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wardenannie · 3 years

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Just friends

In the beginning they aren’t friends at all. Not even remotely.

Hange is too excitable for Levi, and Levin too severe for Hange. Though the scientist attempts to feign cordiality between the two of them, Levi does nothing to conceal his disdain. It is only after Erwin calls them into his office and speaks to them sternly that they finally come to a silent agreement with one another.

Just friends begins with a sort of truce. An understanding between them that perhaps they aren't so different, or they are, but they can learn to overcome those differences for the sake of synergy in the field.

That is what Erwin wants, after all.

They still poke fun, but it's more lighthearted than it was before. More playful. There is a gentleness to it, a light. It brings some levity to those brutal, bloody days that linger in the backs of their minds. They actually begin to take some small comfort in each other’s presence, though neither of them are willing to admit it allowed, and most certainly not to each other.

When just friends becomes staying up and drinking tea and whisky into the budding hours of dawn, neither of them can say. But more than once they are the only two left standing among a field of drunken allies.

They look at one another, and even Levi, dead sober, sipping his tea, cannot help but smirk.

When Hange passes out in his lap he reluctantly allows the contact, that is until they drool on him, at which point he surreptitiously slips a pillow beneath their cheek.

He pretends not to watch them sleep, only for a moment.

He doesn’t find their peaceful expression enchanting. He doesn’t secretly find them handsome with their russet hair covering their eyes, mingling with their lashes. He pushes it out of their face anyways.

They’re just friends.

Just friends becomes casual touches. Passing smiles (or affectionate scowls in Levi’s case). It becomes easy nights spent in silent company. Nights spent in Hange’s lab, or lounging in the library. It becomes silent understanding, a fleeting consciousness of what the other is about to say or do.

Just friends becomes a sort of casual, platonic intimacy that has their comrades whispering and casting them knowing glances. But they simply ignore it. They are just friends after all.

When just friends begins to entail tending one another's wounds is about two years after their first meeting. Hange limps to his quarters, calf a bloody tattered mess from a nasty three-meter bite.

"I can't go to the infirmary," they explain. “If Erwin finds out about this he’ll bench me.”

He scolds them as he treats the wound with iodine and wraps it in clean gauze.

“You need to be more careful, four-eyes. It could have taken your leg clean off,” he tries to disguise the way his hands shake as he cleans each of the shallow gouges which hug Hange’s calf in a gory half moon.

They hiss and wince as dirt and debris are washed away, leaving only ragged flesh which will surely scar.

Levi pretends that their obvious discomfort doesn’t perturb him, but it does. Another new development. He cares for them, loathe as he is to admit it.

Just friends becomes sharing a bed with surprising swiftness after that.

It is after a particularly gory expedition beyond Wall Maria. Many of their comrades fall, never to rise again. The blood runs in rivers over the fallow earth, bones crunch between massive, inhuman teeth. And the screams. The screams bite into both of them; leaching into their very cores and clinging there like poison; breeding doubt, fear.

The knock comes on Levi’s door well past midnight. That he is still awake is a coincidence he cares not to consider too closely.

He knows its Hange without asking. Who else would be so bold as to disturb Captain Ackerman’s beauty sleep?

“Come in?” He’s reading a book by candlelight and doesn’t so much as glance up as Hange Zoe enters the room, shutting the door carefully behind themself.

“Levi...”

He glances over the top of his book; stare cool but not unkind, “Why are you bothering me so late at night, shitty-glasses? You should be asleep.”

Hange lingers at the threshold, clad in loose sleep clothing. Levi pretends he can’t see their nipples poking through the gauzy fabric of their shirt, “I could say the same about you.”

A long, pained silence passes between the two of them. A quiet sort of understanding.

Slowly, Levi lowers his book into his lap. Then he peels back the covers, scooting over and making room for Hange beside him.

“Bad dreams?” He asks, already knowing the answer he will receive.

Hange crosses the room and sits on the edge of the bed, they rest their elbows on their knees, steepling their fingers in front of their face, “Yeah. You?”

Levi swallows thickly and nods.

“Can I...” Hange turns their face away, glancing out the window in a paltry attempt to disguise their flush, “Can I stay here tonight?”

Levi doesn’t so much as hesitate, “Yes.”

Tentatively, Hange lowers themself into the mattress, stealing away one of Levi’s pillows. They don’t touch. They don’t speak a word once Hange has settled in beside Levi. The captain simply reaches over his comrade and snuffs out the candle, cloaking them in darkness.

And so just friends becomes best friends in a night.

The territory of best friends is accompanied by a new found respect for one another. A respect that runs deeper than that which had already existed between them. Occasionally Levi will glance up at Hange to find that their eyes are already on him. Usually they are smiling. But on rare occasions their expression is more contemplative; thoughtful and distant.

Levi tries not to think about it too deeply. What it could mean. What they could be thinking while they stare at him with such intensity.

Then the meaning of just friends who happen to be best friends shifts again during a hard fought battle beyond the suffocating succor of the Walls.

Levi jerks awake, head throbbing, mouth dry and tasting of blood. The world around him is blurry at first, and he struggles to recall where he is until it slowly comes into focus.

There are arms around him, supporting his aching head and clutching at his hand. A voice calls out to him, low and panicked.

“Levi? Oh thank fuck, Levi,” it’s Hange. Levi can’t quite remember where he is, but he could place Hange’s voice anywhere. Slowly, they come into focus over him. Their head is ringed with sunlight that shines from behind them, creating the illusion of a halo around them as they look down on him.

It strikes him how perfect they are. Gorgeous. Handsome. Hawkish nose and wide, bright eyes, olive skin and russet hair. Imperfectly perfect.

Their wine-colored eyes shine with worry. They touch his face, tenderly, “Can you speak?”

“Yeah,” Levi rasps, and it finally comes back to him. A titan had emerged as if from nowhere and swept him out of the sky, knocking him head first into the cold, hard ground. Hange saved his life, felling the thing at the last moment before it took the Captain into its jaws.

For a moment it is enough to stun him. But isn’t that what best friends do for one another?

It is that night in Levi’s tent that they go from being just friends who are also best friends, to best friends who kiss in the dark.

Hange refuses to be parted from him. Insisting that he needs supervision due to his possible concussion. Levi doesn’t argue as they help him to his sleeping bag. Outside the stars hold their silent, glittering vigil, and the moon hangs low and radiant in the sky, bleeding through the canvas of the tent just enough to allow for some visibility.

“Try to stay awake,” Hange says softly, sitting beside him. They touch his forehead, pushing his hair away from his eyes. Their touch lingers, and Levi cannot help but notice the way their eyes seem to glimmer in the dark.

When they lean forward and press their lips to his it is chaste, delicate and fleeting. But when they try to pull away he cups the back of their neck and tugs them back to him, sitting up slightly so he can kiss them from an improved angle.

“Just friends,” he rasps between hurried kisses. Hange occupies all of his senses, from their earthy scent to the sharp taste of them on his tongue. He loves it. He would gladly drown himself in Hange Zoe.

Hange nods, curling into his side, kissing him again, “Just friends blowing off steam.”

Just friends, best friends, best friends who kiss in the dark; they carry on that way for months. Stealing kisses in those quiet moments between meetings and missions.

It isn’t long before hands begin to roam. Curious fingers searching over one another’s bodies as they chase each other’s tongues over eager, sliding lips. But they hold back. They resist that primordial drive for sex with everything they have. Because how can they be just friends if they’re having sex? How could they cross that line without jeopardizing everything they have built with one another?

But the others know. Mike, Nanaba, Moblit, even Erwin... they all know. The teasing glances have turned to those of legitimate concern, the passing comments have turned into genuine appeals for common sense. And so they are met with the second reason to remain just friends, best friends, friends who kiss in the dark; the life of a soldier is not one which can accommodate love. Real unconditional love. Duty will always take precedent.

Then comes the night where kissing in the dark is not longer enough.

It was never really enough, but things finally reach a boiling point.

Hange is in their lab, working well past midnight when Levi stumbles in. He is clad in nothing but a pair of loose fitting sleep pants, slate eyes wild. He is flushed, covered in a thin sheen of sweat.

A nightmare. He’s had a nightmare. Hange bleeding in his arms. Dying. Not from a wound inflicted by a titan but from a series of bullet holes bored into their middle. Weeping blood, crimson welling over his fingers despite the pressure he applied.

The image clings to the backs of his eyes, boring its way into his soul, his heart, his mind and consciousness. Hange; killed by another human, not a titan, but a man. Suddenly nowhere feels safe or sacred. He wants to take Hange into his arms and flee. Flee until the world cannot catch them.

Kisses in the dark could never fix this. It feels like nothing could fix this.

“Levi?” Hange turns away from their work, a collection of bubbling beakers resting on the wooden countertop. Their expression is one of concern as he crosses the room and pulls them roughly into his arms.

“I can’t fucking do this anymore,” He snarls, and then he kisses them roughly, pushing the small of their back into the hard edge of the counter. The beakers rattle and several spill over with the force of his body against theirs.

Hange moans into his mouth, melting into him, arms winding around the back of his neck as he helps them up and onto the counter. They shift backward, experiment forgotten, and suddenly they are anything but just friends.

Levi buries himself in Hange with little foreplay or preamble, but they are already wet and pliant, ready for him.

The sex is fast and desperate. Hange buries their face against Levi’s neck, feeling the erratic pace of his pulse as he delves into them.

“I love you,” they whimper. Because they do. With everything they have they love their Captain. Levi Ackerman. Humanity’s strongest. Theirs.

Levi fucks them harder for it. Because it can’t be. They’re just friends. Best friends. Friends who kiss in the dark and make frantic love at the thought of losing one another. Just friends.

Just friends.

Levi comes inside of Hange with a broken sob. Their fingers are in his hair, lips on his as they follow him over the edge. They’re crying, too. Tears mingle between their mouths as they work one another up again.

They dress, but only long enough to reach Levi’s quarters, at which point they peel away their clothing and fall into bed together. All of it is wordless, silent knowing passes between them. Each anticipates the other’s movements and react with according passion.

They make love again. Slower, softer. Hange’s soft cries fill up the room, punctuated by Levi’s muffled grunts as he buries his own noises in their damp skin.

“This is perfect,” Hange whispers, nails raking down Levi’s switching back. And then they say it again, “I love you.”

Wetness floods between them as Hange comes first. Levi rocks them through it, body wracked with pleasure, mind wracked with confusion, fear of what will happen come sunrise, when this new, precious thing between them has been exposed to the light of day.

But is it really so new? Has he not always loved Hange Zoe? Have they not occupied his every waking thought for years as he refused to acknowledge his own attractions?

He looks down as he fucks into them, finds their wine-colored gaze is locked on his face. They reach up and cup his cheek, soft moans slipping past their lips as his hips stutter and he finishes inside of them for the second time that night.

“Hange,” The way he speaks their name is ragged, like a desperate prayer on his lips. He kisses them. He never wants to stop kissing them.

“I love you,” Hange breathes between kisses. They roll onto their sides, their faces illuminated by a shaft of silvery moonlight through the window. “You don’t have to say it back but I can’t be just friends anymore, Levi. It’s driving me crazy.”

They kiss him, “Seeing you.”

Again, “Touching you.”

A third time, slower, wet, lingering, “But not being with you.”

Levi’s hands are on their hips, caressing up their sides. He feels the goosebumps he leaves in his wake, and knows he shares a similar physiological reaction to Hange’s own touch.

But they’re just friends. Just friends, best friends, friends who kiss in the dark, friends who make desperate love and whisper heartfelt confessions under cover of night. Just friends.

Hange touches his cheek, “Say something, please, Levi.”

His lips part, but he struggles to find the words to express his emotions. Nothing makes sense in that moment. The world has tilted on its axis, everything is changed, and yet nothing is.

“We were never just friends, shitty-glasses,” he says, finally. His eyes are glassy, gaze turned up to peer out the window at the night sky. The stars show their brilliant faces, glittering, and Levi wonders if perhaps their fate is written somewhere in that serene darkness.

“We’ll keep it a secret for as long as we can,” Hange reassures him, settling there head against his chest, where they can hear his heart beating steady and strong. They run their fingers over his sternum, between his pecs and down the expanse of his abdomen, toying with the trail of downy hairs beneath his navel.

“They already know,” Levi sighed, and he presses his mouth to the crown of Hange’s head. His eyes flutter shut, savoring the earthy sent of his lover. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”

You’re all that matters, he tacitly implies.

“They know that we were never just friends.” He pulls the sheets over their sweat damp bodies. Cum stains the fitted sheet.

“They don’t approve,” Hange says softly, half asleep, lulled by Levi’s steady breaths.

“I don’t give a shit what they think. We deserve this.” Happiness. Even if it was fleeting. Even if one of them died come dawn, it would have all been worth it; to have been loved, to have known love.

They drift to sleep in each other’s arms.

Just friends, who became best friends, which in turn because friends who kiss in the dark, then lovers. Two people in love.

But they are soldiers, and they both know that whatever time they might have is borrowed. So they treasure it as best they can.

#Levihan #my writing #crossposted on Ao3

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anonymousfiction211 · 3 years

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A plaything

Summary:

You attend a feast in honour of Prince Thor. You are bored and plan to leave. However, Loki has different plans.

Word count:

2.771 words

Warning:

Swearing and shameless smut

You looked around the room, trying to find some entertainment. But this party was the same as any other party, celebrating the return of one of the princes. The whole ballroom was decorated extravagant with silver cloths, red curtains and multiple chandeliers that were hanging from the ceiling. It was all dressed in the colours of Prince Thor. You always preferred the gold and dark green, which were Prince Loki’s colours. But Thor had returned home from a battle and apparently him not dying needed to be celebrated by every noble family. Including the noble family, you belonged too. You did not attend these parties very often, since your family stood very low in the hierarchy. And even if your family did get invited, your parents would often go themselves. But tonight, happened to be their anniversary, so you offered to go for them instead.

The servants were currently clearing the last of the cutlery from the tables and pushing some tables around to make room for people to dance. You were still bored from the conversations you had to endure during dinner. It was always the same conversation, how other families were doing, if anything new happened (which was almost never) and praising the royal family for all they had done over the last time. You ordered another glass of wine, the open bar at these parties did make the whole thing slightly more bearable. Then you heard music playing and faced the dance floor to watch the opening dance. King Odin was dancing with his wife Frigga. After the dance ended more people made their way to the dance floor, while Odin and Frigga retreated. With that notion you decided to leave, when you had finished your drink. Since the king and queen left it would not be considered insulting to the royal family if you left early.

You started to down your drink. When your cup was empty you placed it back on the bar and gave the servant a genuine smile. Just when you turned around you heard him ask ‘Would you like another drink lady y/n?’. You turned back to decline the offer when you heard a low voice speaking ‘Yes she will, and I will have the same, please’. You annoyingly turned your head to see which guy had answered, when you saw Loki. Shit. You really wanted to go home but could not decline a prince. Argh.. just this one drink, which was already your fifth, stick to protocol, be polite and leave before you will do something stupid you thought. You quickly smiled at Loki ‘Thank you, my prince’. He gave you a quick smile back. ‘You are welcome, so what do you think of the celebration?’. You complemented the celebration, had the same sort of conversation you had with everybody else all night and drank your drink as fast as you could. When you finished your drink, you were about to excuse yourself and leave. That is when Loki extended his hand to you ‘Would you like to join me for a dance?’. The first thing you thought was I would rather do anything else right now, than dance with you. But you know you could not say that, so rather reluctantly you accepted his hand.

He led you to the dancefloor and he spinned and twirled you around. He did not say a word to you while you danced. He did keep his gaze on you the entire time. He moved gracefully and you started to admire some of his features. You were thankful when the dance ended, because now you finally had an opportunity to leave. ‘If you will excuse..’. But Loki cut you off and led you to a table with some snacks on it, and offered you one. Before you could finish it one of the servants had already brought the two of you a drink. At this point Loki was really getting on your nerves. You gave him one of your fakest smiles, hoping he will take the hint ‘My prince, it would be rude to deny your other guests to have the opportunity to talk to you tonight, it is already getting quite late and..’. He then cut you off again. ‘I find these events quite unbearable. Always the same dull conversations, nothing ever seems to happen. So, to get through them I like to find something to play with.’ You looked confused at him before saying ‘I am getting tired, I think I should leave early tonight’. He leaned a little closer to your ear and purred ‘You have been wanting to leave from the moment I saw you down your drink, but it can’t have my plaything leave early tonight’. He quickly took your hand and walked you over to the table where his brother was sitting with his friends. Before you could protest you heard him say ‘Thor, this is lady y/n, she is a little bored. Kindly take care of her, will you?’. And with that your evening was getting quite long. Thor made you play drinking games and told long stories about his battles. Every time you tried to leave Loki would suddenly show up with someone to talk to, dance with or with something to drink or eat. Every time he did you glared at him, which just made him smirk back at you. Bastard.

The evening would at least go on for another two hours, but you had far too much to drink. When Loki was nowhere to be seen you said goodbye to Thor and the rest of the table and left. You were relieved to be almost at the exit, but suddenly Loki appeared in front of you. To say he looked not amused, would be an understatement. ‘Where do you think you’re going?’ he growled. You took a step back, but he was already walking towards you. ‘I am going home, I wanted to leave for a very long time now. You’ve had your fun by torturing me all evening, now let me go home!’. Loki raised his hand and for a moment you thought he was going to slap you. Since you were being quite rude to royalty. Instead, he brushed your cheek with the back of his hand ‘But darling, you can’t leave until tomorrow.’ You sighed ‘And why not?’. He then looked at you with a dark look and grabbed your waist with both his hands ‘Because I am going to fuck you so hard you will not be able to walk until tomorrow.’ Hearing him say that in a lusty voice did something to you. Before you could answer you saw a green shimmer and you were not standing at the exit anymore.

He pulled you closer to him. He placed two of his fingers under your chin and made you look up at him. He closed the distant between your faces and his lips were now brushing yours. He did not break eye contact and his gaze softened a bit. You saw lust in his green eyes, and you swallowed in anticipation of what was to come. ‘May I?’ he asked. You nodded at him. He then pressed his lips against yours. Your lips move in sync with each other, like you have done this a hundred times before. He moved his hand from your chin to your neck to deepen the kiss. You felt his tongue against your lips, and you opened your mouth to let his tongue enter. Loki then started to kiss you more passionately, which made you moan. He broke the kiss and smirked at you. He put his hands on you butt and lifted you in one smooth motion. You squeaked a bit in surprise and instinctively wrapped your legs around his waist. He started to walk with you and kiss your neck. The feeling of his lips on your skin made you breath faster. Then you felt his teeth sink into your flesh, just on the brink of pleasure and pain. You tightened his legs around him, making you feel his hardened cock through his pants.

He had walked you to his bed and laid you down on your back. He shimmered your clothes away and you lay naked before him. He took one of your nipples in his mouth and circled it with his tongue until it hardened. One of his hands was caressing the inside of your thighs. You quickly become a panting mess underneath him. He slipped one finger between your folds and felt how wet you already were. You moaned at the sensation. Loki suddenly stopped and looked deeply into your eyes. He takes his finger with your wetness on it in his mouth and started to suck it. The sight of him sucking his own finger made you tremble. You felt his knee lining up at your entrance putting a slight pressure on your clit. You let out a low moan and started to move your hips up and down, to create some friction. You grabbed his jacket and pulled it off. The fact that he was still fully clothed, was becoming frustrating. You desperately needed to feel him. But before you could undress him any further he grabbed your wrists with one of his hands, and pinned them above your head. He removed his knee and you whined at the loss of pressure on your clit. You felt your pussy throb, begging for attention, but Loki just grinned at you. ‘You’re an eager little thing, aren’t you? Look at my pants’. You looked down and saw a large wet stain at the part of his knee you rubbed your clit against. You started to blush.

Loki flicked his hand and you suddenly felt the touch of cool metal against your wrists. You looked up and saw your wrists handcuffed together. Attached to the handcuffs was a chain which was bound to the headboard of the bed. You heard him chuckle ‘I prefer to have both hands free, when I play with my toys’. Normally you would protest to any man who would do something like that without asking, but with Loki it was different. The fact that he was treating you like his personal toy to play with, was a real turn on for you. Loki moved to lay besides you. He had one hand supporting his head while his other hand was stroking your breasts. You felt your pussy throb harder and started to squirm at the feeling of his touch. He was watching how your body reacted to his touch. He slowly started to move his hand lower. ‘I must say that it was a pleasant surprise to see you tonight’. His hand was now on your hip slowly making circles. You felt the bedsheets underneath your pussy become damp. Your breaths were shallow and you mind was racing. You desperately needed relief. He moved his head to your ear, and his other hand grabbed your hair. He pulled on it slightly and you could feel his tongue stroking your earlobe ‘I noticed you a few feasts ago and ever since I saw you, I have not been able to put you out of my mind’. You moaned at the feeling of his tongue on your ear and bucked your hips in the hope he will touch your pussy. ‘I do admit that I tend to break my toys, but I am going to play with you for as long as I can’. He then put a finger on your clit and started to rub slow circles. He puts just enough pressure on it to feel him, but hardly enough to give you some form of relief. His touch was driving you crazy and you started to moan his name repeatedly. He removed his other hand from your hair and started to stroke your cheek.

Then there was a knock on the door. ‘Prince Loki?’. Loki looked annoyed and turned his face towards the door ‘Come in.’. A guard walked in and he froze for a moment before he regained his composure. Loki chuckled while he was still stroking circles around your clit. His other hand was brushing to your hair, like he was petting you. You could do nothing else than moan his name. You were hardly aware that there was a guard now watching you. ‘Ehm.. the feast is a- almost at an end and Prince Thor is requesting your presence to say goodbye to the remaining guests.’. Loki sighed and looked at you. Your eyes were closed and your whole body looked flushed and was moving ever so slightly. Loki saw just how desperate you were to come. ‘I’ll be there in five minutes’ Loki said to the guard. The guard then left as quickly as he could. You groaned ‘Please Loki, please. You can not do this to me, I need you’.

Loki pushed your legs open further and positioned his face right before your pussy. He hummed in approval. ‘I know darling, but I will not be gone long. Now you have been moaning my name so prettily, let us see if I can make you scream it’. Without a warning he pushed his tongue hard down on your clit and moved it up and down. Two of his fingers slipped easily inside of you and started to pump in and out of you. The wet sounds that were coming from this action sounded sinful to your ears. But all you could care about is the feeling of your orgasm building up inside of you. ‘I do only have 3 minutes left, so I need you to be a good girl and come for me. Now!’. The vibration of his words against your clit sends you over the edge and you screamed his name. His fingers started to pump slower and his tongue was now drawing slow long circles against your clit. He worked you through your intense orgasm and looked smugly at you, trembling, and still moaning his name softly. He brought his fingers to your mouth and you eagerly started to lick them clean. ‘Now, I will be gone for about 30 minutes.’. You looked at him with widened eyes. He then gave you a darkened look ‘But I’m far from done playing with you, yet.’

