#I liked how instead of a machete she has a wrench here

[pixla]

hi hon! i adore your writing and i have a request for tommy: so you know that scene in the caves when alice breaks her leg and cindy has to like put the bone back into place? could that be with tommy x gn! reader instead? and both of them have a really really cute moment where the reader confesses how they never felt alive until they met and started dating tommy? they both survive and flashforward with fluffy smut pls?

Special thanks to the j-st-patricks-day and all my friends who helped with the process of writing this fic <3

broken bones and beating hearts

Tommy slater x nb!reader

Warnings: swearing, graphic descriptions of murder, graphic descriptions of injury (eg. Broken bones and stabbings/cuts), Possessed!Cindy, alice dies, Arnie dies, vomiting, fluff, pet-names, knocking out teeth, sex, unprotected sex, this au doesn’t fit with any of the other films (feel free to tell me if there’s any others)

Word count: 3.2k

POVC= point of view change

Tommy gripped your wrists pulling you out through the narrow cavern as it collapsed only seconds later. “Fuck!” You tucked your legs close to your body, trying to shake the feeling of Cindy's grip around your ankles. “What the fuck is happening?” You looked up as Tommy still held you close, you both too scared to move from the previous near death experience.

Everything was normal. You had all just ran out into the woods, you and Alice teasing Cindy about some stupid witchcraft book she had found in nurse lane’s office. But then Cindy decided to slash Alice and Arnie’s guts open with a machete.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck fuck!” You cried, bawling your hands into fists, wandering down what felt like endless hallways. You both soon realised that you had been going in a circle. It didn’t make any sense, it felt like another dimension or a mirror maze, where everything looked the same, maybe even was the same. “Y/N.” You turned your head to face tommy. “What?” He looked at you confused. “I didn’t say anything.”

You were going to shake it off as you just imagining it, but then you heard it again. “Y/N!” This time you knew it wasn’t Tommy, it was a woman. “Hello?!” You yelled out, hoping that someone had finally come to your rescue, but Tommy just continued to look at you like you were crazy.

You strayed from Tommy’s side following as the voice repeated your name. “Where are you going?” Tommy yelled after you as you wandered, not bothering to pay any attention to his questions.

You followed the voice, bending through the same corridors and hallways, not knowing where you’d end up. It was when you twisted round one corner you halted in your steps. It was a huge room, far larger than any of the ones you had previously found. But the greatest way it stood out was the mass in the centre of the room.

It was dark and fleshy, like clumps of meat thrown into a pile. You gasped as you stood closer gaining a better look at the thing. It was alive. It rose up and down almost like it was breathing and it thumped like a beating heart. With each whisper of your name you grew closer, drawn to it. You reached your hand out transfixed, but when your hand melted into its flesh, you froze.

It all flashed through your brain so fast. Cyrus Miller, ruby lane, billy baker…Cindy Berman. It was every single one of those shadyside phycos, even Cindy. It was all of the pain, all of the suffering and all of the evil. You lifted your hand, a thick slime dragging with. You backed up slowly, expecting to hit a wall. You were soon proved wrong when you felt your body fly backwards.

You cried out as you landed with a thud, Tommy finally catching up to you, peering over to find you clutching your leg in pain. “Shit, are you okay?!”

He had jumped down helping to lift you from the pit. You sobbed, tears running down your cheeks like a broken faucet, your hands clutching at His shirt. Tommy held you running his finger gently through your hair, shushing you softly as you buried yourself into his warmth.

Tommy gently slipped from your hold, leaning down to examine the damage. It was bad. So bad, you could practically see the bone protruding from the skin. You felt your gut wrench at the sight causing you to lean over beside you, regurgitating your dinner onto the cold cave floor. “Don’t look, okay? Just look at me.” Tommy leant over wiping your mouth with his jacket. You nodded slowly, trying your best to keep your eyes locked with Tommy’s despite how hard your morbid curiosity urged you to look down. Ripping his plaid jacket into strips he looked up at you. “We’re gonna get out of here. You’re gonna get out of here. No matter what I do, I���m gonna make sure I protect you, just like I always have.”

“I love you so much Tommy. I’ve never and never will love someone the way I do you.” You lean into him pressing your foreheads together. “I can’t lose you, okay?” He nods sympathetically, pressing a light kiss to the slope of your nose.

“Do you remember those dates we’d go on, out to the forest at night, and we’d just lay there, staring up through the cracks in the trees?” You nod. “I want you to think about that, okay? I want you to think about how many more we’ll go on once we get out of here.”

You hold a tight grip on his arm as he wipes away at the area. “I’m gonna have to put it back into place now.”

You pleaded with him, as the tears started again. “Please, no. Please just leave me here. Just go and find help okay? I can’t do it Tommy, I can’t do it”

“Hey, hey, hey. C’mon, look at me.” He places his hand on your cheek, tilting your head to look him in the eye. “You're gonna be fine, okay? You just gotta focus right now.” You nod timidly, the tears starting to slow.

He holds the bottom of your calf with one hand and your heel with the other. “Just count to three and I’m gonna do it, okay baby?” He looks up at you, his soft words lulling your anxiety. You bite your knuckle nervously, unsure as to how you should answer, but the look of trust in his eyes persuades you easily. “Okay.”

You breathe in. “One, two-” You let out a blood curdling scream as a large crack rung out, bouncing against the walls of the cave. Your fist gripped Tommy’s forearm tightly as you cried out a series of various curses. “You fucking asshole.” You whine out in pain, letting out an airy laugh trying to brighten your rather dull circumstances.

“You're okay baby.” You wince as he wraps the piece of fabric he had ripped from his jacket around your leg, tying it tight enough to hold you together for the moment. You grabbed Tommy’s shoulder as he wrapped his arm around your waist lifting you from the ground. You hiss as you feel your leg throb from the sudden movement. “Do you think you’re able to stand?” Tommy watches as you wobble trying to stay grounded. You nod. “Yeah.” You had no choice and you both knew it, if you wanted to live, you’d have to.

You both started your journey, finally entering a new environment as you trudged deeper into the earth of Shadyside. Why did these tunnels even exist? The intricate details of the maze made it easy to come to the conclusion that they were man made, but by who? Not once had you ever heard of these tunnels, and by the looks of it, nobody else had either, despite nurse Lane of course.

“Be careful.” Tommy tightened his grip around you. “You might slip.”

“Okay.�� You mumble, too exhausted to form a real answer. You looked around at the walls, floor and ceiling. The further the two of you walked, the denser this moss became. You felt a wave of familiarity but you couldn’t quite place it. Red moss…red moss! It hit you, Cindy! Her red stained shirt, she said it was from the moss in the outhouses. “Tommy! It’s the fucking outhouses! We fucking made it!” You would probably be jumping up and down with joy right now if it wasn’t for your broken leg.

You look up, spotting the out house toilet openings. Wow, real nice, you’re both sitting in Sunnyvale shit and piss right now. “Yeah, but how are we supposed to get out?” Tommy sighs looking up at the roughly 15 foot climb. “You can’t climb that.”

You look at him. “Yeah, but you might.”

“No. I’m sorry but no, I’m not leaving you down here, especially when there’s Cindy running around up there trying to kill us. C’mon let’s go, if we’re at the outhouses, we must be near to camp.” He directs you along but before you can both carry on your interrupted. “Did you hear that?!”

“No I-“

“Shush.” You both stayed quiet listening as to what caught your attention. It’s screaming. Someone is screaming from the outhouses. “Hey! Help! Please, we’re stuck down here!” You yell trying to get the attention of the voices.

The space grows quiet as the screaming halts, the both of you waiting nervously for any indication of life when a head pops out from one of the seat holes. “What the fuck are you guys doing in the toilets?!”

It was ziggy, Cindy's sister. “Ziggy..” you wonder if it’s right to tell her what’s happened to her sister but you decide against it, not wanting to put the girl in such an emotionally vulnerable state whilst she’s already physically. “Gary’s up here too!” She yells down as Gary’s head pops out another toilet hole. “Hey!” He yells, surprisingly light heartedly considering there’s a murderer running around camp butchering little kids with a fucking machete. “Can you get us out of this fucking toilet or not?!”

Gary had managed to make some sort of bucket contraption with some rope. “It’s just like You’re Gothel climbing up Rapunzel's hair, okay?!” He yelled down, lowering it down to you.

You're about to slip onto the contraption when you hear Ziggy's unfortunately very familiar screams, and before you know it Gary’s decapitated body lies beside you on the floor. You and Tommy let out an in sync gasp, him pulling you away into his chest, as to protect you from the image. “We’re gonna have to find another way out.”

You think to yourself. Alice…she had shown you something whilst you were robbing nurse lanes office with Arnie. “I know how.” You pull out the book that started this whole thing.

“Baby, I don’t get how that book is gonna help us, let’s be honest it’s some random witches and wizards bullshit written how many hundreds of years ago?”

“No, tommy.” You turn the book to him parting the pages. “It’s a map.” You rest the book on the floor, the two of you leaning over it. “It's a map of camp, you see over here, these x’s are the graves we found. And over here, that’s where we entered.” You point your finger on the page. “Here, there’s another exit. Mess hall.”

His eyes lighten. “Jesus, fuck! You’re so smart!” He pulls you in for a kiss.

—-

You sat, your back arched over as you watched Tommy laid on his back kicking open the vent that led to the mess hall when another scream rang out. You instantly knew that it was ziggy, far too acquainted with the tone of her screams.

“Tommy!” With one final kick the vent flew open, Tommy hauling himself through in a split second. “Don’t move, stay here! I’m gonna go help Ziggy.”

Tommy always cared so much for the kids at camp, you honestly weren’t surprised that he was willing to risk his life for one of them.

—povc—

Tommy barged through the doors of the mess hall, an all too familiar song ringing through the speakers, the noise made his head thump as it blared.

Tommy followed the screams, grabbing a mallet that lied on a nearby counter. Cindy stood beating at a supply closet door as ziggy screamed from within. Tommy pulled cindy's shoulder for her to face him as he swung the mallet into her jaw. Cindy tumbled to the ground as she spat a mouthful of blood and teeth onto the floor. Tommy hesitated holding the mallet in his hand, ready to strike Cindy. But before he could come to any decision Cindy grabbed her machete from the ground slicing at Tommy’s thigh.

Tommy dropped to the floor, his mallet sliding across the freshly mopped floor tiles, Cindy rising to her feet, towering over Tommy. Overpowered, he crawled backwards digging the heels of his hands into the cold tile floor. He was braced for impact when Cindy stopped turning around.

—povc—

You lunged at her digging the knife you found into her back, pulling it out as she turned to face you, plunging it into her chest over and over until she hit the floor unresponsive. You fell. You had finally reached your limit. Your leg was broken for fucks sake and you just murdered Cindy. Pure-hearted, hard working Cindy Berman. You plunged your knife deep into her chest until you split it down the middle. You dragged your body over to Tommy’s wrapping your arms around him, wetting his shirt as you became inconsolable. He held his hand at the back of your neck placing soft kisses onto the top of your head. “It’s okay baby, it’s okay. She’s dead now, we’re gonna be okay.”

You heard as ziggy opened the closet door, dropping to her knees at the sight of her sister dead on the floor. The red headed girl pulled her sister's body over to face her, wrapping her arms around Cindy crying into her cold lifeless body. You crawled over to the girl pulling her away from her sister's touch into yours. “I’m sorry.” You whispered.

The three of you struggled as you heard the last bell ring signalling that the bus would be leaving. Ziggy yelled out as the bus doors began to close. The wheels began to roll forwards but before it could depart a boy budged the doors open, calling out to her. “Ziggy!” You released your grip from the girl's side as she ran to him, embracing him. You rested your head on Tommy’s shoulder at the sight of the two. “I hope she’ll be okay.”

The two of you had found a place on the bus as Ziggy sat with you fellow councillor Nick goode. Finally being able to breathe, you rest your head on Tommy’s shoulder. “I’m so glad you're okay.” You look up at him smiling at his words. “Maybe you're the one who really needs protecting, without me you’d be dead meat.” You press your lips together, smiling softly into the kiss. “I don’t know what I would’ve done if I had lost you.”

Your eyes wandered to the window watching as the camp nightwing sign slowly floated away out of sight. Finally it was over.

———

After the accident medics treated and hospitalised many of the camp nightwing campers and counselors such as you and Tommy. Your leg was thankfully saved. They said if not for Tommy it probably would have had to be amputated due to infection.

It was two months since that night, you still had to use crutches but besides that, you made a speedy recovery alongside tommy. Although he was in a much less critical condition than you and was discharged within a few days, he still spent every night in the hospital with you.

You laid beside Tommy his leg slotted between yours as the velvet underground played softly in the background. You run your fingers through his hair slowly as he whines quietly into your chest. It finally felt like the first time since that day that you both could finally relax.

You pulled away from his touch leaning over him, kissing his lips softly. “You look so pretty.” You hum. He smiles into the kiss. “Not as much as you, baby.”

You lifted yourself straddling Tommy’s hips, deepening the kiss as your hands ran down playing with the hem of his shirt, travelling underneath. He pulls away, his hand rubbing your thigh. “Are you sure? I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

“I’m okay.” You reassure him, pressing soft kisses along his collarbone. You removed your shirt as Tommy’s hands floated up to your waist.

“God, you're so beautiful.” He mumbles, kissing up your chest slowly as you take off your pyjama shorts, throwing them to the floor.

You lean down unbuttoning Tommy’s jeans, taking him in your hand. Tommy twitches at the contact as you align himself to you. You lower yourself onto him slowly as his hands hold a firm grip on your lower back. Tommy lays his head back, his hips thrusting up into you.

You shiver as you lift yourself up and down, your thighs shaking from the stimulation. His thrusts hardened, your soft whimpers of his name encouraging him. “You look so fucking good right now.” He gripped your waist helping you keep a steady pace.

You steadied yourself, leaning your arms out pressing your hands against his chest as you felt yourself near your climax. “Shit, Tommy I’m gonna come.” You whined under your breath.

“Don’t worry baby, me too.” He runs his hands down your back lovingly.

You threw your head back as you felt Tommy’s hand wander down edging you on further, your breath quivering at the touch. You felt his hips buckle beneath you as he reached his peak, yours following soon after.

You sighed your body collapsing onto his chest. “I love yours so much.” You mumble into his skin as he presses a soft kiss against your forehead.

—-

It was the 16th anniversary since that day at nightwing, the two of you still happily together. Despite the permanent scar that night had left on the both of you mentally and physically, you both managed to stay strong, the event probably making the two of you even closer than you already were before.

Every year instead of hiding from the memories of that night, you both embrace it. Tommy’s favourite way to do this was to ‘reenact your youths’ in his words by driving the two of you out to the forest, where you would’ve spent so many nights together when you were younger.

You would open the sunroof and lay out the seats creating a little bed for the two of you. Probably not the safest thing the two of you could do, but most definitely the sweetest.

The two of you laid there staring up at the trees, resting your head on Tommy’s chest, your arm draped across his abdomen. Looking up at him you pressed a small kiss to the slope of his nose, pressing your heads together. The moonlight glazed over his cheeks, giving him a paler look. “You look so beautiful.”

—-

The car ride home was quiet but the atmosphere felt soft and comforting as Tommy rested his hand on your inner thigh. The velvet underground played softly on the radio as your eyes gazed out at the passing scenery.

[the-slasher-files]

WHAT A KILLER

BO’S S/O REVEALING THEY ARE ALSO A SLASHER (Vincent is also kind of in this)

TW: blood, gore, killing, swearing (that’s inevitable with Bo)

THIS has been sitting in my drafts for MONTHS and idk why I'm so iffy on posting it but hopefully you guys in enjoy this! It's different from a lot of what I write and I do like it, it's just specific lol.. Also the s/o in this, was the bare bones of what Amaria (my oc) started as... hope you enjoy 🔪💕

MASTERLIST

Bloodcurdling screams could be heard through the normally silent town of Ambrose as dusk fell. Crimson painted the skies and the asphalt, almost mirroring each other in perfection. Crows calling for the wasted souls Bo obliterated and Vincent could not fix. 

Shuttering at the sounds heard you could not sit there on the old couch any longer, just playing with your fingers trying to push down the urges you felt deep down. They beckoned you like the crows did for flesh. You tried so hard to hide this side but it was only a matter of time you knew, the demon had to rear it’s head eventually if you really wanted to stay in Ambrose forever, and you did. You found the man of your twisted dreams here. 

Before you were held in Ambrose against your will; well in the beginning it was against your will but that quickly faded and you fell madly in love with your kidnapper and the town he held so close; you were a drifter. A wanderer of gypsy’s blood. Never managing to hold in one place for more than 6 months, the only time you had a home was when you were growing up, but having a disgusting home life you left at 16. Fleeing home and trying to run from your growing desires you instead made a treaty with your urges, running towards them, allowing them to show when you were safe and comfortable. 

Bo never knew, all these months as you played the part of his defenceless little housewife it was growing harder to tell him. Of course you wanted to tell him but you were scared of him not trusting you, and terrified of what he would do to you; pretty ironic when you considered doing the same things to him. 

Casually you would throw a joke out there about killing someone or dreaming of snapping someone's neck, however they weren’t jokes to you. It was your wicked reality. Bo was none the wiser, but Vincent, in his quiet embers saw something beyond your delicate eyes, something he saw within himself perhaps. He started to believe your jokes and comments, carefully watching you. Wondering if for once there was a different kind of evil in the town, or if he was becoming the hunted instead of the hunter. 

Climbing the stairs and reaching the bedroom you paused, pulling in a large breath and exhaling, closing your eyes. You sank to your knees against the hardwood, pulling a long black, locked plastic box from under the bed, methodically you played with the lock and swung the top open. Placing your eyes upon the weapon your body tensed but your soul relaxed, a sick war inside your head divided. 

Running your hands along the cold metal of the black blade, you felt home once again, blood could almost be felt on your hands and screams faded in your ears. Hunger grew. A deep pleasure surged through you. 

It was your 18 inch steel black machete; with ridges menacingly flaunting themselves across the top, like a dragon’s spine. The grip you had customized to fit your hand perfectly, needing it to act like an extension of you. It was adorned proudly with a thin rope of bright red fabric tied around the end of the handle, ripped from your first victim’s shirt, it’s tails would drift gracefully in the wind juxtaposing the damage the weapon could do.

