#Francis Crease

[insidemyrottenbrain]

Henry gets jealous because you spend time with Richard

The risk of jealousy - TSH

Henry Marchbanks Winter x GN!Reader

Dearest anonymous, I hope you can forgive him and his denial of jealousy.

The sharp claw of jealousy finally scratches the untouchable Henry.

I’ve always been incredibly particular about whom I associate with. The people around me need to be worthy. Now, I am well aware that my choice of words may make me sound arrogant, so allow me to explain: I want them to have shared interests, to be able to hold late-night debates on esoteric topics, while giving me a sense of belonging and consequently not tiring me out socially. I do not ask for much, really. Alas, one cannot always get what one desires.

The little group of which I’m currently a part of is… pleasant. The twins regularly host dinners which are, of course, the birthplace of many fights and arguments regarding the most trivial subjects that usually end up with Henry winning. Francis unhesitatingly puts his aunt’s house at our disposal whenever desiderium naturae strikes us and amusingly complains about some disease or other the whole way there. I even consider some of Bunny’s jokes witty on the rare occasions when he stops being insufferable. Unfortunately, they all give me a shallow sense of belonging that only manages to make itself felt in transit moments. However, Henry is different. With him, I feel content reading in silence after a long day, waking up in the same bed, legs intertwined under the soft cotton sheets he insists on buying with Apolon tugging at our lazy eyelids or simply challenging one another’s knowledge on whatever topic interests us at a given moment. A continuous childlike rendez-vous.

I do not know why I have been so platonically attracted to Richard of late. When he first joined our Greek class, he did not strike me as someone who would manage to integrate his lowly self into our complexly layered group, or even more, someone who would enjoy my presence. He was and still is flawed and ordinary. However, this normality flowing through every habit, every movement, or expression is a strange refresh in an intangible web of meticulously tangled appearances and facades. Richard is not some ancient scholar buried in paradoxical ideals, Gods-praising rituals, and glorious beliefs, but a modern human. He is aware of the current world, unisolated, present, an active participant. Not only does he attend parties but he also drinks, kisses, and loves strangers. Though an exaggeration to the unknowing eye, he seems to me quite the Epicurean in a cult of Stoics (excluding Bunny).

Despite my writings above which one might foolishly mistake as praise on my part, I must now dive into Richard’s own tendency to fictitiousness. He throws, here and there, long, lavish fabrications (with the aid of which he becomes unconsciously arrogant) and slight inexactitudes he considers too small to pass unnoticed by the attentive ear. And according to my fate and against my trusted intuition, I found myself unable to stop listening whenever he started talking about his (fake) childhood in California filled with swimming pools and orange groves and dissolute, charming show-biz parents, teenage years with a new girlfriend every night, the newest dramas (if they truly do exist and are not yet other fictions) circling Hampden.

There is a quirk. I notice it now, when we’re all standing in the day room of Francis’, or rather his aunt’s, manor. Charles is playing the piano filling the room with gifts for ears, showing off as he always does, while Bunny comments on one rhythm or another, challenging him, fueling him further. Everything is normal, except for one detail that does not escape me. Henry grows more agitated with every single one of Richard’s grant histoires. Albeit, the so-called agitations are rather minuscule, but I pride myself in being able to distinguish them. A small frown, creasing his pale forehead just the right amount for it to disappear just as quickly and nonchalantly as it came, a constant rub of his hand against his limped leg, and a novel proneness to small physical gestures: touching knees, pressing shoulders, his hand on the small of my back or idly playing with my fingers. I settle on questioning him later since I know he will not show any truths of his mind in such large company. 

We share a room, since we stopped bothering to hide our relationship long ago from the others. Henry’s already in bed, his nose buried in a book, dressed in his pyjamas, his initials embroidered upon the left side of his chest; H.M.W. If I had been told years ago that I was to be sharing a bed or be in a relationship with the person I suffered the least, the one that I had to compete with in Julian’s classes, the one that knew how to push my buttons I would have died of agony. But now I’m content. I know of the infatuation rendering me blind. My life has become a continuous torture, knowing that I wouldn’t be able to live without him. Just like Zeus who vows to fulfil his promise with a single sacred nod of his head, so am I unable to change the basis of my passion. He is in all my plans. In all the joys the future holds. In the dead of night, in Julian’s lessons, in the summer by the lake, instead of my mind’s eye being fully focused on one specific task, it always switches without fail to him.

I lower myself onto the bed next to him. “You seemed troubled earlier, in the day room.” I ask casually an indirect question.

“You’ve been spending an awful time with Richard.” He responds swiftly, tonelessly, simply pointing out a fact. 

I consider my answer for a moment. “I suppose so.” I hum, just as my head hits the pillow. “Don’t you find him intriguing? He watches the news on television.”

“Intriguing?” He blurts out, closing his book and putting it on the bedside table. Clearly, I have his attention. He turns on his side to fully face me, his hair falling over his forehead and slightly over his glasses. “His intriguing part eludes me. You are wasting your time with him, listening to his rambles.” He says clearly irritated, not bothering to keep up his stoic facade. “I assure you, you would be much better spending your time wisely.”

I frown. This is unusual of him. “He is in our class, is he not? I cannot avoid him.”

“Of course not, that’s not what I am suggesting.” His eyebrows remain furrowed. “What I do mean is that he does not bring you any benefit.” He continues in a monotone. “Why must you listen to him with the same attention and interest as you listen to me?”

Ah, I see. Henry is jealous.

“Is this jealousy?” I ask attempting desperately to restrain the slight smile forming on my face. 

“You are mistaken.” He ‘corrects’ me sharply, raising his eyebrows.  “I am merely stating that I see no point in your interactions with Richard when you could gain much more from being in my presence.”

I raise a sceptical eyebrow. He acts as if I wouldn’t mourn his death in the same way Achilles mourned Patroclus’, with rage and violence.

Words are imperfect communication devices, so I pull him down by the back of his neck and press my lips against his in a pleasant normality. I feel him slightly relax against me, his hand resting on my neck.

“Henry,” I mumble as we part, forcefully stretching our souls apart. I remove his glasses and place them down next to us and his forehead naturally falls against mine “you know better than to have such doubts.”

“I do.” He mumbles back, not bothering to deny his feelings anymore. “However, it proves to be quite difficult to not have them when-” He stops considering his words. “When you plague me so. There is no day or night in which your existence takes mercy on me and does not destroy the little rationality I have left.” He lowers himself down on the bed next to me. “You inexplicably and absurdly manage to be and eradicate my sanity.” He sighs. “And it certainly does not help when you look at Richard with the same eyes you look at me.” Henry mutters.

My hand finds his and I chuckle. “I’d argue I look at him with entirely different eyes.” At my comment, Henry raises an amused eyebrow. “Perhaps you’ll stop seeing shadows where there are none.”

That is all he needs to defeat his insomnia in my arms once again and to fall prey to sleep’s vicious grasp his body indistinguishable from mine under the sheets, sharing one breath.

[bullet-prooflove]

86: Richie Jerimovich x Reader

Tagging: @kmc1989 @lostinwonderland314 @fallout-girl219 @wabi-sabi1090 @morgthemagpie

Companion piece to:

One Night Stand (NSFW) - It was never meant to be more than a one night stand.

Old School - Richie and you prefer to do things old school.

Safe With You - Richie still has nightmares about how he found Michael.

Joy - The stabbing leads Richie to confront some of the doubts he has about himself.

All The Good Ones Are (NSFW) - Richie has never thought of himself as one of the good ones.

Happy Anniversary - Richie fucks up your first wedding anniversary.

Gift (NSFW) - Richie has always thought of you as a gift.

It’s set to be a busy weekend at The Bear, something Richie’s pleased to see as he studies the schedule in front of him. His finger runs down the list as he mentally catalogues the patrons, mentally arranging birthdays, surprises and all the other fun shit their patrons love. He’s halfway down Saturday’s guest list when a familiar name jumps out at him. His brow creases into a frown, his jaw clenching as he turns towards Sugar and says “We’re 86ing this jabroni.”

Sugar tilts her head as she studies the name before her gaze flickers up to meet Richie’s.

“That’s a two grand table.”

“And he’s a million dollar asshole.” Richie informs her as he hands back the book. “He’s out.”

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me?” Sugar responds, putting a hand on her hip. “It’s not like we’re rolling in money here, we can’t afford to 86 that amount of cash.”

“You said we each got a veto.” Richie reminds her, crossing his arms over his chest. “Francie Fak is yours and Peter Garbucci is mine.”

“You know what Francie Fak did to me.” She reminds him, her tone turning sharp, the way it always does when Francie’s name comes up. “What did this guy do to you?”

“Not to me.” Richie says, his palm rubbing over the back of his neck. “To Joy, he’s her ex-husband.”

“Oh.” Sugar says with understanding because the two of you have talked about your previous marriage, how soul destroying it was.

She can’t imagine what it was like being an afterthought to your husband, to be the thing that he forgets about until a dinner or a gala comes up and suddenly he needs to wheel you out for an appearance.

“You know the terrible shit he did to her.” Richie says quietly, his voice rough because he fucking hates that son of a bitch, that he made you feel anything less than the brilliant beautiful woman that you are. “The only way he eats here is over my dead body.”

“Agreed.” Sugar says as she scratches his name from the leatherbound appointment book and picks up the phone to cancel the booking.

When Richie comes home that evening he doesn’t tell you about Peter. He doesn’t want your ex-husband to infringe on the life the two of you have built together. You’re happy these days, a strong, confident woman with an infectious laugh and a smile that could light up the whole room.

He’s a little feral when he fucks you that night, his mouth ghosting over every inch of you as he chases your ecstasy with a persistence that borders on pathological. He spends hours building you up, making you climax against his mouth before he finally takes his pleasure.

“You’ve ruined me.” You tell him in the aftermath and he smiles against your lips because you really are the world to him and he’ll spend his entire life making sure you know it.

Love Richie? Don’t miss any of his stories by joining the taglist here.

Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[i-am-countess-olivia]

Some late night Fitzier snogging for you all, from the next chapter of Later.

—

Roused from shallow sleep by quiet scratching, he hauls up from the bed on legs like logs of frozen timber and, after steadying his heart and himself, carries the lamp to the door.

James slips inside through the narrow gap like a long, smiling shadow. Francis steps aside to let him through and scans him with the light: still in full dress but rumpled and without his gloves and boots. Toes flexing in stockings, hair falling in dark disarray, face creased with a smirk like a cat with cheeks full of canary. An over-tall, costumed boy who got away with it. Francis wants him more than air.

“You nodded off,” James says, a little taunting and extremely pleased.

Francis will not admit to it but yes: he may be too old for midnight trysts. Still, he’d not trade this meeting for the earth, even if at breakfast he’ll be a groggy boar.

He sets the lamp down. "Meanwhile you’re a state. What sort of look is this?"

James shrugs. "I undressed then dressed again." He raises a fresh grin. "I thought you'd want to take it off yourself."

He toys with Francis' fingers as he brushes past but Francis catches him by the captain's gold on his sleeve, tugs him back, draws him in. They gather in close, breath to breath.

"Good evening," James murmurs. He smells of brandy and fresh sweat, a bowlful of bruised plums left out in the sun.

"Were you much harassed tonight?" Francis asks, thinking of the newsmen. Unable to help it he's already started to fuss: smoothing stray hair, picking off lint, pinching at clothed flesh. Checking for damage.

James waves a hand dismissively between them, mouth twitching a downward bend. "Not more than usual. I fed the men from the paper a few tired lines then sent them Barrow's way. At dinner I spoke at length to Back. Or more accurately he spoke at me."

"I saw. God only knows why he's here, I thought he was taking the cure again. However did you survive him?"

James doesn't answer and shakes his head, gaze dancing about below brows newly sloped to a V. Francis last met Back in Italy in forty five: an ill man reeking of his own self-importance, all things Francis' James wishes himself not to be—

Warm hands surround his face in a broad clasp and James is kissing him with sudden heat, an insistent force that melts and moulds them to each other until Francis, overwhelmed, tapers them off with ever smaller pecks.

"Soft, James. Easy now,” he murmurs. Then carelessly he adds: "You smell of drink."

"So kiss me somewhere else," James says hotly then drops his eyes and huffs a breath. “Forgive me.”

It twists Francis up inside when he recalls, at times like these, how much James longs to be good.

James kisses his cheek, almost chaste. “Only I thought you would want this," he says plaintively, "after earlier—“

At all this demurring Francis grows weak and cares not one bit if it’s insincere. He takes pity. He slings James' arms onto his shoulders, brings them flush and pushes until James' back thuds into a wall.

James strains forward with parted lips. Francis bars them with a spread of his fingers.

"Be patient. Tilt your head back a little— yes, like this."

Head back, grasping fistfuls of Francis' shirt, James licks his lips and watches him from under heavy lids. Francis goes to it with all deliberation: with fingertips he maps out every inch of that remarkable jaw, thumbs over James' chin then dips into the knotted silk at James' throat. Not to untie, not yet — only to make room to slot four fingers underneath. There to feel for heat and damp and heart, a little nest of living James for him to nestle up to. For a moment he rests under the fabric against tacky, prickly skin, savouring, drinking through his fingers. Then he caresses, and bends to James' pulse.

Nothing matters to him more than the sweet, hot proof of life he mouths and licks and grazes with his teeth. He tears at James’ cravat, listens to his delighted groans and thinks of him near death. Of the howling desperation, of how he almost asked Bridgens for a razor. I’ll do it gladly. I'll have him suckle my open wrists like a babe until I'm gone and he is well.

“You know, it's all right, Francis," James sighs.

“Hm?” Francis murmurs into the dark drowning pool of his throat.

"I prefer it like this. Slow. When you go slow. It's like—" His breath hitches as Francis' teeth scrape and he doesn't say.

Like coming about into a warm wind, Francis thinks and makes his way up to his lips.

[mediocrecowboyhat]

Set in sand - Chapter 22

We mark the year 1934 and a peculiar journal falls into your hands. It's telling the tale of an outlaw and the downfall of a gang. Some pages are torn and others are downright unreadable, but nevertheless, you are still able to make out some parts of the tragic story.

With the help of a certain time traveler friend of yours, will you be able to save the author of the journal or will you be the cause for his demise?

Previous chapter - Next chapter

Word count: 4k

TW: end-game spoilers will be mentioned very early on in the story, 18+ MDNI, sexual themes, violence, gore, death, misogynistic themes (anything that happens in the game as well), she/her pronouns

"Who pissed in your coffee this mornin'?" Sadie seems to materialize out of nowhere next to you and you let out a startled gasp at her sudden appearance.

"What do you mean?", you breathe out and she eyes you from top to bottom. You squirm under her intense stare.

"You look like you're ready to stab a man for breathing wrong."

I do?

A sigh escapes you and you run a hand over your face. It doesn't come as a surprise to you that your fight with Arthur yesterday has left it's mark on you. There surely are some words and actions you regret, but it's as if the outlaw has been swallowed by the earth.

Earlier today, or rather right after you woke up, your eyes were scanning the camp in hopes to catch him, but he was nowhere to be seen. That still is the case. At this point, you might need an iron to straighten out the deep crease between your eyebrows.

