Tʜᴇʀᴇ's ɢᴏɴɴᴀ ʙᴇ ᴀ ʜᴇᴀʀᴛᴀᴄʜᴇ ᴛᴏɴɪɢʜᴛ

[righteously]

Who: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Jo Harvelle, Castiel, Ciri, Geralt, Jaskier, Sam Wilson, probably others that I'm forgetting
When: Last week and a half of May
Where: Cadens, the bad lands, and the Winchester-Harvelle house
What: Demon Dean triggers his master plan to snatch Ciri and take her to the singularity to portal him off-world. The gang catches up and things get violent before Dean is eventually subdued and cured.
Warnings: Demons trying to be as demonic as possible, with all the gross violence and mean language that entails. Also, needles.

𝑆𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑏𝑜𝑑𝑦 𝑖𝑠 𝑔𝑜𝑛𝑛𝑎 ℎ𝑢𝑟𝑡 𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑜𝑛𝑒
𝐵𝑒𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑛𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡 𝑖𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑟𝑜𝑢𝑔ℎ
𝑆𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑏𝑜𝑑𝑦 𝑖𝑠 𝑔𝑜𝑛𝑛𝑎 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑒 𝑢𝑛𝑑𝑜𝑛𝑒
𝐼𝑡'𝑠 𝑛𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛' 𝑤𝑒 𝑐𝑎𝑛 𝑑𝑜
𝐸𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑦𝑏𝑜𝑑𝑦 𝑤𝑎𝑛𝑡𝑠 𝑡𝑜 𝑡𝑜𝑢𝑐ℎ 𝑠𝑜𝑚𝑒𝑏𝑜𝑑𝑦
𝐼𝑓 𝑖𝑡 𝑡𝑎𝑘𝑒𝑠 𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑛𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡
𝐸𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑦𝑏𝑜𝑑𝑦 𝑤𝑎𝑛𝑡𝑠 𝑡𝑜 𝑡𝑎𝑘𝑒 𝑎 𝑙𝑖𝑡𝑡𝑙𝑒 𝑐ℎ𝑎𝑛𝑐𝑒
𝑀𝑎𝑘𝑒 𝑖𝑡 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑒 𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑟𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡
𝑇ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒'𝑠 𝑔𝑜𝑛𝑛𝑎 𝑏𝑒 𝑎 ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑡𝑎𝑐ℎ𝑒 𝑡𝑜𝑛𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡
𝐴 ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑡𝑎𝑐ℎ𝑒 𝑡𝑜𝑛𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡 𝐼 𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑤
𝑇ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒'𝑠 𝑔𝑜𝑛𝑛𝑎 𝑏𝑒 𝑎 ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑡𝑎𝑐ℎ𝑒 𝑡𝑜𝑛𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡
𝐴 ℎ𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑡𝑎𝑐ℎ𝑒 𝑡𝑜𝑛𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡 𝐼 𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑤
𝐿𝑜𝑟𝑑 𝐼 𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑤

Comments

𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑘𝑖𝑑𝑛𝑎𝑝𝑝𝑖𝑛𝑔

[righteously]

𝑑𝑒𝑎𝑛 & 𝑐𝑖𝑟𝑖

[righteously]

( He's been watching her for the better part of three days. Always from a distance, always under cloak, and — if he can help it — never close enough for that pain in the ass yellow-eyed freak to get a strong whiff of him distinctly above the general smell of unwashed peasant.

He's seen the ways she comes and goes. He's gotten a general sense of when she's likely to be alone, when her guard is the most lowered. There's something both calming and distracting about horses, and they're typically noisy enough to cover the soft, barely-audible sound of footsteps.

On day three, he thinks the timing is as good as it ever will be. He waits until she's busy brushing down her ride, and then moves with unnatural speed. He's got a head and a hundred pounds on her normally, he'd be a dangerous assailant as a human. As a demon, with all the extra strength and other such bullshit that entails, it's... worse.

