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biussworld · 4 years

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Safe and Sound

Requested by: @riarora

“So I was thinking platonic LOV x child reader (You can make them 18 if you're more comfortable, but I was thinking more like 14-15) The reader (I'll refer to them as she/her, but you can make it gender neutral) has really bad insomnia so every night, she would be pacing around, doing anything and everything to make sure no dark thoughts take over. Usually, none of the LOV would bat an eye, but considering the fact that she's a child, they feel sympathy, so they indirectly try to get her to fall asleep. Like, sending her on extra missions (always with protection of course) or changing her normal tea with sleeping tea, or maybe just straight up telling her to sleep. Could you make it a fic too?“

Sorry if it took long! Here it isss~ I tried my best to write insomnia and stuff, but I didn’t want to misinterpret it ;(( I hope you like it!

Relationships: Platonic League of Villains x Gender-neutral!Reader

Genre: Fluff

Warnings: anxiety triggers, vague descriptions of anxiety attacks

Word Count: 1.4k

The moon's high up in the sky and looming over Japan as you lie wide awake on the thin and ragged futon laid on the floor. The walls of your current base are cold and mold-smelling which adds to the reasons why you couldn't sleep. You count the handful of bullet points you've crossed off your to-do list for the day: tracked the new equipment delivery, took down the sole witness of you and the League's traipsing from one hideout to another, stole some snacks from an old man's convenience store- yep. Just another day for you.

You did receive good remarks from the team after you've proudly reported to them at the end of your mission, but Shigaraki's words clung onto you: "I'm just glad you didn't mess up."

Sure, you are, too. Until you were reminded of one moment where you've landed a step louder than the previous ones and almost blew your cover, or when you almost forgot to clean up your mess after dispatching the witness. Your mind sidetracked to what could've happened if all of those did happen, and it didn't help that you knew how their powers work. Shigaraki would probably reduce your limbs to ashes, or let Dabi cremate you alive, or confine you in one of Mr. Compress' marbles. All of it made you sick in the stomach and you had to clasp your hand over your mouth to muffle the sudden belching sound that came out of you.

Your head started throbbing and your vision spun slightly as you sat up. You stayed hunched over yourself for a bit, eventually standing on your feet and lightly treading towards the little 'kitchen' set up by Kurogiri to grab yourself a glass of water. Except Dabi was already there to hand it to you. "You look awful." He greets. "Thanks. Not as much as you do."

The small exchange between you two incited a chuckle from him. He takes a sip from his cup, and you wonder, "Why do you have an extra glass of water?" He puts his down and says, "I know you get up at midnight to drown yourself in glasses of it so I figured I'd help you out." You nod absent-mindedly and at the back of your mind you think to yourself, maybe you weren't too careful or were too loud the past few nights. As you start lecturing yourself in your head, he notices you space out and ever-so-slightly flicks your forehead. "Don't know why you can't sleep, but just close your eyes and it'll happen eventually."

After all of that, he leaves the makeshift kitchen and sprawls himself onto his space, leaving you squinting at him.

You believe there's nothing particularly special with his words granted that his upbringing didn't really teach him to be friendly towards kids your age, but you'd be stupid to admit it didn't help ease you even just a teensy bit.

---

The next day drew quick and everyone's fast asleep in their corners. As always, you're left to wallow in the corners of solitude, mind racing with destructive thoughts that keep you very much awake. You make your way toward the kitchenette. You find a few used tea bags and teacups lying on the countertop, and figured Compress might have been awake just like you. Still, you reached for a tall glass and filled it with water to the brim, then exited the room to sit in the chilly air outside.

As you approach, you hear two- three voices speaking just outside. Hushed, but audible enough to discern who's who. Toga and...

"Twice?" You meekly croak as you stare at both of them, head tilted in wonder. Toga struts to you and tugs you by your wrist, carrying your glass of water for you in her other hand. "We've been waiting for you! Come sit with us~" She makes you sit on a wooden box beside Twice, then said man hands you a teacup filled with nice-smelling liquid. It must've been them in the kitchen, you thought. You set your glass down, take the cup and sip.

"Why are you two up so late at night?" You ask in between sips. Twice replies with a passive-aggressive statement along the lines of "We were worried you weren't getting enough sleep" and blaming Dabi. Huh, I guess he told them.

You smile at the thought of the intimidating man caring for you, and Toga flashes you her signature toothy grin back while she proceeds to tell you about her day as if it were any different from yours.

You were pretty sure she was loud enough to wake the others up, but the overflowing energy she radiates that much late at night couldn't bring you to shut her up. Besides, you've got Twice doing that work for you.

The conversation ended when you yawned quite hideously for the fourth time that night, Twice took your hand and led you to your bed that he had tidied up before tucking you in. He pats you on the head gently as your eyes flutter close.

---

It's been three weeks since then and during the time that had passed, it was always Toga and Twice that put you to bed. However for tonight, since Toga and Twice are away on a mission given to them by Shigaraki, you're left on your own.

You'd be lying if you said the midnight tea times you and the duo shared didn't give you a false sense of security, and that you hadn't clung onto it as soon as it dawned on you. Your mind drifted to Toga's face and her various comical expressions when she tells you her stories, or Twice's fatherly hands as he puts you to bed. It's been those two that took care of you and you've grown visually more attached to them, even familiarized yourself with their scent and warmth.

What if they get hurt badly? No. They won't.

But they said the mission was a little dangerous- They'll make it out alive. They're amazing!

Again, you find yourself in a downward spiral as your thoughts pull you into the void. Your mind's filled with what-ifs and buts that you don't notice your feet dragging yourself to someone else's room. You're caught in a mindless haze, your breath's starting to feel stuffy and your body feels sweaty and shit- no, it can't happen tonight. I have to be fine until Toga and Twice comes back.

Unless they don't-

"Hey, you're up." Shigaraki's voice snaps you out of it. He's standing in front of you, without the derpy-looking hand thing covering his face and he shows no emotion until you look at his eyes. His eyes meet yours and you see the worry, the sadness, the tender-loving brotherly look that he rarely sports. "Kurogiri, go make her some tea." He says after carefully taking your hand.

He sits on his makeshift bed, motions for you to sit and you oblige. He pulls you to him, resting your head on his chest and he pats your back softly. His movements are awkward and calculated to not destroy you with his quirk but he's trying, and you appreciate it and flash him a soft smile.

Not long after, Kurogiri comes back with a cup of the same nice-smelling tea you've been drinking with Twice and Toga. You remember the first time they’ve given you the drink, and how Dabi was the one who told them to do such a thing. They were precious, and your big brother and big sister for the time you were lost and insecure about your capabilities. For some out-of-this-world reason, you start bawling your eyes out on Shigaraki's shirt. He calls you out for staining his shirt, but his actions speak otherwise as he continues to pat you on the back. Kurogiri takes your hands, places the cup in them and gently rubs your forearm to console you. "They'll be fine, kid. We'll make sure of it."

“I feel like we haven’t told you this, but you’re doing well. Even Shigaraki says so.”

“Just don’t wanna inflate that pretty little head of yours or you might expect too much from us everytime.”

Shigaraki and Kurogiri's efforts of comforting you went deep into the night. Shigaraki wasn't sure if it was worth it, but when you've finally finished your cup of tea, relaxed and started snoring softly in his arms, he felt as if tons and tons of weights were lifted from his shoulders.

Somewhere in the midst of your slumber you’re reminded that everything’s going to be okay. You don’t know if it’s Shigaraki’s scent or the roughness of his fingertips on your scalp, but it tells you that you’re right here, safe and sound.

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melancholy-journal · 3 years

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Trigger warning ⚠️ death, death of pet, loss, gore ⚠️

TLDR; my cat died. I found her body. I cleaned up the blood. It hurts to think about— a lot. But I can’t talk to any one about it.

So three years ago today is a really difficult day for me and yet I feel almost numb. Three years ago today my wife (at the time fiancé) was really sick. In and out of hospitals and had actually just started living with her mom who has a masters in nursing because I couldn’t take care of her well enough myself, work full time, take care of the cats & take care of myself too. It was all too much.

So she went to go live with her mom.

Our cat Bella was sick too. We’d taken her to the Vet ER 5 or more times, she needed oxygen, multiple X-rays, medicines, IVs etc all very expensive. We spent thousands of dollars on her. I racked up thousands of dollars of debt because of it.

One night I went to see my fiancé, drove 3 hours to see her and spent a few days with her. I drove 3 hours back home. Usually the cats would be waiting at the door for me when I’d open it but that night I came home and only one of our cats greeted me and it hit me immediately, I fucking knew it in my gut. So I rounded the corner and there laid our cat Bella. Blood on her mouth. Blood on the carpet. Shit on the carpet too. I’d never dealt with something like this before. I called my fiancé and I blurted out the horrible news and she scream cried, I heard her sobbing and it broke my heart even more not being able to be there for her to help her. The next think I know her mom is on the phone with me asking me what had happened and I told her and she told me to take her body to the Vet ER and they’ll cremate her for us. I hung up. I picked up her body. Mostly stiff, some warmth still in her stomach so I think she’d only been there a few hours. She died on my way back to her. I laid her on a towel and covered her. Our other cat knew something was wrong she just stared at me the whole time. She tried to comfort me a little but I had no time for that. I had to clean up the blood and stuff. I scrubbed the carpet and I remember the soapy blood mixture clouding the cup I used. I took her to the ER they took her from me and took care of everything from there on out. My heart was shattered and it was agreed upon by my soon to be mother in law and I that I should come up immediately after. Bring our other cat and come back up. So I did. I packed a bunch of stuff because being in that apartment was just too hard, I packed up our other cat and drove 3 hours back to my fiancé. After hours of crying and talking we fell asleep on the floor together just holding each other. I never talk about that night. I don’t want to upset my wife going into detail about it but I think about how I found her a lot and it hurts me so much and I’ve just sat with this hurt for years because I don’t want to hurt her the way I’m hurting. Guys I miss my cat so fucking much. I can’t get the way I found her out of my head to this day and it breaks my heart. She deserved so much better and fuck those vets who said she was fine. Fuck the vets who didn’t do tests. Who said it was asthma. Who didn’t take it seriously. Fuck the vets who took my money but did NOTHING for my dying cat. We should’ve been told there was nothing else to do. We should’ve had the right information so we could’ve put her down PEACEFULLY. She shouldn’t of choked on her own blood as polyps burst in her lungs. I wish them all the worst. They didn’t care about her they cared about the money so I fucking hope they rot. She deserved better and they didn’t give us the opportunity to give her the best way out. I’m so angry and sad and I don’t know what else to do anymore other then to throw this out here into the void where I know no one will fucking read this. I just don’t know anymore guys. I’m just so fucking sad and angry. She deserved better. She deserved better. She shouldn’t have died that way. She deserved better.

04.15.21

#trigger warning #tw #tw death #tw pet death #tw pet loss #trigger warning death #trigger warning pet death #trigger warning pet loss #tw gore #trigger warning gore #cptsd #ptsd #bpd #venting #long post

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losmonteslejanos · 3 years

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What COVID-19 made me realize.

While I’m sitting here wondering whether or not I have COVID-19, I’m thinking about how much this global pandemic has made me realize. Like King Kylie once said, “I feel like this year is really about, just the year of realizing stuff.”

These are the 19 things I realized because of COVID-19:

1. It’s okay to be sad about things getting cancelled even if there are bigger things going on around us.

You can be sad about a cancelled trip or concert, or even about not being able to hang out with friends. It doesn’t make you selfish; it makes you human. It’s okay to be disappointed about cancelled plans you were looking forward to and avoiding those feelings will not make them go away.

2. While taking time to allow yourself to be upset about plans changing, still keep in mind that the pandemic affects all of us.

While I find it not only healthy, but necessary, to take time to process feelings about how COVID-19 had affected you personally, it’s important to remember that we are not the only being on earth. It’s important to thing about the bigger picture and how our actions affect others, and follow COVID-19 regulations to avoid further spread. It’s on all of us to fight to end this.

3. Just because we’re socially distancing, doesn’t mean you should isolate yourself from everyone completely.

Make time to socialize with other people. Whether that be a small hangout, a zoom party, or deciding to quarantine with family - there are safe ways to have human interaction that will keep you sane. Text or FaceTime your friends regularly. Call your older relatives. Get a pen pal. Do anything that will keep you sane and keep you safe. Two new ways I’ve interacted with others are: I became pen pals with an old friend from elementary school and I joined a book club.

4. Use this extra time to dedicate yourself to what really interests you.

All this down time has given me time to get back to what I enjoy. I’ve been reading a ton, which isn’t something I’ve done in quite some time. I’ve really enjoyed getting back into that, and into this blog. I had completely abandoned this project but these unprecedented times really did something to my creative juices. Really got them flowing. I’ve even talked with a friend about ~possibly~ starting a podcast, but we’ll see if that plays out. All this being said - you do not have to be productive during this time. I repeat, YOU DO NOT HAVE TO BE PRODUCTIVE DURING THIS TIME. I know it can be discouraging seeing so many people starting small businesses while you have “accomplished nothing,” but global pandemics are not one size fits all. We’re all doing our best. So if your best is binging ‘The Office’ for the tenth time, so be it.

5. Regular depression + seasonal depression + global pandemic depression is a match made in hell.

Depression sure has had some audacity this year, huh? As if it wasn’t bad enough, let’s add extra time alone with our thoughts. It’s been a scary time. I can’t even imagine what it’s been like for those who have it worse than me. I have a great support system that has pulled me through but others haven’t been so lucky. These past few months so alone with my thoughts got pretty dark at times. I not only got over my fear of dying, but wanted to die at times, not so much because I no longer wanted to live but because it felt too hard to live the way that I was. Help is out there if you need it. Therapy, in conjunction with medication, has helped immensely and I feel lucky to be here. My heart hurts for those who are not. We love you and we miss you.

6. Working from home is a blessing and a curse.

At first, working from home sounded like a dream. I didn’t have to get dressed up, I’d have no commute, and I’d be in my own space. Besides, it’d only be two weeks...a month tops, right? WRONG. The reality of working from home is that I haven’t worn real pants in months, I don’t get the social aspect of my job anymore, I work much more independently and I don’t know how to wake up before 8:30am anymore. Don’t get me wrong, I’m lucky to still have a job. The problem is, I feel a lot less productive at home and fear the adjustment that’ll come when I eventually have to go back to the office. For me, that’s currently set for April 2021, but we’ll see if that gets pushed forward again.

7. We simply do not deserve dogs.

I’ve been working from home since March 16, 2020. That’s 270 days, but who’s counting? Luna, Ginger and Leo have been a God-send. They’re my new favorite coworkers, even though they fall asleep on the job almost everyday. Their constant affection makes everyday better and this all would’ve been so much worse without them. We’ve definitely created clingy monsters but, they’re CUTE, clingy monsters so it’s okay.

8. I really, really wish Madrina was alive.

While thinking of her being alive during a pandemic freaks me out because I’d be very afraid to expose her accidentally, thinking of all the quality time we could’ve spent together this past year makes me sad. I know one could go mad with what could’ve been but I really didn’t get to spend a lot of time with her the last couple of years of her life and I would’ve loved at least a couple of months of having her all to myself. She had definitely been heavily on my mind this year.

9. I do not like not being in control of things.

Surprise, surprise. I’m a control freak. If things don’t go my way, it is an ugly sight. And this year certainly did not go my way. The main thing that comes to mind is bringing Madrina home. Back when she passed in 2019, she was cremated. The plan was always to bring her ashes back to the US to be buried with her husband, but because we couldn’t get the paperwork done in time, she didn’t return on that trip. 2020 was the year to being her home. That did not happen. Cemeteries bring me peace. Visiting my loved ones is part of my healing. It’d be perfect, too, because Duli is buried in the same cemetery. I’d get to visit my two favorite ladies at the same time. But that hasn’t been a possibility yet. COVID-19 took that from me. While I know the plan will come to fruition eventually, and I’ll be able to lay her to rest at last, I’m not at peace because I have no control over when it’ll happen.

10. A lot of humans are, for lack of a better word, stupid.

I’m going to keep this one short and sweet. As if a virus that swept the globe didn’t show us how many dummies walk among us (haha see what I did there? Among us? It’s culturally relevant. I’m funny.), the election really said “hold my beer” and brought all the morons out to play. If you still thing COVID-19 is a hoax or that Trump won the election, please seek help.

11. People will really go to extreme measures to continue to be racist.

Parler became a popular thing this year. An online Ku Klux Klan platform, as far as I’m concerned. Not all cowards wear capes, I suppose. Ugh, disgusting. This made me really question humanity.

Also, PS. Blue lives don’t matter, because blue lives don’t exist. ACAB. BLACK LIVES MATTER.

12. Flu season during a pandemic is scary.

Being sick at all this year has made me a paranoid mess. I’m sure with any cough, sneeze, or fever, we all assumed the worst. Like our minds automatically would jump to COVID-19 as the only possible cause for our symptoms. Not to mention how much worse the panic gets when getting tested is damn near impossible in New York City. I hope you all stay safe and stay smart.

13. Waiting for COVID-19 test results is scary.

I’m sure we’ve all messed up a bit during the past nine months. Maybe we weren’t as careful as we should’ve been and found ourselves in a position where we felt that we needed to get tested. The waiting period to get your results can be terrifying, especially since your results don’t only affect you. It’s so contagious and unpredictable that a million scenarios run through your mind and you feel like you’ve played Russian Roulette with your health and the health of your loved ones. It is not a fun time. 0/10 do not recommend.

14. Taking a break from the news is self-care.

I was glued to the TV when this all started back in March. I was certainly glued to the TV during election week. Since then, however, I’ve had to take a step back. Sometimes being super informed is too emotionally taxing. And that’s okay. You can stay safe and informed without getting an update every hour.

15. Getting rid of things is more therapeutic than I thought.

I’m someone who has a lot of emotional/sentimental clutter. I get very attached to physical things. I have a hard time letting go. I had decided to redo my room to give myself a change of scenery. My old room had begun to suffocate me. I felt trapped there. Since I was spending so much time and money redoing my room, I wanted to get rid of whatever no longer served a purpose or no longer brought me joy. I know, very ‘Marie Kondo’ of me. Starting seemed so intimidating. I stumbled upon the “minimalist game” on Youtube and I found my solution. The premise was to get rid of a certain amount of items each day in November. One item the first day, two items the second day, three items the third day, and so on. I thought it would get extremely difficult towards the end. Thirty items on day 30 seemed crazy. But I’m currently at 924 items on December 11th and the number keeps slowly rising. It’s okay to start small; it can snowball into something big. I feel lighter and having a number goal made the process a lot easier. I just gradually increased the end goal as I’ve gone on. I was able to donate five large garbage bags full of clothes that I had hoarded for years, clothes that held bad memories, clothes that didn’t fit me, clothes that made me feel like crap about myself. I’m sure you can all relate. GET RID OF IT.

