#he's a much more active hunter than Reaper Man was

[hazel2468]

I got an awesome pic of Bagheera stuffing his little face! He's holding TWO fruit flies there, one in each arm, and I gave him four. First meal after his second molt, so I think he needs it!

He's so small, but he's already such a goofy, expressive little guy.

[omniblades-and-stars]

Do you enjoy bounty hunter shenanigans? Do you like it when Garrus Vakarian is a bit of a gossippy ass? Have you every thought, "What if Zaeed Massani and Garrus Vakarian went on a fancy date together as a joke?"

Probably not, but wonder no more! I have answered all of these question here.

“Remind me, how'd we let that crazy bird rope us into this again?” He worried at the borrowed cuff-links shining in the sleeves of the very rented shirt, and pulled on the hem of the very rented suit jacket, straightening something that couldn't be straightened anymore than it already was. Why not rent cuff-links too? Why spend the credits when you were close personal friends with the Commander Shepard (or well, former Commander, still very much Shepard,) and she had excellent taste in formal wear? He might have borrowed one of her suits instead, if he had tits and didn't look like a mountain molded into a man next to her. But he didn't and he did respectively, so rented red silk and charcoal velvet it was. He thought she better be planning to reimburse him for that goddamn clown suit. Even if he did cut a fine fucking figure in it. “Because someone thought it was a good idea to challenge a woman with cybernetic implants in all of her organs to a drinking contest. You lost a bet,” Garrus chuckled as he stepped out of the skycar, a rented Cision Motors Phantom. Slick, stylish - gunmetal silver polished to a frankly dangerous sheen. One streetlight could glint from it at the wrong angle and blind an innocent passerby. Garrus’ formal boots were similarly polished, black as the hole at the center of the galaxy, light reflecting from their surface like ejections from the accretion disk. The rest of the turian was clad in the finest formal wear that had been afforded him on a hero’s salary after the two year anniversary of kicking the Reapers back to hell was heralded by the repair of the relays between human and turian space. The activation of which had once been the start of a whole goddamn war, but this time had been celebrated with a big, extravagant party. Zaeed had been invited; he elected not to attend.

[secrettyrant]

CHARACTER INFO:

Name: Walter 'Wolf' Cross

Age & Birthday: 40 years old, October 15th 1983

Gender/Pronouns: Cis Man He/Him

Birthplace: Atlanta, Georgia

Time in Atlanta: 40 years

Neighborhood: Center Hill

Association: The Reapers

Occupation: Florist. Member of The Reapers.

Positive personality traits: Romantic, Loyal, Communicative, Optimistic

Negative personality traits:  Impulsive, Reckless, Selfish, Stubborn.

ABOUT:

Born as Walter Cross but mainly known by Wolf, the eldest Cross is an anomaly until you see him side by side with his brothers. He showed each of them how to hotwire cars while also ensuring they were back home in time to settle down with a story. If you know Hunter and Elliot, you know which brother preferred which activity.

Wolf’s academic prowess was never recognized at school and in fact, he performed quite poorly. Everything he knows is self taught, either from his time in jail or the cute old ladies that took pity on him when he wandered into the library. He has always been a dreamer, a romantic and most of all, a typical impulsive Cross. You’ll never see Wolf getting into the same fights as Hunter does, or containing his rage as much as Elliot does. But you might see him get himself into trouble because somebody misquoted an important part of history, or he drunkenly rambled to unwilling listeners and didn’t let up until the cops had to be called.

Wolf is a self proclaimed nerd and has no shame who says it. He enjoys Dungeons & Dragons, anything fantasy led and his idea of relaxation is painting figurines. Of course, with limited income he has often resorted to stealing supplies he’s needed to support his favorite past times.

Like his brothers, Wolf doesn’t speak much about his childhood. Their father was a mean man and their mother had issues that went deeper than any of them could understand. Instead of saying that he is a mix of his parents, Wolf says that his brothers are a mix of him. It sounds nicer, and Wolf is always optimistic.

Just because he’s nice doesn’t mean he should be underestimated, a Cross temper is not an enjoyable experience despite Wolf preferring to stow that side of himself away until it is really needed. He wouldn’t be a Cross if he didn’t have it, and he’s proud of the name flaws and all.

The two times that Wolf has served time in prison has been because of a rare Pokemon card. Burglary in the 2nd degree because he was stupid enough to keep a gun on him when he broke in, he received five years the first time around when he was twenty something and then he served five years when he went back for a second attempt in 2017. He’s recently back out, surprising his brothers with a somewhat early release by a few weeks.

Wolf has always had a close relationship with The Reapers and has kept a steady involvement for a number of years with them. He’s still a member and is proud to see Hunter climb the ranks to Enforcer. He doesn’t have a wish for power or more responsibility and he’s equally as proud that Elliot has distanced himself from it.

[flyingfish1]

was ‘healing & wholeness through death’ always Dabb’s intention

Content note: discussions of suicide attempts, including quotes from the show on that topic; and the concept of death as the solution to problems

*

Mary should have been the blaring warning siren and I didn’t listen.

Castiel: I'm looking for someone. Dumah: Mary Winchester? If that's why you're here, then you should leave now. Castiel: Why? There may be a way to bring her back. Dumah: Why would you want to do that? … She is at peace. You know, she died painlessly. Instantly. Completely. She's in Heaven, a special Heaven. Mary Winchester is complete. You and the Winchesters may not be. But she is. -14x18 (Robert Berens) -transcript from superwiki

“Completeness” in death. Mary, now dead and in Heaven, is “complete,” says the story. And, in this moment in s14, the Winchesters and Cas are apparently not “complete.”

Mary, who initially didn’t want to be alive:

Mary: I didn’t ask to come back here. Billie: No, you didn’t. And you hate it. The look in your eyes – I’ve seen it before. It’s a dead man’s look. Eyes that say no matter where you go, what you do, it feels like this world doesn’t fit anymore. Like you’re all alone. Dean: Well, she’s not alone. Billie: Tell me I’m wrong. [Mary doesn’t answer] I’m not here to hurt you. I’m here to offer you mercy. One way ticket upstairs. Away from all of this. [Mary hesitates] Mary: How would it work? Sam: Mom! Billie: Reapers don’t kill people. Rules. Mary: Well, then -- [She looks at Sam and Dean, then turns to look back at Billie] Then I guess you’re just gonna have to wait. -12x06 (Steve Yockey)

Mary, who struggled so hard with being pulled out of her heavenly paradise and given her life back. Mary, who struggled to get over the loss of her husband, and the loss of her previous life, and the loss of the two little children she had wanted to raise.

Mary, who held a gun to her own head more than once. Mary, who, at one point, sincerely begged Ketch to kill her:

MARY LEANS UP AGAINST MR. KETCH, GRABS HIS GUN AND BACKS AWAY. MR. KETCH: Mary MARY COCKS THE GUN AND PUTS BELOW HER CHIN. MR. KETCH: No. MR. KETCH GRABS FOR THE GUN AND MANAGES TO KNOCK IT AWAY AS IT GOES OFF. MR. KETCH: Ow! Ah! MARY: Then you do it! Kill me. All my life, all I ever had, other than my family, was my will. MARY BEGINS TO CRY. MARY: And it's going away. I'm – I'm putting people in danger. I'm putting my sons in danger. You have to – MARY DROPS TO HER KNEES. MARY: Please. For God's sake, kill me. MR. KETCH: Mary. MARY: Just do it! MR. KETCH: Mary, listen to me. It won't be long now. This will all be over. I promise. MARY: No. MR. KETCH: I promise. MARY: No. KETCH WALKS OUT OF THE ROOM AND LEAVES MARY IN DESPAIR. -12x21 (Buckleming) -transcript from superwiki

Mary later rejected death, although looking back at it now, in retrospect, she rejected it not quite so much on the basis of “living is good, actually,” but more on the basis that Heaven isn’t good enough (… not yet, as it turns out):

[Kevin tears open his shirt revealing a sigil carved into his chest.] … KEVIN: Michael says… that when I get to Heaven-- when he lets me into Heaven-- I'll get to see my mom again. MARY: I've been to Heaven, and what's there… it's just memories. Nothing's real. -13x20 (Glynn) -transcript from superwiki

(I was so happy for her when I first watched this, because I thought it was a sign that she would be turning the corner and getting the opportunity to heal in life, and on a long-term basis. But………….)

Mary then did find strength and purpose in her life and her job – hunting, helping Jack, helping the AU World hunters. She came back to Sam and Dean’s world and forged stronger relationships with them. She started a romantic relationship with AU Bobby, although it seems that she had her troubles with it:

MARY: Bobby's not open like your dad. SAM: Wait. Like my dad? MARY: Okay. At least he's not like your dad was when I knew him. SAM: Right. MARY: Bobby's got walls, big ones. I just don't know if I can do that if I even ever put myself out there again. -14X05 (Glynn)

Her one true love, ultimately, was John. And then, in 14x13, she was hit hard by the loss of John just after getting him back again:

SAM: Uh, the, uh… the lore is pretty clear. We destroy the pearl, and it unwinds all of this. Dad goes back… and so will everything else. MARY: And he won’t remember anything? [SAM shakes his head.] SAM: No. [MARY nods. She shakes her head, crying.] MARY: Sam, I can’t.

*

[JOHN and MARY take each other’s hand.] MARY: I hate this. JOHN: So do I. … My girl. [MARY smiles through tears.] JOHN: I miss you so damn much. MARY: Me too. -14x13 (Dabb and Glynn) -transcript from superwiki

Mary’s next episode, 14x17, is her death.

(In between, we have 14x14, with Cas’ speech to Jack about appreciating the time they have with their short-lived human loved ones, and carrying on when they are gone. At the time I suppose I thought it was foreshadowing for Mary, but in retrospect it’s broader than that, isn’t it.)

So, at the point of Mary’s death, she’s not actively suicidal anymore. But her losses have been recently emphasized, and so has her pain. Her husband is dead.

And then comes 14x18 and her “completeness.” We find out in 14x19 that she and John are sharing a Heaven. She is at peace, we hear, because she is with her husband in the afterlife.

All in all, in retrospect, this concept of “completeness in death” – of having death be your reward and your happy ending – pervaded the Dabb era from the start. We learned as early as 12x19 that Jack would build a “paradise,” and now we know what that paradise is: this remodeled Heaven in which Dean can, apparently, have what wanted but couldn’t have on earth and in life. Dean, who -- though he wasn’t actively suicidal in 15x20 -- has also struggled mightily with wanting to be dead, and who has been suicidal in the past.

It results in this concept that, as long as you’re not actively suicidal (anymore!), dying at the age of 41 (or approx. 32, in Mary’s case) is fine. This concept that it’s good, actually, because then you’ll be whole and at peace.

I find this deeply disturbing. I know that the ‘reunited in Heaven’ concept works for some (and I think I wouldn’t even necessarily have a problem with it if it were explicitly shown to be happening at the end of a long and happy life). But as presented in canon, involving the characters that it does, with their lives being cut short the way they are, I do find it deeply disturbing. Personally, I’m finding myself (emotionally speaking) backing away from the entire Dabb era with my hackles raised.

And I feel stupid for not seeing it. Or, truthfully, for seeing some of it and then convincing myself that it wasn’t there, that I was wrong, that TPTB couldn’t be leading the story in that direction. For, I guess, buying into what I read as the Carver-era ‘retirement’/‘living a long and happy life’ themes so hard that I didn’t let myself focus on anything else. For always being half-afraid that TPTB would re-fridge Mary, so that when they finally did it I just went, “Well, that’s that :(” without examining the themes around it closely enough.

For not taking all the warning bells seriously.

I want to make sure to say this clearly: It is absolutely possible to heal in life. Friends, and loved ones, and old relationships and new relationships, and love, and loyalty, and peace, all exist in life, able to be found and created. Healing exists in life. Contentment. New experiences and excitement and joy and beauty. Nobody’s too traumatized for that. Dean and Mary deserved that. Everybody does.

[spnwatch]

Season 1: The Rankings

WOW it’s been ages since I’ve posted here. But before moving on to s2, I wanted to talk about my TOP TEN FAVE EPISODES. 

Something that surprised me about spn now i’ve finally watched some of it is how variable the episodes are in terms of quality. They’re not afraid to experiment either, and that flexibility is probably one reason this show lasted so long. Some things worked for me, some things didn’t. ANYWAY these are my opinions etc. just from a first time watcher!!  1.) Episode 6: SKIN. This episode, man. Where to even begin: I could be here all night. Suffice to say that the sequence where the shapeshifter sheds his Dean skin to “Hey Man Nice Shot” is just. Chef’s kiss. For the first time, the true depth of Dean’s self loathing truly came to the fore. How socially outcast he knows himself to be, all that hidden shame, that resentment he harbours towards Sam for having (potentially) a way out of the hunter life, coupled with his desperation not to lose him to the “normal world”: somewhere that Dean knows he can’t follow him. After so much posturing and bravado, that inner parodox was SO interesting to witness - he SHOOTS HIMSELF at the end -- and, for me, really steered the character into more *~ thematically complex territory ~* All the songs were good tbh. In-a-Gadda-da-Vida? Yes. 11/10 

2.) Episode 11: SCARECROW. There was just so much going on in this episode, but the thing I liked most was the setting. It looked so good!! Autumnal and pastoral. After a couple of (in my opinion) not very good-looking episodes, it was a real breath of fresh air. I also loved Sam in this episode: he looked so small standing by the side of that road. I fully understood the argument, but I also loved how dean just... called him intermittently to update him on the case?This episode really drove home to me how alone they are, how they really have no-one but each other. It also really highlighted how far Sam has drifted from episode 1: he’s on the fringes now, too. All too quickly backsliding into the role of rootless grifter, an identiy he’d tried so hard to claw his way out of. Also, there’s a tome. 10/10 

3.) Episode 12: FAITH. This. Episode. Slaps. To be honest, this is probably technically the masterpiece of the season in terms of plot, visuals, antagonist, music etc. but w/e it’s my list. Right off the bat Dean is dying and he’s like it’s fine Sammy, I’m not even mad about it, which is fucked up but then what is more fucked up is that his dad doesn’t even come when Sam leaves him a message? Dean seems to view dying as like. A thing grownups just have to do sometimes. Like jury duty. It’s extremely,extremely sad. Anyway I love the drama of Sam smashing apart the altar, I love the big tent, I love the “don’t fear the reaper” montage. It’s all, quite simply, a *~cut above~* 10/10 

4.) Episode 7: HOOK MAN. I don’t know if I was meant to love this episode so much?? I just really, really liked it. I loved the central mystery, and I thought Sam in particular really shone when it came to dealing with the townsfolk and the afflicted girl. It was one of the most thematically coherent episodes when it came to tying the monster to sublimated fear, in this instance, sex and sexuality! Damn do Americans have a weird relationship with sex. And not just with women; this episode really shone a spotlight on Sam’s sexuality wrt his guilt over Jess, his desire for normality, his coltish nervousness in Lori’s presence. There was SO. MUCH. Bonus points for ugly mid-2000s fashions. 10/10

5.) Episode 3: DEAD IN THE WATER. This was the first episode which really made me sit up and go, oh, okay. I can see why people lose their minds over this show. When it’s good, Supernatural just. Shoots a volt of pure catharsis straight into your chest. This was also the first time I really sat up and took note of Jensen Ackles’ acting chops. There’s just so much going on with him every time he’s onscreen, and each little paradoxical turn he gives to Dean’s character is a joy to witness. It was a visually beautiful episode, with a strong supporting cast. The moment I saw her in her silky lavender nightgown, twisting up her unrealistically perfect chingoin, I wished to marry Amy Acker’s character. I know she doesn’t come back to spn but she should’ve!! She should’ve!! 10/10 

6.) Episode 5: BLOODY MARY. I’ve heard tell of this episode being a bit of a fandom classic, and I support it. The last few minutes at the end? When Sam sees Jess at the side of the road in that slow panning shot, to the Rolling Stones song Laugh I Nearly Died? It was just... I think it changed me as a person, honestly. This show. It’s lower down on the list for me because how how freaking dark the lighting was at the end, but that might have just been the poor quality stream I found. But yeah, I really liked the plucky teen girl who helped them; I was pleasantly surprised to see a glamourous queen bee-type portrayed as smart and competent, and remain alive by the end. Gold star for you, spn. I know it’s all downhill from here. 9/10 

7.) Episode 15. THE BENDERS. First off, I have to give it points for the production design on that house. My brother was of the opinon it would’ve made a good video game enviroment (according to him a lot of spn is akin to a video game which... yeah). This episode also made me really acutely feel for Dean. Could it be because I’m an older sister and this was a literal nightmare scenario? Perhaps. But again what really came to the fore was the single-mindedness with which Dean acted. Sam being dead was literally not an option for him. On a lesser show that might have been left as a given, but the time was really taken to give an almost sinister intensity to Dean’s thoughts and behavior. Some really pretty car shots too. 9/10

8.) Episode 17: HELL HOUSE. What can I say about this? It’s just fun. I love the two conspiracy guys, I love the sibling prank war, I love the concept of a monster created by shared belief. The set design was cool, as was the montage at the beginning where they’re interviewing all the witnesses. It’s a briskly paced and lighthearted episode, which was a breath of fresh air and welcome break after last episode left the Winchester boys abandoned by their father. Yet. Again. Ugh. Throw the whole dad away. 9/10 

9.) Episode 19: PROVENANCE. Haunted painting! Haunted! Painting!! This is a simple lil episode but it receives points for Sam and Dean’s best and least convincing disguises thus far -- art dealers -- and a fun, sweet love interest for Sam. He’s so bashful! I thought she was smartly written and I especially liked that she took a more active role and actually helped them solve the case than other side characters we’ve seen so far. I also liked when they were standing over the grave and she was like wow, your lives are really fucked up... it’s true wtf these poor guys?? Anyway 8/10 

10.) Episode 14: NIGHTMARE. This spot was a real toss-up between this and SOMETHING WICKED, but NIGHTMARE just edged it out because of the strong supporting character Max, as well as the sheer conceptual power of psychic Sam. Something about the way Dean treats his brothers latent psychic powers as... kind of a concern, but ultimately about on a par with him developing, like, a shellfish allergy, is hilarious to me. They have so many problems, it’s just low priority! Sorry Sammy. But what really clinched this episode for me was the three second-ish sequence where Sam shoves the dresser free with his mind, Dean gets shot in his vision, and Sam bursts into the room. Brilliance. Someone call the x-men. My heart was in my mouth. BIG minus points however for the extensive heart-to-hearts. It was just too much for me. It went on for so long. 7/10 

This certainly is a show. I see that now. Anyway. Onto season 2!

[shini--chan]

Hellooo!! Im super glad a hetalia blog exists in 2020💞💞💞💞💞. May i request 2p america and canada having a s/o that like a mythical figure of some sort? Could be a demigod or anything really but they are physically stronger than them and there is no way to control his s/os form since they exist in forms beyond the description/mental capacity a human can handle. Like if they want to be at the beach the *poof* they transported away and not even chains can stop em🧜‍♀️

This is an ask that I certainly didn’t expect landing in my inbox. Jep, active hetalia blogs in 2020 are a rarity, however, I think with a new season and new manga issues on the horizon, that a hetalia renaissance is coming.

Yandere Hetalia

2p America

Now, Allen isn’t the sort of man that takes it well when things don’t go his way. In all his fantasies and hopeless whims, he has created a world where everything goes according to his master plan. He’d like the actual world to be dictated by this. Alas (or rather, thank goodness), reality is different. That means when you would show your powers and successfully escape from him, there would either be a nervous breakdown or a temper tantrum.

The food tray fell to the floor in a loud clatter, causing ceramic to shatter, sauce to platter over the grey floor and a few peas to zip under a cupboard. Allen’s jaw went slack, granting him one of the most idiotic expression in the history of the human race ever since the English managed to sink the Spanish Armanda.

In the middle of the room, where you were supposed to be tied up on a cushy chair, all delightfully arranged for his eyes to feast on, was just a chair with a tidy heap of rope lying next to it. You where no where to be found – not a drop of blood, not a single strand of hair, not a single footprint in the thick layer of dust that covered most of the room.

Without wasting much energy on trivial things such as complex thought, he lunged forward and grappled with the binds as if they could deliver some answers. They didn’t; they just posed more questions.

The course hemp ropes were still completely undamaged, the sailor knots untampered and still immaculate. Now that Allen had the chance, he granted the setting a closer look. The only footprints in the dust and dirt were those of his large feet. The frustration the situation concocted made something in his mind short circuit.

Quickly, Allen raced back to his dingy little kitchen, cursing under his breath all the way there. Some sort of impulse drew him to the one window – maybe it was fate, maybe it was his gut instinct that told him to do so – only to spot you on the street five stories down, staring to the window expectantly.

Hurriedly, he fumbled with the latches, spitting vitriol when he couldn’t get it open fast enough.

He wanted to shout at you, yell that you should move your sorry ass up at once, that he deserved an explanation. Yet, you beat him to it. With a flamboyant gesture, you waved up at him, doing your best to highlight your astounding clean appearance and then shouted up at him:

“Adios, sucker!”

The scream of “(Y/n), you fucking bitch”, that followed could have woken up the dead.

He would never manage to fully calm himself down from the stunt you pulled and in his anger he wouldn’t properly register that you demonstrated your powers to him. Allen would constantly write the strange circumstances surrounding your escape as some form of trickery, or that you had outside help, or… That list goes on and on, just never lands my magic for being the key.

It would be through detours that it would the idea of you having supernatural powers would start to encroach on him. Being the street smarts person, he’d do his best to predict your next move based on his social experience and go ahead to interrogate the people that once belonged to your close circle. First, he would observe them to see if they were hiding you and if not, then he’d disguise himself as an authority person or as a family member of yours and ask some question. Thanks to that, he would piece together that you are out of the ordinary.

2p Canada

Like his brother, he would be pretty pissed that you would somehow always manage to escape his clutches. Unlike his brother, Mark’s anger would be of the ice-cold variant, helping him focus rather than hindering him in his endeavour to capture you and capture your heart.

He is a hunter and would opt to observe you like he would a deer before he would dispatch it. Through that, he would discover your demigod status. Although, he wouldn’t believe his eyes the first time he would witness your powers in action. It would cause him go ahead and put you on heavy surveillance, and maybe for him to also go and see a psychologist to ensure that he isn’t schizophrenic.

Once he’d be sure that what he saw, he’d go on to investigate, because he’d yearn to much for you to simply let you go because you’d have some trump cards that would give you the high ground. As the rules of the divine dictate, there are certain laws that you have to abide to, specific lines that you can’t cross, weaknesses that ensure that you’re not invulnerable. And Mark would set out to identify them all.

