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punks-never-die205 · 9 months

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Souled Out

Fem Reader x Demon!Eustass Kid

CW: Blood, religious tones, original creation myth, ritual, violence, dubious consent, 18+

Chapter 4: Soul Understanding

“Alright,” Eustass moves the coffee table aside with his tail, setting down the big poster board he grabbed as you left the mall on the floor. He starts drawing a diagram with a marker. “Here’s Earth in the middle, heaven here, hell here – before you say anything, no, they’re not orbiting Earth, they’re not even on the same plane of existence. The Turn is here, and the Crucible is here.”

You look at the crude drawing, one large circle in the center, four smaller ones around it. The handwriting for the labels he’s written in catch your attention. You’re sitting on the couch in sweats and a T-shirt, and aside from pants, Eustass isn’t wearing anything else. Comfort and style didn’t go hand-in-hand, you had both ditched the suits almost as soon as you got back.

“Your handwriting is more elegant that I expected.” You muse. It’s sloppy for precise calligraphy, but you had expected it to look more like the font for a death metal album cover.

“Focus.” He grumbles. “I hate this preachy shit, so I’m not going to go over it more than once.” He glares at you until you look back down at the board. He points as he speaks, tracing lines to connect things while he explains them.

“The Crucible is like a foundry, making really tiny souls that don’t do anything and don’t do anyone any good. Those bits of life soak into the Earth and collect together. They go through the whole life and death thing a buncha times, getting bigger, and dirtier.”

“Dirtier?” The word only sticks out to you because he had mentioned your soul was clean earlier.

“Yeah, s’just how Earth is. Life’s gotta go through the whole muck and mire crap.” He waves a hand. “Once enough little soul pieces have come together they start inhabitin’ bigger things. Fish, deer, shit like that, no more plankton and moss and whatever. Eventually enough of the stuff comes together to make a human.”

Eustass draws a little stick figure under the word ‘Earth’ on the diagram. “Souls start out dirty, but that doesn’t mean they start out evil – good and evil are different from clean and dirty. Making human souls is just a dirty process. So folks do the living thing, and in the process of living takes away some of the grime, they die, come down here to The Turn, and go back to Earth to be a different human.” He moves the marker back and forth, but doesn’t make any marks. “Like goin’ up and down a washboard. Live, die, live, die, getting cleaner and cleaner.

“Now,” Eustass takes a deep breath and looks at you for a second. “Some folks start out grimier than others, and sometimes people fuck up and make themselves dirtier, but you gotta do real world-shaking levels of bad to manage that. Ya’ know, real despot shit, mass-murderin’, stuff like that. Anyways, eventually a soul gets all sparkly clean and when that human dies they don’t go to The Turn.”

He points to Heaven and Hell with the marker. “At that point they go to one of these two places, but honestly these labels are complete garbage. One’s not really any different from the other, it’s that whole ‘as above, so below’ shit. They’re just two sides to the same coin. The only thing anyone has right about ‘em on this world is the conflict, but that’s not shit for you to worry about right now.”

You’re quiet for a moment, mostly to be sure he was done talking. “So… if no one had stolen my soul I would’ve been done taking… turns on Earth and would’ve gone to heaven or hell?”

“Yeah. Sometimes people choose to go again, for whatever reason, but statistically you’da gotten off this ride and onto a new one.” He says. “Ah, another thing to remember, is that souls have a lot of variance. Size, shape, color, capacity – it all sets in stone the first time you’re human, and after that you can’t do anything about it until you get to heaven or hell. I know one guy who has a pitch black soul, clean as anyone else’s, and dark as midnight.

“But changing that is why there’s summoning contracts.” He says, glancing at you before he sets the poster board on fire, tossing the ashes aside. “That’s getting off topic. Here’s the important part, no matter what part of the cycle a soul’s in, once it leaves this realm it’s cut off from the human body it was connected to. Even the smallest functional soul is still bigger than the scraps you have connected to you, so there’s no way I know of that someone could’ve left here with what they took and you still be alive… ish.”

“Can you clean a soul without dying and going through The Turn?” You ask.

“Yeah, but it’s kind of a life-time investment deal. You know, vow of silence, swearing off all material things, decades of introspection. No fun. It’s not even a way to clean a soul completely either, unless it was mostly there already.” He explains. “But hey, if someone wants to devote their turn that way, then more power to ‘em I guess. Personally, I’d rather make as many vessels as I could.” He says with a devious grin.

“Can you still do that?”

“Eh? Knock someone up?” He laughs. “Nah, creatin’ half-breeds is messy business, not nearly fun as poundin’ into a squirming piece of ass.”

Your brows furrow. “Could someone have taken my soul to clean it?”

Eustass’ head tilts to one side for a moment, and then his eyes focus on you again. It’s the closest thing to embarrassment you’ve felt in a couple decades, the way that gaze lays you bare.

“… I doubt it. If your soul has a speck of dirt on it I’d be so surprised I’d suck my own dick.”

“That would be a sight.” You say deadpan.

“Fun, I bet.” He grins. “I’m curious about something though.” Eustass closes the distance between the two of you, pushing you back into the couch. His eyes were on fire like they usually were when he was really peering at you, and you turned your gaze away while he did whatever he was doing.

After a moment he turns you around, putting you on your knees on the couch, facing the wall. This was preferable to you, since you didn’t have to worry about meeting those eyes like this.

“Ah, there it is,” something in his voice almost makes your skin prickle. “Raise your arms.”

You oblige, and Eustass pulls your shirt up and off, tossing it aside. You thought he didn’t have any interest in physical activity with you since you couldn’t feel it, but maybe something had changed his mind. He puts your hands against the wall, holding them in place as he leans down. You can feel hot breath roll over your back, and you’re sure he’s getting ready to bite you.

“I can’t feel pain, but I can still bleed.” You say, feeling the strange need to make sure you were both on the same page.

“I bet.” His voice is low, and there’s something predatory in the tone. “But this shouldn’t hurt.”

You can feel the hot, wet tongue against your skin, just off to the side of your spine, along the curve of your shoulder blade. Something about it is oddly comforting, as though you had been bothered by the lack of contact since you summoned him. You were trying to sort out the unexpected feeling when his tongue shifts and pleasure jolts through your body like electricity.

You gasp in surprise and ecstasy, the mix of sounds bouncing off the walls of the apartment. Your body bucks, but Eustass has you held easily against the couch and wall. Another shift of his tongue continues the assault of pleasure, and your body starts to tremble. You hadn’t felt anything for at least two decades.

You could feel the pressure of contact, the texture of things beneath your fingers, but nothing repulsed you, nothing brought you delight – mundane or otherwise. Nothing brought you pain either, and you had learned to look for cuts and scraps a few times throughout the day, just to avoid causing panic amongst the people around you.

But the electricity that filled you now had all your senses alight. The bumps in the paint on the wall tickled your fingertips, the feel of Eustass’ body heat looming around you seemed to wrap around you more than his own body. Every twitch, every shiver of that impossibly hot tongue slipping along your skin, the way his skin made your body hair stand on end without even touching you, how your fingers twitched against his, making you crave more.

Desire more.

His tongue winds its way up your spine, the connection unbroken, the pleasure building, as though that initial connection was refusing to let go. You can’t breathe deeply enough, your muscles flex and twitch as he meanders to your neck. The gaze you can’t see is looking into your very being, whatever it looks like without your full soul there, and you can’t escape the image of those eyes in your mind.

If you could actually see him right now, you think you’d lose your mind.

He stops, just off to the side of your spine, under the nape of your neck, sweet sweat mixing on his tongue as your body exerted itself more in the last few moments than you had for years. His lips press against your skin, sucking the tender flesh into his mouth. The demanding growl that vibrates against you sends you over the edge, ripping your first orgasm in over two decades from your body.

Caught in the jaws of a demon, you can’t squirm away from the pleasure that lets slip a few errant tears as your entire body clenches. At the peak of it his teeth sink into you, and the sharp pain turns your shivering gasping moans into a euphoric cry of his name.

Eustass leans back, licking his lips as you struggle to catch your breath. “I knew you were going to sound delicious, contractor.”

“Wh-what was that?” You question as he steps back and lets you collapse onto the couch. The pleasure is fading, but the exhaustion – the bone deep kind you weren’t sure you would ever feel again – lingered for a little bit.

“I connected with one of the bigger scraps of soul hanging onto you.” He explains, stretching and looking pleased with himself.

“You look… satisfied.” You huff, looking at him with a bit of concern in the back of your head.

“I am,” he says, letting out a breath of air. “Your first orgasm in decades, and you screamed my name. Of course I’m satisfied.”

His tail squishes around behind him and when he turns to look at you, you almost want to tell him no. You’re tried in a way you haven’t been in decades, but you had turned over your consent long before this moment.

“Don’t panic, little mouse.” His tone is light, but the look in his eyes and the grin on his face feel predatory. “I have a prior commitment tonight, and I mean to take my time with you.”

He comes over to the couch and scoops you up in his arms. “You can get cleaned up and get some rest. I’ll take my screamer to a hotel or something.”

“There’s a, uh, day bed in the spare room. I can sleep there.” You offer.

“Worried about funds?”

You shake your head. “Nah, it was just the original plan.”

“Need help cleaning up?” He asks, setting you onto your feet in the bathroom.

“I can manage.” You say, taking a step away from him.

He quirks an eyebrow. “Worried I’d find another spot?”

“Yes.” You answer swiftly.

“I’ll find them all eventually,” he leans down, closing the distance between you. “I promise.”

#Souled Out #eustass kid #x reader #eustass kid x reader #supernatural au #one piece fanfiction #reader insert

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bedlamsbard · 2 years

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yess lets hear the im2 natasha hc

OKAY SO from a deleted scene from Black Widow the Budapest incident, a.k.a. Natasha's defection from the Red Room, occurred eight years prior to CACW/BW -- in other words, in 2008. IM1 also takes place in 2008, and because it greatly amuses me I headcanon that the end of IM1 (the Tony and Stane fight, since IM1 takes place over a period of months) took place immediately after the Budapest incident, which means that Nick Fury got back to the Triskelion with Budapest on fire and the Black Widow that Clint Barton talked into defecting and who now he has to rehabilitate going "okay, fine, now I can relax," and then got a call from Coulson going "boss, you won't BELIEVE what just happened."

After some finagling (I don't care what the official dates are) to get IM2, Thor 1, and TIH to all take place during the same week (which canon says they did), I have tentatively placed them in fall 2010. (Trying to get the Phase 1 dates to line up is a nightmare because they've all been retconned so many times.) This assumes that the "six months later" marker at the beginning of IM2 is just when Vanko Sr. dies and there's a longer time span between that and when Tony goes up in front of the Senate subcommittee and the rest of the movie occurs, and it assumes that when Fury says "last year" to Thor in Avengers he actually means longer than a year, but this is not exactly the worst timeline sin that the MCU has ever committed, it just has a lot of moving parts.

So here is my IM2 Natasha headcanon: this is her first undercover mission since she joined SHIELD. She has been doing ops for SHIELD since she joined, but it's all been relatively straightforward "go kill this dude" / "protect this other dude" stuff, and probably for the first year she was running those ops with Clint specifically. (The Winter Soldier run-in near Odessa that she refers to in TWS would have been in 2009 -- it could have been one of her earliest solo ops.) Fury puts her undercover with SI and Tony because he's curious to see if she can pull it off and also if she can deal with Tony Stark without murdering him then she's definitely been rehabilitated. Also if she can deal with the lingerie photoshoot she had to do for that without murdering anyone. Natasha succeeded, she did not have a good time, but she passed the last of Nick Fury's tests in the process.

(I had Natasha say this in Yonder, but I think she doesn't enjoy doing undercover work, and when she went to SHIELD she was hoping a little that she'd be out of that. The Battle of New York was an eye-opener for her with the realization that she didn't have to and in fact she liked not doing stuff alone in the dark.)

#siarrawrites #bedlam replies #bedlam watches the mcu

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cephalapodsupport · 2 years

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Reworked some of the chapter. Tell me what yall think, I need that feedback.

Reworked Chapter 1

Rhea had never seen a superhero fight, at least not one in person. The news undersold how terrifyingly loud it truly was. She pushed people undercover as debris fell around her. The sound of ripping metal and the two mutants; she thought they were at least, above scraping was too close for comfort. She screeched to a stop as a spear of rebar split the ground in front of her. Her heart was pounding in her ribs, god her ribs hurt. One of the mutants was in a blue and red spider-themed costume, the other was in what appeared to be a green and black hazmat suit, glasses, and…mechanical tentacles. Okay then process that later. Rhea chided herself as she navigated around a block of road that had been uprooted.

Hazmat Suit; she had no other name for him. Ripped the angel of the eve of a church with vicious glee and used the pieces as projectiles. "You know defacing a church is bad luck right?" The spider one called out as he webbed up the flying wings of the angel. He was young sounding warm and almost playful, my god is this who was in charge of our safety? "Of course not defacing a false idol is in their scripture." Hazmat called out, his voice was razor sharp and cold like metal that sprouted from his sides. The spider was doing his best to web up as much as he could. 'Where did the webs come from?' Her mind questions. Biologically that would imply he had spinneret, somewhere.

"Please get to safety!" She called running as fast as she could down the busy streets, her lungs burned with the effort, and her ribs throbbed. All she wanted to do was get to the little Café her college counselor had set up a meeting at, and she just wanted to get there in one piece at this point. Turning she watched the two slowly making their way down the street, hazmat suit had picked up a car in those tentacles of his using it to club the spider-suited man. Lovely. Adrenaline pushed Rhea harder, her legs wobbling at this point, and tears of pain threatening to fall. At last, the Bean Bag Café was in sight. She had just made it through the door when the Spider guy crashed through the front display.