16. 90 Day Fiance is actually quality television and you can’t change my mind.

Okay, reality television is trash. I know that. But this show really brings the drama. It’s entertaining as hell and if you disagree, you haven’t given it a fair chance. This shit is hilarious and gets you invested, whether you love or hate a couple. 90 Day Fiance is exactly what quarantine needed. I said what I said.

PS. Tim and Veronica are my favorites on Pillow Talk and I’d love to know yours.

17. Having someone to quarantine with is a blessing.

My heart goes out to all those who have gone through this year all alone, for one reason or another. I can’t imagine being completely alone with my thoughts AND no human contact. That’s scary to think about. I’m grateful for my companions through this, and pray for those who aren’t as lucky.

18. I love myself more than I give myself credit for.

I might be the most self-deprecating person on the earth. The jokes just do not stop with me. And look, I might be my own worst enemy, but I’m also my biggest cheerleader. Doing a lot of self reflection, I’ve realized that while I don’t like everything about myself (who does?), I think I’m happy with who I am, and that was kind of shocking to come to terms with.

19. You do not have to find a silver lining in 2020.

This year has sucked. Bad. Plain and simple. We’ve lost way too many. There has been too much negligence. You don’t have to look on the bright side, even if good things happened for you throughout the year. Good things can happen and it’ll still be a bad year.

Here’s to a better 2021 and a vaccine that even the biggest conspiracy theorist will get. I hope you all stay safe out there.

xoxo

Edit: I tested negative.

#loss grief grieving heal healing personalgrowth growing personalblog

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poorreputation · 5 years

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That Being Said, So Get This

A Supernatural-Buzzfeed: Unsolved Crossover! All part of the @cocklesdestielfiction Cockles-Destiel Crazy Crossover Challenge! (and @verobatto-angelxhunter)

To read on AO3:

https://archiveofourown.org/works/20960567

Wordcount: 6390

Ship: Destiel

Rating: Teen and up

Any kind of warnings: canon-typical violence. If you watch either show, you should be fine. Also, lots of in-jokes. Maybe too many in-jokes.

Also: contains SPN S14 Spoilers

Summary:

What happens when Buzzfeed: Unsolved and Supernatural are set in the same universe! Ryan Bergara, the believer. Shane Madej, the skeptic. The Winchester Brothers- serial killers? And whatever happened to James Novak?

Story below the cut!

Ryan Bergara waits for the sound engineer's cue, then begins reading aloud from his script, "In June of 2008, James 'Jimmy' Novak disappeared, leaving behind wife Amelia and daughter Claire. Just a few years later, in 2010, Amelia vanishes, as well. Jimmy is reported to have been spotted a handful of times since then, but what could have lead a loving father and husband to vanishing from the face of the earth? And what prompted his wife to join him?"

A pause, a second reading of the same paragraph, and then Ryan continues, "The Novaks were known for their devout faith and regular church attendances. According to close friends and family, Jimmy became a zealot in the months leading up to his disappearance, saying that he'd gained the ability to 'talk to Angels'. It's said this put a great strain on his and Amelia's marriage. But, is this what caused him to leave? Did he even leave under his own will?"

More details are fleshed out, more takes are made, until Ryan reaches his favorite part of every Unsolved episode, "That being said, let's get to the theories. Our first theory builds off of Jimmy's known fanaticism. That he had become convinced he could talk to, and become a vessel for, Angels, and so left his family to fulfill his mission to god. This, however, does not explain what happened to Amelia, or why she disappeared so long after her husband.

"Our second theory is more far-fetched, and comes mostly from the internet rumor-mill. Over the years, there's been alleged sightings of Jimmy Novak, not only nationally, but internationally, as well. He's most controversially been claimed to have been spotted with infamous serial killers, Sam and Dean Winchester. Coupled with this is the idea that Jimmy and Dean are romantically connected, which people cite as to why Jimmy left his family in the first place, and that Amelia didn't disappear while looking for Jimmy, but was, in fact, killed by Dean. And, for the record, I think this is horseshit."

Ryan looks up to see the sound engineer silently howling with laughter, which puts a dumb grin on his own face, "But wait, it gets worse!"

Clearing his throat, and fighting to keep a straight face, Ryan continues, "Our third and final theory is that Jimmy and Amelia weren't running towards anything, but away from someone. That someone? Their 10 year old daughter Claire, who some, as in the internet, claim is a Demon-" Ryan breaks off his sentence, laughing so hard he gives himself the hiccups, "This is gonna be our worst episode, ever."

3 WEEKS LATER

Ryan Bergara and Shane Madej step out of one of two rental vans, as the rest of the crew starts to unpack. Shane, the taller of the two hosts, stretches his arms, "God, it's good to get out."

Ryan doesn't respond, looking on at the location for that week's episode. His stomach aches just from the sight of it.

"You all right there?" Shane asks, "Breakfast making a reappearance?"

"Nah, just." Ryan shakes his head, "The cases with murder always get me. So fucking creepy."

"Yup." Shane claps his shoulder, leading the way to the front door.

The house is a single story home, very modern, less than ten years old. Only one family had lived in it, and now it's vacant. The lawn is trimmed, as it's the least the city can do, but the walls, windows and porch are filthy. Items deliberately thrown at the windows are dry and caked on, and Ryan can just picture kids in costumes throwing eggs at the house on Halloween, probably on a dare.

Shane fishes out the keys from his pocket, waits for their cameraman to give them the thumbs-up, and unlocks the door. Motioning for Ryan to go first, Shane gives a cheeky bow.

"Alright, whatever." Ryan mutters.

Everyone filed in, lighting tested and cleared, Ryan begins. He walks into the living room, Shane just a pace behind, and soaks in the scene. The furniture is gone, a light fixture and a bookshelf are all that remain. trying to recall the grisly crime scene photos, Ryan waves hand where the couch should have been. "In August of 2011, Marianne Wyatt and her three boys sat in this area, as someone came up behind them, and shot them, one after the other. They'd been bound, unable to escape, and-" Ryan blinks, nausea overwhelming him, "And a few days later, the father, Marianne's husband, Phil, was found dead. His death ruled a suicide, no note was ever found. Police couldn't prove it, but the theory was that Phil killed his family, and then himself. No one knows why."

"Neighbors on either side said they heard nothing?" Shane says, prompting Ryan out of his daze.

"Heard no screams, no shots. Police couldn't even pinpoint the wife and kids' time of death." Ryan nods, "I think I need some water."

The cameraman shoots some B-roll as Ryan sits, one of the producers handing him a water bottle. "thanks." Ryan nods, as he takes a swallow.

There's rumbling outside, followed by one of the crew commenting, "whoa, look at that ride!"

"Sweet car." the boom operator quips.

Shane looks out the window, "Eh, too obnoxious for my tastes."

"That's a '67 Chevy Impala." the first crew member replies, "You have no taste."

Several people, including Shane, laugh at this, and leaves Ryan with an odd sense of deja-vu. Maybe if the room would stop spinning, he could figure out what it is.

With Ryan looking so sick, the rest of the crew agree to break for the day. Shane drives Ryan to a gas station to get the sickly man some medicine and a Sprite to calm his stomach. Feeling much better, Ryan stays back for a bit to check out the souvenirs the store has to offer, "We could get a hat, or maybe something small like a shot glass."

"Or, we can get gas station nachos!" Shane grins, his smile only getting broader as Ryan pales at the thought, "And here I thought you were a hardened pro, Ryan Bergara."

"It might just be food poisoning." Ryan replies, thumbing through some key chains. A car pulls into the lot, loudly announcing its presence, and Ryan has to stop himself from rolling his eyes, "What's it with people around here and their shitty mufflers?"

"Oh, that's not very fair." Shane replies, the sarcasm lightly sprinkling his words, "I mean- look! -it's the same car from earlier. You shouldn't make such generalizations."

Ryan peers up as they start walking towards the cashier, as the black, classic car comes to a stop, the engine cutting off a second later. Ryan's eyes widen, as he remembers where he's seen this car before. He shakes his head, willing his heart to slow down. As Shane pays for their stuff, Ryan can't resist the urge to try and catch a glimpse of the car's owner. Just to reassure himself, nothing more. However, by the time Shane's ready to leave, the driver of the Impala has already gotten back in the car.

The ride back to the hotel is quiet, save for the radio tuned into some local station. It's a sports station, and Ryan feels it's a nice gesture Shane put it on for him, but Ryan just can't concentrate. He can feel Shane glance his way every now and then, and as he pulls into the hotel parking lot, "Hey, if you're really feeling that bad, I'm sure we can find an Urgent Care, around here."

Ryan shakes his head, "It's not that."

"What's on your mind?"

Ryan stares out the window as Shane parks the rental, "Reading up on all of these cases, it makes ya kinda paranoid after a while."

Shane laughs, "You don't have to be so serious about it."

"No, really. The car we saw earlier? It reminds me of the episode we filmed a few weeks back. The Novaks, remember?"

"I don't recall the devout Christian couple driving a muscle car."

"Right." Ryan nods, "I'm an idiot, I didn't include it in the script, but it's the car Dean Winchester's known to drive."

"So? It's a 'classic car', I'm sure a ton of people drive it."

"But it was in front of the Wyatt house, earlier."

Shane gives a single shrug, "Maybe it's a fan. There was a data breach, last week. Someone could've leaked the location of this week's episode."

Ryan has to admit to himself, Shane's reasoning does make him feel better, "You're probably right."

Dean steers the Impala into the motel parking lot, as Sam sits next to him, reading from his phone, "Marianne Wyatt and her kids are buried together at Eternal Rest Cemetery. Phil, however, was cremated."

"But, a man is reported to be seen in the house?" Dean asks.

"That's right." Sam confirms.

"Some personal items of Phil's still there?"

Castiel speaks up from the backseat, "House was empty when we searched it earlier, save for some signs of 'squatters'." he answers, using air-quotes, "Have we considered the possibility of the spirit not being Phil Wyatt?"

"No one else has lived in the house, let alone died here." Sam says.

"What if Phil's suicide was staged?" Castiel poses, "The wife and children are killed, the husband's taken hostage for insurance. Something goes wrong, Phil is murdered, and it's staged as a suicide."

"There wasn't any physical evidence tying Phil to the murders." Dean agrees, "Could've been a set-up. It'd also make sense why he'd be a vengeful spirit."

"Again, we don't know it's Phil, or what's tying him, there." Sam sighs, "It feels like we're going in circles."

"If not Phil Wyatt, then what? The killer?" Dean asks, "Unless the guy died in the house, why would he be stuck?"

Castiel thinks, "Maybe the real killer has something from this crime. Kept it one his person, even in death."

"So, the 'real' killer's stuck in someone else's house?" Dean shakes his head, "This shit's giving me a migraine, god."

Entering the motel, Sam gets to work researching any possible leads on the Wyatt murders, as Dean hops in the shower, and Castiel is left standing in the middle of the room. After a minute of tense silence, Sam takes the bait, "What's wrong, Cas?"

"The beds look disgusting." Castiel practically spits, not in harsh judgement, but genuine concern. Sam looks over at what he's talking about, and sees the usual grimy, cheap motel pillows and comforters. Both beds have old, faded stains, and minute tears. Sam figures Castiel being without powers makes him more sensitive to cleanliness, or lack thereof, more than as an Angel.

"Don't know what you want me to do about it." Sam sighs, "I'm sure they're just old."

"I think I want to sleep out in the Impala." Castiel mutters.

Sam resists the urge to roll his eyes, "Ask Dean for the keys when he gets out, then."

Castiel resorts to standing awkwardly in the corner, as Sam does his best to just research the Wyatt murders. By the time Dean returns to the main room, back in his old, sweaty clothes, making the shower seem entirely pointless, Sam stumbles upon some interesting information.

"Hey. So, get this," Sam calls the other two men over, "There was this leak at the Buzzfeed headquarters, some of it revealing the Unsolved guys' sites for the new season."

Castiel stares blankly at him. Dean sees this and goes, "It's a couple of assholes on the web who mess with ghosts and Demons. Sam, being the serial killer fanboy he is, is obsessed with their true crime series."

"I'm not a fanboy."

Dean mutters to Castiel, "Yes he is."

"The reason I bring it up," Sam presses, "is because this week, they're covering the Wyatt murders."

Dean pauses, "Wait, that camera crew we saw earlier-?"

"Looks like it's Buzzfeed."

Castiel leans over, peering at the computer screen, "The- the disappearance of the Novaks?"

Sam and Dean turn, and confirm Castiel’s observation, "Oh, my God."

"I mean," Dean starts, "There's more than one Novak out there, you know?"

"From Pontiac, Illinois?" Sam asks.

Dean frowns, "Well, I guess that means you can't meet your idols, Sammy."

Sam scoffs at this, "They're probably gone by now, anyway. They never stay in a location for longer than a day."

"Let's use caution when going back, regardless." Castiel says, turning to Dean, "May I stay in the Impala, tonight?"

Dean, flustered and blushing, replies, "What's wrong with in here? Afraid to share the bed? I was gonna make Sam sleep on the floor, anyway."

Sam feels a part of his soul wither away from the second-hand embarrassment.

"This room is filthy, and I don't want to stay here." Castiel answers.

"That's just character." Dean mumbles, taking out his keys, "Fine. Whatever."

After Castiel shuts the front door, Sam braces himself for Dean's inevitable angsty tantrum, "He didn't have to be so rude. We stay in places like this all the time! Sure, none of these rooms come with a third bed, so maybe he was afraid to bunk with one of us, especially you." Dean points at Sam, "You kick in your sleep. In fact, I was just gonna make you sleep on the floor, with you being the youngest and everything."

Sam wonders how close the nearest liquor store is.

At midnight, Dean can't help himself but to check on Castiel. He needs a good excuse though, so he grabs the remainder of the six pack, all that Sam didn't drink, and heads out into the dimly lit parking lot.

Dean can tell from some distance away that Cas is still awake. The Impala's interior is alight, and as Dean nears he can see Cas in the backseat holding up a book. Reaching the car, Dean knocks on the window, then lifts the cans of beer when Castiel glances up. Castiel moves to unlock the door, and without invitation Dean scoots in, ignoring how close-quarters the situation is, and offers Castiel a drink. Dean's so preoccupied with not brushing up against Castiel in any way, that he forgets to actually say anything.

"Did you need something?" Castiel asks, opening the can with a pop.

Dean, suffering from a brain-fart, "Just, uhm, checking in."

The awkward silence is so palpable, Dean feels like he's about to choke, "So, this place can get pretty uncomfortable. Did you, er, want a pillow? Or something? Blanket?" he says, sweating profusely.

Castiel points to the front seat, "I already have a pillow, thank you."

Dean gives a high-pitched hum, and, with little to add, exits the car.

Back in the motel, "I think Cas is upset." Dean says as he closes the door, "He doesn't want to be in the same room as m- us," he looks up at Sam, who's doing his best to ignore his older brother at the moment, "You think he's still mad about the whole 'you're dead to me' thing?"

Sam rolls his eyes, "Gee, what could ever give you that impression."

"I was just being angry!" Dean starts to pace, right as Sam's head starts to pound, "I yell at you sometimes, and you know I don't mean it!"

"I've known you for 36 years, I think I've picked up on that." Sam deadpans, "Maybe, and here's a novel concept, you tell Cas that yourself?"

"I don't know, I think you-"

"No." Sam presses, "I'm not gonna be the messenger between you guys. You want to patch things up with Cas, do it yourself."

In the morning, after a full night of not resolving their issues, Castiel returns to the motel from a coffee run. Wordlessly passing around three cups, the group huddles around Sam as he gets ready to show them his recent findings.

Ryan and Shane return to the Wyatt house first thing in the morning, the crew waiting for them out front. Working off of nothing but coffee and toast, Ryan's ready for take two. They enter the house, set up their equipment just like the day before, and get situated.

"There's one suspect, outside of Phil Wyatt himself, police posit committed these crimes" Ryan says, "And since the guy's dead, it'll remain as speculation."

"Victor Myers was the personal assistant to a business mogul." Sam begins, "He traveled frequently, mainly within the United States. Occasionally, he would go into the next town over, pick a target, and kill them. The longer he did this, the bolder he got."

Ryan says, "Victor started off killing one, then two people at a time. After a couple of years, he found his rhythm in killing families and making it look like a break-in." he looks around the vacant living room, a chill going down his spine.

"He wrote about some of his kills," Sam continues, "but it's suspected he took many more lives, around 30, at least. He died of a stroke, four years ago. Police only knew of the murders after searching his home and DNA evidence. The deaths of the Wyatts are thought to be connected to Myers, judging by Victor's whereabouts at the time and the nature of the kills, but obviously the police can't pursue it."

"So, we're dealing with the ghost of a serial killer?" Dean asks.

"Serial killers are known to keep 'trophies' of their victims." Castiel adds, "It could be what's tying him to the house."

Sam's eyes widen, as he lifts up the laptop for everyone else to see, "Maybe not."

Castiel tilts his head to the side, "The events began before Victor's death?"

"So," Dean asks, "Who's haunting?"

"The thought of Victor Myers being behind these killings seems like a no-brainer," Ryan says, "but it doesn't have everyone convinced. Personally, I think the cops here know it's the truth, but don't want to go through the trouble of proving Myers did it."

"Wouldn't be the first time." Shane nods in agreement, "Too much paperwork."

After filming, the cast and crew pack their things, and get ready to leave the Wyatt house, and the small suburban town, for the last time. Ryan can't help but breathe a sigh of relief; the suffocating feelings he'd had the day before weren't as strong, now, but they were still incredibly unpleasant. At the threshold of the once occupied home, he turns back to the empty rooms that echoed their steps and voices, "If there's a Victor around here, you can kindly fuck off."

Shane shrugs his bag higher up on his shoulder, "The camera's are off, buddy. No idea what you're trying to prove."

"That there's a thick and toxic presence in the house?" Ryan asks, shutting the door behind him, "One that we'll never have to deal with again?"

