Knock Knock

I say, "Knock knock." Out. Loud.

[door-knob]

¤ Greetings ¤

Welcome to my corner. It's kinda comfy here if I would say so myself. Here's a blanket, a pillow to sit on, and a water. Make yourself comfy. Talk with me for a bit.

You can call me Jaime. I use They/Them pronouns.

I'm gonna try to keep this blog mostly for my fics and/or short stories. I'm in a couple different fandoms but the main one I'll be writing for is Sanders Sides.

My writing theme is more domestic and Slice of Life-y so I'll hope you enjoy it.

I will take requests but if I'm not comfortable with the request, I'll let you know that I won't be writing it. I shall also be making a rules page so you know what I will and won't be writing.

I am a minor so NSFW is a no-no here.

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[itsgonnagetinspiringsoon]

Ok fellas since y'all went CRAZY last time, I'm upping the game. 300 notes!! And I'll listen to the underworld saga (probably won't be able to for a little while bc it's production week but I'll get there eventually). DO YOUR WORST

[supernaturalscribe67]

Hidden Bruises

Words: 7,546

POV: 3rd Person

Pairing: Sam/Dean Winchester x Male!Winchester!Reader [Platonic]

Warning(s): Language, PTSD, Mention of past Rape, Trauma, Sexual Assault, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, Mention of Character Death, Azazel

Summary: After the death of their father, Sam and Dean's older brother went missing for a couple of weeks. Eventually, he returned, and everything seemed to go back to normal. When the brothers follow a lead that takes them to an abandoned schoolhouse, Sam and Dean come face to face with the reality of what happened to their brother when he went missing.

Request:

Hello, hope you're having a good day/night

I was wondering if I could request the Winchester's (John/Dean/Sam) x Older brother finding out the Azaseal (yellow eye demon) s/a him and he's been keeping it secret intill they run into Azaseal and he gloats about what he did. (If you don't feel comfortable using yellow eyes that just some strong random demon is fine)

Maybe reader is someone who has always took care of all of them including when John was drunk or injured, took care of both his brothers doing whatever he could

@xweirdo101x

A/N: I'm not dead! Just stressed! These past several months have been horrible, but I'm happy to say I'm back in the groove of writing! This request has been long overdue and I'm sorry that it has taken me so long to get it out, I did not forget everyone who sent in a request! I hope you enjoy the story! Do NOT read if any of the warnings are triggering to you. Keep yourself healthy, keep yourself safe. Feedback is greatly appreciated!

~ Much Love

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“Dude, are you sure you’re taking me down the right road?” Dean asked, brows furrowed as he looked in the rear-view mirror occasionally. 

“I’m sure.” (Y/N) confirmed, gaze focused on Google Maps, which he had cued up for the last thirty minutes of their drive. 

“We’ve been driving the backroads for ages. Never thought an old schoolhouse could be this deep in the countryside.” 

“A lot of people settled here at some point, Dean,” Sam said with a brief shrug of his broad shoulders. 

“Sam’s right. According to local history, the first group of settlers that arrived built make-shift houses deeper in the woodland areas for better hunting and fishing grounds. To accommodate, they built a schoolhouse in the middle of the settlements so all the kids would be able to make it to school a little easier. Once the years passed and all the people started moving away to start the nearby town, the schoolhouse was practically abandoned. There wasn’t any need for it anymore.” 

“Look at you doing your research,” Dean teased with a smirk. 

(Y/N) rolled his eyes. “More than you, asshole,” he mumbled. “Oh! There should be a small clearing up here to your left. Go ahead and turn in there, but we’re going to need to walk the rest of the way,” 

“Are you serious?” 

“Oh, grow up, Dean.” 

“Says the one sitting in the middle of the backseat.” 

“You’re so lucky I love this car as much as you do, otherwise I’d make you drive her into a tree.” 

“You wouldn’t.” 

“Try me, baby brother,” 

“Alright, that’s enough,” Sam waved his hands, cutting them off. “As much as I like seeing you two go at it, now’s not the time.” 

Both Dean and (Y/N) opened their mouths to object but stopped themselves. They each grumbled something incoherent under their breath. Dean returned to the road and (Y/N) looked down at his phone. 

“Are you going to turn here?” He asked. 

“Yeah,” Dean mumbled. 

Dean slowly turned the wheel and edged the Impala onto the beginning of a dirt path. A couple of feet ahead of the car, the path narrowed and was overgrown by trees. Even if the Impala would have been smaller, there was no possible way it would be able to fit down the path. It appeared to be more the size of a hiking or bike trail. Once the car was settled, Dean turned the engine off, the heavy purr dying to a low hum as the heat dissipated. The headlights stayed on for a couple of seconds before going out. 

“Let’s rock ‘n roll,” Dean grunted as he stepped out of the car. 

Sam and (Y/N) soon followed after, the three of them heading to the back of the car. Dean popped the trunk and lifted the cover, revealing their large array of weapons. Each of them took their respective weapons and sheathed them before the trunk was closed with a heavy bang that echoed throughout the trees. 

“Could you be any louder? We don’t know how close the schoolhouse is from here.” (Y/N) grumbled. 

“Bite me,” Dean mumbled. 

“Guys,” Sam sighed. 

(Y/N) held up his hand in surrender. “Fine, fine,” he turned away from his brothers and began to make his way towards the dirt path. 

“You sure it’s down this way?” Sam asked, following after him.

“Yeah, that is, if we assume the coordinates are accurate.”  

“And you’re sure you can trust Google with that?” Dean asked. 

“Same as we trust any other research material. All I know is that it should be in some type of field.” 

Dean nodded, satisfied with the answer. 

They began to make their way down the dark, dirt path, towards the canopy of trees, bent after years of surviving thunderstorm after thunderstorm. As they approached the trees, they pulled their flashlights out, illuminating the path ahead. The treetops were thick and heavy, the moonlight disappearing when they passed the entrance to the woods. 

Thirty minutes filled with dodging bulging tree roots and low tree branches, accompanied by some complaints from Dean about how far they had walked, moonbeams became visible through the upcoming branches. (Y/N) held up his hand, and turned off his light, before he walked towards the clearing. Sam and Dean followed suit, killing the light. 

Past the wall of tree branches, a field became visible. Sat in the middle, about twenty feet away from the group, was an old, dilapidated building. The building sat in front of them, tall and menacing, as if a dark aura circled the decaying brick exterior. It stood three stories tall, some windows broken, and glass surrounding the foundation. The steps out front were cracked with some concrete pieces scattered about near the bottom. The bold lettering that rested right above the front doors was faded, some letters almost invisible, but it was clear that it was supposed to read out the name of the school. (Y/N) couldn’t help but wonder how the interior of the building looked compared to the outside. 

One thing that struck the group as odd, however, was the fact that some of the windows were filled with warm lights, indicating power had been added to the ancient building. It wasn’t until they got closer that they realized a small hum was disrupting the evening crickets in their peaceful song. (Y/N) raised his hand, halting their movements. They got down low, the only cover they had being the overgrown grass that engulfed their bodies. 

“They’re using a generator.” (Y/N)’s voice was low and deep. 

Sam sighed. “And it looks like there’s only one entrance. I wouldn’t trust those windows either. No one knows how long it’s been since they’ve been opened.” 

Dean shook his head. “That’s gotta be against fire code to have one doorway.” He mumbled. 

“The fire code came around in the 1600s, but I highly doubt these settlers cared about it.” (Y/N) muttered. “I’m going to sneak towards the generator and turn it off. You two keep an eye out to see if there’s any movement inside. We can go in then,”

“Got it,” they said in unison. 

(Y/N) gave a brief nod before he headed towards the building, keeping low in case of peering eyes from the windows. Rounding the side of the building, the humming became almost deafening. A dull light illuminated a small patch of grass on the other side of the school. With his eyes glued to the light, (Y/N) swiftly made his way around and to the back. The generator sat against the foundation, rumbling loudly and shaking the earth around it. He grabbed his flashlight from his waistband and shone it on the generator, furrowing his brows as he looked for a way to stop it. Finally, he saw the power switch, took a deep breath, mentally preparing himself for the task ahead, and switched it off. 

The power died immediately, the once bright school house going dark in an instant. (Y/N) knew he had to be quick. He made his way back towards the front. Sam and Dean stood at the base of the steps, their weapons drawn. (Y/N) drew his before he joined his brothers. 

“Alright, let’s gank these sons of bitches,” he mumbled, taking the lead as they entered the school. 

It was a lot darker inside than they originally thought it would be. Despite the massive windows in each room, the decades' worth of dust covered the natural moonlight, engulfing them in darkness. They brought out their flashlights, illuminating the entranceway. Their dim lights skimmed over the walls and floors, taking it in as they took careful steps deeper into the school. 

The interior of the school was just as damaged as the exterior. No longer was it a place of learning, but a place filled with debris and graffiti. Artwork and random words riddled the walls in different colored spray paints and many wooden panels lined the floor that were covered in a ripped-up, faded green carpet. The three of them took their time navigating through the mess that was near the front door to get to the main hall. A room was located to the left, which would appear to be the location of the office and the home of the principal when the school was in operation.

A couple of feet away from the front door, there was an archway that led down a narrow hallway as well as a staircase to the right. The halls were a little more clean compared to the entrance. All of the debris was pushed to one side or the other, making it a little easier to navigate through. (Y/N) turned to his brothers and gestured down the hall. 

“You two take this hall and I’ll check upstairs,” he spoke, his voice barely above a whisper, yet booming in the dead silence that surrounded them. 

Dean furrowed his brows. “What? No.” Dean protested, his voice at the same level as (Y/N)’s had been. “We stick together.” 

“There shouldn’t be too many in here. I’ll be fine on my own. You two stick together, and shout if you need help.” 

“But-” 

“Dean,” (Y/N)’s tone was low. “I’m not arguing about this.” 

Dean shared a glance with Sam before he shook his head in disapproval and began to make his way down the hallway. (Y/N) watched them for a couple of seconds before he turned. He stalked towards the narrow staircase, caged in by cracked and deteriorating walls. Other than the small amount of concrete or wood that was scattered around on the stairs that he had to avoid, they were rather clear compared to the entrance. Gingerly, he placed his hand on top of the railing, an old wooden rod that had paint and wood chipped away at it. He used it as a guide as he made his way up and to the second floor. The stairs creaked under his weight, despite his careful steps. 

While he walked, he concentrated heavily on his sense of hearing. With his sight limited, he was relying exclusively on his ears to tell him if anyone, or anything, was near. When he reached the landing, he shone his flashlight down a hall that looked identical to the one Sam and Dean had wandered down. 

The second floor was in the same state as the first floor with scattered debris on either one side or the other of the walkway. Doors lined the walls, some fully opened, and some cracked ever so slightly. One by one, he took a step into every room, shining his light around all four corners. He whispered a quiet ‘clear’ following each empty room he examined. 

All of the rooms were dimly lit with the mixture of (Y/N)’s flashlight and the faded moonbeams begging to go through the dusty windows. Chairs and desks were strewed about, some toppled over, while others rested in, presumably, the same spot they did all those years ago. Those tables and chairs were unknowingly preserving the history of the once-active school. 

It was quiet. Too quiet. A part of (Y/N) wanted to believe that the intel they received might have been wrong, that no demons were haunting the very halls he walked, but the generator out back told no lies. Squatters wouldn’t waste what little money they had on luxuries such as that, nor would they put forth the time and the effort to wire the entire building. The other part of him, the logical side, told him that the demons were good. Sneaky. They knew how to hide and they did it well. He had to be even more focused than he already had been. 

He hoped Sam and Dean were doing okay. 

Perhaps it wasn’t the best idea to split up. 

