#I've already made bullet points and everything

[enlitment]

Przybyszewska's The Danton Case Official Drinking Game

Take a sip of a wine from Marseille* every time...

(*maybe water it down or substitute it with grape juice if you don't want to be like Danton in the play)

Someone starts humming La Marseillaise out of the blue

Danton gets called ugly (warning: maybe do it every other time, this happens quite a lot)

A character dramatically takes out their pocket watch

Robespierre's eye colour gets mentioned (yes, being called a "green-eyed monster" counts too)

A character either: a) talks about getting on their knees for someone, you know, metaphorically b) literally gets on their knees (looking at you, Eléonore)

Someone calls Camille a 'genius baby/toddler'

Lucile says or does something that proves she's smarter than 99 % of the characters

Robespierre gets called the Incorruptible

Saint-Just's being dte in the committee meetings (=down to execute)

You feel the strong urge to yell at Camille and call him a beautiful idiot (also approach with caution - this may be subjective but I personally felt like doing it in literally every scene he's in)

[sonicboomseason3]

a brief recap of what has been going on with the sonic movieverse in the past several months:

paramount has come out in public support of israel

keanu reeves, a man who has publicly rubbed elbows with none other than benjamin netanyahu, reportedly gets cast as shadow for the upcoming third movie

james marsden, the guy who plays tom, got exposed as having written a letter of support for a convicted pedophile

there's fucking??? zionist propaganda in the knuckles series???

kind of connected to the last point but adam pally, the guy who plays wade, is evidently pro-israel too

this is a complete and utter joke.

EDIT AS OF 4/30/24: if people see this version of the post, i'd really appreciate it if you reblog it instead of the other versions, as it's the most updated one with all the information that i want included. thank you :]

you know, it's been a few days since i've made this post, and some of you (not most) are staying determined in defending/justifying/giving the benefit of the doubt to keanu for that photo with netanyahu, whether it's because "it was a decade ago," "him being civil to someone he ran into at a party one time doesn't mean anything," "he's probably just silent because his pr managers won't allow him to speak up," etc. i've made my thoughts on the matter quite clear by directly responding to these people, but at this point, i'm tired of both seeing them in my notes and repeating myself, so take this as my final word on the issue.

i can't help it if you don't think the photo with netanyahu is damning, and i'm done engaging with everyone going out of their way to tell me that. i obviously disagree, especially after finding out that 1. the host of the party, arnon milchan, is a former israeli spy who has a history of developing israel's nuclear program and promoting apartheid in south africa (information that had broken out a few months prior to the party and thus would've been fresh news around the time keanu chose to attend) and 2. keanu has been caught hanging around at least two other weirdos, but if you don't find any of that to be cause for reasonable concern, then there really is nothing else i can say afaik.

with all that said, i'm beginning to realize how strange it is that these people's first instinct when seeing this post is to start debating about keanu's political stances without ever acknowledging any of the other bullet points. you guys realize that this isn't just about him, right? i know tumblr reading comprehension is known for being piss-poor, but like… you realize that i was trying to make a point of how there are MULTIPLE terrible things that have broken out about the people and company involved in the sonic movies, right? and yet, a lot of the people leaping to speak on keanu's behalf in my notes are completely ignoring the parts where i bring up paramount, pally, etc. all in favor of zeroing in on the singular point about keanu and making bad faith assumptions about me for holding him accountable. really makes one wonder where your priorities lie if, in a post that talks about so many other things, me accusing an a-list celebrity with, according to google, a net worth of almost $400 million is where you draw the line and apparently the only thing worth your acknowledgment.

ultimately, what i'm trying to say is that the intention of this post was just to gather up everything that i had been hearing for the past several months and put it all together in one place. there were a bunch of people who didn't know about at least one of the bullet points before seeing this post, and i'm glad that i could help inform them, that was what i was hoping to do! but as for the keanu thing, i've said pretty much all i can say for now, and i don't want to derail the original post even more than i may have already. unless something new comes up, i'm done talking about him.

[coffeebanana]

some things i've been thinking about (this was supposed to be separate ideas but now i guess it's a rough fic outline in bullet points kasdbfksbjd):

marinette telling adrien the truth YEARS later, after everything's settled down and the butterfly's been recovered and their identities are revealed

maybe they live together. maybe he was getting ready to propose

after his initial shock, anger, time he needs to process, mostly he just wants to understand WHY she lied

when she tells him the she just couldn't bear to hurt him any more than she already had to by telling him his father died, and some part of adrien sees that as his own failing--surely if he'd been stronger, if he'd been the kind of person she thought could handle the truth, then she would have given it

maybe they go to couple's therapy. one of the exercises they're given is to practice honesty with each other and marinette goes... a little overboard

adrien thinks it's sweet, at first. until he realizes she's scared to leave a single second of her day unaccounted for. she's stressing out because she forgot to tell him something minor and he doesn't want him to think she just decided not to tell him something again

he realizes just how much she's been beating herself up about this all these years. just how much she's always loved him despite her mistakes

he remembers the ring he has stashed upstairs

and maybe it's not the time for proposals. but all he can think is that even at their worst, he still wants forever with her

of course, he's never been one for keeping his affections to himself. so he tells her.

it's not a question, it's not an offer. it's a fact: I want to spend the rest of my life with you. i want to marry you. she looks at him like he's crazy, so he pulls out his ultimatum. but i need you to forgive yourself first

all these years, marinette's been secretly awaiting her punishment. secretly awaiting having to pay for what she's done. forgiving herself was never on the table

do you forgive me, she asks in a quiet voice

i don't know, he says, and marinette's heart sinks until he adds, but i know i want to

and in the end, it's not so hard for him to get there. for him to forgive one decision she made under the worst possible circumstances. one mistake in the midst of all the ways she's made him feel safe and wanted and loved. all the times she's held his hand or helped wipe his tears, all the times she's let him do the same for her

when it comes time to exchange vows, for better or worse is already something they've agreed to

[theconstitutionisgayculture]

My thoughts about the Trump assassination attempt

After having a few hours to process this whole thing and see reactions from across the political spectrum, I'm having some thoughts and some feelings.

First off, as I said earlier, Trump is a fucking boss. Take anyone who ran for president in the last 20 years, put them in that exact situation, and I don't think a single one responds by raising his fist and snarling in defiance and righteous anger. They run. They cry. They keep their heads down and the first statement you h ear from them is hours later filtered through 20 different speech writers. Today proved to me that, whatever else he may be, Trump is a genuine bad ass. He's exactly the person I want at the end of a sword pointed the United States. Because he's going to have a sword of his own pointed right back, and he's not going to run and hide when it comes time to use it.

Second, the modern left is full of monsters. The amount of people screaming and crying because this assassination attempt failed actually sickens me. It's one thing to have fantasies about easy solutions to the things that scare you. Hell, I'm not innocent. I've thought about how much better things might be if this politician was no longer around or this activist group got axed. But one of the things I did today was think about how I would feel if the assassin succeeded. And then I thought about how I'd feel if someone took a shot at Biden and he didn't survive. Neither thought gave me any good feelings. Obviously I'd be more upset if Trump died, but today showed me that I don't want us to start down the path of shooting political leaders. But too many people on the left, people who should know better, at least enough to hide their true feelings, have no problem publicly wishing Trump was dead right now. That assassinating presidential candidates was a legitimate tactic--but only against the politicians they don't like, of course.

Fuck that.

Fuck them.

America is better than that. Americans are better than that. We're not some third world shithole like Mexico. We're the greatest country in the world. We're the last bastion of representative government. The last place in the world where freedom exists. And it's time we started acting like it.

Third, I ain't got no time for conspiracy theories. Sorry guys, but this wasn't staged and this wasn't a CIA hitman. Unless real, hard evidence comes out otherwise, you won't ever get me to believe any of the nonsense I've seen floated around. Don't be so lost in the true things the media has dismissed as "conspiracy theories" that you immediately jump to the most conspiratorial explanations first for everything that happens. It's lame and cringe and a lot of people I've seen seriously putting these theories forward should know better. I know we're in our emotions right now, but keep your heads.

Fourth, my heart breaks for the families of the people who were hit with the bullets meant for President Trump. But that's the kind of evil we're facing. Whoever did this decided that the idea of a Trump presidency was so awful that they were okay with shooting innocent people just to stop him. And this is after he was already president and none of the things the media is fear mongering about happened during his first term. Those people just wanted to see a man speak. To have some hope for the future. And some piece of shit shot them because he didn't like a presidential candidate. Or worse, because the TV made him scared.

Fifth, fuck the media. You think you hate them enough, but you don't. The media is the driving force behind our enemies, and there's no such thing as a good journopig. They're all lying propagandists. We just like some of them because their propaganda occasionally hits on the truth.

And that's all I got. None of this is organized, none of this is proofread. These are just the thoughts I've been wrestling with for the past few hours. This is the only place I can get them all down without being interrupted or feeling like I need to censor myself. Do with them what you will.

[matan4il]

The other day, I went with my rl bff to the Jerusalem branch of the Museum of Tolerance for an exhibition on the Hamas massacre.

This is the sight that greeted us. "Esthers of the world, rise up!"

It's a poster celebrating two women whose families had lived in Iran, one is Jewish, the other is Muslim, and both women ended up being murdered due to the Islamic regime of that country, even though the Jewish woman's family had escaped Iran and fled to Israel after the Islamic revolution. The face of each girl is actually a composite, made from many smaller pictures of her people who have lost their lives because of the Islamist regime of Iran.

I knew this right away, because I have shared a piece that was done about the poster and how it came to be almost 2 months ago. 

"You don't understand!" my bff (who works as a teacher) said, all emotional, "She," my friend points to the Jewish girl on the left side of the poster, Shirel Haim Pour, "is the cousin of one of my students."

There is zero distance in Israel between us and the Oct 7 atrocities. 

We go in and join the tour of the exhibition. The guide tells us it was built jointly with Malki Shem Tov, who is a well known name in Israel, if you work at a museum. Malki founded a "creative visual solutions" company with his brother Assaf, through which among other things, they helped build many Israeli exhibitions over the years. "His son..." the tour guide starts to say and I don't need more than that for something to click in my head. I know so many of the names, faces and stories of the hostages, and so Omer Shem Tov pops right away into my mind. I didn't make the connection before, but now I can only imagine what it meant for this father to work on an exhibition that recounts, among other stories, how his son was victimized and robbed of his freedom during this massacre.

There is zero distance in Israel between us and the Oct 7 atrocities. 

The opening wall has a huge time stamp, 6:29 in the morning. 

The tour guide doesn't have to explain this number to Israelis, or why it's designed to look like an alarm clock display. We were all woken up on that fateful Saturday morning by the alarm clock of Hamas' rockets. And it doesn't matter what we thought or believed the day before, as the full scale and horror of the attack were starting to become known along Oct 7, we were all woken up.

There is zero distance in Israel between us and those atrocities. I know this, and still it strikes me, again and again.

There's an area dedicated to the pictures of one photographer who went to the south soon after the massacre. I knew some of them already, like the pic showing the bodies of 13 elderly Israelis, who were on their way to a tour of the Israeli south on that Saturday.

Some are new, like the pic of the door handle in one bomb shelter. I stop for a second, because now that I've moved into my new place, it hits me that the bomb shelter door was made by the same company. Suddenly, I feel like I'm inside the picture in a reality where the terrorists took a slightly different route on Oct 7. The door was photographed from inside the bomb shelter, and the bullets that pierced it, they had to have hit the personal holding it shut. The handle has blood stains on it, and it's broken off. I can only imagine how many hours this person held, and how much force they had to use, for that to happen. I know one thing, even without knowing exactly who this bomb shelter belonged to... If this person was on their own, they would have probably ended up surrendering rather than keep fighting to hold on to the handle this desperately. This was likely someone trying to keep their family safe. 

One note retrieved from the body of a terrorist is on display. It says everything about the motivation of the monsters who committed these atrocities, and every word is purely motivated by antisemitism and religious zeal. The note is actually not in Arabic, as it may first appear, it's in Farsi, the language spoken in Iran, hinting at the source, the Islamist regime there, which doesn't care about the liberation of anyone, it aspires to create a global network of fanatic terrorism.

The translation: "You must sharpen the blades of your swords and be pure in your intentions before Allah. Know that the enemy is a disease that has no cure, except beheading and uprooting the hearts and livers. Attack them!"

There is a section dedicated to women's stories. The exhibition visitors spread out to watch the testimonies, each on a separate screen. It's a not like a forest, you can't really see it for the trees, and it's another moment of feeling overwhelmed because we can't truly get it. It's just not comprehensible, facing so many stories about intentional, face to face cruelty, brutality, sadism and joy in it. Mali Shoshana tells the story of how she tried to play dead while lying shot in a pool of her own blood, but her body wouldn't stop shaking, so she somehow turned on her side to the wall and knocked her injured knee against it, causing herself to pass out from the pain. It saved her life. Ricarda Louk tells the story of the last message they got from her daughter Shani, trusting she was right and there was nothing for them to worry about. Then Ricarda's son started screaming and crying, because he saw the same vid many of came across on that day, of his sister being dragged into Gaza stripped down, mutilated, abused, molested and humiliated, while Gazan civilians were celebrating the public degradation of her body. And there's more and more and more. "You can come back and continue to listen," the guide promises as he moves us to the next segment, but the truth is no matter how many stories I've listened to and absorbed, it still doesn't feel like enough.

There is a wall with the head shots of the victims in Israel who lost their lives due to this war, whether they were murdered on Oct 7 or since, but it's only been updated up until Mar 27 of this year. Even so, no matter what angle I tried, I couldn't fit in all of the pictures.

Interactive screens allow a geographic telling of the massacre's story. They show maps of Israel's south, with dots on them, red for the murdered, dark blue for hostages, bright blue for hostages who have been returned, grey for the injured. You can tap a dot and read a story. Or you can zoom out and try to comprehend how is it possible for there to be that many dots on the maps.

"From darkness to light," reads the exhibition title. That's the perception of time in Judaism. We always move from darkness to light. And there's a section for the light, for stories of resilience, of bravery, of rehabilitation, of mutual support and caring. Filmed interviews that do their best to summarize an incomprehensible amount of good we've seen in response to an incomprehensible amount of evil. It features people from every demographic in Israel, and in that way also serves as a reminder of just how diverse we are as a society.

This part, I think to myself, was included for visitors from abroad. We Israelis, we know.

There's one story I know already. Tomer Greenberg, an Israeli officer, rescued on Oct 7 baby twins from the carnage. He was later killed fighting in Gaza. Like a puzzle, I've heard this story from several angles, including from Tomer before he died. This movie features an interview I hadn't heard yet, with the volunteer paramedic that Tomer handed the twins to. Shalom, this medic, talks about how they clung to him desperately as they got to be fed and feel safe and cared for again for the first time in what's estimated to have been 14 hours. I'm sitting there, thinking of those babies crying, not understanding why their parents aren't coming to feed them, and I don't know how to deal with this.

Shalom shares that the experiences of Oct 7 have inspired him to try and become a combative soldier, something that wasn't on the cards for him before that. I wonder again at people who can act like subjecting an entire (already traumatized) society to a sadistic massacre can liberate anyone.

And I understand Shalom fully. When your family is in the pits of hell, there's nowhere you want to be other than there, with them, doing what you can, rather than sit and watch helpless from afar. Most people would say he did a lot on that day. Shalom must have felt like that still wasn't enough.

At the very end, visitors are invited to add their own little piece of light, through neon notes and pens on which they'd share their thoughts. Nothing feels like it can sum everything I'm thinking and feeling up, but not writing anything feels worse, so my bff and I add a few of our words to the notes.

I don't have any profound conclusions for this post anymore than I did for my note. I just know that this still hurts, that we're still losing people daily, that we can't begin to heal, because we're still in the middle of the wound being inflicted. But I also know that we WILL heal, that even if the wound can't be closed yet, our collective immune system kicked into action on Oct 7 already, that we will continue to share the pain and the comfort and the care, and this massacre and war will probably never stop hurting, that we'll never be the same, but eventually we will be alright. Where people choose to care, there's just no other option.

(for all of my updates and ask replies regarding Israel, click here)

[changetyre]

Not like this II Charles Leclerc x Reader (Mafia AU)

SUMMARY: After losing everything you seek out your biggest and longest-standing enemy to finish it all.

WARNING: Violence, blood, mentions of death

A/N: I've always wanted to write a Mafia imagine and I've had this idea in the drafts for like 2 years now and finally decided to write it out so here it is ;)

Thud.

Charles's eyes snapped open at the loud noise originating from his living room. His hand immediately clasped the gun that rested under his pillow as he listened out for anything else.

The shuffling that followed was enough to have him getting out of bed silently as he made his way around his bedroom.

He could hear someone grunting. He opened his door, darkness enveloped the living room the only light being from the large windows which surrounded it.

"For fuck's sake." He heard someone whisper and he thought he recognized the voice but it simply couldn't be right?

He walked further into the living room, seeing someone's feet disappear behind the coffee table. He silently took more steps toward whoever was there.

"Before you kill me could you at least get me a drink? Anything with Whiskey will do." Charles heard as you spoke breathless from your spot on the floor.

He finally closed the distance standing by your feet in fact confirming it was you. His gun still pointed right at your head.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" Charles asked annoyed.

"Ugh." you sighed. "Long story but your guards are really sh*t you know, killed them both in no time." You laughed, being stopped by a painful grunt.

