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notes-from-my-journal · 5 years

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lover series: london boy - t.h.

A/N: And the fluff continues...

Word Count: 2.2k

I love my hometown as much as Motown, I love SoCal

And you know I love Springsteen, faded blue jeans, Tennessee whiskey

In terms of the phrase “some days are better than others” this was definitely one of the others. You felt the homesickness physically churn in your stomach, thinking of LA and the whiskey you would order at the dive bar on Friday nights to celebrate the weekend. Spending last night with Tom was really tugging at your heartstrings, because the dive bar is how you guys ended up meeting.

“Whatcha thinking about?” he walks up in his Spider-Man suit, smirking at you. Clearly thinking that he was the one on your mind, but you wouldn’t satisfy him that quickly.

“Home, actually.” You smile up at him. That whiskey sure would help right about now.

“Missing it?” he questions. “A little bit. Must be nice for you to be filming in London.”

“Yeah, it actually is. My mum and brothers are going to visit set later today. You should say hi if you, you know, you want,” he stutters the last part out as he tries to cover it with a cough.

You smile back, equally as nervous. “That’s moving a little fast, don’t you think, Holland?”

“They already know you basically…”

Your eyebrows furrow. “How so?”

“I may have told them about you…”

“Tom…”

“No-not like that darling!” Darling. “I just mean, I talk about the cast and crew all the time, and they notice you in particular because you’re the crew member I talk about the most, and I-”

“Tom. It’s sweet, really.” “You think so?”

“Yes,” you chuckle. “I’d love to say hi.”

His eyes widen. “That would be great! I’ll let you know when they’re here yeah?”

You smile and nod, hearing his name called in the distance on the set.

“I gotta run, I’ll see you later darling!” he runs off before you can even give him your own nickname.

It had been less than 24 hours since you had kissed and spent the night just talking about all the feelings you had kept inside for so long until you both fell asleep. You both had to be up at 5am for a 6am call time, but the adrenaline kept you energetic regardless of the three hours of sleep you had gotten.

Watching him run off into the distance, you were glad you both admitted that “close friends” wasn’t working for you anymore. You knew that “just friends” wouldn’t work the second you met him in the dive bar in LA all those months ago, but to have it reciprocated was a new level of relief you didn’t know you’d be able to achieve.

But something happened, I heard him laughing

I saw the dimples first and then I heard the accent

six months earlier...

You had walked in with your roommates, hoping to forget about the fact you had the biggest interview of your life earlier that day and that it could make or break your career in the entertainment industry.

The bar was slightly full, still being early in the evening, and while all the girls went to dance you decided to sit. You had a difficult time bringing yourself to dance with strangers, and sometimes sitting and watching was more relaxing and less anxiety inducing. Turning around, you see one of them already dancing with a tall, gorgeous blonde with the brightest shade of blue eyes. Score.

“You fancy the seats more too, eh?”

And you’d be lying if you said it wasn’t the prettiest voice you had ever heard. The words rolled out of his mouth like honey, quiet and smooth and delicious. You turned towards the owner to see an even prettier set of curls on the warmest face you had come across in any bar.

“A little bit,” you smile. He looked familiar. Why did he look familiar?

“Not ashamed to admit I love them. Dancing isn’t really my thing - unless it’s choreographed anyway. Harrison, on the other hand,” he nods towards the tall boy behind your roommate. “My roommate is entertaining him just fine I think,” you gesture towards her, giggling.

He smiles, the kind that reaches your eyes. He sticks his hand out, “I’m Tom.”

And then it clicks. You grab his hand, “Thought you looked familiar. I’m Y/N.”

“Hoping you’re not going to call the paps on me. Trying to lay low tonight,” with any other guy that happened to be a hot celebrity, you would have scoffed. But he was clearly joking around, trying to be lighthearted. It was sweet. “I actually am not a superfan...I just happened to interview for crew today. For the new movie.”

His eyes light up at the mention of work, “No way! That’s awesome. What do you do?”

You sigh, “Gaffing mostly. Nothing exciting. I really want to produce...eventually.”

“You will be sooner than you think,” he smiles. How could a stranger have more confidence in you than you had in yourself? “Tell you what. If I could just get your phone number, I’ll make sure to put a good word in and then keep you updated.”

“Put a good word in? You barely know me!” you try to be serious, because this was your career after all, but it was Tom fucking Holland. Why would he do something like this?

“Because you seem lovely, dedicated to your job just by the look in your eyes when you said the word ‘gaffing’,” he stops to laugh, “and it does help that you are one of the most gorgeous women I’ve ever met.” You scoff.

Charming.

And the rest was history.

They say home is where the heart is

But that's not where mine lives

You were more than relieved to have your feelings towards him be out in the open, but that didn’t mean it was open to everyone else necessarily. You were starting to get distracted at work not only having Tom there, but also thinking of meeting his family? Who apparently already knew about you.

Shaking off the stress, you continue setting lights and building equipment - something you could do mindlessly while keeping focus somewhere that wasn’t your hot coworker.

Before you knew it, it was your lunch break. Walking back to the trailer, you feel another hand grab yours delicately. And there he is, once again grinning from ear to ear making you breathless - as if his hand grabbing yours wasn’t stressful enough.

“Hey! The gang’s all in my trailer, wanna come over for a few?” You swallow thickly.

You nod and try to manage a smile. “Sounds great.”

You were convinced you had blacked out during the walk to the trailer, just from pure panic. Before you knew it the nicest British family was standing in front of you, with the cutest dog ever. An adorable puppy to add to the fun? Your heart rate was definitely going to set off the Health app on your watch.

“Darlin’, this is my mum, and my brothers - Sam, Harry, and Paddy,” Tom smiles and gestures to each member.

“So nice to meet you Mrs. Holland,” you reach out to shake her hand, which she uses to pull you in for a delicate hug.

“Lovely to meet you darling!” This family and that damn darling. “I’m Nikki. Mrs. Holland is a little older sounding than I like,” she laughs.

“Hi guys, nice to meet you,” you turn to the brothers. Paddy’s eyes had widened when he got a good look at you, and before you could ask why he answers.

“You really are as pretty as Tom described,” Paddy laughs with a blush.

“Paddy!” Tom yelps. You feel your cheeks heat up.

“I’m flattered, thank you,” you chuckle.

“Alright, well I...have to get back to set so you guys can be on your way!” Tom hints through gritted teeth to his family.

“Oh but my dear brother, we have no idea how to get out of here,” Harry chuckles. “Maybe she can show us the way?” he turns to you with raised eyebrows. Well.

“Of course,” you smile. No need to be rude, no matter how nervous you were.

Tom groans, “Please don’t embarrass me anymore. I want Y/N to like me enough to hang out with me tomorrow.”

You whip your head around, “We’re hanging out tomorrow?”

“Might want to ask the girl out before you assume things, brother,” Sam laughs.

“Shut up Sam! Yea-ah I was hoping I could show you around Camden Market tomorrow morning? Since it’s our day off but you don’t have to I know you probably have better things t-”

“Tom!” You interrupt. He whips his head up to look you in the eyes. They’re always pretty, but when filled with hopeful anticipation they glow more than usual. How could you say no to that?

“I’d love to. Tomorrow morning. Now let me show your family how to get out of this maze.”

You know I love a London boy

I enjoy walking Camden Market in the afternoon

The next morning Tom is at your hotel door at 9 a.m. - which is considered sleeping in to you two with your schedules - with your coffee order and a smile. Always smiling, even in the morning.

Tom was probably one of the only people that could cause you to smile in the morning. A morning person you were not. And Tom knew that.

“Vanilla latte,” he hands you the warm cup. You sigh as it rests in your hands. Taking a sip, you close your eyes to enjoy warmth filling your body.

“Thank you,” you smile.

“No worries, pretty girl.” You take a pause.

“That’s the first time I’ve heard you use something other than ‘Dah-lin’,” you giggle trying to mimic his accent.

“Well, darling is common. I’m trying to not use common names for someone special,” he winks. Damn he was smooth. “Also that is a horrible accent!”

Okay maybe not that smooth.

He leads you from the hotel down the streets of suburban London, people barely waking up and opening the curtains. Being up early on occasion was nice, just for the sake of the quiet and low risk of running into fans. Regardless of the time, Tom still wore his signature black hoodie when he didn’t want to be noticed. It was sweet that he wanted to hang out with you as privately as possible, and you feel your sleepiness roll off of you as you smile.

“What’s so funny?” He chuckles.

“Nothing’s funny. You’re just cute,” you giggle - eyes wide and hands covering your mouth after you realized what you had said. He pulls your hand away from your lips (rosy from the cold).

He likes my American smile

“Don’t cover that smile up pretty girl” he smirks as he kisses the corner of your mouth. You could definitely get used to this. You know you’re probably making heart eyes when you realize he’s staring at you.

Like a child when our eyes meet, darling, I fancy you

“Everything okay, Tom?”

He smiles, but it’s not playful per usual. There’s something deeper behind it. “Yeah I just...I fancy you.”

The moment is ruined when you start laughing. He rolls his eyes.

“I was trying to be romantic!”

“That was the most British thing you’ve ever said, I’m sorry!” You attempt to stop laughing while he pouts at you, eventually calming down and kissing his cheek. “I fancy you too, dah-lin,” you giggle.

“You’re lucky you’re cute.”

Took me back to Highgate, met all of his best mates

So I guess all the rumors are true

A few nights later, Tom asked you to come to dinner so he could catch up with his best friend, Harrison, near his suburban hometown a few miles away from set. You reluctantly agreed, hoping that it wouldn’t be too weird (unlikely for you and your social skills) but after realizing Harrison was the tall blonde from all those months ago at the club, your heart rate steadied a bit.

You went to the diner Tom and Harrison would go to when they were younger, and you were surprised at how easy the conversation flowed. By the end of the night, you and Harrison were laughing about how your roommate ghosted him and how much you loved pancakes.

“Guys I’m literally right here,” Tom rolls his eyes.

“I think I might like Haz more, babe,” you laugh. Harrison doesn’t say anything when he notices the pet name, he just smiles and feels confident that you would be around for a long time.

The next morning, paparazzi photos of you three in the diner show up along with you and Tom leaving together. He drinks his tea and slams his phone on the table in his trailer.

“Fucking hell! I can’t get any privacy even in the suburbs,” he groans. Your eyes soften with empathy. Walking over to where he was sitting you try to calm him down. You grab his hands and kiss his knuckles. He glances at you, and the anger slowly dissipates.

“It’s okay. At least they’re not rumors right? We really are seeing each other,” you try to amuse him. He lets out a dry chuckle.

“I guess you’re right. Thank you, pretty girl,” his smile returns and he kisses you gently while you keep your grip on both of his hands.

“Hey Tom?”

You know I love a London boy

Boy, I fancy you

“Yeah baby?”

“I fancy you,” you smile.

#tom holland #tom holland fanfic #tom holland imagine #harrison osterfield

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violethowler · 5 years

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This Isn’t A Zero Sum Game: An Analysis of Lotor’s Interactions With The Paladins as a Whole Across Seasons 5 and 6

Every once in a while I’ll think about some “hot take” I saw in the VLD fandom more than a year ago and just think about how canon... just did not support those conclusions... And since that’s how most of my meta get started, I churned out a new one:

In the wake of Seasons 5 and 6 dropping I saw a lot of posts, particularly from Lotor stans, bashing the Paladins for the way they treated him in the first two episodes of Season 5, how cruel they were to just give him over to his father without a second thought. I even saw a few arguing over how humane his treatment was in S5E1.

While I do believe that Lotor’s desire for peace was genuine (as we would have seen in Season 8 before the executive meddling cut the payoff), I think that it’s a little extreme to argue that the Paladins treatment of him in S5E1 The Prisoner was unethical, or that they were just throwing him to the wolves in S5E2.

To quote one of my favorite video game characters, “Let’s hit these plot points in order.”

What exactly were people expecting the Paladins to do after Lotor saved the day in “A New Defender”? Immediately welcome him into the fold with open arms and a fresh batch of cookies that Hunk made just for the occasion? They’re forgetting that just a few episodes ago, Lotor was still in charge of the Galra Empire. He wasn’t a fringe third party with a checkered past who showed up to help when the chips were down like Rolo and Nyma. For all of Season 3 and most of Season 4, he’s been an enemy combatant, and they treated him as such. While he may currently be at odds with his father after S4E3, the Paladins have no way to know whether he genuinely wants peace or is just telling them what they want to here so he can take advantage of them. Because he’s done it before.

In S3E2 Red Paladin, Lotor has Narti use her mind control powers to have the leader of Puig send a distress signal asking Voltron for help. When they arrive, he ambushes them and sends multiple waves of fighters to gauge their skill and whether they would be able to retrieve the trans reality comet. When he gets what he wants, he leaves.

Two episodes later, in S3E4 Hole in the Sky, Lotor attaches a distress beacon to the ship with the comet inside that mimics an Altean distress signal. When Voltron arrives, he waits for them to retrieve the comet, then attacks them, steals the comet for himself, and flies off.

That’s two times now that Lotor has faked a distress signal and then used Voltron’s desire to help to further his own agenda before flying off with the fruits of his labor. He may not have done anything to them since then, but they are understandably wary of being used like that a third time. You know how the old saying goes. “Fooled me once, shame on you. Fooled me twice, shame on me.”

So, when he slides up to the Coalition saying “hey, I know we’ve fought in the past but let’s see if we can come to an agreement”, he’s looked at with suspicion, and understandably so. The Paladins aren’t going to just give free reign of the Castle of Lions to someone they know very little about, who was an enemy combatant less than a month ago (by all indications S4E2-6 take place within a very short period of time), and who has a history of using their desire to help people to advance his own agenda. So, they put him in the cell as a probationary measure. If he proves trustworthy, they give him access to more of the castle. If it turns out that he’s using them for his own ends like they fear, well, they’ve already locked him up, and at least he wouldn’t have been able to access any sensitive information. We see that bear out in S5E3 Postmortem. The Paladins aren’t bothered that Lotor’s out of his cell. He’s proven his intentions by killing his father. Their main reaction is surprise that they’re giving him access to the bridge already.

[EDIT]: Some posts following the release of Season 5 pointed out that if the lights on Lotor’s prison deck were kept on 24/7, it would constitute a form of torture. While that is a valid point to make, I saw quite a few blogs that took that possibility and exaggerated it, not even considering the “if” part of the original discussion, declaring it as fact, and rushing to label the Paladins’ actions as war crimes because we never saw Lotor’s cell with the lights off. It should be noted that all of these scenes took place in the daytime, and while we never see that specific room at night, Season 2 already showed that the castle’s lights are turned off during the night cycle, and there’s nothing to suggest they didn’t do the same with Lotor’s cell.

And there’s also another angle that isn’t really talked about – that not everyone we saw in the Coalition in previous seasons was willing to work alongside Galra like the Blade of Marmora. While the rebels we see in Begin the Blitz and A New Defender are just fine working with the Blades, it’s not out of the question that some Coalition members might resent the Coalition’s Galra allies. And if Lotor’s on the Castle of Lions, that would make him a target. The cell could also have been just as much to keep trigger happy Coalition members out as it was to keep him in.

Then I hear people arguing that they were just going to hand him over to Zarkon with no strings attached, that they were just going to give Lotor up and trust that Zarkon would stay true to his word. It sometimes sounded like some people want so badly for Lotor to be a bigger victim than he already is that they twisted canon to make the Paladins out to be thoughtless jerks. Because S5E2 Blood Duel shows us that everything that happened was all according to plan.

For those who are unfamiliar, the Unspoken Plan Guarantee trope refers to the pattern that the more the audience knows the details of the plan beforehand, the greater the chances the plan will fail, and the fewer details the audience knows in advance, the greater the chances the plan will succeed. Explaining the details of the plan after it’s been successfully carried out is optional.

After Zarkon pulls the hologram trick, the phrase “Hold our position until the time is right.” Is repeated by both Shiro and Lance (albeit without the “until the time is right” part for Lance). And the show tells us that the moment when “the time is right” is when Lotor attacks Zarkon and leads him away from the shuttle.

When the Paladins are arguing with Shiro in S5E3 Postmortem, they don’t say anything to the effect of “why did you give Lotor a weapon?” They had no problem with him being armed. The issue they had was that Lotor was given the Black Bayard, his father’s signature weapon they had only just gotten back from Zarkon 14 episodes ago. One wrong move in Blood Duel, and that weapon would have been back in Zarkon’s hands. And for a moment in that episode, it was. Zarkon did get his hands on the Black Bayard and if Lotor had been a second too slow, Zarkon would have killed all five Paladins, plus Matt and Sam in a single strike.

I’ve mentioned before that VLD prefers to show things to the audience rather than explain them out loud. Sometimes it’s to the show’s detriment because the answer to viewers’ questions aren’t immediately obvious. But watching Blood Duel again, it’s clear that plan was always “make the hostage exchange. Wait for Zarkon to double cross us. Lotor attacks Zarkon and leads him on a chase across the desert. Shiro, Matt, and Pidge storm the shuttle to free Sam.” The Paladins were always going to ensure that Lotor was armed during the fight with his father. The only issue they had was Shiro’s choice of what weapon to give him.

So now that Lotor has proven they can trust him, they start to drop their guard and be more casual and friendly around him. And according to Matt during the flashbacks in S7E7 “The Last Stand: Part”, by the time Sam Holt has been on Earth for just over a year, Voltron had been missing for six months. That means that between S5E5 Bloodlines and S6E4 The Colony, Voltron and Lotor had been working together for just over six months. That’s six months of the Paladins slowly growing to trust and befriend the new Galra Emperor. But the little embers of doubt about his intentions were still there in the back of each of their minds.

That’s why it’s so easy for the Paladins to believe Keith and Romelle when they show up accusing him of murdering Alteans with no concrete evidence other than their own assumptions. Because given his behavior before Naxzela, an apparent reveal that he had been playing the long game manipulating them all along rekindled those embers of suspicion. It’s easy for them to conclude that Lotor was playing a long con since it would fit with his behavior towards them prior to Season 4. Because what non-nefarious reason could Lotor possibly have for not telling Allura and Coran that he had been sheltering the surviving Alteans after working together for six months?

We know why Lotor didn’t say anything. Because he refused to risk Haggar discovering the Colony’s existence and scouring the universe until she found it. But the Paladins have never experienced the level of privacy invasion and subsequently justified paranoia that Lotor has. So, they do not have the experience to understand that he refused to risk the security of the colony by revealing its existence where Haggar might have spies or listening devices or cloned sleeper agents to overhear.

I agree with the theory that Lotor was telling the truth about the Altean Colony and that what was happening there was not what Keith and Romelle believed it was. I absolutely believe that the Paladins leaving Lotor in the rift was a mistake. But the attempts by certain Lotor stans to water this down to a black and white scenario of Paladins Evil, Lotor Good are not supported by canon. Canon shows us that the falling out between Lotor and the Paladins was a messy situation where everyone had understandable reasons for reacting to the reveal of the colony as they did. That doesn’t make any one person’s reactions right or justified, only that if you put the pieces together it’s understandable how they reached the conclusions they did.

TL;DR: There is no evidence in the show that suggests Lotor was treated inhumanely, the Paladins were never going to just hand him to Zarkon unarmed and hope for the best, and Lotor's paranoid refusal to tell them about the Colony gave Keith's accusations greater weight because it was in line with his behavior towards the Paladins in Season 3 enough for them to believe that he had been pulling a long con all along.

#voltron meta #vld lotor #voltron legendary defender #character analysis #vld paladins #vld season 5 #voltron season 5 #voltron season 6 #vld season 6

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stusbunker · 5 years

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Below the Surface and In the Wild

For Better or Worst: Chapter Three

Featuring: Sam Winchester x Emery Simmons-Winchester OFC

OCs: Bandit (their dog), Sam’s coworkers Gretchen, Lourdes and Cady. Neighbors: Trudy and Jason Schneider and their dogs Mox and Sho.

Season 14 AU

Word Count: 2481

Summary: Sam is a doll. A sneak peek into what life was like those rough, first, few weeks. Then the newlyweds unknowingly start to understand just what being bound on a soul-level means.

Warnings: Mixed reality, magical persuasion.

Series Masterlist

^*^*^

One morning, inside the library building and down two flights of stairs, Sam approached his cubby, which housed notes for his current project, a small wireless speaker and a picture of Emery and Bandit, taken when he was a puppy. This trek toward work only reminded Sam how old he actually was, relative to his coworkers, at least. Gretchen was helping Lourdes fill out her taxes with an online program, as this was the first time the young woman had held a job. They were two of many graduate students that made up most of the labor for the archive department, though Sam worked full time. A position, though he had been teased for nepotism, he quite enjoyed. At this point in the term, he had given up reminding the twenty-somethings that Emery had just started with the school as well. He had started drowning out the phrase “trophy husband”, however, as they not so quietly gossiped.

Luckily, Sam was almost positive to be left in peace, as he was transferring video footage from guest lecturers from the 80s and 90s into digital files for the school’s preservation society, in one of the soundproof rooms due to the availability of the allotted equipment. He didn’t need it to be silent, but it wouldn’t stop him from taking advantage of the location. Somewhere between fall ’84 and spring ’85, Cady knocked on the heavy door. Sam had very little interaction with the former volleyball player, but it wasn’t for her lack of trying. She smiled until he removed the headphones he wore, teeth pristine against spray tanned skin. Even post spring break, no one was that shade naturally.

“Hey, we’re going to the union for lunch, did you want to join us?” Cady cocked her head to the side with a hand on her hip, toe twisting at the end of her oh so long legs.

“I’m good, thanks,” Sam nodded and turned back to checking volume levels on what had transferred so far. He felt her linger behind him, but he didn’t look back until the door clicked shut. Sam closed his eyes in relief.

Once he heard voices in the common area, Sam ducked out for his own late lunch walk. He hated being stagnant for hours on end, even if he didn’t remember it, his body was used to roller coastering between seated research and quick intensive work outs. It was a Tuesday, a day that always sat wrong with him. He found himself wandering towards Owens Hall, following the steady flow of traffic into the massive building. Just as the doors were closing to Lecture Room B, Sam slipped inside and found the last aisle seat, near the middle of the auditorium. As soon as Emery stood and offered a cordial good afternoon, the hall fell silence. Sam didn’t notice the small grin that had seated itself on his face as he watched her pace in front of her projected bullet points as she spoke. She wove her lecture like a narrative, intriguing and informative, it was almost a performance to hear her speak of the Crusades instead of course work.

Halfway through the allotted time, Sam remembered he was supposed to be back to work, and he stood at an angle to duck out of the hall unnoticed.