"Don't tell me there's trouble in paradise." Sadie rips you out of your thoughts with a teasing smirk plastered on her face. Once she notices that you don't find her joke amusing at all, the smirk falters and her expression turns into a more serious one. "Shit, do you...uh wanna talk 'bout that?"

Even though the question comes out as awkward as can be, you appreciate her efforts to be there for you. Maybe that's good. Maybe what you need right now is a distraction.

You give your surroundings a quick look-over to make sure no one is standing close enough to hear you. Afterwards you tell her what happened after Arthur fixed up your shoulder, intentionally leaving out the part where you two almost kissed of course.

Sadie stays silent the entire time, only nodding every now and then to indicate that she's listening. Once your story comes to an end, she shakes her head and looks at something in the distance.

"He'll come around, trust me. My Jakey...", she speaks up and kicks a pebble away. It takes a second for her to continue and when she does, it's with a strained face. "As wonderful as he was, he could still be a moron sometimes. But we always figured things out at the end and so will you."

"I'm just scared that he won't stop pushing me away.", you admit hesitantly. These thoughts have been plaguing you all night and all day and you're afraid that, now that you voiced them out loud, they might come true.

"I heard from the others that he had a pretty unfortunate love life before he met you. What was her name again? Mary? They were serious, right?"

You nod before answering. "They were engaged, but she left him eventually. Married someone else after that."

"Jesus.", she breathes out with a surprised huff and crosses her arms infront of her chest.

You recall Mary's words from back in Saint Denis, when Arthur went to get her brooch back and left you two alone. She told you that it would work out for you and him. The memory sends a stinging pain through your chest and you immediately shake it off.

It will be fine, I had told Francis. Nothing will go wrong, I had said.

Thinking about your old friend, makes your lips curl up into a bittersweet smile. He would be so incredibly pissed if he'd know what you've been doing this entire time. Robbing, killing, fooling around with outlaws.

Only that it feels anything but fooling around when it comes to Arthur. Every private and intimate moment with that man always leaves you dreaming and hoping, fantasizing about a life together. Do you have the same effect on him? Is that the reason he's pushing you away?

Sadie bumps her shoulder against yours (your good shoulder, thankfully), startling you. Something flickers in her brown eyes. Something mischievous.

"Come on. We're leavin'." With that, she strolls towards the horses and you hastily follow her.

"To where?", you ask, confusion lacing your voice.

"You promised to take me out of the camp, didn't you?" She throws you a knowing look over her shoulder and mounts a horse. As puzzled as you are, you still mimick her actions and get ontop of Penthesilea.

"But we were talking about jobs. Sadie, I don't really think that robbing a homestead is going to make me feel better."

Her long, blonde hair falls over her shoulders in waves as she tilts her head back to laugh. "No! We're just gonna take a walk in town, do some sightseein', maybe visit a saloon."

All that sounds harmless enough, but knowing Sadie, that could very well change throughout the day. Going out with her will either end with the both of you absolutely hammered and having to go through a hellish hangover the next day or you find yourself running from a bunch of lawmen.

Now that you think about it, you probably shouldn't narrow it down to just the law. She isn't picky when it comes to pissing off people. Excited laughter cuts through the air, drowning out the sound of your horses' hooves and you can't help but smile, seeing your friend like this.

"It'll be fun! I can feel it!", she shouts in your direction and you sigh in amusement.

"As long as you behave.", your voice comes out in a teasing tone and she furrows her eyebrows as she looks at you.

"I can behave."

"Sure. Arthur told me what a normal shopping trip with you looks like."

An offended gasp can be heard from her and she places a hand on her chest, clutching her non-existent pearls. "I can't believe he'd go behind my back like this and tell you."

The rest of the ride to Saint Denis goes by with some more banter and chatter and you hitch your horses on the side of the road once you make it to the center. You're not sure if you will ever get used to the smell here.

"How's your shoulder?", Sadie asks and your eyebrows shoot up in surprise. With everything that's been happening, you totally forgot about that bruise of yours. Whatever cream Arthur used on you, it's doing fantastic work.

Your fingers carefully press against your shoulder and a mild, dull pain spread in your arm. Granted, you should probably still take it a bit easy, but all in all your arm is almost fully functional again. "Pretty good actually."

"Good enough to get rowdy tonight?" A sinister smirk tugs at the corners of her mouth and you shoot her a warning look.

"No fighting.", you say in a firm tone.

"Of course!" She snickers, making it obvious that getting into trouble is exactly what she was thinking of. "I meant drinks."

"Yeah. Sure."

With it being noon at the moment, you don't really feel like you're in the mood for drinks just yet. Fortunately, neither does Sadie and she motions with her chin towards a store. It is a tailor, but a tad less fancy than the one Trelawny has dragged you too.

"What? You want a new dress or something?", you ask, amusement evident in your tone and she let's out a scoff.

"No." Her response comes out faster than a bullet and she examines your attire. "You got the guns and the scars, but there's somethin' important missin', outlaw."

Something within you stirs upon hearing the nickname. It's not wrong. That is precisely what you are, an outlaw, but being referred to as one makes you uneasy. Before she could sense that anything is wrong, you school your features and match her energy.

"And what's that?"

"Do you even to ask? Ya need a hat, sweetheart!", she says in a matter of fact way and it gets a chuckle out of you.

Next thing you know, you're being dragged by the wrist towards the tailor and she pushes open the door. The shopkeeper and some of the customers there turn their heads in your direction after that energetic entrance and you shoot them an apologetic smile.

Sadie picks up a bunch of cowboy hats from the wall and places them on your head, one by one. Her lips are pursed in concentration as she studies every single piece closely and you raise your brow. "Do I have a say in what I'll wear?"

"Obviously. I'm just narrowin' it down for ya.", she mutters, lost in thought and you decide to leave her to do her thing.

After a few minutes of her mumbling incoherent words under her breath as she tries out almost every single hat on you, a satisfied smile begin to spread on her freckled face. Seems like you got a winner.

Finally she allows you to see what she picked out as she hands you a handheld mirror. It's a pinch front style hat that is made out of a dark leather that matches your belt. The band is a similar color, but lighter, complimenting the accessory quite nicely.

"That one is perfect.", you breathe out, impressed by her ability to pinpoint what you'd like. Her satisfied smile becomes a proud grin at your reaction to her choice and you go to pay for it.

Afterwards you two spend the time with some errand running and window shopping. There are some rifles she eyes at the gunsmith, but none of them end up being what she's looking for. The next stop is a small restaurant and by the time you leave it, the sun has set.

Sadie stretches her back, cracking and popping some bones with a pleased sigh and she cracks a yawn. "I don't know about you, but I could go for a drink."

"Same." You don't feel like returning back to camp just yet. Sure, you could maybe run into Arthur there and try to talk things out with him. Though, there is also the possibility that he's not there and then you'll be left sitting alone at the campfire, spiraling. Tonight you don't want to go down that rabbit hole that is your complicated feelings towards the outlaw.

Sadie takes you to a small saloon, located more on the edge of the city. The area doesn't strike you as too safe, but it's not too worrying either. You've budded heads with worse than some Saint Denis thugs.

Leaning against the bar counter, you two order a glass of whisky each and you bring it to your lips.

Oh, sweet sherry, how much I miss you.

"Have you talked to Dutch again about joining on jobs?", you ask and a shadow falls over your friend's expression. As if you hit a nerve, she downs the alcohol in one go and brings the glass down with a loud thud.

"No, but I don't think it's much use anyways.", she murmurs and signals the bartender to give her another drink. "Even though I went all out with that O'Driscoll trash durin' the ambush."

Memories of that fight flood your mind, images of bloody corpses scattered on the docks. A shiver runs down your spine and you take another sip, hoping that the alcohol will ease the tension in your muscles.

Maybe it's better to move onto a lighter topic. "Thank you for helping with the hat, by the way. I really like it."

Your words get a cheeky grin out of her and she nudges your good shoulder with hers. "It's the least I could do for you."

"What do you mean?", you ask, confused, but then you roll your eyes in feigned annoyance. "Listen, don't worry about how I feel. Arthur and I only had a fight. Not a falling out."

I hope.

"It's not that.", she counters and lowers her gaze. Suddenly, the air between you becomes awkward and tense and she plays around with her glass. "You've been so kind to me since the beginnin'."

Quickly, your hand shoots forward and you place it on her arms, giving it a gentle squeeze. When she looks up to meet your eyes, you smile softly at her.

"Of course, my friend." Then you clear your throat and order two more drinks. The whisky is going down faster than you expected, but it's nice. "Enough with that sentimental mood now. Let's have some fun!"

It doesn't stop there. The alcohol flows like honey, becoming easier to swallow with every sip and you drink.

And drink.

And drink.

Sadie says something that you can't quite make out, but that isn't stopping you from finding it incredibly funny. You bend over, cackling and she does the same. Some of the customers throw irritated looks your way, but you don't pay them any mind.

Another glass is being placed infront of you and you furrow your eyebrows. "I didn't order that."

"Consider it a small gift from a kind stranger.", someone next to you says and you turn your head to face a man who looks to be your age.

He's rather handsome with his bright green eyes and curly blonde hair, but maybe the alcohol is clouding your judgement. You take a moment to study his features some more, noting how his eyebrows are darker than his hair and how there are dimples on his cheeks when he smiles.

"Might the stranger extend his kindness and tell me his name?", you ask, playing along. Your positive response makes his smile go wider, exposing a set of bright white teeth.

The shirt he's wearing looks old and stained and his pants are dusty, but the skin on his hands is smooth without any callouses. Nothing about this man indicates that he has worked even a day in his life, yet his outfit begs to differ.

"Jim.", he says, extending his hand out to you and you shake it. Indeed, it's very smooth almost delicate. "And you?"

You give him your name and bring the glass to your lips. Before taking a sip, you subtly breathe in the scent of the whisky, but nothing stands out to you. It passes the taste test too.

Maybe you're reading too much into it. So what if that guy is from the upper class? He could be living a double life to get away from something. It wouldn't be anything out of the ordinary.

"So tell me, Jim, what is someone like you doing in a place like this?", you ask and watch him from the corner of your eyes. Sadie shifts in her seat next to you, listening in on the conversation.

The man doesn't look unsettled by your suspicion. On the contrary, he chuckles and shakes his head in disbelief. "Am I that bad of an actor?"

His reaction makes you relax and you allow yourself to smile. "I don't mean any offense, but you don't look like you have lifted a single finger in your whole life."

"No offense taken, my good lady. You're correct, I haven't."

"Then why pretend? Saint Denis has some high-end saloons with liquor that doesn't taste like dog piss." The tipsy state you're in has loosened your tongue quite a bit.

"But they're filled with...snobs.", he counters, wrinkling his nose.

A sly smirk tugs at the corner of your mouth and you cock your eyebrow. "And you're trying to tell me you're not like the others?"

For a moment you're afraid that you might be taking it too far, crossing a line of some sort, but amusement flickers in his eyes. He seems to be enjoying your boldness.

"If you give me a chance then I could prove to you that I'm not."

Sadie let's out a snort next to you and you give her shin a light, but firm kick. You don't think that it's going to go anywhere with Jim. Arthur stills occupies every nook and cranny in your mind.

"I'll think about it."

Jim nods, content with your answer. "Don't worry, I don't intend to rush you. Rome wasn't build in a day either."

The way he speaks makes you smile and you lower your gaze to look at the glass infront of you. Sadie shoots a knowing glance your way and you playfully slap her arm.

"That's a mighty fine gun you got there." Your attention is back on Jim and his eyes are set on the pistol at your side. 

"Can you shoot?", you ask and his eyes go wide in shock before he shakes his head in a bashful way.

"No, I seem to never get the aim right.", he declares with a soft chuckle. Casually, he lift his own glass and swirls the liquid inside it around. "Perhaps you could teach me some time."

Hope flickers under that confident, playful mask of his and you open your mouth to answer, but a deep voice beats you to it.

"You better mind your own business, boy."

The hair on the back of your neck stands up upon listening to that familiar southern drawl. Arthur, your Arthur, is standing next to you and you rub your eyes to make sure that it's not some hallucination your drunk mind has come up with.

"Oh, shit.", Sadie hisses behind you, visibly delighted by the unexpected turn of events, but you, on the other hand, would rather have the ground swallow you whole.

"What are you doing here?", you breathe out in disbelief and maybe a bit of horror as well.

"What I'm doin'? I'm gettin' the two of you home.", he says in a matter of fact way. He stands before you like a dream. Broad shoulders, hat tilted low and his large hands on the belt.

I think I had too much to drink.

Jim is looking between the two of you, confused by Arthur's sudden appearance and hostility. "I'm sorry, friend. I didn't know she is your girl."

His girl...oh, I'm definitely too hammered.

"First of all, I ain't your friend. I ain't nothin' to you and neither is the Lady here, so do yourself a favor and bother someone else.", Arthur snarls in a low, threatening voice that doesn't tolerate any backtalk.

Jim straightens his back and raises his hands. "I didn't mean any offense, sir. We were just talking."

The outlaw moves his jaw, but before he could do more damage, you extend your arm and pull at the sleeve of his leather jacket. "What is your problem, Arthur?"

"C'mon. We're leavin'.", he says, completely ignoring your question and he makes his way towards the entrance.

Sadie snickers, but downs the contents of her glass and follows him. Quickly, you mouth an apology to Jim, but he waves it off with a warm smile and you rush out of the saloon.

Cool night air fills your lungs as you take a deep breath, but it does little to nothing to calm your nerves. It clears up the fog in your head, in fact, leaving you seething in anger. Heat rises up to your face as you think about how much of a fool Arthur has made you look like back there.

With your hands balled up into fists, you stomp towards the man and grab him by the shoulder to face you. In the corner of your eyes, you see Sadie become suddenly very interested in a lamp post.

"Have you lost your mind?", you snap at the outlaw and he looks at you as if you grew a second head.

"Have I lost my mind?", he repeats, absolutely baffled and your mouth hangs open. For a while the both of you just stare at each other through narrowed eyes and with flared nostrils until you decide that it's enough.

This isn't something you want to take out in public. The streets of Saint Denis are buzzing with life and you don't want to draw more attention to you. So with a quiet huff you make your way towards the horses and your trio rides back to camp in awkward silence.

As you hitch up Penthesilea, Sadie taps you lightly on your shoulder and you turn around.

"I'll go ahead.", she whispers and you nod. It's obvious what she's trying to do with this.

Talk to him.

Arthur goes to follow the woman, but stops in his tracks when you softly call out to him. It's very late and you don't want to wake anyone up with your shouting.

"What was going on back there?", you ask, more calm now than you were back in the city. Anger still burns in your chest, but not as hot anymore.

When he doesn't answer, you let out an irritated sigh. "Why won't you talk to me? I thought we were fine. More than fine even until you made it very clear yesterday that you don't want this, that you don't want me. Then when someone talks to me you act like some territorial ape. What do you want from me?"

It's difficult to make out his expression in this darkness, but it's evident that he's carrying out an internal battle with himself. His shoulders are tense and his chest rises and falls heavily.

"I...I'm real bad at this.", he mutters after a while and you dare take a step closer to him. Hesitantly, you take his hand and bring it up to your chest, holding onto it tightly.

