing back. Her face is still tearstained, but her expression is clear. Calm.

"I'm going to head to the hospital." Whew; his work here is done. "You should come with me."

W-why on earth would he do that? "I'm pretty sure I'm not the one he wants to see," he points out wryly, making his way to his chair.

"Eleanore will be there."

Of course she will be. All her life she's wanted a family, but for whatever reason, she's never had one, and now she treats Damien and Penny like the kids she never had. She'll be up there until he's well, fretting and worrying about him. "You two can keep each other company until he wakes up."

The look she gives him is wry, far too sarcastic to fit on her face, with just a hint of genuine amusement in her eyes. "Pretty sure I'm not the one she wants to see."

It's a ridiculous comparison, and he opens his mouth to tell her so, but her expression turns pleading and he gives in with a sigh. "Fine. But I'm driving."

#heyyyy guess what i rewrote the ending to this like three times bcs i REALLY wanted hbd to #find out about sbd's feelings for him here but the ending kept fighting me #like 'no this isn't about them.' #so. uh. have that slightly abrupt ending #anyway did anything think damien was dead? #i doubt it but i'm curious #deteggtives #answered #thanks for the ask! #lattes of love #my fics #my writing #mine #right on schedule captain

[tiedyemillenialbullshit]

Nightmare

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female!Avenger Reader Word Count: 3,431 Summary: Your best friend finally comes to visit the compound after you join the Avengers. What starts out as a fun night out, quickly turns dire for you and Bucky. Warnings: Angst, Fluff, Feelings, Mentions of Alcohol and Drugs, PTSD/Nightmares, swearing

“AHHHH Y/N!!” You hear her before you see your best friend running towards you, not a care in the world that your entire team has also turned around to watch you two galavant towards each other like long lost sisters.

You catch Sarah in your arms and spin her around.

“Oh my god, I can’t believe you’re FINALLY HERE! And you’re early! Holy shit like I can’t believe you’re finally here in New York!! Let me introduce you to the team!” You grab her arm after she starts to show hesitance in meeting the Avengers all at once.

“Are you sure they have time? I don’t want to be a bother,” she says sheepishly.

“Oh my god Sarah, I talk about you all the time! They’re just as excited to meet you, come on.” You both walk towards the team still staring at you both near the entrance to the compound doing a quick debrief of a not-so-successful mission the day before.

“Guys, this is Sarah. Sarah this is-“ she cuts you off. “I know who you guys all are. It’s so nice to meet you! I’ll stay out of the way, I promise.” Everyone grins and introduces themselves to your best friend.

Nat smiles at you both, “On the contrary, you’re coming out with us tonight! No if’s, and’s or but’s”

Sarah seems to suddenly catch a second wind from her long flight and lets out a squeal of excitement.

You’re the newest to the “official” team, even though Steve and Fury had been trying to recruit you for years. You didn’t like the idea of the world knowing about your skill set and preferred to live a quiet life back in California. Ever since moving here, you’ve felt like maybe you weren’t home yet. Everyone was so nice and welcoming, but you missed your little house hidden in the outskirts of the National Parks in California. You missed the sun, the familiar smell of your patch of paradise and the general sense of room back home. Most importantly, you missed Sarah.

You were reluctant to invite her out to New York at first, but now that things seemed to be going smoothly, you sent for her via a car and private jet thanks to one Mr. Tony Stark. He was more than happy to help you out given your fresh and maybe sometimes bumpy arrival to the Avengers.

As everyone filed inside to break away before the evening festivities, Bucky caught your arm.

After holding you back for a second he said, “Hey, I can totally hang back tonight if you’d rather just be with Sarah and the team.”

You realize what he’s getting at. He also has some lack of feeling settled at the compound. It was something you bonded over when you first arrived. You both had similar pasts, even though they were at the same time lightyears apart.

“Buck, no. I think we’re all going out to Bleaker’s tonight! What’s a better way to get to know the team than bowling, beer, smoking inside, beer, old arcade games, more beer and maybe dancing?!”

Bucky gives you a quick glare out the corner of his eye before wrapping his metal arm around your shoulders to lead you inside after everyone.

“Fiiiiiiine, but I can’t promise I’ll behave.” You giggle, but suddenly feel a couple sets of eyes on you.

“And what do we have here?,” Tony asks with a smirk across his mouth. Sarah seems to be in the middle of an engaging conversation with Steve, so you don’t seem to have an easy out of this encounter. Bucky quickly drops his arm and steps a foot away from you.

“Uh, nothing. Y/N just seemed like maybe she wasn’t feeling well.”

“But I’m fine so here we are - have you seen Sam? Nat? Wanda? I told them we should be ready in a few hours and I jus-“

“Oh for Christ’s sake guys, your secret is safe with me,” Tony winks at you knowingly. You decide to take that as the end of the conversation and rush over to join Sarah.

“So! You have muscles.” Sarah says clearly at a loss of words looking at Steve in a tight shirt.

You and Bucky share a giggle, but pull Sarah away and save her from further embarrassment.

“What the fuck did I just say?” Sarah is about as red as a tomato as you drag her upstairs away from the awkward encounter. Steve looked a little flustered as well, which you file away in the back of your brain.

“Who cares! Let’s catch up and get ready for tonight.” Sarah is your best friend for a reason. Even though it had been 6 months since you last saw each other, it was like it was yesterday. You two spend the next few hours catching up, gossiping about each other’s families, friends, ex-boyfriends, etc.

“So! How are we doing in the boi department?” You turn around and face Sarah at the inquisitive tone in her question.

“What’s that supposed to mean? I’m good, I’m… I’m doing great, I mean yeah I’m good. WHY?” You’re stuttering and you don’t even care it’s obvious you’re blushing.

“Oh, you know. I mean, I’ve only recently met a few super soldiers, but I do think I can tell the there’s a spark between one and someone else.” Sarah so wants you to spill the tea but you promised Bucky you’d keep it quiet.

“Let’s just say things are developing and whatever you’d like to take from that you may.” You both launch into a giggle fit of her guessing and you denying certain aspects of Bucky Barnes.

When Wanda wanders into your room a few hours later, she starts laughing at what she sees. “You know you two are wearing like the same thing, right?” Exchanging confused looks at each other, you reply with a “AND?!”

Sam follows in with a smirk of his own. You’re bracing for his jokes but instead says “damn, OKAY! Everyone’s looking sharp tonight. Y/N, have you seen our bionic man around? Is he coming? He better come out tonight or I swear to…”

After Sam leaves to go find Bucky, the three of you wander down to find Nat and start the evening off with a shot or two. You aren’t much of a drinker, so one is enough for you. You much rather enjoy the company of your friend Mary Jane.

The team is getting silly with each other in the kitchen and quickly the room is filled with people yelling at each other to pregame harder, laughing when Nat’s little sister challenges Sam to a chugging contest and wins.

You feel a large hand at the small of your back. You can smell his cologne and know who it is immediately.

“Well don’t you look dashing tonight Sargent Barnes.” You lean in on impulse but stop yourself just as the girls turn around to see who you’re talking to.

“I was just going to say the same thing to you, sweets.” He mumbles in your ear before removing his hand and walking over to Sam.

The alcohol decides to hit you then, leaving you feeling empty that he’s not standing next to you anymore. Neither of you had wanted to have the “conversation” but you knew you were head over heels for him.

“CABS ARE HERE” screams Sam.

“Sam. For the love of God, stop watching Jersey Shore.” Natasha jokes to him.

At the same time Steve screams, “I understood that reference!” Eye rolls are exchanged as you all make your way outside.

The atmosphere is buzzing and you’re so excited to not just be out with your team, but to also have the only bit of family you had with you as well. You finally felt at home, at peace, and were ready for a fun night out.

Bleaker’s is one of those hole-in-the-wall dive bars that from the outside seems like a hard pass, but once you’re in, there’s no other place you’d rather spend a Saturday night. It’s true it started as a bowling alley in the 60’s. That still remains. What’s newer is the arcade in the back, where the old salon used to be. Jimmy bought the space next door, blew out the wall and filled it with arcade games that sometimes work and sometimes eat your money.

After years of being regular patrons, he knows your team well. The minute you walk in, he starts up all your favorite drinks.

“Ah! My best customers! I had a feeling I’d be seeing Earth’s mightiest heroes tonight.” You line up at the bar for whatever Jimmy decides you’re drinking tonight.

“Ah yes, two vodka on the rocks for my little Russian assassins. Sam here’s your vodka red bull which I don’t think you need, but here we are. Steve! Your drink of choice: an Old Style. Wanda, a cosmo for my favorite witch. And who do we have here, Y/N?”

You’re already both in hysterics at the old man behind the bar giving everybody a hard time. “Jimmy, this is my best friend Sarah. She’s visiting from California for a few days.”

“And whatever the lady wants can be put on my tab…” Steve butts in. Sarah immediately turns red but says “well in that case I’ll have vodka soda with lime please!”

Bucky has come up behind you and now you’re both laughing and watching the two of them stare at each other like no one else is in the room.

“Oh no, what did you do Y/N?”

“Let it play out, he’s not completely tripping over his words yet, maybe he’ll finally land a good girl.” You hush to Bucky.

Jimmy stares as well in amusement. “And you two? Your usual?”

“Yes’sir!” You shout over the growing music. Jimmy hands you each a jack and Diet Coke. You tell yourself it’s okay because it’s diet, but you know that’s a bunch of bullshit.

The other great thing about Bleaker’s? The dance floor downstairs. You always joke around that it seems like a nightclub that never closes in Amsterdam or something, but you’re serious. It could be 3 pm and sunny and you’d never know. It’s in the basement, it's always dark and the music is almost always too loud.

Usually that would gross you all out, but the energy tonight is pushing you all downstairs.

You reach back and grab Bucky’s hand not really caring who sees. It’s been months of sneaking around and either everyone knows and is playing it off like they don't or you’re really good at hiding it. Regardless, you’re over hiding. Maybe showing a little PDA tonight will get him out of his shell.

Sarah and Steve are no where in sight, assuming they’re ahead of you, you follow the team downstairs.

Minutes turn into hours. Everyone is dancing, laughing, sweating, screaming the lyrics to every song, and for a little while you can forget you’re a group of superheroes, and can just be normal 30-something year-olds.

You mostly dance with Bucky and quickly realize he’s a better dancer than you thought he would be. Those moves from the 1940’s must still be relevant in some way today, because the way he's grinding up on you and not caring if anyone sees just does something to you.

You work the room, finding Sarah, Wanda, Nat, even Steve for a song before you realize you don't see Bucky. You give it a few minutes thinking maybe he is in the bathroom. After 15 minutes though, you grab Steve’s attention and motion for him to check the bathroom while you check outside.

You race to the alley where you find Jimmy on a smoke break. “Hey Jimmy, have you seen Bucky? I can’t find him.”

“Oh yeah, doll, he took off in a cab about a half hour ago. Looked real flustered, but I didn’t want to press.”

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. You thought you felt his mood shift about an hour ago, he was becoming stiff and quiet. You thought maybe he was just drinking a lot but now you’re realizing the loud music, strobe lights and base must have been triggering him.

“Ugh I’m such a bitch,” you huff as you send Steve a S.O.S text.

You: Hey, Jimmy said he just left. I'm sure he's heading home. I'm going to go find him.

Sire Captain Rogers: Go ahead. I think Sarah and I can find something to do while you find Buck. ;)

You: Yeah I’m sure you can.

You: BEHAVE. She’s my best friend.

Sire Captain Rogers: I know Y/N, don’t worry about us. Let me know when you find him.

You lock your phone and hop in a cab back to the compound.

No one is up or around when you enter through the front. The kitchen has been cleaned up, the dishes done. Probably thanks to THURSDAY, Tony’s beta bot for “cleaning up after you assholes trash the place.”

You smirk and head for the elevators. Heading straight to Bucky’s room, you can tell his light is on but something seems off. You don’t like to use your powers on friends or in the compound, but you close your eyes and reach out with your mind to find his aura. Your eyes snap open. You don’t sense him, you just see red.

Taking this as a good excuse to break into a friend’s room, you burst into the room to find it in disarray. Everything is toppled over, broken glass is on the floor, the bathroom light is on, but all you can see is his blood on the door and the floor. You’re panicked, trying to piece together what happened.

Again, you close your eyes and reach out for the familiar energy of Bucky. You find him in your room on the floor.

“What the fuck?,” you mumble and sprint up the stairs to your apartment. You shoot Steve a text on your way up.

You: Found him, looks like a bad one. I’ll let you know if I need you.

Sir Captain Rogers: Thanks Y/N. I’m just a call away, let me know if you need anything. Night.

Upon entering, you sense he’s in distress. His heart rate is elevated, he’s incredibly sweaty and is panting like a dog.

“Bucky? Buck, it’s me, it’s Y/N.”

Bucky stirs and jumps into a defensive standing position quicker than you can blink. You flip the lights on with a “BABE. Baaabe, it’s me. It’s okay, you’re safe. We’re in the compound. You had a nightmare.”

Bucky’s eyes are wide and alarmed, but you can tell the moment he recognizes you.

Rushing over to you, he takes you into a big hug. “Oh my god. What happened? Are you okay, did I hurt you?”

“No Bucky, no I just found you a minute ago. You had another bad one, what do you need me to do right now for you?”

Bucky stands back and rubs his swollen eyes. “I need to shower, can you help me?”

Typically, this is where it gets exciting, but you knew what he means. Water grounds him. He doesn’t feel like he’s falling in water. It helps him visualize the stress washing off of him.

You help him strip and get in the shower, but before you can even take his jeans off, he jumps in and pulls you in with him. You realize how desperate he is for whatever he’s feeling to pass and your heart sinks.

You’re both standing there, almost fully clothed holding each other. This is the worst you’ve seen him in a long time.

“I’m so sorry if I ruined your night, Y/N. The base sounded like the train, the lights looked like the machine they used on me, what the fuck.”

You aren’t sure what to do so you decide to sit on the ground and pull him down with you. You position yourself behind him so his back is in your chest. Even though he’s so much larger than you, he sinks down enough for you to reach over his shoulders and hold him.

“It’s okay Barnes, just breathe with me. You’re safe. You’re with me, and we’re home. Nobody is going to touch you. I’ve got you, you won’t fall.”

You take in deep breaths so he can match your breathing.

After about 45 minutes, the hot water is out in the tank. Bucky sits forward and turns towards you. You want him to lead right now, so you don’t say anything. Neither does he, but the look in his eyes are telling you something about tonight is different.

With a soft smile on your lips, you cup his cheek until he is really looking at you. “Hun, let’s go lay down, ya? Let me help get you dried off.” Bucky hates when you fuss over him, so when he doesn’t argue, you know to be extra gentle with him.

After getting him up and out of the shower, you think skin-to-skin contact doesn’t seem sexual right now, it feels intimate in a grounding sense, and you know that’s exactly what he needs right now. Bucky seems dazed, almost like he got hit too hard in the head. You yourself are of course a tad over-served, and are quickly realizing the adrenaline of this entire situation is rubbing off.

You get Bucky into bed and turn to make sure his phone is plugged in and that he has a glass of water, but he grabs your wrist before you can move away. “Just leave it, it’s fine.”

“Buck, just let me-“ he grabs your wrist harder.

“Y/N. Please just stay here. Please.”

The entire time you’ve been together, he’s done a lot of things but begging you for anything is not one of them. Suddenly the phone and whatever hell else you were doing doesn’t seem important anymore.

You climb into your usual spot next to him and decide maybe you’ll try to get him to open up. The moment the back of your head hits the pillow, Bucky is facing you. His pleading eyes seem like they want to tell you everything that’s going on in his head, but you know pushing him to talk will just make the nightmares come flooding back too soon.

Instead, you decide to lay on your back and pull him to lay on your chest.

“Just listen to my heart beat, Bucky.” You hear him take a deep breath and settle into your chest.

You start and stop yourself from trying to say something comforting. You’re terrified to say the wrong thing at such a crucial moment. Typically these bad episodes are reserved for a Steve house call. You realize as he’s settling into a comfortable position that he hasn’t asked you to call Steve yet. Bucky trusts you in a way you didn’t realize until now.

You don’t know when, but you start humming the first calming song that comes in your head.

I’ll be seeing you In all the old familiar places That this heart of mine embraces All day through

Bucky picks his head up to look at you. Oh fuck.

“Where did you hear that song?,” he says to you with shiny eyes.

“You sing it all the time when you’re concentrating. I looked it up and added it to my ‘bath time/relax’ playlist. I didn't know Billie Holliday was a favorite of yours."

Bucky was looking at you like maybe this was the first time he saw you, like really saw you. “My mom used to sing that around the house when she was missing my dad.”

“Oh I’m so sorry, I didn’t know. I can hum a diff-“ you’re cut off with the most searing kiss Bucky has ever given you. He’s crying when he pulls back to look at you again. “Will you keep singing it?”

In that small cafe The park across the way The children's carousel That chestnut tree, the wishing well

By the time you finish the second verse, he has physically relaxed in your arms. You continue rubbing your hand up and down his back and shoulder, stopping to play with his long hair every once in a while.

I'll be seeing you In every lovely summer's day In every thing that's light and gay I'll always think of you that way

“I forgot how much I love hearing this song sung around me.” Bucky whispers so quietly you almost miss it.

I'll find you in the morning sun And when the night is new I'll be looking at the moon But I'll be seeing you…

You stop your caressing when you feel him sit up on one arm.

He leans down to kiss you but stops short to whisper “I love you Y/N.” You kiss him back and wrap your arms around his shoulders, and when you say “I love you too, Bucky,” you’ve never been more sure of something in your life.

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes x reader #marvel fanfiction #bucky fluff #steve rogers

[novelconcepts]

fic: heading into the dark (and we’ve got to hang on to each other)

Life, as Dani Clayton sees it, is full of darkness. Little darknesses, like a mother who draws away even as she continues to draw breath, and big darknesses, like loss that comes out of absolutely nowhere, and all the variations in between. Life is unpredictable. It’s ugly. It’s cruel. 

Life also grants the laughter of small children, and wonderful dinners prepared by good friends, and Jamie’s hand in hers. 

There is, certainly, no shortage of lights in the dark. 

***

“Teach me,” she says one day, a month or two into the great experiment that is Moving to America with Jamie. “Come on.”

“Teach you,” Jamie repeats dryly. “To incur lung cancer?”

“You do it,” Dani points out, aware that she sounds rather petulant and not particularly caring. Jamie’s smiling the half-smile she gets whenever she’s about to let herself get talked over the edge of something. “Come on, I want to see what all the fuss is about.”

Jamie shakes her head, but she’s already lost this battle, and she knows it. Her foot braced behind her on the wall outside their apartment, she turns her head toward the setting sun and exhales a long stream of blue smoke. “Fine, sure. But when you love it, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“I hardly think I’m in danger of--”

“Shut up and c’mere.” She cups her hand around the half-smoked cigarette, holding it up for Dani’s assessment. It’s awkward, the pass-off between her hand and Dani’s more of a fumble than anything else, and Dani nearly drops the damn thing. Jamie laughs. “Easy, now, don’t go wasting it. Now. Put it--”

“I know where to put it,” Dani laughs. Jamie raises her brows teasingly. 

“I’ll just bet you do. Okay, right, here’s the thing. When you inhale, you’re gonna want to take it slow. Nice and easy, but make sure you’re pulling the smoke deep into your lungs, or it’ll defeat the whole--”

Dani’s already sucking in a breath, and she’s just realized Jamie’s eyes have gone wide when her body recoils from the invasive swirl sweeping into her lungs like a hurricane. 

“Easy, I said!” Jamie pries the cigarette from Dani’s suddenly-limp grasp as she doubles over on a gagging cough. Her lungs burn, her hand groping for Jamie’s sleeve, and even though it feels fucking awful, there’s something so wonderfully steadying about Jamie’s hand rubbing circles between her shoulder blades. 

“Now’s not the time for an old-fashioned I-told-you-so, is it?”

Eyes streaming, Dani tries to fix her with a glare, but Jamie’s outlined in the red-gold of a setting sun, her lips pursed around the cigarette once more, and she can’t find it within herself to do anything but laugh. 

***

“You really don’t know how?”

“Don’t laugh,” Jamie grumbles. “Never got around to it, is all.”

Dani’s leaning forward, practically falling off the beach chair in her excitement. Jamie, she has learned over these past few months together, is not the sort of person who doesn’t know things. She may not be good at everything she tries--she’s a rotten cook, for example, though a passable baker--but it sometimes feels like Jamie’s lived more in thirty years than Dani will if granted twice that time. Sometimes, when Jamie is sweeping a billiards table, or fixing a door hinge, or replacing a bit of questionable wiring in the bathroom without managing to electrocute either of them, Dani catches herself thinking there’s nothing Jamie doesn’t know. 

She can never decide if this is more overwhelming or reassuring, truthfully. 

But this. This is just too damn good. 

“You have to let me teach you,” Dani says. “You have to, come on.”

“I think you’ll find I don’t,” Jamie says, arms crossed over her chest. Dani slides from her chair, darting a glance around. It’s unseasonably chilly for June in California, the sky a mottled blue-gray that suggests a storm could strike at any moment. The beach is blessedly clear, and she takes the opportunity to slip into Jamie’s lap.

“Please? It’ll make me so happy, to get to teach you something, for once.”

She can see Jamie doing the calculations, brow furrowed over uncertain eyes. On the one hand, if learning how to swim had been on her radar, she likely would have picked it up ages ago; on the other, Dani’s arms are around her neck, nails tracing lightly under the tousle of her hair, and this is not the sort of conversation starter that often leads to Jamie saying the word “no.”

“Right,” she says grumpily at last. Dani isn’t quite sure whether it’s the batting of her eyelashes or the scrape of short nails across the nape of Jamie’s neck that gets the job done, but Jamie is hoisting them both out of the white plastic chair. “Fine, then, Poppins. Lead me to the slaughter.”

The rain holds off all afternoon, long enough for Jamie’s uneasy flapping in shallow waves to transition into clumsy-yet-useful buoyancy. When Dani places a hand lightly beneath her back and eases her into a calm float, her brow creases. 

“Hey,” Dani says quietly. Her free hand cups Jamie’s cheek, smoothing salty water into her skin. “Look at me. You trust me?”

“Always,” Jamie replies, the word coming almost before Dani’s question is complete. She opens her eyes, and Dani smiles. 

“I’d never let you drown, Jamie. Promise. And who knows? This might come in handy someday.”

***

“It’s...big,” Dani says, a bit nervously. Laughter explodes out of Jamie like a firecracker. 

“It’s not! It’s wee as all hell, Poppins.”

“Bigger than I thought,” Dani amends. “You sure we can keep a place like this afloat?”

The idea of running a business still seems like something out of an extended fever, if she’s honest with herself. At first, it had been a laugh--a conversation held over an empty pizza box and two spent bottles of wine, with her head in Jamie’s lap and her legs all twisted under a blanket. She’d told Jamie she felt weird about getting back into teaching, about the idea of subjecting any kids to whatever mad road her mind might lead her down. 

“They’ll need to be able to rely on me,” she’d said, a little too drunk to really feel the weight of the sentiment. Jamie’s fingers drifted through her hair, her thumb catching on the shell of her ear. “Can’t do that if your teacher’s in the middle of losing her marbles.”

“You’re not,” Jamie had said, with that soft resolution Dani loved so much in her. “But s’all right. You don’t have to go back just yet--ever, if you don’t want to. We can do something else for an honest buck.”

It was a conversation, a way to make herself feel better about the imminent future and all its secrets...and then, seemingly all at once, it was real. A real little shop, just down the block from their apartment, with a real counter and real shelves and a real back room for custom arrangements. Jamie could grow here, anything she liked. And Dani could bask in the peculiar sensation of having a purpose again, even if not the one she’d expected. 

It’s a lot those first few days--weeks--months, but a year in, Dani finds she’s taken to the shop like almost nothing else in her life. She loves talking to the people who bustle in looking for arrangements for mothers and wives and graduation events. She loves the way Jamie tends to the flowers with a gentle hand, always willing to pop off a fact or insight about any given type. She especially loves the way Jamie looks at closing time each night, the way she combs her shaggy hair back from her eyes and leans over each bud in turn to murmur reassurances. Back in the morning. You all get on, best behavior, until we meet again. 

She slips up behind Jamie, arms around her middle, and rests her chin on Jamie’s shoulder. “I like that you do that. Talk to them.”

Jamie favors her with a soft, tired smile. “Nothin’ ever blossomed without good communication, Poppins.”

***

Dani starts saying I love you so much faster than either of them is prepared for. The first time the words slip from her mouth, they’re standing in the devastation of what once qualified as their kitchen. Batter drips down the side of the refrigerator. There’s flour caked in Jamie’s hair, giving the effect of a grumpy old witch woman whose magic potion rebelled in the most cataclysmic sense. 

“Swear to Christ,” she says gruffly. “I had the damn mixer in the damn bowl.”

The way Dani sees it, there are two ways to respond to this: with scolding, or with hysterical laughter. She settles on the latter almost without conscious decision, scooping up a handful of flour and tossing it into the air like confetti. Jamie’s mouth opens and closes, words not quite enough for the moment. 

“You,” she says, “are irreverent.”

“And you,” Dani replies, skating across the slippery tile until she has Jamie backed up against the postcard-bedazzled front of the fridge. “You’re wonderful.”

Jamie looks like she wants to contradict this statement, perhaps thinking of the cake that now decorates the walls. “This was going to be for your birthday, you--”

Dani is kissing her, hands gripping Jamie’s collar. She hasn’t felt this relaxed in weeks, melting against Jamie when hands settle around her waist like Jamie’s been looking for a reason to give in all afternoon. 

“I--could still--” Jamie’s mouth moves down her neck, more than half distracted from her own words. “--fix it--”

“You’re right where you’re supposed to be,” Dani tells her, or thinks she does; it’s a bit hard to focus with Jamie’s hand sliding around and down that way, with Jamie’s hips bucking lightly against her. 

“It’s like you don’t even want a birthday cake,” Jamie murmurs, biting her shoulder gently through the thin fabric of a co-opted Blondie shirt. “Did I say you could borrow this?”

“Take it back, then,” Dani breathes. 

Later, tucked together against the cabinets, she turns her face against Jamie’s neck. Her hand is trapped between the tile and Jamie’s back, going steadily numb. Moving isn’t even a concept. 

“I love you,” she says. It comes out a little slurred, a little sleepy, but entirely true. Jamie raises her head, shifting to look her in the face. 

“It’s all to do with my grade-A baking talents, isn’t it?”

***

Jamie doesn’t say it back right away. Most of the time, Dani gets it. Doesn’t want to push. There was so much of that in her old life, in what she sometimes thinks of as the Era of Danielle--every step of the way with Edmund felt like someone was standing behind her, hands pressed into her back, shoving her along. Into a man, yes, but more than that: into a preconceived notion. Be somebody’s wife. Be somebody’s answer to the question of who they want to be in the world. Be small, be quiet, be the person who says yes and yes and yes, absolutely, even when you want to scream. 

The last thing she’d ever do is push Jamie, so she doesn’t make a big deal out of it. If Jamie loves her--and Dani’s fairly confident she does, at least on the days when the old ghosts aren’t cracking out of the walls to tell her otherwise--then Jamie will get around to it on her own merit. 

Still, when Jamie does, it takes her by surprise. 

“I’m pretty in love with you, it turns out,” she says, like she’s been steeling herself for this moment for weeks--and, Dani thinks, judging by the single moonflower on the counter, she probably has. Jamie, who pretends to play the game of life with such casual disinterest. Jamie, who pretends it’s all one-day-at-a-time. Jamie, who spent hours in secret cultivating this one tiny symbol that says so unbelievably much about her, just so she could tell Dani all this in the right way. 

There’s a couch in the back room, a wide squashy old beast that Dani had been adamantly opposed to when Jamie first pointed it out. “It’s ridiculous. What are we going to do with that?”

She has to admit, pulling Jamie along and latching the door behind them, that it seems like an excellent idea now. It’s only by the thinnest grace of self-preservation--she likes this shop, likes this life, would very much like not to be run out of Vermont by some old-fashioned jackass peering through their window and seeing too much--that they make it to the couch at all. 

“It’s okay, then,” Jamie says, falling backward onto overstuffed brown leather and pulling Dani with her. “This problem of ours?”

Dani kisses her, the giddiness and desire so powerful a combination, she almost feels drunk with it. Jamie laughs into her mouth, one hand already working the buttons of her blouse, that laugh turning into a low, liquid groan. Dani, fingers slipping between waistband and skin, has already beaten her to the punch. 

It’s in moments like these, she thinks. Moments like these where everything falls into place. Not just being with Jamie, but being with Jamie here, in a place they own, on their own terms. Not just being with Jamie, but being with a Jamie who has been clarifying her love for a year, doing so with hot tea and cool smiles and repairs around the house and gentle reassurances. She said it here, planned out like a proposal, and she’s saying it again and again--”love you, fuck, love you--” as Dani winds them closer together, but it wasn’t the first time. Not really. Jamie’s been saying it since the moment she took Dani by the hand and asked if she wanted company while she waited for the darkness to consume her. 

Jamie rocks under her, making a softly desperate little noise into her mouth, and Dani has never felt so understood. Never quite put it together like this before. That Jamie thought she had to say it a certain way, show it a certain way, is wonderful and absurd and silly. 

“I like this problem,” she says. “Best problem I’ve ever had.”

***

“You like it?”

Jamie’s voice is too-casual. The kind of casual that says, look, if you don’t like it, I’ll understand, but I’ll spend the next six months going slowly crazy coping with that knowledge. Jamie gets this kind of “casual” only so often, and usually, Dani likes to string it along before reassuring her. It’s a little mean, maybe, but the way Jamie always sags against the nearest bit of furniture with a hand over her eyes, groaning, “Jesus Christ, Poppins, you could just be gentle with me” does something exceptionally pleasant to her stomach. 

This time, she’s not even thinking about teasing Jamie. 

This time, she’s just staring. 

“If you don’t like it,” Jamie says, a bit more hurriedly now, “you can say so. I mean. Can’t do much about it, truth be told, but we can work through the issue. Get into some couple’s therapy, talk it out...”

“Stop talking,” Dani says through a shockingly dry mouth. “Please.”

Jamie’s mouth swings shut with a little click. Dani rises from the chair she’d been curled in, feet tucked under as she flipped through a Stephen King novel that hit just a little too close to home. She moves across the living room like a sleepwalker. 

Jamie, expression somewhere between warily anticipatory and genuinely frightened, is still holding the hem of her shirt aloft. Dani pauses, swaying slightly, a magnetism rising between them that she sometimes thinks should fade with time, should logically become less as the years become more. For a long beat, they just look at one another. 

She’s sinking to her knees before she realizes, hand sliding up Jamie’s stomach to grasp her fingers, the shirt hem, clutch both tight. Jamie drags in a breath. 

“Oh. S’like that.”

“Apparently,” Dani mutters, closing her free hand around Jamie’s hip and pressing her mouth to the line of flowers rising from the band of her jeans, coiling around the left side of Jamie’s stomach. Jamie sucks in a breath. 

“Okay, when I was sitting for the thing, I certainly wasn’t thinking, Poppins has a thing for tattoos, but can’t say I’m complaining...”

“How long?” Dani asks, the words muffled around slow, deliberate kisses. Jamie rocks back on her heels, one hand sliding down into Dani’s hair for balance. 

“I know you are not asking me detail-oriented questions while you do that.”

Dani pauses, grins, waits. Jamie groans. 

“How long did it take, or how long have I wanted a bloody tattoo?”

“The latter.” The flowers are blue and white, strung along a twisting vine. Dani is presently making it her personal life goal to kiss each and every one, licking gently upward as she goes. Jamie’s eyes flutter, grip tightening. 

“You are a truly--”

“Tread wisely,” Dani murmurs, biting at her hipbone. Jamie inhales. 

“’Bout a year. Or maybe six weeks. Or maybe my whole life, I dunno, sometimes these things just sneak up on you.”

“Tattoos sneak up on you?” Dani tilts her head back, grinning. Jamie peers down at her, hair falling messily across her forehead, expression soft. 

“Wouldn’t be the first thing.”

She gets more as the years go on--little yellow daffodils, chains of wildflowers, small, carefully rendered roses--almost always in places easily hidden. Each time, the sight of ink on pale skin, the patient way Jamie quietly explains each one in bed, letting Dani map them out beneath curious palms, sets her heart racing in a way she can’t explain.

It’s the permanence, she thinks the day Jamie comes home with a small moonflower on her inner forearm. It’s the promise of the thing. 

It’s the tomorrow of it all. 

***

“How hard can it be to put together a bedframe, Dani,” she mimics. Even to her own ears, her voice is shrill. She’s making too big a deal out of this, and she knows it. 

But for fuck’s sake, sometimes Jamie is hard-headed. 

“I’ll have it done in an hour, Dani,” she goes on, hands windmilling above her head. “I know you’ve got a busy day, so just leave it to me, Dani.”

“Okay,” Jamie says, “okay, I know you’re upset, but in what world have I ever used your name that many times in a sitting?”

Dani freezes, turning slowly on her heel. Jamie takes a step back. 

“Right, correct, this is not the moment for glib.”

“Jamie,” Dani sighs. “You promised.”

“I did,” Jamie agrees, “and I could say I tried, but we both know how I feel about lying...”

The apartment is a little bigger than their last, and everything fits all different. Dani knows it’s going to be good for them--they outgrew the last place far sooner than either had wanted to admit, and this one has a beautiful view of a park. Plenty of space for Jamie’s ever-growing plant collection. Plenty of space for stretching out and warming the cozy little world they’ve built together. 