“Excuse me, but the lecture isn’t finished,” a stern voice called to him from the stage. The students whispered in both mockery and annoyance as Sam got called out for interrupting.

“Sorry, I was just stopping by—my lunch break is over.” Sam nodded, frowning in chagrin.

“So, you’re rude AND decided to waste my students’ time, the same people who are paying to be here?” Emery raised her eyebrows at Sam, a sinister tilt to her painted lips.

“I guess so– Sorry, about that. I just wanted to see the hot new History professor I heard about,” Sam spat back, putting some humiliation on her plate as well. The crowd erupted.

“I’ll be going though, don’t want to waste anymore of y’all’s time,” he called over the fuss.

She bit her lip as he turned to go, cursing under her breath. As soon as the door closed behind his flanneled back, Emery was back in professor mode.

“Alright, that’s enough, he’s my husband—don’t get too excited.”

Come six o’clock, Sam beat Emery to their crossover, though he could have kept working. It was tedious and any of the grad students could have taken the project, it was just nice to have a reason to stop for the day. Sam hadn’t allowed himself this kind romance in what felt like lifetimes and without the ability to pinpoint why, he was holding fast to his marriage, his partnership. Leaning on someone he respected was natural to Sam and he felt doubly blessed to have a woman like Emery to be there to support him, day in and day out. It was a small, simple life, but it is was theirs.

They had plans with their neighbors Trudy and Jason, which they had rescheduled once already because Bandit had a go with a skunk. They were nice people, but Sam was still adjusting to the social expectations of living nearby other couples in their thirties. New town meant new friends, right? That’s what Emery had kept telling him, trying to brush off some of his awkwardness. As he waited, he caught up with the news on his phone, preferring to lean against the car than inside it. Though it had the headspace, not a lot of vehicles had the leg space for him to sit comfortably and it felt less creepy of him, somehow. It’s not like he was on a stakeout, why would he sit inside the car?

Emery clicked the unlock button on her keys, intentionally startling Sam from his latest article.

“Crash any good lectures today?” She taunted, leaning up for a quick kiss.

“Ha-ha,” was his only reply. She tossed her bags in the backseat before sliding into the driver’s spot. They drove home easily, flirty glances and light banter, the sounds of NPR in the background. Sam took the dog for a walk while Emery changed, and she prepped the dessert she bought while he did.

Cheesecake and wine in hand, they strolled out the back door, over the sidewalk a whopping sixty feet and were then promptly greeted by Jason and Trudy’s two rottweilers, all by seven o’clock sharp. Jason kneed his way to the door before taking Mox and Sho by the collar to allow their guests inside. Sam, handed Emery the wine before leaning down to greet the dogs, letting Emery present their gifts. Jason, both burly and gregarious, nodded to the back of the house to the kitchen where Trudy was finishing up. The conversation flowed easily over the dogs as everyone calmed down with the company.

“Now, I know you can’t partake, but I figured–,” Emery was nearly apologizing to the very pregnant Trudy over the passing of the bottle of wine. The somehow still lanky redhead waved off Emery’s concern.

“My doctor says a half a glass at this point won’t do anything besides let me relax and with those boys eating through the latest diaper bag—I could use it,” Trudy shrugged. “How’s your week been?”

The two couples ate al fresco, enjoying the Schneider’s large deck, on the back of their house built when they moved in four years before, along with the matching eight-foot fence. Emery kept her free hand on Sam’s thigh while they got settled, but after a few glasses of wine, they were all chuckling easily. Trudy had grilled steaks and asparagus that rivaled celery stalks in size. Jason had tried a couscous recipe which everyone politely and silently agreed to never speak of it again.

“Man, I gotta say, I’m glad we did this,” Jason handed out mushy bear hugs at the door.

“Anytime,” Sam replied, patting Jason on the back as he grabbed Emery.

“Yeah? Nice! Didn’t scare you off,” Jason teased. “Seriously though, after those first couple’a weeks I thought you were a douche.”

“And now?” Sam swallowed, putting his hands in his pockets.

“Jury’s still out,” Trudy dropped out of left field, causing everyone to break away with their own laughter. “Don’t be strangers just because my husband can’t cook.”

Perhaps they hadn’t all agreed to leave it be. With a signature awkward wave and a tugging at his elbow, Sam turned toward home. On his arm, Emery was humming from the gentle buzz of her share of the bottles of wine. Sam struggled to remember what would have made Jason say what he had.

Sam hadn’t been paying attention, but a passing glance at the date stamped on the sub/reddit he was reading made his blood run cold. It was Dean’s birthday, his fortieth. They needed answers, a timeframe, something. He deserved to know that this was all worth it, that it was working. Emery came home an hour later to find Sam sitting in the dining room, that they had yet to use. A third of a bottle of Johnny Walker gone.

“Hey, everything okay?” She held her stomach as uncertainty and alarm battled to creep out of her cool demeanor as accusations. She didn’t know much about Sam yet, but that much alcohol that quickly wasn’t good for anyone.

Sam turned and his lip curled in spite. “What’s it matter? It’s all in their hands now isn’t? We just play house and wait on the angels. Like that ever really worked before.”

“Sam, we both, we need this—" Emery looked to her feet as her throat thickened.

“Save it. I know. I’ll play the part. It doesn’t mean I am going to be quiet about them leaving us in the dark,” Sam snapped at the ceiling.

“So, what, you’re just gonna get drunk and scream at the sky? Really?” Emery huffed and walked away. “Classy.”

He dried out in time to go to church with Emery on Sunday morning, the sanctuary feeling much smaller than it had during their private ceremony the week before. The reverend commented on his change of facial hair and Sam smiled at the implication that he didn’t need to impress Emery anymore. He had already landed her. Sam cocked his head and took a few deep breaths, his shoulders and lungs straining as if in a vice, desperate he excused himself from the coffee hour crowd and into the stark gray morning.

That night Emery went to bed alone again, leaving Sam to pass out on the couch as he pretended to watch something in the den. She fell asleep with tears in her eyes and a lamenting prayer on her lips.

The more Sam thought about it, the more it felt like he was chasing smoke. Nothing stuck and his mind felt blank. All of the sudden, he was upstairs, watching Emery peel off her clothes. When his ass hit the bed, she sauntered over to stand between his legs, nimble fingers threading through his hair. That was enough of a distraction to leave the concern for another day.

April 23, 2019

There are days and there are dates, some days suck, while some dates are entombed in the psyche. Birthdays, anniversaries, heartbreaks and deaths: dates that could be forgotten, but usually aren’t. Some that should be forgotten, but refuse to leave the confines of memory, seeping into the very soul. It is a date as such that pierced through, causing Emery to wake up at 3:26 in a cold sweat, arms heavy with emptiness and head throbbing with unshed tears. She slipped out of bed and down to the den, the moment her foot moved from the last step to the hardwood floor, Bandit was at her knee, knowing something was the matter.

Dogs are some of the greatest blessings in the lives of humans, even when those humans don’t deserve their unconditional comfort, perhaps especially then. Emery sank down on the staircase, all-consuming grief over taking her as she held Bandit to her chest, burying her face against the thick strands covering his neck. The hollowness inside ruptured into the stillness of the predawn quiet, reverberating in the large empty rooms of their playhouse. As needed as Bandit was, he was still a portion of her life before, signifying what she had lost and how far she had yet to go. He was reality incarnate, a touchstone even. There they sat, one mystified, one overrun with sorrow until Sam broke their trance as he called from the landing.

“Baby? What is it? What happened?” Heavy yet agile foot falls announced his progress until he slipped behind her, wiping her hair from her face where it stuck in sweat and tears. His eyes searched for injury, for entry, for any disturbance at all. The room and her body were as right as rain, yet she cried, and Sam let her. Feeling not lost at her inexplicable melancholy, but awash with it. He clung to her, and Emery leaned into him; life rafts and castaways in the same storm.

Moments or minutes later, they stood and stretched, no less in pain, but slaves to their bodies’ needs; they broke apart. Slowly they began their day, quiet and uncertain of what it would bring. If this storm would pass as quickly as it came or, if it was a hovering sort. As the hours floated by, each in their respective autopilot politeness at work and in the neighborhood. During an unenthused walk with Bandit, Sam realized just how much he had been empathizing with Emery. It was at the forefront of his every thought, this drilling sadness. Buildings or miles apart, he still felt it in the hidden corners of his very being. Whatever this was, he wasn’t sure he could stand such unfounded torture for long.

Back home, up the dark stairs and through the closed door of their bedroom, Emery sat on her side of the bed. Once Sam came out from brushing his teeth, she tried to give him a grateful smile. “Sorry about today, it sort of hit me out of nowhere.”

Sam inhaled and nodded, pulling back the covers and holding his arms open for her to crawl into. “Can I ask what had you so upset?”

“Today is— just a tough day for me. It was once a beautiful memory, but–,” her voice cracking once more. Sam shushed her as she once again started to cry.

“It’s okay, we’re in this together. I got you,” Sam whispered into her hair.

“For better or worse?” The first time it was a question more than a promise.

“For better or worse,” Sam sealed their goodnight ritual. They fell asleep, emotionally depleted and awoke as if the day before had been like any other.

^*^*^

Read On: In Heaven Lies

#for better or worst series #sam winchester #sam winchester fanfiction #sam x ofc #sam x emery #simwin

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anaklnky · 5 years

Text

𝖌𝖔𝖓𝖊 (steve rogers x laufeyson!reader)

🔗 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: steve rogers x reader | loki x reader

📖 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: y/n is married to steve and has lived on midgard since new york. but she is also loki's twin sister. and when thanos kills him, she is the first to know. she has a special sibling link with him. steve comforts her, although he had strong feelings against him, he showed that he cared.

📣 𝐚/𝐧: well... i've been thinking of this all day, so i decided to write it. i hope you enjoy :]

⚠️ 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: strong violence, graphic, sad, mentions of death.

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

i looked at him. loki. my brother. as much as he was a pain in the arse and a massive trickster, i loved him. he kept me happy through my years and i did he. at the time, we were in the courtyard. delicate looking knives clenched in our fists. both grinning at each other like mad men and women.

"come on dear sister, make your strike." he snarled, flashing that signature trickster smile. i trod around him, my mullberry cloak sauntered behind me. twisting around in the floor like a snake. my silver breast plate shone thanks to the afternoon asgardian sun.

"i will," i said, twirling the daggers between my fingers. "just let me pick my spot." i spat.

"sweet y/n," loki put his wide shoulders back and his arms dangled to his sides. "if you keep on 'picking your spot' for 5 minutes every time you kill a man, your enemies' knife is going to be 6 inches deep in your chest." he smiled at me sadly. he twirled his knives in his fingers and then slid them back in their holsters, which were attached to his left and right hip.

"but i have my powers brother! i can always use them if i need be-" i made a quick remark.

"ah yes - you can. but you must pretend not to have your powers in passage to become good at using your blades." he hushed me; placing his ice cold hands to my cheeks. staring at me with his icy irises.

"but-"

"no buts y/n, you must learn. for you own safety," he replaced his hands on my shoulders and looked at me harder. "one day i will be gone and you will have to look after yourself." i frowned at the thought, dreading for such a horrid occasion to arrive. never.

"you could never leave me loki, we're twins for a reason," i replied. "if you go, i go with you."

he gave me a soft smile. which was rare. so i made sure to treasure it. he pushed a strand of hair that had fallen into my eyeline, over my forehead.

"oh y/n, sometimes i wonder if you were the one born a few minutes before me, not the other way around." he laughed lightly.

"what can i say, NOT being a trickster sometimes has it's perks!" i laughed with him, pushing his hands of my shoulders.

"watch your mouth dear sister!" he mocked offence, his hand to his mouth.

"make me witchy!" i yelled as i made a run for my bedroom.

"right! come back here you little snake!" he shouted, chasing after me...

- "if you go, i go" -

--------------◇----------------

i sat on the stool with my elbows resting on the table top, i had my hands tucked under steves, taking sips of my coffee. we were in scotland at the time. looking for wanda and vision. whilst nat and sam booked a hotel room for each of them, steve and i had booked a room in the city. as i put down my mug, to speak to steve. a pain overcame my body. my pressure points were on edge, spiking every second. making me clench my muscles. i groaned as the pain became unbearable. steve noticed when i had let go of his hand and made a string fist. he looked at me, concern flooded his face.

"y/n? are you okay doll?" he asked, standing from his chair. i couldn't answer. not only had my voice been taken by the sudden pain, but my air flow had began to drift away. my eyes and ears felt like they would burst. a sudden surge of energy had my legs kick out from under the table.

"y/n!" steve grabbed me and sat me down on the floor, with my back resting on his legs. he placed his hands on my cheeks, and guided my face into his chest. to try and calm me down. but my body was having none of it. not until i saw him. my brother...

~ his once slicked back, raven hair had become disshevled. and his smooth, pale skin had turned into an unruly, ice blue. his once cool, blue irises, had turned into a deathly red. the look of fear plastered on his face. i looked further into my vision and saw that his sturdy, muscular neck had been crushed. small dark blue and violet veins popped up like small rivers. i shifted my eyes up and saw blood. slithers of blood trailed down his lips and nose. filling in any small crevice in his hollow cheeks. his body was broken. loki. my brother. was broken. and i couldn't do anything. absolutely nothing... ~

that's when my horrid vision ended. loki was dead. and i couldn't help. i let out a pained scream as i pushed my head deeper into steve's chest. gripping his t-shirt in my fists.

"y/n? what is it?" he asked, scared.

"h-he, l-loki..." i sobbed uncontrollably. "he's dead!" i wept. i had felt how much pain he was in.

steve didn't have to say anything. i knew at the time what he thought of my twin. but i didn't care. i knew the real loki. and the real loki was kind, funny, caring and brave. and now that he is gone, i feel empty. steve wrapped his arms around me and pulled my closer. he kissed my forehead and rocked us back and forth, as we laid on the hotel carpet.

"it's okay doll, it's all gonna be okay." he hushed me, stroking my hair. he kept repeating the phrase over and over.

i cried the whole night. knowing that my other half had gone. knowing that the last time i saw him was when he had tried to take over new york and that i had to take him back to asgard with thor. after that, i left. there was then news that he had died. but i knew my twin brother better than anyone. he was not dead. he kept in touch me with through our twin visions and spoke about everything. we spoke about mothers death, fathers death, hela, the elves and he asked me about my married life to steve and what my future may hold. and i missed that so much. i missed him. i missed my other half. i missed loki...

#steve rogers x reader #captain america x reader #loki laufeyson x reader #loki x reader #loki laufeyson angst #loki angst #captain america angst #steve rogers angst #marvel #Avengers #avengers infinity war #loki au #captain america au #steve rogers au #sad #sad avengers x reader #sad loki fanfic #sad captain america fanfic

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dustedmagazine · 5 years

Text

Dust, Volume 5, Number 12

Matthew J. Rolin

Ned Starke was right. Winter is coming, and maybe, for our Chicago and Eastern Seaboard contingent, it’s here. That’s a good excuse to find a big comfy chair near the stereo and dig into some new music. This time we offer some hip hop, some finger picking, some music concrete, some indie pop and, just this once, a Broadway musical. Contributors include Ray Garraty, Jennifer Kelly, Justin Cober-Lake, Jonathan Shaw, Bill Meyer and Andrew Forell. Stay warm.

ALLBLACK x Offset Jim — 22nd Ways (Play Runners Association)

ALLBLACK and Offset Jim have collaborated on a few tracks before, but this is their first release together. Their differences, which are significant, make the disc enjoyable through and through. Offset Jim has a poker face delivery that can fool anybody into thinking he’s deadly serious when he’s clearly having fun. ALLBLACK, on the other hand, is known for his goofy humor, but his goofiness is a mask that obscures a poetic psycho killer. Their combination of a healthy dose of humor and true-to-the-streets seriousness—seen here— makes a case for tolerating all kinds of oddball pairings:

“Don't leave the house without your makeup kit Diss songs about your real daddy just won't stick Hey, bitch, say, bitch, I know you miss this demon dick Please comb Max hair, take off them wack outfits”

Ray Garraty

David Byrne — American Utopia (Nonesuch)

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If you live long enough, everything that seemed edgy and electrifying in your youth will turn safe and comfortable in middle age. You’ll buy festival tickets with access to couches, tents and air conditioning. Clash songs will turn up in Jaguar ads. Kids at the playground will run around sporting your Black Flag tee-shirt. You may even find yourself in a $250 seat, at a beautiful theater, with your beautiful wife, seeing “American Utopia,” David Byrne’s new jukebox musical, and, to borrow a phrase, you may ask yourself, “How did I get here?” And look, you could do worse. These are wonderful songs, still prickly and spare even now in full orchestral arrangements, still booming with cross-currented, afro-beat rhythms (Byrne got to that early on, give him credit), still buoyed with a scratchy, ironic, ebullient pulse of life. It’s hard to say what plot line stitches together “Born Under Punches,” “Every Day is a Miracle,” “Burning Down the House” and “Road to Nowhere,” or how absorbing the connective narrative may be. It’s not, obviously, as kinetic and daring as the original arrangements, stitched together with shoe-laces, stuttering with anxiety, bounced and jittered by the back line of Tina Weymouth and Chris Frantz, clad in an absurdly oversized suit. And, yet, it’s not so bad and if I had three big bills to spend on a night at the theater, I might just want to see it re-enacted. Because I’ve gotten safe and comfortable, too, and anyway, better that than the Springsteen show.

Jennifer Kelly

Charly Bliss — Supermoon EP (Barsuk)

Supermoon by Charly Bliss

Charly Bliss’ latest release Supermoon, collects five tracks written during the Young Enough sessions that didn’t make the final cut. The EP showcases the band transitioning from the grungy edge of their debut Guppy to the more polished pop sound of its successor. Eva Hendricks is one of the moment’s most distinctive voices, and these songs find her grappling with the themes so tellingly addressed on Young Enough. Although the songs here deserve release, the interest is in what they don’t do. More than sketches, they are less lyrically formed than those on the album, more guitar driven and without the big pop pay offs. The band, Hendricks on guitar and vocals, her brother Sam on drums, guitarist Spencer Fox and bassist Dan Shure still produce a hooky, engaging record which will appeal to fans. Newcomers might want to start with the albums but Supermoon is not without its moments.

Andrew Forell

Cheval Sombre — Been a Lover b/w The Calfless Cow (Market Square)

Cheval Sombre - Been a Lover b/w The Calfless Cow by Market Square Recordings

Cheval Sombre teamed with Luna/Galaxie 500’s Dean Wareham last year for a haunting batch of cowboy songs that found, as I put it in my Dusted review, “unfamiliar shadows and crevices in some very familiar material.” Now comes Cheval Sombre, otherwise known as Chris Porpora, with a brace of soft, dreamy folk-turned-psychedelic songs, one a gently sorrowful original, the other a cover of Alasdair Roberts. “Been a Lover” slow-strums through a whistling canyons of dreams, wistfully surveying the remnants of a long-standing relationship. It has the nodding, skeletal grace of Sonic Boom’s acoustic “Angel,” perhaps no coincidence since the Spaceman 3 songwriter produced the album. “The Calfless Cow” anchors a bit more in folk blues picking, though Porpora’s soft, prayerful vocals float free above the foundations. Both songs feel like spectral images leaving traceries on unexposed film—unsolid and evocative and mysteriously, inexplicably there.

Jennifer Kelly

Cigarettes After Sex — Cry (Partisan Records)

Cry by Cigarettes After Sex

Cigarettes After Sex’s 2017 debut album was a quite lovely collection of slow-core, lust-lorn dream pop. On the follow up Cry Greg Gonzalez (vocals, guitar), Phillip Tubbs (keys), Randall Miller (bass) and Jacob Tomsky (drums) double down on their signature sound with half the effect. The melodies are still here, the delicate restraint also, Gonzalez’ voice whispers seductively sweet nothings but this time around it is largely nothings he’s working with. It’s not that this is a terrible record, it’s more that the wreaths of gossamer amount to not much. Lacking the humorous touches of the debut, Cry suffers from Gonzalez’ sometimes witless and earnest lyrics which are mirrored in the lackluster pace which makes one desperate for the sex to be over so one can get back to smoking. Cry aims for Lynch/Badalamenti atmospherics and hits them occasionally but too often lapses into Hallmark sentimentalism. For an album ostensibly about romantic and physical love Cry is dispiritingly dry. There is only ash on these sheets. Serge Gainsbourg is somewhere rolling his eyes, and a gasper, in the velvet boudoir of eternity.

Andrew Forell

Lucy Dacus — 2019 (Matador)

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Between Historian and boygenius, Lucy Dacus had a pretty memorable 2018. It makes sense that she'd want to document 2019. What she did instead was release a series of holiday-ish tracks over the course of the year and then collect them as the 2019 EP. The covers will likely get the most attention, whether her loving take on Edith Piaf's “La vie en rose” or the rocking rendition of Wham!'s “Last Christmas.” Dacus doesn't perform these songs with any sense of snark; she's both enjoying herself and invested. Counting Bruce Springsteen's birthday as a holiday might be silly, but she nails “Dancing in the Dark,” turning it to her own aesthetic. The weird one here is “In the Air Tonight,” which smacks of irony and whatever we call guilty pleasures these days, but she plays it straight, arguing for it as a spooky Halloween cut, and sort of pulls it off.

Focusing on the covers might lead listeners to forget how good a songwriter she is. The Mother's Day “My Mother & I” feels thoroughly like a Dacus number, opening with contemplation: “My mother hates her body / We share the same outline / She swears that she loves mine.” Holidays aren't easy. “Fool's Gold” (stick this New Year's track first or last) falls like snow, laden with regret and rationalization. Dacus works through holidays with care and concern. The covers might be fun (even the Phil Collins number works as a curiosity), but when she lets the more conflicted thoughts come through, as on “Forever Half Mast,” she maintains the hot streak. The EP might be a bit of a diversion, but its secret complexity makes it more surprisingly forceful. Justin Cober-Lake

Kool Keith — Computer Technology (Fat Beats)

Computer Technology by Kool Keith

Naming an album Computer Technology in 2019 is like calling a 1950 disc A Light Bulb. Ironic Luddite-ness is a part of the charm of the new Kool Keith’s album, his second this year. The record has a cyberpunk-ish (circa 1984) feel, thanks to wacky, early electronics-like beats that no sane hip hop artist today would agree to rap over. But who said Kool Keith was sane? He’s like a computer virus here, infesting a modern culture he views with disdain. His kooky brags could be written off as old man rants if he been in the rap game since day one. On “Computer Technology” he says: ‘You need to sit down and slow down’, yet he himself shows no signs of slowing down.

