#The use of darkness on the page and the horror in the half face we can see.... Im normal

[gothamcityneedsme]

WAIT my 4th fav comic page is from lex luthor the unauthorized biography where the journalist actually gets to be face to face with luthor

[benevolentbones]

me before you | spencer reid x reader

warnings: angst!!! kidnapping, graphic depictions of injury, death, female reader

word count: 2.6k

summary: you go missing on a job and spencer goes ballistic

a/n: i hope you guys enjoy a touch of angst! i think this is my longest fic i’ve ever written:) reblogs & comments appreciated <3

“where is she.” spencer’s voice boomed as he bursted into the conference room. every set of eyes in the cramped police department office shot to the loud sound.

spencer stood in the doorway, his fbi vest still strapped to his body. his hair was disheveled and brushed off of his face, his white button up was half buttoned and the sleeves were messily rolled up to his elbows.

his eyes scanned the room, flickering over the local police force until they landed hotch. he stormed into the room, his face contorting with rage. before hotch could even utter a word out, spencer’s hands were on him, gripping a handful of the older man’s shirt.

“where is she, hotch.” he snarled, hotch using his hands to create a distance between him and spencer.

derek immediately jumped up, pulling spencer’s flailing form off of his superior. everyone watched in shock and horror, spencer had never acted like this, and certainly not on a case.

“we don’t know.” hotch stated, a calmness to his voice, but he was as just concerned as spencer was.

“why- get off of me-“ spencer fought back in morgan’s strong hold eventually breaking free after lashing around.

“why did you let her go in without back up- are you out of your fucking mind.”

“outside. now.” hotch breathed, he didn’t want complete strangers to witness whatever was about to occur. he walked calmly through the doors, his oxfords thudding against the marbled floor.

spencer followed suit after shaking derek off, his steps messy as he fumbled behind hotch, who made a turn into a private empty office.

“reid-“

“no. don’t go there- what were you fucking thinking hotch-“

aaron leaned against the desk, his arms folded over his chest. spencer stood a few feet across from him, pacing the room.

“we didn’t know what we were in for, the house was clear..” he trailed off, recounting the events that took place an hour prior.

~

you, derek and hotch were staking out the potential unsubs house, it was a bungalow in the suburbs and a pretty run down one at that, sitting behind the van you had driven in.

“morgan, take the front. y/n, follow me around the side.” hotch spoke, his dark eyes landing on you.

you nodded, following the older man to the side of the house. from your position you could hear derek shout.

“FBI open up-“ followed by the sound of the door slamming open.

you continued to follow hotch to the back entrance, which he swiftly broke down and then entered the house.

he held his gun up, doing a sweep of the back room. “clear” he yelled out,

from the next room over he could hear morgan yell back. “hotch look at this-“

the dark haired man quickly walked to where morgan was.

they stood in the middle of the living room, the place was run down and smelled like mold. on the weathered coffee table laid a videotape recorder and a note.

hotch bent down, picking up the note. the words ‘i got you, your turn.’ were etched onto the page, hotch turned his attention to derek who beared the same confused expression.

“what does that even mean? l/n get in here.” he yelled out, attempting to get your attention to see if you could help make sense of things.

a few moments passed before he called out again. “y/n?”

hotch walked to where he had left you, the back door was still wide open, he eyes trailed down to the ground, which was when he saw it.

your gun.

from outside the sound of a engine starting up rattled, the tires screeched as the vehicle pulled onto the road.

fuck

“morgan, take the camera and the note- she’s not here.”

~

“what so you’re telling me you left y/n on her own? knowing that she fit the description of all the unsubs victims- you can’t, you can’t be-“ spencer cut himself off, letting out a choked sob.

“reid i am sorry. we will find her.” hotch reached a hand out to touch spencer’s shoulder, a wave of sadness washing over his body as he watched spencer begin to break down.

with hazel eyes brimming with tears threatening to fall, spencer sunk into hotch’s embrace. letting out shaky breaths in between cries.

“you- have to get her back- i need her- she-i can’t let her- go first.“ hotch rubbed soothing circles on spencer’s back, which proved to be hard through the bulletproof vest.

“we will find her, reid. let the team work, go home. you need rest.”

hotch was right, it was nearing two in the morning and spencer had not slept for almost thirty six hours. the circles under his eyes were noticeably more dark, looking nearly hallowed out.

spencer pulled away from the hug, his doe eyes red and puffy from the crying.

“i’ll send morgan with you, we will notify you when we find something. and we will.”

“okay. thanks.” the younger male sniffled, his tired eyes meeting hotch’s as he walked out of the office.

~

your eyes blinked awake, a slight grogginess to your vision. the florescent lighting above you hurt your eyes and your head ached.

you attempted to move but felt your hands and legs bound, your eyes darted around the room. you were tied up, sitting on a wooden stool, the room was practically barren except for a pile of sheets in the corner, a table lined with tools and a camera on a tripod. the red light blinking intermittently.

you spotted a small rectangular window at the very top of the wall, it was covered in weeds from the outside. i’m in a basement.

you wriggled, attempting to break free but only causing yourself to get rope burn, you hissed in pain.

“fuck sake.”

the metal door in front of you swung open, revealing a tall man dressed in black. he had an eerie grin etched on his face, his striking blue eyes staring at you like you were something to eat.

“hello agent l/n, nice to see you’re finally awake.” his voice sounded rough, as you ambled into the door, closing the door over leaving it a few inches ajar.

“thomas wilson.” you spat out.

“you have a smart team, y/n. you managed to find me just after five kills. bravo.” his voice laced with a mocking tone.

“it’s a shame they didn’t have your back.”

you stayed silent, eyeing his form as he began to circle the stool you sat upon.

“but i fear- this may be my last kill, so i’m going to be thorough.”

you felt your stomach drop. you were hoping, praying that maybe the team was on the way, that they would be able to get here in time.

you tried your best to read thomas, you could tell by the way he limped around you that he was injured, and he didn’t seem a hundred percent confident in himself. maybe you had a chance.

“how’d you get hurt? i’m a medic, i could help you thomas. you don’t have to-“ your attempt at empathy was cut off by a strike to your face.

the man pulled back his fist, as you slowly recoiled your head. you could feel your eyes swell, staring intensely at him through wisps of your hair that fell over your face.

“silence. we don’t have much time. i need to prepare.” he muttered to himself, walking towards the table to your right.

you racked your brain, trying to think about the other victims and their similarity to you. hair colour, eye colour, frame and stature, age. but they were all single women, involved in prostitution in one way or another. maybe you could convince him that way.

“i’m engaged, thomas.” you spoke, trying to get his attention. “i know your other victims were all single- i have a fiancé.”

“where’s the ring.” he didn’t bother looking back at you, your empty hand flexed into a fist. you never wore your ring on the field.

“i can show you photos- my phone, it’s in my jacket pocket.” you were trying to delay whatever he had planned, you were grasping at straws.

thomas limped towards you, reaching into your pocket and pulling out your phone. it was turned off, but he rebooted it, unlocking it and going straight for your camera roll.

he caught the bait.

~

“sir- y/n’s phone just turned back on.” garcia practically shouted.

“can you track it? -emily alert the swat team now.”

“on it sir.”

the majority of the team piled into cars, fbi vests strapped to their bodies. garcia sent the location to hotch and the cars sped off, it was just twenty miles from where you were taken.

“you sure this is the right place?” hotch spoke out into his phone, a slight anxiousness to his voice which didn’t go unnoticed by penelope.

“yep. i quadruple checked, the satellites picked up the van dropping the unsub and a victim at this exact address.” garcia stated from the other end of the line, faint clacking of the keyboard could be heard from her side.

“thank you, garcia. keep me posted.” he muttered before ending the call and stuffing the phone into his pocket.

“did anyone tell morgan?” hotch spoke, morgan had brought reid home and was told to stay with him incase of any updates.

“just now sir.” emily spoke, shutting her cellphone.

~

“see- that’s me and my fiancé, spencer. he works with me.” you stated as thomas scrolling through thousands of pictures of you and spencer.

you could tell this caught him by surprise, you were sure his other victims probably pleaded for their lives, saying they had families and partners to get back to. it made you feel sick.

“it’s not too late- thomas please let me go, i don’t want to leave him.” you mumbled out, fighting back tears at the thought of how distraught spencer must feel right now.

“i- i cant it’s too late. i have to do this.” he stuttered out, still scrolling through pictures on your phone, his face frowning when he came across your engagement photos.

“can i call him, can i say goodbye?” your eyes met his pale ones, you could see from his expression he was thinking things over.

“fine.”

he searched up spencer’s name on your phone, pressing the call button and holding it beside your ear.

spencer was in a car when his phone started to buzz, morgan had received the call about your location and immediately told spencer who refused to let the older man leave without him.

spencer picked up immediately once your contact came up on his phone.

“y/n- are you okay- are you hurt?” he blurted into the phone, putting it on speaker so derek could listen in. he felt a sudden relief at the sound of your voice.

“spence. i- i’m not hurt.” you paused briefly, eyeing the man next to you. he was listening in. “spence, i love you so much.” you mumbled out, white hot tears staining your cheeks.

“baby? what’s happening.” spencer questioned, his hazel eyes beginning to well up.

“i love you- and i’m sorry, i don’t think i have much time left.”

“no. no no no- you promised- me before you-you can’t leave me“ he rambled out, his heart sinking as tears began to flood from his eyes. derek gripped the steering wheel, pressing his foot down on the pedal, they were nearly there.

“i know baby- i tried-“ you choked out a sob, hearing spencer crying broke you.

thomas was getting visibly frustrated, his grip on your phone tightened. “that’s enough.” he muttered out.

“i have to go spence- i’m sorry i love you so much.” and with that, thomas had ended the call. tears streamed down your face as you tried to muster up the ability to stop.

the older man ambled back to the table, he had laid out a number of weapons. you recalled the details of how the other victims died, each one exactly the same down to the last cut. thomas likely suffered from remorseful ocd.

the man turned back to you, a knife in his grasp. he could tell he was battling within himself, he didn’t want to do this, but he felt like he had to. you could faintly hear the sound of cars passing the house, praying that someone would show up.

“i’m sorry” he muttered out as he brought the knife to your collar bone, pressing it into your skin and dragging it across.

you screamed, a wave of pain engulfing you. blood quickly began to trickle from the laceration, staining your white shirt a crimson hue.

if this was how you were going to die, you were going to make sure it haunted him forever. your eyes locked onto his, forcibly making eye contact as he switched to your left side, beginning to slice the other side of your collar precisely.

you gritted your teeth, feeling the cool metal of the knife drag across your skin. he pulled back, now pressing the bloodied knife to your throat. he was behind you, all you could do was stare straight ahead at the door in front of you.

suddenly the door burst open, hotch standing before you with a swat team piling into the room.

“drop your weapon.” he commanded, his voice booming as he pointed his gun at unsub. you have never been so relieved to see aaron hotchner in your life.

“i can’t, i have to do this.” thomas muttered out, his hand shaking as he pressed the knife to your throat. he began to press it firmly against your skin, you winced out at the pressure.

hotch immediately fired a shot, the bullet sinking into the unsubs shoulder causing him to fall back and shout in pain. a member of the swat team rushed to thomas, restraining the male as he put a pair of handcuffs on his wrists.

hotch was by your side in seconds, unbinding your hands and legs. “are you okay?” he questioned, concern lacing his usually stoic voice.

you nodded, rubbing your throat once your hands were free. you attempted to stand up, wobbling as you placed your feet on the ground, you felt weak, the bleeding around your collars had slowed but you were still losing blood.

“let me.” hotch scooped you up in his arms, carrying you up the stairs and out of the house. it was dark, and there was a swarm of swat cars and an ambulance waiting for you.

a car pulled up to the scene, the passenger door swung open and spencer stumbled out, barely getting his seatbelt off.

“y/n?!” he called out, scanning the area, once his eyes landed on your form in hotch’s arms he sprinted over.

“spence-“ you began before you were engulfed in a tight hug, hotch passed you over to spencer, making his way to the ambulance to alert the medics.

“i thought- you were-“ he blubbered out, his eyes puffy from crying.

he fell to his knees, his hold on you not wavering. you wrapped your arms around his neck to the best of your ability. he pressed a kiss to your forehead, rocking you in his arms.

“i’m going to get blood on you-“ you mumbled, trying to lighten the mood.

he let out a short laugh, followed by a small cry.

“i’m okay spence- i love you, i’m okay.” you reassured him.

“i’m never letting you go again.” he rested his forehead against yours, letting out a shaky breath.

taglist!! @0108s22m @rainoftearss @potatovoyager @rac00ns-are-c00l4 @luvmia222 @shardsofmarxx @silver138 @lover-of-books-and-tea

[descendantsramblings]

Just a short cute thing where Fem! Reader and Maleficent are dating and Mal just loves teasing her gf by turning into her dragon form in small

Pure fluff, thank u :>

“Short cute” is speaking my language rn. So glad to be back to writing long stuff but between these and writing a layout for a Dead Boy Detectives fic I needed a good head canon or Drabble 🖤

Also I wrote and edited this whole thing while on the clock at work so forgive me if something is a little odd, I HATE typing on mobile because it’s easier to get typos.

Play

Maleficent x Reader

Pronouns used: she/her/hers

Summary: watching her girlfriend study can get just so boring

Warnings: descriptions of Maleficent turning into a dragon but it’s really nothing (at least as a horror and body horror fan it’s absolutely nothing but I’ll warn you just in case), fluff

Word Count: 1.1K

Pic because finding gifs of my girl (who’s almost always background or literally on Hades lol) is so hard

She can’t say no one warned her. Of course, Maleficent thought her girlfriend hung the sun, she was humanities own light source. All aglow when she was excited and warm enough that the dark fae was constantly convinced she had a fever. She was obsessed with her, but that doesn’t mean the rest of her friends lied when they said dating a hero kid could get so boring. Not that (Y/n) in general was boring, it was actually pretty easy to get her running around with the villains, but when she felt like being good? She could get obnoxiously good. Like straight As helping out in soup kitchens type of good. Which if the pixie was honest, she found that side of her girlfriend extremely endearing. Sometimes she even wonders if that sweet half of her is what saw Maleficent as worthy for her. Not that she’d ever admit to that out loud, it would wreck her image. If the fact that she could watch the girl complete mundane tasks in complete infatuation didn’t already kill her image. Or at least she normally could watch her like that.

The girl had been studying for an hour, rewriting her notes in a decorative and color coded way that she swore made it easier for her to study. “Rewriting it makes me think about it harder, Mali. Engraves it into my memory.” It sounded like an excuse to her, seemed to her that the girl just liked to look at pretty things. Not that she minded, whatever she wanted to do was fine by her, (Y/n) was her own woman. And Maleficent loved to be the pretty thing she was looking at, so who was she to complain about other ones? But Mali was starting to wonder if she and Tinkerbell had something in common. If she didn’t get her girlfriend’s attention soon she was sure she’d just fall over and just die. She was growing weaker by the second, she was positive of that. And getting the girl’s attention away from swirling pretty calligraphy into a notebook was proving to be impossible.

Every nuzzle to her neck was met with a playful push. Kissing her face just earned the pixie a “Mali, doll, I’m working.” It was infuriating. Why let her in if (Y/n) only planned on ignoring her? Her pale arms make their way around the princess’ waist, face falling against the girl’s back with a dramatic sigh. “I’m almost done, Doll. Just two more pages.” Two more? That won’t do, she needs more attention now. “Come on,” she drags the word out pulling away from her girlfriend with a whine. “Since when are you so good?” “I’ve always been good, Doll. You’re the villain between us, remember?” She uncaps a different pen, readjusting the notebook before her. “You don’t seem so good when you’re out running around with me and the other VKs. You ask how high when Uliana says just just like Morgie does.” It gets her a hum, pen tapping against the page in the speedy pattern. “Yeah well, if I make Uli happy she’ll do my hair. No one else here can braid like she can.” Mali laughs, “Fine, then if we can’t cuddle, let’s go see if she’ll do your hair. Give me something.” “I’ll be done soon.” She scoffs, lightly smacking the back of the girl’s shoulder, “You said you were doing homework.” (Y/n)’s eyes roll, sparing the girl a look over her shoulder, “Studying is homework, Mali.” Now her eyes roll, throwing herself back on the bed, “This isn’t studying. Studying is reading over notes, this is some other thing.” She hums, “Maybe that’s why my grades are higher than yours.” It’s a playful remark, the girl poking her tongue out at the pixie before turning back to her work.

She wants to play? Okay, they can play. She cuts a look to the girl, a pen cap held loosely in her mouth as she delicately drags a pen brush across a page. She was distracted enough. Turning into a large dragon took far too much energy from her, but a small one? One that could fit right in the girl’s lap? That was easy. Maleficent could barely feel it as her bones gave way. Shoulder blades and vertebrae stretching out to form the structure of wings. Purple scales forcing their way through pale skin, tearing their way into veins to beseen. She hasn’t let wings of any kind come out in so long, it felt heavenly. The stretch making her suppress a whimper. She desperately needed to do this more, instead of just when she felt the need to harass her way into getting what she wants.

Slowly, careful not to make too much noise, she flaps her wings, once, twice. By the third time, when she realized the sound wasn’t alerting (Y/n), she knew she could take flight. Fluttering through the dorm, she lands on the girl’s dresser, blowing a small puff of flames onto a candle then settling beside it. Waiting, glowing green eyes trained on the girl who had playfully become her prey. The smell of smoke would alert her, it always did. Lilac and smoke slowly and softly fill the air, making the princess look up, worried eyes glancing around the room before landing on her dresser. “Really? You’re that desperate for me?” Desperate? No, she was anything but that. While her eyes are away from the page, Maleficent takes flight again, swooping up the pens the girl was using before fluttering over her head.

“Mali, you’re just prolonging how long it will be before I can lay back and cuddle with you. You know that, right?” Her hand shoots up for her pens and the dragon flies closer to the ceiling. “This is ridiculous, you are being ridiculous.” Pens clatter into the wastebasket by the girl’s desk, the dragon swooping in to fill the girl’s lap before she can get up to retrieve them. “Are all fae this needy or just you?” The question is met with a nuzzle against her stomach, the dragon refusing to get too close to her skin in case she’d scratch the delicate stretch of flesh.

Sighing, the girl closes her two notebooks, pushing them to the side before she lays back. “If I take a little study break will you let me finish my work without whining?” The dragon crawls up her stomach, tilting her head to the side. Sweeten the deal. “If we cuddle?” Letting out a sigh, Mali curls up on the girl’s chest, her head laying just so close to her heart she feels as if she’s hearing the lubb-Dubb of it in her own head. “You’re not gonna turn back into a girl for me? Made you wait so long that I only deserve scales?” It’s not a complaint, not a real one at least. Her nails digging into the space between two wings, a glorious scratching sensation that makes Maleficent’s eyes lull closed. She was never above playing if the Royal wanted to play. She was always the winner of the girl’s long games.

[dhampling]

bramble jam girl!dadstarion, <1k

“I thought it’d be nice! Everyone likes jam!” “In what realm would we need this much jam?” - (x reader) christening this most inaugural of dadstarion fridays with the most fang-rottingly sweet fluff i could muster. enjoy! w/c: 700+

He kneels next to her with a pensive furrow, the critical moment; small wooden spoon in hand nudging little closed lips smeared already in a sticky purple. 