He figures it should be easy enough to abruptly wrap a thick forearm around her neck and squeeze. To haul her up on her toes where she'll struggle for purchase, and slowly cut off her air supply. )

[wiedzminka]

[ If he was aware of Ciri's habits before he started tracking her closely, Dean will have noticed her pattern change abruptly over the last two days. She hasn't been going home; instead, Ciri has started staying not at the little apartment above the bakery that Dean knows is where she lives with Geralt and Jaskier, but at a large, bright-windowed house of two stories. Julie and Nadine, one or both, are nearly always with her, and Sam goes in and out as well. Ciri, it appears, keeps her guard up the entire time she's around or inside the house, sleeping in shifts when Sam isn't.

But she can't stand guard at their door 24/7. They aren't alone, and they aren't defenseless; she needs some fresh air and a little stress relief every once in a while. Though Ciri is hesitant to stray far, she does stop in at the stables a couple of times to check on Nixie, who sorely needs exercise. She pays the stable to take care of her horse, but Ciri's preference has always been to take her out for rides frequently when she can, and after being gone several weeks all too recently, she can't help but feel a bit guilty not spending as much time with Nixie.

The mare's ears flick, turning outward, and she shifts her weight with a snort as Ciri rubs down her flank. It's enough to have her raising her head, a faint tingle on the back of her neck with the sense of being watched.

She isn't fast enough. The arm wraps around her neck faster than humanly possible, lifting her up in the same motion before she can get her fingers under it. The brush falls from her hand; the horse snorts again, agitated now, stamping in place.

The panic floods Ciri with adrenaline, but it's too little too late when she didn't even get to take a deep breath. She uses the momentum of kicking out to throw herself backwards against her assailant, at the same time snatching her dagger from its sheath to stab blindly into where she judges ribs or stomach should be.

It only takes a few seconds. Every moment counts. She fights, but her vision goes black almost immediately. ]

[righteously]

( She's a skilled fighter, she has been from the moment Dean met her. Of course every one of her blows land. She'll feel the resistance and give of her dagger sinking into flesh, into skin then fat then muscle. One or two likely even scrape against bone.

But this fight isn't fair. It isn't just the demonic strength she has against her, it's the fact that he can't die. The fact that the wounds begin to close and heal the second the blade leaves his flesh. The most it earns from him is a vaguely pained, annoyed grunt — but the grip around her throat doesn't falter.

In five or so minutes, the only proof she ever stabbed him will be in the holes left in his shirt.

As her fighting begins to waver, he ducks in to murmur soothingly into her ear. )

Shhh, shhh... Take it easy. Just relax. ( And then, as she begins to go limp, softly: ) There we go.

( Dean has not paid this month's fee for Karen's rental, but guess how many fucks he gives about that? Nary a one; it takes him only a minute to saddle her, then to bind Ciri's wrists and legs. Less than a second to carelessly throw her over the saddle stomach-down, hanging off like a sack of potatoes, and another second to throw a cloak over her. Only the bare minimum of rations and supplies hang on Karen's saddle bags; he doesn't need to eat, drink, or sleep. He'll heal faster than the sun can burn him. He only needs enough to keep her alive to reach the singularity, and a fifth of whiskey for himself as a treat.

With a casual, nonchalant air, Dean leads Karen through mostly vacant streets. Enough folks have seen him carting back the remains of monsters for his contracts that they barely glance at him; his death wasn't exactly published in any obituaries. It won't have spread far beyond the summoned. The locals are oblivious.

Soon enough, they're out of the city proper, and they begin their long, long journey across the Bad Lands. )

𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑠

[righteously]

( feel free to use this for any related open starters or closed threads )

𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑓𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡 𝑠𝑐𝑒𝑛𝑒

[righteously]

𝑝ℎ𝑎𝑠𝑒 𝑜𝑛𝑒: 𝑑𝑒𝑎𝑛 & 𝑔𝑒𝑟𝑎𝑙𝑡

[righteously]

( Maybe it's the time wasted with Ciri's little escape attempt that screws him over. Maybe it's just that they're moving slower, being two people with a single horse between them — one of them dragging her damn feet at any given turn. Maybe Geralt's just motivated enough to wear his own horse into the ground in high-speed pursuit to catch up.

