incetmgurl

I wanted to make a fun one-off NPC based off of Gillion Tidestrider for a campaign I'm DMing, but now my players have decided she is too pretty, want to marry her, and will follow her to the grave if I get her killed-

Mommy issues is the kind of thing that makes you look in the mirror and long for someone to treat you the same way your mom does. 

You wish someone would beam at your accomplishments, cook you your favorite meals and hold you as if you were made of porcelain. 

But they can only do this when you’ve earned it. They can only tell you how much you matter to them and how much they love you when you’ve executed every order they’ve given you and become a perfect reflection of themselves. 

God forbid someone holds you dear and takes care of you if you haven’t broken yourself for them. That’s how your mother loved you; if a mother’s is the purest form of love then why will no one love you like your mom did? 

Why does everyone but your mom give you love instead of making you earn it? Why do they love you even when you’re acting like something unlike them? 

You want someone to love you the way your mom does; The love where they tuck you into a bed of nails and wake you up to a floor covered in eggshells. 

You look in the mirror and long for someone to treat you the same way your mom does, and your reflection looks back with disgust. How could you ever love yourself? 

Not even your mother loved you. 

Not really. 

Maybe you’re just being selfish, after all the world has already given you so much. Maybe you’ve already gotten all the love you deserve; Because that’s the kind of thing mommy issues comes with. 

I love you mom, even if I can’t love myself, I can at least love the woman who brought me into this hell and raised me through it.

Genre: Dean X Reader, fluff (??), soulmate AU, slight angst/whump (if you squint)

Warnings: Description of injury/blood (let me know if I missed any) Summary: 

Summary: This is based on the soulmate AU where any unnatural markings or blemishes (cuts, bruises, stains, marker, ect…) on your body will show up on your soulmate’s body. You got the short straw with whoever your soulmate was-This crazy bastard was always getting the holy hell beat out of him. Waking up in the dead of night feeling like a truck had just run you over went from terrifying to extremely annoying as time went on, but you always did your best to stay safe after one of those nights. However, being a homicide detective, “safe” wasn’t a word you got to use often.

          “Back again?” The doctor asked, flipping through the clipboard Janice had left on the door. 

          “Don’t worry Dan, Janice has already patched me up and just wanted you to check me over before discharge in case this is anything like last time.” You explained, casually rolling up your shirt to show Dan your several bruised ribs and what once was a deep gash in your side. 

          You were in and out of the hospital so often that you were on a first-name basis with the majority of the staff and even friends with several. It was almost routine for you to walk- or even be carried in at least once a week with an assortment of bruises, open wounds and the occasional broken bone. They often joked that once you met your soulmate they would thank him or her for giving them such a dedicated customer, that is if your soulmate didn’t get themselves or you killed anytime soon. There have been several times when your soulmate must’ve made the choice to fight a bear or something because more than once, you’ve come in half dead. 

          "Looks all good to me, (Y/N)," Dan said and you rolled your shirt back down. 

          He signed your discharge form while you gingerly slipped on your coat and detective badge. Dan indiscreetly watched the detective badge glinting on your belt disapprovingly as he walked you to the front desk. 

          "Hey, you gave me the all-clear, doc. Besides, if I don’t leave now, I’ll be late.” You said as you slid the paper across to the desk for Oliver to look over. 

          “Are you sure you’re ready to go back to work? Right now, today? I mean, I discharged you but that doesn’t mean you should pass up some bed rest.” Dan advises. 

          “I really don’t think there’s a point, Doctor.” Oliver sighs, handing you back some papers. 

          “I’m sorry but, Oliver’s right, Dan.” You feign an over apologetic tone, slipping the papers into your bag while walking backwards “There’s been more of those creepy homicides and the PD needs all hands on deck. There’s nothing I can do.” 

          “Oh, that’s bull and we all know it.” Oliver calls out, making Dan snort. 

