#i have this thing. where i tend to let go whatever survivor is the killer im playing's counterpart

[bionicboxes]

this is the dynamic they have going on in my head.

Edit: No more reblogs for now this can't be my most popular post I can't bear the weight of this being it.

[bingbongsupremacy]

Lonely Pt. 1

Pairing: Stranger Things x reader Zombie Apocalypse AU

Warnings:

Summary: A few days after the zombie apocolypse took over Hawkins you lost everyone. Once you finally run out of supplies, you're forced to venture out into the town, hoping not to run into anyone and make it to safety alive. Unfortunately, life doesn't always go how you want it.

*Not Proof Read*

This Fic does not mention body type, weight, race, gender, etc. If I happened to mess up and add a pronoun or anything that could define the readers appearance, please let me know so I can fix it. Ty!

ABC List Stranger Things Master List

Pt. 1 Pt. 2

*****

People are evil. They truly. When things get rough the worst parts of us tend to leak out. Maybe it's from fear, maybe it's from adrenaline. Whatever it is, the worst parts of us tend to leak out, forever changing us.

Three days after the virus hit Hawkins my family was killed. A group of blood thirsty survivors tore through my parents' house, killing everyone. Well almost everyone.

I managed to get out. I'm not sure how, but I did. I ran until my lungs hurt. Until I felt like I would die if I kept going.

Flashes of Jason Carver, the athlete turned cold blooded survivalist leader, killing my parents running through my mind. The lack of emotions sent shivers down my spine. How can someone take the life of another and not feel anything? Not feel guilty or disgusting. Somehow the previous three days turned the cocky pretty boy into an emotionless killer.

The personality change is terrifying.

I managed to find a house away from the inner heart of Hawkins. Away from the people. Thankfully, whoever lived there left behind a good amount of food and water.

Unfortunately, food and water can only last so long. I knew this day would come. The day where surviving off of the pantries of nearby homes wouldn't be possible anymore.

Frankly, I'm not sure how I've made it 6 months on my own. I still struggle to kill the zombie things out there. I hide away whenever they come out, hoping they don't hear me move around.

I tuck the last few remaining bits of food into my backpack before pulling the heavy pack onto my shoulders. I do one last sweep around the house, making sure I have everything I need.

I tightly grip onto the kitchen knife in my hand. Hopefully I don't run into a hoard. There's no way in hell I could survive if I do.

I close the front door of the house I've been borrowing for the past half a year. I feel anxiety bubble up in my stomach. I'm scared. I can't deny it. What if I get bitten? Or kidnapped by Jason Carver's pack of assholes?

I have no choice.

The sound of crunching leaves beneath my feet and wind are the only sounds I hear as I step onto empty street. It's silent, the way it has been for months. The last time I heard something was when a small group of zombies wandered through the the neighborhood, managing to somehow stumble into every garbage can possible.

Any sign of human life is gone. The lack of animals is terrifying. Is everything dead? What if I'm the only person alive.

Will I be alone forever?

It's been hard being alone for so long. There's not much you can do when you're by yourself with no access to electricity or running water.

I never thought I'd say this, but I miss my fucking job. At least there I got to talk to people, even if it was a forced greeting.

I finally make it out of the neighborhood. Even though I haven't been this far out in months, I remember every road. I know exactly how to get to the center of town.

There has to be some place with food, right? There's no way Jason Carver could have gotten absolutely everything.

As I pass another neighborhood, I immediately spot the smashed in doors. Windows are shattered and belongings from inside and thrown around the yard. People have raided here.

In a weird way it gives me some sort of hope. Maybe there are people besides Jason and his friends that are alive. Maybe they'll help me.

Not everyone can be evil, right?

Not everyone is a murderer.

A few cars litter the roads, rotting people sitting inside. Some have turned and others are still, their bodies decomposing.

I finally make it to the entrance of main street. All of the surrounding buildings are smashed in. I pass a four car crash in the center of the road, dried blood staining all around.

The loud sound of groans fills my ears. A shiver runs through my back.

There's a zombie somewhere out here.

I turn onto a nearby street and immediately regret my decision. Dozens of zombies wander around the street.

" Fuck. " I mumble, fear crawling it's way towards my throat.

The heads of the zombies snap towards me, their dead grey eyes piercing into my body like a knife.

They have fucking super hearing or some shit. I'm fucked. I'm fucked.

I quickly turn to run down the street. The sounds of shuffling feet follows behind me. They're not super fast, but there's no way I'd be able to run for miles with them behind me. If I stop running they'd easily catch up.

Clenching the knife in my hand, I run as I fast I can off of main street. Maybe I can make it back to the house? Fuck fuck!

Fuck me. The side road is blocked by another group of zombies. My old neighbors, people I used to talk to every day, quickly turn their hungry eyes on me.

I'm so screwed.

I have two fucking hoards behind me.

I turn onto another street, hoping there's not another group on this street.

I'm so caught up in panic that I don't register the sound of a speeding car and gun shots.

A brown and white van speeds in front of me. The door opens as it quickly halts to a stop a few feet in front of me.

" Get in! " The man yells. His eyes trained on the group behind me. In his hands is a large shot gun.

I hesitate. What if this guy fucking kills me?

" Earth to girl, get in the fucking van! " Another man in the drivers seat yells, shooting the pistol in his dirty hands.

Fuck it, being killed by them might hurt less than being eaten alive.

I scramble into the van, immediately noticing the pile of tools and weapons laying around.

The man at the van door slams it shut. He clutches onto the back of the passenger seat in front of him as the driver speeds down the street. He turns his attention to me, immediately raising his gun towards me when the van stops jumping around.

I push myself against the van wall, fear coursing through my veins. Maybe this was a bad idea. Maybe I should've just gotten eaten. " Please don't hurt me! " I keep the knife in front of me, hoping it'll help somehow.

Who am I kidding, a fucking knife won't save me from shit.

" Drop the knife. " The man grunts. His face is covered by a short beard. His long frizzy hair is tied back into a bun, his head covered with a battered hat. A small scar runs down the left side of his face, near his eyebrow. His eyes look familiar but I can't quite place it.

Deciding it's probably best if I listen, I carefully set down the knife. " Okay, okay. " My breath is shaky.

" Check for bites. " The guy up front barks, glancing back at us from the rear view mirror. His skin is covered in splotches of dirt and grime, his eyes are covered with a pair of dark sunglasses. His hair however, reminds me of someone; Steve Harrington. It's neatly put up, only a few stray strands framing his face.

I don't have time to question the looks of the man up front before the guy holding a shotgun speaks to me.

" Show me your arms and legs. "

I don't hesitate to shrug off my bag and jacket. I pull up the ends up my sleeves, turning my arms back and forth before pulling up my jeans. I let out a small wince when I notice a large gash on my ankle. I have no idea where I got this. Maybe I scraped it against something? "

" Where did you get that? " The shotgun man asks, nodding down to my leg.

" I have no idea. I had no idea I was bleeding. "

" Tie them, E. " The man up front says nonchalantly.

My eyes widen. " What? But I haven't been bitten! I swear to god, I haven't been bitten. I-I'll take everything off and show you! " I offer, terrified about what these men are going to do to me.

Guilt flashes in the shot gun holding guys' eyes. " Look, until we know you're not dangerous or infected, we can't take any risks. If you're clear, you'll be out of this in no time. " The guy pulls a handful of zipties from his pocket. " Please give me your hands. "

I hesitantly hand his my hands, seeing no way out of this.

The guy quickly ties my hands and ankles before putting anything sharp in my reach in a locked box. He pulls a small red bag out of the box and scoots towards me.

I try to scoot further into the corner of the van, tucking my arms into my body.

The guy notices. " I'm not going to hurt you. " He pulls out a Band-Aid. " I'm gonna clean your cut up. If it's not infected with the virus, it's going to get infected by some other shit. The last thing you need is an fucked up leg. " His tone is slightly softer than it was a few minutes ago.

I allow him to take a look at my ankle. His cold hands pull my ankles onto his lap before he begins cleaning up my cut. The anti bacterial wipe stings but not bad enough to cause me to wince.

" Good news is it's not deep. Probably a branch or wire that scraped you. "

I take this opportunity to study the mans face. Small dark bags rest under his brown eyes. Over grown bangs droop past his eyes, pushes aside by him every once in a while.

Up closer I notice the shirt he's wearing. It's covered in dirt and blood, making it nearly impossible to tell it was once white. My eyes trace the familiar design. The Hellfire Club.

I was never apart of it, but I'd heard of it. I'd thought about joining back in high school but I was too scared. I worried they wouldn't let me play since I'd be the only girl in the group or think I wasn't good enough to join. I let my fears get the best of me.

" Eddie Munson? " I ask, my eyes looking up at the mans' face.

His eyes meet mine, widening in confusion. " Yeah? "

A little bit of relief fills my chest. I was never friends with Eddie, but I'd worked on a couple of assignments with him growing up. He was always kind and for the most part, did his part of the project. I'm not exactly sure why he got held back. He was smart, he just didn't seem to want to put in the hard work needed to graduate. It was like he didn't believe in himself.

" I'm Y/N. You probably don't remember me, it was so long- " I'm cut off by him.

" From world civ! " His lips curl into a small smile. " I remember you. "

My heart jumps a little. I'd always had a small crush on the dark haired boy. He was one of the reasons I wanted to join Hellfire. He'd talk about it sometimes during our projects, making it sound so fun.

" Is that Steve Harrington? " I ask, glancing to the driver.

" It's me. " Steve replies, his eyes not leaving the road. " Sorry, I don't think I remember you, Y/N. "

I nod. " I was 3 years older than you so we never really crossed paths. " I feel slightly more safe knowing I at least semi know the people I'm with. " Did we lose the zombies? "

" Yeah we lost them a while back. " Steve nods, his eyes glancing back at the rear view mirror every once in a while. " We're going to need to stop for gas soon, Eddie. "

" Fuck. " Eddie sighs. " Of course we are. "

" Should've filled the tank up when I told you. " Steve rolls his eyes.

Eddie finishes bandaging up my ankle before gently fixing the positioning of the ties around it. " I was busy grabbing bullets. "

The van pulls to a stop and Steve shuts off the engine, making sure to take the keys out of the ignition. " Grab the tube. "

Eddie grabs a small bag. A small tube pokes out of the top of it, quickly disappearing when Eddie shoves it down. " We'll be back. " He reassures me before opening the back doors and jumping out.

I quietly lean against the van wall.

" Let's just cut them free. " Eddie's voice is muffled slightly .

" No fucking way, Eddie. I know you know them, but we still have to follow protocol. We keep them tied for at least a week. Until we know they aren't infected. Besides, we don't even know if they're dangerous. They could slit our fucking throats and steal our supplies. " Steve's voice is stern.

Eddie sighs. " They wouldn't do that. I know they would- "

" When was the last time you saw them, Eddie? High school? It doesn't sound like you guys were friends when they graduated. I'm pretty sure you'd be able to recognize them faster if you were. " Steve points out.

" Well, yeah but they're a good person. They wouldn't do that shit. " Eddie defends me, making my heart jump a little.

My stupid fucking crush is back.

" It's been years Eddie. You don't know them. It's been 6 months since shit hit the fan. People change, especially after all the crap that's been going on. They probably aren't the same person they were years ago. Look, nobody's going to hurt them. We just have to keep the ties on until with get back to the lab. "

Eddie gives up arguing. The two return and Eddie tosses the bag on top of the tool box. The van slightly fills with the scent of gasoline as Eddie and Steve close the doors. The source being the tube.

Steve rolls down the front windows, letting air filter through the van.

Eddie sits across from me, his shot gun next to him. " We're going to help you. " He reassures me. " We just can't risk that you aren't infected. As soon as we're sure you can get those off. " He glances down at the zip ties.

I nod. " I understand. Thank you for saving me. "

Eddie smiles. " Of course. Couldn't just let you die out there. " He leans back against the van wall, crossing his arms. " We've got a bit of a ride, sit back and relax. "

[silvcrignis]

Specific headcanons for my DBD verse for @xpricity bc I appreciate her immediately realising I was trying to help & not actually trying to be mean.

-April is basically Keira’s hatch baby whenever she’s in one of her trials. She senses something worthy in her, something greater than the rest of the other “mortal puke bags” & shows her favouristim accordingly. While there have been times where she’s hooked her/ had to hook her she always tells a an inside pun to lighten the load unlike the other Survivors who only get her really nasty hanging out/ meat locker quips. Also sometimes she gets into little spats with the Entity about her because she too believes Lillie’s too sick with it to be a Survivor.

-Alger & Issac are a little more lenient with her presence in Cobblestone Way. Usually other Survivors are immediately caught & threatened or just killed for being there when there’s no active trial but they let her wander around those endless blood spattered alleyways. Sometimes they go find her & offer her invitation into their secret little pretentious rich boy dinner dates. They find feral Lillie very attractive they’re not doing it completely to just be nice. They’re just sluts.

-Calpurnia will stan anyone that constantly offers free food so she’s a big fan of April. April has most certainly gotten the rare privilege of touching the Big Shark fin when Purnie’s in her Mega form.

-Zachary will just. Show up to visit her tower. Sometimes in wolf form when he’s feeling extra playful™️. She usually chases him around a little on arrival a because when he shows up in wolf form he usually immediately yoinks whatever she has in her hand & takes off {x}. He thinks they should go into the poison knives business expansion together but he’s too shy to ask whenever he shows up. He’ll get the nerve worked up to say the words. Someday.

-Gregory is cautious of her. Very very cautious. He sees too much of what was happening in Issac in her. Despite this he’s not like the other Survivors who totally ice her out because he can’t do that to anyone, he thinks it’s a shitty thing to do & he used to be a cop (that actually cared about the public he’d served). Helping people struggling is kind of his weakness. Also whenever she gets hurt he’s like the first one to show up & patch her up, even IF it might put him in mortal danger because the Killer is two minutes away. He’s picked her up & ran with her on a few occasions. He’s a little too nice but look he never had to have any kids of his own LET HIM DAD SOMEONE.

-Andrea. Has a huge crush on her but doesn’t know how to say it. Also she sometimes lets April sharpen her paper cutter which is a HUGE sign of trust usually Drea has a death grip on the thing even in her SLEEP. A lot less weary than Greg & the other Survivors, yeah she’s aware she doesn’t wanna be among them but Drea is a bit odd that way. Tends to have strange dynamics with murderers in her life. Yknow. Considering she thinks about kissing her own bitchass Killer sometimes.

[my-fortified-wager]

Seeing as I’ve been DAMNED to the inbox, hii Miss Jade hiii- it’s your favorite detective!! I may or may not be in danger but that’s besides the point there’s a ✨case✨ to talk about 🫶

so, I guess I should get my own guess out the way before I get all dramatic reveal territory in which, just to be different and so clown won’t be alone, I’ll stick with RF Angeline. Umm whenever you see this, if we’re wrong, we go down together Clown 🫡

So CBM, right? Right. I guess I can go over the implications I noticed, there’s probably something I still missed but it’s #whatever, I don’t get paid enough for that. ( Miss Jade, I swear that this is a joke. I promise it is, I pinky swear even.)

First things first, taking a look at Beth’s file reveals that whoever the killer is, couldn’t have been one of the actual survivors. As everyone re-grouped by the time of the final showdown, that immediately provides an alibi for all of our remaining survivors. Which means our culprit had to be one of our poor victims. Now each of these deaths were quite.. uh. unique, to say the least! but buuuut. if you took a look at all the files, and looked closely and I mean cloooosely at a specific cause of death, you’ll notice something unique about that too.

Everyone else listed actually has a direct cause of death except for a certain someone. Taking a look at Aventurine’s file you’ll see that— while he technically DOES have a cause of death, he’s the only one who has “presumably bled out” in said cause of death. Everyone else? No chance, dead and GONE. buuuut there’s that “presumably” for Aventurine that raises some. suspicions, per se! Though if it is Aventurine— (it isn’t a though, it IS. I KNOW WHAT YOU ARE. …actually maybe I shouldn’t say that, I’m sorry eheh) where does the freckles description come into play? Well! That ties into a theory I talked about earlier wiiith makeup.

To recap on that theory, typically people who need to take into great consideration about their appearance would tend to cover up freckles with makeup. and why would they do this? Simple, because freckles aren’t exactly a beauty standard and I’m not genius but— I do believe that being seen as attractive is a part of being a casino worker. something something making patrons want to stay by combining the thrill and looks. Hell, he could’ve just been covering the freckles to cover his tracks until he said “fuck it” faked his death and donned a new outfit altogether. I’d say disguise but, I feel as if that’s in poor taste if this is more akin to his true appearance, y’know? he may be a murderer but uh, respect goes a long way!!

But yeah, that would explain why we haven’t seen freckles on Aventurine, or on.. ANY of the other suspects. I should also note that it is around the time of Aventurine’s file when Ratio started touching his face and seeming a bit disturbed. you know, specifically around the cheeks and eyes area where, and follow me here. where FRECKLES would be. There’s also the pointy ass heels and if THAT doesn’t do the man in then, I don’t know what will. I could keep going but, I think I’ve said enough

So! In conclusion, the culprit behind all of this was none other than…

…

Mister Aventurine!!

and uh I don’t know if I should be impressed or terrified that he pulled all of that off on his own

... good work, darling. I knew choosing you as my assignment leader was the optimal choice.

Before I get into the facts of this case, let me address the first part. Miss Angeline was a perfectly reasonable guess for Miss Flush, this I must admit. Kind, sweet, considerate, and caring, she matches Miss Royal Flush to a t. However, your theory fails on one simple premise. Miss Angeline has mentioned several times that she was hard of hearing, and in Alice's file, Royal Flush mentions a gunshot that only she was able to hear, that no one else asked about or mentioned, meaning this gunshot was more muffled and quieter. However... if she so desired, I wouldn't be opposed to hiring her for something special.

As for Crimson Balemoon, while your explanation is a brilliant observation of the situation, it is far from a proper report, Miss Collins. Of course, the report in and of itself is my duty... so I cannot fault you on this front. You've been a good girl getting this much out of the way for me. For now, let me compliment you on your work thus far, and share my own two cents.

... l will ignore the comment of your pay, however. Unless you'd like to end up as Owlbert, with slashed pay and an extended contract? Mhm.

Yes, it is as you say. The appearance of the Crimson Balemoon in the final stretch granted all our survivors immunity, no matter the intended suspicions on a certain man within the group. Meaning, only one of our victims could have been the Balemoon. Of course, this lends to whom. From being shot to getting crushed to poisoning, one is led to believe the killer must still be alive in the end, for how does someone possibly survive something like that? However, one detail pointed towards a different outcome.

This detail is small, so small that most of our detectives had missed it. For the attendant's death was never fully confirmed, and thus began my own personal suspicions. Yes, it may have been an oversight of Royal Flush to assume our victim was truly dead, even going as far to say she "presumed" he bled to death. Yet, this assumption only made his job this much easier. With the "attendant" dead, this allowed Aventurine to take off those gaudy garments and wear something that remains more true to whom he was, deep inside. And thus, the Crimson Balemoon officially became a component of the play. No longer did he need to hide any perceived imperfections that the previous Authority of Will had cautioned him against.

Thus, the makeup came off, the temporary hair dye was removed, and he would dawn a new outfit. And the striking, damning feature Mister Spades would swear up and down he saw when he was held captive, and connect back to our killer. The killer did indeed have freckles, freckles he covered at the demand of his old manager, to make him as marketable to desperate eyes as possible. Because simply put, freckles don't sell. But that no longer matters. And… yes Miss Collins. I would feel slightly insulted if someone called me being my true self a “disguise”.

However, when Spades went to "awaken" our culprit, he ended up getting his makeup on his hands instead, revealing the freckles beneath. Freckles everyone was previously unaware he had. And thus became the most damning evidence of all. However, our killer would not get rid of Mister Spade, and instead opted to frame him. And this nearly worked too, if it weren't for you.

Of course, all of this is said, but at its core, it cannot answer your biggest question of "why?" What would drive a man to commit murder of this degree? How did he pull it off? What was the reasoning? This is not a question you will be able to answer for me, my dear, for the files lack something crucial. It involves the history of the casino, its prior manager and the system of abuse, and the namesake of our killer, the Dire Balemoon.

I know you all seek to understand this story in full, and fret not. I mentioned that report, did I not? I will give you all the pleasure of reading my report once it is finished as a reward for all your head work, and I will be sure to explain this story in full, from its beginning to its end. This story is far from over, even if you've figured out our killer and detective. Of course, I alone am not to thank. Miss Royal Flush made this possible, and my appreciation extends pasts the stars. Without her recounting and luck, this truth would have been lost forever.

And thus, you stand on trial before my court, Mister Aventurine...

Or, should I call you by your other name... Mister Vita? Did you enjoy your little game of a cat and mouse mystery?

[bbangsoonie]

one more minute

member: sangyeon genre: angst word count: 2,487 synopsis: survival of the fittest is the reigning rule of nature. so when a zombie apocalypse breaks out, you don’t have much hope but sangyeon is set on keeping you safe. warning(s): death

When the apocalypse first broke out, you lost all hope and will. With your physical condition, you knew you wouldn’t be able to last long. And quite frankly, you didn’t want to.

Your chances of survival were low. Your asthma and lack of athleticism didn’t give you a good hand. And on top of that, you weren’t sure if you wanted to survive if it meant being unable to live.

What were you fighting so hard for? To merely stay alive in the midst of chaos?

But Sangyeon refused to let you give up. He claimed responsibility for your life and pushed you to fight. You two banded together with a group of other survivors. And for a while, you created a system that worked. The thirteen of you managed well by relying on each other.

Until you lost Hyunjoon.

Then the group was shaken to the core. Fear kept you all locked up in an abandoned warehouse. And inevitably, food and supplies began to run low. Including necessary medical supplies.

You always felt bad about having to risk everyone’s lives to raid hospitals. You knew that your existence was more of a burden than of help. You couldn’t contribute much but required a lot of things. Honestly, you were tired of it as well. But you were too ashamed to tell that to Sangyeon, who had given his very best into keeping you alive.

After another asthma attack, you were laying on a makeshift bed with your hand tightly wrapped around the last inhaler. And as always, Sangyeon remained by your side.

Meanwhile, Jaehyun, Juyeon, and Kevin had returned empty handed. Their search for food had been futile and only ended up with Kevin sustaining an injury. You watched as Jacob tended to his wounds and Changmin rationed the remaining cans of food.

“This world has gone to hell,” your breath rasped in your throat.

“Hey, it’s not completely unbearable. We still have each other,” Sangyeon forced a smile.

You and Sangyeon had grown up as childhood friends. Of course, you were no longer just friends anymore. Yet, you also weren’t anything more. You couldn’t afford the luxury of dating in the middle of a zombie apocalypse. You were too busy meeting basic needs to pursue a romantic relationship.

The love between you two remained unspoken but you both knew each other’s feelings. It was why you continued to live in such a shitty world. Sangyeon was quite literally the reason you were alive. Without him, you would have died long ago.

But you had a feeling you wouldn’t be able to last much longer. At least, not without obtaining more inhalers.

“How are you holding up, Y/n?” Haknyeon asked.

You weakly offered a thumbs up in response. He understood the true meaning behind your answer.

Chanhee was discussing logistics with Younghoon, who was quietly nodding his head as he listened. Seeing Sunwoo and Eric having a serious conversation brought you a sense of pity. Hyunjoon’s death had stripped them of the last sliver of joy that they had left.

Sangyeon, who had been observing your features, brushed a stray strand of hair away from your face. At his touch, your attention returned to him.

“Don’t worry, we’ll get you more medicine,” he reassured.

“I want to go alone this time,” you hesitantly stated.

