#pin pandemonium
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MY CREATIVE INSPIRATION KNOWS NO BOUNDS :D
(its a hal core because im a filthy homestuck and a portal enjoyer thank you to @calware for the inspo from puffle hal)
i still need to give him the sunglasses pupil and also his handlebars (potentially? if i can figure out how to attach em) and then hes good to go! i love him and am going to make another one :]
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here it is for ppl wondering: main ships and tags. most of this is subject to change. (click here for the fic's tag) (click here for like an old summary-ish post) THIS FIC IS UNPUBLISHED
Pandemonium is an original work transformed into a piece of fanfiction. It’s inspired by a lot of science fiction works, namely The Walking Dead and some others I can’t name for the sake of spoiling. This is going to be a long fic, a fanfic magnum opus if anything.
There will be some moments with dysphoria sprinkled throughout the fic because I always wondered how a trans person would experience an apocalypse. Also, yes, there’s some brief mpreg in the fanfiction. Yes, it’s integral to the story. I understand 100% that reading about pregnancy is not everyone's thing, so I will publish a separate bit. It’s essentially the prologue, but the bits with pregnancy are just mentioned in passing or simply summarized and/or omitted to the best of my ability. There is no other mpreg in the rest of the fic, though Regulus' pregnancy may be referred to now and then.
There are some character age inaccuracies but it was the only way of making this work and still including some favorites in a way I wanted them to be in the storyline. This is going to be heavy and quite angsty. Minor characters will die. Major characters with a POV can or will die too, hence the MCD warning. This warning extends to the people of all listed main pairings. Whether by suicide, sacrifice, tragic endings, murder, environmental hazards, zombies, or a combination of all. Again, things will get quite triggering at times so please mind the tags! There will be happy moments, but an eventual happy/bittersweet ending is far from sight.
#ok linking this 2 pandemonium in my pinned#ty cass for the suggestion <3#didnt know u can disable reblogs......#back in my day... he just created a page on ur tumblr#and linked that
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Here she is! The last entry for the month of May and mistress of the macabre, the epitome of evil, the most sinister woman to ever dance upon the face of this earth! Lowly dog!! Bow your head!! Kneel and worship at the feet of Santanico Pandemonium!! Appearing in the cult classic film From Dusk Til Dawn and played by the incredibly seductive Salma Hayek, this ancient Aztec vampire wants to suck you dry, or make you her pet. Maybe she'll call you Spot. Stick around next month when we kick off the summer right with a few familiar ladies!!
#santanicopandemonium #salmahayek #fromdusktildawn #Latinas #cincodemayo #pinupart #digitalart #pinupoftheweek #sexycartoons #cartoonbabes #hentai #rule34 #toejoeproductions
#santanico pandemonium#salma hayek#from dusk till dawn#latina#cinco de mayo#pin up art#digital art#sexy cartoon#cartoon babes#rule34
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Hey! Now that you’re back I wanted to ask about Resident Lover? I remember you were on the team- but then the game came out and your name wasn’t on the dev list... what happened?
I can’t escape this question can I- and for those of you who messaged me, I did delete them in hopes of avoiding this- but I don’t want rumours to spread so lemme be transparent.
Also pls read this for how I’m handling coming back to this blog: https://www.tumblr.com/donnabenevientosimpingzone/741337986608873472/complex-feelings-and-absolute-pandemonium-about-my
No, I wasn’t kicked off the team, nor was I invited back when I left- and they made the right choice doing that. I was not mentally stable. I didn’t take the project seriously, I had jealousy issues, and didn’t take criticism well- I self destructed badly- blew up and burned that bridge to ashes, not to mention what sorta hurt I caused the team.
It did hurt a lot when I saw the game release. I was so upset, and spent so many weeks thinking about “what if I didn’t fuck up”. But there are no “what ifs” in history, we are meant to go through what we do in order to become the best versions of ourselves. The whole ordeal was part of the last push I needed to finally seek professional help. And the fact it still hurts whenever I see it around means I still care and carry guilt about everything that happened.
I’m practicing exposure therapy to try and heal that gaping wound. RE8 has turned my life completely on its head and I don’t want to abandon it- the best outcome will be the day I can download and play the game and find it within myself to genuinely love it with no more wounds to lick- but for now I’m content with seeing it float around every once in a while on my dash.
Out of respect- I hope none of you will pester the devs about this either. They did something amazing, and I’m so proud of what they’ve accomplished. Out of all of them I really miss MJ. They were the best, most hilarious friend- I always thought they were super attractive- and the whole reason the game was possible. Show them some love- idk message them “you’re cool!” for me or something. Anon ask if you have to. Don’t tell them I’m the one who sent you- I think it’ll be funny to just have a whole buncha people messaging them outta nowhere bahaha
And with that I hope this clears it up and stops people from messaging anymore about it. It’s still a sensitive wound I’m working to heal and I’d like to do it at my own pace<3 I don’t regret the experience, I’m in such a better place now because of it. I would love to make peace with my past self and accept the pain as a part of growing.
Until then enjoy me going back to my usual shenanigans before all the shit hit the fan. I’m very excited to draw more Spider Donna and Beneviento Sisters, I hope y’all enjoy it too<3
Update edit: https://www.tumblr.com/donnabenevientosimpingzone/737803172475781120/stupid-lil-update-i-wanna-do-as-per-my-pinned
Update! https://www.tumblr.com/donnabenevientosimpingzone/737980137572892672/people-who-knowknew-me-personally-probably-arent
Update that shows old sprite: https://www.tumblr.com/donnabenevientosimpingzone/738487941680316416/want-me-as-a-professor-okay-damn-ignore-the
Update where I rant about Angie and Daniela with a cat: https://www.tumblr.com/donnabenevientosimpingzone/740499151828156416/can-we-see-the-png-of-the-angie-sprite-holding-a
Update about the dangie ask on the RL blog: https://www.tumblr.com/donnabenevientosimpingzone/742312364040454144/hey-just-a-heads-up-that-the-rl-team-recently
#ask#I’m not tagging this because the team moved on without me#and I’m happy they did#don’t want to open old wounds#so please#don’t bother them about this#I’m just tired of people messaging me and I knew I couldn’t stay quiet forever or else shit will hit the fan#been on the internet enough to know that wheeze#they’re all very good people and I miss them dearly#I’m so thankful for this experience even if I didn’t see it to the end#I THINK THE TEAM ACTUALLY HAS ME BLOCKED SO IM PINNING THIS TO GET PEOPLE TO STOP MESSAGING ME CUZ YES I STILL AM GETTING SOME
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My God, I just woke up to pandemonium on here! And what do I see but some freshly baked buddie content! I told myself I would step back a little and reduce my expectations but how am I supposed to do that when they give us this? I am trying like an addict to not take another hit of buddie cannon thoughts but here I go again.
I'm not sure what to make of the top picture with Eddie. There's a relaxed nature to him. The familiarity and comfort of his hand on (Buck's?) shoulder says whatever is going on, Eddie is in a good place. He may be talking about his dating life. I still say dating and not relationship because this Era of Eddie is about putting himself out there, not about finding a marriage worthy partner (*grumbling* he's already married to someone.) He's not ready for a serious relationship but is having a good time.
Next we have Buck and Chris. This is a serious conversation of whatever they could be talking about. There are a few possibilities of what it could be:
-Problems at school
-Issues with growing up, puberty, teen stuff.
-Dilemma with his dad
-A lack of Buck in Christopher's life and pulling away
-The Buckley-Diaz family is starting to fracture big time.
These all kind of correlate with each other, which is why it's so hard to pin down what it could be. What I can see is Buck is trying to talk to Chris, but it's not face to face. He is looking away as if it's difficult to talk about, possibly holding back something, or even downright lying about it, (Buck's a terrible liar so it may also be denial or ignorance driving him).
And Christopher is the big red flag here. He is not invested in this convo. He is not looking at Buck and is busy writing in his notebook. Now, I guess he could be writing down what Buck is saying. I see some people saying he's asking Buck about past traumas for a report, but I'm not too sure about that one. This is giving me more, "I here you but I'm not listening" which I could be wrong about, but I feel like it's time for Buck to realize he's not Christopher's number one friend that can do no wrong anymore and has to face the fact that Chris is growing up and is more perceptive about what is going on in his life and in his home.
He's probably wondering why Buck isn't around as much. Teenage life is turbulent and confusing, and neither his Dad nor Buck is around for him to ask stuff. He may be feeling left out or left behind. He may feel a little jaded by Buck since he promised Chris he would always be around. (Gavin is such an amazing actor. I cannot wait to see him in this scene.)
There, I have said my piece about these photos. I may add to this but I'll try not to only in that I don't want to overthink it, as if I already haven't.
- Bonus thought: I really think Buck and Eddie are heading for a break up this season. There is a lot being left unsaid, plenty of trauma between them, and for buddie to work, there needs to be a breakdown and rebuilding of foundations. Not that they have to go clean-slate, but re-evaluate who they are to each other and face their feelings about one another. I need at least one of them to say 'I need you' and realize they are in love. That passion needs to come forward and it most likely will come in the form of a fight.
Okay I'm done.
#911 spoilers#eddie diaz#evan buckley#christopher diaz#buckley diaz family#911 abc#911 speculation#it's early i'm still reeling from this#i hope this makes sense#good morning everyone 🤪#buddie
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hi! is there anywhere to see what group won in jpsekai for the cheerful carnivals? i heard that ensekai chooses the opposite and i’m a little curious
couldn't find an actual record so here's a list i made
Singing Under the Sakura: Dango (team 1)
STRAY BAD DOG: Pancake (team 2)
Song of Vows: Traditional Attire (team 2)
Unnamed Harmony: Classroom (team 2)
Absolute Best Summer: Boat (team 1)
Moon Rabbits: Persimmon (team 1)
Fan Festa: Pin badge (team 1)
Footprints: Curry and Rice (team 1)
Intersecting Melodies: Illumination (team 1)
The Tomorrow We Hope For: Fukuwarai (team 2)
Secret Valentine: Giving (team 1) <- notably the only instance of the winning team not winning the previous midterms
Thrilling White Day: Dark Chocolate (team 1)
Sakura Across SEKAI: Sakura Latte (team 1)
Painful Hope: Mellow Song (team 1)
Wishing For Your Happiness: Indoor Wedding (team 2)
Spojoy Park: Baseball (team 1)
close game/OFFLINE: Garbage Puyo (team 2)
Don't lose faith: Tonkotsu Ramen (team 1)
Wolf Forest: Cafe (team 1)
Beyond the Dream: TV Program (team 2)
New Year Show: Mountains (team 2)
Memories Carried By Candles: Citrus (team 2)
Never Give Up Cooking: Coffee (team 1)
Resonant Town: Guppy (team 1)
Our Escape for Survival: Restaurant (team 1)
Standing Next to You: Bouquet Toss (team 1)
Pandemonium: Tea Ceremony (team 1)
Slapstick Cafe: Pudding a la Mode (team 1)
Let Your Song Resonate: Musical Performance (team 1)
Hello Good Day: Animal Caretaker (team 1)
Warmth That Guides Us: Onsen Tamagu (team 2)
Picture Wrap: Action Movie (team 1)
Unchanging Warmth:
as you can tell, team 1 usually wins on JP, and on EN (at least from what I remember), team 2 usually wins. however there are instances of the same team winning on both servers, such as dark chocolate during White Day and garbage puyo during CGO. usually the same team will hold a lead throughout the entire event and then win, so if you want to join the winning team a good tip is to just pick one when it forces you, then check what team the majority of the top 100 is in like a day before first midterm and change if you need to bc the team the tierers are in will probably win.