(Y/N) got to the last room, on the left side of the hallway. He noted that it was the only door that had been shut, making sure to be extra cautious as he reached a hand forward, grasping the splintered doorknob. As he opened the door, the aged hinges creaked, the sound echoing down the hallway, breaking the uneasy silence. The room was noticeably darker than the rest, not an ounce of moonlight visible. (Y/N) raised his light and shone it around the room. He took a couple of steps inside, broken glass crackling underneath his boots. When he shined his light on the window, he noticed that it had been completely boarded up, the remnants of a black trash bag that had once covered it hanging from nails lazily placed along the window sill. 

Just as he got to the center of the room, the door hinges creaked again, loud and eerie. (Y/N) was quick to turn around, but he was only able to catch the final seconds before the door closed. His breathing stopped, heart racing inside of his chest. He listened, closely, but he heard nothing. No footsteps. No breathing. Nothing. 

“Guess who,” A deep, scratchy, all too familiar voice spoke. 

The same voice that plagued his mind and haunted his dreams. 

He froze. 

Like a deer in headlights. 

Then, his world went black. 

*~*

The harsh light wasn’t good for his pounding head. A throaty moan slipped past (Y/N)’s lips as he awoke, vision blurry and eyes watery. He slowly lifted his head, groaning at the noticeable crick in his neck. He could feel that he was slouched in a chair, his back was aching from the posture, but he felt too nauseous and weak to fix it. When his vision cleared, he was able to take in some of the details of the room he was in. It was obvious that the room used to be one of the many classrooms, desks and chairs were pushed to one side of the room, stacked up to the point where they could topple at any moment. A single window stood across the way, the bottom half completely shattered with a puddle of broken shards resting beneath. The chill night air whistled and caressed his face. To his right were two massive floodlights, shining down on him. To his left, were Sam and Dean, bound to chairs the same as he was. 

Sam and Dean. 

(Y/N) quickly sat up, despite the throbbing in his head. In an attempt to move his arms, he could feel how tight the ropes were around his wrists and forearms. The demons were skilled, it seemed. 

“Well, look who finally decided to wake up,” Dean grumbled, his speech coming out slurred. 

He has a concussion. 

“What the Hell happened?” (Y/N) hissed. 

“They came out of nowhere,” Sam mumbled. His eyes were half-lidded, looking as if he was experiencing the same pain as (Y/N). 

“There were too many of them.” Dean finished.

(Y/N) cursed under his breath as he tried to wiggle his arms out of the binds, but it was all to no avail. He was used to being held captive by people who didn’t know how to tie a knot, but the way he was tied up was rather intricate. He wasn’t too sure he would be able to break out of it. 

“How many did you guys run into?” 

“I don’t know, man,” Dean answered. “A dozen, maybe more. You?” 

(Y/N) stopped moving, his eyes cast down to the floor. “Just one,” 

“One? You got taken out by a single demon?” 

“It was dark,” (Y/N) defended himself with a growl. “I couldn’t see anything, I couldn’t hear anything. It was silent.”

Don’t think about his voice. Don’t think about his voice.

“Still, to be taken out by one demon, geez,” Dean mumbled. 

“Look, I don’t have time to argue with you! I’m trying to get us out of here!” 

“Don’t worry your pretty little head about that,” a sweet, sultry, female voice echoed in the room. “You won’t be going anywhere anytime soon,” a demon came from behind them, a wide smile on her lips. 

She walked behind (Y/N), grabbed the knots connected to his wrists and arms, and tugged at them. 

“Did these myself,” she spoke proudly. “Wasn’t too difficult, really. Just seems as if people aren’t willing to teach themselves anything useful anymore,” she pursed her lips, crossing her arms underneath her breasts. 

(Y/N) snarled as the frayed ropes rubbed against his skin, scratching the surface. “If you’re done boosting your ego for five minutes, I’d really appreciate it if you let us go.” He spoke between clenched teeth.

The demon let out a boisterous laugh as she walked around the chair to stand in front of him. “Are you kidding?” She scoffed. “The Winchesters practically fall into our lap, and you think we’re going to let you go? Just like that?” She snapped her fingers. “Now, what would my boss think of me if I did that?” 

“And who, exactly, is your boss?” Dean asked. 

“Oh, you know him. Quite well, actually. He’s so excited to see you all again.” She walked over to (Y/N), the back of her hand brushing against his cheek gingerly. “Especially you.” Her voice was low, menacing. 

With that, the demon left, the click of the doorknob filling the silence. (Y/N) was tense. He could feel his heart hammering in his chest. Gooseflesh littered his arms, the hairs standing up. The panic began to set in. 

Have to get out. Have to get out. Have to get out. HAVE TO GET OUT.

“We have to go.” (Y/N) said, his voice barely above a whisper and shaky. 

(Y/N) began to frantically pull at the ropes, only resulting in them tightening around his arms. His muscles strained, shoulders shifting. Sam and Dean both tried to wiggle out of their confinements. Sam’s movements were slower and more thoughtful than his brothers’. 

“Do you know who she’s talking about?” Sam leaned his head close to (Y/N), voice hushed. 

“Doesn’t matter. What matters is that we get the fuck out of here.” (Y/N)’s voice was louder than it normally would have been, the anxiety flooding his words. 

Sam and Dean shared a look of concern but decided to say nothing. They had never seen their brother so frazzled. Dare they say, scared? If there was one thing that (Y/N) never experienced when he was on hunts, it was fear. (Y/N) was always the one who kept a calm and collected attitude, barked orders, kept victims quiet during stressful situations, and he was the one Sam and Dean always fell back on. It was as if the brother they were bound next to wasn’t the same person. 

They all worked on getting the ropes off of them. Sam and Dean weren’t struggling as much as (Y/N) seemed to, who, at first glance, one would assume had never gotten out of binds before. That was far from the truth. He was, normally, the first one to get out of the ropes, as if he was an escape artist in a previous life. It was rather evident that something was wrong. Terribly wrong. Sam and Dean, however, didn’t have the slightest clue. 

Have to get out. Have to get out. 

CLICK

The door opened, and (Y/N) froze. He was sure his heart stopped as well. Every muscle felt as if they were tying themselves together in intricate knots. The creaking hinges seemed louder than before, almost as if they were teasing him. Laughing at his pain. Mocking him. Or, perhaps, they were warning him. 

Please don’t be him. Please don’t be him.

“Well, well, well…” The voice spoke, amusement evident.

(Y/N)’s blood ran cold. In situations like that, when faced with immediate danger, our brain turns to one of three options; fight, flight, or freeze. You can defend yourself, run away, or accept your fate. Being tied to the chair didn’t give (Y/N) the chance for flight, and there wasn’t an ounce of fight left in his body. So, he sat there, frozen, eyes wide with fear. The last time he was filled with that much fear was when he last encountered the demon. Unfortunately, it hadn’t been that long ago. 

A hand on his shoulder caused him to jump. He knew that touch all too well. It felt as if fire was spreading from the hand, down his torso, and through the rest of his body. 

Azazel turned to stand in front of the three Winchesters, his deep, yellow eyes lingering over (Y/N)’s body. Sam and Dean tensed, their jaws clenched, noses scrunched as they stared down the demon. 

“Yellow eyes,” Dean said between clenched teeth. 

“Oh, come on, Dean, you know I’m much more than just my eyes,” Azazel smirked. “You know, me and my demons were having a fairly good night. Got a lot planned for you, Sammy. Of course, the plan has some kinks to work through, but what plan doesn’t? A peaceful night, nonetheless. Imagine my surprise when the lights turned off. Not only that, but imagine my surprise when I hear who turned it off.” 

Azazel’s eyes scanned over the brothers, but they always wandered back to (Y/N). Each time they did, it felt like he was getting stabbed in the gut. 

“You know,” Azazel continued. “I can’t thank you enough for showing up unannounced. I mean, that’s one less child I need to find,” he gestured to Sam. “Not only that,” Azazel turned to (Y/N), stalking over toward him at an agonizing pace. “But you brought my favorite little plaything.” 

This isn’t real. This can’t be real. Please don’t let this be real.

When Azazel placed his calloused hand on (Y/N)’s jaw, fingers trailing down to his chin, (Y/N) was faced with the brutal reality that everything was real. (Y/N) hadn’t realized how much he had been shaking until Azazel let out a deep laugh. 

“Still scared?” He teased, his tongue poking through his eerie grin. 

“Leave him alone,” Sam growled. “It’s me you want.” 

“Correction, Sam, I want both of you.” 

“Why? What is he to you!?” 

Azazel looked at Sam, then Dean, then back at Sam. His brows raised as a look of realization crossed his face. “Oh,” he cooed, tilting his head to the side as he bent down in front of (Y/N), their noses almost touching. “You never told them, did you.” 

“Told us what?” Dean questioned. “(Y/N), what the Hell is he talking about!?” 

(Y/N) couldn’t speak. He felt as if there were cobwebs in his throat, his lips and mouth dry, and no part of his body wanted to function. Azazel stared into his eyes. Correction: Azazel stared into his soul. The soul that he had left was damaged. Oh, did that fact fill the demon with pride. Azazel’s lips curled up at the corner of his mouth as he stood up straight. He sauntered over so he was standing in front of Sam and Dean.

“Months ago…” Azazel began. “After your dear old Daddy passed, your brother decided to go on a little manhunt, all on his own.” 

Sam and Dean turned their gaze to (Y/N). Sam’s eyes were wide with shock and betrayal, while Dean’s expression could only be described as pure anger. Their minds immediately drifted to the worst possible outcome from that hunt. Their first thought drifted to him selling his soul. Making a deal with Azazel. While that seemed like a possibility, it didn’t make sense, as Azazel still spoke as if he had plans for Sam. What could (Y/N) have done? 

Azazel began to make his way back over to (Y/N), his back straight, his posture intimidating. “After a couple of pathetic weeks of trying to find me, he was finally able to catch up to me.” Azazel stood in front of him. Slowly, he leaned down, his breath fanning over (Y/N)’s face. “Do you want to tell them all of the gory details? Or should I?” 

(Y/N)’s breath quickened, chest noticeably rising and falling at a rapid pace. The panic became evident on his face. Azazel reached a hand up and let it rest on (Y/N)’s knee. 

“Do you want to tell them how you quivered under my touch? How you were shaking and sobbing? How you were crying for them to save you?” 

As he talked, his hand trailed further and further up his thigh, getting dangerously close to his crotch. (Y/N)’s body began to convulse, eyes bulging from their sockets. Whimpers escaped his parted lips as he tried desperately to wiggle away from his touch. 

Have to get away. Have to get away. Get away. GET AWAY.

“Hey!” Sam shouted. 

“Get away from him!” Dean exclaimed. 

“Tell me,” Azazel continued, ignoring Sam and Dean’s loud protests, his attention solely focused on (Y/N). “Do you still hear my voice as you drift off to sleep at night? Do you still feel my fingers digging into your hips? Do you still feel my cock inside that tight little hole of yours?” He grunted as he gripped (Y/N)’s penis through his jeans tightly. 

“No! Please!” (Y/N) screamed louder than he had ever screamed before. Tears rolled down his cheeks freely, painting his face with their wetness. He desperately attempted to get away, not caring that the ropes dug into his flesh, rubbing it raw. His sobs echoed off the walls. 

“That’s right,” Azazel grinned wickedly, teeth and jaw clenched. Somehow, his quiet voice was the only thing (Y/N) could hear. Not the hum of the floodlights, not his brothers’ angry shouts, just Azazel. “Cry, my little pet.” 

“You son of a bitch! I’ll kill you! Do you hear me? I will fucking kill you!” Dean screamed to the point of almost instantly becoming hoarse. 

