#ITS BEEN SO LONG SINCE I MADE SOME OF THOSE

[glorifiedagents]

Paid to be Ruined — agatha harkness

"YOU LISTENED." Agatha’s voice was velvet and steel, laced with amusement and unmistakable hunger. Her gaze dragged over you — slow, knowing, lingering on the bare skin of your thighs peeking from beneath your coat. She took a step closer, fingers brushing the belt at your waist, her smirk deepening as she tugged — just enough to loosen it. "Good girl."

SUMMARY: agatha hires you for the night again - and you know for a fact that she's gonna ruin you PAIRING: g!p agatha harkness & escort!fem!reader CAUTION: swallowing cum, creampie, deepthroat, size kink, stomach bulge, spit, dom!sub!dynamics, overstimulation, escort!reader, g!p agatha, degradation and slight aftercare from agatha WORD COUNT: 5.1K AUTHOR'S NOTE: not proof read, let me know if i made mistakes! currently going through my agatha phase - literally need fucking help

You weren’t new to this.

The job, the money, the whole give them what they want, take what you need, and walk away thing. You had it down to a science. You knew how to read people, how to figure out exactly what they were looking for and play the part they wanted. It was easy. Simple. No emotions, no attachments, no mess.

But then there was her.

Agatha Harkness had been different from the start. The first time she hired you, you had expected the usual, maybe a drink, some small talk, a client who wanted to pretend there was more to this than just an exchange. But Agatha? She didn’t do small talk. She didn’t waste time.

She had taken one look at you, studied you with those dark, unreadable eyes, and smirked like she already knew exactly how the night would go. Like she had already decided how far she was going to push you. And the worst part?

She was right.

That night, she had left you wrecked. Not just satisfied — ruined.

You had walked away with sore thighs, a raw throat, and a pay-check big enough to make your head spin. You should have left it at that. Should have chalked it up to just one really good night with a really dangerous woman.

But then she called again. No discussion. No questions. Just a time, a room number, and the unspoken expectation that you would show up.

And against your better judgment, you did.

Only this time, you weren’t just going to show up. This time, you wanted to see just how much further she could break you.

You remembered something she had said the first time around, almost offhand but still deliberate in that way she did everything.

"Red suits you."

So you wore red.

Your best set — delicate lace, thin straps, garters and thigh-high stockings that made you feel like sin itself. And as the elevator carried you up to the top floor, heart pounding, pulse racing, you knew one thing for sure.

You weren’t just getting paid tonight.

You were getting owned.

The black car idled outside the grand hotel, its sleek design gleaming beneath the golden glow of the streetlights. You sat in the back seat, smoothing your hands over your thighs, nerves buzzing beneath your skin. The fabric of your long coat was soft, but it did nothing to still the pounding of your heart.

The driver hadn’t spoken much since picking you up from your apartment — just a clipped greeting and a quiet confirmation of the address before pulling away from the curb. You were grateful. Any attempt at conversation would have been wasted on you. Your mind was too preoccupied, too restless, too consumed by what awaited you on the top floor of this building.

Your breath hitched as you stepped out of the car, heels clicking softly against the pavement. The grand entrance of the hotel loomed ahead, its revolving doors ushering guests in and out with quiet efficiency. The warm air inside wrapped around you as you stepped through, a stark contrast to the crisp night air outside.

The lobby was a sight of wealth — high ceilings, polished marble floors, chandeliers dripping with crystal. The hum of quiet conversation surrounded you, but none of it registered. You walked with purpose, straight to the bank of elevators tucked near the back of the lobby.

Agatha’s message had been simple. A room number. A time. Nothing else.

Your fingers toyed with the belt of your coat as you waited for the elevator, a mix of nerves and anticipation coiling low in your stomach. You had dressed for her. The finest red lace and silk clung to your curves beneath your coat, the bra delicate yet daring, framing your breasts perfectly. The matching panties sat low on your hips, sheer enough to leave little to the imagination. Garters held up sheer thigh-high stockings, adding an extra layer of tease.

She would appreciate the effort. And then she would ruin it.

The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime, and you stepped inside, pressing the button for the top floor. The space was empty save for you, the only sound the soft hum of the elevator rising.

Your pulse quickened. You could already imagine the way she would look at you. The weight of her gaze, dark and knowing, as she took in every inch of you. The way she liked to test your limits, the way she devoured, possessed. She was dangerous in the most intoxicating way, and you had walked straight into her grasp.

Another chime. The doors opened.

The hallway was quiet, lined with plush carpeting that softened the sound of your steps. Each step forward sent another jolt of anticipation through you, every breath felt heavier. The door number burned in your mind.

And then, you were there.

Before you could knock, the door swung open.

Agatha stood in the doorway, bathed in the soft glow of the suite’s lighting. Her dark button-up was partially undone, sleeves rolled up to her forearms, revealing toned, elegant wrists. She looked effortless, but you knew better. Everything about her was intentional.

The moment the door clicked shut behind you, Agatha wasted no time. She had you pinned before you could take another breath, her strong hands pressing you back against the door, her body a solid wall of heat against yours. Her mouth crashed onto yours—hungry, claiming, her teeth scraping against your lower lip before she bit down just hard enough to make you gasp. She swallowed the sound with a satisfied hum, her tongue slipping past your lips as she deepened the kiss, rough yet tantalizingly slow, like she had all the time in the world to ruin you.

Her fingers trailed from your wrists, still trapped against the wood, down the length of your arms, her touch featherlight—teasing. By the time she reached your shoulders, she slid her fingers beneath the delicate straps of your red lace bra, pulling them down achingly slow, her mouth never leaving yours until she finally ripped herself away.

"Look at you," she murmured, stepping back just enough to take in the sight of you, her dark eyes raking over your body like she was devouring you whole. "Dressed up like a good little whore, just for me."

Heat flared through your body at the way she said it, dripping with amusement but edged with something dangerous, something that made your pulse stutter in your throat.

You barely had a second to react before she was on you again—her mouth hot against the curve of your jaw, trailing wet, open-mouthed kisses down your throat. Her hands were everywhere at once—sliding down your arms, gripping your hips, owning every inch of you as she backed you up toward the bed. You whimpered when she took one of your nipples into her mouth, sucking hard, her tongue circling the sensitive peak before her teeth grazed it just enough to make you jerk in her grasp.

"Mm, so fucking sensitive," she mused against your skin before switching to the other, her free hand rolling the abandoned nipple between her fingers. Your hips bucked reflexively against her, needing more, desperate for friction.

And fuck, you felt it. The thick, hard length of her cock pressing against your stomach through her slacks, the outline making your mouth water as you squirmed beneath her.

"Pathetic," Agatha laughed, the sound low and mocking, her fingers trailing down your stomach, stopping just at the waistband of your panties. She could feel how wet they were, her smirk widening as she pressed her fingers against the soaked lace, applying just enough pressure to make you moan. "This soaked already? And I haven't even touched you properly. Such a desperate little thing."

"Agatha, please—"

A sharp slap to your thigh cut you off, the sting making you whimper as your skin burned beneath her palm.

"Did I say you could fucking beg?" she growled, her tone dark, commanding. "You're so needy it’s pathetic. You don’t deserve my cock yet."

You let out a choked sound of frustration, your body aching for more, but she just smirked, dragging her fingers up the inside of your thigh, making you tremble.

Then, without warning, she dropped to her knees.

You gasped at the sudden shift, your breath hitching as she pressed a kiss to your hip, her mouth lingering over the thin straps of your panties. She breathed you in, her nose nudging against the damp lace before she let out a low, satisfied hum.

"Fucking filthy," she murmured, dragging her tongue over the wet fabric, slow and deliberate, tasting you through it. The friction was exquisite—a teasing, maddening pressure that made your thighs shake. She licked a second time, the heat of her mouth soaking through, her fingers digging into your hips as she held you still.

You whimpered, your hands gripping the sheets behind you as your hips jerked up, chasing her mouth. But she pulled away just enough to deny you.

"Patience," she scolded, voice thick with amusement, before reaching up and undoing the garter straps excruciatingly slow, watching your face the entire time.

And then—fuck.

She hooked her fingers into the waistband and pulled your panties down, dragging them down your legs inch by inch, her lips brushing along your thighs as she went. And then, instead of tossing them aside—

She brought them to her mouth.

Your breath caught as she slid the drenched fabric between her teeth, her dark eyes locked onto yours as she pulled them taut, letting them drag over her tongue. She moaned like she was savoring the taste, her smirk never fading as she finally removed them—only to shove them into your mouth.

"Since you can't seem to stop moaning like a desperate slut," she taunted, her fingers trailing down your exposed cunt. "Now you can keep quiet."

You whimpered against the soaked lace in your mouth as she finally pressed two fingers between your folds, spreading you open. She groaned at how wet you were, her thumb finding your clit and rubbing in slow, devastating circles.

"Fuck, look at this mess," she muttered, her fingers teasing your entrance, just barely pushing in before pulling away. "So fucking needy for me. Do you even have a single ounce of dignity left?"

You tried to respond, but your voice was muffled by the panties in your mouth.

Agatha laughed. "That’s what I thought."

And then, without warning, she thrust two fingers inside of you.

Your entire body arched off the bed, a muffled scream escaping past the gag as she filled you all at once, stretching you open with zero hesitation. She set a relentless pace immediately, her fingers driving into you with obscene, wet sounds that only seemed to fuel her amusement.

"Listen to you," she groaned, her free hand palming her cock through her slacks. "Taking my fingers so fucking well. You were made to be used like this."

Her thumb pressed against your clit, circling in time with the thrusts, sending sharp jolts of pleasure racing through your core. The pressure was unbearable, the pleasure so intense that your legs started shaking.

"You're gonna come already, aren’t you?" she mocked, watching you struggle. "Go on. Make a mess."

And then—fuck, fuck, fuck.

