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starr-fall-knight-rise · 4 years

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HASO “Evidence.”

Still working on the trial arc, and sorry I am late in posting. I had to go to work at seven and am trying to write in between helping guests.

CREDIT and a THANK YOU to one of my amazing discord community members Eddi, who has been working for the last few months on the audio visual and transcript logs seen here. I did not write them, Eddi wrote them an was kind enough to let me use them in this story. I loved it and thought it brought a lot of authenticity to the story by bringing in an outside voice.

WARNING: GRAPHIC blood, gore, and bodily mutilation. The Steel eye project development is VERY horrible, so don’t read if that is something that bothers you.

It was a beautiful day.

The sky was a bright eggshell blue stratified with only the occasional cirrus cloud highlighting the sky with a touch of distant white. The sun was bright though the temperature was moderate only in the mid eighties.

Swimmers could be seen as distant pinpoints of light and froth on the surface of lake Geneva. Voices echoed up from the city coerced mostly by the purring of hover-car engines.

Towering white buildings rose high into the sky adding height instead of width to a city that had not grown outside its own borders for the past thousand years other than to go up.

Itw as a more environmentally efficient way to build, and left the countryside untouched by the scars of infrastructure and humanity.

Adam stared out the window for a long moment wishing for the peaceful embrace of the skies and the roaring of a jet engine. A soft whimper at his leg, and he looked down to see Waffles sitting at his heel, her head tilted back to look up at him. WHen he didn’t immediately respond to her she whined again and scooted closer, her paws making soft clicking sounds on the wood flooring below.

Finally he reached down and scratched her behind the ears.

She could sense his agitation, and it was clear that she didn’t much like it.

He couldn’t blame her.

He didn’t like it either. He sighed and turned his head away from the do and he window, back to the mirror in front of which he now stood. He didn’t see himself.

The man in the mirror was tall, straight backed with sharply trimmed and styled hair, jaw squared and raised. Both eyes were green though one expanded and contracted like the appriture of a camera. The expression on the man’s face was stern and unyielding.

He looked…. Like his father.

He had never seen much of a resemblance between them, but now he could certainly see it.

It didn’t help that the stars on his uniform seemed to add an extra ten years to his age.

With a soft sigh, he pulled his captain’s cap down snuggly onto his head and whistled low for his dog.

She fell into a perfect heel at his side, and he clipped the leash onto her colla.

Her black service vest was strapped on tight with a pair of doggie saddlebags on either side carrying water bottles. Waffles always liked having a job to do, and a little extra work would help to keep her relaxed during the trial rather than antsy.

She was going to have to stay very still for a very long time for the next few days.

“Ready girl.”

Her tail thumped against the floor at his voice.

“At least that makes one of us.”

He transferred her elash to his left end, though he didn’t technically need it, and led her out of the bedroom and into the large living room. It was a lot of hotel room for just one man. He would have been fine enough with a double queen personally, but he supposed if the UNSC was paying there was no reason to argue otherwise.

It felt strange, going to a hotel on the UNSC’s Dime to testify against the UNSC in one of the biggest trials of the century.

His stomach churned.

Waffles nosed his hand.

Dr Krill floated down from his examination of the chandelier, “I admire human artistry, but pragmatism is still my preferred way of living.” he motioned around the room, “A bit opulent.”

Adam nodded his agreement, “You can say that again. I haven’t slept on a bed that big in my life.” In all honesty, he was trying to keep his mind off of what was to come. He didn’t really care about the bed and certainly didn’t know if he had ever slept in a bed that large.

He sort of doubted it, he was in the UNSC after all.

A knock came on the door and he turned reaching for the handle and pulling it open. The driver from yesterday was waiting for him, his suit pristine. He bowed slightly, “The car is waiting for you, sir.”

He nodded, and motioned the other man to lead the way.

The man nodded and thanked him, stepping down the hall and leading them down into the lobby. They got a lot of looks as they made their way down, most likely because of krill, though his uniform might have caught some attention.

He was led out towards the car and slid into the back seat, suddenly surprised to find that he wasn’t alone.

“Admiral Kelly!”

“Good morning, Adam.”

“What are you doing here.”

“I am here to witness the trial. UNSC representatives thought it would be best if some of the newer brass came to oversee proceedings.”

He quickly looked out the window, suddenly remembering which side of the conflict this was on.

A hand rested on his arm, “I’m not here to make you feel bad about your decision, Admiral. You’re doing what needs to be done.”

He sighed and nodded, “I… thank you ma’am.”

“You sure this is something you are ready for.”

He paused and then shook his head, “No… I’m not ready, and I never will be.” She went to open her mouth but he stopped her, “But I’m the only one we have, so I will do what it takes.”

The car went silent as it slowly accelerated into the early morning traffic.

It was going to be a very long day.

Admiral Kelly turned to look at Krill speaking with him quietly while Adam looked out the window.

He wasn’t in the mood for talking right now though he knew how odd that was.

His stomach continued to churn as they drove through the streets heading towards the outskirts of the city where the Geneva court had been built just over 200 years ago.

The last buildings on the outskirts of town went by and their first view of the court appeared in the car window. It was made in the classic greco-roman style with large white pillars and sloped rooftop and carvings on the top that depicted all the deities of justice ever conceived by historial religion, all cast and depicted in marble.

The thoroughfare up to the building was long and wide with a decorative reflecting pool at the center and a set of daunting steps leading up to the ornate front doors.

The grounds were meticulously kept with hedges shrub and flowering bushes, with what must have been miles and miles of water features and fountains off to the side.

It was a beautiful location, and it seemed that visitors found it a nice spot to rest while they enjoyed touring the sites.

He didn’t see much in the beauty today.

This was the UN supreme court, and the history of Geneva made this place hallowed in ways that made the court case for today all the more poignant.

The car pulled to a stop before the doors and a few gloved attendants stepped forward sharply dressed and opened the doors with almost militaristic precision as Admiral Vir and Admiral Kelly stepped out.

Waffles followed at his heels

He knew as soon as he stepped onto the marble steps that he wanted to leave, an the only thing that kept him there was the memory of those faces…. All the people counting on him back at the house, all the people who had never been given a chance to recover like he had.

He took a deep breath and ford himself up the steps and towards the front doos where a group of people were already congregating.

There were a few reporters there, without cameras, waiting to attend in the audience and record the proceedings for their news stories and daytime television. A few of them snapped discrete photos of him as he passed and was led through the wide double doors into the expansive inner hallway with a beautifully muraled ceiling and a line of decorative plants down the side.

Voices echoed inside the building, rising up around him to bounce off the marble.

The voices themselves were indistinct and difficult to understand as he made his way further into the room.

Men in suits lined the walls.

He eyed them critically wondering if any of them happened to be the defence.

A hand was placed on his shoulder, and he quickly turned to eye another attendant, who had evidently been trying to get his attention, “Right this way sir.”

He nodded and was led through the halls and into a nearby antichamber.

A wand was passed over his body.

“Please hold out your arm , sir.”

He did as ordered and watched as his forearm implant was temporarily deactivated.

“The room is completely radio proof, sir. No signals go in or out. If you must make a call, I urge you to take it during the court recess.”

“Understood.”

“Please step inside and sit on the second row on the right side behind the prosecution.

He did as ordered, and stepped into another wide curving room.

It was much bigger than he would have thought, two stories high with amphitheater seats, and a massive curving desk at the front where nine Geneva court judges would be seated on their entrance.

There was no jury.

The Geneva court judges would be the jury for trial at this time.

Law practices had changed a lot since world war III but there was still some semblance of the old ways that still lingered on.

He took his seat, waffles grumbling softly as he slid onto the ground beside him.

Two people in suits followed him inside one in a dark blue suit and brown shoes, the other in pinstriped balck.

The one in blue was a woman, dressed sharply, her hair pulled back into a bun so tight you could have strummed out a tune on the hairs. She paused next to Adam and held out a hand, “Admiral Vir, we spoke over the phone.”

“Ms. Trevor.”

She nodded and motioned to the man, “And my partner Mr. Jackson. I trust you understand your purpose here today?”

“Yes Ma’am.”

Jackson lifted his head, “Our case here is solid, admiral. This case isn’t about who is going to be punished for what happened, but about how long they will be punished, not to mention it is likely to set up some new legislation for the ethical creation and use of military hardware. Once we are done, something like this is unlikely to ever happen again.”

He wasn’t entirely sure he believed that, but he nodded and let them take their seats in the desk before him.

Waffles whimpered and prodded at his hands with her nose.

He stroked a hand over her big pointed ears.

The courtroom filled up within the next hour, and, Looking across the room, he saw a line of men and women sitting on the second row of the defence. Something about them put him on edge.

He had a feeling they were the scientists.

They were the ones who had developed the steel eye armor.

“All rise! For the honorable Geneva court judges!”

The entire room took to their feet as the nine judges filed out of a back chamber and stepped onto the floor. All of them wore traditional black robes with white collars as had been tradition for nearly thousand of years. They took their seats with a mass shuffling.

“Please be seated.”

The room shuffled back into place.

The head judge,at the center of the table leaned forward.

“On this day June 24, 4024 we open the Geneva Court case of The People VS UNSC Biomechanics Division. the court will begin by hearing opening statements from the council.”

Council for the prosecution stood, shuffling her papers once before stepping up to the lectern.

“Honorable judges and members of the court, today we are here to present evidence against a faction of the UNSC scientific division for gross ethical violations, torture, and pruposeful endangerment of human life. Evidence suggests over 29 killed, over 21 critically injured, maimed, or permanently crippled, and over 61 with lasting mental trauma. This is not counting over 50 Steel eye soldiers coerced without prior knowledge, into participation in the program, 30 of which are now deceased 15 of which have lasting mental trauma, and five that, while functional, still feel the effects today. Today we will be presenting, written documents, video recordings, and audio files from prior testing as well as first hand witnesses of both the testing and the war as well as expert witness from the scientist who read and compiled the files before trial. What was done to these men and women constitute as war crimes and their victims deserve compensation and closure for what was done to them.”

She stepped back from the podium and nodded.

The defence stood and made their way to the podium in turn, “Your honors, and members of the court, while it is true that some unfortunate incidents happened during testing and development of the steel eye project, there is ample evidence to prove that none of these men or women were coerced against their will into participation. All subjects were volunteer and duly informed before proceedings began. Furthermore, scientific ethics had not advanced far enough at the time to cover weather or not what they were doing was an ethical violation. The Defence is not asking for complete vindication for the accused, but the sum of what happens is surely less than war crimes.”

They took their seat.

Adam wasn’t a lawyer, but he knew which opening statement he liked more. Now maybe he was biased, but certainly he felt that one presented greater amounts of evidence than the other. Of course it was up to the prosecution to show evidence that would convince the judges, beyond a reasonable doubt, that these men and women were guilty.

He listened to some more speaking, half falling asleep and assuming maybe this would be as bad as he thought it would when one of the prosecution stepped back up to the podium.

“The prosecution presents time stamped dated and logged evidence to the court for consideration. The first testing log we wish to present is from the eighteenth of October 4016 and overseen by Dr. Tato Nkosi written as log number 23.”