          “Hey, whose side are you on, Oliver?” You demand. But halfway out the door you turn back and joke “Don’t worry though, I’ll be careful. My soulmate really doesn’t need another injury!” 

          When you make it to the precinct no one needs to ask why you’re late. Your soulmate problems are a well-known routine here as well. You slide into your desk but before you can even begin to crack the surface of the mountain of files before you, your secondary rushes over, brimming with enthusiasm. 

          “So primary, what’s the plan for today? Check-in at the crime scene? Take a look at those corpses firsthand? Interview suspects? Well, I suppose we should properly look over the security footage we just got-“ 

          You have to grab Natasha's arm to get her to stop bouncing around. “Let’s tackle one question at a time. I know this is your first homicide case as a detective and it’s starting to get pretty damn interesting, but we need to keep our heads clear.” 

            You look Natasha in the eye and half expect to see her pupils vibrating out of excitement. When they don’t and she just nods so hard that her blonde ponytail almost flops over her head, you sit her down and continue; “So, what do we know about the killer, Palmer?”

          You’ve barely finished your question before Natasha starts chattering away “Again, you can just call me Tasha, I’m not big on formalities. It’s so weird y’know-“ 

          “Tasha?” 

          “Right, the killer. They first struck a week ago and killed Patricia Davids and Brian Lee We know their MO is to kill a man and a woman within twenty-four hours by stabbing the victim’s brain through the eye sockets. The man and woman are usually involved romantically in some way, so we’re thinking that the motivation is love and the killer is someone with a vendetta against romance. Have you found out anything else on this lead?” 

          And once again, before you can respond Natasha gets sidetracked "This works so well! This whole call and response thing where we bounce clues around is never something I got to do as a cop! I-“ 

          “Well I’m glad you enjoy this tactic, Tasha, but it’d kind of dead in the water if only you get to respond.” You explain, feeling slightly guilty when she sagged a little at getting shut down for the second time. 

           You leaned in conspiratorially and as expected, Tasha’s excitement came flooding back as she leaned in to listen like a schoolgirl being let in on a secret “I went and checked out each victim's itineraries leading up to the homicides and got a connection: The last time each couple was seen together was at Vicci’s Diner. I was thinkin-“ 

          “What’s so special about Vicci’s Diner?” An unfamiliar voice asked from behind you. 

          Slightly ticked at the fact that more reporters wanted info on the murders, you put on your best passive-aggressive smile and turned. 

          Two men you guessed to be in their early to mid-thirties, wearing layered overclothes and muted colours looked down at you. The taller one had a longer hair and slouched a little, almost like he didn’t want to intimidate anyone with his height. The shorter one had green eyes that were fixed on Natasha and you could’ve sensed from miles away that he was about to hit on her. 

          “I’m Sam, this is Dean.” The taller one introduces “We’d like to ask some questions about the Davids and Lee case.” 

          “I’m sorry, but as I’ve told the several other reporters; we’ve already had all the information we’re allowed to disclose published so you can go and check that source.” You said through a gritted smile before turning your back on them. 

          “Well, can’t you tell us again? We want to hear it straight from the source.” Dean says a little too automatically, giving away that they had coaxed info out of people one too many times. 

          “What was the crime scene like?” Sam asks, hot on Dean’s tail “Did it maybe smell odd? Did things not add up? Any weird patterns?” 

          Tasha opens her mouth eagerly to answer but you didn't trust Sam's bizarre questioning and their rundown attire showed that they weren’t reporting for anything too serious. 

          “Well it’s a murder scene so things did smell a bit fishy and if things added up we would’ve found the killer- I’m sorry but I didn’t catch what news publishers you were reporting for.” You pointed out, watching the men’s eyes meet and Dean crosses his arms across his chest to seem more authoritarian as he prepares to deliver what you know is going to be a lie. 

          “Who’s the primary?” Sam asks, now addressing the two of you and dodging the question. 

          “Oh, it's not me.” Tasha answers placing her hands proudly on your shoulders from behind “It’s detective (Y/N) (L/N).” 