His expression immediately hardened as he quickly rejected your idea. Not wanting to hear more, he stood up to leave but you caught a hold of his wrist.

“I can’t keep placing you guys in danger for me. It’s time I pull my own weight,” you insisted.

“Then I’ll go with you,” he said.

You knew he wouldn’t back down. So with a sigh, you meekly nodded.

When Sangyeon brought up the proposal to the group, Jacob instantly shook his head. He asserted that it was way too risky. The group had always traveled outside in trios, minimum.

But you held your ground, even after Jaehyun offered to go as well. Unable to win over your stubbornness, the group reluctantly agreed to let you and Sangyeon go by yourselves.

When the morning came, you awoke to Chanhee packing you a backpack full of emergency tools. He had tried to stay aloof during his time with the group but you could tell that he had grown fond of everyone. He didn’t show it but Hyunjoon’s death had impacted him a lot.

“You have to return. No matter what. You must come back unharmed,” he demanded as he handed you the bag.

You surprised him with a hug. It took him a second to register what was going on before he slowly patted your back.

“Thanks for everything, Chanhee,” you smiled.

“Don’t say that. It sounds like a good-bye,” he frowned. “You can thank me later.”

Chuckling, you nodded as you slung the bag around your shoulders. You said your farewells to the rest of the members, promising to come back by the evening. Eric, as always, teared up watching people walk past the doors of safety.

You and Sangyeon stepped into the pending hands of doom, unaware that it would be the last time walking down these flight of stairs for one of you.

Sangyeon’s hand tightly held yours as you two navigated your way to the hospital. Luckily, the trip there was rather uneventful. The streets of Seoul were eerily quiet. You could barely remember what the booming city used to look like.

Once you got to the hospital, you snuck past roaming zombies in the hallways to quietly reach the supply room. Carefully closing and locking the door behind you, you let out a sigh of relief.

You began to grab bottles of whatever medicine there was and stuffed them into your backpack while Sangyeon searched for inhalers. Unfortunately, there were only a couple left in stock. A wave of disappointment and stress washed over him.

Peeking at his troubled expression, you tried to show him the bright side. You now had a bunch of disinfectants and pain killers.

At that moment, a crash was heard outside. You clung onto Sangyeon’s shirt and your eyes widened in shock. He held a finger up to his lips, signaling for you to stay silent as he tried to hear what was going on beyond the door.

“Bomin!” a female voice shrieked before another crash was heard.

Then you heard it. The crowd of growling zombies rushing towards whoever was outside. Your heart pounded fiercely against your chest as they struggled to fight off the monsters. And then broke when human voices were no longer heard.

When you and Sangyeon didn’t arrive by nightfall, Sunwoo couldn’t help but assume the worst.

“You don’t think something went wrong, do you?” he nervously bit his lip in concern.

“No. There must have been a slight delay. They’ll be back tomorrow,” Younghoon gulped. His words were more to convince himself rather than Sunwoo.

“Let’s trust them and wait,” Juyeon said, comforting Eric.

Meanwhile, you were stuck inside the supply room. Leaving was no longer a feasible option with the hoard of zombies outside the door. So you spent the night there, sleeping next to Sangyeon to stay warm.

When you woke up, you knew that you couldn’t hide forever. If you didn’t die outside, you would die of starvation inside.

After coming up with a strategy, you and Sangyeon prepared to escape. You waited until most of the groaning sounds faded further away to slowly open the door and check your surroundings. To your relief, there were only a few of the creatures nearby.

Sangyeon’s heart sank at the sight of blood on the floor. It hadn’t been there the day before.

Quietly, the two of you crept towards the emergency staircase. As you went down a few floors, you relaxed, thinking that you were now safe.

It turned out that it was too early to let your guard down.

Right before you got to the basement parking lot, you heard a familiar noise that sent chills down your spine. You didn’t have time to warn Sangyeon before a zombie jumped on him. He fought with all his strength but the surprise attack had caught him off guard. He was struggling to stop it from tearing him apart.

Without thinking, you flung forward to shove it off of him. The action prompted the zombie to focus on you instead. You yelped as you were thrown to the ground and panicked as you tried to avoid its aggressive mouth.

In unlucky timing, you felt a sharp pain in your lungs.

“Oh no,” you thought. You couldn’t be having another asthma attack. Not now. Not when you were already on the brink of death.

That brief moment of weakness was enough for the zombie to gain an advantage. You screamed in pain when you felt another sharp pain. This time, it was on your arm.

Sangyeon barely managed to kill the zombie by bashing its head into the wall. Your hands shook as you desperately rummaged through your bag to find an inhaler. By the time you sprayed the drug, Sangyeon rushed to your side.

In a hurry, you tugged your sleeves to cover the bite mark. He helped you sit up as he made sure you were okay.

“Y/n, are you crazy? What were you thinking?” he yelled.

“You’re safe. That’s all that matters,” you weakly smiled. You tried your best to act fine but your mind was occupied with the pain from your arm.

You leaned on him as you entered the empty parking lot. Finding refuge in an unlocked car, Sangyeon urged you to rest for a few hours before making your way back home.

Home. What a funny word.

In the span of a year, a rundown warehouse had turned into your home. And before you knew it, a group of strangers had become your new family.

Your head was already starting to blur. Flashes of memories flooded your thoughts.

Sangyeon, your best friend. Your could’ve-been, should’ve-been, would’ve-been lover. You still vividly remembered the day he pounded on your door after the mayhem first broke out. Since then, he had been your survival partner. Even throughout all the turmoil, he always brought you a small gift from every outing. In the spring, it was a flower. In the fall, it was a cookie he managed to find.

Jacob, the angel. He was a breath of fresh air in a society where people’s hearts had turned stone cold. He had been the one to gather the survivors together.

Younghoon, the quiet one who took care of people behind the scenes. Like Chanhee, he seemed distant at first. But he was just shy and clumsy at expressing himself.

Jaehyun, the fighter. He was the first to volunteer for any task. He always burdened himself with the responsibility of keeping everyone out of harm’s way.

Juyeon, the one everyone relied on emotionally. He could sense when you were down and brought it upon himself to cheer you up.

Kevin, the selfless one. He prioritized others’ needs before his own. He had trained extra hard to become one of the strongest members.

Chanhee, the secretly soft-hearted one. Your last memory of him handing you the backpack brought a small smile to your lips.

Changmin, the level-headed one who turned into an innocent child when hanging out with the younger members.

Haknyeon, the goofy one who had matured way too early. Despite his young age, he was skilled and dependable.

Sunwoo, the one whose heart was too pure for this world. You hated to see the light in his eyes slowly fade throughout the months.

Eric, the moodmaker who received so much love from everyone. He truly cared for each and every member and never lost touch with his humanity.

And lastly, Hyunjoon. The one who had departed from the world too soon. He had so many unfulfilled dreams and you missed his bright smile.

By the time you regained consciousness, Sangyeon had fallen asleep next to you. You shakily took a breath as you examined the wound on your arm. You knew you didn’t have much time left.

You glanced over at his sleeping face. He seemed at peace. Wanting this to be your last memory, you spent some time watching his chest slowly rise and fall in rhythm. You endured the growing pain as you prayed for just one more minute with him. Just one more second.

Eventually, it became too hard to hold back the groans that fought to escape your throat. You dug into your bag to find the gun meant to be used as a last option. Your grip on the weapon tightened as you trudged away from the car.

Before you got too far, however, Sangyeon stirred from the sounds. Alarmed by your sudden disappearance, he quickly exited the vehicle to see you with a firearm.

“Y/n,” his voice held so much fear. You didn’t have the confidence to face him.

“It’s too late,” you choked.

It was only then that he finally noticed the blood dripping from your arm. He felt his world crumble down as you started to convulse.

“It’s okay,” he said as he approached you. “I’ll still take care of you. I’ll make sure that no one hurts you and that you won’t hurt anyone either.”

“I don’t want to become one of them. You know I’d rather die than become something that’s stuck between life and death. Something that threatens your life,” you cried.

“But I can’t let you die!” he yelled.

“It’s time to let me go, Sangyeon,” you begged as a tear rolled down your cheek.

“Y/n, look at me. Please,” he pleaded.

You didn’t want him to see you like this. But you didn’t have a choice when he tugged at your sleeve to make you turn around. Your skin was already beginning to discolor and he knew what was coming.

Full of desperation, he pulled you in for a hug. One arm clung onto your torso as the other embraced your head. He sobbed into your neck, making you weep as well.

“I lived a lot longer than I should have,” you assured.

“24 years is not long at all,” his voice cracked.

Wanting to spare him from having to shoot you himself, you slowly detached yourself from him. You had to do it yourself soon.

“Take the bag and go back to the others,” you sadly smiled.

“I can’t leave without you,” he cried. But he knew he had to.

You told him to close his eyes so he wouldn’t have to see your end. With your vision clouding more and more, you stumbled away from him and hid behind a van. You fell to the ground and your hands trembled as they brought the gun to your head.

“I love you, Lee Sangyeon,” you whispered before pulling the trigger.

a/n: heavily inspired by the character park yoori from sweet home and golden child’s “burn it” music video

[dead-by-daywrite]

Lets fucking go, I have been excited for this one. I have SO many ideas it isn’t even funny. 

(DISCONTINUED) GENERAL ROMANCE CANONS FOR KILLERS

Once again a long post so I put it in a cut, I’m more awake now so I am hoping my grammar and spelling won’t be as atrocious as the first one. I just get so into writing and keep going and going without even checking. lol Anyway, some nsfwish stuff, doesn’t go into details like a fic would but it’s still there. lol

Also random thought I had: I like how I say fuck BHVR when they debunk shit that is used in fics because I just want to let other people indulge. FANTASIES ARE A THING DAMN IT, LET US LIVE.

This is a Survivor S/O!!

The Trapper AKA Evan MacMillan

He likes to flex (heh) how strong he is to his s/o, be it from lifting stuff up or showing he feels little to no pain. He’s kind of a dumbass to do that but he has to make it known they are with the best of the best.

The killer to mori you in a trial, not because he wants to but because he knows it’ll end the trial sooner for you and he wants to get it over with as soon as possible and the entity is already being kind enough letting you two be together but... sacrificing all the time? He isn’t 100% sure how that would play out. Plus this man likes his BP.

Will teach his s/o how to get out of traps easily, all the tips and tricks.

Refuses to not let your run slippery meat. It WiLl HeLp YoU.

Will bitch until you do.

This man is stubborn and ignoring him won’t stop him.

The man to slap an ass. Evan just seems like an ass man. If you are the last survivor and he closes the hatch and just to be a cocky ass like he usually is out of trials hell walk over to you and slap your ass so hard you’ll squeak and bolt out the gates. One, he will not tolerate that. Two, he just enjoys that more than he should.

The kind of guy who loves being called “daddy,” the shit eating grin he gets makes even the shyest people want to smack the shit out of him.

Fucks in trials.

Anytime anywhere.

He has NO PROBLEM.

Will offer the hatch for a blowjob. The only way he will spare you unless he made you mad prior.

The Wraith AKA Philip Ojomo

One of the most wholesome relationships.

Will do whatever he can to make you happy and feel safe.

He is prob one of the most insecure out of all killers and needs reassurance.

Since he makes more so animal noises he tends to show physical affection more than verbal, he can say things but it strains his vocal chords a lot and it sounds super fucking choppy and their are a lot of pauses.

Give him hugs and hold his hand.

Will find flowers and pretty things to give to his s/o. 

Presents all the way, anything from offerings to something a survivor dropped in a trial. Hope you like a rainbow map! Thank Ace!

He is lowkey a peeping tom when it comes to his s/o. The man is respectful and will do his best to respect but if he stumbles upon you having some alone time while he is cloaked he won’t be able to look away.

Is very vanilla unless his s/o helps him explore. 

Slow and sensual sex, this man is all about love.

Favorite positions are missionary and doggy, you know what? Any position where he can have you flush against his body. He wants to be as close to you as possible.

The Hillbilly AKA Max Thompson Jr.

Max is a good boy to you, but it is a bit hard to reach out to him at first.

Because of his childhood kindness (especially from a potential love interest wink wonk) tends to make him freeze up. 

“Is this happening?”

“What do I do?”

“HELLO???????”

Max is... lacking knowledge in the relationship/romance category, so bare with the guy, he is trying his best.

He is a bit like Philip, worries about his appearance but not as much as our boy Phil.

Touch him and he melts.

Hugs? Always.

Kisses? Never enough.

He is touch starved and attention starved.

Max is more than likely to bring his s/o a stalk of corn as a “I love you” gift since the entity does throw out some roses.

When it comes to intimacy Max will be hesitant and VERY unsure of what to do, so I hope you have some knowledge or you are all for learning together.

My guy can skin an animal but figure out how to eat someone out or suck a cock properly is a challenge. He’s livin’ tho.

He will need to be taught.

Sub. Don’t @ me. Don’t even try to sway me. I will die with the hc.

Call him a good boy if he does good sexy things.

Also he gets awkward boners a lot.

The Nurse AKA Sally Smithson

Sally is a good girlfriend if not a little over-bearing.

Always wants to make sure you are okay.

If you don’t use self care she will make sure you take a medkit and if you don’t and she finds out get ready for the silent treatment.

She’s one of the killers who will go easy on you in trials, refuses to mori you even if she brought an ebony. 

If you guys had a rough patch she’ll try and give you the hatch as a make up or she’ll close it and just make you open the door. If you really wanna get back on her good side sit and watch end-game with her, I know it’s not good for you but... well, it means a lot to her.

She’s old fashioned so dates, dates, dates.

She loves to dance with her s/o.

She will try and sing with her s/o.

HAND KISSESSSSSSSS-

Eat the nurse lady out.

Sex with Sally is very passionate and she wants to drag it out for a long time.

The Shape AKA Michael Myers

In a relation Michael is......... interesting...

He will either be “nice” and passive or just less of a dick.

Still kills his s/o in trials though.

He loves using a mori on his s/o, watching the light drain from their eyes but knowing that you will still appear for him afterwards? It’s great. Your screams are music to his ears. No killer can kill you by his hand except him, if he finds out they do there will be hell to pay.

Michael isn’t the healthiest in the head... 

His s/o would probably have to ask Laurie about him since he doesn’t talk.

He gives head pats.

Not good with physical or verbal (obviously) affection or comfort.

Hugging him is like hugging a living statue.

He is silent and just watches his s/o.

He doesn’t want you to be upset but at the same time you look beautiful/handsome like that.

Dislikes others being around you, specifically other males.

Fucks his s/o in a trial.

Like hard, in the window sill of the killer shack, over a gen, doesn’t matter. Your fellow survivors see? So?

If you get mad at him and try to ignore him he will destroy whatever you own and then fuck you.

Horny bf.

The Hag AKA Lisa Sherwood

Lisa is a nice girlfriend that is a good listener.

Cuddling may hurt a bit because she’s kiiinda bony.

She will try and teach you magic. 

“Use this in a trial.”

Entity pops in: “Nah.”

Lisa takes a bit to get to know 100% because she is wary of others because of what happened to her, she assumes the survivors are just people but so was she and now she’s a killer.

She stays away from her s/o whenever she is hungry, better safe than sorry.

She is actually pretty fragile so be careful with her.

Likes to hear about her s/o life before all this.

Has very sharp teeth some be careful with more passionate kissing, lip biting and some tongue can be a bit dangerous.

She likes to bite and she may accidentally sink that claw into your skin a bit.

Worries she goes overboard in more intimate situations.

Lisa is not good when it comes to seduction, so cut her some slack. I imagine her being like a horny virgin girl trying to seduce but it just ain’t working.

She...... a bit dry........ down south................... Ya’ll can use a diff hc for that if you what left of her skin looks dry as hell, I feel that vag is too, that’s just me, man.

[queendeeshorrorimagines]

hi, can i ask for a slashers/dbd matchup? i go by irene, i’m 19, bi and i use she/they pronouns. i’m about 5”5 with long wavy platinum hair with bangs, dark green eyes, pale skin and an hourglass figure. i’m passionate, stubborn, blunt and hardworking. i don’t hold my opinion hidden and get to the point, so i seem insulting to some and don't really have a filter. my mbti is intj-a. i like excitement and thrill, even if it gets me in trouble. i don’t like being the center of attention and i’m a critical thinker. i’m a good listener and most of my friends come to me for advice and know i’m also loyal and would never lie to a friend. my ideal relationship is someone that matches my energy and understands my boundaries when i have my bad days. my style is a bit between soft girl and academia. as far as nsfw goes i’m a bit hyper sexual and a switch leaning sub that likes knives, choking and masochistic themes. i like to workout, play video games, listen to music, watch horror movies and enjoy nature or do something that is related art like drawing, poetry etc.

For DBD, I ship you with... Jed Olsen!

At first, Jed might get frustrated with how stubborn and opinionated you are. Especially if you're roasting him after stunning him with a pallet. It eventually becomes a game of cat and mouse between the both of you until the two of you become a item. Jed loves how opinionated you are to the point that he couldn't help but laugh his ass off when you were roasting Frank.

It takes Jed a while to get used to having a stable relationship because of his ghostface side. He tries to respect your boundaries the best he could. Jed's fatal flaw is that he tends to get jealous when another killer or survivor gets too close to you to the point where he will make the survivors death slow because of his jealousy.

Not safe for tumblr wise, Danny/Jed is all for using his knife during sex when he finds out you're into that. Bonus if you let him fuck you in his ghostface costume. This guy obviously has a sadistic streak (just look at his Mori and promo video, this man reeks of sadistic top.) He's down to trying whatever kinks you're interested in trying.

Other possibilities: Nea Karlson, Caleb Quinn, David King, Carmina Mora

For Slashers, I ship you with... Tiffany Valentine!

Given that you're a thrill seeker, Tiffany is more than willing to do some of the things that you want to do. If you wanna skydive, count her in. Hell, if you want to try killing, she's down to join you. If you do get in any trouble, Tiffany will do her damndest to bail you out of it- even if it means getting her hands dirty.

Tiffany loves how strong willed and opinionated you are. Tell that creepy man at the bar off. Although you're a good listener, Tiffany also wants to listen to you vent and talk. She tends to be more doting because of the fact that if she loves someone, her love language is acts of service.

Not safe for Tumblr wise, Tiffany is down with using her knife on you once the both of you are settled in a relationship where the both of you are comfortable enough with more dangerous kinks. I can see Tiffany being a switch, having no preference as to if she doms or subs. When she was with Charles, she's never really had the chance to exploring her dominant side. So you're one of her first submissive partners she's had.

Other possibilities: Baby Firefly, Leslie Vernon, Stu Macher, mama firefly

[bloodyshadow1]

Beauyashaweek 2021 day 2 Classical Art: Birthed from Stone

Beauyashaweek 2021 day 2 Classical Painting Art

Technically, the prompt is Classical Painting, but I couldn't really think of anything to write for that so I decided to do Classical Art as the prompt and thought of this. There's more to it, but I decided to cut it short because it was getting too long and not ending. I hope you enjoy my story, if you do please leave a comment, they help more than you know.

It was Saturday, there were a million things Beau would have preferred to be doing on her Saturday, one of the few days off she had, than going to the Zadash Museum of Art. That wasn’t fair, she liked the Museum, she liked the artwork, but she hated that she was here on an assignment for school rather than because she wanted to which meant she hated the Museum currently.

Beau had only taken Art Appreciation 110 on her best friend Jester’s suggestion. The blue tiefling art major thought it would be fun to have her best friend in the class she was TAing and assured Beau that it was an easy class being a 100 level. Beau didn’t mind an easy A, she was a double major history and sports medicine in her senior year, she figured she might as well since the rest of her course load was killer.

Unfortunately, unlike most of the classes Beau had taken though her time at Z.U. Art Appreciation 110 wasn’t a blow off class that she could just take the tests and write papers to pass with an A. The teacher Mr. Artagan was more eccentric than most of the faculty at Z.U. full of new age ideas how to run his class. No tests at all and only a few papers, which would be fine for most people, but the fact that participation was worth 60% of her grade made the class a living hell for Beau. He thought that children (despite them all being college students) should be rewarded for showing initiative, not just memorizing facts, something that Beau relied on. She was a smart girl who read the assigned reading before the class had even started hoping it would mean she didn’t have to show up for class only to have Jester’s hippy mentor ruin that dream the first day.

Artagan, as he liked them to call him, no mister for him, was one of those ‘cool’ teachers who thought they were changing the world in their 100 level course that contained mostly freshmen trying to get their gen ed credits out of the way. The teacher who wore an actual green cloak to class everyday that clashed horribly with his tangle of reddish orange hair, but went well with his inhuman green eye, knew he was put on this earth to reach the kids. Beau hated him instantly and thought if not for his laziness, his biggest weakness other than a wicked case of ADHD that no amount of Adderall would fix, he would probably be a cult leader. Luckily for the class, Jester took her job as his TA seriously, or at least as serious as Jester could leading a class taught by Mr. Artagan about appreciating art, so she was at least a competent teacher when the actual teacher decided to take a nap in the middle of a lecture or jump out the window to chase a bird. She would call on Beau whenever she could because she knew her best friend at least knew the information even though she wouldn’t volunteer the information willingly. It saved Beau’s average from tanking in class, but by the time the semester came to a close it didn’t look good, Beau was sitting at a low C which again, wouldn’t be bad for most people in their blow off class, but was horrible for Beauregard Lionett, the disgraced daughter of the Lionett wine family in Kamordah.

Without getting into it, Beau’s relationship with her family, especially her dad Thoreau, was horrible to be kind. She was only at Z.U. due to both academic and athletic scholarships, and losing one would mean she wouldn’t have enough money for her final semester, and she needed at least a B in all her classes if she wanted to graduate. Technically she would still be able to graduate, but her diploma would remain as property of the school until her debts were paid up, which meant she couldn’t get a job with her diploma unless she lied on her resume. And while, no one could say Beauregard Lionett was against lying, she wasn’t a self destructive teenager anymore she knew it would only hurt her in the long run.

Luckily, having her best friend as her T.A. meant Jester begging Mr. Artagan to let Beau have some extra credit so she could pass. Artagan agreed and told her to write a paper on how a piece of art makes you feel. If Beau didn’t desperately need to pass this stupid class she would have thrown it in his face, but instead as a self destructive adult who at least was aware of her money problems, she gritted her teeth and took the extra credit assignment.

Beau had been to the museum at their school a bunch of times, she had given tours for a bit as a work study gig until the people in charge realized how bad she was with people. But there was something about being forced to go there for an assignment that soured the whole thing for her.

“Let's check out the Emon exhibit first Beau,” Jester said taking her and dragging her to the Tal’Dori section. Beau didn’t mind it, but there was too much…, cleanness in the artwork of their neighbors to the West. Tal’Dori was really similar to Wildemount in a lot of ways, without the whole equally large enemy neighbor country that you’ve been in a Cold War with forever. Emon had its own set of problems, but propaganda or not, whatever Beau read made the other continent sound like a less shitty version of the Dwendalian Empire.

Still, the paintings and sculptures were nice enough to look at even if she didn’t have Jester’s excitement. There were a lot of paintings of naked people in some of the exhibits, which Beau enjoyed since there weren’t a lot of men as the subject. She had to hand it to the old masters, they might have been a bunch of old pervs, but they painted a pretty dame without her clothes. Even if they did give their works pretentious names like, “the Sin of Sarenrae,” or “the Seducer of Nations,” as if the women who were the subjects were at fault for being beautiful enough for men to want to paint them naked.

Eventually Jester got bored, it didn't take long, and they moved on to the other wings of the museum. “I’m gonna check out the Xhorhasian exhibit for a bit Jester,” Beau said, needing some alone time. She loved her best friend, but the girl could talk forever on her worst day, a day surrounded by hundreds of years of artwork around her meant she hadn’t stopped since Beau mentioned her paper.

