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little-diable · 4 years

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Last breath - Negan (angst/fluff)

Been writing on this for quite a while now. Enjoy. xxx

The song I’m mentioning is called “crash this train” by Joshua James.

Word count: 2k+

Warning: mentions death and smut

(Y/n) was going through all the different scenarios her mind could come up with, she was pretty sure, that she didn’t have much time left, the walkers were slowly encircling her. Groans were hallowing through the dark forest, her hands were calloused, legs were shaking, blood was dripping down from her lip, she was a mess.

The sky was dark, it must have been around 7 pm by now, she lost track of time a long time ago. (Y/n)’s eyes wandered down to the watch on her wrist, it stopped working a few months back, but she never had the strength to pull it off, it had been a present from her grandma, something that reminded her of better times.

(Y/n) had managed to find a community not too long ago, became friends with them, at least that’s what she liked to think, but as soon as they noticed, that (y/n) wasn’t one to follow meaningless rules and orders, they kicked her out, carried her out into the forest and left her to die.

Death didn’t scare her, she wasn’t one to be blinded by her fears, liked to keep a clean head, to not think about the what ifs. She had a good soul, would give her life for her friends and family, not that she did have any left, she’d walk through hell and back for her people.

Her fingers were tightly gripping her machete, (y/n) always had been a good fighter, she was able protect herself, she had to survive somehow after all. She was fast, knew how to move her body, where to hit the walkers, in order to stay alive. She tried to stay rational, mind wandering back to her previous training sessions with her dad, he had been a sheriff, knew how to shoot a gun and he also knew his way around a machete.

“Never take your eyes off them, try to move as fast as you can.” His deep voice rang through her head, tears began to blur her vision, her dad had been her safe haven, her saving grace, her best friend, living without him by her side did hurt, every single day. Anger swapped over her, she didn’t have enough time with him, she’d do everything in that moment to hug him one last time.

By now it was quite obvious, that there were too many walkers around, their groans shot shivers up her spine, (y/n) knew that her end was near, she knew that she would die in peace, ready to leave this earth behind. Not having to worry about her safety any longer, not having to think about finding food day in and out, didn’t sound as bad.

The temperature began to drop, it was relatively cold for that time of the year, her leatherjacket couldn’t protect her any longer, (y/n) would either get eaten by the walkers or freeze to death. It was too dark to see any near by walkers, so (y/n) slowly sunk to her knees, eyes closed, hands not letting go of her weapon just yet.

Suddenly her mind took her back to a Monday afternoon, a few years back, she was driving around town, sitting on the passenger side of her best friends car. Joshua James voice rang through the speakers, “Cuz if it dies in cold, when the clouds start to roll, is it then that your soul, starts to bleed.” The memory brought a smile onto her lips. (Y/n) could remember how carefree she felt in that moment, life had been easy, nothing major to worry about. The sun had been shining down on them, sun rays dancing across her face, tickling her nose, the sound of her best friends laughter made her chuckle.

Light rain began to fall down on her, thunder rumbled through the sky, lighting momentarily gave her a second to take in her surroundings. Eyes finding the dead, cold ones of a few walkers in the distance, her breath began to hitch in her chest, probably because her heart was currently fighting a losing battle. This was her end, (y/n) was sure of it.

“Deep breaths my love.” Her moms voice reminded her once again, (y/n)s mind was taking her back to a better place, going through all her happy memories, a smile on her lips as she thought back to her life before the apocalypse. She felt content in that moment, ready to let go, if death would be this peaceful, (y/n) would be all in to finally take her last breath.

Her mind began to play a few tricks on her, (y/n) could feel her mothers soft hand touching her cold cheeks, reassuring her that she wouldn’t leave her side, a tear left (y/n)s eye as she tried to touch her. Of course, she couldn’t really feel her mothers hand, but a wave of calmness overcame her, just as if her mother was standing right in front of her.

“Don’t close your eyes, (y/n).” She couldn’t come up with the strength to fight against the will to let go any longer, (y/n) closed her eyes, she fell forward, cheeks pressed against the cold forest floor. “Just for a few minutes, mom,” left her lips, before finally giving into the darkness.

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He had been on one of his usual runs, trying to scavenge some food for his people, not talking about the bottles of whisky he liked to hide away for rough nights. It wasn’t unusual for him to walk around the forests near the sanctuary, of course with a few of his best fighters following him around, but Negan definitely didn’t expect to find a sleeping figure of a girl placed on the forest floor.

She was too far gone to notice that somebody was nearing, her heartbeat began to slow down, she didn’t have much time left. His eyebrows were pulled together, wondering what the fuck she was doing. Why wasn’t she trying to save herself? Negan wasn’t used to seeing people giving up that easily. Something inside of him was telling him to save her.

He crouched down next to her, feeling her fading pulse. “Fuck,” he checked her for any wounds and bite marks, as he couldn’t find any, he picked her up from the cold forest floor, threw her over his shoulder, walked towards the van that was parked a few feet away, killing some walkers here and there.

A scream left her lips as her eyes shot open, the way his shoulder was pressing into her abdomen, seemed to rip her out of her state. “Fuck, we don’t want to attract any unwanted attention, do we?” The voice made her shiver, breath hot against her neck, hand pressed over her mouth, now she realized that she was dangling over a strangers shoulder.

(Y/n) couldn’t help but feel relieved, she was safe, at least for the moment, she felt too tired to struggle against his hold, not caring about any “stranger danger” her mom used to warn her about. “Don’t die on me doll.” Negan picked up his speed, basically jogging towards the van.

She was shivering, her body was trembling against his hold, Negan wasn’t quite sure if it was because she was cold, or if she was scared of him. As much as an asshole he could be, Negan wanted her to feel safe around him, knowing that he wouldn’t let her die.

He placed her down on the passenger seat, not caring about the way her wet, dirty clothes were leaving stains on the seats, jogged around the car and managed to close the door just in time, escaping the walkers grip last minute. “Well, nice to meet you doll, I’m Negan, that’s Simon and Arat.” Just now (y/n) realized that a few other people were seated in the van, curious eyes watching her.

Her eyes rolled backwards, she breathed out a small whimper, her heart began to rapidly beat, she was going into shock. Negan wordlessly grasped the towel Simon pushed into his direction, trying to wipe away the blood from her chin and the cold sweat on her forehead. “Simon, you drive. Hurry, I don’t know how much time she has left.” He pulled her into the back of the van, placed in his lap, he desperately tried to keep her alive.

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She woke up in an unfamiliar room, trying to locate where she was currently at, eyes finding green ones, “good morning, sleeping beauty.” A smile on Negan's lips as he sipped on his glass of whisky. “Where am I?” (Y/n) cringed at how raspy her voice sounded, she still felt tired, exhausted, not realizing that she had slept for hours on end.

“At the sanctuary, place of my community. Welcome home doll.” He rose from the sofa, grabbed her a glass of water and placed himself next to her on the big bed. She couldn’t remember a day where water had tasted that good, (y/n) couldn’t stop herself from drowning the whole glass in one go, ignoring Negan's chuckles.

Carson had tried his best to save her, had to reanimate her a few times, (y/n) was a fighter, that was for sure. It would take her a few days to acclimatize herself, her body would need as much rest as possible, she almost had been dead for at least four times after all.

Negan wouldn’t leave her out of his sight, something about her pulled him in, he felt the need to take care of her, so he gave into his instincts, something he was quite good at. (Y/n) grew comfortable around him, would talk with him about god knows what, would laugh at his lame dad jokes, appreciating the way he was caring for her.

---------

It had been two weeks since that night, (y/n) had gotten her own room, only a few doors down from Negans, he told her to take it easy, to call him, if she’d need anything, secretly hoping, that she’d spend more time around him. The sanctuary already felt like home, (y/n) loved to walk around the garden, to help in the kitchen, putting her cooking skills to use. Negans eyes would watch her frame wander around the sanctuary, always keeping his posture, trying not to make it too obvious, how much he adored her, scared to chase her off.

---------

“Tea?” She called out to him, two cups of tea placed in her hand as she rammed the tip of her boot against his door, trying not to spill the hot water over herself. He leaned himself against his door frame, arms crossed in front of his chest, typical Negan smirk on his lips, “aw, did you miss me, doll?”

Things between the pair took an interesting turn that night, being the clumsy girl she was, (y/n) managed to spill some tea over his trousers, apologizing over and over again, while trying to dry off his crotch with a paper towel, not realizing the way she was putting pressure onto him. “Doll, you should have just told me that you so desperately want to touch me, no need to spill tea all over me.” He chuckled as he grasped her face, fingers running over her now flushed cheeks, eyes wandering down to her lips.

She instinctively closed her eyes, expecting to feel his lips on hers, whimpering as he finally attached his mouth onto hers, teeth gazing her lower lip, pulling on it, he was obsessed with her taste. (Y/n) couldn’t stop the moan from escaping her lips as he pulled her onto his lap, core placed against his bulge, almost naturally grinding her hips against his. Calloused fingers wandered underneath her shirt, exploring her skin, she was in for a night full of new experiences, buried underneath his body, bedsheets swallowing her frame.

-----------------

There hasn’t been a day where she didn’t thank her fate for crossing paths with Negan, grateful for the way he saved her, the way he took her in and gave her life a new meaning. The saviors were her new family, still, she tried to hide the thing that was going on between her and Negan, she didn’t like to be in the spotlight, would do anything to avoid any meaningless gossip. It was their own little secret, something to protect, to grow together and to explore each other fully.

The more she got pulled into his life, the more she realized that he could be ripped away from her sooner than she may expect, the more time she tried to spend with him. Not longer caring about the stares and the whispers, she would relish in the feeling of being close to him, too scared that she’d lose him anytime soon.

The other communities were slowly encircling them, she could feel that their end was near, coming to terms with the fact that the end of her second chance at life was at reach.

Her life took many turns, definitely more than she had expected, (y/n) was grateful for every moment she got to spend with the love of her life. He was her new home, her new safe haven, knowing that he’d protect her at all costs, just like she’d give her life for him. Something that would probably never change.

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cozycryptidcorner · 4 years

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Abel the Asrai (slight lemon)

This was April’s patreon story, which I forgot to post here, my bad, folks. Looks like it’s going to be a double event this evening.

There is a particular taste to the mist swirling around the beach, salty, new, the earth so still that you feel like it’s… off. The water of the ocean gently laps at the sand, though the waves are barely anything more than a small, muted ripple. Neither animals or bugs make any calls, an eerie silence descending on the landscape, save for the noises you and your crewmates make as you pull the rowboat to shore.

Your legs are wet, right up to your thighs, boots sloshing with an uncomfortable amount of water as you finally make it to the edge of the land, the oddness of the atmosphere slowly crawling under your skin, making you nervous. Quietly, you let out a breath, then turn to your crew members. “Same as we talked about on the ship. Scout only for food, do not talk with anyone here without coming to me first. We don’t know who to trust.”

A small murmuring of yes, captain lets you know that they hear and understand, so you have everyone split up, directing each group a certain direction. You don’t need any of them getting lost, so no one is allowed to stray far from the coast, especially since this is an unknown island. Leaving two of your gunslingers alone to guard the little rowboat, you head closer to the edge of the foreboding forest, large, green trees rustling quietly when you approach. There, you see a thin dirt path leading into the dark, so you take the liberty of moving deeper into the island.

The battle with the navy has left your crew in nasty shape, you need to find something to put into their stomachs. Hungry personnel tends to lead to unpleasant situations, and you’d appreciate avoiding those until you can get your people back to base. You take a moment to sit, pulling your shoes off and letting the water slosh out, then slip them back on. It’s still uncomfortable, but better than doing nothing.

There’s a biting chill to the air, even though it should be midday. Still, only the barest hint of sunlight peeks out from the foggy air, showing you the vaguest outline of the path, and after a few more minutes of nothing, you’re tempted to call it quits and head back to the beach. If there is a village tucked firmly into the center of the island, it might be too much trouble for you to go looking for it.

Turning around, you almost run into a man.

And that is strange, because you’re typically very, very good at discerning when someone is sneaking up on you.

He’s not particularly remarkable looking in his dull-colored, nondescript clothing, with a hood pulled up to his forehead. And he’s staring at you, his eyes wide, like he’s looking at a ghost.

You realize that maybe, with your rugged, choppy appearance, gun on your holster, machete in hand, blood staining the shirt that you haven’t bothered changing since the battle, he might feel a little threatened. Slowly, you lower the weapon, giving him what you hope is a decently friendly smile. You don’t want him running off screaming to the navy, because then you’d have to kill him, and you’re awfully tired of taking lives today, so you try to reassure him that you mean no harm.

“Hey,” you speak softly.

He’s slim, taller than you, but visually soft, you know you’d be able to take him on if it comes to that. Slightly shakily, he folds his pale, slim fingers together, and you can see his brain processing what’s happening. “Hello.”

A strange, weird pause.

You clear your throat, trying not to make any sudden movements, “Hi, um, I was just looking around for some fresh water and food for me and my crew. We, uh,” you glance down at the hastily tied bandage on your arm that was already coming free, “hit a rough patch a few miles out.”

“You’re human,” he says, almost in awe.

“Last I checked,” you say, trying not to sound too impatient.

“Is your crew human, too?” He asks,

“For the most part,” you say, slowly, “yes.”

He looks downright fascinated over that revelation, and before you have a chance to prod further, says, “you have a ship?”

You bristle, but do not sense any sort of malice coming from him. No, just a disturbing amount of… excitement, and that somehow also worries you. “Yes,” you say, slowly, not wanting to get into too much detail.

“Do you charter people?” He asks.

Ah, you see where this is going. “For the right price.”

He pauses, a bit of wind blown out of his sails. “What price are you seeking?”

“Gold, preferably. I’m willing to barter, though.” You look him up and down, more closely, eyes narrowed. What kind of person would need a sudden departure, and on that thought, what’s he even doing out here looking like some kind of… fancy vagrant?

“We would have to leave now,” he says, with a tone of urgency in his voice, “if I return for money, someone might suspect me of leaving.”

“So there is a village around here,” you say, turning around to see if you can find any hints of civilization. “Can you point me in their direction?”

“You don’t want to go there,” he says, frantic. “There’s a stigma against humans- you wouldn’t be welcome.”

“Why not.”

“All outsiders are… um, forbidden.”

There’s something else, something that you’re suspicious about. You don’t know what it is, yet, but you’re willing to indulge him in the idea that you’ll let him on your ship, even without knowing a lick about him. “Fine, what can you offer for me to give you safe passage?”

“I- uh,” he’s thinking now, brow furrowed, and you’re almost showing your impatience as he wastes your time. “I can… do stuff. On the ship, I mean.”

“Give me your hands,” you say impatiently, looking over his smooth, blemishless skin. “You’ve never worked a day in your life, have you?”

“I’m a fast learner,” he says, almost indignantly.

“I’m certain,” you say dryly, not entirely believing him, “but learning fast doesn’t mean you’re physically capable of work.”

He stares down at his hands like he’s never been so impossibly inconvenienced in his life by his own self. Another moment passes, still startling silent, and you’re just about to move around him before he says, quietly, “I can make clean water.”

You stop.

“Clean water, you say,” you muse, crossing your arms.

“Yes,” he sees that you’re listening, and that seems to get his hopes up. “Drinking water, straight from almost anything liquid.”

You mull the possibility over. No, it’s not unheard of, but it’s an incredibly rare trait that usually lands people with the ability one only the best, high paying ships, and that’s a luxury you and your scrappy crew can’t afford. Charting someone only on the promise of clean water? Unheard of. Most ships pay those who can travel with them.

“Okay,” you say slowly, “let’s say that you can- which is something you’ll have to prove before I let you on my ship. Where do you want to go?”

“Anywhere but here.”

He’s desperate, which means that you can take advantage of that. Not too much, though, the last thing you need is an angry member of your crew capable of poisoning everyone with the one thing necessary for basic survival.

“Fine.” You gesture for him to follow you. “We’ll test your skills on the shore, then, if it’s satisfactory, we’ll discuss your end of the deal.”

He seems remarkably happy, following almost uncomfortably close as you make your way back through the forest. Luckily for you, it seems that most of the scouting groups have also made their way to the rowboat, most of their hands empty. The moment you’re within their eyeshot, you see them tense, eyes piercing the figure behind you, both you hold your hands up to communicate that there’s nothing to worry about.

Two of your best scouts have arms full of large, leafy greens, which you suppose probably would taste unfortunately horribly bitter, but will at least keep some of you going. The cook is known for their miracles, anyway, so they might be able to do something with it.

“Is this all?” You ask, struggling to hide your disappointment.

“It’s what we could find without venturing too far into the forest, captain, but…” your scout eyes the newcomer, “it seems that there’s a village.”

“One where we will be unwelcome to, according to him,” you say vaguely, though you’re giving them the same amount of information that you know. “But the good news is that he claims to be able to purify water, and he’ll do it in exchange for safe passage to our destination.”

There’s a shifting ripple moving through your crew, and you don’t blame them because that’s a tall fucking claim. To prove it, though, you take a couple dozen sloshing steps into the ocean, tugging him along, until the both of you are waist-deep in water.

“Do it,” you demand, glancing back at your crew to make sure they’re watching.

“Um,” he shifts, eyeing your crew nervously. “Is there something I can put the water in?”

At your hard stare, everyone pats their pockets down, but no one was holding an empty flask or stray goblet for him to use, so with a defeated sigh, he cups his hands, settling it below the surface of the mirror-like surface of the ocean. His eyes are closed in concentration as he raises his arms back up, and a soft, warm blue glow slowly illuminates his fingers as whatever magic he uses cleanses the salt and infection. After a moment, his eyes open again, and the glow is gone, and a puddle of perfectly clear water in his hands.

Oh, right. You’re going to have to test this.

“Christ,” you mutter, raising his hands to your lips and sip. The water is cold, despite the heat rising to your face, and go figure, absolutely no trace of salt. Calmly, you take another sip from his hands, letting the water swish around in your mouth for a moment, just to be sure. Then, as a precaution to make certain he’s not fucking with you, you dip two of your fingers into the sea and lick. Augh, yes, that’s salty as hell, there’s no way that he can pull a fast one on you like this. You turn to your comrades. “It’s clean.”

“So we let him onboard?” One of your navigators asks.

“Yeah, we’ll put him to work filtering out clean water.” As you say this, you notice the last of your scouts approaching, though they are empty-handed for a few roots and such. “Everyone, get onto the rowboat.”

He seems pleased, at least, but not the kind of smug pleased that you loathe. Like he’s deeply relieved, as though you’ve saved him from some horrendous fate. He sits, almost primly, in the center of the boat as you and the rest of your crew work to move back from the island.

Steadily, inevitably, the waves slowly kick back up, as though slowly breaking through a damn, and the mist of the island recedes to reveal a bright, blue, almost cloudless sky. The fog hangs over the island like a thick, viscous shield, obscuring anything within from passing sailors. No one sane would want to attempt to traverse such an unmappable area unless they’re ridiculously desperate, like you.

He’s tugging at his hood, pushing it back as the sun begins to radiate down harder, and you don’t blame him. Without going back to get anything else to wear, he’s unfortunately overdressed for the grueling work you plan to put him through. The energy he’ll have to output is ridiculously high, especially to keep up with the demands of a full ship and its crew, even more so because a portion of your freshwater barrels had been spilled and toppled by the cannon fire.

Your ship is in bad shape, it’s easy to see the damage as the rowboat approaches, burn marks along the wood marking where some dicks from the navy went ahead and tossed over some flaming cocktails. Glancing over at your new passenger to gauge his reaction, he seems none the wiser about the seemingly dire state of everything, and instead looks over at you, a spark of unrecognizable joy in his eyes.

Once all of you are on the deck, you have one of your crew fill a bucket full of seawater, then direct your newcomer to clean, so they all see. So long as they understand that he has a vital part to play, they’ll be less likely to give him the almost ritualistic hazing that most new, low-end recruits end up saddled with. However, even as your best navigator takes her first sip of water, you know that they’re still going to rag on him.