Still, it’s different, and different has a way of setting Dani’s teeth on edge. There’s something about a new home that reminds her of moving into Bly a lifetime ago--the exhilaration mixing with trepidation mixing with shadows she doesn’t yet know the names of. They've been here a week, sleeping in a blanket fort in the living room, Dani waking most mornings with carpet marks dug deep into her skin. She wants their room situated. She wants to sleep in their bed. 

She wants Jamie to build the damn frame like she promised three days ago. 

“I sometimes have trouble telling,” Jamie says, her accent thicker as it always is when she’s reasonably sure she’s stepped in it. “Am I actually in trouble?”

Dani sighs. “Jamie...”

“Oh.” Jamie edges closer. She’s dressed for battle, Dani notes, in shorts that barely qualify as legal and her softest flannel shirt. The very shirt, if Dani looks closely enough, Dani herself slipped into after a shower about two weeks ago and sent Jamie gaping at her like she’d been hypnotized. 

“Don’t,” Dani warns, remembering all too well the way Jamie had behaved the last time this shirt saw daylight. “Don’t, Jamie. I’m trying to be mad at you.”

“I can see that,” Jamie agrees. “You might say that’s why I’m making this desperate bid for, ahh, not being in the doghouse.”

“Jamie.” Dani manages to turn the word into about eleven syllables, which usually has some effect, but Jamie’s already within the proverbial walls. Her hands are riding up Dani’s ribcage, dangerously high, her smile the kind of charming only a heart of stone could resist. 

It’s cheating, and Jamie knows it, and Dani wants to point this out, but Jamie’s got her backed up against the mattress. The mattress that should be on a nice, well-made, sturdy frame. The mattress they could both be on top of right now, if only Jamie had just--if Jamie had--

“This is incredibly unfair,” she groans. Jamie, busy kissing her throat with slow, open-mouthed abandon, says nothing. Dani grasps at her shoulders with both hands, squeezing flannel between her fists, and lets her weight fall backward. Jamie holds her up, one hand up the back of her skirt, the other testing the resistance of her sweater. 

“You,” she gasps, even as Jamie moves a leg between her thighs and rocks gently, “are still in trouble.”

“Mmhmm,” Jamie agrees, a million miles away. She’s nipping at Dani’s earlobe now, and Dani can feel her grinning. 

“You are still putting the goddamn bed together, Jamie.”

“Sure,” Jamie says, husky, and presses her harder against the mattress. “Later.”

“Honestly, how do you do this every time?”

***

“You sure about this?” 

“Yes.” The answer is kind of actually no, but curiosity is getting the best of her. Anyway, it won’t be like before, the first time she ever tried to bum a cigarette off of Jamie and wound up nearly throwing up into the street. A couple of years and an indeterminate amount of cigarettes later, she’s got the art of it down, though she’s not what she’d call a smoker, per se. 

(She’s not, but try telling Jamie that. Just because she sometimes slips the cigarette from between Jamie’s fingers in a restaurant, or when they’re lounging outside after a long day, or in bed after a particularly effective round of Jamie getting herself out of trouble. Dani finds the act soothing, but only if Jamie has already lit up and taken a puff. Then and only then does it feel like sharing part of Jamie.)

“It’s different,” Jamie warns. “Not saying you can’t handle it, mind, but--”

“Just show me how it’s done, Jamie.”

This challenge, she utters in her lowest voice, and Jamie raises an eyebrow. “I see what you’re doing, Poppins.”

“What am I doing?”

Fact of the matter is, she’s having a very specific kind of day. The kind where her mind keeps drifting. The kind where memory feels heavier than it has in years. It’s not the first time she’s had a day this heavy, nor will it be the last, but it still bothers her. 

She hasn’t told Jamie. Doesn’t feel like she needs to, not yet. This doesn’t quite feel like beast-in-the-jungle territory so much as that old twisting panic, the old sense that she’s missing a test everyone else has studied for. When her mind edges her down this path, all she ever wants--all she can ever do about quieting it--is to hold close to Jamie. 

Jamie, who is giving her a searching look now, even as nimble fingers roll a joint.  “Sure you’re sure? Only, if you’re not up for it, I’m not going to judge.”

“Jamie. Do you trust me?”

Jamie’s mouth turns up at the corners. “Always.”

“Then get it started and hand it over.” She’s laughing a little, a nervous burble laugh that makes her feel more tethered to her own body. Jamie reaches over, closing a hand over her wrist and squeezing. 

“Your wish and all that, Poppins. But do me a favor? Go easy this time.”

She takes the first hit, and then a second, leaning back against the green granite counter and exhaling slowly toward the ceiling. For a minute, it’s enough for Dani just to watch her: relaxed posture in a long-sleeved black shirt, rolled to the elbows to give her more room to make a mess of dinner an hour previously. Her hair is getting longer, shaggier, her makeup reckless in that half-attention way Jamie has of barely caring what she looks like for anyone who isn’t Dani. 

“Your turn.” 

Dani takes her at her word this time, careful to draw a small amount of smoke into her lungs and hold there. Even so, she coughs once, a slow, clean burn sliding outward through her chest. Jamie nods approvingly.

“Did you grow this yourself?” she asks after another careful hit. She hands the joint back, letting her hip press against the counter an inch from Jamie’s. There’s a comfortable heat between them this evening, slow-simmer ease that makes her think of early days. She likes the lingering way Jamie rests her hand against Dani’s on the countertop, pinky finger lightly caressing the edge of her skin, like the world’s most comfortable seduction. 

“Nah,” Jamie says, with the joint between her lips. There’s something about the way she closes her eyes on the inhale, about the way her free hand never leaves Dani’s skin. Warmth works its way through her belly, and she thinks, bad day, maybe, but a good night. 

“Would you grow it?” It’s just something to say. She’s already starting to feel the smoke coiling around her thoughts, her head growing soft, buzzing gently around the edges. She imagines she can feel Jamie’s hand all the way through her body. 

“Not in our shop, if we wanted to keep the place.” Jamie’s eyes twinkle, the joint outstretched. “More?”

Dani shakes her head. The world is very slightly fuzzy, the kitchen warm, and Jamie has never felt more real. She watches Jamie carefully put out the lit end, setting the joint in an ashtray, liking the authority with which Jamie moves. 

She’s always like this, always so focused on the little details that make up a day. On days where Dani feels like she’s coming up from the ground in one horrible jerk, Jamie is always there to root her again. It’s a good feeling, knowing Jamie is there. Knowing Jamie is only getting more there with time. 

Later, she’ll look back on this as the moment. The one where she first decided to do it. The actual question, the actual plan, the actual ring won’t be here for years yet, but this is the moment the spark takes hold. 

It would be different, she decides, as her fingers curl like vines around Jamie’s, bringing their joined hands against her chest. It would be so different than last time. No push. No expectation. Just a promise. Just us. 

She likes being high with Jamie, she decides very quickly. Likes how it makes Jamie’s already-firm confidence firmer. Likes how it makes her already-sensitive skin buzz with pleasure. Likes the way Jamie folds her against the counter, hands gentle on the back of her head, and kisses her like it’s the first time. 

She’s all exposed nerve and heavy limb and giggle as Jamie leads her to the bedroom, eases her down, cups her face between soft hands. For once, the shadows seem to work in her favor, curling around them as they move together, as cloth becomes skin, and she’s sighing, sighing, crying Jamie’s name into the darkness. 

Jamie said once, a lifetime ago, that sometimes you have to drop everything too heavy to carry in order to hang on to one another. Jamie said it with such intensity, it didn’t even cross Dani’s mind to think of it another way. That, if you’re going to march into the dark, having a hand to hold as you go can make all the difference in the world.

The lights are on, for now. The lights are on, and Jamie holds her so tight with hands so soft, and Dani knows it’s not forever. Can sense it, like you sense the return of a childhood bad dream. Can feel it, shifting below the surface. 

Maybe closer now. Maybe a little bit more awake than before. She can’t say for sure. 

What she can say is that a night like this--kissing her way down Jamie’s chest, kissing flowers and bellybutton and that spot just above her hip that makes her writhe with laughter--is a torch. A ward against the monsters. A little light to carry them through the dark. 

She’s got Jamie on her skin, in her mouth, imprinted on her soul, and she thinks it’s the best anyone can ask for. The only thing anyone can hope for. 

And when Jamie clutches her hand right back, flashes that I’m-out-of-trouble smile, drapes one of her worn flannel shirts around Dani’s bare shoulders, she thinks, as long as I can have this. As long as she’ll have me. The shadows can’t possibly swallow me whole. 

#the haunting of bly manor #the haunting of bly manor spoilers #fanfiction #dani x jamie #jamie x dani #dani clayton #hi. hello. can I interest you in...ahhh... #roughly 5k words of domestic bliss and general pleasantness in this the show of our emotional pain? #look I wanted an excuse to see them in the happy years and that excuse sort of bowled out into all this #also a little more ~mature than previous incarnations if that's a thing you're into. or like to be warned against. #I'll crosspost it to AO3 reasonably soon and update the masterpost as well but for now it lives here

[yukipri]

On Thatch & Marco - A One Piece Mermaid AU Text Headcanon/Story

So I’ve gotten quite a few asks regarding Marco and the Whitebeards, and while this isn’t a response to a specific ask, here’s a little story on them!

~~

It's only been a few weeks since they've left Dawn Island, and they're still in East Blue but they've somehow already more than doubled the number of brats on board. And while the Moby Dick is far from boring, Thatch has had more adventures in this short timespan than he's had in years, and he's thriving.

Sure, he still feels little twinges of guilt for basically ditching his duties, but he's growing, in ways that the stability of an established Yonko crew hadn't allowed, and he knows that he'll be a better, more useful man to Pops and the others by the time they've caught up in the New World. Honestly, he's wondering if he should suggest these kinds of experiences for all the commanders, and wonders how Pops would feel about that.

But it's on one of these days and brief moments of calm when Thatch is daydreaming about his family in the New World when he spots a blue seagull circling far above them. It's weirdly shiny, and Thatch immediately recognizes it as a species native to an island in Pops' territory, and one that is unusual all the way here in East Blue.

Which means only one thing: Marco's checking in.

A quiet whistle from Thatch is all it takes for the seagull to come spiraling down, and Thatch remembers to take a quick glance around deck to make sure Luffy hasn't spotted it; he's learned the hard way what it means for a bird to land on deck when the ever-hungry mermaid is feeling a bit peckish.

But the bird lands safely on the rail close to Thatch's arm. It's by no means nearly as brilliant a blue as Marco, but certainly more beautiful than most birds you can find out at sea. Thatch still remembers the first time he found Marco making friends with the things, remembers laughing hysterically and making all sorts of bird jokes as Marco, then still a teen, looked more and more like the constipated old man he eventually grows up to be.

Well, jokes aside, the birds are now incredibly useful, serving as Marco's personal messengers to their allies across the world. Which, huh, Thatch supposes that includes him now, which is kind of an odd feeling.

And while Thatch wants to feel flattered that Marco's checking up on his favorite Thatch, he also knows that Marco's checking up on their littlest little brother, and the little brother of that little brother (baby brother^2, Thatch and Marco had fondly dubbed her, when Ace first told them about her). Because while Thatch's definitely accompanying Ace and co for his own selfish reasons (and he also swears it's not just so he could encounter the love of his life, darling Luffy), he also knows that Marco and Pops had ulterior motives for letting Thatch go, beyond just allowing Thatch to stretch his legs.

When Ace had asked, uncharacteristically shy, if he could still be one of Whitebeard's sons without formally joining his crew, and when Whitebeard responded with an affirmative--Thatch wonders if Ace really understands what that meant. A good parent, a good father is definitely a foreign concept to him (and unfortunately for Luffy too, Thatch has found, and knows that Pops will adopt her the moment he meets her if he hasn't already). And the Whitebeard pirates don't take the bonds of family lightly.

So while yes, Thatch is here for his own adventures, he's also very aware of what he represents, both to his family and to the world. For his family, his presence on board maintains the connection between the Whitebeards and Ace. Ace is still so very new to their family, and while no one doubts his competence, he still has much to go in terms of learning to rely on them, on learning that the Whitebeard pirates will ALWAYS have his back. And well, East Blue is kinda far away, too far for a shout to be heard on the Moby. So Thatch is here acting as their representative, and he couldn't be more honored to have the role. He is, if nothing else, excellent at being a nagging older brother, and it's the role he's easily found himself fitting into here.

But the other reason is that Thatch is the Fourth Division Commander of the Whitebeards, and no one who knows anything about pirates would fail to recognize him, and the weight of his presence. He knows people won't immediately make the connection that this crew has already been adopted, or even what that means because it's not quite the same as ally, but Thatch's presence establishes an undeniable connection between them and one of the Four Emperors. Thatch knows that when he makes eye contact with the marines and they balk, it's not just him they see: it's the huge, looming shadow of Whitebeard himself. And until the world learns to see that shadow behind Ace, behind all of the ASL pirates, well, Thatch will stay right here.

The blue gull on the rail looks at Thatch expectantly, and Thatch lets it perch on his shoulder as he makes his way to the kitchen. Sanji glances up in surprise and squints at the bird, but doesn't say anything as he returns to preparing dessert for the ladies (it's a reminder that Thatch should be doing that too, or else the snot-nosed cook will one up him in earning the favor of Luffy, or at least her stomach). Thatch decides to make this quick, and grabs two cookies from the hidden cookie jar, as well as some parchment and a writing utensil.

Thatch knows Marco wants to know how they're doing, but well, the timing of the gull is awfully convenient, so he's taking advantage.

Dear Blue Chicken Sauteed in Pineapple Sauce, Thatch writes, taking advantage of the opportunity to write in "code," despite the lack of confidential information and low risk of one of Marco's blue gulls being stopped. He'll take every opportunity to tease, thank you.

The stove on this ship works great, and the fish is beautiful. Thatch's pen moves before he really thinks about what's coming out. She's stolen my heart, I think I want to marry her. Thatch pauses...huh, well, honestly he's not exaggerating, is he? He'll let Marco guess how serious he is. (he's suddenly uncomfortable because he's not sure how serious he is himself, but that's a thought for another time)

And now, the most important part of the letter: PS - I dropped my hair wax in the ocean. Can you send me an extra from my room?

Because, tragically, Thatch had--and now his beautiful pompadour is a sad mess that's tumbling down his shoulders. Thatch knows he could pick up another tub of hair wax on any of the islands they’ve stopped at, but he has standards, and he needs his special wax that he’s used for decades, which is unfortunately only found in the New World.

Which makes his current situation stuck in East Blue quite tragic, except it isn't quite as heart-breaking as Thatch had thought it'd be, once he realized how much Luffy likes playing with his loose locks, and the sheer number of times Thatch has been finding himself overboard recently would have made putting his hair up again after every time a pain--but well. It'd still be nice to have the familiar weight of his hair wax in his pocket again.

Thatch decides to omit the major change with himself since he last saw Marco that resulted in the hair wax being lost in the first place: the fact that he's eaten a devil fruit. Because that's a surprise. Thatch wants to see Marco's face when he realizes how badass Thatch has become, controlling Darkness of all things. (well, Thatch has to actually get good at it first, and stop almost drowning. It's coming along)

Thatch wraps one cookie in the letter, tying it into a neat parcel, and feeds the other to the bird as thanks for his services. The bird takes off as soon as Thatch opens the door.

Well, now Thatch has a lovely mermaid to feed, and a baby cook to outclass.

~~

Thatch sees the next blue gull a week later, damn those things are fast. It's carrying a parcel this time, and Thatch reaches out gleefully, because he doesn't remember the last time he's had his hair down for this long and he can't wait to have his signature hair style once more.

The bird doesn't stick around this time, and instead just drops the parcel into Thatch's hands before wheeling back the way it came.

And...huh. The parcel's not the right size, or weight to be Thatch's hair wax.

Thatch squints suspiciously, as Ace comes to stand by him, staring after the gull. "Marco?" he asks, and Thatch grunts, already feeling grumpy and just knowing he's not gonna be thrilled by whatever Marco sent.

He opens the parcel, and inside is a little blue bauble, wrapped in Marco's infuriatingly precise, fancy shmancy handwriting.

Dear Soggy Bread, congratulations on graduating from a baguette. May you evolve into a better bread next time. PS - The stone's for baby brother^2.

Ace ignores Thatch's enraged yowl and plucks up the stone--before cursing and dropping it. Thatch's reflexes manage to catch it before it hits the deck--and he immediately knows why Ace dropped it in the first place.

The stone immediately feels weird, not necessarily in a bad way, but in a way that distinctively reminds Thatch of the sea. He's familiar with what the stone is, but not how it feels, and is reminded once again of his relatively new status as a devil fruit user. At Ace's questioning (and wary) look, Thatch explains, as a good older brother should.

It's a special stone made on Fishman island. There's a piece of seastone at its core, and then it's wrapped in a mix of glass and crystal. It's a luxury trinket popular with a lot of young mermaids, because it's pretty, but also feels like the essence of the ocean is in it, which can be immensely comforting to most merfolk and fishmen.

While not the purpose, the glass and crystal casing also ensures that devil fruit users can touch it without feeling weakened, though they can still sense the sea from it, hence why it feels weird.

Thatch hates, hates to admit it, but it's a ridiculously thoughtful (and expensive) gift for a mermaid devil fruit user who can't enjoy the sea directly, damn Marco for thinking of it first! The bastard's definitely teasing Thatch by trying to woo his crush from half a world away. Marco hasn't even met her, this is just a game to him, but Thatch's serious, damnit!!!

Thatch wishes he could be petty enough to lie and say the bauble is a gift from Thatch, but he can't, because as much of an asshole as Marco can be, Thatch still loves him. Sigh.

Luffy chooses that moment to slide across the deck to them like a playful sea lion, slamming into Ace's legs and snaking up him in a split second to peer over his shoulder at whatever her brother's looking at in Thatch's hand. Ace isn't fazed and doesn't even twitch.

Thatch sighs dramatically. Adorable little brothers and their adorable little brother^2s, damnit.

Thatch dutifully presents the little stone to Luffy, as Ace warns her not to drop it, it's gonna feel a bit weird ok. Thatch lets Ace take over rattling off the information he'd just conveyed, doing his own duty as Older Brother, and is instead transfixed by the way Luffy's eyes widen in wonder as she rolls the shiny thing from one hand to the other.

While Luffy's not really the type for jewelry or trinkets, it's clear she's enthralled by the stone, the way she is with few inanimate objects other than food. Thatch belatedly notices that the stone's a brilliant crystal teal, with shards of gold obscuring the dark seastone center, the same color as someone's Zoan form. Bastard.

"Who's it from?" Luffy asks, and Thatch knows he's told her about his crew before, but she's unlikely to have remembered any names.

He may not lie about who the gift's from, but it doesn't mean he can't take revenge.

"A pineapple man who can turn into a burning chicken," he says with a straight face, ignoring Ace's frantic gestures to abort.

Thatch finds out why moments later, as Luffy's eyes widen impossibly more, and he belatedly realizes that to Luffy (and probably only Luffy), he'd just made Marco sound like the coolest person on earth.

Thatch meets Ace's furious eyes apologetically even as Luffy's COOOOOL!!!!!! rips across deck, and they both sigh.

They're not looking forward to Luffy meeting Marco

~~

~~

Hope you enjoyed! As always, comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated and encourage me to create more for this AU! ^ ^

❀ ❀ Send YukiPri an Ask! ❀ ❀

Read the next part: Marco’s Bauble, Part 2

~This ask has been added to the Mermaid AU Text Headcanons Compilation post~

#One Piece Mermaid AU #Whitebeard Pirates #Thatch #Marco #ThatchLu #MarLu #YukiPri rambles #genderbend #text headcanon #except it's honestly more of a short fic this time #is 2K a short fic idk #long post #longpost #Ace: all you needed to say was 'it's from an old dude with funny hair' and Luffy woulda forgotten about him in an instant! #but now she's excited and won't think about anything else! #Next she'll say she's always wanted a burning chicken on the crew!

[thatsamericano]

Screaming and Fighting and Kissing in the Rain

Pairing/Characters: America/Romano. Past Prussia/Romano, minor Cankraine.

Rating: Teen, for cursing. Also, suggestive implications at the end, but nothing even remotely explicit on-screen.

Warnings: Self-esteem issues, including body image issues. Mentions of violence that aren’t carried out. An unwanted kiss between Prussia and Romano due to miscommunication, but Prussia respects Romano’s boundaries when he makes them clear.

Word Count: 2412

Summary: America gets upset when he plans to meet up with Romano after a meeting and sees Romano and Prussia kissing when he gets to the restaurant. Romano has to chase after America in a rainstorm to make things right.

A/N: Written for Romerica/Itapan Week Day 2: “Kissing in the Rain.” Title taken from “The Way I Loved You” by Taylor Swift.

Despite changing his outfit twice, adding an extra spritz of cologne, and taming his hair as much as he could, Romano still managed to be fifteen minutes early to the restaurant. He ordered a drink at the bar and browsed Twitter on his phone as he impatiently waited for America to show up.

This wasn’t a date, so there was no reason for him to be so nervous, Savino reminded himself. It was just supposed to be “dinner and drinks” with a friend after the world meeting, but Alfred had seemed so excited about spending time with him that an incredibly stupid part of Savino was hoping he could manage to turn this evening in another direction. Savino wanted that part of him to shut the fuck up.

So when Prussia showed up at the bar and sat down on the adjacent stool, Savino slipped his phone into his pocket and engaged in a bit of lighthearted bickering back and forth. Gilbert was a useful distraction that would help him appear relaxed instead of jittery and anxious by the time America showed up.

Romano’s mind was so fixated on America and their date that wasn’t a date that he missed signals he would have ordinarily noticed. He only realized things had gone too far when suddenly Prussia’s mouth was on top of his, and his hand was inching up from Romano’s knee onto his thigh (and when the hell did it land on his knee anyway?).

Romano tore his mouth away and shoved Prussia’s hand off him before it could climb any higher. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?!” Romano squawked.

Prussia gave him that annoying, smarmy smirk he was way too used to. “Trying to turn you on so you’ll agree to come back to my hotel room with me. Is it working?”

Savino scoffed and picked up his drink. “Hardly. That hasn’t worked in a century, asshole.” He took a large gulp and picked at a cocktail napkin nervously. “Besides, I can’t go to your hotel room tonight. I planned to have dinner with someone else.”

“Oh, you’ve got a date?” Prussia asked. Now that sex was off the table, he was curious in a purely friendly manner.

“Not quite. I’m uh… supposed to be meeting America here in a few minutes.” Savino smiled nervously, in a way that must have given away his true intentions, because Gilbert laughed like Savino had said something incredibly hilarious.

“That sounds like a date to me.”

Savino opened his mouth, but before he could issue a flustered denial, he saw an enraged Canada marching towards the bar with an umbrella clenched in his fist like a sword he was about to wield against some very unlucky victim. Ukraine was right behind him, and she was fluttering her hands in the air and whispering, but clearly it wasn’t calming her boyfriend down at all. America’s brother could be downright scary when he was pissed off, so Romano wisely closed his mouth and shrank back against the bar.

Canada pointed a finger straight at Romano. “You!”

“Me?”

“What the fuck did you do to my brother?!” Canada snarled, resembling a polar bear. A fully grown, vicious mama bear, not the cute little cub he carried around with him sometimes.

“I… I didn’t do anything, I swear—”

“Well, somebody must have done something! Because Alfred practically ran out of here crying, and Alfie doesn’t cry like that for no reason! I know for a fact he was supposed to be hanging out with you tonight because he told me all about it after the meeting! He was so happy about getting to spend time with you, and now look what you’ve done!”

Romano felt nauseous with guilt. “Fredo was crying?”

Ukraine nodded solemnly. “I’ve never seen him like that before. Matviy tried to ask him what was wrong, but Alfred was so upset he couldn’t even answer him.”

“Shit,” Prussia whispered. He turned to look at Romano. “Do you think he saw us kissing and got the wrong idea?”

Canada ground his teeth together and gave Prussia a look that was colder than the chilliest day in the Arctic. Ukraine put a hand on her boyfriend’s bicep to keep him from lunging forward to beat the shit out of Gilbert like he clearly wanted to.

Savino hopped down from his barstool. “This is all a horrible, hideous misunderstanding. Where do you think Alfred went?”

Matthew released an irritated huff of air. “He was going out the front door. He’s probably on his way back to the hotel now.”

“Grazie.” Romano dashed past Canada and Ukraine and dodged a couple waiters and a few drenched guests on his way out the front door.

When he pushed open the restaurant’s heavy front door, Savino was instantly confronted by a harsh wind whipping through his hair and rain pelting down on him as thunder boomed from the clouds. The sky, which had been merely overcast earlier, was now in the midst of a full thunderstorm, but Romano didn’t care about getting wet or ruining his Armani suit or Ferragamo shoes. He only cared because the inclement weather made it harder for him to see.

Romano swung his gaze desperately around the street and quickly spotted a blond man in a business suit swiftly walking down the block several meters ahead of him. Romano ran towards him and started yelling.

“Alfred! Alfred, slow down so I can talk to you, damn it!”

When he got closer, he could see that the man he was chasing was indeed America, and that his shoulders were trembling. He was sobbing, just like Canada had said. “Leave me alone! Go back to making out with Prussia! That’s what you’d rather do anyway!”

“Don’t tell me what I fucking want, idiota!” He was close enough now to grab America’s jacket, which he did, forcing America to turn around and face him. “If I wanted to make out with Prussia, I wouldn’t be out here in the rain yelling at you!”

America’s face was met with a mixture of rainwater and tears. He was soaked through to the bone, just like Romano was, and his electric blue eyes were swimming with misery and betrayal.

“You know, Vinny, it’s bad enough that I had to walk into that restaurant, expecting that I’d get to spend time with you, alone, and see you shoving your tongue down Prussia’s throat. But I at least thought you respected me enough to not lie right to my face. Guess I was wrong!”

Romano shook his head. “That’s not what happened, damn it! If you’d just listen, I could explain—”

America made a noise between a derisive laugh and a wet, hiccupping sob. “Explain?! Explain what?! Let me guess, it didn’t mean anything, and you and Gil are just good buddies! Because kissing your friend like that is a totally normal thing to do, right?!”

Savino’s throat was closing up, and he didn’t know what to say. Because Alfred was half-right in his hysterical shouting. A long time ago, he had kissed Gilbert like that, and even slept with him, but their relationship had never turned romantic. There had been mutual interest and mutual understanding between them, but never love. He would have never run away crying into a rainstorm if he’d seen Prussia kissing someone else, and he knew Prussia wouldn’t have either.

Which made him wonder: why the hell was America reacting like this? He was acting like Romano had ripped out his heart, stomped on it, and then laughed about it while high-fiving Prussia, which didn’t make any sense, unless…

“Fredo, do… do you want me to kiss you?”

Alfred whimpered like Savino had just stabbed him in the guts. He hunched his shoulders to shrink down as much as his tall frame would allow and squeezed his eyes shut. “I get it, okay? Gil is… he’s more attractive than me. He’s less fat, for starters. He can be loud too, but most people aren’t as annoyed by him as they are me. He’s older and smarter than I am, so he’d actually know how to kiss people. Of course you’d want to be with him instead of me.”

The thunder rumbled ominously as Romano reached out to touch America’s shoulder. “That’s not true. None of that is true.” Dio, it hurt to hear Alfred talk about himself like this. Like he was nothing. Like his feelings, which were clearly hurt, didn’t matter.

America continued, disregarding what Romano had said.  “It’s okay. You don’t have to try to make me feel better. I know you don’t like me the way I like you. You’ve got every right to kiss Prussia or whoever it is you want. But I’d appreciate it if you didn’t kiss them right in front of me, because it hurts. It hurts a lot more than you realize.” Alfred’s lower lip wobbled dangerously, and Savino could barely hear his voice over the wind and rain. “I’ve never… I’ve never even wanted to kiss anyone other than you. Talk about pathetic, right?” Then Alfred started weeping too hard to continue speaking and making these awful, animalistic, heartbreaking noises Savino never, ever wanted to hear again.

Savino reached up to wipe the tears and rainwater away from his cheeks. “You’re not pathetic, amore. You’re gorgeous, and smart, and fucking amazing. I don’t care if it takes all night, I am going to stand here in the rain with you until you believe me.”

Alfred sniffled and looked down at Savino like he was some strange, otherworldly creature he’d never seen before. “Did… did you just call me amore?”

Romano felt a white-hot flash of embarrassment at having his openly sappy words pointed out to him, but that only made him more determined and stubborn. “That’s right, I fucking did! You better get used to it, because I like you a lot, damn it! And that means I get to call you whatever sappy shit I want!”

Alfred laughed and pulled him closer by the waist. “You can call me whatever you want, baby doll. Just as long as you aren’t calling Prussia that too.”

Savino rolled his eyes and vainly pretended he wasn’t shivering from the possessive tone America had used with him or the ridiculous pet name. “For the record, I’ve never called Prussia amore, even when I was hooking up with him. And I wasn’t kissing him earlier. He kissed me, and I pushed him away.”

Alfred tilted his head and grinned. “You wouldn’t push me away if I kissed you right now, would you, Vinny?”

Savino had never felt more exasperated. “Honestly, the fact that you even have to ask—”

Alfred chuckled and leaned down to kiss him, and Savino closed his eyes. At first, Alfred was tentative and uncertain, but with Savino’s encouragement, he gradually grew more confident. His lips were cold and wet from the rain, which wasn’t ideal, because Romano was not a fan of this kind of weather. He obviously didn’t know what to do with his hands, but the fact they were roaming all over Romano’s back like he couldn’t touch him in enough places was flattering as hell. Overall, it wasn’t perfect, but the kiss was equal parts loving and desperate, so it was pretty damn incredible.

Then, with no warning, America lifted Romano’s feet off the ground like he weighed nothing at all. Savino groaned into his mouth and wrapped his legs around Alfred’s hips so he wouldn’t fall over. And because the fact Alfred could just lift him up like that was stupidly hot and making his mind wander to ideas he definitely wanted to explore somewhere more private than this very public sidewalk in front of God knows how many people.

He was a panting, horny mess by the time Alfred pulled away to breathe. Alfred was still holding Savino up, like he could do this all night, and he was smirking.

“Well, how was it? Was I better than Prussia?”

Romano smacked his shoulder without putting much force behind it. “You don’t have to beg for compliments. It was better than anyone I’ve ever been with. Especially the part where you lifted me off the ground.”

“I could carry you around like this for hours. I could pin you up against a wall too, if there was a wall nearby.”

“You should definitely do that at some point. But for now, I’d like to stand again.”

America obediently set Romano back down on his feet and let go of his waist. He gestured back down the street, from whence they had come. “We had dinner plans earlier. Do you want to go back to the restaurant, or…”

“It’s getting late. I think we should go back to the hotel.”

Alfred took his hand and led him down the street. “Makes sense. The hotel has room service. Plus a shower with hot water and fluffy towels. We can get warm, change into dry clothes, then order something to eat.”

He squeezed Alfred’s hand. “The hotel also has walls. And beds that are definitely too big for just one person.”

Alfred’s eyes widened, and he choked on air. “That’s… yeah. Lots of good stuff at the hotel.”

Savino smiled to himself without saying anything. As smooth and seductive as Alfred might pretend to be, this was entirely new territory for him, so he was naturally overwhelmed. It wouldn’t help him to know that his innocence was one of the most adorable things Savino had ever seen.

The light was red when they arrived at the crosswalk, and they had to stop to let cars pass by. Romano leaned up to kiss America’s cheek, and America gave him a puzzled look afterwards.

He shrugged, feigning nonchalance as best he could. “I just love you is all.”

Alfred beamed down at him, brighter than the high-beams of passing cars. “I love you too.” He tilted Savino’s chin up and kissed the bridge of his nose. “And I cannot wait to take you home with me.”

Home, hotel, a colony on the moon… at the moment, Romano would gladly go wherever America would take him. When the crosswalk light turned, he grimaced at the fact his Ferragamos had to wade through a muddy, filthy puddle, but it was worth it to be a few steps closer to a hotel room where they could finally be alone at last.

#hetalia #romerica #romerica week #hws romano #hws south italy #hws america #hws prussia #hws canada #hws ukraine #aph romano #aph south italy #aph america #aph prussia #aph canada #aph ukraine #hetalia fanfic #hetalia fanfiction #hws fanfic #hws fanfiction #aph fanfic #aph fanfiction #tw self esteem issues #tw body image issues #tw mentions of violence #tw unwanted kiss #my writing #original post

[welllpthisishappening]

The Couples That We Know

Technically speaking, they’re not supposed to be dating. Each other, at least. 

For Killian Jones, there are plenty of reasons to like working at Pendragon Publishing. Good pay, vaguely acceptable benefits, not-that-bad coffee in the break room. But there are also some things he kind of, sort of...hates. Namely the way dating his co-worker is possibly against the rules, and how that means they can’t go to the annual holiday party. Together, at least. 

So, enlisting the help of their best friends only makes sense. Pretend to date other people, avoid any hint of suspicion, and drink all the wine Pendragon’s party-planning committee can offer them. Perfect plan, really. 

----

Rating: Still teen, still with some kissing Word Count: 6.1K AN: As promised, the onslaught of Christmas fic continues. This one somehow has secret dating and fake dating because I know no trope limits. Also it almost sort of follows the prompt @the-girl-in-the-band-tshirt​​ sent in, which was "we’ve been celebrating our wedding anniversary on the wrong day for the past nine years." Attempts to follow the prompt were almost made. 

Also on Ao3 if that’s your Christmas jam. 