          Dean looks almost surprised, as most people do when they find out that someone like you is a high-ranking detective. For some reason, it ticked you off more when Dean didn’t think that you were one to solve double homicides than it did anyone else. 

          Great now the lack of sleep from bleeding all night was making you seek approval from a total stranger. 

          “Damn okay, I was expecting your pretty lookn’ partner to bee the primary but I can see how you could’ve fought your way to the top.” Dean smoothly dishes out a compliment with a smirk and once again you can tell that this is something he did often. 

          Sam elbows Dean and resumes the one-sided questioning “Could you tell us something about Vicci’s Diner maybe? Has anything like this ever happened before in this city?” You sigh and stand up from your desk. 

          Placing a hand on each of their backs you turn the boys around and guide them to the exit “Vicci’s Diner is a really nice place downtown that had some great soup and occasionally carters to the homeless. Personally, I would recommend their grilled cheese and I would also like to work on the case so I actually have some new information to give you ‘reporters’.” 

          You gently nudge them out the precinct doors and scribble your address and number onto a scrap piece of paper “Now I don’t know who you guy actually work for but if you really are that desperate for a firsthand account swing by at night and you guys can help me finish my pie while we talk.” 

          The door closes in the Winchester’s face and you hurry back to your desk, massaging your temples.

           Did I really just give two complete strangers my address? God, what is wrong with me today? 

          Outside the precinct, Dean memorizes (Y/N)’s address before pocketing it. “Quit pacing Sammy, we got an address, it’s fine.” 

          “Yeah, we know where there’s a connection, but the detective didn’t give us any clues on whether or not it’s supernatural.” Sam opens the Impala doors and awkwardly clambers in. “Maybe we would’ve if you didn’t scare (Y/N) off with your questions. You might as well have been screaming “hey do you think a ghost killed those lovebirds?’” 

           Dean starts the engine and the loud banging of a drum solo fills the car. Sam can barely hear Dean when he waves the address in his face and says triumphantly “And I wasn’t talking about the diner’s address; I just got the address of a cute cop who just invited me over for pie because I gave one compliment. What do you think I could get if I bought them a couple of drinks?"

          "A restraining order," Sam mutters as the car takes off. 

          The break room in your precinct had been transformed in the last few hours into a mess of loose papers and gruesome pictures connected by thread beautiful mind style. The cuff of your shirt was indefinitely stained with dry erase marker from the frustrated wiping blank of the whiteboard every time a lead didn’t pan out. 

          You took a swig of room temperature coffee as you reread the ME’s report but the words seemed to have lost all meaning in the 2AM stupor you were currently swimming in. You absent-mindedly run your hands over the puckered line on your skin where your soulmate’s gash had been patched up in your stress and sigh deeply. 

          “What are you still doing here?” One of the night shift detectives asked, poking their head through the crack in the breakroom door “Go home, you look like a mess- and so does your workspace.” 

          “Thanks, Nosellla.” You snap, picking your way across the cluttered room to shut the door and other distractions out. 

          Nosella wasn’t wrong though; you had bitten your nailbeds into raw oblivion and had to band-aid a few fingers. Your hair stuck up at the front and became an impenetrable net at the back from all the times you had run fingers through it and you didn’t even need a mirror to know that you had some killer bags under your bloodshot eyes. 

          Between your soulmate’s antics and this impossible case, you would be lucky to have gotten twelve hours of sleep in the last week. Maybe it was the stress or sleep deprivation or just delusions in general but you rolled up your sleeve and stood by the sink with a washable marker. 

          When you were a kid, you and your soulmate would hold little conversations by writing messages on your arm for the other to see and washing it off to leave room for a response. 

          You wouldn’t be surprised if you were called in to do a psych eval tomorrow for leaning over a running sink with a red marked poised against your forearm. The mess around you must not help your case either but what the hell-you were desperate. The paranoia sent you down a spiral of wondering if your soulmate- one of the only sure things in your life right now- was out there and alive. He had stopped responding when the beatings started getting really bad and you hadn’t “talked” in decades. 