Whatever the case, he'll spot them in the Bad Lands, miles and miles away from Cadens. His daughter's an unmistakable shock of white thrown carelessly over a horse, ankles and wrists bound, a little blood smeared across her temple. Beside her, Dean walks swiftly and with purpose, leading the horse with reins in hand. His rifle is strapped across broad shoulders, his sword at his hip.

He's ready. He may not know for sure that Geralt is going to show up, or exactly when, but he'd have to be a goddamn moron not to prepare for it. If that son of a bitch is enough of a fool to chase him down... well, one of them won't walk away from this in the end. )

[gynvael]

[ Even before he learned Ciri went missing, Geralt had begun tracking Dean down. Killing is what he does, but tracking is how he gets the killing done; you can't be good at one without the other. The portals help him scour Aquila, then Libertas. He does not know where Dean is, but he at least confirms that Dean is not there. In either of those places.

He's returned to Cadens by the time he hears from Sam, then Ciri. By the time he he realizes.

It is something that he even weighs alerting anyone else that Dean is here, somewhere near in the Free Cities. He is not interested in Dean's friends putting his daughter at risk, for the sake of their friend. But Jaskier's words ring. And if something were to happen to Geralt, he needs others warned. They understand a creature from their world in ways he does not. He takes the chance—nothing will matter if Ciri isn't safe. Vengeance is not the goal. Nor is putting down a monster. His priority is to save Ciri. What happens to the demon through the course of that is irrelevant.

A description and a trail to follow are all he needs. The wastelands are as familiar as the back of his hand. He cuts through a pass, hooves pounding across the dusty sand. The sun scorches from above—leather and metal blistering to the touch. Maybe Dean sees him, maybe he doesn't. Geralt doesn't hesitate either way, loosing an arrow from his crossbow that arcs not at Dean, but at Dean's horse—the most vulnerable target.

Whether or not it strikes its mark, Geralt spins Roach, galloping straight across Dean's path, sword in his other hand. ]

[righteously]

( The arrow hits its target. If he cared enough, maybe he could have done something to deflect it reflexively when the movement caught his eye. Maybe as a demon he could move swiftly enough to grab it, or maybe not. They'll never find out, because demons don't give a shit about horses. She is not his priority, not even as it embeds itself several inches into her shoulder and she stumbles, her knee hitting the dirt and a squeal of pain scraping from her throat.

He's too busy tracking the trajectory of the arrow backward to its source.

He sighs. It sounds resigned. He always knew this was a likelihood, there was always a very good chance this could happen.

But he knows something else, too:
Geralt can die. He's seen it happen. He, on the other hand, cannot. As long as parts of him remain, he will heal. Those are pretty good odds.

He draws his sword, and so begins the game. )

Well, if it ain't Father of the Year over here finally rolling in. I'd say better late than never, but I can't get over the fact that you left her to get got in the first place.

( Howdy, Gerald. )

𝑝ℎ𝑎𝑠𝑒 𝑡𝑤𝑜: 𝑎𝑣𝑒𝑛𝑔𝑒𝑟𝑠 𝑎𝑠𝑠𝑒𝑚𝑏𝑙𝑒

[righteously]

( no set tag order, just jump in when it feels right. )

[tobeclosetohim]

[ As soon as Geralt sends word, Jo grabs Sam and they're out the door
(only stopping by Cas' room to check his forehead with the back of her hand and then jot a fast note;

Wake up, Feathers. We need you.
I need you. Dean does.
It's fucking D-Day.

After that, Jo's game face goes on, and it doesn't come off. It's horses and getting out the gates. It's riding hard across the badlands (and hoping none of the idiot people out here with half their names and wants for their heads on pikes aren't about, too). She goes the way Geralt said to, with no question, no hesitation, only the occasional continual check of Sam riding at the edge of her vision.

It's long and hazy, almost like a mirage at first, the first movements at the edges of distance. Then it becomes clearer with aching seconds, like everything is in slow motion, and the horse isn't riding so hard it's bouncing her bounce with each shift. Jo's been sure what to expect since Geralt's words, but it's still heart-seizing to be coming up at them both, going at each other, fast and fierce, no holds barred. ]

[outwear]

[ Coming back from wherever he's gone is a slow crawl, all-fours raking at the ground, but here he is. He rides hard, his precision so much better than when he'd arrived, but he's thinking nothing of that as they push their horses. Heavy breathing under his spurs, frothy spit from the bridle, and Sam's roaring internal monologue.