With his fingers now clean he stood up and grabbed his jacket, put it on and straightened the rest of his clothes. You started to tug at your handcuffs which made Loki chuckle. He then went to one of his cabinets, opened a drawer and pulled out a ball shaped like an egg. ‘You know what it is?’ You shook your head. He walked towards you and pushed the egg-shaped ball inside of you, which made you jolt. Then he showed you a remote in his hands. ‘Like I said, I will be back in 30 minutes. But you do know how I need something to play with during these tedious events.’ He pressed on a button and the egg-shaped ball started to vibrate. You gasped and started to squirm. Loki bent down to kiss you and you started to moan into the kiss. He then whispered in your ear ‘When I come back we’ll play some more before you break. In the meantime, you are not allowed to come until I get back. I want to watch as you come undone every time I let you. If you do come before I am back, I promise you that you are in for a rough night. Remember that right now, I am still going easy on you. Don’t worry the doors will be locked and no one else will be able to enter.’

He then stood up straight and started to walk towards the door. You were whimpering softly, trying to distract yourself. You were not sure if you could handle this vibration for so long, without coming. Plus, you did not know if you wanted to know what a rough night with Loki meant. The way he plays with your body was already hard to sustain. You heard him open the door and you looked at him. Just before he was through the door, he turned around to face you ‘Oh, one more thing darling..’ he shot you a wicked grin and you saw him push another button on the remote. The vibration increased, you let out a loud moan and arched your back. Already feeling your orgasm build up. ‘This is not even the highest setting’. And with that he left you to moan, squirm and wait until he gets be back.

#loki x you #loki #loki fanfiction #loki smut #loki laufeyson #loki odinson #loki x reader #shameless smut

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loveatfirstwriteblog · 3 years

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A Complete Analysis of Harry Potter

Like a lot of kids, we probably grew up on Harry potter. We were obsessed and rightly so. The universe created in the world of Harry Potter was, and is, a hugely successful one because of the fact it gave kids a world where magic exists! It seemed to be a great world to live in and it made even better with the fact that it included elements of empowerment, Whether it be showing girls can be just as successful if not more in various pursuits(Hermione), or the fact that even if you have a history of bad events, you can have a good heart(Hagrid), Harry Potter teaches us a lot.

JKR has written a mind-blowing plot in a world of magic, wizards, witches, wands, potions, friendship, love. Our inner-five-year olds--and actually most of our young adult selves too--jumps around excitedly at the beautifully penned words that creates an exit out of this world and into one where magic does exist.

As you get older, though, you begin to think of Harry Potter in a more critical fashion. The thought of “oh my god, it’s magic” no longer completely overrides my mind, but more of “but what are the laws regarding this? Can people just do this whenever they want? Are there no ethics?”

No matter how much we’re going to expose the flaws and plot holes in HP now, we’ll always love the books--we grew up on them! But some things just niggle you as you get older, and that’s what we’re going to be focusing on in this post.

Something I adore about the HP books is that everyone, including the “good guys”, has flaws. Harry has a “save the world alone, do first, think later” complex, a driving force that makes him go save Sirius, Ron is very, very insecure to a point where he ditches Harry twice, probably when Harry needed him the most, Hermione is a judgemental, narrow-minded nag (her thoughts on Luna, divination, Trelawney, basically anything that doesn’t fit her black and white world), Molly Weasley is misogynistic and blatantly favourites her children—probably being one of the main factors behind Ron’s insecurities, Arthur is condescending towards Muggles and makes several comments you cringe at while reading the books as a young adult/adult, Sirius, Snape, and Lupin still haven’t let go of their childhood grudges and hatred, etc etc etc.

These flaws are what make these characters so three-dimensional, so layered, so human. But the problem was, most of these flaws are never intentionally acknowledged. And honestly, that could have been such a good character arc, because the main characters are mostly students. No student is the same through their teenage years—they change, they evolve, they get over their flaws, they try to better themselves. I would have loved to see Ron becoming his own person, Hermione opening her mind up a little, etc.

Neville is not one of my favourites, but I love his growth and development, from someone who was scared of his potions professor to a man who faced down Lord Voldemort. Ginny Weasley could have had character development, from the trauma she went through in second year, but that was never written in. She went through this terrifying ordeal when she was only twelve years old, and jump to a year or two later and she’s absolutely fine, with no transition from her trauma whatsoever.

Some of JKR’s characters are brilliantly written and fleshed out, but some of her others lack the structure and complexity that usually comes with being vital to the plot—Ginny Weasley for one. Her internalised misogyny also plays a huge part in the way her female characters are written. We see this again in the case of how she wrote the character of Ginny.

Ginny Weasley is not a favourite of ours (if you don’t know that by now). She feels a lot like a convenient male daydream—when she waits for Harry to notice her by dating other guys, gets annoyed by Hermione “not knowing quidditch”, etc etc—and fits the “not like other girls” archetype too much, almost like she was made for it (hint hint). She’s portrayed to be strong-willed, spunky, and independent, and I love the idea, but I really don’t see it. To me, she’s a very shallow character, the least fleshed out one.

Just like James Potter wasn’t necessarily redeemed just because JKR said he was, and Ginny isn’t interesting just because JKR writes that she is.

Hermione also fits the archetype, but she’s JKR’s self-insert, so we really can’t say much about that.

To make things worse, Ginny and Hermione are pitted against each other in a very subtle way. Ginny is the sporty, pretty, flirty girl who’s never single from book 4. Hermione is the not-conventionally-attractive, nerdy girl who’s had a few dates here and there but never a relationship. They’re very different characters (the only thing they have in common is the archetype) but they’re against each other in the defence of Harry.

Another place where JKR’s misogyny shows up is the way other girls are written. Lavender Brown is shown as vapid and immature, just because she likes clothes and boys and didn’t know how to handle her first relationship. Cho Chang is perceived as shallow because she’s emotional. Pansy Parkinson is seen to be throwing herself at Draco Malfoy. The Weasleys hated Fleur because she was beautiful and sexy and French, and that was ever really resolved in the end (Molly accepted her, but we never got Ginny’s and Hermione’s opinions again). You see where we’re getting at? The typical “girly girls” are portrayed as insipid, shallow, emotional, and boring, while girls like Hermione and Ginny are seen to be fun and multilayered.

The problems with Harry Potter don’t just stop with non-fleshed out characters. There are plot devices that go unacknowledged, issues like blood purity—which is the basis of Voldemort’s tyranny—are never really resolved, huge Chekhov’s guns that aren’t fired.

A common misconception, which if cleared up could probably expose a load of problems in wizarding society by itself, is that the wizarding world is racist. It’s not racist. Muggles and Muggleborns are not a different race, they’re a different class, at least according to pureblood wizards. Mudblood is a classist insult (a direct reference to nobility blueblood and aristocracy).

Another factor that wasn’t talked about but made the HP world so complex and realistic is the inherent classism in every single pureblooded wizard, including the Weasleys.

The “Light” wizards all operate on the notion “at least I don’t kill or torture Muggles”. The Weasleys refuse to talk about Molly’s squib cousin who’s an accountant, the Longbottoms were so desperate for Neville to not be a squib they nearly killed him trying to force magic out of him, Ron makes fun of Filch for being a squib, thinks house-elves are beneath him, and confounds his driving instructor in his mid-thirties, the ministry workers kept obliviating that muggle at the quidditch World Cup, etc.

This could have been a metaphor for how small prejudices and microaggressions (kind of the wizarding equivalent of white privilege) enable discrimination and murder, if JKR had actually acknowledged it.

The parallel to Nazi Germany is very twisted and definitely shouldn’t be taken too far, but the Nazi ideology grew on the basis of everyday antisemitism, “that’s not that bad” little things. Voldemort’s circle and army grew because the wizard superiority complex festered and blew up in some people, egged on by a deeply classist society.

Ultimately, Harry Potter has very, very shoddy worldbuilding, the kind of worldbuilding that’s obsessed with answering the “what” of the wizarding world, rather than the “how” or the “why”, which is strange, considering that fantasy or dystopian-era novels’ driving plots and conflicts are usually answering the questions the worldbuilding raises--The Hunger Games and The Shadowhunter Chronicles are two of the best examples of brilliantly written YA fantasy and dystopian novels.

In HP, however, the main plot just avoids the questions the worldbuilding brings up like the bubonic plague.

Voldemort’s agenda is built on prejudice towards Muggles and Muggleborns, but the plot just validates the negative perception of them—at the end of the day, being a wizard is what’s special. The Statute of Secrecy is the foundation of the main concept—blood supremacists believe wizards shouldn’t be hidden away—but only vague, barely-there answers are given to why it exists (a Chekhov’s gun that was never fired).

There are love potions that function like date rape drugs (even Harry was given one by a girl who wanted him to ask her out), potions that force people to tell the truth, potions that literally let you disguise yourself as another person, but the ethics are never talked about, and the laws are so lax that three twelve-year-olds broke them and were never caught.

But at the same time, the worldbuilding is so authentic, because it transforms the wizarding world into straight-up fridge horror. The everyday horrors are just accepted and rolled with. A corrupt government, constant obliviation of Muggles, slavery that isn’t even talked about. These things aren’t obvious to us as readers, or to the wizards as characters, because they match up to the real world, which is filled with things that are horrifying if you dig deeper. The multiple, normalised forms of abuse, police brutality, the violence in prisons that nothing is done about, the glaringly obvious cultural problems we have with consent, etc.

The abusive authoritative figures in HP, like Rufus Scrimgeour, Cornelius Fudge, Dumbledore, Umbridge, etc, are so authentic because real-life politicians and people in high places of power behave that way, and their abuse is excused.

The wizarding world is just like the real world. Corrupt, prejudiced, messed up, but if you’re privileged, or at least have certain privileges, you’re probably not going to notice. The ultimate problem is that the plot doesn’t acknowledge a lot of fridge horror things are messed up either, which is why it miserably fails.

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insomniac-arrest · 3 years

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how NOT to do a tournament arc

It’s kind of sad, I really enjoyed the first book in the “Darker Shade of Magic” series by VE Schwab, I even rated it 4 stars on my Goodreads! People told me that the second book, A Gathering of Shadows, was even better and I was pretty excited.

However, I cannot get myself to finish the last 80 pages or so. I am really close to the end, but I just Do Not Care. I have stopped caring about these characters or what happens to them. I think the main problem is that I actually really love “tournament arcs,” they are literally always my favorite arcs in Shonen manga.

the tournament arc in the Naruto series?? life-changing. the tournament arc in My Hero Academia? literally the only full arc I’ve seen of that show. The tournament arc in Yu Yu Hakusho? so much fun. even outside of manga, the second Hunger Games book is my favorite of the three because I think the arena/game itself is really interesting and I’m a shallow bitch.

Lee vs Gaara?? 😩👌

I think it’s this love of the trope that kind of ruined the book for me because Schwab fundamentally mishandles why audiences care about our heroes joining or winning these things. *SPOILERS AHEAD*

So I literally hated the reason for every single character joining the tournament. Not only are most of them way too OP to be joining this tournament (it’s like the reverse underdog trope and I hate it), but the reasons they join are generally weak and actively make me want them to lose.

Why does Naruto do the tournament arc? He wants to go up in the ninja hierarchy and it’s a stepping stone to his overall goal of becoming a hokage. And, as always, he’s trying to prove his self worth as a person by punching people real good. He is an underdog and seeing him win is thus satisfying. You want him to win for practical, emotional, and cathartic reasons. It’s not that complex.

None of the heroes in A Gathering of Shadows want to join the tournament for practical reasons and seeing them win achieves no catharsis. They do have emotional reasons for joining it, but their emotional reasons actively make me want to bully them. Let’s get into it.

Lila wants to join the tournament to test her magic and also run away from her cool pirate life she always wanted because of Issues I guess. I found her reasons for joining the most acceptable of the 3, but also frankly vague and boring. She kind of just has this sense she has to join. The thing that really got me is how she goes out of her way to kidnap and replace this rando in the competition.

She is technically an underdog here, but having guessed by this point she is a *SPOILERS* Antari, I already know she is super powerful and is way too magically gifted for being in this normal-people magic Olympics. I don’t watch Haikyuu for the tall people dunking on other teams! I watch it for the short king overcoming height-ism! Your stories about genetically superior magic people suck!!

If she had like, an actually compelling reason to insert herself into the competition-- such as being in poverty and needing prize money or seeking revenge or political sabotage or wanting to win the heart of a girl, I might be more forgiving. But the fact she just kinda wants to . . test herself, and fucks up someone else’s life to do that, just made me angry. I get that’s she’s a spunky, wild-card, the author describes her as a “self-serving badass,” but she was just so weakly motivated that the self-serving part made me root against her. She’s out there messing with someone’s entire profession just to “test her abilities.” This is some villainy shit.

This and the fact her “not-like-other-girls” fuckery was all over the place in this book (one of her love interests literally says “you’re not like other girls”) rubbed me the wrong way.*

*Note: the first book also had this problem too, but I was kind of willing to forgive it bc I was interested in the magic stuff going on. But Schwab did NOT course correct and I had to have this whole do-I-dislike-Lila-bc-of-internalized-misogyny debate with myself. Luckily, I discovered that the only character I really liked in this book was Rhy regardless of gender.

Alucard is also there. I don’t clearly remember his motivation for joining, but he is already wealthy and has status and allies and doesn’t really need to join this tournament so I also did not particularly care if he won or lost. He’s also just, very pompous. Which, yeah, made him likable enough, but again, pompous characters in tournament arcs are not the ones you’re rooting for. That’s not why you watch.

Finally, Kell, king of the Over Powered angst trope, wants to join the tournament because he dreams of violence. He wants to fight other people. He has some bloodlust which he feels real bad about, but also damn does he want to use his magic powers to punch people. Like, dummies and training are not enough, it has to be real flesh and blood people to pummel.

I can’t emphasize how thoroughly this turned me off. Characters who join tournaments literally just for the purpose of smacking other people around are villains in these type of stories. They aren’t doing it for the prize or redemption or self-worth shit or love. And I wanted Kell to lose so bad!! I wanted him to get water-slapped across the stage! Not only was he way too overpowered in this tournament for me to care, but the reasons he’s in the tournament actively pissed me off. You want to find freedom in violence Kell? :( absolutely not.

And like, he does lose, but it’s only because he lets Lila win. No struggle. No gay little speeches. No random heartfelt trauma reveal or character development.

I hate it here.

Naturally, a western book does not have to follow random anime tropes, but shouldn’t readers be a bit invested in this staging since it takes up a large part of the book?

None of these characters are in the tournament for interesting reasons that make me want to root for them. Some characters who I was neutral on to begin with, literally made that Sims relationship thing pop up above my head when I read this

I know what you’re thinking: But Insomniac! The book isn’t about the tournament! It’s just the set-dressing! You must have noticed, the tournament fight scenes were really brief and boring. The main conflict is between the real villain and the main characters.

And I’m like . . . then why were the magic olympics there? Also, the fact all these characters were joining this important sports event for shallow reasons really did a number on my perception of them. None of them even want to be Hokage. This is ridiculous.

Anyway, as a side note I was interested in the Rhy/Alucard interaction, but I’ll probably never finish this book so ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

#IA talks #IA reads #am reading #a darker shade of magic #a gathering of shadows #ve shwab #here are my thoughts you must all suffer through #long post cw #lol

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neokonewman · 3 years

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Honestly? I think what tangled failed to do was make sure characters had good chemistry as friends. Seriously Cass and Rapunzel where like crude oil and the ocean. One single match from destruction. Season one is bottom barrel because it goes out of it's way to excuse Frederick for his shit. Season two was actually really good because Rapunzel was still herself and was making tough choices left and right. Season 3? Ohhhh boy. Season 3 was a half good half bad because while I do applaud her trying to bring her friend back into the fold? Cassandra wasn't wrong when she said "this has to stop now. This thing where you THINK you've been my friend". Cuz as far as I could tell? They were never friends. Hell even when being a slow burn villain, Varian had better friend chemistry with Rapunzel. When the show expects me to swallow "Cass and I are besties.and sisters!" whole sale? I'm not buying it.

Oooooh boy! This ask is just dripping with potential rant power. Sorry in advance for how long this answer is destinied to be!

First things first. I absolutely agree with you on how badly TTS handles chemistry amongst the main characters. Cass gets the worst of it because she is shoehorned as Rapunzel’s BFF off screen and suddenly she has equal sway on Rapunzel as Eugene? Her character can’t even be allowed to breathe most of the time because the show is obsessed with sticking her next to Rapunzel to the point that she can’t grow any further away from her. At least other show original characters like Lance and Varian have an actual introduction and a place in the world outside of Rapunzel, but even then they suffer because Rapunzel is upfront and center and there is very little wiggle room for interactions that don’t have at least have some involvement with her. It’s here where our opinions differ however.

I would make the bold claim by sayin that S1 of TTS is by far and away the best out of the three. Yes it has the glaring flaw of bias for Frederic and against Varian that makes me question whether or not it should be considered “good” but it’s much better balanced than the other two seasons that follow it. In S1 we actually get character who aren’t Rapunzel more chances to shine without her stealing the spotlight away at the last moment. In S1 we actually have an actual conflict that drives the story forward and at least pretends to care about developing the characters. Even the obnoxious bias could have still worked out in the shows favor if they were ever properly addressed in story and not swept under the rug like they were in later seasons. Heck, I would go as far as to argue that the worst parts of S1 is the fact that S2 and S3 make it worse retroactively.

S2 in my opinion is the dullest of the three, by a wide margin. With them never addressing what the mains left behind in S1 as well as taking the threat of the rocks away WAY too early, the conflict is particularly nonexistent. Not only that, but it does what I think is the worst thing a show can do during a season long journey. They never actually develop the world outside of Corona. They established that there are 6 other kingdoms in the alliance with Corona, but the most we get of any of them is the one throwaway line about them being close to the mountains of Koto in Freebird. Other than that we overstay in three separate places that end up being worthless to the plot as a whole. After spending three episodes in Vardaros right out the bat, we never return or what’s become of them afterwards. Them mains stranded on the Island is pretty dull and is only memorable to me because they had the guts of mentioning Varian again and established that Rapunzel STILL has an unhealthily delusional bias for Frederic despite of everything. The House of Yesterday’s tomorrow is just an excuse of shoehorning a bunch of magical hijink cliches that aren’t done very interesting. Heck, despite them spending a whole season getting to the Dark Kingdom, they only spend an episode and a half there and only a single night in universe. The rest of S2 is just filler that don’t even develop the characters or tell any interesting stories. Like, an enchanted forest episode even though the mid season finale takes place in another enchanted forest? A repeat of the first part of Tangled the movie with Cass replacing Eugene? Whatever the heck “Curses” was supposed to accomplish? The only thing interesting that S2 introduces is the Brotherhood, and we all know how little they are used afterwards.

I would also like to point out that at the start of S2, the mains just…. Stop developing almost entirely? Cass and Eugene never have any meaningful moments together like they do in S1, and are reduced to just taking potshots at each other to remind us that they have some sort of relationship. Lance is reduced strictly to comedic relief and in my opinion is just there to give Eugene something to do when he is removed from the plot because once again, the show is obsessed with making Rapunzel and Cass’ friendship be a thing that only matters. Hookfoot is just there to give his stand up routine about how marriage is terrible in the first episode of the season and just to exist afterwards, yet he SOMEHOW gets actual episodes focused on him while Lance suffers. Even characters properly introduced this season are cursed to never flesh out because Adira keeps pulling a vanishing act for no established reason, Hector is only gets any lines in his debut episode and never given any real focus again, and Edmund gets the same treatment as the other dads (except maybe Captain) by getting his entire character reduced to one trope later on in S3. Speaking of…

S3…. Ooooh boy S3. It’s not as boring as S2 for me, but that’s only because it’s a media equivalent of a train wreck that I couldn’t look away from. It’s like they took the two major issues of the past two seasons (the clear bias and shallow filler) and mashed them together while trying to savage it by inserting what worked in S1, (actual conflict) but completely missed the point why it worked in the first place. All pretense of caring about any other character other than Rapunzel and Cass is gone in this season. Even episodes that focus on anyone outside of Rapunzel, ends up ending with Rapunzel saving the day because she is the only one allowed to be heroic anymore.

They try to make Cass’ villain arc as complex as Varian’s but for some reason they think her blaming a literal baby for being kidnapped is enough grounds to go on a murder streak without one episode of hesitation. Lance is just there for bottom barrel dumb humor, yet the show thinks he is responsible enough to raise two kids on his own. Varian falls into the pigeon hole of just being the “kid character that hangs with the grown up mains” trope that he managed to avoid in S1 while also being just a plot device to not only give the mains access to tech, but also get shoehorned into scenes to keep the audience somewhat invested. Eugene is literal retconned in universe to be just a bland supportive boyfriend. Rapunzel, my gosh Rapunzel…. She treated is so painfully “perfect” to the point that she is completely unrelated. I’m not calling her a Mary Sue because they only ACT like she is perfect. She is still a hugely flawed human being, but the other characters just applaud her because she is “the magical, wonderous sundrop” and very little else. Also yes, Rapunzel being obsessed over Cass while playing off all the horrible actions her BFF as her being lost is the most frustrating thing ever. It’s as if she became Frederic from S1 and abandoned everyone else well being in favor of one person who doesn’t even want her attention, only worse because it’s made into a good thing. Again, S1 is made retroactively worse because of the seasons that follow it.

There is much more things wrong with S3 than S2, but honestly I find myself changing my mind a lot whether which one is objectively worse. Like making a show boring is arguably the worst thing you can do, but the choices, morals, and all around writing of S3 is just bad. Then again the writing in S2 is honestly pretty on par with S3 at times, so again, it’s a toss up.

Sorry again if this answer is a lot, but it was pretty fun at the same time. Thanks for the ask. ^^

#long post #tangled criticism #tangled discourse #negativity #negative #not tagging the main tags anymore to avoid spamming #discourse mention #also cass and rapunzel are just not sisters #not even in a sisters from another mister sense #it’s okay to just be friends with your friends #heck i would argue whether or not they should be even considered friends at all sometimes #neo muses #neo rants #neo answers #jade-rosepine

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yandere-daydreams · 4 years

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Kinktober - Day Eighteen

Prompt: Knife Play

Pairing: Rook/Reader (Twisted Wonderland)

TW: Implied Non-Con, Unhealthy Relationships, Delusional Mindsets, Mentions of Death, Mentions of Blood, Biting, and Threats of Bodily Harm.

