#and hes tall and a priest and a little bit fucked up and maybe probably super gay

[mouriros]

I love this white man you can not believe. Every time he comes on screen i eithergo 'omg me' or im filled with a Want Beyond Human Comprehension.

[fruitsoxs]

Hello! I like your writing a lot and i was wondering if you'd do wolfwood x gn-reader, and the reader has a flirty and vulgar way of joking. I'm curious how would he react to that kind of chaotic person who likes to taunt and tease

I got a little bit nsfw with this haha-- a little full on smut drabble included so-

warnings: !nsfw minors dni! smut, swearing, make outs, blow jobs, face fucking wolfwood gets a bit rough, it's gender neutral but he does call you "angel" (my dyslexic ass is praying i managed to not put a single "angle" in there)

Okay I really do believe he’d probably think you are hilarious. He’d probably  immediately connect with you. 

You take his jokes, and then you tease him back?? Wowie he’s already in love lol

But here’s the kicker- I think eventually  he’d dish out more than he could take

Especially if he starts falling for you along the way

Like he’d say a whittle inappropriate joke and you would try and up him

And then this man would fold

Red face

Unable to talk

Completely and totally flustered 

One time you make a joke about him using something else for his oral fixation and he straight up walks away

He doesn’t talk to you until the next day

You think it’s pretty funny actually - so you decide to start seeing how far you can take it before he snaps

NSFW part below the cut!

Imagine one day you say something and he finally just explodes

Like you make a job about him fucking your sins away and you thinks it’s all witty because he’s a priest

But he literally is like “You know what?? I think I will-” And bam he’s got you bent over screaming his name lol

It’s a particularly hot afternoon, and in order to keep group morale up everyone has decided to make a little stop to drink some cool water. Maybe even eat some food if money will allow it. You’re pretty thankful. One more moment in that damn car and you’re sure you’d burst - it’s WAY too hot with both Vash and Wolfwood on either side of you like that.

It takes only a couple minutes for your dark haired friend to saunter up to you and sit down, throwing his arm on the seat behind you. Not close enough to touch you, but close enough that you can almost smell the cigarette smoke on his clothes. He’s, thankfully, curbed the habit of smoking inside. With a sucker popped in between his lips, he lets out a small sigh.

He doesn’t like sitting still, you know that. He hates when the group decides to take breaks like this. If it were up to him, you all would be moving non-stop into the dead of night. Thankfully, it’s not. So he’ll just have to live.

“Feeling restless?” You ask, knowing the answer already.

“What do you think, angel?” he sighs again, his voice slightly horse.

You smile softly at the nickname, a bit unsure why he calls you that still. He told you once before that it all started when he saw your worried face after he was hit by a car.  He said you looked innocent, and pure. He’d find out minutes later that you definitely weren’t- yet the nickname still rolls off his tongue like it belongs there.

“Why do you call me that?” you ask, looking up at him. “You know why.” His answer is simple. He looks down at you with a raised eyebrow, craning his neck. He’s too tall.

“Yeah I know why you started calling me that- but why still call me that?” you clarify rolling your eyes. He knew what you meant, he’s just being difficult. “I’m not really the most holy individual.’ You point out. He laughs and shakes his head. “Trust me I know.” He mumbles, that smirk still present on his lips as he looks forward. “You’re the biggest sinner I know.” he jokes. He really walks into this one. He should know, with how much he jokes about being a priest, that this joke was always in the back of your brain. Always waiting for the right moment. Yet here he is, giving you the perfect opening. It’s almost like he’s begging for it.

“Oh? Am I a bad girl, father? Should I get on my knees and confess my sins?” You ask with a sneer. He freezes immediately. “Are you gonna punish me?” You go on, leaning in close. Man, this is a gold mine. You’d probably keep going too, if he doesn’t stand up and yank you out of your chair.

You let out a small yelp as he starts pulling you along, through the room, and into a little storage place that is probably only for employees. He throws you in, softly of course, and you stumble forward slightly. “What hell are you-” You’re interrupted by the door locking as he turns to you, shrugging the Punisher off his shoulder. He leans the giant cross against the wall, and sighs.

“You’ve got the naughtiest mouth angel, I can’t fucking stand it anymore.” He curses sauntering up next to you. “All you do is tease me, and yeah it can be pretty funny. Then you go off and say shit like that- and you have no idea what it does to me.” He grabs your chin, forcing you to look up at him. “And you know what? Maybe it is about time you get punished.”

A few moments later and his lips are on yours. It’s a heated kiss from the beginning, open mouthed and messy. The sucker that was dangling from his lips falls against the dirty ground. You can’t help but moan into the kiss, as he devours you like you’re the last meal he’ll ever eat. His tongue invades your lips, and roams around every inch of your mouth. He drinks in your taste, and when he pulls away he’s got this shit eating grin that stretches across his lips.

“What do you think, angel?” He whispers, his hand sliding to the back of your head. 

Like you even have to think about this- Wolfwood is quite literally the hottest man you have ever been given the privilege to meet. Plus he’s endearing, and sweet when he wants to be. Plus that kiss was just about the most amazing thing you’ve ever experienced.

“I have been pretty naughty.” Is your answer.

His grin widens, and his fingers dip into your scalp, pulling your hair so your head tilts back. You gasp, and he takes that as an opportunity to slip his tongue back into your mouth. You’re not sure if it’s even really a kiss at this point, but if the noises that leave your throat are anything to go off of, you really don’t mind.

After a while he pulls away, his cheeks red. “Are you gonna make good on your promise and get on your knees, angel?” he whispers, lips dangerously close to your ear. Your cheeks instantly heat up. You just now notice something hard pressed up against your thigh, and you wonder how easy it was for him to so worked up on your teasing alone. 

You bend at the knees, and slowly fall to the ground. The floor is a bit sticky, but whatever. You have bigger things to deal with right now. And with the way he’s gripping your hair, you’re not sure if you can stop yourself from what’s to come.

He grunts as you slide your fingers into the waistline of his pants, and drag them down. His black boxers are already dripping with precum  from just the thought of what's to come. It makes your mouth water.

You press your lips against the fabric, and he growls softly. You take the hint, and slowly rid him of the undergarments. His dick flies free and you have to pinch the skin on your legs to keep from freaking out.

He’s big. Thick. Uncut and freaking beautiful.

“Like what you see, angel?” He asks, pressing your face forward. You nod, and reach a hand out, delicately tracing your fingers along the shaft. His hips jerk forward slightly, but he’s quick to let you know who’s in charge by pulling on your hair. You moan and lean forward, placing your tongue towards the middle, and licking a line up to the head. You look up at him, eyes wide, before quickly wrapping your mouth around the tip.

“God-’ He mumbles softly. “So perfect. Those lips are so Goddamn perfect angel.” He groans. You can tell he’s holding himself back, so you slide your head down and take in bit by bit slowly. He grunts and moans softly, clutching onto you for dear life. 

“Just like that angel, take it all in. You’re doing such a good job.” His praise ignites a fire in you, and you let out a soft whimper. The vibrations against his dick make the man freeze for a minute. He’s getting closer to losing control. But he wants you to take your time before he face fucks the life out of you.

“You like that angel? Like when I praise you?”

You try your best to nod, lips still wrapped around his cock. He gets the idea, and lets out a soft chuckle. “I’ll keep that in mind.” He mumbles, and his touch feels a bit softer for a second.

You continue on your journey of giving him the best blowjob of his life, licking and sucking as you see fit. One hand wrapped around the bottom of his dick, moving in unison with your head. You find the courage to finally slide it all the way into the back of your throat.  A cry escapes your mouth, followed by a gag, and tears threaten to spill from the corners of your eyes. The moment you deepthroat him, his hands grip the back of your head, and keep you there for a few seconds. 

“Fuck- angel-” He grunts before releasing you. You slide your mouth off of him for a second. “I can’t hold myself back. You feel too good- can I fuck your pretty face angel? That okay?” He asks, his hand dropping to your chin for a second. You nod, and he smiles.

And then, he grips your hair so tight you might scream. Before you can even make a sound, his dick is in your throat again, as he slams his hips against your face at a dead pace. It’s rough, but not aggressive enough to make you uncomfortable. And the noises he makes are insanely hot.

You can’t help but choke and moan as his dick slides into your mouth. You try your best to move your tongue around it, but it’s hard to think straight. You’re almost drunk on his cock.

“Fuck- you’re being so good for me angel.” He coos. His soft voice is a pleasant counter to his rough grip on your hair. 

Finally, his movements begin to get a bit clumsier, and you can tell he’s close. “Angel, shit, I’m close.” He grunts. “You gonna swallow every last drop? Gonna let my cum clean your filthy mouth, angel?” You cry out a yes against his cock, nails digging into his thighs.

That’s all it takes for him to unload into you, letting out one final curse as his seed drips down your throat. He keeps your head pressed against the bottom of his dick until you’ve swallowed the last of it. He lets go of your head, and you fall backwards, knees starting to hurt.

After a few seconds, once his pants are back on, he wraps his hand around your wrist and pulls you back up softly. He lets you lean against him as you get your strength back in your legs, and kisses the top of your head softly. His arm is around your waist, his touch now soft and loving. 

“You okay, angel?” he asks, his mouth presses against the top of your head. “Of course.” You hum, and lean into his embrace.

[binniedeactivated]

saint. || soobin💦

a/n: ya’ll forgive me someone requested soobin smut and I could not find the request on my page lolololol so whoever requested this i hope you enjoy!

saint m.list

🖤┊𝔰𝔞𝔦𝔫𝔱 . ೄྀ࿐ 𝖕𝖆𝖎𝖗𝖎𝖓𝖌: 𝖘𝖔𝖔𝖇𝖎𝖓 𝖝 𝖗𝖊𝖆𝖉𝖊𝖗 𝖌𝖊𝖓𝖗𝖊: 𝖘𝖒𝖚𝖙/𝖆𝖚 𝖐𝖎𝖓𝖉𝖆? 𝖎𝖋 𝖞𝖆’𝖑𝖑 𝖜𝖆𝖓𝖙. (𝖑𝖊𝖙 𝖒𝖊 𝖐𝖓𝖔𝖜) 𝖜𝖔𝖗𝖉 𝖈𝖔𝖚𝖓𝖙; 1893.

he was tall. sorry for stating the obvious but that was the most noticeable thing about him. I mean if you got really close maybe you could see his deep dimples that waded in both of his cheeks when he talked. Or if you were paying close attention to him you’d notice the way his eyes enveloped when he smiled or laughed. but enough of that though, choi soobin was nothing to admire. 

well, at least personality wise. he’d come to school in his snazzy maroon sweater vest and suit jacket and wore his hair in the side part that drove all of the girls crazy. you had to admit, it was reasonably so. he was a good looking guy. so why wouldn’t they? 

if they hadn’t been obsessing over him maybe they’d see him dump their textbooks in the trash when they weren’t looking or him cutting their ponytails or even worse, him lying to the priest about the sluts they were at the confessionals. poor father benjamin. 

luckily though you stayed low on the radar. I mean you weren’t completely invisible but at least your were the person who rather keep your head inside the book of Ecclesiasticus than choi soobin. you were one of the few at least. he even had the boys all over him, wanting to be him, wanting to act like him and dress like him. if this wasn’t a catholic school you’d think they’d rather be his girlfriend, too. but you couldn’t hold your school to a high standard I mean Melissa Mccarthy’s sex tape was floating around the school for months. And she was so called one of the most ‘attractive’ girls in school before she got expelled of course.

but back to choi soobin. he was a shit head. you knew in your heart of hearts he was. this is what mainly infuriated you when sister helena assigned him as your partner for a video watching. yeah a video watching. in which she’d pull out that big fat old tv and put on a black and white movie and expects you to write down the answers based on events that were happening in the film. she always assigned partners though because she thought two brains could capture better details than one. 

anyway he slides in the seat next to yours in the back of the room with a snarky grin on his face. he always had that dumb snarky grin. you pull down your plaid pleated skirt a little more over your knees. sister helena smiles at the both of you while passing out the question sheet and a couple of pencils. Soobin grabs it before you. not that you were racing to get it anyway. You saw him concentrating to write, must’ve been hard for him since he does little to no work. Then you realized he was writing his name and you wondered if how he even made it to senior year. 

it was your turn to write your name on the paper so you did so quickly before the movie started. you weren’t even 10 minutes into the movie before soobin began laughing and goofing off with his friends in the front of him. Sister helena shot you a severe look signaling the fact that she wanted you two to tone it down. but why did she address you and not soobin?

you nudge him on the arm. 

“hey quit it. sister helena is going to give us an F if you keep going”.

“and what does that have to do with me?”. soobin snarls you roll your eyes. 

“it has a lot to do with you because if i get a bad grade over you It’s going to be a serious problem”.

soobin laughs as if to say, ‘yeah right’. it only made you angrier. soobin tilts his head at you. you were kinda cute in a way. he never really looked at you before like he had now. he acted as if he were looking elsewhere and placed his hand on your knee. you flinch.

“soobin?-- what are you doing?”. 

you ask pushing his hand off. he does this sheepish grin that makes him the cutest but you didn’t want to admit it. 

“come on. we’re in the back of the room. don’t you want to have some fun?”.

“we have an assignment to do you idiot”. he places his hand on your knee again, only he raises it a bit more, dragging up your skirt a little. you had to admit, his hands felt nice. 

“you’re so worried about this assignment. trust me. I’ll make sure we have the answers even if we weren’t paying attention”.

your nerves ran endlessly as he dragged his fingers higher, now reaching the top of your thighs. you were grateful that you two were in the back of the room and that the table you two shared was enough to cover his movements. 

“s-s-soobin i don’t think we should”. you stuttered. it was weird how you forgot all the bad things about soobin as soon as he started touching you. He leans in your ear, 

“just relax. I’ll make you feel good i promise. have you ever been touched before?”.

no. and you would probably be the envy of the whole school if everyone knew who was waiting to touch you. 

“no i haven’t”. 

he ghosted his finger tips at the front of your panties, rubbing your slit lazily. you closed your eyes, feeling sorry for father benjamin and your confessions in advance. 

“you’re actually pretty cute”. soobin flirts with his lips still to your ear. you ignored his compliment letting him slip his fingers inside of your panties. he teases your clit with his fingertips before he touches it softly. 

you twitch and tap your foot so you wouldn’t be too suspicious to sister Helena. Not that she was paying you two any mind anyway. you don’t know what the hell gotten into you, but it was too late to stop it now. 

soobin scoots his seat closer to you and uses his other hand to grip his pencil in. He wanted to make he looked like he was doing as much work as possible. He pulled your panties back a bit more, using his finger to gently rub your clit in small circles. you shuddered. this was your first time experiencing something as mind blowing as this. 

with your priest of a father and religious mother you never had time to...explore. you finally saw what you were missing in life. soobin pauses his actions to spread your legs a little wider before he kept rubbing you. With each rub he’d do it more forcefully than the last. you bite your lips trying to detain any noises. it was hard though. 

“you’re so cute. you like getting your virgin pussy touched don’t you?”. soobin speaks in your ear with a low tone. he fastens the pace of his fingers feeling your puffy clit slick up in excitement. surges of electricity sprints through you. you pull your skirt over his hand. 

he casually pretends he’s watching tv and you’re suffering. If you don’t whimper, or wail, or anything you felt like you were going to explode in the next two seconds. He rubs you faster and you could feel your hips grinding against his fingers desparately. 

“don’t do that. fuck--you’re going to make me hard”. he warns in a casual whisper. you ignore him of course and clutch the table. you close your eyes and let his fingers slide through your pussy as you grinded. you opened your mouth hoping nothing came out. but you were in for a surprise when you created a small squeal by accident.

luckily though, no one but sister helena looked at you. With her pointer she pointed to the tv, meaning ‘pay attention or you will have detention’ . you’d sure liked to see her contain herself if she ever got fingered in the back of a classroom by a cute boy. but then again you wouldn’t like to see that, because  for a 50 year old woman that’d be fucking gross. 

soobin is chuckling lowly in your ear like the menace he was. “your pussy is so fucking wet holy shit”. 

you continue to bite your lips while he swiped your clit from side to side aggressively with three fingers. your heart pounded in your chest. you wanted to shriek, you wanted to scream but you couldn’t and it was killing you. 

you decided it was best that you left your small cries in the lowest volume as possible, only audible enough for soobin to hear. you were sopping through his fingers though. you panicked when you felt yourself pulse intensely. soobin grinned. he knew your were close. 

“that’s it, cum for me you little fucking saint”. he groaned in your ear. with your stuttering hips a wave of pressure came over you and you felt something leaking out of you. with your heavy breathing you had to come to terms with the fact that that was your first orgasm. 

holy shit.

the bell rung and classes ended and somehow someway you and soobin’s paper was full of answer by the time he turned it in. “Hey, you. come here I need to have a word with you”. sister helena grumbled looking directly at you. your heart raced. soobin gave you a small smirk before walking out the classroom. as almost if he was wishing you good luck. 

“yes?”. 

“I want to say that choi soobin is very misbehaved. But i am so glad I paired him with you. I’ve never saw him complete a whole paper his whole time here and this is his senior year here. hey, if you don’t mind i think i’d like to pair you two more often. Is that alright with you?”. she smiles. 

you blink. not believing what the hell you were hearing. 

“yes why not?”. you blurt out laughing playfully for good measure. 

“good good! I know what to do now. Have a nice day!”. you bow to her hoping she does as well. you walk out the classroom to see soobin standing on the wall next to the door smiling down at you like an idiot.

“what?”. you scoff. 

“have you ever had sex before?”. he asks casually as if he were asking you what your favorite cereal was. you shake your head no. 

“no. why?”. 

“do you want to?”. 

“what makes you think i’d want to do it with you? you’ve probably had sex with the whole school by now”. 

you scoff again walking away. he chases after you. 

“if that’s what you think then boy you’d be surprised by the truth”. 

“why are you even bothering? I’m a virgin it’s not like i’m some slut who can pleasure you and actually know what I’m doing”. 

“I can teach you”. he says confidently. 

“what?”. 

“It’s your senior year. I’m sure you don’t want to be a virgin for long. I mean, you can agree to let me teach you or i’d just might have to tell poor father benjam--”.

“alright! soobin. no need to go that far”. you adjust your backpack strap. 

“I’ll let you teach me. but where?”.

“my parents are having a church meeting tomorrow night. Meet me at my house around 7″.

[herstarburststories]

Devil, bring me to heaven

Kinktober day 5: Deep throat

Hauntober: Moonlight

Pairing: Demon!Dean x Reader

Summary: You suck Dean off under the moonlight and you both are interrupted.

Warnings: oral sex (male receiving), public sex, jealous!dean, kinda of non intentional voyeurism for a bit, hint of fluff bc yes

Your knees ached against the soaked cement. It rained earlier, making the situation more painful and you mind a bit more sickened with the realization that you couldn’t change a thing. Man, that would probably leave some bruises.

Then again Dean loved bruises on you. At least, this demonic version of the king of your heart did. He enjoyed love marks and hickeys before. It made Sam constantly call you two horny teenagers. It was rougher now, but this was still Dean.

It was Dean. That was all that mattered, even if you had to lose yourself to find him.

The cold ground was as unrepentant to you as the green-eyed demon's cock in your face. He was hard, his precum wetting your cheek as you dared to look up. The moonlight shined on his face as if it had always been meant for him.

You kissed his balls, already familiar with how he liked his blowjobs. You didn't have time to spare here, though. You two were in an open parking lot behind a forgettable restaurant — someone could easily walk through here. You had to make him come quick.

Dean's toughened hands caressed your head, tangling his fingers in the glossy strands of hair. You looked so beautiful like this, on your knees just for him. He may be a demon now, the Knight of Hell even, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t appreciate you — especially when you knew his body so well. 

“Come on, baby girl. Take it slow. You know I love some good foreplay, no rush here.” He pulled you back once your skilled mouth became too spirited for his liking. Dean was relaxed tonight. Maybe he'd even go slow on you later. You could take your time here.

You did as he said like you usually do when it comes to sex. Your smart mouth and commandeering nature always melted away when he was like this, exposing you at your neediest. Dean, of course, was more than happy to oblige.

You teased at his tightened sac, enjoying the weight of the stiff cock pressed against your cheek. Your mouth got greedy as time passed by, starting to mouth at the soft flesh of one of his testicles while your fingers slowly rubbed the other one. Dean let out a quiet groan, fingers sunken in the ocean of your hair to lead you to his throbbing cock. You two were dwindling into the night, coalesced as one holy sin.

Your lips had barely been placed on the side of his velvety cockhead when you heard footsteps. You grunted after giving his dick an open-mouthed kiss and started to pull away, but Dean wasn’t having any of this.

If someone had a problem with his girl sucking his cock, then he'd simply kill them. Granted, he'd probably kill them anyway for seeing you in that position — this was only meant for his eyes, green or black.

The unfortunate person might’ve been lucky to die for this, honestly. Dean would say that seeing you blow him off was a pretty damn good last thing to see before being murdered. He was a man about Sam’s age; tall, yet not as tall as Dean; and muscular. Dark hair, hazel eyes, and tan skin. He was essentially the guy you'd call your type before you met Dean.

The Winchester had seen enough crappy 70’s flicks to know you had a weakness for it. He already hates this guy's guts. He was going to die or, at least, bleed enough to make unleash a crimson river under the moon’s pale radiance.

What? He was a demon, after all. He didn’t need much of a reason to hate, much less channel his aggression onto any Tom, Dick, or Harry that so much as looked at you twice. 

The man's steps grew closer as Dean guided your swollen lips back to his cock. You whined and nuzzled his sweat-slick skin as if there was no better place to be. Still, you weren't sure about someone else seeing you suck Dean off. You've never minded some harmless public touching, but this is way more forward than anything you’ve ever done before.

The male stopped in his tracks, the hard pavement under your knees digging into your skin as you jolt. Your lips were gentle to the base of his shaft. You kissed your way to the top where the precum smeared your lips. Your hands on his hips dug in, winding him in closer while your tongue soothed the ache of his weeping head. 

“Whoa, woman. You know I love it when you do that thing.” Dean grunted under his breath when you slipped your tongue into his slit. Your lips wrapped around the tip of his cock before swallowing him thickly, soaking up the warmth of his slick spill. “Yeah, honey. Go ahead. Take all of me into your mouth.”

“What the fuck?” The other male choked, taking in the scene with wide eyes. You didn't appear to be forced onto doing this, so he didn't rush to push Dean away, but why the hell were you two fucking behind an Arby's? This was his dad's restaurant!

You jumped a little when you heard his voice. Why didn't he just keep walking? You were so embarrassed by anyone but Dean seeing you like this. Even though you had your clothes on, you also had half of a cock inside your mouth. Contradictorily enough, it also turned you on. Someone was seeing that you were Dean's and he was yours.

The eldest Winchester could feel hesitancy in the tenseness of your neck, but he soon managed to wipe away your worry with his hand on the back of your head, caressing your hair with a gentleness that could only come from his human side.

“What? Haven't seen a hot girl sucking cock before? You should try a porn site, buddy.” Dean gave him a whimsy smirk, forcing himself not to moan as you swirl your tongue around the heat of his still-hard cock. You leaned in as he was coaxed with the promise of your tight throat. Just like you two trained.

Besides his flushed cheeks and obvious arousal despite his indignant surprise, the guy managed to speak: “Who the fuck do you think you are? This is a serious establishment.”

“I'm Dean Winchester,” the demon answered with a cocky smirk. The unprecedented third party to their fun might not know what his name holds now, but he surely would find out soon. “And this is Y/N Y/L/N. She's too busy to tell you hello right now, all hungry for my cock. My girl just can't let it go, not even for a minute.” Dean shook his head lightly, as if you were some poor, needy thing. Pursing his lips, he asked, “And you are…? Wait. I don't care. Get lost.”

“I'm Priestly Conner. Just the owner of this place.” The stranger, Priestly, groaned in fury. He was hiding the fact that his dad was the actual owner. How dared Dean to disrespect and degenerate his ego like this? The Winchester, though, couldn't care less. He gave the Priest dude or whatever was his name the chance to walk away and keep his life. You’d taken the time to swallow more of him, the glossy sheen of his swollen cock buried in your throat as you repressed the urge to gag. It was perfect. “Can she get up? And can you get your dick back in your pants and leave now?”

Priestly's voice was starting to irritate Dean's ears. Hurting his ego was good, but wasn't it obvious who had control of the situation here? Besides, he wanted to enjoy this blowjob, thank you. That man was nothing but a distraction. If you could talk now, you'd probably roll your eyes, slap Dean's puffed chest, and something along the lines of ease up and knock off the alpha-macho behavior, Winchester.

