#I'm so fucking glad and grateful to be alive

[lightningfilledsaber]

I'm just so fucking glad to be alive

#mud rambles #suicide ment in tags #I'm really emotional right now #I was so close to killing myself a year and a half ago. #fuck. almost all of 2021 and a good portion of 2022 i was actively suicidal #I'd started self harming again after being clean for YEARS #I hated myself and my body again after all the fucking work I did to build myself up #all over people who treated me like fucking garbage and literally USED me #now I have friends who actually give a shit about me. who are straight up with what they want out of our relationships and where we stand #I'M FUCKING ENGAGED!!!!!!!!! #I'VE BEEN WITH MY FIANCE FOR 5. YEARS. AND WE'RE ENGAGED!!!! #I've been on T for almost a full year! #I don't dread waking up every fucking morning and while it's still hard. things are still happening and sometimes it sucks... #I don't wanna kill myself anymore #despite it all #I'm so fucking glad and grateful to be alive

[rainbluealoekitten]

ok mb for worrying everyone but i actually had a BEAUTIFUL afternoon and am feeling pretty happy rn :D rambling about it in the tags ofc <3

#had mac and cheese for lunch so very yum #then slight boy update where he fucking BLUSHED at me today and i've been working very hard to get over him #but was like!!! wtf!!!! what do i do with this!!! and texted one of my best friends #and she told me to fucking ASK HIM why he's been acting shitty as of late #so we formulated a text then he was very very apologetic and explained how he's been feeling as of late #and we chatted for a while which was super nice :))) idk if it's going to last but now we just WAIT and OBSERVE #to see if it's worth it #and then i did a toooooon of work out in my garden really just vibing #like way more research than was needed (did not work smarter over harder) but atm idm bc #it made me feel like i was doing well and honestly i was really just vibing #also put my bird and fish to decompose. still don't know what is up with that lmao #so got to put my hands in the dirt!!!!! fucking love that #now gonna watch outlander i think #or i should check the bio video's transcript quickly before maybe #either way will be fine :))) #i'm glad #and i'm also super proud of myself bc i've made sooo much progress mentally #like yeah everything felt like shit this morning and i was indulging myself there but i have also been owrking so so hard #with walking around angrily repeating that i am grateful to be alive #and pointing out all the shit in the world that i love #and really speaking to myself with love in my heart the way i needed to be spoken to as a child #so yeah :) even if i start to feel shitty again #nobody can take away the moments of happiness from me #there will always be more rays of sun #or more rainstorms bc i prefer those a million times more and guess what!!! rainy season rn :) #peace and love on the planet earth #blue screams into the void

[perpetualfox]

Whoa dude, I love your work mate! I was wondering if I could ask for a NSFW König x female reader, where he comes back home from a long mission, that lasted several months, and sweetly (but with passion) absolutely RAILS his wife. I would me most grateful! Keep up the awesome work!

Language Lesson - König x Fem!Reader [NSFW]

Warnings: Manhandling, Semi-Rough Sex, Creampie

Wordcount: 2521

Well. This got away from me a little bit. Please forgive how long this took and any grammatical fuck ups in the German. I'm still learning (and lowkey using this as practice since I have no one to speak with lmao) (also thank you so much <3 I'm so glad you're enjoying these)

→The mattress groaned as König shifted his weight, bearing down upon you, pressing your body into the plush memory foam. He revelled in the glory of it beneath his battered knees. After so many months sunk deep into mud, and dust, and blood; after so many months catching sleep where he could—in the back of a transport, on the cold metal benches of an evac helo, or the cold, hard ground—he could hardly believe something so soft even existed.

→You on the other hand, he could believe in. Every dip and curve of your body was etched into his memory; burned against the backs of his eyelids. You had graced his thoughts during every precious moment of downtime and haunted his dreams at night. But those echoes were nothing when compared to you—the living, breathing you who looked at him like he hung the moon and stars each night, and bid the sun to rise in the morning.

→How lucky he was, how privileged, how honoured to have you like this: to growl against your throat, his teeth bared against your flushed skin. How blessed he was to strip you naked and marvel at your beauty, to have you to himself—all to himself. He pressed forward, crowding you against the headboard, his hips slotting against yours as though they had been made to do so. His cock lay heavily against your stomach, already flushed and leaking.

→Always so eager.

→You had missed that terribly in the months since he’d been deployed.

→You had missed everything about him—the way he loomed in doorways, always uncertain if he was welcome in to sit with you; the way he held your hand in public, his thick fingers flexing around yours, grip tight: a lifeline and a warning; the way he snorted when he laughed, blushing to the tips of his ears as he did so, and burying his face in his hands.

→You missed the way he always left the grocery shopping to you, but wouldn’t allow you to lift a finger in the kitchen; the way he sat on the bathroom floor while you bathed, his back braced against the side of the tub, long legs splayed out on the tiled floor, just listening to you chatter on about your day; the way he curled his body around yours at night, his strong arms wrapped around your waist, murmuring about what he’d like to make you for breakfast in the morning.

→Even the things you hated about him, you missed—the way he always left his boots right in the middle of the doorway: in the perfect spot for you to trip over them later; the smell of his cigarettes and how he thought he could get away with smoking them indoors so long as he opened a window first; his complete and utter aversion to putting his dirty shirts in the hamper. Then there was the way his tongue sharpened when something put him in a mood; his tendency toward catastrophizing even the most trivial problems when he could not solve them for you immediately; the sulking; the jealousy; the territorial possessiveness; the paranoia.

→You missed it all. The memories were not enough, the few short phone calls he’d managed were not enough—memories and phone calls couldn’t hold you, couldn’t satisfy you, couldn’t fill the empty parts of you. It wasn’t enough to know that he was alive. You needed him home.

→His fingers tightened around your thighs, nails biting into your flesh as he dragged you down, pinning you beneath him. His face remained tucked into the crook of your neck, but his hands were busy, one kneading at your inner thigh, the other guiding himself toward your entrance. He pressed himself against you, warm and thick, the length of him slipping against your slick folds. The crown of his cock bumped up against your clit, and you gasped, nerves sparking.

→“Mmm, babyyy, no fair! Don’t tease!”

→You felt his breathy chuckle more than heard it—a warm puff of air ghosting across the side of your neck. For a moment, he was still, stamping heavy, open-mouthed kisses against your flesh. Your skin felt too tight—overwarm and buzzy. You needed him. Now.

→The breath fled from your lungs in a heavy rush when, at last, he pushed forward, the blunt head of his cock stretching you open for the first time in months. You grabbed for him, hands clutching desperately at the short hairs at the nape of his neck. God, you’d forgotten just how much of a stretch it was to take him like this. The burn of it licked at you, thrumming through your quivering thighs and up into your belly. Your fingers could never come close to the sheer girth of him, nor could they reach as deep as you needed them to—as deep as he could.

→“Scheiße…” The word was little more than a hiss, slipping out between the tight clench of his teeth, “Du bist sehr eng…ich hätte zuerst deine Muschi dehene sollen…”

→His English came back slowly when he’d been away for so long. Though he had been teaching you, and you’d been improving in leaps and bounds, with your brain leaking out around his cock, you were hopelessly out of your depth. He could have said anything to you—threatened your life, called you names, read out his to-do list, or the numbers in a phonebook—it wouldn’t have mattered. Not when he sounded like that. His voice, usually breathy and nasal, had taken on a new tone: fuller and deeper. He always sounded, to your ear, more confident in his native tongue, no matter how excellent his English was. You loved his voice no matter the language it spoke, but there was something about that self-surety that always sent a shiver through you.

→He groaned as he rocked into you, working you open around him little by little. The sudden gush of your warm arousal aided the slide of his cock against your walls. The slick sound of his movements was mortifying, and yet you could do little else but whine, your voice caught high in the back of your throat, “Ohh, fuck, please!”

→When at last he had sheathed himself to the hilt inside of you, König stilled. Your thighs shook, trembling with the strain and overstimulation. He was so big, his cock nestled up against every spot that lit your nerves on fire. After months of poor substitutions, you were finally, blissfully fucking full. Your pussy clenched tight around him; you were so close already, your body thrumming with the promise of it. Your heart hammered a frantic rhythm against your breastbone—dimly you wondered if he could feel it too, throbbing beneath his chest and around his cock. Surely, he was deep enough for that.

→His lips brushed against the junction between your neck and shoulder. He trembled against you, shaking with the effort it took to hold still; to not simply hold your hips down and take you like an animal—rutting into you until you were a sobbing, writhing mess beneath him. What a pretty picture you’d make pinned beneath him, his cum leaking out around his cock as he fucked a third or fourth load into you.

→You stared up at him, eyes wet and wide—uncomprehending. His hands slid up your body to cup your face, thumbs stroking gently against your heated cheeks. His lips ghosted against your own, warm and wet as he spoke, his tongue tripping over the words as his brain struggled to form a sentence you could better understand. “Let,” he panted, his hips kicking impatiently forward, burying another inch of his cock inside of you, “Let me hear you whine like I taught you, yes?”

→You swallowed hard, dimly catching his meaning, but struggling to remember a single thing he had taught you. The hours you’d spent curled up in his lap, tracing the prominent bow of his lips as he spoke, trying (and often failing) to mimic the sounds he made seemed wasted to you now—a distant dream, the details of which you could no longer recall.

→“Um…­b-bitte…uhh…” Your brain sputtered and sparked, trying desperately to think around the rhythmic clenching of your cunt and the sheer heat of his cock inside of it. You could feel him throbbing—a steady thrum pulsing beneath the frantic beating of your heart, “Ich…Ich…möchte d-dein…mmm…schwarz—no! Schwanz!”

→A peal of laughter, dark and deep shuddered through you, rattling your bones and making your head swim, “Lange nicht gut genug. Nochmal.”

→He kept rocking into you in shallow little thrusts, stopping just short of the spots where you needed him most. Your thighs were shaking. You couldn’t think, you could hardly breathe. There was no room left inside of you for anything but him…

→“Nochmal!” The command rang in your ears, and he snapped his hips forward. The tip of his cock brushed against a spot inside of you that made your vision blur, the world tilting around you. You sobbed, nearly coming undone around him then and there, but with that single thrust, he ground to a halt. His cock pressed relentlessly against that spot, but it wasn’t what you needed—he wasn’t moving. It wasn’t enough. You writhed beneath him, desperate for stimulation, desperate to cum. Your cunt throbbed around him for it, but he had asked something of you, and you wouldn’t get what you wanted until the request had been satisfied.

→“S-Sei…gentle? Gentle…” You wracked your brain for the word, trying desperately to ignore the pulsing need that lay nestled between your thighs. “Ah! Sanft! Sei sanft mit m-mir!”

→König’s cock twitched inside of you, the sound of his language falling so prettily from your lips was almost too much for him to bear. A low, purring chuckle rose from the back of his throat, his hips grinding forward. Stars burst across your vision. A mewling cry escaped your lips as your nails dug into his flesh, leaving red welts in their wake as you clawed at his back.

→“Besser, aber nein, Schatzi.” He leaned down, scraping his teeth along the column of your throat, the salt-tang of your sweat blooming across his tongue. “Ich kann nicht, vor allem nicht jetzt.”

→He surged forward, taking your thighs in his hands and forcing them wider apart, pushing them back over the tops of your hips. The cold metal of the ring on his finger bit into your flesh, but even that keen sting melted into pleasure as he began to fuck you in earnest, using the leverage of your new position to bully himself deeper inside of you. You were sure the tip of his cock was kissing your cervix with each snap of his hips. Again and again, his name tumbled from your lips—not ‘König,’ but his name. his real name. It was music to his ears.

→“Ich liebe es dich winseln zu hören, Liebe.”

→Bracing a thigh against his forearm, his thumb found your clit and you thrashed against him, tears streaming down your face as he rubbed harsh circles into the sensitive nub. He cooed down at you, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. His eyes flashed in the low light, “Fühlt sich das gut an?” His simpering tone sent another rush of arousal through you. You could practically feel yourself dripping around his cock.

→“Yes! Ja!” You whined, hips kicking up against his hand, desperate for more of his touch after so long without it. “Plea—uh, bitte!”

→“Gutes Madchen. Meine gutes Mädchen.”

→Your cunt throbbed around him, and he whined long and low into the darkness, his thumb still stroking your clit in time with each harsh thrust. You were going to cum—you could feel it building in your stomach and pulsing behind your oversensitive clit. Each swipe of his calloused thumb brought you a little closer to that edge; made you a little more desperate to finally reach it.

→“Fuck! Fuck! I-I’m…I-I’m gonna cum!” You didn’t have it in you play his game anymore. You hadn’t the room in your mind for it now, and he knew as much.

→“Ja, ich weiß.” His lips brushed against the crown of your head, a shockingly chaste gesture for a man buried to the hilt in your cunt. “Es ist okay, Liebe. Komm für mich.”

→Almost at once, as though his permission had been all you had needed, your muscles locked up, clamping down hard around him as the first waves of your orgasm crashed over you. Your eyes rolled in your skull, the whites flashing in the darkness. Your hips jerked beneath his fingers as he pressed them tight against your clit letting you grind against them as the pleasure rocked through you.

→You felt his head drop back down against your shoulder as he fell into you, losing himself in the rhythmic clench of your cunt. His pace was rough and sloppy as he shed the pretense of humanity and fucked into you like it was the last thing he’d do. His lips worked feverishly against your flesh—mouthing a silent prayer into the side of your neck; a devotional in your name: the only God he still believed in.

→His teeth flashed against your skin as he came, your flesh muffling his keening whine as he caught it between his teeth. He couldn’t fuck you through it, his shaking thigh giving out with the intensity of pleasure. Instead, he trembled against you, his hips pressed flush against yours as he flooded you with a searing warmth. He whined your name like it was the only coherent thought in his mind, slurring it against your kiss bruised flesh until it hardly made sense to your own ears anymore.

→How had you survived without him?

→As he slowly came back to himself, he rolled his hips, fucking into you with slow, languid strokes. He revelled in the soft whining sounds he pulled from your throat, grinning against your throat. “Mein.” His voice was little more than a whisper, his chapped lips ghosting over your soft skin, “Mein, mein, mein.”

→He peppered your neck and shoulder with gentle kisses, a contented sigh escaping his lips. His hips shifted to the left, as though he were preparing to roll over. “No!” You gripped his arm tight and shook you head. You felt the knot forming in his brow before he pulled back to look at you, his head cocked to the side in confusion.

→Your head was clearer now, his lessons easier to recall as the lust-addled fog began to clear from your mind. You locked your legs around his waist, “Kannst du noch einmal?”

→For a moment, it was all he could do to stare down at you, his eyes wide. At length, he spoke, “You…practiced?”

→You nodded, staring up at him, your eyes wide and hopeful, desperate for his approval.

→His eyes flashed, his fingers digging deep into the meat of your thighs, “In that case, du wirst mich anflehen müssen, damit aufzuhorenh.”

Translations (huge thanks to @disastersareajoy for their corrections <3):

→Scheiße - shit

→Du bist sehr eng…ich hätte zuerst deine Muschi dehene sollen - You're very tight…I should have stretched your pussy first

→Nein, Liebe - No, Love

→Frag mich auf Deutsch - Ask me in German.

→B-Bitte - P-Please

→Ich…Ich…möchte d-dein…mmm…schwarz—no! Schwanz - I…I…want y-your…mmm…black--no! Cock (hope this makes sense 'Schwarz' and 'Schwanz' sound similar to my ear and I get them confused all the time)

→Lange nicht gut genug. Nochmal - Not good enough by half. Again

→Sei sanft mit m-mir - Be gentle with m-me

→Besser, aber nein, Schatzi - Better, but no, little treasure

→Ich kann nicht, vor allem nicht jetzt - I can't, especially not now

→Ich liebe es dich winseln zu hören, Liebe - I love to hear you whine, Love

→Fühlt sich das gut an? - Does that feel good?

→Gutes Madchen. Meine gutes Mädchen - Good girl. My good girl

→Ja, ich weiß - Yes, I know

→Es ist okay, Liebe. Komm für mich - It's okay, Love. Cum for me

→Mein, mein, mein - Mine, mine mine

→Kannst du noch einmal? - Can you do that again?

→Du wirst mich anflehen müssen, damit aufzuhorenh - You will have to beg me to stop

#konig x reader #mw2 x reader #konig mw2 #konig cod #konig smut #mw2 smut #also super curious to know: do y'all have a name you call konig other than konig? #I'm particularly fond of Konrad or Klaus

[doctorbitchcrxft]

Phantom Traveler | Supernatural Series Rewrite | Dean Winchester x Reader

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader (Eventual)

Warnings: canon violence, canon gore, namecalling, typical Dean and reader

Word Count: 8289

A/N: Hi guys. I've been overwhelmed with love these past few weeks. Just wanted to say thank you from the bottom of my heart for reading. You guys are fucking awesome; I'm so grateful. I hope y'all enjoy this week's episode! Asks/requests/taglists are open!!!

Series Rewrite Masterlist

You were sound asleep, curled up into yourself when a knock on the door brought you out of your slumber. 

“(Y/N)?”

‘Sam.’

“I got coffee, thought you could use some,” he called through the door.

You pushed yourself up out of the bed as you yawned, and walked over to the door of your motel room to open it for Sam. 

“Dude, you realize it’s six in the morning, right?” You scratched your head as you let Sam into the room.

“You sound like my brother.”

You playfully glared at him. “Don’t compare me to him.”

“Here.” He handed you a coffee and a bag of what you assumed was a pastry.

“Thanks,” you replied, sitting on your bed with your stuff in hand. 

Sam sat on the chair across from you. “Still haven’t warmed up to Dean, huh?” 

“Well, he hasn’t exactly warmed up to me,” you reminded him, thinking of the fight you got into yesterday over his reckless driving.

“Guess that’s true,” he conceded. “It’s weird, though, you guys are so much more alike than you let on.”

“Tell that to him. He started it.” You took a big bite of your pastry.

“Seriously?” Sam laughed, “ ‘He started it’?”

You shrugged, smirking. 

He seemed to remember his original intention behind disturbing your slumber. “Hey, he found a case, though.” 

“Oh, yeah? What’s up?” You licked the pastry cream off your thumb.

“We don’t know. The guy on the phone didn’t say.” Sam raised his coffee cup to his lips.

“Guy on the phone?” You took a sip of your coffee as you let Sam answer.

“Yeah. Some guy my dad and Dean worked a case for a while back’s got another one for us. He called Dean.”

“Ah—” you nodded, “—gotcha. So, where’s he live?”

“Pennsylvania,” Sam responded. 

“Okay, not too far,” you noted. “I’ll be ready in fifteen.”

***

“Thanks for making the trip so quick,” a short older man named Jerry told you and the boys. “I ought to be doing you guys a favor, not the other way around. Dean and your dad really helped me out.”

You were walking beside Sam as you followed behind the man who was having you do this job. You were being led through a warehouse past planes as well as their parts and people hard at work.

“Yeah, he told me. It was a poltergeist?” Sam asked the older man.

Someone walking in front of your group was eavesdropping on you. “Poltergeist? Man, I loved that movie.”

“Hey, nobody's talking to you. Keep walking,” Jerry stated authoritatively to the man. He turned his attention back to the conversation. “Damn right it was a poltergeist, practically tore our house apart.” He addressed Dean. “Tell you something, if it wasn't for you and your dad, I probably wouldn't be alive. Your dad said you were off at college. Is that right?” He’d turned to Sam.

“Yeah, I was. I'm— taking some time off,” Sam explained.

“Well, he was real proud of you. I could tell. He talked about you all the time.”

“He did?” Knowing what you knew about Sam’s relationship with his dad, you found this surprising, too.

“Yeah, you bet he did,” Jerry nodded. “Oh, hey, you know I tried to get a hold of him, but I couldn't. How's he doing, anyway?”

“He's, um, wrapped up in a job right now,” Dean lied. 

“Well, we're missing the old man, but we get Sam and— what’s your name again?” he asked you.

“(Y/N).”

“(Y/N). Even trade, huh?”

“Eh, I wouldn’t say that,” you laughed.

“Say, (Y/N), how’d you get wrapped up with these two?” Jerry asked.

“Oh, uh—” you began, searching for an abridged version of the truth, “—I met them on a hunt in California. They decided to drag me along with them.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re here. The guys are gonna need backup with this one,” Jerry said. 

“Why?” 

He did not give a direct answer to your question. “I got something I want you guys to hear.”

He led you to his office where you and Sam took the two chairs and Dean stood behind his brother.

”I listened to this. And, well, it sounded like it was up your alley,” Jerry stated, putting a CD into a drive. “Normally I wouldn't have access to this. It's the cockpit voice recorder for United Britannia flight 2485. It was one of ours.”

A frantic voice immediately rang out from the speaker as soon as the recording started. “Mayday! Mayday! Repeat! This is United Britannia 2485—” the recording cut out with a static sound, “—immediate instruction help! United Britannia 2485, I copy your message—” and cut out again, “—May be experiencing some mechanical failure—” and then cut out one last time. The man’s voice was completely drowned out by static, whooshing, and growling sounds.

“Took off from here, crashed about two hundred miles south,” Jerry continued. “Now, they're saying mechanical failure. Cabin depressurized somehow. Nobody knows why. Over a hundred people on board. Only seven got out alive. Pilot was one. His name is Chuck Lambert. He's a good friend of mine. Chuck is, uh… well, he's pretty broken up about it. Like it was his fault.”

“You don't think it was?” Sam questioned him.

“No, I don't.”

“Jerry, we're gonna need passenger manifests, um, a list of survivors,” Sam listed.

“Alright,” the man replied.

“And, uh, any way we can take a look at the wreckage?” Dean inquired.

“The other stuff is no problem. But the wreckage… guys— and gal— the NTSB has it locked down in an evidence warehouse. No way I've got that kind of clearance.” Jerry shook his head.

You frowned.

“No problem,” Dean declared.

You gave him a questioning look to which he shrugged off.

***

“How fucking long does it take to make a fake ID?” you groaned, falling back across the backseat of the Impala. You and Sam had found a way to isolate the EVP on Sam’s computer, having gotten a copy of the tape from Jerry.

“I don’t know,” Sam responded. “But I’m gonna lose it if it’s much longer.”

“Same here.” At that moment, Dean walked out of the Copy Jack the Impala was sitting in front of as a pretty woman walked into the store. They greeted each other before Dean walked over to you and his brother.