The Xhorhasian exhibit was small and quiet, they were technically at peace, legally and all that, but two powerful countries can’t be neighbors without a lot of animosity. With only the Ashkeeper Peaks between them, there had been a long cycle of wars and ceasefires between the two nations that could break at any moment. That meant not a lot of people congregated in this out of the way exhibit. Most of the artwork and relics were probably technically stolen. Beau wasn’t happy about that despite being a citizen of the Empire, born and raised in Kamordah, less than a day from Zadash.

Maybe after she graduated she could break into the museum and somehow send the stolen goods back home where they belonged. Jester would probably be into it, and Veth wasn’t exactly opposed to petty theft or grand larceny. But that was for Future Beau with her bachelor’s degree to think about. For now, since they were here, Beau was going to enjoy the things from the Empire’s oldest enemy and learning about them, despite how they were procured.

Technically, the Empire wasn’t enemies with Xhorhas, they were enemies with the Krynn Dynasty, the country that had been the dominant power in the Wastes of Xhorhas for thousands of years. There were other people living in Xhorhas that were roped into the conflict, or so Beau heard, most of the stories from the East were about the Cricks or Krynn and the rest were hardly mentioned at all.

As Beau walked around the empty exhibit, for the most part it was bleaker than the other exhibits. Xhorhas seemed like a dreary place, all their artwork lacked the color of other nations artwork. Most of the paintings, few of them as there were, tended to be battle scenes of Drow soldiers in their dark insect like armor tearing through Empire soldiers like paper, it's a wonder citizens of the Empire never come to look at this exhibit. The rest was mostly pottery or weapons, the placards said they were souvenirs from survivors of perilous expeditions into enemy territory. Beau had read them all before.

But surprising her, there was something new in the exhibit. In the center of the exhibit, in a place of honor was a statue with lights pointing down on it. It was made of white marble and depicted the most beautiful woman Beau had ever seen. She was large, tall and wide, if she wasn’t made of stone she would tower over Beauregard, with arm muscles larger than Beau’s head. Long wild hair that the sculpture had managed to get across in the marble. She wasn’t just standing still either, she was swinging a sword like some goddess of battle. The massive feathery wings exploding from her back, that almost looked soft to the touch despite being made out of rock, made her seem even more divine. But even more than the wings, Beau was drawn to her eyes, they were perfect. Despite being just another part of the woman carved from the white stone, they seemed so dark, holding so much anger and sadness that it made Beau’s chest hurt to look into them, but she didn't have the willpower to look away.

The only flaw Beau could find in the sculpture of the beautiful woman, was the smile. Unlike the rest of the statue, the smile was just off. It was just too plain. The rest of the work from the woman, from the way the marble simulated how her arm muscles tensed like a real person would when swing a sword to fight, to her large soulful eyes, to the massive two-handed sword that looked like it was a real metal blade turned to stone, was the work of a master. Yet the smile was clearly the work of an armature, it looked like the smiles Beau had drawn on posters to look extra goofy to passersby. It didn’t fit such a beautiful woman, especially when the rest of her was clearly ready for battle.

It looked so off Beau immediately looked at the placard to find out if it had been damaged in shipping and the archeologist or smuggler did their best to fix it with a smile. The sign didn’t say anything about the smile, just that the sculpture had been found 3 years ago in an ‘expedition’ in the south of Xhorhas. The title of the piece was ‘Angel of Beauty,’ which made Beau gag. Sure the woma-, the sculpture was beautiful, but it was such a boring shitty title for such an awesome bitch. She was wielding a sword ready to chop someone to bits and ready to take on a whole army, Angel of Beauty was such a generic title for a real work of art. Skimming the rest of the paragraph for any more info, Beau learned the locals called the work ‘The Orphanmaker,’ before the archeologist procured the work.

Beau thought it was a bit better, at least more metal and fitting for such a bad bitch, but it still didn’t fit the woman or the sculpture in Beau’s unasked for opinion. Still, Beau couldn’t let her dumb lesbian brain that made her have a crush on the only more unattainable woman in the world than Jester, stop her from getting her paper done. She took a picture of the placard to get a reference and took a few more of the statue itself from as many angles as she could. You weren’t technically supposed to take pictures of the artwork, but no one was around and Beau needed the pictures for her project…, and nothing else.

Still, the more time she spent with the statue the more Beau was enthralled. The more she stared at it, from every angle it felt like the woman was ready to come alive at any second. That one second Beau would be staring into eyes of white marble and then she would blink alive the next. The skill of the sculptor had practically tricked Beau into thinking the woman would have a pulse if she touched her, like she wasn’t carved out of stone.

It got to the point where Beau, who would never break the law, especially when it came to stolen art, got so fed up she decided to touch the statue just to prove to herself it wasn’t a real live person. Just a quick tap on the arm to prove to herself that the woman wasn’t alive, that’s all it would take to make her crazy thoughts quiet for a bit.

Unfortunately, or perhaps very fortunate given the outcome, Beau was wrong, very wrong. The moment she touched what would be the flesh of the woman, not her sword, or hair, or clothes, the moment her finger touched the skin on the woman’s arm, it felt warm. So warm that Beau couldn’t believe it, until the woman’s pulse woke her up. She tore her hand away like the statue was made of fire, but even as she did, she could see cracks forming in the sculpture starting from where she touched the woman on the arm.

“Shit,” Beau yelled, as she slammed her back into the wall, she didn’t even know she had backed away that far. She desperately tried to search for glue or anything that she could use to fix the crack she made, but the cracks only got bigger. By the time Beau looked back, they had shot down the woman’s arm and were coming down her body, and Beau only had time to swear every curse she knew in the five languages she spoke fluently (which you would think would take a while, but Beau had always been quick with her mouth and was well practiced with it and cursing) before the statue exploded.

The room was full of dust clouds and the only sound other than the hammering of Beau’s heart was the sound of a large woman breathing heavily. It only took a moment for the dust to clear and give Beau a good look at the Orphan Maker. On a whole, she was pretty much the same as the statue, same massive frame, same gorgeous face that Beau had gone gaga for, same strong arms holding the now sharp steel blade, and older Xhorhasian garb, not from the Krynn Dynasty. Now that she wasn’t a statue anymore though, there was a big change, even if she was mostly the same, there was a big difference between a beautiful woman carved out of white marble and a real gorgeous flesh and blood woman.

Her skin was pale, almost as pale as the white marble, but the rest of her and her clothes had splashes of color, mostly black, but not white stone. The biggest change though, other than being a living person of course, was her wings. When she was a statue the wings on her back had been white and feathery, now, they were black and skeletal. As if they had been burnt to cinder’s but still attached to her. She has heterochromatic eyes, one is light green, the other is violet, they are filled with rage, but it’s not directed at Beau, the woman who burst from the marble is just angry.

“Where am I,” the strange woman demanded once the dust cleared enough to see Beau.

“The Zadash University Museum,” Beau said trying to stay on the good side of this strange Amazonian goddess that just flexed out of a statue.

“Zadash,” the woman said slowly, like it was a foreign word. “That is a is a name from beyond the mountains,” she asked more than said.

“Yeah,” Beau nodded, “or I mean I suppose. We’re on the other side of the mountains from Xhorhas if that’s what you mean.”

“Then I am a long way from home,” the strange woman said seeming to calm down.

“Are you a spy from Xhorhas,” Beau asked, immediately realizing how stupid that sounded. Beau could handle herself in a fight, but this woman was massive and had a sword almost the size of her. It would be really hot if it was in a movie or a book instead of real life.

“No,” the woman shouted, “I am from Xhorhas, but I am no spy.”

“Alright,” Beau said, throwing her hands up to show she meant no harm, “I believe you.”

“I think…, I am lost,” the woman said calming down, her voice was a lot softer than Beau would have guessed when she wasn’t angry. “I was in my homeland, I was fighting something and then…, nothing.”

“Well, maybe you could start with something you do remember,” Beau asked, trying to keep things calm. “Do you remember your name?”

“Yasha,” Yasha apparently answered after a moment, “Yasha Nydoorin. And I think I need your help.”

It probably wasn’t a great idea to agree to this, she didn’t know Yasha much other than she was big, gorgeous, and popped out of a marble statue. But despite her well above average intelligence, she was also a lesbian with a dumb lesbian brain sometimes, and all she could say was “sure.” Maybe she’ll let Jester drag her off to the museum if this happens all the time.

[kid-karoshi]

Death has no escape - Final Chapter

...Together, they hurried up the cellar stairs and sought shelter behind the house by a massive rock. Claudette began to do something to stop the bleeding. Ash had crouched down beside her. "Wait, you don't have to do this yourself. Let me help you." He hummed and tended to the wound extremely meticulously with the resources at hand. Until, in the last moment, he conjured up out of his back pocket another band-aid. He presented it like a trophy in front of her nose. This one was pink and had a thick print of a stupid looking bumblebee on it. At least this one seemed significantly fresher than the one he had given to Dwight. Responding to the questioning look, he gave a blunt attempt at flirtation, "There's more where that came from." Winking at her, already squeezing the tape tight. "Thanks for saving me, but wow...you could be my grandfather!" she snarked, leaning backwards while giving him a head-to-toe eye check. The grin fell off his face for a second upon that. "Ouch sweetie, I may have a bad knee, but I'm certainly not a grandpa. He gently placed his hand on hers and purred "Don't be sad, There was no future for us anyway." Claudette furrowed her forehead and withdrew her hand in disgust. "Come on sweetie, let's go save the others then."

art: @alexpdcl

They crept across the area in a crouched posture. Claudette grabbed his forearm after a while and pointed to a hill. "There." she whispered.

"Really? They're completely tired of living..." he hissed back at her. Dwight and Felix had chosen a generator on a hill as THE final workpiece. This one, however, was located not far from a mighty gate. "Okay little lady, you just run straight ahead and hide in the bushes over there, when the electric supply is up, your sweet ass will only worry about opening the gate, do we have an understanding?" Claudette was about to argue that she wasn't going to be talked to like that, but by that time Ash had already gained a few feet of ground. All she had left was an exhausted gasp. She froze in shock at the sound she heard afterwards. Right next to her, the air flickered and the gurgling monster passed her by. It was too late to tell those men what was happening.

"Hi girls, do you have a spot left for me?" fluttered Ash as he joined the others. The machine had already made good progress. There were still a few little things to do. "Busy." he grumbled with satisfaction. "Is Claudette all right?" enquired Dwight.

"Sure she is. I've got her patched up. She's fine and now let's get this done. At the end, I'll give each of you a piece of cake as a reward." Ash grinned broadly.

Dwight lifted his gaze, spied his girlfriend and tossed his arm from left to right very energetically but also extremely awkwardly. Claudette, on the other hand, frantically pointed in his direction, which he completely misunderstood, after that he pointed at Ash and with an outstretched thumb he responded to her. Then, without waiting for the next reaction, he quickly continued with the fixing. Felix, however, interrupted his work and spoke in a reproachful voice. "You arrogant son of a bitch, you knew that we were risking our asses out here while you were playing the hero. I know you for maybe ten minutes, but that's enough to see what a pathetic fraud you are, admit it, you're a chickenshit, you don't have a plan, you're just reacting to the circumstances around here! You may be able to fool the others but not me!" Dwight faintly looked back and forth between the two, convulsively trying not to provoke a short circuit. "Guys, uh, so I think you should discuss this later," he stammered. Ash, on the other hand, lowered his head and grumbled to the ground, "You seem to think you're a pretty big deal yourself. Do you think I chose to be the 'hero'? Evil always finds me, it is obsessed with me. There is nothing but death around me and that has been the reality for far too long. But what cheers me up anyway today is that your snooty life is also about to change," he chuckled darkly.

The chiming of the bell abruptly broke up their discussion. Dwight hopped to his feet and, with a cry of horror, he sprinted for the nearest shelter. As the ghostly figure revealed itself, the two men were still sitting at the machine, trying to crank it with their last ounce of strength. "Come on, come on, come on , damn it!" roared Felix "Get out of here!" screamed Ash at him, who also continued repairing. " Screw it! HHNGH!" groaned Felix as the killer's blade sped across his back, cutting the fibers of his designer suit, ripping open his flesh and severing some tendons of his scapula. At that moment, their eyes met. Ash snorted and lunged suddenly forward to knock Felix off the top of the hill and out of harm's way. As the killer, mesmerized detached the shredded skin from his blade, Ash sat right in front of him and plugged the last cable into the right connection. A shrilling sound was emitted and finally the exit gates had enough power to be opened. Claudette had taken position and immediately flipped the switch wich crackled electrifyingly. Dwight ran toward Felix and helped him up to drag him toward the exit gate. "NO! Ash is still up there!" he yelled painfully.

He was standing on top of the hill and noticed that the gate was already in the second phase, so it was going to burst open for the next few seconds. "Run, you fools!" he shouted. "... I've always wanted to say that, and now on to you, you ugly critter! Guess you think you're the greatest, huh?!" at this he bent his head back to stare brashly into the creature's face. The killer faced him with a growl, paused for a second, and to Ash's amazement, nodded in affirmation.

His eyes widened as he understood that he was now in serious trouble. He almost rolled himself over as he tried to make a run for it. At the same time, the exit gate sprang up with a loud clatter. His three teammates set out to leave this terror all behind. Beneath the great arches of the gate, Dwight and Claudette tried to heal the injured man, who was losing gallons of blood. Ash was running away " You better not let me find my shotgun...". That'll make you all get stale looking, you slowpoke! Then it's you who have to hide from ME! God have mercy on you, or whatever your kind is worshiping." He dragged the killer tauntingly behind him for a few more feet until he leapt through a boarded shack toward the exit. He turned his gaze to the others. At that very moment, his fate was sealed when his meniscus tore. And Ash knew it. *damn, not now the fucking knee!

The others screamed his name "Go!" He huffed as the enemy appeared behind him and cruelly struck him down with one hit. The wraith had gained in brutality and efficiency after the gate was opened, so it was practically impossible to avoid this curse. Felix felt terrible about the last words he had said to Ash. He wanted to undo everything he had said, but was dragged by his companions through the portal that prevented him from returning.

When Ash was picked up from the ground, badly injured, the pain seemed eerily familiar. After spending some time on his opponent's shoulder, he whispered in the killer's ear, "You could have just asked for my number, honey." who, visibly confused, dropped his victim right next to a hatch in the ground, from which a strange rumble and dark smoke rose. As the Killer was still reflecting on his feelings, the old man robbed himself into the dark abyss. Before he was closing the gate behind him, he raised his middle finger in the direction of the killer, who mournfully lowered his weapon.

Felix and the others, who had been running for quite a while, reached a campfire, at which they settled down. "We're safe here," Dwight said, and took Claudette in his arms. Felix flopped down and buried his fingers in his hair. Everyone was exhausted to the utmost and stared silently into the flames. The oppressive silence was accompanied by the crackling of the dry wood. Suddenly Felix recognized the outline of a figure looking through the flames.

"What are those long faces about?" interrupted Ash the melancholy. Three astonished pairs of eyes locked on the badly battered man, who magically pulled out a sugar-coated mess from his denim shirt.

"Look, there's no blood on that piece of cake," he sneered, before joining the others and shared it among the survivors.

[itwillbeall-dwight]

trials in error

danny "jed olsen" johnson | the ghost face/felix richter; fluff and angst; canon-typical violence; enemies to fwb to lovers to enemies lmao; 5677 words

a/n: did i finish two fics in the same day? yes i did. i’ve had this done since one in the morning but didn’t want to post it them bc no one would see it by the time it was flushed out of the tag bc tumblr hates fic writers for real actually.

my friend booker is to blame for this. they mentioned this pair to me offhandedly but then i turned around and made this, and basically learned 2 things. 1) writing danny is fun, and 2) i have. a lot of feelings. about them.

while i have a couple of long pieces to finish, requests are still open, so if you liked this and would like smthn written, feel free to shoot me an ask!

likes < reblogs, any comments in the tags are appreciated

ao3 mirror in the reblogs!

Preview: “Tell you what.” He folded his arms over the top of the generator, looking the man in the face as he rested the side of his head against his forearm. “You’re still a noob, and I can’t be having anything fun with that. I’ll give you, hm… 10 seconds to run and hide, phone a friend, you know… not die, but after that, you’re all mine. Sound good?” The blonde remained silent, blinking at him in bewilderment. That was as good of an answer as any. “Alright. 10-” “Ah, wait, but what about-” “-9-” He didn’t say anything after that, dropping the wires in his hands and taking off into a sprint, stumbling as he stood to his full height - and oh boy, was he a tall guy - and turned a corner of old cars. Danny chuckled, standing up to rest his ass against the side of the gen, flipping his knife in his hand as he kept counting down. “8… 7… 6-5-4-3-2-1- ok, here we go.”

Another day, another trial. As the fog cleared from his vision, the Ghostface flipped his small knife in his hand, feeling the silent breeze whistle through the tendrils on his uniform. The Autohaven Wreckers was as sorry of a sight as it always was, but one that he’d grown quite accustomed to use as his playground. From the sight of the old garage, he could almost pick out memories of all the times he’d scared the pants off of the poor survivors, which he took more than enough pleasure in doing. Danny looked around, still absently flipping his knife in his hand as he formulated a plan, taking a brief moment to watch the ever-present moonlight glint off of the freshly cleaned blade before he looked up once more, a slow grin forming behind the mask as the game began.

 Poor Meg thought he was stupid, thinking she’d lost him at a simple enough loop around a pile of tires, all up until he pulled her off of her generator with a cackle (“screw you, creep” she said as she slammed her fists into the back of his shoulder - changed her tune real quick after he slid a hook into hers). Nea didn’t hesitate in giving him the runaround, powering a generator in his face and slamming a locker door into him for good measure. Danny knew the girl would throw a palette at him if she had the chance - she was the most fun to play with. But he soon lost her, so soon after catching her, but it was that detective asshole that ruined their fun, as he’d shone a damn flashlight in his eyes while he had Nea on his shoulder, finally, enough for her to wiggle free and run off again. And by the time his vision had cleared, the both of them had gone. Danny growled - as much as he enjoyed fun, it was only when he was winning was it any good.

 It was while he was stalking around the battered old killer shack looking for the bastard that he saw him for the first time. Blonde hair, broad shoulders, and a fancy suit that just screamed rich, with a touch of “please tear me off or splatter me in blood, both sound great”. A man he didn’t recognize, sat on a generator, eyes darting around as he worked the best he could with shaking hands, clearly on edge about being left on his own to work. Whatever annoyance he had in him melted like hot wax, as he approached, slowly, knowing this guy would be a wonderful victim to mess with. The killer’s fingers curled around the edge of the wall as he watched the man, the way he swallowed and sighed, muttering to himself in reassurance in a tongue that sounded familiar to him, too quiet to tell. The generator got louder and louder, its mechanisms and inner parts in tune as the man worked his magic, almost letting himself smile in triumph as he grabbed another wire.

“Hey there, handsome.”

A voice from behind his neck, raspy and deep, caused him to jump, a spark sending the generator into smoke as he turned, face going white as he pushed his back against the wall.

Oh, he was right. He was going to be fun, all right. Danny chuckled. “Oh, sorry. Did I scare you? Tend to do that. It’s in my… nature.”

The man swallowed, glancing around for any kind of help, seeming to find none as his attention turned back to the killed, speaking in a low, rich voice, though it shook from fear. “Don’t you have… things, to be stabbing?”

“Why, is that an invitation?” He laughed again, leaning up against the generator and crossing one leg over the other. “Nah, I’m just kiddin’. Ain’t it enough to get to know the new neighbours? Haven’t seen you around before, pretty boy. They smuggled you in, huh?”

“I… suppose.”

He hummed, tapping the blade of his knife against the metal of his knife, the clanging making the survivor jump. Oh, bless him - well and truly, it was a mistake for him to get caught up here… but a happy mistake, to be sure. “Got a name?”

“Huh?”

“Like I said, I like to know the neighbours, ya know… real close and personal. A preference. Bit of normalcy. Soooo…”

He remained silent. So he was a little bit smarter than what he’d look like, from the way he was shaking in his rich white boots. Impressive.

“Tell you what.” He folded his arms over the top of the generator, looking the man in the face as he rested the side of his head against his forearm. “You’re still a noob, and I can’t be having anything fun with that. I’ll give you, hm… 10 seconds to run and hide, phone a friend, you know… not die, but after that, you’re all mine. Sound good?”

The blonde remained silent, blinking at him in bewilderment. That was as good of an answer as any. 

“Alright. 10-”

“Ah, wait, but what about-”

“-9-”

He didn’t say anything after that, dropping the wires in his hands and taking off into a sprint, stumbling as he stood to his full height - and oh boy, was he a tall guy - and turned a corner of old cars.

Danny chuckled, standing up to rest his ass against the side of the gen, flipping his knife in his hand as he kept counting down. “8… 7… 6-5-4-3-2-1- ok, here we go.”

 Curious as it was, he lost the blonde beauty soon after he let him go, instead finding Meg oddly open about where she was, spriting right into his vision. Not that he was complaining; a game was a game, and if the runner decided that she wanted to play tag, then who was he to turn her down? Especially when she was so easy to catch… though as soon as she was hooked, flashlight clicking and Swedish profanities in his ear was enough to make him chase after Nea rather than go after his original chase once again… they were painting a target on their back, and for what? To save the new guy’s skin? He wasn’t an idiot. Just surprised that some of them had the compassion.

 Well, they managed to get another generator done, but the two girls were dead, and a soon injured Tapp was surely soon to follow them. A means to an end, it seemed, as his knife plunged into the detective’s side and sent him crashing into the dirt with a grunt of pain, rolling over onto his back with one eye open, the other wincing in pain, the shadow of the killer cast over him in the moonlight as he wiped his blade.

“OK, Detective, we’ll make this real nice and simple.” He crouched down next to the survivor, taking note of how the blood pooled around him as he laid on his back, staring up at him. “Tell me where your new friend is hiding, and I’ll let you live.”

Silence.

“C’mon, it’s not that hard of a choice to make. I’ve heard getting sacrificed is long and painful, like your insides are getting ripped at over and over again until, poof, you’re back again, at that cozy little campfire, only a little bit more traumatised to show for it. Now, you want that to happen to only one of you, or both of you, hm?”

Tapp looked away, seeming to ponder the possibility.

“Self-preservation instincts, Detective. I know you have them.” He tapped his knife into the dirt. Humans were fickle beings, easily swayed when their life was on the line.

The detective sighed, chest shaking from the strain. “Fine. I know where he’s hiding. But I can’t… breathe right, with a knife in my chest, so come a little closer.”

Danny blinked, but surely he didn’t have any more tricks up his sleeve, so he did as he was told, for once in his life, letting his mask get inches away. “Yes?”

A moment of silence, before there was a whisper in reply, backed by the assurance of an idiot who knew he was going to die regardless, as he spat blood pooling in his mouth onto the mask of the ghost almost pressed against his own. “Go fuck yourself.”

He was almost stunned at the bravado, leaning away with a chuckle, though he gritted his teeth through it. “Oh, you’re a funny man. Absolutely hilarious, you know that?” But still, that was as good of an affirmation of choice as he was going to get from someone so stubborn, so Danny grabbed him by the front of his vest and hoisted him up onto his shoulder.

 The screaming echoed as the heavens opened up, the Entity surely pleased with her feast for the evening, but he still wasn’t done… oh no, far from it. There was still one more handsome devil to track down. Danny rolled his neck, grinning at the gentle cracks from the strain, strolling more than hunting, at this point, for the well-kept survivor he didn’t know the name of, but was practically dying to know. He almost skipped up the crane, looking out of the window as Rapunzel did out of her tower window, before chuckling to himself and hoisting himself out. Danny tapped his blade against his hand, almost going to begin whistling if not for the angelic cries coming from the hill just close by. A grin overtook him, as he chased the calls of cherubs from the ground below.