As usual, you'd probably be right. There was no reason to garner unnecessary attention to yourselves over a spoiled little man wearing clothes more expensive than Dean's car. He tried to take it easy and give Priestly one last chance.

“Yeah, sure. Just two problems: I don't answer to you, and my girl won't let go of my cock.” He grinned darkly. To prove his point, the green-eyed man moved back a little. You let out a sharp whine, nosing close enough for your nose to brush against coarse hair. His balls slapped your chin with the sudden jerk, your slippery tongue enveloping his hardness in a desperate effort to keep him close. Fuck, that felt good. “See? She's all about my dick, sorry. Don't worry, babe. It's all yours.”

Dean ran his fingers through your hair in a soft reminder that he wasn’t going anywhere without you. He murmured encouragement under his breath as you sucked his cock. His girl was so good to him.

“You… She…” Priestly was tenting in his pants, unexpectedly excited by the scene like it was live action porn meant just for him. Dean groaned. Couldn't this dude get the hint and leave? He was getting the best head of his life here. “G-get your bitch and get the hell out of here!”

As soon as the words left his mouth, both you and Dean knew he fucked up.

“Now, now, now. No name calling. It’s rich of you to call her a bitch and still get a hard on out of it.” Dean bore his cock down harder into the wet of your throat. It made you gag, but you kept going as if you were made to keep his dick in your mouth. When he howled, neither of you were able to discern if it was out of anger or pleasure. “Maybe that's why you don't have a girl right now, buddy. You don't know how to treat women, so you don't get a good suck.”

“You… ”

“I'm done with you.” With a waft of his hand, Pristley was thrown at the wall, hitting his head and falling unconscious on the floor. Weak. “Come on, honey. Make me cum so I can go wake up that son of a bitch and break his back for disrespecting you.”

A moan reverberated in your throat, causing a whimper out of Dean as his dick throbbed. He pulled your hair and started to move his hips, fucking your mouth as if he was fucking your pussy. He was tearing you apart, thrusting deep you like you had a sweet spot there too. 

You felt so full like this. Sure, it wasn't like having him inside your cunt, but the warm sensation of his cock occupying all of your throat was heavenly even when you knew how inappropriate that sounded: the devil taking you to heaven.

You coughed when Dean’s rhythm hastened, thighs pressed together in a loose attempt to gain some relief for your wet pussy. Your hands cradled his balls, massaging them while your mouth swallowed his cock.

It didn't take longer for him to cum, shooting his load inside you as you took all of it. He tasted a little too salty, a flavor you’ve grown accustomed to since his transition into demonhood, but you found yourself quickly craving it. You loved how he tasted and how he came so much and all for you.

Dean kept his hands on your head, helping you remain standing until you swallowed all of his cum. You finally released his dick with an audible pop, looking up to him. The moon made the big tears budding in your eyes glisten marvelously. Dean felt so lucky. He helped you to get up, kissing you softly for once. The old Dean, your Dean, came in glimpses sometimes. 

He tasted himself on your lips. It was a delicious proof that you were still his. He had to let Sammy go, but you were here. He still had family, someone to cling to. Someone who wouldn't change him. Dean licked your lips.

“So good, honey.”

Your legs still trembled as your pussy cried out for attention. Thankfully, Dean held you close. “What are you gonna do about him?”

You nodded at the breathing body on the floor, your voice gruff from taking him so deeply. He loved it.

“That son of bitch?” He groaned at the mention of the annoying interruption. You placed your hand on his heart, rubbing there. Dean placed his forehead on yours. “He disrespect you so he's gonna die.” His green eyes changed into black with a wink, showing the actual weight of his darkness. “And then I'll eat you out and fuck that pretty pussy that's already wet for me.”

“Dean…” You sighed, ready to try putting some sense in his head, but then his bruised hand slipped, fingertips touching your bare arm, your hand, and then your belly, hips, and pelvis. Dean pressed a single digit on your clothed heat. You managed to ruin your panties, yourself, and the silk skirt all for him. You gave in. “Okay. Be quick.”

“I wasn't asking for you permission to kill him, Y/N.” He raised his eyebrows as your hips chased his touch.

“I know, but you still need my permission to get inside me,” you said despite the situation. You didn't think talking so casually about killing a guy would somehow become your new normal. Although, in all honesty, it wasn't that different from the hunter’s life before.“Take it or leave it, Dean.”

“Yeah, okay. Whatever.” He huffed, rolling his eyes before he pulled away to walk towards Priestly. “You better go wait in the car if you don't wanna see some blood, sweetheart.”

“Make it quick. And Dean?”

“What?” his gruff voice asked, turning to face you. You were so gorgeous under the sequin moon. 

“Cuddles later?” You beamed at him, as if he wasn't about to murder someone.

The single smile he gave you in return could convince any jury of his innocence. “Of course, honey.”

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[makkoskafanfic]

KakuHidan WIP fic teaser

This is part of WIP release March! A KakuHidan one for a change.

This is a Maffia - Modern setting AU but with special powers. I planned to write something like this... oh since I first started to ship KakuHidan some 9 years ago, probably. 

The idea came up again as we were rewatching Naruto last year and I got pretty far with it, before we reached the HashiMada arc and of course all the fangirl neurons in my brain got hyperfixated on HashiMada again. 

I have almost 10K words written of it, so I hope to continue one day, and not to let it go to waste. This scene is Kakuzu’s and Hidan’s first meeting. As such I would rate it M (or a strong PG13? I don’t really get the ratings) No sexual themes at this point, but there are a bunch of people getting killed, blood, gore, violence and Hidan’s dirty mouth. 

Strange to say after this, but I had fun writing this, hope you will enjoy.

Kakuzu secured the Harley and looked at the unassuming building he found at the address he was given. While it wasn’t in the best of neighbourhoods, it certainly wasn’t in the worst Konoha City could offer either. A sign in the window announced it was for sale and the faded advertisement above the door let him know it used to be a barber’s shop. All in all, not where he would imagine some crazed prophet performing his homicidal ritual. Well, his source assured him this was the place - the man knew Kakuzu didn’t take disappointment well, so it was unlikely he’d give him anything but a hundred percent confirmed information.

He walked around the building to a small alley packed with overflowing rubbish bins to find the backdoor. He pushed on it and it gave easily - it wasn’t locked.  It opened to a small room that once must have been used by the staff. It was mostly empty now, save for the empty shelves along the walls, a small desk with some old newspapers stacked on it, the large cardboard box underneath it and for the man sitting in an old office chair with one arm broken off. He stood up as Kakuzu entered. He took in his appearance, his leather jacket, his dark jeans, his mid-calf boots, the mask covering the lower half of his face, the biker helmet under his arm and he still somehow came to the wrong conclusion. He was just as tall as Kakuzu and more obviously muscled, which probably gave him a false sense of security.

“Here for a haircut? I’m afraid we’re closed for business.”

“Wouldn’t let you touch my hair,” Kakuzu grumbled. “I’m here for Hidan.”

The man’s eyes cut briefly towards the desk, which told Kakuzu what he needed to know. 

“I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.”

“No? I was told I need to come here to praise Lord Jashin and see the wonders he’s capable of.” He was also told some idiotic password that he didn’t bother to remember.

“The show has already started,” the man sneered at him, “no late joiners allowed.”

“That’s a pity,” Kakuzu took the helmet from under his arm, looked at it pensively for a moment, before smiting the man down with it in a lightning fast movement. There was a sickening, wet thump as it crashed the man’s skull. He wiped the blood off, noticing it got dented with annoyance. This mission was already proving to be a headache. At least there was never a complaint from Pein when he added his extra expenses for his damaged accessories.

He pushed the desk and the box out of the way, uncovering a trapdoor on the floor. A narrow staircase led down into darkness.

“A barber shop with a dungeon,” he muttered to himself as he descended. “What a circus.”

The light seeping down through the open trapdoor quickly dimmed completely as he took on the corridor. Always well prepared, he took a small torch from his inner pocket and switched it on. There were a few side doors, but he didn’t bother with them. As he walked down the corridor, the voices coming from behind the door at the end became louder and louder. He pocketed the torch and slid it open.

The people inside didn’t seem to notice his late entry. Kakuzu did a quick count. There were eighteen of them on the floor, plus two on the low stage - a woman tied to a chair, and the man he recognised as Hidan from what Pein had shown him.

First impressions were important and Kakuzu trusted his instincts. Hidan was loud, foul mouthed as he sprouted his religious nonsense and Kakuzu was taken by the deep intuition that he, for his own peace of mind, had to kill this man. He was trouble. 

He pushed himself through the small crowd, ignoring the men’s protest that he was blocking the view. Just a few feet away from Hidan he took his time to assess his opponent. He was young, just as Pein’s file said, face smooth, his half-naked body well toned. He seemed physically strong with his lean muscles, but not a match for Kakuzu’s own might of course. He was ranting about his Lord Jashin, something about his eternal gift and punishment of heathens… he was damn noisy. His voice was a deep baritone which could have been pleasant if it was quieter and if he wasn’t working himself towards shrill yelling as he got more and more agitated. The people around Kakuzu didn’t mind though - they were murmuring appreciatively, repeating some of the phrases, like “Hail Lord Jashin”, “Bring death and destruction, oh Lord,” “I swear to murder and destroy in your name”.

Kakuzu knew he was supposed to observe the whole ceremony to see the presumed powers of this preacher for himself, but he wasn’t sure he could stand much more of this. He could just shoot Hidan and see if he died or not. Not quite what Pein wanted, but it would do the job, wouldn’t it?

Hidan's eyes swept the crowd during his speech and Kakuzu made the mistake of meeting them. The dark mass was abruptly cut short. The crowd muttered as their leader fell silent, but Hidan ignored them. 

“Looks like we have a heathen, an unbeliever in our midst today!” he glared at Kakuzu, then suddenly laughed, pointing at him. “Kill him my children, let his blood flow freely as it pleases Lord Jashin!”

How the little shit knew instantly, Kakuzu had no time to ponder as the mob closed in on him immediately. Most of them were unarmed, but he spotted a few knives and what looked like a beer bottle broken in half. He kicked the first man who reached him in the stomach so hard he flew away to collide with the edge of the stage. He crumbled to the ground there like a puppet whose strings were cut. That gave him some space to work with.

His opponents were no skilled fighters, so even with their numbers against him, Kakuzu didn’t have a hard time. The magazine of his Sig Sauer held fifteen rounds, almost enough for the whole bunch. Kakuzu never missed a shot - he liked to be effective and he hated anything to go to waste. The rest he took down by bare hands. The men managed to land a few hits, even a couple of stabs, on his arms and chest, which enraged him further. They were ruining a perfectly fine leather jacket. 

He took it off and tossed it aside quickly when the last of his attackers fell to the ground with a smashed-in face. Blood was running down his left arm from a long and shallow cut. There were smaller wounds on his chest, though they were easily to ignore. 

He looked up at the two people on the stage who didn’t join the fight yet. The woman tied to the chair - unconscious, maybe drugged, so no kind of threat, and the annoying preacher. Hidan didn’t seem to be disturbed by the defeat of his followers. He had a long, sharp pike in his hand - he pointed at Kakuzu with it and he grinned.

“Lord Jashin blessed me with glorious destruction today! All this blood and the corpses! Thank you, Lord Jashin! I’m your forever faithful follower and will sacrifice this son of a bitch to you as well! His blood will seal the sacred…”

“Shut up,” Kakuzu cut into this annoying speech, feeling the beginning of a headache forming behind his brows. “One more word of this nonsense and you’ll end up in so many little pieces even your god wouldn’t be able to tell how you looked originally.”

“How dare you interrupt my prayer, you heathen fucker?!” Hidan shrieked at him. “You’ll die in the most glorious agony!” Like the obviously brainless idiot he was, he charged Kakuzu with a shrill battle-cry of “Lord Jashin”, holding his pike in front of him as if he was some misbegotten knight on a tournament.

Kakuzu waited till the last moment before he stepped to the side, grabbed Hidan’s wrist and yanked it above his head. Despite his cruising grip, the priest didn’t drop his weapon. He went fully berserk, getting caught like this. His shoulder gave a sickening, loud pop as it dislocated, but he didn’t seem to notice the pain. He brought both of his legs up and kicked out, aiming at Kakuzu’s crotch. He managed to turn away slightly, but the impact on his thigh and side was still bruising. He grunted in pain, cursed the little shit under his breath and raised him even higher up from the ground. 

Hidan shrieked in indignation and still didn’t let his weapon go. Kakuzu had to give it to him, there was something to be said for his tolerance of pain. He caught the preacher’s free hand as he swung it to claw at his face and took a firm hold on it too. Hidan swore, but was far from giving up.

He bit Kakuzu’s neck in an underhanded move and kicked him in the knees so hard his legs buckled. He allowed them to fall to the ground, pinning Hidan underneath his heavier bulk. He clasped his hands above his head, restraining them and kneeling on his legs to immobilise him fully. The Jashinist screamed vulgarities at him, thrashing wildly as he tried but failed to dislodge Kakuzu.

“Shut. Up” Kakuzu grid out, slightly breathless as he was fighting this utter madman. “You little shit, just stay still for a…”

Hidan spit him in the face, more blood than saliva, barely missing his eye. That did it. 

Stitches came loose on the underside of Kakuzu’s wrists, allowing the secret weapon of his body to burst forward.

“What the fuck…” Hidan gasped as the tentacles wrapped themselves around his neck and squeezed. After that only unarticulated, gurgling sounds left his throat. 

While Kakuzu found satisfaction in defeating his enemies, he always killed because that was his job or because that was the fastest way to achieve his goals and not because it caused him joy. This time however he found immense pleasure in the sudden silence. It was broken by pathetic, wet, choking sounds only, then not even those as Hidan’s lungs ran out of air. His trashing slowly quieted down, but Kakuzu didn’t let go until the last twitches stopped and Hidan’s eyes - a surprising shade of violet, now that he had the chance to see them from close up - rolled up in their sockets. 

He looked quite dead, with the foam in the corner of his open mouth, with his blood everywhere, but Kakuzu checked his pulse before he withdrew his tentacles to be sure. He rolled off from the still body and allowed himself to spread out on his back for a minute. His whole body ached, his clothes were ruined and he was in a foul mood.

“I’ll ask for a pay rise after this,” he muttered to the deadly quiet room. He closed his eyes - only to open them in alarm when he felt movement from next to him. He tried to roll away, but Hidan - magically back from the dead, the pike he never let go throughout his thrashing raised high - was too close. The preacher bore the weapon down, into his heart.

“Take that you rotten bastard,” he cackled and tried to yank the pike free, probably to thrust it through his chest again. Kakuzu grabbed it and didn’t let go. “You can hope they pay well in Hell, but I don’t think Lord Jashin will be kind to a heathen shithead like you! He will torture you for an eternity and reward me, his faithful servant with…”

Kakuzu breathed through the sharp pain, raised his free hand and grabbed his slicked back hair. He sat up and dragged him back, until Hidan didn’t have any other chance but to let his weapon go, if he didn’t want to lose a handful of hair.

“Ouch, ouch, ouch, it hurts you shitty fuck! Let my hair go!”

Kakuzu yanked the metal rod out from his heart, wincing at the pain. He could feel his threads moving under his skin, stitching the gaping would back up. Losing two hearts under a week. Maybe he was getting old. 

“You should be busy being dead,” he told the priest. “And as such not concerned about your hair.”

“Fuck you, my hair looks too good to be touched by the likes of you!”

“It’s a horrible dye. This must have been a shithole of a barber shop.”

“As if you are the one to talk! When did you get a cut last time? Never? And what’s with that fucking mask? Is it the flu season or what?”

“Shut up,” Kakuzu said with resignation as he knew now it was in vain. 

“You shut up. Why are you not dead, anyway?”

“Because we are both out of luck today.”

He stood up and experimentally let Hidan’s hair go. The priest got to his feet as well, examining him with his head tilted to the side. He then looked around the room, at all the scattered bodies lying around and sighed.

“This was the best mass I ever celebrated,” he said dreamily. “Was I mistaken? Are you sent by Lord Jashin?”

“No,” Kakuzu snorted at this absurdity. “I was sent by the Akatsuki. The Leader heard of your special… ability and wanted me to recruit you to our ranks.”

“What the fuck is the Akatuski?”

Kakuzu looked at him silently, pondering the probability of someone living in Konoha and never hearing about its most powerful criminal organisation. Hidan looked honestly clueless. An immortal idiot. Wonderful. 

“A place that would offer someone like you many possibilities. You get jobs done and it will treat you well.”

“I only want to spread the word of Lord Jashin and live to please him.”

“You want people to listen to you? Or you want to kill them? The Akatsuki will help you with both.”

 “Are there more people like you?” 

“There are some… not ordinary people in the organisation,” Kakuzu said carefully. “Though not quite like me.”

“So only me and you are immortal?” Hidan grinned at him. Kakuzu didn’t contradict him - he wasn’t immortal, just very hard to kill, but he didn’t need to give the advantage of knowing that. It seemed he was being successful in his recruitment. He wasn’t quite convinced it was a good thing. “So what now?”

“I am to present you to our Leader in two days. You’ll come with me, so I can keep an eye on you till then.”

Hidan looked around and shrugged.

“It’s not as if I have any followers alive at the moment. I guess I can go and see that Akatsuki bloke with you. Who are you, by the way?”

“I’m Kakuzu.”

“Kakuzu, ehh? Is that a last name or a first name?”

“It’s a name,” Kakuzu snapped irritably. “You can call me by it.”

“All right then, Ka-ku-zu,” Hidan grinned as he dragged his name out in an inane sing-song. “I’m Hidan.”

“I know,” he sighed with resignation. “Go and grab whatever you need and let’s head out.”

Hidan muttered something about his sacrifice and went to finish the woman off, probably. Kakuzu changed the magazine in his gun and made sure that they left nothing but dead bodies behind. They needed no potential eye witnesses. He didn’t bother with cleaning up though - good luck for anyone who tried to find his fingerprints in any recent databases. 

He put on his torn jacket, re-tied his hair in its ponytail and waited impatiently for Hidan. The Jashinist reappeared at last, wearing a hooded coat, but still no shirt and a small backpack.

“I’m ready to embark this new journey Lord Jashin guides me on,” he grinned at him and Kakuzu was quite sure he was just trying to piss him on. He glared at him, but it didn’t intimidate the younger man at all.

“Let’s go then.”

[translations-by-aiimee]

Dig a Grave to Dig Out a Ghost - Chapter 23

Original Title: 挖坟挖出鬼

Genres: Drama, Horror, Mystery, Supernatural, Yaoi

This translation is based on multiple MTLs and my own limited knowledge of Chinese characters. If I have made any egregious mistakes, please let me know.

Chapter Index

Chapter 23 - Child Ghost

Twenty minutes later, each of the three hooligans sat on the bench in the hospital corridor in a daze, each clutching a bottle of fresh orange juice. The nurse had just scolded them for disturbing the rest of the patients in the surrounding rooms, and they all looked a little bit ashamed. A-Yan's face had some colour brought back. After drinking a few sips of the drink, he calmly said: "I c-can't exorcise it completely. I can only figure out the source of this thing. Maybe it's a good thing that it's harder to expel."

Lin Yan asked what he meant, and the little Daoist priest explained: “As the saying goes, 'He who never wrongs others does not fear the knock in the night*.' Although this girl is weak from her illness, there must be other reasons why, out of so many other patients, this thing chose her. If we can find the reason, then maybe it will leave by itself."

*(T/N: 不做亏心事，不怕鬼敲门 - means if you've done nothing wrong, you don't have to worry about any retributions.)

"It-It keeps repeating 'Why haven't you come yet?' It may be a wandering spirit who hasn't fulfilled his dying wish. His Yin energy is very weak. He probably died not that long ago."

Lin Yan's heart skipped a beat. He suddenly thought of Xiao Yu, and couldn't help but reveal his recent doubts to the little Daoist priest. After a long while, he turned his head and looked at the ghost next to him, and whispered: "Last time, I was only concerned about getting rid of him. I never asked him anything."

A-Yan sat curled up in the chair and listened to Lin Yan while gnawing on the cap of the orange juice bottle. He looked like a kitten. He jolted up and said: "Ghosts are divided into different categories. Today, the one here can only manifest by attaching itself to a living person and it will disappear once that person dies. However, the one that follows you is very, very strong."

A-Yan continued: "A ghost has no form at first, but if the soul is resentful and the body is buried in a place where the atmosphere has heavy negative energy, it's very likely to turn into a powerful ghost. A ghost will cultivate for a hundred years with a phantom body and, after a long time, it will develop a real body. When they have a real body, they don’t have to resort to 'bump around' like today, and they can even move around in the daytime without fear of Yang energy. They aren't so much ghosts as they are demons or animals." A-Yan clenched his fingers: " The most difficult evil spirit to deal with is known as the true body of the ten thousand clans. It requires special formations, plus needs to be done at the right time and place, so there's not much room for error. Once a part of the process goes wrong, the exorcist is likely to be drowned by the energy, go insane and instead be harmed by the evil spirit."

"L-Last time the formation was set up, Master made a fake one to fool the ghost, and he found the gap in time he needed. Otherwise, if you wanted to eliminate him, I'm afraid that you would have to gather more than fifteen boys in a Mandarin Duck Formation to have any hope." A-Yan suddenly gave Lin Yan a strange smile: "That was because he had just re-entered the world and was still confused when we tricked him. Now, I'm afraid. . . Brother Lin Yan, at this point, he should have already remembered something, right?"

Lin Yan thought back on all the things that happened at the lecture and the ghost's increasingly human-like behaviour. He was secretly surprised; was this ghost really recovering his memory? He nodded and replied, "He told me lots of things the day of the lecture. He can talk, just not very much."

A-Yan smiled nervously: "Y-Your four-pillar pure Yin is the most suitable alignment to feed ghosts. The longer he follows you, the more physical he'll become, and the more he'll remember."

"But. . ." A-Yan looked into the distance with a glaze in his eyes, his fingers tightly squeezed the drink bottle. He turned back and grinned at Lin Yan: "Be very careful."

"All I can say is that every action has a reaction, and I can't help you with anything at that point."

He didn’t know why, but Lin Yan felt that the way the little Daoist priest spoke seemed to imply something. Feeding ghosts. . . Lin Yan harshly inhaled the hospital’s air mixed with the smell of disinfectant and frowned. “Let's not talk about it. We have to save A-Zhou's cousin first and figure out the reason for the possession. Do you have to find out who the deceased is first?"

A-Yan nodded. Yin Zhou held his glasses, a little confused: "We don't have much time left. Dozens of people die in hospitals every month. We don't have time to go through each of them individually."

Lin Yan sighed: "That's no other option. Go and pull up the records of everyone who's died recently in the hospital. Maybe there's a clue somewhere."

After all, there were several people now that were exhausted from the attempted exorcism, paralyzed on the bench and not wanting to move. Lin Yan discreetly adjusted his position. Xiao Yu suddenly walked over to him, squatted down and grabbed his knees with both hands.

Lin Yan turned his face and snorted. "Weren't you ignoring me?"

Xiao Yu didn't answer. He gently lowered his head and put the side of his face on Lin Yan's knees, long hair cascading behind him like a waterfall. Lin Yan instinctively wanted to reach out his hand to touch his head, then he thought that he was probably still angry, so he put on an indifferent air and cold expression, not acknowledging him.

After a while, Xiao Yu raised his head. He pressed his hands firmly against Lin Yan's legs, stood up, turned and walked further down the corridor.

"Where are you going?" Lin Yan asked in a low voice. Seeing that he didn't answer, he had to follow a few steps behind. Xiao Yu quietly returned to the door of Xiao Yang's room and went straight through the door panel. Lin Yan was full of doubts. Peeking carefully through the door glass, he saw that Xiao Yang's mother was tired from crying and was sitting on the side of the bed, dozing off with her arms propping up her forehead. The girl, on the other hand, waited by the window again in the same manner as when Lin Yan had first arrived.

Xiao Yu walked to the girl's back and patted her shoulder lightly. What happened next left Lin Yan dumbfounded. The girl with her rolled-back eyes turned around and quietly "looked" at Xiao Yu, showing a normal human on her face for the first time. The corners of her mouth were pulled downward, a look of aggravation painted clearly on her face. Xiao Yu was tall, so he simply squatted in front of the girl and stroked her hair very softly. They were talking, and Lin Yan's eyes widened. Although he could not hear them, their expressions and slightly moving lips convinced him that they were indeed communicating in a language he didn't understand.

The little Daoist priest and Yin Zhou also followed at this time. They curiously holding the windowpane and looking in. They couldn't help but be shocked by the girl's appearance now.

"She's talking to herself?" Yin Zhou was surprised: "What's she saying?"

"Mortuary language." The little Daoist said in a deep voice. "The language used in ancient rituals to communicate with the dead."