She angled her fingers just right, curling them against that perfect spot inside of you while pressing harder against your clit. Your entire body locked up before pleasure exploded through you, a sharp, overwhelming rush that had you squirting all over her fingers, your release dripping down your thighs as you writhed beneath her.

Agatha groaned as she watched you come undone, fucking you through it, her pace unrelenting as she worked you through every wave. "That's it. So fucking messy for me."

When she finally pulled her fingers out, they were dripping. She brought them to her lips, eyes locked onto yours as she sucked them clean, humming at the taste.

Then she stood, undoing her slacks, letting them pool at her feet.

Your breath caught at the sight of her thick, hard cock springing free, the tip glistening. You reached for it immediately, but she caught your wrist, pinning it back against the mattress with a warning glare.

"You don’t get to touch until I say so," she growled, leaning over you, pressing the heavy length against your overstimulated clit, making you whimper. "And you will take every fucking inch."

And fuck, you knew she meant it.

Every single word.

Agatha’s cock drags against your slick folds, teasing, the head catching on your clit with every slow, deliberate stroke. The obscene, wet sounds fill the room, mixing with your breathy whimpers and the low, guttural hum of amusement from her lips. She’s playing with you, watching the way you tremble beneath her, the way your thighs try to clamp together, only to be forced apart by her strong grip.

"Spit." The command is sharp, leaving no room for hesitation.

Your lips part instantly, tongue pushing forward as a warm strand of saliva drips onto her waiting fingers. She smears it over her cock, mixing it with the slick beads of pre-cum already glistening at the tip. A slow, shuddering breath leaves her as she fists herself, pumping with languid strokes, eyes heavy-lidded as she watches you. A few stray drops spill onto your stomach, smearing across your skin, and marking you.

She lines herself up again, pressing the swollen tip against your entrance but not pushing in. Instead, she leans in close, mouth ghosting over yours, her breath hot and teasing.

"You want it?" she murmurs, smirking as she rubs herself against you, teasing, taunting. "Say it. Beg for it."

"Please," you gasp, fingers digging into the sheets. "Please, Agatha, I need—"

The words cut off in a sharp cry as she thrusts into you in one smooth motion, burying herself to the hilt. The stretch is instant, overwhelming — your walls clenching desperately around her thick cock as she fills you completely.

But she doesn’t give you time to adjust.

She sets a ruthless pace from the start, each powerful thrust driving deep, punching the air from your lungs as she claims you. The slap of skin on skin echoes through the room, the mattress creaking beneath the force of her movements. Your back arches, head falling back against the pillows as wave after wave of pleasure crashes through you.

"Feel that?" she growls, grabbing your wrist and guiding your hand down to your stomach. She presses your palm flat against your lower abdomen, right where she’s buried so deep inside you. "Feel me stretching you out? Fucking you open?"

The sensation is dizzying — you can feel the thick, hard outline of her cock through your own skin, feel the way she moves inside you, relentless and unyielding. Your body is burning, electric, the pressure coiling tight in your core with every brutal thrust.

"You’re squeezing me so fucking tight," Agatha groans, her fingers bruising against your hips as she fucks into you harder, deeper. "Like your body's desperate to milk me dry."

The words send a violent shudder through you, the pleasure teetering on the edge of something devastating.

"That’s it," she pants, her grip tightening as she slams into you harder. "Come for me, you filthy little thing — fucking soak me."

It’s too much. The overwhelming fullness, the sharp slap of her hips against yours, the way her cock presses against that perfect spot inside you — it sends you spiralling. Your body seizes, the orgasm ripping through you like a lightning strike, white-hot and all-consuming.

Fuck.

A strangled cry breaks from your lips as the pleasure turns into something explosive — your walls clenching down in rhythmic, desperate spasms, forcing liquid heat to gush from you, soaking Agatha’s cock, your thighs, and the sheets beneath you. The release is violent, messy, your body shuddering uncontrollably as the pleasure crashes over you in waves, each one dragging you under deeper.

Agatha curses under her breath, watching as you fall apart, watching the way you soak her cock, your slick dripping down onto her thighs. Her movements grow erratic, her breath ragged as she slams into you one final time, burying herself to the hilt as her own pleasure overtakes her.

A deep, guttural groan rumbles from her chest as she comes, filling you with heat. You can feel it — the thick warmth spilling deep inside, coating your insides. As if it was seeping into every inch of you. She doesn’t pull out, just grinds against you, making sure every drop stays buried within you.

Your body is still trembling, aftershocks pulsing through your core, your skin flushed and feverish. Agatha finally collapses against you, her cock still inside, pressing a searing kiss to your jaw, her breath still ragged as she murmurs against your ear:

"Mine."

Agatha pulls out slowly, deliberately, watching with dark, predatory eyes as your walls clench around nothing, your body still trembling from the force of your release. A satisfied smirk curls at the corner of her lips as she watches the thick spill of her cum start to leak out of you, glistening as it drips onto your thighs.

"Messy little thing," she muses, voice dripping with amusement and something darker, something possessive. Her fingers trail down your stomach, teasing over the sensitive, overstimulated skin before she presses two fingers against your entrance, spreading you open just enough to watch more of her cum seep out.

"Don’t waste it," she commands, and when you hesitate, she grabs your wrist, guiding your hand down. "Use your fingers. Push it back in."

Your breath stutters, but you do as you're told, your own fingers gathering the warmth of her release, feeling it slick and sticky against your skin before pressing it back inside, your walls fluttering around the intrusion. The act is filthy and it makes you burn with humiliation and arousal all at once.

Agatha hums approvingly, dragging her thumb over your bottom lip, her smirk widening. "That’s a good girl."

But she isn’t done with you.

"On your knees."

Your body obeys before your mind fully catches up, slipping off the bed and sinking onto the floor. The shift makes more of her spend trickle down your thighs, and Agatha notices; her gaze flicking down, her smirk deepening.

"Open your mouth," she orders, tilting your chin up with two fingers.

The second your lips part, she grips the base of her cock and taps the heavy length against your tongue. She’s still hard, impossibly thick, coated in a mix of your slick and her own release. The taste is intoxicating — salty and musky. The scent clings to her skin, warm and heady, something rich and masculine with the faintest hint of sweat.

You could get used to this.

Agatha doesn’t ease you into it. She grips the back of your head and pushes forward, the thick head stretching your lips wide as she sinks deep, pressing against your tongue. The intrusion makes your throat tighten, and she groans at the feeling, her other hand coming to rest heavy on the back of your neck.

"That’s it. Take it," she growls, rolling her hips forward, pushing deeper until your nose nearly brushes the coarse, dark hair at the base of her cock. There’s just enough of it for you to feel against your skin, soft yet undeniably masculine, a reminder of how utterly she’s claiming you.

Your fingers twitch at your sides before you reach up, cupping her balls — heavy, full, sensitive under your touch. You can feel the heat of them against your palm, the weight of them tightening slightly as she thrusts into your mouth.

"Look at you," Agatha sneers, pulling back just enough to let you gasp for air before she thrusts forward again, setting a punishing rhythm. "Nothing but a desperate little cock-sleeve for me, aren’t you? So fucking needy, drooling all over yourself just to have me in your mouth."

Your throat constricts around her, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes, saliva pooling and spilling from the corners of your lips. Your body shudders, caught between humiliation and arousal, between submission and the raw pleasure of being used like this.

"Messy, pathetic thing," she continues, her voice sharper now, laced with satisfaction. "You love this, don’t you? Love being on your knees for me, choking on my cock like the filthy little slut you are."

Her words send a fresh pulse of heat between your thighs, and she notices the slight tremor in your body, the way your nails dig into her thighs as if trying to ground yourself.

"You’re getting off on this," she chuckles darkly, shoving deeper, holding you there for a moment as your throat spasms around her. "Of course you are. You’d let me ruin you, wouldn’t you?"

She groans as she pulls back, letting you breathe just for a second before thrusting forward again, deeper, harder, until you’re gasping around her, tears streaking down your cheeks. And still, you don’t pull away. You take it.

Just like she knew you would.

Agatha’s grip tightens at the back of your head, fingers tangled in your hair as she thrusts deeper, groaning low and guttural as she feels herself teetering on the edge. You can feel the way her cock pulses on your tongue, the way her breath stutters, her rhythm faltering just slightly as she chases that final burst of pleasure.

"Fuck—" she growls, her hips snapping forward one last time, holding you down as her release spills down your throat. The taste is thick, warm, — salty and rich, coating your tongue in waves. She doesn’t let you pull away, making sure you take as much as you can, but it’s too much — some of it dribbles from the corners of your lips, spilling down your chin in hot, sticky trails.

She watches with dark, satisfied eyes as you gasp for breath when she finally pulls back, her cock glistening with spit and the remnants of her orgasm.

"Messy little thing," she murmurs again, thumb swiping at the cum dripping from your chin before pressing it against your lips. "Swallow every last drop."

Your throat bobs as you obey, the act making her smirk in satisfaction.

Then, without warning, she grabs you and pulls you up onto shaky legs, her lips crashing onto yours in a bruising kiss. The taste of her own release lingers between you, and she doesn’t shy away from it —if anything, she deepens the kiss, claiming your mouth with a dominance that makes your knees weak.

She moves you easily, pushing you back onto the bed, her body covering yours, heavy with heat and lingering hunger. Her cock, still hard, presses against your stomach, smearing the last of her release against your skin. You’re panting, dazed, body still trembling from the relentless pleasure she’s wrung from you, but when she starts to pull away, you catch her wrist, eyes glassy with need.

"I wanna ride you," you gasp, the words tumbling out breathlessly, your body aching but desperate for more.

Agatha chuckles, low and smug, dragging her fingers down your chest, teasing over your already-sensitive skin. "You think you can handle that?" she taunts, tracing slow circles over your overstimulated clit, making your thighs twitch. "You’re still shaking, baby. After everything I’ve done to you, you really think you can take control?"