“Dude,” you started, “You’ve been in there forever.”

“Wah-wah,” he whined, mocking you. “You can’t rush perfection.” He held up three IDs.

“Homeland Security?” Sam questioned as he took one of the IDs. “That's pretty illegal, even for us.”

“Yeah, well, it's something new. You know? People haven't seen it a thousand times,” Dean pointed out as he got into the car.

“Alright, so, what do you got?” Dean asked his brother as he flicked your ID back at you. It hit you square in the side of the head. 

“Dude, really?” you hissed, aggravation clear in your tone.

“Shh,” the older Winchester hushed you as he waited for Sam to answer.

“Well, there's definitely EVP on the cockpit voice recorder,” Sam explained.

“Yeah?”

“Listen.”

The isolated voice of what you were dealing with came through the recording scratchy and backed by demonic growling sounds. “No survivors!”

“ ’No survivors’?” Dean asked. “What's that supposed to mean? There were seven survivors.”

You shrugged.

Dean let out a sigh. “So, what are we thinking? A haunted flight?” 

“There's a long history of spirits and death omens on planes and ships, like phantom travelers,” Sam began.

Dean hummed in affirmation. “Or remember flight 401?”

“Right. The one that crashed, the airline salvaged some of its parts, put it in other planes, then the spirit of the pilot and copilot haunted those flights.”

“I don’t know, guys,” you stated skeptically. “Ghost just doesn’t feel right.”

“Well, thanks for your optimism, sunshine,” Dean quipped.

“It’s not about optimism, you asshole, it’s about being right and dealing with whatever we’re up against properly,” you pushed back.

“Know-it-all,” the older Winchester replied. 

“Fuck off, Winchester.”

He let out a breath and turned his attention back to the case.“Alright, so, survivors, which one do you want to talk to first?”

"Third on the list: Max Jaffey,” you said.

“I wasn’t talking to you, but why him?”

You glared at Dean. “Because if anybody saw something weird, he did. I talked to his mom while you were spending forever in the store. She said some pretty weird shit and told me where to find him. He was so screwed up, he checked himself into the hospital.”

***

You and the Winchesters walked beside Max Jaffey, who hobbled on a cane, through the Riverfront Psychiatric Hospital’s garden. 

“I don't understand. I already spoke with Homeland Security,” Max told your trio.

“Right. Some new information has come up,” Dean lied. “So if you could just answer a couple questions...”

“Just before the plane went down, did you notice anything… unusual?” Sam questioned.

Max looked confused. “Like what?”

“Strange lights, weird noises, maybe. Voices,” Dean offered. 

“No, nothing.”

Seeing as no one was getting anywhere with this investigation, you tried your hand at it. “Mr. Jaffey, you checked yourself in here, right?”

He nodded at you.

“Why?”

“Uh, I was a little stressed,” he said sarcastically. “I survived a plane crash.”

“Uh-huh,” you nodded. “And that’s what scared you? That’s what screwed you up so badly?”

You could tell you were close to the answers you were after as he swallowed uncomfortably. “I— I don't want to talk about this anymore.”

“I know, but I also know you saw something up there,” you continued. “We need to know what.”

“No.” Max shook his head. “No, I was… delusional. Seeing things.”

“He was seeing things,” Dean half-mocked him.

You shot a warning glance at Dean, hoping to get him to shut up. 

“It's okay,” you coaxed. “Just tell us what you thought you saw, please.”

“There was… this—man. And, uh, he had these… eyes—these, uh, black eyes. And I saw him—or I thought I saw him...” he trailed off, stopping as he recounted the events.

“What?” Dean asked.

“He opened the emergency exit,” Max explained. “But that's— that's impossible, right? I mean, I looked it up. There's something like two tons of pressure on that door.”

“Yeah,” Dean confirmed, clearly confused. 

“This man, uh, did he seem to appear and disappear rapidly? It would look something like a mirage?” Sam asked.

Max quirked his head at the younger Winchester. “What are you, nuts? He was a passenger. He was sitting right in front of me.”

***

“I think we can rule out phantom traveler,” you noted as you got out of the car in front of the Phelps’s house. You were going to visit the wife of George Phelps, the man who opened the emergency exit. 

“Why?” Dean asked.

“You heard Jaffey. He said the dude had black eyes. Opened a fucking emergency exit on his own. ‘Black eyes’ points me to demon.”

Dean’s eyes widened. “Demons?”

“I mean, it makes sense,” Sam shrugged. “He could be a demon. He might be some kind of a creature, too, in human form.”

“Does that look like a creature's lair to you?” Dean questioned as he gestured toward the house that was representative of the essence of suburban houses. From its beautiful garden to the cobblestone steps to the beige paint coating the outside of the two-story building.

Sam shrugged and began leading your trio up the steps of the house. 

Once inside, you three sat across from Mrs. Phelps on the couch while she sat in an armchair. 

Sam picked a picture of Mrs. Phelps and an older man up off of the side table. “This is your late husband?” he asked.

“Yes, that was my George.”

“And you said he was a dentist?” Dean questioned. 

She hummed in affirmation. “He was headed to a convention in Denver. Do you know that he was petrified to fly? For him to go like that...”

Sam asked another question. “How long were you married?”

“Thirteen years.”

You could tell Sam was contemplating how to ask his next question. “In all that time, did you ever notice anything… strange about him; anything out of the ordinary?”

She paused for a moment. “Well, uh, he had acid reflux, if that's what you mean.”

You nodded, clicking your tongue. “I think that’s all we have for you, Mrs. Phelps. Thank you for your time.”

She showed all of you out, and you piped up as you walked down the stairs outside of the house. 

“Demon’s sounding more and more correct all the time,” you smiled, trying to joke around.

“Jesus, you’re annoying,” Dean groaned.

“And you’re a misogynistic dick that can’t handle women with brains,” you responded. 

“What, are we gonna duke this out now?” Dean stopped by the door of the car, facing you. 

You stood by the backseat’s door. “You started it,” you taunted childishly, crossing your arms over your chest as you stared back at him. 

“Really?” he leered. “You’re gonna pull that card? Mature.”

“You act like you’re any better.”

“Guys—” Sam tried to cut in, but Dean continued to fight with you. 

“You’re such a bitch.”

“Wow, haven’t heard that one before,” you drawled.

“Guys! You can fight later. Wrong place, wrong time to sort this out,” Sam chastised you and Dean like you were children.

You got in the car and slammed the door behind you.

“Don’t hurt my baby ‘cause you’re pissed,” Dean scolded you as he started to pull the car away. 

“Just drive, asshole,” you grumbled in frustration as you slumped down in your seat. The rest of the car ride to the local outlet mall was silent.

***

You had never felt more confident. Despite the fact that you could have worn the one dress you already had to pose as homeland security, you decided to treat yourself to a new outfit to distract from your aggravation with Dean. 

The boys had gone to a suit shop called “Mort’s for Style,” and you went into a dress shop called “Betsy’s.” It was a cute little shop with a lot of great dress and pantsuit options.

You had picked out a navy blue pantsuit. You wore a white button-up underneath the blazer with the top two buttons undone to accentuate your breasts. The blazer was unbuttoned, and the high-waisted, straight-legged pants you wore matched the black color of your blazer. With the white button-up tucked into your pants and the small amount of makeup you threw on to draw attention to your eyes and lips, you felt good. 

Once you had paid for your clothing, you walked out of the shop and back to the Impala. Surprisingly, the boys were not there waiting for you. 

You leaned your back against the car, picking out the grit from under your nails.

You looked up when you heard Dean’s voice. “Man, I look like one of the Blues Brothers.” 

Both of the boys were dressed in sharp, black suits. You almost lost your breath at the sight of Dean, but fought yourself to keep your composure. You would not give him the satisfaction of knowing you found him attractive. 

“No, you don't,” Sam told him. “You look more like a seventh-grader at his first dance.”

You laughed at the younger brother’s jeer. “What took you girls so long?” you asked once you got in the Impala. “I thought you two would’ve beat me out the store by a long shot.”

“Dean wouldn’t leave the dressing room,” Sam said dryly.

“Seriously?” you droned.

You and Sam both looked to Dean, who did not answer immediately. When he finally spoke, he complained, “I hate this thing.”

“Hey,” Sam stared. “You want into that warehouse or not?”

Dean rolled his eyes as he continued to drive along.

You steeled your nerves as your black, pointed-toe pumps clicked across the warehouse floor. Your trio was headed to the security guard that would allow you in to see the wreckage.

You held the clipboard you had stowed in your bag close to your chest, acting as some sort of a recorder for the boys. The three of you flashed your badges at the security guard, who nodded and allowed you into the hangar where the wreckage was being kept.

There was a large map of what the plane should look like painted onto the floor, and the parts that corresponded to the different portions of the map were laid in their proper spots. There were wires hung on fences and broken interior parts of the plane laid on tables. The most heartbreaking things for you to look at were the torn passengers’ seats because most of the people who had been in them were now dead.

You looked over at Dean, who had earbuds in and was moving a small box over the tops of the wreckage.

“What’s that?” you asked him.

“It's an EMF meter. Reads electromagnetic frequencies.”

You got closer to him, noticing what the object appeared to be. “I know what an EMF meter is; I’m not stupid. But why does that one look like a busted-up walkman?”

“ 'Cause that's what I made it out of. It's homemade,” he grinned.

“Yeah, I can see that,” you quipped. 

His grin disappeared. “Bitch.”

“Dick.”

You once again fought the pain in your chest when he called you a bitch. In all honesty, you thought his homemade EMF meter was cute. However, you were too far gone in your war with him to surrender now.

Dean ran the Walkman over a piece of the wreckage with black spores and yellow dust on it. You could hear the faint sound of a spike on the meter through Dean’s headphones.

“Check out the emergency door handle,” Dean called to Sam. 

Sam came over to where you and Dean stood as the older brother scratched at the dust to get some on his hand.

“What is this stuff?” Dean asked.

One way to find out.” You saw the younger of the two brothers start scraping some of the dust into a small bag.

“We need to go,” you told the boys. You weren’t sure what told you that, but you just suddenly felt unsettled. The hairs on the back of your neck stood at attention, and every muscle in your body tensed. You started off toward the exit in the back of the warehouse. 

“Wait, (Y/N), what if we’re missin’ something?” Dean questioned, clearly aggravated you were ready to ditch already.

“Too bad, we gotta go.” You kept walking toward the exit, making it out of the door and around the backside of the building. 

At that moment, an alarm started blaring through the area surrounding the warehouse.

You turned around to look at the boys as you gloated, “I’m not gonna say, ‘I told you so’!“ Not bothering to rip your shoes off of your feet, you took off running to the gated exit. 

Sam and Dean were quick to follow you and soon passed you up. The older brother took off his suit jacket and threw it over the barbed wire at the top of the fence. You did the same with your blazer. After quickly taking off your pumps to avoid hurting yourself when you jumped from the top of the gate, you threw yourself over the fence. The other two did the same.

Sam grabbed your blazer that you were too small to reach from the top of the fence as Dean found it within himself to remark, “Well, these monkey suits do come in handy.”

You ran after the two boys, heels and blazer in hand as the jagged rocks in the cement cut into your feet. As soon as you shut the door to the car, Dean slammed on the gas pedal.

He tore out of the warehouse’s parking lot, speeding down the road to head toward Jerry’s workplace. 

"(Y/N),” Sam started, turning in his seat to face you with a curious expression on his face, “how did you know that?”

“Honestly, I don’t know. My intuition’s just always been pretty sharp.” You were being honest; there had been a few times on hunts previously when you’d known it was time to get the hell out of dodge.

“Hm.” You could tell Dean still didn’t trust you.

“Dude, I don’t know what else to tell you. That’s the truth,” you countered. “I’ve been helping you guys with your dad for almost two months now, and you still don’t trust me. I don’t know what more to do for you.”

“Maybe because I don’t know you,” he responded, never taking his eyes off the road. 

“Maybe if you tried to know me, you’d find it a little easier to trust me,” you answered.

“Not interested,” came Dean’s grumbled response.

You tried your best to ignore the pang that went through your chest once more. “Of course not.”

***

You refused to speak to or even look at Dean; your frustration with the fact that he had no desire to know you and his general existence boiling to the surface. You could feel his stare burning into the side of your head as you focused on Jerry, who sat in front of you. He was looking through a microscope on his desk at the yellow dust Sam had collected.

“Huh,” Jerry remarked. “This stuff is covered in sulfur.”

“You're sure?” Sam asked.

“Take a look for yourself,” Jerry offered, getting up from behind the desk so Sam could take his place. 

Banging sounds along with a string of curse words caught your ear as Jerry sighed. 

“If you guys will excuse me, I have an idiot to fire,” he dryly stated, walking out of the office.

You got up from the chair you were sitting in next to Dean. “See?” you started excitedly, gesturing toward the sulfur, “Demons.”

“That would explain how one guy had the strength to open up the emergency exit,” Sam added.

“This goes way beyond floating over a bed or barfing pea soup. I mean it's one thing to possess a person, but to use them to take down an entire airplane?” Dean put his hands on his hips as he stood. “You ever heard of something like this before?” 

Sam looked over at his brother, who responded, “Never.”

“Well, I have,” you said simply.

They both looked to you to continue.

“In NYC a couple years back. Some cabbies had gotten possessed and were takin’ girls left and right.”

“Those were demons?” Sam asked, standing up from behind Jerry’s desk. “That was a huge deal on the news while I was at Stanford. Police thought it was a serial killer. You took ‘em on all by yourself?”

“I’m a big girl, Sam,” you chuckled. “I can handle a few demons. But, yeah, that was me. That was probably the toughest case I’ve ever been on. Finding where those demons had taken those girls after they drugged them in the cabs... where they were raped and murdered...” You shook your head, your cheery expression gone. 

“I’m sorry you had to see that,” Sam told you gently. 

Your eyes were glued to the floor, hands on your hips with not a bit of life in your voice as you muttered, “All in a day’s work.”

Sam had asked you to tell him and Dean everything you knew about demons once you got back to the Winchesters’ motel room. Sam sat at the table close to the window while Dean sat on the bed closest to his brother. You stood in front of the two as you spoke.

“Demons exist in every religion in every world culture. With the ones that I was dealing with up in New York, they were most similar to Incubi from early Christian religion. Incubi raped sleeping girls. These demons drugged the girls to put them to sleep, then they raped them, and then they murdered them. What I’m thinking for these demons is that they’re most similar to certain Japanese demons. I had to look into these when I was trying to figure out how to kill the NYC demons. The Japanese believe demons cause certain disasters, whether it be natural or man-made. Some cause earthquakes, others cause disease—”

“And this one causes plane crashes?” Dean deadpanned, cutting you off.

You ignored him. “Demons are having to find new ways to ratchet up the body count. Like with me in New York, Incubi can’t go about their old methods anymore. This demon probably evolved with the times like the Incubi did, and so it figured plane crashes were the best way to get its job done.”

Dean snorted, getting up from. the bed and turning away from you and his brother.

“What?” Sam asked.

He turned around, scratching the back of his neck. “I don't know, man. This isn't our normal gig. I mean, demons, they don't want anything, just death, and destruction for its own sake. This is big. And I wish Dad was here.”

“Yeah. Me too,” the younger Winchester admitted.

Dean’s phone rang, and he answered it. “Hello?... Oh, hey, Jerry… Wha— Jerry, I'm sorry. What happened?... Where'd this happen?... I'll try to ignore the irony in that… Nothing. Jerry, hang in there, all right? We'll catch up with you soon.”

He hung up the phone. 

“Another crash?” Sam questioned, already knowing the answer.

“Yeah. Let's go.”

“Where?”

“Nazareth.” 

‘Ah, there’s the irony.’

***

After leaving the horrendous scene of Chuck’s plane crash, you and the boys went back to Jerry’s office. Once again, Jerry confirmed that the dust you had taken from the steering wheel of Chuck’s plane was, in fact, sulfur. 

“Well, that's great,” Dean sassed. “Alright, that's two plane crashes involving Chuck Lambert. This demon sounds like it was after him.”

“If that's the case, that would be the good news,” you chimed in. You looked up to the sky, addressing the pilot. “No offense, Chuck.”

“What's the bad news?” Jerry asked you.

“Chuck's plane went down exactly forty minutes into the flight, just like 2485,” you informed the older man.

“Forty minutes?” Chuck inquired. “What does that mean?”

“It's biblical numerology. You know Noah's ark, it rained for forty days. The number means death,” Dean said.

“I went back, and there have been six plane crashes over the last decade that all went down exactly forty minutes in,” Sam explained.

"Any survivors?” the older Winchester questioned his brother.

“No. Or not until now, at least, not until flight 2485, for some reason.” Sam turned to you after thinking for a moment. “On the cockpit voice recorder, remember what the EVP said?”

“ ‘No survivors,’ “ you realized. “It's going after all the survivors. It's trying to finish the job.”

Dean drove the Impala down an empty highway. 

Sam was on the phone with one of the survivors from the plane crash, the conversation almost over. “Really? Well, thank you for taking our survey, And if you do plan to fly, please don't forget your friends at United Britannia Airlines. Thanks.” He hung up the phone. “All right. That takes care of Blaine Sanderson and Dennis Holloway. They're not flying anytime soon.”

“That leaves the flight attendant, Amanda Walker,” you commented.

“Right. Her sister Karen said her flight leaves Indianapolis at eight P.M. It's her first night back on the job,” Sam told you and his brother. 

“That sounds like just our luck,” Dean grumbled.

“Dean, this is a five-hour drive, man, even with you behind the wheel,” Sam said worriedly.

“Call Amanda's cellphone again, see if we can't head her off at the pass,” Dean tried.

“I already left her three voice messages. She must have turned her cellphone off.”

“God, we're never gonna make it,” you shook your head, leaning back in the seat as you scrubbed a hand through your hair.

“We'll make it,” the older brother countered, slamming his foot on the gas. 

Somehow, someway, Dean had managed to get to the airport at ten minutes to seven. 

You jumped up out of the car, taking your gun out of your pants and stashing it under the backseat.

“What are you doing?” 

You still did not feel like talking to Dean but answered him shortly nonetheless. “We’re going into an airport.”

Dean finally caught onto what you meant and took all of his weapons off of him, too. “I feel naked.”

You fought the smile threatening to creep up your face.

You rushed into the airport just behind the boys, squeezing your way through the crowd of people to get to the departure board.

“Right there,” Sam pointed out. “They're boarding in thirty minutes.”

“Okay. We still have some cards to play,” Dean paused, thinking for a moment.  “We need to find a phone.” 

He found a courtesy phonw on the wall, picking it up. “Hi. Gate thirteen… I'm trying to contact an Amanda Walker. She's a flight attendant on flight, um… flight 4-2-4.”

He waited impatiently for Amanda to pick up the phone. When she finally did, he began speaking again.

“Miss Walker. Hi, this is Dr. James Hetfield from St. Francis Memorial Hospital. We have a Karen Walker here… Nothing serious, just a minor car accident, but she was injured, so—” His face fell, his eyes widening a touch. “You what?... Uh, well… there must be some mistake—”

Sam went around his brother to try to get a closer listen. 

After a longer pause, Dean let out a sigh of relief and smiled. “...Guilty as charged… He's really sorry… Yeah, but… he really needs to see you tonight, so—... Don't be like that. Come on. The guy's a mess. Really. It's pathetic… Oh, yeah… No, no. Wait, Amanda. Amanda!” Dean slammed the phone back onto the receiver. “Damn it! So close.”

"Alright, time for plan B. We're getting on that plane,” you stated firmly.

“Whoa, whoa, now just hold on a second.” For the first time since you met him, Dean looked scared.

“Dean, that plane is leaving with over a hundred passengers on board, and if we're right, that plane is gonna crash,” Sam argued.

“I know.” He looked conflicted.

“Okay. So we're getting on the plane, we need to find that demon and exorcise it. I'll get the tickets. You and (Y/N) get whatever you can out of the trunk. Whatever that will make it through security. Meet me back here in five minutes.”

Dean looked at Sam blankly, evidently a little anxious.

“Are you okay?” the younger Winchester asked.

Dean hesitated. “No, not really.”

“What? What's wrong?”

“Well, I kind of have this problem with, uh...”

“Flying?” you cut in.

“It's never really been an issue until now,” he told you.

“You're joking, right?” Sam huffed.

“Do I look like I'm joking? Why do you think I drive everywhere, Sam?” he spat.

For the first time since you met him, you didn’t feel like mocking him about his fear of planes.

“Okay, then (Y/N) and I’ll go,” Sam proposed.

Dean shook his head. “What?”

“We’ll handle this one.”

“What are you, nuts? You said it yourself, the plane's gonna crash.”

“Dean, we can do it together, or I can do this one with (Y/N). I'm not seeing a third option, here.”

Dean scratched his head. “Come on! Really? Man...”

Dean walked much faster than you did toward the car to get supplies, clearly trying to leave you in his dust.

“Would you slow down a bit, please?” you asked.

“Why should I?”

“Because even if you get to the car before me, you’re not gonna have a fucking clue what to use to deal with a demon,” you reminded him, your words a bit more venomous than need-be.

He stopped, turning to face you. “Are you calling me stupid?”

“No,” you told him. You truly weren’t.

“Definitely sounds like you are.”

You walked past him to the trunk of the Impala. “I wasn’t, I’m simply pointing out the fact that I’m the one who knows how to deal with demons, and you don’t.”

“There you go again. Acting like you know so much better than I do.” His attitude was truly exhausting.

Your voice rose as you defended yourself. “Because I do! In this case, at least!”

“But it’s not just this one time that you acted like you’re better than me,” he argued. “Do you realize how frustrating it is to deal with your smart ass?”

“Do you realize how frustrating it is to deal with yours?” you threw back. You sighed, putting aside your anger for now. “Look, we don’t have time to talk about this.” You shoved holy water, a rosary, and the EMF Walkman into Dean’s hands. “Now, let’s go.” 

You shoved past Dean and headed back to the airport.

***

You sat between Sam and Dean, completely at ease. Dean, however, was losing his mind.

"Just try to relax,” Sam whispered from the window seat 

Dean’s voice came back harder and slightly louder. “Just try to shut up.”

“Oh, don’t be a baby,” you scolded playfully.

“Don’t be a bitch,” Dean clapped back using the same tone with you that he had with Sam. He took in a sharp breath when the plane began moving a second later.