Charles turned on the lamp on the table by the end of the couch providing enough light for him to see the trail of blood you'd left along with the pool of blood forming on his white carpet.

"You're ruining my carpet." Charles scoffed putting his gun away.

"Least I could do before letting you kill me." You shrugged, your breathing only getting heavier.

"What do you mean letting me kill you?" Charles asked as he moved away and around his apartment. You weren't able to see what he was doing from your spot on the floor where you'd decided to rest.

"We got attacked...idk who they are but- Fuck-" You grunted in pain again after moving slightly. "They are powerful Charles, they killed us ...every single one of us."

"Not you." Charles spoke from afar.

"Basically did." You laughed which you soon regretted with the pain it brought you. The gunshot to your stomach kept spurting blood despite you pressing hard on it.

"So why did you come here apart from dirtying my place?" Charles asked again, you could hear him opening and closing cupboards.

"Well you know...figured this ongoing battle we had going on, to see who would kill who first...Well, I'm gonna die anyway so I might as well let you win." You shuffled so your back rested on the couch and you could sit up slightly not caring one bit about covering the white couch with your blood.

Charles came back into view holding a bottle of whiskey, along with tongs, bandages, and a suture kit.

"Not my fucking couch!" Charles yelled annoyed.

"What's that for?" You asked but Charles didn't bother answering before he ripped your shirt from the side effortlessly allowing him to see your wound.

"Won't even invite me a drink first?" You joked, but your humor was short-lived as Charles pushed your hand away pouring the liquid over it.

"FU-" your voice was muffled as Charles put a rag on your mouth letting you bite down on it.

Charles didn't waste time as he disinfected the tools before sticking them in your wound looking for the bullet.

You writhed around in pain and despite this not being the first bullet you've taken somehow this one felt more painful.

"Stay Still." Charles demanded making you roll your eyes at him.

After what felt like forever he finally took the bullet out showing it to you before throwing it on the already bloodied carpet.

"I hate you." You spit the ragout and panted as you tried to steady your breath.

"Shut up." Charles's focus stayed on your body as he began sowing your wound shut.

"Why are you even doing this?" You asked.

Charles didn't answer you and you wondered what he was thinking about.

"Shit-" You hissed at the pain from the needle and thread going through you.

"Done." he avoided your eyes as he got up gathering everything up with him and moving away again.

"Charles-" you called out.

You still didn't have the strength to get up and go after him but a few seconds later Charles came back with water and a pill.

"Take this." He placed them both on the table in front of you before turning to walk away again.

"Charles answer me." You said more firmly this time.

He stopped in his tracks before turning around to face you. "If I'm gonna kill you...it'll be after a fair fight." He answered.

"Charles I have nothing left." You said, this time not caring how weak your voice sounded or the way your eyes watered in front of him. "Didn't you hear me? They killed all of my people." it pained you, truly did to think of all of the loyal men and women that were gone in a single night. "They think I'm dead too so just finish the job...please" you begged, something you'd never done before.

Charles didn't speak for a few seconds, avoiding your eyes again. "Drink that. I'll get the guest room ready since I can't ask my men to do it."

[tourturestarradio]

Helloooo!! I hope you’re doing alright :3

‼️‼️‼️SPOILER FOR DEADPOOL 3‼️‼️‼️

Can I request a crack fic? With either male or gender neutral reader, with Logan and Wade, in that car fight scene?

Like, the three of them are in that Honda Odyssey, and when Logan and Wade start fighting, reader just gets so fed up, they’re like: “oh my god can y’all just kiss already? This is painful to watch.” Bc that was me the entire time I was watching that movie😭🙏🏻 You can add anything else you want in there but I would love to see that! I absolutely love how you write so I don’t doubt you could make this just as well as your others!! ☺️💙

𝐔𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐘𝐎𝐔

"𝐖𝐞'𝐫𝐞 𝐬𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐚 𝐦𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐭𝐨𝐠𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫.𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐦𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐦𝐲 𝐭𝐞𝐦𝐩𝐞𝐫."

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

Prompt: You're sick of Wade's and Logan's BS and for the first time you lose your temper on them.

Pairing: Deadpool/Wade Willson x G/n reader x Wolverine/Logan Howlet

Warnings: Cursing, Spoilers for Deadpool 3

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆☆ ★ ✮

You ducked and dodged under both of the mens attacks they had been fighting each other for the past 30 minutes with no breaks. All because Logan couldn't keep the mouth shut. So now you sat bruises, bullet wounds, and cuts covering your body.

"Guys! G..Guys can we please stop fighting...please?" but they both ignored you again, usually you were the calm one to defuse their arguments and they'd relax, before they were back at it again.

You looked between the two your irritation growing stronger by the second.

"Uh...Wade?" he was stabbing into Logan "one moment cupcake." you dodged a stray knife headed your way "Logan?..." he broke Wades arm "not now."

You were willing to just let them fight it out that was the plan until Wade had redirected Logans blades into your leg.

That was your final straw, "Will you two just fuck already?!" you shouted looking at the two "what the fuck are you-" "Logan shut the hell up!" he closed his mouth Wade laughing at him "ha you're in trouble now-" "Wade so help me God I will shove that stupid kitana so far up your ass you're be tasting metal for a god damned month!"

They both hushed surprised by your outburst, your were usually so calm all the time.

"Every time you both are around each other it's like a enemies to lovers trope just waiting to happen! the sexual tension is palpable between you two!" You pulled Wolverines blades out of your leg "you two just can't go five fucking minutes without wanting to rip each other apart, for fucks sake!" you rolled your eyes "by some grace of God I've made it this far with you two assholes without having a brain aneurysm!"

You pulled a baby knife out of your torso pointing to Wade "I mean I get it you both have your differences, you're doing this because you got a girlfriend that barely loves you. Little to no friends who enjoy being around but you care about them and that's what's important right? Right.so you want to do everything in your will power to make sure those people don't die because without them you have nothing to distract from the impending doom you feel in your gut that you're not good enough. But god forbid you ever feel safe or scared so you cover up all your problems by making half funny jokes and witty comebacks. How's that am I in the right ball park?" You faced Logan as Wade pondered on your words.

He opened his mouth to speak but you hushed him quickly "And you, you try to be all big bad and tough but you're not you're a sad lonely man with no family or friends because in your universe they're dead and there's nothing you can do about it. But because you were left alive you carry the guilt of losing the people you cared for the most everyday wishing you could go back and fix things and make them right, but you can't they're gone for good but instead of making something out of your life and trying to start new you decided to go on a murderous rampage. So now you carry that guilt on top of everything else so you drown yourself in those chemicals in a bottle to forget or ignore your problems instead of growing a pair owning up to your mistakes!"

You got out of the car "so in conclusion you both have your reasons for being here, you want to get back the things you love most, but you two fuck faces are too idiotic to realize how much you have in common so you ignore the good character writing and argue and fight every other scene! I mean come on how much more gay could you two get!" You huffed finally letting that off your chest and turning to walk away "now i'm going to leave for an hour to blow off some steam and you both have two ultimatums you either A : take those sweaty suits off and have the best hate sex of your lives or B: shut the fuck up! Grow some balls! and get it the fuck together!" you stormed away both Logan and Wade too stunned to say anything.

.

.

.

"That was pretty hot, i've never seen them so angry."

Safe to say they made up for now and continued on with the rest of the movie.

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆☆ ★ ✮

A/n: sorry this was so short!!!!! hope you enjoyed!

[velvetures]

Omg I love your stories so much especially the cod ones 😍😍😍 could you please write a ghost x reader oneshot where the reader maybe gets shot taking a bullet meant for him and maybe they are in an established relationship please with a happy ending

Ignoring Orders & Accepting Lead

A/N: I loved this req. and I hope you're okay with the direction I took this in. I'm trying to get the other asks I've been sent finished in a somewhat timely manner... haha! Honestly, I never thought anyone would enjoy my writing as much as all of you have. <3 Summary: Established relationships mean occasional arguments... You and Ghost have one before a mission. And the make-up conversation is a little less than standard for most couples. T/W: Canonical Violence, guns, knives, Blood, Death (non-major characters), severe injuries, tension, hurt/comfort, HAPPY ENDING, Ghost being a bit overprotective, Reader being a smartass, not proofread.

Arguments with Ghost happened a lot more frequently than anyone would ever suspect. While he liked to stay quiet when the opportunity arose, it was also know that if you could avoid a conflict, you would just to make sure the temperature of the situation didn’t rise too high. As a pair, it made you great operators, just for the skill-set you each had as well as the predisposition to get things done quickly, and quietly. As for being in a relationship, your character’s held zero influence on the way that you cared about each other of how that would display itself during moments of tension or disagreement. Especially in moments during missions where things weren’t going to plan, and your ideas severely countered Ghost’s.

One of those fights had occurred right before you’d been dropped into a very small town outside of Culiacán, Sinaloa. At HQ, Price was splitting everyone up for their distinct purposes, and you’d been immediately assigned with Ghost for an infil job. One requiring both of you to get in and get out of the well-known cartel stronghold without getting caught or being killed. Naturally you accepted the task without so much as flinching, whereas Ghost didn’t have such an easygoing attitude about it.

He was fucking furious.

First he tried threatening Price, demanding that you not be listed for that and go with Soap for the much less risky job of tracking down a small-time dealer who’d been listed as having information valuable to the task force. Price wasn’t stupid enough to not recognize where Ghost’s rage was coming from, and just simply said that if you wanted the job, there was nothing he could do about it since you’d already read the briefing and knew the entire plan just as well as anyone else. It wasn’t what he wanted to hear from the Captain, and that made things all the worse for you when you said you weren’t going to let him go in alone.

One of the worst fights you’d ever had with Ghost since your partnership became a fully-fledged romance happened right off the helipad being fueled-up for your departure. God it was miserable, and it hurt every ounce of you to have to defend yourself over the one thing that you were certain you could do. Your job. Understanding Ghost’s protective instinct was one thing, but there had to be a line drawn where him throwing his weight and rank around to limit your exposure to risk couldn’t be done anymore.

He’d been totally insensitive to your side of the story, and was obstinate that if you got on the helo, he’d not do a damn thing to keep you safe once you got to Culiacán. Merely to prove the bullshit point that you couldn’t to the job without him. That statement alone had you strapping into your flight harness quicker than Ghost could utter ‘jesus christ’ under his breath. Totally stonewalling you for the entire flight and practically acting like you didn’t even exist. Hell, he wouldn’t even go over the mission plan as was typical, leaving you fully to fend for yourself and follow his lead without even a hand signal to lead you through it.

Everything on entry went smoothly.

No guards were stationed in the underground sewer tunneling, leaving you very dry and unhindered on the half-mile walk from your drop-point to the access ladder leading up into the basement of a massive chapel-turned-base of operations. Whether or not you’d been keeping up or not didn’t appear to phase Ghost in the slightest, and he continued on and up into the basements without so much as glancing your way. You were quickly losing your patience, and getting than much more hurt with hoe easily he could turn off the affection and care that he always had for you. Sure, he wasn’t the coddling type, but you’d never wanted that from him; but this was a whole different level of coldness.

Inside the basement there were stockpiles of cocaine, pre-packed on shipping crates with a printed docket of everything contained on each. Just seeing that much shit all in one room made your head spin. It was one thing knowing it existed, and understanding that tons of it were being shipped all over the world, but actually being in a room surrounded by it from almost floor-to-ceiling was quite overwhelming. And Ghost’s own utterance of the sheer volume confirmed that it wasn’t just your own imagination leading you to think this was way too fucking much to handle. Bad part was, you couldn’t touch any of the shit or destroy it, and were solely on the objective of cloning their hard drives and bringing them back for examination.

Clearing stairwell after stairwell, and only needing to dispose of two guards -quick work with a sharp knife- you’d been able to access their massive data stores collected in what appeared to be nothing more than a personal server farm. Kept extremely cold for the benefit of the rows of towers, you’d been given the small cloning chip needed to transmit data back to HQ. But you needed a window of up to fifteen minutes to ensure everything was fully copied. You -and Ghost- both knew that fifteen minutes was far too long to just stand around with your thumbs up your asses and just hope that no one wondered why the two guards you’d shanked hadn’t checked in, or come to make a round inside the server room.

Ghost very instinctively covered the access door to the room, not even bothering to demand you give him the chip or take care of the data itself. A small reminder that he wasn’t totally untrusting of your skills, but still not large enough of a show that made you feel any less miserable about how your relationship was quite strained at the moment, all of something as small as a fifteen minute window of gathering information. By some miracle, you watched the progress on a small tablet linked to the chip and HQ’s data stores, watching it hit one-hundred percent in just under eight minutes. Perfect. It couldn’t go much smoother than that.

You were tapping Ghost on the shoulder, and giving a small thumbs-up just as the sounds of footsteps running up the stairwell outside began echoing. More than just one or two. It was actually a lot more than you even had the ammunition to handle, considering the job was deemed covert. Neither you or Ghost went without some protection… but you’d been packed out a lot lighter than normal. Right away he was stepping back from the door and checking his watch with a stern look in his eyes. One you recognized as realization that you’d have to fight your way out of this. Ugly, bloody, and violent.

Exactly what he didn’t want in the fuckin’ first place.

Ghost was inside of his own mind, trying to balance out the fear of you being in the middle of a cartel fire-fight and the rage he still felt when you just wouldn’t fucking listen to him right from the beginning. He knew what cartels did to women, and a pretty one like you wouldn’t have the mercy of just being killed. No. They’d fucking torture and toy with you until there wasn’t anything human left inside of you. That’s why he’d been so goddamn adamant that you stay behind for this one.

The data you’d copied over was bullshit compared to you living and breathing for another day. And Ghost couldn’t stand to think he’d walked you right into this place without at least trying to show you that he cared enough to see you live. Dying wasn’t a fear of his, but there was nothing he dreaded more than the mental image of you bleeding out in his arms all because of his own fucking mistakes.

Yet, here he stood. Having to make the decision on what to do or how to get you both out of here alive if he could even manage that in the first place. Part of him was already preparing to let them take him and give you enough time to slip away. You were fast enough. Small, so they’d have a far harder time picking you out in a crowd. But if he’s assumptions were correct, the tunnels would still be clear.

He gave you one last look, and grabbed hold of your vest to pull you behind him; Hearing the footsteps of more than six men filling into the large room outside of the server farm. Some barking orders to check down the hall, while others were meant to stay posted at the stairs to block off anyone flushed out. Ghost felt his own body starting to get cold. So desensitized to the violence he was already prepping himself to commit that if it wasn’t for you being there, he’d had already burst through the door and met them head on.

“Fuckin’. Listen,” He snapped as quietly as possible. Your ears perked up, happy to have just heard him speak, even if he sounded downright vicious. Your little hand tapping at his ribs as confirmation you were paying attention sent a shiver up his back.

“Don’t engage unless they’re right in your way. Take the tunnels out, I’ll be right behind you.” He barked out the orders under his breath.

Ghost couldn’t help but feel your hand fist into the material of his shirt. You didn’t like that one bit, and he didn’t need to see your face to know better. Because for whatever reason, you had it in your thick little head that he needed protecting as much as you did. Like it was your job to make sure he didn’t get hurt. Cute and a little bit amusing, Ghost hadn’t the slightest clue where you got the idea from or why it was such a massive trigger for him to challenge it. But right now, there was no fighting about it. He’d not take no for an answer, and when you didn’t give a confirmation right away, he growled in impatience.

Reluctantly, you gave it with a small tap rubbing your thumb over his hip bone.

One minute, Ghost was pushing open the door and spotting only three men within direct threat distance and seeing only one man standing at the top of the stairs. A split second of decision had him throwing two knives, and charging at the third to ensure that you’d only have to take care of the one remaining. He sunk a third knife in, feeling the man sink to his knees and drop to the floor, retrieving two of his blades before turning around right as the sound of a pistol registered. Ghost realized his fatal error in the squeeze of a trigger too late.

Only you saw what was coming, and Ghost watched you crumple to the floor between the shooter and himself; Stopping the man from shooting him in the back, but catching you somewhere of your front that residual splatter from the rained over his mask and tac vest. Everything around Ghost slowed, nearing an entire halt to the earth as you fell limply to the ground. Not even moving to try and cover your wound or catch yourself from the fall to the marble floor. Nightmares couldn’t compare to the sight of you crumpled in a heap of gear and bulky material after watching you purposefully allow your life to be traded for his.

The shooter wasn’t lucky enough to squeeze the trigger again for the knife that embedded itself in his forehead. Retribution. Quick but not as instantaneous as it would’ve been with a gun of his own. He was forced to see his own death approach with the snapped rotation of a throwing knife Ghost had sharpened days ago. He wanted to it last longer… make the bastard pay for it. Torture him for as long as his body could take, then give him just enough time to recover and start all over again.

But you needed him… Fuck. He needed you.

On the ground, you knew you’d taken a shot. But the adrenaline and immediate blow of it had you frozen on the floor. You couldn’t really tell where you’d been shot, or how bad the damage was. Truthfully you’d never experience it, and while many of the stories you heard over the years of your service, nothing they ever did to explain it was touching the utter fire radiating through your body. What you did know was that you were bleeding, and the shot had missed your tac vest; A small stream of blood was rolling through the grout lines in the floor, staining the white marble a sickening color.