“He can sleep with the rest of the crew,” you say in passing, waving in his general direction.

“Did you make an official deal?” Your second asks, their brow furrowed.

“Not yet, but he seems willing and able to filter water. I figure once we get to our destination, he can either stay on as a crewmember as long as he wants, or leave once we reach the ports.”

“I can write up an airtight contract,” your second offers. “He looks fae, he should be biologically required to adhere to it.”

You look over at him, and you find that your second is right. Long, pointed ears extend out from his neatly braided hair, his eyes are just a tad too large and innocent-seeming for someone roughly your age. His odd fascination towards your species makes you wonder if he’s seen your kind before.

“That’ll be great.”

The injured are not in exceptional shape, but with clean water, at least, gives them a much better chance to make it through than otherwise. As he helps you haul a few buckets down to the lower deck, you ask, knowing full well the fae’s common abhorrence towards names, “is there something you want to be called by?”

He thinks it over for a moment. “You said something earlier, that I was… um, willing, and able?”

“Yes?”

His movements are smooth and graceful, his posture so perfect that you wonder where he learned it. “I like those words. Willing?”

“Um, what about Abel?” You suggest instead, placing the buckets down on a table.

Those bright, brilliantly blue eyes become unfocused, if only for a moment. “Yes,” he says, faintly, “Abel will do nicely.”

Your crew is slow to trust him, and you hardly blame them. There’s something just… a tad bit uncanny about him and his behavior, the way he stares at things, unblinkingly, for just a little longer than necessary, how his long, slender fingers feel out the textures of things he touches, as though he’s experiencing those things for the very first time, and how he seems to always just happen to be in the same room as you, all the time. Your only reprieve from him is your own private quarters, where no one is allowed to go unless specifically invited.

A rule he breaks within the first couple of days.

You find him standing over your dresser with a bucket of water, his eyes brightening when he sees you enter. After letting out a frustrated breath, you strip off your coat, tossing it senselessly onto your bed, and unbutton the top of your shirt. “Abel, you’re not supposed to come into the captain’s quarters unless specifically invited.”

“Oh,” he says, as though this is the first he hears about it (it’s not), “well, I filtered the water for you, as requested.”

You wait. He doesn’t move.

“Thank you,” you say, begrudgingly, “you can leave it outside the door next time.”

“It might get tipped over, then I’d have to start from scratch.” A pause, then. “And I’m getting a bit fatigued from doing this all the time.”

“Alright, fine,” you allow, knowing that water purifying is a demanding chore and that you’ve been pushing him harder than he’s likely ever been before, “you can bring it straight to my quarters.”

Seemingly satisfied, he leaves, and you give yourself the sponge bath once you make sure the door is locked tight. Your hair is choppily cut and always away from your face, though you don’t spare much care to it beyond the occasional brushing. Your goal for sponge bathing is usually only dedicated to making sure everything isn’t rotting from lack of amenities, being at sea and exposed to the grimy elements can leave a body feeling… gross, for lack of a better term. Every time you dock somewhere, you take a full day for yourself to clean... everything up.

Every day, right after dusk, he’s waiting in your room with a bucket of water. You don’t even know how he gets in, you’re very good at remembering to lock your door when you’re not in there. When you ask about it, sullenly, he smiles and gently reminds you that you’ve given him permission to leave the water when he’s done purifying it.

Then Abel asks to wash your hair for you.

You’re so caught off guard by the offer that it takes you a moment to fully process what he said. “I’m sorry, you’d like to what?”

“I’d like to wash your hair if you’d like,” he says, “I know how.”

You have to mull it over, like with most of his downright bizarre requests. “You’d like to wash my hair. And you know how.”

“Yes,” Abel nods, “with the powdery stuff. Back home, I would get my hair washed by- uh, and it felt nice.”

You conveniently don’t mention the part where he skipped over who specifically washed his hair, and cross your arms over your chest. “And why exactly are you interested in doing that for me?”

“It’s a relaxing experience, and you look stressed.”

“Really.” You don’t believe that’s it. “And no other reason.”

“I mean, not in a bad kind of stress,” he’s backtracking now, “you’re not shambling around like the undead or anything, but this might help you with everything else.”

You give it a moment of thought, trying to come up with every single reason he might have for sidling up close to you. Does he want better rations? A cut of the bounty? Less water duty? You narrow your eyes and look him up and down, wondering if the place he comes from has the same set of you work hard to earn rules and that he can’t just flirt his way into a better position.

Maybe you can give him this lesson the hard way.

“Fine,” you wave your hand, sitting in front of your desk. “You can wash my hair.”

He smiles, wide, but not threateningly, more… happy? Satisfied? Pulling the bucket closer to his position as he comes back behind the chair, and runs his fingers through your hair, once. “You’re quite tense, captain.”

It’s a struggle for you to relax, your jaw usually tightly gritted, shoulders tense, and ready to fight. Still, though, you don’t think that Abel would try to do anything, even with the clause in the contract forbidding him to hurt anyone in your crew, including you. Quietly, you lean back in your chair, stretching your neck as you look up to the ceiling, hands tightly gripped on the armrests, your breathing calm and controlled as he begins.

Abel’s fingers run through your hair, soft, but firm, nails gently scratching at your scalp. It feels good, despite the fact that you’re not so sure if you enjoy this show of intimacy, but you don’t voice complaints. It’s been a while since your hair got such a thorough washing, and he seems to know what he’s doing. Section by section, he works, parting your roots away, rubbing the baking soda in with the pads of his thumbs in soft, swirling motions.

Slowly but steadily, he works his fingers down your head, his knuckles brushing against the nape of your neck. Shivers run through your spine, an odd feeling churning in your stomach. The coolness of the water as he begins to rinse your hair gives you something else to focus on other than his closeness.

You try to get your voice to work, if only to think about anything but how his skin feels against yours. “Why did you want to come with us?”

He pauses, his entire body seemingly just stopping, fingers still tangled in your hair.

“If it’s because of something bad, we likely won’t care,” you try to prod, “most of us are murderers and thieves, anyway.”

“I-” his movements resume as he struggles for the words, “I didn’t want to get married.”

“Oh, that’s it?” The shadiness of his actions made you think that he committed patricide or something, not escaping an arranged marriage. “Half of my crew are dodging familial obligations, too. My second was almost sold off to a man with six wives.”

“I just couldn’t go through with it,” he’s almost defensive, though you suppose he wasn’t expecting such an anticlimactic reaction, “I didn’t even like my fiance… don’t get me wrong, she was a nice girl, but she was so-” he fumbles for the word, “dry.”

Your hairbrush isn’t something that you use beyond a couple of swipes in your hair, but Abel takes his time with it. Almost moving strand by strand, he makes his way from one end of your scalp to the other, brushing out any remnants of grease and powder, dipping your hair in water every so often to keep it soaking wet.

“There must have been an easier way for you to leave,” you say.

“None with such ease and without the high likelihood of getting caught,” he clears his throat, “I saw my chance for escape and took it.”

“That’s understandable,” you say, closing your eyes for a moment. “Are you happy with your decision?”

There’s a pause, telling you that he’s actually thinking over your question. “Work is difficult, but,” he adds quietly, “I prefer it to being an idle husband.”

You’re silent, thinking over his statement. “I can understand that. The life of a field worker wasn’t quite for me, either.”

He waits until your hair is all the way brushed out, then wraps a cloth around it to absorb the water. “May I do this again?”

Again, your suspicion flares. “Why?”

“Because I enjoy your company… and you don’t seem to pay me much mind when I’m with the other crew.”

“Jealous?” You ask, mostly joking.

“Very,” he says, and you’re not sure if he’s serious or not. “Sometimes I just want you all to myself.”

“I… suppose if you’d like to.”

“Good,” he says, “I get bored with nothing more than the water for company.”

You’re standing, rubbing the cloth into your locks to help it dry faster. “Do none of my crew interact with you?”

“I don’t think they trust me… even with the contract.”

You let out an impatient huff. “I’m sorry about that, they’ll warm up to you eventually. Or we’ll hit land first, and you’re free to go.”

There’s a long, drawn out pause before he agrees, “right.”

Washing your hair every single day would result in in you getting sick of how close Abel wants to be with you every time he does it, and would leave your hair dry and brittle. The powder is suitable for sucking up the oily grease that permeates your scalp after a few days, and it’s good for a complete purge once it gets out of control, but definitely shouldn’t be used regularly. Still, he makes sure that it’s a weekly event, and every Thursday evening, he’s in your room, bucket on your desk.

You figure out quickly that he doesn’t like talking about himself. He instead seems entirely focused on you, your life as a pirate, and before, though he answers your questions in that odd, monotone voice he uses when he’s not enjoying himself. Abel also struggles to acclimate into your crew, as most of them aren’t readily accepting passengers who plan on flouncing off the moment you hit land. However, he doesn’t seem to give any indication that he is planning on leaving. So you ask him outright.

“What are you going to do when we dock on land?” You ask as he slowly works his fingers into your hair.

“What do you mean?”

“Are you going to stay on as a member of my crew, or are you going to leave?”

He stops for a moment, all you can hear are the ripples from the water bucket as the ship slowly makes its way up and down with the waves, and his breathing.

“Are you okay?” You ask, peeping your neck a bit to get a look at him.

“I’m fine,” he reassures you, getting back to work, “I didn’t realize that I had an invite to continue on as a water purifier.”

“Oh, I guess I should have mentioned it more concretely before.” You lean back again, closing your eyes. “You’ve done more than adequate work, Abel, you’re more than welcome to stay on board and receive a cut of our bounty.”

“Really?” He asks like he can’t believe it.

“I’ll have to have my second draft up another contract, but yeah, Abel, you can stay if you’d like.”

“Say my name again,” he says, and you can hear a smile behind those words.

“What, Abel? Why?”

He lets out a satisfied sigh. “I just like it when you use my name. It sounds nice with your voice.”

You try not to snort. “Okay, whatever you say.”

Silently, he continues to work, as he usually does, parting your hair into neat little sections, going over them with a few pinches of baking soda, letting his nails gently scratch at your scalp. You’d never admit it to anyone, much less Abel, but you do feel better after each of your little sessions together, whether that be because of the cleanliness, or because of the company, you’re still having an internal war with yourself over.

A part of you doesn’t really want to admit that you’ve let him get under your skin, that you’ve started to care, because you’re not supposed to show favoritism towards any single person within your crew, but unfortunately… unfortunately it seems that he’s growing on you, rapidly, like mold on room temperature meat that’s been left out for a few days.

“I saw you flirting with your second in command,” he says, quietly, “are you and she together?”

You wrinkle your nose. “Juliet? No, she’s great and all, but not my type. We were just joking around.”

“What about that navigator?”

“Which navigator?”

“The one with the puffy black hair.”

“Oh, you mean Alexander,” you resist rolling your eyes, “he and I are just friends.”

“What about the-”

“Are you going to go down the list of my crew members to see if I’m in a relationship with them?” You ask, almost sourly, wondering what’s gotten into him.

“Are you? In a relationship, I mean.”

You sit up, out of his reach, your wet hair dripping and soaking into your shirt. “What does it matter?”

He’s trying not to look flustered, but there’s a telling blush in his dusty blue skin. “I was just wondering, out of curiosity. You seem- uh-”

“I seem what?”

“Nothing.”

“No, tell me. I seem like what?”

“Like someone who can have whoever they want, when they want.” He says, almost sheepishly.

“Who, me?” You think he’s joking, he has to be joking, but his kind cannot lie.

He’s even more flustered now, backpedaling so hard he might snap his proverbial neck. “I just mean- um- you have this aura of confidence, captain, it exudes from you, and I thought that you might currently be… well, involved with someone.”

You squint at him, trying to see where he’s taking this. “So what? Does it matter if I’m involved or not?”

“No- no, of course not, stop looking at me like that, it was a stupid question.”

You settle back down, a tad bit tenser than you were before, though mostly from being caught off-guard by his question. Feeling like someone’s swept your legs from under you, verbal or otherwise, is uncomfortable, you never like it when someone has the upper hand. So, in the same fashion, but more casually, you ask, “what about you? Besides your fiance, have you seen anyone?”

“Not… particularly.”

“Hm, not particularly?” You do the thing where you take where the conversation is going and get there twice as fast to regain control of the situation. “No one caught your eye? You’re not allowed to take any lovers?”

“Not before-” he mumbles, something you can’t hear.

“What was that?” You ask innocently.

“That was a no.”

“Was it,” you smile serenely, “because it sounded like something about your wedding night?”

Abel sounds like he wants to throw himself into the sea. “I can’t... until the wedding night.”

“Who told you that you couldn’t have sex until the wedding night? What’d they say would happen? Hairy hands? That’s a myth, you know.” God, it never crossed your mind that he might never have been intimate before, especially with how fixated he seemed on you as if you might be his next conquest. Not his first. That definitely changes things.

The massaging slowly comes to a stop. “Where I’m from,” Abel says, slowly, “they have ways of making certain that it happens.”

You almost choke on your own spit. “I’m sorry, they have what?”

“They have ways of guaranteeing purity until the marriage night.” His voice is soft, but gruff, as though he’d rather be anywhere but here.

“That- that is so awful,” you feel pity, yes, but also empathy for a story that you’ve heard before- if in less extreme circumstances, but you’re suddenly overcome with your desire to solve other people’s problems in the hopes it might help fix yours (it never does). “Do you remember the direct wording of the curse?”

“I can’t forget it.” He sounds tired, like he’s had this conversation before. “I cannot feel the euphoria while in someone else.”

“You can’t feel euphoria while inside someone else? That’s it, exactly?”

“Well, no, I cannot… spill, inside someone.” He sounds even more sheepish than before, his voice so quiet you almost don’t hear.

“That’s all?” You ask, frowning. “You can’t spill while inside someone else, but can someone else spill inside you?”

“No.” He says quietly.

“Alright,” it doesn’t take you too much of you to fully process and work to come to a new solution, “but if someone doesn’t spill inside you,” you try not to grimace at the language used, “can you… um, spill so long as you’re not inside anyone? Like touching yourself?”

He mumbles something, you take it as a soft yes.

“If someone enters you without spilling, do you think you might be able to try… um, the whatever?”

“I don’t know.” He looks like he hadn’t thought of it before. “Perhaps? But how would that happen?”

“Alrighty, then,” you try not to feel the heat in your cheeks, “have you ever heard about pegging?”

#slight lemon #asrai #fae #faery #asrai/reader #monster/reader #fae/reader #monster lovers #exophilia

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aquariusxiv · 4 years

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Strike! AU magic

Strike! has a very unique class system in that a class defines only what overall mechanics you can use and actively encourages a total reskin or refluff if you want - on the one hand, it's easy to make a concept work, on the other you gotta start with a concept rather than start with your class (I'll just play a cleric since we need a healer) and then letting your concept grow over time.

Still, that flexibility appeals to me. One of the classes, shapechanger, is generally intended to be a druid-like wild shape class; but one of the suggested reskins is for a Metroid-like suit of powered armour that has different offensive modes or functions you can activate. Necromancer works fine as an actual necromancer, but I quickly saw it could be used to play a Diplomacy-based negotiator character that (after an enemy is roughed up a bit) convinces them to fight on your side.

So because I'm sick and bored, I wanted to do an experiment: Take five character concepts, identify the role and class they would be normally.

Then keep the role the same, randomly roll for class, and see how that changes/would fit the concept.

Using my own characters from LARPS or MMO roleplaying, with the caveat that I can only use one Valentein because otherwise they'd all be similar concepts.

Strike! has five roles: Leader (healer/buffer), Defender (tank), Striker (focused damage-dealer), Controller (debuffer), Blaster (area damage-dealer) and eleven classes: Necromancer (uses defeated enemies as a resource), archer (ranged attacker), martial artist (stance fighter), warlord (party support), magician (ranged fighter with vancian spell slots), bombardier (area attacker), shapechanger (can change into a different form once per encounter, so different type of stance fighter), summoner (summons static zone or power effects), buddies (pet class), rogue (class powers focus entirely on mobility rather than attacks.)

- Leader (Epoch) - - Valentein Prince, Scholar of the Arcane, Archmage, Lord-Accountant of the Carreg Wynn Cavaliers, Commander of the Carreg Wynn Guard, Zell of the No'Jiyuu Pryde, Scion of Familia Flaccara, Apprentice to the Goddess Malabascamabara, Slayer of Cascadian, and Prime of Carreg Wynn -

Epoch Valentein, because I really want him to be, would be a Necromancer Leader. Despite being a priest of a nominally undead-banning religion (a mite bit heretical) his skill with Essence and Void-aligned magic grants him the ability to animate and revive dead and dying bodies - serving to both subvert enemies and heal allies.

Roll the dice and... Buddies, essentially a pet class but can work as two characters fighting as a duo. Ok.

- Buddies Leader - - Prime Valentein Amaris and Talon Knight Leona Rey -

A personal bodyguard, Leona is armed and armoured. The Leader-powered healing magic originates from Valentein, but Leona has a majority of offensive and defensive manoeuvres.

Leona is healthier and sturdier than Valen is, so taking the Super-Buddy feature represents that. Leona has some typical tanky passives - Brave to intercept hits, Tough to be armoured - and some weapon-related Actives - Focused to mark, Pushy to knock away. They work as a team to support their allies.

- Defender (Secrets of Magic) - - Łukasz Żelazowski, Lendzianie Knight -

Łukasz would be a Martial Artist Defender, the mechanical 'stances' of the class being represented by different weapons and equipment he carries with him. At his core, he is a nonmagic character who is super tough and tanky.

Roll the dice and... Martial Artist. And... Martial Artist. AND... Martial Artist.

One more time... finally, Magician. Wow.

Magicians are inherently ranged fighters who can pick several of many spell options, made for people who like the utility of D&D wizards - not really fitting with a nonmagical fighter. Łukasz does also have some connections with death magic, since I was considering making him a necro-knight, but that never actually took shape. However, looking at the Blood Magic class feature - spending some of his own inner essence to generate otherworldly abilities - and the fact that there are defensive and melee-ranged spell effects in the Magician's kit we can assemble him into some kinda Witcher.

- Magician Defender - - Łukasz the Returned, Demon Hunter -

Dying an honourable death and glimpsing the dark powers that wait to swallow souls, Łukasz willingly allowed himself to be resurrected by a draconic sorceress in order to defend his world.

Magician Features: Ranged Basic becomes range 10 - Łukasz can slash a sword wind to hit at a distance.

Blood Adept: Łukasz can put more of his life essence into his attacks to increase their potency. Only once his blood has been spilled can he access higher-level supernatural effects - probably something a restricting or making vulnerable nature. Eventually he gains a Blood Curse - when he is Taken Out, he can spend his life energy on a major spell effect - used to make normally invincible demons vincible.

- Striker (Elegy) - - Crow, Wilder Survivor -

Crow was the dumbass last survivor of a dumbass Wilder forest clan that wandered over to Bartertown because his dumbass family was dead. He had shit luck with firearms, his 'old trusty' revolver jamming every time he fired it, so he relies mostly on a machete and getting the hell away from trouble to not die. He can swing a good hit when he lands, so overall he sounds like a Rogue Striker - prioritizing mobility and evasiveness to fancy attacks.

Roll the dice... Archer.

Crow's original concept was supposed to be more of a highwayman until I decided not to actively seek PvP and could not get a working dart gun for the life of me. So, let's hew close to that concept...

- Archer Striker - - Crow, Wretch Highwayman -

Leaning into 'soft control', Crow picks up Sentinel and a well-cared for revolver to take down those that get too close to him, or something he cares about. Focusing on opportune strikes he delivers the damage at range to multiple targets. Taking a trophy from every victim, he wears mostly black leather.

- Controller (Ultima Online) - - Dark Lord Ultimus, Vampire Mage -

Well, since I was 13, he'd probably also be a Necromancer but his original build in UO hewed closer to a Summoner Controller. Using mage abilities to summon elemental creatures to ensnare, bamboozle, and confound his targets. Also he's half-drow for maximum emo. Atlantic-shard UO Roleplay was... a lot.