You gathered your courage and grabbed his hand. He jerked away from you and looked at you in surprise. When the plane took off, though, his hand rejoined yours, squeezing tightly. You giggled to yourself.

“I’m so glad this is funny to you,” Dean hissed.

“It’s not,” you answered simply.

“Then why are you laughing?” His grip tightened once again.

“It’s just,” you considered your next words carefully. “It’s kind of cute, that’s all.”

Dean was caught off-guard by your response. He eyed you quizzically, unsure of what to say. You just shrugged, settling the back of your head against your seat with your hand still in Dean’s. It was much larger than yours, and you fought the urge to run your fingers along the calloused ridges. 

Moments passed in a bit of an uncomfortable silence before Dean spoke again, not a trace of bite in his tone. “Why are you doing this?”

You rolled your head toward him. “Everybody’s scared of something,” you quietly replied. “It helps me to know I’m helping you. Even if you do hate my guts.”

“I don’t hate your guts.” He spoke so softly you almost couldn’t hear him.

“Pfft, could’ve fooled me,” you answered. 

“You just…” he started, “...get on my nerves. ‘S all.”

You giggled. 

A few minutes later when the plane had fully gotten up in the air, you heard the familiar sound of a song you had heard many times before in the Impala coming from the man next to you. 

“You're humming Metallica?” Sam asked Dean monotonously.

“Calms me down,” the older brother replied. 

“ ‘Some Kind of Monster’? Really?“ You raised a brow at him.

Dean did not respond to you.

“Look, man, I get you're nervous, all right? But you got to stay focused,” the younger Winchester reminded his brother.

“Yup,” you chimed in. “We only have thirty-two minutes to track the bitch down and full-on exorcise it.” 

“Yeah, on a crowded plane,” Dean commented. “That's gonna be easy.”

“Just take it one step at a time, alright?” Sam said calmly. “Now, who is it possessing?” 

“It's usually gonna be somebody with some sort of weakness, you know, a chink in the armor that the demon can worm through. Somebody with an addiction or some sort of emotional distress,” Dean stated.

“Well, this is Amanda's first flight after the crash. If I were her, I'd be pretty messed up,” Sam told Dean, who hummed in response.

Dean sat up stiffly, his body still tense as he turned to the blonde flight attendant walking past.

“Excuse me. Are you Amanda?” he asked her.

“No, I'm not,” she answered with a smile.

"Oh, my mistake.”

The flight attendant hummed in agreement.

He peered into the back of the plane, finding the other blonde flight attendant. “All right, well, that's got to be Amanda back there, so I'll go talk to her, and, uh, I'll get a read on her mental state.”

“What if she's already possessed, genius?” Sam asked.

“There's ways to test that,” Dean responded, pulling the holy water out of his jacket. “I brought holy water.”

“Correction, I brought holy water—” you leaned forward, gently taking the bottle, “—And that’s for when we try to exorcise the demon. She’ll flinch at the name of god if she’s possessed.”

“Yeah, I know that,” Dean replied, getting up from his chair. You could tell he had not. You already missed the feeling of his hand in yours.

He turned to go, but you stopped him.

“Dean!” you whispered.

“What?” The annoyance in Dean’s voice was back. 

“Say it in Latin.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Then what is it?” you smirked, quirking a brow.

“ ‘Christo!’ I’m not an idiot!” he hissed back. Dean turned away from you and headed to the back of the plane. 

You slumped down in your seat, closing your eyes as the copilot began speaking. “Ladies and gentlemen, this is your first officer speaking...” you tuned out the rest of his message.

A few minutes went by before the older brother returned.

“Alright, well, she's got to be the most well-adjusted person on the planet,” he sighed as he flopped back into his seat.

“You said ‘Christo’?” Sam asked.

“Yeah.”

“And?”

“There's no demon in her. There's no demon getting in her.” 

“So, if it's on the plane, it can be anyone. Anywhere,” Sam explained.

The plane shook, causing Dean to tense up. He grabbed your hand once more. “Come on!” he whined. “That can't be normal!”

“Hey, hey, it's just turbulence,” you coaxed.

“Sweetheart, this plane is going to crash, okay? So quit treating me like I'm fucking four.” He went to drop your hand, but you tightened your grip.

“Okay,” you started, changing tactics. Your tone became harsh. “You need to calm down.”

“Well, I'm sorry, I can't,” Dean sassed.

“You didn’t want to be treated like you’re four, so stop acting like it,” you commanded. “Be a man, Winchester. If you’re a basketcase, you’re wide open to possession. Get your shit together. Right now.”

Dean took a deep breath.

You smiled. “Great. Onto the Rituale Romanum.”

“The what?” Sam and Dean asked in unison.

“The exorcism ritual,” you elaborated. “It's two parts. The first part expels the demon from the victim's body. It makes it manifest, which actually makes it more powerful.”

“More powerful?” Dean questioned, his voice strained and eyes wide.

“Yup.”

“How?” He was starting to get panicky again.

“It’d just be able to wreak havoc on its own without a vessel,” you informed.

“Oh. And why is that a good thing?”

“ 'Cause the second part of that sends the bitch back to hell once and for all.”

“First things first, we got to find it.”

“There ya go,” you chuckled.

“Shut up,” Dean grumbled, getting up from his chair with the EMF Walkman.

You and Sam let him walk down the aisle by himself for a few minutes before the two of you got up to go talk to him.

You tapped his shoulder.

“Ah!” Dean jumped back, wheeling around to face you. “Don’t do that!”

“Anything?” Sam asked.

The older brother shook his head. “No, nothing. How much time we got?” 

“Fifteen minutes,” Sam told you and his brother. “Maybe we missed somebody.” 

“Maybe the thing's just not on the plane,” Dean shrugged.

“No way. Dean, it’s gonna be here,” you protested. Just as you spoke, the EMF meter spiked. 

You looked up to see the copilot coming out of the bathroom.

“What?” Sam asked. “What is it?”

You stared at the copilot. “Christo.”

The man’s head slowly turned toward you and the boys, his eyes black.

You wheeled around to face Sam. “We gotta talk to Amanda.”

“She's not gonna believe this,” Sam contested.

“You’re probably right, but we only got twelve minutes,” you reminded the younger brother. You walked ahead of the boys into the concessions area where Amanda busied herself.

“Oh, hi. Flight's not too bumpy for you, I hope,” she smiled politely, clearly caught off-guard by your presence.

“Actually—” Dean began, “—that's kind of what we need to talk to you about.”

Sam closed the curtains behind you as Amanda answered Dean. “Um, okay. What can I do for you?”

“Alright, this is gonna sound nuts, but we just don't have time for the whole ‘the truth is out there’ speech right now,” Dean rushed out.

She looked confused but kept her smile painted on her face.

“Alright, look, we know you were on flight 2485,” Sam continued for Dean.

Her grin disappeared. “Who are you guys?”

Sam ignored her question. “Now, we've spoken to some of the other survivors. We know something brought down that plane and it wasn't a mechanical failure.”

“We need your help because we need to stop it from happening again. Here. Now,” the older brother told her.

“I'm sorry—” she started, attempting to move past you, “I— I'm very busy. I have to go back—”

“Chuck Lambert’s dead, Amanda,” you cut in, effectively stopping her from leaving. “The pilot from 2485.”

“Wait. What?” She turned to face you, her eyebrows furrowed. “Chuck is dead?”

“Yeah,” you said quietly. “He died in a plane crash. That’s the second plane crash in two months. Doesn’t that strike you as weird?”

She shook her head in complete disbelief.

“Look, there was something wrong with 2485,” Sam added. “Now maybe you sensed it, maybe you didn't. But there's something wrong with this flight, too.”

Dean made a last attempt to drive the point home. “Amanda, you have to believe us.”

The blonde looked to the ground. “On… on 2485, there was this man. He… had these eyes.”

“Black eyes?” you asked.

She nodded.

“That’s exactly what we’re talking about,” Sam clarified.

“I don't understand, what are you asking me to do?”

Dean answered before you got the chance to. “Okay. The copilot, we need you to bring him back here.”

Amanda looked between the three of you, confused. “Why? What does he have to do with anything?”

“Don't have time to explain. We just need to talk to him. Okay?”

“How am I supposed to go in the cockpit and get the copilot—” You could practically see her mind running a mile a minute. 

Even Sam was getting impatient. “Do whatever it takes. Tell him there's something broken back here, whatever will get him out of that cockpit.”

“Do you know that I could lose my job if you—”

“Babe, you're gonna lose a lot more if you don't go get him right now,” you remarked.

She looked at you and nodded, turning to leave for the cockpit.

As soon as Amanda made it out of the curtains, you fished the holy water out of your hoodie’s pocket, moving to press your back against the wall next to the closed blue curtains.

A few moments later, you heard the copilot say to Amanda, “Yeah, what's the problem?” Just outside the curtains. As soon as the demon ducked into the small room, Dean punched him in the face. He then shoved the demon to the ground and slapped duct tape over his mouth. 

“Wait,” Amanda protested as you got down on the ground beside Dean, “What are you doing? You said you were just gonna talk to him.”

“We are gonna talk to him,” Dean replied simply as you splashed the copilot with holy water.

The demon groaned under the duct tape, his skin sizzling and burning holes through his shirt.

“Oh, my god. What's wrong with him?” Amanda cried.

“Look,” Sam started calmly, “We need you calm. We need you outside the curtain.”

Amanda’s breath quickened. “Well, I don't underst— I don't know—”

“Don't let anybody in, okay? Can you do that? Can you do that? Amanda?”

She gave herself a pep talk before heading outside of the curtains.

“Hurry up, Sam,” Dean groaned. “I don't know how much longer I can hold him.”

The demon went to kick the older Winchester in the back, but you dove to grab his legs.

Sam began reciting the Latin ritual written in his father’s journal. “Regna terrae, cantate Deo, psallite Domino—”

The demon kneed you in the forehead, causing you to fall back and got a few good swings at the boys in as well. You clambered on top of the copilot, sitting on his stomach with his arms pinned by his sides under your legs.

Sam continued with the ritual before the demon threw you off of him. He ripped the tape off of his mouth and turned to Sam. “I know what happened to your girlfriend! She must have died screaming! Even now, she's burning!”

You attempted to recover from getting slammed into the wall while Dean focused on attacking the demon.

Sam sat there in shock, so you grabbed the journal and tried to finish the ritual.

The demon hit Dean again, effectively getting the young man off of him and knocking Dean into you. The book fell from your hand, and the demon kicked it out into the passenger’s cabin.

A cloud of black smoke flew out from the copilot’s body and into a vent while Sam went out into the aisle to find the journal. 

Suddenly, the plane shook violently and took a nosedive. The lights in the plane flickered and you and Dean were thrown to the back wall of the concession’s area. 

You and Dean screamed as the plane went down. Dean held onto the emergency exit door for dear life as you pressed yourself into the corner opposite from the older Winchester.

Your yelps were cut off when the plane leveled out following a surge of electricity coursing through the aircraft. You assumed Sam was able to finish the ritual and the pilot was able to regain control of the plane. 

You shakily stood up from the ground and dusted yourself off, tugging on the sleeves of your large hoodie.

You stepped out into the passenger’s cabin, heading to Sam as people began asking their neighbors if they were okay.

You wrapped Sam in a short, tight hug as you thanked him for keeping his head level enough to finish the ritual and trying to comfort him after what the demon had said. When you had made your way back to your seats, a slight rumble went through the aircraft. Dean grabbed your hand once again, and kept it there for the rest of the flight. A small smile tugged at your lips. 

After landing back at your original airport, you stood beside Sam and Dean as you watched the swarms of EMTs, FBI agents, and FAA agents go from person to person. They questioned or looked over each one, and your focus bounced between them.

You found Amanda in the crowd talking to an FBI agent, and she turned to the side to mouth “thank you” to you and the Winchesters.

“Let's get out of here,” Dean said firmly.

You began to head to the exit when Dean asked Sam, “You okay?”

You turned back to Sam, who reminded you and his brother, “Dean, it knew about Jessica.”

“Sam, these things, they, they read minds. They lie. Alright? That's all it was.” The older brother attempted to brush Sam’s concerns off.

“Yeah.” The brunet didn’t sound convinced.

“Come on.”

***

The next day, you and the Winchesters visited Jerry at his workplace to give him the final mission report. Jerry showed you and the boys out and escorted you to the Impala parked outside of the warehouse. 

“Nobody knows what you guys did, but I do. A lot of people could have been killed,” he acknowledged. He shook your hand before turning to the boys. “Your dad's gonna be real proud.”

Sam gave him an awkward, tight-lipped smile. “We'll see you around, Jerry.”

You turned to the car, as did Dean before he turned back to the older man. 

“You know, Jerry—" he began.

“Yeah.”

“I meant to ask you, how did you get my cellphone number, anyway?” the young man continued. “I've only had it for like six months.”

“Your dad gave it to me,” Jerry explained simply.

“What?” Sam exclaimed in shock.

“When did you talk to him?” Dean questioned.

“I mean, I didn't exactly talk to him, but I called his number. His voice message said to give you a call.” He took a pause. “Thanks again, guys— and gal,” he grinned.

“Bye, Jerry!” you called after him as he headed off.

“This doesn't make any sense, man. I've called Dad's number like fifty times. It's been out of service,” Sam told his brother.

Dean dials what you assumed was his father’s number. However, instead of the out-of-service message Sam had described, a voicemail began to play.

The two boys leaned into the phone so they could hear it better.

You leaned over Sam’s shoulder, the voice hard to hear, but you were still able to make out the words. “This is John Winchester. I can't be reached. If this is an emergency, call my son, Dean. 785-555-0179. He can help.”

Sam fumed, shaking his head in frustration as he got in the car. He slammed the door behind him. You looked over to Dean, who did not meet your gaze. He got in the car following his brother. You took one last look at the setting sun as a plane flew over your head. 

“I fuckin’ hate flying,” you muttered.

Series Rewrite Taglist: @polireader @brightlilith @atcamillanorrman @jrizzelle @insomnia-bookworm @procrastination20 @mrs-liebgott @djs8891 @tiggytaylor @staple-your-mouth @iloveshawn @jesstherebel

#dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x y/n #dean winchester x you #dean x reader #dean x y/n #dean x you #dean winchester #supernatural #spn #supernatural series rewrite #spn series rewrite

[newobsessionweekly]

To protect and to love

Main masterlist | The Rookie masterlist

Tim Bradford x rookie!reader Fandom: The rookie

Summary: You unintentionally make Tim jealous, resulting with nothing good but a confession.

Action | Angst | Fluff

A/N: It's a long one I know. But I HAD to put some action and angst in it, i couldn't help it. Honestly I love it and I love to write about Tim. I hope you like it as much as I do. Have a wonderful day bubs and take care of yourselves. Lots of love

Warning: Mention of hurting, one "fucking" slipped somewhere in this, not proofread yet.

Requested: Yes Words: 4.4k GIF is not mine, credits to the owner!

The atmosphere in the bar was alive with the buzz of conversation and the clinking of glasses as you settled in with your colleagues. It was one of the many nights you and the rookies met after a long shift. It was some bond between the four of you even since academy and it felt nice. They started to feel like a family to you.

As Nolan approached with three drinks in his hands, the fourth person occupied the chair beside you, making your mouth to open in surprise and your heart to race. Tim, looking so perfectly even out of his uniform, so casually in his clothes, wearing the same grumpy expression.

"Oh, sorry sir, didn't know you'd join us today." Nolan excused himself for ordering only three drinks.

"Yeah, didn't know I'd be here either." Tim murmured under his breath, giving you an acknowledging smile. After weeks of persuasions from both you and Lucy, he finally gave up.

"I'm glad you came." you told him as you turned to give him a smile. He did the same, but it wasn't a natural one.

"Yeah, well, don't get used to it. This isn't really my scene." Tim admitted sharply, the wave of adrenaline and excitement that flowed over you, broke as soon as his grumpy expression appeared.

"So, Tim, what do you usually do after work?" Lucy asked, flashing him a mischievous grin.

Tim shrugged, taking a sip of his drink. "Usually just head home and catch up on some game I missed or hit the gym. Not really into the whole social scene."

"Come on, Tim, live a little!" Lucy chimed in, nudging him playfully. "You gotta let loose every once in a while."

You couldn't help but smile at the banter between your colleagues, grateful for the opportunity to spend time with them outside of the confines of work. But as you glanced over at Tim, you noticed a hint of tension in his behaviour, his jaw clenched slightly as he watched the scene unfold.

"So, Y/N, how's life as Tim's rookie treating you?" Nolan asked, turning to you with a grin.

You chuckled, shaking your head. "It's definitely been an adventure. Tim keeps me on my toes, that's for sure."

Despite being his rookie for some time now, you had never spent much time with Tim outside of work. But tonight was different, and you were determined to make the most of it.

Tim's gaze flickered to you, "If it's not a living hell, it means you have potential to become a good cop." you squinted at his words only for a few seconds before a sense of pride to wash over you as you smiled at him "But you're not there yet, so keep your head in the game."

Before the conversation could continue, you excused yourself to go buy another round of drinks. As you made your way to the bar, you felt the weight of several lingering gazes on your back, casting a subtle aura of discomfort. Some eyes stopped over your body as you asked the bartender for a refill, giving them one of the best views. Tim's eyes followed each glance, noting the subtle gestures and expressions of the onlookers. And he counted them one by one.

The handsome bartender took his time to do the refill, as his eyes examined you, flashing you a charming smile.

"Hey there, beautiful." his voice was low and seductive if you think about it, but it wasn't close enough to the one you actually found yourself drawn to. "What brings you here tonight?"

As Tim was left alone at the table with the rookies, he found it almost impossible to focus on their conversation, as his gaze kept drifting back to where you stood at the bar, engrossed in conversation with the bartender.

"Oh, just blowing off some steam after a long day at work." you responded politely and considered giving him a chance.

At this point, you couldn't shut people off for some feelings that are in vain anyway. You need to go back in the game if you didn't wanted to be a single 45 year old cop, redecorating your house on your own between shifts like Nolan. That wasn't nice, you scolded yourself for the thoughts.

"Sounds like you could use a drink then. Let me guess, you're a cop, right? You've got that look about you." the bartender asked with a grin as he wiped down the counter with a cloth.

Tim's jaw clenched with frustration, a surge of jealousy coursing through him as he observed the subtle flirtation unfolding before his eyes. He couldn't shake the feeling of unease that gnawed at him, a sense of possessiveness clawing at his chest as he struggled to contain his emotions.

"Tim, is everything okay?" Lucy's voice broke through his reverie, her concerned expression drawing his attention.

Tim forced a tight-lipped smile, his features taut with tension as he tried to mask his inner turmoil. "Yeah, I'm fine," he replied curtly, though his tone betrayed his true feelings.

You chuckled at the bartender assumption, shaking your head "No, no. Nothing like that. I work for the city, but I surely don't have what it takes to be a cop." you admitted, drinks in your hand, lingering a little bit more.

"Ah, close enough though." he leaned over the counter, taking his chance to have a closer look at you. "Mark" he introduced himself with a friendly smile.

"Y/N" you responded politely, as you played his game, leaning in his direction.

"So, what do you say we grab a drink together sometime, Y/N ? I know a great place just around the corner." he proposed, his eyes sparkling with genuine interest.

Mark's easy charm and attentive conversation had left a positive impression on you, and you found yourself looking forward to meeting him.

But Lucy wasn't convinced by Tim's response, her brow furrowing with concern as she regarded him intently. "Are you sure? You seem a little...off," she persisted, her voice laced with concern.

Tim hesitated, torn between his desire to confide in Lucy and his instinct to keep his emotions guarded. "It's nothing, just...work stuff," he deflected, his tone clipped as he avoided her gaze.

Lucy nodded in understanding, didn't want to cross any boundaries, so she just let the subject drop. Anyone could see from afar that Tim was uncomfortable, little did anyone know he was feeling like that because you're not around.

Not even Tim knew why he couldn't take his eyes off of you or why he felt like his heart tightened with every laugh travelling to the table.

"Yeah, we could do that." you replied to Mark, considering his offer before hearing the unmistakable beat of footsteps you can't possibly erase from your mind.

Unable to stand by and watch any longer, Tim made his way over to you, determination etched on his face. "Hey, everything okay here?"

You glanced up, surprised to see Tim standing before you. "Oh, uh, yeah, everything's fine. Just getting the drinks."

The handsome bartender eyed Tim warily, sensing the tension in the air. "Is this your boyfriend?"

Tim's jaw clenched at the question, his gaze narrowing as he locked eyes with the stranger. "Something like that."

"Uh, Mark, this is Tim, my trainer from the job." you clarified, trying to make as bearable as possible the atmosphere shift.

Mark nodded in understanding, though a flicker of confusion crossed his features at Tim's abrupt attitude and he regarded your TO with a polite smile, extending a hand in greeting.

"Hey there, I'm Mark. Nice to meet you," he said, his tone friendly despite the underlying tension.

But Tim's response was anything but friendly. With a frustrated growl, he slammed his fist against the counter, the sound echoing through the bar. "Excuse me," he muttered tersely before turning on his heel and storming out of the bar.

His fists were clenched with frustration and your heart sank with a mixture of confusion and disappointment. You watched him go, your mind reeling with unanswered questions and a deep sense of hurt.

Confusion clouded your thoughts as you tried to make sense of Tim's sudden outburst. Had you done something wrong? Was he angry with you? The uncertainty gnawed at you.

But beneath the confusion, a flicker of disappointment burned within you. You had hoped that tonight would be a chance for you and Tim to bond outside of work, to bridge the gap between you. But his sudden departure had shattered those hopes.

Tim's mind was a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. Jealousy burned hot within him, a primal instinct that had ignited the moment he saw another man hitting on you.

But beneath the jealousy, a deeper sense of frustration simmered. Frustration at himself for allowing his feelings for you to cloud his judgment, for letting his jealousy get the better of him. He knew he had no right to stake a claim on you, no right to feel possessive or territorial. But try as he might, he couldn't shake the feeling of unease that gripped him whenever he saw you with another man.

As he made his way through the crowded streets, Tim's thoughts were consumed by visions of you and the handsome bartender, laughing and flirting as if he didn't exist. The image burned like a brand on his mind, fueling his anger and driving him further into the depths of despair.

Monday morning is usually a pain in the ass, but with the events that occurred last Friday at the bar, and Tim's attitude towards you, harsher and grumpier than usual, it was a morning out of the burning hell. Your heart was racing as he instructed you, curt and on point, on what will happen next.

