#it's on the gloves and the necktie and the guns(but on the back)

[aphroditestummyrolls]

if the game is still on I’d love spare prayer or engagement series.

Hi hiiii! Sorry I’m so late in replying— I have had this one and another wip game request sitting in my inbox for a while, but between travelling and the holidays and the ED brain fog, I’ve been… I haven’t felt like writing. And even when I have, it’s been slow going.

Here’s a little bit of the Engagement Series, from a little ditty where Jesper and Wylan are trying to learn how to make themselves fit in the geldstraat.

The Council had a lot of rules.

Tradition— otherwise known as a small contingent of unbelievably wealthy and equally old Kerchmen— dictated the Geldstraat like a finely tuned orchestra. And it took Jesper no time at all to realise that they hadn’t stopped playing the same old song for at least a century. The violin section was dusty with resin, the hairs of the bows fraying until the melody was a screech; the brass section badly needed oil for its rusting valves; and even the velum pulled tight across the drums had grown old and thin— about to snap loose and make everyone lose their rhythm.

The flute, though, was gleaming in the warm gas lamps of the Van Eck parlour. It was played so sweet and clear that the song naturally shifted.

The melody was largely the same, perhaps, but this was Wylan’s concerto now.

He looked so handsome in this light. Wylan had mentioned often enough that he didn’t feel like he belonged here, but if Jesper didn’t know his merchling so well, he’d have utterly fooled him. His wild curls were slicked into careful place. That black suit was cut to his slim frame like a glove, obscuring every hard edge that The Barrel had left behind on him. He chatted about business with Boer and Hansen Sr.

There was something warm and expansive in Jesper’s chest that nearly hurt— something warring with his panic and discomfort, that grounded him every time he looked over at his lover.

He was so proud of him.

If it weren’t for the vice grip Wylan kept on his wine glass, Jesper might think he was enjoying himself. But he saw it in the tense edge of his smile, and the way his brown eyes kept seeking Jesper from across the room.

Jesper fiddled with his necktie. The black silk seemed like it was trying to strangle him, too tight around his starched white collar no matter how much he tried to loosen it. He missed his suits, he missed his guns.

No place for guns in a philharmonic, he groused.

Sorry, it’s a little bit shorter— I’m getting back into the swing of this ☺️ hope you enjoyed! Thanks for playing!

#six of crows #wesper #jesper x wylan #wylan x jesper #wylan van eck #jesper fahey #the engagement series

[cheeze-and-sprinklez]

This is my PERSONAL take of how MCU Jake would deemed perfect for me.

Even with only 2 minutes of appearance, we've seen how Jake acts, dress and carry himself. So yeah;

✅ Between Marc and Steven, MCU Jake prefers to keep being neat and tidy looking at all times.

✅ The literal "walk, walk fashion baby" because Marc and Steven are fashion disasters.

✅ Jake has different outfits for different task or when he's gonna front the entire day. To the point Marc and Steven re-evaluates the way they presented themselves and became annoyed about it because it's a slap to their faces they aren't very good when it comes to drip.

✅ Take a closer look each time Marc or Steven blacks out in the past episodes, I noticed their haircut got super slick to the back. As if it was combed.

✅ I don't know is it because of him sweating or whatever but shit is rather funny to think about. Throwing nasty punches to the bad guys and whip a comb out of his pocket to get the hair in check.

✅ Next, instead of being a regular cabbie like in the comics, he is a jockey driver who specializes in taking VVIP request rides.

✅ Hence that NOT TOO casual outfit he wear in the post-credit scene. I think he dressed neatly and semi-formal. Dude's driving a limo so DUH. Gotta take care of standards.

✅ If comic Jake hustling for informations and turn the underground world his brawling alley, it would be a different take for MCU Jake to get close (and gather) as many VVIP connections as possible through his jockey job.

✅ He could act like an anti-hero classic spy character or a twisted James Bond yet still looking the prettiest of all when he gets his job done.

✅ But he won't stop throwing hands if the job requires even extreme violence. That is where we can see him totally forget to keep his appearance tidy. Necktie loosely dangling, jacket's slightly skewed, his fedora-like hat already tossed aside.

✅ Gloves off if Jake thinks the foe he is facing gives him incredibly hard time.

✅ BONUS: He took off his leather gloves by biting the tip and pulled it off because he wanted to feel the warm blood of the people who tries to put Marc and Steven in danger, on his fists.

✅ Going back to the way he acted on the surface like an anti-hero version of classic espionage character, MCU Jake prefers to use low caliber gun and has variety of those kinds he could use in different occasions.

✅ I think it's safe to say that I saw a bit of a John Wick in him, because "Guns... Lots of guns." And a silencer because he is a dramatic mf.

✅ Of course, he is just a misunderstood (and heavily manipulated by Khonshu to do his bidding). All he wanted is probably the same, to have a loving share of comfort like Marc and Steven.

✅ But if it means to protect them as much as possible so they could truly 'feel free' after Khonshu 'set them free', he continues to sway between taking things too far or do what is only necessary. Of course it's the former.

#moon knight #marc spector #steven grant #jake lockley

[art3you]

Undertale.

(ID

Pastel colored drawing of Harry as a smiling skeleton with the disco jacket, white shirt, necktie, and Sans’s blue gym shorts and pink slippers. He has a faded diagram that shows his attack pattern for the bullet hell is deranged with platforms, hands, a gun with a bullet, two swallow birds, another gun, something, a green thing, and a blue tie. Kim is a Grillby-type fire monster with glasses and a mustache but no face. Harry is “no pants joe” and Kim is “guy d’ude”

Kim glancing around before taking an umbrella with a duck shaped handle.

Harry, wearing a ballerina tutu, doing a jump and giving his umbrella to the Asriel Statue. It’s raining now, the panel is colored in and Kim is giving off light. There’s text that says “don’t mind if I do” that was for Kim to say but it’s not very clear.

Harry sitting in the rain facing the viewer, and Kim sitting under the statue, facing Harry. Kim and the Statue both have an umbrella, and the statue is playing its music box. Harry says, “Would you rather drink hot sauce or mustard?” And Kim says “Hm...”

Kim sticks his gloved hand out and gathers some rain water in his palm. This panel is also colored but no background, end ID.)

Now here is me forgetting Kim is a spoilsport.

Kim flicks the water at Harry, who flinches.

“Ha. That means you’re stupid.” Kim says, and Harry glares at him.

“No, it’s like this.” Harry claps his hands in Kim’s face, but due to being a skeleton with blue fingerless gloves there’s no sound effect. But Kim’s gloves do give him one. He has the umbrella balanced on his shoulder.

“Okay trade gloves.” Harry asks, looking down.

Harry laying on his stomach and kicking his feet, leaning on his elbows with his face in his hands, which have black spots on the back to represent his hand-bones, the fingerless gloves at on the ground by him. “So childish.” Kim, still balancing on the umbrella, takes off a glove.

He smacks Harry with it, and Harry blushes and his white pupils are big.

“Hey!” He grabs Kim’s arm and punches him.

Kim punches him back. Kim’s other hand is more detailed now it’s supposed to be him flexing his arm as Harry squeezes it harder.

Harry’s pinning him and Kim has a hand pushing on his face. Kim’s umbrella is rolling away. Their fight is making growling and barking sounds. They’re still at the foot of the statue.

“Shit.” Harry says when he notices the umbrella.

“Sorry.” Harry helps Kim up, holding the umbrella for him.

“That’s fine. Shall we keep looking.” Kim says. Both their faces are unreadable.

#my art #art #disco elysium #DO you think a lot of monsters can't touch Kim or do you think he's merely warm? #2623 #undertale

[iincantatorum]

brent + personality and traits

Brent is, if anything, a man of action that believed in shooting first and asking questions later, being curt and brash when he needed to be. Although Brent acts with bravado in most situations, he’s not incapable of pathos and sympathy, having the understanding that cultures needed to be left alone and his love for learning languages so he can communicate better in his travels. He is also close with his father Sean and will send accounts of his travels whenever he gets the chance to sit down and rest. Along with his prowess in firearms, Brent is also proficient at defending himself unarmed and knew how to improvise when in a perilous situation.

Tall, with brown parted hair and golden/green eyes, Brent Vincent is usually seen wearing a white long-sleeved shirt and tan chinos, along with brown boots, belt, and holsters when he was on expeditions; this outfit was accompanied sometimes by a blue kerchief as well as any number of firearms and blades. Years later, Brent would sometimes wear a light blue shirt, designated as his favorite, in place of the white one, still wearing his holsters with shoes in place of his boots. In the summertime, he particularly enjoys how it would allow his back tattoo to peek out. Brent usually wore a leather glove in his right wrist to hide the state his right hand is in. His preferred knife in combat was a butterfly knife. When at home in New York years after his exploits, he wore clothing typical of a high society museum curator: a necktie and vest, changing into a suit and tie for more serious events, accompanied by a fedora and trench coat when out of his home. Formal events saw Brent wear a tuxedo, but taking great care to keep his holsters under the jacket, equipped with guns, should trouble arise as it usually does.

As a combatant Brent almost always prefers to utilize firearms, making it a point to carry a large satchel containing all types of weapons and ammo. As a gunman, he is highly proficient with almost any type of firearm, particularly his signature revolvers as well as shotguns and rifles. Similarly, his accuracy is quite impressive, able to hit both moving and long-distance targets with relative ease. Additionally, he is a capable brawler when hand to hand is required and a surprisingly capable swordsman.

#hc; brent #about the necromancer

[mattzerella-sticks]

metamorphosis

Chapter 2 (ao3)

Prologue (ao3) (tumblr)

What if, when Jack was born, he stayed a baby?

A retelling of season 13, with a few key differences.

No planned schedule, will update when I finish chapters lol

Chapter 2 - Sam I

           Sam cursed Jack’s aim as he hit him directly on his chest. The pee immediately soaked through the fabric, Sam suffering its unnatural warmth. He blindly groped for anything nearby to shove atop Jack and staunch the flow from his bladder before it spread too far. He gently pressed a motel towel down, Jack giggling all the while as he ruined it much like he did Sam’s shirt. “Seriously?” Sam sighed, “Couldn’t have done this earlier?” Jack answered with more laughter, kicking his feet in the air to punctuate his glee. Seeing his joyful wriggling lessened Sam’s exasperation. “Okay… It was kind of funny,” he told Jack. Then, leaning closer, “Next time, do it when Dean changes you… if he ever changes you.” Sam faltered, smile drooping slightly. He adjusted to cover that momentary lapse, his expression softer. “You done?” Jack stuck his fist in his mouth, babbling around stubby digits. Sam, hesitantly, lifted the towel away from Jack. There’s no active peeing, but the large stain on the towel was not something Sam wanted to see. Dissimilar to his shirt, it’s unsalvageable. “Damn – darn, darn it!”

           Tossing the towel over his shoulder, stain-side up, Sam finished fastening Jack’s diaper. His nose scrunched from the wafting odor, and he audibly gagged because of it. Leaving Jack on the bed, Sam whipped the towel off and dumped it into a waiting trash bin. Then he wrapped his fingers along the bottom hem of his shirt to take it off in one swift move.

           Dean returned partway through this struggle. He whistled, slamming the door behind him. “Stripping for the baby?” he chuckled darkly, his eyes dull and his grin vicious, “Not what I imagined when I told you to go nuts with him…” Dean emptied his pockets onto the room’s lone table, tugging his necktie free when done.

           Sam ignored him, balling his shirt between twitching fingers. “So,” he started, “did you figure out if we’ve got a case or not?” He opened his duffel, zipper ripping through the silence of what he chose not to say.

           Dean shrugged, stepping out of his leather agent shoes, chair held for leverage. “Maybe,” he coughed, “A connection, something…”

           Sam paused, temple creasing from the sudden onset of a migraine. He closed his eyes, grip tightening on the unstained button-down in his hands. “A maybe…” he repeated, quieter, “then you’re not sure?”

           “I’ve got a hunch,” Dean growled, “and we’re not leaving ‘till I at least make certain of it.”

           Closing his eyes, Sam rocked back on his heels. He rubbed his neck, feeling every strain and ache from the past few days weighing on his body. “Of course we aren’t.”

           Dean used the same excuse when they arrived, and with each delivery it became increasingly unflinching and stubborn. During its first appearance, Sam rightfully challenged him. He cornered Dean outside the motel’s lobby, demanding why they pulled off the highway instead of continuing their journey home, to the Bunker. Dean explained, “There’s been a few deaths in town, our M.O.” Sam’s unsure how he learned this. He guessed, during Dean’s shift in the passenger seat, he feigned unconsciousness to scour the web. “Figured we’d scope it out and gank whatever summ’na’bitch’s wreaking havoc.” Sam, exasperated, reminded Dean of the little bundle with immeasurable power somehow asleep in Baby’s backseat despite Dean’s atypical car door slamming during his exit. “What?” Dean asked, his voice a dark and stormy sound that rattled Sam’s bones like lightning, “Dad hunted with you when you were his age. It’ll be fine.”

           Now, hearing about Dean’s ‘hunch’, Sam ground his teeth and refrained from speaking his mind. He told himself that this case, Dean’s attitude, was part of the healing process. Some point down the line, Dean will be in a better place where he wouldn’t have to handle his brother with kid gloves. Only days have passed since they lost their mom, an ally, a virtual stranger, and their best friend. If Sam applied pressure too fast, too hard, he might crack Dean’s already fractured well-being into a larger mess where there’d be no hope of repairing. He shouldn’t take any unnecessary risks with his brother’s well-being.

           “So?” Sam asked, doing up his new shirt, playing along. “What’s this hunch you have?”

           “Well, when I checked the victims’ houses for haunting signs, I came up empty,” Dean said, hopping into his jeans, “Turned my thinking around, started asking if there were any connections between the two stiffs and, apparently, both were seeing the same therapist.” He fastened the button of his jeans, then moved to dig out some shirts. “Some woman named Mia Vallens. They’d been seeing her, separately, because both had – uh… had lost someone in their lives.”

           “What are you thinking then? Revenant? Shifter?”

           “Not sure,” he said, “But that won’t stop me.”

           Sam’s eyes floated behind his eyelids, “Please don’t go in guns blazing.”

           Dean scoffed, thumb lightly brushing the hammer of his gun; unholstered, ever since he started changing outfits. “I’m not that reckless. Thought I’d snoop around, y’know? Get a sense what kind of monster she is before I put a bullet between her eyes. That way I don’t get it wrong and tip her off.” He slipped into an old flannel, worn at the elbows from use, and gestures at his outfit. “You think this is good enough?”

           Sam huffed, “For what?”

           “For therapy?”

           “Pretty sure there isn’t a dress code for therapy,” he snickered, “Is this why you didn’t just go straight there?”

           Dean nodded, “Figured a badge and gun might make her antsy, raise unwanted suspicion. Going in as a new patient’ll help me fly under her radar.” He paused, clearly thinking about what he will say next. He swung his keys around his pointer finger, metal jingling with every spin. “Plus,” he added, “wanted to check in, see if you were ready to join me. United front and all that… going in blind’d be better with two bodies rather than one.”

           “Dean, it’s just therapy.”

           “Don’t remind me.”

           Sam shook his head, glancing at Jack. The young boy watched them with keen interest, golden brown eyes unblinking as they studied them; like he understood what they discussed. Sam discarded this thought in his next breath. He might have ancient power coursing through him, but he’s not even a week old. “You know I can’t,” he started, “Someone has to be here with Jack.” Since Dean refused to do it, Sam’s stayed in the motel for most of this case.

           Dean’s attempt to appear cheerful dispersed like smoke, familiar dreariness scarring his features. “Kid’ll be fine by himself for an hour or two,” he muttered.

           A vein throbbed in his forehead, forcing Sam’s eye to twitch. “He’s not a kid. He’s a baby.”

           “He’s part angel.”

           “That doesn’t change anything,” Sam seethed, “Actually, that makes it more important we don’t let him out of our sight! There’s no telling what he can do, or what might happen if we left him alone for even a second! So, sorry if I can’t run off at the drop of a pin to play hunter because I have more important things to worry about. Things that you should be worrying about, too!”

           Dean recoiled like he’s been slapped, squeezing the keys so hard Sam can see his hand visibly tremble. Regret rose to his ankles and then, as if a dam broke, it’s at his neck and Sam struggled to breathe. He looked from Dean to Jack, the baby’s stare was still trained on Sam like he waited to see what he will say next. Like Sam will have an answer that fixed everything, pleased everyone.

           All Sam could give was a compromise.

           “I’ll come with,” he said, gaze trapped on his feet below, “Jack will, too. That’s the best I can offer.”

           Sam’s resolve stayed firm. He flexed his toes against the carpet as the silence dragged on, Dean obviously warring with himself over whether to accept Sam’s terms or storm out like Sam feared he might. The tension snapped with a high-pitched squeal from Jack, followed by some more clapping that had Dean saying, “Fine. Hurry up, then.” He didn’t lift his head until the door closed behind Dean and it’s him and Jack left in the room.

           Visibly deflating, Sam selfishly took a moment to gather his thoughts. Once he felt a semblance of normalcy, he began gathering what he needed. Sam hurriedly finished dressing, throwing on his jacket and almost tripped shoving his feet into some boots. Then, he returned to what he was doing earlier, helping Jack into his tiny shirt and overalls. Sam set Jack aside in the baby carrier, focusing on assembling the baby bag and slinging it onto his shoulder.

           Dean sat in the driver’s seat, engine running. He revved it as a warning while Sam safely tucked Jack in the back, Sam glaring at Dean’s dead-eyed expression in the rearview. His irritation ebbed by the time he joined Dean up front. The passenger side door barely closed, and Dean hit the pedal. Sam buckled his seatbelt after Dean peeled out of the parking lot.

           They reached the therapist’s office at record speed. During their drive, Sam kept a careful eye on both the speedometer and Jack, his gaze bouncing between the two, ensuring they were where they should be. There were few instances where Dean sped, testing Sam’s patience. But Sam would clear his throat, and the needle rebounded into lower numbers.

           Dean, in an act of revenge for Sam’s nitpicking, abandoned him for the therapist’s office without any offer to help once they parked. Although Sam wondered if it should count, since Sam hadn’t expected Dean to go out of his way and help him, regardless of how Dean caved when it came to bringing Jack. He fleetingly considered this, but ultimately decided it didn’t matter. He needed to hurry.

           Alone, Sam balanced the baby bag and Jack’s carrier in his hands. He chased after Dean, climbing the steps as a man, tall, white and utterly average, descended. They bumped shoulders, Sam mumbling an apology on reflex. He heard the passerby say something while Jack spewed raspberries in response. He didn’t give it more thought than that.

           Sam found Dean near the front desk, angrily slamming on a concierge bell. “C’mon, c’mon…” he grumbled, “it’s way past lunch break.”

           “Dean…” Sam stormed towards his brother, dropping the baby bag as he slammed Dean’s hand atop the ringing bell. “Quit it.”

           “What?” Dean barked, “Not like I’m annoying anyone.” He gestured around the waiting room, sweeping his arm to show Sam all the vacant seats pushed against the walls. “Am I?”

           “Actually, if you rang that bell at least three more times, I’d’ve gotten a headache.” A woman stepped into view, her dark skin glistening under the fluorescent lighting. She wore an oversized, orange turtleneck and a long skirt with pointed boots peeking out at the hem, adorned with rings, a necklace, and a barrette clipped in her afro puff hairdo. She forced a polite expression on her face, pocketing her hands in the folds of her skirt. “Can I help you with anything?”

           “Yeah,” Dean said, “We’re looking for the doc. You know if she’s in?”

           “I do.”

           She walked behind the front desk, ignoring Sam and Dean rather than finish speaking. Dean briefly glanced at Sam before clearing his throat. She stopped rifling through papers, arching her brow. It’s not likely she’ll do more without some prompting. “Well,” Dean growled, “where is she?”

           She huffed, fiddling with one of the rings on her fingers. Sam noted how it, like all the other pieces of her jewelry, was gold. “You’re looking at her,” she said, “I thought that was obvious.”

           “Not really,” Dean said, “I mean, you’re not even wearing a white coat!”

           Whatever expression Sam made Mia mirrored. Jack, meanwhile, giggled and shifted in his carrier, delighted by Dean’s idiocy. Jack’s carrier swung from the force of his mirth, forcing Sam to readjust his grip. As he did that, Sam used his other hand to pinch Dean’s wrist and forced his brother’s attention onto him. “That joke wasn’t funny the first time.” Dean rolled his eyes at Sam, then wretched himself free from Sam’s hold. Sam steered the conversation from there, “Sorry about him. We were here wondering if you might have an opening today?”

           Dean coughed, mumbling to himself. “Looks like she might…” He parried Sam’s scowl with a jerkish smirk.

           Mia glossed past Dean’s comment, folding her arms across her chest as she studied them. “I was actually about to close early,” she said, “had a lot of cancellations and… I’ve got some errands to run” –

           “Please,” Sam tried, leaning far into her personal space as he could without climbing the desk. “My brother was supposed to make an appointment, but with the move and everything it, uh… slipped his mind.” He dialed his puppy dog features to their highest setting, blasting her with his best Labradoodle. “When we left town, our previous therapist said falling back into a routine was the most important thing once we settled. It was hard enough getting him to go the first time, and with the baby I didn’t want him to become an excuse to not go back because we… we were doing really good, before.” Every lie did better when sprinkled with the truth, covering up the bitter taste. From what he saw, Mia ate every word and didn’t gag or wince.

           “Well…” She sighed, smoothing her hands down her sweater, “I guess I can squeeze you in. Come on.”