"Oh god!" Rhea gasped, several gashes littered his costume now and blood pooled around them turning the red suit dark. The whole Cafe looked scared, all eyes on the man. Still far calmer than they should be in her opinion. 'Do they not care that they could die? There's a mutant turf war out there, where's their self-preservation?!' Rhea thought. Her eyes darted between the man and a safe place to hide. Exhaustion bit her hard, but she watched his labored breath and made her choice. Darting over to the drowned man she carefully and very discreetly let her energy brush against his own a very faint glow emanating from her palms. She caught a wave of bright red energy behind her eyes; a marker of his biofeedback in her mind. It registered that he was in pain, which was obvious but had no broken bones. 'That's a miracle he's been used like a pinata.' She thought remembering how he'd been batted around. Slowly she let a trickle of energy flow from her into him.

Rhea's powers centered on electromagnetic energy, and right now she was quietly assisting the man's natural healing by stitching up the wounds, stimulating the flesh to close and nerves to heal, and for that, she needed a calm mindset. A task easier said than done in these conditions, but still, she tried. She wasn't magic but she could help minor things; hopefully, it would give the hero a second wind before Hazmat got here.

Her surprised scream died on her lips as the man sprung up pushing her out of the way as blade-like shards of glass rained down, she bit back a scream as the silver tentacles slithered through the display. "You know I bet you'd make one hell of a bartender tubby. If only you had a decent personality and a new haircut." The Spider joked as he raised to his feet. The boy in the hazmat suit sneered at him, "If only you'd learn not to interfere with my experiments we wouldn't have to go through all this barbaric bloodshed." The spider leaped at the boy pushing him back out into the street with renewed vigor. Leaving Rhea stupefied and kneeling on the dusty glass-filled floor, her eyes fixated on the blood staining the ground. Her instincts were screaming at her to move but she was frozen. Her counselor spotted her and pulled her under a table before anything else could happen.

"Hello Miss Green, how are you enjoying your first week in New York?" Her counselor chirped.

Mr. Robertson was a jolly older gentleman with short well kept gray hair and a clean shaved face. His milky cheeks were always a bit red, making his freckles stand out more. Bright blue eyes twinkled under bushy brows. Rhea pushed back strands of dark brown hair as she settled into a more comfortable place under the table. Her bright jade eyes were still wide with fright, and her body fighting exhaustion. The kicked-up dust irritated her contacts, and a thin sheen of sweat coated her forehead.

"Well, I wasn't expecting this to happen, sir. Is it always like this?" The sound of the fight was still so close now and so loud. The sound of mechanical hissing and rubble falling not far from their hiding place. A roar of rage ripped through the air.

"Do you know how many hours of work you wasted for me?! How many millions of dollars have you cost me?!" Hazmat bellowed out at the leaping blue and red blur. "Nah, and I don't care. Your little experiments and pet projects are no good for anyone." The blur answered. Something crashed close to the coffee shop causing Rhea to cringe. The blaring alarm told her it was the car from earlier. The roars of the man in the hazmat suit could be heard over all the fighting.

Mr. Robertson smiled "No but it happens more than you'd think. You should see the Goblin, way more damage than Doctor Octopus out there."

Doctor…Octopus. The irony was not lost on her as she felt the corner of her lips twitch, okay then. Maybe she should have stayed in Accomac as her father wanted. Nothing happened in Accomac.

"Will that man be okay? The one in the spider costume?"

"Spidy err Spider-Man? He should be, he's a good hero. Though Ock is a tough bastard when he wants to be. I saw you try to help Spider-Man, you've got a good heart in you kid."

She felt her cheeks redden at the compliment. Hesitantly she poked her head up over the table to see the fight. The man: Octopus, was truly something to see. The mechanical tentacles kept pace with Spider-Man every step of the way. She took a deep breath and hid the glow of her hand by waving at them. 'Good luck Spider guy, looks like you're gonna need it.'

She felt compelled to give him a boost for his and their sakes, but she had to be careful too much and she'd give herself away or worse cause harm to the cells. Cells were such delicate little things after all.

Doctor Octopus; Rhea fought a giggle at his name, caught the movement with a perplexed expression before diving back into the fight. Rhea's heart dropped to her guts. 'And now a sociopathic mutant knows you're alive. Brilliant Rhea.' She watched as Spider-Man turned to look in her direction as well between blows of the tentacle things. 'Great he probably thinks I'm some type of groupie. This day can't get any worse.' She thought as she slunk back down under the sturdy table. Her counselor smiled at her cheekily. "Can't blame ya it's always a treat for me to see Spidy in action. It's like I'm a little kid again."

Rhea smiled tightly at his comment, trying to hide her discomfort and embarrassment.

Outside the sound of the fight grew dim and once again she dared to poke her head above the table. The two mutants had broken apart Spider-Man was nursing a deep ragged cut on his shoulder as she clung to the edge of the Café's roof. The Octopus was scaling over a building, the metallic arms making it seem effortless and graceful. Rhea felt anxiety clench her heart even after he disappeared over the rooftops. This city was dangerous, much more than she thought. Spider-Man let himself drop to the ground, the buildings and streets covered in the strange silvery silks. He leaped into the Café with the gangly movement of a younger man.

"Sorry for the inconvenience there folks. Anyone hurt?" The majority of them sounded off a no, others had only minor wounds. He cast a look around once more before settling in on Rhea. "Hey, thanks for your concern back there, but next time don't go into the fight. You could get hurt out there."

Rhea just nodded at his words. 'Does he know I helped him?' Her instincts just told her to help so she helped so they didn't end up killed. Not like you can fight instincts, especially the instinct to survive. Nodding in return he sent out a web to go check the rest of the streets for those who needed help. Mr. Robertson was glowing.

"You got a word from Spider-Man, lucky you!" He whooped. "Now let's get you home and reschedule your meeting. Hmmm? To a less glass-filled coffee shop." The owner shot a look at him. Mr. Robertson just smiled sheepishly.

"Where do you live right now Miss Green? I'll drive you there."

Rhea smiled tiredly at him, her powers did a number on her, and she felt the prickle of overheating starting to take effect. Even that little bit of healing left her muscles feeling like jelly from exhaustion. She needed a good soak in the sea as she used to at home, but a shower would do for now.

"Forest Hill, Queens. I'm renting a room from a nice old lady."

……

The house in Queens was small and homey. Three bedrooms, one bath, and an open kitchen; reminded Rhea of her grandmother's home in Norfolk, and May Parker was the sweetest woman she had ever met. She was probably in her early sixties to late fifties. Long gray hair up in a neat bun and her clothing always tasteful is a little matronly. Her deep blue eyes held a sort of deep wisdom and compassion Rhea truly admired.

As soon as she lay those blue eyes on Rhea and her dusty form she began to fuss over her.

"Oh, dear I was so worried. I saw on the news that Spider-Man and the doctor boy, were fighting near the cafe you had a meeting at. Tenant or not, that was a nerve racker. It looks like it was a terrible time for you as well, are you hurt?"

Rhea smiled up at her. "No Mrs. May, I'm fine, but it was a shock. I'd love a good shower and a nap."

Mrs. Parker gently patted her shoulder and dismissed her.

Rhea enjoyed being here, she helped with chores and cooking, and her rent was pretty low for New York. Truth be told, she thought Mrs. Parker was a bit lonely without her nephew (nephews?). She remembered hearing one had gone off to college and had moved in with his girlfriend, but there was another bedroom. It was locked and May cleaned it often, always locking it after she was done. Judging by the windows it wasn't just another closet. Maybe he died, or went away for a while? She was a little afraid to ask.

Having Rhea was no substitute, and she wasn't vain enough to think of herself as anything more than a tenant to fill space, a decoration if you will. Mrs. Parker would always remind her that she was good company and a sweet girl. It never stopped that part of herself from thinking she was an interloper.

Walking into the small bathroom Rhea quickly shucked off her dusty clothes. Mindful of the other part of her mutation. On her back were four deep cuts that had scared her, the flesh glossy and indented. The wounds had been deep, and the sight of them still made her grimace. The skin was tender even after two months, and the flesh along her back and ribs had turned from pale olive to a putrid green. The memories brought tears to her eyes, she didn't let herself cry, hadn't cried for a long time now. It was the very reason she had gone to New York, to get as far away as possible from that memory; she would not break now.

'I need water.' She could feel her chest tighten anxiously. Water in general was her best friend, be it the ocean or a shower. Water was the best way to cool down after power use as it made her dangerously overheated, or just to help ground herself after a bad day. Today wasn't as bad, and she had used only a small bit of energy, but she felt the feverish effects of them nonetheless. May always fussed at her for her long showers. Rhea smiled at that. Popping into the lukewarm water; cleaning off quickly, before switching to cold to soothe her muscles.

Wrapped in a fluffy towel from home she tiptoes up to her room. No one had seen her scars and she wanted to keep it that way. She likes this place and didn't want to be seen as a victim by anyone. She was also afraid of being kicked out, of being alone. What if May thought she was dangerous because she was a mutant? She wouldn't think about that and shook her head as though to cast out the thought.

Rhea's room was small and spartan; it had been the college nephew's before hers, she hadn't taken a lot with her when she left home. A pink rose bedspread and sheets on the twin bed. Next to which sat a picture of her father, her aunt, and herself. They smiled up at the camera from the dunes and seagrass in Chincoteague, her dad had taken her to see the ponies. An old-fashioned alarm clock that read 3:50 pm, and a decorative art nouveau flower lamp from her grandmother framed the picture.

Changing into a pair of gray sleep pants with little bunnies on them, and a baby blue tank she crawled under the covers.

'Oh, contacts.' She remembered before settling in. Wouldn't be the first time she fell asleep in them. She slid them out with practiced hands and set them in the case. Without them, she had a limited bubble of vision around her before it faded into fuzziness. As her head hit the pillows what little adrenaline that was holding her up died, and she was out like a light.

Rhea woke up to the sound of the doorbell ringing. A glance at the clock read 5:00 pm. She'd only been asleep for a little over an hour. Grabbing her round silver frame glasses and soft white robe she made her way downstairs to see who was there. Still groggy and disgruntled, she planned to shoo the caller off. May was in the kitchen cooking dinner, and from the smell of it was vegetable soup. Somehow she beat Rhea to the door by several feet, she looked very excited. The realization hit Rhea a little bit too late, it was family night for the Parkers.

"Oh, Peter there you are. I thought you'd be late for dinner!" May titter.

"You know I'm never late for Friday dinner Aunt May." The smile could be heard in her nephew’s voice. She had yet to meet the nephew. As she made herself scarce on family days. May would talk about him, but seldom stayed on the subject, it made her wistful. Empty nests usually do for mother figures.

“It's so good to see you, I don’t think Otto will be over this time.” She said in a wistful whisper.

“I'm good with that, he’s exhausting,” Peter said cheerily, May swatted his arm playfully.

Rhea on the other hand turned quickly as she tried to head back to her room. Never one to intrude on sweet family moments. ‘Who is Otto?’ she thought, ‘I’ll have to ask her tomorrow.’

"Oh, Rhea here I'd like you to meet my nephew Peter. Peter, this is the little girl who's renting your old room, Rhea."

Rhea shuffled over nervously waving her hand close to her body. She was very out of her element here, never a social girl not even back home. It looked like she was going to be made to muddle through a very awkward evening.

"Hi." She said quietly.

"Hi," Peter said back, waving a bit. 'Today just really isn't my day.’ Rhea cringed inside.

……

Otto glared down from the top of a building as Spider-Man swung away. He hated losing a match, the burn of indignation spurring him to hunt him down. Not yet. There had been an anomaly in the fight: a new signal, a new mutant! It's radiation singing a sweeter song than the buzzing drone of Spider-Man's. Sweet, clear, and oh so new, glee swept through him. It reminded him of Clair de Lune in a sense, somewhere in that dingy little café was a mutant. Then the sweet song was gone, and then again it picked up at the tail end of the fight. He had made his choice then and there, Otto was going to go back to jail today. Not when there was a discovery so close. He craved something new to study, his mind needed something new. Long months with little amusement in the hospital had starved him of discoveries; of amusement. As bitter as it was he picked up his pride and reluctantly retreated. Not far, just from the prying eyes of the arachnid. He kept his sense fine-tuned, looking for signs of this new mutant. The unwashed masses of humans scattered from the area. Frantically moving like ants below him, but where was the mutant? Was it hidden in the ocean of disgusting little monkeys? What a travesty, pearls before swine. If he could find it, study it, and truly appreciate the beauty that his goddess had given it. Perhaps he could sway it to his side in the fight to evolve the minds and masses of Earth. So many possibilities, but he must find it first. At nightfall, he would start his hunt.

#doctor octopus #doctor octopus year one #doc ock #otto octavius #chapter 1

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yanyanfeii · 2 years

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Hello. Can I request a Jinx with a female reader with a soulmate au? It can be colours, tattoo etc.

of course ! ;)

her soulmate<3

contains: slight angst, kidnapping,

summary: Jinx’s soulmate is last person she or her soulmate would like to be.

- it was a ice cold rainy evening, the undercity was bustling more so than usual. the holidays were approaching, and though they weren’t like the holidays you and i know, it was still a time of celebration. by celebrating they refer to bar hopping, drinking like your legs are about to be sawed off and partying to dawn. typical.

the blue haired girl was not one for socializing much outside of her inner circle. she didn’t quite pick up the usual social cues most had.

jinx’s feet thudded against the metal roof tops she ran upon, with a harsh thud, she not so gracefully landed on the dirt ground. changing her footing to balance herself she chuckled to herself, dusting off her pants before strolling up the best bar in town.

stopping dead in her tracks, her sapphire eyes narrowed at the sight in front of her. mouth turning downward she huffed, reluctantly sitting next to the enforcer at the bar. jinx raised her hand up summoning over the bartender to fix her up a alcohol free drink.

side eyeing the enforcer, her eyes couldn’t help but travel down to her hands. slamming her hands against the oak counter she stood up flabbergasted. “your- your hand!” the blue haired girl exclaimed pointing to the enforcers hand. it had the same symbol that jinx had drawn on her own hand this morning.

there was no way in hell her soulmate was a good damn enforcer. “excuse me?” you ask, watching as this undergrounder in front of you throws a fit for seemingly no reason. ‘i shouldn’t have come here alone.’ you mentally cursed at yourself for not considering your safety first.