Shaky hands picked up the weapon and it seamlessly melting into your grip, your eyes darkened as you rose from the floor, feeling your demons begin to yip and howl like a pack of starving wild dogs ready to feed. Giving yourself another deep breath in and out you kicked the box back under the bed and started down the stairs and out the front door with purpose.   

The hot sticky Louisiana air hit you, flowing in your hair and the tail of fabric on your machete. Screams begin to reach you in swells, coming closer flooding you like the rising tides as a younger woman was running towards you. Under the dim streetlights she could not see what you held, for the black blade melted into the shadows perfectly, as intended. To her you were hope, a way out of her hell, maybe you could help her. The poor thing could not have been more wrong in her panic-stricken judgements. 

You could smell her blood pouring from her injuries Bo inflicted and her desperate cries, it was all too much to you, it was just like blood in the water to a shark, your twisted instincts began to take over. Eyes darkened on the prey that was heedlessly bounding towards you and with one swipe, that was it. Blood was spilt. You had killed again and it felt so damn right. Looking down basking in the sight, she was slit ear to ear, the gash threatening to show the tips of the vertebrae at the back of her neck. The demons were lurching beside you pushing you forward for more. More blood. More affliction. 

Studying the surroundings, Bo was nowhere to be found, unusual for him to let his prey escape his hunt. It was quiet now as you walked on down the street, yellow fluorescents guided your path, and the homes were just barren shapes acting as blinders leading you onward for the man you dreaded seeing at this moment, the demons couldn’t care less about your emotions or feelings, they just carried your body to more gore. 

Rounding the corner, the gas station lights gave up a tangled mess on the ground. Two men were wrestling for some sort of weapon that glinted in the lights above them. Cursing yells, threats and grunts spilled out of both of them, one more than the other of course. Bo always had a mouth on him and no one could ever shut him up, it made you smirk as you approached, but suddenly there was a sharp yell and the stranger was on top of Bo. The man had his back to you and just had eyes for the greasy mechanic, beating him with the weapon you could now see was a wrench. You could feel a burning anger rise from your core and Bo’s howls were just fuel to the fire.   

Steadily making your way up to the two wrecks of people, now standing behind the stranger you forced your long rigid blade through the core of the man, impaling him right under the sternum. Loud clanging of metal rang through the street as the man dropped the wrench as his body went limp, heaving over the weapon within him. With your boot you carefully directed the corpse off your machete and on the asphalt next to Bo, leaving your face sprayed with red from the spine of the blade. 

Your eyes met with saucer wide baby blues causing you to let out a silent breathy laugh licking your lips of blood, sickly savouring the unusual copper. Bo laid on the ground a moment longer just taking in for sure what he saw from his precious angel. Just as you were about to speak but Bo beat you to it.

“I FUCKIN’ KNEW IT!” he gloated hysterically, leaving you more than a little shocked. “I KNEW IT!” Bo got to his feet and almost looked like he was going to do a little dance, you just stood there in the streetlight beginning to laugh, relived but worried as if he had hit his head or something. It was never a dull moment with Bo that’s for sure. 

“Are you ok? like seriously, your beginning to scare me” you puzzled as he sauntered his way up to you cocky as ever. 

“I’m fuckin’ fantastic... I knew there was something in you” he held you against his chest and put his head on yours “something awful behind those beautiful eyes, my little angel of death” you laughed against him as he kissed your crown, then pulled away looking you dead in the eyes. “Why did you think I kept you around all these months? you made me wait a while... and you know how much I hate waitin” 

The words burned in your skull, was that really the only reason? Bo was still unpredictable to you in ways, especially with his dark side. Maybe he was just going to kill you now, maybe he didn’t love you, it could’ve just been the wicked charm he carried effortlessly. 

Something came alive in his blue eyes, scaring you slightly but trying to play it off when you cupped his strong jaw, breathing slowly. 

“People are my specialty baby” he drawled, then pulled you roughly into a kiss. Sweat, oil, cigarettes, and blood coated the kiss leaving you breathless as he often did. 

Bo was right, people were his perfected craft; charming, seducing, lying, playing up the sob story about him and Vincent being in foster care after both parents died. Hell, he could speak French Cajun so he could be more versatile, and charm his way out of any situation in any part of Louisiana. Bo always knew everything you were feeling even before you said it, now that you think back on it. 

“Bo? you still love me?” you hesitating in your question not sure if you wanted the answer. 

This caught his attention as his jaw tensed and eyes hardened “What would make you think I don’t?... sure I would’ve liked to know earlier, sure, but this just makes you better,” he looked you up and down like a predator before coming close to your ear and purring “and hotter.” You yelped as you were suddenly tossed over his shoulder and carried down to the basement of the garage.     

Fidgeting with the lock for a moment he swung the door open and placed you in his chair. “Oh, Sinclair there is a special place in hell for us, and I will meet you there” you laughed as Bo climbed on top of you, clashing his lips against yours, hungry and lustful.  

[vanellygal]

Friday The 13th Game and Dead by Daylight Survivors trade games for a day

**The only ketch is that they also bring their own game mechanics over, which makes things more interesting**

Vanessa Jones lost interest in her normal routine, and is looking for a change. Luckily for her, Meg Thomas felt the same about her game. So, they both decided to switch games for a day...and this is what happened.

Vanessa Jones in Dead by Daylight:

Vanessa: "Okay so what's the endgame? Do we repair a car or something?" Kate: "Nah, we just repair the generators and power up the exit gates. Let me show you." She bends down to slowly fix a generator. Vanessa waited impatiently, until finally she moved her out of the way. "Step aside! I got this." The skill check circle appeared instead of the normal bar the DBD survivors are used to. She might have missed a skill check, but she had the generator done in less than 8 seconds.

Wraith was wandering around looking for survivors when all of a sudden he heard a generator explode, then pop. "Huh?" Soon, another gen popped, then another. "What is going on here..?" He snuck over to the other generator, where a group of 3 survivors were cheering for Vanessa. Who was she, and how is she getting the generators done so quickly?!

Vanessa: "Want to see something cool?" She then proceeds to pick up a machete off the ground, then run over to Legion (Frank) to beat the crap out of him.

Legion (Frank): Crying. "OOWWW!! THIS ISN'T HOW IT'S SUPPOSED TO WORK!!"

She legitimately chased Legion (Frank) the rest of the match.

That is until she ran out of stamina. "WHEN I GET MY STAMINA BACK UP, I'M GOING TO BEAT YOUR ASS SO HARD!"

Honestly I doubt that she would be hooked that much. The majority of killers would be too afraid of her.

Meg Thomas in Friday the 13th The Game:

Meg: Running away. Jason: Chasing her. "Her stamina will be gone soon!" ….8 minutes later.. Jason: "HOW LONG CAN THIS GIRL RUN FOR?!" Meg: Has no stamina bar.

When it comes to repairing the car- Deborah: "Did you bring the battery like I asked?" Meg: "Yes, I got it!" Deborah: "Great, just let me repair-" Meg: "I got it." The repair bar from DBD pops up, and she slowly puts in the battery. Deborah dies inside.

Jason grabs Chad by the throat, ready to kill him. Meg zooms in and uses a flashlight against Jason. He gets blinded, then drops Chad. "What the heck just happened?" Jason is very confused

Tiffany sneaks into a cabin and searches through the drawers. She felt eyes on her, so she stopped. Tiffany walked over and opened up the closet. "What are you doing?" She raised an eyebrow. Meg: "I'm hiding." Tiffany: "Get out of there." She said in an annoyed tone and pulled her out. "Here, take this." She handed Meg a wrench. "Use this to fight back, and if he grabs me, hit him!" Meg: "Fight..back?"

Some minutes later, Tiffany was in a fight with Jason. "Ha! Luckily I have back up." She looked around. "Meg? MEG?!" Meg was back in a cabin in the closet, she clearly did not understand the concept of "fighting back". Tiffany's death scream could be heard in the distance.

[dreamingofscully]

MOMENTUM - CHAPTER 1

(READ CHAPTER 2)

Rating: Mature (ch 1), Explicit (ch 2) Length: ~12k words Classification: M/S RST, Angst, Post-Ep for En Ami and spoilers through Chimera and all things Summary: Scully’s choices lead to some unintended consequences for herself and her relationship with Mulder.

Thank you to my betas! @sarie-fairy​​ @scullyeffect​​ and @o6666666​​ for the machete betas and @suitablyaggrieved​​ @starbuckthirteen​​ and @unhappybrthday​​ for the feedback. Definitely could not have done it without you.

Tagging @today-in-fic and @kega-umi.

(Read on AO3)

*** FRIDAY SPENDER’S FORMER OFFICE

“He knows what that science is worth, how powerful it is....He'd let nothing stand in his way.”  - Mulder

“You may be right... but for a moment, I saw something else in him. A longing for something more than power. Maybe for something he could never have.” - Scully

Scully wishes she could claim possession, body-snatching or any sort of ridiculous idea besides the one that she simply did something stupid. Mulder stands in front of her, arms braced on the doorway, waiting for a reasonable explanation. Why did she believe Spender? Why is she trying to paint him in a more sympathetic light? She thought she was doing the right thing at the time, but looking back she can’t believe she was so foolish. The silence stretches between them, his eyes filling with disappointment as he turns and walks away, leaving her standing in the empty room. 

Looking for some tangible proof of Spender’s presence, she scans the room one last time. Wonders why she’s even bothering since proof won’t give her the answers she needs. All of their experiences with him showed that he was nothing more than a liar, manipulating people for his own personal gain and twisted pleasure. Scully’s smart but she’s never been good at deception. Why did she think she could out-wit the man whose entire life was built on lies? Finding nothing in the room to ease her conscience, she reluctantly follows Mulder to his car. 

The last time she could remember this amount of tension between them was when Scully had voiced her suspicions to Mulder about Diana. They never talked about the hurt they’d caused one another back then, but that was their usual M.O. - never speaking about what mattered. Getting back to the X-Files, the foundation of their partnership, repaired the damage they'd inflicted upon one another. Shortly afterwards, they took the next monumental step in their relationship, finally admitting the feelings they had for one another and becoming lovers. It made the issues they argued about seem unimportant, at the time.

Mulder drives her home without even sparing her a glance. His inattention is glaringly unfamiliar. A few times, Scully opens her mouth to say something but changes her mind, each justification sounding inadequate. She’s utterly disappointed in herself. 

Finally, he pulls up outside her door, leaving the motor running. Needing to say something before leaving she undoes her seatbelt and turns to face him.

“Mulder--”

“Not now, Scully. Just get out.” He doesn't meet her gaze. There’s tension in his shoulders, barely concealed rage simmering just under the surface.

Not moving, she steels herself for his anger. She still has some hope of reasoning with him but before she can say anything else, Mulder turns to look at her. Instead of fury, she sees pain and vulnerability and her heart clenches in her chest. He thinks she betrayed him and from the outside that’s exactly what it looks like, exactly what Spender intended. Was that another motive - to put a wedge between them? 

Suddenly he’s left the car and is walking around to her side. He wrenches open her door and waits impatiently for her to get out. As she exits the car and reaches for him, he avoids her touch and goes back to the driver's side like he’d drive away whether she shut the door or not.

“Mulder, I was wrong to go with Spender but I think that might be what he intended all along, to make you doubt me. Call me when you’re ready to talk. Just know I’m sorry, and I love you.”

Scully waits, hoping he'll turn towards her and acknowledge her words. 

“Shut the door.” He doesn’t spare her a glance.

When she closes the door between them, his car peels out of the parking lot, leaving Scully at the curb to watch Mulder drive out of sight. She doesn’t remember the walk to her apartment, her head filled with fury and regret.

*** MONDAY FBI HEADQUARTERS

Scully walks down the hallway to their office, her heels clicking in an urgent, staccato rhythm, mimicking her fluttering heartbeat. He hadn’t called over the weekend, and despite not knowing his state of mind, she’s eager to see him. While they don’t spend every day together, it was rare a day went by that they didn’t at least speak on the phone, talking about anything and nothing. She misses their connection in a way that makes her feel weak and unsure, a foreign and unwelcome sensation. Taking a deep breath, she brushes her sweaty hands on her skirt and prepares a hopefully normal-looking smile on her face as she opens the door. 

Instead of a brooding, grumpy partner, she finds an empty office.

There’s no note on either of their desks. She double checks the door for a message - nothing. Concerned, she boots up her computer and scans her email. Nothing. Her cell phone is charged and there were no messages on her answering machine, she triple-checked before she left that morning.

Even though her instincts scream at her that he might have gone and done something impulsive and stupid, Scully takes a few deep breaths and forces herself to trust him. Calling him will only piss him off even more if, as she suspects, he’s only trying to avoid her a little while longer. He’ll be here. She’ll give him thirty minutes.

The time seems to pass interminably. She’s constantly checking the clock and reopening her email. Wondering if the computer system is down, she’s about to call tech support when the new email icon pops up on her desktop. Her heart leaps in her chest and she’s irrationally angry when it’s not him. She tries to work away at the long list of things she means to do but never has the time for but her eyes keep wandering to the clock. The reports on her desk remain unopened.

Twenty-five minutes. That’s close enough. She calls his home, but he must have turned off his answering machine. And he doesn’t answer his cell. 

Panic sets in.

Not knowing what else to do, Scully dials the number for Skinner’s office, chewing on her lip while she waits to be connected.

“What is it, Agent Scully?” His irritation makes her more nervous than usual, reminding her of the many, many times Mulder did something to annoy him.

“Sir? I, um, wondered if you had any idea of Mulder’s whereabouts?”

Silence for a few beats.

“He’s in St. Louis, helping with a profile. Left yesterday night. You’re unaware of this, Agent Scully? I thought you went with him.”

Scully massages her forehead, suppressing a sigh. “No, I... um... had stuff to do here. He must have forgotten to let me know. Sorry for bothering you, sir.” 

Scully tries Mulder’s cell again but it disconnects after one ring. So, that’s how it's going to be. Annoyance begins to creep up at his avoidance, but she tamps it down. She’s more worried about the toll that profiling will take on him. Since she’s not his favorite person right now, she fears her presence would only distract him, making the process take longer rather than providing any help. If they needed a pathologist, Mulder knew where she was.

Straightening her back, Scully forces herself to concentrate and get back to work. It’ll be a long few days alone in their basement office, but perhaps she can take advantage of his absence and catch up on reports and paperwork. Calmed by the practicality of her thoughts, she dives into the neatly stacked piles of work on her desk, determined to put her emotions aside until she’s able to talk to Mulder about it. 

*** FRIDAY

The rest of the week passes incredibly slowly without Mulder there to keep her company. When Scully tries to find out any information on his profiling case, thinking she could help from a distance or find an excuse to join him out there, she’s rebuffed. She almost takes the rejection personally but dismisses the irrational thoughts - not everything is about her. 

The anger she feels towards Spender grows with each day of Mulder’s absence, each day he refuses her call. She knows that this entire charade was intended to not only help Spender acquire something dangerous but to create doubt in her partner’s head about her. Once he gets back, she’s sure things will be fine, but the work doesn’t hold her interest without him there to distract her from it.

Speaking of distractions... Scully reaches for the office phone and hits redial, reaches Mulder’s voicemail.

“Mulder, it’s me. I’m not going to apologize again, you’ve already heard all that. I still can’t give you a good explanation. Just… I guess I just saw an opportunity for something and decided to take a leap. I know it wasn’t the best time to do that but, there you have it. Call me. Please. I’m worried about you out there.”

Scully hangs up the phone, taps on the receiver. She hates not knowing, hates not being about to do something. Needing to do something, she picks up the phone and dials Skinner’s extension. 

A few perfunctory minutes of updates to him on her progress in the office over the past week and Scully gets to the real reason for her call. 

“Sir, I was hoping for an update on Mulder’s case in St. Louis?” She tries to sound casual and unconcerned.

In the momentary silence on the other end of the receiver, she imagines Skinner’s brows knitting together. She swears under her breath, sure he would find it unusual that she was asking him, rather than speaking to Mulder directly.

“Uh... I just spoke to Agent Mulder. He’s due back tomorrow.” A pause. “Is everything okay, Agent Scully? Is there a reason you haven’t spoken with him yourself?”

“No, not at all. I-- um...that’s all I needed from you. Goodbye, sir.” 

Tomorrow, then. Scully smiles softly, nodding to herself. He’ll be home and she can help him with whatever consequences arose from the case in St. Louis, relieved she can finally take action.

*** SATURDAY MULDER’S APARTMENT

The rumbling of thunder and flashes of lightning accompany Scully as she strides down the hallway to Mulder’s apartment, shaking droplets of water from her raincoat. The fading light bulbs and sparse indigo light from the window at the end of the hall paint everything in shadowy illumination reminiscent of evening, though it's midafternoon. She knocks on his door, biting her lower lip. Strangely nervous about seeing him after so long.

She hears the lock opening and suddenly he’s in front of her. He hasn’t opened the door completely but the few inches of Mulder that she sees causes her to smile foolishly. 

Oh, how I missed him. 

“Hey,” she says. Her delight spills out before she notices his appearance. He looks like he’s been to hell and back - he hasn’t shaved in at least a week and there's dark circles under his bloodshot eyes. 

“Oh, Mulder…” 

Scully reaches for him, but before she can get close he flinches and pulls away from her, still holding the door partially closed and blocking her entrance. She’s dismayed at his reaction but tells herself it’s not about her.

“Now isn’t a good time.” His voice is strained. “What are you doing here?”

“It’s been a week… I thought we could get dinner and… talk?” At his blank stare, she continues. “Are you ok?” She places a hand on the doorframe and checks him over more closely.  

“I don’t think you being here is a good idea,” he says, his gaze hardening under her inspection. 

Confused at his rejection, Scully takes a deep breath, trying to think of something to say to bridge the gap between them.

“Is this about Spender?”

Mulder’s eyes suddenly flare with unbridled fury. His jaw clenches and his grip on the door tightens. Scully’s not sure what’s worse, the intense anger or the emotionlessness. He stares past her into the hallway. 

“Why on earth would you bring him up, Scully?” He asks this quietly, but she feels the force of his anger with every syllable. 

“Mulder, I didn’t mean--”

"What didn't you mean?" Mulder interrupts, yanking the door open and leaning closer but further blocking her entrance. His entire body rigid. "To take off with a man who's lied and worked against us for years? Who gave you your disease, who took so many things from the both of us?”

"I told you why I went, what he told me." The reason sounds feeble as soon as she voices it, unprepared to defend herself. She’d come to support him in the aftermath of profiling a horrific case, only he seems more upset over her actions from a week ago. .

