#Mystery Man Fanfiction

[underground-secret]

The Hunter and the Witch~ Dean Winchester x f!reader

Description: The infamous “Hook Man” seems to terrorize a small college town in Iowa, leading these hunters to take care of it.

Warning: Cannon violence, slight description of a corpse, guns, ghosts, flirting 🤭, sitting on lap, slight fake dating, mentions of sexual activity, creepy college boy for like 2 seconds

Tag list: @jesllianaquilesrolonsworld @okayiamkassandra @fablesrose @ada--44

A/N: B/N = brothers name. Yes i haven’t forgotten that reader has a brother i just never had an excuse to bring him up. Anyways his lil convo with reader is based on one i had with my brother, i figured y/n is basically based on me from how i react to things and my speaking mannerisms so i might as well base her brother off my own. (hope you enjoy)

Word count: Around 7K

Hook Man

(Master list, Previous Ch., Next Ch)

The spring breeze rustles my hair as I diligently sip on the chai latte in front of me, the small outdoor cafe we sat at bringing me some much needed peace after a hectic last hunt.

Deans next to me, his arm around my chair practically bringing us closer even as his brother stands at a payphone on the phone with the FBI.

Suddenly my phone rings, the familiar yet annoying buzz ringing in my sweater pocket. Dean looks at me with a raised eyebrow. I shrug at him, I have no idea why or who would be calling me. I fumble the phone out of my pocket looking at the name that was printed on the screen of my flip phone, ‘B/N :D’ sliding across the small screen.

“Oh! It’s my brother!” I smile at Dean. He smiles at me back beneath the cup he brought to his lips, he pulls it away from him “Say ‘Hi’ for us” he requests. Both boys have kind of always been close with my brother, especially Dean who was closer to him in age.

I scoot my seat back, getting up from the white metal chair and walking away slightly, the opposite way in which Sam stood. I flip my phone open with a satisfying click, answering the phone “Hi B/N!” I answer.

“Hey! How are you?” He asks me, his voice sweet and smiley as he speaks. “Busy and tired”, I answer, “What about you?”

“Oh you know, tired also…but I haven’t heard from you in a couple of months. Like at all, you could have texted you know” He lectures and I know he’s more disappointed in me then angry, he’s always been scared that we would become distant considering we lived in different states and that I wasn’t the best at communicating first.

“I’m sorry” I sigh, disappointed in myself too, “I’ve been hunting.”

“All this time? Alone?!” he shoots back without missing a beat.

“No! no no. I don’t do long hunting trips alone… I’m, uh, well Dean came to me and said he needed my help an-“ I explain getting cut off by my brother, “And you can’t say no” He laughs.

“Yeah” I exhale, laughing along with him, “They say hi by the way.”

“Say hi for me too and that if anything happens to you I will personally track them down and remove their orga-“

“Okay okay! I get it yup!… You know they’d never let anything happen to me” I explain, even though under the concealer I wore there were bruises still healing from the shapeshifter hunt. (I don’t blame either one of the boys for what happened.)

“Yeah well I love you and miss you and I wish you’d call more especially if ur out hunting, I need to know you’re safe.” He tells me.

“I love you too, I promise I will call you at least twice a week for updates.” I smile.

“You better, anyways I wish I could talk longer but I’m sitting in the parking lot of my job and have to go in.” He explains. “Alright, bye bye love you!” I finished. “Love you too” he says before hanging up.

I pocket my phone twirling around with a smile on my face. Sam’s back at the table now talking to his brother and by the scowl on his face I'd say his call hadn’t gone well. I walk back over to my seat, Dean's arm still around the chair, “What did I miss?” I ask as I sink down into the chair.

“Dads not in the FBI’s Missing Persons Data Bank and Dean found a possible new hunt for us” Sam brings me up to speed, looking disappointed.

“Here check it out” Dean turns the laptop towards me scrolling up to the beginning of the article, “Ankeny, Iowa. It’s only about a hundred miles from here.”

I read through the article quickly, years of having to read as well as just for fun making me a fast reader. A key point sticking out to me, ‘The mutilated body was found near the victim’s car, parked on 9 Mile Road.’

“I think it might not be anything. One freaked out witness who didn’t see anything? Doesn’t mean it’s the Invisible Man.” Sam points out as I finish reading. “And I think it’s worth checking out, Dad would” Dean counters, giving his brother a pointed look.

“I mean emotions can affect the liability of an eyewitness. However, the fact that the body was suspended from a bridge right over the car in presumably a matter of minutes, considering the time of death and the arrival at the scene, without the witness seeing a thing- like at all is a little bazaar. It’s probably worth checking out.” I ramble out.

“Ha! See” Dean smirks.

The Impala comes to a stop in front of a fraternity house, a big white townhouse, where the victim Rich used to live. It seems like an army of men are outside working on all sorts of cars, was this some sort of bonding thing?

I may have gone to college but I never interacted with frats and I certainly have never seen them all working on different cars all together. Is this normal? Is this what guys do?

We get out of the car immediately getting the attention of the guys working, all their eyes pinned to us.

“Nice wheels.” Dean starts, gaining weird looks from the younger men, “We’re your fraternity brothers. From Ohio. We’re new in town. Transfers. Looking for a place to stay.” He grins. One of the boys nods slowly at him, his gaze then switching to me. He eyed me up and down as if he’s never seen a woman before, despite being in a frat. Maybe that was unfair to say, stereotypes and all that, but it still made my skin crawl and I was suddenly all too aware of the fact that I had chosen to wear a skirt this morning.

The man that looked at me wiped his hands on a dirty rag, “You guys can check it out, but,uh, sorry, no chics allowed here. She’d need to find a sorority spot.” He nods towards me, his eyes a shinny kind of creepy.

“Aw, don’t worry she’s my girlfriend” Dean smirks wrapping his arm around my waist, pulling me closer to his body till my side was pressed right up against his, “Gotta make sure my girl knows which rooms mine” he winks at the man and my face flushes. My heart lurches at the phrase ‘my girl’ even though I knew it was just for a cover- it was a lie and yet it felt so right.

*****

We walked through the frat house which was cleaner than I expected, only a few cups lying around and only a small smell of booze.

Dean's fingers were intertwined with mine to keep up the act of me being his girlfriend, and I didn’t mind one bit. Maybe I'm touch starved.

After one last turn in the house we found someone to talk to which happened to be a shirtless guy with yellow shorts painting his face and body purple. Dean knocks on the door with his free hand while Sam and I share a look of confusion with the purple man in front of us.

“Who are you?” the guy asks, turning his body halfway towards us. “We’re your new roommates”, Dean smiles walking further into the room.

The man holds up his paint can and brushes to Dean, “Do me a favor? Get my back. Big game today.” I try to conceal the horror on my face. Dean smirks pointing to his brother, “He’s the artist. Things he can do with a brush.” Sam takes the brush and can with a total look of mortification on his face as he begins to paint the guys back.

Meanwhile, Dean occupies the worn armchair, effortlessly tugging me towards him. He manspreads in the chair, then practically places me on his right thigh. My legs slip between his spread legs. His grip releases my hand, transferring possession to my exposed thigh, the frigid touch of his ring kindling goosebumps along my skin. Suddenly I'm back to not regretting my choice of a skirt this morning.

I search his face for a tell, but all I find is a cryptic smile. He's not giving anything away, engrossed in a magazine he casually picks up from a nearby table. I swallow hard, attempting to regain mental composure, but the echo of 'my girl' and the weight of his hand disrupt any coherent thought. A fog settles in my mind as butterflies riot in my stomach, leaving me dizzy and utterly consumed.

“So…Murph. Is it true?” Dean starts, most likely getting the name from the magazine he had picked up. “What?” he answers.

“We heard one of the guys around here got killed last week.” Dean leads him.

“Yeah.” Murph sighs.

“What happened?” Sam asks, still painting his back.

“They’re saying some psycho with a knife. Maybe a drifter passing through. Rich was a good guy.” Murph explains.

Dean's hand suddenly flexes on my thigh, squeezing it slightly right as I was about to talk, “R-Rich he was with somebody?” I stumble over my words, my voice seemingly a higher octave as I speak. Either way I only asked to see if my assumption was correct- the eyewitness wasn’t just a witness but a possible victim who got away safe.

“Not just somebody. Lori Sorensen.” Murph laughs a little.

“Who’s Lori Sorensen?” I ask, Dean cutting in right after me to poke fun at his brother, “You missed a spot. Just down there- on the back.” Sam glares at him before getting said spot, Dean grins like crazy.

“Lori’s a freshman. She’s a local. Super hot. And get this…she’s a reverend’s daughter.” Murph smirks

“You wouldn’t happen to know which church, would ya?” Dean asks.

The church looked a little worn on the outside, a clear sign it’s been here for awhile but the inside was beautiful. Cherry colored wood used in the whole inside except the walls which were laid with cobblestone and big stain glass windows depicting certain bible scenes. The sun shone through them illuminating the people sitting in the pews with a light of oranges and reds. Yes it looked like any other church sure, and maybe it was the people here showing the love that they felt for someone who was no longer here that made it so beautiful, whatever it was brought a certain warmth to my heart regardless of the fact that I wasn’t religious.

The steady voice of the reverend flowed through the church, the peaceful atmosphere and his voice was interrupted by the heavy brown door that slammed behind us entering. The whole room fell silent for a beat and people turned towards us, the source of the disruption. With an awkward smile as an apology the sermon continued as usual.

“As a community, and as a family. The loss of a young person is particularly tragic. A life unlived is the saddest of passings.” The reverend begins again as we find a seat towards the back. “So, please, let us pray. For peace, for guidance, and for the power to protect our children.”

An odd feeling of familiarity and sadness fills my veins, my fingers twitch with the countless memories I had of what now seemed like a lifetime ago even if it really couldn’t have been more than ten years. I bow my head in prayer and respect, the act coming naturally to me. But I can’t find it in myself to actually pray, to talk to a god again.

The last time I talked to a god was when my mom died, I thought if I prayed she’d come back or at the very least the hole in my chest wouldn’t be there anymore, that he could take my pain away when I hadn’t wanted to feel that way.

I kept praying. Every night for it to change.

I never got an answer, not a sign, not a peep of comfort.

I don’t remember when I stopped believing… but I do remember praying to a God that would not answer.

****

Outside the church, people stood around talking in small groups and hugging each other before moving on to another person or leaving all together.

A brunette girl in a green and white top speaks with her slightly taller friend, and with a lasting hug their conversation is over. According to the picture Murph had shown us of Rich and Lori posing together, the brunette just had to be her.

We walk up to her, mostly confident in the matching identity, “Are you Lori?” Sam asks in confirmation.

“Yeah.” She nods.

“My name is Sam. This is my brother, Dean. And my friend, Y/N.” Dean waves a little awkwardly and I smile sweetly at the girl in front of us.

“We just transferred here to the university.” Sam explains, Lori nods “ I saw you inside.”

“We don’t wanna bother you. We just heard about what happened and…” Sam trails off eyebrows furrowed. “We wanted to say how sorry we were” Dean finishes his brother's sentence.

Sam clears his throat as if his words were hard to get out, “I kind of know what you’re going through. I-I saw someone..get hurt once. It’s something you don’t forget.” Lori nods sadly, her eyes turned down instead of the previous eye contact.

Suddenly the reverend came over to his daughter, a hand placed on her shoulder, “Dad, um, this is Sam, Dean, and Y/N. They’re new students.” The older man shakes each of our hands. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir. I must say, that was an inspiring sermon.” Dean smiles, his dimple on display.

“Thank you very much. It’s so nice to find young people who are open to the Lord’s message.” He looks between the three of us.

“I was actually hoping to catch you after the sermon” I begin, my fingers ghost over Dean's hand, “We’re also new to town.” As if understanding my plan to give Sam time to talk to Lori in private Dean intertwined his fingers with mine, continuing my sentence and leading us and the reverend slightly away from his daughter, “And, uh, we were looking for a, um, a church group.”

The boys follow after me as I search through the rows of bookshelves in this large library, “So you believe her?” Dean asks his brother.

“I do.” Sam answers plainly.

“Yeah, I think she’s hot, too.” Dean smiles. I turn my head towards him slowly, giving him a sharp look, “Would you like to say that again” I smile at him. “No ma’am” He puts his hands up in defense and defeat.

“Look, man, there’s something in her eyes. And listen to this: she heard scratching on the roof. Found the bloody body suspended upside down over the car.” Sam continues, ignoring what just happened.

I turn towards the boys behind me swiftly, my skirt swishing against me at my movement, “You think we’re dealing with the Hook Man?”

“Yeah I mean that’s one of the most famous urban legends ever” Dean tries to rationalize.

“Every urban legend has a source. A place where it all began.” Sam replies.

“Yeah, but what about the phantom scratches and the tire punctures and the invisible killer?” Dean asks.

“Well, maybe the Hook Man isn’t a man at all. What if it’s some kind of spirit?”

*****

The nice librarian brings over the last of the heavy boxes we asked for, the number of which I lost count of, “Here you go. Arrest records going back to 1851”, she announces placing the box down. Dean blows some dust off the box immediately coughing. A laugh escapes my lips, “What did you think was going to happen?”

The librarian walks away, Sam catching her to say thanks while Dean and I “bickered.”

He rolls his eyes at me pushing over one of the boxes towards me. I stand up from my seat to see in the box better, I pull out one of the many manila folders sitting back down to start what I know is going to be hours of research.

“So, this is how you both spent four good years of your life, huh?” Dean asks, eyebrows raised as he leaned back in his chair, a folder in his hand.

“Mhm” I hum, getting too focused to give a proper response.

“Welcome to higher education” Sam sighs as if to get comfortable.

I finished the first folder quickly as there weren't many papers in it to begin with, plus it was about a kidnapping case. I’m glad the guy got caught but it wasn’t what I was looking for, I put the folder to the side before picking up another.

“I’m sure you’re wishing hunting didn’t have so much research to it” I inquired, slightly mumbling.

“Yeah no kidding” Dean huffs

****

Hours later and multiple boxes down, Sam suddenly speaks up, “Hey, check this out. 1862. A preacher named Jacob Karns was arrested for murder. Looks like he was so angry over the red light district in town that one night he killed 13 prostitutes.

Uh, right here, ‘some of the deceased were found in their bed, sheets soaked with blood. Others suspended upside down from the limbs of trees as a warning against sins of the flesh.’”

I leaned over to pick up a paper from the folder he was holding that he must have put to the side, “And apparently the preacher lost his hand in some sort of accident and had it replaced with, get this, a silver hook of all things.”

“Look where all this happened” Sam points.

“9 Mile Road” Dean reads.

“Same place where the frat boy was killed” Sam adds, the pieces connecting.

Dean smirks, “Nice job, Dr. Venkmen. Let’s check it out.”

The pure darkness of the night cloaks us, despite the fact we weren’t wearing all black, the trees hide us and Baby as we exit the car heading towards the rear. Dean opens the trunk and hands both Sam and I a rifle, “Here you go”. I shift the gun in my hand, opening the magazine to make sure every slot is filled with a bullet.