Find him, find him, find him—

It takes no seconds at all to process the scene and he grits his teeth. His voice is a razor, thin and sharp as his eyes narrow on the scene ahead. ]

There.

[ The stated fact isn't necessary, but it rumbles out of Sam brooking no argument in his intentions. He may be looking at his brother as a demon, and he may be looking at Geralt as his ally in this endeavor, but Sam's loyalties lie with Dean, Jo, Cas, and with Jack.

(This is his family and he is not giving it up.) ]

Come on—!

[ He spurs his horse again and it grunts and whinnies and claws at the ground much like Sam had, eking out inches more on the gait. He feels the others pounding the ground rhythmically like drums and it very nearly rears up a warcry. If this were an all-out battle and not a rescue mission, he would. ]

𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑠

[righteously]

( feel free to use this for any related open starters or closed threads )

𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑐𝑢𝑟𝑒

[righteously]

𝑜𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑠

[righteously]

( feel free to use this for any related open starters or closed threads )

confessions

[unwings]

[ no one's terribly comfortable with this set up. the witcher doesn't seem like the confessing sins type, and the last couple times cas was in a church, it was to question a woman's face, or to murder the priest. he tried to tell the others being an angel doesn't make him a holy man, but apparently he remains the best qualified. so here they are, off to the side of the group, sat behind some boulders for some measure of privacy.

it isn't lost on him how the two of them were ready to rip each others heads off, but an understanding has been reached, and as long as everyone's on board to help dean rather than execute him, the angel's happy. cas shifts awkwardly, and attempts to explain how this works. ]

This is new territory, and I'm unsure how well it translates to whatever dogma may have been observed in your world, but, um.

[ looking at geralt, castiel's 99% sure religious practice has not been at the top of his priority list, nor is it dean's or sam's or any hunter castiel's met. they're all too deeply aware of how God's screwed them. but, demon and angel tablets are God spells, so here we are, doing the god thing. ]

There are ten commandments a man in a desert put together, but those were... Creative license was taken. [ cas waves a hand, dismissing it. moses had a lot going on and a bunch of unruly refugees to organize, who could blame him. ] The important sins are what you might expect - murder, theft, dishonesty, general crimes against humanity. It starts with "forgive me, father, for I have sinned", you speak your sins, I say "you are forgiven" and assign a selection of prayers or minor acts of penance.

Will that... work for you?

[gynvael]

[ The irony is, out of the hunters gathered here, Geralt can probably be considered the most aligned with some semblance of religion. He spent a portion of his childhood at a temple, studying under a priestess. Questions of faith aren't for him—he doesn't care who believes in what; he just prefers not to bother with the intangible—but there are important lessons from the experience he has kept with him.

This, however, is. Something else. The sort of performative horseshit he would not give the time of day to under usual circumstances. They are not under usual circumstances. And though his agreement to do this was reluctant, to say the least, he knows it is what Ciri wants. More than that, it isn't as though things can go much more wrong. If it doesn't work, he returns to his first plan: removing the threat, permanently.

(He wants nothing more than his friend back. But he knows better than to get tangled up in distant hopes.)

Geralt sighs. He's tired. He's bleeding. ] My father disappeared when I was a boy, and I'm certain he committed more crimes than I have.

[ Why is he asking a dead man for forgiveness. Additionally: ]

Do you require a detailed list?

[ Ideally not. They'll be here for hours. ]

jo.

[gynvael]

Geralt rarely keeps watch in the room. He does not wish to waste time listening to the demon's pointless barbs and he can hear perfectly fine from outside the door, should anything happen. Besides, the others are standing vigil. He imagines not even Castiel will be foolish enough to let Dean loose. Not while the cure is underway.

