bright feathers

100 Art Objects, Historical Artifacts, and Miscellaneous Loot
  1. A marble bust of a large-nosed woman
  2. A richly woven carpet with nautical patterns
  3. Soft, clean bedsheets sewn with golden thread
  4. A portrait of a bashful looking tiefling
  5. Eight matching silver cups
  6. A ceremonial helm with a daisy motif
  7. A coil of silken cable, intricately braided and tasseled
  8. An ancient fertility sculpture
  9. A nautilus shell
  10. A stack of fine vellum
  11. Richly embroidered blue sleeping robes
  12. A huge tortoise shell
  13. A polished silver looking-glass
  14. A set of gem-encrusted cutlery
  15. Silk handkerchiefs
  16. A necklace thickly adorned with bright feathers
  17. A small dragon skull
  18. A collection of beautiful glass bottles of all colours
  19. A snake skin of tremendous length and quality
  20. Well preserved tapestries depicting an important historical event
  21. A set of fine jewelcrafting tools
  22. A chess set of excellent quality
  23. A set of non-magical but intricately etched daggers
  24. An ermine coat
  25. Soft doeskin boots beautifully crafted for small feet
  26. A collection of flags and banners once flown by nations now extinct
  27. White silk gloves
  28. A satchel made of glossy crimson leather
  29. A rattle made from a cloven hoof
  30. Paper pouches full of dried herbs and spices
  31. A red and silver scepter
  32. A porcelain doll garbed in a beautiful ballgown
  33. A large bismuth crystal
  34. A box containing several elaborately decorated animal masks
  35. A glass orb containing a tablespoon of quicksilver
  36. A vase containing numerous exotic feathers
  37. A golden ceremonial shield featuring an unfamiliar charge
  38. Ten large glass marbles of various colours
  39. A richly illuminated, leather-bound manuscript of local history
  40. A rare coin collection
  41. A massive scarlet crustacean claw
  42. Pots of powdered henna, turmeric, and indigo
  43. A long spiral antelope horn, polished and banded in silver
  44. Two oblong pearls of modest size
  45. An exquisitely preserved fish fossil
  46. A set of lavish quills and two pots of deep blue ink
  47. Three canopic jars, and the broken lid of a fourth
  48. A hand-carved, gold leaf frame, sans painting
  49. A masterful portrait of a stern couple, sans frame
  50. Beautiful horse tack
  51. A glass jar filled with layers of sand of various colours
  52. A snow leopard skin in fine condition
  53. A huge vanilla scented candle
  54. A wooden case containing two dozen bars of sealing wax
  55. A hand-carved mash paddle made from black wood
  56. A silver locket containing a lock of silver hair
  57. A crystal bottle of perfume
  58. A carving made from jet featuring the head of a gorgon
  59. Twelve fine drinking glasses wrapped in cotton
  60. A brass cast of a skull
  61. An ancient ceremonial sword of a powerful queen, its blade half rotted away
  62. A silver flask
  63. A wooden frame containing a complex gear mechanism of unknown purpose
  64. Pouches of very rare seeds that grow into valuable plants
  65. A geode
  66. A tome of forgotten ballads written by a legendary bard
  67. A terribly gaudy cuckoo clock elaborately inlaid with silver and gold
  68. A half-finished bolt of patterned cloth, still attached to the loom
  69. A large tangle of coral
  70. A church bell featuring a religious tale in bas relief
  71. Gold candleabras
  72. A brass statuette of a religious figure
  73. Two oak barrels of alcoholic spirits
  74. A sack of bathing salts
  75. A box of lace
  76. A folder stuffed with dwarven beer recipes
  77. Spools of excellent leather cord
  78. Medicated creams and ointments
  79. A box of colourful makeup
  80. A pouch full of glimmering pearlescent fish scales
  81. A silver dog whistle shaped like a howling wolf
  82. Ivory spice shakers
  83. A jar of herbal honey
  84. A large incisor on a leather thong
  85. Powdered animal parts
  86. Gold false teeth
  87. A bulk lot of mundane smithed items, including locks, hinges, etc.
  88. An empty silver lockbox with key
  89. Elegant red skates
  90. Blue suede shoes
  91. A dried caul
  92. A taxedermied platypus
  93. A censer
  94. Three wax likenesses, one slightly melted
  95. A telescope
  96. A set of tinkling hand bells
  97. Coffee beans
  98. Tortoiseshell combs
  99. Copper bottom cook pots
  100. A flanged steel plug of some kind

The idea that women are taught that they need to compete with other women for a man’s attention is honestly just so strange to me and it’s so fucking backwards from the rest of the animal kingdom and goes right in the face of any common sense.

Female species usually have to invest so much time and energy into growing and supporting their offspring, including humans. There are so many male animals that do The Fucking Most to compete with other males for a female, like bright and flashy feathers, intricate mating dances, etc., because they are disposable, walking sperm carriers.

There are billions of sperm. Eggs are the scarcity, that’s why females don’t have to COMPETE in nature for a male

But male entitlement and patriarchy effectively brainwashes women into believing that they’re the disposable ones that have to compete, because they’ve also been taught that male attention is so desirable and fulfilling
Men built this system to benefit themselves, so they don’t have to expend the emotional or physical energy of finding a partner. Women will do all the work for them and they get to keep their shitty egos and they get to control women by making them think they’re disposable and unimportant

Should've Known Better
Sufjan Stevens

I’m light as a feather
I’m bright as the Oregon breeze

siliquasquama  asked:

There's a student at EU who paints pretty much exactly like Hieronymus Bosch, and nobody has a clue where he came from or if he ever leaves the art building. When you ask him if he wants to go to lunch, he just stares at you sadly. He wears a bright feather behind his ear from a bird unknown in the area; he is constantly followed by the smell of acrylic paint and the faint sound of laughter. Did he make a deal with the Fae? Should you try to free him?


slimjim1516  asked:

If Piper was a daughter of Hades, how different do you think she would be?

