letter carving

Little Witch (Part 3)

Pairings: Peter x reader

Word count: 3 194

A/N: I am so happy how this turned out out to be. Flashback is in Italics:) I hope you like it an please, i am begging you, let me know what you think about the story ♥ Enjoy (Sorry for the mistakes) 

Part 1 // Part 2

Originally posted by misshollander1

Peter was sitting next to the closed door waiting for the mysterious girl to get clean. He had showed her his room because he had a personal bathroom and was the only option he had. He couldn’t get her face when he told her which this room was to out of his mind.

‘Fantastic, she thinks I am a fool now.’ the boy was deep in his thoughts. The usual feeling of nervousness when you think you had messed up in front of a person you wanted to impress was now taken over him. He surely had showed Tony something he didn’t want to with his behavior or the way he was looking at her, but how could he resist? He was amazed not that much from her appearance but the fact she wasn’t a cry-baby but a tough little…witch. He longed for the moment to understand more about her character, what she liked, what her dreams are now and so on without knowing why. Maybe the mysteriousness in her personality was the only thing responsible for this.

‘Come to Earth, Peter! You just met her, you can’t be head over heels about a girl you don’t even know!’

As the boy was trying to convenience himself to stop the unstoppable desires of the soul, a noise came from the bathroom. With his blurred senses he entered the room with fuss thinking about the worse that could have happened.

“Oh my god, Peter! Don’t you know how to knock?!”, the girl screamed as she tried to cover her with the towel. Peter turned around and covered his eyes “You are lucky I am wearing a bra and underwear. I didn’t think you are so pervert and creepy.”

“What, no! I-I just heard something falling. I thought you have hurt yourself, I didn’t want to- bother you or see you naked.”

‘Great! Amazing! If she didn’t think I was a fool, now she definitely does!’

“You already saw what you saw…there’s no need to hide and act innocent.”, (Y/n) retorted. Unfortunately, Peter was thrown in a serious dilemma.

‘If I turn around, this may show her I want to scan her half-naked body…but if I don’t, she will think I am acting just to impress her. What the hell am I supposed to do!?’

As every man, he had to understand the girl’s mind faster and come up with a decision. In his opinion, turning around was the better option, so he did so. As he removed his hand from his face he got stunned. (Y/n) was wearing a bra and jeans given to her from Wanda but the body wasn’t what caught his attention. It was her back.  

“Beautiful, don’t you think?” bitterness and sarcasm was read in her response. Her bare back was marked with a stranger and macabre scar. The letter ‘X’ was carved deep in her skin.

“I-I am sorry, staring at it wasn’t my intention.”

“There’s no need to apologize, Peter. I am not ashamed of it, I don’t wanna hide it.”

“Why do you have it?”, the boy came back to the reality as the girl put a t-shirt on and hide the mark.

“I got it from Hydra. Like I said I was tortured.”, Peter wasn’t able to find any word to say something. He was amazed and angry at the same time by what had been done to this girl at her young age, “Let’s go to the others and finish this.”

“If you are not okay with explaining wha-”

“Wanda and Bruce told me about what they’ve been trough. I know others weren’t in paradise either. Maybe when I tell somebody what exactly happen, it won’t be that hard to bear it on my shoulders. ”

“Here you are, we thought something happened between you two.”, Stark smirked at the teenagers as they entered in the living room. He had a drink in his hand while standing near the huge glass wall.

“Actually, it did happened. Peter stormed into the bathroom as I was changing.”, the girl had crossed her hands in front of her so tried to make a pissed expression.

“That’s not how you try to win the girl, Peter!”, Stark exclaimed.

“What were you expecting from him? He is 24/7 with you, of course he will act like you.”, Nat smiled as she waved at the girl letting her know she can feel home here.

“I-It…I thought she had hurt herself, okay?”, it caused the whole group to laugh, especially when Peter got as red as a tomato.

(Y/N) sat down between Wanda and Nat. She ran a hand through her hair showing her worry. Wanda put a hand on her shoulder saying that it will relieve her and promised that she would feel better. They all waited in silence. (Y/N) didn’t wanted to start mainly because she didn’t know from when to or how. Steve managed to spot it.

“Well (Y/N) if Peter hasn’t scared you and you haven’t change your mind yet, we would like to know how you got possessed by Hydra, and if there are other people like you who we can save.”

The girl took a deep breath and began.

“It all started ten year ago. I don’t remember the date but I all the events after are still remained in my brain. We went on a holiday in Russia to spend New Year…”

1st January, 2007. Moscow, Russia.

The sequential cold day in the enormous and scary Russia. A war had been waged since last year but that didn’t stop the people from celebrating New Year, more precisely the new beginning, the time that would give them hope, strength, and maybe the time when the bloodshed would be stopped.

The clock had gone past 00:00 an hour ago. The people were still roaming through the centre of the capital city too excited to feel fatigue. There were young Russians enjoying the holiday, soldiers protecting the nation, families with their little children playing the snow, old people smiling as seeing their heirs happy. Nobody expected that this happiness will soon be ruined by a woman screaming.

A seven-year-old girl, named (Y/N) (Y/L/N) was holding her mother’s and father’s hands while admiring the splendor view of Moscow. She was coming from a country where snow wasn’t accumulating in such huge heaps like here. She wanted to throw herself into those cold clouds and play.

“Mummy, mummy!”, the girl pulled her mother’s coat getting her attention, “Can I play in the snow?”, the lady kneeled down and smiled at her little girl.

“Of course you can, but after that we will have to go back. And please, be careful.”

The little girl nodded in excitement and ran towards the other kids to play with. The family sat in a bench looking at their precious angel. She was far away but they never left an eye from her.

“Look how happy she is.”, they both were contemplating. The man took his wife’s hand and kissed it causing them both to look at each other for a moment. And that was their mistakes.

“Mummy!”, a shouting kid made them to both look away from each other. All the mother saw was her child token from a man in back and a van that seconds later got away. The woman couldn’t figure out what was happening in the first seconds.

“No! My child! They took my child! No! Save her!”, the lady began screaming. Everything went dead for a moment. The people were staring shocked at the screaming and crying mother. She ran straight to the soldiers and tried to shake one of them. Nobody did anything. The soldiers played as though nothing had happened. The mother was dying from the inside. Her kid was gone. She fell on the ground, her agony splitting the happy atmosphere. Her heart was slowly and painfully breaking, sticking it’s sharp ends in her chest not letting her take a breath.

That night was the last time (Y/N) saw her mummy and daddy. After being put in the van she was anesthetized so no one would hear her screams and weep. The girl woke in an unfamiliar room. She didn’t want to eat. All she desired for was seeing her parents again. But it’s different with kids. They don’t have the strength to do such things till the end. After days she gave up and attacked her lunch like a lion which hadn’t eaten in weeks. This time was the first she actually left the room she woke up into. A young lady had showed her the playground where she met other kids like her.

“Where is mummy?”, the little girl asked.

“She will come sweetheart, only if you do what we tell you.”, the lady gave her a bright smile causing the girl to believe her. The next few months she did what she was told but her mother wasn’t coming.