           Mia led them into the next room, leaving behind the non-descript lobby furniture and peeling yellow wallpaper for a cozier space. Sam scanned the area, noting pictures and degrees hanging on rogue-painted walls alongside other knick-knacks cluttering the space. Other than the door they entered from, the only exits Sam saw were twin windows covered by heavy drapes on either side of a dark fireplace and an unmarked door to the side. He made sure to stay wary of that door, in case uninvited guests might stroll in.

           Sam sat on the edge of a plush sectional, placing Jack beside him. Dean seized the chair nearest Sam, collapsing into it and leaving Mia with the last available chair across from them. They’re separated by a magazine-laden coffee table. “Pretty swanky duds you have here, doc,” Dean told her, poking one of the magazines, “must say I am disappointed there’s not any of those beds that they showed in the movies.”

           “Yes, well, I find a lot of how therapists and therapy is portrayed on film leaves much to be desired…” She shifted, throwing a leg over her knee and laying a notebook she pulled from elsewhere on her lap. “Among other things.” She spoke so quietly, Sam almost missed it. “Anyway,” she cleared her throat, “before we get into our session, I do want to mention that even though I am a therapist, my specialization is in helping patients overcome grief-related trauma relating to deaths of loved ones. Is that okay, Mr…?”

           “Just Sam is fine. And yeah, better than okay, actually,” Sam said, “What finally convinced my brother to finally start therapy is because we lost someone very close to us.” Dean visibly tensed, clawing at the chair’s arms with enough pressure Sam feared he might rip it. Distracted, Sam faltered halfway through his spiel. He recovered enough in his next breath to finish it. “Our mom… she passed.” Hearing about their mom caused Dean to relax considerably, into a familiar apprehension. Sam’s confusion, in response, deepened.

           “I’m sorry for you loss.” The perfunctory statement rolled off her tongue as expected. At least it sounded sincere. “How recently did she pass?”

           Sam grimaced. “Uh… a few months back?”

           “Although,” Dean chuckled, “it still feels like it was only yesterday.” His chest puffed up, goaded by the reproachful glance Sam shot his way. “What? It’s what I’m feeling. And ain’t that what therapy’s all about? Discussing what I’m feeling.”

           “Yes, it is.” Mia scribbled a quick note in her journal, frowning. “However, sharing your feelings is not mandatory.” Dean sunk into his seat, knees bumping against the coffee table. Mia jotted another line to her observations. She pointed at Jack with her pen, “And him? What’s his story?”

           “Jack?” Sam asked. He glanced at the baby, hand reflexively reaching for the carrier’s handle. He paused midway, instead slipping into it to pull Jack’s fist out of his mouth. “We took him in after a… a family friend passed during childbirth.”

           “That’s very unfortunate,” she nodded, “and… coincidental.”

           “Yeah, losing our moms around the same time isn’t the best of things to have in common but…” Sam bit his lower lip, confidence wavering on whether he should finish. The words teetered in his mind, rocking back and forth. He pressed on a side, tipping it over and into existence. “I mean, I guessed that was part of the reason we decided to look after him. I might not remember what it was like, growing up without a mom, but I knew it wasn’t easy for me” –

           “Excuse me,” Mia interrupted, drawing Sam away from Jack to her. He kept his thumb and forefinger looped around Jack’s wrist. “You didn’t grow up with your mom?”

           Sam winced, shrugging in response. He tried tagging Dean in, to help explain, but his brother had a faraway gleam in his eye that matched his childish pout. Sam realized he was on his own for now. “After I was born, she… she left,” Sam told her, “Without a trace one night. My dad he… it devastated him, broke him in some way that he couldn’t get past. Like, up until he died, he refused to believe she left him like that, by choice, and kept going on about how she died, and every day we were alive was for her, to do right by her. And because of this I only knew of our mom through stories he and, sometimes, Dean would share… but then one day Dean he… he happened to run into her.” He rubbed at his neck, head bowed so the fringe of his bangs shielded his eyes. “And she’s back in our lives. Just like that.”

           “How did that make you feel? Having her back?”

           “Weird,” he said, “There’s this woman who says that she’s my mom, and I believed it at first. But then, the more I learned about her, the less it felt like she and the mother I grew up with, the… the ghost of her, were the same person?”

           “It’s common for adults to have difficulty in reconciling the image of the mother in their heads with the person they actually are,” Mia said, “Kids take their parents for granted, a lot of times forgetting that they have a life outside of their children’s concerns, and this continues despite growing out of adolescence.”

           Dean huffed in agreement, “Ain’t that the truth.” Sam tamped down the urge to punch him, to make him behave.

           “So Sam,” Mia pointed with her pen, “did this disconnect affect how you processed your mother’s death?”

           “Uh…” He asked himself the same question. Sam’s brows dipped into a shallow grave above his head. “Maybe,” he answered her, “But not in the way you might think? Like… I missed her, back before, but I didn’t know her. Now I miss her but I… I got to know her? She’s more than my mother, to me. And that’s… I’m happy I got to know her before she died. Still, I feel a little guilty because why should I… she’s my mom, she died, and I shouldn’t be happy, should I?”

           “Have you considered that instead of happiness,” Mia says, “what you’re feeling is closure?”

           “Closure?”

           She planted both feet on the ground, now, bent forward as she expanded on her point. “Your mother was a mystery for most your life. A puzzle with most of the pieces missing. Then, she comes back and with her are those little pieces that complete the picture for you. Suddenly your mother isn’t much of a ghost or an ideal. She’s a person” –

           “So what?” Dean chimed in, “This was some cosmic joke, then? Have her kick up some dust long enough we form a connection with her, fill in a few blanks, and then poof? She’s no longer needed?”

           “It’s unfortunate what happened to your mother,” Mia stressed, good mood tempered by Dean’s outburst, “but comfort can be found in closure. My patients lost people in their lives suddenly, like you did, but there’s a gap in their healing because a lot of times there were words or feelings never expressed that they still clung to, that if they had a few more seconds, they would have gotten off their chests.” She turned to Sam, directing her next question at him. “Is there anything you think wasn’t said between you and your mother before she died?”

           He reflected. Sam parsed through the leaflet of memories he collected of him and his mother, wondering if, within them, there is a moment of regret where he bit his tongue when he shouldn’t have. There were none. “No, I don’t…” he mumbled, “I don’t think there was.” Sam’s lips curled into a tepid smile. “That’s weird.”

           “How so?”

           “I guess I’m not used to closure, is all,” he sighed, “for most of our lives, things and… and people – it all tends to be cut short. Usually, we’ve got to keep our heads up high and move on. Like with…” Sam trailed off, Eileen’s name caught in his teeth. He refused to let Eileen go and swallowed her name into the murky depths of his soul along with the other things he didn’t think about, where he stored everything that was in the way of doing his job. Because that’s what they’re here for, led there by Dean’s hunch. He couldn’t forget that. Mia’s stare burned on his profile, waiting for him to continue. He will be disappointing her. Jack’s tugging on his finger, sticking it in his mouth as he gummed it and guided Sam free from his stupor. Sam forced his mind to settle by wading into safer waters. “That might be another reason why we took Jack in. His mother… we knew how much she’d regret not being there for him. So by giving him a home, a family who will love him… I’m hoping it gives her comfort wherever she is. Or closure, as you might put it.”

           “God,” Dean groaned, slamming his head on the chair’s backboard, “If I have to hear that word one more time, I swear I’m gonna scream.”

           Mia’s journal was open again and rapidly taking notes, her attention diverted towards Dean. “I’m guessing that’s not how you’re feeling about all this, then?”

           “Like what? Like everything’s wrapped up in a neat little bow?”

           “If that’s how you wish to describe it.”

           “Well it’s not,” Dean spat, “It’s a big mess of string that’s tangled with no hope of ever being untangled! In fact, it’s like the more effort we go into untangling it, the messier it gets, and the larger it gets, spreading past us and mucking up everyone else in our lives!”

           Mia didn’t seem fazed by Dean’s tantrum, and Sam wondered if she truly is a monster like Dean suspected. If Sam were in her place, he wouldn’t know how he’d have maintained composure when dealing with his brother acting like a damned ass. There’d be blood splattered everywhere by now. “In my professional experience, many times we believe we’re ‘untangling’ the mess in our lives… it’s actually the opposite.”

           “You saying I did this to myself?”

           “What I’m saying is that… messes in our lives happen because of misunderstandings and miscommunication. We assume something about another person and act according to these assumptions, only to find out those were wrong, and we dig a bigger hole for ourselves. We lie because we believe it’s easier than the truth, and we hold in things we think don’t need to be said because there’s a misbelief they might not matter.”

           “Trust me, doc, things were definitely said,” Dean seethed, crossing his arms. He broke their staring contest, Sam surprised at the momentary flash of hurt that radiated from Dean’s gaze. Dean smothered it immediately, returning with hardened steel. “And maybe things that weren’t said were that way for a good reason, to not rock the boat… or mess up something that was already better than I thought I could have…” He blanched, face paling in realization of what, Sam guessed, he hadn’t meant to say. With this new awareness, Dean won’t give more than he already had. He stayed as he is, frozen in stubbornness.

           Sam wished he would. His forehead pounded, the beat of his heart loud in his eardrums. It didn’t sound like Dean was talking about their mother, but he can’t exactly name who Dean meant with his latest revelation.

           Mia had the same inklings. She’s better prepared, and perfectly distanced, to needle him about it. “Are you dealing with more than your mother’s loss?” she asked, “Did you lose someone else? Or… were you close with Jack’s mother, before she passed?”

           Dean deflated, anger whooshing out of him like a burst balloon. “It’s nothing.”

           “Because if there is something you wish to say, to someone,” Mia says, “I do have methods and exercises you can try that will help you work through these feelings” –

           “I said it’s nothing, okay?” He stood, body rigid and tense like a taut bowstring. “I think we’re done here.”

           Sam rose, too, ready to disagree. The thin press of Dean’s mouth warned Sam he shouldn’t argue. He accepted an early defeat, but in his own way. “Thank you, Doctor Vallens,” he said, offering his hand to her, “I’m sorry about my brother and his… assness, but this was a great session.”

           “I’m used to people like him,” she said, accepting the gesture and pumping his hand twice. Mia moved onto Dean. She’s the bigger person, holding her hand out for a handshake. “If you weren’t too put off by my methods, maybe we can work on what’s bothering you in another session?”

           Dean smiled, seizing her hand. “Trust me, I’m capable of finding that on my own.”

           Mia shouted, reeling backwards. In her haste she drops her journal, too concerned with touching the red welt burning on her hand. “What did you” –

           “Silver bullet,” Dean said, wiggling the ammunition. He uncovered his gun and loaded the bullet back inside it. “Only silver thing I had on me that you wouldn’t notice.” Dean shifted his stance, holding tight to his gun’s handle with a finger hovering near the trigger. “Though I bet you’ll notice it better after I’ve blasted it into your skull.”

           “No, no!” Mia pleaded, stumbling behind her chair, building distance between her and Dean, “You don’t have to do this!”

           “Oh, I think I do,” Dean growled, advancing, “otherwise you’ll just keep going on killing.”

           “What? I’m not – I haven’t killed anyone!”

           “Right, like I’m supposed to believe that.”

           He might not, but Sam did. He leapt between them, quickly disarming Dean. Sam twisted Dean’s wrist until he dropped the gun into Sam’s waiting hand. “Stop it.”

           “What the hell?” Dean yelled at him, massaging his sore wrist, “Sam, what do you even think you’re doing?”

           “Hearing her out,” he said. Sam, on instinct, glanced behind himself at Mia. She hadn’t run. She didn’t flinch when their eyes locked. As they did, Sam saw an apprehensive trust hidden within her eyes. Sam wouldn’t comment on it, to try and ease her fear. He was still a hunter. He still had the gun. His opinion might change, and she might need to spring into defensive mode again when Sam levelled the weapon at her. “You’re not human,” Sam pointed out what’s already obvious.

           Her shoulders tensed. Mia straightened to her full height; her expression now free of any earlier fear. “I’m not.”

           “What are you?”

           “A shifter.”

           “Are you actually a therapist?” Dean asked, an incredulous lilt to his tone. He jerked his thumb at the wall of degrees Sam noticed before. “Or did you shift into this poor doctor’s life after you killed her.”

           “Yes, I am a therapist,” she told them, palpable anger coloring her tone. Dean finally struck a nerve. “These are all mine… went to a lot of trouble getting them. But I did my time, like everyone else.”

           “Except you’re not like everyone else,” Dean said, “are you?” Mia’s lips flattened into a tight line, a refusal to answer. Dean continued, not expecting her to. “Okay, can we shoot her now?”

           “Shut up, Dean.” Sam snapped the safety of the gun on, then tucked it inside his waistband. He directed his next question to Mia, “Do you know why we’re here?”

           “I guess therapy was a cover?” she scoffed, stepping out of her hiding spot. Sam nodded. Mia chuckled low in her throat, shaking her head. “Of course… dammit I should have – I should have known what you were from the moment you walked in… And I didn’t think there’d be any harm in one last session before I left town altogether” –

           “Leaving town?” Dean jumped onto that last statement, clinging to it, “Only guilty people leave, y’know.”

           “This isn’t my fault. Those deaths, they weren’t my fault,” she argued, “I’m a victim in this as much as they are.”

           “Sure, right…” Dean angled his head away from Mia, muttering in Sam’s ear, “Seems like she knows about the deaths, and she’s a shifter. If you keep distracting her, I can sneak the gun out of your pocket and –“

           “No, Dean.”

           “What the hell is wrong with you?”

           “I could ask you the same thing.” A hot wave of fury blistered Dean’s face, transforming the terrain and leaving a barren, ashen wasteland in its trail. Dean stormed away from him but didn’t move far. He hovered by the door to the lobby, fiddling with a wooden statue. Sam let him. That he remained in the room spoke more to his willingness of hearing Mia’s story than anything he’s said this past hour. Sam turned to her, “You were aware of the deaths in town?”

           “They were my patients,” she said, “They’re always my patients.”

           “Always?” Sam asked, “Has this happened before?”

           “In about every town I moved to in the past two years.” Mia sighed, rubbing the bridge of her nose as she wandered towards the fireplace. He watched her grab a box of cigarettes and a lighter from atop it. “Mind if I?”

           Sam thought of Jack, about his little lungs. He almost denied her, except Dean cut in and shrugged, “Sure, why not.” Sam glared at him, nodding his head at the carrier. “What? It’s not like it’ll do any damage to him.” He hated that he’s right. Sam silently gestured his assent to Mia.

           “Thanks.”

           “So,” he said as she lit the cigarette and took a long drag off it, “you set up shop in a town, and at some point… your patients start dying and you have to move?”

           “For my patient’s safety,” she explained, “For my safety. From people like you, and… and him.”

           “Him?” Sam asks, “Who’s him?”

           “My ex, Buddy, that’s who.” She tapped cigarette ash into the fireplace, leaning against it as she told her story. “Another shifter I was dating. He was a nice guy, at first, and, well… it’s not like there are a lot of options when you have to peel off your skin every few hours. Besides my mom, he was the only other shifter I ever knew. We started dating during my graduate program and he… he seemed so supportive. Things changed when I actually started practicing.” Mia began pacing in front of the fireplace now, hand holding the cigarette bouncing with every step. “He started complaining that I never had time for him anymore, that I was letting my hobby push him out of my life, and I was caring more for my patients then our safety.”

           “Why would he say that?”

           “Because he was jealous,” she said. Then, briefly, a sheepishness tints her cheeks. “Also, I might have been using my abilities while practicing?”

           Sam’s uneasiness swiftly returned. “What does that mean?”

           “I told you, how a lot of my patients have things and feelings they wished they’d shared with people who were no longer with them. Sometimes… after I noticed how talking about it or grief journaling could only do so much I – I shifted. Became the person who died, but only so that my patients could unburden themselves of what they carried, that’s all.”

           “Right,” Dean chuckled, “and people bought that, no questions asked?”

           “There’s nothing someone won’t believe if it meant a few more seconds with someone they loved.”

           That shut Dean down better than anything she said all afternoon. Sam didn’t worry too much about his brother’s weighty silence, however, pressing her further for information. “Your ex didn’t appreciate that?”

           “No. Our fighting got so bad, I had to break things off. He was getting… violent. A few days later, the first death happened…” She sucked on the cigarette a final time, discarding it into the soot-covered fireplace beside her. “Since then it’s been the same thing over and over. I leave, find somewhere new to practice, he somehow finds me, then finds out who my patients are, and kills them until I start this fucked-up process over again.”

           “Hey,” Sam motioned to the baby carrier, whispering, “Language.”

           “…Sorry.”

           A silence dragged out in the room as Sam digested her story. He considered it from every angle, taking great pains to ensure his instincts weren’t wrong. That Mia told them the truth, and the real monster was somewhere skulking around town, searching for his next kill. Sam was almost convinced. Something did trouble him, though, keeping him from fully believing her. “It said in the police reports that both victims were killed by people who looked like their dead loved ones… how would Buddy’ve known who they were, let alone who to shift into?”

           “I… I don’t know,” Mia said, “I never knew how he found me… he always… I did my best, staying off social media. I don’t even have a damned website for my practice, or a LinkedIn page!”

           Dean snorted, finally rejoining the conversation, “Maybe he tried doing what we did and played your heartstrings like a fiddle.”

           Sam could kick him for that remark, for it being rude and, unfortunately, being completely plausible. He asked Mia, “Could he?”

           “I…” Mia sighed, rubbing a tired hand across her face, “I want to say no, that I wouldn’t be that much of a fool to do that, but… you two made it work.”

           “Okay,” Sam smiled, “that’s a start. Is there anyone who you’re close to that he might’ve taken the form of? Friends? Coworkers?”

           Mia shook her head, “The only people I speak to on a regular basis are my patients, and I’m the only doctor who works here since I, well… also live here, too.”

           “So that front desk out there?” Dean said, scoffing, “that for show? Or do you find time to shift, shrink, and answer calls?”

           “Oh, no, I have an assistant,” Mia told them. Sam shared a glance with Dean, the same idea building within Sam’s mind reflected in his brother’s eyes. Mia interrupted their silent communication, “No, no, it can’t be Jim.”

           “How sure can you be?”

           “He’s on vacation, right now.”

           Dean chuckled, “Because that’s a bulletproof alibi…”

           “How about this then,” she huffed, smirking, slowly approaching him. “I drove him and his boyfriend to the airport because he didn’t want to leave his car in the parking lot for the next two weeks.” Dean deflated, blanching uncomfortably at her words. He ended their contest, stiffly shifting, facing the wall. She further encroached upon his personal space, “How’s that for an alibi?”

           Dean pinched his red ears, mumbling, “…Seems pretty airtight.”

           Sam, once more, ignored Dean’s strange behavior in favor of continuing his line of questioning. “If it’s not your assistant then it has to be a patient. Is there anyone you’ve seen lately who might have been… off? Maybe they were acting differently than you might remember?”

           “Not that I can say, off the top of my head.”

           “Okay…” Sam said, “Do you have notes that we can look at – if, if that’s not an invasion of privacy, or whatever? Maybe we can establish a pattern or – or see whether there’s differences between sessions based on what you wrote?”

           Mia shook her head, squeezing her elbows as she turned from him. “That’d be a serious invasion of privacy I can’t allow, even if I thought it’d be of any help.” Sam hummed a sour note, tearing a page out his mental notebook as he scrapped another idea. Before he returned to the drawing board, Mia gasped and spun back around. “But,” she continued, “I do have something I think will help. Follow me.” Mia brushed past Sam, heading into the lobby.

           Sam trailed behind her, Dean, too, judging from his footsteps. He paused in the doorway, however, remembering Jack and how he shouldn’t leave him alone. As he was about to double back, he bumped into Dean who hissed, “watch out” while shoving him off. Sam’s gaze dipped low, then, hearing a familiar giggle. Jack beamed up at Sam from his carrier; it gently swinging, held in Dean’s hand. Sam glanced at Dean, his older brother knowing well to avoid the other’s gaze. “What?” Dean mumbled, “Shouldn’t we see what Mia’s doing? For all we know, she’s out the door while we dawdle here…”

           Sam surrendered without a fight here, too. He chose his battles and could see how meaningless it’d be to press now. He filed this away, though, to use for a later date.

           They huddled around Mia in the lobby, at the front desk. She clicked through different tabs on her assistant’s computer. “A while back, we had these teens break in and mess the place up searching for cash, or whatever. I didn’t press any charges – nothing was stolen, and all I had to replace was a window and a few magazines – but Jim didn’t want to come back to work unless I installed some type of security system. I didn’t want to hire someone new so… I caved and got cameras. I never usually bother with them, since they’d do me more harm than good. But given all of us know what’s what…”

           “We can use the cameras to figure out which one of your patients is your ex,” Sam finished her thought, laughing, “that’s perfect!” Both Mia and Dean stared at him with twin, strange expressions on their faces. He cleared his throat, “…Sorry.”

           They lapsed into an anxious silence after. Even Jack fell into a quiet lull, entertained by the pacifier Dean stuffed into his mouth when he set him on the desk. Although his focus, like theirs, was trained on the screen. Together, they watched people – regular people, given how their eyes didn’t flare – walk in and out of frame for longer than Sam would have liked. When it seemed as if they hit another dead end, Sam saw Dean storm into view. “This is us,” he said, Sam’s own figure appearing at the same time the man from earlier had.

           Jack clapped his hands, the pacifier spat from his mouth. Almost like the raspberries he blew at the other man. The stranger craned his neck to smile at Jack, giving the camera a clear view of his face.

           A view of his glowing eyes, too.

           “Him,” Sam tapped the screen, “Who is he?”