“your hand!” the girl looked about ready to puke, god you wished it wouldn’t be on you at least. “what about it?” you asked concerned, bringing the back of your hand up to your vision, squinting to see if there was any secret meaning to the monkey like drawing on your hand. you could see nothing.

before you could process what was happening the bizarre female in front of you grabbed your face putting a cloth over your mouth. screaming into the palm of her hand she smiled shushing you like a mother would to her crying child. your vision went black. you lost conciseness.

you woke up to a pleasant humming. was this heaven? have you died? a groan escaped your lips, everything felt foggy. “oh! you’re awake!” a cheery voice rang in your ears. the blindfold was gently removed from your eyes, your gaze found the same blue haired female whom you’d met at the bar. what had happened for you to end up here?

“what do you want with me?” you stated less of a question and more as a demand. despite your circumstances you’d not let yourself appear venerable. “nothing, nothing really.” she mumbled, bending down, her face becoming awfully close to yours. “then why am i here?” you asked annoyed, your eyes telling it all.

“well~” she sang plopping down in front of you, crossing her legs. she reached out taking your hand in hers. “because you’re my soulmate, and i couldn’t just let you escape from me!” shit, now it was your turn to freak out.

“no, no way…” you whispered to try and convince yourself. the back of her hand showed you the truth, there it was the same drawing of that monkey that you had on your hand. “how do i know your aren’t lying?” she frowned. “why would i lie?” ‘maybe because your psycho!’ you yelled in your mind.

“here, proof.” she grabbed a black marker from beside her writing something on her hand. soon after the ink began to appear on your own hand. ‘shit’ “whose jinx?” you read your hand. “that’s me!” the girl named jinx chimed. god she was too happy for this situation. “now is where you say your name.” jinx said blank faced. “y/n” you stated.

“jinx. this can’t be happening.” you uttered in completely malcontent. tears began to form in your eyes. you worked so hard all your life to become a enforcer, to get good grades, to become just the way your parents always wanted you to be. “hey, why so sad?” jinx asked more softly. it only made the tears stream faster.

you felt her hand gently lift up your chin, a small sincere smile forming on her lips. “it’ll be okay.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

a/n: Hey! i hope this was okay, i wasn’t sure how exactly jinx would react, obviously it wouldn’t be all cutesie so i thought this was a more accurate representation of her character :)

#jinx arcane #jinx x reader #jinx x you #jinx #powder #powder x reader #powder arcane #jinx supremacy #jinx league of legends #jinx lol #league of legends #league of lesbians

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bakughostly · 2 years

Text

bkg x reader, 78k, complete.

prologue / winter / spring / summer / fall / winter pt. ii / anniversary

tw: loss/grief, hurt/comfort, angst w/ a happy ending, canon-typical violence

notes: please forgive my awful attempt at a banner lmaooooo but here is my love letter to finding yourself within the healing process and learning that it can be hard to heal, but it’s always easier when someone is healing with you. this is the prologue only, all other chapters can be found on ao3!

Summary:

He's dead.

Somehow, life carries on.

(When Denki, your long-term boyfriend, is stabbed by a villain on his way home from work, left to bleed out on the sidewalk only a mile from your apartment, you find yourself adrift. Strangely enough, it's Bakugou that helps with what comes after.)

On the day that Denki dies, you learn that grief isn’t an emotion—it’s a silence.

It’s the way sound fades out and your vision tunnels when you see his body on the news, his blood staining the sidewalk outside the Lawson that you walk past every day on your way to work. It’s the feeling of your back pressed against the window as you slide down to the floor, the cold of the winter afternoon outside sinking into your skin without a word. It’s the emptiness after the phone stops ringing, after his pre-recorded I’ll get back to you, promise! plays, and then it’s just you and the weight of everything you want to say to him but can’t. It’s an amalgam of quiet. His blood will stain a path you’ll walk for years to come, and you’ll never be able to tell him that the reminder isn’t his fault.

It was Bakugou that you asked to drive you to the crematorium, to help you with the kotsuage, to pass the bones of the man you love between mismatched pairs of chopsticks. One type of wood for the dead, the other for the living. Two sides of a coin that you aren’t allowed to flip. He’s the only person you know that owns a car besides your best friend, and you haven’t spoken to her for more than a year now.

You consider calling. As you wait outside your building, tucked into the alcove of the townhouse’s stonework portico, her name is pulled up on your phone screen, Togeike Chikuchi, last called two Januarys ago. It’s unlikely she’ll pick up. She’s getting married soon. You’re sure she already has her fair share of burdens, and considering how long it’s been, she probably won’t want to carry yours too.

He shows up three minutes before the time you’d set with him on the phone last night, his Toyota Yaris gleaming black like snakeskin under the streetlamp where it’s illegally parked. When you slide into the car, the heating system’s airflow engulfs you. There’s the slight smell of something plasticky and melting, a testament to the car’s age. You share nonverbal greetings and don’t look at one another head-on. Neither of you want to acknowledge where you’re going and what you have to do.

The car feels too hot. You turn down the heating by a notch on the dash. Cold sweat sticks your shirt to your back. You couldn’t bring yourself to be there when Denki was placed into the cremation chamber, limbs arranged careful and proper, face peaceful and calm.

At least that’s the image your brain has concocted, burrowing into your frontal lobe like a worm. It’s something you’ve thought about since you got the call yesterday morning, an unsympathetic front desk attendant informing you that it was time to complete the death rites, to come to the crematorium that that it would’ve taken you more than an hour to get to by train.

You watch the smooth way Bakugou’s hands slide over the old Toyota’s steering wheel. Moments with him have always had a kind of weight to them—a stifling, blanketed tension. But the silence in the car feels different from usual. Apprehensive, nervous. Or maybe that’s just you. In your lap, your fingers are interlocked, palms facing up. You tap your thumbnails against each other in a staccato rhythm that matches the sound of the tires rolling over lane markers and potholes. If he notices your restlessness, he says nothing.

The car creaks to a stop in front of a stucco building, mildew stains dripping from the rain gutters to the second-story windows. The small patch of grass between the street and the front door is clipped short but unweeded.

It’s not a fitting place for a hero to end up—but what is?

There’s a tall black pine next to the crematorium, just offset behind it, and it reaches over the curved, gray-shingle roof to the cold sky. The needles blend and clear, your face is hot and cold, your hands are numb and not. You dig the quicks of your bitten-down nails into your palms and force yourself to breathe. There’s an ache in your fingertips that you can’t quite dislodge.

Before you leave the car, he reaches out—almost touches you. Pulls back before his fingers can graze your wrist. “I’ll tell them we’ll do it another time.”

You shake your head, chest tight.

“I don’t give a shit if they called today,” he says, voice made more gruff by the cold that carves its way into the idled car. “If you’re not ready, they’ll wait.”

“It wouldn’t be respectful,” you tell him. Not to the crematorium workers—to Denki. You don’t want him to wait longer than he already has.

You return to the familiar quiet as you step out into the mid-morning frost, as you enter the cramped building and follow the crematorium director to the table of ashes, as you pick out snowdrop bone from the soot-black remains.

Phalange and vertebra, metacarpal and jaw. The collagen framework of the body you once called home. He’s interred in a simple brass urn because he prefers—(preferred, you correct)—minimal over intricate. Something you wouldn’t have expected from him when you first met at school.

On the way out, the front desk attendant wordlessly hands you a pastel-colored pamphlet with a cartoon sun on the cover. It sports a smile that looks like it was drawn by a child. What’s next? the pamphlet asks you. It’s creased badly down the middle. Inside, at the top of the first page, it answers its own question. Dealing with grief in five steps.

You slip the pamphlet into your jacket pocket and hope that you remember it’s there later so you can burn it on your stove.

The Kaminari family shrine is close. Without asking, Bakugou knows to drive you there. To let Denki be with his ancestors for a little while before he’s buried, traditional, like his dad would have wanted.

He waits at the gate as you ghost your way through the motions required to honor both Denki and his family. It’s like you’re watching yourself from the outside, every movement appearing so much smoother than it feels. Your body is disjointed, almost. Broken into parts that can still somehow function without you. Time passes and you don’t even notice—you’re suddenly in the car watching the low-hanging sun, orange bleeding into the winter-white sky like egg yolk.

Bakugou drops you off afterwards, pulling up to the sidewalk in front of the townhouse’s front door. It’s dark now. You must have left a light on in your unit, the townhouse’s upstairs window lit warm and cozy like the picture on a Christmas card. You were supposed to go see the winter lights together on the night that he died. A Christmas Eve tradition.

Traditions are easy to break. As delicate as colorful blown glass and just as intricate. You pull the pamphlet from your pocket, trace the deep, feathering groove between its glossy halves. We are individuals with individual patterns of grief, the pamphlet tells you in a sloping serif font, the words just smaller than the question above them.

What’s next?

You’ve sat in Bakugou’s car in silence for long enough, taken up plenty of his time. You slip out of the Yaris along with the warm air from the heating system, and you can see his breath when he says your name, frosted and curling toward the windshield.

He looks conflicted. Not sure what to say. He’s not the type to apologize—but you can appreciate that. That seems to be the knee-jerk reaction to someone else’s loss. You want everyone that’s said sorry to you to realize how empty their words are. You want them to be able to understand the hollow that’s grown between your ribs over the past few days, cracking bone in its wake, puncturing organs. You want them to know what it feels like to be as adrift as you are.

You want them to hurt.

A deep part of you knows this is wrong. That you’re better than wishing pain onto other people. But a bigger, more prevalent part of you is numb, radiating like the echo after someone rings a bell.

The only person whose apology matters is the villain who drove the knife between Denki’s ribs, and their apology can come in the form of showing up dead in an alley somewhere, missed by no one and forgotten by all.

The car’s interior lights cast Bakugou in a pale-yellow glow. The alarm beeps softly into the velvet of night, asking you politely to close your door and sever your connection to the only other person you’ll talk to this week.

“I know you’re gonna try to handle all this yourself,” he tells you before you can follow the alarm’s insistent, droning orders. “But don’t be an idiot. My phone’s always on.”

You tell him you’ll keep that in mind, even though you have no intention of calling him. The feelings you’re carrying aren’t ones that can be shared. Like stone fruit that will never reach ripeness, left in the cold for too long, flesh turned mealy and bitter. Nothing another person would want. Still, he’s gone out of his way for you today. “Thank you.”

“Yeah,” he responds, eyes on the massive pothole next to his car, on the street corner’s tilted lamp, on anything except the person his words are meant for. “Don’t mention it.”

An expression, but one he means literally. If you weren’t a mess, it might have been Tell anyone about this and you’re fucking dead. It might have been I’m doing this for him, not for you. You wonder where he draws the line between pity and obligation.

You’re not going to mention it. You know that this is more than he does for most people. For anyone, really. All of this—the quiet rides, the silent but present support, the way his chopsticks steadied yours when your shaking hands nearly dropped a starlight-soft piece of bone—is nothing you would expect of him.

That doesn’t mean you can quiet the instinct to ask him to stay, if only to numb the sharp edge of your apartment’s cloying emptiness. But you close the car’s door, abruptly cutting off the alarm, and he drives away. You watch until his tail lights are blurry specks between far-off buildings, until he turns onto the main road and out of your sight.

And then you sit down on the curb of the sidewalk and stay there until the cold feels sharper than the silence inside you.

read the rest as it updates on ao3!

#bakugou x reader #katsuki bakugou x reader #bakugo x reader #mha x reader #fanfic #omg that's the FIRST BANNER IVE MADE IN YEARS ITS SO WACK LMAOOOOO #um please enjoy. this took a piece out of me to write #but i think it was more than worth it

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glassessence · 3 years

Text

All We Are | Lee Ficlet

This is the truth of me, he thought. I can’t say it aloud, but if I ever forget… if I ever lose myself… Remember me, Commandant.

My perspective on Lee’s thoughts as he prepares to gift the Commandant a little robot. Spoilers for Lee’s interlude!

I kinda rushed through it because I’m just so excited, but I hope you guys enjoy it nonetheless! :)

A l l W e A r e | L e e

He drew back, satisfied. The little robot sat on the desk, silent and watchful under the stark light of his room. He studied it with some pride. Creating such things was trivial to him now, but there was something comforting in the familiar motions. The simplicity of it reminded him of another life. Those fragile days and their fleeting happiness felt more distant with every breath. Once a blazing force that drove him relentlessly on, his memories no longer burned. They’d faded to a secret warmth, softened by time. Even this body felt natural now. As if he’d always been this way, a personality inhabiting a metallic shell.

Except, of course, that this body wasn’t natural at all. Once, he’d been a human. Flesh and blood. Mortal and finite, a single road travelled from beginning to end. Once, he’d been Morian.

He’d given up the name when he’d agreed to become a Construct. It didn’t feel right to walk around with his real name, the one Murray knew him by. That was the name of an older brother, someone tender and caring. Someone who built companions for lonely boys. It didn’t belong to someone who killed on command, as he surely would under Babylonian orders. And so Morian had died that day, passing the torch of his will to Lee. He wished it was as simple as that. A clean disconnect, past and present cut with surgical precision. But life wasn’t engineering. It was messy, and far less logical. He was only a consciousness in a container now, but he still carried half of his soul, and it was cut of the same fabric as the heart that loved so deeply. If Morian no longer felt right, well then, Lee wasn’t the perfect fit either.

He sighed. This line of thinking never led anywhere productive. All these years and he’d never come to an answer. Perhaps he never would. His time would have been better spent learning to shut off a certain vocal module. He returned his attention to the tiny robot. Picking it up, he moved its limbs, noting the way they creaked just a little. With a small grunt, he grabbed a jar of grease, the same jar he used on himself. Carefully, he oiled the robot’s joints until it moved as smoothly as any Construct’s.