Experimental Log #023:

So far we have not experimented with a human subject, All the sample tests and simulations indicate that there should be no interference with normal function nor create any feedback loops that could induce seizures. This is the first human testing that we will be doing. We have noticed that the animal testing resulted in significant irritation and irrational behavour from the subjects, We however suspect this was because they were unawares of the reason for the implantations.

The subject is unconscious for the process of implantation to prevent movement.

-recording break-

The subject reacted violently to the implant, removing it in a highly violent manner while screaming and trying to injure any nearby scientists. We expected some level of resistance, but this indicates far more sensitivity than expected. Further testing will be required.

“The council for the prosecution wishes to present the audio/visual log.” A light flickers on as a video clip begins reeling.

Audiovisual Log Transcript:

The subject wakes suddenly, seeming to be woken by extreme pain. Screaming almost instantly and scrabbling at implant on their hand and wrist. Subject seems to be attempting to remove the implant. One of the scientists attempts to calm the subject only to be beaten by the subject who continues screaming. The scientist retreats from the subject just as the subject finally removes the test implant by ripping it from the subjects skin, tearing with it the subjects local nervous system along with large sections of the subjects musculature and ligaments. Seeming relieved at the lack of contact with the implant, the subject sinks to its knees. The subject is losing significant amount of blood, though we suspect the subject is unaware of this as large sections of the nervous system is still attached to the implant. The subject appears to be in shock as it observes its ruined lower arm and hand. The subject has resumed screaming and is now trying to get the scientists attention to fix its ruined lower arm and hand. The subject is sedated and arm treated. The recording ends here.

Adam throws a hand up over his face feeling bile rise into his mouth at the image seared into his brain. Muscle and ligament dangling uselessly against a steel eye prototype. He felt a bit lightheaded but takes a deep breath in and out to calm his breathing. All around the room there are gasps of shock and disgust. A few people stand to leave the room unable to witness any more.”

The council steps forward, “This was the first log in a recorded series of proceeding logs with similar effects. We know in experimentation that accidents happen all the time, and we might have considered forgiveness if the experimentation had stopped here. Clearly implementation on human test subjects was not ready, as evidenced by the animal’s discomfort. Perhaps if they had stopped here, some measure of understanding might have been allowed. But they continued past this point with full knowledge that this sort of catastrophic event could happen. This test subject will never regain full use of his hand. Instead of stopping the experiment like hey should, the scientists determined that the use of painkillers was in order to make the subject operational. For this the prosecution calls expert witness Dr. Alexander Gladstone to the witness stand.”

On the bench to his side, a man stands slicking back his salt and pepper hair as he moves to sit in the witness stand and is sworn in.

“Dr. Gladstone, tell us a little of your credentials.”

“Of course, I received my PHD in Biomechanical interface and Engineering as well as an additional PHD in Mechanised robotics. I have worked as the head scientist for the UNSC testing division for nearly five years now after my predecessor quit. I helped to re-engineer this project under Iron eye as a step forward from the Steel eye project in a more controlled and ethical environment. I am also the scientists who reviewed these logs and compiled them for analysis today.”

“Thank you Dr. Now, may I ask why these scientists would have chosen to implement a drug dosage?”

“To understand why they had to do this, you must also understand the steel eye project itself. Steel eye was designed to enhance the strength, speed and durability of the wearer. We already have exo suits designed for use in factory and industrial settings, however the main issue we run into in a combat setting is that the machine responds too slow. The nodes detect electrical impulses from the muscles and then have to fire following that meaning the subject has already begun moving almost seconds in advance of the machine. Steel eye was created to integrate the machine directly into the body to intercept nerve impulses before the muscles even fire, thus making the wearer faster, and the augment making them stronger. To do this you have to make a direct interface with the nervous system. They first implemented small microfivers which would wrap themselves around the nerves in question to detect electrical signals. These were designed to cluster primarily along the spine but have additional nodes in the major muscle groups. However, direct stimulation of a nerve or nerve cluster sends signals to the brai nthat are interpreted as…. Unbelievable agony, which is likely the agitation that they were seeing in the animal test subjects. However, with a high enough drug dosage, you can mitigate these effects, or distract the brain enough to keep the wearer functional for some time.”

He sat back in his seat.

“And in iron eye, how did you get around this problem?”

“Subdermal implants that do not require direct contact with the nerve endings themselves.”

“And does Iron eye cause any significant damage to the wearer?”

“No sir, the only danger is an infection of the implants, but that is with almost any implanted medical devise.”

“The subjects have no pain.”

“A general soreness that goes away within two to three days.”

“So in my understanding it is clear that there were alternatives to their original course of action. They could have pulled back and tried to implement a way to mitigate the pain rather than mask it with drug dosages?”

“Certainly.”

“But that isn’t what they did.”

“No.”

“The prosecution presents Transcript 27 to the court for viewing.”

Experimental log #27:

We have begun testing various drugs to suppress the pain, this test is with acetaminophen, commonly referred to as Codeine.

As per usual the subject was implanted while unconscious and atop this it was given a high dose of codeine prior to it awaking.

-recording break-

It appears that while the subject was capable of withstanding the pain from the implant for a longer period of time than our previous subjects However the subject clearly seemed to suffer increasing mental instability as the sensations returned, culminating in the subject violently trying to destroy the implant. Learning from prior experiments and in an attempt to reduce harm to the scientists, the subject was left alone while it was in this state and no attempt was made to aid the subject.

Adam turned his head away unable to stomach what was coming next. His hands were sweating terribly. He felt cold and weak. He had seen horrible things in war and in his time, but watching this… .watching steel eye. It was just too much.

His mouth had gone dry, and his skin was hot as if he had a fever.

The dog nosed his hand but he barely acknowledged her.

Audio-visual log transcript:

The transcript begins once the Codeine begins to wear off.

The subject begins by itching at the area around the implant, the reaction is far less violent than the prior subjects. After several minutes of ever more irritated scratching and aggressive tugging at the implant and plaintive noises the subject began to violently bash the implant against the wall. Growing ever more violent with the abuse of the implant. This continues till the test implant is mangled and ruined with the subject pulling the mangled chunks of metal off their skin, this however seems not to alleviate the subjects pain and irritation. This is likely due to the destruction of the implant not removing the interfacing needles The subject continued to scratch and pull at its skin, the plaintive noises slowly becoming screams of pain. This action continued without interruption from the scientists till the subject had torn most of the skin of its arm and taken chunks out of its musculature, the subject finally passed out from pain or blood loss after several minutes of self mutilation.

The room spun around him, and he took a few long, deep breaths hoping that it would stop.

He wast sure he could survive another few hours of this.

He wasn’t sure at all

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juniper-and-lamplight · 6 years

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Recent Reads - May 19, 2018

Multifandom--Dirk Gently, Sherlock Holmes, Harry Potter, a bit of Star Trek--and a mix of old and new, as usual. I've already recced some of these fics individually, but life's too short not to be effusive about the things you love, so I'm including them here too <3 Recs under the cut...

The Answer to a Question - @a-candle-for-sherlock - 22k, T, Holmes/Watson

"These are the stories behind the story we know: what really happened to Watson's marriage, and what made him follow Holmes to Reichenbach; what secrets were hidden in the mountains, and what a dead man wrote to the man he left behind." This fic made me Feel Feelings and also made me (almost) late for work.

To Join These Men in Holy Matrimony - A_Candle_For_Sherlock - 10k, T, Holmes/Watson

"Sherlock Holmes is a contradiction, an enigma, a force; at once the most generous spirit and the most self-contained man I have ever known. I've known more of him, I think, than anyone on earth. Yet for years I'd learned nothing about his boyhood, nor his fears, nor his future hopes, nor his father’s name. I never felt it as a lack until I knew he loved me." A moving story about family, forgiveness, self-acceptance, and historical queer marriages.

The Narrator - candle_beck - 8k, M, Holmes/Watson

"Watson is a degenerate gambler, a reluctant romantic, and the least reliable narrator in the history of the written word." A brief, gritty glimpse of my favorite Victorian disasters.

where the falling angels meet the rising apes - @cosmicoceanfic - 26k, T, AU (crossover, Dirk Gently & Discworld)

"A story of Death and the boy who could see him, through the years." In my sadness over finally finishing the Tiffany Aching books, I allowed myself to indulge in Discworld/Dirk Gently fics, and this one was an especially satisfying blend of the two universes. Highlights include Dirk & Bart's friendship, and Farah having a stare-off with Death.

you could bring my healing - cosmicocean - 38k, T, Dirk/Todd, AU (fantasy)

"Where the whole thing takes place in a fantasy world that is not unlike but not quite mostly for legal reasons Ankh-Morpork, Dirk is generally an existential dragon, Todd is a washed up electrical lute player, everyone is kind of awkward and useless except maybe for Amanda, and there is a boatload of fantasy references, plus one (1) Star Wars one." Sheer escapist delight.

Start at the Beginning - @dont-offend-the-bees - 61k, T, Dirk/Todd (AU, fake relationship)

”Y’know, make it up. Pretend to be in a relationship with someone. Can’t be that hard to fake, right?” it was still a stupid idea, but Todd was actually pretty invested in it now. He leaned forward, folding his arms. “C’mon, think about it- you got any other desperate homeless friends?” Takes a wacky ensemble piece and transforms it into a different sort of wacky ensemble piece. Sparing use of fake dating tropes makes this fic all the more enjoyable.

Absence Makes The Heart Grow Fonder: A Lovely Sentiment, But Rarely Applies To Anniversary Gifts - DontOffendTheBees - 7k, M, Dirk/Todd

"In which Dirk and Todd celebrate three years together- but forgot they were supposed to be doing that." Featuring: Todd Brotzman's "funhouse of self-loathing," Dirk & Todd's mutual uselessness, Amanda & Farah's mutual exasperation, winks to Douglas Adams canon, and a clever meta twist.

How We Go Together - ekb112 - 3k, E, Kirk/Spock

"'Have you ever been in love, Spock?' A series of moments in Jim and Spock's relationship." I like a semi-annual spot of K/S. It's a classic ship for a reason, and this fic scratched the itch just right.

Easy As Breathing - electricteatime | @kieren-fucking-walker - 1k, G, Dirk/Todd

"Their days start together. Warm and close, but all elbows and knees, tangled in covers and noses buried into hair. It takes time to swim up through the pull of sleep to break the surface, but when they come to they wake up to each other." A lovely soft distillation of a relationship.

Dress You Up in My Love - electricteatime - 3k, T, Dirk/Todd

“'So, what? Your solution is a pair of skin tight leopard print pants? How is that better than anything I’ve worn?'

Dirk just grins wildly at him, it’s the most like himself he’s looked in days. 'Put them on.'” A fluffy missing scene fic with a wonderful sense of interiority. (How is electricteatime is so good at characterization?!?)

A Flame Undamped - Frayach, read by wench_fics - 5k, 40min, M, Harry/Draco

"A happy ending. Because I can finally imagine one." Hurt/comfort doesn't even BEGIN to cover this sequel to The Price We Pay for Wings. No one does pain and poignancy--and sometimes, healing--like Frayach.