----

“You know, for this to work, you’ve got to actually stop staring at her. At least without quite so much palpable longing.” Opening his mouth, Killian has every intention of announcing how little he’s staring, but that would be a rather awful lie and it’s probably wrong to lie at Christmas. Or at least two and a half weeks before. Plus, Mary Margaret’s face makes even the thought of saying whatever he hadn’t entirely come up with impossible. 

“You going to give me detention?” “I’m seriously considering it.” He sighs. Dramatically. Nearly lets his chin slump towards his chest, which would add more than a fair share of melo to that aforementioned drama, and—“You think this is a dumb idea?” Mary Margaret’s eyes widen. 

Her lips practically disappear when she pushes them together that way, and Killian has to bite the side of his tongue so he doesn’t make some sort of teacher-based quip again. He really cannot afford to get sent to detention. Metaphorical, or otherwise. 

“There’s no possible way for me to tell you, again, how dumb this idea is,” Mary Margaret says, and that might be the most scathing string of words he’s ever heard out of her. Telling Emma suddenly becomes something of a necessity, and that’s a problem. 

The crux of their problem, really. 

Eyes flitting up, Killian ignores the wholly out-of-character sound Mary Margaret lets out when his gaze darts across the room and lingers on hair that’s looking shinier than usual, as if it’s trying to distract him and overwhelm him, and both things happening simultaneously is almost too much for his brain to deal with. When he’s had two glasses of wine, already. 

It’s not the best wine, actually. Killian’s not surprised. Pendragon Publishing is not especially well known for its money-spending efforts, and the annual holiday party is no different. Funded by some half-hearted party committee, that is very likely controlled by just one person, that same person does not appear to have an eye for decorating. If the copious amount of mistletoe hanging everywhere is any indication. 

And the whole thing exists to drive Killian insane. Both the mistletoe, and the party. Or so he will argue. When Mary Margaret inevitably points out what a dumb idea this is, again. 

She’s totally going to say it again. 

“It’s going to work,” Killian mutters, but it sounds inherently unenthusiastic, and Mary Margaret’s eyes cannot widen anymore. They’ll fall out. Which will cause a scene, he imagines. 

And they’re trying to avoid that. 

Or, well—avoid breaking the rules, technically. They don’t want to do that. Because Pendragon might host shitty holiday parties, but it’s one of the most well-known agencies in the Tri-State area, and both Killian and Emma like their jobs. They like each other too. 

Deciding to date wasn’t really part of the plan. But she makes him smile, and he considers the ability to make her consistently laugh one of his better talents, and they’re really good at kissing each other. Which is something they’ve been doing for far longer than anyone realizes. Months, actually. With post-work dinners, and weekends spent together, and Killian has started to find it harder and harder to leave her apartment in the morning, because he keeps staying at her apartment all night, and not proclaiming several rather life-altering strings of words is becoming more and more difficult. 

Which brings them right back to the crux of the problem. Pendragon’s holiday party, and its presumably boxed wine, and dating other employees isn’t explicitly mentioned in the employee handbook, but it’s very likely frowned upon and showing up here together wasn’t a feasible option. No matter how much he wanted it to be. 

Showing with other people, though. That made sense. 

It made—sense adjacent. 

“Did I tell you that you look nice?” Tilting her head, Mary Margaret’s gaze turns appraising and she wasn’t particularly pleased about having to take her ring off. It hangs on a chain that’s only occasionally fallen over the front of her dress, and David thought the whole thing was hysterical. 

He sent “Mary Margaret 101” facts to Killian all week. 

“You don’t have to actually woo me,” Mary Margaret counters, but there’s a bit of color on her cheeks that doesn’t have anything to do with the heat in this rented loft. It’s very warm. 

“No woo’ing, just facts. Should that dress look familiar, though?” “Depends on how often you’re rummaging around the back corner of Emma’s closet.” “Not that often, but—” Mary Margaret nods before he can get the rest of the question out, smiling over the top of her glass. Filled nearly to the brim with wine that may actually be capable of eroding paint. It’s so bad. That’s probably not a metaphor for anything. 

“You’ve really got to stop staring, it makes you look like a crazy person,” she adds, and to prove how capable he is of following direction Killian’s does the exact opposite. Back towards his girlfriend, and there wasn’t really a ton of planning before they dove into the deep end of this totally legitimate, absolutely will not blow up in their face plan. 

Will’s arm is slung over Emma’s shoulders. “Can’t clench your jaw like that, either,” Mary Margaret mutters. Keeping the laugh out of her voice is seemingly impossible. 

And rolling his whole head is juvenile, but Killian’s starting to feel a little drunk. Without any of the fun benefits. His head hurts. “Should have come up with a list.” “I could if you want.” “I do not, no.” Mary Margaret’s smile is a hint more honest, that time. It really is a nice dress. “That’s what I figured,” she says, tugging on his tie familiarly. “But you look like you’re going to challenge your own best friend to a duel.” “Swords are a requirement for that, aren’t they?” “Alexander Hamilton.” “Excuse me?” “Dueled with pistols, so—” “—Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays?” Snickering, Mary Margaret bumps her hip with his and there are at least ten unopened texts from David on Killian’s phone. Demanding update for what he was regularly referring to The Great Idiot Romance of 2020 . Although, he never mentioned that in front of Emma. 

Who very likely would have won that duel, should it have occurred. 

“Alright,” Mary Margaret sighs, like she hasn’t already agreed to a whole night of this, “we should probably mingle, if we’re going to make this look legit.” “Say legit again, please.” She sticks her tongue out. 

“Not a very good argument, Ms. Blanchard,” he chuckles, shifting his hand to the small of her back and he supposes he should eat something. To sop up all the wine. Her expression doesn’t change. Might get more scowl-like, if anything. 

And there’s likely no reason for Emma’s neck to twist the way it does, except something else vaguely melodramatic that Killian cannot think about for the next four hours, but she does and he stands up a little straighter. Presumably, at least. Mary Margaret’s reproachful tongue click is very loud. 

But then Emma’s eyes are widening as well, and her lips are slightly twisted and Killian does a God awful job of winking at her. 

He swears he can hear laugh — across the whole loft. Four hours at this stupid thing, max. Then he’s going to make out with his girlfriend. For possibly four hours straight. Which he imagines is a record of some sort. 

“Food,” Mary Margaret declares, fingers back on his tie and she makes him eat four bacon-covered somethings before they leave the table. 

To mingle. As is required by polite society and Mary Margaret Blanchard soon-to-be Nolan, and Killian quickly loses track of the number of people they smile at and the few others they nod in the general direction of, and he really should have been better prepared soon-to-be to evolve into a problem. He’s not. And Aurora’s gasp catches him off guard.  

“Oh,” she cries, hands flying to her cheeks in the middle of a group of editors congregated by the floor-to-ceiling windows, and at least that’s kind of picturesque. “I didn’t know you were engaged, Killian!”

Every one of his muscles tenses. Freezes, making Killian’s ability to stay upright all the more impressive, and it’s nothing except instinct when his gaze practically flies towards Emma. 

Who immediately tugs her lips behind her teeth, Will’s eyes widening to a size that would be comical in any other situation. 

Mary Margaret’s jaw works — trying to find an excuse, or an explanation, but there’s not any of those things and Killian finds himself nodding again. “Yeah, yeah,” he stammers, “that’s, uh—we are totally engaged.”

“Selling it,” Mary Margaret murmurs through clenched teeth, and he considers it an exceptionally large miracle that he doesn’t point that out. She’s not doing a good job of playing her role now, either. 

Aurora doesn’t notice. Another miracle. ‘Tis the season, or whatever. “So,” she presses, “have you set a date or—” Strictly speaking, biology was never one of Killian’s better school subjects, but he’s starting to wonder just how much stress the muscles in his neck can continue to cope with, and he’s all too aware of how much he’s beginning to resemble a bobblehead.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, we’re, uh—” Licking his lips doesn’t help their overall state, floundering under the expectant stare of half a dozen coworkers who are now heavily invested in a wholly fake relationship, and Mary Margaret’s hand threatens to crack several of his knuckles. When she laces her fingers through his. 

“Thinking next winter,” she says, sounding more honest than anything else they’ve told these people. “City’s basically all decorated for us, already, you know?”

Aurora does know, it seems. 

Her nod isn’t as erratic as Killian’s, is far more enthusiastic — complete with wide eyes that practically announce her interest, and the hammering of his heart against his ribcage makes it difficult to hear the footsteps that are moving towards them. 

Will looks far too entertained. 

Emma’s lips are still missing in action. “Couldn’t help but overhear,” Will drawls, and the duel is starting to sound very appealing, “sounds like congratulations are in order.” He’s going to kill him. Killian’s going to let go of Mary Margaret’s impressively tight grip, and he’s going to use both of his hands to strangle his best friend. Or at least ensure that he’s deprived of enough oxygen that he doesn’t continue talking. 

He will enjoy it. Thoroughly. 

Lifting her eyebrows when neither Mary Margaret nor Killian respond to this supposed stranger’s proclamation, Emma’s exhale is inappropriately loud. Rife with guilt, and an emotion Killian can’t quite name because being jealous of her best friend’s engagement to someone else is as absurd as anything they’ve done tonight, but it’s also kind of nice and— “Aurora, this is Will,” Emma introduces, and he’s actually got the gall to smirk in Killian’s direction. Before thrusting his hand forward, smiling a bit more good-naturedly at Aurora, who only looks slightly confused. 

That’s fair. 

All of this is flying off the rails, and Killian briefly considers how much of a scene it would cause if he barreled into the kitchen demanding better alcohol choices. It’s probably not worth it. 

“Nice to meet you,” Aurora says, like an actual human. With normal, human thought processes and presumably fewer holiday-based lies to deal with. “We were just talking about Killian and Mary Margaret’s wedding.”

Blood floods his mouth, and Killian’s only slightly worried about running out of tongue to bite before the night is over. Mary Margaret’s fingers somehow tighten even more, threatening the blood flow to his entire right hand, and Emma is very interested in the state of her shoes. 

“That’s absolutely what it sounded like,” Will grins, “when’s the happy day?” Glaring without making it obvious is actually difficult. Killian widens his eyes, but that only makes the width of Will’s mouth increase — like some literary cat, and Emma’s eyes keep closing for prolonged periods of time. Like at least several seconds. 

“Next winter,” Killian bites out, “we’re getting married next winter.” “Decided on a location, yet? Gotta get that stuff in early from what I’ve heard.” “Have you just?”

Will nods, shoulders shifting ever so slightly. Like he’s trying very hard not to laugh. It’s not entirely working. 

Maybe they should apologize to Aurora. 

“Oh yeah, yeah,” Will says, “wedding industry’s cutthroat like that. Plan months in advance, and even then you might not get your first choice.” “That’s definitely true,” Aurora agrees, and maybe Killian will just topple over. Sit down on the floor and drink an entire box of wine, and he doesn’t think anyone else notices when Emma pinches the bridge of her nose. “When Phillip and I got married, we went through a couple different venues before we found one that worked with our date.” “Sounds hectic,” Killian mumbles. Talking was a mistake. His voice doesn’t even sound like his own, Emma’s gaze snapping up in unspoken warning, and he’s worried he’s using up his miracle supply. So as not to cry out at the overall force of Mary Margaret’s fingers. 

All five of which were apparently blessed with mutant-type strength. 

“Luckily we’ve got that covered,” she says, brightly and only a little disingenuous. 

Emma blinks. “Yeah?” “Yup. Did you know you can get a permit for a Central Park wedding for like fifteen bucks?” “Wow, that’s—that sounds really nice, actually.” “Depends on whether or not it snows, but—” Mary Margaret shrugs, and none of them are lying anymore. Well, at least not quite as blatantly as five seconds before. Will’s smile almost looks legitimate. 

“You’re thinking of an outdoor wedding?” Aurora asks. “In the winter?” Another shrug, hints of color rising on Mary Margaret’s cheeks. “Early December, and we probably won’t be outside for very long. Mostly just the ceremony, and some of the pictures. There’s a certain kind of romanticism to the city in December, isn’t there?” Aurora doesn’t look overly convinced. Killian barely notices — is admittedly very preoccupied with the look on Emma’s face, and how it almost feels a little wistful and maybe just as romantic and not kissing her is somehow a victory and loss all at the same time. 

“You know,” Aurora says slowly, like she’s about to impart a crucial piece of information on them, “if we’re being honest, I am actually surprised this is happening.” One of Killian’s fingers flutters. Where it’s tangled with Mary Margaret’s, and Emma hasn’t blinked in years. Possibly longer. “Weddings? Or another wonderful event put on by Pendragon?”

“Bet they didn’t try and find this venue that far in advance,” Will mumbles. Emma closes her eyes. That’s like—half a blink, at least. 

Aurora shakes her head, still looking far more serious than the situation requires. “No, no, no, well...you and Emma are always together at work, aren’t you?”

Breathing is a challenge. 

Gritting his teeth less so, the overall tension in Killian’s jaw threatening to do permanent damage. Emma hasn’t opened her eyes yet. 

“We’re friends,” he reasons, and if he were actually engaged to Mary Margaret he’d be almost offended by this whole conversation. 

Lying likely robs him of any right to relationship-based offense, though. 

“Oh no, no, I know,” Aurora says, without sounding entirely honest, “and I’m sure it’ll be a gorgeous wedding. Just—if we had to guess, I think most people at Pendragon would have thought it’d be the two of you.” If nothing else, this night has provided a massive insight into all the facial expressions Mary Margaret is capable of making. At least half a dozen that Killian was previously unaware of, including the current one — a mix of disgust and appropriate scandal, and Killian resists the urge to point out that he and Emma probably couldn’t date, even if they wanted to, which they are, but that’s...that’s beside the point. 

Entirely. Like a different hemisphere from the point.

Aurora gives a tight-lipped smile.

“When did you and—” Will clicks his teeth, effectively redirecting the conversation. “—Phillip, was it?” Aurora hums. “Guessing you two didn’t get married in the winter, did you?” Whatever else she says gets lost in the buzz between Killian’s ears, the overall state of his heart continuing to threaten the structural integrity of his ribs, and Mary Margaret gives his hand several squeezes. To recapture his attention and whatever professionalism he’s barely clinging to, and she’d been right about romanticism. 

Of which he’s clearly bordering on hopeless at this point. 

Emma smiles. 

And Aurora excuses herself eventually — Phillip appearing like an unknowing brunette knight in conversational-armor, all four of them nearly exhaling in tandem. 

“So,” Will says, “scale of one to ten, how much did we suck at that?” “A forty-seven,” Mary Margaret replies, head lolling onto Killian’s shoulder while he finally lets out the scoff that’s been bubbling in the center of his throat.

“Next winter, huh? For real?” She makes a noise that’s presumably some sort of agreement, and Emma’s smile doesn’t waver. “Thinking about it. If Scarlet will double check with Belle about taking pictures in front of the library.” “Public property,” he replies, “don’t have to double check.” “But can we go inside at some point?” Killian asks. 

“Wimping out about temperature already?” “Expressing concerns, like Aurora who is—” “—A wedding genius, apparently,” Emma mutters, and Mary Margaret’s shoulders shake. She still hasn’t touched her wine. Eventually that will prove important. 

“Got a lot of opinions when it comes to other people’s plans, at least.”

“Eh,” Will argues, “did we give her much of a chance to delve into those opinions, or was Killian too busy making eyes at Emma?”

Continuing to open his mouth without actually saying any words is frustrating. For Killian. And the state of his heart, which cannot seem to find a rhythm anymore. Especially when Emma flushes, and threatens to stare a hole into the floor and of the two dresses she owns that are currently making the rounds at this party, the one she’s actually wearing is better. 

Probably because she’s wearing it. 

“I told you,” Mary Margaret grumbles, without any of her previous ability to chastise. She sounds almost amused. 

“Although,” Will adds, “Emma’s not doing much better, so—” Huffing out a breath only serves to flutter the few strands of hair that frame either side of Emma’s face, and that’s only vaguely messing with Killian’s perception of...reality, maybe. “Ok, you do not get to point out my own,” she leans closer, like that will help the volume of her next few words, “fake relationship shortcomings.” “Why not? It’s making all of this endlessly entertaining.” “I’m a better fake date than you,” Mary Margaret says. “You had to use your own wedding plans because you can’t take your ring off.” “That is nice!” People likely don’t turn the way Killian’s brain has already convinced him they do, but every one of Emma’s teeth is visible when she grits them like that and both of their potentially-obvious fake dates look properly ashamed. 

“Sorry,” Will grumbles, while Mary Margaret twists her heel and whispers, “no more wedding talk, I promise.” Emma laughs. That’s—surprising. And it’s not quite the laugh Killian’s also started claiming as his, but that feels almost possessive, and she’s definitely carrying less tension between her shoulders than he is. “I think that ship has sailed,” she says. “Should have thought about your outfit beforehand.” “Killian likes the dress,” Mary Margaret smiles. 

“Yeah, well Killian likes me, so…” Tugging Emma against his side, Will lets out another noise that will only garner them more attention, and people are starting to dance. The party fund could not afford a band. Or a DJ. Or anything more than what sounds like slightly muffled speakers and someone’s Spotify premium account. Killian hopes it’s premium, at least. 

Hearing ads in the middle of this instrumental Christmas music might be the last straw. For his sanity.  

“Well,” Will says, “if Mary Margaret’s going to start planning weddings, then I guess I do have to step my game up. C’mon, Em—let’s show ‘em what we’ve got.”

“And what do we have, exactly?” “Impeccable rhythm, and the lingering knowledge of a Groupon dance class.” “Do people still use Groupon?” Emma challenges, and Killian loves her an absolutely ridiculous amount. For several thousand things, but at this very moment, it’s mostly how her voice causes Will’s eyes to bug again and his tongue to poke between his lips and maybe the whole night isn’t a total disaster. He should tell her he loves her. 

Sooner rather than later. 

“My girlfriend,” Will replies, “who will totally be able to sneak Mary Margaret and David into the New York Public Library to avoid frostbite and ensure very pretty pictures, presumably on that fancy staircase they’ve got.” “Nothing sets the tone for a winter wedding like some casual breaking and entering,” Killian says, barely containing his grunt when Mary Margaret’s foot shifts. On top of his. 

Emma rolls her eyes. 

They’re just playing the soundtrack to A Charlie Brown Christmas now. 

“We’d appreciate whatever rules Belle could break for us,” Mary Margaret promises, “and will not mention that she’s the only person still using Groupon. Like, in the world.”

Will’s tongue is going to dry out. “Get on my fake date level, almost-Nolan.” “Shout that louder, please,” Emma groans. “And does the staircase not have a name? Fancy staircase cannot possibly be the acceptable vernacular.” “Probably not, because no one actual uses the word vernacular in actual conversation. Now you’re just trying to show off.” “Sound suspiciously like you’re impressed with my vast vocabulary, Scarlet.”

“Product of your profession.” “Grand, I think,” Killian says, fully prepared for Emma’s slightly parted lips. He will argue he’s prepared, at least. One of his knees does threaten to buckle though, and Will’s current eye-roll rate cannot possibly be healthy. 

“The profession?”

“The staircase.”

“Oh. That’s pretty lame, actually. It doesn’t have like a—staircase sponsor?” “Not that I’m aware of, but the entrance hall is called Astor Hall.” “Similar to the place of the same name?” Will quips. “Or—” “—The guy from the Titanic?” Mary Margaret finishes. “Why do you know about this?”

Killian lifts one shoulder. The one not currently providing rest for Mary Margaret’s head. “I know everything, a good fake-girlfriend would know that.” “And a legitimate girlfriend would dispute that,” Emma says, “plus, the Astors own or have endowed like half of New York. This is not impressive knowledge, and don’t get Mary Margaret talking about Titanic, she’ll start waxing poetic about Leonardo DiCaprio.” “I do have a longstanding crush on Leonardo DiCaprio,” Mary Margaret admits. “If I start quoting things about a real party and point out that Kate Winslet was willing to dance, will that get you guys to move?” Will demands. “Because we’re starting to draw attention and that’s probably not going to help our quest.” “It’s a quest now?” Killian asks. 

“Way more dramatic that way, so yeah.” “Please don’t start quoting Titanic at me,” Emma requests, pulling on the front of Will’s jacket and it’s a testament to their dedication to this ridiculous plan, or quest, that he wore a jacket. No matter how bad a plan it might be. 

Or quest. Whatever, honestly. 

“Alright,” she continues, “show off the lessons, or I’ll make fun of you for the foreseeable future.” Will winks. Not well, but possibly better than Killian is capable of, and he’s going to blame the wine. “Prepare to be absolutely wowed, m’dear.”

Rolling her eyes doesn’t do anything to shift the smile off Emma’s face, although she does look at Killian before she moves and the jealousy clouding his overall sense of being is as antiquated as the music and as absurd as anything else. 

Impressive, considering their overall barometer for absurd. 

“When do you think Aurora got married?” Killian asks, rolling his head towards a sympathetic-looking Mary Margaret. “Spring? June? That’s cliché, right?” “June,” she echoes. “Probably required her dozen bridesmaids to help her hand-make table favors, too. Just to really drive the point home. You want something else to drink?” “Yes, obviously.” Narrowing her eyes slightly when she nods, makes it more difficult to look at her — but that might also have something to do with the amount of alcohol Killian’s already consumed, and he really does appreciate how often Mary Margaret keeps making him eat. Even when it appears everything on this catering menu comes with bacon. “Don’t do that, ok?” he asks, at least two of their allotted four party-hours later. 

She lifts her eyebrows. “Keep texting my fiancé?” “Maybe you are the worse fake date.” “Well, you’re speaking in tongues now, so—” Shrugging, Mary Margaret’s shoulder doesn’t collide with Killian’s, but he’s also starting to feel a little buzzed. And hating bacon. And possibly happiness. On principle. 

Will and Emma keep dancing. Which also keeps them from having to interact with anyone else, but his buzzed-mind doesn’t care, and this whole thing was mostly his idea and that’s starting to really annoy him. 

That might be his base setting at this point.

“Bacon,” Killian clarifies, “don’t allow the national obsession with bacon to affect your food decisions when you—” Footsteps move by them, curious eyes and he’s not a frog, so his blood cannot possibly run cold. Plus, it’s honestly way too warm in this room. “We,” he amends, somehow rushing over two letters, and Mary Margaret noticeably sags against his side. “What was that about this being a dumb idea?” “Ah, getting fired at Christmas-time sucks. How will you buy us all presents, then?” Laughing helps loosen the knot of emotion that’s been growing increasingly tight in Killian’s chest, and the ends of Mary Margaret’s lips quirk up when he kisses the top of her hair. “Bacon is vastly overrated, though,” she adds, “people are obsessed with it.” “It’s weird, right?” “Definitely. Should I apologize for getting you engaged against your will?” Kissing her hair again is easier than responding, because responding might force Killian to contend with a lot of life-type plans he’s only half concocted, and he really should tell Emma he loves her first. Like, more than he realized. 

Until he had to pretend he didn’t. 

“Nah, but you can explain it to David because I don’t want my story to get interrupted when he inevitably starts laughing.” “You wanna dance?” Smirking at her does not have the same effect it has on Emma. And that’s definitely a good thing, but Killian’s drifting towards melancholy and the music isn’t instrumental anymore. Michael Bublé is a Christmas requirement, though. 

He flips his wrist. 

“Sweep you off your feet, Miss Blanchard.” She’s closing in on Will for number of pointed, if not passably amused, eye rolls. Still, Mary Margaret’s hand lands in his, and Emma’s eyes definitely drift towards them — which is as bad as it is good, and Michael Bublé’s version Santa Baby might actually be the worst thing that’s happened to any of them. All night. 

“Not exactly the pinnacle of music, is it?” Killian mumbles, and Mary Margaret hasn’t stepped on his foot. Or pointed out how close they linger to Will and Emma, both of whom look as unenthused by the music choices. 

And maybe it’s because he keeps staring, or possibly because Will is not the asshole he likes to pretend to be, but Killian is not entirely prepared for his friend to spin his fake date closer, or mutter something about cutting in that makes Mary Margaret laugh and Emma’s jaw drop and she steps on his foot. 

It’s the best thing that’s happened to him. All night. 

“We are not good at this,” Emma says, but she doesn’t sound all that upset about it and the buzz between his ears lessens. Turns into something warm and hopeful, and she’s close enough that he can smell her shampoo. 

“Something to be said for effort though, right?” “I’m not sure we’re making much of an effort.”

Nosing at her hair proves her point, but Killian’s—an idiot, and willing to blame romance, and the holiday season, and all the wine. So much. Even more bacon. God, he hates bacon. “Scarlet’s not subtle. And you look incredible.” “Do those sentiments go together?” “No,” Killian answers, “but true all the same.” “Flattery will get you everywhere.” Twirling her away, only to bring her back just as quickly, Killian doesn’t try very hard to avoid the smirk. So, he’s kind of a glutton too. For punishment, and poorly-timed emotions, and there’s a rather obvious glint in Emma’s eyes that leaves him breathless. Plus, she sort of slams back into his chest. “God,” she grumbles, “lacking some grace, huh?” “Eh, we’ll get there.” “Will we just?” He only realizes what he’s said when he notices the way her voice drops — rasped between lips that are redder than usual, and difficult to hear over goddamn Michael Bublé, and he’s totally staring at her lips. Obviously, he’s sure. “Yeah,” Killian nods. “Guaranteed.”

Part of him worries. Suddenly, Immediately. Overwhelming—ly. But Emma doesn’t move, and they’re more swaying than dancing now, and Mary Margaret’s footsteps are rushed. In a dramatic, everything is blowing up sort of way. 

That sucks, admittedly. 

“What are you—” Emma starts, but Mary Margaret just shakes her head. Yanking on Killian’s sleeve, she threatens to rip the fabric and he’s never heard her use any of those words. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she hisses. 

Killian tilts his head. “Be more specific.”

“Lance Sinqua is here. Is he supposed to be here? Why didn't either of you tell me he was going to be here?”

“He works in acquisitions, I think.” “I thought you knew everything,” Emma teases, and he has to bite the other side of his tongue. To stop from kissing her. 

Making out, more like. “I’ve had a lot of wine,” Killian reasons, “Should I be more concerned about why Sinqua being at his own holiday party is a problem?” Swatting at his side with both hands, Mary Margaret all but snarls. Emma looks appropriately surprised. “I know him,” Mary Margaret says, pausing between every word for emphasis. “And he has seen me.” What feels like the weight of several words and half a dozen ridiculous plans and/or quests fall into the pit of Killian’s stomach. Where they immediately crush a variety of internal organs. “Will’s distracting him now,” Mary Margaret explains, “but—he doesn’t know David personally, just that I’ve got a boyfriend—” “—Fiancé,” Emma corrects lightly, but the tone changes again and Killian’s never gone into shock before. He assumes it feels suspiciously like this. 

“I do not care; at all. Just—Killian, you’ve got to come. Now. Like right now.”

Nodding hurts his neck again, but Killian’s legs move on their own and his hand finds Mary Margaret’s and thinking about the look on Emma’s face isn’t healthy. Makes him want to stand on a table, or something equally absurd. Shout several things from several different rooftops, and he wonders if she’ll have to wear a red dress for the wedding. 

The real one, not whatever one he and Mary Margaret are going to lie about.

And to his credit, Will’s attempts to run distraction do look admirable. Moving hands and a nearly legitimate smile, while Lance nods in interest and continued conversation, and Killian squeezes Mary Margaret’s hand. In what he hopes is solidarity. 

“Hey,” Will exhales, as soon as he sees them, “here he is.” Killian’s cheeks ache. “Present and accounted for. You must be Lance, Mary Margaret said you’re old friends.” “Ah, I don’t know about old,” Lance objects, “but certainly the rest of it. I didn’t know she’d be here, would have asked you guys for drinks before or something.”

There’s really no word for the sound Mary Margaret makes at that. Part squeak, and what sounds like an admission, but that says a lot more about Killian’s growing guilt and residual jealousy and—

“How long have you two been engaged?” 

Racking his brain, Killian’s had too much to drink for this. He’s dimly aware of Mary Margaret swaying closer to him, Will’s grimace all but broadcasting how unprepared they are for that particular question, but it also seems like he’s trying to tell Killian something. He does not understand. Fuck boxed wine, quite frankly. 

He opts for honesty. 

Sort of.

It worked for Mary Margaret, after all. 

Sort of. 

“We’ve, uh—” Killian starts, “—been engaged only a couple of weeks, but...we’ve been dating since March.”

Will’s shoulders droop. His eyes turn imploring, but he can’t actually say anything and Lance is, so it absolutely does not matter. “March?” he echoes. “Your friend said it was kind of a whirlwind romance. Got together in the summer.” His mouth does more than open. His jaw drops, nearly to his ankles and shoes that he actually got polished because this party isn’t super important, but Killian wanted to look nice on his fake date and Mary Margaret’s hand is the only reason he doesn’t fall over. 

“Ah,” Killian breathes, “right. That’s—yeah, that’s right.” Lance doesn’t look convinced, either. He should go talk to Aurora. Who keeps glancing at Emma, like she’s got like SONAR. Joke doesn’t even make sense. In Killian’s head. 

“We’ve been celebrating a bunch of different anniversaries,” Mary Margaret cuts in, speaking so quickly it’s as if that lie jumps out of her mouth, does cartwheels and then gets a four from the Russian judge for lack of proper execution. “Y'know...romance, and everything. He’s uh—Killian must be thinking of when we met.” Lance quirks an eyebrow. He might hate Lance. He definitely hates Lance. “You’ve only known each other since March.” “Oh my God,” Will mumbles, scratching behind his ear. And really, that’s not what does it. But it’s certainly a tipping point, or a metaphorical straw, and Killian nods once before he lifts Mary Margaret’s hand to his mouth, mumbles thanks against her knuckles and marches directly towards his actual girlfriend. 

Who is standing directly under the mistletoe. 

It’d be more impressive if she wasn’t, honestly. 

And the music doesn’t stop — although Killian can’t really hear it either, an arm finding Emma’s waist, and her hands landing flat against his chest and someone cheers. Will. It’s definitely Will. Heads turn towards them, surprise coloring more than a few of their co-workers faces, while others look...less so. 

Killian doesn’t bother dwelling on that. He’s got more important things to do. 

“I’m pretty ridiculously in love with you,” he says, Emma’s eyes getting brighter and her lips as distracting as ever. Several of the less-than-surprised faces aww. Audibly. Which doesn’t quite make sense, but he’s still not dwelling and—“Not admitting to dating you is driving me nuts.” “When is your lease up?” “What?” “Were those words confusing in that order?” Emma asks, infusing the question with false confidence that he can hear perfectly and she should have confidence in spades. At least when it comes to this. 

Maybe if they get to keep their jobs. 

“A little,” Killian concedes. “Are you—do you want me to move in with you?” “A ridiculous amount.”

“That’s admittedly not the best adjective I could have used.” “Eh, I won’t get particular with syntax.” “Stop showing off,” Will yells, “and kiss other directly on the mouth!”

There’s a general hum of agreement — even while Lance continues to look a little confused, and Aurora looks a little offended, both of which makes sense because they were fairly awful liars, and someone’s given Arthur a microphone. So the owner of Pendragon Publishing can tell them, “Literally everyone knew, you both suck at not making out in the break room.”

Heat wafts off Emma, climbs up Killian’s neck and takes root in both of his cheeks and Arthur is not done. 

“It’s not encouraged. Intra-office relationships, usually way more trouble than they’re worth, but, well—all you really need to do is sign some paperwork with HR and maybe find some other corners that are less obvious.” Nodding slowly only makes it more obvious the kind of strain all of Killian’s muscles are under, but he can’t come up with a feasible response to that and Emma’s fingers curl. Into his shirt, and he imagines that makes it easier — when she yanks him forward, lips slanting over his and she doesn’t have to push up the way she normally does. Still, Killian’s fairly certain he hears one of her heels pop out of her shoes, and if this is how it feels when a heart beats its way out of a person’s chest, it’s actually fairly comfortable. 

“I love you too,” Emma mumbles, against his mouth. So, the only reasonable response is to kiss her again. Several times over. 

And they do fill out paperwork, eventually — the story of the fake date fiasco, as David comes to call it, perfect fodder for Emma’s maid of honor speech, and proof positive of the inherent romanticism of the city at Christmas. 

#cs ff #captain swan #captain swan ff #cs fic #captain swan fic #i was not kidding about the amount of christmas fic #i've got three more prompts to write and also the blue line stuff i rewrote and a new time travel chapter tomorrow #guess who's stressed in a holiday sort of way???