He placed it back on the table. Shiny black eyes stared at him. He’d built countless robots since becoming a Construct. It helped him relax, but more importantly, it connected him to the human past he sometimes found himself forgetting. It frightened him. Just a little. How easy it was to forget, to take for granted the permanence of memory. He knew too well the shortcomings of consciousness recall technology. It had failed before, and it would fail again. Would one of those times be him? He’d kept meticulous records over the years, just in case, but there was no guarantee they would be preserved either. He’d seen Constructs forget wives and children, lovers and mothers. The threat of it, of losing the very essence of yourself, lurked always in the back of his mind.

Pulling open a drawer, he pulled out a core processing chip. It was the last one he had. It was a rare find, more advanced than the chips he usually used for his bots, and he’d been saving it for a special occasion. This definitely counted, though he’d rather be caught dead than admit it to anyone. Carefully, he slotted it into place inside the little robot and clicked the panel shut. Tiny eyes sparked to life. With a fluid grace, the bot padded to the edge of the table and sat, thin metal legs kicking merrily in the air.

Lee smiled. The robot was a replica of Murray’s. He’d made some slight improvements - he had an engineer’s pride, after all - but it was otherwise the exact same childish creation from all those years ago. As if on cue, the bot threw back its head in silent laughter. He hovered his hand near it and watched as it climbed onto his palm. The motion sensors were working well. Nodding to himself, Lee considered the bot. He’d always meant to give something to the Commandant, but recreating a remnant of his past hadn’t been his intention. Still, it felt right. Intimate, somehow. Like the bot was a physical manifestation of all the words he didn’t have. All the thoughts he couldn’t say.

Perhaps this was his answer then. This little robot that connected his two selves through time. Morian and Lee, past and present compacted into a mechanoid smaller than the palm of his hand. He curled his fingers gently around the robot. It curled up and entered sleep mode. Picking up a marker, he printed a neat set of numbers on the tiny mechanoid’s foot: 421-M.

This is the truth of me, he thought. I can’t say it aloud, but if I ever forget… if I ever lose myself… Remember me, Commandant.

Carefully, he placed the robot by his bedside. Though he’d already given his heart away, it seemed he still had more to give.

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

If you made it this far, thank you for reading! ^^

Bonus content: headcanons I had while writing this haha

- Lee canonically keeps records of the Commandant. He also keeps something of an audio diary. Those are the actions of a man who treasures memories and places great value on them. You can’t tell me otherwise.

- The fact that Lee doesn’t use his real name, unlike the other Constructs, feels significant to me. So I’m just going to sit here and pretend like it’s all part of his angst haha.

- Constructs who’ve had to do emergency consciousness recall have sometimes come back with gaps in their memories. Gray Raven squad have all seen tragic scenes play out between loved ones, but Lee is particularly susceptible due to his history with Murray.

- He hasn’t made a robot like the one he gave Murray until the he made the one for Commandant.

- 421-M: 421 for the most important date of his life. M for Morian, the (in his opinion) kinder, softer side of his soul.

#pgr #pgr lee #punishing gray raven

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thebomb-thebird-andtheburntbitch · 3 years

Text

pt.1: the swapping begins

-> 4-fking-am masterlist <-

b:katsuki / f.reader

genre: neighbor au, pro-hero bakugou

warning(s)!!: bakugou's potty mouth (ofc)

status: on-going!

synopsis: you had just moved into your new apartment and like every other college student under the sun, you had the worst sleep scheudle known to man. due to this, you find yourself playing music through your speakers at 4 am. your neighbor slides you a note under your door about your ‘shitty’ taste in music, thus the note swaps begin.

a/n: the first part has arrived! hopefully, updates on this particular series won't be so drawn out since i'm planning to keep all written parts on the shorter side along with the smau parts being just easier since it's all just dialog LOL (ive done smau in the past for other things but they weren't so hot but hopefully i'm better now lol rip)

-x-x-x-

w.count: 1.3k

-x-x-x-

Why did you decide to go back to school to pursue further education again? If it wasn’t to stress yourself into early grey hairs or to rip out those grey hairs until you were bald, then why?

Collapsing over your desk- textbook open and notes out in messy piles with doodles across every edge and corner from wandering concentration- you groan. Exams were right around the corner, but you couldn’t for the life of you get your brain to focus on one thing- much less multiple things- for more than a couple hours, so studying quickly turned into a failed attempt to study.

Normally, studying wasn’t so difficult for you and you actually found it therapeutic in its own weird way. You enjoyed learning new things and the pride and wholeness you felt after succeeding to teach yourself something new was well worth whatever the process to get there was to you. But, this current college burnout was making all those end results hard to get to.

You glanced at the clock on one of the elevated shelves of your desk, the dimly glowing orange letters showing the time of 3:54 am. You groaned again, pushing your forehead into your written words and definitely smearing pencil lead on your forehead while you were at it. Maybe you’d soak up the words this way and have the knowledge transferred automatically into your brain if you pushed just hard enough.

Another dull and unrelenting amount of minutes pass you by before you officially call it quits for the night. Giving up, you walked to the other side of the room and plopped down on your bed’s edge next to one of your nightstands, your wrist rubbing your forehead to hopefully clear away the mess of leftover lead on it. On this nightstand was your radio and beneath it along the shelves and below the drawer was a collection of CDs.

In a world where albums were digital and everything was Bluetooth compatible and no one carried around a portable CD player anymore, you felt somewhat awkward sometimes at the seemingly large and ridiculous collection of yours. There were still plenty of people with CDs and even vinyls, but still- the awkwardness of your ‘retro’ thinking at your age did make you feel a bit self-conscious; no matter how idiotic it sounded.

You leaned over the bed and down to the bottom shelf cubby and grabbed a thin, plastic album case. Popping it open, the cheap plastic threatened to break and bend as you pushed open the top of your radio and placed the CD inside, shutting it again and turning it on.

A small little baby blue boombox that resembled a sort of bubble-like structure- a late birthday gift from your friends back in your hometown.

You figured if you didn’t absolutely blast your music, it would be fine to play aloud. Plus, you decided to put your bedroom in the backmost room, and the second room closer to the front room of your apartment was used for storage- since renting a storage unit was way too expensive. In your mind, the room closet to the door for a single living tenant would definitely be their bedroom- so you did the opposite when you moved in.

With your legs still handing off the side of the bed, you threw yourself back onto the mattress with your arms out to your sides. You stared at the ceiling of your room, thinking that at some point you’d need to purchase some cheap glow-in-the-dark stars to tack up there just for nostalgia’s sake.

As you heard the radio read the CD in small hums, you shut your eyes and smiled when the first track started. To be honest, you weren’t really pressed for what music you were going to be listening to, so you just kinda pulled from your cubby and popped the CD in without even looking at what you grabbed. You almost laughed when an older album your mom used to listen to started playing.

You weren’t exactly sure how it happened or when, but the next thing you knew, you were staring blankly and tiredly up to your ceiling again. The sun outside had risen and you heard birds, outside chatter, and basic roadside living outside. Even being up on the fourth floor, you could still hear the world below fairly well since you almost always had your window open with a fan inside of it.

Your body was sore from how you were laying on your back with your arms out, and you felt stiff. Legs partially numb from hanging off the bed all morning when you turned to look at your clock on the desk with squinted eyes.

Almost noon.

“God,” you moaned, forcing yourself up and wobbly making a path out of your room and into the kitchen to solve the problem of your severe cottonmouth. Stepping out of your narrow, short hall, you yawned and stopped before stepping into the kitchen when you saw a note at your doorstep. It had been slid under the front door and was face down, small blotches of black bled through to show that the other side had something written on it in marker.

More intrigued with the mysterious note than ready to deal with your dry mouth and throat that demanded water, you trotted to the paper and flicked it up. Your eyes quickly scanned the note and you gasped, slightly slapping a hand over your mouth.

‘Your taste in music really fuckin’ sucks’

Oh my god, someone heard that? Were you too loud? Was it annoying? Who in their right mind has the further room from the door other than you who did it on purpose so that this situation could be specifically avoided? Would you need to move rooms? No, then you’d have your other neighbors slipping you notes or even knocking on your door.

Maybe this neighbor has a roommate and had no choice but to take the room furthest from the door. Would you need to move out now before you died from overthinking the situation?

Racing back into your room, you tore out a sheet of lined paper and a mark erfrom your jar of pens, pencils, highlightser, what have you, and began to write in large letters a note back.

‘I’m so sorry about the noise! I’ll make sure not to play it that ungodly early again! (also, no it doesn’t, my taste in music is fine).’

You felt a little silly putting the added small text at the bottom of the paper in parentheses, but you felt the need to nip this particular neighbor’s opinion about your music in the butt- you boiled the choice down to comedies sake.

Making your way back to your door, you unlocked the bolt and unlatched the chain as you poked your head out. For it being almost the middle of the day, you made sure no one was in the halls before you jogged out your door and to the left. Your room was the furthest left room and they heard it, so clearly it had to be the left side neighbor... right?

Taking one last left-to-right look down the hall, you knelt at the door, pushed your paper under it, and dashed back into your own apartment before locking it back up. You let out a breath, as you pushed your back into the door, feeling awkward and almost embarrassed at the idea of passing notes with your neighbor. Trying to be secretive about it and acting like if someone saw you push a note under their door you’d be looked at strangely.

In a somewhat awkward way, you felt like some weird criminal.

“Whatever,” you shook your head, slapping your hands on your cheeks and heading to the kitchen. Finally ready to get that glass of water you had been craving to soothe your aching throat with. You had other things to get done today anyway. Now that you were awake, better get your day started.

Even if you may have just completely fucked your sleep schedule.

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sehunniepotwrites · 3 years

Text

caught in your web | m.l

🕷SYNOPSIS— in which you can’t stand mark getting hurt anymore, not when you’re madly in love with him 🕷GENRE— mcu!au, spiderman!au, fluff, suggestive 🕷PAIRING— spiderman!mark lee x person in the chair!reader (gn) 🕷WORD COUNT— 1771

🕷WARNINGS— mentions of violence and battles, cleaning wounds, making out (lmao)

🕷AUTHOR’S NOTE—day two of my mark lee breakdown and i came up with this. i have been in love with the idea of spider!mark ever since i’ve read @xiaomoon‘s leap of faith and i finally got to write my own version of peter marker ;;; hope y’all enjoy this! (briefly edited, some mistakes may remain!)

—🕸🕷—

You don’t exactly remember how and when it all went down, but to sum it all up, your best friend of all time is Spiderman and you’re his person in the chair. You’re the J.A.R.V.I.S. to his Tony Stark or are you his F.R.I.D.A.Y.? You can’t be his Karen because his Karen is the user interface of his current suit— never mind that, that’s not really relevant.

The most important takeaways from this are that:

your best friend, Mark Lee, is the newest addition to the Avengers

you’re the mastermind behind the computer that guides him through New York City

And lastly, you’re in love with that dumbass of a superhero.

At first, you were mad that Mark didn’t tell you. Then, you were quite surprised that he kept a secret from you for that long— that boy has a hard time keeping his mouth shut.

When you first found out, Mark in full superhero garb entered his room through the window while you were impatiently waiting for him on his bed with a Death Star Lego set in hand. You dropped the almost complete set out of shock and it shattered to pieces. Mark, with his red and black mask in hand and a suit that clung to his surprisingly fit body so perfectly (like honestly, when did he look like that?), made you promise that you would never tell his Aunt May. You linked your smaller pinky with his own, swearing not to tell but on one condition— that you could be his person in the chair.

Being behind-the-scenes while in the chair is extremely thrilling. Sure, you have no superpowers to contribute to the fight but you have the brains and the technology to help Mark in any way you possibly could. You tell him the best possible route with Karen backing you up and Mark will blindly follow. You are his tracker, eyes in the sky, and his safety net—you have his complete trust.

The worst thing about being his person in the chair, though, is watching Mark get hurt in action and knowing there is not much you can do about it without physically being there. Watching the person you love get hurt—no matter how enhanced their body was—is beyond taxing. You never know if he’s going to make it and it kills you inside when you’re barking commands into your headset, calling for Karen to activate the best mode to get Mark out of the battle site. It tears you to absolute pieces and that’s how you ended up here, in your bedroom with violent tears running down your cheeks.

Mark is laying down on your bed with his torso resting against your lap. His mask is discarded somewhere on your bedroom floor while the top half of his suit is peeled off his injured body. You’re crying, hands trembling as he’s gasping for air and wincing every time you attempt to clean a wound.

“How could you be so reckless, Mark?!” you scold him through a hushed whisper. You press another alcohol-soaked swab onto a cut. He hisses, his hand squeezing your knee to keep him from screaming. “You’re an idiot!”

Mark is groaning, body twisting and turning while sinking his teeth onto his bottom lip. You can tell he wants to scream but your parents are home and you don’t want them to walk into this gruesome sight. They think you’re just up to your usual game playing.

“I had to!” Mark argues back. His nose is scrunched up and you can just see how much pain he’s in. You want to do nothing but kiss the pain away but there were more pressing matters to attend to, like disinfecting all the cuts scattering his body. “They were heading this way, to this neighborhood. To you!”

God, you hate how headstrong and stubborn he is at times. “And that matters why? I can easily reroute you and you know that! For some reason, you chose not to listen and now you’re badly hurt and you’re bleeding a lot and I can’t even take you to the hospital and—”

“Hey, hey, hey, no, no, no. None of that, okay? It’s fine, I’m fine.” He must’ve sensed how the panic was seeping through your veins with his spidey senses or maybe Mark just knew you well enough.

“See?” Mark gestures to an arm you had already patched up. The cuts you already tended to look so much better than before and the bruises are healing faster than the normal rate.

“I’ll be fine in a day or two, bubs,” he reassures you with a pained smile. That didn’t reassure you at all.