Shane groans, "It's True Crime season, Ryan. The one season where you and I are on the same page. And you have to make it about your spooky stories."

"Most murders have some whisper of the supernatural to them." Ryan replies, "I just don't always bring it up. This time I did. So, there."

Shane shakes his head, "What an active imagination you have."

Dean methodically checks all of their weapons, handing each item one-by-one to Sam for packing. Their gear, stored in two duffels, is almost ready to go, Sam zipping up the first bag and readying the second. Castiel does a once-over of their motel room, as after they're done with the Wyatt house, they're heading straight out of town; all three men agreed, with the extra attention on them from those 'paranormal investigators' from Buzzfeed, it wouldn't be smart to linger.

An hour later, Dean gathers everyone around, "We'll park the Impala a block from the house, walk the rest of the way. Someone spots the car, they won't automatically know where we are. Ready?" a nod from Sam and Castiel, "Right, let's go."

Flight not until mid-morning, the crew decide to treat themselves to some drinks at the local bar. A couple of rounds in, Shane returns from the bathroom and says to the group, "Hey, guys, I forgot to leave the key at the house. Can one of y'all drop me off?"

Ryan, who's only had one beer, raises his hand, "Got ya covered."

A minute later, both men are back in the rental, driving down that familiar street. Ryan pulls up to the curb, front passenger's door lined up with the sidewalk leading to the house. Shane steps out, then looks back at Ryan, "Aren't you coming?"

Ryan blinks, "Why would I?"

"Make sure I get to the door safely. For goodness' sake, Ryan, if I can't drive myself, what makes you think I can walk straight."

"Bullshit, you just want me to go near that house."

Shane's face splits into a wide grin, "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Get it over with." Ryan says, climbing out of the car.

With more than a little swagger to his step, Shane leads the way. Both men, however, stop in their tracks as a crashing sound is heard, coming from within the house.

Ryan doesn't dare blink, "What-?"

One of the lights turns on. Ryan recognizes it as being the bedroom window.

"Well." Shane says, "Leave a door unlocked for a few hours, and this is what happens." Ryan doesn't miss the note of unease in the other man's voice. Unbelievably, Shane continues to walk towards the front door.

"What are you doing?!" Ryan hisses.

"Well, we should probably kick them out." Shane explains, as if it were obvious.

"No, we call the cops."

"You do that, then."

Ryan pulls out his phone as Shane foolishly enters the house. Before Ryan can pull up the keypad, he hears Shane exclaim, "Holy shit!"

Ryan can't help it, "What's wrong?" Not waiting for an answer, feet with a mind of their own, Ryan walks through the darkened doorway.

More crashes are coming from one of the other rooms, people yelling, grunting, as Ryan turns on his phone's light. All along the walls of the living room are pentagrams, the smell of spray-paint permeating the air, making Ryan dizzy. He can feel his hands start to shake, and he thinks he's gonna puke.

Shane turns to him, pale in the light, "We should leave."

The bedroom door shakes, the voices on the other side increasing in volume until-

-silence.

Simultaneously, the front door slams shut as the one to the bedroom swings open, bouncing off the wall and sending small chunks of plaster flying. It takes a moment for Ryan's eyes and mind to come to the same conclusion, that within the room, standing around the body of a man, crumpled on the floor, are three men. It takes a second longer for Ryan to realize who these men are.

The eyes of infamous killers Sam and Dean Winchester, and missing person James Novak, stare back at them.

Shane runs to the front door, trying for the lock. The door wiggles and shakes against the frame, and Ryan can tell it's not budging. "Come on, COME ON!" Shane grunts.

"That's not gonna work." Dean Winchester, the shorter of the brothers, says, "Bastard is keeping that, and all the other doors, shut. We're on lock-down."

"How did you do that?" Ryan chokes out, impressed with himself that he can say anything at all.

"Let us out." Shane rejoins Ryan, standing side-by-side.

Dean grimly laughs, "Would if I could. Last thing I want is for a couple of vloggers getting in the way."

"We were just returning a key." Ryan doesn't know what else to do, what to say.

The tallest of the trio, Sam, comes walking towards Ryan and Shane, hands held out in submission, a container of table-salt in his right, "I'm not gonna hurt you, but we need to get you guys in a safe place."

Shane isn't so convinced, "And what's 'safe', exactly?"

"Within a ring of salt." Sam answers.

"Oh, god." Shane groans, "Don't tell me- you're dealing with Demons?"

Ryan turns to his friend, "Why would you suggest that? What is wrong with you?!"

"Um, yeah." Sam grimaces, "I realize that's gonna be... a bit of a problem..."

Ryan can already begin to feel his heart race, palms sweating and legs becoming like lead, "No, this can't be real."

"We don't have time for this." James Novak says, and the sheer fact he's in the room, saying anything at all, brings Ryan that much closer to a panic attack. He doesn't even flinch when Novak uses a gun, Ryan has no clue what kind, to direct where he and Shane should go.

At the appearance of the weapon, Shane's tune changes, "You know what? Fine. Demons are real, where do you want us to stand?"

This snaps Ryan out of it, "Wait, so it takes spending five minutes with serial killers to convince you, but I can't?!"

"They have guns, Ryan. They could sell me a piece of the moon and I'd write them a check."

Ignoring the banter, Sam pours a circle of salt around the two men, "No matter what happens, stay in this circle."

"Who are you people?" Ryan asks, feeling unusually brave.

"Not what you think." Sam replies.

"We're Hunters." Dean states, chin up in pride.

"Hunters of what?" Shane asks.

"Monsters, ghosts, Demons." James Novak replies.

"And how'd you get involved?" Ryan asks Novak, "Where's your wife?"

Novak tilts his head, "The Djinn Queen?"

"They were doing a video on Jimmy, remember?" Dean says.

Ryan pales, "You- you saw the leak?"

"That you spoke of the Novaks, yes." not-Novak answers.

Annoyed, Shane goes, "If you're not James Novak, who are you?"

"Castiel. I'm- was, an Angel."

"Was." Shane nods, "So, not anymore?"

Castiel shakes his head.

"Meaning," Shane continues, "There's no way to prove with, say, magic tricks, your claims?"

"Stop needling the serial killers." Ryan hisses.

"You mean monster hunters." Shane sarcastically corrects.

"I'm sorry about my friend." Ryan announces, "He's kind of a dick."

"You don't say." Dean deadpans.

"Hey, is it true," Shane starts, "that you and Columbo over there are knockin' boots?"

Castiel stares down at his shoes, while Dean goes red and Sam sucks in a breath, trying not to laugh.

"You're insane." Ryan says to the air, unable to look at Shane.

"Might as well find out." Shane shrugs.

"Dean," says Castiel, "I apologize if, at any time during the evening, I've stepped on your toes."

Dean looks to age five years in as many seconds, "No problem, Cas."

"And that man, in there?" Shane asks, "He's just sleeping, right?"

"He was dead before he hit the ground." Castiel responds, "We never know for sure, when there’s a Demon present."

This information makes Shane falter, if only a little, "And why do only we need to be in the salt circle?"

Dean and Sam pull down their shirt collars, revealing pentagrams tattooed in black ink, just above their hearts. Castiel lifts up the hem of his shirt, revealing several lines of text written in a foreign language. "We're good. And unless one of y'all's a tattoo artist… ?" Dean says.

"No." Shane relents, "You still can't prove it, but whatever."

"You are exhausting." Ryan says.

"I'm thorough."

"Shut up, Shane."

"That's enough!" Dean barks, "We're dealing with a fucking Demon, now act like it." he glares at his two companions. As the trio resumes their work, Shane and Ryan are left in silence.

"You gonna try your phone?" Shane mutters.

"No, they've got guns." Ryan responds, "I think they can draw faster than I can dial."

After a few minutes of tense silence, Shane pats Ryan's arm, getting his attention. Turning to him, Ryan mouths 'What?' while following Shane's gaze. Down the hall, leading all the way to the back of the house, is the only other door leading outside.

It's open.

Glancing at one another, the intent is understood; at least one of them can make it out. Knowing Shane's got the longer legs, Ryan figures he'll have a better chance, so he prods at Shane's back, encouraging him to make a break for it.

Shane sprints for the door, and is at the other end of the hallway by the time the Winchesters or Castiel notice. Ryan doesn't see the trio's reactions, though, focusing on whether or not his friend escapes.

Shane opens the door wider, gets one foot on the first concrete step-

Cold air fills the room, enveloping every inch of Ryan's skin. The room grows darker, like someone's dimming down the lights. Every breath he inhales is freezing, and every exhale the same temperature. It's like Ryan's overcome with a sudden fever, left weak and in a cold sweat. Arms and legs locked in place, he can feel his heart slow...

"RYAN!"

Dean looks from one idiot to the other; the tall one that tried to leave the house, in what was obviously a trap set up by the Demon, and the second, shorter one that was in the broken salt circle, currently having a long stream of black smoke rush into his throat.

The Demon's found a new body.

"RYAN!" Shane shouts, and for all his smart-ass quips, the tall one wasn't that sharp. Perfect opportunity to get the fuck out and leave things to the pros, but he's gone and pissed that away. Dean feels his lip twitch into a smirk, realizing he'd do the same if it was his family. Hand closing around the Angel blade, his smile falters.

Ryan collapses to the ground, still as stone. Sam intercepts Shane, who tries to rush to his friend's side. "What did you do?!" Shane yells.

"Stay back!" Castiel shouts, charging forward with more salt. Dean's stomach jumps with worry at the sight of Castiel going in on his own. Old habits of being an Angel, thinking himself indestructible. Dean begins reciting the exorcism, his Latin clunky, as always. Smoke begins to spill from the corners of Ryan's mouth as Castiel approaches.

A hand suddenly lashes out, striking Castiel with such ferocity it throws the man clean across the room. Dean continues the exorcism, mind on autopilot, as he looks to see if Castiel is still in the fight. The former Angel knocked out cold, Dean turns his head just in time to see Ryan's hand extend out towards him.

"I'm tired of playing with you." the Demon smirks a toothy grim, causing Ryan's brown eyes to flash to black.

Dean feels his feet lift from the floor, and in a blur of speed, his body be thrown up against the ceiling. Pinned here, and momentarily stunned, Dean tries in vain to continue the exorcism.

"Shut up." the Demon hisses.

Dean's voice dies away. He can only watch as Sam tries to take the Demon on.

Angel blade in hand, Sam goes in, and Dean can tell Sam isn't looking for a kill shot. Swipes, stabs and arcs to distract, but none fatal. Maybe he's hoping for Castiel to wake, maybe he hopes the Demon can't concentrate on more than one Hunter at a time. It's not a bad strategy.

One slice too close to Ryan's neck makes Shane rush forward, spin Sam around, and snatch the blade from Sam's stunned hand. "What are you doing-?"

Both men are sent crashing to the floor, as the Demon steps out of the remains of the salt circle. Cracking knuckles and stretching arms, Ryan's lips curve into a smile, as Dean realizes what's coming next:

Villain monologue.

"Winchesters, your reputations proceed you." Ryan walks over to Castiel, who's starting to stir, "Here I am, with my humble, little set-up, and here you are, sticking your noses where they don't belong." He presses a boot against Castiel's neck, pinning him to the wall, "Don't you have bigger fish to fry? A God to fight?"

Castiel gasps for breath, and Dean struggles to free his arms, legs, willing any muscle to move.

"I'm a nobody." the Demon laughs, "I should be dead, right now. You all have lost your touch."

Shane slowly starts to rise from the floor, trying not to get the Demon's attention.

Ryan's head snaps in Shane's direction, "Shane! Buddy! How ya been?" with a hard kick to Castiel's head, Ryan begins to calmly walk over.

Shane tries for the door, and it looks like Sam was right; it's unlocked, and the Demon can't focus on more than a few things at a time.

With that, Dean frees his arm, can move his lips. He starts the exorcism from the top.

"WHAT DID I SAY." the Demon bellows, waving his hand towards Dean, again. This time, Dean's throat closes up.

Sam continues the exorcism from his place on the ground.

Ryan waves his hand again, throwing Sam into the room with the man's corpse.

Castiel, blood pouring out of his mouth, picks up the chant where Sam left off. The Demon is so distracted, Dean's able to get free. Bracing himself, Dean falls to the floor, and, after a few shaky seconds, joins Castiel.

Teeth clenched, veins pulsing, Ryan yells, "ENOUGH!" sending both men staggering back, falling to the ground, and then pressed up against the wall.

The front door bursts open. Dean cannot, for the life of him, believe that the tall idiot's back.

"Hey! Dumbass!" Shane calls.

The Demon turns to look at him.

Dean, thinking he's seen it all, and can't be surprised anymore, tonight, feels his jaw drop.

"Do you want to di-" Ryan starts, just before Shane douses him with a water gun.

The screams coming from Ryan are simply inhuman. Smoke rises from his skin, as he covers his face. The air, already pungent with sulfur, becomes insufferable.

Sam staggers from the back room, finishing the exorcism.

A rush of smoke exits through Ryan's mouth, the pained scream still echoing off of the walls. And then-

-silence.

Shane considers the squirt gun in his hand, then looks back up at the trio of Hunters staring at him. "It's- it's filled with holy water." he gestures to an unconscious Ryan, "His idea."

"So, you're really monster hunters?" Shane asks, wincing at the alcohol being applied to his scraped knees. They were the worst of the gashes on him, sustained when the Demon threw Sam on top of him.

"Yes." Sam replies, taking a bandage from the Impala's first aid kit. Shane had gotten Ryan, who was still out, in the rental car, and parked that just behind the Chevy. Everyone is now taking a breather before parting ways.

"So, not serial killers?"

"No."

Shane pauses, "Sorry, about taking your knife. I just didn't want you stabbing my friend."

"You ended up saving all of us, so I think we're square." Sam looks over to the open trunk lid, behind which Dean and Castiel were securing the corpse the Demon had initially possessed.

"Ryan's gonna be unbearable when he wakes, you know." Shane says, "'Ooh! Demons are real! We don't have it on camera, but it happened!'"

"Will you keep doing the show?" Sam asks, trying not to sound too eager.

"Probably. Ryan'll want to catch lightning in a bottle twice, but never do another Demon location, again."

"You sound disappointed."

Shane shrugs, "It's fun seeing him scared."

Sam shakes his head.

"So," Shane begins, "You watch the show."

"... maybe."

"How many of the places we visit are actually haunted?"

Sam thinks, "Most were, but we, or other Hunters we know, cleared 'em."

"Huh."

After saying their goodbyes, and with the understanding that no one would believe Ryan and Shane if they tried to profit off of their Demon encounter, the two groups part ways. The Hunter trio climb back into the Impala, but not before Dean throws Sam the keys.

"I'm spent." Dean explains, "You take over for a while." Dean also opens the back door for Castiel, but only when he thinks Sam isn't watching. Dean crawls in after him, and does everything he can to not meet Sam's eyes in the mirror.

It's a half hour later, when on the highway, heading towards the Bunker, that Dean tries to make amends.

"Cas-" Dean starts, voice just above a whisper.

Castiel grabs his hand, both are dried and crusted with blood, "I'm sorry." he mouths, "For everything."

"No." Dean fails to keep the break out of his voice, "I'm sorry. You're family, Cas. Nothing's gonna change that."

Castiel looks away, and Dean knows from personal experience what he's trying to hide.

"I miss Jack." Comes Castiel's broken sob.

Dean squeezes his hand, "I know. I do, too. I should've done more."

"We should have." Castiel corrects.

They sit together in a bittersweet silence. The car interior is dark, the rumbling of the road beneath their feet thunderous, and Sam's eyes on the road. Dean and Castiel are in their own little world.

"I love you." the words spill from Dean's mouth before he can stop them, and funny enough, he doesn't regret it, or treat it like a mistake. It's been years in the making, really. And when Castiel looks back at him, eyes wide with wonder, and more than a little red from fatigue, Dean just brings their joined hands up to his lips, and gives the back of Castiel's palm a gentle kiss. Castiel leans in, meeting Dean forehead-to-forehead, "I love you, too."

Shane's pulling up to the hotel parking lot when Ryan finally wakes.

"Ugh, god." Ryan rubs at his eyes, "What a fuckin' nightmare."

Shane puts the car in park, turning off the engine, "What do ya mean, buddy?"

Ryan looks over at Shane, then around the rest of the car, "Wait, didn't we go by the Wyatt house, and drop off some keys?"

"Yep."

"And I was driving."

"Uh-huh."

Ryan blinks, "Did I hit my head or something?"

"No, we met up with serial killers Sam and Dean Winchester, along with missing person James Novak, and took on a Demon. You got possessed."

Ryan's face screws up in disbelief, "Very funny, asshat."

"No!" Shane insists, "It really happened."

"Bullshit."

"Then, what was your nightmare about?"

"Getting chased by a rabid Paddington." Ryan replies, his eyes glazed over in a haunted stare.

Shane throws his hands up, "Fine, we’ll go with that."

________________________________________________________________

Thank you!! For reading!! ♥♥♥

#SPN #Buzzfeed: Unsolved #crossovers #fanfic #writiers #writing #Dean #Cas #Destiel #Sam #Pray for Sammy #Ryan Bergara #Shane Madej #RPF #AO3 #S14 Spoilers

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higheverweave · 5 years

Text

Positive Lucio Headcanons

This boy knew it was over with Nadia when the plauge starts.... which is why they began to admire Mc from afar.

Then he’d try to find excuses to talk to them Lucio’s worst habit is faking confidence when he is terrified... so naturally he decides the best way to strike up a conversation that would get Mc to fall for him is to show his power and dominance... who wouldn’t want that right. “Hey Whatever you’re name is come here.”

Then he realizes maybe not the best way to flirt.... so then he walks away and tries to figure out a better way to go about it... book anonymous letters and gifts ought to do it.

Although Mc just kinda assumes thier from Asra after the fight...Especially since Julian is as confused as MC is about the origins of the stuff.

Lucio is really confused about why that failed.... he tried to win Mc.... it’s been weeks with no response... one week is an oversight but two or three...

So he asks around about the apprentice who sometimes works with Asra or Julian... When Valdemar informs them that Mc had been sent to the Lazeret...

Now he needed a cure.... when he’d gotten sick it was fine it was just him...but Mc.... no not them.... he couldn’t.... he had to try and do something extreme...

So he found Julian.....he needed to save Mc....and he knew Julian and Asras feelings for them... That wouldn’t be enough though not enough motivation to save them....So Lucio took a plauge beatle and force fed it to Julian....