[cassthecringe]

Apart from Jotaro and Kakyoin (unfortunately) what are your other favourite jojo ships? I’d love to know

OHHHH POST YOUVE OPENED A CAN OF FUCKING WORMS LET ME GO OFF

i have a disease that makes me invested in the joestars’ happiness to an absurd level so bc of that a lot of ships i enjoy involve,,,one joestar,,,but there r others i swear let me just start rantingi

jonaeriwagon is soooooo so so cute it involves the most wholesome and purehearted jojo characters and it makes me smile so wide. erina and jonathan r childhood sweethearts and erina helped jonathan back on his feet after he lost EVERYTHING in the first fight against dio at the mansion. jonathan and speedwagon are best FRIENDS OKAY!! SPEEDWAGON LITERALLY CHANGES HIS ENTIRE WALK OF LIFE BECAUSE OF JONATHAN AND THE KINDNESS HE SHOWED HIM. i know erina and speedwagon didn't interact a whole lot in part 1 but like they're BEST. FRIENDS. in part 2, so much so joseph thought something was going on between them. i bring this up bc then it’s proof that this ship is full of ppl who just care for each other so much. they just adore each other and love each other and I'm crying

caejoseq is my FAVVV OKAY they're so stupid and in love. i love love love love imagining caesar and suziq falling in love slowly when he’s first training as lisalisa’s student and like they never do anything about it cause they're both so shy (yes caesar is shy bc these feelings r more genuine romance rather than sexual, unlike his other flings) but it’s obvious enough they both understand to a degree the other knows they like them sjkd;dn cuties. but then JOSEPH BARGES IN with his stupid hamon-breathing mask and his stupid blue-green eyes and his stupid lax personality combined with the moments he takes thing seriously during which is works hard as fuck/smart as fuck. he just completely sweeps them off their feet they had no fuckin warning whatsoever. so after a bunch of messy and intense pining from the both of them they eventually sit down and are like okay. we should do smth about feelings actually. so they Do and it ends with the polycule and I'm (”: smiling so wide they loved each other do u understand

AVPOL!! DO NOT GET ME STARTED OKAY it’s the survivor’s guilt and cherishing and longing for me sis!!!!!! I'm just saying both have pasts (araki said avdol’s backstory was so sad he didn't wanna put it into sdc so that’s where I'm drawing this from) that leave them focused on things other than their direct happiness/their own futures but then they connect and even though they're so fucking different they are SOOO different they're still the same on this level and i think!!! that would be everything for them finally someone who understands...listen I'm ging to go insane do you hear me. avdol loves this stupid fucking Frenchman so much because said stupid fucking Frenchman just cares so much about everything. meanwhile polnareff is in love with this fuckin god of a man who’s patient and kind and funny and a skilled enough fighter it’s stated explicitly in canon “oh avdol’s the one we need to worry about most not jotaro” like fuck polnareff is ENAMOURED WITH HIM!! AND I DONT FUCKING BLAME HIM!! and just dude. when pol thinks avdol came back to life and he starts crying tears of joy and hugs him so tightly and avdol just laughs but hugs him back imfmfjfj help. help. help. help. help. POLNAREFF LITERALLY ASKS HIM OUT ON A DATE THIS IS FUCKIN!!! CANON!!! i cant do this stupid fuckign idiots i love them

JOSUYASU!!!!!! TWO GUYS BEIGN DUDES WHAT MORE COULD YOU WANT??? like listen we have such a SLEW of wholesome moments between these two the opening to the tonio episode is literally just them going on a date OKUYASU WAS GONNA FEED JOSUKE AND JOSUKE DIDNT EVEN FUCKING QUESTION IT OKAY THAT’S KINDA GAY THAT HAS ROMANTIC FUCKING UNDERTONES!! and them fighting against shigechi idk man i just love their dynamic it’s such a pleasant bro relationship and i love them. but even beyond the wholesome moments when okuyasu fucking dies josuke loses his SHIT!!! DO YOU HEAR ME HE GOES FUCKIGN INSANE!!!!! HE’S SCREAMING AND CRYING AND BEGGING OKUYASU TO WAKE UP AT THE EXPENSE OF HIS LIFE FUCKIGN HAYATO HAD TO SHRIEK AT HIM TO MOVE HIS ASS OUT OF THE WAY OF KIRA’S BOMB LIKE!! listen the recklessness and furiousness of josuke’s tactics after okuyasu “”died”” haunts me. he didn't want to live in a world without him and meanwhile okuyaus LITERALLY TRIUMPHS OVER DEATH BECAUSE HE DOESNT WANT TO LEAVE JOSUKE’S SIDE HELP ME GIRL FJKF;NDJN FUCK. fuck. so yeah i lvoe them

fugionara... any combination of this ship makes me go nuts okay okay. the dynamics in the bucci gang will forever leave me in tatters but THE ONES BETWEEN THESE THREE IN PARTICULAR. FUCK ME UP. it’s the healing it’s the animosity it’s the regret it’s the trying to figure out your own mentally ill self while also the world ur in with these ppl u love so much and I'm going crazy okay okay okay. idk how to quite put my feelings for them in worlds i just have a lot of them and they are fuckin. overhwelming. just narancia for example meant EVERYTHING to fugo as evidence by purple haze feedback (literally every other paragraph is a flashback) and the only time giorno cries in the anime is when narancia dies. meanwhile fugo saved narancia’s life and giorno knew when to take narancia seriously as opposed to a joke. and then THE WHOLE DISCUSSION ABOUT GRIEF FUGO AND GIORNO HAVE IN PURPLE HAZE FEEDBACK? listen something about these three make me go insane and feral

foolymes like okay. okay. I'm shaking like a dog trying not to go overboard on this justification just listen to me. hermes and jolyne first find someone to trust in prison in each other. jolyne cares abt her enough that she first learns how to use stone free’s string-on-a-telephone ability bc she wanted to watch over hermes. hermes loves nd respects jolyne that after she wakes up from getting a stand shes like “hm. wonder where jolyne is” and goes to find her before all that bullshit happened just hey okay LISTEN TO ME!! and then they get foo they save her it’s just like fucking kakyoin they give her another chance and they show her what relationships are supposed to be like (fulfilling) they enjoy her company and make her laugh and she makes them laugh in return ohmy god EVERYTHING FOO FIGHTERS DID WAS FOR JOLYNE AND HERMES DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME!!! the marilyn mansion debt collector arc. the kiss of love and revenge arc. foo fighter’s death. I'm going to eat rocks in an attempt to stop feeling oh my god JOLYNE DIDNT EVEN BELEIVE FOO FIGHTERS WAS DYING AND THEN SHE GOT HYSTERICAL LIKE “BUT WE CAN JUST REMAKE YOU RIGHT WE HAVE YOUR STAND DISC??” SHE DOESNT WANT HER TO GOOO HELP ME HELP ME. I'm in tatters these three girls loved each other so fucking much they just wanted each other safe and they DESERVED to be safe and happy together but araki is fucking evil

jotaweather I KNOW THIS IS A CRACK SHIP I KNOW I KNOW I KNOW DONT FUCKIGN LOOK AT ME JUST HEAR ME OUT. jotaro and weather r both of similar demeanor that is quiet soft-speaking intimidating strong big aura of sadness coming from them. both have powerful stands and both had real fucked up luck in the love department. i also hc both to be autistic so that’d be another similarity. i jus think them settling down together after everything went down in a stone ocean au would be very soft and sweet yknow? they wouldn't even necessarily start it off in a romantic sense but they just take the time to try and heal with each other and eventually it just kinda veers that way. yeah

gyjo for OBVIOUS reasons like are you serious? gyro changed johnny’s fucking lfie from the SECOND they first interact johnny begins to push himself and tries to reach further/go further. and in turn johnny shows gyro you cant always be a wet blanket you need to take a stand this both helps his resolve to save the kid AND helps him to take the measures necessary to get to his goal. like gyro would not have been able to find johnny in the “who shot johnny joestar?” arc if he hadn't gone through, say, the ring roadagain arc with johnny first. listen man their relationship is literally the catalyst for this whole part it’s the driving force i just. they love each other they love each other thank you goodnight I'm emo

yasugap is just so so so so sweet it makes me so happy,,like okay josuk8 literally has a daydream where all that happens is he gives yasuho some candy and she eats it and is like “aw josuke this is so good thanks!” and she smiles at him and that’s IT THAT’S THE DAYDREAM 😭 listen they just love each other so much and i am emo. they literally SAVED EACH OTHER OKAY LIKE yasuho pulls him from the dirt and like she mentioned during the flashback chapter with the hairpin and her dad, it was also the other way around....saving josuke also saved herself and just LISTEN TO ME. THEY LOVE EACH OTHER. it’s a very sweet and healthy relationship and i hope to god araki makes it canon please sir ill bite you

anyway yeah these are the main main ones ? that i ship ship. like you'll get me excited if u mention them. anyway this post has gone on long enough so I'm gonna end it here by saying i really do have a thing where the relationship focuses on healing/helping one or both parties to save/improve themselves

#THIS IS SO MESSY IM SORRY I DIDNT PROOFREAD ANYTHING #uhm but yeah these guys. drive me nuts! #jjba #jojo spoilers #nothing too heavy but just in case #cass cries #iwannagrill

[there-must-be-a-lock]

Spitting Venom (Supernatural x Criminal Minds)

Word Count: ~10,300 yikes

Warnings: Non-explicit violence, nothing more than you’d see on either show. More cursing though. Don’t even try to tell me Emily Prentiss doesn’t swear like a sailor. 

A/N: This is for @stunudo​ and her “Lie To Me” Challenge! My prompt was the Modest Mouse song “Spitting Venom.” Thanks to @fookinghelljensensthighs​ for reading and exclaiming and also just loving Sam and Spencer with me. 

This is part of the “Coffee & Psychopaths” series. It follows the events of Quitting, but you don’t need to read that to understand anything that happens here.  

This centers around (and steals dialogue from) the events of “Slash Fiction” (SPN) and “Proof” (CM). In order to smoosh the timelines together right, I had to do some wibbly-wobbly timey-wimey stuff, so don’t think about it too hard. You should be able to tell from context clues, but for reference, the flashbacks (in order of appearance) correspond to “Shut Up, Dr Phil” (SPN) / “It Takes A Village” (CM), “To Hell... And Back” (CM), “My Bloody Valentine” (SPN), “Amplification” (CM), “With Friends Like These” (CM) / “Unforgiven” (SPN), “Appointment In Samarra” (SPN), and “Memoriam” (CM). Seriously, wibbly-wobbly. So much canon juggling. Just go with it. 

“Just for the record, the weather today is partly suspicious with chances of betrayal.” 

― Chuck Palahniuk

-

“Strap in, folks, we’ve got a weird one,” Garcia says cheerily, handing Spencer a paper folder as everybody else opens their tablets. 

“I thought the Winchesters were dead,” Hotch says. 

“That is part of the aforementioned weird, yes. Okay, for those of you who weren’t paying attention four years ago…” 

Spencer opens his file, and Garcia’s words stop making sense, because that’s Sam in the mugshot. 

His first instinct is to shout, This is a mistake. 

Spencer’s stomach churns. He’s cold all over. 

This feeling (betrayal, his brain supplies helpfully) is becoming a little too familiar, lately. 

Garcia is showing a video: a bank, a group of people scared and screaming, two men opening fire. That’s Sam. His expression is stone-cold, maybe even satisfied, as he empties the clip into the crowd. 

That’s Sam. 

Garcia’s talking about M.O. now, or the total lack of a consistent one, and Spencer can’t listen. He forces his features into the bland, neutral expression that has made people underestimate him for years, and he takes slow breaths, trying to calm his racing heartbeat. 

“Spence?” he hears, and when he looks around the table he realizes that it wasn’t the first time somebody said his name. They’re all staring. 

“You okay, kid?” Morgan asks, brow furrowed. 

“I’m fine,” Spencer insists, with a shrug. 

“No you’re not, I know that face. Are you feeling okay?” Emily prods, and Spencer hates her for a moment, hates that she can still read him. 

He tries to force a smile, but it feels stiff on his face. 

“I know him,” Spencer blurts out. “Sam. Sam Winchester. He’s… he was my friend. Or I thought he was.” 

There’s a moment of stunned silence all around the table. Spencer looks down at his hands, twirling a pen idly, instead of looking any of them in the eyes. 

“Reid,” Hotch says quietly. 

“We met at a… meeting,” Spencer says. He looks up at Hotch to make sure he understands, and Hotch nods. “About two years ago. He was only here for a couple weeks. We got along, though. We… he left. We kept in touch.” 

“When did you last speak to him?” Hotch asks, frowning. 

Spencer swallows around the lump in his throat. It’s taking his best effort to maintain his mask of composure. 

“It was eight days ago.”

Hotch nods. “I’m assuming he’s already using a new number, but just in case, we’ll need you to give Garcia any contact information you have.” 

Spencer tries to smile. “Of course.” 

Emily asks, “And he didn’t say anything that would…” 

“That would, what, tip me off that he was planning a massive murder spree?” Spencer says. His voice cracks.  

“Anything that might be helpful,” Morgan interjects diplomatically. “Locations, names.” 

Spencer shakes his head. “No, it was… we didn’t talk about that sort of thing. It was random, mostly. When something was on my mind that I couldn’t… couldn’t talk to you about, or - when I couldn’t sleep. But there wasn’t much small talk.” 

“And you never suspected?” Garcia asks, wide-eyed. 

“Do you really think that if I suspected -”  

“We know that if there were any hints, you would’ve seen them. Nobody is suggesting that you should’ve known,” Hotch says firmly. 

“I should’ve, though,” Spencer insists, with a hysterical edge in his voice. “There were so many things that he just… avoided talking about. He looked familiar, even! I kept wondering where I recognized him from!” 

“Enough, kid,” Rossi interrupts. “Getting angry at yourself doesn’t help anybody. It was before you joined the Bureau, there was no reason for you to remember his face.” 

“This is a good thing, right?” Emily points out. “The better you know him, the easier it’s going to be for us to catch him.” 

“Apparently I didn’t know him, though,” Spencer says hoarsely. “I didn’t know him at all.” 

“Are you going to be able to work this case objectively?” Hotch asks. “We’ll all understand if you want to sit this one out.” 

Spencer stares at him helplessly. He’s not sure he knows the answer to that question.

“I remember Gideon talking about the Winchester case,” Rossi muses. “Couldn’t make head or tail of it, no apparent connection between victims, witnesses who kept changing their stories…” 

“Your insight will undoubtedly be useful,” Hotch adds quietly. 

Spencer grits his teeth, shock turning quickly to anger. 

“I want to find him,” he says. He wants to know. He wants to hear the confession. 

Hotch gives him one more steely, appraising look before nodding. 

“Very well. Let’s talk victimology.” 

*   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *

September 2011 (eight days earlier) 

“I don’t understand how she could do that,” Spencer says bitterly. “If I saw one of my friends hurting like that, and I knew something that would stop them hurting…” 

“Shit,” Sam mutters. “I’m sorry.” 

“Did they not trust me to keep the secret? Did they not think I could handle it? We’re a team. We’re not supposed to keep things from each other. Not important things, not like that.” 

“Yeah, I hear you.” 

Sam leans against the kitchen counter, watching Dean through the window. Baby’s hood is open and Dean’s wrestling with something inside, and Sam wonders, for the thousandth time, whether he’s imagining the wariness in Dean’s face whenever they talk these days. He can’t shake the feeling there’s something Dean’s not saying. 

“I don’t know what to do,” Spencer says quietly, and his voice cracks on the last word.  

“I don’t know if there’s anything you can do, except give it time.”

“I hate that answer,” Spencer says flatly, and Sam laughs. 

“Yeah. But… I think hearing the truth is the hard part, sometimes. Or saying it. Right? It hurts like hell, and it’s going to hurt for a while, but now that it’s all out in the open… now it’ll start getting better. It has to.”  

“I guess.” 

“She thought she was doing the right thing,” Sam repeats. “Do you really think she’d do that, if she didn’t feel like she had a choice?” 

Spencer sighs in a rush of static. “No,” he says begrudgingly. “But I think she had a choice. And now it’s my choice whether to trust her or not.” 

“You’ll get there.” 

“How do you know?” 

“A very smart man once told me that’s what friends do,” Sam says wryly. “They trust each other.” 

“Quoting me back to me doesn’t seem fair,” Spencer grumbles. 

“Doesn’t make it wrong,” Sam retorts with a grin. 

Sam watches Dean slam the hood shut, and he wonders why his brother has such a hard time trusting him. 

*   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *

“Are you kidding me right now?” Dean snaps, and the sneer in his voice makes Sam feel all of six years old again. 

“No, Dean, I’m not kidding,” Sam says stubbornly. He leans against the doorframe and watches Dean pace back and forth, like a wild animal on a too-short leash in the tiny living room of Rufus’s cabin. 

“Dead or alive, Sam. We’re wanted dead or alive. You try to talk to a Fed, which one d’you think it’ll be? They’ll have you pumped full of bullets before you can blink.” 

“He’s got a point, Sam,” Bobby says quietly. 

Sam rubs his eyes, feeling a headache building. “I trust him.” 

“Yeah? Well, I don’t,” Dean retorts. “Who the hell is this guy, anyway? When’d you make a friend I don’t know about?”

“Is that what this is about?” Sam asks bitterly. “You’re pissed there’s something about me that you don’t get to control?” 

“In case you hadn’t noticed, you don’t have a great track record here,” Dean spits, and Sam’s throat clogs with anger even before Dean says, “Whenever you’ve made a friend on your own, how’s that gone for you, huh? Meg, Ruby, Amy… two demons, a monster, and now a fucking Fed?” 

Sam balls his hands into fists to fight the urge to start swinging. “Why can’t you just trust me? You don’t know Frank, either.” 

“I trust Bobby,” Dean says. The I don’t trust you goes unspoken. 

Sam clenches his jaw, breathing until he knows he can talk without shouting.��

“Just go, then, Dean,” he says, quiet and venomous. “Go ahead. Do whatever you want. I’m going to call Spencer.” 

Dean’s frozen for a moment, stone-faced. Then he whirls around and heads for the door. “Fine. I’ll check in when I get to Frank’s.” 

Sam sits down on the couch, resting his head in his hands for a moment. He hears the dim rumble of the engine starting outside. 

“I’m gonna use the landline, if that’s okay,” Sam says quietly. 

“I sure hope you’re right about this, boy,” Bobby growls. 

“So do I.” 

He finds Spencer’s number on the worn slip of paper in his wallet, written down with the five or so others that he doesn’t want to lose, and holds his breath as he dials. He has a feeling Spencer might not pick up on the first try, if he picks up at all. For all he knows, Spencer’s on the job already, in Colorado with his team looking for clues that aren’t there. 

He closes his eyes and thinks, please, and then Spencer picks up.

“Hi, Sam.” His voice is icy. 

“Hey,” Sam says. There’s a long, weighted pause before he continues, “It’s not me.” 

“You’re kidding me, right?” It’s clipped and robotic and forceful. 

“No, look, I - it’s not me, okay? That’s why I’m calling. I’ll turn myself in.” Another weighted pause. Sam clears his throat. “Not to the police, ‘cause I’m pretty sure they’ll shoot me on sight, but. To you. It’s hard to explain, but I’m innocent, it’s someone else pretending to be me, so if you can get to Montana -” 

“Montana?” Spencer interrupts incredulously. 

“Montana,” Sam repeats. He hesitates. “I figured you’d be tracking the call, I used a landline to make it easy for you.” 

“She’s working on it,” Spencer admits begrudgingly. 

Sam feels a twist of guilt, wondering how Spencer’s coworkers are reacting to this… even worse than Dean, probably. 

He hears a faint female voice in the background, too quiet to make out more than, “...not sure how, but…” 

“Fine, then,” Spencer says quietly. “Montana.” 

“Wherever you want, okay? I - I won’t put up a fight. Just…” Sam can’t help but laugh. “Don’t let them shoot me, okay?” 

There’s a crackle of static as Spencer sighs. “We’ll call you with details when we land.”

A voice in the back of his head that sounds like Dean is shouting, this is a terrible idea. 

Sam ignores it. 

“I trust you,” he says. “And Spencer?” 

“Mmhmm?” 

“Thanks for picking up.” 

*   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *

May 2010

Spencer feels like he’s choking on the thick stink in the air. He looks around the packed dirt yard of the farmhouse and can’t find any relief; he’s surrounded by ugly raw grief, and he can’t stand it. Emily is consoling the crying girl. Hotch is talking to the locals, tying up loose ends. Morgan is staring numbly at the rows and rows of muddy shoes on the ground.  

He knows he’s not the only one dealing with the weight of what they saw today. He should find Penelope, give her a hug, face this together, but he can’t bring himself to do it. Sharing this would make it a little too real.  

Maybe it’s all the practice he’s had at being alone; his first instinct is to hide, when things start to get overwhelming, and to maintain a certain level of clinical detachment until he can make sense of what he’s feeling. He can dissect his own feelings. When his friends are hurting, though… that’s a different story. When he sees his friends hurting, he hurts too, hurts in a way that chokes him, hurts in a way that crowds everything else out, and all he wants to do is fix it. Even when it’s not something that can be fixed. It’s illogical. 

Love doesn’t leave any room for logic, he’s learning. 

He slips away, into the barn. 

Dust motes and chaff drift in the scattered beams of light that cut through the empty space, swirling around him as he climbs the ladder to the dark drafty loft. Spencer sits down on the floor in front of the wall of drawings. He hugs his knees to his chest and looks, committing the clumsy crayon strokes to memory, because it doesn’t seem right to let all those empty shoes live on without also remembering this: bright color, crushing loneliness, constant fear. 

The loneliness is too much, after a few minutes. He pulls out his phone and closes his eyes. 

“Hey, Sam,” he says. His voice cracks and wobbles. 

“Hey. What’s up?” 

“I’m just not having a great day,” Spencer says, aiming for casual, falling short. 

“You wanna talk about it?” 

“Not really,” Spencer says. His voice is thin and scratchy and small in the darkness of the barn, lost immediately in the blanketing silence. 

Sam hesitates, and Spencer waits, hoping he’ll understand. 

“If you could have one object from a fictional universe, what would you want? Has to fit in your pocket.”

Spencer lets out a grateful little huff of a sigh. “Obviously the -” 

“TARDIS doesn’t count,” Sam interrupts, laughing. “It has to be portable in its normal everyday form, not just temporarily shrinkable.” 

“Sonic screwdriver, then. Obviously.” 

“Right? That’s what I said.” 

“What else would there be?” 

“Dean would go with a lightsaber,” Sam says, and Spencer can practically hear him rolling his eyes. 

It’s the first time Spencer’s really smiled all day. “Based on what you’ve told me about your brother, that doesn’t actually surprise me.” 

“Yeah. That’s Dean…” 

*   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *

There’s a dial tone. Spencer closes his phone and tries to breathe. 

“Do you believe him?” Hotch asks quietly. 

Spencer looks down at his hands, twirling his pen again, feeling claustrophobic with all their concerned gazes pinning him in place. There’s too much going on in his head, too many things trapped and buzzing inside him with nowhere to go, and he wants to start running but all he can do is shrug. 

“I don’t know,” he says, voice strained. 

“Even if he is telling the truth, there are parts of this case that just don’t make any sense,” Morgan says. 

JJ adds, “If it’s a ruse, it’s a bizarre one.” 

“Gut feeling, kid,” Rossi says softly. “Are we walking into a trap?” 

Spencer wants to scream. Instead he says, “I don’t think he’d hurt me, but…” 

“If you trust him, that’s good enough for us,” Emily says fiercely. 

Spencer can’t help it; he looks at JJ before staring stubbornly down at the table again. The words burn on their way out: “This wouldn’t be the first time I trusted the wrong person, though.” 

“We need to make sure we’re prepared for all eventualities, but I think it’s worth the risk,” Hotch says. “We can discuss it more on the jet. Wheels up in thirty.” 

Spencer refuses to meet any of their eyes as he gathers up his folder and his bag. He gets out of the conference room before anyone can try to talk to him. His cheeks are burning, and his hands are shaking, and he’s already jittery but he really needs coffee; beyond that singular thought, his brain is stuck between stations, all white noise and useless static. 

The coffee pot in the break room is empty. He’s glad; it’s good to have something to do with his hands, a ritual, a tiny piece of his life that he can still count on. Filter, measure grounds, fresh water… 

“Spence.” It’s JJ, of course, and Spencer’s first petulant instinct is to ignore her. “Spence. Look, we gotta talk about this.” 

“About what? The fact that one of the few people I still trusted turns out to be a serial killer?” Spencer says sharply. “It’s becoming a pattern, me trusting the wrong people. I’m getting used to it.” 

“You know what I mean.” Her voice is low and soothing, like she’s talking to a victim’s family. 

“I don't want to talk about it.” 

“I get it, okay?” she says, still in that calm, professional voice. Spencer wishes she’d scream instead. He wants to scream. “You're disappointed with the way we handled Emily.”

He breathes in through his nose, out through his mouth, focusing on the steady drip of coffee into the pot. 

“Listen, I have a lot going on, all right?” he says coolly. 

“You know what I think it is?” He doesn’t look at her, but she continues anyway: “You're mad that Hotch and I controlled our micro-expressions at the hospital and you weren't able to detect our deception.” 

It hurts. Her words bite down somewhere deep, venomous needle-sharp fangs that sink in and sting, and the toxic ache spreads through his system before he can take a breath. 

“You think it's about my profiling skills?” he spits back. “Jennifer, listen, the only reason you were able to manage my perceptions is because I trusted you. I came to your house for ten weeks in a row crying over losing a friend, and not once did you have the decency to tell me the truth.” 

Her expression is hurt, confused, and she says quietly, “I couldn't.” 

“You couldn't? Or you wouldn't?” he snaps. 

“No, I couldn't,” she insists. Her eyes are brimming with tears now, and Spencer feels a sick rush of satisfaction. 

He knows it’s cruel, but he lashes out anyway: “What if I started taking Dilaudid again? Would you have let me?” 

She recoils. “You didn't.” 

“Yeah, but I thought about it.” It’s petty and it’s unfair and it’s vicious, and he doesn’t care, not even a little bit. 

It stuns her into silence for a moment, and he turns to pour coffee into his travel cup, hands shaking so badly he almost spills. 

“Spence,” she whispers. “I'm sorry.” 

He whirls on her, almost shouts: “It's too late, all right?” 

“Reid,” she says, but he’s already brushing past her, and he doesn’t stop. 

*   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *

February 2010 

He’ll never forget the look on Dean’s face. He knows it a little too well, by now: disappointment, disgust. I expected better. This isn’t who I raised you to be. You’re not the person I thought you were. 

“You know I couldn’t have gotten out of that bathroom on my own,” Sam says. “You know I wouldn’t have - I wouldn’t have done that. I didn’t mean to. I didn’t want to.”  

Dean doesn’t trust him, though. He’s not sure Dean will ever trust him again. 

Sam lets Dean lock him in the panic room. He doesn’t protest; he goes without complaint, head down, like a dog with its tail between its legs as it waits for a kick that never comes. Detox will hurt. It always does. He feels like he deserves that, though. 

Dean almost says something, before he closes the door. The words catch on his lips and die on his throat, and he just shakes his head as he slides the deadbolts into place. 

“I’m sorry,” Sam says, but Dean’s already walking away, and the hallucinations are already creeping in around the edges of his vision: his mother sighing sadly, his younger self shaking his head in contempt. 

Sam sits down, curls up, and looks around at the bare walls and the locked door. The floor is cold under him, and he can already feel the chill sinking into his skin, down to his bones. He leans back against the wall and tries to breathe through the panic. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, over and over again, but he’s not really sure who he’s talking to any more. 

The hallucinations fade. The bloodstains won’t, not really. Dean will see those forever. 

He can barely look at Sam when he finally unlocks the door. 

Sam’s still itchy and wired, that night, even though the worst of it is over. Dean’s not even trying to pretend he’s doing anything other than keeping watch outside. He’s sitting in the hallway with a bottle of whiskey for company. Sam can’t leave, and he sure as hell can’t sleep, so he calls Spencer, and he doesn’t realize until it starts ringing that it’s two in the morning. 

“Hi, Sam,” Spencer says, staticky and distant. 

“Hey.” 

“You okay?” 

Sam sighs, stammers, stops, tries to start again. He doesn’t know what to say. 

“Not really,” he manages. There’s another long pause before he can admit, “I fucked up. I keep fucking up.” 

“Oh,” Spencer says softly. “Okay.” 

Sam exhales. “I didn’t mean to.” 

“I know. I believe you.”

“You’re the only one who does.” 

“I trust you,” Spencer says. It’s so matter-of-fact, so easy, and it’s been a long time since someone trusted Sam like that. He didn’t realize how much he missed it. 

“Why?” Sam asks. He tries to laugh, but it comes out wet and choked. 

“That’s what friends do, right?” 

Sam takes a deep, shaky breath and swallows down the lump in his throat, trying not to wonder if Dean’s still standing guard outside his door.  

“Thanks for picking up,” Sam says, barely a whisper. 

“Any time.” 

*   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *

They cuff his hands behind the back of the uncomfortable metal chair. Sam didn’t expect anything less, but he still hates it. They had the entire team except for Spencer there to take him in, and that was a few too many guns trained on him for comfort, but he’s alone now. It’s cold, and the walls are blank, and he shivers. 

He’s spent too much of his life locked in cages of one sort or another. 

When Spencer finally opens the door, Sam can’t help but breathe a sigh of relief, even as his stomach twists with nerves. He’d worried they would insist on sending someone else in. 

“Hey, Spencer,” he says quietly. 

Spencer doesn’t answer. He avoids eye contact as he sits down, settling in with his posture stiff and his hands clasped on the table in front of him. He looks like a different person from the one Sam first met; the jittery, fidgety, chattering Spencer is gone, and there’s an actual Fed in his place. Even when he meets Sam’s eyes, his expression doesn’t give anything away. He’s ice-cold and completely closed-off. 

Sam tries to breathe. 

“Where’s Dean?” Spencer asks bluntly. 

“He’s at a friend’s, trying to figure out how to clear our names.” 

“Why isn’t he here with you?” 

“He didn’t think this was a good idea,” Sam says. “We haven’t had great experiences with law enforcement, but… him even more than me. I trust you. He doesn’t.” 

Spencer’s eyes narrow. “You trust me.” 

Sam shrugs helplessly. “That’s what friends do, right?” 

Spencer’s face goes stormy immediately, and he leans closer, glaring at Sam with startling intensity. “Let’s get one thing straight. You and I are not friends. You’re a murderer, and the only reason I’m here is that I want to see what you look like when you’re telling the truth… because apparently you’ve been lying to me since we met.” 

It’s not unexpected, but it still hurts. Sam hesitates for a moment before saying softly, “I’m not a murderer, and I haven’t been lying to you.” 

“There’s video.” 

“It’s not me.” 

Spencer stares at him incredulously. “All that stuff you never wanted to talk about. All those times you talked about… being scared of yourself, worrying what you could do. What was that, then?” 

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” Sam says. He feels exhausted, suddenly. 

“You’ve never even told me what you do for a living!” 

“I can’t.” 

“How am I supposed to believe you?” Spencer asks. He’s starting to lose his composure, an agitated edge creeping into his voice. 

“Look, remember when you called me, and told me you might be dying?” 

“How is that relevant?” Spencer hisses. 

“I figured it out, afterward. Anthrax. Right?” 

“How did you…” 

“And you told me that you couldn’t give me details, and the details weren’t important anyway.” 

“That’s right.” 

“And I accepted that, because I trust you, and I trust that if you’re not telling me something, it’s for a damn good reason,” Sam says determinedly. “They tried to keep it out of the news, but later, once I knew you were okay, I did some digging, and I figured it out. Why didn’t you alert the public?” 

Spencer looks utterly baffled. “Because people would panic. There’d be mass hysteria.” 

“There you go. It’s the same thing.” 

“It’s not the same thing at all,” Spencer exclaims. “I work for the federal government!” 

“Look, I know you, okay?” Sam says desperately. “I know that your job is to notice the details that don’t make sense. Even when something seems obvious, you and your team pay attention, and you make sure everything fits, and you figure out the truth, not just whatever bullshit explanation seems easiest.” 

Spencer nods slowly. 

“That’s why you’re here, and that’s why your team didn’t shoot me on sight,” Sam continues. “And I know you’re good at your job, so I know you’ve noticed that there are things about this case that don’t add up. Okay? Why would I be here talking to you, if I was guilty? Did you ask yourself how I got to Montana so quickly? Did you talk to any of the witnesses from the old cases? Diana Ballard? Rebecca Warren? Did you try to profile us? Find any similarities in m.o. between all those murders? No. None of it made any sense then, and none of it makes any sense now. You know why? Because it wasn’t us,” he finishes.  

“Sam. Maybe there are details from the old cases that don’t make sense, but…” Spencer trails off, shaking his head, like he doesn’t even know where to start. Then he stops himself, sets his jaw, refocuses, and when he looks at Sam again, there’s nothing but pure clear anger in his face. “Look me in the eye, right now, and tell me you’ve never killed anyone.” 

Sam instinctively goes to tuck his hair behind his ears, but the cuffs cut the movement short. Spencer sees it. His face falls, bitter and disappointed. 

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” he mutters. 

“I’ve never killed anything that didn’t deserve it,” Sam insists. 

“Any thing? Really? Or any person?” Spencer asks. Sam doesn’t answer, and Spencer continues, rushing, like he can’t stop the words from coming out: “Do you know how many times I’ve heard a serial killer say that? Everybody thinks they have a reason, Sam, whether angels told him the guy was guilty, or… Satan was possessing them, or… a talking dog told them the meaning of life.” 

Sam lets out a borderline hysterical laugh, and Spencer just stares like he’s completely crazy. Sam can’t blame him. He’s starting to feel crazy. 

“Okay, here, look,” he says, in a sudden burst of inspiration. “Go through the old case files, look at the dates. Every one, I guarantee you, people were dying before we got to town. There’s gotta be a way to prove it, right? The murders started happening before we got there. Everything you’ve told me about Penelope, I bet she can do it, easy.” 

“What, so now you’re telling me you’re some sort of vigilante?” Spencer half-shouts. 

“Not exactly, no.” Sam’s starting to run out of ideas. 

The door opens abruptly, and a stern-faced agent says, “Reid. A word?” 

Spencer gives Sam one last look before he gets up. It’s a familiar expression: disgust, disappointment, you’re not the person I thought you were. Then he turns his back, and the door slams shut behind him. Sam can hear the click of the lock. 

*   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *

April 2010 

He writes to her every day, pages and pages of words. He hopes she realizes that they all boil down to “I love you,” because right now, he doesn’t know what else to say.