If Kool Keith’s 1980s science rap messed around in a high school lab, he’s now a tenured professor in hip hop science blowing up the joint.

Ray Garraty

Leech — Data Horde (Peak Oil)

Data Horde by Leech

Brian Foote’s work has a knack for showing up in slightly unexpected and subtly crucial places, whether it’s behind the scenes at Kranky and his own Peak Oil imprint, or as a member at times of Fontanelle or Nudge, or even just helping out Stephen Malkmus with drums. On Data Horde, his debut LP of electronic music under his Leech moniker, Foote works with his customary quiet assurance and subtly radical take on things, delivering a brief but satisfying set of bespoke productions that somehow evoke acid and ambient tinges at the same time, feinting towards full-out jungle eruptions before turning the corner and somehow naturally going somewhere much more minimal. Whether it’s the skittering, pulsing “Brace” or the lush and aptly-named “Nimble”, the results are consistently satisfying and the six tracks here suggest that we could stand to hear a lot more from Leech.

Ian Mathers

Midnight Odyssey — Biolume Part 1: In Tartarean Chains (I, Voidhanger)

Biolume Part 1 - In Tartarean Chains by MIDNIGHT ODYSSEY

Midnight Odyssey’s massive new record sounds like what might happen if Gary Numan’s Tubeway Army smoked up a bunch of Walter White’s finest product and decided that they must cover Pink Floyd’s Live at Pompei, complete with ruins and really big gongs. It’s interstellar. It’s perversely grandiose. The synths soar and rumble, the vocals come in mournful choral arrangements, the low end thunders and occasionally explodes into blast-beat barrage. It’s almost impossible to take seriously, and it’s presented with what seems like absolute seriousness. In any case, there’s a lot of it: seven tracks, all of which exceed the eight-minute mark, and most of which moan and intone and resonate well beyond ten minutes. You’ve got to give it to Dis Pater, the only identified member of Midnight Odyssey — he really means it. But it’s often hard to tell if Biolume Part 1 (Pater threatens that there are two more parts to come) is the product of an unchecked, idiosyncratically powerful vision or just goofball cosmological schmaltz. To this reviewer, it’s undecidable. And that’s interesting.

Jonathan Shaw

Nakhane — You Will Not Die

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South African singer Nakhane Touré has a voice that can stop you in your tracks when he unleashes it, and a willingness to tackle uncomfortable topics (homosexuality, colonialism, and the way the imported Presbyterian church interacts with both) that’s seen him both praised and threatened in his homeland. You Will Not Die marks a shift in Nakhane’s music, both in terms of how directly and intensely he engages with those places where the sacred rubs up against, not so much the profane but the disavowed, even while sonically everything is lusher and brighter, whether it’s the slinky electroglam of “Interloper” or the bell-tolling balladry of “Presbyteria.” For once it’s worth seeking the deluxe edition, for the Bowie-esque Anohni duet “New Brighton” and the defiantly melancholy cover of “Age of Consent” alone.

Matthew J. Rolin — Matthew J. Rolin (Feeding Tube)

Matthew J. Rolin by Matthew J. Rolin

Matthew J. Rolin steps to the head of the latest class of American Primitive guitarists on this self-titled debut LP. He is currently a resident of Columbus, Ohio, but his main inspirations from within the genre are Chicagoan. Reportedly a Ryley Walker concert sent him down the solo guitar path, but the one time this reviewer caught him in concert, Rolin only made one substance-oriented statement throughout the set, and it was more of a shy assertion than an extravagant boast. His sound more than pays the toll. Bright and ringing on 12 strings, pithy and structurally sound on six, he makes sparing use of outdoor sound and keyboard drones that bring Daniel Bachman to mind. Like Bachman did on his early records, Rolin often relies upon the rush of his fingerpicking to draw the listener along, and what do you know? It works.

Bill Meyer

Claire Rousay — Aerophobia (Astral Spirits)

Aerophobia by Claire Rousay

To watch Claire Rousay perform is to see the process of deciding made visual. You can’t put that on a tape, but you can make the tape a symbolic and communicative object. To see Rousay repeatedly, or to play her recordings in sequence, is to hear an artist who is rapidly transforming. This one was already a bit behind her development when it was released, but that can be turned into a statement, too. Perhaps the title Aerophobia, which means fear of flying, is a critique of the tape’s essentially musical content? It is a series of drum solos, unlike the more the more recent t4t, which includes self-revealing speech and household sounds. If so, that critique does not reproach the music itself, nor should it. Even when you can’t see her, you can hear her sonic resourcefulness and appreciate the movement and shape she articulates with sound.

Bill Meyer

Colin Andrew Sheffield & James Eck Rippie — Exploded View (Elevator Bath)

exploded view by colin andrew sheffield & james eck rippie

Colin Andrew Sheffield, who is the proprietor of the Elevator Bath imprint, and James Eck Rippie, who does sound work for Hollywood movies, have this understanding in common: they know that you gotta break things to make things. The things in question don’t even have to be intact when you start; at any rate, the feedback, microphone bumps, blips and skips that make up this 19-minute long piece of musique concrete sound like the product of generations of handling. It all feels a bit like you’re hearing a scan of the shortwave bands from inside the radio, which makes for delightfully disorienting listening.

Bill Meyer

Ubik — Next Phase (Iron Lung)

Next Phase MLP (LUNGS-148) by UBIK

Philip K. Dick’s whacko-existentialist-corporate-satire-cum-SF-novel Ubik turns 50 this year, and serendipitously, Australian punks Ubik have released this snarling, tuneful EP into the world. There’s a whole lot of British street punk, c. 1982, in Ubik’s sound, especially if that genre tag and year make you flash on Lurkers, Abrasive Wheels and Angelic Upstarts — bands that knew how to string melodic hooks together, and bands that had pretty solid lefty politics. Ubik’s songs couple street punk’s populist (in the pre-Trump sense) fist-pumping with a spastic, elastic angularity, giving the tracks just enough of a weirdo vibe that the band’s name makes sense. The combination of elements is vividly present in “John Wayne (Is a Cowboy (and Is on Twitter)),” a hugely fun punk song that registers a fair degree of ideological venom as it bashes and speeds along. Somewhere, Horselover Fat is nodding his head and smiling.

Jonathan Shaw

Uranium Club — Two Things at Once (Sub Pop)

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Uranium Club (sometimes Minneapolis Uranium club) made one of the best punk albums of this year in The Cosmo Cleaners. “A visionary insanity, backed by impressive musical chops,” I opined in Dusted last April, setting off a frenzy of interest and an epic major label bidding war. Just kidding. Hardly anyone noticed. Uranium Club was this year’s Patois Counselors, a band so good that it made no sense that no one knew about them. But, fast forward to now and LOOK at the heading of this review! Sub Pop noticed and included Uranium Club in its storied singles club. And why not? The bluntly named “Two Things at Once,” (Parts I and 2), is just as tightly, maniacally wound as the full-length, just as gloriously, spikily confrontational. “Part 1” scrambles madly, pulling hair out by the roots as it agitatedly considers “our children’s creativity” and whether “I’m too young to die.” It’s like Fire Engines, but faster and crazier and with big pieces of machinery working loose and flying off the sides. “Part 2” runs slower and more lyrically but with no less intensity, big flayed slashes of discord rupturing its meditative strumming. There are no words in it, and yet you sense deep, obsessive bouts of agitation driving its motor, even when the brass comes in, unexpectedly, mournfully, near the end. This is the good stuff, and no one wants you to know about it. Except me. And now Sub Pop. Don’t miss out.

Jennifer Kelly

Various Artists— Come on up to the House: Women Sing Waits (Dualtone)

Come On Up To The House: Women Sing Waits by Dualtone Music Group, Inc.

Tom Waits’ gravelly voice is embedded deep in the fabric of how we think of Tom Waits songs. You can’t think of “Come On Up to the House” without sandpapery catch in its gospel curves, or of “Downtown Train” without his strangled desolation; he is the songs, and if you don’t like the way he sings, you’ve probably never cared much for his recordings. And yet, here, in this all-woman, star-studded, country-centric collection of covers, you can hear, maybe for the first time, how gracefully constructed these songs are, how pretty the melodies, how well the lyrics fit to them. You cannot believe how different these songs sound with women singing. It is truly revelatory. Contributors include big stars (Aimee Mann, Corinne Rae Bailey), living legends (Iris Dement, Roseanne Cash), up-and-comers (Courtney Marie Andrews, Phoebe Bridgers) and a few emerging artists (Joseph, The Wild Reeds), and all have a case to make. Phoebe Bridgers distills “Georgia Lee” into a quiet, tragic purity, while Angie McMahon finds a private, inward-looking clarity in “Take It With Me.” Courtney Marie Andrews blows up “Downtown Train,” into a swaggering country anthem, while Roseanne Cash infuses “Time” with a warm, unforced glow. These versions transform weird, twisted reveries into American songbook classics, which is what they maybe were, under all that growling, all along.

Jennifer Kelly

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marypsue · 5 years

Text

Girls In White Dresses

This was supposed to be like three thousand words, tops. I don’t know what happened.

I’m also on AO3 as MaryPSue!

...

Jessica Moore was twenty-two years old when she came home from the library and found her boyfriend on the ceiling.

She hadn't noticed, at first. That's the worst part. Sam had been trapped up there for who knew how long while Jess had drifted around the bedroom, listening to the shower running in the ensuite, kicking off her shoes, taking off her bra. Reveling in the full-body sigh of relief, of freedom from the everyday agonies of beauty. She'd taken her time picking through her nightgowns and negligees, thinking of Sam in the shower, of the stress in those broad shoulders from all those weeks of studying, of how they could work out that stress together. She'd picked out the silver satiny nightgown a very embarrassed Sam had given her for her last birthday, lost in daydreams and memories as she'd slipped it on.

She hadn't snapped out of it until something warm and wet had dripped onto her shoulder, trickling down her arm. Something warm, and wet, and red.

It had taken her way too long to realise it was blood.

Sam was pinned by something invisible with his face down, all six feet something of him stretched out across the bedroom ceiling, eyes big and pleading, mouth moving but no sounds coming out. Blood dripped, steady, from the gash splitting open his bare stomach, splattering against the satiny fabric of Jess' nightgown and staining it, probably forever. Something wet and red pulsed under that terrible wound, and she realised she was looking at his intestines.

Jess had opened her mouth to scream, but just like with Sam, no sound came out. She staggered back, until her legs hit the bed behind her, and her knees crumpled, depositing her on the mattress. The man she loved just stared at her, through her, a voiceless cry for help caught in his throat, as flames rippled out around him.

Everything after that is a bit of a blur. Or at least that's what Jess tells the cops. But there are a handful of razor-edged moments, things that Jess knows are never going to fade, never going to blur. The slam of the door as the older woman had charged in, the soul-wrenching scream she'd let out when she'd seen Sam pinned up there. The smell of the red leather jacket the other woman, the younger one, had wrapped around Jess's head and shoulders as they'd crashed out the window.

The accusing look Sam had fixed her with as he vanished, forever, in the flames.

That was the first time that Jess met her boyfriend's mother. But it wasn't the day she learned that monsters were real.

That would come later.

...

On a mild night in 1983, the Winchester home in Lawrence, Kansas went up in flames. John Winchester was inside it.

The papers reported that Mary Winchester and her two sons had been lucky to escape. But Mary knew better. Luck had nothing to do with it. The devil had taken his due.

And she'd be damned - literally, if necessary - before she'd let him lay a finger on either of her boys.

They spent too many years running. Too many years hiding, too many years in fear before Mary realised that, if she wanted to protect the little family she had left, she was going to have to stand up and fight.

So she'd learned. She'd trained, and read, and researched. She'd taken them into the fangs of things that went bump in the night, and come out, bloodied and battered sometimes, but always stronger. One day, she knew, the thing that had taken her husband would come back for them. But this time, she'd be ready for it.

As it turned out, that hadn't saved them either.

Sam...Sam walked away, after. Mary couldn't blame him. She couldn't try to keep him alive if there was nothing for him to live for. And there was always the traitor thought that maybe he'd be safer away from her. Without her.

That thought had only grown stronger after what happened to Dean. Her oldest, her sweet boy, her brave little man. He always had had a reckless streak. He always had taken after his father.

The girl - Cassie - had lived, though. And the first thing she'd asked was how she could help.

For a while, it had just been the two of them, out on the road, saving people, hunting things. Cassie was a quick learner, and an even quicker shot. She knew things - histories, lore - that Mary had never encountered, that no one had ever written down. Or, at least, she knew how to find such things out. And she had a knack for getting people to gossip, which turned out to be more valuable than Mary could have imagined. Mary taught her how to shoot a shotgun, a pistol, how to stab to do the most damage and the least, taught her everything she knew about monsters. They made a good team.

With Cassie's help, Mary even started to find patterns, omens heralding the presence of the demon that had destroyed her family. They could track it. Which meant they could hunt it. For the first time since the fire, Mary Winchester felt something like hope.

And then the trail of omens led them to Stanford University, and everything went straight to hell.

...

“So let’s run over your statement again, make sure everything’s correct,” the officer says, not unkindly, tapping his pen against the clipboard in his hands. “You are the mother of the deceased?”

The deceased. Mary understands why they phrase it that way, but that doesn’t make it any easier to hear. “Sam is my son, yes.”

The officer clears his throat, adjusting his tie, gaze skimming the paper in front of him. He doesn’t meet Mary’s eyes. “And the woman with you was -”

“My daughter-in-law,” Mary says, in her best soccer-mom voice. “Or daughter-in-common-law, I guess. Cassie and my Dean haven’t really had a chance to make it official.”

The officer nods, clearly not interested in any Winchester family dynamics that don’t directly involve the dead one. “And you were at the house because you were paying your son a surprise visit?”

Mary nods, again, feeling a bit like a bobblehead. “He had interviews coming up. For school. He was going to be a lawyer, you know. He was under so much stress, I thought it might be nice to - bring him some baking. Take him out to dinner.” She shakes her head. She doesn’t need to be an Oscar-winning actress to convince the officer she’s too overwhelmed with emotion to go on.

The officer shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “And neither of you saw anything out of the ordinary.”

“Just smoke leaking out of the bedroom window.”

“Which was why you and -” The officer checks his notes. “Cassie Robinson broke in.”

“It was a good thing we did, too. That poor girl. Jessica, wasn’t it? Do you know, is she all right?”

“Being treated for smoke inhalation. If all goes well, she'll be released from hospital tonight,” the officer says. “Well, your stories all line up. We’ll take a closer look at the fire damage, but it sounds like an electrical short. You said it started in the ceiling?”

“That’s what it looked like,” Mary agrees. She just wants out of the police station, out of this small, windowless room that, despite the comfortable furnishings and soft white walls, still looks too much like an interrogation cell.

She just wants to get back on the scent of the thing that did this to her child.

The officer scribbles on his clipboard for an agonisingly long time, the scratch and scrabble of his pen the only sound besides the whir of the air conditioner. Finally, he turns the clipboard towards Mary, holding out the pen. “Right. I think all that’s left is for you to sign off on this. We’ll release the remains to you as soon as the coroner’s finished with her examination.”

Mary smiles, tightly, and takes clipboard and pen, scrawling her signature at the bottom of the page without looking. “About how long do you expect that’ll take?”

“I really can’t say. Depends on the results of our investigation.” The officer clears his throat again, and then, in a much less stilted voice, adds, “But between you and me, this looks like a straightforward case of misadventure. It shouldn’t be more than a week.”

“Thank you,” Mary says, handing the clipboard back to the officer. His thumb touches hers as he takes it from her, and for the first time, he looks up and actually meets her eyes.

“We’ll be in touch,” he says, his perfunctory professionalism wavering slightly. He holds Mary’s gaze for a moment longer, like there’s something he wants to say, something he can’t quite form into words.

Mary can see the moment he stops trying. “And Mrs. Winchester? I’m very sorry for your loss.”

You don’t know anything about loss, kid, Mary thinks, but on the outside, she just smiles.

...

The ER nurse pulls the curtain back on the bay Jess is waiting in, her smile wary. "You've got a visitor," she says, and then disappears, probably to help somebody who actually needs it.

Jess can't seem to make herself respond. It's like the signals from her brain aren't reaching her body, like there's a wall of static filling her head and clogging up all the nerves.

Sam is dead. Sam was alive, and then he was dead, and Jess watched him go from one to the other and didn't do anything to stop it. Couldn't do anything to stop it. And now Sam is dead and Jess doesn't even know what else she lost in the fire and Sam is dead and she doesn't have a place to live anymore and Sam is dead and the future is terribly, frighteningly uncertain and everything is changed forever and Sam is dead.

The worst part is, a little tiny part of Jess is still back in that afternoon, sitting in the library, knowing home and Sam are both safe and waiting for her. Can't wait to get out of this hospital so she can go home and give her boyfriend a hug and let him wrap her up in his big, warm arms and forget this whole nightmare.

And no matter what, that little, tiny, stupid part of her doesn't seem to be getting the message.

"Jessica?"

Jess can't make herself raise her head, no matter how much she yells at herself mentally for it. The voice isn't familiar, but it's soft, kind, patient, the sort of voice Jess associates with nurses and elementary school teachers. Nurturing.

"You don't know me," the voice continues, still patient, still kind. A weight settles on the end of the hospital bed, and Jess sees dark jeans, mud-spattered boots. She still can't seem to move her head the miniscule amount it would take to look up and see the stranger's face. What would be the point, anyway? Sam is dead. "My name's Mary. I'm Sam's mom."

That, at last, gets Jess to move. She looks up, meets the kind eyes of the woman smiling back at her. She recognises Mary's face right away, even though it's different when it's not contorted in rage and grief too big for one human body to handle. Maybe she would have recognised Mary's voice if Mary had been screaming.

A flash of white-hot guilt sears through Jess at the thought, cutting through the static. She'd lost the man she loved, but Mary - Mary had lost her child. She shouldn't be sitting here, patiently coaxing a complete stranger back to herself. If anything, Jess should be comforting her.

"I'm so sorry," she manages, embarrassed about the hollow sound of her voice, the way it rasps and cracks. "I'm so sorry, I can't imagine -"

Mary reaches out, rests one hand on Jess' knee and gives it a squeeze. "Do you have someplace to stay tonight, honey?"

It's the 'honey' that breaks her. Jess can feel her eyes fill, growing hot and swollen, even as she tries to swallow a sob. Suddenly, more than anything in the world, she just wants her own mom.

"Oh, shh, shhhh," Mary says, scooting closer across the bed so she can wrap an arm around Jess, tug her in to rest her head on Mary's shoulder. She starts to rock, ever so gently, back and forth, humming quiet nonsense, until Jess' shoulders stop heaving and she hiccups her breathing back under control.

"I," she manages, then takes a long breath, rubbing a fist under one eye. "I've got some friends on campus I can stay with. Thank you. I'm sorry." She's embarrassed, now, of her breakdown, can't forget that the woman holding her must also be in so much pain, but - she doesn't want to pull away. "Are you - how are you -"

"Holding up," Mary says wryly, rubbing Jess' back in slow, soothing circles. "If you'd like, you're welcome to stay with me and Cassie, we got a motel room just out of town."

"Thanks, but -" Jess starts, and then asks, "Cassie?"

With impeccable timing, another, younger woman steps around the curtain, a styrofoam coffee cup in each hand. She's got to be two or three years older than Jess, though with her wide eyes and little rosebud mouth, Jess bets she still gets carded at bars.

Her face lights up when she sees Jess, and she hands off one of the coffee cups to Mary, holding out a hand for Jess to shake. "Cassie Robinson. I'm glad to see you're doing okay. No major lacerations?"

"You're the one who pushed me out the window," Jess says. "You probably saved my life. Are you okay?"

Cassie grins, ruefully, down at the arm she'd extended to Jess. The beige bandage wrapped around it stands out pale against her skin. "Just a couple cuts and scrapes. Nothing to worry about." Her smile turns mischievous, and she adds, "Though you do owe me a new favourite leather jacket."

Jess winces.

"I've always said that a little bit of battle damage just adds character," Mary says, with a conspiratorial wink in Jess' direction. It's clearly meant to be lighthearted, to lift the mood, but for some reason, the words make the bottom drop out of Jess' stomach. Battle damage. All she can think about is the way this very woman, this sweet, considerate, motherly person, who had just held Jess and soothed her while she sobbed her heart out, had kicked her way through Jess' bedroom door with guns literally blazing.

Unless -

"Is... did you... Okay, there's no good way to ask this," Jess says, uncomfortably aware of the way Cassie's smile slips, the piercing gaze Mary levels at her. "Just what the hell happened back there?"

She doesn't miss the meaningful look Cassie and Mary exchange.

"I didn't...actually see my boyfriend gutted and stuck to my bedroom ceiling," Jess pushes on, despite the suddenly awkward silence. "Right? For one thing, I mean, gravity -"

"What do you think you saw?" Mary asks, still gentle, but with something steely under it.

Jess shakes her head. "I don't know. Something out of a horror movie." She reaches up, running a hand through her hair. "Guess I must've hit my head going out that window harder than I realised."

She looks up, at Cassie's suddenly closed-off face, an inexplicable dread washing over her. "Right?"

The silence stretches out just a beat too long before Mary reaches out and gives Jess a pat on the shoulder. "I'm sure that the doctors would know more about that than we would. I'm just glad to know you're okay." She slides off the bed and straightens up, flashing Jess a smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes. "You're sure your friends won't mind putting you up for a few nights?"

Jess nods. She doesn't quite trust her voice.

"Well, then. Lots to do," Mary says, raising her coffee cup. "Cassie?"

Cassie gives a little start, like she'd been elsewhere in her head. She flashes Jess an apologetic smile, patting her pockets. "Hey, let me give you my cell phone number." She triumphantly pulls a little coil-bound book from one jacket pocket and a pen with a logo that can only belong to a motel from the other. She flips past the first few pages in the book, looking for blank paper, and Jess catches a glimpse of complicated symbols sketched over the blue lines.

"Thanks," Jess says. She hadn't really wanted them here when they'd arrived, but now, she isn't sure she wants them to leave.

"You give us a call if there's anything at all you need, sweetheart," Mary says, her smile finally reaching her eyes again.

"Or if anything...strange...happens," Cassie says, reaching out to give Jess the paper with her phone number on it. Jess takes it, warily.

"Anything...'strange'?"

Cassie just shrugs, before turning and following Mary out of the ER bay.

...

Cassie Robinson had had dreams of being a journalist, once.

But that was before. Before she'd lost both parents and the best friends she’d known, lost the man she'd started to love, nearly lost her life. Before the Winchesters.

