#take my hand (don’t fear the reaper)

[vittoriaisfuckingpathetic]

fic: take my hand (don't fear the reaper) chapter I

rated M | read it on ao3 | next chapter

“You alright?” Arthur asked uneasily. They mostly didn’t talk about when John would get like this, because it was just easier to not. There were a lot of things they didn’t talk about. John’s hands shook as he tried to light the match once, twice, three times. “I’m fine,” he said with the unlit cigarette between his lips. Finally, the match lit. “You ain’t,” “...I ain’t,” John agreed. He took that first inhale of his cigarette, a slow, easy drag. It felt like heaven. “But neither are you,” A character study taking place before, during, and after Ch 6's final mission from John's perspective. inspired by this tumblr post

John woke uneasily the night before everything fell apart. Sleep had always been difficult to come by for the man, but it seemed to have gotten worse as of late.

The first thing he noticed upon waking was that Abigail was no longer in his cot. The two had been sharing ever since he’d gotten back from Sisika — it was a bit of an awkward fit, but he preferred it that way. It was nice, too, though, being able to hold Abigail in his arms and feel her warmth against his body.

“It’s just… it’s warmer like this,” Abigail had defended (quietly so as to not wake Jack), curled up to his side. 

“Seems to me like you jus’ can’t stand bein’ apart from me,” He’d teased in reply, earning himself a playful swat on the chest.  

“You be quiet, or else Jack’ll want to climb in, too.”  

The second thing John noticed was that in lieu of Abigail in bed with him, Jack was occupying the space that she once had been in, his breath even and indicative that he was sleeping soundly. He couldn’t blame the boy, considering how chilly it was getting day by day. It was November, after all. 

But if Jack had A) stolen Abigail’s spot and B) had been there long enough to fall asleep, how long had Abigail been gone?

He elected to give her a few more minutes before he checked on her. 

Or, at least, he tried to. His restless mind wouldn’t let him relax, and he anxiously needed to make sure Abigail was alright.

He shifted his weight, testing to see how much he could move without Jack noticing. After swinging half of his body off the cot, Jack had barely moved. 

John wondered if Jack inherited being a heavy sleeper from him (or rather, a heavy sleeper before life had happened to him, before the bad things had happened).

He managed to get out of bed without waking Jack.

The little boy’s nose wrinkled, his features scrunching for a moment at the disruption. After a few terse seconds, he cuddled the pillow closer, his face relaxing. John fixed the blanket on top of the boy, making sure he was tucked in safely. 

Such a parental action came to him strangely naturally, he realized. 

He groped around in the dark tent for his jeans, eventually finding them after a few moments of fumbling. As silently as he could manage (which was quite silent; he had managed to learn when he was young how to move and shadow people without making so much as a peep), he put them on, followed by his boots, and stumbled outside. 

The soundscape was familiar, and yet it wasn’t at the same time. He could hear Arthur wheeze rather than snore in his sleep, and he saw figures at the campfire (talking about God knows what , maybe mutiny or killing folk for sport, or some other kind of dumbassery) but they weren’t family, instead foes. It wasn’t exactly what he was used to, but nothing seemed particularly out of place for this new normal.

Like a lightbulb being lit, he realized where Abigail likely was; the slope southwest from his tent. She had often slipped there in more tense moments.

He skulked along the darkest edge of the camp, remaining unseen by all until he reached the unlit scout campfire.

Sure enough, there Abigail was. Away from the warmth and light of the campfire, far from anyone’s prying eyes or ears. 

Upon closer inspection, he realized she was shivering.

“You alright? You didn’t come back and I was…” he trailed off. He was worried, he realized. Worried about all of this shit; worried that one day, Micah, or even Dutch, would snap and get them all killed.

John was worried, he realized, because he loved her. 

“I needed to clear my head. I’m… I’m scared, John. I’m real scared.” She looked so young, so different like this — hair cascading down her back, wide-eyed, shivering. She looked vulnerable. 

John wanted to take that fear from her — but how could he? He felt so helpless. It felt like he was lying in wait for them all to get killed.

What the hell was he waiting for? So many people had already cut and run; Uncle, Karen, Trelawny, Mary-Beth, and Swanson had all disappeared as the days went on. Pearson had left earlier that day whilst John was on guard duty.

“You leavin’, Pearson?” he’d asked, seeing how Pearson’s horse was carrying much more than one would take on a simple trip. 

“I… ah, yeah. Just needed to clear my head.” Pearson replied, not looking John in the eye. 

“You ain’t comin’ back, are you,” John replied, stating it as more of a fact than a question. Frankly, he couldn’t blame the man. If he was in his shoes, he would be leaving, too. After all, Pearson could slip away much easier than John could hope to. 

Pearson’s avoidant gaze finally landed on John. “…Maybe. Probably not. No. I think it’s about time to cut and run,” 

“Ain’t that the truth,” John muttered more to himself than directly to Pearson. “You take care of yourself, Mister Pearson.” 

“You too, John.” Pearson glanced worriedly behind him, then to John. “You should get Abigail and your boy out of here. Save yourselves,” he added, speaking a little quieter.  

“I will,”  

“Well. I hope everything works out, Mister Marston. I’ll be seeing you,” 

John said nothing else, waving him off. 

The plan was ‘Get Out When The Time Comes’ — but when? What if it happened too late? What if they all died trying? What if he got Arthur killed — weak as the man was rapidly becoming? 

He huffed out a breath, the cold air making it visible for the briefest of moments. Wrapped an arm around her waist, half expecting her to bat him away or give him a look. 

But she didn’t. Instead, she leaned into his touch. 

“I am too,” he admitted. “I’m gonna get us outta here.” he wondered if his words sounded as empty to her as they did to him. Getting out was the plan — but beyond that…?  

He was a fucking idiot. And Abigail knew it, too, so why she didn’t take Jack and run was beyond him.

“We ain’t exactly got a lot of time left, John. The government is comin’ down on us fast.” She shifted closer to him, likely seeking the warmth that he brought. The skin of her bare arms was cool to the touch. “I don’t want Jack to be made an orphan.” She added softly, shaking her head as if willing the thought away. 

“He won’t be, Abigail. We ain’t lettin’ anythin’ happen to that boy.” He left the word again unsaid. Because he’d failed almost as spectacularly as his own father, only realizing how much he’d cared for Jack after the boy was (briefly) kidnapped. Though he hadn’t been harmed, those few days will haunt John for the rest of his life.

“Micah… that— that slime, that scum.” Abigail started, her voice trembling with anger. “He’s been… talkin’ to Jack. Sayin’ odd things, tellin’ him he’d take him fishing. I told the boy t’stay away from him, but if that scum does anything to Jack, I…” 

“He won’t, Abigail. I won’t let him, long as I live.” 

“I almost lost you once, John Marston. Weren’t for Arthur, you’d be six feet under by now.” She retorted. She sighed and turned to face him, her features softening. She was quiet for a moment, brow knit as her hand went to his scarred cheek. It was rare for her to touch him; rarer for her to initiate it, so he simply stayed still. “I can’t lose you for real this time,” 

The air around them stilled, no sounds to be heard except their own synchronized breathing and the far-off hooting of a distant owl. 

The forest was eerily beautiful at this time of night. 

“You ain’t gotta worry about that.”

“I mean it, John. You’re my… I…” she was interrupted by disruptive yelling coming from camp — a common occurrence as of late. 

“I should go see what that is,” he stated, partially because with every passing day, he wondered if some sort of Mexican standoff was bound to erupt. 

She slipped her hand in his, another unexpected move. “I’ll go with you,”

He gave her hand a little squeeze. This was different, too. Rarely did they hold hands, or have much physical contact in general, really. Abigail had never been a physical type of person, and John simply didn’t have opportunities to seek it out. 

It was nice, having her close.

“—How nice of you to join us, John! I’m sure he’ll give us his wise input now!” Micah spat, circling the campfire like a predator stalking its prey. He had a smug expression on his face. Meanwhile, Bill, Javier, Joe, and Cleet were eyeing the couple dangerously.

“The hell’s goin’ on?” John asked, trying to channel in that intimidating energy that Arthur usually had. 

“We was jus’ havin’ a lively conversation, Scarface. ‘S all.” Micah chuckled, shaking his head. He had his arms outstretched affably. “Why don’t you and your… well, we’ll call her a lady — I suppose that’s the polite term, sit down by the fire with us?” Micah’s little comment earned raucous laughter from Bill and more sensible laughter from Cleet and Joe. Javier, meanwhile, was staring at the fire, expression hard to read.

“Watch what you say about my wife,” He’s not sure why exactly he called her his wife, but it felt right. Maybe in a different life, they’d be married for real. 

Neither of them had ever really cared about marriage; despite that, they were generally viewed as a married couple, even if neither of them had ever confirmed it aloud.

Still, wife had an extra oomph to it that seemed to get his point across well. Abigail seemed a bit surprised by his statement but said nothing to dispute it.

“Oh! Suddenly she’s your wife now. Marston’s gone soft, ain’t it?” Micah taunted.

Bill — the fucking idiot he was — was still laughing obnoxiously. “I get it! Cause he wifed up a whore!”

Whatever John was about to retort died on his tongue with the interruption of Arthur. His hands were on his hips, making him seem a little bigger and a little less sickly. “The hell you boys screamin’ for? It’s three in the damn morning. You tryin’ to wake the whole goddamn camp?” His words were punctuated with a particularly wet-sounding cough. Abigail looked at John worriedly. 

Micah smirked. “You’re right, Blacklung. You need your beauty rest. Maybe we should turn in for the night, huh, boys?” he asked tauntingly. 

Arthur coughed yet again, the action wracking his degraded frame. “Shut the—“ Another cough. “—hell up. Don’t disturb the entire camp with your nonsense.”

“Easy now, cowpoke. Don’t exert yourself yellin’ at little ol’ me. We’re quieting down, ain’t we, fellers?” In response, Micah earned some unenthusiastic, mumbled replies. 

John swallowed hard. He wanted to do nothing more than curl up next to Abigail, pull her close, wrap himself around her until morning arrived. 

But that would have to wait until later.

With one last disdainful glare at Micah, Arthur turned his heel and headed back towards his tent, sighing angrily.

“I need to say something to Arthur,” John said in a hushed tone. He left details unsaid, knowing there were prying ears nearby. 

Her eyes lit up with understanding. She nodded. “Night,” Abigail whispered. Her fingertips ghosted over his skin one last time.

“Night,” he replied, leaning down to brush a kiss against her forehead. It was yet another uncommon gesture for him; hell, he half expected Abigail to dodge it.

But she didn’t. Instead, she gave him an unreadable expression before walking off.

He made sure she got back to his tent before walking off the trees behind Arthur’s lean-to, where he knew the elder man would be.

“I’m fine,” Arthur spoke before John even had a chance to open his mouth. He flicked his cigarette on the ground, stubbing it out with his boot. 

“Don’t lie. You look terrible, Arthur.” He leaned against the tree next to him. “…I hate seein’ you like this.”

Silence greeted that comment. He hated that Arthur refused to tell him what was wrong with him beyond his vague answer of being sick (and even that had taken much poking and prodding). Hated that Arthur wouldn’t allow anyone else to help him. 

It hurt, watching him suffer. It made John feel helpless, useless, angry. All those emotions swirled together in his gut, churning with each other

When Arthur finally broke the silence, he sounded exhausted. “I’m gonna make sure you get outta here. That’s what I’m worried about.” 

His voice cracked, and John hated that, too. 

John glanced at Arthur, whose shoulders heaved, fighting a coughing fit.

Yet another silence grew between them, broken only by the chirping of crickets.  The moonlight shone softly, casting shadows onto Arthur’s weary figure. 

“Listen. If somethin’ happens, I know a safe place.” Arthur said carefully. He put his hand on John’s shoulder, a once-familiar gesture. When they had grown apart following his year of absence, that brotherly familiarity had stopped. 

The distance and resentment that had grown between the two had only been an insult to injury following John’s return. 

But while Arthur had merely been cold to him, Dutch’s welcome was… different.

“John, son, can I talk to you for a moment?” Dutch had asked, his voice sounding as jubilant as ever. Without waiting for a reply, he had wrapped an arm around John’s shoulder, bringing the younger man uncomfortably close as he led him away from the campfire.  

“Listen, Dutch, I’m sorr—” 

Dutch’s eyes darkened. “I know you are, boy.” any trace of geniality in the elder man’s voice was gone. “Don’t you ever dare to do that to me again.” his grip had turned into iron; it was a warning sign. 

“I won’t, I pr—”  

“I mean it, John. I won’t put up with it.” 

And for the first time in his life, John had truly feared Dutch for a moment.  

The cold look in Dutch’s eyes was gone within a flash. He gave John a winning smile, smoothing the latter’s vest where it had wrinkled under his grip. “Now. Shall we get back to the celebration? We’ve all missed you so much.” 

John swallowed past the lump in his throat. God, he needed a cigarette. He let himself slide down, union suit briefly catching and snagging on the rough bark. The ground was cold and likely a little muddy beneath him, but he found himself not quite caring. “Where’s the safe place?”

“Copperhead Landing, northeast of the marsh. It ain’t much— just a dilapidated shack, but ain’t nobody goes out there. If things go south sometime soon, I’ll meet you there, you hear?”

“Okay,” John whispered, his mind going a mile a minute.  

Arthur coughed yet again, the action making his whole body shake. 

(Every time Arthur coughed, John felt his sense of dread increase a little more.)

“When the time comes, John…” Arthur started, then trailed off as yet another coughing fit started.

“I know,” he responded, barely audible over the former’s coughs. He felt as though he was hardly absorbing the information, too many thoughts concurrently buzzing in his head.

How was he supposed to do this? It was clearly time to get out, but he didn’t know how or what to do on his own. He had to provide for Abigail and Jack and keep them safe and alive and out of danger and what if Dutch came to find them, would he have to kill Dutch to save his family? Would Dutch try to kill them? — 

A cigarette was what he needed. It’d clear his mind. The more the thought lingered, the more he craved the sweet relaxation it would give him. 

He patted his pockets down anxiously, the rhythmic, repeating motion quickening with every second. Where the fuck were they? He just had them in his jeans pocket earlier. 

Arthur was coughing again, the sound echoing in his head like a ticking time bomb — because Arthur was, frankly, a ticking time bomb.  God, where the fuck were his cigarettes? They weren’t in his pockets. 

“Do you have— have a— a smoke? I need, fuck, I just—” He was still palming uselessly at his jeans pockets because he needed a fucking smoke and he didn’t have one and why didn't he have one yet?

Whatever Arthur might’ve responded with went unheard because John couldn’t hear him over the ringing in his ears and his own layered, panicked thoughts.

Time was running out, the law was getting closer, and every minute he spent in this Hell-on-Earth, their so-called camp was just a stinging reminder to John that his family, Abigail and Arthur and Jack and Tilly and Grimshaw and everyone else was all going to die and it would be entirely his fault. 

He needed a fucking cigarette.

Hosea had already died. Lenny and Mac and Davey and Jenny and Sean and Kieran—

“John,” Arthur said firmly, shaking him on the shoulder and saving him from drowning amongst the sea of his own terrible thoughts. He was holding a pack of cigarettes in his free hand. John grabbed them like a lifeline, relief already flooding his veins just at the sight.

He exhaled (and his head spun— had he been holding his breath by accident?). “You, uh— you got a match?”

Said matches were tossed on the ground in front of John, falling with a thwap. His hands scrambled to grab them. 

“You alright?” Arthur asked uneasily, the effect compounded by his voice tinged with illness. They mostly didn’t talk about when John would get like this, because it was just easier to not.

There were a lot of things they didn’t talk about.

John’s hands shook as he tried to light the match once, twice, three times. “I’m fine,” he said with the unlit cigarette between his lips. Finally, the match lit.

“You ain’t,” 

“...I ain’t,” John agreed. He took that first inhale of his cigarette, a slow, easy drag. It felt like heaven. “But neither are you,”

 Arthur said nothing in reply.

[lovelybucky1]

Dirty Money- Tommy Shelby x Reader

masterlist

warnings: very mild dub-con, guns, canon-typical violence, dom/sub dynamics, humiliation, degradation, clothed sex, office sex, semi-public sex, name-calling, unprotected sex, mentions of prostitution, rough sex

The chatter from the party room (if this occasion could even be called a party) lessened as you made your way down the halls of the Shelby house. The Peaky Blinders were having a celebration- another shady business practice gone in their favor, earning them a large sum of money. You are just a pretty face to the Blinders. You get in close with the arrogant, sleazy men who the Shelbys often have dealings with, get information, and maybe pickpocket occasionally, but that is the extent of your duties.

Your position means you don’t get any of the money they earn from deals; all they provide you is free drinks at the Garrison. The Blinders are just a stepping stone along your path. You knew they had money, and if you could get an in with them, then you could have access to some of that money. And really, who would notice if a small fraction of that money was taken?

Your dress flows at your feet as you creep down the hallway towards the boss’ study. When you reach the door, you press your ear to hear any voices; when you deem it safe, you twist the handle and push it open.

Thanking God the hinges don’t squeak, you shut it behind you and take in your surroundings. The room is dark, the light filtering through the windows from the street is barely enough to see by. You approach the solid oak desk that likely took the whole family to move into the office. Atop the desk are a few letters, a pen, a set of lamps, and a figurine of a horse. The rest of the office is similar; sparse with decoration, but bits of Thomas’ personality shine through.

You don’t know much about your boss, despite interacting with him frequently. You’ve been his date on various occasions, all with ulterior motives, of course. Even when he is acting vulnerable, you know it’s a farce. Everyone knows Tommy Shelby is all about business, and he never takes a day off.

You walk around to the other side of the desk and pull at the top drawer. Inside, only stationary, so you close it and try the second drawer, which is locked. You take a pin from your hair and bend it before inserting it into the keyhole. It’s been a while since you’ve picked a lock, but you eventually get it open without too much difficulty. When you open the drawer, you find two stacks of money sitting next to a gun and a pack of smokes.

You pick up one of the stacks and flip through it. Two stacks, each one thousand pounds. You’d be set for life with this amount of money. You could get out of this shit, smog-filled city, buy yourself a nice house in the countryside, a car. You could have everything you’ve ever wanted and more, and it was all in your hands at this very moment.

You were jolted from your fantasy about your future life by the lamp near the door clicking on. You whip around, money still in hand, to face the door. Illuminated by the golden light stood your personal grim reaper, the very man you were stealing from.

Tommy has his hands on his hips, eyebrow raised, and his weight leaned onto one leg. His stance screams what the fuck do you think you’re doing? Your stomach drops when you meet his piercing blue eyes, and a wave of fear washes over you. Tommy stares at you until the weight of his gaze makes you tremble, and only then does he speak.

“I’ve had many people try to get close to me for their own gain,” Tommy pauses just to make you sweat. “But none of them have ever been stupid enough to steal from me in my own home.”

“It’s not what it looks like,” you say as if there weren’t stacks of money in your hand.

Your voice cracks when you speak and you’d curse yourself for your lack of composure, but it’s hard to remain calm when you’ve just gotten on the bad side of a man who wouldn’t hesitate to kill you.

“No?” Tommy asks. “That’s a good thing then, because if you were stealin’ my money, then we’d have some problems.” Tommy stalks forward toward you, eyes never leaving yours as he crosses the room. He takes the money from your pliant fingers; you have enough sense of self-preservation to not put up a fight right now. He places the money back in the drawer and when you look down, you see his fingertips brush against the gun- a reminder. When you look back up, his face is inches from yours and he is looking down the bride of his nose at you like you’re nothing but a pathetic animal. “So why don’t you tell me what you’re doin’ in here, eh?”

You inhale shakily as you try to come up with a convincing lie. You figure that he will see through any of the bullshit you say, but it’s better than admitting your crime. “I lost my ring and I thought I might have left it in here.”

“You might have lost your ring… in my locked drawer?” He asks, tone suggesting he is simply humoring you.

“If you found it and thought it was valuable, I thought you would put it in a safe place,” you explain, trying your best to look innocent.

“I see,” Tommy says, putting his hand on the desk next to your hip and leaning on it. “Now, if you’re done lying, I’d like to hear the truth.”

You swallow thickly as you resign yourself to the fact that you were caught. “I was taking money from your desk.”

“I’m not fuckin’ blind, am I? What’s the money for?” Tommy asks, voice even and steady, though you know he must be simmering with anger.

“For me.”

“Two thousand pounds, all for you? You have no affiliations?” you shake your head. “You’re not working for anyone?”

“No, sir. I wanted all of this for myself,” you confess.

“Hm,” he considers your words. “I’m surprised you were able to put together this little plan, so I doubt you’d be able to pull off bein’ a double agent all this time.” The way he talks down to you makes you want to hide your face in shame, but in the position he has you in, you have nowhere to go. “What were you going to do with all this money?”

“Move out of the city. Find a place for myself. Start a new life. A good life,” you say. Your tone must have been sincere enough for Tommy to believe you because he seems to relax a little.

Tommy shifts on his feet and he looks distantly over your shoulder as if he is lost in thought. You stare at his face, waiting for the other shoe to drop. You wouldn’t be surprised if he killed you, he’s killed others for much less.

“So,” he starts, “You’re not working for anyone else, but you’re still a thief and a traitor.” His intense gaze is back on you and your skin crawls with anxiety. “I don’t think I have to remind you what we do to thieves and traitors.”

You shake your head, knowing full well the fate that all who have wronged the Blinders have met. They’re not deserving of a quick death; they beg until they are too swollen to beg, they pray until God has been beaten out of them, they break until there is nothing left whole, they bleed until they’re dry. A traitor to the family suffers. They’re a spectacle to keep all others in line.