The challenge sends another shiver down your spine, your breath hitching as you push up onto shaky arms. "Let me try," you whisper, lips brushing against hers, your voice filled with determination despite the exhaustion in your limbs.

Agatha leans back against the pillows, her body stretched out beneath you, radiating heat and authority even in repose. Her cock, still thick and glistening with a mix of your slick and her own release, stands hard between her legs, a silent challenge. The way she watches you; head tilted, lips curled in a knowing smirk; makes your pulse spike, a flush crawling up your chest.

"Go on then," she murmurs, voice laced with amusement, fingers idly trailing up her stomach. "Show me what you can do, baby."

Your thighs tremble as you shift forward, crawling into position, your body still aching from the relentless way she’s used you but the hunger still simmers beneath the exhaustion, pulsing low in your belly. You want this. Need this. Need to take her in deep, to feel every inch stretch you open again.

You straddle her lap, your hands braced against her stomach, feeling the taut muscles flex beneath your palms as you hover just above her length. The heat of her cock brushes against your swollen folds, sending a fresh shudder through you. She feels like fire against your skin. Thick and rigid, pulsing with need, the tip teasing against your entrance as you roll your hips ever so slightly, coating her in your arousal.

Agatha hums in approval, her hands gliding up your thighs, slow and possessive. "Look at you," she murmurs, her thumbs pressing into the sensitive skin where your legs meet your hips. "So desperate to have me inside you again. Can’t get enough, can you?"

You bite your lip, but she catches your chin between her fingers, forcing your gaze to meet hers. "Say it."

Your breath stutters, your body burning from the inside out as you whisper, "I can’t get enough of you."

Her smirk deepens. "Good girl."

She releases you just as you sink down, your breath catching in your throat as the thick head of her cock pushes past your entrance, stretching you inch by inch. The burn is instant—blissful, overwhelming, your walls struggling to take her all at once.

Agatha groans beneath you, her fingers digging into your thighs. "Fuck, you’re tight," she rasps, watching with hooded eyes as you slowly lower yourself onto her, taking her deeper, letting the length of her disappear inside you.

Your head falls back as you bottom out, her cock nestled impossibly deep, pressing against every nerve inside you. The sensation is devastating, a perfect mix of pleasure and pressure, and you tremble above her, nails scraping against her abdomen as you struggle to catch your breath.

"Feel that?" Agatha murmurs, her voice smug as she presses a hand against your lower stomach, right where she’s buried to the hilt. "So deep I can feel myself inside you again. Fuck baby."

You whimper, rolling your hips experimentally, the movement sending sharp waves of pleasure through you. The drag of her cock against your walls is slow and torturous, every inch brushing against that spot inside you that makes your vision blur.

Agatha watches you struggle to find a rhythm, her grip tightening. "Come on, baby," she taunts, giving your thigh a sharp slap that makes you jolt. "You wanted to ride me. Show me how much you need it."

A determined fire flares in your chest, and you plant your hands against her shoulders, lifting yourself just enough before sinking back down, harder this time. The impact sends a delicious jolt through you, pleasure sparking at the base of your spine.

Agatha groans, her hands sliding up to your chest, palms covering your breasts, squeezing as she rolls your sensitive nipples between her fingers. The sensation makes you gasp, the mix of pleasure and pain sending a fresh wave of arousal pooling between your thighs.

"That’s it," she murmurs, her grip firm but teasing, playing with your body as she lets you work yourself on her cock. "Such pretty tits, bouncing every time you take me. Keep going, baby. Make yourself cum on me."

The words send a rush of heat through you, your movements growing desperate, erratic, your nails digging into her skin as you chase the high she’s leading you toward. The pleasure coils deep in your belly, unbearably tight, and when Agatha tweaks your nipple just right, rolling it between her fingers, it snaps.

A strangled cry rips from your throat as your climax crashes over you, your entire body shaking as pleasure consumes you. Your walls clench down around her, pulsing, milking her cock with every wave of your release.

Agatha groans, her thrusts turning erratic as she follows, burying herself deep inside you with one final snap of her hips. The warmth of her release floods your core, thick and hot, filling you completely as her grip tightens around you.

Then, with a smirk, Agatha leans in, nipping at your jaw but this time, her touch is softer. As you collapse onto her chest, spent and trembling, she strokes a hand down your back, her other hand massaging the sore muscles of your thighs.

"You did so well for me," she murmurs, pressing lazy kisses against your shoulder. "My good girl."

You hum, barely able to keep your eyes open as her hands knead away the ache, working out the tension she put into you. The warmth of her touch soothes the lingering sting of overstimulation, and for a moment, you think about letting yourself drift off.

But you don’t. You can’t.

The rules are the rules. Your rules.

With effort, you shift, slipping from her grasp, your limbs still shaky as you slide out of bed. Agatha watches as you stand, stretching despite the soreness in your legs, and move toward where your clothes are strewn across the floor.

"You’re not gonna shower?" she asks, her tone casual but curious as she props herself up on an elbow, watching you with sharp eyes.

You shake your head, pulling your clothes back on with practiced efficiency. "I’ll do it at home."

Agatha doesn’t say anything for a moment, just studies you as you gather your things. Then, without breaking eye contact, she reaches for the bedside table, grabs the check she had prepared, and hands it to you.

"You know…" she starts, voice slower now, something unreadable beneath the surface. "You can stay the night."

The offer lingers in the air between you, heavier than it should be.

But the rules are the rules.

You take the check, meeting her gaze one last time before slipping out the door.

And Agatha watches you go.

[janicho88]

Know When To Let Go Part 1

Pairing- Dean, x Female!Reader. 

Word count- 3,889

Warnings- A lot of ANGST, Dean is a bit of jerk, fighting,

Summary- You almost lost Dean to a heart attack, now after one phone call there is another threat from the past that could come between you two.

A/N-I know this isn't one of my ongoing series, but this has been in my drafts for years. The first 2 parts are a rewrite of the Route 66 episode. I'm trying to get back into writing, I promise. It's been so long since I've posted, I'm not even sure what to use for a taglist so I'm going off the last Forever tag list. If you would like to be removed let me know. Not Beta'd, all mistakes are mine

Sitting in the back of Baby, you think back on this last week, it was one of the worst of your life.  During the last hunt Dean had been electrocuted which led to him having a heart attack.  Doctors didn’t give him much time, you and Sam worked like crazy looking for some way to save him.  Finally, Sam found a faith healer, which turned into another case on its own.  Now, Dean was in the motel room saying goodbye to the chick he met on this job.  Sam was kind enough to bring her back to talk to Dean.  No, you weren’t jealous at all, but does he seriously have to meet a girl in every town you stop in?

Your parents had been hunters and would drop you off at Bobby’s, which is where you met Sam and Dean as kids. Dean was a year older, and had taken you under his wing.  When you were twelve, your parents never made it back from a hunt.  You lived with Bobby until you turned 18, then you started hunting with the Winchester instead of researching at Bobby’s. Sam was like a little brother to you, even if he shot up taller than all of you.  Dean was your best friend and as you grew up, he was the man who stole your heart.  You never saw him sharing those feelings so you kept them bottled up.  This left you standing by and watching, the constant hookups and flirting breaking your heart a little more each time.  Sam has known since you were kids there was something between you and Dean, and often pushes you to tell his brother.  You could never bring yourself to do it, and in turn, lose Dean altogether.  

You were there for Dean through everything, the rough hunts, Sam leaving for Stanford, fights with his dad, then John disappearing a few months ago which led to picking up Sam who then lost Jess.  You couldn’t imagine what losing Dean last week would have done to you.  When he was in the hospital, you came close to telling him how you felt when he was holding you next to him in the tiny hospital bed.  The two of you had gotten fairly close over the last case, but once again someone else had caught his eye. 

The three of you stop at a gas station when Dean gets a phone call and walks off.  Sam is standing next to the car looking over a map to plan your route to Pennsylvania, where your next case is. Dean starts heading back to the car putting his phone away.  

“I think I found a way we can bypass that construction just east of here.  We might even make Pennsylvania faster than we thought,” Sam calls out.

Dean looks out over the car before turning to the two of you, “Problem is, we’re not going to Pennsylvania”

You and Sam look at each other before looking at Dean.  “Where are we going then?” You ask.

“I got a call from an, uh, old friend.  Her father was killed last night, thinks it might be our kind of thing.”

“What? Who’s the friend?” Sam wanted to know.

“Listen, trust me on this, she never woulda called, never, if she didn’t need us.”

There is a sinking feeling in your stomach, “who is the friend Dean?” He just ignores you and hops in the car.

As you were driving Sam again tries to get Dean to tell him who the old friend is.  You are headed to Mississippi, which gives you a pretty good idea of who this friend is and you are livid. 

Dean finally says the name you are dreading, Cassie.  You had been traveling with Dean when he met her in Ohio, and they had gone out for a few weeks.  You didn’t like her then and you really didn’t like her the night Dean came back to the hotel drunk and heartbroken because she ended things.  She was a stuck up snob, she absolutely crushed Dean. 

“She actually had the nerve to call you and ask for help?” you exclaim. Unfeaking believable, and apparently Dean is still pretending he can’t hear you.

“You never mentioned her before,” Sam is telling Dean.

“Really?” When Sam just looks at him Dean continues, “ Yeah, we went out.”

“Like more than one night?  You actually dated somebody?”

“What are you not getting here?  Dad, Y/N, and I were working a job in Ohio, she was in college.  

We went out for a couple of weeks.”

“What happened between you guys?”

“Drop it Sam,”  you really didn’t want to dig up this part of the past.

“Was there more going on?” The dense man kept pushing.

“Yeah, they went out. She was a bitch, they broke up, it broke his heart, and I had to fix her mess.”