Mulder’s eyes flash at her again. "And look what it got you. Nothing. Less than nothing. I was so worried about you.” 

The care she tried to take when she left with Spender ended up being completely worthless. Of course Mulder worried about her. What he must have thought? 

He continues, hands gripping the doorframe. “He could have done anything he wanted and you played right into his hands. And I still don't understand. You've always been the one telling me not to trust others, then you take off with the worst sonofabitch--"

Sheets of rain pound against the window, and dangerous crashes of thunder punctuate Mulder’s furious words, cutting off the last part of his sentence. Scully tries to hold his gaze, to tell him with her eyes what she can’t seem to express with her words. She can’t stand how he’s looking at her any longer and glances out the window at the storm. 

Flashes of light illuminate the hallway as she turns back. Long shadows drape Mulder in half-light. His face is both dark and light at once and while she desperately tries to focus her thoughts into coherence, he’s sinking back into his darkened apartment.

"Mulder, I tried..." The rest of her words shrivel under the weight of her mistake. She didn’t need to repeat herself and he didn’t seem to want to accept, let alone believe, her motivations the first time. A week apart didn’t lessen his anger. Her chest tightens. "I don't know what else to say."

"I don't think I really know you." Mulder’s voice breaks, sharpness replaced by vulnerability.

The statement breaks her heart. She knows how much trust means to him, that for years now she’s been the only one he can count on, who never tried to manipulate him. She's always been his exception. He trusted her implicitly because she’s never had an agenda. Have her actions forced him to doubt her? 

He has no one else. Of course he would react this way. 

She composes herself before speaking again, feeling like she’s traveled back in time, needing to convince him that he could trust her again.

"You do know me. It was a mistake. A terrible mistake, but that's all it was. It's me." She longs to reach out and grab his hand to emphasize her point, but his earlier reaction makes her hesitant.

Mulder’s eyes close and his shoulders slump, weariness and defeat written on every inch of his frame. He inches the door shut, withdrawing from her completely. 

"Mulder, please…" She’s desperate but has no idea how to reach him, convince him her intentions were pure. It’s like the idea of her betrayal has buried itself so deeply within him there’s nothing she can do to convince him otherwise. 

“No. I can’t do this right now.” He pulls away, shutting the door firmly between them.

She hadn’t expected this. Needing some sort of connection no matter how tenuous, she reaches out and lays her hand on the door, the smooth wood-grain surface under her palm an ineffectual replacement. She stands there for longer than she should, her breath shallow, emotions swirling within her. 

A boom of thunder shocks her out of her bleak thoughts, forcing her hand from his door and her steps towards the elevator. She doesn’t think she’s ever seen him this mad at her for so long. She manages to get to her car and drive home, heedless of the rain soaking her to the skin.

*** MONDAY, THE FOLLOWING WEEK FBI HEADQUARTERS

Worried when Mulder’s late for work on Monday, Scully wonders if she’ll have a repeat of last week. When he shows up she’s relieved, despite his rumpled suit and tired eyes. Mulder is distant but at least they’re speaking to one another, giving Scully hope that they can fix whatever happened between them. 

They work separately on old case reports and Scully tries to take comfort in the routine. However, Mulder’s dark mood is a thick fog between them, making their progress feel sluggish and their attempts at communication heavy and awkward. She wishes she could give him some measure of solace, comb her fingers through his hair, hold him at night until he falls into an easy slumber. Guilt cuts through her concern, presses heavily on her chest. It was her own actions that placed her here, preventing her from being able to give him comfort.

Regardless, he's talking to her, which she takes as a step in the right direction.

The week passes and Scully’s optimism dwindles. She almost forgets about their estrangement until he shies away from her touch, doesn’t meet her gaze, and refuses to banter or joke and she's struck by the remoteness of his presence. It’s like she's been reduced to a tolerable acquaintance rather than his closest friend and lover. 

They’ve never been good at talking about personal things. Scully could probably recount on one hand the rare times they spoke openly about their relationship or feelings with one another. How can she start a conversation with him about when it’s just not something that they do?

Thoughts of her sister emerge more frequently. Scully misses her acutely, the pain of her death like a fresh wound. Was it this hard all those years ago? Missy was so good at knowing what to do when it came to people. Instead of speculating about what her sister would say, Scully embraces her strengths and gets back to work, what brought her and Mulder together in the first place. She takes some comfort in simply having him nearby, witnessing the brilliance of his mind. If they’ve taken a step back in their relationship, she can’t deny that she wouldn’t trade her partner for any other.

*** FRIDAY FBI HEADQUARTERS

“There’s been some tension between my partner and I this past week and I can’t figure out how to get past it. Or if we even can.” Scully chews on her bottom lip, finding it difficult to voice her concerns aloud.

Karen Kosseff, the FBI counselor she’s talked to off and on over the years, sits across from her in her small office. She’s silent, calmly waiting for her to continue.

Scully clears her throat. “I made a mistake, a pretty serious one, that might have made him question my loyalty.”

“Were you disloyal to him?”

“No, never." Scully answers immediately. “I did something reckless, something that made him worry about me. But now he’s just upset, won’t talk.”

“You’ve been partnered with Agent Mulder for…” Karen consults the file in front of her. “Seven years now? That’s quite a long time to be paired with someone. But you feel this is different than the usual ups and downs one would expect in such a long-term relationship?” 

“Before--” She interrupts herself before accidentally revealing too much. “We’ve had arguments before, but never anything that prevented us from continuing our work normally. Even if we don’t talk about it, we generally push on like nothing’s happened.”

“And do you think that’s an effective way to communicate?”

“Probably not.” Her mouth turns up in a self-deprecating smile. She’s always been comfortable with not talking, not revealing her innermost thoughts. It was always easier to keep things hidden, but she knows deep down that it’s always led to trouble. “But anything would be better than what’s going on now.”

“From our past meetings and from reading your file I can see you two have weathered a lot in the years you’ve been together. That can take a serious toll on anyone.” Karen’s compassionate voice always seems to seep through her walls. She forgets each time how easy it is to open up when she’s here.

“I know this. And I think maybe what we’re going through now might be a continuation of things we’ve been through. I just wish I knew what to do.” Scully’s voice cracks, she feels tears threatening. Bowing her head as she closes her eyes, she tries to remain in control for long enough to say everything she needs to.

“Is there something else bothering you?”

Scully whips her head up to look at Karen. How does she do that? “I, um… I can’t talk to him about this--” 

Karen tilts her head, waits.

“Something happened to me, when I… made my mistake. I don’t really know what. I’m scared to find out. But if I told him--” Scully breaks off to press a hand to her mouth, feeling hot tears spill out over her cheeks, but she forces herself to continue. “It would make what I did so much worse.”

Scully has tried not to think about what Spender did to her while she was unconscious. It was easier to be angry with Spender about the disc and his lies, to be concerned with Mulder’s feelings and how she could help him. 

Karen doesn’t speak for several minutes, offering Scully a box of tissues. Her voice is concerned when she breaks their silence. “What are you scared of, Dana?”

“Of the possibilities. Of the consequences of them. Maybe I’ve made more than one mistake. This is just the last one in a series, and I can’t go back to how it was before--”

Karen raises her eyebrows at her pause.

It was so difficult to separate herself from their new relationship, maybe that was one of the problems. Taking a deep breath, and changing the direction she’d been heading. “I think I always prided myself on acting as Mulder’s ballast, the person who grounds him. I feel like I’ve failed in that regard, and I think he sees it that way too. Maybe that’s what is most upsetting, not what I did but how outside of myself the mistake was.”

“Do you feel like he holds you to unreasonable standards?”

“I don’t think so.” Crumpling the tissue in her hands, breaking it off into little pieces, Scully sighs before continuing. “I think if I give him time, things will work out. Sometimes we take a while to get moving, so to speak.”

***

It’s not usually until much later that Scully feels better after a session with Karen. Uncomfortable truths come to the surface, harmful things she realizes she’s been doing and needs to change. Knowing and doing, though, are two entirely different things. Even if she knew how to get him to speak with her, she doesn’t know if she has the strength to open up to him, to tell him everything. 

Instead of worrying about what to do with Mulder, Scully dives into work with an obsessive meticulousness. Not only does she work on finishing case reports, she consults with other agents outside the X-Files on their cases and starts research on a new paper about a case from a few months back. Outside of work, she starts a new training regimen, hoping she’ll be marathon-ready if the opportunity ever arises. The addition of all of these activities leaves her exhausted at the end of each day, falling into a restless sleep late at night and waking just in time to start the next morning. 

Sometimes the flurry of her day isn’t enough to keep her mind from wandering before unconsciousness takes her. These nights are the hardest. Despite spending most of the day with Mulder, and even though they didn’t spend every night with each other before their falling-out, she’s lonely. When she misses the warmth and solidity of his body around hers, she’ll find momentary release from her recently retired vibrator. Pretending he's here, that he's touching her, that things are back to normal. After her orgasm she feels the emptiness of her bed even more acutely - it’s not his body or her pleasure that she misses most, but the intimacy of his presence.

Scully’s mood shifts after a few weeks of her busier schedule. She’s easily angered and it’s increasingly difficult to hide her emotions. The incessant cracking of Mulder’s sunflower seeds grates on her nerves and she finds herself leaving the office more frequently as well, refusing to take out her anger at its intended target. Skinner and the rest of the agents in the building avoid her whenever they hear the tell-tale sound of her strident heels in the halls. 

***

It’s been just over three weeks since Mulder’s return from St. Louis and four weeks since they’ve had a friendly conversation. Scully finds herself in the office alone, reviewing a forensics report for a fellow agent, a favor she’s been meaning to return. Mulder’s jacket sits on the back of his chair, empty seed shells littering the desk and the floor around it. He’s off doing God knows what and she doesn’t bother asking where he’s going anymore, since he only responds to her questions with single-syllable grunts. She’s irritated at Mulder’s presumption of her availability, and his continued neglect of their relationship. What relationship?

When the phone rings, she considers not answering. She’s uncomfortable with negligence of duty, no matter how small, compelling her to pick up after a respectable three rings. 

“What?”

“Er, Agent Scully, I was hoping to discuss the case reports you and Agent Mulder just turned in.” 

Scully bites the inside of her cheek and closes her eyes, attempting to keep her annoyance at bay. With the extra time she and Mulder seem to have nowadays, the reports are some of the most comprehensive ones they’ve ever turned in. She feels like this conversation is a giant waste of time, but Skinner’s her boss, so she suffers through his questions.

Scully hangs up the phone as Mulder enters their office reading a file, not acknowledging her presence. She studiously ignores his silence and goes back to her report.

Almost  an hour later, Scully looks up from her reading, surprised to find that so much time has passed. When she looks over at Mulder, she meets his gaze and blinks in surprise.

“Do you need something, Mulder?” Scully raises her eyebrows and feels her mouth start to twitch upwards in a smile. Warmth floods her chest at his unexpected attention.

Mulder shakes his head and reaches for a report, opening it and ignoring her.

Her anger spills out, and she doesn’t hold it back this time. “When are you going to stop punishing me?” 

“Once I feel you can be trusted to not run off with the next guy who promises you something.”

Scully���s eyebrows knit together and her mouth drops open in shock. Before she can respond, Mulder grabs his jacket and leaves without another word. Her hand rises to her mouth and she closes her eyes, feeling the force of his words like a punch to the gut.

He won’t even speak to me about what’s bothering him, yet feels the need to make condescending remarks? 

She stares at the office door, wishing he’d return so she could tell him where he could shove his idiotic petulance.

When he doesn’t come back, Scully finds it difficult to concentrate. She leaves early and heads to the gym for a punishing training session before heading home. Rewarding herself with a few glasses of wine and a decidedly non-romantic movie, she manages to sink into a dreamless sleep.

The next morning, Scully’s running late, dreading another confrontation but knowing she should say something. Mulder’s sitting at his desk with coffee for the both of them.

“I’m sorry for what I said yesterday, Scully.” 

She’s surprised at first, stares at him. He’s avoiding her gaze, buried in a report. As she waits for him to continue, he turns his chair around and sorts through some files behind his desk.

That’s it?

After he left the office yesterday, she was determined to finally speak frankly but after his weak apology she’s reluctant to cause another argument. 

A night of stewing in her anger left her emotionally drained and pessimistic about being able to work things out with him. Every time she tries to talk, her mouth goes dry and a weight presses heavily on her chest. 

Why is it so difficult to know what to say? 

Frustrated at her inability to express herself, she resumes work without another word. They exist in the same office, worlds apart.

*** WEDNESDAY, THE FOLLOWING WEEK ABANDONED WAREHOUSE SOUTHEAST WASHINGTON, DC

“Well, good work, Scully. I'll call you back later.” - Mulder

Scully rolls her shoulders and stands, irritated at his abrupt goodbye. The conclusion of the case re-energized her but now she feels exhaustion creeping back. Despite her tiredness, she can’t help thinking about Mulder and this damn surveillance. She feels abandoned. While she’s left to pursue something not even worth their time, he scampers off to investigate a real X-File on his own. Maybe he realizes he doesn’t actually need her after all.

They’d become automatons. Mulder doesn’t talk to her about any new cases, they just work on tying loose ends and finishing reports. She wonders if he disappears on weekends to investigate things on his own instead of calling and pestering her to join him. She regrets her feigned annoyance back then, that she never really told him how much their time together meant to her. 

Her shoulder twinges, sore from sitting too long. A tumultuous combination of anger and dread builds within her. Aside from the time she went to his apartment, or the time he told her off, he won’t talk about what happened and as the days pass it gets harder for her to confront him about it. She doesn’t know how to fix their relationship if he won’t even acknowledge its presence. It’s bewildering that he can give up on them so easily - all the things they’ve done for each other over the years and he can just cast her off? Maybe she had everything wrong from the beginning, that the intensity of her feelings for him have always been one-sided.

At home, Scully peels off her clothes and stands under the lash of a hot shower until her skin is pink and raw. Unbidden, the tears start to flow, merging with the sluice of water flowing over her body. She was so preoccupied with her rage that this new emotion takes her by surprise. She only notices it once the sobs cause her to double over as she struggles to contain them. 

The combination of steam and grief starts to make her feel dizzy. Stumbling out of the stall, she sits heavily on the floor, grabbing her towel and wrapping it around herself.

She doesn’t notice the cold air causing her to shiver violently. She’s oblivious to her wet hair plastered to her head and neck, thick droplets cascading to the floor and pooling underneath her, making a wet mess on the cold tiles. 

Her awareness consists only of the overwhelming grief and painful pressure of her hands pressing against her eyes in a futile attempt to stop the emotions overtaking her.

All this time… the idea that their relationship had meant nothing to him, even after everything he’s said and done. The hold he’s had over her for years, thinking that it was only a matter of time. Never that it would come to an end almost before it even began. All her fears and vulnerabilities she’s bottled up these past few weeks spill over, shaking her to her core. She recalls the nagging but easily-ignored feelings that their happiness couldn’t last. Those minor twinges and paranoid notions suddenly seem so undeniably monstrous and real.

She’s not sure how long she sits crumpled there on the floor. Her ass is numb and she’s shaking uncontrollably with the cold by the time she comes back to herself. She’s stiff from the awkward position she’s been sitting in and the tension of her emotional outburst. Drying herself off and slipping into warm flannel pajamas, she heads to her darkened bedroom. Her head hits the pillow and she envelopes herself underneath her quilt, her grief waning into bruising emptiness as she falls into an exhausted slumber.

***

Hours later, Mulder comes to her apartment and lets himself in, pausing at the doorway before heading to her bedroom. He stands at the end of the bed and stares at her sleeping form for several minutes, a bleak expression on his face. He moves closer, carefully tucking the blanket around her, brushing a trembling hand over her curling hair, gently kissing the patch of skin peeking out from the collar of her pajamas. Leaning towards her, he studies her sleeping form  for a few more minutes before leaving, regret and an awakened determination in his eyes.

END CHAPTER 1 ------- (READ CHAPTER 2)

[angryangryaces]

Poison

The air smells of rain, burning fuel, and the countless small poisons that circulate in the city, and my scars ache in the cold, a filigree of pain tracing out the lines of my skeleton. My damned, addicted brain is hissing for me to press the button. I don’t listen to it. I throw my bag into the transport and pick a seat.

“Caller” walks us through the job on the way in. It’s straightforward: get in, grab a prototype from the testing labs, get out again. Minimal casualties, which is why he told us to bring hammerblow rounds. Ideal for a pack that doesn’t want to make the news.

One of the others looks at the chain holding my gun to my wrist. Must be a rook. They’ll learn. You can always tell a seasoned wolf; they stop looking at your little tricks and secrets and just let you get on with your job.

As we come in for a landing, I pull my hat down and make sure my kerchief is going to hide my rebreather. Combined with the goggles and the coat, it should be almost impossible for the watching gargs and other cameras to tell who I am. I’ve already checked my gear: submachine gun, machete, grapnels, a few kinds of blasting charge, a couple of different poisons.

***

The windows break the neon light from outside into rainbow fragments, which play over my coat. The stylised illustration of a winged figure giving gifts from heaven isn’t spiritual; it’s marketing. The gifts being dispensed have brand logos on them for the corp’s subsidiaries.

One of them has the stylised atom of Nucleus Energy on it, and my scars flare into pain for a split second. I know it’s psychological. I grit my teeth behind my collar and carry on.

Phase one is a cakewalk. “Caller” had some inside intel that this part of the building was going to be low-security, and that seems to be working fine: the rook, who I’ve learned is called “Mooch”, is keeping the cameras under control, looping some footage so none of them pick us up. It’s not going to last forever, but it doesn’t have to; we’re not under any given eye for too long, and most of the gargs are outside.

The next corridor is wrong. The walls are riddled with bullet holes and carved with a filigree of blade marks.  The mutilated bodies of corpsec guards are everywhere, limbs wrenched from their sockets and throats ripped out. Even through my rebreather, I can smell blood and gunfire, mingled with another smell: a thick, animal musk.

I’ve heard the rumours – everyone has, everyone knows this is happening, no matter how hard corpsec try to suppress it – but I hadn’t expected to see it here. You never do, right? It’s always a friend of a friend that runs into this shit.

This is going to suck.

***

“Mooch” is the first to pull the trigger. Not wise, exactly, but I can’t blame them; the dead guards are mute testimony to how deadly these things are, and it’s not like a full pack in tac gear is exactly subtle. Within seconds, everyone else has joined in. Hammerblow rounds patter off its hairy, gore-spattered skin like rain. A couple of them provoke flinches, leave a mark, but don’t slow it much.