           “Travis?” Mia sighed, running a tired hand across her face. “Travis Hodgins. He’s someone I’ve been seeing since… since I started my practice. Lost his daughter to cancer, and his marriage to the grief of it. He was… he was getting better…”

           Sam offered her condolences that Mia shrugged off. “Do you know where he lives?” he asked instead.

           “Yeah, it’s not that far from here…”

           Sam looked at Dean, “You want to check it out?”

           “Alone?”

           “Someone has to stay here, in case Buddy comes back,” Sam said, “besides, if he is there, just text me and I’ll find my way to you.”

           Dean didn’t appear too pleased with the orders, but like the soldier he was raised to be, Dean listened regardless. Sam handed Dean his gun and muttered a few quick words of encouragement his brother rebuffed.

           Soon, it was Mia, Sam, and Jack in the lobby, the sun having set some time ago and casting the room into an eerie darkness. They returned to the warmer light of her other room and its many lamps, Mia readying another cigarette while Sam dug through the baby bag for a bottle of milk. He settled beside the carrier, helping Jack onto his lap to better feed him.

           Mia’s shadow stretched over him. She stood behind the couch, nodding at Jack. “Is what you said about him true?” she asked, “Or did you borrow him for the ruse?”

           “He’s ours…” Sam sank into the couch, tilting his head to better meet her guarded stare. “We didn’t know his mom that well, but we were all he had after…” He trailed off, unsure how much he should share. Mia didn’t need to hear the specifics. “After this big… this big blow-out. Cost us his mom… our mom… a few friends” –

           “So you did lose your mom?” she asked, “That wasn’t fake, too?”

           “No…” Sam shifted, discarding the empty bottle on the nearby coffee table. “She died a few days ago, actually.”

           Mia hissed, a harsh cloud of smoke drifting past the space of her clenched teeth. “And you’re here? I heard hunters had to have hard hearts for the job, but that sounds brutal even for me…”

           “It wasn’t my idea to come here,” Sam confessed, “Dean… he kinda hijacked our trip back home. I didn’t like it, but I get it – in a way. He’s coping.”

           “Poorly.”

           “There’re worse things he could be doing, like drinking,” Sam defended his brother, “at least he’s trying to get back to normal. We both are.”

           Mia shrugged in response, drifting towards the fireplace to dump her second cigarette. Sam didn’t mind, busying himself with burping Jack. They existed separately in this space, lost in their own thoughts. Although Sam found himself wanting to reengage with Mia, continuing their conversation so he might better explain their situation. His stomach twisted itself in knots, like he ate bad gas station food, because he felt like she misunderstood him. It was stupid. It was completely unnecessary. It shouldn’t matter what her opinion of them was.

           “It’s not healthy,” he started, slowly rocking Jack in his carrier. Sam watched the little boy as his eyes began to droop, instead of Mia. “You’re right. The fact that Dean and I are still hunting, after everything that’s happened to us – all we lost, all we’ve bled because of the job – we’re insane for waking up the next day and carrying on. But it’s all we know. Our whole lives have been about the hunt. We’ve tried to walk away from it… and it works for a little bit… but somehow we always find ourselves back in the thick of it.” He swallows around a terrifying lump in his throat, of a secret held he never spoke of. “When I was younger, there was nothing I wanted more than to not be a hunter. Now… I don’t see myself doing anything else. This is what I’m supposed to be doing.”

           “And your brother?” Mia asked, “Is this what he wants?”

           Sam, used to speaking for his brother, especially tonight, was at a loss for words. He struggled piecing together an answer. It went down like expired milk. “He’s never said anything to make me doubt otherwise.”

           “I believe that,” she scoffed, “Dean doesn’t seem the chatty type.”

           There’s another half-formed defense waiting in Sam’s arsenal, but his ringing phone reminded Sam where his priorities should be. He answered, “What?”

           “House is empty.”

           “It is?”

           “Except for the rotting corpse of Mr. Hodgins,” he said, “but I don’t think he should count.”

           Sam cursed, bolting upright from his seat. “If he’s not there,” he mumbled, pacing, “then where is he?”

           He heard the gun click before he saw it, felt the cold muzzle of it knock into his head, right above his ear. Mia gasped where she stood, and Dean kept repeating Sam’s name like a siren. Sam glanced to the side, seeing the man from earlier holding the gun. “Put that down,” Buddy ordered, punctuating his threat by shoving the gun even closer.

           Sam nodded, hitting speaker and placing the phone next to Jack’s carrier. As he did, he said, “You roll in from funkytown or something?”

           “Real funny, scumbag,” Buddy chuckled, “why don’t you go and stand next to the bitch who thinks she’s a doctor?” He made it halfway towards Mia when he heard Buddy cluck his tongue at him. “Hold it.” Sam waited, scowling as Buddy’s hand traveled his body, stopping only as he felt the oblong shape of Sam’s gun tucked inside his jacket. Buddy relieved Sam of his weapon, taunting him with it, dangling it in front of his face before dropping it. He kicked Sam’s ass, making him stumble on his path to Mia. “Now get!”

           Buddy hurriedly swarmed he and Mia, crowding them further against the fireplace. The gun wavered. Not enough Sam might risk retaliating, but every few seconds it left him and was trained on Mia. “Look how far you’ve sunken, baby,” Buddy purred, stroking Mia’s chin with the gun, “teaming with hunters? I knew you were a traitor, but I didn’t realize it had gotten this bad.”

           “If anyone’s the traitor, it’s you, Buddy,” Mia said, “breaking my heart. Making me think you were some kind of good guy and not the scuzz you really were.”

           He whipped her hard, the crack reverberating and making Sam’s nerves shake. Blood spurted out of Mia’s nose. She wiped it as she recovered, panting. “You wanna say that again?” Buddy asked.

           Mia bit her tongue, protest visible in her eyes. Buddy readied another blow, but stopped midway when Jack interrupted with a healthy cry. “Well fuck,” he said, as if noticing Jack for the first time, “you’ve done and woke up the baby… happy?”

           “Stop it,” Sam warned, “Don’t you dare go near him.”

           “Or what?” He laughed, inching away from them to where Jack was. “Y’know… I thought hunters had a little more sense than bringing babies on a hunt.” Buddy said. In response, Jack’s voice rose to a pitch that made Sam wince. “Dammit!” Buddy growled, stomping closer to Jack, crouching in front of him. Buddy shook the carrier, “Can you stop that! Can you shut up!” He pointed the gun at Jack, “I swear, if you aren’t quiet in the next second” –

           Sam grabbed the poker almost immediately, slamming it into Buddy with his next breath, powered by adrenaline and instinct. He dropped his weapon to hurl himself at Buddy, next, knocking both them and the couch over. Sam heard the gun fly out of Buddy’s hand, and he punched and punched the other shifter to keep it that way.

           Buddy, anticipating his plan, recovered enough between punches that he dodged one and managed to knock Sam off of him. Sam heard him scramble to his feet, searching for his weapon. Fear, familiar and slick, trickled down his back in millions of droplets of sweat. His mind jolted, quickly, working up an idea that might buy them a few more minutes for Dean to arrive.

           Mia delivered when he couldn’t. “Sam!” she said, drawing his attention. She held his gun and, without saying anything else, she tossed it to him. Sam caught it easily. He aimed for Buddy.

           Except Buddy already had his gun pointed at Sam. “So long, hunter.” Buddy’s finger squeezed the trigger and it fired, the gunshot overpowering Jack’s persistent crying.

           Sam braced for the bullet, wincing preemptively. Instead of his life flashing, all Sam saw was what would happen after. Dean arriving to see Sam failed at stalling Buddy, his lifeless body dripping blood alongside Mia’s and Jack’s, meaning Dean was well and truly alone in the world. Alone because of Sam.

           Except that never happened.

           Sam was still alive when he knew he should be bleeding out. He cracked one eye open, then the other, and noticed the bullet hovering in mid-air, frozen in its path. Suddenly, as if waiting for Sam’s attention, the bullet splintered and exploded into dust. The force from the explosion knocked Buddy backwards, his limp hand dropping the gun again.

           He wasted little time firing two bullets into Buddy’s chest, adding a third for good measure between the eyes.

           Panting, Sam whipped around to Mia. “Are you good?” he asked, advancing.

           Mia, mouth agape and eyes wide, startled free from her trance. “Yeah, yes… I’m good. I…” She never finished her thought, torn, looking at Buddy’s corpse, then to where the bullet exploded.

           Sam carried on and moved to Jack, stepping over the couch to reach him. As he did, he noticed the younger boy’s tantrum lessened since the height of the battle. He appeared tired, his cries weaker with each release. His cheeks were red, and his eyes –

           His eyes were bright gold.

           Sam nearly cursed, stopping himself at the last moment. He extended a hand to Jack, hovering near his face, thinking of the bullet and what Jack’s eyes meant.

           He didn’t dwell on it for long. Dean burst into the room, gun at the ready, his glare darting around the room. “Sam?” he asked, locking eyes with him from the doorway, “What the hell happened in here?”

           Sam didn’t know where he should start.

Tagged List:

@llamasdumpsterfire

(let me know if you want to be tagged!)

#supernatural #spn #spn13 #sam winchester #dean winchester #destiel #deancas #mia vallens #jack winchester #spn case fic #destiel fanfic #spn fanfic

[prisoncitystories]

Fiction: Just Another Day at the Office

The smoke from the cigarette wafted freely through the air like the sultry melody of the dingy saxophone on the radio. I, however, was tied to a chair.

“What shall we do with the pig, Ms. Morgana?” The thug in the dragon mask said to his partner. 

“Surely, we can have a little fun before we gut him, Mr. Pendragon,” Ms. Morgana replied. The pair are part of the Round Table Gang, the latest colorful characters to hit the city with their own particular brand of crime. Of course, they chose the boring task of robbing banks but really who’s keeping track, right?

“Fun, huh? What are we playing? Parcheesi?” I say, with a smirk. Pendragon rears up a fist and drives it right into my gut. I feel his knuckles press against the skin through my shirt. Thankfully, this isn’t my first rodeo.

“Quiet, pig!” Pendragon said. “How about a different game? Five finger fillet?” Pendragon pulled out a knife, waving it back and forth in front of my face.

“Maybe we could play chess, instead?” I said, edging him further. He threw his fist into my stomach again, this time a little harder. Thankfully, he didn’t notice my slight adjustment to put most of the pressure on the back of the wooden chair. A few more moves and the knight would take the bishop.

“Yeah, wrong supervillain, mate. Chess makes my head hurt. Now, Ms. Morgana, she’s the only one smart enough to handle that black and white board.” He said, turning to her and grazing her ornate horse mask granting him a devilish purple-lipped smile.

“Oh? I just assumed you were the same annoying, narcissistic, backwards-” I said,  interrupted by a slap across the face from Morgana.

“I’ve trained you so well.” Pendragon said, pulling Morgana into a kiss. Who says crime doesn’t pay?

“If you’d like me to come back, I’d be happy to go. Otherwise, let’s get this threesome underway.” Pendragon stopped and turned to me. Even underneath the red dragon mask, I could tell I was getting on his nerves. It’s all in the eyes. The little flicker that hides a deep, deep rage and right now, my voice and face are like a broken urn full of oil.

“If you speak one more time, I swear to the gods I will cut your tongue out. Do you understand?” I remain silent. “Do you understand or are you just as dumb as we thought you to be?” He repeated much angrier.

“You told me if I spoke that you’d cut my tongue out. Not an outcome I’m betting on if we’re being honest here.” His face turned to stunned surprise and he brandished his knife again. He raised his leg to boot me backwards and I made my move. As he sent his leg toward my chest, I titled the chair back with my feet that could still touch the floor even tied up, sending me back faster than his boot could catch. While his boot was catching nothing but air, the chair was breaking against the cold concrete. I was initially a little jarred as my hands were the meat in a wood-concrete sandwich (which really hurt), but I quickly scrambled to my feet as Ms. Morgana regained her composure from the sight.

“Why you little bastard!” She said, sparking up her electrified gloves. I have to stay away from those. She stepped forward but her form was so uneasy. Unfortunately for her, confidence isn’t everything. She swiped like a cat and I only narrowly avoided a swift jolt by deflecting her strike with my forearm. I did the same maneuver but this time added a leg sweep, surprising her and sending her to the floor. I heard the clatter of a knife behind me as Pendragon swiped his knife, gashing my thin black necktie in the process.

“Eh, I never really liked it anyway. Gift from a few exes ago,” I said as he continued swiping. Similar to Morgana, I had to subdue him by using his strikes against him. I batted his arm aside as he hacked and slashed and when the moment opened up, I used a classic disarm and sent the knife out of his hand and back to the floor. Suddenly, I felt way too many volts pass through my leg, bringing me to my knees. 

“What kind of detective are you? You fight like a drunkard. You can’t even disarm us both.” Pendragon said. He walked over to pick up his knife again as Morgana stood back up and placed one of her gloves on my shoulder. “Any last words, pig? You blew your chances on a last request.”

“Is it just you and Morgana or are Percival, Lancelot, and Galahad screwing around in your pants too?” I said, baiting him again. As he drove the knife forward, I ducked to the side making him lunge a little too far towards Morgana. I grabbed her arm at her forearm and hand and pushed them into Pendragon’s gut and activated the shock gloves. The electricity ran through him and sent him toppling. I shot up and brought a swift elbow to Morgana’s chin, flooring her as well. I finished her off with a blow to her face. I walked over to the table where that cigarette was still burning. I picked it up, began a drag, but quickly pulled the disgusting thing away.

“Menthols? Dear gods, you guys really are stupid,” I said, throwing the cigarette on the ground, stamping it out, and clicking off the jazz music at the radio. I look around the dingy, chip-titled torture room and find my coat hanging on a coat rack. “At least they aren’t savages.”

I made sure they didn’t steal anything. Pockets still have all my belongings. For bank robbers, they certainly aren’t great at petty theft. I throw the brown trench back on and move towards the door. I slowly turn the handle and open the door to the hallway where fortunately the other members of the gang are not waiting for me. I handled Pendragon  and Morgana easily but three more thugs would land me back in the chair. Not to mention if they’ve added more since their last hit. We’ve been chasing them around the city for about three months, and they’ve robbed four banks in that time. We still can’t peg why they would need that much cash or how they could possibly spend it. They certainly aren’t investing in a headquarters.

Suddenly, I hear a voice from around the corner. I slink behind an open door in the hallway, making sure just to stand in the doorway and not shut the door. I spied through the peephole and saw a blue wolf mask. Lancelot. I think our dossier said he was a sharpshooter. Seems like he’d be useless in a fist fight. He was radioing to someone on his walkie.

“Pendragon, you done with the cop yet? Pendragon, I said are you done with the cop yet?” He put his walkie-talkie back in its holster and pulled out his sidearm. Something street trash would use, not really the mark of a deadeye. “By the gods, do I have to do everything myself?” He said, scoffing and stomping down the hall. I moved into the open room and behind the wall as he walked by towards the torture room. He opened the door and before he could reach for his walkie, I sprang into action and put him in a headlock. He quickly pushed back and slammed me into the wall behind us, but I held firm. I knew if he even got one good aim with his pistol, I was toast. He stomped his feet wildly, trying to bash me anyway he could. He bashed me back again, this time against the door frame, loosening my grip. We both fell to the floor, me out of breath and him gasping for air. We both took a second to regain our bearings and then shared a brief cutting moment. He got up quicker than I could and kneed me in the face. I shook off the throbbing pain and used the wall behind me to brace myself. 

“Percival, Galahad, get-” He started to say into his walkie-talkie but I gave him a solid haymaker to the head.

“Now now, none of that.” I said, taunting him. I used his imbalance to disarm him of his gun, sending it to the floor. He grabbed my neck, but I kicked his legs out from under him. I used the momentum of the fall to bring my forearm down on his face, disorienting him again. He relinquished my neck and I dealt him a clean knockout blow to his smug face. I stood up and dusted myself off and down the hall were the last two members of the Round Table Gang, Mr. Percival and Mr. Galahad, staring at me. I was admittedly a little disoriented from the last two altercations but I can’t imagine I was getting out of here without at least one more.

“Well come on then. Let’s go.” I said, putting up my dukes once more. I examined the two of them briefly, really hoping that Percival came at me first. He was small, compact. Intel said he was the demolitions expert of the group. Can’t be that great of a fighter either, although Lancelot surprised me. He adjusted his gold hawk mask. Mr. Galahad was much larger and muscular than his counterpart. Comically, he had a green cat mask. I don’t know what these guys’ fascination with stupid masks is. Galahad came stomping towards me.

I delivered several quick blows to his abdomen which frankly hurt my knuckles quite a bit. He just chuckled.

“That ain’t going to work, little man.” Unfortunately, he was right. I had to use his weight against him. He reared up for a downward strike, but I only narrowly avoided piledriver fist to the top of my skull. He came down on my shoulder which sent pain through my arm. I used the other arm to swing a fist, tilting his head to the side. He cocked his head back at me and I could see the annoyed look in his eyes. He grabbed me by the shoulders and sent me swinging through one of the walls of the hallway and into the room I initially hid from Lancelot in. Same dingy tile as the other room hit the back of my head hard.

“You call that a throw? Better invest in some gym memberships, mate.” I said, as he stepped through the me-shaped hole he just created. “Although your budget might be taken up by renovations.” He didn’t care for the banter. He stomped up to me and raised his leg up to smash me, but I rolled to the right. The tile cracked underneath and I got an idea. While his foot was still depressed, I swung my body around and kicked his stomped leg with all the force I could muster. His leg jutted further into the floor as he fell and the angle caused him to slam down harder than just a simple fall would do. I clumsily stood up and went to the groaning bastard.

“Nighty night, kitty cat.” I said, stomping his face and breaking his mask in the progress. I briefly take a look at his face. Ugly bastard, really. Maybe it was better with the mask intact. “Alright, Percival. We both know you’re a cowardly bastard so let’s get this over with. If you come quietly, I won’t have to break your nose too.” I said, walking out into the hallway and Percival was kneeling on the ground and he had already cuffed himself.

“Please don’t hurt me! Just don’t tell the others I surrendered.” I chuckled at the weakling. Just another day at the office, I suppose.

#prison city #detective squall goode #round table gang #mr. pendragon #ms. morgana #mr. lancelot #mr. percival #mr. galahad #dnd #dnd homebrew #prison city stories #noir

[theexistentiallyqueer]

For the writing meme, 65 and 177 both gave me shuake vibes. Pick whichever you like better :)

66. I didn’t tell you that I love you because I wanted to hear it back. I told you because I needed you to know.

177. You’re a coward, (Name)! You hide away this entirely different part to yourself all because you’re afraid that someone might get close to you! You’re afraid that someone might just care about you more than you think you deserve. That - that isn’t fair.

I wound up taking both prompts and combining them without actually replicating the dialogue in question, because I’m kind of allergic to that. Mild spoilers for P5R.

I’m taking prompts! Please specify the fandom and pairing. I’m currently into shuake, okujima, and edeleth, but I may be open to other pairings or characters.

———————————————————-

November 17th and the air has a bitter bite, a good excuse to stay in with hot drinks and good food. November 17th and the deadline to steal Sae’s treasure is two days away, pulling them in with the promise of bloodshed. November 17th and Akira is in the attic of Leblanc, coffee and curry downstairs forgotten because he’s too busy exploring what the inside of his would-be murderer’s mouth tastes like.

(Coffee and curry, the mild kind sweetened with pineapple and carrot, and something beneath that’s sharp and bitter, almost like blood. Akira knows that taste exactly. He bit his tongue when Arsene finally came to him and his body’s vitality had spilled into his mouth, hot as copper and just as angry.)

The boy leaning over him is thin and immaculate, even in disarray: necktie loose, shirt disheveled and unbuttoned down to the collarbone, his carefully-styled hair disturbed by Akira’s curiously greedy hands. His eyes are ferrous and bright, the edge of his stare dulled in the heady cloud of bad life choices. Akira drinks in the sight of him, reaches up to brush his fingers along the sharp line of his jaw. How can one boy be so beautiful? Akechi slides a tentative hand up the flat plane of Akira’s chest beneath his shirt, bare palm against bare skin. His knee is pinned to the futon between Akira’s leg, and he doesn’t know if the way it brushes up against him is purposeful or an accident, but Akira sees stars.

“I think I might change my mind about being rivals,” Akira says breathlessly, only half-joking. “Are you still taking applications for a sidekick?”

It’s the wrong thing to say. Akechi shudders and pulls violently away.

“I need to go,” Akechi says, fumbling with the buttons of his shirt, deny, deny, deny written into every awkward movement of his body. He pulls his gloves on next. He won’t meet Akira’s eyes.

(There’s a briefcase downstairs with an embossed capital A on the

outside and a gun, probably, on the inside. There’s a bullet in the

chamber of that gun with Akira’s name on it, use by date two steps away and counting.)

An old physics teacher once told him that if all of the molecules of your body vibrated at the same frequency as the molecules of another object, you could pass your hand through it like moving through water. Akira knows the molecules of his body are definitely doing something, if the way his skin seems to ache from how hot he feels (where Akechi touched him) and how warm he doesn’t (where he didn’t). He feels Akechi pulling away like being plunged into a bathtub filled with ice, every point of contact that was sparking with pleasure now sparking with needlepoint pains instead.

“Akechi–” Akira tries, swallowing around his tongue, which feels too thick and uncomfortable in his mouth now that it’s been inside another’s. He doesn’t know how to finish the sentence.

What Akira wants to say is: I listened to your phone call and I still want to kiss you until we both forget how to breathe.

What Akira wants to say is: I know there’s a bullet in your gun with my name on it, and I think I’d let you shoot me if you asked me.

What Akira wants to say is: I don’t think I’ve ever felt known in my entire life until I met you. I don’t think I’ve ever really known anyone the way I know you. I want you to feel the same. Feel the same. Please feel the same.