Before Dean.

She hadn’t believed him, when he’d tried to tell her what was out there, what was coming for them. Cassie knows she’s never going to be able to make up for that. It’s a regret she’ll take to her grave. Maybe, if she’d listened, if she hadn’t been so scared, if she hadn’t wanted to stay in denial and write him off as crazy -

But there’s no point dwelling on maybes. Dean’s gone, and no amount of regretting and wishing and what-iffing will bring him back.

Cassie still isn't sure why Mary Winchester took her under her wing, but she's done everything she can to be worthy of it. To make sure Mary doesn’t regret it. To make up for what she'd unknowingly taken.

Interview skills, research methods, a sympathetic ear for oral histories, all come in handy trying to track down the real monsters behind cryptids and urban legends. People who won't talk to the state troopers or the US marshals or the FBI agents or the insurance investigators will sometimes talk to a pretty, curious young girl in a bar. Cassie had never handled a gun before meeting Mary, but it turned out not to be so hard. After that, the job’s ninety percent messing around in graveyards.

And she's gotten to see the country, though admittedly a lot of their jobs have taken them to places Cassie never wants to go again. Sundown towns are still alive and well in the vast, ugly middle of America. There'd been plenty of times she'd been grateful to know Mary had her back, and it wasn't just when they were facing down monsters.

Well. Depending on your definition of "monster".

They make a good team. And what had started out as a partnership of guilt and convenience quickly turned into something more. Cassie lost her mother. Mary lost her children. Cassie would never dare say it in so many words, but - their broken edges fit pretty well together. And even though Mary never says much, Cassie gets the sense that she feels the same way.

So it comes as a nasty shock when Cassie wakes up in a motel room somewhere in East Palo Alto, the day after they’d been too late to save Sam, and finds Mary gone.

...

There’s a guy standing just outside the caution tape, when Jess gets back from the admin office, staring up at the blackened siding of the house, the blue tarp flapping over the part of the roof that burned through. Jess can’t bring herself to look at it for too long, so she focuses on the stranger instead. She can’t say she’s ever seen him around campus, but it’s a big school and there’ve been a lot of gawkers popping up out of the woodwork since the fire. He looks a little older than most of the students Jess knows, dark hair cropped close to his skull in an almost military cut, both hands tucked in the pockets of his battered leather jacket, feet planted shoulder-width apart like he’s expecting something to come out of nowhere to knock him down and he’d like to see it try.

As Jess draws closer, she notices he also has fantastic cheekbones and a pout she knows several of her girlfriends would kill for. There’s something about that face that’s strangely soft, at odds with the tough-guy image he’s projecting, and Jess finds herself liking him, just a little, before they even make eye contact. In the strangest way, something about that surprising softness incongruously combined with that unmistakably masculine image reminds her sharply, painfully, of Sam.

The guy glances over his shoulder at her as she steps up to the caution tape, squinting a little in the sun. “You knew the guy who lived here?” he asks, and Sam’s face just before the flames had hidden him from view flashes across Jess’ vision again. She blinks, like that’ll help, turning away from the house.

“I did,” she says. “Sam and I were dating.”

The stranger looks almost stricken. “Shit. I’m sorry,” he says, turning back to the house and saying nothing more. Somehow, it’s more comforting than all Jess’ friends’ gushing.

“It’s okay,” she says. It’s not, but - “Did you know him?”

The stranger huffs out a half-laugh, one side of his mouth twisting up in a crooked smile and revealing a flash of white teeth. “You could say that.” He finally turns to properly face Jess. “Name’s Dean. I’m - I guess I was Sam’s big brother.”

Jess stares at him for a moment longer than she knows is polite, trying to see Sam in the bones under his skin, the green of his eyes, the way he carries himself. She’s not sure whether she’s relieved or disappointed not to find what she’s looking for.

“Hey, do you want to come in?” she asks, at last.

...

“Singer’s Curio Cabinet, antiques and collectibles. You got Karen.”

Cassie doesn’t waste time with pleasantries. “Have - you haven’t heard from Mary, have you?”

Karen Singer is quiet for a moment on the other end of the line, and there’s a rustle of paper. “Sorry, Cass, haven’t heard word one. I thought you two were down in California?”

“We are. I mean, we were, but we got split up, and she didn’t leave a note or a message -”

“You try the phone book motel trick?”

Cassie shakes her head before remembering that Karen can’t see her. She isn’t sure how to explain that part of her doesn’t really think Mary’s trying to find her. Doesn't really think Mary wants to be found.

Thankfully, she’s spared the moment of existential crisis when the phone beeps loudly in her ear.

“Sorry, Karen, I’m getting another call,” she says. “Maybe it’s her.”

“Well, don’t let me keep you,” Karen says, only a little sarcastic. Normally, Cassie would have some kind of retort, but she doesn’t want to miss Mary. She just says a hurried goodbye and clicks over to the incoming call.

“What’s going on? Are you all right?”

Mary doesn’t try to explain or apologise. She just says, “I found him.”

Cassie’s breath stops in her throat. “You - ?”

“I found him,” Mary repeats. There’s a pause, the sound of her drawing in a deep breath, before she says, “Dean is here.”

...

“Sam never mentioned a big brother,” Jess says, pulling two bottles of some cheap, horrible beer that she’s pretty sure was left over from a party she doesn’t know how long ago from the fridge. The light flickers three times with a nasty electric buzz before she slams the door on it. Damn thing’s been on its last legs for weeks, and the fire just seems to have made it worse. Jess just hopes it doesn’t die before she can get all her food - and the rest of her stuff, whatever's salvageable - moved out of the house. That's really what she was here to do today. That, and see if any of her clothes survived. She can't keep borrowing Abby's. “Although, he barely ever talks - sorry, talked about his family at all.”

She shakes her head as she walks back into the living room, where Dean's made himself at home on her couch. Jess hands him the bottle, and Dean shoots her that crooked grin again, salutes her with the bottle before popping the lid off with his thumb. “It still feels wrong to talk about him in the past tense, you know?”

Dean shakes his head, looks up to stare hard at the blank screen of the TV, and doesn’t answer Jess’ question. “It’s been a while since I saw him. When Sam left for college we weren’t exactly on the best of terms.” He looks down at his beer, and Jess has to turn all her attention to uncapping her own just so she doesn’t have to see the expression on his face. “I’d kill to have him back for five minutes, just to tell him -” He cuts himself off.

In the heavy silence that follows, Jess tries and fails not to see that accusing look Sam had fixed on her in his last moments again.

“I think I know what you mean,” she says, and then takes a long drink of her beer to keep from saying anything else ridiculous and too personal to this man she’s only just barely met. It doesn’t work. “I miss him like I think I'd miss one of my arms if it got ripped off. I think I’m going crazy. I keep dreaming about him -”

It’s her turn to cut herself off before she can go somewhere dark.

“I was just on my way back from the admin office,” she says, slowly. “I’m withdrawing from all my classes. I can’t -” She takes a deep breath, tries to tell herself that the smoke she can smell is just lingering in the walls and the burnt part of the roof that’s covered with a tarp now. “I can’t finish this semester. Not like this. Not without a real place to live, not with exams so close, not with -” Not with Sam’s face still haunting her every time she closes her eyes.

Dean nods, but doesn’t say anything, and doesn’t look up at her. Jess has to admit she’s grateful for the moment to compose herself.

“Anyway,” she says. “What brought you out here?”

Dean looks up at her, lips pursed and eyebrows raised, and Jess realises what a stupid question that was. She rolls her beer bottle between her palms, forcing a laugh. “Right.” She casts around for something, anything, to change the subject to. “Are you...here with your mom?”

Something dark flickers across Dean’s face before it’s replaced with a smile. “Nah.” No explanation. Jess gets the clear sense that this part of the conversation is over.

She’s a little disappointed. The events of that night are - well, there’s just so much she remembers that’s completely impossible, so much that those women - Cassie, and Mary, and wasn't that one hell of a way to meet your boyfriend's mom - had totally failed to explain. Jess hadn’t realised until just now that she’d sort of been hoping Dean would have the answers to all her unanswered questions. Just who the hell was her boyfriend, anyway? More and more, she’s starting to feel like she never knew Sam at all.

“How long were you two together?” Dean asks, clearly throwing the foundering conversation a life preserver, and Jess grabs onto it gratefully.

“Almost three years. I can’t believe - it’s hard to imagine that there’s a future without him in it.” There’s a little bead of condensation tracking down the neck of Jess’ beer bottle, and she watches it, fixated, until it hits her hand and vanishes in the crook between her thumb and forefinger.

Dean whistles under his breath. “Sammy musta been pretty serious about you.”

“I - I was pretty serious about him,” Jess admits to her beer. “If he’d asked. I would’ve said yes.”

Dean’s laugh is rough, harsh. “Too bad he never got the chance.”

Jess shakes her head. She forces down another swallow of the awful beer. What the hell is she supposed to say to that?

“Why are you really here?” she asks, quietly. “Talking to me? What’s this about?”

“Can’t a guy try to get to know his estranged brother post-mortem?” Dean asks, a little too jaunty, a little too devil-may-care. “He chose to spend the last years of his life with you. You probably know him better by now than I do.” His smile is horrible.

“I didn’t - I had no idea about the...situation with his family,” Jess says. She’s dimly aware of how defensive she sounds. “I wasn’t trying to - keep him away from anybody, or anything. He always avoided the subject whenever we talked about where we were going for school breaks, or -”

“Whoa, hey, I didn’t say I blame you,” Dean says, raising a hand, palm out.

Jess forces herself to take a deep, ragged breath.

“I know,” she says. “I’m sorry. I just keep thinking -” of how Sam had stared right through her, of how she hadn’t even noticed he was up there until -

“That you shoulda been able to do something,” Dean says, like he’s finishing her sentence, like he’s reading her mind. “That you shoulda saved him. Somehow.”

Jess bites her bottom lip.

“Yeah,” she whispers. And then, before she can think better of it, rein it in, "I'd give anything to get him back."

There’s something, in the silence that follows, like a bass note too deep for her to really hear, like the feeling of eyes on the back of her neck. Nothing’s actually changed, and yet, Jess has the sudden and inexplicable feeling that the air’s...charged, somehow. Humming, like the moment before a lightning strike. She’s suddenly, intensely aware of the open space around her, of how many windows the living room has, how many places for people to look in at her unseen. How unprotected she is.

Dean’s voice is quiet, low. “Anything?”

Jess lets out a shaky laugh, putting her beer down on the coffee table to rub her bare arms. They’ve broken out all over with gooseflesh.

“Hang on, I think -” she starts, trying to come up with some excuse to get out of the room. Why had she invited a stranger into her house? She’d taken him on his word, but - Sam never had mentioned an older brother. And now she’s alone, in her house, with him, and no one else knows he’s here... “Uh, the fridge has been on the fritz, and I can’t hear it anymore - I just wanna check that it’s still running.”

She stands up and walks into the kitchen, trying to keep it natural, trying not to walk too fast. She can feel Dean’s eyes boring into her back the whole way.

As soon as Jess is out of the living room, she ducks around the doorframe, pulling her phone from her pants pocket with shaking fingers. She searches through her contacts, pulls up the cell phone number Cassie had given her in the hospital. She'd said to call if Jess needed anything, or if anything strange happened. Jess is suddenly, inexplicably sure that this counts.

She hesitates with her thumb on the call button, though, before thinking better of it and tapping out a text instead. Maybe Jess is just blindly putting her trust in another stranger, but Mary and Cassie had shown up at just the right moment and dragged her out of a burning building. They'd saved her life.

Though what if the reason they'd been there just in time to save Jess’ life was because they'd put it in danger in the first place?

A shadow falls across Jess’ face, and she only barely manages to stifle a scream. Dean gives her a strange look, like he’s trying to decide if she’s a few side dishes short of a picnic, and jabs a thumb at the fridge. “Sounds like it’s running fine now. Hey, do you want me to take a look at it? I don’t know anything about fridges, but I do know a lot about cars, and how different can they really be?”

Jess lets out a long, shaky breath, manages a smile.

“No, I think I’ll complain to the school about it until they either replace it or kick me out of student housing,” she says, with admirable nonchalance, she thinks. She slides out around Dean, making her way across the kitchen towards the knife block, just in case. “Sorry, I just - why did you ask me -”

“If you’d really give anything to get Sam back?” Dean’s smile is blinding but, Jess realises now, doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Like I said, my brother chose to spend the last years of his life with you. Maybe I just wanted to make sure the person he chose deserved him.”

It’s a good answer. It makes sense. But Jess’ skin is still crawling.

She glances down at her phone, relieved to see that Cassie's already texted back. But she hasn’t answered Jess’ question. Instead, there’s just one line of text, and it's another question. is he there right now?

in house w/ me. is he legit?

The next text appears less than a second later, like Cassie was sitting staring at her phone, waiting for Jess to respond. It's short, only three words.

get out NOW

Slowly, Jess looks back up at Dean.

Dean, who smiles ruefully, shrugging both shoulders. “Too bad,” he says. “If you were serious, I know somebody who coulda made it happen.”

He blinks, and when he opens his eyes, they’re wrong. Yellow, and inhuman, and wrong.

Jess grabs blindly at the knife block, but Dean waves a hand and it’s like she’s been hit by an invisible truck. Jess goes flying backwards, across the kitchen, and slams into the cabinets so hard that she sees little black and white stars flickering across her vision. She struggles to suck in a breath, dimly aware that her feet have left the ground, that her back is scraping against the cabinet doors, that she’s being dragged up the wall by whatever invisible hand is holding her pinned there.

“Who were you texting?” Dean asks, casually, like he isn’t in the middle of somehow telekinetically throttling Jess. He keeps one hand up as he kneels to retrieve her dropped phone, but shows no other sign that he’s even breaking a sweat. Jess gasps for air. The swimming, flashing stars are getting thicker.

Dean flips her phone open and clicks through her messages for a moment, a slow smile crossing his face. “Cassie?” he asks, glancing up at Jess. If it weren’t for the flash of those sickening eyes, he’d look like a little kid on Christmas morning.

Jess grits her teeth, and doesn’t answer. Not that she could have even if she’d wanted to. There’s still no air making its way down her throat, and her limbs are all starting to feel dangerously weak.

Dean chuckles, still grinning like he’s about to tear into the most beautifully-wrapped present. “Well, this is even better than I expected! Two for the price of one.”

He looks up at Jess, still struggling weakly against the force holding her in the air, and says, “Let’s see how long it takes them to come charging to the rescue.”

...

in house w/ me. is he legit?

Cassie’s read and reread the text more times in the last minute than she can count. Trying to make it say something other than what it says. Trying to make it mean something other than what it means.

She just hopes that, when they find Jess, she’s still breathing.

Mary speeds through another red light, knuckles white on the wheel. She veers around a station wagon that comes out of nowhere, the Impala fishtailing for a second before Mary gets it back under control. Even with the speed, even with the reckless driving, Cassie can’t shake the feeling that they’re already too late.

She flips through the book in her lap, again, not really seeing the cramped black writing that spiders all over the page. She’s long since memorized the exorcism ritual, whispering it under her breath when she lies awake at night, singing it along to the tune of her favourite songs on the radio. Practicing, and hoping.

And waiting.

Now that the day she’s been waiting for so long is finally here, Cassie’s determined not to let her nerves get the best of her. After all, the stakes are a little higher here than the success or failure of a middle-school play. But - it’s hard. It’s been years since the last time she came face-to-face with Dean, or at least with the thing that’s wearing him now. She’d barely made it out alive.

Cassie reaches over into the back seat, twists the thick fabric of the quilt Karen had given them forever ago in one hand. She has to force herself to let it go when she realises she’s wringing it, hard. She’s not sure what popping a seam will do, but now is not the time to find out.

They’re only going to get one shot at this. Cassie plans to make it count.

...

Jess’ vision is starting to tunnel out around the edges when the loud rumble and rattle of an engine pulls up the drive and abruptly dies. Dean turns to look out the window, staring grimly as he edges over to twitch the filmy curtains aside. A painful hope rises in Jess’ throat the longer he stands there, frowning, only to be squashed when Dean flashes that rakish grin back at her.

He straightens the lapels of his battered leather jacket, shakes out both arms with a flick of the wrists. “It’s showtime,” he says, with a wink up at Jess, just as there’s an explosive crash! from the front door.

Mary’s the first to appear in the kitchen doorway, pistol raised, eyes flinty. But she pauses, just for a moment, when she sees Dean, and Jess’ stomach drops. Whoever - whatever - Dean really is, he at least hadn’t lied when he’d said he was Sam’s brother. He’s Mary’s son. And Mary’d just had to watch, helpless, while one of her sons died.

Mary’s going to hesitate. But Jess can already tell that Dean won’t.

By the way Dean's grinning, she can tell he knows it too.

"Well, if it isn't mommy dearest!" Dean says brightly. Mary's eyebrows draw together in a frown as she takes careful aim, and Dean clicks his tongue warningly. "I wouldn't. You shoot me with that popgun, it's Dean who's gonna feel it."

"Get out of him," Mary says, between clenched teeth. She jerks her head in Jess' direction, not taking her eyes or her gun off of Dean. "And let her go."

"Sorry, Mary, Mary, quite contrary, but I don't think I'm gonna do that," Dean - whatever's possessing Dean? - says, with a mock-sad shake of his head. "We had an arrangement. It's not my fault you didn't hold up your end -"

Whatever else he was going to say is cut off abruptly when Cassie crashes through the kitchen window and flings a brightly-coloured quilt over his head.

For a beat, nobody moves.

The laughter that rises from under that quilt is low and dark and horrible. "Really? This is your big plan? How exactly was this supposed to work? It's not like I'm a wild animal you gotta get to the vet -"

There's motion, under the quilt, the top fluffing up like something hit it from underneath. But it doesn't budge.

Dean is perfectly still and dangerously silent under the bright fabric for a moment. Then it explodes with activity, like it's being pummeled from underneath its draping folds, hammered with powerful fists, battered by an unfelt gale. Still, it doesn't so much as slide down to one side. Whatever force was choking Jess slowly eases, as though Dean's concentration is shifting elsewhere, and she gasps down lungfuls of precious air.

"Oh, you sneaky little bitch," Dean says, finally, a note of begrudging respect beside the murderous anger in his voice.

"Portable devil's trap," Cassie says, shaking her dark curls out and taking a deep breath as she flips open a book that looks like it's seen several witch trials and possibly the bottom of a bog. "It's a great idea, I wish I could take all the credit."

"Demons never see it coming," Mary agrees, sharp. "And you're not getting out of there in that body unless the lines break."

Dean chuckles, and it's back to that horrible, dark sound, like he knows something they don't.

" 'That body'?" he says. "Mary, I'm wounded. You don't think of me as your son?"

"Shut up," Mary snaps. She nods in Cassie's direction, and Cassie looks down at the book, begins to read. The words that fall off her tongue sound like Latin to Jess, though she has to admit she's better at reading it than speaking it, and Cassie's going way faster than Jess’ Latin prof. Sounds like something to do with spirits.

Dean's laughter doesn't stop. Low, and rolling, and horrible, it rises from underneath the quilt until it almost drowns out Cassie's voice. She speaks up a little, her pitch rising, and Jess feels - something, that charge in the air again, a wind that isn't a wind whipping her curls around and rattling the cabinets.

Still, the laughter doesn't stop.

It doesn't stop until Cassie spits the last words, and the wind, the rumbling under the floorboards, the strange charge in the air all cut off abruptly like they were never there. The force holding Jess pinned releases all at once, without warning, and she drops, slamming to the kitchen linoleum on hands and knees. Cassie shoots one long, agonised look at the quilt and the shape still under it before she hurries over to crouch beside Jess, setting the book aside to check her over for injuries.

Mary doesn't take her eyes off the quilt at all.

Jess notices it before anyone else does, not that that helps. It's just a split second when that - charge, that electric pressure, jolts back through her like a live wire. Jess tries to scream, though it comes out as more of a strangled cough, clutching her suddenly-throbbing head. It feels like someone drove an ice pick straight through her eye.

And then the quilt bursts into flame.

Cassie shouts, and Mary steps back, and the figure under the quilt burns and burns merrily until the quilt is nothing but ash and a few charred scraps of fabric. Dean doesn't move, just stares Mary down, as the last remnants flake away. For some reason - probably fire being hard enough to summon into existence with your mind without trying to get it to differentiate between different kinds of fabric - Dean's jacket and shirt have also burnt almost completely away, leaving quite a lot of bare chest on display. Jess has just enough presence of mind to realise whatever 'lines' Mary was talking about are almost certainly broken now, before her brain goes back to its stunned loop on how ridiculous it is that they're all frozen in numb horror at the sight of a man who looks like a Calvin Klein ad.

Well, okay, not exactly like a Calvin Klein ad. Any marketing agency would probably have airbrushed out the nasty burn scar just over his heart, the one like a circle with a line slashed partway through it. And the eyes. Yeah, the eyes would probably be a dealbreaker.

"You really should start thinking of me as your son, Mary," Dean says, that crooked, charming smile tugging at his lips. "Because this body's mine. And I don't plan on giving it up any time soon."

Mary moves, but Dean moves faster. With a flick of his wrist, Mary goes flying backwards out of the kitchen, her pistol clattering to the kitchen floor. Jess hears the crash from the hall, and winces.

Cassie straightens up, reaching behind her for a gun Jess can see tucked into her waistband, but Dean slams her back against the wall with a tilt of his head and a grin.

"Oh, you should hear him in here," he says, sauntering over to Cassie, one hand jammed into the pocket of his slightly-scorched jeans and the other tapping his temple. "Threatening me - real creative ones, too - begging me not to hurt you two."

He smiles like a wolf baring its teeth. "You should've heard him whine when we killed Sammy."

Jess' heart kicks once, painfully, in her chest.

"Don't you call him that," Mary's voice says, from the door. Jess spins, sees her standing, but leaning heavily against the doorframe. There's a trickle of blood working its way down out of her hairline, across her forehead, and she's cradling her right arm close against her body. "Don't you dare call him that. Not with that mouth."

Dean glances back over his shoulder at her, shaking his head as he breaks into a broad, pleasant grin. "What, I can’t give stupid nicknames to my own baby brother?"

"He isn't yours," Mary snaps, and Dean barks out a laugh.

"Oh, Mary, Mary, Mary. How quickly you forget." He waves a hand dismissively at Cassie, flattening her with her arms splayed out, crucifixion-style, against the wall, before taking three heavy, deliberate steps towards Mary. All his attention is fixed on her, their eyes locked in a furious glare. He doesn't notice when Jess reaches out along the floor, stretching an arm out for Mary's dropped pistol. "You broke our deal. Which means -" Dean raises out both arms, palms out, sort of like he's going in for a hug. "Actually, he is."