 He slammed that hatch shut with a satisfied sigh, throwing his knife between his hands as he looked around and arched his neck for the doors. Normally the whelps would just give up at this point, but the guy was new, and probably didn’t know what was best for him. Still, the doors were easily within view, so if he made it out of this alive… well, he wouldn’t, so no promise needed to be made. The killer chuckled to himself, finally settling on wrapping his fingers around the handle of his blade, curling one by one, slowly and deliberately for no one in particular, before setting off to take part in the real game that had begun.

 He had no idea how he did it. Perhaps Danny had become too complacent in his work. But that handsome devil slipped past him more than once, enough for him to open up a gate and tiptoe his nice ass into certain safety. The survivor stared at him from inside the gate as he walked past in bewilderment, shaking like a dog in the rain that was just waiting to be gutted, battered old medkit in hand. And while he was stunned, the man swallowed, nodded, and left the trial head high, descending back into the fog as it began to consume the old gas station, leaving Danny to stare into darkness, barely blinking.

 Well, that was interesting, wasn’t it?

—

His name was Felix, he’d learned from the pig in the meat plant, having overheard it while she watched him blow the generator out by accident and got cursed out by the familiar bane-of-their-existence Swede. German, from the way he’d spoken to Danny by the generator in their first encounter, high up on the social ladder from the way he dressed (unless he’d gotten all dressed up just to see him? Funny, that would be, but very unlikely), shaken by the fog and with a disposition not unlike a lost dog. 

 And yet, despite his nerves and cluelessness to the fog, he always seemed to escape him. He didn’t know how he did it, but from finding hatch to evading the hooks, Felix somehow managed to keep him on his toes. Trials were somehow more exciting, knowing there was a challenge, and a chance to catch he who refused to be caught. Danny knew he was going to revel in the moment, when it eventually came - there was no way someone could be better than him, when he was so in his element.

So, after not seeing the man for the entire trial while hunting through the streets of Badham, catching him at the gate seemed like a dream come true. And he was none the wiser, as Danny quickly slammed his hand against the wall next to the lever, making him jump and freeze, pulling his hand away, two bright lights reflecting onto his face. “And so we meet again.”

“S-so we do.” He ran a hand through his hair before it found a place at the back of his neck, quietly taking a few steps back.

“Aht, aht. I wouldn’t run. I’ll just find you again anyways.”

He stopped. 

“...You know, I don’t quite know how you do it. It’s like you’re avoiding me on purpose.”

“That is… the point, is it not?”

“Oh, how rude- people come here to see me, surely. I’m a spectacle; call me a master at my craft.”

Felix chuckled - god, he chuckled, though it was riddled with nerves, but it most certainly happened, and sounded great - fiddling with the cufflinks on the sleeves of his suit jacket as his back straightened a little, as if flicking a switch to go from sorry sight to professional businessman. “Well, I… don’t suppose you’d be willing to show me why?”

He blinked. “Are you… flirting with me?”

“Am I?”

Danny wasn’t sure if the question was rhetorical or not, from the way he stood beside the lever at the gate, leaning a shoulder against the brick and folding his arms across his strong, broad chest (the way his shirt was unbuttoned just so was something Danny now noticed, and couldn’t stop noticing, barely tearing his eyes away to meet his gaze again) with an almost expectant look. “You’re... a weird one.”

“I… suppose so. Anyone normal would have ignored you and already run for their lives.”

The killer chuckled. “You’re not… entirely wrong. But I gotta say, I do like that. Among… other things.”

Though his eyes weren’t visible, it was as if the survivor knew exactly where he was looking, coughing and covering his mouth with the side of his fist. How cute was that?

He almost couldn’t contain himself. But he managed, somehow, not sure where this whole thing was going, but more than ready to go along for the ride. “Say… how far are you willing to ask that question, anyway? You really wanna know that bad, huh?”

Felix swallowed, closing his eyes for a moment before looking up again, with his piercing blue gaze, lips parting just so into a coy little smile. “Let’s find out, shall we?”

Danny had never thought a man of such sophistication was willing to whore himself out for freedom, but sure enough, he himself opened the gate to let the German go, almost sad to see him leave (though it wouldn’t be for long), but very much enjoying the view.

 He paused. He was supposed to catch him and kill him, wasn’t he? Danny frowned, somewhat troubled, but tried to justify it as returning to old habits in Roseville, as he left the gate, and waited for the fog to consume him again, taking a seat just outside the battered old preschool.

—

It was like the attraction of magnets with twice the force as soon as they saw each other, wasting no time as suddenly Felix’s back was slammed into a tree, a loose and cold gloved hand finding its way up his shirt, sending a shiver up his spine for another reason as he felt lips hit his, with a hunger and desperation he was not expecting but certainly didn’t mind reciprocating, as Danny soon found out. And he wasn’t complaining; he was damn good, for a man with the disposition of a 40-year-old virgin, moving his hands to Danny’s wrist and placing his hand on his waist, which again, he did not mind at all, while the other was still halfway up his shirt. Let the man take the lead, at least for now, because it’s the only chance he’ll get to.

 Danny chuckled as a hand moved to grab his ass - quite the eager beaver, wasn’t he? He was practically purring as he pulled away, the survivor trying to follow him before reeling back as he moved to kissing up the side of his neck, listening close to the adorable little whimpers that came out of him as he squirmed in his grip. The killer then went to move his hand out from under Felix’s shirt, finally, casually undoing the buttons of his waistcoat and shirt one by one, taking the time to walk down his chest with his fingers and feel the shaking breaths of anticipation under his fingertips. Oh, the things he wanted to do-

 Distant voices were enough to make the survivor crack open an eye, pausing before he began to push the killer’s head off of his neck.

“Hey, hey,” Danny didn’t appreciate the interruption, moving to look up as Felix looked around, like a startled animal, though he still purred in the crudest fashion. “C’mon, buddy, I was just getting started.”

“Quiet.” His voice was low and commanding, still shaking from adrenaline.

And for whatever reason, Danny complied.

He swallowed, listening to the silence of the wind in the barrens of the fog-covered forest and there was another distant call, which upon hearing he began trying to wiggle out of the killer’s grip. “Off.”

“Why?”

“They’re looking for me-”

“And you don’t wanna be seen with me?” He gave a mock gasp of offence, though the grin that was slowly growing larger still remained on his face.“Oh, honey-”

“That’s exactly it. Move, please.”

That was enough to make Danny chuckle, squeezing his hips that he still held, enough to make him yelp a little. “Still so polite. If you want me to do somethin’, hon, you gotta be a little more, ah... demanding, yeah?”

Felix glared. “Alright. Get off. Now.” His voice had an annoyed growl to it, though his voice still cracked a little out of embarrassment, as he pushed down on Danny’s arms to let himself go.

“There it is.” And so he moved, standing back and sliding his hands into the pockets of his cloak. He watched the architect fiddle with the buttons on his shirt to redo them again, rushing to do so and messing it up a few times, mumbling to himself. “Need help?”

He glared again. 

Danny laughed, observing how he looked like a kicked puppy as he went back to fiddling with his shirt, pulling down his own mask again to hide what little of his face he had revealed. “You know, I think you’d look much better with it off.”

“Shut up.”

“Oh, that’s not what you were saying with your eyes earlier-”

“You were a lot more tolerable when you were quiet.”

“‘Cos I never had a chance to speak, what, with you all over my mouth.” He shrugged as he spoke, as if it was a nonchalant fact, only smiling wider when he heard Felix try to stammer out a flustered reply, to no avail, choosing instead to simply huff and finish off the buttons on his shirt.

“Regardless, this affair is over.”

“Wait, hold on.”

“What?”

The killer moved his hands up to Felix’s neck, watching the man flinch and hold a breath with a soft chuckle, gently undoing a few of the top buttons that he’d redone. “You normally wear it like this.”

He gently touched at his collar, looking down at his fingers and then to the mask starring back at him. “And you’ve noticed?”

“Hard not to.” He shrugged, tugging at the shirt collar and going to fix up the waistcoat too before his hands were slapped away, which he held up in defence with a grin behind his mask. “So when are we doing this again, sunshine?”

The survivor moved away before he could’ve boxed in against the tree again, taking a few steps towards the direction of the campfire and the voices, though not too far as to disengage from the conversation, perhaps a little unsure how to. “You speak like this will be a regular affair.”

“Well, we had fun, ja?” 

“...Are you mocking me?”

“Not mocking, just… appreciating the culture.”

Felix started, smoothing down the arms of his suit jacket with a light scoff of disbelief. “Truly, you’re insufferable.”

“Can't say you didn’t enjoy yourself though, huh, mein Schatz?” He leaned his shoulder against the tree now, folding his arms across his chest, earning him a weak-hearted glare.

“Werde gefickt.”

“Gerne.”

Being outplayed in his own game of native tongues, somehow, Felix conceded, looking down at his cufflinks again. “You’re… not entirely wrong, so ...perhaps a name, so I can find you.”

“Oh, so now you want to know me? What happened to a one-time affair, sugar?” 

“When you’re so easy to please, I would be an idiot not to take advantage.”

Danny laughed, shrugging with no retort (though he was uncertain if hitting this pretty boy like a fish was just as good as getting in his pants… that much was yet to be determined). He soon trailed off, swallowing to himself, a lie escaping him as effortlessly as it had always done. “Jed Olsen.”

“Mr. Olsen…” Felix pondered for a moment. “...Ja, OK.”

—

So they’d been fooling around, yeah. Danny had always said he was willing to try it, should an idiot be brave enough, and if it was someone that wasn’t either Ace or David - he was a man with some standards, even with the blood on his hands - but never had he thought about it getting this far.

 The sun never rose or set, but people slept and woke as time passed, regardless of the light outside, and that was no exception here. If anything, it was the cold chill of Ormond that awoke him from sleep, though he’d grown complacent in it, realising the teens that called this shithole a home would probably evict him if he so much as dared to complain. Danny still grumbled, attempting to pull the scraps of the blanket over himself, but finding it unable to move. Turning over, he now heard the sound of gentle snoring, the body, next to him sometimes shuffling, but remained mostly motionless, aside from the movements of breathing from his chest. His latest fling, almost his newest obsession… god, he still looked perfect, even now, golden locks of hair falling out of form, the lighting of the shitty little cabin not enough to hide that perfect jawline tickled with stubble in all the right places, red marks down his neck and back from an encounter that had lead them right here, in the bed he was practically renting in the corner of the resort.

 They’d gotten a little adventurous, hadn't they? Banter in the trials was one thing, borderline voyeurism in the entity’s forest was another, but here? Letting himself be taken back to the realms to stay, where killers were not technically bound by rules of obedience, with Danny of all killers, a man who loved to bend the rules? Felix Richter was a smart man, that much he knew, but by god was he stupid. Maybe he thought there was a good man still in there, in the Ghostface. Well, that was his mistake; it was almost cute for him to still hold out hope though, regardless of how much disappointment was awaiting him down the road. Danny gently ran fingertips along the sleeping man’s arm, feeling the soft skin underneath his touch, smiling despite himself, only pausing at the gentle stirring he caused, practically freezing with his hand in the air as the architect moved, and slowly opened his eyes, sleepily smiling.

“Good morning.”

“...Hi,” he released a breath he didn’t know he was holding, letting his hand fall into the space between them. “Hardly mornin’, but sure.”

“Close enough.”

“Sure.”

There was a soft, amused hum from the other man, adjusting his position a little to better face him, hair falling out of place just so, like some disheveled Ken doll. “I would ask if you slept well, but-”

“Oh, very well, thanks to you. Really outdid yourself this time; I gotta say, that was almost the most fun I’ve had since I got here… or maybe even before-”

A light shove to his chest made him stop and laugh a little, feeling the slight coldness of metal from a family ring against one pec, and almost wanting the light touch of his hand to remain there, before it hit the mattress with a thump, dangerously close to Danny’s. “You’re a funny one, Mr. Olsen.”

He sat up, resting an elbow on the stained old pillow and holding his cheek with the corresponding hand, raising an eyebrow. “Thought you liked me better when I was quieter?”

Felix stared at him with those perfect eyes of his, and he laughed - like audible silk it was, smooth and defined, with a sleepy smile and everything - adjusting himself with a hand under his pillow. “Sometimes. Sometimes I like to hear you.”

“Glad to hear it. I’ve been told it’s my best quality.”

“Hmm. Is it how you make jokes to deflect, or how you talk out of your ass?”

“...Well, hey now, Princess, ouch-”

As he tried to defend himself, the survivor smirked, somehow braver here than anywhere else (and it wasn’t his persona), quipping back to match him, and as he was talking, Danny paused, watching the way his eyes diverted and how his mouth moved, how he talked with his body and the way he smiled and waiting for a small hum in response, and how Danny liked the way his name sounded coming from his mouth, even if it wasn’t entirely the true one. Almost made him wonder what the real thing would sound like… no, that was too much, right? Couldn’t get attached. He wasn’t attached, was he?

 Couldn’t hurt to wait a little more to think on that, before escorting this pretty little thing back to the campfire.

—

So he was thinking about Felix a lot more than was normal for an obsession of his. What started off as a vengeful curiosity had morphed into something else, something so ugly yet so beautiful, foreign to Danny in recent years, or perhaps his entire life. Was this how high school girls felt, chasing after the jocks for a chance to get them off, and maybe start a high school whirlwind romance? Well, he certainly wasn’t a prepubescent cheerleader, but the survivor that had caught his attention seemed just like the squeaky clean Prince Charming that girls drooled over.

 And he couldn’t have that. Not at all.

 The fog cleared out of his vision slowly, and he opened his eyes, almost rolling them as the field of corn came into view. Coldwind - the rotten fields, it looked like, from the wide expanse of produce hiding his vision. Despite the cards not being in his favour, a game could still be played here, if he played his hand, carefully. And he was planning to. He’d let himself get distracted. But not again.

 Getting back into the routine of the hunt was like sliding into a comfortable sweater, blood shedding with no tear from him. Laurie was always a thrilling chase, her determination being almost cute. Quentin was similar, though the boy with insomnia had a lot less appeal than the virgin final girl, to be sure. David, of course, was David - loud, frustrating to deal with, and incredibly annoying. And… Felix. He knew how he felt about Felix already.

 As well as he tried to play it, this time, the game was not in his favour, and quite quickly generators across the field were powered, with only a few hooks under his belt. Getting to a gate, it was already beginning to open, three of them already filing into the funnel of the exit. But Felix, he was lagging behind, and without thinking, Danny took a swipe...

 ...No one escaped death. Not even the man he may have fallen for.

 As he wiped the blood from his blade with a gloved hand closed around it, he watched the architect grasp at his side and stumble, leaning a shoulder up against a wooden wall for support.

“Go.” He called to the woman in the blue shirt, standing at the gate.

“Felix, we can’t-”

“I said go, Laurie!”

She gritted her teeth and went to ignore him, running back into the cornfield, but a grip and pull on her arm from David stopped her, as much as she tried to fight against it. Quentin was the last to leave, watching the two of them for a moment before he swallowed, and chased after them, a medkit in hand.

 “Alone time, eh? Hon, we’re on a time limit here-”

“Just get it done.”

Danny tried to laugh. But it didn’t… feel right, somehow, even if it was the same as it always had been. As Felix leaned against a wall to support himself and slid down, knees buckling underneath him, he crouched down to meet him. “I dunno… no fun when they don’t squirm, you know?”

“...Jed-”

“Danny.”

He paused. “What?”

“It’s Danny Johnson. My name, I mean. I lied, when we first met. ...Surprise!” Knife still gripped, he tried to do a small jazz hands movement, though it seemed a fall flat. Only hurt more with what came next.

“...I figured as much.”

“Oh yeah? And why’d you set yourself up for failure like that, sunshine?”

“Because… I don’t know. I thought you were like me.”

The killer deflated a little, tilting his head to one side.

“I… maybe, I thought you were playing something up. I always felt… something else, there. Maybe something even you didn’t know about. Under all that ego, Mr Ol- ...Mr. Johnson, there was a man who cared, once.”

He tapped the blade of his knife against the floor. “...Maybe. I dunno.”

“Do you think he’s still in there?”

Danny didn’t reply right away, dragging his blade through the dirt by his feet absentmindedly. He didn’t entirely know, at this point. Normally this would have been the end of their little game - it was over, he had caught him and won - but something was stopping him. The ground shook, reminding him of that first moment where this fascination had started to plague him. “...You’ve done something to me, Felix.”

He hummed, trying to shift where he sat, holding his side where the blood had stained his very nice suit. “Have I?”

“Must have done. Because this isn’t as fun as I thought it would be.”

“That’s the reality of most things, I’m afraid.”

“I hate it.”

The survivor almost laughed, though it was pained and strained, clearly struggling… but was the sliver of it that made it, that small smile on his stupid, perfect face - that was enough, it seemed, to make Danny smile too.

He pulled up his mask entirely, tugging down his hood and fixing his hair with a quick ruffle, feeling the cloth tendrils on his sleeves whip behind him from the movement. The killer took a second to stare at Felix in front of him, before he moved his hand up to his face, watching him flinch. “Hey- relax, baby, I’m not gonna hurt you yet.”

“Yet.”

Danny hummed, cupping his face and wiping away the blood starting to dribble out of his mouth with a finger. “There. You’re a messy little boy, aint’cha?”

A cough, more blood involuntarily spilling out from his mouth now, this time splashing onto his shirt and the front of Danny’s suit. “My apologies. I’ll make sure to bleed less next time you stab me.”

“‘Ppreciate it, babes.”

Though he thought the man would shove him away, he instead seemed to lean into the touch, moving a hand to hold onto Danny’s wrist. “You still smell like cheap cologne.”

“It’s the only thing they sent me here with. ‘Sides, your scent goes away after a while.”

“Gross.”

“The one and only.”

And despite his small smile, of both annoyance and amusement, the third overwhelming emotion behind his eyes was that of sadness. The ground shook around them, but they didn’t seem to care, not until Danny moved his hand away and stood to his feet again, grabbing his knife from the floor and wiping the dirt off of the blade on his thigh.

 “Is this it, then?”

“‘Fraid so.”

“...It was fun.”

“Oh yes, it was.” He looked down at his knife, pressing the tip of the blade against his finger and twisting it, the moonlight and bleeding of the ground catching the light of the metal. “...For what it’s worth? You were close.”

“Close to what?”

“Makin’ me a person. Ya know, not a prick, like… an actual loser, with empathy. Almost had me for a sec, hot stuff.”

“Is that why you’re stopping this? Are you scared?”

Danny swallowed down a reply. He took a moment to look down at Felix, who’s eyes had followed him the entire time, making a small ‘call me’ sign with his free hand and forcing a smirk. “If you ever decide you wanna make a mistake again, you’ll know where to find me.”

“...Goodbye, Danny.”

He walked off into the corn, not wanting to see the way those blue eyes stared at him anymore, only stopping at the pained screaming that followed. The shaking of the ground had stopped now. She had come to feast.

 As he stood in the middle of cornfield, he looked up at the sky of the farm, overcast and grey, tendrils of the Entity reaching down to claim her prize, and fog swirling around him to take him back, to lay in wait, until the next time.

 He was right. His name did sound nice coming out of Felix’s mouth. 

[mewmedic]

An Offering, Chapter 3

Read it on AO3 here.

Summary: “Never, not even a killer deserves that.” Claudette replied, with genuine disgust on her face. She may be unable to hurt a fly, but she wouldn't hurt a murderer? Meg could understand the fear of retaliation from them, but if she could get away with attacking a killer, she would totally do it. Claudette was just too sweet, and the strong must protect the sweet. Claudette’s face was wrought with worry, like she wanted to say something but was afraid. “Meg, have you ever thought that maybe they don’t want to hunt us down?”

Warnings: None.

Notes: So this Chapter is technically shorter than chapter two but it is way longer than I expected. Whoops.

    Meg sat on a log, hugging her knees, while staring into the red-hot abyss that was the campfire. She couldn’t help but let her mind wonder over Claudette’s gentleness she experienced just a few hours ago. She really hoped Claudette wasn’t creeped out by all the hand holding and that hug. She didn’t want to rush Claudette into something she wasn’t comfortable with, but unfortunately speed was kind of Meg’s whole thing. Was she just being nice to her because she didn’t want to rock the boat? Claudette seemed like the type of person who would do that.

    The girl was torn from her thoughts when she felt another trial was incoming so she uncurled her body. It was only a matter of minutes before the other three were present at the campfire as well. She spotted the satchel of herbs in Claudette’s palms and decided to take an initiative with the conversation. Meg figured Claudette wasn’t the best at commanding attention through dialog. There was nothing wrong with that of course, she was clearly just an introvert.

    “Claudette and I found a plant called crispleaf amaranth. She thinks it might help us survive longer in a trial.” Meg tried to speak in a very series and concise tone, so the boys would take her seriously.

    “Well, it’s not a bag of weed so I doubt it will do much.” Jake snorted, like he though what he said was just so clever. This fucking guy. Always had to be a contrarian. Well Meg had something coming for him.

    “I saw you unhook and heal Dwight last trial. So maybe you secretly think these offerings work too! Or maybe you’re too scared to admit some flowers manipulated you into being nice for once!” Meg’s whole face had scrunched tight in frustration. With each word she said, she stepped closer to the man and then punctuated her anger with a finger pushing at his chest.

    “It’s true. Even if it’s a placebo effect we still had decent results.” Dwight added to the discussion with what seemed like reluctance, his eyes shifted and he rubbed his knuckles awkwardly. Meg being an extrovert, Dwight and Claudette being introverts, and Jake being whatever the hell he was sure lead to some interesting dynamics. Jake shot his view from Dwight to Meg rapidly, looking like a cornered animal ready to bounce back. He was clearly trying to come up with something to say, but then Claudette began to speak.

    “Meg told me about the trial. If Dwight had been injured when Meg was opening the gate, he wouldn’t have been able to take a hit for her. You did the right thing Jake, thank you.” Claudette’s kind tone quickly washed away the tension. Meg stepped back from Jake while he deflated his chest in embarrassment. She was dumbfounded by Claudette’s never-ending patience towards Jake’s petty quips. Meg was aware she wasn’t blameless either with her snapping at him, but goddammit, someone needs to make him be a team player. The fog began to creep in on the four survivors so Claudette quickly tossed the satchel into the flames.

    ***

The exit gates had been powered on and Meg was being chased by a killer they all call ‘The Wraith.’ He had been chasing her since the final generator had lit up so someone had to be close to opening a gate by now. She was injured and had been hooked twice, so she just had to find a gate and fast. Relief blessed her when she saw the three glowing red bulbs of an exit gate in the distance, with Claudette manning the switch.

    “Open it, open it, open it!” Meg panicked, narrowly dodging an attack from the monster’s disgusting blade.

    “It’s almost there- It’s- It’s done!” Claudette was just as stressed as Meg; she could see an injury on her arm now that she had rounded the corner of a wooden wall. The door of the gate began to move swiftly but Claudette was transfixed to the switch. “Wha-What about Dwight and Jake?!”

    “They can leave through the other gate! He’s gonna have to chase us out!” Meg had finally reached Claudette and grabbed her by the hand, ushering her past the opened gate. The two ducked together as the beast swung one last time and tumbled over the threshold into the fog. They were safe, for now, all they could do now is wait for the boys. It only took about a minute for the two to emerge into the fog, both of them leaning on each other for support as they stumbled.

    “Aha! Now you can’t deny that offering worked. I bet none of us can even recall the last time we all got out alive.” Meg proudly boasted.