#early cheerful carnivals had to be patched a lot due to players overwhelmingly picking team 1#then tierers started picking team 2 because so many people picked team 1#and then people realised the tierers were in team 2 so everyone picked team 2 and tierers moved back to team 1 and just stayed there#asks
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you draw some of the coolest and most unique faces I've seen, are there any particular style inspirations for this, any particular artists or people?
thank you so much!!
unfortunately, I can't really pin down one or a handful of specific artists, groups, or styles that have influenced what my art is today -- when i was a KID, however, i did have many! looking back I can def see the influence, so I'll name them here!
Pandemonium by Chris Wooding, illustrated by Cassandra Diaz (MY FAV OF ALL TIME, so nostalgic) I have final print and lines-only proof copies, I LOVE the colors AND the lines on this work sooo much
2. cartoon saloon, but specifically the Secret of Kells. love love love the shape language and intricate details, especially in the faces.
3. The Prince of Egypt, specifically. The longer faces with aquiline noses are sooo good.
Otherwise I mostly stick to the same design principles in my character faces (deepset eyes, hooked/aquiline noses, prominent lower lip, prominent browbone) because theyre my own features! i know i keep saying this but i really put myself in all my art haha
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WIP WEDNESDAY
got tagged by @aggravateddurian ! <3
again only writing:
Cyberpunk 2078 — Pandemonium:
Technically I can already start layouting the 2nd chapter as the written part is 100% done, but I am still missing some VP where I have to place Hizumi, Vijay and Ryder in the Afterlife and, ofc I am either too lazy to do that or I just forget about it bc I distract myself with other stuff (that also wants to be done). But as soon as I get to it you can expect the 2nd chapter! At least for those who are interested in it.
New pinned post coming soon:
I am about to make a new pinned post, yes it will be a brand new post but contain more or less the same my current one has.
I just wanted to refresh my boys profiles, tweak the formatting a little and make them a bit better readable but they won't differ much from the current ones.
I'll exchange the profile pics with given time tho as I'm not satisfied with most pics but have no time to throw each after another into the game just to get the perfect pic for it.
About Blorbos:
I am trying to sort out/clean up my boys' wardrobes. E.g. I noticed Thyjs has too much stuff and from every piece like up to 3 versions. I force myself to get it down to one piece, which doesn't work all the time, but I slowly get there. When he's done I'll have to do the same with the other boys thow Ryder is the most unproblematic of all as there's only one iteam in black for him in the first place of most mods.
I don't want them to wear all the same clothes unless it's basic stuff or shoes. I also try to get rid of most replacers unless it's stuff that hasn't been made as xl yet or need to be kept for color reasons and what not. It takes me so long because I also clean up my folders where I storage their original files as well sorting out those I have taken out. You know each of my boys has their own save file.
I am also renaming some files to have a better overview as bru I tell you thjys is close to 300 mod files.
Chrome Chamber Rave concept:
Prepared some posts already but I am hesitating to push the post button bc my brain is stupid telling me shit I shall not listen to.
that's all for now. I promise next wip post will contain some pics or sth cooler than just text! I don't like it either.
tagging:
@astarionhistears, @nervouswizardcycle, @gloryride, @elvenbeard, @heywoodvirgin, @rosapexa, @streetkid-named-desire, @therealnightcity, @wanderingaldecaldo, @koda-shoulda-woulda-but-didnt, @breezypunk, @ouroboros-hideout and anyone who wants to or has to show something. No Pressure and if tblr mentions don't work, I'm not even trying to edit it as I am tired of it not working properly.
#wip wednesday#more like an update post rather than a wip post#but wll I just want u updated for those who are interested to read my brabbling#thoughts
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Heaven and Hell strike! (a "crack" meta?)
I was reviewing my notes to write some things I like about Shax (they are organized by themes) but I came across this idea first and it tickled my brain (probably because I just watched Neil's speech at the WGA Strike picket line). (BTW, great message, go watch it!!)
We know some interesting things about the awful work circumstances at Hell. We can "ignore" them (it is Hell, after all), but what if we check out what is happening with Hell's workforce?
The place is dreadful. We know, it is Hell, that's how it is supposed to be.
There is a whole lot of bureaucracy. I would say that it is specifically because bureaucracy IS Hell, but this is also me being me.
Everyone is overworked. Again, maybe it is just the thing with Hell, but...
They are understaffed. Furfur let's us know that as soon as Shax asks him for a legion. This would be obvious for Admissions during WW II, but when the bookshop siege happens, they barely manage to get 70 demons. Why?????
Beelzebub talks a lot about Hell not "appreciating talents". They say it when they talk about Crowley, then again while they lament with the other demon, and that's one of the things that connects them to Gabriel.
This was also one of the points made by Furfur when he talked about trying to "climb the ladder". He lashed to Crowley about this (as if getting a better job was Crowley's fault), but... (put a pin on this)
Shax possible new Dukedom and Beelzebub offering Crowley the possibility of becoming a "new Duke of Hell" talks to me about some sort of power vacuum (it goes without mention that promotions are given at personal discretion, not through real merit).
However, Heaven doesn't seem like they are in great shape, also...
They are trying to hide their "institutional problems" (at least, two defectors, but we should also count the renegade-now-Supreme-Archangel as part of the problem)
The corporate climate in the higher levels of Heaven is HIDEOUS. They are mostly petty, envious, create rumors and love power struggles...
Michael (my personal hate character) is at the same time so power hungry and so clueless about anything, that they are incapable of taking action (thanks, someone)
After not even knowing if Gabriel really had a desk, Michael gets a desk, while being "Duty Officer" and making everyone roll their eyes with their orders. They got that desk out of pure pettiness!
We know that "lesser angels" are mostly ignored. If you are an angel like Muriel, nobody ever acknowledges your existence. We have already seen how happy they are just by participating!! (they don't even notice being called "dim", poor baby)
Gabriel bonds with Beelz around not being recognized for what they do, and Beelz win their (cold, little) heart WITH A FLY because nobody has given him anything before… Not even a little pat in the head?
We have already seen TWO cases where an angel and a demon discover, through familiarity and shared worries/complaints, that they have so much in common that they are better together. We are crackshipping a third one.
The pin about Furfur (which I had forgotten) is that the problem is not Crowley, and the problem are not the people inside the system who learn how to play it: THE PROBLEM IS THE SYSTEM ITSELF.
Now, the point:
Something something about unappreciated people coming together as soon as they learn there’s better to be had. Can you imagine that much fun???!!!??? Bring Pandemonium!!
#good omens 2#good omens meta#good omens universe#heaven is terrible#bureaucracy is hell#ineffable bureaucracy#it is crack meta but only if you think so#stronger together
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Spankings, I’m afraid. She wasn’t so sure she liked them all that much but she could feel how despite the first few being non sexual in nature, they made Gale hard, and that aroused her in its own way. He’s got a very specific way he makes love to her after such discipline, it’s very slow but hard with a great deal of reaffirming eye contract which makes her cum like a girl possessed, his whole attitude being like he’s pinning his newly tamed prey down after not just the attack but then the devouring.
i NEED u to write all this
Muahahahahha, the sheer amount of pandemonium this has created, I’m giggling like a maniac.
#i do have a very specific sorta visualization of what this looks like yet i have zero faith#that I can indeed write it#but I may try. for y’all. i may try#it would obvs be after liberation#Gale x Maureen
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37. Muriel
Chapter 37 of Too Wise to Woo Peaceably
The last time Muriel had been in this room, they had been alone. Well, they had been alone, and then they had been with Saraqael, but the point was the room had been quiet and bright; if Muriel hadn’t been trying to borrow the Book of Life from The Metatron it might even have seemed relaxing.
This time, arriving in the room with Crowley hanging over their shoulder, Muriel couldn’t have sworn it was the same place.
For one thing, there was an unmistakably acrid smell of burning keratin that instantly poured down their throats and lodged there, thick and noxious.
That was new.
The archangel Saraqael was lying on the ground curled in on themselves. Their wings fluttered weakly against the floor, singed and smoking at the edges. Aziraphale was standing with his back to them, wings outstretched, and he was about twice his usual size, which was odd, but nowhere near as odd as the creature facing Aziraphale from the far side of the desk.
Muriel had to assume it was an angel, but white gold light shone from where a person's arteries and veins would be, almost as if they were in the process of cracking like an egg. They had no eyes, only flaming hollows, and their wingspan was enormous; it blocked a great deal of the natural light in the room, and sparks of lightning crackled between the feathers, tracing the bones.
Muriel’s fingers unwittingly tensed and pressed hard into Crowley’s ribs.
It was speaking, and its voice projected in a way that seemed to permeate the room. It sank into the concrete, whited out their every thought, penetrated their very bone marrow. Embers fell from its mouth as it spoke. It seemed to be mid-rant.
“...I will not allow a single pitiful angel and one scourge of a demon to interfere - again - in the plans of Heaven. To allow it to happen twice would be irresponsible.”
Muriel felt Crowley’s now familiar huff, and wondered if they had time to explain to him the difference between funny strange, and funny haha. Probably not.
They tightened their grip on his wrist as a warning.
Naturally he ignored it.
Muriel felt him draw breath and inwardly groaned. “Yeah, if it happened twice, I mean… that would really start to look like an institutional problem.”
The terrifying angel looked across Aziraphale’s shoulder and caught sight of the two of them. It was hard to read any particular emotion in its ocular furnaces, but Muriel thought there might have been a small spark of surprise.
“YOU!” It thundered, and Muriel wasn’t sure if it was a singular you or a plural you but they were certain neither was good, and they momentarily considered miracling them both right back out of there...
And then Aziraphale rather ferociously stabbed the creature through the hand with what looked like… Muriel craned their neck-
Was that a quill?
The room erupted into pandemonium.
The angel’s roar rattled the windows. Flames were spitting from its mouth and Saraqael, released from whatever hold had kept them pinned to the floor, frantically dragged themselves out of its line of sight.