Oh man, this is an amazing question. Here are my head canons for Piper as a daughter of Hades.

  • Her mom Trista McLean is a famous actress notable for her rolls as very deep, somber characters and best known for portraying Death in a movie about a car crash victim that has to accept their demise and move on
  • Hades was fascinated by her portrayal of Death and they met/fell in love while the movie was being filmed
  • When Trista found out she was pregnant she tried to hide the truth about Hades from herself in hopes the baby would never have to know
  • Growing up Piper would constantly find dying animals and take care of them until they passed away, she often sang dirges to them to ease their suffering
  • At first she wanted to get into acting like her mom but after giving Hamlet’s soliloquy at an audition for school play and receiving shocked silence changes her mind
  • Trista continues to hide Piper’s father from her thinking it will keep Piper safe but it creates arguments that lead to Trista sending Piper off to boarding school
  • Piper sings dirges to herself and stands out from her peers to the point of frightening students and teachers and each school she goes to tries to find a way to push her out
  • At Wilderness School Leo teaches her about Dia de los Muertos and Piper is strangely happy to know not everyone sees death and the afterlife as terrifying
  • When Piper is claimed as a daughter of Hades CHB panics and Piper feels more of an outcast, she also worries Jason will hate her because of the relationship between their fathers and that Leo will abandon her too
  • Jason tells her he couldn’t care less and still wants to be her friend and Leo jokes that now it makes sense why she’s so creepy
  • After rescuing her mother with the help of Jason and Leo she confronts Trista about everything but Trista refuses to accept it and claims she won’t have her daughter suffer like the rest of his children and Piper understands
  • Piper still decorates her hair with bright feathers in homage to her ancestry but also wears poppies, carnations, and marigolds to show death in a less negative light 
  • Piper struggles to fit in during the war and prove that she can both control her powers and use them to help 
The signs as The Great Gatsby quotes

Aries: ‘there was an immediately perceptible vitality about her as if the nerves of her body were continually smouldering. She smiled slowly and, walking through her husband as if he were a ghost, shook hands with Tom, looking him flush in the eye.’ 

Taurus: ‘only the dead dream fought on as the afternoon slipped away, trying to touch what was no longer tangible, struggling unhappily, undespairingly, toward that lost voice across the room.’

Gemini: ‘Her laughter, her gestures, her assertions became more violently affected moment by moment, and as she expanded the room grew smaller around her, until she seemed to be revolving on a noisy, creaking pivot through the smoky air.’ 

Cancer: ‘I felt a haunting loneliness sometimes, and felt it in others - poor young clerks who loitered in front of windows waiting until it was time for a solitary restaurant dinner - young clerks in the dusk, wasting the most poignant moments of night and life.’

Leo: ‘”Her voice is full of money,” he said suddenly. That was it. I’d never understood before. It was full of money - that was the inexhaustible charm that rose and fell in it, the jingle of it, the cymbal’s song of it… High in a white palace the king’s daughter, the golden girl…’

Virgo: ‘He knew that when he kissed this girl, and forever wed his unutterable visions to her perishable breath, his mind would never romp again like the mind of God.’

Libra: ‘[Daisy] began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again.’

Scorpio: ‘She was incurably dishonest. She wasn’t able to endure being at a disadvantage and, given this unwillingness, I suppose she had begun dealing in subterfuges when she was very young in order to keep that cool, insolent smile turned to the world and yet satisfy the demands of her hard, jaunty body.’

Sagittarius: ‘He must have looked up at an unfamiliar sky through frightening leaves and shivered as he found what a grotesque thing a rose is and how raw the sunlight was upon the scarcely created grass. A new world, material without being real, where poor ghosts, breathing dreams like air, drifted fortuitously about…’ 

Capricorn: ‘Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgastic future that year by year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but that’s no matter - tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms further… And one fine morning - So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.’

Aquarius: ‘He had thrown himself into [the dream] with a creative passion, adding to it all the time, decking it out with every bright feather that drifted his way. No amount of fire or freshness can challenge what a man can store up in his ghostly heart.’

Pisces: ‘For a while these reveries provided an outlet for his imagination; they were a satisfactory hint of the unreality of reality, a promise that the rock of the world was founded securely on a fairy’s wing.’ 

I Think I Wanna Marry You... (Part 4)

Fandom: Supernatural

Pairing: Dean x Reader obvi because I’m trash

Word count: 4k

Soundtrack: Halsey - Now Or Never

[“ i see a love so pure it moves the heavens….”

“…but does it endure?”]

Summary: Y/N manages to coax Dean into going on a few untimely escapades in preparation for the big day. Meanwhile, the elder Winchester tries his best to subdue his doubts about where their relationship stands.

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

A/N: Part 5 is already in the works, so you can expect an update by this time next week. This entire series is fun to write, so I’m glad people enjoy it.




@daesunglg​ , @insaneimagines


Y/N is a bundle of nerves in her bright yellow sundress, and nothing Dean can do can ease her anxiety.

Before him she stands, the strap of her satchel tangled in her fingers and her brow creased. She looks at Dean and doesn’t even try hiding the fact that she’s nervous.