Lin Yan looked at the harmonious picture in the room, unconsciously picking at the crack of the door. He grit his teeth and indignantly thought you're Xiao Yu. At home, you're fierce and want to kill me, yet you go talk to a young girl with such a tender look. You just look at such a pretty young girl that I don’t want to let it go. Zhu Xi's Neo-Confucianist teachings have really gone to the dogs. It’s useless for you to think about it. I decided ages ago. When she's a few years older, I'll take her to watch movies and visit the amusement park. Let's see what you can do. . .

"Hey? Are you going to follow him inside?" Yin Zhou patted Lin Yan on his shoulder. Lin Yan had been distracted internally cursing Xiao Yu, and he was so frightened that the hairs on his neck stood on end.

"Holy shit, when did you get here? Were you trying to scare me to death by keeping quiet?!" Lin Yan grumbled, clutching his heart.

"Did you really not hear me talking so loudly before?!" Yin Zhou said in surprise: ". . . Why are you blushing?"

A-Yan smiled and gave Lin Yan a deep look, not making a sound.

The conversation in the room seemed to be over. Xiao Yu stood up. He leaned over and rubbed the top of the girl's head and walked out. Xiao Yang reluctantly turned and stood by the window again. Lin Yan gritted his teeth and waited outside. He internally decided he wouldn't fall for any more of his tricks considering he seemed to do them with anyone. . .

Xiao Yu had already returned to stand in front of him while he was distracted. Lin Yan turned his face away from him in anger, but Xiao Yu didn't care. He took out the memo and the soft-tip fountain pen Lin Yan had bought from his pocket and began to write.

"Jesus fucking Christ!" Yin Zhou looked at the pen and paper hanging in the air and stared in shock.

Xiao Yu shoved the note into Lin Yan's hand, then retreated to stand behind him. Lin Yan looked down. The light green note had two lines written on it. The first line was a series of capitalized numbers: "Three-Five-One-Zero-Zero-Four." The second line was a sentence: "He's waiting for his father."

"Father?" Yin Zhou looked at the words on the note and suddenly clapped his hands: "Hey, I got it, no wonder it came to Xiao Yang. Xiao Yang's mother is a single parent. My uncle passed away last year. I came to the hospital to watch her overnight last week and heard her say she missed her dad and it felt like he was still there with her. . . Then what does that row of numbers mean?"

Lin Yan was also puzzled holding the note. When he asked Xiao Yu, he shook his head and didn't speak. Lin Yan couldn't help muttering, "What the hell? You touched her head and smiled for a long time without asking anything. . . It’s not because the little girl looks good..."

"A g-ghost's memories are incomplete. They can only remember what they want. It would be nice if they can remember the numbers." A-Yan suddenly opened his mouth, his eyes sharply focused towards Lin Yan. Lin Yan's face grew hot, and he hurriedly lowered his head to cover it up. He explained to him that he was searching for people, why did his mind take such a strange turn. . .

That being said, why did he always get distracted by a dead person? This isn't going to work, no. Lin Yan secretly squeezed his fist.

Yin Zhou saw that the two of them were acting strangely. He crossed his hands behind his head and looked around in the corridor. When he saw the computer in front of the nurse on duty at the staircase, his eyes suddenly lit up, and he whistled frivolously: "Look, dude. Time for some fun."

With Lin Yan's girl-pleasing good looks and Yin Zhou's series of honeyed compliments, the three stooges quickly got their hands on the nurse's sister's computer. Yin Zhou stared at the screen intently. His fingers flew across the keyboard and the mouse clicked rapidly. After 15 minutes, the corners of his mouth stretched upward. His whole body suddenly leaned back in the swivel chair. He squinted his eyes and exclaimed: "Done. Turns out the info comes from this hospital. Makes it much more convenient not having to check other systems."

Lin Yan leaned in front of the computer, and the homepage showed: "351004, Zhou Jintian, male, 11 years old, died on May 11. Cause of death: internal organ rupture causing extensive abdominal hemorrhaging." A scanned copy of the body claim form was attached below. In the lower right corner where the family members signed, the family name was written in two large characters: "Zhou Mo" with a small red seal next to it.

"From the deceased's information from the database, this line of numbers is the bed number from the morgue." Yin Zhou touched his head: "This ghost is a child. No wonder he's standing by the window all the time, waiting for his father to pick him up from school."

Lin Yan took a picture of the page with his phone. He smiled and pushed the back of Yin Zhou's head: "Good job."

At the spicy and sour noodle shop across from the hospital.

Lin Yan always disliked eating near hospitals. He always feels that there were grieving patients’ families and infectious bacteria floating everywhere, but these spicy and sour noodles were particularly famous. Lin Yan drove the car for a while, and after a lengthy internal struggle, he turned back. Lin Yan scooped a spoonful of spicy soup and was satisfied that a delicious dinner was definitely worth it.

The little Daoist priest left for a shift in the restaurant where he worked. Yin Zhou stayed in the hospital to see the patient and verify the information. Lin Yan sat alone at the snack bar, a greasy orange plastic table with two bowls of spicy and sour noodles in front of him. One was placed in front of him, and the other was pushed to the opposite side. The "person" only he could see was sitting in the opposite chair with his face turned sideways in a daze. It seems that the ghost really didn't need to eat. Lin Yan sighed and asked in a low voice: "You don't eat or sleep, you follow me every day, aren't you tired?"

Xiao Yu ignored him. His slender fingers propped up his chin, and the outline of his side face looked very beautiful in the dimming daylight. The table was near the window, and the warm yellow halo of the street lamp brushed over the bridge of his nose. His skin looked as fine as porcelain. It felt like porcelain too, icy cold.

Things were still awkward.

"Excuse me, can I borrow the chair? We don't have enough." A childish male voice sounded and Lin Yan raised his head. A boy dressed as a high school student was holding the back of Xiao Yu's chair. He saw Lin Yan looked confused and pointed to the boys and girls chatting at a large table next door. The girls were wearing heavy makeup, the boys wearing ear studs, their school uniforms covered in black and blue pen doodles. There were so many people in the store that they were missing several chairs.

"Someone's using it." Lin Yan replied quietly.

"I know you've been sitting here for a while, no one's there." The boy was unyielding.

"If I say someone's there, someone's there, and if they aren't there now, they will be later." Lin Yan was a little impatient.

"Nutjob, it's just a chair, why so angry?" The boy muttered. Before leaving, he rolled his eyes at Lin Yan.

"Sorry." Lin Yan mumbled to the boy's back. He wasn't sure why. No one could see Xiao Yu, which always made him a little anxious. Lin Yan hesitated and for the first time took the initiative to reach out and touch Xiao Yu's statue-like fingers and whispered, "It's lonely, isn't it? Of all the people in the world, I'm the only one who can see you and I treat you badly."

[japiform]

Logs: Explain what the fuck he’s talking about

[[mind the tags]]

Helmsman: Have you ever been in a building after it's closed for the night? The darkness? The dead air? The faint feeling of unease, like you're somewhere you shouldn't be? The darkness?

You're the only one there, looking for something. Maybe the way out. Maybe for answers.

Maybe the store hasn't been open for years. The darkness. The overgrown plants, crawling over the ground and walls. The smell of brine. The water in your boots. Are you being watched or is that your imagination? Surely you've already been at this hallway. Did one of the tentacles move? Are you alone?

And finally, you find it. The husk of what was once a man. One who laughed and fought and loved. It's eyes behind the goggles are dark. It's twitching in the hold of the ship. The ship twitches in extension of the man. The darkness.

Are you alone?

Grand: You are not alone, but the atmosphere makes you tense, makes your keen eyes dilate wide to get as much out of the lights you brought as possible. Your boots splash in the salt water, and you wonder where the fuck the rest of the empress's entourage is. Surely she had some sea fucks with her to keep this massive place running.

It isn't important, except that it makes you tell your clowns to keep their guards up as you descend into the bowels of this abandoned place. It's going to take a bit, the empress's ship is so fucking massive. But that's alright. You're patient.

Ish.

Every moment he is off is another moment he could be dead. But at least you know generally where to go. You've been on Her ship before. Though, motherfuck, it was not like this.

When you get to him, you are relieved, motherfuckin gratified to see his form twitching. You hope it's not just some errant tentacle fuckery of the ship, you've never seen one so... overgrown before.

Well. Nothing for it. Give him a little slap on the cheek. "You alive in there motherfucker?"

Helmsman: Static electricity zaps the Grand Highblood's hand, the spot where he touched the Helmsman clammy and hot and viscous, somehow. But the Helmsman's eyes snap open, barely emanating any light at all before they slip closed again, unseeing.

On closer inspection, he's breathing shallowly from dry lips, mustard blood dripping shallowly from every orifice. It looks uh. Bad.

Grand: Ouch. Spicy. Still, the zap, the eyes coming open, the breathing reassure you that this isn't a totally fruitless endeavor.

Still. Oof. That's a big old yikes, you don't know if your mediculler can fix that shit. Ugh, what a mess he is, stubborn bastard. "Aight, where the fuck is my nerd?" You look at the clowns behind you. One of them better have brought the helm tech with them.

Devoteer: The small crowd produces a troll that can be succinctly described as cereal box shaped, and he dips his jagged horns in a sign of reverence towards GHB before fumbling for his toolbag. "If I may, Your Grand Whimsican, this Technicrusher will do everything in my power to preserve the life of this... of the helmstroll, if that pleases you." Behind a faltering, whiny speech is a troll who's had to disconnect many a half-dead helmsman from their block in his time. But the Devoteer has never in his life seen a helmsblock this... overgrown...

Grand: Oh, yep. That's a nerd, you'd know em anywhere. "I want his pump goin and his pan in there fuckin somewhere. Tell us what the fuck to do and we'll get it done. If I've come all this way for him to burn out, imma be real fuckin pissed, you pickin up what i'm puttin down?"

Devoteer: "I am indeed, picking it up, Your Unholiness." You sidle around him and inspect the helmsblock, before plucking a waterproof pen from your bag and marking off some of the smaller tendrils in dark purple. "These are the connections to his cardiovascular system, his life support, and the main nutrition and waste tubes. All the rest need to be cut away- about an inch at least from his body." Looking at the state of his nutrition tubes makes you faintly ill, but you keep the green out of your gills.

"Al- also I'm going to need a small supply of nutritionslurry, high in vitamins, a jar of mind honey, and some cauterizing knives. Is that amenable, High Priest?"

Grand: You click your tongue. "Easy enough, brother mine. I definitely got the last bit, at the very fuckin least." They drop into your hand quick as miracles, and you hand the gruesome weapon/medical tool over. You look over the crowd. "Aight, who brought the nerd?" A motherfucker raises his hand with a wave, clearly not paying that much attention now that his duty's done. "Give him his fuckin goods, what do you need, an invitation??? Mind honey. Nutrition slurry." You snap a few times, and the goody bag gets passed forward like you're in fuckin schoolfeeding. Whatever, if it works.

"That gonna do you aight, or are we gonna need someone ta go shoppin?"

Devoteer: "This is perfect, Beloved Dreamer. I'm going to need some space." You put your goggles on, and get the fuck to work. It's incredibly loud and messy, the knife slicing through tendrils like a hot blade through butter. Which is basically what it is. Pieces of helmsblock go flying as you shear it away, leaving something that looks a little less like a H.R.Giger painting and more like a person.

Wiping your hands clean with a microfiber cloth, you take the vials and hook the Helmsman up to a rudimentary IV drip, methodical as always. "Now um. A-as soon as the honey enters it's system it's going to become a bit of a lightshow in here, but it'll keep it's psionics cycling until it stabilizes. Be careful removing it, it's limbs are. Rather delicate."

Grand: Oh yes, the smell of burning flesh. Acrid, meaty enough to make you hungry, smoky enough to make you sneeze. You aren't sure how the rest of your mirthful are taking it, because you're definitely not paying attention, but you're vaguely interested enough in the work to observe the whole time, make sure he isn't taking unnecessary risks with your prize.

"Damn, we love a light show," you look over at your clown friends (turns out they weren't all doing the best), and get a few nods. "Quick question though, brother. How likely are his limbs to be any use, and what's the risks in not givin a shit?"

Devoteer: You give them one look and shake your head. "Even if, er, they weren't looking due for sepsis, it would take a real medical miracle for them to be of any use again, sir." They're uh. More hole than flesh, to put it lightly.

Grand: "Sick. May as well take em off and not deal with the hassle then, gimme that knife brother," you hold out your hand so you can get your tools back. You don't know if this fucker knows how to carve through bone instead of helm tentacle, but you sure the fuck do.

... Might wanna wait for that light show though.

Devoteer: You hand him the knife and step back into the crowd just as the Helmsman stirs, sparks beginning to crackle around the goggles as his eyes open just a sliver. And then the screaming starts, teeth bared as red and blue light fills the large room in a one-troll supernova.

It's only for a few seconds though, before it starts winding down as the psionics cycle erratically. His specially made goggles- the one thing between him and GHB being a pile of troll shaped ash- crack under the display of pure uncontrolled psionics.

The air is sharp with the smell of ozone.

Grand: Oh, that's neat, isn't it? Look at him go, he's like a one man firecracker. You grin big and wide at the sight, let him run himself out, and hope he isn't going to be choking on blood from screaming.

Alright, let's get this shit done quick. You step up into his shit and start cutting away tentacle and limb alike, until he is a lump of torso, head, hair, and probably just... so much rot. Just, an unfortunate amount of rot. You'll take the effort to make sure you cut as much of the sepsis as possible without getting to his innards, but.... Eh. That's about all you can be bothered with. You'll just make sure the medicullers go real hard on the germ killin shit, so he don't rot much more.

Dumbass motherfucker.

Helmsman: The screaming has become coughing, before he settles down with a whimper, curling into himself now that he isn't forced upright by the helmsblock. For how tall of a troll he once was, he looks small. Maybe he'd always been a small troll, under all the sass and vitriol and power.

It's hard to say.

Grand: ... Ain't that almost sweet... You hold him close, fully aware he could vaporize you if you're not careful with them damn glasses, but still finding it a bit...

Somethin. You can't say. Sad, maybe. Pathetic.

Any fuckin way. No need to linger. "Aight, motherfuckers. Job well done, head the fuck out, don't trip on tentacles or i'll make ya the butt of the next sweep a jokes. Keep ya eyes peeled, but i doubt there'll be much else excitin." There's a few laughs, a few groans of disappointment, but they do as you say, because you are fuckin king.

... And the king's gonna need a shower after this, because this battery is decidedly rank.

One step at a time, though. No need goin quick and jostlin all his lively bits until he ain't got no life left in him. One step at a motherfuckin time.

Helmsman: Despite the chill of GHB's skin, Helmsman takes comfort in it, craving any amount of warmth against his feverish form. As he tucks himself as close and comfortable as possible, the ship around the parade of clowns becomes even darker, emergency lights flickering off as the biggest asset to the empire goes silent.

Behind his eyes, the Helmsman fitfully dreams of being swallowed by a goat the size of a sun.

Grand: At least, finally, he can be completely asleep.

[byorder-fanfic]

Love Thyself, Then Thy Neighbour

Summary: Linda Montgomery is tired of living for everyone but herself. It may not be holy, but it is hers.

Word count: 1957

Warnings: Swearing, LOTS of talk about religion and Church, war, hospital and blood mentioned

Author’s Note: I really hate the misogyny in the way Linda was written and I think that sometimes the fandom demonises her as a bitch for her religious beliefs, so I wanted to try and make her a bit more sympathetic. Hope you like it xx

One thing that being brought up in a strict Catholic home is that Linda leant not all rules were written in the big book. The most important rule was that women didn't work. Her mother would huff and puff when she was eighteen and desperate for work, saying that being a wife was work enough. Keep his belly full and his balls empty became the second most used phrase in her house after Amen. Linda Montgomery kept her face straight as her mother introduced her to nice, young Catholic suitors who she would take one good look over and ask whether they supported Miss Pankhurst and her plight for women's enfranchisement. Her mother would tut and her father would bury his head in the palm of his hand, as another man was scared away to the next young girl. Linda was a radical- Linda was wrong. So, when she met another devout woman at a local meeting for WSPU, she immediately trailed along to the Church that could possibly allow such beliefs alongside the teachings of Christ. The Quaker priest welcomed her with open arms, saying he was thankful to help her cast away the false idols she had been brought up with. Her mother spat at Linda's shoes, saying she had condemned the family by falling into an ecclesial community. Was this the love thy neighbour teaching that each holier than thou figure preached? So, Linda got a flat with Dorothy Evans (the woman who'd brought her to the Church) and attended that service on Sunday, then woke up before the Sun to get to work on Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday and Friday. Saturday sometimes too, if they needed a girl to work an extra shift.

That was another unspoken rule, even amongst the Quakers. If a woman was to find work, as rare as that would be, there were only two professions deemed suitable for good Christian women: teaching and nursing. Now, Linda had never been fond of children, so nursing it was. She had romanced the idea of it all throughout training, cooing over her baby blue uniform in the mirror that matched her eyes and thanking God for her ability to help others. It was no menial task, she would never say that. With the drunkards that gained injury after injury to the horrors of the Spanish influenza, on top of the everyday maladies that she guided to a hospital bed and patiently listened to her patients as they told her their stories. With those that noticed her silver cross that she always wore proudly over her uniform, she'd been invited to sit by their bedside and pray alongside them. Eventually she'd learned a couple of appropriate Bible verses to encourage and uplift, sometimes even writing them down if they wanted a more permanent influence. Then the War happened. The called it Great- she couldn't agree. Dorothy and her had both decided right from the start that knitting socks and lighting candles would not be enough for them. They packed up their nurses uniforms and followed the soldiers as they marched over to France. Romance was lost in the makeshift hospitals set up over thick mud that got their long dresses turning brown. Linda learned not to care; there were worst things that ended up on her aprons and managed to soak back through her clothes, turning her skin pinkish. As soon as she got home, she burnt her nurses uniform. She wanted to keep it at first, as a reminder of all that she'd lived through, but no matter how many times she washed and scrubbed until her hands were a familiar pink raw, the smell of blood never washed away. The photos stayed, as mementos to remind her that the Lord saved her, that he was with her still in the sleepless nights and the guilt that plagued her soul.

Instead of returning to the hospital before the Sun woke up on Monday, Linda found work at the only home she knew. The Church offered all kind of charity and volunteer work for her, but she was also employed as an accountant-cross-secretary role. She was good with numbers. She never knew that before. Nurse Montgomery was gone, but Linda Montgomery was proud and faithful and working still. She was twenty six and made sure to use her well-earned right by attending each and every campaign that her local area had to offer, voting according to her beliefs whenever an opportunity was open. Linda clung to it, to her faith, to her work with all she had. She had to make herself right in the Lord's eyes, had to make all those lives lost and unsavable soldiers that she'd pray with till their soul extinguished like a candle, she had to make it worth it. It had to mean something. So, when Linda saw a strange man stumble into the Church one Friday night, looking over to the empty rows of pews with hesitance and fear etched in every line in his face, she knew what she had to do. He was a handsome man, she couldn't deny it. Maybe it was that which piqued her interest.

Excusing herself from the desk (although the priest was getting on and hardly even heard her) she walked down to meet this tall man in a bulky grey coat that still hadn't figured out he was supposed to sit on the pews. 

"Hello there sir, are you alright?" She asked, polite and smiling. He looked up at the sound of her voice, although he didn't have to look far as she was quite the bit smaller than him. His eyes trailed up and down. Linda pulled her cardigan tighter around her shoulders, feeling her face go the same colour as her clothes. She didn't wear baby blue any more, even if it matched her eyes. This man had a soldier's haircut, shaved at the sides, and the rest of it was slicked back out of his nervous-looking face, a moustache presiding over his top lip.

"Um...yeah, well," he sounded a little gruff, although that was probably in part to his thick accent that Linda couldn't quite point her finger on. "Well, this is embarrassing. I thought this was supposed to be a Church, see, so I thought I'd come on in, but...uh, I, um, didn't mean to intrude. I'll leave you be."

"This is a Church," she said it quickly, before he could turn around to leave.

"It is, hey?" He chuckled a little to himself, rubbing the back if his neck. "Sorry, I thought there'd be a confession booth or something. They have that in St Oswald's."

"They have confessionals in Catholic Churches, this is a Quaker Church." She kept a smile on her face, although she heard the bitter voice of her mother ringing in her ears. Ecclesial. Pagan. Damned. "But if you need to talk, you're welcome to take a seat. I'm not a priest, but I can try my best to help."

She gestured to the pew, and the man ever so ungracefully set himself down, tucking his coat behind his hips. She sat in the pew in front of him, turning on her side so that she could face him. He, however, seemed to only be interested on the floor.

"What can I do for you, sir?"

"No, don't call me sir." He shook his head, looking up as he held his hand up too. "Arthur's the name, Arthur Shelby."

"I'm Linda Montgomery," she shook his hand demurely, not sure if the ragged-looking man was really the gentleman he presented himself as.

"Montgomery?" He smiled as if there was something funny about that. "That's a proper lady's name, that is. Bet your husband's a rich man or somethin'."

"I don't have a husband," she told him, showing off her bare ring finger. It never seemed important.

"How come?" He scrunched up his face as if in genuine confusion. "A lovely lady like yourself should have a man eating out the palm of ya hand."

"Work and war," she explained simply, shaking her shoulders as if it meant nothing. "I was a nurse. Never had time for it."

"Now you have no man but Jesus, right?" 

"Something like that." Linda moved a hand over, reaching onto his. There was a point to this conversation, one she was keen to getting back to. "Why are you here, Arthur?"

My, um, aunt always comes here when she needs, I dunno...clarity, I guess? I used to go too," he stumbled through his words, clearing his throat at odd moments as she tried to figure out how to get his heart into words. "I loved the hymns. But then the war happened, and I have all this shit in my head. Can't get rid of it either, cause I'm still a soldier. Still a fuckin' soldier."

His hands shook under Linda's own, and she was quick to realise the cracks in his lips and bruises under his pale eyes were a clear sign of withdrawal symptoms.

"Arthur, you aren't at war anymore," She said gently, rubbing his calloused hands soothingly. His wide eyes looked up at only her and she felt it stir a sermon in her. "You can find peace, I swear it. I know you've just quit drinking." His brow creased in shock, but he didn't dispute it. "The temptation you feel will be difficult to fight, but once that battle is over, you won't have to fight anymore."

"Work, love, work. I have to."

"Fuck work." She surprised even herself with her bold statement that was hastily followed with a look over her shoulder to see the aged priest nodding off in the back room. "There's a lot of things that aren't written in the Bible, Arthur, but that doesn't mean they aren't Gospel truth. The most important thing is that you have to love thyself before you can love thy neighbour. Once you help yourself, get yourself out of the darkness you're in, you'll find a way out, a way to better things."

There was a pause for a moment in which Linda could see the conflict in Arthur's eyes between blind faith in a woman he'd just met, and doubt in his own abilities.

"You're an angel," he whispered. He leaned forward and she half expected him to kiss her, although she didn't move her head back. Rather, when his hands rested onto her cheek, she moved forward ever so slightly, watching his adoring look with a little smile on her pink painted lips. "I think the Lord sent me to this fuckin' Quaker Church for a reason, Linda. I think He knew I'd meet the pretty blonde cherub woman who knew just what to say to stop me from reaching a bottle again."

"You give me too much credit," she warned.

"No, love, no. No one's ever said I could have a redemption. It feels good to be believed in."

"There's a temperance group here," Linda started rubbing circles in his hand. "Would you like to join? I work at the Church so you can pop in and see me afterwards, tell me if the Lord sent you in the right direction."

He laughed a lot at that, eyebrow cocked.

"You want to see me again, huh?" He said it like a dare, something amusing in the words.

"What would be so crazy about that?"

Bold words weren't usually Linda's forte, but she'd chased after work, the Church and a good life. Why couldn't she chase after this handsome man the Lord delivered to her?

[enkelimagnus]

A Castle in the Forest

Percy x Vex’ahlia, Chapter 4, 3337 words,

A Modern AU, in which Vex is a park ranger taking over the Alabaster Sierras post, and finds much more than she bargained for

Read on AO3

-------------------

The Lady’s Chamber is an amphitheatre, standing facing the crossroads of the second biggest crossing of Whitestone. Vex has driven by it a couple of times now, and she’s always seen a couple of worshippers there. Now that she knows the state of the Zenith’s congregation, it seems like this one is much more popular.

The theater part is domed in cream-colored stone. It’s in much better shape than the Zenith, despite the desolate patches of grass peeking out of the stones of the courtyard surrounding it. It’s winter however, so desolate grass is no real surprise.

Whitestone feels a little less like somewhere she could run away and hide in now that she’s felt the heaviness lingering in the city’s past. Vex is a little shaken by Father Reynal, his attitude and the state of his temple.