Roll the dice... Shapechanger. Hm.

Well, he's already undead and half-drow. There's something there, right?

- Shapechanger Controller - - Tathkah Eilsett, Death-Cursed Shade -

Ultimus fluctuated through several concepts in my turbulent youth. One that stuck with me was his 'Shade' that came up when he was hiding his identity for some reason - emotionless and quiet, with more direct shadow powers in place of his elemental magic.

With this concept, he can manifest traits of different undead as his form power: Wraith (Hawk), Mummy (Viper), Shade (Kraken).

Manifesting the Wraith form lets him fly with moderate insubstantiability (no major changes needed to the flight power, since it already makes you untargetable).

The Mummy form lets him spread a curse that eats away at a foe's life-force.

Shade (for lack of a better idea) lets him grab multiple targets with shadowy tendrils, siphoning away their life-force.

- Blaster (Guild Wars) - - Warmaster Victor, Ascalonian Elementalist -

Cheating a bit, since this character was technically a Valentein but that really only stuck because I didn't want to remake the character with a new name. One of the names I was considering with Victor, so here we are. Elementalists in Guild Wars (1) are area-damage magical casters; Bombardier has mechanics that are best used by a non-magical concept, so he'd be a Magician Blaster. Hailing from the farms in Ashford, he joined the army as a battlemage.

Rolling the dice gives us... Rogue.

- Rogue Blaster - - Lightbringer Victor, Order of Whispers Elementalist -

The Order of Whispers, in opposition to the Ascalonian Army, teaches ways to move about in secret and to fight Torment Demons. Victor applies his elemental knowledge to move about in gusts of wind, travel on streams of water, shaped earth, or jets of fire. He uses his wide-ranging magic to affect groups of foes with status effects - blinding lightning, poisoned water, burning fire, and ankle-breaking stone.

So for some like Łukasz, the class affected the concept more than others - Crow just fought in a different way, whereas Łukasz changed specialties entirely from a fighter to a mage-knight. Something like this might be interesting to do as an in-game adventure. A divine curse or magical effect might have rewritten the party's history or changed their cutie marks around, resulting in a changed moveset for a spell until the bad guy is defeated. I dunno!

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bamf-castiel · 6 years

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Okay. So Stanford era Dean, meets Cas a surly scruffy hunter multiple times, who is a damn genius with knives and always wears gloves on hunts (cause finger prints dean) and is just the hottest guy Deans ever seen, and Dads gone. Sams gone. He’s feeling a bit rebellious and a bit experimental. Except Cas, just happens to be a Remus lupin style werewolf... thoughts?

This is WONDERFUL Nonnie, and I am having A LOT of thoughts about it, so.I have a feeling this is gonna turn into a mini series ahhh Warning for a little gore and canon typical violence.

Now that Dean thinks about it, deciding to take out a whole nest of vampires only by himself might actually have been a little miscalculation on his part. He tries to catch his breath while he watches his savior decapitate the last vampire in one effortless movement, the long blade cutting skin and tissue with almost surgical precision. How the hell he makes it look that easy? Dean has honestly no idea ; he knows from experience that it’s actually a fucking hard thing to do.And yet, the stranger doesn’t even seem to be out of breath as he looks down on the body laying on the ground, the head motionless right next to it, where it landed with a dull thud. Dean never saw anyone move like that ; from the moment he walked though the door, dude was like a machine. It was like the machete was not just a tool but simply an extension of his arm. And it paled in compared to what he did with the knife he pulled out in the middle of the fight. He sliced the vampire open, from the belly to the base of the throat - how the fuck, there are bones in the way - and yanked the blade out - military, ten inches, sharp as hell - like it was nothing. The creature made a sound, awful and loud and wet, the blood coming out of it’s mouth landing on the man’s face, and then it’s head was off, rolling on the floor. The hunter didn’t even slow down, grabbing the next vampire’s hair. Dean would watch longer if he could, but the kick to his thigh successfully directed his whole attention to the sharp teethed monster on his left. Dean know he’s good - very good - but next to this man he feels like a complete amateur. He winces when his boots make a terrible squelching sound when he moves ( God, did he step on intestines? please don’t let it be intestines ) and suddenly the stranger is looking straight at him. There are smears of blood on his face and clothes, some still fresh and some already starting to dry. And maybe it’s the red that makes Dean notice it, but the man has incredibly blue eyes, almost unnaturally so, bright even in the dim light of the old naked bulb swinging from the ceiling. He spits and slowly runs his tongue over his teeth - they look sharp, like everything about him - and then, he asks, „What the fuck were you thinking?” Dean is part distracted by how low and rough the man’s voice is, part really, really offended, but before he can answer with anything else but a choked out ’what’ , the stranger speaks again. „That’s what I would like to know, ” he says calmly, looking around and then, finding what he was looking for, he steps over a corpse and grabs a shirt hanging on the leg of an overturned table. He wipes the blade, looks at Dean again and sighs, „ Are you okay?”Dean wants to say a lot of things - he really does, starting from how he was doing pretty good, thank you very much, it’s not like he asked to be rescued, and also hey, fuck you.In the end he settles on a simple, „Yeah, I’m good.” The man nods and then looks around. „Let’s clean this up.”

The barn bursts into flames, the roar of the fire almost deafening, the heat making Dean take few steps back. Castiel - getting rid of evidence and dead bodies makes you close enough to exchange names - leans on his car, ankles crossed, and takes out a pack of cigarettes from the inside pocket of his jacket. He offers Dean one and he accepts, letting Castiel light it for him and inhaling the smoke; it tastes almost like the air around them, gasoline and fire and death.They stand in silence, and Dean can’t help but look at the other hunter; there is still dried blood on his clothes and hands and face, his eyes wild and dark as he watches the dancing flames. Dean can feel a blush creeping up his neck that has nothing to do with the fire when he looks at Castiel’s lips as they close around the cigarette. He has a strong jawline, sharp cheekbones and straight nose, dark stubble covering his cheeks and neck ; he’s Dean’s height - maybe a little shorter, board shoulders and strong hands, probably in his early thirties. He’s handsome, in a way Dean is still a little to young to be. It makes Dean’s heart beat faster, for some reason; how there is nothing of a boy anymore in the man’s features.He looks up only to see Castiel’s eyes focused on his own. Dean quickly looks away, his hand trembling as he raises the cigarette to his lips and inhales, slowly letting the smoke curl in his mouth, letting it calm his nerves. His voice sounds rough when he says, „Thanks for, you know, saving my ass back there,” Castiel only hums and sends the remaining cigarette butt flying with a flick of fingers. He pushes away from the car and stands in front of Dean, his silhouette completely black against the flames. He looks to the side, to the abandoned house next to the barn and the forest that surrounds it. „Let’s get away from here.”

That’s how Dean finds himself trailing the Continental, first to a obscure gas station, where they visit the bathroom to wash off the worst of blood and change into clean clothes, and then to a bar. Dean knows he should probably be more cautious, but there is something exciting about it, about working with someone who isn’t Bobby or John or a friend of theirs.Castiel orders whisky, straight, and when he looks questioningly at Dean he asks for the same - he needs something stronger to wash out the taste of smoke and blood still lingering in his mouth. They end up sitting at a table in a corner, far away from the rest of the patrons. Dean takes a sip of his drink, relishing in the way it burns all the way down, the taste alone making his muscle relax.It’s a dangerous relationship, he knows, feeling like that about whisky. If Castiel notices, he doesn’t say anything, instead leaning back on the chair. „So, Dean,” his voice dips lower, sounding even rougher thanks to the smoke, „What the fuck were you thinking about when you decided that you can take out a whole nest of vampires alone?” Dean bristles, hand tightening on the glass; he thought they leaved THAT part behind, but apparently not. „Hey, fuck you,” he snaps, „I knew what I was doing, I’m not an amateur.” Castiel doesn’t look too bothered by his anger. He also doesn’t look too convinced; he hums, taking a sip from his glass, „ Oh I could see that. It was beautifully accented when those two jumped at you from behind. Did you even know they were there before they had you on the floor?”Dean clenches his teeth hard enough to feel the muscles of his jaw jump; he knows he fucked up - there is really no need to rub this into his face. Not now, not when he’s way too aware of what would his dad say about this kind of incompetence. „Dean, look at me,” the gentle command in Cas’s voice is unmistakable, and after a moment Dean looks up, right into those bright, bright blue eyes. „ That’s the thing Dean - you are not an amateur. I know. You are good,” Castiel leans a little bit closer, „ But if you won’t be more careful, you will never get the chance to be anything more than that. You will die a stupid death like hundreds before you, before you really learn anything. And you can be very, very good, Dean. The potential is there, but it’s your decision what you will do with it,” he straightens and Dean can finally breathe again; to be the center of Castiel’s attention can be suffocating. „ If you are only willing to listen I can get us another round,” he nods at their drinks, „ and then we can discuss everything that went wrong tonight and what can you do to make sure it won’t happen again.”Dean hesitates only for a moment. „Sounds good to me.” He could swear the corner of Castiel’s lips turned upward at that.

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bookdancerfics · 4 years

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Hang Ten, a SPN Whumptober fic

No 1. LET'S HANG OUT SOMETIME Waking Up Restrained | Shackled | Hanging

Summary: Dean is far too aware of the real consequences of crucifixion—and he’s far too aware of the fact that before he can rescue Sam, he has to beat the monsters.

Warnings: crucifixion, of a sort anyway, suffocation, canon typical violence, it’s Dean so there’s a fair amount of cursing

Rated T, Gen, 1.2k+ Words, Cross-posted to ao3 and ff.net (Bookdancer)

It was, in all honesty, just supposed to be the not-so-typical typical monster of the week. They needed a break from their latest Big Bad, especially since they hadn’t found any leads in a few weeks, so when Sam spotted an article online that hinted pretty heavily at vampires in a nearby town, they jumped on it.

Which leads Dean to be outside of the monsters’ nest, a brick two-story in a nice neighborhood. Hell, they even have two cars in the driveway.

The only thing that would make this better is if Sam were with him, but his little brother went missing on a snack run and Dean can only assume he’s inside the nest now, bugging the vampires instead of Dean himself.

Distraction wasn’t the plan Dean would have gone with, and probably the last one Sam would have agreed on, but it’s the best one they have now so Dean rolls with it and starts looking for a subtle way into the nest. It’s the dead of night, the worst time to attack a whole nest of vampires, but Dean can’t wait for noon. The vampires will either feed on Sam, or kill him, and Dean can’t let them do that without putting up a good fight himself.

So instead of attacking in the middle of the day with backup, Dean finds himself jiggling a window lock and slipping inside, under the light of the moon, by himself.

He ends up in what looks like a bedroom, and to be completely honest the house is just as nice on the inside as it was on the outside. The room is fully furnished, with pictures on the walls, and even the bed’s covers have been rumpled, like a vampire definitely slept there during the day. Dean, far too used to sleeping in gross motel beds, scowls at the bed like it’s personally wronged him. He may just steal the blankets when this hunt is over.

For now he cracks the bedroom door, peers out, and then creeps into the hallway, being careful to not make any noise as he cases the first floor. Or at least, he is until he reaches the basement.

He hasn’t seen any vampires yet, honestly isn’t sure if they’re even home or not, but the moment he sees Sam all thoughts of ganking monsters leaves him. Those vampires hadn’t just gotten his little brother—they’d hung him from their fucking ceiling like a piece of meat. Even at six foot four, Sam’s feet dangle inches above the ground, his wrists tied together and looped over a hook that’s honest-to-God embedded in the ceiling. Blood trails down his face, and his chin rests on his chest, which rattles with each breath. Every terrifying thought Dean has about crucifixion, about suffocation, races through his mind at a startling speed and comes out in one gasp.

“Sam?!” Dean rushes forward, thankful to see Sam lift his head in response, but his worry increases when Sam can’t do much more than wheeze at him.

He really really doesn’t want to go back to thinking about the whole crucifixion thing, though, so instead he shoves his shoulder into Sam’s stomach, grabs him around the waist, and lifts.

Sam heaves in a clearer breath, then a second, but before Dean can get a better grip to lift him off the hook, Sam takes his next breath to yell “Vamp!” in his ear.

Dean drops him.

It’s the last thing he wants to do, but the hard truth is that he can only rescue Sam if he himself is alive, uncaptured, and not vampire food. So he drops Sam so he can stop the vampire from biting him, and the worst part is that Sam can’t even manage a proper scream—instead he lets out a choked, garbled cry, and Dean’s heart seizes even as he swings a machete through the vamp’s neck.

It turns out there’s four whole ass vampires living here, and Dean takes great joy in putting his machete through each and every one of them.

“God you suck, you know that?” he tells the last one.

Sam makes another one of those choked noises, and it’s absolutely pitiful and manages to go straight to Dean’s heart.

“Fuck, Sammy,” he says, and while he would normally take the time to wipe off the machete, stick it back in its holster, right now he doesn’t have to worry about the monsters—he drops the knife and goes to his brother.

Sam looks back at him with the kicked puppy look, but worse, because this time he actually got almost crucified, and Dean’s gonna owe him so many laptops for dropping him.

“I won’t drop you this time, Sam, I promise,” Dean says. His voice comes out rough, but obviously because he just beheaded four vampires, and not for any other reason.

This time, when he goes to lift Sam, Dean grabs him by the knees. His little brother is tall, and heavy, and currently utter dead weight, but Dean has carried him through fire before and he’s not about to stop now. The moment Sam’s hands come off the hook he drops forward, over Dean’s shoulder, and Dean curses when Sam lets out another agonized sound. Being upside down is the last thing Sam’s chest needs now, so Dean kneels where he is to set Sam on the ground, then maneuvers them both over to the wall so Sam can sit up straight. Sam manages to take in a deep breath, but the second sends him into a coughing fit, and Dean has to thump him on the back till it ebbs.

After that, they just sit and breathe. Dean’s breaths are quiet, but Sam’s are rough, like even now it’s a struggle just for air, and it’s not until the smell of dead vampire is really getting to him that Dean breaks the silence.

“How long?”

After that night, it could have meant a myriad of things. How long ago did they grab you? How long did they know we were hunters? How long were you waiting?

How long were you hanging?

Sam takes another deep breath, then breathes out. Breathes in; out. “Thirty minutes? Maybe?”

“Fuck,” Dean says.

“Yeah,” Sam says. They’re silent again for the next several minutes, then Sam nudges him. “You know I forgive you.”

Dean shoots him a look, scoffing. “Forgive me? For what?”

Sam nods, then takes another breath. He breaks out coughing again, but there’s a satisfied look on his face that has all to do with their conversation and nothing else. The coughing ends sooner than the last time. “Exactly.”

“Uh huh,” Dean says, and shoves himself to his feet.

“Where—” Sam breaks off, coughing again.

Dean gives him a pointed look. “You’re obviously not going anywhere anytime soon, and I spotted some killer blankets upstairs that no longer belong to anyone.”

Sam waves him on, still coughing, but by the time Dean gets back, lugging two large comforters over his shoulder, he’s already asleep. Dean covers him in one blanket and then sits down with the other to finally clean his machete.

Before that, though, Dean pats Sam on the shoulder. “Let’s not do this again, okay?”

Sam’s breaths, more even than they were before, are the only things that answer him.

#whumptober2020 #no.1 #hanging #supernatural #fic #crucifixion tw #suffocation tw #sam winchester #dean winchester #spn fic #spn fanfiction #don't tag as ship #my fic #mine

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pyre-prism · 5 years

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LONG POST ‘CAUSE BIO!! (I’m still a n00b with tumblr formatting... halp...)

I finally got his details down in a way that I'm happy enough to share them. I do know that some of the stuff I've got with him may be a little... is it cliche? I don't really know and I don't particularly care. As it is, I like him as I've made him, but I'm more than willing to have discussions if anyone has an idea that may make things even better.

Critiques are welcome~!

~*~

Real Name – Lonán [approximately pronounced “loo-nan”]

Alias – ‘Cat-Eyes’

Age – Believed to be 500+ but he’s not sure

Birthday – September 22

Gender – Male

Species – Cursed ‘Human’/Cambion

Ethnicity – European

Place of Origin – Ireland

Languages Spoken – Irish Gaelic, English, and Latin, although he can puzzle his way through Italian, as well due to its lingering similarities to its parent language, and he can also apply this –to a lesser extent– to the other ‘romance languages’

Eyes – Usually light aquamarine but tend to become much more vivid when using his racial abilities, vertically-slit pupils, always has black marks akin to eyeliner all around the eye

Hair – Black, strip of red in the middle of his goatee (if he didn’t shave, he would also have patches of red on both cheeks just below the ridge of his cheekbones)

Skin – Pale, almost translucent

Build – Lean, almost perfectly-defined musculature for his build, extremely flexible, 6’0”

Typical Outfit – Lonán doesn’t like to weigh his body down with unnecessary cloth, and so tends to underdress. He’s usually found wearing the following ensemble: • Teal hooded zip-up sweatshirt with thumbholes in the cuffs of the slightly-elongated sleeves, frequently worn completely unzipped • Grey wifebeater shirt if it’s actually cold enough that most other people would wear two or three layers of clothing • Indigo sweatpants • Black thongs/flip-flops, which he has no particular care for whether he loses them or not as he actually prefers going barefoot

Personality – Usually fairly aloof and secretive, viciously vindictive, arrogant, driven, cunning and conniving, highly-curious, can be playful when in a good enough mood, ‘I meant to do that’, fickle, showy when he believes he has the time to be, will manipulate others until the cows come home (especially if it means he gets to keep his own hands clean), wants to ‘shape humanity up’ and gets increasingly frustrated when people seem to repeat old mistakes, becomes an absolute hot-head when he actually loses his temper, technically has a rather flexible personality so as to present the ‘correct version of himself’ to those he approaches, prone to snuggling if he gives in and gets a ‘sexy fix’ (once he wakes up again, he either leaves them or kills them)

Likes – Being warm, being touchy-feely with people, sleeping, learning and reading, dishes that involve rabbit meat, classical and folk music (it calms him down), snowflakes and ice crystals, watching fire

Dislikes – ‘Normal people’ (calls them ‘the unenlightened’), having to prove himself in any way, times when information is actively kept from him, music that relies on electronics to be able to be played ‘correctly’

Orientation – Bisexual, and bi-romantic… but he will have intermittent bouts of either particular leanings or ‘literally anything works’

Fears – Losing all complex thoughts and becoming nothing more than a beast, deep or rough water, drowning

Voice – Smooth, ‘svelte’, tends to be mildly amused and playful, gains a low and almost-constant growl or hiss when irritated or otherwise losing his cool

Strengths: • Stemming from his inhuman parentage, Lonán has the ability to hypnotise and ‘bewitch’ other people into doing his bidding. By using a particular tone of voice or by keeping their gaze on his eyes for long enough, he can begin to influence his targets to do almost anything he requests of them. Alongside this, he has phenomenal skill with words and mental manipulation, even without utilising this power.

• Also thanks to his parentage, he is capable of a form of mind-reading, with two distinct levels of potency. By simply being in the general area –within eyesight range– he can get a reasonably-clear impression of a person’s ‘self’ and the general style of their surface thoughts, but when he instigates some kind of skin-to-skin contact, he is actually able to read more clearly into their surface thoughts and even –to a much lesser degree– their memories.

• Lonán has the ability to replenish his energy reserves by absorbing sexual energy, whether directly or by ‘soaking in the atmosphere’ in a sexually-charged space. If he makes use of it, he can essentially live without ever resting.

• His body is extremely flexible, enabling him to manoeuvre himself through and into spaces that he doesn’t appear to be able to, according only to his size and stature.

• He was taught various magic spells and the like, which he could feasibly use to do any number of things that a more ‘normal’ individual could never dream of. Thanks to a tendency to improvise and improve upon what he actually does, this versatile set of potential capabilities has the chance to expand exponentially.