Saturn in Retrograde - gooseflesh - WIP series, M, Dirk/Todd

"As with most things in Dirk Gently's life, things are fine until they're not. A mystery and minor inconvenience for Todd Brotzman takes a terrifying turn when Dirk insists on investigating, and it'll take more than a hunch for them to hold onto to all that they've built." I'm not typically an angst gremlin, but I can't stop reading this WIP, even as the characters' situation worsens exponentially.

Death by Kittenshark - howldax - 1k, G, Dirk/Todd

"'You know,' Dirk says sternly, 'if you murder me, there will be nobody around to feed you.'" Cats (even cats who are also sharks) are gonna cat. Charming and fluffy.

i was born in a summer storm (i live there still) - janeseyre - 10k, G, Farah & Todd & Dirk

"Farah confronts the vestiges of her past as she, Dirk, and Todd travel east to visit her mother. It turns out Farah isn’t as over her father’s death as she thought she was." A deeper look into Farah’s families, both biological and chosen; full of lovely little smile moments and Farah getting the closure she deserves.

The Burning Heart - @may-shepard - 119k, M, John/Sherlock, AU (post s3 fix-it)

"Although he’s certain he’ll never get over Sherlock, John plans to move on, and build a new life with Mark, unaware that Sherlock is not quite as dead as he appears, and that Mark is hiding secrets of his own." As is my habit with zeitgeist-y fics, I didn't get around to this one until well after the rest of the fandom, but I'm glad I did. Here's to an assassin plot that's actually plausible and compelling!

The Easiest Way - nntkiwff - WIP, T, Dirk/Todd, Farah/Todd (“basically OT3”)

"'Is that everything?'

'Yes, essentially,' Dirk says, as Todd is saying, 'I don't have magic powers.'" A slow burn WIP, set immediately after the return from Wendimoor, featuring multiple perspectives (including Ken!), in-depth characterization, and some excellent lines, like this one about Farah: “She says all of this as though she is ashamed of being cursed, instead of proud that she blew up an evil warlock.”

Blood Magic and Rebirth (or, The One Where They Are All Feminist Academics) - @notcaycepollard - 1k, G, gen (Harry Potter)

"Moon cups, Luna thinks. Moon cups and blood magic. And she remembers the old itch under her skin, and a music box fluttering into a flock of birds, and wonders just how powerful it could be." This is 1000% headcanon for me now.

A Little Bit Scandalous - @oneprotagonistshort - 1k, E, Dirk/Todd

"Dirk Gently was self-aware enough to admit that he had… a thing. A quirk. One of those idiosyncratic little peculiarities that made up a tiny part of his personality. A kink. He just liked that extra edge; the need to be quiet or someone might hear, the blood pounding in his ears while he stayed hyper-alert for footsteps, the way Todd kissed him so urgently that he lost his breath." I especially appreciated the characterization behind the kink in this one.

Relative Distance - Quesarasara | @itsnotgonnareaditselfpeople, read by @lockedinjohnlock-podfics - 45k, 5hrs, E, John/Sherlock

"Every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end." One of the author's tags on this fic is "What if everyone just acted like a damn adult for a change?", which really clarifies how the fic differs from the later seasons of the show.

it's an institute you can't disparage - @shortcrust - 19k, T, Dirk/Todd

"Todd wakes up beside Dirk Gently four years to the day after having met him realises - abruptly and with categoric certainty - that he wants to do so every day for the rest of his life. What the fuck, he thinks." Hilarious, insightful, and absolutely nails a) the ridiculousness and pathos of Todd Brotzman mired in needless self-doubt, and b) my favorite Ship Dynamic: compatible disasters.

there's cell reception on this widow's walk - strix_alba - 2k, T, Farah/Tina

"In which Tina sort-of-kind-of asks Farah to stay with her in Bergsberg, and Farah kind-of-sort-of wants to say yes." Awkward flirting, Farina styles! Tina mentally describes Dirk & Todd & Farah as a “bunch of hot, uptight weirdos,” which is p e r f e c t.

Just Like That - @sussexbound (SamanthaLenore) - 8k, E, John/Sherlock

"For the first time in what feels like years he WANTS." The perfect combination of unf and feeeels.

Further fic recs | Fic Bookmarks

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gray-autumn-sky · 6 years

Note

5, 9, and 16 for the new year fan fic asks. :)

5. Which WIP is first on your list to complete this year? Will you post a snippet?

Well, I have two WIPs right now--Laws of a Attraction (a DOQ AU based on the movie, Adam’s Rib) and Happiness Can’t Be Arranged (the OQ Regency AU I’ve been writing since last February). Considering Laws of Attraction is a one-shot, I anticipate finishing that before Happiness Can’t Be Arranged is completely done, but the outline for the DOQ fic is massive, and I’m already half done with chapter 18 of HCBA.

Here is a snippet from Laws of Attraction:

A bit of backstory--Robin and Regina are lawyers. Regina is a defense attorney, and Robin is an ADA. While they were in law school, they were quite close to Mal, a wealthy socialite--and then, one day, Mal simply disappeared from their lives. In this snippet, Mal seeks out Regina, and it’s the first time they’ve seen each other in a decade.

Regina steps into her office and immediately stops, rooted in place as Mal rises up from one of the chairs opposite her desk.

She’s wearing a knee-length gray skirt and a wine-colored blouse, and draped over her arm is a smart little jacket that matches her skirt. A smile pulls onto her lips as she turns to face Regina--and for a moment, it’s impossible not to get lost in her clear blue eyes.

“Mal,” Regina breathes out, a slow smile edging onto her lip. “What a surprise.”

“Miss me?” Mal asks almost shyly as she shifts uncomfortably. “It’s… been awhile.”

“It has,” Regina says, nodding as she closes the door and draws in a deep breath. “It’s been over a decade.”

“Has it?” Mal asks, her voice suddenly shaky. “I hadn’t realized. It’s funny how time just… gets away from us.”

For a moment, Regina doesn’t reply. Instead she comes into the office and rounds her desk. It gives her a second to think and second to get over the shock--and when she she sits down, she can’t help but notice the way Mal’s hands are trembling beneath her jacket. She looks up at her and finds her eyes are teary--and though she’s smiling she looks absolutely terrified.

“Why are you here, Mal?” Regina asks, as she sits down at behind her desk. “Something tells me this isn’t a social call.”

“No,” Mal says as she sinks back into the chair in front of Regina’s desk. “I… I’m here because… I…” Mal’s eyes close and she draws in a breath. “I murdered Stefan last week and…” Her eyes open as she exhales, and smiles as tears spill over her eyes. “I need a lawyer.”

Here’s a snippet from Happiness Can’t Be Arranged, Chapter 18:

Taking a breath, he smiles down at her--and cautiously, he reaches out, stroking his hand over her bare back as she sleeps. His stomach churns at the thought of leaving this moment--of waking up and going downstairs and having the conversation with his father he’d inevitably have to have.

The night before, he’d overstepped his right when he fired Celeste.

His father had made it clear, time and time again, that he made the decisions at Sherwood. He did the hiring and above all, the staff was loyal to him. There were a few exceptions in John and Belle, but their employment was ultimately at his father’s whim.

He was hopeful though that his father would understand--after all, Celeste had tried to kiss him, and servants rising above their station was an unforgivable sin according to his father.

“Mm…” He looks down and grins as Regina stirs, lifting her head and smiling groggily. “What time is it?’

“I’m not sure,” he answers, still stroking his hand over her back.

“How long have you been awake?”

“Not long.”

“Mm,” she breathes out, lifting her head and looking around the room. “I should… go to my own room.”

“I’d rather you didn’t.”

A grin twists onto her lips. “And shock John when he comes in?”

“Finding my wife in my bed wouldn’t be very shocking.”

“Finding your

“No?”

“No,” she murmurs, pulling herself up. “I wouldn’t be able to resist spending the morning in bed with you.”

“Like we did at the lodge.”

“Mm,” she nods. “And I need to get the boys up and dressed and fed.”

“Oh, right…”

“Because someone had to go and fire the nanny.” A grin twists onto her lip and she sits up, the thin sheet falls to her hips as she rolls her shoulders--and for a moment, he can’t help but let his eyes linger. “Do you, um… have a robe or--”

“Oh, of course,” he murmurs, getting out of bed and walking over to his wardrobe. He selects a silky green one--one of his favorites--and hands it to her, smiling as she pulls it on and lets the too-large garment swallow her. “About what we talked about last night…” She blinks as she knots the robe around her waist. “About us sharing a room.”

“Oh, right…” She nods. “To avoid awkward little moments like this one in which I have to walk practically naked down the hall.”

“Something like that,” he murmurs as a little grin edges onto his lips.

9. Short term goals… what do you hope to complete this week or in January?

I’d like to finish the things posted above--HCBA 18 by the end of this week, and Laws of Attractions by the end of January. Fingers crossed!

16. Do you have that one fanfic that you wrote a ton for, ages ago, but never posted? Will this be the year, come hell or high water, that it WILL get finished and posted?

Not really, LOL. I tend to end up posting whatever I write--I don’t have time to write just to experiment or play around with ideas. That said, I am going to write the OQ World War 2 AU I’ve been thinking about for 2 years, now. It’s based on The Soldier’s Wife, one of my favorite novels. Robin will be a Nazi soldier and Regina will a woman living just outside of Paris during the occupation. I outlined it AGES ago, but I have no idea where the outline is, so I’ll be starting from scratch :)

Thanks so much for asking, @shinewithalltheuntold!

Fanfic Asks for the New Year!

#hcba verse #fic ask #ask games #fic memes #shinewithalltheuntold

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lady-divine-writes · 7 years

Text

Klaine one-shot - “Childish Things” (Rated PG13)

Kurt's boyfriend Blaine has been with him most of his life, through the good and the bad. He supports Kurt, believes in Kurt, and can't wait for Kurt to finish high school, move to New York, and become a super star ... even if that means leaving him behind. But people have to grow up, and when they do, they have to leave childish things behind ...

And, unfortunately, Blaine is one of those things. (2498 words)

Notes: This is the re-write of a K*adam Halloween story I wrote a few years ago. I think both versions work well <3 There's a twist to this story I don't want to put in the tags, but nothing scary or gory happens.

Read on AO3.

Slam!

“Uh-oh,” Blaine mutters, sticking his bookmark into his book and slipping it under the bed.

SLAM!

The sound of doors colliding with frames becomes louder, as do the footsteps stomping down the hallway.

“Bad day?” Blaine asks before a third door slams. Kurt barrels in, throws himself on the bed, and buries his face into his pillow. Blaine climbs onto the bed beside him, gingerly settling his weight on the narrow mattress, and sighs. “So … did you get the part?” Blaine knows the answer. It’s pretty obvious. But he’d be a lousy boyfriend if he didn’t ask, didn’t let Kurt tell him on his own terms without the added pressure of bringing the subject up.

“No, I didn’t get the part!” Kurt snaps, his words thick and muffled. “Somebody else got the part! Someone more … more … more masculine than me!” he admits with a break in his voice.

“What!?” Blaine growls, appalled. “That’s … that’s just ridiculous! You deserve that part more than anyone!”