“Hi, Mom, this is Spencer,” he says, “I just… I just really want you to know that I love you. And -” when he blinks away tears he can practically see her, her smile swimmy through the salt water, same as it looked when he was small and crying over a scraped knee, and if he keeps thinking like that he’ll never make it through this message. He pauses, gulps for air, steadies himself. “I need you to know that I spend every day of my life proud to be your son.” 

She hasn’t taken care of him since he was small. Right now, though, he feels small and scared, and all he wants is for his mom to tell him that she loves him, and that it’s going to be alright. 

“Reid?” Penelope whispers, and then he hears Dr. Kimura, and he doesn’t get to be a child right now; there’s nobody there to take care of him. 

“I gotta go,” he says, and hangs up before Garcia can ask questions. 

“Doctor Reid?” 

“You look nice,” he jokes, with a watery laugh, and she smiles. “How are the patients doing?” 

“Let’s worry about you,” she says smoothly. 

Spencer forces a smile and shakes his head. “I actually… I feel fine.” It’s one of the most obvious lies he’s ever told. 

“If you feel any pain, I could give you something,” she offers. 

“No, I’d rather not take any pain medication.” His hands are shaking, but at least his voice sounds strong. 

She looks concerned. “We can at least make you feel more comfortable.” 

“I am comfortable, and I don’t want to take any narcotics,” he says fiercely. It’s not easy to say the words, but he feels better once he does; he feels proud. 

There’s someone else he needs to call, Spencer realizes. 

“Tell me how I can help,” Dr. Kimura says, and Spencer nods. First things first: if the poison is here, so is the antidote. 

“I think the cure for this strain is in here somewhere,” he says, ignoring the way his chest aches.  

“Well, shall I start here?” 

“Yes, just… I just need a moment.” 

Spencer looks down at his phone. He could call Garcia, again, have her save the message as a contingency plan, but he’s not sure he could handle her questions right now, and he can trust Sam not to push for details; he’s always been good about that. 

“Hey, Spencer.” 

“Hey, so, I can’t explain, but I’m not sure I’m going to make it out of this,” he says, stumbling over the words. “Don’t interrupt, I can’t - I just wanted to say thank you. In case I don’t get to say it again. Recovery was… I don’t… you helped. Thanks for always picking up the phone when I needed you.” 

“Right back at you,” Sam says quietly. 

It’s getting harder to breathe, and the panicked hammering of his heartbeat isn’t helping. 

“Thanks,” he says again, and closes the phone without saying goodbye. 

*   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *

“Reid, you need to calm down,” Hotch says, as soon as the lock clicks behind them. 

“I know,” Spencer says, rubbing his eyes, agitated. “There’s just… there’s so much that doesn’t make sense.” 

“It’s more than that.” Hotch gives him one of those piercing glares he’s so good at. “You’re allowing your anger with JJ to cloud what you’re seeing in Sam.” 

Spencer can’t really argue with that. He just nods. 

“When this is over, I want you to take a couple days,” Hotch says. “You need some time to process.” 

Spencer’s instinct is to argue, but one look at Hotch’s face tells him it’s pointless. He nods again, reluctantly. 

“Garcia is checking into the pattern that he talked about,” Hotch says, as he leads Spencer back into the observation room. “She may be able to pin the Winchesters’ locations at the times of the original murders. JJ’s talking to old witnesses. There has to be something Henricksen missed.” 

Emily, Morgan, and Rossi are clustered in the small, spare room, watching Sam through the one-way glass. Emily cuts herself off mid-sentence as Spencer and Hotch walk in. 

“You okay, kid?” Morgan asks again, looking at Spencer like he’s a bomb about to go off, and Spencer tries to smile for him. 

“All my time in the Bureau, I’ve never seen a case that made less sense,” Rossi comments. 

They all look at Sam, who’s frowning down at the table, deep in thought. 

Spencer clears his throat and asks, “Do you believe him?” 

“I believe that he’s telling part of the truth,” Hotch says. “It’s what he’s not saying that concerns me.” 

Inside the interrogation room, Sam starts, eyes wide, and looks from the door to the one-way mirror. 

“Hey,” he barks. “Hey, I know you’re listening! It’s St. Louis. I figured out the pattern, and they’re going to St. Louis next.” He tugs at the cuffs, clearly agitated. “Come on. Can anybody hear me?” 

“He’s genuinely distressed,” Emily says, frowning.

“If it’s a delusion, it’s a complex one,” Morgan adds. 

The door swings open, and JJ starts talking before any of them can ask: “That was Diana Ballard. She swears up and down that it’s all a big misunderstanding, but she’s not clear on any of the details; she just said that she’d trust the Winchesters with her life. Rebecca Warren said the same. There was someone impersonating the Winchesters, back then, and she swears up and down that someone’s got it out for them now.” 

“How did Henricksen not have that statement in his file?” Morgan asks. 

“Maybe Sam’s right, as much as I hate to admit it,” Emily says. “Maybe this is a case of agents just wanting the easy explanation.” 

“You guys are gonna want to see this,” Penelope interrupts, hurrying through the door as fast as her hot pink heels will allow, holding out her tablet. 

“Another one?” JJ asks. 

“Unfortunately, yes, and it’s a doozy. This just came in from -” 

“St. Louis,” Hotch fills in grimly. 

“How did you know?” Penelope asks, but she presses play without waiting for an answer, and they all cluster together to watch the grainy cell phone footage: Sam, leaning in close, giving the camera a smug smile before he opens fire. 

“Is that really…” Spencer says numbly, looking from the screen to the window, where Sam is tapping his foot, impatient, undeniably solid and real. 

“It’s real,” she confirms. “And to top it off, I found a call that the local brass dismissed, but I just talked to him a couple minutes ago and it sounds like the genuine article. A guy thinks he saw the older Winchester just a couple hours after Sam originally called us. He was at a gas station in, you guessed it, Montana.” 

There’s a stunned pause, while everybody tries to digest that news, until Emily breaks the silence with a succinct, “What in the ever-loving fuck is happening.” 

“I’m going to talk to Sam,” Hotch says. 

Spencer’s acutely aware of everyones’ eyes on him again as he moves closer to the window. His reflection in the glass looks masklike and composed, but he doesn’t feel anything of the sort. 

He’s kind of starting to believe Sam. That’s his first instinct, at least. Something deep in his gut is telling him to trust, but it’s being strangled by the suspicion and twisted fear that have been poisoning him slowly since Emily came back. Now that it’s in his system, Spencer’s not sure how to flush it out; it’s just in him now, like some sort of chronic infection. 

*   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *

March 2011

“I hate how often we see it,” Spencer says quietly. “It’s the first thing everybody thought of, with this kid, even though it wasn’t just schizophrenia, but… what’s the difference, between him and my mom?” 

“Your mom has you,” Sam points out. He can hear the murmur of Dean and Bobby’s voices downstairs, constant and comforting. 

“The headaches haven’t stopped.” 

Sam grimaces. “No answers, still?” 

“They all say there’s nothing wrong with me, physically.”

“Yeah,” Sam sighs. “That’s… kinda harder, isn’t it?” 

“I hate not knowing,” Spencer fumes. “I hate that there’s no test for it. Even if it was a positive diagnosis, I’d rather have that, you know? I mean, that’d be awful, obviously, but… ” 

“At least you’d know,” Sam finishes. “Yeah.” 

“It’s like my brain may or may not be a ticking bomb. No way of knowing what’s hiding up there,” Spencer bites out, with a warped attempt at a laugh. 

Sam can’t help but think of his flashback: coming back to reality with Dean pale and wide-eyed above him, the disorientation of feeling the solid floor under his back, the way his skin still burned. It felt so real. 

He pushes those thoughts away. 

“Like you can’t even trust yourself,” Sam says softly. 

“Exactly.” Spencer’s voice is small and thin, and he sounds very young, suddenly. “My mom’s counting on me. What if… if something happened - I don’t know who would take care of her. Of us.” 

“Your family,” Sam says, without hesitating. 

“My team? Yeah, I… I guess so.” 

“Your family,” Sam repeats. “Even if you can’t trust yourself, you’ll be able to trust your family.” 

*   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *

Sam’s heart leaps at the sound of the door opening again.

“They’re going to St. Louis,” he says, all in a rush, before the stern-faced agent from earlier can even sit down. The guy doesn’t bat an eye, just sits down calmly, pinning Sam with a stare that could strip paint. 

“Sam, I’m Supervisory Special  Agent Aaron Hotchner.” Sam’s heard Spencer talk about “Hotch,” and it all makes sense now. “What makes you think St Louis is next?” 

“They’re retracing our steps,” Sam answers. “Dean and I, when we started working together. They’re hitting each town we stopped in. Jericho, Black Water Ridge, Manitoc. St. Louis is next.” 

Sam holds his breath, hoping he won’t be pressed on his definition of working. He can see the moment Hotch comes to a decision with an infinitesimal nod. 

“We’re too late,” he says. “We just got the news.” 

“Shit,” Sam can’t help but mutter, and he tugs instinctively at the handcuffs, frustrated, done with sitting still. 

“This means you’re innocent,” Hotch points out, clearly watching Sam’s reaction. 

Sam can’t help but roll his eyes. “Yeah, but I already knew that. It’s… Iowa next, then. Ankeny, Iowa.” 

“Very well,” Hotch says flatly, giving Sam a critical, evaluating look. “It’s very clear that you’re not what we thought you were, and you may be able to help us end this. Are you still interested in accompanying us?” 

“Yes,” Sam replies impatiently. 

“First, I’m going to give you one last chance to tell me the truth about what’s going on here,” Hotch says, in such a low, dangerous voice that Sam’s almost intimidated. “Otherwise, if one of my agents gets hurt because you withheld information, or if there’s even a hint that you’re leading us into a trap, I will shoot you without hesitation. Do I make myself clear?” 

Jesus. But if the FBI can help him get to Iowa in time, with enough firepower to put a dent in the Leviathans, this’ll all be worth it. 

Sam leans forward, as much as his cuffs will allow, meeting Hotch’s impenetrable glare with a determined stare of his own. 

“Look, I could tell you more, but you’re not going to believe some of it until you see for yourself,” he snaps. “So as far as I’m concerned, the only truth that matters is this: people are dying, and we both want to put a stop to it. Now, are you going to waste time asking for irrelevant details, or are you going to choose to trust me?”  

Hotch holds his gaze for a moment before nodding tersely. “Let’s get going, then. I’ll go get the keys.”

He gets up and Sam grimaces at his retreating back, twisting his wrist uncomfortably to get the bobby pin at the right angle. Then the cuffs fall to the ground with a metallic clatter, and Hotch looks back at him in disbelief. Sam smiles at him, equal parts sheepish and smug. 

“I told you, full cooperation,” he explains, and Hotch shakes his head like he might just be a tiny bit impressed. 

The rest of the team is waiting out in the hallway, some looking skeptical (tall, dark, handsome, eyebrows; Morgan, if Sam's guessing right), others nervous (pink pom-poms in her hair; that’ll be Penelope), but almost all with some degree of confusion written across their faces. Sam can’t exactly blame them. Spencer’s staring at his shoes, avoiding eye contact. 

They’re a very clean, professional-looking bunch, and it’s making Sam incredibly uncomfortable, even aside from the obvious awkwardness inherent in the situation. 

“I’m Sam,” he blurts out, and then winces. “Um. You knew that.” 

“Yep,” Penelope squeaks. “This is weird.”  

“Emily Prentiss, Derek Morgan, David Rossi,” Hotch says brusquely, pointing to each in turn. “Jennfer Jareau, Penelope Garcia, and you know Spencer. There’ll be time to talk more on the jet. Everyone, grab your things, meet outside in five.” He’s already pulling out a cell phone and striding away as the team scatters, and Sam feels sort of windswept in his wake; the guy’s intense.

Sam and Spencer are alone in the hallway. Sam’s stomach twists. This is familiar. This is another person he’s let down, and the bitter voice in the back of his head whispering you fucked up again is familiar too. 

“I’m sorry,” Sam blurts out. “I know it doesn’t change anything, but… I’m sorry.” 

Spencer looks up at him with a quizzical frown, head tilted. “I was going to apologize to you.” 

Sam blinks. “Why?” 

Spencer presses his lips together in a funny little grimace. Sam had forgotten that face, the weird things he does with his mouth when he’s not sure what to say.

“For not trusting you.” His voice is scratchy and uneven and honest, now that there isn’t any anger keeping it strong and sure. “I wanted to believe that you… that it couldn’t be you. When I saw the first video, that was my instinct. But my instincts haven’t been great, lately.” 

Sam shakes his head. “No, you have nothing to apologize for.” 

“I think maybe I don’t trust myself right now?” Spencer barrels on. “But there’s video, and... I trust Hotch. If Hotch believes you... yeah. I’m sorry.” 

Sam’s not used to being forgiven so easily. It takes him a moment to remember how to speak. 

“You gave me a chance,” he says. “Most people wouldn’t have even picked up the phone. And there’s still… I still haven’t told you everything, why would you -”

“There are a lot of things going on that I don’t understand, and I want answers, don’t get me wrong.” Spencer looks frustrated for a moment. “But… knowing that you’re not a murderer goes a long way. The details can wait.” 

“When I start sharing details is when most people start running in the opposite direction,” Sam admits. 

“I think that’s sort of a universal human experience,” Spencer offers. He looks like he’s trying not to laugh, now. “Or at least, the fear is. Nobody likes telling the full truth. It’s uncomfortable at best, painful at worst.” 

Sam huffs out a laugh and swipes a hand over his face. “Yeah, okay. Got me there.” 

“I’ll trust that you’re not lying if you trust that I won’t run,” Spencer says, and he’s not smiling now. He’s dead serious, determined, maybe a little scared. 

“Okay,” Sam says hoarsely. “Deal.” 

There’s an awkward moment where they both just look at each other, but then Spencer jerks his head in the direction of the front doors. “C’mon, we should go.” 

Sam nods and lets him lead the way. “Should we - do you know where my phone is? I need to call my brother.” 

“Garcia will have it.”

They walk out into the bullpen, where the team is bustling around, collecting their things, and Sam’s reminded again of how much they’re risking on his word. It’s overwhelming. His throat feels too tight. 

“So, that handcuff thing,” says Rossi, tossing his bag over his shoulder and falling into step next to Sam. 

Sam laughs. ���Yeah, I can teach you. It’s just a bobby pin.” 

“Might help next time I get kidnapped,” Spencer says, with alarming nonchalance. 

“Would’ve come in handy a few times during college,” Rossi comments. 

“You mean as a party trick?” Spencer asks him. 

“Yeah. Sure, kid. A party trick.” 

“...oh.” 

*   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *

November 2010 

“Spencer?” 

“I… is that you?” Spencer asks, so shocked he feels dizzy. It’s been six months. 

Spencer’s first thought had been, ‘Weird, that's the second “just in case” call in a month,’ when he got the voicemail. He’d almost laughed.  

Spencer had called Sam from the hospital, though, after the anthrax thing, when the antidote worked and he woke up. 

Sam never called. Spencer assumed he never woke up. 

“It’s me,” Sam says. “I’m so sorry, I -” 

“What happened?” 

“I was… sick,” Sam stammers. “Really… really sick. I’m sorry.” 

Spencer has to pause for a moment to digest that. His head is spinning. 

“What -” he starts, but he cuts himself off. He has some idea of what kind of sickness might cause someone to go away for six months, and it’s not physical. “Oh,” he says softly. 

“Sorry,” Sam says again. He sounds miserable. 

“No, don’t apologize,” Spencer protests. “You shouldn’t - it’s not your fault. I’m just glad you’re okay. I thought…” 

“Yeah.” 

All Spencer can say is, “I’m really glad you’re alive.” 

“Me too,” Sam says quietly. 

Spencer’s been wanting to talk to him for six months, but now he can’t think of anything to say. Eventually he just goes with the first thing that comes into his head: “You missed some really good episodes of Doctor Who.” 

Sam laughs. “Yeah, I’ve got some catching up to do.” 

Spencer closes his eyes and reminds himself to breathe. He’s never been so happy to be wrong. 

*   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *

“I can’t believe we’re doing this,” Emily says flatly, as Spencer brandishes the Super Soaker in her direction. “Of all the stupid fucking ideas.” 

“Yup,” he says, popping the p and maybe kinda enjoying the way her eyes have gone all buggy. In a low voice, he adds, “Play along, remember?” 

She casts a glance over to where Sam is busying himself with the rest of the water guns and a box of Borax. “As long as he doesn’t try to take my fucking Glock.” 

“Nobody is taking your Glock, Emily,” Spencer says dryly. She shakes her head and goes over to join Morgan, Hotch, and JJ, who have already been outfitted and are standing at the other side of the parking lot. Garcia is sneakily taking a picture of them. 

Admittedly, when Sam insisted that they make an emergency stop between the airstrip and the police precinct, Spencer wasn’t expecting Toys R Us, but he was also pretty gobsmacked when Sam started talking about monsters. He’d waited until they were in the jet to do so, which was probably a smart move. This isn’t the first time they’ve played along with a delusion in order to get answers, but it’s definitely the strangest. 

Funniest, also. Spencer hopes Garcia got a lot of pictures. 

Sam will definitely be headed to an institution, when all of this is over, and Spencer’s having trouble processing that, but… well, it’s not like Spencer’s unfamiliar with that sort of facility. Spencer’s just glad Sam’s not a murderer, and he’s ready to get Dean, arrest whoever’s framing them, and get some answers. He can deal with the rest later; there’s only so much he can handle right now. 

It’s been a weird day. 

“Okay, we’re ready,” Sam announces, passing the last Super Soaker to Spencer. “Bobby didn’t know where they’re keeping Dean, but I’m guessing the cells. I’ll lead the way. Don’t trust anyone, we have to assume the local cops are Leviathans, at this point. Stick together, don’t let them touch you. Clear?” 

“And I’ll be right here with the emergency radio,” Garcia chimes in cheerily. “Thank God.” 

Sam tucks his own water gun into the back of his jeans, hefting the fire axe he’d somehow stolen from the cockpit of the jet without anyone noticing. “Let’s go,” he says authoritatively. 

“We’re right behind you,” JJ says, in her warmest, most soothing “placate the crazy man” voice.

Sam leads them around the corner and through the front door of the station, easing the door open without a sound, and they follow, entering the oddly quiet precinct quickly and efficiently. 

Spencer can see his teammates starting to draw their real weapons; luckily, Sam’s too focused on what’s in front of him to notice what everyone is doing behind him. Spencer hooks a finger on the Super Soaker and lets it dangle from his left hand, drawing his gun with his right, and most of the team is doing the same, for the sake of appearances. Emily and Morgan just set their water guns on the floor. 

“Dean?” Sam calls out. 

“Sammy!” 

Dean walks jauntily out into the bullpen like it’s a very normal thing to find a team of federal agents aiming their guns at him, but he does a double take, disconcerted, frowning for a moment at all the neon plastic toys on display. Then he recovers and turns a wide grin on Sam, who’s hanging back, wary. 

“You brought backup,” Dean says, laughing. “Good, I’m hungry. I’m very glad you made it.” 

“You’re not Dean,” Sam says, low and certain. 

“No, I am not,” the man says, almost gleeful. “Close enough, though! I have all his memories, and I wanted to chat for a moment, before I eat you. I like my meat a little bitter.” 

“What the almighty shitfire,” Emily breathes, but neither Sam or Dean pay any attention to her. Spencer has a hysterical urge to laugh, but he swallows it, heart pounding, not daring to look away from the insanity that’s unfolding in front of them. 

“Dean thinks you’re nuts, you know.” The man’s eyes flick behind Sam, taking in the team fanned out behind him. “So do your new friends.” 

Sam reaches behind his back to grab the handle of his water gun, but he holds it out of sight, still. Spencer keeps his finger firmly on the trigger of his real gun.

“Where’s my brother?” Sam snaps. 

“Okay, okay, I’ll get to the point.” He’s wearing a smug, nasty smile, and this isn’t going the way Spencer expected at all. “Dean killed Amy.”

Sam seems frozen, completely paralyzed. 

“There it is,” the man who isn’t Dean says, laughing. “Now I can eat you.” 

Sam draws his water gun so quickly it’s just a blur of neon orange, and then the man (thing, Spencer corrects himself frantically) is smoking. He’s smoking and sizzling wherever the water touches, and he’s screaming, looking just as stunned as Spencer feels in the split-second before Sam swings the fire axe and chops off his head with one powerful blow. 

There’s a moment where everything seems to slow down, like Spencer’s moving underwater, as he takes in the black goo pouring from the stump where the creature’s head used to be. 

“What in the almighty motherfucking shitfire,” Emily says again, into the momentary silence. 

“More incoming,” Sam snaps. “Heads up.” 

Then everything speeds up, too fast for Spencer to process, and it all blurs together: he’s holstering his gun, spraying water at something that’s wearing Sam’s face, as someone screams. Glass shatters, somewhere. Out of the corner of his eye Spencer sees Morgan pulling the station’s fire axe out of its case, whirling around without hesitation in a spray of black goo, and he keeps getting caught in the water pistol jets but it’s better than all those goddamn teeth, what the hell, in the massive mouth that just appeared, so he shoots, what, how, and then - 

And then it’s over as suddenly as it began. 

It’s over. 

Spencer’s heart is racing. He’s surrounded by puddles of water and puddles of oozing black, Morgan’s clutching an axe like it’s a life raft, and everyone is okay. Spencer looks around frantically, double-checking, but everyone is okay; they’re still standing, at least, although JJ, greenish-pale, looks like she’s seconds away from keeling over in shock. 

“Back here, Sammy!” comes a muffled voice from the back of the station. Sam casually wipes the blade of his axe on the side of his pants, expression unreadable. Spencer watches him clench his jaw and take a deep breath. 

“Sweet baby Jesus,” Rossi mumbles. 

Sam’s face is blank as he looks around, taking in the mess and the team. 

“I told you so,” he says mildly. Then he steps over the headless remains of a monster and goes to get his brother. 

*   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *

November 2009

He doesn’t bother trying to go back to sleep after the second nightmare. He goes outside instead, sits on the curb in the parking lot, looks up. The stars are barely visible with the Vegas light pollution, but it still helps to be outside. He can breathe a little easier. 

There’s this tightly-knotted mess of rage in his chest, sitting on his ribcage like a tumor, poisoning him slowly. 

It’s almost four in the morning, and he has no idea where Sam might be, or what time it is there. He takes out his phone anyway and fires off a text. 

You awake? 

The phone rings less than a minute later. 

“What’s up?” Sam asks. He doesn’t sound like he was sleeping. 

“I’m in Vegas,” Spencer says softly, and then realizes that doesn’t mean anything to Sam. “It’s where I grew up.” 

“Win big on the slot machines?” 

“I guess. I won two thousand dollars today, actually. I… I gave it to a prostitute,” Spencer admits. He adds hastily, “Not for sex.” 

Sam laughs. “Right.” 

There’s a moment of silence. Spencer could make small talk, now; he could pretend he called for no reason in particular. Sam wouldn’t believe him, but he wouldn’t question it, either. 

He takes a deep breath and spits the words out fast, before he can regret letting them loose. “Apparently my dad lived really close by my entire life, even after he left my mom and me. I didn’t know. He never told me.”

“Shit,” Sam says. 

“He was keeping tabs on me my whole life,” he says. His voice gives him away, breaking and rasping, and it hurts to keep forcing the words out. “He read all my articles, my dissertation, everything I ever had published. My friends seem to think I should be happy about that.” 

“That’s bull,” Sam says firmly. 

“Why wasn’t it enough?” Spencer whispers. He’s been holding that question in all day, and it’s been choking him. 

His lower lip is wobbling. He’s glad Sam can’t see him. This is the sort of honesty that’s much easier from a distance; Sam might hang up right now, but at least Spencer won’t have to watch him walk away. 

“Do you think they know?” Sam asks. “How badly they messed us up, I mean.” 

“Do you think they care?” It comes out more bitter than he intended. Spencer makes a face and looks down at his feet in their mismatched socks. “I think that’s the important part. If he cared, I could probably forgive him, but… I don’t think he does. Not really.” 

“Yeah.” 

Spencer takes a breath. The anger is gone now. He doesn’t like how hollow he feels in its wake, but he does feel lighter. He feels better. 

“Thanks for listening,” he says. “It helps.”

There’s a long pause, and Spencer thinks maybe he should hang up, now, try to rest even if he can’t sleep. 

“Want to hear a joke?” Sam asks. “I tried to tell Dean, but... I don’t think he got it.” 

“Sure.” 

“How many existentialists does it take to screw in a lightbulb?” 

“How many?” 

“Two. One to change the light bulb and one to to observe how it symbolizes an incandescent beacon of subjectivity in a netherworld of cosmic nothingness.” 

Spencer laughs, grinning up at the stars. “That’s good. I’m gonna steal that.” 

*   *   *   *   *   *   *   *   *

Sam sighs as he closes the door of the precinct behind himself. They’re not totally done with cleanup, but all Hotch’s wild-eyed muttering about paperwork is starting to make him anxious. 

Also, every time he looks at Dean, he feels sick. 

He sits down on the bench that’s out front, under a little awning. The sky is dark with clouds, and the air is thick, threatening rain, so humid it seems hard to breathe… but maybe that’s the shock setting in. 

He barely gets a minute of peace before Dean comes out to find him. 

“Hey,” Dean says cheerfully. “Ready to go? I’m starving, and I don’t want to be here when that bunch starts asking questions. Pretty cool, though, having an in with the FBI. Definitely makes life easier, bein’ dead again.”

He’s standing there on the sidewalk with his hands in his pockets, grinning like it’s just another day. Sam’s chest hurts. 

“Don’t,” he says quietly. 

“What’s up?” Dean asks, frowning. 

“You killed Amy,” Sam says, and he watches Dean’s face as he realizes, the way he shifts his weight uncomfortably. 

“Listen, Sam...” he says.

“No, you know what, don’t,” Sam spits. He knows the drill. Dean thought he was doing the right thing, he made a choice, he had to take responsibility if Sam couldn’t. Sam looks at his feet and says, “I don’t think I can be around you right now.” 

“So… what, you -” 

“You should go,” Sam says. He looks up and searches Dean’s face for some sign of guilt, remorse, empathy, but Dean just looks resigned. Sam wishes he would just start screaming, or throw a punch so Sam could hit him back. It’s not fair that Sam’s the only one in pain right now. 

“Okay, Sam,” Dean says, and he turns to go. Sam watches him walk away. 

He’s not sure how long he sits on the bench, watching people pass. The sky is getting darker by the minute. 

Spencer doesn’t announce his presence when he comes outside, just sits on the bench next to Sam and waits quietly. 

“He killed my friend,” Sam mumbles, without looking at him. “She was a monster, but she didn’t… she didn’t mean to. She didn’t want to hurt anybody.” 

“Let me guess, he thought he was doing the right thing?” Spencer says wryly. 

The lack of pity in his voice makes it easier for Sam to keep talking, and sarcasm feels better than grief. “Shocking, right?” he says. There’s a low rumble of thunder overhead, and they both look up at the sky. “I didn’t have many friends, but… I liked her.” The grief seems to be creeping in whether he wants it or not. 

“I’m sorry.” 

“Thanks.” Sam’s throat feels tight. “He’s my brother, I just… I’ve fucked up in the past, I know I have. But I always feel like I have to earn his forgiveness. It feels like I’m always asking him to give me another chance, to trust me again, and… and he still doesn’t really look at me the same way. Then he pulls something like this, and I know, one way or the other, he just doesn’t trust me. He thinks it’s okay to lie to me, because I don’t deserve the truth.” 

Spencer doesn’t say anything, just makes an unhappy, understanding sort of sound. The first fat raindrops start to fall on the concrete in front of them, and they’re both quiet for a moment. 

Sam smiles in spite of himself, remembering. “She changed her name, since I met her. Her name was always Amy, but she changed her last name to Pond.” 

“Cool,” Spencer says. 

“Yeah. I mean, no, she wasn’t cool, neither of us were, but… yeah.” 

Sam can breathe a little easier, now. 

“What are you going to do?” Spencer asks. 

Sam looks sideways at him and sees the way his mouth is twitching. “Don’t.” 

“Nothing you can do, is what I seem to remember you saying,” Spencer says innocently. “Give it time. Right? Does that make you feel any better?” 

Sam laughs, burying his face in his hands. “That was fucking useless advice. Fuck, don’t ever listen to me.” He wipes his eyes. “This just sucks.” 

“Yeah, it really does,” Spencer agrees. It’s pouring steadily now, rain streaming off the sides of their little awning. “Apparently Hotch thinks I should run away from my problems for a little while, give myself time to process, so I’ve been ordered to take a couple days off.” 

“JJ, still?” 

“Yeah. I think maybe he’s right. But… I was going to rent a car and drive back to DC, instead of taking the jet. Make a couple detours. Get some space. Give it time. You could come, if you want.” 

Sam turns to him, surprised, but Spencer looks sincere; he’s giving Sam one of his trademark anxious not-quite-smiles. 

“I was just going to hotwire a car,” Sam blurts out, and then winces. “That might be a better idea.” 

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that.” 

“I guess you probably have some questions,” Sam says reluctantly. 

Spencer grins. “Harder for me to run away if we’re in a moving vehicle, right?” 

Sam laughs, tucking his hair behind his ears. “Yeah, guess so.” 

“After today, I’m not actually sure I want to know all the details,” Spencer says, wrinkling his nose. “But I do have some questions.” 

“Anything you want to know,” Sam promises. “The truth. I promise. I should’ve… I should’ve told you sooner.” 

Spencer shrugs. “No, I’m pretty sure you were right, I would’ve run away screaming.” 

Sam laughs and rolls his eyes, and they sit there in silence for a moment, watching the rain start to slow. The clouds are already starting to blow over. 

-

“Never tell the truth to people who are not worthy of it.” 

― Mark Twain

-

You can now read about the road trip right here!

#criminal minds fic #spn fic #supernatural x criminal minds #sam winchester #spencer reid #spn #cm #crossover

[johnbbutmakeitace]

five reasons why pope heyward is screwed, a series (part 5/5)

part four is here

Reason Number One; Dancing

When Pope wakes that morning, it’s to the feeling of JJ up against his side. 

He blinks awake, staring up at the ceiling, and realizes quickly that his head is resting on top of JJ’s. They’d curled into each other in the night, and Pope’s fingers are tingling a bit from where their hands are still laced together, lax and warm. It’s kind of the best thing in the world to wake up to. 

JJ’s face is calm and peaceful while he sleeps. His head is resting against Pope’s shoulder, face almost tucked into the crook of Pope’s neck. His blond locks are an absolute mess, and Pope smiles fondly down at the sight. 

Then he hears a soft camera click. 

His looks towards the noise, and standing in the tiny kitchen of the chateau are Kie and John B watching them with mischievous grins. Kie’s got her phone up as she takes a picture of the two of them on the pullout couch, and John B is peering at the screen over her shoulder. 

“I think the lovebirds are waking up,” John B says when he realizes Pope is staring at the two of them through half shut eyes. 

“Just gimme a sec, okay--,” Kie snaps one more photo before she quickly hides her phone behind her back, biting back a grin as she says brightly, “Morning, sleepyheads.” 

“Morning,” Pope mumbles around a yawn. He sits up, carefully not to jostle JJ’s still sleeping form by his side as he stretches. He blinks blearily at the two of them, “Did you just take a picture?” 

“Nope!” Kiara says breezily, popping the p in emphasis. John B snickers, fighting off a grin as he nods in agreement, and Pope’s finally awake enough to realize that that’s definitely bullshit. 

“Mhm,” he says, “I wanna see that later.” 

“See what?” She asks innocently, like she’s never done anything wrong in her life, ever. 

Pope squints suspiciously at her, and Kie’s smile turns cheeky as she tucks her phone away into her back pocket with a wink. 

“Who wants coffee?” John B asks, quickly changing the subject as he darts over to the sink to start filling the coffee pot. Pope lets it go-- for now. It’s too early for insisting, anyway. 

He does really, really wanna see that picture though. 

“Me!” Kiara pipes up just as quick, bounding over to John B’s side to help grab some mugs out of the cupboard, and Pope hears JJ groan from beside him. 

“Hey, sunshine,” Pope says softly as JJ sits up with a huff, “You sleep okay?” 

“Yeah, I slept good,” JJ says as before he stretches with a yawn, and Pope goes warm all over when JJ leans into his side with a content sigh, “Thanks for being my pillow.” 

“It’s what I’m here for,” Pope muses with a smile, and he can feel the gentle shake of JJ’s answering soft laughter against his side. 

“Would you look at that? He lives!” John B says as JJ yawns once more, and Pope feels something inexplicably fond swell inside of him at the sleepy pout that appears on JJ's face. 

“You guys are so fuckin’ loud,” JJ complains. They all laugh out loud at that, and Pope can’t help but think that JJ is the happiest he’s ever been, right here surrounded by the people who love him most-- even if he’s rolling his eyes at them all. 

“That’s hysterical, coming from you,” Kie teases, and JJ huffs at her while he scrubs the sleep out of his eyes. She grins, “Besides, you’ll wanna be awake for this. We’re having waffles for breakfast.” 

JJ perks up at the same time Pope raises his brows, “We are?” 

“We are,” Kiara declares confidently. 

“Do we even have all the ingredients?” Pope asks skeptically. John B tugs open the fridge to take a cursory look. 

“We’ve got eggs and-- well, we’ve got eggs.” He says, shutting the door at the same time Kie snaps her fingers and mumbles “damn it.” 

“I mean,” JJ starts, “We could just put the eggs in the--,” 

“We are not putting eggs in the waffle maker,” Pope cuts in, and adds before JJ can finish opening his mouth to ask. “No, it would not make waffle shaped eggs. It would just make a mess.” 