This would be one of the rare cases where he would bury himself in books, and once he would suffer from a headache induced by the vagueness of the texts and the craggy language, he’d even dare to ask Oliver for help. Whether it would be silver that would make you weak, certain chants that could summon you or a geas that would represent an idiosyncratic tripping line, he would somehow find out and incorporate it in his plan to capture you and ensure that you’d forever be his.

(For clarification: A geas is taboo that an individual of divine linage is bound by. Breaking this taboo means that said person becomes mortal, vulnerable and only has a short time to live before the reaper comes to spirit them away. The worst part about it, is that the geas usual forbids something really minor or trivial, like that you may never eat chicken or else you die.)  

[mysteryartisticwriter]

Being Crowley’s daughter and dating Jack Kline would include...

Not my gif!! (Please tell me if you, the owner, would like me to take the gif down!)

-

Of course you were half demon, your mother was human but died when you were 10

You met the boys way back when you were a teen; maybe around 15 years old in season 8 or 9

You were half demon but your mom showed love, taught you to give it back and be kind

You were the ultimate princess of Hell duh

While the boys were hesitant around you, they eventually grew to love you

And ohhh...your dad always threatened them if you tagged along in hunts

“You let a monster lay one finger on my little bear’s head, and I will end you two.” “Daaaaaad….”

Rowena never admitted it, but she utterly loved and adored you. She thought of you as an apprentice since you sometimes practiced spells with her

During Kelly’s pregnancy with Jack, you became her protector as well as Jack’s

Kelly was also hesitant around you since you were half demon, she didn’t want you to maybe end up killing her and her baby or even using Jack as a weapon once he was born

Just like the Winchester brothers, she grew to care for you too. Kelly knew Jack liked you from the start because he always just happened to kick whenever you touched her stomach

You were there when your dad killed himself for the boys, Sam was the one holding you back

Your dad’s last glance at you was a small, simple smile. “Goodbye boys. Take care of my little bear.”

When he stabbed himself, you screamed so loud that Sam and Dean winced at the pain in your voice

When Cas died a little later, you were crying right next to Dean on the ground because he was practically an uncle to you just like Sam and Dean

You mourned for three people that night; your dad, Castiel and Kelly

You vowed to avenge your dad no matter what, you were angry and sad just like Dean for so long

You never went back to Hell and you were sure that you weren’t even the next ruler of Hell anyway, not that it mattered to you

When you guys found Jack, it was strange to see that he was actually your age

You barely talked to him, angry at him for what his father did to Cas and made your dad do

Soon, you slowly began to open up to Jack more and more because he was really one of the only people you could talk to

His innocence was actually kinda adorable, his questions about life were funny too

“(Y/n), what is this?” “That is a pair of headphones, Jack.”

You were still a little bitter towards him until you literally cried on his shoulder one night about how you felt

“I was too weak to save my father, to save Castiel and soon, maybe I’ll be too weak to save you and the boys.”

You half expected Jack to be a little angry at you but he was actually really kind and gentle about it

That was when you realized you were gaining feelings for the nephilim and you didn’t even bother denying it

Unknown to you, Jack was feeling the same way

Castiel coming back was amazing to you and Dean, your uncle came back from the dead!

“Two salty hunters, a half demon princess, one half angel kid, a guy who just back from the dead. Team Free Will 2.0, here we go.”

But the happiness didn’t last long when Jack ran away because he didn’t want to hurt anybody after he accidentally killed a man

Once you found him again, you almost slapped him and yelled at him

“How dare you leave like that?! Do you know how scared and worried I was for you?!”

That was when you had your first kiss with him

He was trying to calm you down but you just caved in and smashed your lips onto his own

Jack didn’t really know what to do but went along with it anyway since he really liked you too

Rescuing Jack and Mary (the Winchesters’ mother) from the other dimension was tiring but you did end up saving both of them later on

Seeing Lucifer again and Jack went off with him, you felt mildly betrayed and hurt

Lucifer tried to convince his son that you didn’t really love him, that you were just using him to get back at his father

Jack never bought it though, he knew you loved him more than anything

He felt so powerless without his grace, Jack was so tired and all he wanted to do was be with you again

When you were trapped in the church with Jack, Sam and Lucifer, you tried your best to kill the devil with your powers

“Poor little girl…left all alone by her daddy.” “Screw you.”

You felt so weak not being able to defeat Lucifer, so vulnerable and weak

Lucifer finally tired you three out and gave a small proposition; one of you dies by the archangel blade and the other two walks out alive

Sam gave you and Jack the blade and told you to kill him but you weren’t having it, so you took the blade from him and pressed it against your own stomach

“I love you, Jack. I love you both so much.” “(Y/n) no!”

Just before you could finish the job, Dean came in and began to fight Lucifer with Michael

Jack was holding you from collapsing becuse the blade had drawn some blood

“Why would you do that?” You smiled weakly at him. “Because I’m not letting either of you die for someone as worthless as me.”

The battle was won by Michael!Dean and finally after all these years, Lucifer was dead

The victory was short lived when Michael had taken full control over Dean and left

Dean was MIA for so long and Jack was feeling worthless without his powers, it was all so much

You, of course, comforted Jack about how he felt. He didn’t deserve to have his grace taken away by someone he thought cared about him

You were so scared when his illness was starting to take him over. Jack was dying and there was nothing you could do to help

When Jack died and went to Heaven, his own Heaven was with you and the boys until he (sadly) had to leave it to go to his mother’s

Jack brought you up to her, telling Kelly that he was in love with you to which she just smiled

“I’m in love with her, mom.” “I know, Jack. I know.”

Rowena was used as a suit for Michael and when he went to attack at the bunker, Jack killed him and gained his grace back….at the cost of burning his soul out

Soulless Jack was saddening to you, he was empty and wasn’t the same boy as before

You weren’t even sure he loved you anymore since he couldn’t feel anything at all

You set your feelings and concerns aside and continued to act the same as you normally would with Jack in your relationship, but it was never the same

After he killed Mary Winchester, you became much more worried about his condition and mildly scared at his actions

Jack being locked away by Sam and Dean was torture to you. Yes, he didn’t have a soul anymore but he was still the same boy you fell in love with. You missed him

When he escaped, God/Chuck came back and was the one who told you that you needed to kill Jack or it could be very dangerous

Instead of Dean, you were the one holding the gun to Jack’s head while he kneeled on the ground, ready to die

In the end, you couldn’t kill him. He was still Jack, he was still your everything and still the love of your life

But before you knew it, Chuck killed Jack himself and raised the souls from Hell

As you and the boys were trapped in the tomb with no way out, you sobbed and mourned over Jack’s dead body with his eyes burned out

The amount of anger you had for Belphegor when he had the audacity to use your boyfriend’s body as a vessel was only felt once for when your dad died

Sealing off the town was hard enough when you had a demon in your ass the whole damn time. Belphegor never left you alone

“Hey sweetheart...” “Belphegor, I am half demon and I will literally send you back to Hell no matter what.”

You went with Belphegor and Castiel down to the rupture in Hell in order to finally get rid of all the ghosts and souls

While down there, you found out that Belphegor was really planning on sucking up all the souls to be as powerful as God

You managed to get him down and punched him so many times that his lip was bleeding and his sunglasses came off, showing Jack’s full face

“Please (Y/n)...stop. It’s me...Jack.” “....You’re not him. And you’ll never be him.”

You killed Belphegor using your powers and needless to say, Dean was not very happy about going off-plan (which was stupid to you because you would’ve had to kill the demon anyway)

You had never felt so depressed and empty in all your life. Your mom and dad were dead, Rowena was dead because of the spell she had to use and Jack was dead as well. Everyone you ever loved was dead and you were just an empty shell of who you used to be

But when Jack was resurrected by Billie the Reaper, you felt the same way as Dean did when Cas came back

It wasn’t until you realized that he was the exact same as before, soulless. You couldn’t bare it, Jack didn’t love or care about anything anymore.

As much as you still loved him, you finally broke things off with him because no matter how much you tried to deny it, your old Jack was gone

When those hellhounds were after you all, Sam and Dean were the ones holding the doors shut while you, Jack, and Cas were in the main part of the chapel trying to activate the Occultum...until Jack swallowed it

“Where’s the Occultum?” “I ate it.” “YOU WHAT?”

Just before the hellhounds could maul the four of you to death, there was a bright light that killed them and Jack’s unconscious body appeared onto the floor

Later, Jack was found awake in the bunker’s kitchen, crying to himself and Cas told the rest of you that his soul has been restored

You couldn’t help but let a small tear escape your eye. Jack was so innocent and new to the world but already was introduced to so many horrible things within three years

You loved Jack, and you always would no matter what happens to him or you

-

A/N: Most of you might know about the BLM protests and the unjust murder of George Floyd but if you haven’t donated or signed any petitions yet, I would strongly suggest that you do! Black Lives Matter! I hear you and I stand with you.

Justice For George Floyd - https://www.change.org/p/mayor-jacob-frey-justice-for-george-floyd

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ReaperXFem!Reader

Doom: To Hell And Back

Chapter 9: Siberia

Guys this is it! The final official chapter! The journey has been amazing so far and I am truly lucky to have all of you go through it with me! But we're not done yet! There is so much in store for John and Crow! Stay tuned! (As usual no beta)

-H❤🖖

The sound of distant gunfire pulled you from the dark, a fire burned at your back. A hiss of pain escaped your lips, “I hope I never have to do that again,” your voice came out raspy, your mouth dry as the desert above you. Making the necessary checks, nothing seemed too bad, well besides the giant burn on your back. Finding purchase you pushed yourself off of the ground, wincing at all the aches and pains. Climbing to your feet, you stumble into the corridor wall. The gunfire continued making you look for your weapon, groaning in frustration you saw it amongst the debris warped and battered. 

You pulled your sidearm from its holster; using the wall as a crutch you made your way in the direction of the gunfire. The ARK chamber. 

The trek took longer than it should have; panting you gripped the edge of the stone doorway that led into the ARK. “Hello, Crow,” a voice growled from behind you, a large hand landed on your shoulder and squeezed. Yelping in pain you were swiveled around so you were facing Sarge, his eyes seemed to glow unnaturally. He grinned like a predator, the grip on your shoulder getting tighter. “Murderous son of a-” 

And before you knew what was happening you were flying through the air. You landed with a strangled cry, crashing into an abandoned security desk. Crumpling to the ground you gasped out, pain scorched through your body like a wildfire. Gingerly you lifted your arm to your chest, ‘broken’ you grumbled. Sarge was on you again, he reached down with a sadistic smile and wrapped a meaty hand around your throat. The air entering your body suddenly stopped as he lifted you off of the ground. Your heart pounded in your ears while your head throbbed and bled freely; shifting your eyes you saw them and worry coursed through you. 

Sam and Duke skidded to a halt by the entrance, clawing at Sarge’s hand you kick your feet out bracing them against his chest trying desperately to get out of his grasp. It didn’t phase him in the slightest. Sam held Duke back from raising his gun, “You might hit (Y/N),” she said worriedly.

 Sarge turned, your body struggling in grasp. “Duke, fall in! We got shit to do!” Sarge barked and Duke scowled stepping in front of Sam. “With all due respect Sarge but fuck you,” he hissed raising his gun. Sarge chuckled and held you up like a dying shield; Duke wavered uncertainly. 

“Go!” you managed to gasp out pleadingly. “Da’mit Duke, go” you gurgled vision dimming at the lack of oxygen. Duke cursed and dragged Sam back out the ARK chamber door. Sarge chuckled darkly glancing at the quarantine timer, “I’ll find them soon,” he promised. You hissed, one of your hands falling limply to your side as your struggling stopped. Sarge set down his rather large gun, sniffing the air. He brought his empty hand to your hair and petted you softly. 

“Well, that’s new,” he purred, sniffing again. His grip on your neck loosened slightly allowing a minuscule amount of air back into your lungs. ‘I’ll take whatever I can get,’ you thought numbly. Sarge lowered you to the floor but kept his hold on your throat, 

“I just might keep you alive,” he purred stroking your cheek. Wrinkling your nose at the promises in his words you glare at him, 

“Sorry, Sarge but I’m just not that into you,” you growled your hand brushing over the knife on your hip. Sarge just chuckled removing his hand from your throat so he could grip your chin, his hold caused your cheeks to puff into a pout. 

“I would gladly take you here and now,” his chest rumbled in an animalistic growl. His words made a chill travel up and down your spine, “Here’s an idea, how about you go fuck yourself,” you snarled. Swiftly pulled the knife out of its sheath you drive it into the junction between Sarge’s shoulder and neck. 

The man howled in pain instantly letting you go. Baring his teeth Sarge swung; you flew through the air into the security desk again officially shattering the glass and plastic. A newfound pain blossomed over your body, “I really have to learn not to agitate things that are infected with C24,” you cried letting your head drop with a dull thud. Your hands drifted to your stomach a large shard of glass was sticking out of your abdomen. 

Sarge loomed over you looking mildly disappointed as if he accidentally broke his new toy. “Damn,” he grumbled before moving away to let you bleed out. What’s left of the adrenaline that had been pouring through you all night had finally drained away. Through the pain, you started to feel cold and numb, ‘that’s not good,’ you thought weakly. The sound of talking and shouting pulled you back from submerging into the dark, “She’s dead Reaper,” 

A howl of rage echoed across the room and the sound of fighting. Flesh punching flesh and the boom of what had to be Sarge’s “BFG,” 

“(Y/N), oh my God!” Sam flew to your side ducking low before falling to her knees beside you. Duke ran to your other side and rested a friendly hand on your forehead. You cried out when Sam gently pressed her hands around the glass, “It’s okay, you’ll be okay!” Sam sobbed. 

She took away her hands and reached into her pocket fumbling with the tiny vial. “Sam,” Duke warned uneasily as he held one of your hands. Sam set the vial down so she could fumble through your pockets looking for a spare syringe. Finding one in your hip pouch, Sam snatched the vial up off the ground. 

“Pull the glass out,” Sam whispered to Duke as she injected C24 into your neck. You whimpered when Duke carefully pulled the shard of glass from your abdomen, “You’ll be alright baby doll,” he murmured smoothing down your hair while placing his other hand over his sidearm. The fighting grew more intense making both Sam and Duke duck and bend over you like two concerned parents. You looked at them blearily a few tears escaping your eyes, your vision getting darker and darker by the second. “You’ll be okay,” Sam soothed placing her hand over Dukes, the sound of ARK activating in the background made them peer over the broken security desk. “(Y/N)!” John’s voice echoed through your head as you faded away. 

 Whispers and warmth greeted you when you swam back to the surface of consciousness again. For the millionth time that night. Everything ached like growing pains but you no longer felt intense pain. Opening your eyes took some effort but when you did you immediately regretted it, “Oh what the fuck,” you groaned scrunching up your nose in distaste. You snapped your eyes closed again hoping to keep the bright lights at bay. 

The whispers turned into amused chuckles, “Welcome back to the land of the living,” Duke said somewhere to your left. “Why is it so damn bright?” you hissed turning your head away into a rough vest. That’s when you realized, arms held onto you, and the warmth that you were thoroughly enjoying belonged to someone. Someone who smelt rather nice, opening up your eyes again, you look up. John looked down at you with his dark hazel eyes, 

“I’m still trying to get used to it,” he chuckled, he smiled down at you crookedly. You groaned a little, “Right, I’m superhuman now,” 

 Sam peered over at you with her own grin, “I’m just glad you’re not insane and trying to eat people,” she teased. You snort and gave her a thumbs-up, “I aim to please,”  

John looked like he was struggling with something and kept sniffing the area near your hair. “Do I smell that bad?” you asked jokingly. 

Duke snorted, “I think we all smell damn bad,” he grumbled sniffing his pits with a grimace. John’s quiet laughter shook you gently, “No you don’t smell bad,” he whispered to you. He looked away as the elevator became a little tense. Sam snickered, “So uh how did all this spider webbing get into your hair?” she asked picking a few more wisps from your head. 

You shudder, “Spiders, never again. I officially have a phobia,” you muttered resting your head against John’s shoulder in defeat. The elevator slowed to a stop and dinged; the doors opened revealing a platoon’s worth of soldiers. They stood there, weapons aimed, red dot sites dancing over you and the others. Duke and Sam put up their hands as John led them onto the tarmac,

“Stand down!” a voice shouted and the red dots disappeared. A familiar man pushed through the crowd, “Crow!” he shouted jogging over to the elevator entrance. You gripped John’s vest and whipped your head around, “Hunter!” the relief in your voice was evident. You were so happy to see your commanding officer that you didn’t notice John stiffen. His arms tightened around you as Gunnery Sergeant Edward Cayden approached. 

“Ed, Siberia,” you hissed making eye contact with him. Your CO stiffened upon hearing the code word; to everyone on your team it meant danger, get out now. His eyes went from concern to serious, nodding once Hunter led your small group to a waiting chopper. Everyone from RRTS unit 4 was there, they all looked relieved to see that you were alright. Big brothers and crazy uncles the lot of them. Hunter spoke lowly into the team’s comm, “Siberia,” 

They all stiffened before they wrapped the survivors up in a protective bubble. “Icarus, Manny, why don’t you take over for our pilots,” Hunter suggested casually. Both men broke off from the group swiftly and opened the front cab of the helo, the pilots protested but did as they were told anyway. Hunter activated the main door and watched as everyone piled in; one of the boys offered to take you but John simply ignored him and stepped up into the transport with little difficulty. 

“Leave them be Rust,” Hunter barked when the man began to protest. You gave your team a reassuring smile hoping to put everyone at ease. Sam took the seat next to when John set you down and buckled you in. She took your hand, eyes flitting from face to face, “It’s okay,” you whispered to her but made sure John and Duke heard you as well. A solid fifteen minutes after takeoff Hunter crouched in front of your lips pressed tightly together. 

“What do you need kid?” he whispered, no one spoke as they watched you. Taking a deep breath you looked your friend dead in the eye, “To disappear,” 

The men looked at each other and nodded, “I can’t ask any of you-” you hurried over your words but your unit already began making preparations. They stripped their comms and pulled apart their weapons. Rust moved over to a panel in the floor and yanked it up revealing a mass of wires and circuits, he fiddled for a moment before yanking out a few bits of tech. The mass of wires sparked for a moment and settled again. 

“Tracker is offline, we’re ghosts for a little while,” he said and Hunter nodded once. “Icarus, we need to disappear,” he pounded on the cockpit door. A double-tap of understanding echoed back. He looked back at you and the shocked faces of your companions, “Time to become ghosts!” he cheered enthusiastically. 

“Hunt-” you protested and the men started shouting at you to shut up; smirking you looked down at your feet. Hunter stopped in front of you while the tech of your ragtag team tossed the trackers out the partially opened door. “You’re family (Y/N) and if you of all people invoked Siberia then-” he looked around and the men began whooping in agreement, “Then something big went down and we need to get you out of the fire,” 

“What happened sis?” the tech affectionately named I.T. asked. Everyone quieted down; you looked over at John biting your lip. He inclined his head a fraction in a silent ‘Do you trust them?’ looking at every member of your team you let your eyes flit back to him with and nodded. The silent conversation only lasted seconds but it spoke volumes. He reached down squeezing your hand, ‘I trust you,’ 

Taking a deep shuddering breath you turned your attention to your captive audience, 

 “It all started with a girl named Lucy…” 

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[transhoverfish]

I was wondering

Does Danby now feel bad that he 'faked' his degree in medicine? Like, he must feel really bad for lying to everyone or not being able to help someone properly because he just doesn't know how

I imagine that later in the story he breaks down and confesses, thinking that everyone's gonna hate him. Poor Danby, it must a lot for him since he also has to carry the Jeffrey thing with him

ok off topic first response but did tumblr increase the amount of characters u can have in an ask?? this is the longest one ive seen before :o

and 2nd idk if anyone cares for spoilers regarding my fanfic but like. HERES UR WARNING! spoilers for the latest chapter (8)! im sure nobody cares but better safe than sorry u know!!

AND TO UR QUESTION... i think it didn't bother danby on the aurora or before bc like, in his pda he doesn't seem to be THAT guilty. like he seems to feel bad, but he doesnt really sound like he thinks its a huge problem. because robots and stuff u know?

buuuut after the crash and everything, the group looks to danby! they trust him! and theres no more robots, the pdas all got corrupted, danby has NOTHING on pda. none of them have anything they used to! so if something Happens™, then everyone expects danby to help! this is where danby gets all "oh shit what have i done"

such as the whole Avery Has Been Attacked By Reapers situation! like, the man is straight up dying, avery is totally gonna die if danby screws this up, and i think thats where it reallyyy starts to get to him. bc now danby has to do what he can, make everything else up with their limited supplies, and hope nobody questions him too much on what hes doing or WHY he's doing it. bc if NONE of them know what theyre doing, and they find out that danby has pretty much been idk, breaking the law and potentially putting lives at risk for?? years?? hey maybe that's a Bad Thing. and in danby's eyes at least, a terrible horrible no good secret that no body can EVER find out (except for roman, bc he's ALSO been breaking the law for a while and they can bond over this)

then like. hypothermia. ryley kinda gets that! and THAT is also VERY VERY DANGEROUS, and thankfully the vesper survivors did their research on dealing with cold, bc theyre like the it reason ryley didnt die. and if anyone had asked DANBY how to deal with that, then like... danby barely knows anything of use when it comes to medical help. poor boy would have no idea what do. i mean, you can assume SOME things about hypothermia i guess, just get the person warm, but still. danby also totally fractured his own ribs, which causes Worry amongst the group, and danby DEFINTIELY doesnt know how to properly heal bones, so hes also makin that up as he goes. which freaks him out!! he doesnt want anyone to die!! but what if someone ELSE was hurt!! they could die if danby doesnt figure it out fast enough!!!! bad bad things that terrify my boy!!!

and the whole jeff thing is making everything Worst because danby already feels like he's a bad person for the fake degree, but now like, hes witnessed a full on Murder and hes being blackmailed into keeping that a secret! fucked up! and like, what if jeff attacks one of the others!! what if someone else dies and danby could have prevented it!!! im putting my poor through so much stress :( bc like, obviously telling them about jeff is the Better Option, but hes also terrified of jeff Telling Them and then having everyone hate him!! he doesnt want to lose his new family! but what if he does by telling them!! what if they think hes lying!! what if they believe jeff over him!! theres so many Bad Things that danby thinks can and will happen, so whats he even supposed to DO in a situation like this ya know?? i don't want to get too spoiled but like,,,,this is def not the last time the whole fake degree thing is gonna be a plot element. its gonna be pretty important going forward.....and perhaps someone else finds out 👀👀👀👀

andddd OH MY GOD I WROTE SO MUCH. THE NAME DANBY ACTIVATED A SLEEPER AGENT I GOT SO INTO THIS. but hopefully u like this small Danby tangent i got into...gave him some Author Off-Page Development.....im like the erin hunters rn.....ksbfksbdksbkfbsjf ANYWAYS IM GONNA SHUT UP NOW MY THUMBS HURT FROM TYPING

[queerfables]

Supernatural Post-Mortem (1x12 - 1x15)

P, N and I discuss these episodes after the fact, because I didn’t make notes while we watched them. I don’t think I actually have any major warnings for our conversation about these episodes. 