“If it is a spirit, buckshot won’t do much good.” Sam points out, having opened his gun magazine too.

“Yeah, rock salt.” Dean smirks, showing him a bullet cartridge as an example. “Huh. Salt being a spirit deterrent.” Sam mumbles in astonishment.

“Yeah. It won’t kill ‘em. But it’ll slow ‘em down.” Dean adds as he picks up a coil of rope from the trunk.

“You know, your brother has been quite the creator since you’ve been away at college” I acknowledge, hoping it didn’t come off as a backhanded comment. Dean winks at me as he slams the trunk shut, a slight warmth spreading on my cheeks. “No kidding, first the homemade emf and now this, you and Dad think of this?” Sam asks as we walk towards the trees.

“I told you. You don’t have to be a college graduate to be a genius.” Dean's smile fades to a hardened look at the sounds of walking and rustling in the trees.

I come to a full stop, my boots skidding in the soft dirt below me, I raise my gun towards the sound and I realize to anyone else I must look a little silly wearing an outfit that includes a skirt and holding a heavy shotgun.

“Guys!” I whisper-shout at the sight of a figure approaching. Both boys appear on either side of me, Sam with the only other gun standing slightly in front.

“Put the gun down now! Now! Put your hands behind your head.” The figure yells raising his own gun as he approaches us, I curse mentally at the Sheriff. But before he can get too close I whisp the gun out of my hands, transporting it safely back to the trunk, if we were gonna get arrested at least the confiscating of one gun is better than two.

Dean and I are quick to follow the guys instructions as Sam slowly neals down to place the gun, his hands raised in defense. I would have loved to hide his gun too but the sheriff most definitely saw at least one gun, his gun.

“Now get down on your knees. Come on, do it! On your knees!” The Sheriff demands. Slowly I drop to my knees, the boys following, the cold dirt sinking into my exposed knees. Frick.

“Now get down on your bellies. Come on, do it!” He yells next. This is just annoying now I think to myself as I lie down. “He had the gun!” Dean throws his brother under the bus, lying down too.

“Shut it!” He yells, kicking the shot gun out of reach before rounding to the back of us. Figuring out by sound alone, he pockets his gun before patting us down thoroughly. Then he tells us to stand again and get in our car. He will follow behind us to the sheriff station and “there better be no funny business.”

****

Exiting a sheriff's office after being “arrested” is a weird experience, especially when all the cops of sorts are looking at you while whispering to each other.

“Saved your asses! Talked the sheriff down to a fine. Dude, I am Matlock.” Dean slaps his brother on the back.

“But how?” Sam asks, looking annoyed, and truthfully I'm not surprised Dean got us out of this.

“I told him you were a dumbass pledge and that we were hazing you.” Dean shrugs.

“What about the shotgun?” Sam points out.

“I said that you were hunting ghosts and the spirits were repelled by rock salt. You know, typical Hell Week prank. And while you were ‘hunting ghosts’ I told ‘em I was gonna try and get in her pants” He motions towards me, my face flushing red with a mix of embarrassment and anger.

“Hey!” I grumble.

“And he believed you?” Sam questioned in disbelief.

“Well, you look like a dumbass pledge and she looks like an easy girl to play no offense” Dean laughs.

“Hey! Offense taken!” I say this time with actual frustration. I slap his shoulder and I know he was expecting it, old habits die hard, but he lets me hit him. “What?! You look all innocent and you’re wearing a skirt which is perfect for banging in the woods!” He says all ‘matter of factly.’

“Dean!” I yell going to slap his shoulder again this time harder but before I can reach him he clasps my wrist. Naturally I try to go at him with my other hand but seemingly reading my mind he grabs my other wrist with the same hand. Now holding both my wrists in one large hand at his side he quirks his eyebrow, I should be a little mad at him but somehow he’s able to diffuse me in a matter of second and to be fair I can’t decide where to look either his veiny hand or his eyes that seem a shade darker than usual.

Suddenly several police run out of the building and jump into their police cars before speeding away. Dean drops his hold on my wrist, the three of us exchange a look.

The car comes to a stop on the street behind the sorority house, getting out of the car we move closer to the white building. “Why would the Hook Man come here? This is a long way from 9 Mile Road” Sam brings up.

“Maybe it’s about something else.” I answer, pulling pairs of latex gloves from my pocket that I made sure to grab from my bag before leaving the car. I hand each of them a pair, Sam putting them on without question while Dean looks at me weirdly “Getting fingerprints on an active crime scene doesn't seem so smart especially when we were already found at the original crime scene” I explain, he makes of face that reads as ‘fair enough’ before he puts his own pair on.

Two sorority girls come out of a side entrance near us looking like they’ve been crying, we push up against the side of the building, the girls passing us.

“Dude, sorority girls! Think we’ll see a naked pillow fight?” Dean asks, a little too happy turning to see his brother climbing onto the balcony of the house. “Yeah cause these girls would have a pillow fight when someone just got murdered in their house” I answer in disbelief as I climb up after Sam, thank god for wearing shorts under skirts and upper body strength. As I reach the top I swing my legs over the railing straddling it before swinging my other leg around, my boots landing on the white concrete, Dean following quickly behind me.

Sam opens a window that leads into a walk-in closet, Lori’s closet, just a door away from the crime scene.

I crawl in after him, Deans right behind me except ever so not gracefully he knocks into one of the dressers.

“Be quiet” Sam snaps.

“You be quiet!” Dean bites back

“You be quiet!”

“Boys!” I whisper yell, their bickering immediately stopping though they glare at each other from the corner of their eyes.

I walk over the closet door, pulling it open slowly just enough to see a cop in the room writing down something on a notepad before leaving. I count to ten in my head before opening the door fully exposing the bloody mess of a crime scene from the walls to the bed the girl must have died in, considering the blood pool.

“‘Aren’t you glad you didn’t turn on the light?’” Sam reads off the wall, the words written in blood, “That’s right out of the legend.”

“Yeah, that’s classic Hook Man all right.” Dean acknowledges, he taps his nose in regard to the horribly strong metallic smell, “It’s definitely a spirit.”

“I don’t think i’ve ever smelt ozone this strong before” I add, scrunching my nose from the smell, Sam nodding in agreement.

Dean walks over to the window in the room, “Hey, come here. Does that look familiar to you?”

****

Outside again, gloves disposed of, we stare at a cross symbol with little t’s or x’s in each space, a symbol that dangled from the hook-hand the preacher from our research had worn. Also the same symbol Dean had found on the windowsill and written in blood on the wall.

“It’s the same symbol. Seems like it is the spirit of Jacob Karns.” Sam confirms.

“All right, let’s find the dude’s grave, salt and burn the bones, and put him down” Dean announces, going through the usual steps.

Sam reads from the yellowed paper in his hands “After execution, Jacob Karns was laid to rest in an Old North Cemetery. In an unmarked grave.”

“How fun and easy” I remark sarcastically.

“Ok. So we know it’s Jacob Karns. But we still don’t know where he’ll manifest next. Or why” Sam brings up.

“I’ll take a wild guess about why. I think your little friend Lori has something to do with this.” Dean comments, getting into the driver's side of Baby.

The bass pounds loudly, the sound thumping in my chest as the bright neon lights illuminate the drunken atmosphere of college students. I weave through the crowd to get back to the main room where Sam said to meet, having barely enough time to shower, change and take a nap before night fell again and the frat party started.

Suddenly an unfamiliar hand grabs hold of my wrist pulling me back towards them. I looked up at the guy who pulled me back, a blonde spiky haired college student with a red solo cup in hand looked down at me “Where you going, pretty girl?” he asks me his breath reeking of booze. He pulls me closer, my chest nearly flushed with his, I pull my head back at an awkward angle to get away from him as I pull my wrist away. This guy really represented every reason why I rarely, if ever, went to parties as a college student, “Oh you know tryna get back to my boyfriend!” I yell over the music, finally snatching my wrist free at the lie.

“Oh.” His face falls quickly turning around to head to some other girl, I roll my eyes before continuing my way down the hall and the stairs to the foyer.

“There you are!” Sam yells over the music as I approach him, Dean not yet in sight. “Sorry! A college boy stopped me!” I replied.

“Sorry, You alright?” Sam asked with eyebrows scrunched, he apologized to me as if he was the one to do it, ever the sweetheart. I nod my head in response just as Dean approaches, “Man, you’ve been holding out on me. This college thing is awesome!” he says immediately, winking and smiling at a girl that passes by. If this didn’t show the double standard between genders then I don’t know what will.

“This wasn’t really my experience” Sam answers

“Same here!” I add, recalling every ill memory of any parties I did go to.

“Nerds” Dean scuffs.

“Yeah yeah anyways Sam what did you find?” I ask getting back on topic.

“Yeah. It was bugging me, right? So how is the Hook Man tied up with Lori? So I think I came up with something.” Sam answers, unraveling a folded piece of paper he produced from his pocket.

Dean takes the paper reading the important facts, “1932. Clergyman arrested for murder. 1967. Seminarian held in hippie rampage.”

“There’s a pattern here. In both cases, the suspect was a man of religion who openly preached against immorality. And then found himself wanted for killings he claimed were the work of an invisible force. Killings carried out—get this—with a sharp instrument.” Sam explains

“What’s the connection to Lori?” Dean asks, face full of confusion.

“Dean. A man of religion…who openly preaches against immorality…you know Reverend Sorensen.” I clarify, a sudden look of understanding passes over Deans features. “Yeah except maybe this time, instead of saving the whole town, he’s just trying to save his only daughter” Sam adds.

“You think he’s summoning the spirit?” Dean counter.

“Maybe. Or, you know how a poltergeist can haunt a person instead of a place?” Sam asks.

“Yeah, the spirit latches onto the reverend’s repressed emotions, feeds off them, yeah, okay.” Dean mumbles.

“Without the reverend ever even knowing it.”

“Either way, you should keep an eye on Lori tonight.” Dean suggest. Sam nods in agreement, “What about you guys?”

Dean gets distracted by an attractive blonde by the pool table. I roll my eyes “We’ll go find that grave, do some digging and burning.”

****

In the dark of the night Dean and I search the large cemetery, our only light being our flashlights. He looks a little grumpy, probably because he couldn’t hook up with the many eligible bachelorettes.

I ignore his brooding, searching each gravestone for some sort of hint of him being buried here.

“Over here!” Dean calls out from a few feet away, I walk over to him seeing the same cross symbol we’ve been seeing engraved on the headstone. “Nice” I smile, putting my bag down and taking the shovel he handed to me.

I don’t know how much time goes by but we are most likely only a foot deep. Digging up a grave is hard.

“You know I read somewhere that digging up a grave can take up to like six to eight hours to complete.” I huff as I kept digging trying to make conversation.

“What kind of books do you read?” Dean exclaims, giving me a weird look as he places his shovel down to strip down to his T-shirt. I try to ignore how his muscles flex as he lifts his many layers off of him to combat the sweat he was building.

I shrug at his question, answering, “All sorts of things.” The conversation ends there as we keep digging away, the only sounds from us being huffing and grunts.

I start to take my tops off too, going down to the black lace cami I wore as an extra layer. No wonder they use a machine to do this now.

Hours must have passed before one of our shovels hit wood. His coffin. Dean and I speak at the same time our voices overlapping,

“Thank God”

“Hello preacher” Dean breaks open the casket more, the remains of bones lying there.

We climb out of the grave, dirt and sweat sticking to our clothes (so much for showering before). Dean looks especially good, sweat causing his light gray shirt to stick to his skin causing his muscles to be on display, his cheeks flushed from all his hard work. This should really be the last thing on my mind especially as we pour salt and lighter fluid on the corpse.

“Goodbye, preacher.” Dean throws the lit match into the grave, the bones and wood igniting into flames.

Dean and I walked down the hospital hall, Sam having called and told us to come to the hospital no other context other than he was okay and even that had to be pried out of him before he hung up.

I trail behind him as he tries to shove off two cops holding him back, “No, it’s alright, I’m with him. He’s my brother. Hey! Brother!” Although a little embarrassing he did get Sam and the sheriffs attention, “Let ‘em through” the sheriff announces with a careless hand wave.

The two cops haul off, “Thanks” Dean says, fixing his jacket as his brother approaches, “You ok?”

“Yeah.” Sam nods, walking back down the hall where we had come for some privacy.

“What the hell happened?” Dean asks through gritted teeth.

“Hook Man.” Sam answered plainly.

“You saw him?!” I exclaim.

“Damn right. Why didn’t you torch the bones?” Sam counters. “Hey!! We did!” I argue.

“You sure it’s the spirit of Jacob Karns?” Dean points out.

“It sure as hell looked like him. And that’s not all. I don’t think the spirit is latching on to the reverend.” Sam answered.

“Well, yeah, the guy wouldn’t send the Hook Man after himself.” Dean spoke.

“I think it’s latching onto Lori. Last night she found out her father is having an affair with a married woman.” Sam reports.

“So she’s obviously upset about it, the immorality around it, especially from someone who quite literally preaches about that sort of sin” I ramble on, “Wow that’s like the Scarlet Letter.”

“Yeah” Sam laughs at my reference, “And she told me she was raised to believe that if you do something wrong, you get punished.”

“Alright nerds, so she’s conflicted. And the spirit of Preacher Karns is latching on to repress the emotions and maybe he’s doing the punishing for her, huh?” Dean said.

“Right. Rich comes on too strong, Taylor tries to make her into a party girl, Dad has an affair.” Sam lists out.

“Remind me not to piss this girl off. But we burned those bones, buried them in salt, why didn’t that stop him?” Dean noted.

“You must have missed something.” Sam shrugged.

“Oh frick” I gasped at the sudden realization hitting me, “The hook. Except it wasn’t in the coffin.”

“Great, so if we find the hook…”

“We stop the Hook Man.” Dean finishes smiling.

****

Back in the same library as a couple days before we once again spent hours researching.

“Here’s something, I think. Log book, Iowa State Penitentiary”, Dean reads, “Karns, Jacob. Personal affects: disposition thereof.”

“Any mention of the hook?” I ask, looking up from my papers.

“Yeah, maybe” He begins reading again, “Upon execution, all earthly items shall be remanded to the prisoner’s house of worship, St. Barnabas Church.”

“Isn’t that where Lori’s father preaches?” Sam questioned. “Yeah” Dean confirmed, “Maybe that’s why the Hook Man has been haunting reverends and reverends’ daughters for the past 200 years.”

“But how do you miss a bloodstained silver-handled hook? Let alone in a church” I point out.

Dean shrugs, “Check the church records”

An hour or two later I came across the answer to my own question, I nearly knocked my chair over going to where the boys sat placing the clip of the newspaper down, “St. Barnabas donations, 1862, they received a silver-handled hook from the state penitentiary. It got reforged, melted it down into something else.”

“Alright, we can’t take any chances. Anything silver goes in the fire.” Dean said as he slammed the trunk shut, swinging the duffle on his shoulder. “I agree. So, Lori’s still at the hospital. We’ll have to break in.” Sam announces.

“Alright, take your pick.”

“I’ll take the house.” Sam answers pointing in that direction.