"And yet you killed him," Mary spits into Dean's face. Jess' fingertips just graze the hilt of the pistol, and she edges forward to wrap her hand around it, taking the chance that, focused as he is on Mary, Dean won't notice the movement in his peripheral vision. "How's that figure into your little plan?"

Dean clicks his tongue disapprovingly in the back of his mouth, shaking his head even as he grins, too wide, too white. "Y'know, I really thought you Winchesters might have started to figure it out by now."

He blinks, and Mary flies straight up in the air, like she's been shot from a cannon, to slam against the kitchen ceiling. Jess is struck by the horrible certainty that she can smell smoke.

Dean's smile is much too self-satisfied, his voice sickeningly smug as he stares up at Mary, pinned like a butterfly on a corkboard. "There's always a plan."

Jess stands, on shaking legs, and fires straight for his heart.

Or, at least, she tries to. But the trigger under her finger just makes a pathetic little clicking noise and refuses to budge.

Dean looks over at her, his expression blank for once, a slight frown furrowing his brow like he's trying to figure out what she's doing. "Trying to kill me with a weapon with the safety on?" He shakes his head. "At least you're pretty."

It's like that heavy electrical charge in the air wraps itself around Jess' hands. She can't feel her fingers as they deftly click something on the handle of the gun, can only watch in horror as her own arms bend at the elbow without her input.

The barrel of the gun is cold under her chin.

Mary shouts something hoarse and angry, and behind her, Jess can hear Cassie struggling, but a little bubble of silence seems to have cocooned her and the gun. She tries to get even just one finger to obey her, to twitch, to wiggle. All she gets for her efforts is a stabbing headache.

"It's so tragic," Dean says, still watching her, unruffled. "You know, officer, she told me herself that she didn't know how to go on without him."

Jess struggles to suck in a breath as her hands wedge the nose of the pistol up into the soft spot under her jaw. She thinks she can feel, through the numbing, buzzing static running up her arms, her index finger starting to depress the trigger. The pain in her head is throbbing in time with her heartbeat, stab, stab, stab directly into her right eye.

Somewhere in her mind, somewhere she hopes connects to her fingers, with all the strength she has, Jess pushes.

A thunderous expression crosses Dean's face when the gun doesn't go off, when Jess slowly lowers the gun to aim back at him again. It's strange, but that static-charge prickle she'd felt all up her arms is receding, from above her elbows all the way down to her first knuckles.

She's got a clear shot. But before she can pull the trigger, there's...a spark, the static charge releasing from her fingertips, and Dean flinches back.

He blinks, raising his head slowly, like he's waking from a deep sleep, and Jess' breath catches in her throat. For the first time since he'd pinned her to the kitchen wall, his eyes are - they're back to green, and confused, and frightened. Human.

Jess can't move. She stands there, rooted to the spot, staring back at the man staring at her.

Then Dean hisses in a breath between his teeth, one hand flying up to the side of his head as he crumples inwards, squeezing his eyes shut. There's something different about his voice, too, some smoothness or oiliness that Jess had barely even noticed that's suddenly missing, a raw rasp of fear taking its place. "Get the hell out of here - shit - all of you, run! I can't -"

There's a thump as Cassie's boots hit the ground behind Jess, and Mary shouts as she tumbles down, hitting the counter before she collapses to the ground. She groans, pushing herself to her feet with obvious difficulty. Jess takes a slow step backwards, grip tightening on the gun in her hands.

Dean takes a long breath in, straightening up, and Jess takes another step back. The stress and anguish smooth off his face as he rolls his neck from shoulder to shoulder, to be replaced with contempt.

When he opens his eyes again, Jess is totally unsurprised to see they’re back to that sick, poisonous yellow.

“Well, well, well,” he says. “Jessica Moore. Colour me surprised. And here I didn’t even think you were a contender. I’ll have to keep a closer eye on you.” He winks. The grin probably would have been charming, under other circumstances.

“How do you know my -” Jess starts, but Dean’s already turned away from her, looking around the kitchen.

“Well, ladies, it’s been a slice,” he says, the last word hissing with ironic emphasis. “But I’ve got things to do, people to see, you know how it goes. What say we call this one a draw?”

Before anyone can move, he snaps his fingers, and a wall of flame erupts from the kitchen floor, hiding him from view.

...

“Karen’s” turns out to be an unassuming little blue house on an unassuming plot of land a little ways outside of a town Jess never would have willingly chosen to visit. A tasteful white wooden sign at the end of the drive, trimmed with the same gingerbread carving that decorates the peak of the roof, identifies it as “Singer’s Curio Cabinet: Antiques & Collectibles”.

Just based on everything that’s happened in the last forty-eight hours, Jess is willing to bet antiques and collectibles aren’t the only things Karen Singer deals in.

Karen herself is a square-faced, stern-looking woman with deep lines etched around her eyes and silver scattered throughout her thick dark hair. She greets Mary and Cassie with a scowl and a shake of her head, letting out an exasperated sigh in response to Cassie’s greeting. “You’d better come in.”

Cassie shoots Jess a look, eyebrows raised, a half-smile half-grimace darting across her face. “Oh, she’s pissed,” she whispers to Jess, as Karen leads them through a huge front room crammed with rusted farm equipment, brass bedsteads and battered dressers, and shelves of old glass bottles and jars with heavy iron keys dangling underneath.

The back of the house looks much more lived-in, though with a similar spirit to the store out front. It’s tastefully decorated, if by somebody whose tastes run a little more to the overstated and rococo than Jess’, but the flocked damask wallpaper and elegant Queen Anne furniture are almost hidden under stacks of books, carved wooden masks, large jars with murky, indistinct contents, tattered fabric dolls, rough wooden stakes, guns and knives in various states of assembly...

Karen motions them in without looking back, walking straight through to the kitchen. Mary follows, and Cassie pauses just long enough for Karen’s voice to float back. “Don’t you girls hang around out there sticking your noses into everything. I won’t be responsible if you get yourselves cursed.”

“Cursed?” Jess asks, and Cassie nods.

“Try not to touch anything.”

“Of course,” Jess mutters to herself, brushing aside a bundle of herbs hung to dry in the kitchen doorway. “Of course now I’m standing in a witch’s cottage in the middle of nowhere. Because things weren’t already weird enough.”

“Karen’s no witch,” Mary says, over her shoulder. “You’ll know a witch when you meet one. Nasty customers.”

Karen’s got her back to them all, still, filling a kettle at the sink. She gives no sign that she’s heard Mary’s comment, her voice clipped and tight as she says, “You went after him again.”

Mary draws in a long breath, lets it out slow.

“Oh boy,” Cassie mutters, edging closer to Jess like that’ll keep the other two women from overhearing. “Here come the fireworks.”

“I’m talkin’ to you too, Cassie Robinson,” Karen says, cranking the tap hard so that the water shuts off abruptly. “We still aren't even sure that Colt you dug up stories on is real, or just a myth. What were you thinking?”

“I was thinking,” Mary says, quietly, “that a damn demon has my son.”

“Watch your language in my house, Mary Winchester,” Karen says, like it’s automatic, turning to put the kettle on the stove. Jess gets the feeling that that’s a remnant of an old argument, the kind that’s never really resolved.

“It’s not strong language, it’s an accurate description,” Mary says, equally automatically, stepping around the little round table in the middle of the kitchen floor. “Karen, please. He went after Sam. What was I supposed to do?”

Karen slams the kettle down on the heavy black range with a metallic bang that makes Jess jump. She stands with her back to them all for another moment, her shoulders rising and falling with a long, deep breath, before turning around. Jess takes a step back at the sight of her face.

“You were supposed to have some kind of a backup plan,” she says, her voice cracking, before she clears her throat, her frown growing deeper as she pulls herself back under control. “You were supposed to let me know where you were going, what you were going after. You were supposed to do anything other than put yourself and an innocent kid in harm’s way without any real plan and without knowing what you were getting into!”

Mary says nothing, and Karen cuts herself off with an angry harrumph, shaking her head as she turns back to the stove. She turns the burner on with a sharp yank, the sudden fwoosh of fire making Jess’ heart leap into her throat. “And Cassie! I thought you knew better than this.”

“Sorry, Karen. Everything happened so fast -” Cassie starts, but Mary interrupts her.

“And who says we don’t know what we’re dealing with?”

“Do you know what that symbol you told me Dean had on his chest is?” Karen demands. “Because I do. That’s an anchor. Your demon’s got its grubby claws dug right into Dean’s flesh. You won’t be able to budge it unless you can break that symbol, and it’d be suicide just to try to get that close.”

“So it’s suicide,” Mary says, soft, dangerous. Cassie shoots her a startled look.

Karen sags back against the counter, the anger draining from her face. She suddenly looks very old, and very tired.

“Don’t be a fool, Mary. You know neither of those boys’d want you doing something like that. And Dean’d never forgive himself if you got hurt trying to save him. Especially not if he was the one that hurt you.”

For a moment, Mary looks like she’s going to argue, before deflating herself.

“Well, what about me?” Cassie protests. “What am I here, chopped liver?” She glares from Karen to Mary. “I’m not some stupid kid who tagged along for kicks, I’m not some job you just have to protect until the monster’s dead, okay? I told you. I’m in this.” She sucks in a deep breath. The fire drains out of her voice, leaving it small and surprisingly vulnerable as she says, “Let me help. I want him back too. Even if it’s just for long enough to tell him I’m sorry.”

Silence settles over the kitchen, thick and gloomy as an autumn fog.

“Maybe there’s another way,” Jess says, startling even herself. “Something happened, back at school, when Dean -”

“The demon,” Cassie corrects her, firmly.

“When that...demon tried to make me shoot myself,” Jess continues. She almost can’t believe the words coming out of her own mouth. Surely this is all a nightmare and she just fell asleep on the couch after one too many episodes of Buffy. “I - it wasn’t easy, but I resisted it. Somehow. There was, like, a spark. And for a second afterwards, I think...Dean was back in the driver’s seat.”

She swallows, hard, in the teeth of the stares all three turn towards her.

“You’re right,” Cassie says, slowly, at last. “I thought maybe I was just seeing what I wanted to see, but -”

“Is that what all that about being a contender was about?” Mary asks. Jess shakes her head.

“No, honestly, that stuff stumped me too. But - maybe, if I can figure out what I did and how I did it -”

But Karen’s shaking her head. “Jess, right? It’s sweet of you to offer, Jess, but even if you knew what you were getting into, that just sounds like a trap. Demons lie. They’re excellent actors.”

Jess bites down on her bottom lip, trying not to let Sam’s accusing stare fill her vision again. “Like Cassie said. I want to help. Please, if I can do something -”

“All right.” Karen crosses her arms over her chest. “Let’s say it was real. Do you even know how to do it again?”

Jess rolls her lower lip between her teeth, considering how to respond.

Karen snorts. “Didn’t think so. No. That’s too much of a wild card to bet our lives on.”

Cassie shakes her head, her eyes blazing. “So then what? Are we just supposed to sit around here and - crochet doilies while that thing roams around hurting people, wearing the man I love like a cheap suit -”

Karen fixes her with a steely look, and Cassie bites off her own tirade with a scowl.

“I think we all know what we’re supposed to do here,” Karen says, shifting that penetrating look from Cassie to Mary. “At this point, Dean’s as much of a lost cause as Sam. We gotta focus on getting rid of that demon before it can do any more damage.”

She pauses a moment, eyes locked with Mary’s. “Whatever that takes.”

“You’re asking me to kill my own son,” Mary says, her voice so icy Jess could swear the temperature in the room drops several degrees.

Karen shakes her head. “I know you want to hope, Mary, but - Dean wouldn’t want you to let this go on this way. That thing used him to kill his own brother, for the love of all things holy! You can’t tell me he wouldn’t want you to end this.”

“Maybe this isn’t about what Dean would or wouldn’t want,” Mary says, gripping the back of the chair in front of her so hard her knuckles go white on the carved wood.

“Don’t I know it,” Karen mutters, and there’s a hint of contempt in her voice. “Listen, I know this is hard as anything, I know you still want to salvage what you can outta all this hurt, but - sometimes you just gotta do what needs to be done.” Jess is suddenly and immensely glad not to be on the receiving end of Karen’s laser stare. “Sam knew that. You know Dean knows that -”

“Did Bobby?”

The two words ring in the sudden silence like a slap. Karen looks stricken, like Mary had just reached out and shoved her against the hot stove. Mary herself looks horrified by the words that had come out of her own mouth, horrified and a little sick.

The silence slowly turns to a high-pitched whistle as the kettle boils. Karen reaches out to turn the burner off, turning her back to Mary with what looks to Jess like enormous effort, pulling chipped china and plain tea bags from the cupboard beside the stove.

Finally, she turns back to the rest of the kitchen. Her expression is back to an echo of its former no-nonsense toughness, though she still looks very white. “For the sake of our friendship, I’m gonna pretend you didn’t just say that,” she says, heavily, and Mary nods, once, eyes flicking down towards her boots.

“Who...” Cassie starts, but looks around the room and seems to decide against it. Jess agrees with her. She’s burning with questions, but - there’s a time and a place.

“I just - you know I can’t just let that demon win,” Mary says, and there’s a pleading note in her voice that Jess has never heard before. The steel seeps back into it, though, as Mary says, “He can’t have them. Either of them.”

Karen takes a breath in, closing her eyes as she lets it out in a long sigh. “You better not be saying what I think you’re saying.” She opens her eyes, a rueful expression settling onto her face and softening the severity of her frown, before taking a step around the table towards Mary. “Look, maybe I can’t know what this is like for you, but I think I got an inkling. And they might not be my sons, but -”

“You’re right,” Mary says, shortly, stepping back. “They’re not your sons.”

She turns, and stalks out of the kitchen, out into the antique shop. A moment later, the merry jingle of a bell and the slam of a door tell everyone inside that Mary Winchester has left the building.

“Don’t be a damned fool, Mary!” Karen shouts after her retreating back, and Cassie gives her a wide-eyed look. Karen shrugs one shoulder, turning back to the tea things. “She’s right, though don’t you dare tell her I said that. 's not foul language when it’s an accurate description.”

Cassie shakes her head, brow furrowing in confusion. “What do you -” She stops. “ ‘Either of them’. Oh god.”

She nearly pushes over the table as she sprints out of the kitchen, calling Mary’s name. Jess listens to the sound of her footsteps drumming against floorboards until they fade off the porch.

When she looks back, Karen’s watching her with a pinched smile. “Sorry you had to hear all that.”

Jess shrugs. She’s painfully aware of how inadequate anything she could say might be.

Finally, after what seems like a lifetime, she settles on, “Do you really think - what happened back at the house, it was just a trick? You don’t think I really have some kind of - freakish demon-banishing power?”

She doesn’t add, you don’t think I’m trapped in this nightmare because somehow this nightmare’s trapped inside me. She doesn’t add, you don’t think that maybe there really was something I could have done, something that could have saved Sam, if only I’d known about it before it was too late. She doesn’t add, you don’t think that it could somehow have been my fault.

Karen gives her a searching look, like she can hear everything Jess didn’t say anyway.

“I think that thing wanted to hurt Mary as bad as it could,” she says, at last. “And I think it knew she was too close on its tail. I think, just then, giving her false hope that her boy’s still in there would’ve saved its sorry hide, and was the meanest thing it could’ve done to her.”

Jess lets out a breath she hadn’t realised she was holding, feeling tension seep from her shoulders. She tucks a lock of hair back behind one ear, matching Karen’s smile with one of her own. “You know, I think I’m finally starting to understand why Sam always hated Halloween.”

Karen snorts out a surprised laugh, almost choking on it. She pauses to catch her breath, giving Jess the first glimpse of a genuine smile Jess has seen her wear. It’s...nice. Warm. It transforms her entire face, somehow, makes it less stern and more motherly.

“Oh, don’t we all,” Karen says. “Well, welcome to the club. I wish I could say that it’s all uphill from here.” She turns back to the tea things on the counter, pulling the teabags from the pot and laying out flowered cups on matching saucers. “You want something to eat? I baked up a pie this morning.”

Despite everything, Jess can’t help but smile.

“I could go for pie,” she says.

#a concept? a fic? who knows #supernatural #this is mary's fic tag #fic so named because three of these four show up dead in canon in white dresses and - you get it #if these versions of these characters are wildly inaccurate please forgive me I'm still only on s3

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pietrotheavenger · 6 years

Text

the four times steve rogers almost kisses you and the first time he does

summary: steve rogers has been smitten with you ever since you joined the avengers. it’s only a matter of time until he kisses you.

pairings: steve rogers x fem!reader

warnings: swearing, blood, near death experiences

a/n: i told you i’d be back! do you like it better when i write in second person or third? do you want to see an au!bucky barnes x reader series, an au!steverogers x reader series, or an au!the avengers x reader series with a dash of au!steve rogers x reader on the side? this is for @prettyyoungtragedy‘s 2k writing challenge! congrats on 2k sweet pea <3

word count: 4300ish

the four times steve rogers almost asks you on a date and the time he does

the first time that steve rogers almost kissed you, you weren’t paying any attention. if you had so much as made eye contact with the poor, lovesick puppy, he would’ve gotten all the encouragement he needed.

it was around 2 in the afternoon, when tony told FRIDAY to let everyone know that he bought pizza for everyone. you had come sprinting down the hallway, dressed in a pair of nike bastketball shorts, one of bruce’s old college sweaters, and socks, your hair flying everywhere like a madwoman. the socks on your feet caused you to continue propelling forward, even when you stopped, throwing you into the arms of an unsuspecting super soldier. he licked his lips, subconsciously, in preparation.

it would’ve been one of the scenes out of a movie, if your heart wasn’t set on the pizza, that you knew that everyone would grab a box of and return to their respective bedrooms. “oh, steve!” you exclaimed, looking around him to see several boxes stacked on the island. you grabbed his shoulders and pulled yourself to your feet, patting his bicep, as you briskly walked away, snatching a box of pizza.

sam was leaned against the counter, relishing his slice of pizza and watching the whole ordeal with an amused expression. “hey cap, what’s with the red face?” he teased, bursting into laughter when he was met with an icy glare. you had hopped up onto the counter, possessively clutching your box and stuffing your face, simultaneously. you spoke up once you had choked it down.

“hey sam, cap, you two doing anything right now?” you opened up your box and offered a slice to steve, who was standing awkwardly, his hands hanging at his sides. he happily grabbed a slice.

“i got the next training slot, in about ten minutes, but if it’s quick, i can help ya’,” sam spoke, crossing his arms over his chest.

“you know what? i’ll just bug steve. i have the 7 o’clock training slot reserved, and i have time on my hands,” you jumped down, and made towards the sectional sofas. “c’mere!”

he looked at sam, with a slightly horrified expression. his pizza hung limply from his hand, half way to his mouth. sam shrugged, then pointed in the direction that you had just gone, “you heard her. go.”

for the next few hours, steve entertained you with card tricks, you (mostly) bested him in multiple card games, and shared the box of pizza.

team movie nights; meant to be bonding experiences but usually ended up being a shitshow. but this night, it was different. it was your turn to pick the movie. “listen up, losers!” you stood in front of the flat screen t.v., your hands on your hips. this time, you were dressed in a pair of flannel pajama pants, and yet another one of bruce’s old college sweatshirts. “this is the best franchise ever, and if anyone of you ruins it for me, i will murder you in your sleep,” you punctuated your last phrase by jabbing your finger at everyone sat in front of you.

natasha and clint were on one side, quietly bickering amongst themselves. sam’s head rested in her lap, looking evidently annoyed with the her and clint. bucky took the corner, his hair pulled up in a bun and looking awfully excited, with a bowl of popcorn in his lap. steve sat a foot or so away from him, his arm thrown around the back of the sofa. when you approached him, he let his arm fall to his side. the first pirates of the caribbean movie flickered to life in front of you as you settled into your spot, next to him. your elbow sat on his right shoulder, your head propped up on your hand, as you took popcorn from the bowl in his lap.

he adored your commentary. he heard everything that you grumbled under your breath, and it only made the affection he had for you swell even more. you would occasionally make remarks to him, and he didn’t always know how to respond, but he would always, at least, give you one of his signature bashful smiles. by the end of the movie, you had fallen asleep on his shoulder, your legs strewn across his lap. “what am i supposed to do?” he whisper-yelled, and looked at bucky with wide eyes, and a panicked expression.

“you take her to bed,” bucky shrugged, flicking a sleeping sam in the forehead, “wake up, sleeping beauty.” sam groaned in response and swatted him away.

“wait ‘til i show this to her in the morning,” nat chuckled, snapping a few pictures of the two of you. clint had left the second the ending credits began.

“nat,” steve began, in a warning tone.

“cool it, captain weenie,” she dismissed him with a wave of her hand, before stalking off to her own room.

“bucky, i’m begging you,” he turned to his friend, who flashed him a peace sign before receding into the shadows of the hallway.

he groaned to himself, before securing one arm under your legs, and the other behind your back, and stood up. your head lolled into his chest and he looked down to see that you were still sleeping. “okay, i got this,” he muttered to himself.

“FRIDAY, be quiet. take me to y/n’s floor,” he hissed, as loud as he dared to. you stirred in your sleep, as he stepped into the elevator. “hey, go back to sleep,” he softly spoke, when your eyes began to bat open. you brought your hand up to clutch the soft material of his t-shirt, and hummed something unintelligible back.

he could’ve kissed you. in all your tangled hair, drool face, sleepy glory. he wanted nothing more than to bring his lips to yours. but, he couldn’t. he knew that you were unconscious and that it just wouldn’t be right to kiss you, to force himself onto you when you wouldn’t even know it. it wouldn’t be fair to you. so he looked away, focusing his eyes on his reflection on the mirrored walls.

the door to your room swung open, when steve approached it. he silently thanked FRIDAY in his head, moving towards your bed. he managed to pull the covers back before placing you down into the sheets. “i want,” you began a sentence, but let it fall flat as you reached for him, blindly, while he pulled your blanket over your form.

“sleep,” he replied, his voice gentle. he let his hand linger on your arm before stepping out of your room.

steve believed that netflix was the greatest thing that happened while he was iced. he loved watching netflix. to be specific, the office. the third time he almost kissed you, began with him all cozy in his bed; his attention on the t.v. screen, the ambient light casting weird shadows across his face. he was so absorbed in the show, that when he heard a knock at his door, he flinched. “who is it?” he asked FRIDAY. his room was always soundproof.