“I’m sorry…” She apologizes. “I didn’t know you’d have to come along for this. If I had, then—“

“Then you would have turned down the offer?”

Bowing her head, Y/N glimpses away…“No….”

“Yeah, so don’t apologize.”

Dean is making this so much harder than it should be. In his usual fashion, he’s complicating things, stretching out a second of tension into an hour and it’s so bloody irritating for Y/N that she could scream.

But instead all she does is bottle it up and cap it, trying to play the pacifist in this situation. “I said I’m sorry, Dean…” She bites her lip, obviously abashed, and shakes her head.

The elder Winchester rolls his eyes. The sun is out and hot and today he’s decided to trade in his usual get-up of pants-and-shirt for a T shirt and jeans. Dean knows the weather is probably the main factor to why he’s so antsy, but will he let that stop him from complaining…?

“Sorry won’t cut it.” He indignantly huffs. “I don’t wanna go, anyway.”

“Jesus, it’s just dress shopping!” Y/N complains.

“I don’t wanna go dress shopping.” He counters. His voice isn’t harsh, just agitated. He’s agitated. She knows that. If she didn’t, then maybe this entire interaction would have gone a lot different. “You go. Tell your family that I had other stuff to do, manly stuff.”

Y/N rolls her eyes. “I didn’t bring you along on this trip to do manly stuff. If that’s what I wanted then I would have left you back home and taken Sam instead.”

Having thought it to be a brilliant idea, her family invited Dean out with them to go dress shopping in town. And taken how much Dean (and, let’s be honest, Y/N, too) despises Boston, the idea of being out and about in the city is sickening.

So, he resists.

Y/N lets out a sigh of defeat and turns to go tell her mum and S/P/N the news. As she saunters through the lounge and into the ballroom, she reviews today’s plan: dress shopping. Not hard at all. Totally easy, right?

She shouldn’t be feeling so anxious about it. But here she is. Her satchel’s strap by now is a mess of knots between her fingers and she releases it, walking up to the elevator, ready to press the button, when it suddenly pings and halts. The doors slide open—

And then there’s Rick.

Standing, using his phone, head bowed and not noticing her until she speaks.

Y/N straightens out. “Oh..” She says, earning the attention of the ebony-haired man as he looks up.

Their eyes meet, and right away a smile spreads across his mouth. “Y/N…!”


They speak simultaneously, words bubbling over each other. Y/N giggles quietly.  He smiles.“Going up?”

She nods and then scuttles in. There’s nobody else in so, thankfully, there’s no rush to usher him out and move on, so Y/N takes her time to catch up.

Her eyes rake over his face until they finally settle on blue eyes, a deep sapphire, a shade she once in the days of her childhood lusted over.

She’s going to be frank here—teenage Rick was cute.

Exponentially. Terribly. With a defined nose and jaw line so strong it could cut cheese, he’d been the subject of her fantasies for months as a teenager. It’s not the first time he’s had the thought and so she welcomes it in without question. Y/N had always had the biggest crush on him. On his eyes; on the way that he wore yellow and pastels and smiled at her a little bit longer than he did all the other girls. On how he used to manage to stir up such alien feelings in her stomach that it excited her.

She’d been like—what? Sixteen, when he moved to the house next door? Yeah. Probably. Like, sixteen and he’d been eighteen and he’d joined their school.  And upon first encounter, enamored and optimistic, Y/N had been set on claiming him as her own.

But those days were gone now. She was grown and experienced and all the desires of girlhood had been satiated. She moved away, became a hunter. She soon forgot about those sapphire eyes that had driven her crazy.

A smile lights up her face as she stares at him. “Funny seeing you here, Mister Montoijia.”

“I could say the same about you.” Rick replies with an equally excited smile. “Where to?”

“Uhm, mom. We’re going dress shopping today and I need to talk to her about it.”

“Sounds like fun.”

“Glad you think so. “ She scoffs. “Try telling that to Dean, maybe you could talk some sense into him.”

“Where is he now?”

“Uhm..”Y/N peers her head out, scouting the room for the sight of the elder Winchester in his Zepellin T-shirt and Sam by his side. She looks around curiously, until finally she spots the top of the younger Winchester’s hair by the bar.

She points them out. “There…”

Rick leans forward, peeping out. Y/N watches him, eyes trailing over his features, over his distinct adam’s apple bobbing in his throat, over the dark 5-o’clock-shadow tainting his jaw—God, his jaw.

He turns back to her. “Well, okay then. Anyway—catching up? When can we do that, or are you too busy to spare me a cup of coffee?” His lips, bright pink and luscious, pull back in a lopsided grin, shark-like teeth exposed.

“Oh…”Y/N blushes. “Uhm—yeah, sure. How about…Thursday, seven o’clock?” She offers, back tracing when she notices the subtle fall in Rick’s excited expression.

“It’s just that I’m really busy with all this wedding stuff.”

“Oh, yeah…Okay then.” The smile returns.

Y/N mirrors him.

“Thursday it is.” He says, and then just like that, slips out of the elevator.


The dress store is a fifteen minute drive away, perched on a busy avenue lined with shops and boutiques of all sorts. The bridal party—Y/N and the other maids, Jackie and Emma, some of her sister’s grad-school friends—are packed in the backseat alongside Dean and Aunt Steph as S/P/N slides the car over to the side of the road and parks.