1x12 - Faith

Notes to self, as a reminder of what it was about: “Dean faith healed, reapers”

When I read these out to P & N, they both start making excited sounds and I join in because yeah, we all really loved this episode!!

N: This is when Dean nearly died saving kids, too. P&I: Is it? N: Yeah, at the beginning, when he got electrocuted! Another point for Dean is good with kids! P: A good boy!!

This is the episode where Dean’s life is saved when it’s traded for the life of the gay man.  Me: So, like, Dean was given his heart! P&N: Ohhhhhhhhh. N: Aw, Dean has a queer heart. Me: I mean, we knew that already.  N: Yes, but it’s surprisingly literal and I love it.

N says, “I think every time Dean tries to problem solve in an episode, there’s probably a simpler solution.” When he was in the tent trying to stop the faith healing from happening, he yells, fire, but he could have like ACTUALLY started a fire, which would have stopped the lady from hanging around and trying to continue killing the guy. Or he could have faked a heart attack, which might have made people doubt the whole faith healing thing. 

P&N disagree with me on this, but I personally think the subtext of the villain in this episode trying to kill Dean when she realises he’s trying to stop her is that it’s because he’s queer. She doesn’t try to kill Sam, even when he’s trying to stop her just as much - she locks him in a basement and tries to reason with him about why his brother is an abomination. (Ofc I do tend to think Sam is queer too, but maybe she hasn’t figured that out). 

I generally loved the lady who had a brain tumour in this episode. It was really powerful to set her up as, like, complicating the narrative of “We have to stop these healings from happening”. It’s not wrong but she kind of shows why it’s not that simple, there’s always a cost even to doing the right thing. She also feels like one of the first ladies Dean actually had a real connection with, their - maybe romance? maybe friendship? whatever it was - really worked for me. 

N says they loved how the reaper was super keen to kill the lady who’d been controlling him. “I mean, I would be too. I don’t wanna go around murdering queer people!” P agrees. “Right? I love queer people.” I would definitely rather murder homophobes instead. 

1x13 - Route 666

Notes to self: “Cassie, Racist Truck”

P: Oh! I loved Cassie!  N & I agree. Cassie was great. 

I actually did start making notes from this episode while we watched but I never finished them. Here’s what I had: --Dean says he was called by a friend who really wouldn't have called if it wasn't urgent. Me: "That sounds like an ex" --It's Cassie! I'm excited to meet her! --P, N & I agree Cassie is a babe and we're excited to see how Dean fucked this up

N says, “It might have been me reading too much into it but I actually thought this episode was a pretty solid commentary on race.” 

N: I really thought that, despite the entirety of supernatural handling race about as well as a greased football, this episode had a solid multiple-layer analogy for the way racism, historically and currently, expresses itself across communities and generations. the analogy goes as far as making it clear that the instigating incident that prompts the angry, racist resurgence is done by a white dude, but that he is shielded from the initial backlash and consequences while the revived racism starts out targeting tangentially-related black people instead--something that definitely happens irl. It also makes it clear that a) racism is something you have to actively examine and purge, sometimes multiple times, b) it is not over even when the racists are dead and its spectre lurks amongst our communities and, most importantly, c) respectability politics are junk and sometimes you have to help cover up a racist’s murder

P says that they love that the white dude was a cop but, like, actually a good cop. Again, because of the covering up racist murder. 

I’d like to emphasise that I loved the way that Dean and Cassie’s relationship was portrayed. It turned out it was actually not entirely Dean’s fault that this fell apart. I mean, I personally think he should have lied to her until he was able to come back and then told her the truth, so she wouldn’t think he was coming up with a bizarro lie to leave her, but also like... He was trying to be honest, he wanted to really connect with her, and I have a lot of feelings about that. 

I’m sad that Dean and Cassie aren’t going to work out in the long run but I understand why. Would have been cool to see her again, though.

I just want you all to know that through a very, VERY meandering conversation, we now have N and P arguing over whether octopi or alligators have the perfect body.  N: Sack! Tentacles! Beak! P: SCALES AND TEETH. N: I’m just saying that the number of problems you can cause as an alligator is kind of limited. All you can do is bite things.  P: That’s all you need!!!! We’ve declared the conversation a draw for now but they’ve promised (threat) to come back to it later

Also N is now looking at Giant Squid fanfic and keeps announcing things like “There’s a whole tag for ‘Dubious Consenticles’??” and “SQUIDITCH”

None of this is related to Supernatural but it IS very funny. 

1x14 - Nightmare 

Notes to self: “Sam’s visions, telekinetic abuse victim gets revenge”

N says, “This was just fucking intense, if I remember” and P says, “Yeah, it was scary.” 

N says they saw the guy’s death coming as soon as it was revealed it was him committing the murders.  Basically, Sam and Dean couldn’t have trusted a rehabilitation arc without being directly involved and the nature of the show is that they couldn’t have been directly involved.

We understand why the episode played out the way it did but we wish it handled it differently. We were all 1000% on the telekinetic victim’s side and fully supported him murdering his abusers. I remember when we were watching it, being, like, horrified by the things that happened to his dad and his uncle and then when we found out the truth about how they were abusing him we were like “Oh, yeah, warranted.” We do think the mother was probably abused too and that’s why she didn’t step in to stop anything. Still understandable that he can’t forgive her, though. 

My main thing I’d like to say about this one is that I love Sam connecting with the other people who’ve been affected by the yellow-eyed demon (in later episodes too) I would really, really love more of that tbh, I want him to form a network. I love how much he understands and relates to this kid, and how hard he tries to save him. 

I also love the part where seeing a vision of Dean in danger allows him to use telekinesis too. We’re in the middle of s2 now and we haven’t seen that again and it’s a shame!!! I want more of that!!!!

P says xer mad the show dropped Sam’s telekinesis stuff too. “In a later episode, Sam says he gets visions but other people get other things, and it’s like, ‘No! Buddy! You have more than that!’” N says it would be cool if they set it up so that Sam’s powers, in addition to getting visions about the other people like him, included being able to use their same powers when he’s near them. Like the episode later on where a guy can use mind control?? Instead of just being immune, wouldn’t it have been rad if Sam could do that too?? KILLER. 

1x15 - The Benders 

Notes to self: “THE MOST DANGEROUS GAME. Sam in a cage.”

P: OH YEAH, this was the one that wasn’t even like -- N: It was just people.  P: Yeah, it was just dudes being dudes. 

I very much enjoyed this episode. N agrees. I think P is distracted typing something on xer own computer. N says, “It wasn’t as fast paced as some of the other ones but it was fun.”

N: I have thoughts about the way they handled the cop killing the head of the family. I feel like he was already cartoonishly evil--to make him openly sneer in the cop’s face about her dead brother and hunting ppl as an in-the-moment justification for killing him seems... almost cowardly? he was an irredeemable human-hunter who raised an entire family to hunt ppl in the woods. that’s enough justification! i think viewers should get that. you don’t need to make him have a rude snarky one-liner to justify his death. commit to ‘some humans are Bad’ properly!  P: I have thoughts about the little girl. She was weird and creepy and I didn’t like it. I think my major issue with her was that she was a child, who was used as a twist to be the worst one of the family, which is so overdone. We get it, kids are creepy. And also, given that the rest of her family - her dad+uncles/brothers(??) and her grandpa/dad(??) - were murderers, implied cannibals, and general all around awful people, she’s more likely than not a victim of abuse. So I think portraying her as the worst of them all is callous at best, highly problematic at the worst. Get her therapy and away from the people that call themselves her family. Anyway, it boils down to that I think it’s overplayed, and I wish she had a happier path than “Oh, she’s so creepy!!!!”

I love N & P’s really interesting and coherent thoughts but I have to be completely honest that 90% of my thoughts about this episode were like “Mmmmmmm, Sam in a cage” and later “Mmmmmm, Dean tied to a chair.” The other 10% was me having emotions about Dean being desperate to find Sam. Don’t let that undercut the extent to which I loved the episode though. I really loved this episode. 

[etherealvoidechoes]

Hollowed Defiance - Chapter 7 - Connections (Updated)

Making new friends, exploring a trading post, and meeting old friends. Oh, how life could be so interesting

Updated this to reflect on changes I’ve made in earlier parts. And not it’s finally on Tumblr

Ao3 Link || Fic Wiki Hub

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

The next day swung around and so did the debriefing with Betos and Volk. It went surprisingly well. It did not surprise both to hear one of those dreaded Chosen showed up. Those things always showed up at the worst times.

Betos wasn’t surprised that the Jax-Rai, the Assassin, captured Mox. She knew of his importance. She would most likely interrogate him and extract all the knowledge on the Skirmishers before executing him. Already, Betos was working on informing the various Skirmisher clans across the globe, especially ones that worked closely with Mox, to relocate.

Volk was surprised to hear Elena didn’t blow off Mox’s head once she learned it was him. And was even more surprised to hear she saved him a few times and tried to save him from the Assassin with one last shot. She hated that Hybrid just as much, if not more, than Kon-Ris, the Hunter. The Hunter. He knew that madman would be a pain in the for XCOM soon enough. So he shared all the details his people had gathered over the years on the Chosen. Interesting stuff. The mad man was a rather polite description for him. Lunatic would be better. Besides occasionally rambling to himself, he attacked his own ADVENT troopers and hunted the aliens. He took joy in pissing off the Elders despite the punishments and risks. Looked like dealing with him would be fun.

Even with the meeting going belly up, a common enemy, and annoyances, a truce was successful. The two were willing to stop their blood feud. Hopefully permanently. Volk warned some of his people still didn’t like the idea and there was a chance they wouldn’t fully cooperate with the Skirmishers; fighting and attempted murder would still be high. Betos took note and said some of hers may also be like that. She knew a few clans that didn’t hesitate to strike back at the Reapers if targeted.

Commander Reeves was happy something positive happened despite everything. But knew her work wasn’t cut out. She would have to make sure this truce stayed strong as the war started and raged on. And then she had to build her influence with the two leaders to truly secure their trust.

Before the meeting ended, Volk made a proposal. A surprising one at that. He would have some of his men search for Betos. Covert is our specialty. And he had some men who knew how ADVENT handled prisons and also knew their way around ADVENT tech, despite the Reapers’ no alien technology rule. Betos was grateful for the offer and promised she would repay it in turn, even if they were unable to recover Mox.

With the meeting over, Commander Reeves was going over information about the next major faction she needed to talk to. The Templars. An elusive bunch. But XCOM had a liaison with them. Jeriah was his name. She hadn’t had a chance to talk to him, but overheard a few conversations between him and Bradford. But she was more interested in their leader. Geist. Seemed like he was the elusive sort when it came to meetings, but was semi-active on the field. They had a few reported sittings of a Templar clad in bright yellow armor. Even reports of him besting and chasing off the Warlock. Amazing.

She couldn’t wait to meet him and pick his brain. But for now, she had to be patient.

———————————

Taking the advice of one of the doctors overseeing her recovery, Commander Reeves started keeping a daily diary of sorts to track the progress of her health and somewhat destress by writing. She was finding the advice to be a mixed success. Keeping track of her health somewhat stressed her out, reminding her of what the Elders did to her and what she had lost. Would she ever fully heal? She hated to think about it. But it fueled a fire inside of her to work towards reclaiming her old self. That fire inside of her. The Elders would not robe her of that.

 April 15, 2035

120lbs / 5’11” / 45 min run on treadmill/ 3s-5r 5lb weights

 Still underweight but slowly getting there from what the doctors are saying. Still have issues stomaching certain kinds of food, which is making putting on some weight fairly difficult. Docs think the Elders may have meddled with something besides the fact I really hadn’t eaten food in 20 years. Dr. Rosch is seeing if they can get their hands on a protein drink of sorts. Hope it doesn’t taste like chalk when he acquires it. Still question how I lost a bit of height, but shouldn’t care about that too much. Should come back in a few months if that is possible.

My hair is still coming in patches, much to my annoyance. I’m just going to keep shaving it for the time being. May have to do that for the rest of my life. Ha, ha, ha. Maybe when my health is more stable, it’ll stop coming in weird patches. Miss that hair of mine. Miss the hair bun.

Have to slow down on my exercise routine according to Dr. Tyler. “You’re going at it too fast and too hard.” Sorry ma’am, but running and lifting weights has been keeping my mind off of things. I’ll slow down a bit so as not to injure myself, but I can’t stop. I can’t stop. That would be like letting Them win.

Speaking of Them… those marks are slowly reappearing on my body again. They reappear in brief spurts before disappearing. So strange. Dark, weird angular lines, three-ring sort of diamond shape. I don’t know what this means. No, I don’t want to think of what this could mean. The AVATAR project…. The Chosen… These… marks… make me think of those Chosen and the marks on their faces. Do they have more on their bodies? The Chosen… Could that have been my planned fate? Did the Elders want to turn me into one of those things? I hope not, but I still have a lot of blanks in my memory, like They edited things…  And then my health… I hope not.

But thankfully, these diamond marks are reappearing in areas I can usually cover myself. Though one is appearing on the sides of my neck. Having to wear a scarf or turtleneck more often. Thankfully, no one’s really questioned that. Especially John. Oh, John.

He’s a great friend, but far too overprotective right now. I understand how he feels, but hopefully, he can start giving me leeway with some things. Still making sure I don’t stay in the Bridge too long or oversee more than five operations per week. “Per doctors’ orders,” he says. Sure. Hopefully, he’ll tone it down… before I punch him in the gut. The things stress can make us do.

Well, back to the grind now. May write some more in you later depending on how some things go today. Need to check on the soldiers in the infirmary. Glad Aton is recovering well. The doctors still have to do a lot of reconstruction work from where the Assassin hit him, but he’s doing so much better. Sadly, have a soldier who’s touch and go again. Maxus. That Faceless was a surprised at that haven. That swipe tore into his neck and cracked his skull like it was an eggshell. The docs don’t think he’ll make it.

Also, John told me they would be hitting up some of the local trading posts and then meeting one of our personal black market dealers. Said the group goes by the name Void Walkers. Supposedly, a lot of psionics were in their group and because of that, they could teleport around the globe fairly quickly. Hence ‘walk the Void’. They dealt a lot in the black market, really could corner the market if they wanted to, is what John told me. Somehow, they could get their hands on just about anything. Can’t wait to meet one of their people.

Also, he told me there’s a local black market dealer that should be in the trading posts this week. Wonder what they’ll have.

 ———————————

  As the month went by, XCOM was busy completing various favors for the Reapers, Skirmishes, and the local havens. And that had a lot of work to do as the Assassin cracked down on the region and launched a retaliation on a haven that had close ties to a local Skirmisher clan. That was a bloodbath. Besides the civilian casualties, several of their soldiers and Skirmishers were severely injured. They were able to chase away Jax-Rai before she completely slaughtered the haven, but left a surprise behind for them. 

A Faceless. The reports on a shape-shifting creature were true. And one of their soldiers learned firsthand how dangerous those creatures were. Maxus was still in a coma and their doctors didn’t think he would recover unless a miracle happened. How Commander Reeves wished they had their hands on that miracle substance, MELD. That stuff could repair nearly all types of damage. Maybe they could search for it? A raid on a few ADVENT facilities for the stuff. She knew the Elders still used it. One of their ways to ‘cure’ humanity of all diseases and illnesses.

She put that idea on somewhat on the back burner. She had other matters to worry about.

———————————

 “I wonder how many more factions we’ll come across. How many will be willing to work with us?” 

Jynn was in her quarters, sitting in front of her computer. She was going through the database, studying a few new entries concerning the factions they had met. 

“I guess it was a sign of trust for Volk to get us in contact with the Silent Striders.” She was going over the information concerning that Faction. “Though with the amount of grumbling he did, I just knew there would be more tensions and meetings I’ll have to facilitate.”

“Fayruz ‘Frost Owl’ Sabah.” She mumbled the name of the leader as she read the entry. She recalled when Volk gave them the details during a previous call and how he did it with some reluctance. Why the reluctance? He and Fayruz had a falling out many years ago over the idea of integrating alien technology into their weapons and just using alien tech in general. Upon this repeated disagreement, Fayruz, and those under her, went their separate ways from the Reapers, taking residence somewhere in the snowy mountains of Central Asia and Russia. They were hard to pin down, but XCOM finally came across them. The initial meeting nearly ended poorly.

“Brass nearly got her head blown off.” She mumbled as she recalled that day. 

Tensions were high at first, with the Silent Striders mistaking them for a bunch of raiders before they quickly got that cleared up. Now, Fayruz wasn't too keen on lending aid to XCOM at first as she still had bitter feelings towards Volk, but seeing that they somehow made the Reapers and Skirmishers put aside their differences for the time, she was somewhat open to a partnership. And then they had a common enemy. Several common enemies.

“Still gaining their trust, at least they’re sharing some of their tech with us.” She brought up a schematic for a scope augmentation and winter gear. In many ways, they were like the Reapers but were more specialized for the bitter cold and treacherous mountain terrain. And they were more open to integrating alien tech into their weapons. Majority of the integrations were crude and required meticulous maintenance to keep them from breaking, but could be improved on in the future.

 She sent spent more time going over the information before finally shutting everything down. She felt the ship shutter for a moment before settling.

“Huh, we must be at the new location.” She got up and stretched. “That trading post and one of the black markets. Wonder what we’ll find here.” She grabbed a few things and her jacket before finally leaving her quarters. The Bridge was humming with life as usual, but  Bradford was not in sight. 

“Wonder where he is…” She shrugged. “Possibly outside. We had things we needed to sell and I remember he said he would meet our personal dealer. Void Walkers. Interesting name.” She mused as she made her way through the ship.

———————

It didn’t take long for her to make her way off the ship. And there was Bradford, busy coordinating the movement of cargo coming off and onto the ship, whilst talking to a hooded figure dressed in black. She could only see their back, but she had a feeling they had something obscuring their face besides the hood. Must have been the Void Walker.

“I see you’ve gotten your hands on data pertaining to the breakdown of the advanced ADVENT armor,” Bradford turned to the hooded figure, “looks like it might highlight some weak points and improve our own armor…” He paused, pondering for a moment. “How much for that data?”

“Hehehehe ha!” The hooded figure cackled. “That. You noticed.” The voice was odd, like it was running through a filter. Robotized. “Let’s see.” They drummed their fingers together. “Well–”

“Don’t try to up-sell me on other crap, Nithrall.” He cut them off.

Nithrall cackled again, double over from laughing too hard. It was rather unsettling how distorted their voice became; their laughing cut out a few times like the filter wasn’t able to keep up. “You’re my favorite customer! I would never do that!”

“Favorite customer?” Bradford asked with a brow raised. “You don’t make me feel like I am.”

“Well,” they finally raised themselves back up and patted their chest a few times, “you are!” They made a “finger gun” motion to him. “I can give ya the data in exchange for some intel and 200 of those alien alloys.”

“200 alien alloys?” His brow twitched. That stuff was hard to procure in the first place. “I thought I was your favorite customer?”

“You are,” they folded their hands together, “but I have a business to run and a guild to keep happy.”

“Mm hm.” He shook his head as he grumbled. Something they had in common. “I’ll have to think about it.” He knew they would need some alloys for an upcoming weapons project. Did they have enough to spare for this? Armor upgrades would be nice, especially with how the Assassin sliced through their current gear like it was nothing. But they also needed the upgraded firepower. Decisions. Decisions.

 “Would about 55 elerium lower the alloy count?” Jynn finally jumped into the conversation.

“Commander!” He hopped a little. He wasn’t expecting her voice, nor for her to make an appearance.

“Good afternoon, Bradford.” She covered her mouth, trying to stifle a laugh.

“Oh! Oh ho ho ho!” Nithrall clapped their hands quickly. This hooded figure seemed rather giddy as they looked Commander Reeves up and down. Face fully obscured by some sort of hi-tech gas mask combined with a visor. Digital visor from the looks of it. Displayed on the visor was an exclamation mark for a few seconds before it changed to several question marks surrounding ‘curious’ emoticon-like eyes. They rushed over her before circling around her several times. “Is this the ‘Commander’ you’ve been searching for? Had us helping look for too?”

Jynn raised a brow as she watched Nithrall with a careful eye. What an interesting mask. She took a step back when the giddy, hooded figure got too close. But this odd character amused her.

“Nithrall,” Bradford let out a bit of a growl as he went over and grabbed their forearm, pulling them away from her, “focus, you jumpy teenager.” He wasn’t sure how old Nitrahll was, but with how easily excited they got, he felt like a teenager was an appropriate age for them.

“Oh! Someone’s protective!” They let out another distorted cackle. A laughing face played. That only got a scowl in return. “Well, where are my manners?” They dusted off their hands before extending a hand towards Commander Reeves whilst cocking their head towards Bradford. Closed eyes and smiling face was displayed on their mask. “The name’s Nithrall.”

Bradford glared at them, imagining a very wide, cocky grin under the mask. One he wanted to smack.

“Nithrall, is it?” Jynn shook their hand. She shot  Bradford a look. “Pleasure to meet you. Call me Commander Reeves.”

“Commander Reeves? Nice ring to it.” They chuckled. “Now,” they rubbed their hands together, “ about that elerium.”

“Commander…” Bradford cast a glance at her and gave an annoyed look to Nithrall. He wasn’t sure they had enough to spare.

“We have more than enough to spare at the moment and know how to salvage some.” She looked at him. “As long as there’s a discount with the alloys.” She looked back at Nithrall.

“If it’s some real fresh elerium, I’ll knock down the alloys to 125.”

Jynn cast a glance at Bradford. “Sound better to you?”

“That’s… much better.” He nodded. He looked at Nithrall, who just seemed to vibrate with excitement. “We have a deal.”

“Sweet!” They gave a thumbs up. “Meet me back at the main trading tent with everything and I’ll have your intel for you.”

He nodded. “And don’t try to up-sell me when we get there.”

They only let out a snicker. “Uh huh, uh huh. I would never.” Which was a lie. “See ya in a bit!” Nithrall quickly left.

 “They’re interesting.” Jynn said, trying to stifle a chuckle.

“And a pain in my neck.” Bradford shook his head. “But great at getting information and the only one I prefer to deal with from the Void Walkers.”

“Oh really? Only them?” She found that interesting.

“They’re the most tolerable out of the bunch… They can get rather pretentious.” He shook his head again. He wondered if the psionics caused that. “And can hold a decent conversation with them when they’re not in motormouth mode.” He mumbled under his breath.