Bated breath. 

Astarion taps as her mouth remains closed. She looks at him with the same half-baked incredulous look he gives you - a firm ‘no’, with notes of why would you even ask me to do this, you freak?

“Come on! It’s delicious. Look!”

He lifts the spoon to his own mouth and pokes his tongue just past his lips, darting briefly into the bizarre gloop. 

The resulting wince is priceless. It tastes of nothing to him; of cinders and dead syrup. The wobble of a smile as he aims to convince her that whatever the spoon yields is lovely wrapped in a deeply unsatisfied ‘mmm’. 

Looks at him with genuine disgust. She’s too perceptive. 

Behind his back the kitchen sits a picture of disarray - spattered in bramble pulp and dotted with various wooden stirrers, bubbling cauldron atop the stove, littered granules of sugar now crystalline on both the countertop and your floor. 

“What is this?” You break your cover, his head whipping round to find yours sheepishly.

“I made jam! She won’t eat it.” 

A feeble quirk of his lips. Whoopsie! 

“Why would she eat plain jam?”

“Why wouldn’t she! Yummy jam! Yum!” He speaks in a sing-song lilt, cracking in sleep-deprivation.

“Why have you used all my brambles on said jam?”

The tar-like brew looks awful. Thick and dark, smelling of dark sugar and burnt lemon. He winces once more.

“I thought it’d be nice! Everyone likes jam!”

“In what realm would we need this much jam?”

The shoulders sag and he stands from his kneel, tilting his head to look at her and putting the spoon on the bare table. You fight the instinct to roll your eyes knowing full well he won’t be the one wiping the sticky spot later.

“I don’t know! Jam!”

Hands wide around his head, a tired smile wracked with mirth. Eyes round.

He tried. He really did try. Recipe book pages open on the side now splattered with maroon fruit juice. The air is thick with the smell of sugar. You take a spoon from the silverware drawer and try a little straight from the pan, blowing the purple globule to cool it; and it isn’t bad in the slightest. 

Not particularly good, granted, but he’s neglected the aromatics - you presume because his target audience is just breaching a year old. You clear your throat in preparation for the most saccharine baby voice you can muster.

“Little love! Look!” 

You take the spoon from Astarion and suckle on the cool jam, smiling animatedly and nodding in visible contentment. A joyous ‘mmm’. 

She watches on with genuine awe. Nods along. Her own attempt at a ‘mmm’ sounding more like a kitten mewl. Chubby fingers reaching for your spoon in little bunny bounces until her face looks to be on the verge of crumpling with want.

He watches on in amazed resent, eyes soft. 

“She can tell you don’t like it. That’s why she doesn’t want it.” 

You refill her spoon from the pot and blow over it for a minute or two while he lifts her gently from the ornate baby chair and brings her little form over. 

“That was witchcraft. I’m calling in on the nearest guild of mage-breakers first thing, you know.” He whispers as she burbles and reaches out for your warm hands. You press a small kiss to the high of his cheekbone. 

She grabs messily for the spoon as you bring it to her lips. Opens wide in anticipation of ‘the red dragon’; one of the smallest seeds on top of the gloopy pile christened after Lae’zel with both you and Astarion wailing in mock horror as she eats your long-time friend. Her little laugh is like a singing bell, the messy flicks of her tongue as she relishes the taste and bounces in his arms.

“No. She simply just reveres you. Why would she eat something if she knows you don’t like it? Clearly something of a tastemaker in those little eyes.” You smile at him with a slow blink.

He looks to you and back to her with the warmth of a Kythorn highsun. Rests his head atop yours.

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

So long, farewell; until we meet again.

This is the concluding story to the corresponding blog event, A Fellow in Need is a Friend Indeed. ahyduaysovfva SORRY IF THIS IS SHORT, I wanted to wrap it up quickly so I can scream more about Halloween--

Please note, I was not able to respond to all interaction requests, as many were sent after the submission period, disregarded rules, or simply did not catch my interest 💦 Apologies!

Be Honest with Me.

Strange posters had started to crop up all over NRC. Few at first, but they became more numerous over the week, culminating in clusters of them stamped in the cafeteria and rows lining every hallway.

They were colorful and glittery, proclaiming of a great, once-in-a-lifetime show coming to campus. The stars, a traveling fox and cat duo. Immediately, the culprits were clear.

“You used the library printers for THIS?!” Raven demanded of them, thrusting a flyer she had torn down in Fellow’s face.

“It was free!”

“Just because you can do something doesn’t mean you should!” She slapped a hand over the words plastered on the page. “kume c the greatist sho? You can’t make these claims—they haven’t been reviewed and approved by the proper authorities! And there's spelling errors all over!"

“Oh, calm down!” He poked her square in the forehead. “See, this is why you should come to our show. It’ll really teach ya how to live a little, laugh a little.”

"Wh-What...!!" Raven collected herself, then shot Fellow her fiercest glare. “Do you even have a venue or a stage crew secured for your performance…? How do you intend on putting on a show when there's been no planning put into this event?"

He held up a finger, shushing her. "You ever heard of a diversion, kid? You don’t need fancy stuff to have fun.”

"What is that supposed to mean?"

His grim was a wolfish invitation. "Come on to the theater and you'll see for yourself."

... I came.

Raven scanned the courtyard. Several students had gathered, spanning all seven dormitories. A few had posters in hand, and some of the Ignihyde boys had even come prepared with light sticks.

No stage was set, no decorations set up.

No fanfare at all.

I wonder what this grand show is going to be.

Raven folded her arms and leaned back against the trunk of an apple tree. Peering through the leaves, she could make out the final blips of sunlight. Golden, touched with pinks, oranges, and reds.

5 minutes.

10 minutes.

20.

40.

An hour and a half.

Mob students fidgeted, double checking the time on their phones, on the flyers. The sunset bobbed, then drowned in darkness. Warm colors bled into black, the stars popping into view.

Raven frowned.

No show.

Had Fellow written the time down incorrectly? Was he running late, perhaps too caught up in his own preparations? Did something happen to postpone...

“You ever heard of a diversion, kid?“

A diversion. An activity that keeps the mind from being too serious. Recreation, pastime. Neither of those definitions.

A distraction. Divert attention to one thing. and you won’t be paying attention to another.

Raven's thoughts skidded to a halt.

Wait a minute.

"If we're all here..." she said out loud, "then who's back at the dorms watching our things?"

All heads in the courtyard snapped to her. Realization and horror were etched into the students' expressions. They tore off for the Hall of Mirrors, pushing and shoving each other to be first through the doors.

Raven raced for her own abode.

The highest room in the tallest tower. Up a long flight of stairs, two steps at a time. Behind the ancient wooden door, in that dusty attic was--

She barreled inside, panting heavily. Her lungs burned, as if lit on fire. Left, right--her eyes darted around the room, searching for signs of disruption.

Paper, ink smears books puled high. The usual clutter, nothing missing from its place.

But the windows were open, and a brisk breeze weaving itself through her curtains, setting them fluttering. She rushed over, leaning out and staring down. The branches of a nearby tree opened to the window, and the angle at which the roof was slanted would allow for an easy slide if one was daring enough to try.

Did he and Gidel-san really just…?!

Raven pinched the bridge of her nose.

Why the distraction if they haven’t taken anything while everyone was away?

She paced her room, reexamined everything. Counted the books, checked the corner where Fellow and Gidel had holed up.

Nothing.

Raven shuffled to her writing desk, a finger taped to her chin.

What happened here…?

Then she saw it.

A book, sticking out from under her chair.

Raven crouched down and retrieved it. The cover, dented. The story, about a boy who never wanted to grow up.

Second star to the right and straight on till morning…

What she had been reading the day she had bumped into the two.

Raven flipped through the novel, stopping on a page flagged by a neon sticky note. Scrawled in messy handwriting was a short message.

Thanks for having us, kid.

Back on the road.

Talk soon, stay safe.

- Fellow

(What she assumed was Gidel’s signature followed, though it resembled scribbles more than letters.)

Raven held the note to her chest. Her ribcage constricted, squeezing her heart. They’re out there. Back on the run from their pursuers.

The last piece of the puzzle clicked into place. Mental gates swung open, as if finally unlocked by a skeleton key.

The diversion. It was to keep people anyone from knowing where and when they’d gone. No witnesses, no information to be leaked, no one put in danger if the wrong crowd comes along sniffing for them.

Raven chuckled, laying her arms on her windowsill as she looked out at the campus. The moon was high up, casting a silvery veil over the shadows that slithered in the dark. Almost protective, in a way.

“… Well, what do you know? I guess he still has it in him to be honest every once in a while.”

[heartfullofleeches]

Check-In at Ruthieland

Yandere Park Staff + G.N Reader

Summary: A gift from the park's mascot leads to an unexpected surprise

Warnings: None/Slight horror elements 

Word Count: 3.4k

The mug shaped candy has merged with its wrapping by the time you pick it up. 

Almost two weeks since your last annual visit to Ruthieland – the remaining tickets left tucked in their envelope and stored in a secure location. Your encounter with the park's main mascot repeats are the only thing you can retell vividly from that day, yet it all still feels like a dream. Ruthie hasn’t been seen in person since you were a kid for reasons even you were in the dark about. Why were they bringing him back now?

Beloved Showrunner Ruthie Hare makes a comeback in time for the reopening of hotel. 

That seemed like reason enough. The article pops up in your news feed while browsing online, the hare's buck tooth grin catching you off guard enough for you to drop your phone on your face. Recovering from the sting, you skim over the letter and from what you read Ruthie had been seen in lesser populated areas of the park gifting the same candies he gave you to random families with park staff informing them to keep hold of them. The park's office social media page has almost just released news that every person giving a candy would be invited to the grand reopening of their main hotel.

So that’s why Ruthie gave you the candy. Since you hadn’t seen him since you were a kid, the costume probably just looked stranger than you remembered, or went through a design change. What about that note he gave you? “Somebunny likes you.” It could be that one of the park attendants has developed a thing for you giving your constant visits, but was too shy to approach in person and managed to pull a few strings for you. Anything was possible, but the conclusion allayed your concerns well enough for the idea of a vacation to sound appealing. If things continued to work in your favor then maybe the park's recluse owner would show their face again, and you'd get to see an old friend one more time. 

-

The information for the contest comes within the following week. A week long stay at the refurbished hotel with all expenses paid, and general admission to the park for each day of your stay. A couple signatures and all is set for your departure. The date of the trip was only a few days away by the time everything was in order, your belongings packed the night before. The brochure included in your mail gave details of a shuttle leaving for the hotel from the usual pick up location at 7am; two full hours before opening. You arrive a quarter before, and are surprised to see only one other person waiting. The others possibly drove, or were running closer to the assigned schedule. Someone off to your side whisper shouts to their companion.” 

“I told you they'd be here.- Y/n, hey, over here!”

Drawing your attention to their ambush, you barely have time to react as your assailant rushes you and smothers you in the fuzzy sleeves of their oversized coat. As she lets you go and picks up her suitcase thrown aside in her sprint, you find the woman to be none other than the park attendant responsible for the theft of your ticket stubs, Ell. Two others catch up with her. Atlas, the head of security, and someone you aren't sure you're familiar with. A medical mask obscures the lower half of their face and a baseball cap makes up for the rest. The former two were frequent faces you'd see around the park, and people you considered friends for the most part. 

“Ell? Atlas? What are you doing here?”

Atlas shoots a side eye at Ell. “Someone managed to get their hands on some of the prize candies when it was mentioned in a meeting that staff members weren't eligible to win.”

“They never said anything about coming in on a day off. If they had a real problem with it, we wouldn't even be here. Everyone knows the park's royalty was bound to win, and I believe I speak for all of us when I say getting to spend some time with them on vacation is too good to pass up.”

Atlas chokes on his tongue; lips wired shut as his brain attempts to come up with a cognate reply. He looks around for a way out, eyes landing on your bag and the transport pulling up to dock.

“Heh- would you look at that? The bus is here. Those look heavy, Y/n. I'll carry those up for you. ‘Cuse me”

Atlas squeezes past the two and snatches up your bags as he heads towards the bus. Ell throws an arm over the other member of their party. 

“Anyway- despite popular belief it wasn’t me who took the candies. Found this thief with a couple in their bag and they offered me one to keep quiet. Then Atlas found us out and we had to bribe him for the same prize.”

The stranger tugs on the strings of their hoodie. “I'm not a thief…. Like you said earlier, Y/n was likely to win, and I wanted to see them more than just once a month.” 

Their voice is muffled by the face guard, but you recognize that tone. “Cass?”

They make eye contact with you for the first time that morning - before immediately looking away. “hi, Y/n.” 

Ell stares at them puzzled. “You have an actual name? Why have we been calling you-"

“Let's go, guys! It's ten past seven.”

Atlas slaps on the side of the bus to get his point across. Ell and Cass toss their bags in the undercarriage and follow you on the bus. The exterior is different from the typical pink decal and mascot characters acting out different scenes depending on the vehicle. Instead, the paint job had been switched to solid white with a streak  of red around the middle like a bow and the silhouette of Ruthie's head acting as the ribbon. You stare at it for a while, the trance broken by Cass bumping into you. 

“sorry…”

“It's alright. Go on ahead.”

Cass hesitates, but moves on ahead to avoid conflict. They stand at the back of the bus, waiting to see where you sit. Being the last one on board, Ell shoves you into the closest available seat right behind Atlas and sits beside you. Cass takes the bench from across you.

Atlas is the first to strike up conversation- despite Ell being right over your shoulder. “Hey, Y/n. I've been meaning to ask you, how exactly did you win lifetime tickets to Ruthie's?”

“That’s right- your family moved you away after they heard about the field trip. It was a contest in elementary where we had to write a letter explaining what we'd do if we won tickets to the park. That’s how I met Cass actually. They deliver the tickets. I still don't know how I won.” 

Ell butts in. “Maybe it's because you’re besties with the owner. What’s their name again? Wayne?”

“Wyatt. We didn’t really know each other well because their dad kept them at home, but the few times we hung out was nice. They stopped showing up to class shortly after the trip, but the other kids would joke that they had a crush on me.”

“Imagine that.” Atlas leans against the bus window, watching the buildings go by; fingers snaking up to the skin beneath his eye. “I still loved that place, even after what happened.” 

Before you can say more, the bus hits a speed bump which sends you flying backwards into the seat. Recovering from the whiplash, you glance out the window to see where you are. The bus pulls into the parking lot of where you'll be staying. It’s astonishing how you've never seen or heard much about its rebuilding before now. An excuse for the first part could be the large circus tent blocking the park's back wall.

The hotel itself was like a crossbreed between a lodge cabin and the fairgrounds. The main building sat in the middle of two towers; roof slanted like the pitch of a carnival tent and walls made of stone and wood. The pillars in its foundation were painted red for a little more color and the park's name along with its main mascot sat on a sign near the entrance; a plethora of lights surrounding the entire building shut off due to the time of day.

“Ruthie's Paradise Lodge…” You read aloud; the hare nestled in the title's ‘P' and drifting off to sleep. You gather your carry-on bag and join the others as they exit the bus. Atlas insists on taking the remaining lounge for you and wheels your bags along with his one duffle bag up to the front doors. A rustle in the bushes along the path catches your attention as you follow behind, but no one else seems to notice. You peak into the thickets – two, long pink ears greeting you among beady black eyes.

You scream.

Heads spin at the sound. Atlas retains a look of defense while Ell barks out a laugh and Cass removes their hand from the pocket at the sight they all behold. For the second time that day, fuzz laced arms trap you to the chest of a foreign body; this one covered head to toe in plush and oversized hands doing a better job at keeping you in place. Within enough struggle the mascot lets you go, covering his face with his hands out of embarrassment. The last member of your group and the first person on the bus walks up behind Ruthie and pats the hare's back.

“Sorry for the fright. Ruthie here is just excited to meet friends.” 

Atlas pulls you away from the pair and creates a protective shield using his own body. “And you are?”

The man laughs. “Me? I’m the receptionist at this fine establishment and the staff member assigned to welcoming you all to the hotel. You can just call me Flo. I probably should've introduced myself earlier, but it seemed like you all were having a great time with each other which is what we love to see most at our parks. Shall we head in?” 

Flo enters the hotel without waiting for an answer, leaving all you with no choice but to follow. Ruthie tails behind you step for step; eyes drilling holes in the back of your head. You can see his reflection in the glass doors right before you step inside. This Ruthie is nowhere near as stretched out as the one you met before, but his stare carries that same uncomfortable weight as the first. He gently pushes past you and marches in front of the other's to stand beside Flo.

The lobby isn’t anything remarkable. A fireplace in the waiting area accompanied by couches and chairs; framed snippets of the hare's crew on the walls. Twin staircases lead to a second floor and . It’s so open spaced you can’t help but wonder-

“Are we the only ones here?”

“Course not! We have the rest of staff and if you're referring to the other contestants I’m sure they'll be here on a later shuttle. If that clears up your questions then-"

The echo of Flo's clap makes you flinch. 

“Let's get this show on the road. As I’m sure you're already aware of, you lovely folks are the first to witness the grand reopening of our gorgeous hotel after its tragic closing back in 95’. The rooms have been renovated to fit with modern times and there are various activities around the building to keep you all entertained when you aren't enjoying a fun day at our fair park. The only thing we ask is that you avoid staff only areas, even if a few of you are employed elsewhere on the plot. 

Ruthie holds up a flashcard with a rabbit silhouette marked with a red X; tapping the board while slowly shaking his head. Flo walks behind the counter and produces four separate room keys.

“I will now give you all your assigned room keys and instructions on how to reach them. Your luggage will be brought to your rooms by staff later on.”

Flo hands out the keys in order of how you entered from Cass to Ell to Atlas to You. 81. 82. 83. 111. Ruthie holds out his hand for a key and crosses his arms over his chest when he doesn't receive what he’s after.  It would've been a little funny had Ell not addressed the elephant in the room.

“Why's Y/n's room so far away from ours?”

Flo half shrugs, almost annoyed by the question. “I’m not sure. Possibly a mix up somewhere with booking and reservations and whatnot. To get to your room you three just have to walk up to the third floor. Your room is in the south tower on the fifth floor. Bit of a strange numbering system, I know, but we’ve kept the layout of the hotel as close to original design as possible. We hope you enjoy your stay.”

Taking that as ignitive to leave, you walk over to the elevator with the others. You’d ask about Wyatt another time. Ruthie sends you all off with a double handed wave. It drops to one when it’s your turn to receive a fair well. Ruthie brings a finger up to his eye socket and drags it down to his cheek.

“Well…” Atlas starts. “We're still in the same location, and we'll most likely be seeing a lot of each other regardless of the situation.”

“Do you mind us paying you a visit?” Cass questions. “You’re the only reason I'm actually here…”

Ell chimes in. “Yeah, kinda lame deal if I can't try to bust down your door at any given moment.”

“I don't mind. Just give me a bit to get settled in first. I'll see you later.” You push the button on the elevator wall and wait for it to open. As you enter Atlas steps forward. 

“Maybe I should head up with you, just to be safe…”

Ell tugs the taller figure into a headlock and pulls him back. “Not so fast, Romeo. We spend time with them together or not at all. I won't give you the chance to shoot your shot with them so soon.”

Atlas flushes, barking out. “It's not like that!” 