    “We won’t know for sure until we test it more.” Jake stated, trying to sound calm and collected under the pain of his bleeding. Claudette approached Jake and looked like she was going to start dressing his wounds but was stopped by Dwight.

    “J-Jake and I can tend to our wounds. You two can get more off-offerings.” Dwight added, his teeth nearly clattering as he talked. Claudette curled her index finger as if to beckon Meg to her tent and the walk together. She quickly entered her tent and returned with her trowel, a satchel, and some medical supplies. The two sat down cross legged in front of each other.

    “I want to show you how I heal myself without a med kit. I take this gauze out of a kit and stuff as much I can in my pockets. I also keep a wipe on me to clean the blood off wounds first. It’s not as clean a kit heal so it takes a longer.” Claudette explained matter-of-factually. Meg was dumbfounded, she had no idea Claudette even did this.

    There were periods in trials where Meg wouldn’t see her, this is what she must be doing during those times. Meg was aware that Claudette could heal herself better than her own teammates could, or maybe she just didn’t want to burden them? She needed to improve her healing skills either way. Claudette cleansed the blood running across the gash on the outside of her wrist. “Okay, so after you clean the blood off your skin… You can pin the beginning of the unrolled side of gauze in place with the thumb of your injured hand, then wrap it around your arm upwards.”

    As Claudette instructed, she began to cover her slashed arm in gauze. Meg’s eyes were glued to her actions. “If the gauze bleeds through on placement, you don’t want to take it off. That can do more harm than good. It’s better just to wrap around that area with another layer. After that, tie up the ends and wiggle your finger to check the circulation.” Claudette did exactly what she described and handed Meg her supplies.

    Meg’s injury was also on her arm, so she was at least able to imitate the other’s actions easily. She cleaned her wound, unraveled the gauze upward, and tied it off. Claudette leaned in and inspected the bandages as Meg stretched her fingers. Meg privately enjoyed the brief moment of closeness but anxiously waited to hear the other’s judgment. “You did well.” She said kindly. Meg pumped her fist in the air victoriously.

    The two girls stood and clasped each other’s hands, leaving the campsite for the fog. Meg looked over her shoulder and watched the twinkling of the fire get smaller and smaller. The only sound now was the thuds of their footsteps and their quiet breathing. The foggy expanse ahead of them eventually revealed a small array of flowers in the short distance. Meg and Claudette shot each other amused glances as they quickly approached the blooms. The petals were ruffled with pink edges that changed to a vibrant red in the center. The burst of color shocked Meg, she never imagined something so bright could be out here in the void. The primrose they originally found was quite nice, but whatever flower this was really knocked it out of the park.

    “This is sweet william, it is often used a symbol for passion and courage. The Roman goddess of the hunt, Diana, once plucked out the eyes of a man who had angered her. This flower grew from the dirt where his eyes fell.” Claudette enthusiastically explained.

    “Wow, she sounds like a badass. Maybe we can channel some of that boldness with these?” Meg suggested, jovially posing her free hand like a claw.

    “What?! I don’t want to rip anybody’s eyes out!” Claudette gasped and winced at the gruesome thought.

    “C’mon, not even a killer?” Meg tilted her head, intrigued by the other’s reaction.

    “Never, not even a killer deserves that.” Claudette replied, with genuine disgust on her face. She may be unable to hurt a fly, but she wouldn't hurt a murderer? Meg could understand the fear of retaliation from them, but if she could get away with attacking a killer, she would totally do it. Claudette was just too sweet, and the strong must protect the sweet. Claudette’s face was wrought with worry, like she wanted to say something but was afraid. “Meg, have you ever thought that maybe they don’t want to hunt us down?”

    “I… No, I haven’t.” Meg was aghast, she did her best to hold back a gaping jaw. She wanted to hear her out.

    “It’s possible someone hurt them too. Both Trapper and Hillbilly’s are covered in scars, and Wraith… When I look at him, I see anger, but I also see fear.” Claudette just sounded so somber with her words. Meg was astounded that Claudette could notice something like that and felt ashamed that she couldn’t. “I think if something is keeping us here, it also must be have trapped them somewhere.”

    Meg actually had considered there had been some sort of higher power controlling their new world. How else do could she explain the freaky claws that take them away when they die? Who teleports them to the trials? Who even brought them here in the first place? She assumed maybe this being worked for the killers or maybe were equals with them. Never could she imagine these murderers worked for whatever had abducted her. Was there truly something more dangerous than them? Her head was spinning and she need to stop thinking about this right now.

    She knelt down to the flowers and the other followed suit. Claudette seemed to take the hint that Meg was overwhelmed with existential dread as she moved on to digging with her trowel. The sweet william was neatly planted in her satchel. She then plucked one of the flowers and gently placed it above Meg’s ear. She revealed a coy smile as Meg’s face turned red from the gesture. Meg was frozen for a moment; all her thoughts were gone. All she could come up with was to swiftly mirror Claudette’s actions, she ripped a flower out and awkwardly set it on her ear too.

    Claudette giggled at the action and Meg just realized they were leaning towards each other gradually. They were intimately close now so she could study Claudette’s features. Her eyes were endlessly dark, she felt like she could dive into them and never return, and she would never want to either. Her brown lips looked warm and inviting, and they were getting larger as they continued to close the distance.

    “Can I… Can I kiss you?” Meg quietly asked.

    “I thought you’d never ask.” Claudette tenderly answered.

    Their lips brushed together and embraced the softness. The quiet of the fog was disrupted by fireworks exploding in Meg’s mind. She closed her eyes and the fear of killers their cruel god evaporated like they were nothing. Even if Meg were trapped in hell, at least Claudette could be her angel in this moment. The world was just Meg Thomas and Claudette Morel now. However, this peace could never last so the two retreated their lips. Meg knew they had to return to the camp eventually, and by the way Claudette was gripping her hand tightly, she must have known too. The two stood up together and began to walk back in the direction they came from.

    “So… Are we dating now?” Claudette blurted out. Meg’s breath hitched in her throat and she choked a little.

    “Erm, we can be if you want.” Meg nervously scratched at her neck and glanced away.

    “I do want to be dating you.” Claudette playfully declared with a bashful smile.

    “You do? Cool. ‘Cause I do too.” Meg responded casually, trying to act like it was no big deal.

    Dating? In this nightmare? The only thing stranger than being trapped in a realm where monsters kill you over and over again would be finding love in said realm. Love? Is that what this is? Was it too soon to tell? Meg had a habit of jumping to conclusions, after all, that was what brought her to follow Claudette into the fog in the first place. Maybe this was more of a leap of faith? Oh god, she’s letting her mind go wild again.

    The obscured glow of the campfire reaching her view snapped her out of those thoughts. The light got brighter and brighter until finally they were home. She didn’t want to think of this place as her home, but with Claudette by her side, it would be okay for now. Meg didn’t want them to go back to their tents like they normally would, she wanted this date to last a little bit longer. As if Claudette could read her mind, she guided her to sit on a log near the flames. So together they sat in silence, still holding hands, under the eternal night.

[ziracona]

Hi! I just realised I havn't popped in in awhile. Do you have any headcanons u feel like sharing about the newer survivors?? (I love them all, they're so cool but I think imma have to say cheryl is my bby gurl. she's tired. let her rest.) also. i am. going insane. from a toothache :) - Sleepy

Hey! Hope your tooth pain clears up! I’m so sorry—that’s one of the worst. : /

Hmmm, I do, but I’m trying to think of ones I haven’t said in asks before. 😬 Unfortunately my memory of fictional characters is great, and my memory of what I said in asks is shitty. :’-]

I don’t know the newer survivors—except Nancy and Steve—as well as I do the older ones, because I’ve never written them, and I haven’t played Silent Hill. I like Zarina, Yui, and Cheryl a lot though. Poor fkn Cheryl can join Quentin in the “Please God, just one good day?” Existence. Rip to them both. 😭

Poor kid gets out of hell once, and ya throw her back in. :’-]

Let’s see—headcanon I am fairly sure I haven’t already shared. I think Yui and Min would get along really well, and Jane and Zarina would too.

Yui hates the serial killers especially, from her own personal experience, and goes to bat hard against them every time.

Ash flirts with everyone to a point it’s even more than Ace does, and for a while it becomes a competition between them to see who can flirt more and better than the other (not in a shitty way—everybody knows they have the competition going on and it’s more a ‘I can act better than you’ than a ‘I can win more hearts’ one.) Ace is declared the winner in class, Ash the winner in sheer quantity he’s able to churn out, and they agree to call it a semi-draw. It’s actually a really fun week for everyone, because they’re all constantly being complemented and flirted with in a way they know is performative and seeks 0 real actions from them in return, so essentially they are just showererd with ‘drunk girl in a bar bathroom’ levels of praise for seven days.

Felix and Nancy are the only two with significant others waiting back home, and they bond over talking about their wife/boyfriend and sharing stories and having someone around who understands that specific brand of pain and can encourage them that they’ll make it back home.

Tapp is a dad, so he gives Felix a lot of advice on stuff since he was an expecting father. Not so much “do this” advice, since his relationship with his family didn’t go so well, and he feels like he’s in absolutely no position to teach—more like “It’s okay. Women have been giving birth for thousands of years. She’s gonna make it just fine even if you’re not home yet, and you’ll get back to them. And I’m gonna teach you some of the tricks so you’ll be ready when you do. You can even surprise her by already knowing how to change a diaper and warm a formula bottle. I’ll show you how to do it,” and talking him through some of the stuff he would have been able to learn from infant care books. It’s sweet, but Tapp almost dies when Jane says its “Very heartwarming” and teases him, so they cut him some slack. Felix is really appreciative. Laurie has taken care of a ton of kids, and gives him some advice too, and so does Nancy, who had two younger siblings.

Steve is a disaster who suffers from “I like you and you are a girl, so *pigeon meme* Is this falling in love?” syndrome. Gets shot down hard by Laurie, who is ridiculously pissed at him for bringing it up during a trial when their lives are on the line, but after he gets over being super awkward around her, and she reaches out to be like, ‘Look, dumbass, why did you even like me?’ And he’s like ‘...because you’re, uh, really cool? A-and pretty? And...’ and eventually she’s like ‘Buddy, you don’t even really know me. You’re just lonely. You’re not in love with me, you just want to be, because you want to be in love with somebody, and that’s not gonna cut it, for me, or anyone. Be in love with a person—not with the concept of being in love. And for that to happen, you have to know them first.” And since Steve is good af self-improvement, he realizes she’s got a real point, and tries to find his worth outside of needing a girlfriend, and becomes both a lot happier, and one of Laurie’s closer friends. (Side note—this extends probably only to my initial Steve ideas. I had the idea batted around that in that universe, Stranger Things /is/ an existing show, but it’s based on a mix of urban legend and history from the 80s, and Nancy and Steve are the version from the actual 80s, and I think in that pitch Steve is dating Barb, who is still alive, and already worked through this specific issue, because many things happened differently for wild comedic ‘But in the show’ effect, becuase both them repeatedly going “WELL REALITY WAS A LITTLE DIFFERENT” when like, monster hunting shit from the show won’t work on the Demogorgan, and *Spit take* “THEY HAD ME HIT ON ROBIN?” “Ewwww” “YEAH ewww! She’s basically my lesbian little sister! We’ve been best friends since grade school! What the fuck :’-]” make for amazing joke potential. )

Cheryl starts having nightmares where she sees things from the Entity’s eyes she was never meant to see, and finding out dangerous amounts of information this way. The Entity decides at some point this is too big a threat, but because it’s proud, it doesn’t want to just kill her, as that would be admitting a human is a threat, so it starts having killers gun for her mercilessly to try to get her to give up, and the poor girl is in agony.

Zarina documents stuff form the realm constantly, and has a careful scrapbook collection of all notes and paraphernalia from past survivors. She also keeps conspiracy pages tacked together trying to figure out who they were becuase they deserve at least the justice of people somehow knowing how they died and what they went through. Laurie is a big help with this, and so is Claudette, who has been keeping stuff for a long time.

Yui is very no-nonsense, and protective. She gives off strong big sister vibes. She especially also loves board games/puzzles/other games like Shogi or Go and such, and Dwight and Adam create game pieces for her to play Go with when she mentions how much she used to like that kind of thing, and Yui is incredibly touched, and makes several other ones for people to play with too, and it becomes a very enjoyed pastime between trials. It’s engaging and competitive, but much more relaxed and low energy than sports or training or going for a run, so it’s a great alternative. Meg gets super into making puzzles, and all the artists do too, and take turns painting pictures on boards, cutting them into puzzle pieces with extreme painstakingly slow care, and then doing puzzles together. Jake is invaluable in the actual cutting pieces out area, but actually enjoys to do it.

Felix knows a lot more than anyone else about the Entity when he’s taken, so he spends a bunch of time with the research team trying to recall whatever he can from his childhood and sharing any information he has, then just stays on it because he wants to. He’s desperate to meet Benedict Baker someday himself, becuase that man seems to get around, and he really wants to know what happend to his father.

Everyone becomes protective as fuck of Cheryl when the Entity starts targeting her, and someone—I think Kate and or Meg—probably both together—as a one-off joke call themselves her knights at some point, becuase they’re running such dedicated protection detail, but it becomes a whole thing, and several more start to do it. They’ll like ‘fist clasped arm across chest at attention, quick bow’ when they see her, and it’s goofy as fuck, but it helps a lot making Cheryl’s reality more bearable. Plus, it’s really sweet. Nea gets in on this and comes back one day with a little daisy chain she made cause she was bored, sees Cheryl, it clicks, runs over and offers it as a ‘favor’. Zarina sees and comes back later that day from a trial and kneels and presents Cheryl with a rescued toolbox with a brand new part. This becomes increasingly common and extravagant, and Cheryl /cannot/ deal, but it’s like, genius, becuase it takes exactly this level of surreal goofy friend bullshit to distract from the hell she is living. She ends up just regularly having someone come back from a trial or trip to the woods, salute with an arm across their chest, bow, and present her with anything from a pinecone or pretty rock, to flowers or a medkit, to a salt statue or key, to a painting or hand made bracelet, to a makeshift weapon or a pillow. Everyone always tries to outdo each other, so the gifts tend to be extravagant. Zarina considers herself Cheryl’s righthand woman/personal knight by chocie, because she wanted a cause to fight for and has found one she truly loves, and she makes Cheryl her favorite gift so far, coming up to her at the end of a long day, after a very bad trial where Cheryl was mercilessly and slowly killed by the Pig, kneeling, and offering a thick shard of stained glass from the chapel, made sturdy and held in place with a few chunks of soldered and wrapped iron along the blade and down the grip, forming a razor sharp and reinforced stained glass knife.

[where-s-all-blue]

Post Apocalyptic AU LEASLC

An AU where Law, Eustass, Ace, Sabo, Luffy and Coby became brothers and the civilisation fell. Everything is slowly getting better, but the boys still need to survive and find their way to the only country that hasn't fallen yet: Wano. Where they encounter and become the older brothers of two very special girls. On the way, they also manage to pick up quite the fleet of other people who have also lived and survived the apocalypse.

Law

Law is the oldest brother and as such he has deemed it to be his duty to be the responsible one. He was dropped on the Romance Dawn Island by Sengoku after the death of Rosinante Donquixote. He's the one who has the most knowledge of how to deal with things like wounds.

After they've grown up, he assumes the role of the doctor without any fail as he has no intention on letting any of his dear people die ever again.

Eustass

Eustass is the second oldest of the lot, nobody knows for sure how he ended up on the island, but boy is he a trouble maker. Though thanks to his often uncredited wits, the brothers have been able to get multiple things work again and he's been the expert at making shelters for them.

Upon growing up, Eustass became the one to build them a sturdy ship they used to search for better life.

Ace

It's not a wonder that Ace is the one who knows how food works, he was the one who fully mapped out the island regarding its food sources, as he'd been on his own until he was seven years old. Though quite as responsible as Law, Ace makes an effort in being a good brother.

Nobody is surprised when Ace becomes the food expert of the brothers, though what does surprise them is the fact that both Law and Eustass also gave the mantle of the captain to him.

Sabo

The booksmart runaway Sabo is something between Law and Ace when it comes to responsibility, though his nose is always on the books. He soon starts to study maps and how they work along with joining Ace on hunting trips in order to draw a map of the island.

Grown up Sabo is the navigator of the bunch, his academic mind capable of handling strategy with ease along with the maps and keeping track on their resources.

Luffy

It's not much, but this kid has an amazing aim and a great ability to understand others. However his honesty often gets him in trouble. Law, Eustass and Sabo all try to school him but he can't quite concentrate on it.

Older Luffy is the best at handling negotiations funnily enough and he's great at making allies. People just see him and want to protect him with their life and this turns into them creating an armada to protect the brothers and giving them supplies. Nobody knows how it works and the older brothers of Luffy are too scared to ask.

Coby

Much like Eustass, how he ended up on the island is a mystery, but he's very quick on his feet, and has smarts. Sabo immediately took onto him with Law while the rest had doubts because of how wimpy he is. However, he did prove himself to be quite the information broker and a great lock picker with a good left hook.

Older Coby is still a crybaby, but he'll be damned if his brothers end up hurting or go hungry. He might be the youngest, but he's also by far the wittiest. If Sabo creates a strategy, Coby is the one to perfect it. He's quick on his feet and has a will of iron.

Honest talk here: I kind of view One Piece itself as a Post Apocalyptic world already and personally I find it very hard to come up with headcanons for an AU like this, because most things that people slap into their headcanons about this setting are... Basic survival skills? That I learned from my own old man and that literally everyone I know how to do?

Like... I know how to build myself a small wooden cabin? I know how to make wooden cutlery and plates? I know how to hunt and cook? I know how to make a fire and what I need to survive? I know how to make clothes? I know which plants are edible and which parts of them? I know how to make soap?

Hell, the only thing I can't do myself is effective pain killers so I guess that I'd have to lay down or ignore the headaches I tend to get. But yeah, you might see why this one is a bit odd to me.

Post Apocalyptic AUs are pretty much extreme Cottage Core AUs with dash of relearning how to do things like grow edible food to me with the potential occasional whatever enemy it is you might come across (most often a zombie, a deadly disease or another survivor).

[kbstories]

Axiomatic

ax·i·om·at·ic (adj.)

Self-evident; unquestionable.

The best part of battle is the afterparty.

(Or: Remember that banquet Luffy promised? This is it.)

Tags: Established Relationship, Domestic Fluff, Partying

Set in Wano. Spoilers for all of Wano. Read Chapter 2 here.

***

“What do you think?”

Lipstick glides over thin lips, the wax malleable and smooth as it leaves a coat of rusty red in its wake. Killer makes sure it’s perfectly even before he glances elsewhere. In the mirror, Kidd’s face is all scowled impatience.

One last run-down – eyeliner, mascara, lipstick: done, done and done – then Killer grabs the mask waiting for him. “Alright, let me see.”

Their eyes meet and Killer sighs. Metal over skin-and-bone, Kidd’s arms are crossed; his shaved brows push together further. As if Killer doesn’t indulge his every whim by the regular.

“I’m looking. Show me again.”

Kidd grumbles, “Watch.” He opens his arms, reveals an unbuttoned shirt tucked into his favorite patterned pants, glinting gold over black under a double-belted cinch at the waist. So far, so very Kidd.

No, the point of discussion is the frankly massive coat slung across his neck: Nice soft-looking suede on the outside and glossy-grey fur on the inside, it hugs Kidd’s shoulders in all the right places to then cascade down his back in a display of near-ridiculous opulence.

Extravagant, over-the-top, flashy. It’s hard to tell which type of animal had to die for this. There must be a lot less of ‘em now, with this monstrosity in the world.

Kidd is swiveling it back and forth with critical glances to the mirror, the coat wooshing with the motions. Killer takes in the fluid glide of fur over Kidd’s exposed chest, the contrast of impeccable couture against jagged scars. Loses himself for a moment or two imagining how it would feel like to run his hands over both.

An appreciative hum. In Killer’s educated opinion, Kidd looks damn near sinful.

“Yeah?”, Kidd asks and Killer nods. “Yeah. Heh, told ya the detour’s worth it.”

Perhaps it was, although sifting through Onigashima’s treasury whilst bleeding all over heaps of shiny expensive everything might’ve been a case of skewed priorities. There’s no need to talk about what-could-have-beens, though – they’re here, they’re rich and they’re long overdue at Strawhat’s banquet.

Killer’s practically done, tight jeans under a shirt that’s done up to the third button and left to flare open otherwise. It’s not his old favorite (that one stopped fitting him a good year ago) but similar enough, patterned in geometric black-and-white shapes. Definitely one of his fancier ones, not that anyone will care one way or the other where they’re going.

It’s… been a while since it’s been anyone other than them and their crew. Pirates are pirates, allied or no; Killer eyes the scythes neatly stored next to the bed.

Kidd is touching up his lips one last time, the same shade as Killer’s. “Bring ‘em. That Roronoa guy keeps throwing you weird looks and I’m not allowed to kill him.”

Yet goes implied. Killer isn’t wearing his mask and so he doesn’t roll his eyes. “He’s got every reason to”, he reminds his captain, focusing on the heavy clasps of his weapons to keep the memories at bay. The red mark on his chest stings, stuck in the limbo between a healing wound and a fresh scar for a few days still.

A testament to his failure that Killer won’t hide. If Zoro hadn’t stopped him that day his hands would be stained with blood that cannot be washed off, not entirely.

Kidd’s eyes are on him, dark. “I don’t care.”

Resentful as always. Killer reaches for him, digs his fingers into the fluffy lining of that coat and oh, the fur is as soft as it looks. “I do, though.” A firm tug, one Kidd follows until Killer can kiss him, careful not to smudge anything.

“No killing of allies today, ‘kay? We just came back from a war. The crew’s tired. I’m tired.”

“Mh” is all Kidd has to say to that, a grumpy huff against Killer’s lips more than anything. Kidd does give him a proper kiss, however, and Killer knows he won this one.

All he can ask of Kidd is to try, anyways – with two equally hot-headed captains and a whole host of morons around to rile him up, there’s bound to be blood eventually. The trick is to make sure everyone’s drunk enough not to take it too personally.

A pinch to his ass tells Killer he was caught scheming. Kidd smirks, tells him, “We’re getting wasted tonight”, all triumphant like it’s the best idea he’s had all week, and Killer doesn’t miss the emphasis on we.

“Two Emperors down! Strawhat better bring the good stuff tonight or this alliance is over.”

Killer groans, “Kidd”, but he’s smiling, too. Before he can be called out on it, Killer shoves his mask into Kidd’s hands, metal clanking against metal. “Make yourself useful. We’re late.”

Kidd’s laugh is more of a cackle than anything else – “Yes, darling”, said in that sarcastic lilt Killer knows all too well – yet Kidd complies. His hands, organic or otherwise, handle the mask they’ve built with care and precision. Soon, Killer’s vision is narrowed down to dots, the audio filter of his helmet kicking in soon after.

Killer rolls his neck and hums, satisfied. “Ready?”

Kidd throws a final look at himself in the mirror, grinning into the collar of his new coat.

“Hell yeah. Let’s go.”

*

The banquet is a sprawling, messy affair that swallows the entirety of the ramshackle village the Strawhats picked as their home in Wano Country.

From the moment the Kidd Pirates get there they are surrounded. Wherever Killer's eyes roam there are knots of people drinking, eating, laughing and crying, sometimes simultaneously – there, at the heart of it all where the crowd is thickest, burns the largest bonfire Killer has seen in a while, perhaps ever. Smiling faces all around and for once, it doesn’t make Killer’s stomach drop because they’re genuine.