May have been a few days since the incident at the bar, but the memory lingered in the back of your mind like a stubborn shadow. Despite your best efforts to push it aside, the tension between you and Tim was palpable, a silent undercurrent that simmered beneath the surface.

You knew that he was testing you, pushing you to your limits in an attempt to prepare you for the cop life, but beneath his tough exterior, you couldn't help but sense a hint of something else—something that felt uncomfortably like jealousy.

The morning sunlight bathed the patrol car's interior as you and Tim cruised through the LA streets, the radio's steady hum punctuating the silence between you.

Your usual chitchat about the rookie book is now replaced by a brooding silence, his knuckles white as they gripped the steering wheel. You stole a glance at him, noting the furrowed brow and the distant look in his eyes, and couldn't help but feel a pang of sadness at the gulf that seemed to have grown between you.

The radio crackled to life, dispatch's voice cutting through the quiet."7-Adam-19, we have a noise complaint at 123 Oak Street. Caller reports a disturbance in one of the apartments. Please respond."

Tim glanced at you, and you tried to read something in his eyes as he keyed the mic. "Copy that. We're en route."

There was nothing to be seen in his eyes, but you took your time to admire him in silence, your mind playing all the memories since you became his rookie, couldn't stop the thought that maybe the flicker that burned inside every time you touched his arm by mistake, every time he smiled at you, every time he made you smile, was indeed something. You always tend to question your feelings, rather they're justified or in vain, and this one was surely in vain.

There's no way a man like him, so put together, so ambitious — so handsome— would have even the thought of liking a rookie, you thought. You considered this whole situation too stupid, probably every single woman that comes past Tim fall in love with him.

As you pulled up to the apartment complex, the sounds of raised voices and slamming doors greeted you, sending a shiver down your spine.

"This could get messy," you muttered, your voice tense with apprehension.

"And we're prepared for this kind of situations. But if you don't feel like it, you can give up the badge." his voice is harsh and his expression is far from nice.

"That's not what I meant." you mouthed under your breath and followed Tim into the building.

As you reached the door of the apartment in question, you exchanged a wary glance with Tim before knocking firmly. The door swung open to reveal a chaotic scene inside, a group of men engaged in a heated argument that showed no signs of abating.

"LAPD! Hands where I can see them!" your voice cut through the chaos like a knife, but if anything, it only seemed to stoke the flames.

In an instant, the situation erupted into chaos, with shouts and curses filling the air as fists flew and bodies collided. You and Tim sprang into action, replaying in your mind everything you learned from the academy and your TO. But just as you thought you had gained the upper hand, the situation took a sudden turn for the worse. A shout rang out from the far end of the room, followed by the sound of shattering glass as a fight broke out between two of them.

With adrenaline coursing through your veins, you and Tim moved swiftly to intervene, but the situation quickly spiraled out of control. Amidst the chaos, you found yourself grappling with one of them, seven feet tall man and muscular construction, your heart pounding in your chest as you fought to maintain control.

Tim knew not to mess up his personal life and his professional one, he did it once and didn't end well. He weighed his decision over and over again, continuously adding pros and cons to the equation. It was safe for you to deal with this kind of men? Probably not, but if he would go soft on you and pick an easy target it would mean he let his feelings step out and fail you as your TO.

All Tim could do in this situation was to have your back no matter what and make sure you get home safe to meet with that stupid bartender. That thought run fast like the wind and bought back your laughter from that night hunting him once more. The lovely eyes you gave that man and the smile so bright, a smile he saw for the first time.

Your focus narrowed on subduing the individual before they could inflict harm. In the heat of the moment, you failed to notice another figure advancing towards you from the side.

Suddenly, a sharp blow struck your side, sending a jolt of pain radiating through your body. Gasping, you stumbled backward, momentarily disoriented as the room spun around you.

"Y/L/N!" Tim's voice cut through the haze of pain, his tone laced with concern as he rushed to your side. "You okay?"

Grimacing, you nodded weakly, trying to push through the pain as adrenaline surged through your veins. But with each breath, the pain in your side seemed to intensify, a constant reminder of the mistake you had made in letting your guard down.

Tim's grip tightened on your arm, his eyes scanning you for signs of injury as he assessed the situation. "Officer down," he said firmly into his radio, his voice tinged with urgency "Send backup and R/A."

Despite the pain coursing through your body, you forced yourself to focus, pushing aside the fear and uncertainty that threatened to overwhelm you. With Tim's support, you managed to regain your footing, the determination in his eyes giving you the strength to move on.

When one of them hurt you, the rest managed to move the circus outside the building, now armed and pointing the guns to their heads. You handcuffed your attacker and Tim dealt with the one stuck under you in the ambush. As you pushed the man down to the car with trembling feet, barely holding steady, you heard sirens cut through the air, signaling the arrival of backup. With a sense of relief washing over you, you spared a quick glance toward the parking lot, where a team of officers rushed between the men, their presence a welcome sight amidst the chaos.

"LAPD! Drop your weapon!" Nolan began, approaching the chaos as their eyes counted the police officers surrounding them. "Hands where I can see them, on the ground, face down!" he demanded as you and Tim put the suspects in the backseat of the car. "Spread your arms and legs!"

As the men followed Nolan's instructions, you tried to join your colleagues and handcuff the suspects, but Tim's hand stopped you in place. "Go sit down. You did enough." he instructed, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Despite the urgency of the situation, there was a steely resolve in his eyes as he focused on ensuring your safety above all else. Feeling a surge of frustration welling up inside you, you opened your mouth to protest, but Tim's stern gaze silenced you before you could speak. With a heavy heart, you complied with his orders, a paramedic guiding you to the ambulance for a search.

The sound of Tim's voice rang out through the chaos, his words echoing in your mind as he barked orders to his fellow officers. But amidst the chaos and confusion, it was clear that Tim's focus was solely on the task at hand, his attention unwavering as he worked to bring the situation under control. And as you watched from the sidelines, a sense of hurt and disappointment washed over you, the sting of Tim's words cutting deep as you struggled to make sense of the situation.

With the suspects now securely restrained, Tim turned his attention back to you, his expression tight with frustration as he approached. "What were you thinking, officer Y/L/N?" he demanded, his voice laced with anger as he confronted you.

Caught off guard by his harsh tone, you felt a lump form in your throat as you struggled to find the right words to respond. "I...I didn't see them, sir," you stammered, your voice barely above a whisper as you met Tim's gaze.

But Tim's expression remained unforgiving, his frustration palpable as he glared down at you. "You could have gotten yourself killed out there," he snapped, his words biting as he chastised you for your reckless actions.

As Tim guided you back to the patrol car and began the journey back to the station, the air between you was heavy with tension. There was an awkward silence that seemed to stretch on endlessly, punctuated only by the sound of the radio crackling with dispatch updates.

As Tim sat behind the wheel, a whirlwind of conflicting emotions churned within him. He couldn't shake the sense of shame that gnawed at him, a bitter reminder of how his feelings for you had clouded his judgment during the call.

Seeing you hurt had unleashed a torrent of emotions within him, overriding his instincts as a cop and blinding him to the dangers that still lurked nearby. In that moment, all he could think about was protecting you, shielding you from harm at any cost.

But in his haste to ensure your safety, he had let his guard down, allowing the suspects to slip through his fingers and jeopardizing the success of the mission. The weight of his mistake bore down on him like a crushing weight, a stark reminder of the consequences of letting his personal feelings interfere with his professional duties.

As he drove back to the station, the silence in the car was suffocating, amplifying the cacophony of thoughts that raged within his mind. He couldn't shake the sense of disappointment that gripped him, a bitter reminder of how he had let you down when you needed him most. When you needed him to be your role model, the person you should've learned from.

You couldn't help but feel a sense of unease gnawing at you, the weight of Tim's disappointment hanging heavily in the air. With each passing moment, the silence grew more oppressive, suffocating you with its intensity.

Glancing over at Tim, you feel a pang of guilt at the sight of his clenched jaw and furrowed brow. His usually expressive eyes were now unreadable, a mask of frustration and disappointment that sent a shiver down your spine.

As you wrestled with your own feelings of guilt and self-doubt, you couldn't shake the sinking feeling in the pit of your stomach. Tim's silent treatment spoke volumes, a clear indication of his disapproval of your actions during the call.

Despite your best efforts to break the silence, Tim remained resolutely silent, his gaze fixed firmly on the road ahead. "Tim, are you okay?" you insisted. But your words seemed to fall on deaf ears, his gaze fixed straight ahead as if lost in thought.

"I'm fine, officer Y/L/N." he muttered tersely, his voice clipped and devoid of emotion. But you could see the tension in his shoulders, the furrowed brow that betrayed the turmoil that raged within him.

You weren't about to let him brush you off that easily. "No, you're not," you insisted, your voice tinged with concern. "Something's bothering you, Tim. I can tell."

He shot you a sharp glance, his eyes flashing with irritation. "I said I'm fine," he snapped, his tone sharp and biting. But you could see the pain that flickered behind his eyes, a vulnerability that he tried so desperately to hide.

"Tim, please," you pressed, reaching out to touch his arm gently. "You know you can talk to me, right? Whatever it is, I'm here for you."

For a moment, Tim seemed to waver, his defenses crumbling under the weight of your words. But then, as quickly as it had come, the moment passed, and he withdrew from your touch, his expression hardening once more.

"I don't need your pity, Y/N," he spat, his voice laced with bitterness. "I can handle this on my own."

But you refused to back down, refusing to let him push you away. "This isn't about pity, Tim," you countered, your voice steady and unwavering. "I care about you, and I want to help. But you have to let me in."

Tim's jaw clenched with frustration, a surge of emotion bubbling to the surface as he struggled to contain his feelings. "I cannot change my feelings for you, believe me I fucking tried," he blurted out, the words tumbling from his lips before he could stop them.

The admission hung heavy in the air between you, a raw and unfiltered glimpse into the depths of his heart. And as you looked into his eyes, you could see the pain and anguish that swirled within them, a reflection of your own inner turmoil.

"I need to know that you're safe. Because I care about you," he continued, his voice softer now, tinged with vulnerability. "I kind of like you. And I lost control today because you got hurt. And I lost it too at the bar because you were flirting with that good of nothing. "

The words hung in the air between you, a silent acknowledgment of the truth that lay beneath the surface. And as you stood there, locked in a moment of raw honesty, you knew that your relationship with Tim would never be the same again.

The weight of his confession hung between you like a heavy fog, casting a shadow over the otherwise quiet interior of the car.

You glanced over at Tim, his expression guarded and unreadable as he focused on the road ahead. The air was heavy with emotion, a silent barrier that seemed to stretch on for miles.

"Tim, I..." you began, your voice faltering as you struggled to find the right words. But Tim cut you off before you could finish, his tone sharp and dismissive.

"I don't want to talk about it, Y/N," he snapped, his hands tightening around the steering wheel. "Just forget I said anything."

But you couldn't let it go that easily, couldn't let him push you away when all you wanted was to be there for him. "Tim, please," you pleaded, reaching out to touch his arm gently. "I need you to understand that I feel the same way."

His eyes flickering with uncertainty as he glanced over at you. "What do you mean?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

"I mean what I said." taking a deep breath, you summoned all of your courage, pushing aside your fears and doubts as you spoke "I have feelings for you, ok? But I tried to push them away because I didn't want to complicate things. But after you told me..."

Tim's grip on the steering wheel tightened, his knuckles turning white as he processed your words. For a long moment, neither of you spoke, the silence stretching between you like an unbridgeable chasm.

Then, finally, Tim let out a heavy sigh, his shoulders slumping with defeat. "I don't know what to say, Y/N," he admitted, his voice tinged with resignation "Things are complicated now, for sure." he chuckled, smiling at you as he parked the car.

"You and me, dinner. Tonight." you demanded, trying to play it off like nothing happened. "We talk about it like grownups."

"It's a date, then." he nodded in agreement, forcing his lips to form a straight line, to hide his dumb smile. "I-I.. I mean if you want to." he stumbled upon his words, scratching the back of his head nervously.

"Yes, Tim. I'd love that." you smiled at him as you both took the men from the backseat and guided them through the corridor of the station.

"Tim and Y/N sitting in a tree—" one of the men started mocking the scene they witnessed, but you and Tim cut him off

"Shut up."

#tim bradford #tim bradford the rookie #tim bradford x you #tim bradford one shots #tim the rookie #tim bradford imagines #tim bradford imagine #tim bradford x reader #tim x reader #tim imagine #tim one shot #tim bradford angst #tim bradford fluff #imagine #the rookie one shot #the rookie imagine #the rookie x reader #the rookie #tha rookie angst #the rookie fluff

[bella-rose29]

Deck the Halls (and not your partner) - Part 1

Anthony Lockwood x fem!reader, enemies to lovers, fake dating, set at Christmas (because I'm feeling festive)

Word count: 3.1k

Warnings: swearing, lockwood is an arse, so is the reader, it's enemies to lovers what were you expecting really, Norrie is alive for the plot, I am British so if you're confused about words then that's why, mentions of extended family members being meanies, I think that's it?

Tag list is at the bottom (it's getting too long to put up here now), and as always if you would like to be added to/removed from it, then ask here or send me a note! <3

series master list

"Shit! Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!"

It was safe to say that Y/n L/n was not having a good morning.

George had been watching her over the top of his paper while she paced the living room on the phone, his eyebrows changing between furrowing and raising as he tried to figure out what was happening with only one half of the conversation.

"Are you... alright?" He wasn't the best at this sort of thing, but when it came to his friends he tried to put some sort of effort in to show that he cared about them. Y/n huffed, pinching the bridge of her nose and looking like she was about to break into tears. If that happened George would have to go and get Lucy, because he definitely had no idea how to deal with Y/n when she cried. Normally he went and made her tea and plated up some biscuits, and she always accepted with a grateful smile and a lot of sniffles and let him leave again when he stood awkwardly near her, shuffling his feet on the spot.

He got the feeling that wouldn't be happening now, and he'd be held hostage instead.

"It's my mum. You know I've got this family Christmas thing coming up, right?" She paused while George nodded, taking her hand away from her face to see his reaction, then continuing on as she gestured wildly. "She seems to think I have a boyfriend, which I absolutely do not-"

"What, really?" George exclaimed sarcastically, pressing his hands over his heart in mock surprise. Y/n glared at him, looking incredibly non-threatening in her very jolly Christmas jumper. He resisted the urge to snort, knowing full-well that his friend spent most of the time complaining whenever relationships were the topic of conversation, since she couldn't understand why she was still single.

"As I was saying," another glare was aimed his way, "Mum thinks I have a boyfriend, and my aunt overheard her on the phone just now talking about my non-existent boyfriend, and it was Aunt Linda-"

"The one who gossips to everybody?"

"Yes!" Y/n jabbed a finger in George's direction, expression wild and fierce. "The one who gossips to everybody! So by now I think my entire fucking extended family and every single family friend knows that I have a boyfriend, who does not exist, and thinks that he's coming to our family Christmas in the middle of fucking nowhere!"

"I thought it was your childhood town?"

"Which is in the middle of nowhere! Genuinely nothing but fields and forests and the general countryside for miles and miles. Oh, and to top that all off, my cousin will be there-"

"The bitchy one who makes you feel like shit who you also thought wasn't coming this year?"

"Yes. Her. And Linda is her mum so Steph'll definitely know." Y/n finished, throwing herself into the sofa with a groan, turning over slightly, and screaming into a pillow.

George was about to stand up and head to the kitchen to put the kettle on (Y/n normally screamed not long before crying full-out) when Lockwood poked his head through the door, frowning at the sight before him.

"Everything alright?"

"Y/n's having a crisis. Fancy a cuppa, Lockwood?" George properly got up now, glad that another member of the household was here to deal with the situation. Lockwood nodded, then frowned again when he realised that George was escaping and shutting the two of them in a room together. Lockwood absolutely could have left anytime he wanted, but it was likely that Y/n thought he'd volunteered for the role of caretaker and couldn't leave without looking like an arse, or starting yet another argument between the two of them.

George breathed a sigh of relief, then made for the kitchen. He'd need a cup of tea in a minute when Y/n realised who was there to comfort her.

~~~

"The fuck do you want, Lockwood?"

"I- uh... what's... what's the problem?" His voice sounded pained, like he really didn't want to be in the room, and Y/n rolled her eyes.

"If you don't care, then leave," she said, attempting to hide the wobble in her voice at the thought of having to find someone to drag to her family gathering for three days, where she would be interrogated and prodded and poked and watched every second of every minute of every day, and criticised for every tiny thing she did. She was dreading it, really, but at least the third day would just be her immediate family and her non-existent boyfriend. The first two days would be filled with inquisitive relations that hadn't seen her since last year, wondering about her job and why she hadn't pursued something more stable, or asking about her love life (that was completely uneventful) and why she wasn't thinking about settling down.

Lockwood's frustrated sigh brought her out of her thoughts, and she pulled her face out of the pillow enough to see him clenching his jaw as he studied the wall with a lot more interest than it deserved. "Fine. Vent if you need to. Can I help at all, or are you going to get on my nerves until you leave?"

"Do you always have to be such a dick, Lockwood? Or are you like that because you're compensating?"

"Fuck off."

"Lovely comeback," she snapped, turning to lie on her back, staring up at the ceiling instead of at her boss' face. If she looked at him any longer she might bore holes through his head with the intensity of her glare. Neither of them said anything for a minute, the only sounds the clock ticking away in the corner, counting down to her imminent doom, and George in the kitchen making tea. "My family thing, this weekend. Everyone thinks I'm bringing my boyfriend."

"You don't have a boyfriend though."

"I know that, Lockwood. But my family think that I do have one, and now I have less than forty-eight hours to find one." She heard him snort, and squeezed her eyes shut in the hopes that it would block out his next words.

"Good luck with that. Maybe Kipps'll volunteer? He needs the free food."

"Can't you have just the tiniest bit of sympathy for me?" She pushed up, moving to sit and direct her frustration at Lockwood. "I am in a near-impossible situation here and you're being insufferable right now!"

"Maybe you should take Lockwood," George said, and Y/n jumped at the sound of his voice in the living room.

"Where the fuck did you come from?" she asked, already eyeing up the plate of biscuits on the tea tray. "Wait," Y/n paused as she properly registered George's words. "Take him?" Lockwood looked just as horrified by the idea of it, shaking his head frantically.

"Yeah. Oh, here's your tea, Y/n/n."

"What about you, George?! Surely you could come along and help me out instead?!"

"I thought I told you already, I'm going to my own family's house for Christmas. Lucy's going to stay with Norrie, and Holly's spending the holidays with her girlfriend. Lockwood's alone, in this big old house, and you've got limited time and also limited options." Y/n was annoyed at how right George was, but she wasn't giving in so easily. Not when giving in meant spending three days with the one person she despised more than anything in the world.

"Fine, if you have no other options by the time you need to leave, I'll go with you. But I will not enjoy a second of it if I do," Lockwood finally ground out, and Y/n had to fight back a look of surprise at his words.

"You- what?"

"It saves being in this house alone over Christmas. I've done that one too many times now, and at least your family will be a distraction. And," he added, "a great way to see all your baby photos." His smile was wolfish, and Y/n wondered how anybody ever found it charming.

"Alright. But I'm finding someone else, so it looks like you'll have to miss out on this one I'm afraid." Her smile was simpering, sugar sweet and sickly with how faked it was.

George looked between the two of them, then sank back into his armchair with his tea. "That's that sorted then."

~~~

It was absolutely not sorted.

Y/n was panicking. A lot. Apparently nobody fancied spending Christmas with some random agent for three days in the literal middle of fucking nowhere with her entire extended family, which was incredibly inconvenient for Y/n.

She now was supposed to be leaving in roughly two hours, and was frantically shoving the last few things in her suitcase while phoning anybody that she could attempt to pass off as her fake boyfriend.

Anybody that meant she didn't have to take Lockwood.

Perhaps if he wasn't such an asshole all the time, she'd be less reluctant, but since the first day they'd met he'd been rude to her.

It had been after a job, three years ago back when she was a solo agent taking any work that meant she could keep a roof over her head and food in her belly. Her night had been long, making her tired and weary with how much her bones ached, and she was hardly looking where she was going when she turned the corner onto her street, making her bump into a tall figure. Her first thought when the two of them stumbled away from each other was how gorgeous this boy was, and her second was how utterly awful his personality was. She had apologised before she could see his face, already muttering excuses and explaining her lack of coordination, but within seconds he was opening his mouth and talking, telling her that she should have been more alert and "could she not stand on his shoes, they're new" and she'd taken a proper look at him and decided that yes, he was pretty, but he was also not particularly nice.

Then a few months later she'd seen an ad in the paper for a small agency that had needed a new agent, preferably with strong Touch, and had chosen to go along for an interview. What she hadn't expected was the boy from that night to be the one interviewing her, and evidently he was just as shocked to see her, his expression quickly settling into a frown.

"No thank you. We don't want careless agents like you, thank you very much." His words had stung more than she cared to admit, making the backs of her eyes prick and her throat close up with emotion. She'd almost turned tail and walked out the door (something she very rarely did), but a girl dressed mostly in blue and with an excited smile on her face came in to the room, asking if this was their new recruit. Apparently the boy couldn't say no to her, or the other girl that appeared a few moments later with her clothes all neat and ironed, or indeed the other boy with glasses and curly hair who had ketchup stains on his t-shirt. Within minutes of the three of them arriving in the room, Y/n had a job at the company as an agent with a strong sense of Touch, and was being given a biscuit and a cup of tea.

She had quickly learned that the first girl was Lucy, the second was Holly, and the curly-haired boy was George, and then Lockwood had introduced himself as the head of the company.

"Don't you have... supervisors?" she had asked, confused as to just how this company worked exactly.

"No." His smile had been tight, and he had left the room right after, pushing past his colleagues and heading up the stairs. Lucy had been quick to fill in the rest, explaining all the answers to every question that Y/n had, with Holly and George chipping in when she forgot something.

Lockwood had continued his behaviour from that day ever since, despite Y/n's best efforts to get him to like her, and eventually after a few months of attempted friendship offers, she gave up and leaned into the whole hating each other schtick that was apparently happening.

So no, she did not want to have to bring Lockwood to her family gathering for three days and pretend to love him. She didn't want to do that at all.