          “Hey guess who?” you scribbled and instantly dunked your arm under the water like one would toss away a phone after sending a risqué text. 

           “I was starting to think that you’d disappeared until it felt like someone was trying to rip off my fingernails today. Are you okay?” 

          Your heart soared and you let out a breath you’ve been holding since the marker first touched your skin. 

           You washed off his black ink and wrote in place: “I’m fine, just stressed. Since I have you “talking” I have a question for you actually.” 

          "Shoot," He wrote 

          “I know you wouldn’t tell me when we were kids because you said it was dangerous but we’ve both gotta be adults now, right? I mean you wouldn’t even want to get close to me as we grew up because apparently any connection at all could be dangerous. I kinda want to know who on earth my soulmate is yknow. All I know is that you’re an adult male who has a habit of getting the shit beat out of them. I want to meet you one day, hopefully soon?”

          It takes him much longer to respond this time and the letters appear haltingly, without the usual ‘no looking back’ penmanship that you were used to. “Listen meeting my soulmate sounds great but look at the hell I’m putting you through without even meeting you. I could never put you through what I have to do every day and people who I talk to have a habit of getting hurt.” 

          Your heart clenches for him but you must resist the urge to roll your eyes. “I already go through everything you go through if that hasn’t toughened me up then my job certainly has. If what you go through is hell than what kind of soulmate am I to just stand here and live in blissful ignorance?” 

          You can feel that he’s pressing the pen harder into his skin as he rushes to finish his statement in his annoyance “It’s complicated, what do you think this is a fairy tale? You can’t just rush into my life like a knight in shining armour and expect to come out in one piece.” 

          Your phone pings and you check it one-handed as you run your other arm under the tap. The stakeout crew that you had stationed by Vicci’s with Tasha had just texted you about a suspicious car that had parked across the street behind the diner but stayed stationary with the engine idling and no one entering or exiting. 

           “Haha, yes!!” You exclaim out loud at the news of a concrete lead and possible suspects. 

          You quickly text the team to take photo evidence but not to engage until you got there and end the unfulfilling conversation with your still nameless soulmate: “I’m still here aren’t I? Trust me when I say I do have field experience with getting near-fatal injuries. Speaking of my job, duty calls but please consider trusting me. We are soulmates and I’d hate for you to actually die one day without me even knowing your name.”

          “Who said anything about me dying?” 

          “Call it gut instinct.” 

          Under a shadowed overpass you tap on the window of the stakeout car and it whirs down to reveal Tasha’s always grinning face. “You took long enough, (Y/N).” She whispers. 

           “Sorry.” You apologize glancing around for eavesdroppers before continuing: “ So what’s the deal?” 

          “Well, they know what they’re doing.” Tasha says with an edge to her whispers “They parked somewhere dark so we couldn’t really get their profiles or see what kind of guns they pulled out of their trunk. But it looked like this wasn’t their first time going into a dinner heavily armed.”

           “Good to know.” You say, eyeing the suddenly sinister diner “Tasha vest on and with me. We’ll go in and split up and you two be ready to call for backup on my call.” You order the team in the car. 

           You slip on the familiar weight of your Kevlar vest and draw your firearm. Tasha grins at you and gives you a manicured thumbs up and you smile tensely and nod. 

          This could be the day you make the biggest break of your career, but despite this, you think back to your soulmate. You think of the hell he refuses to put you through, wherever he is right now, while you’re hunting down a pair of potential serial killers, and you change your mind. This could be the day you prove to your soulmate that you have the balls to walk through hell with him. 

          It’s now or never; You quietly push aside the yellow tape barring off the retro diner door and step into the dark reception area. You almost gasp when your eyes adjust to the dark and see an enormous silhouette no more than a few feet from the nearest booth. You barely have time to load your gun when: 

          “SAM DOWN!”