“Knock it off, Y/N.  That was years ago, and in the past.”  Now he acknowledges you, just to  defend her.  He couldn’t still have feelings for her could he?

“Okay.  So I’m sorry about her dad, but why would she call you if he was in a car accident?  Not really our kinda thing?” It took Sam a minute, “wait, does she know what we do?”  Dean didn’t answer staring ahead. “Dude, you didn’t?”

“He actually told the bitch what we really do, Sam.”

“Watch it Y/N.” Dean gives you a glare through the rearview mirror, and you give one right back.   

Sam looks at you curiously. You aren’t usually one for hate unless they deserve it. 

“Wait. You told her. You told her our secret! Our big family number one rule, we do what we do and we shut up about it.  I never said a word about it to Jess for over a year and a half, instead I lied to her. But you tell some girl you only knew a few weeks, everything.”  Dean still didn’t answer, just looking straight ahead.  “Dean!” 

“Yeah, looks like.”  He just pushed down on the accelerator ignoring Sam’s bitchface.

“Witch, didn’t deserve to know anything,”  you muttered under your breath.  Judging by the glare Dean sends back he still heard you.

There isn’t much talking between any of you after that. You arrive in town and Dean parks near the newspaper building and quickly exits the car.  Guess she told him where she works.  

Walking inside you see three people arguing and unfortunately recognize one of them as Cassie. One of the men leaves and the other walks away when Cassie turns to face the three of you, giving Dean a grin and calling out his name. Dean gives her a small grin.  Why is she so happy? She's the one who dumped him.  Oh she just made you fuming mad. 

“Hey Cassie.” She doesn’t say anything and they just stare at each other before Dean continues.  “This is my brother Sam, and you remember Y/N.”  

You would be pretty shocked if she didn’t remember you.  After calming Dean down and he finally passed out that night, you went to her apartment and bitched her out. Which is probably why she smiled at Sam and ignored you.

“I’m sorry bout your dad,” Dean started.

“Yeah, Me too,” she answers.

 Well, she does talk.  This staring is driving you nuts.  “You called Cassie, apparently you think you need our help.”

“I didn’t know you would still be around.” She quickly glances at you before going back to Dean, “Maybe we should go somewhere else.”

“Well, I don’t desert the people I care about.”

Dean glares at you as everyone leaves the building and walks back to the Impala to follow her to her mother’s house.  When she gets in her car Dean grabs your arm stopping you.  “That’s enough out of you! You don’t have to be such a bitch, you know.”

He climbs behind the wheel of Baby, and you roll your eyes before sliding in yourself. 

Cassie brings out tea when you arrive, she settles down close to Dean. She tells you all how her mother has been in bad shape, so she was staying at the house with her.  She has been very nervous lately and worried about her husband.  When Dean asks why, Cassie mentions her dad had been scared and seeing things, like an awful-looking black truck following him.  Sam interrupts to ask who the driver was, but apparently her dad never mentioned one.  The truck was always appearing and disappearing.  Her father’s car had been dented in the accident, and it looks like something big. 

You’ve been watching Dean, and have to hide a laugh when he is giving his tea a weird look before quickly putting it aside on the table. You turn your attention back to what Cassie is saying.  The sooner you solve this, the sooner you can leave this town. 

“Dad sold cars, and was always driving a new one. There wasn’t a scratch on it before the accident.  It was raining hard that night, and mud was everywhere.  There was one distinct set of muddy tracks which led from dad’s car to the edge where he went over.”  She paused trying to gain control of her emotions, “only his tracks.”

“The first accident, he was a friend of your father’s?” Dean asks her.

“Yes, Clayton Soames, they were best friends, and owned the dealership together.  Same thing, a dent, no tracks, and the cops said he lost control too.”

Dean wants to know if she has any thoughts on why the two men would have been targets, but she doesn’t. Then Sam asks her if she thought it was the vanishing truck her dad saw.

“When you say it out loud like that, listen, I’m a bit skeptical about this… ghost stuff… or whatever it is you guys do.”

“Skeptical?  If I remember right you said I was nuts.”

“If you don’t believe it, why did you bother calling Cassie?”  You cut in after Dean.  Getting another glare from the man. 

“That was back then, I just can’t explain what happened so I called you.” Her and Dean are back to staring at each other, I just might be sick you think. 

“Excuse us a second,”  Dean gets up and grabs your arm, pulling you out of your seat across from him and to the corner of the room.  “If you aren’t actually going to be any help you can leave, and go wait in the car.”

Before you can reply, Cassie’s mom walks in and she gets up to talk to her.  Dean walks away leaving you standing alone.  She introduces Dean as a friend from college and Sam as his sibling, you get nothing.  Sam sees you hurry outside trying to hide the tears in your eyes, he knows Dean’s behavior has to be getting to you.  Excusing himself he follows you outside.

“Sam, you are always telling me I need to be honest with Dean about my feelings.  This is why I can’t, he’ll choose some chick who hurt him over me, the person who has been there for him for over 15 years.”  Dean comes out and you turn away from him quickly.

“I don’t understand what your problem is, but that was unnecessary,” he snaps at you. 

The three of you head back to the motel shortly.  It is a quiet ride back, you and Dean aren’t speaking to one another, and Sam doesn’t want to get either of you going. Usually, you share a bed with Dean, but that isn’t going to happen tonight.  At least the room has a couch, as bad as it looks it is still better than the floor.

Early the next morning Dean’s phone rang waking you up from the little sleep you had gotten.  It’s Cassie, apparently someone else died during the night, same way as the others.  Dean is hurrying both you and Sam to get ready and out the door. When you arrive at the scene Cassie is talking to one of the men from yesterday.  Dean is quick to walk over, you and Sam following behind. 

“Did the cops check for additional denting on Jimmy’s car, see if it was pushed?”

The man looked at Dean then back to Cassie, “Who is this?”

“Dean and Sam Winchester, and… his friend Y/N, they’re family friends.  This is Mayor Harold Todd.”

“There is one set of tracks, just one. Nothing points to foul play here.”

“Mayor, the police, officials, everyone is taking their cues from you, if you are indifferent about this then..”

“Indifferent!” He interrupts her

“Mayor, would you close the road if the victims were white?”

“Are you suggesting I’m racist Cassie, I’m the last person you should talk to like that.”

When Cassie tries to find out why, he just tells her to ask her mother and walks away. 

From there Dean drives you all back to the motel room to change into fed clothes.  While in the bathroom getting ready you can hear the boys talking, well Sam at least trying to get information from Dean about Cassie

. 

“I’ll say this for her, she’s fearless,” Sam starts, Dean just humming.  “I bet she kicked your ass a few times.  It’s interesting you guys never look at each other at the same time.  You look when she isn’t and she checks you out when you aren’t.  It’s an interesting observation you know, in an observationally interesting way.”

Just shut-up about her Sam, you think to yourself. “You think we might have more pressing issues here?” Dean finally responds.

“Hey, if I’m hitting a nerve.”

“Y/N, hurry up we’re leaving, let’s go,” Dean yells for you.

You leave for the docks to talk to a few guys who are friends of the victims, Cassie has mentioned they would be there having lunch.

“Excuse me.  Are you Ron Stubbins?”  You asked, reaching the two men first. When he nods, Dean takes over talking.

“You were friends with Jimmy Anderson?”

“Who wants to know?” Ron counters.

“We’re with Mr. Anderson’s insurance company, got to dot the I’s and cross some T’s.”

“We were just wondering if the deceased had mentioned any unusual experiences recently?” Sam cut in.

The men are looking at the three of you funny so you step in, “Well visions, hallucinations.  It’s part of a medical examination kind of thing.  This is all standard.”

“It takes three of you to come down?  What company did you say you were with?”

“I’m new, these guys are training me.”

“All National Mutual,” Dean cut in.  “Can you tell me, did he ever mention seeing a truck? A big black truck?”

“What the hell are you all talking about?  You even speaking English?” Ron asks.

“Son this truck, is it a big scary monster looking thing?”  The man with Ron cut in.

“Yeah, actually, I think so.”  Dean answers him.  The man just nods.  “What about it?”

“I’ve heard of a truck like that,” he finally answers.. 

That gets Sam’s attention, “You have, Where?”

“Not a where, but a when, son. Back in the ‘60’s there was a string of deaths.  Black men.  Story goes they disappeared in a big, nasty, black truck.”

“Did they ever catch the guy?” Dean wants to know.

“No, never found him.  Hell, not sure if they even really looked.  See there was a time, this town wasn’t too friendly to all its citizens.” 

“Thank you for your time,” you tell the men as the three of you turn to walk back to the Impala.  

The guys start talking while you follow behind. 

“This truck,” Dean starts.

“Keeps coming up doesn't it?” Sam fills in.

“You know, I was thinking.  You heard of the flying dutchman?” Dean asks his brother.

“That ghost ship?  It was infused with the captain’s evil spirit, and basically part of him.”

“What if this is like the same thing here? You know, a phantom truck, an extension of some bastard’s ghost, that is re-enacting past crimes?”

“Could be, the victims have all been black men.”

“It’s more than that, everything seems to be connected to Cassie and her family.”

“It’s all, all about Cassie,” you mutter under your breath, but apparently not low enough again.

“What is your deal?” Dean turns to you, “you have been a nag ever since I told you we were coming here!  All these stupid little comments.  What the hell is your problem?”

“You really have to ask me what my problem is?  You are so blinded by what you once felt for her.  I was there with you Dean, when things ended, I know how much she hurt you.  I absolutely hate her, and so did you before yesterday.”

“She hurt me, me, not you.  I never asked for you to help me, it’s not up to you how I handle this.  My life doesn’t concern you, stay out of it!  Grow up Y/N, I’m sick and tired of your attitude.”

“Maybe it’s just time I did get out of it.  If I’m gone then I can’t interfere in your life anymore.”