Unfortunately, it was starting to look as though she wouldn't have a choice.

~~~

"Well? Please? Come on, I never beg for anything from you."

"I know, and I'm actually rather enjoying it."

"Prick," Y/n muttered, frowning at Lockwood. "You said that you'd do it if you had to. Well, you have to. So pack your bags and let's go; the train's in an hour."

"Fine. But I am not happy about this." He made his way back inside his bedroom, leaving Y/n stood outside the door (she refused to cross the threshold of this one particular room).

"Oh, because I am personally so ecstatic about this situation!" Her voice was thick with sarcasm, and Lockwood paused in his packing to glare at her.

"It's not my fault you couldn't find somebody to pretend to date you for three days."

"No, but I'll blame you anyway."

"Charming."

"Hmm. Hurry up."

"We've got ages, stop fretting like a mother."

"The train leaves in an hour, and it takes ten minutes to get there. Then you have to factor in maybe five to ten minutes of traffic, and difficulties getting through the gates at the station which is what, another five minutes? And then if there are any problems with the actual trains then we want to be early just in case so that a plan can be made to get a different one, and also if there aren't any problems then we at least want to be there early so that we can get on first and get a table. So no, we haven't got ages, we've got minutes before we need to go. Hurry up."

Lockwood had been staring at her in disbelief while she talked, his jaw slack and his eyes wide, but when Y/n glared at him again he went back to packing. "You really think that much about travelling?"

"There is so much that can go wrong with trains, so yes."

"Fine," Lockwood huffed, coming out of his room to cross into the bathroom, grabbing his wash bag out of the cupboard and shoving a toothbrush and flannel in. "Where's the toothpaste?"

"I've got some, so we can share. Trust me, you don't want to share with George. He's like a dragon with the way he hoards his toothpaste."

Lockwood gave her a weird look as he zipped up the bag, heading back into his room to finish stuffing items into the large bag he was taking with him as luggage. Y/n was sure he'd repurposed a kit bag for this, but if it meant she wasn't having to explain to everyone why she had failed at bringing a boyfriend that didn't even exist then she supposed she could forget about where the kit was currently being stored.

"Ok, I think that's everything," he said, running a hand through his hair as he stood up, yanking the bag up and over his shoulder. He was still in a suit, which Y/n thought was ridiculous since they didn't even have any meetings today other than the one with her family, and when they made it to the bottom of the stairs he grabbed his jacket and signature long coat. Y/n was already in her own winter coat, thick scarf wrapped around her neck and gloves poking out her pocket, her boots echoing throughout the building. They were the only two left now, since the other three had already left for their own Christmas celebrations, so Lockwood had to spend an extra minute finding the keys to lock up, and then another minute trying to put them back in his pocket. In the end, Y/n was so frustrated with how long he was taking that she snatched the keys from his hand and shoved them in the chest pocket on the inside of his coat, turning and dragging her small suitcase behind her into the pre-booked taxi.

"Sorry, he takes a while to do things every now and then. He's immensely stupid," she said, smiling at the driver as the man put her suitcase in the boot of his taxi. He looked concerned, frowning up at Lockwood where he was coming down the stairs, then nodded slightly, his expression morphing into confusion.

The drive itself was fast, and there were no problems at the station, but Y/n still couldn't help but feel that something would go wrong on their journey to her parents' house.

"The only thing that's wrong-"

"Don't say that, you bastard!"

"-is me being here."

"Oh. Well, that's true."

"Why couldn't you have just gone on your own?"

"You'll see when you meet everyone. Are you... will you be alright? I mean, it's literally everybody still alive in my family along with all of our close friends, which is near on fifty people, all in my parents' house."

"What are you trying to say?" Lockwood's expression was stony, and a coldness had come into his eyes that Y/n had only ever seen back when she was trying to be his friend and asked about his family. She had since learned that they had died when he was young, and had steered well clear of the subject afterwards.

"I just... it's a lot for me, and I do this every year. I can't imagine how awful this'll be for someone who's..." she trailed off, trying to find the right words.

"Who's family is dead?" Lockwood asked, more forcefully than he needed to.

"No, I didn't mean-" Y/n said.

"Sure," he cut her off, tone sharp and as bitter as the wind that was whipping around them. She tried to speak again, but he scoffed and turned away before she could explain what she had really meant by her words. Lockwood didn't seem to be relenting anytime soon, instead choosing to stare out at the tracks with a clenched jaw. The conversation died, and they didn't say a word until the train pulled up to the platform and they were attempting to find a good seat.

When they were finally sat down, bags secure and able to relax a little, Y/n sighed softly at Lockwood's still tense figure. He wasn't looking at her, which she supposed was a good thing because generally when he looked at her he was coming up with something rude to say. But if they wanted this to work, they needed to be talking.

And apparently, Y/n had pissed off her fake boyfriend.

Ugh, she thought. This is going to be a fucking shitshow.

part 2

Tag list (hopefully this is everyone): @anathemaloren, @augustisintheair, @avdiobliss, @briar-rose23, @curseofhecate, @dangelnleif, @el-de-phi, @ell0ra-br3kk3r, @informedimagining, @karensirkobabes, @locknco, @mischivana, @mitskiswift99, @mrsklockwood, @mrsyixingunicorn10, @no-morning-glories, @novelizt, @ran23sblog, @superpositvecloudshipper, @t2sh0, @taygrls, @tournesol77, @whenselenefallsinlove, @wordsarelife

#lockwood and co #anthony lockwood #lockwood & co #anthony lockwood x reader #anthony lockwood x you #lockwood x reader #enemies to lovers #fake dating #christmas

[shhh-secret-time]

Star Park AU: Stan Marsh Edition

-> Lives on Tegridy Farms with his family. His dad sold their house and moved them out to the valley when Stan was ten. (They're essentially where Marnie is in game.)

-> Sparky is still alive but he's getting older, so he sticks to laying on the porch waiting for Stan to get back

-> Plays football with Clyde, Craig, and Tolkien! Kenny and Cartman will join in sometimes and he practically drags Kyle out to join them.

-> He works for Joja Mart with his sister. They'd both rather work there than be near their dad.

》 He's saving up to move back to the city, or so he says. Truth be told he can't leave behind Sparky or his Mom.

-> He bought his own chicken coop and has a few chickens of his own.

-> He goes to the saloon every night, most nights by himself

-> But on Fridays, after Jimmy's comedy act, him and his band will play!

-> On Sundays when everyone else is in church or doing their own thing. Stan and Kyle will go up to the summit past the railroad tracks and spend hours up there. Catching up and just unwinding.

-> He probably has a mini event that's kind of like Sam's 2 heart event, where he asks the Farmer what type of music they like.

Gift Guide:

Loves: Pizza, Survival Burger, Book of Mysteries, Frozen Tears, Beer (This changes after Heart Event 6)

Likes: Joja Cola, Apples, All Eggs, Void Esscene, Large Milk

Neutral: All Fruit (Except Apples), Coffee, Peppers

Dislikes: Fertilizer, Daffodil, Any Fish, Pink Cake

Hates: Rabbit Foot, Coleslaw, Clay, Beer (After Heart Event 6)

Loved: "Dude! Are you sure?! Man this rules!"

Liked: "Oh, uh thanks! Should I get you something back?"

Neutral: "Cool, I'll find a use for it."

Disliked: "What...is this? Why?"

Hated: "What the fuck were you thinking?"

Given any alcohol after Heart Event 6: "Why would you give me this?! You know I'm trying to stop!"

Heart Event @ 2:

Stan is throwing empty beer bottles at the passing train, they shatter just as the Farmer approaches him. He looks back at them with a grin offering one for them to throw. He mentions that he was drinking with his friend Kenny but he had to go, so now he's just passing time. He's not quite drunk yet but he's tipsy. When the Farmer takes the bottle and throws it he relaxes a little, says that he's glad they're not put off by the behavior. After a little bit of silence, he asks them why they moved to the Valley. There's not a lot of money in farming and then makes a comment about how he fucking hates it. How he feels isolated from the rest of the town sometimes.

-> Feels that way sometimes doesn't it? But at least you have your friends (+)

-> You're literally closer to town than I am, don't your friends come to visit you? (-)

If First Option: He mulls it over and decides you're right. He should he grateful he at least has them. Though lately it feels like they're drifting apart. Stan comments how you must feel lonely being new to town and all.

"Oh well. I guess we can be lonely losers together. Farmer buddies and all that."

If Second Option: Stan doesn't really appreciate the sass. He wasn't looking for a pity party, just wanted to kinda vent. He makes note not to talk about it again.

"Yeah sure. I guess, but you didn't have to be a dick about it."

Heart Event @ 4:

Stan and his friends are playing pool at the tavern, a rare instance where they're all off work and finally get to hang out. He leans over the pool table and sinks another ball, much to Kyle's annoyance. As the Farmer comes in Cartman makes a comment that Kyle is getting his ass kicked and bad. It prompts Kyle to snap at him and shake the pool cue at him. Kenny and Stan laugh a little before Stan realizes you're there. He smiles and gestures for you to come over! Now that you're here they have enough for teams. Farmer is confused because there's already four of them, they make five. Stan whispers in their ear, explaining that Cartman won't play with Kyle anymore. He lost one time and now he's convinced that Kyle cheated. Something about how there's no way Kyle would ever actually win a game fair and square. When you agree he gets excited and before anyone else gets the chance he announces that you'll be on his team!

"Awesome! We're gonna smoke these guys! Kenny wrack 'em! Farmer is with me!"

⚠️ TW: Attempted suicide ahead ⚠️

Heart Event @ 6:

Stan's drinking again. Right next to the railroad tracks but this time he's got one foot on the railroad, rocking back and forth. There's glass bottles around him, unbroken and too many to count. He almost stumbles down to the ground but he keeps himself up. Farmer approaches and that's when they hear the sound of the train coming in, and it's coming fast. Stan had no intentions on moving, in fact he looks like he's about to fall forward willingly. The dead look in his eyes tells them that much. Farmer runs across the field and tackles him into the ground, the train narrowly missing the both of them. Stan lays there having just had the wind knocked out of him. His head is spinning and he feels sick, but he also feels the Farmer on his chest and his back against the ground. He's not dead. Then it hits him, you almost died to save him. You who's kept talking to him despite everything, even when he was being an ass.

"You....you could have gotten yourself killed why would you do that?"

-> I couldn't just stand there and watch you die Stan!

-> Are you crazy?! You almost got us both killed!

-> I don't know...my legs just moved on their own.

-> (Just hug him)

If First Option: Stan starts crying and presses his palms into his eyes. He lays there and sobs, but he feels safe enough to do it.

"Hey Farmer...hic...can you help me to Kyle. I'm scared."

If Second Option: He grits his teeth and digs his hand into the dirt. Stan knows what he did was crazy, he can't be mad at you for snapping like that. You just saved his life. But he didn't ask you to.

"Fuck...I know. Look, just help me get to Kyle. I think I'm gonna be sick."

If Third Option: Stan doesn't know what to say but he thinks he gets it. He just closes his eyes and tries to stop the dizzy ride his drunken state is on. He doesn't want to move but he can't just lay here all day.

"Do you think Kyle is gonna yell at me...if I show up looking like this? Maybe if I just go to sleep I won't have to think about it."

If Fourth Option: Stan freezes he wasn't expecting the Farmer to do that. They should be angry with him, furious. But they're hugging him and clinging to him for dear life. His life. Stan wraps his arms around them and starts to cry. It's the most vulnerable he's been with anyone in a long time.

"Shit...fuck dude...just please don't let me go. I don't wanna go. I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

Heart Event @ 8:

It's early morning when the Farmer steps out, they're greeted with the sound of music. Stan is sitting on their porch playing his old guitar, the acoustic one that's seen better days. When the Farmer gets closer he looks up at them for a moment, unable to look them in the eye for too long. After a moment of silence, he tells them that Kyle got it out of storage for him. Says it'll help him focus on something other than the withdrawals and that Kyle put him in contact with a therapist. He thanks the Farmer for saving his life, and apologizes that they had to see that. As he plays a somber tune again he makes a comment, this is the first time he's been on their farm. First time he's been out this way since they moved into the valley. He confesses that your farm is a lot nicer than his dad's and that maybe farming isn't so bad. Farmer sits beside him and he quietly continues playing, they've never heard him play this song before.

"I'm sorry...I'm sorry I've been a jerk to you. You and Kyle shouldn't have to take care of me, but you did. You care and I should remember that. Sparky would have been really upset if I never came home. So thanks...for everything."

When given the bouquet:

"!! I don't understand why you'd choose me, but...I'm selfish and I want you all to myself. So I accept!"

Heart Event @ 10:

Stan is leading Farmer past the railroad tracks, he doesn't even seem bothered much anymore to be here. He leads them up the path that he's taken a thousand times. There he leads them to the summit, his favorite spot to be at. They sit together at the edge if the cliff with their legs dangling off the side. He admits to them that he liked coming up here a lot as a kid, when his dad and him would fight it was his little hiding spot. Then he brought Kyle and it became special. The days where he'd get stupid drunk he'd think about just falling forward like that day with the train. But it's because of those amazing memories with his best friend, he could never bring himself to do it. They're special and he wouldn't want to ruin them for Kyle. It's things like that, that remind him why he's alive. Things like you. He smiles at the Farmer and tells you this. Tells Farmer he wants to continue to make more memories with them so he has a reason. His hand inches closer to theirs, not quite touching. Before he can pull away, Farmer takes his hand and slides closer to him. They rest their head on his shoulder and look up towards the big illuminated moon that's in front of them. Stan wraps his arm around them and lays his cheek on top of their head.

"Every moment with you reminds me why I'm here. I'm not...perfect and I don't think I'll ever understand why you choose to stick around. But I meant what I said, I want you around me always. I can breath with you around."

Heart Event @ 14:

Stan's outside playing with Sparky and Farmer's pet, when he moved in he brought his beloved dog with him. Sparky seems to be getting better every day he's here and Stan couldn't be happier. Farmer walks up with hearts in their eyes, making him a little bashful. He rubs the back of his neck just as Sparky brings the ball back. He mentions that he really loved animals, and that he's always had a soft spot for them. Farmer questions him about his love for Survival Burgers, which he quickly points out that they're made of Cave Carrot NOT beef! After a little while of playing with the pets he sits in the field with them, looking over their hardwork. Stan turns red and starts ranting about how the last time he went to visit his dad, he started nagging him about grandkids. He's embarrassed because Randy has never mentioned it before and it makes him uncomfortable.

"He's such an ass! You'd think he'd stop trying to tell me how to live my life after I moved out. Why doesn't he bother Shelly with this?!"

-> He probably does. We don't have to have kids if you don't want them! I'm just happy you're here with me! Don't let him get to you!

-> Don't let your dad pressure you into anything you're not ready for. It's our relationship and we'll decide when and if we want kids. But if you're anything like you are with Sparky towards kids, I think you'd be a great dad!

If First Option: Stan grins and tells them they're right as always. He leans down and kisses the top of their head. Sparky walks over with the Farmer's pet and lays in their lap. Stan smirks and makes a comment about how they could just get another dog.

"Our farm is big enough for another one right? We could get one or two more puppies. They could help with the sheep and chickens! Help dig holes!"

If Second Option: Stan says he'll think on it. Later that night while Farmer is cleaning up the dishes and putting them away. Stan walks up behind them and wraps his arms around them. He murmurs in their ear that he's been doing nothing but thinking about what they said. The thought of starting a family with them is starting to sound appealing, plus it could be fun raising a mini them. He presses a kiss into their temple.

"You really think I'll make a good dad? I just don't wanna end up like mine...but if you're with me I think I could do it. And if they're anything like you, they'll be an amazing kid."

Random Marriage Quotes!!

"You looked really adorable asleep last night...you also drooled on my arm."

"Having a bad thought day...I might be a little off today. I'm sorry."

"Babe, you got dirt on your face. C'mere, let me clean it. Just let me take care of you butthead!"

"Sparky and I watered the crops today! How do you know how much to give them? I feel like I'm drowning them."

"Fed the animals! They're doing great! Would...you judge me if I took a nap out in the field with them?"

"Hey...real quick...I uh- I love you. I know I don't say it enough and I'm sorry, but I really do."

"Morning. Made you some pancakes! I stole the recipe from my mom! Why do you look scared?"

"Hey babe, I'm going to visit my parents today. Please feel free to come save me when you're done doing what you need to do."

"Are you coming to the tavern tonight? We're playing a new song tonight, I wrote it for you."

"You know, when I was a kid, when I got nervous, I'd throw up. You make me nervous sometimes but I- hey! I'm not going to puke on you, I'm not twelve. Get back here!"

Tag List: @hunnysnoops

#south park #sp fanfiction #south park fanfiction #reader insert #south park x reader #x reader #Stan Marsh #Stan Marsh x reader #Stan Marsh x Farmer #Stardew Valley #Star Park AU #headcanons #drabbles #shhh its a secret

[theosb0rnway]

Just finished the Bad Batch finale and HOLY SHIT IT WAS SO FUCKING GOOD

SPOILERS BELOW THE CUT

THEY ALL LIVED!!! HOLY SHIT THEY ALL LIVED I CAN'T BELIEVE IT--

So um.... yeah Tech's still not dead to me, CX-2 is alive, everything is fine, we'll see him soon, it's fine-

Crosshair GOT HIS HAND CUT OFFFF- Not the biggest Crosshair fan but I still feel so bad.... BYT AT LEAST HE MADE THE SHOT AND SAVED OMEGA AND HE GETS A HAPPY ENDING NOW

Speaking of happy endings, THEY ALL GET TO GROW OLD!!!! I'M SO FUCKING HAPPY FOR THAT, I'M SO GRATEFUL THEY GET TO LIVE THAT PEACEFUL LIFE THEY WANTED, EVEN IF WE DIDN’T GET TO SEE IT

GONKY'S ALIVE AND WELL, THANK THE FORCE

Emerie helped the kids escape I'm so glad they all made it too AND THE KIDS LOOKED SO CUTE ON PABU WITH MOX, DEKE, AND STAK

ECHO'S STILL ALIVE AND HELPING THE CLONES FIGHT, HELL YEAH

They rescued the clones!!!! I'm SO FUCKING HAPPY they did

HEMLOCK AND RAMPART ARE FUCKING DEAD, LET'S FUCKING GOOOOOOOOO

Rampart was a double-crossing son of a bitch and he got what he deserved. Rest in peace, Nala Se. You may not have always been on the right side, but you died doing the right thing.

Did I mention that I don't think Tech is dead?

The CXs were SO COOL I wish we got to see more of them!!!

DID I MENTION THAT I DON'T THINK TECH IS DEAD?!? (I'm not losing hope guys, I'm not-)

The Zillo beast absolutely RIPPING UP TANTISS was fucking FANTASTIC and I love it and it was VERY VERY MUCH DESERVED

Baryn is me, I need loud destructive noises to fall asleep LOL (this is why I can only fall asleep to FNAF songs in my ears-)

Seeing grown up Omega made me cry, and I love that older Hunter looks like pretty much every older Hunter fanart ever drawn-

Wish we could have seen older Wrecker and Crosshair, and GIVE ME SCENES OF BOTH OF THEM HEALING, PLEASE- (Crosshair did not eat on screen the ENTIRE SEASON I don't like that at ALL.)

Overall, I thought the finale was a solid 9 1/2 out of 10, the only thing that could have made it better was a CX-2 is Tech reveal, but... I mean I got everything else, so I'm not entirely disappointed.

I'm still staying VERY MUCH a part of this fandom, sorry not sorry to my followers who came for the Ninja Turtles and got Star Wars copy-paste men instead-

As I mentioned, I do have a Bad Batch project coming out soon, and I guess I could call it a fix-it now... but yeah, I'm not done with Star Wars and at this point in my life, I really don't think I'm leaving this fandom any time soon. Yes, it has some issues, as all fandoms do, but it's where I fit best at the moment. I'll still be posting other stuff, but Star Wars and the Scream franchise are my main fandoms for now.

Thank you to the cast and crew of this WONDERFUL show, you did it again, Star Wars. (*puts TBB in my top 3 TV shows of all time*)

And thanks to all my friends here on Tumblr who helped me get into this show and traded theories and so much more! (Also special thanks to @atyourdinosaurs for all of your love, theories, and ideas [and for inspiring my new project], and to @casp1an-sea and @thecoffeelorian for being two amazing friends I made from this fandom!)

We had a great run, guys. It's a honor to love this show and to be here for its final moments. Here's to more Star Wars and to more Bad Batch content in the future.

-Oz

#Oz talks #That was long- #the bad batch #star wars #star wars the bad batch #the bad batch season 3 #the bad batch spoilers #the bad batch tech #the bad batch wrecker #the bad batch crosshair #the bad batch hunter #the bad batch echo #tbb #clone force 99 #sw tbb #the bad batch s3 #the bad batch season three spoilers #The Bad Batch season three #tbb s3 spoilers #tbb s3 #tbb season 3 #tbb season three #tbb spoilers #bad batch spoilers #bad batch season 3 #bad batch s3 #bad batch season three #bad batch series #the bad batch omega #Tech tbb

[hotxcheeto]

How do you feel about a fluffy Abby x reader where Abby is stressed to heck and back and reader soft doms her in order to help her relax and unwind. I'd prefer it sfw as I'm not super comfortable with smut (I know, kinda odd, given the soft dom aspect) if that's all good.

━ 𝐁𝐄𝐃𝐓𝐈𝐌𝐄

𝙥𝙖𝙞𝙧𝙞𝙣𝙜(𝙨) - Abby Anderson x G/N!Reader 

𝙬𝙖𝙧𝙣𝙞𝙣𝙜𝙨 - Like one curse word, mentions of abby going through it lol, mentions of wounds? ( brief )

𝙥𝙧𝙤𝙤𝙛𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙 ? - Yeah/Nope

𝙖𝙪𝙩𝙝𝙤𝙧'𝙨 𝙣𝙤𝙩𝙚 - so sorry this took so long!!! ily!! also enjoying the new blog looks :)))

You'd gotten home late, but not as late as she had.

Standing in front of the shared bathrooms' mirror, you dried face off after washing it, the hot water from the shower continuing to steam up the bathroom. But the door had been left ajar, giving you fresh air as you turned to hang the towel back up.

"Fuck I forgot my clothes." You heard her mutter, quietly talking into the air as if you weren't there. "I already got your clothes for you babe. Next to the sink, like always."

You heard her mumble a quiet 'thank you' as you walked out, moving to go sit on the bed while you waited for her to be done.

Though, despite the very short conversation, and the sad and strained undertone in her voice, you were grateful. Grateful that for the past week, she'd made it home alive, unscathed besides a few wounds you'd patch up for her.

Silently, of course, because lately it seemed as if she could barely catch a moment of silence.

Nonstop. Working. Fighting. Mission after mission.

You loved your girlfriend, you did, but sometimes you wanted to beat her over the head with a bat and ask her to just take a break.

And finally, she is. A few days, in fact, unless of course that stupid man wants her back out there for an 'emergency only she can handle'.

He, quite frankly, could get bit, and you wouldn't bat an eye.

"Hey." You broke yourself from your thoughts, turning your head to face her, a smile finding its way onto your lips. "Hey there, what can I do for you?"

As if your voice was magic, her shoulders dropped and the thin line on her face turned upwards. The bed sinking as she began to crawl lean towards you.

"How was your day?" You then asked, Abby moving to lay her entire body over yours and lay her head on your stomach, smiling at your laughter.

"You tired?" She hummed, letting out a quiet noise when you ran your hands through her wet hair, scratching at her scalp. Not minding how wet your shirt got because of her hair, you were just glad she was here.

"I missed you today." You then said, looking forward as she huffed. "Let me guess, Isaac made you leave as early as humanly possible?"

You felt her silently laugh, glancing up at you as she finally spoke.