• Lonán regularly brews and drinks a potion that allows him to survive up to eight fatal injuries in quick succession. After beginning to use it, his nails became retractable cat-like claws and his eye-teeth both sharpened and lengthened.

Weaknesses: • For all of his innate skill with it, Lonán’s hypnotic power isn’t infallible. He cannot use it to make people completely bypass their moral code, not to mention the fact that some people are simply more resistant to being hypnotised –unlike ‘regular hypnosis’, however, he is able to affect anyone. The effects aren’t permanent, either, and the victim can be broken out of it by being knocked out… and some can even shake it off themselves, particularly in the appropriate circumstances as determined by the individual in question.

• Lonán can make various missteps with his choice of words and actions while trying to manipulate someone. If he makes a small mistake, he gets a bit flustered… which often leads into more and more being made as he gets more and more frustrated with himself.

• While ‘getting a basic read on someone’ is practically instinctual for him, it is more than possible for him to get even that wrong, let alone the more complex contact-based forms of reading people’s minds. Truthfully, he tries his hardest to avoid using it, and as such is very inexperienced in its use.

• Lonán’s hesitance to indulge in his hereditary nature doesn’t only leave him lacking in practice with his mind-reading, but also in ‘metabolising’ any sexual energy that he absorbs. Not processing it properly tends to wind up with him acting as if he was drunk or even high, along with all of the downsides of such states.

• A lot of what he was taught about magic has since been forgotten due to a lack of use upon learning about the more subtle technicalities regarding the potion. With how magic has changed in the eyes of the world, refreshing his memory is difficult at best and almost impossible at worst. With that being said, he still tries to recall what he learned; these almost invariably have unpredictable results, not all of which being remotely pleasant for him, let alone useful.

• Using the potion that he does has definite downsides to it, and he needs to drink some every couple of days to keep its effect from being interrupted. In the event of going through a period of time where he doesn’t take any, however, the withdrawal symptoms quickly rear their rather ugly heads; to begin with, his temper takes a definite turn for the worst, but then he starts to grow increasingly restless with no apparent method of easing it –aside from the potion itself. Once that has begun to sink in, Lonán’s demeanour and even his way of thinking turns into something more bestial, with the last symptoms that he’s ever experienced being the early stages of a physical transformation into some sort of monstrous feline biped. He has deduced that, should he ever allow these symptoms to progress any further than that, then it would become permanent. Unfortunately for him, each instance of withdrawal progresses at a quicker rate than the previous one, and he has even noticed some of these occasionally popping up when he loses his temper.

How They Can Die – Lonán is just as susceptible to injury and other forms of damage as any normal human, but his heritage has granted him an indefinite lifespan and the potion he takes has given him the ability to essentially ‘shrug off’ up to eight instances of ‘fatal damage’ in the –typically short– time between taking the potion.

Physiological Conditions – Withdrawal symptoms (intermittent and wildly-varying in effect)

Psychological Conditions – Nymphomania (barely ever fully indulges, but is incapable of completely neglecting his urges); Sociopathy; Antisocial Personality Disorder (to some degree)

Quotes – “You people never learn…” “This immortality thing… it’s very high-maintenance.”

Primary Reasons for Killing – Resources and Proving a Point

Weapon of Choice – Although Lonán possesses sharp claws, he prefers to restrict their use as much as he can. Instead, his favoured weapon –when he actually expects the potential of running into trouble– is a kopis ‘machete’, with a lancet for any more precise cuts for gathering ingredients.

Primary Targets – Those with seemingly-healthy bodies, regardless of age

Avoids Targeting – Anyone who is obviously-unwell, regardless of age

Preferred Method of Killing – Convincing the victim to attack either themselves or another victim by way of hypnotic suggestion, and if that fails then he will ultimately aim to knock them out and slice their throat open nearly to the point of decapitation. After the target is dead, he removes a number of body parts from the carcass, most of which are then either preserved in ethanol for later use or are quickly put into the next batch of his potion.

Details of the Potion – Crafted from a plethora of ingredients, ranging from a salad of mint and various other plants, to a black cat’s tail, paws, and ears, to human body parts. The ingredients used in the recipe that Lonán originally learned are the heart, lungs, liver, stomach, and both large and small intestines; he has, however, adapted the recipe over the years in an attempt to limit the symptoms of withdrawal and to increase the maximum gap between doses, and these newer components are the eyes, ears, tongue, and hands. Once properly brewed, it is strained and boiled once again, before he actually drinks it.

Taking ingredients from human bodies actually has a number of requirements that need to be met. For starters, it is best if he is able to take them from a willing victim, although knowing what they’re agreeing to is not necessary –he is able to twist the will of his victims using his hypnotic ability to make them more amenable to the possibility. Other than that, these body parts also need to be reasonably ‘fresh’ –with no more than a couple of days passing between being harvested and being ‘put into the pot’, unless he manages to preserve them; however, this does some strange things to the potion, in and of itself, due to the nature of the substances used to preserve body parts. Another detail that Lonán has to bear in mind is that no amount of ‘perfect preparation’ will make the batch succeed if he’s a complete stranger to the individual in question.

Despite what he believes it to be, the potion is not meant for inducing any form of ‘immortality’. It is meant to ascribe traits believed to belong to an animal to a person –in this case, the ‘nine lives’ folkloric property of cats is the primary focus, using black cats in particular due to their believed connections to not only witches and the fey but also to magic in general. Each time he takes a dose, these ‘nine lives’ are replenished, but it also further cements his reliance on it as well as his addiction to it.

Family – Lonán doesn’t know anything about any relatives he might have in the modern day, and he never particularly discusses the family that raised him. • Father – Asmodeus Both father and son barely know anything about each other, to the point that Lonán doesn’t even know for certain who his father even is –let alone anything about the ‘Lord of Lust’. It’s possible that, via Lonán’s occasional interactions with the ‘prime demonic real estate’ that is Lucy Blumenthal, Asmodeus may come to actually meet his son at some point in the future.

• Mother – [Unknown, deceased] She met Asmodeus while she was running away from her family and the makings of an arranged marriage, and saw the demon as a way of escaping her parents’ plans. However, he left shortly after impregnating her (unknowing of the actual success of the act). She found a couple who owned an inn in the next township over, and was given a place to stay in return for working for them. Lonán’s mother took care of him there for the first two years of his life, before dumping him in the care of the innkeeper and his wife and disappearing.

• Adopted Family – Paidin and Elyn O Cleirigh [deceased] Until they met Lonán’s mother, nothing of particular interest had happened in their lives. Elyn took pity on the pregnant woman when she showed up on their doorstep, and Paidin readily offered her a job at their inn. When Lonán was two years old, his mother disappeared from the inn and never returned, leaving the child entirely in the care of the couple who had effectively become his godparents.

Being left to care for him, however, was something they came to resent to some degree, especially considering the boy’s strange traits which became more obvious as he grew older. Once Paidin deemed him to be old enough, Lonán was given various chores around the inn; he particularly took to kitchen tasks and to chores in the stables, although he also had a knack for convincing customers to stay another night or to order more expensive food and drink.

During his childhood, Lonán cared a lot about them both, but as he grew into adolescence, this started to twist into a form of grudging resentment regarding their hesitance to talk about his birth-family beyond ‘his mother left him in their care’.

• Other Family – …Various… It’s practically a given that he has at least some half-siblings, courtesy of his father’s activities, just as there is a definite possibility of some other relatives on his mother’s side surviving to the modern-day.

Friendly Interactions – Lucy Blumenthal/Ghostly Ripper (reasonably friendly) [OC]

Neutral Interactions – Generally neutral and even aloof to everyone and everything, with one clear distinction…

Antagonistic Interactions – Lucy’s demonic passengers (especially his former teacher), and then there’s normal people –the ‘unenlightened’– who he almost always treats with either cold aloofness or outright hostility

History – Before Lonán was even born, his life had already been derailed from the norm for the time and place. His mother –whose name he still doesn’t know– had run away from her family, seeking ‘true love’ instead of the arranged marriage that her father expected her to go along with. Two weeks into her escape, she met a foreign man who she fell in love with. Unbeknownst to her, however, this man was the current host of a demon by the name of Asmodeus –all he was after was a fleeting sexual ‘fix’… and he left her after a few months once he’d had his fill.

Lonán’s mother took another month to realise that she was pregnant and that’s when she started to panic. With winter already on the doorstep, finding somewhere that she could live in safety was her first priority, but she was terrified of returning to her family –pregnant and unmarried– but she also knew that almost no-one would marry a woman who was already carrying a child.

When she reached the next town along the vague path through the country that she’d been following, she was able to get a room at the inn for a week. The innkeeper’s wife noticed her growing belly and darkening mood; after pressuring her for her story, Elyn set about persuading her husband to consider allowing her to stay for longer than she’s originally paid for. Paidin agreed to let her, for as long as she was willing to work at their inn.

This arrangement stayed in-place for months, and Lonán was even born in one of the inn’s rooms with Elyn acting as a midwife. In fact, the young mother stayed and worked at the inn until her son was two years old, at which point she left and never returned, leaving him behind. Initially, neither Paidin nor Elyn were sure what to do with the toddler, but having grown somewhat attached to him, they took Lonán in.

As he grew older, Paidin noticed that Lonán had an almost bewitching effect on their customers –he was somehow able to convince them to stay longer or to buy more expensive meals. However, despite that capability, when they started to get the boy to pitch in around the inn, he took especially to the kitchen and to the stables. In this manner, their lives were reasonably comfortable for years. Paidin and Elyn raised Lonán as if he was their own, and he loved them in return.

Not long after he turned 13, something happened which prompted Paidin to keep Lonán out of customer interactions. A family stayed at the O Cleirigh inn –father, mother, and two daughters– and upon seeing the young teen, they requested that Lonán be their primary service-provider during their stay; it wasn’t the first time that such a request had been made and so it was readily agreed to, especially with the additional money the father offered for the ‘privilege’. Things stayed normal for the first couple of days… the daughters seemed to be enamoured with him, and the father was particularly prone to calling on Lonán for the tiniest of tasks. On the fourth night, however, a series of screams woke the entire building.

The daughters had called for Lonán late that night, and each dragged him into their beds in quick succession. Trying to keep a sense of ‘professionalism’, not least of which being because of the sizeable profit the family’s stay presented, he rejected their blatant advances and attempted to leave. Their mother arrived upon hearing her daughter’s raised voices, followed shortly after by the father. Both daughters launched themselves at their mother, crying and accusing Lonán of trying to take advantage of them; while the mother was occupied with comforting the girls, their father turned his attention to the accused teen.

Lonán found himself being attacked by the man, eventually winding up pinned –bruised and bloodied– to the floor by the father’s full weight. It was when his clothes were being torn from his body that Lonán finally started to realise just how much trouble he was in. At that point, he began to struggle even more to escape, running more on instinct than coherent thought… Then, at long last, the father released him and stood, swaying on his feet for a few moments before attacking his own wife and daughters.

The resultant screaming brought both O Cleirighs, along with a number of the other guests, rushing into the room. The sight that greeted them was grisly; the father had practically mauled his family to death before apparently tearing his own throat out. Lonán had pressed himself into the corner furthest from the gore, but wasted no time in trying to bury himself into Elyn’s shocked but ready embrace.

Lonán never told anyone what happened, not even his adoptive parents, although the horrific event did significantly lessen the number of guests they received for another few years. In that time, Lonán was finally specifically told that he wasn’t actually related to the O Cleirighs by blood, leading him to ask question after question about his birth-family. By the time he had turned 17, he’d grown more than a little impatient with the lack of answers they gave him, and even somewhat resentful about the apparent secrecy –not realising that it was largely due to the fact that neither Paidin nor Elyn actually knew that much about his mother’s family… and nothing about his father.

One night, around a month after turning 18, he was woken by the sound of music in the nearby woods. Curious, he slipped out to investigate, eventually coming across a wealthy-looking man sitting on a fallen tree and playing a pipe. The man finished his song before urging Lonán to join him, introducing himself as Faolan.

They talked for a while, each trying to get a decent impression of the other’s nature, and Lonán was shocked to discover that the strange man was the easiest person to simply chat with that he’d ever met. In turn, Faolan –truly the current host of the demon named Belial– had noticed something ‘off’ about his young visitor that he wanted to investigate further. Eventually, talk turned to the teenager’s dreams for the future, and Lonán told his new friend something that he’d never brought up to anyone else; he wanted to change the world, to make it better than it currently was, but he had no idea as to how to acquire the power to do so.

This was the opening that Belial had been waiting for. He regaled Lonán with tales of influential and wealthy people who lived far longer than seemed natural, people who began life with nothing and ended it with everything… Unsurprisingly, the young man begged to learn more and Belial gleefully agreed. They sealed the agreement with a handshake, at which point the demon finally understood who and what Lonán was –a cambion child of the ‘Lord of Lust’, whom Belial had been in a steady disagreement with for years, making the boy a prime candidate for some good old-fashioned revenge.

Over the next several months, ‘Faolan’ taught his new student how to read and write, as well as basic mathematics. Once he was comfortable with what Lonán had learned –coupled with how ready he was to listen to the demon– he began to introduce the youngster to the topic of magic… a topic that the cambion took to like a fish to water. Another month was spent building up Lonán’s knowledge in the topic before Belial finally brought up the potion that he said was designed to grant immortality to whoever drank it. Feeling like he was finally getting to what he was truly after, Lonán dove headlong into this particular series of lessons without a second thought and, eventually, student and teacher brewed up a batch together –the fact that some of the ingredients had been procured from Paidin was something that Belial kept to himself, along with the truth of exactly what those particular body parts were from in the first place.

At that point, ‘Faolan’ left the town on what he described as ‘important business’, returning again a week later to see the result of his handiwork…

Lonán, having been deliberately kept in the dark about any side-effects of the potion, as well as the truth about some of the critical ingredients, was in the midst of his very first bout of withdrawal symptoms. Over the course of the week that Belial had been gone, Lonán had grown increasingly irritable and violent as the ‘beast-like nature’ the potion had imbued into him started to take hold. The inn was in shambles, the guests and their horses had either fled or died before they could, the few staff members had done the same… and Elyn –while trying to calm her adopted son down– had been killed.

Belial was delighted, and after securely tying his student up, brewed another batch of the potion and forced him to drink it. The next day, Lonán finally come down from the manic ‘high’ with no memory of what had truly transpired; this is when the demon finally told him everything –from the truth of the potion’s ingredients, to being a demon, to tricking him, to even the fact that Lonán himself was never entirely human to begin with. With that said and done, ‘Faolan’ vanished, leaving the teen to free himself and escape before anyone could pin the blame for the events on him.

The next primary note in Lonán’s history was much later. In an effort to try to find ways of altering the recipe of the potion that he was now functionally dependant on, he had managed to get work as an undertaker. However, not only did trying to use parts from the deceased not really work, but he was also discovered and run out of town for mutilating the bodies.

~*~

Story is on the back-burner for the time being, but I will write one for him.

#creepypasta #Creepypasta OC #Lonan #Cat-Eyed Man

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justanotherwaywarddaughter · 7 years

Text

Hell On Heels

Characters: Cas x Sister!Reader, Sam, Dean, and a bit of John

Word Count: 4443

Warnings: Sassy reader, Cas is an awkward little nugget, canon typical violence

Summary: This is part two to “Spread the Word Around– the Girl’s Back in Town”. The reader reveals a bit of her history. Meanwhile, Team Free Will, along with its newest member, set out to take on what should be a relatively easy case. Things do not go as planned, which works to the benefit of a certain shy angel.

A/N: So this is long overdue. Sorry. It’s a bit disjointed because I started it and then stopped and worked on something else... Apologies for that. I started out with this imagine in mind, and it kinda grew from there. Italics are reader’s thoughts. Thinking of making this a series. Let me know what you think. Hope you enjoy! As always, thanks for reading! Feedback is always welcomed and appreciated.

Read Part 1 here.

The protesting creak of a nearby door coupled with the muted sound of feet thudding down the hallway pulled you from your midnight reverie. Making your way quietly to the open doorway of your room, you scanned the hallway for the source of the noises, your eyes landing on a retreating figure of over six feet. With an annoyed groan, you made you way closer to the hulking mass that was trying to sneak down the hall like a teenager after curfew.

Let’s play guess the idiot. Too tall to be Cas. Can’t tell if it��s Sam or Dean yet from this far away, though he’s stumbling, whoever he is. Most likely Dean, in from a night out that hopefully won’t make me an aunt.

“Have a good time, did ya, brother mine?” you asked with a smirk, switching on the overhead lights. At the sound of your voice, the figure spun, albeit clumsily, to see who made the noise. With one hand to his head and the other groping the wall for support, Sam took a less than elegant stumble backward.

“Y/N? What’re you doooin up ssso late?” he slurred with a bleary smile. Sam was apparently a happy drunk, you mused, shaking off the surprise of being met by your youngest brother rather than your oldest one. Moving toward you, the moose of a man began to teeter.

“Whoa, there, Sammy. Slow your roll. There’s no way I can pick you and me both up off of this floor if you go all timber on me,” you cautioned. “Let’s get your ass to bed. I’ll lecture you in the morning.”

“Mmmm’kay, Y/N. I’m ssleeepy anyway,” he said in an exaggerated whisper.

How much liquor does it even take to get Samsquatch here drunk? Dear Lord, I hate to even imagine.

You trailed a tromping Sam back to his room, made him take off his shoes before he got in bed, and sat the ibuprofen he kept in his nightstand out for him when he woke up.

Damn grown man needs to be told to take his shoes off before he gets in bed. How the hell did he even get this drunk? And how can a guy that hits his head on ceiling fans regularly look so much like a little kid?

Sam was snuggled under the covers with a peaceful look on his face. Cracking one eye open, he attempted to whisper again, “Y/N, why were you even up? Ssssssssomething wrong?”

And on that he chooses to have a little clarity. The man that didn’t even remember his head– not his feet– goes on the pillow has the sense about him to ask why I’m up at this ungodly hour. Figures. Intuitive little shit.

“Shut up, Sammy. You’re drunk. Go to sleep,” you grumbled, hating that your little brother, even in his inebriated state, had managed to see that something was wrong.

Sighing, you made your way back to your room and plopped down face-first on the bed. You’d had a lot of these nights lately.

I am normally not a philosophical person, but there’s something about randomly escaping hell that makes a person ponder a few things. It all started when I was born… Kidding. Kinda.

Mostly, you thought about what had gotten you to this point. As Dean often reminded people, hunters never got to be kids, and you were no exception. From the moment you’d been big enough to carry a sawed-off, you’d been sleuthing, shooting, and salting. That’s not to say you didn’t enjoy it– most of the time.

Despite growing up a hunter, you’d been relatively sheltered from heartache until your mom had passed. She went down in typical hunter fashion, sacrificing herself to kill the demon that had possessed her. I come by this hero complex honest.

You did the best you could after her death, giving her a hunter’s funeral in the sticks somewhere in Alabama. It was the first time you were truly alone, and you didn’t know how to handle it. Cue obligatory reckless streak.

Amidst said reckless streak, you’d come upon daddy dearest. Yes. None other than John Winchester. You’d planned to ignore him, laying low until you knocked off that vetala. Well, as per usual, things didn’t go as planned; one vetala turned out to be two, and you were in need of a little saving. Enter John. He’d been on the same hunt– Shocker– and had come prepared. Curse you and your research, John Winchester. Needless to say, he saved your ass. What stung was that he had no clue who you were.

Well, as the whiskey got to flowing that night– Don’t judge me. I had a rough day. Whiskey is the grownup version of a blanky– so did the truth bombs. One right after the other. By the end of the night, you were both spent. He had a daughter. You had a near-death experience. I feel like we were pretty equal there. You know, on the whole shock factor thing. You agreed to stay in touch.

And so you did. You’d occasionally update each other on your cases, swapping information and tips, sharing about your lives and the years you’d missed together, and growing comfortable enough to joke around. It was all fine and dandy until your old man called you up for a little help on a case. Sam and Dean were in school, and he needed an extra pair of hands.