“That’s not the point!”

“Then what— ow, fuck, you’re pressing too hard, ow— what is?” Mark tries to wriggle away and you press a hand onto his firm chest (oh my god, seriously, how is he built like this?) to keep him still.

You’re done dressing his wounds and you take in the number of supplies you’ve used to tend to him.

The battles out there are getting worse and the teenager just comes up more battered and bruised. You don’t know much longer you can take seeing your best friend like this. You’re so caught up in him and you can’t leave. You feel as if Mark shot some of his web fluid at you and suddenly, you’re just trapped in this ridiculous web of love and you can’t fight your way out of it.

“If you keep acting recklessly, there will be no more friendly neighborhood Spiderman!” You can’t stand the thought of Mark being gone. The world out there was tough to live in as it is but a world without your idiotic best friend with superpowers? You can’t even imagine it.

“What if I want to be more than that?” he asks, his voice dropping lower than his usual volume,

“Well, you can’t be more than that if you’re dead!” you hiss back at him. “And that’s something I don’t want to see!”

He flinches at your tone.

“No, wait— ugh, that’s not what I meant,” he lifts a hand to run through his hair. “What if I want to be more than just your friendly neighborhood Spiderman?”

“Mark, I really don’t get what you’re saying.” You look down at him, confusion buzzing through your features. “And that’s saying a lot.”

“What if I wanted to be more than just Spiderman to you? Because— I don’t know, that’s all I’ve wanted for a while now? Besides, like doing this whole Avengers-slash-saving the world thing?”

You blink at him, trying to process his words as Mark rambles on, his bare back still pressed against your thighs.

“Do you even get what I’m saying? I don’t think I’m making any sense. Shit, how do people do this?” Mark continues as you try to make sense of his ongoing rant.

“Do what?”

“Confess to the person they like? Is there, like, a step-by-step guide or something because I don’t think I’m doing this right,” he replies fairly quickly before he realizes what came spilling out of his mouth. Mark’s face turns as red as his suit and his eyes are as wide as his mask’s lenses; you’re sure your face is mirroring a similar look.

You swallow and clear your throat, trying to organize the many revelations running through your scattered brain. “So, let me get this straight.”

“Yeah, uh, sure,” Mark almost squeaks in disbelief.

“You almost died in my arms just now and you’re worried about the proper way to confess to me?” You laugh in disbelief. What a typical Mark thing of him to do.

“Well, uh, yeah, ‘cause dude, I’m pretty sure you know this but I haven’t done this sort of thing before.” He’s avoiding eye contact, clearly embarrassed by the situation. His hands are playing with the ends of his suit, a tell-tale of his nervousness.

You grab his hands, pulling them away from ruining the fabric, and squeeze them gently. “You’re such a nerd,” you tease fondly.

“Hey!” he yells back at the insult.

“But it’s a good thing that I, um, like nerds,” you manage to cough out, a heat seeping through your cheeks. Your confession is barely above a whisper but Mark’s enhanced senses help him pick up your words perfectly. His body freezes for a second before his head snaps up.

Mark’s brown irises lock onto yours, hope swimming through them. “You—you do?”

“Yeah,” you let out a breathy laugh. Your hand runs up the side of his neck to comb through his hair. You feel him shiver at your touch and you shyly smile at him. You’re nervous but you shouldn’t be—Mark’s your best friend.

“There’s this one nerd running around the city in a red and black suit. Ever heard of him?”

He’s laughing at this point and all your worries disappear. “Yeah, I think I have. He’s pretty cool.”

“I think he’s pretty cute, too” you confess, dipping your head down to move a bit closer to him. Mark meets you halfway, his hand wiggling its way to clasp the back of your neck. Your heart is beating so hard against your chest and the butterfly wings are tickling your stomach at the proximity.

You touch your forehead to his, nuzzling them together and he lets out a deep chuckle that sets your heart ablaze. “I guess you could say I got caught in his web,” you tease. You hear him suck on his teeth.

“Just kiss me already.”

“Only if you promise that you’ll listen to me and be more careful out there,” you reply, boldly pressing a kiss by his mouth. He chases your lips and you quickly pull away.

“Ah, promise me.”

“Promise, yes, I promise,” he groans. “Just let me kiss you.”

The word “okay” barely leaves your mouth before he pulls himself up to press his body against yours. Mark slots his lips against yours and you sigh into him, breathing in his scent. It starts off as innocent but the kiss takes a turn when Mark breaks away to slide off your lap. He keeps his hand behind your head and lowers you down to lie completely straight on your bed.

Mark climbs on top, knees on either side of your hips as he captures your lips again. Your fingers fly to his hair and he lets out a noise as your nails scratch his scalp. “Love you,” he whispers into the kiss.

“Love you, too,” you smile as you tug him even closer.

Yeah, you love being Spiderman’s person in the chair but you think you love being Mark Lee’s person a hell of a whole lot more.

#neowritingsnet #mark lee #nct mark #mark scenarios #mark imagines #mark fanfic #mark fluff #mark lee x reader #spiderman!mark #nct scenarios #nct imagines #nct x reader #fuck i am so whipped for mark lee

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lemon--squeezy · 3 years

Text

𝐁𝐚𝐝 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝 | 𝐎𝐍𝐄

Summary: 𝐀𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐧 𝐇𝐨𝐭𝐜𝐡𝐧𝐞𝐫 found love during his teen years and ended up married to his high school sweetheart. However, he hadn't been prepared for the effects caused on him by a younger Agent and coworker.

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Original Female Character

Warnings: Mentions of/implied attemped rape, sexual scenes, adult language, angst, boss/employee relationship, cheating, age difference and canon-typical violence.

A/N: Before we start I just wanted to warn you that English is not my first language so you might see some grammar and spelling errors, if you spot any just let me know please. I hope you can bear with me! This story in also available on Wattpad

“You made a really deep cut and baby, now we’ve got bad blood…” — Taylor Swift

Rays of a morning sun shine through the many windows, bringing a needy warmth to the cold bullpen of the Behavioral Analysis Unit. As soon as one enters the room, the bitter but invitingly warm scent of black coffee would invade their nostrils; a much needed drink to endure the consuming aspects of working for the FBI. Hushed footsteps, discussions of rapports, chairs moving around and whispers of good mornings are the prominent sounds filling the environment.

At the center of the room, three distinct agents are discussing among themselves about gossips of the office. A strong, shaved headed man, with dark skin and a smirk plastered on his face. By his side, half sitting on his desk is a woman with fluffy bright blonde hair, thick black glasses supported by her delicate nose and wearing colorful clothes, making her stick out in an ocean of grey suits and blazers. Standing in front of them is a raven-headed woman, with pale skin and dressing a dark outfit like no one else could do.

While grabbing his mug and sipping his morning coffee, the man looks at his wristwatch, slightly shaking his head in a mocking disapproval and declares, “It’s officially five minutes since our work time started and Agent Davis hasn’t arrived,” he flashes a smirk to the black headed female who had being part of the team for barely a month and continues, “I hope you’re ready to witness your first breakfast time quarrel between the bossman and Amy.”

Emily, the sophisticated gothic woman, stares confusedly at her teammate and says, “Okay, I’m gonna take the bait. What are you talking about, Morgan?”

He flashes a mischievous smile, “Do you want to explain it to the newbie, baby girl?” Morgan asks the blonde and eager female to tell the new girl about the most volatile - and funny to watch - dynamic of the team. “I’m pretty sure you’ve already noted that my lovely girl Amelia Davis and our stiff yet good-looking Superior don’t tolerate each other,” Penelope happily blabbers. “Since today is Monday and Amy loooves partying hard on the weekends, she’s already late. Something that displeases the bossman who is constantly waiting to scold Amy because of her little mistakes.”

“That is intriguing. Are you sure it isn’t all about sexual tension? That would explain their behavior.” Agent Emily Prentiss questions inducing a gasp from Penelope and a laugh from Derek.

“We’ve all considered it at some point,” the man affirms. “Just don’t say that to Davis or she will lecture you about how terrible it is that two people of the opposite sex aren’t allowed to sincerely and deeply hate one another,” he concludes and looks in the direction of his Superior individual office through the open blinds. “Hotch seems to be especially annoyed today so I bet he won’t even wait for Davis to reach her table before he calls her attention.” Morgan deduces and the elevator cheeps in sync announcing new arrivals, making the three agents stare in its direction. They see a couple of interns hurrying to the coffee marker and the next person to come out is the disheveled figure of Agent Davis. Her crystal blue eyes are hidden by black sunglasses, the woman’s usually perfect long brunette hair is currently disheveled, her button up white shirt is supporting some wrinkles while her dark grey blazer is in her left hand along with her bag. She connects the fingers of her right hand with her temple massaging it in a foolish attempt to ease the headache obviously caused by a hangover.

Amelia tries to walk discreetly in the direction of her desk, hoping she would pass unnoticed by her boss, but she isn’t successful. Seeing her state, Derek whistles and loudly states, “I think someone had a wild night,” he laughs with Prentiss and Penelope. His booming voice affects the balance of Davis, making her stumble over her own feet and before she gets a hold of her chair and tells the man to be quiet, the harsh sound of a door opening echoes through the entire space of the bullpen.

“Agent Davis. My office. Now,” the chief unit’s demand rings like thunder, giving chills to the ones around.

“Fuck,” Amy murmurs while taking off her sunglasses and dropping her belongings on her desk.

The brunette drags her legs, taking her time along the short way to her boss’s office.

Amelia feels like she’s in high school and the principal is calling to lecture her, but that’s something she never experienced during her school years since her teachers adored her effort to have the best grades and eagerness to learn. Besides, she could always blast a polite amiable smile to make people bend at her will. It came easily to Amy, being friendly and kind towards others, virtues that paid off and made everyone like her. Well, everyone but him.

The door to the room is already opened and to Amy, it resembles the entrance of a

scary and dark cave. After she’s inside, she makes sure to close it to shield herself from the curious ears of her coworkers. She goes straight to one of the chairs across from the stoic man, a journey she’s so used to, considering that Hotchner’s constantly expressing his discontent with her whether it was about being a few minutes late, or about a typo in a rapport, or even choosing to use a grey folder instead of the yellow ones. Everything would lead to criticism and by now she would just take it with humor. She mumbles a good morning but Aaron simply ignores it.

“Tell me, Agent, what’s your excuse for today? Two weeks ago there was something wrong with your car, four weeks ago it was a problem with shower. I can’t wait to hear about another one of your misfortunes,” there’s venom watering each word, his eyes colder than a winter day and his entire posture screams irritation.

Amy thinks how he’s ever so ridge when she’s around. Every time she enters the same room as him, the jet black haired man would instantly go ridge like her mere presence was a heinous crime. She’s used to it and more than happy to demonstrate that she is also offended by his existence.

“Would you believe me if I told you that my nanny died?” Davis playfully replies and grins, which boils Aaron’s anger further.

“Do you think this is some sort of joke?” he snaps, standing from his chair and positioning his hands on the desk that separated them. “I can’t have people in this unit that don’t take their job seriously and I don’t have time to endure irresponsibility and lack of respect.”

I bet you would have a lot of free time if you just left me the fuck alone, dude - Amelia thinks while maintaining eye contact with the man.

“One more day of tardiness and you will have to suffer consequences. Is that clear enough for you, agent?” he fumes.

She bites her lips and swallows a bitter response. Not afraid of the outcome, just too tired to deal with her boss’s intensity so early in the day. “Yes, boss.”

“You can leave now,” he grunts and sits back in his chair. Starting to reach for one of the files on his desk; at the same time, Amelia makes a quick way out of the room. Once she gets to her chair, she releases a loud sigh, longing for the day to be over already.

“That seemed intense.” Emily comments. She and Morgan are in their respectives chairs and Penelope has made her way to her own office - after the end of the show, of course.

“You have no idea,” Amy answers while starting her work.

“If you don’t mind me asking, what happened between the two of you?” Prentiss carefully asks, genuinely curious.

“He’s the one who decided to hate me since my first day, I’m just returning the sentiment,” Davis explains, unbothered by the question, being a curious person herself she knows how it is once interest sparks. That’s when Dr. Reid and Agent Jareau arrive, talking to themselves. Spencer is carrying a notebook with a sketch of a boy’s face in it, moving around the room frantically and picking a telephone.

“What’s wrong?” Amelia worriedly questions.

“Need to get that to everyone as soon as possible,” Reid hurriedly explains while making a call. “Detective Barnes, this is Special Agent Doctor Spencer Reid of the Behavioral Analysis Unit in Quantico,” he clarifies to the person on the other side of the phone and continues rapidly, “Have you had recent murders involving prostitutes? They would’ve been stabbed to death and their hair would’ve been cut off by the killer,” that causes the other Agents to exchange confused glances, intrigued by the sudden event.

“When was the last recent victim?” the Doctor inquires to the Detective on the line.

Seems like we have a case, Amy processes.

#criminal minds #aaron hotchner #ssa aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner fanfiction #aaron hotchner imagine #aaron hotchner fic #agent hotchner #aaron hotchner x oc #aaron hotchner x you #criminal minds fanfic #hotch x oc #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x fem!oc #aaron hotchner angst

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luci-in-trenchcoats · 4 years

Text

Home Bound (Part 2)

Summary: With some help from Samson, Dean makes it back to the bunker and starts to process everything that’s happened...

Masterlist

Pairing: Dean x reader

Word Count: 2,700ish

Warnings: language, angst, injury, mention of character death, mourning, supernatural events

A/N: Written entirely in Dean’s POV. Enjoy!

______

“Morning,” said Sam as I groggily sat up. He was cooking in the kitchen, humming a happy tune to himself.

“God, it’s barely seven in the morning,” I said, rubbing my eyes.

“I’ve already been up for an hour,” he said. “Eggs?”

“If you’re offering,” I said, stumbling over to his bathroom. I changed back into my clothes, yawning as I sat down at the table. He put down a cup of coffee and plate of scrambled eggs along with some hot sauce.