“But that would be such a waste of a pretty face,” Tommy says, the unexpected compliment makes your heart stutter in your chest. “You always did do good work for me. The races, the parties I went to with you on my arm. Sometimes I wished they were for leisure rather than business.”

You furrow your brow slightly at the admission. “What do you mean, Mr. Shelby?”

“I quite fancied you,” he says with a slight smile. “But then I caught you in my study with my money, and I came to my senses.”

He stands up straight and reaches into the drawer, taking out the gun. You take a step back, frightened once again. He doesn’t point the gun at you, only holds it, but you are still no less threatened.

With a sigh, he speaks again. “I don’t trust you not to bring down the rest of us if I turn you in to the coppers. So because I held such a soft spot for you, I’ll let you pick. I could cut your hand off to make sure you won’t steal again, I can send you far away without a single penny to your name, or I could give you over to the Italians as a peace offering.”

Your stomach drops when he lists off your options. For some reason, you thought he was going to let you get away. But seemingly despite his soft spot, business comes first, as usual.

“Please, Mr. Shelby, there has to be something else,” you say, voice watery with held-back emotion.

“What kind of businessman would I be if I let my employees steal from me?” He asks eyebrow raised mockingly.

Feeling desperation cloud your mind, you take a step forward, despite the gun. You reach out and place your hand on his shoulder, the rough material of his suit jacket rubbing against your skin. He looks down at you, his face a mixture of shock and amusement.

“I will do anything, sir,” you say, voice vulnerable and weak, hoping that will appeal to his baser urges. You know it’s a bold and risky move, but you don’t have many other options.

A laugh escapes Tommy’s throat, a rare and usually pleasant sound when it’s not being directed at you. “Are you looking to add prostitution to your list of crimes?” he chuckles.

“No, sir. I am not a whore.”

“You’re offering yourself up to me like one,” he smirks. “Why don’t we make a deal, then?”

“What are the terms?” you ask, trying to add strength to your voice that you’ve lacked since you saw him in the doorway.

“You let me fuck you like the whore you claim not to be, and you get to keep your job with us,” he says casually like he’s talking about the weather.

“That’s it?”

“Well now, don’t sound so ungrateful. If you’d prefer, I could give you away to those animals out here,” he gestures towards the door. “I’m giving you a chance to keep that pretty smile of yours.”

“No, no,” you shake your head. “I am grateful, sir. Thank you.”

Tommy puts the gun down on the top of his desk and closes the space between you. His hard chest presses against yours as he brings his hand up to gently stroke your cheek.

“Greedy little thing,” he says, his eyes drinking in the sight of you. Your lips are parted just so, looking soft and pliant, just the way he loves. Tommy’s hand trails from your face down to your throat, where he plays with the simple goal pendant that rests against your skin.

Tommy leans in and brushes his lips to yours, making your heart stutter and your breath catch in your throat. You can feel a slight smile on his lips before he presses them together in a claiming kiss. He smothers you, stealing the breath from your lungs.

When you part, his lips are pink and glistening with a mix of your saliva. His light eyes are blown with lust and you feel small in his arms.

“Are you clean or am I going to have to fuck your mouth?” he asks, the dirty words a sharp contrast to his gentle hands on you.

“I’m clean,” you say, voice no more than a whisper.

The only response you get from him is a shark-like grin. He grabs your hips and pulls you flush to him. Even through the layers of your dress, you can feel the hardness in his pants.

It’s almost hard to believe that right now, Thomas Shelby is hard for you. You’ve imagined this countless times; when you were his arm candy, when he’d drink with you at the pub, and even sometimes in your own home. You never thought you’d actually get to have him in such a way, especially not when it wasn’t for business.

“What are you waiting for, dear?” he asks, looking into your eyes and then down at his trousers.

You lean back, putting enough space between the two of you to undo his belt and unbutton his pants. You take out his cock and give it a few dry strokes. The size makes you nervous; you’re no virgin, but you’ve been so caught up with work that you haven’t been seeing anyone.

Tommy shrugs off his jacket and tosses it haphazardly onto his desk chair, clearly unconcerned that he is wrinkling a very expensive suit. Taking his undressing as a hint, you ask “Should I take off my dress?”

“It’s not our fucking wedding night,” he huffs. He grabs your waist and pushes you towards the desk, You brace your hands on the surface and look back at him while he hikes up the skirt of your dress. He piles the bunched-up fabric on your lower back and bends down to admire the view. “Though these knickers suggest otherwise,” he chuckles, slipping his finger under them.

It’s humiliating to be bent over your boss’ desk while he looks at you like you’re a piece of meat, As much as you wish you were more upstanding, that this whole situation repulsed you, the burn in your abdomen is undeniable. You’re getting off on whoring yourself out to your boss.

Tommy grabs the waist of your knickers and pulls them down, letting the white satin pool at your feet. Now bare to him, Tommy inhales deeply, taking in the scent of your arousal. He swipes his thumb through your folds, gathering your wetness and smearing it on your thigh.

“Mr. Shelby, please,” you whimper.

“What’s the matter? You don’t like me teasing?” he chuckles.

He rubs his hand over your pussy, his cold fingertips burning from the heat of you. You wiggle your hips a bit, silently begging him for more, and in return, he gives a sharp slap to your cunt.

“You forget this is a punishment. I could leave you here desperately and wet for hours and there’s nothin’ you can do ‘bout it.”

You let your head hang between your shoulders with a sigh. You don’t doubt his threat; Tommy can be a cruel man and you wouldn’t put it past him to torture you in such a way. No matter what, though, this is better than the alternative.

You feel a long, thin finger prodding at your entrance and you force yourself to relax. Tommy slowly pushes his middle finger into you, and from behind you, a quiet groan can be heard. He pulls his finger out only to quickly replace it, along with a second digit. The fingers inside of you slowly work back and forth to loosen you. Despite Tommy’s rough exterior and degrading words, when it comes to the act, he’s more caring than you anticipated.

The slow drag of his fingers makes you dizzy, desperate for more to fill you as you open up. Seemingly have read your mind, Tommy pulls out his fingers and places his wet hand on your ass.

For a long moment, nothing happens. Tommy stands behind you, both hands on you, but unmoving. You look back to see him watching you expectantly.

“Do you think I’m just going to give it to you?” he asks. You furrow your brow, not understanding what he’s getting at. “Clearly you’ve never been properly fucked,” he huffs. “Beg me for it.”

Of course, how could you be so stupid? A man like Tommy Shelby loves power and control. He wants to own everything and everyone, especially his conquests. You’ve already submitted yourself to him, but he wants you to relinquish the rest of your pride for him.

“Please, sir, I want it,” you try, the idea of begging for sex unfamiliar to you.

“Surely you could do better than that, eh? I’ve heard the things you’ve told our associates. I know your mouth is dirtier than your pretty white knickers let on.” The smirk is evident in his voice and it makes you burn with shame. The things you tell whatever man you were ordered to seduce were all acting. You separated yourself from it, from them, but now you were doing to be deep in it.

“Please fuck me like the whore I am, Mr. Shelby. I’m yours to do whatever you want with. I want you to forgive me.”

The words feel foreign on your tongue and Tommy seems to recognize that. The grin on his face tells you the begging was more for your embarrassment than his enjoyment.

“That’s better, my little whore,” he says as he grabs ahold of his cock and rubs it through your folds. He pushes in slowly but steadily, easing you into it but not hiding his desire until the head is inside. Like a gentleman, he lets you accommodate the stretch before seating himself fully inside of you.

You lay atop the desk limp and pliant, like you’re a toy for Tommy. He grabs your hips tightly, possessively, before he starts to rock his hips against you. The friction of your ass against his hips doesn’t do too much to satisfy your sexual need, but the feeling of his skin makes you burn from within.

“When you first joined,” Tommy speaks up, “I had to make a rule. Don’t fuck the other members. Never had that problem before, but I knew the boys would tear you apart the second they got the chance.”

Tommy’s fingers press into your skin as he begins to slowly thrust into you. As he did with his fingers, he makes the drag of his cock slow, ensuring you feel every inch of his length. Your pussy gripped him like your body knew you were made for him.

You let out a small, involuntary hum when he reaches the spot inside of you that makes your toes curl. You had fantasized that Tommy would be a good lover, but you never imagined that he’d light all of your nerves on fire.

“Fuck, Tommy,” you moan as his steady pace builds up the pressure in your abdomen.

“It’s Tommy now, eh? Where’d those manners go?”

“I’m sorry! Fuck, I’m sorry, Mr. Shelby.”

You’re certain Tommy is going to kill you, despite your deal after you disrespected him. Maybe he’d be merciful since you let him have you… or maybe that would make torturing you even better.

“Say it again,” he says, voice gruff with lust.

“What?”

“My name. Say it again.”

“Tommy,” you whisper, hesitant.

His blunt nails dig into your skin, leaving crescent-shaped indents behind. The speed of his hips increases slightly, but he doesn’t slam into you like some previous partners have. He seems to understand your body; to be rough in some ways but caring in others.

“If I punished every thief like this, I’d have far fewer enemies,” he muses as he slides his right hand up your back, then rests it on the base of your neck. “But you’re lucky.”

The hand on the back of your neck moves to the side of your head, where Tommy presses down. There’s not much force behind it, but your head is pinned to the desk. It’s degrading to have him hold you down, preventing you from seeing what’s to come. His fingers twist in your hair and his trusts become increasingly irregular.

“Tommy,” you whine.

“This cunt’s divine,” he says, and for the first time, his voice has an edge of desperation to it.

“Tommy,” you say again.

“What?” he breathes.

“Fuck me.”

With an airy chuckle, Tommy pulls you closer to him by the hips so you can meet each of his thrusts. Your body jolts each time his thighs slap against yours, completely at his mercy while he fucks into you. You feel him shift behind you and suddenly there is a weight resting on your back. Tommy is leaning over you, holding you impossibly close with his mouth next to your ear.

“You’re my fuckin’ whore,” he says, his hot breath and gravelly voice making your skin break out in goosebumps. “You understand me?”

All you can do is nod, but that answer seems to satisfy him because he is standing back up and fucking you sloppily, a stark contrast to his steady pace from earlier. After a handful of strokes, he pulls out and you’re left cold and gaping on the desk, brain lagging to catch up with reality.

You hear a strangled moan from behind you, and then you feel drops of scorching liquid hit your thighs. You squirm on the desk once you realize what has happened. Tommy Shelby has just come on you, effectively claiming you as his own.

He rests his hand on your back as he catches his breath, chest heaving with exertion. He steps back, out from between your legs, and wipes the sweat off of his forehead with his sleeve. You look back at him with lustful, half-lidded eyes and he gives you a soft smile. You push yourself up so you can stand, and when you turn to face Tommy again, he looks confused.

“What are you doing?” he asks.

“We’re done, aren’t we?”

Tommy chuckles and steps forward again, picking your skirt back up and pushing the bunched fabric into your hands to hold.

“You poor thing,” he says. “You haven’t gotten yours.”

His words surprise you. You wouldn’t say Tommy is a selfish man; self-interested is a better term. You expected this to be over once he was finished, but it seems that equal satisfaction is of importance to him.

He reaches between your legs and slips two fingers into your cunt, then rests his thumb on your clit. You gasp when he touches your bud, which is extra sensitive from the lack of attention. Tommy’s other arm wraps around your waist to hold you close, his lips brushing against your temple.

“Tommy,” you whimper when he curls his fingers inside you.

“So fuckin’ good for me. Guess all it took was a cock to keep you in line. God knows I would’ve done this ages ago if I knew. Think about all the times I could’ve had this sweet cunt when I settled for some whore,” he says, voice thick and sweet. “But now you’re mine.”

His possessiveness, combined with the perfectly placed touches under your dress, makes your head spin with pleasure. You let your head drop forward to rest on his shoulder and he pushes his face into your hair. You reach up to grab at his vest, needing something to ground yourself, lest you collapse into a puddle of pleasure on the office floor.

“I-I’m close, sir,” you struggle to get out between moans.

“What do good girls say?” he asks.

“Please.”

“Cum for me, dear,” he whispers.

As if he pulled a trigger, your release washed over you. Your muscles tighten and relax as the waves of pleasure rock you. Tommy rides you through it, not giving up his assault on your soaked pussy until you are squirming and pushing his hand away.

You lean back to rest on the desk as you find your breath and let your skirt drop down to the floor, covering up the mix of cum that wets your thighs. You watch as Tommy straightens out his clothes and fastens his belt, feeling slightly disappointed that you didn’t get to see more of him.

He joins you by the desk, reaching into the formerly-locked drawer and taking out the pack of smokes, as well as a matchbook from his pocket. He lights the cigarette and tosses the burnt match into his ashtray. He holds it with the two fingers that were inside of you and takes a drag, exhaling a plume of white smoke that swirls in the air in front of you. Tommy offers the cigarette to you but you decline with a shake of your head, and he doesn’t press.

“Do you smell that?” Tommy asks, breaking the silence. You sniff the air, mainly smelling smoke but there is the underlying musk of sex, as well as the intoxicating scent that Tommy wears. “That’s business,” he says, answering his own question.

“What do you mean?” you ask, turning to face him.

“We had a deal. I fuck you and you get to stay here, all your limbs intact.” You nod slowly, not quite understanding what he’s getting at. “I’d like to offer you a promotion.”

You perk up at that. Not an hour ago you were certain Tommy was going to shoot you where you stood, but now he’s offering you a higher-ranking position within the Blinders.

“I want you to be my personal assistant,” he says, a slight smirk on his lips. “No dirty work, no men. It’s an easy job, making my breakfast and bringin’ me whiskey, sorting my mail, writing my letters. Making appointments for me, keeping track of my calendar, making small talk with incredibly dull people I can’t be bothered with.”

“So I’d be your maid?”

“If maids get the added benefit of fuckin’ their bosses, then yes, you’ll be my maid,” he grins. “And you know what the best part is?” You shake your head. “You don’t get to lay a finger on my money.”

You look away from him, embarrassed. Tommy grabs ahold of your chin and makes you look back at him, his blue eyes boring into you once again.

“You can live in my house, I’ll buy you fancy things or whatever the fuck you wanted to do with two thousand pounds, and the only thing you’ll have to worry about is cleanin’ the blood from my shirts.”

You pretend to think over his offer, but really, there’s no question. This is better than any life you could attempt to start on your own, and you have the added bonus of being in the boss’ favor.

“I accept your offer,” you say with a smile.

“Good. Now let’s get out of here before you find another thing to steal,” he says, placing his hand on your lower back and leading you towards the door.

[justwinginglife]

Lucky Shot

Guys, this fic came about totally by accident, but I had SO SO much fun writing it. Sorry, I know I'm supposed to be working on requests, but this just spontaneously popped into my head and when inspiration strikes, I gotta go with it. Also, for warnings, this has a mature scene but it's not explicit. Hope you all enjoy!

When a beach trip with Soshiro ended in the murder of a rubber duck, you knew there was more to him than meets the eye.

You’d been secretly dating him the last 7 months and during that time, he had begged you on multiple occasions to let him take you to the beach. He always claimed he just wanted to have a relaxing vacation with his favorite person in the whole world, but you knew he was just dying to know if you were a bikini kinda girl.

You resisted at first, finding entertainment in his eagerness. He was so desperate for you to go with him, you were sure if you asked, he would’ve gotten down on his hands and knees to convince you. But there were only so many times you could say no to the pleading in his eyes, only so many times you could resist the press of his hips against yours as he murmured his requests across the expanse of your neck. 

“Please, baby.” He’d gently brush your hair to the side, sucking at the tender skin, then kissing at the trail of bruises that bloomed in its wake. “Let’s go to the beach, love. Let me see you all gorgeous and sun-kissed. Let me lick the salt from your lips.”

And suddenly your resolve crumbled to pieces. 

You were a Captain, you were by no means weak. You were one of Death’s favorite tools, the reaper of beasts, the killer of kaiju. But around Soshiro? You were helpless, robbed of your strength by mere lips on skin. For Soshiro, you were a love-drunk fool, and when he whispered into your ear, “Didn’t you say you’d never had sex in the ocean before? Why don’t we cross it off the bucket list,” you suddenly forgot the reason you’d resisted for so long.

So you went to the beach with him. 

And when Soshiro discovered that you were in a fact a bikini kinda girl, he made sure you never forgot how it felt to have the whip of the ocean waves at your back as he fucked you against the current. When the sun dipped behind the clouds, you wondered if it was simply shying away from the carnality of it all. If anyone were to make the sun blush at their obscenities, it would be Soshiro, with his ravenous desires and his unabashed lust. The vulgar way in which he had so publicly claimed you was enough to convince you that any poor soul who had been on the beach must’ve vacated the premises for fear of being corrupted by the sight of his lecherous appetite. 

When his thirst was finally somewhat quenched, he proceeded to engage in a different kind of activity with you, one that was equally as strenuous, one that waged war on your unsuspecting body. He shot you with a water gun. 

Before you had time to be properly shocked at the sudden change in his demeanor, he shot you again, pelting the center of your forehead with a short burst of cold water. 

Your pride as a gun wielder was on the line and you ducked out of the way of his next shot, before collecting your gun from the sand and firing rounds at his crotch. He was lucky it was only water because you were a damn good shot.

The next thing you knew, the beach was a battlefield and he was the enemy. You ducked behind palm trees and dove across sand dunes, both of you trying to get the upper hand on the other, both of you launching vicious attacks. You’d always fought by his side; it was intriguing to now stand opposed to him. You knew his every move, but he also knew yours. When you’d reveal your position, stepping out to fire at his chest, he’d emerge from his hiding spot and land a blow to your shoulder at the same time. It was like he was your perfect shadow. 

Amidst the raging chaos, you thought to yourself that you never once imagined when you were both sworn into the Defense Force that all that training and all that combat experience would one day be used for something as stupid and as silly as a water gun war. But there you were, two highly esteemed, highly trained, highly ranked members of the JAKDF, dueling with water as your weapons. And you were both taking this so seriously that it was honestly laughable. 

And you did laugh. 

When he gave up on shooting you, tossing the toy to the side, and opting for tackling you into the water instead, you laughed so hard you thought you might swallow half the ocean in the process. Then the calm finally settled in and he just held you a moment, waves lapping at your bodies, as his warmth seeped into your skin. 

You broke the silence first, grinning widely as you teased him, “And here I thought you were bad with a gun.” 

He laughed. “I never said I was bad with one. I said my combat power was low. I never said I couldn’t shoot.”

“And I had to find this out by getting a burst of water to the eye?” 

A sly smile curved across his lips. “I never said I couldn’t aim.”

“Oh yeah? Let’s test out this aim of yours.”

So suddenly you found yourself with your feet planted in the sand, standing a couple feet away from him with a little rubber duck he’d bought from one of the beach stalls perched atop your head, daring him to fire, daring him to fail. 

“You get one shot. And if you miss, we’ll know I’m the better shot.” 

He smirked. “Oh, I won’t miss, love.”

He pulled the trigger and in an instant, the rubber duck was lying face down in the sand. 

You gasped with mock offense. “You just killed my present. You just committed ducky murder.” 

He chuckled. “I’m the one who bought it for you; I think I have the right to kill it.”

As you bent down to pick up the duck, a thought crossed your mind.

“Hey. Who else knows you can shoot?”

He raised an eyebrow inquisitively. “Not many people. Why?”

You grinned devilishly. “I just discovered a new game I’d like to try.”

—---------------------------------------------------------------------------

The next day, the local carnival opened up in town and half the Third Division had flooded the festival grounds, looking for a good time. 

Up until now, you and Soshiro had kept your relationship under wraps, even going so far as to bicker publicly so as to douse any sneaking suspicions of a possible budding romance. So when your favorite vendor opened up his shooting stall, the way he did every year, you knew that no one in the Third Division would suspect you of rigging the game. 

A crowd slowly gathered around the stall as you openly and loudly degraded Soshiro’s shooting skills, betting him that he couldn’t even hit one of the targets let alone all of them. When other officers caught wind of your challenge, they immediately started placing their bets.

“Have you ever even seen the Vice Captain shoot a gun?” Haruichi asked, turning to Nakanoshima as he pondered his choice. 

Her brows furrowed, “Maybe? I’m not sure. I can’t remember.”

He finally passed his money over to you, having decided to take your side. 

“Nah, the Vice Cap’n is good with a sword, he’s comfortable with a sword, I bet he wouldn’t even know how to hold a gun.” Iharu prattled loudly before handing his wad of bills to you. 

Then Reno chimed in sweetly, “Well Vice Captain Hoshina, I believe in you,” and he handed his money to Soshiro. 

“Thanks, Ichikawa. ‘Preciate that.”

“Sorry, Hoshina. Logically, it’s smarter to stand with the Captain.” Aoi apologized to him before presenting you with his money as well. 

Before you knew it, you’d accumulated a fat stack of cash, with most bets placed against Soshiro. Then it was go time. Everyone in the crowd held their breaths as they watched him get into position, hoisting his gun up to fire. 

You gave Soshiro a knowing look and he nodded.

Then he blew everyone’s fucking minds.

He hit every single target with precision and speed. Even the bonus target. 

When he collected his due payment from all the stunned officers, he simply shrugged and said, “Lucky shot, I guess.”

Then he picked out his prize from the booth owner, the icing on the cake for his spectacular debut, and snuck off to meet you in your agreed upon location. 

“Teddy bear, love? To make up for the murdered duck.” He handed you his prize.

You laughed as you took the stuffed animal from him. It was half your size. “What’d you do, pick the biggest one he had?”

He smirked. “Of course. Only the best for you, my dear.”

“You were amazing out there.” You kissed him deeply. 

He smiled against your lips. 