Probably just a couple of vamps, he said. Probably new changelings, he said. We’ll probably be done before lunch, he said. It’ll be easy, he said.

Turns out John was wrong. What he thought was a small nest– one, maybe two, tops– turned out to be about fifteen. Why they were all together and how they managed to tolerate each other is still a mystery.

Nest, my ass. Frigging hive is what it was.

You two gave it your damnedest. You held your own for a while, the quick movements of your machetes creating a steady rhythm of whooshing sounds punctuated by the sickening crunch of metal on bone as they sliced through the air and hit their targets. The two of you moved in tandem, as though you’d been working together your whole life.

Apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, I suppose.

Things were going great. Until they weren’t. All it took was a slight hesitation; one small slip of the hand. You were down to the last two; one for each of you. You squared up to smaller of the two, leaving John with his more even match. The fights that ensued were anything but easy. The two of you were already exhausted, covered in blood, and running on fumes. To say you were less than sharp was more than fair. You were both sloppy, but you managed to get the job done.

You got all the way back to the impala, congratulating yourselves on a job well done, before you noticed the blood seeping through the left leg of John’s jeans. And, holy hell, was there a lot of it. Femoral artery injuries can be a bitch. Exsanguination is not a painful death, but it’s a slow one; a death that fills its victims with a sense of hopelessness.

No matter how tightly you compressed. No matter how many layers of bandages and fast food napkins and shirt hems you piled on. No matter how fast you drove. It didn’t make a difference. That was the palest you’d ever seen him, his head lulled over, his short, rapid breaths creating little puffs of fog on the window. Your first thought was about the boys. You thought, I can’t let them go through what I went through. They already lost their mom. What’ll happen to them?

In your muddled mind, there was only one valid course of action. You found the nearest crossroads and did what had to be done. You made a deal– his life for yours. And the hero complex rears its ugly head, yet again. Here’s to hoping Sam and Dean never find out. But, if we’re being honest here, I was pissed as he– well… You get the point. I was really mad when he ended up down under literally right after me. I mean, how is that fair? To him, to me, to the boys? Fate has a twisted sense of humor.

This hunt and the literal hell you’d gone through after plagued your dreams when you did sleep.

When you couldn’t sleep, which was most of the time, you wondered who pulled you out of hell and why. At the same time, you were trying to adjust to life with your two hulking brothers and their ever so heavenly resident angel.

My brain has too many tabs open. I even think about overthinking.

Sam and Dean were loud, obnoxious, and messy. The bunker had been their man cave until you came along, and they were still getting used to how the fairer sex preferred to live. You know, sans unpleasant aromas, constant nudity, and leftovers that could be mistaken for a science project. I know, I know. It’s a lot to ask. Apparently I’m high maintenance.

To add to your frustration, Cas would not speak to you. Would. Not. Do. It. He still popped in from time to time. He just never spoke to you.

Okay, buddy, I’m not sure what your definition of ‘later’ is, but it’s been like a month, and I still have no clue who this damn pizza guy is and what the hell he taught you. Am I allowed to cuss at a celestial being? Ah, well. Who cares? What are they gonna do, send me to hell?

You snorted at your own joke, noticing the time flashing on your alarm clock. It’s an acceptable time for a normal human being to be awake. I need coffee.

You padded down the hall to the kitchen, grumbling greetings at a half-asleep Dean. You sat down with your oversized mug of coffee– Ah, sweet nectar of life–and skimmed the local newspaper. Seeing an article detailing a possible serial killer that had targeted upper-class men in swanky bars, you sighed, thunking your coffee cup down on the scarred table. You read further into the article, which chronicled methodology– cracked chests, hearts squeezed to mush, and bodies drained down to the last pint.

This is our kind of weird. At least this one is close to home.

“Sam. Dean. Wake up. Rise and shine, boys!” you shouted from your seat.

“What the hell do you want at seven in the morning on a Saturday? This is my day off,” Dean grumbled as he entered the room. Sam, who had skipped his morning run– probably because of the massive hangover he had. No judgement. Just saying.– came in just moments after, his hair sticking up in wild tufts, eyes matted and sleepy.

“Do you have to be so loud? Let’s all use our inside voices today,” he suggested, moving to the coffee pot.

“I think I have something. It could be nothing, but it’s at our back door, so I’d rather be safe than sorry. Police are investigating a possible serial killer, but I’ve never heard of a serial killer that squeezes hearts and sucks blood just for shits and giggles,” you explained.

“We can think about it when we get there. We need see more of what’s going on before we jump to conclusions anyway,” Dean replied, leaning on the door jamb.

“Finally learn your lesson about being prepared, eh, Dean?” Sam mocked, wincing at the bitterness of the brew in his cup.

“I HAD THE DAMN SIREN I WOULD’VE BEEN FINE,” Dean insisted. Seeing Sam’s wince at his volume, he asked with a smug grin,” DOES MY YELLING BOTHER YOU?”

“Boys, boys. Settle down. If you keep this arguing up, I swear to you, you’ll regret it,” you cautioned, your lack of sleep causing your already thin patience to wane further.

“Oh, yeah? What are you gonna do?” Dean tossed over his shoulder as he went to get his grab bag.

That is it. Last straw. Overgrown brats of brothers. You will rue the day you didn’t heed my words, Winchester. You asked for this.

Seeing your glare morph into a smirk, Sam must’ve known you were planning to make Dean pay in a big way, because he said, “You two are so much alike.”

“I know. It’s like we’re related or something,” you quipped, jumping up from the table to stash your go bag in Baby’s trunk.

How can two people make such a short car ride so unbearable?

From the second you shut the car doors– slammed, according to Dean– your brothers had been bickering. The music was too loud. The sound of Sam’s keyboard clicking was annoying. The heat was too hot. The air was too cold. Dean’s driving wasn’t up to par. The list goes on. Any attempts from you to referee were promptly shut down with a double brother glare.

Oh, Castiel, mighty angel of the Lord, with your majestic and fluffy wings, please, if it’s not too much trouble, CAN YOU GET YOUR ASS DOWN HERE AND USE YOUR PROFOUND BOND WITH DEAN TO MAKE HIM SHUT THE HELL UP? Thank you.

You praised the gods when you pulled up in front of the county courthouse, parallel parking on Main Street. Gee, thanks for the help, Cas.

You stopped and spun around, taking in your surroundings. Blink and you’ll miss downtown.

Putting on your best confident I-belong-here-I’m-in-charge look, you strode purposefully through the door, approaching the sweet-looking old secretary sitting behind the front desk. “Hi there… Margery,” you said, reading her nametag. You flashed your forged credentials. “I’m Special Agent Page, and these are my associates, Agents Bonham and Plant. We’ve been called in to have a look at this series of murders you have. Could you please point me in the direction of some case files? We just need copies. We wouldn’t want to trouble you all. Be in your hair and all that.”

“Why, of course I will. Let me just grab those for you. It’s no trouble at all,” she said with a smile.

You twiddled your thumbs waiting for Margery to come back, hoping the bickering would hold off at least until you left the courthouse. No such luck. Apparently, Sam was too close to Dean and was breathing down his neck. Amidst their squabble, Cas decided to make an appearance, earning a muffled scream from you. Margery chose this moment to reappear.

“Weren’t there only three of you before?” she asked, beginning to look suspicious.

“Yes, ma’am, but this is our new trainee, Agent Jones. He was letting our supervisor know we’d arrived. Isn’t that right, Jones?” you replied, elbowing the angel in the ribs to cue his response.

You honest to God chose this moment to show up? Say something, dammit. Before she realizes we’re frauds and calls us on it. It’s not that hard. Open your mouth. Use your words.

“That is correct,” he grumbled.

“I’ll just take those files from you. You should hear back from us within a few hours,” you said, prying the files from her still suspicious hands and making a beeline for the door.

“The next time you all pull something like that, I will end your lives, bring you back, and end them again. Am I clear?” you huffed, slamming the door to the impala, on purpose this time. Seeing Cas reluctantly slide in beside you, you addressed him. And you! I asked for your help earlier, and you left me high and dry. They are driving me insane in the membrane. Insane in the brain! Shit, now I have that song stuck in my head. Now see what you’ve done?

The car ride to a local diner was blissfully quiet. Apparently, death threats have a calming effect on this crowd. Duly noted.

After poring over the files Margery had been so kind as to give you, you all decided you were dealing with a lamia. You discussed the best means of disposal over your pie, ignoring the stares of the other patrons. Your rag tag little team had noodled out a tentative plan: you’d get all dolled up and go into the bar, look around, and signal the guys when you saw anything suspicious; one of the guys would act as bait, luring the lamia into a conveniently secluded alley, and the other two would be ready with a blessed knife and some rosemary, just in case. Sounds simple enough. I am gonna need some supplies though. I tell ya. I can’t even remember the last time I got all dolled up.

“Oh, brother mine!” Your sing-songy tone was bound to get on Dean’s nerves, but you needed a ride. “How much do you love me?”

“Depends on why you’re asking,” he said hesitantly.

“Oh, it’s nothing major… I just need a ride to town. I have to grab a few things before we head back out for the hunt tonight,” you said sweetly, twirling a lock of hair around your finger, trying to look innocent. Okay. Cue puppy dog eyes.

“Fine,” he huffed. “Let me get my keys. Sam! Ca–“ He cut off abruptly when Cas, ever ignorant of the concept of personal space, popped up comically close to Dean’s face. I thought I was your favorite Winchester? Too bad, angel boy. We could’ve had some fun.

Apparently Cas hadn’t headed your warnings to stay out of your head. He turned a deep crimson, cleared his throat, and stepped back from your eldest brother, leaving a very confused but relieved Dean to wonder what could possibly make an angel blush. Still, all you got was side eye.

“You were about to call for me?” Cas asked Dean, his gaze flitting around the room, landing on anything but you.

So that’s how it’s gonna be. Alright. Let me think about what I want to get while we’re out. A short dress? I think yes. Tight or loose? Who am I kidding? Tight it is. I’ll need some new underwear… These aren’t really suited for a tight dress– unsightly lines and all that. Where will I keep my gun?

The angel’s complexion rivaled that of a tomato at this point, and bless Dean’s soul, he spoke up. Spontaneous combustion isn’t easy to clean up, and you didn’t relish the thought of scraping bits of Cas off the wall. “Yeah…” he started hesitantly. “I just wanted to let you and Sam know Y/N and I are headed to town. Keep us posted if anything changes.”

“We will. I believe Sam and I are about to depart to ask for the blessing of a priest on your knife,” Cas said in reply.

As Dean nodded and turned to go, you mirrored his movements, throwing a wink over your shoulder at the flustered angel. I’m on a roll. Got Cas on my way to get Dean.

The unshakeable, unphasable Dean Winchester was shell shocked by the end of your little trip. He’d been subjected to horrors even his stint in hell hadn’t shown him. The dad bench at Victoria’s secret? Yeah, he’d been plucked from that with an, “I need your opinion, little brother.” The lounge chairs outside Sephora? Yeah, he’d been jerked from those to “help swatch”. The cologne display in your favorite department store? Yeah, he’d been yanked from there to assess which dress was “sexy but not slutty”. Even the sanctuary of the food court, practically holy ground, wasn’t safe. Apparently, a sale on shoes trumped his nachos. He drove home on autopilot, eyes focused on the road, doing the speed limit for once. You chuckled to yourself. Serves him right.

As soon as you pulled in the garage, you hopped out of the car, dashing toward the bathroom with your new purchases. So much to do, so little time. I’m not usually a frilly person, but doesn’t every girl get a little excited when she has an excuse to shake it up every now and then? You passed a very confused Sam and Cas, who questioned Dean about the haunted look in his eyes. Putting on your playlist and laughing when “Hell on Heels” came on, you settled in for the long haul.

Three hours. Three hours is how long it took to create your cascading ringlets, to carefully carve your face with the sticky tubes and pots you’d tested on Dean’s forearm, to strap on those ungodly undergarments, and to stuff yourself into a dress that left very little to the imagination. Now if you could just figure out how to fasten your shoes without busting out of said dress like biscuits out of their can. “Help! I need someone to…” you trailed off, seeing your brothers, shadowed by their angel friend, come crashing through the door.

“You said, ‘help’ and we assumed the worst,” Sam shrugged.

Dean let out a whistle. “Damn, Sam, our sister is a girl after all. How nice. Now cover up.” His glare rivaled the one he’d had in place when you dragged him to look at earrings, insisting he hold them up to his ear so you could see how they hung. He shed his outer shirt, wrapping it backward around your chest.

“This is the point, Dean. Gotta blend in; make ‘em think I’m a working girl,” you chuckled, tossing the flannel off. “You know, the classy kind.”

“Can you even sit down?” Sam asked.

“No. Sitting is for quitters.” You snatched your shoes from the box, and asked sweetly, “Now, who will be a dear and help me put these on?”

How many Winchesters does it take to get a pair of shoes on?

Castiel did his signature head-turn-squint, and you exasperatedly answered his nonverbal question, “It’s a joke, Cas. Take my word for it.”

You shakily walked around, testing your balance. You know how sailors get sea legs? I think women get heel legs. Someone make me one of those honorary pins.

Meanwhile, the heavenly being in the room had yet to take his eyes off you. You’re giving me siren flashbacks here. Stop being creepy and say something, weirdo. The squeaky wheel gets the grease, my fine feathered friend. This confused squint you ignored, opting to hobble to the garage.

You piled into the impala, praying the whole way the stitching in your dress was as strong as your love of your modesty, what little you’d preserved, anyway. The ride there was short and silent, oddly enough. You’d been over the plan at least a hundred times in your mind. You knew exactly what to do.

But, because nothing can ever be simple, especially when Winchesters are involved, things got messy. Long story short, you ended up flat on your ass in the alley behind the bar, the lamia above you. “Come on, now. Let’s settle this like adults. Woman to woman,” you choked out. It’s rather hard to speak when there’s a Grecian monster limiting your air supply.

“I can’t let some hunter ruin my fun, now can I?” she trilled, releasing her grip by a fraction of an inch.

“I mean, you can do whatever you want,” you said with a wink.

“What I want to do is this,” she said with a crooked smile. You could feel the skin on your chest tightening, being pulled taut as your chest began to crack open, ribs straining and bending before snapping. You choked out a half-formed scream as your air supply was firmly cut off. The edges of your vision tinged black as you struggled to hang on to consciousness.

The cavalry has arrived! Your little team made quick work of killing the lamia, Sam landing a solid stab to the back of her neck while she was focused on you, Dean and Cas not far behind.

“Damn it, Sam! Did you have to go for the throat? I’m covered in blood,” you grumbled as you swiped at the sticky rust colored liquid before deciding it was hopeless. “Where were you all? Better late than never, I guess.”

“What a shame. I guess that means your dress is donezo.” Dean grinned at the thought, ignoring your question.

You just rolled your eyes, and hopped up, taking inventory of your injuries. Seeing that you’d only sustained some broken ribs and shallow scratches, you celebrated. “Bam, bitches! Me, two. Death, ZERO. Sorry I couldn’t be your main squeeze, sweetie,” you spat at the lifeless lump of a lamia.

“SHHH DON’T SAY THAT HE’LL HEAR YOU!” Dean cautioned with wide eyes.

“Good. We can go for pizza. I hear he’s into that. I’m starving,” you replied, kicking off your shoes for the walk back to the car.

“When are you not starving?” Sam and Dean asked in unison.

“Stop that. It’s creepy. Just shut up and feed me.” You looked around, wondering aloud, “Where’d angel boy go?”

“Guess you scared him off, Y/N. Shame. I’d like to have him for a brother-in-law,” Sam teased, attempting to ruffle your hair.

Joke’s on you, dude. My hair is so full of hairspray and blood, I’m pretty sure you couldn’t get it to mess up if you took a belt grinder to it. You chuckled, seeing Sam’s disgusted look when he pulled his hand back and wiped it on his shirt. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves here. Seriously, though, we’re getting food, right?”

Post pizza pitstop, Dean, who was keyed up from the hunt and his near death experience at the mall, decided to burn some rubber. Partially to burn off steam; partially to get back at you. You were white-knuckling it on the bench seat. Cas, take the wheel.

“I do not understand why you feel as though I should pilot this vehicle,” your resident angel said dryly, appearing in the seat next to you.

“God! You scared me,” you squealed, your fist connecting with his upper arm, your attention quickly returning to your brothers in the front seat when Dean swerved in reaction to the new addition to the car.

This is it. This is the end. It won’t be a monster that gets me. It’ll be a damn tree.

“We have been over this. I am no longer God,” Castiel huffed, rubbing his shoulder. You looked over to him, catching a glimpse of the look he was giving you.

Did he just roll his freaking eyes at me? Are you serious? Like, I’m the one that taught him that. Oh, he’s gonna pay for that one. And not in the good kind of way.

At that, the angel blushed, turning his head to look out the window, his hand tentatively finding yours in the backseat. You laced his fingers with yours, giving them a reassuring squeeze.

Sure took you long enough.

At that, Cas laughed, bringing the back of your hand to his lips, earning a groan from both of your brothers.

“Like sands through the hourglass, so are the days of our lives,” Dean mocked.

“Wait, how do you know that quote? It’s from a daytime soap opera. Dean, are you cheating on Dr. Sexy?” Sam snickered.

“You realize that understanding the reference indicates that you also enjoy daytime television, right, Sam?” Cas interjected.

“Sometimes it pays to know a guy that can read minds,” you said with a smile, bursting into laughter, stopping short when your ribs protested. It was worth it. High five for making them squirm.

Your brothers in the front seat and your angel in the back. What more could a girl ask for?

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icecream-and-gadreel · 7 years

Text

Don’t Let me be Misunderstood

Summary: You meet the infamous Mr. Ketch during a vampire hunt gone wrong. From the moment you laid your eyes on him, you knew that you fucking loathed him. Every run in with him is increasingly troubling, with your patience diminishing quicker and quicker.

Characters: Arthur Ketch, Deanxhunter!reader (implied), Sam, Mary, Castiel (Mention)

Rating: Mature (heed my warnings!)

Warnings: Language, Ketch is creepy, unwanted physical touching (Kissing and stroking of the arm), typical canonical violence, mentions of torture (Vampire)

Word count: 3400+

A/N: This is from my 21 song fic challenges! This is not for Ketch girls, my dear friends, this is for the pals who either wanna see me spill tea all over Mary and Ketch, or pals who like badass readers.

Eternity squad: @mrswhozeewhatsis @beriala @busybee612 @kittenofdoomage @aprofoundbondwithdean @ign-is @icantthinkofaname-oops @catsoftheapocalypse @purgatoan ( @mrsgabrieltrickster if the warnings aren’t too much, I feel that you will enjoy this, mayhaps)

“I’m just a soul who’s intentions are good, oh lord, please don’t let me be misunderstood.”

This ‘rescue’ has been going on for fifteen minutes now; you’re starting to feel bad for the vampire. You wince as finally, the deranged son of a bitch who busted into the door cuts it’s head off, flexing his hands. You’ve seen some pretty….violent hunters in the past. You get it, sometimes the life just gets to you. But this? This is different. He sliced into this vampire, punched it, and kicked it until it was begging for him to just end it. Once that happened? He just kept going. He only stopped when he seemed to get bored of the begging, like he had his fill of this sick game.

And this is the man who Mary sent. You mentally note to never ask her for help again as he makes his way to you, raking your brows together.

“Y/N, it was requested that I deliver you to the Winchesters,” he says. Accent. Great, British men of letters. You scream as he rips the duck tape from over your mouth, gaining a chuckle from him.

“Untie me,” you say, your eyes locked on his. He ignores your words, circling around your chair with a soft smile on his face. "Now would be good,“ you add. Pulling off his gloves, he kneels down behind you, working the knot loose. The rope falls from around your form, and you let out a sigh of relief, flexing your hands in the ropes around your wrists. “These too, hot shot,” you say.