Seeing Ghost on a knee in front of you, eyes wide and searching over your face was the next hazy image you recognized. His mask was shifting with the motion of him talking, but your ears were ringing. A pitchy and high whine blocked any other sound, even Ghost’s voice which you’d always been so very keen on paying close attention to. You felt awful. Putting him through this after you’d literally just had the fight about you getting hurt. Guilt flooded your limited emotional capacity, and as Ghost readjusted to pick you up, you felt tears rolling down your face.

You’d not had a single second to react to the fourth man in the room, him having the jump on visualizing Ghost facing the other three. It made him a vulnerable target. And in the split second you had to do something, you’d jumped in the way. Laying out totally flat to use your entire body to shield his. Hoping to god luck was on your side. At this point, hanging over Ghost’s shoulder limply as he rushed down the stairs on his way towards the basement, you weren’t sure if luck was on your side or not.

Thankfully, your hearing was slowly coming back in certain frequencies.

Sounds of gunfire and sirens blaring from the street level let you know that everyone within a few miles of the cathedral would be on the lookout for intruders. With all of the people who’d seen you, killed, no descriptions could be sent out or blared to citizens under control of the cartel. It didn’t help that Ghost was the largest man in the city who just happened to have on a skull mask and carrying a woman leaving behind noticeable drips of blood as a gruesome kind of trail to follow.

“C’mon baby, answer me!” Ghost panting yell finally registered, and you were able to manage a weak pat on his lower back. You felt his hand squeeze the back of your thigh for a moment before his pace slowed from a quick run to almost a crawl.

“We got company…”

There hadn’t been any men in the tunnel. But now that Ghost was less than fifty yards from their extraction point with a “medical” heli waiting for their return; three men were posted at the gated slope leading up to the hillside entry. The Lieutenant could feel your blood soaking into his shirt, wetting his shoulder. A bad reminder that you needed to get the fuck out of here right now. But he couldn’t get rid of those fuckers unless he put you down.

He squeezed at your thigh again to get your attention.

“I need - need to -fuck- set you down…” Saying those words utterly destroyed Ghost. You were the only thing he cared about right now, but the longer he put this off, the risk of you dying loomed closer.

“Need ya t’stay right here… okay? Don’t come out…”

Carefully you felt him settle you behind a large sewage drain pipe connecting from the street into the small walkway. Easing your back against the curved brick wall and once again taking a very hard look at you. This time, he could see where the bullet had just missed the edge of your tac vest, entering through the ripped hole in your shirt just below your collarbone. Every hopeful fiber in Ghost wanted to believe it wouldn’t be non-lethal. But if it shattered your collarbone, the bullet fractured and clipped a vein or small artery, there was plenty to be concerned about.

He would’ve packed the would just to stave off the blood flow. But he didn’t have the luxury of time. And whether or not Ghost would ever admit it to himself, repeatedly shoving his finger into your wound would render him down to a shell of a man. He couldn’t hurt you. Fuck, he couldn’t hurt you.

“Stay here… I’ll be right back.” He whispered against your forehead, pressing his masked mouth to your forehead.

You leaned into him, hearing his words and consciously noticing just how difficult it was to understand the words after hearing them. Almost like you couldn’t natively speak english and the meanings just weren’t instinctual anymore. God it took everything to comprehend that he was planning to clear the rest of the way, leaving you here. Eyes trailing after him sluggishly, you fought with your own arms to try and scoot back just a little further to peek between the large pipe you were leaning against to see if you could spot Ghost or the targets.

Being told to stay was always a difficult order for you. Even if you weren’t shot and struggling to manage simple bodily functions. Surprisingly, you were able to see the shadowed figured standing guard right at the gates you’d come through, holding rifles and totally unaware of Ghost lurking within such easy range. You wondered why he didn’t just shoot them, and get this over with.

Why he needed stealth when the entire city was looking for you didn’t make a lot of sense in your mind. Until you saw five more men walk down to join the others. With one cut of your eyes to look at Ghost, you realized he had anticipated more and planned of making quick work. It’d been a long time since you watched him work alone. Nearly two years. Attempting to shift your shoulder it rocked your entire system. Biting your jaw to keep from making noise, you tried focusing through the tears in your eyes as the only man who held the key to not only your life, but your heart in his fist.

Ghost kept reevaluating his odds with each step closer. Feeling distracted in the worst way with the guilt of leaving you unprotected, and in no position to defend yourself in the case that he wasn’t able to take all of these men alone. Those odds -either realistic or narcissistic confidence- didn’t phase the Lieutenant in the slightest. He was fueled with rage. And while these bastards hadn’t done anything, just being in his path was a death sentence.

The fight started smoothy and efficiently, taking out the largest of the men and using his half-dead form as enough of a shield to eliminate the threat of three 12.7x99mm wielders, too surprised to shoot off five rounds. Another three surrounded him with nothing more than machetes swiping through the air with near misses. One smooth draw of his own pistol dropped two men, and when Ghost turned around to face the third the butt of a shotgun smacked across his vision, dropping him to his knees and hearing his pistol slide across the floor out of reach.

He hauled himself to a knee, watching the man throw the empty shotgun away and approach with a knife, glinting in the sunlight just on the outside of the tunnel. Ghost could actually hear the rotor blades of the helicopter cranking up, set into motion by the small tracker in his belt giving the pilot a comm-less tip off. He’d have to fight this hand-to-hand, and while he didn’t feel the least bit tired, Ghost knew a long fight only risked you further. And fuck if making you wait didn’t make his hair stand up on edge. Even in your state, he knew better than to think you wouldn’t start getting worried in the next couple of minutes.

His opponent took the first blow and used the hilt of his large blade to connect fully with Ghost’s jaw. A heavy crack sounded, but the Lieutenant merely flinched; Throwing his own weight on the weight-matched man, and there ensued a grappling match that risked deadly knife wounds being grazed against straining forearms and a battle of wills that totally opposed one another on every basis… Save for being the last man standing. For the second time in a single mission, Ghost found himself at the razor’s edge of a knife pressing against his throat and no really foolproof tactic of getting out of it.

“Seré el que te mate, fantasma..” The man breathed hotly against Ghost’s ear, jerking the knife closer and fighting the sheer strength in the Lieutenant’s arm. “Colgaré tu cabeza en mi pared, bastardo.”

Ghost fumbled with his other hand under the pressure on his throat began taking away the normal dexterity he functioned with; Trying to find a knife on his belt, or any kind of weapon at this point. Only all of them had been embedded in the dead bodies scattered around them. It had been a bad decision to listen to Price when he said to pack lightly. It would be the end of him.

Simon Riley didn’t show himself often during missions. Always locked away in the recesses of Ghost’s mind, quietly biding his time until there was the few-and-far-between moment for him to appear for a few moments. Typically in the darkness of your shared bedroom with your face pressed between his shoulder blades and your little arm wrapped around his waist.

Simon loved feeling your hand against his belly, twitching your fingers in your sleep and reminding him just how soft and loving you were; Happy to hold his hand tightly in the middle of unconsciousness just like you did when awake. Ghost did everything he could to protect Simon from anyone and anything that could hurt the other half of himself. But hearing another pistol register loudly in the tunnel, echoing back and forth for almost a whole minute; Ghost found himself losing control to Simon.

He felt the man above him slump in dead weight against his back. Muscles slack and the knife held to his throat clanged to the concrete. Looking in the direction of the shot, whatever protective grasp Ghost had on himself utterly dissolved. You’d managed to lay yourself out on the floor, hardly propped up on one elbow with your smoking pistol shaking in your hands. Tears spilled over your cheeks and with each second that passed, he could visualize the pain you felt from such a rough kickback in how you abruptly dropped the pistol in front of you and collapsed flat on the floor with a low groan.

He couldn’t have moved to your side faster.

Immediately picking you up again and making the very short but tense run back to the heli; all the while the pilot was looking between his instruments and the sight of Ghost holding you close to his chest in the floor.

“No one… threatens… to kill you… but me…” You mutter pained, bearing a muddled smile up at Ghost.

Unbelievable… Ghost hardened his stare, putting pressure to your wound and watching in quiet grief that he needed to cause you pain.

“Good shot… did good baby…,” He whispered back weakly, burying his face in your neck and squeezing you against him. Desperate to get you home and safe.

“Gonna ignore how you refused to follow a superior’s orders three times…” He added stiffly, feeling you twitch when a spasm in your shoulder seized. You just bit out another pained noise, coughing a bit with the dust being kicked up from the helicopter lifting off.

The look you gave him couldn’t be seen as anything other than pure, innocent, and unflinching devotion. It nearly ripped Ghost out of the body you clung to, leaving Simon bracing you against his chest as the pilot at the front started giving information to the rest of the squad about fifty miles away at a safe house. Much too long for the Lieutenant’s liking. But close enough that he could get you to his squad and they could ensure you didn’t leave him.

He couldn’t stand losing you, and they’d make sure you didn’t.

“Simon,” Sweet and weak, your hand cups his cheek as you bring him out of an initial trigger. “M’not leaving you anytime soon. Love you too much.” Your eyes close as your head leans agains him trustingly.

His chest crumbled in on itself. “Love you too, baby… I love you too.”

Reblogs & Comments are Appreciated! <3

[bkd-b3ans]

Boothill keeps messing up his revolver from all the slapping and you have to fix it

Heya, love For Boothill too big, so I've started writing something for the first time. Sorry for any mistakes, literally never wrote a fanfic before.

Ship: Boothill x mechanic reader (gn, but possible masc leaning)

Warnings: none, it's just a bit of banter

Chapter(s?) : just one part of a long thing I want to do. I will accompany this with art too of my oc later down the line.

"Boothill, can you stay still for one moment?" You said, clear annoyance in your voice as you almost dropped the small pins you had to hold with a pair of tweezers inside the cowboys disassembled arm.

You were trying to fix his revolver, which so happened to get jammed again due to his recklessness in fighting. You've told him so many times to stop slapping it into place so aggressively, that the springs and pins inside it are going to get worn out faster or shifted out of their place, but those pleas always fell onto deaf ears.

"M'bad sugar, it just gets sooo boring stayn' still like this for so fudging long." He said, rolling his eyes and slumping back down in his chair, tapping the fingers of his other hand onto the arm rest.

He always had these tics of his when getting fixed, which, to a degree, you could understand. After all, sometimes his repairs could take a few minutes or entire days where he'd have to do nothing but stay in your workshop, connected to your many machines in order to ensure that everything is running optimally. By now, he came so often that you could confidently just run your business on his funds alone.

"It won't take that long this time-" you adjusted the magnifying glasses on your nose, tapping the edge to zoom in a bit more, your steady hand placing the tiny pin inside it's hole "Luckily it was just a few pins that got out of their place. Other than that, your body seems to function pretty well."

He heard that little sigh of relief you sometimes did when checking his systems. It was a bitch and a half to fix them, and you were about the only mechanic not affiliated with the IPC that he could trust not to install some weird virus into his body.

" Well, what can I say, lady luck still riddin' shotgun with me I reckon. Can't say the same 'bout those jolly good fellows from the IPC." he let out a prideful scoff tipping his hat "I reckon their faces look better now with a few bullets between their teeth.

You shook your head, already used to his rants about the IPC and his hunt for revenge. Whilst you could appreciate his enthusiasm, you had yet to pry into the issue as to why. Despite all the days and hours spent with him, working on his body and listening to his rants, you had yet to be told the reason for all of this.

"As long as it is their face and not yours. After all, you're my number one customer~" you have him a wink, sticking your tongue at him playfully. Boothill nearly laughed, trying to say something smart back, but he was cut short by you suddenly slapping the revolver back in it's place, giving it a few spins before closing the paneling around it

"All seems to work well now Boots. Again, please stop slapping this thing into place like it owes you money. Your body may be made out of quality stuff, but it's not immune to your own idiocy."

"Hah, as if, that thing works better with a little tough love"

He didn't even have to look at you to feel the knives you were starring at him from behind your glasses.

"Besides, if I were to be careful, what excuses would I have to come pay ye a visit from time to time? Eh, sugar?"

You hated that shit eating smirk he had on his face sometimes. You just knew he enjoyed teasing and annoying you. It was part of your friendship at this point.

"One day your recklessness will be your death"

Standing up, you went to disconnect him from the machines he was hooked up, pulling out the cables from his back one by one.

"Aww, do I sense some worry in yer tone, darling? I'm flattered a-"

He couldn't finish his sentence as you tugged on his hat, pulling it over his face. Boothill couldn't help but laugh.

"Fine fine, I'll stop. Fudge me you can be tough to love sometimes. How much do I owe ya?" he asked, finally being able to stand up and adjust his hat.

"40k, do you want to put this on your tab again or just pay upfront"

"Just put it on my tab darling, I'll pay it once I'm back from this assignment"

You sighed. He always picked that option, but he always paid eventually, so you weren't too worried. What worried you us where the money came from sometimes. But what can you do, money is money after all.

"Fine, I'll see you next time Boots. And hey, bring me something nice from your travels, I might give you a discount too"

"What do I look like? A magpie?" he scoffed.

"You look more like a shark, but sure. Anyway, counting on you, Boots"

You gave him a friendly pat on the back, the cowboy tipping his hat to you before leaving, making you wonder sometimes in what part of the galaxy he's going to end up to next time every time he left your workshop.

[webslingingslasher]

trouble asking peter if they're still friends after a fight bc not only are they lovers but also best friends🥲❤️‍🩹

it's been hours since the argument. you've both talked it out, apologized and made up to each other. so why do you still feel unsettled?

'peter?'

you scoot backwards on the bed until you bump his back with yours. 'peter?' you bounce against him, you earn an unhappy whine.

'peter?'

'what?' peter's talking like he's in a library.

you barely rest against him, you're scared you'll annoy him even more with your touch. maybe you shouldn't have woken him up, you might've just dug a deeper hole for yourself.

you stay silent, he might just think you were sleeptalking. peter doesn't buy it for a second. normally he'd be totally fine with going back to sleep but he can always sense when you're upset and really need him.

'please tell me you didn't wake me up just to pretend to be asleep.'

you turn to lightly scratch his back, he hums and arches into your touch. 'it's stupid, sorry for waking you up.' peter could leave it there, but he's a damn good boyfriend.

'tell me.' he's already awake, what's the harm in a light conversation?

biting the bullet, you ask the looming question on your mind.

'are we still friends?'

peter rolls onto his back and looks up at you, your hand is nearly squished in the process. he's disoriented from sleep and you just threw him a curveball. you feel silly but it's important.

'what?' he heard you loud and clear, the randomness of the question caught him off guard.

'are we still friends?' peter relaxes into his bed, he's going right back to dreamland. 'trouble, you're my girlfriend.' that's not the answer you wanted.

'but i'm still your best friend, right?' your voice cracked with your ask, peter opens his arm for a cuddle and you stitch yourself into his side. 'of course you are,' it's solidified with a small peck at your hairline.

'even if i say mean things?' you were the reason for the fight, you jumped at peter the second he got home because he promised he'd do dishes and he didn't. it made you spew a dozen things you've been holding in and peter was caught off guard while you backed him into a corner.

you weren't nice, even when peter said he understood why you were upset. it took him softly humming as he rinsed out cups for you to realize how nasty you were. peter just let you go off on him, he told you he was sorry and he should've cleaned them before he left and he didn't forget, he just adjusted his schedule.

peter took your upset in stride and didn't bicker back. instead he agreed and told you he'd make sure to put his chores first and all it took was him humming for you to come to your senses.

you had tucked your tail between your legs and approached him, resting your forehead on his arm so you could hide the shame. 'i'm sorry.' you know there's more to add, you just needed to say it before anything else.

peter brushed off your apology, he said sorry for some things too. you both made dinner together as a patch to your argument and peter thought it ended in the kitchen but your mind is still replaying your mess up.

'you weren't mean, you were venting. it wasn't just about the dishes, it's how i started to slack off on everything because i got used to you offering. i've been a bad roommate and you called me out on it, i didn't take it as a personal attack on our relationship.'

it's true. peter wasn't used to having someone do his laundry or pick up the little messes he leaves behind and it reached a point where all he was starting to do was burden you, the dishes were just the final straw.

he doesn't hate you or resent you. but does he still like you?

'so are we still friends?' peter almost lets out a laugh but he holds it in for your sake. 'you're my best friend and my girlfriend, trouble. that's never going to change.'

'it isn't?'

'well,' peter kisses your shoulder and tightens his hold. 'until i give you a ring.' 

[the-kr8tor]

Snake Eyes

Pairing: Cowboy! Hobie Brown x fem! Reader

Word count: 7.6k

Tags: Use of Y/N sparsely, no specific physical description of the reader (except for her clothing), TW death, CW blood and gore, CW violence, TW abuse mention, CW injury, CW guns, Cowboy AU, Wild west AU.

Our Place in the Middle of Nowhere Masterlist

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CHAPTER 6 >>> CHAPTER 7

Hobie looks at you before he exits the train car, wind blowing in his face, the loud chugging of engine roaring in his ears— but the only thing he could think of was you, you who stands behind him quietly as if you weren't right behind him. He'd take your hand in his, grasp blindly from behind to hold you and make his heart feel at ease with the simple gesture. He'd take your hand in his if not for his hands occupied with instruments of death. He hates that he can't stand not seeing you.

He still feels that he doesn't deserve you, he still feels that he hasn't done anything to deserve his atonement. In his entire life he has faced the worst things, dodged a hundred bullets, shot a hundred more, endured the soil in his lungs and faced death itself— but this is nothing compared to those, because you weren't there to see it, you weren't there to experience it just like how he did. You weren't caught in the crossfire, until now.