When you finally pulled away, he held up the thick wad of cash.  “What do you say I take you on the most lavish date you’ve ever been on?”

“I’d say that sounds like a dream.”

“Well then,” He held out his hand to you, “Let’s make some dreams come true.”

[bihanapologist]

✮ noob saibot harassing his wife into joining him in death out of twisted love and care for them (feminine terms used but no gendered pronouns for reader)

w/c = 1.7k

cw = slight suicide ideation, noob calls reader "little bird" if that pet name is too cringe then please don't read!

a/n = the reader has a chronic illness and is the physical embodiment of spring simply because it parallels bi-han

You weren’t supposed to be here. You were instructed to hide. Your clan was supposed to protect you. But they’re gone.

Dead.

Your only option is to run. Return to that reprehensible faction. Find your brother-in-law — the only person you trust. Despite knowing that embarking on this treacherous journey would be unkind to your sickly body, you have to try.

Your body condemns your choice. You’re wheezing and hacking up blood as arrows whizz past your face. Your legs throb, begging you to end this excruciating torture. At last, your knees finally give up on you, sending you pummelling into the dirt. You lie there as footsteps grow closer and closer. Debilitated, parched and miles away from Articka, you close your eyes and resign yourself to your fate.

Loud, heavy thuds follow pained squawks. Your eyes snap open. You push through the bursts of pain to turn, to face your unexpected hero…or future killer. A man cloaked in black stands within the shadows — not under, no, he isn’t just shrouded under the shadows; he is one with them — a bloodied sickle in hand.

"Who are you?"

"Your saviour," the man replies with a rasp, his voice soft yet menacing. "Don’t you recognise me, little bird?"

Your blood freezes.

“You can't..."

"Can't what, (Name)?" he asks, a subtle amusement in his gravelly voice.

No, this couldn’t be him. But the only one who called you by that pet name was your ex-husband. Your dead ex-husband.

Years ago, you were wedded to the elder Sub-Zero — Bi-han. Although the union was solely for diplomatic reasons, it was a blissful marriage. Despite your illness and weak body, he never viewed you as a burden. At times, you would sing to cheer him up after a particularly tiring mission. In turn, he affectionately called you ‘oriole’ after the golden songbird. Your former husband — the one who cut you fruits and watched over your feverish form when you were bedridden — couldn’t possibly be the same man as the one in front of you.

His shrouded body ripples like ink, chalky pupilless eyes probing into your soul. His sickle glistens, beads of scarlet dripping down the polished metal only adding to the macabre image. The only word you would describe what you could behold is grim. Grim. Yes, his garb is akin to that of a grim reaper.

If this is Bi-Han, he is nothing but a shadow of himself.

"It's been too long, little bird.”

"You're not Bi-Han," you mutter, holding your breath as you take in his haunting silhouette. "My husband is dead."

"Dead, alive, it makes no difference to me. I am merely the tool of my master's will. But I do remember you."

Every step is slow. Every step is deliberate. Every step echoes through the vacuous forest as he treads past the lifeless bodies. Those same men that butchered your entire clan like they were cattle. The same men that chased you across China and were mere seconds away from claiming your life. All dead in the blink of an eye, slain by ghostly hands. He makes his way closer and closer to you, his presence alone instilling fear and dread as you slowly back away.

"I remember your beauty and kindness, but most of all, I remember your fragility,” he remarks, towering over your fallen form. "You are still so delicate. But you have more resolve than I give you credit for."

"Who resurrected you?”

"The Sorcerer Quan Chi, of course. He perfected me, gave me the power and body I deserve."

He straightens himself, the moonlight casting upon his umbrous form, beckoning you to bask in it. Your eyes only reflect fear and pity. This isn't the man you married.

"Perfect? Bi-Han, you've become a shell of the man you were!" you protest.

The mask covers his perpetually emotionless face, making him impossible to read. Bi-Han watches you in silence as you are overtaken by grief and anguish at the sight of him. You couldn’t even recognise him. You have heard of the horrors of the Netherrealm and creations that Quan Chi constructs but this is beyond anything you have ever seen. He doesn’t have his voice, he doesn’t speak like him, he barely looks like himself, can you truly call this your Bi-Han?

"You have no idea what I am," Bi-Han sneers. "I have become darkness incarnate. I am more powerful than you can possibly imagine, (Name). This perfected body allows me to do things I could never have done as the human Bi-Han. I have been reborn, reforged now by the darkness. And soon, the realms will know my terror.”

"Oh, Bi-Han," you croak, tears forming at the corner of your eyes. "How far you have fallen."

"I have not fallen. I have ascended with the darkness, and the shadows are where I belong."

"You belong with your family, Bi-Han!" you protest, voice breaking. "You belong with Kuai Liang and—"

"A dead man needs no family," Bi-Han states in that unfeeling, inhumane voice. "I am what I should have always been — but you will come to understand, once you join me."

Your eyes widen. "Join you?"

He takes another step closer, his silhouette blocking the moonlight and looming over your cowering form. Your heart hammers against your ribcage, feeling like a cornered animal in his presence.

"Yes, join me.” He extends a gloved hand. "Join me in the Netherrealm and be reborn."

"Why would I want to die?!" you bawl, backing away.

His gloved hand remains outstretched despite your blatant show of horror, his sickle in his other hand hanging by his side. There is a bleak, void-like darkness radiating from him, white pupils glowing in the night.

"For the same reason I did," he replies, his voice low and quiet. So that you can live."

"That doesn't make sense," you object, furrowing your eyebrows. "I am alive. My powers are of spring and rebirth. I'm the physical manifestation of life."

Bi-Han doesn't answer right away. Instead, he stares at you with those unfeeling eyes, his mouth hidden beneath the mask. You stiffen at the sound of laughter. It's the first instance where has shown emotion in this encounter.

"You call this living?" the wraith challenges you. "This existence where you are forced to live like a caged bird, hidden from others, tied to a bed, a slave to medicine. Can you honestly call that living?"

Your mouth goes dry. Your gaze is fixed to the ground, trying to form the words. He retracts his hand and he folds his arms. There is something ominous in the calmness of his movements, in the wisps of shadows emanating from him.

"What's wrong? Nothing to say?" He closes the distance once again, but this time, you don’t back away. "Do you know what it's like to truly live? I do. Being reborn as the shadow, the darkness — it is true freedom. Freedom you can only dream of.”

You bite your lip. "Bi-Han, look at what you've become—"

"I am more than I ever was,” he boasts. “The darkness has freed me, just as it will free you. You know better than anyone, oriole. This flesh you wear, it is weak. You could live without it, without those constraints. Be reborn, (Name). Let the darkness save you from the fragility you have always possessed, the weakness you have tried to hide."

“I can't bear to see you like this…”

"I offer you immortality, little bird. I am offering you the means to escape this fragile existence. There will be no more pain. Only life. Eternal life."

Tears flood your vision. Your head hurts. Your bones hurt, your body hurts. It’s cold and an airy breeze blows past your face, sending goosebumps up your skin. For years, you cried for your late husband. For years, you wish that someday, in another place and time, you could be reunited with him. Not like this. Your husband, your Bi-Han…how could he?

You freeze at the feeling of cold metal against your throat. You swallow, blinking away your tears as you gaze up at the wraith.

"My little bird," Bi-Han whispers, "I would do anything to protect you. Join me, and I will save you. I am the embodiment of death. And you are the personification of life. Let us dance in death together, under the moonlight."

…Living is a burden.

You never chose to live. You never chose to be born with this illness or to be hunted for your powers that you couldn’t even awaken. Is a normal, peaceful life too much to ask for? You had a glimpse of it when you were with Bi-Han. If you squint, you can still taste the sweetness of peaches swirling on your tongue. He always fed you when you were too tired to lift up your arms. He was so good to you.

You miss him.

You open your mouth to answer. But the feeling of hot ichor dripping off his sickle and puddling on your clothes causes the words to vanish in an instant. You stiffen when you catch the glint of the blade in the moonlight. Dread makes its home in the pit of your belly.

You don’t want to die.

A flash of ice hits the wraith square in the chest, toppling him off his feet and sending him colliding into a tree. He lays there motionless, his form sprawled over the ground. For a moment, you think he is dead until he lets out a groan and rises to his feet. His eyes glint under the shadows of his hood and he looks towards the source of the ice.

Lucidity clicks back into place and you let out a sigh of relief as you shake your head. "You arrived in time, Kuai Liang."

"(Name)!" Bi-Han’s younger brother runs over to you and helps you up. "Forgive me, I didn't arrive fast enough."

The wraith’s expression remains emotionless despite being hurled by the ice blast. Yet, you could tell that isn’t the case by the way his grip tightens around the sickle’s handle.

He snarls as the shadows covering his silhouette begin to gather, the darkness swirling around him like a cloak. He grips the sickle tightly in his hand as the shadows rise above him, shrouding his form in a blanket of darkness. The shadow shroud ripples in the night, and then dissipates, leaving nothing but emptiness. The forest is quiet once more.

“Was that really Bi-Han?” you croak, vision blurry from tears.

“Unfortunately so,” Kuai Liang answers. “We can talk later. Let’s get you somewhere safe.”

divider by @/cafekitsune

[kremlin]

i figure most human behaviour that, not only doesn’t occur in other animals but has zero connection to animal behavior is basically distantly rooted in the known fear of inevitable death. let me be clear. cats and shit don’t know they’re gonna die. we do. we have thoughts. we know it’s coming. we think we’re gonna be rich, bullshit like that, most humans believe in magic and most humans doubt that math is a universal or consistent thing. total nonsense right. but everyone knows their ass is gonna die. before you write me off as some dumbass reciting basic 101 level university lectures just Trust Me I’m An Engineer. anyways. being human and dying are somewhat one in the same.

“if i do nonhuman things i can cheat the reaper.” short and sweet. if i can beat zelda faster than anyone i can outrun the reaper. and you know what, fuck it, i’m scared shitless of dying. it’s gonna hurt really bad no doubt. what if the brain destroyal process makes time slow down in my perception and it’s not just like five seconds of bleeding out or fire ant bites or however you go. Scary. so i’ll play along:

i am an average american man and i enjoy bad game runescape. it’s a computer game. MMO. kill monster get loot. sell what i don’t want to other players for gold. spamming chat with “SELLING BOWSTRINGS 200gp” for an hour “sucks” so the devs add a grand exchange where you can post buy/sell orders for a given item+price to maximize gameplay efficiency and minimize social interaction.

like any other MMO you can pay some sketchy website real money for ingame gold farmer by chinese gold farmers. totally against the rules. remember this

so the first thing that comes to any male aged 23-27 mind is “buy low sell high” basic bitch shit. no good. there’s a 5% tax that’ll wipe out your profit margin intended to eliminate this behavior (you’re supposed to friggen kill monsters). but everyone thinks they’re a genius and can beat the system and that there is a secret george soros style illuminati group that is holding the secrets, blah blah blah, whatever, and this comes as a coping mechanism after losing your shirt after trying to beat the market (success rate of 0%).

here is where people mostly quit thinking: if you do the math, which takes about ten minutes and can be done on one side of a sheet of paper with the most basic calculator, it’s easy to figure out that the amount of gold you’d need to play dirty (buy out all the available Feathers or Fire Runes or whatever) in order to corner the market would be so high that there is no possible way for a character to hold that much without having spent IRL money for gold. you’d get autobanned.

SO..finally, go on the ol’ www.reddit.com, and make a really really professional-to-professional sounding post advertising a “service”. Saturate the fuck out of it with dense but very real financial jargon. the “service” (which needs to be obscured enough with plausible and relevant language) is a hedging service aimed at make-believe market players who are buying and selling such huge amounts of items and gold (usually in anticipation of a game update that will speculatively introduce a sudden, dramatic, and capitalizable price change for some item). you need it to be as alien-sounding and foreign as possible but with enough believability and clarity that a handful of reddit jackasses will figure out what the fuck your post is about. whenever pressed further, act totally puzzled and make it very clear that this is not a service relevant to “individual entertainment-motivated” players or some shit. no matter what amount of gold anyone quotes at you, just act puzzled and if that amount is 1/1000th the amount one of your “normal” clients deal with. you need to do all of this extremely artfully. and by “you”, i’ve been meaning to write “me”. really lay it on thick that whatever you’re “doing” is totally unavailable to them and that you want zero to do with them.

so now theyre still mostly totally confused but enough is made clear that their interest is piqued. got my hook in em. some guy will copy/paste wikipedia shit in an obnoxiously long and pseudointellectual, contemptible but characteristically reddit guy style what you’re “selling” actually is in the most exhausting, hand-holdingest way to his fellow reddit gamers. with complete tone of authority.

inevitably one of them will put on their sherlock holmes hat and go deep undercover, emailing me posing as an interested party. bingo. now i get to really lay on the WTF and go off the rails asking about vouchers from One Of The Big Seven, but oh no, you can’t get one of them to vouch for you, that’s fine, it makes sense, we’re the only firm that deals with unvouched, that’s our market, well, one of them at least. Just give me a rough rundown of your entry criteria, dwell time, risk tolerance, fuckin “Gamma Ratio”, you know, all the basic stuff, and i’ll have the team generate a .xlsx for you to plug your data into to get a rough feel for what the final contract might be like.

(lololol) But REMEMBER, that excel sheet is seeded, output is fuzzed and salted and if you share it or try and sell it to our competitors, it will be fuzzy enough to be worthless to them but obvious to us who leaked what. this is the only way we’re able to integrate unvouched clients without untenable premiums and while managing our risk levels

blah blah blah blah, i go on and on and on and the guy on the other end is developing a scab from constant head-scratching. and that’s about the maximum real-world harm i’m willing to inflict. i know this sounds like an elaborate as fuck confidence scam but it isn’t. that shit makes me sick. i’d literally slam my arms in a car door before taking a cent from all this. hell, i’ll go out of my way to guarantee i don’t even piss anyone off or offend them or anything.

your guess is as good as mine but i do stuff like this constantly for anything i know well enough and the example i gave above is just a pretty low quality one i made up on the spot. this is a public blog after all.

anyways, cheers, hoping this saves me from dying or whatever the hell i was talking about before that could have probably been cut out. Namaste. Mahala.

[hyperfixat]

found this game in my steam wishlist 😭 i remember putting it in there and i forgot abt it for so long but i got around to playing it and !!! Okay!

So naturally, as one does, i decided to write a fic where u fucking kill yourself Obvious CW for suicide and overdosing on painkillers

(okay there’s kinda an open ending) anyway 1.2k words. GO.

You had no intention of winning your bet. Sure you taunt and tease the reaper, even before knowing who (rather what) he is, but you don’t intend on taking his soul. You wouldn’t even know how to take a soul if push came to shove.

It’s been an idle plan in your mind for years now. Suicide, that is. So when someone contacts you asking for your soul, you assume whatever god was overseeing you had a sick sense of humor.

Honestly, you think this “Grim Reaper” guy is planning on making a snuff film out of you. When you make your first call you think, this doesn't look like the type of guy to make snuff films. Hey, maybe he’s some rich pervert, using his fortune to prey on random people by installing spyware and stalking them before getting his rocks off to their death.

This false impression of Grim comes to a harsh end when he literally takes a stroll inside of you. And does stuff. You’re not quite sure what the hell that was about, but, again, this guy is either death incarnate or way richer than you had initially given him credit for.

You wonder if your ideas are graffitied on your soul, mindscape, wherever it was Grim ventured. It, this cosmically far away concept of the depression you have become, has been a shadow over your life. Surely it stained itself into your very being.

If there was any indication of that you’d like to think Grim would have mentioned the blight bleeding into you. But he doesn’t. So you don’t ask.

All too soon your week is coming to a close. You can’t lie to yourself and say you haven’t been falling for Casper (he had indulged you in his real name), but you’ve been looking for an excuse to do this for years and you won’t let someone you’ve known for less than a week hold you back.

Really you’re doing him a favor.

Maybe you should have done this sooner.

You are meant to be dead. Was it supposed to be by your own hands all along? Were you truly too much a coward until this very day to finally do it?

It’s cruel to leave your pet behind, but you hope they have it in them to forgive you. Grim seemed to think they were cute, hopefully he’ll agree to take care of them. You draft up a message to send to him before you trudge to your medicine cabinet. The value pack of 500 painkillers stares back at you, taunting.

No time like the present. You grab the bottle and take it to your kitchen, pouring a big cup of soda. You want to go out drinking your favorite drink and water is for losers. Popping the child safety lock off you pour out a handful of pills. How many would you have to take to get the job done, you wonder.

Well, it’s not like anyone else needs them, so you go handful by handful and down as much of the container as you can, before your stomach starts to ache. It’s likely the ache is from how full you are, but it could be your system beginning to realize something is wrong with your body, so you slide into your desk chair and open up the chatroom.

Grim is online. He’ll probably rush to your place. Out of excitement? Duty? Fear? Pity? There are too many possible outcomes, but you want to make sure the message gets sent, so you paste it into your chat bar, watching the line flickering at the end, prompting you to either send or type more.

Now your stomach is really starting to roll. You lean over and grab your trash bucket, holding it to your chest. Only when your burps start to taste like stale medicine do you hit the enter bar, sending the message.

Grim

What.

Grim

No

Grim

Don’t do it.

Grim

I’m coming over now.

Grim

KYS

Hm. That last message forces a chuckle out of you. Does he know what that means? An open contradiction; unless he’s gullible enough to believe it means Keep Yourself Safe.

Yeah, he definitely thinks it means keep yourself safe.

A bit late for that, though.

You have enough cognition to stumble forward and lock your window. A mere glass panel won’t stave death away, but hopefully you’ll have passed by the time Casper breaks it or breaks in through other means. You fall back into your spinning chair, and the momentum slides you halfway to your bed. That’s far enough away where you have a clear view of your window.

With glazed over eyes and a heavy slouch you watch as Casper flies up as if propelled by a very steep zipline. His eyes are wide and alert as he attempts to lift your window, a harsh contrast to your own.

He’s saying something but the window and your brain muffles it, probably telling you to let him in. Tough luck is what you’d tell him if your mouth wasn’t salivating so much. Casper bangs on your window at a frantic and fearful pace. Your emotions are swiftly changing.

You want to console him, hold him and tell him it’s alright. You know this is what you deserve, what’s been coming for you. Though it’s not in your best interest, you think your body is past the point of saving, not without some serious medical know how, so you stumble on deer legs to pop the lock open on the window.

Casper wastes no time in flinging it up and open.

“What have you done?” He’s all over you in an instant. Hands in your hair; hands on your face, peering into your dazed eyes, hands over your chest, hands feeling your abdomen. Casper looks distraught.

“It’s okay.” You reassure him, though your words sound oddly gurgle-y. “You win, it’s okay.”

“I don’t want to win. I forfeit, please, what have you done, tell me, I can fix this.” Casper speaks fast as if the haste with which he delivers his words will somehow fix you. His hands settle on either side of your face. “Look into my eyes, everything is going to be alright. I’m not upset, I’m not mad, please look into my eyes.” His words are like a mantra, and the desperation in his tone makes you compelled to follow his instructions.

The tears in his red eyes refract the light like rubies. You can’t imagine anything more beautiful.

“Can you imagine a bridge for me?” Casper’s hands are shaking against your face, the tremors get worse when you shake your head ‘no.’

“It’s okay.” You repeat yourself. “I love you, okay?” In another situation, far less serious than this, Casper would make fun of your excessive use of the word, but he barely notices.

“That’s alright, that’s alright, just keep looking into my eyes, got it?” Yes, you want to do that, Casper has the prettiest eyes. You wouldn‘t mind them being the last thing you see. That would be a lovely final view, you think.

They are.

the endings i thought of are:

one; you fucking die

two; casper establishes a soul mind link and gives you part of himself to keep your tethered to your body for long enough that you heal and you don’t die

[parkerposey]

Seasons don’t fear the reaper nor do the wind the sun or the rain we can be like they are come on baby don’t fear the reaper baby take my hand don’t fear the reaper we’ll be able to fly don’t fear the reaper baby I’m your maaaaaan

[vittoriaisfuckingpathetic]

i was definitely tired because last night at roughly 3:45 am i wrote

"After having to chase the train down from Sant Denis due to the treno not stopping in the ciyt as per Ducht’s wrong predicton, and all the way to northern Lemonade,”

then i got tired and wrote the rest of my opening paragraph in italian so here a free sneak preview ✨non in inglese con molto errori✨

the bracketed parts are my little authors notes that get deleted later on in the writing process kthxbyeeee

[underground-secret]

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

Description: The group investigates the case of a maniacal ghost inhabiting a long abandoned Texas farmhouse known as `Hell House'. They believe the ghost is the spirit of a deceased depression-era farmer who killed his family, but they soon realise it is something far more powerful.

Warnings: Cannon violence, mentions of suicide and sh within the cannon story, a guy being a little icky.

Credit: While I’ve had the idea for a certain part of this story for a while i’m still going to give credit to @arjwrites for it because she wrote something pretty darn similar, even more than just pretty darn so yes check their work out and stuff.

Tag List: @jesllianaquilesrolonsworld @okayiamkassandra @fablesrose @ada--44 @bonkydarnes @star-yawnznn @crazyunsexycool @onlyangel-444 @seninjakitey @mystic-mara @mxltifxndom @stilesxreid @chaotic-luvrs @tiggytaylor @deanwasscaredbyacat @imaginexred

Word Count: 11,341

Hell House

(Masterlist, Previous Ch, Next Ch, Outfit Board)

The Impala cruises down the interstate, yellows, and browns passing by as the hot Texas sun beams through the opened windows. Hair blowing back in the wind and tickling my skin, my sunglasses perched on my nose as I nod along to the Blue Öyster Cult song that played quietly on the radio. If Sam wasn’t peacefully sleeping, head leaning far back against his seat and mouth hanging open I’d ask Dean to make the song louder—it was a really good song though I prefer (Don’t Fear) The Reaper over Fire of Unknown Origin any day.