It’s mid afternoon and the sun has descended greatly on the horizon. Shadows grow as she steps closer to the door to the inner part of the Lady’s Chamber. The theater itself is empty, but she’s hoping the sanctum will at least have a priest. And with luck, this priest will be able to help her root the fiend out.

The door is made of metal and she knocks on it with the scale-shaped knocker. Someone must have been right behind it, because she doesn’t have to wait very long before it opens.

Vex tries not to let her disappointment show on her face. The person behind the door has thick white mustaches and receding white hair and looks weathered by time. He probably won’t be up for a hike and a battle with a fiend.

Fuck, what is it with this town and elderly clerics?

“Can I help you, ser?” The older priest says with a polite but not incredibly cheerful smile.

“Good day, Elder,” Vex replies in kind, before starting to explain again who she is and why she’s there. The facts haven't changed since she’s talked to Father Reynal.

She’s faced with a similar look from this priest than Father Reynal’s. A muted concern, and light dismissal. She’s already tired of this town’s clergy and she doesn’t even know this one’s name.

“Come in, for a moment,” the priest says before letting Vex into the sanctum of the temple.

It’s a simple main room with a rectangular wooden table. The legs are sturdy, skillfully carved. Contrary to the Zenith, this priest doesn’t seem to be alone. Sitting around the table, looking up at Vex as she enters, are two individuals.

With her bow strapped to her back and her muddy boots, Vex initially felt like a sore thumb in these holy places. But when her eyes fall on one of the people in this room, she suddenly feels much better about herself.

Across the table from the entrance is a goliath. Vex has never talked to one, or been so close really. She knew there were a few working for the TWC, but none that she actually met. She’s seen a couple in passing.

They must be at least seven feet tall, skin grey and heavily tattooed all over their back and bald head. A giant axe, fit for their hand, rests against the table by their left side. By their right is sitting the other figure. Next to the goliath, this gnome looks even smaller.

Their skin is a strange purple, almost brown, their hair black with a dark purple streak. It’s a charming thing really. The difference between these two is almost comical. Vex is immediately interested.

“This young ranger seems to have picked up a fiend in the forest,” the priest says.

The goliath looks up in interest. “Do you want us to go smash it for you?”

Vex chuckles lightly. “Actually yes,” she points out. “Do you have divine gifts?”

The gnome next to the goliath laughs out lightly, looking over at their companion. “Oh, that’s funny!” Their voice is high and unbelievably sweet. Vex finds herself softening a little towards them, for no reason outside of that laugh and that voice.

“I don’t,” the goliath shrugs. “I mostly can smash things. But she’s got all the divine shit you want,” they gesture towards the gnome.

“My name is Pike Trickfoot,” the gnome introduces themselves, nodding. “I’m a cleric of the Everlight, Sarenrae. And this is Grog Strongjaw.”

Oh that is definitely what Vex needs. The Everlight is a goddess of redemption and healing and that’s absolutely the energy needed to combat a fiend and save an enthralled half-elf. It’s hard enough to charm those of elven blood, so the fiend is either powerful or very lucky. Or both. Let’s not hope for that, though.

“Vex’ahlia, ranger of the Tal’Dorei Wilderness Conservation program, stationed in the Alabaster Sierra's outpost,” she introduces herself machinally. “So you’d be willing to help?”

She’s maybe a little too business-minded, but she’s just… tired, and worried about this druid out there all alone and probably in dangerous situations.

“I would need a couple of days of preparation and some more information, but I can probably do something, yes,” the gnome, Pike, replies.

“I sensed them on the western edge of the stone platform Castle Whitestone stands on,” Vex starts explaining. “It’s reachable through a path, but it does require quite the bit of walking.”

The priest, who has been silent for a few moments, shifts, clearing their throat.

“We’re up for walking,” Pike smiles. Grog nods. They seem to be working as a pair. “In two days at dawn? If that works for you.”

It sounds almost too good to be true. She still doesn’t know the name of the priest whose temple she’s come into, but their guests are planning to help her with the fiend. After Father Reynal’s pushback, she was really not expecting much from the Lady’s Chamber.

“That works,” Vex nods. “We will meet at the mouth of the path? If you have a phone number, I could give you the map to it?”

They exchange numbers, the gnome writing out ‘Pike Trickfoot’ with a sparkle emoji as her contact. Vex just puts herself in as Ranger Vex’ahlia. Simple and to the point, she doesn’t know this sunshine of a person. She’s not going to have little personal things in there.

The priest next to them clears their throat again. Vex sends them a look. They seem to be nervous about something. They’ve now cleared their throat many times. They’re either sick or they are uncomfortable. Or, third option, they’re trying to make the gnome and the goliath notice something. Vex’ eyes narrow.

Pike smiles, looking at Vex with a warm glint to her eyes. “I do hope this will be easy work and that we will not risk too much. But we never know, with these things. Keeper Yennen has seen enough of these in his days, haven’t you?” She asks the priest who sighs.

“We’re divine servants,” he says heavily. “All our paths are eventually called to cross with a fiend’s. It comes with the faith, unfortunately.”

Vex keeps watching him. There’s something uneasy about this situation. Pike seems to be referring to something the priest does not want to discuss. Yet another untold horror. This town holds one at every corner. Everywhere Vex looks, she can see one.

“You should leave now,” Keeper Yennen nods.

This feels like déjà vu. Because it is. Once again, Vex is shoved away from a conversation, from knowledge. Once again, she politely takes the cue and leaves. She’s starting to get a little tired of it.

She hopes that, in a couple of days, she can ask Pike a couple of questions about this place.

On her way out of the courtyard surrounding the Lady’s Chamber, someone bumps hard into Vex’s shoulder. She’s seen them coming, with their long blue coat and their brown boots, but she really thought there was space for them to cross without bumping. She curses at the sudden ache that radiates into her arm and chest and whips around.

“I’m sorry!” The person she’s just bumped into says, their right hand raising to rub over their left shoulder, while Vex is rubbing her right one. They seem younger than Vex, about eighteen years old. It’s hard to tell really, with this world they all live in, this world where everyone ages differently at different rates. They seem human, but they could very much be eight hundred years old.

They’re familiar in the same way Father Reynal was. Which makes sense, because Vex saw them at the same place, at the same time, she realizes immediately.

They’re about the same size and stature as Vex is. Their hair is dark brown, almost black, but streaking with white around the temples. They had been standing in front of the Zenith, speaking with Father Reynal, when Vex drove by after her very first supply run.

“It’s all fine,” Vex shrugs.

“Have a good day!” They call out as they rush towards the Lady’s Chamber.

Vex raises an eyebrow at the retreating figure. Two temples at once? Or maybe a new convert of Erathis. Father Reynal did say the worship of Pelor has dwindled in this town.

Everyone she has met in this town, except for the gnome and the goliath, has a strange nervous energy about them. They all seem to struggle with hiding secrets, as if the skeletons are too big to fit in the closets they try to force them in. The truth, or at least the story, of what has happened in Whitestone in the past few years is eager to jump out and reveal itself.

Vex wants to know. After today, there’s no doubt about it. She wants to know about this fiend and about Castle Whitestone. About what happened to the De Rolos and why they’re gone. About the empty temples and the half dead tree in the center of town.

She guesses it’s a little rich of her to want to know and stop people from lying to her, when she’s herself running from the past and refuses to tell anyone her own last name. When she’s trying to hide her own past from herself.

She drives back home quietly, without the radio on. She lets her own thoughts be loud for once, no matter how uncomfortable it is to hear her own self-reflection, to discuss her past and future with this horrible nagging thing that is her own mind.

The sun is setting over the trees, she has a cub to take care of, and she wants to rest. She wants to light a fire, make some coffee and settle by the warmth with the cub napping on her feet.

The loneliness is getting more than bearable, it’s getting enjoyable. She loves the quiet of her cabin in the evenings, when she hears that lone wolf cry out. She’s never heard any other wolf respond to it. Poor creature. She can relate to what it must be feeling.

She does all as planned, gathers her things and makes her fire and settles with a blanket. She brushes out her hair. It’s growing more than it used to. It had fallen a lot when she was in Shademurk Bog, especially in the last couple of months, when it had gotten unbearable. It’s growing again now. She’s growing again.

Right as she’s about to fall asleep, the wolf cries. And to her great surprise, a second cry answers it. She goes to sleep with a smile on her face, and the cub snuggled against her chest. She stopped making him sleep in the crate some time ago.

Vex awakes to a chill and misty forest morning. She sees the fog wrap around the trees. The ones around the cabin are a little thinner, a little younger. The forest itself gets thinner around civilisation, as if to protect its oldest, most precious mysteries with barriers upon barriers of younger fodder.

She’s halfway through her breakfast when the talkie-walkie hisses with an incoming call. The thing that’s not supposed to work, because the other half of the pair of walkies was lost with the previous ranger.

“Hello? Hello, is there anyone here?”

The voice seems a little anxious, a little hurried. Something’s wrong. Vex bolts from her chair and rushes to the dust-covered walkie.

“Ranger Vex’ahlia, speaking. Can you tell me what’s happening?” She asks, forcing her voice to stay calm and soothing.

“Yeah, huh, hi, huh,” the voice continues. “We found this and a body? In the middle of a clearing?”

A body? Vex’s heart freezes in her chest and she forces herself to swallow. She’s trained for this. She needs to call in the local authorities, which she knows to be the Pale Guard. She grabs her phone from her pocket without thinking, ready to dial as she walks.

“Can you tell me where you are?” She responds. “There should be a trail marker within a hundred yards of you, if you haven’t strayed too far from the path. I’ll be there asap.”

The walkie goes quiet then, and she waits with bated breath for the person to contact her back with a position. It takes a few horrible frozen minutes for the receiver to crackle again, and she’s given the coordinates.

“I’ll be there asap,” she repeats. ”I will be contacting the authorities too, so do not be surprised if members of the Pale Guard arrive as well.”

“Okay, thank you,” the voice replies.

Vex volts back, dialing the Pale Guard emergency number that gets her directly to someone without going through any helplines. She slides the phone between her ear and her shoulder as she straps her quiver to her thigh and grabs her bow. She puts her coat on and walks into the foggy morning.

It takes her about forty-five minutes to get to the trail marker she was given. She follows instructions and finds the camp of the person that contacted her quickly. A fire is lit in the center of an encampment of three small orange tents. She notices a crossbow resting against one of the tents’ sides.

“Hello? I’m the ranger you had on the walkie,” she calls out.

Three figures come out of the tent with the crossbow. They’re tall, two humans and a dwarf. One of the humans, tall with blonde hair, has a smaller version of a quiver strapped to their thigh.

The dwarf’s right hand is gloved, and in the glove, they hold the walkie. It’s dirty, with dark stains that Vex already knows is blood.

“Thank you for coming,” one of the humans says.

“I’m doing my job,” she replies. “Now show me the body.”

They take her a little bit further from the camp. The body is half-sat against a tree. The right side of it is burnt to a crisp and the left is wracked by large claw marks. The blood that burst from those wounds has long dried on the intact clothing.

There’s no way Vex can recognize them by looking at their face, half is charred and the other is almost fully melted from the heat, frozen now into a horrifying grimace. No wonder those who found the body sounded so tense on the walkie.

Her eyes fall on the insignia on the mostly intact part of the clothing. She swallows. It’s a triangular shape, of a burnt orange color, with the silhouette of Tal’Dorei in dark green over it. The letters TWC are written in white over the continent. Vex wears the insignia’s twin on her coat.

It’s Regae. It has to be. She doesn’t know of any other people from the TWC in the area, and the body isn’t old enough to be a previous ranger. Regae had been there for fifty years when he disappeared.

She takes a deep breath. “Alright,” she nods. “Thank you for calling me in. The Pale Guard will be here shortly to identify what has happened there.”

The human with the small quiver now has their crossbow in hand, ready to go. Machinally, Vex searches for the crossbow bolts and what they look like. She did make a promise, however unspoken, to the cub, after all.

Her sight falls on the ends of the crossbow bolts, the fletching. The pattern is immediately familiar. It’s the same one as the one she had to pull out of her sleeping cub. Her eyes narrow at the human.

“May I have your name, please?” She asks, trying to keep the anger from her voice. It seems to work, as the human doesn’t look as suspicious as he would have otherwise. She takes an arrow out of her quiver.

“Donavan Clarence,” the human nods.

“I see you enjoy hunting, Donovan,” Vex gestures towards the crossbow. “What kind of game are you after? Are you more of a pheasant type, or do you go after bigger prey? Let’s say, bears for example.”

Her voice is cold as ice now, her hand on her bow, ready to notch the arrow, draw back, and shoot.

The human stares at her intensely. “Why are you asking?” They growl.

“Maybe because it’s my fucking job to keep the innocent creatures of this forest safe from criminals like you,” she shrugs, and draws her bow.

She’s incredibly close to them, and if she shoots, it will hurt. They both know it. She hopes the Pale Guard isn’t far. By killing the mother of the cub, Donovan Clarence has committed a crime. National Parks protect the creatures they watch.

The human looks at her, full of contempt. “You have no idea what you’re doing, half-elf,” they hiss. Their hand drifts to the bolts and Vex’ hand loosens.

The arrow shoots through the hair and goes straight through the palm of the human. They scream in surprised pain. Blood gushes out of the wound and starts streaming down their hand and arm, soaking their sleeve.

Around them, the two others get their swords out, ready to defend their friend. Vex swallows. Okay, maybe she jumped into this one a little too early. With lightning-fast motions, she notches another arrow into the bow.

“You have no right to hurt the creatures of this park,” Vex continues. “The only person allowed to deal with threats in here is me.”

“It was a last minute situation, ser!” The other human tries, but their voice falters with hesitation and Vex knows they’re lying.

The cold eyes of Donovan Clarence and their total lack of remorse is enough to see clearly through this conversation. They had fun killing an innocent bear and trying to kill its cub as well. It was pure cruelty.

“The Pale Guard is on its way,” Vex reminds, taking a step back to encompass all of them in her line of sight. “You have no choice but to surrender. The one who killed the bear, if they’re not the same as Ser Clarence, will probably be arrested for poaching.”

She can see them start to shift uncomfortably. They’re calm for now, but this is not going to continue to be calm if it goes on much longer. Her bow is drawn again.

They stay like this, waiting for one of them to make a move, for what feels like an hour. It’s probably close to a couple of seconds before there’s noise coming from the path and a loud shout of “Pale Guard, put your weapons down!”.

Vex exhales. Thank the Gods for this. She knows she wouldn’t have been able to take down three people. They may not look strong enough to match her one-on-one, but this would have been three-on-one. She wouldn’t have come out of there looking good, if at all.

She gets to explain her point and the Pale Guard believes her. She’ll have to answer more questions in town, but they know what her job is, and she introduced herself when she first arrived. It also seems like Donovan Clarence has been suspected to be a criminal hunter for a long time. They’re just finally able to get some proof of it.

As Clarence and their buddies are taken away, Vex’ attention is violently brought back to the very dead body of the previous ranger. One of the members of the Pale Guard there is now crouched by the body, running spells over it to try and determine cause and date of death.

They get back up and walk back to where Vex is standing, arms crossed, looking quite worried.

“We’ve found traces of fiendish magic on the burnt side of this body,” they explain. “You have a fiend on your hands, ser.”

Vex sighs. “Thank you,” she nods. “I sensed a fiendish presence around Castle Whitestone yesterday.”

The guard looks around. “We’re quite far from the Castle Whitestone, in a completely different direction.”

That’s true, but she’s pretty sure the range of her trance would be enough to find a fiend around this area. “How long have they been dead?”

There’s more looking around and more thoughtful pondering airs on the guard’s face. They’re writing things absent-mindedly on a red-covered notepad.

“With the weather here and all… I would say about four months.”

Four months? That means there’s been a fiend around the forest for at least that long. Vex prays to anyone that can hear that Regae hadn’t been investigating other deaths from the same creature when they found it.

“Would the Pale Guard be able to lend me a couple of people to help defeat the fiend?” Vex asks after a moment.

The guard stares at her. “The Pale Guard isn’t trained to hunt creatures in the Parchwood Timberlands, ser.”

“It’s ma’am,” Vex specifies more out of habit than anything else. “Then who is trained to do that?”

They tense slightly, closing up their little notepad and shoving their hands in their pockets. “That would be the Grey Hunt, ma’am, but they haven’t really been around since…”

Has she stumbled upon another one of those untold stories, again? How many fucking mysteries are there in this godsforsaken town?

“Since what? I’m new here, I don’t know anything about the local history,” she snaps.

“Since the De Rolo massacre.”

Almost immediately after that, their superior calls for the guard she’s been talking to and they’re delighted to escape. Vex curses at the retreating back of the humanoid and stomps one foot in the soft floor of the forest.

The De Rolo massacre. What the fuck happened in this city? Why won’t anyone tell her about it? She can feel her own frustration growing in her chest. She wishes she was a black dragon, so she could spit out that angry acid.

After that, none of the guards seem to want to talk much to her. They pack up the body of Regae to bring it to their lab and verify the readings of the initial spells, and only nod at her goodbye.

She’s left alone in the clearing, with fire burnt out and the tents still fixed into the ground.

[zarcake-writes]

Demon Scarecrow

Ok! Here’s that demon scarecrow story! He doesn’t have a name, and I’m thinking of doing a part two with some smut. If you have any name suggestions, send them my way. And if I can’t decide then I’ll make a poll and let you all decide. Enjoy!

In front of your house is a fenced-off field. It’s far enough away that it’s not an eyesore, but close enough that you can walk to it with no trouble. When you stand on your front porch or look out your bedroom window, you get a good view of the field. At one point it was probably used for farm animals, horses or cattle. Maybe even sheep. Now it’s desolate, seemingly devoid of life, save for the single scarecrow in the center.

Apparently, you own the field, but you don’t remember the realtor saying it was part of the property you bought. The field wasn’t even included on the listing site. You double-checked the site and only found the house, barn, and the rest of the small piece of land to be yours. Nothing about that empty field. But the people in town say otherwise. They insist it’s yours. When you offered to sell it to someone, a neighbor who has horses, he quickly said no. In fact, everyone said no.

Not knowing what to do with a large empty field, you did nothing with it. For a few months, the field was just that, an empty field with a single scarecrow. Your attention was focused solely on unpacking and turning your new house into a home.

It is just the beginning of fall when you finally finished unpacking. And though you have very little in possessions, the house is slowly becoming yours. The pictures on the walls showed the life you had and the people you love. The coffee maker in your kitchen fills the house with delicious smells every morning.

One morning, you’re standing on your front porch when you finally decide to do something about the scarecrow. In your work clothes, with leather work gloves in your back pocket, you head towards the field.

The fence around the field is old and worn. The wood is warm from the sun and smooth to the touch. Etched in some parts of the fence are odd markings, and what looks like Latin phrases. However, the weirdest thing is there's no gate.

Not thinking much of the weird, gateless fence, you climb over it easily. Once you’re over the fence you feel a change. The air grows colder and the world looks darker. You pull your jacket tighter around your body and approach the scarecrow.

It’s hanging on a tall wooden post and is in a deplorable state. The flannel it’s wearing is tattered and so faded you can’t make out the colors anymore. The jeans are faded but seem to have lasted longer than the flannel. The straw hat on its head looks ready to crumble should a strong gust of wind hit the poor thing.

“Oh, your clothes are ruined,” you said.

The scarecrow does not reply. The button eyes stay buttons and the stitched mouth remains stitched. A breeze ruffles the tattered remains of the flannel and the straw hat threatens to crumble.

“Ok, buddy. I’m gonna cut you down and see if I can fix you up.”

It’s an hour later when you finally get the thing off its post. After realizing you couldn’t reach the rope that kept the scarecrow attached to the wood, you had to go get a ladder. Luckily you had one just tall enough, but you had to carry it all the way to the field.

When you climbed up the ladder, after a moment to catch your breath, you realized something strange. The scarecrow wasn’t just attached to the wood with rope, nails were also used. Judging by the head of the nail, they were long and thick. And they were driven through the scarecrow’s wrists.

“That’s… that’s weird.”

You glance at the scarecrow nervously. For a moment, you’re afraid that the thing would be looking at you. Its button eyes watching you and the stitched mouth open to reveal a maw of sharp teeth. But it’s not. The scarecrow hasn’t moved. It’s just a scarecrow.

It’s another trek back and forth for a hammer.

By the time you get the scarecrow down, it’s the early afternoon and you're exhausted. The sun is beating down on you and your hands ache from where the metal ladder dug into your palms. Your arms are still burning from the weight of the ladder and the amount of effort it took to get the scarecrow off the wood.

Beside you, the scarecrow lays in a heap on the ground. Its clothes are tattered and more faded than you realized. Despite the weather-beaten clothes, the scarecrow is in good condition. And it’s a bit more elaborate than other scarecrows you’re seen. It doesn’t just consist of a straw-filled flannel and pants; it has an actual body.

The body of the scarecrow is made of thick, scratchy material. Possibly burlap. The stitching is perfect and neatly done. There’s no popped seams and no straw sticking out. The only reason you know straw is inside the scarecrow is because of a tear in the thing’s abdomen. It reminds you of a large fabric doll.

The nails that were driven into the wrists are long and dark, some type of carpentry nails. But they weren't just driven into its wrists, there were also a two in what would be the scarecrow’s ankles.

“Were you that difficult to put up, that they decided to nail you into the wood?”

You get no answer. The scarecrow stares blankly up at the sky. The cold breeze ruffles your clothes and cools the sweat on your brow. You’re thankful for the cool weather now.

When you’re ready to head back to your house, you bend down and grab the scarecrow. It's light, but the body is taller than you, so carrying it would be awkward. You decide to just drag it to your house. However, not even halfway across the field and you’re struggling. The thing feels like it’s getting heavier and heavier the closer to the fence you get.

“Ah, what the fuck!” you shout in exasperation.

Your arms are burning and sweat runs down the side of your face. The pounding in your chest is so loud you’re sure everything in a five-mile radius could hear it. Not to mention you’re out of breath, and there’s a metallic taste in your mouth.

“Am I that fucking out of shape?”

Part of you thinks it’s that. You have to be out of shape, it can’t be anything else, right? No, you’re just that weak. Or a rock suddenly manifested inside the scarecrow.

You drop the scarecrow onto the ground and take a seat beside the thing.

“Well, I guess I can dress you out here. Maybe fix that hole in your side.”

The only reply you get is the breeze hitting your face. Slightly defeated, you leave the scarecrow where it’s at and head back to your house.

It’s the next day when you decide to fix the scarecrow. You went into town and bought a thick enough needle to go through burlap, sturdy twine, and three bags of hay. The flannel you’re going to dress the scarecrow in belonged to an ex, but he never wanted it back. And you got the scarecrow a new straw hat.

When you make it to the field, the scarecrow is right where you left it yesterday. You get to work fixing the thing up. The old straw smells wet and moldy, so you quickly replace that. Once the body is thick and firm, like it’s supposed to be, you get to work stitching the side. That took you a lot longer than you expected it to take. At one point you jabbed the thick needle into your thumb and blood was everywhere.

After your stab wound was clean, and the scarecrow was stitched, you drag it back to the post. You note that the thing didn’t get heavier as you drag it back to the post. Moving the ladder back and forth yesterday must have really exhausted you more than you thought.

It takes you longer than you care to admit, to hang it back up on the wooden post. The scarecrow's body is so long that you kept losing your grip on it. But finally, you got the thing tied up. The nails didn't seem important, you figured whatever sins the inanimate object committed have been forgiven.

You climb off the ladder and look up at the scarecrow. A cool breeze ruffles the flannel and it moves, but the rope keeps the thing in place. The pride of accomplishing something so physical makes you feel good. It’s been so long since you’ve felt this good.

And the scarecrow looks good, better than it did before. The dark red and cream-colored flannel will hopefully last longer than the old flannel did. The jeans were still good, faded, but sturdy. And the hat on its head, along with the button eyes, gives the scarecrow a childish feel. All that’s missing is a piece of straw sticking out of his mouth.

“Maybe,” you begin with a smile, “I’ll make some more scarecrows. Give you some friends. I’ll have a whole field of scarecrows. I’ll become a scarecrow farmer. Wouldn’t that be funny?”

It’s a few days later when the rumors in town start. Rumors about the scarecrow climbing off the post. Others claim they are plagued by nightmares of the scarecrow with glowing eyes and an unsettling smile that was all teeth. A few even say that the scarecrow was seen around town, walking up and down the streets at night.

You don’t believe them. They were nothing more than rumors meant to scare the new girl in town. And the people in town are nothing more than a bunch of superstitious gossipers.

People in the market begin to whisper when they see you. Some point and others shake their head sympathetically in your direction. A few do the sign of the cross when they see you or come up to you and promise to pray for you.