It looks like someone took a very large, feral wolf and mashed it up with a man. Its head is mostly canine, although its teeth are larger than any reasonable animal’s, but the rest of it is chimeric: its apelike stance and powerful arms are human, or at least close to it, but its tail and hair are lupine, and its clawed hands aren’t really either. It’s also covered in blood and shreds of what might, once, have been a corpsec uniform.

It howls in fury and leaps at us.

***

According to “Mirai”, it’s all the fault of the veins and the other rich bastards. Says some conspiracy site put her onto it. Supposedly, the reason corpsec guards are so loyal to the veins, so weird and bootlicky, is that the labs figured out some kind of gene treatment, isolated the stuff from dogs that makes them so loyal, and the suits give it to the  When it goes too far, they change, when the scum at the top finish draining their humanity.

“Sigismund” says she’s full of shit. Genetics don’t work like that, and even if there was some secret tampering going on, it’d be more likely to lead to cancers than monsters. Mind you, he thinks it’s magic, so I’m not sure how reliable he is on the science. (He’s got a wild set of ideas about that, too. According to him, the beasts are nature unfettered, lashing out at the corp-choked world in a violent frenzy. Says he’s trying to figure out how to use that power constructively. Hasn’t gotten anywhere yet.)

Right now, though, the cause isn’t particularly critical. It doesn’t matter if it was made by mad science or black magic or if creatures like this are just a thing now. It’s bearing down on me, and there isn’t much I can do to stop it.

I hit the button.

***

Not a literal button, of course; jek doesn’t use physical controls. Instead, I mutter the activation phrase, and a pain like cold fire stabs into my veins as the injectors pump poison into my bloodstream. My whole body convulses, and the cold fire begins to heat up. The part of me that’s given in, the addict in my mind, it tinges the whole process with an edge of lust that shames me. Even so, I’m not stupid enough to pick this fight without it.

The effect is almost immediate. My gear feels like it’s made from cotton candy. My original bones would have already shattered from the convulsion, but the substitutes are doing their job. My vision fogs around the edges, but it’s almost supernaturally clear at the centre – I can make out the beast’s individual hairs, and the shattered remnants of a corpsec radio headset dangling from its neck like a collar.

I give it a burst in the face before it hits me. I can tell it felt the impacts, but it barely slows before tackling me to the ground and knocking my gun out of my hands. Fine by me; the bullets aren’t helping much anyway. The others will have to go on, take care of the mission while I fight. It’s probably best; jek isn’t just physical, and it’s poison for a pack. Nobody on jek is a team player.

The force of the tackle rolls us into the last corridor, but my armour protects me from the impacts. Coat’s not going to be salvageable, though; it has claw marks in it now. Without the jek, I’d have been knocked a lot sillier than I am.

As the beast lunges for me, I bring up my machete. It doesn’t dig deep, but jek-fuelled muscles drive it through the skin. The beast’s blood is surprisingly bright – what little of it comes out, anyway.

It seems to have decided I need to be tenderised before I’m eaten. It scoops me up and slams me into the wall. My goggles dim; the beast has its back to a window, and the neon light from outside would be streaming into my eyes, so they’ve compensated.

Then it all comes to me at once: the window could be my solution here. The beast is recovering quickly; it’s already stopped bleeding. I’m not going to win this one-on-one, and if the pack know what they’re doing, they’ve already headed for the objective. I have to do something unexpected.

I fire one of my wrist grapnels. It hits the window, and the motors whirr. It’s designed for heavy loads, and after a frozen moment while it calculates the weight, it retracts, dragging both of us into the window.

The beast is surprised, but not enough to disorient it. It thrashes around, its rage twisting metal and driving tinted duraglass out of its sockets.

The window gives way, and we both go over the edge.

***

On impact with the wall, one of my charges goes off unexpectedly. My spine doesn’t enjoy it, even through the pain-deadening haze of jek, but it doesn’t do serious harm; it just blasts a chunk out of the wall and flings us into traffic. The beast sinks its jaws into my left arm, and I let go of my machete; it disappears, never to be seen again.

As we tumble, I try and find some weakness. I can’t go for its eyes with any kind of accuracy, its bones are nearly as tough as mine, and even striking at the stomach only seems to make it angrier.

Our descent is bluntly interrupted by a corpsec lighter. Our impact with the cockpit shatters the duraglass canopy, so we must have been going down pretty hard – but, fortunately, the beast hits it first. The impact solves two of my problems at once. First, while landing still hurts like a bastard, even with jek, the beast takes the brunt of the impact. Second, the beast’s breath is laden with pink froth. After a moment, the rage flees its body, and it goes limp. Probably had some of the canopy driven into its lungs; not a pleasant death, but a final one.

The lighter skews wildly off-course, and I realise after a second that the pilot is either unconscious or dead. Corpsec lighters do have autopilots, but some people prefer the personal touch or are worried about reprogramming (a valid concern; “Mirai” once sent a half-dozen corpsec troopers on a routine patrol out of state as a prank), so not everyone uses them.

I don’t have a chance to get to the controls, but luckily, we’re headed towards a window. The pain in my entire body worsens a step as I see a giant Nucleus Energy logo, and then we hit.

***

I stagger to my feet, somehow still conscious. It’s almost impossible to break my bones now, but my right leg is definitely not as straight as I remember it being.

The window in question was right next to a meeting room, apparently. A stunned silence hangs in the air, but in a few seconds – even ones drawn out by jek – people are going to start yelling and running.

The big logo on the wall confirms it. This is a Nucleus Energy office. The bastards whose strontium leak cost me everything. Their poison had seeped into my bones, forced me to get them replaced. Left me with a debt I could only pay off by taking wolf jobs here and there. All my scars, all my wounds, this growing addiction to jek – all their fault. I can’t tell if I’m hurting worse because I know it’s them, or if my body is already redlining my pain receptors.

My jek-focused perceptions show me that one of them has a refrigerator briefcase here. A vein, then, carrying his supply of transfusions around with him. I can’t tell which of the others are veins, but they all might as well be: even if they haven’t had the treatment, they have the same kind of mind. The suits in this city are all the same: cold, bloodsucking bastards, they only care about themselves. The veins took a treatment that would strip their empathy and didn’t even notice. Even before that was developed, they gutted the land, poisoned the water, pumped fumes into the air. We’d be better off without them.

The weight of my gun dangling from my wrist is still there, and with jek reflexes, I could do a lot of damage here. Start at the door, work my way across. Even a vein’s boosted body can’t take a good hit to centre mass, and none of them look to be wearing much armour.

It won’t solve much, but it’ll be a little less poison in the city’s bloodstream.

[ikesenhell]

New Heights

GLITTER & GOLD, CHAPTER 6. You can find all other IkeSen works of mine here. NOTES: Violence tw. Guns, general discomfort, implied death. 

There was no such thing as a rivalry in the post-apocalyptic landscape--just varying factions all trying to survive, same as the next. That didn't make the relationship between Waŋblí Hoȟpi and Kasugayama any better. They didn't contend for resources or fight over territory. The answer was much simpler.

It just so happened that, out of all the people in the world, Shingen Takeda, Kenshin Uesugi, and Nobunaga Oda all hated one another.

The reason was as petty as it was significant: Nobunaga was abrasive. Kenshin Uesugi didn't respond well to being abraded. Shingen Takeda didn't respond well to what he perceived as pompous behavior. Together, the trio mixed about as well as oil and water, and very little ever assuaged that. The only thing that came between their mutual dislike of each other was the collective welfare of the plains settlements.

This happened to be one of those times.

They arrived on horseback around mid-morning, their saddlebags thick with papers and plans. Only four came: the two leaders of Kasugayama and their respective experts, Yukimura and Sasuke.

“So,” Masamune asked, watching the four exchange awkward greetings with the Waŋblí Hoȟpi leaders, “Which do you think is the mechanical engineer?”

She grinned up at him. “Do we want to go stereotypical, or a serious guess? Cause my guess is on the nerdy one.”

“You’re right, Kitten, that is stereotypical.” He kicked back against Ieyasu’s porch and worked his hands over the worn wooden steps. “When do you think they’ll bring up the ship?”

“I can’t imagine it’s high on the priority list. Well--” She paused. “Unless it’s been raiding their settlement, too?”

“We didn't get that on the list.”

“Did you ask?”

They hadn't. Masamune mulled over this before pressing on. “Well, then in that case, we should bring it up even sooner. I told Mitsunari to drag me in when they start talking about it, so hopefully that’ll be sooner rather than later.”

---

It was much, much later when Mitsunari rapped on the front door. Fortunately, Masamune was waiting. He slung on a jacket and followed the man to the office. The familiar long table was stacked with polaroids of the ship, each copied in triplicate and laid out according to angle. Apparently, she’d been right. The settlement leaders were all gathered around, but the most invested was clearly Mitsunari and Sasuke.

“This ship,” Sasuke was saying, bent double over a photo, “It just emerges without warning?”

“As best we know.” Mitsuhide settled into a chair and crossed his arms. “We’ve never gotten one.”

“Fascinating. Absolutely fascinating.”

Masamune rapped his knuckles against the table by way of greeting. “It’d be a lot cooler if people weren’t vanishing or dying cause of it.”

Sasuke nodded vigorously, shoving his glasses back up his nose. “Naturally. My apologies if it sounded insensitive; it’s simply fascinating, given the network of things at play here.”

Mitsunari paused. “Has anyone vanished from Kasugayama?”

Shingen stirred in his seat. He was a tall, broad shouldered man with rugged good looks. “We’ve had a few, but we didn't connect it to this. Our disappearances seem more attached to a sudden surge of these religious types outside the boundaries.”

“Then it’s connected,” Nobunaga announced gravely. “We’ve been dealing with much the same.”

“Oh good.” Kenshin finally spoke up. By all definitions of the word, he was a beautiful man--blonde hair, bright eyes, sharp features. “Then Shingen will stop objecting to me having them run out of town.”

Shingen didn't rise to the bait. Instead, Sasuke cut through the noise with a matter-of-fact tap against one photo in particular. “This is all very fascinating. I’d presume the ship existed before all this. Local lore springs up to explain its presence. Religion sprouts in its wake. All this over such a simple simulation.”

The room fell silent.

Masamune lifted his hand. “A what.”

Sasuke realized--perhaps too late--that he was the bearer of news. He plunged into explanation. “It’s a simulation. You see, if you arrange these photos by timestamp--”

Mitsunari caught on next. “Then every fifteen to eighteen seconds, it indicates part of the hull is missing in particular sections. You can see it on the leftmost and rightmost sections, though it is blurry.”

Shingen and Mitsuhide quietly slid copies over to follow along. Sasuke snapped his fingers at Mitsunari as if to say ‘you got it’. “The motion blur makes it difficult to spot.”

“But how?” Mitsunari continued. “To make such a complex simulation occur without casting it over something--that would require technology we haven’t seen since the war. Besides that, it would take quite a vantage point…”

Mitsuhide snapped his fingers, tossing down the photo. “The turbine field.”

It made sense as soon as he said it. The wind turbine field was a well-known scavenging spot. Almost all of the spare parts for generators in Waŋblí Hoȟpi came from there. Masamune felt his stomach lurch. How close had they been all this time?

Ieyasu huffed. “How would we have missed it?”

“It’s in the turbine,” Masamune announced, realizing it all in one. “One of the functioning ones. It’s how it has power. It’s connected to the turbine.”

“Masamune,” Hideyoshi started, “Masamune, no--”

Too late. Masamune turned on his heel and jogged from the room. Down the steps he ran, out into the dark streets. If they were right--if they were right!--they could end this tonight--

“Woah, tiger! Where are you going?”

Masamune skidded to a halt only seconds before impact, but he didn't stop. He scooped her up into his arms and flung her over his shoulder, ignoring her squeal. “You feel like a climb, Kitten?!”

“Masa! Put me down!”

He obeyed, setting her on his motorcycle and digging for two helmets. “We’ve got a mission. It might stop the whole damn thing. Are you with me?”

She didn't even wait for an explanation before jamming the helmet on her head. “Just fill me in while we’re going, won’t you?”

---

Moonlight streamed down on the field. The ancient remains of pylons towered in the echoing plains, overgrown blades lying in discarded heaps. Long ago they’d decided not to what was left for power; they’d never been entirely certain of the integrity of the remaining turbines. Instead they’d languished. In the dark, they looked more like the ruins of a temple made for giants.

Masamune puttered to a halt on the outskirts. With the engine off, nothing but the swell of silence remained.

“Fucking creepy,” he muttered.

“Tell me about it,” she agreed, dismounting. “Which one is it?”

“Dunno. I figured we’d wait for the wind to kick in and see which ones still work out of the standing. There’s only five--”

“Five to search, if they all work,” she shot back. “That’s a lot of climbing to do. We don’t even know what we’re looking for.”

She had a point. “Any ideas?”

But she just sighed and shook her head. “Short of waiting for the ship to come around and seeing if the light projects out one? I’m not sure.”

“My plan it is.” Masamune shook out his hair. “Come on. Let’s go.”

As if on cue, the wind raced up behind them, swirling through the grass and echoing between the columns. Two turbines turned in response. It was now or never. Reaching behind him to her, he linked his hand in hers and squeezed.

“You good, Kitten?”

She squeezed back. “I’m fine.”

The dry prairie grass cracked underfoot. They picked past rubble and rusted parts, old vehicles abandoned to nature. In the moon, bright red paint glinted off one the abandoned pylons, reading: GODS COME FOR THE FAITHFUL.

In the distance, a faint light fluttered.

Masamune froze first. Her breath hitched behind him.

“Do you think--?” She whispered.

“Possibly.” He paused, groping himself for a machete that he knew he’d left at the motorcycle. Did they turn back? No--he realized there was too much wide open space between them and their exit now. There was only one alternative: hide.

Together they charged for the nearest functioning turbine. A dog bayed nearby. Laughter and conversation ghosted over the wind. Masamune tried the handle of the service entrance, but it was shut too tight to budge.

“Shit,” he mumbled, rolling up his sleeves. “This is gonna be loud.”

One, two, three--he lifted his leg and kicked in the metal door frame. The distant flashlight roved in their direction. Desperate, he yanked at the jammed handle. It screeched free. “Go, go, go!”

More barking. Someone shouted. She dove in first, Masamune sharp behind her. The inside was tiny and cramped, only enough space for two and the ladder up.

And oh--that ladder certainly went up. He couldn’t see where it ended, but no doubt it went up through the whole turbine.

“Shit,” he repeated. “Go.”

He didn't have to tell her twice. She leaped onto the ladder and scaled it to the first level, going as fast as she could manage. Masamune crouched by the door and sifted through the dust until he found a wrench. Good enough. As if on cue, the door started opening.

Well. Better to handle it on his terms.

In one fluid motion, he wrenched open the door. One very surprised looking man--the same cultist from the store!--weaved on the spot, rifle in hand and backup outside. Masamune took no chances. He snatched the rifle barrel downward and swung the wrench up into the man’s jaw. Crack! The cultist howled, and Masamune slammed the door shut in his face, taking the rifle.

“Come on!” She shouted from the next level. “Hurry!”

Masamune slung the gun over his shoulder and charged up the ladder. A flurry of blows landed against the thin metal door. It was only a matter of time before they cracked it open. Up, up, up he went, clambering onto the next level just as they breached inside. A gunshot ricocheted off the wall. Masamune checked the chamber of his rifle and counted two bullets. Only two shots. Great.

Someone fired off another shot. Behind him, he heard the rattle of metal and watched her heft a toolbox over the edge, handily knocking someone from the ladder.

“Nice one!” Masamune pushed her toward the next ladder. “Now go!”

Up, up, up they climbed, their pursuers close behind. Each progressive level just got smaller. What would they do when they reached the top? What lay in wait for them? Masamune didn't know. Instead he focused on covering her escape upward, saving those two precious bullets.

And then they were there.

There was a very small light at the top. It hung dimly over the rotor, hundreds of years of ‘on’ leaving it faint and brittle. Still it was something. She leapt onto the landing and immediately negotiated her way around the spinning engine, the dull roar echoing through his chest.

“Careful!” He shouted.

“Got it!”

BANG! Another shot. Masamune hissed a curse and slung himself over the ledge, preparing himself for whatever came next. She shimmied her way into the narrow crevice at the front.

This was it.

The first man made it over the edge, and Masamune picked him up by his shirt and shoved him bodily off. His scream echoed, cut short by the BANG of his body hitting the next level below. More shots. He wondered how much ammo they possibly had.

“Here!” She called. “I found it! I found it!”

Masamune hissed a prayer and slid back beside her, narrowly dodging the sharp wheels of the engine. A very slight hole protruded in the front of the turbine. Sure enough, there it was--a small box, caked in grime and dust. Pre-war tech, no doubt about it. She cradled its plastic frame in her hands and peeled it from the ledge, dusting off its surface. A small note was taped to the top.

“ARK,” she read, tapping the line beneath it. “And some coordinates.”

A thousand questions popped to mind. There was time for none of them. Behind them, the ladder rattled again. Masamune wheeled around and lifted the rifle just in time to confront the newcomer: bang! He shot off the ledge. One bullet left. Another man came over the edge and Masamune fired, narrowly missing.

Nothing for it. He hurled the useless weapon at the assailant, catching him off guard long enough to grab him by his collar and shove him face-first into the rotating wheels of the engine. The scream echoed; Masamune punted him off the edge as well, breathing hard. Silence.

“Let’s go,” he urged her, waving her along. “Bring the projector. We have a second’s opening.”

Going down was almost harder than going up. They skipped as many spokes as they could, rushing through the interior. Down, down, down--they made it to the landing and Masamune breathed.

It was premature.

The door kicked open. There, gun at the ready, was another few cultists. They screeched to a halt, the projector poised between them.

“Hands up,” snarled the leader. “And down on your knees.”

There wasn’t a choice.

Slowly, uncertainly, Masamune obeyed the directions. Another man swept in and cuffed their hands behind their backs, wresting the projector from her arms.

“What now?” She asked. “Do you shoot us?”

“Shoot you?” The first of them repeated. “No. You’ve angered the Messenger. We’ll take you to him instead.”