Dean stretches an arm back, leaning over the seat to grab hold of a stray plastic spoon left on the seat beside me. He places the spoon in Sam’s open mouth. He chuckles to himself as he thumbs through his pocket for his phone, flipping it open and taking a photo. I scuff and roll my eyes at the sight as my hand finds its way into my bag where I pull out my digital camera, “Do a pose,” I whisper to Dean. He checks the empty road in front of him, slowing the car significantly before half turning and spilling widely with a thumbs up, I try not to laugh as I take the picture. I nod to him in confirmation that I got it, he puts his attention back on the road, putting more pressure on the gas pedal, glimpsing at Sam to make sure he’s still asleep before his fingers find the knob on the radio and turn the music all the way up. “Fire of unknown origins…took my baby away!” he sings loudly.

Sam jerks awake, arms flailing around in panic as he spits out the spoon. Dean air drums along to the song, fingers hitting the steering wheel, grinning as Sam wipes his mouth of drool. He turns down the music, an unamused look on his face, “Ha ha, very funny.”

Dean chuckles, “Sorry, not a lot of scenery here in East Texas, kinda gotta make your own.”

“Man we’re not kids anymore, Dean,” he complains, “We’re not going to start that crap up again.”

“Start what up?” Dean asks, feigning innocence.

“That prank stuff. It’s stupid, and it always escalates,” he clarifies, very annoyed with the little prank. But he was right, it did always escalate. I have heard many stories of the things they did and they were not pretty. As long as I didn’t get caught in the crossfire, they could go at it all they wanted, “But you’re never too old to do stupid things,” I add.

“Aw, what’s the matter Sammy, scared you’re going to get a little Nair in your shampoo again, huh?” Dean teases, grinning like a madman.

“Alright, just remember you started it,” Sam warns, smirking right back.

“Bring it on, baldy,” he taunted.

“Ok, but don’t make him bald again, that would be so tragic. Every guy with pretty hair gets a buzz cut and it’s like an angel lost its wings, it’s horrible,” I butt in.

“That’s the point,” Dean chuckles, probably reminiscing on the first time he did it to Sam and how much worse it would be now as an adult than when he was a kid. “Anyways where are we?” Sam asks, apparently not worried about the danger surrounding his hair.

“A few hours outside of Richardson,” he answers, “Gimme the lowdown again?”

Sam pulls out the file he created, printed papers neatly held in a manila folder, “Alright, about a month or two ago this group of kids goes poking around in this local haunted house.”

“Haunted by what?” Dean asks.

“Apparently, a pretty misogynistic spirit,” he answers. I sigh, these kinds of spirits made for an incredibly annoying job, “Why are they always misogynistic? Literally, go kill anyone else! Or, spice it up and kill guys too.”

“Take that up with the spirit,” Dean says.

“Yeah, no thanks, I like living,” I retort with a smirk.

“Well, legend goes, it takes girls and strings them up in the rafters,” Sam continues, “Anyway this group of kids see this dead girl hanging in the cellar.”

“Anybody ID the corpse?” Dean asks, also getting back on track.

“Well, that’s the thing. By the time the cops got there the body was gone. So cops are saying the kids were just yanking chains,” Sam elaborates.

“Do you think they were?” I question, it wouldn’t be the first time kids lied about this sort of thing as a prank or for attention and coverage, and it likely wouldn’t be the last. But, on the other hand, if you're looking for something to happen in a known haunted location there’s a good chance you’ll get something. “Maybe, but I read a couple of the kid's first-hand accounts. They seemed pretty sincere,” he answers.

“They made the papers?” I ask, taken aback a little. Though it made sense for the case to likely make the papers, it would be surprising for accounts like that to be taken in main news articles, it’d be seen as a waste of time. “No,” Sam responds without making a sign he would elaborate.

“Where’d you read these accounts?” Dean pushes. Sam smiles, his cheeks just turning the slightest shade of pink, “Well, I knew we were going to be passing through Texas. So, um, last night, I surfed some local…” he drags before getting the rest out quickly, “paranormal websites. And I found one.”

I give him a questioning look, it’s hard to take those sites seriously, especially when it's hard to weed out the crazies from real accounts. But even more than that, in the case such sites are speaking the truth, then it was putting said people in danger they wouldn’t know how to solve, which meant a whole lot of stubborn and ignorant people. “And what’s it called?” Dean asks, smirking as if he knew where this would lead.

“HellHoundsLair.com,” Sam almost mumbles, obviously knowing how illegitimate and silly it sounds.

“Lemme guess, streaming live out of Mom’s basement,” Dean muses, and like any sane person I can’t help the laugh that escapes my chest. Sam, somehow, manages to just grin, “Yeah, probably.”

“Yeah. Most of those websites wouldn’t know a ghost if it bit ‘em in the persqueeter,” Dean adds.

“What’s a persqueeter?” I ask, the word slow and clumsy on my tongue. My eyes squint slightly as I try to figure it out. “It’s a—“ Sam cuts him off, “That’s not important right now,” he starts and I frown at not getting my answer, “Look. We let Dad take off. Which was a mistake, by the way. And now we don’t know where the hell he is, so in the meantime we gotta find ourselves something to hunt. There’s no harm checking this thing out.”

“Alright,” Dean gives in, “So where do we find these kids?”

“Same place you always find kids in a town like this.”

Guy 1: “It was the scariest thing I ever saw in my life, I swear to God.”

Guy 2: “From the moment we walked in, the walls were painted black.”

Guy 1: “Red.”

Girl: “I think it was blood.”

Guy 1: “All these freaky symbols.”

Guy 2: “Crosses and stars and…”

Guy 1: “Pentagons.”

Guy 2: “Pentacostals.”

Girl: “Whatever I had my eyes closed the whole time.”

Guy 1: “But I can damn sure tell you this much. No matter what anybody else says…”

Girl: “That poor girl.”

Guy 2: “With the black…”

Guy 1: “Blonde…”

Girl: “Red hair, just hanging there.”

Guy 1: “Kicking!”

Guy 2: “Without even moving!”

Girl: “She was real.”

Guy 1: “One hundred percent.”

Guy 2: “And kinda hot. Well, you know, in a dead sort of way.”

“Okay!” I exclaim, “And there’s the necrophilia!”

“And…how’d you find out about this place anyway?” Sam asks.

“Craig.”

“Craig.”

“Craig took us.”

I prop my sunglasses on top of my head, pushing some of my hair back from my face, as we walk into the record shop ‘Craig’ works. Considering each person's answer, and how they hardly matched up, I couldn’t even fathom what Craig would tell us. But in all fairness their responses, while…odd, did make sense considering there are about eight things that affect the observation of an eyewitness.

The bell above the door once more as it closes behind us. Whether Craig would be helpful didn’t take away from the beauty of this record shop, the stands filled to the brim with all sorts of vinyls neatly sorted into separate genres. “Fellas,” a spiky-haired brunette greets from behind the counter, “Can I help you with anything?”

“Yeah, are you Craig Thurston?” Sam asks as we move closer. “I am,” he confirms.

“Well, we’re reporters with the Dallas Morning News,” Dean begins, “I’m Dean, this is Sam and Y/N.”

“No way. Well, I’m a writer too. I write for my school’s lit magazine,” Craig informs.

“Well, good for you Morrissey,” Dean remarks a little rudely. I ignore his comment, hoping it won’t discourage him from speaking with us, “So, we’re writing an article on local hauntings and we heard you would be someone to talk to.”

“‘You mean the Hell House?” he asks.

“That’s the one,” Dean answers.

“I didn’t think there was anything to the story,” he admits and frankly he has a right to be suspicious. “Why don’t you tell us the story?” Sam suggests.

“Well, supposedly back in the ‘30s this farmer, Mordechai Murdoch, used to live in this house with his six daughters. It was during the Depression, his crops were failing, he didn’t have enough money to feed his own children. So I guess that’s when he went off the deep end,”

“How?” Sam pushes.

“Well, he figured it was best if his girls died quickly, rather than starve to death. So he attacked them. They screamed, begged for him to stop but he just strung ‘em up, one after the other. And when he was all finished he turned around and hung himself. Now they say that his spirit is trapped in the house forever, stringing up any other girl that goes inside,” he explains.

“Where’d you hear all this?” Dean asks the logical question.

“My cousin Dana told me. I don’t know where she heard it,” he answers, his expression dropping a little, “Ya gotta realize, I–I didn’t believe this for a second.”

“But now you do,” Sam finishes, giving him an understanding nod.

“I don’t know what the hell to think, man. You guys, I–I’ll tell you exactly what I told the police, okay? That girl was real. And she was dead. This was not a prank. I swear to God, I don’t wanna go anywhere near that house ever again, okay?”

******

Mud sloshes beneath my shoes as we walk up the muddy path to the dark-wooded house. It was a simple house with a rickety porch in the middle of nowhere. “Can’t say I blame the kid,” Sam comments.

“Yeah, so much for curb appeal,” Dean jokes.

We soon split up, taking a little peek around the bleak property for anything at all. Sam and I meet up halfway and walk back to the front, meeting up with Dean and his EMF reader. “You got something there?” I ask, playfully nudging into him. He taps the reader, the EMF level not changing, “Yeah, the EMF’s no good.”

“Why?” Sam asks.

“Maybe you need another walkman to toy with,” I guess, only half teasing. His green eyes shoot to mine, “This baby’s foolproof, nothin’ wrong with it,” he defends.

“Mm,” I hum, “Then why is it ‘no good’ now?”

He gestures upwards, my eyes following the overhead power lines, “I think that thing’s still got a little juice in it. It’s screwing with all the readings.”

“Yeah, that’d do it,” Sam agrees.

“See!” he wiggles the EMF reader in front of my face, a wide smile curling on my lips, “Nothin’ wrong with it.”

I place a hand over his, pushing his hand and the reader down from my face, “Sorry! I just think your whole DIY thingy is adorable,” I laugh.

“It’s not adorable. It’s genius,” he defends.

“Fine, it’s adorably genius,” I correct, having a hard time keeping the stupid smile off my face.

“You two ready to go?” Sam asks. I turn towards him, his arms crossed over his chest, and his lips pursed together in that silly, sassy way he does it. I know what he’s insinuating by the way he says it and the way he’s impatiently waiting. But, I don’t want nor need him to bring that up again, let alone now, so I respond, “Born ready.” Before moving away from Dean and stepping up on the porch, my hand reaches for the doorknob.

I turn the knob and push the door open, letting more light crawl into the dark home. The sunlight creeps along the floor, stretching its arm as far as it can reach inside. The walls are a grayish-blue wallpaper littered with graffiti and the occasional hole, the windows are broken but the soft yellow glow of the sun still makes itself known through the plastic wrap covering it. There’s still some furniture left behind, an old red chaise sofa pushed to the wall, a fallen tree lying in front of it. Quite the house. But, it’s clear it was beautiful once, and in some odd way, perhaps it still is. “Looks like old man Murdock was a bit of a tagger here in his time,” Dean whistles.

“And after his time too. That reverse cross had been used by Satanists for centuries but this sigil of silver didn’t show up in San Francisco until the ‘60s,” Sam informs, pointing at a painted cross with a circle around it.

“That is exactly why you never get laid,” Dean comments, staring at his brother.

“That is a very weird thing to say,” I reply as Sam takes a photo of the sigil, “And that was a very fun fact.”

Dean shrugs, moving to another wall, “Than—“ Sam tries to say as his brother cuts him off, “Hey, what about this one, you seen this one before?” He gestures to a symbol of a cross with a dot in the middle, the bottom stroke looking like an upside-down question mark. “No,” he says simply.

“Me neither,” I shake my head.

“I have,” Dean informs, “Somewhere.” Sam reaches out to the symbol, rubbing it, he pulls his hand away and looks at his now fingers, “It’s paint. Seems pretty fresh too.”

“I don’t know. You know I hate to agree with authority figures of any kind, but….the cops may be right about this one,” Dean says. And while Dean was quite the skeptic when it came to whether cases would actually be our sort of cases, for him to say that, to even possibly agree with the authority was big. “Yeah, maybe,” Sam mumbles.

Then, suddenly there’s a rustling or shuffling noise from the next room over. Immediately we move into action. Dean grabs a hold of my wrist and pushes me beside him as he takes position near the door, Sam taking the other side of the door. Our backs flat against the wall, Dean nods his head at his brother before they burst through the door. Immediately, they stumble back, shielding their eyes from bright lights and the shouts of…two guys. I move in after them, moving around Dean to be involved in the seemingly unthreatening situation.

Two short guys decked out in all sorts of gear stand before us. “Oh, cut. It’s just a coupla humans,” the one with black hair scuffs, wearing huge goggles on his head—maybe night vision, and a studio light in hand . The other guy holding a camera switches it off. “What are you guys doing here?” night vision questions, eyeing us. “What the hell are you doing here?” Dean shoots right back.

Night vision laughs, “We belong here, we’re professionals?” he answers as if it should’ve been obvious. However, the only obvious thing here was how stupid they looked. “Professional what?” I ask, somewhat confused. Night Vision smirks, reaching into one of the many pockets on his beige vest before pulling out a white card, “Paranormal Investigators,” he identifies, handing me his little card. I take it from him, looking at him skeptically, “There you go, take a look at that, beautiful,” his eyes sweep over my frame slowly, stopping too long at one too many areas. “Oh, you gotta be kidding me,” Dean grumbles, rolling his eyes.

“Wow,” I say plainly, “Ed Zeddmore,” the night vision guy nods his head in confirmation “and Harry Spengler, so professional they have their own business cards for their website,” I throw a look at Sam and Dean, “HellhoundsLair.”

“You guys run that website?” Sam asks in disbelief.

“Yeah,” Ed smiles confidently, practically beaming in his boast.

“Oh yeah, yeah, we’re huge fans,” Dean says sarcastically, a stupid grin on his lips.

“And ah, we know who you guys are too,” Ed claims, all high and mighty. Once more I’m confused by this dude. “Oh yeah?” Sam challenges, looking at him sharply.

“Amateurs,” Ed explains and immediately Dean walks away in lost interest, rummaging through cabinets instead of really listening. “Looking for ghosts and cheap thrills,” he continues. I cross my arms across my chest, “Right…” I drawl sarcastically, “‘Cause I just love a cheap thrill.”

“I can give you an…ex-expensive thrill,” Ed winks smoothly despite the words coming out awkward and choppy. His eyes drop to my breasts that peek out from my top, staring at them like they’re the only things in the room. I grimace, cringing as I unfold my arms in hopes it will help…it doesn’t, “Oh…that’s not, um…no…”

“Well, if you guys don’t mind, we’re trying to conduct a serious scientific investigation here,” Harry speaks up.

“Yeah, what have you got so far?” Dean asks, sauntering back over.

“Harry, why doncha tell ‘em about EMF?” Ed suggests proudly, chin raised.

“Well…” Harry says before Sam cuts him off, “EMF?” He tries to keep a smile off his face as he clearly tries to play dumb. These poor guys.

“Electromagnetic field?” Harry responds like we’re idiots, “Spectral entities can cause energy fluctuations that can be read with an EMF detector,” he turns around to rummage through his backpack before producing the gadget, “Like this bad boy right here.” He turns the box on, adjusting the antenna. A knowing smirk crawls on Dean’s face, we obviously know they won’t see anything, at least not anything accurate. “Woa. Whoa. It’s 2.8mg,” Harry announces, eyebrows shot up.

“2.8,” Ed exclaims, “It’s hot in here.”

I have to bite my lip to keep my laughter back. Dean whistles in admiration, Sam remarking a “Wow,” with a hint of irony.

“Huh. So you guys ever really seen a ghost before, or…” Dean asks.

“Once,” Ed declares, “We were, uh…we were investigating this old house and we saw a vase fall right off the table…”

“By itself,” Harry finishes, emphasizing it with a firm head movement. “Well, we, we, we, we didn’t actually see it, we heard it,” Ed backtracks, stumbling on his words, “And something like that..it uh…it changes you.”

“Mm, I’m sure it does,” I play. They were total idiots, they’d be lucky if they don’t get themselves killed. Dean nods, his voice bored and unamused, “Yeah. I think I get the picture. We should go, let them get back to work”

“Yeah, you should,” Ed replies, crossing his arms clumsily across his chest. With his back turned towards the naïve boys, Dean widens his eyes at us, nodding his head towards the door in front of him. “Oh but, um,” Ed stammers, looking at me, “If you wanna stay we can show you the real deal.”

Sam and Dean seem to pause in the doorway. I try to hide my shock and disinterest behind a tight-lipped smile, “Oh…no thanks…” I spin around, more than ready to leave. But, just outside the doorway, I pause, spinning back around to end it with, “Seek happiness in tranquility, and avoid ambition, even if it be only the apparently innocent one of distinguishing yourself in science and discoveries.” I smile even as confusion falls upon their faces and when I turn back to my boys a similar expression graces theirs.

Yet, only as we descend the steps of the old house do they break. “Did you just quote Frankenstein to them?” Sam asks, his brows twisted with confusion as a boyish smile pulls at his lips. I skip down the last step, “Maybe…”

I catch Dean's eyes rolling, he mumbles something beneath his breath before mumbling just a little louder, “This is why I’m the only one who gets laid.”

Sam and I move as one, walking down the stairs of the library. Dean approaches us, his eyes flicking over us. “Hey,” Sam nods to him. “Hey. What you got?” Dean asks as we hit the last step.

“Well we couldn’t find a Morechai but we did find a Martin Murdock who lived in the house in the ‘30s,” Sam explains, summarizing our findings.

“And, he did have kids but only two of them, both boys, and there’s nothing on him killing anyone,” I add. Our findings only supported the theory that this was nothing more than a story, maybe it wasn’t our kind of job.

“Huh,” Dean hums, most likely thinking the same thing.

“What about you?” Sam asks as we approach the Impala. Dean rounds the car, speaking over the top of it, “Well those kids didn’t really give us a clear description of that dead girl but I did hit up the police station. No matching missing persons. It’s like she never existed. Dude, come on, we did our digging, this one’s a bust alright. For all we know those HellHound boys made up the whole thing.”

“I really hate to agree and blame this on faulty witnesses and a scary story, but…we really do got nothing,” I nod. I don’t know what those kids saw, maybe it was some sort of prank or being scared and seeing something that wasn't there, either way the story was likely made up.

“Yeah, alright,” Sam surprisingly agrees. He’s usually the one to be stubborn on this and see it out, or just have a feeling that we should see it out. So, for him to agree was more than confirmation. “I say we find ourselves a bar and some beers and leave the legend to the locals,” Dean suggests, a smile on his lips. He gets into the car, and before I can round the car Sam grabs my forearm mouthing a ‘just wait.’ I give him a confused look, brows furrowing, but he leans down to peer into the car through the window and instantly I know this is a prank.

I roll my eyes but I too peer through the window, might as well see the outcome. He turns the key in the ignition, and immediately Latina pop music blasts from the car, loud enough to hear clearly from the safety of outside the car. He jumps, his fingers fumbling for the key in the ignition but instead, the windshield wipers turn on. He shouts something but all we can see is the moving of his lips, the music too loud. He quickly reaches for the volume dial, hitting it the music ceases, his shoulders drop a bit as he hits off the windshield wipers too.

Finally, I round the car as Sam bursts out in laughter. I get in and a moment later Sam’s opening his door and sitting. He licks his finger and draws an imaginary ‘1’ in the air, then points to himself. Fire might as well have ignited in Dean's green eyes as he gives his brother the dirtiest look, “That’s all you got? Weak. That is bush league,” he challenges.

The early morning sun breaks the horizon, painting the sky a soft orange. The lights of emergency vehicles spin in colors of red and blue, police officers move around, a filled body bag being rolled away on a stretcher. We missed something.

“What happened?” Dean questions another bystander, there’s a small group of people that watch the scene from behind the yellow caution tape. “A coupla cops say a girl hung herself in the house,” the man answers.

“Suicide?” Sam asks.

“Yeah. She was a straight-A student, with a full ride to UT too. It just don’t make sense,” he explains and he’s right it doesn’t make any sense. Of course, you don’t know what’s going on behind closed doors, but to come to this specific run-down house with haunting rumors to kill yourself is odd. For whatever reason the man walks away, maybe leaving the scene after realizing there was no point in being here anymore. “Whaddaya think?” Sam asks, shoving his hands in his sweatshirt pockets.

“I think we’re wrong about this not being our kind of job,” I answer, we must have missed something.

******

Darkness cloaks us as well as the thick bushes we crouch behind. We wouldn't be hiding if it wasn’t for the cop car parked outside the old house and the two cops standing around. “I guess the cops don’t want anyone else screwing around there,” Sam comments. It makes sense for them not to want stupid teenagers coming around or another teen to kill themselves here, as horrible as it sounds.

“Yeah but we still gotta get in there,” Dean responds. It’s why we were here, after all, try to figure out what we missed. The cops had been around the place all day, nighttime was supposed to be a clearing. A cool breeze rustles the leaves softly and chills my body, a contrast to the heat earlier in the day, I pull my sweatshirt closer in an attempt to fight off the coolness.

“I don’t believe it,” Dean grumbles randomly. I turn my head to follow his line of sight, and just a couple of feet away are the two idiots from before. They approach, decked out in all sorts of gadgets, more than before which I hadn’t thought possible. They whisper to themselves and shush each other, I wouldn’t be surprised if they started laughing in the way you do when you're trying to be quiet, and yet everything is suddenly funny. “You gotta be kidding,” I mumble.