“Ok. Then you're with me Y/N” Dean smirks, swinging his arm around my shoulder pushing me closer to his side as we walk off in the other direction. “Hey Sam!” He calls out without halting in his steps, “Stay out of her underwear drawer!”

“You are disgusting” I laugh, poking his side as I speak.

****

“When someone comes back in the morning they are going to think they’ve gone crazy. I mean like imagine walking into a space you know well and suddenly only very specific items are missing like silver.” I comment as I throw more silver candelabras in the fire Dean had started in the basement's old heater thing.

“At this very moment that’s what you're thinking of?” Dean asks, raising an eyebrow at me with a smile. “I mean yeah…” I shrug.

“I got everything that even looked silver” Sam announces, coming down the stairs. “Better safe than sorry” Dean says, moving off to the side so his brother can throw his load of silver in.

Suddenly the floorboards above us creak, clear footsteps. Sam produces a gun from the back of his jeans heading up the stairs first, Dean and I following.

Up the slightly winding stairs and down a short hallway Lori sits in a pew alone. She was the source of the steps.

Dean shoves his brother forward towards the lone girl as he pockets his gun and grabs my hand leading us back down stairs. As we reach the basement I twirl towards him, “You think they’re gonna kiss by the end of all this?”

“If they haven’t already” He scuffs.

A few minutes later the quiet noise of a couple things hitting the ground sang from above us, “I swear if they are screwing upstairs-“ Dean complains looking up annoyed. Another thing hit the floor much harder, “Yeah Dean I don’t think that’s what’s happening” I say, pulling my gun back out Dean already ahead of me rushing up the stairs two steps at a time.

We sweep around each hall with no one in sight, Dean motions for us to split up. I nod, holding my gun tighter in front of me. Suddenly a yell and a gun goes off in the opposite direction from where I walked, I run towards the noise halting at the sight of Lori and Sam covering their faces on the floor up against a wall as Dean stood with his gun raised.

“You guys okay?” I ask lowering my gun slightly.

“Yeah” Sam nods, even as he holds his seemingly injured shoulder.

“Was that the Hook Man?” I question further trying to get caught up.

“I thought we got all the silver.” Sam announces instead, which was an answer enough.

“So did I” Dean adds

“Then why is he still here?” Sam exclaims, getting up from the floor.

“Well, maybe we missed something!” Dean yells looking around.

“Lori, where did you get that chain?” Sam looks at the girl's neck, a cross hanging from the chain.

“My father gave it to me” She answers confused.

“And did your father happen to get it from a church?” I ask very specifically.

“Yeah it was a church heirloom, he gave it to me when I started school.” She explains.

“Is it silver?!” Sam nearly yells.

“Yes!” She yells, Sam ripping the chain from around her neck just as a loud scratching noise echoes through the halls. The Hook Man nowhere in sight but the scratch evidence alone that he’s there, right near Sammy.

“Sam!” Dean yells throwing his rifle at Sam, he catches it throwing the necklace to his brother in turn. Dean runs off with it as Sam shoots at the scratching spot.

He tries to reload his gun just as the Hook Man appears in all his ugly glory, long greasy hair falling from a big black hat accompanied with a dirty black trench coat, he knocks the gun out of his hand. I pull the trigger, the rock salt launching from the gun and into the spirit causing him to disappear. I cock the gun ready to shoot again when he appears, except when he does his arms are raised in the air towards the sky, his hook melting to the floor, the iron dripping as the rest of his body burns into nothing.

“So you’re saying a man with a hook attacked you?” The cop asked me for the fourth time, scribbling something in his notepad. “Yes! Exactly, we fought him off as best as we could and then ran out here.” I explain, for once, truthfully to a cop. He looks like he’s about to say something when he looks back up just past my shoulder, I turn my head to see the sheriff who was talking with Dean make a hand gesture. I turned back to the cop in front of me, “Alrighty then, ma’am have a good one” he tilted his hat towards me walking away.

I walk over to Dean who’s leaning on the outside of Baby, his hands in his pockets, “You think they believe us?” he asked me. “No chance” I laugh, “They’ll probably chop it up to hysteria and crazy college students.”

He scuffs opening the back door for me, I get in smiling at him as he shuts the door and gets in on the driver side. He looks through the side mirror at his brother, sighing, “I wish things could be normal for him.”

“It won’t be for a while” I answer referring to the loss of Jessica. How could anyone move on from a loss like that?

Sam approaches the car getting in wordlessly, “We could stay.” Dean offers, Sam shakes his head no.

Dean sighs again, looking at me through the rear view mirror. I mouth ‘You tried’ to him with a sad smile.

He looks forward again with a slight frown on his face, putting the car in drive we head off.

[kaythefloppa]

The definition of original experience is growing up thinking that Area 51 had musical Ninjas, secret agents, fossilized replicas of actual dinosaurs, and goddamn time machines...

all because of a Wild Kratts fanfiction

[spookythesillyfella]

" sigh ... "

[madamadragon]

I'm writing the spa sequel named Exotic Treasure and my mind came out with this series of fic based on hot springs with the name of "Hot men in hot waters", in this case the first meeting between Di Feisheng and Li Xiangyi when they were 15 years old and i called it Under the warm Moonlight.

Li Xiangyi decides to venture down the mountain without saying anything to his master. Night falls and he realizes that he has been away all day, not wanting to hear his master he stops to sleep at the foot of the mountain. Unexpectedly he finds a hot water spring and decides to take a bath. Shortly afterwards he hears noises and sees a figure,he grabs the sword and points it at the intruder, a boy slightly older than him. The boy was sitting on a branch with his arms folded, he raised an eyebrow and told him: that spring is cursed. Li Xiangyi asks who he is but the boy doesn't answer and simply says: that's the spring of the drowned girl and then come down from the tree...

...To be continued

What do you think? I should write it?

[djevelbl]

I DID IT !!!!

IT'S OUT !!!! I am so genuinely happy with this, you don't even know half of it !!!!!

there, for y'all 🙏 now imma be consumed by my bed or something, bc sitting down for 12+ hours ain't fun for the back lol

[randomraytrash]

Okay, but listen me out

Au where ex-Mayor Jones is out on parole (bc he is a politician of course, he can and will escape from consequences) doing community service. Enough morally grey to be still torn between the treasure and is damn "son".

Than Judy and Brad come back and Fred Jones sr in all his morally corrupted glory realized that he royally fucked up, because the two thieves are even worse than him and he tries to help the kids (like really bad, like giving them of how break the law advice).

Also, sorry, but after a while I think he ends up crashing on the Sheriff's couch because Judy and Brad take his (Fred jr's house now) house. Do what you do with this information, but I bet Janet Nettles hates his ass (she's right and she should say that louder) because she is one of the rare politicians with good morals, also she knows Jones is pathetically not straight and the sheriff is absolutely oblivious. She doesn't know Jones has no intention to make a move on the sheriff because he likes them dumb, but that man is really too much dumb. Also fucking Sheriff is straight as a pole and too oblivious to be alive.

I know the sheriff lives with his mother, but I think she needs a break from his son, she deserve to be free from this absolutely moron of a man. She saw Janet Nettles and said: "Now, he's your problem". She persuaded him to take an apartment in town, so he could start his lovely love nest with the woman and then fucking ex-mayor crashed in .

[chaoscheebs]

It's Midnight, Cinderella, chapter 1

In which Seto Kaiba meets a mystery man at a masquerade and things just click, but who could this man be...

(Chapter 1) - (Chapter 2) - (Chapter 3) - (Fic Tag)

-----------

Sometimes, being a CEO sucked.

Once again, Seto Kaiba had to fulfill some inane obligation to attend a gathering of people who he either found intolerable, were seeking to use him to gain a step up in life, or worse, both. The worst part of it was this was supposed to be a masquerade, but no one seemed to bother putting in the effort to at least play up the one fun part of the concept and were largely in generic formal wear except for him. Pathetic.

Or he was alone in caring about style, until he spotted him. Soft blond curls falling softly to just above his shoulders. A carefully-tied cravat around his neck, ruffles adorning the bottom of his sleeves, shining buckles on his shoes, looking like he was a prince who walked out of some fairy tale. And judging from his frown and the way he looked around the venue, he was every bit as disappointed no one else was pushing style boundaries as Seto was.

Seto was hardly a social butterfly, but this man looked at least less insufferable than the rest of the people there, so he decided to walk over and strike up a conversation. If it turned out this man was just as dull as the rest, he was perfectly capable of walking away, after all.

Or he was going to strike up a conversation, but the man in question spoke first. The man looked him over, then smiled. “Thank goodness, I thought I was the only one who took this seriously. I was thinking about going home to change…” His voice was soft, but deeper than he expected for a man his size. It almost reminded him of…

Never mind what it reminded Seto of. The past was in the past, and he needed to remember that more often. “Hmph, don’t let others dictate what you do, especially when it’s clear you’re the one in the right. It’s them who wouldn’t know style if Special Summoned a monster right in their faces.”

The man laughed. “So you play Duel Monsters too? Glad to see I’m not alone there either.”

Seto faintly smiled. Well, now, this is shaping up better than expected. “Oh, really? Are you in the competitive scene?”

“Mm, sort of?” the man said, tapping a finger to his chin and tilting his head slightly to one side. “There’s someone who’s… I want to call him a ‘rival’, but is it really a rivalry if the other person never acknowledges you? Anyway, I’m looking to defeat him and prove myself to him.” He laughs weakly. “Kind of pathetic, don’t you think?”

“Only if you think of yourself as such,” Seto replied, frowning. “You’ll never defeat him if you have no confidence.”

The man laughed again. “Oh, I have plenty of confidence in my gaming skills! It’s just everything else that’s the problem.”

“Even that can have an impact,” Seto told him. “Walk tall like you mean business, even if you have to fake it. It’ll come naturally with practice.”

“Talking from experience?” the man asked with a smirk.

Seto took a half-step turn away from him, crossing his arms and scowling. “Do I look like the kind of man who needs to practice that?”

“With a reaction like that, yes,” the man said, stepping out so he was in front of Seto. “It’s kind of cute, though, in a tsundere sort of way~”

“‘C-cute’?! ‘Tsundere?!?’ What—?!” Seto sputtered indignantly. On what planet was he, Seto Kaiba, cute?!

“Extremely cute~” the man teased, raising himself on tip-toes to get closer to Seto’s face. “Adorable, even~” Seto turned his head with a “hmph”; a clear signal for the man to stop teasing him. “All right, all right, I’ll lay off now. Even if you are cute~”

“Anyway,” Seto interrupted forcefully, “what brings you here tonight? I don’t recall seeing you attending one of these things before.”

The man rubbed under his nose, suddenly feeling bashful. “Ahahaha… A friend of mine, who runs a small indie game company that’s been trying to break into the mainstream recently got an invite, and he sort of dragged me along, saying I need to ‘make more connections’ in the industry.” He looked around, frowned, then sighed as he gestured to a man with long, dark hair pulled back into a high ponytail, who was currently flanked by several women. “Unfortunately, he immediately decided to go flirt with girls instead of helping me with that.”

Seto smirked at the man’s dismay. “You know women can work in the gaming industry too, you know.”

The man rolled his eyes, or at least Seto presumed so, judging by the displeased tilt of the man’s head. “Well, yeah, of course, but I also know how he works. There is almost zero chance they’re talking about Dungeon Dice Monsters, believe me.” He shook his head and muttered, “And he knows I’m not the best at this kind of thing either…”

“You seem to be doing all right with me.”

The man heaved a sigh. “That’s different, you came up to me first. I never know where to start and how not to sound like a game-obsessed weirdo to people. It’d be one thing if this was a convention, but this is…”

“Full of stuffy executives who wouldn’t know a fun game if it noclipped through them and ragdolled in front of them?” Seto suggested.

The man smiled. “You. You get it.”

“I’d like to think so,” Seto said, smirking, “but I am more hands-on than most people in my position. Maybe if things had been different…” He trailed off abruptly. What was he thinking, he had just met this man and he almost started telling him his life story.

“Oh? ‘If things had been different’?” the man asked. The mask had some sort of tinted lenses obscuring his eyes, but somehow Seto could feel the concern in them coming through the lenses anyway.

“… it’s nothing. We’ll just say I’m fond of tinkering and leave it at that.”

The man frowned and started to reach out a hand, but thought better of it and let it drop. “… OK. If you’re not comfortable talking about… whatever it is… then I’m not going to pry.”

“Thank you.” Seto’s eyes briefly darted away, then returned their focus to the man. “I… appreciate the concern, however,” he muttered, almost too quiet to hear over the background chatter all around them. “Anyway. Duel Monsters,” Seto ever-so-smoothly changed the subject to, “What kind of deck do you use?”

“A control deck,” the man answered, “I like seeing how I can make weak monsters actually viable, y’know? It’s a fun challenge.”

Seto raised an eyebrow, not that is was noticeable behind his own mask. “Really? I know someone else who uses one, and he’s regarded as a formidable opponent.”

“Ahahahaha, you don’t say…” the man said, looking away as he absently tried fixing some imaginary flyaway lock of hair.

“He wouldn’t happen to be your would-be rival, would he?” Seto asked. “If so, you have an uphill battle ahead of you. For all the… difficulties between us, I would be lying if I thought just anyone could take him in a duel.”

The man, suddenly looking startled, waved his hands in front of him. “Oh, no, no, no! The man I’m after uses a beatdown deck and has this thing for dragon cards in particular! I’m not—I really couldn’t—!”

“Dragons, hm? Sounds like a man with taste,” Seto said approvingly.

The man’s eyes (Seto presumes) traced over the Blue-Eyes White Dragon embroidery adorning Seto’s suit, the head of the dragon resting over his shoulder. Pointing at the dragon’s head, the man says, “You’re a fan of dragons too, huh? Wouldn’tve guessed~”

Seto smirked. “You haven’t seen the best part of this yet, either.” He glanced around him, mentally calculating if he had enough space for what he was about to do, then reached into his jacket and flipped a hidden switch. White dragon wing materialized behind him, flapping gently for a moment before wrapping around him like a cape.

The man’s jaw dropped, then raised his hands just below chin-level, curled into fists. “That. Is so. COOL! Oh my gosh, that had to take a lot of effort to get right, especially with the energy consumption! I mean, whatever’s activating that has to be smaller than the compartment in a duel disk that contains the battery, right?!?”

“Correct,” Seto affirmed. “Unfortunately, that means there’s an issue with battery life that needs to be worked out still. This was only a side project I did for fun, after all.”

“’For fun,’” the man repeated. “Haaaa, I’d say that’s a weird idea of fun, but I’ve literally forced myself to learn coding and game engines so I could join month-long game jams, so I shouldn’t judge.”

“Really? What kind of games do you make?”

“Horror ones, mostly,” the man said. “At least in my indie work, anyway. I like trying different styles of game in the genre.” A thought struck him, then he quickly fished a card holder out of his pocket and pulled out a card to hand to Seto. “Here, in case you wanna check them out later.”

Seto accepted the card, nodded, and tucked it into a pocket without looking too closely at it; something he would later regret. “I’ll look into them, then.” The holographic wings flickered, causing him to sigh. “And that would be the battery life issue…” he grumbled, reaching into his jacket again and flipping off the switch.