“You got any money to get by?” he asked, standing at his counter eating.

“I’ll be fine,” I said, wolfing down my food.

“Here,” he said, pushing an envelope towards me. I leaned over and grabbed it, opening it up to find a wad of money. “It’s about five hundred. S’all I got laying around the house. That enough to get you home?”

“Samson I can’t accept this,” I said, putting the envelope back.

“I wasn’t really asking,” he said, setting it down on the table next to me. “I’d let you take my car but I need it for work.”

“Sam, it doesn’t look like you got much. I’m not taking your life savings,” I said.

“I have a bank account, jackass. It’s not my savings. Don’t worry about it. Go home, take care of what needs to be done and yourself. You’re getting closer to popping. Pay it forward some day,” he said.

“Thanks,” I said, drinking down the last of my coffee. I tucked the envelope in my pocket and he set his mug down.

“I’ll drive you to the bus station,” he said. I put on my boots by the front door as he rummaged around in a closet. He pulled out a black winter coat and held it out to me. “For if you decide you need a walk again.”

“Write down your address,” I said, handing him back the envelope.

“Alright. I don’t want any money or the jacket back. Send me a Christmas card or something,” he said. He returned it after a moment and grabbed his keys as I slipped into the coat. “Better?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Thanks man.”

“S’no problem. Let’s get you home.”

36 Hours Later

My hands were shoved in the fleece lined pockets as I walked up the dirt road to the bunker. The ice storm in Colorado had followed me all the way back to Kansas but the hooded winter coat made all the difference in the world. I couldn’t wait to take a hot shower and curl up in bed with one of Y/N’s blankets.

What happened after...I wasn’t going to be able to put off later for much longer. Now that I was home though, I could let go and get my head on straight in the morning to figure out what had happened.

With a deep breath I stepped down to the door and opened it up. The heat had been left on and the hallway was cozy. I stepped through to the other door inside and found the lights were on too, exactly as they were when we’d all headed out. Just in case, Y/N said. She didn’t want to come home to a dark house.

I headed down the stairs and cut into the library, the space feeling far too big for just me.

“I miss you,” I said. I pinched my nose and heard a creak behind me. I spun around, eyes wide.

“Dean?” said Sam. My Sam, the one that must have died, must have, was right there, in pajamas and with a bowl of chips in his hand.

“I die and now you eat the crap, Sammy?” I said. He set the bowl down and rushed over, giving me a hug. “I’m getting you all wet.”

“Don’t care,” he said. He squeezed me hard and I let out a tiny gasp, Sam giving me some room after that. He looked confused though and shook his head. “How…”

“Was gonna ask you the same thing,” I said.

“I didn’t die. You pushed me out of the way,” he said.

“I don’t remember that,” I said. “You were right there. Since I woke up I assumed…”

Sam was smiling at me still but the hunter in him finally kicked in. I nodded to the cabinet where everything he’d need to test me was. Three minutes later he was hugging me too hard again.

“Relax, Sammy. Gonna pop my shoulder back out,” I said. He immediately released me and I cradled my arm. “I fixed it already.”

“Still. You should wear the sling Y/N bought,” he said. We wandered over to the infirmary and he dug around in a drawer until he pulled it out.

“Is she…” I said, taking off my jackets and slipping it on over my head. Sam shook his head and I sighed. “You don’t know that for sure. Up until five minutes ago you thought I was dead too.”

“True but, you know,” he said. I nodded, staring at the floor. “Cas is alright. Billie got him back from the empty. He’s up in heaven trying to help keep that going. They’re trying out this new method or something.”

“Not your memories?” I asked, heading for the kitchen.

“No. I mean kinda. More like, collective afterlife? It uses a lot less power I guess,” said Sam. “They’re doing small test groups right now he said. I haven’t seen him in a while.”

“How’s he alive again?” I asked.

“Billie brought him back,” he said as we walked over to the kitchen.

“How’s Jack?”

“He’s doing okay. He got pretty hurt during the fight. I took care of him for a few weeks before he headed out. New God and all. He’s still learning.”

“He bring me back?” I asked.

“He doesn’t know how to do that yet. He says he feels like he will be able to someday, like it’s in his bones but he doesn’t know quite right now how to pull it off,” said Sam.

“So how am I back?”

“I honestly have no idea,” he said. I took a seat at the table, catching Y/N’s mug sat at the end in her usual spot. “We gave you guys a hunter’s funeral. There’s a little marker up in the woods a ways, in that clearing you two used to go have dates in.”

“There’s no body then.”

“No. Where’d you wake up?” he asked, taking two beers out of the fridge.

“Middle of nowhere Colorado,” I said. “Any idea why?”

“No, not really. Any place we ever hunt?”

“No. I met a guy. Samson, apparently dad and I saved his folks back in the day while you were at school. But they didn’t live there. I never...I never met the guy,” I said. “He knew who I was but he’d never met me.”

“You think he was lying?”

“He was nice to me when I was an ass. I don’t think he was playing at anything. How would he know what I looked like though?”

“It’s possible I suppose that he reached out to other hunters and learned more about you? I mean the girls got pictures of us. Maybe Eileen?”

“Maybe,” I said, shaking my head. “Shit, Sam. How’s-”

“She’s good,” said Sam with a small smile. “She’s over in Lawrence at the moment actually. She’s looking at houses for us.”

“You guys deserve to finally be together,” I said. “She’s good for you.”

“I know.”

“Gonna stop hunting?”

“I don’t really need to anymore. We kind of turned them all human,” said Sam. I cocked my head and he shrugged. “The hail mary? It worked. No more monsters.”

“That’s great,” I said, forcing a smile. Great. I couldn’t even bury myself in hunting to feel slightly less crappy. I was worthless.

“I’m heading out to meet Eileen in a few days. Come with me.”

“Nah, I don’t wanna intrude or-”

“You can have some space but you’re not staying here alone,” he said.

“Y/N’s dead. I have no job now. I’m not gonna be the brooding mope sitting at the end of your couch when you finally get to be with your girl.”

“Dean,” said Sam as I stood up.

“I really want to shower and sleep, Sammy. I’m cold and exhausted. Please,” I said.

“You’re gonna come with,” he said. I clenched my fist and glared over my shoulder. “Y/N wrote you a letter for if she didn’t make it back. It’s in your room. When I thought you both...I read it in case she wanted something to be done after she was gone. You know the only thing she said? You need to go live your life. She loves you and wants you to be happy.”

“Easy for her to say. She’s not here,” I said.

“Dean. I know this is raw for you and I’ve had four months to deal you didn’t. Don’t disrespect what she wanted.”

“Oh fuck you,” I said. I stormed out, pausing around the corner. I heard him behind me and slumped my shoulders down. “I’m sorry.”

“S’okay,” he said.

“She was supposed to live, not me,” I said. “Cause she’s stronger than I am and I can’t deal with her not being in that bedroom when I go down this hall.”

“Dean. Grieve. Please. For the first time in your life, grieve properly. When you’re ready, you and me will go out to Lawrence. I’m gonna call Eileen and make sure she finds a place where you got a big room and your own bathroom and garage and all that. Until then, I’m gonna stay here. Ignore me, yell at me, whatever. I’m staying. Alright?”

“Yeah,” I said quietly. “I want a pool too.”

“Dean.”

“Hot tub.”

“We’ll put one in.”

“Fine,” I said. He ruffled my hair and I headed down to the bathroom. I slipped out of my clothes, pulling out the envelope with a few hundred dollars left. “Sammy.”

“What?” he called back.

“Figure out who this guy was,” I said, holding the envelope out the door. “That’s his name and address.”

“Whiltiston,” said Sam, making a face. “You sure this is his name?”

“Yeah, why?”

“You wouldn’t know. About two months back, the Whiltiston family was in the news. National news. They’d been reunited with their daughter who was kidnapped as an infant. She was safe. The people who took her pretended to be her parents. They were real sickos. I’d hunt ‘em down if they weren’t already dead,” said Sam.

“So this guy’s her brother?” I asked.

“Yeah, there was a brother Sam I remember mentioned at the press conference. They didn’t show anyone but the dad but they were all really happy to be back together,” he said.

“Still doesn’t explain how he knows what I look like.”

“They said the girl has a sketchy memory of certain things. I mean they were bad people, Dean. It’s possible we worked her case and didn’t know?” he said.

“See if you can dig up a phone number for me too,” I said.

“Yeah. I’ll see if...you know, we’ve been in the national news before too. It’s entirely possible that one of his parents saw us on the news and told him that was you.”

“Oh. That’s...a lot more likely,” I said, frowning to myself. “Forget about it. Could you just slip in some extra cash in there for me? I’ll send it back along with the coat. The guy didn’t have much.”

“No problem. I’ll get you the phone number too. I know you’ll drive yourself nuts if you don’t know for sure.”

“Sam,” I said as he started to leave. “I’m really happy you’re not dead.”

“Me too. Take your shower. I’ll put out some pajamas for you.”

I nodded and shut the door, resting my head against the back of it. After a moment I went to the shower and turned the water on, forgetting about the prickly heat until my skin turned a slight pink and started to warm up. Somehow I got through with washing myself before I saw Y/N’s shampoo staring back at me in the cubby. I swallowed and picked it up, flipping open the cap and taking a deep inhale.

It took awhile and one concerned knock at the door to realize at some point I’d sat down with my knees in my chest, Y/N’s shampoo sat on the ground beside me.

“Dean? You okay? You’ve been in there for an hour,” said Sam. I buried my head down and heard the door creek open. “Dean? Answer me or I’m coming in.”

“I’m fine,” I said, voice raw and cracking with every syllable. Sam didn’t open the door anymore but he was still there.

“Turn off the water,” he said. I reached up and hit it off, wiping the back of my hand across my nose. “You have one minute to dry off and put on a towel.”

The door shut and I forced myself to get up. I patted myself off and got a towel around my waist, trying to wash my face off before Sam saw me.

“I’m coming in,” said Sam. One look at him said more than enough and I looked away. “I told you to grieve.”

“Her freaking shampoo bottle,” I said. Sam looked over to the shower and saw it on the ground, running his hand through his hair. “Why can’t I shove it down like every other time?”

“You know why. There’s no chance of you getting her back and she wouldn’t want you to do something stupid. You loved her. You’re always gonna love her. Dean, I’ve been there with Jessica. It’s gonna fuck you up real good for a while. I thought I’d never be happy again, not like that, and then I found Eileen. It feels like the end of your life but it’s not,” he said. “It’s not going away if you shove it down so just feel it.”

“Yeah,” I said. I brushed past him and went to my room, shutting the door to change. I left it closed and sat on the edge of the bed, catching his shadow under the door. It moved away after a minute and I let out a sigh. The room smelled musty which I appreciated. It was something different to focus on.

I rolled over to Y/N’s side of the bed and saw the letter Sam had mentioned on her nightstand. I ripped it off and found it wasn’t as long as I’d expected. She probably did it last minute.

De, I love you. I’m always going to love you. I need you to try to keep loving and not shut the world out. Find some happiness again or I’m gonna haunt you like I’m your own personal Casper. Okay? You’ll get there someday. My big green flannel is in the closet if you need it. Be safe (I’ll keep an eye out for you though, promise).

My head glanced up and over to the closet, staring before I stood and opened it. At the end was her big oversized green flannel. She’d stolen so many of my clothes over the years she’d decided to get something of hers I could take for myself.

I pulled it off the hook and brought it back to bed, tugging it on before I lay back on the mattress.

It too was a little musty but there was the faint scent of her shampoo again filling the air.

“Fuck, I miss you,” I said. I shut my eyes and turned off the light, hoping exhaustion would put me to sleep quickly.

_______

A/N: Read the Final Part here!

#dean winchester #supernatural #spn #dean x reader #spn reader insert #supernatural reader insert #dean x #spn fanfic #supernatural fanfiction #dean winchester x reader #dean series

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pi-cat000 · 3 years

Text

BNHA: something sad (Grief)

Summary: The last time Katsuki sees Izuku alive the other boy is rushing to save him. A ‘the Sludge Villain incident gone wrong’ AU.

Characters: Katsuki Bakugo

Fandom: My Hero Academia

WARNINGS: Major Character death, swearing, heavy angst. destructive behaviour.

(Additional part here)

(Grief- Katsuki self reflects and visits Izuku’s grave)

Katsuki knows he has a volatile personality, probably inherited it from his mum, and enough attitude that he has steamrolled his way through life without much difficulty. Things annoyed him easily and he got irritable at the drop of a hat. He has enough self-awareness to recognise that as a flaw, even if he had never seen it as much of a problem.

There was a difference between irritation and anger. Deku had always made him angry, inducing a burning hot sensation that ate at his insides. Now Deku was gone and he couldn't turn any of it off. It was like the world was suck behind a filthy pane of glass that he couldn’t smash through no matter how hard he tried.

Katsuki watches the head of his Kamui Woods figurine bend at an odd angle as the plastic began to superheat, having been exposed to a string of minor blasts. He had been slowly working his way through his figurine collection as both quirk training and to take the edge off his anger. Melting this figurine was particularly cathartic.

“Perhaps we should look into getting you some new hobbies.”

Katsuki shifts his focus to glare at his father who stands at his bedroom door, an expression of worry pulling at his features. No surprises there, worry was his father’s default response to anything Katsuki did these days.

“Not interested.”

“Something to get you out of the apartment,” his father continues to which Katsuki narrows his eyes. He wouldn’t be in the apartment if he had any say in it. Both his parents know this.

“Some physical activity where you’ll be able to let loose without having to worry about property damage. I have a colleague whose brother runs a kickboxing studio. I can make arrangements for you to spend time…”

“I said, I’m not interested,” he grumbles, returning to his current distraction.

“Well, I want you to think about it,” his dad instructs, “It would do you a lot of good and it’s something you’re passionate about….”