“Hobie,” your voice cuts through the fog that envelopes the mountain side where the train tracks wrap around like a snake eating itself. Your hand lays on top of his own that tightens around the doorknob to the next car. The same calloused hands that carry the weight of all of his wrongdoings and death he has committed. And yet, you still hold on to his rough hands like light at the end of a dark tunnel. “You're trembling,” he flicks his eyes downwards, seeing his hand shake under your own. “We can do this.” You smile, brightening up his view.

“What if we just leave.” His mind speaks before he even lets the thought escape. You blink, sliding your palm over to his thundering pulse. Everything overwhelms him, how his lips felt upon yours, how the smoke clings to his clothes and how everything is loud in his ears akin to lightning hitting and splitting a tree. He feels like that tree. “Uncouple the caboose and take the horses out of ‘ere.” He already knows what you're about to say. Leaving means giving up on the innocent bystanders behind the door, but if it's between them and you? He'd choose you everytime.

“And leave them?” You point towards the car door with your head. “What about Clementine and her family? We can't leave all those people behind, Hobie.” Your eyes shine in the moonlight, and he nods.

“Alright,” Hobie's vision plays tricks on him, he sees blood and carnage all over you. Your once hopeful eyes now lifeless, staring back at him without the shine he's used to. His heart pounds in his chest, he can tell that you're terrified too. “Just stay close to me, yeah?”

You grip tighter on his hand, feeling how cold he is and none of the usual warmth you're used to. “I'll stay close, I promise I got your back.”

“The second I open the door you duck and find a table or a fuckin'—”

You cup his jaw gently, “we'll be fine, we'll get out of this and ride into the sunset with Bucky and Cherry.” You try to be positive for him.

Hobie inhales, letting your honeyed scent waft over him. “If we get separated, head towards our cabin. We'll meet there.”

“And then what?”

He nervously chuckles. “I've got no bloody clue, love.”

“Me neither.” You snort, laying your forehead on his bicep briefly. “You ready, Mister Larry Brown?”

That puts a smile on his face. With a twist of the doorknob, you're met with a handful of men wearing shiny gold pins on their chests. They're startled by the sudden sight of you, and Hobie takes their shock as an opportunity to fan his gun, palm on the hammer, trigger finger pressing, bullets flying and hitting its mark quickly. They couldn't even take out their guns. The sound of their bodies hitting the ground made you sigh in relief. You think it's awful of you.

“Good shooting, Hobs.” You pat his back, hand lingering on his coat. Maybe it's your own nerves that's making you say such things.

Hobie recognizes that this is how you cope. “Rate it?”

You crack a wobbly smile, gun heavy in your hand. “Eight point five.”

He makes a face, “not that bad—” The sound of a bottle rolling across the floor immediately has Hobie raising his gun. An old man you recognize as the conductor comes out of the bar, hands raised in surrender. You both now notice the passengers hiding under tables and behind the bar. They're all unharmed, except for a few bruises and scratches. “How many?” His gun is still comfortably in his hand aiming below just in case. He's not taking any chances.

The older man doesn't speak, only shaking his head. He might be afraid of you and Hobie, seeing how the man next to you just flattened five men without hesitation. You want to tell him that there's nothing to be afraid of, but you fear that he won't believe you.

“He doesn't know. Knowing our bounties— if I was them I'd bring the whole cavalry.” Hobie mumbles, thanking the man with a nod. He takes bullets from his belt, immediately reloading the ones that he used up, metal rains down on the carpet. With a click, he gestures for you to follow while he walks towards the other side of the car; stepping over dead bodies and leaving blood trails in his wake. There's determination behind his jade eyes, and anger swirling behind them like a dust storm rolling just across the field. “They brought out the whole bloody lot of them for us.”

“Guess we're special.” You crouch down to take a rifle from one of the dead men. It's weirdly looking, there's a hunting knife strapped above the muzzle, all tied together by a thick rope— a makeshift bayonet. You figure the former owner is a psychopath for adding a blade on his gun, it's not like the bullet wasn't enough but he still wants his pound of flesh. A part of you is glad that he no longer breathes. After taking the rifle, you then lift up his torso to grab his bandolier, putting it over your shoulders and wearing it like a sash. Taking inventory of the gun, checking if it has jammed, Hobie takes watch on the door, peeking from the sliver of opening from the ajar door.

“You good, love?”

“Yeah, I'm a better shot with a rifle.” You holster the gun Hobie gave you as your last resort.

He knits his brows. “I've never seen you hold a rifle back then. I taught you with a six shooter.”

Shrugging, you hold the rifle in place, the butt of it is rough against your shoulder, barrel cold on your palm. “I taught myself with a rifle.”

“Huntin’?”

You sigh, giving him a weak smile. “Sure. I didn't see Clem or her parents behind the bar.”

“They might be inside their cabin.” Hobie understands the worry behind your words. “We'll find them.”

You nod shakily, licking your dry lips. “We will, I know it.”

Hobie gives you a once over, he doesn't ask if you're alright or to tell you to stay behind because he knows the answers to both of those questions. “Okay, opening the door now.”

The wind rushes inside as he flings it open, rusty metal squeaking on the door hinges. Droplets of cool water hits your cheeks, knees aching a bit, cold breeze howling and nipping at your neck. Rain is coming.

You stalk behind Hobie, he enters the door, you follow. He shoots, you shoot the stragglers that can still hold their gun up. It's an elaborate dance of death.

Blood seeps into the floorboards and on the soles of your boots. Your eyes are alert, heartbeat raging in your ears as you don't falter in your aim, trigger finger always on the metal. You smell like gunpowder and steel, and there's crimson splashed across the men's once gilded badges.

“You still good?” Hobie asks in front of you, his footsteps are calculated and silent save for the soft clicking of his spurs. “Y/N,” he asks once again when you don't answer within a second.

“I'm okay, sorry, I was looking for them.” You scan the dining car. The tables have drops of red coating the white marble, plush chairs reeking of gore. It's devoid of any passengers, you're not sure if that's a good thing or a bad one.

Hobie is already positioned at the door, waiting for you. “Alright,” his mind keeps telling him that your luck will soon run out. That the element of surprise won't be on his side the next time he opens the door. He's never been this afraid since he was buried alive five years ago. You arrive at his side, he can finally breathe. “The next car is the kitchen. They might've heard us coming by now.”

You nod, you're terrified but not for your own safety but for Hobie's, and the passengers. You've made your peace that you might not make it out of this alive just like how you've done when you escaped that horrid place. “I'm ready.”

He looks at you for a second before sliding his hand over your cheek, calloused hands that almost feel soft atop your skin. His thumb rubs along your cheekbones, silently wishing for an outcome where you both live to see the sunrise. “Don’t die on me.”

You lean to his touch, moving your head slightly to kiss his rough palm. He stops breathing for a second. “I won't die on you if you don't die on me.”

With a soft smile and a peck to your forehead, he nods his promise. “I promise.” He opens the door, the drizzle has turned into a downpour, it soaks his clothes, sticking to his scarred skin, and cold water splashing over his hat and atop the warm barrel of his gun. He opens the door with a creak after crossing the small distance.

You're both met with a barrage of bullets, Hobie pushes you to the side, effectively hiding you behind a counter while he gets nicked by a bullet across his thigh as he jumps behind a metal box.

“Fuck!” He yells, taking off his bandana to wrap it around the wound. Crimson immediately drenches the cloth, turning the already dark bandana into a darker shade.

“Hobie!” You call for him above the sound of guns going off and bullets hitting where you stood. Your breath gets stuck in your throat when you see the identical gold ring wrapped around a piece of twine, the necklace sits pretty on his clavicle, shiny and well taken care of; A stark contrast to the jagged scar lined on his neck.

He gives you a thumbs up, unbeknownst to the mixture of emotions you're experiencing. He even winks at you while he groans in pain. Your eyes are full of longing, tears pricking at the corners. He points at the gunmen, counting down, waiting for them to use up all their ammo.

He puts a finger down, three. One by one, the guns click.

Two. You hear panicked yells behind the counter.

One. The bullets stop flying. They frantically reload, metal scraping against metal.

Hobie nods and quickly lifts himself off his cover, fanning his gun, he shoots them down while you do the same. You both hit your marks just as when the last of your ammo pings out— metal meets flesh in a firework of rubies and torn insides. The entire kitchen smells of iron and gunpowder, you hide behind the counter again to reload.

“Shit.” You whisper as you reload the rifle, it makes a ping sound when you take out the cartridge. Fingers sliding on the metal from how the rain water has slicked your palms. Your pulse beats to the tune of the thunder outside the train. Trees whizz by the windows, raindrops clinging to the fogged up glass outside. Just as you finally finish reloading, you see Hobie stand up and confidently walk forward with his gun raised, shooting until not a single one of them twitches. You watch him work in awe.

The door next to you suddenly opens, the unmistakable silver muzzle of a gun peeking from the door that hides the man from your view, strong hands aiming directly at Hobie who's reloading. Without hesitation, you shoot the door where you've calculated where the man's torso is supposed to be. Splintered wood flies all over you, the gunshot rings in your ears, and your face is covered in something warm.

Hobie watches as the man goes down, almost dead, choking on his own blood for you have shot at the stranger's trachea. He scrambles towards you who's covered in blood. Crouching down, he slowly moves the barrel of the rifle away from him to wipe your face clean. Your eyes are wide, staring at the body lying just a few feet away from you. The man still desperately breathes, hand uselessly cupping at his gaping wound, blood seeping through his fingers, teeth stained with crimson, and dark bloodshot eyes looking at you. You watch as the light in his eyes goes out, and you realize, you're the last thing he ever saw.

Your ears stop ringing and you can finally hear Hobie call your name. “Love, just breathe.”

“I'm okay,” you say, blood smudged all over your soft skin. “I'm okay.” You utter it like you're trying to convince yourself. He hates that he has made you into this, a killer.

“Can you stand up?” His hand clasp your own, fingers kneading at your shaking palms.

“Yeah, I-I think so.” You stand up on wobbly legs, inhaling deeply, a mistake on your end, for the air has gone stale with iron and boiling water from the abandoned pot.

Hobie's palm is on your chest, encouraging you to breathe. In and out, in and out, you almost gagged. “You're doin' great, just keep doin' that—” A shot rings out, two men enters the train car, one is huge in form, brandishing a pistol. The smaller one has a shotgun with a crazed look in his eyes. The bullet misses your head by mere inches, leaving a gash across the shell of your ear. “Fuckin' wankers!” Hobie exclaims, the hand on your shoulder makes you sit back down, the other shooting at the men. Your blood soaked your once pristine collar. You don't feel the pain.

“Not her, you moron!” The bigger one shoves the other, Hobie is emptying his bullets, gunpowder permeating the stale air, mixing in with the iron and heat.

Everything else was a blur to you as you look at the pool of blood that's slowly making its way towards you. You hear your heartbeat quickening, the metal of the rifle in your hand stings, leaving indents on your palms. With a pained yell from Hobie, you wake up from your trance, just as you stand up, you're met face to face with the man who wields a shotgun. He yells, the butt of his gun aimed at your head. But you're faster, so you jab his stomach with your rifle, digging the bayonet into his flesh, blood seeps out of his white shirt from the knife. Despite his size, you've got the advantage, you've got everything to lose if you fail, so you fight, and survive, and will fight again because you promised Hobie.

Your attacker's gun falls from his grasp, staggering on his own two feet. He yelps as you push and push him into a table as you launch yourself quickly. The edge of the table stabs the small of his back, groaning, adrenaline rushing through you, you don't hesitate in pulling the trigger.

“No, wait—!” There's a gaping hole in his stomach, his entrails lay bare to you. That warm liquid is on your face again, it coats your white shirt, on your shoes as it drips down, and now your hands.

Hobie hears the gunshot, he looks over his shoulder to check, a mistake for he gets a punch to the gut. Hobie desperately fights the other assailant, dodging fists as they've both run out of ammo without time to reload. The man is visibly bigger than him, taller, and with more muscle. He's outmatched but he's not going to give up. Hobie has his fists shielding him, standing just a few feet away from you, if the man wanted to get to you, he had to get through him first. while the lawman does the same, both of them spit out blood that stains their teeth. The stranger smirks, eyes flicking over to you who just shot his partner. Before he could rush towards you, Hobie leaps up effortlessly, hands gripping a metal pipe above, swinging his legs towards the man to kick him. Steel toed boots hit his chest, but it's no use, even with the momentum, the kick barely fazed him.

“Fuck—” Hobie groans as the man grabs his middle, pouncing on him, trying to take him down but Hobie's grip on the metal is too strong. His legs wrap around his opponent’s neck, squeezing in hopes that it’ll choke him. Hobie’s side stings while the attacker takes a few hits in, using him as a punching bag. He squeezes tighter, trying to twist and snap his neck. The man gasps for breath but his fists still connect to his side.

You take out your gun from the man's dead body, rushing towards them, rifle aimed at Hobie's attacker. You pull the trigger but it clicks and nothing happens. It's jammed, your mind quickly decides for you, with the adrenaline rushing, mind addled, you pick up the boiling pot with your bare hands. It's hot, but only for a moment. You fling the searing water towards the man's back, Hobie lets go before the water hits him, lifting himself on the pipe, legs raised up and perpendicular to his body as he dodges the boiling water. Steam and water flies, landing directly at the lawman's face just as he turns towards you. He screams in pain, his shirt now burning into his skin, melting into his flesh. Hobie drops down, the pot clangs as you let it go.

The screaming gets into your ears, worming its way into your ear canals, so you do what you should've done to the man behind the door while he suffered— you put him out of his misery. Quick drawing the six shooter Hobie gave you, you shoot, hitting your mark as his body falls loudly on the floorboards.

Hobie heaves, and you stare at the carnage before you, carnage you've had your hand in. You suddenly feel rough hands on your own, he helps holster your gun back before checking the damage on your palms. The pot burned your skin, it's red and angry, lines in the shape of the handle have permanently etched into your flesh, right next to the scar Hobie helped stitch years ago. Weirdly enough, you can't feel the blinding pain.

“‘m sorry,” he says, reluctantly letting your hands go as he picks up his fallen gun off the corpse-ridden floor.

“What for?” Your voice cracks, barely recognizing it as your own.

“For everythin’, we shouldn't have gotten on this train in the first place, or any train.” Hobie sees how dull your eyes have become, the iris of your eyes have become restless, always moving, always checking for threats. You've become like him in the span of a few minutes.

You try to smile, it ends up looking like you're in pain. “Apology accepted, make it up to me by surviving the night—!” There's a lasso around your neck, you see Hobie's face contort into horror as you get pushed down on the floor, noose getting tighter as you gasp for air. Before he could shoot the one on the other end of the lasso, you're quickly dragged across the floor, body flailing like a ragdoll as the one dragging you around laughs.

“No! Y/N!” Hobie's thundering footsteps follow behind, shooting someone behind you. But you're still getting dragged around through train car to train car, rain battering your body whenever the person hauls you outside, the rough floor stings against your back. “Let her go!”

Black dots dance around your vision as your fingers try to get between the harsh rope and your neck. Your other hand reaches desperately at your gun holster. Fingers brush along the cool metal, ceilings whizzing above you. You're running out of air, and Hobie's running out of ammo. His panic and the rattle of the train makes his aim terrible. The man continues to lug and pull you as if you're a prized doe that they just hunted down.

The rope is choking you, leaving you with a mark around your neck and a skinned back from the floorboards that slash at your coat.

Gasping, you lift your leg up, finally reaching for the gun, quickly pushing down the hammer and leaning your head back to aim. The man dragging you about keeps moving from side to side, you shoot a couple of times but to no avail, panic sets in as your arm gets weaker, breath getting shallow, and your eyesight blurring. Your gun falls from your grasp, left behind as darkness envelops you.

Bang!

A body thuds, Hobie runs after you, the barrel of his gun still smoking as you lay limp on the carpeted floor. He gets to your side, immediately untying the noose around your sore neck. Your eyes fly open and you gasp for air, laying on your side as you try to take in breaths. You blink away the black dots and you're met with Clementine’s familiar eyes. Her mother holds her to her chest, hands covering her daughter's ears. While her father shields them both even with blood coating his forehead. They're terrified, you wonder if they're terrified of you.

Hobie pats your back for you to breathe better. “‘m sorry, fuck, Y/N,” he gingerly holds your face. “Look at me,” there's unshed tears in your eyes. He was almost too late, if his aim was just a few inches off— he doesn't want to think about it. Your eyes are glued to Clementine’s terror filled expression. “Oi, love, can you look at me please?”

You turn your head, neck aching and tender, you're met with soft viridescent eyes that smile when you finally stare back. He briefly turns his attention to the family cowering in their cabin before turning towards you again. “I have a plan,” he says while you hold his wrists, unable to speak. Hobie's heart aches at the sight of your bloodshot eyes. “We need to get to the engine, there's more comin', I can hear them.” Hobie struggles to breathe, so you slide your palm on his chest just like he did to you, wordlessly telling him to breathe. Nodding, he inhales deeply. “Uncouple the engine from the rest of the train. That's the only way we can get out of ‘ere.”

“What about them?” You manage to let out, you don't recognize your own voice. He knows what you mean.

“They're after us, not them. The most they can do is question them.” He tries to convince you even though he's not convinced himself.

You gesture towards Clem's father. “He's bleeding from his fucking head, Hobie—!”