“That isn’t my name,” he says, his eyebrows raised. “It’s Arthur. Arthur –”

“Ketch,” you mumble, a growl escaping your lips. He nods, flinching back as you attempt to head butt him. “Just my luck. I get this piece of shit,” you hiss, gaining a taken aback look from him. “Just untie me.”

“I…take it you aren’t a fan of me?” He narrows his eyes, pulling his leather glove onto his hand. “Have we met?”

“Tortured Sammy, compelled his mom to almost get Cas killed.” You give him a tight-lipped smile, struggling against the rope. “I got the gist,” you hiss through clenched teeth. He gestures to the vampire on the ground, his eyebrows raked together.

“I got rid of that pesky little problem for you, did I not?” he growls, quickly going back to his blank look. “Say thank you, it’s imperative to be polite.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” you say, rolling your eyes with a wide grin. “How about I do you one better? Just whip your cock out and let me stuff it down my throat oh GREAT savior!” you say, voice soaked in sarcasm. “Is that thanks enough for you, you piece of living, breathing, maggot infested garbage?”

He stares at you blankly, words lost to him. “Perhaps you need time to calm down, I’ll retrieve you in say…two days?” he asks, smirking when your face sinks. “Or perhaps you’ll play nice. You decide, dear.” You clench your jaw, twisting your head away as he strokes a gloved hand over your cheek. God, he makes you feel like you’re swimming in sewage; you hate having him so near to you. He tucks a finger underneath your chin, forcing you to look him in the eye. “Come on, I’ll start you out. Dearest Arthur…” He rolls his wrist.

“Dearest?” you scoff, straightening up as he pulls away from you. As he begins walking away, you suck in a breath, closing your eyes. “Dearest Arthur, thank you so very –” You pause as sarcasm fills your voice, letting out a breath. “Thank you for saving my life.” Even though you’d rather die than be in debt to this skeevy bastard. He smiles sweetly, clasping his hands together.

“Was that so hard?”

“You have no fucking idea,” you grumble under your breath. He wipes his knife clean with a handkerchief before cutting into the ropes around your wrists. You stand from your seat, snatching your machete from the ground and making your way toward the exit. You pat your pockets for your keys, stopping cold in your tracks when you hear them jingling behind you.

“You may need these to drive,” Arthur says, smiling and tossing them to you. You glare in return, catching them as you push out of the warehouse door. “You’re really going to have to work on these manners.”

“You untied me, we’re done here,” you say, sorting through your keys. You can feel his eyes on you, burning into you as you make your way to your car. “We got a problem, psychopath?” you ask, turning to him. He’s standing much closer than you anticipated, wearing a frown and a locked jaw.

“Excuse me?”

“You’re excused.”

“No, what did you just call me? Psychopath?” he asks. You gesture to the warehouse, scoffing.

“You just tortured a –”

“Monster.”

“That doesn’t excuse anything. Mentally? You’ve got problems, kid.” You climb into your car, and just before you close it you lock eyes with him once more. “If I ever see you or one of your other friends, you better fucking run. One of you owe Sam a few hours of pain.”

“That sounds promising,” Arthur says, a smile stretching across his face. You smile in return, trying to hide your anger.

“Oh yeah, sweety, when I get rough, it’s fucking magical,” you hiss, slamming the door. He watches as you drive away, that same stale smile glued to his face.

–

Dean sets a beer down in front of you, trying to stifle his laughter. You kick him playfully, leaning back in your seat. Telling him about the Ketch situation had him laughing on and off for an hour now. He cracks open his beer, taking a short swig before leaning forward.

“These guys aren’t too fond of rogue hunters –”

“Won’t be too fond of my boot up his ass either,” you grumble, gaining roaring laughter from Dean. Mary sinks down next to you, and you shoot her a glare, gaining a furrowed brow from her. “Anyways, I think I might sit this one out,” you say.

“What? But I like hunting with you,” Dean whines.

“She looks tired Dean, let her go,” Mary says, reaching for your beer. Squinting, you snatch your beer up, placing your chair next to Dean’s and plopping down. “Or maybe there’s a different issue going on?” she mumbles, lacing her fingers together. You hum to yourself, tilting your head. If you hit her, you wonder how hard you’d have to run to avoid the wrath of Sam and Dean. Maybe they’d get over it. Pausing, you shake your head.

“They don’t get over anything,” you whisper, gaining a frown from Dean.

“What?” he grunts.

“What?” you retort, opening your beer. “So it’s just a werewolf, right?” you ask. He glances down at the table, clearing his throat.

“We’re gonna take out the pack,” he says, gaining wide eyes from you. “If we get rid of the pack, we’re nipping the problem in the bud. Every wolf goes bad at some point.”

“Wow…even Garth and his lovely wife?” you ask sweetly, making Dean stiffen. “This sounds like some British men of letters bullshit.”

Dean huffs, swigging from his beer again. “Yeah well –”

“That’s why we’re taking the pack out,” Mary cuts in, pulling out her phone. “They’re coming to help us,” she says. You hold your hands up, standing from your seat. “Just give them a chance –”

“Give them a chance to use me as bait? Or test their weird weapons on? Or – and I think you’ll like this one personally Mary – give them a chance to torture Sam again?” you ask, standing stone in your place as she grips your collar.

“Mom, Y/N, come on,” Dean says, pushing you both apart. He stands in between you both, holding his hands up defensively. “Take it easy guys.”

“Did you hear what she said, Dean?” Mary asks, hurt in her voice. He nods in return, staring down at the ground.

“I’m not gonna lie, mom, I’m right there with her,” Dean says, throwing his hands up. “Like it or not, these guys –”

“Aren’t we the talk of the town,” Arthur’s voice purrs as he walks into the bar, his hands tucked into his pockets. When his eyes meet yours, a smile stretches across his face. “Would you like to settle this pain debt now, or later?” he asks, letting out a faint laugh as you sink into your seat. “Mick, this is the hunter I was talking about,” he says. A second man approaches, whipping out his business card.

“Lovely to meet you,” Mick says, smiling. You swig your beer, pretending as if he isn’t standing there. “Or…not…”

“Sorry,” you begin, turning to them both. “Unlike some people, I find a problem in chumming it up with people who torture the people I love,” you say, your eyes locked on Mary. “Who’s next, Lucifer gonna be coming to family picnics after what he did to your son?” you whisper. She snarls at you, turning her eyes to Arthur and Mick.

“We’re ready when you are,” she says, gaining a nod from Arthur. Everyone begins filing out, save for Dean, who catches your arm. Before you can speak, he’s giving you a 'shut up and listen’ look.

“You’re gonna have to take it easy on my mom,” he says.

“Dean –”

“Look, I get it, I do. I don’t like those son’s of bitches either, but we’re adults. We make our own decisions, no matter how fucked up they may be.” He gestures to you, eyebrows raised. “You and Crowley, for example.”

You clench your teeth at the memory, nodding. “Ok, I get it, fine,” you say, nodding. “But Ketch and Mickey mouse are fair game,” you say, gaining a smirk from him.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way, sweetheart.”

…..

Arthur growls as you push him against the wall, struggling against your grasp. “What are you doing?” he asks, lowering his hands to his sides.

“You’re not about to torture another god damn person, not while I’m around,” you say, pulling your gun from your pants. The werewolf stares up at you with pleading eyes. At this point, you aren’t sure if it’s pleading for life or death. You shoot it in the heart, turning to Arthur with burning eyes. He has a dazed look on his face, a wide smile on his face.

“I must say, seeing a woman take control is always a pleasure,” he cooes, straightening up as you brush past him. “But where’s the fun in this if you kill them right away?”

“It’s not fun, that’s the point,” you say, glancing around. Mick cut the power, so everything is dark. You all barged in during a family dinner, and you can’t force the image away. Children, probably as young as six being hunted down by these brutes. Why the hell did they pair you off with Ketch? You frown as he begins creeping after a figure, eyes going wide when you find that it’s the little girl from earlier. “No,” you whisper harshly, gripping his arm.

“I’ve never been fond of the word no,” he grumbles. You stare at him blankly, rolling your eyes.

“I’m shocked, that you, such a striking man, doesn’t like the word no,” you mumble flatly, your grip on his wrist tightening. “You’re not killing a little kid.”

“I know, I’m killing a beast,” he says, yanking away from you. As you chase after him, he pushes you to the ground, snatching your gun away with raised eyebrows. “I’ll even do it your way.” Arthur rounds the corner, and just as you raise to your feet, three gunshots sound. Fuck. You take slow, deliberate steps, wincing as you see the young werewolf laying on the ground. He smiles triumphantly at you, wagging the gun. “Two in the heart, one between the eyes –” He cuts himself off as you snatch the gun away, trailing closely behind you. “I’m starting to enjoy your aggression,” he whispers, stroking a hand up your arm.

“Don’t touch me, creep,” you growl. He continues creeping his fingers up your arm, pausing just shy of your neck. You whip around, pushing him away from you and gaining a chuckle in return. “I said–” He presses his lips against yours, holding your wrists as you try to wiggle away from him. Growling, you head butt him, making his stagger back. “Listen to me, you repulsive pile of dog vomit.” You walk close to him, cocking your gun. “If you touch me again, kiss me again, or even think of doing anything to me again, I won’t hesitate to fucking end you.”

“I love a challenge.” He straightens up, rubbing his head with a smirk. “Let’s see how long it takes for you to give in.”

“Hey we’re –” Sam cuts himself off as he and Dean approach you both, slowing his steps with a furrowed brow. “If everything ok?” he asks, shooting a suspicious look to Arthur. “Did he try anything?” he whispers to you, gently patting your shoulder. You nod, eyes still locked on Arthur.

“I want him to try again,” you say, gaining a grin from Arthur. “The only thing he’ll be kissing is the barrel of my gun.”

“She’s spicy, I love it,” Arthur says. As you raise your gun to him, Sam and Dean pull you away, ushering you down the stairs.

“What did he do?” Sam asks, his jaw clenched.

“Kissed me,” you grumble. Dean’s eyebrows shoot up, and he turns around, heading up the stairs. Sam grabs his forearm, shaking his head.

“No Dean,” he says, turning his eyes to you. “Unless you want us to –”

“Fuck it, let’s go,” you grumble.

“I never thought you’d be one to step down from a fight,” Arthur says as he slowly makes his way down the steps. “For such a barking girl, I was patiently awaiting the bite.”

“Hm,” you mumble, darting your tongue over your lips and staring down at your gun. “Whatever, creep,” you say as you make your way out of the house.

–

You stare up at the ceiling, frowning as your phone chimes.

118-208-2118: Let’s grab a drink.

Frowning, you stare at your phone, trying to figure out who the hell would have your number. Your phone chimes once more, and your face sinks.

118-208-2118: If you haven’t guessed, it’s Arthur. Mary was kind enough to hand over your number.

You: Lose it.

118-208-2118: Don’t be cruel. 324 Martin DR. S. I think we need to have a chat.

You ignore his text, growling as your phone chimes again.

118-208-2118: I think we can come to an understanding…

You shake your head, staring down at your phone when a call comes through. You accept the call, balancing your phone between your ear and your shoulder. “What?” you hiss.

“Are you coming?” Arthur asks. You hang up without answering, turning on the TV and laying on your stomach. Once more, a call comes through, but you ignore it, pressing a pillow over your head with a groan. Just as sleep approaches, a knock comes at the door.

“Seriously?” you growl. You lean up, smiling to yourself. Maybe it’s Dean finally coming over to give you a warm beer and a back massage. You chuckle at the thought, opening the door with a grin on your face. Your smile sinks when you’re met with Arthur, your jaw clenched. “You’re following me now?”

“I came to speak with Mary, one thing led to another, and she gave me your room number.” He brushes past you, looking almost repulsed as he goes through the ratty motel room. “Were you expecting someone else?”

“Sadly – don’t get comfortable,” you say, glaring as he sinks down on your bed.

“Which one does it for you, Sam or Dean?” he asks. You scoff, holding the door open for him. “Knowing that attitude, I’d say Dean. Does he make a good girl? Or does he like it when you’re bad?” he asks, staring up at the ceiling. “Do things get messy? A little blood here and there?”

You clasp your hands together, making your way across the room to him. “You have serious problems. I’d say get help, but I don’t give one flying fuck about what you do.” You point to the door, making his smile sink. “Get. Out.” He stares at you with a challenging look.

“I was trying to be nice, but I see now that it’s wasted effort.” He stands from the bed, closing in on you. You stay in your place, shooting him a glare. “Either you join us, or you’ll be treated like a rogue.” He smirks tilting his head. "And boy, do I love breaking in a new rebel.”

“Bite me, cupcake,” you whisper, sucking in a breath as he slams you against the wall, his hand around your throat.

“My bite is far more than you can handle,” he growls, his grip tightening around your throat. “I’m done playing nice –”

“If that was nice I’d hate to see mean,” you wheeze, pounding at his unwavering arm. His grip tightens once more, and you gasp for air, fighting away the blackness filling your eyes. Swinging your leg up, you manage to get your knee right between his thighs, slamming up against his crotch. He hunches down in pain, releasing your neck. You take the opportunity to snatch your gun and clip from underneath your pillow, flipping over your bed and jamming the clip inside of your gun.

“Cheap shot, you’re playing dirty,” he growls. You huff, raising to your feet and aiming the gun at him.

“No use playing fair in a fight, is there?” you ask. Arthur stares between you and the gun, a shit-eating grin on his face.

“How many times have you aimed that gun at me?” he asks, taking a step toward you. “You won’t shoot me, you’re too g–” He cuts himself off with a grunt as you shoot him in the shoulder, eyes going wide. Just as your finger twitches over the trigger once more, the door flies open, and all of the Winchesters zoom in.

“Woah woah woah, take it easy,” Sam says, holding his hands up to you. Dean stares between you both, making his way to you with a blank look. He doesn’t stop you, only pulls his gun out and aims it at Arthur. “Dean –”

“I’m not gonna shoot him yet,” Dean says, nodding to you. “But if she runs out of bullets, I’m ready to step in.”

“Dean, Y/N, guns down, now,” Mary says in her mom voice. Though you’re pissed at her, you lower your gun dutifully, and so does Dean. “No killing allies. Now, what’s going on?”

“He was trying to kill an ally,” you say, gesturing to your neck. You can still feel where his fingers dug into your skin. She turns her eyes to him, confusion on her face. Dean snarls, stepping closer to you.

“Touch her again and I’ll kill you myself,” Dean hisses. Arthur holds a hand over his wound, his eyes locked on you. Smiling, you approach him, kneeling down as you tuck your gun into your pants.

“The only alliance I’ll ever have is with the Winchesters,” you whisper, gaining a snarl from him. “Fuck with me again, Mr. Ketch, let’s see what happens.” He stares up at you, chest heaving, eyes filled with fury. He doesn’t even bother responding. You make your way out of the room, hands tucked into your pockets and a smile on your face. Dean jogs up next to you, nudging you gently.

“I must say, that little 'let’s see what happens’ speech was pretty freaking awesome,” he says. Before you can respond, Sam is pushing between you both, gaining a glare from the elder Winchester.

“Look, I know that we may be collabing with these guys,” Sam says, flicking his eyes back to the motel room. “But I’ll be damned if I let that son of a bitch hurt you.”

“None of us will,” Mary chimes in. You want to mention that she almost let Castiel die, but what’s the use in kicking a dead horse?

“Thanks, all of you. But the next time he even thinks of me wrong –” You climb into your car, rolling down the window and sticking your head out – “He’s gonna have to deal with me.”

#arthur ketch #supernatural #fanfiction #supernatural fanfiction #dean winchester #deanxreader #kinda #sam #sam winchester #mary winchester #my writing #fanfic #fan fic #I milly rock on any block

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semicolonthefifth · 4 years

Text

CROSS Ch.8 - In Hell I’ll Be In Good Company

It took another 45 minute drive down the Black Road, away from the box and Southward. The Aurora landscape became a blur once more, with vast stretches passed by at high speeds. It was a race against the sun, as it began to angle down towards the horizon - with the vivid blue skies turning a calming magenta.

Jason kept driving on, occasionally glancing Westward for the signs provided by Buddy’s directions. His eyes narrowed towards a detail that was gradually approaching from afar - the archway, that jutted out from the mountains and closely towards the Road. Then, further off was the mentioned fort: a relic from the Human-Deltan-Kronian Wars that carved out fresh wounds for the planet. Jason had no clue if it was still in use or not, and didn’t at all care either way. As soon as the fort came into view, he began turning off the Road and onto the rough terrain. Buddy was more prepped in grabbing his seat that time - though the shaking still got to him.

After a short bit of driving, the terrain proved too difficult for further travel and prompted Jason to park before a nearby hill. Once stopped, Jason and Charlie got out and rounded over to the back - and began to collect what they needed.

Charlie watched as Jason worked automatically - grabbing piece by piece exactly what they would bring.

From the trunk a single backpack was pulled out, along with an additional duffle bag. All the ammo bought was deposited into the bag, alongside some stuff from the trunk: an emergency First Aid Kit; a couple of road flares; dried rations, enough for a week’s travel; binoculars; a portable burner, with extra fuel cans; rope; and a couple flasks of water.

Additionally were some other materials.

Firstly, a lasso, which was rolled up and stowed into the bag. It looked old.

Second, a peculiar device: a set of rolled up smoke grenades, connected to a series of fireworks with the fuse set between them both. 4 in total, all stowed into the grab.

Finally, a machete. The blade itself was nothing special, but what came with it was what peaked Charlie’s interest. A sheath, lovingly well-crafted in a dark reddish-brown leather, with light-brown fringes along one side. Etched in bright was some writing, but Charlie couldn’t get a good angle to read it.

Without warning, Charlie was tossed the duffle bag while deep in thought - only just barely catching it at the last second. Jason then grabs the rations given to him by Ms. Collier off the car, putting them into the backpack before slinging it over his shoulders alongside the rifle.

“Keep hold of that, ok? We’ll need it all for the job.” Jason told Charlie.

Charlie takes the bag, finding it to be in low weight. He comments aloud, “Looks like everything could easily fit into the backpack. Why the extra bag?”

Jason explains as he checks his guns, “If we do a good enough job, there’ll be a lot of supplies there. Guns, ammo, good… anything we can keep, and some more we can sell. IT’s better to save what you can than just to leave it all to waste away.”

“You’ve certainly got a lot of experience doing this sort of thing.” Charlie says, smiling a bit as he then asks, “Was this what you did back as a Crimson Cross?”

Right then Jason began marching towards the mountains, all the while keeping the conversation up with Charlie who was following after. He said aloud, sounding a bit proud, “Pretty much! The food and guns we collected from a job were often times given away to settlements if they needed it. My dad taught us this: that everyone here should have a gun to defend themselves with. With how things are in this world, the Deltans had the right idea when it came to what every man and woman had to have. No law ever came that tried to judge who deserved a gun or not, and anytime it reared its head we were there to throw up our arms against it.

“I can’t honestly imagine living like that.” Charlie comments, troubled in thought. “Unlike here, the process to get one back at Tyrell is… tight to put it mildly. That’s how our laws operate, and I sorta thought that’s how it was like with every UROE world.”

Jason scoffed, “Well you don’t got raiders there, right?”

“No.”

“Raiders, bandits, the rare ornery Deltan looking for trouble. You don’t got peapole coming in at night to murder a man whose sleeping on his porch; or to burn a car because the driver had a funny look. There ain’t no lawman aside those who take it in their hands to enforce it, and they’re usually far too out to be of any help. Out here on Aurora, you either get a gun, or you get a grave ready for filling.”

“I didn’t mean to offend.” A nervous Charlie stated. “It’s just the way it is back home.”

“Must be nice…” Jason’s voice was a mixture: a bit of mad, a bit of sad. It was soft in tone. To Charlie, Jason didn’t sound mad at him but more so mad in general.

Worried that Jason’s emotions could affect the job, Charlie tried thinking of another subject to approach before finally on something he thought would do better.

“So, the Syore Mountains. Anything interesting about that?”

