#Yes he has a cattle tag
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It’s done. It’s finally done.
Box’s redesign. I copied all the same info from the old design image to this one for reference. Nothing about him has changed personality or backstory wise, just the physical design!
He’s just a big, gay idiot. The biggest dumb. He’s trying his best, though, and he means well. <3
#art#my art#trolls#trolls oc#trolls oc box#trolls box#country trolls#don’t look for the old post I deleted it oops#this weekend I managed to finish this AND spirit of justice#I’m on a roll#Yes he has a cattle tag
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I know we're all focused on Satyr/Faun König but that bull comment... I'm quite partial to minotaur's and whats better than a darling who isn't from the area. Oh yes she's innocent of the crimes against König because she was not raised there.
Some foreign little creature just running blind in a maze trying to see where there might be a way out. It's been days after all and the screaming has gotten quieter and she wonders if she's the last one left alive. He takes his time eating his meals... this can be stretched out for such a long time as she hides herself in a dead end just a short rest... the darling is so tired unaware of the horrifyingly silent steps moving closer to her little haven. It's just her left now.
@kit-williams I've wanted to write for Minotaur!König for ages!
Minotaur!König x Ariadne!Reader
Word count: 5 k oneshot
Tags/warnings: Sexual tension, threats of violence and rape, implied cannibalism, power imbalance, moral ambiguity. Predator/prey dynamic, Beauty and the Beast elements, Ancient Greek religion & lore. 18+ MDNI
A/N: The Minotaur in this story is not an actual hybrid. Reader is Hecate’s initiate. Merry Christmas y'all! <3
The screams are the worst part.
They echo through the Labyrinth while you wait and wait and wait.
Even the very stones seem to cry and wail as you place your hope on Theseus who descended to this hell along with you and the human cattle. Seven young men and seven unwed women, meant to satisfy a beast...
And judging by the screams alone, it sounds like the monster is satisfied. It sounds like it's having a ball.
Fourteen lives have been lost, their blood swallowed by the earth as if Hades himself is drinking the crimson of Athenian youth in His feast. The flesh is the beast’s to devour: an underworld demon born of tainted lust.
Half bull, half man, you always thought the stories were only tales told by the fire to scare children. Turns out that the stories, for once, are true. There's something even worse in this maze, something cursed and foul... Hecate herself would shiver if She were here, in the womb of the earth, witnessing what you’re witnessing now.
You don’t actually see the Bull of Crete cut or hack or slash anyone, and you can only imagine what the monster does to the bloody, gutted corpses of the young. The only thing you see are the hollow, dark walls carved out of soil, sand, and clay, the intestine-like route dug deep into the earth. And you don't have to see the massacre: the screams tell you enough. The silence that follows betrays even more.
Your only light is flickering, waning: the candle will hardly last an hour. If the hero from Athens won’t arrive soon, you will have to leave this place.
And oh, how you want to leave… You were a fool to follow him here. Blinded by love and hope, you thought Theseus of Athens would be your way out of Crete, but it’s clear that the only thing the young hero is capable of loving is fame. The only time his eyes turned to yours was when you said you might be able to help him with a small bundle of yarn.
Red as the setting sun or spilling blood, the thin woollen string is your only way out now. It’s ironic how a heap of twine is the only thing that can help you out of this hellhole, but the Fates always did possess a cruel sense of humour. Your silly daydreams might’ve cost your life, and even if you’re sworn to the dark goddess, you would rather die anywhere but here. In the darkness, all alone, with nothing but eyeless worms to keep company to your decaying bones.
The sudden draft from the outside world is warm but threatens to blow out your candle. It’s a sign from Apollo: if you don’t leave now, you’re dead. Theseus has to manage without you because you’re not dying in this underworld prison because of some man’s stupid lust for fame.
There's only deafening silence in the maze as you scurry up, taking support from the wall as your sight darkens for a moment. You rose too soon: you can’t even remember the last time you ate. And it appears that even the sun god has abandoned you because there's a faint echo of steps in the tunnel, and they don’t belong to a man. They’re too thick, unduly heavy, and it’s not a pair of sandals that are thumping against the soil.
So, Theseus is dead...
So much for the legend, the myth, the demigod.
Heart thumping in your chest and in the hollow of your throat, it threatens to drown the sound of approaching footsteps. They’re all dead, the people who descended here with you. The only thing you are right now is prey. You're being hunted; whether the Minotaur knows you're here or not, you know you're being hunted. You can feel it in your gut.
You cover the candle with one hand, hoping that the flickering light doesn’t reach around the bend. The falling thump of the footsteps stops, and you still your breath, hoping that the beast would turn around and search the other way.
You hear it sniffing behind the wall. It's trying to catch your scent in the air, the smell of dread and terror, sweat so thick it must reach his nostrils and make them flare with lust. Your heart is thundering in your chest, and the tunnel is so quiet that that you’re certain the creature will hear that, too. (Your heart always betrays you.)
And your luck is cursed.
The beast shifts.
You can’t see him yet, but you can hear it: the scraping sound underneath his feet as he aligns himself anew, choosing the path that leads straight down to you.
“Hecate save me,” you whisper into the air that seems to grow denser as he approaches, loud thumps of feet now accompanied by metal grating against clay.
“Hear me, flame-bearing guide... Darkness, protect me…”
He’s dragging bronze against the wall, announcing that he’s carrying a weapon with him, the strength of a bull apparently not satisfying enough if he wants to break your bones with metal.
Don’t blow out the candle...
If you blow it out, you’ll die.
It’s a clear message, a knowing voice in your head that says it. It’s not young, it’s not old: just knowing. Alert. Wise beyond ages.
So you still your breath and wait.
Shadows fill the curve of the tunnel just before he emerges: thick like thunder, a darkness so deep that even the name of the twilight goddess escapes your tongue.
And he’s big. Bigger than the bulls you used to dance with, bigger than kings, or heroes, bigger than even Theseus, the man you thought was a myth walking. His head is enormous, bigger than the rest of him, awkward and rough like it’s not quite part of him even though he’s supposed to be half ox.
The gigantic, horned figure stops when it sees you. Vast shoulders tense; the fat, double-edged sword falls to his side when he settles to loom between you and your only way to escape this place. You’re oddly thankful that the horrible screeching stopped, but then you notice that his blade is drenched in blood: actually, his torso, thighs, even the buckskin loincloth – the only garment this monster has chosen to wear – is spattered with red dots.
The bronze tip drips with crimson, and the earth drinks it all. Hades is never satisfied: this beast is never full. Everyone who was sent down here is dead: everyone else has met their doom except you. You wonder if your mother would cry if she heard her only daughter died because she fell in love with a fool.
“I killed your hero,” the walls of hell boom.
His voice is thick like tar, dark and foul like it’s the God of Earth himself speaking.
The flame in your hand quivers from fear, and you slowly remove your palm, the tiny candle illuminating the beast with warm homely yellow, making the prominent muscles of his chest even bigger.
He’s carved like the statues in Athens, only, this giant is far hairier than the painted marble heroes of the city. The hair on his chest is thick and wild; it shoots down his abdomen and disappears underneath the loincloth, spreads over his inner thighs, even covers his shins in dark mats. He looks like a wild man, a beast indeed: sweaty, filthy and thick. But you never knew a beast like him could talk…
“A coward, that one,” he snarls, the voice reverberating oddly like it’s a human man speaking from under a wooden mask or inside a clay jug.
And you believe every word he says.
Theseus was strong and able-bodied, but he had built his strength just to show it off. This man’s body speaks of pure, ripe survival.
A hulking shadow with shoulders that barely fit the tunnels of the Labyrinth, with palms nearly twice the size of yours, he’s the myth walking instead of the hero whose blood now adorns that dull bronze blade. The Minotaur who survived his father’s wrath, his mother’s absence, these bleak surroundings, and all the heroes sent down to get his head… His weapon isn’t even sharp anymore, and still, he managed to cut through the sacrificial humans like butter. And what a horrific death it must’ve been to be hacked to pieces by a dull blade.
Is it evil of you to hope that the death of your “hero” wasn’t a quick one…?
Theseus was a fool and a coward, rotten to the core, but you saw all of that too late. He never cared about the human sacrifices or the king’s wrath; he never cared about digging into Pasiphae’s sorrow. He only cared about getting his face depicted on a pot or having his deeds played out in amphitheatres, his name uttered in song, accompanied by harp and flute.
“I know.”
Your voice gets sucked into the earth: it doesn’t echo from the walls like his. It’s thin, damp, and frail, just like everything else meant to walk under the sun instead of stand buried under the earth.
But the beast before you tilts its head a little. It’s curious.
Why would you say that?
Why don’t you cry from hearing the news...? Why don’t you howl out your hero’s name and beg the gods to heed your grief? Why don’t you run away from a monster?
The candlelight is puny and weak, but it’s bright enough to bring out the eyes of an animal. You draw breath in the dampness of the earth when you finally see it: the bull’s head is devoid of eyes, and yet, the beast still has them. Blue as the summer sky, stern as the death grip of winter just before spring.
There’s nothing but ripped shreds of skin where the eyes should be, and instead of looking at you from the sides, they’re greeting you from the front. The horns are sturdy, but otherwise, the colossal head is a bit skewed... Thick patches of fur sticking out as if it was years and years old, and then – you realize it’s not his head; it’s only an illusion.
There’s a man under there. A full, grown man who’s made himself a terrible helmet out of a bull’s carcass.
“You’re a man,” you say out loud, earning yourself another shift of the colossal head.
“...What?”
The muffled echo confirms it: he’s speaking from inside the bull, moving only slightly to get a better look at you.
“You’re not a monster. You’re just a man.”
His eyes are wild but intelligent; they pierce you from inside the inanimate shield. The large chest heaves, his ribs flare like sails as he draws air through what must be the foul stench of a long-dead animal.
He takes a step, and you shrink, almost dropping your candle and the roll of red yarn.
“You think talking will save you, female?”
He speaks like a man, walks like a man, but his moves are an animal’s. Shoulders slightly hunched like he’s a bull about to attack, you recognize the way his muscles quiver from the times when you used to do bull leaping. You don’t dance with Rhea’s oxen anymore: your tasks at Hecate’s temple are more suitable and less wild for a maiden your age. Back when you were younger and more agile, you used to jump from the back of one bull to the next, clouds of dust swirling around you as you showed your prowess to the priests.
But you can’t charm this ox by dancing. This one can’t be tricked or fooled: he will pierce you with those horns or his brazen sword if you take even a step.
“I can get you out of here,” you wet your lips, noticing that the blue eyes shoot straight to your mouth when you do that. “I know the way out.”
“What makes you think I want out,” he says, so tight and tense that you fear he’s either about to leap at your throat or plunge his sword into your chest.
And you should be concerned about your own safety, not about his sensibilities – if he even has such things – but hearing this beast man’s reply is like drinking bile.
Why would anyone want to stay here?
You don’t know if he eats human flesh; you don’t know if he had to in order to survive. Everyone knows why his father threw him down here, but no one knows he’s not half the things the people above say he is. And if half of it isn’t true, what other lies have been told about the Minotaur?
Even most prisoners see the sun, yet this man has been deprived of that, too. He’s been robbed of mother’s love, of father’s mercy, of friends and foes, of mentors and guides. He’s been robbed of life, of stars, of fires and summer skies, of women’s giggles, of fistfights with fellow men. Of songs and plays, of festivals and games, of bull dances, and maidens that leap…
“Have you ever been up there…? On the surface?”
You turn your voice into soft water on pebbles, a soothing pour of persuasion and goodwill. His pecs contract, strong abs under thin hair and body fat bunch like you’re about to hit him there. You take a step, and now it’s his turn to shun away. It’s only half an inch, but he actually moves away from you.
“I can take you there,” you offer gently. “Have you ever seen the sun…?”
It’s like talking to a starved predator, trying to entice them to follow you with a fresh steak in hand, hoping that the fanged mouth won’t take more than was promised if it decides to accept the offering.
And the beast accepts.
“As a boy,” he grunts, a tad more softly.
Those eyes are fixed on you, reminding you of horses when they’re slightly afraid. The glint of white and blue behind the carcass is fiercely alive, quite unlike the hollow, disinterested stare of the Athenian hero who was only interested in himself.
But this beast is interested. Oh, the Bull Man of Crete is wildly, fiercely curious about you.
“You’ll take me to the sun,” he repeats, an affirmation rather than a question.
“Yes. To the surface. I promise.”
He moves. Like an animal who learned long ago to drive others into the corner so that he wouldn’t get forced there himself, he’s primal, sensual in the way that oracles in a trance are sensual.
Approaching you in silence that’s almost eerie, the hairs at the nape of your neck stand on end by the time he’s only an arm’s length away. Why announce his coming earlier if he can move so quietly?
“You’ll lead me to my father.”
His gaze bores into you, and not even the warm draft from the tunnels can prevent you from shivering. He’s distrustful, and it’s no wonder. It must be odd that some girl with a candle and a bundle of yarn is suddenly waiting for him around the bend, and doesn’t even flee. He’s a behemoth, but he’s not stupid. A stupid man would not have been able to survive, let alone thrive in this place.
And why should he trust you? Who is he supposed to trust in this maze when every person he has seen has either run away from him or tried to kill him? His father will slaughter him if he ever escapes the Labyrinth, so what else is a priestess in his kingdom but a squealing mouse, trying to feed him lies and then guide him to the surface and into a forest of spears?
“No,” you shake your head slowly. “No, I promise I know the way. There will be no soldiers–”
You shut your mouth just before a huge palm closes around your throat.
Gods, but he moves fast when he wants to…
The candle and the yarn drop the instant his hand seizes your neck, strong fingers nearly meeting at the back as he squeezes your windpipe ever so slowly.
And he’s so close now. The carcass reeks of death, but the man underneath stinks of plain human sweat. His musk is a peculiar mix of blood, earth and soil, something both stale and invigorating, the thin sheen of sweat and dirt covering his muscles making him look like a common builder. It’s strange that the bull’s head hasn’t yet decayed in this place, that the man doesn’t reek of bodies and bones that must be scattered around like debris further down the tunnels.
Another thing that’s strange is that he doesn’t seem to want to simply silence you.
He also wants to touch you.
A wide thumb strokes the underside of your jaw as he studies you. It slides down the column of your throat, the blue eyes gleaming with fascination when you swallow against him.
He drinks in the sight of you: the lips that part with fear, the frail collarbones that breathe against the side of his palm. The promising crevice between your breasts, the enticing softness of your teats.
You can hear his breath grow heavy under ox skin and bone, the rugged, vicious helmet he has chosen to wear. What lies under, you can only imagine, wherein he has little left to the imagination when taking in the curve of your breasts, your nipples rising to peaks under the thin white linen only temple virgins use.
Seeing your reaction to his touch makes him growl -- he actually growls like an animal, a deep, low rumble of approval rising up his throat when he sees how different your body is from his. How supple and cushy it is, soft and plump like a peach, covered only barely as if to tease a best like him. You wonder if he ever took pleasure in the maidens sent here by the king… If he ever thrust the sword between his legs into their weak bodies before giving them the mercy of his actual blade. Would he even know what to do with a woman, having lived here for so long?
“Please,” you whisper, bringing his eyes back to yours, the ice in them now liquid sapphire of pure want.
Gods… You need to bring his attention back to your offer of help before he sees it more compelling to just stay here and play with his new, plump little mouse. Virgin or not, you wouldn’t survive a mating with this man.
“I swear on Hecate’s torch that it’s not a trap. You have my word: I’m a priestess soon to be.”
He’s entranced. Hypnotized by your lips. You lick them to confirm your fears true: the man grunts with pleasure, out of instinct, absentmindedly like an animal who reacts to the sight of a fat, meaty bone.
Oh, he might not know what to do with a woman… But he would try his best to find out.
“Priestess…?” He rasps.
“It’s a holy woman,” you explain. “I serve the Goddess of the Crossroads.”
He snorts, either because he’s not impressed or because he’s downright amused by your vocation. The eyes, warmer, more demanding now, are far from the eyes of a bewildered beast.
“Little female of the crossroads... You will take me to the king. And then, I will kill him.”
He puts weight into his words, tries to make you understand.
He wants you to guide him to his father.
To the King who claims his son is half bull, to the husband who claims his wife was adulterous with an ox. To the King who demands tribute as virgins so that he can send them down to hell. The dark goddess screams justice, but you're at a horrible stalemate.
The gods will curse you for this… They will smite you with a bolt of lightning or drown you next time you cross the great sea if they see you’ve helped this half-beast escape. If you guide him to Minos, you’re a participant in kingslaying, and the gods never forget things like that.
“He’s your father and the king of Crete,” you whisper in fear. “The gods will strike you down–”
“Gods?” He spits. “I piss on the gods. I fuck their corpses and leave them to rot.”
You almost choke on the blasphemy levelled at you. The shadows creep closer, the stare behind the black fur is dark and amused, burning with the crooked wrath of a thousand years.
“Perhaps I’ll fuck you too.”
It’s unnerving that you don’t find the threat wholly unappealing.
If anything, your eyes drift down to the hairs of his chest, to the two big muscles that resemble the work of the best sculptors in Athens.
“Are you a virgin, female of the crossroads?”
His eyes search for your response: they want to see your fear and disgust. You swallow again, arduously against his hand, both caressing and testing you.
The beast leans forward, as if weighing if he could somehow insult the gods by pillaging you. The rough hair of his chest meets the white cloth, it brushes against your nipples as he bends down to have a good sniff of you.
“You smell like a virgin,” he growls.
The hand leaves your throat, only to travel down your sternum. He grabs your breast nonchalantly, a little too roughly, the hot palm closing around the teat and squeezing it like it’s a toy. When you don’t react, he squeezes it again, this time hard enough to coax a whimper out of you.
“Sound like a virgin…”
Without warning, the hand dives straight between your legs next, palm forcing its way through your thighs and curving to cup your sex, moulding around it with barbaric thirst.
“Feel like a virgin, too.”
It’s thick, hot, and heavy, how he simply tries you through your dress. Fingers testing your folds, he’s clearly enjoying the subtle wetness he finds down there. You can hear another hitched grunt pushing up his throat, rugged and whiny this time, a broken groan that dissipates because of how dry his throat is.
No man has ever dared to lay his hands on you... Many have wanted, but none have tried. Even drunkards and fools respect women who belong to the dark goddess.
But he doesn’t care about the wrath of Hecate. He doesn’t give a shit about the gods. He simply takes what he wants, what falls into his lap. The fifteenth offering, but he doesn’t seem to be interested in devouring your flesh.
How easily he could simply yank that loincloth aside and drag your dress up. Force his cock into your tight, wet heat without uttering a word. You doubt that he would even take the trouble of laying you down on the ground for taking... Beasts rut when they want to: this man could fuck you against this wall if his loins demanded so, guttural groans being the last thing you hear before the candle goes out.
You don’t know if you have to spread your legs for him before this is over, but you reckon you will do even that if it means you’ll see the sun again. You’ll endure every thick thrust, and gods be cursed, you wouldn’t even be solely disgusted if this half-animal chose to breed you... As shameful as it is, you would somewhat enjoy having him rut you like an animal in heat.
And you’ve gone mad, surely.
You want to touch him too, just to test another theory.
Deciding that it's a good idea to stick your hand into the maw of hell, your fingers lift. They meet his bicep, and the lewd panting stops.
He’s not even breathing… He’s just drowsy and drunk, looking at you with a mixture of soft sleepiness and awe in his stare. Like a dog who has never been petted, even his eyes drift half closed when he forgets to threaten you, now focusing solely on your hand.
And you start to caress him, slowly, so slowly… Tracing the muscle all the way up where it meets the shoulder, you stroke even the thick cord that leads to his neck. The rest of him disappears under the bull, but the man behind it already shivers under your touch. He even bends his head a little in hopes that you would go under the mask and touch him there, and the gesture reminds you of an animal exposing its vulnerable areas, baring its very throat in submission.
Braving a quick peek down, you notice that the buckskin cloth is stretched high and wide. His whole body is tense and immobile: you could cup him through the soft animal skin and he would probably shoot his seed from a single stroke of your palm.
If this is not a virgin, you don’t know what is...
In a way, it would perhaps be wise to shove your hand down and disarm this man. That way, you would be safe for a few more minutes. Instead, you lay your palm over his chest, right over where his heart should be.
“So do you, Bull of Crete...”
His gaze flickers.
The darkness hesitates, widens, nearly swallows the azure pools whole. But he doesn’t look irate or wild... Only shocked.
It’s an impasse. A thicket. His hand on you, your hand on him.
He surrenders first: the underworld budges before the utterly pure. You bless him with grace the instant he withdraws his hand from between your legs – slowly, reluctantly, like leaving a place that belongs to him. Or to which he belongs…
“I promise I’ll help you, Minos Tauros. But I need you to give me something in return.”
You remove your hand too. Softly, slowly, like a horse master who trains and tames wild things. All words seem to have escaped his tongue: he only grunts, unsure of what a beast like him could give you in return for your help.