Dean clambers out of the tiny Ipsum, trailing behind Y/N and the entire entourage: S/P/N, Jackie and Aunt Steph lead the way into the boutique, all chatter and laughs. Dean groans internally—this is so berating. So emasculating. He’d rather be back at the hotel, grabbing a beer with Uncle Gary and talking about anything but color patterns, but he pacifies his mind by reminding himself that he chose this.

It’s for Y/N, after all. He’s taken a literal bullet for her and then some— a little dress shopping can’t be that bad…?

“Just persevere.  I’m sure it won’t be that bad.”

“Are you?”

She shrugs. They amble in past mannequins sartorially dressed in sequins and satin and colors of all sorts. For a bridal shop, everything—rather than being pallid white—is pretty gaudy and exuberant. Frills here and there, feathers, glitter. Dean almost pukes at the sight of a bright cyan dress that Aunt Steph is scrutinizing and quickly averts his attention to the row of dresses Y/N is riffling through.

“We’re not having a wedding in Vegas.” She says distastefully, rubbing some glittery nylon between her fingers.  “What’s with all this color?”

“You don’t like it?” Dean asks.

She shakes her head, trailing her fingers along a fuscia feather boa as they saunter through.  “My wedding is going to be the exact opposite of this. Hell…” She says, looking ahead. “…my wedding’s not even going to be in Boston. Or Vegas, for that matter.”

“Where, then? New Orleans? Seems very you.”

“I was thinking California.”

“Ew…” Dean scrunches his face up in disgust, and Y/N clicks her tongue, smacking him in the shoulder. He chuckles.

“Shut up.” She giggles, fingering the bright pink feathers. “ You don’t have a say in this.”

“As your boyfriend, I think I do.” He ribs. “We’re definitely not getting married in California. No way.”

Y/N scoffs. “Pfft—like we’ll even last long enough for a wedding.”

“You think we won’t?”

“You think we will?” She stops and turns to him.

Dean smiles.

Y/N mirrors him, tipping her head back in a challenging manner. He wants to laugh because he knows she’s right, but instead, he only scoffs, shakes his head and turns away.

Deciding that this isn’t the place for them, S/P/N and her mom are arguing over which store they should go to next. There’s a classic-white-wedding one right across the road and so they settle on that. Impatiently, the elder Winchester slips his phone from his pocket and checks the time as Y/N wanders off to the sidelines. Oddly enough, he’s shocked to see a missed call from Sam. A few minutes back. Probably while they were on their way here. Pocketing the device, he inhales and grabs Y/N’s hand.

“Come on.” Dean tugs on it and tries to move, but instead their fingers untangle. The elder Winchester then glances back over his shoulder, befuddled.

Y/N’s still entranced by the boa as she turns to him, eyes wide in. “Oh—we’re leaving?”

“Yeah, you coming?” He quirks his brow and  Y/N nods, letting her fingers halt their caress as she joins him. She lips her hand back in his, but before they can move, glances back at the boa with want. Dean catches her.

His gaze bounces between it and his partner, disconcerted. It takes a moment, a moment of wonder and wide, pleading puppy eyes and the curve of a shy smile before the cogwheels in Dean’s head turn and he catches on.

“You want it? His voice is incredulous, expression speaking volumes of surprise. It’s so tawdry and loud and he can’t think she’d want it.

But apparently, with the way she glimpses up at him guilty, bites her lip and bats her eyes, she does.

Y/N shrugs, pulling a face. “It’s kinda cute.”

The group is already almost out the door as Dean stares at Y/N momentarily; she says nothing. Heaving a labored sigh, he then grabs the boa. He fists it in his hands, turning to her, and raises it in the air.

“You really want it?” He asks, expression bored and worn.

Y/N smiles with excitement and nods. He might not see what she does in it, Dean thinks, but if he’s going to play the part of her enamored lover, then he might as well go all the way, right?

And so, with a shake of his head, the elder Winchester walks up to the cashier and smacks it down. It’s a vibrant pink, almost purple, and the sale’s associate gives him a questioning look the moment he lays it down.

He rolls his eyes, jerking his thumb behind. “It’s for my girlfriend.” He hopes he sounds convincing. It doesn’t matter, anyway. She scans it, tells him the price, and he fetches a couple of dollars from his wallet and hands them to her.

“Thank you.” The orange-haired cashier says, handing him the bag.  Nodding, Dean takes it and turns. Y/N is a flare of excitement as he approaches her; there’s a smile on her face that made Dean think, maybe—just maybe—she was just pulling his leg, a smug simper, teeth and all, but the sincerity in her thank you as he hands it to her tells Dean otherwise

“I can’t believe you wanted this.” He remarks as they exit the store. Y/N winds the fluffy boa around her neck, smiling into it, the bright feathers tickling her face. “It looks like it belongs on a burlesque dancer from Vegas.”

“It’s cute.” She remarks, lifting her gaze to the elder Winchester. “Thanks, again, Dean… You didn’t have to buy it for me, you know?”

“Yeah. “ Dean scoffs, looking left and then right for any oncoming cars; they scurry across the road, over to the boutique the entire family’s stepped into. Through the window, Dean can faintly make out the silhouette of Aunt Steph holding up a salmon gown. “The puppy-dog eyes on your face a second ago said otherwise.”

Y/N giggles and then follows him in. A chime at the door announces their arrival and the whole group’s attention is grasped as they walk in.

As soon as she spots her sister, S/P/N’s eyes go wide like saucers, a smile stretching across her face.

Flaunting her new purchase, the young hunter saunters up to her sister and flashes a quick grin. “How do I look?’

“Wow…” S/P/N breathes. “…like…a big, flashy bird. Did you really just buy that?”