“Yeah, well, apparently you’re the only one who thinks so.” Kurt sniffs. “You should have … you should have heard them. The things the casting committee said about me, about my performance. They said I was too delicate. That I wasn’t street enough. That girls wouldn’t find me … hot …”

“They said that about you?” Blaine feels his blood boil when Kurt nods. Then the heat climbs higher when he remembers: “Wait … aren’t some of the people on the casting committee teachers?”

“Yeah,” Kurt sobs. “They are. It was so … so … humiliating!”

“Kurt” – Blaine reaches underneath the mattress and pulls out a packet of tissues – “I’ve been listening to you recite that part for weeks now, and I think I can say, without a shadow of a doubt, it was perfect.”

Kurt raises his head slowly, eyes red and nose running. He takes a tissue Blaine offers and blows his nose. “Do you … do you think so? I mean really? You’re not just saying that? Because you don’t have to to make me feel better.”

“Kurt, look at me,” Blaine says, pinching Kurt’s chin. “You know me, and I’m not just saying that. You absolutely deserve that part.” Blaine bites his lower lip, his eyes glowing with a mischief that Kurt rarely sees anymore. “You know … I can make that happen.”

Kurt tilts his head, skeptical, but hopeful enough to be curious. “You can?”

Blaine nods.

“How?”

“I can slip on over to whoever-never’s house, the guy that got the role over you, and frighten the bejesus out of him. Make it so being the lead in West Side Story is the last thing on his mind.”

Kurt raises an eyebrow. It’s tempting – God, is it tempting. Kurt wanted that part so badly he could taste it. He spent nights visualizing himself in that role, picturing himself in costume, standing in front of a crowd of parents and students – students who had teased him, bullied him, made him feel like he was less than nothing. Kurt was going to show them all, prove to them that they were wrong. He was so convinced that the part was already his that the second he read the name Jesse St. James beside Tony on the posted cast sheet, he thought he might be hallucinating. “You can … you can do that? Without hurting him, I mean?”

“Would it matter if I did?” Blaine winks.

“Well … yeah,” Kurt replies, though it’s honestly an afterthought. But did he really want to hurt someone just for a role in a musical? A high school musical? There would be other musicals. He was only a junior, after all.

But there had been other musicals before this one. Musicals he had auditioned for. Musicals he had wanted to star in more than anything.

Musicals he didn’t get in to, not even in the chorus.

“Fine, I won’t hurt him,” Blaine says, rolling his eyes, “but, yes, I can. I have channels, so to speak.”

“And … you’d really do that for me?”

“Of course, I would.” Blaine wraps his arms around him. “I’m hopelessly devoted to you, you know.” Kurt gasps. “What?” Blaine asks, nervous that he may have hurt Kurt. He tries not to when he hugs him, but sometimes he forgets his own strength. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, it’s just … you brought up a line from another musical I’m never going to star in.”

“Yes, you will,” Blaine insists, giving Kurt a cautious squeeze. “You’re going to be a star. The brightest star there ever was. You’ll see.”

“But, to be a star, I have to go to New York.”

“That’s right.”

“Which means … I’ll have to leave you.”

Blaine leans his head into Kurt’s neck, pressing his temple to his pulse to feel the thump-thump-thump of flowing blood against his skin. “Well, Kurt, you have to leave home some time. You’re not a child anymore.”

“I know that,” Kurt says softly. “It’s just …”

“We weren’t meant to be together,” Blaine reminds him. “That’s not how this gig works.”

“I know that.” Kurt sounds sadder, going limp in Blaine’s arms.

“But, you know that if you ever need me – really, really need me – I’ll find a way.”

“Can you?” Kurt bends to rest his cheek against the arm closest, and Blaine gently kisses his neck.

“I wouldn’t lie to you, Kurt. I’m many things, but I’m not a liar. And like I said … I have channels.” He’s used them before. “Where there’s a will, there’s a way.”

Kurt smiles, about to turn in Blaine’s arms and give him a proper kiss when they hear footsteps coming up the stairs and down the hallway.

“Quick!” Kurt hisses, bumping Blaine with his hip. “Under the bed! My dad’s coming!”

“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” Blaine chuckles, giving Kurt one last kiss on the cheek, nipping him accidentally in his haste to scurry off the mattress, “I know the drill.” Blaine slithers underneath the bed, pressing himself flat against the floor when the footsteps stop and the door opens.

“Hey, kiddo.” Burt peeks his head in. “I saw your Navigator outside.” Kurt can hear the worry in his dad’s voice. So can Blaine. A long time ago, Blaine would have found that fascinating. Amusing, even. But things have changed. “I just wanted to let you know that I’m home, so I didn’t freak you out or nothing.”

“Hey, Dad.”

Burt takes a step in, squinting his eyes to get a better look at his son lying on his back on his bed. “What ... what happened to your cheek?”

“Hmmm?”

“It looks like … you’re bleeding? Did that happen at school? Is someone at school messing with you?”

Kurt raises a hand and wipes his cheek, clearing away a drop of blood welling from the thin slit Blaine left. Unfazed, he comes up with an excuse without missing a beat. “That? I must have scratched myself.” Kurt wiggles his fingers in the air, turning his hand to glance at his nails. “I’m overdue for a manicure.”

“A-ha.” His father doesn’t entirely buy it, but he has no reason not to believe him. If someone was picking on Kurt at school, Kurt would tell him. And he wouldn’t wait until they threatened his life before he did it. Not this time. Kurt made him a promise, and Burt knew his son to keep his promises. They’d been rid of the first big asshole who went after Kurt for a while now. Burt would be damned if there were any others.

Dave Karofsky. Goddamn textbook bully, messing with his kid. There were days that Burt Hummel dreamed of grinding that kid to a pulp, flattening him with his tow truck, or taking a hammer to his head.

Good thing someone else beat him to it, pummeled Dave into the pavement, made it so he’ll never walk again. Everyone said it seemed excessive, how badly he got beat. No one knew who did it or why. For a while, the police suspected Burt and Kurt, but they both had an airtight alibi – Burt was lying unconscious in a hospital bed, and Kurt was sitting by his side all that night. The hospital had them both on camera, and a slew of staff could corroborate.

Burt didn’t care who did it, why, or how extreme the beating was. He was just glad that the punk got his for making his kid’s life hell.

“So, how was your day?”

“Fine.” Kurt doesn’t look forward to having this conversation with his father. Having had time to let the disappointment of the day soak into his bones, Kurt has moved on from anger to depression. And he must definitely sound it because his father frowns sympathetically.

“You don’t sound fine. Are you sure, you’re okay?”

“Yeah, I am.” Kurt stares at the ceiling, his hands folded on his chest, looking very much not okay. “It’s just …” He omits the rest, but his dad doesn’t need it spelled out.

“You didn’t get the part.”

“No. I didn’t get the part.”

“Oh, Kurt.” He shuffles uncomfortably because now he has to come up with a way to comfort his son … and he’s not really sure how. If Kurt had been cut from the football team, that’d be one thing. Burt would know how to help him out – find him a trainer, get him to the gym, start making him protein shakes to bulk up. But not getting a part in a musical? His father doesn’t know the cure for that one. “I’m sorry about that. For what it’s worth, I thought you deserved it.”

“Thanks, Dad. That means a lot.”

Kurt knows his dad wants to help him. He also knows that his dad doesn’t know what to say. He’s gotten better at it over the years, but that job had always fallen to his mother. Even with her being gone for almost a decade, this relationship the two of them have built up has come about slowly. It’s hard to help handle someone else’s grief when you’re not all that good at managing your own. It would have been simpler if Kurt could have stayed eight forever. But that’s as unrealistic as his mother coming back to them.

Which is one of the reasons why having Blaine around, having him come into Kurt’s life when he did, became the caulk that filled the gaps …

… even if that was never what Blaine meant to do.

“Well, do ya feel like drowning your sorrows in a pizza? I’ll order that no cheese veggie one you like. I might even have a slice.”

“As long as you throw on some pepperoni, too.”

“Wow.” Kurt’s father scratches the back of his neck with one hand, trying to subtly tame the small hairs bristling there for no reason. “I didn’t know you wanted the part that much.”

“Yeah. I did. But … I’ll get over it.”

“You don’t have to get over it, Kurt,” his father says, getting more worked up than usual over a situation like this. It’s his room. No matter how ridiculous that sounds, Burt knows it’s true. There’s something in the air that puts his nerves on edge. Not a smell, but a sensation. Probably EMPs. He’s heard that these old houses are full of them. They make people feel things, become paranoid, see things that aren’t there. He takes a deep breath, calms down, and tries to get this fatherly pep talk back on track. “I know this probably isn’t the right thing to say, but there’ll be other plays. Better plays. Put on by people who’ll appreciate your talent the way it’s meant to be appreciated. We’ll find you something at the rec center, or at the community college. Don’t they do that … what’s it called … summer broth, or something? Summer stew?”

“Summer stock, Dad.” Kurt laughs, not knowing if his dad is joking on purpose to cheer him up or not.

Considering his dad’s limited knowledge of theater, probably not.

“That’s it. Summer stock. That girl Rachel in your Glee Club did a play there last year, didn’t she?”

“Yup,” Kurt says. And that’s the reason why he avoided it like the plague. She went from playing Marian in The Music Man to Maria in West Side Story. Two starring roles.

How lucky for her.

But he wasn’t going to tell his father that.

“This is only high school, kiddo. I know it sucks, and I know you want better. But it doesn’t last forever.”

“I know that,” Kurt says with a solemn but appreciative nod for what his father is trying to do … even if it’s not working. Leaving high school might mean leaving all of this preferential bullshit behind … but it also means leaving Blaine. “And I’ll remember that. I promise.”

Burt exhales a few final remarks that he doesn’t see helping him make any more progress. There’s limits to what Burt can do for his son, especially at this age. Kurt isn’t Burt’s little boy any more. He’s a man now, and Burt has to accept it.

But it’s getting harder and harder, especially since no one asked his permission before it happened.

“Well, I’ll see you downstairs.” Burt knocks on the wall. It’s a superstitious gesture he barely realizes he does when he leaves his son’s room, but he does it every time. Kurt has never said anything about feeling uncomfortable up here, but Burt has never felt at ease in Kurt’s room. In fact, the feeling he gets when he goes into Kurt’s room, especially alone at night, has almost convinced him to move them many times. But then he goes downstairs and that feeling goes away. He even forgets about it … until next time.

It’s the feeling that he’s being watched. Like, no matter what, they aren’t alone, which is why he doesn’t look forward to his next question. But he still finds the need to ask it.

“Oh, and by the way, who were you talking to?”

Kurt faces his father and gives him a sad smile. He doesn’t lie when he answers. He knows that his father doesn’t believe him. “I’m just talking to Blaine.”

“Kurt” - His dad chuckles the way parents do when they feel their children are being silly, but more so because that answer has never sit well with Burt. His son is 16-years-old. When do things like this normally end? – “don’t you think you’re a little old to believe in a monster that lives under your bed?”

“Someday maybe …” Kurt drops his hand between the bed and the wall, and Blaine wraps scaly fingers around it. He kisses Kurt’s softer, human skin with blackened lips, avoiding nipping him again with his sharp fangs. Three pairs of reptilian eyes flutter closed as he listens to the breaths between Kurt’s words “… but not today.”