"Yeah, but he also said that I need to get more sleep so I can be 'on top of my game' whatever the hell that means." You snorted, looking up at the ceiling, rubbing your sore eyes. "What an idiot." You groaned.

"You've been working all week, m'just glad you're finally off."

"Yeah but I still have to do that run for him in a few days, and he wants me to take a group and run it and–"

You tapped her lips, making her eyes flicker towards you once more.

"You're off." You whispered. "How about we forget about Isaac in all his dumbassary and instead, we relax." She opened her mouth but you shook your head making her grumble.

"Sit up, let me braid your hair." "Why?" Abby ran her hand over her face, muttering a few quiet complaints. "Because we both know you'll complain about 'how your hair dried; and that 'it's knotted' as soon as you wake up."

Abby, with dramatic eye roll, sat up and turned around, showing you the back of her head.

"Thank you." You hummed, a soft smile on your lips as your brushed her hair back with your nails. "Yeah, yeah." "Mm, don't start with that. When I'm done, you're sleeping, understand?"

"But what about the stupid report, Isaac said to give it to him in the morn–" "The morning ends at eleven fifty-nine. He doesn't need the report at eight o'clock on the dot Abs." She huffed once more, leaning back towards your hands as you began the braid.

"Fine. What about Nora? She said she could use my help tomorrow, and since I have the day off–"

"Abigail, you are staying in this damn room the entire day tomorrow even if I have to chain you to the bedpost."

You tied the braid, setting your hands on her shoulders as you leaned over to kiss her cheek.

"You're relaxing, that's final." Your voice had quieted, leaning against her shoulder while taking in her smell. Closing your eyes in content.

"You help everyone, always. Tomorrow, me and you, that's it. I make myself clear, babe?"

"Yeah. Thank you." Abby leaned her head towards you, asking silently for another kiss to her cheek, which you gave her. Then kissing her forehead.

"Lay down. Bedtime."

Abby complied moving to lay beside you, facing your frame while you turned back to turn the lamp off. Rolling over to face her, pulling her body towards your own.

"I love you, cuddlebug." You felt her smile against you at the use of her despised nickname, yet she was too tired to fight it.

"Love you more babe."

#abby tlou #abby anderson imagine #abby anderson x reader #abby x reader #abby anderson tlou2 #tlou 2 #tlou #the last of us 2 #the last of us part 2 #the last of us part two #the last of us #abby the last of us

[uncouth-the-fifth]

pythia, a supernatural rewrite. bloody mary, rough draft.

read it on ao3.

words: 6k notes: hi y'all! yes, you read that chapter title right - this is a little unconventional, but since I've unfortunately shifted hyperfixations and have drifted away from SPN, I thought I would post what I have for the next part of pythia. since I'm moving into resident evil land, I'm not sure if I'm going to come back to this fic—but I absolutely didn't want to leave you guys empty-handed!! I'm so so sorry that this fic will go unfinished (for now), and I'm so grateful to those who were along for the ride with me. I have so much love for all the people who motivated me through writing this fic. all of you are beyond kind!! and I hope you enjoy this dose of pythia content, featuring some of my notes and process-work, lol. I only had a few heavy chunks of the beginning written, but the prose for this chap (ironically) started to get into the meat of what I really wrote this fic for—psychic bullshit between reader and Sam. It was just too plain juicy to not share!! All of my spn fics will remain up, but if you keep up with me, expect lots of Leon Kennedy bullshit and tomfoolery. Again - thank you so much for your endless love and support, I had so much fun writing what I could of season one!! Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy this unfinished chunk of silly/ansty Christmas drama :)

EAU CLAIRE, WISCONSIN - Dec 21st, evening.

Sam drops the stack of glossy, brand-new legal pads into his lap, and flashes his brother a plain smile. “Thanks, Dean. I needed more of these.” From your spot seated on the living room rug, you twist your rings and wait for Dean’s witty reply. With all those notes you’re always makin', Sammy, I’ll hafta buy you some for New Years, too. You wait for him to make a crack about the gift he got Sam, something about diaries or his brother’s girly handwriting.

Instead, Dean shrugs, “Well, then there ya go.”

Voila. And with that, the feeble threads you’d tried to braid into a proper Christmas are cut. Without a word, your Mom picks up the little wooden jewelry case the three of you had thrifted her and recedes into the dark hallways of the house. Dean peels himself out of his seat to clean up. Sam sighs, picking at the plastic seal around his legal pads. Hilariously, this all plays out while Paul McCartney chimes about what wonderful Christmastime he’s been having from the radio in your kitchen.

Technically, you hadn’t just been celebrating Christmas. No, you managed to completely bomb both Christmas and the sacred Winter Solstice sabbat that the Proctors had been celebrating for a bajillion fucking years. The special sabbat that would have a real spiritual effect on you for the next couple months.

You’d given it a good ol’ college try. First, you’d painstakingly picked out gifts for the boys and your Mom. Good ass gifts, too, that you’d been hiding in your duffle since summertime. Hell, you’d been looking for the Eagles album you bought for Dean in tape form for at least two years. (Cool, Dean had said, half alive in his armchair after your chupacabra hunt in Illinois. He was at the ugly front end of a cold. He’d sniffled, Don’t have this one.) And knowing that this would be Sam’s first Christmas without Jess—the one person who had given him any kind of good holiday when he was away from home—you’d poured extra love into his gift, too.

He’d been begging you to read Frankenstein since high school, and you’d dodged it because sometimes books that pushed too far into the “classics” category could lose you. Mary Shelley got a little wordy at times. But you were a big girl with a big brain, so you’d read the whole thing for Sam… and annotated the whole thing for Sam…

He’d taken one look at your labor of love and murmured, “Good. Glad you read it.”

…Yeah. You had half a mind to check if he’d been replaced by a clone, hearing that. Fifteen-year-old Sam would have melted into a babbling, ecstatic mess if someone had carefully combed through one of his favorite books and shared their thoughts on it with him. Bare minimum, you figured he’d at least enjoy having his own copy of Shelley’s work. All his other books had been lost in the fire.

But you’d given the book to a Sam who was twenty-two, not fifteen. Fine. People changed.

The boys being a collective bummer was something you could deal with. Sam was always sullen around the holidays, and you couldn’t exactly be mad at Dean for being exhausted after a stressful hunt. But your Mom…

Beth used to make Yule her bitch. When you were a kid, come December 1st, the Proctor House could easily have been the center of all Wicca celebrations in the world. If working retail during the holidays tested one’s love for festive music, then the non-stop winter songs bouncing off Beth’s vinyl player would’ve made Santa beg to hear something else. Every room would gush with the smell of evergreen branches and holly. Your family’s altar, the home of all the love and joy for the season, would be lush with offerings and presents. The candles you lit as a family to welcome the light of the new year would glow in a neat row—your little silver candle, your mother’s tall red one… and the biggest. Your Dad’s.

Now, your Dad’s candle was tucked away with the rest of the unused decorations in the attic. From your spot on the floor, you couldn’t help but stare at your piss-poor excuse for a family altar. Beth hadn’t “had the time” to find the table runner your great-grandmother had embroidered just for that space. The small bouquet of mistletoe you’d brought sat pathetically on the wide, barren surface, framed by your family’s dollar-store candles: silver for you, red for Mom, and twin green candles for the boys. 

It was stupid. Really, you shouldn’t have cared so much. You were almost twenty-five, and the older you got the less people cared about silly, trivial things like a single holiday out of the year. That was just a fact of life.

Still, an ugly ball of bitterness sat in your gut. She couldn’t have tried to decorate? Even out on the road, you’d still found ways to make today a little special for the people you loved. Did she really have such little strength left in her? You’d dragged the boys up to Wisconsin with you so your Mom didn’t have to be alone. Was it really that impossible, after eleven whole years without your Dad, to try and be happy?

Fuck this. Yule isn’t over yet. There’s still time for you to squeeze some life out of today, and you’re going to start straight at the source. You find your Mom in the kitchen, mindlessly swiping invisible crumbs off pristine counters. When she senses you paused behind her in the kitchen doorway, clutching in both hands the gift she got you this year, the radio suddenly needs to be toyed with. Then cleaned. There are gray strands in her hair that shine like tinsel in the low kitchen light.

“Hey,” you say, your voice bright and christmas-card perfect. “I don’t think I got to say thank you for the gift.” (You did. More than once already.) “It’s been a bit since I read this one.” The gift in question is your Dad’s second edition print of The Shining. It’s even older than you are, with soft, petal-thin pages that reek of that wonderful old book musk. Rolling the flexed and cracked paperback between your hands, your Gift automatically picks up the distant echo of the hands that had touched these pages when they were new.

When you were little, you’d always found it kind of strange that your Dad considered this book his favorite. He was a sweet, soft-spoken person, and the mental image of him indulging in uncensored horror novels didn’t mesh with the Ray preserved in your head. Having since grown up and read it for yourself, you understood that it was less about the gore of the Overlook and more about “the shine;” the array of psychic abilities that kept five-year-old Danny Torrance alive through the book.

Years of having book-club with Sam had trained you to form cultivated opinions about the stuff you read, but The Shining existed in a realm that made it hard for you to describe how you felt about it. See, you had Danny Torrance’s shine—on the same level, too, enough shine to power the decades of ghostly ballroom parties and mob conspiracies inside the Overlook for a century. Seeing your Gift put onto a page so nakedly and cinematically made you uncomfortable. Yet, feeling the weight of your father’s book in your hands, standing in the kitchen he hasn’t touched in a decade, you know that it must’ve comforted him. Back then, surrounded by a psychic mother-in-law, girlfriend, and daughter, it would've been impossible to survive without a little shine of his own. You’re sure that your Dad's Gift was faint and unimpressive next to the psychic blackholes of your Mom and Grandma. Just enough to know if you’d skinned your elbow or had a nightmare. On the days that you came home from school tear-streaked and ruddy-faced, Dad would be waiting on the porch with soup.

You can still feel the faint psychic imprint of one of his whiskery kisses on your face. You don’t have many vivid impressions of him left to feel; none that haven’t been rubbed again and again, like the hollow of a fingerprint smoothed into the face of a rock over time.

Your Mom gives a non-committal hum at your attempt at conversation. Not because she doesn’t care—you can feel how much she cares from across the room—but because she’s tired. Adult Tired, like when she’d turn down your pleas to play together as a kid. Not tonight, baby. Momma’s exhausted.

“Mom,” you say, sounding as glossy and clean as a brand-new cookie tin. You open your mouth to say more, maybe to start in on one of your long-winded book-rants that had everyone wondering where Sam had suddenly appeared from. You know the answer, but you ask anyway, “This was one of Dad’s favorite books, right? I vaguely remember him talking about the hedge animals.” Beth accidentally hits a button as she’s dragging a rag over the shiny front of the radio, forcing Paul McCartney to have yet another wonderful Christmastime. She doesn’t look at you.

“Yup. But you knew that already, honey.”

C’mon. Nothing? She won’t even throw you the smallest, most pathetic olive branch? A psychic battle occurs. You get so frustrated all at once that your throat closes up, and that frustration balloons out into your family kitchen like the expansion of a bomb. You push. There is no give. The bubbling stormcloud of grief and loss hanging around Mom is there, then it’s not. The side of the kitchen your mother stands on is suddenly a void of absolute nothingness, empty of any feeling whatsoever, good or bad. She’s cutting you off from reading her—and protecting herself from your explosive emotions, as per usual.

Beth keeps cleaning the radio, her back to you.

Your rage bubbles out of you all at once. One day! One day out of the entire fucking year, the day your Dad always made special, and she can’t even pull herself together for that. You know you should be a good daughter and empathize with the woman who made you, but you’ve been a good daughter about this since you were twelve years old. Eleven Yules have gone by since your Dad passed. Just for one measly moment, you want to talk about him like he’s not a corpse rotting in the living room.

And the worst part is that Mom knows that. She’s known you’ve felt that way all day, a slow-bubbling pot building to a boil across the room. The two of you can always feel each other. You’re the only two who can; she’s the only other radio tower that can receive your station in its purest quality, and yet she has the gall to shut all her signals down.

“Fine!” You burst out, making the conversation physical.

It should feel good to yell, really. After the slow, ungratifying day you’ve had, you’ve been a shaken soda bottle waiting to implode. Instead, since you’re the crazy person yelling at nothing for no reason in the kitchen, your anger booms out of you and fizzes out in the same breath like a faulty firework. Fine. Fuck all of this. If you can’t beat em’, join em’. If everyone’s determined to rot the day away, then you’ll go wallow in self-pity the Proctor-Winchester way, too. Merry fucking Christmas, and a happy fucking Yule.

There is no satisfying door to slam on your way out of the kitchen. You take a sharp right down the front hall, hoping to veer up the stairs and slam your feet down on every single step up to your room. If your Mom wants to live forever in the year your Dad died, by all means—you’ll even bring home your thirteen-year-old self and her childish tantrums, just for time-accurate ambiance. Sam’s standing frozen just outside the kitchen archway, and you catch his deer-in-headlights look as you go peeling around the corner. You’re still keyed up with enough lashing rage to spare, so seeing him, just as hollowed-out and not there as your Mom, only feeds your pyre.

As you get to work thoroughly stomping the staircase to death, you hear him go into the kitchen and ask Beth about soup for Dean’s sore throat.

Upstairs is even more painfully quiet. Through the floor, Paul McCartney muffles down to a cheery mumble. All old houses shift around a little, but yours settles like it's alive, clicking, creaking, swaying. You don’t look at the portraits of Proctor women up the stairwell. The dusty grandfather clock in the hall watches you with its stained glass face, and you’re so lost in your own head—

—and Dad’d be so pissed we didn’t decorate the altar or listen to the Tull Christmas album, he’d riot, he’d talk some sense into her—wouldn’t think any of this is stupid— —that you don’t hear it when it chimes. Muscle memory plants you right in front of your bedroom door. Having a good cry under the covers sounds like a perfect end to the night, right? And yet you stop. Your hand drops on the knob and stays there, unmoving. Maybe it’s your Gift, or good old-fashioned human instinct knowing when something in the home has been nudged two inches to the left, but the air in the hall tastes staler than usual. A draft? Your gaze is pulled all the way down to the opposite end of the hall, where the untouched, stately storage room door is ajar.

Your Mom probably left it open. Maybe she’d gone in there to hunt around for all the heirloom Yule decorations, only to rediscover Dad’s football memorabilia or Dad’s engraved cigarette case and go bolting out of the room. —everything’s different without him, Sam and Mom and Dean too. So am I. Everything’s twisted—without him— Still riding the whirlwind, you stomp from one end of the yellowing, starry zodiac carpet (Aries) to the other (Pisces), the floorboards squeaking under your weight. You push the door and it goes shuddering into the darkness. This was one of many rooms in the house that Mom had banished you from as a kid, mostly as a way to shoo you away from the hunting world. It’d given you this insatiable fascination with it as a result, but when you tug the chain to turn on the closest lamp, what it illuminates doesn’t come close to the spectacular stories you’d made up in your head.

It’s just a room. It has windows and shelves and old things, some from your childhood, some from your Mom’s. Some from even further back than that. The closest fascinating thing is a shiny gold blob poking out of your baby things, which turns out to be Sam’s eighth-grade mathlete trophy. You had no idea what possessed Mom to come up here so often. There was no way she wasn’t in here at least a couple times a week; the tall metal storage shelf where she immortalized your Dad’s things was never dusty, and yet the whole room reeked of rotting books and insulation. You shove the box with Sam’s trophy aside with your foot until it skids out of your way, and then send the heavy door shut behind you with a wall-shaking bang.

A flurry of dust hails down from the ceiling. You cough through the cloud, wandering in your blindness towards the neat row of plastic storage tubs labeled with your Dad’s name. Clothes. Misc. Books. Maybe that’s where Mom had gotten your new copy of The Shining from, halfway through one of her sacred meditations over Dad’s things. You drop a hand onto the cold lid of the tub. Nothing, not even the slightest psychic imprint, reaches back.

What is she even holding onto anymore? You try the clothes next. The rounded corners of this bin have been scuffed gray from how many times it’s been pulled off and then pushed back on its shelf, again and again. The case feels as lifeless to you as it would for anyone else, but you try your luck and slide it out onto the floor. It comes loose with a solid thud.

When you were old enough, Beth would sometimes send you up into this room to grab things (spell ingredients, books you didn’t keep downstairs). You would run full-tilt right up until you hit the storage room door, then pass inside like a stranger in a dangerous realm, watching where you stepped and always, always keeping your Dad’s shelf in the corner of your eye. On brave days you would pick up his silvery cigarette case and roll it between your palms. It grew harder and harder to feel him each time, the ghost of him whittled down like a rock made round by the current of a river.

When you crack off the lid, you expect some kind of smell. You don’t remember what he smelled like, but you have a few guesses—cheap, vanilla-sweet aftershave, or maybe the woody stale smell of cigarette smoke you know you shouldn’t love. Maybe both. It doesn’t really matter. The neatly folded stacks of your Dad’s old shirts and jackets don’t smell like a damn thing. You dip your face into a holey band-shirt with the sleeves scissored off, but all that comes back to you is the rotten smell of dusty insulation. He’s here—he’s right here in front of you, right in your fucking hands, and yet the whole world is dead of him. You can’t sense even a sliver of him left.

The same old reservoir of despair pushes and pushes at your composure, wiggling through your cracks, widening them with a hundred thousand tons of pressure bearing down on you a minute. It is a day by day task to handle the reservoir. You like to think you’re good at handling it, at patching the cracks as they come and letting them breathe when the moment calls for it. But when you lift your face from the bin, the leak springs—really, genuinely springs, like it hasn’t in years.

You fall back onto your haunches, swallowing back sudden stinging tears. The bin and its askew lid go shrieking back onto the shelf with a lash of your foot.

-

The music downstairs stops. You can’t tell how long it’s been.

When his death was fresh, and you were stuck deep, deep within the reservoir, you’d wondered if it would always feel this way. It got easier, right? And in many ways it had—on most days you could talk about your Dad without it hurting, letting the dam’s water run. The battle was still there, but it was a burden you were proud to carry if it meant his memory lived on in you. He would want you to be happy, your Mom used to urge. So you gave being happy your best shot, loving and giving as much as you could.

That’s what frustrated you so endlessly about your Mom. She’d been right; your Dad would’ve wanted the two of you to move on, and yet she still entombed herself in the bottom of her reservoir far too often. There was no release, no acceptance with her. The dark part of you that wanted to pass blame wondered if this was all because of John, and how well Winchester grief happened to mingle with a Proctor’s. How would your mother’s life be different, if the evil that’d taken Dad hadn’t been put down a week later? Would she be just as hellbent? With your knees sore from pressing into the floor, you knew the answer. You knew if the thing that’d taken Sam or Dean from you was right in front of you, you’d chase it until you were in your own grave. You knew that even after it was dead, you would be digging your nails into the backseat of the Impala and clawing for every psychic molecule of them left in the leather.

And that’s what scared you—was she just going to be chasing Dad forever, til’ there wasn’t a wisp of him left in the world to feel? 

Something dawns on you, thudding through your mind like a rock dropped down a chute. With limp hands, you slide The Shining towards you on the worn wood floor, part the pages with your thumbs, and press your nose into the binding. There’s the smoky, earthy scent of old paper first… then something just underneath the surface that no one but you and your Mom can pick up.

Old books. Yes. Yes, that’s what Dad had smelled like.

-

You’re seated on the floor of the storage room, back pressed to one of the ancient metal shelves holding up your gramma’s VCR collection, when a blot of the future is tossed at you. Cheap deodorant and lemon cough drops.

Around a minute later, the stairs beyond the door squeak under someone’s weight. Even without the roulette glimpse of the future, you can tell by the footfalls who it is. Heavy knuckles rap the door and come straight in without waiting for an answer. Behind him, the silence of the rest of the house is even heavier.

You try to sound like a reasonable adult, but the mopey teenager slips out anyway. “Thought you were sick, Dean.”

He artfully dodges your point. (Dean is, after all, a master of the craft.) You don’t look back at him, but the lemon cough-drops glimpse you got of him creates a clear picture: Dean’s whole body listing into the door frame, one hand on the knob, his face lacking its usual color. His cheeks have graduated from stubbly to scruffy, neglected. “Hey,” he says. It’s the, okay, you’re done cooling down, let’s have a grown-up conversation kind of hello.

You don’t know what to say back. You’re not sure if you can have any kind of conversation right now.

Dean rolls with it, trying to decide if this silence is begging for a subject change or a heart-to-heart. You’re not sure what he goes for when he says, “I had an idea.” “Did it hurt?” You joke. Jokes you can do.

There’s his opening. After a beat, you’re—

—fucking lobbed with a foam football. Like you’re fucking twelve. Dean’s throw arcs straight towards your head and bounces clean off the top, a perfect spiral. You yelp in outrage, and before you can think you’re following where the stupid ball went so you can clock him right in the face with it. Asshole. It loop-de-loops on the floor around an old dining chair, and you clamber on your knees to fish for it.

Just when you get the toy in your hands and you’re about to demolish him with it, Dean ducks behind the doorway, chuckling, “Woah! No face shots! You wouldn’t bash a poor, sick guy’s face in, would’ja?”

God. You can’t fucking believe him. If anyone else did that…

You lower your hackles and drop the foam toy into a basket, far out of reach of congested troublemakers. When his shining eyes appear in the slit of the doorway again, your cheeks are aching with an impossible smile. “You’re lucky it’s Christmas, loser. What is it?”

Dean hesitates a moment more, just in case you’ve got something else to throw at him, then joins you in the storage room with the evil little oily smile you love. The same dust cloud that got you earlier descends on him in a rough coughing fit, but this lets him get a good look at the little mess you’ve made: the book on the floor, your Dad’s things open and askew. When he clears his throat for the last time, he looks pained.

For your sake, you pretend it’s an empathetic kind of pained. And you know that’s a part of it—Dean doesn’t enjoy seeing you and your Mom like this. But it’s an unfortunate fact of your life that you will have four times as much context for him than he will ever have for you. Just breathing the same dusty air as him, you know he’s been nursing a sinus headache since Monday, one that’s made his head feel like it’s chock-full of stuffing, and that Sam made him canned chicken noodle soup—and at first he felt a little smug making Sam play nurse, until he stewed on it more and—