“I got an idea,” Dean says. He rises slightly, turning towards the cops. He cups his hands around his mouth, “Who ya gonna call!” he shouts. Ed and Harry look around frantically, muttering to themselves, eyes wide like a deer in headlights. “Hey! you!” one of the cops shouts, eyes locked on the two boys before him and his partner heading straight for them. “Freeze!” the cop warns. But one of the nerds yelps a “run!” and they turn around quickly before hauling it. “Get back here. Hey,” the cops shout before following them. Our laughs blend together despite trying to hold them back. But we use this opportunity to make a break for the house, our shoes hitting the ground hard.

Quickly we get inside and immediately Sam is taking the duffle bag off his back, jumping straight into action. Dean and I take out our flashlights that were hidden in the waistband of our pants and concealed by our jackets. The lights of our flashlights go on, illuminating the dark home just enough.

Sam breaks out the rifles, handing one to each of us. The rock salt is already locked and loaded. “Where have I seen that symbol before? It’s killing me!” Dean exclaims, his flashlight hovering over the symbol of the cross with a dot in the middle, the bottom stroke looking like an upside-down question mark. “Come on, we don’t have much time,” Sam urges. There’s no saying when the cops would stop their chase and if they’d come to check inside.

We move through the house quickly until we find the basement, moving down the stairs just as fast. Racks of shelves practically take up the whole basement, rows of them. Each one dusty and cornered with cobwebs, all kinds of glass jars filled with questionable liquids. “Hey, Sam. I dare you to take a swig of this,” Dean says, holding up a particular jar filled with a pale red liquid of some sort. There was no way of knowing what that liquid or any of them are without a lab and some testing, which naturally we don’t have. “What the hell would I do that for?” Sam shoots back.

“…I double dare you,” he grins. Sam just shakes his head, going back to looking around. A rustling noise draws our attention towards a cabinet but before we can investigate it a rat pokes its head out, squeaking before running away. “I hate rats,” Dean grumbles, lifting his feet up as the rat scurries away.

“You’d rather it was a ghost?” Sam questions, one eyebrow quirked.

“Yes,” Dean deadpans. I roll my eyes moving forward, “Do you think these jars are old pickled stuff or, like, bodily fluid stuff?” I ask, casting a glance over my shoulder at Dean. But before I can take another step, I’m yanked back suddenly, my breath catching as the belt loop of my shorts is sharply tugged. In an instant, my back slams against Dean's chest just as the shelves in front of me crash down with a deafening shatter. An axe buries itself in the spot where I had just been standing.

The sound of gunfire explodes in the room as Sam fires off two shots at the spirit of the old farmer, but it does nothing to stop him. Heart pounding, I whip my gun up, the weight familiar in my hand. Without hesitation, I pull the trigger, aiming at the spirit now dangerously close. Mordechai goes up in a mist, disappearing, “What the hell kind of spirit is immune to rock salt?” Sam exclaims.

“This one apparently!” I shout, moving from Dean's hold as he urges us towards the stairs. But Mordechai appears again, he smashes his axe down, catching the shelves and bringing the jars crashing down on Dean, glass shattering all around him as he goes down with it. My heart pounds in my ears, adrenaline rushing through my veins. I raise my gun, steadying my hands before taking my shot, rock salt explodes from the gun, hitting its mark but still doing nothing to the spirit. The spirit instead turns and charges at Sam. Shot after shot reverberates through the room emanating from Sam’s gun, “Go! Get outta here!!” Sam yells.

I rush towards Dean, shotgun hanging at my side. The glass crunches beneath my shoes as I pull Dean up, dragging him by his forearms. He grunts as he gets to his feet and if we weren’t being chased by a farmer ghost right now I’d take the time to dust the glass from his jacket. Instead, I grab hold of his hand and drag him behind me as I bolt for the stairs.

The axe seems to come down somewhere else in the room, electrical whizzing noises following it, but I ignore it as we shuffle up the stairs and be-line to the front door. We bolt out the door, caution tape breaking as Dean breaks through it, nearly stumbling down the steps.

A camera is immediately pushed into our faces, the nerds of course behind it, “Get that damn thing outta my face,” Dean commands, an arm raised to block its view.

I lay on my stomach on Sam’s bed which I’m temporarily stealing to research. An arm beneath my chin props my head up, my legs kicking slowly in the air back and forth, as I try to find any info on my laptop sitting in front of me. Dean sits on his bed, sketching something on a little notebook as his brother sits at the table with his laptop researching too.

“What the hell is this symbol? It’s buggin’ the hell outta me,” Dean grumbled, hitting the book down to his leg, “This whole damn job’s buggin’ me. I thought the legend said Mordechai only goes after chicks.”

“It does,” Sam confirms.

“All right. Well, I mean, that explains why it went after you guys, but why me?” Dean questions. I roll my eyes at his sneakily placed joke, if the legend was right then it should’ve only gone after me, jokes aside. “Hilarious,” Sam responds, “The legend also says he hung himself but did you see those slit wrists?”

“Yeah,” Dean says but I certainly missed it, though I was busy trying not to get chopped by an axe. “What’s up with that? And the axe too,” Sam points out, “I mean, ghosts are usually pretty strict, right? Following the same patterns over and over?”

“But this mook keeps changing,” Dean adds. Sam types away on his laptop, the keys satisfyingly clicking, “Exactly.”

“Maybe we got a different breed of ghost here,” I suggest, throwing the idea out there even though it’s unlikely. Sam shakes his head, “I’m telling ya, the way the story goes—“ I peer at him over my laptop at his sudden stopping, his face scrunched, “Wait a minute,” he says.

“What?” I ask.

“Someone added a new post to the Hell Hound site,” he informs, “Listen to this. ‘They say Mordechai Murdock was really a Satanist who chopped up his victims with an axe before slitting his own wrists. Now he’s imprisoned in the house for eternity.”

“A story changing over time makes sense, like a game of telephone. But a spirit that changes with it?… Can they do that?” I ask.

Dean suddenly sits straight up, eyes locked on his drawing of the symbol we saw. “I don’t know,” Sam answers, then huffs as he leans back in his seat with his arms crossed against his chest, “Where the hell is this going?”

“I don’t know but I think I might have just figured out where it all started,” Dean announces

******

The bell above the door dings as we enter the empty record store, the only person there being a bored Craig. Good thing he’s working today. “Hey, Craig? Remember us?” Dean begins an unamused smile on his face.

“Guys, look I’m really not in the mood to answer any of your questions okay?” he responds looking deflated.

“Oh don’t worry. We’re just here to buy an album, that’s all,” Dean reassures. He saunters over to the ‘rock’ section of records, flicking through them until he finds what he wants. He lifts it out and up. “You know, I couldn’t figure out what that symbol was and then I realized that it doesn’t mean anything,” Dean explains, directing his words to Sam and I as we approach the counter, “It’s the logo for the Blue Oyster Cult.” He turns his attention to Craig, pressing the album record of Club Ninja onto the counter, “Tell me Craig, you, uh, you into BOC? Or just scaring the hell outta people?” The boy in question's face drops, his eyes dropping to the album before landing on Dean again. “Now why ‘n’t you tell us about that house…without lying through your ass this time,” Dean orders.

Craig sighs, “Alright, um. My cousin Dana was on break from TCU. Ah, I guess we were just bored, looking for something to do. So I showed her this abandoned dump I found. We thought it would be funny if we made it look like it was haunted,” he explains, “So we painted symbols on the walls, some from some albums, some from some of Dana’s theology textbooks. Then we found out this guy Murdock used to live there so we…we made up some story to go along with it. So they told people, who told other people. And then these two guys put it on their stupid website. Everything just took on a life of its own. I mean I, I thought it was funny at first but…now that girl’s dead! It was just a joke, you know. I mean, none of it was real, we made the whole thing up. I swear!”

“Alright right,” Sam says softly, ending the conversation. We have our information now, or at least a direction. None of it’s real and yet, somehow, it’s very real.

******

“There you go,” the nice barista smiles, handing over our drinks. Dean takes two of the coffees while I take my latte, “Thank you so much,” I beam, placing a nice tip in the little plastic jar.

We make our way to an empty table. Sam immediately pulls out his laptop, wiggling around in his seat and fixing his jeans with a grimace on his face. “Dude, what’s your problem?” Dean asks, calling him out.

“Nothing, I’m fine,” he denies in the least convincing way ever.

“Are you sure?” I ask, eyes sweeping over him, “You look really uncomfortable.” But he just nods his head even as he adjusts himself one more time, “Yeah, yeah, I’m good.”

“So, ahh, alright keep going,” Dean moves on, “What about these Tulpas?”

“Okay, so there was this incident in Tibet in 1915. group of monks visualized a golem in their head. They meditated on it so hard they brought the thing to life. Outta thin air,” Sam explains.

“What? So, they manifested it?” I ask. I know manifestation and intention are powerful things but for a whole being to come from it sounds bizarre. “Wait, I guess that makes sense considering that just the belief and fear people have and or give off in reaction to a spirit gives it more power,” I think out loud, answering my question.

“So?” Dean counters.

“That was 20 monks. Imagine what 10,000 web surfers could do. I mean Craig starts the story about Mordechai, then it spreads, goes online. Now there are countless people all believing in the bastard,” Sam elaborates.

“Does the HellHound site actually have that many people looking at it?” I question, I mean people believe whatever they see. And it’s not like these things don’t exist, it’s just that Ed and Harry certainly weren’t finding it. “Unfortunately,” Sam quips. That many people would be impressive if not for the idiots that are behind it all. “Are you trying to tell me that just because people believe in Mordechai, he’s real?” Dean speculates.

“I dunno, maybe” his brother answers, shifting in his seat like he or it’s uncomfortable.

“People believe in Santa Claus, how come I’m not getting hooked up every Christmas?” Dean points out.

“Cuz you’re a bad person,” Sam deadpans, replying a little too fast, “And because of this,” he turns his laptop around to show us a photo of a complex symbol, “That’s a Tibetan spirit sigil. On the wall of the house. Craig said they were painting symbols from a theology textbook. I bet they painted this, not even knowing what it was.”

“Man, what are the chances of that?” I mumble.

“Now that sigil has been used for centuries, concentrating meditative thoughts like a magnifying glass,” Sam continues, ignoring my comment, “So people are on the HellHounds website, staring at the symbol, thinking about Mordechai…I mean, I don’t know, but it might be enough to bring a Tulpa to life.”

“It would explain why he keeps changing,” Dean replies. Sam grimaces, adjusting himself again, one too many times for it not to be concerning, “Right, as the legend changes, people think different things, so Mordechai himself changes. Like Y/N said before, it's like a game of telephone. That would also explain why the rock salt didn’t work.”

“So what does work?” I ask, “If that’s even a thing here.”

“Why don’t we just, uh, get this spirit sigil thingie off the wall and off the website?” Dean suggests.

“Well, it’s not that simple. You see, once Tulpas are created they take on a life of their own,” Sam explains. In conclusion, stupid teenagers draw random symbols on a wall to scare others, somehow choose one that uses belief, it becomes a big legend, scary fake farmer kills people, and it’s our problem now. The chances of all that genuinely have to be so low. “Great,” Dean remarks, “How the hell are we supposed to kill an idea?”

Sam itches around his hips and shuffles in his seat again, “Well it’s not gonna be easy with these guys helping us. Check out their homepage.” He clicks on a couple of things before a video of last night plays, “Since they’ve posted the video their number of hits have quadrupled in the last day alone.” God, I wish we could just hit them in the face so hard.

“Hmm,” Dean hums, “I got an idea. Come on.”

“You do?” I ask though that little glint in his eye is enough proof. “Where we going?” Sam adds.

“We gotta find a copy store,” he answers. We rise to go, grabbing our to-go cups of drinks and Sam grabs his laptop before itching and wiggling, “Man, I think I’m allergic to our soap or something,” he complains. A stupid grin stretches on Dean's face, laughing as he walks away. “You did this?” Sam says through clenched teeth. And if Dean's confusion to laughter isn't an answer then I don’t know what is. “You’re a fucking jerk!”

“That is some evil shit,” I comment. I don’t even know when he had time to pull his prank but it definitely beat the car thing Sam had pulled. “Oh yeah,” Dean smiles, satisfied.

******

“I think Y/N should be the one to bait them,” Sam reasons as we walk towards the trailer. Dean has his whole plan which requires fake papers, a copy machine, and some lying. What more could you want? “Do I have to?” I ask, “They’re, like, all weird.” But really I mean creepy or gross.

“Yeah, I can do it,” Dean defends.

“That’s the point though, they’ll listen to her ‘cause she’s a girl and those two look like they haven’t interacted with one before two days ago,” Sam explains. I laugh shortly, “Ha, they definitely didn’t, at least not a real-life one,” I then exhale, “Alright fine I’ll do it.” It’s not even a big deal to begin with to be fair.

We approach their trailer, a little garden flamingo standing tilted in the grass and a couple of foldable lounge chairs sitting about. Dean pounds on the door, fist-hitting it repeatedly. A squeal comes from inside before someone calls out, “Who is it?”

“Come on out here guys, we hear you in there,” Dean responds.

“It’s them,” one of them whisper-shouts, too bad we can hear them. But there’s a click and the door opens up a crack, both their heads squeezing to stick out the door. “Ah, would you look at that! Action figures in their original packaging,” Dean remarks, looking right over their head to peer into their trailer, “What a shock.”

“Guys, we need to talk,” Sam starts.

“Yeah, um, sorry guys. We’re ahh, a little busy right now,” Ed responds, adjusting his glasses.

“Okay, well, we’ll make it quick. We need you to shut down your website,” Dean says bluntly.

Ed laughs, almost like a bark, “Man, you know, these guys got us busted last night, spent the night in a holding cell—“

“I had to pee in that cell urinal. In front of people. And I get stage fright,” Harry adds in, eyes jumping around like he’s paranoid or anxious.

“Uh..thanks for sharing that with us…?” I respond, smiling awkwardly.

“Well, why should we trust you guys?” Ed asks, crossing his arms.

“Look, guys. We all know what we saw last night, what’s in the house. But now thanks to your website there are thousands of people hearing about Mordechai,” Sam explains.

Dean adding, “That’s right. Which means people are gonna keep showing up at the Hell House, running into him in person, somebody could get hurt.”

“Yeah, yeah…” Ed nods slowly, rubbing his chin. “Ed maybe he’s got a point, maybe…” Harry adds softly.

“Nope…” Ed decides and Harry’s demeanor does a full 180 as he says “No,” too.

“Right, so you have no morals,” I conclude, “If—no, not even if, when someone gets hurt their blood’s on your hands.”

“We have an obligation to our fans, to the truth,” Ed defends.

“Well, I have an obligation to kick both of your little asses right now–” Dean threatens through clenched teeth.

“Dean,” I cut him off, holding him back with a hand on his shoulder, “It’s not worth it, god knows you can give ‘em one hit and they’d be crying back to their mommies. Hell, I could tell them that thing about Mordechai and it wouldn’t matter, they just don't care.”

“We should just leave,” Sam adds.

“Whoa…whoa…” the idiots say, interest peaked.

“Yeah, you’re right,” Dean gives in. With that, we turn back around and begin to walk away, purposely moving slowly. “What you say about…?” Ed asks, trailing after us. “Wait…Wait.” We turn back to them, an unamused look on my face. “What thing about Mordechai you guys?” Harry asks, trying to be nonchalant.

“Don’t tell ‘em,” Dean warns me.

“Not even if they agree to shut down the website?” I ask.

“They’re not going to do it, you said so yourself,” Dean reasons. I sigh, shaking my head, “You’re right.”

“No wait!” Ed rushes out, “Wait. Don’t listen to him, okay? We’ll do it. We’ll do it.” Like fishes on a hook getting reeled in.

“It’s a secret, Y/N,” Sam reminds, his voice as serious as can be. I look up at the two nerds, their eyes sparkling with intrigue, if they were dogs I'm sure their tails would be flicking behind them, “It’s a pretty big deal, you know. It wasn’t easy to find, so we really have to have your word. You have to promise you’ll shut it all down.”

“Totally,” Ed says. I pause a moment, eyeing them as if I’m really considering it before nodding at Dean. He pulls out some folded papers from the inside of his leather jacket, handing it over to them. “That’s a death certificate from the ‘30s,” I explain, “We found it at the library and according to the coroner the actual cause of death was a self-inflicted gunshot wound.”

“That’s right, he didn’t hang or cut himself,” Dean confirms, emphasizing our “find.”

“He shot himself?” Ed asks, a little skeptical as he looks up from the paper. “Yup, it’s all right there,” I answer, “With a .45 pistol. To this day they say he’s terrified of them.”

“Matter of fact they say if you shoot him with a .45, loaded with these special wrought-iron rounds, it’ll kill the sonuvabitch,” Dean adds. They snicker like school girls, the apples of their cheeks brightening with their smiles. Harry spins and bolts it to their trailer, Ed moves more slowly as he follows behind as if he’s trying to play it cool. “Harry,” he mumbles through his teeth, “Slow your roll buddy. They’re gonna know we’re excited.”

“Dude!” I exclaim, laughing a bit as Dean pops a stolen fry into his mouth, “You just finished your food, leave my fries alone.” But he shrugs with that charming smile on his lips, his arm resting on the booth's top, practically stretching out. The golden crisp of oil goodness is hardly missed with a sight like this. He turns his attention to the woodwork of an old goofy fisherman holding a big fish, a string dangling from it. He reaches up and pulls the cord, the fisherman’s mouth moving up and down as it laughs this obnoxious laugh. I myself try not to laugh as I sip on my soda.

Sam reaches up and pulls the cord again, the laughing stopping immediately, “If you pull that string one more time I’m gonna kill you,” he threatens, looking up from his laptop. In all fairness Dean had pulled the cord at least twice already since we’ve sat down, and yet, to me, it was funny every single time. The kind of stupid humor or even stupidly contagious laugh that made you want to snicker. The threatened man across us deadpans, staring at his brother as he slowly reaches up and pulls the cord again. The fisherman barely has time to laugh himself before Sam is pulling it to stop, glaring at Dean. It's like a standoff. Dean snickers, “Come on man, you need more laughter in your life. You know you’re way too tense,” he reasons.

Not having it, Sam gives him a dirty look. Clearly not amused nor having any desire to be amused. Dean sighs, seemingly giving up on his conquest, “They post it yet?”

Sam turns his screen towards me, an easier thing to do then all away around, as he angrily stabs at what’s left of his salad. My eyes scan the screen, immediately landing on the new post, “‘We’ve learned from reputable sources that Mordechai Murdock had a fatal fear of firearms’” I read and I have to admit their choice of words is awfully intelligent sounding, “Hey, look at us, we’re reputable sources,” I point out.

“Reputable copying machine,” Dean corrects a shit-eating grin on his lips. They had fallen into his exact plan, of course they wouldn’t shut down the website regardless of what they promised (good thing it wasn’t a pinkie promise), and of course they would take any information like starving dogs and post it as soon as possible. ‘Obligation to their fans, the truth’ as he had said. “Alright. How long do we wait?” Dean asks.

“Long enough for the new story to spread, and the legend to change,” Sam answers, “I figure by nightfall iron rounds will work on the sucker.” He picks up his beer bottle and holds it up to us, taking the small victory we gently clink our drinks together in a silent ‘cheers.’ “Sweet,” Dean grins, the light reflecting off of the glass beer bottle, gleaming at its base as it’s tilted up to his lips. I’ve never really understood why one would drink before a hunt, not that one bottle would do anything to him of all people, yet, when his lips are on the rim that sort of thing doesn’t seem to matter. Another interesting thing, drinking has never looked so attractive as it does on him. But perhaps that’s the bias you have when you like someone, somehow everything becomes attractive.

The bottle finally clanks to the table, his hand still wrapped around it. But when he lets the bottle go his palm sticks to it, fingers stretched out he shakes his hand around like the bottle will fall off. It doesn’t. Sam loses it, cracking up even more as Dean says, “You didn’t.”

A little tube of super glue is raised up, “Oh, I did!” he laughs, pulling the cord this time, the fisherman laughs again.

“All I’m saying is as stupid as they are, I do feel bad for them, one of these days they’re gonna wind up dead,” I reason, walking with Sam the short distance back to his motel room.

“Yeah…” he shrugs, “But it’d be on them, I mean they haven’t ran off yet, not even after seeing Mordechai.”

I hum, absorbing his words, “That’s true.” The door is open just a little, like it didn’t close fully behind him when he had left to come get me from my room down the hall. I push open the door, “Do yo—“ my words die in my throat replaced with a gasp as cold water dumps on me. A bucket thumps to the floor, just barely missing my head. My hair and clothes drip as I ball my fists at my side, shock from the sudden cold still rattling in my bones as I shake slightly. “Dean?!” I scold.

“That was not meant for you,” he replies, eyes wide as he sits up in his bed.

I got caught in a prank meant for Sam. But didn’t he know Sam was getting me and that there was a chance that I would walk in first instead of him, which is exactly what had happened???!! I exhale, trying to rid myself of any frustration or annoyance. “I’m so sorry Y/N,” he adds.

I laugh, moving a wet piece of hair behind my ear, “You are so getting it.” My shirt clings to my skin, shoulders bunched up from the feeling. Sam chuckles behind me, I turn slowly towards him and immediately he tries to cover it with a hand over his mouth, “Oh you too Sam, you’re not safe. His hand and face drops, “Why me? I didn’t do it?!”