Akechi finishes straightening his tie, once more that kind of put-together that’s carefully crafted for a camera and not nearly as appealing as he’d looked only moments before. He still won’t meet Akira’s gaze. “Saturday at the courthouse. Noon is a good time, I hope?”

Akira takes a breath and lets it out, feels the way gravity hooks its claws into him and drags his heart down with it.

“Yeah,” Akira says. “See you then.”

——————————

“It’s not a small thing,” Akira says abruptly. He keeps his gaze on his cup, studying the tiny currents of milk and coffee eddying in its depths. He doesn’t see the way Akechi lifts his eyes to stare at Akira and then glare balefully away, but he can feel it, or at least he thinks he can.

“What isn’t?” Akechi asks, his voice clipped and short. He knows the answer. Akira knows he knows it. Akechi knows he knows it. Whose game are they playing at this point?

“Your life.” Akira looks up and catches Akechi’s eye before he can turn away. It’s a ruddy red and brown, full of not enough anger. “Your life’s not a small thing. Not to me.”

“That’s not–” Akechi begins, a furious snarl in his voice. It’s a sound that echoes viscerally in Akira, that propensity towards rage, and he leans in on impulse and grabs Akechi’s hand. Akechi cuts off in surprise, staring down at where their hands are joined but not pulling away.

“It’s not a small thing,” Akira repeats, lifting his free hand to brush the fine hairs away from Akechi’s face. Akechi shudders but doesn’t pull away. There’s been something in seeing him this past month cutting loose in a way that Akira has always wanted to but won’t ever let himself do that’s felt more freeing than anything.

“I’ve seen what you’ve seen and I’m not running away,” Akira tells him. “We’ll fight Maruki and I’ll drag you back with me afterwards.”

Akechi moves to draw back, but Akira won’t let him. He won’t let Akechi pull away now, so Akira instead pulls him in.

“Don’t be stupid,” Akechi says, his voice sharp. “His position is strong and the hold he has over reality is–”

Akira cuts him off before he can finish. “I’m going to need you to stop being logical for one fast hot fucking second.”

Akechi snaps his mouth shut and narrows his eyes, radiating fury. Something electric races up Akira’s spine.

Akira leans into him, leans into Akechi until he’s stumbling back into the bar behind him and bracing his body against in, against Akira’s invasive presence. Akira leans into him and kisses him. He doesn’t push Akira away, doesn’t withdraw, instead kisses him back with a focus that’s hungrier than Akira’s own. It’s nice to have greed matched for greed. Akira pulls Akechi’s bottom lip between his teeth and sucks on it. There’s that same sweet-salt tang of copper again, that taste of blood on open water. Akechi whines, low and restrained, fisting a hand in Akira’s hair, and Akira laughs an Arsene laugh into his mouth, breathing the same air he breathes.

“Stop running from this,” Akira tells him when they break apart, each of them gasping for air. Akira leans in–Akechi lets him, and brushes his mouth against the shell of Akechi’s ear, drinks in the way Akechi restrains his shudder. Akira rests a hand on his knee and runs it up, up, up, thumb dragging over the corded muscles in Akechi’s thigh that twitches beneath his fingers. “Goro. Goro. Be fair. You can’t tell me to give up on you and not acknowledge what we have. You can’t–”

There’s a bright, furious gleam of ruby in Goro’s eyes, the shining facet of some precious stone in his ruddy irises. His mouth is nearly as red, lips swollen and dark as crushed cherries, and even more inviting. “You don’t even know what you’re asking. Do you realize how selfish that is?”

Akira laughs, and leans in, and kisses him again. “More or less selfish than letting you go?”

#persona #persona 5 #shuake #akeshu #goro akechi #teq writes #memery #p5r spoilers #3muske-tears #thank you for coming to my teq talk #the ''old physics teacher'' bit is actually my HS physics teacher #i had that exact conversation with him

[limitless-muse]

Orion Drasen

Character Development Questions: Hard Mode   

Does your character have siblings or family members in their age group? Which one are they closest with?

Risa Turner - adopted sister

Orion was adopted into her household when Risa’s parents wanted another child but couldn’t have another of their own. When they finally did, they threw him back into foster care.

What is/was your character’s relationship with their mother like?

It wouldn’t be obvious, but Orion was a momma’s boy. When she wasn’t killing people with her husband, she doted on Orion. She is where his passion for cooking and baking comes from. Sadly, that was the only thing she taught him. Otherwise, she would buy him all the picture books and toys he wanted and leave him be as she and her husband were engrossed in torturing and killing people. Once Orion found out about their hobby, that all changed.

What is/was your character’s relationship with their father like?

They didn’t really have a relationship until Orion found out about their hobby. When he did and had no... real reaction like revulsion towards it, his father tried to teach him to like the torturing, maiming, and killing. That all backfired as Orion took those lessons and turned them around to put the bodies back together with what little resources he had.

This resulted in both his mother and father abandoning him as a failure. They ignored him and anything he did, getting more and more obsessed with their hobby until they were caught by the police.

Has your character ever witnessed something that fundamentally changed them? If so, does anyone else know?

First off, Orion wasn’t really raised. He was given picture books and toys to occupy himself when his parent’s ignored him, otherwise he was taught to cook and bake. All recipes were word of mouth.

Orion caught his parent’s maiming and destroying bodies in their basement. Blood was everywhere, not to mention the smell.

Because of his lack of a real upbringing, he didn’t react as most would - plus the easy molding of a child and the easy adaptation of a child to situations - which would be in revulsion and horror. He was just confused, though he was revulsed by the smell of rotting flesh.

He was then allowed to play with the bodies and body parts and his whole body would be regularly covered in blood from head to toe afterwards.

This leads to his PTSD actions of wanting to take showers or wash his hands at least to get the blood off, but it’s EVERYWHERE and takes forever to come off, just like it took forever to come off when he was little.

He tried to put bodies back together, the opposite of what his parents did, which made them start to hate him or feel disgust and it showed.

Next would be seeing his parents escorted away in handcuffs as they shouted that he should be locked up too. Even during the trial they tried to speak up about how he played with the bodies and tried to put them back together, so he should be locked up too. They felt that his actions were worse than their own and if they were going down he should too.

After that, what would affect him is how he was treated by other adults be they foster parents, psychologists, psychiatrists, or orphanage runners.

He was steadily abandoned, treated like a freak, claimed to be disturbed, forced to take medication, forced to undergo treatments and therapy, abused, and more.

The only adult that was an exception was a Priest who taught him to read and write with the Bible.

This would all lead to his saving grace: Risa Turner. His sister one family he was adopted into.

She loved him. Treated him kindly. Learned from him. Taught him. And she didn’t leave him. 

They did their best to keep in contact over the years after her parent’s forced him back into the foster system, but they lost contact several times until they ran into each other in London when they were adults.

Since then, they refused to let each other go again.

As for who knows about this...

Risa does know it. The only thing she doesn’t know is exactly how bad some of the foster/orphanage situations were and how deeply involved with his parents murdering ways he was.

In the AU with Sherlock and Jim, they slowly learn this as time goes along and things crop up.

On an average day, what can be found in your character’s pockets?

His phone, wallet, keys, handkerchief, occasionally some change, and chapstick.

Occasionally gloves depending on occasion or season.

Pocket watch occasionally. He adores it too much to wear it too often, but special occasions he certainly will.

Does your character have recurring themes in their dreams?

Many.

Most are about his childhood, mainly the blood and the bodies in pieces.

Others are about the abuse he received in the system.

The nights he likes the most are the ones where he doesn’t dream at all.

Does your character have recurring themes in their nightmares?

His dreams are his nightmares. He doesn’t ever get a normal dream of Unicorns farting rainbows or whatever it is that normal people dream.

Has your character ever fired a gun? If so, what was their first target?

He does know how to use one, but he doesn’t like to.

Some kids in one orphanage had stolen a gun and were shooting at trees and such. They were scared off by an adult and Orion found the gun and tried it out on some cans.

He decided he didn’t like it and disposed of it in some acid to see what would happen to the gun casing. He did know to take the leftover bullets out first.

Later on in life, he would get proper teachings on how to use a gun and has one in his shop just in case. Yes, he has a proper permit for it.

Is your character’s current socioeconomic status different than it was when they were growing up?

He has had several socioeconomic statuses over the course of his life.

He was born into an upper-middle class household. His father worked a normal 8-5 job and his mother was a housewife.

For the most part after that he was just an orphan.

He was adopted into...

Another upper-middle class household

Two different low-middle class household

A high class household

The house of an Earl

It was in this household that Orion was given the name (and titled once the foster parents passed): Orion Williamsford the Second, Earl of Wiltonshire

They never got a chance to remove him from the family lineage and records as well as wills before their deaths.

This would be the household he found out his calling as an Undertaker, which is why they wished to disown him.

After he left the Earl house, he would get the class of academic or apprentice as he went around studying to become an Undertaker.

Once he had the training and license, wherever he moved to, he kept the status of middle class because it was the most convenient.

He doesn’t care for his title of Earl or what it gains him like stalkers in the form of Jeffrey Walsh (Son of Sir Henry Walsh) and Stephanie Walsh (Jeffrey’s sister).

Does your character feel more comfortable with more clothing, or with less clothing?

He will ALWAYS feel more comfortable with more clothing.

Orion typically wears...

Undershirt and boxers

Button-up shirt

Vest

Suit jacket and pants

Belt or cummerbund

Socks and shoes

Tie, bowtie, cavat, or other necktie accessory

Depending, he may have gloves on or at least in his pocket

Then a jacket as well if needed

In the AU of Sherlock and Jim, he starts to feel okay with less clothing because they help him with his self-esteem issues and body shame.

The reason he feels this way is because of the scars he has on his back from one foster father and one foster mother.

The foster father used his back as an ashtray. Only twice hitting him on the back with his belt buckle.

The foster mother dug her heels into his back hard enough for them to puncture skin. She even took a kitchen knife to his back and got a few slashes in before she was stopped by her husband who had just came home.

In what situation was your character the most afraid they’ve ever been?

Before he was 18, he was most afraid with the abusive foster parents.

After that, he was most afraid of the bullies who didn’t care for an Undertaker.

It had gotten so bad that he moved and is why he decided to move every few years until he settled in London indefinitely because of Risa.

They are also the reason he cannot eat in a restaurant. He got severely beaten once and almost died when he was caught in a restaurant by a gang of bullies. Also, most restaurants would deny him business with the occasional exception of take-away.

In what situation was your character the most calm they’ve ever been?

That would be anytime he is in his workshop or his kitchen, but mainly when he doesn’t have to deal with people.

Is your character bothered by the sight of blood? If so, in what way?

Refer to above.

Does your character remember names or faces easier?

Both, but generally faces. It’s easier to spot a face that has been controted in hatred, rage, and/or disgust than a name.

Is your character preoccupied with money or material possession? Why or why not?

Depends. Generally neither.

As an Earl, he has plenty of money. Especially when you add on that the only person he pays to work is himself and suppliers.

Most items he would deem worthless, except a few...

The Bible the Father helped him practice reading and writing with.

His pocket watch that he generally leaves at his bedside.

Letters from Risa.

The now written recipes from his mother

His personal coffin/casket

His piano

His sheet music

AU with Sherlock and Jim... anything from them really. ANYTHING.

Which does your character idealize most: happiness or success?

Well considering most of the time he doesn’t even believe in happiness... Success.

What was your character’s favorite toy as a child?

His building blocks

Books - especially his Bible from the Father

Putting the dead bodies back together - which was generally more frustrating than anything because he couldn’t do it properly.

Is your character more likely to admire wisdom, or ambition in others?

Depends on the situation.

However I would say wisdom generally.

Ambition only in regards to doing what you truly want to do, like he did.

What is your character’s biggest relationship flaw? Has this flaw destroyed relationships for them before?

Hahahahahaha

Trick question because he believes all of his traits are a flaw.

Truthfully, his biggest flaws are...

His walled off state that doesn’t trust others easily

His lack of emotional understanding

His lack of understanding/knowing about relationships

He’s never had a relationship before because most people are turned off by him being an Undertaker.

In what ways does your character compare themselves to others? Do they do this for the sake of self-validation, or self-criticism?

He compares himself in self-criticism, except when it comes to knowledge.

He is well read and is intelligent. And it is easy for him to pick out those who aren’t and be repulsed by it at times depending on how horrible they are. It also gives him another reason to avoid people.

If something tragic or negative happens to your character, do they believe they may have caused or deserved it, or are they quick to blame others?

Depends on what it is.

For many things, he believes it is his fault.

In the AU with Sherlock and Jim, if something goes wrong with one of them or the relationship he’ll believe it is his fault first.

He rarely blames others unless it is a true fact.

What does your character like in other people?

Intelligence

Understanding of his occupation

Musical ear

Helpers

What does your character dislike in other people?

Stupidity

Bullying nature

Sloppy

How quick is your character to trust someone else?

Not likely at all

Exceptions: Sherlock and Jim

the fact that they have out of the box professions that normal people don’t like

their intelligence

their understanding

being well-dressed

How quick is your character to suspect someone else? Does this change if they are close with that person?

Always his first thought about anyone

If he gets close to someone, he is less likely to suspect them

Exceptions: Sherlock and Jim

If something happen, they were either there or had a hand in it

How does your character behave around children?

He doesn’t. He avoids them.

How does your character normally deal with confrontation?

Depends on the confrontation

It may not seem like it, but he can hold his own.

If it’s with Sherlock or Jim... he’ll probably cry

How quick or slow is your character to resort to physical violence in a confrontation?

He likes to leave it for last resort, but will if necessary

What did your character dream of being or doing as a child? Did that dream come true?

He never knew. He just knew what he liked.

What does your character find repulsive or disgusting?

Maimed or rotted bodies

Horrible food

“simple” food like what he had in the orphanages

Describe a scenario in which your character feels most comfortable.

In his workshop, making a customer beautiful.

Cooking or baking in the kitchen for someone - generally Risa.

Dancing or playing music on the violin or piano

Describe a scenario in which your character feels most uncomfortable.

Anything involving another person that isn’t Risa.

Restaurants

Crowds

In the face of criticism, is your character defensive, self-deprecating, or willing to improve?

Depends

If it is a bully, defensive.

If it someone he loves and trusts it could waver between self-depreciating or willing to improve.

Is your character more likely to keep trying a solution/method that didn’t work the first time, or immediately move on to a different solution/method?

He’ll try it once, maybe twice, more because he thinks like a scientist. You can’t make an experiment with only one trial per part.

Otherwise, he’ll generally try something else after the first time failed.

How does your character behave around people they like?

He’s generally an introvert with his emotions walled up, so if he likes them and trusts them, he can become more... energetic and bubbly but he’d also let his emotions show more.

How does your character behave around people they dislike?

Like a stone cold wall who kills with eloquence.

Is your character more concerned with defending their honor, or protecting their status?

Uh... neither really

If Orion has someone besmirching his business then he will be defensive about it and scour for proof then shove it down their throats.

But otherwise... neither.

Is your character more likely to remove a problem/threat, or remove themselves from a problem/threat?

Remove himself if possible to get away or if it’s not at his shop or home.

If it’s at his shop or home, he’d remove them.

If he’s unable to run away, he’d remove them.

Has your character ever been bitten by an animal? How were they affected (or unaffected)?

No. He generally prefers indoors with some exceptions.

How does your character treat people in service jobs?

As kindly as someone who doesn’t show emotions can.

He just makes sure he is always polite.

Does your character feel that they deserve to have what they want, whether it be material or abstract, or do they feel they must earn it first?

Not in the least. He has to earn it but... he never feels like anything he does is enough to earn it.

Has your character ever had a parental figure who was not related to them?

Refer to above.

Has your character ever had a dependent figure who was not related to them?

Does Risa count?

Do sleep deprived and hungry Sherlock or Jim count?

How easy or difficult is it for your character to say “I love you?” Can they say it without meaning it?

Difficult especially since in the beginning he never knew what that meant or truly believed in it.

He has his own way of saying it: “You give me cardiac arrest” or “You give me a heart attack”

With Risa, it’s all in his actions.

With whoever he loves, the best way to see it is through his actions not his words.

What does your character believe will happen to them after they die? Does this belief scare them?

He will become a body for an Undertaker or mortician, then go in the ground.

No not really.

#oriondrasen #headcanon #orion headcanon #character development: hard #real-scienceofdeduction #villain-to-sherlocks-fairytale #orimmiesher #risaturner #TW: Abuse

[gaslightwestern]

Love | Charlotte O’Shea | When Sins Haunt

For some reason, staring down a loaded six-shooter seems less scary than dancing with Thomas Quinn.

December 1877 | 1300 words

As usual, Charlotte was overdressed. While the other ladies danced with their beaus in their Sunday dresses, cotton whites and delicate florals, her satin evening gown stood out like a slash of blood upon fresh snow. She could already hear tomorrow’s gossip. Did you see what that Yankee girl was wearing? She just had to buy the dress though. The ruching on the skirt was too exquisite; the folds along the train too darling to ignore—but Charlotte was attending a Christmas dance in Fort Worth, not a night at the opera in New York City. What in blazes was she thinking?

Thomas leaned against the wall. A hint of laughter lightened his rough drawl. “That’s some dress.”

If only the heat of her gaze could set him aflame—although it might not make much of a difference. A face full of fire and a personality to match; even his blue eyes blazed in the shadow of his wide-brimmed brown hat.

Charlotte whipped out her mother’s black lace fan, concealing her scowl behind it. “I’m not in the mood for your teasing tonight.”

“You ain’t ever in the mood for teasin’.” Thomas’s playful smile peeked out amidst his rust-colored thick mustache and beard that toed the line of respectability. “I reckon you just might be the prickliest woman west of the Mississippi.”

An audible gust blew from her nose and that damned grin of his only grew. “And you just might be the most obtuse man in the whole state.” Charlotte fanned herself with vigor. “Leave me be.”

Thomas rose to his full height, looking down at her with thinly-veiled amusement. If he wasn’t so coarse Thomas would almost look like a Southern gentleman. His stature was too overbearing however, skin too rough and tanned, waistcoat too stretched over his broad chest, and manner too crude to ever resemble anything other than someone who belonged beyond the confines of the city. The cattle-drover-turned-firearms-dealer was out of place and no amount of fine clothes nor attempts at politeness could disguise that.

“To do what? Stand here and collect dust?” He snorted, fiddling with the sleeves of his smoky-gray frock coat. “What’s say you and I go dance?”

Her hand froze. “It’s a tad early in the evening to be dipping into the whiskey, Mr. Quinn.”

“It’s never too early for whiskey, Miss Grace.”

She rolled her eyes. “Now you sound like your Pa.”

The fiddlers and banjo player strummed and plucked with fury, their instruments seemingly taking on a life of their own as their lively melodies swept up into the air. The music reached out, but Charlotte ignored its call. They were there to investigate whether Laurel Granston had any connection to the murders, not dance.

“You and I haven’t gone a day without arguing. Why on earth would you want to dance?”

“We only argue ‘cause you have to be so darn difficult about everythin’.”

Charlotte snapped her fan shut in response.

“Maybe I’m bored.” Thomas shrugged, before adjusting his necktie. “Or maybe it’s because you’re the best lookin’ woman here and a man don’t need much of a reason other than that.”

A blush as deep as her dress burned its way up her décolletage. Thank heavens the light was low. “I won’t look so nice when I trip and take you down with me. I dance the waltz, not—” Charlotte gestured towards the dance floor. There was much laughter and little organization. “—whatever that is.”

“Windin’ up on the floor with you don’t sound half bad.” Rather than apologize like a gentleman for his forwardness, Thomas extended his gloved hand with a roguish grin. “Mr. Granston ain’t here yet and we put too much effort into our appearances to stay glued to the wall.”

Never one to be shy, her sudden spell of timidity was baffling. This was Thomas. Her colleague. Her partner in justice. An arrogant cad who had been a thorn in her side since August. Why was she anxious? For that matter, why was he? Thomas’s chest remained still as he awaited her answer. Charlotte placed her hand in his. She had faced far more terrifying things than a man asking her to dance.

“I must have taken leave of my senses,” Charlotte muttered as Thomas led her to the center of the dance floor. Of course he would.

“Could’ve told you that based on your outfit.”

The hard muscles of his shoulder beneath her fingertips would have been delightful if Charlotte’s corset had not magically become three sizes too small. As Thomas drew in her however, his large hand firmly on her back, she breathed in a sense of familiarity. No hint of whiskey today, just gun oil, leather, and warmth. They had never been this close. Not even during target practice when he corrected her form. Strange how this felt more dangerous than wielding firearms.

“You’re as stiff as a corpse,” Thomas snickered as the music started up again. “Relax. Step together then take two more steps opposite me. I’ll lead you ‘round.”

Despite the urge to stare at her feet, Charlotte kept her eyes on his. Soon she was gliding backwards in tune with the beat through a sea of colors as Thomas skillfully maneuvered them across the crowded floor. A lightness bubbled up, emerging as laughter. Her dress fluttered as Thomas drew Charlotte out and then back to him with ease.

“Where did a cowpoke like you learn how to dance?”

“You learn pretty fast when all your free time at the end of a drive is spent with women.” Thomas raised their left hands, twirling her twice. “Got to know the dance halls in Dodge real good—among another fine establishments.”

Charlotte quirked a brow as they did a side step. Now she advanced. “I can only imagine what other skills you picked up in those establishments.”

Another surprise—Thomas was capable of looking sheepish. “Miss Grace, if your goal is to make a grown man blush, you doin’ a mighty fine job.”