So outside the room is where Jo will find him. He's seated on the ground, purloined bottle of whisky uncorked. Half of it is empty, though Geralt doesn't demonstrate any sign of being less than sober. His eyes are clear, returned to their usual gold. Mostly, he's using the liquor to ease the pounding headache that's plagued him since the toxicity flushed from his system. An effect he has questions about, but which he's decided to confront later.

There's still blood on his hands, staining his white hair. Sand cakes his boots. His wounds are healed, but he doesn't look any less like shit. Outside, the half-moon is bright in the night sky.

When Jo comes near, he glances up—a form of acknowledgement if not quite a greeting. Last he saw, she was flat in the dirt. He missed what the fuck happened there—thanks to an angel wrestling him—but he expects it must have been the demon's doing.

jaskier.

[gynvael]

[ Seeing how this is not his home, it's a little difficult finding a place away from the others. Geralt climbs the roof in the end. Ideal option, all things considered. He can still hear through the windows.

He brings another bottle of whisky with him. Might've stolen it out of the hunters' cabinets, might've gotten Jaskier to bring him some. Doesn't really matter, he just wants to keep drinking. They're waiting, still, for results. No one can quite tell him how long it might take. Could be a day, could be a week. Between the unknown properties of his blood and the Mark's behaviour on this sphere, who the fuck can say?

But he won't leave Dean while his state is uncertain. So he's here, waiting, Ciri recovering nearby. He's left her side for now while she rests, knowing she would want him to keep a close eye on the demon. Jaskier has remained, as well. Geralt has not argued or tried to send him home. Truthfully, he wants his friend nearby. Jaskier's come this far, after all. He has Jaskier to thank in helping him stop the demon from reaching Ciri.

It's his friend whom he notices below, door swinging open into the night. He glances down—gives the bottle a small shake as an invitation. If the bard wants to join. ]

sam winchester.

[gynvael]

Never one to linger, Geralt exits to another area of the house after his conversation with Jo. He isn't fond of being here in the first place. The entire curing process leaves him uneasy, uncertain. Truth be known, answers are rarely so simple. Endings rarely so forgiving.

But he's willing to be proven wrong. That's more than he's offered most. (Only one other person, in fact.)

He has not stopped drinking since they returned to Cadens. He doesn't stop now. If he isn't raiding the cabinets that clearly don't belong to him, he's getting a bottle from the tavern down the road. None of it is strong enough to actually inebriate him—which, under the circumstances, is not what he's seeking regardless.

The demon remains a threat. Will be until this is squarely over.

Dean's brother will find him perched on the kitchen table, studying nothing in particular. He's listening is what he is—heartbeats and footsteps that fill the air around him. He can hear it change in the demon, ever so slightly, as the hours pass. Unbothered by the blood in his hair, staining his hands, the only attempt Geralt's made at cleaning up is that he's tied his hair back up again, after it fell loose during the fight.

His sword isn't on him, but it isn't far. He's made sure it's on hand just in case. Things can, he knows, go sour in a blink.

𝑣𝑎𝑟𝑖𝑜𝑢𝑠 𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑔𝑒𝑠

[righteously]

FIRST HALF

He sits in the basement cell of Winchester-Harvelle house, planted atop a devil's trap that keeps him grounded. Somebody, at some point, has gone overboard beyond this and chained his arms and legs to his iron throne. He's a caged lion, more than willing to sink his teeth into anybody careless enough to get too close without their guard properly up.

For the first four or so hours of the ritual, things might seem a little disheartening. Every hour on the hour, a hilariously sin-unburdened Geralt stoically enters to stab a needle of his own "purified" blood into Dean's neck, and though he grits his teeth and hisses, though the mark on his arm sears an angry red, it doesn't seem to be doing much else. Anyone who happens to enter the room with him, or in between these sessions on their own, will be subject to the most acerbic, mocking conversation he's capable of digging up.

SECOND HALF

After about hour five, things... start to take a turn. He's sweating visibly; it clings to the roots of his hair, there's a sheen of it on his brow. His shirt between the shoulder blades and under his arms is soaked through, clinging to his body. His breathing is ragged, his skin clammy.

Maybe he seems angry on the surface, but anybody with particularly keen insight will be able to see the truth of it: he's afraid. Afraid, and likely to say anything that will either put a stop to this, or get him flat-out killed rather than have the ritual finish.