Jynn couldn’t hold back her chuckle anymore, which turned into a full-blown laugh. It took a moment for her to recompose herself. “Sorry, sorry.”

Bradford furrowed his brow, the lines on his forehead becoming more emphasized. But for some reason couldn’t help but blush, a tad embarrassed, but also her laughing looked rather cute.

She stifled the laugh down to a chuckle, but seeing pink appear on his cheeks made her snort. “Again sorry… um, where is the tent Nithrall wants us to meet at?” She quickly changed the subject.

“That way.” He pointed in the direction Nithrall had left. There was a lot of movement coming and going into the forest. “Just past the thicket, they’re set up just outside the haven.”

“Ah.” She nodded.

“Actually, it’s several trading tents set up, not just the Void Walkers that are here.” He started walking towards the ramp of the Avenger. His eyes were already glued to his tablet, typing away on it.

“Find anything interesting at the other tents?” She asked, quickly following him.

“A few things, some modifications, restocked on food, but mostly sold the items we no longer need.”

“Ah.” She nodded.

Before she knew it, she had to quickly stop as she nearly ran into him as he had stopped.

 Bradford glanced around, seeing there weren't too many people in the bay area, before turning to face her. “Commander… Jynn…” Remembering to refer to her by her name was rough some days. “If you don’t mind me asking,” he paused for a moment, “I take it you want to go see what’s the trading tents for yourself?”

“Really?” A brow was raised, and soon her arms were crossed. “Yes, I would like to go to those tents.” She shook her head. “It’s been a while since I’ve been out of the Avenger and even longer since I’ve seen people that aren’t us.”

“Well–” He paused for a moment, searching for words that wouldn’t tick her off, but quickly found none. He shook his head.

“Well, what?” She slowly cocked her to the side.

 He shrugged and shook his head once more as he quickly turned his eyes back to his tablet. He didn’t know what to say exactly. Truthfully, he knew he – and the doctors – hadn’t been too keen about her leaving the ship whenever they landed unless it was a haven that was very trusted, and right now he wasn’t too keen on letting her show her face around this particular trading post. Maybe he had been too overprotective for the last few months, but he was just concerned about her health and identity. She was still healing, less frail than before, but had a way to go. And then he was worried about someone recognizing her. The last thing they needed was a mole to report a sighting of her to ADVENT. Memories of the recent Haven ambush were on his mind.

Slowly, the moment of silence grew into a few minutes of silence and grumbling as Bradford tried to think of something to say. But nothing was coming to his mind that wouldn’t upset her in some fashion.

A gruff sigh and a grumble escaped Jynn’s lips. “Look, John, I know how the doctors, you, and everyone on the ship feels about me venturing off the ship when we’re at a haven. I really do understand the concerns, but I rather not go stir crazy.” She let out a nervous chuckle. She felt like she was bordering on that already. “Don’t want to feel like I’m trapped all over again.”

He let out a grumble, wincing with the inflection she put on “you” and cringing when she said, “trapped”. She had a point. “Okay, okay.” He looked at her. “You’ve got a point… and maybe we can start being less restrictive on certain activities… soon.” He sighed. “I’m just–” He paused, tensing when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

“Don’t apologize.” She said with a soft smile. “I understand you don’t want to lose a close friend again… you guys have been through hell and back. You’ve been through hell and back.”

He let out a heavy sigh, relaxing a bit at her words and that smile. “Right… right…” He mumbled.

She gave him a few hardy pats on the shoulder. “Well, maybe to relax that overstressed brain of yours when heading over to the tents. Why don’t you get one of the soldiers you trust the most to be my ‘bodyguard’?”

He raised a brow. “Really?”

“Unless you want that to be your job?” She asked with a smirk.

That brow twitched for a moment. “Give me 10 minutes.”

———————————

 The trading post was alive and buzzing with a fair amount of people. Various tents were set up. Many odds and ends could be found. Scrap, weapons, food, spices, animals – that now had become scarce because of ADVENT laws –, and the occasional alien meat butcher could be found. It was a trip for the senses, for those who weren’t used to the trading post. Many things to tickle your nose, to distract you, and perhaps steal your wallet. Commander Reeves was enjoying all of it. It was the change of pace she needed.

 “Here’s the alloys and elerium Nithrall.” 

Bradford, Jynn, and a few workers with the containers for the goods had made it to the tent Nithrall had told them to meet at. And looked as though Bradford was playing “bodyguard”.

“Good!” Nithrall clasp their hands. “Stick ‘em in the back and for you,” they sang as they waltzed over to Bradford, “that data you asked for with a little extra before she sweetened the deal.” They nodded at her as they handed Bradford a data stick.

“Thank you… and thank you…” He sheepishly mumbled the second thank you to Jynn. She covered her mouth to stifle a snicker.

“Just hit me up if you guys need anything else.” Nithrall did their usual finger gun gesture before heading to the back to check on all the goods.

“Quite the character they are.” Jynn stated as she adjusted her headscarf. She somewhat reluctantly agreed to wear that to “hide” her identity.

“Get used to it.” Bradford shook his head but chuckled. “Get this back to the ship and the engineers quickly.” He handed the data stick off to a worker. They quickly nodded and left.

 It wasn’t long before they left the tent and walked around. Jynn was still taking in the sights, the people, and lots of chatter. Just a refreshing change of pace.

“So…?” Bradford said but paused.

“Hm?” She glanced over at him.

“How long do you want to walk around?”

“A bit more.” She shrugged. “Nice change of pace for me. May need to do this more often.” She laughed.

“Baby steps with that.” He raised a brow.

“Of course, of course.” She rolled her eyes.

 The two continued a walkabout until she was able to convince him to take her to the other black market dealer that was in town. She learned a trusted arms dealer he had mentioned a few weeks ago ran it. He had already dealt with them earlier. But she wanted to see if they had any modification parts he may have skimmed over. Thankfully, it was mostly empty, minus a man and a woman haggling with one of the dealer’s helpers.

Funnily enough, when they got over there, something caught his eye and he soon got into a haggling discussion with the dealer as she looked around. Something glistened and shimmered from the corner of her eye, catching her attention.

“What’s this?” She moved closer to the display, almost pressing her face against the glass case to get a closer look. Laying on the middle shelf looked to be black glass, no black metal, no… perhaps a black crystalline substance? Whatever it was, several shards were roughly laid out in the shape of a twin-bladed knife. A shattered blade, one could say.

“Now, why is a shattered weapon up for sale?” She mumbled as she studied the weapon and then looked at the price. “Well, it’s not that expensive, but still a bit much… must be whatever it might be made of. Obvious not from Earth.” As she looked closer, something caught her. There looked to be something inscribed on the shards. “Hmm…”

She started pressing against the glass to get a closer look. One shard twitched, then another, and another, as whatever was inscribed on the shards lit up. “Huh?” She thought her eyes were playing tricks on her. Then a flash of blue consumed the shards, and something flew towards her face.

 TINK!

 “Eep!” 

Before she knew it, she had hopped back and fallen flat on her butt. Her scarf tumbled off her head.

That caught everyone’s attention.

“Jynn!” Bradford quickly rushed over to her and helped her up.

“Eh?” The dealer he was talking to came over to investigate.

“Everything okay?” Bradford asked once she was on her feet.

“Yeah, yeah! I’m fine!” She fumbled with the scarf that fell off her head.

“You sure about that?” He noticed she looked rather flustered.

“Yes!” She bristled a bit. “Just fine!” She shook her head. “Just looOost my balance!” She quickly came up with a fib. “Just lost my balance. Got sidetracked while looking and wasn’t paying attention.”

“Riiight…”  Bradford had his doubts, but wouldn’t press it.

“Something catch za boss lady’s eye?” Rubbing his hands, the dealer came over to the two.

“Perhaps…” Jynn mumbled under her breath.

He laughed. “Show me what it was.”

She tugged on the scarf for a moment. “Those shards down there.” She nodded her head in the display's direction.

“Zat cursed thang?” He sneered a bit. He moved behind the counter to open the display.

“Cursed?”

“Bloody thang keeps coming back to me no matter how many times I sell it!”  He threw his hands up into the air.

“Why?” That tickled her curiosity.

He shrugged. “Hell if I know! Most people come back and tell me it be bringing them bad luck and the like.”

Bradford looked at what they were talking about. A brow was raised. “Some scrap like that causing bad luck?” He was highly skeptical.

“Right!?” The dealer shook his head.

“Hm…” Jynn rubbed her chin.

“So you don’t want this crap.” He waved his hand. “But you,” he pointed at Bradford, “still want the ammo drum attachments and repeaters?” Bradford nodded.

Those two conversed again.

 “Hey, it’s rude to stare.” Said an older-sounding woman in a hushed tone.

Jynn glanced over and saw the woman swatting a white-haired man with a dark, reddish brown beard on the back of the head. He sheepishly apologized and turned his head away once she noticed him. Though from the corner of his eye, he kept looking at her. Why?

Jynn quickly turned away, covering her face a bit more with her scarf. She was still red hot.

To get her mind off of what happened, she started studying those shards again. Looking to see if anything had really moved and so far, nothing looked like it had. All the shards were still on the shelf.

“Maybe I was imagining things?” She thought. Though now she wanted to test the cursed theory. She felt like there was something more to those shards. Especially the writing. Sharp sweeping marks. And alien script of sorts. Not what the Elders taught or what the Elders used themselves. But whatever it was, she could read some of it. 

“This will be her blade. It will become a part of her. A Path-Maker. Oath-Breaker. Mak’Symmatra’s work will not be in vain. This will destroy the corrupted Echthralls. Bringing forth the judgment the universe cries for. And will clash against the X’zea’shia for when the time comes. This weapon, born from their blood… Crafted. Shaped. from the blood of the——” The rest was cut off. “Hm.” And some words she couldn’t translate, but the text was interesting.

 “So just some weapon fragments and intel for all of this, correct?” Bradford was already typing away on that pad of his, sending orders to the workers on the ship to start bringing over the stuff.

“Correct.” The dealer smiled.

“And those shards.” Jynn tapped on the display.

“Really?” Bradford raised a brow at her.

“Are you crazy, boss lady?” The dealer couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“Perhaps.” Jynn crossed her arms and shrugged. “I want to give your cursed theory a test, and I bet you wouldn’t mind getting those things out of your stock.” She smiled.

The dealer looked at Bradford, Bradford looked at her, and then back to the dealer.

“Just add it to the order. I’ll toss in some medical supplies.” He shook his head.

The dealer shook his head. “Alright, your funeral, boss lady.” He chuckled. He started to get the order together, instructing some of his helpers nearby as he retrieved the shards from the display case.

Jynn nudged Bradford. “I owe you.”

“I’ll keep note of that.”

 It wasn’t long before some XCOM workers were coming in with the supplies for the transaction and taking away the acquisition-ed supplies.

“Okay, no more purchases until we complete a few supply runs and raids.” Bradford was mostly talking to himself.

“Agreed, even if good deals are happening.” She rubbed her chin. That got a chuckle out of him.

“I may make an exception for those kinds of purchases.” He playfully nudged her. She shook her head and chuckled.

“For the boss lady.” The dealer handed Jynn a lockbox containing the shards.

“Thank you.” She took the box. Her fingers drummed against the sides of the box. Like a kid hyped up on sugar, she couldn’t wait to investigate the shards later. What other text would she find? Were they really cursed? Perhaps she could get Dr. Tygan and his workers to look at these “cursed” shards.

“Well, you got your “cursed” stuff. I say we can head back to the ship.”  Bradford said.

“I think my little walk around and our shopping trip is over.” She nodded in agreement. The two started to leave.

 “Excuse me, miss?” A gruff Scottish-sounding male voice said. Commander Reeves felt a tug on her head and before she knew it they pulled her headscarf off. “Oh, whoops!”

“Hey! Hey!” She stumbled forward, not expecting the resistance and release.

“The hell?” Bradford immediately got defensive, quickly putting himself between her and this man.

“What are you doing now?” The lady noticed her friend was causing trouble, but he ignored her.

“Aw man,” he raised his hands, “didn’t mean to pull the fecking scarf aff yer friend.”

“Really now?” Bradford narrowed his eyes. He had noticed the man staring rather intently at Jynn even before she made a scene and continued to do so, even after his female friend scolded him.

“Eh, again ‘pologies. Just take yer friend’s scarf.” He lowered his hand towards him. Bradford snatched the scarf and handed it back to her “Just wanna ask her a question or…. two.” His eyes were intensely focused on her again as his words trailed off. Curious eyes studying her face and features.

“I don’t think so.” Bradford didn’t like the look in his eyes.

“Calm down, will you?” Jynn jabbed Bradford in the side, causing him to gag and flinch away. “Seriously… Hold this.” She let out a frustrated sigh as she handed the box over to him and fumbled with the scarf. His overprotectiveness was slowly grating on her.

  “I’ll answer just one question, Mr…?” She looked back at the man. Even his intense stare was beginning to unnerve her.

“My God! It’s you!” The man exclaimed.

“Eh?…!”

“Wha– Hey!”

In a mere moment, the man had shoved Bradford to the side and embraced Jynn in a tight hug, lifting her up into the air. A very tight hug.

Jynn gasped for air, clawing at the strange man’s arms in an attempt to gain freedom. Well, an attempt at clawing. Her nails weren’t exactly back yet. “Let… — gasp — Go…!” She kicked at his legs.

“Dunbar!” The lady who was with the man grabbed at his collar and pulled. But that did little to budge the man or grab his attention.

“My girl, Gin!” The hug became ever so tighter with each passing moment, twirling her around a few times. “Gin, Ginny, Gin!”

Gin? Ginny, Gin? A rather affectionate nickname by the sound of it.

 Just as she felt like she was about to pass out, she felt her feet touch the ground once more and the cursed embrace ended. A moment to gasp for air, a moment to recollect her thoughts and retaliate, but that was quickly cut short. She stiffened when her face was cupped by his hand and something cold and hard. Before she knew it, the man was in her face again. Far too close for comfort.

Who the hell is this man!? Her mind screamed.

 “Goodness girl, what the ‘ell happened to you, lassie?” The man pushed and pulled at her features. “You look as pale as me cousins, and look like a fecking deflated chicken,” his eyes focused on her lack of hair,” ’ats been fecking defeathered!” Such colorful words.

“Vickers!” His female companion yelled his name once more as she tried to pull him back.

“Vickers?” Jynn mumbled in between breaths. That name sounded familiar to her. But some memories were still in a deep fog.

“‘Ey! Feck off Issa!” He swatted her hand off his collar. “This is my niece!”

Niece?

“What in the world are you talking about?” The older woman, Issa, crossed her arms and glared at him with her glassy eyes. “She’s an entirely different race to even be related to your Scottish ass!” “It’s called related by marriage, ya old burd!” He glanced over his shoulder.

“I doubt that…” She rolled her eyes. From the corner of her eye, she noticed Bradford setting down his stuff and bawling his hands into fists. “Five, four, three, two…”

“Vickers…?” The memory was on the tip of her tongue. Gears were slowly turning. His features were becoming familiar.

Hearing her mumble, he turned his attention back to him. Though greater by a face of confusion, it didn’t dull his enthusiasm. “Vickers! Remember Uncle Vickers? Best friends with your dad?” He continued. “Married that not-so-great aunt of yours even after your dad warned me….” He grumbled under his breath, looking away out of embarrassment. That was a mistake he would never forget.

“Vickers…” She muttered once again. More gears were slowly turning.

 “Hey! Asshat!” Bradford snarled

“Eh wha— ACK!” Vikers yelped.

“Called it.” Issa shook her head.

“John!” Jynn gasped.

 Swiftly, in a mere moment, Vickers was laid out on the ground a ways away. A second later, he let out a curse as his hands quickly went to his face to stop the flow of crimson quickly coming about. Bradford’s arm was still outstretched.

“Hands off of her, you creep.” He drew back his arm and started rubbing his fist. “You okay?” He glanced at her.

Her face free from the odd man’s hands, she took a moment to rub the numb feeling away. “Yes, I’m fine, but you didn’t have to do that.

“He was in your space and grabbing at your face.” He rolled his eyes as he rubbed his knuckles. The man had a hard jaw.

“He wasn’t exactly hurting me!” She let out an exasperated sigh. Though she didn’t appreciate the crushing hug, this Vikers gave her. She raised her hand to her head. A headache was coming on. “Great, now he needs some aid…”

“I’ve got it.” Issa, his companion, was by his side and was already treating his broken nose. A rag firmly pressed against it. “Not the first time he’s been clocked in the face.”

“Your friend needs to learn some manners.” Bradford raised a brow as he watched the two.

“Tell me about it.” Issa shook her head.

“Yew got a mean right hook, laddie.” Vickers grinned. A rather blood-stained one. “The protective lover sort, eh?”

A flash of red appeared on both Bradford’s and Jynn’s faces. They looked at each other and then away.

“What the– no!” Bradford stammered for a moment.

“Goodness no.” She shook her head. “We are friends, not dati—” She paused. Something clicked in her mind. The headache intensified for a moment before quickly dissipating as a rush of memories came forth. Her eyes locked on Vickers. That reddish-brown beard, the unkempt white hair, and those warm hazel eyes. 

“Oh… Oh.” She gasped. Tears started too well. “Uncle Vickers!”

 She swiftly darted over to him and embraced him in a hug, nearly knocking over Issa in the process.

“Uncle Vickers!” She cried.

“Easy there, lassie. Easy!” He grunted from how tight she was now hugging him. “Took your cloudy noggin’ some time to remember me?” He patted her back.

Jynn drew her face back, wet from crying. “It’s been 20 years and you look a hell of a lot different!” She shook her head. “Your hair’s white, that beard is a lot fuller, you’ve got a new brow scar, and—” She cried as her eyes traveled down and noticed something dark and shiny around his neck, connecting to his shoulder. Her eyes studied for a moment longer until she noticed something… different. “And what the hell happened to your arm!?”

“Oh, this thing?” He chuckled. A slight whirring sound could be heard as he raised up his arm and flexed. His left robotic arm. It was a dark grey, a bit crudely put together from what looked to be a Floater arm, but oddly functional. Explained that cold feeling on her face earlier.“ ‘Ell needed a new one since the auld one sitting in ta belly of a Berserker.”

“What.”

“Long story. Will tell ya later, girlie.” He playfully patted her face, which got a chuckle out of her.

 “Wait, she’s actually your niece?”

“You know this guy, Jynn?”

 Both Bradford and Issa were shocked by the turn of events.

The niece and uncle looked at their stunned companions, then each other, and started to laugh. “Long story.”

 ———————————

 After getting patched up and cleaning up the slight mess the reunion caused, the group was back at the Avenger, hanging outside by the ramp. Jynn and Vikers were explaining how the two knew each other. Related via a rather short and unhappy marriage, Vikers had with her father’s sister. He knew her father for many, many years before that marriage. The two had met when her father was stationed in Scotland for some time. The two became fast friends, even with very different – if not grating –  personalities, but somehow they forged a deep bond. Her father was one of the reasons Vickers immigrated to the States a few years after meeting him.

“So she’s my lovely niece, I’ve been rambling ‘bout for years and—”

“Drunk ramblings.” Issa interjected. “Very drunk ramblings for many, many years.”

“My drunken ramblings miss o’ so ‘technical’.” He rolled his eyes at the correction, as he gave her a playful shove. She smacked him in return, which made him chuckle. “As I wiz sayin’, and now ‘ere she is in this place of all places!” He stretched out his arms. “And my God, lassie, you ‘ave to tell me why you lost a wee bit of height,” he hovered his hand above her head, “and a hell lot of fecking muscle.”

Jynn rolled her eyes before knocking his hand away. “I’ll tell you in due time… as long as you tell me what exactly happened to your arm.” She had to keep herself from sighing. It wouldn’t be a fun story to tell.

“Deal!”

 “I really don’t remember you ever mentioning to me about this guy being your uncle, Jynn.” Bradford was still wrapping his head around everything and trying to search his own memories.

“It’s been a long time since whenever I told you last… a very long time.” She shook her head and sighed. “I feel like you’ve met each other once or twice at the house or a campout.”

Bradford and Vikers looked at each other for a moment.

“Yeah, no, don’t recall anything.” He shook his head.

“Don’ look familiar to me.” Vikers shrugged.

“Maybe we can find some photos of both of you when you were younger… if any of those still exist.” She mumbled under her breath.

“Oh, I’d love to see what he looked like when he was younger.” Issa snickered, covering her mouth.

“Well, hair matched his beard color is one thing.” She said. “Still was just as messy as it currently is.”

“You don’t say? Can never get him to make it look nice.” She chuckled.

“‘Ey now!” Vikers glared at the both of them.

 “So Jynn, ‘xactly whit outfit are you runnin’ whit now to ‘ave that fancy thing ‘ere?” He gestured to the Avenger.

“XCOM.” She answered. “Well, what’s left of it.” She looked away.

“XCOM, eh? Vickers rubbed his chin. “Sounds familiar.”

“Oh, so you are the guys causing a lot of trouble for ADVENT as of late?” Issa said. Looked like she knew. 

“Yeah, it’s been a hell of a few months.” She nodded.

“Well, you guys have been doing some excellent work.” She smiled. “Giving the rest of us some hope to win back our world.”

“Thanks.” Both Jynn and Bradford nodded.

“Now, how about you, uncle?” She looked at him. “I don’t believe for a second she’s your only traveling companion with how you can get.”

“Well, she’s a perceptive one.” Issa chuckled.

“Can it, Issa!” Vickers glared. That only caused her to chuckle more.

He rolled his eyes and folded his arms. “Well, miss ‘technical’ and I are with the group Sanguine Shrapnel.”

“Technically, we are two of the bosses of the group.” Issa interjected.

“Pfft, details.” He waved her off. That didn’t really matter.

“That’s an interesting name.” Jynn mused. She took note that both of them had red sashes on and there was an emblem that looked like metal shards.

“Old man came up with the name.” Vikers explained.

“Old man?” She asked.

“He’s the brains behind the group, really. Main founder besides us two.” Issa explained.

“You guys are a bit more north from your usual stomping grounds.” Bradford commented. He brought out his tablet and started tapping away at it. “Yep, thought the name was familiar to me. You guys specialize in robots and usually patrol around North Africa, specifically the western part. Have had your share of disrupting ADVENT robotics facilities.” 

“We are and we have.” Issa nodded. “Keeping tabs on all the factions now?” She raised a brow.

“It’s good to know things about the people you may meet.” He slyly smiled.

“Smart.” She nodded. “I like the way you think.”

“Always got to be a step ahead.”

 “Would be nice to meet this ‘old man’ you talked about.” Jynn redirected the conversation. “We could use more connections to strengthen the resistance.”

Vikers and Issa looked at each other. A hint of worry appeared as each bit their lip.

“Well…” Vikers tapped on the corner of his lip.