“Eh, a lot of old stories told by the natives, so you’re better off reading it off some history book.” Jason explained, rather bored. However he eventually perked up a bit when something came to mind. “Thinking on it, there is supposed to be an old Deltan fortress up on one of the mountains. I heard from my dad once, in a story he told me and Fred, that there once was this clan that lived there that worshipped a God of Fire. They had it good for awhile, until they pissed off another God so badly that he destroyed it and everyone inside.”

“That’s… intense.” Charlie noted, a little fascinated as he listened on. “It’s interesting, walking in the place of an ancient and great war.”

“It’s actually not when you think about the history of everything on this rock. Deltans spent countless years killing each other with war after war. When we came in and tried to make a home of this place, that only started a brand new war to add to it all. Only that time it was us who came out winning, and we kicked their asses so hard that we pushed them into the mountains. Nowadays we’re stuck fighting more battles, not including all the stuff you and I are doing - fighting raiders who’re causing a mess of things. Aurora’s full of fighting and war - always has and always will be.”

“Just warring and fighting.” Charlie thinks aloud. “How can you ever live in a place where there’s never a moment of peace?”

“Who says you can?” Jason shoots back, chuckling a bit.

He then looks back, seeing Charlie looking rather disappointed. Charlie didn’t think of himself as naive to believe there’s never been fighting, or little of it, but he can’t help think of the glorious history that brought him here in the first place - and how more and more the fantasy is done away. From the first day since, Charlie has seen murder, terrible people, backstabbers, and a landscape whose history is full of awful destruction.

Jason looks up to the sky, seeing the sun further past mid-day and close to descending further in the coming hours. Moving forward on, Jason sighs a bit and tells Charlie, “Look… don’t think it’s all badness here. There’s good people, trying to make right of this place. It’s hard, but you just have to find it, even wait for them to come.”

Charlie looks up at Jason as he follows along - a bit better, though not entirely convinced.

As he treds forward, Jason then states, “There’s going to be a rise soon. Once we enter the first incline, we can settle a camp by the time night comes around.”

Charlie could look up and see that indeed the sun was gradually, and rapidly, moving for the horizon, and with that the environment began to change more and more. He looked to the mountains and far off flats behind him, where the road crossed and lay between them and another wall of mountain far away.

Some of the mountains were quite like the typical mountain ranges on most planets he’s seen in photos, yet there was something unique to them the more he stared on. Many of the mountains possessed a hard jagged side, forming sharp edges that angled along its core surface. The tips almost seemed to curve inwards toward the flatter plains, like the jaws of a giant predator ready to eat a chunk of the world.

As Charlie walked further, he could better see the outward facing sides of those same mountains. This side was smoother - curving broadly towards the core and plains. They were smoothed out by years of storms, carving them into more softer textures.

Another unique feature that he began to notice was the hills leading into the mountains. Following Jason further, Charlie looked to the ground and saw why the terrain was so rough.

Footprints.

Giant footprints, in marching order and pressed deep into the ground. Dozens, perhaps even hundreds of footprints. They came in and out of the mountains, overlapping each other every now and then - while occasionally he’d spot a print that showed more clearly above the rest. Much of the ground had been washed away by centuries of winds, but evidence of the march of giants still remained.

When Charlie looked ahead, he could see that same path stretch on for miles - winding around the mountains like a snake. It coiled and turned, some even cutting deep into the hills to produce a clearer route. Some of these routes were as wide as 5 men standing side by side, with their arms far apart. The more Charlie stepped towards the mountains, the more he was stepping in the footsteps of giants - and of the roads they left behind.

“Wonderful…” Charlie softly commented, his eyes to the ground.

“Yeah…” Jason replied neutrally, “Same path as the natives. The grounds all stamped down by their walks in these areas. Over the years they kept walking the same path, and eventually it made something of a road through the mountains.”

To walk the path of titanic beings, Charlie thought, on an adventure with a hero he’s read of. When the realization came to him, a renewed excitement struck him. It was so silly. So fantastical, and yet all the while it was altogether uplifting.

The two keep marching on, passing up the first hill on the direct Westward path. As they ventured, more of the first layer of mountains began to surround them from all sides.

Climbing the initial mount was difficult, far more so for Charlie than it was for Jason. Cross barely broke so much as a sweat as he climbed the hill’s peak, whereas Charlie was beginning to breathe more harshly with his newfound experience. It was thrilling, he had to admit. He glanced back once more, seeing the sun continue to lower as the time passed on by - all the while there was still a path further on ahead. Directly West to them was the seemingly endless range of mountains that stretched beyond the horizon. What was but a wall of teeth became layers of jagged claws, enveloping each other almost infinitely. There were mountains reaching such colossal heights that Charlie could almost believe they pierced the skies and into space. Massive clouds also covered them, moving quickly by the influence of the planet’s massive, all-powerful storms. The sands within the storms moved and colored these clouds, creating plumes of magenta, crimson and gold.

Charlie nearly faints from the sight, panting as he lingered on the thought of having to climb through the winding paths. Jason, however, was unbothered - only taking in a couple hard breaths and a moment of rest.

He glances at Charlie, telling him to, “Rest up, alright? We’ll be here for awhile.”

After taking a breather, Charlie looks to the distance once more and wonders aloud, “It’s like a maze of spikes for giants. How would a gang be able to traverse this place without getting lost?”

Jason studies the map and takes a gander through his binoculars, then back and forth every now and then while explaining casually to the young Charlie, “They probably have someone who's a local here. That, or maybe they did their business long enough to get a good idea of how to go through it. It ain’t hard to hide from the law here, honestly. Most hired guns don’t go deeper than the first layer, so they just give up and head back to the Road before they’ll ever chase a bandit here.”

“Can’t blame them…” Charlie replies exhaustingly - wiping some sweat off his brow.

A light groan is heard from Jason as he puts away both items, then afterwards he thinks aloud, “Well this’ll suck. Got some good news and bad news about our situation here. According to the map, they’re somewhere between two or three layers deep in this range.”

“That’s the good news?” Charlie weakly cries.

“Yeah, well the bad news is far worse. The map says they’re off the paths. We’ll need to do some extra bit of climbing to check around for them. Considerin’ how rough this place gets where even the Deltans don’t tread, that kind of trek will take a day extra.”

“An extra day? Dear god…”

“Eh, don’t worry. It shouldn’t be too hard to find a gang of bandits around here. These mountains aren't occupied, so we’ll have an easier time searching in the night for fires or sounds.”

Charlie sighed, feeling less tired from his brief rest so far. “Night, huh. That’s the plan then?”

“Yup. We’ll walk at night and find shelter in the day. There’s loads of caves spread about in the area that the natives use, so we can easily find some places to rest. It’s much better at night anyways. They’ll be a lot more attentive in the day, and at night they’ll rest up - figuring that nobody but us would be crazy enough to come here at night, it’s our best shot.”

Jason moves away from the open and takes a breather of his own by a mountain wall, reiterating to Charlie, “Rest up as much as you can, ok? Once night comes, we’ll start moving again.”

Charlie does as suggested, doing the best he can to regain his strength and rest away his exhaustion.

Hours would pass, on and on. Jason would eventually hand out some rations: the left-over meats and breads from Blondie, split so as to save more of it for the travel to come. Jason much enjoyed what Ms. Collier had prepared, but not as enjoyed as Charlie felt once the meat was brought to his mouth. The bread was a little sweet, nothing much - but like a sponge it absorbed the flavor of the meats nicely. Speaking of, the taste was amazing to Charlie. He never tried lizard meat before, and the texture felt similar to chicken. There was a special blend of seasonings native to Aurora, along with cooking methods that produced a juicy, spicy taste. It tore into pieces easily in his fingers, and the way it mixed with the bread prolonged the flavor further. To Charlie it was overpowering, but awesomely so.

Eventually he washed it all down with the water Jason handed over, and the two continued on resting as time passed by.

For much of the time Charlie would stare into the sky. He’d see the clouds slowly roll across the deep blue, no longer magenta as it was a moment ago. Far to the horizon he could still see the light dabs of violet and orange that once painted the air. The landscape of harsh red softened, turning from sharp peaks of crimson into much softer gradients of reddish-violent and blues. The blowing sand storms, once so violent, blurred the lands with swirling mixtures of purple - broken apart with bits of orange and red from the remaining light of the sun.

As the sun began to finally tuck past the mountains far away, the skies grew dark and overtook the cool blues with a gradual blackness. Charlie felt an odd relief, as the once hot climate became much cooler. His sight turned momentarily towards Jason, and from there he could note an expression that was unlike him. Jason appeared calm and utterly peaceful, done away with any sadness, shame, or anxiety. The great Cross stared out to the horizon opposite to the sun, with a softened smile remained relaxed and steady.

However at this time Charlie could feel the sleep settling in, and soon he laid more into his rough seating - no longer feeling the hardness of the ground as his body relaxed completely. He was awake long enough to hear Jason saying,

“Doze if you want. I’ll wake you when we can head out again.”

Charlie’s eyes closed, and with it his body began to truly sleep. As his vision blackened, he saw Jason still staring out to the sky opposite to the setting sun. For a brief moment, he swore he saw the black sky of night give way to a golden hue.

#My story #writing #story #science fiction #western #cowboys #CROSS #KRONOS #eyeofsemicolon #the5thsemicolon #semicolonthefifth #fiction

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andya-j · 6 years

Text

"I know it must be hard for you, after everything that has happened, Brody. It always pains us when we have to make victims such as yourself relive such traumatic events, but please, can you help us by telling me what happened?" Brody Williams, a boy of fifteen, sat shivering, seated at a metallic table in an interview room, a cup of cheap coffee steaming up into the cold air. "It's cold," said the boy. "And dark." "Yes, I know. Sorry, but our heating's under maintenance. I could get you a blanket if you're suffering." The boy sighed. "No, no, it's fine." He slipped his hoodie back on and zipped it up to his neck. He had always been the tough jock at school, surrounding himself with friends that looked up to him, admired him. He was the cool kind, everyone said, but now he looked up at the female officer with eyes of a frightened child. She was around her late thirties or early forties, her hair brown and straw-like; she wore little to no makeup. Brody went to cup the coffee with his hands, but they were shaking so badly he feared he might spill it. He could still hear the screams, screams of fear and pain. God, the blood. So much blood. It had happened in the cafeteria. Somehow the weakling boy with the curly red hair and acne-covered skin had managed to lock all the exits, preventing anyone else from getting in or out. Brody could see it now--the machete hacking away, the limbs flying off from the bodies of the students he had known and talked to, laughed or joked with, all of them lying in pools of blood and mangled flesh and tissue. He heard the girls scream--but it was Brody Patrick Rivers was after. His eyes watered as the female cop listen to him, looking at him sympathetically. "I used to hurt him, call him names. He was always a weak little shit." The cop shuffled uncomfortably at that. "What sort of thing or things did you used to do to him, Brody?" she asked softly. "You know, like, typical stuff, I guess. Push him over, shoulder bashed him, knocked his books out of the dweebs hands and kicked him over when he bent down to pick them up. I shoved him in his locker, once. Poor Patrick was in there until the next morning." "He had been in there all night?" The cop seemed to find that reprehensible. Brody seemed distracted, fearful. "I'm sorry, what did you say your name was again?" "Judy. Officer Judy, homicide." "Officer Judy, am I in trouble here?" She smiled warmly. "No, Brody. I just need to investigate what happened. That way we can seek the proper justice." "But Patrick's already dead. I told you: he shot himself with that handgun." Judy looked sad for a moment. "The whole incident was tragic; it should never have occurred. But please, tell me what else you did, or what you said other kids did to him." "Is this being…you know, like, recorded?" Judy nodded politely. "It is. Don’t worry, it is merely to get your statement. After that, you're free to go." Brody pondered, looking around the dark room. He'd never been in a police interview room before, and nor had he ever been in a police station in his little Midwestern town. "Well, you know, I once stuffed him in a trashcan--" "Wouldn’t he be a little big to fit in a trashcan?" She made a note, scribbling something down. "Well, like, we were in elementary then. He was scared of, like, being in closed spaces. What you call it? Amnesaphobic or something?" "Claustrophobic?" "Sure, something or other. A few kids thought it would be fun to put him in closed spaces like that." "Do you feel bad about locking him in a locker, when you knew previously that he was deathly afraid of small spaces?" "Yeah, I guess." Officer Judy made an almost disgusted face. "Did you not think it cruel to do that, Brody?" "It was only meant to be a bit of fun, though." "You think it was fun for Patrick Rivers to be stuffed for seventeen hours in a locker? Do you realize how terrifying that must have been?" The boy looked despondent, ignorant in his teenage attitude. "Like…I dunno." "What are you afraid of, Brody? Spiders, snakes, the dark, rejection? Maybe you're afraid of your father beating you, and feel a foreboding sense of dread every time he has a drink?" That took Brody back, and suddenly he felt uncomfortable in this dark room, where moonlight shone dimly through the cell bar windows. In fact, he was beginning to struggle to comprehend how he had gotten to the station; he didn’t remember walking in. Maybe he was just so nervous he was forgetting things. He was tired, though, and felt lightheaded, as if he were recovering from a rough night of drinking. He started shivering again. Judy pushed the coffee toward him. "Maybe you should drink this, it'll help warm you. He did as he was bid, and took hold of the cup with both hands, and sipped it. 'Damn, that tastes pretty good, actually' he thought. "Feel a little better now?" Judy said, smiling. Brody nodded, so Judy pressed on. "Tell me, why did you like to bully--or liked to watch people bully--him?" "I dunno, like, it made me feel strong, like, I guess." "How did you feel when you saw him with that machete and handgun?" "Pretty darn scared, I guess." Brody began to shake uncontrollably, slightly going into a panic attack, something he had never experienced before. "Hush now, drink some more coffee," said Judy, and he did. His nerves calmed a little. "Tell me about the massacre, if you can, please." "It was lunchtime. We were in the cafeteria. I was talking to my friends. And then I heard the screaming…the horrible screaming! I thought someone had played a practical joke on a girl by throwing a fake spider in her hair or something. But, like, when I turned around when the screaming got worse, I saw that little ginger freak with blood on his face. I thought it was another practical joke, like he was dressed in some Halloween costume, dressed like Freddy Krueger and stuff. Like, then I saw the girl with her arm sliced off, and everyone was screaming then. God, it was awful. The other kids were thundering at the cafeteria doors and emergency doors, trying to get out. But they couldn’t…they'd been padlocked. "Then I saw him, laughing as he did it, hacking and slicing away at us kids. One of us tried to disarm him, but he had a strength we never saw in him. Blood was everywhere, running down the hall like a river, bits of hacked-off flesh and fingers and bone. Then the shots came. He shot at me…I remember." Brody paused, feeling a revelation come to the forefront of his mind. "Yeah. He shot me, I remember the pain. Then someone grabbed him. God, like, I remember the look of murder in his eyes, eyes of some animal or crazy person, like. His white t-shirt was covered in blood…and I could smell him, smell his B.O. He always smelled bad, the fat dork. And then he shot himself, right in the head." Brody felt tears filling his eyes, running down his face. From nowhere, a box of tissues was pushed in front of him. "Hush now, it's all over. You have nothing to worry about, Brody. Drink some more coffee, and you'll feel better, you'll see." His left shoulder began to throb and sting. For what reason, he did not know. "Ah!" he cried. He saw black wetness seep through the cotton of his hoodie. "Looks like your wound hasn't healed properly yet," said Officer Judy. "You might need to go back to the hospital." And suddenly, he remembered. He remembered being in severe pain, panic filling the hospital, cops coming and going, shouting, screaming, his mother crying. Blood, blood, blood everywhere! "I was in hospital," Brody said. "I remember. But I don’t remember being discharged or anything." "You weren't, Brody. We had to speak to you, to understand what had happened. I need to speak with you." Brody looked fearful, confused. "I…I don’t…understand." That fear was coming back now, the fear of the cold, dark four walls closing in on him. Had he been drugged? 'The coffee!' he realized, and threw the rest of it against the wall at the side, the plastic cup lightly clattering to the ground. "Where in the hell am I?!" he screamed. "Hush now, no need to get erratic. I'm sorry, Brody, if these questions are troubling you. It's just…well, I feel for you, Brody. I have a boy around your age, and I would hate for him to go through such horrible things that you've gone through. Would you like to see a picture of my boy?" Officer Judy pulled out her wallet, took out a photo, and slid it over to Brody. When he--in his panicked state--looked down at the photo, it was a photo of Officer Judy wearing casual clothes, smiling with her arm around her son…"The hell?!" he whimpered. He saw the boy in the photo; red haired, chubby, greasy skin and covered with acne. "Patrick?!" "It is such a troubling thing to lose a son, you know," said Judy, standing up, seizing the photo, and placing it back in her wallet. "I'm sure your own mother will miss you dearly. If only she knew what a nasty piece of shit you really are. But you don’t have a mother, do you, Brody? Just a drunken dad who likes drinking and beating you." Panic stricken, Brody fell on the floor shaking uncontrollably, convulsing, bleeding from his nose. 'The coffee!' It had been drugged, as he had been drugged at the hospital. "We'll need to have a word with you about the attack, Brody," Officer Judy had said, before placing a cloth of chloroform against his mouth. The walls began to close in all around him. He felt woozy, sick, like his head was between a vice, his head being crushed. Judy had disappeared from the room. "Cry or scream all you want, it makes no difference, Brody. No one will be able to hear you in these woods." This was no interview room, just a cabin or bunker made to look like an interview room. The walls closed in on him, crushing his body, and Brody screamed in agony, his nose bleeding profusely. It leaked onto the floor were his head was. And he saw it. 'The blood! Oh, god, the blood!'