The warmth of his body and the feeling of his skin under your fingers has become so painfully familiar.

"That's okay.", you answer in a hushed tone and you take another careful step. He let's you in, let's you stay close to him so that you feel his breath caressing your face and you remove his hat to get a better look at him.

"I had a son once. Isaac was his name."

Your heart drops at the sudden confession. You don't make a single sound, don't move a single muscle. He's finally opening up to you and you don't want to push him.

"It was years ago. I met this waitress, Eliza.", he continues, voice strained and raspy as if he's fighting to hold himself back. "I didn't stay with them, but visited as much as I could. I shared my earnings from the gang, so they could live somewhat comfortable."

His fingers twitch in your grasp and you feel his thumb circling over the back of your hand as he continues.

"One day I came over and was met with nothin' but two graves. Some folk robbed and killed them."

"I'm so sorry, Arthur." Your voice is trembling and he shakes his head.

"Don't be, sweetheart."

For the longest time, both your breathing was the only sound aside from the rustling of leaves and an owl making itself known occasionally. Sadie wasn't kidding when she called his lovelife unfortunate, but you don't think that anyone knows about this. Aside from Hosea and Dutch maybe.

"And you know how it ended with Mary.", he then says and you nod to yourself. There isn't much context needed regarding that topic.

"You don't have to worry about me or us for that matter.", you answer and he let's out a deep sigh, but you continue before he can respond. "I'm part of the gang. We're together in this."

Mary was right. You understand the way he lives his life. Hell, you're living his life yourself. Granted, there is no divine shield protecting you from the dangers that come with this line of work and you're never 100% guaranteed to see the next day.

But that is just the risk of living.

"I'm not a man that you should-"

"Arthur Morgan." You say his name with stern emphasis and he immediately shuts his mouth. Your hands find their way up to his face, cupping his cheeks. "I don't care if you're the man I should be with or not. You're the man I want and that is the end of the matter."

A defeated sigh escapes him and he grabs one of your hands, tender lips brushing over the palm. The gesture sends jolts of electricity through you and heat boils up in your lower stomach.

"You're gonna be the end of me, woman.", he mumbles in amusement.

Taglist: @shackspossum @abducted-cowz @heloixe

[hwsforeignrelations]

A Fogged Up Plan

Summary: For three weeks, the Kingdom of Spades’ royals have been held captive in Diamond’s Fort Shellac. After one weevily meal too many, they hatch a plan to escape.

Made for @usuknetwork's USUKUSTwicePer zine: Cards, With Spades to Start. Read the full collection here (hehe I also designed the cover, please show everyone some love!!)

AO3 Link // Words: 3,812

Five moons before Queen Arthur Kirkland’s coronation, the isolated swamps of Southern Spades were inhabited by an insect known as PB Cup. 

Previously known but unstudied, a small population found itself in the hold of a cargo ship en route towards the Kingdom of Diamonds. 

Once docked, it is rumored that a seawoman unloading barrels and crates of imports carried the insects to her town on the outskirts of the port, where the red buzzers settled onto a Camellia sinensis farm. There, the small population decimated the crops. When customers purchased the expensive processed leaves in tea, it tasted of woody, bitter peanuts. 

Diamond’s PB Cup population quickly spiraled into millions and one of the kingdom’s primary exports, tea, crashed. 

With it, Diamond’s economic influence sank to match the impoverished Kingdom of Clubs. 

 Through no fault of his own, Queen Arthur inherited one of the world’s worst foreign affair conflicts in history as the Diamond government demanded compensation for their introduction of the bug to their crops, and Spades denied any responsibility for the lack of preparedness on the part of Diamond’s farming protection or economic infrastructure. 

Thus a war broke out between the two kingdoms. Luckily, the Queen of Diamonds, Francis Bonnefoy, and Queen Arthur Kirkland had fluttered in similar social circles on opposing navy forces, during earlier military careers, before Oracle selected them for positions of royalty.

Due to their previously-held relationship, the conflicting countries maintained (albeit strained) contact.

However, twenty years later, the strung out conflict saw no resolution in sight. Neither party would budge. In the last two decades, Diamonds had mostly recovered, converting and subsidizing previously small industries to make up greater lumps of their exports. 

Diamond GDP had mostly recovered, and the occasional skirmishes along the Spades-Diamond borders had lost their impact to both sides' citizens.

Mentions often paralleled this tone:

“Hey mom, Junior’s little league game’s canceled. Queen Arthur just announced Diamond shots fired near the field.”

“Gee, I’m in absolute shock. Let’s order a Continental basket for the other team. I know those sweet kids were looking forward to a Spadian roast but it can’t be helped.”

“Yes, ma.”

“Our government should really step off their high horse- it’s practically a soap opera! ‘You sent our kingdom into a depression!’, ‘No, your lack of planning sunk your economy!’ Honestly. Time for Gen. Jones to call it cuts… bring the phone while you're up, let’s reserve that basket before we forget.”

“Yes, ma.”

And so you see, neither kingdom withheld reservations to mock the ongoing conflict. So far in, it was nothing more than a contest of resolve between two too-proud kingdoms.

Bi-annual tea shortages, sport game cancellations, flight and ship delays, internal division among governments… but neither party appeared to be dismounting their positions, and as the conflict neared its twentieth anniversary Spades-Diamond tension surged.

Unbeknownst to regular citizens, the jack, queen, and king of Spades had disappeared from the castle three weeks prior. 

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Drop-drop-drop sounded a mysteriously originating source of water, droplets plopping onto a moist stone ground. 

The Jack of Spades, dressed in creased gold, purple, and blue fabrics cast his eyes towards his hands where he organized a cheap deck of playing cards. 

The action demonstrated disinterest to anyone unattuned to Yao’s discreet mannerisms, but the way his fingers twitched to swipe brown hair behind his ear was telling.

“...I beg your pardon?”

Drop-drop-drop.

Army General Alfred Jones raised thin eyebrows above round glasses in a look that read “everyone in this dungeon heard me loud and clear”, but continued in a patronizingly careful tone. 

“You need a command like brown bananas to banana bread, or day-old rice to fried rice. Something that suits your past-prime station, y’know?”

Drop.

Arthur Kirkland’s forehead actually twitched but his expression remained unaffected. “Well done, dear. I’ll be the first to admit, never in a million years would I imagine you capable of something so complicated as a simile”.

“Har har, Your Majesty,” Alfred reached across the cramped cell to knock his knuckles against the wrought iron bars.

Drop-drip.

“When I met you, 200-odd years ago, those magic bones would have no problemo melting, or-or slicing through these bars like butter.”

“-OH be silent for once, blathering-”

“And now look at you!” Alfred flung his hand in the general direction of his husband, himself  melted on the floor, head balanced on a rock. “A washed-up seadog, no good for nothing but a semi-ok fuck. What the hell happened to you, man? You used to bring dragons to their knees. Now some Diamond-fired metal’s too much? Y’all know their quality’s shit,” he yawned.

“Retirement might be on the horizon, sweetheart. But no offense.”

Drop-drip-drop. Drip. 

Yao didn’t even blink when hands lept for King Alfred’s throat.

“Gah-!” Vague choking escaped Alfred’s mouth while his oily hair tossed wildly and his cheeks went red from the loss of air.

Drop-drop-drip.

“Worthless excuse for a leader, I’d sew your thin lips shut before these stinking walls hear another lie from them. Seadog I am- and proud, too!” Arthur gave one last throttle before throwing Alfred aside in disgust. 

It could have been his breath, too. They hadn’t exactly been given a toothbrush. Three weeks into captivity and their last frigid bucket shower was over four days ago.

At least they had a toilet, even if it was awfully cold when you sat. Stars above, Alfred wanted out. 

Patience, Alfred reminded himself. That voice in his head sounded suspiciously like a certain magical queen, and the king ignored his own internal voice which insisted self-restraint would never be his specialty.

Drop-drop-drop. 

The queen had retreated to the opposite wall to collect his composure, Alfred’s own ragged breathing filling the chamber and he coughed, once, before resuming his idle splay on the floor.

 Arthur ascertained the damage choking his spouse had cost his nails. 

“As for the jab at my sexual performance, love, I think everyone in this room can deny that claim with absolute confidence. Isn’t that right, Edison?”

Drop-drop-drop.

“H-huh?” Their guard startled at his post, not expecting to be addressed by name. His feet kicked at the ground, “Um. I-I guess rumors do get around.” Arthur turned smugly towards the army general and received a playful scoff for his troubles.

The jack spoke up, unimpressed by the exchange, “Do be mindful of others nearby who may not be so invested in his co-workers’ thrilling sexual escapades, please and thank yo-”

“Chow time!” Interrupted another guard, sliding three portions of beige sludge through a small slit in the bars, accompanied by biscuit. 

All three groaned.

“C’mon! I get the prisoner thing, but is this,” the queen knocked his biscuit against the bars and three weevils fell out, “really necessary?” said Alfred.

The guards shrugged with indifference and Yao dipped the corner of his flour ball in their water, softening it enough to break off a piece and chew. He paused, fiddled the bite with his tongue, then pulled a long, curled hair out from his teeth.

Both guards had left for a smoke break. 

With stony resolve, Yao declared, “We’re getting out of here tonight.”

“Fiunwwy!” said the king through his porridge. 

“Ditto,” Arthur scowled. “And, these meals aren’t so bad. Navy ships serve far worse.”

“Ugg. That doesn’t make you look good, Admiral.” Alfred took a small handful of his food and fed it to a cluster of shadows in the corner of their chamber.

Gotta keep his slimy friend nourished, Alfred smiled as the shadows accepted the grub.

Meal finished, Arthur tossed his tray through the bars and sat against the wall, joining Yao where the jack dealt out three piles of playing cards. His technique was quick and clean, and Arthur would never admit to admiring the show. 

Not even magic could put on that performance.

 Envy forced him to deign his husband with a response. “Do us all a favor and shut your trap.” 

Alfred clutched at imaginary pearls and Arthur smirked. “And finish your plate. Besides, army rations hardly pass as food, General Jones.”

Cramming the rest into his mouth with hardly a gag, Alfred discarded the plate and crawled towards the pair. He added an ass wiggle while Yao’s attention was elsewhere. The queen’s ears glowed red and he sneered at Alfred, disapproving of his husband dangling treats with no ability to give in the confined space.

Alfred laughed to himself. The queen was afflicted with an unfortunately high libido. Something which Alfred eagerly satisfied, even if his own needs paled in comparison. However…

Restricted to the meager dimensions of their cell with the observant jack… well, all jokes aside, the king looked with a mixture of trepidation and delight at the demolishment of his ass the moment they found a private space. 

They were lucky enough to acquire the deck of cards and spent their time playing every game under the sun- and some new. With Arthur’s unmet sexual needs and most forms of exercise impossible, stir-crazy was an insufficient descriptor for the kinetic energy burning through them. 

Cards helped starve off frustration, and offered an iota of normalcy.

Their favorite guard, Edison, returned from his break and all three royals exchanged glances. Alfred straightened up and humm-ed, “Did I ever tell y’all ‘bout that time Major Maisie single-handedly rallied the marines through Norbrandy?”

Yao and Arthur, having heard Alfred’s stories a million times, shook their heads. Alfred laid down a Four of Clubs and dove into his narrative, smiling behind his cards as Edison’s head tilted to hear their conversation better.

“Soulda heard from the boys direct-like. Said she flew in like a cannon. Fort Potomac was occupied by Hearts. Maisie rode in under the shield of fog, took one look at the opaque path ‘round the hill, and led her advance in the dead of night. Bombarded out of nowhere, King Kiku’s soldiers resisted heroically. But,” 

“Potomac was conquered by dawn, with only five Spadian casualties.” 

Arthur inspected his nails, ignoring the swell of power growing in his breast. “Impressive, I’m sure. What were the odds?”

As an ex-citizen of Spades (likely hired by Diamond forces for better wages than Spades’ less impressive salary), Edison’s vague admiration for his home-kingdom’s success fed the royals’ power. Having been away from the appraisal of most Spadian citizens for a month now, the ignorant guard was their only supplyant.

“Four Hearts soldiers to every one of ours.”

Alfred shivered in excitement when that number reached Edison’s ears and their unknowingly-benevolent guard emitted a burst of patriotism.

“Capital.” The queen spun a card onto the pile.

Yao delivered Arthur a sharp look. Sarcasm was fine, but not when a deaf person could hear it.

“500 points”, Yao announced in a tone which attempted neutrality but failed, tossing the last trick towards himself.

Arthur and Alfred groaned in unison, scratching one more check to the scoreboard on the stone wall. The box under “姚” had comically more checks than the “Al” and “K” beside it.

Alfred thought dreamily of their own castle’s gameroom, which displayed a point board of less comparatively devastating results. 

The king’s husband stared hard at their score board, then exchanged with Alfred a look he recognized as offense. Eyebrows drawn to etch little wrinkles above his nose and the tiniest sneer curling the right side of his mouth. 

The admiral’s tisk made Alfred break out into pearls of laughter and Yao allowed his own expression to revel in the satisfaction of besting his co-workers.

It was these shared moments which reminded Alfred of Oracle’s excellent match-making.

Drip.

Behind them, soldiers shuffled their shoes into the floor and small movements clinked metal armor. 

Probably jealous they weren’t in on the joke, heh.

Yao caught his eye, subtly jutted his chin towards their window. A few miles off an oncoming fog made itself known. Alfred nodded, canines flashing in his grin.

It was go time.

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That night, all men finished their trays of food, persevering through the mealy texture. 

Finally, after three weeks of drawing on Edison’s flaky Spadian patriotism, Yao, Arthur, and Alfred felt strong enough to fuel their escape. 

But that had been true for three nights now. There was something else they needed to ensure a successful breakout from Fort Shellac. They knew it was only a matter of time, in Diamond’s chilly forest climate, for moisture to collect in the air. All they had to do was intensify the natural way of things.

 In the ancient and clammy foundation of their prison, fog poured in through the bars and it only took slight encouragement from Arthur for a Féth fíada to emerge.

“Maisie’s a mage as well as a scientist, no?” asked Yao as the mist grew thicker.

Alfred nodded proudly, cupping something close to his chest so he wouldn’t lose it in his blindness. “Made her own fog machine and bribed some fairies to superpower it- resourceful as always.”

Their security was starting to notice the clouds curling at their metal feet and muttered in distress while their prisoners whispered and waited.

Moonlight cast its reflection on the fog, and as the minutes passed the damp room filled with blue hues.

Drop.

“H-hey!” Edison finally addressed them, kicking spastically at the vapor as though it could be intimidated by violence. He pointed an accusatory finger at Arthur, who played a game of Patience against the tilted wall, “You’ve something to do with this, necromancer?”

Drop-drop-drop.

The Queen of Spades didn’t respond, pulling an ace from the stockpile and whipping it at his captor. 

It bounced off Edison’s helmet.

“What on Earth?” The guards watched in horror as the fog swallowed up their legs and began on their chests. “Find the director,” one snapped. Edison didn’t waste a moment, keys clanging in his grip as he scrambled to the exit. 

His hurried footsteps echoed through the stairway while silence enveloped the prison. Yao could smell anxiety pouring from the invisible guards, the gentle clinking of their metal armor interrupting an otherwise soundless environment.