“You must promise to be kind to me.”
“Kind...?”
“I need you to behave,” you explain. “No bad things on the way up... No fucking.”
Everything else, he seems to accept, but during the last sentence the Minotaur blinks at you, utterly confused.
“But... You smell like you want to fuck.”
Your jaw drops open a tiny bit. Then you remember that a priestess of Hecate doesn’t gawk.
“I don’t–How would you know that…?”
The beast only shrugs. Then he leans forward and takes another sniff as if to prove it’s true that you want his cock inside you.
“You smell good,” he grunts. “Different... Female, not afraid.”
“That doesn’t mean I want to…”
He even raises his hand to inspect the slight wetness there. Fascinated by the thin film on his fingers, he rubs his thumb in it, probably thinking about bringing it under his mask to get a good sniff of your juices too.
You grab his wrist without thinking, mortified to your core by the prospect of him getting high on your slick.
“Look. We need to leave before the candle burns out.”
The obsessive stare threatens to swallow you once more, so you let go of his wrist and steel your resolve. Scooting down to grab your things, you try to ignore the violent erection still pointing straight at you.
Hecate keep you from offering yourself to this man out of your own free will...
And you don’t have a torch, only a candle and a skein of blood-red yarn, but you know the way out, so there’s hope. There’s always hope.
“I need you to promise me,” you turn at the mouth of the tunnel, seeing that he’s still standing there, in the place where he almost took you like his first whore. As if waking up from a thrall, he straightens to his full height, picks up his sword and looks like a half-human, half-bull once more.
“I promise,” comes a booming voice from under the animal skull. “No fucking… I’ll behave.”
You nod. There's a sense of trust in the air. A promise of hope... It's mutual, invigorating -- life-giving, like the sun and blood in your hands.
You don't know if the son of Minos has ever smiled in here, but from the quick glint in his eyes, you suspect that he's smiling right now, the man under that animal mask. Somehow, it reminds you of the stars in the sky.
“Lead the way, maiden.”
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Title: Forever a Lost Heart
Character(s): Pantalone (Genshin Impact)
Summary: Pantalone came back home after a long time to find his lovely wife sleeping soundly.
Warnings/tags: Yandere themes, fem!reader, not really Stockholm syndrome but reader has given up for a long time now, imprisonment, forced marriage
Note: .....*also confused* why did I delete the previous ask a long time ago T-T I apologize i am not the best at explaining back then (even now tbf ;-;)... but anyway still hope you like this lil fic! I am really happy with this one! Also had to repost this cause i made a huge mistake in deleting the original TvT yeahhhh sorry about that...
[ - A little present~! Event - Closed - ]
It wasn't a marriage out of love. Your parents were so blinded by money, and fame forced you to marry a harbinger when he had given them a certain offer for a more luxurious life in exchange for their lovely daughter.
You.
You felt nothing more than cattle in the market, sold by your "owners," and in the next moment in the hands of someone else. Except this one was dressed it as if it was something romantic.
"Dear, how was your sleep?" Your eyes fluttered open at the voice as you looked around the dark room. Sleep still in your eyes. You forced yourself to wake up, using your arms to push yourself from the soft fabric of the bed. "You are back?" It wasn't supposed to sound like a question.
You didn't think he would come back so soon.
It has been a few days since he left, busy when the Tsaritsa summoned him for something related to one of the harbingers. "You don't sound all that please dear." It wasn't a question, as Pantalone placed a hand on your face. His gloved hand felt cold and lifeless to your cheek.
You shook your head, denying his words. Moving your hands to hold his as you lean more into his palm, closing your eyes as if comforted by his presence. "No. I am glad you are back..."
"How sweet of my love."
Yet hidden within your heart, he was correct. You didn't miss him, for the days when he was away were like a paradise for you. An empty and hollow paradise but still a paradise away from something that wanted to eat you whole. You hummed on his hand, a soft smile on your lips.
"Hmmm... you are such a doll, dear. So compliant." Pantalone chuckled, rubbing his thumb lightly on your cheek. "Did you watch over the mansion while I was away?" You nodded again. It was something that kept your mind away from the feeling of hopelessness and away from any punishments.
"Yes, I did."
"What else did you do while I was away? Did you get the gifts that I sent to you? I bought the most beautiful dresses and gems that would match your beauty. Thought nothing really is beautiful as my dove." Reminded of the boxes that the servants brought you nodded. Expensive jewels and dresses, shoes, and handbags, he had sent you many things, some of which you personally liked.
But all still useless things, they are nothing but stones and clothes, something that could never truly give you what you really wanted.
"You shouldn't lie, my dear." Ah, it seems that you didn't watch your face... it was your mistake after all you just woke up still tired from your sleep. You didn't realize your mistake until it was too late when he held your cheeks to make you look at him with such softness when his eyes had none.
"A wife should never lie to her husband, nor should she. You were always a great actress. Many outside this mansion believe that you truly love me. And quite a few misunderstood your sadness as loneliness away from her husband." His voice was sharp as he forced your face closer to his. You stared at his eyes, your own widening startled a little before returning back.
It wasn't a surprise at all that he knew. He was just too smart, for things to be kept simple.
"Were you planning on running away, dear? When I finally have my guard down around you, you could finally sneak away from me?" He innocently asked, as if he was he was accusing you. Staying still for a moment, looking down then to his eyes as you held on his wrist with a light touch, you shook your head. Well, as much as you could.
No, it wasn't like that... You had long given up ever escaping what faith had given you ever since you were born. A puppet created by your parents you were just handed over to another who could control your strings just as well.
It was something that came easy to you somehow... even if you wanted that freedom, the fear of what would happen when you stepped outside your boundary shook your heart. You didn't love your husband, but his obsession was far better than the love your parents showed to you.
"I am sorry... I just... I just feel lonely." You told him softly.
You were tired of being a doll, yet you hesitate to go out unable to find the courage to do so. If this was something of a healthy relationship maybe you could have changed for the better, but alas you didn't even have that when you were kissed by the side of your forehead by the man who softly held your face again.
"It seems that I was the reason that you have become like this. I am sorry to have left you alone for so long because of work, you have waited so patiently for me. Thank you, dear." Taking your hand, he kissed the back of your hand, the lingering warmth still there even after his lips parted away.
Your husband always knew how to twist things to his liking, how your words were twisted to his own pleasure.
"The Tsaritsa had asked me to head to Monstade soon after some rest, for some dealing over there. I wish to take you with me. My dear has been lonely for so long that it is only proper that we have some time together." Pantalone expression never changed as he rubbed your cheeks gently, his other hand holding yours. "Is there something you wished to do there, dear?"
Your eyes widen just a small bit at his words. Surprised that he was offering you finally to go out while you knew that you would never be able to leave his sight the idea of finally being able to leave the window as you watch the snow fall every minute made your heart light with hope. It was a foreign feeling something that Pantalone definitely noticed when his own smile widened just a little bit more.
Moving your hands as you took his that was holding yours, you moved it to your cheek, rubbing it affectionately as you kissed the back of his hand. "Yes... That would be lovely."
"I see that my sweetheart wishes to join me. I will have the preparations done and make it so that you will have a comfortable ride to Monstade." Pantalone stated as he watched your affections, finding it so amusing.
"It has been far too long since we have been in each other company outside. The last one was the honeymoon trip to Fontaine, but we didn't even do much then." Pantalone mumbled, a small smile gracing his lips again when an idea popped into his head, "Yes... let's do that."
You closed your eyes when he started combing your hair, uncaring to what he had in plan. His hand was gentle with you hair, as you dreamed about the dandelions and sunny skies.
#yandere pantalone#yandere harbingers#yandere fatui#yandere genshin#yandere scenarios#yandere imagines#yandere writing#yandere x reader#yandere x you#genshin scenarios#genshin imagines#genshin writing#tw yandere#pantalone x reader#harbingers x reader#fatui x reader#genshin x you#genshin x reader#genshin oneshots#yandere oneshot
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The Hunter and the Witch~ Dean
Winchester x f!reader
Description: Sam is haunted by a vision of a woman trapped in his childhood house
Warning: cannon violence, tension/ minor flirting, slight angst and comfort, mentions of death, mentions of a dead parent, the use of witchcraft that isn't exactly apart of Supernatural lore but does have ties to many folklore's interpretations of a witches capability from European Folklore to Appalachian Folk Magic and many more (i used a mix of different lore to create my own interpretation) this took so long to research, l also was testing things out in my apartment so i'd be able to write it properly- literally rearranging furniture for it
Tag list: @jesllianaquilesrolonsworld ,
@okayiamkassandra, @fablerose , @ada--44
Word Count: 12,947
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(Master list, Previous Ch., Next Ch.)
I stumble into the boys motel room, stifling a yawn from passing through my lips. Did I wake up two hours ago and refuse to get out of the stiff motel bed instead of coming to meet my lovely friends in their room?
Yes!
“Good morning my little stabby hunters” I greet cheerfully, closing and locking the door behind me. Sam mumbles some incoherent version of a greeting from where he sat on his bed while Dean looks up from Sam’s laptop, “Mornin’ sweetheart”
I walk up to each boy individually giving their hair a nice ruffle before shuffling my way to sit criss-cross applesauce on the unoccupied bed. “You had perfect timing ‘cause I think I found a few candidates for our next gig.”
“Oooh how fun” I half sarcastically say, “read ‘em out!”
“Alright we got a fishing trawler found off the coast of Cali” I nod pretending to know what a ‘trawler’ is, “ –-its crew vanished. And, uh, we got some cattle mutilations in West Texas.” Dean lists out looking up every now and then for a reaction, “Hey. Sammy.” He calls out to his brother who’s sat drawing something on a little notepad.
Sam looks up, giving Dean an annoyed look waiting for what he has to say. Dean leans back in his chair, “Am I boring you with this hunting evil stuff?”
“No. I’m listening. Keep going.” Sam declares, going right back to his drawing. He was in fact not paying attention.
“And, here, a Sacramento man shot himself in the head. Three times.” He stops speaking again, waving his hand in the air intended to get his brother's attention, “Any of these things blowin’ up your skirt, pal?”
Sam suddenly sits up fully, “Wait. I’ve seen this.”
“Seen what?” I ask, Dean and I sharing a confused look. But Sam doesn't answer, he just crosses the room towards his duffel bag, searching for something. “What are you doing?” Dean asks. Again Sam doesn't answer, finally finding whatever he was looking for he pauses studying the two things in his hands, he swiftly turns around “I know where we have to go next.”
“Where?” Dean muses, asking the question were both thinking.
“Back home –- back to Kansas” Sam breathes, a hint of panic in his eyes.
“Okay, random. Where’d that come from?”
Sam shows the thing he took out of his bag, a photo, to his brother, I get up to view it too. “All right, um, this photo was taken in front of our old house, right? The house where Mom died?” Sam asks, looking between the sort of family photo taken in front of their house and his brother.
“Yeah.” Dean answers plainly.
“And it didn’t burn down, right? I mean, not completely, they rebuilt it, right?” Sam asks further.
“Yeah it took ‘em a while to, I think it was mostly out of respect because no one ever moved in after you either, as far as I know.” I answer only knowing because I lived in town even after they moved away.
“Okay, well, someone lives there now…and, I, uh, look, this is gonna sound crazy but….the people who live in our old house –- I think they might be in danger.” Sam stammers
“Why would you think that?” Dean asks the obvious question. “Uh…it’s just, um….look, just trust me on this, okay?” He starts to walk away to the other side of the room, Dean following suit, “Wait, whoa, whoa, trust you?”
The fighting begins, I think to myself as I chew on the inside of my cheek. I knew Dean would probably act harsher then he meant to, his mom—his old house being a very rough topic for him.
Now it’s Sam’s turn to answer simply, “Yeah.”
“Come on, man, that’s weak. You gotta give me a little bit more than that.” Dean raises his voice slightly.
“I can’t really explain it is all” Sam says looking around the room instead of making eye contact.
“Well, tough. I’m not goin’ anywhere until you do” Dean crosses his arms waiting expectantly.
Sam sighs, “I have these nightmares.”
“I’ve noticed” Dean says while nodding and I want to step in and lecture him for coming off so mean, but I bite my tongue.
“And sometimes…” Sam pauses for a while before continuing, “…they come true.” This time I don’t bite my tongue, the word slipping out of my lips out of pure shock, “Sam” I gasp. “Come again?” Dean says almost at the same time as my gasp.
“Look….I dreamt about Jessica’s death –- for days before it happened.” Sam tries to explain further, nearly getting cut off by his brother, “Sam, people have weird dreams, man. I’m sure it’s just a coincidence.” I know Dean doesn't want to believe it, I know he’s scared of what this could mean. But I can’t help but feel this is like the argument Dean had started on my twelfth birthday, all those years ago. It felt especially silly to feel this way now, not when I never held a grudge against him because of it. Maybe I should have but I could never find it within myself to do so.
Dean sits down on one of the beds and it’s clear he doesn't know what to do with himself. Sam begins to explain himself more, which I hate the fact he has to, “No, I dreamt about the blood dripping, her on the ceiling, the fire, everything, and I didn’t do anything about it ‘cause I didn’t believe it. And now I’m dreaming about that tree, about our house, and about some woman inside screaming for help. I mean, that’s where it all started, man, this has to mean something, right?”
“I don’t know.” Dean huffs out. It’s clear he’s overwhelmed, which is a significantly better reaction than what I got to his whole realization of what I really was—a witch—despite the fact he already knew that. I want to respect their relationship and not speak when it’s not my right to, and yet if it comes down to it I know I will. I won’t let their relationship fall apart because of this, I won’t let a hatred form between them. Let alone like how Dean had hated me for months and I had hated myself too.
“I-it can mean something. There's a lot of cultures that believe that dreams are capable of showing the future as a guidance or even as a warning. Egyptians, Romans, and Greeks, they all believed in this; it's,um, called oneiromancy.” I pipe in quietly as if scared that saying it too loud would shatter the delicate atmosphere. Sam was looking at me with big eyes like he was hanging on to each word I spoke, nodding along.
“All right, just slow down, would ya?” Dean stands abruptly beginning to pace the carpeted floor, “I mean, first you tell me that you’ve got the Shining? And then you tell me that I’ve gotta go back home? Especially when….”
“When what?” Sam asks carefully.
Dean sounds on the verge of tears, probably the most vulnerable he’s been in a long time, “When I swore to myself that I would never go back there?” The air, the atmosphere itself, felt fragile then too as if something so palpable had to be careful of where it stood
Sam begins softly, his eyes scrunched in a mix of worry and sympathy, “Look, Dean, we have to check this out. Just to make sure.”
“I know we do.” Dean nods, his head hung low.
The Impala pulls up in front of the old Winchester house, the cute little two story green house standing there simply. I can’t help but wonder if in a hundred years these people who lived in Lawrence would know what happened here? The family that was lost here? Maybe not physically but you can trace everything back to this simple house, where these boys lost a piece of themselves no matter how young they were. You can still feel it in the air now, in this car with Dean's head hung low as he peers up at his old house, the only and last house he’s ever had.
“You gonna be all right, man?” Sam asks, trying to catch his brother's eyes. Dean swallow’s thickly, “Let me get back to you on that.” We exit the safety of the car and with each step forward the weight of this settles on our shoulders, the realness of this all. I know this isn’t about me, but if I let my mind stop focusing on the task at hand I know that it will wisp away to my old house. Just on the other side of town, to every moment I spent wandering the streets with no where particular in mind-
A sharp knocking on the front door snaps me out of my mind. A pretty blonde opens the door, her eyebrows scrunched in what seems like stress, “Yes?” she answers.
“Sorry to bother you, ma’am, but we’re with the Federal—“ Dean begins his lie getting cut off by his brother, “I’m Sam Winchester, this is my brother, Dean, and our friend Y/N. My brother and I, uh, we used to live here. You know, we were just drivin’ by, and we were wondering if we could come see the old place.”
“Winchester. Yeah, that’s so funny. You know, I think I found some of your photos the other night.” She laughs lightly. Dean's face drops a little, a mix of curiosity and longing on his face that if I hadn’t seen it before, hadn’t known him so well I wouldn’t have recognized it. “You did?” he asks, and I'd have to think it was a look of longing for his life back then, before he lost his mom, to a life that was so simple and child-like because that might have been the only time he really was a child.
She nods and steps aside, “Come on in.” The inside of the house wasn’t so much different from what I’ve been told about it, she shuts and locks the door behind us and we wait for her to lead us further in before moving. “I’m Jenny by the way” she says moving past us. She leads us into the big kitchen, a young girl doing homework at the table while an adorable jumpy toddler bounces in his little playpen, I can’t help the smile that creeps up on my face at the sight.
“Juice! Juice! Juice! Juice!” The toddler chants, bouncing as he speaks.
“That’s Ritchie. He’s kind of a juice junkie.” She introduces going over to the fridge, taking out a sippy cup and handing it to the bouncy baby. “He has good taste” I laugh, the kid being just so freaking adorable.
Jenny walks over to her daughter, “Sari, this is Sam and Dean, they used to live here. And that’s their friend Y/n.” I smile at the girl who greets us with a small “Hi.” Dean for some reason waved awkwardly at the child, as if he doesn't know how to act around kids when that’s so far from the truth.
“Hey, Sari.” Sam smiles before allowing her to get back to her homework.
“So, you just moved in?” Dean asks, jumping right to it. “Yeah, from Wichita.” Jenny answers, referring to a different part of Kansas.
“You got family here, or….?” Dean continues to ask, and honestly it’s kind of a creepy question. She answers a little hesitantly, “No. I just, uh….needed a fresh start, that’s all. So, new town, new job –- I mean, as soon as I find one. New house.”
“Do you like it here?” I ask genuinely. “Well, uh, all due respect to your childhood home” She starts looking at the boys as she speaks, “…I mean, I’m sure you had lots of happy memories here…but this place has its issues.”
“What do you mean?” Sam asks almost a little too quickly.
Jenny sighs, “Well, it’s just getting old. Like the wiring, you know? We’ve got flickering lights almost hourly.”
“I think that’s an easy fix” I try to remain hopeful, it’s not like we can just tell her ‘oh yeah that’s ‘cause your house is probably haunted by a demon or something.’ And under the assumption that it was just faulty wiring, I really wasn’t sure if it was an easy fix. I mean I am no electrician.
“Anything else?” Dean adds in.
“Um…sink’s backed up, there’s rats in the basement.” She lists off before pausing for a beat, looking between us nervously, “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to complain.” Dean looks a little taken back by this concern, because what was written on his face was far from offense, “No. Have you seen the rats or have you just heard scratching?”
“It’s just the scratching, actually.” She answers.
“Mom?” Sari calls out lightly, Jenny kneels down to her daughter waiting for her to continue, “Ask them if it was here when they lived here.”
“What, Sari?” Sam asks, confused.
“The thing in my closet.” She answers weakly, and I swear my heart broke a little at the way in which she said it.
“Oh, no, baby, there was nothing in their closets.” Jenny answers softly, reminding me of my mothers soft tone when she spoke to us. Jenny looks up at the boys, “Right?”
Sam stumbles over his words as he answers, “Right. No, no, of course not.”
“She had a nightmare the other night.” Jenny explains, a hand on her daughter's shoulder.
Sari shakes her head, “I wasn’t dreaming. It came into my bedroom –- and it was on fire.”
Uh oh.
~~~~~~~~
“You hear that? A figure on fire.” Sam whisper-shouts, mainly to his brother who was walking a little too quickly then necessary to his car. The man in question turns around swiftly, “And that woman, Jenny, that was the woman in your dreams?”
“Yeah. And you hear what she was talking about? Scratching, flickering lights, both signs of a malevolent spirit.” Sam bites back.
“Yeah, well, I’m just freaked out that your weirdo visions are comin’ true.” Dean snaps.
Sam’s eyes were wide with panic, “Well, forget about that for a minute. The thing in the house, do you think it’s the thing that killed Mom and Jessica?”
“I don’t know!” Dean snaps.
Back and forth they fight like two dogs having a barking match from just over the fence. “Well, I mean, has it come back or has it been here the whole time?” Sam starts again.
“Or maybe it’s something else entirely, Sam, we don’t know yet.”
“Well, those people are in danger, Dean. We have to get ‘em out of that house.”
“And we will.”
“No, I mean now.”
“And how you gonna do that, huh? You got a story that she’s gonna believe?”
“Then what are we supposed to do?”
“Both of you, stop!” I nearly shout, both boys going quiet, “Look” I sigh. “I get this is scary and all but you two bickering isn’t going to get us anywhere! And if we want to help that nice family we have to think logically. We don’t know what we’re dealing with, maybe it’s something else or maybe we have to prepare ourselves for the fact that it is that monster.
Either way we can’t just run into this with assumptions or lead on feeling alone, okay? ‘Cause that’s how we mess up and wind up dead and I don’t know ‘bout you boys but i’m not quite craving the taste of death just yet.” I take a deep breath before continuing, “So, let’s pretend this is any ol’ case, any other hunt. What do we do first?”