“Ahaha, you at least got it working! That can be half the battle in itself,” the man said.

“True,” Seto admitted, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “Still, there’s room for improvement, and one way or another, I will get this so it can stay on for a full night, damn it.”

The man smirked at him. “You’re the stubborn type, huh? How cute~”

Seto rolled his eyes, scowling but feeling faint heat building his his cheeks and ears. “There you go with the ‘cute’ nonsense again.”

The smirk became a wide grin, and somehow, Seto couldn’t bring himself to deny it was, dare he say, ‘cute’? “Sorry, sorry,” the man said, without even the faintest hint of remorse. “There’s just something about you that make me want to tease you a little~”

“You’re nothing if not bold,” Seto replied, very pointedly not meeting the man’s gaze. “Most people wouldn’t dream of attempting that.”

The man shrugged. “I spent all of high school trying to hide,”—he muttered the next part bitterly—”and apparently failing at it—” he then resumed his normal volume, “that I was bi; I vowed nothing was gonna shove me back in the closet now~”

Seto’s mask may have hidden part of the now-deepening blush, but he just knew his ears were giving it away. Damn it. “I… see. So you really think…”

“That you’re cute? Absolutely~” the man said, looking infuriatingly smug as he stood on tip-toes to close more of the height distance between them. “It’s not every day you find someone smart enough and passionate enough about his hobbies to make holographic wings for himself and who’s also charmingly dorky on top of it~”

“First I’m ‘cute’, now I’m ‘dorky’?”

“The dorkiness is part of the cuteness!” the man insisted, perhaps a little too enthusiastically. Mask or no mask, it was clear he was enjoying himself and it infuriated Seto that he wasn’t infuriated by it.

“Ugh, why are you charming?” Seto grumbled to himself, earning a cute squeak from the man.

“Y-you think I’m charming?!” he said, his previous teasing bravado fleeing in a heartbeat.

Looks like he can dish it out but can’t take it, Seto smugly thought. “If I didn’t, I wouldn’t still be standing here. I don’t tolerate wastes of time.”

The man looked at the floor, shyly rubbing his arm. “Ahahaha, I guess you wouldn’t, huh…?”

Some small part of Seto recognized this as somehow familiar, but that thought was shoved aside in favor of enjoying watching the man squirm. “Anyway, do you happen to have your deck on you? I want to see what you’ve got.”

The man frowned, then shook his head. “Unfortunately, I left that at home. Apparently most people frown on dueling during formal events?” he said, like this had either happened before or he had been scolded before he had a chance to try. Probably both, Seto thought; this man looks like the stubborn type.

“Sounds like it’s a ‘them’ problem and not yours,” Seto said before pulling out his phone and unlocking it. “How fast could you assemble a functional deck if you were provided cards?”

The man looked up and tapped his lips in thought. “Only functional? Probably not that long. It wouldn’t be that good, tho’. A good deck needs time and care.”

“True,” Seto agreed, tapping out a message on his phone. “I suppose in the interest of fairness, I’ll be making one up on the fly as well. It’s no fun crushing an unprepared opponent with the big guns.”

“Yeah, it’d only—what?” the man said, abruptly changing gears when the penny dropped. “Are you seriously—?!”

He didn’t need to finish the question; as if on cue a man appeared, carrying a large and very familiar briefcase. Satisfied, Seto tucked his phone back in his pocket and started to walk away in the courier’s direction. “I am. Come along now, time’s wasting.”

The man stared at him for a moment, laughed softly as he shook his head, almost as if he was used to this sort of thing, then went to follow Seto.

-----------

“Haaaa…” The man made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sigh as he set down his hand of cards. “Told you it wouldn’t be a good deck.”

Gathering his cards up, Seto replied, “True, but it put up a better showing than expected. You might have a chance against your mystery rival.” They had long since moved to a private room at the hotel the event was held in, because apparently it was considered rude to play cards during a non-card game event. And they dare call themselves professionals in the gaming industry; pathetic. Maybe if they would actually play a game every so often they could come up with something interesting.

“You really think so?” the man asked, doing the same after adjusting his mask. He seemed anxious about removing it, so Seto let it go and thus there it still sat upon his face.

Seto gets it. He doesn’t always want to be himself either, so he left his own mask on in some weird sense of solidarity. “I do. It takes a significant amount of skill in of itself to make a functioning deck in such a short time frame, let alone one that could actually give me pause.”

The man’s lips curved up into a smile—a genuine one, not a teasing one this time—and Seto found himself wanting to see more of it in the future. “That really means a lot to me; thank you.” The man then set his cards aside, stretched across the table, a hand on the table for stability and the other on Seto’s shoulder, and kissed Seto on the cheek.

The man lingered for a moment, and that’s all it took. Maybe the rush of winning got to Seto, or maybe the man’s teasing flirtations finally won him over, or maybe the man was just that damned attractive, but Seto found himself reaching out and pulling the man into a proper kiss on the lips, earning him a cute squeak of surprise from the man.

The surprise faded quickly, however, as that hand on Seto’s shoulder curled itself into a fist, clutching Seto’s jacket tightly, unwilling to let go. One kiss became two kisses, two become more, until the man climbed over the table and onto Seto’s lap.

Well. At least Seto knew where the man stood on continuing on. One hand buried itself in those soft blond curls, the other rested on the man’s back, slowly sliding downward until it found the soft curve of his ass and squeezed.

For having such a dull start, this was turning out to be a good night.

[carewyncromwell]

"You want a ride to fame? I've got the fastest route! What's it gonna be? Are you in or out?"

x~x~x~x

HPHM Cardverse developed by @ariparri // Rakepick's outfit // Duncan's outfit // the more "court-worthy" outfit Duncan eventually bought for Jacob

x~x~x~x

The day Jacob Cromwell first arrived at the palace of Spades, he earned more than a few skeptical side-eyes. It was hard not to judge Jacob poorly, when he strolled inside dressed in clothes more appropriate to working in a mechanic's shop than in one of the most powerful royal courts in Cinderhaven. His black slacks and white shirt were clean and his boots were polished, yes, but he'd rolled his sleeves up to his elbows and the lone pop of color in Jacob's outfit -- his red suspenders -- were far too informal for such a setting. And yet Jacob walked with his head held high, almost arrogantly so, and went straight to work in his new workshop just down the hall from the office of his boss, the also very recently installed Jack of Spades, Duncan Ashe.

One of those most skeptical of Jacob -- at least at first -- was the Ace of Spades, Patricia Rakepick. She had been the one hold-out in selecting Duncan as Ulrich Scheller's replacement, citing his young age and subsequent lack of experience as rationale, but she'd ultimately been overruled. Not only did the King of Spades, Oskar Doyle, support Duncan's promotion, but the Queen of Spades had agreed with it too, before her tragic death. Even Ulrich Scheller himself was steadfast about Duncan being the one to take his old position.

"Mr. Ashe may be young, but he has discerning judgment -- far better than even I had at his age," the former Jack had said. "I've always valued his counsel as my subordinate, and I think the Court of Spades will come to appreciate that very same counsel once he takes my place."

Rakepick was not convinced. And, to be fair, it was hard for her not to feel some resentment at how seemingly easily it had been for Duncan Ashe to climb the ranks of power, while still fresh out of university. Perhaps it was dumb luck or the fact that Duncan was a young man with a good sense of dress from a reasonably well-respected family -- a more objective source might also have pointed out that Duncan was a far more likable person than Rakepick. Even despite his brusqueness, he could be witty and funny and yet also dedicated, down-to-earth, hard-working, and supportive. Duncan chased his ambitions with laser-precision, and yet he also never failed to take helpful input from the people around him. His pride was never so inflated that he couldn't take constructive criticism or admit when he was wrong, nor was it an obstacle to him making iron-clad friendships that gave him people in his corner who stuck with him solely out of sincere enjoyment for his company.

Rakepick's critical view of Duncan Ashe, however, completely justified her initial suspicion of Jacob Cromwell. This suspicion quickly flickered out, though, when she made a point to stop by the Jack's stooge's new workshop.

It was still quite early that morning — most of the King’s, Jack’s and Ace’s staffs had only just started their work for the day -- and yet that oddly chipper new "favorite" of the Jack of Spades' was already hard at work. He’d arrived a good half hour before his scheduled shift and used that extra time to hang up the blueprints for the couple dozen projects he'd already hashed out to show "Ashe" when he arrived later that morning. Then, at his formal start time, Jacob set about testing out his new power-saw (which the curly-haired young man had fanboyed over when he first saw it) to cut out a metal skeleton for his blimp prototype while also making some alterations to the blueprint on his desk.

By the time Rakepick dropped in, she found Jacob in the midst of a short "break" in his work, which entailed him adjusting the screws on a device set up under his desk.

Because Jacob was so preoccupied with what he was doing, he didn't get a good look at who had entered. And because he was so used to being an overworked part-time mechanic, cook, and librarian, his first instinct was not to stop what he was doing, introduce himself to the person, and ask how he could help them, but to greet the stranger cheerfully without even looking up from his work.

"Hey there! Come on in and look around if you’d like — I’ll be right with you!"

Rakepick cocked her eyebrows at the young man largely obscured under the desk, tightening the screws on what looked like the foot pedal of an old sewing machine. With a roll of her eyes, the Ace looked around — only to be startled by the prototype hanging over her head.

It resembled — for lack of a better term — a small mechanical dragon, with its “head” and “limbs” cut into halves hanging from separate wires. The wings were crafted out of aluminum, carved wood, and fabric, and the “body” was a balloon with multiple model stairways attached to it and aluminum “legs” hanging off of them and cut open to show off rooms on the inside. Even the head (adorned with two thick lightning rods as horns) was cut down the middle to show off a miniature cockpit on the inside.

Rakepick actually raised her gloved hand to shift the head around, her eyes widening with interest upon the intricately designed interior. It even had a miniature control panel with what looked like tiny fuses. When she tapped at one of the levers inside the model, two spotlights appeared out of the dragon’s mouth, casting a light down onto the multiple blueprints laid out on the desk.

"It’s a modified blimp," said Jacob’s voice from under the desk. "Those mouth lights would be hydroelectric-powered, via collected rainwater -- I originally thought of using solar power, but too much concentrated heat could run a risk of the thing catching fire, since the blimp itself would use hydrogen...much less rare alternative to helium…"

Rakepick raised her eyebrows. "Hydroelectric power, you say?"

Didn’t Duncan Ashe bring up something once about hydroelectric power in one of his meetings with Ulrich Scheller…?

"Yeah!" said Jacob cheerfully, still not looking up. "I brought it up to Ashe a while ago, shifting our main source of power away from coal and toward hydroelectric -- and he thinks it’d be a great way to save money for other projects. Plus water's much less hazardous to work with…though if coal can be mined more safely, I reckon it could still be used, just in smaller amounts…still need to make a prototype or two for that project…"

Then this person was where Duncan Ashe stole that idea from. Rakepick pursed her lips. It seemed this new Jack really was good at getting credit not rightfully owed him.

"But hey, there's only so much time in a day!" Jacob laughed to himself. "Only sent my letters of resignation in yesterday morning — didn't really have time to get all these ideas out of my head, before that…"

Rakepick glanced around. By her count, she could see five unfinished blueprints hung up on the wall, one more and several printed graphs on the work bench next to an old phonograph, and what looked like a row of small plant boxes with thermometers stuck in each one.

"…You did all this just in one day?" she asked.

"In half a day, a night, and some of this morning. But yeah."

This boy works hard, thought Rakepick.

"Though a few ideas I'd been ruminating on for a while, beforehand," Jacob pressed on. "I just hope it's enough…I've never worked as any kind of advisor before. Don't really know how much my work will be commission-based and how much will be free-lance…"

Rakepick crossed her arms, considering the young man's spade-gloved hands under the desk testing out the little sewing machine wheel he'd attached to the leg of his desk. Only when he turned it did Rakepick realize it was attached to the phonograph on the desk, and the wheel turning also made the crank handle rotate.

"I think that depends on whether that project on your desk is something the Jack commissioned," said Rakepick, "or if you came up with it for him by yourself."

Jacob laughed. "Oh, this? Nah, this is just a personal project...I wanted to use it back at the mechanic shop, originally, but I didn't have proper room for it...Wyn, my sister Carewyn, she let me keep it in pieces under our window, until I could figure out where to put it -- "

Once Jacob had finished his adjustments, he got up off the floor at last, sat down in his chair in front of the blueprint, and pressed the foot pedal. The pedal made the wheel rotate, which subsequently turned the crank on the phonograph so that it could play the record set on it.

"When the red, red robin comes bob-bob-bobbin' along...along... There'll be no more sobbin' when he starts throbbin' his old sweet song..."

Jacob's almond-shaped blue eyes lit up in delight seeing his invention working right, and he cheerfully sing along to the next few lines.

"Wake up -- wake up, you sleepy head! Get up -- get up, get out of bed! Cheer up -- cheer up, the sun is red! Live, love, laugh, and be happy..."

Rakepick's eyes trailed over the modified phonograph, along the careful metal-work attaching the disparate pieces and the screws securing them to the work bench. All this effort and inventiveness, for something this boy wasn't intending to get any reward for from his employer...

Rakepick's lips curled up in a very slight smirk. She had to admit -- she was impressed.

Still pedaling away to play the song on the record, Jacob finally looked up at the person who'd entered his workshop with a smile. That smile dimmed, though, when he realized just who he was talking to.

"Oh," said Jacob, startled. His foot stopped pedaling as his eyes flitted quickly to the sword at Rakepick's side and the stylized silver-white pauldrons on her shoulders. "Uh...you with the military or something?"

Rakepick smirked. "'Or something.' Patricia Rakepick -- Ace of Spades. And you'd be Jacob Cromwell, of course."

"Uh -- yeah." Jacob looked sheepish.

Rakepick's smirk widened a bit. "You seem surprised to see me."

"Sorry -- I didn't think anyone outside of Ashe's people would be interested in any of this," said Jacob, sounding slightly abashed as he crossed one leg across his lap. "I mean, this stuff's really more for interior projects -- nothing that fancy..."

"You sell yourself short, Master Cromwell," said Rakepick. She once again indicated the prototype of the blimp hanging from the ceiling. "Frankly I'd say with a brain like yours, you could make a rather fine Jack yourself, some day."

Jacob's blue eyes went very wide. Then, almost immediately, his expression gained a much darker look -- one that swept through offense and disgust so thoroughly that it was close to revulsion.

"Uh -- no," he said incredibly bluntly. "Ashe is the Jack."

"I never said he wasn't," said Rakepick, "merely that you're more than qualified for such a position. More qualified than many candidates I could envision as Jack...or King, for that matter..."

"I wouldn't want the post, in any case," Jacob cut her off. "I'm not here to do Ashe's job, or the King's."

So this boy had no ambition in that direction? That was reassuring, to Rakepick.

"Good to hear it," said the Ace, before she added a bit more lowly, "...Though it occurs to me that may be why you were brought here in the first place."

Jacob's eyebrows furrowed. Rakepick folded her arms behind her back as she considered him.