Muriel pulled Crowley along with her as they stumbled to Saraqael’s side. They let go of Crowley's wrist and he clenched his fist into the knitted wool of their jumper, his weight pulling the neckline tight against Muriel's clavicle. They bent together and Muriel used their free arm to grab Saraqael around the waist, narrowly avoiding getting hit by the archangel’s wings.
Muriel half-hauled, half-dragged both Saraqael and Crowley to one of the pillars lining the windows on the left-hand side of the room, and when they were both propped against the concrete, Muriel stepped back, chest heaving.
They weren’t actually sure how they had done that. Had they been propelled by pure dread?
Muriel turned to see Aziraphale - who had shrunk back down to his usual size - duck as the creature swiped to grab him.
“What is that?” Muriel yelled to be heard above the angel’s cries of rage and pain.
Crowley followed the direction of their gaze and tried to speak, but Muriel could hear nothing over the noise. They crouched at Crowley’s side and put their ear to his mouth.
“It’s The Metatron. You’ve met him before. Voice of God?”
Muriel looked dubious. “The Metatron I met didn’t look anything like that!”
“No, mn, fair point,” Crowley said. He was still roaring, trying to claw at Aziraphale, blinded by rage. Crowley grimaced. “Noisy bastard.”
The Metatron suddenly lunged forward and elongated himself, sweeping Aziraphale to one side with a now abnormally stretched arm. Ignoring Muriel altogether, he used the same arm to reach out one hand, one finger, one fingernail, all much longer than usual, and hook the tip of the nail into Crowley’s black top with the yellow stripes.
“Do you mind?” Crowley muttered. “It’s new.”
“YOU.”
“Yeah, yeah, me. Demon of the hour. Well spotted, especially considering you seem to ’ve-” Crowley gestured vaguely at the flaming sockets. “... burnt out your eyeballs. Was that intentional, or-?”
The Metatron released Crowley and snapped the eerily slender arm back to yank the silver quill from his hand with an enraged hiss. He flung it to the floor, ignoring the ichor oozing from the wound. The Metatron swept around the desk towards them and immediately reached for Crowley again with both hands.
His path was blocked by Aziraphale who had moved to stand in front of the demon, shielding him. He grabbed The Metatron by the wrists. “Leave him! Enough!”
The room rippled and Muriel realised The Metatron was shimmering with anger. Muriel almost reeled from the force of it. Rage pulsated through the room in waves. The Metatron looked down at Aziraphale with disdain etched on his face.
“YOU. DARE.”
Crowley stumbled forward onto his knees and reached out to nervously tug at Aziraphale’s elbow. “Maybe we should-”
“You are nothing! ”
The Metatron broke Aziraphale’s hold and swatted him, batting him aside as if he were made of cardboard. He skidded across the floor, coming to a stop in a heap in the middle of the room.
Then the Metatron was looming, large and terrifying, over Crowley, Muriel, and Saraqael.
“YOU!” The claw flicked off Crowley’s dark glasses and then was back at his chest again. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?”
(Muriel was thinking that maybe they shouldn’t have come.)
Crowley, still on his knees, looked up at The Metatron and shrugged. “Fear of missing out, I think the kids call it? It’s a curse, really…”
(Muriel was thinking that actually maybe this had been a spectacularly bad idea.)
The Metatron used one hand to grab Crowley by the hair and the other to drag their nail down Crowley’s face, deliberately reopening the scar that traced through his eyebrow and down his cheek. “How are you here, demon? You were broken. I witnessed it. You shouldn’t be conscious. You shouldn’t be here!”
Behind Crowley, Muriel inched slowly towards Saraqael, who was worryingly pale and had pressed themselves against the pillar as if trying to blend in with the white paint.
The Metatron traced his sharp nail down the line of Crowley’s jaw and brought it around to the soft underside before pressing up until it broke the skin. A drop of blood welled at the tip of the nail and Crowley gasped out, “I’m… disappointingly resilient.”
“YOU ARE A COCKROACH! ”
Crowley stiffened. “Well that’s just rude.”
Muriel crawled their hand sideways until it brushed up against Saraqael’s fingertips. Finally-
The Metatron jerked suddenly and spun round, releasing Crowley who fell forward onto his hands and knees.
Aziraphale was standing behind The Metatron, hyperventilating, his eyes wide.
“YOU AGAIN?”
Muriel's eyes widened at the sight of the silver quill stuck deep in The Metatron’s back, and they quickly shuffled closer to Saraqael as he reached behind him to pull it out.
It made a nauseating sucking sound.
“Step away from Crowley!” Aziraphale said, sounding frightened but firm. “I’ll- I’ll do it again!”
The Metatron snarled and snapped the silver quill in two. “No. No, I don’t think you will.”
Crowley looked over his shoulder at Muriel and Saraqael. His face was pale and drawn, blood dripping from his brow and down his cheek, like a vicious red tear. He nodded at Muriel, who nodded grimly back and grabbed hold of Saraqael’s wrist.
A beat, and then Muriel and Saraqael vanished in a swirl of displaced air.
#good omens#ineffable idiots#ineffable#crowley and aziraphale#aziracrow#aziraphale x crowley#good omens fanfic#good omens fanfiction#ineffable divorce#crowley#good omens fic#good omens fic request#go2#ineffable husbands#ineffable spouses#ineffable partners#azcrow#azicrow#crowley x aziraphale#good omens longfic#muriel#the metatron#fuck metatron#eldritch metatron#because he wasn't scary enough already
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Courtesan Skywarp au
Holy shit Skywarp would be freaking out post reveal (unless you go with the version of him being drugged but even then).
Like he’s gone his entire life without revealing his outlier to any one but like three family members and then suddenly a room full of famous and rich people see him warp.
Cause these are the exact people that he was hiding his warp drive from and now they all know and they’re going to take him away and this is what he was a trying to avoid
Oh yeah, poor Skywarp is having a helluva time.
I did some discussing with my discord, and I think we mapped out a pretty good means for his secret being revealed. It's about halfway through the night and he's just slipped away from one of the tables to refill his crystal pitcher with fine wine, and his next rotation happens to be over toward the table nearest to Starscream and Thundercracker. As he's flitting over, a bright orange glow happens to catch his attention right out of the corner of his optic, and he just barely notices an until-now cloaked assassin pulling out a deadly hot thermal blade and making a silent lunge for the two guests who are sitting all alone.
"WATCH OUT-!" He drops his pitcher and it shatters grandly as he breaks into a sprint, arms outstretched to warn them, but he's not going to make it in time. There's about 2 seconds before of those two mechs gets stabbed, and his warpdrive activates on his own from his desperation to do something. He can't just stand still and watch someone be hurt, it's a reflex he can't control.
He teleports without meaning to and crashes into both of them, knocking over their tables and chairs and the blade goes right into his bicep. He shrieks in pain and in the next second he teleports again: all three of them land on the floor in the center of the room, knife still sticking out of his arm with both of nobles he just saved pinned underneath him.
The room erupts in pandemonium--did that courtesan just assault the prince and his fiance?! No, wait, there's a blade! An assassination attempt?! That purple light, the way he seemed to disappear and reappear, is he a-?!
Skywarp panics at all their whispering, and his warpdrive kicks in one final time: he vanishes with another flash of purple light and finds himself sobbing in his room at the Heaven House. He yanks the blade out and throws it on the ground, wound gushing a generous amount of blood. He feels cold and shaky, his audials are ringing and his spark is hammering. They know. They know. It was the worst possible place to expose himself, every noble family on the city had guests at that party! Even the royal family was there! Everyone saw him! And-
The stab wound throbs on his bicep and he clamps his servo over it, wobbling out of his bedroom door to find the manager/house mother. She's horrified when she sees what state he's in! She takes good care of her workers, and treats them kindly: Skywarp falls into her arms sobbing and frightened and she can hardly believe what she's seeing! He was assaulted at the party and then flew all the way home?! She hurries to get him some first aid, closing the wound as much as she can and calling the nearest hospital for transport.
Skywarp ends up losing consciousness before they arrive, unfortunately: seems the assassin nicked a vital mainline and now he's at risk of bleeding out 😌
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Bunny Slippers: Chapter Three
Summary: Sam and Dean Winchester have returned to visit new allies Julia and Rob Blackburn. Enjoying their company, especially Julia's company. The brothers, now equipped with a greater understanding about their father's mission, they leave with the promise to return in the near future. Upon their return, they are greeted with a horrible reality. Together with Julia they pick up the pieces of the horrible reality.
Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader [ OC: Julia Blackburn ]
Warnings: mostly fluff with violence and angst, maybe slow burn
Word Count: 5, 008 words
Author's Note: Let me know what y'all think. I hope you enjoy chapter three.
Chapter One & Chapter Two
(image from Pinterest)
Anger flaring within him, Dean watched as the demon possessing Rob began to advance menacingly. In an instant, the room became a battleground, the tension snapping like a taut wire.
The demon, using Rob's powerful build to its advantage, launched at the brothers with surprising speed. Dean and Sam, well-versed in combat against supernatural foes, met the attack with a flurry of defensive moves. The fight was a chaotic dance, each brother covering the other, their movements a testament to years of fighting side by side.
Dean threw a punch, aiming for the demon's head, but it ducked and countered with a vicious swipe that Dean narrowly avoided. Sam, seizing the moment, lunged from the side, trying to tackle the demon to the ground. But the demon, with Rob's muscular strength, overpowered him, sending Sam crashing against a bookshelf.
The books that once represented knowledge and refuge now rained down in a chaotic cascade. Dean, seeing his brother momentarily down, redoubled his efforts, his every move fueled by a mix of fear for Julia and a burning need to end this threat.
The demon, now focusing its full attention on Dean, grinned maliciously. It was a twisted, unsettling sight on Rob's familiar face. With a sudden, powerful move, it pinned Dean against the wall, its hands closing around his throat. Dean struggled, gasping for air, his hands grappling at the demon's iron grip.
Sam, recovering from the blow, saw his brother in peril and sprang into action. He grabbed a piece of broken shelf, a makeshift weapon, and struck the demon with all his might. The demon staggered, releasing Dean, who slumped to the ground, coughing and gasping for breath.
The brothers, knowing that time was running out, realized they needed to end this fight quickly. With a silent nod, they coordinated their next move. Dean, despite his weakened state, charged at the demon, distracting it, while Sam, from behind, prepared the killing blow.
In a swift, decisive moment, Sam plunged the makeshift stake into the demon's back. The effect was immediate. The demon let out an unearthly howl, its grip on the physical world weakening. Rob's body convulsed, the blackness in his eyes flickering, then extinguishing, leaving behind the pained, human eyes of Rob Blackburn.
As the life drained from him, Rob collapsed, his body now free from the demonic possession but succumbing to the fatal wound. The brothers stood over him, their expressions a mix of sorrow and regret. This was not the outcome they had hoped for, a reminder of the harsh realities of their world where victory often came with a heavy price.