He waited weeks for Julian to finally get the cure..... he ordered Julian why wasn’t he working faster! Even with the plauge he was mopey...... but he seemed extra mopey the next few days ... too mopey.....

So Lucio decided if there was a cure he’d have to give it to Mc ,himself. But it was taking to long the best he could do was comfort them..... make it so they didn’t suffer this alone.. although he wouldn’t make it clear he was comforting them he’d just order pillows be placed on thier bed. That they got the best view ,however when he traveled to the Lazeret and gave the first order.... He saw thier body limp being placed in for cremation..... he,he,he was to late. The person he had tried to impress that could’ve been his ....

This was his fault like everything else... like his weakness...like his failure to his clan... the way he murdered his father... his failure to beat his mother... his constant... deals to try to fix the mess he’d made which continued to make it worse..... the plauge... he brought. Wait.... No, not his fault the fault of the entity he made a deal with ,and that bitch Morga..... her fault.

So naturally with his birthday coming up he plans to do one more thing.... just to fix everything they way he knows how to best make one final deal.... or rather convince someone else to make it for him.... somebody who’ll do the exact opposite of whatever he says someone who hates him....

So when he sees Asra eyes red and bagged from lack of sleep.... he can only assume the letter he sent about MCs death had been enough to lure him back.... “Stop! Moping you’re little pet is dead... It’s not like you can make a deal and bring them back!”

And just like that An angry fuck You followed by a smirk that proved to Lucio it had all worked now if only Julian could find that cure already.....

However the night of his birthday when Asras plan was supposed to go into place.... Things go wrong ....He dies?? NO! NO! That can’t be he needs to get back he needs to be there when MC wakes up! So he finds the devil asks for a second chance.... before realizing he could get Mc and himself even more....

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wolfoncaffeine · 5 years

Text

lost

After Ostagar, Raan and Alistair try to process all that’s happened. ao3

After Ostagar, after leaving Flemeth’s hut behind, barely half a hundred words passed between the three of them for a few days. They set up camp, ate, arranged watches, tore down camp, trekked, and set up camp again in near silence. Morrigan kept to herself, pitching her tent within sight but nearly out of earshot, and leading them through the wilderness a dozen paces ahead. Alistair was usually near, though that seemed to be more coincidence than choice; his shoulders were perpetually slumped, gaze distant. Whatever thoughts occupied them they didn’t share. For her own part, Raan tried to avoid thinking of anything beyond guessing at how far off Lothering was. Morrigan had lead them well away from the Imperial Highway to avoid any darkspawn. Raan couldn’t complain. Even if their going was slow, it’d still be faster than the horde’s. Safer, too.

Of course trying not to think about it led to thinking about it. We’re all that’s left.

She and Alistair’d watched the battle from the tower. They’d been too high up to pick out individuals, but just high enough to see the lines dissolve into chaos. Loghain’s forces didn’t appear. She remembered nausea, a horrible lump that rolled up her throat, as she stared down. Minutes later, she fumbled an arrow from her quiver, nocked it to her bow, and watched the barricaded door shake.

The darkspawn broke the door down in moments. Her arrows caught the first one in the throat and the second in its howling mouth, before quarrels punched through her and she fell.

She woke up on narrow cot and learned from Morrigan what had happened.

We’re all that’s left.

Trying to ignore how her stomach dropped, she kept walking.

Her thoughts also wandered, inevitably, to her clan. I left them a month ago, she realized, counting back that night. With luck, by now Marethari would’ve led Sabrae to the coast and secured passage across the sea. Had Rhea and Isa’s baby been born safely? Was Pol’s archery improving? Had Merrill found any ruins along their path? Did Marethari intend to lead them into the Planasene Forest or up to the Minanter basin? Lana was there, on the Amaranthine coast with her new clan.

Sitting with her back to their dying campfire, she slid an arrowhead along the whetstone. Even if I survive the Blight, it’ll years before I get any news. She paused, halfway through the motion. If I survive. Alistair and I are the only Wardens this side of the Frostbacks, and if the Orlesian ones don’t come…. She kept sharpening. Whatever. We have those treaties. That’ll be en—

Her grip faltered, and the arrowhead sliced along her thumb. She hissed, dropping the tiny blade and squeezing her thumb in her fist. Stupid, stupid. Tamlen will —

She froze, snared in the thought, staring at the blood seeping around her fingers. Tamlen would tease me for days.

Heavy steps thumped and Nulen appeared, bumping her shoulder with a soft whine.

She squeezed her eyes shut for a moment, then scratched the mabari’s ears. Where’d you go?

“You okay?”

She stiffened and looked at her shoulder at Alistair, blinking dully at her. “Fine. Just cut my thumb.” She peered at it, then rooted in her bag for a roll of gauze. Not too deep. “Your watch isn’t for another couple hours, ya know.”

Nulen huffed at Alistair as the shem approached, then curled up against her thigh.

“I know. I couldn’t sleep, figured I could take over for you.”

She glanced at him as he sat down next to her, with Nulen between them. Dark half-moons marked the skin under his vacant gaze. If not for the taint, I don’t think he’d notice a darkspawn if it smacked him, she thought, wrapping her thumb. “I’ve gotta finish prepping these.”

Staring into the darkness, he grunted.

She shrugged, tucked the gauze away, and picked up her arrowhead.

Their corner of the wilderness dropped into quiet, pricked only by the scrape of steel on stone and Nulen’s rumbling snores. Moonlight slipped into the grove, shifting from golden to silvery to snowy. Raan sharpened every spent arrowhead, some forty total, until its edges shone.

Wood snapped.

Not pausing in her work, she tilted one ear toward the sound to hear a four-footed gait. She turned her head enough to glimpse a pair of gleaming eyes, low to the ground, before the creature slipped away.

She glanced at Alistair. He hadn’t moved, hadn’t even noticed.

He hadn’t seemed to notice much of anything for days, or made any efforts beyond walking and eating, and his jokes had vanished like ripe berries from a bush. Of course they did, she thought with a wince. The Wardens are gone, and his mentor with them.

She sharpened the last few arrowheads, then wrapped them all in a fold of leather and stuffed everything into her bag. “Alistair?” she said, peering around his shoulder.

“What?” His voice was flat.

“Do you wanna talk?”

“About what?”

“Um, about Duncan.”

His shoulders slumped even further. “You…you don’t have to do that. I know you barely knew him.”

“No, but he was kind to me. Even when I wasn’t…kind in return.” She’d cursed him vehemently when he insisted that Tamlen was beyond help, then barely spoke to him for days. And we can’t have you this distracted.

He dragged a hand over his face, muffling his voice. “I should have handled it better. Duncan warned me right from the beginning that this could happen. Any of us could die in battle. I shouldn’t have lost it,” he said, words quickening, “not when so much is riding on us, not with the Blight and —” He stopped, fists clenching, and twisted to face her. “And everything. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. You don’t need to apologize.”

He relaxed a little. “I’d like to have a proper funeral for him. Maybe once all this is done, if we’re still alive. I don’t think he had any family to speak of.”

“You?”

Something crossed his face, some emotion she didn’t catch. “I suppose he did. It probably sounds stupid, but part of me wishes I was with him,” he said, looking both guilty and embarrassed. “In the battle. I feel like I abandoned him.”

She slid her gaze away, remembering that ruin empty but for rotting corpses and a shattered mirror. “I…no, it’s not stupid.”

“Of course I’d be dead then, wouldn’t I? It’s not like that would make him happier,” he mumbled.

She nodded, somehow mortified and relieved all at once.

He blew out a breath. “He said he came from Highever. Maybe I’ll go up there sometime, see about putting something up in his honour. I don’t know,” he said, shrugging.

“Maybe I could go with you, when you go.” she said, as much out of a genuine desire as wanting to shift the conversation.

“I’d like that. So would he, I think. We won’t be able to scatter his ashes but…. The Dalish don’t practice cremation, do you? How do you honour your dead?”

Her thoughts stuttered. “We…we bury them and plant trees over the graves.”

He smiled and the genuine warmth stung. “That sounds quite beautiful, life springing from death.”

She couldn’t keep her expression from crumpling.

Alistair blinked, his own shifting to alarm. “What’s wrong? Did I — oh. Have you…had someone close to you die? Not that I’m trying to pry, I just….”

She drew her knees to her chest, provoking a sigh from Nulen. “No. Well, yes, my parents, but I was newborn. I don’t remember them.” She frowned at her feet. She’d never intended to even mention Tamlen, but maybe, maybe the pain would ease a little. Ashalle always claimed it would. But he’s alive.

The words slipped out anyway. “But, just before Duncan arrived at our camp, a friend disappeared. We were exploring a ruin and found a weird artifact, a mirror. Tamlen touched it and released something. It’s how I got tainted. I fainted and, when I woke up, I was outside and Tamlen…wasn’t.

She inhaled shakily. “We searched for him but no one found any trace, in the ruins or anywhere within miles of camp. Duncan didn’t believe he could’ve survived, without treatment. But if Tamlen was as ill as I was, how could he’ve been conscious at all, much less disappear? But everyone else, except maybe our friends, thought him dead, too, and our Keeper insisted on a funeral. Even without a — they’ll have planted a tree for him.”

She rubbed her eyes. No fucking tears. He’s alive. He is. I’ll find him. “Sorry for unloading,” she muttered and twisted away, under the pretence of reorganizing her bag.

“Hey, no, wait. I did ask. And you listened to me, so, uh, the least I can do is listen to you. Do you want to look for him? For Tamlen?”

She forced a scoff. “Of course, but gathering an army is gonna take precedence.”

“This army-gathering is going to take us all over Fereldan. We can keep a lookout, at least. Right?”

“Right.” She shifted a few more things, then turned back and folded her legs beneath her. Nulen, perhaps taking her shifting for encouragement, rolled onto his back.

“Too sweet for a wardog,” she said, rubbing his belly.

“That’s just what mabari are like.” Alistair presented a hand to Nulen, who sniffed then licked it. “Did you decide on a name for him, yet?”

“Yeah. Nulen.”

“Nulen? Is that Elven?”

“Yeah.”

“And? Does it mean something?”

She huffed. “Essentially ‘fated friend.’ He survived Ostagar, somehow, and found me. Seemed appropriate.”

“Hm, I would’ve gone with ‘Barkspawn,’ but it’s sweet.”

She couldn’t keep the incredulity from her voice. “Barkspawn?”

“Well, it’s true! He spawns very terrifying barks, doesn’t he? Don’t you?” he cooed at Nulen, who barked in a particularly un-terrifying way.

Better a weak joke than none. She tugged gently on one of the mabari’s paws. “Don’t encourage him, Nu.”

“Oh, tired of Blight puns?” He grinned and a little light seemed to return to his eyes. “Taint your fancy?

She stood, groaning. “Think of better ones. Taint nothing to joke about.”

“I thought that was — hey!”

She snorted his expression, caught somewhere between mock-offended and truly amused, and clucked her tongue at Nulen. “G’night, Alistair. Don’t let the darkspawn bite.”

#dragon age #dragon age origins #alistair & warden #alistair theirin #mahariel #raan mahariel

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overgaywatch · 5 years

Note

Do you think you can do the request in which the s/o takes a bullet and gets pretty hurt. But now they take a bullet trying to save Genji?

Reviving this blog with this fic. Let’s go!!!! - Mod Meep

The place where you landed was a mess. Well, it was a warzone, you hardly expected for it to be any other way, still, Winston could’ve dropped you and your team to somewhere… not in the middle of all the explosion occurring. The smoke and debris already making it hard for you to see the scenery and look for a good cover. You remember Oasis as if it was yesterday; the entire city was a jewel among the cities you’ve been in with its unparalleled tech and architecture. Now, it’s full of wastes and broken buildings, just like any other place at war.

“What I wouldn’t give to restore this place…” you mumbled under your breath. “God, I hate Talon.”

There’s a laugh that you heard through your earpiece. “We are here to stop them. You better get to work, I’ll provide you the cover to the tower once I get there.”

“Alright, alright! Damn, jumping straight ahead to work, you’re insufferable…” you glanced at the direction of the University only to be shot that you immediately crawled back to your cover, preparing your gun. “Talon agents at the entrance of the tower—oh shit, they just killed three of my men. I told them to get down, damn it!”

“Wait, there were four of you in your team.”

“Yeah, thanks for making me realize I’m the only one alive in my team now.”

“Love, it’s fine, you’re a one-man team, you can do what Winston asks once we’re in.”

“And I’m going to need your help getting in the tower. Where’s your ship now?”

“Not far now, but I can drop right here on the bridge and get to you.”

“It’s fine.” You shot one of the Talon agents on the shoulder, disarming him and finally shooting him dead. “Just pray I don’t die. If I do, though, write on my plaque the words ‘I hate Talon’.”

“I thought you wanted to be cremated.”

“Change of plans.”

“I’m dropping down now.”

“Are you at the drop-off point?” You barely managed to hide yourself when the Talon decided to rain your cover with bullets, your ears trying to locate the sources of the shots to know where to shoot as to not waste your bullets.

“No.”

“Then why?”

“Change of plans.”

“Punkass…” you whispered. A few minutes later, a fast-moving cyborg just eliminated the agents outside of the tower before he moved next to you, helping you get up and shielding you from the hailstorm of bullets and debris with his wakizashi.

Genji turned to you, “McCree and Morrison are going to take out the other Talon agents outside of the Tower with the reinforcements, I’m going to assist you with your mission.”

“Did you tell them what you’re planning?”

“No, but I’m sure they’ll understand, you lost your companions, you’re going to need my help.” His mask glowed, “they already know I love you, anyway.”

Goddamn it, he should be illegal for trying to make you smile in a warzone. “Not flirting with me while we’re being stormed by bullets might help me focus, Genji.” You loaded your gun and shot a number of Talon agents hiding in the bushes, Genji helped you by clearing the way into the tower, you know he’s got your back, and there was nothing to worry about now that you’re teamed up with him.

You busted the door open wide and hailed bullets at the awaiting numerous Talon agents, Genji assisted you with cleaning up the place as you make sure you had a good cover when shooting down your enemies, his weapons were soaking red when the both of you were done and he was ever so quickly beside you, walking down the building with his weapon drawn out, ready to shoot, as are you.

“We’re inside the building, Morrison,” Genji informed through the earpiece given to him.

“Good, take what we’re after, and then let’s get the hell outta here. Talon agents are pouring out and it’s starting to annoy me.”

You scoffed, “what doesn’t annoy Morrison…” you mumbled under your breath, though Genji heard it and he had to stifle a giggle.

It was a battle of bullets and swords on every Talon-infested floor, Genji guarding you with every step of the way with his heightened senses until you made it to the Archives where all of the needed information you have to acquire were found. Genji covered your back while you took out your flash drive and connected it to the large computer, searching for the new weapons being developed by the university secretly, and as you found it, you copied the files into your flash drive and deleted the original files. Though while the system was in the middle of copying and deleting files, a gunshot startled the both of you that you ducked under the computer. Genji’s entire body became on high alert, and he followed where the gunshots were coming from to kill the Talon agents disturbing you from your work.

“Genji, be careful!”

“I know that!” Genji slashed the Talon shooter down and then scouted the area before coming back to you, “is it still far from over?”

“Just a couple more minutes, Genji and then we’ll get out of here.”

“We better, the Talon agents are sending in reinforcements now that they found us.”

You nodded in agreement, but there was nothing you can do at the moment but to wait as the system copied large amount of files into your flash drive. You loaded your gun, readying for it to be used; when Genji saw you preparing your gun, he held his sword up, and then the both of you fought against the reinforcements sent by the Talon to stop you from taking what they wanted.

Genji was fighting as hard as he can as the rain of reinforcements came, contacting McCree and Morrison about the situation and asking for backup when he saw you getting grazed by a bullet. His eyes widened and immediately went to shield you, throwing a shuriken towards the man who just shot you.

“You should be the one who should be careful—”

And just like that, a loud boom interrupted and with a shout, Genji was thrown into the side of the room along with you, debris falling down on the impact. You yelled for his name, and found 2 Talon agents on the move towards the cyborg, one of them holding a large handcannon that must have been what they used to shoot down the wall. You crawled towards a favorable position to not be seen by them as you hid behind a server, and the one holding the cannon was trailing behind, and so with a clear shot, you aimed for the head of that goon, and all that was left was the other agent, but your eyes widened at the realization.

You have no time, he has a clear shot of Genji as well, and the server was blocking where he positioned himself that the chances of missing the shot was higher than you anticipated.

You didn’t want Genji to die.

Your adrenaline rushed through your veins, and without knowing it yourself, you made a run for it, using yourself as a shield for Genji and then shot the man between his eyes, effectively killing him, but something also dug in your stomach, and you only felt it when the man dropped dead.

“(y/n)!”

You barely heard Genji’s voice as you dropped onto the ground as well, but Genji caught you in his arms, you gasped for air, your hand holding down the wound to prevent more blood from coming out, though seemingly futile as the red liquid seeped out of your uniform. Genji’s hands shook as held you to him, the blade burrowed in you, and with how sharp it was, it can definitely dig through a cyborg’s body. They meant to kill Genji, but you just took the blow for him.

“Stay with me, damn it!” he begged, but it was getting hard to focus, “the backup’s coming—” through the comms, he yelled, “goddamnit, Morrison, where are you?! We need a medic ASAP—”

More reinforcements came, and the fury in Genji was uncontainable. He laid you down as gently as he could, taking out the katana on his back, and with your blurred eyesight, you can see the bright green surrounding him, and the screams of your enemies dulled as everything turned to black.

“When are they going to wake up, Angela?”

“Not too long now. They’re lucky they insisted on bringing a medic. The tissues damaged are entirely healed and replaced, so you don’t have to worry about the scarring—”

Your eyes slowly opened up, and Genji didn’t fail to miss it, he immediately went to your side, holding your hand. He’s not wearing his mask, and you can see just how… vulnerable he was.

“Gen…” you weakly called out, and from the corner of your eye, you spotted Mercy making a small smile for herself before she left the room, leaving the two of you alone. Genji held your hand tightly, and his eyes turned wet.

“Gen, I’m so sorry…”

“It’s okay, it’s okay…” he murmured. “I should have been more careful—”

“No, it’s not your fault.”

“They wanted to kill me.”

“I just wanted to protect you.”

“I know.” He pressed his forehead against yours, nuzzling you, “I was afraid to lose you at that moment… please, please, let’s not do that again, okay?”