“I know it must be hard for you, after everything that has happened, Brody. It always pains us when we have to make victims such as yourself relive such traumatic events, but please, can you help us by telling me what happened?” Brody Williams, a boy of fifteen, sat shivering, seated at a metallic table in an interview room, a cup of cheap coffee steaming up into the cold air. “It’s cold,” said the boy. “And dark.” “Yes, I know. Sorry, but our heating’s under maintenance. I could get you a blanket if you’re suffering.” The boy sighed. “No, no, it’s fine.” He slipped his hoodie back on and zipped it up to his neck. He had always been the tough jock at school, surrounding himself with friends that looked up to him, admired him. He was the cool kind, everyone said, but now he looked up at the female officer with eyes of a frightened child. She was around her late thirties or early forties, her hair brown and straw-like; she wore little to no makeup. Brody went to cup the coffee with his hands, but they were shaking so badly he feared he might spill it. He could still hear the screams, screams of fear and pain. God, the blood. So much blood. It had happened in the cafeteria. Somehow the weakling boy with the curly red hair and acne-covered skin had managed to lock all the exits, preventing anyone else from getting in or out. Brody could see it now–the machete hacking away, the limbs flying off from the bodies of the students he had known and talked to, laughed or joked with, all of them lying in pools of blood and mangled flesh and tissue. He heard the girls scream–but it was Brody Patrick Rivers was after. His eyes watered as the female cop listen to him, looking at him sympathetically. “I used to hurt him, call him names. He was always a weak little shit.” The cop shuffled uncomfortably at that. “What sort of thing or things did you used to do to him, Brody?” she asked softly. “You know, like, typical stuff, I guess. Push him over, shoulder bashed him, knocked his books out of the dweebs hands and kicked him over when he bent down to pick them up. I shoved him in his locker, once. Poor Patrick was in there until the next morning.” “He had been in there all night?” The cop seemed to find that reprehensible. Brody seemed distracted, fearful. “I’m sorry, what did you say your name was again?” “Judy. Officer Judy, homicide.” “Officer Judy, am I in trouble here?” She smiled warmly. “No, Brody. I just need to investigate what happened. That way we can seek the proper justice.” “But Patrick’s already dead. I told you: he shot himself with that handgun.” Judy looked sad for a moment. “The whole incident was tragic; it should never have occurred. But please, tell me what else you did, or what you said other kids did to him.” “Is this being…you know, like, recorded?” Judy nodded politely. “It is. Don’t worry, it is merely to get your statement. After that, you’re free to go.” Brody pondered, looking around the dark room. He’d never been in a police interview room before, and nor had he ever been in a police station in his little Midwestern town. “Well, you know, I once stuffed him in a trashcan–” “Wouldn’t he be a little big to fit in a trashcan?” She made a note, scribbling something down. “Well, like, we were in elementary then. He was scared of, like, being in closed spaces. What you call it? Amnesaphobic or something?” “Claustrophobic?” “Sure, something or other. A few kids thought it would be fun to put him in closed spaces like that.” “Do you feel bad about locking him in a locker, when you knew previously that he was deathly afraid of small spaces?” “Yeah, I guess.” Officer Judy made an almost disgusted face. “Did you not think it cruel to do that, Brody?” “It was only meant to be a bit of fun, though.” “You think it was fun for Patrick Rivers to be stuffed for seventeen hours in a locker? Do you realize how terrifying that must have been?” The boy looked despondent, ignorant in his teenage attitude. “Like…I dunno.” “What are you afraid of, Brody? Spiders, snakes, the dark, rejection? Maybe you’re afraid of your father beating you, and feel a foreboding sense of dread every time he has a drink?” That took Brody back, and suddenly he felt uncomfortable in this dark room, where moonlight shone dimly through the cell bar windows. In fact, he was beginning to struggle to comprehend how he had gotten to the station; he didn’t remember walking in. Maybe he was just so nervous he was forgetting things. He was tired, though, and felt lightheaded, as if he were recovering from a rough night of drinking. He started shivering again. Judy pushed the coffee toward him. “Maybe you should drink this, it’ll help warm you. He did as he was bid, and took hold of the cup with both hands, and sipped it. ‘Damn, that tastes pretty good, actually’ he thought. “Feel a little better now?” Judy said, smiling. Brody nodded, so Judy pressed on. “Tell me, why did you like to bully–or liked to watch people bully–him?” “I dunno, like, it made me feel strong, like, I guess.” “How did you feel when you saw him with that machete and handgun?” “Pretty darn scared, I guess.” Brody began to shake uncontrollably, slightly going into a panic attack, something he had never experienced before. “Hush now, drink some more coffee,” said Judy, and he did. His nerves calmed a little. “Tell me about the massacre, if you can, please.” “It was lunchtime. We were in the cafeteria. I was talking to my friends. And then I heard the screaming…the horrible screaming! I thought someone had played a practical joke on a girl by throwing a fake spider in her hair or something. But, like, when I turned around when the screaming got worse, I saw that little ginger freak with blood on his face. I thought it was another practical joke, like he was dressed in some Halloween costume, dressed like Freddy Krueger and stuff. Like, then I saw the girl with her arm sliced off, and everyone was screaming then. God, it was awful. The other kids were thundering at the cafeteria doors and emergency doors, trying to get out. But they couldn’t…they’d been padlocked. “Then I saw him, laughing as he did it, hacking and slicing away at us kids. One of us tried to disarm him, but he had a strength we never saw in him. Blood was everywhere, running down the hall like a river, bits of hacked-off flesh and fingers and bone. Then the shots came. He shot at me…I remember.” Brody paused, feeling a revelation come to the forefront of his mind. “Yeah. He shot me, I remember the pain. Then someone grabbed him. God, like, I remember the look of murder in his eyes, eyes of some animal or crazy person, like. His white t-shirt was covered in blood…and I could smell him, smell his B.O. He always smelled bad, the fat dork. And then he shot himself, right in the head.” Brody felt tears filling his eyes, running down his face. From nowhere, a box of tissues was pushed in front of him. “Hush now, it’s all over. You have nothing to worry about, Brody. Drink some more coffee, and you’ll feel better, you’ll see.” His left shoulder began to throb and sting. For what reason, he did not know. “Ah!” he cried. He saw black wetness seep through the cotton of his hoodie. “Looks like your wound hasn’t healed properly yet,” said Officer Judy. “You might need to go back to the hospital.” And suddenly, he remembered. He remembered being in severe pain, panic filling the hospital, cops coming and going, shouting, screaming, his mother crying. Blood, blood, blood everywhere! “I was in hospital,” Brody said. “I remember. But I don’t remember being discharged or anything.” “You weren’t, Brody. We had to speak to you, to understand what had happened. I need to speak with you.” Brody looked fearful, confused. “I…I don’t…understand.” That fear was coming back now, the fear of the cold, dark four walls closing in on him. Had he been drugged? ‘The coffee!’ he realized, and threw the rest of it against the wall at the side, the plastic cup lightly clattering to the ground. “Where in the hell am I?!” he screamed. “Hush now, no need to get erratic. I’m sorry, Brody, if these questions are troubling you. It’s just…well, I feel for you, Brody. I have a boy around your age, and I would hate for him to go through such horrible things that you’ve gone through. Would you like to see a picture of my boy?” Officer Judy pulled out her wallet, took out a photo, and slid it over to Brody. When he–in his panicked state–looked down at the photo, it was a photo of Officer Judy wearing casual clothes, smiling with her arm around her son…”The hell?!” he whimpered. He saw the boy in the photo; red haired, chubby, greasy skin and covered with acne. “Patrick?!” “It is such a troubling thing to lose a son, you know,” said Judy, standing up, seizing the photo, and placing it back in her wallet. “I’m sure your own mother will miss you dearly. If only she knew what a nasty piece of shit you really are. But you don’t have a mother, do you, Brody? Just a drunken dad who likes drinking and beating you.” Panic stricken, Brody fell on the floor shaking uncontrollably, convulsing, bleeding from his nose. ‘The coffee!’ It had been drugged, as he had been drugged at the hospital. “We’ll need to have a word with you about the attack, Brody,” Officer Judy had said, before placing a cloth of chloroform against his mouth. The walls began to close in all around him. He felt woozy, sick, like his head was between a vice, his head being crushed. Judy had disappeared from the room. “Cry or scream all you want, it makes no difference, Brody. No one will be able to hear you in these woods.” This was no interview room, just a cabin or bunker made to look like an interview room. The walls closed in on him, crushing his body, and Brody screamed in agony, his nose bleeding profusely. It leaked onto the floor were his head was. And he saw it. ‘The blood! Oh, god, the blood!’

From Horror photos & videos May 21, 2018 at 08:01PM

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gatewaystoawareness · 6 years

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Except For Me

Growing older has its perks. Not many, but enough to help ease the mysterious aches and pains, memory lapses, diet adjustments and blood pressure fluctuations. Of course, I could go on, but then I would be whining and boring you more than I already have plus I may be providing 'too much information' as the grandkids say. Anyway, this is not about the downside of being an old fart, quite the opposite. I've heard it said, often with negative connotations, that as we grow older we become more like children. I disagree, not with the suggestion we become like children again, but that it is not a good thing. Children are fascinating, humorous and oh, so creative. They need very little to provide amusement and like me are easily entertained. So, I have come to accept, to even encourage that 'inner child' to take over at times. Yes, I think I'm reverting to childhood, especially when it comes to being tickled silly by the simplest things. Viewing the street below from our balcony has kept me occupied for hours. Much better than the so-called reality television shows everyone seems enthralled by. This is a peek into honest daily life in a small Mexican beach town and the entertainment is endless, day and night. And, if you are like me, you'll agree. As I said earlier, I am easily amused. On this street of five short blocks, most of the structures are very typical of the area, buildings of brick with brightly colored paint on plaster and none more than three stories high. Nearly all the flat roofs are used for drying clothes. Lines stretched criss-cross wherever they'll fit are hanging low with the weight of everything from kid’s undies to dazzling embroidered bed coverings. The Mexican sun and tropical ocean breeze provide a special scent to drying laundry that no overpriced store-bought chemical fabric softener could ever match. There is a home, almost directly across from us that differs. I once heard a tourist loudly proclaim, "This house is third world, a bloody shack. I feel sorry for the people who have to live in it." His description although rude, was not far off, except for his misplaced pity concerning the fine folks who live there. It is a throwback to the houses I remember during my first visit to Mexico over 40 years ago. Everything about it is haphazard. The place is pieced together with palm fronds, corrugated panels, plastic tarp and cardboard. The roof is not like the others on our street. It can barely support the cats and roosters let alone a clothes line. I concluded that the crooked branches that hold up the structure are very strong. After all, they survived Patricia and I have no doubt a few more hurricanes along with the occasional shaker known to rattle a few glass windows of which there are none in this structure. There is a house in front and another at the back of this large lot. Both look like they may collapse at any moment, but this is a place, that I know, has been standing for many years, adjustments made when necessary. Between the two houses is an open yard where numerous chickens congregate (when they're not on the street), five or possibly more dogs hang out (when they're not on the street) and I've seen three different cats on the roofs and in the trees (never in the street) from time to time. Every morning shortly after sunrise the smell of burning wood followed by the unmistakable sharp slaps of tortillas being shaped drifts across the street to our balcony from their outdoor kitchen. Tortillas have been made this way for many generations. Ironically, the local tortilleria next door to them pumps out over 100 kilos a day from a machine that flattens, cooks, and delivers this Mexican staple along a moving belt that drops uniform tortillas in neat little stacks ready to eat. I prefer the handmade. With tradition and love as the key ingredients in the recipe along with the smoky wood, the flavor can't be beat. There are two small boys, identical twins around four years old, possibly five, who are part of this extended family. Observing those two at play was one of my favorite pastimes, very entertaining. Many people enter and leave the funky little dwelling but there are a consistent few who live there permanently. I have identified their Mom. She sweeps the front area and the road every day. The dogs often leave a mess of garbage on the road. I'm not sure which one is their father. An older brother is often chopping boards and logs with a rusty machete. Branches are occasionally dropped off in front of the house for fuel. There's an old fellow, perhaps a grandfather who strolls across the street to the store below us purchasing smokes and beer. The twins don't seem to have any toys and they don't need them. I am always impressed at their creativity. One day it's an old broken laundry hamper turned into a sled of sorts, each taking turns to pull the other along the rough cobblestones with a piece of rope. The same rope that occupied them for an afternoon tying each other up after a lesson on knots taught by the old fellow. A couple of buckets flipped upside down made pretty good drums until the fishermen had to reclaim them for their catch. A pile of stones and empty plastic soda containers lined up against the brick wall of their neighbor's house turned the lads into excellent marksmen in short time. Plastic garbage bags, cardboard boxes, beer cans, palm fronds, old coconuts, and so on, endless toys for Raul and Ricardo. But, it was the sticks that forced me to sit up and take a keen interest. One morning they came out of the house with a couple of branches, almost perfectly straight and cleanly trimmed. I assumed they snatched them from the firewood pile I saw the older boy haul inside the day before. These little boys and their sticks were about to tell a story, although I didn't realize it at the time. All I could think of is what my Mother often hollered at my brother and me when we were around the same age. "No, boys. You're not playing with those. Someone is gonna get poked hard and lose an eye. Get rid of them, now." It was all I could do not to yell across the street with the same warning. Instead, I found myself nervously settling in on my balcony to see what these two might have in mind with those eye pokers. Ricardo, (or was it, Raul?) sat down on the curb in front of the tortilleria and idly scratched in the dirt with his stick. His brother soon joined in. Although I couldn't see what the scratches represented it was evident they were drawing in the dirt. With a determined look, one of the lads would scratch some shape or form into the roadway, they would have a short discussion and sometimes burst into laughter while admiring their artistry. Curious, I later wandered across the street to see if there were any remnants of their drawings to view and was delighted by what I found. A group of stick-people all shapes and sizes held hands and danced under a smiling sun. They soon bored of drawing into the road dirt so after a few words the boys stood and headed to the front of their house. Holding their sticks in the middle by their side with one hand they began to prowl about methodically obviously looking for prey. The old dogs loitering in the morning sun were easy targets so they passed on them, but the hens and roosters presented the challenge they sought. Chucking their sticks like spears they were unsuccessful at hitting anything, but the ruckus caused by the cackling hens as they chased them from one side of the street to the other fueled their enthusiasm. Finally, Raul (or was it, Ricardo?) managed to make contact with a rather large rooster causing such a loud squawk that I don't doubt it could be heard two blocks away. It was a cry of surprise, not pain and other than losing a few feathers brought on by the big bird's crazy flapping reaction, no harm was done. The Tamarindo tree on the street caught their attention. All the lower pods had been picked or fallen, but there were a sparse few higher up. Calling upon their knot tying abilities they managed to secure both sticks together doubling the length. While on an overturned plastic bucket one of them found it was enough to reach the high fruit which he deftly knocked out of the tree. Sitting under the shade in front of their house Raul and Ricardo broke open the crusty cover of the legume, removed the stringy part inside and dug out the seeds. Popping the seeds in their mouths they both began to chew and suck on the sticky pit cover. The sweet and very sour taste were evident by their comical expressions, chatter, and laughter as they devoured their free snack. After wiping all the gooeyness off on to their pants and t-shirts the boys took the sticks apart and attached a rag they retrieved from the clothes line to the end of one. In front of the house, an old dry log sat that sometimes doubled as a bench. They managed to force the stick into one of the cracks at the end of the rotting log. The stick and the attached rag represented a rather crude flag and pole. Both boys stood on the flimsy log, one pointing in front setting the course while the other paddled with his stick. An ocean crossing if I ever saw one. The wind picked up flapping the flag as the log became more unstable with the lads standing on it. The sea was soon unpredictable and rough. The log-ship wobbled back and forth and Raul (or was it, Ricardo?) was tossed into the brine where he floundered. His brother reached out to him with his stickpaddle and pulled him back on board. After reaching shore the boys sat on the log and planned what to do next. They both stood and placed their sticks between their legs holding them at the top end. Galloping around the street on their skinny stick horses, they raced each other, chased the dogs and chickens and took short intricate steps dancing their horses to the front of the house where they dismounted and in a blink turned their mounts into swords. I could barely watch at this point as they were frantically swinging at each other wildly, sometimes making contact which didn't deter them in the least. They were determined to battle it out to the end. I could hear the swish and swash from the sticks slicing through the air, cringing as the sharp tips came a hair's breadth from their faces and little bodies. It was an epic battle and had they not been distracted by their mother calling them in for dinner I'm convinced it would have ended in a blood bath. Before Raul and Ricardo went in they did find a final purpose for their sticks. With the rope, they took both sticks and tied them together fashioning a cross. They placed the cross in the same crack of the old gray log as the flag and once satisfied it stood erect ran to the neighbors where they plucked a few bright magenta bougainvillea off of the abundant bush. While Ricardo (or was it, Raul) carefully arranged the flowers at the bottom of the cross the other ran into the house returning with their mother. Each boy grabbed a hand and led her to the front of the stick cross as they spoke to her in soft tones. I could see she had begun to cry and so could the boys which brought on their own tears. I couldn't hear what they said but it was obvious that the shrine was placed there by the boys for a family member. Perhaps a grandmother, uncle, sibling or even their father. I tried to fight it and lost. My eyes were welling up while I observed this tender moment through a blur of tears. The whole scene was so touching I was soon sobbing. Mom and the boys went into the house. The stick cross remained in front for a few days as the flowers wilted and blew away. The boys invented new games to play and one morning the older brother took the sticks, broke them apart and threw them in a pile along with the other kindling. Nobody seemed to notice the cross was gone, except for me.

A wonderful story by a gentleman who lives in our wonderful village - Barra de Navidad - in Mexico, He goes by the handle of Chili on TomZap. Thank you Chili!

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ralphmorgan-blog1 · 7 years

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The real message in Trump’s MS-13 speech

(CNN)On his visit to Brentwood, New York, on Friday afternoon, President Donald Trump showed how little he understands the nuances of immigration, the signature issue of his campaign.

Railing against the MS-13 gang, he suggested that the Long Island suburbs are so out of control they are akin to Cambodia or Iraq. He continually veered off-message, riffing on his campaign, Obamacare, his popularity and a host of other subjects. Not content with praising the efforts of law enforcement, he encouraged them to commit acts of brutality against suspected criminals.

Trump said, "When you see these thugs being thrown into the back of a paddy wagon, you just see them thrown in, rough. I said, 'Please, don't be too nice.' " It was bad enough that the Suffolk County Police Department released a statement Friday afternoon to emphasize its "strict rules and procedures" relating to the handling of prisoners and saying that "we do not and will not tolerate 'rough(ing)' up prisoners."

All this at a speech that was supposed to draw attention to the serious threat of gang violence on Long island and around the country. If that was really what the President wanted to achieve, then this was a speech that deserves to be termed Mission: Not Accomplished.

Trump came to Long Island because the MS-13 gang, which is known to target immigrants to the United States from countries such as El Salvador, Guatemala and Honduras, has been linked to gruesome killings there, and he wanted to highlight his administration's immigration enforcement policies. "We've started nipping it in the bud," he declared, referencing crimes committed by undocumented immigrants. He proudly referred to his comments made on the day he announced his presidential run, when he called immigrants from Mexico drug dealers and rapists -- in a sense, doubling down on the bigoted remarks that offended many Latinos.

Then again, that was Trump's real message. He wasn't on Long Island solely to take aim at MS-13, let alone announce any specific plans (beyond deportation) for eliminating them. Trump was on Long Island to conflate undocumented immigrants with crime once again and to use demonization to try to justify his administration's harsh and inhumane deportation policies.

Undocumented immigrant loses protection

No doubt, MS-13 is a vicious gang that deserves to be pursued by law enforcement. The gang typically targets Central American immigrant communities, and several of their Long Island victims have been Latino. Yet the Trump administration is potentially making the gang stronger. A new CNN report, featuring interviews with MS-13 members, describes how the gang feels emboldened under Trump. Because they know undocumented immigrants will not turn to the police, for fear of detention and deportation, MS-13 is increasingly able to recruit and threaten immigrants with impunity.

In his speech, Trump seemed to revel in pointing out that MS-13 kidnaps people, stabs their victims with knives and machetes, and (allegedly) stuffs people into barrels. Several times, he said his administration had started "liberating" towns on Long Island, as though they were no longer under control of our government.

Trump stated that the MS-13 gang problem developed because "we let them in here over a relatively short period of time." This statement is contradicted by a fact sheet from his own Justice Department, which traces the origins of MS-13 back several decades. "The MS-13 has been functioning since at least the 1980s," the report notes. The President also linked the inflow of unaccompanied minors at our southern border to the rise of gangs such as MS-13 without offering any data to support such a claim. In reality, many of these unaccompanied minors are fleeing the threat of gangs at home.

The reason that Trump paints such a grim -- and false -- picture of Long Island is that he wants Americans to believe that we, as a country, are under attack from bloodthirsty undocumented immigrants. Call it the Guillermo (Spanish for William) Willie Horton strategy.

Meanwhile, immigration agents are detaining and deporting moms and dads of American kids, pastors and DREAMers. In fact, according to the government's statistics, immigration arrests are up by about 40%. This increase, however, has been driven by arrests of folks without criminal records; arrests of undocumented immigrants without criminal records has spiked by more than 150% since January. This is the reality of immigration enforcement that the Trump administration does not want to call attention to, just as it would probably like to pretend that those undocumented people who are in college, serving as valedictorians and becoming productive members of society do not exist either.

What's particularly sad is that communities where MS-13 is active are being terrorized twice over. First, by the gang and its horrific activities. And second, by the Trump administration's immigration crackdowns.

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Perhaps the only good news here is that the public seems to see through the Trump administration's efforts to paint all undocumented people as violent criminals. A March CNN/ORC poll found that most Americans back a path to citizenship or legalization for the undocumented. Thirteen percent of Americans want the undocumented to be deported, compared with 60% who favor allowing them a means to stay here.

Trump's Long Island speech was a disjointed, overblown mess. His comments were nothing more than a cynical ploy to exploit and play on some people's fear of immigrants. Dismantling criminal gangs will take much more than ugly rhetoric and deportations targeting all undocumented immigrants -- and so far, that's all this administration is offering.