ᴛʜᴇʀᴇ'ꜱ ɴᴏ ᴅɪꜱᴛᴀɴᴄᴇ ᴛᴏᴏ ꜰᴀʀ, ᴛᴏᴏ ᴅᴀʀᴋ

[tobeclosetohim]

Jo gave up pretending she was going back upstairs after about the first fifteen minutes down here. A sentiment shared by a few of them. She can see the same thing in Sam's eyes, Cas', every next time any of them looks to any other: that hope so tightly strung, so frayed it's being held by will, over a chasm where nothing can be promised, because this has never been done before.

She sits—one of her knives snapping back and forth, fluid and fast, mindlessly in her hand—until she can't sit lest she go out of her skin. Stands until the same thing can be said of standing. Time crawls by slower than inches. Impatient habit has her reach up once or twice to the necklace at her throat, only to realize once again it's broken and to tuck it back inside her shirt.

After months of research turned up nothing, there's one hell of a backend hail mary in play, and as the first few hours tick by, Dean unchanged, the tension only mounts. Desperation is so much more insidious than hope, which is how Jo finds herself back at that door again to check. It's not too long off when Geralt will need to dose him again.

mid-cure.

[gynvael]

[ Regrettably, Geralt doesn't feel especially unburdened. He isn't certain how he feels. He gathers the others are hopeful it'll work. Some part of him is, too, but he can't decide how much he trusts the process. All he knows is, he's nearby to watch if there's progress—but also in case shit goes wrong.

As it so often does.

Ciri is resting, so is Jaskier. If there's tension amongst them, Geralt has deftly ignored it. As long as Ciri is safe, he doesn't particularly give a shit who holds a grudge against him.

The demon talks much, which Geralt equally ignores. Doesn't stay long, normally, except this time—for once—he's the only one in the room. Perhaps the rest are outside, resting, occupied. Whatever the reason, Geralt remains after the requisite injection that only seems to burn the demon and not much else. Geralt's expression is difficult to read, but a general aura of discontent is most obvious. His head is still pounding, though his physical wounds are healed.

He just wants this over—whether that means putting Dean to rest for good or a successful cure. ]

open to all errybody

[unwings]

[ throughout the entirety of Dean’s captivity, Castiel stands sentry at the door. This he knows, this he’s done for eons, guarding at the garrison wall, looking down on humanity while they discovered fire, made tools, built civilizations, and destroyed them through war, pestilence, apocalyptic weapons.

Leaning against a wall for a few days is nothing in comparison. Despite Dean’s protests, he often spends the whole 8(ish) hours the brothers slept watching over them, waiting for dawn. He no longer eats, sleeps, needs showers or bathroom breaks. He misses nothing. Castiel’s eyes rarely leave Dean, save for when someone comes to spend time with the demon parading in his friend’s (love’s) skin. The angel politely steps out, shifts his post to the other side of the door he guards, but he’s still listening in to murmurs, breathing, heart rates, pin drops.

When they’re alone, the demon talks, taunts and prods, digging for weaknesses to exploit. It puts on a show of the Dean he loves and longs for. Cas’s chest aches to rush over, tear the chains off him and drag the man into his arms, but he knows this act. He’s a good soldier, a well trained sentinel, he knows better. When the urge pulls too sharply at his chest, he digs into the physiology of his vessel, silently reducing its auditory processing to about the level of a 110 year old man, and retaining the multidimensional vision of an angel. Dean can rant and rave all he likes - he’ll only receive the perpetually cold, silent gaze of a marble statue, eternally keeping watch.

Castiel declines any offers for a break, or refreshment, but if anyone would like to sit and talk, he’s happy to. If the demon is being problematic, or it’s something they don’t want overheard (Cas will politely remind that Knights of Hell have superhuman senses), he’s happy to pop back to the other side of the door, but he won’t be pulled far from it. ]

𝑎𝑛𝑦𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑒𝑙𝑠𝑒

[righteously]

( feel free to use this for open starters or closed threads during any other point in the timeline. )