“it is ms. y/l/n.”

you had gone out for the night and promised to bring steve back a tub of ice cream, since you had eaten all of his, two nights ago.

he paused the show and threw his quilt off, standing up, “let her in.” he arched his back, stretching, as the door swung open. “didn’t expect you to be back so soon. what’s-” he began, but stopped abruptly when you crumpled into a heap at the threshold, clutching your shoulder. “hey, hey, hey,” he rushed over, crouching down, examining you.

“got shot,” you rasped out, looking up at him. there was a trail of drying blood at the corner of your mouth. he felt rage overcome his senses for a moment. “but i got your ice cream,” you held up a plastic bag with your other arm.

“i hope you got that before you were shot,” he murmured, before helping you up and leading you to his bathroom. the door to his room shut on its own. he switched the light on and got you to sit up on the marble counter. he grabbed his first aid kit from underneath his sink, and began to work, cutting part of your shirt open. he panicked slightly at the sight of all your blood, but he took a deep breath. you would freak out more if he started freaking out.

“took out the bullet,” you choked out, receiving an empathetic grimace. you did have the ability to manipulate metal, so it wasn’t as gruesome as it could’ve been. he stood in between her legs, cleaning the wound. you hissed in pain, your head falling back, “sweet baby jesus.”

“squeeze my arm,” he told you, continuing without hesitation. you had an iron grip on his bicep, not letting go once, the entire time he wiped the blood away.

“jesus christ,” you grunted, tilting forward to let you forehead rest on his shoulder. “can we just, jesus, take a breather for a second?”

“y/n,” his voice was stern, unwavering, “you’ve lost blood, you can’t lose anymore. i have to close this up as soon as possible. i have numbing cream, and you can take some tylenol after this. in the morning, we’re calling helen in, and you’re going to get this checked out, because i’m not a doctor. got it?”

“but she has the day off.”

“then i’ll ask helen to call in a replacement, alright?” you pulled back and nodded, sweat shining on your forehead. he wanted to press his lips against yours, to reassure you that everything would be fine, that he was right there. instead, he cupped your cheek, “it’s all good? okay?” he stared, intensely, into your eyes. you nodded vigorously, jolting your shoulder.

“jesus,” you drew out the last syllable, pulling away from his hand to look up, attempting to keep the tears at bay.

“stop talking about jesus, and help me with this bullet wound,” he was serious, but there was a joking tone in his voice. “hold this,” he put something in your hand to squeeze instead of his arm. he had to stitch the wound and he needed all of his focus on the task at hand.

after finishing up, while washing his hands, he asked you, “weren’t you out with your friends? who did this?” he looked to you for an answer, turning the sink off and wiping his hands off on the hand towel.

“i don’t know,” you shrugged with your good shoulder, “i saw these guys messing with a girl, so i stepped in to help her, and they shot me and ran off. i was—am— drunk, and my senses were delayed. god, i’m so dumb, i should’ve known better,” you shook your head to yourself, “the poor girl was so scared, she ran off in the opposite direction. man, i must be a pretty shitty superhero. can’t catch the bad guys, and can’t help the good ones. or myself.”

“hey, you’re not a bad superhero,” he was bent over, putting the first aid kit back into place. you didn’t respond. “you’re not a bad superhero,” he straightened back up. “you know that.” a single tear slipped down your cheek. “c’mere,” he pulled you into a hug, careful of your shoulder, and let you cry into his shirt.

“i thought i was going to die,” your words were muffled. he squeezed you tighter. “i wouldn’t have left that alleyway if i hadn’t owed you that ice cream. don’t want any of that unfinished business ghost shit.” you were joking, and steve couldn’t help but smile, until he caught the seriousness in your words.

“don’t say that,” he exhaled into you hair. “you would’ve come back. you had to have come back.”

“it’s the truth, steve,” you pulled back to look at him. your face was stained with tears and your hair was messed up. but you still looked beautiful. “you’re the only reason i didn’t stay there and bleed out. i thought i was gonna die, so what was the point in making an effort? but, i took the subway up here, anyways. because of you.”

“you took the subway?” his eyebrows shot up.

“yeah, how else would i have gotten here?” you cracked a smile. “my dna is all over the train to get up here.”

“god, y/n, you could’ve called me.” you looked away, but he grabbed your chin and forced you to look at him. “y/n,” he slowly breathed out your name. “i’m right here, and i’m not going anywhere. i want you to realize that.”

“thank you, steve,” you craned your head to kiss his cheek. “can you help me change my top?” you asked, after several beats of silence. his face reddened, and he took a tiny step back.

“y-yeah,” he rubbed the back of his neck. he grabbed your waist and pulled you down, so that your feet were on the ground. “how do we-“ he began, but you interrupted him.

“this is already ruined, just cut it open. could i borrow a shirt? i’ll try not to get blood on it,” you patted the bandage on your shoulder.

“okay, yup, i can do that,” he stepped backwards, ran into the doorframe, tripped and caught himself on the wall, then proceeded to his wardrobe, offering you a wave. you bit your lip to keep yourself from laughing, before grabbing the scissors from the counter, and beginning your attempts to cut the form fitting top open. underneath, you were wearing a strapless bra.

after slipping his shirt on, with assistance from steve, you left to go to your own room. steve sat on the edge of his bed, with his head in his hands. you had slipped from right between his fingers, once again.

the fourth time that steve rogers almost kissed you, was his birthday. every morning, he woke up at 5. he downed the bottle of water on his night stand, pumped out 50 or so push ups, checked his emails, took a shower, and dressed in his training gear. by the time he was done, it would be 5:30.

but on his birthday, he decided to let himself rest. he didn’t set his alarm for that day, knowing he’d wake up around 6, on his own. precisely, at 5:30, there was a soft knock on his door. “who is it?” his voice was thick with sleep.

“ms. y/l/n,” FRIDAY responded.

“let her in,” he rubbed the sleep from his eyes as the door opened and you entered.

“oh, were you sleeping? i can come back later?” you stopped in your tracks when you saw him still in bed.

“no, no, it’s fine,” he grunted, sitting up. he saw you standing, bashfully, a wrapped gift in one hand and a cupcake with a lit candle in the other.

“happy birthday, cap,” you grinned. he couldn’t help but recpriocate it.

“you didn’t have to, y/n,” he raised an eyebrow, and you rolled your eyes.

“sure i didn’t, but i did anyways,” you shrugged. he let out a laugh and patted the spot beside him, on his bed. you sat down, placing the gift next to you.

“if you wanna brush your teeth, i can wait,” you offered, but he shook his head. “okay, make a wish!” he closed eyes and wished for the same exact thing that he wished for on dandelions, eyelashes, and pennies, then blew it out. “yay! woot woot!” you exclaimed. you peeled back a part of the wrapper and held the pastry up to his mouth. he took a large bite before moaning in pleasure.

“god, that is delicious!”

“really? i’ve been up since 2:30 making them!” you gushed, then your eyes turned wide when you realized what you said.

“y/n,” he began, but you cut him off.

“today is your birthday, steve. you can yell at me tomorrow,” you held your hands up in defence before grabbing the gift next to you and holding it out to him. “okay, i came across your gift last month, when we were in the former-shield-now-hydra base. i kept it a secret because i didn’t know if i’d be able to fully recover it, which i did. it’s not much but i hope you like it.”

he grabbed the gift and held it up to his ear, shaking it, and earning a smile from you. “okay, let’s open her up,” he mumbled to himself, tearing off a corner of the plain brown paper. in it was a picture frame and a letter on top.

“read the letter later,” you were getting impatient, taking the letter and slamming it on his nightside table so he could see what was underneath. it was a very old picture of steve and his parents. he didn’t remember taking the picture, but here it was in his hands. he thought he lost them forever, but now he had a tiny piece of them. his eyes welled up with tears, nostalgia washing over him.

“i-“ he started but his voice cracked.

“oh, come here, you big goof,” you wrapped your arms around his neck, embracing him, as he clung onto you tightly, a few tears sliding down his cheeks. weirdly enough, he felt a sense of closure. he felt complete, now that he had this picture. things were vastly different in the twenty first century, and he couldn’t count the days where he wished to be back in the 40’s, but now he had the part of his old life that he missed the most; his family.

“i could never thank you enough,” he murmured into your hair. he had a sudden, overwhelming urge to crash his lips onto yours, but not being able to see your lips kept his feelings at bay, momentarily.

“you don’t have to, steve. you’ve already done so much for me.”

the two of you stayed like that for several more moments, before you forced yourself to pull away. you ran a hand through his messy bed hair, and said to him, “go back to sleep. we’ll come in again and surprise you with a cake, this time. act surprised.” you kissed his cheek before getting up and exiting his room. but before you left you looked over your shoulder. “happy birthday, steve rogers.”

the first time steve rogers ever kissed you was on a mission. it was going perfectly well. everything was going just as planned. on the field was tony, steve, wanda, and yourself. pietro was on the quinjet for back up and bruce was operating it, and was the back up for the back up.

the mission was wrapped up, but now you just had to go back to the quinjet. tony had flown wanda up there in his suit. she’d gotten grazed by a bullet and pietro was tending to her. you and steve were fighting through a few agents, nothing that you couldn’t handle. the ones that you had been fighting were now on the ground, as steve tossed another one over his head. “watch out!” you cried out, stepping in front of steve. an agent had approached him, with a knife, but you interfered just in time. he slashed your side with the blade, you let out a yelp, as you effectively sought out his pressure points, bringing him instantly to the ground. you brought your hand to your waist, pressing down on the wound. you could feel the blood seep through your fingers, but luckily the dark material of your stealth suit hid most of it.

“are you okay, y/n?” steve rushed over to you, looping an arm around you, pulling your own arm over his shoulder, helping you to where bruce had circled around and was waiting for you both to board so you could take off. tony was on, by then.

“of course, cap, just a scratch,” you offered a tight lipped smile.

“let’s get you onto the quinjet.”

once you were on, and the entrance closed behind you, you collapsed in steve’s arms. “y/n!” he cried out, guiding you to the floor. “help!” he called out, laying you down, and moving your hand away. “god, ‘just a scratch’ my ass!”

“kiss me,” you rasped.

“what?” he threaded his fingers through your hair and elevated your head up.

“kiss me, goddamnit!” he leaned down and brushed his lips against yours before fully pressing them down. he pulled away when he heard thundering footsteps.

“i could’ve taken care of myself, you know,” he pushed a strand of your hair away from your face.

“not with a knife in your back.”

tony burst in, a bruise forming around his eye. “y/n got cut,” steve immediately said to him.

“oh, c’mon,” he groaned, kneeling down beside you. “bleeding all over my quinjet,” he mumbled under his breath, checking out the wound. “we’ll clean it and wrap her up, but we can’t do anything more than that. we’ll touch down in an hour or so. try to get her out of the stealth suit or we’ll have to cut it off.” he stood up abruptly, leaving to get supplies.

“thigh holster,” your voice was a squeak. steve reached over and grabbed your blade, and began carefully cutting your stealth suit.

“why do we always find ourselves here, y/n?” he asked, under his breath. you exhaled a shaky laugh. by the time tony was back, there was a sizable hole around the deep gash. he had a wet wash cloth in one hand and large gauze in the other. he set to work, wiping the blood from around the wound, as steve applied pressure.

after several adrenaline filled minutes, your torso was wrapped in gauze, and tony and steve had gotten you up onto the stretcher. “let someone at the tower know that y/n needs immediate medical attention,” steve said to the man beside him. they were both covered in blood and breathing hard. tony nodded, and left once again.

“so dumb,” he sighed, “you shouldn’t have done that, y/n. i have the quick healing abilities, not you. you know this means that you won’t be able to go on that mission to rome, right?”

you grunted. he didn’t know whether it was of pain or protest. “really?” your voice cracked.

“it’s next week, too soon.”

“but i wanna go,” your voice was whiney, but steve didn’t mind. he’d do anything and everything to take your pain off your mind.

“but you can’t go. we can go some other time. when we don’t have a mission,” he tucked a stray piece of hair behind your ear, humming.

“steve, has anyone ever told you that you are so beautiful?” your words were slurring together by that point.

“no,” he shook his head, a small smile growing and taking over his features. his face was dirty and his hair was messy, but you would be lying if you said that he didn’t look gorgeous.

“well, you are,” you raised your eyebrows, and waved your hand at him.

“has anyone every told you that you are so beautiful?” his voice went up an octave higher at the end.

“yes, all the time. now, let’s talk about you more, you’re more interesting,” you wrinkled your nose at him when he burst out in laughter.

“i’m an old man, y/n,” his hand came to rest on the edge of the stretcher.

“but that’s what makes you so interesting! you don’t look a day over 30, cap!” you were awfully enthusiastic, even wiggling to somehow prove your point.

“do you have any questions about my interesting life?”

“yes. did you really kiss me?” your question surprised him, evidently in his facial expression. he cleared his throat and nodded. “can you do it again?” you were barely heard over the din of the engines.

“you’re not yourself, right now, champ. just pull through a little longer,” he noticed your eyes drooping, he cupped your cheek, swiping dirt away from your cheekbone.

“no,” you responded, stubbornly.

“what?”

“i am myself. i always want to kiss you, and i want to kiss you right now, so i am me. now please, for the love of god and all things holy, kiss me.”

and so he did.

bonus:

the following week, you were finally off of bed rest. steve had been there when you woke up, just walking into the room with a bouquet of sunflowers in his hand. they were beautiful, and you didn’t have the heart to tell him that you were allergic to pollen. he frequently visited you, a deck of cards in his pocket. doctor cho, or whoever happened to be there, would eventually have to kick him out because your heart rate would rise too high due to feeling frustration. needless to say, in your state, he was winning more games than you.

“good morning, steve!” you called out, as you entered the common space. he was sitting on the sectional, flicking through the newspaper. clint was passed out beside him, a book on his chest.

“hey! look at you, walking and everything!” he set the newspaper down and stood up.

you spun in a circle, with your arms out, “you know it!”

“i learned a new card trick. wanna see it?” he arched a brow, coming closer to you. he offered you his arm and you accepted it, after you nodded your head. “gotta grab my deck, mind coming with me?” he looked down at you, his lips pursed together. you nodded again.

in his room, the second the door closed, he had you pushed up against the door, and was kissing you with all he had in him, like he would never be able to again, being cautious with your injury. “do you have any idea how long i’ve waited for this?”

permanent taglist: open

@ssweet-empowerment ; @httpmcrvel ;

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the-redhead-who-writes · 6 years

Text

His True Colours

“We finally get Jack’s green hair back! ...But what do we lose in return?”

Readers beware, you’re in for a scare! ...I’m only kidding. This is just a story idea I’ve been messing with! ‘Cause let’s face it: if Jack ever does dye his hair again, you know he’s gonna make a big deal out of it. So dorks, here’s a late-night spook/theory for you to enjoy!

Links: AO3

It’s been a few weeks since Jack returned from his “How Did We Get Here?” tour, the shows having gone down a smashing success. Those in attendance raved about the theatrics from the natural born showman, with everything from the audience interaction to the special effects working to create an unforgettable performance.

The fans that couldn’t make it to the shows contributed to the hype online, taking to social media and creating a tidal wave of incredible stories, edits, and art. The pieces ranged with everything from fluff to angst, starring Jack and all of the beloved Egos.

Jackieboyman fist bumping Spider-Man; Schneeplestein leering menacingly at the viewer, wielding a needle that definitely wasn’t regulation length; Chase with a variety of flower crowns. The works radiated with the passion and love the community held for both Jack and his characters.

And then, there was Anti.

Cryptic zalgo text littered every fans feed. The familiar lines of "D͏i͞d ̷yo͞u ̵miss̢ me̢?̧” and "You͘ s͢t̢o͝p͟ped pay̕in̛g̢ a͟tt͝eńtio͝ǹ!̡" were eerie reminders of the virus’s ever-lingering presence. The fandom was itching with pent-up fervour, as though Anti had somehow wormed his way under their very skin.

Poems, theories, art; he had it all.

The only difference was something that the untrained eye might not notice.

It was now old news that Jack had dyed his once-green hair back to its natural brown shade after years of the trademark look. And yes, the fans were sad to see it go. Each Ego sported one of Jack’s varying shades of green. It had been around for the creation of Anti, Schneep, Marvin... everyone!

The community moved on though, deciding that even if Jack had his brown hair back, the Egos could still keep their signature shades.

Except for Anti.

After all, Anti was a virus who depended on Jack’s body to survive. He didn’t have his own, so he should share Jack’s traits, right? It might not have made perfect sense, but the community seemed to accept the general idea, as was evident with nearly every piece of Anti art mirroring Jack’s brown hair, with the rest of the Egos staying the same.

No harm done, it was just the fandom taking creative license.

Cut to another morning upload, where Jack has just posted a brand new “SepticArt” video, the theme being art related to the tour or that period of time while he was away.

He’s as upbeat as usual, excitedly chattering away about all of his favourite moments while pouring over dozens of brilliant submissions.

A few minutes into the video, Jack pulls up an edit of Anti on stage at one of his past shows. He makes a remark about its complexity, and how well done it is, before noting the caption at the bottom:

“A little Anti takeover from Jack’s show in Texas! Forgive the blurry edges, kinda new to this style. And tbh, I’m still not used to brown-haired Anti. Looks good, but I miss our green Glitch Boy. Wonder if we’ll get to see him again haha.“

Jack laughs, reflexively running a hand through the front of his messy hair that’s not tucked into his beanie.

“Yeah, I got that question a lot while I was on tour. And I’m not sure; I mean, never say never, but I’m pretty happy with my natural hair. It’s less of a pain in the ass to take care of, that’s for sure.”

His hand lingers in his fringe for just a second more before he thanks the artist and carries on.

This time it’s a Marvin picture; the Magician is skillfully shuffling a deck of playing cards, grinning. His neon green bangs hang messily over his signature cat mask.

Jack points out his love of the bold line use, though he pauses at the hair. His eyes narrow ever so slightly, but his smile is still as bright as ever.

Then there’s a sketch of Chase, who’s excitedly comparing a befuddled JJ to the box art of the Monopoly Man while they try to play said board game.

Jack chuckles, hand going to rub his throat absentmindedly.

A watercolour of Anti from the back, his dark hair a stark contrast silhouetted against the bright green background of a not-so-friendly looking Sam whose teeth glint with moisture.

Jack grips his mouse a bit tighter.

Schneeplestein happily writing a postcard on some tropical beach, lab coat and all, dark green roots visible under his hat.

Jack cracks his neck.

As the video carries on, there’s a distinct tension in the YouTuber: his body twitches imperceptibly; his hands clenching into fists before quickly loosening; he can’t stop touching his throat.

A newcomer to Jack’s channel might write this off as excitement, his energy getting the better of him. The more experienced members of his community, however, begin to feel nervous.

Still, Jack is as taken with his community’s artistic endeavours as always. The smile on his face proves that.

It’s wide, teeth bared for all to see.

The video is almost finished, with Jack coming to the last piece. He once again thanks everyone who participated, saying how he would be nothing without them.

The theorists release a breath.

Everything was fine; just their typical overactive imaginations. Nothing to worry about.

With an eager grin, Jack pulls up the final entry.

It’s a stunning digital drawing of a bathroom mirror taken from the YouTuber’s perspective as he stares at his reflection, clutching a porcelain sink.

It smirks back, smile unnaturally wide. He eyes Jack with a blackened gaze, eagerly assessing him for even a hint of weakness. Blood from several crude, deep cuts in his throat drips down into his shirt collar. The knife responsible lays in the sink, crimson coating the blade.

From the angle, you’d swear it was Anti looking back at himself, sickly pleased with his deranged handiwork. The tell is the gauges and Jack’s lack thereof; the man you’re seeing the perspective from is without them.

Jack stares at the drawing, his gaze transfixed. For a split-second, you think to refresh the video, believing it to have lagged. The music Robin added into the background is gone, and the webcam footage seems frozen...

And then he’s throwing his head back, laughing as he grips his sides.

“That’s a helluva drawing! God, do you see the detail?! Anti looks badass!”

He’s positively giddy, scanning every inch of the artwork with rapt enthusiasm. He begins to say something about the shading as he brings the picture out of fullscreen view. Then his laughter cuts off abruptly, smile tightening. He scrolls down to highlight the artist’s note:

“Those 20 hours were all worth it! Here’s my entry for Jack’s #SepticArt event; I call it “Two-Way Mirror”! I’m really happy with how it turned out, though I was a little worried about how I’d draw the differences for Anti’s reflection. With his brown hair, how can you even tell the two of them apart? 😆 Anyway, hope you guys like it!”

His expression becomes flat. He stares with an unwavering intensity that leaves goosebumps on your skin.

“...The same...?”

Jack mutters the phrase so quietly, it’s almost indecipherable.

“You really think... we’re the same?”

A hollow chuckle spews from his lips, and then it grows into a laugh; high-pitched and cold. In a blur, he slams his fist down onto his desk, and even off-screen, you can hear his keyboarding shattering. His lips are pulled back into a hideous snarl, a grotesque mask of fury.

“I’m nothing like him. N̞͔̤̤̺͖ͅOT̼̱̪̬̹͉H̗͝I̶̲̰̘̠̹N͉͚̖̤̳̻G͓͈̩̣͎̝͞.

The man’s eyes widen fearfully, seemingly at the sound of his own voice. His rage gives way to panic as he falls forward in his seat, clutching his head with a pained groan.

Jack’s body shudders, racked by waves of tremors as his knuckles strain white, nails digging into the arms of his chair. The camera feed is breaking apart, glitching between frames of Jack clawing at his forearms, his neck. His breathing is erratic, mumbles falling from his mouth - desperate, rambling pleas.

Then he’s still.

Too still.

Jack lets out a heavy breath, relieved - no, satisfied - before sitting up slowly. His beanie has been knocked off, his usual fluffy hair on full display.

All eyes are immediately on his neck and - oh... it’s untouched. For a moment, the viewers feel a spike of relief, hearts slamming into their throats. But then Jack opens his eyes, and their blood runs cold.

Black. Darker than any art or edit could even attempt to capture.

He sits back, almost lounging in Jack’s gaming chair, as he takes a deep breath in. Cracking his knuckles, he rolls his neck in a series of jerky moves before closing his eyes again. And in one smooth motion, he runs his hand through the front of Jack’s hair.

His fingers pass through the strands, adjusting the colour as it melts in. The brown lightens to blonde, then grows brighter. The green hue radiates with an unnatural sheen.

Stopping at the fringe, he lowers his hand to reveal the change; familiar, yet not. Wrong.

Anti opens his eyes, a wickedly pleased smirk playing across his lips as he leans toward the camera.