“No, you're right,” I nod, “But you’re part of the reason it happened, your little prank war.” I look between both boys, “You’re both gonna get it, you Winchesters better watch out,” I threaten. I huff moving past Sam, “Now if you’ll excuse me I’m gonna go change before I start stripping in front of you two.”

“I mean—“ Dean calls out and I can hear the grin on his face before I yell back, “Don’t even think about it!” I shuffle off down the hallway, and only back in the safety of my motel room do I fix my situation. I snap my fingers and instantly it’s like nothing ever happened. There’s no need to change when I can do something like that, but what I can do in the privacy of my own room is think of how to get them back and execute it.

******

Early night cloaks the sky, the sun just barley below the horizon as we head to the Impala. A comfortable silence envelopes us. I stop before opening the back door of the Impala, crouching down to re-tie my shoe as they get into their respective sides of the car. The doors seem to shut in sync.

One, two, three, four, five. The doors are being shoved open and they tumble from the car coughing and covering their noses. I stand with a smirk as the smell of rotten eggs escapes the car. “What the hell?!” Dean yells. Sam reaches back into the car, pushing the seat forward to find the source. He fishes out a puffed up square, he holds it by the corner, “Really?”

“Oh, wow, how’d those get there?” I ask, folding my hands in front of me. He gives me a dirty look before throwing the fart bomb to the side. “Real childish,” Dean remarks, holding up his own puffed up fart bomb. “Which part?” I ask, “The pranks or putting fart bombs beneath each of your seats?”

“The bombs, dumbass,” he replies, throwing the little puffed square at me. I laugh, as it hits me in the chest, kicking it away when it hits the floor, “Childish and yet still funny.”

“Yeah if you think gas chambers are funny,” he mumbles.

Our guns are drawn, eyes sharp, brain and body on high alert now that we’re back in the house. The cops had been outside like the night before, but instead of using the idiot ghost hunters as bait Dean had used the stolen fisherman from the diner that he somehow stole. Its current home is now somewhere deep in the woods, a mechanism set up so that it consistently laughs. They were drawn into the forest like pirates drawn to sirens, except what they’ll find is not an attractive mermaid but an obnoxious fisherman.

“I barely have any skin left on my palm,” Dean comments.

“I’m not touching that line with a ten foot pole,” Sam mumbles.

“What are you talking about?” I ask, usually people say that about something. Like ‘I wouldn’t touch that with a ten foot pole’ but there was nothing brought up regarding touching something. “He’s tryna lead us into an inappropriate joke.” Sam explains. The gears slowly turn in my head, cogs rotating trying to figure out what joke, “Oh! You mean masterbation!”

“Yeah,” Sam sighs, and if he hadn’t had both hands trained on his gun I'm sure he’d be pinching the bridge of his nose like a disappointed father.

“So you think old Mordechai’s home?” Dean asks as he move into another room, switching topics.

“I don’t know.”

“Me either,” a voice suddenly says from behind. I spin swiftly around, gun trained.

“WOAH! WOAH!” Ed yells, him and his buddy shuffling back with their hands raised. I scuff, lowering my gun. And of course they’re decked out in their goofy gear. “What did I tell you?!” I exclaim, looking at Sam.

“What are you trying to do, get yourself killed?” he asks the doofuses.

“We’re just trying to get a book and movie deal, okay?” Ed answers.

“Look, the only time you’ll ever be written about is when your obituaries are in the local newspapers,” I spit, not caring how harsh my words are. But Ed doesn’t look defeated or deflated, instead his eyes seem to sparkle, “You are so hot,” he says softly. I drag a hand down my face, sighing, “What part about any of this are you not getting?”

“Why I don’t have your number yet,” he answers. I shake my head, walking away. This is just ridiculous now. “Alright, that’s enough there buddy,” Dean says, placing a firm hand on the guy's shoulder.

Then, the sharp noise of metal on metal comes from behind a door but inches from us. The door to the basement. As if in sync, thinking the same thing, our guns are immediately raised, body and mind back on high alert. “Oh crap,” Ed mumbles and with some shuffling and shoving each other they wind up crowding behind us. Or cowering, if you will. “Uh guys, you wanna…you wanna open that door for us?” Ed asks.

“Why don’t you?” Dean remarks unamused.

Suddenly, the door bursts, wooden shards exploding everywhere as Mordechai bursts through the door holding his axe. Screams and gunshots clash together, the dissonance cracking the atmosphere. I pull the trigger over and over, working at the mechanics of the gun until the cartridge is empty, until there’s nothing left to give. It’s no surprise when the old farmer wavers and disappears into mist with the amount of bullets shot between the three of us, but the real question is did it work?

Once more, we seem to share the same mind as we reload our guns quickly, shoving bullets into the chamber before splitting up. It’s all wordless, movements and thoughts that have been implanted into our mind long before there was even a comprehension of the fact. Every part of my being is on high alert, eyes scanning the room for the spirit. I clear the dusty shell of a room I walk into when I hear a squeal.

Immediately I spin right back around, rushing into the room I stood in only moments ago. I nearly bump into Sam as we meet back in the room only to find Harry on the floor with a shattered camera in front of him. “Hey!” Dean shouts as he enters the room from the opposite side of us, “Didn’t you guys post that B.S. story we gave you?”

“Of course we did,” Ed defends, helping his friend off the floor.

“You know, that didn’t sound all that convincing,” I quip, looking at the destroyed camera. There was no saving that thing and I don’t think any amount of insurance would help it. “But then our server crashed,” Harry corrects.

“So it didn’t take? Dean asks, eyes a little frantic.

“Ummm,” they hum in unison, the noise high pitched as their eyes jump around the room to look anywhere but the gruff man across from them. “So these, these guns don’t work?” Dean laughs darkly, running a hand down his mouth.

“Yeah,” Ed breathes.

“Great,” he murmurs, “Sam, any ideas?”

“We are getting outta here,” Harry declares, no longer concerned with documenting the truth—not that they could. “Yeah. Come on,” Ed agrees. Harry grabs hold of Ed before they run past Dean into the next room. And not even a moment later does girlish screams come from that room.

Yet despite how annoying they are, and all the trouble they’ve caused, Sam and I follow after them. Mordechai corners them against the front door, the boys cower against the door screaming “The power of Christ compels you,” over and over, louder and louder. “HEY! Come and get it you ugly son of a bitch,” Sam taunts. And for whatever reason Mordechai turns and goes after him instead. Sam leads the spirit away from the boys giving me the time to move to the idiots at the door.

I motion for them to move and quickly they shuffle away. I grip the door handle and give it a hard pull, maybe using just a little power to give me more help. The cool breeze blows in as I hold it open for them, the shuffles and grunts of fighting close by, “Go!” I command, pointing out the door. They shove each other as they stumble onto the small porch, Ed turns back before they reach the first step, “So, is your number still on—“

“NO!” I shout, slamming the door in his face. I spin around only to find Sam pressed against the wall with the axe against his throat, pushed higher and higher off the ground until his feet dangle. Immediately I lift my gun and shoot one, two, three, four, five times, glad that the angle I occupy is viewing them at their side. Mordechai disappears in a mist once more, Sam falls to the ground holding his neck as he coughs, but this time I know the spirit isn’t gone for good.

Unfortunately I don’t leave room to ask if he’s okay as I swing around the nearest walkway, “Dean?!” I call, I don’t know where he went off to and I don’t want Mordechai to take advantage of him being alone. “Right here, sweetheart,” he answers, appearing from the next room over. He holds a little metal can of something and when he splashes it around the room as he approaches me I know it must be some flammable liquid.

He nudges me forward, forcing me around before leading me with a hand on my lower back. I move away from his touch to help Sam up from the ground. “Mordechai can’t leave the house, we can’t kill him—we improvise,” Dean explains, shaking what’s left of the can of kerosene.

“Arson…yay,” I answer, watching as he dumps the rest of the liquid. Just then Mordechai appears at the far end of the room, axe raised, he charges at us, “Go, go, go!” Dean directs. I follow after Sam, running to the front door. I hear the flick of the lighter, the clinking of it falling, and the swoosh of flames going up.

We make it outside and down the short steps just as the building quickly ignites in flames. It spreads quickly in the old house, orange and yellow brightening the darkness as the flames lick at the rotting wood. “That’s your solution? Burn the whole damn place to the ground?” Sam exclaims, rubbing at his neck.

“Well nobody will go in anymore,” Dean reasons, “I mean look, Mordechai can’t haunt a house if there’s no house to haunt. It's fast and dirty but it works.”

“Well what if the legend changes again and Mordechai is allowed to leave the house?” Sam counters.

“Well—well then we’ll just have to come back,” Dean stammers, clearly not having thought of that.

The flames consume the entirety of the house, at least it seems that way. It won’t be long till it’s nothing but ashes. The only thing that’ll be remembered is the legends of a man who did not exist, that is if people care to remember at all. And all the while the real story of Martin Murdock and his boys will continue to be forgotten by this town and history. “Kinda makes you wonder. Of all the things we hunted, how many existed just cuz’ people believed in them,” Sam ponders, the words swirling in the air and lingering like the smoke filling the sky.

“I’d rather not think of that one,” I mumble. Our ‘job’ was complicated enough, it didn’t need another layer. We didn’t need another thing to keep us up at night.

The boys had decided to make a stop to see Ed and Harry before leaving town. I’m not really sure why, I certainly would’ve gone on just fine without saying a farewell. But, atlast we sit at a picnic table in the trailer park, the boys in question walking over with very full grocery bags. “Man, I got the munchies right now,” Ed comments, talking to his friend. Then, his attention turns to us as they stop at the table, “Gentlemen. Gentlelady,” he nods, and I have the suspicion that if he were wearing a hat he would’ve tipped it at us.

“Hey guys,” Sam greets with a simple smile.

“Should we tell ‘em?” Harry asks Ed, stupid smiles on their faces.

“Hey, might as well, you know, they’re going to read about it in the trades,” Ed points out, chin raised.

“Yeah? What’s that?” I ask, looking up at them. I can’t imagine what they’re gonna say. “So, this morning we got a phone call from a very important Hollywood producer,” Harry tells us, pride dripping in his voice.

“Oh yeah, wrong number?” Dean remarks, ripping a laugh from my lips before I can stop it.

“No, smart-ass. He read all about the Hell House on our website and wants to option the morton picture rights. Maybe even have us write it,” Ed boasts, shoving the stuffed grocery bags into their stuffed car, their trailer hitched to the back. “And create the RPG,” Harry adds.

“The what?” Dean asks.

“Role playing game,” I answer. Dean's eyes turn to me, confusion written in his irises, “What?” I defend, “Can’t a girl know things?”

“You know the lingo,” Ed admires, hearts practically shining in his eyes, “Anyhoo, ahhh, excuse us, we’re off to la-la land.”

“Well, congratulations guys. That sounds really great,” Sam says.

“Yeah. That’s awesome, best of luck to you,” Dean adds. And it’s that that makes me suspicious. It didn’t seem like he had said it sarcastically and from how irritated they had made him I doubt he would mean such a thing sincerely. It’s fishy. “Oh yeah, luck. That has nothing to do with it. It’s about talent. Sheer unabashed talent,” Ed corrects, chest puffed out. I decide to keep my comments to myself, let them have their delusions.

They hop into the overfilled car and start pulling off, “See ya ‘round,” Ed says from out the window, “Call me!” he adds, finger gunning at me. I cringe but ultimately ignore it, I will not be calling him or thinking of them in any degree. “Wow,” Dean exhales, standing up.

“I have a confession to make,” Sam declares, standing up too, hands shoved in his pockets.

“What’d you do?” I ask, laughing.

“I, uh…I was the one that called them and told them I was a producer,” he confesses, a smile trying to pull on the corner of his lips. I can’t help but laugh. It’s certainly a cruel prank and yet so deserved. Dean laughs too, “Yeah, well I’m the one who put the dead fish in their back seat.” Sam joins in on the laughing too, it’s kind of hard not to with the ridiculousness of it all. “My god, you guys are evil,” I smile.

When the laughing dies down Sam says, “Truce?”

“Yeah truce,” Dean agrees, “At least for the next 100 miles.”

[cuckoo-on-a-string]

Civilian Asset 3.

Polyamorous/femme/female reader x multiple

Summary: Things go from bad to worse.

Master List / Prev chapter

Warnings: 18+, Mild/brief self harm (over-washing), language, peril, first aid/wound care, discussion of terrorism, emotional break downs

Tagging: A couple folks have asked about tagging. Unfortunately tagging breaks my posts, so I don't keep lists. But I DO reply to each comment on each chapter when I post something new. So it's like a hand-written invitation delivered by butler to your inbox.

A/N: Thank you for your continued support! I hope you enjoy this chapter. Barely edited, but made with love. Keeping chapters short for quicker updates, so that Soap teaser I dropped will actually be in 4. My bad.

3.

You can’t think beyond my face hurts and I thought I died.

The men to either side have you packed in tight, shoulders pressing against yours, knees bumping with every sway and turn. All four of the soldiers keep their eyes on the passing landscape and the road leading through it. The men only speak to make note of potential tails, to confirm or deny the presence of new threats.

You left London a while back, and you’re in the patchwork of expanding towns spilling out beyond the green belt by the time you regain enough sense to notice.

You see very little. Fewer houses. More fields.

None of it really sinks in. The inside of the car smells like gun oil, sweat, and a coppery stink you know rises from your own clothes. Your own skin and hair and empty nail beds.

You let yourself disappear for a while. For maybe an hour, you let the static blanket your mind like snow. It’s like floating on the top of the lake, and if you break that surface tension, you’ll drown, so you let it blind your senses instead. So long as no one notices you, you don’t have to exist. You tell yourself it’s just for a minute, just for a bit, just until something else goes wrong and you have to remember pain, and fear, and whatever else makes up your life in the moment. The protective blur stretches on forever, and you lose track of time.

An itch pulls you back into your body. Eyes on you. Someone watching.

You glance up, and you meet death’s gaze in the rearview. There are eyes, but no face. Only a skull. For a brief instant you think of trying to jerk awake, like you would in a falling dream, because maybe the reaper isn’t real, unlike every other horror of the day. But then you notice the cloth beneath the bone and the military headgear.

It’s just a man in a mask, the one in the front passenger seat with the rifle you noticed as you piled in behind the Scotsman.

Skull-face blinks slowly, twice, confident you won’t look away while his eyes are closed, patiently enigmatic as a cat.

The SUV turns sharply onto a gravel track, and Skull-face turns back to the window, like he didn’t just stare you down through the mirror.

The uneven jolts as the tires dip into grooves and potholes drives away the last of the static. And you blink, eyes still on the mirror, trying to come to grips with reality.

What the actual fuck?

Around the bend, a farmhouse creeps into view. It sits low over the green turf, unassuming apart from old leaded windows that make it look too much like something out of a cottage core mood board for the situation. This isn’t a space for men with guns and tac vests.

But the man in the bucket hat taps on the brakes, nods, and says, “Ghost, Gaz: clear the house.” He doesn’t change gear. Doesn’t park. Even now, he’s ready for an ambush.

You don’t think the men who grabbed you were capable of thinking that far ahead. They did find the original safehouse, though, so maybe you should be a good civilian and keep those thoughts to yourself.

The Brit who clipped the zip ties off your wrists and helped you out of the warehouse pops out with a “Yes, sir.” So does the grim reaper up front. The doors slam shut again, and the two move in concert, guns raised, sights fixed on the windows and door as they approach. The man in the mask takes point, rushing through the door the instant his colleague turns the knob, and they disappear inside.

You’re uncomfortably aware of… everything. Your breath. The ants roving under your skin. The two men still in the car with you. It’s impossible to sit still, and you peer around your enclosure like a gerbil in a hamster ball – technically safe but in no control. The wind stirs the bushes at the edge of the driveway, and you imagine people behind them who move like your escorts. Cold. Efficient. And they’re already too close.

Your neck strains as you try to see through all the windows at once, struggling to catch a glimpse of doom before it drags you under.

“You broken?”

The leader, the man behind the wheel, must be addressing the Scot. It only registers he’s talking to you when you find said Scot watching you, too. There’s more room in the back now, but you still feel crowded and exposed in a horrible, nonsensical mess.

And – oh, right, the man is talking to you.

“Hey.” He doesn’t look through the mirror. He physically turns, arm over the back of the seat, so he can look you in the eye as he asks again, and his words come slow to your adrenaline-scoured brain. “Are you broken?”

You flounder. Puzzled. That… means what? You’re missing context. Is what broken? No bones. They didn’t – technically – hurt you that badly. Everything will fix itself in time. It could’ve been worse. You know that, even if in the moment all you want to do is sprint to the ends of the earth, find a blanket, and curl up in the darkest corner at the edge of the map.

Is he asking if you’re functional? If you can make it through debriefing?

That must be it.

And, fuck, you’d physically fight all four of them at this point if they tried to stop you from passing on the intelligence you’ve literally bled for.

“No.” You’re surprised by your own conviction (and how little your voice shakes). “Not broken.”

There’s an actual twinkle in his eye – and really, how dare he? – but his approval and the uptick of those bushy, bearded cheeks is the right kind of ridiculous in the moment. The Scot huffs beside you, but you don’t have the bandwidth for any more smirks, twinkles, or other bullshittery, so you keep your eyes forward and hope to fuck someone will tell you what to do. You can only hop between so many distractions before you miss a step and fall into a heaving mess on the floor.

“Good,” says Captain Fishing Hat. He turns back to the wheel just as Skull Face comes back.

The burly man signals, and as the boss finally turns off the engine, he opens the door and reports, “House is clear. Gaz is setting up for debrief.”

Gaz, then, must be the youngest Englishman. The Scot shifts, subtly ushering you out, and you scoot along as instructed, letting the men more or less herd you across the yard, through the door, into the kitchen. They keep their heads on a swivel, and that doesn’t help your nerves. Not at all. But they don’t give you time to stop and angst over it, either.

You find yourself in the kitchen, guided to one of four wooden chairs around a square table. It’s covered in tech. A black case sits open on one of the other seats, and the empty foam imprints inside match the boxes, cables, and laptop before you.

“Ready, Kyle?” Fishing Hat asks.

“Nearly, Captain,” Gaz replies. “Working on the connection now.”

So, Captain Fishing Hat is an actual captain. You aren’t shocked. Maybe in shock, but not surprised.

But as you sit where you’re told and watch the screen illuminate, a realization dawns on you. You won’t be debriefing to these men. Someone else at the other end of this connection is waiting for the whole story, and fear flutters to life in your gut like a startled pigeon. Loud, awkward, probably diseased.

What if you’ve misjudged all this? What if it’s a ploy? The enemy of your enemy is not always your friend, and the proper authorities aren’t the only ones hungry for the information you carry. Stiffening in your seat, you prepare for another fight, lifting the prickly guard you let drop as you knelt in the back of the SUV, clinging to the Scotsman’s tac vest.

Just as you’re glancing at the window over the kitchen sink and wondering if you jump high enough to break through the glass before any of the men grab you, a face appears on the screen, and the woman says your name.

You recognize her. Or at least her voice.

It’s the woman from the phone.

You physically droop against the back of the chair, gasping in relief.

Fuck. Fuck.

You’re going to be okay.

“Glad to see you in one piece,” she says.

“Me, too.” A rasp taints your voice, and you feel the phantom pressure of an arm crushing your trachea.

“Kate Laswell,” she introduces herself. “This is a secure line. Go ahead and tell me what you know.”

It’s easier than you expect. You’ve been thinking so much about everything you need to say, turning over pieces in your head, putting it into clearer words, ordering it by importance, that now it just flows. You lean forward, desperately ready to spill. But just because you’ve gathered everything into a coherent thread doesn’t make it any less painful to acknowledge. It’s like tugging up a string of barbed wire from your gut, pulling it out of your mouth inch by inch. You worry if you have to stop, the blades will lodge in your throat.

The woman is clearly a pro, though, and she saves her questions.

You list names first: people in American alphabet agencies with ties to a particularly violent white supremacist group. If there’s any chance they could be listening, she could end the call and try again in a secure location. But she must’ve guessed something was off when the official safehouse she sent you to was compromised. This time she’s prepared, and she lets you continue.

There’s a bomb, a new alliance with ultranationalists, someone named Makarov. It’s a test. To see if the American terrorists are as good as they say, if they’re worth Makarov’s investment. There’s a promise of more if they get the body count Makarov’s set (thousands).

The man whose blood you’ll always feel, slick between your fingers as you confused the thump of the nightclub’s base with your own pulse, kept his cover long enough to get the details of the attack. Date, location, time, target. He didn’t live long enough to give you more. He gave you what he thought was most important. You hope it’s enough. You hope it’s worth it.

Laswell thinks for a minute, then asks, “Did the men who kidnapped you indicate they knew how much of this information you possessed?”

“No. They, uh – that was the whole point, I think.” You lift you hand, so she can see the missing nails. “They wanted to know how compromised they were before they shot me.”

You say it so quickly it only clicks after it leaves your mouth. They were going to shoot you. You knew that, but away from the rough hands and zip ties it feels surreal. People like you don’t get shot. People like you have car accidents and a few too many fast food dinners for your general wellbeing. But the gun against your head was real. It’s a true thing that just happened, and that means people like you do get shot. Every safe, calm moment in your life looks like a lie, a skewed carnival mirror in retrospect.

People like you get shot.

People want to kill you.

You may still get shot. That’s why you’re in this safehouse with four heavily armed men.

Time isn’t the endless resource you imaged yesterday morning. It isn’t a solid path with clear, expected landmarks with which to gauge your progress. It’s ice, and the patch under your feet spiderwebs with ominous cracks.

You realize Laswell is speaking again.

“- handle the situation Stateside. Your current location is one of my private safehouses. Not on any list. Totally secure. I think it’s best to stay there and treat it as your base of operations for now, Captain.”