5th June, 2011.

(Y/N) didn’t believe anymore to the lies that were told to her. She knew her mother was gone, her father no more to be seen. Although she was only eleven, somehow she knew this place was probably her grave.

Since three years the men in white, how she decided to call them, had started doing some experiments with her. At first she didn’t know why and wasn’t resisting due to believing that this was the only chance to see her mummy and daddy again. Years later she still didn’t resist. There was no point.

Her schedule was hooked up in her room. 7am – breakfast, 7:30 – studying session (Maths, Russian, History); 13:00 – lunch, 13:30 – time to understand about your physical and psychological condition (that was how they called all the experiments they did to her, all the pain she felt and the indifferent from the doctors); 19:30 – dinner.

Each day was the same. The only different things were the subject they were teaching. This way of living ended on this day.

This time the experiments were two hour long and the other time was occupied with trainings. The remained children were getting a 4-hour long infernal torture. They began with learning how to use cold weapons. The first lessons were on dummies but the next week they began practicing on each other. Nobody wanted to hurt the friend opposite them. Some of the kids refused and got punished in front of all. They had to see that not obeying leaded to pain, not doing you best was leaded to torture. Since then (Y/n) was coming to her room all in blood, bruises and a hell pain that troubled her movements in the next day. Every night she was finding a first aid kid which she used to heal the wounds. Nobody was showing the kids how to use them, they had to learn on they own. Three kids died because of losing too much blood, from exhaust, from going nuts. Even those events didn’t stop Hydra with her experiments on their ‘rabbits’.

17th October, 2014

“Everything you’ve gone through was to get you ready for the cruel world out there, for the humanity. You are the one that would change the story. You will lead the planet to a better place and will do it with the cost of your life. Wars will be won by you and your names would be taught in the books.”, a tall beautiful woman was standing in front of the 14-year-old boys and girls who were formed in a perfect position. They looked willowier that the Russian army (Y/N) had seen 7 year ago. They were more dangerous with their killing skills. They were the perfect built weapon for Hydra’s plans.

“All the tasks more of you managed to survive had to unlock your powers which we gave you when you came. Everyone has different skills and now you should show us what you are capable of!”, after a cold smile the lady went away. They were in the usual training hall that was transuded with the blood of innocent kids who had lost their self. There was a hidden room where the people were looking at them, to see how they cooperated, how better they were becoming.

In the first day of this new training almost all of them found their power. One was able to get invisible, another one had the strength to break through a wall with his bare hands. Only (Y/N) was standing there not knowing what she can do. She tried several different positions but nothing. Once she got panicked she knew the result would be zero.

Two days had passed and (Y/N) was at the same conditional – no powers found. As she was putting all her efforts in understanding her abilities three soldiers stormed into the room. Two of them caught the girl by her hands and a voice filled the room.

“Ms. (Y/L/N) why aren’t you training?”, the words were spoken slowly and cold. They sent shivers down her spine and she stuttered an answer.

“I-I am doing my best, mister. I-I just don’t think I have powers.”

“Bullshits! You are considered as a rebel Ms. (Y/L/N) and I am sure you know what we do to them.”

“No, no, no!”, the girl began protesting, she kicked them all down in seconds and tried to run but other five soldiers came. She was doing well, observing, kicking, showing no mercy as she was thoughts until one of them punched her in the head. For a moment she lost balance. They took her hands and chained her. One of the soldiers kicked her in the ankles so she wouldn’t be able to stand. Her body weight had to be hold only by her hands. She took a breath and looked up seeing the red symbol of the organization. As soon as she did so, she felt an indescribable anguish in her back. The sound of a whiplash tearing a skill echoed through the room. Her so called friends were looking trying to show no sorrow or empathy.

Ten whiplashing later the familiar voice spoke again.

“I hope you learnt your lesson. If not, the whiplashes will increase with each disobey from you side.”

What was said had been done. The torture had increased and (Y/N) had been whiplashed in front of everyone.

“She is going to die!”, a woman spoke in the hidden room as she and some others people were watching ‘the show’.

“No, she won’t!”, said the leader – a tall woman with short brown hair.

“But it doesn’t change anything. We observed her. She definitely shows no signs of anything supernatural in her.”

“Why the others have and she doesn’t?!”, screamed the leader.

“Her powers are probably connected with her emotions. We raised those kids teaching them to hide, to forget about having feelings. That’s the problem.”, explained one of the doctors.

“So we should provoke her?”

“Yes.”

23th November, 2016

“Don’t you feel pain, Ms (Y/L/N)?”, the voice asked her for a hundredth time.

“No”, she asked calmly as the whip went along her back for one more time.

“Don’t you feel anger towards us for torturing you like an animal?”

“No.”, and with that the action was repeated. The girl was lying. She’s been tortured since two years. They did give her months to recover, to gain strength but two months weren’t enough for her body. The big letter ‘X’ was carved in her body, bleeding almost every night. But that wasn’t the worst. They had begun to manipulate her. Giving her pills, playing with her mind they had tried to made her show any sign of emotion. The girl thought this was some kind of a task that she had to pass. She never let them know she was suffering. She never let her anger out, not even when she was alone.

“Do it how many times you want!”, the girl spoke though her teeth as another whiplash hit her. This time she screamed. She made the mistake to let her feeling out for a moment and when she did, she couldn’t stop, “Do it! You won’t break me! YOU WON’T BREAK ME!”, she shouted and at the same time the windows in the Hall busted. She looked shocked as the people who had now been exposed.

“Finally”, said the leader with a smile on her face, “She showed her spark. Let’s see what her true power is.”

13th April, 2017

(Y/N) was led to a new premise. They made her sit on a chair and tied her tightly to it.

“We saw you have qualities for becoming the best soldier we have ever created.”, the girl didn’t answer, “But something is stopping you from revealing your full potential. Well, for you fortune we came with a decision how to remove this obstacle.”

The room had nothing else expect the chair she was tightened to. One of the walls was made by a Plexiglas or a common material. It was definitely showing another room and when the voice finished his statements a light from the other room showed what was there. The girl’s eyes widen at the view in front of her. There they were. Two well known faces the girl never forgot through her life here. They were the only thing giving her strength, courage to continue, to get through the Hell. Only the hope of seeing them is the reason she was still alive. She smiled for the first time in years.

“You missed them didn’t you?”

And then she came back to reality. Hydra wasn’t going to bring them to her so easily. They were going to do something to them and that scared her.

“Don’t hurt them!”, she screamed, “Mummy! Daddy! I am here! We will get out of here!”

“They can’t hear you.”

“What do you want from me?”

“Show me your powers. Revile them!”

“I-I can’t! Don’t you understand, I CAN’T!”, she shouted, tears rolling down her face. She didn’t want to lose them, not now.

“You don’t give us another option. Enjoy the show.”

(Y/N) tried to untie her but her body wasn’t that strong as before. The tortures had weakened her. She screamed as loud as she could in order her parents to hear her. The girl was raging by now. She had to help them, she had to save them.