Suddenly the cast iron bars screamed, brute force bending and tearing through the metalwork. “Merde!” cursed a Diamond accent.

“That’s a lad,” complemented Arthur, patting his husband’s back while the King of Spades huffed another breath before finishing the job, ripping the door out of its hole with one last ear-splitting jerk. 

With inhuman speed Alfred was gone in the fog. Before the unfortunate Diamond soldiers realized, their prisoner smashed them apart so they couldn’t see the other. 

“Heh- happy to help.” Alfred smothered the unnamed guard’s mouth, delivering a fist into the armored abdomen. The force was enough to penetrate the protective metal and padded fabric and the body slumped instantly, held up by Alfred’s hand gripping his face. 

Yao stepped over the raw metal of their prison door and into the face of Alfred’s catch. The Jack of Spades reached into the guard’s fauld and produced a string, on which he pulled and produced a small sheet of inscribed metal. In complete blindness Yao skimmed his finger beds along the sheet, memorizing the meaning of the indents, before stepping back and handling it the the Queen, who confirmed his interpretation with a hum.

“Thank Oracle for y’all’s Diamindortic, couldn’t read it even if I could see an inch from my face,” Alfred said, dropping the unconscious body and listening with satisfaction as it crashed into the floor.

Dusting off his hands, the cluster of shadows from their cell made itself known against Alfred’s prosthetic leg, oozing up the complicated gears and bolts. It chirped.

“Butters would like some gravity, Arthur,” Alfred said, taking “Butters” from his thigh and flailing in the air before locating the queen’s outstretched hand.

Butters slid the languid journey onto Arthur’s palm and waited patiently for the kiss which Arthur pressed to its head. “Erg. Revulsion doesn’t scratch the surface of your pet’s chosen skin.”

“Yeah, I know. But the mucus keeps ‘im healthy!

A large silhouette, barely discernible in the air, expanded before the three Spadian royals. It stopped growing at around six feet tall and sneezed when Yao touched its nose, approximately the size of a bocce ball.

“What a fine boy,” the jack complimented Butters’ chosen form, petting what felt like an enormous panda.

Yao felt the round ears under his hands and the strength behind the bones of its face. The doublecoat swallowed his fingers when the jack adoringly brushed them under Alfred’s pet’s ears. Beneath Butters’ muzzle were thick canines, and from the animals’ stomping Yao sensed hoofs rather than paws.

“Excellent form, bao.”

Butters wiggled at the praise.

With reluctance Yao released Butters from his coddling and stepped back, allowing the king’s approach towards his service animal. 

Steps hurried down the staircase towards them, the sound bouncing off the walls like a stampede of metal-wearing bison. 

“Time to go,” Arthur said, dragging a sword off an unconscious guard and advancing towards the stairwell, blade tip forward-facing. Yao chose a barbed mace from his own casualty and wasted no time in singing it through the air.

Alfred cringed against Butters’ neck after mounting, listening with unwanted familiarity to the shrieks and groans of wounded men and women. He had blown off many faces in his long career, but avoided violence when he could. 

Right now they could not, and Alfred didn’t bother looking away when he held out two fingers and punctured a soldier through the neck as he and Butters rounded the last turn. 

Ignoring any pain emitting from the base of his amputated leg, Alfred ushered Butters onward, the overgrown puppy smashing a recovering enemy back into the stone as they ascended the stairs behind his queen and jack. 

Arthur’s weapon, guided under the experienced swordsmanship of a centuries-old navy admiral, sliced through Diamond flesh like butter. The queen was momentarily distracted by Yao’s comment and jammed the mental length through a ribcage up to the hilt. 

The soldier’s scream was cut off as blood pooled up her throat and over her teeth, and when yanking went nowhere Arthur pressed one foot against the woman’s side and pushed, orange blood spurting all over him as the body crashed, limp and lifeless. 

“Somehow,” panted Yao mid-run, “I didn’t expect so much blood.”

“We didn’t correctly anticipate enemy numbers,” Arthur nodded. “Either our previous estimations of Fort Shellac were off by hundreds, or Diamonds has since fortified its defense.”

“Fucking Francis,” Arthur grumbled to himself, sweat pouring down from his hairline and mixing with the Diamond blood on his cheek.

In Alfred’s marital opinion, his husband looked actually terrifying- and handsome as heck.

“You better not be,” Alfred laughed. In front of him, Yao groaned in a mix of exasperation and disgust.

“Spare me,” the jack pleaded.

Two pairs of feet and one set of hoofs ran along the fort’s main floor, evading who they could and decommissioning any who they couldn’t with little regard for the permanentness of the blow.

With poor Edison’s admiration for Spades to blame, amassed over weeks of captivity, the three royals utilized their inhumane strength without restraint, bulldozing through room after room, leaving behind a trail of massacred soldiers, heads and limbs and organs soaking the stone floor with orange and yellow blood. Like a line of sheets hung out to dry whipped up by a hurricane, screams tore and ripped themselves out from the throats of the wounded and dying. 

“And that’s why we don’t wear white to the wedding,” Alfred joked at a guard’s white armor soaked through with orange “wine”. General Jones maintained a light mood with breathless chatter and the queen and jack responded in kind.

Anyone watching might express disgust at their attitude, might expect more from such experienced political figures. 

The seasoned monarchs had no reason for suppressing resentment, for the trust broken and their own time wasted and negligent treatment, and did not benefit by acknowledging the graveness of their actions in the moment.

Kidnapping a suit’s royalty was a serious crime, war or no war. It would spell out a dreadful escalation back home. The Spadian monarchs were no wet-behind-the-ear politicians- they were representatives of an empire, with a responsibility to their kingdom above all else.

King Rajesh and Queen Francis would regret their decision, and the first part of Spades’ retribution began with the public condemnation which would befall Diamond royalty when the media caught wind of Fort Shellac’s heavy casualties.

Finally, Yao caught sight of sunlight streaming in through the squares of the portcullis. "सृष्टि डायमंड्स के साम्राज्य और इसे बनाए रखने वाले सभी लोगों को अच्छे अवसर प्रदान करे।, “ said the jack without much relish, quoting from the metal sheet’s engravings. 

Only four women stood guard and they jumped in surprise at the correct spell, frozen with disbelief as the gate lifted.

The moment they advanced, the three royals were gone. Beneath them Butters galloped past, encouraged by Arhur’s remaining strength. They rode mile after mile, thoroughly exhausted by their massive expense of magical energy in so short a time.

The Clock gave them inhumane tolerance, but it would never be enough to keep the strain off their bodies in a fight like that. 

Eventually, Butters’ pace petered until he came to a complete stop on a road.

Arthur and Alfred had passed out against the soft fur off Butters’ back, too exhausted to stay awake.

The weight of Yao’s eyelids threatened him with the same fate, but sleep wasn’t an option until they were with Spadian authorities. 

Thankfully, Spades and Diamonds shared a long boarder and Yao only had to encourage Butters for another hour before a Spadian soldier’s blue armor could be spotted up the road.

She saw them immediately and grabbed her sidearm as she walked up. “Identify yourselves,” she demanded.

Without the energy to even speak, Yao peeled Alfred’s head from between Butters’ ears and used his sleeve to wipe the grime and caked blood from his face.

She recognized her army general immediately, even beneath the thickly remaining dirt, and dropped her weapon to fall to attention.

“Y-your majesties! My deepest, sincerest apologies, I didn’t recognize-,” She stumbled over her words, clearly struggling to find the next course of action.

“It’s fine,” waved aside the jack, feeling himself losing against consciousness. The woman before him might be a fresh recruit but he could care less. The sparkling spade over her breast was all that mattered.

“Just lead him to the nearest lookout,” Yao pointed to Butters. “Don’t bother waking us up,” Yao said before he slumped like a deck of cards with his king and queen, dead to the world.

[mepuppy]

Let It Ride - Supernatural rewrite

A.N.: I do not own the characters, nor the storylines. I'm simply adding a twist to the episodes. Please feel free to help me out with constructive criticism on the story or the writing. Sorry for the mistakes, not proofread and english is not my first language. Coming back like I didn't disappear for over 2 months...

1x01 1x02 1x03 1x04 1x05 1x06

Word Count: 6.9k

1x07 - Hook Man

“Yeah, don’t worry! We’re all fine.” Y/n reassured Bobby once again over the phone. They had stopped at an outdoor café they passed through to eat something. The two brothers headed to a table but she stayed back, leaning against her bike to call the older man. “It was weird and all, but we walked out without major problems.”

“I know the lot of you can take care of yourselves. But ‘still worry.” He told her and she smiled warmly. The man was as much of a father figure to her as John Winchester was. “Any leads on John?” 

She sighs, her smile faltering, and looks over to the table Sam and Dean were. “No. After we found his journal, back in Jericho, the only sort of news we got was that he had re-activated his voice message, redirecting his calls to Dean.” She explains seeing a waitress approach the two other hunters and getting their order.

“We’ll, shit.” Dean looks over at her and she just nods, knowing he wanted to ask if she was going to eat. “Imma try calling him and see if I can pick anything up, ‘lright?” Y/n gets up from her bike and starts walking slowly to the other two.

“Okay. Let me know if you figure anything out.” She says as Sam passes her and she frowns at the youngest.  YYU88

“I will. Take care of each other out there.” She gets to the table and sits down. “Say hi to the boys f’me.” He hangs up and she looks up at Dean. 

“Bobby says hi.” He looks from the computer screen at her and gives a small smile. She motions her head to Sam who is on a payphone. “What’s up over there?”

“He’s trying to find dad.” Dean rolls his eyes and turns back to her. The waitress came back and laid on the table, three cups of coffee, a piece of pie, an omelet and 2 chocolate chip cookies. “They had cookies.” He grins at her and she smiles back. “And pie.” He eyes the plate pulling it closer to him.

Dean takes a bite, looking to his computer and then back at Sam who just hang the phone and is walking back to them. “Your, uh, half-caf, double vanilla latte is gettin’ cold over here, Francis.” He teases and y/n takes a bite of one of her cookies chuckling. 

“Bite me.” Sam retorts sitting down.

“So, anything?” Dean asks while Sam takes a sip of his coffee, he shakes his head.

“I had ‘em check the FBI’s Missing Persons Data Bank. No John Doe’s fitting Dad’s description. I even ran his plates for traffic violations.” Sam sighs defeated, leaning back on his chair. 

“Sam, I’m tellin’ ya, I don’t think John wants to be found right now.” Y/n says as her forehead creases and Sam looks disappointed.

“‘lright. Check this out.” Dean says turning the computer screen so the other two can see. In it there’s an article about a young man’s death. “It’s a news item out of Planes Courier. Ankeny, Iowa. It’s only about a hundred miles from here.” Dean raises his eyebrows at them. 

“The mutilated body was found near the victim’s car, parked on 9 Mile Road.” Sam reads the beginning out loud looking at Dean skeptically.

“Keep reading.” Dean said looking bored at Sam. 

“Authorities are unable to provide a realistic description of the killer. The sole eyewitness, whose name has been withheld, is quoted as saying the attacker was invisible.” Y/n finishes the paragraph and raises an eyebrow at Dean. It was a good thing he developed the hobby of reading these types of article, it was so much easier to find cases with him.

“Could be something interesting.” He said to her and then looked at Sam. 

“Or it could be nothing at all. One freaked out witness who didn’t see anything? Doesn’t mean it’s the Invisible Man.” Sam turns to eat his omelet.

“But what if it is? Dad would check it out.” Dean taunts him, making y/n roll her eyes, taking the last bite on her cookie.

They finish eating the breakfast and Dean pays it with the credit card as the other two head back to the vehicles. Sam gets in the passenger seat of the Impala, with a frown on his face. Y/n stops by the side and waits for him to roll the window down, and when he does she leans over resting her arms on it.

“Do you wanna explain why the pout?” She asks him with a slight tilt to her head.

Sam sighs and turns to her. “I just wanted to find Dad, get some answers. I hate that he’s playing with us like that.” His tone gets harsher as he explains his feelings. “And Dean doesn’t seem interested in finding him anymore. So I guess we’re just gonna hunt until dad decides it’s time for him to show up again…”

Dean finishes paying and turns to head back to the car, only to see y/n’s ass in his direction, with her elbows on Sam’s window. He liked the view, but saw a man who did too. ‘Men are gross’, he understands why you say that everytime the two of you go to a bar or something. Doesn’t matter he was looking too, it’s not as gross when it’s him, because he’s your… you’re his… Okay, so he couldn’t pin point exactly what you were for each other, still, the stranger sitting 2 feet away from him was grosser than he was. 

He started walking back to the car, hitting the man’s chair in fake accident and mumbling an ‘m sorry’.Walking way slower than what was considered normal, he took in the view for a few more seconds. When he was close enough to the other two, Sam was looking to the street in front of him and y/n with her forehead on her arms sighed. “I know it’s frustrating, but…” she started but Dean cut her off and started to walk at normal speed.

“Put that butt down and let’s go.” Dean passed them to go to his side of the car. Y/n raises her head and looks at Sam again, annoyed.

“Yeah. We’ll talk later.” He chuckles knowing what she was about to say. Y/n goes back to her bike and pulls it to Dean’s window. 

“I’m guiding!” She winks at the oldest hunter, with a smirk, and starts driving, knowing he will follow.

Arriving at the city, y/n lets Dean pass her to lead the way until they stop at a big house. A couple of guys are outside with their heads together over a hood of a car. She gets down the bike and goes to the Impala.

“Victim lived here.” Dean says as he gets out of the car and the three of them head to the guys. “Nice wheels.” He says faking an innocent smile and the boys look at him strangely. “We’re your fraternity brothers. From Ohio. We’re new in town. Transfers. Looking for a place to stay.” Grinning he points to Sam. Y/n looks at him mentally tanking for the warning and trying to form a plan, knowing she won’t be able to stay in a fraternity. 

“Uhm. Sure.” One of the boys replies and goes back to the car. 

“And who is she?” Another asks, smiling at her and taking a step closer. 

“A cousin of ours. She got lost to her house.” Dean also takes a step forward blocking the other guy. 

Frowning at Dean, y/n sidesteps him and smiles back at the fraternity guy. “Yeah… Do you happen to know the address to the sorority?” She asks him, with a smile in his direction. 

After Marc, the fraternity boy, gave her the directions and she thanked him, she got back on her bike and headed to the corner, stopping out of sight of the house. She didn’t see a reason to actually go to the sorority house, when she could get a motel room just for her. 

Y/n: Let me know if you guys gather any info. I’m heading to a motel. 

She send the message to Dean and returned her phone to her jacket pocket, repositioning herself on top of her bike and heading to the end of the street. She took a few turns and found a motel. It wasn’t really good, but she was used, at this point, to all the shitty rooms they grew up in. Heading to the office, she fixed her hair and jacket. 

“Good morning.” She smiled at the man in the front desk, who was looking down at a magazine with a bored expression. “Do you have any vacancies?” Using her flirty voice, she learned a long time ago it helped her get things easier, and she wasn’t ashamed of doing so. 

The man raised his head and readjusted his posture when his eyes landed on her. “Oh. Good morning.” Clearing his throat, he continued. “Yeah. Sure. How many nights do you need?”