“Research” Dean mumbles as if he was a kid who got caught doing something wrong, which arguably isn’t so far from the truth.
“Check our bases, dig into the history” Sam adds.
“Exactly” I smile, “Good job”
Dean opens the driver seat door, getting in as he speaks, “Except this time, we already know what happened.”
Sam and I followed suit, “Yeah, but how much do we know? I mean, how much do you actually remember?” he asks. Dean looks around a little uncomfortable, “About that night, you mean?”
“Yeah.”
“Not much. I remember the fire…the heat.” He pauses, “And then I carried you out the front door.”
“You did?” Sam asks surprised.
Dean scuffs, starting the car and pulling out of the spot, “Yeah, what, you never knew that?”
Sam shakes his head, “No.”
Dean continues, “And, well, you know Dad’s story as well as I do. Mom was….was on the ceiling. And whatever put her there was long gone by the time Dad found her.”
“And he never had a theory about what did it?” Sam questions further, and up until now I didn’t realize how much he was kept in the dark about such a significant moment in his life.
Dean shrugs, “If he did, he kept it to himself. God knows we asked him enough times.” Sam starts again, “Okay. So, if we’re gonna figure out what’s goin’ on now…we have to figure out what happened back then. And see if it’s the same thing.”
Dean again looks around uncomfortably, his fingers drumming on the steering wheel, “Yeah. We’ll talk to Dad’s friends, neighbors, people who were there at the time.”
Sam notices this obvious movement like I did and pauses for a moment, you could see the gears turning in his head, “Does this feel like just another job to you?” Dean clears his throat, suddenly jerking the car off to the left side of the road right up to the curb, the car poorly parked, “I’ll be right back. I gotta go to the bathroom.” The second he finishes his sentence he’s out of the car and walking away into some local business that I couldn’t quite see the name of.
“I- I don’t understand him” Sam suddenly says as he watches his brother leave, turning in the passenger seat to talk to me properly, “It would be so much easier if he just…” He sighs, “talked to me.”
“I… don’t want to excuse his actions because you are right, but at the same time you know he was never taught how to be vulnerable.” I try to explain, carefully choosing my words knowing there were eggshells surrounding our feet. He then mumbles something incoherently about their childhood, he looks back up at me, “you know, you don’t really talk about your childhood either.”
“Maybe it’s just something about Kansas” I joke, he laughs lowly, “But I ,uh, I would like to tell you about it…someday…” I offer shyly, trying to offer him something in a moment where he has nothing
“I’d like that, at least I could get closer to one of you” Sam smiles, sadly.
“Hey and maybe it will open the door to encourage Dean to speak up” I say.
“Yeah you know that’s not gonna happen” He scuffs.
“Well, I was trying to be a little optimistic.”
When Dean came back to the car he was dead quiet, his eyes were glossy but he refused to talk. It wasn’t uncommon for him, not one bit.
Sitting in the back of the Impala, I watched the buildings and trees pass by. All blocks I was familiar with even if it was far from where I had actually lived, but when you're lonely you tend to find walking for an eternity isn’t so bad. Funnily enough, sitting in the back of this car felt eerily similar to when I was a child, my dad as quiet as an owl, a then changed man having lost his world. Only, he had forgotten my brother and I had lost her too, and that we were still around to begin with.
Dean stared at the road like my dad had all those years ago, so deeply as if they were to look away it would disappear right beneath them. Then Sam sat in the passenger seat looking between his brother and out the window not knowing what to say, like my brother always did. And I of course still played the same role because some things never change, some feelings never do fully leave.
Dean suddenly clears his throat, “Alright, up ahead is an old pal of dads.” Just as suddenly as he said it, he also hadn’t given us time to say anything before pulling over once more, this time in front of a mechanic's place. A sign reading “Guenther’s Auto Repair” in big red letters hung above a large garage unit. The smell of metal and grease breeze by my nose as I exit the car, following after the two taller men with what I thought was a forgotten sadness now back. I can’t imagine how they must feel, how Dean must feel.
They effortlessly found and began a discussion with the owner, easily lying about being cops which felt especially wrong today. It felt wrong to lie to anyone from the town I pretty much grew up in, even if I never knew any of them.
“So you and John Winchester, you used to own this garage together?” Dean asks the older man. I knew their father was a mechanic but hadn’t known he had his own garage and partner.
“Yeah, we used to, a long time ago. Matter of fact, it must be, uh…twenty years since John disappeared. So why the cops interested all of a sudden?” He says, whipping his dirty hands on a rag stained with car grease.
“Oh, we’re re-opening some of our unsolved cases, and the Winchester disappearance is one of ‘em.” Dean answers smoothly, and I guess it isn’t technically a lie either. He accepts the answer with no further, visible, speculation, “Oh, well, what do you wanna know about John?”
“Well, whatever you remember, you know, whatever sticks out in your mind.” Dean suggests.
“Well…he was a stubborn bastard, I remember that.” He laughs. “And, uh, whatever the game, he hated to lose, you know? It’s that whole Marine thing. But, oh, he sure loved Mary. And he doted on those kids.” To that I have to stop myself from reacting, for some reason I can’t picture John being anything less of what he is now, in terms of strictness and toughness.
“But that was before the fire?” Sam points out.
He nods, “That’s right.”
“He ever talk about that night?” Sam adds. He seems to think for a moment, “No, not at first. I think he was in shock.”
“Right. But eventually? What did he say about it?” Sam clarifies.
“Oh, he wasn’t thinkin’ straight. He said somethin’ caused that fire and killed Mary.”
“He ever say what did it?” Dean asks this time.
“Nothin’ did it. It was an accident –- an electrical short in the ceiling or walls or somethin’. I begged him to get some help, but….” He explains.
“But what?”
“Oh, he just got worse and worse.” He answered, sympathy written all over his face.
“How?” Dean asks carefully.
“He started readin’ these strange ol’ books. He started goin’ to see this palm reader in town.” He says, suddenly catching my attention, an air of familiarity surrounding it.
“Palm reader? Uh, do you have a name?” Dean questions. I scrunch my eyebrows together trying to remember why this was familiar.
He responds at the same time it suddenly hits me, “No” he scuffs.
The name leaves my mouth in quiet thought, “Missouri Moseley.”
All three of them look at me strangely, before Dean grabs hold of my upper arm, throwing the man a smile and a “Excuse us.” He begins pulling me away from the garage and back to the car, his brother following after us after he had thanked the man.
“Where’d you get that name from?” Dean asks me sternly, looking down at me with sharp curious eyes, his grip on my arm never faulting.
I look up at him, his green eyes piercing mine, expectantly, but I find myself at a loss for words. Each syllable ready to be spoken but dying on my tongue, all in the fault of once more feeling like my younger self. Sam reaches for his brother's shoulder, almost pulling him away from me, “Ease up, Dean.” He shakes his brother off, but listens, releasing my arm and swallowing thickly, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to-“
“It’s okay” I cut him off quickly. I wasn’t scared of him at that moment, but of the past and I knew he was too. We all were.
“I remember your dad came over and mentioned that name, along with her being the real deal. I just don’t remember what the conversation was about, I mean it had to be years ago…” I feel my eyebrows scrunch together again as I try to recall more, glimpses of the memory popping up. Our dads sitting on the long vintage couches my mom had bought for the house while me and my brother ran outside to play, “It was at the original house, m-maybe a year before we moved to Kansas.”
“So three years after mom died” Sam nods.
“Yeah that seems about right, but I’m not sure if that encounter was like right after your dad met this Missouri or some time after.” I add
“It sounds familiar. '' Dean breathed out before rounding the car to the trunk, digging through it before pulling out the journal. “In Dad’s journal…here, look at this.” He flips it open, handing it off to his brother, “First page, first sentence, read that.”
Sam takes the book, reading the sentence out loud, “I went to Missouri and I learned the truth.”
“I always thought he meant the state.” Deans shrugs.
Missouri’s house was a cute little two story place. I admire the light brown wood paneling and stained glass windows, something I knew my mom would have loved. Dean and Sam sat squished together on a small couch, all of us waiting for her to be finished with her client. I choose to stand, not only to see them both quietly fight to sit on the couch but also to slightly look around the place without wandering around.
A round faced, warm brown skinned lady with big curly hair tied back in a ponytail escorts a man out of her house, “All right, there. Don’t you worry ‘bout a thing. Your wife is crazy about you.” She tells him, her voice a natural soft and sweet tone, accompanied with a southern accent.
She closes the front door behind him, turning to face us, “Whew. Poor bastard. His woman is cold-bangin’ the gardener.” Her sweet voice does nothing to soften her blunt statement, my eyes go wide with the comment.
“Why didn’t you tell him?” Dean asks her,
“People don’t come here for the truth. They come for good news.” She answers simply, causing the room to fall quiet for a beat, “Well? Y/n, Sam and Dean, come on already, I ain’t got all day.” She leaves the room, I follow after her only pausing when I realize the boys weren’t following. I turn back towards them waving them over, they share a look before getting up and following.
“Well, lemme look at ya.” She laughs, “Oh, you boys grew up handsome.” She points a finger at Dean, “And you were one goofy-lookin’ kid, too.” A burst of laughter slips through my lips before I can control myself, his face falls and he glares at her.
Her gaze turns to me, my laughter dying out but a permanent smile left on my face, “Oh, you never lost your beauty” She smiles.
“You knew me when I was younger?” I ask, confused.
“Well of course, I knew your mother. Bless her soul” She answers, only leaving me more confused ‘cause my mom never mentioned her and I would sure remember such a sweet and funny woman.
“We helped each other out back then”, she explains, “She would always show me pictures of you and your brother. You were always a smiley girl, it’s good to see you didn’t lose that. Your mother would be glad too.” A warmth blossoms in my heart at that, my smile softens with me and it was like something I didn’t even know was within was fulfilled. It was hard to find new memories of my mom when I really didn’t know anyone who had known her, other than our family, to ask. Missouri hadn’t given me a full in depth memory and yet, it was enough. Enough to know someone else clearly adored my mom and had seen her in the same light I did. I don’t know why my mom never told us about her, but for some reason I didn’t feel the need to ask.
She gives me one last smile before giving her attention to Sam, she grabs his hand, her face falling, “Oh, honey…I’m sorry about your girlfriend.” A wave of shock clearly passes over the boys face, “And your father –- he’s missin’?” she continued.
“How’d you know all that?” Sam asks, clearly forgetting she is a psychic.
“Well, you were just thinkin’ it just now.” She explains.
“Well, where is he? Is he okay?” Dean rapidly spews out.
She half shrugs, “I don’t know.”
“Don’t know? Well, you’re supposed to be a psychic, right?” He snaps back, far too hostile.
She gives him a weird look, “Boy, you see me sawin’ some bony tramp in half? You think I’m a magician? I may be able to read thoughts and sense energies in a room, but I can’t just pull facts out of thin air.” A laugh passes through my lips before I could stop myself, I nudge Dean's shoulder who glares sharply at me before turning that look to Missouri, only furthering my spits of giggles that I try to bite back.
Her demeanor changes back to gentle, “Sit, please.” We listen to her, I took a seat beside Sam so that I wasn’t squished between both boys. Missouri suddenly snaps at Dean, “Boy, you put your foot on my coffee table, I’m ‘a whack you with a spoon!”
“I didn’t do anything.” Dean argues, his voice seemingly an octave higher- like a child.
“But you were thinkin’ about it.” She answers.
“Oh, I like you” I say through my laughter, it was quite the breath of fresh air to see someone put gruff ‘macho man’ Dean in his place.
Sam gets back on topic, whipping the smile that formed on his face, “Okay. So, our dad –- when did you first meet him?”
“He came for a reading. A few days after the fire. I just told him what was really out there in the dark. I guess you could say…I drew back the curtains for him.” She responds.
“What about the fire? Do you know about what killed our mom?” Dean asks.
“A little. Your daddy took me to your house. He was hopin’ I could sense the echoes, the fingerprints of this thing” She explains.
“And could you?” Sam asks
She shakes her head, “I…”
“What was it?”
She answers softly, “I don’t know. Oh, but it was evil.”, She pauses for a beat, “So…you think somethin’ is back in that house?”
“Definitely” Sam breathes.
She shakes her head again, “I don’t understand.”
“What?” Sam asks.
“I haven’t been back inside, but I’ve been keepin’ an eye on the place, and it’s been quiet. No sudden deaths, no freak accidents. Why is it actin’ up now?” She explains.
“I don’t know. But Dad going missing and Jessica dying and now this house all happening at once –- it just feels like something’s starting.” Sam says, eyebrows scrunched in worry.
“That’s a comforting thought.” Dean mumbles.
~~~~~~~~~
The ride back to the Winchesters house was the light in this complex time. The entire ride Missouri lectured Dean on his driving saying he was just a little too reckless and was gonna get us all killed despite it being a generally short one. They bickered back and forth a while until Dean gave up grumbling something below his breath, causing another snap response from the woman herself.
When we finally arrived Dean quickly got out of the car before anyone else could even register being parked, I genuinely don’t think I've ever seen him happy to be out of Baby. He had very obviously, and purposefully, positioned himself so that he was standing next to me away from Missouri, in fact two people away as she stood on the other side of Sammy. I searched for Dean's hand, my fingers brushed against his larger rougher hand. I clasped it gently, giving it a reassuring squeeze to hopefully ease his tension, caused by the beef he had with the nice lady that was helping us to begin with, even though I most definitely found the whole thing hilarious. Just as Sam knocked on the door I released Dean's hand, bringing both my hands to clasp in front of me. A peak of nervousness rests in my gut as I feel his gaze on me, I ignore it, focusing my eyes forward while I rock on the balls of my feet.
Jenny answers the door, her blond hair messy and clear stress present in the crinkled corner of her eyes and worry etched into her pupils. She holds her baby, Ritchie, close to her chest, “Sam, Dean, Y/N. What are you doing here?”
Sam smiles at the blond, “Hey, Jenny. This is our friend, Missouri.”
“If it’s not too much trouble, we were hoping to show her the old house. You know, for old time’s sake” Dean chimes in.
She scrunches her nose, “You know, this isn’t a good time. I’m kind of busy.”
“Listen, Jenny, it’s important.” Dean tries to explain before Missouri smacks him hard on the back of the head, far harder than I ever do, “Ow!” He yelps, turning around swiftly towards the shorter woman, “How did you-!” He nearly yells holding the back of his head. He looks at her with big wild eyes, his yelling coming from the fact she was able to quietly get behind Sam and I to hit him.
Missouri cuts him off, “Give the poor girl a break, can’t you see she’s upset?” She then turns to Jenny, “Forgive this boy, he means well, he’s just not the sharpest tool in the shed, but hear me out.” Dean looks further stunned.
“About what?” Jenny asks, adjusting her hold on her kid.
“About this house.” Missouri answers.
“What are you talking about?” Jenny looks between us all, nervously.
“I think you know what I’m talking about. You think there’s something in this house, something that wants to hurt your family. Am I mistaken?” Missouri says.
“Who are you?” Jenny asks just above a whisper.
“We’re people who can help, who can stop this thing. But you’re gonna have to trust us, just a little.” Missouri smiles comfortingly but even so Jenny looks unsure.
She seems to go over it in her head before finally sighing, “Alright.”
The four of us stand in Sari’s bedroom, Jenny having given us room to do what we need to while she waits downstairs with her kids. Sari’s room was a dark blue, a contrast to her pink and white furniture and toys.
“If there’s a dark energy around here, this room should be the center of it.” Missouri states, looking around the room carefully from where she stood.
“Why?” Sam asks.
“This used to be your nursery, Sam. This is where it all happened.” She answers, looking around the room. Dean pulls out his DIY EMF from the inside of his coat pocket, “That an EMF?” Missouri asks.
“Yeah.” Dean smiles smugly.
“Amateur.” Missouri says lowly, I don’t know why she was targeting Dean specifically but his reaction to her was too amusing to really ponder it.
The EMF beeps frantically, “I don’t know if you boys should be disappointed or relieved, but this ain’t the thing that took your mom.” Missouri announces.
“Wait, are you sure?” Sam asks frantically, getting a confident nod, “How do you know?”
“It isn’t the same energy I felt the last time I was here. It’s somethin’ different.” She answers, pausing for a beat before adding, “Can you feel it Y/N?”
My eyes widened in shock, “I’m sorry what?”
“You still got a lot to learn ‘bout your abilities'' She responds waving me over, “c’mere, you might be able to sense the energy.”
I hesitantly place my bag down before slowly walking over to her, she either senses my nervousness or reads my mind because she explains what she means, “Witches tend to have the best intuition and connection to the natural world, you should be able to sense energies especially spiritual ones with a second sight.”
She situates me in front of her with my back towards her, her hands clasp my arms tightly as they rest at my side. “Close your eyes, and just like meditation let everythin’ else fall away.”
I follow her instructions, my eyes fluttering shut reluctantly. I feel incredibly silly as I take a deep breath, the sage-y perfume of the woman behind me filling my nose. I breathe out slowly, forcing my mind to shut out the real world, which isn’t as hard as it should be with the quiet room and my nearly regular meditating. Complete darkness surrounds me as if the room itself had fallen away with all the people in it too, just me floating in an abyss.
I focused more closely on the house itself, extending my awareness far out to the block and then as if a dark fog hugged it I zeroed in on the house. Using my conscious self I pictured what it was like to walk through the house this time with a deep focus and new eyes.
With each step I ventured further into the house cautiously, a buzzing feeling rang through the house like when two strong magnets fight for equilibrium with a clatter. But despite the buzzing a physical warm glow emitted from the home's edges and like a hand reaching out it tried to conquer more of the house, yet it couldn’t. A force I couldn't quite tell held it back. The hair on the back of my neck stood tall, a cold chill running down my spine, I shrugged it off as I walked back up the stairs and down the hall to my physical self.
My foot only breached the doorway when a dreadful feeling filled the halls as if rooted beneath the wallpaper, a twinge of fear made its home in my stomach. I had never done this before, never went into my mind to feel the very things I hunt. I have no experience here, this is not my domain. They must know that as hushed murmurs fluttered around me with voices I couldn’t detect but knew they didn’t belong to anyone in the room. They wouldn’t be able to talk to me here so normally, maybe Missouri but certainly not Sam or Dean.
The murmurs became louder, each whisper jumbled over the next, talking over each other to the point of no recognition. My back hits the hard archway of the door's entrance, the sheer loudness of combined voices knocking me off balance. I braced myself against the door, nails biting into wood, my eyes shut tightly in effort to focus even further.
An unfamiliar cold hand brushes my forearm dragging its fingers up to my elbow as if standing beside me, I swiftly turn around backing up a few feet to see nothing near me. Another brush touches me, this time the back of my neck accompanied by a hot breath fanning by my ear. I don’t move away. this is not my domain, but it will be, and I will not show fear now. Latin spews from its mouth flowing right into my ear, a simple teasing statement, “Another toy.”
My eyes shoot open, pupils blown wide as my eyes adjust to the lighting as well as my mind being back in focus of the physical realm. My heart beats harshly against my chest, my lungs heaving with adrenaline.
A large hand clasps around my upper arm tightly, I nearly stumble back a step before my mind finally catches up with the present. “What is it?” Dean spews out quickly, his green eyes nearly crazed with worry.
I open my mouth to answer only to have Missouri answer for me instead, “You saw them.”
“F-felt more like” I stammer the feeling of its touch still lingering.
“What are they doing here?” Dean asks, looking between Missouri and I for answers, his hand still on my arm. Thing is I don’t have an answer, all that creepy spirit touching and I still don’t know everything.
But of course Missouri does, “They’re here because of what happened to your family. You see, all those years ago, real evil came to you. It walked this house. That kind of evil leaves wounds. And sometimes, wounds get infected.”
“This house buzzes with energy, literally you can feel it attracting paranormal energy. There’s two here right now…ones in the room. My head turns towards the closet, “A poltergeist. I’m not sure if it sees it as a game or what but I think it wants Jenny and her kids dead.” I know I’m right when Missouri nods her head.
“You both said there was more than one spirit.”
“There is. I just can’t quite make out the second one.” Missouri answers before adding, “You pick up anythin’”
“Only that it felt…good, if that makes sense. It was very different from the other. It was like this warmth trying to consume the house or really rid the house of its evil.” I answer by trying to make sense of everything that I have experienced.
“You’re sure of this?” Dean asks me, gaining my attention again by squeezing my arm before finally letting go.
“Yes.” I breathe simply, failing to explain that my only other hunch was the fact that it hadn’t been bothering me or I suppose terrorizing me like the poltergeist had with its touching.
A hard determined look sharpens on Dean's face, “Well, one thing’s for damn sure –- nobody’s dyin’ in this house ever again. So whatever is here, how do we stop it?”
“We’re gonna cleanse the house” Missouri answers simply, “Y/N, what you have in that bag of yours?”
A devilish smirk stretches itself on my face, “You wanna do purifying bags?” I ask back instead of answering. I walk back over to my discarded bag picking it up and swinging it over my shoulder, “Let’s do this downstairs, don’t want to make a mess in the kids room” Missouri says, answering my question without really answering it.