“Dean did.”

Her eyes shift to the elder Winchester, brow furrowed. He shrugs in response, hands fixed in his pockets, because that seems the only eligible response in a situation like this.

S/P/N giggles and picks at the scarf as Y/N swats her hands away, when it’s time to get fitted. They’ve picked out two dresses already.

“They’re waiting for you in the dressing room,” Her mother says, resting her hands on her shoulders and ushering her off. As she is led away by her mother, Y/N briefly glances back at Dean. Her face splits into an apologetic smile, one that utters an unspoken apology, one that says I’m sorry I dragged you into this. He waves it off with a smile. It’s fine, his expression responds. Y/N smiles. Before he knows it, she’s disappeared behind the racks of dresses and mannequins and he’s left alone with S/P/N and Aunt Steph.

Sighing, the elder Winchester turns to them, trying to offer an amicable smile.

“So…”He begins. “Where are your guys dresses? I thought you were all picking something out.”

“Oh, it’s a Y/L/N family tradition for the bride to come last.” Aunt Steph’s grey eyes gleam bright and radiant; as usual, she’s smiling, her face folded and creased like fleshy dough, and Dean can’t resist feeling at least bit happy that he’ll be spending the afternoon with someone as cheerful as her.

“Even when I was getting married, it was the same. “ She elaborates. “Marilyn and my girls brought me out to watch them try on dresses, and then, when it was already time to leave, had me pick something out.”

“At least it was cute.” S/P/N chides.

“It was. Very. But anyway, we should probably get to work.” The elder woman waits expectantly; but when Dean’s brow furrows in disconcert, she turns to her niece. “You didn’t tell him?”

“I was supposed to?”

“We’re all picking something out for the girl’s to try on.” She shakes her head with a sigh. “You know—so that they have a lot of options?”

 ““Emma and Jackie are pretty happy with their choices,” S/P/N pipes up. “It’s just, well, Y/N we’re worried about. I can bet you twenty bucks—the next dress she comes out in, she’s not even gonna like it.”

“That’s why we’re here. To make sure we get her something pretty.”

“You want me to pick a dress out for Y/N?” Dean asks it like it’s absolutely crazy, like it’s ridiculous—and it is. He’s no fashion guru. His wardrobe consist of practically the same two flannels and jeans.

“So, do you accept the challenge?”The younger woman asks, quirking a brow.

Dumbfounded, the elder Winchester stares at the pair momentarily. He can’t say no, can he? That would only raise the suspicion of their little plan. He can’t risk that….

Can he?


In the dressing room, Y/N accepts each gown hurtled at her by her mother with patience and precision. The assortment is vast, all various shades and hues; even then, however, none that can even compete with the atrocity around her neck.

Dress hanging off her shoulders, Y/N glances back at garish piece abandoned on a chair.  Scrutinizes it. It’s…well…colorful. Very colorful. And it’s definitely not something they’ll be seeing her in a lot, but the knot of pride in her gut is wound too tight for Y/N to admit that maybe the purchase was a bad idea. Maybe baiting Dean with an item of the nature was a pathetic attempt at validation…

There’s no hiding it, anyway. That’s the truth. That’s all she is: pathetic and desperate for affection. I mean, why else buy such an atrocity? why else ask Dean to get it? At the time, the plan seemed bulletproof, an assured way of confirming that she had a place in the elder Winchester’s heart that would lead him to making the sacrifice…It had been a symbol of sorts. A totem.

At first.

Now all Y/N sees when she looks at it is wasted money and a testament to her pettiness in bright gaudy colors…


Dean whizzes through the store as fast as his feet can carry him.

 Rack to rack to mannequin. He grabs a pink dress with rhinestones along the hem. A plain white one that runs to the knee and looks a little too casual for a wedding. It doesn’t matter, the elder Winchester tells himself. None of this does. None of this is real. this is fake-dress shopping for a fake couple…Granted, however, for….. a very real wedding….


The thought catches Dean like a fish-hook in the neck, and he’s reeled back to his senses. Glancing down at the options he’s gathered, none of them look terrible. Very simple. Plain, eve, like the model isn’t going to be exhibited before a bunch of people.

A sigh then leaves him and Dean settles on one of the chairs provided to sort through. He tosses out one with frills and a mint-green that he knows, despite her beautiful physique, will not look flattering on Y/N. by the end of it all,  he’s left with nothing but the pale pink that he realizes is a size too large.

With an exasperated sigh, the elder Winchester chucks it onto the shelf. He bows his head in defeat. Runs a hand through his tousled hair. Groans. He needs some air, and he’s about stand to get out of the shop, when his gaze wanders to a mannequin across the room…

And then Dean halts.


Y/N slips in and out of dress after dress, struggling out of tight corsets, sweat trickling down the back of her neck from all the work. There’s a pile of gowns on the floor climbing all the way to her knees, her mother standing outside, pestering about which one she should pick. Y/N tries to shut her out. She can’t think right now. Her body is sweaty and chafing, and this was dumb because she could always just wear the old dress she brought from home, but it’s out of the question.

And so she moves on to the next one…


The moment she comes out, Dean’s heart stops.

Standing before him in her final choice, Y/N bites her lip and furrows her brow nervously, tangling her fingers together in front of her lap. After eons of waiting, nervously tapping his fingers against the arm-rest, she’s out. Finally.

Her cheeks are dusted a feint pink and it looks like the blush is crawling further and further down her skin, breaching onto her exposed shoulders. Her skin, a haven of y/s/t dotted with freckles and spots and the littlest scars whose origin is embedded in his mind, almost sparkles in the warm lighting.