“Not the easiest person to talk to?” 

“A bit paranoid?” Bradford added his thoughts.

“Paranoid maybe just a ‘ittle.” Vikers pinched his fingers fairly close together.

“He likes to be cautious.” Issa nodded. “He’s Ex-ADVENT. Never wanted to work for them in the first place, and we’ve been burned pretty badly by another faction.” She shook her head. “Still recovering, in a way.”

“Understandable.” Jynn nodded. “Use to having to work to gain trust with some factions we are currently working with.”

“We can try an’ put in a word fer ya.” Vikers glanced at his companion.

“I’d like that.” She smiled. She looked at Bradford, gesturing with her head towards Issa. He nodded and worked on his tablet.

“Try.” Issa shook her head. “Rajan can be too stubborn for his own good.”

Jynn chuckled at that. “I’m used to working with stubborn people.”

“Very stubborn people.” Bradford shook his head. He did not miss the Council from the old days. “Here’s our contact information.” He handed Issa a data stick.

 “Well then, you should be able to handle him well.” Issa chuckled for a moment until something clicked in her mind, causing her eyes to go wide before cringing; she looked down at her wrist to check her watch as she stashed the drive away. “Oh, crap!”

“Eh? What?” Vikers asked. The others were curious.

“I bet he’s wondering where the hell we are.”

“Uh…” Vikers’ eyes went wide too. “Time?”

“We are two hours late.” She glanced at him, nervously biting her lip.

“Shite! It’s been that long?” Vikers ran his fingers through his hair.

“Have a time limit for picking up supplies?” Jynn asked.

“Yes and no,” Issa shook her head, “we have an important meeting to prep for.”

“Sounds like the both of you are going to get reprimanded for being late.” Bradford added.

“You don’t know the half of it.” Vickers shook his head. His mechanical arm involuntarily twitched. How harsh could Rajan’s punishments get?

 “Well, Ginny…” He turned to his niece with outstretched arms. Jynn shook her, chuckling just a bit as she embraced him. Vikers hugged her tightly, patting her head, kissing just once.

“Stay safe, kiddo.” He took in a deep breath and sighed as he slowly released her from the hug. As he pulled away, he couldn’t help but study her features. He could tell something happened to her, something bad. “I’ll be waitn’ for that story…. And…” He paused, looking away from her for a moment.

“And?” Commander Reeves could feel a lump in her throat form. Like she just knew what he was going to ask.

“Is Jo–” His voice started to crack. “Is Jo–Johhanus still…?” He didn’t even want to finish the sentence.

She sighed, hearing the question. She knew it would be asked sooner or later. She shook her head. “KIA, but from what I’ve read and been told, he went out guns blazing, protecting innocents.”

“God… Jynn…” He pulled her into another hug. He was fighting back tears.

She sighed and patted his back.

“Sounds just like him.” He laughed. “Valiant heart he had.”

She quietly nodded; fighting back tears that were forming.

The embrace lasted for a few more moments before Vikers finally pulled away. He cleared his throat and rubbed his face.

“I won’t evn’ ask about yer ma and brother.” He shook his head. “I’ll save those questions fer ‘nother time.”

She nodded. “That would be for the best.”

“Well,” he cleared his throat again and looked at Issa, “time to go?”

“If we don’t want to get chased by Rajan’s mechanical inventions later, then yes!” She rolled her eyes. That got a groan out of him.

“Well, ple’sure meetn’ yew… John, wiz it?” He stretched out his human hand to him.

“Yes, and likewise to you, Vikers.”  Bradford shook his hand.

“Keep my niece safe now will ya!” He winked. A rather devious one at that. “Looks like she needs ‘an eye kept on her.”

“Vikers!” Jynn, was almost offended by what he said.

Bradford did his best to stifle a chuckle. “No worries, we,” he gestured his head to the ship, “plan to.”

“Good, if yew don’t, I’ll strangle yew.” He chuckled firmly, shaking his hand once more before letting go.

“I’ll keep that threat in mind.” Bradford chuckled.

“Please don’t entertain him.” Jynn sighed.

“Now you see what I have to put up with constantly.” Issa shook her head.

“Oh hush, yew love it!”

The playful banter between Vikers and Issa continued as they left, heading back towards the trading posts.

 Jynn shook her head as she watched them leave, and even more so at some of the things coming out of her uncle’s mouth. Just a constant stream of his playful jabs and colorful comments. 

“He has not changed one single bit.” She mumbled.

“Definitely see where the troublemaker side of you comes from.” Bradford playfully patted her head.

“John!” She punched his arm.

“Kidding! Kidding!” He flinched. “He’s an interesting character for sure and you have stories to tell me.”

“Mhm.” She shook her head. “I swear you’ve met him at least once or twice.”

“I don’t remember him.”

“Guess age is getting to that brain of yours.” With a quick flick to his nose, she quickly snatched the box she had him carrying and started heading back to the Avenger with a spring in her step.

“Hey now! We are roughly the same age!” He quickly followed.

“Are we now?” A coy smirk crept across her face as she glanced at him. “I don’t have any gray hairs or crow’s feet.”

“Oh ouch,” sarcasm slipped from his lips, “he’s rubbed off on you already…” He shook his head.

“Perhaps.” A devious grin crept across her face.

They stuck around the trading post for another two days to finish all exchanges and preparations before heading off to their next destination. A few days after, Issa contacted them, saying Rajan may be interested in forging relations, but needed some time to dwell on it. Commander Reeves wasn’t too surprised, but it was a start.

[webcricket]

Remember Rio; or, What is Love

Characters: CastielXReader ft. Dean Winchester

Word Count: 1984

Summary: Castiel has some hesitations early on in your relationship. Thankfully Dean is there to kick him in the ass. One confused celestial, non-explicit talk about sex, cowboys, and kisses.

Dean hoists a dry-rot ridden wooden box to waist-level and hurls it unceremoniously at the floor. The container collapses in on itself upon impact, contents skittering amok in a cloudburst of dust.

Several of the larger knickknacks cease their tumble at Castiel’s feet. He doesn’t bother to look down, too absorbed in inner turmoil of thought to pay any heed to them or Dean’s growing frustration.

The hunter isn’t annoyed about the frantic search through someone else’s collection of crap, it’s in the job description. What he is annoyed about is the angel’s brooding. And Cas happens to still be standing in the exact same spot he dallied in the last time Dean turned around from his present task of tossing a storage shelf in this dimly lit basement in search of some a cursed trinket Sam said they absolutely positively needed to destroy to save the world. Dean has as yet unspoken reservations about the merit’s of his brother’s claim and the moping celestial both. He picks up a delicate vase next – an intricate pattern of pink flowers and thin bright green vines laces the rim – and intentionally drops it arching a speculative brow when the angel doesn’t so much as flinch at the tinkle of shattering porcelain.

Boiling impatience pries apart the bite of the hunter’s tongue. “What the hell, man?” he grumbles. “Are you planning to just stand there all night or are you gonna help me find this damn totem?”

Cas blinks, blues resolving into focus on his friend. “Sorry, I was thinking about the other night.” The other night in question being the night of your third official date with the angel and the very same night you jumped his celestially articulated bones only to have him proceed to politely excuse himself mid-makeout session just when things got heated enough to warrant the peeling off of clothing, leaving you winded, wanton, and clutching his trench coat.

“Come on, you’ve been thinking for three days about something that requires zero thought and all the action.” Dean quells a reflexive roll of his greens, stepping over the glittering shards to clasp him roughly by the shoulder. “What are you so worried about anyway? You’ve done the deed before. With that reaper-” Dean scratches at his chin. “Amy, no-”

The angel respires a beleaguered sigh as Dean runs through a list of potential names. Cas has been trying to winnow down the reasons why he fled for days. It’s not because he’s a fully-functional powered-up angel of the Lord again and all the supposed sexlessness that formality entails. He’s equipped to satisfy a partner in every way a human can, and divinely more. He’s definitely physically attracted to you, so his vessel becoming aroused isn’t a barrier. He wants to please you any way he can, and he understands it’s clear you want to take the relationship to the next step in pursuit of that pleasure. No matter how much he thinks about it, he can’t quite pinpoint the source of his hesitation.

“April!” Dean hits on the correct name with an enthusiastic note.

Cas glares – April not being an entirely pleasant memory considering she killed him.

“What?” Dean shrugs, expression wholly unapologetic in amusement. “For Chuck’s sake, what’s there to think about? It’s not a freaking apocalypse. No one’s life is in danger. It’s just sex.”

“It’s different.” Cas’ jaw tenses around the words. “With April, it was just sex. With Y/N, it’s … different.” He repeats himself for lack of a better descriptor.

“Different how?” Dean squints, closely examining the angel’s stymied expression. He interprets therein the folds of his brow a light bulb revelation. “Well smack my ass and call me Sally, you’re in love!” Dean exclaims, overly triumphant in the revelation.

Cas’ gaze startles wide, creating a mountain-like crag of creases across the ridge of his forehead, then narrows precipitously into the softer ill-defined flatland of genuine bewilderment. The part about loving you is the least confusing aspect of the statement and he accepts it without qualm – with a passive wave of relief even in response to the exact sort of different he could not explain a mere moment before – the reason for the rest of the hands-on proposition to slap Dean’s derrière whilst referring to him as Sally is beyond angelic comprehension. “Why would I-”

“Shut up.” Dean interjects, holding up a quieting finger, halting the inevitable query of why Dean would require Cas to do any of the aforementioned buttock spanking and name-calling and whether this is the appropriate time or place for such an activity.

You choose that instant to mosey on into the dank cellar scene. Cas and Dean bickering like an old married couple about what you assume to be utter nonsense is nothing new; you’d be worried if they weren’t verbally sparring, static silence on either of their parts rarely bodes well. “Whatcha guys talkin’ ‘bout?” you ask with vague disinterest, surveying the mess for any sign of the totem.

Cas casts Dean a swimmingly deep blue puppy-eyed plea to say nothing.

Dean ignores the appeal. The hunter’s eyes twinkle more than they have right to in the poorly illumined basement; a confident smirk creeps across his face. Bulky biceps tighten the fabric of his grey Henley shirt as he crosses his arms in preparation for the unsolicited relational pot stirring in which he is about to partake. “Sex,” he states, louder than necessary; the sharpness of the single syllable slices the humidly heavy atmosphere; the thick foundation of the walls absorbs any attempted reverberation.

“Nothing,” Cas’ simultaneous utterance muddles Dean’s answer; the decibel of his voice sinks to an Earth-quaking grumble. Blues taking on a chagrinned shade, he shoots his friend a betrayed glower.

Re-crossing his limbs, Dean scowls in recrimination. “Really? You were feeling different about it minute ago. And now … nothing?”

Your mouth gapes into the shape of an unspoken oh. This, this could explain why Cas bolted the other night and hasn’t been able to look you in the eyes since let alone stay in the same room alone with you for more than an awkward minute. You always had your suspicions about their so-called profound bond and standing on the outside looking in it appears you’ve interrupted the discussion of a secretive tryst half of the liaison isn’t ready to openly chat about. “Maybe I should leave you two alone then,” you mutter, failing to disguise the disillusionment lowering your tone.

“You should really stay for this, sweetheart,” Dean reassures, reaching out to catch you by the wrist before you can turn to leave. “It involves you.”

You glance from his gleaming greens to his clutching fingers to Cas’ averted blues and back. You snort a light laugh, one imbed with false lightness of spirit in affront to the crush of disappointment you feel, and swat Dean’s gentle grip loose. You pursue the path of lashing out in lieu of letting either of them see your pain. “Look Dean-o, I don’t care what you think I said when we split that bottle of tequila last summer in Rio and passed out drunk on the balcony, I’m not interested in a cowboy themed threesome with you, or anyone else for that matter.” You direct the last bit at the angel who seems set on stolidly avoiding the interaction in favor of staring at the dusty-beamed ceiling.

Dean’s mouth mutely opens and closes in a vain attempt to formulate a rebuff; his cheeks warm to a freckled tint of pink. He doesn’t remember sharing that particular frolic of a fantasy with you, but also acknowledges with a bob of his head and a swallowed hmm that it sounds like something he could’ve admitted to in uninhibited drunken fervor. Because his best coping skill for embarrassment involves embracing the injurious fact with bombastic confidence, he accepts your personally revealing slight in Dean-branded stride. “First off little lady, you have no idea what you’re missing out on. And secondly,” he begins to recall several small snippets of detail, “it wasn’t tequila, it was RumChata.”

Your eyebrows lift. “That’s your take away from that night?”

“Yes. That, and your apparent fetish for ass-less chaps.”

It’s your fault for daring him to remember to stage his self-defense. “Thanks for the reminder.”

“Happy to oblige.” Dean takes a swaggering stride backward and bows. “I’ll leave you two to talk.” His pointed glare toward Cas effectively wields the departing verb as a strong suggestion and prompts you to recall the angel of your affection has been standing there wordlessly observing the entire exchange.

Conversationally contagious blush accosting your cheeks now, you cede to a compulsion to fill the weighty silence between you and the seraph with a throaty hum that never quite evolves into intelligible speech.

“I’m sorry.” Cas speaks first.

You peer up from studying your shoes, shod toes poking the sole of the foot opposite, to take in his fondly tempered features. The intensity of tenderness conveyed in his steady regard somersaults your stomach and frees a flock of butterflies whose fluttering wings unfold inside out to caress your skin with a pleasant shiver; these three days past you missed this sensation only he causes and which you hope never to grow accustomed to.

Given he failed to comprehend the bulk of the interaction he just witnessed, he steps nearer and clarifies for both your sakes the part for which he is apologetic. “Sorry about leaving so suddenly the other night when there was, uh, an expectation of” –his hands seek refuge in his pockets “-um, intimacy.”

“Oh, Cas” –you dive into the hooks of his arms, wrapping the rigid pillar of his vessel in a hug while keeping a carefully calculated platonic distance of a little over an inch between the press of your bodies “-there’s no expectation. No pressure. I just thought, I mean, you seemed into it so I-”

Fingers circling your shoulders, he dips you backward in order to meet your gaze as he speaks, “I was – am – ‘into it,’ as you say. I’ve thought of little else since that night except for how I might explain my retreat and earn your forgiveness.”

“There’s nothing to forgive.” You assuage his worry, assuming the explanation is forthcoming.

Broad palms smoothing to your spine, he pulls your pliant body close to banish the cushion of non-romantic space you created solely for his benefit and for which he determines there is no obvious benefit. Kissing first the top of your head, he perches his chin upon your lovingly consecrated crown. Exhaling a heated breath into your scalp, his lips move against the silken locks of your hair. “Dean, in his way, helped me understand a feeling I’ve struggled to identify. When it peaked that night – overwhelming, exhilarating, the height of a foreign precipice I could equate only with a sense of uncontrollable falling – I feared the unknown dangers it posed to you.”

“To us,” you correct. “We’re either together in this, or we’re-”

“Us,” he firmly agrees before you can finish; the hint of a smile touches his stoic pout.

Wriggling in his delightfully confining grasp, you wind your arms around his neck; anchoring your wandering fingers into the chestnut curls overlying his nape, you guide his forehead down to rest against yours. You know the feeling well to which he alluded; the terror, too, of a new love.

“Love,” he echoes the sentiment coloring your mind. “Yes, love.”

You shudder in surprise against the perceived incursion upon your thoughts and scold him with a mock-scowl.

Again seeking absolution, he teases you with the feathery brush of a kiss upon the side of your mouth; gratitude wells in his angelic heart when you give chase to his lips in order to seal and solidify your devotion despite his missteps; missteps of which he is certain there will be many yet to come.

Castiel tag list:  (Closed, if you’d like to be removed please let me know!)    @jeepangel  @sammiesamness  @willowing-love  @roxy-davenport  @blueicevalkyrie   @im-the-nerdiest-of-them-a11  @thesugargalaxy    @bluetina-blog  @dont-trust-humanity  @afanofmanystuffs  @honeybeetrash  @bucky-thorin-winchester  @superwholockz   @tistai  @wordstothewisereaders  @gill-ons  @mrswhozeewhatsis  @marisayouass  @stone-met   @castiel-savvy18  @samualmortgrim  @trexrambling  @magnificent-mantle  @kdfrqqg  @xdifsx  @moon-and-stars-cas  @mandilion76  @rockfairy  @peaceloveancolor  @unicorntrooper  @anisolatedship  @itsilvermorny  @aditimukul  @kudosia  @goofynerd-67babylove  @uninspirationalsonglyrics  @gray-avidan  @mishascupcake   @mishapanicmeow   @praisecastielamen  @roseyhxnt  @jessikared97  @let-the-imaginationflow  @warriorqueen1991   @sebastianstanslefteyebrow   @hisnameisboobear  @kristendanwayne  @fuschiarulerinthebluebox  @coolpencilpie  @jenabean75  @luciathewinchestergirl  @morganas-pendragons  @heyitscam99  @fangirl-and-stuff  @selahbela  @realgreglestrade  @splendidcas  @pointlesscasey  @i-larb-spooderman  @thewhiterabbit42  @thelostverse  @castieliswatchingoverme  @beccollie18  @dragonett8  @dixie-chick  @jtownraindancer   @carowinsthings  @passionghost  @sherlockedtash88  @futureparent  @gabbie7-11  @myfandomlife-blog  @dreamerkim  @shamelesslydean  @earthtokace  @neaeri  @justanormalangel  @lone-loba  @supernaturalymarvel  @lilrubixx  @wings-and-halo  @thehoneybeecastielfollows  @musiclovinchic93  @81mysteriouslyme  @the-bottom-of-the-abyss  @jaylarkson @pixiedusts  @spookysculderfiles  @laqueus-ludovicus  @missjenniferb @lexininja  @jessiekay2010   @skrratata  @rhiannonj79  @calicat79

[nellyhasnolife]

V peeked out of the bushes and scanned the camp at the end of the road. It wasn’t as big as she expected, so it only added to her suspicion of those guys being nothing but big-mouthed liars and cowards. V gritted her teeth the second she laid eyes on a few big packs of supplies. Supplies from her own haven that struggled to rebuild after the devastating attack that had almost wiped it out clean.

Those greasy, smug bastards thought they could just come, take everything from them and then have the audacity to blackmail the remaining people to pay them for what was rightfully theirs. Oh no, she wasn’t planning to let her home being robbed. She would come and show them the consequences of underestimating her and her clan mates.

V barely held herself back from just jumping out in the open and shooting them all in an impulsive desire for justice. It took her a few moments to suppress the shimmering anger and get a grip on her chaotic emotions. She had to search for the camp’s weak points and blind spots before even attempting to sneak anywhere closer. She wasn’t a Reaper to have the advance of stealth and almost soundless movements, so she opted to inspect the site through the scope.

For a moment she regretted doing so, as the picture she saw was far for pleasant: tons of alcohol, weed and corpses scattered all over the place. And those corpses weren’t of ADVENT, but of the camp’s inhabitants. It seemed like not only those pigs had no real numbers to ‘take them out’ as they had threatened, but they were at odds with each other. Which V somewhat expected from those, whose drive force was greed for money and riches. 

V visually circled the camp a few times and counted only four people altogether, which was almost nothing compared to alien squads she was used to encountering. She pondered trying to shoot them, but at such a distance her aim could easily waver. There was a blind spot at the western entrance because of no one was actually guarding it. All four men were busy shouting and threatening each other with guns and that opened up a nice opportunity.

V threw the sniper rifle over the shoulder, took out the pistol and started sneaking towards the camp. She hoped that by the time she reached it, all of them would have simply shot each other off and she would merely carry all the supplies back. Having hid behind the last tree separating her from the camp, V took a quick glance at the hole in the ugly wooden fence. Still no guards. The shouting was so loud she could almost make out some words thrown around. 

V squatted as much as she could and started crawling towards the opening, ignoring the pain in her limbs from all the dirt, stones and branches digging into her legs and the disgusting smell of sweat and whiskey. No one noticed her just like she expected.

Apparently, only two men were now alive instead of four, and those two were as much keen on getting all the robbed goods to themselves as when they were all four. How utterly pathetic. It took her merely a few seconds to take a decent aim and shoot them booth. V cringed and almost immediately gauged when actually stepped within the camp’s premises.

The stench was unbearable. Her eyes stared to water, as she attempted to fight off the desire to throw up right at the corpse of a freshly killed gangster. V squeezed her nose, stepped over the bodies and scurried towards the large stack of familiar boxes. Two of them were already empty, but the remaining five were still unpacked, which immensely relived her. Good. It was enough for the civilians in the haven to survive on until the next drop from the Resistance would come.

V holstered the pistol and started looking around for some sort of vehicle to carry the supplies back to the base. Her own strength would allow her to carry only two boxes and she couldn’t risk leaving them in the open like that. There! There was actually a very old and rusty cart sticking out of the bushes that was exactly what she needed. However, V basically froze on the spot when her ears had caught a familiar babbling. A very distinctive and bone-chilling babbling of those bound to the Elders. ADVENT.

V felt panic rising within as she hurriedly jumped into the tent and attempted to hide her presence. Maybe, just maybe they would merely pass by and not go inside the camp to investigate. She new for sure if they find the Resistance supplies it will eventually lead them to the haven. And it would end up with not only the loss of some food, water and medications, but the loss of people too.

Yet just like he feared the babbling only grew more audible the more she sat still. She had to take action and somehow get rid of those guys. V gulped, forcing herself to cast aside the fear of her own possible death. She had faced the Hunter and stayed alive. She should long be past the stage of panic and fret. She was strong, she was skilled. She could handle it.

V had no idea how many of ADVENT soldiers there were exactly, but by the footsteps it didn’t sound like a big squad. Possibly, four or three units. If she took them by surprise, she could shoot at last one for sure. V moved along the tent’s side and noticed a piece of an officer’s armor. No stunlancers or shieldbrearers, which was a relief. Gathering all the courage she had V took aim at the open peck of skin at the neck and shot. Orange blood splattered, as the officer squealed, staggered and fell on the ground.

V felt her heart hammering inside, as she jumped out of the tent and ran to cover herself behind the boxes at the wall. She was obviously noticed and fired at by the other two ADVENT units. V yelped and moaned when the magnetic beam hit her in the lag, burning the flesh and almost causing her to fall flat on the face. Shit, it was bad. With a wounded leg she couldn’t really count on running and quickly changing cover.

Another beam hit the left side of the boxes and V thanked whatever Gods existed for the fact ADVENT’s aim was still far from perfect. She dared to peek out and found the two soldiers running towards her with a full intent to kill. Her breath hitched, as she hurriedly scurried towards the corner and took out a grenade with shaky hands. V activated and tossed it, hoping it would get rid of at least one of them. The deafening blast and a loud, awful scream confirmed that she hit her target. Well, more or less. The last soldiers still stood, his rifle aimed and ready to fire at her.