“Copy” I smile, taking the lead as we exit the room. With a sudden need for my specialty I found a new pep in my step as I quickly descended the stairs beelining for the nearest table. I carefully placed my bag down on the dining room table, pulling out my spell book marked and written in along with small corked glass bottles of different roots and herbs I carry. “When did you put all of this in your bag?” Sam asks, picking up a vial of crossroad dirt.
“Before I left with Dean to come get you, ‘cause you never know when you're gonna have to put together a spell or a potion of sorts” I answer, pulling out a couple empty small brown pouches.
“So you’ve been carrying this ‘round with you this whole time?” Dean asks this time.
“Mhm” I hum as I sit getting right to work.
With a little bag in front of me I put in each ‘ingredient’, for lack of a better word, not needing to look at my book for the right amount in each.
“Well don’t be lazy, help the girl!” Missouri lectures hitting Dean on the back of the head again. He grumbles no longer snapping back with something, he sits down next to me looking for direction.
With the feeling of his gaze on the side of my face I swirl my finger towards my spell book, a purple haze floating through the air turning the pages of my book to the right section for him to follow without me having to stop my work. He doesn't say anything as he takes off his jacket and rolls up the sleeves of his flannel, putting his forearms on display as he picks up bits of root, unfortunately catching my attention enough to pause my work and stare at him.
His eyes move from my book to the bag he was working on, his eyes sharp and focus as it passes across the words on the page. He moves his hand to the book using a finger to drag across the page underneath each word, the veins in his hand bulging as he does so. His eyebrows scrunch and his jaw ticks as he asks, “What is this stuff anyway?”
“That’s angelica root your holding” I mentioned first, referring to the fuzzy green plant in his hand. “And that’s van van oil, crossroad dirt, sage” I point to each bottle, naming off each ingredient we’re using.
He nods as I speak, his eyes still holding the same level of focus. From his listening to the gentle touch he used as he handled each bottle, all I could feel was pure endearment. The sudden quietness in the room made me painfully aware of the fact that we were the only ones left in said room and that Missouri along with Sam had left at some point, most likely to talk to Jenny.
“What are we supposed to do with it?” Dean questioned, knocking his knee into mine to get my attention once more. A bashful smile breaks its way onto my face at his touch, “We put them inside the walls of each corner of each floor of the house, north, south, east, west.”
“We’ll be punchin’ holes in the dry wall. Jenny’s gonna love that.” Dean points out.
My lips formed a tight line, cringing, “Yeah…this is just how this goes but to be fair some holes in the walls are better than evil spirits.”
He huffed a laugh, “And this will destroy the spirits?”
“It should, it's supposed to purify the house completely, we’ll probably each take a floor but we do have to work quickly because when they catch on to what we’re doing, they get seriously pissed.” I answered
“Won’t they catch on with us doing it here?”
“You would think that but spirits don’t always know until it’s actually happening like when we make the holes then it’s a big deal.” I inform, tying off another bag.
“Huh” He replies as he continues to work.
Soon silence falls upon us while we work, our arms brushing against each other every now and then.
“Are holes in drywall a hard fix?” I ask, breaking the comfortable silence, worried that the spirits won’t be the only pissed ones.
A deep chuckle passes through his lips, “That depends, sweetheart, but it should be.” He went on to explain the logistics of it, and while it wasn’t something I really cared to know about I didn’t stop him from explaining.
By the time his explanation of spackles and walls was over our purifying bags were done too.
Missouri and Sam walk back into the room, the floor creaking slightly underneath them. “You guys almost done?” Sam asked
“Yup” I hummed, “The bags are all done just gotta finish cleaning up”
“Good. Jenny and her kids just left, they’ll be back in an hour or two” Sam explained, placing a bunch of heavy items on the table. “I brought these in from the car, take your pick.”
I look up at the heavy mass, a hammer, a small ax, and two crowbars lay on the table. Though it is an odd collection of weapons as long as it is capable of making a hole in the wall it doesn't really matter, Sam picks up the hammer testing the weight of it in his hand.
With every part of the plan settled I throw the rest of the vials and leftover bags in my bag worrying about organization later, gently tucking my thick spell book into my bag I turn swiftly around, “Let’s get it done.”
“I’ll take this floor” Dean says, picking up his four bags, “Sammy you take upstairs, and you two can take the basement.”
“And remember you need to put a bag in each corner, north, south, east, west.” I order as everyone has the right amount of bags and a weapon of choice.
A collective nod was all we needed to spring into action, with the cold heavy crowbar in my hand I took the lead down the basement Missouri following closely after me. Without any words needed, we split up her heading to the west side of the floor and me to the east.
A chill runs up my spine, an uncomfortable feeling floating in the air, I roll my shoulders trying to rid myself of the feeling. My knees hit the floor, the coldness seeping through my pants. I knock on the wall in an attempt to hear a hollow part, Dean having mentioned before that would be the easiest way to make a hole. My knuckles hit the wall in at least ten separate spots before it no longer sounds solid. I stand back up for better leverage before changing my hold on the crowbar to be horizontal, bashing the end of it into the wall repeatedly until it cracks.
A heavy sliding noise shuffles behind me, I snap my head to the sound of a large dark table moving across the floor right into Missouri. My mouth opens to scream her name in warning but just as the first syllable leaves my mouth a nail comes flying at my face. Out of reflex alone I send the nail flying to the left, the invisible force of my power altering its trajectory. My eyes follow where the nail came from, an open red tool box, more nails come flying my way and each time I knock them away. Knowing it wouldn’t stop I gripped the crowbar harder using only a glimpse back at the wall to know where I was aiming for. While I used one hand and half my focus on changing the direction of the nails I used my other to slam the crowbars end into the already cracked wall but only when it sounded like it broke through enough did I glimpse back again. With another look forward at the coming nails, only one more left, I waited until it got closer, the old nail zooming toward my eye. Just as it got but an inch away I dropped to the floor, turning my body as I went, throwing the purification bag in.
I got up quickly, dropping my crowbar, almost tripping over my other foot as I ran to Missouri, pushing the table away from her, throwing another bag into the hole she had already made before she got attacked. She breathes heavily, a hand on her chest. “You okay?” I ask, putting a hand on her shoulder and leading her away from the table. She nods her head, handing me her two bags, wordlessly telling me to finish the floor.
I grip the bags in one hand as I pick up my discarded crowbar, seeing the nails that flew at me sticking out of the walls. I head over to the undisturbed wall slamming the crowbar into the wall, not even attempting to do the knocking at this point. While I threw in the third bag, worry consumed me at the realization that the spirits must be attacking the boys too. Without wasting any more time I go to the last undisturbed wall, again slamming the crowbar into it. Call it paranoia or instinct that made me turn so that my shoulder was facing the wall instead of my face to see if another attack would be coming. Either way it was that alone that saved me from the poltergeist throwing a wooden chair at my head. I duck again just in time for the chair to smash into pieces above me, wood undoubtedly falling into my hair.
“Stop throwing stuff!” I yell at the air itself or really the incredibly annoying poltergeist. With a huff I throw in the last bag, all the activity silencing on this floor. I get up walking over to Missouri as I pick out chunks of wood from my hair, as soon as I get close enough she reaches up and takes a particularly large piece of chair out of my hair showing it to me with a laugh before tossing it somewhere on the floor.
“Y/N!” A voice yells with a strain, clearly coming from a distance away. Right away I recognize the voice, Deans, I go running climbing up the stairs two at a time. Forget about my hair, forget about leaving Missouri behind (no offense).
The ground floor is practically untouched other than the clear mess that is peeking out from the kitchen, I look around quickly and see no one, “Dean?!” I shout back evident fear in my voice, getting an immediate “Up here.” Slight relief hits me as I again sprint up the stairs, twirling around the banister the second I reach the second floor seeing the closest open door. Forgetting about precautions I immediately approach the door, my hand on the archway when I see Dean on the floor cradling a hurt-limp Sam.
“Wha-“ I begin saying only to lose my train of thought.
“Let’s get him up” Missouri suddenly says from behind me, very calmly. She nudges past me heading straight for the boys, but neither of them move. She leans down beside Sam pressing two fingers to the side of his neck, “He’s still alive, he’ll be just fine.”
He gives her a curt nod before leaning back on his feet and standing, dragging his brother up with him, just as he does so Sam comes to. His eyes fluttering open and close, “It’s okay Sammy, just gonna bring you downstairs” Dean tells him, putting his brother's arm around his shoulder.
Carefully he walks his brother downstairs, Sam grumbling something halfway through before going limp again. Finally they reach the living room, Dean carefully lays his brother on the couch then moves to sit on the coffee table right across from him.
“He’ll be alright” I say softly, placing a hand on Dean's shoulder.
“I know” he replies.
“Were you able to finish the floor?” I ask even though maybe it wasn’t the proper time to.
“No. I was hurled with knives the second I made the hole, then I heard something upstairs and ran to see if Sammy was okay…I don’t think he finished either” He explains, his eyebrows scrunched together.
“It’s okay, i’ll go finish it and you guys can stay here, watch over him” I say, giving his shoulder a little squeeze before moving my hand away.
“Are you crazy?! That’s dangerous. Did you not just see what happened to Sam?!” Dean shoots back, not quite yelling but his voice is definitely louder than needed.
I smiled at him sweetly knowing this was coming from a place of worry and not an incompetent sort of deal, “Don’t worry I can take care of myself just fine, I did so down stairs when we finished up. Got some nails thrown at me, a chair and a table, you know just the usual playing house with the ghost.”
“That’s not the point. I’m coming with you.” He stands up abruptly and I swear I saw his jaw tick.
“Okay. I’m not gonna argue with you” I respond with humor in my voice. “But. If you did want to stay behind to watch your brother I wouldn't fault you for it either.”
He looks at me strangely with those beautiful green eyes before diverting them just past me, “I’m coming with you.”
“Right.” I smile “‘You got the bags?”
He answers by shuffling through his jacket pockets and pulling out a bag from each, he holds them up in an almost teasing way. I take a half step forward, grabbing a bag right out of his hand, only then realizing how close my small step puts us, having to lean my head back far enough to look up at him comfortably. But I don’t move away as I ask him, “What about your axe?”
He tilts his head down slightly towards me, his breathe hot on my face, “Dropped it in the kitchen”
“Good.” I say, nearly and pathetically getting distracted by our closeness…and his eyes… and his lips. “ ‘Cause I have no idea where I left that crowbar”
He laughs and steps away, his shoulder brushing mine as he walks away to the kitchen. Before I can turn to follow him Missouri meets my eyes, giving me a pointed-knowing look about what just happened. ‘Shut up’ I playfully mouth.
Finally I turn around following after the man in question. He comes out of the kitchen holding the small axe but just behind him is a mess. The kitchen looks like a tornado went through it with draws and cabinets open, utensils on the floor, broken dishes scattered around, the table turned over with knives sticking out of it (a tornado could not do that but the point of the mess still stands.) I look back at Dean then behind him repeatedly, “Did you have fun?” I remark sarcastically.
“Oh, not as much fun as you had” He replies gruffly, reaching up to my hair, his fingers sinking in as he ruffles out small chips of wood. My cheeks feel warm at the small contact and even more so when he pulls away and gives me that smirk. Then he walks away towards the back of the house with a cocky look in his eye like he knew exactly what he had done. I take a short deep breath before following him.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
A few hours later every purifying bag is put in place and Sammy is conscious and now we stand in the disaster that is the kitchen, broken cabinets and chair bits on the floor as well as a collection of utensils, all just to see the bunt of the fight.
“‘You sure this is over?” Sam questions, his voice a little rough.
“I’m sure. Why? Why do you ask?” Missouri answers.
“Never mind.” He sighs, “It’s nothin’, I guess.”
The front door opens followed by footsteps, “Hello? We’re home.” Jenny calls out before finding us in the kitchen pure shock written on her face, “What happened?”
“Hi, sorry. Um, we’ll pay for all of this.” Sam word vomits, the words spilling out quickly and anxiously. Both Dean and I’s heads snap towards him, I seriously want to ask him ‘with what money???’ But before anyone can fathom a word Missouri beat us to it, “Don’t you worry. Dean’s gonna clean up this mess.” Again with her (maybe) uncalled targeting I have to bite back a smirk, meanwhile Dean stands unmoving his eyebrows scrunched looking at the shorter woman with a total bewildered expression.
“Well, what are you waiting for, boy? Get the mop.” She adds, and I don’t know how she has this much power but he listens and begins to walk away or really shuffle away, “And don’t cuss at me!” She lectures.
Laughter slips through my lips as he mutters under his breath, Sam joining in on the hilarious nature that is his brother being bossed around.
Wiping a tear out of the corner of my eye I touch Sam’s shoulder, “I’m gonna go get him and fix this up…” I twirl my finger slightly to signal I mean magically, “Bring Jenny inside somewhere.” He nods, “Okay but you should really let him suffer”
I laugh again, rolling my eyes as I move away.
I find Dean standing in front of a broom closet trying to balance several cleaning objects in his hands at once. I admire his effort but there’s just no way anyone could clean that kitchen when it’s quite literally just destroyed. I grabbed a broom from him that was seconds away from falling, “Not to ruin your fun but I figured it would be easier to use magic on the kitchen than a mop.”
“Thank god” He sighs, shoving everything back in the closet including the broom I held.
Back in the kitchen I try not to get stressed at just how bad it is. Taking a calming breath I walk over to the kitchen counters, closing my eyes, I feel my hair move around me slightly from a small drift in the room, my body stands completely still as I let my hands feel the cool counter below me and the steadiness of it all. As my body relaxes and my shoulders drop, relieving its tension I become a conduit for magic, a dance of ethereal threads weaving through me. The energy flowed from my core to my fingertips, the flow gracefully extending to every nook and cranny. As if tracing an intricate pattern, it embraced the room, coaxing broken shards and scattered pieces back into harmony. The air felt electric with the essence of restoration, and the kitchen hummed with the soothing melody of enchantment.
When I open my eyes again, I feel a gaze on me. I turn my whole body, so that I was standing sideways, to it and of course it’s Dean, he meets my eyes, his mouth just slightly agape and I can only imagine what the swirling of purple energy around the room fixing items must have looked like. His green eyes are slightly glossy with what is maybe curiousity or amazement, either way it was a weird look. Before I could question him I saw, out of the corner of my eye, a tall familiar figure. Sam stands by the kitchen archway waving his hand, signaling it was time to go.
Hours later darkness consumes the Impala. After dropping Missouri back home Sam insisted we came back to the house for a stakeout. It was hard to argue with someone who had a bad feeling over something that is quite literally life or death, so we stayed. We’d been in here so long in fact that I’d taken to lying down flat in the backseat, my legs propped up on the seats (shoes off so Dean wouldn’t complain but at least I got to showcase my cute dragonfly socks).
I stare up at the beige-ish interior roof, my hands laying across my chest. I breathe in and out evenly, but with the prospect of being bored, memories of my life here swarm my head and suddenly I miss my mom more than I've had in a long time. If I focus hard enough on the roof I can still hear the remnants of her laughter and I could see her smile, the one I inherited, on her soft face. That old longing, that old sadness that I thought I was over fills my heart, its hands creep up on it clasping it tightly. It’s been years. So many years since she’s been gone and yet still this feeling—this rawness in my chest, this endless longing is home in my body just as it was the first time around.
I miss my mom.
I want to cry and I want her back, tears threaten my eyes and that stupid tightness in my throat prevails almost like it’s choking me, a tightness that’s so painful I want to rip my throat out. I swallow forcefully, I hate this feeling and I hate death and I hate that I'm feeling this in the back of the car with my best friends just right up front. It’s too vulnerable, it’s too open, too close to home…I want to go home.
I want to go home.
I shut my eyes tightly trying to erase these feelings to move them back in the dusty box they had sat in. But it isn’t that easy and I know it isn’t so instead I breathe deeply and choose to listen to Dean and Sam talk, focusing on the up and down of their words and the softness of each syllable.
“All right, so, tell me again, what are we still doin’ here?” Dean asks, impatience clear on his tongue.
“I don’t know. I just…” Sam sighs, “…still have a bad feeling.”
“Why? Missouri did her whole Zelda Rubenstein thing, the house should be clean, it should be over.” Dean explains.
“Yeah, well, probably. But I just wanna make sure, that’s all.” Sam answers.
“Yeah, well, problem is I could be sleeping in a bed right now.” Dean responds and I hear him slide down his seat, probably closing his eyes in the process, “Like Y/N back there” he adds, softer, and even with my eyes closed a smile produces itself on my face. The small warmth that spreads in my chest fends off the grief, at least enough for it not to be at the forefront of my mind.
The quiet peace that falls over the Impala is short lived, Sam suddenly yelling, “Guys. Look” My eyes shoot open, “Dean!” He hits his brother's shoulder.
I sit up quickly catching a glimpse of Jenny yelling by her window, with nothing more to be said- we jump out of the car. I shuffled to the car door, leaving my shoes behind, the second I’m out and the door is slammed shut I run after the boys who were only two paces ahead. “You two grab the kids, I’ll get Jenny.” Dean commands as Sam tries the door which of course is locked. Dean pushes him slightly to the side, he takes a step back lifting his leg and kicking in the door. Broken pieces of wood stick out from the side of it.
The dark wooden floors are cold beneath my sock-covered feet, each step up the staircase seems far too long even as we reach the top. At the top Dean stops at a door close to the stairs but I don’t use any more focus to take anything else as Sam and I run down the hall, “Get Sari! I’ll get the baby!” I yell after him. Stopping at the closest door I swing it open only to reveal a bathroom, I curse underneath my breath before spinning around to the door right across the hall. Once more I swing it open, this time revealing a baby room with a white crib in the middle of it. I rush over only slowing to not scare Richie as I approach, somehow he’s still asleep wrapped up in his little blanket.
Carefully I reach in the crib scooping him up from underneath his upper back, my other arm going for his legs. Once in my arms I rearrange him so my dominant hand rests on his lower back while the crook of my other arm cradles his little head, just like holding a baby doll except this one is way cuter and also very alive. Standing back at my full height I fix his blanket around him before exiting the room. I know Sam can handle himself so I head towards the stairs, the baby had to be the priority right now. I quickly descend the stairs, only half way down when I feel Sam close behind, a relief hitting me.
My feet only just hit the ground level when Sam calls my name, swiftly I turn towards him Sari in his arms.
“Y/N, you need to take the kids and go outside.” He orders, placing Sari on the floor.
“Okay, what about you aren’t you coming?” I rushed out, cradling Richie in one arm so I could take hold of Sari’s hand.
Panic is written all over his face and something else lies in his eyes, “Take them. Don’t look back” And before I can argue any further he’s nudging me forward, reluctantly I go only because I know I can’t help with two kids in my arms. I run towards the door at this point, pulling Sari along with me, just behind me I hear a slam to the floor and I know it’s Sam- relief gone. But even so I rush forward.
The chill breeze of the night hits me hard. Jenny and Dean stand on the edge of the grass line. Only a few paces from them Sari lets go of my hand and runs to her mom, Jenny leaning down to catch her and hold her tightly. “Sam’s inside you have to go now” I speak quickly, my words jumbling over itself. Dean's eyes widen and pure fear fills them, on top of being scared guilt fills me now too. He runs to the front door and I hear it slam loudly. I hand Richie back over to his mom who is very obviously relieved to have him again.
Dean runs back to the Impala pulling out a shotgun and an ax, going right back to the door. I know I could open the door for him, it would be easy and I wouldn’t even break a sweat. Yet, my feet remain planted to the grown, the chaos of it all—the guilt. My purifying bags didn’t work, it nearly got a whole family killed and Sam’s now in trouble too. It’s my fault. It’s my fault.
My feet won’t move, my body won’t react, I can't even redeem myself. I don’t want to lose anyone else, I don’t want to. I can’t.
Move.
Move. Please move, I beg myself— my very being to do something anything but be helpless. I hate being helpless and yet I’m here doing nothing, anxiety and fear encasing me to this spot. I hear Dean hacking away at the door, faint grunts leaving his mouth as he does so but still I can’t move. Sari begins to cry latching on to her moms legs only waking up Ritchie in the process who then begins to cry too. The loud crying rings in my ears, only making my heart beat faster.
Jenny, visibly overwhelmed, wrestles with the challenge of consoling both kids, her distress mirrored in her eyes. Without conscious thought, my arms extend, offering to hold Ritchie. To my surprise, she entrusts the baby to me, planting a tender kiss on his forehead before gathering Sari into her embrace. Sari's legs encircle her mother's waist, a protective hand cradling the back of her head.
Richie moving in my arms breaks me out of my panic, if only because someone in need was right there, someone who surely couldn’t help themselves. I begin to rock him, moving my weight from one foot to another but my stress and worry is still there and he must feel it too because it does barely anything to help. I look back up, Dean is still hacking away at the door, not enough progress has been made. I rearrange the baby, using my free arm I lift up a hand my palm facing towards the direction of the door, with barely any thought needed the door slams open. Dean looks back at me for only a second before running in.