“Don't lie to me. I've seen your wallpaper before. I've snuck a few pictures in my time, and I have no doubts that our other friend over there has as well.”

Cass is already halfway up the stairs before Ell gets her point across, frantically scrolling through their phone. Both Atlas and Ell chase after them.

“See you later, guys.” You press the button to your floor, a last minute rider keeping the doors from closing.

Ruthie steps inside the elevator and into the opposite corner where another button panel was placed. He closes the doors, before pressing every single button prior to your floor while making direct eye contact with you. 

The elevator goes up. The doors open and shut for the second floor. The fluff of the costume's chest rises with a breath. Another floor. His fingers twitch and his left leg shifts towards you. He starts to hum, tapping his foot against the metal floor. Two floors left and that soft drill draws out into a whistle. The cold wall envelopes you as you shrink in their corner. Ruthie teeters in your direction and then.. gets off on the fifth floor. 

The hare ducks beneath the elevator and crawls out into the hall, thunderous footsteps sounding throughout his entire descent. Reaching the end of the walkway, Ruthie turns and tilts his head as the doors slowly close. 

You shuffle out the elevator as soon as the doors open again, gunning for the room at the end of the hall with your assigned number. You jam your key into the lock and tumble inside the room. A balloon floats by your head as you lean against the door. You follow the floating orb trajectory to the bedside where a large gift basket sat on the pillows. Curious, you the item, pushing another stray balloon out of your way.

The basket is full of various treats from around the park as well as non-food items such as tee shirts and plush figures. The two in question are Ruthie and the newer addition to the crew, Bash the wolf. The hare carries his signature bottle of root beer and the canine holds a small mallet. Despite his weapon of choice and his scowl, Bash was a kind and timid creature afraid of his own shadow. The lesson his debut was founded on was about not being scared of those who don't seem approachable on first glance. The cellophane wrapping around the case was too thick to tear through, but a notecard hides between the plastic and the bottom of the basket.

“Welcome Home.”

 A heavy fist rattles the door in its frame. 

“Y/n? Are you in there? Atlas got us lost and we've been looking for you for like- twenty minutes.”

It's Ell. Probably with the others. You head over and unlock the door. Sure enough, the three park members wait behind it with smaller bags on their person, and Cass carrying a few plastic bags from a general store.

“You came over faster than I expected…” You gloss over their added luggage – and the pillow in Ell's arms.” Wait, are you planning to stay the night?”

“Okay if you’re okay with it.” Atlas quips. “We just thought it'd be a good way to break in the night, and it’s a long way away back so we brought over things just in case.”

“You got more than enough space to house us all.” Ell bounces over to the couch adjacent to the bed and the window, ending her exploration at the foot of your bed. “Your room is way bigger than ours and you have a nice view. You even got a whole basket of goods. Oh shit, are those funnel cakes bites?”

Ell pokes and prods at the bag to no avail. 

“Yeah, I couldn't get it open either. Anyone have any utensils?”

“You can use my knife..” Cass unsheathes a pocket knife from their jeans and hands it to you. There's a crow engraved on its side. You pass it off to Ell who then cuts open the plastic and at least asks before she digs in to her desired treats.

The rest of the night goes about the same as one would expect. You each take up a random corner in the room and discuss whatever topic comes to plate. Cass comes clean with more about themselves and lets it slip that aside from delivering your mail, they piloted various costumes around the park. Apparently they wanted to be a voice actor when they were little and the roles helped with that dream. They played Momo the clown, the last remaining character from the park's time as a circus and Ruthie’s closest friend. The young sibling of the Bandit Twins. And Farmer Crow.

“You're Crow?!”

Cass is quick to defend themselves. “O-only on weekends…”

The festivities end with you watching the fireworks show from the park at the window, and the others drawing straws to see where they’d sleep for the night. Ell gets the couch, Atlas the floor, and Cass at the end of the bed. As you try to fall asleep, your mind wanders towards what Ell said earlier. You did have a great view of the park from where you were. You had visuals on the entire park starting from the tent that blocks everything else out of sight. The park closed hours ago, but the lights inside  it are still on.

“Don't you think it's weird?”

Half asleep you pick up on a hushed conversation at the end of your bed. 

“What?” 

“You stole the candies so you could be alone with them, but there were way more than you had in your bag, and they had to have a backup plan if something serious happened. Isn’t it a little strange we're the only ones here?” 

“A little, now that you mentioned it. The receptionist said more people were coming.”

“I guess… Night, Cass.”

You pull the blankets up to your chin and close your eyes, cradling the stuffed animals as you drift off to sleep.

[queenkeesi]

The Study Abroad

---

Eden Academy’s eighth-grade class was under siege—not by any external force, but by the dark, oppressive cloud surrounding one of its most prominent students. At fourteen, Damian Desmond had always carried himself with an air of superiority, but now, something had shifted. He was a storm waiting to explode, his anger simmering just below the surface. His disheveled hair hung a bit longer than usual, and the deep, dark bags under his eyes gave him a brooding, almost monstrous look. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days, and his presence was suffocating.

“D-Damian… could I borrow your pencil sharpener?” Grace asked cautiously, her voice barely audible, as though speaking too loudly might set him off.

“Hmph. Use your own,” Damian growled, not even bothering to look up. His hand hovered over the paper, gripping his pencil tightly as he glared at the half-finished sketch in front of him. His frustration was bleeding onto the page— jagged, angry lines slashed across the paper, but it wasn’t art. It was the outward expression of the chaos in his mind.

Every movement, every word from those around him felt like an annoyance. They didn’t understand the pressure, the weight of everything he carried, and they couldn’t see how close he was to snapping.

Grace quickly backed away, her face pale as she avoided eye contact.

Across the room, Emile and Ewen watched the exchange nervously.

“He’s been like this all week,” Ewen whispered, his voice trembling. “I can’t take it anymore. Every time I talk to him, it feels like he’s going to explode.”

“Yeah,” Emile agreed. “Bossman’s usually tough, but this is different. It’s like he’s... on edge.”

Their conversation was interrupted by a loud voice from the back of the room. “Damian, are you done with the scissors yet?”

George Glooman marched up to Damian’s desk, completely unaware of the tension in the room. A collective gasp rippled through the class as everyone watched in horror.

Damian’s hand clenched around the scissors. Without even looking up, he tossed them onto the desk, the metal clattering against the wood. “Take them.”

George blinked, confused by the sharpness of Damian’s tone. “Uh, thanks... I guess.”

As George backed away, Becky Blackbell leaned back in her chair, watching the scene unfold with amusement. She wasn’t scared of Damian like the others were. If anything, she found his mood swings entertaining.

“You’re really making life hard for everyone, you know that?” she said casually, flipping her hair over her shoulder.

“Shut the hell up, Blackbell,” Damian growled, his eyes narrowing.

Becky smirked. “What’s got you so worked up? It wouldn’t have anything to do with Anya having the time of her life in Francian, would it?”

Damian’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t respond. Becky was right, but he wasn’t about to admit that out loud.

She reached into her bag, pulling out a crisp white envelope and waving it in front of him. “Oh, by the way... this just arrived this morning. Air mail. Guess who it’s from?”

Damian’s eyes flicked to the envelope, his stomach knotting. He already knew. “I don’t care,” he muttered, looking away.

Becky grinned, clearly enjoying herself. “Oh really? You don’t care that it’s from Anya? She says hi to everyone, you know. But if you’re not interested...”

In a flash, Damian snatched the envelope from her, ripping it open before she could say another word. He unfolded the letter with trembling hands, bracing himself for what he was about to read.

---

Salut Becky!

C’est tellement amusant ici en Francian! I’ve been here for just a few days, but it feels like forever. Yesterday, we saw the Eiffle Tower, and Arnold insisted we eat escargot. It’s disgusting, but he says it’s “très authentique.” Pfft.

Oh, and I got my new uniform at L’Académie Royale—Arnold said I looked “lovely.” Can you believe that? We’ve been taking tours, and everything here is so grand and fancy. L’Académie Royale is a little like Eden Academy but way more extravagant. The uniforms have these gold buttons, and some kids wear hats bigger than my head! It’s all very “impressive,” Arnold says. I dunno. I think it’s just... fancy.

The teachers have these thick accents, but I think I’m getting used to them. Honestly, I think my Francian’s getting better, too! I keep mixing it in without even noticing. Arnold keeps calling me “Froggy” because of how much I’ve been using Francian. I think it’s funny! Anyway, we have more sightseeing to do tomorrow. Can’t wait to tell you all about it.

Je dois y aller maintenant. Say hi to everyone! Au revoir!

Anya

---

Damian’s grip on the paper tightened. His eyes blazed over the parts about Arnold Crowley. “Froggy.” “Lovely.” Crowley had always used that ridiculous nickname, but hearing that Arnold had called her “lovely” in her new uniform made Damian’s blood boil. And worse, Anya found it all funny, giggling along as Arnold complimented her and made jokes.

He wouldn’t outwardly admit that Anya was always lovely no matter what she was wearing.

It was just like Crowley to swoop in and make her laugh with that stupid nickname, something he’d been doing since their first year. Froggy, a stupid play on the letters of her last name, Forger. And for some reason, Anya thought it was hilarious. She had always loved that dumb nickname, laughing every time Crowley used it. But Damian had loathed it from the start. She wasn’t some frog. She was more like a princess, though he would never say that out loud.

---

The memory hit him suddenly—the moment Anya had told him she was going to apply for the study abroad program.

It was lunchtime, two months ago. She had approached him, her usual bright smile lighting up her face, her eyes gleaming as she twirled a lock of her rose-pink hair. Damian had tried not to stare, but it was impossible. She always seemed to carry a warmth that made everything else fade into the background.

“I’m gonna apply for L’Académie Royale,” she’d said with excitement, practically glowing. “It sounds amazing! We get to go to Francian for three months. Think of all the places we’ll see!”

Three months in Francian. The words hit Damian harder than he wanted to admit. She was really going to leave. L’Académie Royale wasn’t just some ordinary school—it was basically the Francian version of Eden Academy. Every year, only two eighth graders were chosen for a three-month intensive language immersion. Damian had never even considered applying. Why would he? Regardless of his own average marks in the subject and his lack of interest in it, his family’s name made it impossible. His brother Demetrius had tried to apply once, and his application had been immediately rejected for security reasons. If Demetrius couldn’t go, what chance did Damian have?

But for Anya, things were different. Damian already knew—deep down, he knew—that she would get in. She was brilliant at languages, even if she didn’t fully realize it. Best in their year. Arnold Crowley had his diplomat parents to give him an edge, but Anya had done it all on her own. Her Francian was far better than she gave herself credit for, and she would get selected. He had no doubt about it.

And she would leave him behind.

The realization hit Damian like a punch to the gut. It wasn’t just that she was leaving—it was that he could never go with her. He would always be stuck here, bound by his family’s name and its never-ending expectations. Anya was going to see the world, and he… he would remain trapped.

He knew she’d be accepted. There wasn’t even a question. And the worst part? He couldn’t stop it.

The knot in his chest tightened, and before he could stop himself, his instinct to shield himself from the pain kicked in. He scoffed, letting the words tumble out harshly. “Yeah, right. There’s no way you’re getting in. Your Francian sucks.”

Anya’s bright expression faltered. Her smile faded, and her shoulders slumped slightly. “What? No it doesn’t… I’ve been practicing a lot.” Her voice was softer now, unsure.

Damian felt a sharp pang of guilt twist in his gut. He hadn’t meant to hurt her. He hated seeing that look on her face. But he couldn’t take it back now. He forced himself to shrug, trying to keep his cold exterior. “Whatever. You’ll just embarrass yourself.”

The disappointment in her eyes stung more than he expected. Anya blinked, her usual confidence dimming. She looked almost… sad.

Before she could respond, Arnold Crowley swooped in like he always did, a constant thorn in Damian’s side.

“Don’t listen to him, Anya,” Arnold said smoothly, throwing Damian a smug glare. “You’re great at Francian. Way better than Desmond over here.”

Damian’s jaw clenched, but he stayed quiet. He wanted to snap back, to tell Crowley to shut up, but instead, he just turned away, unwilling to let anyone see how much this conversation was affecting him.

It wasn’t really Anya he was mad at. Not at all. It was the fact that she could apply for something like this and actually go. She had a freedom he could never have. His family’s name, their legacy—it all came with too many restrictions. Even if he wanted to go, his father would make sure he stayed behind. The Desmond name was a prison he could never escape.

As he had walked away from Anya and Arnold that day, Damian couldn’t shake the image of Anya’s disappointed face. He wasn’t angry at her. He was angry at the reality that Anya could travel, while he would always be bound to the expectations and responsibilities of being a Desmond.

---

Without a word, Damian handed the letter back to Becky, his face flushed with frustration.

Becky raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “Wow, you’re really mad, huh? It’s just a letter, Damian. You know she’s gonna come back, right? Legally, she has to.”

Emile and Ewen, sensing the tension, quickly chimed in.

“Yeah, Bossman, it’s just three months. She’ll be back soon,” Emile said, trying to sound reassuring.

“Right,” Ewen added nervously. “She can’t stay in Francian forever.”

Becky, still smirking, added, “I mean, you’re worried about Arnold, but don’t forget about those Francian guys too. I mean, have you seen the footballers from there?”

“Yeah, they’re definitely more attractive than Crowley’s dorky, goofy self,” Emile added.

“Not helping...” Ewen whispered, looking at Emile with wide eyes.

Damian’s pencil snapped in his hand, a mixture of anger and anxiety bubbling inside him. Crowley was bad enough, but now he had to worry about Francian guys? They probably thought they were all charming and sophisticated, whispering compliments in fluent Francian. The thought of someone like that charming Anya...

He slumped in his chair, his eyes unfocused as his thoughts drifted. The Desmond name came with too much baggage, too many restrictions.

Damian had been abroad before—but only with his family. Every time, it was a carefully planned, meticulously controlled operation. He wasn’t free to explore or enjoy himself like a normal person. It was all about maintaining appearances, staying under protection, and doing what his father expected.

He could travel within Ostania—he’d flown by helicopter to places others could only dream of visiting. But going abroad, alone, or with friends? That was impossible. Even his brother had failed at that.

There was that one time, last winter. Anya and her family loved taking the train to Frigis—a tradition they had started when she was just a kid, visiting the festive markets as the snow fell. Becky had even tagged along a few times, and Damian had overheard them talking about it, about how maybe next time, all five of them could go. The idea had sparked something inside him, a fleeting moment where he thought maybe, just maybe, he could join them. He had even asked Jeeves about it. The butler had listened, then politely informed him that he would have to escalate the request to his father’s team.

Not even a minute on the phone later, the answer came back—a firm “no.” Too many restrictions, too many complications. He had swallowed the disappointment, forcing himself not to react.

It would’ve been so simple—just a normal train ride with friends, like a normal person. But nothing was ever simple for him.

“It’s fine, Bossman. Who even wants to go there anyway?” Ewen had tried to downplay it, but Damian had seen the disappointment flicker in his eyes.

“Yeah, way too cold!” Emile had chimed in, offering a forced grin that felt hollow.

But Damian knew the truth. They had wanted to go. If it hadn’t been for him, they could have. It was because of him. The weight of his name had crushed a simple trip with friends before it even had a chance. But he buried the sting deep down, as he always did, pretending it didn’t matter. Pretending it didn’t hurt.

Damian’s thoughts drifted back to Anya. Her voice echoed in his mind, that light, cheery tone that always cut through the seriousness of everything around them. She had a way of bringing brightness to even the dullest situations, and as much as he hated to admit it, he missed that. He missed the sound of her voice, the way her hair bounced around her face when she was excited, her unshakeable positivity even when things were tough.

And now, she was out there, in Francian, having the time of her life—without him.

But even when she was gone, Damian couldn’t help but try to find her. Anytime he saw something similar to that soft, pink color of her hair, his heart would skip for a second, only to be hit with the reminder that it wasn’t her. A scarf in the hallway, a book cover, a flower—anything remotely that shade would make him think of her. And he hated that it did.

Even when she wasn’t here, she was everywhere.

Becky’s voice cut through his thoughts. “God you’re really brooding… She’s coming back, Desmond. You’re acting like she’s gone forever, stop with the dramatics.”

Anya would definitely come back, but he would never be able to go with her when she’d leave again. That was the harsh truth. Every time she left, he’d be stuck here—stuck in the confines of Eden Academy, tied to his family’s rigid expectations. He’d always be the son of Donovan Desmond, forever bound by the responsibilities that came with his last name.

No spontaneous adventures for him, no carefree trips to Francian, no moments of wandering foreign streets with someone like Anya. His life wasn’t his own. It belonged to the Desmond legacy, and the more he grew, the more he realized how much of a prison that truly was.

And now much Anya wasn’t like that and wouldn’t want to be like that.

Anya could go wherever she wanted and she would. She had the freedom to explore, to see the world, to come back with stories about new places, new experiences. But Damian? Damian would always have to stay. Stay behind. Stay obedient. Stay chained to his family’s ambitions.

Being a Desmond wasn’t a privilege. It was a curse.

“Bossman?” Emile asked hesitantly.

Damian straightened up, his expression hard and unreadable. “I’m fine,” he muttered, though the war inside him was far from over.

—

Exactly three weeks and two months later:

Damian had been counting the days. Not that he’d admit it to anyone—not to Emile, not to Ewen, and certainly not to himself. But every single one had been marked in his mind, ticking down to this day—the day Anya Forger would finally return from Francian. He thought he’d be ready. He’d prepared himself for weeks, thinking about what he’d say, how he’d act. He thought he’d be in control.

But now, standing frozen at the gates of Eden Academy, he wasn’t ready at all.

It had happened by pure chance. He’d been walking through the courtyard, lost in his usual swirl of thoughts when, out of the corner of his eye, he caught a flicker of that specific rose color. His heart stopped mid-beat—it couldn’t be… could it? Surely she would wait until tomorrow. But there she was, walking toward him, and in that instant, it felt as if the world tilted, the ground beneath his feet falling away. Everything else faded, narrowing to just her.

Anya Forger was gorgeous.

It wasn’t just her hair—though the soft, rose-pink hue still made his chest tighten the way it always had—but now, there was more. She was taller, more graceful, as if all the childlike edges had softened into something more mature. And her eyes—those big emerald eyes—seemed to shine even brighter now, like they held an energy, a spark, that made Damian’s stomach twist. She looked so… different.

Her uniform from L’Académie Royale was unlike anything Damian had seen her wear. Gone were the stiff, formal black uniforms of Eden Academy. Instead, she wore a soft sky-blue blazer with plaid pleats running through her skirt, which flared slightly above her knees. The uniform had a neat, tailored fit that gave her a refined yet youthful appearance. There were subtle details too—the hint of checkered plaid in the blazer’s lining, the pleats of the skirt swaying softly with her movements, and the white knee-high socks paired with polished shoes that made her stand out even more. It was all so perfect.

But it wasn’t just the uniform that caught Damian’s attention. Anya seemed to radiate something—an effortless warmth and brightness, a quality that made her feel like she was from another world. Her smile, so natural and familiar, made Damian’s pulse quicken. She was different, yet still… Anya.

“Hey, Sy-on!” Anya’s voice cut through the hum of the courtyard, her tone just as light and playful as ever, but now, there was something else—a new kind of confidence he hadn’t expected.