“Oh, I hear you boys loud and clear.” Azazel pulled his hand away from (Y/N). “And I must say, it’s getting rather irritating. I might just have to take my pet somewhere else to play.” 

“Don’t you dare,” Sam snarled. 

“Well, not now. I’ve worked him up a little too much for me to have a good time playing with him.” He glanced at (Y/N), licking his lips predatorily. “It won’t be any fun making him scream now. Don’t want him to lose his voice too soon. Besides, you two made a mess of one of our rooms, and I need to make sure that everything necessary is accounted for.” 

Azazel continued to stare at (Y/N), obvious amusement etched on his face. The tears continued to fall, but he was silent. His bottom lip wobbled. By the way his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down, it was evident he was holding back cries he desperately wanted to let out. Azazel grabbed him tightly by the jaw, tilted his head up, and planted a rough, bruising kiss on his lips. Before Sam and Dean could resume their shouting, he pulled away. 

“I’ll see you soon, little pet.” He purred, fingers trailing over his wet cheeks before he stalked out of the room, not even giving Sam and Dean a second glance. 

Click

Creak

Slam

Silence

The three of them sat there and said nothing. (Y/N) stared off towards the window, head moving from side to side ever so slightly. His brain was foggy and dizzy from the overstimulation. Dean’s jaw was clenched, nostrils flared. His eyes glimmered with a murderous rage. He stared at his older brother - his broken older brother - before turning his attention over to Sam. Sam shared the same look of anger as he did. 

What no one had been aware of was that, while the chaos with Azazel unfolded, Sam had been working on the ropes around his arms. A couple of silent seconds after they were left alone in the room, Sam let out a grunt and pulled his arms apart. The ropes fell onto the floor with a light thud. With determination in his eyes, Sam turned and untied (Y/N) first before going over to Dean. Once Dean was free, he stood, stretched his neck muscles, and then turned for the door, eyes flooded with blind rage. Sam was quick to grab him by the upper arm, stopping him in his tracks. 

“What’re you doing?” He whispered. 

“I’m going after that son of a bitch, Sam, what do you think I’m doing?” Dean retorted. 

“We can’t. There are too many of them, and we don’t have our weapons anymore.” 

“I’ll take my chances,” Dean pulled his arm from Sam’s grasp and turned to leave, but was quickly grabbed by Sam once more. “Let go, Sam.” 

“Dean, I want the bastard dead just as much as you do, even more now, but we’re outnumbered. Plus, (Y/N) needs us.” 

Hearing his brother’s name snapped him out of the trance he was in. Dean snapped his head around towards (Y/N), who was still sitting in the chair. 

“(Y/N),” he breathed, quickly making his way over to him. Sam followed. 

Once they were in front of (Y/N), they could see just how much he was affected. His arms hung at his side lamely, his gaze still set towards the window. They were empty, devoid of any emotion. His cheeks were still stained, and his lips were slightly parted. They had started to swell. 

“Hey, hey, (Y/N),” Dean reached up and cupped his face, turning his head so he would look at him. “Hey, buddy, you’re okay. You’re safe. He’s not here anymore, but we have to get out of here. Can you stand up?” 

Silence. 

Dean slowly nodded. “Alright, Sam, you get that window open and we’ll get out of here. I’ll grab him.” 

Sam moved over to the window, scraping some of the broken glass away from it. He glanced out the window and let out a breath of relief when he saw they were on the first floor. He grabbed the top of the window, lifting it, but it didn’t budge. He cursed under his breath and took a deep breath as he hoisted the window open with all of his strength. The bottom half of the window slammed upwards, causing the wall to shake. He raised his brows and turned to Dean, gesturing him over quickly. 

Dean reached under (Y/N)’s legs and picked him up bridal style. He held him tight and close to his chest as he swiftly made his way over to the window. Sam was the first one to climb out, hissing as the splinters from the window sill embedded themselves into his hands. Once his feet were on the ground, he turned back to the window. 

“Pass him through,” he held his arms out. 

Dean glanced behind him at the door before he helped Sam get (Y/N) through the window. Once (Y/N) was through, Sam cradled him in his arms just as Dean had. Dean moved even faster to get out of the window. When they were outside, they could see, in the distance, the familiar sight of the sun peeking out past the horizon. They shared a glance, examined their surroundings, and then rushed back towards the tall trees at the edge of the field. 

They ran at Mach speed through the forest, hopping over roots and dodging protruding branches. Now and then, Sam would look down at his brother, still held tight to his chest, but the same, vacant expression was always present on his face. Sam was, admittedly, worried for him. He had never seen (Y/N) in such a vulnerable state. He was always the level-headed one, so put together. He was the one that Sam and Dean leaned on in times of trouble, the one that picked them up when they were down, the one to jump to their aid when they needed him the most without any hesitation. 

And here he was, carrying him in his arms, the broken shell of his oldest brother. Never, in a million years, would he have imagined this scenario. To him, it was always supposed to be the other way around, as it had been on multiple occasions. He felt so heavy, but, at the same time, light as a feather, as if Sam could carry him for hundreds of miles if he had to. He would in a heartbeat. 

By the time they reached the edge of the wood, the sky had turned a brilliant pinkish-orange, and mourning doves began to sing their elegant tune. Dean broke out into a wide grin as Baby came into view. 

“Oh, Baby, I am never leaving you again,” he mumbled as he ran his hand over her hood. 

“Dean? Keys?” Sam raised his brows. 

Dean slowly frowned. He patted his jean pockets, then his coat pockets. He grumbled, unzipped his coat, and reached inside. After seconds of searching, he let out a heavy sigh of relief as he pulled the keys out of an inner pocket. 

“Thank God for inside pockets.” 

Sam rolled his eyes. “Just get the door opened.” 

“Right, right…” 

Dean unlocked the car before he rounded the corner to the back passenger’s side. He opened the door.

“How is he?” He asked. 

Sam took a moment to look down at (Y/N). He was so focused on getting them as far away from the school as possible, that he didn’t even notice that he had fallen asleep. Sam felt relief wash over him, glad that his brother didn’t have to experience any more of those negative thoughts he must’ve had. At least, not at that moment. Carefully, Sam navigated his way to the backseat, laying (Y/N) on his side. He made sure not to wake him. With everything he had gone through and all the emotions that had seemingly piled onto him all at once, he wasn’t sure how easy (Y/N) would be to wake up. He must have been exhausted. 

“He’s fine, at least, for now,” Sam mumbled. 

Once (Y/N) was situated in the backseat, Sam stretched, not having realized the strain he had received from carrying him for so long. He closed the door as quietly as he could and took his spot in the passenger’s seat. Dean walked around the car and got into the driver’s side. He was quick to start the car, the rumble of the engine sending vibrations through the seats. Dean pulled off the dirt road and did a U-Turn, heading back into town. 

The first five minutes of the ride were silent. Not even the radio dared speak up. Sam and Dean’s eyes were glued to the road, both of them taking turns to occasionally look back at (Y/N). 

Dean was the first one to speak. 

“We need to get the Hell out of Dodge.” He said. 

Sam nodded. “You’re right. If Yellow Eyes is this close, he’ll waste no time trying to find us. I can go in, pack all of our stuff, and check us out. Then, I say we drive as far away as possible.” 

“I couldn’t agree more.”

Another deep silence. Dean was the first one to speak again. 

“How come he never told us?” 

Sam hesitated for a moment, considering the question himself. He tried to look at it from a personal standpoint. Why didn’t he tell them? They’re family. They tell each other everything. But do they? He tried to look at it from a logical standpoint. 

It was one thing the Winchesters were notorious for; their lack of communication when it comes to their emotions. It was preached to them when they were younger, that emotions were the reason hunters got killed. You had to go in, get the job done, and don’t let it get to you. Then again, a vast majority of hunters are alcoholics, so what does that say about them? They are human, after all. 

What happens when something serious occurs? Something so traumatic that they lose themselves at the first sight of the enemy? That was something neither the hunting life nor their father had prepared them for. At that point, they were lost. 

Sam shook his head. “I don’t know. I mean, you saw the way he acted when Yellow Eyes walked in.” 

Dean’s jaw clenched. “Yeah.” 

“I couldn’t imagine what he was going through, nor what he went through. I mean, if something like that happened to you, would you tell us?” 

Dean opened his mouth to speak but stopped himself. He clenched onto the steering wheel. “No,” he mumbled. 

“Exactly, I mean…” he trailed. “This is fucked up.” 

“Yeah, extremely fucked up. You have no idea how hard it is for me to drive away. I wanna go back there and kill him so bad.” Dean spoke between clenched teeth, his grip on the wheel so tight his knuckles turned white. 

“Trust me, Dean, I get it.” Sam nodded. “But right now, we should focus on (Y/N). He needs us right now, more than anything.” 

Dean looked over at Sam for a second before glancing in the rearview mirror at his older brother’s sleeping form. On that day, he vowed that he would kill Azazel with his own two hands. 

*~*

His vision was fading, black spots decorating his peripherals. Any sound had been replaced with a low buzz. His breathing was staggered and labored. Every inch of his body was on fire as if he was being burned from the inside out. The only relief he felt was the cool concrete that was pressed against his cheek. It felt as if his body weighed a thousand pounds. No matter how much he wanted to, he couldn’t move. 

Suddenly, the pain shot through his body like a bullet, his muscles and nerves tensing. He opened his mouth to scream, but nothing came out. 

“Aw, isn’t that cute,” Azazel growled from above him. 

(Y/N)’s fear-filled eyes shot towards the sound of his voice. Azazel’s deep, yellow eyes stared into him intently, filled with rage, lust, and desire. (Y/N) tried to scream louder, but, still, no sound came out. 

“Sam! Dean! Help me, please!” He mouthed, hot tears streaming down his face. 

“Look at you trying to call out for your brothers. Well, I hate to break it to you, little pet, but they aren’t here, and they’ll never find you if I can help it.” 

Azazel caressed his cheek before grabbing his hair roughly, yanking his head back. In a flash, a cool, sharp black was pressed against his neck. 

“Now, be a good boy and take it.” 

The pain intensified, lightning shooting through his veins.

Take it. 

Please. 

Take it.

Someone.

Take it!

Help me.

TAKE IT

*~*

(Y/N) gasped as he jolted upright, eyes wide and alert. His chest rose and fell with the rhythm of his pants. In an instant, Sam and Dean were by his side. Dean stood next to the bed while Sam sat next to him. 

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” Sam spoke in a soothing voice, hesitantly reaching toward him. “You’re safe, (Y/N).” 

(Y/N) jerked away from his touch, and Sam was quick to pull back. As (Y/N) attempted to gather himself, he looked around the room. They were in a motel room, although it was different than the one (Y/N) remembered being in. What did he remember? The last thing he could recall was the look on Azazel’s face as he smirked down at him, the look in those deep, demonic eyes. Those damned eyes. He didn’t remember leaving the school, nor did he remember their journey to another motel room. 

“Where are we?” he asked quietly, his voice hoarse and broken.

“Chattanooga,” Dean replied. “A couple hours south of where we were.” 

(Y/N) nodded in acknowledgment. Then it was silent. No one said anything, the only sound filling the room was the electricity coursing through the air from the outdated box TV sat on the dresser. (Y/N)’s gaze was cast down towards the discolored comforter while Sam and Dean shared a glance as if silently urging one another to say something. Finally, it was Sam who spoke up. 

“Look, if you don’t wanna talk about it, we-” 

“He was right,” (Y/N) interrupted. 

Sam and Dean looked at each other before they turned their attention back to their older brother. Dean sat down on the bed opposite (Y/N), and leaned forward, hands folded. 

“Everything he said was true.” (Y/N) swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat. 