Dean, still catching his breath, looked around frantically. "Julia," he gasped, the fight reminding him of the immediate danger she might still be in. The brothers, weary but determined, prepared to continue their search for Julia, hoping they were not too late.
The Winchester brothers, hearts racing, began to call out for Julia, their voices echoing through the devastated library. With urgency, they navigated the chaos, moving aside the remnants of fallen furniture and scattered books.
"Julia!" Dean's voice was raw with concern, his eyes scanning every inch of the room for any sign of her.
The brothers navigated the pandemonium, urgently calling for Julia as they moved aside toppled furniture and strewn belongings. Their voices, laced with concern, echoed through the chaos-ridden space. Sam's keen eyes scanned the room, and he spotted the slightly ajar bookshelf door, the hidden entrance to Julia's secret sanctuary.
"Dean, over here!" Sam's voice cut through the cluttered room, his long strides taking him swiftly toward the bookshelf door. His tone was urgent, a mixture of worry and determination. "Her room's behind this door. We need to check now!"
Dean, sensing the urgency in his brother's voice, crossed the room with an almost supernatural speed, driven by the dire need to find Julia. Sam, with a push, opened the door, revealing the entrance to Julia's personal haven.
"Julia, are you here?" Sam called out, his voice softer yet filled with anxiety. Dean, taking the lead, stepped through the threshold into her bedroom.
The sight that met their eyes was a stark contrast to the usual vibrancy of Julia's space. Her room, typically a haven of cozy warmth and colourful aesthetics, now felt eerily lifeless. The normally organized chaos was replaced by a scene of utter disarray. Papers and books with colourful spines, once meticulously arranged on her bookshelves, were now scattered across the floor. Desk and dresser drawers lay open, their contents spilled out in a careless tumble.
Amidst the chaos, a small, poignant detail caught Sam's eye - the pink fluffy bunny slippers still tucked under the foot of her bed, a reminder of the normalcy that had been so violently disrupted.
And then, their worst fears were confirmed. There, at the foot of her wooden bed, lay Julia. Unconscious, her usually vibrant presence reduced to a still, quiet figure amidst the turmoil of her room. The sight sent a wave of dread through the brothers, prompting them to spring into action, their instincts as protectors taking over.
"Julia!" Dean rushed to her side, his voice tinged with panic. He knelt down, carefully checking for any sign of injury and looking for the rise and fall of her chest to ensure she was breathing.
Sam quickly joined him, his mind racing as he took in the scene. "We need to wake her up, see if she knows what happened here," he said, his voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through him.
Dean nodded, gently tapping Julia's cheeks in an attempt to rouse her. "Julia, come on, wake up," he urged softly, his tough exterior giving way to a rare display of tenderness. The urgency of the moment hung heavily in the air as they waited, hoping for her eyes to flutter open.
Julia's porcelain skin, usually warmed by a gentle blush, now lay stark and drained of its lively hue. Dean tenderly brushed aside a strand of her hair, his touch gentle yet fraught with concern. As his fingers retreated, a stark contrast of red against his skin caught his eye—a smudge of blood. With her hair now pushed away, a worrisome gash near her hairline was revealed, seeping crimson. His gaze swept across the room, taking in the disarray with a sense of urgency.
Carefully, Dean slid his arms beneath Julia, cradling her with a tenderness that belied his rugged exterior. He navigated the cluttered floor with precision, laying her down on the vibrant tapestry of her comforter, a stark juxtaposition to her current pallor.
Meanwhile, Sam, ever the pragmatic one, began to restore some semblance of order to the chaos around them. He picked up scattered drawers and strewn papers, hoping a tidier environment might ease Julia's distress upon awakening.
Dean, driven by a mix of fear and determination, crossed through the doorway into the hallway, making his way to the ensuite bathroom. His movements were brisk, almost frantic, as he snatched up a washcloth and held it under the running water, soaking it thoroughly.
Returning to Julia's side, Dean perched on the edge of the bed, his presence a solid reassurance in the tumultuous silence. He gently caressed Julia's arm, a silent plea for her to sense his presence. His voice, when he spoke, was a blend of a whispered incantation and a fervent prayer, imbued with the unmistakable timbre of Dean Winchester's resolve.
"Julia, c'mon, you gotta open those eyes for me," he urged, his voice a soft rumble, laden with unspoken emotions. With the damp cloth in hand, he tenderly dabbed at her forehead and along her hairline, clearing away the vestiges of the ordeal with each gentle stroke. He watched over her, his attention unwavering, even as a faint bruise began to emerge like a storm cloud on her temple.
The world around Dean seemed to fade into the background, his focus solely on the subtle shifts in Julia's countenance. The flutter of her eyelids, the slight furrow of her brows, each minute change was a beacon of hope in the dimly lit room.
"Dean?" Her voice, barely above a whisper, cracked through the heavy silence, fragile yet laden with a trust so profound it anchored him to the spot.
"Yeah, it's me, sweetheart. Just take it easy, okay? I'm right here," Dean responded, his voice a soothing balm, each word laced with the promise of unwavering support and protection.
Confusion clouded Julia's gaze as her eyelids fluttered open, revealing the stormy aftermath of her ordeal. A tentative hand reached up, grazing the tender bruise blossoming on her face. The contact elicited a sharp flinch, a silent testament to the pain lurking beneath the surface.
Dean's instincts kicked in, his hands gently but firmly guiding hers away from the burgeoning ache. "Hey, easy there," he coaxed with a blend of concern and a hint of his characteristic gruff warmth. "Just lie back down, alright? You're safe now." Julia's response was a slight nod, her movements cautious as she resettled onto the pillow, her fingers lingering in the comforting grasp of Dean's hand, seeking solace in its warmth and strength.
Sam, ever the inquisitive one, loomed behind Dean, his presence marked by a quiet intensity. "Can you walk us through what went down?" he inquired, his voice carrying the weight of his investigative nature, tempered with a brotherly concern.
Dean's head whipped around, a silent glare aimed at Sam, a non-verbal reprimand for diving into questions too soon. But the urgency of the moment pressed on.
Julia's voice, fragile and hushed, broke the tense silence. "It's all a bit hazy," she admitted, her brow creasing in concentration. "Dad was called out on a case a couple of days back. Left in a rush and wasn't due back for a while."
As she recounted the events, Dean's fingers moved subconsciously, tracing comforting patterns on the back of her hand, a silent pledge of protection.
"He burst in this morning, all frantic, claiming he'd forgotten his keys." Her words painted a vivid picture, each detail bringing a flicker of life back to her cheeks, under Dean's watchful gaze.
The room felt warmer, the connection between them palpable as Dean adjusted the blanket over her, a protective gesture that spoke volumes.
Julia's narrative continued, her voice gaining a tad more strength. "He was... off, rummaging through the house like he was searching for something elusive."
Her gaze drifted towards the window, lost in thought, then snapped back with renewed focus. "I had just gotten off the phone with Sam. Told Dad you guys were on your way and... his demeanor changed. Next thing I know, he's in the library with me, hands... hands around my throat." The memory seemed to physically constrict her, her breath hitching at the recollection.
Dean's grip on her leg tightened reflexively, a surge of protectiveness coursing through him as she detailed the harrowing encounter.
"I managed to break free, and I ran here, to my room. But as I was about to secure my door, darkness enveloped me." Her voice tapered off, the weight of her words hanging heavily in the air.
Dean and Sam exchanged a glance, a silent communication filled with resolve and unspoken vows. They were here for Julia, ready to confront whatever shadows lurked behind the events she had barely survived.
As the fragments of her ordeal fell into place, a sudden concern flickered across Julia's features. "Hang on... Where's my dad now? Is he alright?" she blurted out, her body jolting upright in a mix of fear and concern, only to be met with a sharp sting from her injuries.
"Whoa, take it easy there, sweetheart," Dean interjected with a soothing tone, his hand gently pressing her back down. "You've been through a hell of a ringer. Let's not push it, okay?" His voice was laced with empathy, his touch reassuring, as he tried to ease her back into a semblance of comfort.
"We found your dad upstairs... It was quick, Julia. He didn't suffer. But—” He paused, the words catching in his throat, “—it was a demon.” The worry in Julia's eyes escalated as Dean delicately unfolded the events that had transpired, his narrative careful not to overwhelm her. Yet, the gravity of the situation breached her defences, tears breaking free despite her best efforts to contain them.
Dean's response was instinctual, his arms enveloping her in a protective embrace. "Hey, hey, it's okay to let it out, Julia. You're safe here, I promise," he murmured, his voice a steady presence amidst the storm of her emotions. His hand moved in gentle, reassuring strokes across her back, a silent vow of security and care. Gradually, under his watchful care, Julia's sobs subsided, her exhausted spirit succumbing to sleep in the safety of his hold.
As the twilight deepened into night. Once he was sure Julia was resting, Dean rose from the bed, the lines of sorrow and fatigue etched into his face. He found Sam amidst the wreckage of the library, his younger brother surrounded by a sea of papers and opened books. "What was he even looking for?" Dean asked, his voice a blend of frustration and fatigue.
"The papers about Yellow Eyes," Sam replied without looking up, his attention on a particular set of notes. He gestured to the chaos around him. "Most of what's been pulled out is about demons."
Dean processed this, the pieces of a grim puzzle coming together in his mind. "But I don't think he found what he was after because only Julia knew where she kept the important stuff. The demon knew she was onto something about Azazel, but couldn't find it," Sam deduced, piecing together the demon's failed search.
The revelation hung heavy between them, the threat of Azazel a dark cloud over the already grim situation. It was a reminder of the dangers that lurked in the shadows, always waiting, always watching.
The room was now quietly illuminated by the soft glow of desk lamps, where Sam had methodically organized the books and papers, restoring a sense of order to the space. The physical traces of the struggle and of Rob's presence had been cleared away, leaving only the heavy air of recent events lingering.
As they sat amidst the calm aftermath, Sam broke the silence with a touch of practicality, "Once we've got everything in order here, we should probably hit the road again."
Dean felt a pang of guilt at the thought of leaving Julia so soon after everything that had unfolded. It was then that Julia emerged through the secret door, her movements still slow with the remnants of sleep. She rubbed her eyes, looking around the room with tentative glances.
Dean rose to his feet, his concern evident. "Hey, you holding up okay?" he asked gently, his voice a soft rumble in the quiet room.
Julia paused, her gaze sweeping over the tidied room, taking in the changes. "Don't worry, we cleaned up a bit after... earlier," Sam chimed in, offering her a sympathetic look before his eyes flicked back to Dean, silently communicating a brotherly concern.
With a self-hug, Julia tightened her cardigan around herself, a self-soothing gesture amidst the turmoil. "Have you guys had anything to eat?" she asked, her voice gaining strength despite the teary glint in her eyes. "I know you were supposed to come over for dinner, but..." Her voice trailed off, a soft swallow betraying her attempt to hold back tears. "We can still order something in," she offered with a faint smile, the embodiment of resilience.