“Maybe that would be a great idea.  I’m over the way you’ve been lately.”

“Fine, after this case, I’m out of your hair.”

“Best thing you’ve said all case.”

“Alright guys, let’s just calm down,” Sam tries to intervene before it blows up, turning to Dean,  “you go work that angle with Cassie and her family, talk to her”

“Yeah, I will.”  Dean throws a glare your way when he answers.

“You might also wanna mention that other thing.”

“What other thing?”

“The unfinished business between you two. Dean, what is going on between you?”

You can’t listen so you walk away to calm yourself down.

“Maybe, we were a bit more involved than I said before.” Sam just stares at him.  “Okay so a lot more. I told her our secret, what’s out there and what we do.  I shouldn’t have.”

“Come on man, everyone needs to open up to someone at some point.”

“No, I don’t.  It was stupid of me to get that close. Just look how it ended.”

“Is that what’s wrong with Y/N?  How bad this thing ended with you and Cassie?”

“I don’t know what the hell her problem is, but she needs to get over it fast.”

“Did you love her?”

“Y/N? She’s my best friend, dude I can’t.”

“I meant Cassie, but good to know your mind goes there first.”

“No, didn’t. I’m leaving.”

“You did love her, and you dumped her.”  Sam watches Dean for a minute, “Wait, she dumped you?”

Dean walked over to the Impala’s door, “Just get in the car, get in the car.”

“What about Y/N?”  Sam asks, getting in and looking around for you.

“She can walk back, maybe it will cool her down.”

You walked around the corner trying to calm yourself down and keep the tears at bay.   When you are turning to go back you see the Impala speed by.  They seriously left you here?  Dean really did want you gone. Looking down, you are glad you didn’t grab the heeled shoes, at least this pair wasn't awful for walking. 

You turn back around and start the thirty minute walk to the motel.  This time you can’t stop the tears from falling.  You have loved Dean for years, and been his best friend even longer.  You want to be there for Dean. You were best friends, wasn’t that how it was supposed to be?  If you  are honest with yourself, you would know it was more than that, he was it for you.  It was clear lately, you're not the one for him.  Apparently you mean nothing to him.  Years ago, when he was hurt by Cassie, he changed and didn’t let anyone, even you get as close as he used to.  Maybe you should get your own room tonight, and start adjusting to being on your own.  This case couldn’t wrap up fast enough for you to get out of this town. 

You arrive back at the motel and the Impala is nowhere to be seen.  Either they aren’t back yet, or Dean dropped Sam off and went to her.  Heading to the room you plan to grab your things and get another room.  Opening the door you think you are alone, until Sam walks out of the bathroom. 

“Y/N, I’m glad you’re back, I’m sorry Dean left without you.”

“Don’t worry about it Sam, he obviously isn’t.

”

“What is going on with you two?”

“I think we have just had enough of each other.”

“It’s more than that.”

You let out a sigh before turning to sit on the bed.  “Dean doesn’t think straight around Cassie, he never has.  I don’t want to see him hurt again, because I know she will.  He changed the minute he got her call.”

“When are you going to tell my brother you are in love with him?”

“I’m not Sam, I told you last night, he doesn’t share those feelings.  Hell, he wants me gone, out of his life, and maybe that isn’t a bad idea.”

“What are you saying?”

“Our friendship is barely hanging on by a thread, I’m not going to cut that final one by telling him how I feel.  He wouldn’t wait for this case to even be over before he made me leave.  It’s clear I’ve overstayed my welcome with you two.”  

“No, you haven’t.  I think we all just need a break after this.  You and Dean aren’t thinking straight right now.”

“I’m going to grab another room. I don’t think we need the three of us in one tonight.”

“You don’t need to do that.” 

“It would be better if...”

“No,” Sam cuts you off, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m sorry, but Dean is with Cassie, we need to figure out how this relates back to her family. I don’t know when he’ll even get back tonight, so don’t worry about another room. Everything will be back to normal in a day or two.”

“Sam, I’m leaving when this case is over.  I need to be on my own for a bit.  You will always be my not so little, little brother, but I can’t stay around him anymore.

Y/N, come on.  It’s just a fight, you guys will be fine in a few days.

“I’m going to hit the shower.”  You don’t want him to try and talk you out of this decision.  

Walking into the bathroom you quickly turn on the water so Sam won’t hear you cry.  After 18 years of friendship this is where you finally part ways from the man who has been there for you since he was 8 years old. Dean doesn’t want you around and you can’t keep watching him sleep with all those other women.  The knife in your chest twists a little more every time.  Getting out of the shower you get ready for bed, sleeping on the couch again because you couldn’t bring yourself to sleep in the bed that smells like Dean, even if it would be the last time.  You know Sam is asleep and you don’t fight the tears that surface once again.

Part 2-coming soon

Thank you for reading!

Taglist-@winchest09 @flamencodiva @whatareyousearchingfordean  @waywardbeanie

 @deanwanddamons  @emoryhemsworth  @atc74 @sandlee44

@akshi8278 @fantasydevil2002 @writercole @440mxs-wife   

@nervousfandom @lunarmoon8 @thoughts-and-funnies @katelyn–renee​ 

 @lyarr24 @pineapleavocado @siospins2 @deans-spinster-witch

 @ariesbabe1993​ @graciebear73 @stixnstripesworld @spnbaby-67

 @treat-winchesterswith-kindness @charmed-asylum  @winchestergirl2 @jawritter

@hobby27 @amyzombie1013  @sexyvixen7 @leigh70

@krazykelly @nancymcl @candy-coated-misery0731

@kmc1989 @supraveng @hearteyes-j2

[sleepypanda01]

CB theories/Thoughts part 6 (Is Nox cursed or punished?)

the crack theory of @lonelylilspider06 about Buddy being the thief key made me look back to some other theories I had in mind that I didn't post since I felt they were too much of a stretch but theorising is fun so here we are. 

I think most of us have seen the theory of Nox being a key is the result of a punishment or a curse and this made me think. What is ex libris? We know it is an organisation that created the keys in order to extract a substance from books that allows them to make a wish. But what does Ex Libris mean? It is basically a bookplate but what's interesting is that bookplates replaced book curses that were used to prevent book theft.

As the original poster pointed out,Nox has stolen quite a few times during the story and it is possible he has done it behind the scenes too. As stated in previous parts,Nox has a tendency to project his feelings onto Chase and he has accused him at least twice of stealing Silver and Bronze. The truth is that Chase found those keys and Nox should know it since they didn't used to be in his possession and they are suddenly missing. What if in the past Nox has stolen a key or/and a book for a personal reason and was punished through a curse for it? The official art of him suggests that he used to have someone close to him so maybe he wanted to help that person,but got himself into trouble. 

It would explain his reaction to Chase's comment back in the beach boys arc. Maybe the old man makes him believe he deserves this kind of punishment for taking something that wasn't his to use.

However, what is interesting is that Nox hints on not trusting humans in general and not just a certain one.

This could mean he faced a severe betrayal or has been mistreated by people more than once. 

The fandom has speculated before that we might get a second name reveal since Nox doesn't sound like a very human name. It is possible that "Nox" is the name that was given to him after turning into a key,but he doesn't seem to have any problem with Violet using that name. If he had another name as a human I think he would prefer it if Violet addressed him using that(or maybe he is losing memories of his human days). Unless,Nox is actually his only name and he was always destined to turn into a key. If someone who raised him or looked after him turned out to be using him for personal reasons,it would make sense that Nox struggles with trusting others and it explains why he seems to separate himself from other humans and associates himself more with keys. Also,if we accept the theory that Nox was always meant to turn into a key to replace another key,it makes me think of how long the keys have been missing. As stated in previous parts, Goldie and Bronze were covered in dirt and had their keyrings on unlike Silver, which indicates that some keys haven't been used in a long time. Nox could be around 17-20 years old so that could possibly mean that some keys have been missing for over ten years? I doubt someone would give birth to kids to replace keys,I assume that Nox used to be an orphan taken in and raised by someone that has relations to magic and the keys (not sure if it is ex libris though cause I feel that either ex libris is not active or that Nox is not being kept by them. I think it is another organisation or that ex libris has changed its methods over the years,or someone else took over,which further suggests that some keys have been missing for quite a long time if they are not aware of the changes occurring within the organisation). 

Lastly, when Nox confronted Chase for the first time he told him ‘’it’s your funeral ’’this could have many meanings that we don’t know the details of as we don’t have much insight on Nox’s circumstances, but if there are curses connected to the keys and ex libris maybe Nox was hinting on a curse falling on Chase for using Silver.

 @squeer-el made once a theory of Chase and Deacon turning into  keys, so what if they are turned once they gather enough narratonin? Nox can not turn into a key as he is already one. But this raises further questions, if using the keys is dangerous does that mean that other than Nox possibly stealing the narratonin, he is also guilty for not letting Chase know that he is also in danger of getting cursed?

Overall, I don’t know where I am going with this,but it was fun to write so why not go ahead and post it? lol let me know what you guys think and as always thank you for reading ❣

Bonus detail: A book curse ( which was replaced by bookplates that are ex lirbis) usually invoked threat of excommunication or anathema, which is a funny detail because the page that Chase found with Silver has the song lyrics of a greek song called ‘’anathema se’’. Punko has confirmed that the lyrics were random text she found so they did not mean anything, but it is a funny coincidence…unless it is not👀 //jk

[tozettastone]

With the usual disclaimers that this is a draft, may be subject to change, etc. etc., I have come to show you the first part of the draft of my OC×Itachi Covenant Fic (paging @mixelation and @waffliesinyoface, my covenant buddies). This is also to prove I am definitely writing it, 100%, promise, LOL.

I think for me right now, this opening sets up all the things I want it to, but it's pretty slow and it introduces three (3) OCs, when the preferred number is probably one (1). That's kind of a product of its setting, but maybe that means I should have picked a different one. Well, we'll see how I go.