“So, after dad died…” Sam trailed. 

“When I went AWOL? Yeah. I, uh, I had found where he was. Didn’t take that long, at least, not as long as I thought it was going to take. I was so set on killing him that I didn’t take into account the fact that there might be other demons with him. It was like I was…blind by rage…” (Y/N) lowered his head and twiddled his thumbs. “I was captured pretty easily, I hate to admit. Then, he came in…you know the rest.” 

(Y/N) was unaware of the tears that had begun to form in the corner of his eyes. He refused to look at his brothers. What would they say? What would they think? Would they be disappointed? Disgusted? Betrayed? He didn’t think he could handle what they thought about him at that moment. 

“Why didn’t you tell us?” Dean asked softly. 

(Y/N) glanced up at them, brows furrowed with a look of confusion. Sam and Dean’s expressions conveyed a feeling of sadness. Of hurt. (Y/N) clenched his hands into weak fists and looked down. 

“I’m your big brother. I’m supposed to be the one to protect you guys, not the other way around. I’m supposed to be the strong one. How would you think of me knowing your big brother couldn’t even stop himself from getting raped?” (Y/N)’s voice broke, tears flowing more freely. 

Sam and Dean watched (Y/N) hug himself tightly. Slowly, they began to make their way onto the bed, not wanting to startle him in such a fragile state. With Sam on one side and Dean on the other, they wrapped their arms loosely and gently around his shaking frame. 

“(Y/N), I hope you know that we don’t think any less of you because of this,” Sam said. 

“Yeah, this isn’t your fault,” Dean agreed.

(Y/N) shook his head. “If I wouldn’t have gone after him…” he sobbed. 

Dean shushed him, reaching a hand up to gently caress his head. (Y/N) stopped what he was saying and just leaned against his brothers. The Winchesters were never good with comfort. Get over it, they were always told. Stop being so sensitive. Real men don’t cry, type of narrative. They all just sat there in silence, sobs continuing to fall from (Y/N)’s lips. 

He was always so scared about the way his brothers would react. He decided to take a page out of John Winchester’s book of dealing with his emotions. Bottle it up and everything would be okay, which was completely false. That much was evident back at the schoolhouse. (Y/N) wasn’t okay. Hell, that had been the first moment he had verbally admitted that he had been raped, and it hurt. 

Even though he felt a small sense of security in the arms of his brothers, he still didn’t feel safe. Knowing Azazel, his rapist, was still roaming the world in search of them always kept him on edge. He wasn’t sure he would ever feel peace unless he witnessed, firsthand, the life drain from those yellow eyes of his. After that, he wasn’t certain how he would feel.

“Hey,” Dean’s voice broke the dead silence. 

(Y/N) looked up at him, eyes red, but slowly drying. Dean gazed down at him with a look of determination on his face. 

“We got this, okay? As long as you’re with us, we won’t let anything else happen to you. You’ve been our big brother and protected us our whole lives. Now it’s our turn to protect you.” 

(Y/N) took a moment to look at Dean, then looked over at Sam. He gave a small, brief nod as he pulled them closer for a tighter embrace. 

“Thank you,” he spoke in a hushed tone. 

“Don’t even worry about it,” Sam shook his head. “You would do the same for us.” 

(Y/N) nodded.

“And if there’s one thing I can promise you, (Y/N), it’s that the next time I see that slimy bastard, I won’t hesitate to put a bullet between his eyes,” Dean growled, holding his brother close.

(Y/N) couldn’t help but give a small smile, because, while the Winchesters weren’t good at comfort or expressing their griefs with one another, there was one thing that made them stand out amongst everyone else;

When they promised to kill something, nothing on God’s green Earth could get in their way.

[zuko-always-lies]

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[zuko-always-lies]

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So far: 34 votes, only 5 reblogs.

[mooonbride]

It’s sad that toxic game culture is so prevalent cuz like. As someone who has ended up in random matches with kids before, I can attest to how fucking easy it is to reverse and un-teach shitty attitudes in kids.

Example: I downloaded Friday the 13th because it’s free on psn. I dunno how to play, so I just enter quick play and I’m matched with 3-4 kids on mic. Immediately on mic they’re shitty and disparaging to each other. They laugh at each others deaths, they actively work against team mates and self sabotage, they call each other “fags”, etc. From the sounds of the voices they cannot be older than 13-14.

I put on my mic and just decide I ain’t havin it. I am nice. I thank them for barricading doors or leaving me items. When they break free from Jason’s grasp I say “good job!” or I try to help them. One kid survived for most of the match by himself. When he dies, I tell him he did a fantastic job.

The mood shift is practically INSTANT. These kids almost immediately stop being dick heads. They start encouraging each other and being kind. After the match all of them try to friend request me. Which should tell you a couple of things:

A) kids want to be kind, and they want to have a nice time playing games. But encounters with adults like me or so rare that they’ve trained themselves to instantly put on a toxic, shitty, defensive veneer when encountering any new person online. It’s literally just THAT EASY to not groom a horrible gaming community, it’s just that NO ONE does it.

B) the speed of which they all tried to friend me was cute, but paints for me such a sad picture? Like these kids are SO desperate to find people to play with who aren’t crappy jerks. They played with me for 10 minutes TOPS and all instantly tried to reach out to me.

tl;dr: The kids are alright. Adults are shit heads.

[rain-wander-deactivated20200822]

I cant agree with this post more

[socialmediapeasant]

I witnessed something similar with my younger brother (this was when he was In fifth grade so bear with me here) and his friends. The teacher assigned for them to build a somewhat accurate spanish mission in Minecraft because their school had gotten some iPads and she needed to assign them something other than a PowerPoint.

Now here’s the thing. Most of these boys, my brother included, have ADD/ADHD. About a week into the project all they had in their shared world was chaos. Somebody filled the place with tnt and lit it up. Holes everywhere. Whenever one would attempt to try and build something (mostly wood huts and not the actual project) it would be destroyed within minutes as the boys began to insult each other heavily and complain that the design was ugly.

I brought my own ipad with me and decided to sit with the boys while they continued their reign of terror. I joined the world and built a hallway out of brick at the very center of this war zone. Immediately one of them tried to destroy it under the impression that “it looks bad”.

“Well, what should I make it out of?”

“Diamond.”

The ten year old mind is a mystery to me…

Anyway, then I showed him some pictures similar to these:

I reasoned that it would be easier to sway this kid toward another pretty block than trying to get him to stick to the materials of the time, so I asked him if he would like to help me replace my brick design with quartz (eh, it’s white).

Bam! One of the ten year old anarchists is dutifully building me a glittering gem hallway for our insanely rich monks.

The other three are off somewhere still yelling at each other and setting off explosives, but we have something built. Much to my surprise the kid asked if he could build the church next because he “wanted to build the most important part”.

Here’s where I learned something important. I don’t have ADD or ADHD but as I said before my brother does. When he gets fixated on something, he’s really gets into it. Once a few minutes had passed and this kid already had four walls up I decided to grid up the entire mission. One gets the church, one gets the farm, etc.

After playing the game with them for an hour, I had a pretty good idea of where each kid should go.

Church kid, I found, was very particular about materials and shape(hence his hangup over the brick). I gave him free reign over the outer walls of the mission and showed him the reference pictures to get him started.

My brother liked the farms most (he was building dirt domes over the cows don’t ask me how I made this connection it just worked, okay), so he was in charge of building pens for the animals.

Another kid was, at first glance, very loud and bossy when it came to decorating (constantly said we were making chairs wrong). Turns out he likes interior design, like putting benches and beds in the little rooms, so his bossiness was just frustration with my brother’s artistic sense I guess.

Another was very good with placing trees and plants around the exterior (I guessed this because he covered the place in a ridiculous amount of trees and I asked him if he would like to know where they are supposed to go). He got to make a vineyard for us and organized how the crops should go.

So how did it turn out?

Actually very nice!!

So what did we learn? Kids actually like to play games and be praised for their creativity and intuition. If I had just told them to stop messing around rather than direct their attention to areas within their interests, they never would have gotten anything done.

After an hour of gaming they:

Mirrored my language; “thank you!”, “which part are you working on?”, “I like this block.”

Realized each other’s strengths; “hey [kid name] can you help me with the roof?” “How do you make the big trees [kid name]?”

Were able to articulate exactly what they did or didn’t like without using force; “that looks good!”, “how about we put it there?”, “I don’t like that block, how about this one?”

On the plus side, since we moved the game file to my device for safekeeping, I now have a cute little souvenir of the time I played Minecraft with four ten year olds.

[cyberlesbiab-deactivated2021052]

This is a really long post, but it’s super important. In games like Fortnite where you’ll find lots of kids, it’s important (if you can) to steer them away from toxicity. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve run into kids who talk like toxic adults and the act of just being nice to them completely turns them around.

[rocket-sith]

Reblog if you write fic and people can inbox you random-ass questions about your stories, itemized number lists be damned.

[door-knob]

Sanders Sides Moana AU

Patton as Te Feti

Y'know-

Because- Because the-

The Heart of Te Fiti-

And- and he's basically Thomas' heart-

D'you get it-?

Yeah-?

Okay- I'll stop-

Virgil as Moana

It just feels right, y'know?

Anxiety can be very strong and is very much needed at times but anger can be so much stronger

Sassy and sarcastic

Actually pretty smart

Quick thinker

I don't know what else to say. It just feels right

Roman as Maui

Egotistical? Check

Great hair? Check

Lowkey real strong? Check

Underlying feeling of not feeling worthy of someone's love and acceptance and in turn comes up with ways to earn love and getting more and more extreme with attempts to earn it until eventually going too far or realizing that whatever he did was never going to be enough for the one person he was seeking approval from? Check

Logan as The Ocean

I just-

The most common sense of the entire movie (- Gramma, 'cause no one has more sense than Gramma)

Patient

Efficient

Sassy in a nonverbal way that just makes everyone love him for it

Logic can only do so much to keep the anger at bay (See what I did there? A little water joke for you guys)

Janus as Gramma

THE most common sense in the entire movie

Yeah. You could get straight up help from me. But why would I tell you when you can figure it out yourself?

Crazy people give the best life advice. Prove me wrong

Remus as Tamatoa

"Thank goodness you don't have a mustache, otherwise I wouldn't know who the evil twin was." (I'm not entirely sorry)

That ^^ but this one's a giant crab that collects shiny things and will eat anything and everything (more specifically seafood)

Like him and Maui could be the same person except we only know one has a traumatic backstory and the other is Just Like That

I swear the first thing that he did after revealing himself was sing

The (Anger!)Orange Side as Te Kā

Without morality, anger gets so much stronger

Anger is literally destroying all parts of the Earth

Starting with filling it with monsters (negative thoughts ex. Remus)

Then destroying life from islands and scaring off the fish (cutting off bridges with friends and family)

And it was going for the people next which I would assume would sort of like hurting yourself when you can't hurt anyone else

But behind all that anger and fire, it's just someone trying to make things right after all the wrong that's been done

[frenchbreads-writing]

If I were to write like normal stuff for like an actual published book one day

How do you come up w name for the main characters

[door-knob]

I usually look up what inspired me for the character and find names that are sort of related to that inspiration or a prominent part of who they are. Like their race, family, personality trait, etc.

[thecrowslullaby]

He gets to cosplay as Spock, as a treat

[lizzykelly1899]

Happy Birthday, Logan Sanders!