She talked to the front desk man for a little longer and, after paying for two nights with the card, some random bank had sent her last, she headed to the room. Getting inside she looked around, locking the door behind her, and let out a sight going to the closest bed and collapsing on it with throwing arm over her eyes. Her knuckles brushed the cut on her upper cheek, from their last hunt, and she flinched. The wound was basically healed already, but the flesh was still tender to the touch. 

Y/n stood up and headed to the bathroom. After using it, she was coming back to the room when her phone started vibrating in her pocket. Pulling  it out she answers Dean's call. 

“Hey, pretty blonde.” She grins and heads back to the bed “Missing me already?”

“Sure, if you say so.” He chuckled on the other side of the line “where are you? We got the witness information.”

She told him the address of the motel. Sam took the phone from Dean and explained Rich, the victim, was with the reverend’s daughter when he got killed. She waited in her bed until hearing the Impala’s engine, and headed out to meet the brothers. 

“Okay. So what's the plan?”  she asked, getin in the back seats of the car and looking at the two.

“How you feel about a little prayer?” Dean asked her looking over his shoulder for a couple of seconds, befre turning tback to he road.

“We're heading to the church reverend Sorensen preaches. His daughter was on the girl with Rich.” Sam explained further “So, taling to her is our best shot to figuring out what is this thing.”

She agreed, nodding. “You missed one of the funniest experiences of my life.” Dean grinned still lookng at th road. “Our roommate, from the fraternity, is going to a gamee today, so Sam helped him get his back purple for the spirit.”

“What?” she chuckled lightly with Dean and Sam rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, well. When you throw me under the bus the way you did is hard to say no to the guy. Especially when we need information from him.” he youngest mumbled annoyed, which just agravaded th chuckling fro the other too.

Dean parks the car in front of a church and they all get off, heading inside. The service had already started, so they entered quietly, however the door slams behind Dean, making everyone going silent and looking at the trio. They sat on the back when the reverend continues “as a community, and as a family. The loss of a young person is particularly tragic. A life unlived is the saddest of passings.” Y/n skims the room and see a girl looking back at them,more specifizlly at Sam, who smiles weakly at her. “So, please, let us pray. For peace, for guidance, and for the power to protect our children.” Everyone lowers their head, in prayer, except Dean. Y/n elbows him, ad he then notices everyone else, repeatting the gesture. 

The service ended shortly after and everyone headed out. The three hunters spot Lori, the reverend's daughter, as Dean and Sam explained to y/n, talking to another girl. After they hug and the oher leaves, the three approach them.

“Are you Lori?” Sam asks when they get closer to her.

“Yeah.” the girl nods.

“My name is Sam. This is my brother, Dean.” Sam points at him and Dean waves. “And this is Y/n, our cousin.” He points at her, using the same cover story Dean did earlier. Y/n smiles at her.

“Hi.” The two hunters say in unison to the girl.

“We just transferred here to the university.” he tells Lori.

“I saw you inside.” she gives Sam a small smile.

“We don’t wanna bother you. We just heard about what happened and…” Sam continues.

“We wanted to say how sorry we were.” Dean cuts him off and the girl and she tightens her lips into a thin line.

“I kind of know what you’re going through.” Sam looks back from his brother to the girl in front of them. “I-I saw someone… get hurt once. It’s something you don’t forget.” Lori nods slightly and reverend Sorensen walks up to them, putting a hand on the girl's shoulder.

“Dad, um, this is Sam, Dean and Y/n. They’re new students.” The reverend takes the outstretched hand and shakes it.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.” he says while the rev. shakes y/n hands as well.

“I must say, that was an inspiring sermon.” y/n tells him and Dean exchange a look with Sam.

“Thank you very much. It’s so nice to find young people who are open to the Lord’s message.” he smiles at the hunter and Dean chuckles.

“Listen, uh, we’re new in town, actually.” They lead rev. Sorensen away from Sam and Lori. “And, uh, we were looking for a, um, a church group.” they walk to the other side of the parking lot.  

“Do you happen to have a nice one in here?” Y/n ask, looking at the reverend.

“Well, yes actually. We do.” The man tells them when they stop. “What days were you two thinking about participating?”

“Well, we're not entirely sure yet.” Dean starts to explain “We just got to town and haven't received our classes table yet. So we don't know exactly how our free time will be laid out.” he finishes and the older man buys the lie.

“Oh. That's okay. We can schedule a day next week, once the three of you have already settled in and talk more.” The hunters nod and smile at him. “Are you staying in Lori's sorority house?” he turns to y/n.

“What? Oh, I think so. Yes.” she stumbled over her words “I just have to organize a few last documents.”

“That's nice. I really think those sororities need more people like you.” His gaze going from her to Dean and someone calls him. He looks over his shoulder and back to the two hunters. “I have to go. But let me know if you need anything else.” They all smile and the reverend leaves.

“If he dreamed of what you would be like in a sorority house, I think he'd send you to an ordination.” Y/n turns to Dean, chuckling.

“Probably, yeah. But I do doubt you would be too innocent.” His eyes narrowing at her and she feigned outrage. Sam approached the two.

The Impala was parked in front of the library building and the three hunters were heading inside. Sam explained what Lori told him and they decided to do some research. “So you believe her?” Dean asked as they passed through the doors.

“I do.” Sam tells him.

“Yeah, I think she’s hot, too.” Dean grins at his younger brother and y/n rolls her eyes mumbling a very low ‘gross’.

“No, man, there’s something in her eyes. And listen to this: she heard scratching on the roof. Found the bloody body suspended upside down over the car.” Sam recalled what Lori had told him and y/n frowned at him.

“Wait, the body suspended? That sounds like the…” She starts and Sam cuts her off.

“Yeah, I know, the Hook Man legend.” He nods at the her.

“That’s one of the most famous urban legends ever. You don’t think that we’re dealing with the Hook Man.” Dean counters the two.

“Well. Every urban legend has a source. A place where it all began.” she says, stopping and  looking between the two.

“Yeah, but what about the phantom scratches and the tire punctures and the invisible killer?” Dean, stopping too, tilted his head at her.

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

“I think we should see some records.” Y/n states and they head to the librarian behind a counter.

They sat at a table in the library while the librarian placed a few big, old, dusted boxes in front of them. “Here you go. Arrest records going back to 1851.” She gives the three a small mile while Dean blows some dust off a box and coughs.

“Thanks.” he tells her and she nods walking away. “So, this is how you spent four good years of your life, huh?” he looks at Sam with a frown.

“Welcome to higher education.” Sam smiles at his older brother and y/n chuckles. They start reading through the files. Y/n skimming through the names, and cause of arrest of each file, dividing it between possible, probably not and definitely not suspects for 3 hours.

A groan escaped her as she closed yet another ‘definitely not’ file. Dean rubbed his eyes the moment Sam, who was now standing behind the two, using a bookshelf as support, spoke. “Hey, check this out.” Dean and y/n get up and go to the shelf Sam is “1862. A preacher named Jacob Karns was arrested for murder. Looks like he was so angry over the red light district in town that one night he killed 13 prostitutes. Uh, right here, ‘some of the deceased were found in their bed, sheets soaked with blood. Others suspended upside down from the limbs of trees as a warning against sins of the flesh.” Dean pulls a piece of paper from inside the folder.

“Get this, the murder weapon? Looks like the preacher lost his hand in an accident. Had it replaced with a silver hook.” Dean shows the page he has with a draw of the hook to the others.

Sam chuckles humoressly and points to a page he has. “Look where all this happened.”

“9 Mile Road.” Y/n reads where he is pointing and looks at Sam. “Same place where the frat boy was killed.”

“Nice job, Dr. Venkmen. Let’s check it out.” Dean tells Sam, with a impressed smile on his face, turning around back to the table. Sam gathers all the research and they leave.

They  handed the rest of the files to the librarian and headed to the car, driving to the 9 Mile Road. Dean stops the car and they get out of it. Dean opens the trunk and hands Sam a rifle. 

“Here you go.” He goes turns back to the trunk and Y/n grabs something from it too.

“If it is a spirit, buckshot won’t do much good.” Sam chuckles and looks through the neck of the gun.

“Yeah, rock salt.” Y/n says handing some projectiles to Sam. 

“Huh. Salt being a spirit deterrent.” Sam nods as Dean takes out a coil of rope and shuts the trunk.

“Yeah. It won’t kill ‘em. But it’ll slow ‘em down.” They start walking towards the trees.

That’s pretty good. You two think of this?” Sam questions walking behind them with the gun ready. 

“I told you. You don’t have to be a college graduate to be a genius.” Dean grins at his younger brother, Y/n puts an arm out stopping the two as she hears some noises among the trees. Sam raises his gun and looks around.

“Over there. Over there.” Dean whispers nudging Sam. He aims aims the gun and cocks it. A figure comes out from behind the trees.

“Put the gun down now! Now! Put your hands behind your head.” It's a sheriff with a gun aimed their way. Y/n mumbles a ‘fuck’ so low only Dean hears. 

“W-w-wait, okay, okay!” Dean tries as Sam puts the gun on the floor. They all do as they're told.

“Now get down on your knees. Come on, do it! On your knees!” They get down. “Now get down on your bellies. Come on, do it!”

“ He had the gun!” Dean says as they lay down.

The sheriff calls reinforcement with the gun still aimed at the three on the floor.

“C'mon man. Let us explain.” Dean tries to reason with the sheriff but the man ignores him.

After waiting for a few minutes with their faces pressed against the dirt, other officers arrived. The one that busted them gave a brief explanation and three of them came to get the three up. The sheriff got closer to Dean.

“Keys?” He said and Dean looked exasperated at him. “Unless you want to leave your car here…” the man shrugged as Dean sighed. 

“Fine.” He said with an infuriated look on his face and turned his pocket to the officer, since another one was holding his hands. The older man grabbed the keys and they took the hunters away. 

Sam and y/n were sitting inside a cell. The woman had her head against the wall and her eyes closed. Sam, sitting beside her, was holding his head in his hands. How could they’ve been so dumb? “Y/n y/l/n. Sam Winchester. C’mon.” An officer called them and the two got up. Dean was being questioned, so maybe now it was their time. The officer led them to the table at the entrance of the station where Dean was flashing a grin at them. 

“Here is your stuff.” The officer behind the desk handed them two bags with cell phones, wallets and personal stuff. Sam and y/n exchanged a glance and grabbed their stuff. They left the station. 

“Saved your asses! Talked the sheriff down to a fine. Dude, I am Matlock.” Dean started bragging as soon as they stepped out of the station. 

“But how?” Sam asked amazed. 

“I told him you were a dumbass pledge and that we were hazing you.” He answered Sam, motioning between him and y/n. 

“What about the shotgun?” Sam continued to question as they headed to Baby. 

“I said that you were hunting ghosts and the spirits were repelled by rock salt. You know, typical Hell Week prank.” Dean explained with a proud smile on his face. 

“And he believed you?” Sam’s face turned exasperated. 

“Well, you do look like a pledge.” Y/n told Sam with a grin. As they got to the car several sheriffs ran out of the building and sped away in police cars. The three exchanged looks and got in the car. Dean followed the police cars from a distance. 

They get to a sorority house, and as they drive by Dean points at Lori seating on the back of an ambulance with a blanket wrapped around her. 

Dean parks on another street and they get out walking around to the back of the house. “Why would the Hook Man come here? This is a long way from 9 Mile Road.” Sam questions, a confusing glance on his face. 

“Maybe he’s not haunting the scene of his crime. Maybe it’s about something else.” Y/n states as two sorority girls come out the side entrance of the building, luckily they don't see the three who lean against the side of the house next to some bushes to hide themselves. 

“Dude, sorority girls! Think we’ll see a naked pillow fight?” Dean says turning to look at Sam, but sees y/n trying to climb onto the balcony instead. He helps her and climbs after, with Sam following them. Once they are up there, she sees a window and sneak inside with the two brother doing the same. Dean falls on top of y/n’s legs “Oh, sorry!”

“Be quiet.” She shushes him with a whisper getting to her feet. 

“Me be quiet? You be quiet!” He retorts, doing the same.

“Both of you be quiet!” Sam complains, turning to close the window behind him. 

They look around to realize they are inside a walk in closet. Sam opens the door slightly and sees another sheriff leaving the bedroom, waiting until the sheriff went downstairs and then opening the closet door. He checks to see if they are alone and steps out of it, followed by the other two. Once in the bedroom they see a bed covered in blood with some police markings. Y/n sees the wall and nudges the other two to do the same.

“���Aren’t you glad you didn’t turn on the light?’” Sam reads the words written on the wall “That’s right out of the legend.” He looks to the other two. 

“Yeah, that’s classic Hook Man all right.” Dean replies.

“And it’s definitely a spirit.” Y/n tapped her nose indicating the strong scent in the air, while heading to the other bed in the room, Lori’s bed. She knew because of the picture of a younger Lori, the reverend and a woman on the bedside table.

“Yeah, I’ve never smelled ozone this strong before.” Sam said as Dean moved over to the window. “Hey, come here.” He motioned to the other two, who joined him. Pointing at a cross symbol beneath the writing. “Does that look familiar to you?”

“Holy shit.” Y/n says and they hear a noise downstairs. Moving quickly and silently they go out the same way they got in and head to the car. Sam grabbed the folder they took from the library and opened it, stopping by a picture of the cross symbol they’d seen on the wall. 

“It’s the same symbol. Seems like it is the spirit of Jacob Karns.” Sam states handing y/n the folder. 

“All right, let’s find the dude’s grave, salt and burn the bones, and put him down.” 

“After execution, Jacob Karns was laid to rest in an Old North Cemetery. In an unmarked grave.” She reads the next page on the folder and looks at Dean, both of them looking annoyed.

“Super.” Dean mutters leaning against the car next to y/n. 

“Ok. So we know it’s Jacob Karns. But we still don’t know where he’ll manifest next. Or why.” Sam says going to his door of the car. 

“I’ll take a wild guess about why.” Dean moves to the driver's side and picks up a fine left on the windshield. “I think your little friend Lori has something to do with this.” The two enter the car and y/n moves to go in too. 

After an afternoon with some research at y/n’s motel room, Sam and Y/n go meet Dean at the boy’s frat house where there’s a party going on. 

“Hey.” Y/n says when they find the oldest brother. 

“Man, you’ve been holding out on me. This college thing is awesome!” Dean says checking out a girl who passes them and y/n smacks him on the head.

“This wasn’t really my experience.” Sam states looking around with a face. 

“Let me guess. Libraries, studying, straight A’s?” Y/n teases him and he nods.

“What a geek.” Dean rolls his eyes as Sam unravels a piece of paper. Dean asks, eyeing the paper.. “Alright, done with your homework?” 

Sam nods. “Yeah. It was bugging me, right? So how is the Hook Man tied up with Lori? So I think I came up with something.” He shows the printed pages to Dean. 

“1932. Clergyman arrested for murder.” Y/n reads aloud showing Dean the different pages. “1967. Seminarian held in hippie rampage” she reads the second page. Dean looks back at them confused. 

“There’s a pattern here. In both cases, the suspect was a man of religion who openly preached against immorality. And then found himself wanted for killings he claimed were the work of an invisible force. Killings carried out… get this… with a sharp instrument.” Sam explained his train of thought and y/n questions.