“You don’t know that,” JJ mumbles, and when Pope rolls his eyes he doesn’t see the borderline adoring look that passes over JJ’s face at the sight of it. 

Kiara and John B, however. 

“Well, I still want waffles,” Kiara says. Then, swift as anything, she turns to John B, “Come to the store with me?” 

The two of them exchange a look that Pope can’t see Kie’s face, but he watches the smile on John B’s face grow slowly, “Yeah, sure.” 

John B’s tone is enough that Pope and JJ share a confused look, and when Pope looks back John B’s smile only grows bigger. 

“Uh,” is the only thing JJ can get out before Kie is spinning on her heel to look at JJ and Pope. 

“You guys will be okay without us, right?” She asks, and something inside Pope’s brain slowly starts to shift suspiciously at her tone. 

“Yeah?” Pope doesn’t mean for it to come out like a question, but it’s out before he can really think about it. 

“Great!” Kie beams before he gets the chance to ask, clapping her hands together, “John B and I will go to the store, and maybe you two can clean up a bit while we’re gone? So we can have like, an actual place to sit and eat. Make it nice, y’know?” 

“Sure,” Pope says, unsure what the odd glint in her eyes is exactly supposed to mean. 

“Maybe put on some music too,” John B adds, and that suspicious feeling doubles, “Get a good vibe going. Gotta set the mood.” 

“Makes sense,” JJ says, shooting Pope a weird look, because even he can pick up on the utter strangeness that is taking place around them right now. 

“Are you sure you don’t want us to come with you?” Pope asks, watching their reactions carefully. 

“Nope!” Kie says at the same time John B says, “We’re good!” 

Glancing between Kie and John B’s smiles, Pope just can’t seem to figure out what the issue is. Why don’t they all just go to the store? Wouldn’t that just be easier? It definitely makes more sense than just two of them going. 

It’s like, well-- it’s like they’re trying to get Pope and JJ to be alone together. 

It clicks in Pope’s head maybe just a little too late. 

“Wait--,” Pope starts. 

“Well we’ll see you guys later!” Kie interrupts, and then she and John B are hustling to put on their shoes and get the hell out of dodge, “Shouldn’t take us too long.” 

“You think you guys will make it back before the storm?” JJ asks, nose scrunching up at the sight of the dark grey clouds swirling outside the windows. 

“I guess we’ll find out,” Kiara says, and now Pope swears there’s something knowing and devious hiding behind her casual tone, because there is. 

“What about the-- okay.” JJ starts as Kie swiftly grabs ahold of John B’s wrist and starts pulling him towards the screen door. 

“We’ll be back soon!” Kie’s all smiles as she and John B make their escape, and when Pope gives her the most don’t you dare look he can over JJ’s head, all Kie does is smile wider. 

“Have fun!” John B hollers over his shoulder with a grin before he follows after her, and then the screen door is clacking shut and it’s just JJ and Pope alone together in the chateau. 

The minute they’re gone JJ is turning to look at him and Pope has to try his best to school his expression from murderously panicked to something more neutral. 

It must sort of work, because all JJ says is, “Well they left in a hurry.” 

“Yeah.” Is the only thing Pope can manage. 

“I guess it’s just us, then.” 

“Yep.” 

They sit in an awkward silence for a moment before they turn to look at each other at the same time and JJ says “that was weird, right?” and Pope answers immediately “that was so weird.” 

And then the two of them are laughing at the absurdity of the whole situation, and the sound of their laughter twisting together in the air makes Pope feel whole. 

After that they begin the long, tenuous process of cleaning up the chateau. The silence between them is comfortable, like a soft blanket has settled around the two of them, blocking out the steadily growing sound of the wind of a tropical storm. 

“This is boring,” JJ says literally not ten minutes later, “I’m bored.” 

“Dude, we’ve barely even started.” Pope laughs as bundles up the sheets of the pullout and vaguely throws them in the direction of the washer and dryer closet for later. “C’mon, help me with the couch.” 

“Lame,” JJ huffs, kicking at the sheets on the floor with his hands stuffed into his pockets before moving to help Pope fold the pullout back up into a couch. “You’re supposed to agree with me so we can stop cleaning and do something fun. You’re being lame, Pope.” 

“You go ahead and have fun,” Pope muses as the pullout finally starts to take the form of an actual couch once more, “I’m gonna keep cleaning up and being lame.” 

“You’re the worst,” JJ whines as he flops dramatically down onto the newly made up couch, and Pope smiles quietly to himself while he folds up their blankets. 

“What am I even supposed to do? Entertain myself?” 

“You’re pretty good at that, yeah.” 

“But you’re here too. You’re supposed to help me with the coming up with the entertainment.” 

“I think you can do a good job by yourself.” 

“How am I supposed to do that?” 

“Any way you want to, I guess.” 

It’s quiet for a few seconds, and then, “I spy with my little eye--,” 

“Oh my fucking god, JJ--,” 

“Shut up, we’re doing this,” JJ cuts him off. “I spy with my little eye,” he says, before pointedly dragging his gaze all around the room before he lands on Pope with a grin, “something lame.” 

“Ha ha,” Pope says dryly, and places the folded blankets in their proper place. He starts to rid the coffee table of trash as he says, “I spy with my little eye something annoying.” 

JJ’s grin turns cheeky, which Pope mocks back at him before JJ’s gaze goes back to wandering, and Pope continues to clean up the rest of the chateau. 

“I spy with my little eye,” JJ muses, before his gaze catches and holds on something behind Pope’s shoulder, “John B’s CD collection.” 

And with that, JJ hops off the couch and sprints over to the shelves upon shelves of CDs tucked against the wall by the stereo. 

“Your attention span is abysmal,” Pope laughs as he takes the last bits of stray trash off the table and shoves them into the trash can, and JJ lets out a fond sounding “shut it,” while he chooses a CD. 

Soon enough, the sound of a low piano fills the room. Pope watches JJ spin on his heel as the piano riffs for a moment, then starts to dance across the room as the guitar and beat kicks in. 

Pope watches him go, leaning against the counter as JJ dances closer and closer to him. He’s clumsy in his movements-- more just goofing off than actually trying to find any beat or movement. Pope kinda thinks it’s the cutest thing in the world. 

“Hey,” JJ says as he sidles up close to Pope’s side. Biting his lip a little as he slips his hand into Pope’s and gives it a tug, “How about some dancing lessons?” 

JJ’s hand is warm and rough in his own, and Pope doesn’t think he ever wants to let go. 

“We’ve still gotta clean up,” he says, even as he lets JJ pull him into the open space of the kitchen tile, “And I thought we were saving it for the rain.” 

“Humor me,” JJ grins, and Pope lets himself be tugged into motion gladly. 

Here’s the thing about dancing. It’s not something you can exactly read about and learn. It takes practice to be good at dancing-- hours upon hours of perfecting the right way to move your body to the beat, how to express such high emotions without using your words. You can practice for years and never really know when you’ve reached perfection. 

And for a long, long time, that idea terrified Pope to no end. How can you practice and train for something for so long and never be good enough? How can you learn without having a goal in mind? How do you continue to push for that goal of perfection when you know perfection is unreachable? 

But that’s the thing about dancing. It's not about the training. It’s not about the goal. It’s not about perfect. 

It’s about every little imperfect moment in between. That’s what makes it beautiful. 

And maybe that’s why Pope notices that JJ’s smile is a little crooked while they dance. Sure, his feet stumble a bit while he tries to copy the way Pope moves. And whenever he’s too occupied watching the way Pope’s feet slide on the kitchen tile, he doesn’t look like he quite knows what to do with his arms-- but never once does that smile falter. 

And maybe that’s why Pope always notices the little imperfections. Like how JJ’s freckles only show during hot summer days or when he’s a little sunburnt or blushing. Or the tiny, white scars on his chin and cheek, barely visible residue from scrapes and bruises and a home life that worked so hard to twist and break him but could never even touch his spirit. 

And maybe that’s why Pope fell in love with him. 

And see, Pope knows lots of things. He’s learned lots of things. He can tell you all about physics and the science of how a dead body decomposes and what even the hell a toxicology report is. 

But no school lesson could ever, ever teach him how to love like this. 

No, this was something he had to learn on his own. 

The song comes to an end with the two of them breathless and laughing, faces flush and happy and Pope never wants this feeling to end.

Then Pope hears the steady rush of rain on the roof, and the two of them look at each other with breathless smiles. 

Pope offers JJ his hand. “Ready for the real thing?” 

JJ looks at his hand for a moment, then takes it with a grin that’s brighter than the sun in the sky, “Always.” 

Hand in hand, they rush out of the chateau and are greeted by the embrace of warm summer wind and rain. 

They spin and dance and laugh as the storm rages around them like they’re off on their own world. And Pope thinks-- this is it. This is everything he’s ever wanted. He is dancing in the rain with the boy he loves, and it’s the best thing in the world. 

As the storm crescendos into a brilliant song, Pope wraps his arms around JJ’s middle and spins him in around. JJ let’s out a yelped “hey!” but he’s laughing still.

“What was that for?” JJ laughs as Pope sets him down, arms still wound around his waist. He can feel the warmth of JJ’s hands through his shirt where they found his shoulders to hold onto. 

They’re both soaked at this point, clothes drenched and sticking to their bodies maybe a little uncomfortably. Their shoes soak through as the puddles in the grass grow wider and deeper, but Pope can’t even bring himself to care. 

It’s imperfect, but Pope loves it nonetheless. 

And that’s why Pope decides -- right here, right now, while the two of them are surrounded by the wind and rain and everything Pope has ever wanted -- he wants to tell JJ every single thing about this love he’s learned.

“You know I love you, right?” He asks over the sound of the rain, and watches JJ’s eyes go wide, wide, wide. 

There’s a quick moment, barely even a split second, when Pope feels that familiar sudden rush of anxiety, that sudden heavy, dead weight of fear. But before the thought can even begin to take hold-- JJ is kissing him. 

It’s a messy, desperate clash of their lips, like JJ is afraid he'll never get the chance to do it again. Pope kisses back just as hard, adrenaline and relief pumping through his veins so fast he goes a little dizzy. 

“I love you, too.” JJ gasps when they break for air. He laughs against Pope’s lips, and it’s a wet, small little thing, “Fuck, I love you.” 

JJ’s grip is tight on his shoulders, like maybe he’s afraid Pope will shove him away the first chance he gets. So Pope holds JJ close, and kisses him again, this time sweet and slow, to reassure JJ that he’s not going anywhere. 

Later, when all of the pogues are gathered back in the kitchen and eating freshly made waffles, Pope feels his phone buzz in his pocket. 

When he looks, Kiara had sent him the picture of the two of them asleep on the couch. He tucks his phone back into his pocket, biting back a grin as he tries to pay attention to the conversation being had. 

Across the table, Kie takes a sip from her coffee mug with a knowing smile.

this is it, we’ve reached the end. thanks so much for coming on the ride. it’s been real <3

#outer banks #outer banks fic #pope heyward #pope outer banks #jj maybank #jj outer banks #john booker routledge #john b outer banks #kiara carrera #kiara outer banks #kie outer banks #mayward #jjpope #but like #it is no longer subtle #five reasons why pope heyward is screwed #the sweatshirt series #feedback is also appreciated <3 #YES THEY ARE KISSING IN THE RAIN #I DO NOT CARE IF ITS CHEESY THEY ARE IN LOVE AND THEY DESERVE IT #this is the first time i’ve ever finished a series this big #i’m kinda sad that it’s over but i’m really proud of myself too #i’ve made myself cry oops :’) #my fic

[musashi]

sending u this ask as an opportunity for u to talk to me abt fi!! i love ur thoughts n words on things nd i don't send asks as much bc i don't have. good words to talk to u abt stuff but i rlly enjoy just. ur Passion nd stuff. autistic people r the best at talking abt stuff i stand by that we r just Epic. anyways if u wanna, i'd love to hear more about just... how fi sorta. changes, over the game? like the Little Things that show her starting 2 care abt link more, or becoming more "human"!

i love this whole ask. you’re right autistic folks r sexy as hell idk how the divine powers that be fit so much passion into my tiny body but i’m glad they made the attempt. 

ANYWAYS FI. i don’t think i’ve ever actually laid this out because for the most part it is incredibly subtle and requires a lot of filling in gaps yourself, and i think that someone who cares less abt her can probably come away from it with an entirely different interpretation. fi’s development of actual feelings are a very sudden a mysterious thing, and i have a LOT of thoughts about them going in a lot of different directions so forgive me if this answer isn’t particularly linear or coherent. i’m not just gonna talk about her slow burn into feeling things, i’m also gonna talk about... why i think it happens.

we don’t get to learn a lot about sword spirits and how they come into being, other than it takes great power to enchant a sword with a spirit/temper a sword with one inside it. hylia obviously created fi and, presumably, demise created ghirahim, and they are pretty much as opposite as two people can be with their only real characteristic in common being precision, intelligence & otherworldly loyalty to their respective masters. 

we thus don’t get to learn how much control the creator of a sword spirit has over what kind of spirit comes of it, if their personalities are organic to their experiences or crafted from the moment they awaken. what i mean by this is like... ghirahim could have been a cold, calculating AI like fi when he was first tempered and gained his dramatics over time, we have no idea how long he’s been alive in comparison to her, if his personality is so much more extroverted because he was allowed a life outside his blade whereas fi was isolated in hers for millennia. or if he just came into creation immediately ready to scream and stick his tongue in ppl’s ears.

i swear to god i’m going somewhere with this. ok. anyways.

fi in the beginning of skyward sword is, i think, how most people remember her--data-interested, icy, and detached. there is a reverence in how she addresses link from the start, even before he formally becomes her wielder, but beyond that she is calculating and precise and rarely wastes words. all of this kinda paints a picture of hylia creating fi, to me--breathing life into the spirit and willing her to be effective, be efficient, be loyal, and be sharp. when you have that image in your head, a lot of how fi operates makes sense--she wasn’t created to have emotions, because emotions get in the way of what her purpose is. hylia made a weapon and a servant, not a friend. it sucks to think about, but that is fi’s purpose.

the game is very careful, however, to show you it’s not that simple from the beginning. because hidden in Ice Queen Fi’s introduction is... a surprising amount of personality.

like this shit, where she straightup just dunks gaepora in the trash because his #Lore is out of date. it’s hysterical because you really do not know if she’s just a) an AI who doesn’t understand when she’s being kinda Rude or b) being snarky On Purpose. and that ambiguity in itself crafts this beautiful air of mystery where you, from the get go, don’t entirely know what to expect of fi all the time.

or this, which she says directly after link hesitates to accept the blade:

this scene, which people who have edgier takes on fi constantly use to paint her as intentionally manipulative, where all i see is... her using emotional validation to calm link down enough for him to take in what’s happening. a really important thing about fi is that she’s paradoxically an empath? she can read auras and detect emotion with extreme precision even if she’s incapable of feeling it herself in the beginning. so she knows everything link is experiencing here, understands that it’s holding him back, and takes care to deconstruct the whirlwind of emotion he’s collapsing under and explain to him why he can and should trust her words.

again this is all in her introductory scene. they write her very specifically to be a seemingly flat character with this... rumbling of something more going on under the surface. so much so that the first time you get to a sacred spring and fi, completely randomly, just starts skating across the water’s surface and speaking ancient poeticisms to you, you don’t question it. you’re not like hey, why is sword alexa doing a little dance? you just accept it as something fi is doing, because fi always feels like she’s at her job, and you don’t know how she acts outside of work, but you kinda feel like maybe you want to.

fi’s affinity for music is another way they insert humanity into an AI without making you think too hard about it. singing and dancing are inherently human, artforms are something we associate with the heart and soul. even teaching a robot to paint is, in itself, an art project crafted by a human hand. but you don’t really... consciously think about that, when you watch her do these things. you just kind of accept that she is this otherworldly thing guiding you. you don’t think about the contrast of this programmed assistant performing music alongside you in a sacred ritual. you’re just kind of like, yeah? i can’t JUST play nayru’s wisdom on my harp, i need someone who can sing and god put a vocaloid in my sword???

throughout the game, fi’s dialogue chains when you summon her don’t change in any meaningful way (besides based on what you’re carrying, where you are, etc) but as you near the end, there are a couple things of note. one that sticks out to me is what she says about one of the mid-game minibosses, who is also an artificial intelligence--

a lot of people laugh abt this line and make jokes about fi being hot for the tall handsome robot pirate and they’re valid. but the thing is, like, from the beginning of her mission, fi knew she’d essentially be dying once the world was saved. and early game fi has no hesitations about her part in things regardless, because, as we know, she wasn’t created to feel things like that. she wasn’t created to fear death, to grow attached to life or anyone in it, or to experience sorrow at the idea of saying goodbye. but this is mid-game fi, who still... never says anything she doesn’t deem entirely necessary, but she says this. for no discernible reason, she says this. it’s an unskippable dialogue option, one they WANT you to see and one that is different when you know where she ends up. admiration is already something you wouldn’t really expect of her, but it’s more than that--she’s longing for her own story to mirror it. by the sand sea, fi has started to realize she doesn’t want to go to sleep.

it’s another one of those moments where you’re kinda like, ‘haha, what, fi?' and then move on. another one of those moments where she kinda does something a little unexpected, but not so unexpected you question it too hard. fi excels at those.

before you go off to fight demise, fi stops you to warn you that it is the final battle, and you cannot return. and when you tell her you’re ready, she says this:

as i’ve said, fi doesn’t waste words. almost always, everything she says is for the purpose of efficiency, and rarely does she offer thoughts without fixed probabilities and ultimate endgoals in mind.

this is a sentiment.

it serves no purpose. it is purely an expression of devotion.

and because of EVERYTHING i’ve mentioned thus far, this line both hits you HARD as significant and foreboding in how suddenly tender it is, AND manages to read as in-character for her to say. because the way they write fi’s humanity is so beneath the surface, so easily missable, so hard for me to even lay out with concrete evidence despite the fact that i’m a person who reads a text dump of all her dialogue before bed every night.

but to me, what lays out fi’s inner workings best is actually her actual goodbye, and... not the moment most people would think, tbh? it’s not her tender farewell that speaks her emotions loudest to me, but the moment right before:

these lines, which would read as perfectly in character if it were early game fi, cut you. her complete and utter flippancy, the way she talks about all you’ve been through together as though it were nothing to her, the absolute coldness here after everything. you as a player feel kind of pathetic when she says this, like you were misguided in growing attached to her and thinking of her as a friend. and you KNOW thats the intended effect, because this is what link looks like:

he takes a moment in that last shot to like. swallow sadness and turn away from her, but even as he’s turning his head, he doesn’t take his eyes off her until the last possible moment. she hurts his feelings! why.

because it’s an act, is why. of COURSE fi loves him. of course she’s grown attached to him, of course she’s happy to have known him, of COURSE they’re friends. but fi was NEVER supposed to feel that way, she was never supposed to have the capability to love, and there’s no calculation she can run to set the uncertainties of that at ease within herself. so those lines up above is her trying her best to reset herself to who she was in the beginning, to snap herself back into the role of an emotionless servant to the goddess, to convince herself--not link--that saying goodbye won’t hurt. she’s trying to cope with something she has no idea was in the cards for her, and that’s why she’s seemingly so cruel for a moment.

all of this becomes apparent when she calls him back moments later and tells him how she really feels. there’s major whiplash because fi herself is Going Thru It. but essentially what’s happening in that moment is she thinks she knows what will hurt the least, but she miscalculates and backpedals and realizes even if saying goodbye hurts, it hurts less than pretending she doesn’t want to.

i think a lot of people overlook that line--“the most precious data i have on record.” fi, who contains multitudes within her. who contains knowledge immeasurable, the thoughts and feelings and stories of thousands. of civilizations, of gods, of countless ages passed. everything she holds within her is dwarfed entirely by what she feels for link, beside link. nothing in her encyclopedic knowledge can even compare to her friendship with him in the significance it has to her. like all things, fi has her own way of communicating her meanings, and this is her way of saying she really, truly loves him. 

in addition, she very carefully does this after he abandons the sword, so it’s clear that it’s of her own will, not a part of her purpose as his servant. for this whole cutscene, up until she end, she drops the honourific and calls him just Link. 

and while i see a lot of people debate if she truly does ‘feel,’ anything, like... she says it right here, she does. whether or not she was able to feel from the beginning or not, she can feel now. she has trouble putting words to those feelings, or explaining to herself and others where on earth they came from... but she feels now. that cannot be disputed.

happiness that she was able to know him. loyalty she wants to transcend lifetimes. sorrow at the idea of them having to part. gratitude that he took the chance, and did so beside her.

let’s talk about gratitude.

in skyward sword, gratitude is a tangible source of magic. it opposes malice, which as of botw is a reoccurring thing in zelda lore. skyward sword has two items--evil crystals and gratitude crystals--that represent malice and gratitude respectively. while the first isn’t entirely relevant, the second is something you’re actively encouraged to more or less harvest by helping people and basking in their thanks toward you. these feelings of gratitude are so canonically powerful in the zelda universe that they can turn monsters into humans entirely, and the outpouring of energy that event causes makes every monster & hostile creature within all of skyloft turn docile at once. 

according to batreaux, the monster in question, this is well-established legend, the idea of gratitude granting humanity to the nonhuman. skyward sword literally said the power of love was canon.

the song that plays over the goodbye, of course, is called fi’s gratitude.

this is just one theory i have on the matter, but... whether hylia intended or foresaw fi to be capable of feeling human emotion or not, i do believe it was gratitude that woke her heart up. whether she was meant to love or not, link’s spirit contained within it enough love for the both of them, enough to touch her soul and rouse her from her cold and emotionless state. as always, through everything, they work in perfect tandem--his passionate heart touches hers as it sleeps, her wisdom holds him steady and level-headed. 

when fi says “may we meet again in another life,” she says it like a prayer, because it is one--she knows hylia, knows that hylia loved link’s spirit just as she did, and knows that hylia of all people understands what the sword spirit is going through. and fi also knows that hylia immortalizes those she loves with cycles, with reincarnation, eternal life without the pain of never dying. fi doesn’t have a soul that hylia can bring back from death nor a physical body to revive, but she works with what she can--and so long as link’s spirit breathes anew, he finds fi. in a sunlit grove, with light bearing down on her, safe and warm and always loyal, even as the world rages on outside. fidelis, she was named for--“faithful.”

the fandom doesn’t really talk abt it, but fi is an angel. she’s an angel god sent to watch over one human, and when god said your mission is complete fi faced god and walked backwards into hell. her divine mission is long passed, but it stopped being about what she was fated to do long ago.

fi began to watch over link because he was her master. and fi resolved to stay forever because he was link.

#skyward sword #long post #hand of sorrow #wendy rambles #Anonymous #wendy answers

[mandadoration]

you’re a fine girl - iii

summary: Agent Whiskey would really like you to say his real name for once, and you refuse, playing this little game of his until he finally makes you say it. The circumstances for it aren’t exactly ideal, though. 

word count: 1, 909

pairing: agent whiskey (Jack Daniels) x reader

warnings: canon-typical violence (and then some), swearing

chapters: i | ii | iii

Read this on AO3

As much as you want to, you can’t find the power to visit Whiskey while he’s recovering. He’s fine, obviously, with the medical advancements and Soda’s expert skill, he’ll be up in no time. But every time you stand in the elevator, hand hovering over the button for level sub-4, you feel sick.  You retreat back to your office and ignore the video calls from Ginger and Soda. You’ve even gone as far as to shove Whiskey’s black Stetson in a cabinet under your desk, and you consider doing the same to the necklace he had given you, but instead opt to just wear it and tuck it into your shirt out of sight. It weighs heavy against your neck, but it makes you feel the slightest bit better. Maybe you can just ignore everything until you finally grow a pair and do something about the worry that’s been nagging at you. 

You, however, cannot ignore Ginger and Soda when they walk into your office unannounced. 

“Can I help you?” you ask tiredly, taking off your Statesman issued glasses to rub your eyes. 

“What's wrong with you?” Soda asks bluntly, and Ginger smacks him. “What? I’m being honest. You’re holeing yourself up in your office more than usual.” Ginger rolls her eyes. 

“What he meant to say,” she stresses, “is that you’ve been… down ever since Whiskey came back Saturday.” You sigh and put your glasses back on. “We’re worried. This isn’t like you.”

“I’ve been working,” you say. A total, complete lie, and they know it too. “There’s a lot of paperwork that comes with severe injuries sustained in the field.” Not a lie. “Besides, why would… There’s no reason for me to go to the medical wing.” The biggest lie. 

“Brandy--”

“Whiskey’s been asking for you,” Soda blurts out, and Ginger smacks him again. “Ow! Quit that!” You tense and crumple a paper in your hand as anxiety swells in your chest. Well, there goes the contingency plan mock-up you had made for Ale’s mission. 

“Why?” you ask before you can stop yourself. Ginger stops her harassing to stare at you incredulously. 

“Seriously?” she sighs. “You don’t know?” You throw your hands up in the air. 

“Once again!” you say, almost hysterically. “What am I supposed to know? Everyone keeps asking me that, I really don’t know what the fuck--”

“For an intelligence supervisor, you’re really fucking stupid,” Soda says, and Ginger doesn’t hit him this time, instead nodding in agreement. You’re taken aback. 

“Excuse me?”

But Ginger and Soda are soon manhandling you out of your office and shoving you into the elevator, paying no attention to your complaints as they head to sub-4 and practically drag you to Whiskey’s recovery room, ignoring the curious stares that follow the three of you. They push you in, and shut the door, and your heart leaps to your throat when the lock clicks. You bang against the wall. 

“Let me the hell out!” you shout, but all you can hear on the other side of the door are the receding footsteps of the traitors you call friends. “I swear to God, I will make your life a living hell when I get out of here--”

“Brandy?”

If your heart was hammering before, it completely stops at the sound of his voice. There’s the shuffling of sheets behind you, and you slowly turn around with wide eyes as the blood drains from your face as Whiskey strains to sit himself up, looking much worse for wear that you had initially feared. You really should stop him from overexerting himself, but you’re glued to the floor. “What are you doing here?” he asks. His voice sounds so tired, and it’s only made worse when he tries to crack a smile. “Here to see little ol’ me?” he rasps, but dissolves into a coughing fit, holding his ribs as his face contorts in pain. Once he calms down, he looks up at you again, and frowns. “Sweetheart, are you okay?”

“I think I should be the one asking you that,” you finally say, voice small as you slowly make your way over to him. You keep a good distance away from him still. 

“‘m better now that I’ve seen you,” Whiskey says, running a hand over his face. He motions to the chair next to him. “Take a seat, darling, you’re making me anxious.” Your eyes dart over to it, and then back to his face, and eventually lower yourself into it. 

“What happened?” you ask. Whiskey winces. 

“Dealers somehow found out I was there to take down their operation,” he explains. “Got ambushed, got the shit kicked out of me, got the hell outta dodge.” He chuckles. “Told ya I didn’t want to go back.” You play with the impeccably white trim of his hospital blanket.

“Why didn’t you tell us as soon as you got on the plane that you were hurt?” you whisper. Whiskey runs the hand not stabbed full of IVs through his greasy hair. 

“I knew you would worry.”

“It was irresponsible of you.”

“And it was irresponsible of you to not take care of yourself,” he says sharply. “Seltzer’s been telling me how you’ve locked yourself away since I got here.” You curl inwards and lean away from the bed. Whiskey sighs. “I do apologize, sweetheart,” he says after a moment. “I’m going crazy from being stuck in here. Didn’t mean to snap at you.” 

“It’s fine,” you mutter. You’ve had your fair share of bedrest, and it is not fun. He shakes his head. 

“No, it’s not,” he says. “There’s no excuse for treating you like that.” A beat. 

“I said that you didn’t have to get me anything,” you say to change the subject. 

“And I said that you couldn’t stop me,” he laughs, but it wheezes out. Whiskey slowly reaches a hand out, pausing when you tense up, but keeps going when you don’t stop him. He loops his forefinger under the chain that’s peeking out of your collar and pulls it out from under your shirt. “You like it?” he asks, and he sounds uncharacteristically nervous, and he’s playing with the collar of your shirt instead of pulling his hand away. “I know-- Well, I don’t see you wearing any fancy jewelry or nothing, but I saw this and thought the opportunity was too perfect. Like, c’mon, it’s a braided chain--”

“‘Made of finest silver from the north of Spain’?” you finish. You’ve gotten countless jokes about the song, but it’s endearing when it comes from him. He quirks a smile. “Andalucia is technically Southern Spain, Agent Whiskey.” His smile drops. “N-not that I mind,” you stammer, afraid you’ve said something horrifically wrong. 

“I know you don’t,” Whiskey sighs. You purse your lips. 

“Then what’s wrong?” He shrugs. 

“I guess I dreamt you saying my name in the elevator,” he says, following it with an empty laugh as he looks away. “Ain’t that the cruelest trick the Sandman could play? He’s always been a son of a bitch to me. It had sounded so sweet...” You swallow and grab his hand where it rests on your collarbone, and you scoot your chair closer until your knees press against the edge of the bed. You hear his heart rate jump up on the monitor. 

“I… It wasn't… It wasn’t a dream.” Whiskey turns your hand over until he can lace his fingers through yours. 

“No?” he murmurs, and he brings your hand to his lips as he presses a kiss to it. He closes his eyes and keeps your hand there for a moment before letting it rest in his lap. “Mind reacquainting me with the way my name sounds coming from your lips?” Your mouth is suddenly very dry, but you lick your lips and the way you feel warm with how his eyes watch you is enough to give you the little push you need. 

“Jack.”

It’s barely audible over the rapid beeping of the monitor, but a pained noise emanates from his chest, and the hold on your hand tightens. “Again.”

Then louder this time, “Jack.” A disbelieving laugh. 

“Again.”

“Jack.”

And Jack Daniels yanks you closer to him until you’re halfway on the bed to bring you in a bruising kiss that steals the breath from your lungs, an arm wrapped around your waist as he presses as much of his body to yours as he can without yanking the IVs out. His heart rate is through the roof, rapidly beeping on the screen next to him. Jack’s mouth is warm and yours is pliant as he nips at your bottom lip, digging his fingers into your side. His voice is growling when he says, “Good girl,” against your lips.  

You’re one second away from slinging your leg around his hips to straddle him when Vermouth bursts in with wild eyes and a flushed face. 

“Whiskey! What’s wrong-- Oh.”

You nearly throw yourself out of Whiskey’s embrace, but he keeps you close as he glares daggers at the cowering medical assistant standing in the doorway. “You ever hear of knocking?” he drawls. Vermouth’s mouth opens and closes like a fish. 

“It’s just that-- Well, your heart rate it, um, we thought that you were, uh-- We thought you were in danger,” they stutter. Whiskey motions around the room. 

“Do you see any dangers here?” Vermouth makes a ‘kind of?’ motion with their hands. 

“You really shouldn’t be overworking yourself--”

“Kid, I’m fine,” Whiskey interrupts. “Now, shoo,” he says, “get,” and waves his hand at Vermouth, who has never looked more eager to leave the situation. And they’ve seen a lot of shit. You bury your head into his shoulder as you sigh. While Vermouth wouldn’t be coming back any time soon, you know they’re blabbing about what they’ve seen to anyone and everyone. 

“That was so embarrassing,” you whisper.  

Whiskey just laughs, pets your hair, and lets you keep your head where it is, only moving when you slide in the narrow bed next to him when your leg goes numb. The worry that’s been constricting around your heart starts to loosen with every breath he takes in, and he must sense that because he holds you as close as he can, minding the bandages and stitches and his bruised ribs. “You’re mighty affectionate today.” 

“I’m allowed to be after the emotional trauma you put me through,” you mumble. “I still have your hat.” Whiskey just hums and runs his fingers over the skin of your upper arm. He clears his throat. 

“Brandy, I… I have to tell you something,” he says, and there’s that nervousness from the day he was scheduled to leave. His heart rate picks up again, and he presses kiss to your hair to give him a moment to gather his thoughts. “I’ve been thinking about it for a while,” Whiskey says, “what you mean to me, and I know I’ve been a real ass sometimes, but I promise you, it’s all in good humor.” You’re glad you’re not hooked up to a monitor because your heart is pounding in your ears. “And… and I can’t promise anything, not after--” His voice catches, and he clears his throat. “But I, um, what I’m trying to say is--” You take pity on him and reach up to kiss the underside of his jaw, rough with stubble. 

“Don’t you know, Whiskey?” you say. “I already know.”

---

Forever Tag: @mabelleen @mando-vibes @isaissafail @adikaofmandalore @lavenderl3mons

you’re a fine girl Tag: @mrsparknuts @jokersdoll @ariasfandom​ @blondecity​ @yodaswrinkles​ @everythingaboutnothingstuff​ @cloud-of-roses​

#agent whiskey x reader #agent whiskey x you #agent whiskey reader #whiskey x reader #whiskey x you #jack daniels x you #jack daniels x reader #whiskey reader #jack daniels reader #jack daniels #agent whiskey #kingsman reader #kingsman #my writing

[kachinnate]

are you still doing the setting/trope/sentence prompt game? if so, i'd like to request 1 + O + 30 (preferably kept platonic) if you wanted to, but no pressure either way! i hope your anxiety has/can subside <3

send me prompts!

1 (near death experience) + o (misunderstanding) + (“No, it was my fault for thinking that you might care.”)

“If you’re driving, we could always have this conversation some other time.”

“The reason we’re having this conversation while I’m driving is because my mom’s home and she doesn’t need to hear any of this,” Jared’s voice comes from the other line, sharp.

Evan has since put his phone on speaker and is laying on his bed, his phone on his nightstand. Partially because it makes him slightly less anxious to be on the phone if it isn’t in his hand, and partially because he’s fucking exhausted.