#klaine fanfiction #klaine fic #klaine #Frankie writes

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fanforfanatic · 7 years

Text

About Dean’s Dreams

Relationship: Dean x Reader Rating: Brief smut Warnings: Mentions of canon events A/N: Thank you to @pixikinz for beta reading this for me and giving me the assurance I needed.

~6.9k words

Summary: Dean writes letters to the woman of his dreams. As in, the woman he’s with when he’s asleep.

Read it on ao3

“Come to bed,” She says.

Dean thinks that’s funny- and maybe she does too since she’s wearing her sweetest smile- because he’s already asleep.

Dean starts writing the letters long before he starts having the dreams.

It begins after the racist monster truck case that brought Dean back to Cassie Robinson. The first woman he loved and lost. He suggested that this goodbye might not be as permanent as their last and Cassie said that she was a realist and that she didn’t see much hope for them. Dean told her he’d see her again, and when she nodded her head disbelievingly, he said it again, meaning it.

He vowed to himself that he would, he’d return to her. That he’d make it happen because when you meet someone like Cassie Robinson you don’t let go. You hold on tight and you come back.

Writing letters to her was his way of making sure he’d follow through on his promise. He never sent them, that was the point. He wrote things he wanted her to know, but for him to share them he’d have to physically bring them to her. It was an insurance policy of sorts.

Dean wrote about all kinds of things. The cases he and Sam worked, leaving out most of the gore and playing up the heroics, even though he knew Cassie would see right through the latter. He peppered his notes with jokes he knew she’d love, jokes he knew she’d roll her eyes at and jokes he knew would make her huff in annoyance.

He put effort in the letters he wrote. Dean went as far as researching some writing tips just to impress the journalist.

In rare moments of vulnerability, Dean wrote things he could never really talk about. Not even with Sam. Maybe especially not with Sam. He didn’t think he was keeping what he was doing a secret, but he only ever wrote the letters when his brother wasn’t around.

He poured honesty he didn’t even know he possessed onto pages upon pages. He wrote about how desperate he was to find his father, even though he played it like he was on board with the arbitrary cases John would send their way. He wrote about how afraid he really was of Sam’s visions. About what they might mean for his brother. About what he could become.

He wrote all of this for Cassie to read but then months went by and his dad died and the yellow eyed demon came back for Sammy and Dean sold his soul.

Dean wrote about all of that too. Wrote about having a year to live. Wrote about his fear of dying. Wrote about the nightmares where hellhounds drag him to hell. Wrote about being afraid of what he might become there.

But Dean wasn’t writing to Cassie anymore. Maybe he hadn’t been for a while. He definitely stopped beginning the letters with her name. He’d grown up since he selfishly went and got Sam from school, since they worked the Racist Truck case, and he wasn’t deluded enough to think returning to Cassie was an option anymore. That it ever really was.

“I don’t have any siblings,” She tells him as they rock on a porch swing. “I can’t imagine giving up so much for someone.”

“It’s my job. He's my responsibility.”

“It’s amazing that you believe that.” She leans into his side more and allows him to hold her. It makes him feel good, she’d learned. She doesn’t think it’s half bad either.

Dean went to see Lisa Braeden, as part of his Dying Wishes Tour. She told him he could stick around after the changelings that took her son were dealt with, but Dean couldn’t. Dean was dying. Dean had a timer counting down the minutes before his eternal vacation in the pit began.

He fed her some line about having work to do because he couldn’t tell her any of that. He could pretend to, though. Which is how he began addressing the letters to her. Not explicitly, of course, but in his mind, she was who he was writing to.

That’s when the dreams began. They were like snippets of the life he could have had with Lisa. Dreams of watching Ben at baseball, going to the movies as a family, cooking together. They were dumb things too like fixing the knob to a closet door, brushing his teeth while Lisa stood beside him brushing her teeth. They were good dreams. They were the version of his life where he could be happy.

Then, Dean died.

There wasn’t enough reprieve from the agony, in hell, for him to mentally form even the outlines of his letters, not that he had anything to say. Dear honey, today I was skinned. ps: It’s more tingly than being burned alive but the aftertaste isn’t quite as pungent.

When Dean started doing the torturing, he couldn’t bear thinking of the screwed up life he’d lived topside, let alone the apple pie one with the Braedens he had liked imagining for himself. It was as if he’d mar it just by having it on his mind because of how sick he was. How twisted his soul had become.

Then, Dean was gripped tight and raised from perdition.

Dean Winchester is saved. The announcement had been clear as bells in the ears of all angels.

“The things I did…” Dean trails off. He’d been telling her about his time in Hell. “I liked it.” He tells her shaking his head in repulsion. “I’d have turned into them.”

“You’re telling this like you expect me to judge you.”

Dean twists them so that her back is longer to his chest where he’s sitting against the trunk of a tree in the field they often ended up in. “Don’t you?”

He sounds so broken despite it being years since he got back from Hell.

“I don’t,” She says.

Dean nods and pulls her against him again. They settle together and the trees surrounding them part to reveal the horizon and the sun disappearing behind it.

After returning to the living, Dean found the letters still hidden away in one of his duffles, amongst the things that Sam just couldn’t bring himself to part with. Dean became smarter with where he hid them, after that.

They were a mismatched bunch. Sometimes Dean had written them on motel stationery, sometimes on regular lined or printer paper. Sometimes he’d scratched out a few phrases on the back of postcards, sometimes on a small stack of post-its. Whatever he had on hand. Never on a napkin, though. He refused to be so cliche.

So, he continued. Writing to Lisa. Dreaming of Lisa too, in between nightmares from hell (figurative and literal ones). Life carried on.

He found out angels were dicks. Seals popped left and right. He learned he had a half-brother. He realised Adam died before he’d even met him. Sam became a demon-blood junkie. Lucifer rose. The apocalypse began. The final battle was averted. Sam was in a cage with Lucifer and Michael. And Dean... Dean did something he never thought he would. He returned to Lisa.

The first weeks, he was a mess and that was putting it lightly. He was falling apart and simultaneously tearing the world to shreds trying to find a way to bring Sam back. Drinking, obsessing, the usual suspects. Until... Until he wasn’t anymore. Until he settled into his life with Lisa and Ben, a life he’d dreamt of, because it’s what Sam wanted for him but mostly he did it because Dean would have gone mad sticking to the path he was on. He’d have driven himself insane trying to rescue the brother he’d failed to keep safe.

Dean stopped having the dreams, which made sense because he was living the life. He was teaching Ben about cars, having barbecues, kissing a beautiful woman every night.

What Dean didn’t stop was writing the letters. That was stranger because he had Lisa right there to talk to. He never did, though. He could never be as honest with her in person as he was with her in writing. It made even less sense that he never showed her the letters. Not the old ones he’d written over the years and not the new ones he now wrote on her pretty card paper, in Baby. Only ever in Baby.

Then Sam returned. Without a soul. Dean did his best, he really did. He tried to hold on because when you meet someone like Lisa Braeden you don’t let go. Regular rules don’t apply to Dean, though.

He continued with the letters even as the hits kept coming. Each new apocalypse, each new End Of The World, bigger and badder than the last. Still, Dean wrote to Lisa. Even after he’d had her memories erased. The dreams started back up again too. They were mostly moments from the life he’d shared with her.

At first, he thought he was lucky that he got to relive them in his sleep, but it didn’t take too long for the memories to taunt him. Haunt him, even awake. They were doing more harm than good.

Over time, the woman in his dreams lost the features that made Lisa look like herself. She morphed into someone else, someone fabricated by Dean’s subconscious. Someone less painful to spend imaginary time with.

It was sometime during the Leviathan fiasco, that he started addressing the letters to her instead.

He was in Rufus’ cabin in Montana, dozing off on the ugly red couch there.

In his dream he was somewhere entirely different, however, standing in line in some coffee shop. He’d been here before. Done this before. A lot of his dreams, when they weren’t nightmares, began like this.

The woman in front of him, up next in line, sidestepped closer to the glass casing.

“You can go ahead in front of me.” She told him, like she always told him, not bothering to glance his way. “I’m still making up my mind.” She continued in a very serious tone, as though this decision was of the utmost importance.

Dean chuckled like he did the first time and the last time he was here. “What are your top contenders?” He asked, bending slightly to nudge her shoulder with his amicably.

“Trying to pick between the muffins.” She sighed like she’d been burdened with the task.

“Cranberries, hands down.” He assured her.

It’s what he always recommended, with a sure nod, and it always made the woman scowl.

Finally looking up at him with an odd sort of accusatory look in her eyes, she said, “Absolutely not. If anything it’s between blueberry and chocolate chip.”

Dean rolled his eyes. “How pedestrian,” He teased.

The woman threw her head back and laughed, somehow managing to nod a little in agreement at the same time. “It’s a shame.” She smirked when she quieted down.

“What is?” He asked, even though he already knew; she always answered the same way.

“You’re very good looking, but even in dreams I can’t be with someone who has such a poor muffin ranking system.”

She winked and headed towards the door, a drink and paper pastry bag in hand. Dean followed, an unordered coffee warm against his palm. He got ahead of her and walked backwards the rest of the way to the exit.

“You think you could make an exception if I tell you all about my hierarchy for pie?”

“You gonna impress me?” She asked, an edge of challenge in her tone.

“Tell me your name and I’ll do more than that,” Dean promised, like he always did, just as they got to the door.

He opened it for her and she winked at him as she stepped through. He was right behind her but they never ended up on the street the shop was on. This is where the dreams took a different turn every time.

Suddenly they were in a lowly lit room. Dean would call it a dance studio, if the mirror-lined wall was anything to go by. They were sitting cross-legged on the floor, knees brushing, digging into their respective, perpetually half-eaten, burgers.

The woman pressed her lips together, trying to keep from laughing and sputtering out food. “So the husband was a witch too and they were having marital problems?”

“Sam and I had to play Dr. Phil to keep them from tearing the town apart.” Dean laughed, shaking his head a little, recalling the last case they’d worked and questioning just what was his life exactly. “It was a good hunt, well, simple enough.” He sounded more morose just then, the lightheartedness long gone.

“No progress with the Levithins?” She assumed, sucking soda through the straw of her soft drink.

“Leviathans.” Dean corrected with a sad smile. “Cas is still dead.”

Their burgers and drinks disappeared and she moved to sit in his lap, her legs curling around him so their chests were pressed together. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and placed her cheek to his. “Tell me about him.” She whispered.

So Dean did. He began with how he met the angel, continued with all they’d done together, for each other. The sacrifices they’d made. He choked a bit on the part where Castiel deceived him, betrayed him, to work with Crowley, to get the souls out of purgatory. On the part where Cas broke the wall in Sam’s head.

Then he woke up. But Dean wasn’t done. He had more to say, more to tell her about Cas. He wanted to explain that Cas had been doing his best, doing what he had thought was right. He had been learning, still, how to do things without being told what to do. Learning to be more than a soldier that followed orders. Learning the burden of free will. So Dean wrote it down for her. He put it all on paper as if she’d one day read it. All the letters that followed were addressed to her after that.