“What’s the connection to Lori?” 

“A man of religion? Who openly preaches against immorality?” Y/n states as it’s obvious and Dean suddenly understands. “Except maybe this time, instead of saving the whole town, he’s just trying to save his only daughter.”

“Reverend Sorensen. You think he’s summoning the spirit?” Dean asks as someone bumped into them. 

“Maybe.” Sam says, shrugging.

“Or… You know how a poltergeist can haunt a person instead of a place?” Y/n looks up at Dean and he nods. 

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

“Exactly. Without the reverend ever even knowing it.” She continues

“Either way, you should keep an eye on Lori tonight.” Dean says and looks around the party, while Sam nods. 

“What about you?” He asks the other two. Dean looks at an attractive blonde smiling at him by the pool table and makes a face. 

“I’m gonna go see if I can find that unmarked grave.” He mumbles, reluctantly. 

Y/n looks between the two brothers, trying to see who was in greater danger. “Come on.” She tells Sam and goes with the youngest to Lori’s house. 

Sam and Y/n are looking through the kitchen window of the Reverend’s house. They can see Lori and her father arguing. They look at each other and then back to the house. Lori complains and leaves the room. Her father sighs and turns out the light, leaving the room. Lori comes outside and finds Sam and y/n outside.

“I saw you from upstairs. What are you doing here?” She asks, looking between the two hunters. 

“I’m keeping an eye on the place.” The girl makes a face when Sam answers and he continues. “I was worried.”

“About me?” Lori asks and y/n takes a few steps away, looking around the house and giving them space.

“Yeah. Sorry.” Sam scratches the back of his neck. 

Y/n calls Dean to see if he managed to dig and burn the Jaco Karns remains but it goes rings until it falls on voicemail. She huffs looking down at her phone when, suddenly she hears reverend Sorensen scream followed by Loei’s. She runs to where Sam and Lori were when the door slams shut and Sam runs to it with his gun in hand.

“Are you okay?” she asks Lori when she reaches the girl pulling her back into the garden. She nods quickly and tries to run inside again. “We need you to be here, okay?”

“But…” She starts but reverend Sorensen screams again. A gunshot is heard and the window on the second floor shatters. Y/n is still holding Lori ck while she pulls her phone to call 911. Lori manages to escape the hunter’s grasp and runs inside.

“Dad! Dad!” The girl enters the bedroom and kneels down next to her dad. “Okay. It’s ok, Dad, it’s ok. It’s ok.” Sam is watching when y/n approaches and end the 911 call.

“Ambulance is on the way.” She simply states and Sam nods.

In the hospital Sam and y/n are talking to the sheriff while Lori is standing by her father’s bedside in a room.

“We were just talking. Then Lori’s dad came out. And then he appeared.” Sam explains looking convincingly confused.

“A big man? Carrying a weapon, some kind of hook?” the sheriff narrows his eyes at the two.

“Yes, sir.” the hunters nod.

“Ever seen him before?” The man asks and both shake their heads.

“No, sir.”

“Kids, it seems every time I turn around, I’m seeing you. I suggest you try to stay out of trouble…” y/n takes a shaky breath and the two nod at the sheriff.

“Yes, sir.” They say in unison as Dean approaches down the hall.

“No, it’s alright, I’m with them. He’s my brother.” Dean says at two officers who try to stop him. “Hey! Brother!” Sam, y/n and the sheriff turn to see Dean, who’s smiling and waving.

“Let him through.” The sheriff says and the other two make way for Dean to approach.

They go towards Dean as he’s walking their way too. “You ok?” He looks worried from Sam to y/n.

“Yeah.” they answer the oldest hunter.

“What the hell happened?” Dean asks, making a face.

“Hook Man.” Sam says with a sight.

“You saw him?” Dean wide eyes look back at Sam.

“Damn right.”

“Why didn’t you torch the bones?” y/n asks in a hushed tone.

“What are you talking about, I did. You sure it’s the spirit of Jacob Karns?” He answers looking at the woman as she opens her mouth confused.

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

“Well, yeah, the guy wouldn’t send the Hook Man after himself.” Dean says in a mocking tone.

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

“So what?” Dean frowns.

“So she’s upset about it. She’s upset about the immorality of it.” y/n explains to Dean.

“She told me she was raised to believe that if you do something wrong, you get punished.” Sam whispers.

“Ok, so she’s conflicted. And the spirit of Preacher Karns is latching on to repress the emotions and maybe he’s doing the punishing for her, huh?” Dean gets to the conclusion the other two had.

“Right. Rich comes on too strong, Taylor tries to make her into a party girl, Dad has an affair.” y/n brings out all the deaths and correlates to Lori.

“Remind me not to piss this girl off.” Dean murmurs. “But I burned those bones, I buried them in salt, why didn’t that stop him?” he asks the two younger hunters.

“You must have missed something.” Sam tries and Dean shakes his head at him.

“No. I burned everything in that coffin.” y/n is chewing on her lip when it hits her.

“Did you get the hook?”

“The hook?” Dean asks with a frown.

“Well, it was the murder weapon, and in a way, it was part of him.” She explains her point of view.

“So, like the bones, the hook is a source of his power.” Dean whispers and exhales, shaking hi head.

“So if we find the hook…” Sam starts.

“We stop the Hook Man.” They smile at each other.

The three are back into the library with more papers. “Here’s something, I think. Log book, Iowa State Penitentiary.” Dean says and start reading. “Karns, Jacob. Personal affects: disposition thereof.”

“Does it mention the hook?” y/n asks looking up from her files.

“Yeah, maybe… Upon execution, all earthly items shall be remanded to the prisoner’s house of worship, St. Barnabas Church.” Dean reads the next line.

“Isn’t that where Lori’s father preaches?” y/n asks Sam, who nods

“Yeah.”

“Where Lori lives?” she asks again.

“Maybe that’s why the Hook Man has been haunting reverends and reverends’ daughters for the past 200 years.” Dean tilts his head and looks between the two.

“Yeah, but if the hook were at the church or Lori’s house, don’t you think someone might’ve seen it? I mean, a bloodstained, silver-handled hook?” Sam asks his brother.

“Check the church records.” Dean says and motions to the piles of paper in front of them. They go back into reading.

“St. Barnabas donations, 1862. Received silver-handled hook from state penitentiary. Reforged.” y/n reads aloud when she stumbles into something and with a sigh looks up at the two brothers. “They melted it down. Made it into something else.”

“So… I guess back to the church we go…” Dean gets up. The other two follow him.

“What’s the plan once we get there?” Sam asks confused as they head to the car.

“We can’t take any chances. Anything silver goes in the fire.” Dean says as he gets in the car, followed by the two.

“We’ll have to break in, Lori’s still at the hospital.” y/n looks between the two.

“And we have to check both the house and the church.” Sam says.

“Alright. Take your pick.” Dean looks at Sam as he parks the car.

“I’ll take the house.” They get out and Dean and y/n look between the two buildings.

“Church’s bigger.” y/n says going in that direction to help Dean out. Dean nods and look back at Sam with a grin.

“Hey.” Dean calls and Sam turns around. “Stay out of her underwear drawer.” Y/n snorts and they both walk away.

They are some time inside, Dean is already throwing everything the two found in the fire when Sam approaches with a bag. “I got everything that even looked silver.”

“Better safe than sorry.” Y/n shrugs and hands the bag to Dean. They throw everything into the fire when suddenly, they hear footsteps above them.

“Move, move.” Dean takes his gun and they go upstairs. They find Lori sitting in a pew alone, crying. Dean lowers his gun and goes back downstairs with y/n. 

“Man, that girl is in serious need of a therapy session.” y/n says sighing as they reach the fire again. When neither of them could see anything else besides the fire they relaxed a little, but then they hear Sam yelling.

“GO!”

Both of them get up as fast as humanly possible and run upstairs again. They hear Sam screaming and force their legs to go even faster. Y/n raises the gun she grabbed from the floor.

“Sam, drop!” Dean yells and the young hunter crouches down as y/n shoots the Hook Man once and he disappears into dust.

“I thought we got all the silver.” Sam looks at the two as they get closer.

“So did I.” Dean agrees.

“Then why is he still here?” Sam asks.

“Well, maybe we missed something!” Y/n says as it was obvious. They look around.

“Lori, where did you get that chain?” Sam asks pointing at the necklace of a cross on her.

“My father gave it to me.” She answers holding it as the three hunters eye ii

“Where’d your dad get it?” 

“He said it was a church heirloom, he gave it to me when I started school.” she explains with a frown.

“Is it silver?!” Y/n asks her.

“Yes!” As she’s still answering Sam rips the chain off from around her neck and starts running to the hallway. The Hook Man, who is now invisible, is making a long scratch on the wall. Y/n turns around to look at it.

“Sam!” She throws the rifle and the rock salt to him and Sam tosses Dean the necklace, he runs back downstairs. Sam aims the gun at the scratch that is being made and shoots. He quickly reloads the gun with rock salt.

Y/n runs to them crouched down and pulls Lori back. Afterwards she goes to Sam and takes the gun from his injured hand, but the Hook Man appears and knocks the rifle out of their hands. They all crawl into the corner and watch the Hook Man tower over them. The Hook Man raises his hook in the air and stops. The hook melts and the rest of his body burns into nothing. Dean appears on the door looking at them. He walks over to the three on the floor and gives them a knowing look.

Outside the church the Sheriffs are walking around and there is an ambulance parked.

“And you saw him, too? The man with the hook?” The sheriff asks Dean and y/n rolls her eyes from the side.

“Yes, I told you, we all saw him. We fought him off and then he ran.” Dean explains.

“And that’s all?” He narrows his eyes.

“Yeah, that’s all.” Dean says and the sheriff sighs.

“Listen. The three of you…-” The sheriff starts but Dean cuts him off with a raised hand and a head shake.

“Oh, don’t worry, we’re leaving town.” The sheriff nods and walks to his car. Y/n approaches Dean back. They head back to the Impala and get in. Y/n sighs and rests her head on the headrest. Looking through the mirror they see Sam approaching the car after giving Lori a small, sad smile. 

“We could stay.” Y/n says as Sam gets in, but he shakes his head. The two older hunters look outside the car and see Lori looking at the car. Y/n looks at Dean with a worried expression and Dean shakes his head in disappointment and drives away.

Taglist: let me knowif you want to be added or removed.

@stillhere197

@lmhf1

@un-expectedly

[novashelby]

Evie: The Younger Years-Chapter 4: Grace Who? Part II

Summary: Evie may have forgotten something important at 11:00 Pm. Tommy tries to bake and Grace is forced to save the day.

Warnings: Swearing? None

LINKS (You can also read this chapter below, though please consider leaving a kudos on Ao3):

Ao3

Wattpad

I hope you enjoy this funny little chapter. Remember that while I find likes so kind and sweet, reblogs and comments really help us authors out.

Evie had a tendency of forgetting things. Especially when they have sunk into the deep pit of her school bag. What once was a crisp, clean, and unwrinkled piece of paper, was turned into something illegible. So many creases and wrinkles, the ink was worn off. But Evie knew what it was…and Tommy was not going to like it. She was supposed to be in bed, nightgown on and hair pinned. She took her little fuzzy slippers and the paper, and shuffled her way to her daddy’s bedroom. The ticking clock on the wall said it was half past ten. Evie knew her father well enough to know that he wasn’t sleeping, certainly at such an ‘early’ time. But he was certainly sitting up, writing things down and recounting the mess in his head.

Evie listened first before knocking, but she never waited for him to answer. Sticking her head through the crack of the door, she whispered, “daddy.”

He’d been leaning over his tiny room desk, papers organized in neat piles. A pen was dangling from his lips. Off to the side, an ashtray, swirling with smoke. Under his breath, he mumbled, “that lasted a night.” He was referring to her being a big girl and wanting to sleep on her own. “C’mon, love,” he said, undoing the bed covers for her. “But I’m telling you, tomorrow night-what?” Evie shook her head and handed him a ball of…what is that a paper? He couldn’t make it out. “What is this?” he asked, already dreading. With his finger tips, he winced as he unfolded it. “Never mind what it is, what happened to it? Evelyn!”

She offered a tiny little smile. “I forgot to give it to you last week. It’s from Sister Francis-”

“Evie, I can’t read the fuckin’ words, love!” he groaned, taking it to his desk, flattening it out and reading it under the oil lamp. “Bake sale…what, you want some money for it? You get sweets at home-”

“Daddy, no!” she said. “I have to make something. Sister Francis said our class is fundraising for the needy-”

Tommy was stumped. “The needy? We are the fuckin’ needy-oh my fuckin’ God, Evie, when do you need this by?” He could tell by her eyes that it was tomorrow. As in the next day. As in the day that was roughly an hour and a half away. “Evelyn!” He waved the paper in front of her, brow cocked, pointing with the cigarette wielding hand. “You are telling me, you need to bake something for tomorrow? And you’re only telling me this now? Evelyn! Where in the fucks’ name do you expect me to buy anything? Love, daddy can’t take stuff from his bloody fuckin’ arse-”

“Daddy!” she whined, pouting and folding her arms. “You’re yelling at me-”

“I’m stressed now!” He cut her off, falling to the bed and rubbing his forehead. “Alright, let’s go downstairs. Your aunt has to have some sugar and flour…hopefully butter-ah, fuckin’ ‘ell. Down to the kitchen, Evie.”

In the kitchen, they both opened every cupboard. Tommy scratched his head before grabbing the flour, butter, and sugar. “I think this goes in there, too,” he hummed, grabbing vanilla then molasses. “Something…we can make something, right?”

Side by side, they stood, scratching their heads. Evie looked up at him, “daddy, have you ever baked anything?”

He thought for a moment before saying, “no.”

“We’re fucked-”

“Evelyn!” he scolded before agreeing. “We’re fucked-where are you going?”

Evelyn was making her way to the stairs when she turned around and said, “you’re a lost cause. I’m waking Aunty Polly up-”

“No,” he said. “Come back here. We don’t wake her up unless it’s an emergency.”

“It is-”

Tommy raised his finger. “No, no this is not an emergency. Your negligence does not constitute an emergency, Evelyn.” She blinked for a moment before asking what that even meant. “There is a dictionary over there, love…I’ll be back.” He went up the stairs and walked in on his brother. “Do you know how to bake?” Arthur was laying on his back, eyes closed, mouth open as he snored. Tommy stared before kicking the wooden bed frame. Arthur startled awake, sitting up, rubbing his eyes.

“What the bloody fu-”

“Can you bake?”

“What!?”

Tommy sighed. “Do you know how to fuckin’ bake? Y’know…biscuits, cakes, sweets-”

“What has gotten into your fucking head?” Arthur asked. “I was sleeping, y’know?”

“Evelyn, once again, did not give me a crucial piece of paper. Tomorrow, she has to bring something to school for something bake sale for the needy-”

Arthur motioned around his room. “We are the fucking needy-”

“So, I’m asking, do you know how to bake?”

“Oh, sure, sure,” he agreed, nodding. “Let me just get up and put on my bakers hat-the fuck world you live in, Tom?! Do I look like I know how to fuckin’ bake?”