As if to return the favor his hand slid down, resting just above her bustle. Two can play at that game. Charlotte pressed against his chest as he changed directions again. There was a delightful hitch in his breath, but he remained undaunted despite the swell of his heartbeat. Their legs moved in tandem. An odd sensation; they had been dancing around each other for months. Their proximity was indecent and wandering eyes lingered.

Let them talk.

His face was so close; gaze all-consuming and dark as the ocean. There were times, like now, where Charlotte wanted to let go, let herself be dragged down. They were so wrong for each other. All they ever did was fight. Still though, it was hard not to wonder what it would be like to kiss Thomas. Would it be as passionate as the man himself or tender like the way he was holding her? Charlotte closed her eyes. Stop it. If Thomas knew the truth, he would never look at her the same. He deserved better.

“Sorry, Miss Grace. I should show more restraint.” Thomas placed a more respectable distance between them, unable to meet her eye. Before she could tell him he had done nothing wrong, a deep scowl tore across his face. Charlotte did not need to turn around to know that Granston had finally shown up to his own party.

“Can’t say I’m thrilled with our plan.” His hands fell away. “How about we switch? I search the house while you distract him.”

A chill swept through her body, as if in protest at the loss of his. “I am perfectly capable of sneaking around without getting caught.”

“With your knack for gettin’ into trouble, I ain’t so sure about that.” Thomas grinned. “Be careful, darlin’.”

[ Overview | Intro | Page | # | Charlotte | Jack | Warren | Sam | Martin, Mae & Theo | Backstory ]

@writer-jess, @maskedlady, @thewritertiffany, @strawberry--sunrise, @teacupwriter, @girlnovels, @cirianne, @okrashan, @paranoidwriter, @drabbleitout, @nyxnevin, @scintillations-of-the-scribblers, @theforgottencoolkid, @inkpot-dreamer, @nightskywriter, @oceanwriter, @lynnafred, @katerinarevel, @g-marrader21, @the-writers-soul, @yourocsbackstory

#writeblr #writing #amwriting #historical fiction #yourocsbackstory #drabble #Charlotte #Thomas #Charlotte x Thomas #when sins haunt

[dcwastelands]

R Tizfake Testing Event - June 8, 2019

Eevelion: As the Research department at HQ opened it's doors for the testing, all volunteers would be ushered through the halls by a number of goggled researchers and through a set of security doors. On the other side of the doors our attendees would find themselves in a large room, mostly empty aside from a large blast door on the opposite end with a catwalk above, as well as a one-sided window, presumably for the researchers to watch the test. As the last of the group was corralled into the room the door would close behind them, leaving them with dead silence before the event truly started.

Dezzy: Outside of the car rides she was employed to chauffeur demons, Lessy had to say she rarely interacted with demons. Even more rare did she or Cab see them outside of the human disguises, so she was trying her best not to stare. Emphasis on "trying". Occassionally she would try to sneak glances of their horns or compare their colorful skin tones to hers. Still, she kept hands mostly to herself, putting herself on idle, rolling on the balls of her legs.

"Man, I don't think I've ever been in this department yet, let alone the others." Lessy still considered herself new to this world, however, being here did give her a positive sense of purpose.

Gigi: Necktie was PR why did he need to be dragged in for testing--his ear had been chewed off about something to the effect of 'yearly physicals', or was it 'counter-investigative journalism'? God, he couldn't remember now, it was like his brain turned to static whenever research was mentioned as of late. Still his posture was composed as ever, chest out, chin up, customer service face on.

There were, unfortunately, humans here, as he would be made painfully aware.

"New arrival, I see?" get out, get out of here.

Dezzy: "More or less. I'm used to working from my own mobile office and driving you guys around." Still swaying on her heels, she glanced up at the ceiling as it was rude to stare (though on could argue not making eye contact was equally rude)Cab would occasionally work on their aim in infranty, but Lessy didn't know that. Or she guessed, maybe she did since she was spontaneously better at darts since they joined HQ? Hmm.

Gigi: He tapped a gloved hand to his chin, staring upward. "I think ive heard of a chauffeur somewhere around in the files," He tucked that hand behind his back just as quickly, offering his other for a shake. "Welcome to Research, then! I'm not from this department, though, so...no tours."

Dezzy: It took a moment for Lessy to realize Necktie had offered his had, to which she quickly grabbed perhaps too much vigor. "Thanks!"

Taking back her own gloved hand she gave a cheesy grin and a salute." Yep that's me! Need a ride just holla at ya girl." She winked while making a 'call me' gesture with her hand. "Names Sleeveless Hoodie by the way. Though everyone just calls me Lessy."

Gigi:His return shake was firm in kind. "I'll keep that in mind," he smiled. he had his own valets, but ok. Bringing up his name might bring some unwanted gossip his way, actually, now that he thought of it--jeez, why was he forced to do this anyway?

"Pleasure to meet you, Mx.Sleeveless. People are probably going to be yelling 'Necktie' at me, so let's just get that out of the way so there's no confusion, yes?" He gesticulated his arms around, as if trying to stir some nebulous concept around. "My appearance here doesn't mean anything."

Dezzy: Lessy didn't really recall Necktie as the owner of Diamond Jail on first name alone, let alone appearance. Her curiosity did get the better of her as her eyes wandered down to his namesake. "Necktie huh? So like, your tie thingy turns into a weapon for real??"

She scratched at the side of her head, perplexed by idea of clothing becoming something other than what it was. " Like, we my dad was trying to get me into the family buisness he told me a few things about all this. I thought he was fucking with me! It just sounds so dumb... Underwear transforming into weapons."

Zaku: "Mhmm, yup. Yeah, I'm walking right in. It'll probably be for, I 'unno, two or so hours? Money's on the table if you want to order out, just...don't do anything crazy, alright? Ok...love you too."

Ending the call, the blue haired demon did a quick run back of his hair, a tick of sorts he kept for as long as he's known. Pack's interactions with the demon community was slightly sparce to say the least. He'd hope with how downlow he had been, Guillory would practically be a new name of sorts. But hey, he had been cooped up for a while, and Netti had doted on him not being a "cooped up bachelor", so here he was.

Gigi: "It's not quite underwear, though that's a common misconception--actually it felt more common back when I was younger," He let out a laugh. "But yes, it can do that--actually I think I should be,..."

He took a moment to get the eldredge knot untied with one hand, stretching the fabric taut and a split second later, it took on a bright blue glow, shifting into its two-pronged form.

"We're supposed to have our weapons ready, right?" He called up to the balcony, hoping one of the goggled cronies up top would like, give him a thumbs-up or something.

Eevelion: In response to Necktie's question came a crackle from an intercom as a familiar voice (to Necktie at least) came over the system “You can have your weapon out right now if you waaant, but you don't need to, you'll know when you'll want them.” then another crackle as it turned off.

Zaku: Ah. New company. Welp, time to mingle I guess.

"Evenin'."

Dezzy: Lessy's eyes went wide and sparkly at the sight before her! Magic is real!! Well, she knew that already to an extent but seeing it happen was amazing. "WHOOA HO HO! That's seriously the most fucking awesome shit I've seen in, like, ever! "

She then leaned in close and whIspered, "And I've seen some weird shit with LSD."

Popping back into her place and still juiced from Necktie summoning Eldgredge she noticed the other demon in the room,skipping any formalities. "What about you? What does your thing turn into? Can I see please!"

Zaku: Woah, hello there personal space. Welp, he ain't one to be a party pooper. He already spent most of his early years doing that.

"Uh, yeah, sure thing." Clipping off his name sake, tossed it in the air and let it transform, catching The Fix taking it's form, the blade crackling a bit.

Gigi: Necktie gave a shrug, leaning on his weapon; there wasn't much he could do with tile but at least it functioned the way any other staff was supposed to. His attention was turned to the other, noting the fanny pack and its usage as a transformation catalyst. Spear and a sword, both melee.....This was going to be ugly wasn't it.

"Well, I certainly hope whatever we're facing doesn't need a gun to take care of," He laughed, though his smile seemed somewhat strained.

Zaku: "Right there with you." Pack chimed in. Ah, nervous laughing. He too knew this art of deception.

Dezzy: Lessy stumbled back a few steps when Pack threw his weapon in the air. It was like seeing fireworks, kinda! She was in awe,"So cooooool...."

At the mention of fire arms Lessy snapped out of her starstruck trance, " oh! I have a gun" from the inside of her hoodie she pulled out her silencer, twirling it in her hand before catching it. She seemed to have surprised herself at the trick but said nothing about it. Cab must of learned it, the dork. "I got your backs."

Eevelion: Now that everyone had had a bit to get situated, the proctor would finally show themselves as Robe entered from a door on one side of the catwalk, a wooden easel and canvas in one arm, and her other hand interlocked with a sort of... paint bucket with arms and feet, though it's color scheme obviously denoted it as a ghost. The catwalk would clank as the pair made their way to the center, where Robe would set up the easel behind them and then turn to face the group before clearing her throat and addressing them loudly “Hellooooo everyone! Thank you all so much for coming, the test will beginning shortly, but before then I'd like to make doubly sure everyone is aware of the rules, and to answer a few questions you might have.”

Rummaging through her pockets she'd grab a copy of the flier that she had used to invite everyone here, reading it aloud “First, the rules. One, you can't attack me or my friend here.” She'd gesture to the paint bucket ghost at this “Two, try not to hit each other for no reason, if you hit someone cause they're blocking your shot, I don't care, just don't be dumb about it. Three, I say when the test begins and ends, when I say the test is over you put away your weapons, no questions asked. And four, aside from a few exceptions, nobody leaves while the test is in progress. Aside from those I also get to add new rules as I see fit.” She'd crumple the paper then shove it back in her pocket “And with that out of the way, let's take a few questions.”

Gigi: Oh, that explained a lot as to how he got dragged here, specifically. Necktie lifted a hand up with a fluid motion, as if he was some sort of aristocrat hailing a cab.

Eevelion: Robe would lean on the railing of the catwalk as she looked at Necktie "Hi Mr. Necktie! Good to see you getting out of the club, anyways, you got a question?"

Gigi: "yes, I kind of got forced out of my hidey-hole, but it's always a pleasure to help you out, Miss Robe!" This time the smile was actually genuine, though nobody really could tell, aside from his tone changing just a bit. "We look a little, oddly balanced, do you have any protocols in place in case we get ah, just absolutely punched to death like a common incel?

Eevelion: Robe giggled at Necktie's question as she dangled her arm over the side “Yeah your teams looking a little bare, and I thought your chances of winning were low even with like, double your current size, but don't worry though, if we notice you taking a beating we'll call for a break to get you out of the arena, only slightly worse for wear!”

Gigi: "Alright, thank you," He didnt seem any relieved at this, seems as though he just called himself a common incel indirectly. Unfortunate. Oh well, if it meant helping Chaleco's kid out, he was happy to. He took a deep breath, trying to not look too full of dread.

Dezzy: Club? Necktie? Lessy's singular braincell was working overtime to put two and two together. She scratched her chin lightly, looking off to the floor. Something about it rung a bell but the more Lessy tried to think about it, the more distant it became till her mind was gone from that moment. Her eyes glazed over, as if she froze for a second but immediately came back. Though it wasn't exactly her who came back.

Cab jumped a bit in their skin, having being brought to the front in a very unfamiliar location. They scanned the area and took note of the demons that were present in their normal flesh. Cab felt around their person, looking for something but didn't find what they were looking for. Lessy was always bad at keeping record of events in case Cab took over. Though more frustrating was what Cab was wearing like HONESTLY LESSY you're at WORK. Cab immediately zipped up their hoodie to salvage some modesty.

"Yes, ah, I had a question as well." Cab infered from what was going on. They were being tested or something. Their whole air had went from energetic ball to a more somber and professional tone. " My memory escapes me, what is the object today from this here's test?"

Zaku: "Yeah, what they said." Pack chimed in, returning The Fix back the it's standard form. Huh. Cute kid. Had the cheery eyes of Netti back when she was little.

Eevelion: Robe picked herself up from the railing to address her latest question "Very good question! I tried to keep it vague on the fliers since the theatrics are way more fun, but you'll be fighting..." She'd take a moment to hunch over and pick up her paint bucket companion, sitting him on top of the railing "A little collaboration project between me and this little guy. In fact, seeing as how you've each given a question, and yes, backing up someone else's question counts as asking." She'd produce a remote from her pocket "I think it's time we get started." And with that, she'd flick the remote, causing the huge steel doors in front of the party to begin to slide open.

Eevelion: As the doors opened and light filtered in, the attendees could get their first glimpse of their opponent, and it was large, orange, and kinda drippy. When the doors fully opened the creature slid out from it's containment chamber and stood in front of the group in it's full glory, a pudgy ectoplasmic dinosaur, it would blink it's eyes at them before giving the ground a mighty thump and roaring. Robe would beam before raising her arms high into the air “And here they are! Try not hold back, we wanna see just how much they're capable of, and half-hearted fighters give rotten data, and with that, the test is begun!”

Gigi: Oh, he did not like the sound of the doors parting, he did not like the size of the shadow he could see. Damn, this really was a mammoth of a thing, wasn't it? What had Robe fed it, exactly? He pulled himself into a position that lowered his center of gravity, two hands on the spear. He really wished he wore contacts today.

Zaku: "...Well damn." Pack looked up at the rather chubby...what was that, a tyrannosaurus? Nah, looked more like a fat Godzilla.

Yeah...yeah, fat Godzilla.

Dezzy: A collaboration? With that small kiddy looking ghost and equally small child? No, no, Cab shouldn't judge a book by its cover. Looks can be deceiving for all they knew. And what do you know, they were right. That thing was GIANT. Now they were wishing it was something more simplistic and smaller in scale. Scarfing down their fears and checking their silencer they gave a steady sigh, "I got your back covered."

Lessy had already said something similar before they switched, but Cab didn't know. Doesn't sound as cool the second time.

Eevelion: Seeing how the group was conceding the first move, the inky behemoth was glad to take it, rearing around to swipe at the three still clumped together with it's tail. Meanwhile Robe plucked RT off the railing, walking back to the easel and turning her namesake into Chroma, she'd look down to her companion and ask “Well, should we give our masterpiece some support?” with a thumbs up of approval from the bucket she'd dip the brush into his ectoplasmic pool and bring it to the canvas while she thought of what to draw.

Gigi: Necktie jumped up, letting two sets of bright blue wings carry him out of the way. Tryingto steer he only just barely seemed to get him out of the way, the tail swiping past his backbone, a pole-vaulter over a pole. He kept flying, trying not to hesitate and landing a heavy stab into its neck. He was getting tossed around a bit, though the behemoth's neck was pretty fat it still seemed irritating enough of a strike-- he was being shook around and losing his hold. He kind of stuck it in there too deep. He looped a hand into one of Eldredge's hilt holes, letting himself finally fly free with the spear after the ghost successfully dislodged him.

Dezzy: Swiftly, Cab jumped back far enough for the beast to miss them entirely. However, the misplaced their footing, disoriented a bit from the switch, and ridiculously missed shooting the ghost’s head and flew way past it’s shoulder. Cab kneeled down, rubbing their temple with their free hand as they tried to shake off the rust.  They whispered harshly to themselves“C’mon, c’mon nows our chance to show what were made of...”

Eevelion: No sooner than it finished it's sweep attack the Behemoth felt a prick on it's neck as Necktie's spear, it would give a violent shake to try to dislodge the demon and his weapon, and when it no longer felt the object stuck in it's neck it would focus on the first thing to cross it's vision, in this case, Cab, lifting one of it's fin-like paws to bring it down on top of them, the new holes in it's neck dripping orange. Robe would look over her shoulder to notice first blood being drawn, and that the behemoth seemed to have momentarily lost track of it's assailant, Robe decided on her first drawing, drawing a bulky circle with a  nub on one end and a wiggly line coming out of that nub, she'd look down at RT and after sharing a nod, the drawing fell off of the canvas, becoming a real object. She'd grab this object and bring it over the railing, yelling down to Necktie “Hey! Mr Necktie! Catch this!” grinning as a spark ignited on the fuse of her painted bomb as she tossed it to him.

Zaku: "Welp...let's get to work." Summoning Fix once again, Pack gave it a few test swings before going for the big guy himself...and just thrusting air.

"...Right, shit. You don't have ranged functions." Yeah, no shit it doesnt, you goof. Try again, next time.

Gigi: He landed with a skid on his back, turning his head to see Pack doing....whatever it was he was doing. "y-you don't know how to use your own weapon?!" Dear Satan, this was looking to be some kind of hopeless between a human and a PR representative. He wasn't able to think on that statement too long,  hearing something familiar telling him something and....

SHIT

He grabbed the thing, fumbling rather comically for a few handslaps' worth of time before slinging it somewhere--anywhere, and running as fast as he could in the opposite direction.

"you're going to need to get close to it somehow unless you want to launch your weapon, which for the record I do NOT Advise!!"

Dezzy: Cab’s dizzyness spell wore off too little to late as  the goopy hand of the ghost came slamming down on their little body. They grunted in pain as the monster’s paw pressed against their back, seeping its weird paint into Lessy’s clothes. Normally Cab would be happy another one of Lessy’s flamboyant outfits would be unwearable but now wasn’t the time. Feebly, she tried to crawl out from under the ghosts paw but, as Silver the hedgehog would say, “Its no use!”

But instead, Cab seethed wily pully at the half of their body that was free,  “Fucking god dammit!” Cab didn’t want to ask for help, they had to prove themselves capable they couldn't let go of their pride just yet.

Zaku: "Look, it's been a hot minute, alright?" Making shit was one thing, but actually using it was where Pack was rusty. Fine. Let's get physical then.

Only to not even hit the fucker. But hey, he was close. Necktie, can Pack borrow your glasses, because this man's depth perception is fucking infuriating.

Eevelion: Catching Cab underneath it's paw, the behemoth picked up the driver and prepared to shove them in its mouth, that is at least, until Robe yelled from the catwalk “Hey! No eating the attendees! I'd get in huge trouble if I let someone die during this.” Behemoth, now somewhat confused what to do with Cab, sort of just, gingerly set them down on the floor, turning their attention to Pack flailing uselessly at it and giving a swipe at him with their big ol' paw.

As Robe's paint bomb exploded harmlessly away from everyone, she got to brainstorming her next drawing, deciding on a little raincloud that she sent floating over the battleground toward Necktie, drizzling him a little bit before loosing a thunderbolt beneath it.

Gigi: Necktie took this opportunity of confusion to try and swing for another attack, but underestimated the behemoth's speed and...kind of didn't hit where he wanted to.  He tried to put more distance between him and the lizard, but flying backwards sometimes means you just end up bumping on top of a raincloud and getting stuck there. Oh, it felt like paint, he hated this.

Dezzy: Necktie wasn’t the only one having a bad time with the paint monsters. Cab was simply, drenched in goop. They couldn't move as freely till they got all that shit off. Angrily they swiped at their limbs to remove the goop. “Great. Just great. They had to literally nerf the ghost just so you wouldn't die great job, Cab.”

Zaku: Hey-hey, he finally hit the fucker. Granted, on the blunt end of The Fix. And non-lethally at that. But hey, this thing is... surprising goopy. Is that even a word? Goopy?  Pretty durable dino tho.

Eevelion: As the behemoth missed another attack it started to realize, tiny things are pretty hard to hit, still, it wasn't stopping time yet, so it went in to grab that demon that had been buzzing around it trying to poke it, AKA Necktie. Robe was already readying her next drawing, a baseball bat and matching baseball popping out of the canvas as she finished, she grabbed the bat and RT grabbed the baseball, throwing it up in the air while Robe yelled “Fore!” sending the ball flying towards Cab with a meaty thwack.

Gigi: He was trying his darndest to get off of this cloud but its like, kind of hard to get off of a paint-cloud without making a mess and he was trying to get covered with as little paint as possible, which was like trying not to fall in the mud pit of a game show obstacle course. In fact, he was too preoccupied to notice a the monster swat at him, which he tired to stop with his spear, but it just went through harmlessly and he got absolutely clamped.

"THIS SUIT IS -----GHGHGHHFPFPPGPP," he got cut off before he could lament what brand it was, or if it was new or not, but we can only assume it was expensive.

Zaku: Aaand another swing. And another hit absorbed by the meat. Y'know that old show from the twenty first century way back then about the square sponge and how one episode had him absorbing punches like a...well, sponge? Yeah, imagine that but with a knife and a giant chubby [REDACTED]Zilla.

Dezzy: Chaleco would of been proud of that meaty thwack upside Cab's head. Unfortunately, they aren't him and that smack disoriented them once more that it made them miss the thing by just a hair. " Seriously?!" Cab called out to Robe. They then mumbled fustratedly as they rubbed the side of their head.

Eevelion: After a quick high five over that sick baseball pitch and swing Robe and RT put their hands to their chins (or roughly where the chin would be, in RT's case) trying to think of what to draw up next, hmm, let's let them get back to you next round. Now that the behemoth had gotten a hold of that pesky mosquito they decided to kill two birds with one mosquito shaped stone as they threw the soggy Necktie at Pack.

Zaku: And anotha stab. What the fuck, man. What kind of paint is that Robe kid working with? Also, hey Necktie. Yeesh, that must be frustrating to have all that paint on you, huh?

"You alright?" He asks them, lending a hand to help the demon up.

Dezzy: All that rage in a tiny pink body  built up enough resolve for Cab to say fuck you to this unlucky streak and shoot the fucker straight in the chest where Cab assumed its heart would be. Even after the shitshow their performance started it, it did feel good for them to get one good hit in and they smirked to prove that.

Gigi: He took the hand, knowing full well that depending on the paint it was possible he'd end up glued there if he waited too long. He REALLY hoped the ghost wasn't acrylic, but he also REALLY REALLY hoped the ghost wasn't oil either. It was too thick to be watercolor. This was unfortunate all around.