[stusbunker]

Known: Hunters

A Supernatural Dark Fan-fiction

Featuring: Dean Winchester x Female OC, Dean Winchester x Demon!Reader

Series Masterlist

A/N: With respect to my readers’ devotion to the show and its story lines, I have included dates relevant to air dates for reference points. I try not to repeat information you already know, but please ask if something doesn’t make sense! xoxo Stu

Warnings: Physical and Emotional Torture, captivity, blood, demons, Hell, Leviathans, show level violence, Slow Burn. More warnings to come. Each chapter will have its own warnings.

Earth Date: November 7, 2011

Location: Rock Port, Missouri

There were things she had seen that could make a military general shit his tighty whities, but never had Chloe Collins seen the unparalleled shift from one being into another. Werewolves, Skin-Walkers and Shifters, none phased that seamlessly. The man took one look at Reynolds, a burly backroad hunter, and instantly took him down with a sleeper hold. And then he WAS Reynolds: voice, gait, everything a complete replica.

“Ah, come on CC, you know he’d been dying for a taste,” the thing looked down at her partner on the case and stepped pointedly on to his neck. “I guess he died for me to have a taste.” Her stomach lurched as it approached her.

Things started falling into place in the panicked walls of her mind. The weird economic booms, the smarmy politicians and their inspirational press conferences. The fact that civilians kept getting dumber by the day. These things were behind it, she wasn’t sure how or why, but there were too many coincidences to ignore it now. Chloe braced herself to square off with an attacker that had half of a foot and fifty pounds on her.

‘Another fucking Apocalypse’, she internally cursed. The unnamed beast reeled back, and its neck opened to reveal rows of teeth and a putrid tongue. Chloe stabbed with all her strength, her signature ceremonial dagger sank into its chest. It swung back, unaffected by the wound. She jumped back, trying to shake off the blow to her head, the one-of-a-kind weapon lodged in the beast’s torso. As she grabbed for the pistol in the waistband of her jeans, deep voices called for her to duck. Surprisingly, she listened, leaving the vision of Sam Winchester a clear shot to douse her attacker with a healthy cascade of industrial cleaner before Dean removed its head.

She had died, this was it. She died with the idiotic hope of a rescue; her memories threw some unexpected pair to her thoughts as her brain started to short circuit. CC closed her eyes and smirked at the way phantom-memory Dean’s lips had curled as he sliced through that black-oozing-shifter with a solid machete stroke. ‘Yeah, at least I wasn’t the only one who went down swinging,’ CC thought as she fell unconscious.

The familiar weight of an old quilt pinned her to the bed. A musty pillow case cooled her cheek as she rolled over, ignoring the world around her until the last moments of her consciousness slammed into focus. Chloe sat up, scrambling for her dagger and her gun. They were waiting for her, cleaned and within arm’s reach on the nightstand. The worn wooden floor led to a large open cabin where her rescuers were casually watching soap operas. It was all too neat and so glaringly wrong at the same time.

The super-shifters had been throwing the Winchesters under the bus for the most public and absurd crimes. They wouldn’t keep her alive, unless they needed her. She tried to justify their use of dead hunters’ faces for their vendetta, but it only resumed the throbbing in her skull. She fell back on the bed, the old mattress bouncing enough to draw the well-trained ears of the man-shaped beasts across the room. She had her weapons in her hands and perched on her knees as Sam stood to approach her.

He raised his massive hands in surrender, “CC, hey, it’s okay. It’s us.”

“Sure, it’s you,” she snarled. “Weird place for a couple of mass murders to be hiding out. Whose place is this? Why are you wearing my friends?”

“Chloe,” Dean’s deep voice caused her to blink, his hands mirrored Sam’s. The concern and honesty defying her fighter’s instincts. “Come on, sweetheart. We’re not Leviathan. Those sonofabitches are really bad for business,” his voice trailed off to Sam, who only shrugged.

Dean stepped closer and she cocked the hammer. “Why would we gift wrap your weapons if we were monsters?”

“Obviously they don’t do much to you, but all I need is to slow you down.” She threw her knife square at Sam’s chest, he barely spun in time, as Dean charged her gun hand. He shoved her hand up. CC got one shot off through the ceiling before Dean fell hard against her atop the bed, wrenching her arm back forcing her to finally drop the weapon.

“It’s us, CC, I swear. Let us show you, please?” Dean’s voice was tired, the last word said on a whisper. Sam stood back, playing with her knife between his long fingers, admiring the runes. His brow was pinched and his chin out, not sure what to say to make her see them in a better light. She nodded, frustration and confusion winning over their insistence.

The man rolled off her, letting her hold her weapon as they talked. Her eyes kept moving, checking the windows and furniture for quick escapes. Something she couldn’t shake was how he even smelled like Dean. They dosed themselves with her Holy Water, salted each other and even cut themselves with both the silver and iron edges of her treasured blade. Their final test was new, they assured her that it was for them, the Leviathan, and nothing happened once Sam and then Dean sprinkled a type of detergent over their opposite hands.

“Okay?” Sam offered, his big puppy dog eyes waiting for her to process it all. She shrugged, holding her gun over the pillow clutched to her chest.

“To answer your question, this was one of Rufus’ safehouses. Bobby brought us here once and when we had to go deep cover--” Dean leaned with his elbows on his knees, trying to remember the last time he had seen her. The past few years had been such a whirlwind, he had barely kept his head up for air.

“Wait, Chloe, let’s say we’re not Sam and Dean, or at least the Sam and Dean you know—”

“Sammy?” Dean’s groaned, rubbing his eyebrows.

“No, Dean, listen. Chloe, why is it so hard for you to believe us?”

She looked at Sam through squinted eyes, his soft tone just like the one he would use on victims’ families. Wary, yet not as distrustful as the first few minutes of their conversation, “because the Sam and Dean I know, are dead. They died stopping Lucifer and the Angels from frying the planet.”

That got their attention, Dean and Sam shared a look, Sam’s eyes brightening with the turn of events.

“Who told you that?” Dean’s voice was brass, obvious with disbelief.

“Bobby Singer.” Chloe spat, her head rolling a little with her certainty. Dean laughed, while Sam paused, but thought it out. She continued, “he said Sam had taken Michael and the Devil to hell himself and Dean—”

“And Dean what?” Sam drew a chair from the breakfast table and sat backwards on it, listening intently.

“was gone,” she finished on a rattled breath.

The brothers shared another look, while the woman stared at them, really and truly taking them in. They had aged, Sam was leaner, Dean’s eyes more lined. Monsters would have taken them as they were, not able to replicate something as unique and unpredictable as human mortality. “Well, it wasn’t a lie, but it wasn’t the whole truth, sweetheart.”

“I was in Hell, but got brought back,” Sam started, letting it sink in.

“And I left hunting, or tried to, had a bit of a domestic hiatus, you could say.” Dean shrugged, the softness of his smile warming the thick block of ice that had settled in her stomach.

“But, why didn’t Bobby tell me?” Chloe countered, trying to out logic their explanations.

“Bobby kind of has a soft spot for us, I think he wanted Dean to have a normal life and, well, I spent a year without a soul. He was protecting his own.” Sam offered, an apologetic grimace on his face.

“Yeah, let’s just be grateful you didn’t meet that Sam. Him, you wouldn’t have believed.” Dean muttered, getting up with a soft pat on CC’s knee. He went to the fridge for a beer.

“Dude!” Sam chastised him. “What is it 10 a.m.?”

“You want one?” Dean offered to Chloe, ignoring his brother’s judgement.

“Got anything stronger?”

“You know it.”

Earth Date: January 13, 2012

Location: Hell, A Never-Ending Hallway

This was worse because it was all an illusion. There was no end in sight, just enough progress to keep that minuscule drop of hope alive. You had to hand it to the king, this was a much more effective and hands-free form of torture. You patrolled the corridor, eyeing the prisoners, souls in every hue and stage of damnation. Your scaled flesh caused many to shudder as you approached; showing your true form was cathartic now. The years as one of the tortured long behind you as you suffered alongside the helpless masses as one of the enforcers.

It was still Hell, but it had grown on you.

Earth Date: August 20, 2012

Location: Odell, Oregon

The call rang on until the clipped voicemail message greeted Chloe, again. She angrily ended the call, biting back the curses at the stubborn man. If the phone had been ditched, it would have gone to voicemail instantly, or to an outdated disconnected message. No, Sam had kept his phone charged and on, he was just choosing to ignore her calls. They had never been close, but his blatant disregard ruffled her sense of mutual respect held amongst hunters. He needed a good head smack. Among other things.

What would Dean say about his little brother’s lack of manners? God only knows, Chloe thought as the familiar clutch of grief writhed within her chest.

 Earth Date: February 25, 2013

Location: Lebanon, Kansas

 “No.”

“Please? Just close your eyes, it’s a surprise.” Dean’s eyes widened, looking like a hopeful third-grader instead of a middle-aged scruff covered hunter. Chloe crossed her arms and shook her head. “Just turn off the huntress-ness, for like three seconds. Help a guy out here?”

“You’re not as cute as you think you are,” she muttered, closing her eyes dramatically as Dean rushed to slip the ornate key into the large metal door. She held out her hand and cleared her throat, expectantly. Sam chuckled beside her and she elbowed him. A warm calloused hand took hers, while the other gathered her at the small of her back.

“Alright, CC, welcome to our new place,” Dean, both proud and excited. She gaped, her mouth open in genuine shock. She looked at Sam, who seemed sick as a dog and then back to Dean who was grinning like a fool. Sam just shook his head, his hair fluttering as the door closed behind him.

“Ready for that tour?”

“Why are you even on this side of the country?” Sam asked as they waited for Dean to bring out their plates. He had insisted on playing host, another surprise for Chloe or just general hospitality from a man who had never had a permanent home? It was quite the coin toss.

“Honestly?” Chloe sighed, resting her feet on the chair next to her at the library table. “A cryptic message from Garth and boredom. Been trying to stay off the ol’ Angel radar, because, no thanks.”

Sam nodded, holding up his hands half in a shrug, half in dismay, “Yeah, tell me about it. Unfortunately, we don’t have that sort of luck.”

“Or good sense,” she added, giving Sam her questioning eyebrow.

“Fair enough. But, uh, you look good, everything going okay otherwise?” Sam cleared his throat, changing the subject from the Winchesters’ poor life choices. Chloe let it slide, ignoring the compliment and sidestep with a generous swig of her beer. She nodded, but before she could reply an exuberant Dean burst from the kitchen with two plates overflowing with homemade potato wedges and bacon cheeseburgers.

“Oh, he cooks too? I’ll take three, please,” she cooed underneath her breath, knowing full well Sam heard her. They ate quickly with large gulps surrounded by appreciative groans. The burgers were mouthwatering, and the fries seasoned to perfection. As Chloe played with the last of the ketchup on her plate, the boys debated their next move. Lots of big talk about Gates of Hell and Trials, she got the distinct impression that Dean was not so pleased with Sam bearing the brunt of the upcoming uncertainty. The Winchesters had always been on a higher echelon of hunters than CC or even most she had ever worked with. But this was big, after everything they had already done, she wondered if their mission had become another crusade. Perhaps that drive is what made them great, perhaps it is what cost them a majority of their friends and all of their family.

It was most definitely the thing that drew her to them since they saved her from that Leviathan. And it was the second most terrifying thing about them that left her questioning her sanity.

Earth Date: March 30, 2013 (Just before the episode Taxi Driver)

Location: Hell, Outside Bobby Singer’s cell

“You’re certain?” You asked the guard in a demonic dialect before peeking through the decorative metal inlay of the unlocked door, having grown over the years, your height allowed you easy access to loom around the bend.

“Everyday. They send someone in with a glamor to confuse the old coot. It’s always one of two brothers. Sam Winchester,” the growl in her voice broke off into a purr. There was still much trepidation over the true vessel of Lucifer, even demons had their kinks. “Or Dean.”

A name that had been barely a rumor over the last centuries, especially the years since the fall of Lucifer’s acolytes Azazel and Lilith and the rise of Crowley. Yet a name you would never forget. The king was a known consort of all manner of beings, from heaven to the scum of humanity. But to have a version of Dean Winchester in Hell where you could see him again? The prospect was overwhelming, even if it was a torment-intended simulation. You hurried back down the row of high priority souls, prisoners that had been won or stolen from Heaven. Souls that had done the most damage to the armies of Hell during their living years. Their pain resonated through the stone walls, sickly sweet.

Over the following months you left your patrols earlier and earlier, escaping to the dungeon that housed the humanly mentor of the man that had irreparably changed you. And each day you watched the various exchanges, smooth and cavalier Dean attempting to rescue Bobby Singer, desperate demonic Dean thirsty to spill the old man’s blood or broken and sobbing Dean begging Bobby to end him. If you weren’t so biased, the Sam illusions would have been equally as moving, Demon-blood strengthened Sam claiming he had found his true family, a preteen Sam begging Bobby to teach him how to shoot only to have his eyes darken and turn on his teacher or a Red-Eyed Sam, a poor rendition of Lucifer, but effective against the soft insides of their paternal figure.

You learned much in your time watching the torture of Robert Singer. He was an impressive soul, even after decades of torture he routinely told the imposters to stick it where the sun didn’t shine. Like any parent, he had a favorite, no matter how he tried to hide it. He preferred Dean, but that was because he saw his own emotional vulnerability in the young hunter. Sam was more like John, with whom Bobby routinely butted heads. His love ran deep, no matter who was favored or understood best. Which was why it was so easy to maintain the doubleganger inflicted agony. And your misery loved their company.

One evening, having missed a turn due to overly flustered messenger demons, you were later than normal to escape your duties and relish in the vision of Dean. The King was not pleased and therefore everyone worked to keep their heads down, patrols were increased, any charge was overly-minded. When you rounded the corner, one of the Sam Winchester doubles was barking at the soul of Bobby Singer and another was screaming that the other was not real. Well this was a twist, but then you saw them, bodies of your fallen brethren zapped from their human meatsuits. It was the real Sam Winchester, as you watched the hunter and the old man run away, you stood frozen. There was no way to salvage this without going toe-to-toe with Lucifer’s vessel who was also the only being Dean would do anything for. You let them go, hiding in the shadows, knowing there was something brewing above.

With the loss of your daily reminder of him from Bobby’s enforcers, your hunger for Dean only intensified.

tags: @dontshootmespence @because-imma-lady-assface @mrswhozeewhatsis @smi727 @sassykayla255 @dxr-supernatural-fanfic @supernaturalboi @dumbthotticus @eve05glee @veroinnumera @spn-dean-and-sam-winchester @forgettingthoughts @shokushuhime-stuff @fanfictionrecommendations-com @soullesscollection-world @igotdressedthroughthemess @thoughtslikeaminefield

Next Chapter: Topside Turvy

[stereksecretsanta]

Merry Christmas, @glorious-spoon!

Read on AO3

******

Holly jolly christmas

He’s been out of it for a while. He just knows it the moment he wakes up with the familiar peeping sound of hospital machinery in his ears. Dry mouth and stiff muscles. Shit. He groans as he tries to sit up and stretch out a little. Why is he here again? He tries to remember why and most importantly how! He scratches an itch on his side and oh. As soon as he does, he kind of remembers being stupid. Very very stupid, but by now that’s a knee-jerk decision. It’s the natural order of things, if someone comes charging at his friend with a big ass knife, he will dive in front of it before remembering that said friend has immunity against big ass knives by being a werewolf. Fucking hag. Not that he’d insult an old murder lady, but she was a literal fucking hag as in creepy voice and wanting to eat children and like 500 years old. The stab-wound is healed now, and she didn’t eat him, but it’s also not just scabbed over, it’s healed. Fuck.

It takes about an hour after a nurse walks in and almost drops the bag of, well, medical stuff before scurrying out. A faint “MELISSA” echoing through the halls.

“Nice to meet you too lady.” He grumbles alone in his bed. Fuck he’s stiff.

Melissa rushes in, very much in a bulldoze kind of way as the doctor is looking him over.

“You missed Christmas!” She states first of all, a big grin on her face.

“It’s November, how can I possibly have- Oh.” He says, her smile falters but she still looks so happy.

“Mr. Stilinski, I need to do a few cognitive tests now.” The doctor says and Stiles mumbles and repeats all the doctor wants him to, says ball, blue and house in the right order after a twenty-minute distraction and the doctor seems pleased.

“You will need to get on your legs a little, but you’ll be able to go home soon.” Melissa says as soon as the doctor is out, placing two cups of jell-o on his little table.

“Sweet, how is everyone?” he asks.

“Your dad is on his way right now. Everyone else is fine too. Scott has been worried, the whole pack has.” She hums. “Even Isaac.”

“Ahhw, he does love me.” Stiles coos to Melissa but his thoughts stop at Derek. Shit. He dived in front of a knife for him. Wonder how he’ll feel about that.

He plans to walk into the loft as casually as he can muster, knowing he won’t fool the wolves but still. They all look at him like he’s an alien. He has never felt as winded by the stairs as this day and not even a week of physical therapy could’ve prepared him. Melissa promised she wouldn’t tell them he’d be “released” today rather than in two days and he wanted to surprise them. He stops at the top step looking at the entire pack, all collected in the stairway.

“Fix the fucking elevator Derek. I don’t want to kick the bucket because I hyperventilated to death. God damn.” He folds in half and almost everyone takes a scared step forward.

“Let’s get your clumsy ass away from the stairs, huh buddy?” Scott says, and stiles stays folded like towel and just gives him a thumbs up.

“So, anyone wanna give me a hug or am I gonna have to go to the shady parts of town and get one on the black market?” he wheezes, barely having time to finish before he’s surrounded by pack.

“We missed you bud. We were scared there for a while.” Scott says and Lydia whacks him on the head.

“Don’t ever be so dumb again. You’re to smart to do stupid shit” she huffs and Stiles grins as they drag him inside. He sits on the couch with Derek and Isaac as Scott gets him some water.

“Hey big guy, I missed you too.” Stiles says as he hugs Derek on the couch. Isaac nestling in behind him.

Derek grunts. “I’m sure you did.”

Stiles pulls away with is brows furrowed. “Are you mad at me?!”

“Of course I’m mad! You were stupid and risky, and it shows just how reckless and stupid you are!”

“You said stupid twice.” Stiles points out because he doesn’t know what else to do, it’s not like Derek is wrong is it. Derek just stands to leave.