"Mr. Ashe brought up your ideas to the rest of court, long before your arrival," she said grimly. "He's glided to where he is partly on the back of your creativity -- is it so surprising that he'd want to keep leeching off of your efforts and use them to earn further prestige for himself?"

Rakepick's eyes narrowed a bit.

"Your talents are far too impressive for you not to get full credit for them, Master Cromwell. I can think of quite a few projects outside of the Jack's domain that could use a mind like yours -- ones that would pay very well and offer further rewards, for your efforts."

Jacob, however, had already closed himself off visibly -- he slouched back in his chair and crossed his arms, his eyes narrowing.

"No offense, Madam Ace, but I'm not here for money or 'prestige' or whatever. I don't give a damn about politics -- I'm here because I want to do something useful, not prance around like a show horse, schmoozing with people. The only power I care about is the power in my brain and in my own two hands -- and I intend to use them to work really hard and make things that solve real problems. I want to help Ashe and the Country of Spades, however I can."

Rakepick's brows raised. This boy wasn't interested in financial reward either? A truly rare breed, to find at court.

"...That's quite noble of you, Master Cromwell," she said, and she meant it. "And it's for that reason that my offer still stands. If you wish so much to be of use, your talent and creativity would be incredibly useful, in giving the army the means to protect the Country of Spades. Your blimp prototype, for instance -- I imagine it could be a perfect flagship, with some minor alterations and a proper set of guns -- "

"Guns?" Jacob repeated, appalled. "Madam, the blimp of that prototype is full of hydrogen. Anything using gunpowder could risk setting the whole thing ablaze. That flying machine is strictly meant for long-distance transport, to reduce travel time and be more resilient to bad weather..."

"A very good idea, when our King has to travel frequently to other parts of Cinderhaven."

The stylishly dressed Jack of Spades had materialized seemingly out of nowhere and walked up behind Jacob's chair, bringing his hand onto his subordinate's shoulder. Jacob looked up at him, and his expression immediately brightened.

"Ashe!"

"I'm flattered that you approve of my staff appointments, Madam Ace," said Duncan, though his voice betrayed a notable edge, "but as you might've noticed, Jacob has quite a few projects already in the works for his place here, working for me. I'm afraid any commissions you might wish to offer him will have to wait."

Rakepick pursed her lips. She got the feeling that Duncan had overheard a lot more of her and Jacob's conversation than he would've admitted -- he was more than clever enough to eavesdrop for important information before making himself known.

"Perhaps," she granted. She turned on her heel, but paused long enough to shoot a cold smile over her shoulder at Duncan. "But don't hoard him away all for yourself, Mr. Ashe. A young man of talent like Master Cromwell could change the world, so long as he has the freedom to chase his own success."

Duncan clenched his jaw as the Ace strolled off.

"Don't hoard him away" -- you dodgy geebag, if you even think of trying to snatch Jacob up for yourself -- !

"What a weird woman."

Duncan looked at Jacob, startled, to see the man frowning very deeply at Rakepick's retreating back.

"She acts like she's complimenting you, and then she says things that make absolutely no sense," Jacob muttered irritably. "'So long as he has the freedom to chase his own success' -- as if I somehow don't? And insinuating that I'm here to do your job...I'm a technology guy, I'm not here to waste time kissing up to people..."

"Good to know you think I'm wasting time," Duncan said very dryly.

Jacob looked sideswiped. "Huh? What, no -- I didn't say that! I said it'd be a waste of time for me to do that..."

"Of course it would -- I'm already doing it," Duncan cut him off smoothly with a wry smile.

His smile then faded as his face grew more serious.

"...Jacob...what Rakepick said...it's not true, not a bit of it. Of course, yes, I did share your ideas at court -- but I did not take credit for them...I told the former Jack they were yours. And I didn't want you here so you could do my work for me or make me look better. I wanted you here because...well, your ideas are useful, and I..."

I want you around. I want you around all the time, not just at that old tavern every Tuesday and Thursday...

Duncan swallowed, his dark eyes flitting down to Jacob's lips and back up into his blue eyes.

"...I do...want you to succeed. I want your work to be appreciated. All of it -- whether it's for me or not."

Jacob grinned. It made his blue eyes sparkle, even though his face lacked any light of revelation about the unspoken sentiment in Duncan's posture.

"I know, Ashe," he said. "And that's all I want, really, to know my work means something. Sure, the paycheck's great -- " he gave a cheekier grin, " -- makes it easier for me to support myself, Wyn, and Mum, you know...but I took the job because you wanted my help, needed my help. And well, you know me...I like to help people. Especially the ones I care about."

Duncan tried very hard to bite back the flush rising in his cheeks. Somehow Jacob completely missed it, though, because his focus was drawn to the blueprint he'd left on his desk.

"Speaking of which!" he said brightly. He snatched up the blueprint and held it up for Duncan to see. "I sketched out a concept for a new hydroelectric generator, for your upcoming meeting with the King of Spades! I suggested several dimension sizes, since I wasn't sure how big the boiler here is, but I thought the palace would be a good place to test its efficiency and ability to heat multiple levels..."

Duncan looked it over and nodded in approval.

"Not bad," he said, and his lips unfurled in a more mischievous smile. "I think the King and the rest of the court will be very impressed with it, and you, when you accompany me to the meeting."

Jacob was taken aback. "Wha -- ? You want me to -- ?"

"Yes -- but only after I take you shopping for some new clothes. I'm not introducing you to Oskar Doyle in red suspenders."

[mirror-to-the-past]

I am but a measly 2:00:15 into the genre-defining "Riku is Gay" video, but like. Damn, Tennelle Flowers is a cinematic genius. I've remained so thoroughly enthralled by the tasteful spacing of audio commentary, clips from the games, and excerpts from the novels/writer interviews that I've hardly even noticed the time passing. What is this video laced with, man- I love video essays, but usually I have to rewind a gazillion times due to my attention slipping against my will.

That collage of comparison clips from KH2 Beast's arc and Riku's KH1-KH2 arc is killing me, man. Ever wish you could tattoo a part of a video to your forehead? Apparently, now I do.

[rain-shoshana]

The whole point of getting gay married is to have someone to lovingly shit talk your friends with. Poirot and Hastings are doing it right!

[shironezuninja]

I’m just happy I got some writing done. There’s more in my notebook that has to wait to be added to the 2nd Draft. The real world continues to drive me nuts, and the orange pig isn’t behind bars yet.

[allofthelights11]

Mystery gift, secret admirer texts, and adorable flirts -

In the midst of their bickering, Hermione elects to stay behind at Hogwarts for the holidays of their eighth year. Ron sends her an early present - or does he?

Super cute socmed story, complete on AO3.

[that-one-english-nerd]

i’ve been in writing block for the past week or two cause life has js been so busy and i’ve had zero motivation… tell me why i just cured it by doing a spinny wheel on which of my work in progresses i should write💀

so if anyone has *too many* ideas of what to write, highly recommend…

[grim-faux]

3 _ 46 _ The Faint Traces of Forgot

First – An Echo Rebounds Through the Silent City

All your questions, all those pesky unknowns, become answers. Not until the door is opened, never before the handle is tripped. Only then, all will be made clear. Your journey shall dwindle to its conclusion, the world bows before you. Until then, you must run….

And run he did.

Only after she broke him away from the grip of the television. The shift jarred him back into the present space - the rot and mildew, the musty carpet - all in contrast to the intense buzzing in his bones, and the jagged pain beating inside his skull. Blearily, he kicked his legs at the floor, trying to pitch himself up after the door creaked; unaware that he was laying flat on his back, far from the dreary hall and the door with the Eye glowering down upon him. For a time he’s barely conscious. Blood coated his upper lip, his fingers jitter and claw at the edge of coat. She might’ve hissed something at him, or that was the static vibrating through every fiber of his discorporated body. There’s an underlying noise, a rhythmic drone or whirring lodged in his spiraling thoughts.

This time he does hear the snarling. She grabbed at his coat, nearly knocking his bag off as she nearly throttled him.

He snapped his head off the floor and glanced around. Noise! Where? Who! She recoiled from him. He glanced her way, before his focus flew to the shrieking television. Something behind the searing flicker gleamed clarity, but in a shimmer and a blink it vanished. There again, more distinct in form – a figure. A person.

Stretching, rising. Higher and higher. Approaching. Reaching. Coming for them.

She and he crept back. The sounds became more deliberate, the shiver of image fading in and out, before never dissolving completely. Coming, but it can’t reach them. Not from there. A pair of hands stretch toward the blinding white screen, and he… he wants to reach back. Take with them. The fizzing touch was familiar, but he couldn't decide how. The sensation brushed his senses but it doesn’t make sense. He found something, and only has more questions because of it. He was both excited but horrified.

That door. Who was it? He found the door, but didn’t expect it to open. Such things are never that simple, there always has to be a catch. An exchange. He was drawn to the door, to the….

“It calls to me.”

An awful knotting churned in his chest. The call knew something. He sought something in the static, a beckoning murmur within the whitenoise. Pleading, even. To him. It sounded sad and… hurt. Why was he supposed to reach the door? He did not think those answers would reach him, not with those large spindly hands pressing into the glass.

The blip of alarm did not stop him from approaching the television and extending one hand.

An eruption of clawing noise ravaged his mind, and he’s certain his nose is bleeding again. That was to be the least of his concern, he has to get away. Retreat from this powerful eruption tearing from the television. Knickknacks and books erupt off the warped shelves guarding the perimeter of the room a desk was thrown aside alone with tattered boxes, a hefty suitcase crumbled into dust. The radiance in the TV screen became infinitely more intense, the bulb above and everything solid blazed with raw energy. He tried backing up, with Her, but coordinating his own limbs becomes impossible. He's all but double over and rocking, choking back each betraying groan his own body produced. He can’t do anything but growl and topple.

In a wink it was all over.

Sudden relief nearly capsized what was left of his consciousness. The pain is still present, but it subsists to something so pitiful he barely noticed. His blurred vision is drawn to the sudden darkness of the room, the bulb above did burst and glass dashed across the carpet. He cringed into his coat, though too aware of the bleak shadow unwinding not far from where he had fallen. The distorted radiance sizzled around the outline of the towering form so gleefully, the rambunctious aura made him sick to his gut. His mask was filled with the stench of copper and mildew, his eyes stung with tears, but he knew what was there before him.

A man…. The man from the room, behind the door he gullibly opened, crawled out of the television screen with such ease. The shrouded shape rose upward, and up, and up. Unwinding, stretching, the long arms extending, the longer legs uncoiling from an impossibly compact crouch. The imposing figure kept going, no end of its height in sight. The world became so much bigger, much more terrible, more nightmarish than he had been prior instructed.

This would give all the answers he wanted. The man in the hat. But he would not like the answers, this he knew for a fact.

Mono ran. The weird tremor had not faded from his head or legs, but if he kept moving and didn’t stumble, he would make it. Find hide. Flee. Get out of sight, three seconds. Disappear from its view for two seconds, and he could lose it.

She already zipped from the shrouded doorway they came in, and he was slower to follow when he got turned around. A little. Each step was weighted, despite how he pumped his legs and heaved at the hard floor with his footpads it was impossible gain distance from the terrible shadow cloaking him with its inky blanket. The sharp clip of the man’s shoes ripped through the air at his back. Tick-tock, click-clack. Growing steadily closer, regardless how much drive and vigor he pushed into his dulled legs.

He didn’t dare look back.

Further down the corridor he rushed through, several doors stood open on either side of his flight. no good, too small. And the tall man in the hat was right behind him. He ignored all building panic and temptation, instead he lunged around the next corner and forced his body to its limits. The next hall opened to his left and he did not hesitate, even when the man in the hat gave a piercing wail and the steps rapped all the closer. The further he pulled away from direct view of the tall man, the easier it was to move. The better his body felt, the less muddled and leaded his limbs were. Keep moving. Go. Go!

He dashed through the room, ignoring the furnishing, the filing cabinet and a dresser. A little further and he’s charged into the kitchen. Just as another crack of static announced the Thin Man appearing in the living room.

Six dove into a gap beside the refrigerator. He barely looked her way, opting to go further to one of the cabinets across the room. A cabinet door hung off the hinges, and he barely clambered inside; he nicked his ankle on the broken edge of the floor bottom, but he didn't notice the bleeding. He was busy peering back out, the screech of the man in the hat pierced the small room.

Bad! Bad hide! He was about to gesture for Her, but the light above the oven flashed. A waning shrill filled the room. Mono ducked into the shade of his hide and capped a hand to the side of his head.

The man in the hat appeared within the kitchen, a crackling wail announced his vicinity. The few items they rifled through earlier, a toaster and a tea kettle, skipped across the floor as the shiny shoes took up space.

She looked his way. And Mono, glanced the way of the too tall figure. He was looking right at Her!

They could still get away. He beckoned. Here. NOW!

She squeezed away from the fridge and managed two steps before collapsing. The burning glare within the kitchen amped up to fever levels. Mono could barely hold his head up, images and a cacophony of noises became a vortex surging through in his mind. He didn’t understand any of it. Fire. Tower. Children. Signal. Eyes.

Staggering under the onslaught, he forced himself to raise his arm out to Her. Come. Please! Move!

That was the extent he could demand from his abused body. The agony was too great, like some livid worms fighting inside his brain, trying to scratch their way out.

The man in the hat was closer now. Towering over his friend. Reaching. Six crawled nearer to him and raised her arm out. Her toes and fingernails bore into the linoleum floor, the lower half of her face was visible where only her teeth grit. He stretched out to her but... he couldn’t do it. He buckled under the pain, his bones thrumming right in his skin. He couldn’t do anymore, save for collapse.

Another crackling wail rolled through the air. The bulb in the oven lamp burst, and then Her shriek. That speek. He never heard Her do speek like that. It was a final sound a child made when undone, of pain and fear, and an unknown finality.

And then she was gone. A sad little shadow haunting the place she huddled mere moments before.

Both gone. The tall thin man, and his Six. Gone. Stole. To where, he doesn’t know.

At first he can’t move. He doesn’t know what has hurt him worse, the punishing sensation the man in the hat imparted, or from failing Her once again. Again.

He can’t do this. Again. All gone, all of them. He never told Her how… he couldn’t. It wasn’t his fault. He couldn’t do a thing, couldn’t stop it. There was nothing to do, but flee. She picked the worse hide place!

Without meaning to, he struck the rotted wood of the cabinet floor. The panel crack, but didn’t break completely. Weak! He won’t do this again! He promised, he wouldn’t leave Her. He was going to stop this! It wasn’t fair! It wasn’t! So he would make it right! Nothing would stop him, because he wouldn’t let it.

It took some effort to drag his aching body out of the cabinet, to leave the safe space he was not torn from. The man in the hat might come back, likely would come seek him too. Stupid. He was stupid for opening the door. Should’ve known.

After a few steps, the shakiness seeped from his limbs. He can think a little clearer too. The Tower. She would be there. That’s… he is certain that is where the man in the hat lives, where he goes when not taking children. Idiot. Knew speek. Warning.