---

It was almost impossible to buy close-toed boots in the elemental nations.

Fuyumi had tried. For years, Fuyumi had tried. Suppliers who produced them — mostly those in the frigid mountains up near Lightning, go figure — did not make them in her size. Everywhere else, they were a custom product, and requests were met with furrowed brows and eye-watering prices.

Fuduka Fuyumi, an unaffiliated ninja doggedly avoiding her own debtors, certainly could not afford to have warm, dry toes. This was why her toes squelched when she stepped out of the river that morning.

There absolutely existed ninja in this world whose chakra control was good enough to jog five miles down a swift-flowing river and simply avoid wet toes altogether. Some of those ninja even stopped in Uteki village, actually, since they were so close to Ame, where the worst-hidden secret society of ninja criminals on the planet made their base. Fuyumi was not among their august number, though. She had her own tricks and talents — she could drink grown men under the table and crush watermelons with only the undiluted power of her thighs. Fine chakra control? Not so much.

The dock was a floating wooden platform that bobbed along with the current of the river. The boats that arrived there were mostly long river barges, and the waterway was narrow enough that some of them were even drawn by horses or oxen pulling along the far bank. The bleached and battered wood creaked under the feet of the labourers, rough-looking men whose jobs consisted in the logistics of all this industry, taking from boats onto carts into warehouses and into, presumably, other carts.

In this part of town, the warehouses huddled like stout ugly sentinels over the river, surrounded by detritus of crates and ropes and rusted horseshoes and canvas. Further in was the market square, which was a bloody grand name for a place where they generally sold sweet fuck all.

Despite her squelching footsteps, nobody even glanced twice at Fuyumi when she returned. The tiny Fuduka family was well known in the village. It was her home now.

While she'd been living there, Fuyumi had never once thought she'd come to miss the dubious luxuries of her old home town. She'd grown up on a hard-packed red-dirt road between an electrical supply store and a farm equipment supplier. She'd had dial-up internet well into the 2010s, and the places to be seen were the mobile monthly disco and the shopping centre car park. But the elemental nations, in aggregate, had really made her count all the blessings to which she no longer had access. You know: a variety of beautiful out-of-season foods, healthcare that wasn't based on vibes alone, taxpayer-funded disability and aged pensions, a twelve-year educational curriculum… and fucking shoes. With covered toes.

Fuyumi even missed XXXX, which was, frankly, saying something. She had yet to find a single lager in the elemental nations.

She squelched a little more on her way to the market, waving to the few people who lifted their hands at her in passing, most of whom she recognised vaguely from long nights spent in the bar. In her experience, docks always had the better bars. Anywhere the wharfies were, you could guarantee no wine sat open long enough to sour.

Although heading immediately to a bar at noon on a Wednesday was not totally unknown for Fuyumi, she did have responsibilities, and today these took her down towards the market instead.

The warehouses were quickly exchanged for symptoms of consumer commerce: faded striped awnings and peeling wooden signs arranged loosely down a tiny street of semi-permanent storefronts, manned by farmers' wives and the odd travelling merchant. The very moment she stepped out of the shadow of the teahouse on the corner, a creaky voice called out:

"Oh, Fuyumi-san! Could I trouble you to help me with this?"

'This,' was three hefty crates packed tightly with bottles and straw, and 'me' turned out to be an ageing woman Fuyumi recognised only vaguely. She might've been one of her grandmother's friends. (Akane, despite her entire personality, had many friends.)

"Sure," said Fuyumi, because her next destination was her mother's house, and there was pretty much no task Fuyumi would disdain in pursuit of procrastinating against that eventuality. She unloaded the clinking bottles under the twin glowers of the midday sun and of the lady, who turned out to be called Aya. It wasn't ringing a bell? But Fuyumi didn't really mind moving heavy stuff for old ladies even if she didn't know them. If Fuyumi was ever old — which experience said was… uh, not likely — she'd want local ninja to unload crates for her. Right?

The bottles turned out to be full of oil, so they were light, but there were a lot of them and their shapes made them awkward to handle. While she was drifting between the crates and the shady insides of Auntie Aya's little wooden store, Fuyumi learned that the crates were outside on the street because that was where Aya's son had delivered them, instead of putting them inside the shop where they could be locked away from harm.

"He's useless, you know," Auntie Aya said, watching Fuyumi's progress from her three-legged stool. "You mustn't marry him. Although I suppose you'd be useful enough for two. You ninja have to have so many skills, it's a tough job for a woman…"

She went on in this vein for some time, and Fuyumi mostly let it wash over her.

Before she let her go, Aya said, "Those ninja men in the black coats have been around again," which really just went to show why you should always help lonely old ladies when they asked.

"Huh. Good to know. Are they… bothering you?" Fuyumi wondered. She didn't know what the hell she was going to do about it if they were. She was a ninja, but she wasn't, like, the kind of ninja you asked for when Uchiha Obito was causing a nuisance and you wanted someone to stop him, you know? She licked her teeth. She could help with an expeditious evacuation, in a pinch.

"Oh, no, they never bother us here." Thank fuck for that. "But I thought a kunoichi should be careful."

Fuyumi cracked her neck and rubbed her nose. "That's good advice, Auntie," she agreed.

She left the store, richer by a single bottle of oil Auntie Aya pressed upon her, and went about her business, which today consisted in collecting groceries for her mother — the inimitable and moody Fukuda Setsuko. She kept an eye out for a flash of red clouds and black swishy fabric while she did it, though.

Once upon a time, back in, like, 2007, the person currently known as Fuyumi had read a shitty scanlation of the Naruto manga. She'd done this via a screebly dial-up connection, hunched over a glowing CRT monitor while the fan clicked lazily (and futilely) overhead. Later, she'd caught… most of the Shippuden anime, probably, on her laptop, and managed to figure out the rest via social media osmosis in between her university classes.

Back then, she hadn't been an Akatsuki fan. Even the most fleshed out of the characters had seemed to have confused (and confusing) motives, and some of them were completely incomprehensible. Now, living as she did in Uteki, she'd actually spotted several of those men in the wild, and she… still wasn't an Akatsuki fan? They were extremely impressive ninja, sure, but the elemental nations were full of extremely impressive ninja, and not all of them were sixteen personality disorders in a flappy coat.

Fuyumi had even spotted the much-beloved figure of Uchiha Itachi once, from a distance, and her thoughts on that fan favourite were: wow, there's really no accounting for taste, huh? She didn't get the appeal. He was a pale guy with a resting bitchface that could kill someone from fifty paces, and he walked around swaddled in a coat too big for him, looking exhausted.

Personally, Fuyumi's favourite character had been Tsunade, because she was an absolute fucking legend who could break walls with her pinkie and Fuyumi badly wanted to get a drink with her one day. This was lucky, because she was so famous a figure in the elemental nations that, if asked, Fuyumi could still say, 'Well, I really admire Senju Tsunade,' and even random guys in bars just grunted and nodded their heads sagely.

So… Suck on that, Itachi girls.

Despite her drifting thoughts, knowing that there were Akatsuki members in Uteki did make Fuyumi move more purposefully and quickly. As a born unaffiliated ninja, she had no bounty, so there was no reason they'd be interested in her — but she had no interest in courting a surprise introduction to, like, Hidan or something. Christ. That would suck.

Setsuko lived six miles out of town, which would have been an absurd walking distance to Fuyumi in a previous life. For a ninja, blessed with a chakra-fortified body and training that commenced in early childhood and never really ceased, it was forty-five minutes, while carrying the groceries, taken at her laziest jog. Fuyumi would have preferred internet access and childhood immunisations, sure, but since she was stuck here, chakra and absurd physical fitness were pretty cool consolation prizes.

"Did you roll in mud before visiting me?" sighed Setsuko when she saw her daughter. Thirty-nine, five foot nothing, and pale, Setsuko had a perfect round face and the deceptively delicate look cultivated by true, old-fashioned kunoichi. She was pretty, poisonous, and not nearly as fragile as she habitually pretended. Today there were hydrangeas decorating her hair, a splash of purple against its midnight darkness. In spring, it had been fruit blossoms.

"I think you get bigger every time I see you," she said, tapping her lower lip as Fuyumi ducked into the shade of the house and kicked off her sandals. They were dry after the trip here, at least.

"I've been going like a cut cat all morning, so, no, I didn't shower. They had dogs," she explained, eyeing her own ankles. Her mother, predictably, reached up and rubbed her fingertips across the scars on Fuyumi's face. She didn't mention them aloud but her expression said a lot, none of it good. "I ran the river to get back so nobody'd track me."

Her hems were pretty grotty, a fact that had totally escaped her until it had been pointed out. Her legwarmers really needed a wash.

Setsuko's eyes had drifted in the same direction. "You should get rid of those," she said, for perhaps the sixth time. "You must have dropped six separate stitches."

"I made them," Fuyumi protested, as she always did. So what if it was hard to keep track of her rib stitch? "Out of nothing. Like a god." She sucked at all the girly arts her mother had tried to pass on to her. Handicrafts were just one among a million.

"Out of yarn," her mother pointed out. "And… more like a toddler."

"Where do you want your onions?" she asked, even though she knew exactly where they went. It was time to change the subject before her legwarmers got confiscated straight off her legs, somehow.

Setsuko was, Fuyumi thought, totally capable of getting her own groceries. She could even have sent a water clone, if her knees were really causing her so much pain. But Fuyumi valued the routine of bringing her weekly shopping to her, when she could. This way, her mother could not claim she was being cruelly neglected by an unfilial child, but Fuyumi could show up, unload groceries, and be gone in twenty minutes, if she was lucky. It was a perfect system.

However, if she was not lucky…

"I'll need you to get on the roof and get some of those branches down before something makes a nest up there. And there are some trees I've been meaning to transplant, so you'll need to do the ditches."