“I'm alright,” Jesse chimes in, his wife nods along but she doesn't let go of Clem or his hand. “I got this because everyone started running away from the gunshots. I got trampled but I'm fine now.” His eyes pleads with you. “He's right, they won't touch us.”

“What if they do?” Tears cling to your lashes.

“There's more of us than them.” You don't expect him to chuckle, the pistol in his hand glimmers under the yellow light of the cabin. “Trust me, we're more trouble for them. I'm from the south, these kinds of things happen on the regular over there.” The scar on his brow tells you of his struggle, telling you that he can protect his family. “Worry about yourself.”

Hobie nods, thanking him silently while he still holds on to you.

“Get out while you can, sweetheart.” Florence addresses you. “I don't know what you two did but we don't care about them, just you. And you've got a good heart, so go.”

“Thank you,” you say, voice breaking. “Get to the caboose, there's more people there.”

They take your advice, standing up while Florence carries Clementine. Jesse goes in front of them, gun at the ready. Hobie helps you stand up and you watch as Clem waves goodbye to you.

“Bye, Clementine.” You whisper, a jar of honey rolls around the cabin and you frown, mind telling you that you might've traumatized the poor kid.

“They'll be alright.” Hobie brushes his knuckles against the back of your hand, careful of any injuries you're not telling him. “Let's go, love,” as he leads you outside of the cabin car, you spot a few more passengers running towards the back of the car.

You swallow thickly, neck stinging, burn marks left at your palms and neck. Your back throbs, but all the pain doesn't compare to the torture back home. Your great aunt throws despicable words at you, as if her jabbing you with stationary wasn't enough, with your so-called uncle always watching every punishment from the corner like a peeping tom. And him, he'd do worse than those two combined, perhaps he learned how to hurt you from them. And perhaps he has mastered the torture.

Suddenly, you're back at home in your pretty dress, pristine and looking like the perfect lady. But your velvet sleeves and satin skirts hide the tiny pin pricks and drying blood, the expensive jewelry outshines the apocalyptic look in your eyes. The ring around your ring finger keeps it all hidden— they call you lucky, they say that you glow under the chandeliers like the diamonds around your neck, yet, they pretend to be blind from how you stare outside the mansion like a doe caught in a bear’s trap longing to be free.

The rain hitting your face wakes you back to the present. Hobie's arm is around your middle, hovering just above your wounded back. With the cold raining down on you briefly, entering the next car, a group of men greet you on the other side.

“Finally made it.” The man in the middle says, he has a gilded star on his chest, twirled mustache on his face, and crow's feet around his green eyes. There's a hand cannon on his hand, the metal is all worn out and scuffed. “The name's Lee, I'm the sheriff around these parts.” He says, stubbing his cigarette atop a plush seat. You're in a regular train car that's lined with seats for the ones who're not in for the long haul. The rain outside keeps battering the windows, their guns are aimed at Hobie. “There’s a bounty on your head, Mister Brown. And I heard someone's lookin’ for you, pretty lady. You two got us running without our heads out there while you were on the dodge. But we got you now, eh?”

Hobie gets shoved from behind, and you both stumble forward. A couple of Lee's men appear, pushing you both closer to the sheriff with the muzzle of their guns. Hobie holds on tighter to you, and your gaze pierces the man in front of you.

You're surrounded. And Hobie feels like he's being buried again.

His eyes flick towards the windows, behind the water droplets lie a familiar view of a large lake— he knows this place, he knows where they're heading, all he needs to do is stall for time.

“You're lawmen, not bounty hunters.” Hobie taunts, “government not paying enough, sheriff?”

The man in front of you chuckles, lighting up a new cigarette with a flourish. You feel the acrid smoke enter your lungs. “A man's gotta eat, y’know?”

“Yeah, I know. Just like dumb and dumber who tried to ambush us by the river.” Hobie has a smug look, acting nonchalant, but his grip on you says otherwise.

You're worried when the lawman drops his confident stance. “What are you doing?” You whisper to Hobie, eyes never leaving your enemies.

“When I tell you to run, you run.” He whispers back, glancing briefly at you.

You don't protest, trusting him completely. You don't say, ‘alright,’ or ‘okay’ for confirmation that you'll follow whatever he's planning. Instead, you say the three words you've wanted to say to him, the real him, not the one from your dreams or hazy illusions— Hobie, your Hobie who used to greet you with a boyish smile under the oak tree. “I love you.”

His brave façade falls, you smile sweetly at him as you lean your head against his clavicle. Hobie makes an oath right there and then that he'll say it back when he deserves to say it to you, when he gets you to safety. For now, he holds onto you like how he desperately grasps onto the memory of you while you were thousands of miles away from him.

“That's a sweet sight,” the sheriff drawls, “looks like she knows that it's all over. But I can see that you don't.” He exhales smoke, it fills the cabin with sickly air. “You're off to the widow, mister Brown.”

Hobie smirks, you can see the cogs in his mind turn. “I think I remember you now, old man.”

Lee licks his teeth, the men at his command adjust their hold on their guns. “You remember now haven't you?” His spurs click against the floor when he moves closer, you notice he walks with a slight limp that he tries hard to not be noticeable. Hobie flicks his eyes outside.

“Yeah,” Hobie laughs to your surprise, “how's your leg? Or better yet, how's your son?”

“You motherfucker! Hobble your fucking lip!” Lee finally raises his pistol, cigarette ash falling from his lips that curls around the stick. It makes Hobie more amused. “Bet you don't even remember his fucking name.” He says through gritted teeth.

Hobie tilts his head, clicking his tongue, pretending to think. “Was it Jerry? Or Ronald? I don't remember, he didn't leave much of a mark on me.”

“I should shoot you right now.”

“Why don't you?” He raises a brow. A tall willow outside whizzes past. Hobie counts down in his head.

“Because the pay is higher if I bring you alive.” The man's green eyes stare at you. You feel like you're being scrutinized on stage. “Besides, I don't want to shoot you in front of your woman.” He gives you a toothy smile. “Why don't you come over here, sweetheart, I won't do you any harm. I'm just going to bring you home.”

You shake your head, trying to act brave now that the adrenaline has sapped out all of your energy. “That's worse than hurting me, sheriff.”

“Now why is that? Your family misses you.”

“I'd rather you shoot me with him than bring me back home.” Hobie listens in, guilt gnawing at his insides.

Sheriff Lee makes a face, befuddled by your words. “You’d rather die?”

“Without hesitation.”

He nods, looking like he's weighing his choices. “Now that's the love of a woman right there. I've only seen it a couple of times, one is from my own wife.” More ashes fall from his cigarette, the stick getting smaller and smaller with every exhale. Hobie uses it as a countdown. It's near, he can feel it from the rumble on the tracks.

Hobie scoffs, “‘m surprised that your wife stuck around with your ugly mug.” His fingers subtly unclasp the whip hanging on his belt.

Lee runs out of patience, clicking the hammer of his pistol, “this is for my son.” The last of the ashes from the cigarette falls, light completely going out from the stick.

Your eyes widens, body already moving to shield Hobie. In an instant, He yells, “Run!” Darkness engulfs the entire train car, gunshots let out muzzle flashes of light as the lawmen shoot with panic in their trigger fingers. You run forward, bodying Lee in the process. You hear the crack of a whip as you shield your head with your arms.

You land on the metal door, vision still dark while you blindly feel for the doorknob. Panicking, a familiar form presses behind you, immediately finding the doorknob and opening it for you. Stepping outside in a rush, you almost fall off the train if not for your reflexes making you hold onto the railing beside you.

With a creak of the door closing, gunshots muffling, you spot Hobie's silhouette amidst the darkness, you can't decipher what he's doing with the door. Noticing the rain has stopped, you look above, but in a second, rain hits your form like a waterfall, and the moon shines brightly. You were in a tunnel, and Hobie knew that the dark would give you an escape.

“Holy shit!” Like a thunderbolt, you whirl around to face Hobie to either kiss him or hug him. But you're met with his pained face, hand clutching his side as blood seeps out from his fingers. “No, no, no!” You press hard on his wound, he yelps, but he's grinning at you. “This isn't funny!”

He smiles wider, you think he has lost it. “It isn't, I just can't believe you told me you love me in there.”

You'd smack his shoulder if not for his injury. “You're an idiot, Hobie Brown,” he laughs, you smile, “a brilliant idiot.”

“I am quite brilliant.” You nod, tears mixing in with rain water, kissing his cheeks, you hear a muffled, “I can't believe that worked.” From him, so you pepper more kisses on his wet cheeks. “‘m lovin’ this, but we need to uncouple the cars. And we have an audience.”

You look over your shoulder, hands still on his wound. Two men look at you from the smokestack, one pauses from shoveling coal into the engine while the train driver blinks rapidly in shock.

“We're commandeering this train,” Hobie straightens up, jumping over the gap to get to the controls. Both men don't even protest, just silently raising their hands in mock surrender. He makes them stand in the corner that's further away from the controls, they obey. “C’mon, love.” He beckons you over, fingers opening and closing.

You hold out your hand just as when there's loud banging on the other side of the doors. Jumping the gap, you stand chest to chest with Hobie. There's hope yet for you two to safely escape.

The door doesn't budge from how Hobie locked it using his whip to tie the doorknob around the railing on the side. But it won't hold on forever.

The scenery has changed from the mountainside to a straight muddy plain. The tracks seem to go on forever, and you can see the next station just a few meters away.

“Alright,” He looks at the confusing controls. “Which button to unclasp the cars?” He thanks his adrenaline for keeping him on his feet.

“No button,” the one with the official looking uniform says. “You have to do it manually.” He glances at the floor where there's metal connecting the engine to the carriages.

You immediately get on your knees, wet hands sliding on the rusted metal. Desperately pulling on the large nail that connects both winches. You keep trying to pull it off. Your hands slide off so you try again. And again. Your hands smell of rust. And again. But it's all in vain, the hold is too strong.

“Shit—!” Hobie tries to help by crouching down but his wound denies him. Wincing, he lays his head against the wall, eyes flicking between you and the door that's barely holding on. He weakly raises his gun, seeing the chambers now devoid of any ammo. “Fucker.” He tries to find more bullets from his bandolier and pockets, but he finds none.

You look at the two men wordlessly watching you fail. The rain and harsh wind still smacks your face. “Please, those men on the other side will kill us if you don't help.”

The driver shrugs and joins you on the floor, but instead of pulling onto the nail, he leans further down, sliding his hand underneath the winch and turning a wheel counter clockwise.

“You turn, not pull.” He says to you, continuing to loosen the connection.

“Now you tell me.”

Hobie tells the other person to keep shoveling in coal so when the engine is free, the four of you would be way ahead of the car. The engine runs hotter with every coal shoved inside, you suddenly feel warm, clothes slowly drying from the intense heat.

You can see the metal loosening, you'd exhale a relieved breath but the door bursts open. Sheriff Lee comes out covered in blood with a pistol. One eye closed and bleeding. Behind him, you can see the bodies of his men littered around the car, all shot to bits, the seats covered in their blood. Only Lee and a couple of them survived who now stood beside him while clutching their gunshot wounds.

“You made me shoot my own men!” He seethes, without a beat, he shoots but his aim isn't straight. The bullet pierces the man helping you. His headless body falls limp and falls out of the train and under the tracks, leaving crimson trails behind.

You don't have time to scream when his warm blood splashes across your face and sleeves. Hobie grabs you to the side, a small sliver of metal wall shielding you both. His hand shields your head, arms encasing you. The train passes by the last station in a blur.

The other train worker does the same, crouching down on the other side, shielded by the same small wall. Hobie sees the man's pistol hidden in the waistband of his denim jeans.

“Oi!” He yells above the gunshots, “throw me your gun!”

“What?! No!”

“You're not even bloody using it!”

“You're an asshole!”

“Just give us the fucking gun!” You yell back in a quick tone.

With a shake of the stranger's head, he reluctantly tosses you the gun. Lee sees the opportunity and shoots the guy's hand. He screams as blood gushes out, the gun clangs on the floor just an arm away from you.

The poor man's screams get louder, and suddenly he stands up, pushing himself off the floor and jumping out of the moving train and into the muddled swampy ground. You don't know if he survived the jump, or if the gators got to him first.

Hobie whispers a shocked, “what the fuck,” in your ears. He groans as his wound gets rattled by the tracks. “The gun,” before he could even get a toe outside, a bullet nicks the steel point of his boots. Taking his foot back, he curses and punches the wall behind him in frustration.

You stare at the weapon that's slowly moving downwards and into the space between the cars and engine. It's going to fall off if you don't act fast.

“They need to reload.”

“What?” Hobie asks tiredly. He hears the guns click, indicating that they've run out, “wait— Y/N, no!”

Without missing a beat, you reach towards the gun swiftly before they finish reloading. Hobie yanks you back the second you get the gun in your hand. A bullet pierces the floor where you were just a second ago.

“Get the fuck out of there!” Lee taunts.

You clutch the gun on your chest. Checking the chamber, you only see two bullets in it. Hobie leans over to see it. “Fuck!” You both say simultaneously.

“We've got two shots at this, Y/N.” Hobie looks at you, his green eyes gets darker even though dawn is just about arriving. His hand slides around the gun and your hand. “Let me do it.���

You shake your head, briefly laying your forehead on his. “No, you've done more than enough.”

He furrows his brows, “let me do it, love, I owe you that much.” It's not because he doesn't trust you and your aim, he knows better than that. He just doesn't want you to be in their crosshairs again.

The gunshots seize, without a reply, you leave his side, sliding on the floor to shoot. You find no one on the other side, just a brief last look at Lee's retreating back. Hobie pulls you back in, “they left.” You say, confused. Standing up, you help Hobie up, eyes widening at the front of the train.

“Cowards.” He says with a victorious smile. He expects you to smile back but you only have a look of terror. “What is it?” He follows your line of sight, and sees the lack of tracks looming closer and closer. “Fuckin' hell!” Hands immediately trying to pull down the brakes, he ignores the pain on his side as he keeps trying to push it down with his weight. “Y/N!” Looking over his shoulder, he sees you crouched down, uncoupling the car from the engine. Within a second, you free the train cars, leaving it in the dust as it slowly comes to a stop. He thinks of Bucky and Cherry, and the innocent passengers.

You turn to face him with glossy eyes, the rain has subsided, grey clouds parting away for sunlight. Hobie shakes his head, refusing to give up as the train chugs on, smoke billowing out. Pushing the brakes down, he feels your hands wrap around his own.

“Together.” You say, smiling softly just like how you did amidst the crowd back home.

He nods, your hands are uncharacteristically cold against his own. “Together.”

With one final push from the two of you, railway workers run away from the tracks they're working on as they see you continue to move fast. They yell and wave their hands to get your attention, but your eyes are only on Hobie's face. Everything happens slowly, the brakes screech, sparks flying as metal hits steel, but the momentum is too fast, and the engine bursts from the speed and heat. You slam against the controls with a sickening thud. Arms embrace you as the train crashes and you're once again in darkness.

—

Hobie's head throbs, he feels numb, fingers tingling, and his field of vision is blurry. Blobs of colours fly past him, screams muffled in his ears as if he's caught under the tides. He tries to blink the fuzziness away, after a few weak tries, he sees your bloodied soot-covered face, and feels your hands on his cheeks.; desperately holding on to him.

“Hobie!” You cry. He wants to comfort you and tell you everything will be alright. “Someone help us please!”

His perception darkens, inky spots appearing just as he sees a metal beast creak and groan while it burns in the fiery destruction. There's hundreds of fiber-like metal bursting out from within, like an angel losing its wings, fallen from grace. That's the last thing he sees before he succumbs to the pain.

—

“Try to keep him awake!” An unfamiliar person says.

Hobie feels like there's water inside his head, sloshing around in his pain-addled brain. He forces his heavy eyelids to open, Bucky's face greets him. I'm dead, he thinks, then your hands wrap around his own, squeezing a dozen times. “I'm in heaven then,” he tries to speak but it only comes out as a jumbled mess of words.

“Stay awake, Hobie!” You yell, “please! Hurry up, mister! He's starting to bleed from his ears!”

“Love—” he says before blacking out again.

—

His nose picks up something musty in the air, it's humid, crickets chirping outside, and he's sweating a lot. His head still aches, a pounding pain right behind his eyes. Hand reaching upwards, he feels bandages wrapped around his head, groaning in pain at the simple gesture. He smacks his lips, realizing that his throat is dry. Time has passed, he surmises based on how his wounds are starting to itch, indicating that it has been at least a few days.

He opens his eyes wide, panic settles in his stomach, remembering your terrified bloody face looming above him. Sitting up from the lumpy bed, his sight darkens for a second from how fast he sat up. Whispering your name, he coughs dryly, arm perching him up. He calls again, a bit louder this time, but he doesn't hear a pip anywhere except for the rushing water outside and the insects.

“Love?” He heaves, rolling to the side. Moving his heavy head up, he sees your coat draped over a lone armchair, but still no you. “Y/N!” Yelling with all his might even though his head bangs against his skull. After a few seconds, his ears pick up your muffled voice that seems to be coming below him. He calls once again with a soft smile on his lips, hands fisting the sheets when a wave of pain crashes down on him.

Ears ringing from the blinding pain, he's sure he hears numerous unfamiliar voices downstairs. He blinks the warbling vision away, then his heart picks up pace from the sound of a loud thud. Eyeing the plain door, your piercing scream brings his greatest fear come to life.