And Dean can’t help but gawk, because, damn…

The dress, strapless and deep burgundy and with a flaring skirt, looks gorgeous. Accentuating her waist and legs, it’s form fitting stunning and her bare shoulders are peeping out from behind her tresses of y/h/c. 

It looks magical; she looks magical, Dean thinks, as he tries to gather the coherence and focus to say it as she spoke.

“Well…?” A spark of hopefulness glints in Y/N’s eyes.

The elder Winchester gapes, jaw slack and eyes wide as his eyes trail from her shoulders to her legs and back up to her face. At that moment, he feels a flutter in his chest, like the beating of butterfly wings, the blink of an eye. So brief and miniscule that, if he hadn’t actively been paying attention to his feeling, he’d miss it. But he doesn’t, because how can he when this is the first time he’s seeing Y/N in such a light?

He’s so used to her hiding herself beneath jeans and tees and oversized flannels she’s stolen from his closet, in mustards and blacks and colors the shade of the earth and nature. Not that she doesn’t look good in them. She does—extremely. Only now, it’s foreign kind of beauty that Dean is witnessing, like watching a beautiful sunset from a different angle.

“Wow…” He breathes with ogling eyes. “Just….wow.”

Wow as in good?”

“More than good. Amazing, stunning. Damn, Y/N.” As soon as the words leave him Dean feels a bit ashamed by how earnest he sounds. But it’s short-lived because, then Y/N laughs and turns to the mirror a few feet away.

Her gaze slides up and down her reflection, taking in the sight as she turns and moves to try and see the dress at all angles.

“I don’t feel like me.”

“You look like you—a very dolled up and different you, sure, but still.” Dean cocks his head to the side softly. “You mean you don’t like it?”

She shrugs. He waits for an additional statement that doesn’t come. When he opens his mouth to speak, the sound of S/P/N’s voice cuts him off.


They both turn; Y/N’s face then flushes an even deeper pink as she stares at her grinning sister. They’re back, shopping bags in hand, Marilyn gleaming at her side as she gazes adoringly at her. Smirking, S/P/N steps up onto the platform, arms crossed over her chest, sizing her little sister up.

“I don’t think I’ve seen you in a dress in less than five years.” She states. “You look great.”

Y/N pulls a face. “Do I?”

“You do—right, mom? Doesn’t Y/N look gorgeous?” The elder sister asks her mother, who nods vigorously.

“You look so pretty, honey.” She says earnestly.

“Yeah, I’m even worried you might one up me at my own wedding.” S/P/N’s tone is teasing as she rests a hand on her sister’s shoulder. Y/N rolls her eyes and goes to look at her reflection once more. Her gaze is fixed on the mirror.

“So…” She starts, gathering her confidence in a heavy breath, “This one?”

Dean can tell it’s directed at him because of how her eyes dart in the mirror, and so he nods. “Definitely.”


The drive back is quiet and tranquil, the only sound filling the silence being that of the rumble of the engine. The thud of Y/N’s heartbeat; the hammering.

She feels a warmth glow in her chest.

A heat, vehement and demanding her attention and recognition as it sets the walls of her chest ablaze. A heat that, until a moment ago, she had managed to keep locked away and hidden. A vice.

She doesn’t want this; she doesn’t want to incessantly think about the way his eyes regarded her back in that shop; about the glint of awe in the rim of his green eyes when she walked out, about the way that he managed to stir up this warmth that she’d shuttered since they’d held hands in the car.

But it’s back now—fiercer than ever, tumultuous, and nothing Y/N can do can smother its flames.

Eyes set on the city whizzing by, she tries not to focus too much on it, attempts to drown out her feelings by settling her attention on the city outside. On the sound of Dean’s voice as he converses with her mum about Nebraska and the life they left behind for these two weeks; on the way he laughs when Aunt Steph throws in a line about her time in Nebraska, or on how well he’s managed to adapt to her circus of a family. And Y/N finds it astounding—she always has—how Dean does that: how he just clicks with people.

With his polar opposites, with people living lives on the other end of the spectrum. Only four days in and he’s already won their hearts over, and it makes Y/N grateful that she picked Dean to be by her side for these two weeks. (But even that isn’t enough to tame the hurricane behind her ribs.)

When they get back to the hotel, she rushes straight to their bedroom, throwing the door open and quickly heading to the bathroom.

Flicking the tap on, Y/N pools some water in her hands and splashes it onto her face. Once, twice. She then looks up at her reflection, at the harried girl staring back at her with panicked eyes, at the droplets of water slowly trickling down her face.

This can’t be happening.

She can’t be letting herself go like this, allowing a distraction as intense as these feelings for Dean to sidetrack her. She’s here on a mission; with a motive: convince. Convince them she’s doing okay as a hunter, convince them she doesn’t need to be domesticated back her in Massachusetts…

Convince herself that everything she’s telling them is the truth.

It is, isn’t it? Y/N has known, being a hunter, that the beatific suburban life is anything but an aspect of her future. She knows this; accepts this. If she didn’t, then going through the motions of everyday life would be more tedious than they already are. If she didn’t, then every time she’d look at S/P/N and Japheth and her mother and father, and Rick, and Boston and a life she once had so idyllic it was the epitome of normality, then her heart would splinter….more than it already did.