Dean's response was immediate and tender, reflective of the care he felt. "Hey, that's really thoughtful of you, Julia," he said, stepping closer. "But you don't need to worry about us. You've been through a lot today. We can sort out food. You just focus on... whatever you need, okay?" His voice was warm, the invitation to take care of herself genuine and insistent.
He glanced back at Sam, nodding slightly, a silent agreement between them that they would handle everything, that Julia's well-being was now their priority. The offer of food was secondary to the unspoken vow they'd made—to protect those who had become part of their extended family, especially in their darkest hours.
Brushing away the tears that clung stubbornly to her lashes, Julia inhaled deeply, a futile attempt to steady the storm within. "I'm starving, so how do you feel about pizza?" she asked, her voice steadier than before, but still fragile.
Dean's eyes followed her every move, a mix of admiration for her resilience and concern for her well-being evident in his gaze. "Pizza's perfect," he replied with a gentle nod. "Best plan I've heard all day."
Julia managed a small smile and descended the stairs to place the order. Moments later, she re-emerged into the kitchen, replacing the phone in its cradle. "Pizza will be here in 30 minutes," she announced, trying to muster a sense of normalcy.
Sam walked into the kitchen, his demeanor reflective of the shared ordeal yet tinged with an attempt to move forward. "Yeah, some food before hitting the road again sounds great," he affirmed, a softness to his words that wasn't often heard.
Gathered around the kitchen table, each with a beer in hand, they clung to the ordinary act of sharing a meal as a life raft amidst the wreckage of the day. The doorbell's chime heralded the arrival of the pizza, and they gathered around to eat, the conversation meandering through lighter topics, punctuated by the occasional chuckle—a much-needed reprieve.
When the meal wound down and it was time to say goodbye, Dean hesitated at the door, his blue eyes searching Julia's face. "You sure you're gonna be okay?" he asked, his voice low and laced with unspoken promises of protection.
"I will be," Julia replied, her voice a whisper of strength. Dean turned fully to face her, his features etched with concern. "I'm sorry we didn't have any other choice," he said, the words heavy with the weight of their actions.
Julia met his gaze, her own eyes shimmering with unshed tears. "I know," she whispered back. "It wasn't Dad anymore. You did what you had to do. If it weren't for you and Sam... I wouldn't be here." She reached out, her hand resting lightly on Dean's forearm, a tangible thank you in her touch. "It still hurts, but I'll be okay, Dean," she assured him with a sad smile.
Sam stepped up, his hand coming to rest on Julia's shoulder, a silent echo of his brother's protective stance. "If you need anything, anything at all, you call us, okay?" he said, his voice earnest, his eyes sincere.
Julia's smile flickered back to life, a spark of her usual spirit shining through. "Don't think I won't take you up on that," she said with a cheeky edge that made the brothers' lips twitch into smiles.
With a final pat on her shoulder, they exchanged goodbyes, the air between them filled with unspoken words and shared experiences that had forever intertwined their lives.
The brothers made their way back to the Impala, the weight of the day settling around them like a cloak. They climbed into the car, the familiar leather and scent of the Impala enveloping them—a sanctuary on wheels, ready to carry them forward to whatever awaited them next on the long, winding road of a hunter's life.
Dean’s fingers tapped an anxious rhythm on the steering wheel, betraying the turmoil beneath his stoic exterior as the Impala's headlights cut through the night, pulling further away from the Blackburn residence. His jaw was set, his thoughts clearly elsewhere.
"This isn't right," he muttered under his breath, his voice edged with a blend of frustration and concern.
Sam, who had been staring out the passenger window, turned towards his brother, his brow furrowed in confusion. "What are you talking about?" he inquired.
"We can't just leave her alone, Sam, not after everything that's happened tonight," Dean said, a hint of exasperation in his voice, his grip on the steering wheel tightening.
"Dean, she's fine," Sam tried to reassure him, his voice steady. "She's tough, and we can't—"
But Dean was already making a U-turn, cutting Sam off mid-sentence. "Dean!" Sam exclaimed, but Dean was resolute.
"Sammy, I don't care. We're going back to get her," Dean declared, a definitive tone in his voice that brooked no argument. He accelerated back towards the house, parking with a screech in front of the Blackburn residence, leaving the engine running as he bolted up the stairs. The familiar black door creaked open, revealing Julia, her face a mask of confusion and remnants of tears.
"Dean?" she asked in a small voice, her hand quickly wiping away the fresh tears that had stained her cheeks.
Dean took in her appearance, his heart aching at the sight. "Julia," he started, his voice a mix of concern and assertiveness, "why don't you tag along with us for a bit? Hit the road, go on a few hunts. It'll do you good."
Julia, taken aback by his sudden invitation, wrapped her cardigan tighter around herself. "What?" she asked, her voice laced with shock.
Dean's eyes softened as he noticed the redness of her nose and cheeks, the shine in her green eyes. "Look, with everything that's happened, with losing your dad and all... You need people around. And hey, you're an incredible researcher. You'd be a huge help to us. So, what do you say?"
By now, Sam had exited the car and stood at the bottom of the porch stairs, adding his support. "He's right, Julia," Sam chimed in, his tone gentle yet persuasive. "We really want you with us. You won't be alone."
Julia sniffled quietly, looking down at her shoes, her untamed curls falling over her face like a curtain.
"Julia," Dean said softly, taking another step closer, his voice barely above a whisper. He reached out slightly, as if to bridge the gap between them.
"It's okay, you guys don't have to worry about me. I'll be fine–" Julia started, but Dean gently cut her off.
"C'mon, sweetheart. Remember our deal? Next time, you get to ride in Baby," he said with a hint of playfulness in his voice. "Think about it - the magic of the open road, the wind in your hair. And hey, if not for yourself, do it for me, okay? I really want you to come."
Julia felt the warmth radiating from Dean, his presence so close and comforting. Her heartbeat quickened, and she bashfully looked away, her cheeks burning red.
Taking a deep breath and meeting Dean's earnest gaze again, she smiled slightly, pushing her glasses up. "Okay," she said softly, a small chuckle escaping her lips. "You've twisted my arm, Dean Winchester."
Dean's face lit up with a crooked smile, the relief and happiness evident in his expression. "Excellent! Go pack your stuff, close up shop. I'll be right here waiting for you," he said, leaning casually against the doorway, his demeanour exuding a mix of charm and anticipation.
Julia, energized by the new adventure ahead, whisked through the house. She dashed from room to room before ascending the stairs two at a time to her bedroom. In a flurry, she gathered her essentials, stuffing them into a large duffle bag. After a quick change into more practical attire, Julia laced up her worn brown Doc-Martens and stood before the mirror. Her auburn curls were swept into a high ponytail, magnifying her vivid green eyes behind her glasses. She donned a fitted black Led Zeppelin band t-shirt, tucked neatly into faded black skinny jeans, held up by a sturdy brown leather belt with a prominent silver buckle. Her streamlined jeans hugged her legs, and she topped the outfit with a weathered brown leather jacket. This wasn't Julia's usual style, but it felt right for the unpredictable life on the road.
Content with her practical ensemble, Julia descended the stairs, duffel in hand. Dean, still the epitome of patience and cool, was posted at the doorway. The half-hour wait hadn't dulled his alertness; his eyes roamed appreciatively over her chosen outfit, from the sturdy boots to the high ponytail.
"Got those bunny slippers packed?" Dean's voice held the hint of a tease, observing the blush that blossomed on Julia's cheeks.
"Yes, I couldn't bear to leave them behind," she admitted, the words warm and familiar between them.
As Julia secured the front door, Dean's voice rolled out smooth and reassuring. "Let's roll out, sweetheart. Sam's all by his lonesome in the car."
Julia chuckled, shaking her head slightly as her wild curls danced around her face. "Ready as I'll ever be," she responded, matching Dean's stride towards the Impala.
With practiced ease, Dean stowed Julia's duffel, while Sam made room in the backseat. Julia settled into the front, the leather seats embracing her as Dean slipped into the driver's seat.
Dean leaned over, rummaging through the glove box to present his prized collection of music cassettes. "Told you you're DJ for the day," he said, his smile laced with a flirtatious edge.
Julia's eyes lit up as she rifled through the tapes. "Oh my god, Dean, your taste in music is legendary!" she exclaimed, laughter in her voice.
From the back, Sam's groan cut through their banter. "Just remember, I'm in the car too," he grumbled playfully.
Ignoring Sam's mock protest, Dean's grin broadened. "Trust me, Sammy, she's got the magic touch. Right, Jules?"
With a nod, Julia selected the iconic untitled album by Led Zeppelin, sliding the cassette into the radio. As the Impala roared to life and Dean maneuvered her onto the road, Julia cranked up the volume. The car was immediately filled with the soaring riffs and thunderous drums of the classic rock anthem, the open road ahead of them, the music a harbinger of adventures to come.
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As the Impala's engine hummed to a halt in the motel's parking lot, Dean's voice broke the silence, careful not to disturb the sleeping Julia. "Looks like this is our stop for the night," he whispered, glancing at Sam who was stirring in the backseat.
Sam, waking up to their new surroundings, sat up and stretched. "I'll go grab us some rooms," he said, sliding out of the car with a yawn. The cool night air seemed to invigorate him as he headed towards the motel's office.
Dean, meanwhile, stayed in the driver's seat, his gaze affectionately lingering on Julia. She was still asleep, her head resting against the car door, glasses askew. Carefully, he reached over, gently tucking a stray curl behind her ear.
Sam returned shortly, jingling a set of keys. "Got the last two rooms," he announced in a hushed tone, mindful of the quiet night. "I'll get our stuff; you wake Julia."
He busied himself with the bags while Dean quietly stepped out of the car and made his way to the passenger side. Opening the door slowly, he was ready to catch Julia in case she stirred. Leaning down, he gently touched her arm. "Jules, time to wake up, sweetheart," he said softly, his voice soothing in the quiet night air.
Julia's eyes fluttered open, looking around in confusion. Dean's presence immediately grounding her. "Mind your head," Dean murmured kindly, sliding his hands under her legs and behind her back, lifting her effortlessly out of the Impala. He carried her into one of the motel rooms, his steps careful and measured.
Once inside, Dean gently laid her down on the bed, ensuring she was comfortable. Julia, now more awake, looked up at him with gratitude.
"Thanks, Dean," she said softly, her voice tinged with sleepiness but also a hint of warmth for his thoughtful gesture. Dean gave a small, reassuring smile in response, his actions speaking louder than words in the quiet comfort of the motel room.
Sam entered the room, Julia's duffel bag in hand, and carefully placed it on the unoccupied bed. He glanced around, ensuring everything was in order before addressing Julia with a gentle, protective tone.
"Hey, we're just next door, alright? If you need anything, don't hesitate to knock," Sam said, his voice carrying a brotherly concern. He shifted his gaze to Dean, his eyes subtly conveying a reminder – to give Julia the space she might need. It was a look that spoke volumes, one that Dean understood well.