Survivors of SMILE just like him, caught in the rush of real emotions for the first time in who knows how long. Killer has a pretty good idea how that feels like.

Next to him, Kidd is so tense he’s stalking, gaze intense, oozing Haki to keep people away; Wire’s hand is clenched to bloodlessness around his trident while Heat exhales a bit of smoke with every breath and yeah, Killer gets it. Can’t help it himself, either, scythes kept close to his sides to make sure they’re there.

The thing is: They don’t do these kinds of things. Parties, yes, many and often but not like this. Killer can count on one hand the amounts of times the population of any island was actually happy to see them, much less willing to send them off with one big feast.

Actually, he wouldn’t need to count at all because it’s simply never happened. Even filtered by his mask it’s… a lot to take in at once.

The entire damn country is here, it seems, all breathing a collective sigh of relief so monumental the air itself carries their joy. For all that the Kidd Pirates were in this for revenge and glory, Killer can’t deny it’s rewarding to see a nation so ravaged by an Emperor’s greed do whatever they want for the first time in decades.

Finally, a few familiar faces start popping up. Some of the samurai greet them with nods of their heads, overly formal like the people from Wano tend to be; here and there they spot the distinctly branded yukata the members of Trafalgar’s crew are wearing and, rarer but all the more noticeable, those animal people Strawhat dragged along from somewhere.

Minks? Or something? Killer is inclined to say it doesn’t matter if they didn’t have the habit to jump on them out of fucking nowhere. Looking for bone-crushing hugs and wet-nosed kisses, of all things, and– Oh no, he did not sign up for this.

Much less for whatever that group of cat minks are gearing up to, staring at the holes in his mask with eyes nearly swallowed by black, round pupils. Killer is absolutely, solidly convinced he doesn’t even want to know what that’s all about.

“Captain.”

And yeah, his tone is a little more alarmed than he truly means it to be. It gets Kidd’s attention, though – himself having fought off a dog mink enamored with his metal arm not too long ago – and he barks a laugh even when he ramps up his presence to an almost stifling degree.

“C’mon, I feel Strawhat up ahead.”

To nobody’s surprise, they find him smack dab in the middle of everything. Strawhat and his crew are lounging around the bonfire, there’s no other way to describe it: All broad smiles and flushed faces amidst the chaos, completely in their element, and it’s hard to tell if it’s the closeness to the bonfire or the vaguely impressive amounts of empty bottles lying around already. They’re certainly boisterous enough for it to be the latter, even Jinbei.

And no, Killer hasn’t quite processed that turn of events yet. The strangeness of seeing someone of that caliber wheeze into his mug with laughter as his (new?) captain takes a disturbingly big bite out of an even bigger chunk of meat is… not helping things, in that regard.

What a bunch of weirdos. In the safety of his mask, Killer allows himself a small smile.

From here the flames seem to reach for the sky, tinged in warm pinks and oranges by the sinking sun and there, very faintly, Killer can make out the first stars. He can’t remember ever seeing them, not with the factories running over night as well.

“Spikey!!”

Ah. Killer’s head turns with Kidd’s and it’s a good thing, too, because there’s a stretched arm coming for his captain – Kidd bites out, “Nope, no, Strawhat”, red eyes going wide – and Killer manages to side-step it in the last possible second. One, twice it wraps around Kidd, fancy coat and all, and then the rubber recoils.

“Killer!”

Oh my, Killer thinks mildly as he watches him go. Behind him, half their crew is flabbergasted and the other half is in stitches. “Captain’s gonna be in such a mood”, Heat says to Wire, and it just sends them into another fit of chuckles.

For Killer, finding a drink becomes his top priority. So much for keeping things peaceful.

>>Chapter 2.

[ramsayboltonsmuse]

Yin & Yang

Part 1: Memories

Pairings: Ledger Joker x Reader

Warnings: Violence, Smut, Angst

Summary: Just a tension/smut/angst ridden piece about J x The reader. J goes looking for the reader after losing her years ago, and surprise surprise there is some smut. This is what I did with my Tuesday night y’all. Hope someone out there enjoys this.

Other Parts: Part 2, Part 3 (preview); Ao3 link

You were having that dream again. The one where you’re 10 years old and it’s almost Christmas. The one where you find your family dead. 

It’s in an estate, a massive manor house you don’t know well, somewhere outside the Gotham city walls. You’re walking down the grand staircase barefoot, the elegant deep teak wood cold to the touch. Your eyes are caught by the two gigantic floor to ceiling windows framing the doorway at the bottom of the steps and the blizzard of white snow falling heavily on the great front lawn. 

But it’s not the snow that grabs your attention, not really. It’s the red that’s interspersed in its banks that grow heavier and heavier by the second. It’s like a painting, like mutilated polka dots, and you can see that the red is spilling out from bodies. From the bodies of the guards on patrol. 

And then it’s the staircase that draws your attention back in. A trickle of something wet in the corner of your eye. A tingle at the back of your neck when you’re suddenly aware of how quiet it is. And all at once you’re aware of what’s on the staircase, your snow-captive eyes having missed it before: dead people. 

Three bodies stretched out along the stairs, reaching, straining desperately toward the next step, their eyes open and in brutal anguish. You recognize one as a maid, another as a butler and the third as your great aunt, hideous, her mouth forming a post-mortem howl of terror. 

And the bodies continue, at the bottom of the steps. An older cousin, another maid, and you cry out as you see your beloved German Shepherd stabbed and lifeless beside the door, a small knife lodged deeply in his side. Adrenaline coursing through you, you run down the rest of the steps and throw your arms over his body, weeping. You lift your head up, tears blurring your vision to see more bodies to the right and left of you. 

You stand up and start running through the rooms, seeing aunts and uncles and cousins and even your grandparents, dead, dead, dead. You start calling out, your voice rasping and hopeless for your parents. You run faster and faster through the rooms past dead scullery maids and cooks and guards and your little cousin Timmy, who you just built a snowman with that afternoon. All of them, dead.

Finally you see them, and you start sobbing as the hope is stamped out of your heart violently. Your father is cradling your mother, as if to shelter her from whatever blows were coming. Their blood is wet and spilling out in a circle around them and as you kneel and crawl over to them, your hands and knees become coated with it. You reach out a hand to touch your mother’s face, a small bloody handprint left on her as you collapse next to them.

You jolt awake in bed, your heart rate racing. It always takes a moment to come out of these nightmares, and you try to steady your breathing, making note of where you are and grounding yourself in reality. It helps that Copper must have heard you call out in your sleep, and he jumps onto the bed and nuzzles you with his wet nose. You take a deep breath and run your fingers through his soft black and gold fur. 

“Hi boy. Don’t worry, I just had a bad dream.” Copper isn’t convinced and curls up close to you, warmth radiating off of him. 

It’s okay. It was just a dream. You say to yourself. You look at the clock on your bedside table. 5:00am. You throw yourself back onto your pillow groaning, debating whether or not to try to fall back asleep, but you think better of it and get up. 

You clap your hands and your bedroom is immediately illuminated in a warm glow. You look around you at the familiar objects, stacks of books and notebooks strew across the room, further reassuring yourself that it was just a dream and you are perfectly safe. Your large bed, overflowing with countless pillows, an unfortunate obsession of yours, is empty of course except for a very comfortable looking German Shepherd snuggling into the covers. 

“Come on Copper.” You say with a gentle smile, and he hops down and trots out after you as you walk down the hall to the kitchen. Your parents had left you the family estate in the country after their tragic passing, but you couldn’t bear to live out alone in the middle of nowhere. Especially considering the last time you had been out in the country. 

You elected to buy a small but elegant apartment in the city, preferring the constant noise and knowledge that you were never alone to the emptiness of the family estate, which was carefully kept in mint condition by a caretaker and his family, though you never went out to visit it. You have no need for large spaces, tending not to have many friends or really let anyone in at all. It’s just Copper and you, and that’s fine.

You scratch him behind his ears before turning the coffee maker on. As you wait for your morning dose of caffeine, you sit at the kitchen island and look out through the massive windows overlooking Gotham, watching countless lights from other apartment buildings wink on one by one. You shiver in the cold, a light snow starting to fall outside. You’re really surprised you had the dream again, you can’t remember the last time you had it. Your thoughts start wandering back to that day.

It was so long ago now, that you imagine the details in it are probably not reality. Goodness knows, you couldn’t describe it to the Gotham City police when they finally showed up nearly a day later, having waited for the heavy blizzard to pass to get out to the house. You’re grateful that part of your memory is missing too, not wanting to remember what it must have been like, alone for a full day in a mansion of dead bodies.

When the police had reached you they asked a million questions, not understanding how you survived the slaughter. At first they assumed you had hidden yourself well, but the one part of that horrific incident you did remember proved otherwise. And it left the cops dumbfounded. You remember being in your room alone, lying on the ground and drawing something with such intense concentration, you nearly didn’t hear the door to your room open. 

All you remembered was that he was tall, and seemed young, couldn’t have been more than five or six years older than you. You couldn’t recall a single physical feature, only that he smelled of something very strong, like some sort of paint and gunpowder. You had slowly gotten to your knees and looked up at him. You remember being fascinated, though you didn’t know about what, and that he had knelt down and roughly grabbed the picture you had been drawing, staring at it intensely. You didn’t remember being afraid, but you could feel the terrible dark depth and breadth of evil wafting off of him. 

Needless to say, that didn’t help the police very much. They started looking for carpenters when you mentioned paint. They had been almost angry with you, the fact that you were the only survivor of a 40 person massacre and had even seen one of the killers (they assumed it must have been a gang to murder that many people) and you couldn’t remember a single useful detail. There had been a kinder, older cop who had hushed them away, yelling at them that you were clearly traumatized. He had given you a blanket, and at least everyone left you alone for a while after that.

Your coffee’s ready. As you pour yourself a cup, you suddenly feel nauseous, without the faintest idea why. It’s like an odd unsettling twisting in your stomach, something like dread. The ominous foreboding seems to spread through you like waves, swirling and crashing inside you until it consumes you entirely. You shiver.

“Okay Copper, now I’m certain I’m going insane. First thing on the to-do list today is find a friend. Any person will do. I need to talk to someone who isn’t a dog.” Copper barks and wags his tail as though in agreement, and you manage a half smile, though the sinking feeling in your gut doesn’t go away. 

So no coffee. Maybe a shower then to cool off. You think, walking to your bathroom. The dream must have gotten me worse than usual. You shake your head, again trying to remind yourself of realities. You’re in your twenties, you have a great job at a top tier financial firm (as a side note your stilettos do sound pretty fucking awesome on the marble floors in the office), you’re a badass independent woman who basically raised herself from age 10, your only friend is a dog… okay stop listing realities. You smirk to yourself as you get in the shower.

Minutes later you’re out and quickly combing through your hair before throwing on a pair of black lace panties and an oversized Black Sabbath tee shirt, because fuck it, it’s Sunday, and you don’t need to impress anyone. The sun is coming through the big glass windows and lighting your apartment up in a warm, early morning glow. You start humming to yourself already feeling better after the shower, when you round the corner into the kitchen and notice the coffee is gone. 

Fuck.

You freeze. There is no doubt in your mind that someone is in your apartment. You curse yourself for ignoring the feeling before. You’re still debating where to run to, when one of the white swivel chairs where you like to read swivels around to face you. 

Who, or what more accurately, that is grinning at you through a malicious smirk that chills you to the bone is someone you’ve seen any number of times on the television.

The Joker is here, in your apartment.

Wearing his quintessential purple trench coat, suit and green vest, his hair a dyed green mess, he is an absolute enigma. His face is covered in white grease paint, making the black cavernous circles around his dark eyes even more terrifying. The color of his eyes are something blacker than black, the color at once pitch darkness and emitting a kaleidoscope of obsidian shadow and variation capable of portraying a vast array of sadistic emotion. 

He’s leaning forward in the chair that’s clearly much too small for his domineering broad-shouldered and tall body. From the look of him seated he must be at least 6’3. He’s holding the coffee cup in one hand haphazardly while the other dons a gun, lax in his hand. His smile is painted a viscerally bloody red, a color you have ingrained in your own memory all too well, and it sweeps up his defined cheekbones along his notorious scars to create a cheshire grin. 

The Joker casually swirls the gun in his hand, a clear warning for you not to do anything stupid, and throws his legs up onto the coffee table in front of him, crossing them comfortably and leaning back in the chair. 

“Nice of you to, uh, pour me a coffee sweetheart-ah.” He enunciates the word and flicks his tongue out over the wishbone scar splitting his lip. “Could have done with some eggs too, but-t we can’t have everything, now can we?” 

Compelled by lord only knows what force, you find your legs suddenly walking towards him. You want to scream at yourself to stop moving, but your feet pad toward the chair opposite of him. He watches you as you move with a near predatory glare that would make any sane person pick up and run the other direction. 

You reach the chair and sit down, crossing your legs. You have no idea where the confidence comes from, but your voice comes out strong.

“What are you doing in my apartment?”

The Joker eyes you with amusement. Uncrossing his legs from the table, he sits forward, resting his forearms on his thighs. You can almost feel the heat radiating off of his body.

“You, uh, invited me.” He looks you dead in your eyes and you feel unexpectedly exposed. You’ve been successful at keeping people at a distance, but the way The Joker is looking into your eyes it’s like he’s reading every tiny emotion, fear, and desire, some you may not even know yourself. 

You feel vulnerable, and you blink away, unable to hold the eye contact. You try to shake off the way he seemed to peel back your protective layers and look into what was underneath it all. 

“I most certainly did not.” 

You think you see a different emotion cross over his face, something like anger, but more sensitive, almost like heartbreak, but it moves so quickly that you don’t have a chance to catch what it is. The Joker takes a large swallow of the coffee before throwing the ceramic mug onto the ground, breaking it instantly and causing you to jump from the sudden noise. 

“Don’t argue with me doll.” His voice is cold and dangerous, and looking at the gun swinging lazily from his hand, you’re reminded of the reality of your current predicament. 

You steady yourself from his sudden outburst, taking a small breath, and it dawns on you that you haven’t heard Copper all this time. Your words come out biting and vicious, surprising even yourself. 

“What have you done with my dog?” You nearly snarl at him. 

The Joker raises an eyebrow and smirks at you, doing nothing to calm the fears that start swirling inside of you, flashes of your lost childhood pet invading your mind.

“Oh, you’re a feisty little thing aren’t ya, bunny.” You bristle as he uses the pet name. “I was hoping you, uh, wouldn’t disappoint-ah.”

“Where’s my dog?” You say again, adamant. “What have you done with my dog!” Your voice raises, bordering on a yell, and the barrel of the gun is against your forehead faster than you can blink. 

“Okay, sweetheart-ah, let’s get some things straight-ah. You’re not-t in control here, so let’s get that into your little head nice and clear.” He drawls the last couple of words out in a voice that is deeply dark and makes you think of the big bad wolf, a shiver moving down your spine. 

“You get to keep being alive by the sheer grace of, well, me. So you’d better start speaking with some respect-ah. And I mean let’s really use your manners, doll, let’s remember to say ‘yes sir’ and ‘please sir’ and ‘thank you sir’.” The Joker is smiling wickedly at you, his purple gloved hand pressing the barrel of the gun into your skull.

Your lips curl into a defiant scowl, your eyes glaring at him.

“No.” 

The blow across your face shocks you, knocking you out of your chair and onto the floor and leaving your head ringing. Without a moment to recover, he’s on top of you, the force of his powerful build crushing you as his free hand encircles your neck, squeezing. 

“Bad girl.” He tsks. “And after I’ve been so patient with you.” You start gasping for air, your hands reaching up to wrap around his forearm, trying in vain to pull him off of you. He’s so close now that you feel scorched by the heat radiating off of him, his muscles flexing as he all too easily overpowers you. 

Your senses are invaded by the smell of him, like...paint...and...gunpowder. Your hands release his forearm and you stop struggling, memories flooding back like a sink that has been sealed shut for years suddenly turned onto full intensity. The images come flashing back so erratically and powerfully, you can’t even process them.

The manor house your family had rented out for the holidays, large enough to host your entire family, staff and guards for a whole week. How you had staked out in your bedroom when none of your cousins wanted to play with you, not after you had suggested they make anatomically correct snowmen, and they wouldn’t stop calling you ‘weird girl’. 

That’s where he had found you, in your bedroom, with a rather unnatural assortment of items around you. Several barbie dolls you had stolen from a younger cousin were stripped naked and tied up in intricate knots hanging from furniture, while others were simply cut up into pieces and scattered around the room. 

There was a large history book on medieval torture open to your right and A Clockwork Orange to your left. And there you were, wearing a pretty blue and white flowered dress, tucking a strand of your long hair behind your ear and drawing a picture of a mass murder with colored pencils. 

The Joker releases the hold on your neck as he watches the series of memories flash across your eyes, his gaze trained on you intensely. He stands up and watches you as you slowly pull yourself to a seated position, the gaps in your memories filling in all at once. It’s all clear then. 

A young Joker standing in your doorway, face painted and smelling like greasepaint and gunpowder, smiling wickedly and brandishing a blood soaked knife as he kicked open the door. 

Your eyes narrow and you throw yourself onto your feet, running at him full force as you feel the weight of realization that your family’s murderer is standing in front of you. You don’t know what you expected to do when you reached him, your hands balling into fists, but The Joker easily catches your wrists with a pressure you can't break, backing you up against the glass windows. 

“Memories coming back doll?” His voice is gravely and dominant, but there’s a softer edge buried somewhere deeper in it. Your eyes fill with tears and your voice comes out in choked sobs.

“You killed my family!” 

His voice is hard as steel when he answers you, leaning closer into you. “Yes.” 

“Why!” You don’t know what to think, the memories and emotions overloading you to the point where nothing makes sense anymore. 

The Joker smiles at you, and you’re reminded that the person in front of you is a psychopath, incapable of empathy, who kills people just because he wants to. 

“Why? Why!” The Joker lets out a hyena cackling laugh, throwing his head back before wrapping his hand around your neck, his thumb pressing into your jaw. “The same reason anyone does anything sweetheart. I did it for fun-ah.”

“You’re sick.” You blurt out, your tears drying up and replacing with anger.

“Well if I’m sick,” The Joker raises his eyebrows at you knowingly, “then you’re, uh, sick too.” He laughs loudly and maniacally, causing you to jump. “Why so serious-ah?” He says brandishing the word. “It’s much too heavy in this room, doll. Whadya say we have a laugh-ah?”

You look at him disgustingly, and you’re made aware of a knife pressing gently into your side, sliding up over your t-shirt until it reaches your mouth, the steel cold against your lips, pressing lightly. 

“What is there to laugh about?” You breathe out, heart rate increasing at the knife that could so easily cut into you. 

“Well, uh” The Joker leans into your neck and you feel goosebumps break out over your skin. His lips ghost your neck, and you’re aghast that you feel a little ball of warmth move through you as the corded knots of his scars tickle your neck. “I think it’s funny, bunny, that you despise me at the same time you desperately need me.”

“What are you talking about?” You struggle against him, but the hand around your neck only presses harder while his other moves to grab your hip bone hard enough to leave a bruise, caging you in place against the windowed wall. 

Fear courses through you as you glance sideways through the glass and remember just how high above the city you are. If he pushed hard enough, he could easily break the window and send you falling to your death.

“Oh, please, babygirl. I knew it the second I saw you. You’re just a little masochist, ain’t-cha?” 

You thrash your body against him, but the more he asserts his power over you, the more you can’t help the tingling feeling spreading through you. You should feel disgusted, sickened, that the man who killed your entire family is touching you this way. 

But you don’t. The horrid truth is, he’s right. You want him to take you. You need it. All at once, you stop struggling against him, defeated. 

He releases you and pats your cheek none too gently. 

“That’s my good girl.” 

The Joker walks behind the counter and picks something up, carrying over the large bundle and depositing it on one of the chairs. You realize it’s Copper and run over to him, crouching down and running your hands through his fur until you feel a heartbeat. 

“He’s alive.” You breathe out a sigh of relief. 

“Just knocked out dollface.” 

You stand and walk toward The Joker, needing to ask him the question that’s been on your mind for years now. 

“Why didn’t you kill me that day?” 

The Joker grins and saunters over to you, absently tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear when he reaches you.

“Because-ah,” He grabs your arms, pressing into your skin roughly with a force that’s sure to leave bruises. “You’re special. And you’re mine.” The word is definitive, unquestionable, and you’re left wondering if you’re the only one of The Joker’s victims he’s let live. 

“It took me a long time to find you. But now that I have, bunny, you won’t be going anywhere.” 

Your face softens at that, and you realize it’s because no one has ever looked at you the way he is looking at you now. Like they see you. Not even your parents, who you are remembering more and more clearly as cold and almost fearful of you, desperate for you to ‘just be normal’. 

No one has looked at you the way he is now, and you find yourself wanting to be closer to him, nevermind all the warning bells going off in your head that this is likely the most stupid idea you’ve ever had, that this is The Joker. 

But you can’t help it, you’re smiling up at him, letting all the overthinking go and basking in this momentary truth that someone wants the actual you. He’s staring into your eyes with a delightful possessiveness as he pulls you to him and plants a row of kisses and bites on your neck, exposed for him in a little show of submission, causing him to growl hungrily against you. 

“And dollface,” he whispers in your ear, “You can call me J.”

Your body jolts as he lands a much harsher bite closer to your collarbone, causing you to emit a sound somewhere between a gasp and a mewl. 

“J?” 

He hums against your skin, sending warm vibrations through you.

“What are you going to call me?”

You feel him break into a smile against your skin, drawing away from his attack on your neck to stare at you, his jet black eyes a myriad of sadistic carnal desires. 

You feel the warmth spread through your core as he devours you with his gaze alone. His answer is simple.

“Mine.”

---

Next Part: Part 2

Tag List (if you want to be added just let me know!): @anyatheladyclown​

[imtryingmyfuckingbe]

Werewolf of Portland

Pairing: Dean x FBI!Reader

Word count: 10K

I’m not good a summaries, but I drew inspiration from anytime the boys give actual FBI Agents the “talk”, as well as that episode where Jody calls them out for using Bobby as their “supervisor”. This is a repost because I accidentally deleted the original, but it gave me time to edit it better. I’m thinking of doing a second part if I get enough feedback or requests for it, so please, please, please tell me what you think. I’m hungry for feedback haha. Also I know nothing about Portland or official FBI Badges so please keep that in mind as you read.

Warnings: Canon violence, profanity, and a plot twist I didn’t even see coming

Werewolf of Portland

The repugnant, putrid scent overcomes the clearing, spread by the gentle breeze. Despite the green grass littered with wild flowers, the unforgiving scent of rotten eggs clings to the workers’ hazmat suits. Flies buzz incessantly around the body, like that of an opaque blanket if adorned with beady eyes and veiny wings.

While the forensic cleaners work to gather the corpse’s remains for transportation, Agent Y/L/N stands at the edge of the control zone. Her day started at 4:39 in the morning, wherein she spent the next five hours scouring the field alongside her team. Even with her duties tended to, she refuses to leave the scene. The sparse clues yielded in the first examination plague her mind.

No fingerprints, no shoe prints, no footprints, no DNA; the list of what they don’t have extends further than what they do.

The body itself— what little the attacker left of it, at least— covered the majority of the scene. Torn to pieces, heart removed; remains scattered. She hopes the coroner can get something from her examination. The lacking evidence in addition to this being the fourth body found places an insurmountable weight on Y/N’s shoulders. 

The public’s outrage cries for the FBI to put the criminal behind bars, but they’re no closer to identifying witnesses, let alone a culprit. Y/N signs, running her hand through her hair. No matter the amount of cases she faces, no matter how gruesome, she never lets it desensitize her. If she becomes numb to the pain of blood and guts, she fails to invest herself in solving the case.