[a-small-batch-of-dragons]

Rage

Prompts: Okay so fic where Logan and Roman get to go Apeshit on the other sides!! each of them have one other side who supports them in this. (Virgil for Roman and Remus for Logan) I hope you have a great day!! - anon

What would you do if Roman and Logan went apeshit at the same time? Like- Roman apoligises for ignoring him, and theyre both chill with each other and they get mad at the others together? Virgils just like "Yehhhh you tell them, Princey" "Fuck yeah Specs" - anon

Propmt Idea!: Remus looks at his brother and this nerd and realizes they both need to get rid of some steam, so he sets up a rage room for them, but the other sides walk in on them while they are doing the rage room? - anon

Would like to request a fic where roman just doesnt show up in his prince costume. He thinks he doesnt deserve it. I dont know what else would happen lol, but Roman with no prince outfit. - anon

Read on Ao3

Warnings: some allusions to manipulation and guilt tripping

Pairings: logince, platonic or romantic i don't care

Word Count: 4994

It doesn’t start with much. Just a knock on the door.

Logan sighs, pushing back from his desk, schooling his expression into the blank Logic the other Sides know and striding to the door. He hesitates for a millisecond too long before he turns it swiftly to the left and pulls it open.

“Yes?”

He blinks.

Roman stand outside, something cupped in his hands. He…his hair isn’t done up. It’s still all fluffy and bedraggled, as if he just rolled out of bed. He’s not in pajamas, per se, but the sweatpants and shirt he’s wearing certainly aren’t his prince costume.

“Hi, Logan,” he says quietly, “uh, do you have a free minute? If not, that’s—that’s fine too.”

Logan blinks again. “I have about fifteen minutes to spare, how may I help you?”

Roman fiddles with the edge of the package. “O-only if you want to, Logan. I know how much you like your schedules and I’d hate…if this is your only free time I don’t want to steal it.”

The Logic facade slips as Logan’s brow furrows. On the one hand, yes, he would prefer to have his alone time be alone time, on the other…

“You can come in, Roman,” he says, standing aside, “I don’t mind.”

Roman’s head jerks up. “R-really?”

“Yes, really.”

“Oh. Uh, thanks, Logan.”

Logan shuts the door carefully behind Roman as they walk back into his room. The other Side stands there for a moment, not looking around at Logan’s room, but instead down at the box in his hands. After a moment of silence, he turns and offers it to Logan.

“For you.”

“For me?” He takes it cautiously. “Thank you, Roman. Did—I do not believe we have any special occasions coming up. Not on Thomas’s calendar.”

Roman tugs at the hem of his shirt. “There isn’t one, Logan. I just…I, um…”

“Take your time.”

He gets a nod of thanks. Then Roman takes a deep breath and squares his shoulders. “I wanted to apologize to you.”

Logan blinks. And blinks again.

“…to me?”

Roman nods and gestures to the box. “That’s, uh, not part of it, not really, but it’s something I wanted to give you anyway.”

Logan looks down at the box. He tips it this way and that. It’s just a plain cardboard box. No flashy wrapping paper, no dazzling calligraphy, nothing that screams ‘this is a gift!’

“You can open it whenever,” Roman says, clearly interpreting his silence as disbelief or hesitation, “I don’t—it doesn’t have to be with me here, if you…don’t want.”

“Thank you, Roman,” Logan says instead, “now what were you here to apologize for?”

Roman falters. He tucks his hands behind his back and lifts his chin. The way he looks like he’s bracing for Logan to punish him twists something awful in Logan’s chest.

“I have been dismissive, rude, and unkind to you,” he says, quiet yet firm, “and I have not made it clear that I value you and all the contributions you make.”

Logan’s hands stutter on the box.

“It is…unfair of me to assume that some of us are more important to Thomas based off of our individual roles and…functions,” he continues, stumbling a little as he looks for the right words, “and I owe you an apology.”

He takes a deep breath, letting his head hang for a moment, then he raises it and looks straight at Logan.

“I’m sorry, Logan.”

Logan’s mouth drops open. He almost drops the box.

“I…I guess if that’s anything,” he mumbles, nodding toward the box Logan just managed to save, “it’s kind of my peace offering.”

Peace…peace offering?

Logan takes a deep breath. His hands tremble slightly on the box.

Why…why is Roman here? He—he says he needed to apologize. Yes, that is true. Logan has been the brunt of Roman’s irritation more often than not and has been pushed to the side in favor of Roman’s issues. Their rivalry is not always friendly and, in fact, lingers closer to outright animosity. And it is true that, out of all the other Sides, only Roman seems to resent him when he gets Thomas to listen.

But…is it?

Logan realizes belatedly that Roman is still waiting. He blinks, looking up at him, mouth opening and closing a few times.

“I’m not ignoring you,” he says quickly, “nor am I outright offended by your apology. I…just need time to process.”

Roman accepts it unquestioningly, stepping back and bowing his head respectfully. Logan watches him for a moment.

He’s been the brunt of Roman’s irritation recently, but…tensions haven’t exactly been low. More often than not, he’s the one directly opposing Roman. It follows that any irritation that spills over for Roman falls onto him.

Their rivalry isn’t friendly but Logan hasn’t exactly been upfront about looking at it as a rivalry. Most of his comments toward Roman have revolved around precisely the opposite, haven’t they? His stomach twists at how often he’s dismissed Roman out of hand or called him stupid.

As far as Roman resenting him goes…he’s never done anything about it. Thomas relies on him a lot, sure, but…

Roman’s words replay in his mind.

‘Individual roles and functions,’ that’s what he’d said. Logan needs to be listened to, that’s the role of Logic. Roman…what is Roman?

Roman is romance, Roman is passion, Roman is desire, Roman is Creativity.

Logan squints, thinking harder. He’s missing something, what is it? Something about the word ‘functions’ sticks in his brain. It sits a little strangely in the sentence.

Functions…what does it mean to function?

Fulfill a purpose, sure, but it carries another implication. That some criteria have to be met in order for the thing—whatever it is—to function properly.

Oh.

Oh.

Oh, no.

Roman’s function. It isn’t just to be Creativity, he’s Thomas’s Ego. And in order to function, he needs—he needs—

“Roman,” Logan says after a while.

Roman’s head raises. He looks at Logan, his head tilting when Logan doesn’t speak for a moment. Logan takes a deep breath and sets the box down.

“I believe I owe you an apology as well.”

Roman’s eyes widen. “For what, Spe—Logan?”

Logan swallows. Has his throat always been this dry? “I have performed a similar lack of awareness. I have not taken into consideration your needs and as such, I have contributed to—and may, in fact, be largely responsible for your discomfort as much as you have mine.”

“That’s…that’s…”

“Please,” he mumbles, “let me say it?”

Roman hushes.

“Thank you.” He takes another deep breath. “I didn’t realize that, as the Ego, you…you need a certain amount of validation to stay healthy. To keep Thomas healthy. You create and make things because that’s your job and you’re very talented at it.”

Roman makes a choked-off sound.

“And it makes sense that you would be hurt if the rest of us—me, in particular, don’t respect that.” He adjusts his tie. “And as much as we—I like to say that you throw tantrums whenever you don’t get your way…”

He trails off, looking sadly at Roman.

“Have you…you haven’t really gotten your way in a long time, have you?”

Roman flinches. Several expressions flicker across his face too fast to name.

“If I have ever given you the impression that I do not believe you to be worthy of our time, attention, or praise,” Logan says firmly, “then that is my fault. And I’m sorry.”

Roman swallows thickly. “Thank you,” he manages, his eyes threateningly shiny.

Logan finds, to his dismay, that his eyes are also brimming.

“Can I—“

“Yes, of course—“

They take two quick steps toward each other and Roman’s arms throw themselves around Logan’s waist as Logan wraps his own around Roman’s shoulders. Logan closes his eyes at the sudden rush of warmth and clutches Roman a little tighter. The added pressure draws forth a small noise.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Logan, I’m so sorry, Specs,” Roman babbles into Logan’s shoulder, “I care about you so much, you’re so important to me, I’m so sorry—“

“It’s okay, Roman,” Logan mumbles, trying to soothe himself with the words as much as he does Roman, “it’s—it’s okay now.”

They cling to each other like that, desperately trying to anchor themselves as the air buffets around them.

When they separate, wiping eyes and noses and searching for a tissue box, Logan picks up the box with shaky hands. He turns it over.

“Can I open this now?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Roman says, taking Logan’s tissue to throw out, “you can do whatever you want, Spe—Logan.”

Logan pauses. “You can…you can call me nicknames, if…if you want.”

“Are you sure? They don’t make you feel like I don’t take you seriously?”

Heat rushes to the tips of Logan’s ears. “I, well, that’s…how you show affection, right?”

“One of the ways,” Roman says softly, “but yeah. Yeah, Specs, you got it.”

Logan distracts himself—and hopefully Roman—from the flush on his cheeks by carefully prying open the cardboard box. He pauses when he sees a truly massive array of pens inside.

“They’re the disposable brush pens you had Thomas looking at,” Roman says quietly, “I, uh, I know you mentioned that you wanted to try taking notes with another pen that wouldn’t bleed as much and the reviews said this one would be good.”

“Th-thank you, Roman,” Logan says, immediately glancing around for his notebook, “can you—?”

“Here.”

“Thank you.” He uncaps one of the pens and starts to write. “Good balance, excellent variability in line weight, good readability.”

He hears Roman chuckle over his shoulder and it’s full of fondness.

“I’m glad you like them, Specs.”

“It’s certainly the best peace offering I’ve ever had.” He twirls the pen between his fingers. “Perhaps the only peace offering, but the best nonetheless.”

Roman pauses. Then, “I know that you…feel like we’re not listening all the time. But I want you to know that I am. I do listen to you Logan.”

“I know you do.” Logan sets the pen down. “You…for all the grief I’ve given you about not paying attention, you might be one of the only ones who do listen to me.”

A humorless laugh leaves Roman’s throat. “Oh, don’t worry, promise it’s not just you.”

Logan’s grip tightens on the edge of his desk. “Believe me, I’ve noticed.”

“I just—“ Roman’s hands go to his hair and clutch tightly— “do you have any idea how much work it takes just to come up with the few ideas I do end up submitting? And then to get them tossed aside like I just came up with them right there? Sorry, I—“

“No, no, you’re right, and I can’t say that’s at the forefront of my mind—“

“And like, I understand that they’re there for workshop and I’m going to get critiques and that’s what I want, but—“

“But there’s a line between constructive criticism and just criticism,” Logan says, “I understand.”

“And…if I’m gonna be honest?” Roman sighs. “Most of the time, it’s not really you.”

“It isn’t?”

“No, you—you at least know why you don’t like something and you give me feedback as to why and how to change it.” Roman’s lip twitches. “That’s better than some people.”

Before Logan can say anything, Roman shakes himself.

“Sorry, I came here to apologize, not dump all my stuff onto you. That’s not fair.”

“You’re not dumping anything, Roman.” Logan frowns. “Nor have you actually had the chance to talk without someone jumping down your throat.”

“Okay, so it’s not just me? I—because sometimes I feel like—“

“Like you’re walking on figurative landmines every time you open your mouth?”

Roman’s shoulders sag. “Exactly.”

“Believe me,” Logan scoffs, “I know the feeling. Most of the time I have to judge precise increments to pause so I can finish a sentence before someone’s telling me to shut up or talking over me.”

“Have you—“ Roman gestures between them— “have you noticed how often one of us gets called on—which, first of all—“

“Is awful, yes, please continue.”

“—yeah, and then we’re only allowed to speak when someone else thinks we’re going to back them up?”

Logan groans, leaning fully against the side of his desk and adjusting his glasses. “I know I insist that we cite our sources in this house but I never imagined that my role would be to become the citations list.”

“And then it’s always credited as someone else’s work!” Roman throws his hands up. “Like, what are we, filler characters? Props for your character development?”

“It certainly feels that way sometimes, doesn’t it?”