A group of older people corners you one day when you’re out. They insist you need to do something about the scarecrow and suggest visiting the town priest.

“Look, I get that I’m new in town and it’s probably fun to scare or freak out newcomers, especially if they’re from the city, but this has to stop. It was amusing at first, but it’s getting old,” you tell them.

The four older people look confused, but a woman begins to speak. Her voice is high and she looks almost offended. “You think we’re playing a joke?”

“Well, yeah.”

She scoffs and throws her hands up in frustration. What she’s so frustrated about, you don’t understand. Another of the group, a man about her age, begins to talk.

“Excuse her, she’s just worked up. In fact, we all are. The scarecrow, it’s been haunting our dreams. Please, contact the town priest. He’ll come out and do something to quiet it.”

“Look, I don’t get what you all are talking about. It’s literally just an old scarecrow. I was out in the field the other day and I redressed him and fixed him up. And nothing creepy happened,” you said.

The four people look horrified. The first woman who spoke looks at you like you’re a monster, and there’s burning hate in her eyes that you don’t understand. She points a finger at you and nearly screams, “You did this! You went messing with things you should have left alone! You foolish girl! You know nothing!”

That pisses you off. Her stupid finger in your face and this ridiculous rumor. You’re sick of it, and you’re sick of this old lady. “I know that you are a fucking cunt! And that this entire town is nothing but a huge gossip pit!”

You storm off, leaving the four older people starring after you with their mouths open.

It’s a day later when the scarecrow shows up in your dreams.

The dreams are always dark but bright at the same time. Sometimes they would happen in a strange cornfield that would shift into your home. But it wasn't your home, the things inside were different. Everything was always older and the air smelled sweet, like apple pie.

These dreams last for about a week, and while they always change, the scarecrow was the one constant thing. He never chased or attempted to attack you. It simply watched you but never spoke. But you did notice, with each dream, he was getting closer and closer to you. Until finally, he was an arm’s length away from you.

When you finally decide to speak to him, you’re in the field in front of your house. The world around you shimmers and sparkles in a strange way. The air is warm and it smells sweet, like apple pie. The scarecrow is so close to you.

“What… what are you?” you asked.

The scarecrow tilts its head. “If I tell you, you’ll be scared.”

A chill runs down your spine when it speaks. Its voice is low and raspy, but it sounds like there are multiple voices speaking at once.

“This… isn’t real. This is just a dream. You’re not real.”

“Partly true. This is a dream, but I am very much real.” It takes a step towards you and reaches out for your face. It has hands that don't look right.

You move away from its touch out of instinct. The scarecrow frowns and looks hurt, but lowers his hand.

“My apologies. I do not mean you harm.”

“How… how do I know that? Everyone in town has said you are dangerous. You're haunting everyone's dreams. And they’ve seen you in town.”

The scarecrow scoffs. “Just rumors, spread by those silly humans. I cannot leave the field. There are runes etched into the fence that keep me trapped there. Though, I have been haunting their dreams. It’s what those bastards deserve.”

You nod. “Are… are you going to haunt me? Hurt me?”

“No. You… you remind me of someone I once knew. Besides, you repaired and redressed this body. So, I must thank you for that.”

“Oh, um, you’re welcome.”

He nods and continues looking down at you. The straw hat on his head is tilted up slightly, giving you a clear view of his morphed face. Even though the skin still looks like the burlap material, there are actual facial features. He has a sharp chin and a curved nose. His once cute buttons eyes are gone, replaced by glowing sockets in his burlap face. His mouth opens and closes as he speaks, the string that once kept it shut has become his lips. He has hair now. You don’t remember the scarecrow having hair. Now that you think about it, you don't remember him having hands either.

“So, why does the town deserve those dreams?”

He scowls and looks away. “Because they trapped me in this body and locked me in the field. And they, well, let’s just say they need to pay for the sins of their ancestors.”

“You’re punishing them for something their ancestors did?” That sounds dumb, you think.

He growls and stands taller. “I swore to make them all suffer.” The dream world grows darker and unbearable hot. The apple pie smell vanishes and is replaced with the smell of fire, smoke, and burning hair. The scarecrow looks monstrous, his face grows more distorted. The burlap material splits and tears, something bright green glows from within. When he speaks, you swear the entire world shakes. “And I always keep my word.”

“What are you?” you whisper in terror. You want to cry and run away, but the terrible image of this scarecrow leaves you frozen in fear.

The creature, sensing your fear, calms. His body goes back to looking like it did before and the world around you brightens. The smell of burning flesh is replaced with the comforting smell of apple pie.

“I am a demon, little human.”

That doesn’t calm you, but you nod.

“Do not be afraid. I will not hurt you; you have my word.”

“If you’re real, then how do I know you won’t break your word?”

He scoffs and looks offended by such a suggestion. “I do not break my word.”

“Right. So, why are you in my dreams? What do you want?”

“I want you to help me further.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “Help you do what?”

“Free me. Destroy the fence that keeps me locked in that field.”

“Why would I do that? You’re just going to hurt everyone in town?”

“So? They deserve it.”

“Does everyone know about this supposed sin their ancestors committed?”

He frowns and looks down at his feet. “No, but half of them do.”

“Fine. How about this, you haunt those people but leave the rest alone.”

“You wish to make a deal?”

“No, not a deal, an agreement. If you don't agree, you’ll stay in that fucking field.” You cross your arms and give him your most intimidating stare.

He laughs and nods his head. “Very well.”

“And, you can’t haunt me or do any spooky shit to me.”

The scarecrow nods. You hold your hand out for him to shake, but he looks down at it in confusion.

“Why do you offer me your hand?”

“To shake.”

“Shake?”

“Yes, it seals our agreement.”

He steps forward and pushes your hand away. He is so close to you and so very tall.

“I don’t shake to seal a deal.”

“It’s not a deal.”

“An agreement, then. But I don’t shake hands.”

“How do you seal a dea- an agreement.”

His arm wraps around your waist and he pulls you against his body. He’s thin and surprisingly solid. When your hands rest on his chest, you’re surprised at the warmth you feel coming from him. His free hand angles your face upwards. You lick your lips when he leans his face down to your own.

“I seal all deals and agreements with a kiss.”

Your eyes go wide and your mouth is suddenly dry.

“Do you consent?” he asked.

You swallow and nod. His surprisingly soft lips ghost over your own. It’s barely a kiss, barely anything at all. And when he begins to pull away, you surge forward and give him a proper kiss. He growls and his grip on your hip tightens. His tongue slips into your mouth and you can’t help but moan at the feel of it. Needing some friction, you attempt to grind yourself against him.

His hands settle on your back and he pulls you closer to his body. He grips the back of your shirt with one hand, while the other returns to your hip. You pull the straw hat off his head and run your fingers through his dark hair, pulling lightly at the base of his neck.

He growls and kisses his way down your neck to your shoulder. He sucks and bites the soft skin where your neck and shoulder meet. You’re a puddle in his hands, clinging to his shirt and pulling his hair, grinding yourself against him, begging for more. Needing more.

He pulls away with a soft laugh. When you whimper and pull at the front of his flannel, he hushes you. His hands cup your face and he places a soft kiss on your forehead. It does nothing to calm you; your heart is still pounding and your body feels like it’s on fire.

He nuzzles his face against the side of yours and leaves small kisses along your cheek and temple. “I know your body is burning, little one, but I cannot do much at the moment because of the fence. Break it, and I will show you my gratitude.”

Everything is hazy but his voice echoes loudly. You try to reach for him, eager to feel something, anything, that he might give you. Anything that will cool the burning desire in your body, but he’s moving away from you. You need him to cool the fire in your body. You need him.

You wake with a gasp and sit up straight in bed. The pounding in your chest and the sweat on your brow makes you think that was nothing more than a dream. A wild, slightly sexual dream, no doubt brought on by the lack of physical intimacy you’ve had lately.

However, that thought is swept away when you realize you’re clutching a familiar straw hat in your hand. You shoot out of bed and examine yourself in the mirror. On your hips are unnatural looking fingerprints and there’s an unmistakable bruise on your shoulder. Right where he was biting and sucking your skin. You can still feel his touch on your body.

You look out your window towards the field with the scarecrow. The morning sun is rising behind him, bathing the field in golden light. The scarecrow is still hanging up like he was yesterday, just minus the hat. It’s almost like nothing happened. But the need in your body and the voice in your head say otherwise. Not to mention the hat sitting on your bed.

You’re going to tear that fence down today.

[rexcoatlarchive]

I don't like sharing

When Rex first came to Chaldea he brought with him a few items from home. Clothes, books, games, a few plushies, his dog, among many other items. But two of these items were intrinsically linked to magecraft: first was a very large journal filled with knowledge of magecraft from almost every corner of the world. Second was a large green feather. Both of these were given to him by his ancestor/magecraft predecessor.

The feather was to be used as a Catalyst to summon a mighty warrior king that said ancestor served in his heyday, as it was originally a part of said king's headdress. Little did he know that that very king was the feathered serpent Quetzalcoatl. When Rex used said feather to summon a servant the mighty serpent was who came before him.

Since then many things had happened to the pair. Rex and the goddess Quetzalcoatl fell in love and formed a relationship. They had been separated for a time only for the young master to use that feather to reunite with her. Eventually they got even closer and got married. And then due to a mistake on Rex's part an alter of the goddess was created.

But one day Rex got curious. The feather summoned her two times without fail, but what would happen if he tried to use it while she was already summoned? Many catalysts could summon more then 1 servant, like a piece of the round table or part of the Argo could summon a multitude of powerful servants.

Of course if he wanted to satisfy his curiosity he'd want to clear it with his wife first.

Quetz: ...I'm not sure about that.

Rex: why not?

Quetz: well who'd even come? It's from one of my headdresses from back in the day, but I'm already here.

Rex: while that's a fair point, I'm still very curious. And even if it didn't work we'd still probably get something, the summoning would just ignore the feather at that point.

Quetz: si pero... I have a bad feeling for some reason.

Rex: ...well if you don't want to then we don't have to.

Quetz: ok...

Later that night in their room Quetz got the question stuck in her head. What would happen? Would another servant get summoned? Would nothing happen? Would another her get summoned? Could that even happen?

She decided that maybe she needed to know.

Quetz: mi amor, wake up

Rex: *sleepy* hmmm? What is it?

Quetz: I was thinking maybe we should try it out

Rex: try what?

Quetz: the feather, maybe we should try the summoning.

Rex: you sure?

Quetz: well... that conversation we had earlier got me thinking of so many possibilities and now I can't help but be curious.

Rex: ...I guess we could... if that's ok with you

The two went to the summoning room, and Rex placed the green feather near the center.

Rex: before we do this, you have to be 100% sure that you're OK with this. Because we don't know what'll happen, and we have to be prepared for whatever happens

Quetz: I understand mi amor, and I'm prepared for whatever comes out of there

Rex: alright, hope nothing bad happens

Rex pulled on the lever for the summoning and the circle starts up. The column of light bursts and the Caster class symbol is seen

Quetz: caster...

Rex: interesting

Once the column of light dissipated there stood an interesting figure. She was a tall figure, she wore clothing that matched up with Quetz's but more ornate, and she had body paint all over her.

???: Hola! It's so good to see you both again!

Quetz: you! How're you here?

???: I was summoned! You're right there next to the summoning device, I thought it was obvious.

Quetz: aaayyyye

The new figure was the other Quetzalcoatl that they had encountered other times on their adventure, first in Babylon then in Solomon and much more. Now she was properly summoned to Chaldea, but changed to Caster possibly because the original was already Rider.

Rex: well that's... interesting.

Quetz2: and it's so good to see you too cute little master!

Rex: yeah, it's nice to see you too I guess.

Quetz: please don't flirt too much. We're married now

Quetz2: really! That's amazing! Congratulations! I'm so happy for you two!

Quetz: ...gracias

Rex: so now you're finally properly summoned here as a true chaldea servant. It's so weird to think about, never considered that to happen.

Quetz2: well I guess it has to do with this catalyst *she says as she picks up the feather*

The original Quetzalcoatl went over and took the feather back.

Quetz: we're never using this again

Quetz2: eeehh, are you unhappy with seeing me?

Quetz: you're always flirting with mi amor. It's a bit irritating.

Quetz2: I'm sorry but I can't help it. Besides we're the same person and you fell in love with him, so doesn't that make perfect sense?

Quetz: .....hmmm

Rex: please relax mi corazon, she won't go too far

Quetz2: right, I'll respect you're marriage. You already know I'd never want to disrupt a marriage.

Quetz: good...

Then out of nowhere someone else came into the room

???: what the hell are you two doing this la- oh, it's her

Quetz2: who is this?

Quetz: ...she's my... alter, Kukulkan.

Quetz2: eeehhh?! How?!

Kuku: well wouldn't you like to know

Rex: I fucked up with using a grail and accidentally made her.

Kuku: I know it was a mistake but please talk about it with more tact master.

Rex: sorry...

Quetz2: so there's 3 Quetzalcoatls? Or is there anyone else that you've summoned?

Rex: no, but honestly it's nothing compared to some other servants

Kuku: yeah, there's too many damn Artorias here too.

A/N: so finally here's the next part of my multiclass series. I wasn't super sure how else to implement a Caster class Quetz, so I decided that one that acted as a priestess made sense as in myth Quetzalcoatl acted as a priest king in some stories. That's 6 classes for Quetz so far including the originals, tho one of those 6 still needs to be expanded on.

Tags

@hasereshdoneanythingwrong @hasishtardoneanythingwrong @haspaulbunyandoneanythingwrong @grievouslyxorvia @gxymlky @panyum @hasabbydoneanythingwrong @castlecsejtespeakertechnician

[grim-faux]

15 - The Dark

For some reason I didn’t feel the rush of exhilaration I had hoped to achieve in reaching the exit.  My mind might’ve been numbed by what I’d been through to allow such a mood, emotionally drained by the experience and horrors of what I had seen.  It was such an empty sensation, completely robbing me what of I felt was deserved. Closure. But as with all matters tangled in Mount Massive’s mockery, I was to be disappointed.

I hesitated, straining to pick out the odd sounds beneath the heavy rain.  A flash of light clarified the grounds momentarily and I burned the image into memory.  Overgrown grass obscured most of the pathways, a net of greasy branches stretched over the sky.  I moved into the cold rain and the dark, stepping carefully down the slippery stone steps.  Lightening flashed, and I thought something skittered past overhead.  Impossible, given the image wasn’t the best on the visor between the green tint and the heavy rain, there was nothing out here.  As the flash fades, I could only see the brick path and the overgrown grass before me.  I was the only living thing out here. Or nearly so.