—hate it when he gives me that dead-eyed look, like he can’t even pretend to care anymore. Like he’s just dragging himself through this for our sake. Poor kid scares the shit outta me. Is this how it’s always gonna be? Sammy aching over her, night after night after night—

You know just touching the bins holding your Dad’s things that on a icy February afternoon in 1994, fifteen-year-old Dean had picked up the plastic tubs for your Mom from the store.

So when he gives you that pained look, you know it’s part-concern, part-fear. If this is what you look like eleven years after your Dad’s passing… if John never comes home from his hunting trip, is this what Dean will become? The loyal son, waiting and waiting on that porch for a man who would never come home? 

Your whole life, you’ve felt like you were becoming more and more like Dean; lately, it feels like he’s becoming so much like you. Your last four years on the road together had slowly but surely melded you together.

“Okay, so, Yule’s a fire festival, right?” Dean grasps around in his memory for the yearly history lesson your Mom gives about the Wicca calendar. “Uh, we lit candles… I thought about burning Beth’s Muppet Christmas CD with my lighter a couple times. That’s about all the fiery, burny-stuff we did today.”

“I love the Muppets Christmas album,” you pout.

“After the millionth partridge in John Denver’s goddamn pear tree, you’d change your mind,” Dean swears. “But I was thinkin’—we got the firepit in the backyard, marshmallows, and I think I could put together some vodka shots. Then we can blow em' out and eat em' with the s'mores.” Your eyebrows raise. Only he, of all people, could take your sacred family traditions and twist them into such a wonderful, stupid-ass thing. Maybe it’s ridiculous, but… there is chocolate and graham crackers downstairs… and with how cold it is outside, a fire would be perfect… It’s the best blend of weird Proctor-Winchester traditions you need to save Christmas and Yule. Dean takes your silence as glowing awe. “Exactly. I told you, I'm a fuckin' genius. Helluva way to start the wiccan year, right? You in?”

You’re well aware that this is an elaborate plan to coax you away from your moping. Still, it’s just too Dean to turn down. “...Hell yeah.”

At first R hopes that it’s just her and Dean, and that Sam and Beth keep their grief to themselves. But then she realizes how cruel and selfish she’s been—everyone grieves in their own way, and just because she works through it by talking about it doesn’t mean it will work for everyone. It’s not good that Beth is holding on so tightly to her loss, but that doesn’t mean R wants to leave them out.

Lead this into a touch of psychic!Dean and how he has a teeny tiny second sense for what she needs, just like her Dad did. Just enough shine to get by.

R and Dean come downstairs and invite Sam and Beth to their campfire 😀

Or, at the very least, all the psychic happenings in the house echoing between them; if Dean's sharper instincts were as psychically heavy as a shadow falling on grass, then Sam's Static was six feet of snow in an arctic blizzard.

It tingles all the way up to your shoulder when Sam touches you. And that, oh, that was a whole new can of worms. As they get dressed for the snow outside and assemble the s'mores and flaming shots, you try not to head down that train of thought again.

Every time you’ve glanced at Sam these past few weeks, you’d been unable to hide from what you’d sensed there—from what you’d seen in the demon, and what you now knew to be completely and utterly true after reading its mind.

Sam had It. The Gift, the Shining, whatever the fuck you wanted to call it. Not the vague imprint of psychic-ness from loving one or sharing the Impala with one for four years; full-on, unlatched, REDRUM, I-saw-it-before-it-happened psychic abilities. In the weeks you'd had to sit with that revelation, you'd poked carefully at Sam from afar. Obviously, you knew what a fucking psychic felt like. The five-year-old Sam who'd cut Dean's gum out of your hair had not been psychic. Yet this Sam, twenty-two with three-fourths of an ivy league law degree under his belt, was as psychic as a fucking—well. You. He was just as psychic as you.

Without even a sliver of the same control or even understanding of—of what he had, yes, but you were confident that if Sam was pushed, he could reach into your mind just as easily as you could reach into his. There had been a shift, then. At six, having gum cut out of your hair, you had been decidedly less psychic than you were at twenty-four. So Sam had gone through the Proctor Rite Of Passage; some terrible moment had cut him deep, deep enough to pull a new kind of blood to the surface. After Jessica, he had been... yeah.

It was fucking crazy. And yet it also slotted perfectly into some of the weirder things you understood about Sam; about who he was now and the vague, strobing flashes you got of his future. It freaked you the fuck out. Did Sam know? Did anyone know, besides you? Had your Mom recognized that spark in Sam, the same way she'd seen it in you? Had John?

And the plain existence of the Gift in Sam begged the question—why? Had he just happened to drop from the tree as a different kind of apple? Or was this something you could trace back to his mother, the same way it traced back to yours? Had Mary…?

The implications of that took pretty much everything you understood about Sam and Dean’s life, lined it up on the chopping block, and cleaved it in two. Needless to say, thinking about it made you sick. How could you even begin to bring this up to them?

You cursed your abilities with all you had. There were nights when you sat on the bathroom floor, wishing you could dig in with your nails and rip out whatever had put It in your head. Never in a billion fucking years would you have wished It upon anyone else; especially not Sam, good, selfless, wonderful Sam, who already ached so deeply for other people. Seeing their future, too? And even more often, seeing it and being helpless to change it?

He used to cry over squashed spiders as a kid. You'd felt a whole lot more than just spiders die.

…Beside that shuddering horror was another, far more selfish feeling. As scary as the implications could be, when you thought less about the Winchester family and more about your relationship with Sam, you were… excited. Relieved, even.

There were only four people in the entire world that you could share your Gift with. One of them has been six feet under for over a decade. Your Gift was a clingy, possessive creature, too. It was maybe two steps shy of being an eldritch horror. It poked through Dean’s dreams when you slept beside him, sucking them up like cigarette smoke. It breathed down Sam’s neck wherever he went. If you wanted, no one could lie to you—all punchlines and stories were spoiled for you, you knew when people found you annoying or pretty or stupid. If that particular Proctor gene had skipped you, then maybe you’d be able to form relationships with people where you didn’t immediately, intrinsically understand who they were and why. Dean would say, You need a drink. You would know without asking that he meant, You scare the ever-living hell out of me n’ I know I can’t hide it from you. Fucking hell, kid, I wish I could.

You knew you were a freak. The tiny human vessel for the lashing, bubbling, soul-melting, cosmic weight of a star about to bloom into a black hole. Only your mom would ever understand what it felt like to exist on the fringe of time, between the exhaustive influence of the past and the vast, spotty expanse of the future. You were a tool to men like John; an anomaly for men like Bobby; and a responsibility to men like Dean. 

But Sam… Your best friend Sam, he’d always tried to understand. Maybe he’d never fully get it, but the point was that he tried to. You remembered sitting with him on the curb outside your old high school, the concrete thrumming with music from the junior prom you’d both left behind inside.

How either of you had gotten dates was a miracle. You, the class weird-freak-emo punchline, and Sam, on his fourth round being the new kid that year, were two peas in a pod. Your date had never picked you up; Sam’s had escaped with her friends long before their first dance. Neither of you were very broken up about it.

The future had sprawled in front of you that night as clear as could be. You must've sat and talked on the curb for three straight hours, pressed together at the hip with Sam’s blazer around your shivering arms.

He was always beautiful in the boy-next-door kind of way, dimples popping with every good smile and freckles rising out of the too-short sleeves of his button-up. But that night he’d been fucking Helen of Troy, and the roar of the past and future slowed to a halt around him. 

Do you really see the future all the time? Every second? Sam had curiously tilted his head, sending a gleaming swish of chocolatey hair out of his eyes.

Swallowing hard, you’d hesitated, Not every second. But a lot, yes.

Again, the head tilt, then the swish. His gaze was innocent and intrigued. No existential dread, no sweeping sense of fear. Just plain curiosity. Not even morbid curiosity. Sam had asked, What about right now?

Sam’s cologne—oh god, his cologne—was steaming off his borrowed jacket and floating around your head in a wonderful rosy fog. You’d poked at the future. Sometimes things came back, sometimes they didn’t. That night, the future had come back tasting like Sam’s vanilla chapstick and junior prom punch, and your face had gone up in flames just sensing it. He’d waited for an answer. You’d blurted out the plain truth: In a minute or two, you’re gonna kiss me.

This kind of absolute, unshakable certainty about the future had made other hunters’ blood run cold. You’d braced yourself for Sam’s displeasure or worse, his fear. But instead, there were those dimples again, and Sam had the gall to bat his lashes at you and delightedly ask, Really? That’s what the magic eight ball has to say?

His big hand had dropped onto your knee and you’d squeaked out a shrill, Signs point to yes!

Sam loved the stupid magic eight-ball joke. You could feel him smiling about it as he kissed you, kissed you, hand-on-knee, his face tipping down to yours, the shitty school punch staining his lips as the two of you connected. At fifteen and sixteen respectively, this was the first kissing that either of you had ever done. It’d been wetter and warmer than you’d expected, and Sam’s vanilla chapstick had left the slightest print on your mouth, one that your tongue swiped over obsessively for the next month. Your Gift had chased him for weeks after that, silently and invisibly swarming him every time he entered a room.

Back then, your mind had been on the Curse. But now, you thought about what had led to the kiss in the first place. Sam hadn’t kissed you on a night when your Gift had been crammed down deep where it could bother nobody but you. He’d instead chosen the precise moment where your Gift was most raw, one of Its fingers coming down from the sky to press against the pulse of the future. It was small, but at a time in your life when you’d wanted to claw your Gift out with your bare hands, Sam had gotten the smallest glimpse of It and had fallen in love.

You couldn’t help but see this thing inside him, his Static, and feel the exact same way. His powers were twisted and unavoidably demonic, and yet you kind of loved them. It made perfect sense to you. No one really understood you like Sam did. Now, it's clear why.

-

tags: @samssluttybangs @cookiemumster1 @lacilou @cevans-winchester @leigh70 @seraphimluxe @emily-roberts @emme-looou @aloneatpeace @williamstop @ornella0910 @chaoticshepardplaid @dakota-dream @lcvecstiel @goghkiss @spnexploration @stoneyggirl2 @urm0mmmbbg @mulattomoon @poeticsorcery @deansapplepie @rennydenny @babydollfoster @badlandsbrunette @hallecarey1 @pplanetcaravan @notanotherthembo

#uncouthspn #spn #supernatural #sam winchester #user uncouth #sam winchester x reader

[batorchids-meadow]

Happy New Year! Satan x GN!MC (Part 1)

Fluff, low social battery, cheesy confession, new years party

Constructive Criticism it welcome, hope you enjoy :)

I will most likely make a part 2 for this which is more on the smutty side, will be up once finished.

Word Count: 1.1k

Last year was, weird. Really fucking weird. I met nine demons, two angels and a sorcerer, the twelve of them slowly but surely becoming some of my closest friends, yet my mind always came back to one of them. A specific recluse. A lovely bookworm with a short temper, but I’ve found that his temper has improved over the time I spent with him during the exchange program. And when I came back and accidentally landed on him, he didn’t threaten to kill me like he would anyone else. In fact, he hugged me and said he was glad to see me alive and healthy. I’m glad I met him, and I'm glad that he’s the one I've grown closest with. We’d often have book nights in his room and sit in a comfortable silence with tea by our sides. Satan is something else. An angry personality with a soft spot for me. I'm really grateful for him. We were all at a new years party at the Demon Lord’s castle and I was hoping to dance with just the blondie of my dreams but, I never got the chance. Instead, I had Lord Diavolo, Lucifer, and Mammon all over me with Simeon and Solomon intervening at intervals they saw fit. I never had the chance to dance with him and that made me upset. My social battery had been at a rapid decline for most of the party, but he was here so I couldn’t just leave. Plus, Diavolo put his heart and soul into making this party enjoyable, even Levi was enjoying himself. Yet I was stood on a balcony gasping for fresh air as all I wanted was to go back to the house and spend a quiet evening with Satan by the fireplace in the library while we read, listening to the crackle of the fireplace on new years eve. But that wasn’t going to happen. At least not this year or right now. I wanted to leave, badly but I'm not allowed. Even if I did leave the castle, Lucifer has the house keys, and I don’t have the heart to beg him to let me leave. I heard footsteps coming towards me and if I was correct, Barbatos was about to ask me either: if I was okay or to come back inside and enjoy the party. Knowing him, it’d probably be the former.

“Are you alright MC? You’ve been out here on your own a while.” He said, I knew it was him. He’s the only one who can slink away unnoticed. I nodded saying something about fresh air and my social battery reaching its limit. I assume he nodded and made a quiet exit because when I turned around to face him, he was gone as if he’d never been there in the first place. I wanted to go back inside, I really did but at the same time, I just wanted to leave. To go home and have a comfortable evening. I heard another set of footsteps. A bit heavier than Barbatos’ but not heavy enough for me to pin who they belonged to.

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you, I'm lucky I bumped into Barbatos, and he told me.” A gruff voice sounded from behind me. I knew in that moment that it was Satan’s. I turned my neck to be able to look at him from the corner of my eye and, damn did he look good in a suit. He looked good in a lot to be honest. I let him walk towards me and look across the Devildom at my side. Leaning into him, I felt my whole body relax and my social battery began to recharge. All be it slowly, but it was recharging.

“You know, you are the most beautiful looking at this entire party.” Satan whispered to me; a light flush covered my cheeks in that moment as he wrapped his arm around my waist. He often did stuff like that: holding my hand in public, holding me by the waist during our book nights and if I was busy falling asleep, he’d play with my hair lightly and give me a kiss to my forehead as I drifted off. He hasn’t always been this comforting especially when we first met, but he warmed up in time and I'm so glad that I stayed with him the whole time.

“Did you want to dance with me?” He questioned.

“I really did, but then I had Diavolo, Lucifer, Solomon, Simeon, and Mammon constantly asking. And now my social battery is fucking gone. I'm sorry, id love to dance but I'm exhausted. It’s the whole reason I came out here.” I confessed, my feet ached, and my ears were ringing from the loud music playing.

“You were the only one I wanted to dance with because you know when I want to stop and you do, the others just constantly begged for me to keep dancing, Simeon being the only exception.” I drawled, my words starting to slur slightly together as my exhaustion slowly started to catch up. It was at that moment when the new year clock began to count down, and everyone in the hall began to count down. They started from thirty.

“Look, there’s something I've been meaning to tell you for a while and… I just don't know how to say it.” Satan started speaking, I was solely focused on him and his words.

“The time we’ve spent together has been amazing and I wouldn’t wish for it to be any other way apart from one thing.” I raised an eyebrow at his statement, my confusion starting to sober me up.

“It’s just, I just… ugh, I want to know-” He was cut off from everyone inside getting louder:

“Ten.”

“Nine.”

“Eight.”

“Seven.”

“Six.”

“Five.”

“Look, I really want to be able to spend the rest of my life with you.”

“Four.”

“And I’d be so grateful if you would like to spend those years with me.”

“Three.”

“And I hate that it took me this long to be able to tell you.”

“Two.”

“To tell you that-”

“One.”

“I love you.”

“Happy New Year!” and with that, he kissed me. Slightly passionate and wanting, almost lustful. I kissed him back, wanting this for I can’t even remember how long.

“I love you too.” I whispered to him, as we broke the kiss. I've wanted this for ages, but I’d been too shy to be able to tell him.

“How about we get out of here.”

“But Lucifer has the house keys.”

“I already thought about that.” He held the keys in front of me and shook them slightly allowing them to jingle quietly.

“Then lets fucking leave!” I whisper yelled back to him.

#obey me #obey me satan #obey me fluff #satan #obey me writing #obey me mc #obey me x reader #happy new year #satan x reader #satan x mc #satan obey me

[navybrat817]

Would you ever write a bratty or sassy reader with Steve Rogers?

I very much would, nonnie. Just need the right set up for it!

Sassy? I could be projecting because bills, but can you imagine Steve and the gang saving the day once again, only for you to come out and see your car demolished? The car you JUST paid off last month? After the worst day leading up to it?

You: "He wrecked my car!"

Your friend: "You can't really be mad, can you? It's Steve Rogers. He's a hero!"

You: "Yeah. Hero. Great. Very thankful to be alive and so fucking glad he ruin my car. I'm ALLOWED to be grateful for my life and pissed about this."

Your friend: "To be fair, your car was kind of a piece a shit."

You: "But it was MY piece of shit!"

Your friend: "Well, he's over there if you want to say 'thank you'."

You: "Hey! Steve Rogers! Yeah, you. Thanks for Mario stomping my car like it was a goomba! Appreciate you!"

Your friend: "..."

Love and thanks! ❤️

#navybrat answers #character ask #steve rogers #bahaha #steve rogers x reader #sweet nonnie #sending love ❤️ #asks are always appreciated

[hell-drabbles]

I've been binging your Embittered Companion AU and with the new story event I've been having brainrot so fucking bad. This might be a bit inaccurate to the lore since I'm only towards the end of Chapter two. (The game is fun, but it also really fucking drags.)

I also took some liberties with the angelification of the reader.

I'm apologizing in advance for my rambling.

Hurt with no comfort and gore coming right up, be warned!

Spoiler warning for the current Story Event!

You know how Lucifer made himself fall because he ripped out his wings? Make that the reader/companion when they are aware/lucid after they were turned into an angel.

The charm the angels used to turn them into an angel had been flawed. Their angelification could never be truly be completed from the very beginning. It was meant for devils after all, and they were never a devil to begin with, being human through and through. It had left them inbetween, stuck being angel and human, both at the same but neither in a single breath. It left them torn between their humanity and the Angelic Grace forced on them. It left their mind broken, the few moments where their mind resembled being whole enough to remember who they were so very rare and so very short. But that was enough. Because in those moments were long enough for them to remember their friends left behind. They would not let themselves be used to hurt those they cared for. No more will they let themselves be treated like a puppet and thosr angels their puppeteer.

That moment of lucidity was just long enough to rip out those wretched feathered wings. They dig their nails into their fragile skin, their own blood painting their hands and body as it splits apart underneath their own hands. It hurts, the feelings of the muscles ripping and the tendons snapping. But the pain is nothing to the agony of the holy light always burning behind their eyelids and the loud choir of angels they were never supposed to hear beckoning them to join the masses always ringing in their ears. So they claw at the bones that were never supposed to sprout from their body, the wings that were never supposed to be attached to their back.

They fall from the Heavens, leaving the wretched beings that think only themselves deserving of God.

They fall. Finally silence, finally there is darkness where previously those grating screams were heard and the painful holy light glowed without mercy.

So they fall from the Heavens, past the Earth were they were born and lived and to Hell.

They are a bright streak across the red sky. They burn like a star falling, their body breaking apart.

Their scattered memories flash across their mind as they fall.

It's been months since they were turned. They remember seeing Ra-On and those devils that always sticked to him like glue. They remember hurting the devils and being used for Ra-On's torment by those damned angels that kept them on a leash for so long.

What would Ra-On think, seeing them now? What would poor Mhinyeok think, left behind on Earth like he was?

Maybe they would think them dead. It feels very much like they are dying, they think with some dark humour for their current situation as their consciousness fades to black as they slam into the ground with the force of a thousand suns, burning alive and spilling rivulets of red and glowing white-gold on the grass beneath them.

Awaken ye, you who has been reborn twice.

The You who is not Human, neither Angel, nor Devil now and yet all three the very same, You who no longer belongs to any place.

For You have been made anew, this Your third Dawning after Your Life ended twice.

Come forth, return to those You wished to protect.

I hoped you liked this and let me know what you thought of this! It was a fun writing practice and great way to get those thoughts rattling in my brain out.

Heheheh oh I love the good ol hurt with no comfort. Just, blast me with that angst. I'm glad to see that people love the Embittered Companion AU as much as they do. I was a little worried initially that it would set people off, since I'm aware of how protective people are of self-insert MC's but I'm glad there are people that have the same reservations as me.

Anyways, hohoho, here's a drabble that popped in my head. Warning: we be exploring the body of the Companion after they made impact on the ground.

Nothing and no one came to gather what lay in the center of that great crater. The only visitors were rain, snow and hail. Isn't it strange, though, to see that no matter how much times passes, the body within continues to bleed? You were in pieces, consciousness no longer a part of the waking world, and yet you continue to bleed.

Perhaps you would think it strange, if you were awake at all. But you weren't. You were simply there, still, as time moves ever forward. As grass, once singed, regrew back. As birds flew over and picked at what pieces were left of your clothing to make for their nests. As bugs began to make new homes near and around your body.

Nature, no matter what you may be, will never treat you any differently. Be you a devil, an angel, or a human, the earth will seek to swallow all the same. The flora and fauna would treat you as another thing of everyday life.

Perhaps, such treatment would've made you happy, at least for a time.

Nothing, in all your barely hanging on pieces, grew back. But nothing rotted further either.

Instead, your blood continues to flow, red sinking to the bottom, white slithering to the top. All the same to the plants growing around you, for they care for nothing but more nutrients.

The sun rose high in the sky, blind to way it highlights all of your broken limbs. The moon loomed over, oblivious to the pulsing, painful pieces of your wings. Celestial bodies, useless to you, but they continue to exist nonetheless.

Time passes and you continue to lay, not found or touched by anyone.

But then, there was a voice.

Your blood lost all its white shine, lost all its red luster.

Then you opened your eyes.

#admin #whb #what in hell is bad #what in “hell” is bad #drabble #reader insert #embittered companion au #writer: that-one-daydreamer

[curseofaphrodite]

Prince of Diamonds

DAEMON TARGARYEN X READER

link to part 2 | series masterlist

summary: the day had arrived for you to marry Viserys, but of course, weddings in Westeros are nothing if not chaotic.

The castle was alive with laughs — there were so many people from so many places, so many congratulations, and as many gifts (from pieces of jewelry to weapons) that it felt like you were in a fairytale of some sort.

Except you were fucking terrified the entire time.

Everything about the day felt off, as if you were about to be hung from the ropes than be wed to a king.