When Y/N looks at herself in the mirror, it takes her a few seconds to realize that there are tears streaming down her face, meshing with the water, disguising themselves like chameleons in the Amazon. Crap.  She reaches for the paper towels nearby, pulling one out, and dabs it onto her dripping face, when all of a sudden—

“Y/N! You in here?”

She jerks her hands away from her face, turning to the source of the voice. Footsteps sound. She quickly crumples the paper and, tossing it into the bin, exits the bathroom, finding Dean in the middle of the bedroom, holding her feather boa and the bag with her dress in one arm.

His eyes slide to her face, and the elder Winchester’s expression, formerly placid, contorts into one of disconcert. Y/N, however, doesn’t give him any time to scrutinize—she quickly approaches and takes the dress out of his hand.

“Thanks. I forgot about that.”

“Yeah, and this.” He hands her the boa; she takes it, wrapping it around her neck and exhaling heavily.

“They sent me up to get you.” Dean says. “Everyone’s downstairs waiting for you, your mum’s dying to see you in your new digs.”

Y/N glimpses at the bright salmon dress, then back at the elder Winchester, fingers still floating around her collar. “Seriously? I have to wear it?”

“Hey,” Dean raises his hands in defense. “I’m just the messenger here.”

“God…”She groans, letting her hands fall to her sides as she drops onto the bed. A labored sigh then leaves her and she shuts her eyes before she feels the mattress dip.

Dean scoots up, snaking an arm around Y/N’s frame, and she leans into it. She lets out another sigh; quieter, and Dean instead inhales.

“You really don’t like being back here, huh?”

“No…No, I don’t. That’s why I asked you to come along in the first place. I thought that you’d be a great distraction.”


“I don’t know. Because it’s you? You always mange to distrac—“

“No, I mean, what’s with the hate for Boston? It is your home.”

“Massachusetts is.”

“Whatever. Stop trying to smart your way out of this, Y/N, I’m serious.” He is; by the way his green eyes probe, looking to draw the truth out, by the soberness of his expression, by the mere silence that hangs between them as Dean waits for a response. This much is enough of a tell that he means business, and Y/N hates it.

She doesn’t want to speak; not about how she’s feeling. Not about the warmth. About Dean and their friendship. Despite her disdain towards it, she’d much rather go down and socialize in her gaudy salmon dress just to get out of this situation.

Y/N bites her lip and shakes her head, searching his gaze. “Why do you care?”

“Why shouldn’t I?” Dean counters.

“Because it’s not your problem, Dean.” Y/N snaps, like a twig bent so much it has to break, like the warmth in her chest has turned into a full-fledged fire and it’s taking hold. She then feels it, pulsing through her, a vehement bitterness because inside feels corrupted and wrong and—

He flinches, inching away. His hand slips form around her shoulders as his brow furrows, an expression of hurt taking over.

“It’s not your problem to always look out for me, to try and figure out what’s on my mind.”

“Look, I’m just trying to help out here.”

“Don’t. Don’t try to help.” Y/N can feel tears stinging in her eyes, clouding her vision, painting Dean in a blurry silhouette. “ Just because you’re playing my boyfriend, doesn’t mean you have to act like it when my family’s not around.”

And then there it is. The finishing blow, the shot to the heart.

Dean gapes at Y/N in disbelief, frozen, like he’s trying to decipher if she just said, if he’s hearing right because no, she couldn’t have really just said…

“Just…” Sighing, Y/N rests her head in her hands. Shakes it.

Dean stares at her some more, until it strikes him, and instead he feels resentment swell in his stomach bit by bit. “Wow…”

“Just go…”

He doesn’t hesitate. Rising from the bed, the elder Winchester grabs his keys from the bedside table and stalks over to the door, pulsing with irritation, face hot. He’s almost at the door when he whips back around and looks at Y/N.

Frail, vulnerable Y/N. Crying Y/N. Magical.


A surge of sadness gets him and Dean scowls.  “I really wish I was doing this just because I have to play your boyfriend.” He says.

And Y/N lifts her head, looks at him, ready to reply, but before she can get a word out he’s already out the door.


I Love to suffer :))

Not gonna lie: writing the argument between Dean and Y/N was a bit tough for me. I’m an intense anti-Dean-angst fanatic because I hate seeing my boy in pain, but…man…I had to.Feel free to throw rocks, I understand.

If not ,however, and you happened to like this, show some love by liking, reblogging and/or following to keep updated and check out some other Dean-stuff I’ve written. If you’re interested in being tagged in the next part, don’t be shy to inbox me :)

Have a nice day!

[Right, so. P sure I’m officially obsessed lmao. Anyways here’s the third and probably final part of the tale of The One With Many Names, also known as My Blatant Self Insert. Hope it doesn’t break canon too much, please enjoy, and sorry for spamming! (also i still have No Idea What I Am Doing ahahahaha.)]


Eventually, as everyone knew ce would be, The One With Many Names was Taken.

Spectator, the junior who watched people and noticed patterns, sharp-eyed behind the shadows of their hoodie, collected their bet. They placed a pittance of their winnings on Many-Names coming back.

It was mostly out of pity.


Your memories are doing The Thing again, and you cannot for the life of you remember the sequence of events that led to place you in the Elsewhere. But you know you are without iron, and your backpack is missing, and you should be terrified. Except They took you Elsewhere early in the morning, when you were stumbling your way to your eight am class, and you are far too tired to really care.

(You still have your dog tag necklace. Putting it on is too deeply ingrained into your morning ritual for you to forget it. This is a small comfort.)