Damian’s breath hitched. She was right there. She hadn’t even realized how much he’d missed her—how much he’d thought about this moment. He missed the way her voice softened his rough edges, the way her presence seemed to make everything around him lighter. How could she be standing so casually in front of him after all this time?

“A-An… Forger.” His voice cracked slightly—he hadn’t meant for it to. He’d almost said her name out loud. The words tumbled out awkwardly, completely abandoning his usual calm exterior.

Anya laughed, her voice ringing out with that familiar brightness, and it hit him hard—the sound he hadn’t heard in months. “Bonjour, deuxième fils!” she twirled lightly, showing off her new uniform with a grin. “What do you think?”

Damian’s mouth felt dry as he tried to respond. “Y-yeah, I guess it’s… okay.” But inside? Inside, he was a mess. She didn’t look ‘okay.’ She looked… stunning. More mature, more poised, but still glowing with the same energy that had always drawn him in. He felt the sudden, sharp urge to reach out and touch her—her hair, her hand—anything, just to know she was real and not some dream his mind had conjured.

“Just okay?” Anya teased, raising her eyebrows as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, her fingers brushing gently against the pink strands. Damian’s eyes were drawn to the movement, the way the sunlight caught her hair and made it shimmer—just like her eyes, so bright and alive.

He caught himself wondering what it would be like to touch her hair, to feel those soft strands slipping through his fingers. Or even… He shook the thought away before it could fully form, but his pulse wouldn’t settle. Why was he thinking like this?

“I-It’s just… different from Eden’s,” he managed to say, his voice barely steady. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest, threatening to betray the whirlwind of emotions he was barely holding together.

Anya smiled, seemingly unaware of the storm swirling inside him. “It feels strange being back. Everything’s still here, but it doesn’t feel the same, you know?” As she spoke, she reached out, lightly touching his arm, her fingers brushing against his sleeve.

A spark shot through him. The simple touch made his pulse quicken, catching him off guard. Her touch felt different. It was like her hand had left a mark, lingering on his skin even after she pulled away. He wanted more. Her nails were longer now, painted a soft, shimmery color—something small, but it stood out to him. She seemed even more feminine now, not that she hadn’t before, but there was a new grace in the way she moved and spoke that hadn’t been so obvious before she left.

“You… really have changed,” he blurted out, the words slipping through before he could stop them. He wasn’t just talking about how she looked. She felt different to him—someone he wanted to be closer to, in a way he had never let himself think about before.

Anya blinked, her smile turning thoughtful as she glanced at her hand, then back at him. “You think so? I hadn’t really noticed,” she replied with a casual shrug, like it didn’t even matter. That was the thing about her— she was completely unaware of how much she’d changed, how much she stood out, or how utterly beautiful she was. She had no idea how much Damian noticed every little thing about her.

Damian swallowed hard. “Y-yeah, I guess,” he muttered, feeling his face grow hot.

“Well,” Anya chirped, giving him a quick wave, “I’ve gotta go find Becky. See you around, Sy-on!”

And just like that, she was gone—her hair bouncing lightly as she walked away, her glowing form disappearing into the distance.

Damian stood there, rooted to the spot. His heart was still racing, his mind a jumbled mess of thoughts and feelings. He hadn’t expected this. He hadn’t expected her to look like this, to seem so different and yet so… Anya. Most of all, he hadn’t expected how much he’d missed her—or how much seeing her again stirred up feelings he had never truly let himself feel before.

For the first time, he let the thought in. He liked her. He really, really liked her. Maybe more than that. His mind betrayed him, flashing images of touching her again—or even leaning in to kiss her, an urge so foreign to him that it made his stomach twist.

He’d always known there was something about her, but now, he understood. He wasn’t just thinking about her as Anya Forger, the girl who made him laugh and frustrated him to no end. He was in love with her.

[madhatterbri]

War-torn | Hangman A.P.

Summary: When Y/N meets Major Adam Page, she knows she'll never be the same. Historical. Civil War. 18+.

Author's Note: My husband and I are talking about visiting Pennsylvania next year so I'm currently in love with historic AU Hanger again. Don't mind me. 😂 Please don't fact-check this... at all.

Hangman Masterlist

Taglist: @plentyoffandoms @theworldofotps @smallestsnarkestgirl

A few days after the Battle of Antietam, the Union army stayed in Baltimore. After the bloodiest battle on American soil, they needed time to gather new correspondence from President Abraham Lincoln. No one was more relieved for a break than Major Adam Page.

His horse trotted along the cobblestone streets. Adam's head hung low at the memories of what he has witnessed in the year and a half since the war began. Things didn't look like they were letting up any time soon.

Citizens of Baltimore looked on from the streets. The town had a mixture of Confederate and Union sympathizers. His army was on high alert to make sure no harm fell on them.

Y/N walked through the streets with her employer's daughter, Bella. Bella heard the rumors about how handsome the men in uniform looked. She wanted to see the soldiers for herself. Her father only allowed this if Y/N were to accompany her. With the promise of pay and not having to clean, Y/N happily accepted.

Y/N watched in wonder as the men passed by them. All the horrors they have seen from the war etched into their faces. There was nothing handsome about seeing a broken man. Bella was thrilled at the excitement of them all.

"Maybe I'll bag myself a high commanding officer," she commented happily. With all the money she had, she had her fair share of any man she could have. Y/N, on the other hand, wasn't so fortunate.

While Bella fanned the both of them to keep cool during the September heat, Y/N's eyes locked on a man on a horse. A forage cap covered the top of his head. His blonde locks fell from the cap down to a little past his soldiers. He had piercing light eyes. He was adorned in the dark blue wool coat and light blue trousers. Bright buttons, along with piping and badges, showed that he was a higher rank.

"He's looking right at you. You have to come to Papa's ball tonight. He is offering an invitation to all the officers as a warm greeting to Baltimore," Bella smiled.

"What would a ranking officer want with a servant girl?" Y/N asked.

"Guess we will find out tonight," Bella sung happily and grabbed Y/N's hand. "Come. We must get you ready,"

Adam stood in front of a mansion for some ball for the officers being thrown by the richest family in Baltimore. His thoughts strayed on the girl he saw in the street. She was the only thing that provided him any sort of comfort.

"I told you fine gentlemen that he would make it safely. He doesn't have a horse now to almost lose control over because of a woman," one of his friends teased him. They had been teasing him about it all day. Adam commanded for them to shut up yet couldn't help but crack a smile himself. She just had to be here.

Adam couldn't believe his luck the moment he saw her. A silent wallflower like just himself. He walked over to her and stood next to her. They remained silent.

"You must be the host's daughter," he broke the ice. "Please send my regards on a warm welcome from him,"

The Major was still not used to high society life. A man from Virginia, he would rather be tending to the family farm than mingling with high society.

"I am not his daughter, but I shall," she smiled warmly at him. He smiled back at her. Y/N looked at all the decorations around the room. Her employer always wanted to impress the elite in Baltimore. "I wanted to commend you on your victory against the rebels in Antietam. My... friend and I were pleased you stopped the south from invading the north,"

Adam's face fell at the mention of the battle.

"I'm sorry. That was rather unlady like of me. I must go," she apologized. Y/N went to walk away. Adam grabbed her wrist. She spun around, her head hung from embarrassment. Her employer always told her she had a loose tongue.

"Dance with me while I think about forgiving you," he spoke. Her heart pounded in her chest. Y/N looked up to see him smiling.

They spent the rest of the night together. Adam couldn't recall the last time he was this happy. Y/N was a breath of fresh air from the nightmares from the war. When he was with her, it was as if nothing else in the world mattered.

Over the next several days, they snuck out at any chance to be together. Stolen glances and kisses whenever the opportunity was granted. Everything was going well for them until a correspondence from President Lincoln came in. The army was to report out to their next location by morning. Heartbroken, he went to tell Y/N the bad news. They both basked in equal sadness.

"Stay with me for the night, please. I don't know if I'll... if we'll," she stopped. She couldn't bring herself to finish that sentence. Men in the army were dropping at an alarming rate. After a brief moment of silence, he agreed.

Y/N couldn't remember the moment they made it to her bedroom. Her clothes lay somewhere on the floor along with his. She had never dreamed of this before today. To be with a man before marriage, but this one was different. She could feel it.

"Are you sure?" Adam asked nervously. His forehead pressed against her. Strong, muscular arms held him above her. "Once this happens, we can't go back,"

"I've never been more sure of anything in my life," she assured him. "When, when you come back, we will be together proper,"

That night was the best night in her life. She never knew a man could be so gentle and loving. When morning came, he promised he would write to her.

As the war waged on, their correspondence suffered. The South wouldn't relent despite key victories from the North. Finally, in April 1865, the war ended when General Lee surrendered in Virginia. The men were allowed to return home to their families. Before he could make it back to his farm, Adam knew he had to see his Y/N in Baltimore.

Adam made haste to get there. He didn't want to waste another minute away from her. The city looked the same despite being gone for two and a half years. With flowers in hand, he knocked on Y/N's door. She answered the door and let out a shocked sob.

Her arms flung around his neck. Tears wet his uniform. Adam dropped the flowers to the floor and clung to her as if the Heavens would steal her from him. He closed his eyes and took in her scent. A little blonde boy with bright green eyes appeared from the door. He had tiny army soldiers in his hands.

[cipherswilldatabase]

Event: Beautiful Dreamers

Chapter 01 - Gideon Gleeful

Chapter 02 - Pacifica Northwest

Chapter 03 - Dipper Pines

Chapter 04 - Wendy Corduroy

Chapter 05 - Stanley Pines

Chapter 06 - Jesus Ramirez

Chapter 07 - Mabel Pines

Chapter 08 - Fiddleford H. McGucket

Chapter 09 - Robbie Valentino

Chapter 10 - Stanford Pines

Dreams are something of a mystery. No one, not a single scientist, knows why we dream. Are we simply filtering through memories as we sleep? Are our subconscious trying to tell us something? Or are we tapping into a realm beyond our reality?

=============================================

While Ford has always had sleeping issues – mostly due to mild insomnia and overnight studying, both Stan and Fiddleford could testify – his stint with Bill and dealing with multiverse horrors had given the six-fingered man a fear of sleeping. 

It was as vulnerable as you can get, both in the physical and astral/mental plane.

It took the joint effort of Stan and Ford to get the latter some well overdue rest weeks into their boating trip. Granted, Ford would sometimes be stubborn about it if something he was fixated on got his entire attention. But, if there was a sign of Ford getting sleepy, Stan would talk his brother into their room to take a nap on Stan’s bottom bunk.

▽△▽△▽△▽△▽△-▽△▽△▽△▽△▽△-▽△▽△▽△▽△▽△-▽△▽△▽△▽△▽△-▽△▽△▽△▽△▽△

Ford had taken notice of the different changes to his dreamscape.

His first time there was that of starry space, marked by words and equations and a plethora of books, when he first encountered Bill Cipher. It wouldn’t be until sometime later that he learned this was just the upper half of his mindscape.

On ground level, there was golden wheat as far as the eye could see. In the sky, endless stars, constellations, and galaxies.

After the creation of the portal and the entering of said portal, he could no longer see the starry sky above, blocked by the oppressive smog that coated the skies. He was also surrounded by three reminders of his greatest failures and mistakes: A broken dream, a torn bond, and the loss of a friend.

Now…after everything…things were different. 

The broken down portal was still present in the distance, but it no longer casted a looming shadow in Ford’s mindscape. The sky was no longer obscured, revealing the brilliantly starry sky, somehow much more vibrant than before, the original Stan o’ War was repaired, and small blue flowers decorated the swing set. There are a few new additions. 

In the starry sky are constellations, but not the classic 88 ones Ford recognizes from his home dimension. And already lined, too. He still needs time to study them, but of the ones he could decipher…A six-fingered hand, a needle (?), a nautical compass, a pen (or pencil), a cube…and a triangle with an ‘X’...

In a spot within the wheat cleaned away for a couple of shelves containing numerous books and a table containing a DD&MoreD board and a chair with a vibrant sweater hung limply.

While Ford was enjoying the new look…he couldn’t shake off a sense of unease.

A black book fell from one of the shelves. Ford approached the fallen tome and went to pick it up and put it back. The moment he touched black leather, an ice cold chill surged through him. He turned the book around and – in the middle of a triangle – a crimson eye opened on the cover and stared directly at him.

He dropped the book like it burned him and it opened itself and the pages flipped from an unknown source. 

Ford looked at his hands – sources of his pride and disdain – shaking and black veins were becoming visible as small, triangular particles manifested.

He can feel the veins spreading in his body, like a parasite…

More crimson eyes made themselves known around Ford. Each and every one of them looked at him.

The air around grew dark…the sky above turned red and cracked…the eyes continued to stare…

And he regrettably stared back and shuddered as he somehow saw himself within the black of a slitted pupil.

Those black veins have reached his face…

He was just as red as all of the eyes…

And…his right eye…the white turned black and his blue iris a deadly crimson and slitted…

And bleeding?

▽△▽△▽△▽△▽△-▽△▽△▽△▽△▽△-▽△▽△▽△▽△▽△-▽△▽△▽△▽△▽△-▽△▽△▽△▽△▽△

After having a nap of his own on deck, Stan went to their room to check on Ford.

The elder twin was still sound asleep and Stan was just going to leave it at that. Every moment of rest was precious for them. That is until Stan noticed a look on Ford’s face, as he was facing away from the wall.

There was a look on Ford’s face, his forehead and brows bunched together, his nose would twitch, and there was a faint hint of a snarl curling his upper lip. Whatever Ford was dreaming…it wasn’t pleasant.

As much as Stan wanted to wake Ford…he felt he shouldn’t. The scientist had already gone through an all-nighter and Stan didn’t want to interrupt this sleep. Instead, he tip-toed his way to the bottom and carefully - as best as he could - lowered down to take a seat on the mattress and hope that the shift in weight doesn’t wake Ford. Stan reached over and started carding his fingers through Ford’s dark gray curls and prayed that this would soothe his brother’s mind.

Stan felt both pride and relief when he heard Ford’s breathing even out and his face relaxed. Stan closed his eyes, still stroking his brother’s head and just enjoying this silent moment.

A small drop of blood trickled from Ford’s right eye and stained Stan’s pillow.

=============================================

X QXPQB LC TEXQ FP QL ZLJB.

[elemit]

A Gift, A Curse

A story in which we discover just how damned an ascended vampire can be, and just how far you will go to save the spawn you loved.

Read in full on AO3

dead dove/not beta read

fic warnings: Abuse, Angst, Biting, Blood and Gore, Blood Drinking, Bondage, Dom/sub, Dubious Consent, Food Restriction, Hate Sex, Horror, Mental Coercion, Mind Control, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rough Sex, Sexual Coercion, Torture, Total Power Exchange, Trauma, Vampire Bites

Chapter 25: Shadows

You have become a shadow in your own home.

You exist. For now, that has to be enough. You know that the days are slipping by from the passing glow and fade of sun around the edges of the heavy red curtains on the windows. When wine doesn’t offer enough escape, you find yourself turning to the endless shelves of books in the house. You used to be the type who favoured blades over books, but now the pages that you lose yourself in are worth more to you than any weapon. They are a shield against the darkness that surrounds you, and gods know you could use the protection.

You still hate being alone. Astarion is gone more days than he is here. You can’t help but wonder how much the incident with the Fist has disrupted his plans for the council. If he’s worried, he never shows it. And if the stacks of correspondences that arrive for him daily are anything to go by, there are still plenty of people out there who want to remain in his good books.

 Even when Astarion is around, he sometimes tires of your constant company, commanding you to wait in mindless silence in your bedchamber until he wishes to see you again. To avoid this fate, you begin to follow him less, although it pains you to do so.

You know you should stay away from the west wing, that den of Flaming Fist and New Watch, lest the sunlight burns you, or some other Fist discovers your secret, but you find yourself drawn to it like a moth to a flame. The bustling noises, and the energetic buzz of people hard at work, are proof of a world that is still thriving beyond the stone walls of your living tomb.

So you have taken to venturing into this hive of activity, keeping to the places that the sun cannot reach even with the curtains thrown back and the windows flung open. You haunt the alcoves and the inner corridors, stepping lightly from one shaded spot to the next. You only go directly after you have drunk, so you need not fear your hunger getting the better of you. When you find a place in the half-gloom, obscured from the view of the flurry of living beings around you, you sit, read, and absorb the tumult with a feeling close to joy.

You never try to speak to anyone. You do not crave communication. Besides, it would be useless, tongue-bound as you are. You only wish to know that you are not entirely alone.

You are sat like this, in a dark alcove, reading, lost in an imaginary world, when a voice interrupts you.

“A good one, is it?”

The voice is so painfully cheerful it makes you wince. You look up into the youthful face of a human man - a boy, really - wearing the uniform of a Flaming Fist. He grins at you.

“The book, I mean. It’s a good one?”

You stare at him, frozen. When was the last time someone spoke to you with good will? Someone new? Someone free?

“Never been much one for reading, me,” he continues. “My sister loves it, though. Reckon she’s read more books in t’ past year than most read in a lifetime.”

He seems to have finally noticed your utter lack of response. His grin stays in place, but his brow furrows slightly as if he’s just remembered himself.

“I’m Lucas, by the way. What’s your name?”

You purse your lips in something that isn’t quite a smile and give a small shrug.

“Cat got your tongue, eh? Ah, well. Worse parts of you to lose. I should know.” He reaches down, beaming, and knocks on his left shin, which emits a hollow clunk. You raise your eyebrows at his enthusiasm. He seems to take it as encouragement.

“Great, ent it? I told everyone at the Mermaid that I lost it in t’ Battle of Baldur’s Gate and now I get free drinks all the time.” Then he continues in a lower voice, “Don’t tell anyone, but I actually lost it on the journey here. Horse bloody fell on me. Total nightmare. Still, got to look on the bright side, don’t you?”

You blink incredulously. Somehow, he is still talking.

“Anyway, best get back, supposed to be on duty. Get lost in this bloody house all the damn time. Good to meet you, o’ silent lady of the books.”

He crumples into an inelegant bow, then lopes off down the corridor. You are left entirely too bewildered to get back into your book.

[polarisbibliotheque]

Survivor's Blood (Leon x Reader) - Chapter 1

Survivor's Blood

Pairing: Leon x Reader

Summary: After Raccoon City, Leon became the only Government agent with that kind of expertise. With relentless training, he was now a Special Agent - again, on his first day in the job. He just didn't expect to live Raccoon City all over again... Maybe Leon was fated to always have the worst first-days-at-work ever.

Age Restriction: 18+. It's horror - so expect a LOT of blood, corpses, dismemberments, very graphic descriptions of violence, dubious morals and people doing everything to survive. Nothing we haven't seen on RE, but reader discretion advised.

TRIGGER WARNINGS: Ok. Long story short, Leon has PTSD. He'll be trying to deal with that while again living very violent and traumatizing experiences. The reader is also damaged by the whole situation - again, expect PTSD, anxiety attacks, doom and gloom, all that stuff. I'll leave warnings every chapter there is something very explicit and potentially triggering, though.

Author's Notes: RE4 remake is among us! Bet you guys didn't see this coming - I didn't either. I have 50+ pages of this sitting on my pc since before I started this blog. I was writing it in Portuguese just to indulge me, but with all the RE4 thing, I'm quite hyped for it - and it came in a good time, I'm in need of keeping my head distracted. Like Nemesis, I'll try to update this one weekly. The good side, it's already halfway written, so I'll only have to work on translating to post - with Nemesis, I actually have to write it.