“Nooooo!”,she screamed as the way her mother did 10 years ago. With those emotions the ropes fell down on the ground black. She looked at them confused. Somehow she managed to burn them but now it wasn’t important. She ran towards the Plexiglas wall and started hitting it but nothing happened. Suddenly two soldiers appeared next to her parents. Her mummy and daddy were about to ask what was happening when out of a sudden they got shot in their heads. The girl fell on the floor at the same time her parents did.

“No!”, she was soaking quietly while looking her parent’s blood spread in the floor, at their eyes, which never saw her again, “Nooo! No! NO!”

Her rage unlocked. She fell the air getting hotter. Closing her eyes she let her feeling overwhelm her.

Part 4

@thevanishedillusion @philautia-love-of-self @purplekitten30 @itscalledfandombitches @legendarydazekitten @spookymaddie @sammysgirl1997 @1akemi5 @ichbinannaaa @livegreater-loveharder @briannareneea985 @nyu-kun69 @b-orderline @lucifersimapala @fav-fan-fic @devilsdaughter1225 @coolmarvelgirl @ora-la-few 

If you want to be tagged, just ask :) 

it has been years
since your body
was your own.

you tap fingers that are not yours
against skin you hardly feel,
watch a chest rise and fall,
and wonder
if your empty shell would echo
if somebody hit it hard enough.

something in you tells you
there was once life here-
something made of something more,
something made of soul,
of light,
of humanity.

but they ripped it out.
now you spend your time
wishing there was a way
to connect your thoughts to your brain,
your brain to your spinal cord,
and all of it
to the slow beat of your heart.

you dont speak at all
(or you speak in screams)
but their evil names are the only things you remember you can say
because they took scalpels
and carved the letters into your body
and you think maybe,
just maybe,
this body was theirs first.

did they beat you hard enough
for you to spit the spirit out?
did they hate you strong enough
for you to cast yourself out on your own?
did they torture you bad enough
to pull the soul out from your lips?
did they chase you long enough
to bring your spirit to its knees?

(despite the fact there was nothing left to hunt, you had to keep running,
your body will never stop running,
the scars are a testimony
to the fact that your body
will never forget-)

did they love you?
or did they love your body in a way
awful enough
for your soul to escape while it still could?

my body is a ruined temple
for a vacant god.
i left before they smeared my ichor
across the earth
and tinted the whole world gold.

—  my spirit is not here anymore
FEBRUARY 12TH, 2016 -2

ERIC: This is the same projector that I revealed to you guys that Kyle’s in the Illuminati, and now we’re gonna reveal another big secret to you guys; How I killed Trent Boyett.

ERIC: And it was totally legal ‘cause, y’know, self defense and all that.

ERIC: It all started when I woke up in the middle of the night, pissed off that I was being hunted by a crazy man and still had to do midterms the next day. 

 ERIC: So I thought, fuck the midterms, fuck school, I’m gonna steal their cheat sheet.

ERIC: So I bust into school, looking for the midterm answers that the stupid school people always leave with the school records.

ERIC: It’s 5 am and there’s some dudes around but I’m super sneaky so I get by easily.

ERIC: Then all of a sudden, Trent’s behind me with a knife on my back.

ERIC: Yeah, the pussy stabs from behind apparently. Anyway, the ratty hick says if I don’t tell him what I was trying to do he’ll stab me. So I tell this guy that I was just trying to get the answers to a test. And he says in his dumb accent, “wyell then, I think we can use this.” Like he’s some criminal mastermind or some shit. Please.

KYLE: Ugh… dude…

KYLE: You sounded exactly like him just now.
STAN:

ERIC: [sigh] Yeah… apparently we have really similar voices. 

ERIC: That’s awkward.

ERIC: So anyway, then he pulls out a gun and tells me to text Kyle to lure him out.

ERIC: I ended up doing it because I didn’t have a plan. I tried to give Kyle hints but Trent was over my shoulder so I couldn’t give him much.

ERIC: Then he ties me up and for two hours I’m sitting in a boiler room for like 2 hours.

ERIC:  All of a sudden I hear Kyle kicking the shit out of Trent next door, trying not to get stabbed. But I don’t know what’s actually happening.

Then after hearing Kyle scream SUPER FUCKING LOUD, Trent runs in and grabs me, dragging me to this warehouse place and tying me up to the wall. Yeah, the fucker tied me up twice. He double tied me.

He’s super pissy so he decides to just start carving letters in my back.

ERIC: It says “Never Forget” according to him.

Guess he was really passionate about 9/11.

After that he goes on a rant about how he’s gonna catch us all, stab us to death and write Never Forget on all of our backs. I think that’s a stupid plan, so I tell him. 

ERIC: After a few tries, I actually convince him it’s a better idea to wait till he has us all gathered in one place and burn us alive, the way Ms. Claridge was burned alive. That way he won’t kill me right away and I have enough time for an escape plan.

So after a while Trent goes out to try and find Stan or Kyle. As soon as he leaves, Kenny pops in and tells me he’s gonna free me.

But you guys know me. 

Once Trent left, I was free to bust out with just a little of Kenny’s help.

It takes a while to find Trent again but when I do, he has both Kyle and Stan held at gun point and Stan’s holding a fucking uzie or some shit.

I was thinking of just jumping in and choke-slamming Trent, but with that Uzie around I can’t do shit without risking getting sprayed.

So instead I go for the flank. Trent had hella tunnel vision so I could get away with crawling really quietly on the ground. He wasn’t gonna look down because he’s a dumbass.

Luckily I see the knife in his jacket pocket so I go for that… and while he’s giving his big gay speech…

I STAB HIM RIGHT THROUGH THE CHEST!

He screams like a pussy and starts bleeding out, and falls on the ground all rag-doll style.

Trent? Fucking dead. My friends? Happy to see me and in total awe of my greatness. Me? Fucking stylin on everyone.

And that’s the story of how I almost died but instead killed a man with my own two hands.

STAN: It’s great that you killed him and all, but  do you really think taking video of a slideshow was the way to go? Seems kinda lazy.

We could’ve at least reenacted it or something fun like that.

ERIC: HEY. I drew this with my own two hands. It took time and EFFORT. Appreciate my work, Stan!
STAN: Effort, huh?


Ask The Main Four A Question!
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Arc 3 *
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friendship
/ˈfrɛn(d)ʃɪp/

  1. “What do you know about Welsh Kings?”
  2. Brothers, Ronan thinks.
  3. Blue’s hand inside Adam’s, warm and carefully tugged between his own fingers, the words “it’s going to be alright” whispered in short black hair over and over again, tear strains on an old, faded Coca-Cola shirt.
  4. dream-flowers that always bloom on a well-cared grave, morning dew that clings to white petals, a copper name-plate on a grave that glistens in the morning sun, letters carved into the rotting earth reading ‘REMEMBERED’, three boys and a girl standing in silence, their feet touching.
Unmarked

Theme:Soulmate
Rating: T
AO3

———

Derek presses his fingers against his soulmark briefly, studying the familiar phrase in the mirror before tugging his shirt on. It’s an old habit, running his fingers across the mark on his ribs, touching it gently with unending fondness. Even though it’s been years since the phrase appeared, and even though he has long since memorized the curves and arches of the writing, Derek loves looking at the mark.