He tried to shake himself off, getting little flecks of orange scattered around. The human thankfully had it covered, it seemed. "I'll manage, I guess." He tried to run and take a hit at the ghost, but he was moving exceptionally slower than he was already and opted to throw the bident instead to try and get a proper hit--which uh, didn't work out so hot.

Eevelion: The behemoth was kind of surprised to see a bullet get lodged so deeply in itself, losing focus on its attackers and instead clumsily trying to use its paws to dig it out. Robe and RT meanwhile snickered to themselves as they set out sheets of canvas on the floor of the catwalk, they'd need some more room for what they were making, and once those were set out, they'd get to work putting together their project.

Gigi: Necktie proceeded to move, taking the opportunity to grab his spear and stab again....but the stab wasn't very successful. This felt like too long between attacks, and he took it as an opportunity to try  and put distance between them once more.

Dezzy: "Well that was almost as short-lived as Lessy's relationship with her mother." Dark humor. It helps ease the pain as their next shot for the chest was absorbed in the thing.

Zaku: Anotha' stab, anotha' failed attempt for it to do damage. Seriously, what kind of paint was this kid using??

Eevelion: While everyone down on the testing floor was having their fun, Robe was finishing up her painting, after a brief look at her work, she grabbed RT and flew up to the ceiling with him where he snapped his fingers, causing a tidal wave of paint to cascade to the floor below. The behemoth didn't notice the wave forming behind it, but they did manage to pull the bullet out of them, they would have gone in for another attack, were it not for the wave crashing into them as they were getting ready.

Gigi: Oh, he was moving way too slow now, and even if he had two sets of wings he got hit anyway and got slammed down into the paint abyss, and hard.

Dezzy: Cab quickly climbed up the behemoth's tail as to avoid getting hit  by the oncoming wave. All the meanwhile they clung like a cat on the thing's tail, Cab wondered where everything went wrong. Maybe they'd go to the shooting range and work on their came some more while they were still in control of Lessy's body. After a nice long bath of course.

Zaku: Alright, you big chubby painted fuck, Pack's getting pissed. Finally managing to pierce the fatty, jolts of electricity surged from the blade and into the big chungus of a ghost.

Was...was that meme still relevant in the  22nd century? What even is relevant.

Eevelion: The behemoth kind of stumbled under the wave, but it wasn't too unpleasant for it, just kind of annoying at most, what was REALLY annoying though was getting shocked in the side, the electric weapon charring a section of their goopy skin, the behemoth brought up a goopy paw, about to slap the offending demon when Robe called out "Alright that's enough for now, the test is over. Back in the pen for now" And like a puppy heeling to it's master the behemoth obliged, heading back behind the steel doors as it closed. Robe would clap for the victorious(?) testees "Good job everyone on not getting TOTALLY smashed, though I think the results would have been more interesting with a couple more attendees this was still very insightful." Taking out her remote she'd flick a switch and drains would begin siphoning the flood of paint from the room "Anyways, give the room a few minutes to empty out and you'll all be free to go, if you wanna hand in your clothes to the other researchers we can get them cleaned. I in the meanwhile will go return Artie to stasis, I'll return in a few minutes." Taking RT's hand in hers she'd exit the chamber through the same door she had entered, leaving the party alone in a slowly draining pool of paint.

Gigi: Necktie was splayed out on the floor, crusted in orange, just contemplating his life and his life choices. So this is how it was, huh, getting beaten by a paint ghost. Irony was one hell of a drug. Finally, he got up, removing his jacket (leaving a very fun and flirty orange triangle on his collar. caution, slow-moving vehicle.)

That being said, he held the jacket out as far away from the rest of his body as possible, watching the coattails drip. Disgusting.

Dezzy: Cab Declawed themself from the beast as it left and trudged their way back to the group. Lessy's hoodie and socks were the only real casualty of the event. Her boota, gloves and shorts were made of spandex and rubber so the paint just slide off. However it really wasn't any more favorable that Cab was left in a bikini for a top till they got home. The crossed their arms, unpleased with many things, but mainly themself.

Zaku: He hit it. That's all that matters from this out come. Returning Fix to it's base form, he now took note of the paint coating his clothes.

Well shit. He hoped that paint wasn't acrylic. Clothing choices weren't his forte.

Eevelion: A few minutes later and the floor had mostly drained away, just in time for Robe to re-enter through the main door with a spring in her step "Hello hello everyone, now that the room's drained you're free to go, I gotta stay behind though to clean up some of the mess." she'd grin at the party "I also want to thank you all again for coming, not too many people did but it's still better than nothing, I owe you all, I could take you all out to dinner or something sometime? Nothing too expensive though, I'm on a budget."

Zaku: "I'll keep it in mind. Not a bad ghost you made, kid. You've got some potential in ya." Pack remarked.

Gigi: "He's got a point it's...quite the vexing little bugger," His smile was strained but only because of the clothes, really, there was a real warmth to his tone. "And that's fine, just uh, tell your dad I said hi or something."

Dezzy: Cab stared as the paint began to drain slowly from the area. What an awful day,  what would papa Wayfarer say if he could see Lessy now? Long story short Cab was bummed. They didn't want to make eye contact with any of the demons and stared at the floor as they walked. The only thing other than tiled floor she made eye contact with has her boobs.

Her perky little boobs that had some left over paint on them. Lessy would probably be into body paint. Once again they started to disassociate as someone other than Cab drew a little star on their chest.

Glaxay was due for paint job again Lessy remembered. Just as she thought of that she realized where she was again. Shoot, did Cab take over during the WHOLE test? It seemed so as Robe was congratulating them for their participation for the day. "Fuck yeah we did!" She cheered, unaware of whether it was technically true or not, "sweet free too? Today was fucking awesome!"

Eevelion: "Well you guys weren't really fighting a ghost per se, that's why you didn't have to use nullifiers, you were fighting one of Artie's constructs, kinda like those things I kept throwing at you but with a lot more work put into it, instead of those little doodles." She clapped her hands together "Anyways though, if you change your mind or wanna call up the favor you have my number, well actually you don't, except Necktie he might have my home number, just call HQ they know how to reach me." Taking a mop and a bucket she'd start scrubbing down the test area, waving off the others as they left.

Zaku: Nullifiers? Uh...huh. That was a new thing. But hey, Pack would have time to get used to all of this demon tech mumbo jumbo properly.  But for now, he's got a favor in his pocket, and that outcome seems pretty nice, yeah? Yeah.

Now to get home and try to wash this shit off. This'll be an interesting story for Netti

#dcwastelands #dcwlogs #dcw demon event

[sanderssidecanons]

I wanted to write a funny story that is very based on a comedy sketch I saw and found very funny, so I hope you guys enjoy it. It’s literally just humour, no angst or anything, which is very unusual for me. I don’t know if I suceeded though, so I’m sorry if it isn’t funny. OH! And this is a human AU, so they are not sides. ^^

Title: I’m on it

Warnings: ....swearing? A little bit. And mentions of weapons? I think that’s all, send me a message if there is more!

Pairings: Platonic logince, but it’s far from the focus on this story.

The one thing Roman didn’t expect when he came home from a hard day of work was a man standing by his windowshill. He blinked in confusion as he saw said man, wearing thin green gloves and performing surgery on his window with a tool. Roman was a simple and very confused man at the sight, not knowing what he was supposed to do or to expect, nor did he know who that man even was. He was around 5′ 6 tall, wore a black hat, black shirt with a scale pattern in gold, brown shorts and black sneakers with yellow stripes, his most defining feature being that he was currently performing surgery on Roman’s window, most likely with the intention to enter the prince’s home.

Roman, frankly, had no idea how to react. Who was that guy? Was it his window-guy? Did he have a window guy? Does he have window-people? Is he part of the government to intimidate him, to look for any signs of potential harm, drugs or other heavy stuff? Would he have to dig through masses of documents if this guy found something, not that he had any dangerous substances in his home.

Roman stood still, perfectly still, completely stunned at the sight before him, thinking about what to do while he was gaping like a fish. What was he supposed to do, how was this encounter supposed to play out?! Should he leave? Should he just let the guy do his business and leave in peace? Should he get to a phone and contact the police? Or maybe contact Logan? Logan would know what to do in this situation!

The man looked up, revealing his brown eyes that were widening as he put the tool down and spotted Roman. Both of them were completely stunned for maybe a second, before a truly beautiful smile flashes across the man’s face and he suddenly yelled: “HI! HOW ARE YOU?!”

Roman, in his complete confusion stupidly answered with: “FINE, THANK YOU!”, already mentally slapping himself for such a stupid answer, why was he talking to this guy, what was wrong with him?! And the problem was, that it only got worse from that point on, because Roman’s brain clearly hadn’t caught up with his mouth yet as he stupidly continued with: “HOW ARE YOU?!” And then, even stupider, asked: “CAN I HELP YOU?!”

The moment this sentence left Roman’s lips he quickly shook his head, mentally scolding himself, seriously, what was wrong with him, what was he thinking?! Why was he offering help to this guy who tried to break into his house?! Why was he even CONSIDERING it, even if it was subconciously?!

The man tilted his head slightly, clearly not expection this answer, idly pointing to the house next to Roman’s, claiming: “Your neighbour led me to you! You have a front door buzzer, right?”

Roman, blinking, asking in his bewilderment: “Front door buzzer?!”, which was far from the weirdest thing the guy has said so far, because there was no person living in the house he pointed at. The nice old lady who used to live there died last month and now the house is empty. So the guy was clearly lying, but for what purpose?! He looked down to the man’s midsection, trying to spot some kind of weapon or gun, cautious even though he couldn’t spot anything.

The man grinned as he said: “Yeah, your neighbour told me you have a front door buzzer, so I thought-”

Roman made wild movements with his hands as he interrupted the man, not wanting to hear any of the stories he made up, quickly saying: “Nononono, forget the neighbour, forget the buzzer!” Before it dawned on him, his eyes widening as he realized: “You are a BURGLAR, trying to get into my house!”

Now it was the man’s turn to make wild hand-movements, shaking his head vehemently as he defended himself: “Nonononono, you got it all wrong! Why don’t you let me in and we discuss this situation over a cup of tea?”

Roman could only blink in bewilderment, not knowing if this guy was actually serious or if this was a test with hidden cameras of any sort to test the average intelligence of the regular american man. He really hoped it wasn’t the latter, because if it was, he already would have done poorly. He still shook his head as he grew impatient, yelling: “NO! I will most definetly not let you into my house when you were just performing surgery on my windowshill!”

The man put one hand on his hip in a sassy manner and groaned, provoking in a rather cheap but effective manner: “Oh, come ON! Don’t be such a pussy! If you are a real man you would let me in!”

Roman slowly but surely lost his faith in humanity, what even was this encounter?! What was this guy trying to say him? That he wasn’t a real man if he didn’t open the door for him?! He shook his head in a quick gesture and then responded rather loudly, convinced at least some neighbours, not the dead one, were now watching them through their darkened windows: “WHAT KIND OF REASONING IS THIS EVEN?! THIS IS COMPLETE NONSENSE!”

The burglar visibly deflated, sighing heavily before shrugging, apparently knowing when he is losing, as he suddenly asked: “Ah, well, it was worth a try. Do you want me to leave the same way I came?”

This could be exciting. He could say yes and see what would happen, if the guy would just disappear in his magical lamp until it was rubbed again or would suddenly get his jetpack out and blast off again? But what if he said no? Would the man just move in, tell him how he preferred his sandwiches and then take over his bed and live in the bathtub and refrigerator? Could Roman risk that? Certainly not. So he said what every human being would probably not say: “S-Sure.”

What Roman wasn’t expecting, was that the guy quickly shook his hand and spoke a quick: “Farewell good sir.” Before running down the front porch and sprinting down the road, out of sight in not even two seconds, just a dustcloud trailing behind him, leaving Roman completely stunned, staring after the man with an opened mouth, even when he already left. He lightly slapped his cheek to return to reality and quickly entered his home, grabbing his phone and punching 911 in. He explained the situation as quickly as possible and the police assured that they would get the man, causing Roman to nod and slowly hang the phone up, thinking

Logan was still at work at a nearby place and the guy was running past the bulding he was working at, maybe he could help Roman to decide what he was supposed to do now. The number was quickly picked and he sat down on the sofa, calming down his slightly ragged breathing, the adrenaline of the stress slowly leaving his body. A casual but polite voice answered him and Roman immediatly recognized that it was Roman.

“Hello?”

“Logan, you’re still at work, right? Look out the window, do you see a guy, uhm, black hat, black shirt, brown shorts, black shoes, running like a motherfucker down the road?”

The quiet clicking of shoes was audible on the other end of the line before the answer came. “Yes, I do. What about him?”

Roman exclaimed in a slightly panicked voice: “That guy tried to break into my house!”

Not even a second later he heard Logan’s answer that send chills down his spine. Just three words he would certainly never forget.

“I’m on it.”

“Wait, what?!”

The next moment he heard on the other end of the line glass shattering and a thumb, accompanied  by a loud screech that sounded like it came from the burglar, before he heard angry yelling from Logan and then the sound of heavy running. Roman could only stare at his phone in shock as he sprinted to the window and saw the burglar suddenly running the other way, Logan hot on his heels, a wild expression on his face as he was chasing after the guy in his working attire. “LOGAN! ARE YOU INSANE?! GET BACK HERE, I DON’T KNOW IF THIS GUY HAS A WEAPON! LOGAN!” But Logan had already hung up and slowly disappearing from his sight as the two were running down the road. How can these two be so damn fast?! He gets another idea which is probably stupid aswell, but he calls the police again, screaming into the phone in a panic:

“HI! I’m the guy from before who reported the burglar! OKay, here is the update! First guy, ehm, black hat, black shirt, brown shorts, black shoes, run’s like a motherfucker. Okay, the second guy who is now chasing after him, tall guy, short brown hair, wears glasses, black shirt with blue necktie, phone in hand. First name: Logan. Listens to: Logan. DON’T SHOOT HIM! SHOOT THE OTHER GUY!” Thinking for a moment before continuing: “Oh, and here is his number, give him a call!”

Roman didn’t expect them to actually do it. And with Logan’s coordinates, the cops knew exactly where to go to. Roman thought it was the second coming as the police-helicopter flew over his head and three police-cars were speeding down the road, what was this, GTA V?! A helicopter, on foot pursuit AND THREE cars?! And the burglar still managed to escape. He drifted into an empty parking lot and was just gone, like Hoodini, like he transformed into a snake and just slithered away, Roman never saw this guy again, he wasn’t sad about it, just very VERY confused. Roman gave Logan a very long scolding this evening, still not able to properly process the probably weirdest encounter he ever had in this state. This was certainly a story worth talking about.

#sanders sides #thomas sanders #roman sanders #logan sanders #platonic logince #humour #humor #my writing #swearing #Sanders Sidecanons #human au

[gripefroot]

When Life Gives You Melons

The dull fluorescents and the tinny radio station over the speakers make the grocery store a hotbed of discomfort. Keeps him glancing over his shoulder, waiting for someone with a gun to pop out between boxes and rows of pasta, cackling madly against the liminal backdrop. So, Bucky isn’t exactly in the habit of ‘grocery shopping’ - but he does it for you. 

Or, should he say - with you.  

His knuckles are white on the handle of the shopping cart, and the metal beneath his glove creaks slightly. He tries to ignore the crackling music. The other people standing around - barely moving, barely aware - so slow at ten a.m. on a Tuesday. It’s easiest to keep his eyes on you.  

Whether you’re aware that he’s watching or not - and he fancies you do - there’s no shiver of discomfort, no hesitancy. Fingers curling around bright, plump lemons; weighing them in your palm with a bitten lip in concentration. It’s all very domestic, but that doesn’t make it less sexy. Bucky swallows thickly as your tongue hovers on the cusp of your top lip - still thinking? - and then with a breathy sigh that reminds him of dark nights in the bedroom, you put that particular lemon back.  

Testing his patience? He wouldn’t wonder.  

“You’re pretty,” he blurts, but keeps his voice lazy. Make sure you remember that two can play at this game - this cat and mouse dance where he isn’t sure who’s the cat and who’s the mouse - except that both parties seem to end enormously satisfied. His lips curl into a smug smile as you glance over, eyes dancing.  

“Lemons turn you on?” A suggestive wiggle of the brows, and he barely manages to suppress a laugh into a snort - draw less attention, that way. “Do we need to look at the bananas, next?” you add, and Bucky nearly chokes.  

“You tryna kill me, babe?” 

“You’re cute when you’re flustered.” Another lemon weighed, while your gaze, all hot and heady, stays on him - he swallows again, and your smile is all satisfaction. “What’s next on the list?” you ask, twisting the bag of lemons closed.  

“Um - it just says ‘fruit’.” 

“Let’s go see what looks good, then.” 

Nectarines and plums are out of season, looking small and sad. Pineapple is overpriced. Bucky pauses to sniff some peaches, dragging a scarlet-and-orange globe to his nose to catch any hint of ripeness.  

“Hey. What do you think?” 

He glances ahead - facing him square on, wicked smile on your face - a honeydew in each hand, held chest-high. He blinks. And then he laughs.  

“Nice melons,” Bucky jokes.  

“Thanks. I thought you might like them.” 

“So, you’re saying - we don’t need any because you already got some?” He quirks a brow.  

“Well,” your brows pinch in serious thought. “We can’t eat mine for supper, now can we?” 

“I could.” 

“Won’t fill you up.”  

He shrugs. “Overrated.” 

“If you’re really not interested in food,” a glint in your eyes now, that prickles heat across his skin, “I can offer alternative...eating options.” 

“I’ll take them,” he says promptly. 

“Perfect.” A sly smile - but a honeydew goes into the cart anyway, and he smiles back a sloppy, lovesick grin that makes his bones vibrate with joy, and he forgets how much he hates grocery stores as he follows you towards the misty display of fresh herbs. 

This rare day off together makes Bucky wish for more. His last mission in Neuquén, yours in Kuala Lumpur - still half-jet lagged, but every moment special. Even in the mundane ones, like opening a plastic bag so that you can slide some basil in as you slant a smirk up at him.  

“What?” he asks.  

“Oh, nothing.” 

“Uh, huh. What is it?” 

“Can’t I enjoy shopping with my boyfriend?” A blithe question, almost accusatory - but really, it’s a challenge. He’d be able to hear it in your voice from a mile away.  

“Without ulterior motives?” Bucky teases. “Fat chance, babe.”  

A tiny gasp, breaking off into a laugh.  

“I know you just want a piece of this,” he adds in a low voice, and by that glint in your eyes - he knows he’s right. Makes his belly flame hot, and he smiles as he drives the cart behind you, watching how you sway just so… 

It’s a shame there’s no thigh holster, today. But it’s a grocery store. And your knife is beneath your shirt, anyway. 

Maybe he can disarm you, later.  

“You know what we haven’t done yet?” you ask absently, as the checkouts beep. Putting goods on the runway, as Bucky surreptitiously tosses in about three packs of gum. 

“Hmm?” 

“We haven’t gotten anything for the baby.” 

Oh. Right. The baby. His lips press together in his usual contradiction of emotions when he considers this - happiness for 41 and her glowing smiles, annoyance at Clint for desecrating her, and maybe a little jealousy. Not that he’s brave enough to bring that topic up to you - he’s not even sure if such a future is possible for him - but with a sigh he shakes off these feelings for later. 

“We can go later,” he suggests. Gets a flash of a smile for that as you glance over.  

“After lunch?” 

“Sure.”  

Carrying bags of groceries back to your apartment should be tedious. But it’s not. Not with your elbow linked through his, making an obnoxious plastic bags-assassin-plastic bags-secret agent-plastic bags train, plowing through the Manhattan sidewalks as New Yorkers cast scowls for the inconvenience. Bucky doesn’t care. And he knows you don’t, either.  

Over sandwiches, a quick search into baby stores. He doesn’t know any, and you admit to only being familiar with baby stores in your hometown. He chuckles to himself, resting his chin on your shoulder as he gazes over at the screen of your phone, too.  

“A mall?” he says suddenly, good feelings gone. “Babe - no.”

“We won’t find anything anywhere else,” you point out. “Not unless you want to travel an hour.” 

“I don’t like malls.”

“I know, Buck.” A twist of your head, the lightest peck to his pouting lips. “Don’t worry. I’ll be there.” 

Bucky wrinkles his nose. Pretends to think. “Well, gee,” he drawls at last. “A pretty girl to hold my hand?” 

“And pinch your behind,” you interrupt. 

“And that? Well - how can a fellow say no?” A grin - which you return with a laugh, and he presses a noisy kiss to your cheek. “But if you drag me into a candle store, I’m rioting,” he promises, and you wriggle in his embrace.  

“I like a good riot every now and then,” you say lightly. “Don’t tempt me.” 

A groan, a roll of the eyes, a laugh - teasing all the way out the door, a casual pair in sneakers and jackets with fewer weapons than usual, still stowed away… 

As much as Bucky detests busy places, it’s not so bad with you. Your whispered comments on the subway and into the mall, teasing about this or that, murmuring quips at a hundred miles an hour as he tries to keep from drawing attention by laughing the entire time. But he’s grinning, his face hurts, and your smirk is the prettiest, most lethal thing he’s seen.  

The baby store, a sign lit up bright blue with little bunny and fox decals filling up the massive windows in the front. Bucky squeezes your hand more tightly, seeing families milling around and hearing the high-pitched whine of babies -  

It’s okay. Of course it’s okay. He’d rather listen to a baby cry than gunfire, any day.  

“I’m gonna text 41 and see what she needs,” you decide. Pause you pull out your phone, and Bucky lets his eyes rove. Bright displays - tiny baby shoes in every color and pattern and style, lined up on a rack. Headbands and hair clips and hats and bow ties and neckties...Bucky wanders over, curious in the oddest way. They made stuff this little? For babies? 