You stare up and around at the Elsewhere despite knowing that you shouldn’t. Your eyes settle on something with too-sharp teeth like needles, shades of blue like ice and ocean, vaguely humanoid in shape but with proportions defying normal physics. You close your eyes and take a shuddering breath. Your eyes hurt. It’s too fuckin’ early for this. You consider the questions you could ask, from the informative (‘why have you taken me’) to the Actually Helpful.

You go for the latter.

“If I tell you a story,” you say slowly, carefully, “will that work as payment for my freedom?”

The fae hisses, and you flinch, wishing that you had your notebook with you, or at least another hour of sleep on your side. “You presume?”

“I, I, I have heard your–the, the stories humans tell of you,” you say, stumbling over your words, “the stories the students tell of you. They say you will free us if we bargain.”

“And you come,” the fae says contemptuously, “and bargain a mere bedtime tale? Stories have power, child, but I have heard so many before. You would have to pay something more than a paltry rendition of a well-worn path to return to your realm.”

“If you don’t want my stories,” you say in return, “then why?”

You blink, and the shades-of-blue creature is upon you, cupping your chin with icicle fingers. “You shift,” it says, “You are not fixed. You have a touch of us in you. Thus, you are ours.”

You squeak, and cower, and cover your eyes. You take deep breaths until the frostbite of the creature’s fingers fades. Then–your fear carrying you beyond terror and out the other side, knowing you are dead or worse than anyways, you speak.

“If you have not taken me for my stories,” you say, and pause, and swallow hard, “th-then y-you, you don’t–” You stop. Collect yourself. Attempt to speak with confidence. “You do not know of my skill. I would not tell you a mere bedtime story. It may follow a similar path as others, true, but…”

The fae tilts what passes for its head at an unnatural angle. You breathe in deep and make your bargain. “A story. A tale. If it pleases you–if it pleases an audience, mayhaps–I am to be released. Sent back to my realm. If not…” You swallow hard, knowing your next words would seal your fate. You are not willing to speak them. You hope the fae will speak for you.

It does not, of course. You close your eyes and damn yourself. “If not, I accept the fae–the touch of You I have inside me.” ‘Do with me what you will’ is not said, but you both know They will if you lose.

“Deal,” the fae says delightedly, “Begin telling.”

“If it pleases an audience,” you repeat. Perhaps a variety of opinions would be what damns you, but relying on the tastes of a single fae…if the story you have in mind displeases it, then you are lost. Better to have a security net of varying opinions.

The fae narrows eyes dark as ocean abyss and hisses. You flinch. “An audience,” you repeat anyways, “I said, if it pleases an audience.”

“You said mayhaps.”

“My stories are my talent,” you say, “if this is the last one I tell, I want it to be remembered.”

Amazingly, this works. You get your audience.

You stand in front of the fraction of a Court, wishing you could write or type the words rather than say them. You are afraid.

But you know your talents. You know your stories, you know your characters, and it is not the first time you have told this tale. If all else fails, you have the phrase ‘but there is always more to the story,’ a gimmick you can pull out to expand and continue if the fae do not like it quite as much.

If you are honest with yourself, you will probably pull out that “gimmick” anyways. You love your stories and characters too much to not expand on them. You close your eyes.

You gather your thoughts. You take a deep breath.

“This,” you begin, “is the story of Phoenix Song.”


It is nearly a year before Many-Names stumbles back into the normal world. Ce comes back somewhat confused and half-glowing, as though some internal light has given cer an aura of confidence. For all that, the glow is entirely human and largely metaphorical. Cer changling leaves as ce moves back into cer dorm, all smiles and laughter. The kind of smiles and laughter that covers deep, deep relief.

People ask how. Ce replies with a grin. “They love a good story, didn’t you know?”

Spectator attempts to get a fuller explanation, because for all their perceptiveness this has still totally blindsided them. Many-Names explains about the world ce’d spent five years in the making.

“I picked the one that I thought would appeal the most to Them,” ce explains. “Well, that and I actually had it figured out to the end.” Ce says maybe ce’ll show you cer old notes. “If they still exist, anyways,” ce adds thoughtfully, “I think I might have given the story to the F–Fair Folk. It’s a worthy trade.”

Many-Names leaves out drawings with cer ice cream and milk now. Sketches, colored with pencils, sharpie-lined, printed digital art in full color and shading. All labeled with names. They are always gone in the morning. Spectator thinks, to their great disbelief, that Many-Names has managed to create a fandom.

This is bad for cer. This is very very bad.

“They aren’t going to let you leave, you know,” they tell cer, “Not if you keep giving them content.”

Many-Names pauses in the middle of a sketch. “Well,” ce says eventually, “there’s always the internet.”

“You’re not getting it,” Spectator decides, and tells cer, “You can’t leave, Many-Names. Can’t go home. Can’t see your mom. Can’t go out and get another job. You’ll have to stay. Become a teacher, or whatever. You have to stop talking to Them.”

Many-Names considers this. “I can’t just cut off,” ce tells them, “That would be rude. I mean, they’ll forget soon enough. Or I’ll get tired of drawing stuff. But as long as we’re both interested, well, they get art, and I get these things.”

“These things,” Spectator repeats. Many-Names flicks a hand at cer windowsill. There is a bright red feather that almost glows, an image of a hammer, a glass crafted phoenix that seems to burn internally, a music box, and a crude, human-like figure.

“It’s like fanart,” ce says in a delighted tone, and Spectator gives up. They’re graduating this year, they don’t have time to pull a delusional freshman out of cer dealings with the Gentry. Ce seems happy, anyways.


And life in Elsewhere University carries on.