“H-How was the mission?” you asked, “did we get it…?”

“Overwatch got everything,” He inhaled, “but I thought I was going to lose mine.”

It was your turn to touch his face and rub the bag of his eye with your thumb, “I promise, Genji, you won’t lose me, never.”

He chuckled softly and gently wrapped an arm around you, accompanying you for the rest of the day as you recovered.

#Overwatch #overwatch imagine #genji #genji shimada #genji x reader #genji shimada x reader

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howlnikiforov · 5 years

Text

Black Swan

Chapter Three: By My Side

Pairing: Hyungwon x Reader

Word Count: 3004

Warnings: Death, brief mentions of suicide

Summary: Sequel to Trespass; Sometimes, some people can’t handle the idea of another’s happiness. Sometimes those people are those who were once close to you.

Everything that could’ve went wrong, went wrong. He could feel your concern blossoming in his chest, but he pushed it back. He couldn’t focus on that right now. Because right now, YG was attacking, and he needed to get his men out of there fast. Of course it was the one time he didn’t have Shownu with him.

The meeting had been going fine until the shots were fired. Glass shattered and the shouts of men rang through the air. He was glad you weren’t with him this time. If you were here, the situation would be ten times worse because it’d give YG information that could be used against him.

The first guy to attack Hyungwon was shorter than him, but appeared to have more muscle. He threw a punch at Hyungwon, who swiftly dodged it. Hyungwon was able to grab a hold of the man’s arm and twist it, producing a sickening crunch as the arm broke. Now that he had his enemy distracted, he brought out his knife and plunged it into the man’s stomach. He pushed the guy back, causing him to stumble and fall to the ground.

The next guy that came to Hyungwon didn’t stand a chance because he had already thrown the knife into the guy’s head. Two down, plenty more to go. YG outnumbered his and his partner’s men combined. It was supposed to be an easy trade off. New weapons in turn for protection. Easy. All he had to do was collect the weapons and shake the hand of his ally and promise protection. That’s why he brought with him some of the newer recruits, so they could get experience.

His men fought back, each taking on a man for themselves. Compared to YG’s men, their moves were rough and uncalculated. Something to expect from people new to the field. He needed to do something before they were killed. Since taking his knife out the guy’s head would take too much time, Hyungwon pulled his gun out from its holster on his side and began shooting.

One man dropped dead to the ground as Hyungwon fired a bullet into his spinal cord. Taejoon looked at Hyungwon, a look of relief on his face before he bolted out of the room. Before Hyungwon could say anything, Taejoon was shot and dropped dead to the ground. That was the final straw for him. He had to get everyone out. Now.

He shot at every one of YG’s men. Sometimes missing, sometimes hitting his target spot on. He pried a guy off Haejin and snapped his neck, shoving Haejin towards the door. Someone approached him from the right, so he shot them in the head without hesitation.

A bullet grazed his arm, but that didn’t stop him. He’s been through enough to not be fazed by a bullet ghosting his arm. In return he shot his attacker with the last bullet in his magazine. He pulled out a new clip from his belt, dropping the old to the ground as he inserted the new.

YG’s men seemed to think they’d lose the fight if they kept going, so they abandoned ship and ran back the way they came. Hyungwon followed, slowly walking in their direction and mercilessly firing bullets at their backs while they ran.

Once they were too far away to see, he let his arm fall to his side and shoulders slump. This wasn’t how tonight was supposed to go. “H.One,” Haejin called, jogging up to him, “we lost Taejoon and Hyunjin. And uh...the boss from the other group...he died too.”

“Shit.” Hyungwon cursed, running a hand through his hair. It wasn’t noticeable, but this action caused blood to streak in his hair. “What’s the body count?” “Thirteen. Including our own.” Haejin answered.

“Fuck. Let’s gather up the bodies, then burn them.” He declared, walking back to the battle scene. “We’ll take care of our men, YG can come clean his mess himself.”

“To clarify, we’ll burn our men’s bodies but not YG’s?” Haejin asked.

“Yes. We owe it to them to not simply leave them to rot. They deserve a crude cremation at the very least” He replied. “Taehyung, go out to the van and get the gasoline and matches. Seojoon, notify your leaders that your boss died.”

“Yes sir.” They said in unison.

Hyungwon helped Haejin and Sookyun carry the bodies outside. Haejin and Taehyung were the only ones left on his team. Seojoon and Sookyun were part of Minho’s team. He definitely needed to look out for them now; at least until they can sort themselves and appoint a new leader. No doubt he died protecting his own two men.

Hyungwon directed everything, showing what to do with the dead bodies. Taehyung came back with the gas and a box of matches, handing them over to Hyungwon. He was silent as he poured the gas on the bodies, a solemn look on his face.

Guilt and regret raged through him, no doubt something that could be felt by you. He tried to ignore your growing worry, focusing on the job at hand. He lit a match and dropped it to the ground, setting everything ablaze. He stood and watched as the bodies burn. It was Taehyung who pulled him out of his trance, putting a hand on his shoulder and announcing they needed to leave.

He slowly walked to the van, taking his sweet time getting into the driver’s seat. The drive back to the warehouse was completely silent. No one dared to speak as they knew the severity of the case. When they got to the warehouse, the van was unloaded and everyone went their separate ways. Taehyung going out to one of the clubs, Haejin to the shooting range, and Hyungwon to you.

The second he opened the garage, he saw you waiting for him. You looked exhausted as you uncrossed your arms and made your way towards the car. He felt bad for making you wait so long, and for not bothering to call you. He took a deep breath as he exited the car.

The first thing you did was hug him, for which he was thankful for. He wrapped his arms around you tightly, putting his chin on the top of your head. “Is this your blood?” You asked quietly.

“No. Not all of it.” He answered, tightening his arms around you.

“Come on, let’s get you cleaned up.” You started to pull away, but he wouldn’t let go of you.

“No. Not yet. Let’s just-let’s stay here for a little while longer.” He whispered.

“Okay.” You agreed, holding him close.

The both of you stayed in each others arms for what felt like eternity. Hyungwon didn’t want to let go of you. He clung to you like a scared child would cling to its mother. It was a rough night, one he wasn’t mentally prepared to deal with.

Eventually, you forced him to let go of you and dragged him inside the house. You lead him into the bathroom, turning on the shower and instructing him to get in while you get him a fresh change of clothes. He watched as you left the bathroom, waiting until the door closed to start moving. Slowly he stripped himself of his weapons, setting them on the counter while his clothes dropped to the floor.

He stepped into the shower, relishing in the warmth of the water. He stared at the ground, watching as the blood ran off his body and down the drain. He took the bottle of body wash and squeezed some on his hands, scrubbing away the dry blood.

His left arm stung, the water being the first cleaning its had since he was injured. He decided to leave it be for now, he’d take care of it later. His main concern was getting the blood that did not belong to him off his body. He barely heard the door open and close again as you came back into the bathroom.

“Did you rinse off?” You asked.

“Yes.”

Seconds after his reply, you turned off the shower, letting the water drain completely before plugging the drain and turning the water on to fill the tub. “Good, you’re taking a bath.” You declared, pushing the shower curtains to the side. “What happened to your arm?”

“I got hit by a bullet.”

“I wish you told me sooner, so I could’ve gotten the supplies while I was out. Sit down, and I’ll be right back.” You commanded, once again leaving.

He sighed and slowly lowered himself into the rising water. He had a hard time relaxing, the memory of what happened just hours ago still replaying in his mind. He could’ve prevented the deaths on his side.

You came back minutes later with the large box of medical supplies. You set it down on the ground while you sat on the edge of the tub. “Show me your arm.” You demanded, gently speaking. He lifted his arm up, which you grabbed and put in your lap.

He watched as you studied the injury, reaching down to grab cotton balls, tweezers, and a saline wound wash. You wet the cotton balls with the saline, using the tweezers to hold them. Gently, you dabbed at the injury.

“Do you want to talk about what happened?” You pressed softly, reaching over to turn the water off once it completely filled the tub.

“Taejoon and Hyunjin died.” He explained, “Seoyoung, the other leader, died too.”

“Oh.” You stopped what you were doing, looking up at him. “What about Taehyung and Haejin? Were they hurt?”

“No. They’re fine. They’ll probably have a few bruises, but they’re fine.” He answered.

“What happened?”

“YG. I think he was more after Seoyoung and I than our other men.”

“Could he be trying to take you out since you’re the leader? So that the gangs and everyone under and relying on you, the are without guidance and go to him?”

“It’s possible, but if he wants me dead he’ll have to try a hell of a lot harder. He’s never had the brightest strategies. Remember when I told you how he tried to out me to the public by causing a stir in the area to get reporters on it? Still think that was his stupidest strategic move. Wasn’t the worst though.”

“What was the worst?”

“Taking you.”

You grunted, going back to cleaning up the bullet wound. “Was that his move, or was it Youngjae’s?”

“It was both. Youngjae chose to kidnap you, YG chose to keep and torture you.”

“You won’t need stitches.” You told him. “We’ll just have to keep it clean and wrapped up for a few days and it’ll be healed soon. Especially since you’re not going to do anymore deals for awhile. I won’t bandage it until you’re done with the bath.”

“Okay.” He said, closing his eyes and letting his head fall against the wall.

He felt you pour water into his hair, clearly trying your best to keep it out of his face. The next thing he felt was your hands in his hair, scrubbing at his scalp with shampoo. He did his best to concentrate on your fingers in his hair rather than the images flashing behind his eyes.

You poured water over him again, rinsing out the shampoo. Next you put in the conditioner, letting it sit there as you began to wash his body. You started with his left arm, since it was closest to you. Then you scrubbed his chest and back, moving him around as you needed. He didn’t try to fight your actions, giving you all control over him.

He barely registered you pulling the plug to drain the water. Before you made him stand up, you wrapped his arm up in a dry bandage. You dried him off, helping him into sweatpants and a sweatshirt. “I think I might go for a walk.” He told you, pulling the hood over his head.

“Okay. Don’t stay out too late.” You leaned up and pressed a quick kiss to his lips.

He gave you a brief smile, grabbing his phone off the counter and walking out of the bathroom. He made a quick pit stop at your room to get his earbuds and face mask then left the house.

He played depressing music as he walked aimlessly around. He could’ve saved their lives. They didn’t have to die. If he was more competent, better at his job then they wouldn’t have died. The same thing happened with his mom. She and him were out on a simple drug mission when they were attacked. She died because he couldn’t protect her. Days after her death, his father committed suicide, leaving him in charge of the mafia as the only heir. He was seventeen then. He’s thirty now. It’s been over a decade and he still hasn’t learned how to protect people.

Hell, he couldn’t even protect you. You were taken from him and nearly died. If he was a day later in rescuing you, you probably would have left the world. If he kept a better eye on you, if he never went on that mission, if he had stayed with you, you wouldn’t be suffering now. You wouldn’t still be dealing with panic attacks and the occasional hallucination. You’d be happy.

Somehow, he managed to find himself in an empty park. He was quite far from the house, but that was okay. He could handle himself. A bench under a streetlamp caught his attention, and suddenly finding himself exhausted, he went to sit there. The moment he sat, he leaned over and put his head in his hands, elbows resting on his knees.

He was a horrible leader, he knew. He didn’t deserve the loyalty he had. He couldn’t protect his men, so why did they still believe in him? He could hear his father screaming at him, blaming him for his mother’s death. He could still remember the way his bruised body ached the day after his father beat him for the first time. He could still remember walking into his father’s study and finding his dead body.

Of course, they weren’t even his birth parents. They had found him on the streets and took him in because they pitied him. His real parents left him on the streets because they couldn’t afford to have him. They died in a house fire not long after they abandoned him.

His thoughts were interrupted by gentle arms wrapping around him from his right side. He knew it was you. It couldn’t be anyone else. Your touch is what finally broke him. His body shook with sobs, so you pulled him to your chest and held him.

It’s been awhile since he last cried, so he used this as a chance to let everything out. He was a complete mess. Had there been any onlookers, they would have never been able to guess that he was a fierce, merciless mafia leader.

“Come on,” you muttered, “let’s get you home and to bed.” You stood, getting him to stand as well. You wrapped your arm around his waist, supporting his weight as he heavily leaned against you.

The walk home seemed a lot longer than he thought it would be. Maybe it was because he was so deep in his thoughts the first time that he never registered how far he walked. He was grateful you followed him. He would’ve had a hard time finding his way back by himself.

Upon arriving home, you brought him to your room and had him take off his sweater so that he was shirtless. “Lay on your stomach.” You instructed, pulling out a bottle of lotion from your nightstand.

He did as you said, lying on the bed and closing his eyes. You climbed on the bed, sitting on his legs. “You were thinking about your parents again, weren’t you? That’s why you’re more upset about death than you usually are.” You stated, speaking softly. You squeezed a dollop of lotion onto your hand, massaging it into his back.

He groaned at the contact, the cold of the lotion contrasting with the warmth of his skin. “Yeah..I was.” He admitted, sighing as your hands kneaded his back.

“You were just your dad’s scapegoat.” You reminded, rubbing out a knot in his shoulder blades.

A quiet moan escaped his lips. “Was I really?”

“Yes. It wasn’t your fault.”

“It feels like it was.”

“Why does it feel that way?”

“Because, if I had been better, faster, stronger, I could’ve saved her.”

“I don’t think so. I think she wouldn’t have let you save her even if you could.”

“You might be right.” He sighed, hoping to let the subject drop. If he really looked at it, there’s no way he could’ve saved her. If anything, she saved him. But he still tended to blame himself.

“I am right.” You claimed, “You’re the leader of the largest mafia in Asia. You never bat an eye at towards the people on your hit list.”

“Mmm…”

“You’ve been thinking about your parents a lot lately. What’s brought this on?”

“I don’t know. I feel like I’ve been losing control of things, much like I did back then.”

“Do you need me and Ki to take some of the work off you?”

“I don’t know.”

“Think about it, and let me know. I’ll do whatever you need me to. You need to relax.”

“Mhmm…”

“Relax my love,” you urged, “I can feel it in your back. Your stiff.”

“I’m getting there.” He moaned as you massaged the tension out of his body. Your hands were magical, always finding the right spots that needed tending to the most. Silence filled the room, the only sound being the occasional moan.

He was able to relax to your nurturing touch. Your delicate hands and quiet hums of reassurance was enough to lull him to sleep.

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theoddcatlady · 6 years

Text

The Pact

Nine years ago, I was certain my life was going nowhere. There was nothing to look forward to, nothing would change, and I would never feel again.

I hardly got out of bed during that time. I did the bare minimum to function. I suppose that didn’t really help my depression, but for those who have been in my shoes, you probably get it. What’s the point of getting up? What’s the point of eating? Getting clean? Living?

To me then, there wasn’t one. All I did was stay in my room and hang out in chatrooms and forums on the internet. These weren’t ‘helpful’ rooms though. They were people that were in that dark part of their lives and who saw no end.

And with three of those people, we made a plan to kill ourselves.

I lived with my parents at the time, but I just said I was going to see some friends that weekend. They were so relieved I was actually doing something they didn’t even catch the missing pills in the medicine cabinet or that I didn’t pack clothes for the weekend.

And so I took a three hour road trip to meet the rest of the people in the pact.

We didn’t give our full names, obviously. This whole experience was strangely anonymous. We met at a small diner to have dinner and to see that the others involved weren’t going to try to torture us… or worse, try to stop us.

Sandra, I think, had the best reason for suicide. She was dying. When I saw her frail form and the kerchief on her bald head, I knew she wasn’t in good shape. She opened up about her cancer, how she’d had it come and go her entire life and that this time there wasn’t any sign of recovery. She didn’t want to spend another damn day in that hospital and was ready to go out on her own terms. She was so nice though, she didn’t judge any of us for our experiences or why we wanted to die, she just nodded and said she understood.

Brandon was the only guy in the group. He was nothing like I would’ve pictured. He wasn’t exactly a knock out, but he had a great smile and these wide brown eyes that I personally found attractive. Brandon had struggled with depression his entire life but he couldn’t live on this world anymore, not when his girlfriend died in a car accident that he was truly responsible for. He couldn’t live with that. And he hoped by doing this they’d be reunited and that she’d forgive him. I believed she would have.

The last girl was almost a walking stereotype- a goth named Kirsten. Black hair, thick eyeliner around her piercing blue eyes and bold purple lipstick, long mesh sleeves that didn’t hide the patterns of thin scars going up and down her arms. Kirsten was the most quiet about her reasons, but she’d mentioned some abuse she’d experienced as a child. Things that she just couldn’t recover from.

I almost felt embarrassed about my reasons. I didn’t feel like I had a good reason, I had a good childhood, raised by parents who weren’t biologically mine but who treated me as such along with their ‘real’ children. I wasn’t abused. I wasn’t sick. I didn’t lose anyone. I just wanted to truly die.

But none of them blamed me. Brandon gave me a side hug, Sandra nodded and patted my knee, and Kirsten told me that it was okay.

We all rode in Kirsten’s van to this place her family owned in the woods, this beat up old thing that nearly stalled out twice. It took almost an hour to get there but we kept ourselves occupied with talking about the serious things- suicide notes, what did we think was coming after, how we wanted our funerals to go, stuff like that. I remember Brandon saying he wanted to be cremated and his ashes spread in his girlfriend’s old garden. She loved tiger lilies.

The place was in the middle of nowhere, which was perfect for what we needed to do. A cabin in the middle of the woods. It looked like garbage on the outside but inside was actually quite cozy. Kirsten even lit a fire.

The one thing we’d all held off talking about. The method.

Brandon pulled out a revolver, passed it around the room. “If anyone else wants it before I do it, go ahead, it’s not like I have a use for it,” He joked.

Kirsten wrinkled her nose. “Pass.” She produced a knife from her pocket. “I’ll be in the bathtub as soon as you guys are settled. How are you doing it, Sandra, Ellie?”

I dug through my bag to grab my pills and looked up in time to see Sandra lift up a length of rope. “Hanging is a clean way to go,” She said before looking at me. “Are you okay, Ellie?”

I swallowed and poured the pills into my hand. This is it. This would kill me. “… I… I’m a little scared. This is really selfish to ask, but… could you guys wait until I’m out? Please?” I couldn’t look up.

Kirsten’s hand rested on my shoulder. “I’ll stay with you. It’s okay. You’re choosing this,” She whispered before setting a water bottle on my lap. “And sometimes this is the only choice you can take.”