Rook didn’t like getting too close to his prey.

He didn’t refuse to, it just wasn’t a preference. He favored bows, snares, spells that allowed him to keep a respectable distance between himself and whatever bleeding, helpless creature he wanted to put out of the misery he’d caused. You should know, you’d felt his eyes on you for weeks before you finally met him, before the love-letters started arriving and he made his first move to lure you into his trap. Although his pursuit had been romantic, even if you could only hope it wouldn’t end with your head mounted on his wall, he’d still treated it like a hunt, still approached you with carefully caution and all the tools he’d need if you proved to be more difficult than he’d assumed. The only difference was that he hadn’t stayed at a distance, with you.

Because you weren’t prey, were you? He didn’t think you were his prey.

No, he'd manage to delude himself into believing you were his lover.

The blade glinted in the moonlight, silvery steel shining with a dull, luminescent glow that brought just enough light into your bedroom to let you see the curl of Rook’s fingers around the leathery hilt, the spot where the pointed tip broke through your sheets and stabbed into your mattress, rooting itself to rest less than a hair’s width in front of your sensitive, unprotective, vulnerable throat. It wasn’t the first time he’d done this. Technically, you’d had the flat of the same blade pressed against your skin a hundred different times, tracing jagged lines in your thighs or pressing against your chest or threatening to rupture something vital, but he’d always warned you, he’d always asked. He hadn’t, this time. He hadn’t said a word.

As far as he knew, you’d only woken up when he pressed himself against your back. When you hadn’t been able to stop yourself from whimpering as your neck was pushed ever-closer to the razor sharp edge of the knife.

“Do you think this is too much?” It should’ve been a sincere question, but it was hard to take him seriously when his chuckle was only muffled by the nape of your neck, hot breath ghosting over your skin as his free hand snaked around your waist, pulling your hips against his as he shifted, slightly, refusing to let your body separate from his. “Just letting myself into your room gets boring, and I’d hate for you to grow tired of me. Vil says a weapon should never be necessary, but Vil doesn’t know my love as well as I do, does he?”

A weapon shouldn’t be necessary. A weapon wasn’t necessary, not really, but Rook never did things just because he had to. If he ever did something that might hurt you, he did it because he knew it’d make your squirm, because he knew your blood would run cold, because he knew he’d enjoy it.

Because he didn’t care whether or not you enjoyed it, too.

“Rook, I don’t know if--” You spoke quickly, frantically, but your voice was quick to hitch as he teeth sunk into the flesh of your shoulder. It was a shallow bite, dependent on impulse rather than resolve, but that didn’t make the puncture wounds sting any less as he pushed in, it didn’t make it ache any less after he pulled away. “I just don’t know if this is a good idea,” You tried again, attempting to grit your teeth and bare the mild pain. “It seems dangerous--”

“It is dangerous, isn’t it?” Another question that wasn’t really a question, another consultation that was far from a comfort. It might’ve been better if he hadn’t bothered to answer at all. At least then, you might've been able to convince yourself he wasn’t ignoring you on purpose. “I can feel your pulse racing…” He let go of your waist, his hand drifting towards your chest, instead, dipping under your shirt. You scrambled, grabbing his wrist and trying to stop him before he could make things worse, but Rook only laughed, pecking the corner of your jaw as he shook you off. Thankfully, he only seemed to want to press his hand to your chest, a contented hum escaping his lips as he felt your heart attempt to beat its way out of your rib cage. “I didn’t scare you, did I, sweetheart? It’d be such a shame if you started shying away from me, but I doubt I’d be able to pass up the chance to chase you down all over again.”

You wished he wouldn’t say things like that. You really wished he wouldn’t say things like that. It was bad enough he’d become something so rotten, the least he could do was stop himself from ruining the few moments of your relationship you still held dear. You didn’t respond to that. You couldn’t, you weren’t sure how you would, but Rook didn’t seem to care. He was more than happy to toy with the fabric of your collar as his lips found the space behind your ear, the area just above your jugular, all the many sensitive spots he could nip at and mark and abuse, with only your silent complaints standing in his way. You would’ve yelled, if you’d been able to. You would’ve screamed, but with every bit of vile, fatal affection, his knife twisted, its angle growing more precise, and you were shoved slowly, painstakingly slowly, towards his weapon, towards the thing that would slit your throat without the slightest bit of remorse.

Rook couldn’t kill you. Well, he could, but he wouldn’t, right? He claimed to love you, and you knew he believed that he could, so he wouldn’t end your life for one interesting night. You wanted to trust him. You wanted to know your boyfriend wouldn’t do you any real harm. You wanted to, but…

“Please stop.”

The words were meek, more of a mumbled plea than a demand, but for a moment, it seemed to work. For a moment, he pulled away, cooing softly as he dislodged his knife from your mattress, and for a moment, you let yourself think he might actually listen to you, this time.

Then, Rook threw you onto your back, and you had to wonder how long he’d spent waiting for this.

It happened in less than a second. He was behind you, whispering sweet nothings, and then he was on top of you, straddling your waist, his nails raking through your hair and a grin stretching over his lips, all sharp angles and focused eyes and a stare that managed to burn into skin, regardless of the oppressive darkness. “I thought you’d never learn to play along,” He sighed, wistfully, looking down at you with all the carnal fondness of a predator ready to devour its next meal. “Mon cœur always finds a way to surprise me, don’t they?”

You opened your mouth, but you weren’t able to spit anything out, not before his knife was back and pressing against the bottom of your chin, keeping you as quiet and as terrified as you were sure he wished you'd stay.

He’d never liked it when his prey stepped out of line, after all.

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thoughtfullyyoungduck · 3 years

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water rippling

A/N: I’m so sorry this took so long, please let me know what you think!

Summary: could you do a young losers x reader where the reader can’t swim but richie convinced her to come w them to the quarry bc he’ll teach her. but while he is pennywise comes underwater and tries to drown her so they have to save her

warnings: this whole chapter is basically about drowning and the fear of it so please don’t read it if that triggers you.

‘I’m not getting in.’

‘If you don’t get in than I can’t teach you anything either. Fuck, just get in already.’

‘I told you I didn’t want to go swimming Richie, this is all your stupid idea so at the very least be fucking patient with me’, you bite as you dip in foot into the water, then lift it up higher again so the water can’t reach you. The scowl on your face deepens.

You never understood why people swim as a hobby. You’d get why everyone has to learn how to swim - even if you didn’t and never learned-, but actually enjoying swimming? No, those people must be out of their minds.

Richie laughs, mocking you, but all in good fun. ‘Start with one step. Just until the water reaches your ancles. You can’t drown from that Y/N.’

‘I could trip and drown.’

‘Literally how? I’m right here, the losers are further up keeping an eye on us, and all you would have to do is stand up. It’s not deep here.’

You sigh, but know that ultimately, Richie has a point.

Most people don’t automatically back away from water as soon as they catch a glimpse of it, but people hadn’t had a trauma related to it either.

Swimming always reminds you of the day you nearly drowned. It was on vacation, in the same resort your parents took you every year, and then left you in the Mini club while they went off and had a relaxing day. The animators who were supposed to be watching you, spoke a language you, at that time, hadn’t been able to disaffirm, and that’s where an almost deadly mistake was made.

The leaders lured you away from the club house, and you, like every other little kid present, followed them along unfearingly. They were older, and you trusted that they would keep you safe. Until one of them picked you up near a pool, and threw you in without any warning.

At the time, you hadn’t been able to swim by yourself without help, and so the second your feet left solid ground, you panicked. It didn’t seem to matter how many times you tried to wave your arms for help, none of the animators were glancing your way.

You can’t figure out how you somehow managed to reach the edge of the pool, but you did, only to get thrown right back in after by the animator, who thought you were having the time of your live.

Of course, you didn’t blame them. It’s not like you could tell them you couldn’t swim, so they had no way of knowing that, but it still scared the life out of you. For the rest of the trip, and after, you refused to go anywhere near the water. Not even your parents trying to persuade you with promises of ice cream and candy if you were brave, made you take another change in the thing that nearly killed you.

You never tried to swim again, and that meant you had no knowledge of how to do it. It was embarrassing, to decline going to swim during P.E and being forced to explain why. Your peers often ridiculed you for it, and it made you feel like a losers for being such a coward.

But, cowardness is easy, especially when compared to facing your fears, and you never tried to learn how to swim, even after all the mockery. Only your new best friends hang out in the quarry all the time now, and you’re sick of being the one who has to watch from the shore as the others have fun.

Nothing bad has occurred to them in the water, -you’ve seen them go in about six times in three weeks now, and no one has come close to trouble - and Eddie, who is the most cautious person you’ve ever met, told you that statistically, there’s very little chance of you drowning. At your wits end, the only person you can think of asking for help, is Richie.

Richie might be an add choice, but he’s the only one who wouldn’t turn the lessons entirely boring and practical, like the others might. Richie jokes around a lot, brings humor into any situation, and you need that. You can’t get in your hard about the rippling water, or you’ll back out again.

‘Fine, I’ll go in, I’ll even sit down, but if I freak out and want to get out you’ll let me okay?’

‘Yeah I’m not gonna force you to stay. I’m not Eddie’s mom.’

Maybe you’ll be embarrassed by the motion later, but in the moment, you reach for Richie’s wrist, just to have some sort of support. Richie doesn’t mention it, just careful takes the same steps you do and lets you pick the pace at which you’re going.

It goes slow, but not at any point does Richie try to speed the process along. He does drop down in the water, on his ass, choosing a spot that just covers both of your torsos but is close to the shore.

You copy his every move, breathe deeply when you feel the water ripple around you and adjust to the new intrusion, until your closely packed to Richie’s side, in the water.

It takes a second to set in, that you’re sitting in the water and nothing is happening, but then you let out a breath of disbelief.

‘See, told you you could fucking do it. Repeat after me, you’re a woman who don’t need no man.’

‘You’ve been watching to many soap operas rich’, you tell him when you feel like you’re not on the verge of panicking anymore.

Inside the water, something pokes your leg, but you try to ignore it. You focus on breathing through the initial panic, remembering that nothing bad had happened to the losers despite being in the lake for a long time, and that pretty much ensures nothing would happen to you either.

‘Oh gross’, you utter as your try to force the slimy thing away from your feet. ‘You didn’t tell me there would be fish in here.’

Richie snorts, rolling his eyes as he grabs a handful of water and aims it at your face. He misses -Richie’s aim is always horrible whether you’re playing dodgeball or he’s trying to pass something on-, but he doesn’t care.

‘This is your fear Y/N/N, don’t try to scare me now. Besides, I’m not afraid of fish, Eddie’s mom vagina’s smells like a few died down there.’

You can’t focus on how disgustingly distasteful that joke is, because all you concentrate on is the slimy sensation, slowly sliding up your leg higher and higher.

‘Richie’, you beg, your voice reduced to that of a scared toddler. ‘Then what the fuck is touching me right now?’

A louder, slightly strained chuckle is produced by Richie, like he too is getting worried but is trying hard to convince himself everything is alright.

‘Stop fucking with me Y/N.’

Richie pushes the boundaries a lot, keeps going until somebody gets really annoyed and about ready to shut him up for a longer time, but the sincerity in his vox is so present that you’re instantly convinced he’s not messing around now.

‘I’m not fucking with you’, you raise your voice to a shrilled scream, so loud that the other losers, engaged in a game of chicken in the middle of quarry, also become aware of the situation. ‘Something is down there.’

It’s too late for them to help. The slimy blob, muddled by the water but visually a hand, tightens around your ancle, and snatches, hard.

Richie’s scrawny arms can’t resist against the strong haul, but he tries to hold on for as long as possible. His nails dig into your flesh, and the more you get pulled inside the water, the more marks his nails dig as you slide forward.

You shriek, arms flailing around now that the water is still too shallow for you to not be able to touch the bottom.

Plunges of water drip onto your face, both from your doing and Richie’s, and the others are advancing rapidly to come too your aid. Unfortunately nothing else can be done. Richie has no other options but to let you go, and the hand drags you to the middle of the lake.

Once you’re far enough away that you can’t touch the bottom with your feet anymore, the hand lets go, and you’re left to flounder on your own. Your legs slap around, trying with all your might to stay afloat and give the losers an opportunity to save you. A haunting chuckle breezes over the shell of your ear, and then the hand returns, satisfied with watching you struggle and panic for a while, but now ready to increase the terror.

You get one more chance to scream and suck in a handful of fresh air, and then your sinking down, under the surface.

The water douses your ears, muffles your ability to hear and see, and suffocates you with her insistence. You open your mouth, but it can’t produce a scream anymore, and you realize that you are completely as utterly doomed.

The hand has yet to free you, and it continues to pull you down. With each second that ticks by the fire in your chest spreads, and is unable to be ignored. After barely a few seconds, your movements turn sluggish, and you stop fighting against the hand. It’s at that time that it finally loosens his hold, but the fire has dilated up so much you can’t focus on anything other than the pain. Without ever learning how to swim, you wouldn’t be able to make it to shore anyway.

You read somewhere once that as soon as you swallow in water and it fills your lungs, you’ll die, and the pain will stop.

Your life plan hadn’t included dying this young in your life, but if you must go, you’d rather have it be quick. Losing the strength to hold out any longer, you open your mouth, and feel two separate pair of hands unclasps around your arms. The anxiety inside of you spikes, but you lack the energy to struggle against the grip, so you allow yourself to be guided. It’s not until your head breaks up from the water, and o2 greets you in plenty, that you see that the hands have brought you back up, instead of down.

You gasp, coughing up water, feeling as any minute you could pass out on the spot.

‘Jesus Y/N, stop struggling. We’re going to get you out.’

The two pairs of hands that saved you from drowning turn out to be Mike and Bill, and the float with you to the side of quarry where Eddie is gearing up to perform cpr if needed. If you had some breath back in your body, you would laugh at the sight.

Bev and Richie help drag you onto the dry rocks, away from the water, but still too close for your liking.

‘Get away’, you retches, crawling back in your arms. Eddie, who has been checking you over, tuts, but you don’t let it stop you.

‘It grabbed me. It fucking grabbed me. Get away from the water.’ You think you begin to cry, out of relief and alarm, but you can’t disentangle the water with your fluid.

‘There was nothing out there Y/N’, Ben tries to sooth, approaching you like a frightened animal. Eddie is less cautious, and stamps towards your with a frown on his face. He turns you on your side, his instruction not too brazen but still firm.

‘There was though guys. I swear on Eddie’s mom that something pulled her away.’

‘I saw it too,’ Eddie conforms, not looking away from your body, checking for any permanent damage.

‘Guys,’ Bev interject with a head shake. Her eyes gesture to you, shivering with wet clothes and crying hysterically. ‘Not now.’

‘Yeah. We’ll t-t-talk about it l-l-later.’

It’s Bev that gently ushers Eddie’s prodding hands away, as she opens her arms and awaits to see you reaction. You, once you pick up on what’s happening, accept gratefully, your tears subsiding only slightly once your wrapped up. The others join the cuddle pile soon enough, until there’s a shield of people protecting you and obstructing your view of the water.

‘Promise me we won’t ever go in there again. Not any of you. Please,’ you beg, afraid not solely for your life but for theirs as well.

‘Okay, okay Y/N. We promise.’

#My writing #the losers x reader #the losers club imagines #richie x reader #eddie x reader #stan x reader #bill x reader #mike hanlon x reader #ben hansom x reader #beverly march x reader #please let me know what you think #I could really use some uplifting words lol #richie tozier x reader

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delimeful · 4 years

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or set your teeth against my throat (1)

warnings: vampires, blood, injury, violence, abduction, non consensual blood drinking, depressive thoughts, mild hypnosis, murder mention

Vampires, Roman was finding, seemed to have an even more shit sense of hospitality than he’d previously assumed.

Maybe it was ungenerous of him, considering this was the only coven he’d interacted with up close and personal, but he wasn’t really feeling particularly generous at the moment. When he’d been cornered, isolated from the rest of his pack, he’d expected a quick and valorous death, fighting to the last. Not… this.

Another rock made contact with the bars of his cage, the clang of stone on metal vibrating around him. His ears twitched down to flatten against his skull without his input, and he snarled low in his throat as a jeering laugh rose from the crowd.

As if it wasn’t bad enough, being taken hostage for whatever nefarious purposes they had in mind, bound and muzzled like some common animal, no, they had to parade him through the streets and batter his cage with pebbles and glass and whatever other projectiles the bloodsuckers thought fitting to torment their captive audience with.

None of it could get through the enchantment on the bars, so he wasn't struck, but it was still rough on the ears. And his feelings.

Not that they cared. That was probably the point, actually.

Gathering his resolve, he forced himself to remain still and unflinching as another shard of rock hit the cage and spun away, clenching his hands to keep them from trembling. None of this mattered. It didn’t matter what they did to him, because he would not break. He wouldn’t tell them a single thing about his pack, not one scrap of information.

He would die first, and without regrets.

As it turned out, the coven-- Kin of Æternam, they called themselves-- didn’t seem to care for information. Not a single vampire spoke to him as he was moved further and further into the town, and he couldn’t exactly initiate a conversation himself with a gag in his mouth.

Instead, he watched, and found to no surprise that he didn’t like what he saw.

He’d known many vampires were nomadic, but it was one thing to distantly know and another thing entirely to see the human town around them, half the houses smoldering and the other half looking uncomfortably ransacked. He could see the dark splatters of dried blood along walls or among the dirt, though mercifully it seemed like it had been long enough since their invasion that any remaining human bodies had been cleared away.

Roman didn’t risk interacting with humans often. He knew the tales that were spread about werewolves, and the last thing his tiny pack needed was an angry mob on their tails. Even with his reservations, though, he would never wish something like this upon them. Upon anyone.

The Æternam vamps walked among the ruins casually, as though this was everyday scenery, and Roman supposed that for them, it probably was. Simple routine; find a human settlement, feed to their unbeating hearts’ content, hold revel, and then depart again. Rinse and repeat.

It was enough to turn his stomach, and he was almost grateful when his view of the town was blocked off by their entry into the large stone fort that loomed over all else. Almost.

His opinion of the place went downhill as soon as he saw the ostentatious throne and the vampire sprawled across it, both placed on a literal gilded pedestal. Dark raven hair, corpse-like skin, and glowing red eyes painted the picture of the archetypal tyrant vamp. He found himself strangely disappointed by the lack of originality in the man’s presentation. If he was going to die to a bloodsucker, couldn’t it at least be one with a sense of style?

One of the attendant vamps pulled the door of his prison open, and Roman lunged against his restraints with all his might, snarling past the muzzle. The attendant flinched back, but the iron cuffs that bound him held firm no matter how hard he strained. The vampire on the throne laughed, the way one might at a child throwing a tantrum.

“Oh, you are a spitfire, aren’t you? All the better.”

Roman tried to convey how much this guy’s villain aesthetic sucked with his heated glare alone. He was pretty sure Virgil could have created a better evil persona than this guy in his sleep. At age twelve. While feverish. It was sad, really.

The platitudinous prick-- Roman instantly decided to alternate between very clever and very rude nicknames for the guy in his head-- beckoned, and the attendant unlocked the chain keeping him bolted to the floor of the cage. They proceeded to grab the connecting bar between the cuffs locked around his arms and maneuver him up the steps to the pedestal with probably more force than strictly necessary.

Roman had been riding in that cage for hours, and as such, had time to prepare for a lot of potential scenarios. He grew more and more tense the closer he got to the trite enthroned bastard, mentally readying himself for what was likely to be at best an assault on his person and at worst, a horrifying and gory death.

Instead, he was steered to the side of the throne, and then shoved to his knees, at which point he realized that a horrifying and gory death might not be so bad after all. Because now the attendant was locking his cuffs into a new platform, one that was designed to force him to stay hunched over and kneeling at the side of the throne. He growled, prying at the restraints, but there was little give in the cuffs. He was stuck like this, practically on display for the world to see.

“Perfect, right where a mutt like you belongs,” Vlad the Contemptible smiled sharply, as though proud of his pitiful insult.

Were all vampires this insufferably smug? Like, was it part of the package, along with the dumb looking fangs and the tacky glowing eyes? He was glad that werewolves had eyes that merely reflected light, like the respectable, well-designed creatures of nature they were.

It was possible that Roman was rambling, mentally, a little bit. He wished desperately that he could protest the indignity of it all, denounce these freaks and their humiliating tactics, but in this state, there was little he could do but glare impotently.

The bloodsucker seemed entirely too content to ignore him and his glaring hatred entirely for the next few hours, which confused Roman at first. Clearly, he was still alive for a reason, and he felt as though he’d done more than enough waiting to learn about his fate at this point. Plus, his knees hurt.

At the very least, the pain in the neck on the throne next to him seemed like the type to gloat, so why wasn’t he?

As dusk fell, Roman got his answer. More and more vamps filtered into the wide stone hall, filling the space with their corpse-cold bodies and idle chatter. Once the last bit of sun had faded over the horizon, the Toothed Tyrant slowly straightened up in his seat, drawing all the eyes in the room to him. This was what he’d been waiting for.

What was the point in gloating about your evil deeds without an audience to lavish you in praise for it?

“Kin of mine. As I’m sure many of you have noticed, we have a... guest with us this evening.”

Roman shivered as those icy, glowing gazes moved towards him, jeering or morbidly curious or hungry. He pulled at the chains once more just to have something else to focus on, the shift and clink of the metal drowned out by his rapid heartbeat in his ears. He wondered if the vamps could hear it, too.

The pitiful excuse for a villain was still talking. “... fullest potency once the full moon hits, and our hunt will decide who claims such a reward.” His half-lidded gaze slid over to Roman. “A beast like this one has engaged in plenty of hunts before, I assume? Though, probably not as prey. I’m sure it’ll get used to the sensation eventually.”

Even with the gag, Roman could snarl as fierce as any wolf, and the rumbling growl emanating from his chest made some of the closer vamps lean away.

It didn’t seem to have any effect on the worst human leech of them all. He just smiled in a satisfied sort of way before rising to his feet. “What a rebellious spirit. Perhaps you should save that for the hunt, mutt?”

Think up some new nicknames, you absolute bore, Roman thought at him, just in case those rumors about vampires reading minds were true.

The vamp walked closer, until he was at the edge of the platform and Roman had to crane his head back to see his face.

“Let’s give us both a taste of what’s to come, then.”

Without pause, there were suddenly hands on his shirt, dragging him upwards until the restraints threatened to dislocate something. One moment, he was nearly face to face with the vamp, meeting those eye-searing red pupils. In the next, his vision blurred as sharp pain shot through his neck.

The vamp had sunk its nasty fangs in on either side of his jugular, not deep enough to kill him, but enough that it would only take the slightest twitch of the head for his throat to be ripped right out. His body kept frozen even as he began to choke, his mouth tasting of iron and salt.