He was only five years old when the words burned themselves into his skin. No one really knows how the marks work, just that they appear when the youngest of the pair is born, spelling out the first words that the soulmates will say to each other. By the time the last letter finished carving Derek’s skin, he was in tears. His mother had held him through the tremors and promised that the pain would be worth it in the end. After all, having a soulmark was a gift, the universe’s way of helping him find the one person to make him whole. (In Derek’s opinion, if the universe has the power to match people up, than it probably had the power to make the process painless, but what did he know.)

When the pain ended and his mark was legible, Derek wondered what type of person his mate would be. After all, who started a conversation with a proposal? It always seemed so presumptuous that their meeting would begin with an offer of full commitment, but at the same time Derek has always loved the originality of the statement. In comparison with something like ‘hello’ or ‘can I help you,’ his words have always stood out (though his mother’s words are ‘can I help you’ and his father’s mark reads,‘for starters, you can get that monstrous thing out of my way,’ so maybe even simple marks have something unique about them).

Keep reading

James and sirius in class, probably
  • Professor McGonagall: i want everyone to pay attention here
  • *james and sirius whispering about their next prank*
  • professor McGonagall: that means you too why are you talking
  • sirius: well i would rather tap dance but remus said no
  • remus: *facepalms*
  • peter: *giggles*
  • james: *high-fives sirius*
  • lily: *sighs and pats remus' back*
  • professor McGonagall: *sighs* 10 points from gryffindor for talking in class, mr.potter and mr.black
  • sirius: oh dear
  • james: this place has gone to the dogs
  • *all the marauders start laughing uncontrollably*
  • *they get detention*
  • sirius and james: that was an awesome reference that will be carved in letters of gold in the history of all pranksters
It’s A Meta Crisis!

Anon: Hi first off I love your writing so much! I was wondering if you could do supernatural story were the reader is obsessed with the show but one day she wakes up in the bunker and she finds out she’s Sam and Dean’s sister but starts to freak out and her ‘brothers’ thinks she may be sick or tries to calm her down. Sorry if that’s confusing <3

Nonnie, I need to apologize for taking so long to get this out, but I hope this was worth the wait. Like always, please message/leave something in my inbox with comments, questions, criticism, if you want to be tagged, etc. Enjoy everyone!

Summary: You are a Sister!Winchester writer and you wake up inside the Bunker one day.

Warnings: None (yes, I know the gif is a typewriter, but it’s hard to find good gifs!)

Tags: @the-third-winchester-warrior @winchesters-favorite-girl @jensen-jarpad @daughters-and-winsisters @lil-sister-winchester

Originally posted by mr-nikolo

“Aaaand, you’re done.” You say the final words of your newly written story aloud as you type them. You wrap your blanket bundle around you a little tighter and click the post button. “All right. You’re up for the whole world to see.” You sigh in relief, happier than ever to get this story out. School is about to start up, something you’re not looking forward to in any way, shape, or form.

You close your laptop slowly. You wish the magic of the holiday break didn’t have to end. The sleeping in, the bliss of not knowing what to do for a whole day, not being sure whether it was Monday or Friday. It was heaven.

You look at the clock. 11:08. Well, if you are going to get any sort of sleep for the early day tomorrow, now was as good a time as any to count sheep. You turn off your light and flop down on your bed. You don’t bother to change clothes or take off your shoes for that matter; you’d be wearing the same outfit to school the next day anyways, so why bother?

You turn your head to look around the sights of your room. A Supernatural poster from season 8 hangs on the far wall. Nearby that, you can see the different ‘hunting’ accessories you had collected over the years, scattered all around your bedroom. Some came from bygone Halloweens, others as holiday and birthday gifts. The old pocketknife with the Men of Letters symbol you carved into the handle, the iron sculpture you pilfered from a garage sale, your stashes of salt and homemade goofer dust, and the leather bag that you used for a hex bag in cosplay. A stack of plaid and flannel shirts sits piled under the poster. You’re particularly proud of the angel blade you had ‘forged’ from moldable plastic beads.

You smile, dreaming about your made up life of being the Winchester’s sister. It’s easier to gain story inspiration through dreaming fanfiction. Oh, the hunts, the magic, the creatures, the excitement, the strong sense of family. Every little aspect about it. Just, Sam, Dean, and you. Against the whole world…

Even before you wake up, you can sense something’s wrong. It’s cold. Colder than your room. You feel around for your blanket to pull up to your face. You freeze.

They’re not yours.

Your eyes open immediately. You sit up cautiously. Did I just get kidnapped? you wonder silently. A dark ceiling and plain walls meet your tired eyes that clearly do not belong to you.

You’re not in your bedroom anymore.

The walls are windowless, an odd bookshelf in the corner. Your eyes scan along the book titles: Mythology and Lore, The Official Book of Exorcisms, Shapeshifters vs. Skinwalkers Vol. 1. The entirety of the bookcase was covered with more scrolls and books like these.

“Okay…little creepy…” You glance around the room, suddenly feeling a sense of either paranoia or excitement. You’re not sure yet. The floor is made not of your soft brown-beige carpet, but a hard floor instead. The most off-putting thing is the smell; it’s a mix of air freshener and dust. Overall, pretty musty. Definitely not the smell of the scented candle at home.

Sounds are pretty much nonexistent. There was always some noise in your home. A passing car on the outside street, siblings arguing in the kitchen over who’s turn it was to use the toaster for Pop-Tarts, or the neighbor’s cat yowling in terror after being chased up a tree by a bullying squirrel.

You peer over the edge of a plain bed. There’s a large wooden chest with leather straps on it. Sort of a trunk really. You’ve never seen this before, but it’s familiar. You abruptly realize you have seen it before.

In your head.

Pieces of everything about this room fly together. The books on the shelf. The floor. The lack of windows and noise. The smell. Waking up in a different bed. Everything is how you’ve imagined it in your stories. You’ve pictured this room in your mind a thousand times, creating different story upon story in this setting.

This is the room you created for the sister of Sam and Dean Winchester.

“That’s not possible…” Only one way for you to be sure. You rub your hands on the top of this mysterious box. If every other detail is right, then this would prove what was going on. Your eyes look down apprehensively, suddenly feeling a series of grooves on the lid of the trunk. You gasp aloud, trying everything to keep from screaming. A six-pointed star is burned into the top of the chest. A Star of Aquarius, better known to you as the symbol for the Men of Letters.

“Just like I wrote.” Your whole body is trembling. Jury’s still out on whether your shaking is from panic or happiness. You look down at yourself. You’re still in the same outfit you fell asleep in: black and white plaid shirt over a black tank top and ripped blue jeans. Your feet are still in the brown faux leather boots from Shopko. You’d tastefully nicknamed them your ‘Winchester Boots’. Little did you know that you’d actually be wearing them in the freaking Bunker.

You slap yourself. Ow. “Okay. Real. Not dreaming. I’m…in…the Bunker.” You turn around in place in a daze. A frightened happy smile stretches across your face. “I’m in the Bunker. The Bunker.”