"Okay," said Fuyumi, letting this information drift over the surface of her mind without touching down.

She liked doing menial chores for her mother a lot less than she did for the grandmothers about town. What she really wanted, she felt, was a drink. Or five. Just to get a little fuzzy at the local bar and not think too hard about anything at all. But before she could do that, there was roof-climbing and trees, apparently. And, inevitably, Setsuko.

"You don't think you're still growing, do you?" she wondered, peering up at Fuyumi.

At over six feet tall, Fuyumi was an anomaly. She came by it honestly, though: her dad, long dead, had been a giant among men, a hulking taijutsu expert from up in the mountains somewhere.

Having a lover — a male lover — built like a brick shithouse was one thing. But, for Setsuko, having a daughter follow in his footsteps was quite beyond the pale. And she'd been chucking an extended wobbly about it on and off since Fuyumi was about twelve.

"Hardly matters," Fuyumi responded with forced cheer. "I'm already the tallest person you know. Let me get the roof out of the way first," she added, putting away a huge sack of rice and closing the cupboard door, "and then we'll see about the garden."

Her body shape wasn't the only way in which Fuyumi was nothing like her mother and a whole lot like her absent father. She also had his elemental affinity for earth. Her poor control meant that, unlike him, she was only entrusted with the creation of roofing tiles at moments of direst need. But she was an expert ditch-digger.

Despite her facility at the task, her mother kept her hard at work in the garden under an endless stream of helpful criticism for another ninety minutes, after which Fuyumi made her excuses with more firmness than tact.

"Going off to drink too much with Harusame, I assume," Setsuko sniffed. "Your father drank with that man for ten years and he ignored me for eight of them. I've never come to understand what the appeal was."

Since this was indeed, exactly, one hundred per cent what she intended to do with her evening, Fuyumi just shrugged. She bent down to put her shoes on at the door again.

Setsuko sighed a deep, put upon sigh. "Just… please tell me you're not sleeping with him."

Jesus fucking Christ, the things that worried this woman. "I am not sleeping with Harusame. Don't be ridiculous."

Setsuko examined her sternly, but her mum-senses must have detected no lie, because she made a little noise of relief and adjusted her hydrangeas. "Fine. Go, then. And wear your knee brace, Fuyumi!" she added, apparently unable to prevent herself from offering one more parting criticism.

It was, at last, probably good advice. As soon as Fuyumi figured out where she'd put the stupid thing, she'd follow it.

Right. That was her day done, then. Mission: finished. Pay: collected. Mum: visited. Now, to the bar, and Harusame's careless temper. And if she was very, very lucky, she'd get exactly drunk enough to stop thinking without getting sloppy.

---

Of course, now that all the worst parts of her day were over and she couldn't use them as an excuse to put anything off… this was when Fuyumi spotted the Akatsuki members about town. Naturally.

She took the same route back as she'd taken to get to Setsuko's home. The stores and stalls were closed now, and the faded awnings seemed exhausted in the golden light of the early summer evening.

She stepped into the square proper, and was smacked in the face by a tidal wave of chakra that was so massive even she couldn't help but feel it. Water, she thought, even though she'd never once picked someone's elemental affinity from feeling their chakra before in her entire goddamn life. It was just… very obvious.

Fuyumi's heart thudded heavily in her chest. She exhaled, slow and careful, and took a step back again. Whatever that was, she probably didn't need to run headfirst into it.

She licked her lips and scaled one of the nearby buildings for a better view of what the hell was going on. It was a residential one, so they'd probably be pissed off when they discovered the damage she did to their flowerpots on the way up.

Crouched on the roof of the two-storey building, Fuyumi squinted against the sunlight, catching mostly chakra, golden sun glittering on an expanse of water that categorically did not belong where it was surging, and dark silhouettes trying to kill each other atop the choppy flow of it.

The surface tension of the water was defined by chakra rather than any normal physics: it eddied around buildings and flooded the streets, and then when it reached the edges of the chakra bubble in which it was permitted, it just kind of… stopped, huddling wetly, a tame wall of fluid.

The amount of chakra that must have required was… astronomical. Fuyumi felt faintly queasy just thinking about it.

Hoshigaki Kisame was easy to pick out: he was big and waving his feared sword, which looked sort of ridiculous when you actually saw it. It might have been a veritable cheese grater of a weapon, each spiky protrusion perfectly lethal and thirsty for blood... but it looked like it was some kind of fluffy animal puffed up in indignation.

He was fighting someone small and fast, who was wearing sensibly tight clothing rather than a giant flappy coat. He was not in much danger of victory, Fuyumi judged, but he was giving it a red hot go, twisting and darting in and out with his superior acrobatics, evidently in an attempt to out-manoeuvre the mix of absurd power and even-more-absurd reach that made Hoshigaki Kisame such a bloody hard opponent. It was a respectable way to face his certain, grisly death.

She watched for a second, transfixed. Hoshigaki's defence was airtight. His footwork on the moving water was precise and practised. He was calm, he was controlling the distance between combatants, and he was setting the pace. He was indomitable. The fight was clearly his.

If she'd been the other guy, she'd have called it and run.

While she was distracted watching Hoshigaki's fight, a second silhouette darted out from the shadow of of his opponent, leaping away from the fight, zooming over the water at speed. It wasn't an illusion: its feet hit the water audibly.

It hit the ground running and didn't look back, racing past her perch on the roof.

In hindsight, Fuyumi could actually pinpoint exactly the moment that would change the trajectory of her new life. Since it was a brutal fiery murder, it did not, at the time, seem very auspicious. This — again, in hindsight — was probably the kindest warning fate had ever given her.

Uchiha Itachi still looked like he was swaddled. The coat was too big for him, and he hadn't even bothered with the arms this time: it just hung off his shoulders, sleeves flapping.

He appeared in one of those dizzying Konoha-style body flickers, standing still and moving at light speed, and the running figure made a noise of shock and dismay that she could hear even up on her roof. It drew a short, curved sword, upon whose sharp edge the setting sun burned golden.

There was a clank as it met Itachi's kunai and was deflected with, apparently, no effort, even though a kunai had nowhere near the weight of the short sword. Fuyumi watched, dazed, as the two exchanged a lightning-fast flurry of blows. Dirt sprayed underfoot.

Itachi took one easy, elegant step back — like he had predicted every movement, like he had all the time in the world — leapt over the sweep of the sword, and, while performing a mid-air flip to avoid the follow-through with the shuriken, formed several hand-signs. They were just… not even fast. It looked almost languid, even though it was probably about twice as speedy as Fuyumi herself had ever managed.

His pale fingers moved deftly through the signs like he knew the rest of the world was just waiting for him to finish before it continued apace. His enormous dark coat fluttered. His hair streamed in the breeze, long, dark, and, somehow, nowhere in his line of sight.

Fuyumi was barely twenty metres away, and even though she could see the effect of his chakra, she couldn't feel even a whisper of it against her own senses. The world before him burst, beautifully, into flame.

The swordsman didn't dodge.

Maybe he'd been distracted, like Fuyumi was, by watching Uchiha Itachi's long pale fingers and effortless athletics.

There was a lot of screaming, then.

Fuyumi watched, transfixed, from her crouch on the roof. He had really nice hair, she thought, stupidly. It looked so silky. It positively glowed in the blazing light of his burning victim. She had the sudden, powerful image of just… sinking her hand deep into it, closing her fist, and giving it a firm tug. She could pull his head to one side, expose the soft, vulnerable part of his neck. He might even like it.

You cannot do that, she said to herself, firmly, reeling from both the intensity and the stupidity of such a thought. You cannot do that, because that is Uchiha Itachi.

There was an unsettlingly familiar warmth in her belly that told her she was going to think really hard about it anyway.

Fuyumi wasn't suicidal, so she licked her dry, dry lips, got silently to her feet, and retreated from the market square entirely. She could take the long way around to the bar.

On her way, she thought about how the Itachi girls had somehow been right all along. Fuck. What the fuck. No. No.

----

"I've never seen you rhapsodising like this about anyone without tits," Harusame mused, nearly two hours later.

Harusame, dark eyed, dark haired and broad shouldered, was nearly double Fuyumi's age and, technically, had been a longtime friend of her father's. But her dad was long dead, so she'd laid claim to him now. He wore a set of swords: a wakizashi and a katana, both on the same side of his sash. His blue and grey yukata gaped, exposing pale bandages wrapped around his waist and an old amulet dangling on a necklace.

"He doesn't even have tits," she agreed, putting her face down on the sticky wood.

"You have no idea where that bar has been. Do you know what kinds of people they serve here?" He didn't actually sound particularly concerned. "They serve me here."

"The bar has no idea where my face has been," she countered after a long, blurry second of thought. Her brain moved fast, but her tongue moved underwater-slow.

"...I guess I have no way to refute that." He scratched his stubble.

She rolled her face to watch him light his next cigarette with the glowing butt of the one that came before. Then he dropped the dead one into his empty sake bottle and took a long drag.

It wasn't like people had failed to recognise the link between smoking and, you know, dying, in the elemental nations. But Fuyumi thought that they probably didn't understand the full impact of the practice here. Once upon a time, she had been raised on a diet of government PSAs and gruesome cigarette package art of infected fingers and eyes.

Harusame had a cough. But he wore it pretty well... for now. He was only thirty-six, though.

"Don't look at me like that. It makes you look like Setsuko."

"Fuck off," Fuyumi said, automatically. The last thing she wanted to hear about, pretty much ever, was her mother. "What are you going to do if you need to run somewhere, old man?"

"I'm retired," he said. "If I need to run somewhere, something has gone horribly wrong in my life and I probably deserve what's coming."