There was nothing he could do. He couldn’t escape, couldn’t attack, couldn’t even die until these monsters allowed it. The more he fought and resisted, the tighter their grasp on him would become, and the more he would suffer. It would be better to just give up now, save himself the trouble.

(Why am I… That’s not right--)

Roman only realized the vampire was withdrawing when those sharp teeth finally pulled away carelessly, causing a new wave of pain to roll through him. He automatically tried to reach for his throat, to stem the bleeding, but his bound hands could barely rise a few inches. He bent his head down instead, his pride stinging silently as a cacophony of mockery sounded all around him.

Once his fingers touched flesh, however, he could only feel shallow cuts rather than the gaping wounds he knew should be there. He coughed wetly, and red splattered across his hands, but he could breathe once more. However bad the bite had been, it had healed near instantly.

Of course. It was beginning to sink in that they wouldn’t let him perish that easily.

The vampire king was speaking again, eyes brighter than before, and his words blurred together and slipped away from Roman’s understanding. He could only notice the smear of deep red on the vampire’s face, and shudder where he lay as a chill set into his bones.

Time passed in a haze, marked by the constant flurry of vamp activity in the fort around him, the occasional meal to keep him alive, and his connection to the ever-waxing moon.

He felt a faint sense of concern about the way days seemed to slip away, and also about how far away and hard to grasp the concern itself felt. There was something seriously wrong when the growing light of the moon felt more like an approaching deadline than a relief.

The one other thing marking the time, he would much rather forget. Every night without fail, no matter how he fought, the same vampire would drag him up and plunge dagger-like teeth into his throat, leaving him drained and weak on the cold floor afterwards.

Roman wasn’t a fool; he knew that the bites were the reason he felt so exhausted and fuzzy. He just couldn’t do anything about it. The feeling of helplessness only grew stronger and stronger after each night, and slowly, he began to lose the will to fight the dreary feelings off.

By the time the night before the full moon hit, hope was hard to find.

He was slumped awkwardly against the ground when the door to the chamber creaked open, and the noise jolted him out of his dozing as quick as anything. His muscles went rigid and tense.

The head vamp hadn’t drank from him yet today, having left in the middle of the day with an extensive entourage for… something. It had probably been mentioned in earshot-- they weren’t very careful about what he did and did not hear-- but Roman hadn’t been paying enough attention. Maybe they were scouting out new territory?

Regardless, he had sort of been hoping it would keep the bloodsucker out of his hair for long enough that he could recover even just a bit before… before he ran out of time. So much for that.

To his surprise, there was no trace of the vamp’s normal arrogant strides. In fact, there was barely any sound at all. Roman could only tell that someone was approaching by the shifting of shadows and that dusty undead smell.

Suddenly, there was a cold palm on his arm, and he jerked up with a jagged snarl, his mind screaming at him to do anything to prevent being bitten again. The palm was yanked away instantly, and Roman could see the silhouette of the vamp before him.

It definitely wasn’t the head vamp. Smaller, and with curled hair that reflected the torchlight. He couldn’t see his expression, and his mind still screamed dangerous. His growl increased in intensity as the vamp extended a hand again, but he’d called Roman’s bluff: he had no way to defend himself in the restraints. Whatever the vamp was going to do, he couldn’t stop it.

The vamp’s other hand rose, and Roman couldn’t stop himself from flinching.

It made it all the more surprising when he heard the clank of a key in a lock. His eyes shot open, and to his disbelief, the chain connecting his cuffs to the platform went loose, no longer attached. A moment later, the vamp’s hands were on his cuffs, but rather than grab them and drag him, there was another clank.

For the first time in days, fresh air grazed his wrists. His hands were free.

A surge of adrenaline hit him, and he twisted quicker than the vamp could react, pinning him to the ground with a knee to the abdomen and a hand over his throat. It would keep the creature from getting enough air to call out an alarm. With his other hand, he immediately tore at the muzzle, his nails going claw-sharp to tear through the straps. He spat the remnants of the wretched thing out, and turned his attention to the vamp.

Cold hands curled over Roman’s own, like he wanted to pry the hand off his throat, but other than that, he wasn’t struggling against Roman’s hold. Oddly enough, his chest was rising and falling in an uncanny mimicry of panicked breathing, and even his eyes seemed oddly dark for a vamp. Roman would have thought him a human if not for the unmistakable fangs.

His grip tightened at the reminder. “You’re not getting any more blood out of me,” he growled, his voice rough and crackly. His whole body felt out of practice. If he stood up and bolted, he risked falling flat on his own face, and if he turned and the vamp lunged…

No. Easier to just… just vanquish the vamp so he couldn’t do anything. One less thing to worry about during his escape.

He lifted his other hand, claws pinched together as a makeshift stake. The vampire twitched once, his mouth opening briefly as though to speak, and then seemed to slump. His hands stopped tugging at Roman’s fingers around his neck, and he pinched his eyes closed, bracing for the blow.

Roman frowned. Was this a ploy for sympathy?

He could feel the way the vamp trembled under him, unnaturally lifelike.

… It was an effective one. Shit.

He lowered his hand slowly, loosened his grip, waiting for the moment the stranger dropped the ruse and lunged. It didn’t come. He just kept waiting for Roman to hurt him.

He abruptly felt a little sick to his stomach. He let go of the vamp’s throat. The guy opened one eye slowly, like he thought it was a trick.

“If you get up from this spot, if you even twitch before I’m out of this building, I’ll make sure you regret it,” Roman threatened, a growl under the words and his lip curling up slightly to bare his teeth. “You won’t get mercy twice.”

The vamp’s expression did something complicated (Confusion? Relief? Disappointment?) but when Roman scuttled back, he stayed laid out on the floor, not moving a muscle. Roman let a breath out slowly, some of the tension fading from him. “Well… good. Keep doing that.”

He could practically hear Virgil sighing as his awkwardness overwhelmed any menace his threat might have instilled. It wasn’t his fault he was off-script, okay? This vampire was… weird.

Roman shuffled back a few more steps on weak legs, and then, once he was sure he was far enough away, he let the shift wash over him like a warm breeze. Four unsteady legs were better than two, and if he leaned a little on his instincts, his inner wolf would make his gait mostly smooth. It was a small but invaluable aid as as he sprinted down long, musty halls until he was finally, finally out of that cursed fortress.

Roman was so relieved he could have cried. He was still weak, and his head was still foggy, but he didn't stop until there was finally trees around him and dirt under his feet. As he collapsed, the night air still tasted like victory.

#sanders sides #vampire au #fantasy au #ts roman #ts patton #blood tw #violence tw #hurt/comfort #more comfort next chapter lol #writing #my writing #bthb #or set your teeth against my throat #osytamt #werewolf au #this ones a little dark and sad at first but this is only the first chapter!#murder mention #ok i think thats everything #im tired im taking a break for the rest of the day

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carewyncromwell · 3 years

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Hey guys! So, in the past, I’ve done “inspiration posts” centered around my HPHM MC Carewyn Cromwell, Carewyn’s mother Lane and her brother Jacob, and my HPHL MC Jackson Knightly...and now it’s my HPHL vampire boy Bartholomew “Bat” Varney’s turn!

As hilarious as it sounds, I can actually blame the Twilight films for the initial spark behind Bat’s character. I admit that I’ve never really been a Twilight fan -- I read the first book because of my interest in vampires and the (rather shallow) comparison the mass public made at the time between Twilight and Harry Potter, but the second Twilight book lost me once main character Bella started trying to hurt herself just to try to see her OTL Edward again, and I’ve never picked them up since. Skip about fifteen years, and I get invited to a friend’s house to watch and rib Breaking Dawn Parts 1 and 2. Even if I hadn’t read the books, I knew the overall trajectory of the story, so I was able to basically follow what was going on, but those films were and remain the only Twilight movies I’ve seen. And after seeing them, the main emotion I came away with was absolute exasperation...because the entire time Breaking Dawn Part 2 was playing, I couldn’t give a damn what was going on with Bella, Edward, Jacob, Nessie, the Cullens, the werewolves, or the Volturi. All I wanted to do was focus on one of the most minor, bit-part characters placed in the background -- a vampire who was a soldier in the Revolutionary War and later went on to fight in just about every other American War since, played by Lee Pace, named Garrett. I was absolutely beside myself that we had an engaging, snarky, charming vampire who’d once lived in the 1700′s, one of my absolute FAVORITE historical eras, and he was shunted out of the way to make room for such a boring, stake-less, and kind of dysfunctional romance. I wanted a whole book about Garrett -- I wanted a whole TV series! It still boggles my mind that Stephanie Meyer could create such an interesting character and then only feature him for a fraction of the very last book in a four-part series.

The feelings I had about Garrett sort of lingered in the back of my head for a while, and one thought led to another, and I got to thinking about why I’d even tried reading Twilight to begin with. The answer, honestly, was that vampires was one of the biggest question marks left open in the Potterverse by Jo Rowling. She’s claimed in interviews that she didn’t think she could add anything to the vampire mythos through her work, hence why she referenced them existing, but didn’t feature them much at all in the story. And yet from my point of view, the vampire as seen in traditional folklore sort of contradicts one of the core themes of Rowling’s books -- namely, that death is both irreversible and inevitable. Because of the very diverse ways vampires have been depicted in different cultures and media over the years, there were so many questions left unanswered regarding which powers if any Potterverse vampires have, what their weaknesses are, why Voldemort never looked into becoming a vampire when searching for immortality, what their status in the Wizarding World is, why we don’t see any fighting with Voldemort like we do other “Dark creatures” like werewolves, and how their undead status fits in with the tenant of death being something you can’t escape. And the more I thought about it, the more exciting that potential became -- so I fleshed out a kind of vampire that could answer those questions and fit comfortably in the Potterverse without running the risk of “god-modding” or being too overpowered.

Vampires have more weaknesses than powers -- lessened magical ability, hypersensory sensitivity, the inability to sleep and dream, poor health, and intense and constant blood lust VS. lengthened life and increased durability.

Voldemort never sought becoming a vampire because someone else has to curse you both before and after your death, and not only are you not guaranteed to end up in the body you died in, but your magical ability is close to non-existent.

Vampires are on the absolute fringes of magical society and largely live in isolated colonies, hence why we so rarely see them or know much about them.

Vampires didn’t get involved in the Wizarding Wars because most truthfully don’t want to hurt anybody or create more of their kind by sharing the knowledge of their creation with wizards.

Vampires are similar to ghosts in the way that they died, but returned to Earth and cannot pass on, but are different in the way that they have a physical form and someone else forced them to come back against their will, rather than it being a choice on their part. They’re similar to Inferi in the way that they were brought back from the dead by Dark magic cast by another person, but they have a soul and are so trapped in the bodies they’re cursed into that they almost always outlive the person who originally cursed them and can only be killed through the traditional “stake through the heart and beheading” technique. Vampires also all end up dying sooner or later, whether by their own hand or intervention by wizards after they’ve lost so much of their sanity and humanity that they become dangerous.

With the vampire lore plotted out, I had to go back to figuring out who this vampire of mine was as a person. At that point, I hadn’t had an MC that was a Ravenclaw yet (unless you count Carewyn’s brother and mother), so I decided that could be something fun to explore, particularly if I wanted to steer clear of the brooding vampire trope. (All of the Ravenclaws I’ve known in my life are much less prone to self-loathing and depression than I am. XD;;;) Sure enough, though, one of the influences that popped up right away was Garrett. Like Garrett, Bat was originally from the 1700′s, only to die and become a vampire while fighting in the American War for Independence -- the biggest difference, of course, is that Garrett was an American Patriot, while Bat was a British regular!! LOL!! As I hashed out Bat’s backstory as a Muggle-born wizard who went to war with his best friend, however, I found Bat (or, more specifically, his original human self, Robert) picking up traits from another character -- Sirius Black! Like Sirius, Robert was disinterested in rules and a bit cocky, but also incredibly talented and intelligent and a deathly loyal friend, especially to his male best friend, who was like a brother to him and he would’ve died rather than betray. If Barty was the popular, well-liked leader of the group, Robert was his right-hand man and foil. Sadly, like Sirius as well, Robert also ended up losing his male best friend far too soon and being condemned to a fate worse than death thanks to a betrayal by his other best friend. They’re also both dog Animagi who become surrogate parental figures in later life! ^.^

As Robert, Bat’s face claim is Josh Groban. As a vampire stuck in his BFF Barty’s reanimated corpse, Bat’s face claim is Lee Pace, specifically in his role as Fernando Wood in the film Lincoln.

#hphl #hogwarts legacy #about bartholomew #bartholomew varney #personal #that sketch of robert? that maaaaay or may not be part of something else I'm working on >3

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b1ksh88p · 4 years

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Guts and Roses

Plot: Jesse hired you to clean up crime scenes. This time you were stuck cleaning up boob implants and stomach bile after a gruesome murder. All was well, you never crossed paths with him and didn’t mind it. That is when he accidentally forgot something important lodged into the girls torso leading to a unexpected visit from the man himself. (This was supposed to be practice for suspense soooo if it’s ass I apologize)

Warnings: Gore/Cursing/Implied Necro (nothing happens lmao)

It started with good intentions. You were a forensic anthropologist/medical examiner for the Florida PD, truly the best of the best. To bad all that knowledge and expertise was wasted. The whole system was corrupt. From dirty cops to crook politicians there was no such thing as reform. The entire system was fucked. Sometimes you’d get bodies without organs despite them not being organ donors. So many people came through and cases piled up. You felt more like a mortician than a forensic anthropologist. It made you feel horrible for the victims but after a few years you just let it pass you.

To make some extra cash on the side you put your services up for hire on the deep web. At first you were sure you were gonna get caught by the FBI but it seemed like a lot of sickos in Florida needed someone to clean their mess. They’d do their business, call you in, you’d take pictures for some blackmail, then do your job. You carefully instructed that they leave the cash in a plastic bag. The price varied on a few things. The floors material, the square feet, severity of stains, chemical cleaning cost, etc. were all factored into the final price. She made a good 5 grand off one easy clean up. A pretty good gig although certainly nausea inducing for the faint of heart.

This Jesse guy was no different than the rest of them. A rich weirdo with mommy issues who had a knack for snuff films. Nothing new. Sometimes you thought about watching one of the films just to see what all the talk was about. You got what was left of some bodies but you don’t really get the full picture from a crime scene or a cold corpse. There was a morbid curiosity. Ever since you’ve taken jobs for him you’ve wanted to see it. See him in action. You wondered if he got off to it. If he had a ritual, what his motives were. Along with playing music you could think about the crazed Chromeskull to help past the time. What a lame name. Surely the guy wasn’t that scary with a stupid name like that.

After scrubbing the blood splatter with your own secret mix you let it sit for a bit and get to work on the floor. First you dispose of all the guts, chunks of flesh, and silicon implants into a acid mix. Then you move onto mopping up the blood and other bodily fluids released by the body. She was completely torn apart. Her rib cage exposed as if the Jesse guy was looking for something inside her. Admittedly you were kinda grossed out. You much rather worked for the Collector. At least he had a bit of interesting presentation. This Chromeskull guy was just a fucking monster. The girl must’ve done something to piss him off if he got this mad.

After staring you get out some plastic wrap and cover the bathroom in it. After that you start cutting her limbs one by one and placing them in your special acid mix. One score was the bitches jewelry. Sick looks like Chromefuck left a lil tip. If this shit was real you could totally pawn it after her case turned cold.

You were just about to decapitate her when you heard the doorknob jiggle. You always locked the doors behind you, it was a safety precaution. You didn’t want to have to clean up another body for free. At first you just ignored it. Maybe the person would go away when they figured out no one was here. Suddenly a fury of hard knocks rammed upon the thin door. You get up. Whoever was trying to get inside sure as hell weren’t the friendly type. You think to grab your gun but your dumbass left it on the counter outside. All you had was a bone saw, and by the sound of it you were gonna need a tank.

After a serious of loud thumps the rickety chain snapped sealing your fate. You huddle into the bathtub and slide the shower curtain to conceal you. Whoever he was he was strong enough to open the door but oddly stealthy enough to muffle his steps because after the chain snapped and the door flung open you didn’t hear shit. For a moment you thought you were in the clear, that whatever they wanted they got and left. You start to slowly stand up before a sound makes your knees buckle in place. The same pounding from before was right outside the door. You freeze. Your entire body wanted to flee but there was nowhere to go. The door flings open like it was a piece of paper. On the other side of the curtain you heard shallow breaths. Whoever it was was pissed. For a second there was silence. It felt like you had held your breath for what seemed like a eternity before you heard the grossest sounds ever. It was the sound of flesh being strained and bothered with. Meat and congealed bodily fluids churning around echoed off the walls. You wanted to gag. Was he...was he fucking it?

All of a sudden the sounds came to a abrupt stop. You watch in pure horror as he tears the shower curtain asunder. A gloved hand grabs at your crinkly clean up suit and you instinctively swipe at it with your bone saw. Lucky for him in your fear ridden haze you miss. “Gah! What the fuck do you want?!?” You shriek pointing the blade at the mask. Definitely believed the hype around this guy he was fucking terrifying. For a moment he just stared at you, possibly thinking if he should kill you for the stunt you just pulled. To your surprise he recoiled and calmly began to sign.

‘I thought you’d be finished. It’s been 3 hours’

Before you can stop yourself you scoff. “I don’t rush you when you’re making pulled pork.” When you noticed what you said you felt the color leave your body. Everyone always said your attitude would one day get the best of you. Now you were about to become the star of a snuff film lucky you. Instead of slamming your face into the tiles until it resembled strawberry purée his shoulders raised up and down...he was laughing.

‘Touché, well doll I’m looking for something. The stupid cunt swallowed it.’

Did you even want to know the gruesome details? Yes, but you didn’t need this sicko thinking you admired him. You were merely intrigued. Anyone would be even just a little. Or at least that’s what you told yourself. “Want me to...help?” You treaded carefully. You didn’t need him getting angry that a woman wanted to help. Some men saw it as pity and got all pissy and acted like they were Alpha males. He shrugs. It seemed like metal head didn’t mind a lady getting down and dirty. Good cuz it was your fucking job.

‘Knock yourself out Princess.’

You step out from the safety of the tub and dig into the mush of the torso. You can feel him looming over you. Cold eyes boring into your skin as you searched in silence. It hit you.

“What am I looking for exactly?” You ask turning to him.

‘A sim card, the stupid bitch swallowed it thinking I’d spare her or something.’

“Clearly her plan didn’t work out.” You let out a wry laugh. That wasn’t funny. Oh god why were you comfortable saying weird shit around this guy. You kept focus on finding the little black card. It was lodged in a piece of her small intestine that he had missed during his rampage. When you turn to announce your findings he’s crouched down in front of you. “I...I got your sim c-card...” you try and mask the fear in your voice but failed. Why was he so close? How’d he keep moving so silently? You tense up as he slowly signs to you.

‘I wanna see you without the mask.’

Your heart sunk but a stupid smile was on your face. Is that all? The sicko just wanted to see her face? But why? You’d only worked a few jobs for him. This was the first time you’d met face to face. Was he joking?

‘But not now. I’ll let you get back to work.’ He stood and dusted himself off. When he outstretched a gloved hand you thought he was just waiting for you to hand over his precious SIM card so you did just that. With like zero effort he hoisted you up to your feet. He hands you a card and takes his property before leaving you alone in the penthouse. You read the card and furrow your brow. On the back there was a message. When you read it aloud it made your skin crawl.

“I’m always watching you”

What the hell have you gotten yourself into???

#chromeskull #slasher #horror #slashers #jessecromeans #slasher x reader #slasher x s/o #potential series maybe idk #im not good at writing lmao

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grim-faux · 3 years

Text

2 _ 17 _ Where is His Hat

First

The building was falling apart, through the eroded walls and to the unraveling ceiling. Water soaked the floors and swirled within spaces caved beneath the tile, the foundation itself buckled underneath the shelves spaced across the main floor. Some of the lights still worked, a benefit, since it was late in the evening and the outside environment black beneath the brewing storms.

“Be careful,” the Thin Man cautioned, as the child waded by once more. His own attention fixed on the front counter and the products stashed at the back wall. At random he selected one of the packages and gave it an examination, frowning. Variety would be nice.

Dismissing the assortment of flavors, he turned away, and noted the child perched on the counter staring at him. The hat this time the former one confiscated, when he had forced negotiated the child into rest. The feather as well, though now it was matted by static and drenched and no longer did much. The boy seemed satisfied to let it ride in the band on his hat.

The child was gone in a blink, back in the water and sloshing away. The Thin Man hummed to himself, the lamps above pulsed. It had been this way for a while, though the lad was comfortable enough around him. At a distance, at least.

In short time, the splashing diminished. Either climbing a shelf or some other obstacle, or located a relatively dry space of the floor. The Thin Man drifted easily among the aisles, unhindered by the depth. For Mono, it was knee deep. Still, the liquid concealed sinkholes or perhaps aquafers that could be hazardous if not lethal.

Most of the viable food stuff was junk stuff and candy treats. Children didn’t typically go for sugary things due to ‘sugar burn’, and the vile sickness that came about. But at times children became desperate, and food was food regardless if it was tolerable.

Overall, the small shop still carried enough edibles that could stock Mono for a few days, but no more. Staying was not an option, given that anything could come in – the walls so depilated that anything might haphazardly stumble through, or punch through the ceiling. He and the child didn’t stumble through a front door, but a crumpled wall of the building which led into an alleyway. And a television there.

As soon as the boy recuperated some vigor, he could take a scout around for a secure haven. He would revisit the shop and pilfer the rest of the food, Mono could have a short break from the endless wandering. That might cheer him up.

For a while the child disappeared, but he was not concerned. Initially, he thought the boy was done following him around and ready to set out on his own. That didn’t happen. Even so, the Thin Man prowled through the stocky shelf arrangement, disinterested in the broken or vandalized items. In a few of these pathways, sat the melted box stuffed to bursting with fresh merchandise, all of it never reaching a shelf.

It took no time at all to locate the child, given he wasn’t going anywhere. As expected, the boy located a dry segment on one side of the store and was crouched, with his back to the wall, sleeping. Or half sleep. Or not. It is difficult to tell with Mono; the child didn’t stir an ounce when he drew near.

After drawing a cigarette from his coat, the Thin Man let the boy be and went to check the doors of the shop. He made certain they wouldn’t budge an inch, then, did a walk of the inner store perimeter. Most of the iron bars in the windows held firm against the beating rain, the glass crumbled in sections but what surface retained substance barred out any muddled illumination offered by the clouds. No hope spang eternal for some reading material, given the overall state of the building. With his patrol satisfied he returned to where the child was huddled down, and took a seat on the floor.