The figurine Katsuki is holding begins to blacken, colours melting away under his tiny, controlled bursts. There is an unhappy sigh from his father and the sound of footsteps retreating down the hall. He growls and the figurine explodes with a small Bang. Melted plastic is flung across his walls and floor.

He knows what his dad is trying to do…

How many times had he begged his parents for better training opportunities, for karate or boxing lessons, only to be denied due to money restraints? Outside of a few judo lessons he had received as a birthday gift from Inko one year, any combat training he did he had been self-taught.

Now he’s no longer interested, his parents are practically threatening him with extracurricular activities.

It’s fucking annoying is what it is.

He reaches for another figurine only to find that he has none left aside from his limited edition All Might collection. He lets out an angry breath, trying to rid himself of his restless irritation. It doesn’t work, and he ends up standing so he can pace back and forth, listening to the pop, pop, focusing on his tingling skin as sparks run up and down his arms. It keeps him distracted for all of two seconds.

Usually, he would be at the library studying, or going on long runs and working on his physical conditioning. Sometimes, he would meet up with a few of the loser-extras from school and they would visit an arcade. Recently, he had taken to wandering through the streets around his neighbourhood, waiting for something to piss him off enough that his mind would white-out in pure rage and could forget reality for a few seconds. Obviously, that had become a lot harder after several run-ins with the local police had had him all but permanently grounded outside of school hours.

This is what he wanted… he remains himself. His plan to piss people off enough that he received some iota of punishment was working like a charm so, of course, it sucked. He hated it, but then, he hated all the alternatives as well so what did any of it matter.

Katsuki ends up with his ear pressed against the door, listening for activity in the living room, waiting for an opportunity to make a break for it. He needs to be careful because Aunt Inko is visiting and the last thing he wants is to see her stupid, sympathetic smile.

When it sounds like the coast is clear, he creeps out, stealing down the hall. Muffled voices from the kitchen are all the encouragement he needs to beeline for the door and slip out before anyone can spot him. He’ll be in trouble for this later. He’s counting on it.

The hot summer air is a welcome change from the chill of air conditioning. There is the loud buzz of cicadas, chirping away in the sticky heat. He picks a direction and walks, not caring that he is wearing the sweatpants and the black singlet he had slept in. If someone has a problem with his presentation, he is more than willing to throw down.

Unfortunately, the relief being out of the apartment brings is short-lived. Today, a feeling of discomfort follows after him which has nothing to do with the heat. A bubbling frustration that bites at his heels as he stalks the streets. It is that feeling he has come to associate with times when all his rage burns away, leaving him numb.

He doesn’t plan to stop at the florists, he just sort of does.

He turns suddenly into the store before he can properly process what he is doing. The chime on the glass door rings and the sickly-sweet smell of the store has his nose wrinkling. Before he can chicken out and retreat, he walks to the counter.

“How much?” He snaps at the older lady in overalls manning the register, pointing at the nearest bunch of white flowers. He has no idea what type they are but that wasn’t the point wasn't it?

“Ah,” The woman squints at him, taken back “That depends how many you want?”

“I don’t care” He smacks the few yen he has on the counter, “However many that’ll get me. Don’t rip me off.”

The woman nods slowly, “Do you just want these specifically? You don’t want to add some more colour to the bouquet? White is a bit of a dower colour.”

“Whatever is cheapest…just make it quick.” He is already regretting coming in.

The woman hums, pulling out a roll of paper, beginning to place and wrap the flowers Katsuki had pointed to.

“Who are they for if I may ask?”

“No.”

“Oh? A special friend maybe,” She begins to tease.

“He’s dead,” he snaps abruptly, “and he’s not my friend. Just give me the damn flowers.” Why did people always make this shit more difficult than it needed to be?

The old hag is silent after that, awkwardly finalising his purchase which ends up being an assortment of white flowers with a few smaller yellow and red ones scattered between. It almost looks pretty and it is sickly-sweet smelling, just like the store.

He tries no to think about his destination as he walks with renewed deliberation. He doesn’t think about it right up until he is practically walking into the low stone wall nearest the gate. The shock of seeing the place has him freezing in place, breath catching. The last time he had been here had been during the funeral.

There are lines of thin, tightly packed, gave markers, rising horizontally on sets on uneven steps. There is barely room for people to pass between them on the narrow, flagstone path. Trees are scattered throughout the space, providing patches of uneven shade. The noise of the cicadas is louder here, almost oppressive in its throbbing hum. For a moment, all he wants to do is walk up to the nearest stone and blow it all sky high. Then he would be sure to flatten every marker in the place until the land was a barren waste. That would get him arrested for sure. The thought passes quickly, and his eyes slide away from the cemetery to his flowers. They don’t look nearly as nice now he has almost strangled them with an unintentionally tight grip.

He breaths out, resisting the urge to set something on fire. Slowly, he walks up the steps, passing the small temple at the entrance. Deku is buried further in, his stone modest in size when compared to the others.

“Deku…” He grows out a greeting when he arrives and it gets caught in his throat. The stone, obviously, does not respond.

Before he can accidentally blow them up, he carefully places the flowers next to the small pile already adorning the small stone. There are more offerings than he expects to be there. He recognises a few of the names from school. One larger bunch looks especially expensive and elaborate, monopolising most of the limited surface space.

‘From Yagi Toshinori’ the card attached reads. Katsuki doesn’t recognise the name.

He doesn’t know why he’s surprised, he didn’t know shit about Deku other than their shared ambition to be a hero.

“Deku…” Why the fuck is he having trouble talking, “You’re...” He stops.

“You’re a fucking moron,” he manages to spit.

“I didn’t need you to save me.” The anger is burning so hot that its almost unbearable. Pop, pop, his hands fizzle. “I didn’t want your help.”

BANG! He makes sure the explosion is directed away from the stone and up into the sky. The small shock wave it produces rustles the flowers and nearby trees. All the cicadas stop chirping at once, plunging the area into an eerie quiet. His legs feel shaky and he is practically vibrating with anger.

“What did you think a quirkless idiot could have done!”

Save his pathetic life while the real Heroes watch him suffocate from the side-lines? His brain supplies an answer. It was all a big joke wasn’t it? The bastards had all watched Deku die. That was what a Hero did apparently, wait for backup while someone died because it was safer for them. Safer for the Hero.

His legs give way and he falls to his knees, curling his hands into fists, jaw locking up. Finally, the haze of anger falls away and his mind quietens. Everything was painfully clear now. People didn’t care when Katsuki yelled, swore, and hurt other kids, because his quirk was amazing, making him amazing. What a joke. If he hadn’t had his quirk, then the Slime Bastard would have had nothing to work with, and Deku might still be alive.

“I’m…I’m fucking sorry okay." He had always treated Deku like shit and he doesn’t think, if their positions had been reversed…he doesn’t think that he would have even thought about saving someone like himself.

The truth stings. He slams his fist into the flagstone next to him and he watches it crack.

"I’m sorry…”

He was lucky…that’s all he was… He wasn’t special… he was just an average human with a good work ethic and a garbage personality who just happened to have a powerful quirk.

He wasn’t a hero…well, not one like Deku had tried to be…like Deku had been…

He didn’t even want to be a hero...not anymore...He doesn’t know what he wants.

“Damnit…” the words have no heat behind them. The explosive rage that had been burning continuously in his chest for the last week simmers, snuffing out like a candle. There is a hole where his anger had eaten away at something fundamentally him, leaving empty space.

Katsuki leans forward, letting his head thump against the stone.

#bnha #bnha fanfic #boku no academia #my hero academia #katsuki bakugō #major character death #Sludge Villain incident gone wrong #angst #all the angst #coarse language #swearing #anger and grief #visiting graves #katuski has a sad time #something sad au #fanfiction

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starr-fall-knight-rise · 4 years

Text

HASO, “Field of Spears.”

Hope you guys enjoy the story for today :)

They sky above was dark with rain clouds, they were thick, streaking the sky with great black streaks like someone had wiped their hand over a permanent marker while it was still wet.

It was just the forefront of the storm, so the rain hadn’t yet come, and the wind had died down mostly. The clouds overhead moved quickly, and caused rolling waves of shadow over the land below.

That’s how she saw it at first, coming up over the rise as a wave of iridescent light spilled down from the clouds, and onto a glittering field of spears. There were hundreds of them, certainly thousands, and they stretched off in each direction as far as the eye could see. Some, those at the front, shone with the bright silver of highly polished metal, while those at the back were darkened with age and ash.

From this height, it looked like a forest, or a sea, and when the wind did decide to blow, the valley below her was whipped into great rippling waves of color, bright at the front with thousands of colorful moss-woven capes, and gradually fading black to a dull brown or even black with the other spears and their tarnished metal were the capes had been stained black with age.

The wind died, and the capes fell, like a bird’s feathers puffed up only to fall.

Sunny followed the track slowly, down into the valley, doing her best to keep her feet on the rocky terrain, and loose volcanic stone that made up the path before her. She wasn’t alone of course, a slow trickle of other Drev made their way into the valley their way slow and their heads bowed just like her.

She followed her way down onto the path and turned to where a the field of spears sat like a dense forest before her.

What looked to be the skulls of Drev, but were really just long disused helmets sat atop each one of the spears, all that remained of a thousand fallen warriors. Sunny followed her feet knowing where she was going even despite the years that had passed since she had visited this pace.

The Valley of the Fallen.

She stopped, in a spot that seemed indistinguishable from the rest, though somehow she knew it was right, pausing to approach two spears stood side by side, buried deep in the ground and welded upright by the glue of falling ash and rain.

She reached out, brushing the ash from one helmet and onto the ground before turning to bat as much of the ash as she could from the cloak. It had been many years and the fabric was well on its way to being saturated, so there wasn’t much left from the warm golden color that had once been, same with the other and the pearl white cloth that had once existed there.

She bowed her head kneeling on the ground before the last memory of her father.

In Drev belief, spirits were always recycled back into the wide spiritual world. Everything had a spirit, which meant thatcher father’s spirit was likely still around. Despite her upbringing, and despite everything that had happened to change the world of the Drev since she was a child, she still believed in the spiritual traditions and religion of her ancestors. That part of her had never been shaken.

So, she knelt to the ground slowly before the last memory of her father, raising her head to the helmet, which she could almost imagine as having him in it if she tried hard enough.

“I miss you.” She said softly, “Perhaps if you were here you would know how to help me, though perhaps that is only a wish of mine. Perhaps you would not understand like so many others, I like to think you would have tried though. “She sighed, “I am…. Alone. Perhaps I should have seen this coming, you don’t give the strength of your spear to someone who cannot lift it. But…. I suppose that is the way with humans. While they are like us in so many ways, there are things about them that are so alien. I Always assumed battle pairs fought together through the hard and the easy, but Humans see it a bit different. He says when you love something you have to let it go, and I don’t understand what that means. If you love something would you not want it to stay as close to you as possible…. Either way.” She turned her head to look down at the small round helmet and folded green cape that sat just below it, “As is the custom of our species…. I will never love again. I hope this is not seen as breaking the sanctity of this hollowed place for he is neither dead nor dying, but… A part of me has died….”

The wind picked up just then, and all around her a rainbow of colors rose up to flapped against the wind.

Lightning flashed over the mountains, and the field of spars glowed white for a single moment. She knew she should probably move, but didn't have the energy to care about the impending danger.

She hummed softly to herself as she stood, and turning her head to the sky, she Reached upwards, and Drove the but of the short metal spear into the soil with a loud crack. Lightning flashed overhead again.

WIth the spear firmly planted in the ground, she stepped back, and then softly reached up to pull the green cape over the tip. The fabric ripped on the point before catching and she slowly reached up placing the helmet on the point of the spear in a tradition that went back thousands of years. The right of the widow had been complete.

She stood staring at the Green cape as it billowed softly in the wind, illuminated by one more flash of lightning before she turned and made her way from that palace and the graveyard of memories.

It began to rain as she made her way from the last line of spears, and a loud crack of thunder illuminated the ground before her. It had likely caught one of the spears as it was so prone to doing during electrical storms, so she made her way hurriedly towards the rock overhang and a patch of tea moss, safe and away from the driving rain.

She sat herself on a ledge cross legged and with her blue cape wrapped tight around her shoulders as the wind blew little droplets towards her from the mouth of the overhang.

After a few moments a shape appeared out of the driving rain, and a figure broke through, shaking water from her pale peach carapace.

Sunny Stood slowly, and the other Drev froze, spear in hand.

“I didn't realize this outcrop was taken.” They stood against each other, “What clan are you from?”

“The wandering tribe.”

The other Drev stood straighter in surprise ‘The wandering tribe…. With the humans/”

Sunny nodded.

The other drev lowered her spear, “Might I share the dry with you/”

Sunny slowly seated herself and nodded motioning to the moss, “This land is not mine, so sit and be warm.”

And other Drev thankedher and took a seat.

She was a pretty little thing Sunny observed, still taller than her of course, by almost a foot, not particularly tall by Drev standards though however the color of her carapace was pleasant enough.

“You are here to observe the rights of the widowed?”

Sunny nodded, “I am.”

“I am sorry for your loss… I too am here for that. My battle partner died in glorious battle not more than a night ago. A spear to the throat, and a mound of corpses piled around him. She lifted her head in something that was almost like pride, “And yours?”

Sunny sighed.

“His past caught up with him.”

The other Drev tilted her head, “An old foe.”

She looked ou at the driving rain and the waterfalls that fell from above, “Yes, an old foe come back to haunt him.”

“I am sorry about that.”

They sat in silence for a moment before sunny lifted her head, “What is your name.”

The peach Drev Shifted to a more comfortable position, “Ralata and yours.”

“Chalan.” Sunny paused for a moment, “Perhaps it is none of my business but, how long were the two of you together.”

Ralata shrugged, “Couldn’t have been more than a year or two.”

Sunny nodded, ‘An how…. How do you cope with the idea of being alone for the rest of your life…. I know it is something that can be done, but it does seem daunting…. And lonely, I was just wondering if perhaps you could shed some light for me.”