The captain, leaning over your shoulder to get in frame, nods. He’s too close without touching you, but no one’s indicated your part in this is finished. So you stay put.

“Rog,” he says.

“The attack is our chief priority, but closing the active cell in England and following their trail back to Makarov is a close second. I already have taps being set on a few of the names on that list.” Laswell says your name, and she clearly tries to soften her war face, but she’s all business right now. “I’m leaving you in the custody of the 141, under Captain Price.”

He gently claps you on the shoulder, like he’s assuming command. “Understood. Keep us in the loop, Kate.”

“Roger that. Keep your heads down. Stay safe. Over and out.”

The feed cuts out, Gaz – Kyle? – closes the laptop, moving the chaos out of the way as the Scotsman appears with a first aid kit. None of the soldiers leave space for an awkward pause. They all have a mission. Somewhere to be. Something to do.

The captain pulls a second chair up beside yours, meeting your gaze with another of his disarmingly charming smiles that crinkles at his eyes. As he and the Scot begin sorting through the kit, he says, “We’re overdue for introductions. Captain John Price.”

He holds out his hand, and you tentatively accept it in a piss poor handshake, but his smile doesn’t break, and he gestures at the Scotsman. “That’s Sergeant Johnny MacTavish, or Soap.”

The sergeant waves with a handful of cotton pads and disinfectant. He points into the corner, where Skull Face lurks. “Grumpy bastard in the corner’s Ghost. He’s a lieutenant. If you were curious.”

No one offers his real name, and you swallow down every question with a vengeance. The names make them seem real, concrete, and you seize the lifeline they’ve thrown.

You make eye contact with the last man, trying to prove you aren’t a sack of potatoes in human skin and have an actual, working brain between your ears. “And you’re Gaz?”

He smiles, reaching over the table to shake your hand in a way that makes you double down on your bet that he’s the youngest. Certainly the least jaded, even if he’s every bit the soldier the others are. “Sergeant Kyle Garrick, yeah.”

Ghost pushes off from the wall and heads back towards the front door. “I’ll take first watch.”

Whether he’ll be watching the road from a sniper’s perch or chilling by a window, you can only guess, but his captain gives him another nod, and off he goes. Sociable as an alley cat.

“Let’s see about that hand, then.” Calloused fingers rasp along the underside of your wrist as the captain lifts your hand into the light. He arranges it carefully on the table, keeping his touch gentle so you don’t feel the raw bands of irritated skin where the zip ties bruised you.

It isn’t like you’re resisting. The bloody nail beds don’t look right, and you’re struggling to believe they belong to you at all. There’s an experiment where people develop an artificial connection to and fear for an artificial hand. You feel like you’re in an opposite test. Your eyes say the hand on the table belongs to you, but it doesn’t feel that way. If the captain sawed it off instead of gingerly spraying antiseptic ointment over the exposed nerves, you might just shrug it off.

The bandages hurt, though.

The pain tugs at your gut, and you rejoin your whole body with a shudder. That hurts, too. You take a deep breath, and your stomach aches. Your free hand squeezes into a fist, and the scabs on your knuckles crack open. When tears flood your eyes, you can only imagine what new agonies they’d summon if you let them fall, so you blink furiously and pretend your eyelashes aren’t so wet they stick together.

As his captain finishes treating your hand, the Scot – MacTavish, Johnny, Soap, whatever the fuck you’re supposed to call him – takes a seat on the table, pinches your chin, and puts one of those little cleansing pads he’d been fussing with to work. It stings like a bitch, and you flinch despite your best efforts.

Still holding your chin, he angles your face up and blows over a series of cleaned scrapes on your cheek. The tiny breeze might as well be a hurricane. It knocks the soul from your body, and you go entirely still, befuddled.

“The fuck, Soap?” Gaz asks.

The Scot huffs, getting back to work with a fresh gauze pad, not meeting anyone’s eyes. “You’re supposed to blow on cuts,” he grumbles, like he’s trying to sound gruff to make up for the accidental sentiment. “So they don’t sting.”

It makes you want to smile. You can’t remember how right now, but maybe you’ll think back to this moment and smile about it later.

“Thanks,” you say instead.

Soap has not forgotten how to smile. “You’re welcome, bonnie. Let me put a butterfly plaster on this, and you’ll be fit as a fiddle again.”

A nice thought, and maybe true for a soldier like him, but every screaming inch of your body informs you this is a lie.

The captain taps your knee, pulling your attention back to the fading crinkles at the corners of his eyes. He lifts a finger and leads your gaze from side to side, leaning in close to see if your pupils are the same size. “Doesn’t look like you have a concussion. Are you hurt anywhere else? Any risk of internal bleeding? Cracked ribs?”

Gaz, seeing your confusion (because how the fuck would you KNOW if you were bleeding internally?) offers some helpful context. “Did they kick you in the stomach? Any sharp pains in your chest when you breathe?”

Did they kick you? You can’t really remember. Probably. It’s all a furious blur of motion and panic.

“I’m not sure.”

It’s the truth, but it’s a bad one. The captain nods as a wintery flash passes over Gaz’s face. “That’s all right. Let us know if you notice any unusual swelling or new pains, yeah?”

“Okay.”

One more big smile – a bit forced, definitely for show – lifts his whiskers, and he climbs out of his chair, pulling it out of your way.

Gaz steps up to lead you out of the kitchen. You feel like a football – always under someone’s control, being run by one teammate to the next. But what else is there to do to, really? You follow him up a narrow flight of stairs to a pokey hall on the second level. There are three doors, and the first you pass has three twin beds crammed inside. The second is smaller but only holds two beds. And the last door leads to a bathroom. Gaz, clearly used to safehouse etiquette, fishes a washcloth, towel, and little bar of soap out of the deep, dark depths of a cupboard too high for you to reach.

He sets them on the counter in a tidy pile and says, “You really shouldn’t get your bandages wet for forty-eight hours, but I bet you feel like hell. Washing up a little with just the sink might help.”

His big brown eyes fix on you, too soft and looking for some kind of confirmation you’re okay without getting in your face.

Are you broken?

Fuck. They’re all trying to make this normal. What happened isn’t their fault, and they’ve surely seen worse. They probably don’t have to babysit damaged goods after the fact very often, though. The least you can do is try to make this normal for them, too.

“Like a bus ran over me, backed up, and ran over me again.” You think for a minute and add: “Might’ve been some Nazgul, or cave trolls, or some other shit, too.”

The soldier snorts. A grin catches him by surprise and turns his whole face bright. The effort was definitely worth it.

“Tolkien? I like it.” As he moves out of the bathroom, he points at the smaller bedroom. “Take whatever bed in there you want. Since one of us will be on watch, we probably won’t need the other one. Give you a bit of privacy. Try to get some rest, yeah?”

You can’t imagine how you’ll fall asleep, but you act like his suggestion is as reasonable as it sounds.

“Of course.”

He leaves you alone.

You soak the washcloth in tepid water and peel off your shirt. There’s a countdown of little tasks in your head, ways to delay the inevitable. How long can you linger over the soap and cheap terrycloth? What if you just lock the door and keep wake sitting on the cold floor?

Then you notice your reflection.

You haven’t thought about what you look like. It’s less your face staring back and more a collection of hurts, and you struggle to find yourself through the bruises and bandages.

Everything aches, throbs, or stings. You’re so scared you want to smash your head into the counter just in case it’s like in the movies, and time rewinds, letting you wake up in bed at the hostel with a clear head and free day to play tourist. You know how to do that. Always going, doing, seeing. Always a task, a plan, an idea.

Now your hands are empty – apart from that one fucking piece of glitter you can’t get off between your thumb and forefinger. It winks in the light, and you scrub at it in a frenzy. You clean everything in a rush, too rough with your bruises, but you’re on the verge of a breakdown, and you don’t want to fall apart in anything resembling a public space.

It’s all been too much for too long.

You open the door carefully, peek up and down the hall, wary of minding eyes. Then you nearly trip over your own feet getting into the smaller bedroom.

Door shut.

Shoes off.

Everything else stays on, every layer between you and the world outside a blessing as you bury yourself alive under a stiff, scratchy blanket that probably came from a secondhand shop two decades ago. Your breath catches when you breathe in, like you’re choking on the stuff you need to live. The air bubbles out in gasps. Painful. On the verge of sobs. But that would be too loud. You must be quiet and still or something awful will find you again.

It's a good thing tears are silent. You soak the flat pillow with them, hiding in the dark under the covers.

Impossibly, you do sleep. It takes a while, but your body screams for rest, and it pulls you deep as you cry yourself out into nightmares of voices arguing just behind your head, and eyes that send beams of light around shadowed walls.

[vnards]

A GhostABO drabble

enjoy~

Blood. There was blood. Blood and rage. That’s all I remembered. When I finally came to my senses; I could feel the blood pumping through my veins and in my ears, so loud I can’t hear. I can’t hear. But I can see. I see bodies on the ground, not moving; bleeding. There’s a warm weight in my sweaty palms and I see a knife in my hand, more blood, dripped off the edge. I’m shocked as if someone put it there without me knowing. As if someone else took over my body.

               I’m only allowed a few more moments of confusion until my instincts catch my attention. Movement, coming quickly down the hall. I move without thinking as the door to the room slams open, raising my knife to defend myself until the death. Ready to do whatever it takes to live. To survive.

               Two large, burly men push into the room, both armored with self-defensive vest and large rifles raised in my direction. The first man makes an explosive entrance, gun raised and scanning the room with efficiency and ease. His eyes glance over me quickly, allowing me to see the split second he decides if I’m a friend or foe. The adjustment of his grip on the gun and aggressive posture helps me figure out the later. I grip the knife in my hand, feeling its weight and getting comfortable with the acceptance of being underprepared. A small growl comes from me, exposing my canines to pose as the threat I wish I could be.

 A moment later, a second man enters, distinct in his appearance. He adorns a skull mask, looking like death himself came to take me. The grim reaper steps into the room, surveying the scene with more control and authority than the first. If the first was the grand entrance, he was the main event.

               When his gaze met mine, there was a zap of recognition there, gone in a flash. Back to the soldier that stood in front of me, my fate in his hands. “Who are you?” He grumbles, demanding. His gun isn’t raised at me, but the first man trains his scope on me, waiting for the word to pull the trigger if needed.

               I freeze for a moment. I don’t answer immediately. I ponder about answering at all, but a glance down at the bodies that lay at my feet, the life drained out of them and on the pooling blood on the floor, made me remember the horrors of the world and how there will always be a bigger monster. I didn’t have much, but I do have a name. “V. My name is V.” I pant out, chest heaving with adrenaline and fear.

               The skull masked man moved and a waft of air pushed behind him. The scent I caught was warm. It felt familiar. It felt like this moment has happened before. It also carried a strong lower tone, one that is dominating and commanding. An alpha in his own right.

next part->

[aftgficrec]

Hi! Thanks so much for doing this i have wanting to catch you open for so long!! How are you? I hope you have a good day!

I was wondering if there were any fics focused on neil and mary/neil and Nathan? Like his emotions, thoughts, etc, and the things he went through bcs of them/how they still affect him even now? Thank you so much in advance!

Our poor traumatized Neil! Yes, there is much to explore on this topic. -A

most previous asks lead to more recs:

angsty bad days for Neil here

Neil with ptsd here

more Neil with DID here

Neil cries, comforted by Andrew/foxes here

Neil says ‘it’s fine I’ve had worse’ here

Neil’s scars 2 here

scars and healing here

Neil goes to therapy here 

Neil attempts suicide here

‘You're Wonderful’ here

‘Hold My Hand?,’ ‘I'll Still Solve You,’ and ‘Fear (but not of you)’ here

‘The Books of Baltimore’ series: ‘Ghost of You’ here, ‘Run to You’ here

‘the upswing’ (completed), ‘please (don't bite),’ ‘Will you love me for who I am…’ ‘To be safe,’ ‘Safe with him,’ and ‘i called your name ‘til the fever broke’ here 

‘my friends and I…,’ ‘Pasts Intertwined,’ ‘My Stomach is a Wasteland,’ ‘side effects may vary’ ‘Bad Apple,’ and ‘You Are So Much More Than Your Father's Son’ here 

‘Medicated rabbits don't run as fast’ here

‘Broken Symmetries’ and ‘No More Fucks To Give’ (updated) here

‘24 Floors’ here

‘A Quiet Little Seedling,’ ‘If I Knew You,’ and ‘Step By Step’ here

‘slow down (you crazy child),’ ‘Make a Home’ (updated), and ‘make me a promise’ here

‘Dreamed in red’ here

‘...Just Us, and Y(our) Friend Kevin’ here 

‘Nothing Mattered Until You’ here (jeanneil)

amputation or permanent leg damage:

Neil's legs (the fucked up edition) here and here

Neil dies/amputations in Baltimore here

‘La jetée n'est plus loin’ here

‘I’m More Than This Body of Mine’ here (completed)

‘Next to You’ here

‘Rare pair hell series’ part 9 here

‘Live for you / Stay for me’ here 

‘“I pick up daddies at the playground.”’ here

‘lie to me (for i do not wish to live the truth)’ here

‘White Hands’ and ‘If Neil, Then Fox’ here

‘(don’t fear) the reaper’ here

‘Under the kitchen lights…’ here

‘Point Nemo’ here

‘Lifelines’ here

‘does the dog die at the end’ here

you may also like:

Neil runs after joining the foxes 2 here

andreil on the run from the mafia here

soulmates who feel each other's pain here

Mary/Nathan's people come back here

Mary tries to take Neil from the foxes here

Neil kills Nathan here

tell me where i came from, what i will always be by geeseproblems [Rated G, 317 Words, Complete, 2021]

She lives in his body like no other.

tw: implied/referenced child abuse, tw: canonical character death

Down with Something by pawnofkings [Rated T, 3051 Words, Complete, 2021]

Neil is sick, and he does his best to keep anyone from finding that out. He collapses in the middle of practice.

tw: implied/referenced child abuse

you asked for this by Anonymous [Rated M, 790 Words, Complete, 2022, Locked]

Neil Josten and guilt

tw: implied major character death, tw: child abuse, tw: emotional abuse, tw: blood, tw: negative self talk

A reflection or a lie by ShadowDolphin [Rated G, 839 Words, Complete, 2022]

Sixteen year old Neil Josten has an identity crisis cuz depersonalization is a wonderful thing that exists and he doesn't feel real

tw: implied/referenced child abuse

i know you'll take me with you by lil_macaroon [Rated T, 6129 Words, Complete, AFTG Mixtape Exchange 2023]

Neil has feelings that make him want to run. The only thing that keeps him at Palmetto State, hell, what keeps him in South Carolina, is the promise he made when Andrew asked him to stay three years ago. Unable to run, it all keeps building within him until one day, Andrew puts him in the car, and they go.

keep your head above the water (I can’t) by drewdrop44 [Rated T, 1156 Words, Complete, 2022]

The feeling of water moving over his head, swallowing him whole. Neil woke with a scream trapped in his mouth.

tw: drowning, tw: implied/referenced child abuse, tw: violence, tw: nightmares 

It's a punch and a kiss, I'm trying to remember by beckdarkthrone [Not Rated, 18604 Words, Incomplete, Updated June 2024]

He has a hold on himself as Neil, as Abram, as Nathaniel.. Until he doesn't.

tw: graphic depictions of violence, tw: implied/referenced child abuse, tw: implied/referenced torture, tw: dissociative disorder, tw: blood, tw: implied/referenced rape/noncon, tw: implied/referenced self harm, tw: internalized homphobia

NB: this author has a podcast with aftg-centric episodes; check out ‘So You Think You Like’ on spotify.

We're all Monsters Here by serene_chaos [Not Rated, 892 Words, Complete, 2022]

"I am part of the slaughter house. I feel that makes me more of a monster than you.” “Don’t look at me to absolve you.” Andrew flicks his cigarette towards Neil. Sparks landing inches from Neil’s hand. OR Neil doesn't think Andrew is a monster, but thinks he might be.

tw: childhood trauma, tw: implied/referenced abuse, tw: implied/referenced torture

Who Am I to You? by serene_chaos [Rated M, 91907 Words, Incomplete, Updated April 2024]

Neil Josten was born with violence in his blood and raised as a weapon to hide in plain sight. And then he finds himself surrounded by foxes and his usual survival tactics ruined by a five foot goalie. The whole mobster mafia problem isn’t helping either. -- Cue a Neil who cares a little less, a past raven, and potentially a little something more to live for.

tw: attempted rape, tw: graphic depictions of violence, tw: murder, tw: implied/referenced child abuse, tw: attempted nonconsensual drug use, tw: panic attacks, tw: flashbacks, tw: homophobia, tw: alcohol abuse/alcoholism, tw: animal abuse, tw: implied/referenced self harm 

you will always be my favorite form of loving by something_boring [Rated T, 15831 Words, Complete, 2024]

5 times the Foxes tried to take care of Neil and 1 time they didn't have to.

tw: implied/referenced child abuse, tw: implied/referenced torture, tw: panic attacks, tw: nightmares, tw: alcohol abuse, tw: blood, tw: vomit, tw: violence, tw: bullying

pain our brain has made by pipedreamaddy [Rated M, 16052 Words, Incomplete, Updated July 2024]

Neil and his discovery that he has trauma-induced migraines because we all know how he neglects his health. Between everything else going on with him, a migraine seemed very minor to him. But now that he is in a healthy, safe, and loving environment where he is thriving, he can take care of himself—theoretically speaking, at least. Or the fic where Neil finally gets the healing that he needs.

tw: needles, tw: implied/referenced abuse, tw: childhood trauma, tw: implied/referenced torture,  tw: flashbacks, tw: ptsd, tw: implied/referenced rape/noncon, tw: implied/referenced self harm, tw: implied/referenced murder

Keep Your Head Down and Don't Look Back by Capheira [Rated G, 775 Words, Complete, 2024]

Neil has spent most of his life running from his past but perhaps this time he was a little too efficient.

tw: implied/referenced child abuse, tw: panic attacks

Scars Like Stars by Kory_Rory [Rated T, 3429 Words, Incomplete, Updated June 2024]

Neil deals with his trauma by biting himself while being completely oblivious to the harm he's putting himself through. But it's okay cause the foxes are there to help him :)

tw: self harm, tw: body dysmorphia, tw: implied/referenced torture, tw: implied/referenced child abuse, tw: negative self talk, tw: flashbacks 

I’m not used to all this water, love (it’s true) by niicowo [Rated T, 1415 Words, Complete, 2024]

Neil never thought anyone could ever love him. His parents never made him feel loved. But then again, what did he know about love? Nothing, he guessed. But one thing he did know was that Andrew loved him. And he just may love him too.

tw: past suicidal ideation, tw: implied/referenced self harm, tw: implied/referenced child abuse

Razor’s Edge by godless_writer [Rated T, 2178 Words, Complete, 2023]

Neil Josten, a caring, shit-talking, striker for the Palmetto State Foxes. Nathaniel Wesninski, a runner, and the son of The Butcher of Baltimore. When Neil thinks that Andrew is in danger after he walks into Kevin and Andrew fighting, his world turns red and those lines become blurred.

tw: implied/referenced torture, tw: implied/referenced murder, tw: dissociation

Don't let me be by Cutie_Wan [Not Rated, 1983 Words, Complete, 2023]

Neil suffers a major dissociation episode in front of the Foxes.

tw: dissociation, tw: self harm, tw: violence

grin and bear it by wlwmlmsolidarity [Rated G, 1221 Words, Complete, 2024]

neil has chronic pain due to lola and tries to just ignore it and push through on a bad pain day, andrew forcefully makes him relax and accept help

tw: implied/referenced torture, tw: chronic pain

NB: includes fanart by @clementinecloudz

scream and yell but i feel speechless by DepressedTerrestrial [Not Rated, 6770 Words, Complete, 2023]

Neil had some unnecessary surgery done when he was younger. No one (including Neil) knows how to handle this except for Andrew (kind of).

tw: past medical abuse, tw: implied/referenced child abuse, tw: implied/referenced torture

Isn't he the monster by DarkD [Not Rated, 16033 Words, Complete, 2021]

On a day when Neil "wakes up" in a particularly bad mood, hearing anyone being cruel to Andrew becomes unbearable to the point that he is on the verge of an explosion.

tw: violence, tw: blood, tw: self harm, tw: dissociation, tw: panic attacks, tw: child abuse

Art

Day 19: bullet and Day 4: stitches art by @thefluffiestbird

Nathan was known for his extravagant parties and incredible entertainment art by @mac-monsters; twitter

Neil & Mary on the run edit by @romanovass

These ouches feel a little rough for a child on the run. comic by @softerstorms

“Don’t you dare be more afraid of me than you are of Andrew” art by @rainbowd00dles 

There’s nowhere to run art by @/tryashaa on instagram

“I’m fine” - *literally dying* art by @/koldangrey_art on instagram

[mageknight14]

The Dangers and Flaws of Idolization: A NEO TWEWY analysis post

Transplanting and expanding on a thread I made on Twitter to fit within a Tumblr format.

One of the most interesting aspects I see in NEO TWEWY that I don’t see many people touch upon is the commonality between Rindo, Fret, and Shoka in how they look up to others as role models while simultaneously being blind to their flaws/who they actually are up to the end and how the game's themes are reflected in those relationships and today, I'd like to showcase why.

First, we have Rindo and Motoi. With that relationship, the game makes it pretty clear that Rindo looked up to Motoi as An0ther and used his words as encouragement to get through his own daily life and anxiety. The kid could barely decide what he could even eat for dinner before he had come across the account, so if you thought his current indecisiveness nature was bad, he was even worse before the events of the game.