Dean caught Sam's look and nodded slightly, acknowledging the unspoken message. He turned to Julia, his demeanor shifting to one that balanced care with respect for her independence.
"Yeah, Jules, Sam's right. We're just a stone's throw away. You got your bag here," Dean gestured towards the duffel on the bed, his voice softer than usual, yet still carrying that characteristic Dean Winchester confidence. "Get some rest, okay? We've got a big day ahead of us tomorrow."
His words were simple, yet they held a depth of understanding and concern for Julia's well-being, a testament to the bond they had begun to forge.
Julia gave them a nod, her expression a mix of gratitude and fatigue. As Sam and Dean headed towards the door, she called out in a more spirited tone, "Hey, guys!"
The brothers paused, turning back to face her. Julia's smile was small but genuine, a hint of warmth in her eyes. "Thanks again... for everything," she said, her voice soft but filled with sincere appreciation.
Dean, leaning slightly against the door frame, gave her a reassuring smile. "Hey, no sweat, Jules," he replied, his tone casual yet sincere. "That's what we’re here for. You get some good rest now, alright? We'll be right next door, okay? Anything you need, just holler."
With those reassuring words, Dean gave her a final nod, a silent promise of safety and camaraderie. He then followed Sam out the door, softly closing it behind them, leaving Julia to the quiet solitude of her room.
To be continued...
Chapter Four
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cw: mafia au. graphic descriptions of violence. hyoga is part of a gang group led by tsukasa called the Pride.
It’s Saturday evening, the night is still young, and yet Hyoga Akatsuki lays on his side on the living room floor of a cramped one-bedroom apartment, with one hand propping up his head and the other gripping too tightly on a can of beer. He’s partially covered by a kotatsu, his white hair tousled, and shirt wrinkled and for a split second, as his television screen goes blank when he flips to the next channel, he can see himself in the black mirror and know exactly how absurd he’d look to his family if they could see him now.
Annoyed with himself, he downs the last of his beer and throws the can towards the trash can in the corner of the small room; it misses, and it finds camaraderie with wadded up paper and emptied containers of instant noodles. If anyone could see him now, scratching at his lower belly, tipsy but not belligerent, he wonders if they’d recognize how much he’s really worth. A cut above all the rest, and yet still alone on a weekend night, his phone not more than two paces away as this week is his week to be the Pride’s emergency Aniki. He finds the task stupid, but Tsukasa does not recuse him from the pool of capable older brothers to take this role. Now that he thinks of it, Tsukasa annoys him tremendously, particularly these days where he seems more preoccupied on group harmony than amassing wealth and power, but he’ll be something to handle on another date. For now, Hyoga thinks of someone else whose presence picks at him tremendously, although admittedly in a way he can’t pretend to truly dislike.
It doesn’t hurt that one of the contestants on the game show he somehow landed on has a voice similar to yours, down to the way you stress your syllables and the animated way you tell stories, raising your voice as loud as you can over the bustling club noises. He’s found himself watching the way your hands move to help you talk, and how they find their way on top of him when you press your palm to his knee or lean on his shoulder as you reach over to pour him a drink. He watches the woman’s wavy hair shift as she turns, and he thinks of the quick way your head turns when startled, your perfume wafting in his direction through the locks of your hair.
It wouldn’t be such a bad idea to text you right now, would it?
His nose wrinkles at the thought. What would he say? Hi? Hello? Sup? What is the reason that he, top brass in one of the fiercest gangs in Tokyo’s underworld on this day, is texting a mere hostess? Well, you’re an English tutor, too, he argues with himself first, then remembers that that is a moot point.
Who the fuck cares? His feet shift under the kotatsu. The stove is suddenly too warm. He pulls himself from under it, into a sitting position. Perhaps he should go train, he thinks, but he hates when a workout is interrupted, and if one of these damn kids call him today-
As if some demon heard the opposite of his prayer, his phone rings. He sighs, before reaching for it, then picks up.
A small part of him wishes it’s you, calling him, telling him you need him, but rather he hears Ren, one of the Cubs, come through the other side of the phone, panting and yelling at the same time. His voice drips in panic and Hyoga breathes deeply through his nose.
“Stop sniveling!” he practically hisses. “Where the fuck are you?”
___
It takes less than ten minutes for Hyoga to arrive at the center of absolute pandemonium in Kabukicho, and less than ten seconds for Hyoga to locate the cowardly Ren, wide-eyed and shaking as he watches his better squadmates attempt to fight off a grown man who’s now driving a knee into one of the Cubs’ chest, pinning him to the floor. Hyoga watches a fist land on the teen’s face, clearly one of many from the blood running on his face, and it takes him even less time to bark a warning - You! - and with a weighty slugger in his right arm, approach at full speed. The man glances at him, and steps back, and Hyoga can see the knife in his hand, but he’s much faster and the bat lands heavy on the man’s cheek, breaking his jaw on impact before he can even swipe the knife. Hyoga’s satisfied with just another hit to down the attacker, and once the kids cheer for him, screaming ‘Aniki! Aniki!’, he yells at them to shut the fuck up.
From his peripheral vision, he sees a young woman that gives him a worried look for just a moment before retreating to the young boy’s side. He hasn’t seen her before, but in just a glance, he figures that this is the woman Tsukasa mentioned, from the seconds extended look she gives him, trying to decide friend from foe, before kneeling beside Hiro’s bloodied, unconscious face. While she attempts to sternal rub him, Hyoga grabs the downed man by the hair and drags his face upward, flipping him over.
“Oi.”
The man spits in his face but misses due to Hyoga’s quick reflexes, and Hyoga lets the bat he’s holding drop to the ground in a clatter, before closing his fist and giving him a straight punch. He grins widely as he can feel cartilage give way under the force of his knuckles, and the sadist part of him is sated.
“Don’t ever fucking do that again.”
“That’s right! Don’t you ever mess with us-” Hyoga turns and glares at the group of hoodlums forming nearby and they fall silent again. Ren quickly ushers the rest of them away, knowing he’s about to get an earful later, and Hyoga returns to his task.
He lets the man’s face drop, then sits on his chest. He spits this time, but the loogie lands, while the young man groans, unable to manifest the strength to do anything more than turn his head in pain and disgust.
“You know you ruined my night, right?” Hyoga asks. The man, nose bleeding, blubbers something unintelligible, and Hyoga leans in. “What? You looked real tough pulling a knife on a child a few minutes ago, and now I can’t hear you.”
Hyoga shifts and pulls a pocket knife from his pocket, flashing it. “Look, I have one too.”
The man screams, and Hyoga lets it close.
“Don’t worry, we’re just having a conversation. No need to go that far,” he offers. Hyoga slips the knife back into his pocket, replacing it with a cigarette, which he lights for himself, nonchalantly, uncaring that he’s still sitting on this man’s chest.
“You smoke?” he asks. Tears in the man’s eyes start to wash away the blood as he sputters and chokes, and Hyoga shrugs.
“Suit yourself.” He takes a long drag then crosses his arms. “Hey, don’t fuck with these kids okay? At least while I’m on the job.”
The man has nothing left to say, except leaving out a soft wailing sound. Hyoga turns to check Hiro’s status, and he appears to be breathing still, which is good, he thinks. The boy’s head is propped on the strange woman’s knees, and she’s cooing something quietly to him, attempting her best to be comforting. Ren kneels besides her and talks animatedly to someone else on the phone, likely requesting a car.
Hyoga makes note of the fact that she’s dressed up, more casual than a hostess but clearly meant to be seductive. He’ll ask Ren later for more information; all Ren managed to say while he was on his way was something about Oneechan on a date and a joke that went too far.
By the time he’s ready to ask the man more questions, he’s passed out, and Hyoga sighs, rising.
These new age gangsters don’t last very long, he thinks, but at least he was a good distraction from his thoughts.
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and you caused it: chapter 2
(click for more detail!)
In which Niki has a terrible secret, Puffy just wants to move on, Tommy sneaks into casino parties and Wilbur learns to deal with anger being justified.
Or - the one thing they don't warn you of, when dropping nuclear warheads on old friends, is fallout.
in chapter two: arguments are had. roommates are invited to crash on an attempted murderer's metaphorical couch. more emotionally intense conversations are had over l'manberg's skeleton corpse, and niki is once again alone.
wc: 5k
Wilbur has always been a builder.
Alright. Perhaps not practically. Wilbur's attempts at piecing together bases made of wood and stone leave much to be desired. But metaphorically, there's the crux of it - Wilbur builds stories, narratives, chord progressions and nations. There is something about the world, as caught in his eyes, that is always empty. Devoid of life. Wilbur simply seeks to fill it.
Find empty forestland, build a camper van. Build a so-so drug empire. Build a story around the camper van - some quirk to draw them in - and then build your nation, pinning your Declaration of Independance right at eye level as one waltzes through the door. Lose a war. Lose your brother. Lose an election, and build a network of TNT beneath the earth so vast and complex that despite the months that trickle from Schlatt's inauguration to Dream's patronage to Wilbur's blissful destruction, not a single person figures out how to defuse it.
(Who is they, one might ask. It's a valid question. Ask Wilbur, he might say his brother, he might say the people - if one happens to be a cop, he might tell them it's none of their fucking business and come back with a warrant if they come back at all. He won't tell you they is simply Wilbur. He won't tell you that without the story, without something to fill his mind with colour and give him direction, there is no Wilbur Soot at all.)
The point of all this is: Wilbur lives in constant need of some project, something to build, something that destroys. Even ill, he cannot stand to keep his hands idle.
This is, perhaps, what led to his demise.
It is, in any case, what leads Wilbur to the office of one Captain Puffy.
“I do appreciate you lending me your time,” he says, taking a seat in the plush, worn armchair in the corner of the room. Backed in by walls, which he supposes must feel safer for the woman sitting in front of him, pen and clipboard in hand. “I know you’re not officially practicing anymore.”
He’s not sure if she was officially practicing ever, actually. There’s no certificate hanging on her wall, only tapestries and paintings - fading cloth in greens and blues, and a painting of breaking waves that stretches across the wall almost as long as his armspan. It is cluttered, lived-in despite its title as an office. Above all else, clearly marked as the captain’s territory.
“It’s no trouble,” Puffy says. “I’m glad - it’s nice that you wanted to come, in the first place. I did just want to spell some things out before we start, though, yeah?”
Wilbur inclines his head. “Take it away.”
“Right.” Puffy resettles herself in her seat, pushing a handful of curls - these ones pearl-white, although it almost looks like the browner half is the part that’s been dyed - behind her shoulder.
puffy informs wilbur right off the bat that, well, patient confidentiality is a thing - she's not gonna tell him anything about tommy, or his recovery (recovery from what, wilbur thinks - because puffy is not as slick or as licensed as he necessarily assumes she is, and can be so dedicated to her pursuit of justice that sometimes she lets the cat out of the bag). no matter! wilbur is not here to talk about tommy. in fact, he'd rather ask puffy a couple questions about herself. and, would she be interested in attending a party in las nevadas, only a few days from now?