As far as coping mechanisms go, Dean thought it was one of his better ones.

So it went. He’d dream about her, always in that coffee shop first, then somewhere else: the dance studio, a field, inside Baby, Rufus’ cabin. His favourite was the kitchen of a quaint little suburban house.

He’d dream about her and he’d write to her what he hadn’t gotten around to telling her in sleep.

She’d talk his ear off too. She’d share all about her intricate life and Dean had to applaud himself for creating a complete person in his mind and not some depthless stereotype he might have been prone to.

Bobby died. They killed Dick. Dean landed in purgatory, where the letters were halted, understandably, but the dreams weren’t.

The first time they landed in purgatory after stepping out of the coffee shop the woman’s eyes widened more than Dean had ever seen. He’d been dreaming of her for a while too, so he’d seen his fair share of wide eyes on her expressive face.

“I thought this was a dream?” She asked quietly, almost to herself.

“It is,” Dean replied, shifting nervously, as he watched her observe the woods. He had this odd desire to clean up somehow. Like he had let her into his messy apartment and he wanted to start hiding the unwashed plates and dirty laundry. Dean never had an apartment of his own but he thinks he’d keep it clean.

Something about the air here… “We’re in a forest straight out of a horror flick.” She countered, twisting her torso to look at him. “Looks more like a nightmare.”

Dean’s eyes locked onto the dirt beneath his feet, shamefully. Even the woman he invented for himself, to be with outside of the life he lives, couldn’t help but call him out on how wrecked his world was. He resisted the urge to tell her that it wasn’t so bad, to defend something adjacent to hell.

“I wonder if it has some sort of significance. You know, like how if you’re on top of a mountain in your dream it means you feel like you’ve achieved something in real life.”

Dean considered it for a moment then shrugged. “This is just where I live now. Ding dong the wicked Dick is dead but I was brought here with him.”

She glanced around again. “ This is the purgatory you told me about? I thought it’d be more...fire-y.”

“No, that’s Hell.” Dean corrected.

“Oh right, forgot that I put that in your backstory.”

“My what?”

“So wait, something might jump out at us?” She wondered without seeming afraid.

Dean shook his head but moved closer to her anyway, wrapping his arms around her from behind, half protectively and half for shared comfort. “Might look like a nightmare, but this is still a dream. Safe here.” Dean laughed at himself for worrying about a dream girl he didn’t even have a name for. “Not that you can die anyway.”

“Yeah, people say that if you die in your sleep you die in real life, but it’s hard to buy into considering how ridiculous it sounds.”

Dean hummed, curving his back to place his chin on her shoulder. “Even with the things I’ve told you are hidden in the shadows?”

She laughed quietly, tilting her head back to rest it against his shoulder. “It’s a little different, I’d say.”

Dean hummed again. They stood there for a while, a dream-while so who knows how long it was really.

“I’m sorry you’re stuck here.” She whispered eventually. “I don’t know how to do something about it. I’ve tried before. Tried to make your problems go away but I don’t know how.”

Dean pressed his lips against her neck. It wasn’t really a kiss, just a sought-after intimacy. When his lips moved against her skin while he spoke, goosebumps pebbled. “You do enough. I think you’ve kept me sane.”

She shook her head, only minutely not wanting to shrug him away or, god forbid, off of her. “I’ve put you in situations where you’d be expected to lose it. I don’t know why I do that.”

Dean laughed, loud and boisterous enough to warrant her turning in his arms to face him.

“What?”

“I just figured out where you get that irrational guilt from.”

“Wouldn’t call it irrational...maybe that’s the irrational part.” She shook her head confusedly. “Where from?” She focused again.

“Me.” He offered her a sad smile.

She only replied with a curious look.

When Dean gets out of purgatory his first letter is all about Sam. About how Dean felt abandoned. About how he hated himself for resenting Sam.

“So you’re out?” She asked him during his first dream-inducing sleep since he got back.

“Yeah.” He grinned at her but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Did the Benny thing not work?”

Dean shook his head. “It’s Cas. I... I couldn’t pull him through.”

She gave him a soft look, hopping off of the kitchen counter to move closer to him. “I’m sorry.”

Dean nodded jerkily. “Do you need anything done around the house? C-can I-”

“Shh.” She soothed as Dean’s body trembled. “Sit, yeah?”

Then, they were sitting on a park bench, of all things. They watched children play and Dean wondered if Sam could have had this if Dean hadn’t returned at all.

“Think we can take one home?” She asked him, a mischievous twinkle in her eyes.

Dean laughed. “You want to kidnap a child?”

She raised a brow at him. “Look around, Dean.”

Dean did just that and realised for the first time that there were no adults around.

“I think they’re ripe for the taking. Kids are part of the fantasy, after all.”

“Yeah, yeah they are.”

And then kids were part of their fantasy, because they weren’t sitting on a bench anymore but at the kitchen table. She was calling up the stairs for someone to wash up and Dean heard socked feet pad rapidly against the hardwood floors, behind him.

“I already did, mommy.” A high voice said.

Dean didn’t dare look back. Instead, his gaze fixed on the woman’s face. Her features softened as she looked longingly at the child. Their child.

The kid surged forward with a giggle, revealing herself to be a blond six-year-old girl. She climbed onto her seat and gave Dean a toothy grin. Dean tried not to be reminded of his mom.

“We’re making pie after dinner, right Dad?”

Dean kind of wanted to cry.

The first time she made an appearance in a wet dream of his, they were both momentarily startled. They had walked out of the coffee shop only to land in a bed, naked and buried under a red sheet. Oh God, they had both muttered when they realised their bed was heart shaped.

“I didn’t think I was capable of something so tacky.” She sighed.

Dean shot her sheepish look. “Sorry.” He had the decency to look a little embarrassed, at least. “Do you... not want to?” It was strange to ask for consent considering he made her up, but it didn’t feel right any other way.

“Fuck, course I do.” She nodded enthusiastically not bothering with bashfulness. “On three?”

On three, it was. They counted then lifted the gaudy sheet and appraised each other, each nodding approvingly. Then they were chuckling at the ridiculousness of it all and then it became a nervous sort of laughter. A lull of silence. Then lips were crashing. Hands brushing down skin, tangled in hair, everywhere. It was all very disjointed, like most dreams. One second they were in one position doing one thing and the next they were in another. Then, back again. In a way, all the things were happening all at once.

His mouth was on hers, tongue licking into her mouth, sliding against her teeth, but his mouth was also between her legs, tongue tasting her, entering her. His tongue was circling her clit but it was also tracing the shell of her ear. His hands, his hands, they were everywhere, all the time. Groping and grabbing and pitching in all the ways that made everything feel better, stronger, more .

They were building so fast, but they were also in an odd standstill because while everything was happening, while he was buried inside her, thrusting into her from above, while she straddled him, riding him, while everything was happening, they were also just lying there, in each other’s arms. It was tender and sweet and post-orgasmic bliss but also pre-orgasmic bliss.

Then they were coming and then Dean was waking.

So it went. Dean’s dreams were mostly of her. Sometimes they had a kid, sometimes they had a gaggle of them. Once they had a dog and he told her never again. It was their first argument.

His letters were to her, now hidden away in his room in the bunker. She liked the bunker but mostly she loved that he had it. She told him she’d just gotten a promotion, so that might be why he’d found the bunker. He told her congratulations but that he doubted she had anything to do with him being a legacy.

All the while, life carried on.

Sam started doing the trials to close the gates of hell. The angels fell. Dean took on the Mark of Cain, took on Abaddon. Took on Metatron, and lost. He became a demon, Sam cured him, life went on. They released the darkness, the sun almost died, God almost died, Amara was stopped.

The letters puttered to a halt at times, like when he was a demon, like when the mark overwhelmed him, but they always picked back up. The dreams were constant, however. It never mattered how darkened his soul became, if he slept, in his dreams he could escape because she was there.

He didn’t always dream of her. Sometimes he had nightmares or dreamless sleep, but when he did see her it was a wave of calm washing over him. It was normalcy and contentedness and all the things he could never have out in the real world. It was the perfect relationship. Admittedly, it was hard to screw things up with a figment of his imagination.

It didn’t feel like she was artificial, though. She called him out on his shit. She didn’t bend to his will like he’d suspect something he created would. She seemed to have her own things going on too. As if, when Dean was awake she was still living her life in his dream world.

Driving down the highway towards some case Sam had picked up on for them, Dean wondered for a brief moment what his brother could be dreaming of as he slept peacefully in the passenger seat. Had Sam created an entire universe he could withdraw into to get away from their lives, too?

That’s really what Dean had done. He and...she... They built a world together. Adding rooms to that house they often ended up in, simply by willing them into existence. Going on walks, on drives. Attending fake parent-teacher meetings at the fake school of their fake kids only to mock the other fake parents. Pretending to interrogate their son’s prom date.

“Do we not think our son can handle himself?” Dean had asked her jokingly.

“We’re the type of parents that won’t succumb gender norms.” She’d answered simply and he’d ‘ ah’ ed in acceptance.

She’d shown him the cubicle she used to work at and the office she worked in now. She broke down the coworker dynamics for him making up an actual case board for visual aid. Coloured yarn and all. She told him how dissatisfied she was with what she did for a living. How lonely she’d ended up in life. How that hadn’t even been on her list of worries until it became too late.

Dean didn’t understand why he couldn’t have made her happy when he made her up. Maybe she needed to reflect him. Maybe it was some Freudian shit. Maybe even in his fantasy world, the only way someone could want him was if they were a little broken too.

It had been years since that first time he dreamt of her, Dean thought, pulling up to a cafe. He’d get coffees before heading over to the morgue and waking Sam.

Just how strange was is that he’d sort of been in a relationship with a part of his subconscious? Should he be worried or should he be grateful his non-alcoholism hadn’t escalated to NON-alcoholism (lots of denial) since he’d found an alternate way to cope? Should he just take the good since he got so little of it in life? Naturally, it’d be in a dream. Good things rarely happened to him and his brother. God forbid that when they do it’s in real life.

Dean sighed and stepped into the shop, leaving Sam to catch a couple more Zs.

“You can go ahead.” The woman in front of him in the line told him, chuckling to herself as she looked at the different pastries on display.

Dean was momentarily startled by the eery similarity of the situation. “What are your top contenders?” He asked, humouring himself.

“It’s all about the scones,” She said very seriously like she had secret intel on the matter.

“Cranberries, hands down.” He assured her, just like he assured her, in his dreams.

She finally turned to him with a surprised look in her eyes.

Huh. It was her . Dean was sleeping. Absentmindedly, he hoped he hadn’t nodded off at the wheel.

“That’s...euh... No. Blueberries.” She looked away and stepped up to the counter to put in her order.

Dean rolled his eyes. “How pedestrian.” He teased.

The woman threw her head back and laughed, like his words chased away any nervousness she might have been feeling. “It’s a shame.” She smirked over her shoulder when she quieted down.

“What is?” He asked, even though he already knew; she always answered the same way. He mouthed the word ‘black’ to the barista and held up two fingers.

“You’re very good looking, but even in dreams I can’t be with someone who has such a poor scone ranking system.” She winked, leaning against the counter where they were to wait for their orders.