However, what I find interesting is that even though he constantly spouts An0ther's sayings in an attempt to try and steel himself for the challenges he faces, he thoughtlessly does so and only lives by the sayings half-heartedly, since his indecisive nature and fear of responsibility prevent him from committing all the way. I think it's telling that despite claiming that "don't miss your chance to make a friend" is one of his favorite quotes, he's constantly at odds with the idea of bringing potentially new players on board the team even before he gets the chance to properly know/meet them and grimaces at the thought of the structure of the old Reaper's Game in the original.

Keep in mind that Beat saved Rindo's life at the hands of Susukichi at least two whole days ago before this occurrence.

Nagi’s Dive into his head on W1D3 actually does a LOT to reveal aspects of his character: he puts other people at arm’s length (besides Swallow due to their online anonymity) because he’s afraid of the fallout of what would to happen if he got involved with them.

"What if I end up taking on more than I can handle? What if other people end up dragging me down with them? If I just stay at the sidelines and shift the blame onto others, I won’t get into trouble for this."

"I'm in a group project; everybody is contributing and making decisions about how we should go about doing things. I keep my mouth shut and refrain from pitching in despite maybe thinking some of their ideas misses the point of the assignment, because God forbid my ideas could be helpful (or maybe they won't; that's life, but I won't know unless i speak up). We end up handing in our project and whoops, we got a C-. I guess I'm not responsible for receiving that grade because I never made a decision, therefore I shouldn't be accountable for my lack of contribution. It just makes sense."

If you've known/are a person that have had similar thoughts to this mindset, then congrats; you know/are a Rindo Kanade in real life.

This culminates into him latching onto others he finds capable and taking the relationships around him for granted, tying other people's worth to their prowess in might or influence. After all, why bother relying on yourself and others when you can just rely on someone else for you to solve your problems? Especially since it means that if everything goes south, YOU won’t take the fallout for it. After all, they’re clearly much more capable than you are.

To get back to his dynamic with Motoi, Rindo looks up to him immensely after finding out that he was his idol an0ther and came to value his input regarding matters within the Game. So when he eventually finds out the truth and is forced to confront the fact that his hero was nothing more than a content thief and a schemer who would trample over others just to survive, he’s understandably heartbroken.

However, instead of just leaving it there, the game decides to flip the script and have Motoi legitimately apologize to Rindo for his actions, leading to the lad in question learning to recognize that Motoi is ultimately an incredibly flawed human being instead of just writing him off entirely, (even giving him another chance!) and is, in many ways, a mirror to Rindo. Like Rindo, Motoi was deathly afraid of responsibility and the fallout of letting other people down, leading to him copying and pasting other people's quotes so that he wouldn't have to face that possibility. This aspect of himself only got worse when he got trapped in the Reaper's Game for multiple loops on end, forcing him to become a worse version of himself, lying, cheating, and backstabbing just to survive and even looking towards becoming part of the Reapers, the same group that trapped him there in the first place, just so he wouldn't have to be Erased, un a manner that's eerily reminiscent to how Rindo would took towards overly relying on others so that he would make it out okay. In that sense, Motoi is a look at what a grown-up Rindo would look like if he didn't take the lessons he learned within the Game to heart, which is part of why the latter decides to take Motoi’s copypasted quotes and apply them to his life in a positive way, deriving his own meaning from them so that in a way that contrasts him following them in a shallow manner from before.

Next up, we have Fret and Kanon, who form a interesting parallel to Rindo and Motoi's dynamic. Whereas Motoi is a look at one of the worst possible paths that Rindo could take if he didn't learn how to properly deal with his flaws, Kanon actually tries to coach Fret into becoming more true to and genuine with his actual self. She also shows herself to be a genuinely affable and honorable person even in spite of the bad first impression that she had given at the beginning of the game by stealing Rindo and Fret's pin for herself.

However, that's only the surface level stuff, as the game actually goes deeper with her character. While Kanon at first seems to be true to herself and genuine at her core in a way that Fret isn’t, we can see from the Dive into her head on W3D3 that she’s holding back a LOT underneath the surface.

"You always did have a way of destroying things" tends to get glossed over by some and for those who do look at the words, they seemingly come out of nowhere and can be seemingly brushed off as her just being under the influence of the Plague Noise. However , when you look back at some of Kanon’s actions and her words towards the Twisters (accusing the Twisters of sabotaging Fuya and making Motoi drop out of the Scramble Slam against his will, her mood changing when she finds out about Fuya challenging the Ruinbringers in one timeline as opposed to her more cheerful attitude towards Fret when she didn't find that out just yet, her acting suspicious towards the Twisters regarding their prowess as a team, etc), the implication is that she doesn’t just resent the game as a whole but also secretly the Twisters as well.

The thing about the Player teams is that they have formed an unspoken agreement where the top 3 teams (sans Ruinbringers of course) keep their footing by sending new players and other teams to last place, which the Wicked Twisters screw up just by existing. Their synergy and impressive Imagination powers (well, Fret, Nagi, and Sho’s at least) threaten the balance the teams have struggled to keep up for so long, hence why Kanon initially just sees them as another team to point snipe before she changes her mind on them. And while the Twisters do almost bring about change by beating the Ruinbringers, it ultimately doesn’t even matter in the long-run due to how incredibly rigged the Shinjuku game is and as a result, the DRS are eliminated, getting rid of Kanon’s and Motoi’s safety net.

Imagine this from the players’ perspective: you’re stuck in essentially what is a never-ending death game but you’ve got a system going where you can at least stave off your deaths for a bit longer. Then a couple of kids come around and throw that whole system entirely out of whack. And you think, "well, at least they can take out the top team and give us a fighting chance, right?" Only for those hopes to also get dashed because the rules are just that rigged. Like Kubo said, life ain’t fair and the afterlife sure as hell ain’t either. W1D5 and W2D4 are excellent explorations of this kind of mindset as it showcases the player teams falling victim to their desires and abusing their powers as a result of being stuck in an endless loop of playing the Game over and over again with no hope of escaping, as well as highlights paints certain comments made by the leaders in an even darker light.

With all of this in mind, it’s honestly no wonder that Kanon resents the Twisters but what’s interesting is that she tries to keep this resentment under wraps because she knows that it isn’t fair to them. They’re just kids after all who would have no idea about all of that. Hence why she admonishes herself in her Dive for wishing that they had just wipe out the Reapers altogether and why Fret is shown to be hurt hearing her inner thoughts about the Twisters in a way that’s pretty reminiscent of Rindo’s reaction when he found out about Motoi.

And finally, we have Shoka and Ayano. While it’s pretty clear that the two do genuinely care for one another, it’s a relationship that’s been tragically scarred by the events surrounding Shinjuku and the Reapers in general, resulting in a mutually unhealthy dynamic. 

What I find interesting about the relationship is that while Shoka gets pissed whenever Rindo insinuates that Ayano must’ve treated her badly, she sadly realizes in another convo that she doesn’t know much about Ayano on a personal level or what her interests even are.

In spite of how close they are and how much they mean to each other, Ayano still put up emotional walls and closed herself off, never allowing herself to be on equal footing to Shoka and instead just be someone who guides and mentors her over the 4 years they were together.

This is due to her feeling betrayed by Shiba/others while simultaneously using Shoka as her one stable point in life regardless because everything is going up into chaos surrounding the Shinjuku Reapers and she finds herself unable to trust anyone around her anymore. And Shoka herself doesn't even realize this until the end when it’s too late because she was just happy to simply have Ayano by her side without thinking deeper about her and their relationship as a whole due to her own emotional issues and troubled past.

When it comes to children from broken homes, they are prone to imprinting on any adult figure that interacts positively with them and in Shoka's case, this is exactly what she did with the Shinjuku Reapers, especially Ayano.

A running theme throughout all of these instances is how they all involve the younger generation looking up to the adults in their lives as idols as opposed to just role models and thus fail to see them for who they are as actual human beings. And by the time they that finally do, it's too late for the adults.

You also see nods towards this theme via the Shinjuku Reapers and their relationship with Shiba or Shiba’s (who himself is parallel to Rindo if his tendency to subconsciously take on the values of others and mistake his as his own was twisted into the worst possible outcome) relationship with Kubo, with Hishima even flat out stating as such. "You fell at the feet of an idol like an utter fool", indeed.

And this all fits, as well, into NEO's larger theme that even as a 'follower', you have to question the 'leader'. Role models aren't bad -- but idols and failing to recognize their limits/flaws/toxicity are and will end up screwing you over in the long run if you aren’t careful. And I think NEO did an excellent job at exploring the little nuances that come with that, from Kanon’s internal resentment she knew wasn’t fair to the unseen distance between Ayano and Shoka to Motoi being a complete deconstruction of it all. It shows the good and the bad of idolizing someone too much. It shows how you can see the real them and turn the image you liked into something more with Rindo, or how to hold them in your heart while moving on like Shoka. It's okay to acknowledge the flaws and shortcomings of the people you look up to. Hell, it’s probably healthy to do that in some ways. As long as they’re still a good person or even helped you grow, you can still celebrate the good they brought

[bestworstcase]

Salem isn't really the "evil" fairy godmother in my opinion.

I think it'd be more accurate to say that she's the fairy godmother who just gives you EXACTLY what you asked for, but the consequences of that desire are always still there good, bad and everything in between.

You want revenge for your sister? Okay, Salem'll let you beat her to death, but she's still immortal and will come back eventually.

You want to destroy your former home? Okay she'll help you do that, but it's your problem if you end up pissing off someone else and they decide to kill you because of your decisions.

Basically, she'd do exactly as the contract asks of her so long as you're handling it in good faith, but it's your job to read the fine print.

i mean

just because salem doesn’t operate like the villainous archetype she presents as (i.e. malevolently making promises she has no intention of honoring, stabbing her people in the back for no reason once they’ve "outlived their usefulness," generally having no understanding of human motivations aside from fear, etc) doesn’t mean she doesn’t actively hurt people.

she keeps her word unless the other party breaks their end of the bargain first (this is true even of lionheart; she asks him a question, waits for his answer, doesn’t turn to violence until he attacks the seer and tries to make a break for it) – and she deliberately, consistently utilizes fear and pain as tools of control. these things can coexist.

and with regard to cinder specifically, salem is in no way just sitting on her hands and allowing cinder to experience the natural consequences of getting what she asks for; she doesn’t want to keep her promise to cinder and she’s been throwing everything at a wall since v4 to see what will stick to wean cinder off wanting the other maidens – and when that fails she brings the hammer down and that’s the impetuous for the power struggle in v8. salem only budges on this because cinder demonstrates with terrifying effectiveness that she IS willing to literally die on this hill, and afterward falls over herself to praise cinder for showing a smidge of restraint in choosing not to obsessively pursue winter.

the whole multivolume conflict between cinder and salem is predicated on salem trying to wriggle out of the deal, by means that include intimidation and violence.

and like yeah she doesn’t lift a finger to spare people the natural consequences of their choices unless your name is cinder fall. but that’s. pretty secondary to the part where she hurts people if they don’t do as she says – whether physically (hazel, lionheart) or emotionally (tyrian). she is cruel. it’s evil to treat people the way salem treats her own followers. that she is, broadly, right about the gods, and correct in her condemnation of the huntsmen system as a vehicle for enacting the divine plan, does not and should not negate her abusing her associates.

that’s one of the central conceits of the story, that someone can be right and also do horrifically evil things in service of a just cause. rwby is far more unflinching in its commitment to this idea than most stories but it’s not like this is a novel concept. let’s not defang the narrative by ignoring salem’s literal on-screen actions.

like. the reason i argue that 1. salem hasn’t ever gone to war like this before and has in fact mostly not dignified ozma’s shadow war with her participation, and 2. has not made a systematic effort to wipe out silver-eyes as opposed to taking out a single very high-profile target who went around calling herself ‘the grimm reaper’ fifty or so years ago, is because both of these ideas���that salem has been warring with oz all this time and that silver eyes are rare because salem hunts them down—are unsubstantiated beliefs asserted by characters who expressly do not have all the facts, and do not really hold up to close examination.

(ozpin was at the highest point ozma has ever achieved when salem utterly, completely thrashed him, and she’s wiped two kingdoms off the map in less than two years, and she made it look effortless. ozma hasn’t been successful in fending her off for thousands of years; she simply hasn’t been trying. likewise, silver-eyed warriors are culturally expected to devote their lives to fighting grimm until they die, of course the trait is rare, and there is zero indication so far that salem made any attempts on summer’s life—you know, the silver-eyed warrior who worked for ozpin?—prior to summer deliberately seeking her out. it makes far more sense to conclude that salem is indifferent to silver-eyes as a class and picks off specific individual silver-eyed warriors who threaten her interests. also they’re supposed to be VANISHINGLY RARE, i promise salem does not have a cellar full of dozens of silver-eyed victims floating in vats of grimm goo, where would she even find them all.)

arguing that she Doesn’t Do things we literally see her do on screen numerous times is just flatly countertextual. we can acknowledge that her evil actions are in fact evil. it’s fine

[maybeitsalivescribbles]

The little group of citizens looked at the jack-in-a-box with no little apprehension. They were safely huddled up together on the other side of the room, but the box was shaking and groaning. It wouldn’t hold much longer. They all knew that Villain was inside, but their abilities were... unclear. No one wanted to know more. They nervously glanced at the Hero who'd brought them all together.

"What are we doing here ?" someone asked.

Hero gave them all a kind, reassuring smile.

"You know, there's something I believe deeply", she said, her hand on her heart. "I think all of us are heroes inside."

"What does that mean ?"

Hero kept smiling while putting her hand on the door knob:

"That means, dear citizens...that I'm sure you can deal with Villain all by yourselves ! It will be good for you ! Byyyyye !"

The door closed on her, leaving the citizens frozen with surprise. A key turned into the lock. For a moment, all they could hear was her running away.

“It’ll be all right”, said someone to break the terrified silence.

“Really ? How can you tell ?”

“Well, you've heard her ! We’re all heroes, aren’t we ?”

“No we’re bloody not !” yelped the other one. “I am an accountant, and you work at the post office ! It’s not a hero we need, it’s a locksmith ! Is there one in the room ?”

“Yeah”, said a middle-aged woman, “but I don’t have my tools.”

“Then improvise something, lady ! We’re running out of time !”

The locksmith scratched her head and knelt in front of the lock.

“Does someone have a hairpin or a paper clip ?”

“Yes,” answered a nurse who was on her coffee break, “take it”.

“See ?” asked the accountant. “That’s what real heroes look like to me. Doing the real work for us so we can run the hell out of here.”

“It can’t be that bad,” insisted the postman stubbornly. “A real hero wouldn’t have put us in danger. The box is locked, after all. Maybe it's a test. Maybe she went out to find help.”

“For what, burying our bodies ?”

The box exploded. Confetti flied across the room. Slowly, Villain raised from their former trap.

“Muahaha”, they said in a polite effort to keep the conversation alive.

It didn’t quite work, so they added:

“Beware mortals, for I take the shape of your greatest fear !”

“Calm down,” barked the accountant. “We don’t have the key either. We can’t free -”

He stopped, as he suddenly realized that admitting to the villain that they couldn’t run away was probably not the best idea. Meanwhile, the nurse gasped, having made a realization of her own:

“That’s why we’re a group ! You can’t be the fears of everyone at once!”

“True, but I can take the shape of universal fears. It’s your choice, really.”

To prove their abilities, the Villain shaped themself into an abyss of absolute darkness, the grim reaper, and a very expensive medical bill.

“Aaaaah”, howled the whole group, convinced.

The locksmith, who was in tears after seeing the bill, whispered:

“We have no choice. Someone has to face their fears. It’s the only way to win alive.”

“All right, but who goes first ?”

The postman went first. He tried hard. He tried really hard at every step. “After all, we’re all heroes”, he repeated to himself, until Villain transformed into the brother who raised him saying “I’m disappointed in you.”

He collapsed.

The accountant went second. It is a known fact that most accountants are full of repressed rage. This one was very eager to share it with Villain and, if he may be quoted, “to punch their fucking guts out”. He ran and nearly landed a hit, but Villain dodged and showed him his own body with his insides out, in a sea of blood.

He collapsed.

When the nurse went, she was rather sure of herself. She had a fear of blood but with her job she had it under control. Then the Villain showed her all her patients dying, and she realized she couldn’t erase this fear or that would have made her a monster.

So she collapsed.

Villain stepped towards the locksmith, who during all that time was desperately trying to open the door. It wasn’t that the lock was hard, but her fingers were shaking too much, tears blinded her, and she was huddled in a corner, crying her eyes out.

Villain frowned. They transformed again – and again, and again. They screamed in frustration, then in terror. That didn’t help them.

They exploded.

When all the group regained their consciousness, they demanded an explanation. The locksmith squeaked:

“I didn’t know ! Of course I didn’t know ! But...when I think about it...that makes sense.”

“What makes sense ?”

“I think...I forced them to take too many forms at the same time, and at the end they couldn’t cope.”

“How did you do that ?”

“Oh”, said the nurse, who nodded.

“What ? It’s some kind of special ability ?”

“It depends from the point of view, I suppose.”

“Well, what is it called ?”

“Generalized anxiety.”

*

Back to Hero x Villain Masterlist

[sweatandwoe]

Penguins

A sort of sequel to Overflow (or takes place in the same universe in my mind)

Saren x GN!reader, 962 words. Fluff, mentioned past trauma, working through it, mentioned medication and therapy, this is some very fluffy winter nonsense

-

“What kind of creature is on your pants?” 

You glance down at your pajama bottoms - bright green fabric with little white and black birds decorating all over the legs of it. Some have hats on, and others have scarves. “It’s called a penguin.” 

Saren grunts in the doorway, and you only flick your gaze over to see if he needs help first, before glancing back to the extranet news report you had on. It takes a couple of minutes for him to remove his outerwear, and then he moves. Reaching you in moments, he only carefully lifts your ankles in his talons so he can slide his body beneath your legs. Letting your feet rest in his lap, while he rolls his head back against the couch. 

“Rough day?” You offer, and he pats your calf. 

“Nothing more than usual.” He pauses, his talons moving slowly along your leg. Then there’s a tilt of his head, and he traces one of the penguins. You hide your smile behind your datapad, as you watch him try to come up with something to say about them. His mandibles twitch when he thinks. “They’re very cute.” 

“That’s sweet of you.” 

He glances at you then. Metallic, cybernetic eyes gaze into your own. The fake irises shift, twitching almost like real eyes while he scans over your face. “I am trying.” 

You reach for him then, placing your hand over the top of his talons. Everything was still hard, but you were patient. This was all very new to him still, since the indoctrination - and even more so since his discovery of his attraction to a species he had openly despised beforehand. It had been rough, and things were still quite awkward. “You’re doing well.” 

The former spectre’s mandibles flare. “Am I?” 

You hum and tug him forward until you’re both lying on the couch. “Quite well.” You pause, to press a kiss to his mouthplates and he applies pressure in return. It’s the closest to a peck you’ll get, but you don’t mind. “Do you want to watch a documentary about them?” When he tenses, you smile. “You can say no.” 

“I wouldn’t mind it.” He says softly after a few moments of thought, moving to tuck his cybernetic arm over your waist. “Is it alright if we watch a documentary for the colony wars afterward?” 

You give another peck, enjoying the way his mandibles twitch against your face. “I’ll order us some dinner so we can watch both.” 

Today is an easy day. You listen to his comments on how turian fauna would easily rip apart penguins, and let him thrum with pride during the colony wars. You hold his hand when he has to take his medications and help tune up his arm before he has a shower. Falling into bed afterward is easy, with slow and thoughtful love-making before you both go to sleep. 

The next few days are harder. There are so many people on the citadel now, and he starts to get overwhelmed, fidgeting. You fight when he says he wants a gun because he isn’t allowed one - even if he can sneak one into your home. He roars and spits because he needs to protect you and himself. But you both know how he gets with guns now. It’s why they took away his biotic amps too. Not just out of fear of how strong he could be, but how he got when he had those tools. 

It was more of a fear that he’d hurt himself instead of just anyone. He had tried that a few times, shortly after the end of the Reapers and his indoctrination began to subside. It still hurt, to find him waking because you’d hear him. Sometimes mumbling and other times whispering. One time you heard him, repeating to himself after a nightmare: “Sovereign took my eyes. I can’t see anymore. None of the colors are real.” 

You manage to stop arguing each night before bed, so you never fall asleep angry at one another. The thought of phoning his therapist still lingers in your brain, but on the fourth day, you wake to find your bed has a much smaller, different figure lying beside you. 

It’s a penguin, you realize, reaching out to touch it. A toy penguin with a scarf that was far too big had been tied carefully around it. Your fingers run along the scarf, and a soft sound leaves your throat. 

When you go downstairs, he’s making breakfast for you both. You make sure your footsteps are loud, that he knows that it’s you before you move to wrap your arms around his small waist from behind. 

“I love you.” You whisper. 

“I know.” One hand comes down to rest upon your own. Talons gliding over your fingers. “I’m not good at this, I wasn’t even before - everything, but I… I want to try. I want to be better again.” 

He would never be the spectre he once was. But he could be better, be the hero that the citadel had once seen him to be. Charismatic, powerful; a leader. At the same time, if he didn’t want to be, you’d be fine with him like this. Just being your Saren, your partner, and trying to be happy. 

You think being happy would be a good ending for both of you. “I know.” 

Saren usually pauses now, before he speaks. As though reassuring himself that his thoughts are his own, to explain his own reasoning in his head before he lets it out. But this he says quickly, as though he feared when he had forgotten to say it. “I love you too.” 

Talons and fingers hold together, as the smells of two different meals fill the house.