Turning from the scene, she instead takes in the myriad official vans and workers putting about. Her partner speaks with forensics, gathering whatever helpful information they can provide. A small side glance her way and the lift of his hand by his side, he beckons Y/N over. However, her lead feet refuse to move. Still engulfed in the horror show behind her, she takes a moment to collect her thoughts.

Y/N struggles to keep her emotions in check. Rage courses through her veins at the heinous acts humans commit, to fulfill sadistic pleasure or cure one’s demons. Unfortunately, in the FBI, she must swallow her anger and sadness, replacing it with a monotone voice and calculated expressions. Taking a breath, she departs from the border and heads towards Agent Colt. 

He finishes speaking with the worker, who leaves the partners in peace.

“They’ve got nothing. We’ve got nothing. Not for this one, not for the past three.”

She already knows this. A thought tickles the back of her mind, but she cannot name it. “All right. Maybe they got sloppy; maybe this time the coroner will get something. Anything.” Elijah rolls his eyes, pursing his lips and rubbing his chin. Y/N knows he’s saying We can’t base our investigation on maybe. Another sigh. “Fine, let’s run through this again.”

Elijah leads the way to their company car. “So, the heart. That’s the main focus. It’s missing.”

“Yes. This points to it being personal. It takes a lot of passion and hatred to rip through someone’s chest and remove their fucking heart. Which, another thing, the hearts aren’t just removed. They’re taken.”

“Right. Okay, haphazard blood splatter; no pattern. I’d say our killer is disorganized. Listless.”

“Not completely. I mean, there’s an even month between each murder. That leans more towards organized. There’s ritual. It’s not really first come, first serve, ya know?”

Elijah pauses at his door, fingers clasped tightly around its handle. He worries his bottom lip between his teeth, staring off into the distance. Y/N knows that look. She’s seen it in herself, survivors and fellow agents. He’s not looking at the clearing, but trying to connect the dots. Perhaps the weight of solving this doesn’t rest solely on Y/N’s shoulders.

As Elijah returns from his reverie and yanks open the car door, Y/N hears a deep, raspy voice greet the local law enforcement. Her partner settles into his seat, staring at her with drawn eyebrows and pursed lips. She holds up a finger.

Casting a quick glance behind her, Y/N finds two suits mid-introduction with the sheriff. The pair hold up identification booklets, much like the one in her pocket. Their suits hang too loosely off of their bodies, their dress shoes too scuffed. The longer she watches their body language, the larger the pit in her stomach grows. She turns around to lean against the car, keeping focus on the men. They talk for a moment more before the sheriff nods in her direction.

Y/N watches their shoulders tense, standing taller from the rigidness. Yes, she muses, something is off.

The window she leans against pulls on her coat as Elijah rolls it down. “Hey, you coming?”

Pondering for a moment whether she should let him in on her instincts, Y/N decides against it. “Yeah,” she leans down, poking her head through the window. “I’m going to stay here, actually. I want to see if I can squeeze anything else out of the uniforms.”

Elijah chuckles. “We’re uniforms too, you know.”

She returns the laugh. “Right, well, you head back to the office. Make a fresh pot of coffee, too. I’ll meet you there.”

He holds two fingers to his forehead before dramatically sweeping them across his face. “Aye, aye, captain.”

Y/N stands as he rolls the window back up, patting the roof. Elijah peels off while she returns her attention to the still-gawking men. Their postures only straighten as she nears; if they stood any more rigid she’d swear they were wax figures. “Harold,” she acknowledges the sheriff. He nods. “How’s it going on your end?” Y/N keeps the men in her peripheral but focuses on Harold. 

Harold’s eyes shift to the pair, then back to Y/N. “As I was telling your fellow agents—” at this statement, the men share a glance, “—still nothing.”

“Right, well I want to go over everything again. Give me a moment.” She finally turns to greet the supposed agents. “Gentlemen, to whom do I owe the pleasure?” Scanning their faces, she studies them for any quirk of the lips or perspiration on the brow.

The taller one speaks first. “I’m, uh, Agent Pert and this is Agent Bonham,” he gestures next to him.

Pert and Bonham? Really? She refrains from rolling her eyes.

Instead, Y/N doesn’t respond, using the pressure of silence in her favor. Harold clears his throat, uncomfortable with the tension. She ignores him, keeping focus on the men before her. Most of her suspects break under her gaze; very few can sustain their façade in an encounter with her steely eyes and stiff posture. Harold excuses himself,  unable to withstand her harsh eyes. The men continue to stare, neither willing to relent. Unfortunately, this renders them at an impasse. She, too, will not look away or speak.

Agent Pert concedes, taking the lead. “Right, well, we’re here from DC to investigate the murders. What have you got?” His voice imperceptibly wavers— if untrained, Y/N wouldn’t notice the quiver— the corner of his lip twitching. 

Ignoring his request, she commands, “Let me see your badges, agents.”

Another conversation through a shared look before they hand them over. They’re good, the badges. A smidgen off center of authentic. If not for the incorrect serial code and too high insignia placement, Y/N would accept them at face value. She closes the booklets and pockets them, earning a small Hey of protest from the short one. Cocking an eyebrow, she dares them to challenge her.

“Impersonating a federal agent is a crime, I’m sure you know.”

“Impersonating a— call our superior and check! Let me see your badge!” Crew cut exclaims, indignant.

“I’ll lend my badge after I’ve talked to your superior officer.” She wonders how far they intend to take this rouse. 

With their business card in hand, she retreats a few steps. As she dials the number the little whisper in the back of her head pesters her further. The questionable agents and unsolvable case remind her of… something. 

“Agent Willis,” a voice grunts.

“Willis? What’s your outpost?”

“Headquarters. Who is this?”

“Agent Y/L/N. It appears I have two of your agents here; I’m sure some wires crossed when you sent them down? What were your orders for Agents Tyler and Grohl?” 

“Who are you to question my authority, Agent?”

His growl pulls the pressing thought to the forefront of her mind. 2005, in Cincinnati on her first case. Similar to her case today: bodies piled up with no leads and peculiar circumstances. She ran into someone claiming to be FBI, too. Fresh from the academy with the weight of the world on her shoulders, she accepted his excuse of  bureaucratic miscommunication; why don’t we work the case together? 

She laughs. “Wait, hold on. I know you.”

“Noyoudon’t,” he spits out, too quickly.

“Yeah, I do. Fuck, what’s your name?” she mumbles, more to herself than him. “Singer! Ohio, we worked a case together. Culprit never caught and you went on your merry way.”

He blubbers, failing to produce a proper excuse. “I don’t know a Singer, Agent.”

She rolls her eyes, finally turning to face the men. The stricken look on their faces only further points to the truth. “All right, Willis. Even if that were true, you also don’t know your agents’ names. They introduced themselves as Pert and Bonham. Really, Singer? Rockstars’ names?” The humor of the situations drains, replaced with its severity. “All right, I’m taking your men in. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll stay put and wait for mine to come get you.”

“Wait— Y/L/N, right? Hear me out,” he pleads, urgency ringing clear in his voice.

“You have ten seconds.”

“Listen, they’re there to help. Your attacker ain’t what you think it is. I closed that case in Cincinnati, thanks to your help. But, it wasn’t a person. It was a vampire.”

She laughs again, this time wild and unbelieving. “Yeah, right. And this one is a fucking Chupacabra.”

“No, it’s not. We think it’s a werewolf.”

“You’re fucking nuts. No, I’m calling this in.”

“Y/N. Wait. Talk to them, please. People are still in danger. Their names are Sam and Dean. Winchester.” The desperation in his voice settles with unease in her chest. Her time on the force yields too much experience in discerning honesty from duplicity. 

Rather than respond, she ends the call and returns to the newly named Winchesters. They stand unmoving, shoulder to shoulder; if not for the wind tussling the tall one’s hair, she’d think they were statues. “So.” They squirm under her gaze. “Which one of you is Sam and Dean?” Their eyes widen at her remark, startled by her knowledge of their true identities. 

Crew cut juts his chin out and squares his shoulders. “I’m Dean. That’s Sam. Why don’t you tell us who you are and how the hell you know our names?”

“I’ll be the one asking questions, gentleman. I’ve half a mind to put you in cuffs. First, you impersonate a federal agent; second, your pal Singer brings up werewolves? Sounds like three peas in a pod headed for St. Christopher’s Asylum to me.” Neither respond. “Thirty seconds, boys. You have thirty seconds to make me believe you or the only way you’re leaving is in cuffs.” For emphasis, she pats her hip, whereupon the cuffs hang.

The pregnant silence leers on.

“25.”

Sam sighs, running his hand through his hair. “All right. There are things in this world that you don’t know about; that not many people know about. The bumps in the night, the clichés; most of them are real. Have you had anything happen to you that you can’t explain? Or had an unsolvable case?” He pauses for her answer, but she only looks on, hands on her hips. 

Vampires? Werewolves? What the fresh fuck? Her mind reels with the implications of his statement; even still, it doesn’t feel wrong. A few cases come to mind instantly: the serial killer who left victims’ eyes burnt out, people torn to shreds in supposed animal attacks by nothing from these parts. How many victims faced the unknown rather than human wrath? She can handle psychopaths, serial killers, the insane. She knows that evil; deals with it regularly. But the supernatural? No.

“Right, well, we hunt those things. We take them out,” he gestures between himself and Dean.

Y/N’s hands drop from her sides, falling limp at her thighs. “Just you two?” She whispers, cold and disbelieving.

“No,” Dean speaks up. “Not just us. There’s a lot of us out there.”

“Listen, I’m going to need more than just your word. I don’t know you, and I sure as hell don’t trust you. What can you give me that will make me believe you?” Despite not wanting it, she needs proof. Plus, if they turn out to be nuts, she can lock them up and toss the key; no harm, no foul.

They nod once, curt but understanding. Sam takes a step forward, hand raised in her direction. “This’ll take a leap of faith, Agent…”

“Y/L/N.”

“Agent Y/L/N. Let us work on this with you,” Sam implores. “And if we’re wrong, you can book us yourself.” 

“Sammy, hold up. Who’s to say we can trust her either? She’s just some Fed. Who’s to say she won’t cuff us anyway?” Dean protests, turning towards Sam.

While the two quietly argue, Y/N takes a step back. Running her tongue over her teeth in concentration, she ponders the options. Even if Sam offers her control, she knows their type: they won’t let her actually take the lead. Dean reminds her of her father, and that man never relinquished supervision. In order for this to work in her favor— seeking the truth, protecting the public— Y/N must fulfill the role as the dutiful public servant. Perhaps they’re not fucking lunatics, and this thing turns out to be real, she’d be way out of her element anyway. Still, she refuses to give up control.

Staring off towards the field, where the body once laid, she contemplates the little evidence recovered. Vics torn to shreds, no prints, no DNA. Local PD swears it’s a cougar, an animal indigenous to the area. Even still, animals are simpler than humans. They kill for sustenance or safety. The brutality of this kill, the length of the claw marks, lack of fur, ritual occurrences; it all points in the wrong direction. Y/N would quicker say some furry decided killing offers more sexual release over cosplay than call it a fucking cougar.

“If you expect me to try to trust you, or at least what you say, then I need your trust, too. This goes both ways,” she interrupts. The men cease their heated discussion, turning towards her. “I don’t like what you’re telling me. I don’t want to believe it. But… I trust my gut, and I think you guys are either great liars or telling the truth.” Sam smiles, but Y/N holds up a hand. “However, I will not put my eggs in one basket. I need insurance that you’ll hold up your end of the bargain. This means I’m taking point, and you guys are consultants. Anything you know, you tell me. Anything you find, you tell me. Anything you do, you tell me. Capiche?”

Sam nods before Dean, nudging his side to encourage his agreement. Dean tosses his hands in the air. “Fine. Where to next, Agent?” Venom drips with each word. 

“I need to get back to the station. My partner, Agent Colt, will be—”

“Colt? Agent Colt? The irony.” Dean interrupts. Sam elbows him again, and Y/N chooses to ignore him altogether.

“I’m going back to the station. I’ll talk to the Uniforms and tell them to give you anything pertinent to this specific scene. Anything to do with the others can wait until tonight. Meet me at Carlton’s, off of Hamilton street. I’ll bring the files for the other Vics.” She hands Sam her business card, not trusting Dean to keep it. 

“What about our badges?”

Y/N rolls her eyes, exhausted. “Fuck, man. I’m trying my hardest to ignore the federal crime you committed right in front of me. Prove you’re right and you’ll get them back. Until then, you’re consultants employed by the Bureau.” 

She pushes passed them, heading towards Harold. Their boots crunch on the gravel as they lag behind her. He halts his conversation with one of deputies upon their arrival. “Sheriff, these two are fresh blood from the academy.” She juts her thumb over her shoulder. “HQ thought this would be a good case for them to learn on the job. Tell them anything you know and let them case the scene. I’m going back to the station to meet up with Elijah.”

“But—” Harold begins. Y/N levels him with sharp eyes and pressed lips, stopping him in his tracks. “Right. Okay. Follow me, Agents.” Sam and Dean shoulder passed Y/N, catching up to the Sheriff with a few long strides. 

Y/N stands for a moment, hands in her jacket pockets, watching the two men. If this turns out to be a rouse— if she let two criminals onto the field with her permission— that’s her head. Shaking the thought away, she turns. She’s able to hitch a ride back to the station with the forensic profilers.

———————————————————————————————————

Elijah spared his questions when she returned, thankfully. Instead, he shoved a hot cup of cop shop coffee into her hands before continuing their earlier evaluation. “Right, can’t be disorganized, but he’s definitely passionate. That shows connection to the victims.”

Y/N sips her coffee. Forcing the bitterness down her throat, she also swallows her new knowledge. She must work this case like any other, for it might be. “You think it’s a man?”

Around the bite of an apple, he says, “Yes. Female offenders aren’t typically serial murderers; they’re passion killers. Black Widows, Angels of Death, you know the type.”

“I do, but Wuronous diverged from the typical female murderer.”

“Yeah, that’s one of many. Most other women utilized poison for their kills. The ME didn’t find any traces of cyanide, arsenic, or tetrodotoxin— nothing. Doesn’t fall in line with what we know.”

Y/N simmers. She knows this, of course. “Let’s keep the possibilities in mind.” She sifts through the crime scene pictures, lining up the photos of the different victims side by side. “Placement doesn’t seem to matter, so that leans away from obsessive compulsiveness. The offensive wounds support this, too.”

“Y/N, what are we reaching for? We don’t have a profile, a motive; nothing.”

“Not true. Let’s lay it all out, one more time. Hearts are taken, gruesome attack wounds, lower body left alone. Maybe these are passion killings, and the only thing in common with the victims is the killer. I mean, people come and go all the time here. Maybe they knew the Unsub outside of Portland. The ritualistic pattern of the murders makes me think the killer stalks the victims in the month down time; gets to know their schedule, comings and goings. They’re all aged between twenty-five and thirty-five. Maybe the killer is attracted to the ages rather than physical descriptions. Also—” Y/N stops, sighing.

Even as she tries to string everything together, she knows Elijah is right. Too much of the evidence contradicts any profile they could scrape up. Ritualistic but not obsessive, disorganized but keeps to a schedule, passionate murders between unrelated victims. Nothing points them in any definitive direction. They’re grasping at straws here. 

Sam and Dean creep to the forefront of her mind. She downs her coffee in one go. It heats her stomach, and she blames her rising temperature on the beverage rather than brimming anger. Clenching her fists, she crushes the paper cup. Elijah reaches over to rub her shoulder, massaging her tense muscles. “It’s okay, Y/N/N. We’ll catch this son of a bitch,” he encourages, misunderstanding her frustration.

She rubs her eyes, forcing them open. Wordlessly, Elijah fills hands here a new cup of coffee, topping himself off as well. They sit in silence, pouring over their respective files. The victims must have connections; even if Y/N allows herself to believe the Winchesters, she can’t believe monsters don’t have rituals. Psychology reaches further than humanity— scientists observe it in animals. In order to keep hope and keep going, Y/N trusts in the knowledge that all things in existence operate off of some code. 

Another sigh, another gulp. “One more time. From the first victim. Elijah, there has to be something.”

He purses his lips, clear indignation warring his exhaustion and winning. Even still, he nods. “All right, Vic One: Stephanie Lane, age 27. She worked at the local vet clinic on Broad Street. Usual nine to five, Monday through Friday. Killer got her leaving work Thursday night, July Fifth, around six p.m. Scratched her up, took her heart. Passerby found her body two days later.” He wets his lips, staring at her file.

Y/N nods in confirmation, already well aware of the facts. With a fine-tooth comb, they revisit each victim after Stephanie Lane. Jonathan Grism, Marcus Kent, and, the most recent, Gabrielle Shaw. All with varying occupations and seemingly no connections, aside from enjoying the casual run or grueling hike. Despite their apparent love of nature, the Unsub chose to kill them in their daily routine.  

On a whim, Y/N searches each date (July 5th, August 3rd, September 2nd, and October 1st) for any similarities in the dates, coming up short and further exasperated. Elijah keeps to himself while she abuses her keyboard, refusing defeat. Only on her fifth page of Google searches does she find anything worth noting; unfortunately it supports the Winchesters. Each murder occurred on a full moon. 

She slams her laptop closed, finishing her coffee and crushing her cup. “I need a break, Elijah. Just some time to clear my head and get fresh eyes.” She stands, tossing her cup into the wastebasket. Elijah leans back, clasping his fingers behind his head. “I’m getting some sleep. You should too. You look like shit.”

Elijah laughs. “Thanks, Y/N/N. You don’t look too much better yourself.”

She shoves his shoulder as she passes, shouting a goodbye over her shoulder. Elijah hollers something back, but she’s already out of the front doors. The crisp air helps the fog in her head, supplementing it with aches in her bones. Her boots crunch leaves with each step, and she forces her focus onto the noise.

Crunch, crunch, crunch. 

Werewolves?

Crunch, crunch, crunch.

The supernatural?

Crunch, crunch— smack.

A broad chest stops her, calloused fingers grasping her upper arm to steady her. Y/N looks up, palms pressing against a soft t-shirt, into effervescent green eyes. Dean grins down at her, the left corner of his lip tilted in an almost-sneer, if not for the mischief in his eyes. She rolls her eyes, pushing back against his firm chest. He releases her, hands up in mock surrender.

“Agent, fancy seeing you here.”

“Where? Outside of the station where I work? Must be kismet.” Sarcasm drips from her words like venomous honey, sickly sweet and sticky.

“Well, to be fair, you did say to tell you anything we find, so here I am.”

Her heart stutters, excited. They found something. This could be the end of the murders. Straightening her back and returning to Agent Y/L/N— locking Y/N into a tight box at the back of her mind— she faces Dean head on. “All right, what have you found?” Her voice lacks the previous emotion, all business and no play.

Dean sighs, a look flitting across his face and disappearing before Y/N can place it. “Walk with me.” He turns on his heel without awaiting her response, starting down the sidewalk.

She follows, despite the annoyance burning the bottom of her feet with each step. They continue down the street in silence, save for their steps and the seldom passing cars. While she wants answers, Y/N knows pestering delays the process. Dean seems like a man who has been through the ringer a couple times. If he shares similarities with herself, he won’t share anything until he’s ready— another form of control she wants to rip from his fingers.

By the time they reach the doors to the Sunshine Diner, Y/N must clench her fists to bury the frustration of unanswered questions. Dean holds the door, motioning for her to go in. In the back right corner of the restaurant sits Sam, typing furiously on his laptop. So. It appears Dean did search for her once they found something. Pleased at the notion, she lets some of the annoyance roll off her shoulders.

Dean settles in next to Sam, Y/N taking the opposing side of the booth. “So, get this,” Sam begins. “Your murders started four months ago, right? Well, turns out a small werewolf pack traveled from Washington to Portland because they drew too much attention to themselves. One of our connections in Seattle worked the case until they completely disappeared, no trace, no nothing. Within a month of leaving Washington, the Portland murders began.” He finished, peering at her through the too-long tendrils of his hair.

Y/N schools her face into indifference, despite her racing heart and sweating palms. He sounds so sure and calm, like they run into werewolves grocery shopping. Dean looks at her, too, sharp eyes searching for anything in her expression or body language. 

For a moment of reprieve, the waitress approaches the table. Rushed and rough, the trio relay their orders: Sam an egg white omelet, Dean the Bacon Supreme, and Y/N another black coffee; she ignores her shaking hands and clammy skin. The server jots down their choices, rushing off to the next table.

Y/N clasps her fingers together, leaning forward. “That sounds like a nicely wrapped present with a bow on top. I need your process. How did you come to this conclusion? Who is this supposed hunter?”

Sam squints at her, mouth  agape. “Those are your questions, really? Nothing about werewolves?” He turns to Dean, bewildered. Dean shrugs, looking all too comfortable for the topic of conversation.

The server returns with their drinks,  setting the three coffees and one orange juice in front of the respective customers. As if purposefully slow, she takes her time to offer creamer or sugar, unaware of the tension. Dean taps one of his fingers on the surface of the table while Sam makes polite small talk with the waitress. Y/N continues to study the men before her. Finally, the server leaves once more.

“Listen, if I’m going to believe your bucket of crazy, then I’m going to believe it. So, no. I’m not going to ask about werewolves, I’m asking about the details of your research. I need to know how credible you are.”

This time, Dean leans forward, staring straight into her eyes and speaking low. “The hunter we know in Washington, Richard, kept track of them enough to know their comings and goings. He put out the word through the Hunter grapevine that he needed help with the… extermination of the pack, but by the time anyone could come to help, they migrated south. To here. We know it’s this pack because the victims share the same hobby: doing shit in nature. Runners, hikers, whatever. It makes them easy targets—”

“— Except they weren’t killed on hikes or runs. They were killed after work or errands or—”

Dean continues speaking, as if she hadn’t interjected. “—This specific pack only eats the heart, a common characteristic of werewolves. However, a lot of them eat more of the body, and depending on what they eat points to which pack is most likely to be the attacker. These sons of bitches blend in, except on the full moon, where they go apeshit for hearts. Richard identified the pack leader; Sam found where they’re holed up in. Good enough for you, Agent?” 

She wants to slap the pleased look straight off of his plump lips and pretty green eyes. Instead, Y/N props her head up in her palm, keeping her eyes level with Dean’s, swallowing her ire and replacing it with feigned kindness. “Yes. When are we going to get them?” The thought of coming face to face with a monster rushes like winter water through her veins. She reminds herself she deals with monsters on the daily; hers only lack claws and fangs, and whatever else. The circumstances only vary slightly.

“We? There is no ‘we’, sweetheart. We kept you in the loop, like you asked, but you don’t know Jack from Shit about how the gank these fuckers. You do your job, and we’ll—”

Y/N raises her hand, silencing Dean. “Listen, sweetheart, I know the area. I’m guessing they’re staying at the Crest Apartments off of 205, right? Developers left it abandoned when the surveyors refused to clear it due to landslide likelihood. I know the woods, the city, everything. As for what I don’t know, you can teach me. I may not be trained in proper monster lore, but I know how to fight.”

Dean leans further forward, meeting her at the halfway mark of the table. He lowers his voice, speaking gruffly as if to admonish. “You might be an agent in the normal world, but to us you’re just a civvie. No matter what you think you can do, no matter what you think you know, you’ve never faced these things in real life. I’m not about to put your stubborn ass in danger just so you can prove a point.” 

Y/N opens her mouth to retort, but Sam grabs Dean’s collar and pulls him back. “Enough with the pissing contest. I get it: you’re both badass,” he interrupts, at his wits end. “Listen, Y/N,” he begins, softer. “I’m sure you’re good at what you do. You got the location correct without any intel, save for what you know about your city. But Dean’s right. If you come, you’re more of a liability than helpful.”