“Quite frankly, no, but I’m a bit desperate right now because if I don’t do this, that fucking bitch at the school is going to nag me…again.”

“Afraid of a nun?”

“No, not a nun,” he said, clearing his throat. “Mother Superior is-”

“You're afraid of a nun,” Arthur said, swinging his legs on the other side of the bed and grabbing his house coat. “How hard can baking be?”

Hard. Especially when no one measures or weighs a single ingredient. All three stood there, watching the oven. There was a tiny, tiny glass window to peek through, but nothing like the ovens of today. Covered in flour and sticky, they were afraid to open it. “We fucked up,” Arthur said.

Tommy agreed. “It’s fucking awful-”

“Fuck.”

Arthur and Tommy looked down at Evie, mouths agape. Tommy said, “Evelyn!” He sighed and opened the oven door, a poof of smoke engulfing them. “Ah, Jesus fuck!” he cursed, waving his arm. “How is it burnt and still bubbling!?” He threw the oven shut and had enough of it.

Arthur opened it a crack before turning to Tommy, “I don’t think the milk belonged in there…I think that is what’s bubbling-”

“That was your idea. I told you to fuck off with it and ya’ poured it in anyway-”

“Oi! You woke me up for my help. So, I helped!”

“You didn’t help-”

“Daddy!” Evelyn yelled. “Daddy! Yelling at Uncle Arthur isn’t going to help my situation. I’m going to wake Aunty Polly up-”

“No!” the two older men yelled.

Tommy grabbed her arm, “get your coat on. We’re taking a ride.”

Evie learned not to question those decisions and simply put her coat over her nightie. She hadn’t even bothered to put on her normal day shoes. She did ask once where they were going, and he answered with, “Evelyn, next time you get a paper.” There was a waver in his voice. Evie didn’t know it then, but Tommy was trying to cool his anger. He was upset with Evie, but if there was any person in his life he didn’t want to yell at, it would be Evie. “You don’t put it in your bag. You hear me?” He looked over at her. “It doesn’t go in your bag, it goes straight to my bloody fuckin’ desk!”

“But-”

“Evelyn Rose Shelby,” he warned. “No buts-”

“Butts!” she giggled, rolling around in the front seat. “You said butts-”

He gave up. “Evelyn, next time you hand me a paper late, I will not be doing this. Understand?”

“Uncle John has a big butt,” she said. “Uncle Arthur does not…but daddy, Finn is a fat butt-”

“Who the fuck am I talking to?” he cursed, continuing to drive. Her home was just a short drive away. A simple, humble flat. He liked it the few times he went for coffee. He parked on the street and told Evie to hurry on out. She tried to keep up with her tiny little legs as he walked up the cement stairs and knocked. Lucky for him, she was up.

Grace peeked through the white curtain on her window, and cursed to herself as she unlocked the door. “Thomas-”

“Do you know how to bake?” he asked, not extending a normal greeting. It was urgent. Grace cocked a brow and looked at him, covered in flour. Then Evie, who tried to hide behind her daddy. Evie wasn’t thrilled about this, but desperate times call for desperate measures. Grudgingly, she entered the home after her father, looking around with a pout on her face.

“Daddy,” she tried to protest. “The barmaid doesn’t know bake, that’s why she serves you whiskey-”

“Evelyn,” he hissed. “Be kind, eh?”

Grace chuckled to herself and offered, “whiskey?” Tommy shook his head, and asked for tea. Which was perhaps an odd thing for him. “And you?” Grace asked, smiling at the girl, who stubbornly didn’t answer, only looked at the wall. “Does she like milk?”

“Yes-”

“No!” She cut her daddy off. “I don’t like milk-”

“You have always drank milk. When did you decide you don’t like milk?”

Evie shrugged, wearing a big ‘ol fat pout. “Today. Big girls don’t drink milk.”

“What are you looking to bake?” Grace asked from the small kitchenette, looking through her cupboards and pulling out anything that seemed relevant to the task. “We can make shortbread-”

“Grace,” Tommy said, perhaps a bit too desperately. “Anything. It would be great, thank you.” She chuckled at his attire, and he, to her surprise, shyly wiped the flour off his nose. “I’ll use the loo.”

Evie watched how he navigated her house easily, glaring. Joining the woman in the kitchen, she grumbled. “He knows where the loo is-”

“I only have two doors, Evie,” she smiled, diverting the girl’s attention to the batter she started putting together. “If you wash your hands, you can mix in the butter, how about that?” Grace got a little step stool for Evie to stand on. She didn’t argue, as she liked to get her hands dirty in various different types of shit. Grace helped the girl balance on the painted wooden step stool, and guided her through the mixing process.

“I still don’t like you,” she said, as she felt around the melting butter.

Grace frowned, “well, that is a shame because to be honest, I’m quite fond of you.”

Evie paused, looking at the older woman. “You like me?”

Grace offered a warm smile and nodded. “And why wouldn’t I?”

“Cause I don’t like you,” she said, turning her attention back to the bowl. Tommy listened to the exchange, chuckling under his breath. He allowed the two to be, watching from the sofa. Evie could be so, so stubborn. Far too stubborn for her own good, and so wasn’t Grace. He put bets on which one would win this exchange.

“You can take a piece of the batter, if you’d like.” Grace picked a piece off and popped it in her mouth. “Mmmmm!” She moaned, doing a dance. “It’s so good…don’t you want some? Hm?”

Evie and Grace had a mini stare off before Evie took a piece and at it, “it’s okay-”

“Evelyn,” Tommy warned.

Sighing. “It’s good.” When Grace turned, Evie took another piece and quickly shoved it in her mouth. It was good.

“We just have to let it chill for a little while and then we can bake it,” she said, looking at the time. It was slightly past midnight. Evie had to get up at six, and everyone knew how she got when she got no sleep. The uncontrollable laughing and then the massive grumpiness. Grace nudged her. “Go to the bedroom, Evie. You can go to sleep.”

Evie looked at her daddy for confirmation and he nodded. The girl was exhausted. From what? He didn’t know. “I’ll tuck her in and then grab her school uniform…cause once she’s asleep, forget it.” Grace gently grabbed his arm.

“Let me…let me try to do it?” Tommy sighed, but motioned for her to go ahead. Grace gave the girl a moment to settle in before knocking at the wooden door frame. Evie looked up without saying anything. “Can I come in?”

“It’s your house,” she said.

“You’re right, but it’s your space right now,” Grace explained, walking in and sitting at the edge of the bed. Uncomfortably, Evie moved herself under the warm blankets, bringing them up to her face. Respecting her space, Grace didn’t take over the tucking in. Instead waiting for everything to calm, to say, “I know you hate me-”

“I don’t hate you,” Evie said. “I don’t hate anybody-”

“You don’t hate me?” Grace asked, raising her brow.

“No,” Evie said, mumbling.

“I’ll take that for a win, then,” she smiled, standing. “And perhaps, tomorrow, you won’t even dislike me.”

“I don’t dislike you,” she said. “I just don’t like you with my daddy-”

“Hmm, well,” Grace said. “Well, admittedly, I’m a little jealous of you, too-”

This got Evie’s attention. “Oh?”

Grace chuckled to herself knowing that she’d win this conversation. “Well, sure, because your daddy loves you more than anything and anyone in this world. Maybe I wish I had someone to love me like he loves you…Actually, he’s quite upset that he didn’t get to tuck you in tonight-”

“He can tuck me in!” she said fast, kicking off her blankets.

Grace winked. “Then I’ll send him right in and I will finish the biscuits. Okay?” In the hallway as she passed Tommy, she grinned. “I think I may have won the Evie game, but she wants you now.” She went to finish her walk to the kitchen when she paused, turning. “Were you listening the whole time?” Tommy swallowed, itching the bridge of his nose. “You were! You thought I couldn’t do it-”

“No! No, Grace, no,” he said. “That’s stupid-”

Grace widened her mouth, smiling, pointing her finger. “You have attachment issues! You’re mad you didn’t tuck her in-”

“She’s not a little girl, Grace,” he protested. “Simply curious,” he mumbled, inching closer to the door. “I’ll go check on her.” Grace shook her head. He really did love that little girl more than anything.

During the night, Grace finished the cookies, and while Tommy slept with Evie in the bedroom, she hunkered down on the sofa. Early in the morning, quietly, Tommy left to pick up her uniform. When he came back, the girl was already bathed, fed, and ready to go. Tommy eyed Evie, whose hair was neatly braided for the first time ever, and then to Grace who was wrapping the biscuits. “Do you want more milk, Evie?” The little girl, politely, said no…politely. Tommy was left out.

“I got the uniform,” he said, holding a pile of clothing in the air. “Evie, come get dressed…look at your hair? What? You didn’t want daddy to comb it?” He was joking, of course. Right? Completely. That little hurt in his voice was fake. Not an ounce of it was real. Evie slid from the chair and rushed over for the uniform, putting it on.

“Grace does it nice, daddy, see?” She showed him the neat braids.

“Oh, yeah, huh, look at that. Come on, you’re going to be late!” He rushed the girl out of the door, and nodded to Grace. “Thank you, Grace, I owe you, really…I do. Thank you.” 

[milliesfishes]

you want more thoughts I have a million more thoughts abt this AND a draft abt this

You eventually circle back to the topic, Billy very very tightly and reluctantly agreeing for you to show him some things. He’s never felt stupider, having his girl sit in a chair beside him at the kitchen table, correcting him as he fumbled over words. He holds his creased forehead in his hand and grimaces at the ugly worms of ink on the page, and grunts when you correct his pronunciation of “Astounding.” The lesson just ends with another excuse to walk out, something about needing a quick smoke. This time you follow him out.

OHHHH FRANCI YOU HAVE A DRAFT ABOUT THIS I'M GOING TO DIE

You follow him out and he turns away from you, still embarrassed at the situation. And you put a hand on his shoulder, tell him that not knowing how to read doesn't make him stupid, it just means he never needed to know it before.

And he's still on edge, still humiliated over the fact that he can't read the letters you send him, the ones he knows are chock full of beautiful things only you would ever think to say to him. What you don't know is that this only furthers the idea in his head that he isn't good enough for you.

[astrum-aetherium]

fucking henry but you're so loud he has to muffle you (bonus points if he's already angry at your brattiness)

the most enticing part about this is that he would become sooo annoyed. let's say it's super late in the night and otherwise completely silent in the apartment, and he does have neighbors he has to watch out for at times out of the sheer want to avoid unnecessary confrontation. or... same setting, but at francis' country estate — maybe you've had just a little bit too much to drink and cannot hold yourself back at all, thus unleashing it all. yelps and cries and moans, full volume. he would grow so vexed.

at first, he would even slow down and keep a more gradual pace thinking it would solve things, but the intimacy of the rhythm would have you just as loud all the same. with time, however, his expression would scrunch up further and further — he would be utterly displeased. here, i'll apply the aforementioned added bonus: let's assume you had been acting entirely disobedient and reckless all day, possibly spurned on by alcohol, and he's already agitated as all hell with your behavior. on top of all that, now that you're being far too loud to ever be appropriate, his stoic patience comes to a rampant stagger. in short: he loses it.

initially, he has you flipped on your stomach with your back arched, driving your hips into his. annoyed with your transcendent volume, he would lean forward and grab hold of your fluttering throat, spitting quite sternly, "would you keep quiet?!" then, he would add, "we're not alone, for god's sake." you, in turn, would only grin and continue without a whit of consideration, thus only challenging his boundaries further. in response, his fingers would tighten around your hips, practically digging into your skin and piercing you to the bone. soon enough, however, he would unclasp one of them and harshly spank you with it. leaning in once more, he'd repeat, "god, can't you just shut your mouth?"

because you, evidently, wouldn't, he would spank you some more, until he would have no other choice left but to nudge your head into the bedsheets so as to muffle you with an angered that's it. it'd help, and he would have the composure to keep going in on you harder, so that you'd cry into the gentle, expensive silk. he would tear you back upward for air every now and again by your hair, quite roughly, and you would only responsively moan out of pleasure at that. because you'd been so disobedient, he would edge you profusely — luring you over to the very premise of your orgasm but then immediately ceasing all movement and stilling inside you, hot and pounding. your expectant fluttering around him would have him breathing heavily, and yet he would be too focused on punishing you rather than granting the two of you the release you're seeking.

in a different position — any, honestly — he would keep his palm clasped over your mouth or even stuff it shut with his fingers, which you would brattily close your teeth in on. that, obviously, would only get you fucked harder and propelled further away from your orgasm. in spire of that, you would, of course, get to come that night — but not without being overstimulated to hell and back, with tears creased in your eyes and henry's anger spelled out all over your body in blooming little bruises where his grip had dug into you at its profoundest.

[hellframe]

Francis Abernathy: fake pince-nez

I was wondering where Francis ‘borrowed’ this accessory, so let there be some observations.

First of all, there’s a sassy definition of a typical dandy by Paul de Saint-Victor (La Presse, 21 August 1859):

'Black Prince of Elegance, the demigod of boredom who looked at the world with an eye as glassy as his pince-nez, suffering because his disarranged cravat had a crease, like ancient Sybarite who suffered because his rose was crushed.'

Then I thought that red hair combined with pince-nez reminds of Ezra Pound, known for his dandyish style and some other unpleasant things.

[Considering that Henry Winter could be read as a projection of T. S. Eliot, I think it's logical to compare Francis to Eliot's friend Pound, who edited The Waste Land, btw.]

Pince-nez also wore Mark Twain, another elegant redhead. Speaking of Twain, he left a description of one notable encounter in his Autobiography (vol. 2, 1924):

'Last night I was at a large dinner party at Norman Hapgood's palace uptown, and a very long and very slender gentleman was introduced to me — a gentleman with a fine, alert, and intellectual face, with a becoming gold pince-nez on his nose and clothed in an evening costume which was perfect from the broad spread of immaculate bosom to the rosetted slippers on his feet. His gait, his bows, and his intonations were those of an English gentleman, and I took him for an earl.'

Dapper-looking, tall, thin young gentleman in pince-nez, giving an impression of English aristocracy at uptown dinner parties. Doesn’t it sound like Francis?

Another possible source is 'The Adventure of the Golden Pince-Nez', one of Sherlock Holmes short stories. This pince-nez belongs to a refined and well-dressed lady, who committed an accidental murder, and then committed a suicide.

Eventually, when I was reading a review on Baudelaire’s last oeuvre, among his notes about Belgium I discovered a curious fact: Baudelaire complained that Belgians sold pince-nez with plain glass as a fashion accessory.

So I put my nose into that piece of prejudiced decadent writing:

'The pince-nez, with its cord, perched on the nose. A multitude of vitreous eyes, even among the officers. An optician told me that the majority of pince-nez that sells are clear glass. Thus this national pince-nez craze is nothing more than a pathetic effort to appear elegant and yet one more sign of the spirit of imitation and conformity.'

Late Fragments: Flares, My Heart Laid Bare, Prose Poems, Belgium Disrobed, trans. by Richard Sieburth (p. 301)

Francis bought his phony pince-nez in Belgium. That's it.