You take a look at a wooden nightstand. You pull open the drawer cautiously, fearing what might be inside. Inside sits a knife, exactly like your knife in your bedroom. Your other bedroom The not Supernatural one. All the way down to the Men of Letters symbol carved inside. Which makes sense; you’ve based so much of your stories on yourself. Under that sits a small framed but faded photo. You immediately know who it should be, but your curiosity gets the better of you. You gently pick it up.

It’s happy photo of the little baby you sitting on your Dad’s shoulders. Not John Winchester’s shoulders. Your father. Riiight. The sister I created was adopted, not a Winchester by blood, you remind yourself. You stare intently at the picture, recalling the backstory you’d given your Win!sister.

A father turned into an encantado and the mom was a good friend of John Winchester so she teamed up with him in the hunting life. Y/N, became real close to Sam and Dean, helping out with research in her early years and later learning the trade. Teaming up wasn’t a constant thing, but enough to where the boys considered her their sister. John ended up killing Y/N’s dad when he showed up years later. Sam and Dean meeting up became less and less until it stopped completely when Y/N helped Sam get to Stanford. Contact resumed at Roadhouse with Ellen. Her mom died when the Gates of Hell were opened while Y/N was young. She’s been in Sam and Dean’s care since-

You’re cut off by a sudden, yet soft, knocking on the door. “Hey, Y/N.”

You know that mellow voice all too well. You gasp loudly and just barely manage to hold on the to the picture before it can shatter. Standing in front of the door is the freaking giant of a man Sam Winchester.

Originally posted by brothersinsync

He looks at you with mild concern. “You okay? Didn’t mean to scare you.” He finishes with a natural smile. “You didn’t answer your phone. Dean and I just finished one weird case. You’re gonna laugh your head off at this one.”

You back up into the side of bed, still not sure whether to be terrified or bouncing off the walls. You can barely hold onto your voice.

“S-Sam?”

“Yeah?”

Your eyebrows shoot like rockets towards the ceiling. “Sam??”

“Yeah…that’s me.”

“Sam Winchester??”

Sam steps towards you. “Y/N, is something going on?”

“Sam freaking Winchester. In front of me.” You run your twitchy hands through your hair. “Oh gosh, this is happening. This is real. This-this-i-i-it’s. Holy mother flippin’ Metatron. You’re Sam Winchester.”

Sam smiles unsure with a little laugh in his throat. “Y/N, you’re acting like you’ve never seen me before.”

You start gesturing frantically, as you usually did when you fangirled. “Yes yes yes yes, I know I know I know! This i-i-i-is. This is unbelievable. I mean, you’re right there and I’m right here in this room and-” You abruptly stop and take a look at Sam, who is slowly backing towards the exit. “I’ve gone meta, haven’t I?”

“Uh…Dean!” Sam shouts over his massive shoulder.

“What?”

The distant reply of another voice you know hits your ears and a dorky grin stretches across your face. “Oh man, Dean’s here too. Oh boy. Oooookay…”

“C’mere for a sec!” Sam gives you a funny look. “Just…stay right here for a minute.”

You sit down on the bed, beyond happy to comply. “Okay!” Your energy level is off the charts.

Sam walks out of the room with a slightly faster pace than you expect. You hear his footsteps recede to where they’re undetectable. You get up off the bed, a whole new strength coursing through you; in your sudden excitement to see the Winchesters, you ignored the fact that not only are you in a different place, but you’re different too. Your body is roughly the same height, maybe a little taller. But you’re extremely fit now. You feel muscles bulging out of your arms, calves, and torso. It’s a whole new thing. You’re still around the same size as you were, but more of a body-builder version rather than a light exerciser.

You run your hands along the slightly bulging muscles in your upper arms. “Cool.” Your eyes sidle to an unopened closet. A new thought hatches in your mind. “I wonder…” You walk over and open the door, adrenaline and adventure filling your energetic body. You smile. Inside, behind the rack of clothing, is the set of weaponry you dreamt of always having. Shotguns and rifles and swords and pistols and ninja stars and salt rounds and-

You lay your eyes on the two weapons you crave the most: the Enochian carved angel blade from your I See Wings series and three sets of throwing knives you imagined: One for demons, one for creatures, one for witches. Each knife set was enchanted with spells you had found in the Bunker, designed with silver or iron or salt.

At least, that’s how you wrote it. You still hope it’s true.

You pry one out from it’s meticulously crafted case. Oh, the glory of holding one of those babies is indescribable. The black leather grip, the smoothness of the knife, the simplistic beauty of the curvature. You never knew how long you waited for this moment. And your new body is just begging you to try the knife out. You curl it back almost daintily, aim and…

Originally posted by twoidjitsinthesalvageyard

Before you can let your blade loose, Dean himself comes striding into your room. He’s on guard instantly when he sees you with the knife. “Woah, Y/N.” He rushes over to your side and grabs your wrist. “If you wanna throw, we’ve got the shooting range, not your room.”

You stare at him in utter shock, that goofy fangirl smile coming back onto your face. “Dean?” you whisper. Your eyes grow wide. “You’re…real…”

Dean knits his eyebrows together. He scoffs and sits you down on the bed by your shoulders. “Course I’m real. Why wouldn’t I be?”

You can see Sam standing in the door, hesitant to come in the room. Your eyes flick rapidly between the two of them. “I’m-I’m really here? This isn’t some sort of…prank or-or joke or…” You look into the Winchester’s eyes, ever growing concern stretching across their faces. “I mean…you’re both real…” you breathe out.

Dean sets your throwing knife on the bed. “Y/N, are you high?” The seriousness in his voice throws you off guard.

“No! No, no, nope!” you yelp. “Definitely not high.” You scan around the room distractedly, trying to ground yourself on something. “Not high…definitely…not…”

“Uh-huh…” Dean clearly doesn’t believe you. He turns to Sam. “And you just found her like this?”

“Yeah. I don’t know what’s going on-”

“What was the last thing that happened to you?” you interrupt. If you can figure out what just happened to the boys, then maybe you can figure out how you got here.

Dean takes a breath. “Well, you wanted to stay and get some research done. We just got back from some weird ass musical about our lives.”

Season 10 episode 5, you immediately think. “So, you’re not a demon anymore and,” you point to Sam, “you just killed Calliope then, right?”

Sam squints at you. “How do you know that?”

“Y/N, what’s going on?” The expression on Dean’s face just melts your poor little fangirl heart. The concern, the honesty. Ugh.

“I…I don’t know. I just woke up here and…” You struggle to find the right words when a lightbulb goes off. You stand up off the bed. “Do you remember when Balthazar zapped you two to an alternate universe?”

Both Sam and Dean groan. “Damn, that was bad,” Dean complains.

“Well, think of this as a reverse one of those.” You grin sheepishly, standing awkwardly in the room as it dawns on the boys. Sam speaks up first.

“You mean…you’re from…”

“Not exactly.” You rub the back of your neck. “My name’s Y/N Y/L/N. I write stories about the show Supernatural. Mostly about if Sam and Dean Winchester had a sister…” you fade out seeing as Dean’s head looks like it’s about to explode.