The shop did have a dining zone that remained in bearable condition, but for whatever reason the child picked this particular spot. For the first few hours Mono did some sleep, and the Thin Man is always a little surprised whenever the child awoke. But it was half sleep, thus his presence did not go unheeded. When the boy snapped his head up, it was to give the vicinity a brief search. Once assured all was in order he tucked his head down, and gave a little sigh. Back to half sleep.

With nothing else to occupy his time, the Thin Man smoked. And almost envied his younger-self’s capacity to just… curl up into his coat. That was one thing he missed dearly when he aged, in the Tower. Some days (?) were worse than others, when his fortitude faltered, and the Eyes of the Flesh wanted to jeer at him more than usual. Wear him down, weaken his resolve. It was an endless contest to see which would blink first, and the Tower knew it all already. Knew every in and out of his existence, every ounce of his vitality. Toyed with him. Cryptic riddles. Mocking. Insinuating it knew more than let on, knew the core of his sum. Hauled him to the brink of his sanity, toward a dark slice of his psyche that was potentially as dangerous to himself as it was lethal to the Tower itself.

He jarred from his slouch, smacking his back against the wall. The child cringed against his side, still sodden from traipsing through rain, and clinging to his coat. For his merit, Mono hoisted himself up by the coat and clambered onto the Thin Man’s middle. The boy was still soaked through, and still, curled up and dug into the suit, as if the man in the hat would evaporate between his fingers.

During this, the Thin Man rubbed the dull ache out of his neck. His back was vibrating almost as intensely as the thick vapor threading through the stale building, but he was not able to stand now. Instead, he settled a hand over the child and brushed his thumb along Mono’s neck. The child emitted a muffled whimper and bore down tighter (he should really check for claws) but didn’t vault loose as he was prone to. This at least settled some of his misgivings – he didn’t know if the boy was frightened of him now or simply hated him, over the book incident.

The child was… distressed, clearly, when he tried to confront him about the book. It was a day or more later when Mono would finally emerge from his nest, for food, which the Thin Man had acquired. Though, he was uncertain if Mono would remain in the residence, upon the desertion of the threat. He left the food beside the dresser within easy reach, and it was uplifting that the boy chose to eat in the open rather horde the food away.

The Thin Man lingered in the doorway, confident Mono was aware of his presence. It wasn’t about the book, he didn’t care, really. He wasn’t mad. But of all the things available in the dwelling – the doors, the cabinets, the walls, anything at all – why did he chose to destroy a book of His. Was it out of spite? Was it boredom, plain and simple? And what did he do with the pictures, he’s most curious. Any reason would suffice, he didn’t care. He just wanted to know why?

He rethought ravaging a pointless question. Did the child really need a reason for what he did? And… really, what could the boy say?

While Mono was preoccupied with choking down the food thing, the Thin Man went to the main entry. He was not expecting the faint chirp out of the blue:

“Where?”

Then and there, the Thin Man didn’t know what to think, and very nearly stalled out. He peered back at the child – he was not close – but there all the same. “I need to go… check on some things.” Mono was still shoving the food – he really didn’t know what it was – into his mouth. “You should stay here.”

The boy swallowed and tipped his head, only one eye peering out from the current hat of the time. “T’n stroll? Leave. T’h come w-fh?” He wasn’t sure if Mono looked anxious because he had to venture out and address him, or due to the prospect of him leaving. He didn’t know. The child clutched the food until it was falling to bits between his fingers. “M’to follow?”

A bit reluctant, he did open the door to step out. “You don’t have to come. You can go wherever you want.” But the child did inch closer to the doorway, while he stood there indecisive himself.

“B’t follow? Can keep.”

He caved and left the door open. Mono followed, as he was prone to do now. Did the boy know no other way? The Thin Man didn’t understand this child. No middle ground. Distress or exasperation.

Mono slept on without hitch or fidget. It was becoming alarming, the Thin Man was on the verge of panic and closer to intervention. If not for the very shallow breathing, he could mistaken the child for… he’s worried he might’ve fallen into another coma. For what reason, he couldn’t say. Rarely anything Mono did made sense lately. Or, did the child just need that much rest? That in itself was alarming.

While it wasn’t a crisis, he let the child alone. It only felt like an arduous and long time, because he didn’t have anything to do but wait and smoke. Though this pitiful ounce of good fortune shouldn’t be overlooked, given Mono could’ve easily collapsed in the street. Again.

It is possibly the second day, or maybe more, he doesn’t keep track anymore, but the child finally stirred. The Thin Man raised his arm to his knees, while the child collected himself. Hat more rumpled now, Mono raised his head and looked around blearily. Only a good portion conscious, but at least he was calm.

“You’d wake up more if you would get moving.”

Mono’s response was nestle down. The only difference, he pried his fists free of the coat and tucked his arms against himself. He mumbled something incoherent. “Mh….”

Not this again. The Thin Man nudged the child off and stood, in a crackly glimmer. He fixed the wrinkles in his coat, and inspected the boy… laying on his side. “Child. You need to eat something. Get up.” Mono made it to his knees, and sat there. Still utterly out of it.

This was still better than dragging him off the street half dead.

Getting Mono to wander through the water gave the child a jolt, and he’s mostly fully awake, able to reach the aisles with food and do some foraging. The Thin Man assured himself Mono could scale the platforms without a tumble, before letting him be, to check through the murky pathways as before.

It had been an unknown span of time, anything could have slunk in without his knowledge. Though he doubted it. The Thin Man needed to stretch out and knead at the bruise in his back. This would be worth it, he could get the child to a suitable shelter and not need settle for whatever doorway the lad happened to collapse in. While patrolling along the outer wall, he perused the outdated objects melting down the slots and slates. Whatever this inventory once was, he cannot discern—

A sudden but stifled squeal cut through the store. It’s quiet, but he knows it is Mono. The Thin Man reacted immediately, flashing across the rows, some of the items formerly cemented by time and rust toppled off the slates. He streaked to the end of the aisles and addressed the scene.

A familiar rectangular shape peered back at him, the little rumpled hat seated on the cluttered shelf beside him. The Thin Man gaped, stunned. Hats made sense to him, but he thought the child was beyond the paper bag now. Really, he shouldn’t be surprised. Whenever Mono made speek with his own likeness, it was always topped with one.

Mono took the bag off and worked at the eye holes a little more, trimming carefully with studious precision, turning the bag this way and that or flipping it around. He checked a few times, assuring that the eye holes lined up. It was looking exactly like the one he wore, when the Thin Man emerged from the television.

“You don’t need that,” he rumbled, moving closer to the shelf. “Child.”

Mono mumbled a noise and scooted away, focused settled on his mask. “Fix.” Upon reaching for the paper bag in his hands, the child wrenched away with a little snort and turned his back.

Sighing, the Thin Man plucked up the hat and held it closer to the boy. “Hats suit you better. And, your little feather.”

“Feh-th’rrr,” the child muttered, still fixated on the paper bag. “S’maj-ee-kal. H’s fet-err mah-jik g’t tol.” He stashed the paper bag in his coat, then turned to the Thin Man reaching for the hat feather.

The Thin Man didn’t comment. That mask would resurface soon enough, but Mono was responding to him now. He relinquished the hat and watched the child drop off the shelf, into the shallow water.

“Fea-therr,” he enunciated, as he followed the child.

“Feht-err. Feaa-th’r.”

“No. Feath-Eer.”

“Fe-thf-RR.”

Was he doing that on purpose?

The child elected one aisle to wade down, scanning the surface prospects for anything appealing. Some of the food labels and packaging didn’t endure, but some containers would have safeguarded the contents. With a leap Mono began climbing the slates, checking packages – occasionally stopping to peer through the gloom – other times, he tore plastic or aluminum wrappers apart and sniffed at the contents. Or stuck his tongue to something that looked mostly edible.

For a while the Thin Man watched, but not directly. He watched the other end of the aisle, keeping Mono in the fringe of his view. If he turned away an inch, he had no doubt the boy would flutter off again.

“Can you speek, ‘I am Mono’?” At current, the child was digging into a food paste container. He stared at the Thin Man, while licking his fingers. “Mono. Try this speek. I.” The boy slowed at reaching into the container again, just… staring. “Mono. This speek. Can you repeat this? I. Come now. I….”

At last he ventured, quietly, “I….”

“Am.”

“Mm.”

“No. Aa-Mm.”

“Mono.”

“No. Listen now, like this. ‘Aam.”

“Aam.”

The static bristled, he brought a hand to his face. Unhindered, the boy rifled through some other package. “What do you want to eat? What have you got there?”

The child shrugged. He adjusted the container, still working on the food paste, and dug out another handful of unappealing goop. He would be eating faster, if it was not so goopy.

The Thin Man took a long draw on his cigarette and exhaled. “What sort of food is that? What would you call it?”

Another shrug. Mono pulled over another open container, some sort of bag, and dumped some of the contents into the partially eaten goop paste.

“I want speek, child. What sort of food is that? Can you tell me?”

The child pushed his hat back a margin and stared. He shoved the container a fraction along the shelf edge closer to him, but couldn’t travel further than an inch due to the clutter of packaging and intolerable food things he shoved aside (but not off to the floor). “T’n�� share?” he whispered. “Th’s good. N’plenty. Lot’s un—”

“No, I don’t want that.” He pinched his brow. This child. He did this on purpose, he swore. “Food.” The boy tilted his head. He stood there, hugging the container to his chest. “Can you repeat my speek. I have food.”

A tentative, “Do’y?”

He took a long deep breath and exhaled slowly. “Pay attention. Listen. Repeat. This speek. I. Have. Food. I. Have. Food.” This was going nowhere. The boy just… wouldn’t respond. He tried slower this time, “Mono. You know how to do this. Just repeat. I. Have. Foo-ood.”

“I-h’ve ffh-ood.”

“Slower.” He took a quick nip of the cigarette, and once more, “I. Have. Food.”

“D’food.”

Why? Just why?

This time, he elected a container from the shelf that looked viable – a jam or jelly – and stepped closer to the boy. “I have food.” He held it up. The boy crouched down and looked from the newly presented container, then to the tall thin man. “I. Will. Give. Food. Can you repeat that speek?”

The boy huddled there looking bewildered, like his hat was doing acrobatic flips. “Speek?”

“Just repeat it, child. Repeat what I speek.”

“N… t’share?” The Thin Man clapped the jar on the shelf beside Mono, and the boy winced aside.

“My word, child. I don’t want the food.” He stepped back when the boy released his container, and it splashed into the floor below.

“S’speek share?”

“We know the same speek. You know this, we’ve been over this.” He clasped his hands over his face. “You just garble everything.” Was it something he did? Did he actually break the child? Did he foul up when he tuned the transmission? For the life of him, he didn’t grasp the problem.

“M’speek? S’not good?”

The Thin Man grimaced behind his hands. “It… needs work.”

“Oh.”

‘Oh,’ he says. As if they hadn’t spent a half hour or whatever on this.

The boy tore open a new package and began stuffing his mouth with the food. He did better with something dry and lighter.

“All right,” he sighed, through smoke. “Let’s try this. I am tired.” Mono rasped a sound in his throat and scooted away, further back onto the shelf among containers of food. He turned his back to the Thin Man and kept eating. “Child….”

Mono coughed, then choked out, “Eat.” Then resumed chewing.

For now, the Thin Man let it go. He imparted, “Be sure to breathe.” And let the boy be.

The whole mess of linguistics frustrated him to no end. How did it get this bad? By the time he was abandoned in the Tower, he had a firm vocabulary established. The child too, they could carry conversations during their alliance and following the treachery. What had gone wrong? How did he fix this?

Then, the child would get frustrated and shut down. Wouldn’t push himself to do better, or try to learn. This intolerable child. Completely content to butcher through a mediocre dialect.

The Thin Man returned to the dry patch of floor where the child rested before, and slid his back against the wall to drop into his slouch. He hoped Mono didn’t shred through all those packages and left some food viable, so he could leave him somewhere for a time. He needed a break from this.

#little nightmares #mono #the thin man #thin dad #little nightmares fanfic #little nightmares fanfiction #fanfic #fanfiction #mono trying so hard to do the speek #then being told its still very bad

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thebestworstidea · 4 years

Text

The Green Knight’s Lady (3)

Sequel fic to “The Witch and the Green Knight” (on Ao3)

Warnings: undeserved redemption arc, graphic imagery and as of this chapter violence against minors.

Chapter 1: In which Rowan has Unexpected House Guests

Chapter 2: In Which They Try to Figure Out What the Hell is Going On

>-<>-< ——————-<>——————- >-<>-<

Chapter 3: In Which Remus and Rowan’s Stupidity Escalates to Treason (sort of)

>-<>-< ——————-<>——————- >-<>-<

The Spider Prince didn’t often check the darkest part of the forest in the winter months. It was difficult to get to at the best of times, and in the dark and cold his mother was at her strongest and most able to shrug things off, even in her recovery. But he’d had something like a feeling, but not all the way to a nudge, and followed it. And what he found was a void in the shallow crunching snow that covered the forest floor. In a place that he’d been, which meant whatever had been there- humanoid- had been hidden from him the last time he was there. He wasn’t an expert on plants, but the plants seemed disturbed so whatever, whoever had been there, had been there a while.

He sent a feeling of a question at his mother and received- smugness? Amusement? A secret? An impression of a play hunt?

He frowned sourly. If she wanted to play a game, he supposed he could do that. There were a smattering of footprints, briefly. He could track what and whoever this joke was.

He emerged from the forest at the back of a house in Wickhills. From the outside it didn’t look like much, painted a dark green with a brown roof, like a reversed tree. It was a bit rundown- a few missing supports in the porch fence, paint that was patchy and peeling. A slightly faded rainbow flag flew from the porch. But something about it- it reminded him of Roman, or Grettie, but different as well, like an unfamiliar blend of a tea he’d drunk before. It was a witch’s house; and he suddenly realized that this must be the home of the witch that had befriended Remus.

He hadn’t been concerned before, but he suddenly was. No one had seen Remus at all since sometime that summer, and now a trail led right to the herb witch’s door.

So he did the rational, sensible thing.

He knocked on the front door.

After a few minutes, the door opened, revealing a heavyset woman with her hair in frazzled braids, and large round glasses. She stared at him, then said very quietly.

“One minute please, I’ll be right with you.” The door closed softly and there was a muffled scream from somewhere on the other side. He could hear footsteps inside, then the door opened again for a moment.

Now, he knew intellectually that this was the house of Remus’s friend and that most likely had been her, but the door opening to show Remus himself- especially shoeless, dressed like a human, was not expected.

“Yeah that’d explain it. Be right with you-” and the door closed again leaving him wondering what ‘Intrusive Thot’ meant and why it had been on the t shirt. He was not expecting the door to open a third time to someone shorter, a boy who was barely into his teens, who glared at him with gold eyes.

“Go away.” This time the door slammed. There was an unmuffled shriek that mostly covered the sound of the door locking.

“D.N.! You can’t just do that!”

“I just did. I don’t see how it was so hard.”

That had been another fae. A familiar face, even, though it seemed so out of place he couldn’t figure out why for a long moment.

“What the hell.”

There was no iron blocking the door- not surprising with two fae in the house- but a gossamer thin warding of human magic pushing out anything uninvited. It would certainly work on pixies or hobs.

It would not work on him.

“I was going to handle it!” she was saying a hand to her head.“I just need to finish panicking first; it’s a mortal thing, okay, D.N.? I know you don’t have a huge practical experience, but I’d really think that mortals panicking might be a little more in your range.”

“Little tree?” Remus’s voice was strained. “There’s a spider in your house.”

She whipped around and unconsciously stepped between him and the person she’d been yelling at. Her face was warring between flushed and pale. A strange whining noise came out of her. Remus vaulted over a chair, and wrapped himself around the smaller fae protectively, half turning away as though that would hide him at all.

“You were not quite invited in.” She managed, voice squeaking, clutching at her shawl with white knuckles.

“I need to talk to him.” He pointed a finger past her.

“He’s in my home.” the witch said weakly. “And you’re scaring me.”

“Rowan do not!” Remus rasped out. She held up her empty hands where he could see them.

“Please do not kill someone in my home.” she added.

“I do not intend to hurt you.”

“Yay.” she said through a rictius of a smile. “Only. he’s my guest?” her voice squeaked on the last word.

“What did you call him? Dean?”

“Technically I called him ‘Dee Enn’. Initials.”

“It stands for ‘Danger Noodle’” Remus said cheerfully and a trifle manically, still holding him up.

“Why are you more afraid of me than him?”

“Because I know how he feels about me. He’d kill me in an instant if he didn’t owe me a debt.” Rowan swallowed, biting her lips together. True? Probably true. “I have no idea where I stand with you. Because right now. I stand with them.” she tipped her head towards them.

“You shouldn’t be afraid of him.” D.N. said dryly. “He’s a real softie especially when it comes to humans.”

“Are you capable of shutting up?” She snapped at him, looking back. He looked bored, especially given he was still held in a bear hug against Remus’s chest, gingery hair mussed, and half covering his face.

“Do you realize who he is?”

Rowan winced.

“I know who he was. Who he is is kind of up for debate at the moment I think.”

“What I am is annoyed, put me down Remus, this is undignified.”

Remus gave a whine in the back of his throat, but set him back on his own feet. He straightened his sleeves and gave Remus’s chest a pat before stepping forward. Delicately he smoothed his hair, drawing a hand down over the back of his neck before raising his chin with a bit of a challenge.

He didn’t look exactly the same. There was a great deal of time- not even counting the casket- between this child and the other one, but The Spider Prince was sure of that, they weren’t identical. However, there was no room for doubt. He wasn’t sure what to do; but he was sure that this was the ?joke? His mother had been playing at.

If he had looked any more like Adder- or any less- like the brother he’d desperately wanted, all those years ago, there would be no question. When his mother had spoken his brother into existence, it had changed him too. He was a brother to the snake, as the snake was brother to him, deep in his core. ‘Danger Noodle’ didn’t look like the man who’d hurt him. He didn’t look like the tyrant who’d broken Roman, who’d disturbed the forest’s balance so badly. He was a child- only he wasn’t. There was too much knowledge in his eyes, and a challenge. And fear. It was well hidden, but there was fear.

“We… we could leave?” Remus offered suddenly.

“Shut up!” snapped D.N.

“No, we could! We could go somewhere else, away from Wickhills where no one would ever see us again. I know lots of places! I can take him far away. Never come back.”

D.N.’s breath hissed out between his teeth, and his hand came up to cover the back of his neck as if he was in pain.

“Remus stop.”

“You wouldn’t even have to tell anyone what happened!”

“REMUS.”

He stared wild eyed at D.N.

“I … can’t.” He said like the words were being forced out, curled up against himself. “I can’t. I can’t leave Wickhills. At least not right now.” he licked his lips, face pinched, and scowled at the room. “Stop staring. Knowing my condition isn’t … isn’t too odd.” He managed to straighten up. “You two need to leave.” He said, looking at Rowan and Remus and saying it like an order.

“This is my house, D.N.” Rowan said warningly.

“Very well, then my brother and I have to step outside, elsewhere.”

“No-” Remus started, and was held up by him raising a hand.

“We need to talk without anyone else hearing. Besides… if he’s going to kill me, again, it would be polite to give him an opportunity to do it elsewhere.” He gave a sneer of a smile at the idea.

Remus gave a whine that was half growl. Rowan grabbed his arm, and stared at them with a pinched, scared expression. His hand closed over hers with a grip that looked like it hurt, but she didn’t flinch.

The front door shut behind the two and Remus looked over at Rowan.

“We’re going to listen in, right?”

“Oh, we are absolutely going to eavesdrop if at all possible.” Rowan closed her eyes. “I don’t think they’ve left the porch, which would make sense if D.N. wanted to take advantage of not being killed in my home. This way.”

They had to take the long way to avoid windows, but skulked up to the end of the porch.

There was a window there, offset just a bit from the stairs that led down to the back yard. Pressed to the bookshelf in the corner and each other, the two could just about make out two voices; one low like the rumble of thunder in the distance, and the other higher- D.N.’s voice. Their stealth had lost them some of the conversation, so they just tried to breathe softly.

The voice raised just a bit.

“You can not say there is anything I could do as reparations.”

A low deep rumble that was definitely words.

“I might.”

Another rumble like thunder in the distance.

“It all escalated very quickly. And then it was just… habit.”

A snarl like ripping silk, and Rowan clutched at Remus’s arm again.

“Mistakes can become habit.” there was a pause “There’s a great deal I’d do differently if I had a chance to do it again. But I can’t. However, the fact remains that I am here, now and like this; and you can best believe I would not be if I had any choice in the matter.” There was an explosion of breath. “Do you know what it feels like to rot? I do now. It is horrifying. My flesh dissolved, slowly because nothing would come close enough to strip it from my bones. Then my bones were left, and I hoped that I’d return to darkness, but I didn’t.” There was a pause. “I couldn’t even leave the clearing, because all my bones were there. I was trapped.” There was a deep breath. “Then I heard the stupid witch crooning to Remus. Then his hands on my bones. Everything was soft; and then.” There was a pause and they could hear the heels of his boots against the porch boards as he paced. “A voice, like the darkness itself, almost familiar. Like I should know it. Do you know what it told me? ‘Do Better’” An unchildlike scoff. “For all I care, you can kill me. It’s bound to be better the second time.”

Rowan’s hands went up and covered Remus’s mouth, and she leaned all her weight against him, as he twitched towards the window.

This time when the thunder voice rumbled Rowan understood what it said.

“No.”

“No?”

“If living is your punishment, you should take it.”

“What!”

“I’m not saying I won’t kill you; just not now.”

“I can give you a reason if you’re too busy playing at being merciful.” hissed D.N. “What do you expect me to do? Shall I come back and play court with your new toys? I’m sure Roman will -” There was a thump that shook the entire house, as something struck the outside wall, knocking a book from the shelf which comically bounced off Remus’s head.

“You will not Say His Name. Ever. Again.” The thunder voice said with so much force that both the eavesdroppers shuddered.

There were choking noises, that sounded like D.N. was trying anyway. They finally died away.

“You may want to put me down.” came the child’s voice, finally. “I just heard ‘mom’s car. Somehow I don’t think they’re going to see much but a grown man attacking a child.”

“Are you… threatening me with humans?”

“How could that possibly be a threat? I’m just thinking of your reputation. Also the dumb witch’s window, since I think Remus is about to come through it.”

There was a heavy sigh.

“I suppose we didn’t ask them not to listen in.”

Rowan shrugged and let go of Remus turning and opening the window, both levels, letting the breath of late winter into the house.