---
las nevadas is in pandemonium but for once, wilbur can't bring himself to care - he storms after tommy, racing with thoughts that tumble over themselves in their rush to make themselves heard.
he feels betrayed. he's hurt. he's always thought the world of niki, he trusted her, he cared so fucking much what she thought of him - thought she must hate him, after l'manberg, not even worth begging for her forgiveness, couldn't keep himself from crying when she dared to give it anyway - and the whole time she'd tried to kill tommy, his brother, and did nothing but smile quietly and evade questions. the thought chafes at him. it hurts. one of his closest friends, his first lady, the entire time -
(he hadn't thought to ask those questions, but wilbur is not in his precisely right mind at the moment.)
tommy, though, makes evasion into an artform - he refuses to answer wilbur's questions, parries back with his own (admittedly deserved) barbs about the casino and quackity who does not matter right now, they're talking about niki, he'd welcomed niki into their country and their stupid dinner and tommy hadn't said a fucking word to him about it. does tommy truly not trust him so much? is he so naïve, to take a raw betrayal on the chin like this?
"She tried to kill you!"
"Dream did kill me!" Tommy shouts. "Dream - he, he - he killed me and you didn't even care!"
that's not true. of course wilbur cared when tommy died, but -
limbo has a way of blurring things. for instance, priorities.
and besides, this is more than murder, this is a betrayal, he insists - a crime for the innermost circle of hell. not that tommy cares. worse things have happened. wilbur has happened. dream, apparently has happened -
and tommy refuses to divulge a word more, puffy told him that he doesn't have to tell wilbur shit if he doesn't want to and wilbur's not gonna tell him not to listen to his therapist, is he? tommy rips into him - because this isn't about wilbur, wilbur wasn't even there, he was dead, and who did that, wilbur? it's none of his business, and if tommy had his way wilbur wouldn't have even found out, because tommy knew this would happen. he knew wilbur would make this about him, knew he would twist it into something that makes the word l'manberg go sour and sickly in tommy's mouth - and wilbur can harp on about betrayal all he wants. he cares about this because it affects him. and if he fucking cared, he'd know that a near-miss with a warhead is not even close to the worst thing that's happened to tommy. he'd let tommy settle his friendship (wilbur scoffs, and that only proves tommy's point, he shrieks) with niki. it's not even close to the worst things that have happened to him since wilbur died, and if wilbur cared outside of making things all about himself, he would know that, too.
it's easy for you to be all buddy-buddy with dream, tommy retorts. it's just fucking easier for you.
and this time, wilbur lets him go - watches him disappear into the smoke and rubble, and it's a sign of how close he and tommy are these days that he doesn't even know where tommy's going.
he can't stop the river-rush of his thoughts, stewing and self-critical and fuming with a sense of anger and betrayal and loss that he can't control - he'd have better luck trying to shift the tides themselves. if niki is, as it turns out, horrible terrible awful betrayer no-coming-back - what does that make someone like wilbur?
---
niki wakes to what feels like one of the worst mornings of her life.
the thing about this morning in particular is that for once, it's not someone else's fault that she's so miserable - there's no war, there's no fruitless bickering over countries, there's nothing but the quiet sound of her breathing in her underground city. but she still feels miserable.
she drags herself to the arctic for the syndicate meeting, hoping to cling to some semblence of normalcy. she ties wobbuffet's lead to the pens, and descends to the syndicate meeting room - and is beyond relieved to see, at least, that techno has returned.
if they know what happened last night, neither he or phil are saying anything. ranboo, to his end, gives her a briefly awkward glance, but otherwise seems happy not to unsettle the waters. thank god. the meeting opens, as planned, and the three of them welcome techno back to the main server. techno is just as happy to see them (although he still tries to hide quite how much, still a bit vulnerable about this whole having friends thing), and summarily informs them:
quackity and sam are torturing dream in the prison
he has, in fact, spent some time in the prison (thanks for the escape, phil, definitely didn't leave me hanging for a good couple weeks) and seen this with his own two eyes
and techno owes dream a favour, y'know. from l'manberg days. so the syndicate is going to break dream out of the prison.
cue mild pandemonium.
phil's heard the plan already, he has no questions. ranboo and niki, though, hearing this for the first time, have several - mostly centred around why are we breaking dream, of all people, out of prison - prison the server put him in, we were there, we were both there. niki has never liked dream, and really, was more than happy to see him put in the prison - he's a bully, he's a tyrant, and if anything his imprisonment kept her and jack from having to sort out how exactly they would well-deservedly take him down a peg after the whole. y'know. tommy thing.
(she hasn't spoken to jack in quite some time, she suddenly thinks again, spurred on by the memory of their talks. it's another thing to feel guilty about, even if jack made it clear her presence, if not productive, was not wanted.)
ranboo, on the other hand, is terrified - especially after the night before, still twitchy.
"Dream isn't - he isn't safe! He - Techno," and their voice drops, "the voices - "
"You'll be fine," Techno assures him. "Besides, wasn't the point that he was messing with you to do shit that he couldn't? When he's outta prison he's not gonna mess with you anymore. Easy."
"It's not - I - it's not just that, actually, anyway. I mean, he tried to kill Tubbo. In the vault, and everything."
"I have also tried to kill that guy," Techno explains, as if to a young child - "many times. Water under the bridge. No big deal."
Ranboo's face takes on an ill-fitting shape - stony, for a brief second cold - and says testily, "I wouldn't say that - "
ranboo tries to push their arguments further, but splutter to a stop - his head hurts suddenly, claws finding their way to press against his temple, and eventually goes quiet. niki, though, is still frustrated. she's never liked dream, not from the very first second she stepped on this server. she was perfectly happy to leave dream in prison. he's not the only bad person, sure - are there others niki has thought deserving of being locked up in her time, some more validly than others, absolutely - but he's a tyrant, and niki said her piece when it comes to playing nice with tyrants years ago. she doesn't.
(and if dream is out again, some part of her thinks - with dream comes war, and with war comes more betrayal and hurt and uncertainty and instability, and niki feels unstable enough thanks to what she's wrought with her own two hands. she already feels like she's spent the last twenty-four hours tumbling downward, and if dream is free, the ground beneath her will shake hard enough that she will never be able to get herself back up. she's safe. she was - and, she tries to remind herself, will be - happy. she doesn't want a selfish bully to ruin that because techno thinks he owes something to someone who shouldn't be owed a thing.
and, she hates to think it - she's heard tommy ramble, even when she knows he hopes she's forgotten, and she's heard him rattle off his rambling fears of dream. and she saw the vault. she saw tommy and tubbo in the vault, beaten and bruised and with a blade to tubbo's neck. and puffy always seemed to know more, barely keeping herself from spilling whatever else tommy has told her. niki has known tommy has... problems. and that's sat with her uncomfortably since that night in her cabin, baking bread, because he was far kinder to her than she deserved because he could see that she was struggling and she, well, hasn't done the same.
thinking of niki's part in all this, now that it has been dragged back into the open - of wilbur's blatant interrogation of him even as tommy practically begged him to shut the fuck up - yes, she feels like to some extent, she owes him a favour.)
techno, though, responds with unexpected ire - so niki doesn't feel like helping? it's not even a case of what if one of their friends was stuck in there, under quackity and sam's control - techno was stuck down there, and yet apparently taking down such an oppressive power isn't something niki cares about?
the ensuing argument is defensive and nasty. both techno and niki feel deeply hurt, feel that the other doesn't care about their safety, and both are stressed enough to lash out at each other about it - and phil and ranboo are both mostly unwilling to step in. for niki, though, it's not just a matter of whether she participates herself - she feels that if dream is out at all, her world will get turned on its head. and to be entirely honest, she's not in a good headspace right now. if techno is painting himself as an adversary right now then niki will fight tooth and nail, because there's that awful cloying anger crawling up her throat and god, it has to go somewhere.
so in a desperate attempt to call off the thing, niki threatens to leave the syndicate if they break dream out of the prison.
...it's a respectable attempt at a trump card. unfortunately, three-fourths of the decision has already been made. techno, feeling defensive and angry and above all else betrayed by niki's apparent lack of care for what could have been his plight, informs her promptly of where the door is. ranboo, struggling to hold onto his waking self, has nothing to add. phil makes an attempt to soften the blows between them, to keep the bridge from being burnt - but niki is furious and embarrassed that it didn't work, and techno is just incensed enough to let her leave.
niki storms out, retreats to her little cottage. she stands in the centre of the small space, passively taking in all these small details - her weapons rack, her baking nook, her winter quilts and her flowerboxes. so many of them from techno, phil and ranboo, and now she can hardly stand to look at them.
she rips through the cottage like a hurricane gone loose. every plate and dagger and glass bottle goes crashing to the floor, blanketing its surface in a snowbed of ceramic and glass. pillows are thrown at walls. a bag of flour is ripped, and spills across the floor like even more snowdrift. and then niki stands in the centre of it - some part of her hoping to god that the others are still deep in the syndicate room, though most of her just doesn't give a fuck anymore - and wails.
she did the right thing. she did the good thing. she knew the villain was imprisoned for a reason, she believes in that imprisonment, she was right there when he was sentenced and every drop of her blood sang for revenge as he was silenced. and now she's thought about the hurt she's caused people, and for once, she stood up for him instead. she's lost the final tethers she had. she's unmoored. adrift. nowhere to go but beneath the earth. it's one thing to lose the syndicate, another to lose wilbur - to lose both, all in the span of a day, is a blow that niki isn't sure she can handle.
and it didn't even fucking matter, because they're going to break dream out anyway.
Each shard of glass is a face in the vault, discarded against the wooden floor.
niki is furious. furious at techno, furious at phil and ranboo for doing nothing, furious at herself - guilt is not something she has had to reckon with before, and the feeling chafes at her like an ill-fitting glove. there's always been a sense of discomfort that comes with being wrong, that moment sent off-kilter, when her perception of reality shifts and what is and what is not change like water. she remembers when tommy died, when ripples cast across the water and her grudge was revealed as just as stupid and petty as it always had been, that the source of her fury was wilbur - and even then, how left me became died became suicide and fury sunk back into its forgotten twin, grief. but even then, it wasn't like this. it wasn't her fault. this, undoubtably, is. she thought she had gotten over it. perhaps that's an exaggeration - she thought she was getting over it, making amends, even if slowly. even if she couldn't quite say the words, admit she was wrong, make herself vulnerable again.
god. has she always been so selfish? so cowardly? when l'manberg burned, did niki even pull herself from its ashes? it doesn't fucking feel like it, now. it feels like every slow step of healing has been worth nothing.
it feels like the second she stopped being either of those things, she lost everything. again.
niki thinks of how even in the depths of their planning - at her worst, at her most violent (towards tommy, sure, but towards herself the most), even when they didn't trust each other - she and jack could always agree on one thing. together, they hated dream.
niki has been a coward. not in the face of tyrants, but in the face of her own guilty conscience - putting her name next to her misdeeds. fine. if the universe, threaded into puffy's voice, calls on her to make amends - so she will. and so she'll rip tyrants to pieces, if that is what clearing the conscience means for niki nihachu.