Y/N closes her eyes, taking a deep breath and holding it for five counts. When she exhales, she forces a smile upon her lips, albeit a bit sardonic, and opens her eyes. The men stare at her, awaiting her response. She stands, instead, straightening her jacket. “Gentleman, I’ll see you tonight. Bring an extra weapon, seeing as I’m sure normal bullets won’t kill a werewolf. Nine o’clock?” Rather than wait for a response, she nods her head and departs onto the street once more.

———————————————————————————————————

From the moment she stepped outside of the diner to the moment she parked her car behind Sam and Dean, her phone rang. Y/N assumed the alternating unknown numbers belonged to the brothers, likely wishing to dissuade her from joining their crusade. She ignored them, deleting any voicemails they left. She knows they’re right; she doesn’t know left from right when it comes to monsters. But it’ll be a cold day in Hell when she lets some terror run rampage in her city.

Instead, she chose to bide her time researching werewolf lore between several more cups of coffee. Luckily she came across a duo well versed in their knowledge: the Ghostfacers. Although they posted their most recent content a year ago, she assumes lore stays the same. Silver bullet, shot to the head or heart, werewolf down for the count.

Y/N alights from her car, closing the door. Sam and Dean stand at their trunk, rummaging through— an entire arsenal of weapons? Y/N still has half the mind to arrest them. First impersonating federal agents to knives and machetes and guns in a hidden compartment of their car? She forces anxiety down, instead choosing once again to believe Sam and Dean are not raging psychopaths. Every bone in her body screams to cuff them and book them; her entire career banks on capturing nuts jobs like these two.

Still, she makes her way to their car, stopping at her front bumper to lean on it. “So. Silver, huh?”

Sam turns to face her, loading his .45 absentmindedly as he takes in her appearance. Gone is her official suit, in its place jeans, boots, and a well-worn long-sleeve. Dean rummages through the trunk, ignoring her presence. “You researched,” Sam replies, more so a statement than a question.

“I don’t go in half cocked. Pun intended. Got any leftover bullets? I’ve got a .45, too,” she muses, patting her hip for emphasis. 

Dean sighs, rubbing his temple with his free hand, the other occupied with a magazine. “For the last time,” he begins, turning to face her, “I don’t want you here. We don’t want you here. If things get hairy in there, we can’t protect you, Y/N. You’re a liability. You don’t know—”

“— Jack from shit, yeah, yeah,” she dismisses, waving a hand. “Stow the crap, I’m coming. Now, do you want me going in defenseless or do you have silver to spare?” She stands straight, squaring her shoulders and holding her head high. 

Sam covers a laugh with a cough, his attention trained on Dean. Y/N forces her unwavering gaze onto him, who in turn rolls his eyes. His shoulders sag in defeat as he returns attention to his trunk. Wordlessly, he passes her a simple pistol, already loaded. She adjusts her grip, searching for a comfortable hold. 

“Thanks.” 

Dean barely nods his head. Y/N leaves the pair for a moment, returning her own gun to the glove box and locking it. 

Upon her return, Dean closes the trunk with a deafening slam, leaning against it. “All right, let’s get some things straight. We go in first, you follow. We’ll call clear and then we move forward as a group, understood?” Y/N wants to roll her eyes— Dean seems to forget she works raids on the regular— but she nods. “Good. We counted five. You see someone who isn’t us,” he motions between Sam and himself with his gun, “you shoot. Bullet to the heart will do the job.” He delivers a pointed look in her direction, awaiting confirmation.

“Got it.”

He looks at her for a moment, his eyes alight with enough fire to bore holes into her clothing. A familiar look hides behind his façade of rage; it rests on the tip of Y/N’s tongue. Perhaps a concoction of grief and hope. She sees it in herself when a case grows too heavy; grief for the pain and hope for the end. In this moment, Y/N feels like she knows Dean. 

The moment breaks when he shakes his head and walks heavy footed to the building. Sam falls in line with Y/N, resting a hand on her shoulder to slow her. She cranes her neck to look him in the eye, skin burning whereupon his palm rests. “He doesn’t want casualties. He doesn’t have the best way of showing it, but Dean cares about people. He’s got enough blood on his hands.” Sam squeezes her shoulder, sparing a tight lipped smile, before dropping his hand.

A few long strides puts him next to Dean, shoulder to shoulder. Y/N hangs back, processing Sam’s vague confession. She understands the need to protect others. The most pressing motivation for joining the Bureau stems from this desire. These men fight in a war separate to her own, but not dissimilar. They’re two sides of the same coin, both Y/N and Dean aching to save, save, save. 

She shrugs her shoulders, pushing the nerves building in her chest down to her toes. If Sam and Dean tell the truth of the awaiting horrors, she needs to ready herself. In matters of life and death, anxiety only increases the chances of death. Adrenaline only carries her so far before it peters out.

Dean stands at the front door, gun raised and legs parted. Sam stands to the side, hand on the handle. Y/N, as promised, stands back and behind Dean. With a nod from Dean, Sam pulls the handle, opening the heavy door. The brothers file in first, flashlights illuminating the unfinished floor and walls. 

Their footsteps echo as they clear each room, a foreboding cadence through the empty halls. Dean looks back at Y/N, ensuring she still follows. She keeps her gun pointed to the ground and her senses open. At the first corner, Dean holds his arm out. Sam and Y/N flatten themselves against the wall while Dean looks around the corner. He nods, stepping out into the open once more. 

A crunch from the right hallway drags Y/N’s attention from the brothers proceeding to the left. Peering down the corridor, she finds it empty. Just as she turns to catch up, another crunch sounds, followed by a squelch and a footstep. Looking behind her, Y/N finds Dean and Sam halfway down the hallway. “Dean!” she shouts as quietly as she can. He doesn’t turn. “Dean. Sam!”

Nothing. 

She sighs, frustrated. One side begs her to run down the hallway to warn them; the other implores her to follow her gut and the noise. Another wayward glance in their direction and Y/N turns right. She steps carefully, avoiding debris. Heel, toe. Heel, toe. 

The further she travels down the hallway, the darker it gets. Footsteps and low voices grow closer as she reaches another left or right turn. She presses against the left wall, sparing a glance down the right corridor. Empty. The left hallway, however, offers cover to three silhouettes crowding in front of a closed door. She startles back, heart hammering against her ribs.

Y/N holds her breath, calming the relentless anxiety in her chest. Breathe in, hold four seconds, breathe out. Rinse and repeat. She looks back to where she last saw Sam and Dean; they’re gone. Great. Now she's truly dug herself an early grave. 

With one last breath, Y/N turns the corner, aims and shoots. One of the people— werewolves— yowls in pain, collapsing to the ground. Yellow eyes glow in the dark, the only light from their end of the hall. Guttural growls roll from their chests as they stalk towards Y/N. She fires again. It hits the plaster, sending dust and shards flying. 

“Fuck.” 

The monsters pick up speed, running full force in her direction. She fires one more time, hitting one in the leg. It crashes to the floor, knees hitting the ground with a sickening crack.  The other continues. Y/N whips around, running down the hallway towards Sam and Dean— she hopes. Her feet thump with each step and she pays little mind to the trash and tools on the ground. 

A foolish mistake, it seems, as she stomps on an empty chip packet. Her right foot slips from beneath her, sending her careening to the ground. The side of her head smacks against the concrete. Her vision blacks for a moment before the pain spreads in webs from her cheek to her neck, down her back. The heavy footfalls of her pursuer sound muffled compared to the needling throbbing in her head. 

With a groan, she pushes herself onto her hands and knees. A hand on the wall stabilizes her, she clambers to her feet. An unfortunate time to do so; the werewolf runs full force into her, slamming her onto the ground once more. Autopilot takes over as she raises her palms to the man’s chest, pushing as hard as she can.

He snarls, snapping his teeth as he tries to reach her neck. Y/N blocks his throat with her forearm, using her spare hand to blindly search for her gun. Instead of the handle, she grasps a wrench. Good enough. With as much force as she can muster, she clobbers the werewolf’s head. He falls off of her, a hand pressed to his bleeding forehead.

In the second of reprieve, she spots the pistol a few feet away. She throws herself through the air, grabbing the handle before turning onto her back, the gun pointed towards the monster. 

He dives after her. Bang. The shot rings out through the hallway. His body tenses before relaxing completely, eyes half lidded and empty. Y/N rolls out of the way as it collides with the floor. Her breaths come ragged and short, but the fight persists. The unforgiving footsteps of her aggressors afford little time to catch her breath; she pushes herself up once more. 

Panting, but not yet done, she turns towards the thundering steps. Sam and Dean race towards her, guns at the ready. “Oh, thank God.” She drops her guard and lowers her pistol to her side, leaning against the wall to catch her breath.

Dean reaches her first, fire in his eyes and coating his words. “What the fuck is wrong with you? I told you to stay with us, Y/N!” He grabs her chin, calloused fingers tilting her face to get a better look at her wounds. He pulls back, lifting and examining each arm. Y/N, too spent, lets him search for whatever he wants to find. She feels the welting of a bruise on her right cheek and a trickle of blood from her forehead.

“I got— I got three,” she gasps, watching Sam turn the werewolf over. 

Dean releases her, shaking his head. She touches her cheek, wincing at its sensitivity. “Oh, how nice. You also almost got yourself killed. I swear to—”

“—Dean,” Sam warns. “There are two more. We can worry about this later.”

“I got— I killed one of the others, but the third one I just hit in the knee.” Admitting to killing something, despite it being a monster, settles heavily in her stomach. She presses her hand to her lips, forcing her lunch to stay put. 

No time to puke, Y/N, she scolds herself. 

Shaking her head, she compels herself to focus. She nods at Sam and Dean, who take their positions at the front once more. This time she has no intentions of abandoning their protection. They stalk forward, albeit not as carefully as before; the ruckus certainly alerted the rest of the pact to their presence. Turning the corner, they find the werewolf Y/N shot first. A trail of blood leads the room they convened outside of, the door open this time.

The trio step lightly and quickly to the room. Dean peers in before entering. Inside, the wounded werewolf leans against the wall, a hand pressed against his thigh. Dean shoots him on the spot, wasting no time. Another body lies in the corner, torn the shreds. Aside from the two corpses, the room yields no tell-tale signs of the rest of the pack. Even still, Sam and Dean survey every nook and cranny. Y/N hovers by the door, working on slowing her breath and calming her heart. 

She peaks out into the hallway, just in case. The darkness limits her view, but she can’t hear anything either. Her ears ring, a relentless low buzzing from hitting her head and firing her gun too closely. Dean places a hand on her lower back as he passes, alerting her to his presence. The warmth spreads through her body, even when he lets go and walks ahead.

“Do you think they left?” she wonders aloud. It’s what she would do, but packs could think differently than humans.

Sam walks next to her, looking at her in his peripheral. “Maybe. But we want to clear the whole building, no stone left unturned and all that.”

She nods, instantly regretting it. Her brain tumbles around her head, hitting the walls and throbbing. Y/N rubs her temple, but says nothing. Lord knows Dean would already have a smartass retort on the tip of his tongue. Instead, she concentrates on putting one foot in front of the other. 

They clear the first floor easily, no signs of the last two. Dean leads them back to the front of the building to the stairwell. The door refuses to open, no matter how much force they use. The handle turns, but something on the other side blocks its pathway. Sam and Dean brace their backs against the door, plant their feet on the ground, and push as hard as they can. It budges slightly, only enough for them to see inside.

One of the railings torn from the stairs leans against the door, while another, wedged between the railing on the door and the first step of the stairs, holds it in place. They’d have to get in there to open the door. The brothers try once again, opening it a smidgen further. 

As Sam and Dean discuss the next step, Y/N formulates her own plan. She knows the boys, Dean in particular, won’t like it. Stepping closer to them, she chooses to stand next to Sam, hoping for his support.

“Listen,” she interrupts. Both brothers run their attention to her, Sam’s eyebrows raised and Dean’s drawn down. For a moment, she wonders if they have other facial expressions or if they always look this perturbed. “I can fit in there,” she motions to the opening in the door, a crack about a foot wide. Dean opens his mouth to disagree, but she holds up a hand. “I’ll get in there and move the railings so you guys can get in too. Quick and simple. Won’t go off on my own, promise.”

Sam and Dean meet eyes, silently coming to an agreement. Dean pinches the bridge of his nose, sighing. “Fine. Be quick.” He sets his steely gaze upon her face. “And, I fucking swear, Y/N— if you go off by yourself I will kill you.”

She rolls her eyes. “Sure, you will.”

She shoves passed him, knocking his shoulder on purpose. He grumbles something under his breath, but moves out of the way. A deep breath in, Y/N sidles through the opening. She barely makes it, struggling to get around the railing. Once inside, she grasps the leaning railing, using her whole body to pull the steel from where it’s wedged. Inch by inch, she gets it out of the way. 

It hits the floor with a reverberating clang, settling in the alcove beneath the stairs. The other falls to the ground, closing the door with its force. Y/N sighs, throwing her head back in frustration. Fists bang on the other side of the door, Dean shouting her name along with profanities.

“I’m fine, you oaf. Give me a second,” she yells back, exasperated.

“Hurry up, Y/N.”

She groans, sinking to her knees for more leverage. Breathlessly, she retorts, “I. Am. Trying.” With a grunt, she pushes the steel into a vertical position. “All right, you should have enough—”

“Need a hand?” a low voice taunts from above.

Y/N looks up. An unassuming woman stands at the platform of the first level, hands on her hips and an all teeth grin baring her lips. “Dean?” she yells, urgent and frightened. The door opens with enough room for Sam and Dean to squeeze through.

Dean barges in first, gun raised. He casts a glance at Y/N, following her gaze to the landing. Mechanically, he pulls the trigger. The woman falls with a thud. Y/N lets out a breath, hands white knuckling the railing and eyes trained on the body. Sam grabs the metal while Dean pries Y/N’s fingers off, more gently than he’s been with her all day.

She looks at him, eyes wide. As much as she wants to act fearlessly, she’s seen more people— things— die in front of her today than in her entire life. Dean nods, as if to say It’s okay, we get it. She steps back, letting him take the railing. Together, the brothers shift it to rest upon the other. 

Y/N closes her eyes, clenching and unclenching her fists. Her nails dig crescents into her palms, the stinging centering her. Okay. Okay. I can do this. Her skin burns under the gaze of Sam and Dean, even if she can’t see them herself. Opening her eyes, she focuses on the men before her. 

“You good?” Dean asks, warm and low, a hand reaching out to her.

“Yeah. Yeah. Let’s go.” She motions before her, allowing them to take the lead again. 

Four down, one to go, Y/N reminds herself with each step. The task seems less daunting with the odds in their favor at three against one. On the second platform, they exit into the hallway. The builders didn’t get so far as to hinge a door to the opening, thankfully. The trio stalk down the corridor, straining to hear anything out of place. 

The end of the hallway yields a wall and two doors opposite of each other— one opened and one closed.  The brothers broach the entryway of the open room, clearing it with a quick sweep. Similar to how they entered the building, Dean stands in front of the closed door while Sam grasps the handle. Pushing it open, Dean rushes in, Y/N and Sam following closely behind. 

The door slams shut behind them. Y/N whips around, ready to fire and finish the job. She stumbles, lowering her weapon, jaw dropped. Dean steps in front of her, half blocking her from— “Elijah?” Dean looks back at Y/N, brows furrowed and lips parted. Sam rests a hand on her shoulder, steadying her. 

“Y/N, Y/N, Y/N,” he taunts, almost as if scolding her. “I see you’re running around with scum. I thought you were better than that.”

She shakes her head, struggling to wrap her head around the man before her— her friend— being a monster. “What— how…”

He rolls his eyes. “Wah-how? Blah, blah, blah. You were always so naive.” He twirls a knife between his fingers, a small smirk dancing on his lips. Y/N looks away, unable to handle Elijah being the culprit she sought so long to capture. “When they came to town all those months ago, I caught one of them. I was ready to cuff ‘em and book ‘em, like we’re trained. But Eddie, the one you shot in the leg, Y/N, presented an offer I couldn’t refuse.” His voice glides like silk over her skin. It takes everything not to vomit.

“Only downside is once a month I’d get a little craz—”

The shot rings clear in the air, stopping Elijah’s tirade. Y/N’s head shoots up in time to watch him crumble to the ground. He settles with a soft finality, folded over himself. Dean turns around, saying something, but she can’t hear him. She shakes her head, tears stinging her eyes. Her knees give out, collapsing. Sam falls with her, softening the blow.

She pushes off of him. “Get off of me, get off of me,” she screeches, banging her fists into his chest until he releases her. He holds his hands up in surrender as she scrambles a few feet away. 

Y/N rests on her knees, forehead touching the cool ground as if in prayer. Dirt and dust grind in her wound, she knows, but she can’t feel it. She can only replay Elijah’s fall. The separation of the man she knew and the man who he became felt too small. She never noticed a difference. He acted the same: kind, funny, a good agent. A good friend. 

Her sobs wrench in her chest, burning her throat. She wants to scream, but it comes out strangled, reverberating from the ground back to her— furious and despairing and inconsolable. Running her fingers through her hair, she grips the roots needing something to hold. Everything feels new in a terrible, sickening way. Just yesterday she believed she and Elijah would put the murderer behind bars. Now, she knows monsters exist. She fought one. She knew one.

Y/N breathes in, steeling herself. The man she knew died four months ago. She pushes herself onto her hind legs, wiping her tears. The burn of her fingers against her wounds calm her. Dealing with physical pain numbs the emotional. She presses her fingers to the bruise, hissing but reveling in the tenderness. 

She struggles to her feet, all too aware of the aches in her legs, and turns to face Sam and Dean. They stand by the door, leaning on the border. In her moment of desolation, they moved Elijah somewhere. Out of her sight. Not wanting attention, or Are you okay’s, she pushes past them, avoiding contact. Silently, they follow her to the stairwell and out onto the street. The cool air dries her tears and fills her lungs. For the first time since peering around that godforsaken corner, she can breathe. 

Sam and Dean keep a respectable distance, letting her lead them to the cars. Wordlessly, Y/N returns the gun to Dean’s grasp, leaning against her front bumper. She tilts her head back to gaze at the waning moon. 

“You good?” Dean asks, settling next to her.

She looks at him, really looks at him, for perhaps the first time. The green of his eyes highlight the bags beneath them. His laugh lines contradict the exhaustion heavy on his lips. His shoulders hang low, weighed down by the knowledge of darkness and pain.

Y/N sighs, accepting the beer he offers her. “I’ll be all right.” She means it. Maybe her monsters don’t have fangs and claws and familiar faces, but they’re monsters all the same. “You know what’s funny?” Dean raises an eyebrow, taking a swig of his El Sol. “I’ve seen worse,” she giggles. 

Dean looks away, shaking his head with a low chuckle. “Yeah? Like what?”

She sips her beer, too, thinking of a good story. “One time there was this weird inbred family that captured people and hunted them down. Had a barn with cages and shit. They kept their victims cars in a junkyard-graveyard thing, and—”

Sam and Dean share a look before busting out laughing. She glances between them, offended at their mockery. “All right, I’ll keep my stories to myself, then.”

“No,” Sam gets out between bursts. “No, we, um— we hunted those guys. Thought they were monsters. Turned out to be hicks with too much time on their hands.”

It’s Y/N’s turn to laugh. “No fucking way! Must’ve just missed each other.” She shakes her head, taking another sip.

“Small world,” Dean whispers into his bottle. 

They settle into a comfortable silence, the tension from the day drained. Y/N lets her mind wander— from meeting these men to now, and everything between. She tries to think back to before all this; before yesterday. The person who stood on the outskirts of the caution tape versus the person who sits on the hood of her car are miles apart. 

“Oh, that reminds me.” She pushes off of her bumper, unlocking her car. From the inside door she grabs two small booklets. Y/N passes the fake badges to the respective users. “A few tips: don’t use famous names. That’s the first thing that gave you away. Secondly,” she takes Dean’s badge back, opening it up. “Your official federal insignia is too low. It should be square with your picture. And your serial code is the wrong date. The first number—sometimes letter— is the year this was manufactured. We get new badges every two years, alternating between numbers and letters. Right now,” she says, opening her own booklet, “we are on letter Q.” She passes the badge back to Dean, who pockets it.

Sam nods, “Thanks for the information.”

“Yeah, I just love helping people—”

“— impersonate federal officers,” Dean and Sam interrupt, saying it in unison.

She laughs. “I’m glad you guys didn’t turn out to be crazy.”

In another pocket of silence, they finish their beers. Dean grabs the empty bottles, tossing them into a beat up green cooler while Sam turns to rest on the side of the Impala. Y/N readies herself to say goodbye, ignoring the ache in her chest. She refuses to admit it aloud, but she wishes she met them under different circumstances. She wishes she met Dean under different circumstances. 

Despite only knowing him for two days, Y/N can see herself in Dean. He bears the same weight she bears. Plus, it doesn’t hurt that his eyes remind her of fresh cut grass at the beginning of fall. Paired with his smell of cinnamon and gunpowder (a scent she knows all too well), she can’t help but want to know him. If they had met in a bar, she would definitely have taken him home.

Dean returns to her side, this time shoulder to shoulder. “You think you can handle that?” he inquires, pointing to her forehead and cheek.

She touches it gingerly. “Yeah, I think so.”

He nudges her shoulder with his, and she looks up at him. “You did well, tonight. Better than I thought you would, honestly.”

She grins, shaking her head. “Yeah, that’s what you get for doubting me.”

He looks ahead again, and she does, too. The sky brightens as the sun returns for its reign. The fatigue from the last twenty-four hours settles in, and, without much thought, she rests her head on Dean’s shoulder. He tenses for a moment, and she feels him look down at her, but he lets his shoulders sag again. He places a hand on her thigh, squeezing it gently, as if to say I’m right here. I’ve got you. 

At least, she hopes that’s what he means. 

The sun finishes its creep into the sky and the stars fade into a blanket of pink, orange, and purple. Y/N and Dean hop down from the hood of her car and Sam meets them between the bumpers once more. Sam dips down to hug Y/N first, wrapping his arms around her shoulders and squeezing tight. She fights not to groan when his grasp aggravates the aches in her bones. He releases her, casting a smile in her direction.

“Thank you for your help, Y/N. Here,” he passes her a torn piece of paper with two numbers scrawled across. One has an “S” next to it, the other a “D”. “These are our numbers. Call us if you run into anything else.”

She nods, grinning too. “The same applies to you guys. It doesn’t hurt to have someone on the inside.”

He pats her arm before taking his leave, settling into the passenger seat. Y/N turns to Dean. He doesn’t look like much of a hugger, so she extends her hand for a shake. Rolling his eyes, he grabs it, but wraps it around his waist. Dean envelopes her in his arms, holding tighter than Sam with one hand in her hair and the other barred across her shoulders. This time, she welcomes it, in spite of the pain. 

He lets her go, but keeps his hands on her shoulders. “I mean it, Y/N.” His voice is low and sinful. “If you need anything, call us. Call me.”

“Anything?” she drawls playfully. He nods, regardless. “Even just to talk?”

Dean laughs. “Yeah. That’d be nice.” His right hand travels up to her neck. She wraps her fingers around his wrist, not entirely sure of his intentions but welcoming anything. He pulls her close, pressing his lips to her forehead. “Get home safe, Y/N,” he mumbles upon releasing her.

“You too, Dean.”

She waits for him to get in his car before she clambers into her driver’s seat. Her bones creek as she settles. Twisting her keys in the ignition, she rolls the windows down and heads home. Werewolves of London blares across her speakers, and she laughs. Yeah. She’ll be all right.

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