This one is between RE2 and RE4 - I wanted to explore the innocent little rookie cop Leon becoming badass goofy special agent Leon, so this is kinda it. Almost like a character study that capcom never does &lt;3

Fret not, I do finish my works in progress ;)

Also very proud of this header as well

Chapter 1

Leon dreamt almost every day with the horrors he had lived in Raccoon City.

To wake up before the sun painted the sky in golden tones, with his hair plastered on his face from the sweat, already grabbing a gun he got in the habit of leaving by his nightstand and aiming it at a random point in the darkness wasn’t a random occurrence anymore.

“Shit…” And he always cursed between a tired sigh, feeling the cold floor under his feet as his elbows rested on his knees, head hanging low.

He could choose the moment that appeared in his dreams, as if he was still there: the cop Leon tried to save and got cut in half right in his hands, the many heads he blew up of innocent people, his very own colleagues who dragged themselves towards him trying to eat him alive, those terrible monsters who followed Leon around as if the was the only living being in that hell…

Leon had enough memories for a whole lifetime. And, most probably, Post-traumatic Stress Disorder also enough for a lifetime.

It was to be expected that the government would find him for intense interrogation sessions and soon decided to turn him into one of its Special Agents – precisely those who do the job that no one else could. And all of that because no one had the experience he had; the Raccoon City experience.

Who would’ve known that from a rookie cop on his first day at the job, Leon would become a Special Agent of the Government.

Even though he had that experience, and it made Leon become a Special Agent, now he was just a rookie again. He had been in some field activities – simple stuff, but, in his dictionary, almost nothing compared to surviving the virus outbreak at the RPD. So, for all effects and purposes, he was still a rookie.

And he never imagined what kind of mission would be his first as a Special Agent. Leon was probably doomed by fate to have the worst first days at work ever.

**

New Setosa, April 29th, 2001 – 16h43

“The whole city is a mess, Chief Nakai. We managed to rescue a few people, but, truth is, everyone is scattered around and we don’t know what to do.” A police officer reported to the police Chief of New Setosa, the city that turned into hell in a few hours. “We don’t know if there are any more survivors or where they are.”

Chief Nakai kept his eyebrows together, evidently worried. Screams of mayhem could be heard all over the town outside the department, and the officers in New Setosa had been called to help in that mess they found themselves in. They said it was a virus, something that could become an epidemic, and it spread faster than a fever at a kindergarten.

“What about Washington? You spoke to them, right? Are them sending more people? Help? Rescue…?” The police officer himself was desperate. In all his years in duty, he had never been through something like that.

“The Government promised to send a team to help us, with a specialist in this kind of situation.” Nakai sighed, finally leaving his room with the officer – only to find a bunch of desolate people needing first aid and food, terrorized with what could be outside.

“How can someone be a specialist in this?!” The police officer was already far from trying to control himself. “I’ve never heard of anything like this shit! I don’t even know what those… Things out there are!”

“In Raccoon City, around two years ago, there was a similar incident. Do you remember…? They blew up the whole city ‘cause apparently a virus spread around and that was the only way to contain the epidemics…?” Nakai tried to remind his subordinate, but the man only denied with his head. They probably found a good way to cover up the story of Racoon City and only a few people remembered what had happened. “Well. Maybe this Special Agent from the Government will be able to help us with this. Maybe he led the extractions in Raccoon City. Maybe he helped the dozen poor bastards who survived to get out of there.”

As if on cue to the words of Chief Nakai, the symphony of approaching helicopters made everyone pay attention to what was happening outside. They approached and distanced right after, making the sound of coordinated steps at the top of the Police Department – the NSPD – be heard. The steps approached in a hurry – and no one knew if they would be friendly or not. One of the internal doors opened with a loud noise, giving way to men in black uniforms and heavy weapons, led by a tall man with gray hair in a military cut.

“Commander Rogers?” Nakai asked as the man immediately approached, offering his hand to start the conversation in the friendlier tone they could at that time. “It doesn’t look like a sufficient number of men to save a whole city.”

“If our suspicions are correct, there may be not that much people to save, Chief Nakai.” The Commander answered with a strong handshake, observing the despair in the eyes of the people in the NSPD. “What’s the situation?”

“There’s a lot more people to save, but we don’t have enough police force. The entire city is chaos outside, and this is the most we were able to do at the moment. We already had too many losses; many good police officers died today.”

Leon observed the entrance hall of the NSPD, in silence. He remembered when he first entered the RPD, years ago, and there was no one. The silence was deadly, and he could only hear the noises of the undead chasing him through the corridors of the police department. That was very similar to Raccoon City…  Too similar.

He hoped with all his heart his PTSD wouldn’t trigger that night. That was the closest he found himself to Raccoon City in years.

“We will try to rescue the greatest number of people we can.” Rogers walked alongside Nakai and the police officer to a nearby meeting room. The Commander signaled Leon to follow him, and he did without a word. As they entered the room, there was a map of New Setosa taped to the wall.

“The issue is that people are spread around the whole city.” Nakai pointed at the map, hopeless. “We tried to gather as much as we could, but those things are at the gates, ready to kill anyone who tries to leave the NSPD. I don’t think people left their homes, and those who did… Well. You saw how it’s like outside. It’s gonna be impossible to gather everyone, we never saw anything like this.”

“We haven’t, but I have a Special Agent who has already gone through something similar.” Rogers confirmed with his head, making Nakai and the officer look at him with hope blooming in their chests. They waited for someone strong and unrelenting to walk in, a war machine, almost like Rambo or the Terminator. “Leon Kennedy.”

As the Commander pointed at Leon, their glances were a little… Disappointed. Leon looked like everything but a war machine like they expected: not that strong, not that imposing, maybe a little too skinny, albeit fit. He looked too young, too inexperienced, too cute for… That.

“No offense, Commander…” The police officer had to say something. After more than ten years working on the streets, he only saw rookies with that face. “But he doesn’t look like the type of person who would know what to do in this situation. We had cops with fifteen years of experience and training dying like cattle today.”

“I told you, Commander…” Leon closed his eyes and took a deep sigh, not in the mood to at least try to smile. He was certain no one would respect him, precisely for looking too young, maybe even inexperienced. And, honestly, that was his first day as a Special Agent, in what could be a copy of Raccoon City. What if he had a panic attack? No one would ever respect him again.

“Kennedy is one of the few survivors of the disaster in Raccoon City.” Rogers words were harsh, ignoring completely how desolated Leon was by his side. “I never dealt with those things, nor anyone else in my team, and even lesser you. Leon, on the other hand, killed dozens of those creatures, survived the massacre, avoided worse consequences and helped other survivors to get out of there alive. Everything new we will see today, won’t be any news for him. If there’s a person here who may know the best strategies for surviving and saving people, this person is him.”

“You survived Raccoon City?” Nakai had his eyebrows furrowed. “Again, I don’t mean to be rude, but you look too young, Mr. Kennedy.”

“It was my first day at work.” Now Leon had a not so happy smile on his lips. “I have a completely different definition of ‘hellish first day in the job’.”

There was something of strange in his eyes; something different. Leon could look too young and even naïve, but something changed when they looked into his eyes. They had something of tired, too harsh and too merciless for someone so young. Those eyes carried something impossible to erase from the mind – as if they would never forget the blood and the death. They expected eyes filled with kindness and innocence, but all they got was cold and emptiness.

“So… Mr. Kennedy.” The police officer looked a little ashamed of his own antics, pointing at the map once again. “What do you think? How was it with you guys? Did you manage to rescue someone?”

“Well… We were able to find a few people. They managed to protect themselves somewhere strategic and had guns for protection.” Leon sighed, taking a look at the city map. “An emergency announcement led everyone to the RPD, but the virus also got there, and it was a massacre. They couldn’t rescue the people fast enough, no one was there for us.”

Leon fell silent for a while, still observing the map. Nakai and the police officer exchanged wary looks while Rogers remained in silence. No one was there, Leon remembered. He and Claire found each other for a whim of fate and had to make their own way between hungry creatures who literally wanted to eat them alive. In the end, the city was destroyed with a bomb. There was nothing left. If Leon and Claire hadn’t insisted so much in their survival, they would’ve had died. The same thing with Jill and Carlos, who now had to battle their own demons because of all that and almost didn’t manage to leave the city on time. They were one of the few who were lucky, very lucky.

“Leon…?” And he was brought back by the Commander’s voice. Leon shook his head slightly and pointed at the map again.

“I don’t think that many people who stayed at home survived. Unfortunately, that’s what happened in Raccoon… We can try to gather some people in big places: schools, hospitals, supermarkets; and then we rescue them little by little with police cars.”

“Most streets are blocked.” Nakai denied with his head, hands on his waist. “We had too many accidents, the streets are pure chaos. Cars, trucks, motorbikes… You choose. They’re all thrown in the streets, in pieces or in flames.”

“In pieces and in flames too.” The police officer had to point it out.

“That happened in Raccoon as well. We can ask people to gather somewhere nearby, and our team goes in for the rescue. We'll call the base and ask for enough helicopters to take everyone away from here.” Leon suggested right after, looking at Rogers for approval.

“And how are we going to gather everyone in one single place?” The Commander still thought about it, albeit knowing it was the best shot they had. “It’s not like we can go around screaming a PSA.”

“Radio and television. When things like this happen, people try to communicate and keep waiting for communication.” Leon nodded as he remembered what happened in his own city, years prior. “When they announced the bomb, it was through a special announcement in the TV, I remember Carlos told me. He woke up and it was basically an audio telling everyone who survived to leave the city ‘cause a missile was programed to blow it up. We can try at least through the radio.”

“Hmmm… Grace is here in the NSPD with her assistant, Chief.” The officer was starting to see the first glimmer of hope amidst that hell. “If there’s still someone alive in the studio, she might be able to record the announcement here and we can start an emergency broadcast in Channel 8.”

“Grace is the weather girl; she was in the middle of a transmission when one of those things almost ate her and the whole team.” The Chief explained, shaking his head right after. “They lost two assistants, but the cameraman was able to flee with his camera untouched. Grace appeared running after him completely desperate, still holding the microphone.”

“It might work. If we can guarantee there’s someone at the studio, it’s possible gather people in… The hospital, maybe?” Leon observed the map, but soon received a frantic negative answer both from the police officer and Nakai.

“That was the starting point of all this disgrace.” The Chief ran his hand over his forehead. “We’re avoiding it like the plague. I’m sure no one survived in there.”

“Ok. Let’s talk to this Grace and see if we can get some communication at the broadcast station.” Rogers fumbled with the rifle in his hands, apparently having no worries with Leon carrying just one handgun, dearly named Matilda.

Rogers didn’t mind Leon’s weirdness. The kid had survived hell. In his point of view, he could be as weird as he wanted to.

“If we can’t contact anyone there…” With that, Rogers glanced at his Special Agent. Once more, Leon’s steel blue eyes carried that quite atypical coldness.

“I’ll go there, and I’ll find someone. If there isn’t anyone, you can just guide me, and I’ll make it work.” Leon had a small smile in his lips, remembering the first end of the world he had gone through. “I already had to learn a couple things the hard way. Making a TV broadcast work mustn’t be that hard.”

“Great. Let’s redirect the survivors to the school, any objections?” Rogers finally decided and got only negative answers from both Nakai and the police officer.

He wouldn’t make it obvious, but he was proud of Leon – for an ex-rookie cop, he was behaving quite well as a Special Agent.

**

“Grace?” In the packed entrance hall of the police department, filled with crying and mayhem, the voice of the police Chief made a woman with dark hair and shiny green eyes turn around to him, startled. “We need your help.”

“You?!” That’s what she spat back at him as an answer, completely baffled. The red suit jacket and skirt were dirty and misaligned, the white shirt stained with blood. “We are the ones who need help! Are you doin’ somethin’ to take us out of here or just chattin’ and drinkin’ tea?!”

“Charming.” Leon murmured to Rogers, already internally sighing upon realizing they really needed her help and couldn’t just ask someone else for it. They didn’t need someone with a superstar complex at that moment. The Commander just answered with a small, almost inaudible, laugh.

“We need you to make an emergency broadcast to the city. Where’s your assistant? What is his name?”

“His name is assistant.” Grace huffed, crossing her arms and already looking impatient. “What emergency broadcast? You guys want me to go to the studio for that? I am not leavin’ here.”

“Grace, please… Be reasonable.” Nakai gently touched her arm, approaching the woman. The police Chief lowered his voice. “We want all the survivors to gather in one single place. A TV broadcast helped some people to survive in Raccoon City, it might help here too. We need you to call the studio and see if there’s someone alive in there to broadcast while you give the announcement and the assistant records it.”

“In Raccoon City…? How do you know that?” The woman now looked confused and less combative. She also lowered her voice and seemed a little more prone to help.

“I was there.” Leon almost shrugged, being noticed for the first time. “If there’s no one in the studio, I’ll go there, and you tell me how to broadcast. The goal here is to gather the most people we can in just one place so we can get you all out of the city.”

Grace remained silent for a few seconds, observing Leon. She slowly ran her eyes through each of them, confirming with her head as she thought about it, finally uncrossing her arms.

“It might work…” She murmured back. “If there’s someone alive in the station, I know who’s gonna be. Let’s hope they listen the phone ringin’.”

The group headed back to the meeting room, closing the door and putting the phone in speakers. Grace dialed as fast as she could, watching her cameraman lost outside the room and signaling him to enter and remain silent. Patience wasn’t her virtue.

The phone barely rang once until a silent voice picked it up on the other side.

“Hello…?” It was uncertain, probably hiding. They didn’t let the phone ring so it wouldn’t draw unwanted attention.

“Hello? Y/n?!” Grace rested both her hands on the table, almost covering the phone with her body. The voice on the other side sighed in delight and had to contain itself not to scream.

“Gracie?! You’re alive?!” You took a deep breath while the woman affirmed enthusiastically, your heart beating fast and tears threatening to fall from your eyes.

“Y/n, oh my, y/n…!” Grace murmured, sighing right after, trying to hold back her tears. “I knew that you would be alive…!”

“It was tough, Grace. Almost died. Where are you?”

“On the NSPD! That’s exactly why I’m callin’! They are here with…”

“Wait…! Stop talking…!” You suddenly fell silent and everyone in the meeting room heard insistent knocks on a door, alongside horrible undead moans. They exchanged quick looks, not knowing what was going on.

After a few good minutes in silence, the banging finally stopped and the dragged steps couldn’t be heard anymore. You controlled your breath and barely made any noise – they started to ask themselves if you still were on the other side of the line.

“Hey. I’m at the Director’s room, I barricaded the door but those things still try to enter here until changing their attention to fresh blood.” You finally got back to the call, speaking even lower than before. They had to make the speakers louder on their side.

“Is there anyone else alive in there…?” Grace was even scared to ask. Actually, she didn’t want to, but she knew they would ask you that eventually.

“No. Not that I know of.” You sighed on the other side, following with a humorless laugh. “But, I think this is going to comfort you: the fresh blood is from the Director. I tied him up one of the windows after he died; he bled so much that he immediately grabs the attention of those things who are feasting on him.”

“Hmmm…” And Grace laughed briefly after hearing the news, a little more content than she should’ve. “It’s a lot more than what that shitty abuser deserved.”

“Well, at least he was useful for something, right?” You shrugged, understanding Grace’s anger. Anyone would understand it.

“Y/n, my dear, I need you to do me a favor. That’s why I called.”

“When do you call me not to ask for a favor?” You tried to joke for a while, making Grace let out a genuine laugh. “Even in the apocalypse you call me for favors. What if I had died?”

“I knew you hadn’t died. Out of every person in that studio, you’re the only one who had a chance; I’m just alive now ‘cause I wasn’t there when all hell broke loose.” Grace suddenly turned serious, looking a lot more professional than before. “Chief Nakai and Commander Rogers of the Special Forces want me to record an emergency broadcast so all survivors will go to the school, and they can be escorted to the NSPD and rescued. The idea is to broadcast it on the TV and the radio, so I’m gonna need someone inside the studio to broadcast the signal of our camera to TVs across the town and my audio through the radio.”

“Hmmm, ok. I’ve no idea how to do that nor how I’m gonna get there, but we’ll worry about it when I actually get there.” You mirrored her tone, immediately understanding the seriousness of the situation.

“Excuse me, y/n?” Leon finally decided to take over the call. “Leon Kennedy, Special Agent and Raccoon City survivor. I can help. Do you have any radio in there?”

“Like a walkie talkie?” You asked back and, from the noise, it seemed like you were going around the room. “Dunno. The Director had all kinds of junk in here.”

“He had one of our police radios.” The officer added with a long sigh, receiving suspicious looks. “How do you think he knew exactly when some interesting crime happened and appeared there out of the blue, sometimes even before than us? The man was never worth a dime.”

“Well. At least now he’s worth something.” You considered in a mumble, followed by a rather loud noise and some things being fumbled around. “Locked drawer, the key is probably still with him. I don’t think I’ll be able to get rid of the half-dead people already feeding on the piece of crap at the moment.”

Grace giggled – that was the internal nickname of the Director to anyone who worked in the broadcast station; specially women.

“Hmmm, found it. How can I turn it on?”

“There’s a switch on top of it that shows the frequencies, can you see it?” Leon’s answer was in autopilot, getting a positive response from you after a few seconds. “We can find a frequency…”

“0.5 hertz. No one uses that channel, you won’t be interrupted.” The police Chief added before Leon could finish talking, throwing him a similar radio. Leon adjusted on that very same frequency.

“Great. You just have to press a button on the side to open the channel to talk to me. I’m gonna test it here and you tell me if it works, ok?” He didn’t even have to say much for you to agree. With a few words, you could hear him loud and clear.

“Ok, it works. What about you?”

“Working as well.” Leon smiled. Luckily, you seemed to be a fast learner. “Talk to me as you walk around the studio, and I can help you around those things. I was a cop in Raccoon City.”

“Yeah, I know. Claire and Jill told me about you.” Your answer came with a sigh, not at all happy with the perspective of getting out of the room you had made so secure for yourself. “Gimme a minute to get ready. I’ll call you on the radio, ok?”

“Ok, that works.”

“Y/n.” Before ending the call, Grace called you one more time. “Just… Don’t die, ok? I wanna see you again. I don’t wanna be the only one left from the studio.”

“Don’t worry, Gracie. We need a lot more than half a dozen slow zombies to kill me.” You had a cocky smile in your voice, making her laugh before finally ending the call.

The only problem was that there was a lot more than half a dozen zombies in the studio.

**

To be continued...

[radioactivepeasant]

Snippet Thursday: Mistaken Identity

Actually quite long (about 42 pages in my tiny notepad), because it's a full one-shot rather than part of a multi-chapter idea. Although that's not to say I won't add pieces later

The distress beacon had been Sig’s, but the shape lying limply in the dust was most assuredly not Sig. The gathered Wastelanders looked at each other with grim expressions: this felt like a trap.

"Circle around," Damas signed to the driver of the second car, "Check for an ambush. I'll see if it's one of ours."

"Be careful," the woman signed back. A dimple between her brows suggested that under her heavy scarf she was frowning.

"I'm always careful."