I took the pills after that, got comfy on the couch, let Kirsten stroke my hair as I slowly drifted into unconsciousness. I think I remember hearing the sound of the gun going off, but it sounded so far away and foggy.

Well, as you guys can clearly tell, I’m sure as hell not dead.

I survived. To this day, I don’t know how I’m alive.

I woke up to the sound of crunching bones and wet tearing.

My eyes fluttered open. I didn’t know where I was at first. Then it came back to me.

My suicide attempt didn’t work.

I heard the smacking of lips before a quiet ‘hmm?’ I slowly sat up, my stomach churning, and I looked off the couch.

Brandon had successfully blown his head off. But someone had taken Sandra down and laid her on the floor, her neck was twisted in an unnatural way… and Brandon’s chest had been opened up and Kirsten was sitting next to the corpse, covered in blood and gripping onto his intestines. She looked back at me. Her jaw dropped, revealing dozens of needle sharp teeth.

“How the fuck are you not dead?!”

I screamed before my stomach finally revolted and I projectile vomited all over the floor. I collapsed back on the couch, my throat burned as my eyesight flickered in and out. Kirsten got up, dropping Brandon’s guts and walking over. She pressed her fingers against my pulse point. “Holy shit. You’re actually still kicking, kid,” She murmured.

“Please,” I begged, “Don’t… don’t kill me.”

“Relax, kiddo, I don’t kill. I just eat.” Kirsten plopped down next to me, shaking her head before she started chattering away. “… You know, the internet made this a lot easier. Finding corpses back in the day was a real pain in my ass. Nowadays, I get them delivered to my door. Internet’s a blessing and a curse, am I right?” She chuckled, shaking her head.

I stared at the ceiling. I didn’t want to see Brandon’s shredded body. “… What are you?” I asked.

Kirsten shrugged. “Dunno, really. I’m not gonna give you numbers, but let’s just say I’ve been doing this song and dance a long, long time. The only thing I can eat is dead flesh. I’ve never had much of a taste for murder though, so I wait until someone kicks it. Or in this case, when someone chooses to kick it.”

I remembered at the diner that Kirsten only sipped away at a glass of water. “… I need more pills. I can’t do this,” I murmured, struggling to reach for my bag.

“No.”

Kirsten grabbed my hand, her grip could’ve snapped my wrist with how tight it was. “You’re not dying today.”

I couldn’t believe it. This bitch ate people and she wasn’t going to let me kill myself. “Why?! Dammit, just let me die!” I snapped, trying to pull loose.

“I said no!” Kirsten snarled at me and for a brief moment I thought she might’ve developed that taste for murder. I was shaking. I was terrified.

She released me and shook her head. “Ya know, I don’t believe in many things. But I believe in fate. And fate says that for some reason, you’re not meant to die today. For some bullshit reason, you’re meant to stick around.” She chuckled and attempted to wipe her mouth off. “I don’t give up food without a good reason, so I gotta ask you something- you think you can drive?”

I drove out of that forest feeling numb and tired. The car didn’t stall out once. I got back to the diner and dropped it off, got back in my car, and drove on home. My parents were sobbing in the living room, they’d found my suicide note. My mom screamed when I walked through the door… dad held onto me so tight and begged me never to do that again.

And in that moment, I felt like I wanted to live again.

It doesn’t always work like this for everyone, but things… did actually get better. I spent time in a hospital. My parents got me therapy, medication. I could wake up in the morning and feel like maybe there’s a reason I’m here in this world. I can’t say there wasn’t pitfalls, I had to go back to the hospital two more times when I just couldn’t cope again. But recovery was no longer a fairy tale. It was real.

And here I am now. I got married about five years ago to someone I met while on a run, he’s a super great guy. We have a two month old daughter, her name is Sandra, we call her Sandy. I work from home writing for magazines and I’ve never felt better.

As for Sandra and Brandon, their bodies were never found. But since both had left suicide notes and Sandra had made preparations for her death, they were treated as dead. I didn’t go to their funerals. I didn’t want to explain to their parents how I knew them. But I did visit their graves after the service. I wonder almost every day what would’ve happened if they’d chosen to stay.

But this isn’t why I’m writing this.

I was out with a few fellow writers last Saturday, having dinner and having a general good time. I don’t know why I felt like I had to look up, but I did.

There was about four young people sitting at a table. I didn’t know three of them, but I knew the last one.

She’d changed. She was now a brunette with a pink sweater, no more harsh make up or mesh sleeves. She looked almost like a normal girl. But those blue eyes… they looked right at me.

The girl smirked and raised her water glass to me before returning to the conversation with the other three.

I didn’t interfere. I only watched as they got up and got into that beat up van and drove away.

I have no doubt if I interfered with Kirsten’s hunting, she might change her view on murder.

#horror stories #scary stories #creepypasta #creative writing #writers on tumblr #my stories

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imrvbtrashdealwithit · 6 years

Text

Survival and Perseverance: The Great War

Elizabeth Summers is a soldier in the UNSC, she’s survived a horrible attack on her base with her husband, David Summers. That’s in the past, now she’s on a new deployment, with new people, and David’s far away.

Word Count: 2,200+ Part One of Many

I’m experimenting with stuff, so go easy on me, kindly explain to me if I’ve done something wrong.

I’ll be posting the story is parts, it follows the series. The Great War is sort of a prequel. The Era of Project Freelancer will be up next.

~The Great War~

The Covenant broke their defenses, slashing through soldiers, then managed to grab Felix. The yelp that escaped his ally chilled his blood and then a single shot rang out over the chaos, a bullet passed through the alien’s arm, splattering blue across Locus’s visor.

“Come on asshole, come to Mama.” The voice was cold and calculated, daring. The Covenant dropped Felix and went after the unseen owner of the voice. She was plucked from the ground, she seemed calm, despite her current situation.

“What are you doing?!” Locus yelled and the soldier sent him a glance, then raised a grenade, flicked the trigger and promptly shoved the grenade down the Covenant’s throat, she kicked it in the jaw and rolled away as the alien choked, gagging on the hunk of metal in his throat.

“Fucking run, soldiers!” She ordered, rolling across the ground, grabbing Felix and essentially tossing him across a barricade, the grenade went off and a curt cry escaped the soldier. She stumbled across the ground, coughing and clutching her side, red blood began to ooze down the side of the tan armor.

“Alright, retreat!” She ordered.

“Who the fuck are you?” Felix ordered, standing up looking at her. She looked at him, picking up her gun, placing it on the mag stripe on her back.

“I am Lieutenant Elizabeth Summers, I’m your new CO.” She said, “Now move or die, soldier!” She demanded, giving Felix a shove.

“Wait, no you sound like a fucking kid-”

“Move, Felix! No time to argue!” Locus said, grabbing him by the shoulder and running back towards the safe zone. The Lieutenant fell in beside him, making good time, despite her bleeding side.

“I’ve only seen an attack that direct on a Covenant made by a SPARTAN.” Locus told her as they moved. She chuckled.

“I picked up a few things from the one that was deployed with me on my first deployment. Thanks.” She said.

“No offense but that wasn’t a compliment. It was reckless.” He told her. Another small laugh from her, he could hear the snarky grin.

“Hey, saved your buddy didn’t I?” She asked challengingly. This is just what he needed, another cocky know it all.

She took off her helmet, revealing a very young face that sent chills down his spine. She was so young… how had she become a Lieutenant being so young? She had a freckled face, with dual colored skin, starting at her face, traveling down her neck and disappearing under her armor. He assumed her skin looked like that all over. She was strangely beautiful.

“Alright men, I know I’m young, I know I’m a woman, but I survived for eight months with just a SPARTAN and a fellow Private First Class. So I think I’ve earned the position, so please, no mutiny while I go get the shrapnel out of my ribcage. Thanks.” Lieutenant Summers ordered, most of the soldiers saluted, Felix did not.

“Sir, yes, sir!”

“Great, some know-it-all crack shot to order us around.” Felix commented as the soldier’s began to disperse. Locus gave a sigh, shaking his head.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone so ungrateful to the person who literally just saved his life.”

“I would have gotten out of it. You know me, I’m lucky.” He said, to this, Locus rolled his eyes and

watched the lieutenant limp off towards the medical tent. She knew how to make an entrance that’s for sure.

Summers watched the soldiers run their drills, keeping an eye on the obnoxious velociraptor knock off. She saved his ass and all she got for it was attitude, but she should know better by now to expect anything else. Most of the soldiers trusted her. She thinks maybe she had Felix’s, just that he was a pain in the ass. His friend, Locus, whoever gave him that name wasn’t very creative, seemed to like her fine. What he said on the retreat was true, luring a Covenant like that was dangerous. David would have a conniption fit when he found out about it.

“Lieutenant Summers.” The familiar and pleasant sounding baritone of Sergeant Ortez interrupted her. She looked at him, hadn’t yet seen him without his helmet on. He lived in it probably, a little bit like Ethan. Took her four fucking months and a damned shot grazing his head, to get his fucking helmet off. Ethan had an obvious reason though, being SPARTAN and all.

“Yes, Ortez?” She said looking at him.

“Our scans are indicating an increase in enemy chatter. Our translator is working on deciphering them now, what do should we do?” He asked. She thought.

“Hmm… just keep on y’all’s toes. Your guns close, and your armor closer.” She said coolly.

“All due respect, sir, but ‘y’all’s’?” He told her, clearly stumbling over her conjunction, Elizabeth sensed perhaps the lightest of laughs in his voice. Her lips quirked and she gave a chuckle.

“Yeah, when you get raised in the heart of the American South, you just don’t bother using all the words you need to. Splice ‘em together like a damned botanist.” She said playfully. Locus gave a stellar nod, but the way his shoulders were shaking told her he was laughing.

“I’m afraid I can’t relate. I’ll inform the troops.” Locus said in good nature and he turned, walking away. She watched him retreat. Elizabeth was actually pretty fond of the guy. They fought well together, he listened to orders, not that she had to give him orders, he was fairly ingenuitive, knew his way around any gun that was put in his hands. Even with Ethan, she and David could’ve used another soldier like him on her last deployment.

The chatter on the radio was about a sneak attack on their base, it was dealt with accordingly. However there were a few casualties. She stared at the three bodies as they were carried to the makeshift morgue. They’d be cremated, and then sent home to their loved ones. The cremation made sending them home multitudes easier, even if it went against the family’s wishes.

“Lieutenant Summers?” Wills approached her she turned around and looked at the medic.

“Could you sign the release papers?” The medic asked. She sighed, stepped forward and grabbing the pad and pen, then signed the three forms.

Locus stood with the other soldiers, watching their commanding officer. She was still very young, the death of her subordinates still brought her some sort of toil. He almost envied her, still being so raw.

“Fuckin’ greenhorn. What’s she going to do, lock herself in her room for the next three days.” Felix said bitterly, Locus looked over his shoulder at him. Actually wanting to punch Felix in the face, first time in a while.

“Try to have some sensitivity, Felix, I think she’s been through a lot, despite being so young. Don’t you remember what she said, her first day here?”

“Nope, what?” Felix replied, rather care free. Locus rolled his eyes.

“She lost her entire platoon except for one other person. Instead of pulling them, the military only sent her a SPARTAN. Lieutenant Summers has survived things that few men have. She deserves your respect, Felix.” Locus told him sternly. Felix looked at him, tightening his grip on his rifle, then looked back at Summers as she watched the medic retreat to the medical tent.

“Okay… alright, I get it. But… you know, I think she might need to talk to someone.” Felix said, sounding as humane as he could manage. Locus looked back at Summers, her helmet was off, dangling dangerously from the crooked tips of her fingers.

“Locus, you do it.” One of the other soldiers suggested, a gentle shove in her direction came from behind him. He cast a glance at the soldier, a skittish Private First Class with darting eyes. He wasn’t going to last long, be it from death or simply surviving long enough to get sent home and out of the military.

“Why me?” He asked. Felix scoffed, turning to him.

“Uh, because you’re her favorite, clearly. Why else do we send you to give her the bad news.” Felix told him. Locus gave an impatient sigh, then looked at her, she did look like she could use someone. Locus reached up and undid the clasps of his helmet.

“Oh-ho, taking off the helmet? What, you like her?” Felix said. Locus didn’t bother with a response, just lifted the helmet off and gave him a fed up look then went to Summers’s side. She looked up at him as he approached.

“The men are worried about you.” Locus said simply. She gave a heavy sigh, almost like she was trying to expel her very soul from her body. She looked tired. Her voice was always so chipper, her first day she had looked so bright, dual colored eyes shining.

“I appreciate the concern, Ortez.” She told him, sounding just as tired as she looked. During the attack, she had been giving orders and personally providing medical aid to one of the now dead privates. Locus was afraid he was going to have to pull her off the soldier himself. She had come to her senses and stepped away herself, trembling terribly with awful skippy breaths that resonated in the dead silence of the after battle. She really wasn’t fit to lead. Everyone knew it, but out of respect for her, no one challenged her.

“Are you going to be okay?” He asked her, staring into the blue and brown eyes, wide like that of a deer.

“I’ve survived worse.” She told him. He didn’t realize that she would be saying that to him more often in the future. He didn’t know that it was simply something she said to dismiss concern.

“I’m aware.” Locus said, giving her a small smile. It was one she didn’t return, but nodded, then turned her back and went to her bunk.

Two days later he saw her patrolling the rapports by herself. Soldiers really weren’t supposed to patrol by themselves at night. He left his post, three of them before he left would be fine. Locus climbed the ladder and stepped up in front of her. She was watched the west.

“Lieutenant Summers.” He said, announcing his presence. The visor of her helmet turned towards him and she was quiet for a moment.

“Hello Sergeant Ortez. You’ve left your post.” She said pointedly, half-hearted though.

“There were three soldiers at my post. I only see you up here. Rules are rules, Lieutenant.” He told her, she chuckled softly, looking back out over the rolling fields, towards the lights of the alien city.

“Why did you join the military, Sam?” She asked, the use of his first name coming from her lips made him stop for a moment. This wasn’t a CO speaking with her underling, this was a young soldier speaking to a more experienced one.

“Family tradition.” He told her, she gave an impressed hum, then looked at him.

“You wanna know why I joined?” Summers asked. Locus shrugged.

“I wanted the military to pay for my college tuition. I wanted to be a psychiatrist. You think I could help people with my issues?” She asked him, Locus wasn’t sure if he wanted to answer. Or if she wanted him to answer.

“Your issues aren’t that bad, Lieutenant.” He said, daring. She laughed, looking away.

“I can hardly handle the death of my subordinates, Locus.” Lieutenant said audaciously.

“It’s when you can handle them emotionlessly is when you need to worry.” Locus said, sounding a bit more stern than he would have liked.

“There’s no arguing that you’re young, and even though you lived through what happened with your last platoon-”

“First, they were my first platoon.” She cut him off. He stopped, looking at her with wide eyes and a slack jaw. It had been a few deployments of his own before he witnessed death on such a large scale, her first platoon…

“You mentioned being deployed with a SPARTAN on your first mission… and your last deployment.” He said, connecting the dots in his head. She had only been deployed once before this. This was her second deployment, and they put her in charge?

“Yeah… I called for evac for me and David. Instead they told me that extraction was… not necessary that they would send reinforcements, we would be able to live off of the rations we had, just being two of us. They told us to sit tight, wait for reinforcements, and when we came home, there were medals of honor with our names on them.” She said, sounding bitter and broken.

“I had to ship off body after body… and all they wanted to give me for it was a stinking medal.” Summers said, then gave a ragged sigh.

“I suppose I should be grateful. They sent that SPARTAN and David became infatuated. I always love the way his eyes light up when he talks about someone he loves.” She said. This confused Locus.

“The SPARTAN the military sent you took your husband and you’re thankful?” Locus asked, maybe she did have a few screws loose.

“No, Ortez, David and I are poly. Besides, even if we weren’t, it’s not like it would’ve mattered, SPARTANs go from platoon to platoon, hardly running into the same people twice. He would’ve come back to me.” She said laughingly. He looked over the hills himself.

“You were deployed with your husband?” Locus asked. She shrugged.

“I had thought I was lucky, guess I am really. All the people that died and the one that losing would have made me crazy was the one that lived. We knew each other since childhood. Got together when we were fifteen.” Lieutenant told him.

“There is no love like your first love.” Locus said, she looked at him, he could sense the grin, the little swell of her chest as she gave a breathy laugh.

“Didn’t have you pegged as a poet, Ortez. Who was your first love?” She said, he looked at the horizon.

“Her name was Rosalind. She lived a few apartments down from my mother’s. We would sneak up to the rooftop at night and talk until the colony’s six o’clock alarm went off. I’m from a Jupiter colony, the sun didn’t rise every day.” Locus told her. She hummed.

“Hey, same solar system… we’re a long way from home, aren’t we, Ortez?” She told him, sounding wistful.

“Do you miss her sometimes?” She asked after a few minutes of quiet.

“On very rare occasions do first loves work out, but yes. I miss her sometimes. Reminds me of better times.” He told her. Lieutenant gave another hum. She was thoughtful.

They patrolled together, talking, watching the sky turn pink as the planet’s sun rose. He hadn’t connected with someone like that in years. She was complex, her being ran deep, almost like she was hooked into the very universe itself.

“Alright, you two, go rest up.” The other CO ordered as he approached them. Lieutenant nodded and bid Locus ‘goodnight’ even though it was morning and then went towards the quarters.

“Hey Locus, you totally bailed on your post.” Felix’s voice broke through the sleep deprived haze Locus had fell under. He looked at him, weighing the options of not bothering to answer to Felix’s tease.

“You’re getting lazy. Better shape up soldier!” Felix continued, laughing, and putting on a farce drill sergeant esque accent.

“I was with a patrol that needed an extra man.” Locus defended himself. Felix gave a daring laugh.

“Yeah, I know. Lieutenant Summers, you’re getting pretty close to her aren’t you?” Felix said.

“I suppose.” He answered, Felix looked away, watching the base come back to life. At night, machinery use was supposed to be kept at a minimum, to avoid unnecessary detection.

“You should be careful. She’s young. Could get bored of you. She’s also married, and I know he’s not around at the moment, but every deployment ends sooner or later. She’ll go back to him.” Felix warned.

“You act as though the Lieutenant and I are involved.” Locus said, giving Felix a look.

“Laurens told me he overheard you two, talking about love and shit. What should I assume?” Felix replied.