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

Viktor Zaretsky. Glowing Sky. 1988

* * * *

The Trees Delete Themselves Inside a Fog-Sphere

BY FRANCIS PONGE

TRANSLATED BY KAREN VOLKMAN

In the fog which surrounds the trees, the leaves are stripped—leaves defaced already by slow oxidation, deadened by the sap's out-seeping for flowers' and fruits' gain, since the harsh heats of August made of them a less.

In the bark, vertical furrows crease and slit where dampness drains to the earth's base, indifferent to the living citizens of the trunk.

Flowers scattered, fruit conferred. Since youth, this relinquishing of breathing attributes and body parts has become for the trees a standard practice.

[abugeatbugworld]

Five times Dot made Flik laugh and one time she made him cry

1.

"Why do you and Atta hang out so much?"

A smile played along Flik's lips. He glanced over at the small princess sitting beside him on the bank of a puddle, her feet swinging back and forth over the water below them like tiny pendulums. Her eyes were concealed by the sunglasses he'd made for her out of berry stems and translucent flower petals.

Instead of answering Dot's question, Flik asked one in return. "Why do you think we hang out so much?"

"I dunno," she replied with a shrug. Sunlight bounced off her glasses and into Flik's eyes, making him squint. "She's pretty boring, if you ask me. What do you even do when you're together for all that time?"

Flik was glad for the tinted lenses that kept her from seeing the pink in his cheeks. "Oh...we find things to do. You'll understand someday."

Dot wrinkled her nose at the suggestion. Flik loved the way this made her freckles fold into the creases of her skin, like they were playing a game of hide-and-seek.

"Come on, there's no one in your class you're interested in?" he prodded, giving the princess a gentle nudge with his shoulder. "No boys you like spending time with?"

Dot reached up and lowered the sunglasses to the tip of her nose. It took everything in Flik not to burst out laughing at the incredulous look she was giving him.

"The only boys I like are Miss Francis and Dim," she said, her matter-of-fact tone daring him to argue. "The rest of them are dummies."

Flik gasped and put his hand over his heart. "I'm offended!"

A mischievous dimple appeared at the corner of Dot's mouth. She pushed her sunglasses back up to the bridge of her nose, then turned to gaze out over the water.

"You're not a boy. You're Flik."

[officialmichaelnesmith]

last fics + first sentences!

rules: list the first sentence of your last 10 published pieces (or 5 or 1. however many you want to share)

1. seeds & stems

He’s lost an accurate tally of the minutes to all the hubbub and bustle that comes after closing out a show, but for however long exactly that it’s been since stepping foot offstage, Peter’s ears are still ringing with the hysterical shrieks and cries from their ever-enthusiastic audience.

2. the dreadful need in the devotee

The frigid, biting gales of April that prowl the impossibly vast tundra they all but occupy mere pinpricks of are no contest for the searing heat between them, born from a friction that only grows in urgency.

3. leucothea (and then there were two)

It’s more often than not now that Henry finds himself weighing how truly well these creaking planks of Erebus nurture him: mind, body, and soul.

4. on the blooming of baby’s breath (my june to october)

The thing Francis finds himself regretting in his arrival home to James simply amounts to tardiness.

5. sunk cost fallacy

Harry regards the tepid scraps of flesh on display in front of him with an unease that courses easily through the veins of some contrite child being scorned, taunted.

6. flesh for fantasy

What with the television screens growing steadily in desperation to have his picture plastered upon them, with the seemingly innocent cassette tapes aspirating in his grasp like trying to drink in his palmar creases, he might find himself more surprised if there weren’t eyes on him in some way.

7. close to the borderline

It doesn’t come up until it’s almost a little too late.

8. laplace’s demon

Logan doesn’t go with him willingly, not so long as he’s conscious.

9. c’mon and twist the knife (let’s make it painful)

The wolverine is an opportunistic carnivore; a scavenger, taking its time to pick over the congealed hunks of sinew and flesh its original predator hadn’t been able to bring itself to stomach still clinging to a long-since abandoned carcass.

10. unholy matrimony

They’re new to this thing—the living together thing, not exactly the sex thing.

i wasn’t tagged this is for the love of the game so if anyone else thinks it looks fun do itttt <3

[likeorpheus]

Francis doesn’t know when the weariness starts to creep up on them. Maybe it’s the overwhelming din of the Anaheim Packing District—the hum of conversation blending with the faint strains of holiday music, clinking glasses, and the shuffle of footsteps. Or maybe it’s the cloying scent of holiday candles wafting from one of the shops, an overbearing medley of cinnamon, pine, and something sickly sweet. The smell turns their stomach, and they press a hand to it, trying to breathe through the nausea.

The dizziness hits when they try to take a step. Their vision tilts for a moment, a strange, disorienting sway, and they grip the edge of a nearby counter for balance. Their fingers clutch the cold metal, and they close their eyes against the sudden vertigo. Lizzie’s voice cuts through the haze, steady and sharp.

@essentiamortis asked: “You’re sleep deprived and you haven’t been eating. Why do you think you’re feeling dizzy?”

They glance at her, the world still tilting slightly at the edges. Lizzie looks every inch the composed figure she always does. There’s concern in her dark eyes, though, a faint crease between her brows that belies her otherwise cool demeanor. Francis tries to laugh it off, but it’s weak, and Lizzie doesn’t budge.

“It’s nothing,” they mutter, though even they don’t sound convinced. “Just... tired.” They try to wave her off, but the effort costs them—another wave of dizziness washes over them, and their grip on the counter tightens.

“Maybe too much to drink ? Is that possible? ” As an alcoholic, probably not.

[derelictheretic]

Can I pleeeease see some Joseph staring at Dean like a creep. again 💕

Yes right away, one self indulgent Jo being himself and Dean being done with his shit wip coming right up 🫡 (This is is set at St. Francis, during one of Dean's many long stays with Jacob, he's too tired and hungry to care about Jo rn)

Joseph's eyes locked with Dean's as he sat down and he felt any of the words he'd been mulling over in his head trickle away like water down a stream. It was dark but Joseph could make out various cuts and bruises on the deputy's face and arms, his eyes tracing over the cut on the bridge of his nose and blood dried on his temple. He shakes his head gently and sighs, Dean frowns. Neither of them say a word.

In the dark Dean's brown eyes were like dark pools of molten syrup, an endless void staring back at him with only flickers of those dangerous embers rearing their heads. There was also a distinct fear shimmering within their depths, usually hidden so well by that raging inferno ignited by the sunlight shining in them. Joseph couldn't quite determime where that fear originated or what it was for but it was unmistakable, especially as Dean pressed his back against the bars of the cage and stared him down similar to how a caged tiger would stare down its captors.

He wasn't scared of Joseph, he'd made that clear since they first met; no Dean Sinclaire wasn't scared of men or wolves—his fear went deeper. And if Joseph could only follow down that winding path obscured by vines and thorns perhaps this whole process could move forward quicker. Dean wouldn't be in a cage, he'd be where Joseph had wanted him all along.

But the honey covered chocolate eyes gave up no key to see more than those glimpses, the crease in his brow and downturn of his lips gave no indication of anything other than that grinding furnace that never seemed to quell.

"Are you gonna stare at me all night or do you have another tragic story to regale to me?" Dean cuts through the burning silence as he pulls his knees closer to his chest, further closing himself off from him.

Joseph blinked. Then he smiled.

[derelictlovefool]

Currently obsessing over the idea of a sleeper build gn!Deputy with either the seeds or the hope county folks! I'm talking someone how can absolutely chuck a Peggy across a room like Vi did Savika while looking nowhere near strong enough to pull it off

Okay but now you're going to make me obsess over this; across the board you're getting an overwhelming response of shock and surprise, everyone is stopping in their tracks when they see you really show off your pure strength and resilience.

Sharky, Hurk and Nick would hoot and holler the first time they really see you in action; turning into your own personal hype team anytime they tag along with you.

The first time you launch a Peggie over a truck and take down three guys with nothing but your hands Sharky is all but swooning and shaking your shoulders, asking why you were holding out on all of them. Hurk falls over in his attempt to avoid getting hit by a VIP Peggie who got boomeranged using their own bat and he calls you some obscure superhero that just has you laughing and shrugging it off. Nick sees it from his plane and as soon as he lands he’s clapping you on the back and begging you to teach him how to do that.

The three of them boast about you being a badass, way less wimpy superman to whoever will lend an ear and no doubt it does boost your reputation within the County rather quickly; not that everyone believes them.

Mary May and Jerome are more than caught off guard, when you came rocking into Falls End to free them they’re expecting you to slink around and do things quietly due to your size but as soon as you lift a Peggie twice your size in one smooth motion they let go of all the preconceptions about you. They shower you with gratitude and get more than over-eager to sign you up for all sorts of missions across Holland Valley; to say they have confidence in your abilities after that display would be an understatement.

John and Faith brush it off as the three stooges spouting their regular nonsense while Joseph and Jacob are a bit more weary. Jacob saw quite a few small, feeble looking soldiers holding their own weight and using the enemy underestimating them to their advantage; he would never make that mistake. Joseph had a gut feeling you were more than you appeared, so he kept an open mind to the rumours of your strength being true.

When John first sees you in action it’s when you’re causing chaos in his bunker, instead of trying to escape you delved deeper and deeper after him and Joey; hellbent on freeing your colleague. John had never felt like a cornered animal in quite the same way he had when he saw you toss his chosen like they were sacks of sand; he was only thankful the reinforced steel doors where enough to keep you at bay. He obviously relayed the information to his siblings, which allowed them to be a bit more prepared for their own encounters with you.

Jacob was impressed and intrigued, he wanted to see you in action and he didn’t have to wait long. A few missteps had you at St Francis in no time and watching you tear through his trials like a starving wolf in a chicken coop was something to behold, there was really something artful about it. You even almost got to him, charging through three of his men like they were a flimsy fence made up of matchsticks. But while you had strength that didn’t do much to stop Bliss bullets putting you down.

Faith's encounter with you was not quite so violent or harrowing, for either of you. She had her own trials for you, tests to ensure you were worthy. While disappointed by how feverishly you clung to the past and your vices, unwilling to fall into her guiding hands she couldn’t deny she admired the way your unassuming figure twisted and flexed as you ploughed through her angels. It made her itch to get you under control, placating such a powerful person would not only impress the father but give her yet another step up the food chain.

Joseph is outwardly unmoved by your shows of strength, the crease in his brow the only indication he was affected. He could see you knew how to use all your available skills to your advantage and throwing people off guard by being unassuming was one of the most dangerous. Seeing how ferociously you defended the people who put you up on a pedestal was terrifying, but also inspiring. It wasn’t long after his mind filled with visions of you using that ferocity for his family instead of against it, you would be invaluable—but he couldn’t tell if that was a path you’d ever tred.

Your muscles were sore and ached, each shuffled crouch run and ducking down onto your bruised knees made you wince. Any more of this crap and you were gonna go down one day and not get up again, the thought was gloomy and hung over you every time you woke up. This was life for you right now and you just had to deal with it. You sucked in a deep breath through your nose before pushing yourself up, racing through a narrow alley and ducking behind some barell's. Your knees dug into the dirt, sweaty and bare shoulder leaning into the cool, rusted metal. You clutched the shovel you'd found in one of the dingy store rooms in your hand and peaked around just enough to see three Peggies frantically searching for you.

One was coming towards you, one heading up stone steps into the small warehouse while the other was shouting down their radio and holding their machine gun steady at their side. You duck back and wait with baited breath as you listen to the Peggie approach, once he passes you it takes only a few seconds to leap up, tuck your shovel against his neck and wrench him to the ground. You hold either side if the shovel as he crashes into you chest, you hold the pressure on his windpipe as he lashes around, dropping his gun as he tries to wrench the shovel away—it's no use of course. You can feel your muscles working hard but not as hard as you can push them, it's almost too easy to overpower the guy and in a minute or two he falls limp against you.

It's almost like pushing off a blanket as you roll his body off of you and gather yourself again behind the barell's, trying to peek through them and see if the other Peggie has moved at all. Your scuffle apparently went unheard but they latch their radio back onto the belt and start heading towards a ladder to the roof, that sort of advantage would be inconvenient at best and you make a split decision to get up from your hiding spot. You go wide, giving you enough time in their blindspot to gain enough distance to be hitting their legs out from under them before they have enough time to pull their gun on you.

On their way down however their fingers tighten over the trigger and bullets fly, clipping your hair and getting close enough to your ear that you hear ringing as you knock their gun out of their hand land a dizzying blow to their nose. Their disorientation let's you get a few free hits in, just enough to incapacitate them and take them out of the race for this fight. You hear boots crunching in the dirt and you turn just in time to see the butt of the gun above you before it cracks down against your cheekbone. You fall into the Pegfie under you and groan in pain, the nerves in your face exploding unpleasantly.

You raise a hand and grab a fistful of the Peggies shirt, pulling your back into their knees and aimlessly clawing your other hand in their air until it could also find purchase in some fabric. The Peggie laughed, amused by what she mistook as disoriented and pitiful attempts to block her attack, but it was soon cut short as you dug your heels into the dirt and used your body to lift her off the ground and toss her over your head. She yelped and cried out as her body crumpled into the ground, sliding and knocking into a tree with a loud thumb. She groaned as she hit the ground, pulling herself up and looking at you with a mix of anger and fear.

She hadn't been expecting that and was obviously off-put by your apparent strength but just like you she wasn't in this fight to be the one to go down and she collected herself as you did. Both of you down to your fists as you got to your feet, as she raced forward, you waited and watched. Dodging to the left you brought your leg up and dug your knee into her stomach, her body curling around it like a speeding car wrapping around a pole. You push her back and land a punch to her chest and then her cheek, trying not to give her time to recover as you hammer into her. She lands a messy punch to your jaw but it doesn't have enough weight to stop you.

You swivel, grabbing her arm and pulling the same trick to launch her and toss her into the ground. Your body can feel the strain from tossing another human around, her weight straining your tendons and tiring you out. But the second knock to the ground followed by a knock-out worthy punch was enough to put her down for good. You panted, throat scratchy and coarse as you kneeled over the bloody face below you. God, you could not wait until you never had to do this again, you were tired of this. All of it.

But hey, there was one more outpost down. Ain't that nice?

Faith didn't particularly think so, staring down the monitor at your blurry and bloody visage as you limped to meet the Hope County citizens rushing towards you with joy on their faces. They were hopeless and misled. They rejoiced when they should have been weeping, what you did wasn't justice—it wasn't freedom. It was just making a big mess of things, especially for her. She chewed on her nails as she counted off her outposts you'd taken over now, at this rate Joseph would… Well, there was no knowing what he'd do. Faith frowned, but her eyes lingered on the bodies you left beaten into the ground.

For such an unassuming little thing, you'd really done a number on them, she'd never seen someone toss another human like a ragdoll before. She had a feeling Jacob would be thrilled to hear about it, not that she really felt like telling him. She zeroed in on your face again, exhausted and obviously only accepting the praise out of obligation. You were proving to be more than she thought, so much stronger than any of them had thought you possibly could be. You were dangerous, and she wanted to pick you apart and put you back together—if she could only figure out how. Getting you under her thumb would wipe the slate clean, no more disapproving scowls and dark glares would be tossed her way during their family meetings.

She made up her mind. It was time for another visit, if she couldn't get through to you this time, then she would just have to get rid of you.