“I don’t know what you expected.” She knelt on the ground and put her elbows on the windowsill, and Remus learned through, looking the young fae over as if for injuries. “Do you want to meet my mother? Because D.N. was right, and she will do her best to feed you if you don’t escape now.”

“She’d just-” he looked confused.

“Since she didn’t see you nearly put her guest through the wall? Yes, probably.” Rowan shrugged.

“‘Her guest’?” D.N. demanded. “I’m your guest.”

“Her house too. So until he violates it, he has guest right.” She shrugged. “So what do you say, your highness? Want to come in properly invited for some tea?”

“Don’t invite him in.” D.N. snapped sounding offended.

“He’s not a vampire, anything I did to block him coming in would also block you.” She said mildly. She glanced up at him. “You’re not a vampire, right your highness? I mean, nothing says you couldn’t be both. I always thought that was what was up with Twilight.”

He just stared, confused at the casual way she said ‘your highness’. Most mortals were confused by formal address, and she was using it like a very odd ‘mister’.

“No.” He looked back at D.N. “Don’t go anywhere.”

“Where would I go?” he demanded. “I said I can’t leave. I am weak, and fragile. If I wanted to try to go back to the hill, I would probably get eaten or killed. Or both. They wouldn’t even have to know who I was.” He looked like he was considering that.

“Just… stay here.”

“Thanks.” Said Rowan dryly.

“He’s your guest.” He didn’t expect her to laugh.

“You’ve got me there.”

He looked back and forth between Remus and D.N. for a long moment, then stepped off the porch and walked back into the forest, disappearing.

“Well that was lovely.” Rowan stood up and dusted off her knees. “I’m going to go finish that nervous breakdown. In or out? This house costs enough to heat without leaving a window open.”

Rather than Remus going out the window, Danger Noodle stepped back inside.

“Ugh, what is with your window. It’s like walking through incredibly thick cobwebs.”

“It’s just the wards.” She shrugged, and shut the window. “I was completely serious, so if you can keep my mother busy while I scream, that’d be great.” Rowan climbed the stairs, disappearing just as the front door opened.

#willow is writing #recursive fic #AU AU #the witch and the green knight

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luminescentlyricist · 3 years

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🍃 Aether 🍃

The strings were thin, but the boy knew there was no way he would be able to escape them, binds of spider-silk and plant fibre that his sisters had once woven into their dresses. He was only a small nature spirit, and there was nothing much that could be done against the behemoth army that met his tired eyes over the horizon line. This was what his fate was: Gaea had decreed it, and so it would be. Those few who had dared to rise up against his mother were being sought out, some captured and tortured and interrogated to an inch of their lives.

The high-pitched whine in his ears was torture enough, but to see his brothers dying right in front of his eyes was horrifying. He could do nothing at all, and that was somehow more devastating than fighting. Hoshi's vision swept over the field, spires of flame licking at the trees.

There was never supposed to be fire.

Hoshi had been made to heal and create and nurture and *grow,* but that was far behind his sisters. He'd live, of course, if he could protect his Core. The glowing ball of energy in the centre of his corporeal form was what sustained him, so no damage to his flesh would ever harm him. But all the young spirit saw was orange and black, and all he heard was screaming. He wanted to go deaf and blind, if only to have release.

One of his sisters - one he had never known, as it turned out - had eventually dragged him away from the epicentre of the fighting, but that was long ago. Too long, it seemed, for he had been forgotten. She had planned to torture him. The ash from the raging fires stung his eyes, but he forced himself to keep them open. If he dropped his guard down his Core would be crushed and he'd never open them again. Every so often, there was a sharp burst of sound, not unlike a water balloon popping.

He allowed himself to blink, but only then. Every burst was a spirit's Core shattering, and that wasn't something he wanted to watch, even with half-lidded eyes in a battlefield so packed he couldn't tell where it was coming from. His vision blurred with tears, and with his every twitch and movement another string seemed to catch on his clothes. If he were going to survive, he needed to keep as still and calm as possible.

Hoshi was sure that he was being watched, in some way. With another flinch, another death, he clamped his teeth to his lips in a fearful bite. Sure, his teeth weren't all that sharp, but something translucent and pallid pink in colour trickled down from where there might have been blood. It bore the colour of cherry blossoms, but it was far more sinister than the flowers themselves. It appeared to be... sap. Running his tongue over the wound, his gaze travelled back to the sky. There wasn't much hope left for him, he feared.

His wings appeared to already have been damaged when he fled from the scene at an earlier time that day. At least he thought it had been earlier; with the sky blotted out in fierce swathes of grey clouds, there was little to no indication what the time of day was. His feathers ruffled, just a little, but it shot pain through his spine so intense he couldn't help but exclaim. With a gasp, words blurted from his lips, a run-on sentence that expressed his hurried pain more than screaming ever could.

"I wish I'd never come here I don't want to be her-"

Like a veil fell over the battle, for a moment, everything was silent. He gasped, taking in the heavy air that made his heart burn and his head spin. But the vegetation and the wings of others did nothing to help filter it out, and the young boy could do nothing but watch and attempt to hold his breath for a little longer. He didn't know what had happened to his wings, but he felt heavier and more sluggish than any creature blessed with flight should.

They had likely been cut to pieces by the bramble walls he could make out, rising from the haze in gnarls of vine to attack his brothers and sisters alike. There was no mercy on the field, and the bloodbath was only beginning. His world was slipping away from underneath him, but his siblings were thick in the middle of it. It wasn't really clear what was going to happen to him, but Hoshi had all but accepted that he'd never escape the fight. He was fighting his own body, fighting not to go limp, and fighting the smoke that crawled into his airways, stinging like a noxious poison. A more natural herbicide.

With a cough enough to shake the tree he was bound to, the boy doubled over, heedless of the binds. They sliced into his skin, causing that same weak colour as before to coat the strings. He was shuddering and pathetic, but he refused to close his eyes and have the darkness smother his light. That would be a cowardice that he couldn't afford. Sure, he was likely going to die there, but the slimmest chance in the world that he wouldn't was enough for him. He began to think, conserving his energy as much as possible.

The glow in his Core even dimmed, and it became abundantly clear how little time he had left.

Hoshi's body was giving up on him, and his breath only came in laboured, short bursts. He didn't know how many of his brothers were left in the battle, but it hardly mattered because of the stench of death. Blurring figures darted around at supernatural speeds, doing whatever they could to fight. In a closer examination of the figures, they were even letting themselves bleed, hardening their sap-blood around the feet and bodies of their assailants as a temporary immobilisation tactic.

He had figured out, however, that he could manipulate his own, and he attempted to harden it around the deceptively harsh silken weaves that kept him tied down. After that, he twisted his body even more, even though he knew it was jeopardising his chance at getting away if it didn't work. His natural body was being destroyed, and it would start to matter very soon if it was too damaged to let him escape. It wasn't as if he could reform and heal without the clear sky.

The sap slowly thickened over the strings, so he would be able to manipulate them without moving his body. The glossy coating also contained as much of the strands as possible, so that he could protect himself from further harm while he was trapped. But there was no real way he could stop the bleeding once it had started, due to his bound hands, and there was always the looming possibility that he had gone too far in his naivety. Luckily, he was quick-working and always had been.

After a few moments, the boy began to cry from the smoky fumes in the air, breathing becoming even more shallow than ever. The situation was easily deadlier than it could've been, but Hoshi was weak and his thoughts were following suit. He moved as if he were in slow motion, becoming jerky and disoriented. His struggling caused the hardened material coating the strings to crack and crumble, taking with it the razor-thin threads and freeing the nature spirit from his restraints.

Falling from the tree onto the scorched earth beneath it, Hoshi's first tear dripped down onto the black. It spat and sizzled, regardless of the fires not straying to his captive area. He found himself unable to stand, as his legs were too weak, so he collapsed onto his hands and knees at the first attempt. Staying low, he wheezed in breaths, trying to draw his focus away from the stuttering rise and fall of his chest. The colourless liquid of his steadily increasing tear streams mingled with the pale, rose-like hues in his blood as he braced himself for what he was about to do, knowing that he might have had no option left.

He spread his wings, and a crack echoed out into the choking darkness.

Despite the pain, despite the ash, he moved on. Dragging himself by the beats of one wing, he retreated into the darker parts of the forest and away from the battle. The boy's legs were dangling limply, knees roughly scratching up from the dirt. His Core was whole, undamaged, and he could breathe a little easier. But with such a combination of factors working against him, there was little he would be able to do to save himself if he wouldn't stop bleeding. Light was all he needed, and his one wing would help him heal faster than a natural human ever could. Nothing else could save him, but it was what he was least expecting to find.

Using a combination of limping, crawling and flying, Hoshi ventured deeper still. He didn't expect to fly, because his left wing felt as if it had been left to dangle in its shoulder 'socket', pulled out and torn just enough to be barely functional. Tripping, stumbling, he never stopped even though the forestry seemed dense enough to be infinite. The boy's quest for refuge was absolutely hopeless. His sap-blood created droplets of light pink, hardened to resemble small gemstones on the floor. It was almost beautiful to his deluded mind.

But there was no beauty in bleeding, and even less in death.

#gore #gore tw #tw gore #blood #tw blood #blood tw #death #death tw #tw death #luminescent lyricist writes #✨ shimmering shorts ✨

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h0unds-of-h3ll · 4 years

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I can’t remember, but i can’t forget

This was written because of baby Dean's leather jacket.

The boys x reader but the pairing is really Dean x reader. (Confusing, I know, but just read it.)

Dean's always wanted for this to happen, except what happens when he gets what desire in a not so perfect way he always dreamt of?

Viewers beware you’re in for a scare: with the amount of low fluff, high angst, and in the north west a sad sap story, Dean being self destructive, Sam just want to help, it’s low key ugly, and a couple of curse words, y/c/n: your child’s name.

A crisp, dry, solemn autumn evening in Texas. Where it was cold enough to wear a light jacket but not heavy enough to wear a coat. Sam told him not to, that he'll start to cook in the dark leather jacket that hung loosely from his broad shoulders as he carried a bag of what was deemed to be a leftover vampire. It was the same deed this time around as it always is, track the monster, and rid it of its doings. After so many years of doing the same thing, it became, well, boring. Exhausting even and for what no one knew of their work and what they sacrificed to save others, so why keep doing something that seems to never be solved. Dean ran his free hand through his fawn hair and it began to grow out again. He groaned he'd have to cut it short, never did favor it. Give the villain something to grab and have the upper hand, he had to learn that the hard way. He shivered at the memory of John giving him the shortest buzz ever. That wasn't the bad part, it was the fact that people thought he had cancer. Made him look weak, made people pity him for "god's path that led him there," and he hated that.

Always will and always have, he would be damned if anything viewed him as such. Sam trudged his feet along behind him, as they walked to the lake where they were going to dispose of the bodies. He could perceive the rotting flesh, it was stronger than normal human flesh because of all the toxins they consumed in a human’s meat suit. He brought his jacket to his nose, sniffing in his cologne dreading it if he found any of the stench to seep its way onto him. He could hear Sam's snicker from how loud it was, Dean knew that he hated the sand and here they are ankle-deep in it. Knowing that the grains were going into his socks and the new boots that he bought not even a week prior. It made Sam whine in protest; "I told you we should've gone to the woods, it would have been much easier!" He could hear Sam's large presence looming over him as Sam shoved his flip-phone in Dean's face, the glow illuminating his face.

"Not even one bar!" He shouted out into Dean's ear, an eye roll followed from Dean's barely noticeable green eyes. He wanted to hit him across the head and tell him to grow up, but he ruled against it needing to get the job done and go to the haystack of the comfort of the hotel's bed. He grew all too close to the ratty making your back worse mattress, more than he liked he hoped it would swallow him whole.

The invigorating sea cut at his face nipping at him turning his tanned skin rue. The weight of the body bag was heavier than before, was he becoming tired and delicate, or was something messing with him as a joke? it wouldn't be the first time something like that would happen and surely not the last. His feet began to sink into the beige grains of sand and then he came to apprehend Sam was no longer with him but walking up the steep hill and up to Baby. He wanted to roar out and scold him for his cowardly actions.

Yet, he can do this alone, hell, he has been doing it for years. He gained strength as he focused on the opaque body of water before him. It was only a few feet before he could drop them and dust his hands off, but then he saw a figure. At first, he guessed it to be a fish that came to shore. As his eyes adjusted to the night's glow of the moon, he soon learned that the thing was too big to be the fish that washed up here. It was human. A soaked head to toe human who had befallen to be unconscious, dead even, that was crude, he thought, but realistic. He took a much greater grip on the sacks of shredded meat and made his way to the lapping coast.

He shifted his weight and the sacks left him and made a splash catching him in the midst, his level of a calm facade was shattered. His fists turned redder than of a rose, from the blood rushing not knowing whether to go to his head or to the pressure. He remembered as a kid when he got so angry tears would fall and dad would grab him from the scruff of his collar and growl 'boys don't cry, sonny, what're you, a sissy?!' to say the relationship was complicated was an understatement.

He would have fought him if he wasn't a child and if he wasn't his dad. His eyes began to wander which led him to think again. What even is it? Is it even alive? Who or what is it? The inquiries weighed heavily on what would happen if he helped it. Going against logic he went with his gut and stalked towards its laying heap. When he neared close enough his eyes widened and his brows furrowed. It was a lady.

Her skin was drowned in the water, her face was oddly beautiful with the droplets that ran into her parted lips, her hair was darkened from the water but looked as soft as a feather, two braids were laced in her hair. She had on a dark coat, a heavy one for blizzards, the jacket was similar to his. So much so that it was his. How? He still doesn't know the answer.

She wore dark jeans that were darkened from the water they were matched along with some work boots. The water lapped at her skin, acting as if it was trying to bury her body in the sand. What the hell? who goes swimming in that getup? maybe it was something else. Maybe someone tried to kill her, he didn't want to acknowledge it but the lake was known for it. For the endless bodies at the bottom, the police years ago stopped trying to dig them up but rather scratching down a missing person as deceased.

That's why he thought it would be a good idea to dispose of them here instead of the woods. His face was twisted trying to weigh out answers. How, why, and who cried at him. He jumped when he swore he had seen her eyes move behind the stretch of skin that hid them, his hand not trusting the intentions of the woman. His fingers were hooked around the hilt of the knife; the one that he always carried when things got hairy which they usually did.

He staggered back onto the beach, his jeans dampening the sand, he'd have to get new boots. Another thing Sam was going to do is gloat about his "encyclopedic knowledge" Dean's breathing was shallow and fast as he tried to calm himself which was difficult because the lady's head turned towards him. She choked up water that swam in her lungs, her eyes wider than his as she leaned onto her side facing him and her voice croaked out a scratchy word which he later came to find out was. "one.."

He couldn't and would not ever go near that beach or any in his life ever again.

He was sitting on the back of the wooden chair, the legs of it whined in pain from his weight. It was another hunt, of course. This one involves a woman who was scared out of her wits, she swore on her life she was being tracked and targeted by a paranormal being, the reason as to why she moved in the first place. Although, her story when she told it could have been anything but.

His hands were laced behind his head, his long bowed legs tucked behind her petite dining table in her even smaller kitchen. It was a humble little house on the side of the complex, the house's white paint was decaying and in need of a severe job of remodeling. It's affordable and you get what you pay for, he can't talk since all he knows is a run-down motel on the exit of a highway. He listened to the woman's voice drone on, it was like a t.v. one of those that lost its signal and made the viewer's attention go lazy. The lady never stopped talking, her tangent was a black hole of having to get every single detail into her claim.

He stared blankly at her as she talked, her face was freckled. Light golden dots scattered against her skin, long lashes touching the upper part of her skin. Her dark black hair fell behind her shoulders, it made her freckles shone from the way it made her face slim, she had bright eyes with a dark ring of maybe blue, green even. She was Dean's type, well, any type is his.

Sam wished he'd grow out of playing with every girl he saw, get his heartbroken to the point where it limits him to become aware of the pain that he caused the women to have. Sam blamed it on Dad, going to another woman rather than to mom he knew about his father's unfaithfulness but never told Dean. It would break him. Dean always did want to be an exact mini replica of Dad, and so far, he's done perfectly.

Dean wanted to kick Sam's broad shin under the burgundy-thin table since his interrogation continued. It was always the same queries Sam and him asked, never anything new, such as 'how was your day?' What's your phone number, can I stay the night?' he also wanted to tell her you're crazy, and you need to be checked in the looney bin, but his pointed pearly teeth nipped his tongue down. He nearly drooled at the fantasy of getting the hell out of there, and into the nearest dinner in the small run downtown.

It was a ghost town, to be completely honest, he hadn't seen one thing that was alive, other than her. He faintly reminisces growing up in something similar. A sharp jolt of a shake ran through his shoulder, the chair fell with a thud as his weight fell with it, he turned his head and it snapped it to the side to find the culprit. Sam's face twisted into a perplexed one as Dean glared at his baby brother disturbing his flavored fantasy. He then fought the urge to start an argument, he became explosive and hot-headed more then he was before, maybe it was because of the endless cycle or him nearing thirty.

A ghost-like touch ran through his spine as he shook Sam's hand off his shoulder where it was clasped, he was terrified at the thought of becoming old. But hey, once he became old he could retire from the never-ending cycle of pain and torture of always having the increasing anxiety over Sam. It grew as the days came to a close, where he seldomly got a refreshing night's sleep.

He reasoned he should let the hope of having one good night's sleep go since it was simply a lost cause. The nightmares, the trauma sparking alive when he's alone on the most rigid mattress in the world. He jolts awake as soon as his body calms, a cold sweat coating his warm skin. "Layla asked if you wanted something to drink-" Sam's voice coped him through his train wreck of a mind, lulling him back to reality. Layla. The name ran it's coarse over his tongue as he mouthed it over and over, each syllable a word of their own.

He later found that he didn't favor the name, it just didn't fit her face. He thought she looked more of a Casandra than anything. Sam's face held sincerity when his tree branch of an arm came to his "Work clothes" suit of a torso. Dean was acting odd, ever since the night of the "disposal" he wondered if something had happened to Dean that made him turn his head. Not many things can, so this was new. And new usually went one way. Horrendous. Dean had vowed to never wear a suit after Sam had, he knew from an awful mistake he once made. His face turned into a snicker and he got up from his chair, he needed fresh air.

It seemed stale, bland, and suffocating. Reminded him of when he had to wait in the office after getting in trouble at school, having to spend the whole day there because Dad never came to pick him up. He felt out of place. Everyone's scowl would fall onto him a hushed whisper talking about how he'd never become anything. He headed outside before he stopped and pivoted to where they were calmly watching his outburst of absence.

It was rude, sure, but he'd be damned if he'd stay. He shot a toothy polished grin that displayed on his face, as his voice sounded out; "I need to process all of this," he waved a finger to his head in a circular motion and nodded, making himself believe in his white lie. Sam gave him a deep frown knowing what his true intention was to leave; to run away from the boredom and sulk in Baby until they were done.

Layla sat back in her chair, her manicured hands intertwined together as they sat precisely on the table, her piercing eyes stabbing Sam pointedly. Her lip twitched into an offset smirk, the one that liars wore when they knew they could get away with anything of what they're saying.

Similar to Dean's but much more smooth, much more perfected. Sam suddenly fell nauseous of being in her presence, her head tilted, making her long hair fall in front of her left shoulder. "Now, where were we?"

Dean's finger thrummed against the leather of his wheel, drumming along to Dream on by Aerosmith. It wasn't his favorite, but it was surely not his ultimate hated one, his head dipped and rolling as he swung it to and fro.

Baby rocked along with him, to a bystander this looked way less innocent then it was. The leather was smooth as butter and he'd be lying if it didn't do wonders to his back. One of the only things his Father ever gave to him was beneficial.

Sam ran a close second. The leaves fell onto the sidewalk as the dried grass crunched under her boots. She was in front of where the parked Baby was moving inch by inch. He didn't know why she felt familiar nor how but she just gave off the aroma of knowing a person for years but, the trick they played is never meeting them in both lives.

He thought of the "past life" he never did believe in such a thing, thinking it was dumb and foolish but I mean he fights monsters for a living so it's not the most far fetched thing he has encountered.

He caught a glimpse of something moving, her obnoxiously long polished leather coat of a dark copper dwarfed her body as her dark jean legs of black. Her soft hair parted into two braids which came together to form on the back of her head as one. Her figure was as if it was a screaming siren on a busy highway, alerting everyone in its path.

Her long legs carried her across the pavement and into a replica of the house across the street she looked behind her as she was about to open the door. Dean quickly mashed a button on the radio, hoping it would kill the booming music. He submerged down and behind the dash to hide away, from her burning eyes that scanned for anything that had eyes.

Dean's breath was almost lifeless as he held it to become the absence of static. You could hear the leaves fall, and then the splintered door shut. She whisked away into the chambers of what he assumed was her home, but it seemed that he never knew about anything anymore.

He came alive again when his brain scraped along the memory trying to make sense of what just happened. Seeing her was odd, since the majority couldn't afford her attire, and others simply did not admire such fashion. He admired it.

Always up for something new and original. Although, her appearance was uncanny since he had been alone for nearly half an hour. Not a single life form roaming his way, he glanced at the clock 9:02 pm. Holy. The last time he looked at the time it was only seven. What, how? He knew his gut was right, about having a bad feeling being here in general, when they first pulled into the complex.

air felt wrong, the leaves didn't crunch as loud when you walked on top of them, the service wasn't working, and- OH!, and Baby's fuel started to run faster than usual. That never happened, he never allowed it to in all the years he had the beauty. And now things are acting up, they needed to get out of there as fast as he could down a beer. 2.4 sec. He held that loud and proud it was a good conversation starter, he commenced gathering his motivation to go into the dreaded house.

He really didn't want to have to go back in, Layla gave off an even worse vibe than her house, and that was saying something. He gnawed on his bottom lip, the soft pink flesh allowed him comfort in desperate times of anxiety. Sam scolded him for it, saying that it will cause an infection from the skin constantly having to be torn at.

Dean didn't hear any of it, too interested in the new issue of Asian beauties. His hand was clutched around the door handle, questioning whether he should stay or go. Leave the comfort of his love and die in the house of pain. The song ended, and a new one came on. His teeth unlatched his lip and turned into a lopsided smile as Losing my religion played, he opened the metal-polished door. Accepting his fate.

The inevitable doom of never knowing the woman's identity and why she's haunting him and why his heater was smoking.

He tugged onto the collar of his jacket, feeling it tighten around the thick of his neck. It wrung him a light red, he couldn’t breathe as he trudged up the wide short wooden stairs. It brought him closer to his demise, he bowed his head looking at the small pumpkin by the foot of the stairs. It wasn’t carved, it was decaying. The orange a deepening color of its true form, his upper lip curved into a scowl. Such a nasty thing.