“She was vulnerable, Lieutenant Summers needed to talk.” He told Felix.

“Oh and you’re definitely the type to just lend somebody a shoulder to cry on. Be careful, Sam, again, she’s young, she’ll get tired of you.” Felix told him. Locus chose to disregard that comment. She wouldn’t. There was nothing to get tired of.

#Locus rvb #Felix rvb #original character #rvb #Survival and Perseverance

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dulliverstravels-blog · 7 years

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A concept

Some people think when you die you go to heaven. Well I suppose it would be hell in my case, but that didn’t happen so I guess they were wrong. Turns out, the guys who completely guessed what happens after you die were not fully accurate. Surprised? As a hardened atheist and spiritual buzzkill, I was.

When I died I was only 15. Did I kill myself? No, but if I had known my life was going to be that short I would've. Not because I hate myself or anything, but it would've been way more interesting than a car crash. I wish I could've gone out on my terms, but death isn't always like that. Anyway, the important part of this story isn't what my life would've been like if I hadn't died. In fact, it's not my life at all.

I'll start from the moment it all transpired. I'll spare you the details, but it was a cement truck and I was on a bike. I was in some pretty terrible pain before I went into shock, and at that point anyone could see I wasn't going to be saved. I died before the ambulance even got there. As for what happened next, I watched my parents arrive to the scene and cry for a little bit, soon I was cremated and my funeral was two weeks later. And then I watched my family and friends continue to mourn my death for years. By my 20th birthday, pretty much everyone had forgotten about me. By my 80th, everyone who had been close to me was dead. I watched and watched until every record of my life was deleted and the last person who knew I existed had passed away without telling anyone else my name. 171 years after my birth, I was finally forgotten by humanity. That's when the good part of the afterlife started.

They won't tell you this at church but when you die you have to stay on earth until you have no earthly attachments (except for people who committed suicide, they go somewhere else first, no ones really sure where) to meet god. Yeah that's right, god is real. But he's not old and he's not even a guy, it's just a block of cheese. God created cheese in its image, not men. I guess that got lost in translation when the scriptures were being created or something. Anyway, until I was ready to meet god I was forced to hang around wherever I was remembered by someone. My great great great great grandnephew was the last person I saw before my chains came loose. I was pretty lucky; Because I was only 15 when I died, I didn't meet many people or accomplish anything. This considerably reduced my time shackled to the earth. Most people have to wait more than twice as long as I did. Certain unlucky pharaohs ended up wandering the earth for millennia. Poor guys.

Earth isn't all bad I guess, for the first couple decades I had some freedom. Once I got into my later years, I had to follow around certain distant family members while they went about their lives, unable to change anything. Meeting god was the first interesting thing that happened to me anytime after I turned 150. Another thing everyone lied about: every living organism meets god, not just the ones who paid for heaven premium. God is always happy to see a human in the afterlife because most likely he's been in trillions of simultaneous meetings with amoeba all day. God doesn't talk though, cheese doesn't have a mouth of course. When god wants you to know something, you just know it. As soon as I arrived in the universe where the meetings are conducted, I knew that god was cheese and that I had a choice to make.

Either I could live in a universe where I was god but I couldn't leave that universe, or I could explore every universe with only the power to watch and experience the worlds as their respective gods intended.

At first the answer seemed obvious. If I was god in my own universe, I could just recreate the conditions of my home universe and all of the other universes too, I'd be god after all. Then a realization struck me. If I was god in my own universe, I would still be trapped within the confines of my brain. Making a universe from scratch would probably be fun at first, but there would never be anything in that universe I didn't already know about. Then again, if I created a new person in my own universe, wouldn't they have different ideas than I? But alas, as god I would be all knowing and therefore none of my creations would do things that I hadn't predicted already. Would I have the power to forget what I knew about my universe? The questions I posed to myself haunted me, but god refused to answer them. I had made my choice.

I did have all of eternity to choose, but I figured why not get started on eternity while I'm still young, and informed god that I would be a traveler between existing universes. I later found out that it was mostly the amoebas who chose the other option, and their universes didn't end up very interesting. As it turned out, the all knowing part isn't really true; if you're god, the universe you create is just a manifestation of your own mind. Amoebas minds don't manifest into much, but humans made some interesting places. Also there's something to be said for the worlds created by koalas. They're so beautiful and relaxing, honestly koalas must have fantastic lives.

After I made my choice, I arrived in some kind of lobby. Basically there are only a few important things to know about the way wanderers find universes to wander in. First, you don't get to know who know who made whatever universe you're in unless they tell you, but for most of them it's pretty obvious what kind of creature made them. Second, you don't have to choose a universe at random. The most visited universes each week are always available to explore, and some of gods favorites stay up all the time. For example, every religion has at least one universe made by some guy who was really salty about how the afterlife turned out and decided to make a universe where it really did work like their parents said it would. And some of them are very very well made, so god basically puts them up on the fridge for everyone to see.

Unfortunately for me, no celebrities or historical had made any universes by the time I got to the afterlife, because they were still remembered by people on earth. But still, the universes that existed were rich and interesting. I visited a world where the only thing that existed was books, all written by various authors who had visited that universe with an eternity to spare and wrote down their entire life experience down to every detail. I stayed there for years and read through the lives of thousands of people I had never heard of. Well, all except one that was written by my niece's middle school vice principle. I would never have guessed he was a crack dealer. There were universes for movies too. College lectures, fan fiction, food from every culture and time period, worlds where the earth really was flat, worlds where pianos had three times as many keys and everyone communicated by composing symphonies, worlds where everyone reenacted battles from the civil war but with laser guns instead of bayonets. And of course, when the most ancient beings got tired of existence, they could go to the universe where they clear your memory and put you into whatever new universe god is creating at the moment.

Sounds pretty crazy right? It's not like this is any crazier than what people on earth still claim to be certain about.

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dontshootmespence · 7 years

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Passive-Aggressive Partnership

Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 / Part 4 @coveofmemories

Part 5

-----

“Well, don’t keep us in suspense, my statuesque God of Chocolate Thunder,” Garcia said, “Who did Boy Wonder go out with?”

“Y/N,” Morgan replied with a smile. “So much for her being obnoxious and annoying.”

When Morgan looked around the room, everyone was in varying states of surprise and anything but surprised. Garcia was stunned. Emily wore a knowing smile. Hotch and Rossi, of course, weren’t fazed at all. “It’s about damn time he asked her out,” Rossi exclaimed, raising his eyebrows as Spencer walked back into the room to stunned silence.

“Why is everyone so quiet?” Spencer asked, sitting down at the table with the god-given elixir that was his cup of coffee. “Were you waiting for me to start?”

“No,” Hotch said, surprising everyone else by being the first one to talk. “It’s just that when you left the room, you left your phone on the table.” It was so rare for Hotch to be smiling at work, no less in the conference room, where such grotesque, demented crimes were discussed, but there he was, teasing Spencer. “You got a text.”

Immediately, the confused look on Spencer’s face turned to a busted one. He still tried to play it off though. “I’ll answer it later. No big deal.”

“No big deal!” Garcia asked, eliciting laughter from the rest of their friends. “No big deal? You’re going out with Y/N!”

Spencer slapped his hands over his face, burying his head to try and contain his embarrassment. Not that she was embarrassing, he just didn’t know how to handle talking about his romantic life (or more often, his lack of one) in front of his friends. “We went on one date,” he said quietly, trying as hard as he could to downplay the situation.

Of course, that didn’t work.

“You’ve only gone on one date so far,” Morgan replied with a sly smile. “She said, ‘I had a great time last night. Looking forward to the next one.’”

“I thought you said she was obnoxious,” Emily laughed. She couldn’t count the amount of times Spencer had complained about having to work with her. It was hysterical every time because he was the only one that didn’t seem to get that the reason they butted heads so much was because they were all too similar.

“She is obnoxious!” Spencer exclaimed, remembering the way she called him stubborn. He wasn’t stubborn, she was. “She said I was stubborn.”

“You are stubborn!” everyone said simultaneously, laughing at Spencer’s expression of indignation. “You’re being stubborn about being stubborn.” Morgan couldn’t contain his laughter - this is what he had been saying for years.

Spencer scrunched his mouth shut. He wasn’t going to get anywhere with his friends today. He just had to resign himself to being ragged on for the remainder of the day. “I am not stubborn. Can we just get to the case please?” he asked, desperate to turn the attention away from himself.

“Sure thing, lover boy,” JJ laughed.

-----

Their case out in California was different to say the least. While their normal victims tended to be children, teenagers or adults, their three victims so far were a minimum of 60 years old.

“So all three of these victims had in-home care after a surgery and died suddenly of the flu, all within a 15 block radius?” Reid asked Garcia over the connection on the jet.

Despite the distance between the BAU and the airborne jet, the furious sound of typing could be heard throughout the jet. “All three of the victims, Geraldine Walters, Harvey Burns, and George Johnson were all relatively healthy, but needed help with daily activities after surgery. Geraldine had a knee replaced, Harvey had a hip replaced and George had a stent put in his heart. Other than that, no one had any issues, except that they all came down with the flu after their surgeries. Geraldine and Harvey have unfortunately already been cremated, so we aren’t going to be able to get anything from them, but after George died, his daughter contacted the police. She knew the other two victims in passing and claimed she found it odd that three relatively healthy people died within such a short time and with no actual cause of death,” she continued. “She claimed that her father had never had the flu in his life; he never got sick.”

“It is odd,” Emily said, looking between the files of all three victims. “The likelihood of having that many healthy individuals come down with the flu during a time when the flu isn’t common and die suddenly in such a concentrated area is unlikely, but it could just be a coincidence, and with two of three already having been cremated, we’re going to have a difficult time proving that anything nefarious happened.”

Everyone agreed, wondering if this trip was going to turn out to be a waste. But better safe than sorry. “Well, working under the assumption that something nefarious is going down, what kind of person are we looking for?” Rossi asked.

“If they were actually sick, it would be considered an angel of mercy style killing,” Spencer started, “but given that they were relatively healthy, we are looking for someone sadistic, and although serial killers of this kind tend to be male, we definitely can’t rule out a female killer either. As a matter of fact, when it comes to this type of killer, a female is even more likely than the typical serial killer.”

JJ rolled her eyes. “Typical serial killer. We have such wonderful jobs, don’t we?”

“Alright,” Hotch started, “When we touch down, Emily, you go interview Geraldine’s son and daughter. JJ, take Harvey’s son. Reid, you and Morgan take George’s daughter and the in-home nurse he had, and Rossi, you and I will go to the funeral home that took care of all three funerals. Morgan and Reid, ask George’s daughter if she objects to her father being exhumed for an autopsy.”

As the plane started to descend, they all hoped that this was a false alarm, because if they did have some kind of angel of mercy, sadistic or otherwise, on their hands, they were going to be extremely difficult to catch - at least without another victim.

-----

With JJ, Emily, Hotch and Rossi off to pursue other avenues, Morgan and Reid headed off to interview George’s daughter and his at-home nurse. “Hello,” Morgan said as a young woman about 30 years old opened the door. “I’m Agent Morgan, this is Dr. Reid, are you Helena, George’s daughter?”

“Yes, come in,” she said, inviting the two agents inside. “Thank you for coming. Everyone says I’m overreacting, but I really feel like something is wrong.”

“It could be nothing,” Reid said, “But in cases like this where many people die in a short period of time in a concentrated area, we do what’s called an equivocal death investigation to determine the cause of death. Can you tell us about your father? How was his health beforehand?”

As the three sat down in the middle of the living room, alongside George’s at-home nurse, Fiona, Helena did her best to describe her father through the tears. “Besides his heart problems, which were genetic and he was ready for as he got older, he was unbelievably healthy. Heart problems run in our family. He had a 90% blockage in one of his arteries, despite the fact that he was healthier than I was, so he had a stent put in. That’s when I called Fiona to help him with his daily routine while I was at work.”

“I can’t believe he’s gone,” Fiona stuttered, “He was such a sweet man.”

“Fiona,” Morgan asked, “How long had you been taking care of Mr. Johnson?”

She took a deep breath, linking her arm into Helena’s. The two had been friends since college. “A little over two weeks,” she said, “depending on how he was feeling, it could’ve been another two to four weeks.”

“And how long had he been sick?” Reid asked.

“About four days.”

“Last two questions,” Morgan said, “Was there anyone but the two of you with him in the past four days? And is it okay if we exhume your father? There is a chance that something will show up on the autopsy.”

Fiona pulled out a card with the name and number of her in-home care agency on it. “I had a family emergency of my own to deal with earlier in the week, so I couldn’t make it here until the afternoon. I was told that the agency sent two different nurses to cover those mornings.”

“If exhuming my father proves that he was actually murdered, like I think he was, then you do whatever you need to.”

“Ok, thank you. Please let us know if you can think of anything else that might help,” Reid said as the two stood up to leave.

Morgan and Reid walked outside, immediately contacting the agency to see who else treated Mr. Johnson. Spencer pulled out his phone to see a list of missed texts from the rest of the team. Emily and JJ both said that the first two victims’ children also said that their parents were ridiculously healthy, so coming down with the flu was out of the ordinary, while Hotch and Rossi said that the funeral home claimed there was nothing out of the ordinary. “Rossi purposely asked if anyone had any skin discoloration or if they could detect the scent of bitter almonds, but there was nothing out of the ordinary,” Reid said.

“What would that indicate?” Morgan asked as he pulled out into the street and toward the agency.

“Cyanide poisoning,” he replied. “But there was nothing.” As the two made their way to the agency, Spencer texted Y/N to let her know that he probably wouldn’t be back in time for their next tentative date. Thankfully, being in the same field, she was well aware of the difficulties and just extended her expertise if necessary.

“You got another date set up?” Morgan asked, trying to talk about anything but the case for a moment.

“We did,” he replied, “But I have a feeling this case is going to have us here for a while.”

“Me too.”

-----

Before heading back to the station, where the rest of the team had already convened, Reid and Morgan headed to the agency, where the head of the facility referred them to Mr. Johnson’s other nurses, Sam Meyers and Maryann Trotta.

“I don’t know,” Morgan said, leaving the agency and finally heading toward the station. “The way Maryann was talking about his symptoms, it was almost as if she hadn’t been treating him. She claimed he’d only been coughing slightly, while Fiona insists that he was violently ill.”

Spencer didn’t have a good feeling about her either. “She’s definitely hiding something. We just have to figure out what and why.”

And they needed to find out quickly. Minutes after they returned to the station, the local authorities got a call indicating there was another victim. “Jennifer Valesky died of flu-like symptoms about five blocks from George Johnson’s house. She was apparently healthy,” he said.

If they weren’t already feeling as though there was a killer on the loose, that cemented it. Four victims within a week and a half and in a now-17 block radius. “We have an angel of death in the area,” Hotch said.

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fic #spencer reid fanfiction #dontshootmespence #passive aggressive partnership

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gottaloveholtz · 7 years

Text

When You Have Cramps

Prompt: Imagine having really bad cramps and Holtzmann tries to make you feel better. Reader Gender: Female Note: I feel like this wasn’t as good as it could have been but here we are. I hope you like it!♥♥

You sprawled yourself on the window sill, groaning as another wave of pain washed over your lower abdomen. You had taken Midol about half an hour ago, but it wasn’t doing you any good. It didn’t even make a dent in the amount of pain that you were feeling. Your leg dangled outside of the window, as did one of your arms. You huffed, throwing a pencil and successfully hitting one of the passerby’s.

You shoved yourself further down, now having yourself in quite an awkward position. You rotated yourself so that the upper half of your body was dangling out the window. You wondered how much Midol you could possibly take in one day before you landed yourself in the hospital. You wiggled yourself further down the window, making sure not to go too far down. You just wanted to relieve pressure, not end up falling to your death.

“Hey, babyca-woah,” You heard Holtzmann say, “You alright, there?”

“I’m dying, I leave all earthly possessions to you.” You spoke dramatically.

“Cremation or burial?” Holtzmann joked back.

“Cremation, I want to do that vinyl death thing.” You said.

“Noted, but in the meantime, you wanna come back up here or are you enjoying being a bat?” She said, and you heard her walking over.

“I’d rather stay here and let the blood rush to my head until I pass out.” You said, and she tried not to laugh.

“Are you sick or just irritated?” She questioned, peeking out from the window.

“I’m on my period.” You said, groaning at the same time.

“I bet I can make you feel better.” She said, resting her head on your knees.

“Bet you can’t.” You said, looking up at her.

“Deal.” She said, taking the hand that was on your shirt and pulling you back up into the room.

“Wait I didn’t agree to-”

“No takebacks,” She said with her signature smile, “Alright, come here.”

You reluctantly followed, seeing as she had your hand and was half dragging you there already. You smiled a little at her actions, loving how she could be. She started explaining the thing she had invented a while ago, and you listened to every word she said. Well, when you weren’t just staring at her while she was moving around with enthusiasm and excitement.

“Lift your shirt up.” She instructed out of nowhere.

“Getting kinky, I like it.” You spoke, turning around and lifting your shirt up.

“Okay, three, two-BAM!” She spoke, harshly slapping the sticky pad on your back.

“OW!” You arched your back, “It’s supposed to be on one, Holtz.”

“I know.” She said, and you could practically hear the smile on her face.

“Hey, that actually feels a lot better.” You spoke and she clapped her hands.

“IT WORKS! I’m so glad it didn’t paralyze you, that would’ve been awful; I would’ve had to start back at square one with the design-” She started rambling.

“It could’ve paralyzed me?” You questioned, eyebrow raised.

“Yeah, because it impacts the nerves in the lower portion of your body, it could’ve destroyed them because of the electricity and the other things I got in that bad boy.” She said with a smile.

“That’s nice, Holtz.” You said after a moment, smiling and shaking your head.

#ghostbusters imagine #ghostbusters x reader #ghostbusters one shot #ghostbusters preference #ghostbusters #jillian holtzmann imagine #jillian holtzmann x reader #jillian holtzmann one shot #jillian holtzmann preference #holtzmann imagine #holtzmann one shot #holtzmann x reader #holtzmann x you #holtzmann preference

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carried-and-taken · 7 years

Note

For the survivor thing, can you write one for a scenario where just the girls survive?

Absolutely! This was supposed to be shorter but I got carried away. I haven’t really written anything in a while, and I guess I missed it! I hope you enjoy it, even if it’s somewhat rushed.