Richie's cries persist as I rock him, murmuring reassurances, "It's okay, everything will be okay." I desperately rack my mind for any calming measures, when I suddenly recall my mother singing me lullabies. But still I struggle to remember any of them, the memory too distant to be anything more than a hymn, instead I decide to softly sing "A Lullaby" by Dear Nora – even though it came out way after my mothers passing it always reminded me of her. And I had always kept a small hope that one day if I were to have kids that I would sing it to them too.
As I move a strand of hair from Richie's face, he begins to settle. My voice trembles with fear, but it seems to have a soothing effect anyways. Richie stops crying, and I meet Jenny's gaze. She offers a sad smile while holding her daughter close.
Both boys came out of that house. Relief had hit me like a ton of bricks, my knees felt wobbly with it. At first they could barely speak, shocked at what they saw but then the police and firefighters came and it was all the usual.
It was hours later until everything was resolved, and it wasn’t until Missouri came over that they actually spilt what happened. Their mom was there, she was the good spirit that I had felt, the one that was fighting off the evil and she did exactly that when it had attacked Sam. Somehow, she was still at the house after all these years protecting it. She had used the last of her abilities to say…sorry.
It’s morning now, Missouri cleared the house for real this time no spirit was left in there. The kids were sleeping still, Jenny was giving the photos she found to Dean and Sam sat with Missouri on the steps talking.
I had nothing to say to anyone in particular so I sat in the Impala, my legs outside the car, digging through my bag, when I finally pulled out my spell book I turned to the purifying page, I looked it over again trying to see if we did something wrong and messed up the amounts. But no. We did it right, but for some reason it didn’t work—it didn’t work and people could have died. Holding the book on my lap I reach up to the top of it, my hand holding the single page ready to tear it out when it’s suddenly taken from my grasp “Hey, what are you doing?!” Dean yells, holding it out of reach.
“It didn’t work. It needs to go, please give it back.” I answered, my jaw clenched.
“This was your moms, you’d hate yourself if you ripped it up.” Dean lectures.
“No I wouldn't, give it back. I need to make sure this never happens again.” I shoot up from my seat reaching up to grab it back but his arm shoots down behind his back.
“Yeah, you would. Sorry to break it to you sweetheart but I know you pretty damn well.”
I don’t care if he’s right. I don’t. That page needs to go, I can’t make this mistake again. I won’t. I reach for it again behind his back but again he moves it, “Dean. I’m not joking around give it back.” I don’t often get angry, but I am.
He looks down at me, his eyes scrunched in confusion and concern, “What’s going on with you?”
I huff, frustrated, “What’s going on is I messed up. Badly. They could have died and don’t try to say I don’t know that for sure because I do. And I know you do too, so I don’t need any comforting lies”
"We screw up, sweetheart. It's part of the gig. But we fixed it. They're alive and kickin', okay?" His words carried that gruff reassurance he always had, even when he was being a bit of a hypocrite. Book at his side, guard lowered just a bit, it was my chance to snag it back. "Not this," I jabbed a finger at the book. "I'm good at this. I don't mess up on this."
"I don't care that you're all emotional right now. You're not trashing your spell book." Arms crossed in front of his chest, he held his ground.
My chest heaved, my eyes scrunched in frustration as I looked up at him, my free hand in a tight fist my nails digging into my palm. “But, it needs to—“ I say back, weakly, already my fight was crumbling, being replaced with something else. Suddenly his arms were around me and my face was buried in his chest. His arms held my upper back tightly, his hands going up to cup my head, his fingers entangled into my hair a little while his chin rested on top of my head. With each breath I took, inhaling his smell of something woody and some sort of spice mixed into one, any resolve I had left was gone.
I wanted to keep fighting, I wanted to tell him he was wrong but he held me so close and so gentle that I couldn’t. If that in itself had made me weak then so be it. I wrap my arms around his center, even with my book in my hand. It had to be seconds later when he must have felt the tension leaving my shoulders when he pulled away, his hands dropped down to the crook of my arm holding me a short distance away. His green eyes locked with mine in a silent agreement.
I pull away fully when Sam and Missouri approach, quickly whipping my eyes just in case and tucking a piece of hair behind my ear. We each exchange hugs with her, even Dean who surprisingly gets no comment this time.
Missouri smiles, “Don’t you be strangers.”
“We won’t.” Dean nods as he rounds the car.
#fanfiction#supernatural#dean winchester#dean winchester x reader#sam winchester#john winchester#slow burn#witch reader#witchcraft#romance#the hunter and the witch#banter#childhood home#supernatural x reader#dean winchester x f!reader#dean winchester x witch reader#dean winchester x you#lore#witch lore#light angst#dead parents#winchester x reader#supernatural season 1#supernatural fanfiction#writing
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Blue Brownies and Finding Nemo, Part 4: BOTL
Summary:
“So how did you do it then? How did you forgive your mom?”
“I didn’t,” Annabeth shakes her head. “I don’t think I ever will. I just have to hope that I’m better for my future family.”
Percy cocks his head, his eyes light with wonder. “You think about that stuff?”
A chapter post-BOTL where Percy and Annabeth finally get to go on that movie date, featuring Rachel Elizabeth Dare angst, complex feelings towards Frederick Chase, fantasies of future Percabeth, and as it turns out, no movie at all?
Tagging: @yojeannie@angelthearsonist@m-cliffords-not-real-wife@that-chick-103@queerynotfound@thefabulousfab-3@montygreen@moonlightredfern @flamingbisexual08
Read on AO3
The person in the mirror at the back of the Delphi Strawberry Service van is a stranger to Annabeth.
Inside, she feels like she’s fought a million battles. The constant cycle of pouring over Daedulus’ laptop and crying herself to sleep has stretched her thin. Her hair has withered away from the stress of almost losing Percy, then actually losing Luke. The person she sees now looks like the face that launched a thousand ships. Silena had ambushed her outside the Athena cabin, covered the bags under her eyes with a magical shade-match foundation, and woven her hair with golden thread, just like she had it on Circe’s island.
“Trust me, I’ve seen the way he looks at you.” Silena reassured after charming Annabeth to vent to her about her date with Percy. She tapped her brush against her compact mirror and swirled it across her cheeks as she continued to comfort her, “There’s no need to worry about this Rachel girl.”
She wasn’t sure about that. She saw the way Percy’s eyes flitted towards Rachel in the Labyrinth, the way they spoke to each other with ease, nothing like the way she and Percy interacted. Yes, she and Percy had gone to the 4th of July fireworks this summer, but she’d also tried to tell him how she felt about him before he left for camp and… nothing. Annabeth had felt so stupid. For reasons including and not about Rachel at all, she was holding onto this movie date like it would be their last.
“Annabeth,” Percy flusters when he sees her hop out of the van on the corner of 72nd street. He’s wearing his nicest green jacket, blushing so red he nearly looks like one of Apollo’s cattles. “You-you look nice,” He finally manages after struggling through his words like he was reading Lord of the Flies in English.
“Thank you,” Annabeth tucks a strand of her braids behind her ear. She notices the shift in Percy’s expression. He knows something is wrong. Normally she would flick a smile his way and tease, but she’s so worn out by the nightmares about Luke and Kronos that she can’t even summon her pride to be vain about her looks. “So, are we going to see this steel man movie or not?”
Percy opens his mouth to correct her, then shakes his head and opens the door for her.
“Do you want any popcorn or something?” Percy gestures to the snack bar. “Tyson and I used to get a giant tub and share it with my mom. They make it pretty buttery here.”
“No need,” Annabeth smirks and opens the purse Silena gave her. “I have everything we need.”
“I’m confused,” Percy studies the empty lining of Annabeth’s purse. “Is this some kind of Mary Poppins situation?”
“Covered the snacks with the invisibility cap,” Annabeth zips up the bag and slugs it over her shoulder as she heads towards the escalator to the theater. “It’s not just useful for sneaking up on monsters. Plus I snuck some extra M and Ms in the cargo pants pockets.”
“And somehow Mrs. O’Leary didn’t follow you from camp?” Percy asks as they both climb onto the escalator, impressed.
“I fed her some blue gummies before I left.”
“Hellhounds can eat blue gummies? And those giant boar things hate egg salad? Seriously, why doesn’t Chiron just host courses on random picnic foods for monsters before each quest. Then I could get out of archery practice.”
‘Hey, you’re almost getting better,” Annabeth punches him lightly in the shoulder. “Last time you almost hit the target.”
“Haha, very funny,” Percy rolls his eyes, even though he knows it’s true. He’s as bad at archery as Annabeth is at gardening with the Demeter cabin. “Now come on. I want to show you something.”
Electricity sparks through Annabeth’s veins as Percy takes her wrist and leads her down a regal hallway. The hum from her heart is so loud it nearly drowns out her observations as she hurries past the red velvet carpet and black, marble Grecian pillars. She would have to make a note of that later when they were walking back from the theater. With Percy’s fierce urgency, Annabeth expects Percy to be leading towards some kind of secret tomb with rubies and emeralds, but instead, he takes her to a plaque outside the last theatre in the hall.
“These are what I was telling you about. Each of these theaters is designed after a movie palace from the twenties, a lot of them are still all around New York, decorated in a different architectural style. This one is from-”
“Art Deco!” Annabeth exclaims gleefully. She marvels at the style of the theater in the photo. “See? You can tell by the horizontal design elements on the marquee and doorways, alluding to Streamline Moderne style.”
“Horizontal elements? Because being vertical was too old school for the modern style?”
“Actually, you’re not too far off, Seaweed Brain,” Annabeth rolls her eyes, but a hint of a smile plays at the corner of her lips. “Horizontal lines gave an impression of sleekness and modernity in the 1930s, which I assume is when the original theater was built. See?” Annabeth turns back and skims through the plaque first, absorbing the most important ideas and key words. Then she rereads through it again, more slowly, imagining the construction of the arch and statues…
“How do you do that?” Percy asks, breaking her concentration for a moment. She quickly refocuses back on the photo of the theater, picking out structural details of the facade that were expanded upon in her reading.
“Do what?”
“I can barely spell my own name and you can speed read that entire passage in like, five seconds.”
“I can barely spell my own name too. I don’t know… being dyslexic, I just got my hands on whatever I could read when I was younger. My dad’s old house had a giant library when I was little, so I tried to read everything in there, and then when I got to camp, I had a lot of free time on my hands in the winter,” Annabeth turns back to Percy, and that’s when she notices how his eyes lay across hers, soft and full of wonder. She remembers how he pulled her in in the Athena cabin, when she had him all to herself at the beginning of the summer, before everything turned sour, how she tasted the sweet, salty taste of his lips even after it had been days since they had entered the Labyrinth. Suddenly, heightened nerves arrest Annabeth. Her heart rate quickens as she speeds through her explanation, doubting Percy notices the uncharacteristic tremble in her voice. “Chiron gave me a book on the Parthenon when I was 9, and then I just couldn’t stop reading, even though it’s still hard for me.”
“That’s really cool,” Percy’s voice is steeped in awe. It’s the same tone he used when Rachel had gotten them that car in New Mexico, and Annabeth can’t help but to feel proud of herself. “You know, I don’t know if I could ever become good at something that’s that challenging to me.”
Annabeth frowns. Sometimes Percy was so self-deprecating, it frustrated her. He was totally unaware of his own strengths. “Please, remember when you first started sword-fighting?”
“Hey, I thought you said I wasn’t bad.”
“You weren’t,” Annabeth remembers with a glint in her eye. “But you’re even better now.”
“But I didn’t even train that much, I just accidentally kind of… got better as I fought.”
“Percy,” Annabeth sighs, bowing her head in exasperation. “You’re a talented guy, but you can’t take a compliment to save your life.”
“Is that supposed to be a compliment? Because I honestly can’t tell.” Percy replies back dryly.
Annabeth scoffs, but they’ve known each other for so long she and Percy both know it’s free of malice. They both know this is one of the moments in the script they tease each other, but underneath all eye rolls and barbs is a deep understanding and respect of the other. They hold each other’s gaze and both wordlessly break out into smiles, realizing they’ve fallen back into their usual routine after a summer that threw a wrench in everyone’s schedule. Annabeth’s skin buzzes with excitement. She has a glimmer of hope that maybe this is a date, whether Seaweed Brain realized it or not. Yes, this was how they typically interacted, but there was something different in the way they spoke to each other as well, something she saw in Beckendorf and Silena interactions, new sweetness balancing out the usual sour tang.
“You know, it’s a compliment, Seaweed Brain. So just take it and acknowledge you’re a talented guy. Now come on, I want to read the other plaques before the previews start,” She leads the way towards the next plaque even though she’s never been to the theater and has no idea where she’s going, Percy groaning as he trails behind.
“All the plaques?” Percy questions, his blonde curls rattling as he shakes his head. “I swear, you and Rachel are just like each other. She wanted to read all the plaques when she came here too.”
Annabeth freezes in her tracks like snowboots caught in old snow. She turns to Percy slowly, her face crumpled.
“You’ve been here with Rachel before?”
Percy flinches a little at her tone: demanding, hurt, seething with rage. Still, he remains oblivious as he answers her question,
“Yeah, a couple times. She invited me to see a Matrix movie marathon a few weeks ago.”
He came here with Rachel multiple times since he came back from camp. Since he had come back from camp, he’d been hanging out with her, even though he’d asked Annabeth on a date months ago, even though he comforted her and let her hold his hand in the dark and shared his blanket with her as they watched the fireworks.
“Annabeth?” Percy’s voice is drenched in worry at Annabeth’s non-reaction. “Annabeth? Are you okay?”
“Excuse me,” Annabeth says quietly as she rushes towards the sign for the bathroom. She claims the unisex stall and hunches over the sink. For the first time that day, she finally sees the withered little girl she feels inside.
The tears come not as an eruption, but as a quiet trickle of disappointment in herself and everything her life had turned out to be. She wanted catharsis and a good cry, and yet, still she’s disappointed herself on that front.
She had no right to be angry and rude. Rachel was as talented as a child of Athena, as brave as a certain son of Poseidon, and as pretty as a daughter of Aphrodite. She glowed in the darkness of the Labyrinth and even as a statue in the middle of Times Square. She was smart and knowledgeable about art and Annabeth could’ve spoken with her about Jacque-Louis David for hours and hours. She could see why Percy liked her.
So why did it hurt so much that another person she loved left her for someone else, once again?
As Annabeth wipes her tears with the pack of tissues she’s stored under her invisibility cap, a sheepish knock taps at the door.
“Annabeth? Can I come in?”
“Yeah, that’s fine,” Annabeth calls with a slight bite to her voice. She brushes her tears off her face again, thankful for the magical smudge-free makeup of the Aphrodite cabin, for once.
The door creaks as an apprehensive Percy walks over and stands next to her over the sink. She averts her eyes down, knowing she’ll start to cry more if she meets his eyes.
“Hey, I’m sorry. Did I do something wrong?”
The softness of his apology splits Annabeth once again, and she feels guilty all over again for feeling so uncontrollably possessive and jealous over someone who was never hers.
“No,” She shakes her head, still fixated at the white marble of the sink. “No, you did nothing wrong.”
“Oh, okay, then uhhhh, do you want to check out the other plaques? I think we still have some time before the previews to read a couple more.”
“Can we just go to the park?” Annabeth sniffles, finally turning back to Percy. “Riverside?”
Percy winces as he watches her dab away at the last of her tears. He knows Percy expected her to ask to go to MET or the Morgan Library. She’s never told him, but being by the water is special for her, too. “Yeah, sure, of course.”
****
The kiss of summer sunshine brightens the scent of the grass so much, it almost smells like Camp Half Blood strawberry fields. The walkway winds around gated playgrounds, filled with children swinging their arms across the monkey bars as their parents lean against each other on a chipped park bench and watch them from afar. The Hudson glitters like the mischievous twinkle in Percy’s eyes, deep blue with flecks of silver and gold, and the thought of it makes her blush, realizing she’s thinking this while she’s standing right next to Percy. She’s thankful all over again for Silena’s makeup, causing her to wonder if she should start wearing blush more around him.
She and Percy match each other’s long, slow strides, the air between them thick with tension of all the things left unsaid, then thinned out again with the comfort and ease that’s existed between them for years. Annabeth looks back out onto the water and thinks about the stories her dad regaled her with before her stepmother came into the picture. Every so often, he would tell Annabeth how she came to be the most precious gift in his life, how he met the most beautiful, intelligent woman while studying at a magical place called Harvard, how they used to study together at Reading Room on the top floor, with paneled rooftop windows that ushered light that fell onto their faces. They talked in the library for hours, and when they needed a break, walked along Cambridge Harbor with ice cream cones that spilled onto their hands in a sticky mess. Whenever Annabeth was by a body of water, she thought of them happily together all those years ago, then of an alternate reality where they stayed together and the three of them were walking together, too.
If you loved each other so much, why isn’t she here with us? Annabeth had asked once, and her father’s face crumbled like a wrecking ball taken to a safehouse. Even though she grew older, and logically, she knew her mother couldn’t be with them, she couldn’t help but feel angry and sad that she never tried. Even though Annabeth and her step-family got along now, she couldn’t help feeling like she did before she ran away. If she couldn’t have her mom, why couldn’t she have her dad all to herself, instead of having to share his scattered brain with three other people?
“Hey,” Percy nudges her arm as Annnabeth descends further and further into her imaginary fantasy. “Thinking about your dad?”
Annabeth realizes she’s subconsciously touching her dad’s ring and drops her hand. She wonders how much she should tell Percy, how ridiculous it seems, but she stares back at him and knows he would understand her.
“You know why I wanted to come here?” She twists the ring in between her thumb and index finger and stares back out at Hoboken, across the river. “The summer my parents met, they used to take walks together by the Charles River. The way my dad talks about it…” Annabeth’s eyes get misty again, but she wills herself to push them away. “I can tell he really loved her. And sometimes when I walk along a body of water, I imagine that they’re still together and we’re a family. I know, it’s stupid.”
“No, it’s not stupid.” Percy reassures, with that sweet, genuine tone he uses to comfort her. He pauses for a moment then admits, “Actually, I uh, saw your vision at Siren Bay. I just didn’t bring it up because well,” Percy scratches the back of his head. “I think about my parents getting back together too.”
“Really?” Annabeth had discussed with her siblings how much they hated having one parent around, but she’d never felt secure enough to broach the topic of wanting her family back together.
“Yeah. I was actually just thinking about them now, even though we’re not in Montauk,” Percy flicks his eyes down for a moment, then towards the kids on the playground. “Did I tell you though that Paul wants to propose to my mom? He told me at my birthday party a few days ago, before my dad showed up.”
Annabeth is taken back. She knew about Poseidon showing up, but not Paul Blofis proposing. “How do you feel about that?”
“I’m happy,” Percy sounds upbeat, but she senses his voice falter, just the tiniest bit. That was Percy, always trying to accommodate everyone without thinking of himself. “I mean my mom was miserable for so long with Gabe. She deserves to be happy..”
“Dude,” Annabeth scolds, softly enough to coax him into admission.
“And….” Percy hesitates, because he can’t say a bad thing about anyone he cares about, even if it’s devouring him alive. “It does make me a little sad too, and I’m angry at my Dad for not getting it together and being with us too.”
“I know the feeling,” Annabeth murmurs. A gust of wind blows and whips her braids across her hair.
“So how did you do it then? How did you forgive your mom?”
“I didn’t,” Annabeth shakes her head. “I don’t think I ever will. I just have to hope that I’m better for my future family.”
Percy cocks his head, his eyes light with wonder. “You think about that stuff?”
“Sometimes,” Annabeth flushes hot. She’s never admitted that to anyone, because it’s embarrassing and illogical and stupid. She knows the rules of their world, but she can’t help but dream. “I know demigods don’t live past 16, but sometimes I picture myself as a famous architect, maybe a professor giving lectures across the world, and sometimes… I imagine myself with a family, too.”
Percy purses his lips together and thinks to himself for a moment. “You know, I’ve never thought about it too much before, but a family would be nice.”
And there he is, holding his gaze with hers again. Annabeth swallows and begins to fidget furiously with her fingers. A building can only be supported with a solid foundation, she realizes, and she never imagined herself with a family until she met Percy. Her heart leaps as she watches the golden light trickle through the tree branches and onto his cheeks. The way he stood was so easy, so relaxed, he slouched without thinking and his fingers always curled casually at the ends, like he didn’t think about what to do with his hands. Annabeth was deliberate in every movement, she overthought everything, and he just.. was. Even when it hurt to be around him, it was easy to be around him.
“Listen,” Percy breaks the silence with a hoarse whisper. “I’m sorry about Rachel.”
Annabeth stiffens at the mention of her name.
“Whatever.”
“Okay,” Percy says slowly. “Well it seems like you really don’t like it when I hang out with her, and I don’t know why.”
He really did have a thick skull.
“No seriously, I don’t care.” Annabeth crosses her arms. “You can hang out with whoever you want.”