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[ryin-silverfish]

Ghost Month Special: Heibai Wuchang

Today is the middle of Lunar Seventh Month, a.k.a. Zhongyuan Festival, and I feel like there can't be a more appropriate day to do a deep dive on my favorite ghost cops, a.k.a. the Black and White Impermanences, a.k.a. Seventh and Eighth Master, a.k.a. Tua Di Ya Pek, a.k.a. Xie Bi'an & Fan Wujiu.

Now, I've talked briefly about them in my Chinese Underworld post, and if you watch C-dramas or play certain Chinese games, you might have seen these two + learned a few things about them already. But for those who haven't, here's the five-minute summary:

-they are (one variant of ) Chinese psychopomps, who show up to take the souls of the deceased to the Underworld.

-they are also ghost cops, who go after troublesome ghosts that are disturbing the living.

-both wear tall hats with four characters on it (which also varied), as well as nearly identical black and white robes.

-for their Hokkien, Taiwanese and SEA versions, there's a significant height difference between the two; the white-robed one is tall and skinny, while the black-robed one is short and stout.

-the White Impermanence is often depicted with his tongue hanging out of his mouth (reminiscent of those who died by hanging) and a more cheerful expression, while the Black Impermanence is dark/blue-faced (reminiscent of death by drowning) and relatively more grim and fierce.

-the White Impermanence is also worshipped as a god of wealth by some.

However, outside of these bullet points, their tales and trajectory of development are a fascinating rabbit hole. I'd call them thorough folk gods, who evolved out of the greater existing character archetype of "ghost bureaucrats fetching people to the Underworld" and became their own unique characters almost entirely through folklore and oral legends.

So, without further ado, let's dive in.

Impermanence

The Great Spectre of Impermanence could arrive unexpectedly. (无常大鬼，不期而到) ——Sutra of Ksitigarbha's Fundamental Vows

To start talking about these two, we need to go into the general category of beings they separated out of later: Underworld officials.

Some conceptions of those petty ghost bureaucrats that mirrored living ones already existed in the Han dynasty; in burial goods and "grave scripts", there were paperwork dedicated to those officials, who were supposed to keep track of the Dead People Belongings List and maintain the segregation between the dead and the living.

Their characterization would get expanded a lot as time went on, in Northern-Southern dynasty and Tang legends, but this isn't an article about the ghost officials as a whole.

We are still tracing the origins of two specific ones, and to do that, we have to start with etymology——the "Wuchang" in their names.

It is the translation of the Buddhist concept of "Anitya", referring to the impermanence of everything, which is always changing and dying and being reborn, with no constant to be found.

Yeah, you can see why a word describing the fleeting nature of life might eventually become associated with death and native psychopomps at some point in the Northern-Southern dynasty.

In the 39 chapter translation of the Dhammapada (interlaced with additional parables) by Fa Ju and Fa Li, the "Killing Spectre of Impermanence" (无常杀鬼) was first mentioned in the "On Impermanence" (无常品) chapter.

Another name for this grim-reaper-esque figure was "The Great Spectre of Impermanence", which appears in the quote at the beginning.

It appeared earlier than Ksitigarbha's Sutra, though: in another Northern-Southern dynasty translation of the Sutra of Golden Light, a Great Spectre of Impermanence was mentioned as this scary being that swallowed a king's younger son up whole.

By the Tang dynasty, the Spectre of Impermanence had appeared in both poetry and Buddhist text collections, as a generic name for the ghost that came to get you when you die.

However, the name wasn't exactly common or widespread, as made evident by all the N & S. dynasty and Tang legends about ghost bureaucrats where they were just referred to as, well, ghost bureaucrats.

Similarly, the Scripture on the Ten Kings doesn't mention anything about a Spectre of Impermanence. Instead, the second variant of the sutra says there are 3 ghosts working under King Yama——the "Soul-seizing Ghost" (夺魂鬼), "Essence-seizing Ghost" (夺精鬼), and "Spirit-binding Ghost" (缚魄鬼), responsible for dragging souls away in chains to the tree near the Underworld entrance pass.

(Their names might have corresponded to the idea of the Three Souls, each grabbing one of them, or the alternate division of Hun-Po plus the "vital force/essence".)

Right after that, however, they mentioned two demonic-looking birds sitting on the tree, one of which was named the "Bird of Impermanence", who would angrily scold and torment the dead for their misdeeds.

In this text, whatever the birds were, they were seen as a separate thing from the 3 ghosts that brought the souls of the dead to the Underworld entrance.

(A brief tangent about the 2 variants of the Ten Kings Scripture: the first could be found in the Dunhuang manuscripts, its name was 佛说预修十王生七经, and, as Teiser's translation of the scripture at the end of his academic book has showned, didn't have the 3 ghosts or the birds.)

(The variant mentioned above is 地藏菩萨发心因缘十王经, which is likely a Song dynasty Japanese apocrypha based on the first variant.)

Buddy Ghost Cops

When the ghostly officials of the Tang legends showed up, they could be alone, in pairs or in groups.

It was only in the Song-Yuan era that the idea of ghost cops showing up in pairs began to populate, and the first mention of the "Two Spectres of Impermanence" appeared in Vol. 3 of the Song dynasty 随隐漫录.

However, even without the word "Impermanence" attached, in various Song texts, the idea of there being 2 ghosts coming to get you instead of a single one or a group had already showed up with more frequency than before.

Come Ming dynasty, the Two Spectres of Impermanence got even more notable mentions in vernacular novels: a descriptive poem in Chapter 115 of Water Margins brings them up alongside the "Generals of the Five Paths" (五道将军), another native Underworld deity that showed up in Tang novels.

Plum in the Golden Vase, a.k.a. "that one Ming classic novel that often got censored and un-classic-ed because of its graphic sexual content", also has a folk Precious Scroll singing session (a story within a story, basically) that mentioned them.

In this story, King Yama sent a pair of "Impermanence Spectres" after Lady Huang, the protagonist of the scroll, who were also referred to as "Divine Boys/Acolytes of Good and Evil".

Now, the Boy-Acolytes of Good and Evil (善恶童子) were a pair of existing Underworld deities that had appeared in Dunhuang manuscripts and Ksitigarbha-themed artworks, responsible for recording the good and bad deeds of people respectively.

Their first mention was in the Tang translation of Surangama Sutra, and according to the second variant of the Ten Kings Scripture, the one recording bad deeds was said to look like a Raksha, while the one responsible for good deeds just looked like a regular divine acolyte.

Plum in the Golden Vase might have briefly aluded to that quirk too, in the story-within-a-story, where it was said that "Good people are welcomed by the acolyte(s), while bad people get the Yaksha(s)".

In the earlier Song dynasty compendium, Yijian Zhi, there are also mentions of two kids leading a fortunate guy's soul out of the Underworld, as well as showing up to inform some guy's wife that her days were numbered.

The second story is kinda funny, because after she had pretty much rolled over and accepted her fate, the two kids suddenly returned and were like "Excuse me, was Zhao your maiden name, or your husband's?"

Upon being informed that it was the latter case, they were like "Dangit, almost got the wrong person." Immediately after they left, another woman in the neighborhood whose surname was actually Zhao died.

Both stories do not use the specific name of "Acolytes of Good & Evil" for them, though, nor are they described as recorders of good and evil deeds.

For all I know, these two kids could be just like the pair of "young boys in blue robes" (青衣���子) who led Taizong into the Ghost Gate and the Underworld proper in JTTW Chapter 11: generic ghost workers.

But in Plum in the Golden Vase at least, they seemed to have been absorbed into the larger category of the Impermanence Ghosts, even though the Impermanence Ghosts still weren't their own characters yet, or gained any iconic uniforms.

Rather, it's more that 1) the catch-all name of "Impermanence" has become somewhat widespread for the generic ghost cops, though not yet universal, and 2) the Underworld apparently has a buddy-cop system in place now, where there had to be two ghostly officials for every newly dead person.

Psychopomp Outsourcing

In the late Ming and Qing dynasty, we got another twist on the Wuchang thing: Zou Wuchang, literally "Walk as Impermanences".

I've talked before about the early version of Taizong's trip to the Underworld, where Cui Jue/Ziyu, instead of being posthumously made a ghost judge, was a living official working part-time for the Underworld.

Well, Zou Wuchang is similar, but less prestigious, and you don't get paid either. The Underworld is short of hands (somehow), so they just grab a random living person and be like "Go fetch dead people for us."

The earliest mention of such a tradition in the Ming dynasty 语怪 placed the custom in Fengdu, the famous "ghost city" of Sichuan.

According to the text, when someone's soul was yanked off its streets to work as part-time psychopomps, they just fainted on the spot, and would revive after a few hours or overnight. The phenomenon was so common, the locals weren't even shocked, nor bothered getting them any medical attention.

Yuewei Caotang Biji goes further into the rationales of why Underworld needed those living conscripts. Apparently, all the living people clustered around a sickbed created a blazing aura of Yang, which certain venerable/fierce/brutish individuals also possessed in abundance, and was anathema to the ghost cops.

They were beings of pure Yin, after all, while the conscripts, whose bodies were Yin but still had plenty of Yang-aligned Qi, didn't have to worry about that.

Zou Wuchang was also not gender-exclusive, and there were mentions of multiple female conscripts in Qing legend compendiums.

Also, though the recruitment was forceful, you could actually retire after serving for a number of years——in one tale from 庸闲斋笔记, a woman fought the conscript for her mother-in-law's soul, who took pity on her and reported back to the City God.

In response, the City God said he'd send a report to Yama to see if she could be spared, and also released the conscript from her duty on account of her kind heart.

The popularity of this tradition across multiple sources and a long stretch of time signalled that, to an even greater extent than before, the ghost cops weren't generic ghost cops no longer: they are The Impermanences, which is only a few step away from developing into their own characters with unique iconography.

Black and White

First: where did their signature robe colors come from?

According to the first variant of the Ten Kings Scripture, officials under the Ten Kings were supposed to be dressed in black robes, riding a black horse, and carrying a black banner.

But in Tang folklore compendiums, that dress code wasn't a thing at all. A Taiwanese paper actually goes through tales of ghost officials inside Taiping Guangji where their appearances were described, and counted 22 cases of them wearing yellow robes, 7 cases of red robes, and only 8 stories involving ghost officials in either black or white robes.

Though ghost officials in black as well as white robes never appeared in the same story, they did have two things in common: 1) they tended to be quite tall, and 2) almost half of them were carrying weapons of some sorts.

The very late Ming/early Qing novel, Cu Hulu, also has a character ask Bodhisattva Ksitigarbha a bunch of questions in Chapter 12.

One of them was about the discrepancy between the depiction of Underworld officials in temples and the ones he personally saw, and he mentioned that the statues of "Impermanences" were 1) dressed in mourning robes and 2) about a Zhang and two Chi (3+ meter) in height.

Which suggests that, by the novel's time, the ghost cops had already gained a set of uniforms, one associated with funerary affairs.

(Also: I love Ksitigarbha's answer to that particular question——"Yeah we used to have a really tall ghost cop like that, people just call him 'Wuchang' because they don't know what the heck he is. Also, Impermanence isn't actually a real name, it's a concept.")

However, as far as I know, the earliest mention of a pair of ghost cops, one in white and one in black, was in Vol. 19 of Yuewei Caotang Biji. And the story is quite funny.

Basically, this Sun guy was temporarily residing in someone else's house, and the host's mother was severely ill. One day, the family servant boy carried in some dinner for him, and because Sun was busy with something else, he told the boy to put it on a nearby table in another room.

Suddenly, a white robed guy just appeared out of nowhere and entered the house, followed by a short black robed guy.

Sun hurried into the room, saw the two guys stealing his dinner, and angrily yelled at them. The white robed guy noped out of there, leaving the black robed guy behind and hiding in a corner, unable to exit the room because Sun was blocking the door.

He kinda just sat outside and kept an eye on them for a while, before the host of the family suddenly showed up, telling him that his mother had just spoken.

Basically, the ghost officials had come for her, and one of them happened to be cornered in the room by Sun, so would he please move? She didn't want to be punished for showing up late.

The host didn't know if it was true either, and was just going out there and checking. But the moment Sun went and sat somewhere else, the ghost in black scampered out of the room. Soon afterwards, wailing began to come out of the mother's room, suggesting she had been taken away.

As hilariously pathetic as these two unnamed ghost cops are, the only thing connecting them to the Heibai Wuchang of much later times is their robe colors, and the black-robed one being short.

There are no tales featuring both 1) a pair of ghost cops in black and white, and 2) the pair being referred to as "Impermanences", though.

The middle-late Qing stories that do refer to the ghost cops as such tend to only feature a single Impermanence: unnaturally tall, dressed in white robes and hats, either holding a fan or carrying strings of paper money on his shoulders, sometimes bleeding from his eyes or nose/mouth.

(Yep, you know how the White Impermanence is often seen as the older of the two sworn brothers? As far as their historical existence goes, he really is the older guy.)

It was in the 19th century 醉茶志怪 that we saw the first signs of the two converging. In the three stories with "Impermanence" in their titles, two featured the "white-robed ghost cop in tall hat" alone, one of which described him as looking like a 10+ years old kid, standing at the side of the road like a temple clay statue.

The third story, however, featured a sighting of two giant ghosts, one in white and one in blue/green, near the City God's temple. Out of the four people involved in the encounter, three died after a few days, and the only survivor was the one who had his line of sight blocked by the palaquin.

How did 1 become 2?

How did the single unique Impermanence become the Black and White Impermanences?

Well…it's a complicated question with no definitive answers. We know that in the (probably Qing dynasty) Jade Records, there are already mentions of a pair of ghosts called Huo Wuchang ("Life-is-Impermanent" or "Living Impermanence") and Si Youfen ("Death-Has-a-Part").

The former wears a black official hat and formal robes, holds brushes and papers in his hands, with blades on his shoulders and torture tools on his belts. He has big bulging eyes and is often laughing.

The latter has dirty, bloodied face, wears a white robe, holds an abacus, carries a sack of rice on his shoulder and has paper money dangling in front of his chest like a necklace. He has a sad frown on his face and is always sighing.

As you can see, there are similarities, but also notable differences from the "iconic" Black & White Impermanences. Whereas the White Impermanence is usually depicted as the cheerful one in white robes, carrying an abacus and wearing strings of paper money, here, he is the sad and grim one.

Their jobs also differ: instead of fetching souls to the Underworld, in the Jade Records, these two are responsible for pushing the dead off the bridges after they have drunken Mengpo's amnesia soup, into the scarlet river so they can reincarnate.

Personally, I view them as a transistory stage between the "Generic Impermanence Ghosts" and "The Two Unique Psychopomps We Know and Love", one strand of the folk god evolutionary process that was captured in written sources.

A Japanese paper goes into another strand in the evolution: the addition of the Black Impermanence. Namely, he might have grown out of a ghost that commonly showed up in City God worship and parades, the so-called "Wall-touching Ghost" (摸壁鬼).

The claim was based on very late Qing newspaper illustrations, where the Black Impermanence was depicted as holding up his two arms like this:

Which was a gesture commonly used by the "Wall-touching Ghost" during parades in the Jiangsu area, who also wore black robes and tall hats.

The author of the paper then dug into sources about the Wall-touching Ghost, and not only found records of the parades, but also a Qianlong era Mulian opera script, 劝善金科, that paired him together with the Impermanence Ghost as fetchers of the dead.

(The two were also given names in this opera: the Impermanence Ghost is named Ba Yang, and the Wall-touching Ghost, Wu Qi.)

Earlier mentions of the Wall-touching Ghost in Qing folklore compendiums, however, didn't depict him as a ghost cop. The story in 夜航船 just described it as a ghost thing that hid between walls and used its chill breath to suck up people's souls.

Another story in the 1878 浇愁集, even though it described the ghost more——dark-faced, holding its arms up like in the drawing, could turn into a cloud of black smoke and disappear into walls——still had it as your typical "ghost shows up, people die" ill omen.

So the paper's proposition is that, after the White Impermanence has separated out of the "Generic Ghost Cop Impermanences" and become his own thing, people in southern Jiangsu built on their existing Wall-touching Ghost and made him into the former's partner, absorbing most of his iconography in the process.

Similarly, the "tall and short" pair-up that was popular in Fujian and spread across Taiwan and SEA might also be a result of parallel local evolution, together with the name Xie Bi'an and Fan Wujiu.

Xie and Fan

Yes! At last, at last, we are getting to the most well-known and popular origin story, a.k.a. the Nantai Bridge Tale.

A summary: Xie Bi'an and Fan Wujiu were a pair of best friends/sworn brothers from Fujian, working as constables for the local magistrate. One day, while they were out on a mission, they saw a storm brewing. Xie went back to grab umbrellas while Fan waited for him under the bridge.

Unfortunately, the downpour soon began, causing the river to flood. Fan, unwilling to break his promise, continued waiting for Xie under the bridge and drowned. When Xie returned and saw his sworn brother's corpse, he hang himself out of guilt and grief too.

(…As a casual reader, I, always wondered why "waiting ON the bridge instead of under it" never crossed his mind as an option. Okay, sure, it was raining. But that's all the more reason to not stand under the darn bridge.)

Touched by their loyalty to each other, the City God/King Yama/Jade Emperor appoints them as ghostly constables, responsible for fetching the dead to the Underworld.

This story bears a lot of similarity to the fable of Wei Sheng in Zhuangzi. Basically, the guy made a promise to meet a girl under a bridge, the girl didn't show up, there was a flood, and, unwilling to leave, he drowned while still clinging to the bridge pillar.