Even so, Damas took extra care in approaching the crumpled form, gesturing for Kleiver to follow him in case of attack. He'd assumed that the person -- or corpse, hard to tell at this distance -- would be larger up close. But as he drew near, the figure remained small, and slight. They were dressed like a Havenite from the Slums, wearing stained, threadbare layers of clothing. A filthy scarf and dismally battered goggles half covered matted green hair; they didn't seem to have any more protection from the sun than that. Foolish Havenite.

Two small animals lay beside the stranger, breathing shallowly. Pets? That seemed an unusual step for Haven, letting an exile take anything important to them.

Damas glanced at the stranger, but kept his attention focused on the ground, looking for Sig’s beacon. It didn't take long to find, considering it lay beside the stranger's hand. Damas picked up the beacon and turned it over in his hand. There were no obvious signs of tampering. No blood or scorching or anything else to indicate that the beacon had been taken by force.

"How did you get this?" Damas murmured, not really expecting an answer. Whoever this was, they were barely alive.

"Er...lordship?"

It was not like Kleiver to sound hesitant.

"Do you...know this kid?"

An odd question. Damas looked up with a quizzical expression and found the big Wastelander peering down at the face of the figure. Kid?

The king pivoted on his heels to get a better look at their find.

Sunken cheeks. Dark circles under large eyes. A pitiful patch of stubble that might’ve been a first attempt at a beard on an otherwise startlingly smooth face. Precursors, he was a kid, wasn't he? He could've been anywhere from sixteen to nineteen -- in his state, it was hard to tell.

"Scrawny thing, isn't he?" Damas remarked. He took hold of an iron ring strapped to the boy's chest and tried to shake off a nagging sense of familiarity in the boy's features. "A channeler, maybe? We could use one of those. Honestly, I'm impressed that he's still breathing."

He glanced up. "What makes you think I'd know who the whelp is?"

Kleiver looked back at him with an unusually uncomfortable expression. He gestured awkwardly to the boy's face.

"Well he's...I mean- well look at 'im! 'S just weird, is all."

"What's weird?" Damas scoffed and hoisted the boy up by the iron ring.

The boy's head fell back and for just a moment, something around his neck glittered in the fading sunlight. With a curse, Damas dropped him as if he'd been burned. He scrambled to his feet and stumbled back a step, swearing under his breath.

"What fresh hell is this?" he demanded.

That was where Phobos found him after completing her perimeter check: staring in horror down at a much younger version of his own face.

Phobos crossed the space between their vehicles to touch his shoulder.

"Damas?"

"I...who is this?"

"Damas." Phobos shook him gently. "Hey. Hey. Are you just going to leave him lying there?"

The king blinked and inhaled sharply as he seemed to come to. "Right," he muttered, "...right. Pho, take my staff."

"What? Oop-!" Phobos hastily grabbed at the staff Damas all but dropped. "What the-!"

In a daze, Damas knelt and slipped an arm under the boy’s shoulders.

"Gods. He really is scrawny."

He shook his head and hoisted the boy up.

"Kleiver, get the car started. And someone grab those animals!"

Phobos's eyes flicked from Damas to the half-dead castaway, and narrowed.

"Damas...who is that?"

Her husband turned to face her, a disturbed shock stamped clearly on his face.

"I don't know," he said grimly, "but he's wearing a Maridius amulet."

■■■■■■■■■■

The Rift Rider idled, ready to take Samos and the child back in time. Ready to begin the cycle of pain all over again. Jak bit his lip and folded his younger self's fingers back over the proffered amulet.

"No, buddy, you keep it," he said gently. "Try...try to remember something about your family this time. Maybe remember me."

The tiny boy pouted, then threw his arms around Jak’s neck. "Za?" He whispered in Jak’s ear, the closest he'd ever come to saying his name.

Jak closed his eyes and hugged the kid tightly. Precursors knew he wouldn't get a lot of hugs in Sandover. "No, buddy. Za can't go with you this time. You have to be really brave for me, okay? There's...there's a kid on the other side of that gate who really really needs a friend. Can you look out for him for me?"

Sniffling, the little boy let go and nodded. "Brave like you," he signed. Then, rubbing his eyes, he sat back down in the craft.

Jak took a slow breath, then looked to the younger Samos. Doubtless this version of the sage was going to withhold just as much information as the older one. Jak didn't trust him to warn Mar about Errol. And he'd be blasted if he let that swine get his hands on the amulet in any timeline.

"You know, I didn't have the amulet when I got back to the present," he said casually. "I think you locked it up for safekeeping right before we fixed the Rift Gate, but I never saw where in the house you put it."

Samos took the bait too easily. "Oof! Yes, I suppose it would be bad for the kid to meet the Baron with that thing on. Thanks for the heads-up."

All too soon, they were gone. And not long after, so was Jak, headed for Dead Town. It had been a selfish ploy, a bid to give himself some semblance of a connection to his past. He couldn't remember having the amulet yet -- but he'd had trouble remembering a lot of his early years ever since the experiments began. "Traumatic amnesia", Daxter called it.

But if the amulet was there, if his ploy had worked, then maybe he'd get something back.

It took him an hour to sift through all the debris in the old hut, even with Daxter's help. The ravages of time hadn't left many places for treasure to remain undiscovered in. But just when Jak was beginning to fear that someone had found it decades before, his hand brushed over a brick in the old planter circles that lacked the same grout as the others.

Leave it to Samos to hide such an important artifact under a giant, vicious, carnivorous plant. Had he fed it to the thing?! The amulet was down where the roots had once been!

Still, Jak could admit to a sense of relief that washed over him once the amulet was in his hand. Clearly he'd changed the past at least enough to have an emotional connection to the pendant. He tucked it into his tunic, resolving to put it on a chain the first chance he got. He wasn't going to let anyone take it from him again.

■■■■■■■■■■

The last thing Jak remembered was collapsing beside a boulder, desperately trying to stay conscious only to fail seconds later. He could hear a voice -- not Daxter or Pecker -- nearby, and as he focused on that, other sensations began to filter in.

Softness beneath him.

The smell of eco med-gel.

An itch in the crook of his elbow.

A sticky dryness in his mouth, like cotton.

And something off about his skin. He couldn't put his finger on it, but his skin felt different somehow. Cleaner? No, that didn't make any sense. Why would it be clean?

It took a monumental effort to open his eyes, and he regretted it immediately. Light stabbed into his retinas pitilessly, and Jak let out an involuntary grunt of discomfort. In response, a shadow fell over his face, shielding him from the unforgiving glare. First a blur, then a shape, a face slowly swam into focus.

"Ah, you're back with us! Thank the Precursors, that was a close one, eh?"

Jak blinked up in confusion as his brain slowly processed the presence of one of the most beautiful women he could ever remember seeing. Not that he could remember seeing that many women in his life. Her skintone was so deep that the light framing her glanced off her cheekbones in little flashes of garnet and amethyst. Coils of hair spread out behind her head in an artful halo, providing most of the blessed shade across Jak's face. He squinted up at her for a long moment, trying to determine whether he was hallucinating in the desert.

"....'m I dead?" Jak croaked, then winced at the dry soreness in his throat.

The angelic stranger laughed in surprise. "Dead? No, quite the opposite, kid. Although you got pretty close."

"Where am I?" Jak tried to sit up, and something tugged at his elbow.

Instantly, he froze. He knew the shape of a needle.

Bile crawled up his throat, and his heart thundered in his ears as he forced himself to turn his head and look.

A bag of clear fluid hung from a stand beside a cot he'd been laid on. Descending from the bag, a long tube fed the fluid through a needle secured to his arm with bandages. A high whine escaped him, and the room seemed to spin.

"Whoa whoa whoa- kid, kiddo, look at me."

The mysterious woman suddenly took his face in her hands -- rough hands. A warrior's hands.

"Ssshh, hey, you're okay. You're okay, chico. It's just saline, that's all."

"W- what-?"

"Saline. It's a...kinda like a saltwater solution you give to people suffering dehydration."

One of the calloused hands cupped the back of his head, rubbing a thumb comfortingly over stubble.

Stubble?

Jak's breathing quickened and the room spun faster.

"What-!" he gasped, and his breaths began to squeak. "What did you do to me?!"

"Hey now, breathe. Breathe." The woman began to sway back and forth where she sat, dragging him along with the rocking motion.

"Inhale with me, yeah? In and out, in and out. I've got you."

"M- my h- my h- hair-!" Jak squeaked.

The woman clicked her tongue. "Oh, ohhh, you can feel that, huh? Yeah, you were overheated. The mats in your hair were just doing damage to you, longterm. The doctors didn't have any time to waste, so they shaved it out to cool you off."

She continued to cradle his face with her other hand, offering him a full, apologetic smile.

"I'm sorry we couldn't get your okay, chico. But...I mean, you wouldn't wake up! Not even your orange friend could get a response. He gave us the go-ahead."

For the first time since waking, Jak felt something like relief. "D- Daxter?"

"Mm. The mouthy one? Yes."

"Where-?"

The woman pulled back and turned away for a moment. Jak wondered why he felt minutely disappointed by that. He wasn't that touch-starved, was he? When she turned back, she held a cup and pitcher in her hands. The sight of the water trickling from one container to the other made Jak's throat ache all the fiercer.

"Here. Slow sips now, little bird. Don't make yourself sick like your friend did." The woman settled back into her seat at the edge of the cot. She made a vague gesture with the hand not holding the pitcher.

"At least he made a quick recovery. My husband took him back up to our place. When you're cleared by the doctors, we'll take you to him."

Jak gulped down the water, ignoring his visitor's protests. It was cool, although not cold, but even that was like heaven on his irritated throat. Droplets leaked from the corner of his mouth, and the IV tugged painfully as he reached up to catch them. He didn't think he could afford to waste even one drop.

"Hey hey!" The woman reached for the cup, and Jak jerked back out of reach.

"Not so fast, chico, you'll make yourself sick!"

Jak growled softly behind the rim of the cup and hitched up his shoulders. If this lady wanted to take the water away, she'd be in for a fight.

"Whoa!" The woman raised her brows. "Calm down. The water isn't going anywhere, I promise."

"I don't know you," Jak retorted, "How do I know you keep promises?"

Now the woman began to look a little annoyed.

"Fair enough," she begrudgingly allowed. "Considering the state we found you in, am I to assume that if I take that cup you'll bite me or something?"

"I might," answered Jak coolly.

Something bittersweet passed over the woman's face and lingered there at the corners of her mouth as she forced a smile.

"Well that wouldn't be very nice of you, but I can't say it wouldn't fit with every other kid in Spargus."

Jak lowered the cup slowly. "Spargus?" he asked, tilting his head, "What's that?"

"It's home," she answered. "The city of the forgotten and the betrayed -- and the hunter."

Jak raised the cup again and muttered darkly, "Well that's ironically appropriate."

"Let's start over, huh?"

The woman leaned back and carded a hand through her teased-out coils.

"My name is Phobos. I was with the convoy that found you and your friends in the Strider Range."

"...oh."

Jak grimaced. This woman had rescued him, hadn't she?

"I'm, um. I'm Jak."

Embarrassed, he gestured to the cup, the IV, and looked away. "What do I owe you? I don't...I don't have any money."

Phobos shook her head. "It's fine, chico- er, Jak. When people come to Spargus, those who have life debts pay it back by contributing to the overall survival of their new home and neighbors, depending on how old they are when they arrive."

"How old they are?" Jak fiddled with his now empty cup awkwardly. "What does that have to do with anything?"

Phobos gave him an amused glance. "Uh...kids are kids? This isn't Haven, hey? We don't even let people take the citizen applicant training course until we know they're eighteen or older."

She scooted closer and held up the pitcher. "Cup."

"Huh? Oh-"

Jak tilted the cup toward her but didn't let go. He watched her refill it and puzzled over the idea of a city in good enough shape that kids didn't have to work. Maybe there weren't metalheads out here.

"So...do you people normally pick up half-dead people and bring them home?"

"As long as they aren't half dead because they tried to kill us, yeah," Phobos said with a careless shrug. "Strength and survival: it's the two things Wastelanders respect the most. So when we find somebody in the badlands who isn't a dried out corpse, we know we've got the makings of a tough little survivor."

Surviving was, by necessity, Jak’s best skill. But considering the kind of jobs he got when people knew that, and how it had turned out last time, Jak decided not to advertise that fact. It already nagged at him that someone had seen his scars, and the bruises from the arrest, and every other injury he'd gained in the name of helping a city that hated him. Spargus wouldn't get the same freebies.

Eventually, Phobos stood up and put the pitcher back on a low counter that extended out of sight behind a curtain. She dusted off her yellow tunic and stretched her back with a soft grunt.

"Alright. I guess somebody ought to tell Damas you're awake and talking," she said, more to herself than to Jak.

Before Jak could ask who Damas was supposed to be, something careful and calculated slipped into Phobos's voice.

"So...just you and the critters, huh? Your parents know where you are?"

Hands tightened into claws around the wooden cup.

"I never had parents," Jak growled.

One more thing to "thank" Haven for, apparently.

"Ah." Phobos's eyes widened in an oddly dismayed expression. "Sorry, I..."

"Why?"

Jak's eyes narrowed at her.

"Literally no one has ever asked if I even had parents before you. You're fishing for something. What do you want?"

Then it hit him: if the woman had seen his scars, she had seen his amulet as well. Was that what she was getting at? Probing to see if any other ill-fated Heirs of Mar existed?

"Uh..." Phobos puffed out her cheeks and blew the air out. "It's...complicated. I'm gonna let Damas take this one."

"Who's Damas?" Jak demanded.

Phobos made another odd grimace and lifted a radio from the countertop.

"Hey, Damas, the kid's awake," she said, ignoring Jak's question.

A raspy voice crackled through the speaker.

"He is? Has he said anything yet?"

"Well, he threatened to bite me," Phobos joked before growing serious. "Take it easy when you come down, he's pretty worked up. Bring the orange guy if you can."

"Understood. Anything else I should know?"

"Yeah," Phobos sighed. "He doesn't know who we are, where we are, or how he got here. I don't think you're going to get any answers out of him."

"......oh."

The guy she called Damas sounded strangely...emotional.

"Er...alright. I'll...I'll see what I can do when I get there."

Jak glowered at Phobos's back. He hated when people talked about him like he wasn't there.

Out of habit, he reached for his collar to run his fingers over his amulet. That always helped him slow down when his thoughts were racing too fast. His fingers brushed against loose linen; the tunic he was wearing were not the one he'd had on the last time he was awake. Jak's stomach felt like it was plummeting from a precipice as he finally looked down at his body. Someone had dressed him in loose, lightweight clothing. There was no sign of his own clothing.

Or his amulet.

Fighting down feelings of violation and revulsion, Jak gripped the thin sheets in hands like claws.

"Where are my clothes?" he snarled, "What did you do?"

Phobos didn't look overly concerned, which only agitated Jak more.

"They're being checked for trackers or other bugs," she said with a shrug. "Haven's been trying to find our city for years. Can't be too careful. Look on the bright side: it's probably the first time they've ever been washed."

She leaned over the cot, and Jak jerked away.

"Don't touch me!"

There wasn't much room to retreat on the small bed, but Jak tried anyway.

"Who stole my amulet?"

"Hey, calm down," Phobos raised a placating hand, but dropped it quickly when Jak flinched. "Nobody stole it."

"Don't lie to me!"

Jak was over the verge of panic now. He was alone, powerless, right back to being poked and prodded like a doll. Like a lab rat.

"What do you want?!"

Grimacing, Phobos stepped back and grabbed her radio again.

"Hey Damas? Hurry it up, will ya?"

"I'm en route."

"Good. Because he just noticed the absence of a Certain Something and he is losing it right now."

"Rot. Okay, just- rot! Try to keep him calm, I'm bringing it, okay?"

The man's voice rose and fell oddly. It almost sounded like he was running.

Phobos ran a hand through her hair and puffed out her cheeks. This was not going as well as they'd hoped. Could've been worse, she acknowledged, but this kid's reactions were giving her a bad feeling. The scars, the reaction to the IV and having been given new clothing without his knowledge, it all painted a pretty grim picture.

"Damas is bringing your amulet down," she said in what she hoped was a soothing tone. (How did one talk to agitated teenagers?! Why weren't they as easy to calm as toddlers?) "He'll explain everything, chico, I promise. Just...stay here a minute, okay?"

Jak warily watched the woman walk through the curtain, listening and counting her footsteps. By the sound of it, he was in the back of a narrow building. There was someone else up there, wherever Phobos had gone, but they rustled around opening drawers instead of speaking. If there were guards, Jak couldn't hear them. He hoped there were none. In his current state, he doubted he'd be able to fight them off.

A door slid open with the sound of a chime, and Jak stiffened as a heavier tread entered the building.

"About time!" he heard Phobos greet the person, "He's all yours."

"Allegedly," the voice from the radio answered.

"Mmhm. You're cute when you're in denial. Better get back there before the poor kid has a heart attack."

When the curtains parted, Jak was in the act of climbing off the cot to look for something -- anything -- to defend himself with. He froze, locking eyes with a weathered Wastelander covered in scars and armor. He looked like the kind of guy Sig would run with. Jak stared at the man and wondered if this was the guy who allegedly had his amulet. Were those piercings on his skull?! Despite himself, Jak wondered how the man slept without ripping whatever he used for a pillow.

"Easy, young one," the man murmured, holding out his hands as if approaching a skittish animal. "Easy. You're in no danger."

"Usually when people tell me that, they're lying," Jak retorted. He backed up, silently cursing his shaky legs, until his back touched the wall and the IV tugged painfully at his arm. "Where's Daxter? What do you people want with us?"

The armored man lowered himself to sit on the end of the cot and folded his hands in front of him. "Your friend is perfectly safe," he soothed, "Well, unless he tries to use the water wheel as a carnival ride, I suppose. But he doesn't really seem the type to do that kind of thing."

"You didn't answer my other question," Jak said pointedly. "What do you want?"

"Answers," the man -- Damas, probably -- replied steadily, "Just answers."

"Like what?" Jak edged closer to the IV, trying to relieve the horrific sensation of the needle.

Then his visitor reached into a cloth pouch at his belt and drew out a familiar shape.

"What can you tell me about this?" he asked, holding up the amulet.

Forgetting the needle, Jak lunged for the pendant. Pain lanced through his elbow for an instant, hot and dull, and he pulled up short. He'd learned long ago not to rip needles out. There would just be more if he did.

"Whoa!" Damas dropped the amulet on the sheets and reached out as if to steady Jak. "Slow down, boy, you're going to hurt yourself! You shouldn't even be standing right now!"

Jak, unfortunately, agreed. But he locked his knees and kept his eyes on Phobos's friend, just as he had on Phobos.

"Give it back," he rasped, holding out a demanding hand.

Damas frowned thoughtfully. He picked up the chain and considered it for a few seconds before dropping it into Jak's outstretched hand.

"Where did you get this?" he asked.

With time-travel being too unbelievable an explanation even to those closest to Jak, he settled for the most open-ended version of the truth he could manage.

"Ancient ruins," he muttered.

The chain slipped down around his neck, and he visibly relaxed once the familiar weight rested against his collarbone.

Damas made an interested sound and folded his arms. "Ruins, eh? How did you find it?"

Evasively, Jak shrugged. "I just...knew where to look."

"And does this happen to you often? "Knowing" things?"

Hm. He might’ve been a little too open-ended there. Jak braced his back against the wall and begrudgingly clarified.