He stood before the sad little shadow, of his Six. The fragment. The wispy gray patch didn’t seem to know he was there, it – She, didn’t recognize him. The shadow kept replaying the scene, of being stole. Reaching out for him. Help. Take. Mocking his failing.

When he threw his arm to her, too little too late, the shadow faded into dusty particles. Like soot. He stood stock still and silent, only to watch Her vanish a second time.

Mono rubbed at his eyes and hiccupped. He scrubbed at his face, licking away some of the blood. It would be alright. He could do this. He was going to find Her, and nothing would stop him. Nothing could stop him, that much he could promise.

The television in the room sputtered out images, but when he closed in on it, the screen changed. It became placid and welcoming, as if expecting him….

It sang to him a familiar sing, calming as it was reflective. This was a pivotal moment, since it had been a long time since he was able to….

It was strange. He was the strange child, who lost his pack, and now sought things he didn’t understand. The television crooned to him, promising passage and new places. And like the man in the hat, he stretched out his arms to the screen and set his palms upon the warm glass. The undercurrent tickled his fingers and a surge ripped up his spine. Behind the churning lines, he saw something. Not the too-tall figure, not Her. No. Something he didn’t understand, buried in another world entirely.

Before he realized it, he’s smashed through the transmission and rebounded within a muddle, drab scene. A swollen shape swiveled his way – a repulsive mass and— he shut his eyes. Where was he? What happened? Clenching his jaw, he tapped into an unknown force, and dragged through the clammy mess. The comforting tinge of electricity pricked his nerves, he found his way. Ripped toward the light without pause or thought.

The screen behind him burst into dazzling stars, and his fuzzed mind realized he’s falling.

And he kept falling into the deepest pit She released him into.

__

With a jolt he awakened, in the most awkward position to date. His long frame wilted sideways over the arm of the sofa chair, elbow digging into his own midsection side and his face crushed against his palm. It takes an agonized effort to collect his wits and begin to unwind, or coil up. He brushed a hand over his face and worked out the prickling black tinges in his peripheral.

The fall. Falling. One of the worst events of his miserable life. The second, coming much later. Much-much later.

The Thin Man pulled himself up into a more presentable stature and looked the room over, reasserting himself in this place – the rotted walls, the flaking tile and patches of moldy flyers plastered to the floor. A place more hospitable than where he spent much of his life. For a long while he flailed with placing where he was, taken by the change in decorum of the usual layouts he was sheltered in when the storm became its fiercest. 

Through a skeletal corridor came a crashing wail from the winds rattling at broken planks, the chatter of rain smothered briefly before the plinking resumed a vigor of gnashing teeth. If not for his hold over the electrical current in this place, the bulbs might have extinguished completely due to the cleave of electrical barks. Outside somewhere, a sheet of metal rapped across some obstacle or wall, it sounded as if its goal was to hack into the building he resided in.

The storm was particularly horrendous this hour, spurring him to slip into the first opening without complaint. This came with risks, though there was no creature in all the city he feared. Save for one.

Off to the side and at the base of a pile of rubbish, the child. The strange boy performed his usual activity, checking his coat and dusting off specks of silt. When finished he took up the hat that had fallen off, and plastered the head piece back onto its rightful place. The rumpled brim concealed everything but the familiar tight line his lips formed in their firm, glum frown.

The Thin Man gave a crackly sigh. Weaning that boy off this need to conceal his face was proving to be most troublesome. He gave his brow a rub, before glitching away from the stiff cushion of the sofa seat. He stepped and glitched periodically, avoiding the large patches in the ground torn up and others filled with stale water. He bypassed other obstructions such as a desk or a rusty crates of lockers, from the innards of these beasts gushed heaps of waterlogged pages.

Half the room was overtaken by additional counter islands and more peculiar structures, such as a wall of cuvees loaded with nothing but cobwebs and debris. In other patches hunkered stacks of filing cabinets and trolleys, many of which had corroded into unrecognizable sculptures that obstructed his pathing. Around the rooms perimeter camped other chairs and seats, but the sofa had seemed the most stable of the furnishings. During his initial arrival, he had only glimpsed the room to assure no lurking hazard lingered in the depths – the Viewers rising antagonism had a habit of catching him at the most bothersome of times. 

While appreciating a rare high archway he did not need stoop to pass through, something collided with his ankle. Without a glance, he gave the child a nudge to get him out of the way. Then, rotated and prowled over to a framed board tacked with dozens of pages, flyers, and other miscellaneous patchwork of musty papers burdened by obscure marks. He lit a cigarette, then gave the board a go over with detached eyes.

As expected, most of the pamphlets were ancient and long faded into a ghostly haze of memory. He could likely read the words better if submerged in the Hunters bog. However, he did note that some of the patches of advertisements had been pinned recently, and featured glossy colors. As with festive images.

And the Eye.

He exhaled a thick cloud of smoke and scowled. Despite where he traveled or how deep he buried himself in the city’s walls, the ever-watchful Eye always sought him out. Peace was a fleeting dream, and the staring orb lurking in every still image served as a reminder of the looming fate he had merely postponed.

Despondent, he began haunting the building himself, as he so often did with an area failed to capture his fancy. From corner-wall-window, and repeat, he wandered here or there picking at the muddled artifacts  or toeing at the pages crushed into the floor. Sometimes he lost himself in patrolling empty rooms littered with scattered clothing and luggage, or roving through the same set of corridors back and forth, hands folded against the low of his back - a trail of smoke swirling above his hat. He could not admit that the dream haunt had bothered him. It did not. He had lost count of how many times he dreamed of the fateful moment he failed his Six – when the man in the hat entered the kitchen, and he could do nothing but cower. Like an insignificant boy. The towering shadow stole his whole world, and then the Six shattered his hope.

He strived to detach from the uncomfortable clenching in his chest by focusing on rifling through a room slotted with desks, the aisles in an assortment of disarray and all other available furniture crammed into jagged forts of wood and metal. This chamber was not much better than the outer lobby, but it blotted out the roaring gale and the sizzle of rain like static crowding his ears. Strange static that was not him, but the tall man - who he had feared and hated decades prior. He seldom thought about his man in the hat or who they might have been – he became them, after all. More or less.

In all his available context, that man in the hat may have been captured by his previous Thin Man, and he had simply been repeating his cycle faithfully to acquire his Mono. The thought was of no comfort.

The notebooks and books he pried out of drawers and the desks did provide some intrigue. It took some time browsing through the broken marks scrawled on the pages, but he recognized what was handwritten lines. It was far from his own technique, and far beyond the print organized in the miles of literature he perused. Yet, he did not grasp the context in these accounts – he knew why he scrawled messily in an empty notebook. For what reason did the residents have to scrawl marks?

He took a breath on the cigarette and focused on the ledger brimming with a sequence of figures and the familiar symbols, all in columns down the page. Moisture had seeped through the paper layers, and much of the written scribbles had been ground into oblivion, making very little identifiable when embedded with stains. Pinned into some packets were those of pictures with the breath of a faint outline, not the same uncanny photography present in the Morgue Hospital or the School. He shuddered at the memory of the blank gaze of the Teacher leering out at the world, unseeing but no less an apparent threat. He never liked these imaging's.

From one of the tags dividing up sandwiches of folders in a beaten and broken filing cabinet, he could discern the symbols of “Missing”, but the other symbol was too faded for interpretation. Among the wedges of frayed pages, more of the packets were bound tightly and he could not get much of anything out but a wad of dust. He doubted any of the papers would have been legible anyway. Not a great loss, but he did not have the chance to evaluate what these miles of files might have held.

That obnoxious tugging returned to his shin. He ignored it in favor of scanning over the binders of books stuffed into a shelf. Jammed among the spines, more folders and frayed papers. A few insects scurried around on the shelf. The pawing surrendered to swatting. Oh, stomping. The child was stomping on his shoe. How utterly… childish.

With a cloudy sigh, he turned his attention down onto the boy. “What is it?”

The face peaked up at him from under the hat. To his dismay, the child sprang off his shoe and over to a musty book – some of the gray silt was carved away by grabby hands. Those little hands wrenched the book up and over, using all the strength in the scrawny body in order to topple the tome over to his shoe. He knew he was going to regret giving the child an ounce of attention. He did not need another incident.

“Y’see.”

“No.”

“Look.”

He did stand by and observe the child pry up one side of the tome and flip the book open. On his shoe. He toed the book shut, nearly smacking the boy as he climbed onto the pages. The relentless child gave him an irritated glare, before fumbling back over and hoisting the side of the book’s cover up once more. This time he toed the book shut before it fully flipped open.

“No.”

“Am show,” the child insisted, with a suppressed growl. Why was he like this?

“We have been over this.” He bent low and plucked up the book. The child hissed and tried ‘pinning’ the book down, but it was no effort shaking the vandal off and then chucking the book somewhere into the distant gloom. When he looked back down on the boy, he was already latched onto his ankle and biting. Sighing, he cradled his face. “I could care less. You cannot fathom how less I could care about your tantrums.”

All the same, he did not feel confident departing the child this way. “Have you eaten lately?”

The boy gave no response aside from a stifled hiss and gnawing on his shoes. Was that a yes or a no? Did the child not know when he last ate? The city and the boy remained an ever-unfolding mystery that duped him at every turn. No wonder the cycle persisted.

“Stop that, I have asked a question.” He toed the child’s backside with his other shoe. “I expect some form of coherent speek.” He did not expect anything.

The boy grappled with his slacks, yanking one way. Then, he tried another tactic by shoving full body against his shin. He remained uncertain to the child’s anticipated effectiveness, given the little terror stood on his shoe. So, he gave the menace a flick and sent him tumbling.

While the child insisted on harassing him constantly - pawing or lunging at his feet - the Thin Man made best of his situation, and resumed searching through the aisles of obstacles and furnishings crammed at every turn. He speculated that some cataclysm must have occurred in the early onset of the Tower, wherein denizens of the city unaffected by the Signal’s crooning sing sought to protect themselves from those that had been swayed. The evidence being the trespassers of the territory that sought to shield themselves from the Signal by cloaking their faces with masks or bags.

This had not seemed odd when he was a child. He presumed (in error) that the residents had been shamed by their own appearance, and had sheltered in the comfort of cover. He had hated being stared at. He still did.

Recollecting on that fateful journey in his own youth, he recalled how at some point his only path to reaching Her went through a room, which had been boarded up recently. Recently. Even as a child he recognized this. Many planks set up in windows and across doorways featured rusted nails, and the tear streaks running from the aged metal stained the wood a vibrant rust color. Like blood. It stuck with him, because he had to work some while on the door to get one board pried loose. If not for the Snatcher turned Viewer ramming against the hastily plastered plank from the other side, he may not have succeeded in opening that path.

Pausing and puffing at the cigarette, he gazed across the sloppily constructed barricades, discarded papers sagged across overturned table legs and desk chairs. And bodies. Or the remains of those.

Unlike the typical resident of the city, clothing was not vacated entirely. Some of the sleeves and trousers within the building retained residual traces of stains. Much like a child that ceased running. A body remained to sleep, and seep into the floor where the fallen heap laid down upon.

Much of the area was open for scrutiny, but he had the child grabbing at his shin same as always. “Hey. Psst.” Tiresome.

“Are you not searching for food?” he posed. “That would be a practical use of your time.”

“Am show.”

“Am no.” He nudged the boy away with his shoe. “Go find something sealed in a box to gnaw on. And I stress in a box!”

The child continued to rush after his leg as he trudged away. The most that he could do was keep ahead of the relentless pursuit, and glitch out of the way when the child coiled up for a pounce. It was going to be one of those hours. If he placed himself in an area with enough space to patrol around while flipping through folders or books, it did stave off the bulk of the grabbing. It was not like he would spontaneously be compelled to carry on with the boy, but it was obnoxious whenever he postponed to study some mediocre interest, if only for a moment. The child in lacking all sense of self-preservation was eager to scramble over and around his shoes, among his steps. Idiot boy.

For a spell he detached from the child and had the opportunity to scan through more books fitted into a rickety shelf. It was not an elaborate collection but did feature intriguing guidance of concepts closely knitted with order and the city’s directives. The bulk of tomes he had prior skimmed through thus far had failed to hold his focus, the pages brimming with inconsequential events and retellings of dubious worlds long forgotten by the slow sweep of the clock’s hands. The concept of time itself had no meaning to the city of overcast skies, fogged roads, and drenched buildings.

The collected volumes elaborated on nothing but baffling dialect and symbols he could not yet make sense of. If he studied the patterns, some insight might be shed, yet he had no definitizes for a lost speek. Many books carried symbol marks in the upper corner of the text page, though he never paid mind to the numerical guide. He became distracted by working through the complexities of the inferred guide, rather than the substantial content itself. Usually the first pages of a book harbored extensive injury and did not interest him, the few books he could salvage never offered anything but introductions and "Forwards". Terms such as ‘universe’ or ‘family’ were prolific details that offered nothing significant. He was not certain what a universe was, though he had seen a globe—

A cloud of smoke swirled around his hat as he cast a wearied gaze over to the wall, beside the entrance of the cubicle space he now occupied. There crouched the child, a beaten and wretched book flattened under him as he scrawled marks onto the floor with a piece of flint. The boy only paused his scratching to give the location a short examination, sometimes tilting his head and listening for the whistle of air humming through the deserted halls. It was always fleeting, and soon the boy would resume his mark carving into the wall or floor.

The Thin Man shimmered, reappearing beside a flickering desk lamp. “Did you find something to eat?” No answer. Unsurprising. “Child.” The boy was not even looking his way, but instead with his back (and his rear) facing him as he drove that sharp piece against the floor. “I will not be ignored.”

There were times when the child was impossible, and then there were times when he was intolerable.

“A moment prior I could not disconnect you. And now you will not give me the time of hour.” When he set aside the book then turned back to where the boy was, the face was peeking at him from under his bowler cap. “What are you working on?”

Without a sound, the child resumed his work at carving up the floor. The Thin Man clicked over and gave the patch a scrutiny, struggling to make sense of the swirls and crosses spilling beneath the boys elbows. He gave the hard tile a firm click-click with his toe, in time with that metaphorical clock ticking away his patience.

“What do you call this?”

Praise the Cycle, the child at last peered up at him. “Marks.”

Yes, he could see ‘marks’. “And what is the point to these marks?”

The boy scooted over to a clean spot of the floor and began carving that up as well. “For speek.”

“.. ….. ..”

“Come again?”

His inquiry was awarded a slight one shoulder shrug. “T’seek. For marks. Y’see?”

No, he did not. “Are you hungry? Did you even search for some food?” The boy had the audacity to glower up at him.

“Speek marks. See? Am show.”

He pinched his brow and took a long drag on his cig. “We have been over this. There is nothing to show. You are just….” He looked down at the boy, who had buckled down ten fold on this scratching into the hard tile with his flint. Or bone. He would not be surprised if it was a tooth.

“How about you stop that.” He knelt down and reached a hand out for the lad. Of course, the boy leaned to the side and kicked at him with one leg.

“Make speek. Em’marks,” he hissed. “See.”