And then he dropped dead in a split second. V blinked and froze at the spot, taken aback by a sudden help. She began turning her head to all directions, attempting to find the mysterious savior (or maybe not, maybe that someone was planning to kill her as well), yet there was no one in sight. V took her pistol and messily limped towards the dropped supplies, slick fear still enlacing her mind. There was still someone watching her, there was still a possibility she would get killed just as easily.

 “Is…someone here?” she tried to scream, but it came out more like a shaky, scared squeak.

 No answer came. V gulped and attempted to finally get it on with carrying supplies while she could. Yet when she leaned down to pick up the first box, she felt someone’s hot breath on her neck.

“Heya, little kitten~”

 V screamed, jumped, dropped the box and fell on the ground, her leg hitting her with a sharp pain as she messily landed on the ground. She instinctively clutched the pistol and aimed it at whatever came after her. Her heart beat frantically, eyes went wide and V was already counting her last seconds. It was definitely her death, wasn’t it?

One would definitely agree to that statement. V finally dared to move her eyes away from the trembling hands and towards the actual person who was looming over her. Her heart skipped a bit the second she came face to face with the Hunter. He looked as carefree as she remembered him from their very last encounter: curved lips, nonchalant posture and eyes glowing as brightly as some jewels. He was amused.

 “Oh my, I scared ya, didn’t I?” he laughed, baring the sharp fangs.

 V felt relief surge through her for a split second, before a new wave of doubts, hidden fears and gruesome scenarios filled her vision yet again. Maybe he was just putting up a front to lower her guard and then he would kill her off. What was he even doing here? Was he after her haven? Was he after her?

 “Tch tch, remove that lil toy, will ya? If I wanted, you’d already be dead, so don’t bother,” Hunter tutted and with a simple movement disarmed her.

 V crawled back, feeling like a small mouse in front of a big cat. He had a point yes, but V also knew Hunter was a man of whims and loved to act upon fleeting desires. And she couldn’t foresee when his fascination with her would end and turn into indifference.

He should have had some ulterior motive; he wouldn’t have even bothered to come to such a deserted and inhospitable place just to make fun of her. And that inability to predict the Hunter’s actual plans sent her mind in a spiral of panic.

 “D-don’t come any closer-”

 “Ah, and there I thought I would at least get a ‘thank you’ for shootin’ dat fat buffon,” Hunter casually removed the box and started approaching her.

 It was quite funny how she was even more scared of him now than when he took her captive back in the day. Unpredictable even for such a brilliant tactician like him.

 Hunter haltered midway, and V could almost swear he heard or even saw something. Yet she wasn’t given enough time to even ponder, as he abruptly lifted her from the ground and in the very next moment she was thrown into same tent where she was hiding from ADVENT. V squealed, as the Hunter hadn’t bothered to be careful or gentle. Tears welled up in the eyes, as her wounded leg throbbed with sharp and pulsating pain.

 “What the hell are you-?”

 “Shh,” the Hunter cut her off. “Stay still and don’t even think about steppin’ outside, ya got it?”      

 V froze, following the Hunter with her eyes only and not daring to make a sound out of pure fear of what could have caused him to do such a crazy thing as hide her. She was basically trapped amongst the smelly and dirty shits, tired, wounded and, on the top of that, she still hadn’t even begun taking the supplies back to the haven. V only hoped another sudden threat would quickly cease to exist, and she would finally be free to do what she intended to do.

 “There you are, brother,” the snarl reached V’s ears. “The Elder’s patience grows thin, they will no longer allow you to ignore their call. Come with me or…I will make you.”

 “I am not plannin’ to waste my time to hear the Elders ‘oh-so-important’ speeches about some great mission that, high purpose this, and I’d advise you to do the same, my dear little sister. Save me the trouble of killing you, and just leave.”

 Ah. V faintly recalled the Hunter briefly mentioning some sister and brother of his during her days at the Stronghold. She had never seen any of them, but if they were any similar to him, it would partly explain his actions. If they saw him with a human, and on the top of that the Resistance member, it would not only result in her own death and the obvious danger to her haven, but in his own possible punishment.

She had to get out of here somehow. By the rather hostile tones of their voices V could tell they were seconds away from getting on each other throats and it would definitely blow up her shaky cover. Her leg hurt, so V took off the jacket, tore it apart as quietly as she could manage and tied it around her bleeding leg. The blood ceased slightly, but still streamed down her shin.

 “You leave me no choice, but to force you to obey,” the Assassin scowled, drew her sword and lunged forward with a cat-like agility.

 V only managed to make one step, before the whole ground shook with a massive force of the two Chosen colliding in battle. Damn, she had to be faster. The small camp got filled with the sounds of the metal clanking and loud shots in no time. V merely hoped the Hunter would taunt his sibling away from her tent and distract her long enough for her to escape unnoticed.

V covered the whole body with a piece of sheet that was dusting under her feet and sneaked out of the tent.

 “Too slow,” she heard the Hunter laugh, as the magnetic beam landed somewhere in close proximity. “There is nowhere you can hide from me, Fon Mai.”

 V took a deep breath and ran with all she could under the saving cover of the woods. Well, ran was more of exaggeration, as her leg allowed her to only awkwardly limp.

Her mission turned into a catastrophic failure. She was forced to flee and abandon the supplies she had almost died for. All the trouble had been in vain, and why? Because the Hunter for some reason decided to show up and play his games.

V leaned against the tree trunk and let her hectic heartbeat calm down a little. The sounds of the battle grew slightly fainter, yet she still could tell apart two tall figures jumping around. His sister looked a bit slimmer than the Hunter, though V could notice she was drastically faster and much more flexible than he. Didn’t look like they were merely playing around. V concluded from the small bits she managed to hear that they were pretty much at odds and that the Hunter wasn’t really keen on doing whatever the Elders planned. Which was good. It would mean the battle would give her some time to cover her tracks and hopefully escape not only that sister of his, but him as well.

V checked her slightly bleeding leg and tightened the sloppily done bandage. Heading to the haven would be far too dangerous and far too obvious. There was also an ADVENT station not so far away, so heading to the south would most likely end up in her being shot. The only really reliable way was to keep to the north and choose the least used tracks that would, hopefully, confuse anyone that would try to follow her.

   Two hours felt like days of climbing up hills, wriggling through bushes and passing by numerous shallow puddles of muddy brown water. V was tired, bleeding, angry and on the top of that really, extremely hungry. Her legs were aching and shaking the more she walked, and V expected her body to collapse at any moment. She needed a break.

Not without a groan she dropped herself at the small patch of moss, took the rifle off and stayed still for ten minutes. If her stomach wasn’t groveling, V could have easily fallen asleep right where she sat. The only thing that wasn’t letting her mood get completely sour was the fact no one was at her tail. At least for now. The sun was slowly setting down and the air around was getting cooler rather quickly, so she had to get going, unless she wanted to get trapped in the woods for the whole night.

V untied her torn jacket to check whether the skin on her leg had gotten any better. It hadn’t, it was still as badly burnt and bloody as before. She wasn’t even sure it hadn’t already gotten infested with some sort of disease. Having pulled out a tiny vial with water, she poured some on the wound to at least clear away the dirt. A loud moan left her lips. V messily scrubbed away the patches of skin and bits of sole, tied everything back and forced herself to keep going.

After one more hour V was standing at the coast of a broad and rather deep river that separated her from the destination point. She was beginning to think the whole world was laughing at her. There was no way she would reach the other side without getting completely soaked and without damaging her rifle. She had no choice, but to take it off and leave where it was. Damn. It was one of her favorites.

The water was cold, almost icy. V felt the teeth clacking, as she awkwardly pushed herself through the torture. She could already feel cramps taking her muscles in a titan hold. This whole day was a complete and utter disaster. She would end up catching hypothermia and die at some stone, lost and forgotten by everyone. Sounded about right.

V’s bluish fingers could no longer rub enough warmth into the skin, so V opted to use them for swimming, as the bottom was no longer reachable even with her height. Almost, almost there.

She stepped out and immediately collapsed on the ground, shaking and trembling. Was she dying? Was it the end? She was alone and had nothing with her to even remotely keep herself warm. The sheet she had stolen from the camp was dropped off in the first hour and now V came to regret the decision. The haven…it was so close, yet so far at the same time. If only she could…replenish her energy somehow.

Something heavy and smelly dropped on her from above. It felt like some thin blanket, strangely similar to the one she was just remembering.

 “Were you even trying to hide your tracks?”

 V yelped and jumped into a more or

[accidental-ducky]

Like Fire in Your Blood--pt 1

He walks through the halls and doesn’t even realize he has a destination in mind until he stops outside of a closed door and his fingers are grazing the cold wood. His claws itch to come out, but he stamps down on the urge to wrench the door from its hinges and throw it with a raw cry of pain.

“That was Scott’s room.” Stiles nearly jumps out of his skin, too absorbed in his thoughts to hear the ‘wolf approaching. “He was my second-born.” Stiles meets Peter’s gaze over his shoulder but can’t quite meet his stare. It doesn’t matter anyway since Peter’s gaze is focused on the door with something like desperation making his lips twitch.

“But he wasn’t your baby, was he? Not your youngest.”

“No.” Peter’s eyes flick to the room directly across the hall and Stiles can recall a little girl’s laughter as she dances around her room with an older boy that had some serious eyebrows. “Don’t ever go in there. It’s not for you.”

“Of course.”

You can also read it on Ao3 here. 

XXI

Stiles remembers the thrill of his first ride, the way clouds burst like droplets of water against his cheeks and wind howled in his ears like wolves. He isn’t even scared of the specters surrounding him, green and translucent and wicked. He isn’t scared because he has his mother right behind him, arms around him with nimble fingers clutching at the reigns. His blood sings in his veins as they gallop through the stars, searching for any lost souls for the Hunt to claim as theirs.

The horses turn as one when a dazzling silver light shoots up into the sky, like a group of embers after a piece of wood collapses. Stiles can’t hold back his laugh when they dive, hoofs connecting with a dirt path that leads into dense woods. He knows without having to look that this is Beacon Hills, the information zipping into his head straight from his mother. This is Hale property and there’s a man lying half-dead near a ravine.

It doesn’t take long to reach the man with a soul like silver, the Hunt surrounding him in a tight circle of Fae horses. Stiles slips down off his mother’s horse and moves closer to the ravine, looking down to try and make out the tiny river at its bottom while his family claims the soul.

He never notices the first of the hunters until he’s got a hand at the back of his neck that’s wrenching him to his feet with enough speed to make him dizzy. “Mama,” he cries out, instinctive. Claudia’s head snaps up, the rest of the Hunt following suit with low rumbles that make Stiles’s bones vibrate.

“Have the Fair Folk learned nothing,” the hunter asks, voice rough and too loud. “You should never bring your young out before they can defend themselves.”

“Your code doesn’t let you kill children.” Claudia’s voice is firm as she takes a step forward, commanding like she talks to her riders.

“No, I suppose not.” Other hunters are coming out now, and Stiles can’t help the way he’s shaking when he realizes his family is outnumbered. Even the Wild Hunt know better than to underestimate humans when they’re all riled up like this. Hunters are cold the way most humans aren’t, Stiles is almost convinced that they’re bred that way. “Adults, however, are free game.”

“We haven’t killed any innocents.” And Stiles knows that tone, is intimately familiar with it; it covers her happy kill-you-with-kisses voice with a layer of ice so thick Stiles is half-convinced the words should be visible.

“And what about poor Alec there?” The hunter uses his free hand to gesture at the corpse, its skin waxy in the moonlight, eyes glazed like marbles. There’s bruising over his heart where hands had reached in and taken his soul, above that is a gash where his throat had been savagely torn open. “Was he not innocent?”

“He was already well past saving, Gerard. You and your men saw to that.”

“Oh no, that wasn’t my work.”

“It was mine.” It’s a small voice, feminine, as two children appear from the greenery. The one that spoke is a little girl that looks around nine, harsher than the older boy that keeps a protective hand on her shoulder. The boy doesn’t fit in with the other hunters, Stiles can see the faint wisps of his soul behind his heart, silver-gold and vibrant instead of dull. It’s not a pure thing even at twelve, but it’s not the soul of a true sinner yet.

“My Katie is a natural, isn’t she?” Stiles can hear the pride in the old man’s voice, sees the way the girl puffs her chest out while her brother stiffens. “Christopher, would you like to make the first kill?” There’s a bow in his hand and a full quiver strapped to his back, but the blond boy gives a jerky shake of his head.

“I’ll do it, Daddy.” And she does, there’s no hesitation as she raises her own bow and fires a silver-tipped arrow into the ghostly crowd. The rider makes a choked noise and drops to their knees, grasping at the shaft only to have their fingers sizzle when they make contact. “Rowan wood, silly. So beasts like you can’t heal around it.”

The Hunt is riled up just as much as the hunters now, growls and hisses filling the air only to be cut short as more arrows fly. Everything seems to happen too fast for Stiles to comprehend, a blur of greens and silvers until the Hunt is bolting into the sky with three dead left behind on the ground.

“Remember this lesson if nothing else, boy,” Gerard says, breath sour as he bends down to hiss into Stiles’s ear. “You are a monster, a foul thing that belongs in hell, and I’ll let Kate hunt you down the next time you come within a mile of Beacon Hills.” He shoves Stiles away from him and urges his children back through the woods, Christopher sending one last glance over his shoulder before the bright Autumn leaves hide him.

Stiles is left alone with only the corpses for company, his mother lying limp on the ground with green smoke slowly curling from her body. She did well with her human guise, but it falls away now and glassy eyes stare up at the full moon.

And Stiles howls.

 XXII

Stiles is raised solely by his father after that, a Reaper that’s dedicated to his job and doesn’t spend nearly enough time with his son. Stiles is loved, though, he knows it in his bones that his father would die for him if need be.

Stiles doesn’t ever plan on watching someone he loves be murdered again.

 XXIII

Gerard Argent is hard to track down considering he’s human, but Stiles finds him when he’s gone gray and sickness is eating at his body. He’s lying in bed as Stiles comes into his room, out of his mind on laudanum and God only knows what else. It doesn’t matter to Stiles, only the fear that lights up the old man’s eyes does.

“Remember me, Hunter,” he asks, low and even. It’s cold in a way his mother couldn’t manage, hard enough to make the old man’s body jerk violently in an attempt to get off the bed. Stiles is faster and he’s on Gerard in a single leap, pinning the human to the bed with ease.

“Faerie,” he growls, teeth bared in a wolfish display of hatred.

“Not quite.” Stiles lets his eyes flare golden and blue ones go wide in fear and realization. Stiles hates blue eyes, they make his stomach roil and anger burn in his veins like fire. “I’m a Demon, a half-breed of powerful parents.” He sits up, straddling the old man’s thighs so he can pull up his shirt and reveal his Mark. It’s simple compared to others he’s seen, crossed scythes inside a golden circle that glows faintly.

“It’s not possible. The Fair Folk can’t breed with other species.”

“Reapers are technically part of that species, Gerard. That’s what my dad is, a Reaper.” Stiles laughs low in his throat, almost sub-vocal as he grins down at the hunter. Too many teeth, too feral and unhinged to be considered gleeful. “He was pretty angry when he found out you made me watch my mother being killed.”

“I imagine he’ll be furious when I kill you then.” Stiles’s grin falls away as he grabs up one of the bottles on the nightstand. He knows what’s in there, that it’s becoming more and more popular with the rich and poor alike. Opium, the humans call it, deadly if too much is used.

“How much of this do you take? I know it can kill humans, but that’s about it.” Faeries liked opium as much as any other species, they use it for the young ones when they can’t sleep or get sick. It doesn’t kill them, just numbs them to the world and allows them peace for a few blessed days.

“Get off of me. Christopher!” Stiles uncorks the vial and pours out a dab of murky brown liquid on his finger, studying it in candlelight. It smells disgusting to his oversensitive nose, but it looks red in the light, almost like blood. “Christopher!”

“Did you know one of my little powers is to grant wishes? Not like the Djinn do, I mostly deal with anyone who has a grudge against hunters. I wonder why that is.” It’s sarcastic and Gerard sneers at it despite the pain that makes him shake. “Want a taste?” He holds out his finger, rubbing it over Gerard’s lips.

“You little bastard! I’m going to take my time with you, you’ll stay alive just long enough for me to cut your father’s throat.” And that? That’s not going to happen. Stiles grabs Gerard’s jaw and forces his mouth to stay open, dumping the vial’s contents straight down his throat. His eyes flare again and Gerard swallows on instinct, then grunts when he realizes his mistake.

It’s almost funny watching it happen; pupils contract to pinpricks, vomit bubbling up in his throat and going back down as he swallows convulsively. It takes longer than Stiles originally thought, it’s messy and smells awful.

Stiles stands up and goes over to the window, opening it enough to get a breeze inside so the smell doesn’t make him sick. It’s a sweet scent, like old candy left out in sunlight for too long. Gerard is gurgling on the bed, trying to roll onto his side and not quite succeeding. Christopher comes in just seconds later, dressed in his night clothes with his blond hair mussed and gaze hazy.

In the bed, Gerard’s breathing goes ragged and then stops entirely.

“You didn’t actively participate so I won’t kill you,” Stiles tells the younger hunter. He’s a man now, probably in his late twenties and married if the gold band on his finger means anything. Handsome too, with a stubbled jaw and muscles that would make a lesser man swoon. “You didn’t try to stop your father either.” Christopher’s jaw clenches and Stiles can almost hear his teeth grinding. “You can clean up his last mess as repentance.”

 XXIV

Stiles gets used to being summoned and he even accepts some contracts once every few years, but none of them are truly interesting. Gold, love, and drugs are what most summoners want and Stiles finds himself wishing for the old days when people summoned the Fair Folk for good harvests and the life of a loved one near death. His mother lived for those requests.

(always demand a price, my little mischief. otherwise these humans will get too greedy. but what about others, mama? the supernatural ones? everything comes with a price. don’t do anything for free even if they’re unhuman)

 XXV

Stiles is a fox when he encounters Werewolves for the first time; an adult and his pup out in the woods to observe the wildlife. The young one is crouched low, brown eyes wide as he takes in the small colony of rabbits not far from where Stiles is hiding. The adult is the one that spots him and Stiles darts away, tail flicking back and forth lazily.

He has blue eyes, that ‘wolf, and Stiles feels sick.

 XXVI

Stiles is growing bored in his long life when he’s summoned again, the darkness of his realm a comforting thing that lets him hide in his other skin. There’s a Werewolf waiting for him there, burned and angry and wishing hard enough to make Stiles’s head spin. Calmness spreads through him slowly, though, this realm suiting his rage and easing the pain of loss if only a little.

He’s pretty in the way that most Weres are, no delicate façade on this one even before he was ravaged by fire. Stiles moves closer, just a couple of feet, and he studies the fresh scars and the Alpha spark that turns the man’s soul a bright, pulsing crimson. Stiles wants to see those eyes opened, the power that drives him.

“Who are you,” Stiles asks, curious. The ‘wolf’s head snaps in Stiles’s direction, not expecting for his call to be answered. His eyes are closed, but Stiles is kind enough to project the images of what he would see. Only Stiles can open his eyes here, only he truly belongs in this realm of frigid cold and void. “Why does a ‘wolf summon me?”

“Revenge.” His voice is hoarse, throat still healing after breathing in acrid smoke for almost an hour. The scent clings to him, like a second skin he can’t quite shed.

“That’s all anyone ever wants.” Stiles moves closer to him, letting his fur caress blistered flesh to give it some relief. No one should hurt here, not with unimaginable loss like this man is. This is a place for healing, a place for wishes. “What makes you so special?”

“Nothing, I’m sure. But I’ll pay whatever price you demand. I’ll give you anything.”

“What if I want the soul of your firstborn?” The man goes rigid and it’s agony that etches its way into the lines of his face, claws raking through the air as they shoot out from previously blunt nails. Stiles knows that reaction well, the anger singing in the man’s heart, but he laughs all the same to break up the pain clouding the air. “Relax, ‘wolf, the souls of children are hardly interesting. Besides, you have that particular scent of loss that means your firstborn has already passed. What was its name?”

“Jackson.” The name passes his lips on a broken sob, the sound of a man that’s lost everything that he’s ever cared about. It makes Stiles think of twenty-four years ago when the same sound made his throat raw, brown eyes stuck on the rowan wood shaft sticking out of his mother’s chest until his father showed up and carried him away. “His name was Jackson and he was just murdered by hunters along with the rest of my pack.” Stiles’s tail flicks before he can stop it, anger flooding him and leaving a sour taste in his mouth.

“You want revenge on those hunters?” Stiles doesn’t mean to phrase it as a question since he already knows the answer, knows the outcome. Hunter blood is something Stiles loves to watch flow in the streets and he’s heard of a particular hunter that enjoys setting fires. “I’ll help you.”

“What’s your price in return?” Stiles lets a claw run along the thin skin beneath the man’s eye on the unburnt side of his face, watching in fascination as the red line heals just as quickly as Stiles makes it.

“This I’ll do for free. Hunters killed my mother and I take a special sort of glee in watching the life leave their eyes.”

He uses his magic now, feeling it flow through his body like water as it douses the phantom flames that licks up the ‘wolf’s side. The darkness of his realm is slowly replaced with starlight, tiny pinpricks of light against an endless sky that’s nothing compared to how moonlight makes this man’s face look a marble carving from ancient times.

“You need to wake up, ‘wolf. Open those pretty red eyes for me.” The man’s eyes open with a flutter of curled lashes, the vivid red of an Alpha that slowly fades to a blue that almost makes Stiles regret this contract. Eye color doesn’t determine loyalty, though, and Stiles knows he has his own issues to work out. “What’s your name? I can’t exactly call you ‘wolf for however long this takes.”

“Peter Hale.”

 XXVII

“Can you heal my scars?”

“No.”

“You can’t or you won’t?”

“I can only give you your revenge, ‘wolf, not physical perfection.”

 XVIII

Peter Hale craves touch that Stiles can’t freely give. He notices the way Peter’s fingers twitch as though to reach out and pull Stiles closer, the way he leans closer into whatever gesture of kindness the Demon allows. Stiles gets it, Peter is touch-starved and ‘wolves are tactile, but Stiles just…. Isn’t.

Foxes are mostly solitary by nature, it’s literally ingrained into Stiles’s instincts to shy away from pack behavior, but he’s trying. He’ll touch when Peter looks like he’s about to fall to pieces, remembers the little touches his dad would give him when Stiles was still a child that helped to ground him back in reality. Little things, but not often and not lingering.

Peter seems like he has an understanding of that, he doesn’t try to force any touches which Stiles is thankful for. There are nights, though, that Stiles wonders what Peter’s stubble will feel like against his fingers. He even goes so far as to perch on the edge of the hotel bed and stretches out his fingers, but then Peter’s eyes will open and the blue of them always makes Stiles think of bad things.