The awkward silence had been going on for around 45 minutes,and didn’t appear to be stopping anytime soon. It was the first time the fourof them had all been together since arriving at the Washington Lodge three daysearlier. Had it really only been three days? All of the girls felt it. Thatnight on the mountain had felt like an eternity. Now, the four of them sattogether, dressed in black, waiting for another funeral to start. Anotherfuneral for their close friends. Another funeral where there were no bodies.Another funeral that the Washingtons had to arrange only a year after the lastone.

It was the day Jess had been released from the hospital. Shecould feel the other girls watching her, probably waiting for her to fall outof her chair, or start crying, or start seizing again. She tried not to thinkabout it. Unfortunately, the only other thing she could focus on was Mike. “Wefound his remains in the lodge. Burned along with the building. Sorry for yourloss.” The officer hadn’t seemed very remorseful. Jessica wondered if hisparents had wanted to cremate him, or if it had been the only valid option afterthe state he was found in. They were burying an empty casket, so she imaginedit wasn’t their first choice. She turned her eyes on Emily. They had both losttheir boyfriend that night. Jess kicked herself for hoping that maybe it’d givethem something to bond over again.

Emily sat silently as Martha Washington gave her speech. Emhad always liked Josh’s mom. She had always been such a caring woman, makingsure none of her children or their friends had ever felt left out. Even now,she had been the one who suggested the boys should all share a funeral. Thatway, the other parents wouldn’t have to go through it on their own, and thegirls wouldn’t have to sit through four different painful sessions of misery. Although,Emily knew she wouldn’t have gone to four funerals if they had chosen to do itthat way. She would have shown up at Matt’s for sure, and Josh’s, but she hadn’tbeen very close to Chris, and there was no way she’d show her face at Mike’s.Not with Jess there looking so pathetic. She would have felt too guilty.

“I still can’t believe Chris is gone,” Ashley thought. Allshe could see when she closed her eyes was the most terrifying creature she’dever seen ripping his head off, right in front of her, and all she could feelwas the pain of not being able to do anything to stop it. Ashley criedshamelessly as the funeral proceeded. She couldn’t understand how the othergirls weren’t crying. The other three just stared blankly at the floor, attheir hands, at whatever. It was like they weren’t even there.

The night came to an end. People began to eat the sandwichesand salads that had been donated by the church. Sam couldn’t eat, though. Shebegan to wander through the funeral home looking for someone to talk to. Manyof the people there blamed her for one death or another, especially Mike’sfamily. Sam couldn’t blame them, she blamed herself for his and Josh’s death.If she had stayed with them, maybe she could’ve gotten Josh back home. If shehadn’t moved, Mike could have gotten out. There was no way a lot of the funeralguests could have known that, and still they looked at her like something wasnot right, like talking to her would be taboo. Sam found the other girlssitting quietly in the same chairs as before. They hadn’t moved at all, shesupposed.

“Hi,” she murmered.

Emily gave her a curt nod, while Ashley wiped her nose onher sleeve. Jess stayed perfectly still, her eyes seemed to be glossed over asif she were in a trance.

“How are you holding up?” Sam asked none of them inparticular.

“I’m alive,” Emily grunted. “That’s as good as I’m going toget for a while.”

“Is that such a good thing?” Ashley whimpered. Emily raisedan eyebrow.

“Yes, of course it is. What we experienced was tragic andawful, but I get to say that I came out on top. I beat it. I fought a fuckingwendigo and lived. No thanks to you, of course.”

“Em, she said she was sorry, don’t start this now.” Samwarned. “Ashley wasn’t the one holding the gun to your head.”

Emily rolled her eyes. “No, you’re right. Ashley, I’veforgiven Mike, so I guess I have to forgive you, too.”

“How considerate,” Ashley whimpered. “Thanks, Emily. I wasreally shaken up about Chris or I never would have-“

“Mike?” Jess muttered, looking up at them for the first timesince arriving. “You mentioned something about Mike? And a gun?”

Emily gritted her teeth as Ashley looked at the floor inshame.

“Jessica, forget about it, it doesn’t matter now,” Samcooed, but Jess pursued.

“Em?”

Emily sighed and looked at her former best friend with anewfound strength. “Jess, Mike wanted to shoot me. I was bitten by the monsterand he was scared I was going to turn into one, but he didn’t do it. He neverhad it in him to kill somebody, you and I both know that.”

Jess nodded shyly in agreement. “Yeah… He’s… he was a goodguy.” She felt tears welling up, and this time she didn’t blink them away.

“He was. I uh- came over here because I wanted to talk toyou guys,” Sam said. “Last year after Hannah and Beth, we went our separateways, and I don’t think that we should repeat that. I mean, think about what we’vebeen through, no one else is going to understand.”

Ashley nodded. “You’re right, we need to stick together. Iknow we’ve had our differences but there’s no one else around who’s seen what wehave.”

“We need to look out for each other,” Jess said hoarsely. “Makesure we don’t suffer alone.”

The girls looked at Emily, who suddenly seemed vacant. Shetried to speak, but at first, nothing came out. Then, Emily began to cry. “Idon’t ever want to lose anyone again,” she gasped.

The girls grabbed one another’s hands and walked outside,where it had begun to rain. Tomorrow would be a new day.

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extroversive-introvert · 6 years

Text

Matthew 5:4, and the Grief of Change

“Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.”

These are the words of Jesus, from the Beatitudes portion of the Sermon on the Mount. I’ll spend my life unpacking those three chapters, the very heart of the Gospel itself.

Let me tell you a bit about my poly friend Trevor. We entered poly at the same time, enrolled into the same school but in different courses, graduated together. Among all my non-Mass Comm FMS friends, he was my closest one. We happened to be in the same IS classes most of the time. Trevor was a man of invincible patience and quiet resolve. Outside of class, people always remarked on his kindness; it had this gentle strength that had the ability to lift people without inflating them as well as humble them without degrading them. Even when he was tired, he still made the effort to offer a smile (that was bright enough to light up any room/photo) and entertain stories and humour, and even when I was tired, he’d always initiate conversation. He was pure sunshine, and I didn’t deserve a friend like him.

Trevor had an upbeat, happy-go-lucky personality that endeared him to so many, but I saw through the veneer pretty quick and knew he was hurting badly, because I fight suicidal thoughts on a daily basis too, and still do. Being bubbly and animated and self-deprecating is also how I bury my demons. And it kills me inside now that even though we talked several times at length about our battles with depression, I wasn't there for him in the end when I had ample chance to. I wish I could've told him that he wasn’t the only fighter. I wish I could hug him and his scars and say "I swear it'll be okay, not today but one day". So when I received the news, my heart broke, because as much as I wish I had the capacity to carry the weight of both our tortured souls, I know I'm not strong enough.

So when I was offshore on NS duties finding out he had taken his life by jumping from the 23rd storey of his HDB flat, time stood still. It was beyond anything I’d ever experienced before. An exhausting, lonely heartache. Grief is a non-linear process; it comes and goes in waves like the tideline. There are periods where there’s an underlying dullness but sometimes and without warning, there’s a searing sharpness that rends heart cartilage like a chainsaw. It’s a jackhammer to the inner recesses of the soul. Recall the ache you feel when you’ve been away from your brothers for too long and the drive to be reunited and the resolution the moment you see them again. You could anticipate and count it down; work towards it. Now amplify that ache until every breath is like toxic fire and your chest physically locks up and feels like collapsing from the weight and you realise that ache can never be soothed in your lifetime. It hurts to the extent the loss doesn’t feel survivable. If love could have saved me, he would have lived forever.

There’s no resolution. Only the numbing nothingness their absence leaves you with when you go to bed. You can only wait for the promise of heaven and even with that hope, if you skip the airy theological bullshit and are honest with yourself, you have no tangible conception of what that looks like. That makes it less comforting than it probably should be. All you have left is faith. When all logic is stripped from you, you’re forced into the corner of faith where you have no control over the nightmare. Faith only offers the hope that your loss can be redeemed. Faith is the bridge between suffering and mercy.

I remember booking out early in a state of catatonic numbness to catch his cremation service at Mandai Crematorium. his aunt showed me the suicide note. Reading it, coupled with seeing his face stitched back together fractured my heart beyond repair. I remembered his note including that he wanted clubbing music played throughout the duration of his wake. I laughed perhaps the saddest laugh I’ve ever laughed, because that was so him. Even past the end. If he were still around he’d probably make some inappropriate pun joke about being forever 21. I remember how badly I broke down when his whole NDU company gave their loudest hooyah as his coffin moved towards the flames. I remember being on the bus back from the crematorium showing his father, with his tired strength, a photo of Trevor at MBS with the angel wings, months before he took his life. I regret that we never took any together, procrastinating like there’d be a next time. I’ve come to the conclusion that grief never really changes. You never “grow out of it”. Time never really heals it. You just sorta forget what it feels like not to be broken, until brokenness becomes the new norm you learn to walk through every day. It’s like the ocean; sometimes the waves are calm and rhythmic, and other days overwhelming, but always there. The only thing I can learn to do is swim until I’m outta strength.

It’s no secret by now that I’m uprooting myself from my hometown of Singapore and moving indefinitely for the long term. I’ve migrated so many times since 2001 when I first left Singapore, but this one feels different; it’ll be the first time I’ll be overseas by myself. Axing out my support networks and rebuilding afresh.

I am an emotional person, and despite my happy-go-lucky energetic demeanours, by default I’m a deeply sad, melancholic person. I’m usually numb to goodbyes (which is probably why I don’t want people to send me off at the airport because it feels disingenuous to me) but I can anticipate this will be a loss I may not fully face or grieve, although I think I would have in the past. This is an ending to a chapter in my life that will change my course, and looking back every time I relocated I thought I was coping the best I could, but I tried to get past it as quickly as possible, perhaps at the expense of truly going through it.

I tend to desensitise myself from the hysteria of such maudlin feelings, distracting myself with other things. Good things, like finding out what comes next and embarking on a new quest, knowing there has to be more where that came from. As well as not-so-good things, like trying to cling to connections like driftwood to aid treading waters and avoid drowning. I should have let go and trusted I would fall into an ocean of love and grace, but all I can see is a sea of sorrow and forgetfulness. But in all those feelings: sadness, regret, depression, even being suicidal, I didn’t feel alone.

These are two of many stories that I tell, not because they’re the perfect examples of the mourning beatitude that this post is about, but simply because they are intensely personal, and they are mine.

If you’ve read this far, you will have your own personal and painful stories of grief, the change/transition it brought, the wounds you carry, and the ever-ongoing healing process. At the end of the day, grief is different for everyone. And what makes pain so unbearable is the way it isolates us from one another with an innate hurdle to overcome in order to communicate it. We try to bring a crumb of comfort by saying things like “I know how you feel”, but even if we have been through a similar experience, those words are trite, untrue, and inauthentic. How can we possibly know how someone else feels? We can relate, but we can’t intimately know, because it’s so different for everyone. So maybe the best alternative we have is to join people in their sadness, loss, and/or rage.

And that is the God behind this beatitude. Compassion, broken into its Latin root words are “com” (meaning “together”) and “pati” (meaning “suffering”). Therefore, to “have compassion” just as Jesus did on the crowd that gathered to hear Him preach this very sermon, is to be willing to “suffer together” with people. This is the God of the Bible, the story of the One who hears the cry of the disillusioned, hurting, victimised, broken, lonely. God hears the blood of Abel crying out from holy ground. He goes to Sodom and Gomorrah personally to investigate the outcry that reached Him. He heard the groans of the Israelites in the misery of their slavery. Throughout Scripture, God hears the cry and draws close. The tears of the brokenhearted, downtrodden, crestfallen, vulnerable, are irresistible to His love. He is drawn like a magnetic force to their side.

Whenever i read “Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted”, I automatically think about the loss/death of someone close, and we can’t bear to be apart from. This pain feels way to deep down in the soul to ever recover from. The grief that comes with that kind of loss, especially if far too premature (like Trevor, who was two weeks away from his 22nd birthday), is beyond words. But grief is also more than that.

The way we experience grief is as unique as our fingerprints. Whatever our grief may be, it’s not really about the experience of grief itself but the onset of the change it causes. Especially those transitory changes we don’t want to happen. There is a no-judgment zone when it comes to grief. There’s no grief that’s “worse than this one”. Whatever happened, whatever you’re facing, whatever curveball change that has derailed the track of your life, that is your grief. Comparison sends you down a path of the deepest darkness. You will always find someone better off and worse off than you.

This mourning beatitude is like a trumpet blast that opens its arms and welcomes us all in. Maybe you’ve been abused, raped, had a miscarriage or abortion, experienced divorce, separation, job firing, career-ending injury, had a terminal diagnosis, were sentenced after conviction, sent your child off to college (like my parents in a couple weeks) etc... things like these and more force us into surprising and unwanted transitions of some kind. Unexpected change shifts the course of our lives, and there’s grief in that.

We can also mourn what’s never been. For instance, maybe you were abandoned/orphaned at a young age and grew up without knowing your parents or had a facsimile of them, or perhaps through happenstance you were born into poverty or underprivileged/oppressed minority. We are missing something that would have been there for us had our circumstances been different, and locked deep inside us, there is a latent sadness awaiting to be unleashed. There is a river of sorrow flowing through all of us deeply, and if we knew how to access it any moment, we would all be sobbing messes and emotional wrecks.

This deep sorrow is not necessarily a negative thing. Quite the opposite, actually. It’s the sorrow of not being home or where we belong. The homesick sorrow. The Welsh have a word that has no direct English transliteration: “hiraeth”. The wistful sorrow of what our eyes have seen over the years. The question is whether we are going to be willing to access this deep river of sorrow and find it, befriend it, let its currents carry you through the season of grieving.

Many people at this point would ask me “why do we have to go there? It’s the past. It’s been done. It can't be erased.” Or perhaps a more modern pop culture reference: “no one can rewrite the stars”. My response would be: “because if you mourn, you will be comforted. Jesus promises that. The inference here is that if you don’t, you won’t be.” The flight from sorrow leads to the loss of hope, and the downward spiral from there usually implodes as self-destruction.

And fi you feel as though you don’t have a reason to mourn/deserve to mourn/want to mourn, the Greek word for “mourn” is pentheo. That’s the word Matthew uses here to describe that very beatitude. It refers to someone mourning the power of the wicked over the righteous. This is about the people who are at the bottom, the trapped and helpless and in anguishing despair because of it. This is about the person who works three jobs and still can’t make ends meet. This is about the single mother who can’t support her children even on welfare. It’s about the parents who read all the books and give their very best to a child who continues to make poor decisions. It’s about the misfit student who feels left out and misunderstood and mocked by classmates. It’s about the little girl who has been forced into prostitution. It’s about the boy who feels nobody can understand their pain and wants to jump off the 23rd storey of their HDB flat. It’s about me not knowing what the hell I’m doing relocating to Australia when I’ve established a decent social pillar of support here in Singapore and wondering if I’m making the wrong decision. God is the God of the suicidal as well. In other words, there isn’t any place in the human story you can look where you won’t find a little panther. This is about all of us when we’re helpless and alone, and rock bottom has caved in and we’re sinking further still.

Welcome to the upside down message of the Beatitudes, where we find out that in the emptiness of the void, when all hope seems lost, when it’s irreparably unfixable, when we are grieving the absence of righteousness and justice, when there is no joy... God is on our side.

So what does the second part of that verse, “comfort”, look like?

If you’re like me, I often tell myself “I’m trying to get rid of this grief but I can’t seem to do that. I’m trying to get past it but can’t.” The thing is, the more we ‘try’, the more we resist. The only way is to go through it. We have to feel it, headfirst and full on. And not only feel it, but have people around who sees us. The simple act of being seen unlocks permission to grieve.

It’s a hard thing, having your life so radically changed one day, and then the next day to see everyone else carrying on as if nothing happened. Does anybody see me? Does anybody care? These are still anxiety-spurring questions I deal with when I look ahead to my departure, from Singapore this month, as well as in the (hopefully distant) future, from this earth.

Maybe that’s the heart of pain. We long for a witness. We long for people to see what we’re going through. We long for someone to affirm our cataclysmic devastation. We weren’t hardwired to live alone. No man is an island. We were made for each other, and nothing separates us as quickly as pain we cannot relate to.

The first time I left Singapore in 2001, a month after 9/11, I stayed a couple months in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, before settling down in San Francisco, California for five years. One of the most famous landmarks is the Golden Gate Bridge. Or perhaps, infamous, because it’s the most renowned place in the world where people commit suicide. One side faces the Pacific Ocean, and the other faces the city. The majority of people who jump, jump from the city side. I wonder if they’re looking for witnesses. And it doesn’t take much imagination to hear their souls screaming “There is no one to comfort me” (much like Lamentations 1:21) as they commit to plunging over the edge.

There’s a village somewhere in the world where if someone dies, all the households in the village change something in their own yard or on their house that every night. The next day, when those who are mourning leave their house, they not only know for themselves that their world has changed, but see that the world has changed and that things will not be the same for everyone around them too. We should all have tradition. The most healing hee can offer is to let the pain of others disrupt us and our neat little schedules.

Shiva in the Jewish tradition is like this. It means seven in the Jewish language, and signifies the seven days of mourning after a close family member dies and is buried. The family commemorates by an act called “sitting shiva”, where they receive visitors into the bereaved home. It’s an ancient ritual dating back to what Joseph did in Genesis when his father Jacob died. The purpose of the visit is to offer comfort, and that comfort comes sometimes without words. It’s the gift of presence, seeing their grief with human eyes, and joining with them in it. It’s not just being there, it’s being present and in the moment.

This can unlock a piece of Jesus’ baffling announcement about comfort to those who mourn, because in our pain and in our grief, in the injustice of our situations, when we want answers in plain black and white, when we get angry and disenfranchised, when we are crying out for clarity and a way past this grief, when we are in the dark, deafening, lonely silence, we are offered presence, and God finds us in the places we are least likely to look. How often the expression is “Oh my God” when we see something good or evil. We intrinsically want answers. What is offered is the ministry of presence. Blessed are those who ache, for wherever they are, God is in their midst.

There’s more than one grief lurking beneath the surface, waiting to be awakened by another triggered changing of the seasons, or epoch transition. So while the wound is as vast as the sea and we mourn loved ones lost and/or the farewell of cherished places as we leave them behind, as we detach from careers ending, as we ache in the absence of something or someone we once had or we never had, we too, can grieve loss.

And just like in the grass in spring, the sunrise after the night, the thawing after the winter, we discover the invitation to carry on.

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