Zhuangzi's opinion of the guy wasn't too high, because honestly, what a stupid way to die.

However, Sima Qian held him up as an exemplar of loyalty and keeping one's word, and the reading stuck. For later folktales about Wei Sheng as well as others that adopted the basic premise, like one tale in the 七世夫妻 story cycle, it also tended to get turned into a straight-up love story.

Though the Nantai Bridge Tale is the most popular version of their backstory, it's far from the only version. One version has them as Tang dynasty officials, working under the historical figure Zhang Xun, who died during the Anshi Rebellion.

While they were trying to get reinforcements, Xie was caught and hung on the city gate by the rebels, while Fan accidentally drowned.

When Zhang Xun was made a City God after the city fell and the rebels killed him, these two also became deified as his attendants.

In another version, Xie was a filial son with an aging mother, who had been wrongly imprisoned because of a friend's crime. During the Lunar New Year, Fan found him crying in the cell, and, upon learning about his sad backstory, released him secretly to visit his mother, on the condition that he returns after seven days.

However, his mother died soon after his return. Busy with her funeral, Xie did not return in time, and Fan, unable to answer to his superiors, committed suicide via drinking poison. When Xie returned and learned of the terrible news, he, too, hang himself.

And these three are far from the only known versions! Like, seriously, there are probably as many variations of the story as there are variations of the objects they held in their hands.

Though some elements stay more constant——using their deaths to explain their iconography, Xie being more commonly associated with the fan, umbrella, and abacus and Fan, chains, everything is subjected to changes and regional differences.

(For example, SEA oral legends tend to associate them with opium. Most of the time, they are constables or mercenaries employed to track down opium smugglers and other criminals, but some have them as Robin Hood-esque opium smugglers.)

Anyways, I hope this long post has offered some insight into the two iconic, yet also somewhat obscure ghost cops. I might add an "Appendix of Fun Facts and Tales" that doesn't fit into the main body of the post, but for now? That will be all.

May the readers who celebrate it have a nice Zhongyuan Festival.

Bibliography:

蔺坤:《无常鬼考源》

大谷亨：《黑无常的诞生与演变—— 以江苏南部的摸壁鬼传说为中心》

陈威伯、施静宜：《七爷八爷成神故事研究》

江義雄：《臺灣「黑白無常」與「范謝將軍」研究》

吳彥鋒：《臺灣七爺八爺傳說及其與信仰關係研究》

中国国家博物馆藏《十一面观音变相》的阐释

劉榕峻：狂放不羈、怪異獨特：談香港藝術館展出的「揚州八怪」

Stephen F. Teiser, The Scripture on the Ten Kings and the Making of Purgatory in Medieval Chinese Buddhism

Fabian Graham, Voices from the Underworld: Chinese Hell Deity Worship in Contemporary Singapore and Malaysia

CBETA: 《地藏王菩萨本愿经》

CBETA：《佛说地藏王菩萨发心因缘十王经》

夷坚志/支癸07，“赵彥珍妻”

《金瓶梅词话》，Chapter 74

《醋葫芦》，Chapter 12

《劝善金科》Vol.5, Part 2

The Jade Guidebook: Appendices, translated by David K. Jordan

Journey to the West Vol.1, Chapter 11, translated by Anthony C. Yu

[demodraws0606]

Hu and Nico culprit+accomplice Theory (Also Eden was tricked into helping)

Okay, I know I've been extremely inconcistent with who I think the culprit is, however I think I've locked in who it is mainly through looking at Youtube comments and piecing out what works the most. Again I feel like it's a good thing to consider all of your options here.

I think Hu is the culprit and Nico is the accomplice.

The main point for this would be, that we know 100 pourcent now that attempted murder of Ace and the murder of Arei are connected without a doubt.

This means the person HAD to know exactly how Ace was killed, and considering how the crime scene was set out when Teruko and Eden enterred the room. I'd argue hte only person that could be responsible is the person that is behind the murder of Ace.

Because I mean if it was Eden why even try to do a murder similar to how Ace was killed and how would she exactly know how the murder worked.

(I'll explain why Eden took the tape later)

However it can't just be Nico because otherwise the trial would just be over, so that means that we have to find out who else could've been responsible for Ace's almost death.

I've already made a theory about how the murder of Ace wasn't actually done by Nico, mostly because how we see Nico with Ace's body VS how the crime had to have been done just doesn't match.

But I was honestly kinda lost on the motivation especially because Nico admitted to it so it would mean that, either, they gave up on trying to make themselves innocent OR they are covering up for someone else.

And with everything that's happened, I think it's the ladder.

Now, who else could've been responsible for Ace's murder ? Well, I don't think this is much of a headscratcher but it has to be Hu.

Why ? Well, because of the murder weapon

Unless you could argue that anyone could've gotten hold of Hu's weapon, which I personally pretty much doubt, unless it's Nico but we've gotten right back to the start. I don't think Hu would be stupid enough to just leave her weapon hanging there, joke very much intended.

So this mean, likely, that Hu ended up trying to kill Ace with Nico perhaps even being aware of Hu's intentions, although it's possible they had second thoughts (as we see Nico removing the string from Ace's neck).

Now, I don't know how to really structure this theory so I'll just write a couple bullet points and explain how Nico and Hu killing Arei happened before I get into the forsaken "Eden taking the tape and clothes" thing.

How would both of them get the water ? :

Hu has an alibi for taking the water as she was with Eden the entire time, however Nico had complete access over the water as they were hanging out in the relaxation room a lot. Meaning they'd have the most access to the water.

What about Nico and Hu's alibi ? :

I'd argue their alibis make both of them more suspicious, the first batch of people who have alibis were pointed out by J which are David, Veronika and J herself. There was no mention of Hu and Nico there.

However Hu then comes out a while later as soon as Ace accuses Nico, that actually both her and them have alibis. Which if they're the culprit and accomplice it would be really easy for them to vouch for each other's alibi, especially considering it doesn't seem like J noticed Hu and Nico waking up early which is very suspicious.

Why the hanging ? :

I think it's an important point because why would the murderer be so hung up, pun very much intended again, on such a specific murder tactic.

Now this might sound dark but depending on how Hu tried to kill herself it's very possible she has a lot of knowledge about it. In fact Whit's long and suspicious rant about how hangings work makes me think the murderer knows a lot about hanging as well.

The Turpentine ? (I FORGOT TO FINISH THIS PART WHEN I POSTED THE THEORY HOW DID NO ONE TELL ME) :

I've talked about in my "Nico didn't actually try to kill Ace" theory that the murder of Arei would need her to be incipacitated, especially since it would be impossible to really get Arei into any sort of mechanism with her concious. This means the culprit for both murders used Rose's Turpentine, as we know it was used in Ace's attempted murder. This again hints heavily that the culprits are the same.

Let's now get to the elephant in the room

The ball of clothes and the tape... clearly this has to mean Eden has to have done it right ??

Unless she took it for other reasons.

Hu asked her for it

I mean, Hu was the one to tell Eden about the clothes and we know for a fact that Hu was with Eden the entire nighttime, the day before hte murder was committed. They were also conversing a lot.

It would make a lot of sense for Hu to ask Eden to give her the clothes and the tape. I mean the murderer clearly wanted to frame Eden, so how likely would it be that they would set things up in a way that would make Eden look extremely bad.

We know Eden and Hu have a close relationship, Eden admitted they talk often about how to stop the killing game which makes Hu manipulating Eden make a lot of sense personally.

I also want to talk about the thing that now makes Eden innocent now that we know about the murder method pretty much entirely.

The rules of the BDA announcement

Now you might say, and I've used this argument before, the murder could have just looked away and it wouldn't count right ?

But I mean....why ? At this point there doesn't seem to be any grounds that the murder was done to avoid this rule and it's such a situational rule especially since Teruko decided to pick two people out of the blue that it's just... why would the murder think about that ? Especially with how we're seeing the murder being committed, there would be no moment where the murderer really had any reason to look away.

It's just bad luck from Hu's part that Teruko picked Eden to test out this rule.

For the conclusion, why the fuck would Hu and Nico do this ?

While, I don't fully know, I think I'm starting to realize the secrets might not actually be part of the motive. Which I think the running gag is gonna be that every murder is not gonna involve the motive or it involves it in a way different from the motive (Charles fake motive thing).

Hu's whole thing seems to be about wanting to live, she was depressed in the past and wanted to end her life however now she's got a new taste for life. This would be a huge motivation to want to get out of this killing game, especially with how intense the cast has been towards each other it would make sense to want to get out Now.

And also if she's the culprit, this line would make a lot of sense.

For Nico, it's a lot more complicated as to why they'd be an accomplice. Again however I'd argue their secret line would make sense with this theory.

It's possible Hu ended up somehow convincing Nico to do it, I don't think that they were threatened but it was possible they just really weren't in a good mindset especially with how things happened with them in chapter 2.

Anyways, yeah this is my final theory that I'm locking in right now

[wizzdot]

The Patron Saint of One Way Trips

Ch2

Description- the second chapter! I don’t know if I warned y’all that it’s gonna be the slowest of slow burns. You’re welcome! Anyway, Laika meets the 141 in this chapter and she is terrified of them all! Poor girl. Of course, sweet, handsome Kyle ‘Gaz’ Garrick is the first to gain her trust. 🫶🏼

(Cont from Ch1 - link below)

I stand in a sort of semi-shocked state, just staring at the man. It was probably only for two seconds before he moved and shook me from my stupor, but it felt like time had frozen. I make a dive for the door and have almost made it through before I hear Dr Dimitrov's voice bellow down the hallway. I then feel a rough arm wrap around my waist and a hand cover my mouth. He whispers harshly in my ear "must'a been hiding like a little mouse in here" shaking me slightly to make me move with him into a better defensive position against the incoming tide of guards. I start rapidly shaking my head, trying to fight against his tight hold on my mouth. My eyes wide and terrified.

"Sit still, lass. You'll get us both in trouble." My eyes flash towards his as he starts tying my wrists with a makeshift bandage wrap to keep me secure. "You'll stay behind me - d'ya speak english, lass?". I nod my head. Obedience gets rewarded. That's what I had learnt over the years in this facility.

"You a hostage?" - I shake my head, no.

"Are ya' one of them..?" - my eyes must give me away. Technically, yes, I am one of 'them', but do I want to be? No, I do not. I just stare back at him. His eyes narrow, eyeing me with suspision now.

Dr Dimitrov's voice grows louder, as does the crashing of cell doors and the shouts of "CLEAR" from the guards. The sound of gun shots crashes to life. I’m shaking like a lead. All of a sudden the man's radio crackles. It's the smooth voice again.

"Soap - careful, they're looking for the asset. He's dangerous. Get out of there and clear the area. We have the hallway covered. Over."

He pushes me further back and keeps his large hand tightly around my lower face, squeezing tightly, almost to the point of pain.

"Bit of an issue, Gaz. Found a little lass in a cell. No sign of the asset though. Leaving in five - cover me." I shake my head against his grip. I wanted to tell him. It's me they're after. It's me. I'm the asset. But I'm scared. And obedient. I don't bite. Yes, I am a trained asset with lots of kills to my name, but I don't bite. Before I have time to say anything, I'm shunted by the large man, pushed forward toward the door. Bullets fly - metal and glass shatters and clangs. Everything is blurry. Numb. Apart from the tight hold on my upper arm. Warm. Bruising.

We clear the hallway without too much issue. I'm pushed into another corridor and shoved again to keep me running, faster than I thought I could run with my wrists tightly tied. I gasp, deciding now is as good a time as any, now he hasn't got my mouth covered.

"It's me they want" I breathe

"No, they want the asset. Stay quiet, Lass. We will figure out who you are later." he says roughly.

I shake my head again. "It's me. I'm their asset. They won't stop chasing me. I'm the last one.. Just-"

He cuts me off, shouting into the radio. "I've got the asset. What do I do now?"

"Just shoot me" I whisper. His eyes flash to me over the crackle of his radio.

"Bring him to the exfil point. Is he alive? Over."

"Alive. And She.. He's a she. Over".

The radio goes silent.

"Please. Shoot me. I'm a monster.. Please."

My mouth is covered with another makeshift piece of cloth, fashioned into a gag. I'm pulled off the floor and roughly thrown over his shoulder.

"Shut it, Lass. If I had known you were the asset, you'd be dead already. But orders are orders" He grunts, angrily. A noise escapes my throat, a whine.

The sound of bullets flying begins to dull, the corridors open up to a door - a door that I had never seen before as I had always been transported with a sack over my head. My stomach is sore, his shoulder digs in with every stride he takes. My eyes start to leak. I close my eyes and just sniffle. Weak. Hopeless, again. Not that I ever stopped feeling hopeless in the first place. But, yeah..

I am uncerimoneously slung to the ground and I groan quietly before looking up at the man who had delivered me to whatever fate I now face. He stares back. Blue eyes, dark hair styled in a strange sort of grown out mohawk. Unusual for a soldier. He looks suspicious, or curious. I can't tell. I hadn't been studied like this for a long time. I am utterly predictable to my captors. They knew my triggers and my commands. 'Laika sit, Laika move, Laika shoot, Laika kill, Laika - lick your own wounds, Laika - cage! Bad Laika.'

Every miniscule movement I make is studied by the man with strange hair and blue eyes. I stare back at him with big, wet, sad eyes. I hate being gagged like this, hate being restrained. They do this to me when I am punished for disobedience. He tutts at me. It's a surprising noise to hear coming from him when he had just told me that he would have killed me quicker if he had known it was me.

"Asset secure at exfil point. How far out are you? Over."

"Two minutes, Soap." The reply crackles back.

I continue to stare at him. Two minutes till I'm either killed or tortured. I start to count down. Death would be the best option, but I doubt it would be that easy. I close my eyes and lower my head. I give up. Surrender to whatever is going to happen to me.

I hear three sets of boots approach and smell the thick scent of Alpha. I don't dare open my eyes. I just sniffle quietly with my head down, leaning against the wall where the man with strange hair had dropped me.

"Fuck Soap, is that the asset?"

"Aye, Apparently.."

"Did she put up much fight? We were told she's dangerous."

"Quiet as a wee mouse.."

"You sure it's her.. how do you know..?"

"She said it wis her.. wanted me tae shoot her"

The man, 'Soap', is interrogated by his team. I finally find it in me to open my eyes. I wish I hadn't. I'm surrounded by four massive Alphas, armed up to the eyeballs, all staring down at me. I flinch. I inhale sharply as one of them, with unusual facial hair and a floppy hat, steps forward. I try to shuffle away before a surspisingly gentle hand falls on to my shin, just below my knee.

"Captain John Price.." he nods in greeting. He has a rough voice.

I look down at the ground and try not to shake. He tutts. Why do people keep tutting at me?

The Captain glances back at the others. "Johnny, this ain't no asset. Get the gag and arm restraints off of her. She speak English?"

"Aye Captain, she does. She told me she wis the last one.."

"Can't be. Not this little thing. She doesn't look like she could harm a fly. What is she, Omega?" He sniffs the air, being unusually respectful - usually Alphas just stuck their nose in my neck and inhaled. "Hmm, no scent. Beta." He concludes.

Soap rushes forward to untie me and I flinch away from him. He steadies his approach but tries to grab my wrists again, I dodge his hands again. A smooth voice, the one I recognise from the radio, pipes up.

"Fuck sake, Johnny. You've scared her. C'mon, let me do it."

He steps forward as Soap, or Johnny, retreats. The Captain steps back too.

"It's okay, just going to get these off. Can I touch you?" The man asks softly.

I stare at him with wide eyes before glancing back up at the others in the team. The Captain seemed trustworthy. Fair. Soap, or Johnny, seemed sharp and unpredictable. This one seems calmer, kinder. Looking at him, I find deep brown eyes with vast softness to his expression. He has kind and honest eyes. My head nods. He steps forward again and slowly lowers himself to my level on the ground. He gently takes my wrists and starts removing the restraints. "You aren't going to try anything once these come off?" He hesitates. I shake my head, no. He then nods and removes them completely.

"Ok, now this.. lean forward so I can get the knot at the back of your head". Obedience is rewarded, my brain recalls. I do as I'm told and lean forward, exposing my scent glands in the process due to the position I am in. He respectfully places his hand on the back of my neck and unties the knot, letting the gag fall free.

"There you go, now.. What is your name?" He asks as he stands up slowly and steps one step away to give me space. I stare up at him and answer his question nervously. "L-Laika..?" I sort of question my own answer, not sure what they were wanting to hear.

He looks round at the others and the Captain beckons him over to the others. "Gaz- here a minute" he calls. Gaz obeys and leaves me with a small smile, I just stare back at him. I watch him walk away from me and glance around, trying to think of my options.

It’s only then that I clock the absolute behemoth of a man with a skull mask. He was terrifying, something from nightmares. I find myself shuffling away from the group. Of course, he is the one who notices my movement and quickly makes a move to stop me.

I release a hollow yelp and leap from my position on the floor. I quickly weigh up my options, there is no point of running from him, he would catch me in three strides, no point of fighting him, he is huge and armed. I do the next thing my stupid brain thinks to do and run and hide behind the kind one, Gaz, I think. He looks just as confused as the others. The scary one stops his approach immediately and stands seperated from the group.

"Thought she was about to leg it." he explains to the others in a voice I can only describe as a growl, rough as gravel. He is terrifying.