“What, being shoved to the side so someone else can have an epiphany that gets them into the next part of their character arc? Yeah, I wonder what that feels like.”

“Or having your contributions skipped entirely because they’re not relevant enough.”

A tense silence falls over Logan’s room. Then Logan’s hand tightens so much the desk groans in protest.

“Do you think,” he says lowly, “they even know what they’re doing?”

“I’ve got a better question,” Roman bites out, “do you think they would care?”

His fists tighten at his sides.

“Because at least one of them,” he snarls, eyes fixed on a blank space on Logan’s wall, “was more than happy to cut the strings on a puppet when it wasn’t useful anymore.”

Something surges in Logan’s chest as Roman says those words.

“Or shuttle them to the back, all but begging to be included?”

Roman’s eyes flash with anger, each word dripping with venom. “But we have to do what’s right, remember? We have to be forgiving, or have an open mind. We have to meet him in the middle.”

Logan rolls his eyes and pushes off the desk. “Meet me in the middle.”

Roman takes a step toward him. Logan takes a step back.

“I said meet me in the middle.”

“You know what? No,” Roman says, as both of them know who they’re speaking to, “you come meet me in the middle.”

Logan’s eyes widen dramatically and he puts a hand on his chest. “Wow, you’re being so closed-minded. Aren’t you supposed to fight for honor and do good? Don’t you want to help Thomas do the right thing?”

“Oh, but don’t forget, don’t do it for the wrong reasons because that’s even worse, if you’re not doing it with only this intention you’re still an awful person, and let’s not forget,” Roman cries, throwing his hands up, “the strict sense of right and wrong you’ve had your whole life is incorrect! And unhealthy! And it’s your fault that everything is going wrong because of what you’ve been taught!”

“And who cares if you got hurt because of it,” Logan continues, folding his arms, “because at least someone else didn’t.”

They stand there, panting for a moment, before a growl comes loose from Roman’s throat and Logan crumples up a scrap piece of paper in his hand.

“Fuck.”

“You said it, Specs.”

Then there’s a knock on the door.

Both of them exchange a look. Logan turns back.

“Yes?”

“Uh, hey L—“

“Ro-bro!”

“Can we—Remus, I swear to god, don’t break the door!—can we come in?”

They exchange another look before Logan hesitantly opens the door. Virgil waves a little awkwardly. Remus has no such reservations—and when does he ever, springing forward and tackling Roman onto the floor.

“Ro-Bro!”

“Re—Re, get off!”

“No,” Remus says delightedly, snuggling further into Roman’s weight, “I’m real proud of you so you get cat pile.”

“Cat pile—wait, you’re what?”

Logan is also staring in shock at Remus’s declaration, turning to look at Virgil. Virgil nods, a small smile on his face.

“We, uh—so I got summoned the moment Princey showed up outside your door—“

“Wait, you what?”

“And I,” Remus declares, poking Roman gently in the stomach, “heard something bad from you.”

Logan isn’t sure what that entails, but if the way Roman goes pale and Remus’s expression softens is any indication, it’s nothing good.

“Sorry, Re—“

“None of that, Roro,” Remus murmurs, “I get it. You…you haven’t exactly had it easy lately.”

“Neither of you have,” Virgil agrees, looking between them, “and we, uh, we may have heard everything you guys have been talking about.”

Roman just sighs.

“Which we’re sorry about! That’s an invasion of privacy and not cool, we know, but—uh—“

“We’re not that sorry we heard it.”

“Yes, we are!”

“Nah.”

“Remus, I swear—“

“Those aren’t swear words, Emo-yre.”

“That—did you just try to make a bad manteau out of ‘emo’ and ‘Eeyore?’”

“Sure did!”

“It didn’t work,” Roman says dryly, only to get smacked in the shoulder. “Hey!”

“Okay, bad manteau aside,” Virgil says, looking back at Logan, “I’m sorry for eavesdropping. And for…you know, all the other stuff too.”

“Like what,” Logan says, raising an eyebrow and crossing his arms.

“Not speaking up about listening to you,” Virgil says without missing a beat, “talking over you, saying you don’t understand things. All of that.”

Then he looks at Roman and scratches the back of his head.

“And I’ve been really shitty to you.”

Roman stills, eyes fixed on Virgil.

“I, uh, I’m normally the one just criticizing you. I insult you and—and belittle you and make you out to be stupid and brash.” He shoves his hands in his pockets. “And you’re normally the one that gets yelled at when we start fighting.”

He looks at Roman. Roman looks back.

“So yeah, Princey, ‘m sorry.”

Remus gives Roman a gentle—for Remus, it’s gentle—squeeze. “Do you need me to apologize too?”

“What? No, no, Re, you didn’t do anything. Not to me.”

Remus looks up at Logan. “How about you?”

Logan thinks. “…no, I…I don’t believe I need an apology from you either.”

“You sure? Not even for anything that happened a few days ago?”

Virgil groans. “I need an apology for that tongue lollipop.”

“Actually, you’re right, I do need an apology for that.”

Remus huffs dramatically, “fine. I apologize for enjoying a tentacle pop in your general vicinity.”

“Now I need an apology for you calling it a tentacle pop.”

“It was a tongue, Remus.”

“A tongue is a tentacle.”

“You’re not making my need to hit something go away, Remus,” Roman groans, scrubbing his hands over his face as Remus springs onto the balls of his feet, “now help me up.”

“Ooh, do you want to smash things?”

“At the moment, your face.”

“Kinky.”

“God—no—“

“You guys should go into a rage room!”

Roman blinks. “A what?”

“A rage room,” Logan says, tilting his head at Remus, “it’s a room designed for you to go inside with protective gear and break things. Broken equipment, computers, bottles, that sort of thing.”

Virgil nods to Remus. “We’ve done it a couple of times. It’s really good stress relief.”

Roman brushes his shirt off. “Huh. Yeah, uh, maybe.”

He looks up at Logan.

“Would you, uh, want to come with me…or go by yourself?”

“I find it’s better with someone else,” Virgil stage-whispers to Logan, “but you make your own choices.”

“No, I…I’d be happy to go with you, Roman.”

“Where are we going?”

Logan and Roman freeze.

Virgil notices, immediately turning to face the two in the doorway. “Uh, hey, you two. Maybe don’t do that next time?”

“The door was open,” Patton says, stepping inside Logan’s room, “we heard you guys from downstairs.”

Virgil clears his throat, looking pointedly at Logan as if waiting for Patton to ask for permission to come in. Patton follows his gaze.

“So yeah, where are you and Roman going?”

Logan takes a deep breath, glancing at Roman. Roman meets his eyes for a second before stepping backward and lowering his head. This time it feels different. Too practiced. Too…deferential.

His hand clenches as he hides it behind his back.

“Remus has offered to take us somewhere,” he says cooly.

“Oh, that’s exciting!” Patton looks back and forth between them. “Where?”

“In the Imagination.”

“Well, I figured out that much, silly! I meant where?”

Logan narrows his eyes at Patton. Surely…surely he’s realized, right? Only too late does he notice Janus staring at him.

Shit.

“I believe our dear nerd is keeping secrets,” he says smoothly, “how interesting.”

Logan bristles. “Last I checked, it was perfectly acceptable not to divulge private information.”

Janus tilts his head, blinking innocently. “But since when have afternoon plans been private information?”

“Since you aren’t entitled to knowing everything that goes on around here.”

“You tell him, L,” Virgil mutters.

Janus’s brow twitches, glancing first at Virgil, then back to Logan. Logan folds his arms. “Well, I certainly understand the reason for all of this animosity.”

“We were having a conversation,” Logan says, “you two inserted yourselves into it.”

Janus glances behind him at the open door.

“You know that’s not good enough.”

“Believe me—“ Logan suppresses a snort— “I would never cross a boundary that you enforced.”

Logan knows that ‘liar’ is written all over his expression. He’s finding it quite difficult to care.

Janus looks at him for a moment longer before he must come to the conclusion that he won’t get what he wants out of Logan. Logan allows himself the smallest of smirks before he sees where Janus’s attention has turned. Then he stiffens.

“I’m sure Roman won’t be so rude,” he says lightly, “will you, my dear prince?”

Roman doesn’t move. His head is bowed, his hands are behind his back.

“Come now,” Janus laughs, “aren’t we past all of this? Don’t be stubborn now, Roman, it’s not like we can do anything to you.”

Roman’s flinch is too well hidden.

“Wait, hang on, Janus,” Patton says, holding out a hand, “Roman, kiddo, where’s your prince costume? Are you feeling unworthy again?”

Something cold sinks into the pit of Logan’s stomach.

“Are you okay, kiddo?” Patton starts to move forward, stopping when Remus steps in front of Roman. He gives Remus a look but Remus won’t budge. “Roman, talk to me.”

Roman huffs. “Why?”

“So I can help, of course!”

“No, thank you, I don’t feel like being lectured right now.”

It’s not anything confrontational, it’s barely more than a polite decline of Patton’s less than polite request, but Patton recoils as if Roman’s slapped him.

“K-kiddo?”

“My, my, Roman,” Janus drawls, and now there’s an edge to his voice, “and here I thought you were over this little temper tantrum of yours. How…disappointing.”

“I—I—“ Patton clutches at his polo— “what did you mean by that, Roman?”

Roman takes a deep breath. “Lately, especially lately, you don’t—when I try and talk to you about something, you make it into something I’m doing wrong.”

“That’s not—“

“It is,” Roman says firmly, cutting off Patton’s denial, “it’s something I don’t understand, or something I’ve done wrong, or something I need to apologize for. Every time. So no, I’m not really in the mood for a lecture right now.”

Patton’s face falls and he misses the reassuring squeeze Remus gives Roman’s leg.

Janus looks at Patton, concern written on his features, before he turns back to Roman.

“I’m sure this might seem reasonable to you, but—“

“Reasonable?” Roman laughs again. It’s still not funny. “You want to talk about being reasonable?”

“Roman—“

“I don’t bend perfectly to each of your little plans and then have the self-preservation,” Roman spits, still not looking up, “to stand up for myself only to be punished, and now you have the audacity to talk about being reasonable?”

“You get him, Ro-Bro.”

“If you must know, my lord,” Roman says, each word as sardonic as he knows how to make it, “we were discussing, privately, the possibility of going to Remus’s rage room. Is your curiosity not sated?”

Janus’s brow twitches, his mouth falling open in the face of Roman’s barrage of words, just managing to resist taking a step back. His gaze darts to Remus who is openly glaring at him, then to Virgil.

“What?” Virgil shrugs. “Don’t look at me, he’s not wrong.”

Patton gulps. Then he looks slowly from Logan to Roman and back again.

“W-well, kiddos, I…I can’t say that I’m thrilled to hear that you’re both angry.” He tries to stand up a little taller. “B-but! There are healthier ways to…deal with that anger than breaking things. I’m sure if we all just sat down and talked, we could resolve this in a healthy, non-toxic way, and—“

The edge of Logan’s desk cracks under his hand.

He stands at his full height.

“I do not recall asking for your input,” he says coldly, “nor was this a conversation you were involved in. Roman and I do not require your permission, nor your approval.”

“Fuck yes, Specs.”

“Get them, Lolo.”

Logan adjusts his tie and looks over at Remus. “Shall we go now?”

Remus glances at Roman. Roman nods and the three of them start toward the door. Before they leave, Roman pauses and turns to face Patton and Janus.

“At some point, you will ask yourselves why we feel uncomfortable coming to you about things. I hope, for your sakes, you remember the answer.”

He hears Virgil let out an ‘oh, damn’ as the door closes.

As soon as they make it to the Imagination, both Logan and Roman are panting again. Roman blindly gropes for Logan’s hand, Logan pulling them after Remus as fast as they can go.

“Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god—“

“In and out, Roman, we can do it, come on—“

“Alright, here we—whoa,” Remus says, spinning back around only to see the two of them almost hyperventilating, “hey, hey, you two, get your butts in here.”

He tugs them both inside and pushes them down, huddled on the floor.

“Hey, hey, you two assholes gotta breathe.”

“Re—Re, they’re gonna—they’re gonna be mad—“

“They can’t do shit to you, Roman,” he promises, “Virgil and I won’t let them. You either, Logan, you guys are gonna be fucking fine. You know they’re not actually the worst people on the planet, they’re just—“

“Stuck with their heads up their asses,” Logan mumbles, “yeah, we know.”

“That’s right.” Remus rubs Roman’s shaking back. “Come on, we’re here to let stuff out, okay? I’m gonna give you guys some space, but if shit gets bad, I’ll hear it and I’ll come. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

“Good.” Remus summons two bats and holds them out like swords. “Now go smash some shit.”

Roman opens his mouth to say thank you but Logan’s way ahead of him. He takes the bat and only pauses long enough to snap himself into protective gear before he’s bringing it down hard on a stack of sheet glass. The shards fly everywhere and he immediately wants to do it again.

So he does.

And again.

And again.

And again.

The last sheets are shattered by Roman’s bat before he can get to them.

“Come on,” Roman growls, hefting his bat, “there’s a car around here somewhere.”

A pristine sports car sits a few feet away. Roman’s bat morphs into a sledgehammer and he brings it down onto the hood of the car with a yell. Logan knocks off the mirrors. Destroys the headlights. Rips the door off of its hinges with a strangled cry.

There is something unique to be found in destruction.

Each sound, each shard, each object obliterated starts to pound insistently at the horrible weight in their chests. Each thing they toss to each other only to whack it across the room with the bat makes their smiles a little less manic. Each time they end up panting, out of breath, they’re a little further away from crying.

In the end, they are back to back, surrounded by the carnage they have wrought together. Roman’s weight is solid against Logan’s back, the very edges of their arms brushing. They can feel the way the other breathes, small puffs of air into the finally still room.

Roman snorts.

Logan holds back a chuckle.

Then they’re laughing.

Loud, long, and hard. The room rings with it, echoes with it, fills with it until it’s swallowing them.

Laughter is the brain’s blue-screen.

It doesn’t start with much. Just a knock on the door.

It ends with the sound of two bats clattering to the ground.

“Specs?”

“Hmm?”

“You feel any better?”

“Yes, Roman, I…think I do.”

“Good.”

“Do you?”

“Yeah…yeah, think so.”

“Good.”

“Can we…perhaps do this more often?”

He hears Roman’s warm chuckle. “You tired of being nice?”

Logan laughs too. “Yes, Roman, I think we both are.”

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[writing-prompt-s]

An old and homely grandmother accidentally summons a demon. She mistakes him for her gothic-phase teenage grandson and takes care of him. The demon decides to stay at his new home.

[eatbreathewrite]

It isn’t uncommon for this particular demon to be summoned—from exhausting Halloween party pranks in abandoned barns to more legitimate (more exhausting) ceremonies in forests—but it has to admit, this is the first time it’s been called forth from its realm into a claustrophobic living room bathed in the dull orange-pink glow of old glass lamps and a multitude of wide-eyed, creepy antique porcelain dolls that could give Chucky a run for his money with all of their silent, seething stares combined. Accompanying those oddities are tea cup and saucer sets on shelves atop frilly doilies crocheted with the utmost care, and cross-stitched, colorful ‘Home Sweet Home’s hung across the wood-paneled walls.

It’s a mistake—a wrong number, per se. No witch it’s ever known has lived in such an, ah, dated, home. Furthermore, no practitioner that ever summoned it has been absent, as if they’d up and ding-dong ditched it. No, it didn’t work that way. Not at all. Not if they want to survive the encounter.

It hears the clinking of movement in the room adjacent—the kitchen, going by the pungent, bitter scent of cooled coffee and soggy, sweet sponge cakes, but more jarring is the smell of blood. It moves—feels something slip beneath its clawed foot as it does, and sees a crocheted blanket of whites and greys and deep black yarn, wound intricately, perfectly, into a summoning circle. Its summoning circle. There is a small splash of bright scarlet and sharp, jagged bits of a broken curio scattered on top, as if someone had dropped it, attempted to pick it up the pieces and pricked their finger. It would explain the blood. And it would explain the demon being brought into this strange place.

As it connects these pieces in its mind, the inhabitant of the house rounds the corner and exits the kitchen, holding a damp, white dish towel close to her hand and fumbling with the beaded bifocals hanging from her neck by a crocheted lanyard before stopping dead in her tracks.

Now, to be fair, the demon wouldn’t ordinarily second guess being face-to-face with a hunchbacked crone with a beaked nose, beady eyes and a peculiar lack of teeth, or a spidery shawl and ankle-length black dress, but there is definitely something amiss here. Especially when the old biddy lets her spectacles fall slack on her bosom and erupts into a wide, toothy (toothless) grin, eyes squinting and crinkling from the sheer effort of it.

“Todd! Todd, dear, I didn’t know you were visiting this year! You didn’t call, you didn’t write—but, oh, I’m so happy you’re here, dear! Would it have been too much to ask you to ring the doorbell? I almost had a heart attack. And don’t worry about the blood, here—I had an accident. My favorite figure toppled off of the table and cleanup didn’t go as expected. But I seem to recall you are quite into the bloodshed and ‘edgy’ stuff these days, so I don’t suppose you mind.” She releases a hearty, kind laugh, but it isn’t mocking, it’s sweet. Grandmotherly. The demon is by no means sentimental or maudlin, but the kindness, the familiarity, the genuine fondness, does pull a few dusty old nostalgic heartstrings. “Imagine if it leaves a scar! It’d be a bit ‘badass,’ as you teenagers say, wouldn’t it?”

She is as blind as a bat without her glasses, it would appear, because the demon is by no means a ‘Todd’ or a human at all, though humanoid, shrouded in sleek, black skin and hard spikes and sharp claws. But the demon humors her, if only because it had been caught off guard.

The old woman smiles still, before turning on her heel and shuffling into the hallway with a stiff gait revealing a poor hip. “Be a dear and make some more coffee, would you please? I’ll be back in a jiffy.”

Yes, this is most definitely a mistake. One for the record books, for certain. For late-night trips to bars and conversations with colleagues, while others discuss how many souls they’d swindled in exchange for peanuts, or how many first-borns they’d been pledged for things idiot humans could have gained without divine intervention. Ugh. Sometimes it all just became so pedantic that little detours like this were a blessing—happy accidents, as the humans would say.

That’s why the demon does as asked, and plods slowly into the kitchen, careful to duck low and avoid the top of the doorframe. That’s why it gingerly takes the small glass pot and empties it of old, stale coffee and carefully, so carefully, takes a measuring scoop between its claws and fills the machine with fresh grounds. It’s as the hot water is percolating that the old woman returns, her index finger wrapped tight in a series of beige bandages.

“I’m surprised you’re so tall, Todd! I haven’t seen you since you were at my hip! But your mother mails photos all the time—you do love wearing all black, don’t you?” She takes a seat at the small round table in the corner and taps the glass lid of the cake plate with quaking, unsteady, aged hands. “I was starting to think you’d never visit. Your father and I have had our disagreements, but…I am glad you’re here, dear. Would you like some cake?” Before the demon has a chance to decline, she lifts the lid and cuts a generous slice from the near-complete circle that has scarcely been touched. It smells of citrus and cream and is, as assumed earlier, soggy, oversaturated with icing.

It was made for a special occasion, for guests, but it doesn’t seem this old woman receives much company in this musty, stagnant house that smells like an antique garage that hadn’t had its dust stirred in years.

Especially not from her absentee grandson, Todd.

The demon waits until the coffee pot is full, and takes two small mugs from the counter, filling them until steam is frothing over the rims. Then, and only then, does it accept the cake and sit, with some difficulty, in a small chair at the small table. It warbles out a polite ‘thank you,’ but it doesn’t suppose the woman understands. Manners are manners regardless.

“Oh, dear, I can hardly understand. Your voice has gotten so deep, just like your grandfather’s was. That, and I do recall you have an affinity for that gravelly, screaming music. Did your voice get strained? It’s alright, dear, I’ll do the talking. You just rest up. The coffee will help soothe.”

The demon merely nods—some communication can be understood without fail—and drinks the coffee and eats the cake with a too-small fork. It’s ordinary, mushy, but delicious because of the intent behind it and the love that must have gone into its creation.

“I hope you enjoyed all of the presents I sent you. You never write back—but I am aware most people use that fancy E-mail these days. I just can’t wrap my head around it. I do wish your mom and dad would visit sometime. I know of a wonderful little café down the street we can go to. I haven’t been; I wanted to visit it with Charles, before he…well.” She falls silent in her rambling, staring into her coffee with a small, melancholy smile. “I can’t believe it’s been ten years. You never had the chance to meet him. But never mind that.” Suddenly, and with surprising speed that has the demon concerned for her well being, she moves to her feet, bracing her hands on the edge of the table. “I may as well give you your birthday present, since you’re here. What timing! I only finished it this morning. I’ll be right back.”

When she returns, the white, grey and black crocheted work with the summoning circle is bundled in her arms.  

“I found these designs in an occult book I borrowed from the library. I thought you’d like them on a nice, warm blanket to fight off the winter chill—I hope you do like it.” With gentle hands, she spreads the blanket over the demon’s broad, spiky back like a shawl, smoothing it over craggy shoulders and patting its arms affectionately. “Happy birthday, Todd, dear.”

Well, that settles it. Whoever, wherever, Todd is, he’s clearly missing out. The demon will just have to be her grandson from now on.

[voidbat]

this is so sweet. it made me want to hug someone.

[bigmammallama5]

i had to

[geniusorinsanity]

I WOULD WATCH SIX SEASONS AND A MOVIE

[rocky-horror-shit-show]

Okay but she takes him to the little cafe and all of the people in her town are like “What is that thing, what the hell, Anette?” and she’s like “Don’t you remember my grandson Todd?” and the entire town just has to play along because no one will tell little old Nettie that her grandson is an actual demon because this is the happiest she’s been since her husband died.