Ugh. "Idiot," she muttered. She looked away and immediately spotted a red and black cloak in the smoky dimness. Naka Tetsumaru was perfectly recognisable: snow white hair, lily-pale skin, overconfident swagger. He was deep in conversation with a hunched and misshapen figure in one of those ominous Akatsuki cloaks, which made her nervous to see in her local bar. They were sure out in force today, huh? This figure was recognisable, but it was decidedly not —

"Uchiha Itachi, huh," Harusame interjected thoughtfully, spinning his bottle on the bar. "You know... usually I would tell you to chase your dreams. But... Uh, I'm not so sure about that one, Fuyumi."

"Don't worry. He'd outrun me. Like, effortlessly."

"That certainly is the rumour, yes," Harusame agreed. "So? You going to do anything about it? Look for some sweet, dark-haired gentleman to take you home?" He flipped his own hair, which was, as advertised, long and dark.

Fuyumi snorted. "Well, obviously I'm going to sit here and drink and complain that it's unfair that a deeply unwell missing-nin should be more beautiful than he has any right to be."

"Uh-huh."

"And if I see him again," she thought about it, "I guess… I should go introduce myself?" It seemed unlikely that he'd outright kill her for, like, saying hi. Wasn't he meant to be a pacifist at heart or whatever? It couldn't really hurt, right? "What else do you do when you think someone's hot?"

It wasn't as though Fuyumi genuinely thought Uchiha Itachi was going to let her pull his hair and fuck him. But one thing that remained regrettably true between worlds was that… no matter how unlikely a thing you wanted was, if you asked about it, your chances of receiving it usually rose.

The spinning stopped. "Introduce yourself?" Harusame repeated dubiously. "Er, to... Uchiha Itachi?"

"Yeah?" She raised her head and propped her chin in her hand. She'd wanted to be drunk — rather badly — but now the bar seemed loud and close, her stomach was a little unsettled, and she needed to piss. "Jeez, don't look at me like that, it's not like I want to marry him. But how else do you meet someone?"

"Right." He took a long, long drag on his cigarette, presumably to stall for thinking time. "I think girls are supposed to wait for someone else to do that, aren't they?"

She snorted. "Girls like ma, maybe. If I waited for other people to want me, I'd never get a date. Luckily, confidence is sexy."

He frowned at her, the uncomfortable kind of frown of a man who was vastly out of his element but felt he should say something anyway. "That's not true."

She scoffed, and levered herself off her stool. She felt wobbly but she imagined she probably didn't look it. "Hardly matters, anyway," said Fuyumi, who was not very genre savvy, "what are the chances I'll see Uchiha fucking Itachi again? Really? Be back in a minute."

Visiting the bathrooms in this particular bar was a bit like spinning a roulette wheel. Thankfully, this time the only body in there was visibly still breathing, and didn't even twitch when Fuyumi stepped over her to use the single toilet with the stained bowl. It smelled overwhelmingly of bleach, which was a lot better than all the other things of which it could have smelled.

Her face in the cracked mirror was... Well... If a casting call had gone out for a fierce looking female villain, they wouldn't even have had to put makeup on her: her eyes were dark, hear features were hard and sharp, and her complexion was already showing the wear and tear of too many nights in a row on the booze. There was a scar that bisected her left eyebrow, a long, interrupted red line that scored over her cheek and dragged off into her hair. It was pretty red today, which had probably been what her mother had been so displeased about earlier. Ugh.

Her face covered the front of her skull, and that was basically all it had going for it.

"That's its only job, dipshit," she muttered to herself. She turned the water off, stepped over her snoozing bathroom companion again, and headed back into the bar.

[just-sp-in-inginthevoid]

Tok Rev + Text Posts

[reel-fear]

Genuinely so curious who Mike thinks is gonna be buying The Cage or the new DCTL GN bc with the way he tweets as far as he's concerned, it's not gonna be:

The queer people he has actively admitted he will never show any representation of in the games.

2. The POC he has actively fought against representing in his franchise. [Who he also mocked for thinking they would be represented in his franchise]

3. The Bendy fandom which has always been concerned with topics of diversity esp in the sense of queer people since its creation. Who he has responded to really poorly esp in regards to the GN.

4. The fans who critique him. [He blocked me for doing so lol]

5. His fans in general who he tweets about like this currently. [He's being vague about why people were mad at him or sent him 'nasty messages' because if you actually looked into why you'd see he was in the wrong. Either way, a very hateful way to speak abt ur own fanbase.]

Reminder while Mike is trash talking his fans he has always treated them rather poorly. The fans who won the fanart contest for Chapter 5 never got their posters actually in game due to it being rushed. Not only was chapter 5 a big slap to the face story wise, but it was literally so rushed he couldn't be bothered to add in the art his fans gave him for his game FOR FREE. [Meatly blames this on a crazy timeline, reminder him and Mike are the literal ceos of this company. The proposal of future updates here is also pretty cruel considering Mike nowadays happily admits he corrupted Chapter 5's source code and therefore literally can't update it At All currently. Because he is a moron]

At least they got to be in Boris and the dark survival, and by that I mean that was the Only game they got to be in so far, isn't that just treating your fans like you love them? Shoving their hard work into a spin off game almost nobody has played or addresses much. [Hell, who knows if with the Lone Wolf rebrand they'll even stay there. In which case they'll be in None of the games, only in the credits of BATIM]

6. The Bendy fans who just generally disagree with him on stuff. Like the new ink demon design where there is literally a public poll showing people generally prefer the old one.

7. The Bendy fans who can see he is actively lying to them. To their fucking faces.

He says this has always been the case, but screenshots and links to tweets regarding the books being canon prove it was not. Does he really think bendy fans are stupid or something? [Unless he's admitting here he lied to Kress when he told her the books were canon which sounds worse!]

8. Anyone who doesn't like the idea of giving money to a guy who laid off tons of employees then afterwards thought it was a great idea to express his anti-union views! Also brag about how good of an employer he was, according to his employees, he was not!

So in summary; Mike is an awful person who has not learned anything from the awful things he did. I will not be purchasing The Cage because, combined with this and his absolute refusal to take any kind of critique or see any differing interpretation of his franchise, I have no reason to think my problems with the franchise will ever be addressed or fixed. I probably will pirate The Cage along with any future Bendy Products [Including the movie] and will do my best to avoid giving it any kind of monetary support. Unless this changes any time soon, I can't see myself making anymore positive Bendy posts soon.

Mike has just managed to make it so hard to speak positively or optimistically of this franchise when he's so willing to broadcast how little he cares about it or its fans. I'm at the point where I refuse to pull any of my punches with my problems with it. What's the point of trying to play nice with my critique when either way the people creating it don't care?

So with this post, I want to invite anyone who feels similarly about the franchise to tell me, make a post or send an ask talking about how all of this makes you feel. It may not change how things are, but genuinely seeing other people share my feelings of anger makes me feel better. It feels nice to see when other people share our same concerns and worries. I'd also love to know if anyone else thinks they'll be avoiding purchasing Bendy products over this.

I'm not forcing anyone to participate in it nor trying to say anyone who doesn't supports mike but genuinely maybe if we can collectively decide to boycott things like the movie, graphic novel and The Cage... It might at least make the bendy devs acknowledge how much they have destroyed their own fandom's faith and trust in them.

The way Mike tweets about his actions like he had no control over why people were mad at him at least proves to me he takes NONE of it back nor regrets it. If you didn't know about his actions and only went off his tweets, you would be led to believe Mike has been needlessly picked apart by fans over things he couldn't control [or in his own words, had his words twisted and taken out of context]. That is not how you speak about your actions if you have actually learned better from them.

anyway, that has been my bendy dev callout post. This is an open invitation to anyone feeling similarly upset about the way the franchise is going to talk about it. It's genuinely nice to see how people feel about this and the more we talk about the more it's likely the bendy devs are forced to address our concerns. I don't think they will but hey, that's why I'm not gonna support them with my money anymore nor am I gonna be nice to them in any content I make critiquing Bendy. I mean I'm also basically making this post just in case anyone asks me Why I feel this way towards to bendy devs/as a way to respond to anyone who thinks I am too harsh in my critique in the future.

As always, it seems the best part of Bendy isn't actually anything about canon but about what the fan's are creating with the ideas Bendy failed to do anything interesting with.

Also the books, the books slap.

[skunkes]

if life is categorized by Before Loss and After Loss then I exist in the before but with a countdown to the after. and the countdown is always always present and debilitating. the loss will be debilitating too but i cant help myself. i will always suffer twice.

[skeletalheartattack]

so for like, a decade plus, i've been searching for a youtube video i remember seeing back in 2007, and i've finally managed to make some headway:

good news: i've found it

bad news: it's lost media

[sysig]

Feeling and looking good 🌈 (Patreon)

[doubleedgemode]

There's a post that explains it way better than I do but. I'm currently thimking about A.B.As frankenstein influence

Aside from the obvious "concept art refs frankenstein by name, so one could assume the head key worked as her electrodes/bolts" I don't see many people mention how her strive boots are black platforms a la creature's movie depiction's (roadworker if I'm not mistaken?? I probably am) boots. Also yknow they have lil bolts

[stoatsaturday]

about time i gave aster some attention before artfight rolls around (and his weird little bestie this time)

[icewindandboringhorror]

Recent things.. mostly just writing screenshots lol

[cyanidas]

Hope yall are having a good holiday season!

I'm excited for the new year ;w; small update in tags

[seaofreverie]

Delivery day!!!!!!!

[aria0fgold]

I got waaaay too attached to my farmer in Stardew Valley that I can't play a new save without them and I also didn't want to just create the same character (It'll confuse me...) but I really wanna try out the meadowlands farm. So instead, I decided to create a storyline in which my dear farmer dies, reincarnates, and proceeds to dye and style their hair in the same way it was in the past life.

[thedeadthree]

me looking at my brain to CREATE 🥀✨😵‍💫