Like, in the sense that he wants to sleep, obviously, but also just. In general. With everything.

It’s been a week since everything with the Murphy’s flickered out - or, well, more like burned up and burst in the inside of the bulb, sending shards of glass everywhere. It simultaneously feels like so long ago, yet like only yesterday everything was fine.

Or.. not fine. Better. Fine. He was okay.

Content within something that was bound to fall apart at any given second.

“Are you even fucking listening to me?”

“Yes, Jared,” Evan replies, putting stress on both of the words to hopefully convey his exasperation as best he could without Jared seeing his face. “Listen, I’m—”

“No, don’t tell me to listen when you clearly weren’t listening to me just now.”

“Dude,” Evan breathes, the just barely there laugh hysterical in the sense that he didn’t find it funny at all and was honestly ready to cry, actually. “You’re impossible, oh my god.”

“I’m impossible?”

“Yeah, you’re—”

“Are we just disregarding how you’ve been acting, oh, I dunnoooo..” Evan hears a quiet thump. He knows it’s Jared hitting a knuckle against the steering wheel in that way he did when he was talking and wanted to emphasize a point. “the past month?”

“No. That’s actually— that’s literally what we’re talking about, right now.”

“Do you remember how you asked for my help with the emails, and then The Connor Project, and then told me you didn’t need my help, then accused me of doing nothing—” Jared does the same thing, that same laugh that’s not a laugh. “And then had the fucking audacity to ask me to help you with more emails? All the while, like— not actually talking to me about anything else, like. Other than a best friend that doesn’t exist and a girlfriend that— honestly, I never said it, and maybe I should have, but wow you actually going through and dating Zoe? That’s all sorts of fucked, and you know it—”

“—If you’re not going to let me talk, then I don’t see why we’re doing this,” Evan snaps, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Oh, my apologies, be my guest. What say you?” Jared huffs back, sarcastic and aggressive, and Evan really just wants to hang up the phone. This isn’t productive at all.

“Like I said earlier,” Evan starts, and in the back of his mind he scoffs - as per my last email vibes, and then the irony of thinking of emails, of all things. Hah. “I’m sorry about everything with the project, with how I made you and Alana feel, how - how I was abusing your help, okay. You didn’t deserve to be dragged into this whole thing, to, to further this huge fucking mess that I got myself into.”

He takes a breath. “But everything that I - that I said that night? I don’t take any of that back, and I’m not going to, okay, because we’ve never been real friends, have we?” It hurts even himself to say it, but it’s true, is it not? “Your— ‘family friends’, right? For your car insurance? The most we’ve talked in, in forever has been throughout this whole thing. Am I supposed to be hurt by you threatening to tell everyone, and then calling me a shitty friend when you’ve - when you’ve never been too great of a friend to me, either?”

There’s silence for a while, nothing else other than Jared’s noisy radiator.

“If I— why would I have been helping you this whole time if I didn’t consider you my friend, jackass?—”

“Really helping your case, here,” Evan mumbles. He doesn’t know or care whether Jared heard it or not.

“—you really think that I’d endure all of your bullshit for this long if I didn’t care about you?”

“I don’t know!” Evan presses his palms into his eyes, gritting his teeth. “I don’t know, okay, but you sure as hell didn’t act like you cared about me—”

“—Was spending a stupid amount of time at your house all the time helping you write emails pretending to be your dead best friend not good enough for you?”

“You’re kidding me? Like, you’re joking, right?—”

“I - fuck, you know what, no—” Jared cuts himself off. Something about his breathing has.. changed, but Evan can’t pinpoint what. “This is pointless.”

“You’re just now figuring that out?”

“No, no, this is..” Jared ignores him in favor of whatever he’s trying to say. “Yeah, no Evan, you’re right, maybe it was my fault for thinking that you might care— or might’ve, I mean. About me. At all.”

“Jared, stop trying to pin this on just me—!”

“Open your fucking EYES, dude! I’ve been here the entire goddamn time!”

Something about how he says that has Evan blinking several times, stunned into silence.

The radiator hums. It sounds so much louder than it had before.

“I’m shit at showing - showing you that, like, I give a shit, I guess, you’re right about that but you’ve..” Something is different in his voice. Evan can’t pinpoint what that is, either. “This whole time, you’ve just— dragged me along, because I’m the only one who was around, right? Like, I was the first one you came to when Connor fucking— when he took your letter, and then when you started getting entangled into shit, and I thought that maybe you were coming to me because you trusted me or some shit, but no. It’s because I was the only one around, right?”

..and the thing was, Jared wasn’t wrong.

By technicality, those words were true, but the sudden heaviness in Evan’s chest at least makes him want to believe that he’d never meant it like that.

He never meant for any of this to happen, to hurt anyone. And yet..

“Jared,” he manages, the edge in his voice gone all at once. How the fuck was he supposed to follow up to that? “I’m.. that’s not—”

There’s a sudden shrill, awful sound of metal on metal from Jared’s line. Lots of banging and clashing and— Evan doesn’t really know, it’s just loud, and amidst it he swears he hears Jared go ‘shit!—’ but can’t be sure. Wheels screeching. It makes Evan flinch and then suddenly he’s sitting up, looking towards the phone on his nightstand.

Several car honks. Jared makes a choked noise, Evan thinks.

“J-Jared..? Hey, what’s—?!”

The line goes dead.

#tw car accident #ask to tag #evan hansen #jared kleinman #deh #dear evan hansen #i write things #Anonymous #also thank u for ur tags ;w; #ily

[hxpemingi]

missing puzzle piece <3 s.c.b

a/n: this is my first ever lil au that ive written so please bare with me as i’m typing this as i go hehe (✿◠‿◠) sorry for any grammatical errors!!

Summary: you and changbin have been friends for years, you’ve always had a soft spot for this kid.  You have always had those lingering thoughts in the back of your mind that maybe one day this friendship could turn into something more..

word count: 2.6k 

genre/rating: oneshot!, friends to lovers!, female reader, college age, fluff, just pure fluff, angst if you squint.

-

-

-

As the summer winds down and the sense of the cool breeze fills the air, i know soon enough that the fall semester is coming closer.  i dont mind school all that much, its even better that i get to spend the day with one of my closest friends changbin.  we’ve been friends for gosh knows how long and we act like brother and sister at this point. But nonetheless, theres always that feeling of “what if” in the back of my mind.... what if we did end up dating? I always feel like a puzzle with a missing piece.... I want to find someone to complete the puzzle.  As i shove those thoughts to the back of my mind i hear my phone buzzing on my bed.

-Binnie 6:30pm-

what u doing tonight? are you free??

-Y/N 6:33pm-

i have a hot date with a bowl of ice cream and the couch tonight, but i guess i can rain check. whatchu got planned?

-Binnie 6:37pm-

Wanna go to the beach with me and the boys? we plan on chilling and watching the sunset with a fire and a few drinks.  whaddya say you in?

-Y/N 6:40pm-

count me in...pick me up in 30

-Binnie 6:45pm-

shweeeeet see u then

As soon as i see that text, i put my phone down and change out of some comfy clothes and change into shorts and a cropped tee.  I should probably bring a hoodie but i know Changbin has a few in his car.  I swear that man has a whole closet in his car.  I put on a pair of slip on shoes so that way i can take them off when I’m at the beach.  As I’m putting on shoes i see Changbin’s car pull into my driveway.  After grabbing my house keys and purse I head down the driveway to get into the car where Felix and Han are in the backseat giving me the front seat.

“Glad you gave up your hot date with ice cream to hangout with us tonight” Changbin says as he heads down the road to get to the beach.

“You know i was gonna finish Avatar tonight and cry over my love for zuko but NOOOOOOO i’m gonna become a babysitter for 9 kids as they throw each other in the ocean” i say with the slightest bit of sarcasm

“Oh c’mon Y/N, the ending of avatar can wait. theres supposed to be a comet tonight!!!!” Felix chirps from the backseat

“Yeah Y/N the sky is supposed to be clear and we’ll be able to see it pass by, you wont be able to see it for another 100 years!” Han chimes in.

“They’re right Y/N, it’s a perfect night to watch it.  When will you ever be able to say you’ve seen a comet pass by in your lifetime?” Changbin adds to the conversation.

“I’m pretty sure I saw a comet that time where we were all star gazing on Minho’s roof last summer” i say to them as changbin pulls into the beach parking lot.

“Y/N i hate to break it to you, but that was an airplane.” Han says while Felix giggles.

I turn back at the giggling fools and give them a glare.

“I SHALL STAND BY THE FACT THAT IT WAS A COMET YOU TWO” i say back to the boys as Changbin puts the car into park.

We meet up with the rest of the boys who are currently setting up a makeshift fire pit and setting out some foldable chairs, thats when i realize theres 9 chairs but 10 people.  Guess I will have to sit in the sand.  I don’t worry about it too much when i see Chan currently chasing Seungmin with a dead jellyfish on a stick trying to poke him.  We haven’t been here a total of 5 minutes and there’s already chaos.

-

-

-

After an hour or two of the boys running around in the sand, throwing each other in the water, and a quite competitive game of tag, the sun starts to turn the sky the most beautiful shades of orange and red.  Chan runs to his car to grab a speaker and Hyunjin starts a fire.  Pretty soon the boys gather around the fire when Jeongin says 

“Guys theres only 9 chairs and 10 of us...”

“I’ll just sit on the sand.” I say as I get ready to sit in the sand.

“Y/N, just sit on my lap” Changbin says quietly as you didn’t hear him walk up behind you

“Nono Binnie it’s fine I-”

“No excuses, now come on” he says as he drags me with my hand in his.

While I’m sure no one saw that encounter, I’m pretty sure they see the huge blush that has crept across my face.  Sure I’ve sat on changbins lap before, we do it when theres movie night at Woojins place.  It’s nothing new between us but my feelings for Changbin push through my mind and soon enough, I’m sitting on his lap trying to make myself comfy on his thighs.  Changbin casually snakes his hands across my waist and i suddenly freeze up.  Well thats new, he normally never does that. I try to relax my body and for some reason, it feels natural.  I suddenly feel safe in his arms. 

“Does anyone know when this whole comet thing will come??” Minho says as the music plays in the background.

“According to my phone, it says that we’ll be able to see it pass through around 10 or so.” Felix says as he looks it up on his phone.

“Well since we have time to kill, how about a friendly game of truth or dare?” Hyunjin adds to the conversation.

the group and I nod our heads in agreement as the game of truth or dare starts.

“Seungmin, Truth or dare?” Hyunjin starts off.

“Dare” Seungmin says non chalantly.

“I dare you to run into the ocean with your shoes on” hyunjin says while everyone giggles

“Really? I just bought these shoes ughhhhh” Seungmin sighs as he gets up from his chair and runs towards the water

“I hate this i hate this i hate this” he says as everyone by the fire laughs hysterically 

Once he returns back to the shore where the fire pit is, he takes off his shoes and sits down with a huff.

“alright lets see, Y/N truth or dare?” He says as his eyes direct towards me and changbin.  

I’m not one to play these games so i decided to play it safe

“Truth” i say

“BOOORRRRRINGGGGGGG” Han says from the other side of the fire

“Hmm, when was the last time you kissed a boy?” he says and the group falls silent

Shit, when was the last time i kissed someone? well besides my cat Lucifer i don’t think i’ve ever kissed anyone? Do I lie and say last week? or do I tell the truth and say no one?

“uhhh never” I say in a quiet voice as everyone eyes are glued to me still.  I can feel Changbins gaze on me as he tenses up a little bit, squeezing his arms a little tighter around me

“You really haven’t kissed anyone? Not even that kid you were seeing last semester?” Changbin whispers into my ear

“No we went on two dates and he was a total square and was really boring, he never initiated anything anyways” I say back

“Alrighty Y/N, you can ask a truth or dare or have someone else pick” Seungmin says as he waits for my response

“uhm, Changbin can pick who goes next” I say as I look down at the sand, my feet becoming more interesting

“Can I dare myself?” Changbin says as the group shares a puzzled look with eachother. It’s quiet for a moment before Chan says

“I mean it’s not a rule that you can’t do it but I guess go ahead buddy”

“Alright, I dare myself that I go on a walk with Y/N for a bit. You guys can keep playing” he says and I perk my head up and turn around facing him, giving him a puzzled look.

“Why would you wanna dare yourself to do something so casual?” I say as I get up off of his lap. My waist feeling empty as I grew used to having Changbins arms wrapped around me

“It was beginning to get boring anyways, plus my leg fell asleep from you sitting on it” he chuckles

As we two walk away from the guys who are giggling and laughing, their voices become faint as all I hear are the waves crashing along the shore. It’s peaceful, it’s quiet, and it’s just Changbin and I.

It’s silent for a few minutes before Changbin exhales and stops for a moment to look at the water and the stars up in the sky.

“How come you never told me you haven’t kissed anyone? Cmon Y/N we’ve been friends for years. We tell eachother everything” Changbin says and I look over at the water avoiding his eye contact

“I just didn’t think it was that big of a deal. How lame is it that I haven’t even had my first kiss and my younger sister has for gods sake? I sound like a loser saying it. It’s easy for you to say, I bet you boast to the boys on how many girls fling themselves at you.” I say with a hint of jealousy at the end.

“I don’t think it’s lame y/n, you’re just saving yourself for someone special. And no I do not brag to the boys about “all the girls I get” when in reality I have a different girl in mind.” He says as he goes and steps in front of me. Faces inches away from each other.

I take a few steps back to get some space between us. He’s acting different. It seems like this girl is really sweet from the sounds of it. I try not to act jealous when I start to ask about her

“Who’s this special girl in mind huh? How come you never brought this up to me? Do I approve of her?” I start to spit fire questions at Changbin before he starts talking again.

“I’ve never brought it up to you because I don’t want to ruin anything that I already have with her. I’ve been so nervous to fully confess my feelings because there’s that thought in the back of my mind that maybe she doesn’t like me back.” Changbin rambles when you cut him off

“Why don’t you man up and do it already? I mean the worst thing she could say is no right? Who knows, maybe she does like you back.” I say and Changbin blurts out

“I like you a lot y/n, like a lot a lot”

Holy shit

Seo Changbin, my best friend of 11 years

Just confessed

That he likes me????

“I- I- really? You’re kidding right? Changbin don’t play with my feelings-“ I say before he cuts me off

“Y/n I’m serious, I’ve liked you for a long time and I didn’t know how you would feel, but I know it was stupid of me to confess you know? I probably ruined everything and now our friendship is ruined and nothing will ever be the same again and I-“ before he rambles himself into oblivion i cut him off.

“The feelings mutual binnie, I’ve liked you for god knows how long” i say as he looks up at me.

“I’ve liked you since that day when I jumped off the jungle gym in 3rd grade and you helped me to the nurses office. I’ve always had those feelings for you but I always pushed them back in my head because who knows how you would feel right? So whenever you went and saw other girls it made me the slightest bit jealous. Always wondering if that could be us someday. So then I went on dates with guys but nothing lasted for more than one date. They weren’t you Changbin. It was always you” I say so fast i almost run out of breath

We look at eachother for a few moments before Changbin wraps one of his arms around my waist, taking his other and tucking a few strands of loose hair behind my ear. We look at each other for a few moments as my hands snake up around his neck, definitely a feeling I could get used too. His eyes go from my eyes, down to my lips, then back up to my eyes.

“Since you never had your first kiss, may I?” Changbin says as he’s looking at me like I’m the finest piece of art in the world. Taking in everyone of my features.

“I’d thought you’d never ask” I say with a grin.

He closes the distance between us and both of our eyes close. His lips are warm and soft. Although I’ve never kissed anyone before I start to follow his lead and mirror what he’s doing. It’s a slow and adoring kiss. Not anything fast or sensual. We take our time to see how our lips mold into one another. We break away for a few moments and Changbin puts his forehead on mine.

“You know for not kissing anyone, it seems like you knew what you were doing” he says with a childish grin

“Eh from all the rom coms I’ve watched I feel like I had a good grasp of what I was doing” I say back before he kisses me again. 

I kiss him as if he’s going to disappear from me, pretty soon he has both of his hands around my waist, squeezing my sides earning a quiet yelp from me.  We break away the kiss again and i see him look up in the sky.

“Y/n there it is!!! It’s the comet” he says as he turns me around, hugging me from behind. His chin rests gently on my shoulder as we look at the comet pass by.  

“I don’t think I’ve seen anything more jaw dropping than this before” I say as i look closely at the comet passing by.

“Oh trust me princess, this comet is pretty. but nothing will compare to you” he says as he pecks my neck with kisses.

“We should probably go back before the guys round up a search party for us.” i say while leaving his touch and grab his hand, heading back to the crazy bunch of boys.

Once we make our way back to the gang they look at us with questioning looks, we’re both smiling like idiots and our hands are intertwined.

“What took you guys so long??? You missed the comet, you should’ve seen it!” Jeongin says

“Do i even wanna know what happened?” Chan says, raising a brow at us.

“Don’t worry guys, we stopped and saw the comet too. Nothing crazy happened.” Changbin says with a sheepish grin and I start giggling 

“Did you two confess to one another yet? I’ve been waiting for this.” Hyunjin says as the boys nod their heads in agreement.

“Yeah Bin, did you finally grow a set and confess? I was getting sick of the late night texts saying “ooooo im in L word my guy” “bro she looks so good today”- UGH” Han continues to ramble while Felix elbows him in the gut. 

Changbin and I look at each other and start laughing, he leans down and pecks me on the lips. Earning a few “awws” and an “ew” from Jeongin.

“Does that answer everyones questions?”  Changbin says as we sit back down by the fire. 

We sit back down and start chatting at the fire, talking about the comet and small talk in between. For the first time in my life, I feel content with everything. Content with these 8 crazy boys I can call my friends. And Changbin, everything feels so right finally. It feels like all the puzzle pieces have been put together

Changbin was my missing puzzle piece. 

And now the puzzle is complete.

#changbin #seo changbin #stray kids #friends to more #skz #skz changbin #kpop scenarios #kpop au #kpop #changbeanie #fluff #changbin fluff #ftl #stray kids changbin #stray kids seo changbin #college au #stray kids smut #stray kids everywhere all around the world #stray kids edits #stray kids au

[angelsandacceptance]

Heaven and Hell

“Excuse me?” Chase demands, breaking through the silence. 

“You want Anna? Why?” Sam asks. 

“Out of the way,” Uriel commands, taking a step forward. 

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Okay, I know she's wiretapping your angel chats or whatever, but it's no reason to gank her.”

“Don’t worry,” Uriel smiles cruelly. “I’ll kill her gently.”

“Like hell you will!” Chase says. 

“You’re some heartless sons of bitches, you know that?” Dean asks. 

“As a matter of fact, we are. And?” Cas says.

Chase frowns at him, brows creasing in disappointment. “What?” She whispers softly.

“And? Anna's an innocent girl,” Sam states. 

“She is far from innocent,” Cas says.  

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means she's worse than this abomination you've been screwing. Now give us the girl.”

“Uriel, you absolute motherfucker, I am so close to-”

“Chase, enough!” Castiel says. Chase doesn’t respond, just choosing to glare at him. Cas shifts uncomfortably and looks away.

“Give her to us,” Uriel repeats.

“Sorry. Get yourself another one. Try JDate,” Dean says.

“What’s JDate?” Harley asks.

“A Jewish dating site,” Dean responds. 

“Huh,” Harley hums, before turning serious again. 

“Who's gonna stop us? You three?” Uriel questions. “How about the halfbreed? Or this demon whore?”

Uriel throws Ruby against the wall, punctuating his statement. Dean, alongside Harley, goes to attack him as Cas approaches Sam and Chase. 

“Cas, please,” Chase says. Cas places three fingers on Sam’s forehead, making him collapse to the floor. 

Just as Cas is about to touch Chase’s forehead, her hair falling into her face, as she stands shaking her head, a bright white light fills the room. 

The three conscious hunters and Ruby squint their eyes, before slowly opening them to see Uriel and Cas gone. 

Chase helps Sam to his feet, and they all hear Dean in the backroom. 

“Anna! Anna!” he shouts. 

They all rush to the door of the backroom to see Anna, arms bloodied, with a drawn symbol on the mirror behind her. She looks at them with wide eyes, pale face displaying fear. 

“Are they- are they gone?”

“Did you kill them?” Chase asks, fear evident in her voice.

“No, I sent them away. Far away.”

Chase sighs in relief. 

“You want to tell us how?” Harley asks, intrigued. She sends a smirk to Chase, who shakes her head, mouthing, ‘Not now’. 

Anna gestures to the symbol. “That just popped in my head. I don’t know how I did it. I just...did it.”

Harley snaps a picture of the symbol on her phone so they can memorise it later.

***

The  four hunters stand away from Ruby and Anna discussing what to do next. 

“So, what do we think?” Dean asks.

“I think Anna's getting more interesting by the second,” Sam says.

“Yeah, I agree. And what did they mean by ‘she's not innocent’?”

“What was that spell too? I mean that’s some serious shit,” Harley says.

“Something's going on with her. See what you can find out,” Dean says.

“What’re you gonna do?” Chase asks.

“Anna may have sent the angels to the outfield, but, sooner or later, they're gonna be back. We got to get ourselves safe now.”

“Bobby’s,” Harley and Chase chorus.

“And Ruby’s riding with us.” Harley says sternly.

***

Chase, Harley, Dean, and Anna sit in Bobby’s panic room with Ruby standing in the doorway.

“Iron walls drenched in salt. Demons can't even touch the joint.” Dean says.

“Which I find racist, by the way.” Ruby mentions.

“Write your congressman.”

“Pretty sure you mean speciesist.”

“Harley,” Chase starts. “You totally just made that up.”

“I didn’t! It is a word.”

“If you insist.”

“It is! Look it up.”

“Sure.”

“I give up.”

Ruby rolls her eyes, throwing them all hex bags.

“Hex bags?” Dean questions.

“Extra-crunchy. They'll hide us from angels, demons, all comers,” Ruby replies.

“Thanks, Ruby,” Dean says quietly before turning to Anna, “Don't lose that. So, Anna, what's playing on angel radio? Anything useful?” 

“It's quiet. Dead silence,” Anna answers.

“That’s totally not worrying at all,” Harley says sarcastically.

“I don’t even know what the word worry means,” Chase adds.

“We're in trouble, huh? You guys are scared?” Anna asks.

“Psht, scared?” Chase comments.

“What’s scared?” Harley asks.

“Hey, guys!” They heard Sam yell from the other room.

“Just stay here, okay?” Dean says to Anna before addressing Ruby, “Keep an eye on her.”

***

“How’s the car?” Dean asks Sam. 

“I got her. She’s fine. Where’s Bobby?”

“Uh, Dominican,” Chase answers. “He said if we break anything, we buy it.”

“He’s working a job?” Sam assumes. 

“God, I sure hope so,” Dean says. “Otherwise, he's at hedonism in a banana hammock and a trucker cap.”

“And now that’s seared into my  brain,” Harley sighs. 

“All right. What did you find about Anna?” Chase asks.

Sam shrugs. “Nothing much. Her parents were, uh, Rich and Amy Milton -- a church deacon and a housewife.”

“Riveting,” Dean interrupts. 

Chase silences him with a look. 

“Yeah. But there is something here in the report. Turns out this latest psych episode wasn't her first.”

Chase tilts her head. “It’s not?”

“When she was 2 1/2, she'd get hysterical any time her dad got close. She was convinced that he wasn't her real daddy.”

“Who was?” Dean asks. “The plumber, hmm? A little snaking the pipes?”

“Dude, you’re confusing reality with porn again,” Sam says. Both Harley and Chase have to stifle laughter. Sam continues, “Look, Anna didn't say. She just kept repeating that this real father of hers was mad. Very mad -- like wanted-to-kill-her mad.”

“That’s a little heavy for a two year old,” Harley says.

“Well, she saw a kid's shrink, got better, and grew up normal.”

“Until now,” Harley adds.

“So what’s she hiding?” Dean asks.

“Why don’t you just ask me to my face?” Anna asks from behind the group. They all jump and turn to see Anna appearing from a doorway, Ruby watching from behind her in amusement. 

“Aren’t you supposed to be watching her?” Chase asks.

“I am watching her.”

“Touche.”

“Anna’s right. Is there anything you want to tell us?” Sam asks Anna. 

Anna shakes her head. “About what?”

“The angels said you were guilty of something. Why would they say that?”

“You tell me,” Anna demands. “You tell me why my life has been leveled,” she pauses, emotion bubbling up in her voice. She forces it down. “Why my parents are dead. I don’t know. I swear, I would give anything to know.”

“Okay, so let’s find out,” Chase says, a thoughtful, serious look on her face.

“How?” Dean and Harley chorus, glancing at Chase.

Chase smiles at them knowingly.

***

“We’re here,” Chase announces, entering the room. A familiar figure walks in after her. Chase goes to stand behind Sam and Dean, closest to Harley.

“Pamela!” Sam says in surprise.

“Sam?” Pamela asks, feigning confusion.

“Yeah, it’s me.”

“Sam?” Pamela asks once more, a hand out, moving forward tentatively. “Is that you?”

“I’m right here.”

Sam approaches Pamela and goes to give her a hug. “Oh,” she says. “You wanna know how I knew it was you?” Sam pulls back from the hug, slightly confused. Pamela grabs a handful of his ass, causing him to jump slightly. “That perky little ass of yours. You could bounce a nickel off that thing.” 

“Of course I know it's you, grumpy. I know the other three Winchesters are behind you. Same way I know that's a demon, and that poor girl's Anna and that you've been eyeing my rack.”

“I’m not a Winchester,” Harley says.

“Yet,” coughs Chase from beside her. Harley seems to be the only one to hear, leading her to nudge Chase in the ribcage; hard.

Pamela shrugs. “You might as well be.”

“Uh, uh,” Sam stutters, looking up and away from Pamela’s chest, a pink tinge on his cheeks from embarrassment. 

“Don't sweat it, kiddo. I still got more senses than most.”

“Got it,” Sam nods. 

“Hey, Anna. How are you? I'm Pamela.”

Anna looks at the others, confused, before looking back at Pamela. “Hi.”

“Chase told me what's been going on. I'm excited to help,” Pamela says with a smile. 

“Oh, that’s nice of you.”

“Not really. Any chance I can dick over an angel, I’m taking it.”

“Why?” Anna asks hesitantly. 

“They stole something from me,” Pamela responds eerily. She takes off her sunglasses, revealing white eyes. Pamela smiles as though sensing Anna’s sudden shock of fear. “Demon-y, I know. But they're just plastic. Good for business. Makes me look extra-psychic, don't you think?  Now...how about you tell me what your deal is? Hmm? Don't you worry.”

Pamela begins to explain the process of what she’ll be doing to Anna to her and the group. “Nice and relaxed. Now, I'm going to count down from five to zero. When we're at zero, you'll be in a deep state of hypnosis. As I count down, just go deeper and deeper, okay? 5... 4... 3... 2... 1. Deep sleep. Deep sleep. Every muscle calm and relaxed. Can you hear me?”

“I can hear you,” Anna responds calmly. Her eyes are shut and she seems more at peace than she has since the Winchesters, plus Harley and Ruby, had found her. 

“Now, Anna, tell me... How can you hear the angels? How did you work that spell?”

“I don't know. I just did.”

“Your father... What's his name?”

“Rich Milton.”

“All right. But I want you to look further back... When you were very young... Just a couple of years old.”

“I don't want to.”

“It'll be okay. Anna, just one look - that's all we need.”

“No.”

“What's your dad's name? Your real dad. Why is he angry at you?”

“No. No! No,” Anna screams, “No!”

“Calm down.”

Anna screams again, “He's gonna kill me!”

“Anna, you're safe.”

“No!” She screams. The lights burst and glass explodes everywhere.

“Calm down.”

Again she screamed, “He’s gonna kill me!”

“It's all right, Anna.”

“Anna?” Dean calls out, walking toward her.

“Dean, don’t.” Pamela says just before he gets thrown across the room. “Wake in 1, 2, 3, 4, 5. Anna... Anna? You all right?”

“Thank you, Pamela. That helps a lot. I remember now.” Anna’s entire demeanor has changed. While before, she seemed timid, confused, and shy, yet sweet as honey and fiery too, she now is stoic. Her face stays blank as she peers at Pamela, no emotion on her face or in her eyes. Her voice doesn’t waver.

“Remember what?” Chase asks.

“Who I am.” 

Chase raises a brow. “Well, ain’t that vague.”

“And you are?” Harley prods.

“I’m an angel. Don't be afraid, I'm not like the others.” Anna says, trying to reassure the hunters, psychic, and demon. It must be extremely easy to sense that many people immediately going on guard, a couple of hands reaching for weapons just in case.

“I don't find that very reassuring,” Ruby discloses.

“Neither do I,” Pamela agrees.

“So...Castiel, Uriel - they're the ones that came for me?” Anna asks.

“You know them?” Sam inquires.

“We were kind of in the same foxhole,” Anna says mildly.

“So, what? They were like your bosses or something?” Chase asks. 

“Try the other way around.”

“Look at you,” Dean says combatively. 

“So now they want to kill you?” Harley asks, hoping for some clarification. 

“Orders are orders. I'm sure I have a death sentence on my head,” Anna responds smoothly, as though the thought was equal to saying she was sure the sky was blue.

“Why?” Pamela asks, suspicious. 

“I disobeyed... which, for us, is about the worst thing you can do. I fell.”

“Meaning?” Dean asks. 

“She fell to earth, became human,” Chase says. 

“Wait a minute. I don't understand. So, angels can just become human?” Sam asks.

“It kind of hurts. Try cutting your kidney out with a butter knife. That kind of hurt. I ripped out my grace.”

“Come again?” Dean asks.

“My grace. It's... energy. Hacked it out and fell. My mother, Amy, couldn't get pregnant. Always called me her little miracle. She had no idea how right she was.”

“So, you just forgot that you were God's little Power Ranger?” Dean asks jokingly.

“The older I got, the longer I was human, yeah.”

“I don't think you all appreciate how completely screwed we are,” Ruby chimes in.

Anna nods to her. “Ruby’s right. Heaven wants me dead.”

“And Hell just wants her. A flesh-and-blood angel that you can question, torture, that bleeds. Sister, you're the Stanley Cup. And sooner or later, Heaven or Hell, they're gonna find you.”

“I know,” Anna responds. “That’s why I’m going to get it back.”

“Get what back?”

“My grace.”

“You can do that?” Dean asks. 

“If I can find it.”

“So, what, you're just gonna take some divine bong hit, and, shazam, you're Roma Downey?” Dean asks. 

“Something like that,” Anna responds, meeting Dean’s eyes. She doesn’t seem amused by all his jokes and side comments. 

“Where might it be?” Chase asks. “If we can get it back, that’s the best option we got.”

“Lost track. I was falling about 10,000 miles per hour at the time.”

“Wait, you mean falling literally,” Harley realizes. “Lovely.”

“Like the way a human eye can see? Like a comet, maybe, or a meteor?” Sam asks suddenly. 

“Why do you ask?” Anna asks.

***

Harley, Chase, Sam and Ruby find themselves to be surrounded by old books and magazines. Dean just left to drop Pamela off at home, while Anna is doing who knows what. She’d claimed she wanted alone time, so they let her be. 

Sam’s flipping through the pages of one, before he finally lands on one. “Here. In march '85, a meteorite vanished in the night sky over northwestern Ohio. It was sighted nine months before Anna was born, and she was born in that part of Ohio.”

Ruby looks Sam up and down, “You're pretty buff for a nerd.” Chase rolls her eyes at Ruby’s comment.

“Look, I think it was Anna and here, same time - another meteor over Kentucky.” Sam says ignoring Ruby.

“And that’s her grace?”

“Might be.”

“All right. That just narrows it down to an entire state.”

“At least it narrows it down,” Chase sighs.

Ruby rolls her eyes, “Sam...I’m sorry.”

“For what?” Sam asks.

“For bringing you this mess. If I had known, I would have kept my trap shut.”

“Yeah, well, we'll muddle through.”

“Not this time. You do not want to get between these two armies. It's Godzilla and Mothra. If one side doesn't get us, the other one will.”

“So, what do you want to do? Dump Anna and run? Forget it. Look, I know the angels freak you out.”

“Forget the angels. It's Alastair I'm scared of.”

“Then vamoose your caboose and let us handle it,” Harley points out, earning an eye roll to match her best friend’s.

“Alastair?” Sam questions.

“You met him in the church. Practically the grand inquisitor downstairs. Picasso with a razor,” Ruby answers.

“And?” Harley asks.

“And he should pull him out and throw him back in the pit... if he weren't so out of shape.”

“Ruby…” Sam says, it’s almost a plea.

“No, your abilities - you're getting flabby.”

“Yeah, so how do I tone up?”

“You know how. You know what you got to do.”

“No, I'm not doing that anymore.”

“Sam…”

“I said no.”

“Well, then you better pray that Anna gets her groove back, or we're all dead.”

***

Sam leads Dean and Anna to the table Harley and Chase occupy. Sam is pointing at a newspaper article from several years before. 

“Union, Kentucky. Found some accounts of a local miracle.”

“Yeah?” Dean asks, interested.

“What kind of miracle?” Chase asks. 

“I’m assuming the miracle kind,” Harley notes.

“Yeah. In '85, there was an empty field outside of town. Six months later, there was a full-grown oak. They say it looks a century old at least,” Sam says, animatedly explaining what he’d read.

“Anna, what do you think?” Dean asks, turning to the red haired girl.

“The grace. Where it hit, it could have done something like that, easy.”

“So grace ground zero -- it's not destruction. It's…” Dean trails off.