“Certainly,” the Thin Man relented. He caught the foot by its ankle and tugged the child away from the book. “You need to take a break from all this work. You should not overdo it.” The boy resisted, clawing at the book with his nails, while simultaneously kicking at the Thin Man's fingers with his free leg. The boy oh so enjoyed wasting his time with futility. “Calm down.”

“No. Am make. Y’see. The speek.”

“Yes. Very good. Whatever you did there.” Not that tearing up the floor further enhanced the decay to which the building already suffered. The boy had other tasks far more essential than wasting his time digging into tile. “You can make speek all about it.” With the boy out of the way, he plucked up the distracting book and then plopped the ruthless child back onto the floor. A mistake that would seem.

“Make werk.” He crawled back over to the carved slashes and pointed. The Thin Man resisted rolling his eyes.

"Make that work?"

The child nodded, and crouched down on his knees. "Mean. Make speek mean." He pretty much demanded.

“That speek means, ‘Mono is foolish.’” He stood and slipped the book under his arm. Giving the range beyond the cubicle walls a rushed sweep, the Thin Man deduced where to aim his next exploration. While ignoring the child tugging on his ankle.

“No. S’lie.”

“You asked,” he grumbled. “Impressive how you made those marks. It was unmistakable. The meaning. I eagerly anticipate when you manage to scrawl out, 'I am a marble-head boy.'”

“Not fun. Y'jerk.” This child could be a riot. Sometimes. "No haha."

“I find it hilarious.”

The child growled up at him. “Lie. No see. See better. Y'werk t'mean. Make werk.” The Thin Man was fighting back the urge to cackle.

“I did see all the marks.” He failed to smother a flashy grin. “You made the speek. Not I.” He began walking, tugging away from the child’s grip on his pant leg. “Keep scratching at the floor if that fulfills you. I am done with this game.”

Even without testing the shared transmission, he was certain the boy had gotten over his sulking and was already following close at his heels. He would prefer the little beast stay near and not do anything… strange, for a while. However, recalling the boy and reminding him constantly when the silly head became distracted by a sight or sound, was beginning to wear on him. And the moment he turned his back, the child had that irritating habit of vanishing.

Why could he not utilize those teleporting skills in dire situations? The Thin Man was not yet confident on if the child made practical use of his powers, or if the child was that skilled at becoming scarce in an instant; as much as all the travelers could at the first whisper of threatening presence.

“Boy.” He knelt beside a corroded cart of some sort, picking through wads of pages stuffed – and falling out of – packet covers that were practically dust. The child in question was pushing around a large black orb, it looked like something from a pool table but it was much too large. “What need do you have messing with that? There are no locked doors in this area.”

The child was in the process of flopping onto the globe with his tummy and balancing, like plank on a seesaw. The vandal did stall to look at him, his hat askew and lips tucked down. Something was going on in that head. That was the flat stare of a child plotting some sinister trick.

As expected, when the Thin Man returned to sifting through the musty folders, something collided with his one knee set to the floor. With a whirring hiss, he took one of the mostly intact pages off the floor and bopped the boy on his hat. That elicited a throaty snarl.

“Was’t ball?” the child snorted.

“What is it?” he clarified. The few lights dangling above glimmered and entrapped the room with suffocating gray haze for a minute or more. This did not hinder him in any way, but the child instinctively huddled next to his thigh and gave the dark room a swift scan. He was about to identify what device the 8-bowl might be, but did not want to offer the child any ideas. “You look at it. It is for watching.”

Before anymore questions could come from the topic, he picked up the black orb and chucked it into the distant gloom. The boy winced when it crashed somewhere, the echo ricocheting back to them. He was surprised the entire building didn't collapse on top of them - that is usually what happened.

“Are you doing watch?” He sought a different tactic for redirecting the child’s priorities. “Or have you found anything useful, such as a key? Or a picture for a puzzle?”

That prompt got the boy’s attention. He snapped his gaze up to him, then unclipped the mentioned trinket from his belt. The Thin Man had no need for such items, but it always spurred a twinkle in the child’s eye when he could produce a key or a fuse to him, or any other essential artifact excavated from his scavenging’s.

“Ah-ha. That will be most useful.” He accepted the proffered item and dumped it into his jacket pocket. He would need to go through it later and toss out all the refuse he accumulated; the child was incessant with shoving rubbish at his face, and he had surrendered to the nasty habit of collecting random scrap to appease the brat.

“R’busy?” The child slipped away from his knee and began prying at the flattened papers cemented by layers of silt. “For what?” He pinched the boy by the collar and tugged him away.

“Not for you. How about you go and….” The Thin Man trailed off, while his thoughts flipped through activities to distract the boy while he searched through the pages. He fortified his grip on the collar and hummed with the steady buzz of static saturating him, as with his immediate space.

He was not keen on the children running off again and getting into another situation. The boy was becoming relentless with his struggle to wrench out of his grip, but only failed to get his teeth at his fingers. That would soon change. It might have been an error on his part to discard the orb – though irritating, he might have successfully deviated the child’s mood with a fetch game. Oh well, done was done.

After setting the boy aside, he pried up a dusty and mostly whole page and gave its front and back a short check. “Here,” he crackled. “I need this paper folded into a tiny shape.” He pushed the sheet over to the boy. “This task is incremental. Make no mistakes.”

The boy stared at the page presented to him, then looked at him. “Fold?”

“Yes. Like this.” The Thin Man set aside the book he procured from the boy, and took the page in his hands. “Over and over, as many different ways as you can.”

“Why?”

The static bristled beneath the surging silence. “I need it done, expediently. That is why. Can you do that?” He was met with a blank stare.

“Eck-sped'en—”

“Are you not able to do this?” He tsked, and moved the page away from the boy. To his relief (and somewhat despair), the child snatched away the page and leaning all the way up, he managed to force the folded page over into a second fold. “Wonderful. Very good.”

“Am work. See?” he huffed, while maneuvering the stiff four-layered sheet into a more versatile angle.

“Yes. That is exactly how I need it. That is very helpful.” It was awful how easy it was to dupe the boy. How ever did he manage to survive with Her? before reaching the Tower? “Only fold the pages I need. Remember that.” Undertaking the wise initiative, he dug out a few more sheets and gave them some brief study. “Fold them as small as you can. Do all of these. Will you be able to meet the demands?”

For his credit, the child did offer him a dubious look with his lip curled up. Before tumbling over a stubborn fold and crashing to his face. He got up, fixing his hat back into place and supplied a firm nod.

“Make fix.”

The Thin Man gave is head a firm ruffle, purposefully causing the hat to tumble aside. “Excellent. I will try and keep up with your immaculate skill.”

The boy pounced his hat before it rolled too far away. Then, once securing the cap, he returned to the folded page and resumed brute forcing the layers-upon growing layers to crease and lie flat. The child mumbled to himself, “Mmmm…eh’cat.”

“Im-Mah-que-latte.”

“Mah-key-laate.”

Sigh. At least he was not clawing at his knee, or cutting into the papers that held unexplored scribbling work. He plucked up the discarded book, more so to get it out of the way before settling his attention back on the remaining pages all but crushed into the tile beneath the trolley. The nature of his search did pry at his scattered musing, as he sifted and tinkered to detach the frail layers. Any scrap of insight that should be buried away, would be truth. Insight of the worlds errors would bring him closer to understanding what made the Tower, and where the Cycle originated.

If there was a point of origin. And not mere evolution, or variations of deviations across the centuries. He was aware that no cycle was a carbon print of the previous. After exploring across the Pale City seeking shelter and food, a television at last snared him. However, as he recalled his escape from the man in the hat differed from the boy’s – when he sought the children he did not stalk them into a kitchen, but a large living area.

While immersed in his task, the slight deviation meant nothing. Just as it made no difference which child he collected, though one constant was that She was pitiful at hiding. Stealing the girl would assure the boy found his way to the Tower, versus the boy’s anticipated persistence to escape. And another constant being.

“Tree-bu’shun. Bee’ray. Tray’uhn. Sim’pill-ton. Always ben'shull. Per'sept-un.”

“Very good,” he commended. The child chanced a look his way, in the midst of wrestling the paper into its fifth fold. “Is that as small as you can make it?” Though it had been ages, the child fought with the first page he was assigned.

“No stay.”

“Ah.” He tapped the cigarettes end, and resumed leafing through his own series of sheets. Many pages too damaged by the infinite waiting typically flaked apart with barely a brush, but some of the stacks pressure sealed beneath the upper crust did survive excavation. In some sections the scribbled marks remained legible as well. “You are a bright boy. You will figure it out.” He would not admit how dismayed he was that the boy was not folding symmetrically, but elected any asymmetrical angle to form a crease. This did not assist with the end goal to keep the papers cooperation/

“What do?” he rasped. The child did not lift his head, but kept his focus burning into the page he was pushing, and trying to balance atop to force the fold flat to the floor.

“What am I doing?”

“Mm.” He braced his foot onto the floor but the silt was too sleek and he did a full somersault. The page sprang loose, unfolding into a mangled mess. With a choked hiss the boy lunged back to his feet and tackled the paper. “For busy.”

“I am very busy. As are you.” The boy made a soft hum as he fought the nefarious paper. He retraced the creases in the page, doing better this time with the pre-folded edges. It still required the entirety of his weight to subdue his foe, but even that did not seem enough. The Thin Man humored the idyllic prospect of suggesting the child endeavor a test of his powers, but doubted that would achieve anything. “I should have you instruct me on the tactics of folding paper.”

Another hum burbled from the child. He did not look at him, but scrutinized the thick, irregular edges jutting out. He conveyed the most minimal of engagement with the ‘busy’, yet persisted with that single-minded stubbornness.

That same persistence that was to be their ruin.   

“Good?” He carried the wadded paper in his arms and presented it.

“Most excellent. Your prestige does not do your reputation justice." Another sequence of hollow blinks met his grin. "Now, make sure it does not unfold.” This stumped the boy, though he made no outward indication of such unfeasibility. The boy stood stock still, only his fists latched to the musty page quivered.

The Thin Man continued probing through the packed sheets, paying no mind to the child standing with the paper. Unmoving. Maybe the little terrors shoulders shook, or it was just the light shying in the merciless storm. Using his thumb, the Thin Man brushed away the silt to discover another ‘Missing’ label, proceeded by a column of marks he did not recognize. He was reminded why typical literature was much easier to peruse through – the dialect was straight forward, the accounts (though untruths) presented in an easy to deconstruct way. The more he sifted through the archeological layers, digging out packets with repeated symbols, the formation of the lines quartering symbol marks intrigued him. Other tomes had sections devoted to this structure with the symbol devices divided, among with the mark speek scrawling.

Weight. Color. Cups. Feet. Mass. Scale.

In the pages a peculiar description list tallied off. Eye Color. And Weight. Along with last seen, and something referred to as kinships. For all he knew, this could have been a menu preference. Interwoven with the flaking layers, more deposits of the thick photographs impeded his careful picking. The images went ignored due to the damage, yet the inclusion with the descriptive page began to dawn a practical functionality in his comprehension. Somewhere, he did gain insight on the measures of seeking a misplaced character in a book.

Someone called an Detective asked questions, on a convoluted quest to put together the unknown absence of one character that a pack had misplaced. He could not delve much of the context into the practice, he had viewed few literature that explored the rehashed theme enough beyond a general concept he could relate with. If an article did not provide insightful content, he typically flipped through the salvageable passages while keen for any clue toward absolving his present condition.

The role of Detective had intrigued him immensely. A person asking question, seeking answers, navigating among false leads and dead ends. Was he not a Detective by definition? The only difference in his situation was that no one was left to answer his questions or provide insight.

This trail of thought would have… well, he had been nothing but a child. A child driven away by a hateful world.

He scattered the mess of scrap pieces he unearthed from the toppled cart, deciding to withdraw from further exploration. The hypothetical tethers connected the small frames to a far larger picture, much as his exploration through the chambers of this building equated to a united function; the whole of which was lost to him. Much as the entirety of the Pale City catered to the hordes of residents and their basic needs, until the discarded flesh was claimed when it was ripe.

Trespassers to the city did not foster their business long, for threat of the Tower and the Signal Broadcast permeating the territory. Snatchers in particular made frequent passage through the city's sprawling region, seeking to poach off the abundance of the children infestation. Through the catered Broadcast, he was aware that there were roles not exclusive to the market of children, such as the Stockers and the Chefs, and other beings which lurked and sheltered in the city. In spite of the influence of the Signal Tower, the city thrived, inhabitants emerged, the Tower fed. Even the Hunter secluded in the woods was aware of the Signal fallout miles upon miles away. That cloth mask did not defend him from the terrors of children or their knack for survivability.

That recollection brought a smirk to his face.

None regarded the absence of the Hunter significant. Or more specifically, the slain Doctor warranted no alarm from Snatchers, and no Stocker concerned them self with the dozens of Viewers lying in the roads. Yet, recollecting the point of the Detective and his aspiration for mystery, there was an embedded concern for a lone missing character that was the focal goal of the fictions focus.

He struggled to puzzle why he was crouched on a mound of tattered pages titled Missing. Something of the context was lacking here. The Viewers were always dragged into the transmission, even bodies lying in the streets were not exempt if the transmission saturated the Flesh; clothing descended as often as the rain fell. It was apparent for some time the Missing was cataloged, but why? The residents drawn to the Tower were always….

Pondering, it dawned on him that somewhere in the city’s prehistory… vanished residents became the mystery. If this incident was noteworthy to record, it had to be of significant impact on the former residents. The former attendants then might have recorded something that would serve in his own Detective quest.

At one point the city existed as more than a relic of a dead society, but only the rehashed memories of the Broadcast projected what such a world might have been. He did not trust a hocky channel waving around a cleavers capable of cutting through a spinal cord with one whack.

The child tumbled to the floor beside his knee, after falling off the crumpled paper he was fighting to control. Apparently, the boy had failed. “Mmm.” He growled, and pounced on the battered sheet. At this point, the child had moved on to combat a second page; the first he had fought for so long lay nearby, in the process of escaping its contortions. The wad appeared thoroughly trounced, compliments of biting and chewing along the creases. Ew.

With a sputter, the Thin Man flashed to his full height and began walking. “Psst. Hey.” He did not bother with the boy. “See. Am busy.”

The child could stay ‘busy’ for all he cared. He needed to remove himself from the flyers. Put together some sort of meaning of this. Missing. Missing. That was the layers of pages pinned to the framed corkboard. Missing and more Missing.

If he recalled… the Morgue Hospital. The Doctor needed Patients to work his craft upon. He had always imagined an underling to the Doctor, collecting the broken bodies of Viewers from across the city and cramming them into the chutes. Him and Her wandered those icy halls laced with rot and disinfectant, prepared to deal with such a horror as an Undertaker. If such a being existed, it had never made its presence known to him. Perhaps, one Broadcaster crossed paths with the Undertaker. There may be a loop wherein instead of the Doctor, his Assistant was encountered and slain. None of that factored into his situation, as nothing he did would yet deter the child’s eventual.

End the Broadcaster. Return to the Tower.

“It calls to me.”