“Wait, you what??”

“In the show, it’s just…well, you two. But, I began writing my own stories imagining if you two had a sister. And I guess I’m having some kind of meta crisis right now, apparently. I woke up here in the world I created.”

“In the body of our sister.” Dean sounds more hostile towards you than before.

“Not exactly. It’s sort of a reverse Balthazar situation with a bit of Chuck mixed in.”

Sam looks the least freaked out out of everyone in the room. “Okay. So, you wrote about…us and if we had a sister? Why if?”

“In my life or universe or whatever, Y/N Winchester doesn’t exist except in the stories I write.” You take a look at Dean who looks like he could Hulk out on you. You raise your hands defensively. “I based her on me though. So, it’s not like I’m possessing her; I am her. Sort of.”

“Wait, wait, wait. You wrote her so you are her?”

“Pretend you rewrote the Lord of the Rings with you in them. But, you didn’t want to name yourself after you, so you came up with another name. Like…Jim. Then you find yourself in that story you wrote as Jim. But you based Jim off of you so it is you in it’s own way.”

“This is already making my brain sick.” Dean rubs his forehead with the tips of his fingers.

“No, I get it. That makes sense.” You silently thank Sam for saving your bacon.

“The only question is how I got here. I literally went to sleep and woke up here. Nothing different than normal.”

“Okay…if you were writing this, as a story, what would you explain it as?”

You put a hand up to the back of your neck, a habit when you try to concentrate. “Well, if I was writing this, I’d probably be dealing with a spell of some kind, but nothing crazy happened to me last night. So,” you begin to pace, “that leaves me with…oh. Great.” You sigh and purse your lips together.

“What?”

“Hex bags. I have one in my room.” The Winchesters continue to stare at you. You sigh. “Not a witch, it’s just for cosplay and Halloween. But, I didn’t sweep my room last night. Someone could’ve swapped it out for a real one.”

Dean tips his head up to the ceiling. “I freaking hate witches.”

“Well, it might not be a witch.”

“What do you mean?”

“A witch is only one idea. It might be a tulpa, or a really messed up spirit, or-” You stop, a new idea entering your head. You close your eyes. “Ah, crap.” You raise your hand in a ‘shut-up’ gesture, simply going over to a tv set in the corner of the room and turning it on.

Dean leans forward on the bed. “You gotta kidding me.”

“Perks of writing your own world. You get a pretty good hunch on who did it.” A Casa Erotica scene starts setting up.

Sam points to the screen. “But, he died.”

Originally posted by your-not-invisible-to-me

A very familiar waiter rips off his mustache. “Think again, boys. And girl.” Gabriel pops out through the tv screen landing in front of you and the Winchesters. A weird combination of a smile and an ‘exasperated-parent face’ hits your face. The archangel looks at you. “How do they do it on BBC?” He raises an eyebrow. “Did you miss me?”

warmth

Author: me (honestground on Ao3)
Rating: K+
Words: 1,400~
Pairing: BotW!Zelink (postgame)
Summary: He knows he can’t protect her from everything, but Hylia be damned if he isn’t going to try. He asks, “Are you warm enough?”
Notes: Your weekly reminder that I’m actually garbage. Also this could totally turn smutty so if anyone wants to request that I’ll totally do it. Okay, I did it.
Edit: Now on Ao3 with the smut attached for convenience. 


The winter chill seemed to have settled over Hateno early that year; trees turned bare and wind turned icy, weather swiftly transitioning from cold to colder. It meant more maintenance on the house, and keeping a closer eye on supplies, and Link had about fifty more things to do before the snow really set in, but he couldn’t be happier. 

It was one of their rare weekends off, and while it was too cold out to really get much done, Link was entirely content in doing nothing with Zelda tonight, to listen to her happily thumb through the Sheikah Slate while he cooked them both dinner, the house smelling like good food and comfort and warmth.

“Link,” Zelda calls to him from her favourite chair by the fire. She sounds curious and pleasantly distracted, and Link smiles at her voice, the way his name sounds different, better, coming out of her mouth, somehow. “What does this—”

She’s abruptly cut off, an odd but familiar hum of energy smothering whatever she had been about to ask, and Link turns around just in time to see her vanish in a shower of shimmering blue lights.

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  • Pansy: Have you told Granger how you feel?
  • Draco: She knows.
  • Pansy: Listen, dumbass, I'm gonna let you in on a secret that most guys don't even have a clue about, all right? You ready?...Women love words.
  • Draco: Hmm?
  • Pansy: You need to tell her how you feel. Just say it. Say it again. Say it differently. Learn how to say it better. Learn how to sing it. You know, just write it in a poem and a letter attached to flowers. Carve it in a tree, in a sidewalk in wet cement, tattoo on your arm.
Budapest

Natasha ran her hand slowly over the letters carved into the wood.

(Clint is #1) they read in deep grooves on the far right corner of Starks overly expensive kitchen table.
Every morning, over countless breakfasts, Clint would sit there and retrace his name with the edge of a knife as he ate his cereal.

Tony had threatened to snap his knife in half if Clint didn’t stop. Had threatened to kick his arrow shooting ass out to the curb. Had actually tried to call the police to have Hawkeye arrested for vandalism, but the dispatcher had thought it was a crank call and had hung up.

Her full lips curled in a smile remembering when Bucky had moved in and Clint had sat him down and showed him the perfect pressure to use to write his own name in the wood. The soldier had stared at him in surprise, then carefully started carving. Buckys name wasn’t as deep yet, but it was getting there.

She dug her fingers into the “C”, swallowing against the wave of emotion, thinking about just the other morning when Clint had pulled her into his lap and told her she should start carving too. She had rolled her eyes and pulled away and told him she didn’t need to deface a table just so people remembered her.

Clint had stuck his tongue out at her, then checked to make sure no one else was in the room before pulling her down for a long kiss.

It seemed like the other morning, but it was almost two months ago now, and she couldn’t quite handle that.

“Clint.” She whispered, and her voice didn’t sound like her, choked and hoarse and angry, and she wanted to throw the table out the window because it WASNT FAIR that he was gone and she had to still be here.

“I miss him too. We all do. Two months and it hasn’t gotten any easier.” Tony spoke from right behind her and she straightened her shoulders.

“I didn’t realize anyone was–”

Tony just cleared his throat to interrupt her, and handed her a small pocket knife.

Natasha took it with a tiny smile, smoothing her hand across the table before starting to carve her name into it, right above Clint’s.

And underneath she carved a date from several years earlier, before the Avengers, before the war, before everything had gone so wrong.

“Can I ask?” Tony said softly.

“It’s Budapest.” She answered, tightening her hand around the knife until the blade started cutting into her fingers, until blood started dripping from her palm.

“Hey. Hey, come on.” Tony pried the knife loose, closing it carefully and taking her hand. “Come on, Ms Romamoff.” He tried to tease her gently, tried to make her smile, because she hadn’t been quite right since the memorial service several weeks past and he was worried about her. “Lets get you cleaned up, and then a drink and maybe to bed. I know you haven’t slept since the–”

“It’s Mrs Barton.” She said dully and he blinked a few times.