(you are a monster, a foul thing that belongs in hell, and i’ll let kate hunt you down the next time you come within a mile of beacon hills)

Stiles shakes his head and goes back to the window, looking out over the deserted streets of the town and the lone figure that prowls over rooftops with the curved metal of his scythe flashing under the starlight.

“Are you okay,” Peter asks, sitting up with the heavy blankets pooling around his waist. His chest is bare to Stiles’s gaze, a faint smattering of hair that’s the same dark blond on Peter’s head. “Stiles?” His eyes can’t quite meet the blue ones, but he nods an affirmation and goes back to watching his dad protect the territory the Stilinskis claimed before the Argents were ever conceived.

There’s a rustle of cloth and then snores that are just loud enough to keep Stiles from being lost in his past. If nothing else, he can appreciate that.

 XXIX

Stiles is pretty sure that his father is worried. He’s pretty sure because the Reaper is currently pacing around the sitting room and ranting about how a certain Werewolf needs to work on controlling his temper on occasion. Peter, for his part, is lounging in a chair near the window, turned so that his left side is facing the others.

“You’re lucky the Viscount is too scared to retaliate,” John snarls, spinning on his heel and wagging a finger at Peter. “You can’t just hang men over a balcony by their feet! What the hell were you thinking?”

“That he shouldn’t press up against young ladies without their consent.” The tirade dries right up and Stiles has to bite his tongue to keep from laughing. Peter sees that he’s gotten the upper hand and straightens in his seat. “I’ll bet Raeken will remember what I did to him every time he looks at the Tate girl.”

“He’ll also remember that she goes for the eyes,” Stiles adds, grinning. Malia Tate was a sight to behold, all wild energy and bared teeth as she launched herself at Viscount Raeken as soon as Peter had the leach back on his feet.

John sighs and drops into a chair of his own, raking fingers through his short-shorn hair. Stiles used to keep his hair short like that, but he likes to fiddle with it when he’s stressed and that works better when it’s long.

“Alright,” John sighs after a long while, blue eyes wary. “Alright, fine, Raeken deserved all the threats and he’s lucky that Malia didn’t tear his throat out with her teeth. Can the two of you at least promise me not to go around looking for trouble?” Peter and Stiles share a look, gazes meeting from across the room and a silent conversation passing between them. It’s a new thing, this exchange of looks and eyebrow signals, but it makes something inside of Stiles start to thaw.

From the way that John slumps in his chair, it’s pretty clear that he understands the trouble won’t end until Kate’s blood is staining the ground.

 XXX

The newly rebuilt Hale House is a sight to behold, reminding Stiles of the old human fairy tales his mother would tell him on cold nights. There are no turrets or moats, but it’s refined like he always imagined castles to be, silence laying harshly against stone and wood alike. It’s too big, too quiet, and Stiles thinks of the boy that freed him from a trap in the woods.

(i’ll take care of you until you can walk again, don’t worry. my father says we shouldn’t name wild animals, but i think you look like a travesura)

He walks through the halls and doesn’t even realize he has a destination in mind until he stops outside of a closed door and his fingers are grazing the cold wood. His claws itch to come out, but he stamps down on the urge to wrench the door from its hinges and throw it with a raw cry of pain.

“That was Scott’s room.” Stiles nearly jumps out of his skin, too absorbed in his thoughts to hear the ‘wolf approaching. “He was my second-born.” Stiles meets Peter’s gaze over his shoulder but can’t quite meet his stare. It doesn’t matter anyway since Peter’s gaze is focused on the door with something like desperation making his lips twitch.

“But he wasn’t your baby, was he? Not your youngest.”

“No.” Peter’s eyes flick to the room directly across the hall and Stiles can recall a little girl’s laughter as she dances around her room with an older boy that had some serious eyebrows. “Don’t ever go in there. It’s not for you.”

“Of course.”

(my name is scott, but everyone here calls me scotty. aunt talia says i might get to be alpha when i grow up because i carry an ember in my chest right behind my heart)

“Do you want to talk about him? My father says that’s supposed to help you process your grief.” Peter’s shoulders go rigid and his claws shoot out to rip through a leg of his trousers. “It didn’t do me much good, but I just wanted the offer on the table. Free of charge, as always.” Stiles moves past Peter and heads out to the plot of land on the east side of the house where a garden will be created. Stiles remembers a dark-haired woman working out here for hours, cheeks red in a sunburn that heals over and over again, smile bright as she calls for her baby girl to stop terrorizing Cora.

Stiles remembers.

 XXXI

W płatkach herbacianej róży Calineczka śpi Nawet przemęczony świerszczyk Zasnął w trakcie gry.

 XXXII

There’s a day between hunter deaths when Stiles meets a young ‘were named Brett, beautiful and lazy and everything that Stiles isn’t. His movements are graceful and his muscles ripple beneath his tailored clothes and Stiles wants to study him for hours. Brett catches his gaze and smiles, predatory or promising, Stiles can’t decide which.

Stiles smiles back.

 XXXIII

Chimeras, Stiles decides after a decidedly ungraceful face-plant, are cheating assholes. Mason Hewitt, despite the big brown eyes and innocent smile, is chief among them. Evil. Pain in the ass. Rude. Stiles will think of some more adjectives when Kira stops her cackling and his broken nose finishes healing.

“It was Kate,” said asshole is currently shouting. “Kate set the fire!” Stiles remembers hard blue eyes filled with hate and glee in equal measures, remembers the rowan wood shaft sticking out of his mother’s chest as she fades to vapor and drifts away on the breeze.

“You’re sure,” Peter asks, voice hitching in his throat for just a moment.

“Positive, Alpha.” There’s a pleased rumble and then Peter’s coming down the stairs, sending the Demon sprawled on the floor an amused look.

“Is there something you’d like to tell Stiles, Mason?”

Mason glances over at Stiles, looks him dead in the eye, and smirks. “I thought Demons were supposed to be graceful, Stiles. Falling over the second-floor railing is something a human might do.” He tsks and walks over to where his mate is currently howling with laughter, Liam’s grin bright as he leans on Kira for support.

Assholes, the lot of them.

 XXXIV

Stiles wakes to the sound of Latin being chanted, an old summoning ritual that forces him away from the window seat where he’d been watching the Hunt circle through the sky on phantom horses. He’s not even fully aware that he’s moving until he’s in the entrance hall and kneeling in front of a human. The man is tall and lanky, not particularly attractive even by human standards with pale green eyes and a sheen of sweat making his forehead glisten in the moonlight.

“That amulet doesn’t belong to you,” Stiles rasps out, brown eyes glued to the amethyst stone swinging in a shaky hand. It belonged to his mother, taken when she was nearly killed by a group of hunters when Stiles was too small to ride with her and the others. She got away with her life, but the necklace had been ripped from her throat. Stiles has an idea of who that hunter was.

“It does for tonight,” the man says, then continues to chant. Stiles feels the magic weaving around him tightly, compressing his chest until he can only manage weak pants and pained whimpers. This isn’t going to kill him, that’s not the point of this new spell, it’s a banishment; back to his realm, to the cold and the void where no one can find him unless their wishes are meaningful.

A growl sounds behind him, making his bones vibrate and something in his belly unfurl in warmth. The man, for his part, just straightens his shoulders and chants faster, the sudden burst of pain making Stiles’s back arch with a wheezed cry.

“Come any closer and I’ll banish him back to hell.”

“Do him anymore harm and I’ll feed you your own heart,” Peter says, a promise delivered calmly. Stiles can imagine the way Peter’s eyes have bled to crimson, the violence hiding just under the surface behind his human face. “Who are you?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“Why are you here?”

“Clearing a debt.” His sweat is soaking into his clothes now, permeating the room with a foul stench of unwashed skin and withdrawal. He’s an addict, but a smart addict since he keeps chanting just enough that Stiles can’t lash out. He wants to tear the man apart for this pain, for holding Claudia’s necklace like he has any right.

“You don’t have to do this.”

“Yes, I do! She said I’d stay alive if I got rid of your pet Demon!” The man swallows hard enough that Stiles can hear his throat click, like some awful confession had just rolled off his tongue when they all knew who sent him this entire time. Who else would send an addict to do their dirty work? Kate fucking Argent is going to pay.

“You don’t have to do this, Adrian. She can’t get you here.” Peter’s voice is all soft and sweet, reasonable in a way that Stiles has never heard it. It reminds him of the Leprechauns that can talk people out of taking their gold, talk them into deals that hold no benefit for the humans and grim amusement for the Fair Folk.

“That’s not…. I can’t—”

“Just stop the spell, Adrian. We can all walk away from this.” Adrian’s eyes begin to cloud over and his shoulders relax, the amulet falling to the ground with the soft sound of crystal against wood. “No one ever need know.”

Stiles is sucking in deep gulps of air the second the spell is broken, too weak to hold himself upright and falling to the side. Strong arms catch him before he can hit the ground, though, cradling him against a broad, warm chest. The touch isn’t something that Stiles can cherish, but he understands the ‘wolf’s need to check over a packmate. And Stiles files that word away to examine later on, the instinctual use of it troubling him far more than the comfort of Peter’s hold.

“Are you okay?”

“Why did you do that,” Stiles demands, the shock making his words sound harsh even to his own ears. No one ever saves him, not since his mother was killed. Even his father doesn’t step in anymore, just stands off to the side and watches Stiles fight his own battles and come out victorious if a little ragged around the edges.

“Do what?”

“Save me.” Peter looks like he wants to answer, like the response is dancing on the very tip of his tongue, but he swallows it down and offers up a shrug in response. He helps the Demon up the stairs to Peter’s room, dressed him in Peter’s sleep pants, and tucks him safely away in Peter’s bed. It’s a way to scent mark, Stiles realizes, and he most certainly doesn’t preen under the attention before healing sleep forces him under.

Peter’s the one that sits by the window tonight, listening to a howling wind that doesn’t make the browning leaves shake on their branches.

 XXXV

Tormenting Kate Argent probably shouldn’t be this much fun, but it’s certainly not the worst thing Stiles has ever done. Watching her chase her own tail as Stiles manipulates the shadows will keep him entertained for months.

 XXXVI

“This is my mom,” Scott says, hefting the little black fox closer to his chest. “Mama, say hi to Travesura.” The woman turns and Stiles is met with an amused quirk of the lips as brown eyes examine him.

“Hello, Travesura, it’s nice to see you again.” Stiles makes a sound that’s as close to purring as he can get, letting Melissa rakes her fingers through the fur on his back. All the ‘wolves have been doing that lately and it makes Stiles want to bolt away, back to the forest where he can be left alone. His paw is healed by now, but he can’t quite bring himself to leave Scott’s side.

“Father says I have to release him soon. I guess foxes don’t have packs like we do.”

“That’s right, sweetie. He’ll be better off in the woods.” Stiles wants to argue about that, but he doesn’t give himself away and curls his head beneath Scotty’s chin. It’s completely ridiculous, Stiles is aware of that, but he’s come to think of the child as one of his. A kit in need of constant supervision so that Laura doesn’t try to shove him again. It makes Stiles’s hackles rise even if he knows it’s all in good fun.

“Fine, but I won’t be happy about it.”

 XXXVII

Peter should be asleep, they have along day ahead of them in the morning, but instead the ‘wolf is lying in bed and staring up at his canopy. He’s interesting to watch, but Stiles prefers him deep in slumber when all the hard lines go soft and his lips part in rumbling snores.

Stiles gets up from the window seat and comes to stand next to the bed, reaching out slender fingers to offer a comforting touch but drawing them back to his palm before they can graze Peter’s stubble. He can’t make himself do this, can’t touch the way that Peter needs him to.

“Can’t sleep,” he asks instead.

“Too many thoughts in my head.” Stiles frowns at that, settling onto the bed carefully to avoid jostling the ‘wolf. He knows all about thoughts that swarm like bees, buzzing away in his head and keeping him from peace. He tried drugs once, drunk enough wine to put a human in the grave, but nothing helped. Mom used to kiss me on those nights, a kiss to take away the pain. And it’s instinct that takes over despite the way he doesn’t like the feeling of stubble or that blue eyes still make his belly squirm like it’s full of snakes.

His lips are nearly touching Peter’s when the bedroom door flies open to permit the Betas, Stiles jerking in surprise hard enough that he falls to the ground with a shriek. Stiles frowns as he stands, brushing off his clothes and meeting Peter’s gaze again, feeling a little sick. He’s almost glad that they were interrupted now, even if part of him remembers how he felt so safe in Peter’s arms a week ago. And when he moves back to the window seat rather than accepting Peter’s outstretched hand, he only feels the slightest bit of remorse.

Overhead, the Wild Hunt sweeps over Beacon Hills and a Reaper patrols on the ground.

 XXXVIII

“What the fuck is that?”

“A family of mice, Stiles.”

“But why are they in the house?”

“For my Scotty.”

 XXXIX

Stiles cooks up a large breakfast that morning, starting with scrambled eggs and ending with a medium rare venison steak that’s still got some blood pooling under it on the plates as he sets them out. Liam is the first one in the kitchen, bruises smudged under his eyes. Mason and Kira shuffle in after him, still half asleep as they pile up around the table and begin fixing their plates.

“Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more,” Stiles quotes, the Betas all groaning in disgust. Early morning Shakespeare, according to Kira, is cruel and should be punishable by death. Peter joins them ten minutes later, dressed in funeral blacks that make him look washed out.

“Or close the wall up with our English dead,” he finishes, grim.

 XL

Stiles is burning with his anger, but it doesn’t burn nearly as bright as Peter and Kate do in the middle of the forest.

 XLI

Peter waits until he can’t hear his Betas before he turns to where Stiles is scrubbing at a stubborn spot on one of the plates, soap bubbles clinging to his arms all the way up to his elbows. It’s going to be a serious talk, he knows, can scent the desperate ache coming off Peter. His fox wants to hiss at it, run away into the woods or retreat into the bedroom upstairs where not even Peter goes.

“I need to ask you a favor, Stiles.”

“Then ask, but I won’t promise I’ll grant this wish to you.”

“It’s not a wish, it’s a request.” Stiles arches a brow, but he doesn’t stop scrubbing or meet blue eyes that are just a pale shade away from being awful. Peter steps close to him, making sure their arms don’t brush as he begins rinsing the clean dishes and setting them aside to be dried later on.

“My answer remains the same, ‘wolf.”

“I want you to kill me again.” And it takes all of Stiles’s restraint not to break the plate clean in half at those words and the stab of panic that lances through him like a hot knife in his chest. (or a rowan wood shaft with a silver tipped arrowhead and a malicious hand that sends it flying)

“What?” The word is choked out, barely comprehensible and all he can manage as he actually turns to look at Peter. “Are you fucking kidding me? After all this planning, all this blood, you want me to fucking kill you?” Peter nods and looks genuinely surprised when he has to drop to the floor as the plate goes soaring over his head and collides with the wall.

(anger flaring in blue eyes as a glass hits a hunter’s wall, slivers and shards glinting like diamonds on a carpeted floor that soaked through with meyers’s blood)

“Let me explain—”

“You don’t get to do this now, Peter! Those kids depend on you to keep them sane, you’re their Alpha! You don’t just get to roll over and bare your neck right now!” And his eyes, he knows, are burning gold and there’s a faint green shimmer outlining him after all those years he spent around the Hunt.

“Listen to me!” The growled command actually makes Stiles shudder and tilt his head back, a ‘wolf’s instincts rather than his own. To his credit, Peter doesn’t scent mark him afterwards, though his fingers curl into his palm with the effort. “Just….” His voice falters now, fading away like mist in sunlight. “I want Kate to burn like my family did and the only way that’s going to happen is if I keep her pinned down.”

“Forget it, I’m not doing that to you.”

“Then do it for Claudia. Why should that Argent bitch get to live when our loved ones have been decimated by her family for the simple reason of being born something other than human?” Stiles flinches away from the words, rubbing at his chest where the shaft of wood stuck out of his mother all those years ago. He feels all fight rush out of him in that moment, leaving him an aching and confused kit again.

“How will I explain it to the pups?”

“You’re clever, Stiles. I’m sure you’ll figure something out.”

 XLII

“Why here,” Kira asks, eyes still orange in her anger. It’s aimed at Stiles, the question and roiling emotions, and the Demon gives a languid shrug. The beach is quiet and out of the way, hidden by Fae magic so that only a select few can find it. Peter’s been searching for it, wishing for it, and Stiles can give him this if nothing else.

“Because this is where Peter feels the most at home.”

“But Peter’s dead.”

“Yes, and you and your pack chased me for three entire days until Liam became so exhausted that he ran into a tree. Can we move on now?” She scowls but doesn’t offer a protest as she clears debris from the moon-bleached sand. Liam and Mason are playing in the water a few feet away, the Werewolf’s broken nose slowly healing and the blood getting washed away from his face with each splash.

“Someone’s here, Stiles. Someone who isn’t human or Were.” Stiles turns his head and smiles when he spots his father, the older man looking haggard and bone tired.

“I found him,” John says. “I put him in your little realm and he’s sleeping until you get there.”

 XLIII

Stiles remembers the thrill of his first ride, the way clouds burst like droplets of water against his cheeks and wind howled in his ears like wolves. It’s nothing compared to the feeling of fingers scratching through his fur or his ‘wolf gazing over at him with eyes bright and smile soft, tender. Peter reaches out and Stiles leans into the touch, nuzzling into the warm palm in spite of himself. His mate needs touch, Stiles will oblige every now and then since Peter’s been so good at respecting his boundaries. And when he looks into those blue eyes, Stiles doesn’t feel sick anymore.

“Welcome home, ‘wolf.”

[kasunex]

“I Choose this Fate of My Own Free Will” - What Persona 3 Means to Me

As a forward, I decided to write this post after finishing my fifth replay of Persona 3. I didn't want to go too in-depth, but rather to focus on what particularly stood out to me as the most important elements: gameplay, design, and story synchronization, and the characters of Makoto, Aigis, Junpei, Chidori, Takaya, and Shinjiro. With that out of the way, I hope you enjoy!!

Persona 3 is a game unlike any other that I have ever played. When I began it for the first time on December 25th, 2012, I was in a pit of confusion and fear, struggling with abuse, isolation, depression, and anxiety. By the time I finished the game, on January 2nd, 2013, I was overwhelmed with emotions that would bring about the biggest change in the way I see the world any work of fiction has ever led me to. Even six years later, when so much media is unable to elicit response from me, it’s Persona 3 that drives me to tears again and again.

At first glace, Persona 3 wouldn’t seem much more than an edgy escapist experience for nihilistic teenagers. The emo design of the protagonist, the often rude and even callous dialogue options, the coffins, and most notably, the mock suicide used by the characters to fight. Yet, this initial impression hides behind it a genuinely heartfelt and anti-nihilistic message, hinted at from the start. The first screen of the game gives us this cryptic statement. “Time never waits, it delivers all to the same end. You who wishes to safeguard the future, however limited it may be, you will be given one year. Go fourth and do not falter, with you heart as your guide.” This is presented without ever receiving much explanation, but it sets the tone for what is to come. All throughout Persona 3, the shadow of death is present. The obvious places to point are Pharos’ visits to remind the player the end of the world is near, or the evokers and their aforementioned suicidal imagery. But it also does so in more subtle ways as well.

The theme “Mystic” plays at the beginning, when the player agrees to Pharos that he will “take responsibility for his actions”, and is reminded that “nobody can escape time.” From then on, Mystic plays in the background of the Tartarus themes. The theme of the first block is subtle, mysterious, and eerie. As the player climbs, the omniscient atmosphere grows. By the time of the final block, the music has taken on an intensive and foreboding feel, the shift building towards a gradual climax. Pharos’ statement that one can’t “close their ears or cover their eyes” is one the player is reminded of time and time again, and it can be felt that things in Persona 3 are building towards Makoto’s doom from the very start. While I can understand the oft repeated criticism of Tartarus as grind-heavy and somewhat generic randomly generated dungeon, it being a tower is the perfect way to metaphor for this inescapable fate. Each step up the stairs of Tartarus bring the player one step closer to their ultimate fate, one that, fittingly, can only be death. After all, what else does life amount to but one step forwards to death with each moment we all live? The game over screen serves as yet another reminder of this: “Death is not a hunter unbeknownst to its prey. One is always aware that it lies in wait. Though life is merely a journey to the grave, it is not one to be undertaken without hope.” Tartarus is the ultimate symbolism of this concept, even more so with the appearance of the Reaper. If one stays on a floor of Tartarus too long, they are reminded to keep moving forward, lest death take them before they have accomplished their mission.

Makoto Yuki is a unique protagonist. A mix of Japanese and Western RPG tropes, he is both his own character, and yet also an extension of the player. In many ways, Makoto has an individual personality that is portrayed subtly throughout the game. This can be seen in his design, in his unchosen reactions, in the range of options provided to the player, his turbulent but close friendship with Junpei, and in his bond with Aigis. Yet, the game also goes out of its way to reinforce the player’s identification with Makoto. In another oft criticized choice, the player is unable to directly control any character but him, even in battle. This forces the player to identify themselves as Makoto in particular, rather than as the puppet-master of the entire party. As mentioned before, his dialogue and certain actions are often controlled by the player as well. In this space the player is given to input themselves on to Makoto, the game ensures that we remain in his shoes, while also ensuring that the narrative purposes ultimately override player choices. In this implementation, the game is given unique control over its audience for narrative purposes.

From the start, the player is encouraged to expressing an uncaring worldview onto Makoto. When Pharos first states that the end of the world will soon come, one of the options is “I don’t care”. Indeed, why would the player care? Regardless of their thoughts on such a thing happening in reality, there seems little reason to feel invested in the fate of a fictional one. What more is the player there but to fantasize about being a hero, right? It’s natural to look at SEES and romanticize their struggle. In some ways, Persona 3 would seem to encourage this viewpoint, but it also questions it. Much of the game is focused on the motivation of the characters, on their varying opinions on the Dark Hour and on their lives in general. The player is given many views at which to approach the situation and of course, many options to express their own stance. Yet, the player can’t deny that their role is in that sort of escapism. The most on-the-nose comment is given by Junpei, trying to understand why he is angry at the thought of the Dark Hour vanishing, despite it putting a decent amount of people in a coma. “I talk a big game about fighting, but hell...it’s all I’m good for. If it weren’t for that...I’d be worthless.” Junpei cuts through the audience’s defenses with this statement. Despite their proposed hatred of the Dark Hour, many of the characters do feel a sense of purpose in their powers that is missing from their daily life. But can the players say much else for themselves? Even if it’s just a simulation, a game, why would one play it if not to fulfill something missing in their real lives? Would we really react much differently in their shoes?