Without thinking, his lips draw down in a concentrated frown: hesitating only for a moment, before picking up with one hand - suddenly looking very large - a pair of black Converse shoes, which look like each one might fit one of his fingers. He looks at them one way, and then another. 

Maybe it’s just been too long since he’s seen a baby. Bucky doesn’t remember his sisters or kid cousins ever being this tiny.  

“Do we - ” he starts, wondering if baby Barton needs little shoes. Glances over at you, wanting an answer - but you’re staring, and he starts. Hadn’t noticed how intently you’re looking at him - phone limp in your hand, blinking fast, and if he tilts his head, listening to the rapid pitter-patter of your heart rate, suddenly elevated. “Are you okay, babe?” Bucky asks, concerned with a pinch of his brow - puts the shoes carefully back on the rack.  

“Ye - yeah.” A squeak. High-pitched and thin. He frowns now - this is unlike you. Keeping his eyes fixed firmly on your face, searching for any hint of illness or otherwise, he strides back to your side, clasping your elbow with the fingers of his flesh hand.  

“Did 41 text you back already?” Bucky asks. Watches the widening of your pupils, the sudden catch in your breath. 

“Oh - um, yes. They need…socks.” 

“Socks?” 

“And, um, bibs.”  

“Perfect. You wanna…” He lifts a brow. “Divide and conquer? Or…?” 

“Let’s…” You swallow. “Let’s stick together.” 

“Fine by me.” Bucky smiles - a reassuring, bracing smile, to you in the midst of the baby store chaos, and he reaches down to squeeze your hand lightly. Your flesh is hot and damp. “They’re having a girl, right?” he prompts, as you lick your lips. Almost hungrily. Hmm.  

“Uh - yeah.” A flicker of a smile, a shake of your head. “Maybe they’ll name her after me,” you joke, and he laughs as he tugs you towards the sock display.  

“What? 28? Or Agent?” 

“Ha, ha.” A dark, mischievous look. Bucky snorts with a shake of his head. Turns his head to study the rack of socks. Frowns some more.  

“How about these?” he asks dubiously. Pokes a pack of striped socks. 

“No,” you say. “Bucky - those are 6-9 month size. The baby comes out a newborn. See?” And with a tap of the fingers, you point towards the sizing, printed clearly at the top of the package. Eyes twinkling, as Bucky shakes his head. 

“This store is complicated.” 

“Just look for a pair labelled ‘NB’.”  

He does. Looks past the printed airplanes, the animals, the solid colors. You bench slightly to examine the lower racks, all lace frills and bows. Cars, alligators, unicorns.  

“Oh. This one.” Bucky reaches out - picks up an appropriately sized pack. Six pairs - doughnuts, lollipops, hard candy, cake, and pie. You laugh.  

“Perfect.” 

“Gosh, they’re so tiny.” With some effort he wiggles a finger into one of the doughnut socks - terribly soft and stretchy, but teeny - chortles to himself as he glances down at you, still crouched - and sees, again, that funny expression on your face as you stare. You let out a long, low breath. Are your hands shaking? “Babe?” Bucky asks, baffled. 

“It’s just - it’s getting hot in here.” A taut smile as you rise to your feet again. A meaningful look in your eyes. Oh, is that - oh. Bucky swallows, hard, and your fingers reach to unzip your jacket. “Really hot,” you add, with some exertion in your voice. Jacket pulled off. He swallows again.  

“Oh - er, ok.” His finger is still inside the sock. He pulls it off, groaning softly.  

“Maybe it’s best if we split up,” you suggest. “I’ll - I’ll go find...something. You’re on bibs.”  

“Okay, babe.” 

He watches the top of your head out of the corner of his eye - picking out jammies that look about the size to hold a banana, he thinks wryly. And he rifles through bibs. Finds a set to match the socks amongst the seeming hundreds of options, and feels immensely proud.  

Oh. Oh boy - Bucky catches sight, on top of the bib rack, of a basket full of stuffed animals. Bunnies, elephants, monkeys. Pink and purple and blue. At one end, a crowning jewel: a pale-tan alpaca llama, decorated colorfully with bangles and a saddle and reins.  

He has to get it.  

“Babe,” he hisses, arms full of merchandise - wandering over to the jammies, where you have at least four pairs slung over your arm as you hold up a purple-and-pink striped pair for view. “Babe, we have to get this.” Wriggles the llama for your inspection, and you lift a brow.  

“Of course we can,” you say with a smile. “It’ll look great next to your bed.” 

“Not for me,” Bucky says, affronted. “For the baby.” 

“Sure.” The striped jammies go over your arm, too.  

“You ready to go?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I think we got enough.” A smile, gazing over the merchandise in his arms. Bucky offers a hopeful smile. Your bottom lip catches between your teeth - another once over, this one slower. He hears, yet again, the pickup in your heart beat. Glazed eyes, shifting your weight slightly… 

“You sure you’re alright?” he asks doubtfully. “Your heart is going really fast.”  

“Oh, yeah,” you say. Breathless and soft. “Um - can we...we should stop somewhere before heading home.” 

“You sure?” Absently Bucky’s flesh fingers run down the alpaca - freakishly smooth and fluffy alpaca - whatever it’s made out of. He’s sure he’s never touched anything so soft… “What’s so important?” he asks, as your lashes flutter so slightly, your burning eyes still on his face.  

“Umm…” Darting tongue, wet lips. Skin radiating more heat than usual. “Having my way with you in the nearest bathroom.” 

“Let’s go,” he suggests. “Sooner the better.” 

“Yes,” you agree. “Let’s.” 

Nervous energy at the checkout - fumbling with cash, grabbing the bag too fast to be polite. Shared, secret laughs as the baby store is left behind, bag swinging, and you jerk your head towards a family bathroom. Unlocked.  

“This is nasty,” Bucky announces, as you lock the door behind him - creepy lights, a ripe smell. But then your hands are on him, pawing at his belt as he groans aloud - bag drops to the floor, and he doesn’t hesitate to lift you by your hips, pressing your back to a wall.  

“You,” you pant. Teeth gnash against his neck as he tugs down your jeans with some difficulty - underwear pushed aside. “Are so sexy. Bucky, you’re so sexy.” 

“Huh?” Not that he’s complaining - especially when his brain and senses are so doped up on you.  

“Ugh - holding those baby socks. You’re lucky I didn’t pull off your pants and suck you off right then and there.”  

Bucky shudders head to toe, eyes fuzzy - and with some magic because he ain’t thinking right now - sinks right into; hot and wet and moaning so pretty in his ear, and he’s so warm still mostly-clothed, but he doesn’t care - thrusting up and in as you melt around him. Barely staying on his shaking legs, ignoring the distant sound of mall-goers walking by - no, this is more important.  

He buries his face into your neck, losing himself in the husky vibrations of your moans - clenches up when you do, choking out a grunt as you bear down on him.  

Like, two minutes. Efficient. His head is still rushing, though.  

“Oh, oh, Bucky - look.” A twist of your head, and blearily, Bucky follows your gaze. 

The bag on the floor, discarded in aroused haste - above just peeking out of the top, the beady black eyes of the softest-ever alpaca. Staring right at him. Sewn-on smile frozen.  

“Do you...do you think he saw?” Bucky asks hoarsely.  

“Definitely.” A little kiss pressed to his temple, but he barely feels it.  

“Babe...we can’t give the baby that alpaca.”  

“No?” you ask with some amusement. Hold around his neck tightening. “We can adopt him, then. It’s a he? Have you named him yet, Buck?”  

“Robert.” 

A tinkling laugh in his ear. “Robert? That’s such a grown-up name! Not even Robbie or Bobby?” 

“He’s an adult,” Bucky says firmly. “After what he just saw? No llama has ever grown up so fast in the history of llamakind.”  

“Bobby,” you counter. “Now let me down. I can feel the germs crawling on me.”  

There’s a softer light in your eyes after that - heat still lingering in the back, but it makes Bucky feel cozy and warm as he zips his pants back up. Hands washed. Bag picked up. Awkwardly he pushes Bobby’s head further down in the bag with a wince, as you laugh again.  

“Melon for dinner?” you chirp, as he wrenches open the door.  

“Uh - sure. Melon for dinner.”  

[shsl-shipper-gamer-fangirl]

Trigger Happy Persona AU

What do you do in the face of ultimate despair? You get freaking pissed off and awaken your persona! Play as Hajime [codename “Ace”] who seems average at first until he awakens his second persona and becomes Izuru [codename “Blackjack”]. But the game isn’t complete without the strength of bonds and so enter Chiaki [codename “Bonnie”] who seems aloof by nature until she rips off her mask and summons an 8-bit spaceship!

**Please DO NOT edit, use, or repost any of these! Thank you!

HOLD UP! 

More AU concept art [thank you @likhangjosa] and info dump under the cut!!

Chiaki Nanami Codename: Usami or Bonnie Arcana: Star

Mask: Pink and covers the upper part of her face, with long bunny ears on top, down to a bunny nose with whiskers

Outfit: Sci-fi magical girl look with the color scheme of white, pink, and blue-grey. Wears a hoodie-cardigan (that has holes for the bunny ears to go through) and a Galaga ship (or Usami logo) embroidered on the chest. Sports a flowing translucent galaxy print circle skirt, knee-high boots with leggings and white gloves. Has a pink cat-like backpack where she stores her weapons and gaming consoles. The look is complete with a cottontail clipped on her belt.

Persona: Galaga (8-bit ship get wrekt) Skillset: Strong gun and bless attacks but weak to curse Weapons: Two-handed hammer and minigun

All-Out Attack Card: "Game Over" written in bit font and with videogame style background. Her catchphrase would be "New highscore!"

Awakening Scene: Galaga: Is that the hope that you fight for? Doesn't it seem meaningless in the face of adversity? After all, what's the point if people just betray you in the end?

Chiaki: Even if I'm betrayed again, I still want to believe in everyone. No matter how many times I may be betrayed...I still want to believe in everyone!

Galaga: Despite the despair thrown in your face, you show unwavering faith. That trust is something that you'll need... as well as my blessing. I am thou, thou art I... A better future is waiting for you but in order to reach it you must trust that it is indeed possible.

Chiaki: As long as I believe, things will turn out okay! Let's show them, Galaga!

Quotes: "That was easy. Shall we get going Hajime?" "I could *yawn* go for a nap right now..." "Yosh, I leveled up!" “New skill unlocked! Let’s test it out ASAP!” "A treasure chest! *zelda sfx*" "Move! I've always wanted to open a treasure chest!" "A safe room. Let's take it easy and save first, alright?" “Dungeon crawling never gets old especially in RPGs.” "I feel like I can do a speedrun on this dungeon." “I don’t mind overdoing it a bit.” "Sorry, my stamina stat is running low." "There's a nearby enemy. Grind mode?" “*metal gear solid alert! sfx* We’ve been spotted!” or “Stealth mode blown!” "I felt the LVL gap in that." “Don’t worry, we’re already OP.” "I think we need more EXP to defeat that." “Better prepare so that we don’t get a BAD END.” “*yawn* Where’s Hard Mode?” “Victory! Isn’t this the part where we’re supposed to do a pose?”

*BATON PASS!* "Usami/Bonnie hopping in!" *PROTECT* "Ace! Look out!" *ENDURE* "I... don't want to die!" *PERSONA!* "Summoning reinforcement, Galaga!" *Follow Up* "How about a combo?" *Cover Fire* "Need some support?" *Harisen Recovery* "Don't give in!" or "You're stronger than this!" *low on health* "I'll be fine... probably." *healing someone* "Don't lose hope!" or "You've got this!" *getting healed* "Thanks for the heal!" *giving buffs* "This will make us stronger, I think." *physical attacks* "It's Hammer time!", "I'll smash you flat!", "Time to knock you out of the park!" *attacking* "We'll beat you for sure!" *attack misses* “Accuracy stats are… off?” *couldn't finish off enemy* "I believe you can do this!" *fainting* "I'm sorry... I wanted to protect everyone, no matter what the cost." *getting resurrected* “Thanks, I needed that extra life.”

*status ailment* "Maybe a quick nap can fix this..." Burn: "I'm overheating! Somebody turn on the AC!" Freeze: “Brrr, it’s too c-cold! Is the thermostat broken again?” Shock: "Need... to turn... the rumble off...!" Forget: "Am I a boy...? Or a girl...?" Charm: “Friendly fire mode on.” Rage: “I’ll button mash you to pieces!” Despair: "The difficulty level... it's too high...!" Hunger: "Did I forget to eat again...?" Dizzy: "My controls are all messed up...!" Sleep: “Zzz… Recharging batteries... zzz…” Silence: ... Mouse: "Squeak~!"

Mementos chats: "Ace is a really good driver. If only racing game skills could transfer to real life..." “Maybe I should start naming my combo attacks…” “Sometimes I wish this was one of those games with unlimited ammo.” “This accessory looks ridiculous but it lets me dodge my weakness so I’m not complaining.” “Games are fun but slaying shadows is fun in its own way too.” “Being a Dangan Thief is like a videogame fantasy… but in real life!” “Real life is the True Hard Mode because the stats are invisible. But that’s okay since we know it’s not Impossible Mode.”

Chiaki: What we’re doing feels like we’re in a videogame. Hajime: It’s a good thing that you’re the Ultimate Gamer then.

Chiaki: Do you ever stop to think if we’re all just trapped in some game? Hajime: No, next question.

Chiaki: *stomach growls* Hajime: Were you so busy playing that you forgot to eat again?

Chiaki: *yawns* Wake me up when we run into a Shadow... or something. Hajime: Did you pull another all-nighter over videogames again?

Chiaki: I run out of money too fast. I had to pre-order another game last night on top of the ones I ordered just the other night. Hajime: Hey, I know we make a lot of money but please don’t spend it all on videogames.

Chiaki: It’s a disappointing that electronic devices don’t work in the cognitive world. Hajime: Don’t you already play enough videogames in real life?

Chiaki: All this Dangan Thieves stuff is cutting into my schedule. Thankfully I’ve compromised with my other priorities and my gaming hours are still untouched. Hajime: Is that why you’ve been dozing off more often? Please tell me you’re at least getting enough sleep because this can’t be healthy.

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

Hajime Hinata Codename(s): Ahoge  Ace, Blackjack, Dealer

*NOTE: Instead of having multiple personas, Hajime only has one and a second dormant persona. Consequently, whenever he changes persona, he also changes mask and outfit (and personality?) and codename. [e.g. Hajime accidentally summons Izuru, from Ace he becomes Blackjack.]

Codename: Ace Arcana: Fool or Judgement Mask: White domino mask with card aesthetic. The suites displayed change according to the skill type used. [e.g. Spades for physical, Club for elemental, Diamonds for almighty, Hearts for healing and buffs, Joker for status ailment] Outfit: Simple black tailcoat, white inner shirt, matching black formal pants and monk strap shoes. Emerald necktie and gloves. Persona: [starting and only] ??? Skillset: Strong slash and (surprisingly) curse attacks and weak against bless All-Out Attack Card: “Royal Flush” written with a casino table in the background. Catchphrase is “Keep your cards close to your chest!”

Codename: Blackjack Arcana: Death Mask: Plague doctor mask and his red eyes glow through the glass lenses Outfit: Maroon steampunk trench coat with a spine designed on the back and black cuffs and fancy cravat. Inner shirt is black with a textile print and large buttons. Bright red gloves, black trousers and Cuban heeled boots. Persona: [dormant unlockable] Izuru Kamukura Skillset: Strong for all types of attacks except bless skills which is the only weakness. Null physical attacks. All-Out Attack Card: “Card Counter” written with a house of cards in the background. Catchphrase is “How boring…”

Codename: Dealer Arcana: The World Mask: Black bird-shaped mask but the sides of the frame look like wings Outfit: [He has the same spiky hair but white and his eyes are heterochromatic.] White long sleeves with red cuffs, red vest, black bow tie and slacks. Black wingtips for shoes and white gloves. Persona: [hidden ultimate fusion] Hinazuru Skillset: Master of all types attacks. Repel physical and null bless/curse skills All-Out Attack Card: “Wild Card” written with scattered cards and poker chips in the background. Catchphrase is “This is the future that we want!”

Weapons: Dual wield daggers and dual wield pistols

>>>Special thanks to @crazynoodles69 for being a tarot card master and divining Chiaki’s arcana. GIVE IT UP FOR MY SIS WHO WENT ALONG AND DREW AMAZING STUFF FOR THIS. The actual lore happened because @ponsay-de-leon and I had too much fun. Then because I am a monster who has no common sense of liking anything in moderation, this happened. 

Feel free to add on and have fun with this AU!

#p5 #persona 5 #dangan ronpa #danganronpa #dangan thieves AU #chiaki nanami #hajime hinata #izuru kamukura #sdr2 #persona #crossover #mine #AU #i overdid it #i just wanted a chat icon #and then my hand slipped #consecutively for a week #i'm bitter coz hajimemes and izzy look better #when all i really wanted was nanamemes #i spent way too much time on this #honestly most proud of the nanami guns sprite #photoshop makes me look more competent than i really am #i had way too much fun writing this #nanami forever my muse #i'm crying #hinanami #kamunami #dangansona AU #dangansona #trigger happy persona AU

[blazblue-fans-blog]

#212 #212 (artist) #beret #blazblue #blonde hair #detached sleeves #foreshortening #gloves #green eyes #group #gun #hakumen #hat #heterochromia #jin kisaragi #kisaragi jin #long hair #looking back #mask #necktie #noel vermillion #rachel alucard #ragna the bloodedge #ready to draw #red eyes #ribbon #short hair #simple background #sword #thighhighs

[colourmyliving]

Imagine how much more space you’ll have in your closet if you get rid of clothes that have outlived their usefulness. It seems like a no-brainer to simply sell, donate, or throw away old stuff that are no longer wearable or fashionable, right?

However, the dilemma starts when you actually look at your pile of ‘useless’ clothing and realize that they still spark joy. The good news is that you don’t have to rip your heart apart bidding these worn-out pieces goodbye when there are tons of ways to keep them around the house (and out of the storage basement) by giving them a new lease of life!

[bctt tweet=”Having a hard time Marie Kondo-ing your closet? Here are 20 clever ways to upcycle old clothes that you just can’t throw away.” username=”ColourMyLiving”]

Here are 20 clever ways you can upcycle denim and other old clothes.

1. Make denim quilt

Old, thick jeans make perfect warm quilts, and the best thing about this upcycled craft is that it makes use of the full length of your jeans, so no part of it will go to waste from the pockets down. It is best to use denim pants of different colors (acid washed, medium, and dark hues) to create a gorgeous, ombre effect. If you’re worried that the rough texture of jeans won’t feel nice against the skin, then you can sew old cotton shirts or flannel for its underside.

Here’s a detailed guide on how to make a denim quilt from It’s Always Autumn.

2. Wall organizer from denim pockets

A great way to save space in your flat is by creating vertical wall organizers to store accessories, stationary and even shoes.

Noelle O Designs has a great tutorial on exactly how to do this with a variety of jean back pockets. Cut a range of jean back pockets and arrange them in a grid. Overlapping some of the pockets will allow you to create narrower holders which may be useful for stationary.

3. DIY denim coasters

There are several ways to make coasters out of any scrap denim you might have lying around.Simply cut out the cloth to whatever shape you might want your new coasters to be and jazz it up by fringing the sides.

You may also roll up the hems and waistbands to create artisanal coasters. Check it out at My Recycled Bags.

4. Make your own makeup pouch

Tired of your liquid cosmetics spilling and leaking through sheet pouches and making a horrible mess in your bag? A thick, denim pouch might just do the trick. For this craft, you would also need a zipper, which you can easily source from an old dress or jacket that you no longer want.

Here’s a video tutorial you can refer to:

5. Gadget protection sleeve

Laptops and other gadgets are vulnerable to scratches when you simply stuff them in a backpack with all your other stuff. Luckily, you can use upcycled denim to sew together a sturdy protective sleeve, using an old fleece blanket as the padding.

Here’s a detailed instructable on how to make your own laptop sleeve.

[bctt tweet=”Breathe new life into old, worn-out jeans and other clothes that have outlived their original use with these 20 upcycling ideas.” username=”ColourMyLiving”]

6. Tote/produce bag

If you’re trying to live sustainably, then a reusable tote bag could help you do away with using plastic or even paper when you go grocery shopping. Of course, you can use any material you have lying at home for this, but for an aesthetically pleasing two-toned bag that’s also sturdy enough to carry produce, check out this EasyToSew tutorial video and the Reusable Tote Bag from upcycled jeans below.

Reusable Tote Bag

7. Denim shoes

One of the amazing things that can be made from recycled denim unbelievably, is shoes. For outdoor shoes strong soles will need to be sourced or recycled from old sneakers. However, for denim house slippers a simple piece of cardboard will be sufficient to form the sole.

Here is a video to give you a headstart:

Alternatively you can download a pattern here.

It is a fact that baby shoes are not only expensive but that they will be outgrown in a matter of months. So if there’s a baby in the family, it’s a good idea to make shoes from upcycled denim. This might seem like a challenging craft, but with a little patience and these printable patterns to help you, you can nail this handicraft and save quite a few pennies along the way. Baby shoes are expensive!

8. Make an adorable plushie

Denim teddy bears are the best. They’re unique, timeless, and durable enough to be passed on from one generation to the next. It’s also a great way to upcycle the stuffing from any defective pillow you may have at home.

Denim Teddy Bear by Doshi Sewing Machinery

Letting your child design his/her own plushie and allowing them to help in their own way, like letting them stuff the toy, is also great family bonding time and will ensure that they love the new stuffed toy they helped make!