“You think you could make an exception if I tell you all about my hierarchy for pie?” Dean asked once he’d paid.

“You gonna impress me?” She said, an edge of challenge in her tone.

“Tell me your name and I’ll do more than that,” Dean promised like he always did.

She opened her mouth to tell him just that when the barista beat her to it, announcing her drink and name and then Dean’s.

“Huh,” Dean said unintelligently. He’d never actually found out her name before. “We’re straying from the script.” He followed her to the exit, two coffees warming his palms.

“I guess so. Maybe we’re feeling adventurous.”

They arrived at the door and by habit she waited for him to open it for her. He glanced down at his occupied hands and shot her a sheepish look. She laughed quietly, pulling the door open for them to step through and winking at him playfully.

This is where the dreams took a different turn every time but for the first time they ended up on the same street where the cafe was. It was one of those areas with independent shops and boutiques. The kind of road that made the small city they were in seem like a small town.

The pair looked around, then shared a confused look, until Dean spotted Baby a few stores down, where he’d parked her.

“Wanna go for a ride?” He suggested.

“Sure.” She agreed, biting into her scone hungrily; she never got to eat the muffin before. “What a great idea, darling.” She intoned dramatically, hooking an arm around his and only spitting a few crumbs.

Dean rolled his eyes at her theatrics. They knew it was all make-believe and she liked to make a mockery of it once in awhile. “I’m just glad you stopped calling me hubby.”

“Honestly, that weirded me out too. It sounds too sweet for- There’s a stranger in your car.”

Dean’s head snapped towards the impala to look through the passenger door he’d just opened, his hunter instincts kicking in. He sighed in relief. “That’s just my brother,” He assured as he watched Sam roused from his own sleep. Talk about inception.

“Another first.” She frowned for a moment then smiled brightly, unhooking her arm from Dean’s to stick her hand down for Sam to shake.

Sam who’d barely pried his eyes open only to find his brother and a lady peering down at him from the open impala door.

“Dean,” Sam murmured, rubbing a palm against a bleary eye. “What’s going on?”

“I don’t know, man. You’re the one crashing my dream.” Dean whined. He whined. He allowed it because it wasn’t like real-Sam would ever hear it and lord it over him.

“Your dream?” Sam heard the woman question at the same time as him. Differently though. He’d said, “Your dream ?” She said, “ Your dream?”

“Yes.” Dean deadpanned, bored and ready to speed things along. The expressions on the two faces made him second guess himself, though. “Yes?”

“This is my dream,” She corrected him.

“What?” The brothers spoke in unison.

There was a long moment where the three of them eyed each other, assessing one another. Sam took the time to collect his bearings as well and step out of the car. Once he did, he broke the silence. “Alright, Dean, what are we dealing with? A witch? Did you get whammied or something?”

“What? No, dude, this is my regular-life dream, monsters don’t come here.”

“Dean... You’re not dreaming.”

“Listen to your brother, Dean. I’m the one who’s asleep.”

“What, no, shut up. You’re not real.” Dean shut her down quickly to focus on his brother. What if he wasn’t regular-asleep? What if this was some rogue djinn and Sam is here to help him get out?

“That’s rude. I made you.” She countered.

Dean sighed exasperatedly and turned to face her. “Remember when we went fake camping and you kept trying to tell me I was starting the fire wrong.”

“ Yes. ” She knew what he was talking about because he never let her forget it.

“Then what happened?”

“You started the fire.” She mumbled. “Look, it’s a little ridiculous, even for us, for this,” She threw her arms up at the world around them. “To light a fire by rubbing two sticks together. I’ve only ever seen that in cartoons, it’s not-”

“What did we agree on after that?”

“That you wouldn’t say you know something if you didn’t.”

Sam watched as his brother discussed with the woman events that couldn’t possibly have ever occurred, like they were old friends, like they were a bickering couple.

“So when I tell you that I’m sleep-”

She didn’t hesitate to interrupt him. “You done being mildly condescending? This is my dream. I’m not going to let you, like, I don’t know, commandeer it.”

“ Listen, my car, my brother,” He started, pointing at each thing with one coffee clutching hand. Sam took the beverage away before it went sloshing everywhere, through the small mouth hole. Sam also started gulping it down, for the sake of his sanity. “My bunker, my-”

“My office, my field, my studio.”

“ What? You only have those things because I made them up for you.” Dean shot back gruffly, missing how Sam took the second coffee to chug that too. “I’ve probably been to those places and their images have been stored in my subconscious. I gave you that office. I gave you that promotion. I gave you a studio because I always thought it’d be hot to be with a dancer.”

“A dancer? What? It’s where I volunteer to teach karate to kids and women. And I earned that promotion you son of a bitch. Besides! You want to talk about made up? You think you fight ghosts. You think you met God. ”

“Shhhh!” Sam finally spoke up. “You guys are causing a scene and drawing attention we don’t need.”

“Who cares, we’re in my dream.” Both Dean and the woman shouted at Sam. “It’s my dream.” They repeated, in each other’s faces.

“No. It’s not. Neither of you is dreaming, or asleep. Neither of you- Christ. Neither of you created the other. Dean, is this a prank? Because we said we wouldn’t do that anymore and I’m a little worried and a lot unsure if I should gank her.”

Instinctively, Dean stepped between her and his brother. “Definitely not killing her, Sammy.”

“I agree.” She piped up from behind Dean’s shoulder.

“Not that it matters,” Dean threw behind him. “Since you’re not real.”

“Oh piss off.”

Sam sighed and pinched the skin of Dean’s forearm.

“Ow! What was that for?”

“Dude. You. Are. Not. Dreaming. Look around, we’re in a very real city, working a very real case, with very real people’s very real lives at stake.”

Dean shook his head. “No, Sam, you don’t understand. This isn’t the first time I dream of her.”

Sam grunted and threw his hands up in defeat, spilling some of the coffee he had left.

“Dean.” Her small voice squeaked from behind him.

“Yes, dear ?” He mocked.

“Whether this is my dream or yours, it’s definitely mine, but for argument’s sake, we both agree that there shouldn’t be people with black eyes right?”

“What?” Dean whipped around and spotted the dozen or so demons occupying different positions on the street amongst civilians. They were hiding in plain sight and it wasn’t like the brothers could attack them in broad daylight in front of the entirety of the crowded area. “Okay, in the car, in the car.”

Dean ushered her into the front seat after his brother and slid in last, tossing Sam his keys to drive. The impala drove off just as a few of the demons moved in towards the trio.

“What the hell was that!” She half screeched half laughed.

“You hit it right on the nose there with your word choice. A little taste of hell,” Dean mumbled, checking the side-view mirror to see if they were being followed.

“God, why haven’t I had you bring your work into our world before?” She asked Dean. “This is exhilarating.”

“No, it’s not!” Sam yelled. “This is dangerous stuff, lady.”

“You can’t die in your sleep, Sam.” She explained to him nonchalantly.

Sam turned into a vacant lot and brought the car to an abrupt stop. “You’re not sleeping!” He whipped out a knife and cut slits into the woman’s forearm and then Dean’s. “Does that feel awake enough for you?”

Dean barely flinched but she definitely winced at the pain, sighing afterwards.

“I hurt myself when we were putting shelves in the laundry room, remember that, Dean?”

“Yeah. Watch, Sam. We’ll heal right up.”

They each stared at their cuts. When after long moments, their skin didn’t knit back together like it had before, like it was supposed to, their gazes lifted to lock on one another.

“I’m awake,” She breathed.

“I’m awake,” Dean echoed.

“Yes, thank you that’s what I’ve been saying.”

They ignored Sam and just continued to stare at each other. A long silence stretched and even Sam caught on enough to keep quiet. When it kept going long after that still, he proposed to give them some privacy and jetted out of the impala. Sam didn’t want to touch that mess with a ten-foot pole.

“It’s all real,” She finally said. “Your life, purgatory, you really had to... you’ve really lived through... You...”

Dean didn’t know what to say. What was there to say? He’d been having a fake relationship with a fake woman he thought he’d created, he’d thought he’d tailored to his preferences, and it turned out it was real. She was real. And she was here. And she...

“You’re not a dancer?” He questioned, furrowing his brows but unable to mask his smug smirk.

“Shut up, asshat,” She said, punching him in the shoulder.

“We’re definitely still not getting a dog.”

“No way.” She shook her head vehemently. “That conversation isn’t over. I only agreed to table it because I thought, I thought...”

“That you’d made me up.”

“Yeah. I thought...” She breathed deeply, unable to tear her eyes away from his. “ Dean. You never told me your name before.”

“You never told me yours.”

“I never thought it mattered.”

“Because we weren’t...” He searched for the words.

“Because we weren’t.” She repeated. “We just weren’t. You were an escape, Dean, you weren’t a real person, I wouldn’t have... Well, I don’t know, maybe I would have. I don’t know. Isn’t this crazy? Isn’t this insane? You’re the supernatural expert, is this something you’ve seen before? What would you even call this? Dream-sharing? Oh God, the supernatural is real. Ghouls and ghosts and- Oh God, God is real. Oh man, you’ve seen me naked and I didn’t even bother working my angles. Oh man, I told you what happened with Steven Wong under the bleachers in tenth grade. I haven’t told that to anyone. I-”

“Hey, hey, sweetheart breathe. You’re gonna run out of oxygen and then I won’t be able to kiss you just like this.”

And then he kissed her just like that. It was nothing like in their dreams. There were no jump cuts, it was a continuous flow of time and it was perfect. It was lips pressed together for the sake of being pressed together and it felt like safety for the both of them. It felt familiar and new and it felt like everything they’d been waiting for. Everything they’d spent the past years growing between them was coming to a head. It might only have been his lips touching her but Dean felt his entire body flare up with heat and a wild sensation of want.

His hands cupped her face gently as he made the kiss last, he’d have it last his entire lifetime if he could. He’d have it never end. This could go on forever and he’d be more than okay with it.

“Wait.” Dean pulled away suddenly. “There’s something I want to give you.”

“Eh, I wasn’t expecting to meet my fake dream lover-and-pal-io so I didn’t get you anything.”

“I wrote you something.” Dean continued agitatedly, ignoring her statement. “Some things, actually.” He started fidgeting and looking around, like the letters might pop up on the dash even though he knew they were all tucked away in a tin box in his dresser back at the bunker. “I’ve- Shit. I’ve been waiting for years, I-”

Dean met her eyes again and the urgency left him. Maybe the letters didn’t matter, just then. He wrote them so someone could know him and she... She already did. The woman in his dreams. The woman of his dreams. It’s two ways of saying the same thing, maybe.

Read it on ao3

@impandagrl @trexrambling @hannahindie

#dean winchester x ofc #dean x reader #dean winchester fanfiction #dean winchester fanfic #spn #my writing #about dean's dreams

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thisnerdblog · 7 years

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@thassalia asked for the Fanfic Meme:

1. Things that Inspire you?

Music, almost 100% music, art and other authors. Actually honestly nearly anything and everything is inspiring, the littlest thing can can produce an idea at the drop of a hat.