A beam of light cut through the downpour and the glossy branches, sweeping over the yard.  There light was too bright on that side to confirm it, but it had to be ‘Father’ Martin.  He’s the only person I knew of that used a torch.  Pretty sure.  He was signaling me from across the yard. I think if I had the chance, I’d like to strangle him.  Get him caught in an elevator, or cut his fingers off with a pair of giant shears.  The camera was getting low on power, had to move it. Strange sounds echoed in the wind, snapping branches or something large crashing through the gaunt bushes along the cobblestone path.  Sometimes I thought it was following me, but the rustle would soften at a distance or maybe the rain was picking up force.  I ducked down when I thought Chris appeared, but it was only my imagination forming shapes in the NVs haze.  No one was out here with me, just Murkoff staff cut up and sitting drenched on benches, staring with glazed eyes at the storm.  Did they come out here to die, or did someone leave them like this?   I was soaked before I reached the fountain.  So much for getting dry, at least rain was clean.  That sound again, something shrieking in the night and I thought there was a form overhead, in the branches as they crackled.  I tried to follow it with the camera, but my nerves gave and I whimpered as I knelt to crawl along toward the only visible light.  It no longer signaled me.  How long had Martin been out in this weather waiting for me?  Not long enough. Leaves scuttling along the ground spooked me, the way they played at the edge of the visor.  I stopped in the downpour to get up, and fought to wrangle my breathing under control.  My chest ached with my heart thudding in my chest, the wind picked up and I shivered into the soggy embrace of my coat.  There was nothing out here but dead people and a psycho guy that fancied himself a priest. I remained wary though as I moved up the steps, beneath a broken lamp blazing in the inky night.  I had to change the batteries in the camera, a tricky choir in the rain.  I crouched low and tucked the camera under my coat and popped out the old battery, then slapped in the new one.  My camera was keeping me more alive at this point, rather than provide the evidence at my psycho evaluation.  I had some difficulty slipping the strap back over my hand, my knuckle was a little swollen and I needed to loosen it in order to get it over.  Once it was done I wouldn’t need to worry over it for a while.  Probably. No one was waiting for me when I reached the top of the steps.  Only the words scrawled in blood on the wall across from me how alive are you At my feet on the damp cobblestone and in a diluted puddle of blood, rested a file in a plain folder.  Inside was a notepad tinged by the soaking rain, but enough of the note was illegible. “I don’t even know your name. But I’ve come to think of you as one of my blood, my Paul, I hope you don’t mind. And I hope you don’t indulge the vanity of self-pity, the fear that your suffering is more than others’. We all must endure this, and you are nearly done. There’s no way to heaven but by the cross. And every man needs another to help drive the nails in. I am here for you. I am waiting up ahead.” This actually would have been really comforting, except at the end where he mentions the cross.  If he thinks he’s crucifying ME, I’ll be more than happy to disappoint.  I’ll die before he gets ahold of me again.  Fuck them all.  I’m not going through all of this to wind up as some sacrifice! I tossed the folder down and cautiously crept up the steps at the right to a wire fence, the door and frame wrapped with thick chains and padlocked tight.  Stepping back, I examined the gate standing between me and presumed freedom. In favorable circumstances I’d fly over a chain linked fence.  What was it to me?  An insult to my dexterity?  Right now, too many factors worked against me to attempt the climb.  The weather was bad, barbed wire at the top, don’t mention my fingers, and I was bleeding again.  It didn’t look like there was much for me on the other side either, it this just led into another yard. Damn, where do you have to go to get out of this place? I judged the fountain to be a center piece of the yard, if that assessment was correct I would locate other pathways leading from it across the grounds.  That would keep me from getting too lost, I was incredibly disoriented with the weather and all-consuming black.  As I made the return trip, a light glittered in the distance between tree trunks and mist.  I kept my attention locked on it while trying not to deviate from the path, it was tempting to tear across the yard if only to find the source. Overhead the branches groaned and snapped, I ducked down as that noise returned, sounding like pellets in a pipe and shrieking with the crashing thunder.  I dove off into the tall grass and kept low, listening and searching for what might be there.  A shape slipped through the treetops, but the night blazed with green brilliance, blinding me through the NV.  I turned my head down and realized my knees and shins were soaked in the icy mud, but I didn’t care.  I didn’t want to move and alert whatever was out there to my location and have it come down on me screaming mad.  I didn’t want to see it, I didn’t want to know what was there. It was just getting to me, the weather and this feeling of isolation in the yard.  It made me feel like something was out there stalking me, and only me.  I needed to get into some shelter and dry off.  Or just get out of this drumming rain for a bit. I shuffled along ducking beneath the low twigs and pressing through soaked brush.  I’m certain the path was at my back but I didn’t want to find it just yet, I needed to stay hidden in the undergrowth until it felt safe.  I’m not sure what I was hiding from but I needed to stay hidden from it.  Recollections of the sewers, people shrieking behind the metal gates as an unseen force punished them.  I exhaled a sharp breath and pressed my left hand over my face.  Don’t go back.  Try not to think about it.  I murmured something strange, a comforting sort of sound to reinforce my resolve. I’ll get out of this.  But I have to keep moving. Another gate appeared in my path, and I ran my hand carefully over the chain linked fence. A stone wall was built on the other side, crates stacked on the floor.  There was a door in the wall. The gate was locked with chains— The timber above snapped and fell onto my head, and that screech rang in my ear as though it were right beside me.  I whirled away tearing through grass and sharp brush towards the stone fountain, not stopping until a light in a doorway appeared somewhere on my left.  I flew to it not hesitating before I slammed into the door at full force, and flung it shut with a loud CRACK!  I stood quivering under the light, dust swirled in the warm beam as I panted, gazed fixed on that door.  The storm howled beyond the weathered wood, sounding eerily like human sobs.  What the fuck had that been? Power in the nightvision needed to be changed out.  Already?  I just changed the battery.  Something was going on here.  Much of the same that clung to this place, a lot I didn’t understand and what I did get still made no sense. I switched out the battery and looked at the small tool shed I had crashed into.  Some basic things, a few shelves with paint cans, some pliers and wire cutters, and propane cans stacked by the door.  There were a few hooks, and one had a silver key dangling on it.  It had to be a key to somewhere, maybe one of the gates?  I had to go back out there and search them all down.  It could be done, but it would be time consuming. Before heading out I gave my camera a quick evaluation, to make sure it was still in satisfactory working order.  I rubbed off some of my bloodstains that had clotted on its side and checked some of the footage, in a dull state.  It began to frighten me how little I reacted to my own terror in the night, as though I didn’t care five minutes previously I’d been racing across the yard in a panic.  I did forget my initial goal was to confirm the camera was still operational despite its abuse, but I’d fallen into a repetition of cycling through all its functions and struggling to adjust the color settings, despite the mechanical flaw caused by being thrown out of a fuckin window.  I eventually gave up and stared at the visor as it recorded the floor of the shed. Time to go. The handle turned loosely in my hand and I pulled the door back, while keeping my shoulder by one side in case I needed to shove it close.  I didn’t have my camera up yet so all I could make out was the oily yard with its slumped shapes glimmering under the flash of electricity.  The sky was a muddy expanse stretching over the tree tops, it seemed lower than the sky should be, barely brushing above the canopy of jagged timber.  There was nothing hostile, nothing visible I wouldn’t come to expect with the relentless storm.  Complete silence but for the thick water and rumble of thunder.   It was eerie, after I had raced across the yard accustomed to the bizarre sounds, and suddenly there were none.  For a moment, I was startled by a black shape hovering near the fountain, but in a flash of light it was gone.  Just the guard slouched on the bench, on the other side of the yard.  It was him I had seen, very dead and immobile, nothing could change my mind. I returned to the gate beneath the light, where ‘Father’ Martin had left his message.  I took the padlock but found I was wrong in my assumption.  The key was thick, more along the lines of a skeleton key, and the padlock used the more modern thin keys.  Damnit. I climbed down the wall and walked along one side of the yard hunting for a door, or gate that would use the key.  There had to be some sort around here, Martin left the key in the shed for me, the mystic bastard.  Couldn’t just leave doors open, has to lock me in and leave me to the mercy of his ‘disciples.’  This place was probably Satan’s holiday house.   A light on the other side of the yard caught the visor, and I started in that direction in a casual jog.  It sounded like a shape was shredding through the canopy overhead, I hunched down as I hastened my pace through a sharp gale of wind and rain.  I doubt the light would deter it but the dark didn’t seem to do much either.  I shoved the key into the lock breathing a small sigh of relief when the latched clicked.  My hand fumbled with the slick knob, scraping my finger in the process as I forced it open and threw it shut after me.  I moved away from the door and fought back the trembles that clutched my body, just couldn’t get myself under control.  Beyond the wire door I thought there was a dark mass swimming through the storm, but a boom of thunder killed out any sound there might’ve been. Focused and still, I waited for nothing.  The water made a soft pit-pat sound as it dripped from the edges of my soaked coat and chin, insects buzzed overhead driven wild by the intense light.  The gentle atmosphere somehow overpowered the nightmare of the storm and what it concealed.  I allowed myself one whimper as I let the tremors take me, tensing my muscles to block out some of the cold.  There was something out there and it was following me.  I don’t know how to explain it.  I don’t want to explain it.  The very notion I couldn’t comprehend this terrified me.  What the fuck was it and what did it want? My mind kept flashing back to the sewers, the wails and sobs of people dying.  The sounds.  Those sort that couldn’t be replicated.  They were the kind of sound a person made the moment death took them, and would never be repeated by that individual.  Death throes. I changed out what was once a battery at half-life, and put one with full power in.  That should last me.  Maybe. It looked like some sort of greenhouse, or was once one until the asylum came to be in the early nineties.  I moved away from the wall to distract myself with this place, this façade of reprieve.  No plants were kept in here, just some pallets and materials for the grounds.  Windows along the upper walls flashed with peculiar outlines, like faces watching through still portraits and the unsettling sensation that I was not alone and had never been alone in this place.  Just nerves, I told myself.  I was cold, soaked, and the lightening hid shapes as it revealed me to those same shapes I hid from. I gave a loud sneeze and bit my tongue.  Perfect. Briskly, I moved out of the light, into the shadow of the doorway at the other end.  I raised my camera and gave the crossing corridor a look over, before I stumbled out into someone.  Smelt like people came in here to piss as though the yard was too good for them.  In this weather, it might’ve been. Looked like most of the material for reinforcing the doors had been hauled from this storeroom, it must’ve been stocked with lumber before the nightmare began.  Two by fours and plywood were leaned against one side of the wall, and on the other was a shelf with a hammer and some dried out potted plants.  Pieces of splintered wood lay across the stone path, and nails had been scattered to the sides.  A radio had been abandoned on a shelf out here, but the batteries were not the right ones for my camera. I turned to check what the other side might offer, and stepped through a doorframe into a spare shed.  At the far end the exit awaited, nearly missed as I scanned the entrance, skittish as I was.  I was spooked by the icy dots of rain that hit my face, only to realize there was a large hole in the roof above.  I shut my eyes and exhaled trying to calm myself.  Just the rain, it was just the rain.  Though I was freezing, I didn’t bother to move out from under it, as I looked over the room. Thin boards lined the walls and some propane tanks were left stacked at the furthest corner.  Shelves were dotted with eroded paint cans, and more tools to reinforce doors without restraint.  Good to know all that hard work and sweat had paid off in the end.  I could just imagine Murkoff freaking out, terrified by the things they created and not understanding any of it.  Just trying to get barricades built, doors sealed, and then curl up in the darkest corner while they listened to their colleagues, abandoned outside, get pummeled by the big fucker.  And he seemed like such an interesting man. Slowly, I turned the handle of the door and pulled it open a crack to scope out.  Tall brick walls extended from the building on either side, effectively boxing the path in.  I heard a noise like… screeching.  Nails on a chalkboard, or something?  Thick bars stretched from the wall into the dark, at the current range of the NV I couldn’t see how far. A form in the dark.  I’m not sure how to describe it, it was an outline at first, then it took a shape.  It was insubstantial and had no face, just what looked like a head perched on a rib cage as it fluctuated and shrieked and… headed RIGHT TOWARDS ME! It was right at my face before I slammed the door and braced my shoulder against the icy steel.  A strangled cry came from my throat as my ribs crunched under the force.  I didn’t see that, what was it?  That was impossible, it didn’t walk, I didn’t see its feet!  It didn’t have feet, it— The door shuddered but it was too dark to see, what I could make out was through the visor quivering just beside my face.  It… materialized, and crawled ‘through’ the crack under the door.  I only caught glimpses of the fog, I was too lost in fortifying a barrier on something that was slipping beneath it like in a cartoon.  This isn’t possible, not possible!  This isn’t natural what’s going on here!  Was that its head?  Was it looking at me?! When it grabbed at my feet I charged out of there, crashing into the metal gate under the light before I recalled how doors worked.  I fled across the yard stumbling through grass, bushes, and finally toppling over a bench I didn’t see in the black veil of night.  Somehow in my madness I fell to my good shoulder and skid across the stone path, terrible wails surrounded me in the gloom as the lightening blazed and the world came into momentary clarity.  I envisioned the patients surrounding me, Chris Walker in the distance stalking through the yard.  A shapeless form howled as it hovered over me, reaching out a twisted branch to crush my head.   Strange sounds curled around me, and I knew was making them.  I tried to block it out as I twisted to rise but something was wrong, I rolled sideways and fell down again before my legs could carry my weight.  Once I was mobile, I raced the rest of the way to a bright light shimmering in the distance like a salvaging beacon.  It only occurred to me as I flew up the steps that it was the same Asylum that I had recently escaped.  It was the last thought in my head as I barreled through the nearest door, into the dark and dry safety of this horrible place. I didn’t get a chance to fling it shut, my instincts screamed – flee, flee, escape, HIDE!   I crammed my body into the furthest corner between the bookcase and a desk.  There I cringed, panting, shivering, wide eyed, and waiting for the thing to find me.  I just couldn’t understand what I saw.  Couldn’t comprehend it.  I wasn’t into the supernatural, I’ve never see shapes or heard voices…. Up until I came to this crazy place.  How could I have been charging all over this messed up Asylum, and only now out in the yard I come across something vaguely supernatural.  It didn’t make sense.  I felt like I just lost my mind.  I was fuckin insane.  Completely bonkers. “God help me, I think I’ve seen the Walrider.” My ears are ringing.  That shrieking snarl, when I was face to face with it….  I don’t know what happened.  There was a flash, I thought it was the lightening, but it felt like I suffered a sharp blow to the head.  I thought I’d seen into its face, o god, inside its skull… I didn’t feel right.  Not bad, I didn’t feel good either, but not bad, but something….something doesn’t feel right.  Like I lost something, or forgot something.  Just my nerves, I’m shook up and cold, and probably not in the best of health with all the blood loss. I wipe some of it from my hands, but with the heavy rain the clots can’t hold.  Couldn’t stop here, had to push on.  Find that proverbial light out of this hell hole.  No ‘illusion’ of MKULTRA would stop me. My legs felt soupy as I made the long trek back to the gate, the only route I knew that might offer a way out.  Or lead someplace dry.  It took some time to find the gate, I left the door wide open and became confused when I saw the smaller shed through the rain.  After further searching, in which time I’m certain I was more lost than I should have been, I did find the greenhouse.  I shut the door behind me and listened, primed to bolt if I saw it, or heard that unnatural call it generated.  I couldn’t fabricate the exact noise in my head, only that it was inhuman and terrifying. The metal door was untouched, and still in one piece.  It had been crawling ‘under’ the crack.  How the hell? As before, I opened the door slowly and strained to hear.  Noises did come, illusions my mind conjured of screams as the thunder rolled, or the rustle of leaves beside the metal bars flipped about.  I felt like I was losing my mind.  Give me naked thugs, deformed giants, freak doctors with huge scissors - give me a ghost, massive nope factor right there. I slid through the door and shut it behind me.  On the ground swirled dark splotches in clear puddles, another one of Martin’s markers for me.  I had this insane thought that maybe it was hiding in the blood.  What was I thinking anymore? A soft hiss issued from the other side of the bars, and I threw myself against the set to the left when I thought it was coming back.  I saw nothing, no vague outline, nothing.  Just the blaze in the sky, sometimes I thought there was a corpse sitting in the distance, washed by rain, or was it the black outline of a tree framed by light?  I couldn’t tell anymore.  If I kept moving, everything would be all right.  If I waited, it would find me. I turned the corner and stepped off the stone path into thick grass, with about an inch of water coating the soil.  The mud clung to my shoes and weighted my feet, I wobbled but managed not to fall over.  It was a challenge staying on my feet as it was, I didn’t need to fall to my hands and stuff mud into the wounds. A lamp blazed down into some sort of storage yard, from when Murkoff remolded the place for reopening.  A lot of materials they couldn’t get rid of such as concert barriers and pallets were sorted and stacked.  I ducked back from the halo of light when the brittle timber above snapped and dropped into the grass, not far from where I hid.  I raised the camera and kept low listening as the sounds moved off, a soft tinkling of metal pellets echoed from the distance.  The same sounds I heard in the sewers, when I thought I saw shadows. Beside the lamp was a ladder fixed against the brick wall.  I fastened the camera in its hoister and started up, keeping a tight grip each step I pulled up.  The heavy downpour coupled with my muddy shoes made the exercise a difficult one, I nearly lost my footing twice before I had a suitable rhythm down.  Overhead, jagged bolts crossed over the black sky, blinding me briefly but I held my climb steady.  I’ve done this hundreds of time, the weather just complicated the task. The ladder ended abruptly, or it seemed to when I couldn’t see how far I had to climb.  I crawled onto the roof of the greenhouse, or whatever the building was and fumbled for my camera.  I bit the edge of my lip when I tried to force my hand through the strap and wound up jamming my finger on the thick material instead.  Carefully, I slid my fingers under the loop and gripped the camera tightly in my hand, trying to ease out the knot of pain rolling in my knuckle.  I tasted blood but I think it was worth it, distracting myself momentarily from everything else. I used my left hand to steady myself as I stood and stepped up the remainder of the slant, onto the flat surface of the roof.  It was comprised of wooden shingles roughed by hours of sun and harsh winters, easy to keep traction on even with the thick runoff.  I focused on the visor of the camera as I stepped along, the power is more than half done with.  A flicker of light reveals the shattered portion of the roof, for which I gather a short dash before I make the leap.  In a surge of brightness that follows, I nearly stagger back from a shape below my line of sight, but it’s solid and thin and not the thing in the dark. A man sits on the roof of the greenhouses entrance.  I must’ve looked like a lunatic to him, running everywhere in the dark and hiding in the glass.  Or, was he watching it too?  He’s emaciated and stares into the unyielding storm, silent and still, aside from the brief movement of his hand scratching at his chin.  Beside him sits a small walkie-talkie. I shuffle to the low section of the roof, eyes fixed on him should he realize my presence.  I kneel low and reach beside him to pick up the small device without disturbing his watch.  My camera is already dimming, I toss the depleted battery aside and put in the one I’ve just picked up.  It’s dead as well, which would explain why he’s not listening for chatter.  I toss that battery as well and put in one of my own. Half dead, but it’ll do. I pull myself back up to the roof and resume my way.  The path comes to an end, above the curl work of barbed wire topping a fence below.  As I glance around, I’m certain someone has screamed out there in the yard, but I can’t decide which way only that it sounded painful.  On my left there’s a decorative ledge running along the Asylum’s wall, the opposite of which direction I’m almost certain that shrill originated.  I step back and get up some speed before leaping.  When I hit, my shoes skid over the water coating the slick cement, but I keep on my feet.  Another roof was not far from the ledge to the left, I walk over to it keeping the camera firm in my grip as I leapt to the soaked wood without issue.  In the branches I pick up the crackle and rustle of something, but I can never see a definite shape.  I pause to crouch down and film open air and the rain, until the echoes have either faded or my mind ceased to fabricate them.   I push myself back to my feet and continue, barely three steps before I reach a piece of plywood lain down bridging the roof to some scaffolding.  More evidence of Murkoff’s attempted repairs before everything went to shit.  Some boards are set over the short space, which I cross as I constantly search the ground and the canopy.  It feels like the sounds are following me.  I’m almost elated by the notion, despite the pulsing in my veins.  Did I want to see it again?  I don’t think so.  But I was curious.  The initial shock had worn away, and every scuttling noise I thought was the thing in the dark terrified me.  But it also teased my inquisitive nature.  I teetered on a delicate and dangerous line, if I drew to near the sun it would burn me.  But I couldn’t help myself.  I wanted to forget why it frightened me, and learn why I should be frightened by it.  My heart thumped with the acuity, just a glimpse of the shadow to know I wasn’t losing my mind. I step from the short structure of scaffolding, onto a flat cement ledge.  There’s no other direction to take, the ground below I can barely find without the zoom.  To my right is a thin gutter line, a possible path I’m not comfortable to attempt in the fierce weather.  But I could manage it.  I set my heels against the wall and shuffle out testing my stability, the edge ends just beneath my toes but I press my back against the cold brick and chance it.  I have my camera crammed under my chin at an awkward angle to avoid bumping the wall with my elbow.  I can barely keep my balance, and see enough just through the visor this way. As I slipped around a sharp corner, my leg nearly gives out and I slip a bit but catch myself by pushing off the wall a fraction.  I sway in the open air as the wind tugs at my drenched coat, if I budge I will fall and snap my leg, or something worse.  It will be painful.  I let my body sway until my back gently touches the brick wall, then I continue, shuffling slower this time.  The small path ends on a large cement ledge, I drop to my knees to catch my breath.  A set of planks awaits a few feet from where I lean over, appearing very sinister in the flash of light and the crack of thunder that follows. The noises around me have calmed somewhat, and it’s just the rain and I.  This doesn’t comfort me, though it should.  I feel unsettled, like the eye of the storm.  Using my camera I search for my next heading and zoom in on a slanted roof a short distance, beyond those unassuming planks.  I return to my feet and secure the camera in my grip, I take a short dash before I leap.   When I hit, my foot slips over the rain cascading off the rough planks and I topple sideways.  I clutch the camera to my chest and jam my elbow against the slant, twisting around to force my body parallel with the edge.  I shove my feet against the friction and hold, until I’ve stopped completely.  The night feels cold and silent, except for the rain drumming on my face generating its soft prattle.  Water gathers at my side where I’ve blocked it, filling my coat and jeans with the frigid liquid.  I’m so cold. After a minute I collect my senses and inch away from the edge of the roof, until I can flip over and get up on my hand and knees, and crawl to the top. When I make it to the other side, I’m dismayed to find no other path to take.  This should be good news, but I preferred being someplace high where I couldn’t be reached.  I examined the distance to the floor from the roof before I put my camera away, then lower myself from the edge of the roof by my hands.  A light shining from a pole above cut through the dark, offering some visibility before I dropped to the cobblestone floor.  Some crates had been left beneath the roof, as though to protect them from the elements.  Steps lead a few feet down towards a dead guard, and a steel door I bet would be locked.   I made my trip down to confirm this belief, and to get out of the rain for a bit.  At times it felt colder sheltered from the constant pummel than wandering through it.  The guard has nothing worthwhile on his person, not even a candy bar.  Not that I want one, but I was thinking about it.  Up a set of steps on the opposite side, sat some neglected sawhorses and another collection of pallets.  Otherwise, another dead end.  I climbed over the short wall, down to where the ledge sheltered the small walkway and where the guard sat.  I could see a path to take if it led anywhere worthwhile, a stack of pallets across from me was fixed beside a dumpster, both positioned under a cut out in the fence.  The sounds came again, rattles in the pipes or a frail cylinder cast by the strong wind.  I shrank into my coat but didn’t bother to raise the camera or seek out the source, I’m not certain at that particular moment what I was thinking, other than I needed to move. I raised my right hand to my face and blew in my palm, to get some of the chill from my fingers.  It wasn’t very effective, but the warmth did ease the pain a little.  That same sensation came over me, the jolt to my head or some kind of vertigo.  I shut my eyes and let the feeling pass, I kept repeating in my head ‘keep moving, keep moving’ but I wasn’t ready.  I just wanted to stand out of the rain and stare at nothing, maybe wait for the storm to pass, but I know by the time it did, it would be too late for me.  The wind slid under the ledge and I gave in, crossing to the pallets and climbing up to the fence.  I couldn’t fathom who might have cut the wire, a few pairs of wire cutters and a chainsaw had been missing from the toolshed.  I was screwed if Chris Walker was out here with the chainsaw. I was still so fuckin lost.  You’d think I’d be able to find my way around outside, without the walls and abundance of locked doors, but no.  I was somewhere, maybe in the backgrounds of the Asylum.  I couldn’t locate a feasible way out of this place, had to keep heading around searching for one of the locked gates to the front.  There had been a few I looked at before finding that shattered gate, but there was the staff parking I had viewed on the one side. “Have to get out….” I stopped as I turned the corner.  On the ground lay a patient, by a steel door pinned with boards.  I gave the handle a rattle and it clanked hollowly on the other side, but the screws in the stone kept it from budging.  The patient seemed wounded or sick, I gave him his distance as I moved around to the only route visible.  Fence on one side, fuckin big building on the other.   When I reached my jeep I was going to crank up the heat, tear off my coat, and just get my skin warm.  And comfortable warm, not hot, not inferno, not hell hot, just warm.  I was beginning to loose feeling in my fingers and toes, I was soaked to the bone, and I just didn’t feel right.  My head was still ringing from when the thing screamed at me, it might’ve damaged my eardrums.  My hearing seemed fine, just that humming I couldn’t stand.  Felt like it was in my nerves. There was another door, up some steps on the right.  Same as the previous, locked solid.  Don’t know why I bothered checking, force of habit.  I did want to get some place dry for a bit, but anyplace in Mount Massive I’d soon come to regret.  Miserable place this was, would never wish it on my worst enemy because, I’m not that kind of guy. Trager’s too good for my enemies. The lightning blazed and I spied another tall fence ahead, with a patient plastered to it shuffling against its side.  I observed him through the visor as I approached, he seemed near oblivious to me.  “I can see his ghost.” What was it they were so fixated to find out here?  When I was close enough to see him clearly, I found that he had been coddling the gate for so long his face was a bloody mess and his nose was missing. It reminded me of lizards in the pet store, if they wanted to get out they’d rub their nose on the bars until their lip had worn away.  Pitiful to see a human like this, out here in the rain. For a span I recorded beyond the fence, to pick up what it was he saw or to confirm my doubts, I wasn’t sure.  Sometimes I thought there was something, a glimmer and shift in the lens, the film was always clear and never faltered.  I could hardly remember what it was I thought waited out there, only that it could stare back, and this made me uneasy.  The patient mumbled something as he moved closer to me, and I only recalled that we were standing completely exposed to the storm. Well, I realized I was standing in the rain.  I didn’t bother the other man as he sought to see his delusions. The fence ended at a wall, to which brick stairs led to a higher patio.  Across from the steps two benches were poised, on one sat a man in a straightjacket and chemical scarring marred his face.  His eyes glistened in the NV when he noticed me.  I turned to climb the steps, halfway up he called after me, “Be as one of us.” I hurried to the upper level through an open gate, one of the first in a long while.  Blood and gore was in my immediate path, I continued in that direction passing various guards and doctors of Murkoff, in a splattered display of death.  It looked like they had fallen out from somewhere, their bodies twisted and guts spilling out and glass everywhere.  Had they been thrown out of a window?  Or had they found their own way out? The door across from the dead had a plate reading Prison Block and the doors had been boarded up.  The most opportune way out for some of them, I suppose.  I located another open area in the fence, a few pallets stacked to give a clear step up over the sharp edge.  A bolt streaked across the sky illuminating the immediate area, but below the light could not reach but for the thin tree limbs reaching high. Before I risked getting lost in that lower area, I returned to where the gate entered the patio space, and took the path that had been open on my left.  It was a large area beneath an eve, where I could get some time away from the storm.  A few old drums, possibly gasoline like the ones in basement, had been discarded here.  The walls had tall, thin windows cloaked by tattered curtains, I could make out no sign of cracks of wear to indicate anyone might have tried to escape this way.  Bags of trash had been discarded by a large dumpster, and before it stood a man in a straightjacket struggling to get out. The dumpster, after the stagnant decay that had been shoved into my sinuses, smelled wonderful in the cold storm.  But the linger of rot was here, and blood had pooled at the patients feet. “Bleed for me.” It was time to leave. I climbed the pallets and braced myself for the fall before I let myself down, the soft earth compressed under my weight, but the jolt still traveled up my ribs.  I stepped away grunting and stretching to get the soreness from my muscles, I was moving through the tall grass before I had my camera up. The front grounds had really been let go, but this was beyond neglect.  Thick bushes grew everywhere catching my pants and whacking my fingers as I navigated what seemed to be the clearest path, but everything was overgrown.  The grass was up to my chest, and large concrete blocks dotted the yard, hidden until I was directly upon them.  A thin vapor spilled from them, maybe from the lower levels of the Asylum, the basement?  I turned my camera to examine the interior and found thick metal bars, and a warm draft that lifted from within. I’m sure the yard might have been open to the better behaved patients during good days, but when Murkoff took over the patients never had ‘field’ days.  They only needed to keep the front lawn looking decent for appearances, and let everything else go to hell.  There were even pallets and large propane tanks stacked along the wall.  Even for an asylum, this place must have looked nice when things were kept neat.  But Mount Massive was shut down for scandal, so there was no telling if this place ever had ‘nice days.’ The grass began to thin out as I neared a small pool of water in the middle of the yard, with a charming little bridge built over it.  Large stones had been set to boarder the small pound, but even in the dark I could identify the thick grime that grew along the waters edges.  If not for the rain cloaking the miasma of still water, I imagined it wouldn’t be all that lovely. Labored breathing pressed through the drone of rain, alerting me to duck down or be seen.  There was no guarantee I wouldn’t be seen.  A blaze of lightning followed threatening to reveal my location out of spite, and in it I saw the shape of the big fucker as he wandered the yard.  It would’ve been too good if he didn’t show up.  I knew something was wrong. Without hitch he continued on his way, pausing to glance over his shoulder as I paced through the water gently.  It wasn’t very deep, but he would pick out the odd sound given the contrast to the persistent shower.  I paused with the bridge between us, the big fucker looked in the other direction and began that way.  I breathed out a soft whine, even as the sky lit up with another blaze.  The big fuckers back was still to me, I was safe for now. I checked the camera as the light dimmed.  Another battery went in, my last one, a full one.  I had no idea how much further I had to go out here, but for the time I needed to see. There was no indication of where to go, but for some light up at the top of a stack of pallets and propane tanks.  Chris couldn’t climb after me, he could fall after me, but he was a shit climber.  At least, he’s never jumped up after me, yet.  For all I knew he could fly. As quietly as I could muster, I sprint over to the stack and pulled myself up.  I heard no sound from the big guy, he must still be enjoying the weather.  I slipped up to the high ledge, another one of those tall thin windows greeted me, but of escape there was no evidence.  I wasn’t too keen on going into the Prison Block anyway.   A small rain trail led along the wall to the left.  The water wasn’t washing over it quite so hard, but I had to take the awkward angle with my camera again to keep from losing my balance.  I’d prefer to put my camera away and not risk dropping it, but it was more disorientating being unable to see where my feet were and the wall pressed into my back. I passed over a fence topped with coiled barbed wire and came to another sharp corner, on the edge of the building.  Rather repeat my earlier slip, I stuffed the camera in its pack and carefully lowered myself sideways.  Little by little in the dark, until my right hand touched the ledge.  I made sure I had my hand on it before I pivoted, and dropped, snapping my left hand onto the edge as well, and let my weight settle on my arms.  A small grunt snapped from my throat as my ribs sang in pain, but I wasn’t falling backwards this time.  I strafed along the wall, turning the corner easily and kept going until I felt the path at my hands end. I pulled the camera free and checked what was under me.  Just the floor, it was a distance from my feet but not far enough to break my legs.  I let myself drop and turned, wary of my surroundings and what may be lurking.  The sky blazed causing me to cringe down, in the resulting flare I thought there were shapes closing in but through the visor I saw nothing too hostile.  Nothing alive at any rate. There was a small gazebo near the center of the yard, with steps leading up to it.  The aged wood creaked underfoot as I moved around the center, benches were situated around a small garden area full of black dirt and twigs, at one point it was probably filled with flowers or a hedge.  What looked like a doctor was laying on one bench, his coat tinged with dampness and his back to me.  I didn’t bother with the body and kept moving.  I crossed over and crept down the steps, back into the tall grass and into the dismal rain. Overhead twigs crackled and fell, I crouched low scanning the lens along but couldn’t locate the cause.  It could have been the limbs heavy with water after a long drought, they sometimes snapped during a heavy rainfall, but that seemed like such a pissy excuse.  I wiped the water from my face and cringed at the sensation of my missing finger, I was not getting used to that any time soon.  I picked myself up and continued, slowly as I listened for more movement, my camera scanning the dark sky as lightning flared.  It seemed to have moved off for now, if there was ever anything there.  Maybe I was just as cuckoo as the patients, and seeing things in the dark.  Suggestion was a powerful tool. There was nothing to guide me, no remarkable land marks that I could identify aside from the gazebo.  The stone paths were so overgrown with weeds, it was impossible to distinguish them from the tall grass.  I just kept going, relying on the fence that surrounded this area to direct my way.  Maybe I’d find a place where patients had escaped from.  Or maybe they already had, there was the break in the fence I first came through, that led to the open window.  Wasn’t there a document that referred to them as ‘environmental contamination?’  It still sounded wrong. It seemed to take an hour or almost to get around the yard, stopping every so often at shapes in the visor, static in the camera, sounds in the woods.  Not animal sounds, but the strange chatter and wail of the thing I could not describe.  Lurking somewhere and watching me clearly as I staggered through the unforgiving foliage.  At some point I did find my way around, into an area I thought led into the woods, but instead a patient was staring back at me from a cobblestone path.  It startled me, and I staggered away. I knew my hands were bleeding again but I couldn’t bear to turn the camera and view the damage.  My blood felt as thin and cold as the rain, but I’m certain it was my blood.  It had a differing consistency than to water streaming over my skin, but I refused to check. Finally, at long last I spotted a light source.  I could hardly believe it but I moved towards it, my battery was getting low and I couldn’t be stumbling blindly around in the dark.  The harsh brush tore at my shoulders and hands as I made my way towards what looked like a wall, or walls on either side topped with chain wire fence.  A set of steps led down into a lower area, maybe another basement.  There was evidence to indicate this as a possibility but I doubted it.  I didn’t care where the stairs led either, I just needed the reassurance of a firm direction.  The sky blazed with a wild flash, blinding me momentarily before I saw a pair of eyes glimmer in the dark. Shit!   I spun away racing back along the fence as Chris gave a howl of rage, initiating the chase.  Where had he come from?  Was that a gate to the connecting yard?  I didn’t care to know, my concentration was absorbed in not buckling under my terror.  Branches slashed at my torn fingers in my frenzied escape, it sounded as though he was close behind me.  I turned my head to check, running right into a tree that knocked me down and slapped the camera from my loose grip. “You got nothing left to live for.”  He was right on top of me.  Where was my camera? The tall grass had hid the bright visor, but not well enough.  I snatched it up as the big fucker came crashing into my vicinity, the chains clinked very close to my face in what might’ve been a grab attempt.  I lunged just out of his path and saw, in a beam of lightning the gazebo.  He can’t climb!  He can’t climb!   I was just beyond his reach as I clambered up the rail and flopped over the side, I groaned as my ribs pulsed with pain but it bought me a moment.  He shoved his arm through the gaps in the rail, but the chain caught on the rotten boards preventing him from grabbing my scalp as I lay stunned.  But I wasn’t safe yet.  With a nasally snarl, Chris charged around toward the steps.  I lifted my camera and watched through the NV feed as he set his dead gaze on me. I rolled to my feet, and threw myself over the rail to sprint in the direction I thought that light had been.  Chris swung himself over the rail, I know this because I felt the ground tremble when he came down.  I kept on my feet locating the steps and shot down them, taking the corner on my right and stumbled down more steps and nearly toppled forward.  The deep rumble of the big fucker echoed on the confining walls, he would be on me in the next instant. At the corridors end was what looked like a wall, its appearance draining the remainder of my blood… until I caught sight of the lower side.  The cement had been chiseled out and rebar ripped back.  I knelt down and crawled through, as Chris gave his disapproving roar at my neck.  I hadn’t stopped yet to flaunt it, I was on my toes running up the narrow corridor back into the storm.  An open and better kept yard greeted me at the top of the slop, but I didn’t stop to admire it.   Across the yard a large set of double doors waited, boarded tightly with planks and plywood, tall glass framed the sides spilling comforting light onto the grass.  I still raced into them and tried the handle, confirming this was not for show.  The plate beside the door read Female Ward, though I wasn’t sure of this.  I knew there were female patients involved with MKULTRA and the sleep therapy, but it wasn’t clear to me if they were involved with Project Walrider. It was asking too much that I would never find out.  But due to the wandering patients and contamination, I think I should have seen women by now.  Or… could I not recognize them as being female?  My head ached from the revelation, I needed to get out of the rain.  I was borderline hypothermia, I had to get dry. If I couldn’t find my way out of this yard soon, I didn’t doubt the big fucker would find his way to me.  I walked along the fence that stretched from the building, and found an opening into another yard.  A fountain sat in the center surrounded by benches, the strong stench of copper from it overpowered the open air.  I had turned the NV off, but the camera was still running, it always was.  I stared at the garden piece full of blood, so much I couldn’t be sure if there ever was water in it to begin with.  The heavy rain drops hit the surface, but the thick black clots held tight.  I immediately felt sick and took a moment to sit down at a bench, off to the side. “So much blood in the water I can smell it.  Like putting a penny in your mouth when you were a kid.  The whispers are making more sense, I’m looking for static.  It’s like an itch.” I stuffed the pen and notepad back in my pocket, and stood to resume the search of the lawn.  Some fresh air would help, put some distance between this grotesque red pool, and myself.  Get it off my mind if only for a second. Steep hills lead up to high fences and what must have been the brick walls of the outer courtyards, polished and slick with rain and higher than the Tower of Babel.  Was there no way out of this place?  Did the world outside cease to exist? Stupid thoughts.  Miles, you idiot.  Keep it together, I’m gonna make it out of this.  Just takes time.  Stay alive, and find that way out. I returned to the fountain.  Bodies bled out, in all manners of decay, on this side the wind picked up enough to give me a whisper of the spoil that seeped from the corpses.  A still functioning lamp spilled light on the poisoned well.  I didn’t feel safe standing in the open like this.  But I turned the camera anyway to sounds in the trees overhead, and the odd outline of something at the roof.  Or was it another of Murkoff, ready to end it all and escape this hell? I walked along the wall of the building to get out of the rain for a moment.  Stacks of pallets had been neglected here, like much of all Murkoff’s tools, as its people.  The light above reflected off glass, but one window failed to cast its sheen.  I jogged over and examined it from the ground, before I hauled myself up the precarious stack of pallets to the high window. That sickening-familiar scent of old moldering wood, rank dust, and the trace of sweet humid rot swept over me as I entered through the shattered frame.  The new reek of scorched, sodden wood saturated the air.  At the edges of the NV I could catch glimpses of walls tinged in charcoal, where the fire had reached forth to spread. Damn it, how did this happen?  Like a tar pit, the more I fought the harder I stick. There was nothing on my left, just glassed in walls around some office or lobby.  Thinking on it, that might be the barred entrance of the Female Ward.  The dust within was thick enough I could view it settling over a neglected wheelchair, tipped sideways.  It was a depressing sight.  I turned to my right, clinging to the lamps outside the windows to offer some guidance as I shut off the NV for a short while.  I was ready to raise it if something caught my attention, or if that haunting wail returned.  I shivered as a light pierced through collapsed beams, slanted across my path.  I looked up to what must’ve been an upper floor and its doorway before the fire spread, all of it black charcoal and some of it cinder now.  Steam was still rising from some of the white ash of the timber causing the air to fog thickly, but the light cut through blinding me briefly. It was Father Martin, nested in a doorframe of the second floor, flashing his light to signal me.  This was getting old. “You saw the Walrider, didn’t you?”  He gave pause as I moved closer, presumably into his line of sight.  I adjusted my collar ready to cover my nose with it, but postponed the action to glance around and turn my gaze back up to him.  I tilt my head, only vaguely interested in what he had to preach.  “You’re beginning to understand, but not yet.”  He gestured his finger upward, dramatically.  “Even Abraham had to cast his eyes to the ground.  But soon, soon.  This way.  Revelation is at hand.”  With his speech concluded, he spun away and disappeared beyond the gate. Okay, thanks.  How was I supposed to get up there?