“Well, okay then,” Percy dismisses, annoyed, before turning sincere again. “I just… I know things have been weird between us this past summer, and I just don’t want to be so distant from you.”
It really was hard to stay mad at him when he was so sweet, even when he was being an obtuse idiot.
“Well, unfortunately you’re stuck with me,” Annabeth brushes him off with a sarcastic comment to avoid the skip in her heart. “If we go down, we’re going down together, remember?”
“Okay,” A slow smile curls across Percy’s mouth, and the sunshine lit behind him makes it look like a halo with his smile and golden curls.“Good to know you’re still in on that.”
“Always,” Annabeth says with an eye roll, but she casts one last look at him in the light before turning to pretend to look at the river again instead of his handsome eyes. She curls her hands into fists to suppress the urge to reach out and hold his hand.
“On that note, let’s go get some ice cream,” He leads the way before Annabeth can object. “I’m buying.”
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While we are silent
Fandom: Castlevania series (2017-2021)
Relationship: Alucard x F!Reader
Rating: Explicit 🔞
Count: 2.5k
Part I
Tags & Warnings: action, angst, Inspired by Castlevania, mind control, blood and injury, canon-typical violence, profanity, hematophagy, sex outdoors, bloodlust, AFAB reader, blood kink, vampire!reader
AN: here's the last part, @chthonicsiren
This completes a series of sorts: To be free - A Place to Hide - While we are silent.
II.
Nature has fallen into sepulchral silence. You stare, wide-eyed, at the shadows surrounding you even as words meander vaguely through your conscious mind.
“Lord Corvin of Sarád.”
Adrian. You feel the tremble of his body next to yours, a tension grounding you to reality as his choked but steady voice resonates.
“This worked better than I’d thought,” the vampire speaks. “Didn’t it, my dear?” He turns a pale eye on you.
“You defected. My father spared you,” Adrian grits through his teeth, but the vampire's gaze is still set on you.
Chilling laughter trickles through the forest, icing its way down your spine.
The vampire smiles. “Defected… you and others called me, us, traitors,” he motions towards the looming presences with his arm. “Your family disgraces itself by mingling with humans, battling alongside them, welcoming the cattle into your abode. And you call me traitor?”
Adrian growls, the red flare in his eyes deepening to crimson. “Was it him?” he asks in a low, guttural tone, and dimly you realize what he is asking, and that he’s asking you.
“Oh, my, my. Do you think to challenge us all for the pet? Everyone has a weakness, especially your kind,” and the emphasis he places on the word 'kind' makes it as though he's spitting something heinous. “She is yours, just as you are your father's... It hurts, does it not? Being left vulnerable, having your existence uprooted while being powerless to stop it?”
Adrian deigns no reply. His eyes narrow.
“No, princeling, it was you who betrayed us. And now,” Corvin pauses, “I need but extend my hand, and she will come, for I am her maker.”
You don’t want to move, you will not, but in a haze you do, as if your limbs are tied and controlled by the threads of an unseen puppeteer.
A step is all you take before a heavy hand grasps your arm so tightly it hurts.
“Fight it, you must fight it,” Adrian murmurs, but he asks the impossible because the command is fused with your own self, and you can only heed the extended hand that beckons.
“Yes, fledgling, you are mine, and you’ve done well, drawing him out for me.”
You try, you scream and shriek, you’re fighting Adrian before you know it, struggling in his arms as the others watch.
Your maker taps a long clawed finger against his chin. “Enough of this.” He draws a long-sword. “Seize him,” comes the clipped order.
It all happens in a blur. You walk as in a dream, chaos ensuing behind you. There is savage fury and beams of crimson, and deep down, the part of you that loves hears Adrian struggling to repel the group unleashed on him.
Cold fingers dig into you, and pale, hypnotic eyes stare into your own. “Ahh,” your maker, the violator of your will and destroyer of your life, hums in admiration. “At first, you were but a weak pile of bones and meat. Now, look at you…” he takes you by the chin, thumbs at a fang. You shudder. “Beautiful…” he leans closer to a tree trunk, holding you fast; turning you around as you sway. Inside, you toil against this power, but it is futile. “Watch,” he whispers, and trapped in your own body you see Adrian fighting, felling a few of the attackers but there are others, always, always more.
And then, a harrowing cry of pain. Coolness streams down your face—it is blood.
“Sanctified, silver bindings,” Corvin offers, watching the coils having sprung from the assailants’ gloved hands, trapping Adrian so he cannot beam, cannot shapeshift, cannot fight as before; they bite into him and he falls to his knees, and you smell burning skin.
Three vampires are left, nearing him.
“Please…” you beg, unsure who it is you’re pleading to; there is no mercy here.
There has never been deviousness to you; you still refuse to kill, having gone against your nature until it becomes unbearable, until Adrian must offer you his own blood.
Adrian, kneeling beside you in a cold chamber. Bringing you close. Being there when you’re near to losing your sense, still there when you do, all those nights.
You are mine, the other whispers in your mind, and you catch the glowering red eyes of the one you need, hissing and still fighting and refusing to submit even with his powers caged.
“Yes…” you murmur, “I am yours…” you go slack in the vampire’s arms. “Master.”
“I knew you’d come to see reason in due time,” he drawls, turning you around to face him. “It has been some time, after all.”
You glance up demurely at him, your hand alighting on his shoulder. A glint catches your eye.
Your name, from Adrian’s lips.
Through a daze, anger as you’ve never known rumbles within, hot brimstone and shadow. In a movement so fast, faster than you’d ever known yourself to be capable of, you’re pulling the silver arrow that nearly struck Adrian out of the tree trunk and plunging it as deep as you can into your maker’s back; draw it out; plunge again.
He screams, releases you—and shearing agony has you wailing. You look down at the sword sheathed deeply in your womb.
“You fucking… slut…” The blade shears deeper, and you feel it through bone and tissue as it cuts into your body.
Blood pours from your mouth, but the arrow is still in your grip; you strike again and this time into his left eye, then fall back doubling over as his hold on both you and his weapon slackens.
Your name, from Adrian’s mouth, laced with desperation, has you turning around even as another vampire is upon you.
Somehow, you pull the blade from your body, parrying an attacking spear. “You thought this would be easy… didn’t you…” you grin, you’re laughing and if this is madness let it come, let it take over, let.it.burn.
Suddenly the lessons Adrian’s put you through all those times run in fast succession through your head, seep into your reflexes as you strike and cut and maim; slashing through an arm, through silver bindings, severing a head, the bloodied silvered arrow plunging into a chest.
Your name, your name, but that was before. You are no longer the one responding to it. That part of you has died.
And so has the one who turned you into this.
When silence falls, you see a blur of shapes, guttural cries abound. Someone rushes to your side; your palm goes to your middle even as hands—warm—are on your face, your shoulders; you fall forward, grasping at clothing.
“It’s all right, it’s all right,” Adrian murmurs, movements hasty and desperate.
“They…”
“All dead, all dead,” he chokes, removing his coat, and your vision regains some of its clarity: his wounds are healing so fast. “Your turning is still recent… injuries heal slower,” he speaks swiftly, feverishly, “here.”
He smells of fresh blood and skin, cradling your head close to his neck. “You need it. Now. Please.”
You feel the anguish radiating off him, and your nose comes pressed to the pulsing artery. You sigh, in pain and harrowing, unimaginable thirst. “But you…”
“I’ll be fine, trust me, you do, don't you? Please.”
You want to, you’re so greedy and parched and it hurts so much… your fangs sink into flesh, you hear a groan—maybe yours, or his—and then you’re straddling him, drinking and drinking of warmth, the blood that binds, freely given.
The corpses and the forest all fade, and all you know is him, everything is him: on your lips, down your throat, healing you inside. The agony subsides, but you cannot stop.
“Good,” Adrian slurs, “good—ah!”
A soft torpor takes over as you lick at his neck, ending your feeding and pressing your forehead to his chest. “All dead?”
“All dead,” comes another reassurance. He sounds depleted.
You sit, motionless, hugged together: you, drunk on him and your unforeseen revenge as awareness strikes. “I killed him,” you whisper into his torn shirt. “I’m free.” You raise your head to his, staring into those brilliant eyes rimmed with red. Eyes that trail down your face, to your lips, and suddenly you feel how tense he is, how close, the anger and apprehension draining from your bodies into the cold earth.
Your name, from his lips—this time, you answer, tilting your face upward, melding your bloodied mouth to his even as his arms tighten around your waist.
The pain is gone, but that remnant of power in your limbs feels surreal, wild, beating like a heart. “I…” you’re biting on his lower lip, and his strangled moan spurs you further. You can’t, won’t release him, even with the gasp of aching pleasure leaving his throat as your talons dig into his back.
Your name, crushed against your cheek, his warm tongue licking at the drying stream of blood on your face. In a blur you're dragging him towards you and Adrian willingly follows, panting and nosing at your skin with an urgency that hastens wildly through you—his life, in your veins.
“Adrian…” Lust, need, love, agony— a maelstrom of emotions deep as the ocean and as merciless as its storms crash over you and you’re still clinging to him as Adrian rises, carrying you far away from the ruinous scene marred with fallen enemies.
You’re biting and scratching at him and oh he is no better, and a trickle of reason has you wondering why you need this now, of all times, after what just happened but the shock still reverberates through you, winding and seeping between your legs, turning into something hungry and primal.
You’re straddling him, nose pressed to his sweet skin and hands in his pale hair, his own swift, his touch rushed when Adrian grasps your thighs, reaches under your skirts, as he settles you in his lap and leans with his back against a tree.
You pull away and watch his chest heaving through hitched breaths and the expression mirroring yours before kissing him again, nipping at his neck, his ear, his jaw until he moans.
Warm fingers feel between your legs. He’s touching you like this for the first time since that night long ago, before he left to fight and everything changed.
Your hips roll over his of their own accord as a hand is pressed on your shoulder, forcing you more down on him and you feel him, hard and pulsing. Your arms around his neck, you let him tilt your hips back and forth against his, and you're spun around in a movement so fast it leaves you dizzy.
Still in his lap, straddling him, his arm around your waist. He hoists you up swiftly just to free himself and you lean forward on your hands, clawed fingers digging into cold soil.
“I… you…” His speech is throaty as he lifts you swiftly, and you feel him: one, desperate thrust has you crying out in desperate delight and yes, this is what you need, this is what you want: closer, to be a part of him in symbiosis.
Hands grasp your hipbones as he starts ramming into you, slow and hard, soft groans leaving his throat that only make you wetter. His arm is a vice around your waist as he falls into a rhythm.
He takes you faster, leaning into you until his chest is pressed to your back, your knees scraping the dirt as he thrusts and your mouth falls open.
“My sweet, sweet one… ” Adrian gasps as you shiver in pleasure, forcing you up and down on his hot cock, his hips snapping upward and going for shallow movements then alternating with deep, hard plunges.
Your head falls back, and he's nosing at the junction between your neck and shoulder. “My greatest… weakness…” he repeats the words from your first night together, like a vow pressed into your skin.
“... Do you… resent it?” you ask, unable to think straight from the build of delicious pressure.
His sighs tingle in your ear; he gently nips on it. “I cannot live without it… without this… without you…” and he goes faster, digging bloodied claws into your hips as he runs with you to oblivion. “I don’t want to…”
You want to say something, but he nibbles and breathes and groans against you, holding you so tight and fucking you so hard all that leaves your lips is a whimper of inarticulate desire.
You see red, all wishes and needs converged into one, single goal—you want him to consume you.
The rhythm changes, his breathy moans pressed into your bare shoulder. Again, again, again...
You cry out, moving to meet him halfway as this invisible coil of emotions snaps like a whip, his gloveless hands caressing your bared abdomen under your skirts as you drag yourself onto him, slow and hard, the wet sounds arousing you even more until you fall.
Adrian shivers, reaches with one hand to feel you dripping, to tease. He bites into your shoulder while his hips slap against your rear with renewed vigor and your vision sways from the delicious high of your release, unleashing and straightening your spine, engulfing you and hurling you into an abyss of bliss.
You fall back against him, panting as he keeps fucking into you, grabs your chin so he can lick at your lips, and with one last violent shiver and a savage thrust warmth spurts inside, coating you. He groans with each pulse and with all your newfound strength, you couldn’t break away if you wanted to.
Your ears are buzzing, your hypersensitive hearing narrowed to nothing but this. Time slows with the ripple of warm muscles spasming and gripping, both his arms hugging you to him—gradually more mellow, gentler.
You turn your head to press your face to his, and feel the warmth of tears.
“Adrian… are you...”
“I’m well,” he murmurs amid uneven breaths, “... this…” he says, more subdued than you’ve ever heard him, “the bloodlust, at times it... may influence... lead to this…”
You don’t need an explanation. You don’t need words at all, settling for kissing his mouth again, the lingering taste of blood sweetening on your tongue.
“I’m here,” you whisper in the silence of darkness. A bright, yellow moon is in the sky, bathing your figures in light. I'll always be here you want to tell him, but you fear such promises still, and at once you've become so tired you can barely speak.
Adrian says nothing, but doesn’t let go. You feel a spark of apprehension, lingering even in his afterglow. He allows you movement, gasping as you turn to face him and wind your arms around his neck.
An insistent exhaustion blurs your sight, and you know no more as you tuck your head under his chin. Your eyelids flutter closed, and he cups the back of your head with a tender hand. You feel safe as you drift away on his voice, on the slow caress of fingers through your hair.
MASTERLIST: CASTLEVANIA SERIES x READER
More of my work is on AO3 [many stories not on tumblr]
BLOG MASTERPOST (all you need to know)
Likes/comments/reblogs always and forever appreciated
#alucard x reader#adrian tepes x reader#alucard castlevania x reader#alucard x you#adrian tepes x you#castlevania x reader#castlevania x you#castlevania smut#x reader#vampire reader#alucard castlevania x you#castlevania alucard x reader#alucard tepes x reader#ruiniel:fanfiction#second person POV#alucard smut
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Second Chances - Part 6
Universe: Read Dead Redemption 2
Pairing: Arthur x reader
Disclaimers and Warnings: If you want me to tag you on the chapters let me know! Also leave a comment with your thoughts :D Not finished, not proofread. English isn't my 1st language. All I know about 1899 is from google, so inacuracies will be plenty. The reader is on the older side, and identifies as a female. Beautifull gif from @insomniaeon
Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5
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Arthur shrugged but kept quiet, stroking Dusk's neck gently. You noticed his discomfort and cleared your throat.
"Right. Well, we need to hitch that mule to the stable..." You glanced at the runaway horse limping around the horse pen. "Make sure he doesn't do any more prison breaks for the time being. You two lovely people stayin' for lunch? I think it's about time for that."
"No my dear, we just came back with your father to get him up to date on that cattle job and we're off. Mr. Brant has some people to see in town." Mrs. Brant smiled.
"Alright then, do your business. Make sure to write everything Mr. Brant tells you, Mr. Graham." You laughed at your father, as he tipped his hat to you.
"Yes, ma'am. Let me get my finest pen and my best paper."
You shriveled your face at him in a cheeky smile, scrunching your nose and narrowing your eyes. Mentioning Arthur to follow, you two walked back to the horses.
The stable shade was a welcome relief. Being out there in the woods may have helped with the rising sun. However, it was still hot and damp, whilst in the stable it was cooler and breezier, even if it was smellier. You sighed in satisfaction, and stood still for a second, between the two big, open stable doors opposite each other. You noticed Arthur leading the limping horse by the reins.
"You mind if I take a look at him?" he inquired, standing close to you, his attention still on the horse.
You were taken aback by the closeness, noting that, if need be, he could be a very intimidating presence. Still, he wasn't threatening you at least.
Nodding you lead Gray and Dusk to their boxes, gifting them with a small bucket of apples and carrots. While Dusk was distracted by the treats you started to brush his black fur, watching Arthur's ministrations to the other horse.
He hitched the horse to a nail on the door where buckets sometimes hung and mumbled unintelligible words to the big creature. He placed a hand on the horse's nozzle, and the beast calmed down from his stressful state. Getting closer to the horse Arthur's hand skimmed over his neck and body, pausing to go down the front leg, feeling the muscles.
It felt like the world was silent for a while, focused on the interaction between this free-spirited horse and the cowboy. Even Mac, who was about to run over barking happily towards you, slowed down and lowered his head. He tried to get to Dusk's box without sound.
You finished brushing your horse and slowly walked to the middle of the stables, where the quiet inspection was taking place. You placed the brush on top of a crater and sat down on a bucket, Mac sitting at your feet.
He still muttered something to the horse every time the animal fussed. At one point you heard him whisper something along the lines of "you're a good boy aren't you?" and your suspicions that Arthur was mumbling sweet nothings to the creature were confirmed. You chuckled and kept watching. The lull of the horse's soft whines and his voice almost put you to sleep.
"Was he shot?" Arthur's booming voice made you jump, which caused you to fall from the bucket. "Shit…"
He walked towards you and gave you a hand which you took and got up. You shook your head to clear it and looked up at him, noticing his hand in your arm keeping you steady.
"Hum? What?"
"Was the horse shot?" He asked again, letting go of your arm and walking to the horse.
"Oh…yes." You took a deep breath and followed him, knowing where he was taking you. "His last owner decided that the sprain was enough to shoot him."
Arthur passed his hand again to the spot on the horse's neck, near the mane, where there was a small bump.
"Was the man blind?" Arthur asked, in an acidic tone you hadn't heard.
"No, just young and stupid."
The spot where the guy shot the horse was mostly non-life threatening. Mostly muscle. Mostly painful.
"You know the feller?" Arthur asked and you nodded.
"General Store owner's son. Edward Murray. Got the horse for his birthday, got carried away on a drunken night, toppled over and then decided to shoot the poor beast…" You explained and Arthur looked on at the black and brown horse. "Jeremiah Everston, the older of the Everston kids, was with him…came running to the ranch after knocking the Murray kid out. It took me and Pa 4 hours to get him to the stable and keep him alive."
"The kid?"
"The horse…screw the kid…" you said but regretted it after "I mean, he was fine...the kid…just drunk with a broken nose."
"How come he doesn't have a name yet?"
“He had a name when he got here, but…” You shook your head, making a face.
"But?...Come on…what was it?”
“Darlin’” You spat.
“What?” He raised an eyebrow, his head jerking towards you.
“His name is Darling."
Arthur blinked a few times, looking at you, the horse, and then back at you. He turned down his face, trying to hide a chuckle but you saw his chest move and smiled as well.
“Told you." You laughed. “So, what’s the verdict?”
“Well,” his face turned serious again. “It’s what everyone thinks. It seems like a sprain on his hind leg. He needs to rest, but…”
“Go on…” You urged him to give his own opinion, trying to get him comfortable.
“I don’t think keeping him locked inside the stables will help him here.” He touched the horse's head, between the ears and you understood what he meant.
“We can try and let him out of the pen, but only under supervision. He’ll run away right quick.” You closed the distance to the horse and patted him on the neck as well.
“I can take him out, in the morning, around the pen and even outside. Before the work begins.” He mumbled, not sure about his words but letting them out all the same.
You had told him before that he could run with the horse he had. While the offer was still valid, it would definitely be more of a loss if he ran away with this horse. First of all, he wouldn’t travel far, and that would mean he'd return at some point. You were told you had a saintly patience, but it only stretched to second chances. The third time it’s on him. But you had trusted him up until this point and he had lived up to your expectations so…
"Alright...I will let my father know. You know where the saddles are and where the lasso is.” You pointed at the things while walking away. “I have to get some food goin’ otherwise the old man will get cranky, but he’ll be with you shortly I’m sure. Otherwise just brush the horses and feed them.”
He nodded back at you, heading to the brushes and saddles, and you smiled.
“Oh and Mr. Callahan. If you still want to leave, you can. Just…” You took a deep breath, letting out your thoughts. “Don’t take him. Gray is faster and healthier. Let this one stay and get better, will you?"
He blinked at you, his expression blank with a hint of surprise. It was over soon, and he nodded.
“Don't worry. I won't.”
Whether he meant he wouldn't leave or wouldn't take the horse was left up in the air.
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@photo1030 :: @sylum :: @marislittlereadingcorner :: @rratman ::@clevergirl74
#rdr2#red dead redemption 2#arthur morgan#arthur morgan x reader#arthur morgan x female reader#high honor arthur morgan#rdr2 fanfiction#rdr2 fanfic#red dead redemption fanfiction#red dead redemption 2 fanfiction#arthur morgan fanfiction#ao3#fanfiction
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she peter my sam until my sir gets handeled
unsolicited design decisions as usual below
Both Sir Handel and Peter Sam have 2 designs, one for MSR (left) and one for SR (right)
No canon height once again, but Stuart is intended to be taller than Falcon and both are intended to have grown taller
MSR:
The numbers are sewn onto Falcon and Stuart's lapels. I hc their MSR numbers as: Duke no.1, Smudger/Stanley no.2 (both were withdrawn at different times, so they share the same number), then Falcon and Stuart with the same numbers as SR
Falcon's nameplate is supposed to have the same bronze/gold colour as his number, but I realized it would just be impossible to read on the red, so I chose a more yellow colour lol
Falcon's clothes are a bit fancier than Stuart...or maybe it's better to say that Stuart's uniform is less formal than Falcon's. Coming out of the first world war aside, Falcon's builders were much more established than Stuart's, and Stuart's builders were better known for "off-the-shelf" standard designs
Background aside, Falcon is also just more pretentious than Stuart, so I think this suits them
Their hair designs are supposed to be a similar length...this becomes relevant when I explain their SR designs
Also the doodle of them in the middle are supposed to be them being sold off to the Sodor Aluminum Company! One of them has to appear brave after all<3
SR:
Both outfits were sourced from this particular article, this website also had a lot of info on historical fashion (i'm gonna be so upset if they turn out to be inaccurate)
First things first, yes Sir Handel is wearing his old nameplate as a dog tag. The colours have faded, and the paint is chipping...but some things you can't ever let go.