“What?”

“It’s Mrs. Barton.” She said again and her shoulders started shaking as tears rolled down her face.

“Since when?” He whispered, and she stared down at the table, at the name carved deep enough that it couldn’t be sanded away.

“Since Budapest.”
*******************
*******************

I’m sorry for this guys.

A rabbi once offered the following analogy: “Every Jew is a letter in the Torah. But a letter may, at times, grow somewhat faded. It is our sacred duty to mend these faded letters and make G‑d’s Torah whole again.”

Rabbi Yosef Yitzchak of Lubavitch heard this, and objected: “No, the identity of the Jew cannot be compared to erasable ink on parchment. Every Jew is indeed a letter in G‑d’s Torah, but a letter carved in stone. At times, the dust and dirt may accumulate and distort—or even completely conceal—the letter’s true form; but underneath it all, the letter remains whole. We need only sweep away the surface grime, and the letter, in all its perfection and beauty, will come to light.”

—  The Lubavitcher Rebbe
Just Business

Honestly, I’m so freaked the fuck out to be even talking about this. I’m scared he’s going to come back. But I can’t shut up about it. My dad might be able to accept this as what it is, but I refuse, given what’s going to happen to me no matter what I do.

I work at my dad’s diner on a busy stretch of road. However, since my grandfather’s death, and with him the loss of the secret recipe for his famous meatloaf, business has taken a nose dive. Funeral costs had my dad considering bankruptcy, much to my gran’s horror. She and granddad build this place up from the foundation. People would pass by and come in from everywhere, and everyone, no matter what you looked like or who you were holding hands with, was welcome.

It was Wednesday when the black cars pulled up to the diner.

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I wrote a little something to go with these drawings (there’s one more under the cut) about how Bill’s body becomes a burden to him after spending a few years in a human one. 

Inspired by Body by Mother Mother 

I’m putting the drabble under the cut because it pretty much pertains to suicidal thoughts and there’s a little bit of gore so there’s your warning. But the second picture is perfectly SFW. 

Other than that, it’s a pretty short read. Hope you like pain. 


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紙 Paper zhǐ

Seal script…
A lot trickier to carve than you’d think!

#chisel #capitals #carved #inscription #design #architecture
#calligraphy #lettering #carving #handlettering #blacknwhite_perfection #marble #lettercarving #alphabets #emptiness_is_a_design_pattern
#calligraphymasters #typography

#design #interiordesign #dynamic #art #washi #calligraphymasters
#calligraphy #lettering #handlettering #blacknwhite_perfection #blackletter #alphabets #Shodo #shodoartwork #emptiness_is_a_design_pattern #brushlettering #brushmind #書道 #ryokan #poetry #poet #japanese

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s i l l a g e | pt. one

Pairing: Reader / Jeon Jeongguk.

Genre: Soulmate!AU where soulmates are drawn to one another by the infliction of physical touch, whether it be pain or pleasure. But it is only initiated once the two people somewhat interact.

Count: 5,366 words.

Warnings: Some filthy smut.


sillage

siːˈjɑːʒ/

noun

the scent that lingers in the air, the trail left in the water, the impression made in space after something or somebody has been and gone.


When the term soulmate comes to mind, it is often associated with the general ideas of romance, of fairytales and happily ever afters. It is blended with a scene of two inevitable lovers seeing each other for the first time across the room, maybe at a library basked in the warmth of a fireplace, or a cafe with an atmosphere tainted by the strong aroma of grounded coffee beans. They lock eyes, one smiles and raises an eyebrow in a silent hello, interacting without voice, just the smallest of gestures and expressions. Then, one lifts their hand, not in a wave, but rather to lay it softly on their own forearm where they ever so gently squeeze the muscle – and suddenly, across the expanse of distance that separates them, they are connected by the sensation of the touch blossoming over the same area of muscle on the other being, who remains with their hands unmoving in their lap, as if it were of their own doing.

All at once, their two separate worlds come together, the sun and moon align, the flowers over in the cracked vase bloom, once wilted petals flourishing, and the birds dancing across the windowsill start to sing in melodious harmony. They are connected, the two strangers, in pain and pleasure, they are one – experiencing the sillage, the impression made in space after something or someone has been and gone, but through the physical sensations that grace their body. Soulmates.

So when she meets him, bloodstream laced with the intoxication that only vodka can provide, ordering the largest bowl of miso at two in the morning from Sumo, the local ramen shop that is a hotspot for clubbers after a heavy night of consuming too much liquor – the last word that comes to mind when she stares into his glazed over, drunken eyes is soulmate.

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Tales From the Past | Part 2

Continuation of this

“Did you enjoy talking with Mrs. McNeil? She has two centuries of stories and ties to these mountains and before that, she said her family is of Scottish origin! Can you imagine?” Lamb shook his head in delight. “Scotland isn’t so unlike these Carolinian mountains. I bet her ancestors felt very much at home here. And the stories she was able to tell! Did you hear her recount the story of when this entire ridge went to war for one woman? The legend is that the woman still lives in the cave we’re headed to! How fascinating it is! I do hope we are able to find something left of importance from the original settlers here. And I think—”

Uncle Lamb rambled on as we trudged the two miles up into the mountains to the cave he was set on finding. The entire journey, the knife seemed to burn in my pocket. I couldn’t stop from touching the handle or patting my side to feel it there, safe and sound.

“Here we are! Look at this Claire! It seems this could have once been a storage area.” Lamb flitted from side to side, buzzing with the excitement of a child at play.

“Yes! Yes! Oh my dear Claire! I found something, truly! Yes!”

Rolling my eyes with a smile, I followed back to where he was in the cave. “What is it, Uncle?”

“A cask of, what I believe to be, whiskey! This looks like it has survived the centuries. There’s no tell tale smell of a distillery for miles. We’ve found part of Mrs. McNeil’s legend! Seems the witch did live here or somewhere abouts. Perhaps her husband was a whiskey maker.”

Rolling the barrel carefully out into the light, Uncle Lamb examined everything from the lack of rotting on the barrel rungs to the style in which it was sealed and crafted.

“I thought the old woman said that she wasn’t a witch, but a healer who lived here?”

“Is that what she told you?” Lamb questioned, not looking up from his journal. “My dear, a female healer in those days was almost always considered a witch! The fact there isn’t a prominent story of a witch burning on this mountain is incredibly rare.”

“I just don’t think the woman was a witch.” My thumb stroked the handle of the knife as I said this.

Uncle Lamb twisted the barrel for a different angle in his sketches and unearthed a carving.

“Uncle!” I gasped, pulling the knife from my pocket and holding it up to the side of the barrel. “Look! Look!” I pointed frantically between the knife’s carved initials and the letters carved on the side of the whiskey cask.

Mde by: Jms. AMM Fraser, Fraser’s Ridge, Smer Btch 1778

His eyes went wide, going back and forth from the knife in my hand to the rung with the carved signature. The closer we began to examine the cask the more indentations were found all over the bottom section of the barrel, each scratched out when the barrel was obviously reused.