[this-is-a-love-story-fleabag]

Fork you, then (1/?)

You asked for this, you degenerates.

Fleabag saves her friend Boo's life and earns a spot in the Good Place, but is everything here really so perfect? And what's up with the hot priest next door? This chapter has 1208 words. Also on ao3.

"Watch out, Boo!" I shriek, throwing myself into the cycle lane to push my best friend out of the path of an approaching phalanx of bicycles and back onto the pavement.

The world goes white for a second.

All at once, I find myself sitting on a comfortable, overstuffed sofa in a bland, warmly-lit room. Blinking my eyes open, I read the bright green text splashed across the opposite wall.

"Welcome! Everything is fine."

"Watch out, Boo!" I shriek, throwing myself into the cycle lane to push my best friend out of the path of an approaching phalanx of bicycles and back onto the pavement.

The world goes white for a second.

All at once, I find myself sitting on a comfortable, overstuffed sofa in a bland, warmly-lit room. Blinking my eyes open, I read the bright green text splashed across the opposite wall.

"Welcome! Everything is fine."

Improbable.

A door in the wall opens, and a petite blonde woman steps out into the room, a tight-lipped but polite smile on her face.

"Hi there," she says. "I'm Eleanor. Come on in."

I follow her into the office, which is classy, in an 80s hotel reception kind of way.

"This is my assistant, Michael," she says, gesturing to a handsome older gent in a sharp suit who's hiding behind a plant. Very relatable.

She picks up a folder and shuffled through some papers, and I slide awkwardly into the chair opposite her, feeling like I'm walking into a job interview.

"You are dead," she says, far too calmly.

"Are you sure? I don't feel dead," I joke. She doesn't laugh.

Oh no, I'm in hell.

"You're in the Good Place," she continues. "Thanks to your selfless and wonderful acts down on earth, you have earned your place here in paradise."

Before I can stop myself, I snort. "Standards are really slipping, then." I am incredibly uncomfortable.

A muscle twitches in the side of her face. "According to your file here, which I can totally read, you've done some amazing things. Michael?"

I look back over my shoulder as he rouses himself a bit, giving his head a shake. "Saving your friend Boo-" he offers.

"Oh right," I say, remembering suddenly. How did I forget my best friend trying to commit suicide via cyclist? I turn back to... Eleanor, was it? "Can I see her? Is she OK? She's not dead, too, is she?"

"Let's see." She makes a sharp gesture, throwing a holographic screen into mid-air, and Boo's face appears, tear-stained but physically unharmed, having a massive panic attack on the pavement. Classic Boo.

"Boo is just fine. Would you like to see how you died?"

No. God no.

"Yes, thank you," I hear myself say.

Oops.

She brings the video up on the floating screen. Ugh, I hate watching videos of myself. Is that really what my nose looks like from the side?

I was expecting to see myself get hit by the first bike. I was not expecting the second or third. Or the bus that liquefied me after I got flipped into the road.

What a waste. My arse was having a real renaissance this month.

I can't tear my eyes away for what feels like an eternity, even when all there is on screen are paramedics attending to the pile of goo and crunchy bits that was formerly my body.

"What happens now?" I ask hoarsely. "Is there some kind of trial or, I don't know, application form?"

"No, your points total has already been calculated. We know for a fact that you belong here in the Good Place."

"That cannot possibly be the case."

She balks a little before plastering another polite smile onto her face. "How about I show you around the neighbourhood?"

"Listen," I say desperately, "I'm a greedy, perverted, selfish, apathetic, cynical, depraved, morally bankrupt woman who can't even call herself a feminist, so this is either an elaborate prank or you've made a terrible mistake."

She's unmoved. Fuck, I only pull out the brutal honesty as a last resort.

"We don't make mistakes," she says, with the firm conviction of someone who definitely makes mistakes.

"Fine," I acquiesce, resolving to drop the matter for the time being. "I'm ready for the tour, I guess."

The neighbourhood is, in a word, heavenly. There's no other way to describe it - everything is clean and beautifully designed, with verdant greenery and a frozen yogurt shop on every corner. All of the people I encounter are blandly, disturbingly cheerful and friendly.

Literally not one single person has laughed at my jokes so far. I might scream.

After a short stroll through the streets, while Eleanor points out the various features and amenities available to me, we arrive at what is apparently my house - which is, I have to say, objectively nice. A red-brick townhouse tucked in a corner of a charming little cobbled street, with climbing roses trailing over the front door and freesias bursting from the window boxes.

Inside is a comfortable-looking, reasonably chic bachelorette pad, featuring a well-stocked wine cellar, a shower big enough to host an entire rugby team (goals), and a living room mantelpiece covered in framed photos of my family and friends.

My gut tightens as I see Boo's smiling face beaming at me from behind the glass, flashes of memory assaulting me. Mum, dad and Claire are watching me from an old family photo, seeing right through me. I squeeze my eyes shut and turn away from their accusing faces.

I want a cigarette. Are you allowed to smoke in heaven?

Eleanor's voice drifts through my panic. "-sometime around seven, just as an informal getting-to-know-you," she's saying.

"Sorry, what?" I have to ask.

"Ugh, I'm sorry, I don't know how to talk to British people," she says. "You probably have different words for stuff. Uh, Tahani would call it a soiree?"

"Tahani?" I ask, clearly having missed a few steps in this explanation.

"It is I!" announces a six foot tall Amazonian goddess, striding dramatically through my front door. "I heard my name and thought it would be a good moment to make an entrance. I am Tahani Al-Jamil. Welcome to the neighbourhood."

"Wow, everyone here is really attractive," I try. Hey, if I can't make them laugh, I can at least flirt a bit, right? "This really must be heaven."

"It really is," says Eleanor with another tight, insincere smile. I look around the room. Seriously, no takers?

"I'm just here to bring you a little welcome basket, with some home-baked scones and clotted cream, and to invite you to tonight's soiree," continues Tahani, as though I hadn't said anything.

"Knew it," whispers Eleanor to Michael.

Tahani air-kisses me on both cheeks and makes her exit, leaving me with a basket of baked goods and an expensive-looking card proclaiming the location, time, and dress code of the party in gold letters. Informal evening wear, apparently.

I hear a knock at my door.

"That should be your next-door neighbour," says Eleanor, unlatching the door as though she owns the place. Which I guess she does? "He said he'd come say hi after he'd settled in."

Thank Christ, maybe he's a normal person. I swear, if someone doesn't either laugh at my jokes or fuck me in the next half hour I'm going to die. Again.

Eleanor ushers him in and he steps through the open door, holding a bottle of wine and waving with his other hand. I take him in, the handsome wave of his hair, the way his shirt strains over his biceps... and the dog collar around his beautiful neck.

Oh fuck. He's a fucking priest.

[thatsparrow]

(fleabag/priest • read on ao3)

I love you, too.

It'll pass.

Much like God, that last bit turned out to be a lie. 

—

It's two years later and things are—fine, actually. Good, even. Cashiers ask you how you are, and you say, "I'm doing well, thanks," and it doesn't even feel like a lie. The cafe is, somehow, still a success—enough so that you can afford to do things like buy a new awning and replace the linoleum. You even spend a weekend with drop-cloths spread out over your nice, recently-replaced linoleum and give the interior a new coat of paint. You choose this pastel, light-washed teal color that looked cheery on the swatches but mostly reminds you of watered-down mouthwash. Still, when the sun comes in during the afternoons, it looks nice. You get compliments on it.

All the guinea pig pictures are still up, of course.

Both Hillary and Stephanie (who is, you remind people, actually a hamster) are also doing well, which feels like a miracle. A few months back, Hillary caught some sort of guinea pig flu and that had led to an emergency vet visit and several very-panicked Google searches about guinea pig lifespans, but then she'd gotten better and apparently they live for four-to-eight years anyway, so, she'll likely be around for ages yet.

(Hamsters, on the other hand, only live about two. Sorry, Stephanie.)

That banker—or, former banker? You never did find out what his new job was—still comes by. At least once a month, and usually on Chatty Wednesdays. He brings his wife, too, as he'd said he would. She has kind eyes—which is the sort of description you don't use very often, but suits her—and is both soft-spoken and full of questions. You learn that she bakes, because of course she does, and every so often she brings along a cloth-lined basket of lavender cookies or rose-frosted cupcakes or something equally Martha Stewart. They're fucking delicious, too.

Claire still commutes from Finland, but less often, now that she lives there. She has an apartment in London for when she visits that's obscenely beautiful and rarely-ever used—dark granite countertops and these funny-looking geometric sofas and lots of tasteful artwork (though, none of them done by your cunt stepmother). It should all be gathering dust, but Claire pays someone to clean it once a week and to keep the fridge stocked (on the off chance she comes for a sudden visit, which she never does). Sometimes, when you've been out late and your own place is too far away, you stay there for the night. Claire did give you a spare key, after all, and it seems a shame that no one is getting any use out of those million-thread count sheets or the quinoa salads in the fridge. You don't particularly like quinoa, but that isn't the point. 

The two of you don't talk often, but often enough. You know that she's busy, and when she does call, it doesn't feel like an obligation. Like, sure, maybe your sister needs a calendar reminder to phone you, but when she does, she sounds genuinely happy to hear from you. (She also just sounds genuinely happy about her life, which is such a wonderful change of pace.) Tall, blonde, beautiful, Finnish Klare posts pictures of the two of them on Facebook sometimes (yes, you got a Facebook just to friend him)—mostly selfies, all taken by him, of him and Claire in various corners of the world. Stern-looking, northern cities where the sun doesn't rise part of the year, and bright, fruit-flavored beaches where the sun never sets. Claire looks half-annoyed in all of them, but the kind of annoyance that's covering up how pleased she really is. Like she isn't allowed to look too happy about her tall, blonde, beautiful, Finnish boyfriend and how much he clearly adores his tall, brunette, equally-beautiful, British girlfriend.

"If you have a child, will you also name it Claire?"

"What? Don't be silly, we're not having a child. I don't even know if we're going to get married."

(She does, and they are.)

"You could spell it with a ch so it's a little bit different. Something silly and American, like C-h-l-a-y-r-e."

"Stop it."

(She's smiling on the other end of the phone. You expect they'll announce the pregnancy by the end of the year.)

"It's gender-neutral, too, so you're set either way. Come on—you both have perfect bones and perfect hair and it'd be such a shame to waste that. "

"You're ridiculous."

"Always, but I think I'd be a great Aunt to little Chlayre."

"I'm going, now."

Apparently, having sex with someone who has the same name as you is weird, but you get used to it. And, apparently, the sex has been so amazing anyway that it's worth a little weirdness. Good for her. God knows she needed it.

(Speaking of God—)

He moved parishes shortly after the wedding. Not God, of course, but—well, you know. You'd thought it a little dramatic to move entire cities just because you'd had sex, but it was also arguably less dramatic than his leaving the Church, so. Likely he had made the right call. You probably would have ended up hating each other by the end, anyway, if he'd stayed. It wouldn't have worked out, because when do these things ever? It's good that he left. (It isn't.) It is.

Still.

You think about him less than you used to, less than in the days after—I love you, too. It'll pass—the bus stop, when it was all still so fresh and new. When you were feeling dramatic (drunk), you'd liken it to the feeling of having lost a limb, like he'd taken one of your hands or some vital organ when he'd walked away. When you're feeling less dramatic (sober), you liken it to having lost something you'd only been promised—something fanciful, like someone told you that they'd invented the ability to breathe underwater and it had all turned out to be a lie. 

Except it wasn't a lie. He did love you. He just loved God more.

One afternoon, you'd been running errands that had happened to take you past the church (six blocks out of your way, actually, but close enough) and ducked inside—not even to say anything, just to see him, maybe—but it had been empty except for Pam arranging some pamphlets at the front. You'd asked about him, because of course you had, and she'd said he was "gone."

"Gone gone? Like—"

(Dead?)

"No, sorry, my mistake. Moved. This lovely parish on the coast whose own priest passed away a few weeks ago. A little quiet, but he says it's very charming."

"You've spoken to him, then?"

"Yes, of course."

Of course—like it's so simple.

You leave ten minutes later, after Pam's talked you into donating another ten pounds to the collection and volunteering at another church event the coming weekend, but it doesn't really hit you until you're nearly back at the cafe that he's—gone. Not dead gone, but might as well be. That, much like Harry taking that stupid dinosaur toy, he'd wanted to close the door permanently. Maybe he knew you well enough to know that you'd come back to the church someday, or maybe he knew himself well enough to figure it was only a matter of time before he turned up on your doorstep, and so he'd taken the choice away from you both. What a stupid, frustratingly-adult thing of him to do.

You hate him and love him a little bit more for it.

You don't really know what moving on looks like, but you figure it out. You drink a lot, at first, and then a little bit less. You stop feeling weepy whenever you see a Bible, or a G&T, or photos from the wedding. Rebound sex isn't as good as you'd imagined (except with the Hot Misogynist), and so you quit bringing people home quite so often—at least until you can stop comparing everyone to him. You still masturbate over him, of course, but it feels less like a need and more like a way to treat yourself. Like, if you eat all of that kale salad and only have a glass of wine with dinner, then tonight you can wank over his stupid strong arms and his stupid beautiful neck and that stupid little smile of his. If you just make it through a whole lunch with your dad and your cunt stepmother and not say anything too profane, then you get to touch yourself and imagine waking up with him in the morning and him making you pancakes and other sickeningly domestic fantasies.

It's been two years, so of course you've moved on, but you've moved on in a way that lets you keep loving him. Perhaps it's irresponsible, but you're not willing to let him go entirely. Not yet, anyway.

 —

 Then, your cunt stepmother announces that she and your father are adopting a baby.

"I'm sorry, what—"

"You've got to be fucking kidding—"

They'd waited until Claire was in town to make the announcement. They'd invited you both over for tea, and you should've known something was strange about that, but then you're sitting in the garden with a mouthful of Earl Gray and your cunt stepmother says she's adopting and you have to flip a coin between spitting out the tea all over her tasteful linens or scalding the inside of your throat.

You end up swallowing the sip, but it's a close call.

"Well, you know, I've never really ruled out having children—it's such a blessed, beautiful part of life—but, unfortunately, I can no longer conceive naturally, and so your father and I have been discussing—"

(It wasn't a discussion.)

"—and we submitted the applications and met with a mother this week. Lovely girl, terribly awful home life, can't afford to raise the baby on her own, but she's just got the most marvelous cheek bones."

(Cunt.)

"Anyway, she's due in a couple of weeks and then we'll be bringing little Felicity home—"

(Felicity?)

"—and we'd just love it if you two were there for the christening."

"Yeah, because this family has such a great record with godmothers."

Your cunt stepmother is still smiling but the look she's giving you is acidic enough to peel paint.

"Oh, look, I don't know." Claire's grip on the teacup is so tight, you're surprised she hasn't cracked the porcelain. "I've just taken time off to come home, and I'm really not sure I'll be able to again so soon—"

"No, but you must—mustn't she, darling? Your father just couldn't bear it if you weren't there for such an important day, and we did so miss you at the wedding reception."

(Two years, and she still hasn't let that go.)

"Say you will, Claire. Please? Promise us you'll be there." How your cunt stepmother manages to look so pleading is a mystery, but fuck her if she doesn't have it nailed. Your father is still mostly silent, as he's been throughout this whole ordeal, but Claire must see something in his expression because she relents with a, "Yes, fine, alright. I'll be there."

For the christening. The christening of the baby they're adopting. Your father's going to be in his fucking seventies at the kid's graduation.

"Oh, how marvelous! It won't be for a few months or so after the birth, so you should have plenty of time to get everything in order. The whole thing will be just splendid."

(It won't be.)

 —

 The day of the christening creeps up like a bad dream.

(You know those events when you think you'd rather get a bikini wax and then take a bath in lemon juice than attend? This is one of those days.)

You found a dress that seems like a good church dress, a boat-neck, sky-blue thing that doesn't really do anything for your figure, but it is a christening, so. You get there early because your cunt stepmother asked you to (demanded it), and because Claire will be getting there early as well, and maybe the two of you can sneak some of the church wine. You figure you'll probably be handing out programs or directing people to their seats or whatever else happens at a christening. It'll last about an hour, and then there will be a tasteful reception with champagne and sparkling cider and your dad and cunt stepmother showing off baby Felicity in her white, wedding-like christening gown, and then you can go home and forget the whole thing ever happened.

That's the plan, anyway.

You get to the church a half-hour before the christening starts (which is still later than you were meant to be here, but fuck it) and your cunt stepmother is already in—well, a tizzy. She's wearing this funny, artsy-looking gown that's patterned like stained glass and you wish it looked worse on her than it does. She's not yet holding baby Felicity (because this day isn't really about baby Felicity) but she is deep in conversation with the priest up near the altar, who's already dressed in his own decorative christening robes. Then your cunt stepmother looks up and sees you standing in the aisle, half-debating whether you could hide under the pews, and she's calling out your name and saying, "Thank God you're finally here—sorry, Father," and, "Oh, do you remember—?"

(It's him.)

"—he's the priest who officiated our wedding. He's not in the parish anymore—such a shame—but when I knew we'd be adopting little Felicity, I contacted him to find out if he'd be willing to perform the ceremony. Such a dear, isn't he?"

(It's him.)

"I do so love the symmetry of it. And it seemed such a hassle trying to find another priest we'd connect with when we already knew such a nice fellow."

(It's him, it's him—fuck me—it's him.)

He smiles when he sees you, a nice, polite, church smile. Of course, he's had however many weeks to prepare for this whereas you've just had an anvil dropped on you like you're Wile E. fucking Coyote.

"Pleasure to see you again," he says. He even sounds sincere.

"Likewise—" you say, but then your cunt stepmother is coming down from the altar and shepherding you into the back and putting you to work folding programs—"Make sure you're lining up the corners, dear,"—and you've never hated her quite so much. Of course, if it weren't for her and baby Felicity and the whole stupid christening, he wouldn't be here in the first place, but you're willing to ignore that for the sake of hating her. Fuck, he'd looked good, too. And here you are in your fucking church-appropriate dress folding fucking programs and by the end of the day he'll be gone back to the fucking coast and—

You need a cigarette, or ten. Fuck the programs.

It's quiet in the alley, enough so for you to take a couple of slow, deep, wonderfully nicotine-filled breaths and get yourself together. It'll be fine. It'll be miserable, but it'll also be fine. You'll sit in the pew, and you'll watch him perform the ceremony, and try very hard not to think about how beautiful he is underneath the fancy christening robes, and tonight you'll drink yourself unconscious and then wake up tomorrow and forget the whole day ever happened. It'll be the worst day of your life, but then it will be over.

(Second-worst, actually.)

The cigarette is nearly burned down to your fingernails, and you're about to stub it out when you hear the side door opening, and you say, "Sorry, Dad, I'll be there in a moment, I'm just—"

"Got a light?"