“I’m sorry, I know I shouldn’t have but I just reacted! I didn’t think, and before you say ‘That’s what I mean, you never think’ just now, that there was no fucking time to think because I’d jump in front of all my friends when there is a 500 year old human-eating hag with a fucking machete. I had a choice and my instincts made that choice for me before I could supply my heroic mind with ‘the dude behind you can heal in ten seconds from that stab’. Cut me some slack, I just didn’t want you to fucking die. It seems that no matter how long we’ve done this, fought oni and werecougars and what not I keep forgetting that not everyone is as breakable as me so shut up, sit the fuck back down and let me hug you! We can fight about my recklessness some other time.” he says it all in one breath and Derek just mutely nods and sits back down. Isaac is trying to contain himself at the sight of Derek’s red cheeks, he doesn’t say anything more but a faint, I did miss you Stiles, before they all fall asleep in the den.

“YOU MISSED CHRISTMAS!” Scott yells one afternoon, reminding Stiles that Melissa had said the same thing. Derek is fixing the elevator, greasy jeans and a wrench in his hand.

“It’s February Scott.” Stiles says but he loves Christmas, it’s nice, nostalgic and it’s the one time of the year the tears for his mother are only happy, because she fucking loved Christmas too.

“So? We fix Christmas! We’ll go get a tree, decorate it, listen to music, have hot cocoa, my mom makes the best and you know it.” He shoots out and stiles just grins.

“She truly does!” he agrees.

“Then we go skating, you used to love skating! We’ll make sure to decorate the rink, get a speaker in there. We eat Christmas dinner and open gifts afterwards and oh candycanes!” Scott is all worked up by now and drags Isaac into it. “Isaac can you get candycanes and decorations?!” he pleads and Isaac groans.

“No more Christmas please I’m tired of eating leftovers.”

“But Stiles MISSED Christmas.”

“Oh, well, I’ll go get the decorations.” Isaac says and picks up the car keys.

“I’ll get the tree for the dinner I guess.” Derek shrugs and Stiles fall into laughter.

“Thanks guys.” Thanks.

Derek doesn’t hate Christmas, he kind of always liked it but it’s hard to have to reset all thoughts and norms of how it’s typically done. Going from 30 or so from the Mexican and American side of the family in one house and food made for 50 to having nothing. His pack isn’t nothing but it’s still not the same, its good, but he just didn’t know this is how it would be. It’s a painful time of the year. And here he is, on his way to chop down yet another Christmas tree voluntarily. For Stiles: his mind supplies and sure. He’d do next to anything for Stiles. He can’t say when he stopped looking at him as superimposing and started seeing him as a friend. A confidante. And now, suddenly, he has rose tinted glasses. He slams his fist into the wheel and groans.

He ends up picking a better tree than he did for the real Christmas. For Stiles.

No one told Derek he’d have to skate if he came along and now, he’s bringing down the joy. He hates skating. He doesn’t hate having fun, but he’s not made to be on ice. He’ll look dumb. So dumb

He’s clutching the railing, a little bit scared of going out on the actual ice.

“Oh my god Stiles you can skate. I forgot.” Lydia says happily as they walk towards the ice, skates in hand. Derek had picked the hockey-things, because the guy at the counter said that was the male ones. Lydia’s looked impossibly white and had a heel, he had no idea if that was normal. Considering that Stiles’ looked the same but were dark blue instead seemed to answer it. Did he have girl skates? Derek looked at his own feet again in question. Maybe these were beginners skates.

“You can?” Scott

“Yeah, bro, you knew this, I also may have continued now and then since mom died.” He said as he laced the skates up.

“Oh right, I’m sorry!”

“We were kids it’s fine, if I hadn’t continued, I probably would have sucked.”

“How come Lydia knows? Did you do cool stuff when we went skating with Allison and Lydia sophomore year?!”

“Meh,” he shrugged “you were just to busy sucking and falling on your ass to see all the cool stuff I did, also I was wearing jeans.

“What are you wearing this time then? Spanx?” Lydia giggles.

“What, no, these!” he pints to his sweats, not very fashionably and Derek assumed they were for warmth. They aren’t very baggy but he still looks like a thug with heels. He tells Stiles as much.

“What you can’t say thug with heels! Not my fault you didn’t pick the superior skates.”

“They have deathtraps at the front!” Scott yells and shoves one of Stiles skates into his face, they have tiny teeth in the front. “you get these into the ice and you fall flat on your face once and all of the ice rink is laughing at you. I’m with you Derek, hockeyskates are the only ones that wont kill you.”

“They aren’t made to be traps, it’s for figure skating. Pirouettes if you may.” Lydia says and she glides onto the ice.

“You do figure skating?” Derek asks shocked.

“My mom did, so naturally she dragged me along, it was fun, better than hockey, they tackle you in hockey!” Stiles grimace.

“Come on Stiles you’re making cool things with me.”

“Sure, by the time we’re done Derek might have dared to go onto the ice.”

“You really should’ve worn tights.” Lydia says in distaste at his werid fitting sweats. Derek can’t help but agree. Stiles just groans and pulls his sweats off.

“You happy??”

“You were wearing tights!!!” Scott laughs.

Stiles flails as he goes on the ice and starts chasing Scott.

“Don’t laugh at me!! It’s practical! I wasn’t just gonna drop the sweatpants two seconds after you said spandex!” he groans as he keeps gliding behind Scott.

Derek thinks he’ll taste ice more than once, considering he not only have to stay upright on ice but also has the distraction of Stiles ass in his face. This wasn’t going to work.

They knew so many things about each other, like how Stiles knew what happened before Kate burnt the house down, how Derek led her right to it. He knew how stiles handled the Nogitsune, how he still woke up counting fingers some nights before texting Derek. They had exchanged methods of handling stress and anxiety. They had made silent pacts of secrecy. It never before dawned on Derek how much he relied on Stiles being there for him, keeping him grounded.

Stiles watched as Derek slipped once more and landed on his butt, growling at the ice, fangs out and eyebrows angry.

“Go skate with your boyfriend” she says and pushes him towards Derek.

“Boyfriend?!” They both say in unison, Derek tries to stand up but instead lands on his tummy.

“You have been dancing around each other, pining since you met. In all this destruction and supernatural frenzy, I really thought you’d come to the conclusion yourselves. But alas: not.” She shrugs and skates away from them both. Scott claps Stiles on the shoulder, “You two were probably the last to know.” He says before staggering away towards the others. And he was right wasn’t he, as they looks at each other it all piles up. Neither leaned more on anyone other than each other. Stiles had stopped going to Scott’s, he went to Derek’s. Derek had stopped keeping everything to himself, he included Stiles.

“Shit, she’s right isn’t she?” Stiles says and scratches his neck.

Derek tries to stand before falling again, earning a laugh from Stiles before giving up and crawling towards Stiles. “I guess she is. I didn’t realize you liked me.” Derek huffs as Stiles meets him halfway.

“Well, neither did I, so. But you like me?” Stiles asks.

Derek knits his eyebrows together. “Of course. I would not have patience for you if I didn’t.” He smiles as he says it and Stiles drinks it all in, the cute bunny teeth Derek hates because it doesn’t make him look macho.

“Well of course, god forbid it’s my charming sense of humor or my hot self-sacrificing ass, or…” he doesn’t get further before Derek has yanked his leg and made Stiles get down on his level since he possibly can’t stand. Before he has time to protest he feels warm lips on his own and the chill that has bitten into his cheeks melts away.

“ABOUT TIME!” he hears Scott woop happily and he makes sure to point his middle finger in the right direction.

“So,” he says as they break apart, Stiles thanking upper powers that his cheeks are already rosy from the cold “let’s teach you how to stand on these bad boys huh?”

Derek growls but he let’s Stiles guide him along.

“Merry Christmas Derek!” Stiles shouts as Derek gets to put the star on the top of the Christmas tree.

“It’s February Stiles.” He says with disinterest.

“February schmebruary.” He says and puts the gravy on the table. Scott snorts.

“Son, calm it, open some gifts or something.” The sheriff says and shakes his head in between sips of scotch. Stiles does. Derek comes to sit down beside him in front of the tree. The lights and baubles glistening in the room. Stiles places his head on Derek’s shoulder as he carefully peels of the wrapping to a flat tiny box.

“Movie tickets?” he asks and Derek hums.

“What about a real date, popcorn, curfew and all that it should be. Neither of us have been on a real date. I’d like to.” Derek says lowly.

“Me too Derek. Let’s go, but you have to ask my dad for permission first. Going by the rules and all.”

“Just take him son, it’s bout time he leaves the nest anyway.” Noah grumbles as he joins Melissa in the kitchen.

“Guess that’s that, Christmas almost over, date planed for ,” he checks the date on the two stumps. “tomorrow. What else could we possibly have to do to get this more right.”

Derek takes his hand. “You can’t do that again.” Derek strokes his thumb over the back of his hand. “Don’t get stabbed anymore, don’t.”

“You know me.” Stiles says with as much cheer he can muster in the situation.

Derek huffs and smiles a little. “I do, don’t I?” he sighs. “Just, stay behind me from now on. Please?”

Stiles put on a shit-eating grin. “You know me!”

Derek groaned before dragging him into a kiss, the Christmas tree full with bright lights before them, wrapping-paper all around. A little mess of their own.

[noliereyes]

requiem | flashback 006

or; the story of how magnolia jane reyes loses everything | flashback during the 72nd Games. (tw: death, tw: grief, tw: blood)

Nolie’s job, granted to her by the rest of the pack, is keeping watch. She does so from her spot laying on the top of the Cornucopia, the lightest and smallest and most agile one of the group making it easy for her to climb up. Nolie’s sitting on top of the Cornucopia when she sees the tributes coming. “Guys-guys-guys,” she hisses, sliding from the top of the rustically-themed structure and slipping back inside of it. “There’s somebody coming. And fast.”

“There’s other people in here, sweetie,” Elliana says, absentmindedly admiring her bow.

“No, like… she’s coming-coming.” Nolie explains. She flicks the butterfly knife in and out of its sheath. “Two of them. Headed right for us.”

“Did they see you?” Miles asks, grabbing his sword.

“Not sure,” she admits. “I laid low, but they could just be coming here for the stuff. If they think there’s supplies left.”

“If they’re doing that, they can’t be that smart,” Garnet reasons.

“Outliers are fucking idiots anyways,” Gill says, twirling the trident. “Let’s ambush, yeah?”

The six Careers crouch at the edges of the tin Cornucopia, waiting for the footsteps to grow closer. It’s Elliana who steps out first, smiles brightly.

“Hi, sweetheart!” she coos, before shooting an arrow directly into the girl from Ten’s eye socket.

The boy gets away, just barely, with one of Elliana’s arrows in his thigh. As the pair from Four bicker over who should’ve gotten the kill (Garnet thinks they’re both idiots, and Carina just simply doesn’t care about killing anyone), Nolie snuggles up to Miles and squeezes his hand. And then it’s back to her post, crawling back up the Cornucopia to continue keeping watch. She spins the butterfly knife in and out as the hovercraft comes for the girl’s body. She can’t hear what’s happening in the horn below them.

“We have to kill her, Garnet!” Elliana whines.

“We can’t. We kill her, Reyes kills us.” Garnet says, as he tucks a sleeping bag around Carina.

Gill rolls his eyes. “He won’t know, he’s sleeping.”

“I’ll know, and I’ll fucking end all of you,” Miles says, eyes still closed.

                                                             ***

Charlie finds Nolie the next morning.

The pack goes hunting, and Nolie’s job remains the same, checking things out, keeping an eye on the terrain. It’s no surprise that she is the one that sees Charlie, then, and has to stop herself from squealing. He’s a small dinosaur, about two feet tall, with little clawed and webbed hands and feet and a horn on his head.

“Miles, lookit!” she says softly, crouching beside the dinosaur. He chirped a couple times, nuzzled her cheek. “He’s friendly!”

“Mutts aren’t friendly.” Elliana lines up her bow again, and Nolie steps in front of the tiny creature protectively. Miles joins her.

“Look, if it attacks, then we kill it,” Miles reasons. “But let it stay. It might be helpful.”

“He’s a he, Miles, not an it.” she pauses. “His name is Charlie!”

Miles shoots Nolie a look that says watch it, but she’s not paying attention.

The rest of the second day passes without much fanfare. They only find the injured partner of the girl from Ten, who Gill easily takes out with his machete. The Arena has to be big, Nolie knows. The fewer people they can find, the bigger the Arena, the longer the Games. The harder the work. Enobaria’s games were long this way, and Nolie knew what her mentor had to go through to get out of them. Charlie follows them back to camp and Nolie curls up against him while they sleep. It’s nice to have another friend.

                                                                           ***

It’s the third day when they go hunting again, and Nolie and Charlie take up the rear of the group together. As they’re walking, Nolie hears something and skids to a halt, and Charlie bumps into her with a little oof. “Shh,” she whispers, a hand out to touch Miles in front of her. 

It’s footsteps. And they hear it too.

“Four or so people,” Garnet whispers.

“Coming this way.” Carina confirms.

“Fast,” Nolie adds.

“Weapons out, back to back, Nolie in the middle,” Miles snaps.

“Hell no, Tiny can fight for herself.” Gill says.

The group does so, Nolie taking a defensive stance with her tiny knife despite her vulnerable state. It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay, she thinks to herself. The footsteps soon reveal themselves to be not mutts, but tributes: four of them, covered in scratches and with feathers stuck in their hair. “Fucking birds!” One of them snaps.

“Aww, cute!” Elliana coos again, and fires an arrow into his stomach.

Hell breaks loose.

There’s ten tributes in total, in a horrifying, bloody showdown. It’s the two from Seven and the two from Nine that they run into. It’s a shock when the boy from Seven has a knife, and plunges it into Elliana’s stomach as she gets in another arrow to his chest, both tributes slumping to the ground. The boy from Nine goes for Nolie, and gets a cut in on her side. She retaliates with a screech and a leap, stabbing him in the side of the head with her butterfly knife as her legs wrapped around his waist. In another life, in another pack, Nolie would then become an unsung hero.

But instead, Nolie turns around and watches the girl from Nine stab Miles through the stomach with a spear.

Nolie screams.

The girl from Nine looks at her dead partner, at the raging teenager, at the rest of the Careers, and sprints off into the jungle as Garnet slits the girl from Seven’s throat.

Nolie drops to her knees beside Miles, her heartbeat roaring in her ears, and somewhere that sounds far away she hears Gill’s voice shout “Go, go, go!” and footsteps running away.

“Please, no!” Nolie screams, dropping to her knees beside her brother. Everything feels like a fog, as though it’s playing in slow motion. Blood pools into Miles’ khaki uniform, and Nolie scrambles to try and find something, anything. But she has no supplies. It was all in the packs worn by Garnet and Gill. Of course they would: if they needed to lose Nolie on a hunt, they didn’t want to lose their things with her.

They had it all, and played Nolie like a fiddle.

“Nols,” Miles says, slowly, choking the words out. “You’re so brave,”

“I’m so stupid-”

“No,” Miles says firmly. “Brave.”

“No, I’m stupid, this is all my fault, and I didn’t want you to die over this, o-over… over me,” she lets out a loud sob, presses her face into his chest, leaves tear stains against his shirt.

“Listen, Nols,” he says. He coughs a couple times, blood on his lips. “You have to get home. Get somewhere safe, they’ll send you stuff, just hole up and let them hurt each other. Heal up... and stay safe. Please.”

“I will,” she promises, carefully wiping some of the blood trying to escape Miles’ lips.

“I love you, kid.” Miles reaches up weakly, tries to tousle Nolie’s hair, but he can’t get there and touches her arm instead. But she knows the sentiment.

“I love you,” she cries. He coughs again, once, twice, and then he falls still.

A cannon fires.

A scream echoes through the jungle, a heart-wrenching wail heard by anyone nearby. Some may have believed it was one of the dinosaurs letting out a roar, but it was merely a small girl, terrified and alone.

The Gamemakers queued up a meteor shower, and as if he knew (he did, but Nolie didn’t know that), Charlie began to push and nudge Nolie away from Miles’ body and through the woods. She clung to him at first, refusing to leave her brother, but Charlie’s relentless chirping and the sound of crashing rocks in the distance allowed Nolie to leave Miles’ body and find safety.

Charlie found her a small cave, one with a twisting entrance and a dark tunnel, and Nolie collapsed in it, holding her shallow wound, screaming, screaming as if the world had ended. The meteors echoed off the cave, and Nolie’s screams echo back at her from the darkness, so utterly, so painfully, alone.

[hajiike-archive]

Title: I need you and it terrifies me.

Words: 1,600

Summary: CangHina-centric, minor platonic KarinHina, mentioned badship AiHina, mentioned platonic MikiHina. Post TYBW arc, canon divergent. A gift for @jiiaian. WARNINGS--  implied sexual assault/relationship violence, slurs, minor violence, panic attacks. She is as empty as his gestures, yet it anchors her to him.

She insisted she came a long way over the six years since Aizen was defeated. The Wandenreich threw a wrench in her progress for a time, but her friends were okay and she had time to grieve over the last five years.

She was put together. She was okay.

She was okay, she insisted, though he kneeled and stared at her with twinkly eyes and lips parted so slightly like she was something of wonder and awe.

“I brought you these,” he said. Daisies. Girlish, juvenile, sweet. She used to adore daisies. That was a long time ago, when she wore her hair in pigtails and had the energy to stop and admire flowers. Her bones were tired those days. Forty years of a dead run only to fall into that monster’s hellscape took a lot out of her.

Daisies. Harmless, like Cang those days. He slouched, his arms were as thin as they were strong, Karin said. He hurt a lot of people but he knew he hadn’t fight left. Five years of prison must have declawed him. Cang was refreshing like that, impotent, fresh. He treat her normally while she was either fragile or trash to anyone else.

“Thank you,” she said. She took his daisies and pet the fragile petals affectionately, like she sometimes wanted to pet Cang’s cheeks. “Does she let you pick these? I don’t want you to get in trouble….”

“Fuyuno-taichou says it’s fine.”

“Alright.” It was fine for the time being.

Tulips. They’re more innocent than roses but a step away from daisies, no way around it. He wooed her and it her heart stammered in a way that made her sort of queasy.

“More flowers?” she said, her voice thankfully even. Even those days her control was feeble. Anything scrap she had over someone else was a scrap more to her. No man would have anything on her she wouldn’t let them, especially not her unchecked adoration.

Never again, she promised. Cang gave her a run for her money however.

“Yes,” said Cang, “do you like them?” He looked at her with that look again. They’re yellow like your smile. I love your smile, my heart palpitates whenever you look happy Momo-san.