The stench was similar to the vamps and he coughed as it ran its fragrance through his system, who knew a rotting pumpkin could hold such redolence? He ran up the last few steps and grabbed onto the brass doorknob, his palm getting a handful of dried rotting paint. He pushed a finger to the cracked paint scraping up some of said paint as he did he saw some marks. They were claw marks.

Scratches even, what could have done such a thing and why? She didn’t have any pets and there wasn’t a life in the mere radius of the town. So everything led to something more than what meets the eye, something darker. His bright doe eyes ran over the door that held too many secrets, trying to find a clue or even luckier an answer. But his luck ran dry from the moment he was born. Born into this torturous world of hunting. He pushed his forehead against the crumbling door, his hope lost as no answers came forward a deep unimpressed sigh ran through him. He pursed his lips trying to rake through his jumbled thoughts.

It looked like someone was trying to escape, trying to run from their future. But why? None of this made any sense! He faltered forward when an even more concerned Sam opened the door, his brows pinched as his colossal hands came to Dean’s biceps straightening him so he wouldn’t fall flat on the dusty wood flooring.

“You okay?” He asked gently, not willing to frighten his unhinged older brother. But Dean being himself, backed off of him quickly regaining his composure as he grabbed onto the flared parts of his suit jacket and smoothed it down. He ran a calloused hand through his spiked hair and when it left it, it poofed back into place. Sam’s jaw ticked as he grew anxious, he hated Dean’s games, the ones he played as a kid, and now, it was embarrassing and childish. Sam bumped Dean’s shoulder when he walked out of Layla’s house and to Baby, he found enough information to keep him wondering about what the suspect is.

Dean didn’t know what was up with Sam, maybe it was the time of the month when he hulk’s out. Dean often tried to prevent it but it was just so easy to make him tick, he knew all of Sam’s habits, the things that affected him, and the ones that calmed him, all of them.

He considered himself a god, yet, he was crippled in the loss. His head inclined in frustration as it was getting the best of him and he huffed closing the door of oddity and made his way to the plush leather of his Baby.

Sam couldn’t relinquish the unsettling feeling as if something had come with him to the small diner. Dean couldn’t say anything against it, he couldn’t say anything at all as he ordered a double-decker burger with all of the ingredients in the world on top. More than likely, Sam will have to hear about his complaints of a full stomach and that he’s going to burst and why oh, oh why, did Sam ever let him eat that.

Routine and never-ending one, their booth was sat in front of a window which showed the parking lot, Baby in full view because Dean wouldn’t let her out of his hawk-like sight. He felt more at ease being in his skin, Dean in dad’s brown worn down leather jacket, the necklace he never dared to take off, and the sharp beaming of mom's wing blinding him as he shifted to suffocate into another bite.

Honestly, Sam couldn’t even remember the last time he saw Dean without it. He was warm that he knew Dean still cared about something but still sorrowful over Dean’s lack of compassion over things he once loved. Sam begrudgingly poked at his side of fries, they were the only thing that they had that didn’t have any dead thing incorporated in the food.

His fries were all too salty making his face pucker at the tinge that tingled against his tongue and throat as it went down. He was too shy to ask for a different order so he sat quietly while Dean continuously munched down the calorie-filled slab of meat. Sam was bittersweet on hunting, sometimes it was the most rewarding job a guy could have, and then no one knew what he did, not a single wink of recognition.

He didn’t favor the attention nearly as much as Dean does, he favored just being noticed. Dean was quite the celebrity, especially to the ladies. Sam often was in awe of the lack of self-restraint but also from the level of willingness that also came. He sat back and watched Dean devour his food, he thought that he might choke when it looked like he was inhaling the dead cow. Sam’s face told it all that he was disgusted, arms crossed and nose high.

Dean hated that look; he knew it too well, it was the one Sam gave when he thought he was better than Dean. Making Dean feel less and him superior. Dean raised an eyebrow, a mouth full of food, and muffled out “What, do I have something on my face?” Sam nearly choked at how distasteful and piggish he was acting. They're in a public place! He felt like he could faint from Dean’s poor table manners but he was already trained for this. Having to live years and years with his dunce of a brother.

Dean smirked at his reaction, he quickly let it fall as he waved a fork in Sam’s direction never looking up as his orbs of forest green was darkened from the faulty lighting that hung over their heads. It seemed everything was on its last leg, meanwhile, Dean was already eating the salt off Sam’s dish.

“You gonna eat that?” Sam’s mouth gaped open and was fixing to reply with a snide remark but before he could a buzzing ran up his thigh, his phone was ringing. But how? there wasn't a single bar in the town that he had, and now he does. That was just plain weird. He gave Dean a look, Dena's cheeks full of burger and Sam's full of unanswered questions, his complaints went unanswered as he fished his phone out of his blue jean pocket.

His brows lifted in shock as he flipped open the slab of plastic that hid the caller's id, but then it was later to revealed to be found out that the contact name was “Layla” he quickly accepted the call and brought the destined thing that held anxiety to his ear “SHE’S COMING FOR ME, HELP!” The call ended after the last word she squelched out, Sam looked to Dean with a body filled sweat and mumbled “We need to go, now!” He got up from his side of the booth they were sharing and he had to grab Dean by the scruff of his jacket as he shoveled piles of leftover food into his mouth.

The car reeked of the fume of cigarettes, Sam's self-restraint was growing thin as the urge to scold Dean for feeding into the addiction. He got it from Dad since he was a boy and he tried to stop, he told Sam he was trying but Dean had the best poker face. Never a twitch of an eye or a snicker his expression was cemented into a glower, his eyes glossed in believing his lie.

The ashtray where the tiny green army man’s home used to be is now filled to the brim with black peppered ash. Sam could feel himself suffocating the smoke coming in his lungs and not being able to breathe properly, he rolled down his window, the air boomed its way into the once polluted and dried one. The fresh air swam it’s way into his lungs as he inhaled, pouring fresh water into a clogged pool. It felt like a silk cover tying its fabric around your skin.

Dean was too focused on going back to the complex to even care about the raging wind, he just wanted to know the truth as to the ghost that haunts him. He so desperately wanted to dig into the hidden compartment in the back and grab a white stick of cancer and light it up and let the rest hide away in the back of his mind.

Although he went against the thought as he watched Sam’s form nearly going out the window, his long brown hair flowing in the wind. Dean smiled a small one but nevertheless, crinkles came to his eyes.

Sam’s bright eyes burned by the time they arrived, Dean told him so multiple times over from years on top of years of him doing so. He wrinkled his nose as a stench wrapped itself around his throat he pulled his jacket to his face to shield himself from the ghastly smell. He narrowed his eyes at Sam who sat back in the seat, his hair in wind spilled tufts.

He smiled in amusement, the wind making him feel younger, but as he looked over he felt he grew older from how he aged as Dean’s slitted eyes grew sharper. “You don’t smell that?” He questioned waving his free hand around gesturing his point. Sam sniffed his head tilted upwards but only for him to shrug his shoulders. “I don’t smell anything, are you okay? You’ve been acting odd ever since we’ve been here,” he stopped his now hazel eyes shimmered in the dull evening glow of orange, the ring of light green shone brighter than they normally were.

Dean's face pinched as Sam made him think he was going crazy. Such things he would laugh at, he hunts monsters with his kid brother for a living. After a shared staring contest between the two, he turned to the wheel, retrieved the sharp metal key. Although, something dangled from it. He is going crazy, there it was in all its glory a lock on it that said your name branded into a slab which was hanging from a chain on his keys.

Why did he have this name, who’s name is it anyway? Was it a one night fling and he just forgot to take it off the day after? His head ached as he brainstormed with assumptions he clasped his head in his hands and gritted his teeth as he growled in pain. A surging rush of blood flowing to it, Sam never shifted in his seat; he just watched him as the pain grew stronger, pounding along with his heart. It was like a hunter watching its prey slowly die.

A memory he never knew he had before worked its way into his mind, it involved the girl who’s always watching him. She was wearing his jacket as usual and they were in Baby, a drive-through movie playing in front of them, his hand resting on the inner side, at his side.

She was tucked into his side, her warmth making his skin feel afire, bewilderment casted over him like one of his bad dreams. How did he get here? Where’s Sam, why is she with him? He was going to shift, make an excuse to get out of this terror. That was before she stirred and tucked her head under his chin, her deep and full lashes fluttering against her soft cheeks. His signature cologne wafting with her perfume, it smelled like heaven he bent his head down kissing her head softly which made her smile.

What is he doing? He doesn't even know this girl, now he’s kissing her?! This was low, even for him. He couldn’t help it, he wanted this, he wanted this life, of being normal. He wanted to have a girl, his girl. One that will be with him until the end, he wanted a family but he knew he could never have such luxuries of a thing while fighting the good fight.

He’ll soak this in, who knows how long this will last. “y/c/n, said he wishes that you would take a break hunting,” her soft delicate voice rang through the somber air, her eyes never leaving the huge projection of a movie, he didn’t know what movie it was nor whose name she spoke of.

He decided to play in the part of this fantasy world, he chuckled lightly at her blob of his leather jacket moving slightly as he did. “Did he say that or are you just desperate for me to come back?” his voice spooked her, a deep creamlike rasp sound that she grew to love but not hearing the sound for so long made it sound foreign.

His arms wrapped around her tighter as she shuffled to look at him allowing her to without falling, her spheres grew dark as they were no longer illuminated from the shadows of the film playing before them. A small delicate hand rose to his chiseled stubbled cheek, he closed his eyes, the touch forming a deeper meaning of him being touch deprived for so many years in such an intimate gesture of something more than lust. Her face was still and determined, a furrow creased in her eyebrows as she took in the scars, and few golden freckles littered across his tanned skin.

Her eyes flitted as they ran his appearance over, “she knows about us, Dean” she said in a hushed placid voice, timidly it seemed if she spoke any louder she feared what was to come if someone or something could hear. He was confused, to say the least, who, how, why he couldn’t he understand? He fought against helping her and pouting because of the world not allowing him to live out a normal full life. He breathed a deep one of the guilt of being so selfish coming to a head, his shoulders slumping as he opened his eyes, once he did he was transported into a different scene.

He utterly hated this one, her touch was gone and replaced with a slice to the heart as she was hung by her wrists in shackles, her arms strung high in pain. Her head hung down in shame, she was in what seemed to be a cellar, a boy with shaggy hair and a face that looked strikingly similar to him as a child, the kid couldn’t be older than ten and even that was pushing it.

He was in a ball in front of her, his small threaded shirt was stuck to his baby soft skin which was bruised and bloody, when his eyes wandered further down his shirt seeped in crimson. A substance he was sad to admit he is way too affiliated with, he couldn’t think, he was suffocating he stopped breathing as he had seen what happened to her arms slashed and flowed ruby.

His jacket was torn and shredded from what he knew to be from a knife. He fell stiff, he couldn’t move the sight before him, leaving him paralyzed none of this made any sense, she lifted her head, her hair falling into her face as she looked up to him, his breathing was shallow.

Trying to get anything into his lungs he cursed the cigarettes for his breathing, yet that wasn’t the thing that was leaving him breathless. He grew pale as he turned no longer aspired to see the vision but left with dripping claret letters written across the cemented floor. “The family you deserved,”

He woke up in a jolt comparable to the one Sam gave him before he left Layla's trap of horror. He coughed and choked on his tongue in a panic, he laid upon the dried grass which was crumpled underneath him. The sky darkened as the night grew, his eyes began to water, he didn’t dare to cry.

His limbs spread out around him as he watched the clouds disappear. 'I don’t understand how' ran through his mind as he thought over what had unfolded. He blasphemed under his breath impediment and hatred becoming him, his clenched fist came to the soil which the dead grass parted from. He laid firm much as he would on the hotel's bed, he wanted the ground to open up and bury him to hell. He turned on his side, having enough of his self-pity, the only way he can change this is by doing something.

He couldn’t waste another god ridden second laying on the flat dead ground, he recognized that Sam wasn’t anywhere near him he cared but there were more urgent tasks at hand. He pushed himself up and headed inside the house of torture, he never did like Layla. She gives him the gut-punch of an ill feeling whenever a hunt turns south and he gets himself and Sam in more trouble than they originally planned. His sand booted feet sounded like a waitress's heels at a dinner when they walked away with your order.

He hated that feeling too, the desperate anticipation of wanting the mouth-watering food. The air became cold and crisp as he stomped his way up the falling stairs, his hand was frostbitten when he touched the doorknob where he opened he decided that no. He wasn’t going to go into the house; he ran a hand through his fawn clumps. He wanted to tug them out of his head from stress, he huffed and tugged on the leather of his jacket, it reminded him or her.

His bowed legs trudged down the wooden platforms, they creaked and whined at his weight like the chair and now, it was all behind him. He stood high and mighty on the sidewalk, looking around him for anyone, anything at all.

He came up dry, shocker. His arms went out straight from his sides and he screamed “WHERE ARE YOU?!” his voice drained and commenced a protest against his screaming, the hope that survived his destruction now fully leaving him. He was alone, wholly, and alone.

Where’s Sam, where’s his girl, where’s the kid, and most importantly where in this limbo is Layla, his wish was devastatingly met when Layla appeared in all of her sickening beauty before him.

Her crow colored hair fell behind her and Dean wondered if her hair matched her heart, as she walked to him. He toppled back in astonishment as he took her in, a wicked smirk creased across her painted lips, a hue of red that he didn't know if it was truly just lipstick, her sharp-cut eyes narrowed “Hello, sweetie,”

Dean’s knuckles turned white and his teeth hurt at the pressure he put on them increased when her malign words fueled his passion. “Where are they?” he sought but came out more as a demand, his composure lost long ago with his hope, and with his comfort of ever being there.

She clicked her tongue in response and stalked her way to him, her hips swaying as she did. Dean became more agitated as he ever was when a thought came to mind, was- was she trying to seduce him? He couldn’t help the simper that engraved it's across his rosy torn lips, her face ripped into one of fury. “Why are you laughing, I hadn’t said a joke of any sort.”

she snarled, grabbing onto his jaw and glaring up into his dark viridescent eyes, one of the sides of her lips enliven slowly into a contorted sneer which evolved into a menacing smile. “I’m the one you want, I’m her, Dean.” Her words sunk into his heart like a disease, she had infected him with her poison. How could she be so heartless, equating herself to his wife? Wife.

It struck him brutally the memories of his true world, the lies exposing this world she created for him. The woman he invariably was seeing, was you. The boy was his own, the name was the one you fell in love with. How could he be so clueless? And at that, he came to the answer. None of this was real, the world, Layla. “You. You did this to me.”

he grounded out firmly he couldn’t wrap his mind around this bizarre situation. He was seething, rage couldn’t comprehend what he felt. Her hand flew out and before he could come to the present, her hand had, cuffed him on the side of his head. He seized his head in his hands, the power of the strike made him lose his balance, although he quickly regained it.

He was thankful that dad made him get into the habit of always wearing his chunky work boots, they made it harder for one to fall. He laughed and started to howl, Layla’s face turned to one of fear, her eyes flying everywhere, to find out what he was laughing at only when she found nothing, she started to plead for his forgiveness. It made him recall how he would mess up on a hunt and dad would tear into him, and he pled for him to rethink.

She fled to his side trying; to sympathize with him, he just continued to laugh. It became contagious and it was infecting his entire body he shook and trembled as he clutched his arms across his belly the burning igniting. He crafted a plan, once she grew close enough, he could grab the knife behind his belt; to kill her. To make everything go back to what he knew as normal, he just needed to be patient to make her come close.

He stood back up, his posture returning as he elevated his head. Peering his eyes onto her, he held one hand against her waist and shoved her closer “I knew it would only have to take a town for you to come around,” she giggled sheepishly, she patted his spiked hair, it rose back into its form when her hand came to his face.

Her tight-lipped smile reminded him of one his mother used to give him when he was a baby, just more things to add onto the pile of her delusion. His free hand came to rest on the hold, he leaned closer his face mere inches from her “I know, how foolish I was, to ever reject your offer of this world.” He nearly lost it as his brain tried to keep up with his tongue.

“Oh, that’s it! There you go I knew you had it in you!’ she exclaimed giddily as she jumped in his arms, he was going to take the longest of showers once he got home. If he gets home.

He realized it was a more sinister version of the wizard of oz. “We should have a baby, I want him to look just like you, we should get married. Wouldn’t that be wonderful, Dean?!” Her face was full of amusement and it would have been a hilarious joke if she intended for it to be one. “We can have the life that you’ve always wanted, it will be perfect!” she squealed and Dean almost ruined it entirely by saying ‘yeah, but not with your psycho ass.’ he persisted against it since it would hurt her feelings.

“Yeah, babe, it would,” he murmured, he muffled a curse when she moved from his grasps and he let his hand fall, careful to not let her know his intentions. Her face pursed as she wrapped her arms around her now fragile form, she began to cry and Dean almost wasted it as she threw a tantrum.

“Y-You're going to leave me! You’re such a liar!” She screeched and pointed a blind finger his way. He rolled his eyes, annoyed with her outbreak, he reached out trying to negotiate her into believing her fairytale “Baby, I’d never, I swear!” he pleaded, it suggested to him of her from earlier.

She sucked in her lip like a toddler would do once it was upset, this scenario seemed to have no difference. “You went off, married her, and had a kid! It should’ve been me!” she sobbed, the soft orange turning into a black and blue storm streaks of white running through them as lightning struck.

Dean’s eyes couldn’t believe what was happening, he regretted not taking the chance when she gave him the opportunity. “Sweetheart, listen, it was only because I didn’t know where you were! you have to believe me! Sam and I travel all over the country.

We miss people we’ve left!” The worry that showed through Dean’s voice and the expression he played was picture-perfect, sometimes it scared him from how good of a liar he was. She lifted her gaze from the dark green embryo of grass and to where he slowly stalked his way towards her, his steps careful and calculated one odd foot turn and his plan would be ruined.

His life would be thrown away with it. Her words blubbered into a sentence disputing him if he was being honest. He pledged and she allowed him to envelop her into his clutch, he wrapped his arms around her, a tight embrace, and before she could run he plunged the knife into her heart.

Her eyes widened and blood ran down her face as her knees buckled and she fell to the muddy ground the rain began to fall, she clutched the blade in her small decaying hand. The stench of decomposing flesh crashed it’s way back into his poisoned lungs. He clawed at his throat in a frantic need to allow oxygen to come, although it didn’t.

He fell onto the soft forest pillows and his head collided against the earth’s cement of a sidewalk knocking him unconscious.

Dean’s eyes fluttered open as he took in his new surroundings; the back seat of his Baby. He rubbed at the side of his head it was horribly sore and throbbing while the tips of his calloused hand came in contact with the white bled through gauze that was bandaged tightly around his head.

He laid back down with a huff of exasperation escaping him, he decided it was best to not question anything for it would give him a bigger headache than the one he already has. He flattened out on the plush black leather, his back straightened, and he was thankful he kept her in such good shape from so many years. He gripped at the side of his arm, confusion ran through when he didn’t feel the brown leather on his skin.

Where is his jacket? He would panic, but the emptiness of the lost feeling of everything grew. His head was turned up somewhat as he watched the coral broken trees whizz past as they drove on, he twisted his head to the side, curious to see who the driver was and had seen Sam in the driver's seat. He looked strangely orderly despite what he had been through, Layla not have an effect on him? He would have given him a lecture of how Sam knew driving was off-limits, but the weight of his head made him slump into the same position as when he woke.

Sam's hollow voice rang out "I knew about her Dean, I'm sorry I thought it would have been better if we tried to find her again. I asked Lyala to find her, and well I think she took a liking to you. I'm sorry about everything, I have a new lead." Sam's eyes glanced every few seconds in the rearview to see Dean's reaction. So he knew and didn't want to tell that he happened to have a son and a wife? He felt betrayed but more disappointed than anything. He put a hand to his face and rubbed away the despair "Bitch."

He let out Sam smiled and rolled his eyes "Jerk." Despite that everything seemed to be back to normal, except for Dean's heart. He felt misplaced and ashamed, he didn’t save them that was the whole point.

He couldn’t even do what he’s perfected, so what was wrong with him? He felt disappointed in himself, he failed. But he knew one thing, and that thing was; no matter at what cost, he will never stop trying to have that dream life with,

you.

A/N; How does it feel to have read ten pages of supernatural fanfiction? I wrote this in response to the end coming near and the boys’ troubles throughout the years.

Not everything is and will ever be; wrapped in a pretty red bow like the show displays, yet a ratty shredded one that’s falling apart like Dean's mental stability. When I wrote this I had a general idea of what I wanted, of incorporating how the hunts were.

Dean's jacket and accessories, some of the edge that the creators planned on giving him but couldn't afford. But then things got into the way of me finishing it.

This was intended to be released on September 2nd of 2020 but got delayed and the only thing that kept me going was to show Dean in a new light and how I see him.

I hope I did my job well enough for you to understand!

#fanfic #fluff #dean winchester x reader #sam winchester #supernatural #xreader #dean winchester #sam winchester x reader #angst #sad fic #bad dad #alternate universe #dark fic #sappy shit #sam winchester x reader angst

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photiniainsummer · 3 years

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A Little Audience Participation Can Tip the Scales (4/?): Curiosity Killed the Cat...

Genre: GenFic - Action, Mystery, Humor

Rating: Teen and Up

Story Summary: There’s a strange group living at the old Markiplier Manor.

They’re the villains of their tales, they’re looking for information, and they need your help putting Mark’s scattered egos back together to get their lives back.

And stop Mark and the Entity breaking reality.

Small goals.

(Second Person POV, vaguely fem-coded Reader)

Chapter Summary: The one where you almost die.

Word Count: 5407

Author’s Note: I promise we're almost to the real meat of things - let me know what you think!! :)

On Ao3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30510852/chapters/76436726

Curiosity Killed the Cat...

“Oh, come on,” you sigh, easily opening the metal door at the bottom of the outdoor staircase to Jonah’s apartment. He’s forgotten to lock it for the thousandth time, which always makes you slightly anxious - something you could really do without right now. His carelessness never ceases to amaze you; you’d gotten copies of the keys to both his doors early on in your friendship because the man could barely go a night out on the town without losing them. You’re the only reliable person that’s also foolish enough to go out drinking with him, so he dubbed you his personal keeper of the keys. At first it had been a mantle you bore begrudgingly, but it had been a big part of you two becoming so close - having to drunkenly help someone into their own apartment will really bond folks, you had learned. So far, you’ve never needed to use them without with him around, nor had you let anyone else borrow them, even for a bit of light pranking. Maybe it’s silly, but if you’re honest with yourself, the simple key ring feels like Jonah’s trust embodied. Nothing so far has proved to be worth more than that to you. Ascending the old stairs, you wonder if he’s noticed.