"I'm not a seer. It's just with eco stuff."

Damas nodded. "Ah! I understand. So what made you decide to keep such an odd little trinket?"

He wasn't being very subtle. Jak could do blunt too.

"It's mine. That's it. And I know what you're trying to do."

A hint of tension lined Damas’s neck and shoulders as he tried to play casual.

"Oh? And what am I trying to do, young one?"

Jak curled his lip at the man. "You're trying to get me to say I'm an Heir of Mar, probably so you can get some of his artifacts. What, do you want the Precursor Stone too? Well you're too late."

Any semblance of relaxation dropped from Damas like a cloak. He straightened, and the air filled with an undercurrent of warning. It was almost like eco -- enough that Jak wondered if the man could channel.

"Explain that, please."

It didn't sound like a request.

"What, exactly, do you know about the Precursor Stone?"

Jak gripped his amulet for calm.

"Not a myth," he said shortly, "Not meant to be used as a weapon, and not a rock."

He lifted his chin and met Damas’s hard eyes.

"I opened it. It can't be used anymore."

"Opened?!" Damas recoiled slightly. "You've touched the Stone?"

Suspicion colored his voice, but strangely he didn't seem to be getting hostile.

"Where did you find it?"

Agitated, Jak snapped, "In a tomb designed by some sadistic obstacle-course lover obsessed with "manhood", guarded by a bunch of loudmouth Oracles. Be glad you missed it."

He wondered if he was just setting himself up for problems later. If the Wastelanders knew he could speak to Oracles and traverse ruins, they'd probably make him pay off the medical care by finding artifacts for them. Story of his life.

But Damas looked shaken by the statement, not shrewd. He seemed almost to pale, and drew a hand over his face to rest over his mouth. His eyes bored into Jak's with an unsettling intensity.

"The amulet truly belongs to you, then," he finally acknowledged, in little more than a croak. His fingers pressed into his jaw hard enough that Jak wondered if the man would have fingerprints there later.

"How...how old are you, boy?"

What did that have to do with anything? Annoyed, Jak shrugged.

"Like I know? Fifteen, sixteen, what's it matter?"

"You don't...you don't know?" Damas looked even more shaken. "No one told you your own birthdate?"

Jak didn't want to talk about this. He finally slumped to sit at the head of the cot and crossed his arms sullenly.

"Y'know what, that's none of your business. Where's Daxter? I'm not saying anything else until I see him."

"I can arrange that."

Damas stood and absentmindedly picked up the wooden cup.

"You should er...try to sleep some. Heat exhaustion will leave you weak for a good several days-"

"Are you Damas?" Jak interrupted suddenly, as Phobos's attempted reassurances came to mind.

Damas turned. "Yes?"

He looked like he almost expected something else to follow.

Jak pulled his knees to his chest and rested folded arms on top of them. "The lady who was in here said you'd explain what you people wanted from me. And why you took my amulet."

The Wastelander looked, Jak thought, rather like he had just swallowed a bee. He made a few awkward hand motions -- some of it almost looked like signs -- and tugged on a tuft of hair at his chin.

"Ah...that is..."

He picked up the pitcher and splashed water into the cup clumsily. He was unsettled.

"The crest of Mar has...connotations. Doubtless you've learned by now, but when people see it they form...expectations."

Damas cleared his throat and handed the cup over to Jak.

"I removed it from you before the monks could see it and develop those expectations. I...wanted you to be able to focus on healing without the distraction of history zealots."

Well, that was marginally better than Jak had been imagining. He didn't exactly trust that the man was telling the truth, but at least he hadn't tried to sell it or something. Jak acknowledged his visitor's words with a curt nod and sipped at the water slowly. Idly, he wondered if his general age fit this city's "too young for serious work" bracket or not. After Haven, he honestly didn't know whether he hoped so or not.

Damas was staring at him. It was subtle, but intense, and Jak could feel his eyes. It made his brain itch, and he felt the urge to squirm uncomfortably.

"Are you in any pain?" Damas asked suddenly, apparently in response to the squirming.

"I don't like being stared at," Jak answered gruffly.

"...ah." Damas cringed and looked away. "Apologies. You just...look very familiar. I was trying to place whether I might have met you or someone you were related to in the past."

"Not unless you were in Haven before Praxis took over," Jak grumbled bitterly, "Or you took a tour of his prison labs in the last two years."

You're talking too much, Jak. Wait for Daxter. Why are you volunteering this information?

Well. He knew. He was scared and disoriented and angry, and he wanted to shock someone. Anyone. It was the dark eco talking.

"The labs?!" Damas dropped the pitcher with a crash. A terrible look flooded his face. "Did...was your whole family there?"

"Rot! Why are you guys so obsessed with information about my parents?" Jak was getting tired of repeating himself. "You know as much as I do! Even the freakin Oracles wouldn't tell me what the amulet meant until I got to the Tomb!"

From the front of the building, the third person finally called out.

"My lord, if you keep getting him worked up, I'm tossing you out. He's supposed to be resting!"

"I'm working on it, Petros!" Damas retorted sharply.

He closed his eyes and made a visible attempt to calm himself before turning back to Jak.

"Sorry. I know this is confusing. I am...having a difficult time finding the right words to ask the right questions." He made a helpless gesture. "Finding you, practically on my doorstep, with that amulet has upended my understanding of the world and my place in it."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Jak demanded.

Damas gingerly took a seat at the end of the cot again and, sighing deeply, reached into his pouch again.

"The last time I was in Haven for an extended period of time was about fifteen years ago, at the end of the last major campaign against the metalheads."

He opened his hand, revealing a second amulet of Mar in his palm.

"After Praxis betrayed me- after the hardships our city has faced over the last few years-"

He shook his head with furrowed brow.

"I- I thought I was the only one left. And now here you are, and I have more questions than answers."

Jak blinked, then blinked again.

"Well," he said in a strangled voice, "That makes two of us."

[voonydapunk69420]

The Shadows Take Family.

(Warning, this is an alternate universe horror story for Alan Wake 2. I wrote this and originally posted it in a google doc in the Remedy discord. My mutuals should all add me on discord I like talking about Alan Wake and nerd stuff on there.) "FBC Investigation Department Steven Yoke reporting in, Code 7721, More shadows have appeared, and I was sent to investigate." The agent spoke into the ham radio he had in his cabin.It was lit up like a christmas tree and unable to be invaded by the taken. Truthfully the taken were the least of his worries, he killed at least 3 of them when he had gotten here, using a flashlight and a suppressed HK USP to avoid any loud noises alerting the townsfolk. His fears weren’t about the Koskela’s or the taken but instead the cult. Steve though hadn't heard anything recently from the cult of the trees. Just some chatter that a possible leader in their organization had disappeared and was suspected to have become one of the taken. His suspects as to who were short in numbers, Blum, Ilmo, Jaako, Rose, fucking Pat Maine for all he knew. This town wasn't his favorite place to be stationed, the only good thing was the coffee, and even that seemed to be getting worse every time he was there. He would hear something outside of his cabin, a voice corrupted but recognizable from the advertisements in town, a leader in the two towns of Watery and Bright Falls. "And AlL BeCause of your SHIT COFFEE!" An originally humorous line corrupted by the Dark Presence taking him. It was Ilmo Koskela. "They got Ilmo Koskela, the shadows got Ilmo Koskela this is not a drill." He said grabbing his flashlight and gun getting ready to take out the taken, the broken deer mask half resting on Ilmo's face as Steven stepped out. "FBC FREEZE MOTHERFUCKER!" He said but before he could shoot, clonk, he was knocked out by something else from behind, he was dragged to the lake. MIA isn't too bad for a man who's probably never able to retire. He would still be reaching for his side arm besides the suppressed pistol, it was a Gen 2 Glock 35 which had a flashlight equipped to it. Before he could even try to shoot the taken though something else had happened. Ilmo and the Taken that trapped the agent both tried to drag him into the water, Ilmo quoting his ads some more. "It's not a-moosing!" As he was speaking more, and more getting close to the lake a powerful light was shown on the two, his brother Jaako wouldn't let him be corrupted for long, Two shots from a pump action shotgun rang out. Jaako got ready for the ritual to kill the taken. "I'm sorry brother." Jaako said as he grabbed the knife and drove it into his brother's chest slowly carving out his heart. It was the ritual, it was something Jaako hated doing to those he knew. But now they weren’t the locals, they were monsters. It sickened him that this was needing to happen but he understood why. "We watch from the trees, We fight the shadows!" The other cult members chanted as they took the heart out and placed it down on the table, pulling out a page of Hemingway's writing and replacing it with one from Rose about the brother dying a death to a cult. They put the clicker in the hole in his chest and clicked. Soon after they got ready for the next one, Jaako was still heart broken. All he hoped was that this would give his brother the rest he deserved. 

[nuatthebeach]

"i'll give you another chance."

part 2 of the compilation "come let's walk for miles." feel free to ask me a quote-themed prompt here on tumblr for more!

comment here on ao3.

"I'm sorry I called you a slut."

"Jesus. Yeah, security!"

Of all the chemistry readings Ginny was subjected to in the film industry, none were as predictable as the one she had today. Golden spun hair, cerulean blue eyes, and a strong jaw, Cormac McLaggen may be on the front page of Hollywood's Hottest Hot Shots year to year, but Ginny considers herself quite confident in her ability to tell the sleazy, spoiled child actor apart from the less sleazy but equally spoiled manchild.

Call it intuition or continuous bad luck, but she only picks up roles that offer these readings for a reason.

"Just name the price, and we can keep this incident on the down low!"

Exhibit A himself, calling out to save face, getting dragged out the door by his own agent.

When Ginny no longer is able to see McLaggan's ridiculously built shoulders in view, she slumps down in her chair and massages her temples.

"Again, I am so sorry about that," her casting director Hermione apologizes, handing her a bottle of water. Ginny flicks open the cap and takes deep gulps, hoping the cool drink will wash the sliminess she feels inside. "His agent warned us that he would play into every stereotype of an entitled actor, but…"

"He's a big name. Big bucks," Ginny mutters in between sips. "You wanted to try your chances, I get it. Just bring in the next guy."

Hermione's sheepish smile turns into a grimace. "Are you sure? This next one's a…"

Ginny raises her eyebrows. "Tax auditor? Zebra?" Hermione snorts. "So long as he's not a dick, I'm okay. I don't care if he's not well-known. Call him in."

Glaring down at her script, she doesn't bother to fix her slouched position, having seen the word lunch printed in black ink earlier that day. Damn, how long has she sat there for? Is today pizza or chicken pesto day? For some reason, she always gets the two confused. Honestly, what she wouldn't give for one of those American oreo milkshakes right about now…maybe she could fit in time for a quick drive-through after all this –

A voice clears its throat.

She starts a bit, ceasing her pen-clicking. Then, she lifts her lashes up from her script. And looks at the next auditionee.

He dresses differently from McLaggen, to say the least. Instead of designer leather jackets and styled, product-filled hair, he wears Champion sweatshirts and dark, messy locks that remind Ginny of raking leaves on a foggy autumn day.

Of fingers teasing scalps and silk threaded sheets.

She shakes her head swiftly.

"Hi."

Ginny straightens, stretching out her hand to shake his. Warm, large. "Hi, er…" She glances down at the call sheet. "Harry Potter. Nice to meet you. Says here you've been a stunt double for several years?"

That would explain the callouses.

"Yeah," Harry shifts on his foot, glancing around the room like he's nervous to be the center of attention. Hmm. Seems in poor taste to be here of all places, but okay.

"What made you want to switch to acting in the first place?" She figures that's a safe enough place to start.

But he only crosses his arms with such obvious discomfort that Ginny fights a cringe, already planning out the words to her polite rejection in her head. He starts speaking, and her wariness only becomes worse. "Acting has been my passion since I was young." Kill me. "From taking on leads in uni theater plays" —do not groan, do not groan—  "stunt doubling in twenty action and horror films, thinking quick on my feet in improv scenes – "

Maybe it's the long day she's had. Maybe it's the sexist twat she had the displeasure of meeting half an hour ago. Maybe it's her craving for oreo milkshakes. Or maybe it's a combination of all three.

But all she knows is that one second she's bored out of her mind, and the next: "If I wanted to hear a list of all your qualifications, mate, I would've reread your CV."

Great. How can she talk badly about spoiled actors when she's behaving like the poster child of one now? Maybe she should call McLaggen and they can start up a support group together. AA for Actors Astray.

Ginny opens her mouth to apologize profusely (and then apologize again after telling him that regardless, he's still not fit for the job) when she sees the man press his lips together.

And hide an amused smile.

"Er," Ginny widens her eyes, thrown off guard. Suddenly, for reasons entirely unknown to her, her intuition whispers for her to give him another chance. "I'll give you another chance." Right on the nose, her intuition. "Just be yourself. Same question.”

A pause more pregnant than a three-humped camel. And then:

"Honestly, I was getting tired risking paralysis falling arse over tits for yet another low-budget film. At least now I'll get paid properly for it."

The laugh that escapes Ginny bubbles out before she can help it, bathing in warmth at Harry's slightly surprised grin in response.

She eyes the witty gleam of his green stare and notes how he hasn't once gushed over her presence since arriving on set. Not much of a celebrity worshipper then. Good.

Just like that, the decision is made before she's conscious of it.

"Right, okay. Sit," Ginny juts her chin to the seat across from her and lifts her script to a comfortable reading position. "Let's see if all that sass is worth something in the end."

He shoots her a grateful but determined smile. Blazing, to match her own. "Wouldn't expect anything less."

She'll take his word for it.

xxx

Turns out, Harry can act his bollocks off. And not just the reading-off-the-script type of acting, though he can do that plenty as well.

They make the tabloids and so do the pics of them walking about the streets, hands swinging between them like a terribly kept secret. When paps ask if they're dating, she simply adds, "And we're fucking too." And when they startle at her audacity, she and Harry break into a giggling, breathless run, white lights flashing from behind like in the movies.

At the premiere, they poke fun at each other's improvised lines ("We should huddle closer a bit…you know, for warmth." "You should have brought a fucking jacket then.") and crack up at shots taken out of context ("That sort of looks like you in the morning." "Shut up, Harry.").

Oh, and there's milkshakes too. Loads of them. Though, he likes the strawberry one, the weirdo.

[chaoticgeminate]

Black Vultures (i)

Summary: When your plane to a beach resort vacation crashes, nowhere near your destination, you have to depend on a stranger to protect you from horrors you never could have imagined.

Pairing: Pero Tovar x f!Reader

Rating: Explicit (Chapters with smut will be marked)

Notes/Warnings: Series involves general survival, cannibals, violence, and gore with body horror elements. This is based loosely off 'The Forest' and while I may have used a picture of Pero in armor we are working with a modernized Pero here.

Written for @yearofcreation2023

Series Masterlist | Year of Video Game AUs Masterlist

i'm on the edge of the war (3.2k)

“Are you ready for the best vacation of your life?” Keegan was chattering away happily as the two of you headed for your boarding gate, carry-on bags rolling after the both of you as you power-walked toward your destination. You had wanted to be here at least half an hour ago but Keegan had procrastinated, he was against sitting in the airport for extended periods -which was why your tickets were a straight flight rather than having any layovers- and now the two of you were at risk of missing your boarding call.

“If we even get to go on vacation, sure!” Your false cheer was met with a playful eye roll, you made it to the gate right as they were doing a second to last boarding call and after getting in line you exhaled lightly before looking over your seat after scanning your boarding pass on your cell. Keegan’s seat wasn’t near yours, since he had insisted on booking the tickets separately, but it was fine anyway since he was the type to sleep on a plane while you preferred to read or to write.

As you found your seat, an aisle seat, you hoisted your carry on up into the overhead compartment; but you did struggle with rearranging the other bags up there, since people hadn’t even tried to do so. A warm presence at your back made you stiffen as a set of rough hands began to help moving the other bags, yours finally sliding in so that the compartment could still close, and you sat down so that the other people trying to get by you could do so.

The person who helped you was the one in the aisle seat beside yours, you peeked a glance at them between the now moving passengers, and a part of you was floored at the sight of this broad man and his dark curls. He wasn’t looking at you but that was okay, taking the chance to admire his profile while going unnoticed, but as the last person walked by he turned his head and locked gazes with you.

“Oh! Uh- thank you, for just now.” Being caught made you fluster a little under his intense expression, your face warmed and you tugged the sleeve of your hoodie over your hands to hide the way you were playing with the fabric. His lips curled into a smirk, not a smile, as he nodded once before turning his attention forward as the cabin crew began calling for focus so they could do the safety demonstration. Flying was something you hated, never failing to have your anxiety spike during take off and any turbulence and even landing, so you paid very close attention to the safety demonstration.

By the time the plane began to taxi along the runway you were gripping the armrest tightly, glad that the seats beside you had wound up empty, and as soon as you were in the sky you grabbed your trusty spiral notebook from where it was tucked inside your hoodie and your pen. It was a large notebook with several dividers already in the pages, meant to be a three subject book, but for you that was just three different stories at once and you’d even gotten fancy with some of the scrap booking items you’d bought to customize the dividers.

You’d tucked your notebook away after being hunched over for far too long, flexing your fingers to fight the light cramps because of how long they’d been gripping the pen, and realized that most of the other passengers were either asleep or talking in low voices. The man beside you was out cold, neck on full display with his head tipped back and his leather jacket draped over his lap, and your tongue darted out unconsciously to wet your lips as you took in more now that he wasn’t awake to catch you. He looked relaxed, now that he was resting, and the curls that looked like he’d run his hands through his hair were devastatingly alluring.

The light began to fade gradually as night started to set in, leaving you to yawn lightly and slip into a gentle doze the darker it got, and you only woke up when the plane jostled enough to rouse you. The man beside you looked just as delirious, the overhead intercom requesting anyone return to their seats and buckle in, but your eyes widened as you happened to catch a glimpse out of the window to the left. There was just rock, far too close for comfort, and every screen that was on went static before cutting out right as a massive grinding noise echoed through the plane as the left wing was ripped off.

Every safety demonstration you’d ever seen left your brain as the sudden fear took over, your hands shaking while you fumbled with the oxygen mask when it dropped down. The man across from you was there suddenly, tightening and adjusting the mask before he got back in his seat to fix his own, you felt stupid for turning your head to look at him as tears blurred your vision but you had no idea if you were going to survive. At the last second you turned your head forward, closing your eyes, and the jarring impact came after what felt like an eternity.

The impact was deafening and you had a brief second of consciousness before debris from the impact began to go flying, the very solid pain blooming in your head and knocking you out cold.

You felt like you were going to be sick, the oxygen mask hanging half off your face as you blinked against the blurriness, and there was a high-pitched ringing in your ears. It hurt to lift your head but you could still feel your lower body, blinking against the dim light of the broken cabin, and for a second you thought you were imagining the sight of people cutting at the safety belts until you watched one man pick up a younger boy and carry him off. There was no way in hell you were imagining it but they weren’t a rescue group, they were almost entirely nude and looked like they’d been bathing in blood.

When one of the men looked up and locked gazes with you a chilling smile bloomed across his face, he stopped fussing with the restraints in his hands to start walking toward you, and he was saying something but you couldn’t hear him. As his bloody hand cupped your jaw more tears bloomed in your eyes, hating how he craned your neck up and crying out in pain as your body protested the motion, but the man suddenly reeled back in alarm and let your head fall again.