His flowers couldn’t disguise the stink of gobantai. Even her outward beauty was questionable. She was grey and had crows feet and stank of tobacco and she was dirty to her core. Daisies and tulips couldn’t change that she was still dirty.

“Thank you,” she murmured. Her voice left her like her bravery, like the measly six years she tried to pull her shit together.

Cang’s fists rest upon her knees. He must prostrate himself before her, not like Karin prostrated to like the photo of Masaki kept in a corner of her barracks. Like an idol. Like an object of worship. Like an object.

“I’m glad you like it,” he said as her belly somersaulted. She doubt he could see it. Cang knew nothing about her and it wasn’t as pleasant as it used to be. “Can I bring you flowers everyday.���

She smiled though she trembled. Cang smiled too.

He brought her roses next and he may as well have kicked her.

Her mouth was dry and her gut lurched into her chest. Couldn’t he hear it slosh? Couldn’t he see how her hand shook?

The rose was red was like Tobiume’s hilt, like her favorite chemise, like her blood on Aizen’s hand.

“I-I didn’t eat today,” she told Cang. Ever a pleaser, she was full of excuses.

“Shall I fetch you something? Karin tells me you keep the break room stocked.”

“N-no…” no. No. No, she wouldn’t be able to swallow, she felt so sick. She’d just cough it up, she’d choke on it. Cang would slap her back until she gulped air with tears down her cheeks and act like a fucking hero even though he was the one who did it to her. He was enamored like she was some priceless relic on a pedestal.

He was a man. They were good at being ignorant.

“Alright then,” he said. She wanted him to leave but her mouth couldn’t move. “Do you like roses, Momo-san?”

“I don’t care much for flowers…” she confessed.

“Oh.” Cang’s lips fell. He was hard to read sometimes, always stone-faced. When he did express something it felt like another knife in her ribs.

“I’m… I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m very busy, Cang, can you leave me now?”

His head bowed apologetically. “Of course,” he said. “I apologize for badgering you, Momo-san.” Cang stood, finally, and he left.

She dropped the rose in the trash. It made her taste copper like her last heartbreak.

“I don’t have flowers today.” Thunder rumbled somewhere in the distance. Cang was soaked, his hair and his cloak caked to his frame.

“Lord, you look like a wet dog. Did you walk here, you fool?” she said. “Come inside, Cang. Take off your shoes and your cloak, I don’t want you tracking water everywhere. I’ll be back with some towels.”

“Thank you….”

She did. Karin’s eyes followed her as she returned with a pile of terry cloth in her arms. Cang held a book close to his chest as she scrubbed his hair. The sickness returned and yet her arms refused to stop drying him off.

“You should’ve stayed home,” she scolded him.

“I-I’m sorry. Karin says you’re off on Saturdays and… easily subject to boredom.”

“I wouldn’t say that. I’m knitting my brother a sweater so I’m occupied.”

“Am I intruding?”

Yes. “No,” she replied. She hated herself. “Come. I’ll put on something warm for you.”

Karin leapt onto the bean bag from the couch before Cang reached it. Funny little creature. Smoked like she did and still had the energy to hop around like a frog. She almost envied Karin.

“Fuyuno-taichou loaned me this poetry book she has,” Cang told her. “She tells me you like poetry. I am not a poet so much of it… um… I’m afraid I can’t understand much of it, but there are a few passages that remind me of you. I would like to read those to you.”

“Oh god, I’m gonna go before this gets corny. I’m gonna use your room, Momo,” Karin said.

Like that, her heart seized and she was left to listen to his driveling love bullshit.

She grasped the counter as she listened. Her ears rang like she caught Cang’s right hook instead of some sugary poetry he sat down and jerked off to. Streams trickled off her chin and sizzled on the stovetop, the kettle rattled like her knees but she could only seem to hear the high-pitched ring. Breathless, like he stabbed her again and again.

“Momo-san!” Cang reached around her and flipped off the stove. The kettle quieted, though it shook with the rolling boil, and Cang turned her around.

“Don’t touch me!” she shrieked. Her palm clapped across Cang’s cheek and he stumbled back. “Don’t pretend fucking love me, you’re full of shit!” Karin emerged from her room with some sort of curse. Cang was escorted out by his shoulder and she braced herself on the countertop, gasping like she narrowly avoided drowning. Her heart roared in her chest. She swore it would collapse any second---

Karin wrapped around her from behind. They sunk to their knees, her forehead on the cabinets, and she wept. She was supposed to be a fucking adult, she was supposed to be there for Karin, not vise versa.

“I’ll answer the door if he comes back,” Karin said.

She nodded. Her mouth was agape, she tasted salt, and she whined. “Please,” she begged. “I can’t breathe when he’s in the room.”

He came back. Karin, true to word, went for the door while she escaped to her room.

“She’s not here,” Karin said. The youth’s voice carried unlike Cang’s. “Oh, you dumb shit, do I look like her babysitter? She’s a grown-ass woman. If she wants to go out, she doesn’t need your fucking permission.”

Karin was cruel in a lot of ways. It was much of a relief as it broke her heart.

“Yeeep. See you in the morning, Caaang,” Karin sang.

She had no idea how she ended up out of her room, but she shoved her charge aside and tumbled into the engawa.

“Cang!”

He spun and he met her back at her door.

“I’m sorry.” She’d cry again if he got in a word. “About that and the other day. I… I shouldn’t have panicked like I had and I apologize for that and for striking you.”

Cang, stunned, merely stared at her. There was a blush-pink dahlia wrapped in paper machete in his hand. “Momo-san…. You have nothing to apologize for. I understand my actions were easily misconstrued as… as coming on to you. I came here to apologize for scaring you and to promise I will behave more conscientiously in the future.”

How eloquent, fanciful. How blatantly scripted.

It was more than she had in the past. She cried afresh.

Cang held the dahlia to her. “I’m sorry I made you cry again. I know you do not like flowers, unfortunately they are all I have. I am clumsy and I don’t have the words to express how I appreciate your forgivingness.”

She smiled again and brought the dahlia to her nose to smell it. It was as sugary as the poetry. It was like another knife. But she was needy. However it hurt and nauseated her, she knew she-- a whore-- wouldn’t get anything elsewhere.

[pinknerdpanda]

Bad Blood - Part 6

Characters: Reader, Dean, Benny, Sam

Series Summary: You stop at a small cafe in Louisiana on your way home from hunting with the Winchesters. There is something about the man behind the counter that makes you hungry for more than just the pie.

Warnings for this chapter: Angst, language

Word Count: 1750

A/N: Masterbeta’d by my friend and soul sister @wheresthekillswitch. You are amazing and I adore you. Thank you!

Behind? You can catch up here: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

Tags are below the cut - please send me an ask if you would like to be added or removed from my tag list! :) Your feedback is so appreciated! (The gif is not mine)

Bad Blood

Part 6

Baton Rouge, LA

He looks at you then, his green eyes full an emotion you’d not seen there before. The intensity is unsettling and your stomach flutters, but you can’t look away. He kisses you again, harder this time as though he can’t get close enough to you.

The slam of the door startles both of you, and you jump, bumping your head against Dean’s. You both yelp in pain and surprise. You look up to find a pair of ice blue ones staring back at you.

“Well, well, cher. What do we have here?”

-----

2 Hours Earlier

Dean POV

“Call if you receive any additional information, Sheriff.” I’m out the door before the last words leave Sam’s mouth. As usual, the local badge has no idea what is going on; luckily we do.

My phone dings as I start the car. Sam climbs in as I am checking the message. It’s from Benny.  He and y/n are on their way to the nest. Instant rage slams into me and my vision blurs slightly. Benny is my friend, but I can’t scrub the image of them together from my mind. Knowing that he had his hands on her; that she let him…

“Dean?”

Sam’s voice breaks my thoughts and I glare at him; a look not meant for him.

“He sent the address They’re heading there now.” I throw the car in reverse, and back out of the dimly lit parking lot.

We arrive a few minutes later at what appears to be yet another run-down and abandoned hotel. The whole thing looks straight out of a horror flick.

“These assholes obviously have no problem living up to the stereotypes,” I mumble under my breath, as I pop the trunk. Sam pulls out both machetes, handing one to me and I slam the trunk closed again.

Beams of moonlight bathe the sprawling compound in silvery light. I slink into the darkness, pressing my back against the peeling wood siding. Sam and I keep to the shadows as we make our way inside. The crumbling remains of what was once a lobby appear to be empty.

I glance over my shoulder at Sam, tipping my head toward the far wall before inching forward. He takes my cue and we maneuver through the maze of corridors; one of us on each side, the darkness obscuring our presence completely.

We turn down another hallway and spy a large wooden door at the other end when a cry rings out. My hand clenches around the handle of my blade, as y/n’s voice fills my ears again. I break out into a run, reaching for the wooden door and plowing through.

I barely have time to process the sight of y/n sprawled out on the floor with Benny’s face buried between her legs before rage overtakes me. I swing my blade, a look of surprise frozen on the vamps face as his head rolls to the floor.

Sam bursts into the room just as another bloodsucker jumps on me. The blade of Sam’s machete glistens in the sparse light as he slices clean through the neck of my attacker.

Benny’s up, fangs bared as he grabs one of their heads, and twists as hard as he can. A sickening crack echoes through the room before the headless corpse sinks to the floor. He tosses the head on the floor with an exaggerated thud.

A flutter of movement to my right catches my attention. I look over just in time to see y/n attempt to lift herself from the floor. Heat sears through my veins and I strike out, beheading the remaining vampire before letting my knife fall to the ground.

“What the fuck were you thinking, Benny? You promised you wouldn’t let anything happen to her!”

“I know brotha.” Benny’s chin is still caked with blood and I practically vibrate with anger. “Things got just a little bit out of hand. Charles wouldn’t…”

“Save it,” I bark at him and sprint over to y/n’s side. Her pallid skin is clammy as she tries to open one eye.

I’ve tried so hard, over the last few days especially, to shove down all the feelings I have for her. There have been so many times that I wanted to touch her, let her know how I felt. And every time I’d stopped myself. But not this time. I slide my hands under her and lift her off the ground. I tuck her head under my chin, already making my way toward the door.

“You two stay here and clean this mess up. I need to get y/n to the motel and try to get her stitched up.”

I feel y/n shift in my arms as I step over a headless body. Benny stretches a hand out toward y/n and I clutch her tightly against me.

“No, don’t you fucking touch her.” My voice is thick with malice and a small part of me relishes the look of shame I see in his eyes.

I don’t bother looking back. My only concern is making sure she is ok. I get her loaded into the Impala doing my best to ignore the way her head lolls against the back of the seat. I climb in, barely starting the engine before I tear out of the parking lot. I sneak a glance over at y/n just as her eyes flutter closed again. I stomp harder on the gas pedal.

Soon we arrive at the motel. I am thankful to see her stir as I fling the door open. I scoop her up and carry her inside, laying her gently on the bed.

Her clothes are all but ruined and I have no idea the extent of the damage that has been done to her at this point. I know I need to get her undressed to examine her, but a part of me hesitates for a fraction of a second. My instinct takes over and I push aside any guilt I may feel.

I work to get her clothes off, inspecting as I go. Her wounds are not as bad as I’d feared, but she will need stitches. I feel her tense at my touch.

“Hey there, stay with me. Try to stay awake, sweetheart. Okay?”

The only thing left to check is the inside of her leg. The memory of what I’d seen back at the nest flashes through my mind and I force my face to remain calm despite the rage I feel. I move my hand to her knee, pausing to steel my nerves before gently urging her legs apart.

“I need to see that bite on the inside of your thigh y/n. I think you might stitches. May I…?”

She nods and I drop my gaze to her thigh. The skin is mangled and blood is still oozing from the open wound. I see red. Any attempt at maintaining a neutral, clinical front is lost and I can’t stop the growl that erupts from my chest.

Summoning whatever amount of self-control I have left, I stomp out of the room in search of my first aid kit. I could kill him for doing this to her. But she knew. She’d asked for this. Well, maybe not this exactly, but she’d made a choice to let this happen. Why? Why him?

This whole thing is fucked up. I have no right to feel this way, but here I am, jealous as hell and wanting to put my fist through a wall. I’d had my chance and I made a choice not to say anything. I thought I was doing the right thing. I thought if I let her go - never told her how I felt -  that maybe she’d be safe. I was wrong. I always seem to be wrong.

----

“Well, well, cher. What do we have here?”

Benny’s voice rings through the air like a bell and neither of you move for a moment. Then suddenly, Dean is up off the bed and launching himself across the room at Benny.

“You were supposed to look out for her Benny. She could have died.” Dean’s hands are fisted in the collar of Benny’s jacket as he shoves the vampire violently against the wall. “You almost killed her, you son of a bitch!”

You stand, swaying slightly but propelling yourself forward anyway. Sam enters, confusion twisting his features as he looks at you, half naked and stumbling across the room.

“Hey, y/n!” Sam reaches to steady you with one hand and places himself between you and the two men. You crane your neck to look past him.

“I know, chief. I know I done messed up.” Benny’s shoulders slump with resigned shame and his eyes glimmer with unshed tears as he shifts his eyes to yours. “I’m sorry cher.” His voice is hoarse.

You push past Sam, laying a hand on Dean’s forearm. You look between the two men, your heart wrenching in your chest.

“Enough.” You meet Dean’s gaze, pleading silently. He releases his grip on Benny and takes a step backward.

“I told you what would happen, Benny. We had a deal, remember?” Dean’s tone is low and his words are clipped, obviously struggling to put his emotions in check. “You bite, you’re done.”

Benny nods sadly, refusing to meet your gaze. You look between the two men, appalled.

“NO!” You shout, surprising yourself and drawing startled looks from everyone in the room.

“For fuck’s sake! No one’s killing anyone!”

“Y/n..” Dean begins, you wave your hand, cutting him off.

“No. This isn’t his fault, Dean, and you know it. Benny was trying to help us. If he had refused to do what Charles said, we would have been dead anyway. We were outnumbered, what exactly were we supposed to do?”

“You think he’s just gonna stop now that he’s tasted fresh blood again? You think he can control himself now?” Dean’s eyes darken with anger.

“What’s this really about Dean? Huh? Is this really about whether you trust him or not? Or are you just mad because I chose him instead of you?”

The words are out of your mouth before you can stop them. The look on Dean’s face is a mix of hurt and anger and he stomps out of the room without saying another word, slamming the door behind him. Sam glances uncomfortably around before following Dean out the door.

Tears pour hot and wet down both of your cheeks as guilt consumes you. Benny moves to stand in front of you, and places a hand on your arm. You recoil involuntarily from his touch and he drops his hand. His gaze shifts to the carpet and he nods. When he looks at you again, he smiles sadly and nods curtly.

“Well, I think I best be on my way. Take care of yourself, cher.”

You clench your eyes shut as the door closes behind him. Loud, painful sobs echo mockingly throughout the empty room as you crumble to the floor.

Read Part 7 here

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[firelightsglow]

Fireflies

~*~ Originally written 1/24/17. The one who first lit the flame.  ~*~ The World is changing. Darkness gathers like a storm, bringing fear and pain in its wake. And in the darkness, we cling to whatever light we can. The World burns, whether as a beacon or a pyre, and all eyes are drawn to the flame. But just for this moment, let us turn away. Let us look past the fires of martyrs and madmen, heroes and saints, lives so bright that they’re blinding to look upon. Let us look further, to the smallest of us, to the embers kicked up by the flame. This is a tale of those little souls. Those who did not quite succumb, or overcome, but those who simply survived the dark, and found light where they could, if only for a time. Those who were, perhaps, not great, but knew the presence of greatness, and basked in its glow. This is a tale of those who find light where they can- a tale of fireflies that yet flew among eagles. ~*~