Sir Handel is supposed to be wearing a leather jacket but I can't render for shit. His look is heavily inspired by 50's greasers. At first I just thought huh Sir Handel would absolutely wear a leather jacket he's such an asshole.
But then I read this and...the original greaser subculture was started by working-class social outcasts, often WWII veterans, who felt estranged and unable to fit in with post-war culture in the 40s. Youth in the 50s who felt frustration at various types of social ostracism also adopted a similar culture as a form of rebellion.
In comes Sir Handel...freshly traumatized from almost being scraped at Peel Godred, still trying to process his grief over losing Duke and the MSR, and now being bought for cheap to work on what seemed like an even cheaper railway with cattle cars as coaches...combined with his personality, there isn't a world where he would sit quietly and just take what was being handed to him.
Peter Sam, on the other hand, took the change much better than Sir Handel. His outfit is a combination of casual and preppy: casual because of his personality, and preppy because I think he just would.
So hair length! Both grew out their bangs, but Peter Sam kept the rest of his hair short, and Sir Handel grew his hair out (not too much though). In a sense, they'd grown apart since being bought by the SR, and dwelling on the past is often a bad thing. For Peter Sam, having shorter hair means easier maintenance, which means better for work. For Sir Handel, he doesn't want to lose what he has remaining from the MSR, and it's a part of his rebellion.
I also HC the time of their purchase to be the height of the SR's loosening of regulations, thus the lack of formal clothing. Maybe one day I'll design official suits/uniforms for the SR engines who knows.
hoo that was a long one. if you made it this far thanks for the interest in my designs! now we wait another 2 months (maybe 4...) for me to finish the rest of the SR
#ttte sir handel#ttte peter sam#ttte humanized#ttte#sorry for the just lack of updates#the steam summer sale has me in a chokehold#so does minecraft#capy's graffiti#pictures in the reception hall#capy posting
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The Beekeepers' Daughter
Luke Randolph x fem! Reader
Is this what they call a drabble or is it a hc?
Tags: SFW, fluff, country life, honeybees, pregnancy, breeding kink🤤, a lot of kids
Cowboy Luke who shows up at your honey farm one day and buys a crate each of lavender, clover, wild flower, heather, and buckwheat honey.
Cowboy Luke who is silently impressed by the way you insist on helping to carry the boxes of liquid gold out to his truck without breaking a sweat.
Cowboy Luke who pauses loading up his muddy red truck, the same colour as his beautiful hair, and looks at you curiously when you ask if he's going to take it to sell at a market in the city.
Cowboy Luke who grins wide with a sparkle in his lush green eyes and tells you he's gonna eat it all himself and that he reckons you'll be seeing a lot more of him since he just moved into the 500 acre ranch thirty minutes down the road.
Cowboy Luke who chuckles at your flabbergasted expression and confirms that yes, that old cow rustler does indeed have not merely seven but eight sons.
Cowboy Luke who just can't seem to get your pretty eyes, your adorable small town accent, and your honey sweet laugh out of his head when he's napping in the hay loft or riding the range for hours on end.
Cowboy Luke who comes back a month later to buy more honey, but only picks up one jar this time so that he has an excuse to come visit you sooner - this week sooner.
Cowboy Luke who keeps dropping by, saying he's too lazy to drive cattle and muck stalls, but chats you up until you let him help you with loading the hives into your truck and then rides shotgun in your truck to take the bees out to pollinate other farms.
Cowboy Luke who brings fishing gear the next time you take the bees out for a ride together so you got something to do while you wait for the tiny creatures to collect their fill.
Cowboy Luke who cooks you up a mean fried catfish with all the fixings using his catch from earlier after y'all get back to your little house on the farm.
Cowboy Luke who’s impatient for the weather to get a little hotter so he can finally ask you to go down to the lake with him ‘cause he just can't get the image of the sun kissing your bare skin out of his mind lately.
Cowboy Luke who just can't keep his hands off you after he finally makes a move, but you can't resist him either, and a few months of rolling in the hay later…
Cowboy Luke who catches a shooting star for you and puts it on a ring because he wants you and only you forever, shotgun wedding or not.
Cowboy Luke who has a hard time reining in his desire for you as the changes to your body remind him daily that it's his child you carry, always looking at you with those half lidded eyes tainted with lust that he knows you just can't resist.
Cowboy Luke who won't let you lift a finger once the baby is born, doing all the farm work and all the house work and all the baby care because he has an abundance of energy, but more importantly is madly in love with his baby girl who looks just like you.
Cowboy Luke who doesn't have to wait a year to ask for a second like he planned because you have baby fever and want him all the time.
Cowboy Luke who is over the moon when the doctor tells him you're having twins, but is secretly nervous because two boys will be a handful on top of a two year old.
Cowboy Luke who stands on the porch, his arms wrapped around you from behind, as the two of you watch your six kids run around the yard ten years later.
Cowboy Luke who never imagined he'd ever be this happy after everything he went through growing up, but who is grateful for every second of his life since he met you.
#ikemen luke#ikemen prince luke randolph#ikemen prince#ikepri#ikepri headcanons#luke randolph#ikemen prince luke#ikepri luke#ikepri fanfiction
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The great Ethan Hawke once said “I’ve always had a thing for Westerns.” I, too, have always had a thing for Westerns. And a thing for Ethan Hawke. And, for the past year, a thing for Pedro Pascal. And next month all of my things are combining into one big thing. A film called “Strange Way of Life”, a Spanish western (anti-western?) about two former friends (lovers?) reuniting after 25 years apart.
To celebrate this momentous collaboration of all my "things" I would like to submit to this website a small collection of Westerns I believe would be helpful to watch before the release of Strange Way of Life next month. I’ve tried to give each film in the list a summary and a small explanation of why I included it in the list.
Some of these I’ve included simply because of how wonderful they are, some because I believe they’re going to inform Strange Way of Life in one way or another, and one because I, no lie, watched it in a movie theater with Ethan Hawke himself at a film festival he put on.
(@the-ginger-hedge-witch hi! I hope its okay to tag you the western queen in this! I thought maybe you would be interested in this western love fest.)
Without further ado:
Westerns I believe would make wonderful companion films to Strange Way of Life:
Red River
How does one delicately say….the scene in which Montgomery Clift meets John Ireland is so homoerotic and so sexy it’s almost unbearable. Have you ever wanted to watch two cowboys compare the weight and size of their dicks by trading guns? Well you’re going to love this film! To put it simply, as a wonderful youtube comment said, “give me one heterosexual reason for this scene. SPOILER there isn’t one!!” Exactly. This film has been hailed in film history for 2 things: the first being that Montgomery Clift burst onto the scene in this movie with a new way of acting (the method) that was so incredible it changed film acting forever. Literally. FOREVER. The second being, this is one of the gayest westerns ever filmed and has been viewed as one of the brightest examples of how homosexuality always found its way past censors. Clift and Ireland were lovers in real life and wow does that come through in every second of this film. Yes, sadly, John Wayne is in this film, but please don’t let this deter you. It’s simply incredible.
Summary: A father (John Wayne) and his adopted son (Montgomery Clift) feud over the management of a cattle drive from Texas to Kansas.
Unforgiven
What happens when one of our greatest Western actors ever, Clint Eastwood, thinks "actually Westerns promote an unrealistic black and white version of history and a kind of violence that is unrealistic at best and actively harmful to our society at worst"? You get THE Western to end ALL Westerns. (Note: please heed trigger warnings for this film!)
Summary: After a sex worker is assaulted, William Munny (Clint Eastwood) comes out of retirement to take one last bounty job and must finally confront the violent and reckless past he thought he left behind.
The Wild Bunch
One last job goes bad trope? Check. Men who have aged just enough they cant understand the modern world that now surrounds them? Check. Men driving themselves to madness after they violate their code of ethics by betraying a friend? CHECK. This film has it all, and it's why its considered one of the greatest Anti-Westerns ever made. And, as I've now mentioned twice before on this site lol, the wine scene in the Strange Way of Life trailer is, I believe, a direct retelling of a scene in this film.
Summary: An aging outlaw gang on the Mexico–United States border plan to retire after a final robbery but find themselves having to adapt to the changing modern world of 1913.
Hud
Paul Newman is HUD! Would you believe I added another Anti-Western to this list?? A father and son fight after their cattle falls ill. Thats the simple summary. My summary: What happens when masculinity becomes so toxic it's like a disease infecting everything and everyone around it? HUD is what happens. This is one of the films I watched at Ethan Hawkes film festival, Paul Newmans West, earlier this year. It's staggering. Hawke has clearly spent a long, long time thinking about Newman, Westerns, and his own life and career. Its hard for me to imagine he didn't carry at least a piece of this performance with him into Strange Way. (Note: please heed trigger warnings about this film as well!)
Summary: Honest and hard-working Texas rancher Homer Bannon (Melvyn Douglas) has a conflict with his unscrupulous, selfish, arrogant and egotistical son Hud (Paul Newman).
The Power of The Dog
ANOTHER gay anti-western?? Yes. YES. One of my favorite films. Loneliness and internalized homophobia destroy, we all know that, but it feels like it's never been said more powerfully or put more fully on display than in this film.
Summary: A domineering rancher (Benedict Cumberbatch) responds with mocking cruelty when his brother (Jesse Plemons) brings home a new wife and her son, until the unexpected comes to pass.
Brokeback Mountain
The film that started it all! Almodóvar famously turned down directing Brokeback Mountain in 2004 because he felt the studio would stifle his vision.
“(Strange Way of Life) could be like my answer to Brokeback Mountain."- Almodóvar
What more is there to say? A watch (or re-watch) is imperative.
Summary: In 1963, rodeo cowboy Jack Twist (Jake Gyllenhaal) and ranch hand Ennis Del Mar (Heath Ledger) are hired by rancher Joe Aguirre as sheep herders in Wyoming.
Extracurricular Films
Westerns staring Ethan Hawke:
The Magnificent Seven
In a Valley of Violence
The Kid
The Good Lord Bird (miniseries)
Westerns staring Pedro Pascal:
Kingsman: The Golden Circle
Triple Frontier
The Mandalorian (series)
The Last of Us (series)
Films shown at Ethan Hawke's Film Festival, Paul Newmans West:
The Left Handed Gun
Hombre
Hud
The Life and Times of Judge Roy Bean
Buffalo Bill and the Indians or Sitting Bull's History Lesson
Highlights from Pedro Almodóvar's directing career:
Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown
Tie Me Up! Tie Me Down!
All About My Mother
Talk to Her
Bad Education
Volver
Parallel Mothers
#I love movies yall! if you wanna talk about ethan or pedro pascal or movies or westerns that would be swell just reach out!#Ethan Hawke#pedro pascal#movies#Pedro Almodóvar#strange way of life
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the pet name generator inspired me. here's mocha
tw implied noncon, kidnapping, hybrid whumpee, death, rude interviewer, self-harm mention (didn't go through with it, just thoughts)
"So, Mocha... As I understand you haven't talked about this before? On tape, I mean. In a setting like this."
"Never."
"Well, I'm honoured that you've chosen to accept my invitation anyway. May I ask what made you change your mind?"
The recording goes quiet. There are no sounds apart from the gentle scratches and pops, then a louder creak as one of them likely shifts in their chair.
"No."
"Okay. So we should just jump right in. Can you talk a bit about... the unique features you possess? How have they affected your life? Are you the only one of your kind that you know of?"
"I am. That's why I was so interesting to that farmer. You don't see a guy with sheep ears every day, I guess. Nor hooves. All this stuff... it fucked up my life. Ruined it."
"How so?"
Pause. There's a sharp inhale, then a slow, measured exhale.
"I was isolated. Hidden by my family. Until one day I escaped, and immediately got kidnapped. I'd say that's a pretty fucked up life."
"If we could keep the cursing to a minimum, please."
"Don't fucking tell me how to–" Mocha cuts themself off, and there's another audible sigh. "I will keep the cursing to a minimum."
"Thank you. So tell me about this farmer."
"He had a lot of livestock. He didn't treat any of those animals well. I... accidentally trespassed on his land. I didn't mean to. It was dark, I didn't see the sign, there was no fence... I heard sheep, and I wanted to meet them. Humans were always weird about the whole thing... but sheep are friendly. Too friendly. I was too friendly back then as well."
"I imagine he wasn't very happy to see a stranger on his property."
"Oh, he was." One of the chairs creaks audibly, and now it's almost certain that it's Mocha who's squirming. "He was very happy. Not at first... but then he saw how I am, and..."
"You mean your sheep characteristics."
"Yes, I mean my fucking sheep characteristics– sorry. I cursed again."
"Keep going."
"He didn't act indifferent to it, which I think is what I would've wanted. I wanted someone, anyone to just ignore them. Those stupid ears, I wanted to take a pair of scissors and cut them off–"
"Stay on topic, please."
"He was delighted. He asked where I was from, why I was out there alone at night, wandering around. I told him the truth, because sheep are friendly. Sheep are dumb."
"And he took you in."
"He did. He took me in and didn't let me go until the day he died. Thankfully that day came sooner than expected."
"How has he treated you?"
Mocha doesn't answer right away. Whether it's because they're thinking, or because it's too painful, it's difficult to tell.
"He was kind, at first. I think. It was hard to tell, as someone who has never... really experienced that. I didn't know why he was so enthusiastic about my freakish hybrid body. He made it pretty obvious soon enough, though."
"He was some sort of fetishist, correct?"
"He was a sick and twisted man who got off on violating others. I couldn't care less what you call it. He told me sheep are dumb, sheep need someone to tell them what to do, where to go, how to behave. I believed him. He had lots of sheep, and I was half a sheep, I thought he knew best. He was a fucking–"
"Language."
"But he was! He was a gross fucking man!"
"Let's move on. How did his treatment of you escalate? How quickly? How severe did it get?"
"He... I don't even know. One day it was a slap, because sheep are dumb and sheep need guidance. The other it was just... normal. And then the cane. The rod. The cattle prod. I don't know the timeline, it... it blurs together. It got very bad."
"Did you try to stop him?"
"No. Sheep are dumb. Sheep follow."
"You internalised that message very well."
"Yes. Yes, I have."
"I've heard he branded you."
"Yes. And he had one of those tags in my ear as well. Just to really drive it home that I was a dumb animal."
"And you believed it."
"I did! I did, he was convincing, I didn't– didn't know any better!" There's a pause, and Mocha takes a deep breath. "Now I know I'm smart. I know I'm capable. I'm not a sheep, not fully, and even if I was, I'd be deserving of humane treatment."
"You have a mask on today. Why is that?"
"I don't like the scars."
"It doesn't hide the burn mark on–"
"No. It doesn't. I can't really cover that."
"Okay. Let's get back to the farmer, then. You said he held you there against your will until the day he died."
"I got lucky. He had a heart attack, and all I had to do was... stand there. I watched him collapse and eventually die. I didn't know what it was back then, but now I know it was his heart."
"How did it make you feel?"
"Surreal. It was surreal. It was... it wasn't happiness, it was relief. Peace. I don't think I've felt truly happy for a long time, but I know I felt tranquil."
"And how has life been treating you since the escape?"
"Same as always, I guess. I'm still isolated. I... I don't talk to many people."
"Is that why you finally changed your mind on telling your story?"
Mocha doesn't answer for a long time. When they do, their voice sounds just a little less strained.
"I guess so. And I think... I think it was a good idea."
~
picrew
general drabbles taglist: @ashh-ed @whumpsday @whump-queen @the-scrapegoat @hidden-dreamland @rosewriteswhump @dismemberment-on-a-tuesday-night
#sorry if this is incoherent#whump#whump drabble#implied noncon#kidnapping#hybrid whumpee#death#rude interviewer#self-harm mention
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YES GIVE US THE JAVIERLAMB LORE PLS 🤲
JAVIERLAMB LORE DUMP UNDER THE TAG
(tw for themes of SA/CA, pregnancy, spoilers for rdr2/rdr1)
@sukunasstarlight @yinyuedijun -> u where in my replies so i hope its okay to tag u here
OKAY SO ME AND FANG HAVE VERY INTERWOVEN SELF INSERT LORE AND MY SELF INSERT HAS MY IRL NAME SO I WONT BE POSTING IT HERE.
my self insert comes from the recently established state of california and was taken in by a family that established itself off the californian gold rush and later through cattle + sheep farming to work as a maid/nanny. she is mexican as her family lived in “california” when it used to be a part of mexico and stayed when it was purchased by the united states.
her father died in an accident in the stables he worked at and then her mother died by wasting away after entering a huge depression when her husband died. somewhere in this time her older brother went missing. she was sent to a loosely established and assembled orphanage when this formerly mentioned rich family took her and made her a maid to work for them and to play nanny to the rich family’s daughter.
this life was very hard as this was a white family essentially uprooting a 12 grieving mexican girl and putting her in this position where the man of the house creeped on her (watched her bathe/watched her dress/etc) and as did other members of the staff (this undeveloped) and the lady of the manor did what she could to defend my self insert but it even that becomes incredibly toxic and twisted.
these years are very complicated but this is where my self insert learns many skills as she tries her best to stay out of the house where the abuse happens the most - she learns how to make hunting traps and forage (This Is A Mouseka Tool That Will Help Us Later.) she also has a childhood best friend named romeo who later on develops feelings for her and also becomes a painter of admired skill.
it’s important that i tell you that this self insert is a very kind and timid young lady - learning to keep herself hidden from other’s eyes BUT she is also incredibly vindictive (This Is Another Mouseka Tool That Will Help Us Later) and she has a sense of morality that is a little skewed, “take from me i take from you” is the name of her game so when she meets fang’s self insert they quickly plot to rob the family she serves BLIND.
remember how she learned how to forage? basically she excels at plant based knowledge and due to the library she has access to due to being a maid she would read and memorize a lot of poisonous plants/spores and begins to concoct numerous poisons. it is her main way of fighting (she coats her knifes with it, she laces people’s food/cosmetics/drinks with it) my self insert does not fight fair and fights only to win.
both her and fang’s self insert slowly but surely begin to rob the family of money, antiques and even gold bit by bit until the family heads to blackwater in 1899 (my self insert is 21 by this point) around the time the vander lin gang is there (coincidence?….I THINK NOT)
the reason why this family went from being in california to being in blackwater is because of how the daughter my self insert played nanny for is getting engaged to a rich family in the state of connecticut (where the man of the rich family is originally from) AND this is where my self insert and fang’s plan to steal the last bit of money the family has which is the daughter’s dowry.
this is pulled of successfully though due to fang’s own criminal shenanigans the do get SOME of the pinkerton’s attention which sets us off to go into the mountains inadvertently following the trail of the vander lin gang and coming into an alliance with them.
somewhere along the time she is spends working for this family she gets her horse -> a kiger mustang named artorius
IM SORRY FOR YAPPING ALL THIS TIME NOW ITS TIME FOR JAVIERLAMB
javierlamb is essentially love at first for both of them and they both fit into what it is they have been missing for the longest time. for javier it’s finding a sense of belonging in the world and for my self insert is finding a sense of safety in the world that for the most part has robbed her of identity and agency. their relationship is mostly smooth until chapter 6 where there are
TWO ENDINGS as by chapter 6 my self insert is pregnant and by the epilogue has a son. javier can either return to her side and they become a family -> this is the good ending.
OR javier abandons her completely following the collapse of the gang in chapter six and flees to mexico to follow the events of rdr1 -> this is the bad ending.
SONGS:
as pure as the driven snow -> off the a balland of songbirds and snakes soundtrack
and i loved her -> by kurt cobain
abrázame muy furete -> juan gabriel
#lamb.bleets#messages📩#hi stranger!#selfship#javierlamb#i have a lot to say but this is the most condensed ver of it im do embarassed to post this ik u asked but um. im scared#ive been writing snd stewing on this for WEEKS and months im willing to link my playlist and pin board if anyone is INTERESTED
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‘ you’re leaving already? ’ with Elena, possibly after a night of cuddling and when the MC gets up to leave
anon this is crazy because i already have this scene written.
It's dark after the funeral. Impossibly so. You still have the treat of unshed tears against your face. They sit there. They burn. Your misery mocks you entirely, it rots your insides, curdling into the peristalsis of loss.