“Are͏ ya͝ ̡f́uck͞i̛n̛’ ̛ha͠p͞py͏ now̶?͝”

He giggles with twisted glee, hair falling into his eyes as he tips his head forward. Then he stops, and looks up through his bangs, glaring into the camera with a ferocity that dares anyone watching to defy him.

“Ỳou͡’̴ve͠ ͠had̷ yǫur ͢fun, bu̧t̢ d͡on’t fuc̕ki͞n̸’͟ ͝f̷orģet w̢ḩo ͠I ̷a͘m͢, w̢ḩat ͠I ̷a͘m͢. A̧n̸d thąt͠’s n̛oţ h̢im.͘”

The camera is shoved to the floor. The lens cracks, spider-webbing across the screen before it cuts to black. Echoing laughter grows distant as Anti walks away.

There is no second upload that day.

#therealjacksepticeye #jacksepticeye #jacksepticeye egos #antisepticeye #jse community #jse fandom #jse fanfiction #jse theories #ginger gabs #angst #my first attempt #feel free to review!#my writing

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bby-bxrnes · 6 years

Text

Bad Boy, Good Lips

Ship: Bad Boy!Steve x Reader

Summary: Hanging out with your new neighbor and his friends leads to you proving that you’re not as innocent as you may seem.

Warnings: SMUT!! Swearing, Fluff, Alcohol Consumption, couple sentences of angst

Words: 3430

A/N: Requested by the lovely @myattemptatfanfic ❤️ She’s such a sweetheart! Go read all of her stuff if you haven’t already!!! But guys, look at that gif!! He kills meeeee

Part 2 Here ~> Bad Boys, Even Better Sex

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

The first time you saw him, he was moving in across the street with a couple other guys. Their motorcycles rumbled loudly as they pulled up, a moving van not too far behind. When he first removed his helmet, you were stunned to see the face hidden underneath, pale skin and flawless cheekbones, bright blue eyes and all, he looked nothing like the type to have a motorcycle. Day in and day out you watched him and his friends lounge about in their garage and work on their motorcycles, laughing and listening to loud rock music.

One day, after a particularly stressful day at work, you had stormed over to their house asking them to turn their music down so you could sleep. He nodded to his friend with long brown hair who leaned over to the stereo and twisted the knob, lowering the volume. “Thank you.” you sighed, bringing your hands up to rub at your temples, a dull throbbing headache starting. “I’m Steve by the way, I’m sorry I haven’t introduced myself before now.” he said, smirking and leaning back against his bike. “Y/N.” you answered, crossing your arms and cocking your hip out. “We’ll try to keep it down tonight.” He said after the two of you just stared at each other for a few moments. You nodded tensely and turned on your heel, walking quickly back to your house.

From then on, Steve would show up at your door almost every night, asking if you’d like to join him and his friends for a while, but you always turned him down, worried you wouldn’t fit in well with them. You were just getting ready to make dinner one Friday night when there was the knock that you had been waiting to hear. You walked over quickly and opened it to see Steve smirking and leaning against the wall. “Hey.” you breathed, smiling shyly at him. “You already know what I’m gonna ask darlin’. We’ve got some other friends coming over as well tonight, gonna play some games. Come on, it’ll be fun.” he said, jerking his head back towards their open garage. You thought it over for a few moments, before deciding.

“Okay, sure.” you nodded, making him smile so big, the corners of his eyes crinkled. “Cool, well you can come over whenever you’re ready.” he said, sending you a sly wink that made your cheeks flush. “I’m ready now, if that’s okay with you.” you said, looking up into his bright blue eyes. “That’s totally fine.” he said, stepping back to allow you to exit your house, closing the door behind you. As the pair of you walked back across the street together, you felt Steve’s hand drop to guide you by the small of your back, the small gesture making you shiver.

The music was already going and his roommates were already lounging on couches when you approached. “Guys, you remember Y/N.” Steve said, settling down on the other couch, gently pulling you down with him and resting his arm over the back of the couch behind you. “How ya doin’ doll? I’m Bucky.” the brunette answered in a Brooklyn drawl. “Nice to meet you Bucky.” you answered quietly, resisting the urge to hide in Steve’s side. “Nice to officially meet you Y/N. I’m Sam.” the dark-skinned man sitting next to Bucky introduced himself. You smiled and nodded at him.

The rumble of more motorcycles from outside caught all of your attentions. “That’ll be Thor, Tony, and the girls.” Steve said, looking past you to see four motorcycles pull into the driveway. You sat quietly as the four newcomers dismounted and removed their helmets. You felt a little out of place being the only one not dressed head to toe in leather. The four entered the garage, Sam and Bucky getting up to greet them, but Steve stayed seated next to you.

“Hi, I’m Natasha.” the redhead said, sticking her hand out for you to shake. “I’m Y/N.” you introduced, smiling a little up at her. “Wanda.” the brunette said, smiling sweetly before joining Natasha on two of the stools set up across from you. “Hey, I’m Tony.” the short brunette said, giving you a little salute before settling on the arm of Sam and Bucky’s couch. “It’s nice to meet you, Y/N. I’m Thor.” he said, holding his hand out. You put your hand into his, expecting to shake it, but instead he bowed slightly and brushed his lips lightly over your knuckles. You blushed, then felt Steve tense beside you.

When Thor smiled at you and walked over to join the girls, you felt Steve’s hand that was over the back of the couch brush your shoulder and gently nudge you towards him. You looked up to see him glaring daggers at Thor who was talking to Natasha and Wanda. You scooted closer to him and laid your head on his shoulder, his arm moving to wrap around your shoulders now. You observed the group of friends talk animatedly and listened to Steve’s steady heartbeat for the better part of the night.

“Alright, time for a game.” Natasha declared, passing a shot glass out to everyone. “It’s like never have I ever, only you say something you have done, and you drink when you haven’t done something that’s said.” she explains, filling up everyone’s glasses with tequila. “Alright I’ll go first. I have had more than 3 boyfriends.” Wanda said, Sam, Thor, Tony, and you take a shot. Steve and Bucky looked at each other and snorted in laughter when neither of them took a shot. “I have ridden a motorcycle.” Sam said after Natasha refilled everyone’s glasses, looking directly at you, making you blush and drain your recently filled cup. “I’m gonna do an interesting one. I have given a blowjob.” Bucky said, laughing at Sam’s horrified face. Thor, Sam, Tony, and you each took a shot and you could feel Steve’s smirk from where he sat beside you.

“You’ve never given a blowjob sugar?” he leaned over and whispered in your ear, causing you to blush even harder than you already were. You shook your head and looked down at the floor, missing the pleased look on his face. “If we’re going there, I’m game. I have had sex.” Tony said, waggling his eyebrows at you as if he already knew the answer. You tossed the shot back, the harsh liquor burning your throat as it went down. “Geez you’re innocent.” Steve chuckled, running his fingers through your hair. You huffed in annoyance and slouched back onto the couch as you waited for Steve to take his turn.

“I have kissed a girl.” he said, smirking over at you, but his eyebrows raising in surprise when you made no move to down your drink. “What?” you questioned when everyone just stared at you in shock. “Just didn’t expect that. Are you..?” Sam trailed off, not knowing how to phrase the question. “A lesbian? No, I’m bi.” you said, the alcohol starting to do it’s job of bringing you out of your shell. “Alright. Well, your turn.” Steve said, clearing his throat. “I have given a handjob.” you said, a light flush tinting your cheeks. Once again, Tony, Thor, and Sam down their shots, but you could feel Steve’s eyes burning into you.

The game continued, you taking way more shots than anyone else and ending up completely shitfaced. Steve just chuckled when you perched your chin on his shoulder and stared at him intently. “You’re really pretty.” you slurred, his lips tilting into a smirk as he glanced at you. “And you, are extremely drunk. I think it’s time for you to say goodnight.” he said, standing up and pulling you up with him, securing an arm around your waist when your legs wobbled precariously under you. “Party pooper.” you muttered, waving drunkenly at the others before Steve started practically dragging you back towards your house.

“How often do you drink, Y/N?” Steve questioned when you hiccuped drunkenly and stumbled a little. “Not often. I tend to lose my filter when I’m drunk.” you said, leaning heavily on Steve. “I can see that. C’mon let’s get you into bed.” he said, opening your front door and walking you inside. “Upstairs, first door on the right.” you gave the directions to Steve who supported all of your weight. He laughed lightly when you tried to put your foot on the first step but missed, your intoxication making your depth perception go flying out the window.

“C’mere sweetheart.” he chuckled, scooping you up into his strong arms and walking up the stairs as if he were only carrying a feather. He set you down on your bed and walked to your dresser where he pulled out a pair of shorts and a tank top and tossed them to you. You motioned for him to turn around so you could change, making him laugh and roll his eyes, but comply. He snorted lightly as he heard small thumps and grunts as you drunkenly tried to dress yourself. “I’m done.” you mumbled, Steve turning back around to look at you. You slid yourself into bed, Steve smiling when he saw you were all settled in and turned to leave, but you stopped him.

“Hey, where are you goin’?” you asked, reaching your hands out towards him. “Back home. Unless you want me to stay.” he said, leaning against the wall and giving you his signature smirk. “Get your ass over here.” you grunted, rolling to face the empty spot on your bed where Steve would soon be laying. You listened to the quiet rustling of fabric as Steve stripped down to his briefs before walking around to the other side of your bed and slipping in under the blanket as well. He laid on his back and you scooted over to lay your head on his bare chest, the rhythmic sound of his heartbeat soothing you once again. His arm wrapped around you to rest on your hip as the both of you drifted off to sleep. “G’night Stevie.” you mumbled sleepily before you succumbed to the welcoming embrace of sleep. “Goodnight Y/N.” he whispered, pressing a kiss to the top of your head before drifting off to sleep as well.

You woke up with a splitting headache, groaning and attempting to stretch, but stopping when your back hit something warm and solid in your bed. You froze, slowly turning your head to see a peaceful looking Steve, tattooed chest rising and falling softly. You distantly felt his hand squeeze your hip gently before his eyes cracked open slightly, the light catching his light blue eyes. “It’s rude to stare you know.” his morning voice was deep and raspy and it sent shivers down your spine. “Did we? Why are you..?” you couldn’t find the words you wanted to ask. “No we didn’t, I stayed because you were shitfaced and asked me to.” he said, rubbing his face sleepily. “Oh, did I say or do anything stupid?” you asked, now sitting up and facing him. “No, except I did find out that you are extremely innocent during our version of Never Have I Ever.” he smirked, your cheeks flushing bright red.

“Really?” you squeaked, cursing your drunk self for the secrets you revealed to him and his friends. “You really have never given a blowjob?” he asked, head tilting to the side as he looked up at you. Your cheeks flushed an even darker shade of red as you shook your head. He chuckled deeply and a sudden burst of confidence washed over you. “Can I try? On you?” you asked, drawing your bottom lip between your teeth. That wiped the smirk right off of his face and a low groan escaped his now open mouth. “Wow, darlin’, I definitely never expected you to ask that.” he commented, the smirk returning to his face. “Well, can I?” you asked again, eyes sweeping over his toned chest. His response was to kick the sheets down to the end of the bed and fold his arms behind his head so he was laid on his back, naked save for his tight black briefs.

You moved to kneel between his legs, eyes landing on the prominent outline of his dick in his underwear. Your hands shook a little as you reached your hands to grasp the waistband of his briefs. “Just do what you’re comfortable with doll.” he assured you. You smiled shyly up at him, tugging gently to prompt him to lift his hips up so you could remove the last piece of clothing from his sculpted body. Once you had them off, you ran your hands over his muscular thighs, tracing some of the tattoos there and feeling them flex and tense under your hands.

You grasped his thick length in your hand and pumped it slowly, watching Steve’s reaction. His eyes slipped closed, hips raising to meet your hand, a small grunt falling from his lips. You gathered your courage and leaned down, giving the tip of his cock a small lick, testing the waters. “C’mon babygirl.” he groaned, hands moving to rest at his sides now. You wrapped your lips around his tip and suckled gently, a strangled moan escaping him. His noises spurred you on, encouraging you to try to take more of him into your mouth. You continued to slid your lips down his cock, surprising both Steve and yourself as the tip slipped easily into your throat, discovering your lack of a gag reflex.

You swallowed around him, a groan filling the room as his hands now tangled in your hair. “Fuck, baby, you look so pretty with your mouth around my cock.” he grunted, hips jerking up slightly. You moaned around him at his words, making him shudder and throw his head back. You pulled back up and took a gasping breath, your eyes watering from the lack of oxygen. You went back to work, taking him back into your mouth and bobbing your head, pumping the rest of him with your hand. “Jesus sugar, you sure you’ve never done this before?” he moaned, your eyes flicking up to meet his.

You hummed, making Steve’s hips jerk up uncontrollably. You continued to bob up and down on Steve’s length, sucking harder and gently dragging your nails down his thigh. “Fuck, darling, I’m gonna cum!” he groaned, fingers tightening in your hair. You sped up your ministrations, feeling his cock twitch in your mouth. You ran your tongue along the vein on the underside, heat throbbing in your core at the broken moan Steve let out. “I’m cumming, oh my god!” he moaned loudly. You pulled back, lips wrapped around the crease where the tip of his cock met the shaft, suckling gently and pumping him with your hands. His hips bucked wildly as thick ropes of cum painted your tongue, the bitter taste not good, nor bad. You licked the slit, picking up the last of his cum and making him shiver, nerves oversensitive.

“My turn.” he growled after taking a moment to catch his breath. You looked at him in confusion, then yelped as he sat up and yanked you back up to him, flipping the two of you over so you were beneath him. He dipped his head and pressed his lips to yours, causing you to let out a surprised gasp. He took your reaction as a chance to gently slide his tongue into your mouth. You kissed back with fervor, your tongues dancing together. “Is this okay?” Steve asked between heated kisses, hands wandering up and down your sides.

He slid his hands just under the hem of your shirt, calloused fingertips brushing against your soft stomach. “More than.” you replied, sitting up a little so Steve could slide your tank top off your body and toss it across the room. He reattached his lips to yours as he reached behind you and unclasped your bra with practiced ease. You laid back as he pressed kisses to your jaw, then your neck, then trailing open- mouthed kisses down your chest, between the valley of your breasts. He took a moment to suck a nipple into his warm, wet mouth, teasing the bud with his teeth gently.

Your back arched at the new sensation, making Steve chuckle darkly at your reaction. “You ever had a man take care of you? Hm? Ever had a man worship your body?” His voice was low, eyes dark as he watched you, your breasts heaving with each breath you took. “No.” you breathed, practically shaking with arousal. Steve smirked at you, fingers hooking in the waistband of your shorts, tugging gently, prompting you to lift your hips. He slid both your shorts and your underwear down your legs at once, your breath was coming in pants now, you were too excited to be able to breathe normally. “Just relax, sugar. I’ll take care of you.” He chuckled, running his palms over your thighs before gently pushing your legs apart.

You tried to slow your breathing, focusing on Steve as he settled himself between your thighs. Your breath hitched when he ran a finger over your soaked folds, a low groan escaping him. “Fuck doll, all this for me?” he asked, eyes locked on your throbbing core. You could only whimper in affirmation, gasping when his finger was replaced by his hot tongue, licking a broad path up from your entrance to your clit, giving it a little flick with his tongue. “God you taste like the sweetest candy.” he groaned, continuing to lap at your folds, just tasting you.

You were writhing on the bed now, hands grasping at the sheets and hips rolling against Steve’s face. He growls and presses his strong forearm across your lower stomach, keeping you still. He moves his tongue up to repeatedly flick against your clit, sending jolts of pleasure through your body and making your entire body jerk with every contact he made. You gasped again when a finger from his other hand ran through your folds, gathering your wetness before slowly pushing into you. He just rest it there for a moment as he continued to lavish attention on the hardened bud. “Oh god, please.” you cried out, hands abandoning their grip on the sheets to grab onto Steve’s short hair, trying to push him further into you.

He looked up at you mischievously, then curled his finger that was inside of you, pressing deliciously against your inner wall. He began to pump the finger in and out, pulling away slightly for a moment to watch you. Your eyes were closed, your head thrown back in ecstasy, hair fanned out on the pillow underneath your head, lips swollen and red from being bitten. “Oh, Steve, M gonna cum.” you whimpered, hands tugging at his hair. Steve took the hint and brought his head back to your cunt, wrapping his lips around your clit and sucking gently, tongue flicking against it as well. That sent you over the edge, chanting a variety of Steve’s name and swear words.

When you finally came down, Steve was still laid between your legs, elbows resting on either side of your hips and his wet chin resting on your stomach. “Wow.” you breathed, smiling at the lopsided grin that took over Steve’s face. “I think I need a nap.” you said, a yawn escaping your mouth. “Agreed. Round two when we wake up? Maybe I can take some more of those firsts off the list.” He smirked, crawling up to join you at the top of the bed. A pang hit you in the chest as you realized that that was all he wanted out of you, a good fuck. Your face fell for a moment and Steve caught it, a frown forming on his face.

“Hey, what’s wrong doll?” he asked, voice soft and comforting. “Nothing, I’m fine.” you whispered, putting on your best fake smile. “This isn’t just sex to me, if that’s what you’re worried about.” he said, seemingly reading your mind. You let out a shaky breath, a small smile forming on your face. “Sleep for now, sweetheart. We’ll talk about it when you wake up.” he said, pulling you into his chest and pressing a kiss to the top of your head. And as he watched you drift off to sleep, Steve realized that you weren’t so much of a good girl after all.

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#steve rogers #captain america #steve rodgers x reader #steve rodgers imagine #steve rogers x reader smut #marvel #modern au #non avengers #sassy boy #bad boy steve #send help #i have sinned

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justforbooks · 6 years

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Tom Wolfe, Innovative Nonfiction Writer and Novelist, Dies at 88

Tom Wolfe, an innovative journalist and novelist whose technicolor, wildly punctuated prose brought to life the worlds of California surfers, car customizers, astronauts and Manhattans moneyed status-seekers in works like “The Kandy-Kolored Tangerine-Flake Streamline Baby,” “The Right Stuff” and “Bonfire of the Vanities,” died on Monday in a Manhattan hospital. He was 88.

He had lived in New York since joining The New York Herald Tribune as a reporter in 1962.

In his use of novelistic techniques in his nonfiction, Mr. Wolfe, beginning in the 1960s, helped create the enormously influential hybrid known as the New Journalism.

But as an unabashed contrarian, he was almost as well known for his attire as his satire. He was instantly recognizable as he strolled down Madison Avenue — a tall, slender, blue-eyed, still boyish-looking man in his spotless three-piece vanilla bespoke suit, pinstriped silk shirt with a starched white high collar, bright handkerchief peeking from his breast pocket, watch on a fob, faux spats and white shoes. Once asked to describe his get-up, Mr. Wolfe replied brightly, “Neo-pretentious.”

It was a typically wry response from a writer who found delight in lacerating the pretentiousness of others. He had a pitiless eye and a penchant for spotting trends and then giving them names, some of which — like “Radical Chic” and “the Me Decade” — became American idioms.

His talent as a writer and caricaturist was evident from the start in his verbal pyrotechnics and perfect mimicry of speech patterns, his meticulous reporting, and his creative use of pop language and explosive punctuation.

“As a titlist of flamboyance he is without peer in the Western world,” Joseph Epstein wrote in the The New Republic. “His prose style is normally shotgun baroque, sometimes edging over into machine-gun rococo, as in his article on Las Vegas which begins by repeating the word ‘hernia’ 57 times.”

William F. Buckley Jr., writing in National Review, put it more simply: “He is probably the most skillful writer in America — I mean by that he can do more things with words than anyone else.”

From 1965 to 1981 Mr. Wolfe produced nine nonfiction books. “The Electric Kool-Aid Acid Test,” an account of his reportorial travels in California with Ken Kesey and his Merry Pranksters as they spread the gospel of LSD, remains a classic chronicle of the counterculture, “still the best account — fictional or non, in print or on film — of the genesis of the ’60s hipster subculture,” the media critic Jack Shafer wrote in the Columbia Journalism Review on the book’s 40th anniversary.

Even more impressive, to many critics, was “The Right Stuff,” his exhaustively reported narrative about the first American astronauts and the Mercury space program. The book, adapted into a film in 1983 with a cast that included Sam Shepard, Dennis Quaid and Ed Harris, made the test pilot Chuck Yeager a cultural hero and added yet another phrase to the English language.

At the same time, Mr. Wolfe continued to turn out a stream of essays and magazine pieces for New York, Harper’s and Esquire. His theory of literature, which he preached in print and in person and to anyone who would listen was that journalism and nonfiction had “wiped out the novel as American literature’s main event.”

After “The Right Stuff,” published in 1979, he confronted what he called “the question that rebuked every writer who had made a point of experimenting with nonfiction over the preceding 10 or 15 years: Are you merely ducking the big challenge — The Novel?”

‘The Bonfire of the Vanities’

The answer came with “The Bonfire of the Vanities.” Published initially as a serial in Rolling Stone magazine and in book form in 1987 after extensive revisions, it offered a sweeping, bitingly satirical picture of money, power, greed and vanity in New York during the shameless excesses of the 1980s.

The action jumps back and forth from Park Avenue to Wall Street to the terrifying holding pens in Bronx Criminal Court, after the Yale-educated bond trader Sherman McCoy (a self-proclaimed “Master of the Universe”) becomes lost in the Bronx at night in his Mercedes with his foxy young mistress. After running over a black man and nearly igniting a race riot, he enters the nightmare world of the criminal justice system.

Although a runaway best seller, “Bonfire” divided critics into two camps: those who praised its author as a worthy heir of his fictional idols Balzac, Zola, Dickens and Dreiser, and those who dismissed the book as clever journalism, a charge that would dog him throughout his fictional career.

Mr. Wolfe responded with a manifesto in Harper’s, “Stalking the Billion-Footed Beast,” in which he lambasted American fiction for failing to perform the time-honored sociological duty of reporting on the facts of contemporary life, in all their complexity and variety.

His second novel, “A Man in Full” (1998), also a whopping commercial success, was another sprawling social panorama. Set in Atlanta, it charted the rise and fall of Charlie Croker, a 60-year-old former Georgia Tech football star turned millionaire real estate developer.

Mr. Wolfe’s fictional ambitions and commercial success earned him enemies — big ones.

“Extraordinarily good writing forces one to contemplate the uncomfortable possibility that Tom Wolfe might yet be seen as our best writer,” Norman Mailer wrote in The New York Review of Books. “How grateful one can feel then for his failures and his final inability to be great — his absence of truly large compass. There may even be an endemic inability to look into the depth of his characters with more than a consummate journalist’s eye.”