The stranger from beside you was up on his feet, using a tray from one of the seats as a weapon and making the bloody stranger back off, leaving you to fumble with your own seat belt as you realized it wasn’t safe here. Large hands stilled yours, undoing the buckles and straps, but he shook his head when you moved to get up. Instead he popped open the overhead compartment and grabbed what looked like a small orange axe from his bag, he said something -not that you could hear him, or read his lips- before walking down the slope of the plane and checking on anyone that hadn’t been taken out of their seats.

You grabbed one of the discarded pieces of glass from the broken windows, after wrapping the bottom of it in a spare shirt that had fallen out of the overhead during the crash, and moved to wedge yourself between the seats with your back to the wall of the plane; even with the dim morning light you were struggling to see anything and your hands were shaking worse as the realization that you still couldn’t hear set in. A large form lumbered by your hiding place, another one of the strange men, and either he didn’t see you or was just ignoring you as he unbuckled the little boy’s father. The realization that the other man had possibly been hurt, or just left you here, was enough to make your hands shake even harder.

Another one of the locals -you assumed- stopped and looked down at you, appraising you, and when he tried to reach for you the glass became a weapon; if you made a sound you didn’t know, hoping you were shrieking like a hellcat as you lashed out and the man sneered when the jagged edge of the glass ripped into his arm. He tried again and this time you used your legs to propel you up, shaking hands hurting as you stabbed at the man over and over again, and he didn’t get back up when he fell.

Your legs were shaking, your whole body hurt, but you didn’t stay; turning to look to your right where the back end of the plane -and Keegan- should have been only to see that the entire back of the plane was just… gone. Unsteady steps carried you out of the cabin to look around, a forest and no sign of anything close to civilization in sight. The other strange people were lumbering through the woods with bodies draped over their shoulders, you couldn’t tell if the people were dead or not, but since nobody had noticed you all you could guess was that they didn’t expect you to live long. Blood stained your hoodie, making you feel sick again after what you’d just done, but you looked around for any sight of the other survivor only to come up missing. Keegan was missing, presumably dead, and you had no idea when a potential rescue would even arrive.

You barely managed to drag yourself through the trees, not trying to go too far, and stumbled onto what looked like an abandoned den hidden behind the roots of a tree. Or maybe it wasn’t abandoned, you didn’t know, but staying out in the open was a worse idea and you pulled your hood up before sliding into the space and dropping your weapon. Every part of you hurt, you wanted to cry, but it wasn’t happening; your body felt numb and sore and cold as you laid there; heart racing but feeling so damn tired that you blinked and your consciousness drifted out again.

When you woke up again it was freezing, dark, and you knew that hours had passed with the way your stomach protested your lack of food; a glow from the body of the plane made you stop moving, watching as more people were dragged away from your hiding place, and while the ringing was gone everything sounded so muffled that you were sure your hearing was as good as gone. Something moved right beside you, making you turn fast, but a large hand covered your mouth; you could barely make out the stranger from the airplane, his axe set beside him, and now there was a scar cutting through his left eye. His mouth moved, he was definitely talking to you, and you offered him an apologetic look before pointing to your ears and shaking your head.

Gently he turned your head, a very small penlight clicked on, and you knew he was investigating your ears for visible signs of damage. The small light was turned off and you realized, after a moment, that your carry-on bag had been brought over here along with a few others that the man had likely gone through already. He handed you a bag of unopened beef jerky and you shivered as you accepted it, chewing slow from how sore you were, and letting your eyes droop as the realization set in that something was really wrong here.

The man reached out again and this time he was using a damp cloth to clean your hands, the cuts from the glass weren’t deep and they’d started to scab over already, but there was approval in his dark eyes before he used an anti-bacterial and wrapped your palms in gauze. It was obvious he had training in survival technique since he’d packed the small orange axe, you wondered if he was meant to be with the group that planned to hike the intense mountain trail while you and Keegan were planning to stay on a beach at the nearby resort on at the original flight destination.

Your hoodie was slipped off you, the fabric was damp and you realized it must have rained while you’d been unconscious for the second time, and the man was so gentle after inspecting your arms and torso for injuries. Checking your ribs, making sure to move slow and deliberately so you could see every little thing he did, and when he helped pull your arms through the sleeves of the thicker coat your eyes began to water as the truth set in that you were stuck here until someone realized the plane never made it if they hadn’t already. The strange man looked alarmed by the sight of your tears, hands hovering awkwardly, but when you began to smother your face to try and keep quiet -since you had no metric of how loud you even were right now- he pulled you into his arms and pressed your face into the side of his neck.

He smelled like dirt and sweat and something musky; it wasn’t a good smell, at all, he reeked. But in that moment it was a reminder that you weren’t facing this alone for now. He wasn’t at all comforting, his grip on the back of your neck was too tight and your knees ached from resting on the cold wet ground but he was there and he wasn’t some sort of blood bathed psychopath, and in that moment you didn’t care about anything outside this small space you were hiding in.

You weren’t sure how much time had actually passed by the time the man moved you to sit down again, picking up his axe and holding his hand out to advise you to stay, and you did as he basically ordered you to do since you wouldn’t be of use to him anyway. Not only were you lacking in any sort of survival skills but you were dealing with damaged hearing, all you were right now was a liability and the fact that he was even offering you any sort of help was more than enough to earn your gratitude and obedience for now.

He came back with a notepad and pens, his messy scrawl on the paper highlighted only be the dim glow of the penlight, and you took it from him when he held the pad out to you.

My name is Pero Tovar. It is not safe to stay here too much longer, we must find better shelter.

“Alright, I can’t hear you but I can still talk. Just- I’m going to do my best not to be too big of a liability I promise.”

His head dipped in a nod, you’d tried to keep your voice low and had no idea how loud you’d been but it must’ve been an okay volume since he hadn’t silenced you, instead Pero offered you his arm after he dumped the contents of your carry-on into his duffel bag. You followed after him and prayed you were quiet enough, Pero set a fairly harsh pace but you refused to whine or complain when he had helped you instead of abandoning you.

He was holding the axe in one hand, making you hold a weighty flashlight, and you let him lead you at the brutal pace for what felt like hours as the trees finally thinned out until you both reached what seemed like a meadow of some kind. Pero gestured for you to crouch down, hunkering down near the base of a tree right on the edge of the forest, and you nearly screamed when he turned abruptly and the axe was swung in the same motion; blood sprayed onto your shoulder and back where the blade had cut through someone’s throat and Pero grabbed your wrist and pulled.

Your brisk walk became a full sprint, wading through the moving stream with Pero urging you on by tugging on your wrist, and when he finally slowed down you were wheezing for breath. The people hadn’t followed you beyond the water, at least, but that wasn’t a good sign either; you looked down the line of your pants for leeches and saw a few clinging to the light denim, explaining the reluctance of the nearly naked people from traversing the water.

“Pero. There are leeches in the water.” You were digging through your bag, finding the little toiletries beg you kept and using the tweezers to dislodge the fuckers from your pants, and Pero moved closer when you gestured to him so that you could get the ones off his cargo pants too. You’d have to strip out of your pants to check your calves, since your jeans were tight on the thighs and you’d only gone about half-way up your thighs in depth, but you needed to get to safety first.

Pero offered you his hand and you let him cart you back up, even if your body was protesting the very sudden activity, and you watched him begin to set up a ring of stones after using a stick to start tilling at the grass. You realized he was making an area for a fire and kept close but moved to find potential kindling. It was sort of dry so you lucked out on a good handful of dry sticks that weren’t too far away from him, which Pero looked pleased to see, and once he got a fire going Pero simply tugged his pants off after setting the duffel bag down. You might have been embarrassed in the past but this was survival so you slipped out of your wet jeans and socks too, finding only one leech clinging to the man’s leg and none on yours.

It was a little odd to be crouched down with no pants on, right up close to this man’s bare leg -and under any other circumstance you’d be this close for other reasons, dude was definitely hot- but you simply got the leech off him and found your mini-first aid kit as your pants dried by the fire. He was quiet as you cleaned his face with the sanitized wipe, used the antibacterial on the cut that nearly had blinded him in one eye, and then used some antibacterial where the leech had been for added measure, and it took two butterfly bandages to keep the cut on his face closed but you were relieved to see he wasn’t going to lose the eye.

Pero set down a rough textured blanket and sat beside you, handing you a mini-sized water bottle from his bag, and you didn’t take take more than a sip yet.

“What are we going to do, Pero?” He grabbed the notepad from his bag again and scribbled down one word.

Survive

All Fics Taglist: @haylzcyon @wordsnwhiskey @pagannightwitch @radiowallet @tauralmie @amneris21 @trickstersp8 @practicalghost @rominaszh @alwaysdjarin @alexxavicry @all-the-way-down-here

Just Pedro Taglist: @maievdenoir @beecastle @littlemisspascal @writeforfandoms @AynsleyWalker @lovesbiggerthanpride @MSWarriorBabe80 @emiemiemiii

Alt Taglist: @imtryingmybeskar @fan-of-encouragement @grogusmum @sizzlingcloudmentality @deadhumourist @prostitute-robot-from-the-future

[storycraftcafe]

An Uncommon Witness

[Inspired in a big way by a larger project idea that's crawled out of the quagmire. Barely edited and written in one sitting. Enjoy. TW for blood and inferred gore.]

Detective Harper arrived on scene damp and annoyed. Three days of heavy rain had flooded enough streets to clog up traffic, making travel a miserable affair. Even now it rained, the air heavy, humid, and stifling in the early morning, heavy clouds hanging low overhead as they threatened to drown half of Southbank. 

At least he didn’t have to stand around in it, like the poor bastards guarding the scene's perimeter from absent crowds.

Ducking under the white and blue police tape, Harper nodded in greeting to Constable Myles, huddled in her raincoat, moisture trickling down her dark tan cheek. 

“Another one?” Harper asks, loud to be heard through the rain, and Myles nodded, lips twisting.

“Same M.O., same symbols,” She said and they walk off path, sodden grass sucking at their boots. “Tourists found the victim on the walkways by the 88’ Pagoda, preserved. Whoever did it hung up a bunch of tarps to keep it clear from the rain.” 

“They want us to see, you think?”

“Haven’t been shy so far,” Myles shrugged a shoulder, the walkie crackling with chatter, barely audible over the din. “Maybe they wanted the rain off while they worked. Either way it’s the same. One victim, killed on scene in a ritualistic manner. Area around the body painted in blood, presumably coming from this and previous victims if the patterns consistent.”

“We know who it is?” Harper asked as they climbed broad stairs leading to the pseudo tropical-rainforest and wooden walkways meticulously maintained by the grounds crew. A popular spot in the sprawling parklands, it was a little respite from the sun and heat, nestled between the oversized ferris wheel and a whitewashed block of overpriced restaurants. If the rain hadn’t kept the tourists and locals inside, the horror on display would be plastered all over social media.

“Yeah. Mark Cooper, forty-five years old, an IT specialist, works across the river in the CBD.” Myles flipped over a water splotched page in her notepad. “Like the other scenes, his clothing and possessions were left folded neatly to the side, wallet included, three hundred in cash plus credit cards intact.” They head up a concrete ramp and step under the cover of trees, the scent of rich soil cutting through the smell of rain and metal. Their boots thunk on the wooden walkway that twists and winds between ferns, trees and over a flooded artificial stream. 

Harper spotted the tarps immediately, four of them arranged to direct rain away from the naked, ruined body posed with terrible care. One leg laid straight, the other bent, foot behind the knee of the first. The arms were stretched overhead, palms upwards and carved into a bloody mess. Cooper’s skin had been painted with dull blue bands around his limbs and torso, framing the symbols cut into his skin. His face they left alone, eyes open, covered with a strip of hand woven cloth, his expression eerily at peace.

Around him, the dark, damp wood was marked with candles burned to nubs, the white wax pooling through the gaps of the walkway, stars in a constellation of dark bloody lines encircling the murdered man.

Forensic techs went about their work like plastic garbed ghosts, snapping photos, taking samples, hunting for prints, fibres, a scrap of something to give them a foot up.

Harper paid them no mind as he studied the tableau. The same pose, the same set up. A lot of work went into whatever ritual was being performed, a lot of care which took time and effort, likely more than one participant, even if Cooper had been drugged out of his mind like the other three victims. Some of the symbols had been recognised, letters a combination of runes and various occult symbols, the body itself laid out like the Hanged Man from tarot.

Despite the humid warmth, a chill enveloped Harper and he shivered.

“And no one saw anything,” he muttered. “Four scenes like this in a public space, hours of work at least and no one saw a god-damned thing!”

Myles opens her mouth as the radio on her shoulder crackles, the voice garbled and hard to hear.

She sighs and clicks the handset. “They’ve been fritzing all day. Repeat that, over.” She says and the walkie crackles again. Harper picks out one word from the noise. Witness.

“Where?” He demanded. 

Down the slope, towards the churning brown of the Brisbane river, a trio of constables shift, looking anywhere but the woman standing in the rain with a broad black umbrella. Tough boots, jeans, and a grey jacket, she stood still, patiently waiting as Harper paused by the officers. 

“We have a witness you said?” He asked Buckler, the oldest, a tall, broad shouldered man with a fishers tan. He grimaced. 

“We think we might,” He said with a pointed look at the youngest, his fresh out of the academy partner, Mae, a slight lean man of Asian descent. “Tell the detective what you told me.”

Mae’s Adam's apple bobbed as he licked his lips. “She turned up while we were securing the scene, didn’t ask us what was going on until we were done, just asked to speak to the detective when they arrived. She’s been waiting ever since.” Mae glanced at the woman, and cleared his throat. “Might just be a freak wanting a look.”

“Or maybe she saw something,” Harper said. “I’ll go have a chat, thanks Buckler.”

“No worries, Detective.” Buckler jerked his thumb and he and Mae head along the taped perimeter as Harper ducks under the tape again.

Outside the cordon, the air felt lighter, the sound of the rain sharper on the boardwalk. 

“You asked to speak with a detective?” he called and the woman’s umbrella tilts, showing a pale face framed by short choppy brown hair, eyes bruised and shadowed from lack of sleep, but clear and piercing, examining him as he approached. Mid-thirties, Harper guessed, no make-up, pierced nose, and clean. Not a vagrant, and if she used, she was sober for the moment.

“I did. Thank you for coming to talk with me, detective…” She trailed off and Harper nodded, pulling out his notepad and a pen.

“Harper. You are?”

“Anna Franklyn. With a ‘Y’.” Her gaze flicked past him. “Another ritual murder.” It wasn’t a question. 

Harper gave her a sharp look. “You know anything about this incident? Did you see anything?”

“I know what I’ve been told,” she said, voice blunt. “I didn’t see it, but I know who did. I’m here to help them talk to you.” Anna nodded her head towards the wooden Pagoda. 

Harper’s brows rose. “Help? You’re a translator?”

Something flickered in her expression, a flash of amusement that came and went.

“Of sorts. I don’t know how long he can hold on for so, shall we?” She started walking and frowning, Harper followed her, lengthening his stride till he caught up. 

“Just a few questions before we get there Miss Franklyn, what’s your relationship to the witness?”

“Known him for a few years, more of an acquaintance than anything else. When I heard the ritual took place here, I came to see if he saw anything.”

Harper’s frown grew as he jotted down a note. “How did you hear about it?” 

“After the first two, people started paying attention,” Anna said as they turned off the walk to climb the wide shallow steps leading to the hand carved pagoda, a relic left over from Expo 88. It was a narrow, spindly thing a few levels high, no steps leading up, no purpose save for decoration. “No one does that much work, with that much detail unless it’s building to something.”

“And you know something of these kinds of…” Harper trailed off, hoping for a bite. The more people said the more they gave away.

Anna glanced at him. “I know a lot.” She paused on the top step, and dug a hand into her jacket. “Detective, whether you accept it or not, the ones doing this believe in it. And your only witness needs your belief.”  From her pocket, Anna pulled out a small, squat jar, glass, the brassy top giving it away as a repurposed pot of Tiger Balm. She held it out to him, expectant.

Harper looked at the jar, then her, and then to the Pagoda, the doors usually locked for the night standing open. It was dark, a dim warm light glowing within. Another shiver crawled up Harper’s back.

“What kind of belief, Miss Franklyn?” He asked, looking past her. The closest constable was back the way they had come, and over the rain… Any trouble would be heard but he didn’t like distance.

“The hasty kind.,” Anna said, frowning herself. “Put this on your eyes and ears or you won’t get a damn thing. Waste time and you won’t get his account.” 

Harper narrowed his eyes at her. “I’m gonna need more information before I smear an unknown substance all over myself.”

Anna’s eyes flicked upwards, reminding him strongly of the popular girls in high school, forever impatient with his clumsy attempts to chat them up. 

“It’s oil, olive oil from Greece infused with rosemary and grave dirt. It washes off.” Anna said, opening the jar and with her fingers, dabbed a small amount around her eyes, over her lips and her ears. The jar was thrust towards him, Anna’s sharp gaze pinning him in place, not a hint of mischief or trickery on her face. “Consider, you have no fucking idea what’s going on and you want to know more. I want to help. If shit goes sideways you can arrest me. How's that?”

Harper blinked. She was dead serious. 

Glancing again at the Pagoda, the familiar structure somehow more ominous in the dim morning and the rain, looming above them like a silent sentinel, Harper considered. No harm in going along for some information, right? Back up was close by and the woman was a fraction his height and weight. He had good chances if it came to violence. Still, something in his gut worried at him.

“All right.” Harper took the jar, and dabbed his finger into the oil. It didn’t smell all that bad, felt a little gritty as he applied it to his skin and it tingled, warm and steadying. “Where’s my witness?”

Anna cocked her head to the side and beckoned, leading Harper towards the Pagoda, folding down her umbrella as she stepped inside.

“Oh good, you’re still here,” she said to the empty space. There was a wooden bench to one side where a black bag sat slumped to one side. A small candle on a tin dish burned, the flame flickering once. “The detective, Harper-” She paused, glancing back. “Inside, detective.” 

Harper scowled. “You know I can charge you with interference with an investigation, right?” He growled, stepping over the low wooden threshold. “There’s no one…” He trailed off, blinking against the dark. “Here?”

On the bench sat a man, wiry and thin, bony arms leaning on bonier knees, his neat shirt ruined by a single dark splotch dead center of his chest. He looked up from his hands, skeletal and long fingered, eyes milky, face gaunt. Solid and real but everything in Harper knew he wasn’t. He couldn’t be. He hadn’t been!

“Tadaaa,” his voice rumbled, felt as much as heard and Harper gaped. His stomach had gone cold, like he’d swallowed a ball of ice, and inside his layers of rain coat and button down and vest, his skin prickled like he stood in a static field. 

“Wh-What the f-” Harper started and Anna gave him a hard look.

“Your witness. You have until the candle burns down. Fifteen minutes,” she said and looked at the man with an apologetic expression. “Cops.”

The man on the bench nodded as if he understood. “I saw. I saw it all. They called us to witness. Will you listen?” He asked.

Harper’s jaw clicked as he closed his mouth. “Everything?” He asked and the man on the bench nodded again.

“All.”

“Alright, uh… Sir…” Harper licked his lips and flips to a new page in his notepad. “I’m listening.”

The dead man spoke. Harper took his notes. 

Finally, he had a lead.