The flickering bulb within a room caught his attention. He had been wandering through dilapidated corridors breathing down another cigarette, lost in his thoughts. The whole flight through the city haunted him – the sensation of navigating terrain without someone, the strange shadow lurking in corners of murky rooms, the dense pods of Viewers clustered in the painful glow of televisions. It had been a perilous course, made worse when the man in the hat emerged from the blazing screen to pursue him. Finish what was begun.

He clicked into the room, shoving the door open further as he bowed under the frame. He glitched behind the desk and sat upon the rickety chair. On the desks surface sat a contraption, a notepad dusted with silt, and hunks of mortar from the decaying walls. He brushed the heavy debris off the desk and set down the book he had liberated from the younger.

All of this could not be in vain. Though, he doubted if he had the capacity to carve out meaning from a tomb that rewrote its history. Once upon a time a dark presence invaded a city, but due to the efforts of an adversary imbued with powers, the horror was defeated and the city was saved. The world went on, oblivious to the canker biding its time. Was the Tower and the Flesh not also inevitable? If the city could not see it, then the siege was concluded before the beast awoke. A swollen horror inheriting a world, the denizens oblivious to the doom leeching them away piece-by-piece.

His train of thought was broken by the hands gripping the other side of the desk. He exhaled a cloud of smoke, as the child hoisted himself up onto the surface. As usual, the child tucked down under his little bowler hat and snuck around the perimeter of the desk, occasionally stalling to peek his head up and check if he reacted at all. His only response was to drum his fingers on the silty notebook and keep his gaze directed forward, to the door of the room. He had supported himself on one elbow, with his chin cupped by the palm of that hand. If the child turned grabby and climby, he would resume wandering. Pointless as that was.

The child slipped over his other arm and hunkered down over the notepad streaked with dust; apparently he had located a new marking tool. Shapes and the sort formed on the clear spaces, of curves and angles. Gibberish. They were not even pictures.

He took up a nearby pencil and sketched down some notes to himself. A circle also formed around the boy. That confused him, and he turned his gaze up to him.

A figure in a coat and bag took form, then there was a small device in his arms. The plane.

“Mono. Him.” The boy pointed to the picture he sketched. “Y’know. Make speek. This Mono.” He tapped at the silty page where the Thin Man wrote out the boy and his coat, and the little toy he once carried. Before setting that free.

He made no sound, but set aside the pencil. He watched the boy, as he continued to grumble and add other shapes to the page. The tail of the coat swept away more of the soot as the child really put himself into the sketching. Something dawned on him as the child turned to him and muttered some other detail.

A chasm existed between him and this child. Nothing could bridge it. No amount of domestication or cohabitation could connect them. And when he was gone, the child….

Biding his time. That was all this was. Just as he squandered his remaining decades in the Tower, awaiting his departure to renew the cycle, he was loafing around until the eventuals caught up to him. It meant nothing, not to him, and certainly not the boy. At some point in the history the world had perished, and he inherited that narrative.

“What sort of pictures are these?” He tapped his cigarette beside the notepad.

The child craned his head to look up at him. “S’mark. Make werk?”

“No.” He crackled, and the lamp on the desktop pulsed in time with his heartbeat. “They cannot work. That is nothing.” The face sneered at him, likely offended.

“Make werk. Know marks. Em’work.”

“Shh.” He poked the boy on his nose. “I want a story about these marks. How about, you tell me what do they mean to you?” That brightened the child’s strange eyes. “I am listening. Tell me, is this a story? I would like to hear it. Go ahead.” The child wriggled around on the page and concentrated on the scribbled shapes.

“Have food.”

The Thin Man waited for elaboration, but the child. Just watched him. Blank and expressionless. “That’s it?”

“Mm?” the boy hummed. He stared at him, at a loss. “S’work?”

Giving another smoky sigh, he pinched the bridge of his nose. “Add some more marks, and then let me know when you are done.” He tugged over the neglected book and flipped through the pages.

“Am not—”

“I do not care what you scribble out. Make whatever you want. It will not mean anything.” At this rate, the bulb was going to burst and the child would get stranded in a dark room. Not the worst outcome, it would offer him some respite while the child inevitably found his way back to him. The curse of their shared transmission.

“Do you believe that you are cursed?” he prompted. The book was intermixed with large photographs, which explained why the child had taken an interest in it.

Without looking up, the boy’s hat… swiveled.

“No.” Though that was expected. He considered how he blurted the question, and pried softly, “Do you not desire to be free of me?” This time, the child jerked in place and swung back to him. The boy sprang over the book lying flat on the desk and before he could glitter away, the front of his jacket was snagged by tiny hands.

“No. No-no,” he hissed. “Speek. S’for keep mean.”

“Child,” he rumbled, trying to withdraw despite the child attached to his suit. “I cannot keep you forever. This was never meant to transpire. You and I. It does not work. You will destroy yourself. We have been over this. I have told you again and again.” He meant to snare the boy and rip him away, but his hands folded around the mess of a child trying to knit into his jacket. He kneaded at the back, trying to smooth out those awful tremors the boy never could shake.

“No. No. No. Y’make speek. Have Mono. Mono. Am Mono.”

“You are an idiot,” he barked through the boy’s tirade. For some reason, that did not silence the growling.

“Mono!”

“See what this is doing!” he shrieked through the static interference. “You are just… you don’t know any better.” At last, the child went silent. The quivering did not diminish, and the boy was choking back wet noises.

The Thin Man massaged his temple with one hand, while the other fretted with calming the child. A disaster. What did he expect? And, what did he do now?

“When the horrible shadow is gone,” he began the story. “The boy will be happy. He will be sad and lonely, but he will journey across the city. It will be a long and difficult adventure, he will conquer more dangers than he believed possible.” The boy sniffled and cringed more into his jacket. He burbled something, but it went smothered. “But he will find where he belongs. Then, his story will be complete. He will find who he was meant to be all along. At first, he will be angry and hurt, but those sensations… all things fade. Nothing lasts forever. So does the hurt, because he had to be more than that.”

The child did not soothe entirely, but the appalling noises did fade. He did not bother attempting to remove the little tick, but instead returned his focus to the book. The boy’s dependency disturbed him. T̷h̸e̴ ̵ B̷e̷t̷r̴a̷y̷a̴l̴ had destroyed his youth, though he did factor that Mono would be ready to relinquish his presence and thus would harbor no regrets when the time came. The dawning of knowledge to who the man in the hat was would be no different than his own enlightenment.

He doubted this boy would have any capacity to detain the next child.

Flipping through the pages, he halted. Then sifted through the pages once more, seeking one of the photographs he had idled past.

He adjusted the cigarette at his lips, concentrating on the photograph. It was badly faded, and the print from the adjacent page ghosted across the failing image. With limited experience with the archaic impression he did struggle with gathering the dominate tracing. He was losing himself to the depth of what was a familiar landscape, the rolling fields of building tops stretching far into the gray space. The photographs distress was so advanced he could not discern the immaculate brickwork, the haze of windows strong against the midday shot.

The Thin Man saw nothing, but the scratched crossbeams brushed into the distance. Was it the fog or the pictures displaced from existence? It did not matter, his focus fell upon what was not present rather than what was.

Absolutely no presence of the Eye.

That could not be right. It was too jarring after the constant barrage of the all seeing presence, and he was not convinced that the imprint was lost in the depreciating haze of a lost memory dissolving from the page. He had believed the Eye was omnipotent in its haunting manifestation in every form of medium it touched, that it was integrated into the world and its inhabitants. All consuming. Inescapable. Perpetual.

Endless.

“Child.” The boy pried at his suit lapel and nearly knocked his hat off as he buried his forehead into his coat. “This book. Where did you find it?” A series of muffled sounds embedded with his suit jacket. “This is very important. Are you listening? Mono.” He snapped the boy away and set him on the desk.

“Import’ent?”

“Yes. Very important.” He shut the book and checked the brutalized cover. Thread poked through the tattered binding, the texture flaking and barely solid. He did not expect any significant identification, but he could usually trace colors of print on the more durable spine. That, too, was barely twined together. “I need more books like this.”

The boy gawked at him from under the brim of his bent hat. “Floor.”

Okay.

“But where on the floor?” With a shimmery dissolve, he reappeared on the other side of the desk. “We will retrace your steps and find where this book was.” He plucked the boy up and lowered him to the ground beside his shoes. He gave him a gentle push towards the door. “Go along now.”

The child set off, wandering through the threshold of the doorway, but stalled on the other side. He clicked around the boy, only so he could straighten up and give the corridor a short scan. The boy searched around the gloomy space, with only the faint glow from the room boxing in his placement. Like a certain room in a forsaken Tower.

“Well?” The boy looked up at him.

“From wall.”

“Wall?” The boy nodded. “Come again? From where?” Another nod. And to his dismay, the child scurried back into the room. He glitched back into the space, scraps of paper and dust scattered as his intrusion disrupted the airspace. He tracked the child sprinting to the other side of the room, and to a broken space torn into a low spot of the wall and where the floor caved down. This complicated everything.

“Wait.” He ducked and snagged the coattail before the boy could dive into the opening and be lost to only the Tower would know. “New plan. We will return to the room where you found this book. Do you think you can handle that?” He collected the boy up and settled him onto the crook of his arm. The book sagged a bit when he raised it up in his grasp, motioning it as he pivoted.

“For book?”

“Yes.” The Thin Man was already transitioned out of the room, the light of the lamp winking out at his back. The midnight corridor did not interfere with his navigation, did not turn him around or dissuade his confident stride. The child clutched tightly to his jacket and his legs drew up to anchor him in place with his toes, much as the nubs would if he was climbing a slick pipe in the driving rain. “I need more books like this. You do this for me.”

“Hmm?” the boy whispered. “Book werk?”

“Very well. Yes. Book works so well.” Reaching an intersection in the hall, he checked the two directions finding one path cluttered with more of the haphazard barriers. He did not recall teleporting through a wall of chairs or bookshelves, nor could he backtrack the direction he came from the original chamber. More worrying, he missed at what point he arrived at the room with the desk or why he stopped to begin with. He decided on the the open path in the opposite direction, but found the ceiling caved in.

“What make?”

“What make? What is the book about?” The child hummed. He was looking up at him, gazing at his face from under the rim of his crumpled hat. “I do not know. It tells me something very important, but I need to see more books like it. To….”

The boy blinked owlishly up at him. He did not have any grasp of what was said or the possible significance of this find.

“It is crucial that I learn where this book came from, and if there are more like it.” After brief consideration, it did occur to him that the condition of the book was not reassuring. As with the mounds of files trampled under the elements, the content lost to time. And nothing left to care. Not even he.

With a crackle and swirl of static, he reappeared in the other section of corridor prior dismissed. It would take some searching, but he was not abandoning this lead. He placed his hand over the child, assuring he did not manage to slip away while he was focused on his pathing. For once the child did not bite him.

Next

[canvas-madness-txc]

Not All Dragons Hoard Gold

Frisk had heard of dragons before. Whenever a story talked of them, they spoke of terrifying winged reptiles, whose breath would incinerate you on sight and would hoard any gold it could get its claws on. Something you would be glad is fictional. Frisk had never paid any mind to this- after all it was just fairytales. Even if they were real, Frisk believed that everyone deserved a second chance and some kindness.

They had been exploring outside like they would any other day. Then, their gaze landed on something different.

It looked like a door. It was in ruins, it barely hung on its hinge. Walking over to it, Frisk put their hand on the door knob.

Open the door?

❤️*Yes *No

The door creaked open. It was an eerie sound, sending chills through the human's spine. Still, they moved forward, through the long hallway before them. Something about this hidden room felt important. They were curious- DETERMINED to find out why.

The path was long and winded. It resembled more of a makeshift cave than a building. At the end of the tunnel, there was an enormous room. It was covered in claw marks, remains of something burned and rubble. In the center was a large figure. Frisk trembled, but snuck closer.

It was a real dragon, but it didn't look like any of the dragons in the old stories.

There were no scales. From head to toe and both its wings, were bone. Frisk smiled, thinking about the skeleton brothers. They wondered how the two would react if they found that another skeleton existed- even if it didn't look like either of them. There were two cracks on the dragon's skull. One above its left eye socket and the other going from the right socket down to its jaw. There was something behind it, probably its hoard.

Frisk stepped forward.

"Hello," they began. The dragon jolted forward. Frisk jumped back a bit. They held out their hands in a peaceful gesture.

"Don't be scared, I'm not going to hurt you."

*Fight *Act *Item ❤️*Mercy

Frisk is sparing you

The dragon seemed to relax a bit. It lowered its body, so that its skull was at level with Frisk.

"WHAT'S YOUR NAME YOUNG ONE," the dragon asked in a gravelly voice. Frisk was taken aback, unaware it could speak, but was excited nonetheless.

"My name is Frisk! Do you have a name?" Frisk looked up at the skeletal dragon.

"YOU MAY CALL ME GASTER," he replied. Frisk smiled and nodded.

Frisk continued to talk with him. They spoke about how monsters made it to the surface, speaking fondly of their family. Gaster had told them stories of when dragons would interact mainly with the monsters as humans thought they were horrifying beasts. Eventually, the conversation took a new turn.

"HUMANS DON'T HOARD THINGS?" Gaster tilted his head, confused. Frisk shrugged.

"Sometimes, I guess. Do you have a big pile of gold somewhere," they asked looking for the pile of shiny metals.

"ABSOLUTELY NOT! THOSE GOLD- HOARDING DRAGONS REALLY GAVE US A BAD NAME!" Gaster rolled his eye- lights. Frisk looked up, intrigued.

" So, what do you hoard?"

Gaster hesitated for a minute.

"...BOOKS..."

Frisk tilted their head.

"But, you're a fire dragon," they said.

Gaster sighed.

"I KNOW! I FIND THESE POOR ABANDONED BOOKS, BUT I CAN'T EVEN READ IT BECAUSE I JUST KNOW THAT I'LL TEAR IT OR BURN IT," Gaster exclaimed. Frisk thought for a moment. Gasping, they looked around for the hoard of books. Running over to the piles, they grabbed as many as they could carry and returned to sit beside their friend. Gaster realized what the human wanted to do and smiled. He gestured to the book he thought they should start with. Frisk opened the book and began to read.

"Chapter One- Peter breaks through..."

They continued to read until the sun set. Frisk had to return home, but promised to come back every day to read with Gaster and offered to bring some books from the librarby if they ran out. They went home with a smile on their face eager to tell their family about their new friend in the woods.

[goodnight-sammy]

Coming Soon to Ao3...

James Barnes' Mystery Man: The Secret Keepers

Entertainment Magazine’s Tell All Interview: James Barnes’ Mystery Man, the Secret Keepers

Just last year, James Barnes made headlines by revealing Hollywood’s Hottest Heartthrob was already off-market. So far off the market, in fact, that he’d been happily married for years already. But how does a major star like James Barnes get by without the world knowing he’s really Mr. Steven Grant Rogers? To find out, Entertainment Weekly interviewed close friends and family of the happy couple to crack the case of this Fellowship of the Ring sized conspiracy.

Because people have requested more of this, it occurred to me that there was comedy left to be had, and I realized probably more than three people knew they were married in the first place.