“Tom may be the hardest-working show-off the literary world has ever owned,” Mr. Mailer continued. “But now he will no longer belong to us. (If indeed he ever did!) He lives in the King Kong Kingdom of the Mega-bestsellers — he is already a Media Immortal. He has married his large talent to real money and very few can do that or allow themselves to do that.”

Mr. Mailer’s sentiments were echoed by John Updike and John Irving.

Two years later, Mr. Wolfe took revenge. In an essay titled “My Three Stooges,” included in his 2001 collection, “Hooking Up,” he wrote that his eminent critics had clearly been “shaken” by “A Man in Full” because it was an “intensely realistic novel, based upon reporting, that plunges wholeheartedly into the social reality of America today, right now,” and it signaled the new direction in late-20th- and early-21st-century literature and would soon make many prestigious artists, “such as our three old novelists, appear effete and irrelevant.”

And, added Mr. Wolfe, “It must gall them a bit that everyone — even them — is talking about me, and nobody is talking about them.”

Cocky words from a man best known for his gentle manner and unfailing courtesy in person. For many years he lived a relatively private life in his 12-room apartment on the Upper East Side with his wife, Sheila Wolfe, a graphic designer and former art director of Harper’s magazine, whom he married when he was 48 years old, and their two children, Alexandra and Thomas. All survive him.

Every morning he dressed in one of his signature outfits — a silk jacket, say, and double-breasted white vest, shirt, tie, pleated pants, red-and-white-socks and white shoes — and sat down at his typewriter. Every day he set himself a quota of 10 pages, triple-spaced. If he finished in three hours, he was done for the day. “If it takes me 12 hours, that’s too bad, I’ve got to do it,” he told George Plimpton in a 1991 Paris Review interview.

For many summers the Wolfes rented a house in Southampton, N.Y., where Mr. Wolfe continued to observe his daily writing routine as well as the fitness regimen from which he rarely faltered. In 1996 he suffered a heart attack at his gym and underwent quintuple bypass surgery. A period of severe depression followed, which Charlie Croker relived, in fictional form, in “A Man in Full.”

As for his remarkable attire, he called it “a harmless form of aggression.”

“I found early in the game that for me there’s no use trying to blend in,” he told The Paris Review. “I might as well be the village information-gatherer, the man from Mars who simply wants to know. Fortunately the world is full of people with information-compulsion who want to tell you their stories. They want to tell you things that you don’t know.”

The eccentricities of his adult life were a far cry from the normalcy of his childhood, which by all accounts was a happy one.

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at http://justforbooks.tumblr.com

#JUST FOR BOOKS

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rockinlibrarian · 6 years

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Three Survey Memes

@e_louise_bates tagged me once directly and twice indirectly (I mean, since I'm already typing something here I might as well do the others too), so here. Please feel free to comment! I like discussions!

Survey One (what I was actually tagged for): Name my top ten favorite characters from ten different fandoms.

I feel like the way this is phrased, I should pick ten fandoms first and then narrow them down to the characters, so that's what I did. It's an easier way to find my favorite characters, anyway.

1. From Harry Potter: Luna Lovegood, obviously

2. From Tolkien: Samwise Gamgee, obviously

3. From the MCU: Peggy Carter, most obviously of all

4. From Star Wars: This is a product of me picking fandoms first, and then discovering I don't have an OBVIOUSLY answer this time. But when you get right down to it, I've always had a special place in my heart for Obi Wan.

5. From Diana Wynne Jones: Sophie Hatter. Stealing one from Louise there, but again, obviously.

6. From L.M. Montgomery: Stealing the fandom from Louise that time, but I on the other hand have to stick with Anne Shirley, because she may top my fave character list, period.

7. From Jane Austen: Rev. Henry Tilney, NOT stealing from Louise because again, OBVIOUSLY, as she well knows, too. :D

8. From Discworld: DEATH. This was hard, because as soon as I started thinking of Discworld, so many MUST INCLUDES came up. Tiffany! DEATH's granddaughter, whose name I totally had a minute ago when I first thought of it but now has suddenly slipped my mind as I'm typing it (my brain now keeps trying to tell me it's "Karen" but that feels utterly wrong Her last name's Sto-Helit. I think. EDIT: SUSAN! Of course. The second I hit "post")! Sam Vimes, one of the other great Sams of fiction! But who's there and perfect and wonderful through all of it? DEATH. So I'm sticking with that.

9. Uh, other Marvel properties that aren't the MCU: I just have to shout out again to the Loudermilk twins from Legion. They count as one person because they sort of are, and because their chemistry together just MAKES them, even though they both individually are pretty fun, too (Cary's dorkiness and Kerry's innocent enthusiasm for beating people up). There was like a block of three or four episodes this season without them and it nearly ruined the whole season for me.

10. No particular fandom I'm aware of but no list of favorite characters is complete without: Blossom Culp. From the books by Richard Peck.

SURVEY TWO, a writing one:

1. When did you start writing and how? In first grade I had this dream about a disgruntled Santa's elf taking our church hostage on Christmas Eve. It was a great dream, so I decided to turn it into a book. Recently I decided to revisit it-- the basic plot, at least-- as a picture book. And for some stupid reason I decided it needed to be in verse. It might work some day.

Early on all my story ideas came from dreams, actually. Still today, my subconscious does most of my story-creating. Last night I had one about this huge family that lived in a mansion with a public pool in it and had all sorts of hijinks. They were great. They lived on Chalk Street and the oldest girl's boyfriend was named Granger the Ranger. Anyhoo.

2. What is your favorite line from your own work? It's got to be "Concentration leads to Meditation leads to Levitation leads to Aviation," because that's just a way of life.

I'm also partial to anything at all that Billy Boyd says in the Pipeweed Mafia Stories.

3. Who is your writing idol, and how have they influenced you? Hmm, I wouldn't call Madeleine L'Engle my writing idol, but she has influenced me the most, with her way of seeing the cosmic in the very small and the individual in the cosmic. And I named my daughter after her. But my Patron Saint of Writing whom I occasionally call on for intervention is Diana Wynne Jones. I don't know why. She just seems to be who I need to get my writing juices flowing.

4. Which oc has the best family (found or otherwise)? Of my characters? Hmm, I've never really focused much on family in my works. Even found family. I guess Billy 'Arrison's uncle IS George Harrison, so probably that.

5. Which oc has the most satisfying ending to their story? Ah, I'm terrible at endings. None of my characters has an ending to their story, not just because most of my works have never been finished, but because I keep thinking of things that happen to them later. NO ENDINGS.

6. If you’ve gotten feedback on your writing, who is your readers’ favorite character? If not who do you think readers will fall in love with? Well, no questions there. Billy 'Arrison. I mean look how often he's come up already in this survey. If you ask anybody whose ever read my work to name ANY of my original characters, they will go with Billy. Heck, people who HAVEN'T actually read his story would pick Billy.

7. Which tropes (eg. Friends to lovers, fake death, white haired pretty boy) do you always find yourself wanting to write? All my stories tend to have the theme of disparate people becoming friends through having an adventure together. I recently wondered if that's because I've always thought friendship would be easier if you could cut out all the small talk, and having an adventure leaves no time for small talk.

8. What goes through your head when writing a scene? The... scene? Also, random entirely unrelated stuff. Because I have ADHD. My brain is impossible to follow anywhere.

9. How specific is your idea of your characters’ appearance usually? Do you draw them? (If so can we see it?) Facial features are usually fairly foggy to me. I get general shape and color, so, like, what their hair looks like, their size, their race. I get their sense of style, too-- often I give them a signature item of clothing whether in my mind or in the text. I've drawn a few of my characters, yes, but I'm not particularly good at drawing consistently.

10. What are you proudest of as a writer? That I can occasionally look back at things I have written and be delighted by them as a reader. Unfortunately most of these things I have written continue to not be finished.

SURVEY THREE, also about writing:

1. How many works in progress do you currently have? That depends on your definition of "in progress." If you mean ACTUALLY IN PROGRESS, zero. Zip. Unless you count a couple of GeekMom articles I have in the planning stage. Or unless you count not-writing. I have a living room renovation in progress at the moment.

How many works do I have in an incomplete status that I plan to get back to eventually? Hmmm. At least five.

2. Do you/would you write fanfiction? I'm not INTO fanfiction but I do/have written a few pieces when they occur to me. There's of course the Pipeweed Mafia, which is a mix of Inklings fanfic and real people fanfic. You could count me writing George Harrison into Billy's background real people fic. One of my works in possible occasional progress is a Firefly fic about how Zoe fell in love with Wash. Oh, I should have put Firefly on my list of fandoms above, just so I could name Kaylee. KAYLEE, people. But I haven't written fic about her. Anyway. I also once wrote a very short prompt response X-Files fic that always delights me. It's silly, and yet in character.

3) Do you prefer paper books or ebooks? Paper.

4) When did you start writing? First grade.

5) Do you have someone you trust that you share your work with? A few people. It depends on the type of work, who would be the best fit for it. Louise is in fact one.

6) Where is your favorite place to write? Someplace where I don't have real life demands calling on me. Oddly enough, I think I got some of my best writing done while working at the Children's Museum, during downtime. On slow days I'd write a scene on the back of my schedule. A page a day really adds up! Of course, on busy days that was unthinkable!

7) Favorite childhood book? Have I mentioned A Wrinkle In Time?

8) Writing for fun or publication? Depends on where I am in life. Now, it is for fun, unless it is an article.

9) Pen and paper or computer? First drafts pen and paper. Then putting it together on the computer.

10) Have you ever taken any writing classes? Yeah, I had some writing courses in college, and I also took correspondence courses twice.

11) What inspires you to write? Ideas. As I mentioned, I get a lot of ideas from dreams. But there's also, like, a swelling of words in my brain that needs to come out through my hands every so often. I called it "writeritis" as a kid, and I guess I still do.

TAGGING: Whoever. You know who you are, if any of this resonates with you!

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loislanesmiles · 7 years

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Jon: King predictions

I: The king laughs and the court laughs with him.

So Jon is laughing, during one of his first real trials as a leader, hedged in language that is applied to three different kings of Westeros. Not only that, the rhythm of the phrase “when the king laughs, the court laughs with him” is echoed almost word for word for Jon specifically.

He [Joffrey] laughed … and when the king laughs, the court laughs with him. Sansa ASOS

He [Jon] laughed, and Pyp and Owen and half a dozen more laughed with him. Jon ASOS

He [Barristan] had spent the best part of his own life obeying the commands of drunkards (King Robert] and madmen [King Aerys]. Barristan ADWD

Jon laughed, laughed like a drunk or a madman, and his men laughed with him. Jon ASOS

II. Bloodraven and “King.”

The raven, which is surely skinchanged by Bloodraven, Bran’s mentor and a man who can see the past/present/future, says king over and over. By Mormont’s actions, GRRM makes a literary connection between the raven’s statement and Jon.

"King," croaked the raven. The bird flapped across the solar to land on Mormont's shoulder. "King," it said again, strutting back and forth.

"He likes that word," Jon said, smiling.

"An easy word to say. An easy word to like."

"King," the bird said again.

"I think he means for you to have a crown, my lord."

"The realm has three kings already, and that's two too many for my liking." Mormont stroked the raven under the beak with a finger, but all the while his eyes never left Jon Snow. Jon AGOT

Jon is LC in the fifth book and the raven meaning Bloodraven is at it again, calling Jon a king. A man who can see the history of Westeros is calling Jon a king again.

He rose and dressed in darkness, as Mormont's raven muttered across the room. "Corn," the bird said, and, "King," and, "Snow, Jon Snow, Jon Snow." That was queer. The bird had never said his full name before, as best Jon could recall. Jon ADWD

III: Gilly and taking a knee for kings

"They say the king gives justice and protects the weak." She [Gilly] started to climb off the rock, awkwardly, but the ice had made it slippery and her foot went out from under her. Jon caught her before she could fall, and helped her safely down. The woman knelt on the icy ground. "M'lord, I beg you—" Jon ACOK

When Gilly entered, she went at once to her knees. Jon came around the table and drew her to her feet. "You don't need to take a knee for me. That's just for kings." Jon ADWD

IV.“Kill the boy” to Aegon the Unlikely and to Jon Snow

“Kill the boy and let the man be born” was the exact same advice that Maester Aemon gave to another Aegon (Aegon the Unlikely) before he became king. Aegon the Unlikely was a compromise candidate chosen by a Great Council rather than by succession. Decades later, Jon gets the same advice this future unlikely king got:

"Allow me to give my lord one last piece of counsel," the old man had said, "the same counsel that I once gave my brother when we parted for the last time. He was three-and-thirty when the Great Council chose him to mount the Iron Throne...Egg had an innocence to him, a sweetness we all loved. Kill the boy within you, I told him the day I took ship for the Wall. It takes a man to rule. An Aegon, not an Egg. Kill the boy and let the man be born." The old man felt Jon’s face. "You are half the age that Egg was, and your own burden is a crueler one, I fear.You will have little joy of your command, but I think you have the strength in you to do the things that must be done. Kill the boy, Jon Snow. Winter is almost upon us. Kill the boy and let the man be born. Jon ADWD.

When Sam eulogizes Maester Aemon in AFFC, he states “he counseled kings as well.”

V. King Daerons and Jon Snow.

Jon is connected in text to the nation building and ruling of two King Daeron. As a boy, he admired Daeron the Young Dragon, a conqueror who tried and failed to conquer Dorne. But as LC, Jon’s nation building mirrors Daeron the Good, who integrated Dorne into Westeros by marriage. I made a separate post detailing Jon’s textual connection to the King Daerons.

Jon sends Sam to the Citadel and Maester Aemon yet again connects Jon to a Targaryen king, this time Daeron the Good:

“My own father raised the same objections when I chose a life of service,” the old man said. “It was his father who sent me to the Citadel. King Daeron had sired four sons, and three had sons of their own. Too many dragons are as dangerous as too few, I heard His Grace tell my lord father, the day they sent me off.” Aemon raised a spotted hand to the chain of many metals that dangled loose about his thin neck.

“The chain is heavy, Sam, but my grandsire [Daeron the Good] had the right of it. So does your Lord Snow.” Samwell AFFC

VI. Aegon the Unlikely and Jon Snow (again)

Egg, Maester Aemon’s brother who is the future King Aegon the Unlikely, is mistaken for a stableboy in the ASOIAF prequel novella. Jon thinks he might be mistaken for a stableboy.

“No one sees her ladyship unless the Longinch gives his leave. You come with me. Your stableboy can stay with the horses.”

"I’m a squire, not a stableboy,” Egg insisted. “Are you blind, or only stupid?” The Sworn Sword.

It would never do to come before this queen without a retinue of his own, if half of what they said of her was true. She might mistake him for a stableboy and hand him the reins of her horse. Jon ADWD.

VII. Kings hiding under the Snow.

The way GRRM phrases this sentence:

"Kings are a rare sight in the north." Robert snorted "More likely they were hiding under the snow. Snow, Ned”! Ned AGOT.

VIII. The Black Bastard & the real king of the castle.

When Arya is in the Red Keep, the seat of the kings of Westeros, she encounters Jon’s dead half sister’s cat, Balerion. The cat is called “The Black Bastard” and “the real king of the castle.” Jon is called the black bastard more than once.

“That’s the real king of this castle right there, older than sin and twice as mean... One time the king was feasting the queen’s father [Tywin], and that black bastard hopped up on the table and snatched a roast quail right out of Lord Tywin’s fingers. Robert laughed so hard he was like to burst. You stay away from that one, child.” Arya AGOT

“The black bastard [Jon] what gutted Orell," said Rattleshirt, "and a bloody warg as well.” Jon ASOS

But they were all dead now, even Arya, everyone but her half-brother, Jon. Some nights she heard talk of him, in the taverns and brothels of the Ragman’s Harbor. The Black Bastard of the Wall, one man had called him. Arya ADWD

IX. Viserys, Jon, and kings’ seats.

“Khal Drogo says your place is not on the high bench,” Ser Jorah translated for her brother. “Khal Drogo says your place is there.”

Viserys glanced where the khal was pointing. At the back of the long hall, in a corner by the wall, deep in shadow so better men would not need to look on them, sat the lowest of the low; raw unblooded boys, old men with clouded eyes and stiff joints, the dim-witted and the maimed. Far from the meat, and farther from honor. “That is no place for a king,” her brother declared

Jon was sitting at the end of the hall which was according to Viserys, “no place for a king.”

A singer was playing the high harp and reciting a ballad, but down at this end of the hall his voice could scarcely be heard above the roar of the fire, the clangor of pewter plates and cups, and the low mutter of a hundred drunken conversations. Jon AGOT

...

“Don’t you usually eat at table with your brothers?”

“Most times,” Jon answered in a flat voice. “But tonight Lady Stark thought it might give insult to the royal family to seat a bastard among them.”

“I see.” His uncle glanced over his shoulder at the raised table at the far end of the hall. Benjen and Jon. Jon AGOT

X. Kingsguard

"Dany glimpsed Ser Barristan sliding closer, a white shadow at her side." Daenerys ADWD.

The Kingsguard wear signature all-white cloaks, and gold armor with extensive white enameling. For this reason they are sometimes colloquially called the “White Cloaks”, or the “White Swords” (wiki)

A kingsguard is Dany’s “white shadow” there to protect her while Ghost, an albino direwolf, is Jon’s “white shadow” there to protect him.

"Ghost padded after him, a white shadow at his side." Jon ADWD.

Ghost ran with them, a white shadow at Jon’s side. Jon ADWD.

XI. A second life worthy of a king.

Jon is almost certain to warg into Ghost upon his death in the books and begin a second life “worthy of a king.”

He had known what Snow was the moment he saw that great white direwolf stalking silent at his side. One skinchanger can always sense another. Mance should have let me take the direwolf. There [Ghost] would be a second life worthy of a king. He could have done it, he did not doubt. The gift was strong in Snow, but the youth was untaught, still fighting his nature when he should have gloried in it. ADWD Prologue

XII. Gods, kings, and justice.

Brienne: "I was also taught that the gods make kings, not swords of men. If Stannis is our rightful King-..."

Catelyn: He's not. Robert was never the rightful king either, even Renly said as much. Jaime Lannister murdered the rightful king [Aerys], after Robert killed his lawful heir [Rhaegar] on the Trident. Brienne and Cat. Catelyn ACOK

The gods make kings and queens for justice:

“Why do the gods make kings and queens, if not to protect the ones who can’t protect themselves?”

“Some kings make themselves. Robert did.”

“He was no true king,” Dany said scornfully. “He did no justice. Justice … that’s what kings are for.” Daenerys ASOS.

The first time chapter GRRM ever wrote and the first time we meet Jon:

He put a hand on Bran’s shoulder, and Bran looked over at his bastard brother. “You did well,” Jon told him solemnly. Jon was fourteen, an old hand at justice. Bran AGOT.

A king should protect his people as Davos says and this is the mantra that Jon becomes the embodiment of. “I am the shield that guards the realms of men.”

"There's much I don't understand," Davos admitted...And I know that a king protects his people, or he is no king at all." Davos ASOS

The shield that guards the realms of men. Ghost nuzzled up against his shoulder, and Jon draped an arm around him. He could smell Horse's unwashed breeches, the sweet scent Satin combed into his beard, the rank sharp smell of fear, the giant's overpowering musk. He could hear the beating of his own heart. When he looked across the grove at the woman with her child, the two greybeards, the Hornfoot man with his maimed feet, all he saw was men. Jon ADWD.

XIII. Matters for a king: marriages and inheritances.

In his position as Lord Commander, Jon exceeds his mandate. He acts as a king. By Jon’s own words:

"Marriages and inheritances [lands and property] are matters for a king, my lady." Jon to Alys Karstark. Jon ADWD

Cersei says Jon has given Stannis lands and property:

“The father [Ned] would have handed the realm to Stannis. The son [Jon] has given him lands and castles.” - Cersei to the Small Council.

Jon later brokers Alys Karstark’s marriage to the Magnar of the Thenns and secures the loyalty of the Thenns. And, Jon gives Alys away at her wedding.

“Will my lord be feasting with us?” Mully asked Jon Snow.

“Shortly.” Sigorn might take it as a slight if he did not appear. And this marriage is mine own work, after all. Jon to Mully.

[...]

"Who brings this woman to be wed?" asked Melisandre.

"I do," said Jon. "Now comes Alys of House Karstark, a woman grown and flowered, of noble blood and birth." He gave her hand one last squeeze and stepped back to join the others. Jon ADWD.

XIV. A king must be bold

Boldness is a trait of a king according to Tyrion:

A king must be bold. Tyrion ASOS

You're [Jon] bold enough to be a Stark. Stannis to Jon. Jon ASOS.

Stannis stared at him incredulously, then gave a bark of laughter. “You are bold enough, Snow, I grant you that.” Jon ADWD.

You have a bold tongue in the king's solar, boy [Jon] - Godry to Jon. Jon ADWD.

Jon was less amused. "I will not ask my men to do what I would not do myself. I mean to lead the ranging."

"How bold of you," said the queen [Selyse]. Jon ADWD.

I want to be careful using external sources such as other books or historical events to predict future events for ASOIAF as it’s not as credulous as using the text of ASOIAF itself. But it’s fine for analytical purposes.

If anyone has read Tad Williams’ fantasy series Memory, Sorrow, and Thorn, it’s obvious that ASOIAF is heavily influenced by it and George himself has stated that Memory, Sorrow, and Thorn influenced him to write ASOIAF. The link details some of the surprising similarities between Memory, Sorrow and Thorn and ASOIAF.

Tad’s fantasy series, The Dragonbone Chair and the rest of his famous four-book trilogy was one of the things that inspired me to write my own seven-book trilogy. I read Tad and was impressed by him, but the imitators that followed — well, fantasy got a bad rep for being very formulaic and ritual. And I read The Dragonbone Chair and said, “My god, they can do something with this form,” and it’s Tad doing it. It’s one of my favorite fantasy series. - GRRM.

Jon Snow’s analogue Simon Snowlock, who has a mysterious lineage, becomes king as a last choice. Jon is a character who’s been connected in text to a King Aegon the Unlikely who was chosen by a Council and who was not the first choice as the lords distrusted Aegon the Unlikely who’d grown up on the road with commoners.

I’ve skipped Mel’s visions (”show me your king, your instrument” and the flames whispering Jon’s name and giving Mel a mug shot of Jon) and other points because Mel’s visions are not simple and this post is already too long.

#jon snow #jon snow meta #asoiaf meta #game of thrones meta #game of thrones #asoiaf

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