Bonus: In season 4 she makes him run for mayor and he wins

[silvermoonphantom]

I just want to watch ‘Todd’ help her with groceries, and help her with cooking, and help her clean up the dust around the house and air it out, and fill it with spring flowers because Anette mentioned she loved hyacinth and daffodils.   Over the seasons her eyesight worsens, so ‘Todd’ brings a hellhound into the house to act as her seeing eye dog, and people in town are kinda terrified of this massive black brute with fur that drips like thick oil, and a mouth that can open all the way back to its chest, but ‘Honey’ likes her hard candies, and doesn’t get oil on the carpet, and when ‘Todd’ has to go back to Hell for errands, Honey will snuggle up to Anette and rest his giant head on her lap, and whuff at her pockets for butterscotch.  Anette never gives ‘Todd’ her soul, but she gives him her heart

[wickedwitchofthewifi-deactivate]

In season six, Anette gets sick. She spends most of the season bedridden and it becomes obvious by about midway through the season that she’s not going to make it to the end of the season. Todd spends the season travelling back and forth between the human realm and his home plane, trying hard to find something, anything that will help Anette get better, to prolong her life. He’s tried getting her to sell him her soul, but she’s just laughed, told him that he shouldn’t talk like that. With only a few episodes left in the season Anette passes away, Todd is by her side. When the reaper comes for her Todd asks about the fate of her soul. In a dispassionate voice the reaper informs Todd that Anette spent the last few years of her life cavorting with creatures of darkness, that there can be only one fate for her. Todd refuses to accept this and he fights the reaper, eventually injuring the creature and driving it off. Knowing that Anette cannot stay in the Human Realm, and refusing to allow her spirit to be taken by another reaper, so he takes her soul in his arms. He’s done this before, when mortals have sold themselves to him. This time the soul cradled against his chest does not snuggle and fight. This time the soul held tight against him reaches out, pats him on the cheek tells him he was a good boy, and so handsome, just like his grandfather.  Todd takes Anette back to the demon realm, holding her tight against him as he travels across the bleak and forebidding landscape; such a sharp contrast to the rosy warmth of Anette’s home. Eventually, in a far corner of his home plane, Todd finds what he is looking for. It is a place where other demons do not tread; a large boulder cracked and broken, with a gap just barely large enough for Todd to fit through. This crack, of all things, gives him pause, but Anette’s soul makes a comment about needing to get home in time to feed Honey, and Todd forces himself to pass through it. He travels in darkness for a while, before he emerges into into a light so bright that it’s blinding. His eyes adjust slowly, and he finds himself face to face with two creatures, each of them at least twice his size one of them has six wings and the head of a lion, one of them is an amorphous creature within several rings. The lion-headed one snarls at Todd, and demands that he turn back, that he has no business here.  Todd looks down, holding Anette’s soul against his chest, he takes a deep breath, and speaks a single word, “Please.” The two larger beings are taken aback by this. They are too used to Todd’s kind being belligerent, they consult with each other, they argue. The amorphous one seems to want to be lenient, the lion-headed one insists on being stricter. While they’re arguing Todd sneaks by them and runs as fast as he can, deeper into the brightly lit expanse. The path on which he travels begins to slope upwards, and eventually becomes a staircase. It becomes evident that each step further up the stair is more and more difficult for Todd, that it’s physically paining him to climb these stairs, but he keeps going.

They dedicate a full episode to this climb; interspersing the climb with scenes they weren’t able to show in previous seasons, Anette and Honey coming to visit Todd in the Mayor’s office, Anette and Todd playing bingo together for the first time, Anette and Todd watching their stories together in the mid afternoon, Anette falling asleep in her chair and Todd gently carrying her to bed. Anette making Todd lemonade in the summer while he’s up on the roof fixing that leak and cleaning out the rain gutters. Eventually Todd reaches the top, and all but collapses, he falls to a knee and for the first time his grip on Anette’s soul slips, and she falls away from him. Landing on the ground. He reaches out for her, but someone gets there first. Another hand reaches out, and helps this elderly woman off the ground, helps her get to her feet. Anette gasps, it’s Charles. The pair of them throw their arms around each other. Anette tells Charles that she’s missed him so much, and she has so much to tell him. Charles nods. Todd watches a soft smile on his face. A delicate hand touches Todd’s shoulder, and pulls him easily to his feet. A figure; we never see exactly what it looks like, leans down, whispering in Todd’s ear that he’s done well, and that Anette will be well taken care of here. That she will spend an eternity with her loved ones. Todd looks back over to her, she’s surrounded by a sea of people. Todd nods, and smiles. The figure behind him tells him that while he has done good in bringing Anette here, this is not his place, and he must leave. Todd nods, he knew this would be the case. Todd gets about six steps down the stairway before he is stopped by someone grabbing his shoulder again. He turns around, and Anette is standing behind him. She gives him a big hug and leads him back up the stairs, he should stay, she says. Get to know the family. Todd tries to tell her that he can’t stay, but she won’t hear it. She leads him up into the crowd of people and begins introducing him to long dead relatives of hers, all of whom give him skeptical looks when she introduces him as her grandson. The mysterious figure appears next to Todd again and tells him once more he must leave, Todd opens his mouth to answer but Anette cuts him off. Nonsense, she tells the figure. IF she’s gonna stay here forever her grandson will be welcome to visit her. She and the figure stare at each other for a moment. The figure eventually sighs and looks away, the figure asks Todd if she’s always like this. Todd just shrugs and smiles, allowing Anette to lead him through a pair of pearly gates, she’s already talking about how much cake they’ll need to feed all of these relatives. 

[captaintinymite]

[gilajames]

P.S. Honey is a Good Dog and gets to go, too.

[kaijufluffs]

[jumpingjacktrash]

the last lines of the show:

demon: you’re not blind here – but you’re not surprised. when…?

anette: oh, toddy, don’t be silly, my biological grandson’s not twelve feet tall and doesn’t scorch the furniture when he sneezes. i’ve known for ages.

demon: then why?

anette: you wouldn’t have stayed if you weren’t lonely too.

demon: you… you don’t have to keep calling me your grandson.

anette: nonsense! adopted children are just as real. now quit sniffling, you silly boy, and let’s go bake a cake. honey, heel!

honey: W̝̽̂̿͂͝Ọ̮̹̲̪̋ͦͅO̸̘͔̬͊F̜̫͙̟͕͖̙̋ͫ͌͗

[gothamsworst]

How would the Dork Squad react to an SO who loves to cook and makes them lots of lunches and dinners, but they always get a main ingredient wrong? Like a pie made with salt instead of sugar or everything being either waaaay to spicy or waaay too sweet? Example, super spicy waffles, super sweet curry.

Jonathan Crane:

Listen, he honestly isn’t sure if it’s just a quirk that you have, or if you’re doing it on purpose, and at this point he’s too afraid to ask. He doesn’t really mind, and has a hell of a poker-face when he’s actually eating the food, but he does try to drop subtle hints now and then that...something is off.

Edward Nygma:

He’s really bad at hiding his reactions. He’ll take a bite and his face will twist into the most comical expression of disgust, even as he forces out a (very choked up), “Thanks.” He knows you’re trying, but he can’t help but wonder if you’re doing this on purpose.

Jervis Tetch:

It’s a mixture of Ed and Jon’s reactions. He takes a bite, freezes for a moment in complete bewilderment, and then his face drops. God, you just. You’re really trying and he appreciates that but. Maybe you should leave the cooking to him. Just a thought. A suggestion. (A silent plea.)

[paravigilant-virgil]

Reblog if you’re a fan of Sanders Sides

In celebration of the new episode, I thought it would be a good time to find some more Fanders to follow. So reblog if you’re a fan/consistently post Sanders Sides content! 

[gilby-the-geek-girl]

Hello

[foursideharmony]

Hiyaaaaaaa

[vanilla-bean-buttercream]

*shuffles in*

*waves*

*shuffles out*

[5am-the-foxing-hour]

*Somersaults in* Me! *scrambles out*

[shortnfantastic]

Hello from the other siiiide

[arizaluka]

*waves excitedly*

[kitkat-queen]

:0 oh hello there

[bumb1e-vee]

You rang?

[gayerthansnek]

So what’d I miss?

[jackalopunny-deactivated2025100]

i’ve been summoned

[imma-potatoo]

Hi!

[door-knob]

[ibelieveinsasquatch]

[baeggel-deactivated20170405]

or, you know, teach people not to rape other people…

[b1grumpydog]

Sadly, even if you teach people not to rape, they’ll do it anyway if they really want to, so these are still helpful in the event of rape, OR assault.

[shinjaninja]

These self defense tips are not here to tell a person not to get raped, they are here to tell a person what to do in the event where someone is attempting to rape or assault them.

We do need to teach people not to rape, but we do not yet live in a world where rape and assault does not happen, and until we do, it’s important that we know how to protect ourselves in the event that it does happen. 

[e--w0k-deactivated20140729]

Someone get tumblr user  shinjaninja a medal.

[vanspoor-deactivated20150922]

This is something that some Navy SEALs taught girls in my gym class in high school. But there’s another rather effective (and kinda cool) tactic to use.

They used myself (A tall kid at the time, not very big but rather tall) and a rather skinny, tiny short girl for a demonstration. They had me grab the girl’s neck from behind—as pictured in the bottom left—and keep her in a tight headlock. Then the SEALs instructed the girl to drop to one knee and allow gravity to flip me over her shoulder onto my fucking head.

That’s right. No matter how small you might be, or how big and strong your attacker is, you can shift their center of gravity against them and flip them over shoulder with little to no effort on your part, allowing you time to land a blow and get the fuck out of there. And ever since then, I’ve taught my female friends that trick if time and circumstance ever allowed. Stay safe, ladies.

[darthregina-deactivated20140611]

Imma add another tip:

Pointer and middle finger right under the jaw and push up. Try it, it hurts like hell, and it will get them to lift their head up at which point you can kick or elbow loose.

[fortheloveoffox]

That one, and under the nose, too. Place your thumb under it, and shove upward. They’ll either back off out of reflex, or you’ll break their nose. Plus, it will shatter their concentration, and they won’t be able to keep a grip on you, which will let you get loose, and give you an opportunity to either escape, or employ another tactic.

[runninitriot-deactivated2015051]

Everyone needs to see this. Spread it

[thehoneybeewitch]

Most often in the local Self Defense classes, we hear women say, “But I don’t want to permanently hurt someone/blind them/choke them/kill them!”

The instructor’s answers?: They tried to attack you. Attack back with intent to kill, but flee once they’re incapacitated. 

[solelymotivated-deactivated2017]

Love thi!!!!!

[kalopyrgos]

Don’t forget your manual !

[door-knob]

Mr. Abdul

Synopsis: Janus has had some.. interesting neighbors.

Word Count: 405

Third POV

Logan stared out his window, a look of pure awe crossing the young boy’s face. “Janus,” he called out, not moving an inch away from the window. “Janus, come look at this.”

Janus walked into the room. He had just put Logan’s little brothers to bed when called. Yawning, Janus walked over to him and put a hand on Logan’s shoulder, speaking softly, “What is it, Starlight? Shouldn’t you be in bed?”

Pointing out towards his window, Logan started talking excitedly. “Look! There’s smoke coming from the bottom of Mr. Abdul’s house.” With an excited squeal, he started to dance in his spot. Unable to contain his excitement. “He’s really gonna do it!”

Janus sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. Mr. Abdul, their neighbor, is all Logan’s been talking about for the past week. He’s an old man and retired college professor at a STEM-based college. There wasn’t anything innately special about him. Well, besides the fact that he refused to take any of his prescribed medication. And that he keeps going on and on about how the planet was in shambles and was only get worse. Janus took a deep breath before turning Logan’s head to face him. “Logan, star, you have to understand that Mr. Abdul is…” He trailed off as a bright light flashed into the room, finally forcing him to look out the window. “Holy Jesus Christ Superstar.”

The sight was indescribable. There, across the street, was Mr. Abdul’s home secreting large clouds of smoke. The smell of burning grass filled the air, alarming Janus. He hurried to close the glass of the window, forcing Logan’s head down and away from the window. Just in case something broke the window.

Logan peaked his head up a bit with the widest smile only seen in childhood. Just then the house started lifting off from the ground. And there, leaning out of his second-story window, was Mr. Abdul, waving his hat to all who were watching. “See ya, suckers. I’m going to the stars!” He kept waving and waving until no one could tell if he was even still outside.

“Logan. Dear. Starlight.” Janus shakily grabbed Logan’s face with both of his hands to make sure he was listening to him. “What- what was that?”

A look of confusion crossed the little boy’s face. “Didn’t Emile tell you, Janus?”

“Tell me what, Logan?”

“That Mr. Abdul was a big fan of Up.”

[thatsthat24]

NEW SANDERS ASIDES: “Working THROUGH Intrusive Thoughts” 🔪 Logan tries to help Thomas get his life back in order, but Thomas’ insecurities (and a certain Duke) won’t be making it easy… https://youtu.be/3yn3lhYyYgU