Jms. Fraser had the most, followed by a CE Fraser, F.Fraser, M. Fraser, R.Mac, B.Mac, and a GermJem FraMac dating back as far as the 1760s. I wanted to know who these people were. What were their actual names instead of just the partial names and initials.

“Uncle, I bet this Jms. Fraser is the one who made this knife for the CE Fraser! Are there records we can find to find out who these people are and where they came from?” I asked, more enthusiastically than expected.

Laughing, Uncle Lamb put a hand on my shoulder. “I’ve never seen you so excited before my dear! Yes, yes I’m sure we can find some records and if these are the original settlers we may even find something leading us back to Scotland!”

“Uncle,” I laughed. “You’re probably one of the only Englishmen who finds it exciting and wants to go to Scotland!”

The local library was open the following day and I was bouncing with excitement. I couldn’t wait to search and look for the Fraser’s who created the knife—which was a heavy weight in my pocket—and what happened to them.

“Come on, Uncle!” I cried as Lamb slowly meandered around the coffee shop around the corner from the library.

“Patience, my dear!” he chuckled, before finally settling on a chair with his newspaper. “It’ll be good for you to wait and enjoy the satisfaction of finding your answers.”

I groaned, flopping down into the chair beside him. “But I want to go now! I need to know what happened to them. I just… I have to know!”

Uncle Lamb quirked an eyebrow at me and grinned.

“Let’s go then,” he said, tucking the paper under his arm and placing his pipe back into his satchel.

The resources were minimal and dusty.

My heart sank as I saw the menial books containing records.

“Fraser, you said?” the clerk asked, lazily.

“Yes!” I bounced, hoping she’d pull a volume or two out for us to see.

“This way then.” She pointed towards a door I hadn’t noticed before. “The Fraser’s were one of the founding families of this area. We don’t have quite the extensive research that the state would have or even city hall, but we do have ledgers and sanctions tucked away. Be sure to put anything you touch back the way you found it.” She eyed us from behind her coke-bottle glasses. “We take pride in our collections and do not wish to lose anything.”

“You’ll have no problem from us, my dear,” Lamb reassured her, ushering me inside.

I spun in a circle taking it all in. It was a small room, no bigger than the bathroom at the hotel, but from ceiling to floor were bookshelves covered in old leather bound books. The one spot that wasn’t covered was a small window on the northern wall, just enough light to illuminate the room without direct exposure to the precious books inside.

“Well love, have at it! Let’s find your Fraser’s!”

The books all had some descendant or mention of a Fraser family, but was it my Fraser family? I didn’t know. An hour into our search, I finally found a James Fraser.

“Uncle!” I called. “Look here! James MacKenzie Fraser,” I read aloud, “Do you think this is him? The man who made the knife and the whisky cask?”

“I do believe it may very well be. Let’s see what else we can find on him, yes?” Uncle Lamb’s eyes twinkled in excitement as he pulled another musty ledger forward intent on the search.

This is one thing about Uncle Lamb and his hair-brained adventures that I love; when he’s found something interesting, he never gives up on discovering the person or item’s full history. The library in rural North Carolina, did not do much to help us find more of Mr. Fraser’s past. It lead us on a chase through the entire state and up the eastern seaboard of the United States. James Fraser was mentioned countless times as a man working for the state and as a wanted man. Army enlistments, battles fought at, and even public hearings where he made himself enemies, but not one ledger or book recounted where his tale originated, or that of his wife. At least that was until we found an old recounting from Lord Tyron.

‘...On the 12th Day of August, I granted a man pardon and land in the wilds of the western most part of the colony. Mr. James MacKenzie Fraser and wife Claire of Broch Morda, Scotland, will be in the King’s Service and hereby exempt of taxes laid on the land while in the service.’

“Broch Morda! Uncle where is this place?”

“The Highlands.”

Why Me?

okay so i’m gonna post it. there will be more parts of this. it’s wild. enjoy my fine furry friends (:

“Guys, we need to meet up now.” commanded Hotch as he darted up to the round table. Nervous glares shot between you and the other team members.

“What’s this all about?” Emily asked with obvious concern. The last time Hotch acted like this was with Ian Doyle, Emily’s ex-husband. You sat down at the table as you swirled your coffee in its cup. Penelope ran up to the board to present the case.

“Okay so 4 days ago, two women were murdered and one little boy was kidnapped.” she said with a long sigh. Spencer flipped through his file.

“How are we just now getting notified? A double homicide and a kidnapping 4 days ago and we got no phone call?” he said with obvious frustration. Something had been getting him lately but you couldn’t pinpoint what. He was your boyfriend and he had been for over a year. You had been his best friends months before that and you could read him like a book.

They originally thought that it was two killers and one abductor. But they took a closer look and she stopped as she flipped the screen to the next slide. It showed that the 2 dead women had the letters ‘ZGZWNG’ carved onto the victims’ temple of their heads. You heard everyones breathing hitch, especially Spencers. Penelope let out a small wince because she knew who this case was targeted at.

“Me. This has to be targeted at me.” Spencer muttered. Hotch grabbed a box from the middle of the table and pulled out Maeve Donovan’s case.

“We believe that this case may have to do with Maeve Donovan or her killer, Diane Turner.” Hotch said. He glanced down at his watch.

“The case is in D.C. When we get there, Reid and (Y/N), you head to the first crime scene. Derek and Rossi go to the second. Prentiss and I will go to the abduction site. Garcia will be coming as well and JJ will be with her. Cars go in 20.” he said as he left the room.

When the time came, you and Spencer got into the car and began to head to the first crime scene. You turned the radio on and blasted it. Oldies were playing and you and Spencer were having the time of your life. It was great until Spencer leaned over to kiss you. You suddenly heard a loud horn honking over the music. You jerked up from the kiss and saw a huge semi-truck heading straight towards you and Spencer.

“Spencer, watch out!” you screamed. He threw his arm in front of you and skidded the car over to try and avoid it. You heard a loud screeching noise and a bang. Spencer jerked his arm back. Everything was in a blur. A loud banging noise erupted and you were suddenly launched out of the car, still sitting in your seat. You flung forward and hit the ground back first. Half of the car was on the front of the semi-truck and the other was nowhere to be seen.

Ringing filled your ears. You laid there staring at the starry sky. You felt cold and surprisingly calm. It may have been the shock. Sirens began to come closer. You grasped around for Spencer, but he wasn’t there.

“Spence?” you sputtered as you coughed. You tried to move but you were stuck in your seat.

“Spencer?!” you screamed, hoping he would come running to you. But, he never came. You heard a loud booming noise. You saw an EMT run towards you.

“Ma’am, what’s your name?” he said. It sounded so quiet and all you could hear was his voice. “I’m Agent (Y/F/N) (Y/L/N). I was with a man, Agent Spencer Reid. We work for the BAU in Quantico.” you cried. He and another man picked you up and slowly maneuvered you into the ambulance. Everything went blurry, then black.

Originally posted by couplenotes

Originally posted by playinsquad