So far, your plan to check up on the crime reporter is not turning out to be the quick detour you had hoped. Lunch hour traffic had eaten into your hour and some change, and Thistle, the owner and proprietor of the downstairs combination health store/cafe had been no help. He had been busy serving up roasted halloumi paninis when you poked your head in a few minutes ago, and after investing time into waving off his concern about your busted-up face you’d found that he hadn’t seen hide nor hair of Jonah since he’d left for work yesterday morning. “I went out before he got back, I suppose, and I was horribly drowsy this morning - big night,” he’d said with a wink. “So he could’ve left this morning and I just didn’t notice.” When his lack of information only deepened the furrow you’d been carrying in your brow all day, Thistle had pulled an apologetic expression before trying to sell you a CBD tincture for wrinkles.

The bushy-bearded man could be like that - simultaneously thoughtful and mildly insulting - but he made a mean panini, so you had taken one at his insistence. As much of a bust catching up with him had been, given how long-winded and very intent his sales pitches can be, you’re glad that you at least won’t go back to the office hungry. The sandwich’s warmth leaks through the paper bag at your side as you knock on Jonah’s door. It’s a beat-up thing, paint-chipped and worse for wear. Its best feature is that it keeps a whopping three-quarters of the rain out. It looks even more crooked than the last time you were here, something you hadn’t thought possible, and you make a mental note to rag Jonah to have his landlord fix it properly this time.

You listen for the man’s tell-tale heavy footsteps, wondering if he had just taken the day off. Maybe he unplugged the landline and curled up in bed to mope all day about not getting to go on your great adventure to the Manor. It sounded like something he might do - although the thought of all you’d been through as a ‘great adventure’ feels like the most gross mischaracterization you can think of. But here you’d be, banging on his door, a nervous wreck under your extensively bruised surface, having run halfway across town because he hasn’t called you back. He’d look at you like you were nuts and tease you mercilessly, you know. How did people cope before cell phones, you wonder, knocking again. Regardless of what Jonah might say, you’d happily bear the embarrassment for the comfort of seeing him in the flesh. Something really isn’t sitting right with you about all this.

“Jonah? It’s me, I brought lunch,” you call for good measure. Maybe food would tempt him out, if he was wallowing around inside and being a big ol’ sad sack. As you wait a little longer, you lean over slightly to the nearby window. Against your better judgement, you check for wrinkles. It’s not so much that you mind having them, if you do, but you hadn’t noticed them happening. Is time really moving so quickly, ravaging you already? You twist a few errant bits of your curly bangs to get them to hang right and peer at yourself, raising your brows and lowering them, just to see. Sure enough, a few persistent, thin lines remain when you relax your brow. Then you furrow it, even as you know it’s counterproductive. Cool, cool cool cool. Next will be the gray hairs. Maybe I need to drink more water…?

You meet your reflection’s gaze properly. You look more tired than usual, that’s for sure, and your bruises don’t really lend toward a relaxed expression. Your brow is slightly drawn up, stuck in a constant flinch against the steady, low-level pain of your sore face. It draws a sigh out of you - either you’re exhausted by it or you’re relaxing now that you’re conscious of it, but which one isn’t clear. At least that deer-in-the-headlights look you’d caught in the shattered mirror at the Manor hadn’t stuck around. That memory alone is enough to remind you that these aren’t normal circumstances, that nothing about this is normal by any stretch of the imagination. You realize just how much you can’t wait for this all to be over, for the simple explanation to win out and for your nerves to take a breather. Once we get all this sorted out, I’ll take a serious couple of naps, eat at least one vegetable, and I’ll be good as new. The thought sounds a lot more optimistic than you feel.

Finally, realizing nobody’s coming and Jonah is probably out, you resignedly turn from your self-involved and low-key mope session and make to descend the stairs and head back to work. But your eyes catch something as they unfocus from your own reflection, and you turn back to the window.

You can see into Jonah’s living room, which is odd, since you’re certain this window had blinds the last time you were here. Looking up, you realize said blinds hang at a sharp angle, half-torn from their molding and revealing the inside of the apartment. It’s a complete wreck. Furniture is overturned and papers are everywhere, as if a bomb had gone off.

“Jonah?” Your voice sounds unfamiliar, distant and panicked, as you knock on the door more insistently. It swings loosely inward from the force, the deadbolt already having been snapped through the weak wood of the doorframe. What the busted door reveals is much worse than the snapshot the window provided. Nothing is where it’s meant to be - pictures lie shattered on the floor or hang at strange angles from their nails; books’ pages are torn from their spines and scattered around; the floor is covered in a thin layer of cotton and feathers, the guts of cushions turned outward and furniture torn open. It’s devastating and all-encompassing, and you can barely process the wreckage laid out before you.

I should go get Thistle, is your first thought. Get someone, call the police, get away and get safe, is your second. Whoever had done this could still be inside, and you are now a witness. They could walk out from the back at any moment. They could be armed. But what if Jonah’s still inside, is your third and most arresting thought. Thistle had said he never heard him leave this morning, and he’d been out last night -- how recently had this happened? Your mind works quickly. It would have had to be at least some time between yesterday evening and now, of course, but there was no telling for certain. He could still be in here. He could be hurt. He could be dead.

Stepping over the threshold, you work to steady your breathing, which has become shallow in the shock. Like hell you’re going to ditch without even checking if he’s inside, attacker be damned. The part of the wall where the deadbolt typically slides into place is now splintered outward, ugly and sharp, and as you shut the door behind you, the piece of metal easily but ineffectually returns home. The metal casing from the doorframe lies discarded on the floor among the rest of the wreckage. Nearby are bits of shattered plastic, and tracking them to their source reveals the remains of an old landline. The cord has been pulled from the wall, the body broken open so its wiring curls in sad gnarls. It brings a new meaning to the line being ‘dead,’ you think humorlessly, but you have at least one more answer than you did before - Jonah didn’t answer this morning because he couldn’t. And yet, this only leaves you with a whole new pile of questions.

You move cautiously through the ruined apartment, not wanting to disturb the wreckage more than you have to. You’re already considering the inevitable police investigation, and you are going to make damn sure the police have as much unsullied evidence as they can find to put Jonah’s attacker away. Or attackers. You stop by his CD shelf - something you had teased him mercilessly for having the first time you visited because, seriously, who still has a CD shelf? It lies bare, now, contents scattered on the floor, but thankfully undisturbed behind it is a baseball. Jonah keeps it for moments like this, you imagine. Although, the hypothetical scenarios he had prepared for had probably involved him being the one wielding it You lift the bat to your shoulder. Just in case.

You continue your search, into the tiny half-room Jonah generously calls his study. Despite the room being equally torn apart as the rest of the apartment, the blinds here are intact. You crane your neck to see through their slits, careful not to touch them, wondering if something lies behind. Past the fire escape on the other side of the glass, the side of the neighboring building fills the window’s view. Directly across is a large window, propped open, curtains dancing slightly in the breeze. Without the blinds here, whoever lives next door would have a perfect view in, if they had a care to look. Someone was careful. Turning around, you can fully take in both the study and dining area - and the scope of their destruction. Sunlight falls across it all, cheerily at odds with how the floors are barely visible for the wreckage. There’s a path where you picked your way through, but otherwise it is trashed. Every shelf is laid bare.

Suddenly, a realization makes the hair on your neck prickle. As chaotic and troubling as the scene is, it isn’t random. The destruction is consistent - there is no corner untouched. No book remains intact, no container or bit of furniture unturned.

This isn’t random violence. It’s too careful. Like with the blinds being left up to shield the wreckage from prying eyes. Someone had come here, intentionally, and they had been looking for something. They had no idea where it could have been, but they were thorough in their search.

Had they found it?

You’re getting distracted, you’re not a cop building out a crime scene. You’re here to find Jonah and make sure he’s okay. Readying your bat in case you’re about to startle his attacker out of hiding, you call out. “Jo…?” Your voice betrays you, shaking. You clear your throat and push on. “It’s me, are you here?” No response, so you move through the mess more quickly, now. If whoever did this had found what they were looking for, they would have left Jonah behind. What state they would have left him in, though, is what you’re not sure of.

You worm around his overturned drafting desk table and check the back rooms. His bathroom and bedroom are a similar mess, clothes turned inside out and dumped everywhere, his medicine cabinet hanging open and the floor a mess of pill bottles and half-used shampoo. But there’s no sign of life. And no blood, either, you note with not a small bit of relief. You poke around the piles of Jonah’s clothes scattered through the bedroom and hallway, just to make sure he’s not hidden under them and wounded before returning to the study.

You feel lost, pumped full of adrenaline yet without an outlet. There aren’t any obvious clues to where Jonah could be, or where he could have gone. Had they taken him? Moreover, who had taken him, and why? What could Jonah have done to warrant… this? Taking a steadying breath, you pull your phone from your pocket, deciding that getting the police involved is the next logical step.

Then, voices, footsteps on the metal staircase.

Your heart rate shoots up as you strain your ears to pick out the voices, but they aren’t familiar tones. Without thinking and with your panic rising, you dive under Jonah’s upended desk, crouching yourself into a ball in the small space it makes between a bookshelf and the wall. It’s close, a little dark, and your breathing seems to echo in it - too loud and too hot all at once. Ignoring how your knees protest against the sudden, tight position, you press yourself further into the corner as the front door creaks open again.

“Je-sus, they really tore the shit out of this place.”

“Yup. Had to make sure he wasn’t hiding anything else, apparently. Muscle found a couple copies of stuff he’d hidden in different places, trying to be real slick, so they went through with a fine-toothed comb for good measure.” The first voice, reedy and exasperated, sighs and shuffles their feet.

“Really doesn’t make our job any easier. How’re we supposed to make any of this look normal? It’s insane.”

“That’s out of my pay grade, and yours. They’ll… put a dog in here or something, say it went bonkers being locked up alone. Give it a few days, it’ll live the mess in. But we gotta get it at least kind of decent, first. Now c’mon, help me with this couch.” The apparent clean-up crew shuts the door behind them and begins to shuffle around in the mess of Jonah’s apartment.

Your mind reels - so Jonah had been snatched up by god knows who, had been hiding files in his apartment, and now they were going to make it look like the break-in was… what, an accident? Like he had disappeared and left everything a wreck himself? What were they going to do with him? Unfortunately, you can’t say that this is the first time he’s gotten his nose in too deep about something, but you would have thought he had learned his lesson after his brush with being harassed and the rigamarole of getting restraining orders in place.

As sleepy as your city can be, there are a few folks everyone knows not to mess with. Everyone, of course, except Jonah, at least in any delicate sort of way. You laud him for his commitment even when the police balk from digging deeper, for being so full up with righteous fury that he puts stories to print as soon as he can. Even on the politics beat, you’ve come across your fair share of illicit wheeling and dealing - but there are ways to sound them out, you’ve learned how to sit on things and work with authorities until the time is right and publishing your piece won’t put you in imminent danger. Jonah, despite having a good number of years on you, seems not to have picked up on the same lessons. That, or he’s too committed to care. You mentally flip through the last few cases he’s mentioned that could be possible explanations, but nothing comes close to deserving something like this. Except…

But it seems ridiculous, like a murder mystery novel. There is no way whatever is going on surrounding Mark could possibly warrant Jonah being straight up kidnapped.

A heavy thud shakes the floor, and the deeper voice of the second intruder curls itself around some colorful curses.

“My foot was there, dumbass-”

“Maybe you oughtta move it, then,” the first snaps. The second seems to lose whatever is left of their patience, grunting in frustration.

“What the hell is going on with you? You’ve an attitude all damn day, I’m not doing this job with you in a huff.” It goes quiet, and after a while, the first intruder sighs.

“...I dunno. Johnny was just. He was running off at the mouth, you know him. It’s nothing.”

“Like hell it’s nothing, got you all worked up like this.” Another sigh. Is this… are they really doing a debrief in the middle of covering up a crime scene? You try to keep your breathing quiet as they continue.

“Basically called me too dumb to move up to internal affairs,” the first mumbles.

“Oh, hell, I’m gonna pull Johnny’s head out of his ass just so I can shove it back up there myself next time I see him. You know that’s bull, they said you just needed that computer class, right? Come on, what is it Mark always says?”

There’s a pause, but finally the first answers in a tone not unlike a sullen teenager. “...life is ours to choose.”

“There you go. And he runs us on that, right? And you’re choosing to move up, right? So he’ll see that, and I bet he’ll promote you soon as you graduate. Now c’mon get that look off your face and let’s get this done, huh? Dinner’ll be on me, and so will Johnny’s next knuckle sandwich.”

The pair returns to their work, but under the desk, a coldness has seized you. This cinched it - as absolutely insane as it sounds, it couldn’t possibly be a coincidence that these goons were answering to someone named Mark, cleaning up the kidnapping scene of someone who had been secretly digging into the mysterious history of a dead man with the same name. That the kidnapped man had only gotten suspicious because he works at one paper out of many that have been erasing or squashing any mention of said dead man, despite him being a native and a once-celebrity. That said paper, despite its lead editor’s obsession with careful filing, was missing any of those nixed stories. And that same filing system had been hiding a thick file, seemingly addressed to the dead man himself. Maybe you’re taking too many liberties, too many leaps in reasoning, but… despite how tenuous it all feels, it’s too much to ignore anymore.

How long had all of this been going on, right under all your noses? You feel sick, like the biggest idiot in the world - like you’ve been going about your life blindfolded all the while walking dangerously close to a cliff’s edge. Jonah had been the only one to see it clearly, and still, look where that got him. You remember the men at the office, Walker’s scared gaze. Had they been there about Jonah? If they had been here first and not found what they were looking for…

The folder’s weight in your bag, still slung across your chest, seems to chain you to the lightly feather-covered floor. Your heart pounds against your ribs, thunders in your ears. And god, your head aches like hell, everything just too much as you try to keep your breathing quiet. No wonder the men at the Manor had been so paranoid about you. If Mark could pull off something like this, disappear someone and send people to both destroy their place and clean it up to make it look like something else, all for just digging around on him, you’d be paranoid of anyone who suddenly busted into your hideout.

Well. You’d be paranoid anyway. But doubly so.

You know there’s no way you can stay here. The two workers are busying themselves around the apartment, the first apparently comforted enough by the second’s threats of violence against Johnny to hop to it. Discussing how to organize their approach, you can tell they’ll move on to the study soon enough. But they’re between you and the front door, will definitely get a head start on you as you awkwardly crawl out from behind the desk to escape. You could push it suddenly toward them once they were close, psyche them out and make a break for it while they’re startled. Which will only work if they’re close enough together and don’t flank you…

As you fumble for another option, the blinds behind you bounce slightly against the windowsill. A soft breeze caresses your face. Turning, you can see that the window is slightly open. Backlit by the afternoon sun, the dark metal of the fire escape casts a shadow across your face. There. It’ll be tight, but you can definitely crawl through the window from where you are without having to reveal your presence. At least, you won’t before you have the window between you and the clean-up crew. Then it’s just get down the escape before they do and book it as fast as you can.

As it’s the only route you can think of that doesn’t involve having to fight the men off, you decide it’s your best bet. Quietly scooting yourself toward the window, you crane your neck to ascertain the workers’ lines of sight. They’re occupied in the living room, trying to wade through the mess of stuffing and ripped up pages, well enough away and not looking in your general direction. You take your chance. You slip your hand behind the blinds and push up on the window.

The squeak it emits as it sticks, then rises sharply as you push it harder could shatter eardrums.

You only vaguely note the exclamations of the pair as panic overtakes you. Pushing out from behind the desk and under the blinds, you fling yourself out onto the sun-baked fire escape. The sunlight crashes down around you, forcing you to squint as you land and immediately scramble back to the window to close it. You shove down on it as hard as you can and the old thing jams crookedly in the casing with barely a half inch of space open at the bottom. Panicked fingers poke out from under it, trying to pull it up to no avail. The men holler in frustration behind the trembling blinds. With no time to waste, you turn and begin descending the metal scaffolding at a quick clip.

You stop, though, as you recognize a pair of broad shoulders at the mouth to the side alley you’re perched above. Even from a distance, just from the way he holds himself, you can tell it’s one of the burly men from the office. The cold feeling of the scar-faced man’s gaze fresh in your mind, you spin on your heel and hurry back up the shaky steps. You’ll find another path down somehow, you’re sure of it. The workers are still desperately attempting to open the window as you pass, your fast steps rattling the metal beneath your feet and only inciting their ire. “Hey, hey, get back here! Get-- Laney, go get the guys, go-”

But your panicked pace has already alerted ‘the guys’ to your presence - the sound of the shaking metal echoing clearly in the tight brick alleyway has seen to that. As you take the next flight, you can see that the man at the entrance to the alley is already closing the distance to the bottom of the escape. Heart leaping in further panic, you will your legs to go faster as you climb, tightly rounding the bend on each flight of the stairs. The building is only a few stories tall, so you quickly reach the top. Your hands grasp your bag tightly to your chest to keep it from slapping against your legs as you start to run across the roof, just trying to put distance between you and whoever is making chase.

But you have no idea where you’re running to.

Jonah’s building backs up to another, slightly taller one, and so you cross the roof and scramble over the small wall that divides them. You check this building for a way down, swearing when there’s no obvious rooftop entrance to the building nor fire escape. The next building is too close to warrant one, but pushing yourself onward, you hop easily across to it. Nothing here, either, so you hurry across to the next, and the next, each time pulling yourself up the small walls or crossing the short gaps between the buildings. Your hands quickly get rubbed raw, chest aching with hard breaths. You hear yelling from behind you, now, multiple voices calling and the sound of pounding feet. The sun is hot, beating down on you as you force your legs to pump, to keep going, leaving off searching for an escape in favor of just trying to lose your pursuers. You cross building after building, thankful for a reason you never would have imagined before now that Jonah had decided to live near the densely-packed shopping district.

Your luck soon runs out, though. Now out of the dense, main collection of antique shops and specialty grocers, the buildings grow farther and farther apart. Your jumps leave you more and more startled when you land them, the last one far enough that you can’t even control your fall onto it, smacking into the roofing gravel hard. It finds you, but you’re in full panic mode at this point, run ragged, exhausted, and still having to push onward. From the dusty, gravely concrete, though, you see the scarred man steadily approaching, taking the jumps between buildings in stride. Whoever he was with before that you heard yelling must have peeled off, leaving just the two of you.

You push yourself to your feet, palms burning from being so skinned up and pushed into the hot, dirty roof. Your body hurts all over, something you’d think you would have gotten used to by now. As you turn to continue onward, you find yourself limping slightly, leg aching although it’s not clear if it’s just a cramp from your panicked run or something worse. Regardless, you find that the next gap between buildings is shorter than the last one, for sure. I can make it.

“There’s no point,” the man calls. “Even if you get away, I know you. Where you work… Where you live will be easy.” You turn now to see the imposing man, still on the opposite roof. He stands there, watching you with that same cold stare, his voice so assured it makes you sick. As if he knows you’ll give in, that he’s already won. “And I know you have something that belongs to my boss. So why not make this easy and just give it to me now.”

You edge back slightly toward the next gap, and the man’s face twitches. You still have energy left, air in your lungs. This isn’t over. But maybe if you can keep him talking… “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He stares you down. “You’re familiar enough with our work, now, I think. Your friend’s car, his apartment... I just want the file, don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

“Just leave me alone, all I know is that you started chasing me--”

The man growls and suddenly rears himself back. He leaps, landing on the roof only a few short feet away from you. It’s freaky, nothing about the motion feeling real or like something any human could do. It’s like a movie. You stumble backward toward the edge, leg bumping against the ledge. It twinges painfully. The man rises up and begins to approach, one pale, thick hand extending toward you. His scar is so obvious in the sun, from this close. His eyes are so cold.

“Give me the file.”

“Get away from me, I don’t. I don’t have any file.” You’ve apparently run out of lies for the day - it sounds weak, even to your ears. You step up onto the ledge, ignoring how your leg protests, readying to jump. Below you is a steep, multi-story drop into a trash-filled alley below. If you took a leading step, you could make the jump, though, you’re certain of it. But your heart is racing, your thoughts spinning. What if I fall? What if he grabs me? The man is approaching quickly now that you’ve stepped up, and you wind back.

“Just give it to me, and we can make this all go away…” His powerful hand reaches out, within your arm’s length, looking as if he’s offering to take your hand. Time seems to slow to a crawl around you. The man’s hand continues toward you as you make for the edge. You turn to face the open air, but your body feels like lead moving through deep water. The next building over is so close - maybe he won’t make this one, and you can get away properly.

You take the last step and leap. Pain spikes through your leg as you shove off, but you push as hard as you can.

As soon as your ascent begins, you know you won’t make it. You didn’t have enough lead-up, your push-off hindered by whatever you’ve done to your leg. Gravity quickly reasserts itself, and you’re falling. You twist in the air, curling around your bag to keep it from being snatched. Turning to face the sky above, you see the man still reaching for you, the sun catching in every drop of sweat on his bulging face as he hangs over the edge. Even shaded from behind, his cold eyes, lit with fury, are still visible.

You shut your own then, the wind rushing up around you. You don’t want to see what it’s like when you hit the ground. Maybe someone will see you fall, find you and the file before the man can get off the rooftop. Maybe the police will get ahold of it (and your pursuer) and some random girl falling to her death will be the thing to blow Mark’s operation open. Maybe someone will find Jonah, if he’s still alive. How would that be for the end to a grand adventure? It’s so cheesy and stupid that all you can wonder, wryly, is this is really my last thought?

Your courageous self-sacrifice is rather rudely interrupted, though, as you’re seemingly hit by a freight train. Something solid going almost as fast as you are knocks the breath out of you, and the next thing you know, you’re tumbling across the ground ass over tea kettle.

When you come to a stop - surprise - everything hurts. It’s worse this time, though. Nothing feels like it’s in the right place anymore, your joints protesting like hell. You’ve never been hit by a car before, but you imagine this is what it might feel like. The sun is blinding you, and you wonder for a moment if what hit you was the pavement of the alley, if it had just knocked you out of your body and straight into heaven. Or whatever afterlife there might be. You’re no theological expert, but you feel like you recall that the afterlife isn’t supposed to hurt.

You groan, and a deep voice nearby echoes you, although it melts into a big belly laugh. Turning toward it and away from the sun, you blink your eyes open properly and relocate your limbs. Squinting past the spots in your eyes and the protesting of… well, every bit of you, you push yourself up and realize the owner of the voice is right here next to you, already starting to brush himself off. His dark hair is mussed and grass has stained his yellow button-up, but his crinkled-eye smile is the same as the night before. Another laugh bubbles out of Wilford, truly amused as you both come back to yourselves in the grass.

“Good lord, dear girl, you really don’t do things by half, eh?”

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