You miss Bartholomew more than you had ever expected to, more than maybe you should. It continues to astonish you, how deeply you feel. How badly you ache. The memory of Savannah throwing herself at the casket, that glossed wood gleaming, screams louder in the stillness of the night.
Atropos carries your exhausted body across the width of her back, gait gentle under your feel. You sigh. Watch your hand drift across the coarse braided mane. Her hair ruffles.
A noise, or something more akin to instinct forces your head up to a shape that you have never seen before. It takes an embarrassing amount of time for your brain to connect the shapes together into a form. It's a dog.
He sprints readily to you when you hop off Atropos, throwing himself onto his back, wiggling like a worm desperate to be petted. His tail thumps against the ground in rude demand. “Oh,” delight muted. Somewhere, somehow in some yet excavated portion of your mind, the implication of a memory shivers along your nervous system, and you think. Think of a dog that you maybe once knew, think about his burial place…somewhere. Think that you can can feel the grave dirt under your nails. You bend down closer to the smiling pup, scratch under his collar, and find a beaten name tag. “Cowboy, huh?”
“You’re a bastard,” Elena frowns down to him, throwing the saddle over onto a railing. She pets him quickly, chucking him under the chin and muttering in warning that he won’t be let onto the bed tonight because of how dirty he is. “No, don’t look at me like that. You’re the one who made bad choices.”
Cowboy disregards this with an arrogant twist to his head and makes his final stop at Atropos, who he then harasses by standing on his hind legs, paws against the bridge of the horse’s nose, licking furiously and reverently anywhere he can reach. Atropos submits to this for a few seconds before letting out a reproachful neigh at which point the cattle dog’s attention has already wandered onto something in the grass.
You fall wildly in love with him.
“I didn’t know you had a dog,” you remark, alleviating Elena from the strain of the saddle, carrying it with ease to a small shed behind her house. “He’s very sweet. I love him.”
“He isn’t mine,” she says and then says no more.
Elena is sweet when she walks you into her house, that same comfort startling you into quiet. In the small moments, she helps you undress, your shirt slipping from your shoulders, her cool hands warming against the low of your belly. She leads you to a bed, and only smiles when you insist that you can sleep on the floor, and laughs when you close your eyes the moment your head hits the pillow.
You fall asleep in that span of negative time, the sleepless nausea hitting you all at once, and the restlessness of your legs firing under the covers. You awaken by the soft dip of the mattress and the smell of vanilla and marigolds.
You open your eyes. The clock reads 3:37 AM. You look at her. Beautiful, even exhausted, even sad. She finds your hands under the covers, watching as her teeth light white in the darkness. Her fingers soft along your wrist bones. "Promise me."
"Anything." You say without thinking. "Yes, anything."
Her mouth is so pretty when she begs. When she's unsure. "Promise me you won't leave."
“I promise. Of course.” And you only wish you were telling the truth.
#im going to be trying to get to the other asks soon!!#but thank you so much for this <3#mwah#char: the reverie#char: elena#i love her your honor
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Linktober: Withered
(Me: I'm gonna keep on schedule guys! :D,
Also me: *Doesn't keep on schedule*
PLEASE FORGIVE ME, I'M JUST SO HORRIBLE AT KEEPING TRACK OF THINGS-
Also, this story is based on Spirit Tracks Link, but I've never played Spirit Tracks and have no idea on the character, so I tried to use socialc1imbs (I'm not gonna tag them just in case they're not a fan of this kind of writing) SO I HOPE HE'S OKAY)
You knew that Spirit could see ghosts.
It was a fact.
But not in the “I see dead people.” sort of way, no he wasn’t terrified by it, the blonde saw it in a Ghost Whisper sort of sense. When he saw those beyond death, walking around either grieving a life lost or begging for those to help finally rest their suffering soul he was ready to help without much thought- the hero in him really, with a kind heart and determined heart like his brother of the sails and winds.
Speaking of the Sailor, you knew the boy supported the same gift, usually accompanying his twin to complete a favour or two to allow the dead to pass the veil and finally let them have their eternal sleep- or whatever may lay beyond death.
You knew they could see them because you could see them too.
No idea how such a thing came to be, you weren’t a seer or labelled any such back in your world, but suddenly you had woken up and people of a heavenly blue walked in the land of the living.
You weren’t sure what to feel at that moment, excitement? Fear? Confusion was certainly there.
The Dynamic Duo had discovered such a fact when crossing through the ruins of a ruined farm within the traveller’s timeline, burnt to the ground by a hoard of monsters wanting to cause chaos for the sake of causing it, a barn of cattle losing their lives within the embers never to be seen again. The two had dodged and weaved through the many wandering ghosts, mooing in distress while the other heroes walked straight through without a care in the world.
It was only when Spirit and Wind had turned back they saw you on the horizon, cooing towards a little ghost foal who trotted after you merrily, the hoard meeting the two of you halfway before disappearing with a blink of an eye.
You were roped into their very good deeds as soon as it was confirmed.
“This is trespassing, Engi, I don’t think-”
“This is the only way to help Mrs Seine pass on!”
“Okay, but, listen- I don’t want to be chased by some madman with a pitchfork like last time.”
Wind had caught something earlier within the week when you had settled in a lovely country, sick as a dog, the decision was made that you would all be staying until he had recovered- a good one.
Spirit and you had taken the chance to check out the place in the meantime, after all, it was cosy and you weren’t about to be cooped up in the inn any longer. So you explored, chatting to a few villagers about possible black-blooded sightings or a shadow with no owner- alas you fell short, but that was nothing to fret, not with Mrs Seine sat within her withered garden as she wailed about her precious plants.
You had both looked at one another before approaching her.
And now you were here, in her garden with fallen flowers in the dead of night to feed them a concoction of red potion, sap, water and some other things you didn’t quite know, only associated with the art of gardening.
“She said Mr Seine sleeps like a log!” Spirit whispered-shouted, kneeling down to yank at some of the invasive plants. “We’ll be fine as long as we’re not hooting like some sort of train!”
“Yes, but, Mr Seine also has neighbours I don’t want them deciding to be neighbourly and beat the ever-loving shit out of us!”
“Just pour the potion!”
“Watch your tone before I kick you, brat!”
“You’re too slow, you old coot!”
A curse tickled your tongue before you jumped as Mrs Seine’s voice wailed about her garden once again, hurrying to lift the watering can over some petunias by your feet. “Alright, god damn.”
“Coward.” The snicker had landed the blonde head first into the grass when you kicked him.
“Slowpoke.”
An hour or so later the both of you were finally done, panting from the hard work, sweating like a pig in a slaughterhouse and covered in dirt but still proud, looking over the restored garden with the variations of colours, standing proud under the light of the moon which shone down directly on you both.
Proud was the word you would use, not for you but for the boy under your arm, looking over your shared labour. It was expected of a hero to be good of heart but to see it in action truly filled you with such a feeling, overjoyed to be the tilted “Guide” of someone who was just kind. Spirit (as well as Wind) had done these things because they wanted to, were good to these ghosts because they could, they didn’t want a thing out of this, no form of payment, just to see the joy over the dead’s faces when a favour could be fulfilled.
Mrs Seine’s face was definitely worth it. The black tears of anguish finally fading away to show her old face lighten, a smile breaking through with gratitude in her eyes as she gently stroked over her prized possession; cupping a single rose within the rich rose bush with a fondness of a lifetime, turning to you both a final time.
“Thank you.” And with that, she was gone.
A silence settled between you both when you finally squeezed him to your side, catching his eyes when he looked up at your face. “You’re a good kid, Link.”
His own smile broke out as he opened his mouth to respond- only for the sound of the back door opening to cut him off.
You didn’t even wait to see the look of Mr Seine before throwing the boy under your arm and leaping over the small wire fence, racing into the night.
#Linktober#Linktober 2022#linked universe x reader#linked universe#lu#linked universe imagine#player au#a player's aid#lu Spirit
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@t4llhum4n your tags made me want to expand on a thought I had. It was initially just a throwaway line but then I started thinking. It's not Vega centric, but still your fault :) also tysm I love sharing theories <3
For everyone else, the post in question is this one and these are the tags:
(Photo ID: #I stg this is so cool i legit have never thought about them this way #and Vincent being compared to MARCUS?! #and it WORKING?? #immaculate /end ID)
Under the cut due to length and discussion of canon violations of consent, of the Marcus and Adam variation.
Yeah, Vincent and Marcus. You'd think that Vincent and Adam are supposed to be mirrors of each other, and that's not WRONG, but when talking about specifically attraction and consent, which Mr. Redacted has explicitly said is a very important concept for him, I think there are different fits worth discussing.
To recap: Vincent and Marcus are foils of each other because of their idolization of their respective listeners. Lovely, especially in the first couple of videos, is particularly passive (which changes once Adam kidnaps them and they unleash their powers. I think it boils down to that literally being the first videos Mr. Redacted posts and having to figure out the particular balance between an ASMR listener and an audiobook character. Not that there's anything wrong with that! I couldn't do it. But it is something he's improved on since then). The Android is also one of the more passive characters to start with; this makes sense, especially early on while they were still being built and coded, their personality was literally a "work in progress" under Marcus' direction. Vincent and Marcus both are instantly and deeply enamored with the object of their affection. Vincent uses his charms, mysterious vampire nature, and flirty personality to entice Lovely and gain their interest. Marcus is sweet, caring, even nurturing, and tips the scales with the obsession code. But while both of their interest is reciprocated, it is Marcus' that is forced; it would be analagous to if Vincent were to use a trance to force Lovely to consent and accept his "love". While Vincent bites Lovely when he loses control (which, as per classic vampire stories, thematically is a blatant metaphor for sex), he very importantly waits for their true consent- without trancing them. Due to the obsession code overriding their system, the android at no point is able to give true, uncoerced consent during any of their interactions. They're both narratively confronted by their actions and treatment of their listener. Vincent has his moment of realization after Adam kidnaps Lovely and they get their power that he was (paraphrasing) "treating them like a toy; something to flirt with and tease and use for blood" and that he doesn't like that he's fallen into that pattern of behavior. He apologizes and promises to do better, and he does. Marcus, on the other hand, gets confronted by James about his actions and... well. His apology really doesn't amount to much, does it? Not with how selfishly and thoroughly he took advantage of his power over the Android and ignored any semblance of boundaries they might have had.
But what about Adam? Adam trances Lovely and takes advantage of them, and then gets what's coming to him almost immediately. Yes, that is one correct interpretation of his character in relation to Vincent. But, Adam never cared about Lovely as a person. He never wanted their affection or attention, it didn't matter if they hated him. He wanted Lovely to hate him, to acknowledge and submit to the sadistic power he held over them. All Adam cared about was their blood, their body, and didn't care what he had to do to get both. Lovely wasn't a person, they were a toy, a cash cow, "rare type of cattle that liked it", a pet he could keep and use and take advantage of as he wished. His character and narrative foil is someone... different. To use a different phrase, Adam is hedonistic. He cares about pleasure, his wants, and indulgences. To contrast this, we'd need a character who enjoys the same physical pleasures of the flesh but who values the consent of their partner. Someone who likes to take control but respects the other person's desires and boundaries. Someone like Gavin.
Makes sense when it's put that way, doesn't it? And Gavin is certainly rewarded for valuing and prioritizing consent with his partner. Taking care of them, and being taken care of in return. The relationship between Gavin and Freelancer starts out as pretty...physical and sensual, same as Adam's instant attraction, but that undercurrent of mutual respect morphed into true affection and love. Adam never respected Lovely, and used trancing as a way to disregard their boundaries. Gavin does make a few (a lot) of passes at Freelancer, but if a Sadism demon can use a spark of magic to encourage the worst in people to get larger energy returns (per Caelum) and Serenity demons can calm their charges, then why wouldn't an Incubus be able to do something similar? Plus, demons are so much more magically powerful than humans and it's never specifically said that vampires are the only ones able to cause a trance, just that's one of the few types of magic that they're really good at. Gavin is a strong demon and good at a lot of different types of magic; enough that he's basically just a formality away from full certification. He has the power to forcibly take away Freelancer's consent if he was so inclined, but he chooses not to; he wants the enthusiastic consent of his partners. If you accept a diversion into the Imperium verse, Vindemiator's valuation of consent is consistent across both verses because it's so centrally important to who he is, and one reason why he hates Kody so much (in both universes). Furthermore, vampires are the Sovereign's failed attempts at recreating Incubi among humans; as magical races, they're more closely linked than would immediately be apparent. If anyone would be able to also do a trance, it would be an incubus. So, Adam is the narrative selfish foil to Gavin's respectful hedonism.
So... thoughts? Does this make sense, or am I just talking out of my ass? The parallels are there, but are they narratively the most appropriate comparison, or would there be another one you think would work better? Thank you for sparking this in my brain, I wouldn't have gotten the motivation for this without you!
#redacted asmr#i was thinking my thoughts and came up with this#redacted vincent#redacted marcus#redacted adam#redacted gavin
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MAG 160 Relisten
Activity on my first listen: head empty, only eyepocalypse...
Yeah, The Eye Opens doesn't sound so good... Neither does the ominous slightly different version of the Institute’s motto...
MARTIN: "I still don’t think we should have brought it."
JON: "Oh, it’s better than no warning at all."
Hmmm, I think one would have just turned up. Like on the ship to Norway.
JON: "Yeah, well, it technically still belongs to Daisy, so – (small exhale) I’m just glad it’s not some sort of kill room."
MARTIN: "Or – (pause for a huffed laugh) Or it is, and she just cleaned it up really well."
JON: (small exhale) "Yes."
MARTIN: "Are we? – Are we… safe here?"
JON: (sigh) "Safe as anywhere. If Elias wanted to find us, I imagine he could, but – I doubt the police will be able to. If nothing else, I’m hoping there’d be some – jurisdiction complications, in Scotland?"
I always love how there just happens to be a conversation that tells us where they are (or what object this is about etc.)
MARTIN: "And if she does?"
JON: (exhale) "Well. At least we’ll know where she is."
And here's the information that we lost Daisy :( Gone full Hunt.
JON: (teasing) "Anyways, don’t tell me the phonebox down there doesn’t appeal to your retro aesthetic."
MARTIN: "It – might. Maybe."
Ahhhh, the teasing!!!
MARTIN: "You’ll be okay here?"
JON: "I’ll be fine."
It's so soft...
MARTIN: "I mean, they’ve finished all the interviews? Apparently they’re calling it a 'terror attack.'"
From what Basira said in MAG 158 ("From what I saw they’ve been toying with the rest of the Institute, but it won’t be long until they’re all dead or escaped.") I'd call that a proper killing spree.
MARTIN: "And she wasn’t sure which ones you’ve read already, so she, she just said she’d send a bunch."
JON: ""There – There are tapes in here, as well. D-Did she say anything about tapes?"
MARTIN: "She didn’t mention it? – But I didn’t check it until after the call."
Do you know how long it took me to realize these are not the statements Basira sent xD I thought Elias smuggled his statement to the obvious stack of statements in the Archives and Basira grabbed it with the others and sent that... Yeah, it does make a lot more sense for Elias to simply watch Basira and then express-mail his own welcome-back package.
MARTIN: "– I will give you some privacy. Go for a walk."
JON: (exhale) "Let me know if you see any good cows."
MARTIN: "Obviously I’m going to tell you if I see any good cows."
Famous last words... Love how it sounds there has been something going on with them defining "good cows".
Already told this little story in the tags of one of the MAG 160 art reblogs: last year my spouse said they're going for a walk and I know there's a route past a field of highland cattle. So I asked them where they're going and it was this exact route! Of course I asked them to tell me if they see any good cows xD The world didn't end and I got a photo of highland cows!
Overall impression of these two scenes: Their conversations are so normal... They really are okay here. At least, how far we can tell from what little we have. I'm sure I already said this in one of my relisten posts, I think it's really good for the fandom to have so little. Yeah, of course I would have loved more fluff, but by keeping this so short, there's sooo much we fans can imagine happening here. TMA has a lot of this, referencing vaguely what happened, but keeping it open for us to explore that. This is actually also very good for the horrors in the show. It’s a genre I respond very well to. Keeping it vague, let my mind do the rest. Fucking love this shit.
JON: "Right. Statement of Hazel Rutter regarding a fire in her childhood home. Original statement given August 9th, 1992."
OMG, I remember exactly, what my reaction to this was. I was like "What bullshit statement for a season finale is that supposed to be???"
JON: "Hello, Jon. Apologies for the deception, but I wanted to make sure you started reading, so I thought it best not to announce myself."
And then I was "Oh SHIT!"
Also, I always forget it's Jon reading this statement because Jonny's impression of Ben's Elias is sooo good! So this is Jonny pretending to be Ben pretending to be Elias by copying Jonny pretending to be Jon, all while still pretending to be Jon... I hope that makes sense...
Also I used this sentence one time for a friend! She doesn't really like horror because she's easily scared, but she did listen to all of TMA for me. And I had a very cool and really creepy nightmare which just happened to include one of my cats and I wanted to tell her what happened in this nightmare. But it was also almost midnight and I knew she just wouldn't read my text if she immediately had recognized it as a nightmare. So I started to retell it by focusing on my cat only to hit her with the creepy stuff in the last sentence. She texted me "I hate u" back xD and a week later we talked about this via Twitch chat during a stream of our friend’s and she was like "I thought it was a cute cat dream!" and I answered "Yeah, I knew you would stop reading if it would have been too obvious... Hello *friend's name*. Apologies for the deception but I wanted to make sure you started reading..." We both laughed so much xD
So uh, I already made a post about this once, but I'm putting that thought in here again. The case numbers of the statements are always in the episode descriptions (here 0181810 - a palindrome!!! - 18th October 2018). These case numbers always refer to the date the statement was first given, either written or recorded directly. This is a written statement, so teeeeeechnically 18th October was the day Jonah wrote this statement, and not the day Jon read it. I do think this one episode is an exception of this rule, but hear me out for a moment: If 18th October was only the day Jonah wrote this, this could mean for Jmart to have more time for their Scottish honeymoon!!!
"but that you would quite willingly doom that world and confine the billions in it to an eternity of terror and suffering, all to ensure your own happiness"
Capitalism is the real enemy!
"I once asked her what drove her, what had started her down that path. She told me the Desolation had killed her cat."
Understandable, have a nice day! (Gertrude is John Wick...)
"You see, the thing about the Fears is that they can never be truly separated from each other. When does the fear of sudden violence transition into the fear of hunted prey? When does the mask of the Stranger become the deception of the Spiral?"
Yeeees, like colors! They're all part of the same light! I love how everything that seemed like a plot hole in TMA actually has an explanation!
"It does tickle me, that in this world of would-be occult dynasties and ageless monsters, the Chosen One is simply that – someone I chose. It’s not in your blood, or your soul, or your destiny. It’s just in your own, rotten luck."
And in the next few sentences he'll say "Oh wow, that one is marked by the Spider! Must be their blessing to send me someone already with that destiny!"...
"How is Martin, by the way? He looks well. You will keep an eye on him when all this is over, won’t you? He’s earned that."
Jonah!Elias ships them XD
"And there, I think, we are brought just about up to date."
I have listened to the episode starting this sentence soooo many times!
Ahhh, the soundscaping during the incantation is so good!
JON: (still distorted, with shaking laughter/tears) "Look at the sky, Martin. Look at the sky. It’s looking back."
[AND NOW HE DOES BEGIN TO LAUGH IN EARNEST. IT’S NOT A LAUGH WE’VE HEARD ON HIM BEFORE; NOT A SHORT, CLIPPED LAUGH; NOT A SURPRISE BURST OF GENUINE HILARITY. THIS LAUGH SEEMS AFRAID, AND YET COLD. IT’S REMINISCENT OF ELIAS’S VILLAINOUS LAUGH, BUT IS TINGED MORE WITH FEAR THAN SATISFACTION.]
[HE DOES NOT STOP LAUGHING.]
That was it. I thought now he lost it. Completely. I was asking myself if he could pull it together next season, or if he'll be full crazy monster.
And I totally felt that shock of “Oh no, this really happened. Everything is ruined. How can this progress? How can this every be undone??” I really, reaaally felt Jon and Martin’s (mostly Martin’s perhaps) emotions there at the end...
A few random thoughts at the end here, while I don't remember my surroundings listening to this episode. I remember being in the bedroom at the end of this episode. Like specifically that thought of Jon "going crazy".
I think it's funny how MAG 160 fanart is either super sweet Jmart or total devastation of the world ending. And memes. Lot’s of memes.
Fun fact: My father in law finished S4 today as well!!! He never struck me to be a person who'd be doing a relisten, which I found a bit sad because there is so much to discover in a relisten. BUT he said he's thinking about doing a relisten right now already xD This episode is always my most anticipated one when wanting friends and family live-blog their experience to me xD
@a-mag-a-day
#a-mag-a-day#mag 165#tma#tma spoilers#I will shut up now I promise I'm going to bed...#thanks for that fun day on tumblr!
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