3. Name three favorite writers.

. @thassalia and @handypolymath , when you two get together you make magic, also super fantastic on your own. @ireallyhopethismakesuseven is fantastic and I love all her stuff ❤️

24. Favorite scene you’ve ever written?

From one of my first fics, the Avengers are hanging post battle waiting for the suits to give them the green light to leave. It’s snowing and cold and Hulk wraps one giant meaty hand around Nat’s shoulder keeping her warm. It’s terrible and silly and OOC but it was the first real thing I wrote since middle school and i have a soft spot for it. I suppose it wants me to post the scene here, but it’s more the entire damn fic, and I don’t need to bring that much attention to it 😬

46. Share a scene from a story you haven’t published yet?

I’ve been playing around with a Monster Hunter/ Steam Punk AU for the longest time, it’s something I would love to get off the ground.

Natasha Romanoff, leaned back in her chair, bringing the glass to her lips. The frothy head of the dark sweet beer tickled her lips as she took a long draw. The brew was thick and malty with a hint of honey, more of a meal than an actual drink. Setting the pint glass down she pulled the earthenware bowl of stew closer. The dark gravy was thick with barley and mutton. Peas, carrots, pearl onions, mushrooms, and cubes of potatoes hung suspended in the dark broth waiting her spoon. To the side was a loaf of soft soda bread studded with little raisins, soaked in butter.

To her left her partner sat hunched over his bowl, like a dog guarding a bone, shoveling spoonful after spoonful of stew into his mouth. Clint Barton was a stout man, broad shouldered and thick armed. He wore his blonde hair close cropped, and his heavy brows permanently drawn together. But despite the man’s permanent outward scowl, he was was lighthearted and forever a child.

They sat at a well worn and pock marked table, pushed snugly into the corner farthest from the bar. Despite being in the lonely gray village of Starks Hollow little less than a month, they had quickly claimed the little table as their own. Not only was it located in a prime spot by the ever roaring fire (the cold seemed a permanent thing in Starks Hollow), but it also provided an unobstructed view of the entire establishment. Being in their line of work required establishing certain habits if you wanted to live. It was the particular reason She and her partner where holed up in this little god forsaken Hollow.

There was something in the hills that spooked farmers and fouled their crops and animals. It was Natasha and Clint’s job to find out what. Natasha was fairly certain it was a lone wolf and a whole heaping pile of superstition, but Commander Fury had been adamant they go out and perform a full investigation. So far the duo had come across nothing but old wives tales and school house ghost stories.

Clint was enjoying himself, he considered it his first official on the job vacation, and intended to use Fury’s purse to fund it. Most days found her partner sleeping in until noon, interviewing the prettiest girls the village had to offer, putting on impromptu trick shot shows, and drinking the tavern dry. He was having the time of his life.

Natasha on the other hand felt her talents were being wasted in such a tiny village as Starks Hollow. She much preferred the work that made a difference. Natasha had a very specific skill set, she could blend in anywhere and everywhere using her short stature and fine features to fool just about anyone. She could lull men and women both into her web of false security, letting her prey believe they had the advantage before she would strike. Or on some occasions, place the target just so for her partner to take out with an arrow or two to the back.

A frigid sweep of cool late afternoon air ushered a patron through the door, briefly illuminating the dark bar with the low orange light of the setting sun. The newcomer closed the door quickly and headed straight for the bar. Even with his head low, nose buried into a ragged scarf, she could tell she hadn’t met this fellow before. She had managed to interview just about every citizen of the Hollow, even those secluded farmers, but she didn’t recall this man.

He wasn’t particularly tall, though he did have a full head of dark curling hair that just touched the collar of his coat. He had a scraggly mess of a beard, flecked with hints of silver. Under the beard his cheeks were hallow, the bags under his eyes were dark smudges on pale skin. His coat looked to large and hung off thin shoulders. His clothes were frayed, patched, and travel worn.

She watched as he sat on a stool and flagged down the tavern keepers wife. Frigga was a grand and stately woman, beautiful silver and blond curls elegantly piled atop her head while thin bits of silver dripped from her ears. Her Husband, Odin owned the Raven’s Jig, but Frigga was the woman in charge keeping her husband, two sons and a whole slew of patrons in line. There was none that Frigga didn’t know.

She approached the newcomer and stared him down, from where Natasha sat she couldn’t read the new comers lips, but he must of said something to Frigga. The woman gasped, hand flying to her mouth, a pleased smile slowly crawled across her face. She reached out and gripped the mans thin wrist.

She said something threw her fingers Natasha couldn’t read, reaching out to tweak the whiskers at his chin. He ducked his head hiding his chin back into his scarf.

“Sit tight, Dear. Let me fetch you something warm to eat.” She patted the mans wrist and turned toward the kitchens.

The man slumped back into the stool, hunching his shoulders and wringing one of Friggas cloth napkins.

A fresh pint was sat down in front of she and Clint, frothy head spilling down the side of the glass. Odin and Frigga eldest son smiled down at Natasha as he gathered up the spent pint glasses. With long golden hair and matching beard, Thor was easily the best looking man for miles around. Wide shoulders and even wider grin, the man was as strong as an ox and kind to boot. If he wasn’t already so besotted with Miss Jane Foster the baker, Natasha was inclined to take a page out of Clint’s book.

She reached out and grabbed at his sleeve. Motioning toward the newcomer she asked who he was.

Thor scratched his beard, left hand easily holding all their discarded dishes.

“I’m unsure, though mother seems to know him.” Frigga had returned from the kitchen, heaping bowl of stew in one hand and an over flowing glass of golden cider in the other. She sat down the meal before him and started chatting. Thor threw Natasha a cheeky grin “want me to find out for you?”

“If you don’t mind.” Natasha ducked her own head, tugging at her red braid. Let him think she was interested in the guy, things usually went smoother that way.

Thor’s laugh was like a clap of thunder, his big hand patted her slim shoulder. “Consider it done!”

Clint nudged her elbow, coming up for air. He quirked a heavy brow reaching for his new glass. Natasha jerked her chin in the direction of the man at the bar.

“New guy.”

He nodded, humming. They both watched as Thor sauntered up to the bar, golden braids swinging. He passed off his load of dishes to his dark haired younger brother, who scowled sourly. He swung his tree trunk like arm around his Mother kissing her temple. Frigga laughed, and swatted at her Son. She gestured to the Other man, than back to her Son. Thor stared at the other man, smile slipping and brows pulling together in thought. He studied the man for a moment more, before another exited and slightly disbelieving laugh and grabbing the the man and pulling him into as much an embrace as he could with the bar in the way.

The other man laughed a bit nervously, patting Thor awkwardly on his massive shoulder. Pulling backed Thor set about pelting the dark haired man with a rapid string of questions, which he answered, fingers fiddling with his spoon. The questions would have gone on all night if Frigga hadn’t shooed her Son off.

Thor went about some of his duties, though a giddy energy kept his usual swagger tight. Thor was not a subtle man. He returned to the table, pulling out a chair and settling down with his own pint. He looked like a school girl ready to share a bit of juicy gossip.

He jerked his whiskered chin over his shoulder. “That is Bruce Banner.” He said the name as if of course they should know who that was and be just as excited as he. Clint and Natasha flicked a quick sideways glance at each other.

“ I grew up with him, well we weren’t really close. He and Stark were inseparable, though. I wouldn’t doubt to see Stark storming through those doors in the next few minutes. Close as brothers he and Banner.” His younger brother, Loki passed their table with a disgusted snort. “Well most brothers.” His grin only widened.

“ His Father was Brian Banner and his Mother was Rebecca. I remember her, sweetest lady you would have ever met. Used to keeps sweets in her apron pockets.” He laughed brightly again “ Loki got the lot of us believing she was a Swan Maiden and Mr. Banner was hiding her skin. Stark, Banner, Volstagg, Hogun, Fandral, Sif, Jane, and Pepper, all of us searched those hills high and low for hours. Ohh our clothes got so muddy, we all would have gotten a turn with the paddle if Mrs. Banner hadn’t found us first. “ he took a swig “ cleaned us up and stuffed us with bread and molasses. We told her the whole story, cried that we didn’t want her to stay captured, but that we didn’t want her to leave. She laughed and sang to us, her voice was like silver bells. She told us the even if she was a Swan Maiden she would never leave.” Suddenly Thor’s smile dimmed “She died a few short years later.” He played with the edge of his glass.

“What happens to her?” Clint asked around a mouthful of buttery soda bread.

“Mauled, by some wild beast. No one knows why she was out on the moors so late. But they found her the next morning along the side of the road with her throat ripped and her entire chest pulled apart. Gutted like a fish, not an organ in sight. Most believe she was the first human victim of the Hound.” Here Thor dropped his voice a bit.

Natasha nodded her head, she knew The Hound, it was the reason why she and Clint where stuck here. Supposedly there was a great black Hound, with eyes as red as hell, claws as long as pitchforks, and a howl that froze you to the spot. It was said he slept under the hills until the moon was full, then he would gallop across the moors dragging death in his wake.

Pure poppy-cock in Natasha’s opinion. There is no such creature in any guide book or grimoire she was aware off. At best it was a sick wolf, at worst some faery hound, but nothing she and Clint couldn’t handle.

“Any way, she died, Bruce didn’t take it well. Started quarreling with Brian Banner. It got so bad that one day Bruce had just up and left. We don’t know if Old Brian gave him the boot or Bruce left on his own. But he has been gone now a good fifteen years.”

“Brian Banner, that’s the name of the fellow who went missing?” Natasha leaned forward.

“Aye, he did. Hound came back for him, some think.”

“You don’t sound to sorry about Mr. Banner?”

Thor blushed lightly and look a mite ashamed. “ Ah, well he was” he scratched at his beard, thinking hard. Natasha knew these types, superstition ran deep in their blood. Best not say anything ill toward the dead, else they will rise from their graves and haunt you.

“He was particular.” Thor nodded sagely, proud of his diplomatic descriptor.

So Brian Banner was an unpopular ass hole.

“Was he always particular?” Asked Clint.

Thor nodded and drained the rest of his pint. “Ever since I could remember. Old Brian didn’t much care for children, he would run us off the moment he stepped in from his fields. Makes you wonder just why he would have a child in the first place.”

Clint nodded as well, draining his own glass. Then for the second time the inn door pitched open wide bringing in with it the chill of the night. Thor chuckled and rose from his seat.

“I told you.” He gathered up the rest of their glasses and bowls and headed for the kitchen, back to work.

Tony Stark entered the inn with an extravagant flourish of his long cherry red coat. He made a show of placing his fists on his hips and scanning the crowded tables and bar before landing on Bruce Banner.

“Odin, old man, since when do you serve mangy old dogs!” Odin rolled his one good eye and chewed on his pipe stem. Banner turned in his seat, a small grin painted his lips, dimming the shadows of his face and bringing back a little bit of boyish charm.

Stark gave a whoop and charged Banner, knocking his silk hat from his head as he crashed into the other man, pulling him tight into a brotherly bear hug.

Yo, if anyone want to talk Avengers Monster Hunter/Steam Punk AU, I need all the workshopping I can get!

#Jen rambles #brucenat #hulkwidow #jen's fic #questions #ask meme

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