---
niki walks to snowchester. tommy opens the door.
"Niki?" Tommy asks, cautious. He doesn't close the door on her, as she thought he might - doesn't even waver, although his expression goes a bit shuttered. "What d'you want?"
She thought about this. She ran it over in her mind as she walked all the way here from the Arctic, alone with her thoughts - she's rehearsed the script this time, wrapped the warning in wool, made sure she's careful, because she's trying -
"Techno is going to break Dream out of the prison," she blurts out.
Fuck.
The effect on Tommy is instantaneous, a stormcloud rolling over him - first his breathing goes, and then a hand to the chest, as if he can't believe the lack of air himself. He steadies himself against the door, although his eyes sink to the ground, unable to meet hers, and all Niki can do is stand there silent and try to think think think and, not for the first time, think oh god please don't cry.
She hears Tubbo's voice faintly down the grand entrance of the place, followed by footsteps - he recognises her as he approaches, shoving Tommy out of the doorway, staring her down with sharp animosity.
"Get off of my fucking property," he informs her.
"Techno's breaking Dream out," she repeats, and Tubbo's face falls.
"You're lying," he says immediately. "They're not that stupid. They're not that stupid - "
"Techno says he owed Dream - "
"The favour," Tommy gasps. "Tubbo, Tubs - Dream helped him escape, after the execution - he always said he owed him something..."
Tubbo's face goes sheer, snow white.
snowchester, once again, is now considered an almost-military base of operations - niki is clearly unwelcome, but her muffins still sit on the kitchen counter and she's the one with information (ranboo hasn't come home, he hasn't been answering tubbo's comms, and out of the three of them niki is somehow the one to see him last). there isn't much they can do. they don't have the force. and, of course, it wouldn't be hard for dream to find them. even if tommy never stepped foot in his hobbit-house again, dream would find snowchester too easily.
...an idea occurs to niki.
the underground city is not the perfect hiding place. there are people who know about it, people who can't necessarily be trusted - or at the very least, not accounted for. who knows what jack or hbomb or karl are doing right now. who knows what kind of assumptions techno would make if dream were to let slip that snowchester is empty.
but the two of them can't go on the run. tubbo has michael, for god's sake, and he's not putting that kid in harm's way for anything. it will have to be secure enough - shrouded, perhaps, by the fact that of all the people he's crossed, dream has never really given niki the time of day. and thank fucking god for that. tommy's been in better straits, and tubbo is still extremely suspicious of niki (he's pieced together how jack and niki would have pulled off this whole scheme of theirs, and his place in it, and he is not fucking impressed), but under the cover of night - on the eve of the prison break - they escape to the city.
niki watches as the three of them settle in. her underground city was meant to be a place for refugees once, away from the horrors of war - although that was before the nuke, and doomsday, and tommy burning that stupid house down. before even the detonation of november 16th. it has been a long time since refugees stayed here.
she supposes she should feel some kind of fulfilment, seeing it live out its purpose again. perhaps she does. mostly, she feels a bit awkward and uncomfortable. too vulnerable. maybe that's half the point.
it's a first step.
---
niki can't sleep.
is her pointless turmoil any surprise, at this point? after all that time alone in her city, somehow the thought of people actually inhabiting those empty rooms is just as distracting. she decides to go for a walk to clear her mind, and where should she end up but sitting at the edge of l'manberg's crater - feet tracing the old path to her bakery, before she burned it down with her own two hands - and who should she run into, but wilbur.
"O mighty Nemesis, amid the ruins of what she reaps," a voice drawls from behind her - and the sound of it is like ice water down her back, a harsh tug on the fragile threads barely holding her together, but she can't still bring herself to turn. Can't bring herself to see the look on his face - betrayal, fury, hatred. She lets her eyes sink onto the wreckage instead, every bitter angle of it.
"I never really asked why that was your little codename, you know," he continues. "Seems a bit on the nose, don't you think?"
Niki lets her forehead sink onto her knees. "Fuck off, Wilbur."
wilbur is not being his kindest. niki ponders whether she deserves it. fucking probably, right. she did try to kill his little brother. forget everything she's done since, because wilbur's always kept his allies close to his heart, and betrayal is one of those things that hurts him more than any blade would. she doesn't rise to his remarks. she sees absolutely no point in it. wilbur is stubborn as a bull when he wants to be, and after all these years niki's finally learned when to stop wasting her energy reining him in.
doesn't make her feel any better that his current rampage is directed at her, though.
he's stressed, you see - not that you would care is a halfhearted barb, and niki almost rolls her eyes at it - because he needs to find tommy. he needs to speak with tommy, but his base is empty and snowchester is empty and he's not replying to his comm and phil mentioned that he saw niki heading towards snowchester that afternoon. he doesn't suppose niki has seen tommy at all, has she?
she tries to keep her face even. but here's the thing -
niki could barely lie about committing a murder while actively leading the victim-to-be into a trap, and wilbur - who, if you think about it, never really retired from politics - sees through her attempts to evade immediately.
you know, wilbur says, and then - haven't you done enough? don't tell me you're causing trouble for him again. where is he? where is he?
she could tell him. probably, she should tell him. tommy is his brother, after all, and for all that wilbur's anger burns, she knows how much he cares about tommy. hell, once upon a time that was the entire point of her own... episode. but.
"I can't trust you," she says, pretends it sounds as definitive as she wants it to. "I can't - I don't think I can trust you to say. Not while Dream is out."
Wilbur's eyebrows raise - his shoulders do too, lined with tension. "Dream is out?"
"He will be. Tomorrow." Niki nods in the direction of the Arctic. "The Syndicate will be breaking him out tomorrow - not me, I'm not... with them anymore, but - didn't someone tell you?"
no, no one did. not phil, not techno, not ranboo. wilbur lives in phil's attic half the time now (more than half, she supposes, if she guesses how quackity would respond to the casino's destruction) and they hadn't said a word.
despite wilbur's apprehension over that, he has greater issues to deal with right now - incredulous that of everyone, niki doesn't trust him because of dream. (after, he reminds her - he keeps reminding her - after what she did.)
"I told you - I told you about limbo," he says, voice fraught. Even now, when they're fighting, some part of Niki hurts at the fragility in his voice. She steels her resolve. "I told you what it was like, about Dream - and you still don't trust me?"
"I don't know," she says, and finds that to be, for once, the honest answer. "You said you were sorry about destroying L'Manberg too - you said you were done with all of that - and then, then Las Nevadas, Wilbur! How could you go back to that?" Even he has the shame to look abashed. "So many people could have gotten hurt. We were lucky - we were lucky - Ranboo warned us, and even then, it was close. It was too close, Wilbur. I don't - I don't know what else you'll do. I don't know anymore."
what else can niki say? yes, he told her about limbo. it sounds horrifying. it sounds heartbreaking. he also told her he was sorry for blowing up l'manberg, for forgetting the people betwixt the grand thing that was their country, and that he would try. and yet las nevadas' casino is in ruins, half the server barely escaping with a life intact. and even that was only thanks to ranboo, in the end.
more people would have died unknowing, entirely unaware of the danger until the ground lit up beneath them and they all woke up in their beds, sparkling with burns and regen effect - and tubbo has only one life left, and who even knows how lives work after revival? who knows how many other people in that casino would have one life left too?
he told her he didn't want to fuck it up again. and she told him you left me, you said you'd come back for me and you looked for the button first, and he did the entire fucking thing again.
niki could have died. again. because wilbur was silent.
this - this is the killing blow.
(for as hurt and disgusted and fucking confused as wilbur is, there is still a part of him - bone-deep and steeped in habit - that holds niki's words in high esteem. her response is perfectly predictable, in the midst of his own fury and feelings of betrayal in her direction, and yet the vulnerability of it all stings something fierce anyway.)
they splutter arguments at each other for a few more minutes, running hot with anger, but they achieve nothing. ultimately, both have said their piece - it is not long before even wilbur gives up on the conversation, retreating to the arctic.
niki is done with haunting l'manberg for the night, and returns to the underground city with an eye cast over her shoulder, just in case she's followed. wilbur is far from the type to stalk someone through the woods, but of every possible person on the server, it's his brown coat that she keeps subconsciously looking out for between the trees.
tommy is awake when she comes back, fidgeting with his comm as he sits in what was once planned to be a common area. he tries to call her over for conversation, but she brushes him off as she storms towards her bedroom, resigning herself to another night of staring eyes-wide at the grey, emotionless stone of her ceiling.
she doesn't see the frustrated kind of grief in his expression as she goes.
#my fics#and you caused it tag#wooooo#also i dont usually talk about designs but its art time so. tommy has one permanently dilated pupil from Prison Era#i think ive rambled about other design choices at length but i dont know if ive mentioned that one so. :]#my art
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I could just imagine the absolute PANDEMONIUM that would ensue if Diluc and Kaeya ended up at the tailors at the same damn time because reception accidentally double booked. When the old man forces his apprentice to honor both the bookings - ofc Kaeya takes the opportunity to be the menace to society that he is, and Diluc gets even more gruff than usual... not to mention that the poor poor apprentice has to deal with their crush on both men.
oh, that is certainly recipe for a very difficult and frosty day for poor tailor reader!
kaeya cannot resist flirting at the best of times; but here and now, he wants to prove (both to diluc, and to himself, for kaeya is much more insecure than his reputation would have one believe) that reader obviously cares for him more; that, if this were a competition, he would be winning. so when reader comes to him with the tape measure and the pins, he turns on the charm threefold; winking and laughing and making double-entendres all the while to see if he can fluster them. all the while, sneaking a glance to diluc - and, oh, the other man probably has steam coming out of his ears.
diluc is aware that kaeya is a little better with people than he is. once, such things came naturally to him; but now diluc cannot help being a little gruff and awkward. crepus's death and his years wandering changed him fundamentally, and he cannot flirt in the way kaeya is doing - only attempt to smile when reader catches his eye and hope they do not notice that the flush on his cheeks is even deeper than usual.
and as for your part . . . your master is still in the room, and it does not escape his notice that you fumble measurements, that you jab poor captain kaeya in the ankle with a pin when hemming his new trousers, that when you ask about fabrics you babble and trip over your words. and he thinks that it is kind to be honest; and so, he makes you wish for the abyss to swallow you up as he harshly tells you to stop fawning over the two eligible bachelors in the shop and get on with your damn job.
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