“Pure creation,” Anna confirms. 

***

“So,” Chase breaks the silence as they drive along the dark road. “How long do you think before Ruby says something she isn’t supposed to?”

“I don’t even want to think about it,” Harley sighs.

“What would be worse though?  Dean finding out you have a crush on him or me having a crush on Cas?” Chase blanks, freezing. 

“Oh my God,” Harley says.

“No-no that isn’t what I meant and you know it! Shut up, shut up right now!”

“I can’t believe you just admitted it!”

“No, that isn’t what I meant. I meant it like, it would be bad if Dean thinks I have a crush on him and like “finds out” I do,” Chase tries to defend, putting air quotes around the words ‘finds out’. “Not that I actually have a crush on Cas, because I don’t. You know?”

“Sure you don’t.”

“I don’t!”

Harley simply hums as they continue behind the Impala, the darkness around them growing thicker as they head to Kentucky, a short twelve hour drive. 

***

“It’s beautiful,” Dean and Chase chorus, staring at the wondrous oak tree, gigantic in size.

“It’s where the grace touched down. I can feel it,” Anna says. 

Chase shivers, immediately knowing what Anna’s referring to. The power resonating from the area is dull, probably from how many years it lay dormant, but still there nonetheless. It felt surreal. 

“You ready to do this?” Harley asks.

Anna smiles slightly, shaking her head. “Not really.”

They all approach the tree, looking around for a sign of what and where the grace might be. 

“What are we looking for?” Sam says after a few moments. 

Anna, placing a hand on the tree, frowns. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Why not?” Chase asks, mimicking Anna, as though she could tell what was going through her head. 

Anna makes eye contact with them, slowly sweeping her gaze from one to the other, before landing on Chase, whose question still lays unanswered in the still air. “Because it’s no longer here.”

***

“We still got the hex bags. I say we head back to the panic room,” Dean says hurriedly.

“What, forever?” Ruby demands. 

“I’m just thinking out loud here!”

“Oh, you call that thinking?”

“Ruby, can it!” Chase snaps. 

“Oh, whatever you say, angel-lover.”

“At least I know to stay away from trash!”

“Chase, cool it,” Harley says, not bothering to hide the smile on her face.

“No! No, go on! Got anything else to say?” Ruby asks, approaching Chase. Sam grabs Ruby by the arm as Dean puts himself in front of Chase. Harley just watches in amusement. 

“Hey! Hey, hey, hey. Stop it,” Sam says.

“Anna's grace is gone. You understand? She can't angel up. She can't protect us. We can't fight Heaven and Hell. One side maybe, but not both. Not at once. And your favorite angel is fighting against us as much as everyone else is, so get over it.”

“Um, guys?” Anna interrupts softly. “The angels are talking again.”

“What are they saying?” Sam asks.

“It's weird... Like a recording... a loop. It says, "Dean Winchester gives us Anna by midnight, or..."

“Or what?” Dean demands.

Anna looks up, discomfort plainly displaying itself. “Or we hurl him back into damnation.”

“Who is it?” Chase asks suddenly.

“What?” Anna asks, tilting her head. 

“Who is it? Saying that. Who the hell is threatening my family?”

Anna stays silent for a moment. “Chase,” she begins.

“Tell me.”

“It’s Castiel’s voice.”

Chase takes a step back, betrayal, then anger crossing over her features. “I am going to kill that feathery, flighty, stupid, son of a bitch.” Her voice is slow and controlled - Murderous. Harley puts a comforting hand on Chase’s shoulder, but Chase shrugs her off. “Whatever, it doesn’t matter. We knew they would stoop low to get Anna back.”

Sam’s eyes light up. “Chase, you’re brilliant!”

“I am. What’s your point?”

“Anna.. Do you know of any weapon that works on an angel? To what? To kill them?”

Anna sighs. “Nothing we could get to. Not right now.”

“Okay, wait, wait. I say we call Bobby. We get him back from hedonism.”

“Dean, what's he gonna tell us that we don't already know?” Sam asks.

“I don’t know,” Dean cries out. “But we’ve got to think of something!”

***

“Don't talk like that,” Dean says softly. Chase slows her footsteps. She’d been following Anna out to ask if she was okay, but “accidentally” overheard part of their conversation. She on purpose stays to hear the rest.

“I disobeyed. Lucifer disobeyed. It's our murder one, and I knew it. Maybe I got to pay.”

“Yeah, well, we've all done things we got to pay for.”

“I got to tell you something. You're not gonna like it,” Anna says. 

A pause ensues. Chase curses herself for being short, because now she is awkwardly hiding behind a car, and now can’t see what is happening. “Okay,” Dean says slowly. “What?”

“About a week ago, I heard the angels talking... About you... What you did in Hell. Dean, I know. It wasn't your fault. You should forgive yourself.”

Chase frowns. ‘Excuse me?’ 

“Anna, I don't w-want to, uh... I don't want to... I can't talk about that.” Dean’s voice is flighty, causing Chase to frown deeper. 

“I know. But when you can, you have people that want to help. You are not alone. That's all I'm trying to say.”

Another pause, longer than the previous one interrupts their conversation. “What was that for?” Dean finally asks. 

‘Did Anna just kiss Dean?!’

“You know. Our last night on earth. All of that.”

“You’re stealing my best line,” Dean says jokingly. “But…”

“But?”

A short pause. Again, Chase curses her inconvenient hiding spot. 

“Ah,” Anna continues. “I see.”

‘See what?’ Chase asks herself. ‘I can’t see anything!’

“Yeah,” Dean says awkwardly. “But not how you think.”

“You can’t keep running from everything, Dean.”

“I can sure as Hell try,” Dean says. He’s obviously intending for it to come across as a joke, but Chase can hear the underlying seriousness. 

“She’s lucky.”

‘She?’

Dean laughs. “Not likely.”

“Give yourself more credit than that. I’m sure you’re not as alone in your intentions as you believe.”

‘Intentions? Like what? Who the hell are they talking about?’

“She could never feel the same.”

‘OH MY GOD,’ Chase thinks to herself, trying to keep from squealing. A hand is clapped over her mouth tightly, as she frantically puts the pieces together. ‘They’re talking about Harley!!! I fucking knew it!’

“Don’t be so sure,” Anna says knowingly.

“We should get inside,” Dean says. “It’s a bit cold out here.”

Chase balks, before rushing up towards the house again. 

“Did you hear something?” Anna asks. 

Dean’s voice fades to nothing as Chase closes the door. “Probably just an animal.”

Chase grins widely to herself, before rushing off to relay the events to Harley. 

***

“I don't know, man. Where's Ruby?” Sam asks. Chase and Harley shrug. 

“Hey, she's your Hell buddy,” Dean says, taking a long drink from his flask. 

“Little early for that, isn't it?” Anna asks him. Dean gives her a lopsided smile. 

“It’s 2 a.m. somewhere.”

“You okay?” Anna asks, eyebrows furrowing together. 

“Yeah, of course.”

The doors rattle, distracting everyone, before they burst open. Castiel and Uriel enter. Chase subconsciously steps in front of Dean, glaring harshly at Castiel. 

“Hello, Anna. It's good to see you,” Castiel says, inclining his head towards her. 

“Bullshit,” Chase says, “Why are you here?”

Castiel glances at Chase with confusion in his eyes, before ignoring her, which just seems to rub salt into an unknown wound. 

“How? How did you find us?” Cas and Uriel glance at Dean. Sam and everyone else looks to him in shock. “Dean?”

“I'm sorry,” Dean says to Anna. 

“Why?” Harley asks.

“Because they gave him a choice. They either kill me... or kill all of you. I know how their minds work.”

Anna gives Dean a tight hug, pecking him on the cheek. “You did the best you could. I forgive you. Okay. No more tricks. No more running. I'm ready.”

Harley stiffens at Anna’s actions, but Chase just sends her a knowing smile, which confuses her enough to distract her. 

“I’m sorry,” Castiel says.

“No, you’re really not,” Anna replies. “You don’t know the feeling.”

“Still, we have a history. It’s just-”

“I get it. Orders are orders.” Anna sighs. “I know. Just make it quick.”

Suddenly, the barn gets colder. Alastair, Ruby, and another demon appear in the barn. Ruby is covered in blood, causing everyone to look at her in shock, some looking at her with concern.

“How dare you come in this room... you pussing sore?” Uriel asks, spitting the words to Alastair. 

“That is literally the first fucking thing that you’ve said that I don’t find absolutely vile. Good job. Progress,” Chase says. 

“Shut up, you repulsive-”

“Aaand, you’re back to square one,” Chase tsks. 

“Turn around and walk away now,” Castiel says to Alastair and his demon cronies.

“Think I’ll take my chances,” Alastair replies.

The angels and demons begin fighting, Castiel trying to exorcise Alastair. Harley wondered why he wasn’t trying to smite him. 

“Sorry, kiddo. Why don't you go run to daddy?” Alastair taunts as one of his cronies collapses because Uriel exorcises him. “Potestas inferna, me confirma. Potestas inferna, me confirma. Potestas inferna, me confirma!” 

Dean hits Alastair on the back of the head with a crowbar. 

Alastair turns to Dean, “Dean, Dean, Dean... I am so disappointed. You had such promise.” He goes to attack the four hunters.

While Uriel was dealing with the other cronie Anna steals his necklace and smashes it on the ground. A glowing white light escapes and flows into Anna’s mouth.

“Shut your eyes. Shut your eyes! Shut your eyes!” Anna yells. The Winchesters and Co. do as she says, opening them after a flash of light dissipates. Alastair was gone leaving the knife. Anna poofed away, finally having gotten her grace back.

“Well, what are you guys waiting for? Go get Anna. Unless, of course, you're scared,” Dean taunts.

“This isn't over,” Uriel says almost threateningly.

“Oh, is it? Because you don’t seem to have any more moves to make,” Harley points out.

“Silence halfbreed.”

“Don’t call her that, you dick!” defends Dean.

“And why not? It’s what the abomination is.”

“She’s not an abomination. She’s my best friend.”

“It’s fine, Dean. I don’t give a shit about his opinion anyway,” Harley says, “It’s not worth it. He’s not worth it.”

Castiel and Uriel poof off to God knows where.

“But you are,” Dean says softly. 

Chase and Sam seeing a potential moment make themselves scarce and head to the other side of the barn.

“I am what?” Harley asks, confusion evident in her voice.

“Worth it,” Dean says, “I know you don’t think you are, but-”

“Excuse you? I’m amazingly fabulous.”

“Don’t give me that crap. I know you. Maybe not as well as Chase, but I know you.”

“I’m not giving you crap.”

“Harley for someone who wanted to act, you're a terrible liar. I know all your bravado is bullshit. We all do.”

“So what?”

“So I want you to know you’re worth it.”

“I’m not though Dean. I’m just another monster.” 

Dean begins walking toward her stopping when they’re inches away. He pulls her into a hug, and she gladly accepts.

“You’re not a monster.” Dean softly says into her ear.

“How do you know that?”

“Because I...you try to do the right thing, even if you don’t know what it is.”

“Can we just stay here for a while?”

“We can do anything you want sweetheart,” Dean says with a suggestive undertone. 

Harley laughs it off thinking it’s just Dean being his flirty self. They just stand there in each other’s arms for what feels like forever and no time at all.

***

“What took you so long to get here?” Deans asks Ruby upon entering the room where she had been talking with Sam and Chase. She rolls her eyes at him. 

“Sorry I'm late with the demon delivery. I was only being tortured,” she replies sarcastically. 

“I got to hand it to you, Sammy. Bringing them all together all at once -- angels and demons. It was a damn good plan.”

“Yeah, well, when you got Godzilla and Mothra on your ass, best to get out of their way and let them fight.”

“Now you’re just bragging,” Chase says.

“What’s wrong with bragging?” Harley asks jokingly. “You do it all the time.”

Chase shrugs. “I’m not bragging. At that point, I’m simply stating facts.”

“That is bragging. You are literally bragging right now,” Sam laughs. 

Chase waves him off. “I’m just glad Anna’s okay.”

“So, I guess she's some big-time angel now, huh? She must be happy... Wherever she is,” Sam says. 

“I doubt it,” Dean adds. 

They all frown at his words, letting them sink in. 

***

Chase all but squeals as she starts the car. Harley shoots her an odd look, but Chase just smiles widely at her. “Oh my God, I have so much to tell you!”

“Okay? What do you have to tell me?” Harley asks, paranoid.

“Dean likes you!”

“Not this again. Every time we’re in the car.”

“Oh, hush!” Chase frowns. “That’s only cause I can’t say this in front of other people. I mean I can. I just thought you’d appreciate me being a bit more discreet about it. Anyhoo, I overheard Anna and Dean talking about it.”

“Did he actually say he likes me?”

“Well, no, but-” “So you have no proof. That what you’re telling me?”

“Wellll.” Chase sighs. “Okay, so here’s what happened. I was hiding because I overheard Anna and Dean talking and they were talking about Dean’s time in Hell. All very vague, and I’m not sure what it was about. Then Anna kisses Dean-”

“So?” Harley asks curtly. 

Chase rolls her eyes. “‘So?’” she says mockingly. “Soooo. Dean is all ‘what was that for’ and Anna is all ‘last night on earth’ and Dean’s all ‘you’re stealing my best line but-’ and then Anna is like ‘But?’ and there’s this pause. I’m pretty sure Dean looked over at where we were, because Anna just goes ‘oh, I see’ and then is like ‘she’s lucky’ after telling him he can’t run from everything.” 

“Did you actually see where he was looking?”

“Well, no, but- Don’t interrupt me, I’m not finished!” Chase huffs. “Anyway, as I was saying. Dean says he can certainly try and then Anna tells him that his intentions are not one sided, meaning there are intentions there and that she has noticed it being reciprocated, which mean she had to have been talking about you and Dean, and you like Dean, which means he likes you! Get it?”

“So you’re crazy. I don’t even know if I like him yet. I mean I think I might, but I’m not really sure. Besides I thought Dean was all in love with Cassie?”

“That was a fling and was years ago. Why would you think of her of all people?”

“I don’t know maybe because that’s the longest relationship Dean’s ever had?”

“Okay, fair, but like, again. Years ago. And this is something Anna has evidence of and she has no clue who Cassie is so,” Chase says in a ‘duh’ tone of voice.

“She could’ve just picked up on him liking someone and was trying to be nice.”

“Anna. Right. She was just trying to be nice. That makes complete sense,” Chase says in a heavily sarcastic tone. “You’re just being stubborn!”

“I’m always stubborn, besides she was trying to get in his pants right before that.”

“See, that’s true! Which means she simply didn’t know that Dean reciprocated feelings, but she did say she previously saw evidence of them being reciprocated. Ruby hates him, and I’m his sister so that’s an obvious “ew”, so you’re the only one left, and let’s not fool anyone here. Our argument earlier did not go unnoticed by our surrounding companions. She totally knows you got the hots for my brother.”

“I do not have the hots for him! I said I might like him that’s all. Anyway I’m not the kind of person that gets to fall in love.”

“That’s bullshit,” Chase deadpans, suddenly deadly serious. “You’re an amazing, wonderful, kind, loving, hilarious, beautiful person and I’ll be damned before I see you never get a happy ending simply because you believe it when certain dickheads tell you you don’t deserve one. Even if that dickhead is yourself.”

“Okay, that’s very sweet, but I just don’t want to risk falling in love and outliving that person by some vampire superpower.”

“Ummmm. Okay, I don’t have anything to combat that other than, we’re all gonna die one day. I can fall in love with a very humany human person and they could die the next day easily. Just because it will eventually end, you ending up immortal or not, doesn’t mean it isn’t worth the time you do have. Don’t let your fear of losing Dean- or anyone, don’t look at me like that- keep you from pursuing something that’ll make you happy now. All I’m saying.”

***

Jack and Baby are parked side by side along the mostly deserted highway, a lookoff point behind them, showcasing scenery that would leave most breathless. However, the four hunters and friends who sit on the hoods of their respective cars don’t look much at scenery. Two hold beers, the boys of the group, while the girls hold water bottles, making faces at Sam and Dean to tease them. Chase and Harley clink their water bottles, mocking Sam and Dean, who’d clinked their beer bottles. 

“I can’t believe we made it out of there,” Chase sighs. 

“Again,” Sam adds. 

Dean and Harley laugh slightly, but note the seriousness of the situation. 

“I know you guys heard him,” Dean says. 

The other three cast cautious glances at each other before looking to Dean. “Heard who?” Sam asks, feigning ignorance in case Dean would rather shove the topic back under the rug.

“Alastair. What he said about me. About how I have promise.”

“We heard him,” Chase confirms. 

“You’re not curious?” Dean asks in surprise. 

“Dean, all of us are damn curious, but we’re not gonna pry.”

“You said you didn’t want to talk about Hell,” Harley gently reminds. “So why would we ask? It’d only make you upset.”

“It wasn’t four months, you know,” Dean says.

“What?” Sam asks.

“I think I know how long my brother was gone,” Chase notes.

Dean meets her eyes briefly, before looking away. “I mean, yeah, it was four months up here but. I don’t know. Down there time is different.”

“How long was it?” Harley asks cautiously. 

“More like forty years.”

Chase makes a noise of hurt in her throat, and Sam lets out a small, “My God.”, but silence falls on all of them as they gaze at Dean in shock, mingled with horror. Tears shine in Dean’s eyes, further causing the three to be pained- Dean doesn’t often open himself up to vulnerability, so this is obviously difficult, traumatic, and painful for him. 

Dean’s voice cracks as he tries to explain to them just a fraction of what he’d gone through. “They, uh... They sliced and carved and tore at me in ways that you... Until there was nothing left. And then, suddenly... I would be whole again... like magic... just so they could start in all over. And Alastair... at the end of every day... every one... he would come over. And he would make me an offer. To take me off the rack... if I put souls on... if I started the torturing. 

“And every day, I told him to stick it where the sun shines. For 30 years, I told him. But then I couldn't do it anymore, Sammy.” Dean meets Sam’s eyes, before glancing over at the two girls. “Guys, I just couldn't. And I got off that rack. God help me, I got right off it, and I started ripping them apart. I lost count of how many souls.” A tear escapes, falling down Dean’s face. “The -- the things that I did to them.”

“Dean, you held out for thirty years,” Sam points out.

“That’s longer than most anyone!” Harley adds. 

Chase gets up and puts a tentative, but supportive, arm around her brother, who leans in slightly to accept the comfort. “It’s okay, Dean. You did good. You held out longer than I would have, than anyone I know probably could have. You’re gonna be okay.”

“How I feel... This... inside me... I wish I couldn't feel anything. I wish I couldn't feel a damn thing.” Dean finally breaks down further, more tears escaping as he begins to cry. Harley and Chase’s eyes meet over his shoulder as Chase fully hugs him. Tears are shining in both girls’ eyes. 

The four hunters stay there in silence as Dean lets out a portion of his pain to let them carry. Chase, Harley, and Sam can’t help the feeling of helplessness they feel. They couldn’t truly help Dean or ever begin to understand what he went through. They could only hold him, let him speak if he wishes to speak, be silent when he wishes to be silent, and constantly remind him they were there.

[seven-oomen]

Hi, Ben!  I hope your day is going well so far!  Are you still getting snow, or has the storm calmed a bit?  We’re supposed to be getting a potentially severe ice storm over the course of today.  There’s already a thin layer this morning, we’ll see how the rest of the day goes.  And temperatures are supposed to stay in about the -4 to -6C range the rest of the week.  I’m very glad that I’m off the next couple of days, and managed to get by the grocery last night after work.

I saw your post about writing and writing styles!  It was helpful because I’ve not really seen the different styles written out and explained before.  I’m still not 100% which I am, but probably either an intuitive plotter or a methodological pantser.  Usually there’s a scene or a line or two that I’m like “this needs to happen in this story” and everything else is fairly free-form.  I did try actually writing down an outline for IYWTD, but even then it’s more a list of beats/tropes and the order I want to include them in.  (And I’ve only just made it past halfway through, although a couple may need to be altered a bit, oh god, how did this get so long…)

It’s also always kinda of amusing to me how many of those writing advice lists are like “Don’t do this”, “Stop doing this”, “Never do that”, and then they’ll encourage you to find your own voice and style.  Like, bitch, you just told me not to ever do half the shit that makes up my style.  Which am I supposed to do?  Damn.  XD  (You will seriously pry adverbs and similar descriptors from my cold, dead, grasping hands.  Also the occasional epithet.  No, I’m not using a character’s name nine times in one paragraph, sorry, and pronouns don’t always help if the characters are the same gender.  The reader can deal. ;D )

And I feel ya on the tall, skinny, blue-eyed boys thing.  It doesn’t have to be just a white boy, but if he’s taller than me, slender, and has a pretty pair of baby blues, my higher brain functions tend to go into insta-lag.  I ain’t particularly proud, but I’ve long accepted this about myself (there are many reasons Luke became my forever BAE.)  That’s not to say a lack of any of those is a deal-breaker in the slightest, but it’s definitely going to immediately get my attention.

Speaking (vaguely) of Luke, I had a thought the other day of him and Din being off on some planet together (Grogu is staying with Aunt Leia and Uncle Han for a few days), and there’s a noise in the middle of the night, and Din refuses to accept Luke’s assurance that there’s nothing out there, and in true himbo fashion insists on going out to investigate having grabbed only the darksaber and his helmet to cover his face -but nothing else.  Luke just finds it a combo of hysterical and adorable (and kinda hot.)

I hope your novel is going well (whatever stage you happen to be at), and I’m always up for hearing whatever you feel like sharing about it.

I hope you’re still doing well with the whole eating and hydrating regularly thing (it’s also totally okay if you aren’t!), and I’m super proud of you for sticking to it as much as you can anyway.  That shit is hard.  (Also, ignore the 1500 calories thing, I swear that shit is designed for 130lb women trying to shed a few pounds, not people who need to safely and steadily lose larger amounts of weight.  But then I’ve also never fully understood making someone lose weight before surgery, either.  “We need you to get rid of some excess weight before we’ll okay this surgery to *checks notes* get rid of some excess weight."  Like, weird flex, but okay.)

Anyway, I’m rambling again, and should really eat some breakfast and try to write a little myself today, maybe.  Hope you’re feeling okay, and that things are going well overall.  I hope Mo is doing well, and enjoying his best cuddle buddy life.  Take care!  *Hugs!*

Okay, gonna try this this way so that I can refer back to the links on my phone if need be.  I couldn’t quite see the full entries for the physical descriptions, and when I tried clicking on them it kept asking for a login, but I think I saw enough to get the gist.  I’m not sure exactly what sort of feedback you’re interested in, if any, so this will mainly be my usual sort of rambling stream-of-consciousness type thoughts and questions.  Hope that’s okay.  Feel free to ignore if it’s not what you’re after right now!  :D

I think one of the first questions that popped to mind was where is/what happened to Ellie’s mom, and is that something that’s going to cause problems later in some way?  (I.e.- was she killed on a hunt, are they divorced, was it bitter or amicable [would she come after her daughter if she heard about his relationship?])  I guess technically similar questions could also apply to Nate (late husband, ex-husband, ex-boyfriend, one night stand, sperm donor?) it was just more noticeable with Ellie being so young still.  Although that could also be part of why he’s ended up in Wyoming, which was another question I had, although there I assume it’s hunt-related.

I also anticipate quite a bit of tension of all kinds when he and Nate first meet, because Faron strikes me from his descriptions as someone rather used to being able to get his own way either through the influence of who he is, or through his size (not necessarily in any kind of intentional or aggressive way, more in an unconscious privilege kind of way, if that makes sense?), and I don’t think Nate sounds like the type to give two shits about either of those things, and it would probably drive Faron up the proverbial wall that Nate isn’t intimidated by him in the slightest.  (I could be entirely wrong about all this, this is just the impression I get so far. :D )  And I think Nate being noticeably older than him would just make it that much more irritating at first, too.  Now, how long these impressions last will just depend on how quickly they get to know each other, and whether Bachelor #3 is helping or hindering things.  XD  The potential for just sitting back and watching the fireworks as “laid-back dad jokes with a quick temper” clashes with “quiet, reserved, and possibly takes themselves slightly too seriously” might prove too much for our last contestant for a while, depending on where his personality falls.  ;D  (Especially since Faron coming in and starting shit will likely come off as a direct threat to people and places Nate considers under his protection.)

Also, are any of these three going to have met before?  Will Nate already have some sort of relationship with the werewolf (Does he already know about the supernatural at all?)  Did he and Faron encounter each other on the trip to Europe you mentioned in the Life Highlights?  If he and the wolf already know each other, how does he get along with Cas, or Nate’s pets?  Is the werewolf also going to be native to the region?  Does he know anything about Faron’s family?  Does Faron already know he’s a werewolf, or is that going to be a bit of a crisis for him later?  A test of how well he’s learned not to judge?  If Nate doesn’t already know, how will he deal with both their secrets?  Do you plan for full-shift only wolves, partial-shift only wolves, or a mix of the two like TW?  Are there other supes in the area?

I think you mentioned maybe having him be of Native American descent?  I think that could be very interesting, but would require a LOT of research into which tribes are active in the Yellowstone area, and what their individual mythologies say about things like shapeshifters, and LGTBQ+ issues, etc., because there can be a fair amount of variance, I’m sure.  Also, I’m just overall curious how he’ll fit in with the other two size wise (get your mind out of the gutter, you know what I mean.  XD )  Also curious if any o them are going to have the slightest clue on the feelings front, or are they all going to be just absolute disasters?  Will the kids figure it out before they do?  Will the kids get along?  (Will BachelorWolf have any kids of his own, or just Nate and Faron?)  Will Nate’s coworkers have any clue about either the supernatural, or what’s going on with those three?  Because I suspect at least some of them will be way more obvious than they think they’re being.  XD

Uh… I think that was all that’s occured to me right now?…  I’m sorry you’re having a yucky day overall, and I hope tomorrow’s a bit better!  The ice storm has finally moved in here, and I can feel the temperature drop radiating off of the front door and windows.  It went from rain to freezing rain/hail and I’m not sure how long it’s supposed to last.  Hopefully only a little while.  Also, sorry your book was terrible.  I haven’t seen too many recent recommendations from friends, and I’ve been mostly reading “cozy” mysteries (Agatha Christie, Elizabeth Peters, etc) as my comfort reading myself, lately, so I can’t really suggest anything in particular, unfortunately.  At least, nothing I think you wouldn’t already know.  Anyway, hope you’re getting some decent rest, and hope you have a better day tomorrow!  Take care!  *Hugs!*

Alright since this is going to be like a very long one, I’m break it down into a few things.

First full physical descriptions, cause I didn’t know Milanote would be a bitch about it.

Nate:

164 cm (5'4), 75 kg (166 lbs), Short slightly overweight trans man in his middle age. Nearly always the shortest man in the room, only standing around 5'4 and weighing in around 166 lbs. With kind moss green eyes that have permanent crow's feet in their corners and a polite but reserved smile always on his face. 

A face that's framed by faint freckles that are only visible in the sunlight. A neatly trimmed beard spices up his features and frames his pink lips. His thick but short eyebrows frame his eyes and create a short arc to his slim nose. 

A high forehead separates his brows from his wavy dark blond hair that's always tucked behind his ears. 

He generally wears the Superintendents' Park Ranger uniform while on duty. When he's not he wears comfortable jeans and t-shirts, usually a mono color like green, white, or black, plaid flannel shirts, socks with the weirdest patterns and colors, and hiking boots. He wears a steel ring on his right index finger and has a little steel Mjolnir on a necklace around his neck.

He's missing two fingers (his ring and little finger) on his left hand due to a childhood accident.

Faron:

185 cm (6'1 ft), 93 kg (205 lbs), Faron is a tall man with plenty of muscle from his time hunting. He can seem daunting and intimidating when you first meet him but there is a kinder, softer side to him. He has a warm light brown skin color, blue eyes, and black natural tight curly hair that he keeps very short. His full dark beard decorates his cheeks and chin, connects to his upper lip, and all the way up to his sideburns.

  He tends to wear dark clothing, leather jackets, no jewelry that could identify him, jeans, henley shirts, or V-neck shirts, and black, brown, or red jackets. He usually wears black combat boots or dark brown hiking boots. He's got knives and other weapons hidden all over his body and pockets and it might take him a good few minutes to unload every single knife from his body when he was to disarm.

There are also scars all over his body, including some scars on his neck that are visible from day to day life. He had the bad luck of being struck down by a vicious Wendigo but managed to escape. He survived thanks to his sister's quick thinking and first aid.

He covers some of those scars up with tattoos; he has one tattoo of a dragon laying down on his shoulder, with its head on his chest and its body curling over his shoulder and ending just below his shoulder blades. And one tattoo covers up some scars on his lower arm, it's a tattoo of a wolf's head that covers up a bite mark.

Dichali:

He’s 37 and has 4 siblings, and two children, Kajika & Kaniya (Jika & Niya, identical twins, but one of them identifies as male, he’s trans. Kajika is his chosen/reassigned name. They are 10.) Dichali grew up in Riverton, WY, which is the largest town of 10,000 in the largest Native Reservation in Wyoming. He’s also a dear friend to our Nate (who is also his boss technically) and has slowly been falling in love with him for the last few years. (Although he still hasn’t realized that he loves his friend.) 

Yena, his coworker and friend, who’s much younger at 25 has been watching her coworker and her boss joke and dance around each other. She has a betting pool with her girlfriend on who snaps first.

Not sure how I’ll connect him to Faron if it’s more fun/better to have him find out later or to already know him and keep it quiet. 

I’m still working on him, so I don’t have much of personality and other things written down yet. But I have made his physical description:

At 178 cm (5'8) and 83 kilos (182 lbs) Dichali probably isn't the tallest man you've met, he's also not the shortest. And while he's got some good muscle on him from working as a Park Ranger, and being a werewolf, he also has some softer sides. All the better to cuddle with. He has long straight brown hair that falls to his mid-back and deep brown eyes and a long nose that ends prominently. His eyebrows are thin and he has a high forehead. His skin is a light Tawny color, there's a hint of an orange brown with a cool undertone.

His skin is also relatively clear and youthful looking because of his lycanthropy.

He tends to wear pants and jackets made by native designers and always incorporates native fashion into his outfits. He has jackets of mostly gray, blue, brown, and black colors made of denim, cotton, wool, or brass that are lined with more traditional cloths and patterns like the designer brand Ginew. Usually he pairs them with dark jeans, either black, gray, or dark blue. He pairs it with white, blue, red, black, or printed band t-shirts (Metallica, Green Day, Marianas Trench). 

For shoes he has brown hiking boots that are part of the Ranger uniform, more western styled boots like black cowboy boots, and a pair of sneakers.He also wears a copper bracelet with lighting bolts etched into it.

-

Now this whole story got started because I had the question what if we had a DILF romance going on while/because the following happened?

What if a YouTube video that accidentally got uploaded shows the existence of a werewolf in Yellowstone park? Threatening to expose the entire supernatural world.

The werewolves right now are a mix, so half shift is like the classical half shift of a wolf head on a man’s body, but the full shift is more like a larger wolf. Almost the size of a black bear. Though I might change those ideas as the story progresses.

But that is how the Cryptid of Yellowstone is brought into the world. And that brings problems. Big problems.

Wendigos, vampires, djins, I plan to create a world where a lot of supernatural creates exist. From all sorts of cultures. I’m also toying with the idea of Kelpies and Griffins. That kind of stuff.

The supernatural world is hidden from ours, hidden in plain sight if you will. Most encounters are written off as really strange, sometimes a picture pops up, but with the coming of the internet, things have gotten more complicated. Also with deforestation and competition with regular wildlife has made some bigger supernatural creatures either extinct or thought to be extinct. They’re not sure what still lives in Australia, though.

Nate or his son don’t know about the supernatural world. Neither does Yena. Or much of the world. Dichali, his children (to some extent), Faron, and Faron’s family do know about this world.

-

Alright, as for your other post XD

Right now it’s no longer storming but due to the freezing temperatures the snow’s not going away and all public transport and delivery services are still not driving/delivering/running. So that’s neat. Not. 

I swear we get some snow and the country is just down. Upside, ain’t nobody going outside and this helps with lockdown.

I hope your snowstorm won’t be too bad and everything thaws down soon. Snow’s fun for a day but after that...

Make sure you stay warm alright? And bundle up.

Yes dad... alright XD

Honestly, I’m glad to hear you liked my advice too. I’m getting quite a bit of positive feedback on it and that just makes me really happy ^^. I’m definitely writing more writing advice from everything I’ve learned so far.

There’s honestly so many contradicting ones out there, it’s a matter of picking and choosing which ones work best for you and applying those. And that’s the real trick of advice.

Fun fact, a lot of famous writers are also pantsers. Steven King, Neil Gaiman, George RR Martin are examples of famous pantsers or gardeners as they are also called. 

John Grisham, JK Rowling, RL Stein fall into the plotter or architect category. 

Writers like Hank Green seem to fall in the in-between category of plantser (somewhere between a plotter and a pantser. Or the Intuitive plotter.)

Okay but the DinLuke things is really really kinda hot and cute and adorable and has me smiling <3

And I can’t remember what else I wanted to say since it is like 2 am and my meds are seriously kicking in now.

But I hope you’re doing alright and that the snowstorm isn’t too bad where you’re at.

I’ll be alright, my diet hasn’t been going so well the last few days and I can’t really exercise, but I did mostly get healthy groceries that will be delivered friday so there’s that. 

Fingers crossed I can pick it back up.

Okay I’m heading to bed XD 

I’ll talk to you later, B <3 

Hugs from me and Mo <3

#my ocs #please don't reblog #B #my convos with anon #ben writes original fiction #submission