I whimper from my hiding spot as he continues to stare at me though his mask. Brown eyes, but not kind - his were hard. Gaz slowly turns to face me, as to not startle me again, he lifts his hand and gently touches my arm to try and comfort me - I remove it from his reach. "Sorry, sorry - look, we aren't going to hurt you, okay? I'm not asking you to trust us but we have a lot to talk about. We need to figure out who you are" he explains softly.

"I'm the asset" I say, "They - they call me Laika." His deep brown eyes don't ever leave mine, I feel a fleeting sense of safety staring back at him.

"If you're the asset, we need to take you back and ask questions. You understand that, yeah?" I nod. I then find myself spilling information before I can think of what I am saying.

“It was me.. the other two assets died. I - I killed lots of people but I was told they were bad. They punished me if I disobeyed, if I didn't complete the objectives correctly.." my voice wobbles.

His gaze leaves mine and looks towards his Captain. "Cap.. what -" he is interupted by his Captain.

“We move out. Gaz, she is with you. She obviously trusts you most. We figure this mess out back at base" the pack leader orders.

They all start to move and Gaz turns back to me. "C'mon, stay close to me. I won't let anything happen to you". I scurry behind him. He doesn't say anything but his inner Alpha preens thanks to the fact he is the one you trust.

We turn a couple of street corners and arrive at a black jeep. The Captain jumps into the drivers seat, the masked man in the passenger seat. I pause. Gaz obviously senses my insecurity.

"Would you rather sit in the middle between us" he glances and nods towards Soap "or.. I can sit in the middle so it's just me.." he asks. I stand in silence, shocked that he actually asked what I was comfortable with. I hadn't been asked for my consent for years and it had happened twice with him in the last ten minutes. He was a kind Alpha.

“J-just you… please" I respond nervously. He nods sympathetically and gets in the car, patting the seat next to him for me. Soap climbs into the seat beside Gaz on the other side of the jeep.

I step into the car and close the door behind me. I feel surrounded and claustraphobic. In the small space of the car, the scent of all four men mix and mingles together. It almost burns the back of my throat. This is strange. I'm not usually sensitive to other designations thanks to the supressants.

I notice, as I shuffle in my seat, that the scary one with the mask is seated directly infront of me. Gaz notices, ever observant of my smallest of tells. "It's fine. None of us will try anything. We aren't feral Alpha pieces of shit, okay?" I slowly nod my head "Ok" I whisper.

He smiles at me. I almost smile back.

[fadedmunson]

family man | joel m.

pairings ; joel miller x fem!reader

word count ;

warnings ; ohhhh this left me in guttural pain. angst then comfort because i've had a long week

this could've been avoided if you never met the old grumpy fucking man

why were you always given the shit-end if the stick??

i mean, how were you supposed to know raiders would be in the middle of butt-fuck wyoming?

well, here you were, running back to ellie and joel after hearing gunshots and raiders shout

you were going to make a quick run to find some more bullets, but accidentally left your gun, and just as you realized, raiders got the idea to follow you

"has she lost her mind?" joel hissed, "leaving all her shit behind too, god this is laughable." joel scoffs under his breath

"joel" ellie whispers, "i know she's not here, but we need to do something." joel can feel her getting more anxious by the second

"i know, i know." joel isn't the best at comforting but he's good at violence, so there's that.

one thing he just never understood was how dumb and vulnerable you could be at times. you made stupid mistakes, stupid mistakes that could lead to your stupid death.

god, that word. death. it haunted him, it'll haunt him till his last breath. he'll meet it eventually, but only with you and ellie at his side. he can't loose anyone else

"joel!" ellie eyes shook from fear and so did her voice. joel left his momentary trance and quickly built a plan for her to get out safely

just as he was about to grab her, he hears the stuggle of the raiders, almost like choking.

he stands up to see that the threat was taken out by you and a switchblade

ellie was quick to react by running and grabbing your arms while trying to regain her composure

she looked death in the eyes multiple times, but this one was different.

"that was so badass! you swung in and- hey is that my knife?" she pointed out

"sorry, forgot. i was just keeping it safe." you flip the switchblade and hand it to her.

just as you hand it to her your sweater collar was gripped by joel

"now you've just about done it," he began

"let go of me joel, im grown. i handled the problem, i don't get the issue." you pry his hand off of you and get in his face

you were never afraid of joel, just curious. curious about how he kept everything so close to his chest. it probably got tiring

"do you have any idea how scared i was? you have any fucking idea?" joel eyes narrowed as he stabbed his finger into your chest while his teeth clenched

this doesn't scare you no, it's something much worse

this pains you, it pains you to see how distraught joel is feeling and the fact that you were the reason for it

"you make my life so much harder," he scoffs at you "you frustrate people, it's all your good at." he begins to raise his voice

your eyes are becoming glassy and you can feel it hitting you like a train

"stop it." you warn

"i didn't know this would happen and i'm sorry but this situation never came to my mind." your body language is frantic and so is your voice

at this point, tears are freely streaming down your eyes while ellie just stares, unable to do or say anything to set either of you off

joels face softens the littlest bit from your tears. he's not great at navigating feelings and people crying

"the last thing i need is to loose you," he looks at ellie "either of you."

you just crash into his body and he immediately responds by wrapping his arms around you and digging his face into your neck

"oh, sweet girl" he gently reassures you that you did nothing wrong and he "was worked up."

at some point ellie sat next to the both of you and just stayed in comfortable silence

joel kissed your neck, then your cheek, and then your forehead

you stumbled off of him and sat next to ellie, resting her head on your shoulders while you held joels hand

"i like being with you joel," you turn to him "i'm sure sleepyhead over here enjoys it too." you chuckle at ellie already asleep in your embrace

you can see the briefest smile on his face as he lays his head on yours

you've got joel miller absolutely smitten

[bixbythemartian]

This is About Oceangate

...kind of. Like, heads up for people who are sick of hearing about it or are too disturbed by this, just scoot on by, that's fine.

Like everybody else my age who had a middle school special interest in the Titanic that was further fueled by the James Cameron movie (and that sounds very specific, but I absolutely know I'm not alone), I've been following this story fuckin voraciously.

I think everybody I know IRL and online is fucking sick of me talking about it. I have been actively trying not to blog much about it here because I'm so obsessed with it that I'm annoyed with myself. I would like to not be this interested in it.

But a lot of the stuff I can think of to say has been said by a lot of people already, I don't want to add to an already noisy environment if I've got nothing new to say.

So, instead, I want to talk about what I haven't seen very many people talking about- something that's stood out to me about the way the media has been handling this story from the get-go. So, finally, I'm inflicting my days long media binge on you.

The media's handling of this was bad. Like, comprehensively fucked.

For the uninformed, a primer on the situation- feel free to skip down if you know all this, there's a bulleted list right after I get done with this part, look for that. But some of this is important to the terms I use, so I wanted to lay it out. (Also I just want to get a lot of this out of my system, please just let me have this.)

The Titan is a 'cyclops-class' submersible. As far as I can tell, 'cyclops-class' is unique to the people who made this submersible, it's not a widely recognized thing.

The Titan can carry up to five passengers. It was supposed to be rated to reach depths of up to 4000 meters below sea level.

The Titan is/was owned and operated by a company known as Oceangate. There's a lot of questions regarding the safety of the submersible, where the math came from on their depth rating, and- basically everything about the Titan is in question, at this point. There's a lot of questions, but that's not what I want to talk about.

Right now. Maybe later.

A submersible is distinct from a submarine in that it requires a surface support ship for many things- the Titan moved too slow to leave port under its own power and go to the site, it didn't have enough life support to do that kind of thing, etc. A submarine is self-supporting and can operate independently. Kind of pedantic, I know, but the Titan is a submersible, not a submarine.

The Titan had a planned expedition to the wreck of the Titanic on June 18, 2023- this past Sunday, at the time of writing. The expedition was supposed to last around 10 hours. It chartered a ship- the Polar Prince- to act as mother ship, the on the surface support that the Titan requires. (The Polar Prince is owned and operated by a different company than the Titan.)

1 hour and 45 minutes into the expedition, as the Titan was still making its way to the sea floor, the Polar Prince lost all contact with the submersible.

The Titanic wreck is at just under 4000 meters deep, right around 2.5 miles.

Now, my understanding is that the Titan was not fully at the ocean floor at the point contact was lost, but it's not clear how deep the Titan was at that time. We may not ever know this for certain.

When the Titan was reported as missing to the coast guard is kind of unclear, to me- I heard 6 hours after they lost contact, I heard 12 hours after they lost contact, I saw something that indicated they reported it missing immediately- I don't know for sure. When the coast guard report comes out, I'm hoping we'll get a more accurate timeline.

However, as soon as it was reported missing, a massive search and rescue operationg was started. Complicating the search efforts were the fact that the submersible seemed to have no type of emergency distress locator beacon (I'm not sure what the precise nautical terminology would be for this).

The search included visual searching of the surface, dropping buoys with microphones, and ROVs (unmanned remote operated vehicles, deep sea robots operated by crew on ships at the surface) searching the floor, and probably some other stuff I'm forgetting. Deep sea radar etc etc, every tool they had access to.

The search and rescue concluded on Thursday (June 22, 2023) around midday, when they definitively found pieces of the destroyed submersible's pressure vessel (the part of the submersible that held pressure and kept the people safe and alive) in a debris field, approximately 1600 feet away from the Titanic.

The destroyed pressure vessel and reports from the Navy on hearing sounds consistent with implosion at the time the Titan lost contact indicates that the submersible underwent what is being called a 'catastrophic implosion'.

It is now an investigation and recovery operation, while they try to figure out what exactly went wrong.

The five men in the sub are dead. In all likelihood, they died so quickly that their nervous system didn't have time to process what happened. What happened to their bodies during this was probably gory and kind of horrifying, but it's unlikely they experienced any awareness of this.

There were five extremely wealthy men on the submersible- they were not all billionaires, but those that weren't were worth hundreds of millions of dollars. If you want a rough sketch of their biographies, there's a link here. Other than them being pretty wealthy, who they are doesn't play that much into what I want to talk about, so I don't feel the need to go into it right now. (Again, as more information comes out, I may come back for another swing.)

So, my complaint. The number of times I saw a news interview with an expert that went like this is not small:

news host interviews deep ocean expert of some variety (who is not involved in rescue)

host asks expert what chances are that the dudes are alive and will be recovered alive

expert, being honest, says something like 'slim to none'

host responds with some amount of sincere-seeming disappointment, then after interview, pivots to the ongoing search for the definitely still alive people

There were news programs with clocks counting down how much theoretical oxygen was left. There were frequent updates to news stories with nothingburgers of additions, just to pad it out. It was, if they were alive at that moment, fucking ghoulish. That they were dead makes it even more horrible.

And I cannot emphasize enough how many experts said, to generalize and paraphrase here: "Unless they are found bobbing on the surface in the next n hours, they are dead. Even if they are alive right this minute, on the bottom of the ocean, there is no hope to rescue them in time."

This is not a failure of any of the rescue entities involved, by the way. The environment they were presumed to be in- 4000 meters under sea level- is so extreme that there are very few vehicles in the world with the capability of even getting to that depth. Like, 10 or less. As far as I know, none of them are designed to do any kind of deep sea rescue- which would have involved carefully scooping up or netting the Titan and hauling it up very slowly. There's no way to transfer personnel between ships at this depth, and the Titan had the largest passenger allowance at this depth, afaik. Like, the odds were incredibly, vanishingly small that these men would live.

The media, at large, never ever really allowed that to change the way they talked about this story or treated the participants in the story. At around 11 am or noon (central daylight time) on Thursday I saw them talking about how 'oxygen is critical'.

Oxygen was critical 24 hours prior. Even by the most generous of expectations, they were out of breathable air. Given how, to put it mildly, janky the submersible seemed to have been, there was absolutely no guarantee that they had even the 96 hours that Oceangate claimed.

Their likelihood of being rescued alive from the ocean floor was minimal on Monday. By Thursday, they were dead- again, unless they were found on the surface somewhere and had managed to carefully preserve their air somehow, they were already dead.

The media didn't really allow for the reality of the situation to be clear until Oceangate and the USCG came out and said 'yeah, they're dead'.

"Well, what's the problem with that?" you might ask. "The United States Coast Guard was the one who was saying it was a rescue up until that point."

Sure. That's their job. Their job is to treat it like an urgent rescue until it is certain that it is not. A significant amount of what they do is to rescue people from doing damnfool things in the water, and keeping hope alive until they find bodies, or evidence thereof. They were doing exactly what they should be doing.

(Whether they do this to this extent for everybody lost at sea is another conversation that's absolutely worth having, as well as their role in border patrol, but I have no bone to pick with the USCG in this particular instance. They did their all until they could do no more, that's the whole point of them, this is how they're supposed to operate.)

The media was not doing what they should be doing. There's an old quote somewhere that I think is just a journalism truism (everyone I've heard talk about it says their journalism professor said it)- if someone tells you it's raining, and someone else tells you it's not, your job isn't to report that, your job is to go outside and see if it's wet.

James Cameron- director of the aforementioned Titanic movie, as well as being a Titanic and deep sea submersible expert, knew they were dead on Monday.

He reached out to some people, he found out that the mother ship lost contact with the crew as well as their location at the same instant, and that the Navy heard a sound consistent with an implosion at around that time.

The information that the Navy heard the implosion was not classified information- they heard it via a listening system that was declassified in the 90s, I believe. Like, I knew about the system just kind of casually because I know random Navy stuff. (My dad was in the Navy, it's mostly osmosis.)

The people on the scene were informed as soon as the Navy knew. (When that was, I'm not sure, except it was before Monday. Probably they had someone go back and listen to it and weren't actively monitoring it, but it's hard to say.)

The deep ocean submersible community knew, well enough that James Cameron could call a buddy and find out. He was telling people on Monday to raise a glass to them.

The media could have had this information, if they did not have it. Either they didn't want to know, or did know, and didn't say it. And I can't say for certain they were suppressing information, but I do know that they frequently downplayed any evidence that these people were dead.

I know on CNN they ran a story about FADOSS- the FlyAway Deep Ocean Salvage System- that was shipped out to Newfoundland. It arrived Wednesday afternoon. Description in the alt text, link here.

At the time this story was published, the people in the sub would have theoretically had less than 24 hours of breathable air. They hadn't even chartered a ship for the FADOSS, at this point. And the port in Newfoundland is hundreds of miles from the site. I'm not sure how many hours away but, like, hours away. I think I heard it's a 6 hour trip, but I'm not certain on that.

This system was referenced in the news as if it was going to be part of the rescue process. Very clearly, this was never going to happen. The quote, 'a process which can take a full day' is a mild understatement, here.

It could, theoretically, be done in 24 hours, but was much more likely to take longer, unless they had enough crew in Newfoundland to do round-the-clock welding.

The response to the question about recovering someone alive is a polite way of saying 'that's not what we do'. They were not part of the rescue operation and were never intended to be, as far as I can tell.

(If you're wondering what part the FADOSS is going to take in the recovery and investigation process, it's not. It's used to lift heavy objects off the floor, and the Titan broke into small enough pieces that the ROVs are believed capable of handling it. FADOSS is on its way back to wherever it is kept. I suspect it was brought out in the edge case that the submersible was found intact with dead crew, to retrieve the vessel whole, so that the families would have bodies to bury.)

Setting aside the 'oh they definitely blew up' news that seems to have been available the whole time, every single piece of evidence and expertise pointed to these people being dead, and yet the news persisted in sort of breathlessly (sorry) talking about the rescue efforts and how much time was left. They persisted in talking about how definitely still alive these people were until they could not do that anymore.

Other examples of this issue are the knocking thing. There were reports of some of the buoys picking up something that could be described as 'knocking'. Some said it was 'every thirty minutes' but we don't know how precise a measurement that was. As soon as they started talking about the knocking, I looked into it.

As it turns out, this is just a thing that happens. The sea is very noisy, and it's hard to determine the source of a sound. Some geological things sound manmade, vice versa. They had a lot of ships cooperating together to work the search area, it's possible that they were hearing noise from those, or something from an oil platform a jillion miles away, because noise travels far and is hard to pinpoint. They had this issue while searching for the sunken USS Thresher and it was one of the ships doing the searching. Given how many different moving parts there were in this search operation, it's hard to say what the knocking was. This is just a thing in the ocean, there's a lot of fuckin noise and experts can't always pinpoint it down in location or even what it might be.

This is why, even though they heard sounds that were consistent with implosion, at the time that the Titan lost total contact with the mother ship, it was still treated as if there was a live rescue operation. Because they couldn't be certain.

But the odds were extremely poor that these men were alive, and almost everybody involved knew that fairly early on. Again, the rescue operation had to go forward like they were looking for someone alive because that's how that works. The media, on the other hand, handled this in a very irresponsible way.

And, like, I know, news media is bad at being news is not some like hot new thing, I've just been building up frustration for days and so it had to come out somehow.

I'm not sure how much of this was just because they're very wealthy men- only one of whom I've ever heard of before- and how much of it was because it was a very bizarre and unique ongoing situation, how much of it was the intersection of that.

But pretty much everybody with enough knowledge to be worth talking to about this knew, like, Monday that even if they weren't dead right then, they were very unlikely to make it out alive, and watching the news wind a bunch of people up over the hopeful outcome was revolting.

Okay. We'll see if I can go 24 hours without talking about this. If you made it to the end of this absolute fucking novel, congratulations and/or I'm sorry.