It's him.

(It's him.)

You nod, your breath feeling very shallow as he comes up next to you, leans in towards you with the tip of his cigarette. The orange light looks like paint on his skin, like he's been pulled from a Renaissance painting. He still smells the same.

"Aren't you worried about ash on your—" you gesture down at the fancy christening robes.

"Not really." He exhales, slow; his hand is shaking a little. "I doubt anyone but your stepmother would notice, anyway."

The thought gives you a sudden rush of satisfaction. Fuck, you do love him.

"I tried to quit for a while," he says after another breath, the smoke hovering in front of him, "then found I didn't really want to."

(You hope he isn't actually talking about cigarettes.)

"Better than me—I've never even tried to give it up."

(You, at least, are definitely not talking about cigarettes.)

"How have you been?" he asks.

(Miserable, then less miserable, then better, and now miserable all over again.)

"Good, actually. Haven't run myself out of business yet, so. That's something. How about you?"

"I was pretty lonely, for a while. New parish and all that. But it's not so bad now, and I quite like being so close to the water."

(You're happy that he's doing well, and also a little unhappy that he isn't doing worse.)

"That sounds nice, actually. And it's good of you, to have come all the way back for the christening. You didn't have to."

He's giving you a look. You hope it's the sort of look that means, yes, I did.

"Well, your stepmother can be awfully persistent."

"Yeah, well, she's a cunt."

He laughs at that, both amused and unsurprised. "I don't think I can mention that during my speech."

"No, probably not."

His own cigarette is nearly gone; you'll have to go inside, soon, and then the moment will be over. You really, really don't want it to be over.

"Do you ever think about moving back?" Your palms somehow feel very dry and very sweaty at once.

"Sometimes. Often, if I'm being honest, but—" he exhales instead of finishing the sentence. "There's plenty to keep me busy where I am now."

"And how's—God?" You're just fishing for time now. Badly. 

He raises an eyebrow at you. "Mostly the same. A bit disappointed in the state of the world, but still filled with an infinite capacity for love, forgiveness, et cetera."

"Right. I think I remember something like that in the Bible."

"Love, forgiveness, et cetera?"

"Exactly."

He laughs again, then pauses. "Do you still have it, then? The one I gave you, I mean."

(You know what he meant.)

"Yeah, I've got it somewhere." 

(In your nightstand, but he doesn't need to know that.)

He nods, then lets his own cigarette fall to the pavement.

"Well, I should—"

"You should probably—"

If you were braver, you might kiss him. If he were braver, he might kiss you. You don't really want him to leave, and he doesn't particularly look like he wants to go, but without being brave, neither of you knows what's supposed to happen next. He'd go back inside and then go back to his new parish, probably, and you'd never see him again. It's painful, how much you don't want that.

"Can I ask you something?"

He looks both curious and a little afraid for the question. "Yeah, of course."

He'll be going anyway, whether or not if you fuck this up. There's no reason not to try—other than that you're a little bit of a coward, but that's not really an excuse.

"You said it would pass." You feel a little dizzy. "Did it?" His jaw goes tight a little, like there's a wire running through it. "I'm just—curious, I guess." You take a slow breath. Fuck, what you wouldn't give for another cigarette right now, or an IV filled with whiskey. "Because it didn't, for me."

At that, he lets go of whatever tension he was holding in his jaw. He lets out a half-laugh that seems—relieved, almost. "No?"

You shake your head.

"No. It didn't for me, either. I feel like I've spent the last few years cheating on God—loving him and loving you."

There it is, in the open then. I love you, too.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

You want to kiss him, or maybe have him fuck you against the wall. You think he probably would, too. It's exhausting, feeling this elated and miserable at once; by the time you go back inside, you hope the needle has landed on one or the other, you almost don't care which.

"What does that mean, then?"

He laughs again. "Fuck if I know. Like I haven't wasted two years trying to figure that out." He sighs, impossibly weary. "I still don't want to leave the church."

"Okay."

"But I don't want to spend any more time without you, either."

"Okay."

"It would help if you said anything else."

"I would, if I knew what else to say."

(Kiss me, fuck me, marry me—none of those are particularly solution-oriented, though.)

"It's been a while since we were friends. We might not like each other anymore."

(Bullshit. To the friends part and the not liking each other part.)

"Yeah, maybe."

"We could still end up hating each other."

(We wouldn't.)

"Also true."

"But—I could come back. See you again. See if this is still—"

(It is.)

"I'd like that."

He nods, weighty, like you were just discussing how to solve world hunger instead of whether or not he'll move a forty-minute drive back inland. 

"I should actually get back inside, now, before your stepmother castrates me—"

(Which would be a shame, now, after all that.)

"—but I'll be in touch? If you want?"

"I—yeah. Yes, I do."

He nods, and then he's stepping away, back towards the side door and the interior of the church. You wish he'd moved the other way, wish he'd push you up against the pitted brick wall and kiss you like it'd kill him to do anything else, but he doesn't. He's already in his fancy christening robes, after all, and it'd be a shame to wrinkle them now. Besides, you've waited two years. You can wait a few weeks or months more. You can wait, and then the two of you will figure out what happens next. He loves you as much as he loves God, and that already feels like a better place to start.

You brush the ash from your own dress and go back inside.

(You had said this was a love story.) 

[theparanormalperiodical]

The Thornton Heath Poltergeist - The Most Haunted Places In The World That You NEED To Hear About #2

January.

A time of self doubt as you take on the latest fad diet. A time of personal struggle as you return to the 9-to-5 and question why in the hell you decided to work in this goddamn office. And a time of thirst as you realise Dry January does indeed include Echo Falls despite their Rosé being mostly sugar and aesthetic.

Is there any hope left in the world?

Oh, dear reader - you didn’t tap on this blog in the hope of reading some article about a cheerful, positive topic like little rabbits with big flopsy ears, did you?

You’re here for the dead. And the demonic. And all manner of terrible things. 

Goodbye, Patches - hello, Poltergeist.

Today, we are going to be discussing one of the most iconic paranormal cases from the UK that no one has ever heard of: the Thornton Heath Poltergeist. 

But it turns out that there’s not just one poltergeist in Thornton Heath. 

Oh, no. 

There’s two. 

And these two pesky spirits are far from alone:

Croydon might not sound like the setting for the next cult horror hit, but this London borough is actually known for its rather macabre history - and the legacy of its dark past.

Whilst your chowing down on a Gregg’s sausage roll you might hear rumours of one of Elizabeth I’s maids-in-waiting traipsing around a school, and perhaps you’ll even see a few children who were killed during the war skip past the local Chicken Cottage.

On top of that - like most areas of London - Croydon is actually a relatively ancient town, with the first settlements appearing in the 6th century. 

This place clearly has a lot of paranormal promise.

However, despite setting the scene for 2 key cases of poltergeist activity, though do appear to be unconnected. Nevertheless, together they provide a lot of insight into a specific form of supernatural activity that tends to get forgotten.

This is especially true since poltergeists have dominated the horror genre for many a year, inspiring iconic films such as Poltergeist (1982), and litter stories which involve any trace paranormal activity.

The thing is, although frequently mentioned, the actual concept of poltergeists is kind of ignored, particularly the debate surrounding them. These 2 cases, however, provide an overview of the different approaches to poltergeist activity:

One case looks into debunking the paranormal, whereas the other presents the typical haunted house case you clicked to see. 

So, today’s article is going to take us through the 2 poltergeists of Thornton Heath, and the paranormal theory behind poltergeists. 

Strap in folks, and let’s get spooky.

First, What Actually Is A Poltergeist?

Anyone speak German?

Poltergeist is a mashup of two German words, and it literally means “noisy spirit”.

Based on that translation, it is a type of spirit who has a thing for physical disturbances. Loud noises, objects moving, biting and pinching are the common symptoms of such a haunting. And despite sounding pretty minimal - well, maybe not the biting and the pinching - such poltergeist activity often represents the first traces of far greater hauntings. 

But unlike most paranormal theories, it turns out that poltergeist activity is pretty well investigated (as this post will demonstrate). 

Heck, poltergeist activity has been reported since the 1st century!

It is claimed that it lasts typically around 5 months, but some say it can stretch out to several years.

On top of our knowledge of the duration of such activity, poltergeists allegedly haunt people, not places - a bit like demons. This does contrast with the 1972 haunting, but we all know that supernatural theories lack the accuracy we expect of an exact science.

And so we come back to the debates and the debunking which always ends up stalking the supernatural. It’s for that reason that Poltergeists are such a valuable component of spiritualist theory because of the intense debate and study surrounding them, as the 1938 case will show. 

Indeed, the first of the scientific theories debunking poltergeists swap the paranormal for the patriarchy.

It's called the Naughty Little Girl theory.

Obviously, it suggests that young girls create activity to get attention because women can’t breathe without doing it for attention, right? The Conjuring 2 is one of the few films that picks up on this concept, showing its use by the media as it was utilised in the real life case.

A less misogynistic theory instead claims that the paranormal activity could be down to seismic activity or water stress, creating noises and physical disturbances often blamed on poltergeists.

Or, it could all come back to the theory of psychokinesis:

It claims that when we are stressed, our fucked-up brains can have a physical impact on the objects around us, making it look - and feel - like we are living in a perpetual Paranormal Activity film. 

Well, that or a rom-com; it turns out the poltergeist was really within us the whole time...

The 1972 Case - The Official Thornton Heath Poltergeist 

Welcome to the the era of the occult - the 1970s. 

The obsession with the paranormal experienced a revival in the late 20th century thanks to the affectionately named Satanic Panic and the rise of hippie-dom. And because so many reports of the paranormal crop up in this era, we have to be wary – blaming shit on the paranormal was nearly as common as institutionalised racism, ensuring that claims were often amped up by fear.

Got your pinch of salt to hand? Good. 

Our story begins in the heat of summer - it’s August 1972. 

A family are fast asleep after, well, I don’t know, what did people do in the 1970s? Listen to too much ABBA? 

Anyway - their peaceful slumber is interrupted in the middle of the night when a radio switches on all by itself and blasts out full-volume-raise-the-roof level musings from a foreign radio station.

This is where the activity begins. 

The following nights, lights turn on and off by themselves, mirroring the first hour of a Paranormal Activity film before Katie makes some off the cuff comment about being besties with a demon during puberty. 

Yet despite the suggestions of something supernatural, it suddenly just chills the fuck out. 

Well, that is until the most wonderful time of the year! Only for this famalam, this are about to get a little less wonderful, and a little more what the fuck. 

Probably in the midst of an ABBA jam-sesh, a small antique figurine is plucked off a shelf by an invisible hand, and flung across the room, hitting the patriarch of the family with such a force that it knocks him to the floor. 

If that wasn’t enough for one day, the Christmas tree then joins in the freaky festivities, and starts shaking.

And that only just scratches the surface of the supernatural events soon to haunt this family.

Cut to a few days later, and its New Year Eve.

Ok, right, let’s be honest here: any activity reported was at times when there would have been a couple of bevvies, a few late nights among friends and family… 

Who hasn’t seen a demon picking cashews out of the mixed nuts bowel when they’re a third of the way through that bottle of Echo Falls?

Regardless of my suspicions, they supposedly started to hear loud footsteps upstairs, and during that very night, a member of the family awoke to see a very tall and very angry man staring at him, giving off very threatening vibes.

But it wasn’t just the son of the family that saw these mysterious goings on.

Some visitors to the house reported similar activity:

At a dinner party (*sigh*) a door began to violently shake, nearly coming off its hinges. The living room door then followed suit, and swung open. Every single light in the house then began to follow the trend and turned on and off.

No matter how many bottles they were deep by then, there’s no doubt that shizz was getting weird. 

In response to this shizz getting weird, the family did the right thing: they called themselves a priest, and got him to check the shizz out. 

However, as a result of his holy presence, the activity worsened. A medium shortly followed, and on his visit deduced that this was a farmer of Chatterton. A quick visit to the library and a rifle through the odd archive later, and the story is confirmed:

This was the spirit of a farmer from the 18th century, and as the medium claimed, he was angry that these trespassers were on his land. So, like all landlords, he kept his cool and was trying to treat these people with the fairness and respect that all landlords hold dear.

Nah, who are we kidding - instead of charging them £60 for not pulling a weed out from underneath the wheelie bin, he manifested as a poltergeist.

The escalation then, uh, escalated.

Following the appearance of the ghost patriarch, his wife then turned up and made a point of targeting the matriarch of the family. 

Despite the coincidence of most claims of boozy nights on the heath, these hauntings that mirror the heads of the household really support the case as it sticks to this line of opposition to the “intruders”.

The ghostly matriarch’s favoured haunting was following people up the stairs; when you turned around, you would see wisps of a grey bun and the outlines of a faint figure which would then vanish into thin air. 

But on top of the wife getting involved, the farmer himself made a commitment to being spooky AF.

Its for that reason that the creepiest haunting of the year award goes to the farmer. 

Why?

Because he would turn up on their TV. 

Like, I don’t know if he was on bloody Blue Peter à la IT, or if the screen would go blank and this bitch would rock up and just be there…

But just like fuck that, no thanks, congratulations, and just take the award ugh.

So, like anyone would, this family were like nope screw this, packed up shop, and moved the fuck outta there. After they moved out the activity ceased - like all hauntings tend to do, confirming that it could be due to their trespassing. 

Well, or that it was all faked but as the gullible young woman I am, I’m going to deny all traces of this family’s excessive drinking and say that the farmer did indeed turn up on Blue Peter and take a badge with him to the afterlife.

For privacy reasons, the actual address is unknown to the public for the obvious reason that innocent families don’t want some Jake Paul wannabe pulling up in a jacked up Ford Fiesta and whipping out a GoPro to make a quick buck on YouTube.

Heck, I don’t know if anyone lives there now! But this is still recognised by paranormal fanatics are one of the greatest hauntings to come out of the UK. 

Well, I say the greatest…

It has to compete with the Thornton Heath poltergeist of an odd 40 years before.

The 1938 Case - Thornton Heath Poltergeist 2: The Prequel No One Asked For

Now we turn to the former haunting of Thornton heath in 1938.

But this poltergeist isn’t set against the scene of some cosy pre-war family home, nor are any long dead farmers getting involved. 

This story, on the other hand, follows the scientific study of the paranormal, and to this day is an unsolved mystery that has left both investigator and individual alike without answers.

And it starts with this bloke called Nandor Fodor.

Fodor lead the argument that poltergeists are manifestations from the subconscious mind, and to prove his claims, he investigated the tales of terror that had been experienced by one woman in a small corner of Croydon.

He followed his scientific studies all the way to a little place called Thornton Heath. 

Sure, this case could have been linked to the Chatterton farmer, but the focus of their investigation was on the nature of paranormal beliefs, so there was no study of what spirit could be behind it. 

All we know regarding the haunting is that the victim of this poltergeist was a woman only known to us as Mrs. Forbes. She was studied at an institute, and in an attempt to be sure she wasn’t creating the hauntings, she basically had to get undressed in front of them, and wear special clothes to prove she wasn’t concealing anything. 

Nevertheless, the weird shizz we saw in the 1970s still seemed to follow her.

Dishes would float in mid-air and then crash to the floor, glasses would suddenly appear in her hand (*insert middle aged facebook meme with a minion in the background*), and objects from her home would appear at the institute.

Her house was 10 miles away from the institute. 

But beyond her possessions appearing out of thin air,  Mrs. Forbes frequently described different entities that would appear and attack her.

These beings included a vampire which would on occasion bite her neck - and left her with two physical wounds in her neck, and a tiger which reached out and scratched deep gashes in her arm. Just like the vampire’s supposed attack, these markings were also found on her body.

However, one of her claims went too far, and was used to challenge every single incident she claimed was caused by a poltergeist:

Alongside the vampire bite and the tiger’s scratches, Mrs. Forbes also had several burn marks scarring her neck. Seemingly coming out of nowhere, Forbes believed it was due to the spirit of a man strangling her with a necklace. 

However, shortly after making this statement, she professed a deep desire to kill this man. 

Fodor drew from this that she thought the man was inside of her, and thus she tried to kill him by choking herself. That’s the burn marks explained - what about everything else? All it took was a quick check of her body and clothing to find small items concealed under her left breast.

That’s right; she has conjured up this “poltergeist” out of thin air.  

Having connected the dots, Fodor deduced that she was both schizophrenic, and burdened by repressed sexual trauma. 

Another day, another hoax.

Unsurprisingly, faked activity vis-a-vis this case is pretty common when it comes to the paranormal, and this label is pinned by non-believers onto, well, basically anything we just so happen to report. 

And despite how frustrating this can seem, it is a necessary disturbance in our research of the supernatural. In fact, the original Thornton Heath story brings this into play when we discuss poltergeists, particularly as their basis centres on physical disturbances which can be both faked or misinterpreted.

Croydon might seem yet another area of London Prince Andrew would pull out of the hat to defend his reputation, but it instead represents a much wider discussion of the paranormal.

From the fake to the unknown, from the mysterious to the mentally unstable:

How we investigate the supernatural starts in a little place called Thornton Heath.

What do you think?

Did the family really witness poltergeist activity first hand?

Or was it all just conjured up by women that purely wanted attention i dont know about you but i just love attention oh gimme attention look I WANT ATTENTION NOWSUFH[HB’[Egb’???????!1//1/1/1!//????

Ahem.

Wanna hear about more spooky shizz like this? Wanna hear about a new haunted location everyday? Then go ‘head and hit follow!

[trickkombowerskru]

Preacher’s Daughter-Patrick Hockstetter X Reader Smut

Request: Anonymous: Patrick x reader imagine please? You’re the daughter of the priest where Patrick and his fam go to church, and he sees you in a white dress and immediately becomes obsessed with u. Stalking you and basically wants to defile the good Christian daughter and one night when he’s in your room (closet) he watches as you masturbate and moan his name and you can take it from there please  omg sorry I’m thirsty for Patrick 

Warnings: NSFW, Sex

You followed closely behind your mother and father, adjusting the skirt of your dress and cardigan. As you walked through the aisles you greeted the early comers. It was always the same crowd. Mrs.Jefferson, Mr.Matthews, the children in the choir, and the rest of the usuals. 

As you chatted with them you felt a pair of eyes on you, but ignored them, continuing to follow your mother.  

You sit in the front bench ready to listen to your fathers sermon. Throughout it the burning of the mysterious eyes was too much to take. You turned and your eyes locked with blue green ones that had a dark undertone. 

The boy looked familiar, handsome even. You knew his family came here every Sunday, but you never talked to him so you didn't know his name. You figured after the sermon you could maybe change that. 

You took in your father's words, as always so interested in the way he was so passionate about his job. You hoped you could find even a sliver of passion for anything in your life that he had for preaching.  

After it ended you and your family head into the lobby to talk to those who stuck around moving from person to person. Your mother seemed to be friendly with the boy's mother. 

The boy you noticed who was now leaning up against a wall, flicking his lighter opened and closed. 

You went over with a sweet smile. 

"Hi. I'm Y/N."

"Hey. Name's Patrick Sweetheart."

You feel your cheeks heat up at his forwardness. 

You two talk for a bit and you decide he is definitely.....interesting, before your father notices you and comes over.

"Hey any trouble here?"

"No we were just talking."

"Why don't you go talk to Mrs.Anderson about the bake sale so know what she's bringing."

"Sure. Bye Patrick."

"See ya around Princess."

Your father lead you over to Mrs.Anderson and you could see his face flush with concern. 

"Honey. I don't think you should talk to that boy anymore?"

"Why not I was just being friendly."

"Trust me he's trouble and the last thing I want for you is to get tangled up with him. Okay?"

You sigh and give him sad eyes. 

"Okay Daddy."

"That's my girl."

Before he leaves he quietly tells you to make sure whatever Mrs.Anderson is making to be sure to convince her to also bring her caramel brownies since those were his favorite. You laugh and nod, telling him you're  on it, then go to talk to her. 

During the week you couldn't help, but let your mind drift to Patrick. Maybe it was the fact he was supposedly dangerous. Or maybe it was the fact that when your could you would try to disobey your father in the smallest of ways. 

But whatever it was he took up a good corner of your mind, and he'd probably take up more if you went to the same school. Ever since you were little your father insisted that you go to an all girls Catholic school. 

And just like he was in your mind, you were also continuously in Patrick's. The thought of defiling the good little preacher's daughter sent him absolutely wild. He seen you a few times before, when the thought originally took place in his mind, but that little sweet white dress you wore last week was really set him off. He was sure to tell the guys all about you. How sweet and innocent you were, how he needed to have you under him, all the usual Patrick related things.

Of course it didn't end there, of course with Patrick it could never end there. For the 4th time this week he took his familiar route home, that is to say stalling you before going to his own house a few blocks away. 

He hid in the large bush near the side of your house, his breathing becoming heavy as he watched you  change near your window. He'd only been in your room once and he had to time it perfectly so he didn't get caught. Needless to say the mission went as planned and he left with a pair of your panties. 

The sight of you making his pants ever more constricting he figured he had better get home and rub one out, deciding he would come back later tonight like had a few times this week. 

And comeback he did, you were gone, so he was able to slip into your room. Although before he did anything you were coming back so he hid in your closet. He watched as you prayed and got into bed, admiring the way your night gown clung to your figure in all the right places. He watched you toss and turn for a bit before his jaw damn near dropped at what he saw next. 

You couldn't sleep, but you were always tired after getting off so you figured why not. Again you liked to disobey your father in the littlest ways you could and this was one of them. 

You slide your nightgown up a bit a start with just one finger going at a slow pace, teasing yourself. Then you out another finger in, quickening the pace, making yourself quietly moan. However, after this the thought of Patrick's mysterious eyes, shaggy hair, and ringed fingers entered your mind.

You thought about what his head would look like in between your legs, how he would actually feel, hell even blowing off mass for a quickie. All the ideas excited you more and more as you quickened the pace again, this time adding your thumb to the mix, moving it around to put pressure on your clit. Your breath heaved as you were closer and closer to the edge, and you quietly moaned Patrick's name as you came.

Patrick smirked to himself while jacking off in your closet to the little spectacle, although he started after you so he was far from cumming. Who would've thought it'd be that easy, that all he would have to do is talk to you to get stuck in your mind.

As you came down from that high Patrick figured now would be the best time to do it. He exits your closet, walking over to your bed, and he straddles you. At first you want you scream, but through the moonlight coming in the window you can see his eyes and you calm down. 

He removed the hand he out over your mouth, once he sees your calm and leans down to kiss you. It is absolutely messy and sloppy, but still filled with passion, and you can't get enough.

"That was quite the show you put on for me Baby," he laughs.

You heat up intensely at the fact he saw you. 

"How long were you in here?"

"Not long before that happened. Now tell me what is the preacher's good little daughter doing getting herself off?"

"I disobey my father in the smallest most unnoticeable ways I can. It gives me almost like....like a rush of adrenaline. Like I'm actually real and not like this....perfect puppet he wants me to be."

"Hm." Patrick says as he laughs in his head at the fact you think you're real.

"Well I know one thing that'll definitely give you that rush."

He leans down kissing your neck, moving down and giving you a hickey right between your neck and shoulder. He pulls your nightgown right up over your head, happy to see you're bare underneath. 

As he lets you pull his shirt off, he gives you another messy kiss, and grinds against you, making you feel how painfully hard he is. 

He pulls away from you to kick off his boots, and pull off his pants. You stare at him in awe for a few seconds. While seemingly tall and lanky, he actually had some lean muscle on him, which looked so good in the space moonlit room. 

You weren't going to tell him you were a virgin because you were pretty sure he knew. Which he absolutely did and he was more than happy to change that. He comes back over harshly kissing and biting his way down your body, before everything you had just fantasized about was coming true. 

It felt better than  could've imagined, the combination of his mouth and fingers moving from your folds to your clit.....damn that boy had skills. 

You were on the edge again, this time of being borderline overstimulated when he pulled away making you whine.

He chuckled to himself, taking the look of you wreathing under neath him, before he went in. While his style was anything, but slow he figured at least the first time he entered you it could be slower than his usual pace before he really fucks into you. 

So that's what he did, slowly inch by inch getting you used to the foreign stretch, before shoving himself into you and making you gasp. He continued this method going hard and fast before doing one slow thrust in the middle to really drive you nuts.

Which is exactly what it did, you were breathless you whined when you came around him, which was enough to make him cum as well. He stands backs after you finish,putting his clothes on and handing you your nightgown, chuckling at you looking all fucked out for him.

"Yeah that really disobeys him. You're mine now Sweetheart."

Unable to do anything really you just nod, accepting the fact that you would now have to hide from your father the fact that you were jot only dating, but fucking the boy who he labeled as "trouble".

He gives you a wink and then you watch as he disappears out your window while you start to fall asleep with a big smile on your face.