You went to take a stroll through the kingdom in disguise to get your mind off things, and were surprised at the commoners' lives.

For some reason, you had thought they'll be warm and cheery and content with the small life they led, far away from royal politics and bloodshed. But poverty seemed to have tightened its grip on most of them, and you wondered why the fuck Viserys hadn't mentioned any of these issues before.

It was always strategies to protect the people, but everything else seemed to have been missed from council meetings. You included had wanted the Iron Throne, but never knew the asterisk that came with it.

Until now.

It was heartbreaking to see how lively the town was, as if they were used to the miseries by now. As if they didn't know there was a castle right within their reach with leeches living their best lives while they were wallowing in debt.

"Apple, miss? Fresh apples?" a kid yelled from the sidewalks. You walked on as you didn't want to be recognized.

"What about grapes? I have grapes too!" he followed and you noted how he didn't sound desperate — just very casual, like he was your friend for more years than he had been born.

"I'm in a hurry," you replied hastily, but he was easily catching up.

"C'mon! I'll let you taste some for free! It's so delicious you won't resist buying the rest for your family."

"Look I—"

But he ran in front of you and made you halt anyway. You could only see his feet properly because you still had your clock on.

"What's up with your attire? Are you one of the circus performers?" he asked, seemingly forgotten about his own business.

You sighed, seeing no way out of it. You pulled down your robe and stared him right in the eye. He gasped, his jaw on the ground.

The place seemed to have stopped its bustling. Silent murmurs died away as everyone seemed to notice you. They all stood right where they were, not believing their eyes.

"It's the Queen-to-be!" A middle-aged guy finally yelled, falling to his knees. Following his example, more bent down. You knew this was to be expected, but it still shook you to your core. These people already seemed to respect you, even with a short acquaintance.

You found yourself hoping it was respect and not fear.

"Rise," you said loudly, thinking on the spot. "I've come to invite everyone here for the wedding. There will be food enough to feed two armies."

The kid blinked. "The guards will let us in?"

"If I command so, of course they will."

Grateful gasps rippled through the crowd and soon they started to murmur among themselves, probably wondering why you came all the way here, why you couldn't have sent a messenger, why you seemed so humane while the royals seemed like gods. They were asking all of that with approval, like they wouldn't have it any other way.

"Forgive me, your Highness," a woman rushed forwards to the kid. "He's young, he's been known to provoke- he didn't realize—"

"It's fine," you reassured, suddenly glad that you took off your robe. "In fact, I think I'll do some wedding shopping."

--------

"You invited the whole of King's Landing?" Viserys asked, barging into your room.

It was almost evening, exactly three hours before the wedding. Right as he entered, all the maids fussing over you did a short curtsy and exited, as if they all collectively smelled a fight coming on.

But Viserys looked more exhausted than angry.

"Yes," you replied simply, looking at the finest of gowns laying on the bed, not sure which one to choose.

He sighed. "I wish you would include me in these decisions, Y/N."

"Like you include me in the council meetings?" you snapped, turning around to glare at him.

"There's always a seat for you at the table, I just didn't know if you'd like it."

"There's nothing about this I like."

"Pardon?"

Fuck. "I'm nervous," you lied, sitting down on the bed. "All of this is so much right now."

"We can take it one step at a time," Viserys smiled. "That's all it has to be. And I'm not mad at you for going to the town, but I do wish you had let a guard accompany you."

"That's defeating the purpose," you cracked a smile in response. "I'll consider it next time."

"Good. I'll leave you to it then," he gestured towards all the extravagant gowns and accessories. He hesitated. "One more thing... you haven't heard any rumors of late, have you?"

You hated yourself right then. You wished Viserys was an evil man, but he had grown to be your friend. He didn't force you to a marriage, you had agreed to it yourself. He never yelled at you or looked down on you, but it was as if right at that moment, both of you knew you could never be happy with each other.

Because the rumors he was referring to wasn't about you and Daemon. It was about him and Alicent. How he visits her chamber at night, how he only leaves in the morning.

"Did Daemon say anything?" you asked in reply.

"He wished to convey his congrats."

"That doesn't sound like him."

"Exactly what I thought."

You smiled. He turned around with guilt in his eyes.

"For what it's worth, every townsfolk who's at the gates has been hailing your name." He said softly. "You're already a queen in their eyes."

If anything, that reassured you even less.

----

You stood at the top of the aisle in a plain grey gown, your hair in a braid and covered in gold accessories. Weddings in Westeros were grand as they were gothic.

You didn't notice the people, just Daemon standing beside Viserys, his eyes on anything but you. He appeared collected and quiet, and you wanted nothing more than retrace the last night with him. What if I had said... nevermind.

The priest went on about legacies and love, and you failed to see how they were connected. Sure you were zoning out, but you also couldn't hear him out of the sounds of your own heartbeats.

There was silence, and everyone was looking at you. You had reached the part to say your vows. Your throat closed up. Viserys blinked in confusion.

"I—" you stammered, unable to go on. Sudden whispers started across the hall. "Can I talk with you for a moment, my lord?"

"Must be awfully important if it's the middle of this," Otto Hightower said loudly. Son of a bitch.

"Viserys... please."

Daemon gritted his teeth and came out of his statuesque behavior. He came by your side and started to whisper so others couldn't hear.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

"Daemon—" you were surprised at how worried he sounded.

"It's a terribly inconvenient time to get cold feet! Do you realize how stupid you're acting? For fuck's sake, remedy this before—"

"Get away from her," Viserys said sharply. Daemon instantly obeyed, not wanting to make things more serious, only out of concern for you. "Y/N, what is the meaning of this?"

"I can't be your wife," you said softly. "I'm sorry."

"What?" Viserys looked lost. Surprised. But not hurt. That was something.

"Can't you see it, my lord?" Otto yelled for the benefit of the hall, glaring at both you and Daemon. "She's been defiled. Guards!"

Your throat was met with the sword of an eager knight. It didn't touch your skin, simply hovered there for further instructions. You understood why this show of power was necessary. As the betrothed, simple rumors were enough to get you exiled, but a claim as vulgar as this simply thrown to the air led to bloodshed every time. After the initial shock, someone in the audience screamed.

Daemon didn't care about political advances and even if he did, he would have still done what he did next. He brought his dagger out and held it over the throat of the knight in mere seconds.

"A scratch on her and I'll burn you inside out," Daemon said quietly.

"STOP THIS MADNESS!" Viserys ordered.

The knight dropped his sword at once, but Daemon didn't let go. If anything, the dagger was pressed tighter. The knight was already bleeding. Viserys grabbed your hand and pulled you away from the scene, towards the secluded corner where no one was watching. Eyes followed, but none took a step forward.

"You haven't slept with Daemon," he stated firmly. "What kind of game are you playing?"

"I fear if I were to stay in this palace, I could be involved with him. You deserve a queen more loyal than that—"

"Don't you dare say this is for my benefit!"

"—and I deserve a husband who doesn't cheat too," you hissed. "You've been to Alicent's room more than you've been to mine. Or did you think I wouldn't notice?"

He paled.

"It's the right thing to do. You don't love me. This is an arrangement." You stressed. "You care about me like you care about your friends. I can't rob you of your happiness and you can't rob me of mine. Let me leave in peace before I besmirch your reputation."

"You're doing that already by refusing to be the queen."

"I'm not refusing. I can't be the queen right now. Have you seen the state of your people? Frankly speaking, neither of us is fit to be rulers. At least I'll acknowledge that and take my leave."

"I have duties!" he yelled.

"Then do them," you snapped. "Don't drag me into this."

"You would be declaring war between our houses," he said pleadingly. "I don't want to cause you hurt."

"You won't," you said firmly. "Hold your troops. Have meetings about the stained integrity of my house. Feed lies to your people that actions have consequences. Fuck Alicent. Marry her. Just let me go."

He groaned. "Even if I let you go, the rest of them won't."

He was talking about Otto, the guards, and everyone who was prepared to see your downfall. You knew it. You had also planned for it.

"Viserys please," you begged, gritting your teeth. "Let me escape. I'll go to a place where no one knows my name. I'll come back a queen, just not of Iron Throne."

He glared, but you knew he had caved. "I'll hold the fort for three minutes."

"You're the king," you said, pecking his cheek with gratitude. "You can do five."

Then you were off.

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

When you reached your room, nothing had been left. The cupboards were emptied, the table looked like new and even the books were missing.

Daemon Targaryen stood in the middle of it with a huge bag.

"No," you said, connecting the dots. "You're not coming with me."

"If you go alone, you're dead."

"I'll take my chances," you deadpanned, reaching for the bag which had your stuff. He pulled it away.

"Now's not the time for ego. Look at it this way, I know Westeros better. I know the secret passageways. I know this place because I've bled on it."

"Do you not want to know why I've stopped the wedding?" you asked cautiously.

"Because you chickened out and realized none of this is a game."

"Because I knew you'd ruin everything if I went through it. I didn't marry him because of you."

He snorted. "The blame falls on me now?"

"Daemon you can't come with me or you'll be the main source of rumors here. Everyone will think we ran away and when you come back, you could be killed."

"Then I won't come back." He took a step forwards. "Is that what you want me to say? That I'll actually run away with you? That we'll go to the other side of the Narrow Sea and spend our days in the sun with no worries?"

"Don't be ridiculous, that sounds boring," you interrupted. "I'm saying I need to lay low until I figure out a plan."

"I'm good with plans."

"No, you're not."

"No, I'm not but I'm coming anyway."

"Daemon—"

"We'll do as you say," he said hastily. "We'll lay low for a while. Just until the smoke blows over and Viserys finds a new wife. I'll make him do formal amends so the kingdom can stop talking about this. Then you'll come back with me. If anyone dares to speak a word, I'll cut out their tongue."

"Even if it's Otto?"

"Especially if it's Otto," he smiled. "Though his tongue won't be my first choice to cut off."

You laughed. "Fine... I guess we're running."

He looked alarmed. "Running? Oh no hon, we're flying."

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

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#daemon targaryen x reader #daemon targaryen x female reader #daemon targaryen x fem!reader #fluff #series #daemon x reader #hotd x reader #hotd fanfics #house of the dragon fanfic #astoria writes #daemon targaryen x you #daemon targaryen imagine #angst with fluff

[bisexuallsokka]

Hi jo! Fluff dialogue prompt: “I feel safe with you.” and “where's my goodnight kiss?” With zukka, please :)

It’s written all over Zuko’s face. Maybe not to someone who doesn’t have as much history with him, but to Sokka it’s clear as day. The bags under his eyes slightly more pronounced than usual, the worried crease in his forehead, the tightness in his smiles and posture...

If he had known, he wouldn't have spent the first two hours of the party avoiding Zuko. As soon as they make eye contact, though, Sokka's feet take him to Zuko without hesitation.

“Zuko,” Sokka frowns, and his resolve almost crumbles at the way Zuko wilts just slightly. They're in a large room in the palace that they only use for gatherings like this, and Zuko looks around quickly before grabbing Sokka by the elbow and leading him closer to the wall to give them a little bit of privacy.

“I didn’t want to worry you,” Zuko says quietly.

Sokka shakes off his hand. “Fuck that. When was it?”

Zuko sighs, looking around again. “Two weeks ago.”

"Zuko—" Sokka starts again.

“I would rather tell you in person. Besides, it’s safer that way.”

Sokka knows he’s right, and he’s glad he’s here now, but he’s not happy with it. He doesn't get to dwell on that now, though. With Zuko’s back to the rest of the room, he’s letting down the mask of a perfectly happy and healthy Fire Lord, and Sokka has a feeling this assassination attempt was really bad.

“It was close, Sokka. Too close,” Zuko says, reading his mind, and he looks scared like Sokka hasn’t seen him in a long time. Fear freezes his chest, but he pushes it down, the familiar urge to always be the strong one rising up instead.

“Can we get out of here?” Sokka asks, suddenly anxious that they are in such a crowded place. He glances around and finally notices the extra security, most of them disguised, but it doesn’t help his nerves much.

Zuko nods, looking grateful, and Sokka doesn’t leave his side as he goes to talk to a guard, who nods. It’s not the smartest idea, the two of them leaving such a crowded party side by side. It’s sure to rekindle a rumor or twelve, but Zuko doesn't seem bothered by it for once, so Sokka allows himself this considering it's taking everything in him to resist giving into the urge to hold Zuko’s hand.

They’re met by more security in the hallway, following them all the way to Zuko’s rooms. Sokka doesn’t recognize them, but Zuko must trust them to see them together and to stand guard outside his rooms once they make it there. There’s not a question about it, Sokka follows him inside and closes the door behind them.

Zuko’s hands are shaking, and when he turns to Sokka in the privacy of his room, he immediately rushes into his arms. Sokka holds him tightly, reassuring himself that Zuko is okay, that he’s alive.

"I almost—"

“You didn’t,” Sokka says firmly. “You’re okay. Do you want to talk about it?"

"Not right now. I just want you to stay,” Zuko says softly. “I feel safe with you.”

Sokka nods immediately. “Of course.”

When they pull back, Sokka realizes how exhausted Zuko looks. He can barely keep his eyes open as he pulls out his head piece, and Sokka wonders how much sleep he's gotten in the last two weeks. Wordlessly, they agree that Zuko just needs to rest, and Sokka sits down on the bed and pointedly turns away as Zuko changes out of his stuffy Fire Lord robes, fingers twitching with the desire to help him. He doesn't, and when Zuko is done he sits down next to Sokka, keeping some distance between them.

"Thank you for being here," Zuko says softly.

"Of course," Sokka says, giving him a tight smile. "I'm always here for you. Zuko, I-"

Sokka nearly jumps out of his skin when the tension is broken by a nearby thud, but Zuko just grabs his hand. "It's just Druk," he reassures him.

It's just my ten foot dragon isn't as comforting as Zuko thinks it is, but Sokka doesn't say anything, just moves out of the way as the dragon crawls out from where he had apparently curled up under the giant bed.

"He's been sleeping in here since the attempt," Zuko explains, looking slightly sheepish. "I'll just..."

He stands, leading Druk to another door in the room, because knowing Zuko, Druk has his own personal suite for occasions like this when there are guests in the palace. Before closing the door, though, Zuko pets the top of the dragon's head and leans down to kiss the top of it, saying, "Goodnight, Druk."

When he turns back to Sokka, the two of them actually alone this time, Sokka blames the fondness in his chest for the words that slip out of his mouth. “Where’s my goodnight kiss?”

At the weighted look that Zuko gives him, he processes what he just said. He doesn’t take it back, though. He doesn’t say anything, just watches as Zuko walks up to him, stepping between Sokka’s legs and forcing Sokka to tilt his head up to maintain the intense eye contact. He moves slowly, giving Sokka every opportunity to stop him.

Sokka doesn’t, his eyes falling shut as Zuko's lips finally meet his.

#thank u kit!! <3 #also in my head this is one of their mid divorce divorced zukka hookups but interpret it however you want #i almost forgot to kick druk out but then decided he needed to get outta there before things got. out of hand #hawksatoru #ask me stuff #my writing #prompts #divorced zukka

[lloydfrontera]

If og lloyd returns to his body after suho crosses the reincarnation gate what do you think will the frontera family and javier feel? Would they be glad for og lloyd's return? Particularly julian and javier?

so uhm. tumblr ate a similar ask i received before this one. like. the same premise so. i'm gonna assume it was by the same person. hopefully. sorry. anyway.

this is an evil scenario. i kinda dig it.

if lloyd crossed the gate and og lloyd returned to his body at that moment,,, there would be many, many conflicting emotions.

i'm gonna take the premise of the other ask and say the og lloyd that returns is the one from right before he got kicked out of his body. this is an og lloyd that didn't see lloyd save the estate countless times, didn't see the effect he had on everyone around him, that never had any reason to regret everything he'd done.

for arcos and marbella i think it would be an extremely bittersweet situation. they would be overjoyed about having their son again, they were absolutely devastated when they realized they'd lost him so i have no doubt they would be so, so happy if he came back. but at the same,,, it would be dampened by their grief over losing lloyd. they came to love him just as much as they loved their biological children, so they would mourn him just as much as they mourned og lloyd. and they would have to be very careful about how they express that grief lest og lloyd take offense to it and believe they'd rather have lloyd with them than him.

plus. well. og lloyd is,,, an asshole. and would presumably resume his terrible habits and attitude immediately, which would be jarring for everyone, but especially for arcos and marbella who deeply love their son and whose grief over suddenly losing him would probably made them romanticize his memory a little bit. it's a natural thing to do, everyone is a saint once they're dead, and while i don't think they completely forgot how terrible og lloyd was, it's a different thing to remember it while you're grieving and missing them than to see it in person again.

i think they would try their best to repair their relationship with him, grateful for the second chance they got with him, but i don't think they would get very far. the problem never was that they didn't care for og lloyd or didn't make an effort with him, it was that og lloyd wasn't interested in reciprocating those efforts. and it's really hard to make a relationship work when only one party is invested on it.

as for julian,,, it's hard to say because we never get to see how he feels about lloyd replacing his brother in the first place, which i think it's a shame cause he's one of the people who by all means has the most extreme response to lloyd in the entire novel. i think his perspective would've been really interesting to have but alas.

but,,, i don't think he would be happy at all. not even a little bit. maybe a part of him would be relieved his brother isn't dead, but that would be it. assuming this is in line with canon where julian has no idea his brother had been replaced, he'd first have to grapple with the fact that the person he came to love and admire was someone completely different than the one he thought.

that the brother that physically and verbally harassed him his entire life never changed. that the person he forgave and made peace with is not the one that hurt him in the first place. that the one that should've apologized and made amends with him is still the same and has no interest in changing.

that would alone would fuck anyone up, but then he has to also grieve the brother he'd come to love and really admire while having to watch the brother who he hated with a passion walk around like nothing happened.

julian hated og lloyd. he had an extreme hatred for him. and he was completely in his right to do it. so add to it the mess of betrayed feelings he would have plus the grief for lloyd plus a healthy dose of resentment and misattirbutted blame towards og lloyd for being alive when lloyd isn't anymore and,,, yeah. i don't think julian would have any positive feelings in this situation.

i think he would stay just long enough in the estate to be with his parents while the worst of the grief passed and then leave, with no plans of coming back unless his parents needed him to.

also i like to think that at one point julian snapped at og lloyd for one reason or another and when og lloyd went to hit him like usual not only did julian not flinch like he used but also sheherazade went absolutely ballistic on his ass. straight up trying to cut off his arm for it. javier was quick to stop her but like. it was a close thing even considering he's a grandmaster at that point.

after that og lloyd just avoids julian like the plague which suits all of them just fine. sheherazade especially. scary wife privilege <3

as for javier. god javier.

if arcos and marbella were happy about og lloyd coming back and julian was upset about it, javier would fall somewhere in the middle and also create a metric of his own.

just,, imagine the devastation he felt when lloyd crossed the gate on his own, his despair at not being able to protect the person he swore he would die for, then the bright spot of hope and relief when he sees him open his eyes and wake up, thinking that maybe, just maybe, fate was kind to them this time, maybe they get to have this one miracle, maybe they both get to life and be together like they wanted to... only for the slow and terrible realization that this isn't the lloyd he was hoping for. it's not his lloyd.

i think for one brief moment of grief induced insanity javier would genuinely consider throwing og lloyd into the reincarnation gate and see if that would bring back his lloyd. he doesn't of course, he immediately shakes himself out of it, but... the thought would've definitely crossed his mind.

because the thing is, while i've talked before about how javier wasn't glad about og lloyd being replaced and genuinely felt guilty for not being able to help him and for choosing lloyd over him, that's not,,, really because of og lloyd himself. like. it sounds harsh but javier kind of really hated the guy's guts. he cared for him as a member of the frontera family and would've genuinely tried to protect him had there been any need, but it would've been strictly professional and out of duty and loyalty towards arcos, not to og lloyd. which i don't really blame him for tbh! you reap what you sow and og lloyd earned himself nothing but javier's disdain with his actions and words.

but the point is! javier's interest in og lloyd is directly related to him putting his loyalty to arcos above all things. in the hell railroad arc that's his main reason to feel so conflicted about who to choose.

but at this point in the novel javier's loyalties have shifted. he's still extremely loyal to arcos, he still loves the frontera family, he still would protect them with all his being but... now his heart's loyalty belongs to lloyd.

I want to protect him. Lloyd is my true master in my heart.

and i think that, for one split second at least, the part of javier who would do anything for the people he cares about and is loyal to, would genuinely contemplate throwing og lloyd back into the reincarnation gate if there was even the slightest chance it would bring his lloyd back.

but he would quickly snap out of it. he is still very loyal to arcos and marbella, and this is their son, he's still a part of the frontera family and javier cannot, will not, risk his life on the small possibility it will save someone else. not even lloyd.

he would even feel guilty for having considered it in the first place, for letting himself be swept by his emotions, for being so selfish as to think about trading the frontera's son for the chance to get lloyd back. for knowing that even though he didn't do it, a small, grieving and half mad part of him still thinks it would be worth it.

i also think he would have a very hard time being around og lloyd but even a worse one trying to stay away from him. being in the same room as him would be bitter, disappointing and painful, but not being there would be maddening, every instinct telling him to go back, to see if he's alright, to be at the side of the person he'd spent the last few years protecting with everything he had. the one he'd been planning on staying with the rest of his life.

i think it was hard for him to come to love someone wearing the face of a person he hated. but it would be excruciating to see someone he hates wear the face of the person he came to love.

all in all. not a good time for anyone! which i think fucks i love this scenario it really woke up the brain worms <3

#hey i got an ask #Anonymous #tged #the greatest estate developer #lloyd frontera #javier asrahan #arcos frontera #marbella frontera #julian frontera #og lloyd frontera #sheherazade #come back right au