I never did like my hair. Maybe that’s an inane thought to have. And, I mean, it is, especially at a time like this. Maybe I should back up. My hair is my shield, you see? My curtain. When I was a kid, I never wanted to talk to anybody. Never opened up. All I had to do was tip my head so my hair fell across my face and there you go- my shields are up, and no fear or worry can get to me. I’m older, now. A bit less withdrawn. A bit less reserved. And I’m a Hunter, so I can’t exactly show up for work with my hair in my face. That’s why, every morning, before we go to bell service, Yasmin sits on my bed and does my hair. That little bit of peace and quiet is my favorite part of every morning, when Yasmin pulls all my worries away and ties them into a tidy braid. Knowing all that, I’m sure you understand why I’m distracted. Because a lock of my hair’s wiggled out of the braid somehow, and that means a lock of worry dangling in front of my eyes, while a rancid, animated corpse is snapping at my face. Sorry. Maybe I should back up a little more. My name is Eliza Beauchene. I live on the planet Demeter, an agri-world before things went to shit twenty years ago, and honest-to-god monsters started running amok. I’m 5’5”, which is tall for my age, or so I hear. Yasmin Quintana is my best friend, and she’s also my, er, roommate. So it wasn’t anything out of the ordinary for us when she looked out our window this morning, sighed, and said: “There’s a ghoul in our driveway.” Yasmin and I live in a town called Elk Lake, which has neither elk or a lake. We’re Hunters, which just means that if we see a ghoul- say, in our driveway- we don’t call for help, we are the help. And we’re also Adepts. The Professor says that’s just the general term for anyone who can use magic, but I think that’s giving us too much credit, since ‘adept’ makes it sound like we’re actually any good. So, that’s how we wound up here, in our driveway, fully dressed but only half-awake, dealing with a walking corpse prowling for its breakfast before we’ve even had ours. I am, understandably, not in the best mood. The ghoul was a man once, and a hockey fan at that, his torn jersey looking oddly right at home with the snowy ground and the gloomy, overcast sky. He must’ve caught all his games on the extranet, since Demeter never got cold enough for ice hockey. It barely got cold enough for snow, and we don’t even get the good kind- we get the dirty, slushy shit that makes walking a nightmare, never any of the nice fairy tale fluff. He lunges at me, his jaw hanging open, not unlike some morons I grew up with, and I punch him in the chin, slamming his jaw shut with a clack of bone. “I hope you bite your tongue in two!” I snap at him. I’m snippy today, raw, like a nerve, like the throbbing in my knuckles and in my thumb from poor technique. Closed fist. Yasmin would scoff. The ghoul falls on his ass, in the slush piling up on our driveway. He tries to get up, slips, then gets up again, his empty white eyes fixed on me. He groans, his rancid breath fogging the air, the cold only slightly dulling his stench. The stench of death. Something about that smell just rubs me raw. I grit my teeth, my patience slipping.   I lift up my hand, and a halo of golden light forms around my fingers. I trace a sigil within the ring, my fingertips forming the stars of a new constellation- He’s on me, faster than I expected, grabbing me by the wrists and slamming me back against the garage door, hard enough to shake clumps of snow from the roof. The back of my head smacks against the door and gets my vision swimming. There’s a wet, meaty thud as Yasmin buries a blade in the ghoul’s head, chopping in from the side and lodging in the thing’s temple. She takes her machete by the handle and wrenches it sideways, sending the ghoul staggering towards the street, oblivious to gash in its head. I lift my hand and complete the sign. There’s a flash of light and a sound like glass shattering, and suddenly, the ghoul is ablaze from the waist up, burning with a smokeless white fire. It collapses into a shapeless heap, sliding down our driveway on a layer of slush before settling in the street. I take a deep breath. It doesn’t smell like death at all. My head hurts. I reach behind me and poke at it, wincing. I cast an irritable glare at the garage door. For its part, it doesn’t seem too apologetic. “Are you okay?” Yasmin asks me, slipping her machete back into the pouch on her hip. “I hit my head,” I whine. “You poor thing,” Yasmin coos. She pats me on the head, like a child, before pulling me close- I place a hand on her shoulder and squeeze, just so. She stops, watching me. I shake my head. The anxiety is already worming into me, tightening my jaw. I swallow. “Not outside,” I say, finally. Yasmin nods. And that just sour my mood even more. Today I woke up to a gloomy, overcast day, had a ghoul almost bite my head off, smacked my head on the garage door… the day hasn’t had the best start, and we haven’t even gotten to work yet. But that little thing at the end- something as simple and small as stopping Yasmin from kissing me in public- that’s what really rankles. That’s what hurts. I sigh gloomily, making my way down to the street. Yasmin follows at my heels. “We’ll have to shovel eventually,” she says, back to business, though I can hear the tinge of disappointment in her voice. “I know.” “And the skimmer’s out of commission until we can get a new battery..” “I know.” “We’re going to be late for bell service.” “I know, Yas.” “The Professor won’t be happy…” I don’t want to snap at her. I don’t. But this morning’s piled up a litter of little things, and I’m committed to my bad mood. I’m ready, ready to whirl around and say something hurtful that’ll feel good for one smug, self-righteous second, and then I’ll regret it for the rest of the day. I don’t do that. Instead, I whirl around, open my mouth as if to say something, and then I slip on the sidewalk and fall on my ass. It happens so suddenly that I actually don’t know what to say. I stare at Yasmin, dumbly. “Are you okay?” She asks, offering me a hand. I reach up… ..and then I pull her down into the snow with me. “Are you okay?” I ask, snorting. “Don’t laugh,” Yasmin whines. “I’m not.” “Don’t laugh!” “I’m not!” I am. And so’s Yasmin. I’m laughing so hard that my chest hurts and the bump on my head throbs. We just lay there on the sidewalk, letting water seep into our clothes, laughing like idiots at the absurdity of it all. The ordinary sidewalk, slippery when wet, proved a more formidable foe than the servants of dark gods. I think about all the little things that can sour my mood and get me worrying- like a ghoul in my driveway, to gloomy weather, to even the tiniest things, like just having a hair out of place- and I think about how all those little annoyances just evaporate when I’m with her. I lie there, stifling giggles. Absently, Yasmin’s fingers curl around mine. I give her hand a squeeze. “...Y’know we’re going to have to change out of these clothes, right?” “Yep.” “Then we’re really going to be late for bell service.” “Yep!” “And the Professor definitely won’t be happy with us.” “Oh yeah?” I turn, and meet Yasmin’s eyes. I grin. “Well, fuck him!” We lay there, in Demeter’s terrible, slushy snow, and together, we laughed and laughed. ~*~ We were still laughing when we arrived at the chapel twenty minutes later, and Professor Brennan Maxwell was waiting in the doorway, leaning on his long-handled cane that was really more of a staff. “You’re late,” he said, without looking at us. “Sorry, Professor,” Yasmin mumbled. I couldn’t help but snort. “Got the giggles, Miss Beauchene?” he asked, which, of course, only made us giggle harder. He sighed wearily, waving us into the room. We moved to go in, but then he tapped the wooden floor with his cane, and we stopped. “Wipe your feet,” he tutted. I rolled my eyes, then did what I was told. We found a seat by our neighbors, the Shimizu twins, mainly because Mika Shimizu waved us over with an enthusiasm no one should be able to muster this early in the morning. We sidled into the pew beside her, exchanged awkward sitting-hugs, and then politely waved hello to her brother, Miki, who nodded at us stony-faced before returning his attention to the pulpit. “Hey! Where’ve you guys been?” Mika asked. “Sorry,” Yasmin said. “There was a ghoul in our driveway.” “Yeah? Did you kill it?” “Eliza did,” Yasmin nodded. “I blew it up with magic,” I grinned. “Oooh,” Mika cooed. “I wish I could’ve seen it.” Miki glared at us from behind his glasses. He raised a finger to his lips for silence. Fine. I guess we’ll catch up after service. It’s not like we hear this stuff every morning, Miki. Bell services take place at the three bells, morning, noon, and evening. Everyone in town is expected to go to at least one a day. Because of work, and class, Yasmin and I can’t make the later two, which means we go to morning bell service at sunrise- to my everlasting chagrin. The Shimizus aren’t just our neighbors. They’re Hunters, too. Not only that, but they’re also Adepts- and rather more adept at it than Yasmin and I. Miki can make magical barriers, which naturally makes him popular for sentry duty. I don’t think I’ve seen Mika use her powers. She says they’re “not ideal against ghouls”, whatever that means. I adore Mika. She’s everyone’s little sister. She’s cute and fun and full of energy, as lively and cheerful as Yasmin is grounded and practical. I don’t really know much about Miki, though, honestly. We don’t talk much. I do know that he goes to the trouble of wearing a tie to bell service, which I think says it all, really. I slouched forward, leaning my elbow on the pew in front of me, and resting my chin in my hand. Brother Eli was a nice enough guy out on the street, but he could just go on and on. I shifted in my seat, his droning sermon sailing comfortably over my head, instead finding my eyes drawn to the mosaic on the wall behind him. The mosaic depicted a woman in a white dress, her eyes hidden behind a crimson blindfold, her long blond hair forming a halo around her head, all depicted in chips of glass and stone. It was beautifully made, especially as it was made of scraps. But every morning, when I saw it looming over Brother Eli, it gave me a strange feeling in the pit of my stomach. “Let us pray,” Brother Eli said, and despite the eerie feeling the mosaic gave me, I couldn’t look away. “Today, and every day, we remember that moment of infamy twenty years ago when Seth, the Defiler, came upon our world. And today, and every day, we honor the Saint, by whose sacrifice the Mirage was cast from our land. And though she toppled their master, the servants of darkness continue to run amok- and so we send our champions to continue her fight, our proud Hunters, our warriors of light!” I screwed my eyes shut, trembling. Brother Eli’s words should be inspiring, but instead I felt a vicious melancholy settling around me, suffocating, like a widow’s veil. I sensed Mika and Yasmin watching me on either side. I hated the look they’re giving me. I didn’t want their pity. But I took their offered hands, regardless. “We raise our souls like candles to thee, our Lady who first lit the flame,” Brother Eli intoned. “In honor of the Saint, Elizabeth Beauchene. Bless her name!” “Bless her name,” the crowd chorused. “Bless her name,” I murmured, staring at the floor. ~*~ Leave it to bell service to put me in a bad mood. It lingered on me like a bad smell- not unlike a ghoul’s breath- and clouded my mood even after we left the chapel to start our rounds. I shuffled along, my hands stuffed in my pockets, staring at the ground. Normally, I’d want my hair veiling my face, to complete the look- but right then, I didn’t want the reminder that I had my mother’s hair. The Professor, to his credit, got the hint, and didn’t make a sound during our patrol save for the tapping of his staff on the pavement. So did Yasmin, who knew when I needed space without me having to say anything, and Miki, who was used to not talking much, anyway. But Mika, damn her, thought the silence was too uncomfortable, and couldn’t help but try to talk. “He’s young, isn’t he? Brother Eli,” Mika was saying. “He looks like he’s our age.” “Too young to be overseeing bell services,” Miki offered quietly. “He is,” Maxwell said. “He’s filling in for Father Joseph while he’s away.” “Why? What’s wrong with Father Joe?” Mika asked. “Sand sickness,” Maxwell said. “Oh,” Mika said. “Hm… Brother Eli, Eli… is that short for anything? Like, Elijah?” “No,” Maxwell said. He glanced at me, just for a second.  “He was named after the Saint.” “Oh.” Mika said. She didn’t say much after that. ~*~ It’s said that the presence of the daemon lord, Seth, The Mirage, is heralded by a sandstorm, with the shadows of monsters lurking in the mist. When Seth invaded our planet, he brought his harbinger, the sandstorm, with him. But when he left, the sandstorm stayed, scouring our planet and ruining the vast majority of our farmland, for which we were famous. Some cities, however, Elk Lake included, escaped intact. They were protected by a barrier of shimmering white light, one that kept Seth’s sandstorm- and his minions- at bay. These barriers collectively became known as Saint Elizabeth’s Halo, her “last miracle” before supposedly sacrificing herself to banish Seth from the planet. I don’t know about that. I think I’d sooner believe that Demeter’s planetary government just had some last-ditch military-grade shield generators lying around in case of emergency, and the PDF switched on the ones they could before Seth’s forces overwhelmed them and they lost control. Miracle or not, the barriers won’t last forever. The Halo is losing power over time. It’s still strong enough to keep out Seth’s otherworldly sandstorm, but ghouls and other, worse things do occasionally slip inside. Some cities, I’ve heard, have started reducing the coverage of their Halo in order to maintain a stable field strength. That means having a perfectly safe daemon-free zone, that nonetheless loses more and more ground to the sandstorm each year. Other cities, like Elk Lake, allow the intrusions for the sake of keeping their territory intact- which means more Hunters, and more patrols. It’s not impossible for humans to pass through the Halo, by the way. There are some things that can survive outside the shielded zone- wind farms, for example, are a big one, and are one of the main reasons we still have electricity. But the perpetual sandstorm, and the constant threat of ghouls, or worse, mean you probably wouldn’t want to live out there. I would tell you about how the Halo’s glow serves as artificial sunlight or whatever, but I’m a Hunter, not a farmer. The gaps in the shield are getting wider each year, and it’s my job to make sure nothing gets through. It’s, uh, not as exciting as you think. Mainly, it’s just walking. Occasionally fighting, but Mika and the Professor handle that most of the time. Mika, because as scout, she’s up in front and sees them first; the Professor, because he’s a powerful Adept in his own right and doesn’t trust us to use our powers in combat just yet. As for the rest of the time... “Miss Beauchene,” the Professor began, as we entered the ninth hour of our slog through Elk Lake’s depressingly empty commercial district. “What is the Trinity of Magic and from where do they draw their power?” “Psionics, which draws from the mind, Divine, which draws from faith, and Arcane, which draws from the outside world,” I recited, my voice flat with fatigue. “And the outlier, Miss Quintana?” “Dark magic, which is any magic unclassified due to age, obscurity, or lack of study,” Yasmin put in beside me, doing her best to keep the skip in her step. “Very good, Miss Quintana,” the Professor went on, “so the saying goes, Dark magic is any magic that hasn’t been studied long enough to fall into the other three.” “So if I lose a spellbook under my bed, how long does it take for it turn into Dark magic?” Mika asked wryly. “As long as it takes for you to forget what it does,” Miki said flatly. “Ser Shimizu has the right idea,” the Professor said, gesturing with his cane. “‘Oh, dear, I’ve lost this incantation for a thousand years. I wonder where it goes. Ah! That’s what it does! Let me put it back on the shelf.’ Picture that, but for entire schools of magic, and you’ve got Dark magic, realm of the obscure, the obtuse, forbidden, and forgotten.” “Dark magic got lost while editing the wiki,” I mutter. Yasmin snorts. “Dark magic got lost while editing the wiki! Excellently said!” The Professor says, just a little too loudly, and I idly wonder if he knows what a wiki is at all. ~*~ Night came at the end of a cloudy day, cut through by the occasional shaft of light. Figuratively, of course. There was no day or night beneath the Halo. Beyond the Halo was the sandstorm, and who knew where the sun was beyond that? But there were subtle differences in the Halo over time. Sometimes, it would dim just a little bit in the evenings, and give us a nice twilight glow. Sometimes, it would grow brighter and then get dimmer, rise and fall, like a pulse- like it was alive. Some nights, if you didn’t know better, you might mistake the Halo’s glow for moonlight. But I did know better, and thinking about the Halo, and the Saint by extension, just gave me a headache. So I pulled the curtains shut and fell back into bed. I heard the sound of water dribbling into a bucket down the hall, and knew that it was Yasmin. As I lay there in bed, with my arm across my eyes, trying to blot out my throbbing headache, I had an idle fantasy of Yasmin and I, taking a real bath together. It was a silly thing, obviously. No one would be that careless with their water ration, even if Hunters got a larger cut. Still… I sighed. This morning’s melancholy just wouldn’t let up. And now I had a headache, too. My mind and my body were just ganging up on me today. I decided to put on the news, because if I was going to have a headache, I might as well double down. I reached out blindly with my free hand, clicking on the radio on my nightstand. A familiar voice sounded over the radio- Colonel Amadi Afolayan, Planetary Defense, one of the founders of the Elk Lake Hunter’s Association. “People of Demeter, I ask you: what is our worst enemy? I tell you now, it is not the sandstorm battering at our walls, or the ghouls walking the streets. Nor, even is it the master of these invaders, the Mirage, the Defiler himself. No; I speak to you of fear. Fear is what cages us; fear is what kills us. But what are we afraid of, really? We are not afraid of the dark; we are afraid of the unknown. We are not afraid of the invader; we are afraid of being powerless. We are not afraid to fight- we are afraid to fail, to lose, to die! Here at the Hunter’s Association, you have nothing to fear. Here you will learn the enemy, and know the enemy. Here you will grasp the power to defeat him, and know that you are not powerless. Here you will train and know that you can fight! That they can be beaten! Here at the Association, you will not be powerless, and you will not be alone. Look around you. This is your family. These are those who survived. We are brothers, sisters, comrades-in-arms! We are Hunters. Stand strong. Stand together. For together, we shall know no fear!” I’ve heard this speech a hundred times. It’s the Hunter recruitment speech, from who knows how long ago. Maybe even before the Halo went up. Damn it. All this talk of Halos and Hunters is just making that headache worse. And the cheering crowd from twenty years ago, a crowd of ghosts, certainly isn’t helping either. I rub my knuckles into my eyelids, feeling the cloud of melancholy rolling in... “Eh. It’s not all that.” One voice- her voice, like light through the clouds. I feel Yasmin settle in beside me, feel the towel across her shoulders and the wetness of her hair. Then, for a single, longing moment, she is above me, reaching over to my nightstand and silencing my radio with a click. “He makes being a Hunter sound so heroic,” Yasmin shrugged. I open my eyes and look at her- really, look at her. Warm, brown eyes. Brown skin. Dark undercut and sideshave that takes way less maintenance than my hair. Gentle smile. Solid. Grounded. The earth beneath my feet, catching me when I fall. It occurs to me that I should say something. I pick something corny. “You were pretty heroic this morning, pulling that guy off of me.” Yasmin smiles at me and mercifully doesn’t lambast my choice of line. Instead, she asks: “How was your day?” “You should know. You’ve been with me for all of it.” “Yeah,” she shrugs. “But it’s still good to ask.” The bump on the back of my head throbs, and the Halo’s soft glow peeks in past my curtains, both reminders that they’re still there. I groan and burrow my head in the crook of her shoulder. “It’s over,” I mutter into her skin. Softly, I feel her fingers on my scalp, in my hair. “You’re here,” Yasmin says. “You made it.” “I barely even did anything,” I protest. “You survived,” Yasmin says. “That’s not nothing.” The words echo in my ears, down the weeks, the years, to old hurts, old urges. I blink the memories away. They land, warm, and wet, on Yasmin’s perfect skin. So much of this world has tried to kill me. I don’t need anyone else on that list. “I’ll have to do the same thing tomorrow,” I say, and even as I say it I can feel the fatigue of today’s patrol chasing down my muscles, racing to my brain. “We’ll get there when we get there,” Yasmin says, her hand on my chin, and a question in her eyes. This is me. This is my world; my life. It’s not exciting, or glorious, or full of tragedy. It’s not the best or the worst life. But it’s a life, and I’ll hold on to it, for as long as I can. Yasmin’s right here; my friends are next door; the Professor’s just a phone call away. Tomorrow, there’ll be more of us. This world is ours to endure. ~*~ Some people say the World began on a turtle’s back, or as drops of dew falling from a spear. Some people say the World began with a word, or a song, or a bang. Me, I don’t know about all that. What I do know is how this world began- with a colony ship landing on a lush, uncharted planet, eager to transform it into the breadbasket of the system. That was how Demeter became the envy of the Olympian Cluster, our rolling fields feeding the waves of settlers chasing the galactic frontier. And, as cliche as it sounds, for a time, it was good. Then, twenty years ago, war came to my planet. The daemon lord, Seth, Aspect of Decay, invaded Demeter with legions of ghoulish undead and their grotesque masters. From one day to the next, Demeter went from a peaceful agri-world to a blazing ruin, with monsters swarming the streets. Then, suddenly, Seth vanished, taking with him the vast majority of his generals, his sorcerers. Bereft of their masters, his legions of ghouls lost the baleful will empowering them. They degenerated, becoming husks of themselves, reverting to basic instincts- mere animals, not soldiers. Just like that, for reasons no one could explain, the war was over. But there still wasn’t peace. My friends and I are the first generation born into a ravaged world- one where monsters roam the streets, and pockets of humanity hold on to whatever safe zones they can. Somehow, we manage to scrape a living. It’s not an easy life; I won’t lie. But I don’t want you to think it’s all bad, either. Twenty years ago, the sky fell in, and monsters descended upon us, but the world did not end. We’re still here, despite everything. We’ve made it this far. And we’ll make it further. I know we will. We’ll just take it a day at a time. My name is Eliza Beauchene, and this wretched world hasn’t killed us yet. Tomorrow is a new day. Let’s survive. ~*~