It’s not until October that the game truly begins to turn this sentiment on its head. After a boss fight, Shinjiro is shot and killed. Killing a party member so soon after their active addition is an uncommon choice, in part because it essentially leaves any effort that the player puts into leveling them null. The most notable example is certainly Aerith from Final Fantasy VII, one that has become infamous for the reaction it invokes in fans of the game. Killing off Shinjiro makes clear that the game is willing to kill off major characters, and it breaks through preconceptions about plot armor, all the more prevalent in games, to remind the player that there is true danger in this situation. Shinjiro’s death also highlights the disconnect between those who have lost loved ones and those to for whom death is just a statistic or a news story. The other students are apathetic at best and disrespectful at worst. They don’t act unrealistically, or even too unsympathetically, but they clearly don’t grasp that Shinjiro was more than a punk. He was someone with friends, dreams, and a future. And can any of us really say we would think any differently? When we hear that some number of people died on the news, do we really see these people as individuals? I can attest that I at least would reasonably see such things in a very abstract way. The other students are not vilified, their comments are nothing that seems unlike what we ourselves might say. The fear of their own mortality leads them to distance themselves emotionally from Shinjiro, writing him off as a delinquent so as to paint him as "the other". But we knew Shinjiro, and so we see their comments in a different light. Makoto is given the option to tell the students badmouthing Shinjiro to shut-up, with Junpei joining him. It’s here that Persona 3 demonstrates a remarkable ability to shift itself away from the nihilistic view of the world that it once seemed to foster, while still demonstrating a balanced understanding of that view. This is reinforced again later in the game, when Junpei, the person who clung to the Dark Hour for his sense of purpose, loses Chidori to its violence.

Then there is Takaya, the man directly responsible for Shinjiro’s, and later Chidori’s deaths. Takaya is someone who has fully embraced the Dark Hour as his purpose in life. He is unable to let it go, and he doesn’t care who has to die to protect it. Takaya’s views are extreme, but hardly unrealistic. Much like a drug addict unwilling to accept the damage of their addiction, Takaya downplays and even justifies the Dark Hour as being benign. To him, that feeling of abstraction towards the death of others has become prevalent enough that he only seeks to protect what he believes makes his own special. When he discovers the world is soon to end, he is enthused. This sentiment is echoed by Ikutsuki, many NPCs, and is implied to have been a driving force behind those that created the Dark Hour. Predicting and even anticipating the apocalypse has been in vogue for generations now, and even my own Father once spoke of this to me: “When I was a teenager, people talked about nuclear war between the US and the Soviet Union. There was a part of me that found the thought exciting. The world ends for someone every day, but what a way to die in the absolute end of humanity.” My memory of this statement has allowed me to understand Takaya’s sentiment. When someone becomes disconnected from the world around them, from the mortality of themselves and others, they don't care about the consequences of their actions. Suddenly, the end of the world seems exciting rather than horrifying. Just before the final boss, Takaya forces the party once again to face the reality that their views were originally not so different from his. There is truth in this, as even Aigis admits, yet, they have realized then that they took their lives for granted.

January 31st is the first time that the player is given a choice of their own. Ryoji reveals that the end will soon come with the return of Nyx, the result of so many wishing for an end to the pain of life. He gives Makoto the option to killy him, erase his friends’ memories, and let live them in ignorance of their coming deaths. To refuse this offer is to face Nyx without any hope of success. It’s clear through the party’s gradually unanimous support for fighting Nyx where the game’s writers sided. However, Ryoji once again shows their ability to portray the opposing view in a sympathetic light. Ryoji genuinely cares for his friends and wholeheartedly believes that erasing their memories will save them from unnecessary suffering. In any case, there are many ways to interpret this question. The first time I played the game, I saw it as similar to my own thoughts on whether or not to give up on life and commit suicide. Did I want to struggle against my social, mental, and familial problems that seemed insurmountable, or did I want to give up, and go for one last hurrah before the end of my life? Death awaited either way. The only change was the what my life would amount to. The choice was mine - just as the game had said at the beginning. Whichever outcome resulted in the game, as in real life, was my responsibility to make. At the start of the game, I picked "who cares" as my response to Pharos. Truthfully, at the time, I may well have said the same thing in real life. And, in a decision I would have considered unthinkable when I began the game, I decided to let Ryoji live.

The heavy atmosphere of the game’s final month serves as a constant reminder of the decision made. It is during this time that my favorite Social Link unlocks - Aigis. Her Link focuses on in-depth exploration of what her arc had touched on throughout the previous months. As she had found greater emotional fulfillment in her life in the ability to make choices for herself, she had awoken to the fear of death, and of loss. To find the meaning and purpose she longed for in life was to also be aware of her limitations. Aigis is tormented by her inability to protect her friends, and her feelings of inadequacy as a lover to Makoto. Aigis’ struggle shows that to live with purpose is to live with awareness of how fragile and fleeting life is. To enjoy life, to love, is to open oneself up to the fear and pain of loss. Yet, is to live without enjoyment and purpose any life at all? This dilemma was faced earlier by Chidori, who had lived with apathy and detachment similar to Aigis’ before meeting Junpei. And just as Chidori was forced to confront a fear of death in her newfound love for Junpei, so to is Aigis in her love for Makoto. Ultimately, Chidori pushes Junpei away in an attempt to protect herself from these fears, as Aigis is similarly indecisive for how to approach them. Yet, in Junpei’s near-death, Chidori decides to sacrifice herself to protect him, ultimately deciding to accept and face her pain in order to live.

When the party reaches the height of Tartarus, they face Nyx Avatar. Here, the dialogue explicitly targets the audience. Mitsuru calls Nyx “what awaits all living things from the minute they are born.” Indeed, Nyx Avatar proclaims in the final stage of the battle: “it matters not who you are. Death awaits you.” There is no escaping that this applies as much to the player as to anyone else. When the fight against Nyx Avatar concludes, Makoto ascends alone to fight the true Nyx. With a remix of Mystic playing, he rises through darkness towards a bright light. This scene is reminiscent of the concept of one’s soul rising to heaven, as well as the description that to die is to see “a light at the end of a long, dark tunnel.” Finally, Makoto is face to face with the true Nyx, a ball of glowing light with outreaching skeletal arms. The symbolism makes it clear: the protagonist is facing the very incarnation of death itself. This is what every step up Tartarus, every second of the story has been building up to. Makoto stands alone against his doom. And yet, his friends’ cries of support reach him and give him the power to resist. Eventually, the protagonist gives up his HP to seal away Nyx. The metaphor is heavy, and yet, it is effective.

The ending of the game is, fittingly, where the message is truly brought home. In many ways, it seems almost euphorically happy. The characters regain their lost memories, and Mitsuru jumps off stage in slow motion as upbeat and cheerful music plays. The foreshadowing is there, however. The music that begins when we cut to Makoto with his head in Aigis’ lap is somber, and sorrowful. This scene gives us Aigis’ final resolution. She accepts her fears of losing Makoto, and promises to protect him and stay by his side. Just as nearly losing Junpei had done for Chidori, nearly losing Makoto allowed Aigis to realize the depth of her feelings for him. Aigis has firmly embraced that life is precious and worth living, rejecting her earlier fears that it may have been better to live without emotion. Of course, unbeknownst to her, this realization has come to late. Makoto succumbs to his exhaustion and falls asleep in her lap, never to wake up again. The ending song, Memories of You, expresses Aigis’ resolve to remember and love Makoto for the rest of her life.

Killing a silent protagonist is a rare choice. I have only personally played three other games that do so, though I’ve heard that a small handful of others exist. The belief that the main character of a story should be all but unkillable is a popular idea even outside of gaming. But when the character is meant to have an element of player insert, to kill them off is normally seen as too intense, and too on-the-nose. In Persona 3′s case, it is exactly what is needed to drive home the point. Much like the main character of fiction, it is easy to feel that we have something special about us keeping us alive. Indeed, we are the main character of our own tale, and for as long as it lasts, so do we. But someday our luck will run out and our journey will end, just as Makoto’s did. Makoto’s death reminds the player that nobody is immune to death, and our time will come as well. Nonetheless, Makoto is enough of his own character that we are also able to see his death from a more traditional viewer’s perspective. And in that, the joy of the party, the seeming upbeat nature of the ending, and Aigis’ promise to protect and stay by Makoto makes the loss all the more effective. The ones we love could be gone at any moment, and making it come for the party when they seem so close to a almost cheesy happy ending reminds us of this somber fact.

As Aigis expresses, the ultimate message of Persona 3 is that one can’t find meaning in life as long as they live in denial of the mortality of themselves and their loved ones. Doing so puts people on a path to self-destructive behavior. It is only by accepting the inevitability of death that one can realize just how precious and meaningful life truly is, and only by this realization can that we find true happiness. We see this truth firsthand in our own simulated experience. This is what makes Persona 3 so brilliant - it brings the player into the story in such a way that only a video game can. Say what you will about books, movies, television: for all the advantages these mediums have over video games, only a video game can show a player a fate that is of their own choosing. Yet, no matter how much pain the ending may cause them, it remains undeniable that the player has, in a sense, contributed to the very sentiment it seeks to deconstruct. It’s what drew them to the game in the first place.

Persona 3 develops from a story that uses suicidal and edgy imagery for the adrenaline rush into one that heavily deconstructs and averts these very concepts. By doing so, it encourages the player to re-evaluate these ideas. At the very start, Mitsuru gives a speech telling the students of the schools to dig deeply and re-evaluate their convictions. During my first playthrough, I did just that. In the days, weeks, and months following, my suicidal thoughts dropped drastically and gradually trickled down to nothing. January 2nd now serves as a constant reminder of how I make the choice, of my own free will, to live. So many still see Persona 3 as a depressing and bitter story, like the emotionally disturbed younger brother to Persona 4′s unabashed positivism. It is anything but. Rather, Persona 3 is the most candidly and genuinely optimistic game I have ever played, and it is thanks to it that I was able to find the courage and the hope to move forward from the darkest time of my life.

[the-magnus-archives-archiver]

First Hunt

Case: 0100912

Name: Lawrence Mortimer Subject: His hunting trip to Blue Ridge, Virginia  Date: December 9th, 2010 Recorded by: Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London

I always wanted to go hunting. It always seemed such a manly sort of pursuit. I mean, killing the deer or elk or whatever else was always beside the point; it was just the idea of setting off into the wild, surviving out there, cooking and eating what you kill – it all sounded like such an adventure. I mean, I’d thought about trying it in this country, but shooting pheasants with shotguns and riding down foxes all seemed too much the domain of, uh, nitwits in tweed. So, if I was going to go hunting, I would need to go to another country to do it. Somewhere where they had a few animals worth going after. Thinking about it, I suppose that is what happened in the end, in a perverse sort of way. And it did cost poor Arden his life.

Well, my desire to go hunting was always something of ‘someday’ project. I’m sure you know what I mean: those ideas you have, holidays you plan to do ‘sometime in the future’, but they’re never time- dependent and usually you just keep putting them off for more pressing things. So when I turned fifty back in February, I thought, ‘dash it all, I’m going to go hunting before I drop dead!’ When I told my friends they all thought I’d gone loopy, but I just reminded them that it isn’t just the young that can be impetuous and daft.

Anyway, over the past few years I’d become great friends with an American. Arden Neeli was his name. We’d met on a sceptics message board and got on like a house on fire. When I mentioned I was looking into impetuous hunting trips, he asked how averse I was to hiking. I said not at all, I’ve a been a very active sort, and he told me that in Virginia, his home state, there were a lot of excellent places to go hunting, providing I didn’t mind waiting until October or November. I wasn’t exactly expecting the Grim Reaper to come knocking in the intervening months, so I told him it sounded lovely.

We spent a good long while discussing it, and finally decided to take a three day hike into Blue Ridge on the Appalachian Trail, and see if we could find a deer or an elk for me to shoot. Nature, seclusion and guns – to my ears it sounded just perfect. 

So, early last month I packed my bags and caught a plane over to Virginia. The weather was cold but otherwise pleasant, and to be honest I was surprised how similar it felt to Torquay in November. I normally live in Torquay. I think I put that on your form there. If I did, it won’t hurt you to have it written down twice. I wasn’t, however, fully prepared to meet Arden in person. I’d never met an Internet friend in real life before, and he was far louder and more outgoing than I was prepared for, based on the well thought-out and considerate communications we had previously exchanged. He kept laughing at everything I said as though it was a joke, even when it wasn’t a joke, and would not stop going on about my accent.

Still, all was forgiven when he showed me his gun cabinet. They were beautiful, and while I’m a member of a few shooting clubs over here, you’ve always got to keep your rifles under lock and key, hidden away out of sight. To see a dozen, well-cared for weapons displayed proudly, well, it was just lovely.

We set out the following day, driving up to Blue Ridge from his home in Richmond. It took some time to get there, as everything is so much further apart in America, but we parked at Crabtree Falls shortly after midday. We had our tents and our supplies. I was very excited to don my hunters orange, and to take up my rifle. I was carrying a Winchester M70, which I had read was very good for beginners, while Arden carried a Remington Model 673, his preferred firearm, which he talked about to me at great length. And off we went up the trail.

Our first day was unsuccessful. I was something of a blundering presence, and though Arden was at pains to assure me that our failure was simply due to being too close to a road, I was sure that it was my own crashing footsteps scaring away the creatures. I mean, we hadn’t gone far compared to our proposed route, but we were already several miles from the nearest road.

As the day wore on, we began to look for somewhere to set up camp. We were attempting to “Leave No Trace”, as the Americans say, so we were likely going to set our tents up on the trail itself, but as we began to get them out I heard the strangest thing. It sounded like somebody whistling, a slow version of The Farmer in the Dell or, as I believe it’s more commonly known, A-Hunting We Shall Go.

I looked over, and by the expression of puzzlement on Arden’s face it was clear he heard it as well. I was just about to call out to whoever was whistling, when a figure wandered very casually through the treeline and onto the trail. He walked out of thick woodland as though he were strolling down a promenade. He was short and lean, with long, shaggy black hair and a slightly unkempt goatee. His clothes were the rugged, durable sort you’d expect to see on a hiker, but he had no jacket or coat. He carried no backpack or kit of any sort. In fact it seemed like he was just wandering through the woods with the clothes on his back.

Arden was quicker to pick up on this than I was and asked the man if he needed any help. The hiker stared at him for several long seconds, as though trying to deduce something, then smiled and said, “No”. I didn’t like that smile one bit. Far too many teeth to it, I’d say. He asked us where we were heading, how long we were on the trail for. There was something ever so slightly odd about his intonation, and he dragged the Rs somehow when he spoke. We answered as vaguely as we could without being rude, since neither of us felt comfortable near this man.

The hiker shrugged, and started to walk across the trail, between us. As he did so, he paused for a second, and took a deep breath, and it seemed for all the world like he was sniffing us. Then he said something, I forget exactly. “Tomorrow will be a good day for a run,” or something like that. And then he just started whistling again, and wandered off into the forest behind us. I think both myself and Arden wanted to stop him, it was so clear something wasn’t right with the situation, but we were both... astounded with his manner and I don’t think either of us could have thought of how to do so. And then he was gone.

I needn’t tell you that sleep came difficult. The sounds of the forest at night were far louder than I had ever heard them back home, and every cracking branch, every rustle of leaves, set my nerves on edge. It was an overcast night, and outside the tent was almost completely dark. Around two o’clock in the morning I could have sworn that I heard someone laugh, slow and softly, outside my tent. It sound like it was right by my head, just the other side of the thin nylon wall. By the time I’d managed to get up the courage to check, of course, there was nobody there.

The next day we packed up the camp and set off hunting again, donning our lurid orange vests and rifles. I must admit, I felt ten times better with the weight of the gun in my arms, and was inclined to put the events of the night before behind me. In fact, after a morning spent walking and joking and, on two occasions, damn near bagging an elk, I thought we were both having a splendid time.

It was about four in the afternoon, the sun just starting to begin its descent towards an early autumn dusk, when I saw my elk. I don’t know why, but when I saw him through the trees I knew that he was mine. I told Arden and we started to creep towards it very slowly. He had been teaching me since yesterday, and it wasn’t long before I had my position, and raised my gun. I sighted it just below the ear, and there was a moment, when its head turned right towards me. I could have sworn it looked me in the eye as I prepared to pull the trigger.

A gunshot rang out, but it was not from my gun. The elk startled and ran, and I spun round, but Arden was nowhere to be seen. The shot still echoed through the trees, but he seemed to have vanished. I began to search frantically for him. Had he... Had he been lured away by an elk of his own? Had he been accidentally shot by some other hunters? I called out his name, but there was no reply. 

Eventually, after several minutes of desperate searching, I came to a small clearing. There, slumped against one of the trees was Arden. He was dead. The tree behind him was painted in a spray of crimson, and there was a messy hole in the centre of his throat, as though it had been torn out entirely. His rifle lay next to him on the ground, also coated in blood. It seems silly to say now, but my first thought was to check his pulse. So I put my gun down to do so. Obviously he didn’t have one, but I couldn’t understand what was happening. I’d been with him not three minutes before and he had been alive and unharmed. It didn’t make sense.

Then I heard that whistling. That infernal whistling from the treeline. I turned and there was the hiker. His right hand was coated in Arden’s blood, and he grinned at me. Then he began to sprint. His speed was incredible, and he loped from side to side with a sort of zigzag motion. I ran. I know I should have picked up my gun, but you can’t understand just how frightening it is to have something like that, a true predator, running at you full pelt. Your death charging towards you like freight train. You can’t understand what it is to be prey. So I ran.

I turned tail, leaving my pack and my gun behind, and sprinted into the woods. I didn’t look back, I couldn’t. It took all my concentration to keep my footing, to not trip. I could hear him occasionally behind me, as he charged through a bush or scratched against a tree. I think he did it deliberately, you know. To let me know he was still there. There’s no way I could have won that footrace, but I think he must have been toying with me. After a while I could no longer hear him directly behind me, so I slowed to catch my breath. I’m in good shape, as I say, but I’m not a young man and I was dizzy with the exhaustion.

I sat there, so intent on listening out for any sign of danger, of this man, that I barely even noticed night fall. There were no clouds that night, and I was glad, since I had left my torch along with my pack. If I was to run at all during the night, I would need the moonlight to see by. Of course, any experienced hiker would tell you never to travel the woods at night, and certainly not to run through them, but I hardly had any choice if it came to it. And of course it did. The night was barely half an hour old when I heard it again, that... whistling, then the words floating through the trees, but with an low, bass tone to them. “A-hunting we shall go, A-hunting we shall go”.

And once again I ran. By all rights I should have broken my neck, charging off into the darkness like that. I should have tripped on a root or put my foot in a rabbit hole. I should have at least twisted my ankle. Somehow this didn’t happen, though; I ran and ran and, well, I just kept running. It didn’t seem to do me any good, of course. I was still far slower in the dark than I had been during the day, and it was obvious my pursuer could easily outpace me if he wanted to. So many times I’d hear that song coming from in front of me, and turned sharply to avoid it, until I was utterly lost. 

Finally, I broke through the treeline. I thought at first I’d found another clearing, but looking down, I saw I was next to Arden’s mutilated body. The wretched thing had just sent me in a circle. For fun. For the chase. I was tired, scared, covered in scratches and bruises over my entire body, and for nothing. I was still going to die.

I turned to face my fate, and for the first time that night got a good look at my hunter. The moonlight shone on him in full and what I saw was not human. It’s hard to describe exactly, but everything about him was sharper. His fingers, his teeth, his face, his eyes. His skin.

As I looked at him, the strangest thing popped into my head. Have you ever read The Duchess of Malfi? I had to study it for my O-Levels, many years ago. Dreadful play, as I remember, the worst sort of old revenge tragedy, all incest and murder and madness. But there’s a line that stays with me, a doctor diagnosing the Duchess’ brother with lycanthropy. As I recall it goes, “Once met the duke, ‘bout midnight in a lane behind St. Mark’s church, with the leg of a man upon his shoulder. Said he was a wolf. Only difference was, a wolf’s skin is hairy on the outside, his on the inside”. Looking at this thing that wanted to kill me, it’s the only way it’s the only description that feels right.

He didn’t charge this time, but slowly stalked towards me. I was... acutely aware of the loaded guns by my feet, but I’d seen how fast it could move and I didn’t rate my chances. It got close. Close enough that I could smell the foetid breath. Close enough that I could see the most disturbing thing illuminated by the moonlight: the slick drool on its lips as it salivated in anticipation of a kill. Then it attacked me. 

I am, in some ways, very proud of how I acted during that encounter. You see, as long as the thing didn’t think I was any sort of threat, I hoped it might get sloppy and clearly telegraph its strike. I was right; it drew back its arm and swung a clumsy, triumphant blow. I forget, did I mention my military background? Well, I used to be an officer in the Air Force. Now, it’s been a long time since the Gulf War, and I didn’t do much in the way of hand-to-hand fighting even then, but the training is something that stays with you. It certainly served me well for this one, desperate move, as I caught his arm and pitched his motion around. His claws dug into my shoulder, but missed my neck, and he fell to the floor, tripped by his own momentum. He began to get to his feet almost immediately, but it brought me the precious seconds to grab my rifle and press it to his chest. I didn’t hesitate.

The shot ripped through him and he jerked in pain. Not wanting to take any chances, I fired again and again and again until my rifle was empty. Then I picked up Arden’s rifle and emptied that one into him as well. 

Even after all of that, he still wasn’t dead. He had three bullets in his heart, two in his head and many more through the rest of him, but still he writhed there, making weak noises. I didn’t know how long this would slow him down for, but I hoped it would give me enough time to escape properly. I looked back as I left the clearing to see him slowly and painfully pushing his claws into his chest, digging for the bullets.

It was luck that saved me, in the end. Some park rangers were driving past our trail on a road about two miles distant. They were coming to investigate the gunshots and I stumbled on to the road through sheer good fortune. I never saw that thing again, or Arden, unfortunately, though they managed to find and recover his body about a week later. I don’t think I’ll try hunting again. I know the thrill of power that comes with the ability to end the life of something weaker than you, but... I can’t forget what it’s like to be the hunted.

Archivist Notes: 

Hunted. Yes, I think I’m starting to know the feeling.

Arden Neeli was found dead half a mile off the Appalachian Trail in Virginia on 1st December 2010. His death was ruled a wild animal attack. Mr Mortimer was treated for physical and mental trauma, but was not implicated in his death. Quite frankly that’s all the investigation I’m willing to do on this one.

‘Wolfmen in America’ is too far-fetched and too far away for me to care about. It’s... been two months now since Martin returned and we became the ones being... hunted. Are we being hunted? Martin’s still living here, and I’m leaving less and less. The worms keep turning up. We kill them, but there are more each week. What is she waiting for?

Source: Official Transcript and Podcast (MAG 31 First Hunt)