Check out these variations on Fab Art DIY

9. Jazz up your bobby pins

A deep clean of any home that has a female resident in it will indubitably yield a mound of bobby pins that have long been forgotten. To breathe new life into these trusty accessories, you just need to break out the glue gun and anything you can use to decorate the hair pins, like loose pearls from a broken necklace, old ribbons from gift boxes you can’t throw away, cut outs from old, patterned clothes that are no longer your size, or even bottles of glitter you hoarded but never got to use in school.

10. Halloween costumes

Skip the pricey Halloween store this year and make the holiday even more special and memorable for the little ones by making your own costumes at home. The best thing about this upcycling idea is that there are no limits to what you can make from old clothes and school/office supplies you can find at home.

The perfect example is a skeleton ribcage t-shirt from a simple old white tee.

11. DIY scarves from old shirts and sweaters

Another easy way to upcycle old shirts is to turn them into scarves. This is especially recommended if you have old favorites like shirts or sweaters that have patterns or materials you really liked wearing. It’s a great way to hold on to some clothes that may have become to frayed to be worn but you can’t bring yourself to ‘let it go’

Here’s a great list of scarf possibilities.

12. DIY cat tent from old shirts

Another household essential for homes with furry residents in it are dog/cat tents. It’s almost obscene that a decent pet lounge could easily cost a hundred dollars in a pet store, when all you need to make one are two coat hangers, a cardboard, and an upcycled t-shirt.

It’s pretty straightforward, and here’s a detailed guide on how to make one.

[bctt tweet=”Looking to start living more sustainably? Start by finding new uses for old clothes you never wear anymore with these step-by-step upcycling ideas.” username=”ColourMyLiving”]

13. Headbands from old shirts

Old, stretchy shirts make phenomenal headbands for the gym. All you need to do is cut a long strip, wrap it around your head, and tie a knot or make a bow. However, if you want to challenge yourself, you can cut three strips from three different strips and make yourself a braided headband that’s perfect for brunch.

Head bands from old t-shirts on sheknows.com

Also, head over to SugarBeeCrafts.com for their version of knotted headband with t-shirt yarn.

14. Camera strap from old jewellery

An old vintage camera you scored from the thrift store deserves a personalized strap to go with it. Beads, brooches, leather belt and bag straps can provide a lot of character – the more worn out and tarnished, the better for that complete vintage vibe.

15. Fashionable necklaces or scarfs from old neckties

Sometimes, all you need to spice up an old outfit is a statement accessory. This is where those fancy, once-worn neckties could come in handy. You are encouraged to absolutely do this your way to really give it a personal touch, but here’s one design idea to get you started.

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Click on thumbnails for a closer look

Wait, there is more. In the same vein, check out these ruffles for t-shirts and tops made also made from old neckties.

#gallery-0-11 { margin: auto; } #gallery-0-11 .gallery-item { float: left; margin-top: 10px; text-align: center; width: 33%; } #gallery-0-11 img { border: 2px solid #cfcfcf; } #gallery-0-11 .gallery-caption { margin-left: 0; } /* see gallery_shortcode() in wp-includes/media.php */

Click on thumbnails for a closer look

16. Stiletto jewellery holder

Don’t you hate it when stilettos absolutely lose their usefulness when half of the pair gets wrecked beyond repair? Well, just take it as an opportunity to live out your princess dreams by making a fancy jewellery holder out of the remaining intact shoe. Not quite sure how to do this? Check out this tutorial on how to make one yourself. Here are some design ideas.

#gallery-0-12 { margin: auto; } #gallery-0-12 .gallery-item { float: left; margin-top: 10px; text-align: center; width: 33%; } #gallery-0-12 img { border: 2px solid #cfcfcf; } #gallery-0-12 .gallery-caption { margin-left: 0; } /* see gallery_shortcode() in wp-includes/media.php */

[bctt tweet=”Give your wardrobe – and your flat – a total style makeover without spending a single cent with these 20 clever upcycling ideas.” username=”ColourMyLiving”]

17. Mittens from sweaters

Old sweaters that have become too loose or have simply gone out of style don’t need to go straight to the garbage. Ones that effectively keep the cold out would make perfect winter gloves or baby mittens. Here’s a step-by-step tutorial from Make and Do to get you started.

18. Framed artwork from old shirts

A classic case of wanderlust and tourist-fever can blind-side you into buying souvenir shirts, which you may realize too late are too tacky and embarrassing to wear when you’re back home. In this case, simply cut out the print design and frame it. This way you can actually keep the souvenir without having to wear it on your back.

To personalise it further, make a montage of it adding used train tickets, bus stubs even well-handled maps and leaflets that you’ve picked up along your travels.

19. Hair bows from old shirts

Has your young tween fallen head over heels for Jojo Siwa and her larger-than-life bows? Don’t fret; this does not mean you have to spend a fortune to come up with a Siwa-esque bow collection. You can recycle fabric from some old clothes to create these artistic hair pieces. Sew Guide has a great post on a number of different bows that you or your tween can make herself.

20. Make a crop top

Sometimes, the best way to upcycle old clothes is to simply refashion them into new clothes you’d actually want to wear. A couple of snips around an old shirt can give you a stylish crop top; a worn-out polo shirt can be refashioned into a cool wrap-around shirt, and several tattered shirts can be repurposed as one boho-style dress. Check out how you can create your very own no-sew t-shirt crop here.

[bctt tweet=”Some old clothes and other accessories simply can’t be given away for deep, sentimental reasons. Here are 20 ways to repurpose them instead.” username=”ColourMyLiving”]

These are just a few upcycling ideas to get your creative juices flowing. In reality, there are hundreds of crafts you can create from old stuff you just can’t throw away for sentimental reasons. So every time you feel like there’s something you need to buy for yourself or for the house, think long and hard first if it’s something you can make yourself – using stuff that may just be collecting dust around the house.

As a final note, remember to have fun while doing these projects – and create something that you do actually want to keep. Enjoy!

20 Crafty Ways to Upcycle Denim and other Old Clothes Imagine how much more space you’ll have in your closet if you get rid of clothes that have outlived their usefulness.

[badwolfandtimelords]

Supernatural: The Essence of My Soul to Keep, Provenance Part 3

Pairing: Dean Winchester x OC (Claire Shanahan)

Summary: 

Main story: January 1998- Portland, Oregon. Dean and Sam start over at another high school while John hunts down a mysterious aura. Meanwhile, an impossibly beautiful girl starts school at the same time as the Winchesters. Is she in any way connected to John's case, which could prove dangerous as Dean's starts to fall for her? Continues into the series main events.

This chapter: Provenance, 1X19. Somehow the painting is back after the Winchester’s try to burn it, keeping them in town longer than expected. Now they must dig into the past to try and learn more to finish this case, while also digging up things from their own past.

Find the full story on AO3 here.

The next morning saw the Winchesters back at the auction house once more in a frantic search. Instead this time, for Dean’s wallet rather than a haunted painting. Poking around easels, statues, vases, shrubbery, and anywhere else it could have fallen during their break in, no wallet could be seen. “How do you lose your wallet, Dean?” Sam hissed. Rather than replying, Dean managed to throw his hands up slightly as he continued to look around. However, a friendly voice instantly had them swinging around and stop in their search. “Hey guys!” Looking over, Sarah stood watching them with a pleased look on her face. “Sarah! Hey!” Sam greeted her, putting down the box he had been rooting through. “What are you doing here?” “Ahh…” Sam looked back to Dean for help, who in turn simply shrugged. “We... We are leaving town and, you know, we came to say goodbye!” It was then that Dean walked over to join the conversation. “What are you talking about Sam? We're sticking around for at least another day or two.” He grinned, earning a confused look from his brother and an unsure chuckle from Sarah. “Oh, Sam. By the way. I'm gonna go ahead and give you that twenty bucks I owe you.” When Sam saw Dean pull out the supposedly missing wallet from out of his back pocket, realization swept across his face. “I always forget, you know.” Dean laughed as he told Sarah. “There you go.” With that he held a twenty out to Sam, who after a look of disbelief, snatched the bill away. “Well I'll leave you two crazy kids alone, I gotta go do... something… somewhere.” He said before hightailing it out the door, leaving Sam to talk to Sarah. “That was quite smooth of you, sweetheart.” Claire scoffed once she and Dean were outside of the auction house. “What can I say, I’m a natural born actor.” Dean chuckled. “You deserve an Oscar after that performance.” She shook her head, glancing back to the building as they made their way to the car. Noticing no one was around them, Dean gave a short whistle. “Hey, come here.” He called to her. Twisting her ring around her finger, she looked between Dean and the building before following him into the car. Once they were settled on the bench, he gently swiped a finger through the air under her chin. “Hey, something’s been bothering you since last night.” He started gently. “What’s going on?” “Nothing.” She replied quietly, refusing to meet his gaze and instead continued to fidget with her ring. “No. It’s definitely something. It’s never nothing with you.” When she finally looked up at him, clearly to argue, he held up a finger to stop her. “In the years we’ve been together, you’ve almost always caught what I’ve missed. And sure, I can be a little slow, but I can pick up the signs from you when something’s wrong. Especially when you straight up tell me something is wrong.” “I didn’t-” “You shook your head last night when we burned the painting.” He cut her off. “Something’s wrong.” “Except I don’t know what it is.” She frowned. “All I can think is how it feels too easy.” “How?” Sighing, she sank in her seat before speaking slowly. “Those names in your father’s notebook were there for a reason. Something big is centered around this painting. Something big enough for your father to note. I mean,” She sat up to face him. “You and Sam burned that painting with no trouble. No spirit trying to prevent it. And yet a number of people who have owned the painting are dead-” Her eyes widening suddenly at something in her peripheral, she suddenly appeared in the backseat as Sam opened the door to the passenger seat and scrambled inside to sit where she had been a moment ago. “It’s back.” Sam said breathlessly. “What?” Dean asked in confusion. “The painting! I was talking to Sarah, and suddenly someone’s walking by carrying it!” From the corner of his eye, he could see Claire frown and disappear. “You’re kidding.” This made Sam huff. “Dean, do you really think this is something I would kid about?” “To stick around Sarah a little longer? Maybe.” In the backseat Claire reappeared as he said Sarah’s name. Upon seeing her clouded expression, he too frowned. “I don't understand, Dean, we burned the damn thing.” Sam stared at the hood in frustration, ignoring the jab about Sarah. “Yeah, thank you Captain Obvious.” Dean retorted. “All right, we just need to figure out another way to get rid of it. Any ideas?” “Okay, all right. Well, um, in almost all the lore about haunted paintings it's always the painting's subject that haunts 'em.” Sam thought aloud. “That presents far too many options for my liking.” Claire thought back to the number of people depicted on the canvas. “Yeah. So, we just need to figure out everything there is to know about that creepy-ass family and that creepy-ass painting.” Dean agreed. “What were their names again?” * “You said the Isaiah Merchant family, right?” The record keeper asked as he dropped a collection of large dusty books onto the tabletop already littered with various news articles and printouts. “Yeah that's right.” Sam confirmed. Glancing at Dean who was pouring over a printed info packet about guns, Claire called out to him. “Dean, focus.” “I dug up every scrap of local history I could find.” The keeper continued as he began to lay out what he thought the boys might need. “So, are you boys crime buffs?” “Kinda. Yeah. Why do you ask?” Dean glanced at Sam. “Well…” The keeper said nothing else as he held up an old newspaper. “He really should be wearing gloves when handling this old stuff.” Claire muttered as she leaned forward to study the articles. While most of the 1912 paper’s spread was dedicated to the sinking of the titanic, a small column on the right side that the keeper pointed to spoke of how a father in the area had killed his family and himself. “Yes. Yeah, that sounds about right.” Dean confirmed cheerfully. “The whole family was killed?” Sam asked. “It seems this Isaiah, he slits his kids' throats, then his wife, then himself. Now, he was a barber by trade. Used a straight razor.” The keeper explained. “Why'd he do it?” Sam asked in bewilderment. “Why does a murderer murder anyone?” Claire muttered over the rustling paper as the keeper turned the newspaper over to the backside. “People who knew him describe Isaiah as having a stern and harsh temperament. Controlled his family with an iron fist.” He read. “Wife, uh, two sons, adopted daughter… Yeah yeah yeah… There were whispers that the wife was gonna take the kids and leave. Which of course you know in that day and age, um ....so instead, old man Isaiah...well he gave them all a shave.” He finished, laughing at his own joke. Dean laughed too until he saw the unimpressed looks on both Sam and Claire’s faces. “Does it say what happened to the bodies?” He said, his laughter dying quickly. “Just that they were all cremated.” At this, the brothers looked at each other in dismay. “Anything else?” Sam asked gently, trying not to sound to disappointed. “Yeah!” The keeper scrambled for a book hidden under the album that had held the newspaper. “Actually, I found a picture of the family. It's right here... somewhere. Right... here it is!” He declared after flipping through the book. Turning it to the hunters, they were greeted with the sight of an image of the very painting they had tried to destroy. “Hey, could we get a copy of this please?” Sam gestured to it. “Sure?” The keeper replied. While Sam followed the keeper to get a copy of the photo, Dean watched Claire as she folded her arms and pursed her lips in thought. “What are you thinking, Clairey?” He asked quietly. “That the painting has changed.” She said, not looking up at him. “And that your job just became harder.” * “I'm telling you man, I'm sure of it! The painting at the auction house, Dad is looking down. Painting here, Dad's looking out. The painting has changed, Dean!” Sam said when they got back to the motel and sat at the table. Taking from Sam the copied picture they got from the library, Dean studied it carefully. “Just as I said.” Claire said into his ear as she too studied it. “All right, so you think that Daddy dearest is trapped in the painting and is handing out Columbian neckties like he did with his family?” Dean asked. “Well yeah, it seems like it! But if his bones are already dusted then how are we gonna stop him?” “Find something else that might have survived of his?” Claire suggested as she moved away from the boy to sit on the bed. Something was bothering her about the painting, but what she wasn’t quite sure. “All right, well, if Isaiah's position changed then maybe some other things in the painting changed as well. You know, it could give us some clues.” “What, like a Da Vinci Code deal?” Sam suggested. “I don't… know. I'm still waiting for the movie on that one. Anyway, we gotta get back in and see that painting. Which is a good thing, because you can get some more time to crush on your girlfriend." Dean added as he got up from the table and walked over to his bed, throwing himself onto it. From where she already sat on the empty side of the bed, Claire bounced slightly from the impact of Dean's added weight. "Dude, enough already." Sam warned his brother in annoyance. Dean crossed his arms after he propped himself up against the headboard. "What?" "What?" Sam mocked. "Ever since we got here, you've been trying to pimp me out to Sarah! Just back off, alright?" "Well you like her, don't you?" Dean asked. Relenting, Sam threw his hands briefly in the air and turned his head away. “Alright, you like her. She likes you. You’re both consenting adults.” He listed off. “What’s the point, Dean? We’ll just leave. We always leave.” At this point Sam’s voice was getting higher with each word he said in protest. “Well, I’m not talking about marriage, Sam.” Dean laughed. “No, I don’t get it! What do you care if I hook up?” “So then maybe you wouldn’t be so cranky all the time.” Although there was a smile on his face, there was no trace of joking in Dean’s voice as he said this, leaving silence in the air. Claire watched intently as both brother’s made faces at each other before Sam scoffed. “You better be going somewhere with this, love.” Claire said quietly, looking down at the crappy stitching on the comforter covering the bed. Taking her advice, Dean sat up straight. “No, seriously, Sam. This isn’t just about hooking up, okay? I mean, I- I think that this... Sarah girl could be good for you.” While Sam looked away, Dean kept his eyes on his little brother, his face completely straight. “And I don’t mean any disrespect, but I’m… I’m sure that this is about Jessica, right?" More silence from Sam. Glancing between Sam and Claire, Dean took a few calming breaths as he thought over what he was going to say next. “You know that I… know what it’s like to lose someone like that. And don't treat me like I don't know what it feels like, ‘cause I do. Think about when Claire d-died.” If he didn’t have Sam’s attention at mentioning Jessica, which he did, he certainly had his attention now at the mention of their long dead, to Sam anyways, friend. Except for a very few number of mentions of her in the beginning, after a while Sam had started to treat Claire’s name as a sort of taboo, worried about what his brother would say or do; because for a while, it had not been pretty in the slightest. Dean’s refusal to talk about her or anything that had happened was what had led to the whole “no chick flick moments” rule. If Claire was ever mentioned in a conversation willingly, it was Dean who would bring her up, unless Sam was looking to get a rise out of his brother. Now, even Claire watched him with eyes wide open in shock at the mention of her own name. When Sam finally gathered himself enough to speak, he looked up at Dean sadly. “Why talk about her now? It’s been seven years since we lost her, and only now you talk about how you felt?” “Sammy…” Claire regarded him sadly, tears pooling in her eyes when she heard the break in his voice. “Look, I tried to hide it, but I know you saw through it sometimes.” Dean took a deep breath to calm himself, supposedly looking away, while really looking at Claire, before continuing. “I was a mess. Even if we only knew her for a little while, she changed my life for the better. But I know she wanted me to move on and find someone else, and I think maybe that’s what Jessica would want for you.” “Yeah, well you moved on pretty fast.” Sam rebutted. “No. No I didn’t.” Dean said in a hard voice, tears now building up in his eyes as well. “You don’t think it hurt for me waking up each morning and not seeing there? Not being able to hold her again? Not hear her talk or laugh? We were planning on running away together, Sammy; you know that. Quit the business, take you with us and be together. Even if we had been 18… 19 years old, I would have married her without a second thought. Because I loved her, god, I still love her.” By now both he and Claire were crying as he let out everything he had pent up for the last seven years. Sniffling and wiping his eyes, Dean gazed his eyes to Sam who had tears of his own silently running down his face. “I didn’t even want to live without her. I tried and I tried, but I couldn’t. I just couldn’t.” “What are you sayin?” Sam croaked. “Remember my 5 states, 5 days trip?” Dean asked him, receiving a nod in confirmation. When this was mentioned, Claire froze, remembering exactly what Dean was talking about. Even though things had turned out fine in the end, she still cried for nights on end in the weeks that followed. “That week I had planned to end it all. To go out with a bang or something. I didn’t want to be without Claire, so I figured I’d join her. But I didn’t. I couldn’t leave you behind, and I knew she would have wanted me to keep on living, find someone else who could make me happy, and god forbid have fun once and awhile. So I did. Besides, if I had done it, she probably would have kicked my ass for leaving you behind like that.” “Yeah… I bet she would have.” Sam laughed a little, making Dean and Claire laugh as well. “I’ll always love her, and she’ll always be a part of me, but I had to learn to move on, and I’m sure Jessica would have wanted you to do the same.” Nodding in understanding, Sam considered the weight of what his brother had just told him, and seeing how right he was. “Yeah, you’re right.” He admitted. “A part of this is about Jessica. But not the main part.” This made Dean frown. “What’s it about?” When Sam kept quiet, he rolled his eyes and crossed his arms once more, leaning back against the headboard, seeing the touching moment was over. “Yeah, alright. Well, we still gotta see that painting, which means you still gotta call Sarah. So...” Without another word, Sam picked up his phone and dialed Sarah’s number. On the bed, Claire shuffled over to lay next to Dean. “I’m proud of you.” She whispered. While Dean didn’t look at her, he nodded slightly. He couldn’t help the slight smile that lifted his mouth however she followed her whisper with “I love you.” “Yeah good, good, really good.” Sam rambled on the phone, catching both Dean and Claire’s attention. “Smooth!” Dean whisper yelled across the room. Shaking his head at Dean, Sam continued. “So, ah, so listen. Me and my brother, were… Uh… Thinking that maybe we'd like to come back in and look at the painting again. I... I think maybe we are interested in buying it.” Listening carefully, his expression dropped as he jumped up from the table, his outburst making the other two watch him in curiosity. “What!? Who'd you sell it to?” Now Dean and Claire were up as well. “Sarah, I need an address right now.” * “Sarah’s here.” Claire shouted over the roaring of the Impala as it flew up the driveway, pointing to where a jeep sat parked in front of the house. “Son of a bitch.” Dean gritted as he brought the vehicle to a halt. “Sam, what's happening?” Sarah asked as the two brothers rushed out of the car. “Claire, house.” Dean muttered as he ran past Sam and Sarah. “On it.” Claire nodded before appearing inside the house. Inside it was quiet. Too quiet. Taking a breath, she tried her best to block out the sounds of the others outside as she studied her surroundings. While the first thought was this seems familiar, she shook away thoughts of the past while leaving the entrance to walk into the sitting room. Above the fireplace was the painting, looking as cold and unsettling as the first time she had seen it. Seeing someone sitting in the armchair in front of the fireplace, she circled around to stand before it. The sight that she was greeted with however drew a curse from her breath and left her stuck in place. As there was the sound of the front door banging open and the others rushed in calling for the woman, Evelyn, Claire felt a chill around her hand and up the back of her neck as the others walked into the adjoining room. In an instant, however, the feeling was gone, but nonetheless left her shivering. Looking up to meet Dean’s eye, she shook her head, making his shoulders drop. “Evelyn?” Sarah called out to the woman. Together the three of them cautiously made their way into the room, the boys watching the painting. “It's Sarah Blake… Are you all right?” Sam tore his eyes away from the painting however when he saw Sarah reach for the older woman. “Sarah don't. Sarah!” He shouted. It was too late however, as Evelyn’s head fell back, cleanly cut from the rest of her neck, causing the younger woman to scream in horror. The cold feeling was back, rushing up Claire’s spine, and clearly everyone else's as they all looked up to the painting to see Isaiah Merchant staring right back at them.

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