Ralata raised her hands, ‘We are never alone when the spirits are with us. Life is fleeting when the universe is so old.”

Sunny couldnt help but be amused at the singularly Drev-like thought process it took to meet that conclusion, though she found it oddly comforting.

“I suppose you are right.”

“There is more to life than a battle partner, there is the sky and the ground and the wind, and there is always glorious combat. If we cannot find solace in these things then we have lost the battle that is life.”

Sunny nodded slowly.

“Take comfort in your own solitude.”

“Your words have been helpful, thank you for bringing my thoughts back to the truth.”

She and Ralata spoke long into the night as the rain fell, mostly about combat, and about the past and about the wars they had fought in. Sunny told tales of her adventures on strange worlds and the odd creatures that she had met. Ralata seemed fascinated by the stories, though she had no inclination to go and see them for herself.

Sunny found Ralata’s presence to be refreshing. In a way she reminded Sunny of Adam before his inner demons had taken away the spark, she was bubbly, happy, and talkative for a Drev, which was nice to fill the silence.

“Are you going to return home after this?” Ralata asked, “To your ship in the stars?”

Sunny shook her head, “Not at first, no, but eventually, yes.”

“What will you do in the meantime.”

Sunny paused not sure if she should tell this other drev what her plans were, having not entirely decided if she was going to do it or not. Once she verbalized it, it would be set in stone and she would have to do it. Not because this oher Drev new, she doubted she would ever see Ralata again, but because i she said it out loud she would feel obligated to do it.

After a long silence she finally spoke.

“I am making a pilgrimage to observe the Sacred ritual of Creation.”

Ralata pulled back in shock, “Creation, but that hasn’t been done for a thousand years, no one even knows if the monk on the mountain still exists to guide that ritual.”

“Well I suppose I will find out.”

Ralata sat in silence for a long moment staring at Sunny with wide, Orange eyes, “You are brave I suppose, no one knows how long that ritual could take.”

Sunny tilted her head back to look up at the stars, “It doesn't matter how long it takes, hopefully there will be a place for me when I return

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amwritingmeta · 4 years

Text

S15: Dean and Cas

Pardon my lateness. Life is mental at the moment! I haven’t watched 15x17 yet but hope to do so today or tomorrow. Gods preserve me, for then there will be only three more episodes left. *is this real life??*

Okay, leaving that, let’s talk about Dean and Cas, shall we? Yes, we shall!

Dean and Cas’ relationship, or rather, how they relate themselves to each other, has been in focus this season, because it’s been pivotal to both of their arcs in canonically straightforward ways. Ways so straightforward that we haven’t really seen the likes of them since S11, and with the very heavy-duty callbacks to S11 these last two episodes, it all seems quite fitting.

I mean, Jack is a bomb like Dean was a bomb and Dean got to ask Amara why she would bring Mary back, and she got to clarify she meant it as a gift, a thank you at the end of S11, because Dean didn’t blow himself to kingdom come and her along with him, because instead he realised how he could broker peace and allow for light and dark to find balance.

Which is what Dean needs to find right now.

He needs to balance out the light and dark, the masculine and the feminine, the conscious and unconscious, the ego and the shadow. He needs to balance himself out in order to let go of his fury. Why does he need that? Why would the narrative continuously hit on him needing to let go of his anger? Because that’s the reason why he was put on this journey to begin with, this slow and steady coming-of-age-coming-into-his-own progression of finding forgiveness and feeling worthy and having faith that he deserves good things.

How do we know this?

Well, arguably this season through what happens to Dean whenever he gives his fury free range, whenever he allows it to hollow out his faith, his trust, making him one-track minded, suspicious and controlling: he loses something.

He loses Cas.

This season has been all about highlighting what happens when Dean is unable to be even the slightest bit self-aware, when he veers off the path of self-acceptance. This season, Dean has had Cas disappear out of his life twice: first when Cas walked out of the bunker and second in Purgatory, when Cas went with the Leviathan. (to get them away from Dean)

The first time Dean almost lost Cas was really all about highlighting Cas’ independence (thank fuck for that), letting us see how far they’ve come in their relationship, because Dean didn’t dig himself a grave this time, perhaps having faith, in spite of it all, that Cas would come back to him, and Cas went off on his own, feeling like there was nothing left for him at the bunker when there was no forgiveness to be had from Dean.

Except, Cas thought better of it. He realised it wasn’t just on Dean to push for change—it was on him as well. And, knowing Dean, Cas had the epiphany that he would have to lead the way.

Dean, of course, not being able to forgive and forget all that easily, needed a final push, which is why the second time he almost lost Cas was all about Dean. He had to confront his anger. He had to, because naming it and admitting it as the root cause of so many of his actions (and reactions) is a cornerstone for him to begin letting that anger go.

Almost losing Cas brought him to a moment of clarity, brought him to take a knee and admit to being wrong and offering the forgiveness he’d been holding back, because being angry is easier, especially when, it could be argued, you were beginning to feel that trust in good things lasting.

Yeah, speaking of good things lasting, it brings us to this question: Why is Dean so angry?

He doesn’t know why (or so he claims) and he probably does need to have his eyes opened for him, the way Amara tried to open them, the way his conversation with her was a highlighter for the point he’s being pushed to finally reach in his progression: forgiving the past, embracing the present, trusting in the future and in the fact that he deserves to live a long and happy rest of his life.

The fact that she’s completely dressed in pink - hello positive femininity representative who kicks ass and who once almost killed God and then was balanced out so that she instead healed him with her light and they twisted into dark and light smoke and went off together - is just delicious icing on the cake.

Yeah, and that’s the issue, Dean, alright, buddy?

Dean is angry because his mother died and her death meant that he lost his father too, it meant that he didn’t get to have a childhood, it meant that he stopped believing that he could have good things that would last, because of a confused sense of identity and a crippled sense of self-worth—why did bad things happen to him if he didn’t deserve it somehow?— and pushed him to mold himself into what would make him feel strong and brave: the image that his father projected.

The soldier.

The weapon and the shield.

And now it seems Protect Sammy has morphed into Sacrifice Jack, all because Dean’s fury at Chuck’s manipulation isn’t containable, and there’s no way Dean’s going to let Chuck live. Even if it means Jack dies in the process. As Dean said to Sam in 15x16: at least it’s not them this time.

All the while we just sit here and witness Dean morphing into the revenge thirsty spitting image of his father one last time, for one final, big ole push towards the line he’ll have to cross if he’s to finally understand once and for all where it’s actually drawn.

At Cas’ feet.

Remember back in S12, before Cas died, there was that subtle (erm) motif of pointy things going through people’s hearts from behind? Yeah. It happened twice, if I remember correctly, before the pointy end of an angel blade went through Cas’ heart and he died an angel death in the season finale.

Yeah. That.

So.

So now, in S15, we have Cas caught in a motif again, only this time Dean is right there with him, because it involves both of them.

We’ve had anger and loss, and then honesty and forgiveness.

We’re back to anger, we’re back to Dean seeing red, blinded by it, and the only thing—we’ve been shown—that can unblind him is…?

That’s right: losing Cas.

So he will lose Cas again. We’ve been on the precepice of this as fact for a good long while now, haven’t we, my merry macarons? We have indeed! The question becomes how will Dean lose Cas again? Is Cas actually going to die? Again??

I still sincerely doubt it.

I think Cas will find another way, and that other way will equal a sacrifice on his part. His life? I mean, it could be, but what about the Empty? What about allowing himself to be happy? It could add up somehow, I guess I just can’t see it. So I think the sacrifice will somehow involve Heaven, because we know Michael will be back, and I hope it will involve Hell and all of the forces God has brought into being working against him—together.

S p e c.

Now, I’m a sadist. No, not like that -> I’m a sadist when it comes to characters. Not that there’s anything wrong with being a sadist. (Misha Collins is one, as we all know) (I joke!) (down Bessie!) What I’m getting at is that I want Cas having no other recourse but to do whatever it is he’ll have to do to save Jack to, quite literally, break Dean.

We know they’re all teary eyed in 15x18 (feels like it’s Billie whom Dean is glaring at) and we’ve seen Dean crying against a wall and omfg I want it to be explicit and over Cas. Yeah?

We ain’t getting them driving off in the Impala together (which is fine btw because the final episode should focus on the brothers more than anything else) (I mean, a hint that they will be driving around in that Impala post season finale while Sam goes to be with Eileen would be fab, but we can only hope and wish, yeah?) (horses held), so let’s get Dean broken over thinking he’ll never see Cas again.

Let it be done with a big fat black marker in enormous circles around his emotional state. Let him TELL Cas to stay this time, like he should’ve done when Cas walked out the door in 15x03, only for Cas to be unable to comply, because this is all to teach Dean a lesson that this is where his anger gets him, and what he needs to do to save Cas is let that anger go, stop thinking Jack is expendable, and find a better way.

I mean, this is speculation, guys. This is hoping and wishing all over this narrative. But glory effing be if it’s anywhere in the ballpark.

It would be mind-blowing if there was a God intervention of some sort, a talking down off the ledge, as it were, as per end of S11, but I’m not going to hold my breath for *rainbows*…

I’ll hold it for balance, though. :)

Cas has waited for Dean for a long time. Dean being dismissive of Cas in 15x15 can, once again— because whenever he acts like a dick it comes back to bite him on the ass (there’s a visual for you)— be looked at as part of the tapestry that makes Cas feel there’s nothing more for him but being a father to Jack.

Dean did nothing but instill this feeling in Cas after Cas came back from the black hole that is the Empty in S13, Dean being all “You were brought back because we needed you”—Dean saying zero things about how he was basically ripping apart at the seams from the grief of losing Cas just hours before Cas made that phone call.

And of course not. Why would Dean admit that? Even to himself, once Cas was back.

He wouldn’t!

Ignoring how he really feels about stuff and taking Cas for granted is kinda what he does, so back to normal it all went. So normal and so leveled out that something had to happen, right? Because, in Dean’s mind, good things don’t last.

And then Mary happened.

Oh, my heart!

And Dean went off and cried, by himself, because he still couldn’t show emotion that openly, even to the people closest to him. But he went down on his knees and he cried in Cas’ ear during that prayer, and that really was something.

That said, Mary’s death was Dean proven right once again, and this person, who is the source of faith and hope and that budding belief that maybe, this time, everything was going to actually get better and stay that way, became the target of Dean’s anger over the injustice of it all. Because Cas was the root of it. He’s always been the root of Dean’s slow-to-grow hope that could bloom into belief and trust, if he just dared let it, that he deserves to be happy.

I wrote in an ask reply that I doubt we’ll get human!Cas, but then I remembered that Cas is still status quo-ing it. It’s why he almost left the bunker without telling anyone again, that choice of skedaddling without checking in getting interrupted by Dean, and Cas being brought into a situation where he had to divulge the information, not only that he was leaving and might not make it back (Dean’s face though!), but that Jack is going through a trial that will ultimately destroy him, which was a nice shift in this dynamic of theirs.

Now, look it, the writers may end Cas’ journey on him status quo-ing it... but for the Empty.

And I would shrug at the Empty and think, well, maybe that won’t come into play... but for the fact that the deal was brought up just a few episodes back.

So. Happiness.

Somehow something will need to push Cas toward a moment of happiness. And letting himself be happy is such a climactic moment for his entire journey—and look at how it perfectly mirrors what Dean is being pushed toward—that I find it difficult to see how that moment would bring an eternity in the Empty.

But I’ve written a lot of words on why I just can’t make sense of why they would choose to kill him or have his moment of happiness be tied to a narrative punishment so I’m not getting into all that again, but because both Dean and Cas are being pushed toward happiness, I’m curious to see which route the writers have chosen to take with it.

It would be thrilling and satisfying in equal measure if we finally get Dean crying over Cas, and only Cas. No filter of Bobby or Mary to take away focus and allow for an argument that he’s not actually grieving Cas.

It would be thrilling and satisfying for it to be very baseline Just Cas. As it has been just Cas this entire season. Cas at the center of Dean’s anger. Cas at the center of Dean’s push toward healing. Cas having had enough, drawing a line—the one that is still there, at his feet—and doing what he’s always done best: calling Dean out on his bullshit behaviour. Cas making Dean put words to his anger, express forgiveness and say that he’s sorry and all within the same moment to boot.

What all this will amount to, we’ll have to wait and see.

In a few weeks. Or next week. Or maybe there will be strong indicators where the pendulum is actually swinging in 15x17!

Holy. Hell.

But I can’t see it ending somewhere tragic. If it does, it does. And it will be what it will be. And I’ll mourn a little, and accept it and move on. But I do believe it will end somewhere hopeful. Somewhere that leaves things quite tied up, but also open to interpretation, so that we can pick and choose who ends up where and how these men decide to continue on their journeys, now that this enormous leg of their progression is done, and they’ve learned to put the past to rest.

And if S11 is anything to go by, then the echoes of that ending would be a powerful way to tie everything up, as S11 was meant to be the end of the road, until Andrew Dabb picked up the reins with an idea of how to continue the show for a few more seasons. Or so I’ve heard.

11x23 also gave us the most gloriously frustrating exchange ever written for two characters in a car. Omg. Dean we-ing the absolute hell out of his speech when it was him, he was the one, the entire time Cas was possessed by Lucifer, who insisted they make sure Cas came back unscathed. “You’re the best friend we ever had” my ass, Dean!

I wanted to talk about Dean and Sam as well, but there’s too little time at the moment for me to write more. And it’s painful, but I have to concede or hit a wall and hitting walls fucken hurts.

I will mention that Sam telling Dean off at the end of 15x16 still gives me goosebumps just thinking about it.

Finally, Sam. Finally.

As ever, sprinklings of salt all over this meta and speculation, my dearlings, but omfg it’s beautiful.

Right then. I’m off to watch 15x17! Wish me luck! *gah!*

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